sometimes a private message on the sly
outlasts a poem,
i'm no quack - my prescription list
if a bunch of theories,
i can't the Hippocratic oath even if i wanted to,
which also means a theory here,
or a theory there can't hurt -
it's levitating as a chanced choice of consideration,
in terms such stated, there are
the questions of consolidating the problem
socrates faced as to how confront a unity
of particulars and universals -
well, a mathematical impression
with the prime expression of division would be
a start, a comprehension of units
akin to millimetre, centimetre and mile
would be due a referencing to.

i hardly know what to call the cartesian
subsequence equation -
sartre tried to invert it -
let's say that thinking is an *essence
and being is existence -
drag in newton's causality and einstein's
lack of causality - i do believe
descartes is pivotal in terms of causality
and what existentialism suggested
via sarte: that existence precedes essence
or vice versa - causality i should think -
but if the itemisation of space
as divided enduring placebos of millimetre
and centimetre with each point
as the Freudian id to divide is loosely estimated -
i understand Sartre's argument when
being a revisionist via Descartes -
existence does indeed precede essence -
you learn from your mistakes -
first can existence example itself
before thought (essence) begins its learning process -
indeed it can't be otherwise, intuition
does exist to a cloning zenith reached by animals
who're only vociferous via the medium
of onomatopoeia - ferrous sounds -
but among men there are more enzyme-related
processes to create the Enlightenment from
the Renaissance - the latter an artistic progress
the former the scientific -
study chemistry or physics and philosophy becomes
a playground - biology for some reason
has too many octopus tentacles attached to
obvious things - mutations of Chernobyl to mind -
and history, **** sake's the stone age and the
17th century will deviate far between on the spectrum
of analysis - there is much more bureaucracy from
the 17th century than crude cave drawings from the stone
age - i'm hardly saying it's not plausible
but the time-scale leveraged with boiling a cup of tea
is the worst kinds of distraction - scout's honour,
cross my heart and count to 20 in under 10 seconds.
anyway, for the majority, people are hardly
innovators, a few can claim to be a pure res cogitans
(a thinking thing), since such a being would require
an id scale of division, not necessarily a scale of division
akin to the majority of people, with their
9 to 5 working days, monday through to sunday,
january through to december -
with the latter list of exemplification we're talking
about a res narro / a narrative thing - alt. include
res transloquor (a thing talking over -
a loss of etiquette when talking over older people)
etc. -
           since i find that thinking is primarily
about innovative feats - but most of the time what we
call thinking is actually narration -
a book never written, an idea never materialised -
and the existence of the Buddhist "mindfulness" /
simply not thinking, a full cartesian sum embodiment,
akin to driving a car, a bike, whatever you like.
or i could have written about the news review
articles from sunday: the boo! that's Broadmoor,
the lush living conditions in blocks 2 & 5
and the squalor in blocks 1 & 6...
names include the murderers:
jonathan lowe (aged 52) writing a letter about
the Ritz hotel like conditions in 1898,
croquet and cricket, tea weak beer and gambling,
tobacco luxury and servants via the lesser
fortunate inmates,
william chester minor's addition to the inaugural
edition of the oxford english dictionary (ex-military
surgeon he was),
chippendale bookcases, bathed once a week,
shaved three times a week,
(now you can understand my fascination with
Ezra Pound) - thomas harry a would be assassin
of the p.m. Gladstone of 1893 walking about
the asylum gardens mentioning Gladstone's
last plea with a smile akin to the eager buds of
may appealing to harry's sense of "remorse",
a dutchman who attacked his wife with a mallet
pleading to renter the lunatics' Ritz circa 1895 -
a jack the ripper suspect amongst them -
dr. richard brayn hardly ***** burroughs' dr. benway -
a madman had never so much luck under **** brayn -
but the less fortunate remarked:
'my name is T Perkins, i have been murdered here,
by those that know not what they do,
because they have ether in their heads!'
i'd guess ammonia to add to such a confession,
or skunk ***** to mind the least.
thomas cutbrush was the ripper suspect.
jimmy saville wetted his ***** in the female wards...
can't complain with ******* adolescent girls
why complain about ******* crazed chicks -
Michael Meyers in the room? i thought so,
democracy is the ideal export, people know
jack the ******* by compliments from the toilet's
perfumery as described: strawberry scented,
mm hmm - Kentucky tattooed on my left buttock's
cheek. but boo! a.k.a. Broadmoor is closing,
pristine lunatics on the street - mind you
in the news review they had an article about
seymour hersh - what he called
dum-dum and darth vader of the galactic empire
surround fashion trends of 9 / 11...
joy uu bushy and st. francis cheney -
prior to this poem looking at russian sables in
fur farms going berserker over the size of the cages,
a lynx rummaging in a theory of geometry
walking out lemniscate treading on its own faeces,
and i felt good for the jews
not wearing leather on Yom Kippur -
in their orthodox black attire walking into a
synagogue wearing trainers -
yep, lived next to a synagogue for several years,
a flat above an estate agents...
but of course weddings and mazel tov a rekindled
happy event!
scurrying like rats in an area not allowing pride -
apologies for the comparison,
but Gants Hill wasn't exactly Golders Green,
well the Hanukkha did stand proud at the roundabout,
but then the social project took over
and subsequent evictions proceeded -
Bangladesh came over - and half of Pakistan.

cheap write *******:

i almost wish i was bitter - but as i'm ageing -
it's not so much bitterness - a woman in her 60s
will say about her son:
well he's sorted his life out,
he's in his early 30s, has a job,
a wife, two children...

this man... has "sorted" his "life"...
more like when darwinism meets
existentialism -
hardly a sorted life -
a sorted life by ape standards -
not keikegaard's standards: if any...

it's not about bitterness -
but i would be more inclined to say:
early 30s, wife, kids... mortgage...
the rollercoaster is just about to start...
the kids: oh sure... cute...
until they start having a mind
of their own...
and... they will betray the senile
old fool that will come,
eventually...
and off to broadmoor with 'im!
life sorted... when the children could
almost be treated as pets...
fine! fine...

it's not out of bitterness -
i'm thinking... more on the lines:
i'm getting my years tally too...
i'm getting used to my own "solipsistic" routines...
it's not out of bitterness:
it's out of having my own routines:
my own idiosyncracies -
that i will take two ciders for a walk
(perhaps a dog would be better) -
and my shadow -
and take two home and drink them
with a tease of brandy -
and want to get to that sweet k.o. point
come 12am so i can,
wake up: frisky and fresh like a sparrow
full of song come 8am...
well... that's me...

i can imagine how symbiosis happens when
you shackle up with someone
in your early 20s...
forget doing it in your 30s...
my ship / my train has sailed... a long time ago...
i still can't find anyone i could
speak to about philosophy -
and to be frank? i hope i never will -
not now - when i wanted to talk about it:
no one -
now it doesn't matter -
because i don't want to talk about it...
i might slide in a sly ref. to something -
but... the aspirations for conversation
on these matters are... i would just tell someone
to buy a self-help book and kindly *******...

if women: hit the wall...
i've reached my impasse -
i have dug the trench long enough - deep enough -
i can proudly say it's a labyrinth -
and i'm happy in my labyrinth -
it's not much: but it's not a cage -
and this is not some bitter me:
woe me - blah blah -
i have routines - i like to sit an extra 10
minutes on the toilet - becauase -
i'm automating a massage of my prostate...
apparently... bid on this poker being true:
the fear of over-doing it and...
haemorrhoids... the same fear associated with
sitting on cold stones for too long
(ref. lethal weapon II - sam and martin riggs
sitting at the beach)...

but this is not what i was intending to write...
i've been trying to cut down on watching youtube...
i figured... what i should have been doing
was watching an english soap-opera -
akin to eastenders - religiously -
instead - i would have, at least: plenty more ref.
points...
but as for jokes... i make the odd "mistake"...

