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.

.but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: ****! the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin (******* Chopin)... ****... better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than ***.

i was never into blocking someone,
esp. if someone is liking your stuff,
but it happened to me with
that poetess on here,
       i wanted to know how it feels,
to just randomly block someone
who really enjoys your stuff...
             and then... ****! gone, never
to be seen again...
   Wattpad is basically a fascistic website
to boot this thread of thought...
who the hell gets booted off a platform
for starting a cordial conversation?
- but i really did wake up with
a moral hangover...
   excuses?
             irritability...
           there's just a certain level of
conversation i can take,
                              i can't get the pedant
out of me... i really can't...
i tried and i tried,
  notably because when speaking
to natives, i see them lazily doing this
or that, while i come with an acquisitive
perspective, hence the furthered
acquisitive impetus to further this
acquired language... while the natives
are like: blah... it has been given to them
from birth...
     and conversations,
after having completed a...
    well for me it was an exhausting poem,
the desire to finish it before off
the rails with the bourbon instigated
a thirst, matched with irritability...
               ****, i hope i can unblock the guy
and apologize...
spare of the moment thing...
            well... if i can't...
i know what it feels like:
           not being on the receiving end...
so... that's one plus from all of this.

p.s. that sort of direct messaging language,
aged... 40?
             how can i talk to someone
who's older than me, on that level...
(looks up his profile page)...
huh?
             so i didn't block him?

Dennis Willis's profile is not
visible because they have blocked you.

and i still have the block option
handy...

mind you... i didn't wake up today
recollecting some pretty
   trippy *******).

. 'as for those poets, only the perverse follow them. do you not see that they go too far in every direction and say things, which they cannot do?' (ash-shu'ara / the poets 26:224-226).

call them what you like,
the Huguenots,
for all i care...

   you always side with
the "heretics"...
  
   given that, "said" heretics
retain some cultural value
relativism of other cultures,
namely in the form of
depiction -

    since why would, "the word"
be deemed holy,
    ****-naked,
                rather than donning
a bikini of "iconoclasm"...
         when words... are at
the meat-market of copyright -
what with © coca cola?

                 sunni islam would have
never allowed sufism...
  but Farsi does...
  and will continue...
since no Iranian will bow
before an Arab within the schematics
of history...

          Sunni Islam, it's Wahhabi sentimentality...
so why persist in signing
the Adhan?
   why not speak in a honing like
drone sentiment of plain speech?
i thought all music was banned?
the current Adhan is a form
of music... isn't it? BAN IT!

    you never side with these Sunni
muslims, exploiting Bangladeshi labor,
you side with the heretics of Iran...
these *******, i can at least respect...
  
      no fast cars, convenient ongoing
cultural insurrections -
   Sufism...
       Afghan women's poetry,
and all that much closer to Hindu mysticism...
    
yeah... "islamophobia":
but only against Sunni Islam...
   but Shia Islam?
   no problem...
   i could stomach these peoples
like i could stomach the in-between
of the Turkish variant -
no ideology - simply, pure, power throttle...

i could make a great Janissary -
with a Turkish barber...
         for a great trim of hair and beard...
i'd cast a shadow on some
obscure chocolatier of Brussels
who thinks himself a politician...

     but there are certain aspect of Islam
i am willing to tolerate...
   what happened to the son in law
of Muhammad, namely, Ali...
was raw ******* kicking...

               promises, promises...
no promises...
           Shia Islam, as an European,
i can tolerate, Turkish Islam, i can tolerate...
Turkey is incrementally shy
of being treated at the 2nd variant of Iran...
at least with Iran, we share a history
via the insurrection into the ancient
texts through Greece...

  come to think of it...
whenever i listen to
matta's song echo babylon...
i start feeding myself goosebumps,
reminding myself
of Cyrus... Nebuchadnezzar...
and the dim-wit that was
   Belshazzar...

always siding with the heretics...
if not on economic groundwork,
then at least motivating,
rather than monetizing an idea...

and the Shia muslims are...
    one way or another...
   unlike the gluttons of Dubai...
the barbie dolls of postage stamp
"proof" of progress,
in size, and worth...

   Sunni Islam would have
never allowed poetics to remain
a viable form of expression -
the Persian tradition that is,
far beyond the western concern
for a comment section...

         Shia Islam allows patronage
of the arts, notably poetry,
without concern for monetary
funding, it, at least, doesn't prohibit it...
given the pride of the Persians...
Sunnis and their continual quest
for finding water...
    sure... poetry is pointless within
such restrictions of
existential concerns...
    but... given the current, civilized
establishment?
   sky-scrapers in *******
sand dunes?

         the qu'ran should have
forbidden the architectural ambitions
equivalent to the tower of babel
being erected, in environments,
that could never sustain said projects...

    and who originally spewed the term
islamophobia?
Sunni Islam...
        i never liked this strand of belief...
i hate the Sunnis like
a Shia partisan...

p.s. it's called patriotism is America...
but nationalism in Europe...
    you sure that's not a synonym?
Europeans can't be patriotic,
and Americans are never nationalistic?

...

   well: how could i ever convert to islam,
i do enjoy the adhan from time to time,
"sorry", but i do...
  i can't help it:
if i'm a sucker for pop songs,
i'm also a sucker for the adhan...
   crusader songs, templar songs become
stuffy after a while...
and last time i checked:
     there were the northern crusades
against the baltic people:
notably prussians, lithuanians...
with that cushion of: mediating the
escalation of war by the polacks...
coming from the east:
  last time i checked the mongols
didn't reach leipzig...
               buffer zone people...
and what of the ottoman onsalught
of vienna 1529: the ****** winged hussars
won the charge...

so, coming back to heidegger... aphorism 26
ponderings IX... how am i to not be
the historical animal?
         perhaps in german, in germany
i might become a non-historical animal,
to begin: anew, but with a terrible
past to hide, to negate...
   i could do that: if i were a german,
speaking german, in germany...
but i'm in england:
            i might have some roots in
Silesia, but it's "hard" to not be a historical
animal, an "animal" with a sense of time,
i.e. a future a past a present...
esp. under the english conditions
of: the biological animal momentum narrative,
like a tsunami, like an earthquake...
ripples throughout...
              i can't move forward with
the english championing darwinism every
single ******* step of the way...
why can't they hide darwin like the polacks
hid copernicus...
given the motto: copernicus -
who moved the earth, and stopped the sun...
why wouldn't i escape into history
if the current biological reality is:
(a) a yawn... the cruel nature of per se?
   the courting of pigeons on a t.v. antenna...
pigeons get rejected all the time,
lesson learned, he bows and bows,
coos... expands his tail feathers upon
the bow then folds them... she flies away...
repeat...
    (b) i can't escape being a historical
animal in the way that what the current
facts are being repeated have encountered
a whiff of Chernobyll...
              history is inclided to answer reality...
biology? not so much... not from what i've
seen and heard...
             truly a schizophrenics disney dream:
to walk among the newly insane feeling
like the only sane among them...
beau-ti-ful!
                   well... given the current criteria
of being bilingual as being synonymous
with being a schizophrenic...
           magic!
                    
   now the crescendo...aphorism 24
ponderings X:

              the word designates, the word signifies,
the word says, the word is (heidegger)...

i found that you can only write
"philosophy" with a neat, fixed vocab. regime,
clarity of boundaries...
    quadratic events in vocab.:

i.e. the reflexive: yourself, himself, itself etc.
and the reflective: your, self....
                       his, self...
                                  it, and the self...
                    ergo? atheistic scissors,
  the two articles, indefinite and definite
                                 a / the "self"...

i'm not playing "identity politics",
when i say that only two peoples ever managed
to sack Moscau... the mongols and the polacks
with the help of lithuanians,
"identity politics" only happens in
post-colonial society, akin to the english,
i'll speak the english,
but i will not be a cucked indian of
the former raj: i will eat the fish & chips,
i will eat the sunday roast,
   i will eat the english breakfast with great
delight...
            but i will not do what these former
colonial masters expect of me:
integrate at the expense of making my
mutterzunge into hubris!
stubborness contra pride...
                hard to tell the difference...

and why do i like heidegger so much?
i'm not into the ad homine arguments...
my grandfather, was, a communist party member...
so?
       i like heidegger... because he appreciates
poetics, i like that poets can share the same
values as philosophers,
thanks to heidegger: we have been requested
back into the republic...
if plato and islam didn't like us, hanging around,
some offshoot german thinker / promenade
enthusiast like used enough to,
i suppose: ban the theatre puppeteers...

i am not playing identity politics...
biological reality is not enough...
but archeological reality?
       can you really advance to counter?
i was born near:
Krzemionki Opatowskie, a Neolithic and
early Bronze Age complex of flint mines
for the extraction of Upper Jurassic (Oxfordian)
banded flints...
  personally? i don't believe in
the African genesis conundrum...
i believe "my" people originated from
the Indian sub-continent,
as, associated with the complex:
Indo-European categorization of language;
i'm still to see an African phonetic
encoding system, beside the hieroglyphics...

i, was, born, there! i'm not a displaced
post-colonial debacle between former master
and former slave...
i have: roots... i'm not ******* up to the fish & chips
brigade with a friday night's worth of curry...
i cook my own curry,
and by god: it is the food of the gods...
i'll give the blue indians that counter...
but sure as **** not the worth of mead
or whiskey...

if they only tolerated themselves,
sure, learn the english language,
but know this much:
           english is the modern lingua franca...
it's the language of economics,
forget the natives, too ignorant to learn
either deutsche or française:
island-folk...
                what else, what other attitude?
even the russians are like:
that land of the weirdos? the idiosyncratics?
yes, we know that land...
the only "thing" that shelters the english
are the h'americans, the south africans,
the australians etc.,
  sure as **** the scots aren't sheltering them...
and, mind you?
   if the i.r.a. really wanted to plant
a bomb?
   a real bomb? they'd revert from speaking
any english to begin with... resorting
to revising their usage of gàidhlig:
ga-id-hlig... gaelic...
   like the welsh, stubborn people, proud people,
retaining their Çymraeg...
celt: said kelt...
the glaswegian football team?
       Çeltic... not: keltic...
  borrowed from the greek: sigma (ς: cedilla to ****)...
   wow! all the particulars in the english tongue!
guess it would take an ausländer to spot them!

U-21 european championships,
england versus romania:
                           a magnificent match...
the youngsters playing better football
than the oldies in their mid to late / early 30s...

i'm trying to tolerate Islam,
               it's not in my nature...
            hell... i enjoyed visiting a turkish barber
shop, i still have an unflinching opinion that,
the turks are the best barbers in the world...
but...

              this quote, is going to **** you:
same aphorism / pondering (24 / X) -


*** fight videos - count dankula...
you know what i'd love to do to these little
snarky *****?
the french revolution isn't enough...
n'ah, them hanging, is not enough....
ever heard of the butchers' hook?
                 it's also callled close-up fishing...
imitation hang-man...
   you insert a fishing hook...
and you let the sweeney todd ****** dangle...
on a hook, rather than a noose...
lords of salem come your way?
i'd rather the snarky teen hanging off
a fisherman's hook than dangle
like some lynched ******...
beside the suffocation,
i'd like them with a fisherman's hook entombed
in their hard palette...
         i don't want them hanging...
what am i? a sadist?
  i want them on the fisherman's hook!
when suffocating without a broken spine absorbed
by the neck isn't enough!
  fisherman's hook gallows is a
masterpiece... of suffering...
  most certain...
  when cheap comedy is being towed...
making fun of bums, or homeless people...
the current society is so welcome
to bypass all the "adventures" of Loki...
but akin to the lords of Salem...
burn!? such a limitated imagination!

ah... right... digressing...
        the reflexive / reflective quadratic...
language - only if speech  has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it
become strong (enough) for the hidden
              play of its essential multivocity
(as withdrawn from all "logic"),
             of which poets and thinkers alone
are capable, in their own respective modes
and their own directions of sovreignty.

we do live in a time of a lost sense
of dialectic, since we do not live in a time
of etertaining dialogue,
perfectly sensible opinions,
that's all we have...

                       if one of these snarky *******
came up to me...
they'd get a chance to experience a rubric
of 4, knuckles...
what's 189 centimeters in empirical?
6ft2...      oh!
                   see where imagination takes you?
and here i was: thinking i was without it!
butcher's hangman...
oh, not so easy...
                  
                fame by no association to fame...
just the tears of parents who raised their children
to be nothing more than rugrats...
annoying gnat like bothersomes;
and nothing quiet special to be associated
with weimar berlin...
     just, these,
   h'american mall onlookers
with pwetty-guy-for-a-white-fly-mentality,
as borrowed from californian
1990s punk;

re-used ****** losers.

mad-hatter's fraction: 10/6....
      0.666...
      well: to the given extent:
1.666666(7)....
     1, 0, /6,
no number is divisible by 0,
every number, divisible by 1:
is the same number...
    mad hatter's 10/6...

   re-used ****** losers...
i like that phrase...
        7 for every 6, 7 for every 6...
until the 0. fraction comes
a 1.: exponential serf of 0...
0 being the multiplier...
          
         i really am growing a beard to less
don it, but rather to experience
a relief from patience...
war robots?
the first non n.p.c. game...
i like that, very much...
      and when i did:

you know my first experience of
love at first sight?
the younger sister of my then girlfriend...
****** up ****...

love at first sight is a terrible phenomenon...
i was nearing 18, she was barely 13...
i was dating her older sister...
but it was love at first sight,
the trouble with: love at first sight:
it doesn't lie...
it tries to lie...
          but it can't lie...

   paedophilia? a bit... untouched bodies
though... bodies of people who were
never supposed to touch...
i once said to a fwend:
well wouldn't it be ****** up if i touched
her?
   she's a muse, which doesn't translate
into vacating her as a busy body
worth of a touch, does it?
     if only my old friend samuel said
otherwise:
sylvester "contra" tweety:
my first girlfriend...
but her sister?
         i was nearing 18, she was about 13...
love at first sight...
untouched, cradled, unscathed...
and so she remained...
   until she did what every girl would
have done...thank god she remained
a figment of my imagination...
   rammstein: rosernrot...
    
           i have seen love at first...
such a load of ******* that it had to be
the younger sister of a girl i was dating...
and the **** that i had to be 18 and see
was just beginning her teenage transition...
the world unfair i grant
the most justifications... as being
the (just - unnecessary adjective) arbiter...

love at first sight becomes a forbidden love...
love at first sight was always a forbidden
love...
           and the sort of "love" that achieves
a perspctive of change that doesn't
translate into old age...
love at first sight is soon translated
into a love of affairs closely associated
with middle-age disenfranchised
state of affairs...
i.e. to love again...
            how else to feel relief from
having lost both one's inhibitions
               as well as one's ambitions?!
in the conundrum of the mortal
"question" of the continuum being
preserved?

