Blah blah blah
Blah blah

Blah
fucin'
blah


Copyright@2018 Dennis blah blah Willis

Well lock me in a closet and call me "Captain Jack",
I won't be myself until I get my coffee back

They say it riles up the nerves and makes a person tense
Feeling like you're being pressed while balanced on the fence

But without it life seems dull, everything moves slow,
Things I used to strive for, they interest me no more

I'm mired in inertia, lacking impetus,
Reaching out for nothing, I'm settled like the dust

I'd better brew me up a *** and make it nice and strong
I really need a cuppa joe to help me get along

To send those blahs a-packing and get back once again
To that busy, bustling world, where coffee is my friend...

allowing for a two part volume
of Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu...
is unforgiving... it's asking a meat-head
to read such a body like exploring a woman's...
a gay-man's psyche is pretty much a woman...
or what a woman thinks in secret,
gay men merely vocalise what a woman does
not say... and yes, that a with a diacritical
mark... that grave above the a? the à?
it works like a comma... à! a surprise kindred
an eureka that's not really original,
an: ah! and then you say the rest of the title...
iconic pause: in search of lost time...
          it took me about five minutes to figure
that one out... lost time, but occupied a space...
  and so much political vanity is consecrated
upon the reverse.. ineffective space:
thus gained time... for all that protests are worth.

i know i go on about this a lot, surprise surprise,
i'm actually engaging in systematisation...
once you enjoy writing as much as walking
you get to reach a systematisation,
     it's a painful process, i'd never do the editing process
of a Hemingway... write something: shoot some
camels and reindeer and go back and revise a piece
of writing: drink a *death in the afternoon -
a shot of absinthe inside a champagne glug
or the modern: shot of Jägermeister inside a glass
of red bull... (yay-gay-mr.) -
                       or how do you make snakebite?
half a láger half a çíder - and a head of blackcurrant
squash... scoot meine good look.
  but diacritical marks are what punctuation marks
are... it's only that they've become elevated,
and unlike punctuation marks governing paragraphs
and sentences... they govern the words,
         they are syllable incision indicators...
  i mean: i don't revise something i've already written,
unless it's a spelling mistake... i just write
something new... it's sadistic in my mind's eye to
revise and revise a single effort of writing...
                i'd rather centralise a theme of the paradox
of re-, in the year 2018 i will still experience
the tetratempus - containing four seasons -
         and i will never return toward making a piece
of writing become a morbidly corrected statue...
     what's done is done, let us move toward another
circumstance of being able to acquire a new kind
of observation... i can't be a sadist in terms of also
being a perfectionist... i break a leg, i break a leg...
if i write a ****** poem, i'll write a ****** poem...
but i won't be bothered like human history has been
by preoccupying itself in forwarding the drama
on Golgotha Street...
    the newest addition to the vogue scene is a corset
paired with a waistcoat...
   the snooker championships are taking place,
and i says to my father: 'a bit like chess, ain't it?'
   'sure is', he replies, 'you have to think 3 moves ahead.'
and it is... a smart sport, actually the most intelligent
sport there is... ****** boring obviously,
unless you fake the boredom and think about angles
and triangles and Newton...
   and cover the game with such congestions of
pretending to hallucinate it all...
                or take to thinking about rebellious
Saturn spinning out of orbit and doing a Mike Tyson
to Jupiter...
          but it's very much like chess...
                   it's sporty chess... snooker is chess...
  and it definitely ain't pool...
         you could actually have a ******* on a snooker table...
while either doggy or missionary positioning on
the snooker table... so what are the odds?!
         but i'll tell you one thing... snooker beats golf...
i don't know why... but once colour televisions came into
existence: it made much more sense for both
spectator and commentator... and how dare you
not cling to the 20th century if you were born in it
to translate to the 21st androids how we experienced
an evolution of technology, that made much more sense
after what i just heard...
      so there's this woman in the U.S., and this is before
president-elect and whatnot...
  and she's 22, and it's all over vice news,
and she's scared, and she's a mother of a 1 year old...
    and then this picture emerges
(don't worry, it's not anything like playing the Sims
   and moving your Sim to play computer games
and seeing a wormhole, or the infinity mirror effect)...
and there's a scene when she's talking Donald Duck
to the child... there are no meaningful words being
said... merely sounds... onomatopoeias...
and yes... this makes perfectly good sense when
stressed as a cut-off capsule...
because Darwinism doesn't really provide much
history... Darwinism is a historical erasure:
the past 2000 years could have happened,
but not really...
  but it just fascinated me...
         when did we learn or who did we learn it from
given we were placed at so many different
plots of the globe and became convergent -
anyway - the woman is teaching the child
words via the onomatopoeia of a hoarse quacking
of a duck! i probably will not find an answer
(primarily because i'm not supposed to,
if i am to perpetuate what Aristotle taught, i.e.:
be wrong and continually circumstance being in awe,
given the mundanity that nonetheless
everything keeps repeating itself over and over again,
for sustenance, and you are not sustenance bound
as corrected by your language deficiency to
ever merge into an unconsciously organised module
that might also argue an ego) -
    but i wonder how difficult it must have been
to extract something beyond the minimalism of animals
that identifies a duck with a quack, a cow with a moo,
an serpent with a sss... a cat with a meow, a dog with a bark...
    i cannot conceive how difficult this explanation
will be... but given the timeframe, i'm more awe-stricken
by this than merely being awe-bound by the time-scale...
which becomes the least affordable option of being
struck by awe, because one becomes merely awe-bound
by it, and therefore apathetic towards such a time-scale.
       how did we suddenly extract an understanding
of an onomatopoeia to distinguish our own ontological
basis for making a sound by infusing a sound that
doesn't resemble us? when did the first ape bark like
a dog? but then again, looking at the canvas already
apparent to us... what was the point of such an adventure?
hippy culture says: monkey accidently ate a mushroom,
monkey suddenly was blown away and reasoned of
a higher purpose other than a tree and a coconut...
     mudvayne quotes the guy on l.d. 50...
what's the guys name... uggh! not Timothy Leary...
ah ****! Terence McKenna! that's it!
        am i high? nope... my respectability of argument
comes from the mystical properties of... whiskey.
hmm...      that rarely happens to people.
                   it's what's called being earthbound, or gravity
prone... sink like a skipping pebble across the lake...
          and like a tonne of lard.
             tomorrow i'll wake once more and still
think about how we encouraged the discovery of
onomatopoeia to teach our children the multiplicity of
sounds, and later deconstruct such a multiplicity to
create meaningful words that go beyond knock knock! jokes
and grunts and barking...
                     but i will never know the man who
created the fermentation process from potatoes to make
*****...
                or the guy who brewed the first pint...
or the guy that smoked the first marijuana bush ensemble
while clearing the land for a place to harvest wheat...
   all the fame that exists is simply scholastic...
  schoolboy fame... which is why so much attention
goes into becoming famous in school...
                        but still that woman teaching her child how
to speak by going down into the blobby-gurgling
  tongue of the toddler, stiffening it,
      and tightening the **** and bladder too...
  by talking Donald Duck to it...
                        i probably could have had a family myself...
but can you imagine someone writing this load of
******* and having a family? there wouldn't be any time!
           still (god, what a need to repeat!)
         how did we progress from saying ape-****?
surely if we started to imitate other animals they'd join us
in our need to usurp those ******* lions!
  lo and behold... we managed to pet dogs (so they were
in on it all along)... and cats (who came from Japan,
if **** sapiens came from Africa... cats came from Japan...
bonsai frocked and all) -
                            but you have to admit...
from what is written history, to what is history and
a gap in history going back to a similitude of form -
      you can write as much historical fiction as you want...
    and you'll never have to write a bestseller about
some centurion in the Roman Empire...
   or a quo vadis by Sienkiewicz (nobel prize winner)
for the depiction of emperor Nero...
                               ******* Sesame St. giggles...
still, the question beckons... if animals can behave in
an ultra-intuitive way as if fashioned by a telepathy...
then telepathy can only exist upon a very simple,
atomic, terse vocalisation of an identity...
   a dog barks... a man can bark too...
                                but we have completely lost our
intuitive talent (if it can be called that)...
          to have sacrificed intuition is to have created
cults or counter-intuitive hierarchies...
  so a 1000 blah blahs later i still prefer to write what
i like... than write what people "might" understand
and talk to a girl about...
                                     a bit like a woman discovering
you faked writing a poem 20 years into a marriage...
                  obviously the setbacks to boot...
                            dyslexia is an optical dimension...
no one dyslexic says a word they don't understand
a meaning of... dyslexia seemingly came from
finally having enshrined the "secret" to the monopoly
of writing sounds...
                          nonetheless... at the end of the day...
it's just too much history... there's too much of it...
            there was never going to be a world
where carpe diem ruled it...
                               it was a question how we clung to
certain things, within a framework of
                                             salmon dye omni:
sure sure... piglet pink and innocent for the rest
of our lives... once Darwinism pointed at the ape,
and once physicists dropped the bomb and the bang...
no day has had any significance at all...
   + the 24h news channels...           snuggle up to a hog
             and say: fog over Heathrow... all flights are grounded.

