Psychic spies from China
Try to steal your mind's elation
And little girls from Sweden
Dreams of silver screen quotation
And if you want these kind of dreams
It's Californication

It's the edge of the world
And all of western civilization
The sun may rise in the East
At least it settles in the final location
It's understood that Hollywood
Sells Californication

Pay your surgeon very well
To break the spell of aging
Celebrity skin is this your chin
Or is that war your waging

First born unicorn
******* soft ****
Dream of Californication
Dream of Californication

Marry me girl be my fairy to the world
Be my very own constellation
A teenage bride with a baby inside
Getting high on information
And buy me a star on the boulevard
It's Californication

Space may be the final frontier
But it's made in a Hollywood basement
Cobain can you hear the spheres
Singing songs off station to station
And Alderaan's not far away
It's Californication

Born and raised by those who praise
Control of population everybody's been there and
I don't mean on vacation

First born unicorn
******* soft ****
Dream of Californication
Dream of Californication

Destruction leads to a very rough road
But it also breeds creation
And earthquakes are to a girl's guitar
They're just another good vibration
And tidal waves couldn't save the world
From Californication

Pay your surgeon very well
To break the spell of aging
Sicker than the rest
There is no test
But this is what you're craving

First born unicorn
******* soft ****
Dream of Californication
Dream of Californication


By Anthony Kiedis / Michael Balzary / John Anthony Frusciante / Chad Smith
Californication lyrics © MoeBeToBlame

.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?

one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..

California....I love to hate this place,
Gas prices high people getting high on a false sense of reality....lets get it right

Exotic cars and intellectual flaws
Riding down the boulevard

****, can I drive without the admonishment of getting far..?

Dreams of impacting the world one country at a time
Schemes of people full of vanity, fallacies that aren't mine...

Can I dance with the moonlight like King Harvest and not be sued for human rights...?

The waves of excitement once stimulated my thoughts, Filled with nightmares and dreams a southern jezzabelle once taught...

What can you do for me and what I can't do for you; the nightlight just caught...

Yet I remain humble, though I stumble through the golden coast that boast dreams a civil war couldn't  fault...

Dreams of californication....with laid back sentiments and pornification...

Can I wake up from this guitar riff of fornication?

Yet I Vibrate....And marinate on this pointification...

Miley** spoke it all.
Her twerking weakens
Wonder but renders

Gender to the stupid
**** generation.
Miley spoke it all.

The West won the
Sino-fantasy, infested
With myth of might,

An apple's bait, all
Has a bite.  The west won.
Wealth as a boon, akin to

Hard ****, faith as
Soft ****. "All that is
Solid melts into air;

All that is holy is profaned."
Marx wrote it all.
Miley spoke it all:

Californication.
Call it fornication.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,  
Raven calling from the sky
Bluebirds calling from summer
Seagulls squawking from the alley

I have found something I lost
The state of euphoria is crumbled as your heart breaks
I lost a time when life was simple, when wondering was lustful
Instead found a time of hardship and unsettled communities
Sometimes I think what if the yellow brick road never continued to Oz
And if the clouds were always supported by blue
Californication with out the fault.
A witness to the empty sky

When he entered the room, she was naked. She sat stripped of her mythology and the bare curves of her hips made his hands shake. He hid them in his pockets like seizures in winter and told himself it was just the morning coffee.

"Jesus Christ..." His jaw slacked and tightened and he waited for a response; something witty like, odd time to pray or not quite, but maybe his cousin or oh, honey, he moved out years ago, but we still get his mail.
But soon waiting gave way to waiting, as waiting is wont to, and things became uncomfortable. Her deadbolt eyes. She blinked in slow motion, no lash out of place, and he felt foolish.

See, he never expected her to be a woman, and he almost said as much, had the look on her face not shut him up beautifully. Besides, at this point he was pretty certain that cities definitely don't speak--not English anyway--and even then, his concrete dialect was, at best, as atrocious as cracked pavement. He lisped with too much wind and not enough asphalt.

He looked around for somewhere to sit but the only chair wasn't even really a chair, it was a stool with a questionable third leg that sat over-turned and tucked in the far corner and he found himself at an impasse. Retrieving it would not only involve taking his hands from their linen hideaways, but she hadn't even offered him a seat and he didn't want to be rude; he being a man of manners with the cotillion lessons to prove it. On the other hand, there was a more-than-decent chance that his knees would buckle at any moment. He cleared his throat.

"May I?" he motioned and crept around her with a weird, dainty tip-toe. He would later reflect on and regret this odd step choice because it was undeniably ladylike, unlike this lady whose face seemed carved from marble and gave nothing away; she just cast her eyes slightly downward. He uprighted the chair that wasn't really a chair and checked the sturdiness of the questionable leg and shrugged in questionable approval and dragged it back to where he was and returned his hands to where they were and felt, aside from the girly walk, that went surprisingly well.

So it was in silence that he was left to sit. Sit and think. Think about small things, trivial ****. He thought about the small stain on his pants and hoped to God it was toothpaste. He thought about the itch in the dead center of his back where he can never scratch without looking like he has a severe case of cerebral palsy. He thought about his pockets, full of trembling leaves that fluttered with spare change winds and hung delicately from his autumn tree arms. He thought about bigger things too, like how if two people on exact opposite ends of the earth simultaneously each dropped a piece of bread, for a brief moment the whole world was just a really big sandwich. But mostly he thought about the difference between hard and mean.

Hard is the bottomless tumblers of American dream fathers, breathing scotch like fire and promises that were only ever half-way held true. But mean... Mean is a different kind of machine entirely. Mean, he realized, is one solid kick in the nuts past hard. Hard is when your ice cream drops mid-lick and falls in the cinematic drama of a-hundred-and-twenty frames per second to the unforgiving pavement, and even though there is a split seconds chance to reach out and catch it, you don't because, let's face it, sticky hands are gross. But mean is the little junior sonofabitch dog that comes a-waddling on in, laps up your deliciously sweet sidewalk treat and stares you right in the face while he does it. Mean makes you realize the sticky fingers would have been worth it. And before he could decide which category this Angel City would fit in, she stood, with a slight smile curling at the corner of her mouth and one hand behind her back. She slinked over to him with snake ankles and reached out and ran her fingers along his jawline and hooked his chin upward and kissed him.

It wasn't the delicate, thin-lipped kiss of embarrassed virgins and ex-stripper-turned-born-again-Christians. It also wasn't the Californication kiss filled with carnal tongue that he might have expected had the idea that she was going to do anything but intimidate the utter **** out of him even crossed his mind. It was somewhere between the two. Between shelter and apocalypse.  Viperous with a tinge of motherly protection (which, actually, gave him some confusing feelings). When she pulled away he felt the slight clink of metal against his teeth.

A bullet. Round and smooth, he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger and watched his fingerprint peel off and mark the lead skin with little, oily mazes. He looked up to her, unsure of what to say or what to make of whatever the hell just went down. She stared silently because, you know, that's her thing and he felt he had to say something because, you know, manners.

"I thought we said no gifts." He laughed. She didn't. He felt like an idiot immediately. Then, like the other half heart of a best friend necklace, she drew from her back a snub-nosed revolver. Her thumb flicked with outlaw elegance and the empty chamber rolled open.

"Let's play a game."
It was all she said. He didn't pay attention to whether she spoke in impeccable English or if the words were lit in the electric neon of Sunset Boulevard. It didn't matter and he didn't care. He didn't even notice when he took the gun and slid the round in until after he spun the chamber and slung it shut. When she lifted his arm without touching him and he felt like he was her marionette. When the snub nose found it's way to his mouth, he was certain of it. The feeling of the metal barrel against his bare teeth made his skin crawl and his stomach turn, yet even still he grinned.

He grinned because he saw his hand and his hand grinned because it wasn't shaking, not anymore.

He grinned and cocked the hammer back.

The dream state number one
The caught artist within the vortex
A drowned state and lost soul
As the eyes swirl and look up
And look up until they drop
A strange aridity covers the flesh
Gauze revealing the idea
Leaving enough hidden.
The final trip - californication?
The restaurants’ in New York
Blatantly bare. Now Iconography
Undersigned scarcely unmade up
The deep eyes plundering a life
Through an eye for art maybe
Taken from the mesh.

I miss having you around to say the little things you would say to me, to make it ok. Sweet little lies, perhaps. Perhaps not.

I miss your eyes, with that twinkle inside, with the exclamation points after them, with those crinkles on the edges, especially when you are all vulnerable and cuddly. Funny the weird details that come back up in your memories.

I miss interrupting and correcting you, in the rudest way possible.

I miss you correcting me and then I will pout and give you the saddest eyes and make you laugh at my childishness.

I miss how you looked and pointed at me 2 inches from my face on the bed, and declared, “i LIKE you”.

I miss watching Californication with you, propped up on pillows.

I miss eating junk food and beer while we watch cool youtube videos in the evenings or the mornings.

Or cracking up to a comedy skit.

Sitting with wine at 4am wolfing down tortilla chips, turning over existential ideas in our minds.

I miss you soaping my body in the shower and I miss soaping yours and I miss you making love to me everywhere we did.

On the counter In the closet Against the door On the couch In the shower On the toilet seat down On a mountain downhill Against trees in the forest In your childhood bedroom On the beach In a tent On a log bridge over a brook In the center of a woods clearing

I wanted you to Take me

everywhere.

I miss the forced cigarettes in the cold winter air, or the muggy summer

I miss our trips through this grubby city, trudging through autumn leaves and stopping in clothing stores and markets and city squares, staring at musicians and artists with admiration and jealousy, and bakeries to get your pastry fix and buying hats,pretending we’d last til the winter.

I miss our secret getaways and gossip sessions.

I miss painting and bleeding and dancing and crying and smoking and drinking and singing karaoke and slobbering and running and stopping and stalling and slumping and getting lost.

I miss fantasizing of alternative realities and cities undiscovered. I miss your wisdom-filled advise given to me, and my childlike prudity you brought out of me.

I miss shoving you playfully and skipping down a road together. I miss the smell of Doves men’s soap on your skin and the bristle of your chest hair- the just the right amount of – against mine, smooth.

It was a spectacular Love affair, one for the records for sure. How i miss playing with you>>> How i wish we can play All the time, and keep it quiet so that Reality cant hear us, wild and reckeless, and I’ll grow up on the side of all of it, and you too, if you can, But all the while leaving me behind with you in our eternal playroom, making love in all the ways we did…

One little Two little Three little Indians….

Jammin to Californication,
While The Zephyr hums a tune.
While it may be to early for a Monarchy, the Roses are finally in bloom.

Raised in So. Cali.
Those early 80's on the beach,
When reggae birthed the bass
Subwoofer heart beats
And poetry woven into the flow
Open mics
Yo Spoken Word!
Rap as verse to mTVs

Bittersweet symphonies

When brothers were too heavy
Living in the hood,
And my friends
Ricky and Richy
And Ricks
Richard
****
Have no riches / wealth
Drawing blondes
For non
boys
In the cartoon
Landscape of generation
gap
Not so trendy cool
Unless master Richy
Loud animated riches
Mr. Rich
If I only knew
If richness
Lets you

Then Come be one of every

Minority
Say they can see

His friends-collection
From unique
Reserves
The wild
Child
Around the world
each birthday party here

His pals his country
Their diversities not his equal
As stereotypes
Subterfuge

Cliche
Equality pursuant to Freedom
So says the people

This that is
Priceless,

Enjoying tangerine days
Sinking in the golden
Tropicana
And cold colbalt

Blue bloods
In a darkening sea

The sky bleeding
Only with the life of the sun,
Where in spirit

Oh summer Lovin' nights

Cooling the boardwalks
dynomite!
Beach kin
skins
A many golden
Tans and the scent of
Paradise
Florals and cocoa butter
brine...
Tight fit bodies
Chrome shiney
Tanning oils

The summer wafting

Sensual
Through our basking
In rhythmic sync

From early days
Those happy days
Then when I was tween
On my Schwinn

Gliding
like the wind

Dollar movies
Sand and some kind
Of wonderful

The most radical arcade!
Raised a native son

By marriage
I am a mix into one
A people
My face
Has a race,
I am islander
Fisher King

Golden lion with
Interstellar wings

Please Call me Fishsparrow's
Dreaming

Though summer hues
My skin accused
Unmoved
Unclaimed
I'm a Golden Mango

Among the Californication-Ing

Indian Summer's with a
Torquois bottom pool
I could pass for Hawaiian
Most dark Mistiso do...

Raised in California
We are as golden
As the landscape

Americana

I'm laid back
As California as the cheese
We got the beef cake
80s to 90s to Kpop to Goa

The flavoring
Of caramel flesh
Sweet sweat
Footloose
Skinny jeans
**** undulations
Body
Surfing
Those summer waves

Toward our Nuevo
Fluorescent future
Opulence
So free and quite
Brilliant

The light
With life experienced

Fearless with Midnights
We Conqueror sunrise

The days I reminisce
When childhood bliss
did not die
Just down for a nap

New cats' days
Turning tomorrow making
bacon
Brown skin
My Soleils
Beaches
Soothing Mists

Breath of Suns' kisses:
Wakes of oceans
Peace

Oh

Now I lay me down to dream
I pray the Lord
To help me wake...