To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
...in the morning
they're out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers...
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985

because the Turks are still
the only barbers who use
a straight razor to complete
a canvas, and they respect
donning  a beard...
and as i  spread the word of
mouth, i'll say to him:
you know someone mistook
for a komtur at the airport
paying a compliment on your skill?
yeah, was buying a cup of
coffee after a breakfast
of a double Jameson's
             and we striked a conversation
and all I could hear
was relived to the sound
of snip snip snip, snippety
snip snip shimmy...
the sole Ottoman higher tier
of culture that overshadows
greek thought...
ottoman barbers
        overshadow greek thinkers;
and what a grand name,
modern greek, id est Byzantine...
with no one notable
to make a mark on the global stage...
fame as a noumenon..
fractures of delay...
       no one knows why people
still remember Kant...
oh, wait, is that because Hegel
didn't actually propose the
thesis / antithesis dynamic?
            communism founded
upon Kant, rather than the thief
Hegel might have made more sense...
before suggesting a Hegelian
dialectic,  i'd make you
take to reading Kant,
   since the original, within the confines
of the critique,
does not brush god aside
      as non-existent and therefore
ontologically "self-" explanatory...
god or no god, vector or no vector,
end coordinate or any coordinates
to begin with...
   Hegel is a thief
        while Kant retains something
cold, the role of puppeteer...
a shadow...
               the existence or non-
does not impede on the complete
ontology of either experience or
analysis...
                  a priori ontology
has no a posteriori god,
in the same way that
     an a priori god has no a posteriori
ontology...
       unless a genesis-exodus
dynamic akin to space-time
    conundrum is scened to encompass
a non-theo-ontological rite of:
the passage of a passing riddle...
                       cul de sac
hall of mirrors, baboon
opening coconuts by smashing its head
against the crust...
   a god, an ontology,
with and only with a brain
in a pickle jar obsevasion
      of quasi-solipsism simulated,
id est: a- priori: without a prior to...
whatever the answer is...
Ottoman barbers can compete with
Athenian thinkers.

Haircut
Strands of hair unruly way
Hair cut an adventure of the day
Scrolling through the models on book
pictures in mind to decide the look
Hair cut an adventure of the day
Through the times in a different way
young ones cry of the barbers scissor
A grim look of teen in the mirror
every hair cut in the heart a terror
Good or bad an haircut is an adventure
pety

Are there lawyers in heaven?
who sells fish in a Seven-Eleven?
How do you prove guilt or innocence,
with the devil conspicuous in his absence?

Are there barbers or pastors in Heaven?
Until the End-of-Days, it is unproven;
If we are to do some speculation,
Better to do more charitable donations.

But one profession, I quite understand,
whether in hell or God's Disneyland,
that will not make a good living;
that's doing double entry accounting.

So where do accountants go, you ask;
now you really need an oxygen mask;
In hell, in heaven, or anywhere you look,
there's just no place to cook the books.

Someone may now ask about exorcists,
I hate to answer, but I just can't resist;
ask your grandma or grandpa,
they are in a real big dilemma.

In heaven, no demons to trouble you,
In hell, there are more than quite a few;
In heaven, all are good, so no originality,
In hell, who works for nothing for Eternity?

We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:

babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.

That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.

We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:

butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.

We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.

From the 1880s into the 1960s, a majority of American states enforced segregation through "Jim Crow" laws (so called after a black character in minstrel shows). From Delaware to California, and from North Dakota to Texas, many states (and cities, too) could impose legal punishments on people for consorting with members of another race. The most common types of laws forbade intermarriage and ordered business owners and public institutions to keep their black and white clientele separated.

Examples of Jim Crow Laws

Nurses: No person or corporation shall require any white female nurse to nurse in wards or rooms in hospitals, either public or private, in which ***** men are placed. (Alabama)

Buses: All passenger stations in this state operated by any motor transportation company shall have separate waiting rooms or space and separate ticket windows for white and colored races. (Alabama)

Railroads: The conductor of each passenger train is authorized and required to assign each passenger to the car or the division of the car, when it is divided by a partition, designated for the race to which such passenger belongs. (Alabama)

Restaurants: It shall be unlawful to conduct a restaurant or other place for the serving of food in the city, at which white and colored people are served in the same room, unless such white and colored persons are effectively separated by a solid partition extending from the floor upward to a distance of seven feet or higher, and unless a separate entrance from the street is provided for each compartment.

Pool and Billiard Rooms: It shall be unlawful for a ***** and white person to play together or in company with each other at any game of pool or billiards. (Alabama)

Toilet Facilities, Male: Every employer of white or ***** males shall provide for such white or ***** males reasonably accessible and separate toilet facilities. (Alabama)

Intermarriage: The marriage of a person of Caucasian blood with a *****, Mongolian, Malay, or Hindu shall be null and void. (Arizona)

Intermarriage: All marriages between a white person and a ***** person or between a white person and a person of ***** descent to the fourth generation inclusive, are hereby forever prohibited. (Florida)

Cohabitation: Any ***** man and white women, or any white man and ***** woman, who are not married to each other, who shall habitually live in and occupy in the nighttime the same room shall each be punished by imprisonment not exceeding twelve (12) months, or by fine not exceeding five hundred ($500.00) dollars. (Florida)

Education: The schools for white children and the schools for ***** children shall be conducted separately. (Florida)

Juvenile Delinquents: There shall be separate buildings, not nearer than one fourth mile from each other, one for white boys and one for ***** boys. White boys and ***** boys shall not, in any manner, be associated together or worked together. (Florida)

Mental Hospitals: The Board of Control shall see that proper and distinct apartments are arranged for said patients, so that in no case shall Negroes and white persons be together. (Georgia)

Intermarriage: It shall be unlawful for a white person to marry anyone except a white person. Any marriage in violation of this section shall be void. (Georgia)

Barbers: No colored barber shall serve as a barber [to] white women or girls. (Georgia)

Burial: The officer in charge shall not bury, or allow to be buried, any colored persons upon ground set apart or used for the burial of white persons. (Georgia)

Restaurants: All persons licensed to conduct a restaurant, shall serve either white people exclusively or colored people exclusively and shall not sell to the two races within the same room or serve the two races anywhere under the same license. (Georgia)

Amateur Baseball: IT shall be unlawful for any amateur white baseball team to play baseball on any vacant lot or baseball diamond within two blocks of a playground devoted to the ***** race, and it shall be unlawful for any amateur colored baseball team to play baseball in any vacant lot or baseball diamond within two blocks of any playground devoted to the white race. (Georgia)

and all i ever wanted, was to work in a music shop, to compensate my fancy moving away from Stendhal's scarlet & noir, and into the domain of Nick Hornby's high fidelity... well... that died a very Belgian death, very much akin to euthanasia.

at least i don't
bleach people to mere
pronoun usage.

and yes,
i treat the tetragrammaton
as a superlative,
esp. given
i am akin of Atilla -
and the Visigoths...
such that i am:
of the invading "horde",
because of he
the so-called culture
i see no civilisation on the horizon...
i see no Baroque...
            i hear no Bach,
and will never hear a stance
such that the music be composed...

because what is happening
in no circus of nouns...
people are being bleached,
they are being leash bound
to walk into a pet barbers to get their
hair "done"....
         i am not the one
regarding them as sole
pronoun exhibitors...
   there they are: merely pronoun bound...
and should i call them black,
or care to call them copper skinned
akin to the Indus peninsula...
                       i have forgotten
the agitating "they"...
            
i don't have a cartesian dualism
to mind...
i simply have my own dichotomy
to attend to...
   as Voltaire said: each to his own
garden; and a pair of shoes.
    
once again...
  geometry will never scope beyond the orb...
there is no geometric study to
suggest a shape for the universe...
now we know: there's no thinking
outside the box,
  even if that might ease your "claustrophobia".

  and i rather call a person by their
self-identifying characterisation
that reduce myself to a liberal
censor clot of only managing other people
in the pronoun category, auto-suggestive
of a *we vs. them...

       i don't see how that makes us
liberal, that having forsaken descriptive
approaches, we incorporated
the additive approach carte blanche
as a guide to treating everyone akin
to being dubbed albino.

   i like talking about ******* a brown-skinned
girl...
    i like talking about ******* a Thai girl...
i like putting cardamom in my curry,
or my cinnamon...
  or my everclear - heartspark dollarsign -
and thus about the time i
gave to flying the kite of full, manly,
****-refraining autonomy...
to the wind itself.

  just when we were about congested,
and lated constipated...
        i wrote this, like a clerk
might, in the bureucracy of the failing
Roman Empire, akin
to the reminiscent W. H. Auden...
      on pink'oh paper that turned boredom
into the origami of paper-aeroplanes...
  neat, folded, against the envelope
requirements... thrown right into
the lap of don quixote,
       recycled, shredded by a windmill...

as if about just apparent...
        at least this dream, this utopia
didn't originate with me...
    oh sure, i believed it...
that we could house the entire ethnically-diverse
populace under one roof...
   i believed it, the world told me to believe it...
i'd love to believe it thrice over...
   i mean, i'd love to have
    duo-ethnic children,
        who spoke four languages...
in the least three...
    but **** how that gets swept under
the rug and forgotten along
with Aladdin...
   it just gets boring, all that masochism
of being an anti-racist social warrior
but at the same time calling oneself
a white-trash stereotype transcendent.

that's me about to puke,
and write my name in diarrhea ink,
followed up by doing the same in
gonorrhea ink.

what happened at the end of the 20th century
was a very well believed
in dream, even though it was a butterfly...
and lasted no more than a few years...
it was worth it... it's when i had my childhood...
and i could have even been a roofer until now
should there be someone who said
they were overworked in a supermarket...

it was very nice for a bit,
great to believe in... how suddenly 2000 years
of history could be forgotten and
let us live in a togetherness...
    but like today, Syria and a civil war...
civil wars are unique...
  a Syrian barber tells a Syrian butcher
to *******...
     and would it be necessary for
     an English politician to get involved?

unless they're selling both
  Israeli uzis (the country where the ***
originated, yep, Israel)...
          i'm not a Syrian civilian...
so what the **** are all these tourists
talking about?! i don't care if they come
from Westminster, what are these tourists
talking about?!
                  i'd like to be a Syrian civilian
first, before i give my opinion...
        i'm not giving a single opinion
as a tourist that was ever in Syria,
or a one: waiting to visit it in the "near" future.
******* tourists...
     you have to use a blunt knife carving
this piece of history...
not point using a well sharpened knife
cutting with eloquence and absolutely
no profanity... given the excesses of ****...
   i say: oaths! oaths!