Am I someones "one that got away"?
Do I keep them awake at night,
with regrets that thing's weren't different,
that they'd not given up the fight?

Is there someone there that thinks of me,
on those damp depressing days,
that makes them smile out the window,
chasing their blahs away?

Do they search for me on Facebook,
have they Googled me at all?
Do they see me here with nothing,
or do they think I have it all?

I guess for sure I'll never know,
if they don't or if they do.
Kinda makes you wonder though,
does someone do that for you?

Let me be your sunshine
Let me brighten up your day
Let me take your winter blahs
and chase them all away

free from the irishman's arbeit macht frei on the building site:
****** worked the tools for a few years, got promoted and started
to kiss pig snouts - thinks he's the god Merovingian,
people hallucinate a potato where
his head ought to be and laugh -
well, how the most of society is sheltered
from the construction site in the west:
foreigners out! willkommen... now you
get you spoofs to do the hardened labours -
see how they fair, poncy fairies couldn't
even lift a shitload of bricks: but there they
go into the temple of hamster wheels
and brass muscles and kissing bicep meat-heads...
they could be utilised to generate enough
power to provide energy for a corner shops -
so yeah, the Romanians were on holiday,
it took them 5 days to reach their village
flying from London to Bucharest -
the cultural improvement of the Kazakh nation
was filmed there, after 5 weeks free from
the shackles of the irishman's version of
Auschwitz: a regular staple around here,
i get the smuggled cigarettes -
but after smoking tobacco smuggled from
god knows where, these Benson & Hedges
feel like torpedoes between the index and middle...
odd what 3 packets of 50g tobacco does to
perception, for a while i was smoking chop-sticks,
next thing i'm smoking torpedoes thick bulging
sticks - the smoke v. drink dynamic changes...
is Mary Poppins about to teach me a lesson
in how the HM & Revenue is sacred?
i hated that nanny when she said: to preserve
the health of the public, and to invoke a need
for proper taxation... well... **** that...
ever smoke Беломорканал сигареты?
       (belomorkanal sigarety)?
i thought you haven't, i have, i wouldn't even know
where to begin if i had to lie and tell you
i visited the Lenin mausoleum -
Беломорканал сигареты though? see the neo-Greek
in Cyrillic, or as? talk about evolution, i'd talk
more about more recent events in linguistic,
how Greek evolved in Cyrillic and Latin into added
diacritical markings: English held onto puritan Latin
impression way too long, instead of diacritical markings
we have U.S.A. accents, Scottish Irish and Welsh accents,
regional accents in England, Australian and South African...
it's like this inverse sense of insomnia:
    the sun never, ever, ******* sets on English,
steroids and amphetamines, continually news -
must be hard to keep up, to keep the local reference
in a world adequately suited for the day-to-day
marching orders - but yeah, smoked those cigarettes -
they don't have filters, well, cardboard "filters" -
you squeezed the ends and smoked the workman's
tobacco - while you were digging that god awful trench:
the white sea-baltic canal - and she was the lovely
middle-class lady who introduced me into smoking
them, after she realised she had the poker hand -
it always happens when the middle-classes meddle
with someone originating in the working class
who wants to become a chemist... they say: work!
whip for a tongue... i swear you need shampoos and toothpaste...
oh right, i'm from the land of brick and mortar?
well, if you're going to maim me, damage me,
obviously i'll stage a rebellion utilising poetry...
should have left me after infringing the damage on me,
should have left me to do the work...
but no... she calls me up and exposes me to
a schizophrenic virus: i.e. the atypical symptom -
and i'm like: huh? voices? what are voices?
what do you meaning you're hearing voices?
i guess the conscience kicked in -
                         oh how angelic everyone thinks they are...
    i call these symptoms: a rotten conscience,
  the fact that anyone would appreciate having one
is already a miracle... but seeing it rotting
    is a bit like a Dorian Gray revelation -
shock! awe! but the picture is there!
                                               funny how people who
plan a baby sometimes never score,
              and funnier still how some people invoke
   getting impregnated without the state's laws
of matrimony to blackmail a man into matrimonial
laws, use the meanest, bleakest, bile-fuelled mechanism
to erase the person from all the pages of life,
   then spectacularly fail: a bit like Jesus on the third day,
and the person in question blahs his way into
   something resembling life -  the typical
Hollywood plot: they killed him, but he got away...
        now i'm just waiting for a Mr. Chapman to finish
the job properly - because he might say:
                                his talent started waning...
    oh sure... i'd love to reach threescore & ten -
  and wait for the gimmick post-: every year after that
   is god's blessing... can i speak to the god in Sudan?
   can i get an audience? no? ah ****.
better start planning early mortality plans
while others are thinking of retirement.
                **** me! i used to be so into life that i'd
probably have written a poem a month apart -
    and now i'm left with a ****** biography that
could be encompassed in a year...
   i'm not even obsessing about it, it's just an elephant
in a box room that started snorting ******* and
playing jazz real good -
                                 then they blamed me on marijuana,
   i'd be the laziest person alive if i overdid that drug...
and however much i tried to become a Catholic
apostate, not getting confirmed and what:
   i was forced into Christian lessons of forgiveness,
only because i didn't have enough money to
pursue an argument in court... grand... just pitch-***
perfect -              mind you, they are really ****** lessons,
    i wouldn't go banging them to anyone
  who hasn't experienced injustice in this world:
gravity is probably the only law we can all experience
with true justice... as you can see, gravity wasn't
man-made... so good luck arguing your cases
     with murderers not being punished
  thieves not having their hands cut off for stealing jewels...
   if anyone was god at the birth of Christianity,
it was only Pontius Pilate - he washed his hands clean
from the matter... to me that's who god was in that
story... i'm washing my hands of anything that
might come from this.