Every new day
So thankfully
Experience every divinity

That thou love
Doth make

Alive without regret
Of and by the sea
I'm raised

I grew up
California
                  golden
As is
silence

And Making love  

With You
Early morning.... On the beach

Life arisen.
For light means Day!
Good morning
Glory

A louder Grace
Beloved
Will
Shall listen...

B-side

things have changed since the days of progressive rock,
the whole idea of the concept album...
i once owned this copy of a music magazine: MOJO...
when magazines were still in print...
that's the thing with me -

three passions in my life, three great loves in my life...
cycling, music and philosophy:
if i said that i loved poetry i'd be lying...
since i imagine myself as writing it -
with this little beast there's a love-hate relationship -
it's hardly a love: it's a medium where my three loves come together...

but a lot has changed since the progressive rock days of the concept album...
what album topped the MOJO top 50 albums from
the progressive rock genre?
Pink Floyd's dark side of the moon...
who was second? ah...
YES' close to the edge:
personally i preferred the yes album...
Jethro Tull's Aqualung was way down the list...
Radiohead's OK computer wasn't unsurprisingly high...

but i would have topped the list with
King Crimson's in the court of the crimson king...
never mind...
i'd love to start a petition for all
the Red Hot Chilli Pepper albums to be released...
only upon hearing some of the B-sides from By the Way...

then moving to the B-sides of Blood, Sugar, ***, Magik...
i'm not sieving through the B-sides of Californication...
i'd want to start a petition for
all the Red Hot Chilli Pepper albums to be released
like Stadium Arcadium was released...
as a double-album... ****'s sake...
the artistry of this band is inexhaustible!

ALL RED HOT CHILLI PEPPERS' ALBUMS SHOULD BE RELEASED AS DOUBLE-ALBUMS...
that would be ****** innovative:
a natural progression from progressive rock...
all other mentions of progression the spheres of politics and

sociology blah blah ought to begin with... this...
i'm just surprised "they" only figured it out with Stadium Arcadium...

i mean: this B-side of the band is like:
i remember the days when bands would have
INSTRUMENTAL tracks, most notably Iron Maiden and
Metallica... take for example the Teatro Jam...

vocals brought to a bare minimum or nothing at all...
yes... i feel privileged to get a sneak peek into
the potential for the "concept" of the double album...
oh... sly technicalities...

i'm seriously not the type of a Matthew Arnold type...
crying myself to sleep after seeing Liszt play and swoon
the ladies...

i stopped caring about the "lady department" of my life...
that's how the story goes...
Matthew Arnold went to a Liszt concert
and he went back home and cried about how Liszt:
the virtuoso managed to swoon the ladies...
it helped that i was working those two gigs
and i wasn't just a fan...
because watching the women watching
these guys on stage helped with
the required attire of the security services...

perhaps i wasn't jumping up and down...
but i was "secretly" tapping my feet...
i chose the wrong instrument:
like any boy does when he has no band mates...
tried my chances on the guitar...
i should have been a drummer...
envy of the world could not topple what i'm interested
in / with anyway...

my solitary existence is enough
for whatever is not enough for others...
beside the double-album fixation,
i have a more potent "fixation": it's an analogy...
the Matthew Arnold vs.
                 Matthew Conrad (that's me) analogy...

poor M. Arnold went home weeping
at his inadequacies, poets are never favoured by women...
poor sod... how could he cushion himself against
the onslaught of Liszt? he couldn't...
back in the day you went to see a composer play...
you just bought a ticket... even today...
you go to an opera... what can you scavenge?
merely the ******* programme... but moi?
i was working... sure...
but i was probably the only person working
that double shift who ended his shift buying
a T-shirt of the band... that's a nice cushion to have...

it sort of distanced me from envy...
from utter despair... i didn't want to be on the stage...
i didn't want to be those guys...
i was just happy buying the band's T-shirt...
i switched off in that moment...
moments prior i was worried about crowd
safety intrusions into my psyche...
the next... after all was said and sang...
i emerged like i just went and saw my
"new" favorite band for "free": well...
i got paid to see them... that's also crucial...
i was paid to see them overseeing the crowd seeing them...

maybe that's why... my focus was split...
splintered in half...
i was of a conscious akin
to a lightning bolt splitting a tree in half...
i forgot despair... i thought about seeing
them live back in circa 2004 when
the London Arena in the Docklands was still viable...
with Chad Smith pre-warming before the gig...
walking in the crowd seemingly unnoticed
in a cowboy hat... hell...
i was almost an optometrist
when Frank Bruno brushed shoulders
with me coming back from ring-side
at that Tyson fury match-up... patient little me...

i've landed the perfect job...
i remember the days when my former school-friends
would joke about me not having a job...
being misdiagnosed as a "schizophrenic"...
what the **** did they do? oh... right...
one worked in a pub... another worked in Homebase...
this general DIY wholesaler...
i was cycling past where he worked...
it's getting torn down...
i only laugh at things that other people
don't find funny: most notably my own thoughts:
or thereby a lack of them... and to think...

all it took: to be in the position
i'm in now was being "nice" to my next-door neighbour...
the same "******" story: it's not what you know...
it's who you know... no...
i couldn't possibly be the next Matthew Arnold
bemoaning whatever successes Liszt had with women...
i got a Red Hot Chilli Pepper T-shirt...

there is healthy consumerism and
there's unhealthy consumerism...
the healthy type of consumerism is akin to:
             buying a memento...
some sort of memorabilia...
i love that sort of consumerism...
since i was working i couldn't take pictures of the events...
but it has become apparent...
the T-shirt saved me from the agony
akin to Matthew Arnold's agony...
i rather think i know what i'm doing...
it's not exactly ontologically based with a bias...
it's what i've acquired...
of course i'm seeking fame...
but it's not fame associated with being alive...
it's more a fame centered with: when i am gone...

when i satiate all that's mortal about me...
that's why i reject the motives for employing
the tactics of: fake it until you make it i.e. CREDIT...
i work on a debit allowance...
i spend what i earn rather than borrow in order to spend...
sure... i'll miss out on... wait... wait...
what am i going to be missing out on?
i love the company of my coworkers...
sure... i'm not a brain surgeon...
my mother is currently watching this ****** show:

the good doctor... no! that's why doctors are not walking encyclopedias...

that's why they specialize...
no chance in hell is there a "god" in the medical profession... PLATE OF BROWN... sweet instrumental...
progressive instrumental...
bourbon is the sweeter version of whiskey...
probably the greatest "thing" to come out of H'america...
prior to the blues and jazz...
and i get told: white man bad... slavery bad...
sure...

until the original slavery emerged as introducing
the black man to musical instruments that gave
the poor white boy prune an escape from classical music...
i don't see what the "*******" problem is...
talentless people drowning gripping to razor blades...
sure... i'm sort of jealous... but i'm not envious...
i allocated myself a company of Ovid and Horace...
Milton is not going to be replicated...
i want to write something:
i will write something that's properly
resembling the sort of life worth living
at the turn of the 21st century... oh ****...
i forgot to mention my 4th love...

drinking... i mean...
whether it's bourbon or whether it's whiskey...
you can't really love something unless you bring it
to the altar of excesses... and i do just that...
perhaps i have room for a fifth... but?
seeing how my father behaves around my mother?
i hardly "think" that's a viable choice for me... ergo...
i can spare myself the unnecessary details
and go straight after the prostitutes:
i don't mind sharing... after all...
i'm not sharing alimony guilt / no guilt...
i figured out a way to avoid making "profile-contact":
eye-contact i can stomach...
but all this a priori modulations of man...
no wonder dates are so boring: dating...

i don't want to know anything about
another person: PRIOR...
i want to find out... gain knowledge...
but if i'm about to be served something on a:
precursor basis? that's... ******* boring...
no wonder i'm not interested... and never will be...
it like... you either get given a fish...
or you're given a fishing rod... and some maggots...
people have their fiddly bits...
but if people expose their fiddly bits...
the stereotype is that man is the "hunter"...
what the **** am i hunting?

i don't like hunting: i like scouting...
that's the entire problem
with Darwinism mingling with "humanism":
too much is borrowed from the natural world....
and when that happens?
imposing the natural world
on the technical world of man rarely helps anyone...

          by proxy or default... or perhaps by simply
the spiral in control of ad hoc...
i write... after all writing is an extension of thinking...
it's not an invitation to speak...
people complain about their internet access...
leverages of the comment section...
maybe i just figured a way to bypass unwarranted
"attention".... writing that's not to be sung...
lyricism: as much as i love it
i abhor it...
           because i'm not even close to singing it...
i'm also not even close to speaking
it... best left in the vaults of thought...
after all: i'm measuring my steps for a posthumous
fame...

           i couldn't rob an entertainer from his
today: our daily bread...
and there's always one member in the band
that's going to be grounded in:
a focus of creativiy:
grounded in not allowing all the caveats of fame
that come with it (fame):
the crab bucket principle...
me? i was lucky to watch both of their shows
in London...
                  while actually watching the crowd...
Matthew Arnold would have felt so much
better if he managed to get a Liszt T-shirt...
a consumer statement akin to:
i was there...
       i saw them live... look how happy i am
to be alive... i got the mother-******* T-shirt...
who gives a rat's *** about their private lives...
i too have a private life... i write scribbles that do not rhyme
and i'm juggling the idea of counter to
Nietzsche and poet-philosopher... philosophy is in
the background... but it's more a case of poet-journalist...
and i like the forest in the winter at night...
and i adore aloneness... which is a quality of being
that's un-reflective / restrictive of the expressions:
being alone or being lonely...
it's dissociative... not associative...

and i adore writing as a way to create constrains...
constraints...
                           because if i were to jump the fame
bandwagon of: "fame ruined my mortality"...
i'd be making videos... exposing myself to the world
of bad people with even more bad ideas...
**** me: filter in place...
all are welcome who seek to be served...
the rest can snuggle in a crab-bucket elsewhere...
by just consolation:
"being there" will pass me by...
i will have no concern for the world...
instead: the world will have concern for me
having past through it... that's how Heidegger's
idea is inverted:
   i have no concern for the world... for "being there":
i'm already "here"...
           for me the world is: there's being...
i can't pnpoint a "there" and couple it to "being"
to create Heidegger's bad grammar...
there's being: der welt... the world...
but there's also the self-being: selbst-sein...
                as much as there's the selbst-sein-im-der-welt...
there's also the selbst-sein-im-die-sein...
contrast: selbst-sein-im-die-selbst...

ha ha... me and a "girlfriend"? captain complications
"autistic"? no wonder i spend most of my time
around animals... this one time in the supermarket
a boy in a buggy started pointing at me...
see! that's the problem! the creatures that least understand
the complications of language: man can arrive at...
understand me best... we communicate on the focus
of onomatopoeias... syllables... vowels-alone...
finger-pointing: ooh! ooh! beard! tall man! beard!      

mein gott!
the idea of me being married is a bit like thinking
either Nietzsche or Kierkegaard being married...
or for that matter Kant...
i just kept focusing on the voyeurism presented
by pigeons... how many times they get rejected:
Darwinism is a fake:
it's not about the survival of the fittest...
it's about the survival of those who are subdue
about making the most mistakes...
i opted out... i like my comforts...
i'm not a social animal... i'm not a political animal...
ego: non animal-sociale...
   non animal-politica...
       ego-ergo: creatura-ex-solatium!
i'm a creature of comfort...
          
         i don't need complications
of womens' exfoliations...
"expectastions"...
                       bye bye... wave goodbye
the would be sinking Titanic...
       ice is a new hello!
         "women and children first"...
sink the ship... count the *****...
no... because this "****" doesn't end... unless it ends
with the DRILL FABRIC OF A MARCH...

not since it was so easy for the Islamic
Conquistadors to be made so easy
and for us "remainers" to have it made to "hard"...
then again... eh?! keep what?!
leap over what burp of a frog?!
            i'm pretty sure the Slavic world
imploded when they heard about the antics
of the "west"... i'm pretty sure the Russians were
like: before... we reach that summit of insanity...
i... a Russian... will sooner ****-fiddle an Ukrainian
with war... before the cancer spreads...
and so it happened...
                         west: my ungovernable wet ***!
"west"...
                       i might speak the language:
but churning through the outliers i'm ANTI...

  any deficiency in the orthodoxy use of language is:
HERESY...
           i have LIMITS...
**** it... i'm siding with the Russians...
i don't care...
              **** Ukraine: for Chernobyl!
we might as well find our nearest sacrifice...

BUT I KNOW THAT I'M ALREADY DEAD!
i'm just waiting for the "PAUSE" buttonz...

yeah... like that joke...
an Olaf... a Lothar and a Conrad walk into
a bar...
    only Conrad walks out...
why? because he didn't make any Hebrew jokes...
and he drank more whiskey than both
Olaf and Lothar...
i know i'm not funny...
i'm not supposed to be: ******* funny!
i'm supposed to be imitation-cannibal!

