She, "City' cafe cat
But we would do
anything
for a cup of coffee right?
Where not the punctual
calendar girls day or night
The territories

(My Heaven's) steep spoon swirls
How it became the show
Guys and Dolls
Coffee of diaries souls
How a fortune of words
can burn a cup
One sip out of you just ****
At least my flavor trip
I did a lot of long walking
Sipping below his sea level
Hialeah slim blend
The firelight is
glowing
 Beloved by brown warm eyes firefly
This one is the long
sip to meet him bewitched

The Spanish fly
always on his cup trim
More Sambuca  Italian coffee
but why is this so long_
mouth stretching
Another long wait
To get the creamy shining
Knight
My light long
way home
Queen bee cream and
sugar delight, not honey
cleverly cupped
international trip money

The charming Knight
Over the coffee feeling
  camelback
She brews her
fulfillment
he massages her skin
On the fortune road
coffee beans "Parliament"
One long sip enjoyment
Brown leaf so Autummy
That long trip something
is falling
Good body flavor his calling
She neighed into
his love fire dim text
The desire long
extension
all wired

I just want — to — hold you — Egyptian

King with her cherries bing
I never heard of that coffee?
Got like jewels shall bling

One big fortune her vocal chord sing
we work harder to be more
golden winning goes to ___

The winner holding beans
Eyes of fortune Emmy fascination
(Sweet Carolina) honey so much more
blossom into her coffee such luster
bean amazingly guilty hey buster
Feeling so fortunate
how he reads into her expression

The Lord is my shepherd is coming
but hesitancy in her response
Then the next kiss would be with
her coffee embrace could he afford her
Also, her Sophia seduction like
styled camped
Safari how coffee became
the love cure for illnesses
how it healed hearts and asthma

(Her Vows) desireable boiled bows
Buganda Kingdom
I love you in the morning shore

What an obsession fortune beds
of Coffee, fingertips trailed to him
because he couldn't let her go
completely loving coffee and she

He cupped her in his
broad shoulders so he
Let’s be creative and
think of fortune names

Fortune:

Richest self-made millionaires
the rim of my coffee cup

I see a fortune flowing one long
trip faces glowing

Howard Schultz Forbes fortunes from scratch
I guess he saw his beans clearly no eye to patch
So the name like "Starbucks"
Knocking on heavily cup the
woodpecker chucks trip of coffee perks
That billionaire
secrets
is Facebook
Mark Zuckerberg
entrepreneur what a face
nothing more just faces
Will I get an idea the way they do?

Let’s open the (Gate Bill)
micro-soft computer,
French roast bold what was
really told
Hungary England how he
survived the **** Budapest
now he trying to save
other refuges with 500 million

Like her tiny cup of Turkish
heavy sediment Istanbul
Oceans storms her Grecian coffee
Also, her mind was dazzled but rambled
by the intruder
Leaving her all different coffee flavors
Like a fortune of familiar words
One knowing about coffee?
The “Spicy Taco” I felt I was in a
spiritual environment
of the Mecca in the holy city
Stephen when he went to her place
he would try so hard to protect her

Seeing the fortune coming inside the
amber water fountain
She knew his (Grecian Island)
flavors so well
with cardamon meet lovely (Cinnamon)
The coffee so sinfully the game
backgammon and chess

How love came in many Cafes parades
of the New Orlean Carnival
the Turkish armies "Parisian ****"
women and Men
Robes Pierre French revolution
What an evolution world cafes
Long ago far away 1600 Pope Clement
V111 pleasure full cup of Turkish coffee
very popular business thinkers

One golden ticket most expensive coffee
(Starbucks) the trip of a lifetime
(Cafe Nero)
Please bow to (Grace Kelly) coffee
Princess of Morocco how people
are looking more exotic back
in fortunes bed and ***
One long lie what to be said
Doing the Egyptian coffee dance
Exotic love Islands and France
How she Sophia waited for him in
bed nakedly the "Egyptian silky"
love sheets pour the crystal eyes
milky
((Fifty flavor))
shades of coffee her
eyes opened he
saved her with her
special blend
The depth of loving his hands
melted inside of her coffee
He was her love intruder
sending
her all his coffee flavors
For an instant, their eyes
met like the grains
of heat, she was drowning
in his honey brown depths.

.why? why?! why would i even be, remotely,
concerned?
    esp. with a story from yesterday
akin to that of a feminist poster being
taken down, that read:

    woman
        women
    noun
   adult human female

because some, sorry... i love the word:
****** / doctor "thought" the word:
woman was endangering
transgender people...
                                                 wow!
looks like the homosexuals are on the attack...
can you be a misogynist and a homosexual,
simultaneously? well... apparently you can!
bravo! encore! encore!
    so should i be bothered when such antics
are taking place in: of all places, Liverpool?
**** it, i'm going to have a beer and watch
the sunset - or at least that's what i thought
a few hours prior.

the **** was i doing, watching channel 4
news?!
      i do remember watching it...
why was i watching it?
     for all it's worth...
                they do a pretty solid job,
**** me, they even reported on Iranians
using instagram...
                        gotta love the Shiites...
probably my favorite Muslims...
   given their Persian background -
proud face, like those native Americans
in the film hostiles:
   proud faces...
                        well... if you're going
to root for someone, root for the "underdogs"...
those Persians were never going
to bow down to the camel jockey Arabs,
sure as **** they wouldn't, and didn't...
ah ****...
  that's the problem with drinking,
and writing at the same time...
   in vino veritas...
     shh... it's a secret...
                    one downfall of drinking
and writing...
                      hmm...
                         ­     really hard to tell a lie...
by god it's hard to tell a lie
while drinking...
     why? there's no fun in telling a lie,
spinning a fictive narrative,
marketing character understudies or
fan-bait...
                a bit like:
Chopin...
                     versus a ******* orchestra...
(yeah, sorry about that...
   oath words, i swear,
   are compiled in the category of and:
i.e., they're conjunctions...
   otherwise i'd stutter, or something much
worse, like a writer's block & ****)...
wait...
   what was i going to say?
ah!
   channel 4 news... sure... it pure left,
globalism, multi- blah blah blah
and further blah to the nth term...
i couldn't believe it though!
   obviously the two stories were going
to be spoken about side by side...
     first... the second arrest of Tony Robinson...
apparently yet another, or another yet:
contempt of court...
     scenes from the Old Bailey...
and, d'uh, obviously,
   Jeremy Corbyn opening a placard of
a sq. dedicated to the far right
    "terrorist" attack on... ***...
  can't remember her name...
    Joe... hey Joe... where do you think
you're going with that gun?
Janie's got a gun...
                   this **** never gets old:
Chris Rea: Josephine...
       i send you all my love,
  and every single step i take
i take for you...
i would never believe that so much of
Van Morrison has that many
  jazzy accents in the oeuvre...
moondance:
   and a crisp, cloudless early
afternoon illuminating the birds,
the blues of flowers and the contract
of the about to shoot
  into embers of होली Holī
envious greens...
turmeric, chilli powder,
     cumin, fading cardamon,
garam masala,
                      coriander...
cinnamon,
           then the masalas:
   tandori, achar, tikka....
    then korma and the sri lankan
powder...
blue indians have their celebrations
in spring,
  i'm about to spectate the celebrations
of autumn... win win...
but that's still not the point...
channel 4 news...
  oh ****!
  Gavin!
   Gavin Mcinnes!
    **** me!
          hmm...
   love the tartan suit...
******* looks plush!
about as much style as matt preston
  (from Australian Masterchef)...
**** it,
   i forgot which of the chicken
wings recipes i am supposed
to make tomorrow....
                               *******!
the Azerbaijan recipe, or the...
oh ****... o.k. i can tell the difference
between the porcelain of the Japanese,
and say... someone from Thailand...
whatever... i'll cook something anyway.