**** it...
   when was the last time i managed
my hair and my beard?
god almighty...
    it has been since... no way...
late March!  
    that's what?
    April, May, June, July...
     something had to be done -
for the past 3 weeks (if not longer)
i've been walking around
the town, looking like some demented
old testament prophet...
untidy hair -
     a beard so long that you
couldn't see my neck...
             final straw, with this heat...
and in all my life -
   i've only been satisfied with one
barber...
   well... to be honest, he was my first,
i've been to queer hairdressers -
but then hairdressers know
jackshit about a man's needs when
it comes to ****** hair...
     you could say that i lost my
        virginity to Cemil Uston...
my third time today...
    god... you sit in the chair, eyes closed,
chilling, feeling a tingling sensation
on the back of your neck
  when he finishes off the hair
with a straight razor, electric shivers
translated from the metal, running
from the neck to your feet...
      i'd take that to a ******* any day
of the week...
     and to my surprise, my Turkish barber
moved up in the world...
    from a ****** cubicle with only
two chairs, to a much larger studio...
   no television - given that he already
employed an understudy -
    and the wall lined with those artsy
bricks you see in renovated industrial estate
condos...
     i had to congratulate him...
   and i did...
                  because there are no better
barbers in the world, other than the Turks...
and when he finished,
   i smiled and said: no comment -
   it's perfect... i feel human again,
            unlike some ravenous animal...
gave him 20 quid and thought about
all those schmucks paying in the excess of
£100 for some west london hairdresser...
notably women: who always seem to leave
such places: unsatisfied -
   mostly, getting home, crying,
   and then wanting to shave their heads,
because... an atypical high street in London
is not a Parisian catwalk...
          sometimes i love being a man,
just a bit too much...
        but only because of Turkish barbers...
no one beats them:
   ******* have this no nonsense
anti-machismo attitude toward their trade,
a man is no more a man
with a pair of boxing gloves,
   if he doesn't know a good barber...

but of course the second part of
the day was waiting for me...
   a confrontation with my neighbor -
   he says that i should have informed
him about making a barbeque -
because he was drying his washing...
   immediately i started shaking...
- WHAT?!
      WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
- you should inform me whether you're
going to be making a barbeque,
because of my washing, the smoke
   would get in them...
- OH YOU ******, NO!
         NEXT TIME YOU'LL BE WANTING
TO KNOW WHETHER IT'S OK
FOR ME TO TAKE A ****,
   GIVEN THAT YOU'RE TELLING
WHEN I CAN EAT!
                  *******!
YOU'RE A MADMAN!
- i'm the madman? you're the one
howling through the window at night...
- touche, m'ah fwend.

     some people... just don't get it...
writing poetry and sometimes breaking
into a spontaneous howling in the night
is one thing... sure... it's mad...
but... telling someone when they can
do a barbeque - because of someone's
drying their clothes?
              i'm mad?
                 - because you can't really make
an argument...
    when the barbeque stove is
about 10 meters away from the washing line...
i really live next to some ******
neighbors...
   he's in his 50s, she's in her late 40s...
both are overweight...
     and they had a baby about a year
ago...
    the kid doesn't walk... for starters...
cries in pain for most of the night,
and the day...
      the man has lost his senses!
             if he were 30 / 20 younger -
maybe his sanity would be intact...
   but how can you, suddenly turn,
and dictate when your neighbor decides
to cook meat on a barbeque
in his own garden?
                   first it was:
i shouldn't smoke outside my own
window...
   now it's: you should inform us
when you're going to cook food...

     i sometimes wish, pieces of human
excrement like that, could on be shut up
with silence and a *******...
    but pieces of human excrement
sometimes can and will break your cool...
there's no other expression
other than to tell them to *******.

unlike those... europeans...
who succumb to rasta culture
of dreadlocks...
   only recently...
an itchy underside of what
constitutes
a chin...
kept scratching it...
scratching, scratching...
no good...
         thank **** for
the turks bringing bulgarian
prostitutes to england...
and themselves...
  as barbers to these isles...
who the hell could cut
my hair, and trim my beard,
at the same time,
if not an ottoman?!
     i had to bypass the itchy
underside of the chin...
   hmm...
   what would an ottoman do?
     ****! yes!
macadamia: natural oil...
so i started rubbing it
into my ****** *****...
      deep repair masque...
so... women pretend
this magic...
   as... the hagia sophia...
when they do not
have any dermatological
problems, apart from aging?
so...
   what does a woman's ******
cream, do...
to a man's beard?
   apparently the itch
disappears...
              don't ask me how...
and... **** me...
like shining shoes
for some wall st. ****...
the hairs... all shiny!
      and the hairs?
soft...
      it's not even that *****
hairs matter,
or are a digression,
or a nuisance...
     but when they're so well oiled...
thus, subsequently: so soft,
making them decategorised
as ***** on a face?

- but you rub into your beard
what women address their skin
with, confined to
the dermatological pact of mortality?
and then you use the same
cream... and rub it into your beard?
**** me... what an ******!
scented *****!
   like... donning a strawberry
flavored ******!

i should do this, more often...
    get myself a Janissary style beard...
well oiled... glee-bidden...
      and scented... unlike your usual
    *****... suffocated by underwear...
turks?
    probably the only...
no... the only barbers in the world...
i wouldn't trust any ethnicity
with addressing hair and beard...
other than a turk...

                     because... why would
you sacrifice yourself to a unisex
    salon of "european pride"?
a bit pointless...
   given that...
   no one does the barber...
as well as a turk... always will.

"Mother of heaven, regina of the clouds,
O sceptre of the sun, crown of the moon,
There is not nothing, no, no, never nothing,
Like the clashed edges of two words that ****."
And so I mocked her in magnificent measure.
Or was it that I mocked myself alone?
I wish that I might be a thinking stone.
The sea of spuming thought foists up again
The radiant bubble that she was. And then
A deep up-pouring from some saltier well
Within me, bursts its watery syllable.

II

A red bird flies across the golden floor.
It is a red bird that seeks out his choir
Among the choirs of wind and wet and wing.
A torrent will fall from him when he finds.
Shall I uncrumple this much-crumpled thing?
I am a man of fortune greeting heirs;
For it has come that thus I greet the spring.
These choirs of welcome choir for me farewell.
No spring can follow past meridian.
Yet you persist with anecdotal bliss
To make believe a starry connaissance.

III

Is it for nothing, then, that old Chinese
Sat tittivating by their mountain pools
Or in the Yangtse studied out their beards?
I shall not play the flat historic scale.
You know how Utamaro's beauties sought
The end of love in their all-speaking braids.
You know the mountainous coiffures of Bath.
Alas! Have all the barbers lived in vain
That not one curl in nature has survived?
Why, without pity on these studious ghosts,
Do you come dripping in your hair from sleep?

IV

This luscious and impeccable fruit of life
Falls, it appears, of its own weight to earth.
When you were Eve, its acrid juice was sweet,
Untasted, in its heavenly, orchard air.
An apple serves as well as any skull
To be the book in which to read a round,
And is as excellent, in that it is composed
Of what, like skulls, comes rotting back to ground.
But it excels in this, that as the fruit
Of love, it is a book too mad to read
Before one merely reads to pass the time.

V

In the high west there burns a furious star.
It is for fiery boys that star was set
And for sweet-smelling virgins close to them.
The measure of the intensity of love
Is measure, also, of the verve of earth.
For me, the firefly's quick, electric stroke
Ticks tediously the time of one more year.
And you? Remember how the crickets came
Out of their mother grass, like little kin,
In the pale nights, when your first imagery
Found inklings of your bond to all that dust.

VI

If men at forty will be painting lakes
The ephemeral blues must merge for them in one,
There is a substance in us that prevails.
But in our amours amorists discern
Such fluctuations that their scrivening
Is breathless to attend each quirky turn.
When amorists grow bald, then amours shrink
Into the compass and curriculum
Of introspective exiles, lecturing.
It is a theme for Hyacinth alone.

VII

The mules that angels ride come slowly down
The blazing passes, from beyond the sun.
Descensions of their tinkling bells arrive.
These muleteers are dainty of their way.
Meantime, centurions guffaw and beat
Their shrilling tankards on the table-boards.
This parable, in sense, amounts to this:
The honey of heaven may or may not come,
But that of earth both comes and goes at once.
Suppose these couriers brought amid their train
A damsel heightened by eternal bloom.

VIII

Like a dull scholar, I behold, in love,
An ancient aspect touching a new mind.
It comes, it blooms, it bears its fruit and dies.
This trivial trope reveals a way of truth.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
Two golden gourds distended on our vines,
Into the autumn weather, splashed with frost,
Distorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.
We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed,
The laughing sky will see the two of us
Washed into rinds by rotting winter rains.

IX

In verses wild with motion, full of din,
Loudened by cries, by clashes, quick and sure
As the deadly thought of men accomplishing
Their curious fates in war, come, celebrate
The faith of forty, ward of Cupido.
Most venerable heart, the lustiest conceit
Is not too ***** for your broadening.
I quiz all sounds, all thoughts, all everything
For the music and manner of the paladins
To make oblation fit. Where shall I find
Bravura adequate to this great hymn?

X

The fops of fancy in their poems leave
Memorabilia of the mystic spouts,
Spontaneously watering their gritty soils.
I am a yeoman, as such fellows go.
I know no magic trees, no balmy boughs,
No silver-ruddy, gold-vermilion fruits.
But, after all, I know a tree that bears
A semblance to the thing I have in mind.
It stands gigantic, with a certain tip
To which all birds come sometime in their time.
But when they go that tip still tips the tree.

XI

If *** were all, then every trembling hand
Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
But note the unconscionable treachery of fate,
That makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shout
Doleful heroics, pinching gestures forth
From madness or delight, without regard
To that first, foremost law. Anguishing hour!
Clippered with lilies scudding the bright chromes,
Keen to the point of starlight, while a frog
Boomed from his very belly odious chords.

XII

A blue pigeon it is, that circles the blue sky,
On sidelong wing, around and round and round.
A white pigeon it is, that flutters to the ground,
Grown tired of flight. Like a dark rabbi, I
Observed, when young, the nature of mankind,
In lordly study. Every day, I found
Man proved a gobbet in my mincing world.
Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued,
And still pursue, the origin and course
Of love, but until now I never knew
That fluttering things have so distinct a shade.

.too dumb, it would seem, to evolve into a bilingualism, but then... somehow, miraculously, able to dictate censoring the origins story, while at the same time dictating a counter to identity politics, while simultaneously working around a trans-grammatical feud with: what's involved in the geographic region of donning underwear... well **** me! so the atypical English man, who's turning into a complete and utter, ****... allows me to smoke a cigarette in the street... but has a problem with me smoking on my private property?! has a problem with me being bilingual calling me a schizophrenic?! but he doesn't mind a Pakistani grooming gang from operating in the north of England?
look who's looking for some long lost allies? not me! there's so much i can do to integrate... but i can't just, erase, a knowledge of a language i said my first syllables MA MA in... you be the pretty boy... English, man... learn a second language, or keep your ******* on a tight leash! because i'll fight... i'm actually hoping for  fist fight... after i put out cigarette stumps on my knuckles? i don't care about winning or losing... i'm a sadist... i enjoy pain! no, you don't get to tell me to erase the tongue i said my first syllables in... teach a **** to fry you a battered cod next time!

so... the idea of integration
is fine...
while i'm some ****
instrument of insurgence?
but not when i'm a ******...
who says...
sure...
i'll learn your language...
your ******* tongue...
i'll learn it...
i'll even learn to practice the profanity,
much agreed upon,
of eating fish & chips
on Friday night...
    oh you're ******* pushing it...
you're pushing it!
you want me, to,
forget, ever speaking,
a single word,
of my native tongue?!
WHAT?!
you have to be ******* with me
right now...
you, expect, WHAT?!
WHAT?!
    how about you get off your
lard greased *** and learn a language
yourself?
guess why Western, your
so prized Western Europe
is experiencing a migrant crisis?
ever heard, how...
Belgians speak better English
than the natives?
  it's like they have
an imbedded
        coercion with the English tongue...
**** me...
they must have conquered these
lands prior!
the Norwegians speak better
English than the English!
wait... or **** on me...
vikings! it must have been the vikings!
guess what...
why do the migrants do not come
to "eastern" Europe?
well done,m sport...
just shy of the Urals
in terms of a geography class...
you want an: east is in the east,
and the west is a vaguely defined term...
whether in Copernican
terminology or, otherwise...

no, ******, i can dance dance dance
like a can-can ponce all night long!
i'll do it for free to boot...

no, the English people didn't vote
to leave the European union
with a fear of the Turks...
former colonies...
these wankers hated the notion
of the A8 coming over...
they doubled down
on Romania and Bulgaria
joining the party...

  the Turks were never the problem...
plenty of Turkish shops,
and god save the barbers to boot!

good for the "eastern" Europeans...
not speaking a *****-tongue
of English...
            they only arrive on the Western
shores because.
English?
         pristine... perfected even...
outside the confines of these,
**** grand isles of beauty and
perfection...
         and don't mind if i do...
shock multiplied by awe,
whenever a school trip took place...

the Belgians speak better English
than the actual English...
and have a diacritical neutrality
to boot...
         well **** me!

                      ain't that, something?!
no... English isn't a secondary
language necessary
to be spoken in a nation that's
past or south of Berlin...
  no necessary...
          the usage of English is,
a gateway "drug"...

but if the English, "think",
that i'll be properly integrated
into their culture,
while: speaking their native
language and respecting their culture
and whims is not enough,
and that i'll have to forge a pact
with myself to forget or rather,
erase the language i was born with?

how are your matriarchs of
Manchester doing?
  why do i ask?
   i'll sooner cut my **** off and
then **** on it...
before i speak a word of English
in my household,
or for that matter,
"integrate" by erasure...
  
  you best be ready to cut my tongue out...
which is why...
how can a Welshman be
deemed an esteemed creature
of kept pride...
if he doesn't speak a word of
the "hiding" tongue?
the Belgians speak a better English
than the ******* English!
whether or not they still
retain speaking Flemish is beside
the point...

               what cause for whatever there
be a need to make, a cause,
if the Welsh are not speaking
Cymru,
and the Irish are not speaking Gaelic?!
you don't make an argument
in a language that
has left Europe's west flank...
******* its way through
being easily speakable,
and semi-integrate-able;
thank god the majority
of the Polacks do not speak,
even a majority riddled
tourist majority English...
   and they don't...
even in places like in Warsaw...
it's like banging
their heads against
a brick wall when it comes
to the Muslim, wealthy tourists...
no hope in sight...
but no...
i will rather retain my native
tongue,
and respect the culture of
the English, than allow myself
to "forget" my native tongue
of Urdu... let's say...
and then turn around,
and abuse the native culture....
calling it... debased...
no!
you don't come against my
tongue, and then expect
me to remain neutral...
    but if you do...
you come, dictating what the rules
of integration are?
i'll be there...
telling you,
where you went wrong...
not everyone likes
the culture that England
entertains...
but everyone likes
a citation using the English
tongue, with however
horrid diacritical disorientation...
and i will give a part of me, up,
to, "integrate"...
take my language away?
you might as well blind me
and cut my tongue off...

   no... i'm telling you...
smarten up...
  how about you learn a second
language?
rather than discriminating
against bilingualism like
it's a schizophrenia?!

