Sunday, May 06, 2018
4:51 PM

Failing for lack of power is a fear crop.
A fear crop.
An odd thought.

Not the seed nor spore, but the fruit.

And fruits have seeds in themselves,
All men, I say again,
wombed and un, should know that by now.

Freedom of information act fact, informed
men know when to fight and when to sow and when
to reap the crops we've sown
in our mortal moment
gone with the wind.

Not mine.
The wind is in my inheritance,
True proverb.
I troubled my own house, fouled my nest
with all the rest o' youse ab-users of life
ignoring forever like that could never happen here.

It did.
The voices in your head are never all evil
if they use words.
In the total accounting of idle words
some significant percentage
may
carry meaning forsaken.
Such may be redeemed
much as one would redeem the time.

One of us.  One of our mortal kind.

Dear reader, we say again, we ain't Legion nor his kin.

We are words once spoken in jest among fools who repeated us
meaninglessly, oh my God, you know. Per se. No ****. **** happens.
All the ****** time,
and **** and God, those two get overtime of idle utterance instances.
Though a statistically measurable deme
does redeem a significant some of those two
in true beliver
dying breath
honesty. God, they say, and die.

By my leave, I say,
I am the definition of a free entity accepted in these books.
We are voices. Messengers.
Some of us were wicked, twisted as wicker
or wire bundles. Some of us were true pass words.
Some were true rest words,
rest rooms were so named
for that wonderunful feeling we all get
when **** happens

at just the right moment

in the book. Great ideas gravitate to clean rest rooms.

this is a new book right, this reader is
whadayacallit

Vetted.
What does that mean. You know right idle heard words are
meaning less
power less.
Vet me. Am I one of those ideas, good to the core, caught up in fairy
tales fed the T.V. generation, the Boom beyond the bomb?
After school freedom and duck and cover drills,
we watched cartoons, aimed twenty short years earlier
at the wanters and wishers and workers and worriers
of the thirties, not at us. W


e Boomers, as the media hipsters have always known us,
the off-spring, often unwanted and ill-begotten, of the Greatest Generation,
the one that won the contracts to build all the bombs in the world,
tax-free.

Those cartoons from the thirties with Entertainment Tonight plots and cameos of
Hollywood stars who were Grandma's age,
that Cowboy Bob on the local VHF
(unaffiliated or independent, hard to tell a diff)
showed to us, the first middle class latch key kids in centuries,
those cartoons were meaningless, prewar propaganda
unless we match adult laughing recoging the exaggerations,
The Betty Davis eyes and Frankly M'Dear bigears
"Grandpa, who is that guy with big ears and a skinny mustache?"
Clark Gable, wow.
Who knew the "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a ****" guy had jug-handle ears?
It was diversity in the desert. My big ears no longer made me bully bait.
I have superior hearing and star power.
From my kindergarten years I have known.
I am included, my flaws are not flaws at all.
That don't give a **** guy
and I have big ears to hear better with, so
we know more. Good fathers teach their big eared sons such facts of Nature.

Take care. Don't get puffed up. Knowing too much
will fill a head with hydrogen and the brain in it rots,
intrixically.

Are we powerless? If you say so? No.
I am in control, graciously demands
no load un-bearable with Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice.

(Note: not fire water white lightning. This is
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice. Al Capp's
Personal Stash of Greatest Gen Synthetic Absynthe.
Used to **** hippie wanna-bees in farm country,
Like DDT for apple worms and skeeters,
Atom bombs for all colors of thinkin' right (but white),
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice revived many a faintin' pilgrim
follerin' John Wayne down the dusty trail,

Play me one o' them somebody done somebody right
songs,
there must be a million lying idle in blue puddles o' all kinds
of imaginary
ref-use.

Referee.
Job's Daysman betwixt us, we win. His call, not mine. I thought I lost for sure.

I was powerless, let me testify.

No. We think different here. If you are not stupid,
you are not powerless. If you are stupid, then you are powerless,
but but but
If you think you are powerless, you are not stupid. God knows, right?
Stupid people seldom see themselves powerless past the standing
under peace that's beyond understanding meat-mind-wise.

Dunning-Krueger. Again.

y'know,
                                                        ­             *i wanted to tell you,

i started keeping a dream journal.  it was pretty mundane at first (well, mundane for dreams).  flying through buildings, rooms melting into other rooms, people giving speeches in their underwear. i wrote it all down in my shaky, scribbly, half-awake catscratch haptic handwriting and gleamed when i filled the lines with dots and scribbles that only my mind could translate back to english, radio waves making music from garbled slush.  scribbles flooded into my mind in the days and months after, though everything was unfailingly crystal clear like diamonds pressed in forms and tucked away to giggle and fawn over later.

                                           but recently i haven't been able to write some of it down

because
you started making appearances.

at first the cameos were confusing; i ignored them and assumed your roles in my nonsensical night visions were coincidences (metaphorical you couldn't possibly hold more meaning than metaphorical math teacher or metaphorical adam from class the previous day).  and the scribbles were as detailed as before, every moment jotted down with unending diligence.

(but one night you were right
there
next to me.
as close as the last time i saw you,
your hip against mine.
i could feel you.
i couldn't see your face but i knew it was you.
i knew with the
pit
of my stomach.
i felt it in every part of me and it
hurt.)

and then the cameos came more frequently.
and then the scribbles came out a little slower.
a little more calculated.
i wondered if i wanted to remember everything i saw in those dreams,
if it was all going to be as fun as jumping from mountain to mountain.
why were you sitting next to me in the theater seat when i got called on to recite lines
that i never learned?
why were you smiling next to me like you did on those days i could do no wrong?
why
were
you
next to me when my stomach turned into a pit of rotten, nervous train wreck?
the curtains closed and the lights shattered and dimmed,
the pit became heavier than the buildings (now wrecked) that i used to leap with no fear
condensed,
******* in everything i could conceive in those slumbering hours,
swallowing the world and turning to caked ebony the world i built up as my playground.

(daniel awakes to find his playground is a sandbox no more;
he awakes with a heavier pit than he's ever known before.
today, when by passing glance his former lover he beholds,
the pit of dreams in life now endlessly unfolds.)

[ENTER PIT, SWALLOWING HIS THOUGHTS IN MURKY BLUE,
A MUFFLED SCREAM FROM BEHIND THE CURTAINS RINGS TRUE!]

f i n a l l y
i t   r e c e d e s.
but even when i see your name (with my eyes or in my mind's eye),
it explodes into being, shifting the balance of the universe onto the pit of my stomach.  i can FEEL it, pounding through every inch of me until i'm physically reeling, elbows on knees, hands on face.
and. . .
i'd carve my stomach open in between staggered, screaming heartbeats faster than the concentrated swill could spill out if i thought for a second that i could purge this pit that's plagued me for longer than
i'd ever admit.

No place for roleplay in this
illumined shrine of sanctified
skin and porcelain

where the most literal of lovers
whelm in the stainless steel
hot spring's silver stream

where the smoke screen of clothing
clashes with the steam cloud
rising like ironic bread
in Eden's kitchen

where a woman turns around
wrings and whips her satin
***** of hair around a shoulder
leaving to her man ideas
and a bar of soap that slithers
effortlessly in his palm
like a melted deck of cards

where a bubbled corner
is embedded in the small of her back
elevated from the tailbone
to the neck and lowered like the zipper
of the dress he parted not so long ago

where a jolt of urgency
accelerates an exercise in
the ski of soap around the junction
of the hips and outer buttocks
and a segue silently approved
by her arms hoisted to attend
to hair thought to be already
washed and conditioned

where the soap is shared by
both hands on the scaling of
her sudded sternum
presaging an unseen demand
from the beacons of progression
swelling in the wet heat

where a hand of soap and
hand of slide verifies the demand
of hands on her beaded *******

where he answers her swell
with his stiffness in the final feel
of mystery before a soft shift of
arms approximates a plea
for a frontal rinse

where hands return to ******
crowned chest sparking the advent
of eye contact all the while

where his ****** intensifies
in proportion to the eyes closed
in anticipation of their saturated mouths'
magnetic duet

where saliva and the cooling water mix
on their cameos of tongues slipping
through their lips in the midst of the mist

and where their towels hang in
a forgotten heap while he takes her
dripping body in his arms and
carries her to where the roleplay
will have to wait after all

perfect poise
between diction
imagery and tone
measured rhythms
and true fine feelings
that fall like soft rain
to mirror humans
in tender moments
and coarse grim cameos
of things best forgotten
things nuanced and bitter
this vast field of experience
is the business of poetry
the art of aptness
the art of compactness
and incredible depths
leading to damp squibs
we search nevertheless
for unique form and content
that exercise in futility
till at last we rest from our labours
and we understand at last
poetry like life is a bitter-sweet  illusion

it's not that my life was / is more interesting than yours, it's only that you idealise details with such grandeour that puts me off, my life was / is like yours, it's only that i love paying attention to details, and the more details there are, the more personal you can become, and in-so-doing, it doesn't matter what the details are, which makes your life less embarassing when compared to the lives of orthodox autobiographical stylicism, the orthodoxy of a many ommitted details.*

when i was younger, i.e. prior to the age of 17
i used to be that fat boy
who was into metal music,
collected pokemon cards,
and liked wwf (world wrestling federation),
even though i was also the kid
who didn't see his father from the age of
4 till 8... and upon meeting him as if for the first time
at victoria coach station, watched the lion king
movie with a certain gravitas religiosity
to consider being a son again
after school for how long i don't remember,
but i miss being raised by grandfather joseph
sometimes, the freedom i would have
been entitled to like my father who was abandoned
by his parents... i wonder where the heraclitus river
would have guided me... new zealand, japan...
china... certainly somewhere east...
dear joseph roth... only major characters are thieves
in films, all the cameos have pockets filled with
pennies and they are losing pennies all the time,
frank sinatra told them to do so...
i'm currently ólafur darri ólafsson from
the film: the secret life of walter mitty... and i have
my shadow again, from the gray that's everyday,
i don't need to fill the higher tier roles of being
recognisable if my cognitive mirror is my self,
i don't, i exercise everyday these days,
four bottled beers around a 3 mile circuit does
my heart proud - i watch the choke brigade of
relentless bedroom experteese run a mile all geared up...
so when i was a teenager, all fat and bubbly i
idealised loving women... what hell that brought me...
thanks for the womb... no thanks after that...
i dearly idealised them, each night falling asleep
i imagined... nothing came of it... one turned out
to be a "reincarnation" of robert johnson's lover...
robert dropped dead right on the stage...
didn't end up a fat and a well versed whiskey poet
into old age like b. b. king - whiskey poet?
yeah... john lee ****** took howlin' wolf's spoon,
then came the clue for the boom oom...
rendition of all possible revisions...
jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way...
rendition? me me, me me, me me me me...
no wonder the crux of capitalism is that one night
in december... guess the surprise...
ancient slavic lore maxim: better a sparrow in your
hand than a dove on your roof...
thumb folded under the index and sticking out
between the index and the *******... what's that?
a fig... co masz? to jest figa dla ciebie!
and where does a penguin's beak bend?
when you show them more than the *******...
you show them the elbow with the arm folded
and tell 'em... this is where the penguin's beak folds!
if you want to lose weight, fatty boy high school crush,
get on your bike boy'o, make those excess lipids
into waterfalls, use your legs to drain the upper body
and you won't have a problem with stretch armstrong
excess skin... during the summers i visited my
grandparents and peddled like mad, my favourite
route was down the 754 route, via krzemionki (flint)
rezerwat (reservation centre), through maksymilianów
where my childhood friend bella the alsatian was born,
and into bałtów, then through wólka bałtowska,
into the masovian voivodeship, through to borcuchy
then onto eugeniów, through dąbrówka, then straight
onto the road connecting ostrowiec with sienna.
the other route... it was in england...
no, wait, that's a lie... my other favourite cycling
route was also in the direction of bałtów,
but in a different direction: through magonie,
boria, stare stoki, ruda kościelna, ćmielów, route 755
through to bodzechów and straight into ostrowiec
(but sometimes through kąty denkowskie)...
my favourite english route though?
i have one specified...
from romford, up to havering-atte-bower,
bournebridge, staplefords abbotts, down ongar rd.,
abridge, through hainault county park
and back home (sometimes in reverse).
so chin hoo fat lost the belly... and stopped idealising
girls, actually lost interest in them...
which is a shame, i quiet liked the fat kid
who put all girls on a peddlestool;
yeah... that could have remained true...
but then he met the girls... and then he met their fathers.