beyond the whiskey
and the beer drank along the familiar
path, with memory stressed
as to no accomplished ego coupling,
drunk indeed,
but rehearsing the familiar path
that thought de-activates
and there's less of identifiers required.*

in terms of gambling,
in familial setting,
betted:

watford (21-20) home to newcastle
(5-2), QPR (6-5) against wolves (9-5 to win),
barnsley v. rochdale (draw at 11-5),
chesterfield v. millwall (to win, 11-8),
oldham v. bury (draw at 21-10),
port vale v. bratford (home-side 8-5),
coventry (13-10) away winning against southend (13-8),
plymouth (11-5) against bristol rovers (evs),
accrington (13-10) against exeter (13-8) too,
manfield (6-5) winning against luton (9-5),
portsmouth drawing with oxford united (21-10),
wycombe with leyton orient (11-5) too,
yeovil beating crawley (13-10),
dundee utd. losing to kilmarnock (11-5) -
scots wish me luck,
motherwell drawing with ross county (19-10),
brochin losing to aidrie (11-10),
montrose winning over clyde (9-5),
hamilton losing to edinburgh's hearts (6-5),
finally...
burnley overcoming derby (13-10).

if i got all nineteen right, i betted 2 quid
and won a million,
split it down the middle with my father,
bet for two quid, quid each, half a million each.
my father is a cautious gambler,
bets spare change to get pennies for a million
exchange, i only desire serious alcoholism,
i am a true scot between the two pulling
two pence apart to create copper wiring,
scots are the jews of the north, after all:
i don't gamble, i play chance,
the chances of me being prophetic about five
football scores will be a, a ref. to the guinness book
of records.

i aimed high today, feminism still hasn't the foggiest
of house husbands, lazy lions,
it's still thursday pay-cheque day for the women,
i can cook a killer korma (added late
grind cashews), and a serial killer kashmiri masala curry,
organic chemistry experiments 12h a week will do that to you,
you'll enjoy cookbooks more than chemistry textbooks,
too many esters i say, spices v. perfumes, your choice
the pakistani in my off-license looked amazed i was wearing
hindu perfumes after having cooked a meal he could
recognise that wasn't a concentrate of strawberries:
find a needle in a haystack, yes... find a berry in a haystack...
no.

i love hindi cuisine, much aroma that deviates from
what europeans claim to be aromatic:
pig sweat and oxen salivate a taste for synthetic
odours when an analysis of cardamon justifies aplenty
likewise: what opens necessary porous areas
of the skin as necessarily sweet
does not necessarily invoke a sweetness for the tongue
to match: fat cows better than anorexia voodoo
of *******-champagne girls i'd tell you.

Closing my eyes, I sit on my chair with tea,
sipping and cupping my chai with please.
Its cinnamon scent wafts through the air,
sending pleasant shivers everywhere.

Hints of cardamon slide down my throat with ease,
the musky mix of spices and black tea.
Slowly, I release my back to rest comfortably,
on the back of the old chair, that my mother gave me.

when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.*

- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
   the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
   on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell h.i.v. positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.