it's always like watching a paul joseph watson video...
i'm not a fan but i'm a fan of entertainment -
i must have a really low i.q. because
i find lee evans to be a rare genius of comedy...
old school funny - the body can become
a language for comedy -
you really don't need to over-talk the jokes -
after a while intelligent stand-up monologues just
bore me: humor of the monolingual crowd -
anagrams and... too many ciphers -
nothing wrong with your base crude of:
a ****** expression, the body itself -
the language can take a break -
but i must be really stupid for liking...
universal comedy... for me lee evans is a universal
comedian...

but this one video is likewise...
blackpill jesus - the inequality of the dating market:
it's over for many men...

and i'm like: those pro-life arguments are
just starting to kick in...
no... seriously... those pro-life arguments are
starting to kick in: right about now...
what arguments?
sometime in the distant future
an untouchable ** will come into contact
with an untouchable XY example -
long may they prosper -

but all of this is like... watching delayed...
abortions... walking abortions -
by: when darwinism met feminism:
and the two -isms lived happily ever after...
some people... really don't want to be told
they'll be walking abortions:
well: quasi-abortions... the living-dead:
by all standards of darwinian selection -
again... not bitter... routine baron -
but not in a culture:
we could talk about stendhal -
but we won't...
we could talk about bukowski: of all people!
but we won't...
we could talk kabbalah and gnosticism
and the nag hammadi library...
but we won't...
we could talk about music!
but we won't...
first sucker through the floral gates
of the ******: **** first in... head last out...
but at lucifer dived head-first from
a star...
by comparative images:
caesars were born via the caesarean section...
the rest of us...
let's just say: there's no more ***** envy
after a human head starts to:
appear from a place it never should have...

my 20s are a fog...
i might remember 4 odd *****...
one picked up from a club who decided to
take a taxi with me towing but
forgot she was riding with me
and did her usual: jump from a moving car
and not paying the fare...
which i later paid...
cocoon *** under the bedsheets and:
coffee in the morning with three homosexuals...

that south african: again cocoon *** under
the bedsheets - second time lucky for her...
but... is it technically "****"...
when she wants to ******* but is somehow
not aroused and she hasn't spoken to
any ******* about using some cream
and you little richard in that sort of purse...
sandpaper friction?

the black girl at my birthday party...
the right sort of cocktails...
the right sort of music: cedric 'im' brooks...
and then... proper coccyx ramming
that left me with a plum hue tattoo
in the eden of my ***** the next morning...
finally! a black girl with an *** that allowed
her to ram her coccyx into me...

i'll miss some... other... details from elsewhere...

but of course that thai surprise...
picked her in the park...
random as any lottery jackpot...
beers on the bench... more beers at the house...
some jazz... cigarettes in the garden...
later ****** in the shed...
walked the thai surprise home...
why thai surprise?
i wasn't sure... sports bra -
transgender "issues" were only starting
to come to the fore... "4 out of 10"...
tom boy haircut...
until the hand reached into the underwear
and i found oyster...
but prior to: thai surprise...

those ***** were free...
the brothel ***** are more vivid and... well...
there was always some kissing involved...
for some reason i can remember kissing prostitutes
more than ******* them...
with the "free women of the west":
it's more about... the sort of *** that is comparible
to... when foxes in essex come and mate at
night... you forget whether you kissed...
but oh sure... ******* sure did...

it's not sad it's... visceral...
work with enough raw meat in the kitchen -
curing it - slicing it -
rubbing it with marinade -
after a while you're no longer objectifying
anything: you're being subjected to it...

but i do wonder with regards to:
some people would like to know they're walking
abortions - the abortions pandering to the pro-life
argument... otherwise the pro-life argument is
a bit like: shackling - a safety-net guarantee -
or whatever: because what's the argument when...
there's the coming dissonance
of pairing?

perhaps i haven't said this more often than
i should...
of the books i've read... mostly french and german
and scandinavian existentialism -
with a tease of russian...
darwinism and existentialism can't sleep together...
that's what i originally thought...
how can existentialism reconcile itself
with darwinism: when it can't...
darwinism is existentialism for women...
the quantity: not the quality argument / line of reasoning...

i can't reconcile myself with darwinism -
a weakness or just:
there's just too much borrowed from a plethora
of animals -
so many studies concerning apes
and **** similis -
and even the mantis -
but... the noble swan and the phenomenon
of the widow and the widower swan...

days when you could just listen to
bloodhound gang's hooray for ******* and...
also find falco... you almost desire
to walk away from the sandpit where
the children listen to nothing but
philip glass and penderecki and speak
in sudoku language...
otherwise there's missing the middle ground
and reaching for the ***** and *****
of punk and... the scent of burning leather
wrapped in a ****** of stiched together
foreskins...

and i can't imagine... but i can...
cutting someone's eyelids...
and watching them... endure the subsequent
insomnia while having to plunge their
head into water ever 10 minutes...
******* is no help...
ear: eh... cartilege -
but the eyelids... we could be rid of those:
couldn't we?

because i know the potential sleeping in me...
i decided to arrive face first and meet "him"...
just so i don't miss the jinx:
i grab my ******* with one forcep of index
and thumb of the hand...
with the other forcep i pinch
the eyelid of my left eye -
funny... the skin feels... synonymous!

no, i can't reconcile darwinism with continental
existentialism:
as i can't reconcile the former idealism
of mine - not even after a ******* -
where's jack?! where's the jack in me?
but gym and squash and rock climbing later:
i was dating a crab and scraps were
the vulture's ambrosia -

what became of aphex twin? he slowed down
and that cul de sac became...
something known as burial - album untrue...
darwinism was always going to be impossible
to reconcile with: the role of humanity
beyond - it's almost easy to transcend the pure
animalistic comparison -
there's neither fire, nor the second fire:
electricirty in the nocturnal, feral heart of
the bottomless pit of anima -
currently: curated by over-stretched facts
and sleepwalking statistics...

bound to england for the past 26 years...
the closest i came was an: encounters of the third
kind with an australian oddity...
why would i date an english girl?
i thought they were into their pakistanis?
that's a question that's not a joke...
seek and you will find: mongolian-esque
rummaging...
the tartar "heretic" of crimea...

on repeat on repeat...
climbing over a fence from a darkened park...
came across a 15 year old running to and fro...
in the days when i still owned a phone...
tried to teach her how to roll a cigarette...
cleavage more visible than her neck...
reunited her with disgruntled friend
lying face down at a bus stop...
a black cat befriended me...
and this lass was running away from me
and toward me...
she texted about 20 people with my phone
before contacting her mum and dad...
and her cabbie dad later picked the two
of them up from a bus-stop at the tesco metro...
but of course prior to she had to take
a selfie of the three of us...

in the back of my head... the silent whisper
and the prosecutor simply whispered...
why not ask her to climb over the park fence
with you... and do the nightmarish deeds justice?

in england for the past 26 years: genesis aged 8...
and, well... "no luck"...
mongol attitude no likey-likey-lucky-or-lackey...
reciprocating "hubris"...
i guess i must be lucky...
come and go ******* like a nomad...
and: should i take myself more seriously...
invoke a talk about diacritical marks:
and those non-existent in the english language...
an octopus audience: the tenticles
do not count as 8 x 1...