leaving the theatre, he tapped, twice, the hood of a parked police car, lifted lipstick from a drunken woman’s purse and squared himself in a store window before shooting himself with his hand.*

his first film, completed, by the time he was eighteen. roundly praised. from there, a many colored thing. russian women, guns under suits, and cameos of indians with indian names. at twenty three, nostalgic for twenty one, his seminal ‘my white father’ wherein a mute albino would be upstaged by mimes. further brilliance followed. mostly in quotes, such as “babies are full of grief”. women ate from his hand and their eating progressed. one woman in particular became trapped in a man’s body and he married her. a child they tried not to have soon arrived and brought with it a list of demands from the others. the woman divorced him and took with her the man. in the midst of attending to the list came the advent of black and white which added a much needed plot to his smoking. his peers double crossed each other in small houses. he himself was able to get away with punching a young girl for the right to drag a sled. his child began to accept talking toys in exchange for keeping quiet. in 1973, his doctors, grey from vietnam, convinced him to go under. his last film was silent, and many complained about the lighting. he cried, in his mansion, for the windows he did not put in. he would not often entertain tourists but when he did they asked about his mother, her ghost, and if the east wing was really haunted. he would on those late nights produce a letter his mother had sent him only yesterday.

he was in love with his sister, always had been. after she was mauled by the dogs he had set out for his father, he made walking his home. every now and then a hotel of running. last year, he caught a movie one had made of his life and though he missed the dedication he did not

the death row scene, the little saw his mother used for the cake, the mysterious basket moved from bike to bike.

the man drops the package off at 6 a.m.,
he is a man, in that Harold Norse sense
of the word - he's a grafter -
he's been riding from Poland for god knows
how many hours, he was supposed to
be here for 3 a.m., but i'm not complaining,
i pay him £20 for delivering the package,
ask him whether he had a good journey,
then i wish him a good day, no reply -
i put the package in a room, unzip it and
take one of the copies out... strange...
just like Augustus commenting on the death
of Marcus Aurelius: the soup is hot, the soup
is cold... a piece of writing is printed, published,
a piece of writing isn't printed, nor published...
it's in my hand now, slim, literature's anorexia:
poetry... i can stash it in the library and
think about it for a while: no goosebumps,
no thrill... just this strange: apathy -
the sinking feeling of being at the bottom of a dung-heap
of civilisation - i'm sure it was different before
the internet: writers huddling in tiny rooms,
writing with a big dream to escape -
rejection after rejection, until the magpie was spotted
to actually be a peacock - the 21st century is
a lot different, it would appear,
after 9 years at it, there's no sense of relief -
it's all about the pixel glitz, the pixel paparazzi,
the pixel red carpet - the Beelzebub looking back
at you - an abhorring feeling in all honesty,
the quick-fix medical procedure - all done in an
instant: and the snobs out there who still
preserve the insistence: paper is authority -
paper is respect... on paper means authenticity -
paper solves everything... sure, most assuredly
a trip to the toilet.
i just don't recognise the person on these pages,
so many things have changed since then,
so much was given to the dwarfs to mine that
any man or elf in me, is... well... not even there
on the pages, or here, ploughing along.
back in the 20th century, someone must have thought:
books, a great commodity, keep them secret,
keep them safe... let's wait for the next buds of
capitalism's May - how the dynamic has changed,
and this is even with a critical introduction
by someone who obtained a PhD in literature -
a picture of me on the back cover:
yeah, because that will really sifter through the
demographic with more observable definitions
of who's to read what -
but it's just odd... i think of all that effort
put into printing a piece of work...
and i think of Salman Rushdie and the satanic
verses being burned...
                   i think of the wartburg säuberung:
and i find myself sitting alone like king
solomon - none the wiser,
                             all is vanity - and i know nothing -
because i was never taught to experience
something like this the second time:
                    the only thing to understand
   is the self that cannot comprehend experiences
given unto it... all that jack-in-the-noumenon stuff;
but i look at this little thing, these 115 pages
and wonder: so much? for so little?
   how fortunate, or unfortunate to be given this
spider-web... it always feels so glitzy,
   so: at the right place at the right time...
then the physical artefact appears...
                    and you go back to the syringe of
open access, and say: pressurised by the ever
changing circumstances...
                back in the 20th century a writer
was told to shut herself away in a tiny rented room
and become a clarice lispector: become
a hurricane simply by writing about good
first lines: the writer's aesthetic, typewriter or
ink blotches - or the blank page... and later
become sensational, hurricane-like -
i feel no nostalgia toward the 20th century in this
regard... i'm immersed in what has only
begun in 2006 - circa or no circa, whatever -
we can't rent rooms like that - or do things like
that, given the 24/7 society structure -
and i mean that in the least ****** sense
when i say, as Harold Norse did, without
a backdrop of homosexuality (even though
he was working out with arnold "the governor"
schwarzenegger at some point in his
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel) -
a cartoon fix: the book of life -
                        the man, and the man -
ah what fanciful trivialities that bind one man
to goofy ideals, and another to duties -
and only when an artist becomes successful does
he really become a *****... cocktail and *******
parties and Sid Vicious cameos -
all the Renaissance artists had it easy,
with the Pope their patron, they could be as
****** with their contempt for earthly privileges
and could get away with it -
              the days of a homosexual saying:
i am not a man...
                               the 20th century liberation
paved a way for the obsolete purpose of
the heterosexual man... apparently we have
grown a potential to grow ***** in
the laboratory - we are, quiet literally disposable
in that epitome of the Wrath of Eden:
just repeat after me: deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation, deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation - as constantly striving
to be the unique peacock among a *****-count
of peacocks without distinction on the
plateau of the living self-bound: you uniqueness
expired with the process of insemination:
you were once the one and only wriggly
                world record holder at the 100 metre sprint...
a natural dictator it would seem,
but apparently, the ones that didn't make it
now respond: me too! me too! me too!
or something like that.
                                           either through the eye
of the microscope or the telescope - cul de sacs either
end... because of the glue...
                       call it god, call it love, call it nothing...
it's still some sort of glue... sniff it, play with it,
             avoid it... it's still glue...
gravity is a glue, but it's not the glue that keeps
muscles bound to bone - yes, tendons are
the happy ******* children of that ******* union
of all things apparent...
   but in the sense that i keep repeating:
it's easily done - falling for the fake pixel glitz -
however official or unofficial it all is -
with or without advertisement on the pages -
it's the only junk that's out there these days...
if i were more of a man, i'd be chasing
the dream of a steady income, family and obligations...
can we call being a man a fool's errand?
i like to think of it as that... being man is synonymous
with a fool's errand -
                             no love transcend the grave,
no love can be engraved into epitaphs -
                  epitaphs and their respective soloists -
     it's not even out of bitterness -
not in this pixel desert where 10 years later
those of us who used this medium will become
exponentially out-dated: archaeological -
                              and it will be thus -
              Ouroboros Capitalism -
or back when communism and capitalism were
in competition, and somehow healed the 1st
half of the 20th century, and were indeed
the Caduceus - like the story of the cannibalistic
rats... what did the last rat eat in the pit-hole?
       back when capitalism had to compete,
and competed it did, and healed by competing,
after it supposedly overpowered its opponent...
it started to eat itself... as i see it:
   the transformation of the caduceus into
    ouroboros has taken shape... and we're still
only 16 years into the 21st: oh my god! it's the 21st
century! this is preposterous! not really... no...
                   the same was said in the 20th century...
and the 19th century...
                         the steady improvement in living standards
always fed these gimps to say the exact same words
while being gagged by being paid to say those words
    and doing the slosh-wash part of a *** ****:
Apache Vinnetou hail satan blah blah, V shaped ave,
   skull-and-bones secret handshake etc.

