the reason behind some of my poetry: i do appreciate the fact that some of them are sloppy, and aim at crafting an expansion of the vocabulary i already have, but as i drink i relax it happens automatically, but i know i can return to the sober reality of increased volume - all i know is that when i do this unwinding into what i can only call abstraction, it's because i'm entering the joycean domain of finnegans wake, which isn't exactly brothers grimm or disney territory, given that the book is dedicated to his struggle with his daughter's diagnosis of schizophrenia. one example comes with words like the prefix nou(n)- and the suffix -verb, which i borrowed from the kantian transformation of the word phenomenon (that which can be clearly understood due to the no. of similar analogues, and their seemingly constant re-, i.e. repetition, recurrence, re-emergence), hence the meaning i derived from the new word is: the activity behind a noun, e.g.: wheel... wheels rotate on a flat surface, and due to gravity roll down hills; another e.g.? bird - birds sing in varying degrees of diversity and they fly, and share a common origin with reptiles, since they hatch from eggs. i think that's enough examples behind the meaning nouverb... perhaps i might change it to nouneverb, because if translated into french, the french might make connotations with noué vogue, and i don't want this word to mean simply new verb, but the activity behind the noun.*

poets are known to use technical terms of poetry,
to invoke a knowledge of the topic,
perhaps even to condense matter, nonetheless
they use technical terms for balance, and orientation
in what they're saying, the key indicators as it were;
but i find it strange that in every philosophy
book i read, there are no prime technical terms:
of course you will find logic compounds,
like phenomenology, ontology, metaphysics,
but you find that such balancing acts require
a constant reminder of these words, and when
inserted into very long expression, there is no
prime balance with the words that i have not seen
expressed in any philosophy book i read,
whether it be heidegger, kant, kierkegaard,
sartre, nietzsche, tatarkiewicz, whoever -
none of them use grammatical words, nor have
produced an account of the dynamic when
deviating from standard lessons in grammar
which can be longwinded - and an absolute
dross; my english teacher didn't like to teach it,
in my two years under him we have less
than a dozen lessons, most concerned with
writing formal letters, and whether to end
the letter signing under either yours sincerely
or yours faithfully... the expectation was to
speak it fluently and mould the written language
from that - if it's comprehensible with the tongue,
it will be comprehensible with the quill.
but enough of that, i'm still adamant to stress
my censorship of dreaming, perhaps because
i just loathe freud and find jung quirky enough
with his religiosity and that book of his
about hallucinations and telekinesis like in that
film interstellar where the books fall from the shelf,
but it's primarily because there is a more important
subplot: today i woke up and remembered something
from 20 years ago, primary school, year 5 (aged 9),
our teacher called in sick and we were left to our
own devices, we were assigned the task of doing
long-division mathematics, and long-multiplication,
the whole class was in furore, but i just did the
****** task (fresh off the boat, you know, vito corleone
ambition and what not) - teacher's name ms. mcguire -
the teacher came back, scolded the whole class
excluding me - then she gave instructions to do the
assignment i did the previous day, and she told me
i could do whatever i wanted... just like the whole
class the previous day... so i read a book.
oh hell, if we're going that far back... pst... a secret,
on the gants hill roundabout there used to stand
a magnolia coloured cinema, the odeon...
i remember seeing armageddon there even though
a few hours prior i fell into a pseudo-epileptic fit
(a weird sensation in the head, crawling into the jaws,
i clenched my jaws, and then a spasm that travelled
into my stomach and started the convulsions and
the pain increased... i've had about three of these
in my life... for days on end after the last one,
i kept falling to sleep in fear... a fear of clenching my
teeth) - oh and the mummy, the little princess
(even though i bought a ticket for jumanji),
gladiator, lord of the rings fellowship of the ring
(about 3 times if not more), mission impossible,
the three kings when i broke one of the seats and
fell on my ***... but back then cinema tickets were
bearably affordable... not anymore... and it took
ages for the film to be available on vhs (when
blockbuster was still around - actually, there is one
left near the loughton central line station - a bit
back to the future for me; yeah, and valentines park
nearby where you could play 18 hole short-distance
golf, but that's also gone - now all you have is a block
of flats... just a massive vitro phallus.