A-side

i'm truly lucky to be alive...
at least in my generation...
i was 13 when Californication came out,
i spent one afternoon
with my now estranged uncle
listening to the record while
he was working on his Porsche
eating take-away Kentucky fried
chicken...
                     talking about music and life
and *** and what not...
mostly girls...
            
my sympathy for Ukraine? none...
maybe Ukraine was part of the Soviet
Union maybe not (obviously)
but: yeah... thanks for Chernobyl...
my mother's premature chronic pain...
i might be the last drinker in the family
lineage who takes drinking
seriously: as a way to progress intellectually
but my mother's on opiates...
i was born with a "mark of Cain"...
whatever the hell it was...

it was a ******* nuclear REACTOR...
it wasn't a nuclear BOMB...
a bomb EXPLODES... a reactor IMPLODES...
who know what the ****** difference
is... but give it enough time
and you'll find out...

well... it must be bad... since how many *******
tests did the Americans the Russians
and the French carry out with bombs?
Godzilla blah blah...
       but it only took ONE bad reactor to make
people look all-crazy-at-each-other...
******* KARMA... oh yeah...
it wasn't enough to do both Hiroshima
and Nagasaki... more tests required!

and all those cases of freakish premature
cancers in eastern Europe... hell... elsewhere too...
last time i heard an imploding nuclear
reactor is like detonating 400 Hiroshima type
bombs...
and the effects were immediately apparent
in the botanical kingdom...
effects which even reached the region
where i was born...
   it was a case of Spring-Autumn...
     oh yeah... you had streaks of trees that
were autumn like: perhaps even past autumn...
sort of dead-ish... and streaks of trees
that were: spring-esque...

by then, no one knew...
                             the crescendo of the collapse
of the Soviet union...
a bit like the crescendo of the end of the second
world war and the all great h'american hard-on:

but let's face it... no other culture was so
good as the late 20th century American culture...
the Beatniks,
Charles Olson - the only post-modernist i have
any respect for... if i can call him that...
then again... i'm jumping hoops and conclusions
that that non-verbatim...

and you have to admit...
    no no... it wasn't because i was working both
the shifts for the Red Hot Chilli Peppers gig at
the London stadium: but let me tell you what...
i would have been completely ****** (OFF)
if i didn't buy tickets for both days...

day 1: opened with CAN'T STOP
day 2: opened with ALL AROUND THE WORLD
day 1: played UNDER THE BRIDGE for the encore
day 2: didn't play UNDER THE BRIDGE for the encore...

proper old-school...
that other shift i did where Weezer, Fall Out Boy
and Green Day played...
even the guys i was working with were like:
they (i.e. Green Day) 'these guys don't know when to
shut up'... i was like... oh... right, this song?
they'll finish on that one:
   it's one of those sentimental closure songs...
one of the girls sang that song
in an assembly when we were leaving school:
(have the) time of your life...

i was sure of it... oops... a ******* Dawid Bovie cover!
sure... people are at a gig... we're too,
but we also want to: ******* go home...
and we can't until all these ******* leave first!
ugh!

- thank god (casually expressed, eat dog doog...
yes - intentional, FELA'S **** is the *******
groove party - food)
i'm not one of those people forming a cliche
opinion about whether i'm a fan of the Beatles
or whether the Rolling Stones...
ask me again... James Brown yes...
and Red Hot Chilli Peppers' A-sides
or Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides...

now... that's a tough one...

mind you: what gave birth to the Communist project?
pan-Slavism...
there were plenty of Hebrews living in Russia
and in Poland... i guess those people were
like... sure... let's try...
if we **** up: we'll **** up SPECTACULARILY...
and "we" did... but... the current reiteration
of "communism" in the VEST?
hmm... all this post-grammatical-mystique...
oh look! adjective, verbs, nouns,
the indefinite article and a definite article
are being neglected by the hyper-focus on pronouns...

it's like a second imaginary Chernobyl imploded
and fried people's intellectual capacity
for formal / casual conversation talking
about the weather and buses being late...

i'm only saying that Red Hot Chilli Peppers is
a band of / for my generation because...
i've already come across younglings
that haven't heard of them...
YES!                             and the band too...
but finally! i've reached the cut-off point
where i'm part of a zeitgeist that is reaching its
zenith-nadir...
                       the equilibrium akin to the Olympic
passing of the torch... although:
there's not much of a fire left...
       just an unlit torch... instead of fire: ambers
of a once fire...

but that's what happens... i understand the paranoid
Russians all too well...
back in 2007 they were such welcoming people:
i still don't understand why the western media
narrative about McDonald's being shut down
in Russia suddenly turned into a new fast food
chain under a different name serving the same food...
when i was in Russia: i swear to god...
i didn't see a single McDonald's... so... twinkle toes...
hum hum hmm...

were "my" people paid reparations
for the **** invasions? i know the Hebrews were...
oh yeah: we had that glorious task of being
invaded and then told to stack 'em bricks
for the crematorium CHIMNEYS...
well... it could have been worse...
we could have been told to ***** the NECROPHILIC
architecture of ancient Egypt in the guise
of the pyramids...

and because being under the Soviet yoke
of influence... and then... oh god! they gave "us" a
******* first non-Italian POPE!
one hand washes the other
but neither hand knows what the other hand
is doing... from ultra-atheism to ultra-catholic
conservatism...
"our" capital shouldn't be called Warsaw...
(no jokes about that, unlike Bangkok)
                                it should be called Seesaw...

backwards and forwards... as Norman Davis pointed
out: god's playground...
which it is... mind you: i'm sort of bad tempered
when it comes to being a Siamese-twin with
my Deutsche neighbours...
lucky that some of those Schwabs or Saxons
migrated... settled on some ****** weather island
and mingled with the Velsh and the Picts and
whatever other Celtic remains were left
in Europe...

oh but yesterday... that old man made me lose my
cool... i was already sweating it out for over
an hour and he exclaims in the street like
those manic street Apocalypse preachers:
where are you lights!
if i stopped i would have properly explained
than merely pointing at my rear-light glowing
red and telling to *******...
BUT YOU WOULDN'T SAY JUST AS MUCH
IF IT WAS ONE OF THOSE INDIAN
DELIVEROO ELECTRIC BICYCLE GUYS?!
would you, old man?
mind you: old man... you give a rat's *******
about one cyclist... then tell me...
who does your council employ... shouldn't
the street lights already be switched on?!
    hmm.. already be...
shouldn't the street lights be already switched on?
that sounds... eerie...

shouldn't the street lights already be switched on
shouldn't the street lights be already switched on...
i honestly can't decide upon the correct
grammar... let's be trans-grammatical about that one...
after all... it's all trans-biology anyway...
a bit like Plato telling Sisyphus that the gods
forgot about him and that he can stop his pointless
toiling... or what Plato mentioned about
being punished and being reincarnated
as a woman if one begins as a man...
well: to hell with reincarnation: time's up for
theology now that science speeds things up...

scary world... even scarier people...
THIS DOOR NEEDS HINGES!
bring in the unhinged experts in not-doors!
yesss... we need a house with enough of
BREEZE!
me? i'm just complementing their insanity with
my own special strain that prostitutes call:
GOOD-CRAZY.

and sometimes in russia you can be found going to the opera, and drinking квас (rootbeer is the only known equivalent)... and you joke and say how it looks: k'bac (make the word batch acute... ć? actually... flatline the end of how k'bac would look like __). evidently, in a land where в = v and с = s... is not the same land where they do that k.c.s. trick of interpolation / interweaving... sure inter based on particularly worded example... otherwise intra basis for keeping a symbol that morphs; slippery *******, those phonetic eels.

i call it the samurai haircut...
because... it ****** well looks like...
the way dave rubin's hairline
becomes enclosed in the headphones?
    that'**** is ******* samurai...
mind you i'm drunk and looking
at the screen at a distance that would
suggest it to be so...
             *******'s donning a
                                          chonmage!
i'm all for carousels and ferris wheels...
i like the: whoop-d-doo-da'h
special effects, but this **** is twisted,
now i'm the one laughing...
                what the hell is up with that?
and when i listen to *tool's
cover of peaches you lied...
    one image... charon swinging left to right
(or right to left)... swinging a scythe,
very labourously (laboriously -
thing with post-german languages is that
they use too many vowels... ******* can't
get enough of them... spelling this *******
out is like them trying to learn to state
a sz sound... it's just a sh...
son darling, really? hush, or listen to some
deep purple or kula shaker... mm'kay?)        
                                             d      f
% 2 !          7    &         (looking for a dot,
given the faux pas aesthetic of ? followed by it...
of wait... for it is normal given ?!
                     oh look here! there's the little *******!
         .
               now that became completely pointless.
try covering blind melon's swong no rain...
   you'll probably find it easier taking
to a palette for roquefort cheese,
            or actually allowing milk to "go off"
until it becomes skisłe
also called bopping along / dancing in your chair...
wait a minute: i was only thinking about the spelling
the karousel... thinking about the ferris-wheel...
  and c... middle name's conrad...
never had "gone off" milk with warm potatoes?
so i'm guessing you never had yoghurt?
i do acknowledge that the consistency is parallel,
but skisłe milk? (add a w to combat the diacritical
distinction in the stated tongue)...
    that sort of milk is gone, way gone,
   you can't serve it with warm baby potatoes
immersed in butter and the herb dill...
   actually? **** it... can't be nostalgic about
the end of the 20th century, i just want to drink
the kind of milk that can go sour...
    and form clots... it's practically yoghurt...
                something an esklimo might call home...
but it's gone... too many preservatives,
the whole natural process is gone,
          this milk i'm drinking?
                            it won't turn sour... it will look
as it was originally intended, but when the counter-nature
movement moves in to allow it to degenerate
into something: o.k., i admit, when it turns
into a quasi yoghurt form...
  but that interview with dave rubin with joe rogan...
a ******* chonmage with the earphones dave...
i must be seeing double,
     maybe the drunk "glasses" can be put to
a more effective use; other than (insert english slang):
seeing a real butters queen-b of chav-dom.
              i'd still **** her though, drunk or sober,
like i once mentioned: anything that moves (to a friend).
now i realise this is getting serious,
    compromised on half an hour to write my
father's roofind invoice like chopin...
i rarely look at the keyboard... so it's either the machine-gun
or piano metaphor for the computer keyboard,
definitely not a general practitioner's
crow-pecking a snail out of dynamic... index peck...
peck... peck... index peck... peck...
                7 days' worth of activity done in half an hour...
he was watching chelsea vs. man utd. and it was
the quarter finals in the f.a. cup...
      i stood there trying to keep the supermarket
walk ritual open until 11pm for my usual dose...
in the 77th minute of the match i forgot the ballerinas
   and heard that there would be a semi-final draw...
back in a minute...
                          so off i went...
       and came back drinking a 85pence ale...
       mmm... fruity...
                             the wheat extract brew was much better
though; i actually had to sniff the head of the bottle
because i: wasn't shopping for perfumes.
that said, i can't remember the last time i washed my entire
body... armpits? sure, everyday... teeth?
what is preached to children, a pea sized dollop
and then the tactic of: quickly does it;
under 30seconds... they tell you you should do it for 3minutes?
they're into employing dentsists.
  oh yeah... that milk thing?
                           what's your suggestion on the sugar
lactose and diabetes?
     what's truly problematic though?
the form... i start of thin... and then my poems become
fat... it's annoying to the point that there is no comparison
to justify this demise...
             like i want a waterfall precision...
but end up with a pyramid (or thereabouts)...
uh, wonky, ~... doing the egyptian wavy hand
gesture... or more like a seesaw: left? right? right?
what?! left?!
                       but most of the time i think about
my uncle (my mother's brother) and the year
when red hot chili peppers released
   their album californication, and spending the summer
working on his vintage porsche, and eating
chips and hot chicken wings...
        mental illness? that's when you turn compuslive...
memory? i can't control my memory...
memories are just conjured like spells culminating
into a jinn being summoned...
                     it's true what they say:
you are bound to not think if the other two major
faculties as stressors to overcome the "need" to think
(and when did happen that einstein ran a marathon
and thought up his *******?) -
                       my main interest is memory,
and to counter the theory of natural selection...
i conjure up memory...
              obviously i have no care for darwinian arguments,
solipsistic? sure, why wouldn't i be?
                     with regard to how i was treated?
it's a pretty natural and readily available resource
to introduce a membrane akin to a cactus.

I guess I need to confess that this immaculate mess is mine
I'm blessed with the burden that's so divine
Like growing vines that encase you
Replace who makes you wait two times as long
Rhyme a song, find a **** and hoot it
Life's the ****, so shoot it
Who knew that you would be
So blue doing what you were created for
I hate it more than I love it
Covet not
Pop shove it
Stop taking all the credit
Or I'll edit you out
Embedded in doubt
Have you ever drowned in a drought?
Some people call it the pasties
The way they see me is their own business
I live this particular way
Because it was how I was made
Blame the manufacturer
Mother nature fractured her brain
The rain, it cleanses
Life through new lenses
This world needs a bath
To wash away the senseless
Defenseless against the dark arts
There's hard parts of the head
Starts out red
But it slowly flows from a blood rose to burgundy
Heard it from me
The colour pallet awaiting the paint canvas
**** this train of thought went from Katmandu to Kansas
I cant stand this
How its all jumbled and mumbled together
Whether or not it fits the plot is obsolete
Not so sweet with the transitions as far as the topic goes
It stops it goes
It's hot it's cold
I do not know where these thoughts grow
Though I'm content with whatever the noggin sent
To the mouth hole
Like my vocabulary got a toboggan sled
And rode it to the south pole
Faster than Clark Griswald with his fancy *** sled wax
That tore down the mountain with lightning speed
It's frightening we'd
Do something so unrealistic because we sit
Amidst this oblong box
Listen to these odd, long talks
And say hey, they did it, why cant we
How bad could it be?
National lampoon did it flawlessly.