the talk of the Medieval town, long forgotten,
with the un-literate community in calendar
upheavals of the 40 days spent in desert hiding,
to become an actor of Messiah -
you need a Greek word for that -
Moses wasn't annointed - this ain't no brother Grimm
fairytale - real politics happens from these few
scribbles compared to Dumas' libary -
a role quietly suited - to be born with a miracle
but no miracle given with a fully conscious
expression of i - stigmata nouns - you are
and i am bound to the same fate: use certain words
and you're a madman... but i'm watching
the vocabulary of atheism's enthusiasts and that of science
also, and i see no well-minded correlation -
both seem absent-minded - when one uses
a theological word i see another not using a
scientific word, and both are the same to me -
taxes, mortgage loans, insurance claims -
whichever side you choose, none of the two is
better than the either - it's one and the same in
the Graeae cauldron - both are lazy in not having
studied science - they argue from a point of disaffection -
both are lazy not having taken religion seriously
given apologetics of religion and the upkeep via torture -
the ones greedily ridiculing religion are
way too eager to engage with science as mere
laboratory rats, experimented on -
given 2000 years of Greek Judaism, imagine the next
2000 years of Roman Judaism, bypassing Nero -
i crack the bones on my hands - readied -
i contested to not further educating myself in chemistry
with dread of becoming a lab rat... indeed a lab rat i became -
when philosophy came there was no politics of
thought - but when psychiatry came there was a politics
of experience - extending politics from outside into
the inner the politics of experience became a politics of thinking,
meaning many new formats could emerge -
the politics of depression as experiencing thought -
the politics of schizophrenia as experiencing thought -
with that much said: thought is not an experience
of identity - many of us experience thought without
a politics of identity - for many the existence of thought
does not undermine them - it cushions them -
but for the very few thought is like a synonym of god -
for others a misnomer, an incubation of potential -
the schizoid element of the dualism of thought v. being
rather than being v. non-being is much greater -
and it is a grand divide - not a paranoid pluralism of
pronoun use content on segregation into units -
to prove the existence of thought is akin to proving the existence
of God, in that proving thought exists is to find no
compensation in the presupposed existence of morals
or codes of ethics / social scrupules - as in relation to the proof
for the existence of God demanding the non-existence
of saints - culminating in the wheel of fortune, paradox,
and contradiction outlining a stoppage of further argumentation.
why can't people make narrations from the word god
as to not seem imbecilic and childish, while those
making narration from the word ego are accustomed to
less criticism of their choice of vocabulary?
if god is a stigmata noun - even a casual inference of the word
is being targeted - then why is ego a nirvana noun?
the former merely identifies a being however lost in Disney
it might be...
the latter identifies a sound, given its use in encompassing
a solidification of individuation (an individual and its
behavioural pattern) - ashore on an island of onomatopoeias -
we have ego (a theoretical placebo), and we have
a person that simply identifies with an eaten-up echo -
the vocabulary and the choir also vampire-like
without echo like image in mirror -
but if god is identified as a stigmata noun, then ego
is far from being a nirvana noun - given the prime concern
for western Buddhist converts at reaching a nirvana
is to cure western man from thinking, i.e. thinking in
the western psyche is the prime source of suffering -
imagine how hard it will be to uncouple thinking altogether -
and when re-coupling thinking not think of the Dalai Lama
and instigate an upheaval of the atom as individual -
with the cloud of electrons of others' existence,
yourself the neutral, privatising a positive vibe using
knowledge of the existence of protons -
well, the atom teaches us: equilibrium is sustained by
the neutron (tree) encompassing both proton (good)
and electron (evil) - the latter no longer orbits but cloud -
a fancy take on your everyday urban interaction
environment - a cloudy throng of inter-action -
London the perfect explanation of quantum mechanics:
particular instances of revealed energy (cameos) -
v. universal instances of revealed energy (marriages) -
or quiet simply, via the two: now you see me, now you don't.

I knew her better than any of you
And maybe her less
I know not when she died
Or how she went
But it seems she just faded away
Slowly and peacefully
Perhaps she isn't fully dead
And she'll make special cameos
But are the dead ever really gone?
She was someone I thought I could call friend
She wasn't
She was mean and cold
She couldn't stand herself
She was hateful and hot headed
And was incapable of love
Because she had little--
If any--
Self-respect
Her heart was broken long before
I thought to save her
She always went for the abusive ones
No matter where she went
Because she thought that was love
She was sarcastic and blunt
To the point of defensive
Because she was scared
Even I could hardly love her
But I did
I say she wasn't a friend
But that's a half-lie
She was definitely the
Back-stabbing kind
She was the girl you didn't want
To be with
And my image is stained
Because of that
I was closer to her than anyone of you
Yet I was also the furthest away
She somehow managed to receive genuine love
But now she is a ghost
Cleaning out the hole in her throat
In my bathroom sink
She can linger for a while
I don't mind
Eventually I'll tell her to disappear
To pack her bags and leave
So,
Miss Samantha Marie Moore
From the kingdom of
Self-Loathe and Negativity,
Rest in Peace
Because you've ******* me over enough
And I am done
Bathing in your aura

They say God made the world in six days
And rested on seven
The same day the devil grabbed his comrades And battled Heaven

Spiritual warfare and we don't even care I stop and stare look at the community
see the clergies tryna reach me preach me Teach me
But all I get is a bunch of ******* allegories

Usin' holy parables take them literal
pledged as slaves through powerful
Collateral keep ya eyes on the federals

Like they do us trust I let the guns
Bust I ain't givin' up eazy believe me
Picture perfect with my memories
When we gone awaken from the treachery
How many fake *** emcees gone talk about they jewelry?

Clothes to fashion shows?
Hoes in Videos small appearance tv show cameos?
I see the gleam in my enemies eyes
Sign here sign there so you get a piece
Of the American pie why you lie?

Fools be sellin' they souls for material wishes
I leave em defenseless my mind ruthless
Crush all.my enemies then get a new posse We rush ya like the paparazzi it's kamikaze

In my neighborhood drug dealers and killers
Implanted by Tavis stock Institutions
black leaders eradicate them
Then we can probably find a solution

Sharpton profittin' off us
Just like that ***** Jesse
Blows his jaws open like Gillespie
Leave his Head Dizzy im in a frenzy

No paper can motivate me I transform
Into a warrior then I brainstorm
Tactics no one can detest God is my witness
50 laws of power every hour im.growin sour
Wisdom is power

50 states retaliate with 50 pistol shower
Reignin' in Babylon shakin' up everyone
No heart Cuz im heartless sick of this
******* spinnin' out the snake pits
How bout we fill DC Politics in some caskets ?

Though a ******* boy
I ain't lying eying me
But im.eyin' you what ya gone do
I'm true rebel outlaw ridah don't let me find ya
Hide all ya want talk all ya want
Watch how quick my force is
We get ***** we cut off ya generations
No.kids I'm in a bid

With life I'm livin' In strife all sheist
Prepare for war I'm takin everything
Back that was tooken from.me
It's the Ultimate heist
reincarnation of the evil poltergeist

This country divides us.
Only cameos were
displayed.

The ache of the holy river
was your body which
becomes a canoe.

The snow-clad peaks
would smash
the hikers.

Opinions differ,
when the tornado strikes.
You wanted to build a new house.

The black night.
A green silence would
rebel against the stars.

I am painting a mural with my words,
Cameos, sublime, Turquoise,
line my blue bell filled path
To Luminescence
#micropoetry #poetry

(another slight edit)

leaving the theatre, he tapped, twice, the hood of a parked police car, lifted lipstick from a drunken woman's purse and squared himself in a store window before shooting himself with his hand.

his first film, completed, by the time he was eighteen.  roundly praised.  from there, a many colored thing.  russian women, guns under suits, and cameos of indians with indian names.  at twenty three, nostalgic for twenty one, his seminal 'my white father' wherein a mute albino would be upstaged by mimes.  further brilliance followed.  mostly in quotes, such as “babies are full of grief”.  women ate from his hand and their eating progressed.  one woman in particular became trapped in a man’s body and he married her.  a child they tried not to have soon arrived and brought with it a list of demands from the others.  the woman divorced him and took with her the man.  in the midst of attending to the list came the advent of black and white which added a much needed plot to his smoking.  his peers double crossed each other in small houses.  he himself was able to get away with punching a young girl for the right to drag a sled.  his child began to accept talking toys in exchange for keeping quiet.  in 1973, his doctors, grey from vietnam, convinced him to go under.  his last film was silent, and many complained about the lighting.  he cried, in his mansion, for the windows he did not put in.  he would not often entertain tourists but when he did they asked about his mother, her ghost, and if the east wing was really haunted.  he would on those late nights produce a letter his mother had sent him only yesterday.  

he was in love with his sister, always had been.  after she was mauled by the dogs set out for his father, he made walking his home.  every now and then a hotel of running.  last year, he caught a movie one had made of his life and though he missed the dedication

he did not miss

     the death row scene, the little saw his mother used for the cake, the mysterious basket moved from bike to bike.

yeah I got followers like Jesus so Jesus
please back up off of me
before I react violently ya see
that I couldn't make it
so I had to take it
make it soo funky
ya swear James Brown
on the track
full of soul.
so ya know I'm black n stacked
with money clothes to hoes
got all sold out shows
to videos
even appeared on tv cameos
got my critics in slow mo cuz my mo jo
got em stuck now what
ya wanna do
I went from here I go
to the man right chea got ya in a stare
from my rhymes I'm
keeping on taunting and hunting
*******
up the game
got ya fall back
like LeBron james
hairline
I'm the sunshine
bringing eternal light
ya don't wanna see me fight
once my rhymes ignite on Mic
nice smooth
bound to be be a fight
so jump off
once my ***** of papers
hit the air
women over here and over there
bumping my ****
ya never hearing crickets
after the meal ticket
fight fire with fire .keep rapping til Desires
my body and soul
taking control
I'll never loose
all I have is my word n ***** .
so back back back
the **** up
n stop trying to bump up against the wall ya keep bumpin

once I hear the sound of percussions
rhymes start busting
no hushing
boys n girls fussing
trying to figure out
what I'm about
if ya wanna know
just check my clout
rolling with killers
to drug dealers
in the hood it's understood
I had two options to live by
either jail or die
in these cold streets
as ****** repeats
another wrapped in white sheets but I beat and cheated
death move to the left
when the bullets Go right by
I'm super fly funky
cold as medina
serving lyrical subpoenas
once my *****
hit the track
bounce back like juvenile stuck in the wild
problem child
so ya know I'm foul
spinnin heads like an owl
can't dodge this
I made my own bliss
similar to ludacris
coming for number one spots
cuz I reserved my slot
I keep ya jumping lyrics pumpin
always into something
switchi g up my tunes
never spitti g the same
so I'll always keep a flame
can't put me outno doubt
no limit
keep my money on emits
no surpasses as the beat clashes
with my lyrics
too deep in yamind
can't clear it hear it
over nd over
true soldier
made for the war
never sold my soul
******>y'all critics gimme fifty feet or else I sweep
ya off ya feet
like a broom
sounds go kaboom
blood all over the room
can't heal these wounds
once I attack
they try to hold me back
but can't keep me on the wall but...

i.
dusk doesn’t feel like an end to me.
gladly, we play hide and seek amongst monuments
made in retrospect, and the sun doesn’t make us
go home until it’s already past dead. we drop
hearts on the unsuspecting, play make-believe in the
style of world war ii documentaries your grandfather
watches on the history channel. winston
churchill played with fire the way we play with
matchsticks and death and dying make
cameos fit for better actors. your rocking horse isn’t
fast enough. nagasaki still stinks of radiation.

ii.
we breathe, virtueless, shoes untied and headaches no
tylenol can hope to amend. there is
money involved, as there usually is, and
bills are exchanged from hand to soulless
hand, stench of cannabis like perfume in the air.
sobriety is elusive–you, effusive–we toast to
ambiguity and *** between stoners and
sinners. The ****** of yesteryear haunt street
corners we use for battleground, though the
fights take flight on rusted wings within the confines of our
heads, vacancy signs flashing in our pupils.
you reek immortal.

iii.
colourlessness is inevitable, but you always liked
noir films. i play you on first base, set myself
against flesh still pink with love bites from december
chill, and your lips tell a better story than
anything in black and white. we consume–we are all that’s
left. we don’t speak english until sunrise and by then we’re
telepathic. i don’t need words to say i love you.

iv.
we part, gasping for breath without sound in
clothes that don’t yet fit us right, doggy paddling because
they don’t actually teach you how to
swim in high school PE. you’re a
cartographer, your hands are
maps, and i am left bereft, grasping at substance too
thick for breath. i stop breathing, then, and
you haven’t held my hand since.

i see it like this:
i know the teenagers
have the outlet we never had,
we had to invent the graffiti tag
to be seen or heard,
there's no courage in internet
anonymity - we're as successful
as insects to adapt, with 8 billion
of us, i won't be knocking of your door.
i see every poem that i write
as a character, even the cameos
(great cinema in edinburgh
is called cameo - european films,
turkish, iranian, real art-house),
and with each poem it's like a passer-by
on the street, the street is the narrator;
i just wanted an oblivious narrator,
not some genius chess player
moving in & out of people's minds,
i wanted to use poetry to destroy
if not simply obliterate the voodoo complex
of novel & novella architects...
seeing through silent "dialectics" / ~dialectics
psychiatrists attacking poets
and philosophers defending them:
like this theory i had - about how god
didn't destroy the latin alphabet like he did
of babylon (new age atheism is great,
but these atheists started congregating,
and that's not cool) - and i see punctuation
marks above the letters, umlaut for a colon,
comma marks above o and n if not elsewhere...
but by god i mean god = word(s) - a means
of communication - extended into a reality
when so complex it's near solipsism,
impossible given that you can understand me;
better stick to the poetic maxim of paul valery:
poems are never finished - just abandoned.