20s... a complete blur...
and those vivid conversations in the brothel...
when i faked a death and managed to
get my overdraft limit increased...
and spent 4 hours in that ****-warehouse...
and was asked in the "interlude"...
wouldn't you want two at the same time?
i once heard:
the world is divided into men who have
slept with two women...
and those who haven't...

i gladly declined...
with two i'd need a room of mirrors...
hungry leech eyes need mirrors...
one simply can't have the 1st person shooter
experience anymore...
one would require as many mirrors when
*******... as a woman would require toys
to ******* with...
it might as well be called:
the mirror deity that spawned narcissus -
although - the more contorted
nightmare of narcissus -
the faces riddled with onomatopoeias
rather than words -
and faces that truly deserve to hide behind
a niqab...
or if the eyes become too fungus esque...
would require the samuel beckett's not i...
mouth like an intrusive phallus metaphor
of exposure...

in the past decade: well thank god
*** never became boring, routine...
it didn't require dressing up,
using third party limbs... and pieces...
*** was scarce - therefore *** was feral -
*** was never allowed a relationship -
*** never became familiar,
*** could never become mundane words
that would allow themselves
advice from some journo agony aunt column...
*** was a rarity -
and when it wasn't... kissing became more
important... and itchy fingers that
would read in braille the earth and its contorts
of a woman's body...
there was never a whip or a gulag
of infantile barbie imaginings to rule, either...

sometimes i would indefinitely try to catch
the certain days of winter when
spring blossoms prematured with buds...
if i was lucky... the magnolia bushes would also
blush...
and i would become a dog-***** of these perfumes...
walking for miles and miles per night...

the body takes care of itself:
trouble is... the mind doesn't...
better to allow it this sort of cameo cinema -
memory is the most ideal cameo cinema -
nothing i have mentioned is par excellance -
more... on par: per view...
if memory can't become a cinema...
what's left? nostalgia of 20th century cinema?
that can only live for so long...

as a "transgender" moment...
perhaps i can compete...
willingly ingest a tapeworm embryo...
keep it for 9 months...
then... ingest some praziquantel and ****
the little ****** out...
that's... the closest i'll ever come
to uniting myself with: the female ordeal
of giving birth: imagine...
the ego coupled the delusion the size
of the universe...
i really should start looking for a tapeworm
embryo... keeping it for 9 months...
and then... hey presto!
extra-protein pasta!

otherwise: oh sure... the would-be abortions...
only learn much later...
that they are... not the pro-life argument
they heard as embryos of foetuses...
they are... much to their amusement...
the walking-abortions they were to begin with...
while the pro-life arguments sort of...
die off... when... the fully grown...
self-aware specimen is given charge...
the pro-life argument dies...
the mortgage on a engagement ring...
the shackles...
it's only a pro-life argument...
until the incel mushroom pops up...
then it's no longer a pro-life argument...
ha... delayed abortion: slackers' argumentation...
yeah but no but, oh ****...

frankenstein! it talks! it breathes!
it's immune to all those philosophical cul de sacs
of arguments!
the slow death - the lack of gene motivation
tactic to: pass...
ha... to pass...
in the vicinity of the courageous virus...
shockwave reminders of: genesis vivo...

give me the fully formed xenomorph...
but a genesis vivo: akin to the film LIFE?
wouldn't you believe it?
form... a xenomorph has a concrete form -
a rigid square is...
well... it's not an imploded square -
a hyper-geometric revision...

modern anglo-speaking world and...
milan kundera's existentialism:
i will only kiss when i close my eyes -
but nonetheless -
i will open my eyes when kissing...
because i'm bluffing...
and gambling on... the hope that...
even the sofa "architecture" of a woman's
body reclining to entertain the 300 spartans...
eyes always open...
daggers for eyes...

upon the zenith close -
i imagined myself to be more...
buck-tooth antics -
trivia and encyclopedic knowledge -
pub quizes -
*** on wisteria lane -
no mongol horde ever passed the clefts
of pickets and homebugs...
and this... grand sanity project...
people never seem to go, truly mad,
from... gossip.... glibs...
or soap-opera immoralities: of flacid oopses...
perhaps it is true:
most people never go mad...
what horrible lives they must lead...

perhaps that is very true:
so true it deserves the bells of nortre dame
to echo...
inside a can kicked down a street...
kissing a ******* is not a basic immorality...
having toy soldiers and wars of lies -
and soap opera demagogic dramaturges?
wasting other peoples time with:
there's no crease in a sunrise -
when there are no clouds to stage the subtle
detail of diluted hues of seeing:
a giraffe's belly when it's lying on
the ground?

some people never go mad...
and they do require language to be as strict as:
what's precursor formal -
dear sir / madam...
and every time they try an informal: oops...
it's never on paper...
but always in a mouth that's exploring
the fermentation process of a glass of wine...
me?
gods' **** and gods' blood...
cider / beer with a tease mrs. cognac:
that's the elevated status of whiskey via: née:
ms. amber.

could i be a father and an alcoholic?
no... ever time i tried to exfoliate my own language,
my... idiosyncracy, my solipsism,
barriers and people reaching for...
prime navel and crimson as the standard
colour for lipstick...
one can only stomach so much...
before treating oneself to a hermit's adventure...
on the odd chance... giving coordinates
of the day-to-day...

i would have died a decade prior...
if i didn't find voyeurs to look at a language...
that cannot be spoken by someone alive:
among the living... to the future dead!
i was alive once, too! to the future dead!

You've got that far away look, they're giving you the liquid cosh and they're 'nutting you off' because you embarrass them, you're going to Broadmoor or maybe to Rampton and they'll put the clamps on to keep you inside, a drink of largactil, an antipsychotic, depressingly familiar and then it'll **** ya and the ****'s in the shuffle, the wasting of muscles, the brain cells that flake away in that far away look.

State sponsored death camps filled up with old tramps and those that don't fit,
a drink of largactil, just enough so it kills you, just enough 'til your eyes pop out of your head, but you're not really dead see, they'll not have a post mortem because that wouldn't suit them in Broadmoor or Rampton they just put the tramps on
a higher dosage.

Venice - California - **** me, i'm supposed to write what i can't write -
dog eat dog's equivalent of the offspring - cooler shaker -
i'm ******... i can't strip dance a sentence together -
**** me, the personal hatches to be held within - blues sways -
i can't write out the personal, it's too personal....
the sacredness of the moment as in:
cleaning the house, having conversation
with dad, the BBQ... mum's away tending to her mom -
insignificant parts - dog eat dog's one day -
cruising down with a Brooklyn groove -
you cool? i'm cool. you cool? n'ah man!
see you two Februaries later.
the **** comes later.... i write poetry, i have nothing to lose...
what i have to lose is the need for ink
and the celluloid ear to listen in on me -
if i hadn't i'd be writing the bestsellers for
insurance... i don't write bestsellers...
i write kites... i write what i write...
your capitalistic teams will hardly mind the craft...
poetry is otherwise known as
white boy's rap - less Korean gangsta style -
dog eats a dog to make a hotdog -
buns ahoy! too much personal **** man -
i cleaned the house today,
pretended to be a psychiatrist with my father -
this ain't no Hispanic gimmick -
i cleaned the house... ****'s too personal -
mind your tight Kenyan *** with that curl of lip
with the agony of pride with what a half-Kenyan president
would ignite - a Jew keeps a hammock
and a sense of investment - i know the personal -
bullock Pendulum smack via the potato sack -
prizes like at the Ferris Wheel - please spare me the
Israeli ******* with Arabs included -
please... please! you're no more part of Europe than
the Jihad coupe readied to make us
artistically bankrupt - Jew, you have your land!
tend to your ******* olives
                              and slouch on pitta bread!
let us be! don't keep inviting your repressive
justice agents into the enigma - we fostered Jesus
for 2,000 years! leave us be! take him back!
consolidate your confusion with an Egyptian Jew,
tend to the Egyptian library exposed -
we have no part in it... you make us take part
in it... we'll make Arabs into Nazis, if they
aren't already suggested.
you don't want what we will answer with when
Islam crosses the mark of consistent attack!
you don't want it! wear your kippah *******
symbolism when you either think or don't!
i don't like barbarians anyway,
the niqab shroud of cut-off ******* is enough
to match-up a ******* kippah as imitated
by the saint's bald-patch... leave! go home!
so why is it that home is so violent at your rekindled
reception? the Irish are clearly the first to ridicule,
but as James Joyce said: no Irishman will read me
prior to reading Yeats... the rhapsody of ridicule
will be worth a market stall of pears in
hope for aid to make anything less than poaching
them in pickled speech at stipend of acid talk...
too much personal speech... let's just say i
imitated my neighbour's dog bark by night...
while in daylight hours we talked about her job
and the closure of Broadmoor.

