In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.

And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.

And ****!
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! -- are put on hold!
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.

For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.

No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks' porcelain.

Two fictional characters
walk into a bar

in Malta
( * Marsaxlokk - to be precise ).

"To...be....tooo beee. . ."
stammers Hamlet.

"Oh fer Gawd's sake...two beers!"
J. Alfred Prufrock snaps.

"You really milk that
"To be or not..." thingy."
J.A.P. scolds Hamlet.

"Tsk...tsk!" Hamlet tsk tsks.
( sticking his tongue out ).

Two Cisks are plonked
down before them.

"No...I am not Prince Hamlet or
was meant to be..!"
J.A.P. quotes him self.

"Awww fer Jaysus sake...loooook
just for the fun of it...the gas of it

we swop
texts!"

Hamlet interrupts Prufrock's
protestations.

"Ohhhh....o.....K?"
Prufrock ponders somewhat doubtfully.

And, so:
Hamlet the Dane

( for yea it is indeed he)
dares

(1) to eat a peach (2) wear the bottoms of his white
flannel trousers rolled (3) parts his hair behind even

(4) dares
to aks

the overwhelming question

"( Oh, do not ask, what is it! )"

Oh & (5) gets to hear
( ** ** ** )

"...the mermaids singing...."

Prufrock "Hum...."
kills the king.

Becomes the king.

Beds.
Weds
Ophelia.

" Buzz buzz...come come..go...go!"

"It's a very foreshortened
Hamlet...I know

but - what the heck!

"See..? slurps Hammy
". . . now, that wasn't so bad...was it?"

"Another Cisk?"
"Naw...I'll have a Becks!"

"Jaysus Prufrock now
...what's up?"

"Don't know..."mutters J.A.P.
wearing a frothy beer moustache.

"HURRY UP PLEASE...IT'S TIME!"
roars the barman in Maltese.

"I can connect nothing
with...nothing!"
Prufrock almost sobs.

"Like that time
on Margate sands..."

Hamlet cuts him curtly off.

"Don't even go...there!"

"But I still get that squirmy
...you know...feeling

we are just
fragments of

the imagination of
some *long haired Irish poet

sunning himself by
the waters of

the shimmering waters of
a Sliema hotel pool

...up up in the clouds!

Hamlet sighs.

"Yeah, me too
spooky...innit?"

Hamlet looks behind him
checking for what isn't

there. . .

"Ahhhh well, never mind eh?"

Prufrock attempts an attempt
at being cheerful.

Fails miserably.

"Let us go, then
you and I...

when the evening is spread out
against the sky..."

Like a patient etherised upon a table!
they both sing outta time and outta tune

stumbling one
into the other.

A long hair Irish poet
smiles as he watches them

go.

"Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!"
the barman roars.

NOTES

Pronounced MAR SA SCHLOCK. Those Maltese Xs being really SHs in disguise.

* Pronounced CHISK but the new barman is obviously new to the language and pronounces it TSK which makes him think that is what our two fictional characters are ordering.

Not to be confused with mobile texting but rather the literary texts of which both of them owe their existence.

* The play bounded in a nutshell as it were.

One Donall Gearld Oliver Denis Dempsey is a good example of this sort.

* The No. 1 song all over Heaven...beating Sparks THE NO. 1 SONG ALL OVER HEAVEN  to the top spot.

** "Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!" Once again the new Irish barman hasn't got his tonsils around the Maltese lingo and comes out with this terrible mish mash of the typical barman's cry.

Hence loathèd Melancholy
  Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian Cave forlorn
  ‘Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy.
Find out som uncouth cell,
  Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-Raven sings;
  There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks,
As ragged as thy Locks,
  In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But com thou Goddes fair and free,
In Heav’n ycleap’d Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To Ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as som Sager sing)
The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephir with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on Beds of Violets blew,
And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,
Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair,
So bucksom, blith, and debonair.
  Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles,
Such as hang on ****’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrincled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Com, and trip it as ye go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crue
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free;
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to com in spight of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine.
While the **** with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darknes thin,
And to the stack, or the Barn dore,
Stoutly struts his Dames before,
Oft list’ning how the Hounds and horn
Chearly rouse the slumbring morn,
From the side of som **** Hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill.
Som time walking not unseen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Wher the great Sun begins his state,
Rob’d in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.
While the Plowman neer at hand,
Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land,
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his sithe,
And every Shepherd tells his tale
Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the Lantskip round it measures,
Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,
Where the nibling flocks do stray,
Mountains on whose barren brest
The labouring clouds do often rest:
Meadows trim with Daisies pide,
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.
Towers, and Battlements it sees
Boosom’d high in tufted Trees,
Wher perhaps som beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two agèd Okes,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savory dinner set
Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;
Or if the earlier season lead
To the tann’d Haycock in the Mead,
Som times with secure delight
The up-land Hamlets will invite,
When the merry Bells ring round,
And the jocond rebecks sound
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the Chequer’d shade;
And young and old com forth to play
On a Sunshine Holyday,
Till the live-long day-light fail,
Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat,
She was pincht, and pull’d the sed,
And he by Friars Lanthorn led
Tells how the drudging Goblin swet,
To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,
When in one night, ere glimps of morn,
His shadowy Flale hath thresh’d the Corn
That ten day-labourers could not end,
Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend,
And stretch’d out all the Chimney’s length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And Crop-full out of dores he flings,
Ere the first **** his Mattin rings.
Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering Windes soon lull’d asleep.
  Towred Cities please us then,
And the busie humm of men,
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eies
Rain influence, and judge the prise
Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend
To win her Grace, whom all commend.
There let ***** oft appear
In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique Pageantry,
Such sights as youthfull Poets dream
On Summer eeves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,
Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,
And ever against eating Cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,
Married to immortal verse
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linckèd sweetnes long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running;
Untwisting all the chains that ty
The hidden soul of harmony.
That Orpheus self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear
Such streins as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half regain’d Eurydice.
These delights, if thou canst give,
Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

This poem is about a night out on the beer which almost went horribly
wrong



I put out my hand and touched the face of God,
. . .bit of a surprise, really, I was expecting my Hod.
Lying on the floor, thinking it was my bed,
Coated in *****, face down, arms spread.
I've ****** my trousers, shat my keks,
A natural reaction, to twenty three pints of Becks.
Stumbling through Cambridge, I can't find the Site,
I know it's around here, first left or third right. . .
Crashing through hedges, I've forgot how to walk,
I can't ask for directions, I'm unable to talk.
So, I'll go no further, here I'll sit tight,
Sneak back to the caravan, when dawn sheds her light.