even the queen doesn't wear as many pompous garments
throughout the year, as she does  upon coronation,
or the annual opening of the parliament -
high almighty she sits, in the chamber
of the house of lords, before the
"commoners" / middle-class pimps
lords of the manor of Cambridgeshire
are later summoned by black rod -
all the knock knock jokes stem from there:
black rod - knock knock.
the commons' - who's there?
black rod - black rod!
the commons' - black rod who?
black rod - black rod you wouldn't even care,
                    the pigs' trough is waiting.
but even the queen doesn't wear
all the garments she's entitled to upon
this occasions - i mean the full garment...
so is the commoner's approach to
vocabulary... on a printed page of a book
a poem looks: so much more menacing!
it's as if i actually have stamped
each poem, and they're not r.t.s. (return
to sender) example of bypassing
and destroying the the royal mail
with a magician's snap of the fingers...
but as honesty goes, the internet made
one magic trick, snap of the fingers,
and a thousand centipedes of postmen
disappeared in a second... gone... flushed
down the social-cohesive toilet...
it's called: improvement... the Chinese
are like: bring them over, we have
a billion and we need the leg work,
done and dusted, the last meaningful
letter i ever received was... i don't remember:
safe to say: never.
i am actually comparing something,
opened a beer, sat on a windowsill,
and thought to myself: after i digest
Stephen King's media outlet with his
many ghost writers, i'll smoke a cigarette
and read that ghastly thing that has my
name and picture printed on it...
it's ****** hard to read your own thoughts
back: given elephant narcissus in the room
and the bay leaf sensation in your mouth
rereading the ******* -
oh, by the way, in my culinary arsenal,
on today's menu: pork tikka masala -
i know, a heresy, tikka masala paste extra,
but to infuriate the palette:
not ground cumin and coriander, seeds,
a bay leaf... cloves (not necessary),
and cardamon pods -
                                freshly chopped tomatoes,
creme freche instead of double cream and
yogurt - garam masala, Kashmiri chilly powder,
paprika, turmeric... anti-dementia exercise:
what the **** did i put in?
50% youth unemployment in Greece,
45% and 40% in Spain and Italy respectively,
well, if you're going to have an existential
crisis, i.e. you're not in denial about old age
and how the Dutch and the Swiss and the Belgians
are the great humanitarians of our time...
might as well have one now.
funny enough, most people will not be saving up
for a pension... they'll be saving up for
euthanasia... honest to god, the lemmings are coming!
the lemmings are coming! in human terms:
that's not a myth.
****... what a digression... even the queen doesn't
wear the many garments presiding over her
role as being understood upon the annual
opening of parliament: in layman's terms,
i mean that to be synonymous with vocabulary...
a.i. says one as an abstract version
of all the other pronouns...
   the royal says we: because there's always
an entourage of lackeys and servants -
all the commoners get stashed in i, the over-exemplified i:
egoism, you, he, she, and the paranoid collective
of the royal's we, i.e. they...
it came to me rereading the Frederick II
Hohenstaufen Linguistic Experiment -
i realised, because of certain words having
a near ~synonymous status:
mainly because they're so closely bound,
and like triplets, you can't have three different
wombs to get the bunch out
(oh, i have fried twins on toast,
once or twice, twin yokes in one egg,
i wonder: would they ever... er...
become Siamese? division gone awry,
or God teaching angels mathematics,
someone's bound to slip up... oh come on...
give room for some ****** simplicity!) -
what i want to reiterate is: even the queen doesn't
wear all the required authoritarian garments
throughout the year: look at her taste in
frocks... a puppet without a puppeteer -
now that's authority, wink-wink-oi-oi
nudge of the elbow, 'ello 'ello 'ello 'ello;
the same goes for me, you and every other
Jack and Jill... three words...
all statistical... mode... median... mean...
now, i haven't the foggiest how to differentiate
you a meaning for each... thus
looking at the poem i mentioned:
ontological modes - i.e. certain words can't
provide ontological modes -
attacking the verbiage, you honestly haven't
read continental thought, roll a spliff,
****** off... anyway...
it's like the queen's story... let's say her
garments are necessary analogy: she doesn't
wear all the pompous cloth and pearl
every day, unless it's everyday in a painting...
that's the same with vocabulary...
plus mode, median and mean are congested into
an alphabetical coercion -
let's say zoological and anthropoid -
so far apart you can almost keep them freshly
imprinted to a satisfying differential immediacy -
i.e. you can give me a meaning of the two words...
but mean (1) is soon followed by median (2)
                later comes the meaning of mode (3 -
in alphabetical order... even though
the alphabet has only a quantum chronology -
  compact a, first, then b - stranger that it
wasn't supposed to be necessarily e) -
which is why we seem to unhinge from specific
vocabularies - in education we are strained
at times to learn specific vocabularies,
but later discard them, we're actually repelled by
categorised vocabularies: niche vocabularies -
from the moment of hinging unto certain
words, we immediate unhinge from them...
leave school, learn to earn money...
as with the queen: we don't wear all the garments
of the vocabularies we were exposed to...
the difference being: she gets reminded...
the majority of us never get reminders
about using certain words: even in pub trivia
general knowledge quizzing, or that's the last
resort... for the most part, that's
what the dictionary is for:
                            it's prime utility has an
   a posteriori ontology -
                whereas the thesaurus (rex) has an
a priori ontology: which is why writers look up
words on the synonymous scale to create an exotic
jungle, which would otherwise look like the meadows
of Hyde Park... plus the dictionary states a word's
etymology - which doubles the proof that
a dictionary has an a posteriori ontology / nature
    of being used -
                                 in abstract, yes, ontology:
                 nature of being per se - box of chocolates
and Forrest Gump's wisdom on: you never know
what the kaleidoscope will show off and what you'll
get: mint?! yuck!
                             but as i already stated:
even the queen doesn't wear all the garments
required for the annual opening of parliament
every day... as with us and our lesser jewels:
words - not all words are there to be kept on
close surveillance through the year -
                     it's worthwhile remembering that
each of our faculties has a weakness...
and not all words are permanently loyal to us,
primarily through environmental fluctuations
governing their use, outside of a chemists?
would you necessarily hear nouns used in a chemist
outside a chemist? probably not...
so that's how i do mental crosswords -
well, i have absolutely no clues -
you have a bank balance an average Chinese
might have of 3000 ideograms -
    find me the tetraideogrammaton!
    earth wind & fire... & water...
                       but that's how i known i'm doing
crosswords in my head... a long forgotten word...
revisited... and instead of creating clues and guess
work: i have a narrative, anew -
a word once used in an examination paper,
later discarded, now revisited for my pleasure -
but we never have a complete account balance
of our vocabulary, that's always fluctuating like
stock-market share prices -
                we're like the queen without her
authoritarian garments most of the time -
                              we have (on purpose) set up
various bank accounts for specialised topics /
obscure knowledge - i really don't know if this
was a good idea - crosswords and obscure knowledge
trivia - again, like at school, this is a way
to misplace the greatest outlet of memory:
the optic foundation - the photographic something or other...
which, by way of consent has the power to
show us the dark room being opened -
      the Black Dot Eraser - happens all the time:
the Black Dot Eraser is like a concentrated form of
something, prone to insane gravity of pulling everything
into a nano-metre dot... a blind censor -
                      who says: i haven't seen anything prior,
and even with your words attempting to illuminate
the sense that hasn't graciously been bestowed upon me:
i will not see anything after.
                       unappealing the quest for
a unifying sense datum... of the five variations,
      given the five senses, how can we every reach
a simple i i i i i                 rather than a variable
                                      i i I I i?
      it's a basic schematic - a variation of?
some words (datum in exclusiveness) have variations
   in being ascribed sense - given there are give senses,
not every word (datum as exclusive of 4, but inclusive
   of at least 1) can be ascribed a placebo uniformity:
   i i i i i -                           since the nature of a datum is
   to show us fluctuation:
                                      e.g. i i I I i...
   given that different people, react to a word differently
in each sensual medium: the fluctuation of
   being given a piece of information inscribed in a word
when ingested by hearing, seeing, speaking, etc.
well... that's that: 200 camels came by the oasis
and drank 200 litres of water each (that is their
actual capacity after crossing a desert) -
                                                            and that's that:
testimony to the superiority of the oryx.