I sit down in tweak town
To jot down a new noun,
A nice verb, a poetic sound,
But all that comes out
Is blah blahs, and doubt.
There’s not enough coffee,
To help satisfy me,
As long as I compare myself,
To everybody else.

So here in caffeine city,
The poetry is witty.
Every verse excites me.
Every line invites me,
To be better.
Speed is my muse,
As long as I let her.

A nicotine lozenge,
Four milligram a piece,
Helps me stay awake,
Until, I am allowed to sleep;
Helps me to stay alert,
Helps me write this verse,
But in the end
The zzzz will hit me worse.
I guess, I should have just gone to bed
Instead.

respite from the rain
gloomy monday morning blahs
a grayness pervades
stratus covers mountain tops
another storm is brewing

off in the distance
beyond the metro-skyline
beyond the tree line
a break opens in cloud's veil
a pulling of the curtain

in one little spot
a window of horizon
snow and ice shine through
blinding white titanium
on sparkling powdery peaks

rush hour traffic
along my morning commute
through city's drabness
an eye opening vista
of nature's magnificence


Del Maximo
(c) January 24, 2010

The willow tree with buds of green,
Doves busy building a nest in her branches.
Early in the morning now, the birdsong awakens me.
I think there is a change that will soon be seen.

Newly green blades of grass are trying to grow in the yard.
The lilac bush in the corner there has tiny buds pushing hard.
Wasps, those evil stinging things, have awoken from their stupor,
It’s time to find their hidey hole and get them while it’s cooler.

Soon, everything will be back in bloom,
Mother Nature will don her robe of newly minted colors.
It is time to awaken from our winter blahs,
Spring is replacing winters cold and gloom.

Warm, sunny days and cool, spring nights,
Gentle rains bring forth petal’d delights.
The hills change from brown to green,
Oh, I am so happy that it is Spring!



3/20/2011,  Peggy Montgomery

I sit down in tweak town
To jot down a new noun,
A nice verb, a poetic sound,
But all that comes out
Is blah blahs, and doubt.
There’s not enough coffee,
To help satisfy me,
As long as I compare myself,
To everybody else.

So here in caffeine city,
The poetry is witty.
Every verse excites me.
Ever line invites me,
To be better.
Speed is my muse,
As long as I let her.

A nicotine lozenge,
Four milligram a piece,
Helps me stay awake,
Until, I am allowed to sleep;
Helps me to stay alert,
Helps me write this verse,
But in the end
The zzzz will hit me worse.
I guess, I should have just gone to bed
Instead.

and when they write their novels, the last thing
they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are
twists in the plot... philosophy books are only
akin to novella by creating contradictions,
as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap
of phenomenology;
    some say contradictions are desired faults
in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic",
meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's
               ∞ = a-z....
                 the two are incompatible correlatives...
crafted to ensure babushka lingua
                         sell her tomatoes...
                               and all subsequent blah blahs;
oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year,
you want me to feel sorry for you?
              pet a rat!*

and will i dicta villager simply,
                                                      qualm?!
  ­                  you! ruddier!
charcoal fat!
you sludge-ipsen
            you vermont Kaiser guised!
you! finicky, thing!
            avocado fat ****!
let us bravado a chin!
  that double! half-wit quiff!
   fringe alongside the combover!
all things elongated towards a giraffe....                  
           you! squeaky Lombard of Milan!
you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian!
cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic;
defaced, with mention of tectonic;
and they did live, a happily ever after,
                         which is the sad part;
you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber!
i dare not carve my name in stone...
    i carve my name in lamb limbs...
                   so i debase myself on
the throttle when there's encouragement
of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth;
i look upon the toil,
    as i might take slightness of asserting
the earthenware,
      to have milked the cow, or to have
leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -
        there you are... a kingly kin awoken...
there the highlands... and there the deposited
  into basin...
                             for all pyrotechnics
there's still the pedophobia -
                means i have an aversion becoming
a father... i don't like children...
do i hate to?       ~. really, do i have to?
as it strands... i have to.
it was Macbeth who looked down,
and said: as mere pebble be,
        i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens
even if they conjunction Aries into
     a warring tide...
                            there, among
the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...
     i find time worth embedding a scaling into...
          a rigidity, that could never define Romeo,
and as said... lost the mc.        as having lost
the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.