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
He loitered here he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
"Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark."
The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash he smoked a huge cigar;
He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
He laid the odds and kept a "tote", whatever that may be,
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered, "Here's a lark!
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark."

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall.
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink his dexter eyelid shut,
"I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut."
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
"I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark."

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;
Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark
No doubt, it fairly took him in — the man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:
"You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! One hit before I go!
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark."

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.
He set to work with nail and tooth, he made the place a wreck;
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
And "******! ****** ******!" yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
And when at last the barber spoke, and said "'Twas all in fun'
T’was just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone."
"A joke!" he cried, "By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;
I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark."

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,
He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.
"Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough."
And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

So my hair
was getting
really long
so I went
to the barber shop
with the lady barbers
and told her
to give me
a businessman's haircut
which I used to call
normal style
and she cut off
most of my hair
and shaved my neck
with a straight razor
and I thought
that it was great
but now
my hair stands up
in the back
so I look like
Alfalfa
(if you remember him)
without the grease.

sometimes there's just that -
          a cold night,
            two days prior
    to travelling to the motherland,
and a haunting song -
  a glass of whiskey -
           and all the worthwhile
memory of seeing my turkish barber
who came from the city
     of gaziantep:
               it's not as bad as the media
portrays it,
          if the media wants to show
you heaven, they'll show you heaven
but if they want to show you hell,
hell is what you'll see...
       authentic journalists,
              or propagandists?
          a second visit to a barber in
well over 7 years, of growing my hair,
to then cut it to a monkish short...
       as ever, i pay the compliment
to the turkish art of the barber...
                 who know how to both
cut hair, and tend to beards...
         god, i love how they still practice
the art of finishing off the sculpture
with a brzytwa, i.e. a straight-razor...
the type that old-schooling barbers
used to sharpen on a leather belt...
mind you, in turkey you need not be
homosexually inclined to be
a respected barber...
                      even if it's not a heavily
inclined profession akin
to other manual labours...
              so how's business -
                  makes that 15 or so customers
per day, at roughly 20 quid a pop
for the whole deal...
               more on the weekends...
         the best barbers in europe,
on average, are the turks...
              they just have this knack at
keeping it short & sweet, simple...
                          i sit in that chair of
his, close my eyes, and relax...
               forgetting other, darker places
of seeking pleasure.

.well, among all the other phobia contenders? the funny ones, even i sometimes succumb to an arachnophobia, the reflex reaction to an extremely large domestic spider... a slight ****, no rhetorical base... like: what the ****?! the simple beauty of an irrational fear, since a phobia is an irrational fear... but... islamophobia? what the **** is irrational about that? no one seems to talk about islamophilia - unless of course in the convert community of ginger ninjas from the York-shire, or some other Rotherham *******...

...and if you were to talk to any Urdu speaking
Pakistani?
    he'd tell you: i hate the Wahhabi movement...
perhaps in Saudi Arabia it is mainstream -
but outside of Saudi Arabia?
            just plain old hypocrisy - banning music,
but still singing an adhan...
          why not murmur the call to prayer
like a bunch of ******* Catholics at that point
in the mass, where the congregation almost
sounds satanic, murmuring the credo -
   the i believe in...
blah blah... go to a Polish Catholic mass...
   and wait for the moment when they start
their satanic murmuring of the credo -
          i just don't remember if it's after
    the body & blood transfiguration -
hmm... poetry in motion, hanging on a thread
of metaphor...
         but irrational fears are funny...
         it's not even: not all the spiders...
well, a baby spider is like a baby muslim....
       "just" some, some...
             whatever, tell that to the Manchester
matriarchs who lost their granddaughters...
         claustrophobia is a funny fear,
      agoraphobia, yet another,
      and the list goes on...
              it's funny not from the perspective
of mocking the individual,
      but the fear per se...
                         and if I really were islamophobic?
would i trust a Turkish barber to shave
a part of my neck, while he molded my beard
for the Istanbul look?
                      don't think so...
    but... concerning the Turks... esp. because
of their talented, absolutely top game
barbers...
                               the year is 1683...
and Louis XIV and Emperor Leopold are
playing courtesan chess over Spain
   and Portugal...
                  in comes the Ottoman empire,
and besieges Vienna...
         who bails out the Holy Roman Empire?
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth -
with Jan III Sobieski at its head...
                   see... Poles have had many ruff
& tumble encounters with the Turks,
   after all, the Turks owned much of southern
Europe...
          now take that, and move this into
the current year...
     they're Muslims... but... WE SHARE
A COMMONALITY... A HISTORY...
   AN UNDERTAKING OF / FROM THE PAST,
translated into the current year,
   and subsequently the future...
              i already said once upon a time...
is it really "islamophobia" if i'd rather favor
Turks and the ****'ite?
           forget whether Islam is a religion of
"peace"... they're not perfect,
   did the ******* Sunnis forget that their religion,
like all others, is schismatic?
       there's your ******* perfect -
but you have to give them credit,
   on account that... well...
   Muhammad didn't keep his word to Ali...
and that the schism happened so fast...
     not at least 1000 years it took for
the East-West schism of 1054...
          bam-wham thank you Ahmed...
plus... if you look at it... no ****'ite terrorist...
only the ******* Sunnis...
            the Turks imploded on themselves...
that's why the grandmothers of Poland
prefer the imported Turkish tele novellas
over the Mexican ones...
          so... if you want to avoid the bumper sticker
of Islamophobe...
              (a) what is irrational about it,
        when it's not a quirky, irrational fear?
  (b) find yourself a Turkish barber.

I arrive at the barbers
for my weekly, my usual,
and you are there,

sitting in my seat
crying. I lift you up,
cape and all,

take you round the
corner, where you tell
me you are sorry

but we have to go to
Brighton now, even
though it is 6pm on

a Friday and we won’t
be done until 2pm
tomorrow. Is it a ruse?

I think so, because
suddenly we are in a
part of London that

looks like Montmartre
(or it could be Richmond
masquerading as Venice)

and we meet a man
called Tricks who says
he’s the new chief now

because he knows the
location of all the bones.
And then there are

scanners at airports,
walk-in health centres,
families in North Carolina

with names like Kayleigh
and Shauna. And when
we are done meeting

them we are back, you
in the chair, glowing blue
under barbicide lights.

Walk in the door
Notice all the sports themed wall
The barber shop full of gossip
Waiting your turn
The barbers says next
Sit in the chair
tell the barber how do the hair style
He covers you
Snips and trims
Razor cuts and high fades
Shows you the work with a mirror
Pay your fee leave a tip
Dusts you off sends you on the ways
Come back haircut can fix you any day

Down at the barbershop where the
upbeat finesse fills the scene,
hypnotic basslines and smoking beats
rise from the radio into the
jazzy air.  

Various boys and men come
by to get close haircuts, fresh
fades, and dope designs.
Harmonic flows travel across
the shimmering space, bright
waves of excellent taste, a
thrilling serenity of light,
as the barbers create magic
in the brilliant place.  

Biggie’s lyrical anthem, Big Poppa,
blazes around the room,
hip-hopping jams full of
deep spins and breaking booms.

Groovy barbers rap to the beat,
spitting fire flaming diction
in glowing dimension, marching
in glorious rhythms, as the
whole masterpiece becomes
a supersonic sea of incessant
boogying and wavy arms,
snapping ankles and dancing
feet, an engine racing extravagance
moving in high flight.

.eh, the general misconception (katy b - i like you): am i "hung-up" over exes? let's just say, i could have loved the way i loved without having loved the ex... the ex isn't the problem, nor a nostalgia piece... well... it is a variant of nostalgia, but not of the opposite, the canvas of my affection... a nostalgia of the affection disused, disorientated on the wrong person... it's never about the ex, it's about you, and me, and the ex that experienced, but destroyed, and about the me i wish you could experienced without an ex... the ex is, the ugly momentum that furthers "me" to disengage with my equal, "you", and your exes... the fact that a drag effect exists in relationships, the fact that Heraclitus was right: it's a river, but hardly a sea... relationships are rivers, and the generalized social interaction as the sea... oh, i'm not keeping artifacts of my exes with me... they're the me, exhausted having had them... there is no ex... there's only me forever lodged in an inanimate past... with the animate potential future, and the animate present, which is expressed thus: i can't tell you about the person i dated, but i can & at the same time not tell you about the person i was... shrapnel psyche... the same thought then, a similar thought now... but when it comes to the complete individual? ex, what?! i hate being given over to Rubens... the ex-girlfriend is not much more than the more that is an ex-self... and, my god... isn't it such an ugly picture?!

eh... she was Russian...
   eh... she was rich...
em... this is a tricky one...
she called me kakashka
(little ****)...
and she invariably
wanted me to call her
crumpet...
   apparently i acquired
this tongue to the point
whereby
i would say the word
crumpet... and she'd giggle...
oddly enough,
for me...
i visited an Ukrainian
*******, and asked:
am i a hunchback?
to which she replied:
do you not think
women have little,
or no, confidence in
approaching you?
what?! oh right...
the Casanova bit,
has to come from me...
rather than from,
them...
well... i wasn't born
with that sort of a natural
impetus...
guess this is me not
becoming a Casanova!
but my my...
if anyone is to become
jealous...
traditional Turkish
barbers?
hair is one thing,
beard another...
and only Turks can
do a decent trim of the beard...
eyes closed...
**** me...
better than oral ***...
as i once suggested...
so... manhood is taught...
with a pair of boxing gloves...
and a punching bag?!
seriously?!
how about you begin
your lesson into the realm
of manhood,
beginning with...
a good barber?
next? if i am rich enough...
a good tailor...
but... since i have
a background in chemistry...
i'm still bewildered
by the genius of
polyester translated
into clothing...
so for the moment?
no, no...
forget boxing...
you will not lose weight
by going to the gym
expecting a non-existence
of stretch marks
as if you just gave birth
to an anorexic...
bicycle... 50+ kilometers
a day, for a month...
legs do not succumb to
stretch marks...
no major organs in the legs...
and no... forget the boxing gloves,
and the punching bag...
find yourself a traditional
Turkish barber...
you're not a real man
without a trustworthy
barber...
proof:
you walk down a darkened
street,
two girls are walking a dog...
by the body shape:
teenagers...
they turn their heads
and look at you...
what?!
           such a pithy
stance... to force men to
box... how about you teach
how to groom, prior,
or how not to groom,
extend the lack of grooming for up
to 6 months...
  and then force them to groom...

i went to martial arts classes...
the student of the teacher
who became the teacher for
the evening... kicked me in the *****...
did he apologize?
i was curled up in fetal position...
so i stopped learning martial arts...
apparently i didn't
make the HA! sound while
walking forward making chop-sticks
out of martial arts' moves...
the student of the teacher
that wasn't there who acted
as the teacher: learned jack-****!
me?
     i learned something...

she really did call me kakashka
   (little ****)...
i said the word crumpet...
but never called her that...
   turns out... she wasn't even
a muffin!

            ah... all the love's lost...
hence my favorite indie cinema...
my memory.

- ever envision yourself becoming
so bitter,
that, paradoxically,
you turn out to be, the embodiment of
being:
sickly sweet?
welcome to the club;
sinister bitter...
       like most English people...
they're sorry over the most trivial
social grievances...
but never imply the grievance
upon stressing an apology.

I heard my barber say today

You think your situation is bad until you hear someone else’s story.
That’s when you realize your problems ain’t ****.