items

title - author - (read / unread)

songs of war
and peace -
afghan women's poetry
                                              edited by sayd bahodine majrouh
                                              (yes)
the cantos of
ezra pound
                                              ezra pound
                                              (pending)

th­e unbearable
lightness of being      
                                               milan kundera
                                               (yes, albeit
                                                given to someone)

the man in the
high castle
                                                philip k. ****
                                                (yes, "
                                                          " " ")

do androids dream
of electric sheep                            
                                                          "

men­ without women
                                                 ernest hemingway
                                                 (yes)

a moveable feast
                                                  ernest   ­      "
                                                  (yes)

for whom the bell tolls
                                                  ernest   ­       "
                                                  (parti­ally, university
                                                   assignment)

a passage to india
                                                   e. m. forster
                                                   (no, i prefer the actual cuisine,
                                                    dash­ of cinnamon, cumin
                                                    cloves, cardamon and i just
                                                    read: a short-cut to india)

the outsider
                                                    albert camus
                                                    (yes, lost the book somewhere)

frankenstein
                                                    mary shelley
                                                    (yes)

aesop­'s fables
                                                     aesop
                                                     (yes, good enough
                                                      for zeno to
                                                      paradox achilles
                                                      with the turtle, i.e.
                                                      aesop'­s fables
                                                      were primarily based
                                                      on the behaviour of animals)

dr. jeckyl & mr. hyde
                                                      r. l. stevenson
                                                      (­no, a literary
                                                       version of the beatles'
                                                       yesterday, conjuring
                                                       for money anyway)

iron in the soul
                                                        jean­-paul sartre
                                                        (t­he other two titles
                                                         of the human comedy
                                                         i don't remember;
                                                       ­  i have all respect for
                                                         sartre the novelist -
                                                         but none as a philosopher)

treasure island
                                                          r. l. stevenson
                                                       ­   (yes)

i'm the king of the castle
                                                          ­susan hill
                                                          (y­es)

jane eyre
                                                           charlotte brontë
                                                          ­ (yes)

on the road
                                                           jack kerouac
                                                         ­  (yes)

the bell jar
                                                           sylvia plath
                                                           (yes)

fiesta: the sun also rises
                                                           ernest hemingway
                                                           (yes)

the ordeal of gilbert pinfold
                                                           evelyn waugh
                                                           (yes)

five plays
                                                           chekov
                                                           (stuck to shakespeare
                                                            and russian
                                                            existential macabre)

the existential imagination
                                                            edited by frederick
                                                            r. karl & leo hamalian
                                                            (yes, esp. the extract
                                                             about socrates)

Ceylon cinnamon tea,
cardamon, ginger
from painted cups,
drank she

there are
        two worlds in this universe
- after spotting a u.f.o.
        once i am sure:
   a craft of pure light -
               for if the circle has 360°,
    and our world is encapsulated
          by twenty four hours,
   kabbalism sentences me to reveal
       not that a = 1, b = 2 etc.
  and as numerology to find meaning
  in words based upon sums of sigma (Σ),
    i just spotted: 2 + 4 = 6,
     while 3 + 6 = 9
                                         69
      the symbol of the zodiac Pisces,
             union in the B of linguistic symmetry,
   hence the need for dualism
                  and the monotheism
     of the Gemini god, should
          polytheism of India fail
  but as it stands, the American indians
         failed, the red indians failed,
    but the blue indians remained:
with the billion populace and Bollywood
and all the scents of cinnamon cardamon of tinted
copper skin;
                basically accounting from the facts
    of the π geometric facts,
                       our world is categorised as
     completing rotation in 24 hours,
               theirs in 36 hours.

well, if you look up a recipe from a page like bawarchi, it has to be good.

aside making the chapatis,
the turmeric infused rice,
and the kashmiri chilly curry
(oh **** me, bring
the cuisine, curries are great
contenders of the goulash...
ha ha... goulash in a gulag:
possibly a great title for
a book... that will never be
written)...
there was this little curiosity
to add on today's menu...
i realised that:
   i've never used mint in a curry
recipe...
luckily i have a lovely beu of
a mint "shrub" in the garden:
why?
   well, the people i'm living
with love their mojitos...
so there is was, staring back
at me: mint chicken curry...
i've never used so little spices
in all the curries i've made...
plus, i do like my peshwari naans...
all it took was mint (which you
rarely see)... fresh coriander...
a quarter inch of cinnamon,
    three legs of a star anise
  a bay leaf, and some chilli powder...
evidently blitzed into a paste
with some water...
   but **** me... turmeric?
(i had to add it in the end) -
cardamon pods? cloves?
        the rest of the jazz band?
but you know what...
         it didn't matter,
         it came out in the end,
pretty as a *paul gaugin -
weird radioactive green at first,
then, over a period, a nice pale
vindaloo brown... who would have
thought: mint, cinnamon, coriander...
i guess the anise too...
but that's beside the point,
as the title suggests...
this really is: a culinary conundrum
for me...
    you know how when you
cook an italian dish,
  you can still pick up the texture of
diced onions?
   well... when making a curry...
the onions? "magically" disappear...
every, single, curry, i've made
has the ability to: literally dissolve
the onions, so the diced onion tecture
apparent in italian dishes: vanishes!
into thin air! well, more like vanishes
into: a rich sauce.
how? good question: i, don't, know.

p.s. i can't believe i sat for two hours
worth of film,
   watching clive owen be this model
father, carpenter and even a car mechanic,
looking for this missing tool-box,
which was stolen, from his truck...
i mean some people started looking
for the holy grail, the ark of the covenant,
no, this was just a movie about
a man on a mission: to find his missing tools...
hollywood can really provide some
funny-eerie movies sometimes,
   this was one of them; which brings
me to:

p.p.s. i really don't know how to write
poetry -
   i'm stuck wavering on the thin line
between mushy-mushy ooh la la love
me tender, my love's so perfect
or the macho stuff...
          i like neither, it's easy to make
a clear enough distinction,
but harder to write a down-the-middle
types...
       i mean: the guy is a carpenter,
and he can fix a car...
     what do i have to offer,
        a few words on a **** of paper -
mind you, i do get to retain a laugh about it,
but the manual aspect of labour is very much
   the most masculine command of the world...
this? incy-wincy spider labour,
  itchy fingers,
  more importantly: an itchy ego -
can't scratch it, like i might scratch
my head my *** or my *****...
     hence the translation into writing;
jealous? a little bit...
            i mean... try justifying writing
"poetry" when you could have been
    an understudy for the profession of industrial
scale roofing with your father...
  but i have to admit,
   that scottish widows' h.q. building near
st. paul's?
               a **** fine summer that was,
even though rolls of felt weight around 40kg...
and bags of gravel a nice 25kg,
    and doughnuts of permaquic around 30kg...
and the heat from the boiler...
   and the annoying finishing touches of
laying insulation...
     but a **** great site...
   and the rewards of a shade, and a bottle
of water, and a sandwich...
        and the cigarettes...
                 i still believe the motto
   arbeit macht frei -
              you are able to forget, stop thinking,
automate yourself to perfection
  within a certain skills criterium -
        apparently mine translated into a fluidity
of language (plus the itchy ego,
that i keep scratching / writing about) -
oh no, i don't mean that phrase in the ****
sense of doing pointless tasks...
translate that into the world outside that
very bad joke...
          even the russians with their gulags
made work authentic,
   i guess they were, or maybe that documentary
on the black eagle penal colony
was fake? i'm guessing the failings of that
statement in its original zeitgeist context
translates into: never under-estimate
the power of arbeit - lounging on a beach
and getting a suntan never provides
   the same sort of mental labyrinth,
                counter to a day's worth of
                          "menial" exertion.

while contemplating tomorrow's dinner: an aloo gobi (potato + cauliflower) curry, and a chicken korma - wishing it was a little bit more of a "cultural appropriation": seems i can't get a turban for the love of god, or becoming a transvestite in a sari.

could have been an employable chemist,
working on esters in a dolce & gabbana
perfumery; the cardamon pods got me,
what can i say, other than:
      other than - they call themselves
storytellers, artists, these modern chefs,
i'd prefer to call them the understudy of
chemists;
  and **** i was good at organic chemistry...
the other two branches:
  dead, inanimate often, inorganic (geological)
and the physical... too dead for me,
not enough perfumes, enough colours,
just digits, chemistry for the autistic.
beside the point,
you want to know my favourite cycling
route?
  when in one summer i lost almost 20kg
and then "faked" putting them back on,
oink, bloated from alcohol?
              that french braid in school didn't
help steer away the jealous eye either...
about a 50+ km route...
  let's just say the following:

1. radwańska (route 754)
2. down the 754 through:
       sudół, krzemionki opatowskie,
      magonie, maksilimilanów,
    ruda bałtowska, reaching
                                         bałtów
3. heading into the masovian voivodeship,
  and then a mix of
4. wółka bałtowska /
         borcuchy /
          eugeniów /
              stara dębowa wola /
         sarnówek duży /
        adamów /
           leśniczówka /
      wółwka trzemecka /
  wółkwa bałtowska /
        nowy olechów /
              and then into the home straight
on
5. siennieńska back into ostrowiec
         świętokrzyski...

of all the places i cite, i'm pretty sure no
google car ventured into...
i'm not going to check, i'm just going
to assume...

yes, i lived in a city, where you could
see timber structures from
the krzemień period in human history...
krzemień? flint!
                         a flintstone settlement
lies about 10km from where i was born...
looks kinda cosy...
     a wooden wall and all...
   sure, the english can boast about their
stonehenge,
but i was born near a very, very old
flintstone settlement...
                i never realised how
potent its existence is to revel in...
that's older than the iron age, the bronze age...
that ******* old, i'm telling you...
     and look at me, still defiant with
the darwinistic **** of studying history,
how we have managed to jump so far back
and leave a massive grey area in between..
i was born next to the flintstones,
          where were you born?

p.s. and as i can remember, along the route,
i used to buy goat milk from one of
the ladies in the villages i passed;
+ badass of a bike too,
   dubbed the "terminator", crimson red,
hard frame,
        a mountain bike, heavy tires,
i can tell you i beat a guy on
a *kolarzówka (tour de france type bikes)
one time...
    they don't make 'em as they used
to.

Harriet slept to colonize time and space
with her chrysanthemums and cardamon irises
tacked to a wall behind a lens in her eye
rapidly moving through a slumber quest
to pillage the invisible with her wisp of might
to glean the terrace of lost chambers of gnostic grog
in flagons of hubris, spuming at the spicet
of a dervish star in a barrel.

Then she makes breakfast.

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.

.i love how a bangladeshi smurf invented the term: camel jockey to allocate the term to arabs and egyptians... mind you... the first amry to defeat the mongol ****? mamluks, like the janissaries in the ottoman empire: most probably european slaves... copper on copper-titillating-chocolate / burnt cinnamon / star anise / bark of aged oak racism is funny to watch, sometimes... esp. when growing up... those bangladeshi smurfs (sorry, they are a little bit, tiny, i watched a couple today, walking past my house in their bangladeshi cricket team t-shirts... what? stating the obvious... 5ft4? but i also liked the egyptian's / arabs retort to: camel jockey... ha ha... bush-monkey! ha ha.

ugh... the dreaded draft, i'm running out of these, thank god...