Anyone who’s had their heart broken
Especially by one
You truly loved
Knows “The Feeling”
We all know
The general ache
Your heart shattered
Everyone knows
The feeling of emotional emptiness
But
There’s a third
Everything else melts
Into the background
Color fades
Voices become monotonous blahs
The feeling from those movies
Something happens to the character
Suddenly
It’s all black
Jazz plays in the back
Signs pass too quick to read
When they’re your life
Your purpose
Your drive to get through the day
When they’re everything you have
And it’s taken away
You get “The Feeling”
Where everything becomes nothing
You are just floating
In an abyss

He knows I'm childish
He is like me in some ways

Entering the world
of blahs now

One escaping syllable
after another like you mean
to say these things
to fake yourself out
Your thoughts
are like the temporary
pages of an extravagant novel.

Are you your story?

You are the breath

this breath

and another

You know it deeply

The rhythm of you
is like no other
So
watch your thoughts

pass like the
whim of soft clouds

watch your mouth swiftly
when you speak

speak mostly kindly

mostly from the breath

your breath  

this breath...

Blahs wasted. 
Visions of the moon,
clouded by "aqua ruptures".
The beautiful Glistening of the stars, 
dimmed,
drowned out, 
by the wails. 
Honja...

Alone.

I really don't know who to talk to.
Really, I don't.
I've found such happiness,
Whilst remaining humble
And haven't stressed like I used to,
Or taken things to heart as much...
Yet as I stare into the mirror,
I don't like what I see.
I don't care about
How pretty my features are
I don't care about
My modeleque height
Or my warm smile
Those things, I was born with.
Thank God I'm happy with them,
It's not like I could change them
But I do care about
What I've done to myself.
Those things I did have control over,
and lost control.
I'm too soft, everywhere.
My sides are too fat
My stomach isn't as flat
I'm unhappy with my body.
And sure, I'm not huge.
But I didn't gain weight in the right places.
To look over old photos
Or know the preferences of those closest to me,
Begs tears,
and utter disappointment.
And I don't want to sound like any other girl
All the blah blah blahs
But I'm unhappy with my body.
I work hard,
I pay my bills.
I help people,
I'm doing well in school.
And I've added this gym routine on top of it.
And while I've created my own schedule, therefore I'm not complaining,
Its hurtful
That I have no one to talk to.
My family and friends will simply wave this away, as I'm not huge.
Those other parties closest to me won't say much at all.
I guess,
I just wish someone would wholly and truly tell me I'm beautiful.
That someone would want me not just for what part in *** I play
But FOR those things I dislike about myself.
And voice that.
I'm not looking for someone to cure me
And I realize what I must do to change,
but ****
I don't think I'm supposed to feel like this.
I think someone is supposed to validate me to an extent
Atleast that's what I do with those I care about, when I see they're in a low spot for a moment.
Don't we all need to hear that from time to time?
Well, I don't ever hear it. Unless I begin the conversation there in.

I gained weight, I'm not happy about it, I'm making a change, and no one has said, "you're beautiful." Without me **** near fishing.
It hurts.

And I don't know who to talk to.
Or what to do, but to continue dealing alone. As I have been.

I just want to love myself as much as I love my life
I just want to keep being happy
I just want to love myself.
And not be surrounded by so many people
Yet feel so alone.

I don't know who to talk to.

We are nameless, and you are shameless
Blackmailing us with unemployment
False promises and greed for power
It's a rotten regime and you're a fascist *****

Slaughtering people in the name of god
You have the help of faithful frauds
Ruling over ***** pigs of the city
Selling us under the cover of dignity

You've been voted in by blind, deaf and dumb sheep
We're not among them, we're anarchists
You may have control over schools and shapeless brains,
We're ******* nobodies, but we're still sane

Count your days as the hands are rising
Gather your troops, your policies dying
No more of your sweet lies
We've seen beyond it.
Enough of your blah blah blahs
We're tired of it.

oh man, it really doesn't help...
however many marathons you walk...
how many 50 mile roundabouts you ride,
how much might swim...
being *** starved...
mein gott!
             i never knew i had these muscles...
my body is aching...
i feel like i've been punched in the jaw
on repeat for about an hour:
chewing was problematic today...
i should **** more often,
which implies: i'll have to earn more...
no, no dating... **** that bolloicks...
i'm here for the transparency...
and esp. with women from cultures
that respect the status of men...
where women are women
and men are men...
    but it feels good... she likes being slapped
on the *** while we're performing *******...
while she tells me to look into the mirror
to catch ou a ******...
sure, i know the "syndrome":
most guys put it down on paper, as the narrator...
but i imagine most women want to be ******
by two guys while having a third *******
while she contorts her face...
well... fourth... apparently a woman has  avenues
of access points...
she is really into the three-dimensional
dynamics...
mind you... tomorrow my toy is coming...
i still hope she mimics me... clucks when i cluck...
pokes my nose... pulls my beard...
what music will i put on... what toys
will i provide her...
i might get the guitar out and play her...
Silverchair's.... Shade...
perhaps Eric Clapton's Layla... really slowly...
or Black Sabbath's Solitude...
my new favourite woman... barely 1 year old...
lucky me...
get in early... i've already taught her some
that come prior to the first word...
the katakana... she didn't say papa... dada...
mama... she mimicked my cluck...
my pluck... i stole her...
                            she's my toy... my little Frankenstein...
whenever i see her... i'm going to mould her
in my own image...
there's no argument... the argument has already
been settled... she's reciprocating to me...