Why did that make me feel better?

addressing my southpaw weakness...
don't know... my left hand is a bit...
weak...
   started to train it...
   by extinguishing cigarette
butts on each other knuckles...
have two vacant slots to fill...
and plenty of whiskey...
       why?
  i paid my Shylock...
  i was **** with the Gorbachev
**** on my right shoulder blade...
now comes the fun part!
the lesson...
of boxing, with not boxing gloves!
i want the ******* knuckle
to... hurt... the... the most...
like Tom Waits'
circus narrative...
  **** these teenage girls cutting...
how about their start burning
themselves,
with hot, metallic objects?
how's that?
less blood!
   ha ha!
                 two knuckles down...
two to go...
    i'm giggling with anticipation...
while, i, eat,
the, pain! ha ha!
who gives a **** about
predictability,
preachers / theologians
or stock brokers?
so who?
the Turkish barbers,
the English tailors,
the French chefs?!
      who?
              the roof, the roof,
the roof is on fire,
let the ******* burn...
we don't don't need no
water let the ******* burn,
let the ******* burn...
      i'm a simpleton...
catch the genie... catch the lamp
sort of scenario...
otherwise?
  bon voyage / bon soir /
    mon amí!
   god, i hate the french!
         it's like...
you want to lick them...
face to face...
and then... punch them...
        my type of ****** nationalism!
comes the third knuckle...
and the cigarette...
it will be put out onto!
- like an interrogator might...
you show the victim undergoing
the torture, with yourself
prior...
   and then?
  torture the **** out of them! ha ha!
i.e. who's the buckle,
who's the knuckle, and who's the knee?!
oh please! please!
don't mention the oysters
of the elbow!
  have some common decency!

A crazy *******
got in my face
the other day.

"This is my shop!,
I put the work in this *******,
see ya'll young people come in here
trying to mess up my shop,
this is MY SHOP!"

"Mmhmm," a fat ****
in the corner affirmed.

Crazy *******
are often your
barbers.

He's pulled this **** before,
I've seen him do it.

He'll just throw the clippers down
and get in somebody's face,
while they flip dumbly through
Sports Illlustrated.

It's funny as hell.

He had spittle
in cakes at the corners of his mouth
that wiggled
like eggs on an unbalanced beam
and fat lips that looked
like rotten peach slivers;
all brown and ugly pink.

He's in his forties and stumpy.
But all he ever does is yell.

I punched him
right in his lips.

His teeth were hard and scratched my knuckles,
but he backstepped,
gave me one of those crazy people
"I might just cut your head off" looks
and walked to the bathroom to clean himself up.

Crazy *******
think
they're the crazier than everybody else.

i might not be the smartest crab in the bucket but... Darwinism enforces hierarchies... politics enforces: hierarchies... how hard is it to not see: political biology?! if nature has hierarchy in place... then: the supposed "man-ape"? you're telling a man he's actually a walking abortion... that's all you're saying... now: i can figure out something for myself: but... that's me! i drink alone: i can figure out the recluse, perhaps not the nature of the recluse: but the desire to be a recluse... hell... i was primed to some quasi-alpha... but i wanted to forgo this inherent: trajectory... Darwinism is... politics: it' universal politics... it's: you want to look at apes and forgo the need for beauty for: this long? ugly heads of the Hydra... come on! you don't require Islam as the driving force for the motives: you need motives per se! it only take 0.000001 of any scale... or measure... to take a noumenon from a shadow: mustard seed genesis... into a full phenomenological exegesis of worry... but it's too late by then... the chess pieces are already moving... inclined to free-will or completely without it... it's just sad to think that: when Darwinism employs the argument for hierarchies: real-politik is somehow "devoid" of said: employment of synonymous measures: the worst of woman brought out the worst of man.

well: after, say... a 7 day back to back **** fest of drinking
solo: a litre of herr whiskers & ms. amber
even my liver opts out...
i call it the furry liver stage: or: the onslaught of
pate...
but by then it's not only my liver that's asking
for a breather...
my heart's no longer into it...
and my mind is exhausted to boot...
heart, liver & sensible Brian are looking for a reboot...
oddly enough... i'm more than willing to give it
to them...
it's not like drinking & writing during the night
while going for a marathon cycle run to sweat
out the toxins... it works when you're having
a drinking ****... but not at the end of one...
you can't just fast-track the toxins out...
you need to... pickle...
i call this stage the honey-trap...
it's alcohol "abuse": unlike the use of ******
from what i've seen in pop culture...
it's the opposite of doing a cold turkey...
the honey trap really begins when you're about
to go to bed: even though throughout
the whole day you didn't think about drinking...
you did go to the local shop for two pints
of milk & bought & expressly drank a hipster can
of IPA... burped for a minute...
the fun really starts when you go to bed...
it's a honey trap although:
you're sweating: stewing or pickling your take...
you have the most amazing night
dripping cold sweat... waking up three or four times
during the night...
the APAP, the naproxen or the phenergan dosage
isn't enough...
you need to fall asleep by draining all the brain
going to your brain: direct it to your intestines:
as ever... you eat too much you want to sleep...
but this is during the night:
you're not going to really eat...
lo! & behold... 2 pints of milk disappear...
after all... if you ever puked up milk you notice
the fatty cells split from all the other matter:
the proteins & the sugars...
it's a pretty looking cocktail...
but i just adore the sweating & the toiling...
of course with milk you'll eat something sweet...
coming down from 118kg because of concerns
for my blood-pressure i was given
the option: lose weight: or we'll put you on
high-blood pressure tablets...
at the zenith of the **** i weighed in at 96kg...
one night of the honey trap
and i jumped up to 98kg...
         one day's & one's night's worth is enough...
i've been slightly sleep deprived enough to know
that i have a rekindled want to spew...
from the hear & the brain...
here's back to mr. liver being the punching-bag...
plus... you don't really want to be hangover
when going to the Turkish barber...
you want to have allowed the toxins to leave
your body: slowly... not via exercise...
i still don't know...
£120 per hour for some ******* & oyster dipping...
or... £12 for circa half an hour's worth of
getting the ***** on my hair trimmed
(since i go for a haircut at a unisex salon)...
i don't know...
the trimming of the ***** (sorry, beard) would
only cost me £10...
ah those Turkish barbers...
but he asked at the end: would you like a hot towel?
i declined once... not this time...
so what was i expecting after having my beard
trimmed, shamed... having a close encounter
of the third kind at the "event horizon" where
skin meets hair with some cool whip
& a classic razor?
well i wasn't expecting to find him drop
the electric razor & add finishing touches with
scissors...
he did put a hot towel onto my face...
started my face & beard with it...
until he then folded it round my face
like a doughnut ensuring my nose was playing
peek-ah-boo... he then told me to relax...
outstretched my hands...
sprayed some lemon zesty spray on my hands...
then started to pull my fingers from
their knuckle sockets...
massaged my arms with slaps and "bites"...
took up my arm and folded it to the side:
each arm... between each arm he crudely massaged
the back of my neck and the collar-bone...
the towel still on my face...
for £2 extra? all this when i only walked in
for a trim of the beard?
he then applied some "olive oil"...
anything by OSSION... this turkish brand of male
hair products... top of the line...
the Fwench can hide with their alcohol infused...
trans-man baby products...
point being: this is so much about make culture...
there's nothing to do with:
make-up... nail-polish...
the end product doesn't even matter...
it's the experience...
a man can groom a man in such a way
that a woman couldn't... ever...
oddly enough i have hair to not give a ****
whether it's the Turkish barber or some
blonde bombshell giving me: something just shy
of a crew-cut... i don't miss having long hair...
one man in history pulled off
having long hair & a beard:
i'm not the one to pull that stunt off...
long hair & a goatee: i tried...
but if you're going for the full beard?
short hair...
                   & if my liver doesn't like it:
when Brian and Hertz is up for it again...
so be it... i'll allow the liver to check out early...
but so much is wong with...
the worst of woman has brought up the worst of man...
you: "you" heard of the current craze hitting
university campuses...
so more & more women are entering higher education:
imagine to my shock: the men they're left with...
the ones no longer bothered about
spiking drinks... no... these days they just walk up
to a girl & "syringe" her: that word has been
elevated from a mere noun: to a verb...
it implies spiking her directly...
i once drank a spiked drink once...
idiot me...
but i'm not a woman...
i found a slap of pavement along my dizzy faze
& ended up walking home with it:
finding my own bed...
i don't remember where i left that slab of
pavement... but i clung to it like it was: anchor...
i was with some girls: full clown make-up:
Halloween... they just dropped some ecstasy &
were dancing like the teenagers they were...
i'm pretty sure that drink was not intended for:
i could tell... 3 guys and 1 girl were playing
this boxer arcade game seeing me drink the spiked
beer...
punching at bad (good) as they could...
i guess they didn't have the sort of punch to
punch a clown...
terrible experience...
         ugh...
    but the worst of woman is bringing up the worst
of man...
incel culture is not terrorist culture...
oh sure... it isn't...
last time i heard that a jihadi performed his acts
of terror by first killing his mother...
i'm pretty sure must have heard of some jihadi
that killed his mother prior to going on a rampage...
right now? i think my mother is obnoxious...
an obnoxious brat...
but then her fractions are all wrong...
it's two days short of a year since she lost her father...
i lost a grandfather & a friend:
but her grief is a hierarchy above my own...
so i have to let the whole ******* ****-show slide...
i have my grievances but they somehow have to
ferment in: how she has had grievances with her mother
over why she wasn't informed earlier
about the dreaded affair of: eintreten tod!

oddly enough i'm about to visit to get a time-bomb
of a tooth fixed with root-canal surgery since...
these days... your best bet at any sort of "tourism"
is: health-tourism...
no chance of me getting root-canal treatment
in England... the easy way out: pull the tooth out...
it's a healthy... semi-healthy tooth!
it can be treated!
no treatment available in England:
****-off i go to Eastern Europe...
mind you: it'll be nice to immerse myself with
a people that speak my mutter-zunge for a while...
where the whole world won't be there...
plus i'll have no internet access...
i'll finish that vol. 4 of Knausgaard & read
some Rousseau... happy days:
unhappy days...
my dementia riddled friend won't be there...
but i'll be the one who'll take his grandmother
to the graveyard & make inquiries as
to why: she couldn't have informed "us" sooner
about the dire straits...
i'll be the grandson making the *******
inquiries my mother: her daughter is not willing
to make...

my uncle: her brother: her son is yet to make it clear
how he knew about his impeding death
2 weeks (circa) prior... he came round &
had a blast talking about: "putting things into perspective"...
he asked for some chewing gum
prior to the funeral surface...
& while the coffin was lowered into a shallow grave
(why shallow... oh... you know...
they were intending to cremate him,
rather than seeing his dead corpse in his most
formal attire) - my grandfather had a fear of
cremation...
as much an atheist as he was:
he still believed in resurrection rather than
the traffic of reincarnation:
well... it's not like reincarnation is "wrong": wong...
but you must be a people with a libido that
allows you to have as many people
as you like: for most living in poverty...
for a people that prefer less people
but a higher quality of life...
"perspectives" alter... no?

so as they lowered the coffin into the shallow
dug-out... his chewing of gum...
it's only fresh now... in the moment i was numb...

even today: esp. today... of course if i'm going
for a blood-test i need to sober up: slowly...
i can't just sweat out the toxins on a bicycle ride:
but a glorious storm from France arrived...
in between trying to snooze in some sleep
while listening to the ** debut
& Trentemøller's - The Mash and the Fury:
there was the sound of rain...
beating against my windows...
the cold sweats & the night...

come circa noon while i cycled to the barber
shop i was still sweating: what was it...
circa 10°C?
it just so happened that once the barber
"doing" me tried to wipe off my sweat
for the 2nd time to no avail that the head-barber
told him: blow some cold air on his forehead...
it worked...
as they trim your "event horizons" they also
treat those areas with some baby-bottom powder
sprinkled on a brush...

between the 3Ps...
priests, psychiatrists, prostitutes...
there are the one singular B... (Turkish) barbers...
esp. ones that keep a pair of budgerigars
in their practice...
enough said...
i could count a 4th P: ahem... poo'ets...
but... come one...
some of us are smear merchants when we
don't get the proper credentials...
some of us are not fit for an underground
streak of luck with an audience...
some of us are not built to last:
outside the immediacy of the crab-bucket
mentality:
few make it for the ultimate game:
the: rattekönig game...
                  
it almost feels like an "unfair" exchange
of resources...
the worst of woman brings out the worst of man...
so those supposed male-feminists are
having a field day at universities being
out-numbered 3:1... aren't they?
it's like revenge ****...
but with added spice...
          thank god i'm your sort of everyday
man: i feel no solidarity with...
ahem... my "fellow" man...
thank god i like to focus on what
i want...
seeing how i want very little...
very little seems.... brimming to the fore
with a fullness i never: not once...
hoped for...
                      lucky me...
but there is no solidarity with man:
if an incel begins his trajectory of terror
by first killing his mother:
i'm looking for a name of a jihadi
that began his rampage in a similar way:
although one thing is sure...
why are all the right-wing "extremists",
incels... branded as... mentally ill...
while all the jihadi "soul-jeers": simply not?

seems rather unfair that one side is about
to be treaded via a pharmacological concoction
while the other side is to be:
left alone... yet still making inquisitions
into the "argument"...
        that's my beef...
i'd say both sides are terrorists...
but one side isn't treated in the same way
that the other side is...
shouldn't all sides be... psychiatrically
evaluated... given the same "happy" pills?
to me... that's not fair...
one convicted side gets an Imam and the "psychiatry"
of the Quran...
the other side gets the "happy" pills
and...        what literary focus?!

perhaps it sounds better in Deutsche...
dies welt ist für ein feuer:
das wille machen
           nacht drechen zu tag...
meit gott! it does sound better in German!
who would have guessed: ist so!