I didn't feel the cold, the damp creeping through,
Best shirt, Purple Chino's and I'm missing a shoe.
It's my dancing outfit, for impressing and posing,
Ideal for the Nightclub, not alfresco dozing.
The temperature plummets, I'm giving it "Big Zeds"
Dreams of warm women and petal-strewn beds,
Breathing gets shorter, body starts to shut down,
I'm sweating buckets, beginning to drown.

Ronnie, the Night-watchman, knows I must be in trouble,
In an hour and a half, I'm due back on the shovel,
To keep the lads happy, with bricks and fresh Pug
And barrows of concrete, poured into trenches I dug.
Under an Elm Tree, thirty yards from the job,
Ronnie catches sight of this prone Northern yob.
He doesn't panic, just yet, he knows what to do,
He's seen it before, when a body turns blue.
Those First-Aid Classes, when he told us he was fishing. . .
Vital signs are checked, I'm in the Recovery Position.
Ron holds my nose, lifts my head off the floor,
. . .then he kissed me , in a way , that I'd never been kissed before.

It's killin' me,

the way you always
heed my silent becks
to the cat's cradle
for the dim-dusked
shimmyings we do,

for the middle of the courts
hopscotchin' we improv
in the
catacorner criss-crosses
we continue to let
splash
in the middle of our
bashing pool.

stakes are
brimstoned
high
this time-

higher than the dizzy chicks
with flower magic
stick-on things
not really covering their ******* -

their faith's got them
grinning down
proudly
to the matrix hubbub below,
from the drooping shoulders
of their guy bits
in matching flowers

('cause we're all one here
yeah? - yeah!).

tonka tricks
litterin' my walkway -
slinkin' around,
tryna play on with
the big cats -

instead,

just trippin' up my
flutter game -

chill out.

i mean,

i'm not complainin'
'bout the mess your
charcoal lashes keep
leavin'
after payin their
naughty boy dues
to them round things
just one step down -
makin' love to
the apples bobbin'
in cheeky
conversation.

i've kinda got this
cheshire thing goin' on -
the way my smile swells
too slowly for you -
showin' off whiffs of
those secret things

the ones i only hold onto to
to keep rattlin' your cage
with the big toys
i keep tellin' you
you can't have.

but
you keep
swimmin' in that pool
of excessive *****
traps
thinkin' there's a way
to ****** the magic
carpet from beneath my
bottom,

believing some dumbly
that your charcoal
is the only fire starter i'll ever want
markin' up my agenda.

you're screamin' a bit too loud
now, Cubby -
readin' to me the words
i can't see written across
my face.

I can't see 'em
without a mirror,
though i can feel the letters
being etched into my skin
with every flipped card
i wasn't
necessarily
tryin' to flip.

but, honey
i got cosmic dust
stored in my fingertips

a special
spunky mix
i like to throw down on
in the kitchen with
the sandman's concoctions -

plan A and plan B
it's a fight just to see in -
need to be prepared
for whatever is comin'.

though you ain't snatched
the rug yet,
i'm lollygaggin' on the
tip of the edge

my carpet's doin this
rufflin' thing -
and i'm slippin'.

you got me
colonizin' your corduroys
draggin' my stirred and ragged heart
behind me -
too sturdy and ambitious
in its wild-hearted
persistence.

gonna bust open
this fruit bloom, here
if it takes me all day
and all night.

I am
an ant,
looking for salvation
in big places.

aix, beck's, becks, blech's, checks, cheques, czechs, dec's, decks, dex, eckes, eques, ex, fecks, flecks, flex, heck's, hex, jex, kecks, lecce, lex, meckes, mex, necks, nex, next, peck's, pecks, plex, rex, sheck's, shek's, specks, specs, sphex, tech's, techs, teck's, tex, treks, vex, whelks, wrecks, x, x. amex, ampex, annex, apec's, apex, armtek's, avtex, aztecs, berlex, caltex, cemex, centex, cmx, comex, complex, comtrex, convex, crownx, defex, dissects, duplex, effects, ejects, entex, execs, expects, eyetech's, fanech's, fedex, finex, gatx, gtech's, inmex, intex, latex, memtec's, metex, natec's, nobec's, nymex, nynex, objects, onex, opec's, paychecks, paychex, pemex, perplex, pewex, playtex, portec's, projects, qintex, quebec's, railtex, rednecks, reflects, rejects, respects, roughnecks, scitex, simplex, starplex, steinbeck's, subjects, suspects, syntex, telex, telmex, tenrecs, timeplex, tridex, trintex, triplex, truex, vertex, visx, wall-tex, wedtech's, westtech's adaptec's, ametek's, atx, banamex, between decks, biotechs, bottlenecks, cineplex, cybersex, cytotechs, datarex, discotheques, equitex, eurochecks, gendrisek's, genentech's, govpx, hyponex, intellects, intersects, kaisertech's, malcolm x, medarex, mediplex, megaplex, memorex, methanex, metroplex, middlesex, multidex, multiplex, neorx, oraflex, pillowtex, prentnieks, rolodex, stratoflex, superx, symantec's, teleflex, turtlenecks, unisex, ventritex adaptaplex, ameritech's, audiotex, begonia rex, ****** simplex, solar apex, videotex, tyrannosaurus rex, regression of y on x

Doubled back on Becks you serenade the *** and spit
A flash like love, the sternum above and puzzling the puzzle
To which ribs fit
And O to Adam, to the man who knew it first.
Then to plumb sleep between the purples
Where the counting is the worst

I have no bills for *****. My teenage dreams are shattered.
My presence in this thin veil of life depends on if I'm hammered.
But I have no dollars, no coins or even checks.
I can't buy any blue moon, ***** or any becks.