oh man... i'm aching... i had to stretch for an hour
having discovered these new muscles
from having performed ***...
why is my jaw hurting though?
i didn't punch myself... was i kissing Khedra too much?
i must have... and while all my coworkers
go back home to spouses and what not...
i haunt the streets and go into brothels...
i have children on a loan...
         eh... too much of a good thing: i can imagine
it can be tedious... you need a diet...
fasting... last time i ******... 4 months ago?

brilliant when you're starving...
because there are always other things to focus on...
but when it happens?
oh... it's spectacular...
            my jaw is still hurting... she's asking for tips...
sure... to slobber and oyster of a **** i'll pay extra...
after the 1st of March... i'll be at it, once more...
i just can't see when i remember
her face contorting like it did... tongue waggling...
primordial...
        ancient human being...
              not that it felt weird... i just felt out of place
with the general pedestrian mentality
of keeping an English sensibility of: coordinating
practices trans-professional...
you get me?

when you see someone in their essence...
she's waggling her tongue like a demon...
  during *******... you jump in with a slobber of lips
and kiss her...
              all praise on her wanting to give me
unprotected ***...
can't go wrong with that... my phallus and *******
still feels tingling like a ******... even now...

dating... ha! my ***... what's the point of this...
western cultural fetish?
       why would i want to... "date" someone?
why not bypass eating the **** food and just getting
busy with a decent amount of ****?!
i don't see the point... perhaps my "logic" is
off the radar... perhaps cultural differences...
sorry... i'm not buying it...
  like i'm not buying: paying for *** but also paying for
lies... or the trickle of the first ******* i snorted:
that... maybe that's why i feel like i've been punched
in the jaw... several times... and not my me:
giving myself a black eye....
so i compared her to the first wife of Muhammad...
oh, you know, the literate woman, who wrote the first
Surahs of the Quruan...
my other tenet? Jesus... ADON SHEL YATOOSH..
you're saying a **** from hell can't see
a **** from hell? the one that displaced his
people for 200- or so... years?!
this is my demand for the third party of Islam...
even she said it: inshallah...
Adon Shel Yatoosh: Jesus...
      Led Zeppelin: no quarter...
believe me when i say: i don't be near being found
killing flies... but mosquitos?!
turning blood into wine... turning wine into blood...
probably hell's greatest asset... the crucified one...
a... son of the Elohim...
        i'm looking forward to a third branch
of Islam... spearheaded by the Turks...
forget the Arabs... the Persians... they're their
own people... i'm looking at the Turks...
where to start? with the prostitutes!
              where else? the *******, plumbers?!
n'ah... n'ah... you start with the dejected...
with the down-trodden...
but you start... because you: authentically give
a **** about them...
and i do... within the hierarchy of moral
authority... the women supposedly higher up...
single mums... with grievances...
domestic violence blah blahs... sorry...
no... put me in shackles with the prostitutes...
these women are not worth it...
i prefer the transparency of prostitutes...
at least among the Turkish ones
i can kiss their hands... open the door for them...
allow myself to excuse not having *******...
i can be a man among men...
while women can be women among women...
i can slap her *** while we're performing *******
***...
   i can bite her... i can pinch her...
get married? to what? i'm not even going to stress: who...
is it even going to be a person, or an asset loss?!

there needs to be a third branch of Islam...
i entrust te Turks to spearhead this incentive...
no... the Arabs have too much money and are
too debased... perverted...
the Persians are too... well... Persian...
but the Turks have for a long while been
tourists in the Balkans... so they know a little bit of
Europe... plus... they "thought" it necessary to acquire
the Latin script... so... plus plus...
and the best ******* barbers around...
barbers... this one ******* you leave to me...
she gave me her phone number...
she asked me, personally...
                   of course i'll be there... not over-worked...
sober... don't worry about me not climaxing...
i don't mind about climaxing...
i would truly mind... seriously mind:
what's up with this beard trim?!
what's up with this haircut?!
getting a ******* and having dog-fun and me not *******
is, what, somehow a priority?!
no... it's not...
i don't care... i just like your company...
i want to keep it...
i want to keep it forever...
why? because... you... you...
somehow matter for me...

           can't a man enjoy a woman's company
fo4 no clarifying reason other than
the reason for company in itself?!
  as long as she's not licking my face... i'm good..
she can create a telepathic oyster of a tongue...
waggling... imagery of a slur...
sure... she can get away with that: no licking
of the face... the dog can lick my ears...
i'll do the licking... i'll pay extra... for that oyster...
bouquet of a floral pattern of flesh of a ****...
i will... but i
***... great... esp. when you don't get enough
of it... esp. best when you pay for it!
paying for it sort of figures out all the middle
men of the dynamics...
what date? what cinema?
what food in a restaurant?
    do you really need Bolsheviks by now?!
eh? i thought the whole thing was about to implode,
then again: best to be wrong then everything
looks... sort of... noormal.

such "fickle"
a sort of "people"
to mind...
given they
are the sort of people
that necessarily
    need minding...
behest:
little
feebles...
       what little
scoops....
    ******* irritable
arab fwends...
         ****-oil
thrills,...
        and the some
but bits in betwain...
     idiotic Koran
blah blahs....
        hell...
you have me be and me be you
and
then...
             you grieve the what,
in attaining the Vatican,
you, *******
Mooffat?!
******* windy project!

ever since i've quit smoking: beside those two
self-congratulatory puffs at the end of
each day...
                    more and more people are smoking...
in movies...
        they look so... content with
the stampede of the locomotive breath...
                interludes into 5 minute incissions
of absolutely dis-satisfaction...