Long ago
Long before the dawn of his youth
Lived a boy, a young boy
A boy who had a dream
A childhood dream.
He would lay at the forest glade
And gaze, gaze in wonder
At the peculiar workings of the earth.
He would count all the birds of the sky
Wander into the dark forest deep
Stroll by the humming river
And paint with all the colors of the earth.
The night's inner glow,
The wild's cheerful tune;
All of earth's splashy marvel
Would prompt his thoughts
To travel the world
In search of a secret.
The blue waters of the Pacific seemed a decent start, he thought
Perhaps a swim in the depths of Waikiki Beach
Or a hike up Mt. Rainier
A stroll in the scenic wonderlands of Northern Idaho
Maybe a nice dinner in Broadmoor Hotel at Colorado Springs
Or build a cabin in Minnesota's lake country
A day picnic at Mt. Chocorua
A quick walk down Boston Common
Or a Tulip time at Bronx,
Drifted his mind.
Bend of Susquehanna, Cayuga Lake, Chesapeake Bay, Rehoboth Beach
Flashed upon his sight.
Then one day, not long ago
To his surprise
He found the secret
Veiled in one who owns his heart.

Nietzsche once said: poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them. i think he was wrong, maxims aren't exactly atoms of accuracy and unchanging ontology... i see poets as shameful with their experiences: they don't exploit, they simply exaggerate their experiences - the oldest truth out of Eden was a lie... what poet could possibly reinvent such parameters as necessarily truth-worthy upon revision? the fear of telling a lie encompasses maximums, or truths untested / undemanding... the oldest truth out of Eden was a lie... the youth of refreshed Eden-like hopes is the ageing original, neither truth, nor life - but simply the unattainable regurgitation once fabled by Roman enforced bulimia and the Welsh long-bowman V wedged into the throat like an oyster into the world.

what they sold the ultra-left fanatics
and kept at juggling pace stalling
worth's of economics comes to bite back...
in my family?
the only ones readied for a coffin
are my grandparents, my parents aren't secure,
i ain't one for prawn cocktail starters either  -
i won't repay my student loan...
because i won't be working McDonald's till
dusk asking myself: so what was the point
of educating myself? i guess working at
McDonald's was the answer already
waiting for me once graduation time came.
me? i'm analysing the fears of living
on the streets... but as one homeless man began...
you're a diamond in the rough...
i just gave him a cigarette and talked with him
in Turkish akimbo.
oh pooh you, papa won't pay! how *sad.
i hear you antagonising both left and right these
coming days.... of course the right you fear...
fear and shrivel and tremble and dust...
i came from a family of Communist party members...
you think the Vatican aid will suffice?!
i'm into the lessons of the founder -
i believe in forgiving your enemies,
but in a way that does not enact tribal satisfaction
of culprits kept in cages... i believe like yhwh believed
concerning Cane... roam free! lie forever more!
i don't believe forgiving a culprit once all the laws
were passed is worthwhile the message -
i don't believe in zoological jurisprudence -
i want the LIES... i want a person to exact their
role in society to a full potential... like the god
of the old testament i was the law of free-roam -
i want the lies to suffocate the culprit...
i can name him any day you like, but i like the odd tease
and fake of reprimand -
i want the culprit to roam free like Cain -
i want a zenith of lie to extend beyond a mere cage
and an environment of prison - i want the obsession
of the everyday life to encompass the term -
if forgiving is the lesson, then i will not want any laws
exacted - completely free, away from prison -
away from a similitude of criminality -
the "normal" person - oh sure, call me mad,
i faked madness a long time ago, so i could be granted
a quasi-diplomatic immunity -
Broadmoor Hospital is closing... care in the community...
oh wait... but you called me mad?
i sought my reason in Polish neurosurgeons and kept
them knit-picking lies and deceptions in a society
i once wished to integrate into, as prescribed
by my use of English; yet... left aside, i turned to Russia,
in the Axis tribunal i was least offended.
they can ridicule all they want... i know my weakness
when i see it, and subsequently utilise it in the staff gimmick.
their language undermines them - their language
undermines them... old Jack shredded the Union
in the 19th century... of course they're slow to pick up
the realities ahead - p.c.s.d. (post-colonial stress disorder)
mimicked in every soldier coming back from Afghanistan.

hiding behind images:
rather than standing before shadows...

perhaps it sounds better
in german, in german:
it (being german) is more...
informative...

or at least... that's how i see words
as...

example... DOG...
will i hide behind an image...
or will i... stand before the shadow?

as bad insurgent "translations" go...
this is where you find the "lost"
artefacts...
why would a ****** snuggle
up with some deutsche-spreschen
bollocking: to begin with?

we have settled our difference...
we have to have them...
wir haben zu haben: ihnen!

Plato... and iconoclasm...
christmas is over and i can,
finally! celebrate!
we do like in a democratic pseudo
state of affairs...
no man shall reign for more than
100 years...
even if he is god-bound....
but this little *******...
******* pivot,
it all begins with him and ends:
with him...

before all the greek demigods...
i will seek: being naive...
i will seek... keeping my mouth shut...
i will make minor details:
enlarged protest projects!
perhaps the german will
clarify...

verstecken (the past tense...
i never found it...
the paste of hiding...
to be couple with a present participle
of still... hiding)

verstecken hinter bilder...
lieber als stehen vor schatten!

die architektur aus wörter
(von Goethe... "von wörter"...
'goeRte')

nichts nein!

what is a melancholic arson?
the inflamed heart: its last willing rubric
genesis...
the mind is either automated cold
or stitching up cobweb matrixes of borrowed
time... but the heart...
oh a heart can become something more
than the bundle of clockword muscle...

i have tried to keep this mind
candle-lit and "curious"...
to keep it: intellectually focused...
to be prone of being starved: retaining
being a curious case of:
but i've found extinguishing points
of reference...
the only stupidity i found was...
it was going to be: oh so... predictable...

the modern tongue...
libra! meet the hydra...
i can either hide behind images...
and fuse them with words...
or i can... stand before these shadows...
these skeletons...
and properly disguise an "alternative
arithmetic"...

there's no point arguing over what is,
and what isn't "central europe"...
the masses have spoken...
we know what's fly-over territory when
it comes to h'america...
there's the east coast and the west...

but i will keep borrowing german
to... to the best of my abilities...
pretend to leisure myself in the comment
section, of the serious, sober,
liberal elites!
the true mind grifters and...
perhaps the odd chance of
a dutch puritanical rabbi...
to... "manage" an equilibrium...
to... not... rattle the boat...

common theme: i drink, i want to speak german,
i'm dead: i want to speak german...
i want to tell jokes in german...
-esque buzz lightyear in toy story 3 with
his... hispanic psychosis interlude...

i've experienced psychosis...
most... unsatisfying... i never managed
a complete disintegration of the self...
shame... i almost wish i did something...
that would have kept me in
Broadmoor for the past... 12 years...

i'm still "here"... but it's already apparent...
to have invested in german existentialism...
to have invested in... german idealism...
somewhat... and "then" / only now...
do you realise... you're not going to be part
of some ******* bookclub!

oх dye scheiße!
чoпперс chomp!
их... alternatively in eat... east germany...
isch... so?
ишь... alt. being? ихь...
variations go... where the caron... doesn't...

i will not solve you a crossword
puzzle in english...
i still have not opened a bottle
of jack daniels this very night...
and i'm already making a summary
as to: why i will not open
a bottle of jack daniels tonight...

i will... but i'll sniff the bottle-neck
as if it were a line of *******...
and the sober, sensible people,
can have their fill...
they can have their: formal...
promenade poetic excursions into the night...
and they can rhyme rhyme rhyme!
they can walk their ritual crescendo
of left right, left right...
which will never make them odd...
should Beijing stage an army parade
"impromptu"!

have them! have them all!
too bad for me... to bad for you:
to be of those people...
who read books...
that... makes it hard...
to find someone... who also read them...
and when you have...
done both...
you find out... oh, right...
those books were never supposed
to be talked about...
they were supposed to become
cognitive tattoos...
you were always supposed to...
"think" about them...
in "think" as in: not talk about them...

you would never be able to
mainstream them...
regurgitate them... fall flat on your ***...
donkey comparison...