My addiction to acceptance leaves hanging dry.
I need to drink anything, wheat, potato or rye.
The grain doesn't matter, the proof is nothing real.
I'll make it up in quantity, I might even steal.

My friends are all awaiting. My reputation still on hold.
I need some money for my *****, oh wait, no I don't.
I'm not that insecure, and I have not an addiction.
But **** it man, I want to drink, and money is an affliction.

the point is: i don't want to write in the style of j. joyce's finnegans wake; but i am, and i feel terrible for doing it... so... m'eh?

you listen to these talks, like you might watch
a football match...
   the art of rhetoric - ars rhetoric(æ):
that isolation of the grapheme stresses the point
that homosexuals are better at talking
than men who consecrate themselves
on the bias that will probably lead to a widow.
they're better at it, and there's no argument
for it: it's a bit like passing the olympic torch
from ****-to-****-to-mouth-to-tongue-to-head-to-ego;
i'll come to the modern notation of that unit
in a minute...
  but oh so rare, walking from the supermarket
and finding a book propped on a... thing?
it's situated in essex, england, and in these parts
you can have this "garden" in-front of
your house, and there's this "hadrian's" wall
isolating this patch of green:
   that's why i said thing: because it's not a fence
in the traditional sense...
    so you're walking back from the supermarket
with a bottle of becks beer and a litre of *****
and mixer in your rucksack (5pence duty stamp
on using plastic bags, remember that)
  and you see a book propped on "hadrian's" wall
(because it is just that: a joke),
well not in this instance, this is a case of a semi-detached
outer-suburban household... and there's
  this book propped on a "fence"... and it's dark...
am i going to nick it / "steal" it?
last time i checked, i didn't believe in *hegel,
last time i checked: if i'm in a public place, i.e. a road,
i'm going to use the advantage of someone's mistake
(or intention?) and take possession of the thing;
a bit like... you find a 20quid banknote in a puddle...
are you going to wave it about and shout:
who does it belong to?     would you?
         well... hegel can go **** himself and his
philosophy of right... i can't believe that mere lecture
notes inspired communism, i simply can't believe it,
i mean: it's astouding that it ever occured,
but still... it's so rare to find books on the streets...
i've heard plenty about disowned dogs and that dog
shelter in Battersea... i ought to know, i was bound
to paving slabs on one of their roof extensions...
my grandfather told me this story about how he was
walking through a forest with my uncle (his son)
and found a hanged dog... someone thought it real
funny to tie the noose so the dog was tiptoeing
toward death while suffocating on the noose...
i've had worse trauma... like when walking my doberman
and he bit into **** and what was revealed was
a nest of parasites, at best described: wriggling...
clearly you can build-up a natural aversion to this world,
which is by no surprise the original source of
the concept of god... you start from there, and work
your way down.
    now i'm seriously digressing, ars rhetoric(æ)...
like ha ha crow's ca ca? or is that ka ka ka?
ku klux clan... mortal kombat... whatever.
                just about as much sense when listening
to classic.fm and hearing an "oohbow" concerto
in some minor or major key (i don't remember which
one it was)... but like a blind-man fiddling
with an elephant (the modern day version of
the male grææ... as seen in homer, as seen in macbeth...
but those were 3... i'm talking 5)...
  i also thought about fiddling with the "orthography"
(that term usually denotes the aesthetic practice
of adding diacritical marks, which english doesn't:
otherwise known as the **** of ιota)...
   i could see a clarinet perfectly, clear distinctions (i mean);
but an oh-bow?                    oboe?
    how can these two variations not yield the same
pronunciation if not via the tetragrammaton?
            clarinet in jazz     horns in ska-punk,
ladies to the left, gents to the right...
                     clearly my idea of **** schizoi creates
more competent understandings of a human,
who is insapiens...
                   ****, talk about libido, but to this extent?
hmm... so the ιota was ***** by a diacritical mark
that's practically disjoined from an umlaut...
   see the arithmetic ι i ï? otherwise known as the ee
in: i need to take a ****... or the boo-boo word of ***.
   the same thought approached me when
i contemplated the acute version of N (en) - ń,
variations include: close approximates of knee,
then vary through to: me me me expressed in a nagging
way...
                   oh right... words that have this acute:
     day... dzień...
then they'll call it cultural appropriation, and i'll
call it: cultural integration.
                  but ń did something, it revealed the **** of
ιota...  it's this enforced diacritical mark on the greek
letter (and j) that doesn't exist on other letters
as it sometimes should...
       but it all depends on the following rule