god isn't inclusive of some father christmas role managed by a being that designates rewards and punishments, at best it's, in literary terms, defined by a complexity of the ego, after all, the original revelatory principle was staged with a pronoun complex: without any definite rational causality likened to the cartesian imperative: thought therefore being (think therefore be); that cartesian imperative is categorised as a pronoun per se which is enable other categorisations of words to be akin (per se): magnetically misunderstood; which leaves many demented, early on or later on, but in modern times would building a gigantic skyscraper with only one room in it to hide a torso's weight of gold and a mummified body keep sanity on tiptoe? god is a complexity of the ego, as far as words can be expressed, we loose the ambiguity expressed by existentialists, who favoured "ego" over god, to feel less responsible than anyone could allow for the surd-language, the language written down and rarely heard from orpheus' lapping tongue showcasing a sudden thirst for song.*

rapture and rhapsody! rapture, and rhapsody!
overcast heavens  with the moon shy,
and shy indeed i, by the time i reached
ezra's canto lxvii (what beauty was built with
these numerals, greater and more eloquent
pillared, so what greater truths did the latin poets speak;
if latin is dead then akin be usage of a, b, c, d, e...
when the usage of these symbols dies then i will fall dead
at the final blow of their dis-usage as if  belshazzar seeing
fluorescent hebrew written on the wall just when the ****
ended)... and god did not dispute the endurance
of the argument  to keep a and z...
because under the romans no odd architecture
was summoned, and the hebrew nation flourished
by many religious sects of pharisee and the
sadducees, for a religious dispute be born
from the bethlehem star, and no slavery, but,
some might say, idle talk, for christ created
the 7-day-working week of constant commerce
by contesting a meagre collection of wheat shafts
as the adequate rebellion, basically capitalism,
and in a hangar of sold goods, live lobsters looking
at ghosts, walking in aisles of ample goods
wasted, bearably sold, with cheap constant music
heard to hush the "ambiance" of refrigerator lungs
wheezing a pseudo-beehive drone...
where once the land held a unity,
now the one of owning land earning a shelter
of factories over-produce and leave us
staring into an oblivion of recycling
and such feasts that will never take place...
hence i given sway away from silence
and invoking ezra's vampiric trill, with the sole
proof of vampires, r, being allowed
the statement: trill r roll a wheel stamp with heel,
and i too will cast a shadow over my shadow
to reveal my soul...
hence come the vampiric trill from only one
consonant, and let the frenzied atom river of
lost mumble in the other hum, the lost om
of the m tremble the mountains to shave and slide
mud and weight of rocks from its sideburns of
eager explorers anticipating a gratifying view:
let then the trilled r, the wheel, keep momentum,
for the activity of sisyphus rolling the boulder up
the hill, let the trilled r keep his faith intact
with the futility of the prescribed endeavour;
and so i will die making avowals,
and you, you will die making vows, in the shade
of the tree yearning for distinct processes
should it be involved, so minutely animate encrusted
is wholly animate things, in order that by its
minute movements, it would clarify wholly inanimate
things beneath its categorisation of animation via tropism;
where then the inanimate if not wholly god
should the orbits of celestial orbs fail,
and geologists fail to investigate mineral gold,
and should water never govern oesophagus lubrication,
or loose animation of boiling, dry residue at 180°C,
and the bone breaking ice of antarctica?
the only inanimate thing in existence is god,
as based on a theory posed by kierkegaard about
the changelessness of god: indeed contradictory
by categorical filtering to say a stone is inanimate,
and we animate (microscopic perspectives),
but the stone is also part of a stone mechanised to orbit
a shuddering sphere of fire that emits light.

cannot live by living
sublimate

intractable life the way
a poet of mangled hands burns away
incessant blankness
to a hot glowing moment wherein
his excision, sought after,
lives.

Whatever way is taken
a fire therein will burn

to majestically disfigure
the unfigurable in your life

the way a drinking straw made of
plastic transforms
in lips of flame

to curlicued ribbons and
blazing involutions, coiled springs and
brightly curled
imaginings of crimson.

Choose to run
and so too will the fibers in your hamstrings
curl, glow crimson
as under fire.