I thought that he was going to discuss
What the fuss is about
But now, how wide we've strayed
Played his word game
This is an absurd sane
Must be crazy
But it don't phase me
Cause I know one day, you'll have nothing to say
And you'll attempt to paraphrase me
Saves me the head and the heart ache
Taking the time to lay low
In this forsaken day glow
Swim over to Havana
Have a banana with Jose Conseco
Hey go on and on
Like donkey kong
Sing me the donkey song
You know, by blue rodeo?
Oh we go on for days
In this phase of saying whatever comes to mind
Have some of mine
The thought process of this confession
Was nothing but
What?
Merely electricity
Created almost instantly
The consistency as you can see
Is never there but I never care
Ever stare at your own hands when you're not high
I am every single line that my thumb has defined
Deoxyribonucleic acid trip
Hey hey hey that just mean DNA
We can play because of this double helix
I can feel it
So surreal its as though I know myself through code
I could explode and I would be only mathematically scattered
I'm flattered that you might feel bad but you're
Overthinking it
Trust me I know
Because I have the capacity
Not to let me demons show
Its me that goes all this way
Monthly second Sundays
To say whatever the hell I have to
Have a laugh or two
Between these increments of sadness
This attraction to madness
Is tearing me limb from limb
Not being a simpleton
It's not an easy task
Ask me about the weather
And I'll mentally kick your ***
PASS
On to the next subject
Ejected that last *** hat because
He was too plain yogurt
If I could have a super power
It would be a one punch, with no hurt
Just to assert logic and rationality
To take you out of your shoes
And place you in reality
Now that we can free you of your amigo
The ego
Can we go on with this metamorphosis
And realise how **** poor this is
Of course this is not the zenith
To how we live
It's a semi civilized society at best
Dividing and devising
Study for the riot test

Curve your enthusiasm with a lyrical ******
Have em once a day like vitamins
The devil, I'll invite him in
Just to look and see what evil truly wants from me
Haunting me constantly
Cant we see that these demons
Even though they're within us
We cannot let them win us
Thus, Me.
I befriend the deep end
The creatures of the week end
We spend a tremendous part of living
Not forgiving ourselves
For **** we had no control over
I'm ******* over it
No longer sober
For I've felt the weight without a crutch
It's such a heavy head to carry
Variables and hairy situations
Enter the train station
Every single person here needs a brain vacation
Its the moderation that gets me in trouble
Double the dose it goes slower the time
When you're intertwined with cloud nine
I'm proud that I have recognized
What resides inside of me
Leo is the lion
But I have no pride to be
The drunken king of the jungle
Iron fist in a stumble
Mumble something dumb?Full of myself but I can still be humble
Dumbledore's sorting hat would slither me in
To slitheryn
For what consists inside of me
I need something to wither in
Considering the very thing that keeps me here is fear.

So to the wolves, throw me
They'll treat me like Mogli
So rogue, I know there's no home to go to
Though I know where I don't belong
I cannot be wrong
I am crucial to the universe?Believe it till I'm in the hearse
Because the worst is always right there?Don't agree
We don't have a word for good dreams,
Cause all we know are nightmares
And I care about it all
I feel the globe in my dome
Actually the galaxy
Is right inside my iris, see?
He who tries to convince me otherwise
With realise that these teal eyes
Keep me safe inside these surreal lies
Why?
Well to recreate this spoken poem
I think I'm from a broken home.
Not in the aspect that my dad wrecked
What it means to be a father.
I could bring it up, but **** it,
Why should I even bother.
But what I meant to mean is this,
And I ain't trying to diss,
Mom gets involved with a man with money
This life is a joke
And ****, its not funny.
He drinks, he drives, he can't see his greed.
He's the reason Alice Cooper wrote
Only Women Bleed
Needed a way out, maybe an outlet
Out to get out of it, and I'm **** well proud of it
How?
Because I get to portray the way you see me.
I don't manifest the detested specimen I'm in.
In fact, I act according to whatever state your head is in.
I'd rather adapt than have to illustrate where the hate originates.
Open the flood gates and explain why the bud makes me feel great.
I'm not okay, and that's just fine.
I wouldn't ask for another life, I want mine
Cause when you combine
Pain and pleasure
It's something you can't measure
You pass gas and someone acts like you're a national treasure.
Better to be loathed for how you help your head
Than to be loved for every little word you've said.
Instead of getting upset, I just like to get high.
It's more socially appropriate
Opposed to sitting inside to cry.
I'm over it, the sober, it's
No life for me
I'd like to see
The colours that only live inside my fantasized make believe
Why??Because I'm alive, god ******
I can live in moderation
You need to work hard to get that californication
No predestination
I create what I want to know
For it goes to show this
Life is thinking that we know bliss
Robbed of what we long for
As if we don't notice
But it's this ******* that we call self
That calls you a ***** and you don't need no help
Because in the end if you depend upon anyone but you
You're hoping that another soul with get you through
Whatever happens to occur
Sure we all could use assistance
But when it's persistent
Then what
Putt putt putt like the little train
Who couldn't do anything by himself
Who would often complain
Drive everyone insane
Till the coffin's a gain
Hey that aint me.

I'm looking for the middle ground
A happy little place where I can make a little sound
So profoundly wound up
I'd hate to unravel
We all want stability
With the ability to travel
To the far off lands that no man has tampered with
To get the whiff of damp air
That the rains just gave you
It will save you
The grave, dude, is a way that you
Give back to the world
And as your body unfurls,
Your presence does not.
Physically you are distant
But never in thought.
Who you are, and what you do,
Will live on
So live long, as long as you can.
Sell your ****, quit your job and buy yourself a van,
And when you get to the end, lend it to some man
Who truly believes he has nothing more to see.
For this man was you.

This mind set, I've sorry, guessing you've been lured in.
I'll leave you to rest
Of the Blessing and the Burden.

eating breakfast in a long time,
half a teaspoon of sugar,
coffee black, three marzipan
nuggets coated in chocolate,
two cigarettes...

and wondering where did the time
go since silverchair
released their debut frogstomp (1995),
or what happened to the offspring
after americana (the song *pay the
man still wasn't a commercial song),
or the sudden thrill of red hot chilli
pepper's reunion with john and
californication, deftone's white pony,
or when buying the mortal kombat
soundtrack, and someone nice enough
at our price putting a different c.d.,
not the score, but the soundtrack
with actual songs: type o negative
(subsequently ****** kisses),
monster magnet, k.m.f.d.m., and beside,
days with cassettes (m.o.d.'s mr. oofus
ha ha) - and gigs, tool in glasgow
with that awesome german girl
who i gave water to in exchange for a kiss,
wolfmother in edinburgh, a few gigs
in london (papa roach, disturbed,
type o negative, iron maiden, the offspring,
american head charge, rammstein,
slipknot, korn, red hot chilli peppers -
when that arena at canary wharf was still open)...
but then there was verdi's  la traviata in st. petersburg,
and aerosmith in hyde park, and boy
did depeche mode rock hyde park too...
i mean, most these influences came from
my uncle, but i can't give him credit
for king crimson, jethro tull and other
prog bands (early genesis, for example)...
or the jazz...
but it's just annoying to not have seen
the holy wood tour by m.m.,
or not seeing slayer when jeff hanneman
was still alive - after all i pledged the
tribulation of growing long hair in school
to him, one day, looking at the band's poster,
i was 15 then and became known as chewbacca
for a while.

as watch myself become infinite, the days go on by myself in the loop day in and day out the same thing over and over again sleep, work, by myself, sleep, work, alone. This infinite loop is a struggle, although I don't see myself in this loop forever, I don't know how to change it. I know where I want to be, I know what I can be, it's the motivation I don't know how to grasp.to whom that is reading this I have a question to ask you. Have you ever seen a TV show called Californication? The main character is named Hank Moody, is a writer alone in LA, with a daughter, chasing after his ex, who runs into the arms someone she cheated for. He can't write, he has no aspirations, no motivation. but we watch as he drowns himself in smoke, *****, and alcohol. It's so entertaining to the viewer because he is a walking case of misery and self-loathing. It makes ourselves seem like our lives are so much better, When they're really not. the strange thing is I see myself becoming Hank Moody and not the viewer, I get excited over new ***** but it doesn't fill the hole that I had for another. So my life becomes an endless loop. Work, sleep, ****, drink, alone, repeat.
infinite.

I.

i'm always nostalgic when listening to the Mortal Kombat soundtrack... for a reason only i know... it's not that there was a shopping mall in Ilford (Essex... but there was the inner London border of the A406) so... perhaps: technically still London... i.e.
not Essex...  and it was a predominantly Jewish bit of London... Ilford... Barkingside... Gants Hill would showcase a Hanukkah Menorah on the roundabout: when the roundabout was still fun... as fun as the Gallows Corner roundabout still is... i.e.: no ******* traffic lights... gear up... front gears on 3 (of 3)... back gears on 3 (of 7)... imagining holding onto a fox's tail... or a big ask akin to a truck... line up on the outside of its body so the driver might see you in the rear-view window... what happens before the supposed "white flight" from an area? the Jewry are the first to leave... the Holocaust has sharpened their take on trends... demographic tides... it's not like the rest of the Semites (Ha'ha'king'Raabs) have them in the "good books"... intellect before a hard-on... i'm nostalgic because... i remember what Cranbrook Rd. used to look like... i remember what technology felt like... fiddly... Blockbusters... renting VHS video cassettes... the mantra: please rewind this cassette after watching it... so that the next person renting it will not have to rewind it... hardly a Luddite... i still prefer to fiddle around with cables connected to an MP3 player when cycling... i have nostalgia for late 20th century technology... wires... plugs... VHS... the ******* compact disk... i still have a hoard of those that i burn and "translate" into MP3... the Ilford of my youth... when there was still a visible presence of Jewry... before... once again: the division into the labyrinth of their diaspora... i can't count myself "lucky": or so entrenched... "we": the Polacks... number... at best estimate... around 815,000 on these isles... the Romanians have come... if we're not welcome... we won't outstay our welcome... but what became of Ilford: what it is now... little Bangladesh... i once had an "angel" in the Ilford OurPrice (whittle **** the Branson) started making his money via ****** Records having signed up Mike Oldfield: Tubular Bells or... the Exorcist Soundtrack... or... (the) Halloween soundtrack... in OurPrice i first bought this Mortal Kombat soundtrack... the sheath read (past participle: red... but not like the colour... ergo not reed: to read)... original motion soundtrack by George S. Clinton... i wasn't sold that... i was a whittle Hans back then: i'm still a Conrad... a white blonde beast... beside my still intact blonde moustache that my grandmother decided to call ginger (strawberry blonde)... and if i grow my hair long like a barbarian: a streak of blonde in the hair: ha... the accents of grey appearing... slow so ever slow... how mortality evaporates... caste in a clinging remark for... bones... good thing he... she... looked out for me when buying this CD... i was sold the proper soundtrack...: gravity kills... KMFDM... traci lords, orbital, psykosonik, geezer, sister machine gun, bile, ****** death, type o negative, *****'s day out... that's the first time a proper mistake was made...  second time... when Batman Forever came out... i was still the puppeteer king of solipsism... playing with figurines of superheroes... making random sounds and narrating what my hands were freely left to do: being available... and i wanted the proper... classical soundtrack... not the songs of: seal - kiss of a rose... U2... hold me kiss me, thrill me... i wanted... the OST... for... elliot goldenthal's fledermausmarschmusik... it's just over a minute long... such were the times... boys still played with figurines... i'm not going to blame myself: having ejected the Jewry from Europe... what came after? still people... but... it's hardly the sort of people that one could relate to: great food... hardly a people that will be willing to create Yiddish... yet still speak terrible ******... like my francophobia... i have a fear of speaking French: simply because i will not speak it with a French accent... i'll speak it at best as some Novak Djoković... but once you speak English with... well... i'm not going to spell out Scouser... pretend Essex-lad or Cockney-cockers... just this... generic London cosmopolitan... foreigner hiding a fake native... i can pull it off: but... to speak French... without a French accent? what's the point? it sounds: fair-enough... passable... but i'm used to the psychology of integration... to the point where i'm indistinguishable that a Scottish English teacher will not suspect i'm not an Englishman from the south when talking to me... while insulting two Polacks at a bus-station... hell... my affinity with my fellow ethnic clusters... oddly enough to see ****** first and white second... has to be the case... unlike the trouble in H'america of the collective mr. brown, mr. coco... mr. cinnamon... mr. auburn... but no herr nigeria etc. that's the "problem": if some Arab insinuates i look like a German... my fetish for the deutsche-zunge starts to boil... after all: i write in English but i think about... the migration of the Saxons... no... not the Pomeranians... or the Swabians... or the Rhine-dwellers... Ruthenians? still... that nostalgia for the technology that was available at the end of the 20th century... fiddly technology... none of this current: wireless radioactive ******* makes you want to engage in "things"... ethereal culprits... like that one time when Gants Hill roundabout had an Odeon cinema... by mistake i was sold a ticket to see the Little Princess... i sat through the horror... i was supposed to see Jumanji... but i saw through the horror... watching to old ladies knit... socks? throughout the whole flick... later i imitated Jonathan Edwards running down Coventry Road on a bouncing gallop... i never ran so fast as i did then... come to think of it... little... little princess... Manga... i must say... Manga has been a greater influence on me than Disney could ever be... ウロ津キドジ... obviously you won't find a katakana syllable-unit of TSU... it wasn't hard to find what the alternative was... TSU-NA-MI... TSU - a bit of a hieroglyph... it can't be written as a sound - vowel or consonant... between ア イ ウ エ オ  ン... i remember that summer... when i was eating fried chicken while my uncle was cleaning his Porsche... listening to either Californication by the R.H.C.P... stone temple pilots: art school g/f... or... how did these brats pull off frogstomp... in the assemble of silverchair?! well... TSU- i already arrived at... that ******* pseudo emoji... but how NA-MI became... what it already was...? ナミ? i used to play guitar... i still sometimes do... but when i remember how it sounds... to play silverchair's SHADE... eh... first irksome lesson... Black Sabbath's Black sabbath: let's forget the chords...