                            ae  i  ou
                     ­             x

x is treated as a consonant for it's own sake, i could have
inserted some other consonant, but the stress
is how and when you apply diacritical marks,
given the stated example of the diacritical mark hovering
over n.
               and really? the **** of ιota is involved, which
probably invoked the complexity of the anglo sprechen
to such an extent that it spread for far and wide...
    why would i even put a diacritical dot over s?
what would that represent, for ****'s sake?
                                                           ­               i!
in polish you'd say that as         e! oddly or not so
oddly enough.
           but there is a collision happening
   given the predestination concept of i (what culture
would appropriate that, if not the most hostile /
successive one?) -
                 the acute diacritical mark on the n
disappears depending where the (enforced half umlaut of)
i is placed...
     for example in the word        no....     nie...
that dot above the iota just ate the acute over the n...
    then back to the word for day           dzień....
it's at the back, so the aesthetic twists into an σς scenario...
(sigma sigma)...
                  nudzi (he bores people)...
        nagi (he's naked)...
                            i could really do with a macron on that a,
who knows, maybe language encoding really is
worth symphony complexity: or is that why i'm
jealous of music composers?
               i'm just trying to look for a word
that encompasses my concept of ń....
     a real kinder sprechen example as simple as 1 + 1 = 2,
evidently i will not find it and only come up with
something as "simple" as 1 + 1 = 3.
on one side the sensual beast,
on the other a reasoning ***** -
as you age the less you sense, but at the same time
the more you reason; in my case it happened exponentially
thanks to Chernobyll (it did begin with one of
the scandinavian countries being able to record
radiation... in poland you had a park, in a small town...
and half the trees were in summer and half
were in autumn):
   because if you **** things up on an atomic scale
you're not going to exactly see a tornado, in a specified
location for adrenaline junkies to go and film it!
then there was this idea that i had
               about certain layers of language,
   braille, sign-language, covert talk and open talk,
basically boiling down to honesty, and the latter to
dishonesty...
    so this book i found yesterday... about as rare as finding
a 20quid banknote...
             now i seriously believe this book is a pillar
to language... right up there with the dictionary and
the thesaurus...
            published by c collins (obviously)...
and its sole author: nigel rees (couldn't be bothered with
italics, so i used the colon)...
          ah **** it, it's only descriptions of the cover,
the book is paperback so it doesn't matter...
although what does is...
   the entry (to be) in the same boat (page 347)...
that's why i was sniffing the book up yesterday
(bibliophiles' prime fetish, after ******* the books)...
    the entry originated from cicero
in 53bc... in the original latin     in eadem es navi,
later used in 1941ad after pearl harbor
(funny u, look: harbour)    - of consequences
                                     roosevelt said, churchill quote(d).

—To me, a dream, in which she came: Mistwalker
—And I, a vessel, rose in her womb, bear this, to me, a dream.

Say, on this, untoward, the spiced breezes with salt
Came, if all, the light enkindled like whetted steel
Morning star through the mournful faces above
Rejected, yes, by their mothers, of past and now,
A cold came ashore, ancient besieged accounts
Wilted the pregnant vines of yesterday, sure to
The next, as gods turn to myths, stories to the dying young.

She stared, of memorials in print
Off into the terrible morning, gossamer filament
Swaddled at the breast, a tight form slack
In the great divorce of sea and sky,
Standing, contemplative, shouts and echoes crack
Unheard, discarded: sweets to the profane
Sedately, to that dark curve: a canvas was lain
Adrift on aether, drowned bones of Atlas,
Emerge on drift of the everlasting, there at world’s end
In curved states between:
Hell broods in the burgs of ice, Providence
Forsaken of she who becks on the entombing sands.
Thus, prayers come whetted
With none to brush the stray hairs from those astray
Men conceiving valleys, their mountains,
Structures, are we, to eternally pass the course of solitude
Under cross-borne tuitions, marbled elders’ auspice
Embossed of the very tongue spoken
Once in high infant chambers, Omnis Ipse?

I, too, was born beneath the hero’s breath,
Taken by the glimmering sheath and steeds
To the awful wiles of merciful truth,
She to the enemy of standing beyond, within.

If ever a summer had kissed the city where cold descends
Or snow reminisced stars in the eve,
I, I—she hurts in the mists—have only tasted, bitter,
Sketches, between them, the finitude of their light,
That of warmth, of compassion
Man fall distracted from, therefrom grace,
A beast shed of its other back, hubris of its wing—
Am I the maiden of its song? But it’s maiden?—
One season, ever-aged, harbinger of this isolation
What is the ****** ewe years of searching for I,
Is sacrifice, thus becomes the phantom, the slave
Of that distant black, the sullied mark, consumptive
Unremitting arms of purpose, of man’s calling.

These hands are spelled, veined by charcoal dust
Adversarial oaths kept close, of myself, in idle play
Where what I will, wills but a will
Where none are to come, but the mast of a hero
Whom she is tied, of those winds
Seminal of her words—I shall be the breath
The cusp of every storm which blights the high waves,
The knife of sheer walls of stone,
Moments of oblivion which rend the heroes, ill-stayed.

Eyes burned holes for the starlight of awe
Pouring o’er the wastes of her paper skin
But, that she overturns the rueful words
Again, again, again, cycled in the oceans,
Where gardens of kelp revile the current
Strands, becoming of the arms she wishes to hold—
To write myself out of comprehension
Is to risk the very marrow has I obeisant,
These lusts of the greater body, those of the Mother
Clad in jewels and customs, as wave desires sky;
A journal I’ve become.

Mist came, froth, the spiral of wars inside the heart
They inveigled her, to my dismay, to the blind air
No longer, the sweet tine of imperfection of voice,
Inspired of spoken word, recent memory took leave,
Ambivalent joys came raining on a pen,
Reluctant to write homage to freedom,
Caught in the morphless air, calcified transformations
Odes to let go. But.

Which beer is mine, the Becks or the Heineken?
A ***** mauve has descended on the night, and
on the town a dank black silence, and I am sat here
folded like a peace crane. But I want to move.
I feel an itch to find someone, any resident up
for grabs - I can’t be the only one awake.
And my loved ones: if they worry, they worry; I’m
gone, but I am only looking for myself in another
form - the form of persons lost as I am, wandering
as I am through the lively dead-night. Which
baccy is mine, the amber leaf or the gold one?