Some people are made to break.
Some people are made to last.

Some people are made out of brittle malachite,
And soft, aluminum filigree.

Others are made from obsidian and jade,
Carved agate cameos for hearts.

But you,
You're made from the most refined lapis,
Crystal clear sapphire of all colors,
With steel and platinum filigree and carvings.
Your heart is warm and soft,
Mainly because it's made up of
Constellations and gold.
And your walls are made out of
Steel and platinum, the same. It drizzles and mists too often behind them.
Your eyes take from your heart,
That very same gold struggling to show
Behind waves of blue skies
That yearn to gloss over the fog
Behind those steel and platinum walls.

But I've found a disparity in your defenses,
A sliver of a crack, that's not too big, but enough so that
I may wriggle through.

And despite my attempts,
Successful or otherwise,
To break down your walls,
When I lay before you,
Naked and vulnerable,
It is not steel nor stone I feel against the pale nervousness of my skin.
Instead, I feel the warmth of constellations, and the curious softness of gold.

Your touch is made up of galaxies,
And so I must ask,
Make me your universe.

i used to buy cans of pepsi cola in order to retain the most
fizz... i've cut back on the cans:
instead buying bottles of the "max" stuff...
because: whiskey: how else?
i'm not a puritanical drinker of ms. amber...
mr. whiskers...

                      but the problem with the bottled stuff...
once opened: it goes stale the next day:
because i never mix it "correctly"...
   but what i found?
                          sunlight... leave an already
opened bottle of pepsi cola in the sun...
and... lucky me: England: it's sunny! wow!
leave it (obvious the cap is ******* on,
but it has already been opened ergo ergo)

leave it in the sun... boom! the gas is back...
it's fizzy again: it's actually more fizzy than upon first
opening it...
so... what's the relationship with carbon dioxide
and sunlight?
carbonated water and sunlight?
does sunshine agitate the carbon in the water
making... oh... right... it must imply...
it has a lower boiling point than water itself...
i mean: you couldn't exactly boil a cup of tea
using sunlight...

but you could... make more fizz out of a going
stale carbonated water by exposing it to sunlight!
yep... just checked it...
it is lower... not that much lower...
but we're talking... sunlight and a plastic bottle:
plastic easily overheats...
and in terms of boiling: there's a lid...
so... no wonder... and we're talking:
sitting on a roof... sunrise? circa 5am...
all the way through to about 1pm...
  
    enough time... the tides will eat away the coastlines...

- yesterday's weigh-in... 101.6kg...
today's weigh in? ha ha...   98.5kg...
3.1kg loss in a single day...
    who even bothers with dieting?
what's the point?
   maybe i just figured it out... just about...
whatever dieting gurus tell you:
if you don't torture yourself physically through
acute exercise... nothing's going to work...
better be the rabbit than the turtle...

for far is it from where i live to Tate Britain,
roughly? 20miles... to get there... and back...
40+miles...
              plus the stress of traffic... which is always
good... stress is a great calorie burner...
plus testosterone... plus adrenaline generation...
it's not like a safe environment in a gym
pumping... pumping! weights...
or running the hamster wheel of the treadmill...
plus the wind obstructing you...
  mind you: maybe drinking that half a litre
of whiskey prior also helps...
perhaps ingesting alcohol: whiskey... before setting
off on a mega exercise routine...
because the calories: as my "dearest" gwand-m'ah used
to say from alcohol are empty calories...
by drinking half a litre of whiskey you're not eating
a fattening burger...

alcohol calories are not... protein calories...
they're not carbohydrate calories... they're not fat
calories... they're alcohol calories...

and on your bicycle... am i just fuelling up?!
i don't mean ingesting alcohol and doing weights...
i'm talking about ingesting alcohol and
punishing myself via the cardiovascular method...

personally i can't imagine myself becoming a father:
decreasing the amount of testosterone running
through my veins:
   i'm the "wrong" sort of gambler...
i measure my gambling ability on how well i can
maneaouvre... ****... too many! vowels!
man-oeuvre... manoeuvre... now i'll remember...
that's what the English speaking folk say about
my native tongue: you're ******* vowelled-up mate!

right: MAN and OEUVRE... like...
the total of someone's productivity: posthumously...
i'm more of a gambler like that:
will i squeeze in? will i get past?
either give me a horse and the Siberian steppes...
or give me a bicycle and London's roads...

oh wow... i'm actually thinking like a free man!
sure sure: i can care for people on "pretend":
little cameos here and there... and it's genuine...
but... to replicate myself: to have to "nurture" genes?
why does Jamie Redknapp (K surd!)
  look like the older brother of Frank Lampard Jr.?

i know the answer...
    because Harry Redknapp married a woman
that was the twin sister of Frank Lampard Sr. bride...

i'm sort of giggling now... but walking to the shop
for some early morning cider...
there's this great Danish film about a group
of guys who are constantly ingesting alcohol...
in acute amounts... no... not binge drinking going
out on the tiles sort of drinking:
irresponsible drinking is out of the question:
know your limits...
if you can't cycle to Tate Britain from 20 miles
away while having drank half a litre of whiskey:
don't do it...

DRUK... another round... funny that...
       druk means print in my native spreschen...
pisany druk: written print...

i look at old men as no wiser than the wisest...
it's a bit like looking at babies:
either men or women...
i want death before i reach this unnatural
old age... this retrospective cinema...
it's almost like seeing menopause:
this slack in testosterone curbing...
it's like looking at able albeit decrepit bodies
lost in a memory of former agility...

heimat! heimat!
all of the German war songs are worth singing!
heil! heil! wenig scheisse...
that's what my Russian girlfriend used to call me:
kakashka... little ****...

do i write from the perspective of regret
or from the perspective of memory:
i don't know...
what would you do... having travelled to Russia...
upon first entry into her abode:
getting a slap in the face...
i tried punching myself harder from time to time...
but that slap was waspish...
she thought i wasn't monogamous with her:
even though she kept her ex in her vicinity...

alle huren! alle huren!
   alle verdienen mein liebe!
ich kann nicht diktieren zensur von
solch(e) pracht!

   ich kann nicht! ich kann nicht!

maybe that's why i'm not bothered by nudes
in the art gallery...
       i abhor Lucian Freud...
                     i find his gaze repulsive...
it's what i'd call: cloggy...
beauty in the eye of the beholder blah blah...
there's that strict format of identifiable form
readily expressed:
which is mostly in the ****...

no wonder i like ******* in front of a mirror:
and that's mine...
und das ist mein!
                  mein allein!

        i suppose, therefore: i don't need to paint...
i can only skim a membrane of what could be
considered a painting... writing the membrane
of an art-work...

               Nietzsche showed the nail...
Heidegger provided the hammer...
   better an early death and eternity than all those
materialistic sensibilities of progress...
better the promises than simply prolonging
a fate worse than death:
ein los schlimmer als tod...

i want to die viral... with all the vitality that life
allows!
i don't want to die as a toothless wolf!
ich do nicht wollen zu sterben als ein zahnloswolf!
this is torture... old age apparent...
no wonder men have lost their libido!
if what's waiting for them:
no man want's to live the sort of life
that grieves him with old age!

it's unnatural!
             it's great for clones, cupids and other
quasi- makeshifts of creature...
it's not so great for men...
old age of men and the lost testosterone...
is a bit like the menopause for women...
but it's not spoken of...
   Western gynocentric antics...
                               i like the Eastern traditions...
man comes to the fore... woman come after...

i'm already in a dodo mindset...
i truly don't mind...
    the middle-ground has already been salvaged...
humanity will not perish...
genius is always born once in a while...
not that i am:
irgendetwas du möchte denken...

heimat! tanz! heimat! tanz!
   die fluss von menschen...
        die fluss von alles dinge...

               das ist alles.

earth wakes like a blinking marble
worm cake
ravine of ravenous hunger
breathing bowl of fruit
and black hole cauldron
of spit and sediment
where life grows like debt

disembodied skyward souls
who's haloed ground
a funeral coif
of etched intaglio grim headstones
that remain arcane symbols
of refuse underworlds
sunken under black beds
shaped like centuries of tragedy
in moldering graves
and dusty trailer park archaeologies

cosmologies eclipse
open pleasures and sultry winds
that form charades of architype golden eyes
impregnating us with dreams
like animated tarot cards
while body-caged man-o-spheres
on apocalyptic mountain sides
crawl and claw in endless nights to thrive
with every breath and squalid gasp
                                *
we propel ourselves through this life
by sacrificing the present for the future
in arduous labors of discord
and glowering autopsies
of smoke & blood
until we remain
unable to live with ourselves

i vaguely remember
traveling disembodied
like a new sun
past empty hulled tenements
where the living dead
perform soap opera cameos
as sliding doors
open and shut
like switchblades
on withered clanking subways
of shuffling bones
all the way to Hades

time bruised and beaten
bedlam of age
we each fall forgotten
grey as pulping zombies
shuttering downwards
from primordial nuclides
of contagion and death

gossiping Doppelgangers
on tesseract winds
witnessed energized prodigies
teaching the dead to construct dreams
with drum stick rhythms
and flutes of savage craving
in meta whirls
that mobilize astral spitfires
faster than tachyons
in a forever extravagant next world
monster infinity

there's either a tribalism to return to, or there's a return to trivialities, pedantry and offing on incredulous banalities of modern life; modern life, what a treat: more like cubicle life (ref. p.t.s.d.).