D|---------5-----------------------|
A|-----------------4---------------|
E|-3-----------------------­--------|

which is almost "something" akin to...
Atomic Rooster's: death walks behind you...
Deep Purple's: Black Night...
Spirit: when i touch you...
Free's: all right now...

II.

this can't be achieved: purely verbatim... although i'll look for the extract: from unbearable lightness of being - that encounter between Tomas & Tereza... eyes wide shut... slug mouths always open... insatiable hungers & subsequent delights at the relishes... did he prefer to have *** with his eyes closed... or did she... one of them was most certainly looking...

trouble with ***: there's no trouble at all:
i want to see as much as i might be allowed:
i want my eyes to burn...
since... stomaching enough *****:
i will never... exactly... see in 3rd person...
all that happens in a *******...
with one using my well hydrated little richard
and another sitting on my gob
for me to slobber...
all those 3rd person antics of the ****** are missing...
it's not so much fun if there
is that: envious parade of: it takes three to tango...
one will do...
even if i were a king Solomon...
there would always be a Queen Sheba...
there would always be a father:
a King David: the psalm renegade...
what wisdom from a man
with a harem?
ha...                                i'll just
expatriate myself to a time:
a posteriori... i'll detail all the facts...
after the deeds... wisdom for some comes
with a relief at finding regrets...
no Buddha to tow...
i'll die hungering for prostitutes...
Turkish Romanian...
Macedonian...
because... the English girls played
the game of nun...
no offence: but i i read offence
all over what was made available
for the Pakistani groomers of Rotherham...
girl... if you only asked...
i had all the banana skins
the *****... sure... i was missing
the Colombian fairy dust...
excuses, excuses... this Pontius Pilate
punishment of:
i am... to be absolved from the concept
of free will: from agency:
third person authority:
leverage a blame...
what a zombie-riddled life of welcome:
solo-sorrow...

oh hell... please ask the Mongolian horde
to invade the second time:
i have nothing to defend!
what i might have wished to defend is
already available on the free-market!
they're bragging about it...
choking as they go around...
   i'm surrounded by older women
telling me not to marry...
imagine that...
in the trenches during world war I...
there arrived a makeshift brotherhood...
women are ******* unto each other:
watch them starve for a place in an Ottoman
harem... secure... watch them turn into...
cannibalistic chickens in a courtyard of
farm...
where once there was this Jewish
matchmaker witch / aunt...
there's now... a woman who has
a son that married... while she tells her neighbour's
son: not to marry...
no problem... Rachel: RA-KX-EL...

-  oh what a loss of momentum...
that: what happened when pushing too much coagulated
ice into a narrow neck of a glass...
for ms. amber to play catch-up to what
i already arrived at with the wine...
and a sly beer...

oh right... he was looking at: the following list:

- Loch Lomond
- Zodiac (dolly alderton... i can use her
actual name... she uses it... in print)
- Milan Kundera
- *** after 13 years looking: thai surprise etc.
- Zeus: Swan...
- peek-ah-boo... at the barbers

payroll of journalists - poet: what priest?
lackey? the "sensibility" of journalists...
beside the opinion sections of
the weekend magazines...
no... not all the president's men typo... sorry...
type of journalists...
what's left?
simulating depression by:
listening to the hellraiser soundtrack
for a month: finding relief in some other music...

no... i was pretty much depressed for the number
of nights i put on christopher young's soundtrack
for a month... then i switched to the XXs
and some Trentemoller... etc.
i slept less hours... but upon waking i felt a Faroe Island
invigoration...

wait for the bracket: in & out...
most certainly in: "no" out...

- a pre-scriptum technical note: how best to approach this,
what will eventually become a collage
rather than a narrative cascade: column -
since (it) will hardly be worthy of teasing at
a paragraph...

however it will be approached:
it will most probably be approached with that
first: an impromptu by a goliath ****
done in two parts...

idiot me pushing an iceberg of cubes into
a tall weak glass...
obviously pushing them hard enough
to break the glass up
and leave with the index and middle
finger with a deep cut...
then... me writing this...
delayed by... my body to do its magic...
the bleeding to stop...
no... no plaster... no mastic fantastic...
hands washed...
paper towel wrapped around each finger...
applied pressure...

give or take... the time it takes
to "smuggle" 35cl of whiskey into my room...
god... how **** a bottle of liquor looks
in its first minutes out from
a refrigerator...
and when you pour it?
there's no: glug glug glug sound
of the top-head heavy: i.e. full...
it's liquid amber...
any loose liquid would ****** itself
like a cascade from the narrow
spear-head of the bottle neck..
but not ms. amber... sub-zero...

give or take... 10 minutes...
now my fingers are itchy again...

... if you want the proper version... please see
https://allpoetry.com/poem/16014743-two-bleeding-fingers---in-cervisia-felicitas--PENDING...­-UNFINISH-by-Matthew-Conrad

pin points
joined like Siamese
dots, exclusion
of the hyphen for
the use of pause.

it's one of those early nights having an introspective
moment... trying to give dimensions to my oeuvre:
all those heartbreaks of spaghetti fingers typing
and then trying to ctrl + c / ctrl + p / ctrl + a
but missing the keys... hey presto! a magic act:
a poem lost not even saved by automaated drafts...

yes... i do feel like i need to buy Red Hot Chilli Pepper's
Unlimited Love on vinyl...
it's funny how artists, even in the mainstream disappear...
i have no account of the existence
of the band from... circa 2007... until 2022 when
they toured and i was working the London Stadium:
poet of the coliseum...
John Frusciante came back: i never thought he went
anywhere... but even major artists disappear...

unlike those days being a greedy and eager youth
trying to impress girls with an array of influences
finding out: no return to jazz no return to classical music
to figure out finding my own voice (i wish,
there was a rhyme, vice... ice...) - parrot?
    imitating echo? if parrots could imitate echoes...

it's a gruelling evening...
   there's absolutely nothing to write about...
i'mm rereading some of Al Purdy and Walt Whitman
and i feel: feelz... detachment from any stated,
historical achievements...
          wars lost wars won or whatever
that might be between the flesh and the fingernails
when the fingernails grow too long...
an interlude from working shifts... dealing with people
is a ******: a flat tire...
   37 is no age to start thinking about a road
already undertaken:
children? no?! marriage? now?!
     flipping pancakes and idealising love furthest from
love's truth...
   murky waters and swamp-things...
      deceits, subtractions and additions of lies...
headaches, toothaches...

            shares happiness of coupling and shared
demises...
but from what i've learned:
there is no happiness greater than a one arrived
at by oneself: that spontaneity of laughing
for no reason or laughing at oneself
having thought a certain thought...
and no sweeter misery that no one can share
with you... a nostalgic grey morose murmur of...
some self- prefix fixation of this automated
monkey-bot turned 180 degree standing upright...

the last days of autumn... rotten leaves
in the park that are as "dangerous" as ice...
and a winter that only takes a sneak-peek
at where it once was: magnificently as an AGE of ice
parallels of trunks and trombones and
imagining hairy elephants...
   just imagining.... not really paying attention
to the fact that: yes... how long would it take
for an elephant to grow fur and would it have migrated
with man... all furry in sunny Africa...
kind of inverting the point of the elephant in Siberia
with man shedding fur for... bare-goose-bump skin...

this plughole, this constipation of history through
the lens of Darwinism is... like...
standing above a grave of a dearly loved one
yawning, or chewing gum...
               something like an Icarus-Phoenix
burning in the mind that dead yet dead not forgotten...
fickle creature memory and what
i don't want to remember:
with what i do remember -
   like that repetitive loop of memory-erosion
beginning with the philosophy of pedagogy...
raise hopes and teach pointless arts...
but dear, dear... don't teach them how to combat
the drudgery of work and menial toils...
i'm pretty sure that most physical labours
that require a technicality of an array of skills
will never be menial...
it's the shelf-stacking jobs that could be
made easier... in theory... with an entertaining mind...
a wandering here one minute gone the next...
a disappearing ego...  reappearing ego...
a bucket and pulled from a bucket a top hat...
and from a top hat? pulling out an old person's
chattering dentures instead of a white bunny...

a beautiful life focusing on little things,
finding spontaneous wisdom anecdotes and not defending
such roles as guru or saviour or leader...
like... going to bed before 12am and
like today... nonchalantly in concord with:
i'd like to have a lesbian girlfriend...
while sneaking away to the brothel...
but even no, given the wintry months:
having a relief from spring's and insect' libido....
sure... jerking off but not really thinking about
it, which is aided by sitting on the throne
of throne and giving birth to a meteor of
plucked brown-stuff and almost rising ot *******
heights of that one gateway not being
violated by ******* passions....

tired of experimenting of breaking society's
boundaries and leftover taboos...
just ****** tired... as if wanting something
wholesome like a slice of rye bread
or porridge in the morning...
    perfectly boring perfectly sighed over...
and a world that's only as big as my eyes can see...
sure... a mountain in the distance...
or a sky-scraper... this grand plateau of London...
no car, no need... just a bicycle and a pair
of legs... a lost commitment from having
a grandmother... made all the more easier
by the fact that: i will die without an image
of my father's mother...
               making it easier for me to digest
the ongoing process of being estranged from
my mother's mother...
               i have the perfect excuse these days:
i'm working... obviously not the work
of aligning with plastic surgeons of bus drivers...
work the liberator and excuse from...
i used to love seeing my mother's parents...
i'd visit them for stretches of months...
sit with the old people and soak up:
fermenting and almost sad that my youth was
wasted on old age... but the books i read
and the training i received from "missing out"
made me a rigid-stone...
from the youthful energy of disappointment
to the slowly growing old dynamic of
oriental thinking...
even now if i will ever put a foot in Poland
i will only be doing so
on a whim of: i need to purchase cheap duty-free
cigarettes... i'll fly over and spend
a day in Cracow... try to look local...
******* back to the airport, buy three cartons...
spend £30 there and back and spend a total
of £90 on 600 cigarettes...
which will still come cheaper than if i bought
cigarettes here legally, stupid...
or under the counter from some Romanians...

i was supposed to go to the gym with Francesca
today... honestly... i was busy... busy being
busy about not being busy...
spent the night chatting to a friend from Hawaii...
she texted me that she was going on a date...
that's what i mean:
i'd like a lesbian girlfriend... someone i could go
ice-skating with... talk macho ******* with...
go to an art-gallery...
but: keeping up with Platonic traditions...
if in need of **** find it elsewhere...
with the likes of Mona...
who, apparently disgraced, was shunned by fellow
prostitutes for becoming pregnant with
a customer... that's the thing...
i hope it wasn't me... but chances are...
cross-eyed at the zenith of her ******...
lips touches lips and all the wonderful stuff that's
like sunlight having descended and
enveloped a field of wheat in August...

i don't mind... carefree mitigation of rumours
and the frenzies of atomic vibrations...
invisible yet existent parodies of impasses
of: how Hannibal solved the issue of the Alps...
how Lawrence created the endless number of clocks
from the sands of Arabia...
how the sea was a puddle for the first to not thirst...
such evenings when language is loose...
gooey... mindless bragging and jargon...
something person spotted from time to time...

with my mother's brother, my uncle:
i once adored him... i used to go to concerts with him...
that one afternoon he cleaned and worked on
his Porsche... we listened to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
Californication... an interlude of going
to the chicken shop and getting some chips
and hot wings...
his personal life of sleeping with prostitutes...
multiple girlfriends... i admired that i wanted
that for myself rather than the odd... mutant...
rigour of my father's monogamy...
i tried it once: twice...

i'm so thankful for the women in my life,
i won't event pretend to not give them their names:
Isabella, she dumped me...
Promis... she dumped me...
Ilona... she too dumped me...
dumped Humpty-Dumpty...
which gives me the focus of Pontius Pilate...
each time i wash my hands i wash imaginary
hands of Pontius Pilate...
   it's so much easier than to fall in the category
of the sort of man that has the luxury of clinging women
he then dumps...
much easier to be dumped...
it reveals avenues of... perhaps Mona, that *******,
really did have the best *** in her life
and wanted my genes to be preserved...
no one knows expect for her
and the insinuations other prostitutes in the brothel
have dropped...
but i won't be revisiting that place for some time...
my libido is stale-bread and...
eh... a ******* for an hour telling someone:
slow down... slow down...
                      just a little tenderness...
i don't need to be circumcised twice!

             unlike the ***** where you can ferociously
gorge on the uncircumcised bits...
or when interacting with piston against the backdrop
of the floral patterns: we're talking an act
with possible teeth involved...
my love made all the more easier:
so easier to move on... being the one being dumped...