Drown in sweetness, my end of days
To rest the restless
Sobriety assuage,
For when the chalice is all but full
And I have crushed,
Erotically and made dull,
The grapes beneath my palate wall.
The Rush! The Calm!
Serenity!
She cries her tears along the edge
And becks me find no other,
Since I wail when clear as glass
She bids me fill another.
And I do, for I love you so,
For every moment is calm like
Ebbing tides,
As musical as the crashing surf,
And only made better with time
Oh, my vintage Divine.
With my darling on our repast
We sup on forgetting my sober past
And with it humor abounds.
My broken heart wet with kisses
Losing count of imbibed vintages
We invite the presence of my Spirit’d friends
Make light the wrongs by night’s end.
So why think at length of misty futures,
When all I need are distilled, blush sutures
Or of a past, beyond control,
When the light of day it thusly stole?
I do not drink with infinite hers
I drink them all away.
Now, with me, I call us we
Is my vintage Divine.
We drink, we laugh,
But she departs,
I was yours and you were mine
(everything is turning and meshed with time!)
Now I’m befouled with poisonous past
And on my tongue is left a stain
Which drugs my better faculties
In the hated day,
The infinite hers,
This lack of drunken clarity.
Since sobriety proper is fruit of the vine
And all this terror in my sober mind
Can only be healed
By Spirit
By Wine,
Leave me lusting for the flight
In eua de vie: the water of life.

chat bots:
zaby: niet: zeby... (frogs... not teeth)

this heat-wave is making everyone, fffff-ucking cuckoo! i must have lost it about 5 times today... sweating like a pig about to be slaughtered, rambling mad... drank more than i could ever possibly eat... for dinner? the thinner me... two Becks, a pork steak cooked ideally: so the juices were still running... and a few precious olives... with pickled garlic and pickled chillies and plenty of oregano and olive oil... that's it! to hell with this world... to hell with climate-change sceptics... i hate them as much as i hate atheists... i was actually going to post this on the 18th of June... but i thought... i'll wait... it was already been several days of this heat... i'll wait... something is bound to happen: something convincing... the fire in Wennington broke the camel's back... i ffff-ucking sometimes cycle through there... what the ffff-ucking hell happened? scorched earth! the earth's alight! and what am i doing? like **** i'm going on some fancy holiday... like hell i'm going to own a car... i just own a bicycle... i planted 8+ trees in my garden... i tend to talk... i hate climate-change sceptics and deniers like Holocaust deniers and atheists... and all the rest of the secular nunnery *******... the "sensible folk"... they: ****... ME... OFF... like i: don't have enough oath-words to use... i swear like a cobbler when it comes to these matters... today we snapped at each other over the littlest of things: you're keeping the fridge door open for too long... you haven't covered the coleslaw... seconds apparently turned into hours... do i, look... like a ******* camel jockey to you? take this ******* heat and go back to Sahara... that desert that was once a mighty mountain range... all deserts were mountain ranges once... aren't we living in times beside Copernicus... aren't we stuck with Darwinistic pre-history ontology? then all deserts used to be mountain-ranges... now crank up the heat... the sort of heat that makes people mad and animals bewilder themselves... i mention this as much generously later on...

i seriously think the internet can be a lovely place...
sure... there are some pitfalls...
for one: i avoided online dating sites like
the plague... i don't know how i managed to get
fooled by social media...
then again: those were early days...
back in 2005... facebook had a policy of: only university
students... being the first person in my family
to go to university i gobbled some things naively...
mind you: i was already using last.fm
to forage for new music... that's how i found about
Porcupine Tree... Spirit... Gong... to name but the few...
i must have come across Wolfmother too...
i was over the moon that they played in Edinburgh
rather than playing Glasgow...
mind you: i didn't mind that Tool played in Glasgow...
i was willing: more than willing to make that trip
from Edinburgh... that's where i met her...
met: and left her...
    oh man... we were getting crushed... or rather:
she was getting crushed in the pit of happy maggots...
water was being distributed in plastic glasses
so that people wouldn't faint...
   (of course i'm going to portray myself as
someone good... although i tend to think i'm a nasty
piece of work... better to think yourself rotten
than as good... it works to anyone's advantage...
since? there's always room for improvement)
    the glasses were passing us left and right...
someone finally managed to not drink a water from
the cup and it passed into my hand...
what did i do? did i drink it? nope...
            i gave the cup to her... she gulped it down...
the second time i managed to catch a cup...
i drank half of it myself... offered it to her:
she refused... on the basis that the first cup satiated her...
so i passed the cup further down in the crowd...
third cup... i gave it to her... she drank half...
the remaining half i passed down the crowd...
by then i was almost bear-hugging her to give her
space to breath... so much so that she managed to turn
around... we chatted for about two minutes:
the old internet: a.s.a.l... sort of shtick...
                              and by the depth of the music coming
from Tool... we started snogging...
                    did i mind that she said she was German?
hmm!? i'm currently listening to: die weisse dame
                                                                      (d'ah m'eh)...
yes... the Tetragrammaton appears in certain
European languages...  e.g. ANTHONY...
                     you don't say: ANFONY
                               you say: ANTONY...
who's foney / phoney?! is that like someone: who can
be the X-man Magneto but with telephones?!

i probably have regrets... once the crowd was dispersing
after the concert was over...
i saw her standing in some obvious location...
we got separated...
            mind you... did she come alone?
girls? going to concerts on their own? not then not now...
highly unlikely...
but who was she with? a girlfriend or a boyfriend?
regrets... i walked passed her...
   i was about to ask her if she wanted to go back
to Edinburgh with me for some ***... well: not exactly
*** as a one word question... more...
on the lines of relationship building...
    nerves? she ignored me? i was snogging her
just a few minutes and half-hours prior...
            men go to concerts on their own...
do women? rare...
                      women travelling on their own? also rare...
i used to take these weekend trips
to some of the capitals of Europe: alone...
   because... i've been on trips with "friends"...
****** trips... disorganised trips... pointless trips...
i said: **** it... i'm going solo...
                 should i have approached her?
n'ah... she just topped the feelings of seeing Tool live...
a favourite band of mine since the age of 14...
or 15...

what was i "saying"? oh... right... the internet used to be fun,
it still is...
              sure... you get some *******... most of them
are neurotic women... thought-police Katherine(s)...
oh Carol... or oh Caren... or Kerrie... whatever...
             women who have no idea that either William Burroughs
or Ovid or for that matter Marquis de Sade ever existed...
what? i know what cancel-culture is...
i've been banned on... several sites... just outright
deleted... no response...
i was suspended on one website for about 9 months...
what happened, after? the Streisand effect...
my absence imploded...
prior? one of my poems had... maybe... maybe 2K views...