Sit quiet on the marble steps
of a dried fountain in Union Square
watching the looming arch through
the crisp distance of night

and so too will your eyes become
incendiary orbs
heating the air around
to transient veritable sharpness

as if suddenly, every piece of
stone or root of tree
has been released from
a hold
and could at any moment
flinch for you. For
just your witness
and nothing more.

Attempt to find the dream of death
hidden within the taste of
your one beauty’s lips
and so upon the kiss will she

burn, explode!
in quick high flame
to a pile of
shrunk dust and scintillating
strands of hair.

Whichever way, all can burn
to release its true form—hardly sweet
seeming unbearable

before curling
just barely sweet, just bearably, always just
necessarily so.

And slowly, you are already
curling in the flames.

you like my drunken persona? i like it, i think he's a decent drunk... the persona's sober twin? ah, he's nobody that could really concern you, engage you... he's usually found: ******* out three tiers of faeces over a period of 3 hours... massaging his bowels with milk, water, milk, sometimes coffee, cigarettes; milk...

it's hard to see it as a curse - but then what of *Elisha?
    ever heard that story about children bothering
him, and what came later was the bear?
              you know... my drunken self is quiet
                              perceptive about its vicinity -
     so sometimes you get a classic story:
          one neighbour being an ******* to another...
and then something momentous happens,
     a few days apart...
                                     i'm not even going to drop
any names... because i don't know them...
                      all it takes is a man in his early 50s,
a woman in her late 40s trying to conceive a child...
        and i had a secondant to scout other people's opinions...
well... my scout started inquiring in a public place
about the customs in western society
   regarding the "etiquette" / norm of celebrating
the birth of a child...
                                 that's grand: all those signs
on people's front door - it's a boy! or it's a girl! -
          balloons and friends coming round...
                                     celebrating the new comer...
she gave birth yesterday...
                           and my scout was like: that's odd...
it's like nothing changed! nothing momentous happened!
    i'm getting slightly worried too, to be honest:
        i'm having this sense of a vile aura, like something
really bad is going to happen...
                   all i can conceive from the eerie silence
next door, is that the arch-villain of batman - the penguin
has been born.
                           like i said, i can't call it a curse akin
to Elisha's encounter...
                  there are too many biological factors working
into the event... and a naive human belief
                                              peppered with: just plain
irresponsibility.
                                a woman in her late 40s,
who has had no children prior? and risking it?
                              listen: i think you could use some
of the down syndrome genome to compete with
                        anti-ageing ****** creams...
                                                they don't age!
that's one plus of down syndrome -
                                         you could infuse that massive
plus from their genome and apply it, so that
       people die aged 80... but looking like they're 40!
yet the consensus in the public realm had my
scout simply hear:                 well... that's weird...
    never has a child come into this world with such
silent horror as i'm hearing next door.
                                    now the fun part:
               you know that down syndrome kids can
be bearably articulate, i knew 1 that could talk
in complete sentences, and even had his own down syndrome
girlfriend...
                          true story... all he wanted was to show
his affection, and he that in abundance -
                  aside from the physical manifestation
                      you can actually create a firm standing
mental facade to hide the: first impressions prejudice;
it can be done; but if you don't work on the kid?
    comparison - there's this other local down syndrome
kid around these parts... poor thing, i talked to him
once... but his mother didn't teach him anything -
he could only utter the syllable ma! -
     clearly his mother was akin to a parasite living
off his disability cheque.
                                what's going to happen next door?
god knows... i hope they don't do something stupid
and smother him / her in his / her sleep.
             anyway... back to ground "theory" -
                     there has been an unsurge in returning
   to ethnic identifiers - personally? i had to return to
the thought of the anglo-saxons, and now the anglo-slavs...
i just didn't want to be cornered into
                                        the grammar war of
             pronouns...
                          thankfully i also speak a language where
pronouns are diffused into other words in
      a grammatical category outside its own -
                                             i couldn't stomach this
"abstraction" that's currently weaving itself into "debates"...
2007 really was a good year to have left
        university, sane, with a chemistry degree -
                     having touched very little humanism
along the way... although i have one major regret...
          i can't find that essasy i did on albert camus'
                the stranger... ****! this northern irish
bombshell gave me a 1st on it!
            it's nice to be appreciated by a woman
                        in a french class, in having competence
  to dissect a book with enough bulwark.