western dogma: wisdom as an over-complication
with eastern dogma: wisdom as an over-simplification...
traps and mazes of the latter...
dogs chasing their own tails...
perhaps? reimagining the once legal
aesthetic of improving the Dobbermann dog breed
by snipping the nails and clipping the ears
so they might be pointy?

back to "dearest" uncle... he's back living in Poland
with his mother nearing her 85th year...
apparently going back... friends with investment
potentials... 3 weeks there and all he's doing
is sitting in the living room in his boxer shorts...
watching t.v., trying to play the role of manager
of a non-existent company...
having sold his one greatest asset of a paid-off
mortgage of a house...
his dream: retiring in his mid-50s like the norm
in Greece... a man still in his prime
having lost it...
                         hardly me cooking and improving
the life of grandparents by painting shelves...
changing the linoleum flooring in the kitchen...
changing a light-bulb...
it's like that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
the decadent police officer being dragged back
into his childhood bedroom...
this Hell of the Western World's Mentality...
living with your parents like it's a wheelchair hindering...
what?! and paying 12 months upfront
to rent a box in London is somehow better
than the allowances of homelessness?!
hardly... **** me... hardly!

sure... when he was living in England
and had the advantage of bilingualism...
how his "friends" dragged him into a ****-show:
circus without the clowns storming
a FIAT 126P by the 20 load of cramming...
now my horror-suspicion can be shared....
but at least i had escapism within the confines
of books... and no, seriously no ambitions
to stand on a stage and dance...
poetry and mediating mediocre saved me...
i allowed myself: i was allowed
sieving through observing people:
pedestrian talk: no talk...
            
     loads of money: he did save up a load of money:
compared to the usual dynamic he's
hardly a millionaire...
but compared to me... i count my riches
by the time i spent reading a book...
reading Heidegger's Being & Time...
hell... i paid... no... i didn't... my grandfather
paid 20? let's be realistic... he paid 30zł for each book...
in a subscription "race":
one book per 30zł... 20 books in total...
anyway... i was a vagabond in Heidegger's head
for 30zł that spanned for almost 3 years...
a difficult book...

                          i'd spend less time in Sartre's antithesis
of Time: id est esse nihil                                    -ness
does it really matter? the number on the receiving
end... is the calculated progress of judgement
of what constitutes "progress"...
Welsh is always a second clue concerning Britain...
given: you will hardly hear or learn
how the Scots "forgot" their origin in tongue
so smoothly lost that it would require a James
to bend the knee and crack his knees
like walnuts to arrive at these isles unity... ****-wit...
it's a pointless sort of defeat...
but adamant Welshmen and their prosthetic hard-on
for myths of: origins of the dragon folk...
hardly passable: most impressionable...

right now, though! i figured out something!
i don't want to write something original!
i don't!
you: "you": you... you know what i want
to achieve?! i want too write something
that... that can't be plagiarised!
which is a take on originality as
anti-originality-original

suppose these "poems" leave indentations in the fabric
of time (solely, they already have,
in the room i'm currently sitting in,
listening to R.E.M.'s automatic for the people
for the Nth time, nothing has changed)...
wow... my ego-tripping pays off...
but what tripping with no ego? just a silence
of the mind? the only reason why i'm writing
it because i can't return to my prior to psychosis
state of the thought-narrative bliss of
semi-solipsism semi-object-thinking...
one LEGO project after another...

i'm sitting here hunched before QWERTY looking
at the screen not looking at the keyboard
because: mastering QWERTY is oh so much different
to ice-skating...
life this self-suggesting, doubly-affirming:
believe me you be...
          are... conjugating the perfected grammar-math...
perhaps the wrongly assembled: you're be...
makes no more sense than
a chicken clucking trying to imitate
the screech of a diving hawk...

a lion growling a cat meowing...
             green met yellow and how blue was spawned...
if the blues was all blue
then i guess jazz was: having the purples...
classical music was the savvy pinpoint
between silver - gold - platinum...
but i still preferred folk songs...
the sort of songs without genius and more
the spontaneity of drunkards...

we heave an unbearable load of nostalgia:
nostalgia being a fakery of memory
and memory being no better than imagining
a present and future... with the downfall:
a memory reimagining the present and past...
if thinking is stability: if!
posit if within the confines of "if"!
then imagination is pyrotechnics...
the same can be said of memory...
fickle creatures... self-appropriating
self-gratifying no-self-involved students of
a circus...

i conjure up a memory: i'm re-imagining
what ought to be re-remembered...
no can do... i think of something outside
the prism-prison of geometry of a square:
that becomes the Disney Mouse...
wow!
     imagination and memory conflate
and thought: knows all the best distractions...
existence per se and for no knowledge
of the usual vectors of demand: how, when, who, why,
north? how...
east? when...
south? who...
west? why...
                         this is my globe of words making sense:
by sense i imply: words i own: i can manifest
within the confines of constructing a loss-of-self-self...

some spineless messages from Vietnam like
i'm speaking, writing, English, ergo i'm American...
it might only take a few Pakistanis selling Qurans
to conflates ****** with a German...
doesn't matter to me...
does it? did it? will it? ha ha...
     well... a ****** in England not pretending...
tangy-****-****... drool of accent of America...
talking to someone from Vietnam trying to start
up a brothel with girls to "sell"... shady corners of the world...
a bit like not trying to be Russian and talking to
someone from Afghanistan...

bored citadels with barricaded Cinderellas
***** me a snake and wishing ****** dress: white...
promises... me and you and me not getting any
STDs?!
                vampires,  in literature... at the height
of the AIDS epidemic... epidemic: in through to out...
pandemic: out through to in...
     d'uh... you ******* brain-frozen buzzing itches
of intellect not worth salvaging...
i'm tired! i'm tired of mediocre and the excuses leftover
by western psychologists...
i wasn't handed the kind poker hand...
i had to struggle... i struggled...
considered mad i waited until the world
caught up to me supposed "madness":
the world turned out madder than my originally prescribed
madness...
who's celebrating now? no one...
i'm curious about the demands of the gods...
i'm in pivot: contemplating both the crucified
and the one to be impaled on a spike...
my god... could celebrating torture be so misunderstood?!
crucifying someone is half the torture...
but impaling someone... celebrating
an anti-homosexuality... mein gott!
that's the focus: in situ of gravity, glue,
moon, money, sun, honey... being crucified is rather tame
compared to being impaled with your hands
being tied behind your back!
tame... this... thingy-magic... torture emblem of
excuses... solipsistic nostalgia some mediocre people
had it well... **** them... trample them...
horses need to learn to own hoofs!
no point of learning without some crushing
of skulls-soulless;

bemoan what fact? i might... somehow... endear myself
and enrich my existence with / by listening
to these harrowing calming-pill narratives of:
and who isn't who without anything being lost?!
oh! the hierarchy of victim-culture:
blaming X for Y and Y for Z...
fat ***** best fatten herself up by grief growing like
mould: slow...
  
of course i'm readying myself for the death-hanging...
the death-looming... the death-apparent...
tick-tock... tick-tock...
it would be impossible to thoroughly move with
a life, a concern for it, "it":
having a blasé affair with: exactly, with what that's not "that"?
pin point a needle in a haystack...
see a camel a mile away from passing
through a needle's eye...

old teachings are like ancient ruins...
people are not willing... the ontological reality
outside of the realm of Darwinism is unavailable...
there is no Darwinism to explain why
there were furless elephants in Africa:
and still are...
while there were furry elephants of Siberia
and Northern Europe....
eh?! explains X x what?!
            the English tongue is poison with its
dramatic Darwinism make-over speed up: ****
history: does anyone care to remember yesterday?!
if poetry is such a ******* **** in the realm
of arts... what's journalism?
historically speaking: it's...  A *******
CONSTIPATION!

you "people" are constipated meta-profession
ortho-beings... paraphrasing: eh?! who?!
no lost of libido... if at least half of us turned
to the path of patchwork of Cain...
we might... get something done...

Revisiting a memory...

A time when the world meant something different.
Sitting in my sister’s room, watching her stack her CDs.
I always remember the room being messy. The cupboards are flung open and I can see heaps of books and clothes.
Shell chimes hung from the ceiling. Lavender and white.
With the 4 O’ clock sun streaming in through the window, I remember feeling happy.
Happy for being there.
It always meant a lot to be in her room.
Red Hot Chili Peppers are playing Californication and I just can’t think of anything that would make me happy at the moment.
Soon it will be dark and I will no longer feel the sun’s warmth on my face.
I think amma is making tea.
The smell of sweet ginger tea is wafting through the hallway.
I hear girls playing outside.
Today I don’t want to join them.
At least not right away.
I had to be here.
Feeling warm and fuzzy.

What worries did I have?

Defeated in depression
In your lonely little life
Trapped within a world of others
Since the one you knew is rife
With inequality, injustice
Inconvenient truth denies
And weaponized disinformation states
Of lies and data spies
Now analyze the Analytica
Chlamydia contagion
Viral marketing campaigning
Stagnant wage a war
Sensation
Burning Californication
To diffuse the situation
At the border firewall
Just spark another conflagration
Global changes uninstalled
But still enthralled are the spectators
Haters waiting on a savior
To deliver Hunger Games
And ever in their favor wager
That a litany of killing spree
Appeases free for all to see
And that the guilty party be
News feeding, eating your I.D.
Until the next, same old reboot
Loots pockets like colluding suits
And muted destitutes
Excuse the Pruitt's crude pollutants
When it's Houston under water
Flint still sippin' on the squalor
Slaughter stains our hands in Yemen
Where the kids are cannon-fodder
But your daughters and your sons
Are safe
Your belly's full
You're not displaced
So waste each waking second
On your daily fake intake
You're only making the stakeholders'
Promise
Easier to break

2022... oh dear me: how much i gained from the pandemic
while so many people suffered...
i truly came into my element... i feel like a whirlwind...
like a ******* hurricane...
my heart is a sparrow and a cage and the sparrow
has rabies and the cage is rusty...

what a glorious summer! i'm not in love but i'm also
in love! i'm not in love with any girl...
and i'm in love with my self... actually:
i'm just self-accepting, self-forgiving...
                 that Walter Sickert exhibition did wonders
to me...
the fact that i cycled all the way from Romford
to Tate Britain by ol' father Thames added to the effect...
the fact that i was being checked out
by this one girl in particular...
who came with her "cousin" and most certianly
at least one grandma...
    
   of course i didn't make a move! where's the thrill
of thought when you make "chess" moves?!
i'm a card-player... i like other thrills...
short-term thrills...
   i don't like making moves to equate into
consequences and responsibilities...
the hazardous creature that i am:
        i know my dues...
                        done and tested...
i said NO to one girl telling me:
oh... i just want to grow old and watch the news
on the t.v. with someone...
like **** i'm going to that...
can i invest my attention span in clamouring
into clouds?!
or pretending to play chess looking
at a brick wall?!
or looking at the Ancient of Days in
the bark, branches and leaves of trees?!

i was walking back from the shop... geared up...
had my beef mince... my mushrooms...
my youngling celery...
i already had all the other ingredients
for a... a more diluted Bolognaise sauce...
i like more juices in my Bolognaise...
most people make Bolognaise really thick...
there's no sauce... i hate that...
it's like over-cooked pasta...
            
as long as the sauce is decently seasoned with
bay leaves, all spice pods... paprika...
pepper... salt... ketchup... oddly enough...
fresh chillies...
                    what else did i use?
**** on me...
                        hmm... i'm scratching my head about
to scratch my ***** but refraining...
aha! mixed herbs... mixed Italian dried herbs...
dried basil, dried rosemary, dried thyme...
dried oregano...
  Bolognaise all slurp-y... soup life...
why? it's hot... need more red wine need more
Passata...
   need at least one can of plum potatoes...

fair enough in winter time... but during the summer
months... you need a Bolognaise sauce that's
almost a soup... not not really a soup...
since it's still a Bolognaise sauce... and not a soup...

oh man... i felt like a boss walking
with all the ingredients from the supermarket...
of all the people that bought their concert Red Hot Chilli Pepper
t-shirts from@ whenever it was...
how many will gladly walk around in them?!
zilch... 0... nada...
                  i was wearing mine today...
idiotic *******...
                      
   then crossing the street...
a mongrel poo... a tender looking dog came running
up to me...
  dearest limp of a missing limb...
licking my wounds... my tattoos of plums...
almost picked him up...
while within a second a girl ran up to
me and stated: we've been trying to catch him
for almost half an hour...
Hades... he, who adorns himself with animals...
          
     and no...
   it's impossible for me to like Ed Sheeran...
right now i'm listening to KORTEZ: z imbirem -
with ginger...
i've drank enough..
       i'm just going through the cinema
of my memories...
       it only takes one song...
to undermine Ed Sheeran's performance...

it was great... but it was also... VANILLA...
ICE ICE baby...
i'm sort of reliving the Red Hot Chillio Pepper
Performance and i'm dazed...
first day they opened up with Can't Stop...

second day they opened up
up with Around the World...
that's that's i'm currently listening to...
my god... the second day was such a better playlist...
no Scar Tissue... did they play Californication?
i'm pretty sure they didn't play Under The Bridge...

it's a band man! the energy of the drummer:
Chuck! Chuck! Chuck!
the energy of the bass player! my god the compliments
for the heart of the band with the guitarist...
the romantic: the Aramis...
i'm releasing to the crescendo of Around the World
and i'm like... poker faced me on call...
but now that i have a t-shirt i'm going mildly wild...

seriously... drizzle some anger-salt on me and
with Around the World crescendo?!
i'd be *******: gone... gone...
that's wwhy Ed Sheeran is so un-impressive to me...
one ginger **** after another...
          mate... you need a drummer!
a rascal bassist... an emotional guitarist...
and an altogether together vocalist...
to hell with the Beatles...

   the Beatles had a ****** bass player...
most bands have ****** bass players...
     i level up! i like bands with good bass players...
rhythm guitar(s) my ***... i need bass...
i need a reiteration of the Quintent of Jazz..
you hear me?
              i'm reliving a dream...
i went to a Red Hot Chilli Pepper gig for free...
and i wasn't in love with a girl...

to hell with me ******* prostitutes...
thank god they're o.c.d. about s.t.d.s....
because humid is bad hygiene...

seriously though, Ed Sheeran is vanilla...
when it come to the opening crescendo
of Red Hot Chilli Peppers' of AROUND THE WORLD...
******* vanilla... the shared energy is...
insatiable... oh man...
the shared energy of a band...
he's great... he's great... he's great...
but a band is a band...

        boom: boom boom boom....
and then the strobe lighting... like lightning...
no matter what man alone and what stage...
a band is a band..
with the Red Hot Chilli Peppers the Beatles
are historical relics... leftovers...
seriously... they are...

               i'm more prone to reference myself
toward King Crimson... from staged
zeitgeist era...