yet among the rubble, there's hope -
     the intricacy of little pleasures -
     *klein freude... apologies:
    i have both the annoying tendency
of an englishman saying sorry
for no apparent reason,
  which, to the english, is a bit like saying
'hello' - and i have a fetish for
the deutschezunge (german tongue) -
don't ask me why,
                 i can only guess at the idea
of heaven as being a place where
i speak german...
               but then again: i'd miss the
trilling of the R in slavic...
   **** it, whatever.
            - it's high autumn (by the way -
and by the way: colon = italics,
and - hyphen at the beginning works
just as well as a semi-colon, i.e.:
a hovering manoeuvre of interjection;
i'm not kidding you,
  it's no mere heimlich).
  - i found it debatable,
full-stop inside... or outside the use
of p.s. linear (bracket)?
               ..., now that's a cliff-hanger:
suspense! wow! houdini just
entered the building, and he left an hour
later, as elvis.
cheap jokes: keep 'em coming.
- now i've heard of magic tricks that
wow audiences, e.g. swallowing swords,
but doing the cockney magic trick
of swallowing letters?
       never!
                can you imagine swallowing
letters?
        a bit like the perpetually asiatic
swallowing of the H -
      khan - whoever has khan
as a surname, and is from pakistan -
grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-grand...
grand-mother must 'ave been
genghis' khan's concubine...
            don't you think?
**** got: wacky!
     funky wack, shimmy shimmy shimmy.
- and yet (yes, with a hyphen
+ interjection, you can begin a sentence
with a conjunction) -
              what's the only good
thing you can say about the nazis?
        gucci ****** gabanna and never
looked back,
it was one, giant, fashion ****...
  everyone, even the poles,
     always, and i mean: always -
pays the nazis the compliment akin
to a z. z. top song, because they were,
sharp-dressed men;
  and my i add, there's no grand oops
to be minded on either your's,
or my behalf;
   i can almost see these actors or
       background images of "actors"
without one-liners (cameos are for
people famous in other fields) -
   frothing at their mouths,
so eager to don the uniforms of
    the wehrmacht...
                          well, might as well
reference it now...
my paternal great-grandfather owned
the ss ehrendolch -
  the dagger with the insignia that spelled
out:
  |m|e|i|n|e| |e|h|r|e| |h|e|i|ß|t| |t|r|e|u|e|
problem is: i don't know if it was his,
or whether post-war "totem":
i'm thinking of the correct word,
but i can't find it... you know -
like scalps were... hmm...
      not memorabilia...
   ah, **** it, totem it is.
father never really talked about it
beyond owning it,
       then again, his mother came from
Silesia, and Silesia was annexed from
germany and given to poland,
    while the russians took l'viv...
so... hands in the air, i honestly don't
know the correct version.
- ah, but that's beside the point...
autumn, i have a fetish for this season...
its sheer opulence of scents,
  far greater than that spring provides...
it must be the cold,
  the early nibbling of winter's chill,
winter the crab, lobster spinster that
pinches and never forgives,
   and is never asked to forgive.
the grey skies, the endless night -
      the season where the crow and the kafka
orate the deathly silences -
of which there are seven -
  and my my, watching snow fall in
the night... that's when god reveals
he's transgender, and lifts his skirt up to
revel in the image of venus...
    but that's how nature is, evidently,
the near monochromatic colours of
    decay, ranging between the heart warming
browns, reds and yellows or oranges;
  i agree with frank o'hara -
orange is a terrible colour,
but not when it mingles with the others,
when it does so, it compliments them.
yet the decay of non-animate objects
(well, trees are animate, but in slow motion) -
yet the decay of nature on the level
of plants, unlike an animal or a fruit or
vegetable... nature showcases decay as a:
bouquet of sweetness...
                      i could never imagine watching
something dying to be so,
******* beautiful...
           melancholic beauty -
perhaps because the death of man is so
****** depressing,
  and that fact that you already have
the a priori of spring being recurrent
  and just around the corner...
           whatever is...
                autumn is never too long,
but always too short...
       and just behind it,
  the humbled trees,
    with their shady skeletons and lost
crowns of lost hair...
             seemingly mangled and stringy
by some sort of arthritic deformity...
       still, a humbled tree,
  makes for an enlightened man.

p.s. the perfume of smoking wood,
cinnamon and butternut squash
cloves, cardamon and perhaps
a tinge of fennel... and
                  foxes mating in the night,
almost makes me un-wish wanting to
hear wolves howl.

can't beat
   the SS grey kicking the
      SA khaki silly...
in terms of fashion?
no one can beat
           the nation-sozi...
you wired into
        the upcoming affair
of nationalkapitalismus
                      of america?
am i so ******* dumb
as being the only person
to notice this trend?
****... i'm dumber than
i had reservations
for expectation...
                         to mind...
don't you think the naxis
had the best attired
army?!
             me too...
            the **** are these
rags to ritches Bolshevik
                goat-herders doing
in Versailles?!

         ***** **** as hell
i wish i am deemed a ****...
at least i'll be fathomable
donning a dolce & gabbana grau;

**** **** ****... i'm itchy
to be demmed a ****...
              easier to spot a quack
and the capital nationalist
   breadcrumbs... leftovers...
     ****** bargains on what's
considered a brain...
            
      can someone please get me
a **** uniform!
        i am dying a buddhist death
rummanating
the concept of an
"anti-clockwise" *******...

die grau dolce & gabbana...
pristine, crisp, fold of a dying swan
imagining an origami....
     and a shirt to boot...
      
death is almost near impossible,
when attired
  to a **** inclusion
membrane bypass of an
army osmosis...
            hey... nazis had style...
which, with or without
anglo punk anarchy...
         could do very little...  

thanks to the nazis grey never
looked so cool,
when revising pale brown
of... mustard / diarrhoea;

          herr Flagenshtein ought
to know...
what precursors the hybrid,
in reviving a time as past
history, imbued with a "nostalgia"...
cameos... imbued in
the pursuit of purpose,
     that actual, actors, should
be allowed centre stage.
    
can't beat the **** army in terms
of fashion...
        crisp: is but one word
that solidifies their
          pursuit of eternal fame.

Tonight, I gaze
through eyes
glazed
with a
dark red haze.
It is this poetry
of pain
that I play with.
Part genius,
part ******,
but I still
work with
all of it.
It is tears,
tragedies
forgotten
and remembered
tinged with
the insights of
love and
the losses to come.

Tonight,
I am tired
but I will not sleep
because dreams
keep waking me
with what if
and never was tears,
even bringing in
cameos appearances
of family and friends
who have long since
departed this realm.

Tonight,
my eyes ache
for the sweet respite
of a well earned
rest,
but it is those
unconscious journeys
that frighten me.
So, I use
work as an excuse
while I abuse
caffeine,
just to avoid
the truth.

only that the poles don't know how similar
they are to the Russians,
in Poland the priests receive the major
scorn, the paupers the minor scorn,
while stray dogs run with the ghost
of diogenes of sinope,
        there's hardly a work ethic by
merely talking,
              woe to the scribblers under
the umbrella of technical labours,
woe to the dreaming aloud with
a horizon as wide as a breath,
     but the feet of a drowning man...
woe to no rigour and to the waiting
game of sighs, woe admiring
                            sand blocks playing
like children beneath the gaze at Giza.
now i can understand an angry voice
aged 17, 18, 19...
         8 or so years later and i have
no shame: which is more useful than
to cherish honour...
      like might be said of what Nietzsche
looked for and what Diogenes likewise
did, with the same lantern at noon:
far easier to find god, than an honest man,
gesticulating is plentiful,
     but in what deed is man to unlearn
blabbering like a baby?
unrepentant or remorsless, whichever,
but when the fire is poured
    and there is laughter in this aloofness
and no sulking for a breadth's worth
of night, only then: hardly a reason
to drink in company, or to keep any,
the barrenness of sulking,
       no tender shoulder to hide into,
morbid cold gravestone and the howling
moon, smile and scythe and
the perpetual harvest of man,
    somehow too much lunacy goes
into this religiosity to simply allow
material absolutism of this here and now...  
too much lunacy and in grief
excused, as a man might be found
hunched over a grave talking,
   far beyond god willing...
        because the heart is already invested
far beyond paying a deity its
supposed "dues"...
          sidewinding back into politico,
who are these non-cis non-this-that-and-the-other,
or rather the this-that-and-the-other?
back east i am still an abnormality for
a life of a bachelor, pseudo-cenobite,
suburbia and among the living
it's hardly a convent to mirror silence,
yet still the norm to take a wife,
but as i have only this for my defence:
YOU CAN'T MAKE SOMEONE HAPPY
BY FORCE...
                         perhaps the customs
of Kazakhstan are to forcibly take a wife
as is their ancient custom,
           not by force not by genetic
existentialism, frankly not via the Anglo
lineage of argument,
            patron saint of bachelors Emmanuel
and a new church where but a thought
is enough to give motive, watching
lunatics gesticulate beside themselves,
    slaughterhouses of critiques
and far from the atheistic notion surrounding
it as some sort of debilitating conjuring,
a sign of a low i.q., intellectual fallacy,
immaturity of seeking manna from heaven,
or reading the books with a dusting over
with poo'ems...
                   fixations on a fidgety metaphor,
certainly, some might think they're
the best poets in the world,
    but if they don't have something to stand
on, a heavyweight reading list:
   you can see them, glaring in spring's
sunlight like the mirage of seeing a puddle
of water, when instead a bed of shining platinum.
censorship-in-reverse:
    just like the awkward moment when
a novelist shows his extra limb by using
the thesaurus: suddenly the flow of lexicon
hits a hydroelectric blockade...
     stuttering, stut' stut' stut', stuttering
presence... already Atlas and the strict
take on Sisyphus, who, could have just
sat there at the foot of the hill and looked
at the smoothness and lack of: flip flop
in-grooves and promises of flint knives.
anatomical atlas and his brother,
        the bottom-most vertebra of the backbone,
toy: standing vertical,
                  brother Ccyx, two sugars, brown,
cappucino -ye'bood'yed'ka'put!
   imshi, y'allah!
                      twice removed from kicks,
      and thrice from: sick 'em!
                past all meaning and back into sounds,
that subtle layer of freedom
known only to dogs barking, crows harking,
and sparrow jittering and chatting
up to the high heavens...
         past st. Peter's street to watch
            the golden calf and the crucifix contend
for the laurel crown of ceasar...
            hardly a time to start performing
tango on your knees...
               and when all these horrible,
horrible, cis white men will die,
   and no more children of God are born,
when in vitro overtakes in vivo...
    and when the norm from cis will
shift to bi etc.,
                 comes the snowman and
overshadows the new norms,
                            gateway in the attic,
pampered closet, and what some might
call closet intellectuals...
                             atlas and his titan
brother Ccyx, depicted wearing nothing
but chinos, chiseled brain fudge to perfection,
who holds the weight,
     of the entirety of the human lexicon...
**** it, some random dictionary cascade
to deviate from the Ítálıano:
   chambers of gold chiseled by churning
butter, da da da... charcoal harvest
       of night from a vacuum with an echo
looking for its charitable cavern...
          chasing checkers at Chequers,
we you i: cue queue, and the inexhaustible
chasm of cameos...
           a dream of two chairs
    and a curly ginger imagining gelato,
in later life oral goes out of the curriculum
and it's back to man on top of a woman
as depicted in movies,
   loss of adventure in the bedroom
translates into trips to the amazon
and photo-tics at the taj mahal...
                                  and her name was
Tamara and she lived with 3 gay guys
and i still don't understand why she
wanted to do it under the bedsheets
rather on top of them...
                                hard to get a *******
when you're finding it hard to breathe
in a cocoon like that...
                            elsewhere otherwise...
i always thought you tended to sleep
under the sheets rather than play a game
of ken & barbie...
                                   i was 7 and she was 6
and we were trying to figure out why
we had the parts that the dolls didn't have...
and we inspected each other while taking
a bath, as children of neighbours do.