what is it about, about the fact that my act
of writing does not translate into
a conversation...
   HAVE PEOPLE TRULY FORGOTTEN
THE CONCEPT OF CANVAS?!
**** me... i guess they have!
   once upon a time,
cindarella (post stamp,
and her collectors), snow white
   (postcard) and the frog prince
of writing voodoo to boot...
               now? insomniac messaging
services... the I.M.S.,
              direct, directed at what?
drool followed up by dooooooooooo'h...
****, easier teaching a gerbil to speak
shing qi cantonese: owe'h
          'ong kong...
                    when does an intrusion
onto a blank canvas become a flash mob
without keeping to a discretion
of d.m.?
                   face to face won't do
to these people... scuttling rats also hailed
black death: woe'zzin' me...
                scheisse! schnell! schnell!
capt'n just floated off on a magic
rug,
       we have to draw lots on
flying off on: that ****** bit of material
we scrub out boots on when being
entertained...
   should i take them off?
well... was i offered slippers?!
  no... so why would you...
                    is this Giza, or Oxford?
   all i have is a blank canvas...
                and people really want to attack
the ronin flag?
                       flag what?
                              defeat?
                     ­      *** sober me...
but hey hey... pop song videos are:
KOSHER...
                 see you back in Russia...
     getting the VISA...
                                  or the kebab
restaurant fire-bombed by the bomb...
        good luck and the oil...
plenty of trees in arabia...
         what ******* sell ******* will sell...
   am i to judge?
              no... not really...
i'm thinking about being
a Chernobyl post-scriptum in
the belly... how people managed to see
both autumn and spring in the same park,
rainbow nation, your guess,
   half the trees were decaying,
half in full bloom,
         unless you want me to attest
that as a lie: i hope you dream of my
great-maternal grandmother...
    maybe she will explain it better...
            but this saturated talk of ***
just turns me on thinking about
the upper-hand of the female
mantis, translated into man: divorce laws...
or as the common talk speaks...
       no...
      i heard why this:
you're stupid, this is stupid he's / she's stupid
zeitgeist is all about...
         and those rooted always seem to have
the most obvious solutions to
"complex" urban problems...
      hell...
     to some people this might as well be
tabloid toilet paper worth today
but dead gutter rodent black pearl
ship in the gutter the next day...
        poetry, really has to learn
so much from the journalistic attitude...
i still don't understand
why philosophers are relevant,
parasites of philosophy,
when poets are in a dire need
to compare themselves to poetry,
or rather to make a craft from
poetry-tabloids...
             whatever the classical school
teaches you, whatever contest
there was between poetry
and philosophy, whatever
the ancient philosophers claimed of
poets as being easy targets...
  ooh ooh, OLA!
          you just managed to see
a poet nibbling on journalism...
           whatever the year it was,
yesterday might as well have been
2000 b.c.,
         today might have been
           100 a.d.,
   tomorrow?
                ****... the 22nd century
of whatever year whatever date
or whatever designated climate of interests...
__________

so you run into a cul de sac like
a scuttling rat...
but... you buy your whiskey
at the local convenience store...

           back in the day...
when growing your hair long was merely
a symbol of: i listen to metal music,
*******...
           the time when that was the "thing"...
hell, Butlins... of all places...
i cross-dressed...
      a broad lent me her chanel
chic black mini-skirt little no.,
              and i did...
                        i didn't even have to shave
my legs for the gags...
       ***** or no *****...
             i had the flare and audacity
to pull off the stunt...
     now? long hair? a little bit of make-up
and you're: "trans"...
                     how about meta-******?
i mean there are three directions in
chemistry, in terms of attachment allocation,
closely associated with the beneze ring...
in the name of ortho-, and of the para-,
and of the meta-... oh... right...
**** and of trans-....
           clubbing in essex...
   i wouldn't leave the house
               without some eyeliner...
sometimes, then again,
most of the time...
            jews and russians:
      ripped jeans, eyeliner,
          ready for the edinburgh
club scene... being called ****** before
we even left the house...
    very, very encouraging people...
who probably never heard
of the cure...
                
so you're buying your **** at the conveninece
store... and there's this plump girl
checking you out...
    plump... sure...
every appreciate fine art?
   plump girls were all the rave in
the 17th century, and 18th...
              what's that other word?
ah... corpulent! so many nice terms to
use in synonymity with how
a black man might see a porky:
more cushion for some pushin'...
             d'uh...
                      
but there are some nights, like this one,
where... there's an electricity in the air...
it's warm, but it's also cool,
paradox... the wind is stirring...
  you can listen to the wind play a weird
sort of flute while brushing the trees,
nay... combing the trees...
rustling, just pristine agitation is fixating
a sharpness of the air...
someone of a transcendent evaluation
has sat on a throne...

                    akin to last "night" / dawn,
the internet is switched off...
but you still have a sharpnel narrative in
your head...
                    what to do? what to do?!
ah! ****, no paper...
    i never had a tattoo done on my body...
but i figured... might as well intrude
with some ink on my hand...

   again, if these trans-kids didn't bother
grammar? i wouldn't be playing the
"identity politics" game...
  me, of all people, immigrant 1st generation,
adopting a history not akin to my own...

mind you: you really need a steady / cool head,
drinking on an empty stomach -
and if what cabaret voltaire ever achieved...
with tristan tzara and later william burroughs
of cut-up technique fame:
          i too... who can really appreciate
calustrophobic and all the more predictable
narratives of YA novels?

                   a tarantula might as well have
bitten me, and now, i reflect the sepsis of
disorientating venom, the surge of chaos,
without any gratification of staging
    an uproar of grandeur! just, the basic reality.

- because, even citing the mamluks,
or the janissaries, like a belief in god...
                 to cite certain historical events...
is, and will be, deemed, juvenile...
ambitious... middle-aged man with a *******
train-set model...
or a lego project...
        it's all the same... the "out-dated"
cliff-face hanger...
                             it's either atheism
and the respectable citation of history...
   or it's god, and citing the existence of
mamluks and their victory over the mongols...
what is the respectable citation of history?
the aspect of history without any heroism,
the safety of a history that's purely
bureucratic...
      a "history" a person of the modern times
could possibly engage in / with...

   when the quill became mightier than
the sword, but also subsequently became
a spray-can for the outlet of deploying
graffiti... or scratching with a stone on
a stone face, reminders of the first forms of
writing: designated tattoos etched by stone
on stone...
                              krähekratzer
                     ­         ᚴᚱᚨᚺᛖᚴᚱᚨᛏᛉᛖᚱ
                                ⰍⰓ...
   (some words just sound better
in foreign languages...
violin: skrzypce)
                         ⰍⰓⰖⰍⰀ ⰄⰓⰀⰒⰀⰐⰉⰅ
               ⠅⠗⠁⠓⠑⠅⠗⠁⠞⠵⠑⠗

i'll go a step further... time to fiddle
around with some braille...
  although i do concede...
      if you were blind...
          you must have really tender finger-tips...
no point having played guitar...
play guitar? blind lemon jefferson style?
forget about a chance to read braille...
you need pampered fingertips,
able to tell the difference between
        oyster flesh and a woman ******...