Balaam's donkey...
Jesus' donkey...
i'll repeat this...
Balaam's donkey... Jesus' donkey...
and those four horsemen...
minus one donkey-jockey...
Balaam's donkey... Jesus' donkey...
if only someone told either of them...
about...

one of the donkeys knew...
as my cat knew when... clear as day...
i remember him utter the word:

яабэł...

he had two names: oscar darshan...
i'm way past being crazy...
being crazy these days is:
being known for making yourself
be accustomed to rules and laws...
outside of the rules and laws
that make stealing a criminal act...

otherwise: christmas is over...
now i get to celebrate the every day...
i'm done with this:
worshipping a baby...
on a day... when... Herod did a
Pharaoinic imitation...
major, or minor improvements?
beside the point...
only he exists... the rest of us...
perhaps some... porridge... will suffice?

oh thank god the c.c.t.v. cameras weren't there...
and the sceptical community...
i wouldn't mind some cynics...
but so the story goes...

because why would i want to...
"persuade" anyone toward, anything?
less of me, less of me on instagram...
ensuring i post the perfect
hot-dog sublime piece of legs
before the altar of a swimming pool...
or whatever chlorine cocktail...
with a "missing link" sombrero for
a stump of wood...
excavated from a sacred forest of Lithuania...
or some other variant bollocking...

christmas is over...
i can forget about being secular and sensible
over these past three days...
so i can return to my cognitive religioisity
in the outcast domain of mingling
gnosticism with qabbalah...
and... i can due those said prayers
in silence with my thought...
the ought-i-ought-i-not:
in that sigma-***-theta morph prefix
exemplification... of translation...

dry-humorless: pedantic...
that's me...
because i can finally! finally! breathe!
i can enjoy winter without these
******* fancy-lights!
i can enjoy x-ray vision of skeleton trees...
balding fully...
i can enjoy winter... after all...
winter can only be settled into an armchair
of comfort... when christmas resigns from
being a calendar event...

i can enjoy winter now...
ich dürfen zu genießen winter, jetzt!
ich, auch, dürfen zu genießen:
bekommen betrunken,
bekommen betrunken genug:
zu necken deutsche-tippfehler-quack-sprechen...
etc.

christmas is only christmas come
the 27th of december...
now i can celebrate...
now i can ******* peacock strut me way
(my my my)... into
the never available "oblivion"...
as you do... you really need procreation...
you need children to appreciate christmas...
otherwise you're ******* stuck...
with a delay button...
waiting for Easter...
the big boy celebration of christianity...

christmas and... the siege of Gaza...
what's the common thread?
human shields... children being:
human shields... excuses excuses ad nauseam...
it's because of the children that we justify
christmas...
i have none so... i don't justify it...
i'll usher in some herr bernstein
in the form of monsieur gauner...
or some... all brothels have a stench of
bourbon about them...
alle bordelle gestank von bourbon!
alle!

and what "good" isn't coincidental
with the advent of spring?
ah... the resurrection "part"...
flight to egypt... josephus ben mathias...
1945... the nag hammadi library...
and... plenty of greco-hebrew politico
propaganda hybrids along the way...

i can hide behind an image
that a word designates...
but... i can also... stand before...
the shadow that the word impregnates...
it just so happens to... rhyme;
bluntly.

and the next best bit of rhode island
'ebrew says while also dancing the
sinking-boat dance:
joe-joe-or-e'bootleg:
downer... **** 'em owners of:
da stream...
row row moscow f.c.?
united arab emirates...
washington d.c. valkyries pepe please go-go?!
come on! sink a boat, once twice
but thrice the proper...
as says it: i's is alright: says
poor charlie bronson...
az iz?! aye?!
yez aye or, az is nye!
az iz: that wilderness pocket
woo knife... az iz? eh?
proper plumber plonking az woz, eh?
the gayz woz all that came for
the woz the wortz of...
zee show 'n' tell and blitz me darlin'
oh lo' and hopes us:
up...
call 'em sweet soup tease 16...
a pederast's noit-mare...
or... 16: a casual mrs...
a john sweet magna carta 14...
or some ugly bit to minor the mind...

the defendant's plea? guilty: as R E...
charged... you plea a letter dear...
it has the sound of...
a ******* Symphony!
a beethoven's "5th"!
sounds... subliminal!
almost ****-khan and citizen Patel esque
pwetty: priti... god forgive me
the muse of Priya!
you miser?
i ask: you miser via...
d'you ******* mind being
excavated as: knot wit 'ere no shire near, 'ere?!

now i know why i shouldn't
have ever written poetry: "to begin" with...
i started with Bukowski...
forgive and forget somehow,
what?

i welcome: Broadmoor's...
"humble" beginnings...
i can almost see it...
as an antithesis of being "unemployed"...
imagine the good that could
benefit a "society"
being... the oscar winning role...
blah... or model...
for... the cantonese catatonic...
the sane "contra" the "insane"...
and how many "fakers" would...
give these... respectable...
law abiding... residents of society...
their humble pork-pie and crumble...
their insane... law-figurative...
misfit... says who?

what prison: if no current prison that abides
by the currency of the crown;
that's... leisure...
of the commonly held accounts of:
society - Thailand...
society - England...
transparency of whishy-washy...
and yet...
i am...           warden... scoop...
the scuttling fisher-bone and the lesser
i.q. of a sparrow that...
will always come around as...
the spider-jingles of weaving a web...
and...
and i don't like being
treated as an predictable...
by people less intelligent than me...

sorry.

it's like... a rash... an eczema...
the more stupid people i encounter...
the more chances of an eczema appearing
on my body... in dalmation patches...
hightens...
sorry...
that's when i comatose...
what, the, ****, is, there, to, talk, about?!

some weekend whoops and ****?
the usual weekend stipend of confiscated affairs?
lucky for me...
published outside of broadmoor...
lucky for me to still have a mother,
a father...
i almost don't know what would be of me...
had i not read any harry potter...
and... allowed myself to not be...
outside the general confines of an autobiography...
with a father and mother: "prescribed"
as dead...
what's that? girl interrupted?!
or a michael myers sing-along crescendo?

love be true in a single sentence...
i'd sooner **** a man
than hurt an animal....
i'd rather pet a cat... or a dog...
than father a child.

i should really stop watching these
youtube videos,
hearing people talking is
becoming... drag...

        esp. when drinking...
just put the music back on:
buddy body...
                  said the parasitic ego...
i can only entertain
about two new opinions,
per day...
      with you congesting
me with all this blah blah...
            don't get me wrong:
i do enjoy it...
        he enjoys it! "we're" fine...

just gender neutrality...
of pronouns?
             - he said there's more!
- and there is...
        how, certain languages...
can't escape the genderism
of their nouns...
     fwench...
         for one...

what about when you
become: pronoun disorientated,
i.e.
    you begin addressing
yourself via the plural
fabric,
   and in a doom-esque
style first shooter...
  you have to look back through
your eyes...
and breathe out a...
    'huh?!'

who wouldn't be perplexed...
       more music, less talking
videos...
**** me, you know the radio
station that plays decent
pop music,
and doesn't succumb to
advert interludes from
             circa 11pm to circa
6am...
            FAMA radio...
   https://radiofama.com.pl/

               yeah i know it's not
Wagner...
   but i like the fact that
adverts die after a certain hour
of the day,
and people are trying to
fall to sleep...
       esp. if they're not being
knocked out
  by a bottle of whiskey...