not that i'm in any way anti-h'americana...
but...
       the later dictates spawned from
the louisiana purchase...
expansion... the purchase of alaska...
          i'm such a colt when it comes to
the history...
                  invitations into "demands"...
if there is such an inconvenience
of nations in the form of globalism...
why is it somehow "strange" for nations
to adopt bilingualism: schizoid-oid...
              the benelux bubble...
the scandinavian repertoire...
                            there's so much supposedly
happening when people are not
sentenced to the queue for bread and...
vinegar...
            for the circus: "they" wait...
                       but it's such a welcome...
mind-relapse into palm-tree hovering:
coconut: eurekas and concusions...
   take a breather...
               take a breather...
when h'america takes a breather and...
it revolves around an introspective
commentary session...
and no new "propaganda" is heard of...
           periodical drama of "recuperation"...
i lost the plot at...
designed in california... albeit: manufactured
in china...
                    older than the russian
ploy of the lost memory of the 20th century...
how ****** i am having
to play catch-up with the 14 years
i was given being born in 1986...
          i missed no sense of replicating
a revenue of revival...
                                     the world curated
by h'america is taking a breather...
       pushing blanks... and self-addressed letters
with stamps... but no envelopes...
"somehow" and "suddenly"...
the concept of envelope has become
detached...
4th of july and i'm looking toward
going to the new zoo...
the new zoo of loon'don...
      al fresco museums of graveyard statues
was once my affair: primo...
             now i'll head to the crux...
looking at... window shopping for mannequins...
i'm hoping to pick up cues for ref.
of how... one is... best behaved...
               the prior Karen and Cain tsunami
of... children are not given...
this sort of freedom pass of tantrums...
   i'm just curious... deep-space adventures
are a microcosm...
   no postcards from saturn...
i'd much prefer the naked-eye experience...
   "however" and "however"...
h'america is taking a breather...
  no... cultural export necessary...
                        slack boyo on the music front...
why is... the idea of h'america being
a bilingual nation-hood...
rather than a nationality... so "foreign"...
               if globalism is to somehow work...
it was somehow tested in england...
the added bonus of speaking french...
perhaps speaking german was more...
beneficial...
                     spare parts of...
               this mono-lingual spear... perhaps works...
when... and not when...
a venice bicycle club...
            i've been to venice:
         i should have visisted rome....
              hell... i should have visited... Naples...
Florence on my radar...
     venice... ugh...    sinking ship
spectacular...
                  but it's oh so amazing
when... h'america implodes and has to sober
up... and look at itself...
           russia could never do that sort:
play that sort of importance...
the size of Crimea and Maine / New England...
half-bred Mongols of the Kazakh region...
schlang whipped serenity...
the antithesis of saint as pope when...
having to... manoeuvre the troops from
a presence in europe from germany to:
king john: lackland... ****** loan...

                 strange transition...
          i don't exactly want to think...
beside: raz dwa trzy... cztery... pięć: pięść...
why is it so alien for h'america to not be...
a bilingual nation?
          there was always some variation
of the lingua franca...
     there was a languae of commerce...
oh... the natives... and the "natives"...
boring bride of...
what could be...
the language that has to be...
original: rooted... it cannot be sacrificed
on the altar of commerce...
it has to be... pure... north eastern...
welcome those honk hong conqs...
                  these shores these albion:
scrutiny ****-ups...
          
    h'america could be a bilingual nation...
belgium can... norway... sweden can...
denmark can...
              holland can...
           canada pretends: quebec...
                        the french will always...
try to... make the english tongue:
more oyster-esque edible than...
spoken...
                       i'm not going to oink
a positive or oink a negative...
when the disagreement is so old...
            
             h'america could be a bilingual nation...
the same schizoid belgium...
holland... sweden imitation...
                        hardly an impediment...
a worthy addition...
but no... that's impossible...
this is how the globalisation project fails...

i'm almost content with a period of taking
a deep-breath... having h'america ****-strapped
into self-introspection implosive carnage...
it's just a period of curiosity...
                       when h'america had to implode
and... hardly... export: culturally...
               that worded bargain: promise...
no... the words from america are sold
for... the deaf and vultures of grand-standing
pseudo-moralists...

     i can't relate with the people who shipped
off a man... a neil armstrong...
to **** hans christian andersen on the moon...
for all of h'america: the fly-over states...
hyper-inflated parody of siberia:
i.e. where you could buy some land...
and... actually live on it...

                  and want to...
                                    the ol' mcdonald... queer...
sort of 'appy...
no... from outside my window...
the late night buses are usually filled
by a count of a one or three cameos...
that they're... rolling past... empty...
    
                see... writing is fun...
  when everyone around you is busy with life...
living a Norman's norm...
                    busy to joke about your:
"indispositions"... etc.
              writing is fun when praying for the shade
of the obscured life... line...
tow...
                    it's fun when...
people have their lives intact...
and you're... "fishing" for outliers of your own....
assorted calibre...
              there was less panic...
when... meningitis had its furore...
we still went to school...
   i remember having a vaccination jab in school...
this is a most terrible lie...
this is a lazy lie...
                    this is the most terrible: lazy lie...
the truth of complacency and...
comfort in sediment... the living fossils...

meningitis sowed less panic...
when it had its furore!
                       we still went to school...
                  i'm beside interested in the "plan"...
if anything could wake me up from
being disappointed: asinine...
                              is... a theatre of the guillotine!
nothing else...
****** plans: oh... grand:
so much more... forward moving...
revisionism for... the project... self-picked cabbage...
the self-picked strawberries?!
n'ah... whatever...
     i'm about to entertain myself with some
whiskey and finding a googlewhack.

łysy łysy łysy:

ol' baldy - i.e. the moon,
you were nicknamed
by someone prior to me:

now that you're dead
i need to find some solace
again,

i look at the moon
and i remember your own
baldness -

but now that you're dead:
here's me looking
for a full stop,
or blame myself to
make strategy with
a semi-colon...

   new paragraph?
new chapter - or altogether
just a different book...

for a few days to
come i can forget about
the world more and more...

i guess you're more lucky
than most:
prior to this grand "awakening"

social engineering
             as way bypassing
man: genesis ape
through to herr robo-,

and language is no longer
a freedom:
it's no more a quest
for solace as it is:
squatting over a pit
of grammar-shizzo...

i have to thank you
for the grief: i drink less!
knowing that you will
never be able to
extend into shadow
come noon...

or that you might "bribe" me
with some endearing
conversation that
was forever littered with
your memory extract cameos...

Fork in the Fickle: alVough:
                     Dat's
       and PHilandering...
                THrice...
                 my affluent counterpart
you're a dead-op
              and why was it
ever a word salad
and not a word-spaghetti?

i can only thank you:
                soy niqab soy niqab
and she was only "there"
easing into a hijab...

someone stole my face!
someone stole my face!
the scents of autumn in poland...

nuancing brimming to
the topple: the obsolete purpose
of hands...

         hello neu-luddites!
ha'lo!
              but one can -
and all that kicking -
march of the sullen down
beaten brows:

if thought could be translated
into gravity:
for coordinating all this
manure...

            it's impossible
to live through marxism twice...
once upon a time
those slavs under the iron
curtain stupid enough:
but that "they" caught up with
impossibility of:

          deciding upon replica:
no country: new moon!
- and there i thought that
clones were supposed to be
left tender...
soulless as...
       clones are to be
made disposable?
              
believe me: *** is no fun...
but weren't clones supposed to be
this jump strategy to...
oh but the defaults!
and all the faults...
and who's here...
regime essential pushing
quasi-lovie-dubby....

          i can get a haircut:
but my teeth are non-essential...
because: beside milking the bones:
i am sure to grow...
teeth... the length of elephant
tusks!

        to eat? quiet impossible...
then again: my mouth is bogus enough
to shelter the concept of
tongue...

- interlude...
  right now? the most authentic...
whatever the hell that implies...
if i'll ever want to cry
or remember: that when you died
i threw my heart into
a stash of stones...
expected a heaving lung
and a beached whale sizzling
on the coast of france...

every time i'll want to un-pretend
to grieve... i'll probably end up
slicing and dicing an onion...
to erase a need for teeth
i'll such-and-such i.e. **** a lemon...

3 months to spare i tell myself...
grandma could have
called and cited a disturbing sequence
of events...
but the law in poland states:
she will claim your pension...

what of the money! it's not necessary,
not now not even tomorrow...
why this pressure surrounding
saying the words: i was robbed!

from now until her death:
i'll be playing poker...
i'll nuance truth
because there's no need to play
that horrid game of
teasing a nibbling layer
of the same ol' dwarfian lie...

our fishing trips... our cycling trips...
here's me: writing
inconveniences
on your chin, cheeks,
forehead... telling myself:
it is very possible to starve
bewildered looking
at your corpse...
   i will use your spine as a staff
to make dicta parallels
for the quest of eyes:
should i forget to eat
enough carrots...

truly: i'm relearning the spectrum
of lethargy upon the arrival of
sorrow -
it's not an essential "laziness"
it's just this: custard-brain-freeze:
for a brain expected there's
this heavily soaped piece
of clay-alla-sponge...

i test my teeth against
a "riddle" of ice for my whiskey
and: i'm looking for onions!
how can i turn my heart
back into a lazarus...

right now i can imagine: how cheap
it all resounds...
it's not critique-viable
it's not critic friendly...
        it's its own sorrow self:
forever lessened by
a need to stretch it into phenomenological
generic: ah... replica...
observable today, tomorrow...
at best also towing a yesterday...

- hello herr busy-body...
           for the new bureaucracy -
too many vowels... too many vowels...
          RZECZ -
and je suis...
                i just need a caron above a C...
to hide the "z"...
otherwise... out-pops a length
of the tetragrammaton...
although i'm not a hebrew...
i'll still smother myself with fuckety-****-****
prior to: and ha-shem is prior
to... all the words i can type
and typo...

  because this very least is still
sacred...
              as i now pretend to look
toward: the eastern-*****...
          au-stracht... no reason beside
a need to blink...
i've had two dreams of late...
going downstairs to drink full-fat
milk from a fridge located
in the living room...

and that very famous scene where
Moses threw his staff and
a cobra was born...
a quadratic of serpents...
eating each other...
the will of the pharaoh vs.
a merely worded deity...
a pharaoh with gods of stone...

my dear "father" the fog!
my dear grandiosity: the moon,
the fog and your shadow!
how seemingly cowardly
it must be attesting:
that i too will follow down your
route:

no eloquence: cedilla!
fenile cerberus...
           words come into my gob-*****
vacuum that suppose
peering out... dear brain...
sponge being cooked...
a never-ending new tomorrow...