krucze drapanie
hmm... devangari:
Ђ / Ⰼ - dj' -
                   त - how similar...
is that?! what the hell is wikipedia proposing,
with regards to, origins "unknown"...
indo-european?
the mongols just showed up from...
"nowhere"?
       Ђ | त                    eh?!
t'ah... elsewhere dj'...
                         otherwise idjota...
idiot...
                          elsewhere
                  id'ȷota...
              yo yo... no "j"ehovah's witnesses...
sure, no **** sherlock,
   i counter the anglophone origin story
rooting me back in h'africa...
             i take my origins in the land
of the 10 spices... india...
  land of the bangladeshi smurfs...
cinnamon, cardamom,
cumin, coriander,
                  i'll give you ten...
don't worry...
                     chilli...
              anise...
                           turmeric...
                           little mini-people scuttling
along like norse god mythologies
akin to the dwarfs...
   more cullinary skills...
less of the metallurgy...
   wizards at the end of stirring spoons!
fenugreek!
                 how many is that? 8...
i don't want to cite black cardamon
(since it's such a potent spice)...
                      mint! **** yeah, 9...
   hell... the cocktail... garam masala!
10!
            well... if the 'ebrews have their
10 commandments,
and i have my *******,
and am still able to *******
while dilating my **** donning
a *******...
   and i place my origin story in india...
rather than africa... then we're settled...
the bagladeshi smurfs can call
arabs and egyptians camel jockeys...

    i haven't finished though...
just like that one night in st. petersburg
with a ***** that, really needed to be ******
over a period of 7 hours...

    will i use more rudimentary language,
deviating from "slanderous" words?
will i?!
               so it's either "tourettes",
dyslexia, or a writer's contipation?
because, by now, "block":
truly implies... the already mentioned.

i never came from africa...
   india is my posit of origin...
and never mind the celebration
of the roman instrument of torture...
the crucifix... i found a better crux
of "all" beginning and of all "end"...
some "random" german...
            dasein:
i'm tired of bashing the germans...
bashed enough, bashed just enough...
bashed: enough!

   when citing credible historical events,
akin to a belief in god,
akin to premature depression and
dementia...
       all... huddling under the same
torch lit roof...
                  it, just, ****** me, off...
oh sure, sure,
most likely...
before some of us bypass the age old
editorial "compromises",
and write what the hell we want!
before that? heavy cencorship...
       just so... the "overlords"
can muster a "plan B"...
                     sure, all is certain!
but who is to address the "real" problems?
ol' Lizzie is going to be fine...
i'll still drink ms. amber...
realizing... ****... am i drinking mz. amber...
or is this watered down
dog's soap ****?!
                  you never know...
i might as well be drinking
prince *****'s shower water!
this whiskey is starting to taste of soap water...
i'm having it, i'm chewing on about
12 12"****** per day just to keep
the Venetians gagged...

   prop me up... ***** starter...
******* mongrels ******* smurfs!
blah blah blah!

             i already see "too many"
english idiosyncracies in the english language
to begin with!
   why would the transgender activists ever attack
grammar?

the current gilette fiasco?
just grow a beard, men, just grow a beard,
problem, solved.

                 want the vox-office senario?
eh? eh?

                 the gender discriminatory
               ontology of nouns...
              what? cite rocky balboa
contra ivan drago.... you... beta male...
*****?!
                     you attacked nouns,
by, enforcing the stature of pronouns...

i like to call it: the pronoun deragement
syndrome...

                     gott! mit uns!
                             Gustavus Adolphus...

how many, "differences",
are to be found, and bound,
to the english tongue?

                    θere (d'er / F),
          although (al'V'ough),
                          θey (V'ey)
                   ex-xenon
   (eks - zee / zer / z'enon),
and what is a chemuical compound...
                to θink...
is to not mind φilosoφy....
                                        
           ­               gender pronoun neuter?!
seriously?
             i thought that nouns were
gender discriminatory?!
  Paris! male!
  kundel! mongrel, male!
*****! female!
                  sroka! (magpie) female!
kruk! male!
                  dzik! male!
                       gawron! male!
              there are so man discriminating nouns...
in each and every language...
pronouns?
   low hanging fruits!
                              a-the-ism...
           do their own natives know...
the native spreschen?!
       the article rules?
the english nouns are not composed
via genders!
         who's to who in terms of "revising"
the retarted "revision"?!
sorry... but certain words just sound
better in a foreign tongue...

            sroka sounds much better
when "coinciding" with: magpie;
beside the point...
here's my hand,
on https://www.minds.com/mateuszkonrad.

so what was i "supposed"
to find at the end
of a bottle...
       not a hint of chocolate?
i was supposed
to find a chcolate bar...
and not
a ******* submarine
at its nadir?!
                           please...
i want a way past
the usual suspects of
a curry sauce...
i.e. cardamon, cinnamon,
cumin, coriander...

    i'm not joking...
  at the end of a grouse...
there's some chocolate...
and not
a ******* submarine?!
  so what the hell am
i drinking?
   ****-joy USA republicanism
says...
my postage stamp
reads IG1
and not RM1...

                   sprinting
  look!
                look!
an ostrich is making a runner!
away from providing
the dozen-one
      ratio of an omelette...

could have had the stories
of an american marine,
instead,
learned some chemistry...
best i could ever accomplish?
work in a supermarket...
      so i thought...
but the pyramids
were already allocated!
you could see them rise...
high, high.
until overshadowing
the clamour of
            political maggot speak...

no one tries to state...
because bell's whiskey
is trying to be too much
of laphroaig...
the grouse is lost to
the belgian chocolatiers,
hidden...
                    
       who the hell thought
of mingling choc. with whisk.?
        john kim /
the angry therapist...
   interviewer?
                helena de bertodano...
his father, he says,
    was an alcoholic,
'he would come home and
vent on the family. he never
told me i was good.'
      i'm an alcoholic...
   i'm sooner bound to talk
to my shadow than
a person...
as my ex-girlfriend used
to say: good-for-you...
                 yeah... good for
whatever good is left
for me to heave...
        life coach...
or lkie in the american
masterchef...
a contestant,
with an occupational status
of: a professional grocer...
   i don't even know what that
is...
               be a singer,
cultivate a sing-sing
Monday at the pub
               variety of karaoke...

an alcoholic,
no immediate outlet...
scribbles...
                françois rabelais...
and a book
that contains all
the signatures
of a formidable
counter-plagiarist...
   gustave doré...
  you wish you could
copy him...
     i almost forgot...
that i was thinking of
albrecht dürer...
you can almost confuse the two...
gustave doré conta
    albrecht dürer...
itches of all of one's worth
culminating
in a crescendo
of suspect
               irritation...
how could i ever confuse
gustave doré
with albrecht dürer?
i must be assimilating
a dyslexic approach!