funny story...
i was once in a Liverpool st.
a black cud (cuddly thing,
a bit on the, lardish side)
stood next to me
with a white girlfriend...
   - see, she giggled,
i think she was... "in, on the joke"...
so i asked him...
- what are you drinking?
- *** & coke...
- oh, that's a ****** name for a drink,
i don't want the run-down
of the recipe,
i want the meal...
so what are you drinking?
- a *** & coke...
i had to eye him up and down,
down and up...
   fair enough, buckeroo...
- blackbeard!
the girl laughed...
      me, the interracial couple,
and some mongrel
with a proud irish in him,
and some pakistani...
standing side by side...
for a while...
oh god,
the pain, the embarrassment,
of having to explain to a stranger
that you have just been
strapped to: being stood-up
for a date...
             hey...
every time i flick my hand...
my shadow "friend"
i can't shake off...
     i didn't ask for a scribe
to dictate to a god my every
c.c.t.v. movement...
        hell...
         just have to roll with it...
but there was a giggle,
and yeah, he did don a beard...
what else would you call
a *** & coke... if not blackbeard?
a black isn't exactly black
when he's not coal...
but chocolate!
         the **** was he drinking?
a jack sparrow?
   to be honest,
that does sound better...
many people these days...
are not exactly concerned
with furthering the memory
of eddie "the patch" thatch...
- o.k., just give me the pagan music
from scandinavia and
some byzantine monk chants...
   i'll figure out some Mahler
when i'm in need of thinking -

it almost felt like standing
in Trafalgar Sq.
among all the throng
of the pigeon collective,
just prior to them taking
off by a slithering snap & bite
of telepathic panic
being induced on them...
      
    yes, because:
what did it feel like
is, probably twice as important
to reason...
given the casual expression...
what did i think about?
**** me...
i didn't think to begin with...
here's my cognitive luggage...
thinking always comes
after...
and, unlike feeling...
is never measured
     interim...

       measured feeling...
which of course, being measured...
allows for a post-scriptum
of thought...
delay...
                   pieces of a puzzle
that do not fit
for a personal gain...
since the puzzle / labyrinth is
already prosecuting you with
an a.i. semblance
       alternative -
the womb of all things abstract...
that... automated birth
from the womb of per se...
wriggle there, little sprout
of ego, *****-esque...
  into either that bright light...
or the yawning darkness...

no... feeling is not so bad,
but a tongue attired
in a stiff tuxedo will do you
one better...
   sure...

hey! oi! penta mann!
well, i can give you a sketch
of contradictions...
i'm about to live in a country
that freely accepts
Daesh refugees...
oh, just some stupid teenager...
but you know...
        there's no tongue-in-cheek
with this...
   prejudice contra:
and this is not about being
right or wrong,
rather: i told you so mentality...

so... when will the inmates
of Broadmoor
have their spring holiday?

the western five pillars...
let's see if i get this right...
  what once was shahadah
is now...         jahudah...
   funny, if any, translation...
       it's not exactly disbelief...
more...
          atoms are our tools,
and...
something or other...

   salat (prayer) becomes
hadith (freedom of speech)...

no good translation
when you need one...
so the idea...
oh... not gluttony...

that would be too obvious...
fast...
        siam...
                           hamia...
but this is...
   in the western world?
an obsession...
they figured:
pretense for Lent...
one month of obligation
ought to do it...
but... each and every day?
for...
nibbling on an iconoclasm?

zakat...
            if not
gambling...
then certainly being
duped
     into giving to
charity organisations...
who... of the 3 quid
you donated...
send 2.50 to the offices
of the charity,
and 50 pence to
the people in need...
      
hajj...
sure... your pick...
thailand...
  south america...
there's a "you" than needs
to find you
somewhere,
that isn't hier...
but... "da"...
             a there
that has to be a certainty
             of somewhere...

see... it's almost tempting
to aim for shooting
an own goal via a headder
from a corner set-piece
into my own net...

            but me...
i'm somewhere between...
the existential crisis of...

satan contemplates a serpent
by gustav doré...
and...
   ruins (inner voices)
by james tissot..

            sure as hell...
          no brick in ruin
without a structure...
    someone about... how they
are stacked up...
are always identical...
but among the rubble...
          great... so satan begins
with the contemplation
of a serpent...
  me? ******* grand chav
of the universe?
     - and god said:
   'ere, start with a brick...
mr. ******* lego magic...
      throw a ******* dog's bone!

see if you can spot
the similarity
that binds these twins together...

  gustave doré's
the judgement of solomon...
and antonio ciseri's
           ecce ****...
no... no glaring similarity?
   so... solomon was right...
in giving the baby up
to the woman who had no measure
of her emotions
(stand to the left
in doré's interpretation,
while standing to the right
in ciseri's interpretation)?
    the heart of truth...
is the basis for being allowed
to throw a stone,
rather than climb a mountain...
or some wacko-saying
out-"there"...
  "there" also implying:
"out"? "out" of "what"
and what "in" to begin with?

given the current...
   Moloch tribunal / freedomi
base...
   given...
       a whole plethora of
examples...
        the way solomon is cast...
for the better judge...
the crowd moved pilate...
while his wife kept
it a secret
     that he judged wrongly...

doré:ciseri ratio of comparison...
and you'd think...
but it's not like i'm
attacking the psalm singer,
king david...
          it's solomon...
               he's no more sacred
than a h.i.v. infection...
looking at these two paintings...
i think he was wrong
in giving up the child
to the hysterical woman...
because there's always
than silent audacity,
invested in,
   of proving the king wrong...

only a silent heart doesn't
lie...
      there's just too much stoicism
in the woman's reply
regarding solomon's judgement...
akin to the wife of pontius
pilate...
succumbing to feeding
the amassed throng...

but this does't change
one iota of me
concerning my problem with
christianity,
given the emergence
of the nag hammadi
library...
       i can't just...
incorporate those writings
   as: level playing field
with the strictness of the unwavering
stance of dogma...

     i'm still having...
one hell of a time...
          trying to not be bothered
by the coincidence of
the writings of
josephus ben matthias...
the flight to egypt...
where the nag hammadi
library was discovered...
nero...
         the book of revelation
(which... i think was the first
book written
in the new testament...
no...
        no one has that sort
of coherency...
  listen...
    i don't even know the name
of my grandmother
on my paternal side!
    yeah...
at least the old testament begins
like a poem...
not a ******* phonebook
into the past!
   me? when Greek sentiments
alligned
themselves with the sentiments
of the Hebrews,
to topple the Romans...
who...
       first encountered
the northerners)...
   and guess what...
i'm rather fond of digging this
trench of...
whatever it is worth...
belief, disbelief...
      you name it...
better that, than converting to islam.