DEATH TO THE LUMBERJACK CRITIC!

what i've learnt about bands... say, they're headlining over
two days at one venue...
on the first day they play all their major hits...
it feels a lot like a struggle: i struggled to not yawn
even though i shouldn't have...
sure... they played all their best songs...
                  Scar Tissue, Under the Bridge...
among others... but the whole flow of the set-list felt
disjointed...
           the crowd felt too fresh...
                 and sure: on the first day the venue was sold out...
if i wasn't working i don't think i could appreciate
a back-to-back spectacle by the same band:
no... i wouldn't be stupid enough to buy tickets
for two consecutive days...
     isn't it enough that i ****** up my knees, feet and back
earned over £400... spent £35 on a t-shirt
and bought myself lunch: the best steak & potato
pasties in town?
no... i wouldn't have bought tickets for yesterday
and today... i would have thought like most people might
think: they're going to play the same songs...
nope... bands with a big enough oeuvre never play
the same songs... if they're playing two or three days
at the same venue...
   today's set list was much better...
because they only played Californication, Give it Up...
and By the Way...
    that's the only three songs they split between
the two days...
       sure... yesterday i was writing about being spotted
for what i do...
these two women started hovering around
where i was placed... i spotted them once...
disappeared... they reappeared...
one was my sort challenge... a big girl...
a big girl akin to ALISON TYLER big girl...
sort of the same height as me... all the necessary freckles
of a brunette and not a ginger...
lovely curves: big... not fat... just big...
she kept eyeing me up... i don't know whether
the crowd gave her the "*****-and-giggles" or whatever:
but her friend started to try and comfort her...
scratching her back... then caressing it...
her bra strap became exposed... then her friend tried
to hide it... and she kept looking at me with
these doe eyes...
     i couldn't allow them through the fire exit...
since only personnel can walk through freely...
so i told them: there's this disability bay up there
and the seats are far apart...
you might not see the band: but you'll hear them...
that's the best i can do...
       they left and i never saw them again...
maybe i'm just imagining things...
    who the hell buys tickets to a concert and suddenly
conjures up "panic attacks"?
i'm not saying: fakes panic attacks...
  but conjures them out of thin-air!
            maybe i have a story in my head that sort
of deviates from "reality"...
            hell... i'd buy tickets to a ******* opera instead...
that's usually a tame musical experience...
but still a musical experience...

just to the end i figured something about crowd
control, it's just a minor detail,
i sort of knew why things were done as they were
to be done: egress...
how to get over 30K spectators from the pitch...
two routes...
one route? a bottle-neck... up the stairs...
onto the concourse...
second route? a whale's ****** sized exit through
a tunnel...
what do you do? you block off the whale's ******
sized exit through a tunnel for about five minutes...
by placing traffic-cone people in high-viz. jackets
by this exit... today i felt like i was the only
controller on an airport tarmac...
moving my hands: indicating direction for
the initial crowd leaving to take...
           better orientating airplane...
   up the stairs... to the right... to the right (my right,
their left)... that's the whole trick...
establish a flow up the stairs... so that enough people
take the bait... which creates an initial split in the crowd...
since the bottleneck route can only take so
much traffic... and while people congest around
the high-viz. traffic cone people... right...
one flow established... now pull apart
the cordon of high-viz. traffic cone people
apart and let the mass of traffic through the tunnel...
makes sense...
                   i know there's no need to think about
such simple things...
but what news do you usually hear from Mecca
at the time of the Hajj?!
    what's the news? about 70 dead when the crowd
stampedes and crushes everyone...
i hate working with people with large eyes:
fear has large eyes...
    and panic is worse than ******...
               you just want people to go to an event
and leave safely... some drunk wizards and philosophers
will always be found... but that sort of stressing of
"individualism" is about as useful as
a gherkin on a pile of cucumbers...
                     i hate losing my temper with drunk people,
thank god it's a concert so you do have to shout
because of the ear-plugs...
and stand there like some hyper-inflation of "******"
gesticulating via "on MIGI": in MIG...
                  a make-shift deaf-person talk with the body...
it's not an acronym, it's a word borrowed from
******: in flashes... finger language...
hand arm body language...  
          wink wink... smile... neck turning insinuations...
i don't know if i'd make a better postman...
i think i'd make a great housekeeper when
people go on holidays and need a caretaker...
perhaps a great dog-walker...
certainly not a dentist or a heart-surgeon...
that path is lost... i'm not going to pick that sort of life
up... i'm still thinking about picking up
the role of a chemistry teacher: although i'd prefer
to be an English teacher...
  
   what a gruesome weekend... what a rewarding
weekend... i only woke up at home and
only spent 12am through to 2am scribbling and drinking...
as much as i love the idea of home:
give me a horse! and a good stretch of an Ukrainian steppe!
i've earned enough to 0 my debt and spend
the rest on prostitutes... which i will after the 1st of July...
because... i have nothing to spend it on...
plus... if the economy is going to work...
the women need the money... i just buy whiskey...
band t-shirts after seeing them in concert...
some food from time to time...
but... better the women have the money to spend...
but i'm not just going to give money to women
via marriage... via marriage that means
having a limited amount of ***
and hoping for people to attend your funeral... ah ha ha...
better i give the money to prostitutes
and have *** in return... makes sense...

i was actually dreaming about this manic weekend
finishing...
i was dreaming something akin to...
which i did fulfill...
the last day...
   singing die eisenfaust am lanzenshaft
(Teutonic Crusader song)
while walking home from Romford St. to where
i live, while drinking some cider,
smoking a cigarette or two...
admiring the night, the stars... the lateness of the sunset
of high June... wishing to find my cat sleeping
in my bed... waiting for tomorrow
in the form of waking up at 12pm,
cleaning the house... waited for the boiler technician
to come at 2pm and get paid £80 for 15 minutes'
worth of work...

then cycling for an hour... then making lunch
for dearest father with the leftover steak meat...
then making dinner power: roast chicken...
some vegetables... i'm always in my "element"
when cooking...
cleaning the house: that too...
        i have at least one night until a shift
at Wembley for an Ed the Ginger gig so i can
completely drink myself under the table:
the Matrix setting: there's no table...
as there's no "under": therefore...

                      i work hard i drink hard...
crowd control: eh... work for retards...
but these army references keep trickling down
from the top to the "stormtroopers"...
i don't know why the Somalis and other copper-neccks
like working with me...
once a make-shift supervisor...
i'm still their supervisor...
i think they just like saying the word: Matthew...

i was away from working for enough
to know... that work and youth don't mix...
und ihre schwerter blinken...
    
if i had more time: i rather walk into
the:
verdunkelt-wald... mondbeschienensilberlocken...
than a lampezündetehaus...
das knarren von kniefern
im alles das ist nacht!
                kuss mich morgen:
zu wahrheit die gähnen-mittag-von-die-sonne:
sonne das nie blinken oder schlafen...
nacht ewig: ein nacht alles uns!

i disintegrate into German from English
since... English is sort of German with some
*******-workings of pseudo-French workings...

oh but the conversations you hear...
the sort of fears blacks have concerning American culture...
the anti-racism culture of England...
too much was said in order for me to write
something equivalent to a haiku:
we, just, get, along...
   sure... i get it... there are outliers...
anti-racist white girls and their fetishes...
i have a fetishes for mushrooms and cats...
and caterpillars... i have a fetish for Turkish girls...
i have a fetish for Teutonic crusader songs...
i have a fetish for the German tongue...

but the young copper-necks like working
with me... i like them... i like their hue...
they're lazily employed at first but they soon build up
momentum...
when that happens i just start singing Teutonic songs
in my head.... i.e. we're here to get paid...
we're not in an army...
i'm planning to ******* to the land of Nod
from 2am through to 12pm... with my cat sleeping
with me... sure... i wish it was a woman...
let's not wish on too much...
first i need to scratch my scar tissue...
peel off some scab... eat it like a dog...
Jemminah really ****** me off...
not that she was an easy catch...
   but because she was a ginger and an impossible catch...

but that's the beauty of life:
you're never going to get what you "think" you're
supposed to expect... that never happens...
no one is ever promised to be born with
a crown of thorns of the crown of England...
are they?!
the idea is to diffuse the "situation"...
unlike in Republics... the old ways remain
the same... keep the majority a majority...
and then keep a scrutiny on the minority
that want to exist outside of the realm of the minority:
faking majority rule...
but?! first you have to sort out the fake minority
rule of PRIDE politico *******...
no one likes a minority detailing rules
for a majority to follow...
what one likes? individuals to detail rules
for a majority...
individuals > minorities when it comes
to the dynamic of ruling over the majority...

   classical western democracy cannot ever champion
the minority... a sub-class that undermines
the class of people that require to be guided...
this sub-class of individualism can never
undermine the individual...
but individualism is not somehow spawned:
orientated: dictated: by precursors...
it "arrives" when it must "arrive"...
                      
           give my heart and my feet a rest....
spawn some new idiots...
some spares of asp, wasp...
this night... drinking cider under this one specific
weeping willow...
dreadlock i.e. Jamaica is nowhere to be found...

i was pretty sure there was no album they (the red hot chilli peppers) released between Californication and By the Way... but i stumbled upon something curious today upon waking... oh... i do know that they released a single in between the two albums... or was it after By the Way? Fortune Faded... well... i just found the Fortune Faded album: 1. starlight 2. save the population 3. fortune faded 4. bicycle song 5. runaway 6. leverage of space 7. rolling sly stone 8. brandy (you're a fine girl) 9. 50fifty 10. mini epic (**** for your country) 11. black cross 12. i feel love 13. flea's trumpet treated by john 14. tuesday night in Berlin...

again: this terrifying heat: best leave watering the garden
till after 10pm...
a b.b.q. dinner: black kiшka with onions...
what's a black kiшka? a cross between black pudding
and Haggis...
                         "cultural appropriation":
i wonder who borrowed from who...
                        well... it's not a ******* sombrero so:
i'm taking bets on the roulette...
             this weather only allows cycling after 8pm...
last time a car pulled up to me and a guy
hollered out of the window: there are your lights?
what lights? exactly... and drove off...
******... prior to that a woman screamed out of
the window and started driving off...
i caught up with her and screamed back:
******* *****... showed her the finger and disappeared...
fair enough... i'm riding in hours nearing
the kingdom of nocturnal creatures...
i fixed a back light today... there, better, *******?!
no... not good enough...

i have this one particular route... it takes me about
one and a half hours...
i call it: el clásico... why? i used to take it almost
every day after school after i turned 16...
there was this one summer... a magical summer...

it was a summer where i would usually visit my
grandparents...
mainly my grandfather: we'd go fishing...
we'd go cycling...
he would introduce me to his friend who also liked
to cycle for long period of time...
all retired people... and we'd cycle
via Bałtów: picking up goat's milk from this old
lady in a proper out of the way ****-hole of
a place to live...
             anyway... that summer back in 2002
i had a plan... i was growing my hair long:
in school there were jokes: Chewbacca... blah blah...
why don't you grow your hair into a mullet?
ha ha...                    ha ha... it wouldn't look good
on someone as fat as i was...
i finished my G.C.S.Es as a a chubby chub...
   after the summer... i came back weighing in
105kg... coming back to 85kg...
  
                     wow... how the dynamic changed...
a new girl from Australia started eyeing me up
as we started our A-levels... i suddenly became
visible...                    but? i still remained myself:
i was playing cards with the guys...
  perhaps the nerdy guys i used to hang around
swapping Pokemon cards with ended...
that time this girl in English class started flashing
her legs in English class: thighs... the thighs of Gemma...
she was intending to flash them at the guy next
to me in the bench... he got off with
running to the toilet for a quick ****...
while i looked and was immediately scorned...
"told off"... pervert...
   it's like a match-make made in heaven of Islam...
the girls don NIQABS and the boys don sunglasses...

how i was told off...
until another Gemma from Thailand told the
other Gemma (Laporte) to cool off...
stop flashing... but... hey WHITEWHITEWHITE...
magical summer...
   i lost the weight... the sun allowed my hair
to grow long enough to grow long enough
to be able to give me a French braid...
like that one donned by Johnny Depp in
Chocolate...