                    4th of july... some variation
of independence day...
                      i'm planning to visit Loon'don...
for a sport of: zoology...
                i'll take a hubris and hiatus magic
pouch of liqour with me...
expecting: riots...
                  
        peacocks and pistachios...
            porcupines and pomegranates...
molotov cocktails and bagpies...
               i just want to see... oxford circus
yawn... i want to take the scenic route
of a promenade upon stepping off
the tube...
        perform the dull task...
of... window-shopping for mannequin
in restaurants...

    oh god... i'll have to trim my beard...
dissolve some sugar in water
and put it in my hair so: stick-ing anti-wind
gravitas...
             i'll walk this mistanthrope
on a leash of good riddles...
            i'll play the part of someone from
norwich...
    not someone from romford...
              Loon'don the tease from
Mashiter's Hill...
              plain as day: the sky-line in
my hungry eyes...
  almost towing a cow:
                  
         and of course i want to be seen...
how otherwise not so settle the matters
of sensibility...
of this ******-fest of: the obeying conundrum...
4 dada suicides: published by atlas press
in an edition of 1000 copies...
2005...
         what a fraction i do own....

        arthur cravan among the four...
the nephew or... some variant of...
related to... oscar wilde...
                 yes... the physiognomy
are a steal... in terms of what's resembled...

  i trip down: don't tempt me... memory
lane...
   world was I: and the war...
   the dada movement in Zurich....
   cabaret voltaire...
                        Geneva? well...
fast paced betting...
          live and try to not get rich...
something to get by... working for...
a loitering wage...
if you gave me... 2 tonnes of soil...
a tonne of gravel... and said...
3 hours...
                 fair-*******-afro-frenzy
    and enough...
         but "work" as a loitering...
                     what "lockdown"?
the neighbour finally put up a fence
after 15 years of her being implored...
the old roots and stumps had to be dug
up... all the way from
late february...
     a new shed... 13sqm of wimbledon
turf to admire and water...
                       i have to forbid myself
joy... though... in telling my maternal
grandfather: i've quit smoking...
    before he dies: and i pretend to wish
to grow old: i hope this happens...
this... carrier pigeon message is passed...

only today the bewildering... sacrilege...
i was watching: corpus christi...
2019... point being...
it was in my native tongue...
with english subtitles...
         i can't pretend...
   i was more eager to read the subtitles
than to listen to the "mother"
and the "father"...
      sure as hell and that they will die...
this language will die in the vicinity...
then within me...
who am i going to speak it to...
i can imagine... "30 years of and tomorrow"...
and i'll speak it:
zapomniejać mówienie po polsku...

russian interlude i'd call them...
i'll most certainly not me...
a lithuanian ****** miłoš....
              i have to arrive at the prospect...
i am not really arriving at
a country left... or a country arrived at...
"nation": ah ha!
                     siamese twin horror:
bilingual freaks...
             i was always told to shy
away from the concept of a diaspora...
unlike... the jew the italian...
the russian oligarchy...
                      and english...
what... i... made... of... it...

neu-concept...
              i... a pronoun category word...
some obnoxious... reflexive-reflective
quadratic of anti-narcissus...
i: a pronoun... perhaps...
but i as... king george minded...
i: verb!

                          i will take: will i?
i like the idea of the 4th of july...
the tokyo olympics...
that one event in the sport calendar...
when... i don't feel infringed...
with a body capacity to...
perform... a palé - i do have a body...
for greek wrestling...
antithesis judo...
but sure as **** a plethora of body shapes...
ping-pong table assured...
click-bait... without a tennis racket...
and that's why...
squash would have been a good
choice to join the olympic racket...
olympiaco(s) raquettes...

   lofty body builders... ant-worshipping...
not relevant though...
sprint a 100m...
climb 100m...
    clearly toned equilibrium bodies...
bouldering and baseball...
no squash...
     tennis is hardly an olympic
sport...
           it's a money sport...
it's a riviera elton john slim jr.
sort of sport...
football? it's a money sport...
rugby? it's a ******* sort of sport...
football is about as much
an olympic sport as...
a curse of a sneeze...
the only reason why brazil
staged the sporting affair was...
because they lost the world cup...
blah blah...

       squash should be an olympic
sport... why it isn't...
and forest ******* gump
can have his... ping(o)-pong(o)
   berlusconi parties: minus... tony blaire...
is all the reason to note...

hmm... blaire... white... that tehran
trans whizz kid...
   i see... no... no... absolutely...
not similarities... within the confines...
of... "a borrowed shadow" of...
   eva longoria...

i had the same plans for halloween...
the same plans for prague...
prague i can forgive myself...
mother has a hip-replacement...
and i'm all up-and-arms: ******...
like the good boy scout
buffalo billy-oh / geiny boy!

                to suffer from a lack of ****...
is not... to find jokes in language:
when one still has... itchy finger-tips...
"suffer"... and "lack of ****"...
best resolve... no clingy p.s.
             no... cuckoldry...
    the fabled ex-girlfriend of mine...
ex-....
   ****... how old am i? 34...
an ex- from... ah... ha ha... when i was 21...
prostitutes... a thai surprise...
and a black girl done at random
when i hosted my own birthday party...
with an art of an *** so tight...
i received a plum tattoo above...
where her coccyx decided to toy with
the... "art of mechnical reproduction"...

walter... "waterboy"... benjamin?
herowitz? i too had a really ****** surname...
like... ******... like stalin...
catholic ploy... take the best of the three given...
we also reserve an option of a fourth
when you... decide to... become...
confirmed... lucky for some atheists:
who have been... unlucky for me...

of the people that stayed...
    of the people that left...
             unlucky for me...
   those that left: didn't "leave"...
the australians...
            left and "left" and it's not like...
they came back speaking
total ******* cockney...

       it's not that i'm even confused...
"overwhelmed" with emotions...
that reveal themselves...
to have to be... perpetually... displaced...
post-modernist...
quack for doctor...
quasi for marxist astute!

                my ideal ex... rich girl...
one spare apartment in st. petersburg...
riches in novosibirsk...
      educated in england...
   look at me... i ****** a rich ****...
a prop'ah... rich ****...
a russian rich ****...
   not old english sloth dough...
not a reperations **** of worship
that choc-a-bloc-of-sowwy...
  a real... oyster binding with teeth
sort of libido... well! ha! lucky me!
for a ******! she's not a mongrel 2nd
class citizen of the turnip and tulip
and...
   beg R'ah-R'ah-Rhapso-silly-Pullin'-Tin!

you know... i can remember
the love at first sights in my life...
she... Ilona... i experienced in reverse...
two girls were trying to fry some
pancakes...
she hook and sinkered my iPod...
while i refined the idea of pancakes...
she looked like...
something the ugly duckling
would bully at... duck school...
filled her gob... smart...

        yeah yeah...
but i do remember all the times
i experienced love at  first sight...
and their names...
the best horror movie i would ever land
in being a critique for...