now? i'm packing a crowd of about 50K...
ergo? it's a good thing...
              but it's unlike the internet of NAPSTER
and HOTMAIL... and MSN? what were those chat-rooms
where people would talk anonymously...
with girls in America... i remember those...
that's how we first plundered our presence
in this sphere... obviously publishers wouldn't
listen to us... and we had better things to do anyway...
it was either homework... playing the Age of Empires II
or chatting to people before bots and proper a.i.
was introduced...
way way before internet shopping...
i still remember the classic look of a high street:
there used to be a record shop on each of them...

now? you want a record shop?
Romford... that's the only one i know that still exists...
it's like: Mecca...
seriously... come to Romford... buy some spinning
liquorice...
             i don't even know whether i've grown into
England or whether England has grown into me...
i'm guessing both... of course the myth of my childhood
in Poland is locked in the vaults of memory
of my mind... how we used to play together as children...
hide & seek... marbles... tic-tac-toe...
   skipping ropes... oh sure: boys and girls used to play
together... we didn't get as far as cards...
Blackjack... i'm afraid that if i started playing
Blackjack with the boys i would have not moved an inch...
from where i was born...

but look at me now...
    London leech... in and outs of Bow and further afield
as far as Epping... on a bicycle...
this is home... it breaks my heart in a way
but also mends it...
  
hmm... i recently came across an advert for online
therapy... a woman is sitting in a cubicle in a toilet
and is talking about how her mind will not switch off...
questions: self-rhetorical answers... more questions...
then the lights are turned on...
and in a cubicle next to her another woman
tries to "squeeze" out in a silence...
the camera returns to the woman who "thinks"
she's talking to someone... clearly: she isn't...
              i tried therapy... i tried psychologists:
**** me... at least the most they can do is prescribe you
talk and camomile tea...
i talked to psychiatrists...
    hmm... with the ineffectuality of asylums...
being prescribed pills... usually associated with asylums?
ha ha... ah ha ha...
i put on... let's settle on 30kg...
     i was a porky pie...
                   oh! but it was the cure! i was being cured!
i was "depressed" one year... "schizophrenic" another...
"psychotic" throughout... but when i got a brain MIR scan
back in Poland and talked to a ****** neurosurgeon...
i asked: so am i mad?
he replied: if anyone says you're mad... they're mad themselves...

i love England... no... English people are not racists...
they're just sadistic sometimes...
they have a sadistic sense of humour...
and a sadistic diagnostic-rumour: murmur...
after speaking to this ****** neurosurgeon...
i had to go back... back to England...
oh sure... i still talked with the psychiatrists
that were "treating" me...
i still took the pills...
      until one day: i snapped...
        my mother was having spinal surgery...
i just finished reading Kierkegaard's either / or...
no... that was stalemate: read...
i just finished reading vol. 1 of Kant's critique of pure reason...
and... i couldn't find vol. 2...
i was so ******* *******...

and i told her: when i get out of here!
     did she think: when i escape my body?
to me... psychosis is osmosis... i'm going back to either
air... fire... water or the earth...
perhaps a coupling...

point being: the advert? me... i have a post-Soviet
distrust for psychology, psychiatry, atheism...
why demand people have no soul but make logistic
investments into there being a soul?
or the opposite... whatever the opposite is...
                  i wouldn't talk to anyone but a random
stranger...
                     *******... mother-****-gobbling-*******...
misjudgements?! hmm-um?!
    yeah: bravo-me for keeping my anger under control
by drinking... and taking: long walks...
i once became so mad i walked from Romford to...
Harlow... in the middle of the night...
down roads without any pedestrian access...
      sat in a 24h Tesco waiting to buy a bottle of Jack...
talking to this naive teenage girl...
bought the bourbon... walked into a forest
and started eating Lilac coloured mushrooms...
i literally stopped caring...
the "adventure" finished with me catching a taxi home
and sleeping for about 12 hours...

alcohol as a sedative? yeah... it is... it's a sedative
keeping me intact: from boiling over into absolute rage...
i need it to sweat it out...
every time i drink i'm sedated:
i'm like the antithesis of what most drunks are...
they just explode carelessly...
at rock concerts or football matches... reckless idiots:
IF YOU ONLY KNEW THE TRUE POWER
OF ALCOHOL... what focus it can give...
how else did the pilots of Spitfires defeat
the Amphetamine riddled pilots of the Messerschmitts...
how else? how else where they defeated?
alcohol is a war potent contained in the most
affectionate man...
  
mind you: i know what an alcoholic looks like...
my grandfather was an alcoholic...
he was also a stamp-collector... i still have his Soviet
stamps... i wonder... if i really wanted money...
how much could they fetch in the west...
but... since i'm not after money... because i'm of the motto:
ARBEIT MACHT FREI... and i like the idea of
things... formerly owned by others are like
keeping their presence nearest to me...
translated as travelling stars in the night sky...
and i've seen: plenty... of those...
there are constellations... but there are also these...
roaming stars... i can't explain it...

be kind to animals, be kind to these little critters...
this will allow you to distinguish:
or least favour the judgement concerning:
whether you should be kind to all men:
or whether not to discriminate by a higher earned
justice learned from the kindness showered
on animals...

spieglein spieglein!

ooh... i needed that break from that autobiographic
outburst... and as the maxim states:
by the sweat of your brows you will earn a living...
funny that... writing is hardly any hard-lifting...
but i'm drinking and sweating like a mad-pig
from my armpits...

the internet... hmm...
one sample of tracing my footsteps back...
Tantalus < Human Sacrifice < Annual Customs
of Dahomey < the Kingdom of Dahomey...
this is me... going backward...
i just overheard someone mention...
the Kingdom of Dahomey...
   and king Ghezo...