                           realisation period... now i was
changing the dynamic of worth...
       i started bringing weirder and weirder fruit
for lunch... pomegranates... passion fruits...
kiwis... well... kiwis are not that weird...
                             i was still playing cards with the boys...
the sudden spike in the girl's interest
in me i sort of ignored... i was ignored prior...
focused on education and education it was...
but i was already spotting all the examples
of the ancient fable of high school sweethearts...

obviously after university some people thought
they were born in a small town in a small world
in a snail world...
   they had to move: London's not enough...
New York over here... South America over there...
try being born in ostrowiec świętokrzyski:
now i'm the king rat of London...
                   on a bicycle at least...
i don't need to move...

come on... it's not like i came on a banana boat
from "x"... but it's not like i'm a mr. smarty
from Warsaw: from one capital to another capital...

i don't like writing about this...
after all... i wasn't too "bad boy" enough:
oh i get it... i sometimes lend myself to "the narrative":
i'm being sold a narrative of Darwinism that:
apparently doesn't play out in reality...
my deficiencies? i drink... but i self-imposed that...
on myself... survival of the fittest?
i'm 6ft2... 100kg... chances of me "catching" cancer
are slim... i have 20-20 vision...
   i blast music on full volume on headphones
sometimes on hours on end... but i can still
hear an electric car creeping up on me when cycling...
i have basic morals...
    
     it's not that i think that i'm the perfect catch...
god's gift to women...
i just think that the prescribed narrative of Darwinism
for man is a load of *******...
survival of the mediocre... cattle...

i'm using the sort of objective language that's
expected of me...
             this is what Darwinism provided:
there are no rules in place:
when there was once humanism there's now only
some version of animalism...
we lent out attention to make the world
coherent by employing animals to explain
our... disgruntlements...
    our objections... me? i'm trying to find the man in
man: ontology...
rather than finding a man in animal...
i find finding the man in animal: slightly boorish...
perhaps even boring...
but we borrowed from too many animals
in order to clarify how we are to behave...

this is exclusive to the English-speaking world...
in that case? i'm a ******* BEAR...
i'm a "loner": are bears, "LOSERS"
because they are loners?!
                           i'm a bear: you ******* chimp!
how's that? who would win a ruffle-and-tuffle
between a gorilla and a bear?
am i even asking this question?
                    
медведь (niedzwiedz) vs. горилла (goryl):
exactly... what's дь? dź...
                     and дъ?           dż....
                              soft via acute
          hard via the otherwise hiding caron...
swapped from RZ between R and Z
or with the case of coupling D and Z...
well: "who knows"...

                        the Copernican revolution made
sense... but the revolution the morphing
of Darwinism: man looking into a telescope
while at the same time looking up into the "telescope"
of an ape's ****...  is another matter...

never mind... i had this route...
   a surfer's body...
   and hair to prove it...
                 we ****** off elsewhere after high school...
i was the only one that went as far as Scotland...
the "king's route": after all... didn't
William gain an education in St. Andrews?
i was in Edinburgh... dangling like a spider
atop Cow's Gate...
                          this could: just work...

but what is "the" el clásico?
a route i used to take after school almost every day
after having lost all that weight...
this was a different variation...
an extended 'un...

starting from Collier Row...

1. up the B175
2. down B 1459...
3. Collier Row Road
4. onto the B174...
5. onto the A1172...
6. New N Rd toward Hainualt St.
7. A123
8. at the Fairlop roundabout staying
   on the A123...
9. coming to the A12 on the Gants Hill
keeping to the A123
10. gearing up to Winston Way...
11. the A1083 roundabout...
12. straight onto the A118...
13. it's still the A118 Seven Kings... switches names
from High Road to... London Road
(cycling in reverse... London Road would be known
as Romford Road)
14. at the roundabout take the A125...
15. turn into Exchange Street...
16. via Western Road onto Eastern Road
17. stop at the headlights...
       18.  cross the A1251 like a pedestrian
onto Carlton Road...
19. cycle up to Gidea Park station:
     20. Balroges Lane
  21. Station Road..
   22. then unto Upper Brentwood Rd.
23. until "returning" unto the Main Rd.
              the A118...
24. the onto Pettits Lane..
25. crossing the A12... onto Pettits Lane N.
26. at the roundabout onto the B175...
   then into Wallace Way...
then into a service road... then... home...

the "incident" happened at point 9. on the A123...
at high street Ilford...
my god... how much it has changed...
little ******* Bombay...
it used to be a predominantly Jewish...
but now? the whole world settled here: it would
seem... one Turkish restaurant one Indian
restaurant after another... fair enough:
i still don't have my headlight on...
because a road-bike is not made for noctruanal
musing... Nietzsche might have envisioned
walking to be the catalyst for inviting thought:
i tend to keep to cycling to wake up
my sleeping-mind...
i remember this one motorist slowing down
to "excuse me from giving excuses"
for not having tail-lights: yeah... thanks "dad"...
but this old man was trying to do
something unimaginable in terms of English traffic
laws: he was trying to prove a point by:
jail-walking...
he just stood there astounded and exclaimed:
where are your lights? i cycled past him
and pointed at my rear:
what the **** is this? look! that's at least
one half of the lights necessary,
so? *******!

   that's the first time i became insolent to an elder...
why? no one else in makeshift Bombay seemed
to care...
there's a billion of them: a billion more
will come...
         you don't make critique of me while
i cycle: i turn into a Hydra...
one the adrenaline kicks in... i become a notorious
*******...
i pointed it out to him:
perhaps he had good intentions...
perhaps... citizen-policeman my ***...
if i had enough time i would have suggested:
so... is the Redbridge Council...
saving money... on not turning on the street-lights
at the appropriate time?
then again: would you?!
could you make the same **** comments
concerning those Deliveroo electric cycle couriers
who don't bother?!
just because i'm white i'm supposed
to keep / meet high standards?!
*******: old man...
      
you will pass making this sort of comment
because "someone" is Indian... while
i get the brunt of your "civic duty" because
i'm white? to hell with that sort of *******!
you may be old: but you should understand
someone telling you to ******* like someone
telling a baby to *******...
because you can mouth off your fellow
European: like a diseased creature of defeat
when it comes to your fellow...
but: cower: before the altar of ******* HINDUSTAN!

i am a monster! people tend to create those...
isolated instances of insolence...
i can't give two-***** two care
whether English girls get ***** by Pakistani
gangs in Rotherham...
i can't... i told a man to get off my case...

you may: criticise me when walking... kneeling...
sleeping...
but this old man just chose to be iritated
by something already hanging...
too late to correct? me?

there's a fury in my thought as much as there's
a wind to couple it with!
but... you wouldn't dare...
to make this suggestive-correction
for some Hindustani "******* compatriot":
some ******* Sikh baron?!
white man easy access to white man...
THANK **** I'M NOT ENGLISH
AND THAT I DON'T HAVE ANY POST-COLONIAL
GUILT TRIPPING TO WAIT FOR ME...

me? i'm in CAMP ****... **** it...
go all out... this makes absolutely no ******* sense...
but this old man: did he think old age would
save him, from me turning around and telling
him to *******? did he?
he wouldn't have attached so much
concern for "traffic": cross the, ******* road:
at the allocated segments... your ******* prune...

oh but i love the anger: it's invigorating...
it's no longer angry white man...
it's the angry anonymous cyclist...
   but it's forever the ******* desperate black man...
anger *** desperation...
what a cocktail!
        borrow from the Darwinism... ha ha...
not by the focus of what's man's "plan"...
              
WHITE VS. WHITE...
of course he wouldn't have commented on some
deliveroo courier cycling on an electric bicycle without
lights... i had the rear covered...
but no! white on white "guilt" implies:
i'm the one who's to keep standards:
no one else is... why, should, i?
i can be nice to old men... drink a beer...
chat with them on a bench... about their grandchildren
and their pets... not... NOT... when i'm cycling...
you try taming a monster...
you tell me i'm a ****** cyclist...
   the end...

                      my sclera and my iris disappears...
i literally turn blind with rage...
at a time: begging for the borough of Redbridge
to turn on the: ******* street-lamps...
no... 9pm not good...
       this old man should have shut his:
******* mouth...
now i feel sorry that he had to hear:
******* from me...
                 i shouldn't speak to elders like so...
but if one: ******* akin to him
had the ***** to tell one white boy:
to keep his headlights up-kept... while ignoring
all the Hindu-*******-stan "couriers"
the "pass"? for fear of racism...
              *******... old, man...
no no... you should have been crossing
the road at the designated place...

ENOUGH! OF THIS POST-COLONIAL ENGLISH
ANTI-RACIST CLOWNING!
you have your little, *******, inter-racial escapades...
your little inter-*** trans-gender fetishes...
sooner will the Russian invade the Ukrainian
than see this ******* be sieved to the top!
no! niet! nie!

if i were adorning a darker skin tone...
if i wasn't a my usually "self" copper-neck of suntail
imprint... would this elder: pseudo-elter
make such a remark?
          oi! bruh! where'z your simmer framez?!
Cannes the walk but Cannes the: ******* talkz?!

for a minute i thought he cared... a minute later
i realised: citizen-policeman...
citizen-;policemen belong in the crowd of
*****... cultivating ulterior tactics of submission...

i didn't just exchange a ******* too with
my grandfather... my grandfather would have said:
cycle on... this petty ******...
i'm exploring my hands...extending my fingers
in a way that will not allow a handshake...
first: purses... and fists clenched...
"hello"...

why is it an "el clásico"?
the distance takes under two hours...
adding the wind? and after having eaten a dinner?
not bad...
no... though: no...
this "white guilt" *******...
i'm not buying it... the RUSSIANS are not buying it...
i'm with them... i'd sooner a fellow ethnic tribe:
akin to me: suffer... than leave them for the pastures of
the cancerous ideas of the "west":
mind you... i simply can't care about Ukraine:
thank you... Ukraine... for Chernobyl...
an atomic BOMB is a BOMB...
but a nuclear REACTOR? is a ******* nuclear REACTOR?!
why does my mother blame me for her ailments?!
why did the Jews receive world war II reparations
while the Polacks didn't? why didn't we receive
Chernobyl reparations? why does my mother blame me
for my birth? if the ******* trees...
changed colour from spring to autumn during
this advent... she blames me: she doesn't
blame Chernobyl...

*******: weningmenschen!
                        menschen von hafer: und knabbern!
the Russians will sooner wage war against
their own ethnically minded:
than succumb to the mindset of the:
eroding west! and i would too!
     mind you: i think i already have!
i would wage war against my own kind
than make them succumb to the most ******* worth of
scrutiny: unlike the propaganda of Orwell...
this "double-think" is an an "extra-think"...

the English don't believe in ethnicity:
they believe in race....
me? i believe in race...
that's why i deem myself as an compound:
Anglo-Slav...
was it that hard, for Anglo-Saxons to emerge?!
I'M, *******... ASKING...
you might as well give me a ******* reply!
no reply?! good! TOLL!

zweigesichtmurmelnkastrat:
that's how i see the natives of the land i live in...
i don't even need to bring
the Zeppelins, either...

mein blut ist sieden:
zu punkt von auferstehen die toten!

ich bin wildbeäugt!

Beach city by the cool sea
not so easy city
not too busy, too ******, or greasy city

to take off
your shirt
to feel the breezy city.
Where I am
curiously lost in,
excitably exploring eagerly
Asphalt-hard city  
different from my boyhood memory,

It’s not so scary-big city,
Was a great place to grow-up
kind of city
open roads for bike rides
on my schwinn,
A safe suburban city
By the sea,

A successfully savvy
sophisticated city
evolved from understanding
Historically
Downtowns Pity
the fools illegally crossed,
O’er border walls, while
Chaps are diggy
In the Navy city,

A city of girls who can be
as manly and boys are as
pretty, gritty
city / of individuality
like a quirky
cousin, *****,
A brotha, niece
with Cali.-valley speak! city.

There’s so much i want to see,
learn and believe in
this lush green city,
i am a long lost twin city
just a baby,
friendly city, ******* your full *****
city

care for me daily,
wish me luck a lotto city,
even in my muck and ****** ditties,
unconditionally cradling me
with love
this LEGO city
In crisp morning fog,
californication
Tour sea world and the Zoo,
Old town wanderlust
While Carmen’s on the trolley.

San Diego by the sea,
I Heart you
City
in my blood,
this city by the beach
This city
that I love...

Dread annihilation
Feel it bearing down
Californication
Not a man of much renown

Gratitude and terror
Both spin inside my soul
Time in isolation
80s rock n' roll

Empires decay
Ages pass like mist
San Francisco fog
Politics persists

3737
I holler out your name
Colorado Rockies
Tarquatto Tasso fame

                 Missing!

Dread annihilation
Feel it bearing down
Californication
Not a man of much renown

Gratitude and terror
Both spin inside my soul
Time in isolation
80s rock n' roll

Empires decay
Ages pass like mist
San Francisco fog
Politics persists

3737
I holler out your name
Colorado Rockies
Tarquatto Tasso fame

                 Missing!