1. Milena...
                          2. Kot...
      i can't remember her name...
that's her surnane... she had...
                   two younger sisters... twins...
3. samantha... st. augustine's primary school...
4. janina (canon palmer... an ugly affair...
    i hoped i made reperations to...
joining art class and giving her a rose)
    5. gemma la porte...
  6. emma... a big... ******* sensation...
  7. let's just call her Sancha...
  irish girl... two years older than me...
still in highschool...
8. Isabella... the french psychology student...
and god begot: a loss of virginity...
   9. priya...
     who's the 6 / 7...
             the sister of my first girlfriend...
which would make... a 18 year old...
a pedohpile with a... 15? year old...
                      10. predates 4...
cameron diaz in the mask...
    11. is a cameflouge of Ilona...
my love at first sight in reverse...
if i stayed long enough...
i would have ***** myself to oogle
my eyes out and **** her like
some aria giovanni clone...
                big siberian nose...
her myopia and being plasyfully teasing
"short"...
yes yes... beside that... massive plum
bullseye...
        we must call that:
                wetted ****: seconds...
  
see... i have this cinema in my mind...
of first loves... loves at first sights...
more thirsts rather than thrills...
and... then i want to see Loon'don...
in zoological modus operandi...
i want to see...
    window-shopping for mannequins
of... sylvia plath borderline psychotic
shoelaces of soul...

         i want to shop for...
the agony confined to... raised eyebrows
and the confines of... all things made
easily extreme bound to ****** expression...
having to... self-lacerate...
before the pro-social cordial...
i want to see the future martians...
misantrophes... like-oid mois...

i can honestly be trusted with "love"...
call it the muse....
first sighting...
her moles her first trickled...
lob of the forgotten kiss...
the whirlwind thorough lintany...
her lapse in a guarantee of
ear lobes...
    like my... "shy"...
                  occipital lobe....
investigated by janina...
                                
                           that little light in a tunnel...
a summer in masovia... or mongolia...
or.. whatever is called...
crisp... and doughnut...
idaho... jeffrey: jeff'ohs "napoleon dynamite"...
    dahmer...
                                 mon'ghouls:
the goos of the freely rejected...
cousin Sib is no mal. and frying up
with word-blob Sah...
          -eria              contra...
bloat-zilla...                -ara...
                               death-stow genius no-no...
trans-nanny has an eastender melt-meow-down...
the opera goes: fly-be-fwee:
lucky luke and the fervour
of the force for a complete...
****-lawd comeback town: towwie...
gripping basics...
                       king jefffers...
and jaffa... and khalidha...
     and lay-tea-cia... milkin' dozens...
**** ****...
      ******* whapping 'inge...
                 cwy: rhapsody... remembers
to trill that Sysiphus... and -esque...
              
        ***** and blahs the world over
for...  solidarity of...
compensated vitriol...
       jeff is an ugly u(n)(c)kle...
jeff is a ****** loon:
serenity... theme park expactation
project: alpha 50.9...
     he's an an FM in frequence...
and best listened to:
when "reading was a thing":
typo... of digest...
a **** queen and ***** quag...

             calofornian subtitles...
ever since...
   ever since... a petty Hague and Hue...
european conquest of time...
and something akin to
h'america... and its louisiana purchase:
ratio no. 2!
fly-over **** Iowa...

  it's not like... croatia was...
the Balkans was such a small: and ditto:
afffair of... inbreeding folks...
lord: lowd and...
spandex 1980s Berlin to...
give revenue in all things
that catered in retaining...
a loathing of... pertained to...
CWISP...
                    trill the R who?
the french hark it...
the english... larp...
woebot... for every robot...
they... tarantulla tongue numb
that...

                 whyming...
RHYME-B'OH...
            ******* kings and queens...
it's the "united states":
having to annex the forntiers...
the annex
on conquistador...
velcommen mingling xo xo xo...

the "encrypted" sexuality
of a the concept of female hands...
misguided by the proportions...
best hid in a niqab...
but when exposed: pork meets...
buffalo-slingers...
no... arab / camel jockey hands...
are not beijing...
or ***... porcelein hands...
you could... **** a ******* camel neck...
and i am: the beck unfucked cockrel
you best wish: yawn-yacht...
you never never...
ever... called a forking...

   arab women have these fat
hands that black women...
would require... 12" of envy
a white anorexic would require of them...
to muster...
a blasphemy and... a kenyan litany...
some of that sort...
all i know...
jesus be all big with...
                   post-apocalyptic
protestantism in post-colonial...
"oops" of the 21st century...
          forgive i.e. tow what?

               how about...
i allow my grandfather a death
by demetia...
               and then i wait...
i wait for nothing...
or i wait for: "history"...
no... sooner i wait for...
the brothel... than this bollocking waste
of time of... frank zappa is...
burning up like...
            a heretic...
                    within...
a 1m sq. of a proximity to mecca!

how fortunate: the man with... none...
              how fortunate...
             the grievance of a man with so much...
to have to... find...
poker-dole... facing...
a man with the queen's penny...
i am a man worth of a queen's penny...
does that even become know...
respected...
for all the money grieved into
making up...
the honoruable citizens' tax invested:
"quest"...
i am... its last...
           radical... and...
                                     royalist...
i have to come...
with a parade of worded -ings
and thinning paroles!

                         this birth of a new:
a nation of fat-whips and bores!
              let me become inclined to leisure...
for the lost revelation of
a tenure of fiction!

what was "once" a female...
has "become" the homosexual...
what was "once"... the mother in law...
has now "become": the bridget...
and nuance shellshock...
               fraserburgh... kid-joy... ****...
an ode to: joe... the...
                       ben nevis and bon jovi
of... the... "nuanced"...
and...                 "pioneers":
all best reserved...
   for the alaskan and the louisina purchase...
and...
the lost told tide of...
the spaniards: arms...
goths... north africa...
reconquista...
conquistadors...
sooth talking some mayans
and aztecs into: "in-breeding"...
        miriad... moors...
gives us a tan... us... whitey loop holes...
  tanning with a mongrel
cocktail a mongol...
typo... tan ****-up tao...
tanning with tao...
tow tufu **** what?!
       beijing fwend a fwied deifying
pig loco?
vibes... first locomotive **** promo...
last fist comes first and thirst...
no... samuel beckett's sore...
so... sore n'oh m'aw...
   savvy... you... *******... gooseberry
savoured prim nancy?!

the greeks wrote their letters as nouns...
  the romans?
  they wrote them as syllables...
               the greeks intended their
phonetic units to be said...
          the romans, with their
                          tetragrammaton sieve
           catch, worth of h...
     to be sung...
                  the greeks ennobled
their letters to the status of nouns...
                   the romans?
                           pathetic blah blahs;
might as well have been reduced
                                 to onomatopoeias;
the romance, in the tongues spoken
by the italians, the french and spanish?
      a word not spoken,
         but a word to be sung!