                             now... physiology...
all these massive basketball players... currently living
in America... hold on hold... on...
Europeans did what?
go around Africa and catch these specimen?
really? what good is a slave if maimed by a bullet wound?!
hmm...  what i was thinking all along...
Africans ******* Africans over
just like Europeans ******* Europeans over...
same shift... different story...
nothing new...
              so there were these people in Western Africa
that used to hunt for slaves...
and sell them off to traders... and... let's face it...
every trade-person is an impartial person...
money is not the coinage of spirit: thought...
ideas are...
                   we exchange ideas like we exchange
money: but in disparaging circumstances...
point being... i arrived at finding about the myth of
Tantalus...

        that's the beauty of the internet...
you might be looking for something: then again not looking
for anything...
coupled with reading a book...
Tantalus...
             Ovid's Amores: book 2 poem 2...
hey presto! Tantalus appears!
loose talk left Tantalus thirsty for ever
though up to his neck in water, clutching at fruit
always out of his reach

             well then... the beauty of the internet...
you get to build tunnels... cognitive tunnels: they are...
but... but there's also the automated filtering process...
i don't celebrate my work... i don't allow it to reach
advertisement status... i don't censor...
i filter... zeit ist die nur essenz...
              während weltraum: etwas das
                             unterhalt selbst...
wir ar entwender sklaven zu zeit
     oder seine eskapisten...

time is the only essence...
while space: something that upkeeps itself...
we are either slaves to time
or its escapists!

then again: i did start thinking about pre-historic
escapism as most associated with
English Darwinists...
those adamant creatures who find it absolutely
necessary to find the ontology: of a man without history:
a man without memory...
strange creatures... like most English thinking is...
don't get me wrong... it's very practical thinking...
ergonomic... egalitarian... soft-spoken words
to replace the pan-Slavic experiment of Communism...

that's ******* dangerous...
and what's the alternative? is there an alternative?
the English intellect invented
ergonomics and egalitarianism to counter
Communism...
               but it also invested itself in pre-history /
post-history... the ontology of:
prior to any recorded history... there was this
ontolology of APES...
i don't even think Copernicus could have
envisioned such widespread corruption of a simple
idea: nature abhors vacuums...
vacuums are filled by adaptation...

  i blame the mutation of Darwinism on the current
zeitgeist-narrative...
   no history? no history?!
          no ******* wonder i'm fleeing into foreign
languages... i've tested my thoughts on German...
i'm testing my thoughts on Russian...
i have this special case i need to test / write out...
i'm not staying: i'm fleeing...
but i'll be fleeing in a way that a violin
player is fleeing the sinking Titanic...

i need more drink to write this bit...
after all... i'm "changing glasses"...
i'm about to roam around the cheapest version
of Greek...
                       Darwinistic anti-historical pre-historical
ontology... i remember winters of such an abundence
of snow that you will never know...
i ******* hate climate-change-sceptics...
it's too hot!
        it's, too, *******, hot!
                             scepticism is not some *******
NEU-KOOL...
              BONKERS... no! neit! nein! nie!
i don't need lobster-people parading with
suntans... telling me: yeah: br'uh... all good...
like **** it is...
i hate these climate sceptics...
like i hate these Hitchen's era atheist...
sensible people my ****... my ****...

my feet are sticky... my brain is fried...
                     sure sure... let's just "rephrase" our next
no-new position comes the next year's flooding...

what the **** happened to:
CAUSE & EFFECT?!
                     physics isn't working?!
rules of physics somehow awry?"
                    hammer not good for nails?!
THIS IS WHY I DRINK...
i drink to contain my rage...
           but i also drink to fuse with it...
a writing ambition that...
will not be recognised... because:
zeitgeistnarrativ...
people need to hear what they are used to /
what they want...

****'s sake... with these climate change scpetics there's
no physics principle of: X causes Y...
ergo Y causes YX... ergo YX cause XY...
ergo... there's a ******* Z!
better explained?
   x causes y.. no! y doesn't cause x!
it's not a closed-case sceanario... you ****** g dim-wit!

dimmy dumb dimmy dumb wit!
ugh meister fantastisch spinster
   herr spinster: spaghettilockenwickler:
mampfenhausherr!

      hell is a fury that man obeys!
hell is a fury that a man obeys:
because... he inacts its tides...
selfish women discard hell's compensation
for personal gains...
best to spread the fury...
it has been... a long wait...
but worthwhile...
                            wahnhaft?!
                                           wer ist nicht?!

ten kto miał spać... i ten kto miał: wstać...
i ten kto miał spać... i ten kto miał: wstać...
i ten: kto został "zaspany":
  i ten kto ten kto nigdy się nidgy nie
obudził...
           i ten... komu zerk na "co to?":
dodało: nad-skupieninie:
ojra... ojra: coś nie tak!
o kurwa... hyba coś nie tak!

me? i'm looking at these two Russian
letters...
and then looking at these Latin transformations...

Спокойная ночь: spokojnaja no-
             hmm... exactly!
exactly? peaceful night!
but that's not my "beef"...
    J is replaced with Y...
                          since there's no Jeep in *****...
or therefore a DZ... dz = j....

                                     exactly: German folk songs
for drinking... gearing up to writing
while listening to some Russian agnst...
and i've just found... the second artist
in the Russian tongue that appeals to me...
first things first... Faun's Lorelei to get drunk and proper
"stammered" in order to better write...
that's that... but then... something from Russia:

to think...
                            i was lucky enough to... and not so lucky
to have had a Russian girlfriend...
lucky to have visited St. Petersburg and Moscow
but sort of unlucky to see in her cousin's face
that she was cheating on me...
i liked drinking with him: beer and dried fish...
talking about music and history...
i knew what his face was telling me...
he was sad that he knew she was having a French-fling
of two-boys one girl...
i hope i came across to suggest to him:
you know... i have been with prostitutes...
she over-estimates her worth, you do know: that i know that,
right?
i'm only here for St. Petersburg and for Moscow
and for the *****... the beer and the dried fish
that's such a better accomplishment to match
up with beer than peanuts...
you do know that i know she's ******* around?
but let me tell you: just one night...
i'll **** her brains out... i'll turn into a miner and
build a tunnel into her ego so that she remembers
me proper... oh don't worry... this narrative will only
come to be some years later...
i'll need to reflect for years before i realise
what my unconscious was instinctively planning:

good luck trying to be a tourist in Russia these
days... ha ha...
i was already out of the door come the moment
she wanted to turn my long hair into dreadlocks
and wanted to tattoo me...
i knew it was a short escapade: a gentle run
rather than a marathon...
the best part was: when she introduced me to her
grandmother: telling me it was her mother...
and we went to dinner: she introduced her mother
as her sister... and her father as her "uncle"...
she was trying to hide so bad that i was a ******...
a Russian girl?! dating a ****** boy?!
mein gott!                       it's only years later that
i'm drinking this fine wine of memory
in the form of ms. amber (whiskey)...