There would always be a she. She was irrevocable. It was no more plausible to remove or separate one’s self with all certitude from her than the notion of removing one’s organs was plausible. The possibility in theory, existed, as with the removal of an eye or a kidney. However, it was impossible to sever these aspects from one’s self without crippling self-injury and irreparable damage. No, she existed, or must exist in an auxiliary sense. She must be muted, though not wholly removable.  She would always exist, but most bearably so, on the outside, that hint, that shadow of something that exists at the corner of the eye, one that exists at the periphery, ever present and always fleeting. She was best glimpsed intermittently and with doubt. There in that place between places she could remain an ideal, a fantasy, an illusion rather than a thing ever to be experienced. But as usual, we are such weak creatures, and as irrevocable as she is, so inevitably we languish in her. Too often I have abandoned my autonomy for the illusion of her favor, only to be burned again, and again and again. Too often I have seen her face change in too many eyes. To succumb to her was futile. She had no favor to pander to, however ardent the will. But then…nonetheless.

her father died not too long ago...
she wept into my shoulder
with that thickening of the saliva
that drenched my t-shirt...

i wish i could have cried, also...
i wish i could have also cried: died...

today she threw a tantrum because
i think: hell knows no fury
like a woman - i'm missing the scorned
part because...
well she was the one to call
by a tyrant for reasons...
as i poured her a g & t and watched
nothing apart from a reading
of the Outsider stretch before me...

i guess the if and the when mingle
in a sort of ecstatic dangling
of the carrot...
she three a tantrum and she's
apparently suffering from arthritis
but when no one's looking
she can turn into a right'o'tornado
and pull out shelves with
d.i.y. equipment like it was:
shovelling butter...
or spreading it...

            this month there's an apparent
celebration of women...
well... my past girlfriends aside...
my father's mother:
whom i will never know
since she abandoned him
to be raised by my father's mother
and her 2nd husband...

or the impeding crescendo of
razor terror between my mother's mother...
not to mention...
well at least the supermarket cashiers:
who are mostly women...
allow themselves to be human:
an bearably asexual at that...
from time to time...
of course when the odd chance of:
oh you smell nice, fresh... leaves their
lips i'm best left stunned
at what's impersonal...
what's "cordial"...
what's formal in relation to
someone passing through
a supermarket till...

beside the girlfriends i could mention
the "***-workers"...
but then again:
i rather keep that to myself...
back to ol' mutter:
how she managed to sieve through
an entire shed looking
for a screwdriver...
didn't find one the hour or so i had
to clean up her *******-riddle
of a tantrum...
although i'm pretty sure
the Frodo & Bilbo who were installing
the new fridge were supposed
to come equipped...

    i stashed myself with a mahjong solitaire
and thought: pretty pretty "things"...
tendering to equate them with...
napoleon tulips rather than...
duke of wellington dandelions...
or circa...

          mother, dear...
        when he, your father, was alive...
i really, truly, did, enjoy a status
of grandson... so it happened that i am:
the only son... but that i was the only
grandson, also...
with your parting: the hierarchy
changed... a little bit...
i'm 3rd in line to...
a knee-deep inheritance of ****
in a universe that's centrally
agitated by: squid ink or hyena ****...

but the hierarchy changed
beyond recognition...
i'm behind the son-in-law... my father...
petty politics...
     the mother and the mother's mother
feud: i.e. how "grand"...
so she throws a tantrum i clean
up after her...
make her a g & t in the process...
some jacket potatoes for dinner...
etc., etc. etc.

         and there's that looming:
because it's always the readily available excuse...
she's looking for herself
something only adults lose
the child and i guess a tender
father-figure authority which
i can't nor will provide
but that's all too hypothetically
abstract even for me
the point being:

  whether it's really a western thing...
"fyng"...
whether it's that "gynocentrism" through
and through...
well it wouldn't have mattered then,
i.e. whether it was a geocentric model
to begin with... and a heliocentric model
to end "it" on...
the "parables of the folk" would
still retain the agony-aunt /
jewish matchmaker clauses
just like santa claus is and forever will
be... satan's clause -
in the argument for celebrating criss-cross...

point being...
we do not give or make the same concessions
to children as we do to adult
women...
it's a terrible truth...
it's so ******* unavoidable like
gravity is a false step above
the abyss on top of a tall building...
the concessions adult women are given
are not even given to children:
sparingly by fathers to their daughters
but not that far as to...