.               ha ha... one word...
wpajać...
a word that implies
indocrination...
   ****...
who am i to
govern a labour
of loan words...
     pajac: clown...
acute c: short
and sweet,
no need to extend the matter
into a caron of
an "added"
                hidden H or Z...
naše kamienice,
  waše ulice...
(our tenements,
your streets)
the slogan,
before the jews were
robbed
prior to the
            holocaust...
world war II:
apparently,
the only people that
suffered, were, the jews...
let's just roll the time back,
and allow the right sort
of collatarel
to reply,
       to revert back...
wait,
   wait,
         just wait a little...
currently? i wondered...
when poland played austria
was i watching a home game
or an away game?
was it a warsaw crowd,
or a vienna crowd?
       sowiecki gałgan
(soviet idiot) -
sorry "lads",
this is were i turn all
deadpool om du...
                  i lost a limb
and a woman, to either some
arab sheikh, or some
h'american oligarch...
                      take you pick...
then again:
i was never going to be
made limbo with **** propaganda...
  oops or oh?
big ******* difference...
like: oh is more of a surprise
surrounding a mistake...
oops? more intentional...
last time i heard...
it was infantile
of me to read a bit of
sienkiewič...
    by the fire & the sword...
like...
i was reading something
akin to a harlequinn
novel and ****...
       history,
made into a novel...
next thing i know,
reading the current journalistic
diarrhoea...
   listening to the death of the winged
hussars by
krzesimir dębski
i'm pedro retardo the third...
because i have an elephant's
capacity to sort and assort
the faculty of memory...
  good for me, great for jazz...
i'm not part of the :western leftist"
amnesia get-together...
i have, a, past,
acquiring the english zunge
doesn't change anything...
if there's anything that it does
change...
    i'm hardly going to be part of it...

i'm awake,
it's currently 20 minutes to 3am,
some of the birds associated
with the english summer have
migrated back,
and they're squirting out
mating calls...
             i was given one opportunity
to have a freesome,
i declined...
i figured...
3 prostitutes...
   5 hours...
   **** it...
faking a death of a loved one
on my, then,
student loan bank
account overdraft limit...
   eh...
               i just started to think
about Broadmoor...
how, i'd figure out being
an artist,
  and sit out...
an ontological / zoological
upkeep,
sedated... yet somehow with
enough greens peas to
write something fathomable...
and... it would all end,
in 1930s Disneyland...

          where l.s.d. was off-limits,
and you could *******
an ego into the vacous entity
of **** of thought...
by simply watching the *******
cartoons! in black & white!

before ******-doo!
and the marvel universe...
before ******* batman,
and all that:
superhero but not superpowers
schtick!            ****!
like i wanna be faking it,
but then matthew mcconaughey
is 5'6" on the oscar altar
of public ****-talking,
and i'm watching him in
all these rom-coms and he's like:
giant me *****!
12" **** to boot!
  watch me oil up an alpha seal
before clapping its way into
a harem!
what's the difference
between a ****** and a dwarf?
don't know...
  but his middle name is,
and his full looks like:
middgy
  'matthew mcconaughey' darf...

i didn't plagiariße...
i just borrowed...
****...
from...
   shoe00head
mingling with darth-drool...
and the whole:
now that my dad's dead:
i get to milk the cow
sort of...
    "reiterating" the nostalgia.

people wanted funny!
until the jokes had to become
so complex,
as to compete with
20th century fwench absurd
literature...
and something resembling
german philosophy,
of the 20th century...
   **** me, strap-on with Locke...
you'll go far...
as far as 2001...
years later?
don't ask me...
i said very little,
                      and just watched.

LOSER BLOCK...
so i did two things my mother asked
me...
  filled out her disability application form...
cysts on her spine,
arthritis,
       injections into her spine and wrist,
hi replacement...
no, no chernobyll never happened...
walking with a cane,
aged in her early 50s...
  wrote a lovely rubric...
dug a hole,
planted a xeres cherry tree in the garden....
and then... relaxed...
        started to spot worthwhile
pedantic observations in a language:
which i "somehow" don't own,
or have claim to (by french psychology
third year student exchange programmes),
since i'm not native...
and drank... oh ****...
drank enough ms amber
to put a ******* rhino to sleep...
and?
              listened to some movie
soundtracks, avoided jazz
and punk...
              i never allowed myself
to brag about ***,
i had a chance for a *******...
declined...
     n'ah...
                 i had enough brains
to only bellow in a clarity of a transaction...
if i didn't pay for ***,
as a man,
i'd be paying for someone else...
i already know how unprotected ***
looks like...
oddly enough...
my my... aren't the prostitutes
overtly sensitive when it comes
to labouring under a scrutiny of
responsibility?
      ******* + a ******...
  that's why i don't understand the motives
of Jackie the serial Reply Guy
manifesto...
           an hour...
that's all it takes...
  but being tangled,
     faked,
    being dragged into nuance...
just schlichtlügen?
       you know... i'd rather chew on a *******
bay leaf...
   in all honesty...
i like playing responsible,
when i'm expected to play responsible...
i'll pay an extra 10 quid
on the 10 quid entry fee,
and the 110 quid per hour
if i'm going to proove
that h.i.v. is not transmitted
******...
no, not her playing cotton-candy...
me eating the oyster...
     that's ******* hilarious...
i had to visit a *******...
to clear my conscience
of, having, once upon a time,
a relationship,
that lasted roughly 6 months...
with a russian, western,
free woman of the world...
i actually had to visit a *******
to clear my conscience...
and then say:
whatever the **** i liked!
amazing...
           and then i cut off
any unfathomable desire to persist
my allowance of "using" prostitutes
to clear my conscience...
akin to the last time,
i "blamed" myself for not trimming
my *****...
which i made into an excuse for
her not touching my genitals,
which i later translated as
succumbing to merely kissing her...
with that sort of mouth,
that i kissed...
i probably ****** off a hundred
*****...
   and felt: m'eh about it...
but getting those words out of her
mouth,
was, by far, anything that
a faked onomatopoeia of "marriage"
would ever allow...
oh the german are ****** with us...
we still own Marienburg...

last time i heard:
before having a historically minded
memory hole was
deemed "infantile"
by the neu-communists in western
europe...
that, citadel?
   it wasn't constructed from red bricks...
ghostly grey / white bricks...
what?
        Marienburg...
now... the suspect opinion...
is the expansion of Islam akin
to the black plague...
resembled akin...
for the sole reason that...
us, Polacks,
experienced the same fate of
the "arabs"...
how we entertained the flow
of the crusades?

  wow! revelation!
discovering h'america in a can of
sardines!
or Einstien: in an acronym...
akin to mine...
M(atthew) C(onrad)...
   eh... like i'd tell you anything more
beyond the first letter of
my surname E(
              **** it)
                                     (schlert)

then again...
   why do people dox?
       99% of such interactions
ever end with said people,
sharing a meal,
or a drink,
or hand-jobs while taking
a shower together...
so...
                 i'll still leave this canvas
with an unrepentant fetish
for the german language...
english? complete...
now i have to further my interests
into the buffer-zone
of origins.

i, believe, once had the sole
ambitions of either becoming
a bus driver:
never learned to drive a car,
but ride a horse?
sign me up...
   squeeze the flank
with the right heel,
tug the bit (that piece
of equipment,
in between the proper
tooth alligned missing chew;
with the bit...
horses are always make
a placebo to imitate chewing)
left...
              heels pressing on
the right side of the horse's canvas
of torso...
the hands gravitating toward
the left with the head...
the horse moves left....
  i can ride a horse...
god help me should i ever
drive a car...
what thrill is there behind
speeding in a car
or on a motorbike,
dislocated soul missing
the prancing horse?
i guess driving a car,
is about as pointless
as attaching a leash
to a cat, thinking it's a horse,
or a string to a butterfly,
thinking it's a ******* kite!
all i ever wanted was
to occupy a music shop...
you know what
system of a down did
that all the punk bands of the mainstream
missed?
   reducing the attention span
of the listener
to under 3 minutes;
genius.
      my ambition to become a bus-driver
came with,
bus route no. 5...
                   and that's where it
ended...
since i vaguely remember
every taxi journey i ever took...
not like bus no. 86 from romford
to stratford, dropping me off
to school...
    very important people in
"our" midst...
          tall *******,
dwarf mothertfuckers,
rabbits, hybrids,
      schizoid outliers...
just your usual tabloid press...
you really have to be a *******
****, to ******* a paraoid schizophrenic...
akin to?
   imagine:
left in limbo,
of being forever: suspect...
on a minority report
      potentiality list of:
             dormant tragedy...