                   oh for more of these love complications
on grounds of ethnicity: race-baiting?
too ******* obvious: the Germanic peoples can play
that duty to the "universe"...
i like the subtle queues...

i can just imagine if this affair went west...
if i dated a proper: milchfräulein!
i'd be like: wild-eyed: did your grandpa secetectly
stash a SS-uniform in secret? can i see it?
can i wear it? wait... wait... i need to see the Turk
first... my barber... i can't put it on without
being properly trimmed...
does he? does he?
                                           ah ha ha...

i think schwarz suits me...
although i much prefer
grün und braun shades of clothes...
                           nothing jeans related... suits me...

it became one of those relationships that's best
not have had... best remembered like
the heat-wave of 2022...
i... ******* cycled through the village of Wellington...
i know the area... it's local... well...
as a cyclist it's local... thereabouts to Rainham...
there's this land-fill site near by...
there's the Cold-Harbour...
  when the Thames spreads her "legs" / tide...
i know the area... ******* grass fires?
  you're kidding me...
   i abhor climate sceptics like i abhor atheists...

do i look like a: ffff-ucking camel jockey?!
some influencer girl staging the pride of her buttocks
before some hotel in Dubai?
i hate people who adhere to the heat...
i know that when the mob comes after them
i'll be peddling...
              i'll be licking my wounds...
i'll be writing: sure... not having sweat from my brows:
but from my underarm pits...
at this point i abhore the arrogant-denial
of the sceptics...
                             because this is the workings of bad-faith...
and bad-faith begins with advocating
the adamancy of denial...
                  these ffff-ucking idiots need
another year... perhaps two...
before they change their minds about saying
things like: oh... media frenzy!
   this feels like just another summer!

really?
  really?!
              what happened to me today?
i woke up... in a 180° position to the one i fell asleep in...
i rotated... 180°... how? how does a body rotate
180° while asleep... lying next to a table...
sure... i took down a chair...
but... this is the UNCONSCIOUS speaking:
this is the COLLECCTIVE UNCONSCIOUS speaking
to individuals in their UNCONSCIOUS....
i ffff-ucking rotated 180° in my sleep!

that's not a ******* problem?!
fair enough... let idiots breed...
I DON'T CARE...
I'M NOT ALLOWED TO CARE...
I DON'T CARE...
DAARWINISM EXPOSED A MAN BADLY
DAMAGED BY ALLOWANCES OF AN ONTOLOGY
OF A PRE-HISTORY: AN ANTI-THESIS OF CONTINUITY
OF PRE-HISTORY: BY VARIATION OF SOME "MAGIC!"
SOME MAGIC MONKEY JUGGLING...

no! nein! neit! nie!

       come to "think" of it...
    Communism... the whole Pan-Slavic movement...
i'd like to "think" a little about the letters...
about... the crab-bucket... mentality of "losers"
of capitalism...
these... adherent wastes of time for people
that... want to work...
                  these people that should be readied
for an arbeit mach freit... scrutiny...
the excuses some people give them...
i've never been allowed excuses...
i was either good at my work or **** at it...
but some of these people have been given
too many excuses: based on their race:
get rid of them...
                 how does the verse work?
employ him because X...
well then... get rid of him based on Y...
lazy ******* best starve...
                        
    oh this cruel world... crueler Siberia...
i'm supposed to do the work of lazy Chimera's
of "man"?
                  
Спокойная ночь... bothers me...
esp. when reiterating in Latin...
      й = J = Y...
                  hmm... чь: ć
                               what's чъ?!
      but that's already arrived at!
                                  чъ = č ...

night?                      нoц! noc! night!

                    what's the ******* deal with
the Cyrillic trinity of ь ъ & ы?

                                         "soft": acute?
"hard": caron?
                         but a "soft" is already incorporated
within the noun concerning NIGHT...
at the same time it's not necessary...
that's why for a ******...
Russian is under-formed...

   нoц... contra ночь...
           because? the latter implies:
  when heard: never to be unheard:
   noć...
                      no... not noć...
not ******* nocz / noč...
                      нoц: noc! nacht!

***: *******: BAJA... bajka!
                     you confusing idiots... Chinese separatists
of Beijing...
ъ, ы, ь, ю, я, y living in make-shift *****-lands...

gorąc...
                  gorąц...
                                    na mej głowie...
to tło... szumu... i idiotyzmu...
      this: this entire world is coming to the smallest
portion of the world for: "debriefing":
about being the the antagonist...

  **** it... i'm siding with the Russians...
i don't care...
                      i don't care because i don't care...
i'm siding with the Russians...
at least they have some existential sanity
left in them...
                it's very much unlike siding with
**** Germany most associated with
the Croats...
this is... a civiliation-state scenario...
this is Darwinism in its advent of foreplay...
i'm curating foreplay...
people are so blind... as individuals...

do i look like wanting to **** black women?
ergo... all the poly-racial ****... is... what?
something i might want to keep... or... burn?
i could never appreciate the idiocy of some people...
but? i'm currently having to adapt....
because... people have beccome better than their own
predictions.

an alias
strange to think
it's the norm
with all this tech
it becks and moans
calling for a signature
beeps and drones
it's a figure
of how you'd like to be perceived
and a reflection of self perception
you churn out
for the world to see
and though the original
stated intent
has morphed beyond recognition,
beyond belief,
these days
it's just apart
of being