it's sa-sa-sa-sa-sa-saaaad
that this can and does take place...
after a while when
there's no reproductive dynamic / vector /
whatever noun is in focus
and everyone has exploited everyone's
"function"...
use...
  and there's only this creature
of a person left...

i can't celebrate women...
                 i might wish to go delve in an hour's
worth in a brothel...
peel some raw ****'s worth for an oyster
choke come the oral hiccups
of mostly vowels... caste consonants
as a yummy yum oh and ah shakes
the furniture...
but... sensibly all conversations are
off...

because: my grandfather, also, died...
every summer from circa 10 through to 18...
nay... further... 21...
riding bicycles...
sightseeing... etc.
but i'm... 3rd... 4th... perhaps even 5th
in the category of "mourning"...
it doesn't matter what he communicated
with me...
i'm not the son i'm not the daughter
i'm 50% other...
needless to say that other 50% other
of me-to-"him" is also a cul de sac
for what's immediately given...

it's hardly a tree of genealogy that one
could prize...
so no argument anglo-saxon
existential with Darwin and genes
in mind...
something "deconstructive" like a sticky
toffee pudding baked by a homosexual
or anything post-modern in poetry
(charles olson, primarily) then yes...
but nothing impeding "closure"
with a sense for continuation...
i.e. done elsewhere done by someone else
otherwise i will have to
re-categorise myself as "something"...
well not "less"... but "besides"...
being... human.

        if only: dumb enough and having
inherited all the deafening impetus churns...
for: a furthering of... past-participle...
less a "noun": a complete fraction of gene-me
or moi...

it's still lonesome and bothering...
we give more concessions
to adult women
than we ever give to children...
that phantom "we"...
whatever it is...
it's a tonight and a worthy end,
a goodnight.

Jasmine is a little heavenly creature
It has got a softness in the hand,
That charms at any cost
Those little beautiful white angles,
In the little white flowers,
A cuddling architecture.
And then as you put it on
And expect an white angel…
Cuddling!
And long legged,
You sense that dark wood,
That comes from the depths of earth.
As of petrichor,
Trunks,
In the depths of the forest.
It would be amazing to be like jasmine.
A dual entity.
Smoking and evaporating from one world to another.

The sweetest of angels, for some who see
Accepts and gifts a complete comfort,
Overcoming resistance that may be offered
If your eyes are weak, use the looking glass,
To see the barely bearably beauty of the petals,
They embrace you so as you melt there in joy.
Wrapped in this near-ecstasy
Give yourself fully to this pure lovely whiteness...
Fully, mutually, lovingly embraced!
Standing tall and joyously,
You do not fear the deep, dark moss of the wood,
You feel the full gentle power of our Mother.
It's more than a smell,
Coming from beneath, above and all around you,
You're truly home here in this deep green place.
We can almost be there as mortal angels.
Free ourselves to be there too as we are here, now.
Vaporous yet complete,
Whole, free to go any or everywhere as we please

Jasmine is a little heavenly creature
It has got a softness in the hand,
That charms at any cost
Those little beautiful white angles,
In the little white flowers,
A cuddling architecture.
And then as you put it on
And expect an white angel…
Cuddling!
And long legged,
You sense that dark wood,
That comes from the depths of earth.
As of petrichor,
Trunks,
In the depths of the forest.
It would be amazing to be like jasmine.
A dual entity.
Smoking and evaporating from one world to another.

The sweetest of angels, for some who see
Accepts and gifts a complete comfort,
Overcoming resistance that may be offered
If your eyes are weak, use the looking glass,
To see the barely bearably beauty of the petals,
They embrace you so as you melt there in joy.
Wrapped in this near-ecstasy
Give yourself fully to this pure lovely whiteness...
Fully, mutually, lovingly embraced!
Standing tall and joyously,
You do not fear the deep, dark moss of the wood,
You feel the full gentle power of our Mother.
It's more than a smell,
Coming from beneath, above and all around you,
You're truly home here in this deep green place.
We can almost be there as mortal angels.
Free ourselves to be there too as we are here, now.
Vaporous yet complete,
Whole, free to go any or everywhere as we please