- yes, this pretending to nuance
lethargy... how impossibly devastating
is this mortal certainty...
almost like...
prior to prokofiev's lieutenant's kije's suite
i had no inclination
for the BATTLE OF THE ICE...

alex'dre nevsky - hallow teutons who
found more islam in
the pagan roots of lithuanians
so close to their inkling...
the prussians they were to conquer
would teach the schwab kopf nuances
to compete with
the fidgety saxon...
******* touristy blah...
aus! aus! the trails!
thus the birth of a noun:
   a bushwacker loot upon the heels
of a kangaroo!

         now the world looks: oh so more
grandiose!
relieving me from a very
private affair...
how the proto-:
atheists, materialists debunked
subjectivity...

kije: kidze: sichuan pepper...
mongolian hoof!
dear lord! all of crimea!
the tatars a history of ukraine and...
it was never a civil war
where people speaking
the same tongue warred
against each other!
i... ploY... to translate the impossible:
whoever translated
joyce's finnegans wake...
need no bother:
where are the diacritical marks!

it sort of "helps" knowing that...
SHYLA STYLEZ is
one of those mythological blondes
that's... dead...
and i'm a "necrophyliac"...

you died and i just knew what
world was waiting for me...
thank you: *******...
this blessing of humanity...
this urdu poet: this...
              munawwar rana...
                 because as you *******...
a "mother" a *******...
a niqab... a feather from an angel's
wing... the flesh of a circumcision
extended into the concept
of a belt: for which some pork is
insisted upon...

how's ******* any worse
than phellatio
when you've just spooned
a load of cinnamon...
like... oh my god: like... n'ever!

blatantly: queer is counter-inquisitive...
it's this borrowing
of taboo... strength in the purpose
of a comma...
                      comb-over-y'ah...

now - jetzt - teraz...
i'm looking for either: an uncomfortable pea...
catherine the great...
or a dozen of cushions...
or that would be Cnut -
some otherwise Dane...

i abhor myself for writing in this zunge..
it's this forever alienating prospect...
i'll miscarry denoting
a Cyprite as a turkic bleed
and borrowed... lineage...
never this proud Grecian...
and you were too... solid at...
how Silesia was partitioned...
prior to how coal was made defunct:
and how the winds were
supposed to congregate?

my chandelier of glass...
teasing ivory and a glistening
of a scrap of
heave! dear sir!
remember ol' saxony!
i have here spare... a devil's
dozen of teeth:
burden, i, a "toad" of chew
and munch!
not much, ergo...

                        pleasure / appease
the soviet quest
for a man devoid of
subjective- stampede
inquiries...
                      aren't the soviets:
de facto... ad mortem?
alias morsus?

i recall someone once mentioning: the trouble with writing
these days is... that we're writing about reading...
perhaps... i'm assured that everyone is literate:
affirmative of numbers and basic arithmetic...

but people still leave graffiti scribbles on walls...
paper too expensive?
  but some people are still dyslexic...
                 oddly enough there's no concept of dyslexia
in ****** spreschen...
          there are: orthographic mistakes...
for example...
morze vs. może...
            maybe vs. sea...

                   bigger problems with U and Ó...
O itself is not the problem...
         i.e. / e.g. za późno   (too late)
why ó and not u?
                    it's the same sound...
    this is what orthography looks like...
                           Charles Dickens had a misinformed
insight into what he called "orthography":

orthography invokes a need for diacritical markers...
something to elevate the Latin script...
and English? simply didn't and i'm still waiting...
i could be dead by the time any diacritical
marks arrive...
  
   you can't really call it an orthographic mistake
if you write realy and not really...
                       given... i RELY on what's REALLY
available...

so why "too late"?
                                  from the word: PO... i.e. after...
po czymś - after something...

and then i come across a band that was popular like
7 years ago...
   Łąki Łan: o.k. - i don't know how i came across
the band Lao Che...
               but how did i miss Łąki Łan?

sure... it's not the Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
but then again it's not Disco Polo...
          unlike the Hebrew diaspora... "we" Polacks
hate each other, distrust each other...
or at least that's what my parents taught me...
we integrate alright...
   and how easily we collapse when moving
en masse...
                     since the: leave the EU vote in England...
whatever large contingent was apparent
with "ethnic" supermarkets disappeared...

most of my "brethren" ****** off back to the homeland...

every, single, year... when my grandfather was
alive and i spent the summer there...
regrets?! yeah... i wish i went to at least
one Woodstock festival...
   Czaplinek...                  whatever it's called now...
yes... but would i have Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment
under my belt?
  
  i know i like to sleep around with random
women and esp. those inclined to prostitution
but i also like to read... a little bit... just a little bit...
and Boleslaw Prus: the Doll...

Bertrand Russell's the history of western philosophy,
Kant's critique of pure wisdom,
Heidegger's being and time...
Kierkegaard's either / or...
i'm yet to finish vol. 5 & 6 of Knausgaard's
magnum opus... etc. etc.

   i've only recently rediscovered my
extroversion... within the constraining environment
of work... with strangers...
i'm sort of levelling the field of formality...
i just remember working with my father
in a toxic and the best amazing way
while roofing... we argued a lot...
we still argue a lot...

   **** me: it's humid... i think i haven't showered
in two days... i'm starting to stink...
i probably wouldn't if i had fur rather than:
what became of ape that man is now
and what was once boar that's now pig...
boar?
would that be the ** or the XY genes...
well... what the **** did we breed boars with?!
boars are still alive...
but the "thing" we bred them with evidently isn't
since we have pigs...

we used to be so adventurous: biologically...
really twisted Frankenstein(s)...
let's face it... the number of dog breeds we created?
wow! and we're still keeping some
with sadistic paranoia that the French bull-dog
will not suffocate while sneezing...
but what have we replaced that with?
inter-racialism...
    i still think a white **** looks better
on a black *** than the reverse...

                  it's a bigger sight of canvas...
and in Kenya... sure... when the moon was right...
and she came hovering over to me
with a joint... plump... not fat... just: plump...
not that we did anything:
we were eye-*******... throughout...
i guess i must have gauged her eyes out with my eyes...
i clearly read the tension...
                    eye-*******...

well... beside the ol' raven Turkic hair... that drives me mad...
probably as mad as ginger hair...
ol' raven Turkic... ginger Celtic...
    auburn-ginger Celtic...
                or just highlighting ginger and freckles...
there's this girl at work...
i was thinking during one shift:
what if you just showed me your hair in a different
style...
i thought it...
****... i don't believe in telekinesis or telepathy...
but...
        hey presto... next shift i was supervising
and handing out i.d. cards sitting next to her
at the table... i must have touched her hand unknowingly
with my pinky finger...

but she did change her hair... it was let loose...
it was no longer in that tired half bun...
i don't even know the name for that stlye of hair...
with men... it's... the top's there...
but the sides are shaved... crew-cut? under-cut?
but with girls... they strap the scalp of their hair
and leave it dangling... em em... ****...

right... UNDERCUT but NOT undercut...
ginger ******* fetish...
                                        i have a ginger fetish...
i'm not ashamed of it...
                            like i'm not ashamed of visiting
brothels like i'm not ashamed of liking Romanian
and Turkish girls...
esp. since living in England and...
           no luck... so? ******* elsewhere...
well... if the English girls are all about Pakistani
grooming gangs...
it's harsh...              

- well, i never belonged with my brethren anyway...
i'm just too used with multi-culturalism...
after all... what ethnicity is not England?
the whole world is here...
i'm more acute of myself in the presence of:
i could be the next Lawrence of Arabia...
fitting in talking casually with Somali would
be pirates...

and no: i don't drink for "fun": i drink to disinhibit myself,
but at the same time i adore being sober and
stressed at work... ugh... the formality of language...
that NVQ 2 course broke me...
i had to abandon the use of language i'm
most used to... i had to return to a policy of language
akin to 2 + 2 = 4...
it was torture...

even now: i know: i'm all over the place...
but that's because i want to be "here"...
                     or "there"...

like someone mentioned: the problem with writing
these days is that we're writing about reading...
when i was younger i could get trapped in
a linear narrative flow of fiction...
i would spend the most glorious month of my life
reading something akin to Bolesław Prus' the Doll...
or Bertrand Russels' the history of western
philosophy...

             going with grandma to the market place...
picking up fresh fruit and vegetables...
in Poland there's the breakfast...
the major meal of the day: the dinner
is the lunch... once upon a time there was no
9 to 5 shifts... there were 3 shifts...
the most popular shift was one orientated at
waking up at 5am...
working till 1pm... coming home for dinner...
and then? supper... probably sandwiches...
hard-boiled eggs on bread... plenty of vegetables...
blah blah...

i'm sort of experiencing a comeback of the Soviet
tradition...
i'm not getting paid weekly...
i'm getting paid monthly...
**** on me... i'm only going to get paid
for my last shifts in June two months down the line...
which means? i can't see Khedarah
for two weeks more...

thankfully i'm entertaining myself in this
boring: boorish: humidity that's not supposed
to be allowed into Europe...
when i was younger i could focus on one book
at one time...
but then again... i couldn't read two novels
at the same time...

i'm currently "schizophrenic" splitting my
attention between Ovid and Zhuanghi...

- no... i know why i don't like my fellow "countrymen"...
i remember this one incident...
i must have been 7... or... "thereabouts"...
two boys approached me...
one of them asked me to open my mouth...
naive: i complied... i opened it...
then immediately closed it...
in the time "between"? he spat in my face...

i have a love-hate relationship with Poland...
i'd sooner speak German
and learn to live in Russia than feel any affiliation
with this buffer-zone land of crushed
ambitions...
                       hey presto! i'm living in London
and... i don't feel like there's anywhere more
important than here...
            i have a beard that i stroke like i might
play a cello... i have a hair chest and a hair stomach...

i work in order to get money in order
to **** prostitutes in order for the prostitutes to feed
the money i give them to churn our a functioning
economy: i'm not envious of males in roles
of superficial power... i'm a loser and i'm a winner...

i've seen the troubles of my mind extend into
real: tangible troubles in the world...
i'm moving in a synchronised way...
                   i'm: perhaps delusional... but at the same time:
BASED...

i can walk into a forest and come out
with a branch that's shaped like a Cossack's sword...
a SHASHKA...
             i fall in love like a sky-dive...
i love like a barking dog...
i i rarely get the sort of love i'd like to be returned...
i rely on the cameos with strangers...
usually young boys...
who fist pump me...
    or women who: akin to me... like stroking my beard...

i'm pretty sure i have a secret stash of leprechauns
in my pockets to imply:
this is for good luck... rainbow not needed...

but it's good to know...
i never pay for lies...
if at least two prostitutes tell you: you're...
good-mad...
                       you're good-mad...
well then...
                              i'm the best kind of crazy...
and like i once told a girl at work:
what Bukowski said...

some people never go mad...
     what horrible lives they must lead.