"voices", what "voices"?
         permanent suspect...
   that substance called the ease
of thought, with which
one has the ease to think?
it sometimes
               can become akin to...
less a bullet,
        and more shrapnel...
who the **** is appeasing who...
first they tell me
   they kept the prisons,
then they told me
they got rid of the asylums...
         and...
the orthodox chronic madmen
are readily running free,
ensuring mild psychiastric conditions
are being exfoliated out
of proportion?
  now, go back,
and tell the mild symptom
sufferers that there's a hierarchy
of madness...
   psychotic pharaoh sits on the top...

but i acknowledge, in the least,
that there's a gradation
of the experience of thought,
the placebo solipsist: normal...
   am i a tailor,
or am i a ******* butcher?
take your pick within the confines
of tabloid press lack of
verbiosity, eloquence,
or the general standard of etiquette,
confined to a standard aesthetic...

     did they **** the prize
bull ed gein... or did they keep him
alive for the better part of 20 years,
extracting cultural inspiration
from him? nay, 40 years later
by my best estimate!

to have to pander to the "natural"
sequence of events...
abnormalities of youth...
so there are no outliers...
or the outliers need to be shamed...
tabloid bullied...
until... another takes to
extreme measures...
but the retards can ******* in
public, because mommy & daddy
decided to have an "accident"
child in their mid-years,
only to increase their income
with the ****** chequers...

         pass me the blunt knife,
i feel like scratching my face...
it's just... just so plain ******* itchy!

so i'd say: wanna play with
the big boys?
the medium of thought...
and the medium...
where there's both
the disinhibited will,
and the shrapnel of will...
what no one would dare
call remnants of identity,
rather: remnants of the "ego"...

      i'm already strapped
to a tabloid assortment of tabloid spew,
the perfect suspect...
   seemingly:
only english schizoids are
tender, loving, creatures!
   the rest of us...
are...
  forever, suspect.
      no crime was committed...
unless...
******* in an alley on a friday
night, when all the brits get wasted
in essex is worth being handcuffed
and scream at by some boppy...

                                 well...
knife crime...
m'eh...
          do i have a face
of a person, that does,
                     or should, give, a ****?

see... madness is in no way
related to i.q.,
   stupid people go mad,
smart people go mad,
what matters is,
how you tap into the madness,
and what's left
to relieve you from
ever having to perform
a disinhibited act of
spontaneity, akin to homocide...

sane people perform more
grevious acts than madmen...
given that they perform them
with: premeditation...
with no: outside-inner
3rd party influence of, "voices"
to excuse themselves with...

   no, i will not be prevented from
being fascinated by
schizophrenics...
      fat chance of that happening...
i'd love to spend
a summer at the broadmoor hospital;
for once,
i might have a chance to
meet some interesting people...

conscience:
be careful what you wish for...

what? that and reading
sh'ight akin to the tabloid daily mail...
and no the sunday times?

why wouldn't i be fascinated
by schizophrenics?
when i'm entrenched bilingual?
i thought we were exchanging
ideas in the same currency
of metaphors?

       what's the difference
between being ridiculed...
                      and being patronißed?
- the entire basis for man
exacting law,
   was founded upon
extracting vectors of judgment,
                     via a thesaurus...
synonyms to some,
antonyms to others...
                 pedantic quests for
                          others...
             depends what you might
need a blunt knife for,
depends what you might need
a sharp knife for...
   and there's a difference...
     last time i heard...
a jihadi john wasn't using a sharp
knife to behead someone,
never mind using an axe...
he needed a blunt knife...
something akin to:
spreading butter on a warm
                                   slice of toast...

one might suspect...
what cancer?
   ever looked at a tree riddled
                      with mistletoe?
"voices"...
what an obscure term...
to deem ego-shrapnel
        a foreign entity of sorts...
in the multiple-form
of the varying symptom...

        again: even if you manage
to control this symptom...
forget it...
you're forever suspect,
    riddled by a minority report...
of the 0.1%
of the population...
the rest?
  too busy to walk into
a nightmare,
let alone dream out a counter-,
an inhibition,
a waiting game...
with enough time...
to watch the day-to-day
          modern suburban gothica.
          
i only had two dream jobs...
either a bus-driver...
or...
     someone working in
a music shop...
   like: good ******* luck...
if either of these will ever
come into fruition;
more like:
supermarket
shelf-stacker...
   but not... a tabloid-press
columnist...
                                    phew!

imagine any Chopin...
well Chopin might just have stopped
the impromptu barrage
of jazz...
bill evans - portrait in jazz (1960 Album)...
but a Satie?
but a Debussy?
oh, mein, gott!

john debney: the aramaic
and the music brings me to tears...
i know i know it's a mel gibson
fetish fest...

it's either bill evans or it's
sonny clark...
and there are those
who: putting it lightly...
have some gravestone grief
over what michael
hutchence did on
the loose abstract of the noose...

not my "thing"...
at least jazz allows
the soloist pianist...
the crescendo...
the bass player
the sax sexed-up whizz...
no alto please no alto:
trumpet!
and we're all right in bingo...
rolling besides there's
this grand spectacle known
as the Niagara...
and it's neither Niger nor Nigeria
nor Bulgaria nor:
oh... right you are sir...
******... we will need
this excess on the rubber-ball
bounce severely excused via
Broadmoor "ltd. esp. if your name
is not peaches,
or jackie o lem(m)on"...

mr. bananNa to you:
heathen disbeliever!
the joke reaches its conclusion
when all the people laughing at it...
are somehow: dead...

it was such a dandy place to hive...
abrupt when the bass...
did its solo:
and it was this higher tier
of the plucked cello...
this rembrandt of the 20th century
moving some distance:
toward a "forward"...

this would most certainly require
the most bleak defence for all
this creative bulldozer...
an auschwitz to be certain...
some germno-esque
and a Vienna limitation...
a mongolian gold-hoarding...
the mongols that remained
in europe... and called themselves
tartars, and this the neu-crimea...
and this lesser love circumstance
of the London dating scene...

my always reserved
and my always "missing" / otherwise
sub-plot jazzy London of
an elsewhere...
bill evans handshakes a cousin IT
of a chopin and the world is allowed
to spiral out of control...

jazz on piano and rain is cascade...
what is felt and what is not composed
for the advent XIII...
raindrops on the forest floor...
raindrops on the begging
frank sinatra...
raindrops of tinsel and some will
have to propose...
when leisure was a synonym of leather...

disorientating piano...
jazz piano...
give me the trumpet and let's forgive
the alto sax...
to each hell his hounds!
to borrow, to beg...
to growl and to scuff!

to each hell his mercenaries of choiced
hounds!
blood-thirty cherubs of ****-mongrel
hinter of cerberus: standing before
the log indigestion of the fore!

this angelic face and the woman
to come!
to have to have "innonce" being
whispered in my ear...
as nothing more than:
**** this Jezebel while you might...
it's not more a metaphor...
when what's gagging is
to also to be applied for: minus literally...
wholy within the confines
of the dostraught metaphor.

as does the jasmine...
the flower prospect matches
the beauty of the genitals...
but sure as ****...
it doesn't match up to the face!
the face is a schizophrenic's nightmare...
the flower is the genitals
of that i am most assured...
but the face?
"androgynous"... sorry...
what's that? "cute"?!

Jason Alexander took his time driving up the driveway to Broadmoor Mansion. He had seen the aerial view of the grounds, of course but assessing topography from the ground is much different than looking at things from the air. He noted one guard with a submachine gun stationed under a tree. He knew of at least 8 more agents positioned in the copses and by the walls. The Manse was indeed well protected. Along with its single occupant. Lady Celeste Madrigal.

Celestial music. Not an apt name for one of the most unprepossessing teenagers Jason had ever seen. Her dossier was extensive. It included pictures. This young lady dressed in the most appalling fashion. She looks like an old lady Jase thought to himself. Dressed as she was in a long brown dress with a white cardigan sweater. Her head was completely covered by scarf and hat. Brown Argyle socks, as the most clunkily unattractive shoes Jason had ever seen. Black glasses that were darkened as much as thick as Coke bottles. Her overly full lips were set in the childish pout.

Jase's handsome, broad jawed face mirrored his distaste.