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.

Yeah
well I sat in the barbers chair while you walked up and down the crowded aisles in a half deserted Tesco store
I wondered why
what was it for?
The freezer stood alone at home
freezing cold as was its wont but it was stacked with want me nothing more at all
for it was full up to its freezing chin
with something brought from albuquerque
and two fifths of London Gin.

The barber gave a weirdly grin and gave me one of number two
I should have fekin known that's what the little *** would do
but you just wandered round and did you see that skinhead passing by the deli' counter?
that was me
I waved atop my fresh shaved head
but I was dead meat on the cooked meat and it shook me wide awake
I need to take a breather
might even leave her
she would not care
she's got Tesco's in her brain and not to mention in her hair with apple summer fresh smell,how much dumber can one get
well if I stick about just watch this space
look out for the smiling vacant face
that will be me
taking her
to do her hair
just like mine.

rows and rows of decadence
chocolate covered dreams

gold and purple velvet
exotic coffee steams

haute coutre on sterling racks
staffed by aphrodite

cherry blossoms in the air
art to serve the mighty

gilded goblets fat with rubies
thick potions to control

ivory pipes on opal stands
pink smoke from their bowls

mahogany and marble
amber glass aglow

tinkling diamond chandeliers
funiture art nouveau

elixirs and magic rings
magenta fire in a jar

thick and heavy gold
tiffany eggs for the czar

pastel parisian cakes
hand stitched italian shoes

hornback crocodile leather
master barbers fine shampoos

bespoke tailor in a corner
adonis with fine liqueur

any delicacy or art
for any type connoisseur

richly wrapped and waiting
your opulent desires

soak them drink them in
bask in their fires

all priceless things
based on human lies

worth less than dust
compared to love in
someone’s eyes

if it be a tribal issue, i'd craft a society
from each nation,
but it be a furthered without ethnicity
for a system,
socialism is equated with borders
where the many calais migrants are male
with no female counterparts,
a sort of faked ******, more apparent
when the tennis matches roll into quarter finals,
kacap ******* moaning and groaning
a serve, a return... russian galls all eager-******
for the ooh-ah, ugh-nibble pull apart the ribcage!
even serena williams imitated for a while
the welcome ******* distraction,
the song named the misty mountain colds
will define my life, i invested many words
for the emotion behind it, and i'll invest in nothing else
in order to feel:
like i feel lessened in creative exploits
with a thousand blank pages between me and the ink
of zoological phonetics encoding emerges
(put a number to it, and every time
i get depressed - because the quality changes
very little, and the little that's left only
belittles with a sudden loss of adventure:
poets the naked narrators who cannot
craft characters, instead writ into action
a familiarity with narration but no
de-personifying narration),
mind you the god that endowed you with adventure
mind you the god that endowed you with pampering,
and which world to designate life with will you choose?
kacap! kacap! orthodox mad monk kacap *******!
let the commonwealth oar its last into the geography
of poland ukraine and lithuania carved from the mapping
of frequented transit of commercial goods...
that i find my un-originality among the blank pages
published, when i read the inked blotches of former
invaders of the blanks tattooing their tongue
from breath and into word, in order to ignite a nobleness
of delay: that word might invoke memory porous,
and breath imagination, and the riddle of dissected
airing of thought: with vowels the zenith and consonants
the nadir, i here by name meeting a loss of anonymity
proclaim a union in syllables of the height and depth
coordinating a linear road well travelled, universal;
here too i claim the sloth of slang mismatched from
quicksilver, taking off the trailing technology of
such an endeavour of rhyme upon rhyme with the
sole expressing it successfully: the utility of a rhymed couplet:
rap pancake potato sack readied for the flip flip
of the slavish rubric of packing the ones readied
for cotton picking.
route back to tennis: kacap ******* smoking
thick tough cigars of: umf! pooh! plough! ooh oh ah!
backhand spin, forehand ****! umf! ****! clap loud!
ooh oh ah!
the iceberg sized diamonds were easily dispersed,
and all other riches were stored with
screams in helium kept tight: advantages of
wealth circular economy
in the octopus incisor depths of
the mosquitoes of iron maiden skeletons
of sharpened blood draining arteries dubbed
the clippings of st. peter's of st. petersburg insignia nailing
a fathomable curse, readied for the public,
and readied for the ***** of a concentrated public
expression in only one statistical imprint: continuum
(be met assuredly):
our garden of eden readied for the public barbers
where once the bread of the beards begot a trimming
of a diet, should erotica feign a menopause of onomatopoeias
once readied for the ultimate pleasure,
now readied for old age's onslaught of readier
sober speech to make choice akin to mistake,
given 2 be 2 and both located in a flat earth of the square,
as seen in linear rather than omnipresent orientation
of the optics... and so on and so on, successfully,
to unsuccessfully remind us all of the candle flame hush,
arable the last neared star to give moon dominion
over the night that was a feline gaze of luminescent
fattening of many mirrors in termed phosphorous
elemental, when john, catherine and gabriel
stood contrast erectile on the spaniel's spine converted
to a dimension of dissection of rooted distances
made worthwhile unknown now (the surd k)
and the phonetic approximation of knowing (surd
the 15th century, surd the 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th, 20th,
in order to speak now and sepia the rest, as the
equivalent of not having the surd for the syllable now).

funny story, yeah, it's a funny one with you and the door-stoppers, i read the Brothers Karamazov; d'uh...

and you want t hear the quote? the salt on the wounds?
to angels - vision of god's throne,
to insects - sensual lust. i love the hyphen just hanging there
for unnecessary ambiguity when it comes to punctuation,
hanging in the air, a ******'s hanky with *gone with the wind
soundtrack, oh look here, sexed the
pomp crew that said ******* to their mothers
are angling with a free-spirit of fancies,
they kept me poor for a reason that
suggests i have to pay up a second time,
i didn't get their B.D.S.M.,
i'm praying for an early death
or a death by Islamic terrorism -
did you get it the first time round? n'ah 'ah,
second time? n'ah 'ah... third time?
least likely... what with Polish vermin to mind
i'd be scared to be a sheep, the Poles might
nibble on the shanks, i wouldn't be too sure
should they pacify with message of love
and gathering together...
once vermin, vermin forever, a bit like
those asthmatic british bulldogs ******* up
phlegm to breathe -
but back to the Dostoevsky quote,
*** is overrated - insects can have this domain,
wait for the cool-down,
the clown, and other jeopardy takers to juggle
the rest - it doesn't take celibacy per se to
ensure a strategy - just a rightfully placed
misogyny - and there was one waiting -
take your little Himmler off the crucifix
and see where you stand in the chicken prior
the egg argument - what a foul-mouthed *******
your saviour is... i hardly think he ever used
a toothbrush to mind the words later
of deity fatherhood - i'm not anti-Semitic,
but he's the only reason why i have every right to be;
along with every other Jew in the equation of
concerns - i don't like him, he was crucified,
i have no predestination lingo to boot,
i may have been baptised but i consciously chose to not
be confirmed, i don't have to like him, i'm not
expected to, the rule of the jungle is:
whatever comes your way - his poker hand is that
he was sold by Judas - he claims the foundations of
monetary exchanges, i was born into this ****-pile of
aggression toward thinking any thinking can be claimed
to be a madness... that old cat & mouse game in
England... if no one profits from madness then no
one is mad... who's earning my due renegade ego and who's
starving? i wasn't born to necessarily like him,
capital punishment was served, the Romans didn't
ask the Jews to build the Coliseum, or the Hanging
Barbers' Beards of Gladiators in Garden Form either...
hence the religious exploration, who he agitated...
the only time the Jews were left intact without
a curse of pointless architecture akin to Babylon's
hanging gardens or Egypt's pyramids and this
**** comes along and says that Sunday should be a
rightful trading day, and so we have it, Sunday and
the supermarkets are open till 4p.m., i don't like him
because he was one of the instigators of modern insomnia;
can we please take a break? nope, n'ah, not happening,
so there we have it, not one philosophical day
of retrospection, of introversion, or reflection,
constantly in the REFLEX mode we head toward
having a civilisation based on the non-existence of sleep,
24h New York, London, waiting for the ultimate pick-me-up
of dementia precipitating after we broke the rules
of the existence of sleep being abolished;
oh sure, he drove the traders from the temple and gave
us a house of prayer - ****** should have been
****** on Sabbath rather than agitating Zealots in
the wheat fields - fishermen like St. Peter were
literate back in those days? no chance! even a tax-collector
like Matthew knew more arithmetic than grammar;
the new testament begins with a bad joke by a few
Greeks concerning the tetra-grammaton -
is it Mark's gospel and Luke's that are similar?

transcript from a cult movie

bolec: O! zobacz bracie! spójrz jak oni sie ruszają; nie sądisz że polskim chłopakom też by sie przydało troche luzu? przykómaj te kocie ruchy! mogliśbymy sie od czarnych wiele nauczyć... koko-dzambo i doprzodu! to moje hasło, dobre nie? czasami żauje że nie urodziłem sie czarny. hej! chłopaki! a może macie ochote objerzeć film? ja ogłądam po kilka filmów dziennie: pościgi, strzelaniny, wojny gangów, to mój chleb codzienny... mam nowy zajebisty film... "smierc w Wennecji", nieźle brzmi, co?                spokojnie, zaraz sie rozkręci...

fred: ty jak ty sie nazywasz bo zapomniałem? kolec? stolec?

bolec: bolec.

fred: no, więc posłuchaj mnie teraz uważnie, bolek... byłeś w stanach?

bolec:  nie...

fred: no właśnie... a ja znam kogoś kto był... i opowiedział mi to i owo... w iesz skąd przyjechali czarni do ameryki?!?

bolec:  z afryki...

fred: no właśnie... handlarze niewolników przywieźli ich z Afryki... A myślisz, że to taka prosta sprawa wysiąść na plaży w Afryce, złapać w siatkę zwinnego, silnego murzyna i wywieźć go za ocean?!?

bolec:  chyba nie...

fred: no jasne, że nie... udało im się to zrobić ponieważ wywozili tylko takich co albo nie potrafili spierdolić przed siatką, albo byli największymi głąbami z plemienia i wódz sprzedawał ich za paczkę fajek, bo i tak nie miałby z nich pożytku. i ci wszyscy nieudacznicy pojechali do ameryki. pożenili się, porobili dzieci... świat poszedł do przodu... pojawiły się komputery, amfetamina, samoloty, ale co z tego, jeżeli ich serca pompują tę samą krew, są potomkami człowieka, który na własnym podwórku dał się złapać w siatkę, więc nie uważam, że naszym chłopakom brakuje luzu... kapujesz?!?