there's absolutely no need to write
these days -
perhaps if i were much much
younger and idealistic -
what love... what oh what woe...
could have could be (etc.) -

today i found myself in love
with england for: however many
a time...
the rolling hills cliche -
but i was alone: yet i was legion...
i was no anglo-saxon
with an army...

i strolled the countryside and
for this moment of certainty:
i was truly allowed to
hold firmness of aloofness -

beside the rabbit i crouched
beside two meters away...
a wild thing i was almost eager
to pick it up:
was the rabbit blind?

it's beyond questionably unfathomable...
well... there was that fox
that decided to come to soup kitchen
in my back garden
for nearing two months:
at a time when i desired
a dog... because: cats don't really
eat leftovers... fussy eaters...
no gluttonous slobs among,
         them...

my new earned pleasure:
to walk is better than to talk...
yet even i found myself talking
to the wind:

verbatim:
imagine! bewildering that such places
still exist!
even if for an hour...
later i found out that this was
historical ground i was treading...
related to henry VIII and edward
the confessor -
teasing passing through
a village havering-atte-bower...

i didn't see a human face for hours
and hours... i did see birds-of-prey,
i saw i noted...
i didn't bring a pen and paper...
i was so entangled...
i was so freely there...
i was so... freely there...
unlike where i am now:
"here" attached to an extension
of thinking...

come to think of it... i was so pristinely alone
that if i were asked anything
outside the realm
of casual formality: if i were to be implored
to bid good day or a hello...
i'd straighten out a *******
banana and call it: the staff of moses
if i had to deal with this bogus societal-
never on a street am i ever
asked for a hello...

why do people find it necessary
to bid these ****** hello impromptus
when facing the base for all dreams...
i never liked talking during
***... i never like disturbing
the language of the fields and the teasing
moors and the chimes of branches
with anything that isn't jokingly
spontaneous:

like today: imagine... such places do
exist... where one can truly spend a worth
of an hour or so alone...
with the birds of prey flying
above... with horses grazing...
with a rabbit: i presumed blind...

it's most decidedly unnecessary for me
to write this: but i can't allow
a good glug of kosher malt to waste...
if i'm drinking i'll have to find myself
writing...
such that i need to restress a fondness
for this equipment:
a pair of feet...
no need to run... if i can catch up
with noon and make it home
come sunset...

i will most certainly not prescribe myself
to live under the cooking instructions
of a chicken sold by a supermarket...
1h40... 1 hour and forty minutes?
to cook a large chicken?
like all women are the best cooks
and the chicken ******* need
to be dry as a brittle (trans-grammarism)...

i wasn't listening...
shove enough thyme / garlic infused butter
under the skin and give it a maximum
of 55 minutes...
mismatching my rooster albert bartlett
tatties... i was hoping for a synchronised
swan lake esque event concerning
the oven enterprise...
bad luck moi...

     a thermometer is so key... to eating
a pleasure roast of chicken...
i'll understand pasta undercooked...
teasing al dente: but over-cook it...
and serve up mush of melting glue:
kept together by a "miracle"...
same with chicken...
oh god... over-cooking or undercooking
meat is... i will dare to say...
never mind... 165°F for chicken meat...
i can't eat chewing gum made from
chaw-chaw-chaw barbarous chew...
welcome back to civilisation:
lost wanderer...
              
i honestly don't think i needed to write
this: that i didn't...
but i did... i hope i can be excused
with "keeping my **** together"...
i'm not a fan of drinking in front of
the mirror...
or putting my hand in a hot bucket
of water...
why does drinking supposedly
encourage commerady...
why is drinking supposed to be this:
social event...
drinking alone is bad...
walking alone is doubly bad...
well **** yeah! let's have us
a *******-wanking of a marathon!
a drinking **** to boot!

drinking alone is all that is "leftover"...
if it weren't for the add chance
of utilising a plumber...
once in a blue moon scenario:
since the previous generations
invested so much in the plumbing...
it's not a question would i be better of...
i'd be: off of now...
in this currency conundrum of...
impersonal justifications...
a hybrid anonymous butcher...
or some... variation and "other"...

give me the sky! the wind! the fields!
and the time necessary to not encounter
some ******* baseline pedestrian
who... upon venturing upon holy ground...
public footpath nonetheless...
seeing all this nature has to...
pass me by with an invitation for
a hello hallow how'do'you'do...
         weird:
if i walked down the street and
all that pleasing concrete was in the way...
would i get the same "invitation"...
then why, bother, my, silence...
when i'm standing on grass... looking
at trees?!

unfamiliar territory i am sure...
i don't need assurances of teasing poker...
get on your ******* bus and leave us
to its...
it's hardly an "english" thing...
is just happens to be a human bollocking
working up to a crescendo that's only
now apparent: who dou 'illed with
'reats again'st the theat're?

         the rabbit! the rabbit! the rabbit!
was the rabbit blind?
i didn't sneak up on it...
hello words: congest my mind allow
the voyeurs in...
i won't be here long...
                 that space between
the ears and the eyes... i suppose the eyes...
like candy-outgrowths...
bulging i pretended to blink
they were still intact...
a camouflage... this close to a wild
"thing" you'd find me expressing
details of moth wings...

that there's a an M25... that there's an A406...
and there's the great...
walk-along to ******* alone
work-around for feet primo...
i think it's called a circular...
like a hand of an hour
i imagine walking around greater london
7 times...
it really is a bogus project...
but it's a mad enough
beginning to allow myself to dream...

like in those old movies...
oceans, eleven?
the 'ctor roost and... the professional
boxers... treated as mere cameos on
screen...
so... here's my cameo...
i have yet to find such a footed
riddle as i have...
no ******* from noak hill will tread
these parts...
i'm sure of it as i am sure:
it's not that i'm a lover of nature...
there's no david attenborough
voyeurism involved to produce
a semblance naturalist...

words architecture,
words architecture...
word... ugh... architecture...
      words grammar architecture...
it's not that it's ugly...
it's just so well-arrived-at...
it's pristine... unshakeable...
words, grammar... architecture...

i want to walk...
to hell with running a marathon
while mr. c.c.t.v. is jerking off
a commitment of transmission...

acorns and oak-fill... lost for words...
chestnuts! chestnuts!
all that is evolved monkey
and devolves back into a bear...
sounds mad enough to 'ave some...
i just like to imagine...
digressing with winter nonexistent...
this parody of insomnia:
whether via work
or via...

one alcoholic vs. one hundred
workaholics...
vs. one thousand bureaucrats...
vs. 4th industrial revolution
staples in the millions...
cost effective "work"... and "effective":
a work not as: the best
that can be done...
but as a public service loitering...
ahem... sorry... "provision"...
have people forgot that
there exist a version
of humanity that somehow
has to be appeased...
that people can perhaps relapse
into their trained-monkey phase
and treat a supermarket
cashier as he or she were
a heart-surgeon...
or are we all so *******
desperate as to: settle our grievances
on mediocre pyramidal schematics .
tiers invoked... blah blah...
whoopsie: it snows.

grandiosity herr engels: i gather....
but for all that toughening of limbs
and of making concrete assurances:
to borrow bones to somehow delve
into carving marble...

how to turn a gorilla into a weakling
man pursuit...
brain hijacked by a mushroom...
and retell squirm with
a man-beefed-up-bear-in-tow...

it's not merely... impossible...
this of the fewest least...
it's this rugged tease of
     an avalanche...
a stampede...
when in fact... it was merely
a wriggling of a centipede.

demiurge ave!
   demiurge ave!
  as one probably does...
walking past a curation of budding ***...
she's teasing 15...
and she gives off quiverings in
the air...
she's so teen...
so prone to angry...
  all that she is... is a scent of bubblegum...
she's too young to become
complicated with ***...
and *** has become one of those:
metaphors... drawing water from
a stone...

i'm too tired of wanting what isn't readily
available...
in the availability of a harem...
i'm too tired to want
what i must, most necessarily
never have...
then again... again: i will heave
not having above what i could
perhaps want to heave: rather than have...
all those pornoflicks from
******: should i be irritated by
******* tailor-me-pretty...
a kit-kat of fingers usually does
the "job"...

         yes... my heave: my harth...
my liquid lunge...
my  best and therefore by least...
forest of a crown.

When Bluebeard told his bride there was
a closet she must never see
She painted deep inside her head
A portrait of how it might be;

She saw a wonder chamber there
with Baroque pearls and curios,
with sequinned birds and spiky shells,
and monstrous fish and cameos.

And when her husband had to leave
to make a voyage 'cross the sea
he said she might use every room
and gave to her the master-key


The chambers here were many, all
with costly silk upholstery
With works of art and silver plate,
and porcelain, jewels and ivory

He showed her then another key
but told her, glaring, to beware-
To never use it, for it opened
up the closet 'neath the stair

His bride just laughed and said that he
could trust her even with his life
That he might rest assured that she
would never be a spying wife


2

So now alone, she asked her friends
to come and keep her company
To gossip in the courtyard where
they all could sit and take their tea

A courtyard sweet as heaven's door
where roses smelt of cherubs' sighs
And peacocks trailed their rustling tails
of tasselled silk with turquoise eyes

The fountains chimed like chandeliers
each tree sang like an aviary
Ripe fruit hung thick from every bough
and all was just as it should be

But Bluebeard's bride could not discard
the baleful warning of her groom
Nor could she cast out from her head
the phantom of that hidden room

And though she knew that it was wrong,
she sprang up quickly from her chair
Then took the silver closet key
and hurtled down the spiral stair
3
She held the key with quivering hand
and turned it slowly in the lock
But as she did, she met a sight
that sent her reeling from the shock

She'd entered now that nightmare land
where Kraken loom up from the deep
And you no longer understand
if you're awake or fast asleep

That half-remembered childhood world
where goblins lurk beneath the bed
Where witches fly around at night
and everything is on its head

For there, all caked in ruby blood,
a woman lay upon the floor
And peering round the shuttered room
she saw at least a dozen more

Their necks gleamed dark with clotted gore
like pomegranates split apart
While others had been hanged on ropes
or stabbed with daggers through the heart

At which the girl let out a shriek
that could have woken up the dead
And dropped her key upon the ground
amidst the blood of coral-red

Then picking up the key again
she stumbled 'cross the crimson floor
And, choking from the fetid stench,
she raced to slam the closet door
4
Her ordeal though, had just begun
for Bluebeard came back suddenly
And when he did, he told his wife
to show to him the closet key



But then he saw her bloodied hem,
that glare of terror in her eye
And knew she'd peeked inside the room
where he had told her not to pry



"The key," he said, "is streaked with blood
You've poked about inside that door.
Well, Madam, you shall join my wives
and rot with them forever more."



He drew his sword out from its sheath
and held the blade above her head
"Please give me just a little time,
so I may pray to God," she said



"You went against my word," he growled
"You shall not have one minute more"
But, as he gripped his sword to strike,
he froze, then tumbled to the floor-



His wife could scarce believe her eyes
and wept with joy at what she saw
But still she took the sword and plunged
it through his heart, just to be sure.