those dreaded moments from a previous night -

oh, they're there, right at the end of a drinking
session,
out comes the mother tongue -
  and then out comes a superficial interest
in religion -
                i take it for granted -
                   as you have to, have 70cl of
a decent bourbon...
                    and however many times i try to
avoid it: i'm ready for a "boxing" match with
topics i have no interest in, but somehow manage
to write something about them...
   unlike someone who goes out drinking -
and then "pretends" to forget something stupid
from the previous night, having this
moral hangover: by enforcing the rule of not
trying to remember... sadly...
   when you write... you remember...
                           sadly... sadly? well, not really:
you go off into the nether-region of interest -
but you always, always come back the next
day: to what's truly important -
                    in this case? let's just say,
under communism? marx jews etc.?
       you didn't get a two day weekend -
                      everyone worked on saturday;
hence the following ambitious step:

it was going to be a marathon, a ******
mountain to climb,
   but like i was once: america, russia et al.
can have their stock-pile of nukes
   and other military, equipment...
  me? just one example to make,
      arsenal of ingredients to make
                      chettinad chicken curry,
with peshwari naan bread
     + a different chicken curry:
                              seyal-sindhi style...
and there you have your saturday afternoon
made: four hours in the kitchen...
                      i think excluded marinating
the chicken diced and marinated in garlic+ginger
paste with turmeric... hmm...
but the chettinad took the fa-king ****...
    11+ ingredients... 11+! can you imagine
     a pizza with 11 toppings?! i don't think so.
it begins with dry roasting:

   peppercorns, dried red chilies, coriander seeds,
fennel seeds, cumin seeds, a bay leaf,
   curry leaves, poppy seeds, cardamon, cloves,
a cinnamon stick, a star of anise, grated coconut...

and that's just for the paste, which is blitzed
  with just enough water...

then of course the gravy... onions and
chopped tomatoes... onions being friend in...
ooh, ooh la la: coconut oil;
   mind you, you can also rub that oil on
your skin and into your hair when washing it...
so there you go... 2-in-1...
apparently it works better than a conditioner.

ah... but the pershwari...
   almonds, coconut, raisins, yoghurt
stuffed into a home-made naan bread...

there's this funny saying:
  about as entertaining as watching paint dry...
let me tell you something different though:
i've never seen anything more entertaining
than watching home-made dough grow -
in a bowl, in a sink filled with hot water,
  with some cling-film covering the bowl...
i could look at that blob for ages...
   how at first the cling-film is sunken -
and once the yeast do their bit: it seems to almost
want to pop!

    yet there's a conclusive remark to be made...
indian food?
    (sniffing sound of a dog) -
  your neighbours can smell you cooking
something...
                           it's that ****** potent -
takes me back to days spent in a chemistry lab...
how you can have this microcosmos of
change with, but: one dish...
                          that's why a student of
chemistry will rare discuss the pop-culture
adherents of either biological ref. or physics ref.:
we move on... sometimes we **** in
accidently, like stepping on someone's foot
  in a crowded place...
                    opinions entertained for an hour,
esp. when espressed drinking...
                this: this is the real thing going on -
a typical english august with glum skies
and a thunder-storm...
       and then in late afternoon: an indian evening
as if, it really was summer;
  but it ain't cos then it starts ******* once
again by 10p.m.

Warmth is

the coziness of a fluffy sweater
a thick duvet over - the smell of linen basked in the sun
a sweet, light, warm musk - the scent of clean skin

it is the spicy sweetness of a cup of hot chai milk tea
of cinnamon, cardamon and clover,
strongly brewed in a ceramic ***
over steaming milk,
poured into a copper mug

it is to be surrounded by the love and concern
of familiarity, and of a gentle kindness

it is the soft chatter into the night
of friends during a cozy sleepover
contemplating the unknown future.

PSSSST!
Yeah, man, I mean you!!
Are you looking to score some ... poetry?
I got some of the good **** here.
Uncut.
Just in.
Here, smell this ... what you think?
Lover's tears?
Wistful reminisces?
Distant zephyrs, tinged with cardamon?
Man, I told you this **** was good.
You sure?
Okay, but take it easy, start with a little.
I might be a dealer of poems,
but there are some things
I don't want on my conscience.
Smoke it, snort it.
Hell, some people even like to read it!
Yeah, it's been a pleasure.
You know where to find me next time.

YOU BOUGHT WHAT?
Did you even THINK about
HOW this stuff gets made?
Yes, tears are shed.
Yes, hearts are broken.
I think of it like this;
it's probably someone poor,
in some far off land,
scraping through any number of
Emotionally
Challenging
Real Life
Experiences.
Of course, that's how it works -
- the more raw the emotion
- the more raw the poem.
Well. You've got it now.
The damage has already been done.
So.
What does it say?

notably in -
the offspring's
song black magic
    how about
pronoun per se neutrality
of writing lyrics?
coming from a
background where
my grandfather
was a communist
party member...
i, really, have the slightest
clue, as to what,
you're on about...
o.k,?
   nope... no ******* clue...
could have bargained on
a dead badger digging
a hole to Beijing, but wait,
the fox hunter caught up
with me...
           dead as the oak says:
i'm alive;
  twice the branch wavered,
but also twice the branched
waved, a hello and simultaneously
goodbye;
          broken arm, arthritis is
skeletal bloom,
         a cardamon scent,
               and and
the ghostly pool table
        nearing Kilburn High Rd....
     or what remained of Poles
in west London...
             **** joy nostalgia -
   skunk anansie -
                                love as a lollipop...
          friends? what friends
to begin with?
                        congesttion
of an educational servitude?
  and no army barracks?!
                        sure....
d.j., the ******* out
of the local plebs...
                         high five!
                so so large,
  and so unlike south america
for the Conquistadors....
                           near the mark,
and with a subsequent loss of it...
dreams of reading
reduced to a rule:
       170:710 ratio...
   i.e. if you read 170 pages of
a book worth 710 pages?
                you're bound to finish it.

the many-fingered fig tree on my bedside table leans towards you when you're here
smoking and smiling, weaving me poetry -
it wants your wetness. That glitter in your mouth
the sodium in your sweat,
that sits in my spit like cardamon until well after you're gone.
While you sleep and I'm awake, gripping you,
lusting crows blacken the window and caw your name like women
looking at your body and grinning,
casting black shadows on your skin.
I bury your jewellery in the garden,
and shut the curtains so the smell can't get in.


the vines tore down and touched the street
our hands interlink
we lifted the pavement from its bones.
I came with a shudder,
as crows spluttered from the spire.

When I saw her again,
I learned she named
all her pets
after exotic spices,
like cardamon
and sweet flag,
flavor she found,
life she had earned.