and it takes just another big **** to have a one night stand,
and a big enough heart to have a relationship
so the soul enmeshes the juices - that famous
W.D. 40 moment - and a cheap U.B. 40 moment too -
it's a drag like that, he can run a 100 metres in under
10 seconds, but when he swims you just hear
dolphin cackling in the background - not **** aqua
for sure, that's me, with the myth of Atlantis -
orderly, please! line up! take your badges and disperse,
we'll be back here again at the fire-evacuation point
in the the near future - in the meantime do whatever
it is you do, and do it. shame really - you ever see
the fire equipment of 1666? a large water bucket...
people either had a lot of common sense back then
or had magnanimous airs about them
(see how many lawsuits were made in the past decade),
primitive technology - i guess people thought a lot
back then... no talk of dementia - they were hardly literate
but they thought a lot, becoming literate meant
becoming aristocratic degenerates - excess wine, *******
***, scab and crawling ***** on the cranium
intended as barbers - then too many synonyms came,
you said barber and he knew the beard and moustache
was an extension of the head - sure, softer keratin, the harder
version being - i've ***** on my face! i've ***** on my face!
short and briskly - freshly mowed lawn... mm, nice -
fiddle the other part, i'll take a Sikh's beard and make a
violin's bow on the sly - see how Mozart sounds after
that. the Mongol stank and conquered the Alexandrian
Dream - before the arrows pierced, the stench overpowered.
it's just a dreaded affair - in order to give pleasure
i have to give my inner life up - the Greeks called it
barbarism the over way round - words from a *******
as if implying i get really jealous and bring out a knife -
the wonderful phenomenon of the schizoid condition,
or as prior worded, premature dementia, yet such people
continue to be fully functioning in a sense -
language debris - a meteor's tail - politicised psychiatry -
the easy route - say the noun hammer and you know
exactly what to do, unless it's Heidegger's hammer
and you realise he's implying two labourers talking
philosophy while working manually - in that
the ego (nail) should be hammered into a plank
of wood (thought) as easily as the reverse - the reverse
being the hammer (extended into the profession that
uses it frequently - i, carpenter) utilised (being, a) -
i.e. i, being a carpenter, nails, hammering in.
i didn't think this through - what's bugging my certainty
in how to explain it without conversation between
two carpenters discussing philosophy, which never happens,
is not what i'm bothered with, the real issue is i have
with the inherent negativism of subjectivity in English
interpretation of philosophy, crudely:
subjectivity is bad, wrong, self-indulgent, pseudo -
this stress in English thinking with its glorification of
objectivity is, to be honest, strange...
it comes from a book review of Wagner's Ring of
the Nibelung - equatable words: banal and subjective -
banal - trite - well given the "success of the human species"
i'm surprised it's not a universal truth that
we've come a bit trite given the numbers - i've seen
cucumbers fresher than people, we're bound by
an approximate of 70 springs, cucumbers are bound
by 1 spring, you get fresh in a supermarket,
you don't get fresh in books, what with the third butterfly
species σκoνιςμυγα (skonismyga - so not -muga?
up Saigon? i thought you cut off the bits you didn't
want and put the other letters with the cut offs together?
no wonder - upsilon [u] isn't said - just like in Latin
in English we have why - iota not y - dust-fly, i guess
Babylon did survive, in the variations disguising "dyslexia")...
but why is subjectivity so horrid? i thought
we all had our take on things and none of us wanted
to speak for the whole of humanity? Nietzsche warned
and defended individualism like that - who
would want to speak for the entirety of humanity?
in the political realm in the west subjectivity is defended
rigorously - because if you begin championing objectivity
in politics the Iraq Invasion was a bit stupid -
despotism, d'uh - yet in England the tradition is to
have a culture of literature that shuns subjectivity
and champions objectivity - why is subjectivity so
negatively perceived? oh, you're afraid someone is
so ardent on their choice of interest they they might
by accident speak-spit into your face?
subjectivity can't be so ****** negative, it's an expression
of an escape from what objectivity already
defined in the pinnacle by Descartes: res cogitans,
(a) thinking thing - we only write subjectively because
we've been caged in that little no. 2 of a waiter's james
bond tux - we staged an escape, a self-worth fanaticism
on the subjects we love rather than "have to" investigate
without passions, just hubris - which is what
critics use - hubris, disdain - the study of language could
have a similitude to the math of
1 (hubris) and x 1 = hubris, 1 and x 2 = audacity, etc.
in the synonymous table - the lubricant factor.
so, anger over, back to Heidegger's hammer -
nail (ego)            plank of wood (thought)
hammer (therefore)                   a table (existence) -
so why need proofs? why do i need to prove i necessarily
exist (when i don't) or that god unnecessarily exists
(when he does) - why prove something?
so another million schmucks can come along and
prove it either way? it's the nonsense attributed to
Descartes - he stressed an impossible objective-subjectivity
(grammatically more understandable, rigid:
noun-noun doesn't work, ah, objective-subjectiveness -
noun-adjective, pencil-sharpener, pencil-needs-sharpening)
in terms of others - hence the existential other -
well impossible for anyone else to have thought it up,
the impasse of wanting to plagiarising it - a real cul de sac -
well, that's me done on the topic - sonic -
as far as i'm concerned most people keep rigidity
a tight collar of using language not coming across a speedy
suggestion to not think about:
the speed-game of preposition juggling and contras etc.,
the acquisitive use of a language v. the inherited use of a language,
two different ballparks - what i acquired i thus express,
what the organically-historic entity inherited he
will primarily convene to call Poles vermin - a little
perplexed by a more labyrinth style of language used -
it gets personal day by day - but of course the ******* are
a protected species due to their colonial roots - at least
with skin-shallow discrimination you have the obvious bang,
and the immediate retort... this **** is swelling, slowly...
slowly... slowly... those were 8 million or so
Polish-Jews... also vermin... this **** already imploded...
it hasn't exploded... it's a dummy bomb... it imploded...
it's swelling... slowly... slowly... slowly... and when you
won't know it... BANG!

promise me! promise me to get me out of this hell-hole i put myself in! promise me! i don't know why i put myself through, several days of transcribing a snippet, this was merely a snippet from Kierkegaard's oeuvre, but, how unbelievable! each word was a labour, prop up the book in the right place, read, don't look at the keyboard, let the devil find work for idle hands... look for the devil who would be able to write like he might read Braille! my god, the punctuation, ****** an elephant's ***...the essential Kierkegaard - edited by howard v. hong & edna h. hong: hurt my sensibilities, or, rather, my pedantry, when it comes to punctuation... transcribing is not plagiarism... its brick-layer toils... one word, after another... if i were translating from Danish, i think i'd punctuate the text better: to give it some... panache! some: oomph! you know? this is my dedication, i'm supposed to be awake at 7am... i already shined my shoes, i've already prepped my white shirt, black trousers, black clip on tie, i have my papers (credentials) in order... tomorrow i'll be at the London Stadium overlooking West Ham take on Leeds United in the FA cup... like always, i'll be more interested in the crowd... spotting a pretty girl among the "yobs"... because i truly care about football when it's on the t.v.: in real life... i once stood with three cans of beer and watched a non-league / non-professional match compromising of enthusiasts in a park, at a distance... i couldn't see much... i still don't see much difference... unless it's on the t.v.: the stadium doesnt really "frighten" me... but this one time in the park, i sort of looked the Michael Myers part... headphones in... one young woman was trying to... communicate to this older woman: also walking her dog... about confronting me... i think i "said": gaze... i looked at them... the younger woman was trying to tell the older woman about confronting me... the older woman told the younger woman: YOU, HAVE, NOTHING, TO TALK ABOUT, WITH THIS, MAN! i was drinking a beer, standing... a decent distance from the football match: but i also remember that... that 1995 Charity Shield game at the Old Wembley between Manchester United & Newcastle: ants kicking a grain of sand... obviously i didn't understand why i might pretend to be a *****... my new favorite word... *****... alias for paedohpile... if i don't look menacing and some woman can "think" she stands a chance against me: merely posturing... then we have issues... oh **** me... transcribing... that's worse than plagiarism.... i once did the most pristine plagiarism job on some... social-science course up in Edinburgh... i was having to make up credit scores, being the romantic idiot... losing my virginity to Isabella of Grenoble... oh, get a French girlfriend, take up French... i hate the language... they write what they don't speak: phonetically... which is sort of in line with my prior ambition for the plunge - to transcribe some Kierkegaard, but also translate some SZYMON STAROWOLSKI observations... circa... 1650... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth... sorry.. it's not going to happen... i've done enough transcribing enough *******'s worth of: this punctuation needs to... "go"... to better understand myself... through this iron maiden of: someone else wrote: what someone else wrote... i'll leave ol' SIMON for another take... given... transcribing is a labour... writing, freely... idiosyncratically: appealing to my, appeal...  how, why, when... oh i can deal with that, these days... it's not even concerning what sort of thesaurus peacocking exfoliation is being used / abused by the writer... i'm... more allured... by... punctuation... since i don't bother to rhyme, since i find all lyricism a tad bit... crass... what else is there? the measure of: how to stop... how to begin... how to "objectify" the conjunction-intermediacy of... punctuation... no manner of human speech can be / could be encapsulated by comparing it to a river... point being... i'd rather write as freely as i can, about the most mundane events in my own life: prop up my subjectivity than... somehow... "somehow"... succumb to some sensible objective reality... objectivity does not give me a drive... it does not equip me with a manly persevence... it's antithetical to what i understand as human nature simply because... ha ha... objectivity has been owned by the English... it's their lot of being sensible... like watching would-be journalists looking at what's currently happening in Kazakhstan... then trying to compare it to... the posturing: the civilian security of protests in Ham-Ham-H'America... and it's like... so what? the people are simply, expected to, take it?! the liberty's of the individual that believes himself to be outside the collective will... sure... well... sounds nice... unless of course... the hive really does come after you... i'm all for individual liberties, after all... i own a private library that could put the public library where i live to shame... although... i'll give them a sly one: Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus... they owned it, i simply loaned it... fair enough... but i'd rather write about women... i was having my haircut done... closed my eyes... because... hell... the mirror and ****... with my eyes closed i was stroked by this blonde bombshell... we talked about owning dogs, about owning cats... Alsatians? oh, i really have a hard-on for them... i used to own a dobberman... prior to it being illegal to snip their ears and cut their tails... she was a cat that does that to her? like she looks to be self-harming? perhaps she should nickname him Freddy Krueger?! my maine ****? oh... it's rainy, he just sleeps in my bed... he usually sleeps with me.. what?! the bed's big enough for the both of us... i'd love to own a boxer... i'd love to own a rottweiler... i'd also love to own a Triumph bike...

one of my replies... you know, a liter of whiskey can go down well... i get double drunk from good conversation, i rarely encounter what i'd consider a good conversation... that's why... i much prefer to drink alone, of note... i had more fun pretending to talk to myself than expecting "talking" to be an anti-canvas with some, living, breathing: might have kidney failure, etc. punk or, sociopathic? here's the script:

see you now,, i'm just about to rewrite a Kierkegaard transcript.... i can't imagine it being much fun... the whole process is so unoriginal... but oh, oh so necessary... that i sort of don't want to live without it... bonus points... i''ve drank enough to make it... bearable... trans-scripting....i danced a little in my bedroom, donned my cat with a pair of sunglasses.... thank god i'm not kind of a sort of H'american version of a... "winner"... so much of life can be tolerated when it's not being competed for!...

i've just filled out an induction form for the West Ham stadium, played niceties with my supervisor, sent her an emoticon, LOLz back... i'm pumped up, ready to smack a few teenage boys into shape, what, could possibly go wrong? speaking below the depth of breath / audibility, watching the birds... i want, i want to give them a second, a third, a fourth... chance... let me give these people a chance... i know their failures... but... the possibility of being loved by one of them, whether man, or woman, whether pseudo-woman... i'll go as far as to say... i wouldn't mind a "Thai surprise"... i know they're capable of it... give me this already acquired heart of stone... and i'll show you... that they'll bleed rivers of honesty... just a little while... that is all i ask...

this is all, of course, before the plunge begins...
wait...l of course there's more, there have to be constellations
involved!

it was originally titled: Private Library Allure...
now, i'm "thinking": two ripe mangoes...
a mango curry or a mango chutney,
or perhaps, both?!

i have this one particular constellation in mind, that's visible to the naked eye, don't worry about - wait... let me take a second look:

•
                  •


                    •
      •



           •

•
    

            •          (circa)... the big wheel...
the grizzly she... in terms of gods & men...
there's an replica: much smaller...
so i guess this is the microscope: since it is enlarged
while the identical constellation
is a telescope...
       no matter... i'm thinking of this constellation

                                 •
                          
                          •
      
                   •
                       •
                    

                          •
                             •
                                •



              •
          ­                                            •

the scorpion constellation, it only appeared once
(to my knowledge) in pop culture,
in Dreamworks' the Prince of Egypt...

now wouldn't that be a waste... me simply drinking,
not allowing alcohol to be the extra calorie intake
that might require me to scribble...
waste of a good whiskey: should i simply drink it
and not focus on scribbling...

point being, i'm about to undertake something
i'm not very keen on, to prove a point,
i'm about to transcript two of the most profound pieces
of writing that recently caught my attention...

not to mention i'm reserving bragging rights...
my private library is... richer...
than the public library of the town of Romford...
i might be an alcoholic,
but i'm also a bibliophile...
there's nothing more precious thank a book...
perhaps a tonne of bricks...

why did i decide to cycle in these temperatures...
****'s sake... i'm old school,
i don't "trust" wi-fi cordless earphones...
the temperature dipped so low that
now the wires are performing at sub-optimal standards...
sort of hushed...
mind you... i love the cold of the January nights...
******* get such a hard-on for the wind
that they almost feel like they've been pierced...

none of the following will be original content,
but i just have to transcript it...
maybe a whiskey refill... a cigarette...
i need to get into the groove of typing up
someone else's work...
oh ****, there are two of them...
well... at least one of them i will not have to translate...
however: do i want to include the original...
all those diacritical markers (ctrl + c / ctrl + p)
will be rather fiddly... do i have the time?