SPEAK TO ME IN THE VOICES OF BIRDS

all the statues
start to talk
all at once

in the voices of various birds
I watch as their thoughts
take to the skies

now they fall silent
or speak only
in raindrops dripping from foliage

the rain puts
tears in their eyes
or gives the ends

of their
cracked noses
a snotty cold

a few heads
lie scattered
at their marbled feet

eyes closed
with lichen
lips sealed with green

they say nothing
only watch
the silence deepen

an earwig
crawls across
an eye

a passing guide
with a flock
of tourists

blah blah blahs
about the lives and lies
the statues once lived

and of the what
and who
they were

the statues
looked bored
having heard it all before

even in
Hungarian  
and Bulgarian

"Speak to me again...  
" I plead
"...in the language of birds!"

but all
their thoughts
have flown away

so how did you spend last night?
- oh, you know, i stayed up
listening to music
with interludes of foxes making
noises...
       then for uncontrolable reasons
i wanted to achieve
  a transcendence via
arriving on the, plethora...
- how did you do that?
- as someone who enjoys pain...
i started to punch myself
in the head,
i figured: the amitriptyline
and paracetamol combo with
a liter of whiskey sometimes doesn't
work...
- how was it?
- i woke up... and...
         ****... it all started to fit
into a tuxedo-tight...
          i just had to know
the methods employed by young
western females
when inflicting self-harm...
- so?
- now i know,
   i can almost understand
the relief of inflicting pain on yourself,
akin to the burden of giving
birth, albeit...
  i'm confused...
   why not champion for
cesarean birth, rather than abortion?
hell, look at me,
male, a ***** strapped to an ego
inside a toy-thing of body...
- feelings?
- oh sure, even now,
i sense gravity working on my heart...
something south of the collar bone,
that "something"
  that's either over-rated
or under-rated...

point being: i know why i will
never write anything beside
verse:
   my weakness being:
   dialogues...
       unbalanced libra...
one side always dominating
the other side...
   like there's no "hypothetical"
scenario of a real-life event
of me visiting a brothel...
as for punching myself
in the head...
yeah...
            for someone who
enjoys pain
   like some cameo role
in a rammstein music video
akin to mein teil
my usual, melancholic,
morbid "european" self...

              i should have been born
in a time when the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth partition
was happening,
seeing what's to be seen
of england...

          doing the bidding
of the crucifix,
age old superstitions...
but all this modern scientific
sensibility,
         the snarky comments...
too much effort...
i write better when i do something
wrong...
  me? i can't entertain the sort
of thoughts crafted by an Einstein...
but i do know,
that the letter H... is only a surd
in translated hindi...
e.g. dhal
   (but you forgot the macron, a,
given that...
   you extend the breath
to compose daal, i.e. dhāl) -

well someone has to be pedantic,
it's not like i came from
a breeding stock,
with a generation prior to me
was ******* illiterate...

               code, no can do...
figure out a blank space in front of me?
sure...

          u'słuchać
   (which could also be written
without the scalpel apostrophe...
i.e. attached to the u
via                     úsłuchać) -

namely? buckling down...
before the internet filter algorithms
("paradox": rhythm)
      get on my ***,
i'll be long gone...
      trying to code in a filter
that appreciates
                    diacritical markers...

no... emotions are not over-rated...
they are merely over-stated...
when the heart chokes
the mind to usher out a tongue...
and the heart does choke...
but...
                      whatever is to be made
of the plethora is the whole
point...
              like religion...
privately...
          until the heart becomes
akin to that bird in the oxygen experiment
1768 (joseph wright of derby’s),
    
and requires the devil
to employ the hands to do more than
merely scratch one's head...
  fiddle, scribble...
  double consonants...
for the bounce-effect in a word...
            or a hooded extract:
double vowel, macron,
an extension...

           but i didn't "discover" the english
language to be barren
without diacritical markers...
it was without diacritical markers
to begin with...

        i know, the shame,
but of all the languages i've heard
with this print: label Latin?
the pollacks have been the most
consistent
         in the play of rubric
of the syllables...
                  that clarity...
unfathomable within english,
or french...
              the french?
they write one thing, speak another...
that's why i didn't learn it,
it was enough for my custard
fest of using english...

         belittle...
         lite...
                    eh... that iota...
(looking up, no halo)
   does it really require an 'ed?
i'm repeating myself
but... ιota...
   there... no levitating...

                   i still believe in the plethora...
given there's no
worth for the current
                         plateau / zeitgeist...

get thrown into the deep-end
of the pool
   and learn to swim -

    the blah blahs will come
    any **** worth the parade,
i'll stick to the claustrophobia
of the heart giving me prompt,
than the "unaware" claustrophobia
of regurgitated opinion
of the mind's joke of a juggling act.

SPEAK TO ME IN THE VOICES OF BIRDS

All the statues
start to talk

all at once
in the voices of various birds.

I watch as their thoughts
take to the skies.

Now they fall silent
or speak only

in raindrops dripping
from foliage.

The rain puts
tears in their eyes

or gives the ends of their
cracked noses a snotty cold.

A few heads lie scattered
at their marbled feet.

Their eyes closed
with lichen.

Their lips sealed
with green.

They say nothing.
Only watch the silence deepen.

An earwig
crawls across an eye.

A passing guide
with a flock of tourists

blah blah blahs
about the lives and lies

the statues
once lived.

And of the what and who
they were.

The statues looked bored
having heard it all before.

Even in Hungarian  and
Bulgarian

"Speak to me again..." I plead
"...in the language of birds!"

But all their thoughts
have flown away.