- oh, right... i'm here... the above was...
"somewhere" / "sometime" else...
a sort of... quantum-dasein...
past-participle... black hole... blah blah...
i'm still gearing up for the transcript
of Kierkegaard...
the translation of that ****** equivalent
of the Czech: YAN HUß

-------------------------------------- (pending line)

the pending line is not moving... i've already
written a pre-scriptum a day "late"...
i think i'll manage the Kierkegaard...
but none of the ****** "crap": since...
i'm not about to translate...

once more, please refer to the essential Kierkegaard...
edited by howard. v. hong...
& edna h. hong...
            hong? i too have a terrible surname...
a bit like ******, or Stalin...
people see Elert... they immediately prompt me
with: so... you're AH-LERT?!
i never hit them back with with...
you sort of missed this zeppelin...
it's etymologically german...
in earnest... it's missing: SCH...
that's... ESCHLERT...
          but i have no trouble with people
who like... low hanging fruit...
pedestrian interactions...
         a peasant among among peasants...
a peasant who can discriminate against
peasants...
my given surname at birth was no much better...
fellow countrymen...
oh... i remember it... this one time...
tricked me...
open your mouth...
so i opened my mouth...
then quickly closed it...
i was spat at... a fellow countryman spat
in my face...
although he was aiming at my mouth...
i hold... not allegiance to the English...
1997... why was i deported?
for being an economical migrant?!
oh... the world is now, somehow, ******* welcome?!
i hold not allegiance to the English:
to the tongue: all...
but i also hold not allegiance to my inherent
****** reference... i'd rather just call it
a "reference"...

i abhor both parties... one for sort of telling me to
******* because:
they're now the church-going party of people
and my grandfather was conflated with being
a communist party member:
sure... since... socialism in a soviet
satellite was very much the same sort of shin-dig
as it was in RaSHa... ROSIYA...
*******... wanking me off a little...
**** Poland... **** England...
both can sink... to... whatever they deem
to be acceptable by their standards of...
oh... in England... peer Lord Ahmed... *****...
Rotherham... fun times!
i don't even want to know anything about
Poland.... my ethnic class by birth...
i'd rather ******* and create trans-ethnic mongrel
gremlins with a a girl from Kenya...
in Kenya...
yeah... me... in Kenya... creating a pseudo-Brazillian
republic of... copper-skinned polymaths &
multilingual freaks!
sign me up!
                  
i really didn't expect to mind much of me...
it's nice that... they read so little nd watch so much regurgitation
of a t.v...

like i once pointed out: objectivity is...
overrated... hell... it's more than that...
by now it has been hijacked by fake-news and
anti-science pseudo-narratives...

which tells you a lot about a people who
seemingly tolerate Muslims...
tolerating Muslims that don't tolerate Sufism...
i'm good with the Turkish barbers...
anything else... you better ask a Hindu...
how do Hindus "tolerate" Islam... if, at all?

these are not my words... they are a verbatim
transcript that most public libraries will not own,
but i own... ergo...

the subjective existing thinker is aware of the dialectic of communication. whereas objective thinking is indifferent to the thinking subject and his existence, the subjective thinker as existing is essentially interested in his own thinking, is existing in it.

(insert: my own questioning furthered from the genesis of this 19th century Danish thinker... point aside... i am... the queen's subject... i am not, the queen's object... the queen is not forcing me to be subjectively objectionable to... say... building a new wing for Windsor Castle... i can't be, regarded as the queen's object... constitutional monarchy doesn't work through the expedience of extension... i am the queen's subject, i am not her object... i am subjected to the queen... the monarch... but i'm not... "objected"? i'm not objecting to the hierarchy she presupposes, predisposes with... it's almost a "paradox"... but as a subject... in the most immediacy... as a subject... i am not her object... i am not her servant! that some people, within her immediacy are her objects, by regal extension, her guards, her... ******* tea nannies... sure... but... i am beyond her claim for being objectified... i am "subjectified"... how? i can fester... concern for the monarch, i can adorn her with "dasein": care... but her regal extension dilutes itself... her regal power... the cut-off point... is... when she can no longer objectify me... i can be no more her ******* tea-*****-nanny... her soldier... hell... a police officer is not made a police officer by some royal decree.... a police officer is a subject of the regal authority... a soldier? an object of the regal authority... why? the soldier serves the crown... the police officer? serves the public: the subject of the subject(s)... not... like the solider: the object of the object... to be subjected to "something": is hardly demeaning when otherwise the supposed stance of being "demeaned" is to be: objectified... counter to any sort of "argument": to be objectified... is to be spared... the experience of being: subjected to... i.e. / e.g. to objectify a woman... is a synonymous expression for... not subjecting a woman to... what objectifying her in the first place might... entail... by objectifying a woman... you're at least not subjecting her to... the undercurrents of objectification per se...

even i am thinking to myself: this sounds stupid...
the fox is currently having an asthmatic fit of giggles
come 2:20am...
if i am objectifying a woman as a "thinking thing"...
then... i'll be less likely to subject her to: think...
if i am objectifying a woman as a hammer...
then... i'll be less likely to ask her to:
also bring some nails along...
that's the positive on the micro-scale...
because on the macro-scale?
i'd rather be the queen's subject than...
be her... well... the extension of the queen:
her object... her tea-*****-nanny...
her soldier... her... prime minister...
it's a ******* weird dynamic... but...
it's the most pristine that has ever existed... period...

constitutional monarchy ought to be
the envy of the world, for some of the bad apples...
it still i... it should never be undermined...
should it ever be... i'd call that... treason!
to the very fabric of reality!
and as someone who was diagnosed as schizophrenic?!
go figure... but don't come cryuig to me...
make, sure...
you have some "ice-cream" **** readily available
to sa e you, some Rotherham **** heart-throb...
why oh why... having lived n these Isles...
for as long as i have...
the would me mothers of my would be children...
i'm not even going to beg to, ask...
low i.q. breeds low i.q.:
naive... people(s)...
           genius is an aberration...
it's a  mutation...better stuid and reproductive...
work along: plenty for the ants..
*******, ants...
and once they age?
darts?! football matches?

i can't blame them!
i have yet to cite them proper...
although: thank god the filter
of having to invest in having to read...
in people actually reading

therefore, his thinking has another kind of reflection, specifically, that of inwardness, of possession, whereby it belongs to the subject and to no one else. whereas objective thinking invests everything in the result and assists all humankind  to cheat by copying and reeling off the results and answers, subjective thinking invests everything in the process of becoming and omits the result, partly because this belongs to him, since he possesses the way, partly because he as existing is continually in the process of becoming, as is every human being who has not permitted himself to be tricked into becoming objective, into inhumanly becoming speculative thought.

the reflection of inwardness is the subjective thinker's double-reflection. in thinking, he thinks the universal, but, as existing in this thinking, as acquiring this in his inwardness, he becomes more and more subjectively isolated.

the difference between subjective and objective thinking must also manifest itself in the form of communication ˣ. this means that the subjective thinker must promptly become aware that the form of communication must artistically possess just as much reflection as he himself, existing in his thinking, possesses. artistically, please note, for the secret does not consist in his enunciating the double-reflection directly, since such an enunciation is a direct contradiction.

ordinary communication between one human being and another is entirely immediate, because people ordinarily exist in immediacy. when one person sttes something and another acknowledges the same thing verbatim, they are assumed to be in agreement and to have understood each other. yet because the one making the statement is unware of the duplexity (dobbelthed) of thought-existence, he is also unable to be aware of the double-reflection of communication. therefore, he has no intimation that this kind of agreement can be the greatest misunderstanding and naturally has no intimation that, just as the subjective existing thinker has set himself free by the duplexity, so the secret of communication specifically hinges on setting the other free, and for that very reason he must not communicate himself directly; indeed, it is even irreligious to do so. this latter applies in proportion to the essentiality of the subjective and consequently applies first and foremost within the religious domain, that is, if the communicator is not god himself or does not presume to appeal to the miraculous authority of an apostle but is just a human being and also cares to have meaning in what he says and what he does.

objective thinking is completely indifferent to subjectivity and thereby to inwardness and appropriation; its communication is therefore direct. it is obvious that it does not therefore have to be easy. but it is direct, it does not have the illusiveness and the art of double-reflection. it does not have that god-fearing and humane soliciude of subjective thinking in communicating itself; it can be understood directly; it can be reeled off. objective thinking is therefore aware only of itself and is therefore no communication, at least no artistic communication, inasmuch as it would always be required to think of the receiver and to pay attention to the form of communication in relation to the receiver's misunderstanding. objective thinking is, like most people, so fervently kind and communicative; it communicates right away and at most resorts to assurances about its truth, to recommendations and promises about how all people someday will accept this truth - so sure is it. or perhaps rather so unsure, because the assurances are recommendations are the promises, which are indeed for the sake of those others who are supposed to accept this truth, might also be for the sake of the teacher, who needs the security and dependability of a majority vote. if his contemporaries deny him this, he will draw on posterity - so sure is he. this security has something in common with the independence that, independent of the world, needs the world as witness to one's independenceso as to be certain of being independent.

ˣ double-reflection is already implicit in the ideas of communication itself: that the subjective individual (why by inwardness wants to express the life of the eternal, in which all sociality and all companionship are inconceivable because the existence-category, movement, is inconceivable here, and hence essential communication is also inconceivable because everyone must be assumed to possess everything essentially), existing in the isolation of inwardness, wants to communicate himself, consequently that he simultaneously wants to keep his thinking in the inwardness of his subjective existence and yet wants to communicate himself. it is not possible (except for thoughtlessness, for which ll things are indeed possible) for this contradiction to become manifest in a direct form. - it is not so difficult, however, to understand that a subject existing in this way may want to communicate himself. a person in love, for instance, to whom his ****** love is his very inwardness, may well want to communicate himself, but not directly, just because the inwardness of ****** love is the main thing for him. essentially occupied with continually acquiring the inwardness of ****** love, he has no result and is never finished, but he may nevertheless want to communicate; yet for that very reason he can never use a direct form, since that presupposes results and completion. so it is also in a god-relationship. just because he himself is continually in the process of becoming in an inward direction, that is, in inwardness, he can never communicate himself directly, since the movement is here the very opposite. direct communication requires certainty, but certainty is impossible for a person in the process of becoming, and it is indeed a deception. thus, to employ an ****** relationship, if a maiden in love yearns for the wedding day because this would give her assured certainty, if she wanted to make herself comfortable in legal security as a spouse, if she preferred marital yawning to maidenly yearning, then the man would rightfully deplore her unfaithfulness, although she indeed did not love anyone else, because she would have lost the idea and actually did not love him. and this, after all, is the essential unfaithfulness in an ****** relationship, the incidental unfaithfulness is to love someone else.

as a side-note... these impossible, to my mind:
imaginary "problems"...
say, for example...
the racist... the non-racist... and the... anti-racist...
do i use racial slurs, sure, but i always tend
to "translate" them to by implicitly urban scenario
tokens... i'm a "******" if i don't get on time,
i'm supposed to work for free...
i think of racism along the lines...
well... you, know... that Pakistani grooming
gang in Rotherham...
it doesn't affect me personally,
i'm a bachelor, i don't have a daughter...
but... even on my level, since i'm so far away
from the issue... i start to get affected...
**** is the lowest of the low...
i once ****** a *******... all giggly and drunk
at first... but then... she started crying during *******...
a burn-out moment on her behalf...
i had to stop... o.k. you're selling yourself... willingly...
but... i'm not going to... whatever...
if she might have claimed p.t.s.d.
i could also claim the same...

*** is ugly... just before perching myself on the windowsill
once the night arrived...
i heard a voice in the darkness... thanking me...
at the end of my garden... i wasn't exactly listening:
i never listen... but these words of: thank you
sort of penetrated me...
where is the supposed "Ummah"
when it comes to the Uyghurs?!
the fond fellows of Arabia... would rather send
their suicide virgins to the western land
with prospect of conquest, with prospect of seeking
our proselytes... than...
keep their Ummah intact... do the Arabs really think
that their Chinese believers are...
worth so little to them?
           where are the attacks on China?!
eh... Pakistani uncle said grandma
then decided to **** some cousin...
  sorry... low... hanging... fruit...
   i need a drink...
                            
        i can understand racism... esp. given the attempt
at a multicultural society...
i rather think of myself as a non-racist...
****** a black girl, ****** a Thai girl...
****** an Indian girl...
but... this... white, female, anti-racism stance?
i don't get it... daddy issues?
they must be daddy issues... parental issues...
you have to purposively make yourself anti-racist...
affirmative action buzzwords...
you can never be: the highest pinnacle of negation:
not-racist... you have to be actively: anti-racist...
you can never be passively: non-racist...
you have to... do... "x, y & z"...

these words shouldn't even see the light of day...
so much *******...
all of it... crass...
as much as the Brazil-Project of interracial
new-Arab interbreeding sounds great...
newly tanned "Spaniards"... "Arabs"...
"Indians"... if you've ever visited Kenya...
i remember being approached by these three gorgeous
Kenyan girls working the pandering circuit...
black skin glistening in the moonlight...
as if someone rubbed them with butter...
plump... one of the local Kenyan boys asked whether
i'd like to visit a local bar... i declined...
i forgot myself... took to the hammock...
slept the whole night in the open...
some ****** stole my cognac while i was asleep...
me? we best interact...
but... interracial breeding sort of disrespects...
the seeming aeons of... what allowed black people
to be black... what allowed white people to be
white...
it's no good, like... black girls are not angry
when the white girls are giving up so much ***
to their male counterparts?

if i'm supposed to "think" about race... sure... i'll give
it a short shot... because i'm expected...
i have a furry river and.. by now:
i'm more res vanus than res cogitans...
i don't think i need to think on the basis of
narration... i'll just be reactionary...
not because it's easier... it just seems rather...
necessary...

anti-racist: tropes! they are just that... people try
so hard to not-be... X... that they almost forget that...
they are X... because they are compensating for
the environment they were brought up in...
daddy's sins... mother's opinions...
by now a racist is better suited for conversation
than an anti-racist... who the ****** bleached "us"?
it's like: i can't the difference between people...
like... Somalis don't look more ancient than the rest
of the Africans?! maybe i should find more Ethiopians...

i sometimes think of "existing" in a way that...
elevates the posit of: exiting...
sure... cogito, ergo... blah blah...
but that's not enough... to exist is also readying
yourself to exit... existing is a pseudo-continuum
of rented... time, body... in order to...
make the banal finalities of / for an exit...