"What tempature does love freeze?" asked
a five year old ice scientist.
Her character sheet read: "Mage".
She preferred "Scientist".

"An Ice Scientist can freeze anything!" We said.
"How cold?".
"-300 degrees Celcius".
"-300 degrees Celcius".
The Ice Scientist spent
Dungeons and Dragons
and the entire next Year
asking us the Freezing point
of  EVERYTHING!

"I want to stop the Bard by
freezing the Queens love"

"Roll for it".

"Nat 20".

"The Queens love freezes
As she refuses the bards advances".

"YES! ...Wait,
What tempature?"

"70 degrees,"
"love can freeze at any tempature".

The adults burst into laughter.
The Ice Scientist smiled,
gleefully ignorant.

I fell silent.

At 211.5 Degrees Celsius, Adrenaline Freezes.
Did you know that?
Your heart stops racing,
No more sweat, dry mouth.
The initial fight or flight reaction slows.
you see less red.

Mom stopped buying Epi-pens;
they're only sold in packs of two,
said she's "Boycotting epinephrines codependency".

Adrenaline helps your heart beat!
Did you know that?

At 128 degrees celcius Dopamine freezes.
Did you know that?
With desire frozen and no sense of reward
you sleep more, eat more,
slip into depression.
You aren't addicted to anything anymore!
unmotivated!
upperless!

Mom gave up coffee,
gave up chocolate,
can't even have ***.

Dopamine makes you happy!
Did you know that?

At 121 degrees celsius, serotonin freezes.
Your well-being crackles on a car window.
The remaining strands of happiness,
form icicles!
You can't regulate your mood,
or appetite, or sleep patterns,
you are unpredictable and sick!
Serotonin heals wounds,
did you know that?
with it frozen, the scars you've collected
stay open!

At 0 degrees celcius water freezes!
you are made of 50-60% water!
half of your body is FROZEN at 0 degrees!
Did you know that?

At -2 degrees celcius human blood freezes.
Your hands go numb,
like when you have no gloves on?
Then your toes!
Arms!
legs!

"I think I would like the numb feeling"
"being frozen, like Elsa".
All those tingles are the blood
warming up and moving around.
Did you know that?

"No, I didn't know any that."

At -218.8 degrees celcius, oxygen freezes.
Breathes winter trees
into glass ornaments.
Each panic attack, a frozen lung.
A car exaust pipe duct taped inside your back window.
A crowbar against it attached to a friend
A friend who saves your life.
Without oxygen you turn purple.
Did you know that?

Dear Ice Scientist.
There is a cryogenic chamber
deep in my heart where you have slept
like that queens love,
set to thaw with an oven timer.
While you rest
I will set fire to the blankets you've used
like in-scents, prayer candles.
Taste you hot in my lungs
like cigarette smoke
if not for long, for memorial.
Your afgans burned to ashes.
Each night I still cover myself in them,
pull them over my head,
rub them into my eyes,
swallow them every morning
like vitamins, or mood - stabilizers
because as frozen as the
blood,
oxygen,
water in my body is,
your memories were cremated.
My addiction to you is cryogenic.
Walt disney won't bring you back to me,
you are no hologram.
I will be cold.
I will die in this winter
I know falling though thin ice
is just drowning
which is no different from a frozen lung,
frozen heart.
How am I to pull farther away
when death is as close to me
as any other flurry?

"Mama, what's the tempature?"
"I'm busy".
"Dada, what's the tempature?"
"Well, Inside or outside?"
"Outside?"
"Well it's five below freezing outside".
"Inside".
"In here? Well, it's 70 degrees".

"What tempature does love freeze?"
asked the five year old ice scientist.
Her character sheet read: "Mage".
She preferred "Scientist".

In the beginning we said "An Ice Scientist can freeze anything!"
So she asked "How cold?".
Google told us "-300 degrees Celcius".
The Ice Scientist spent the rest of Dungeons and Dragons
discovering the Freezing points
of
"ALL OF THE THINGS!"

"I want to stop the Bard
by freezing the Queens love"

Roll for it.

"Nat 20"

The Queens love freezes.
She refuses the bards advances.

"YES! ...Wait, What tempature?"

70 degrees.
Love may freeze at any tempature.

"At 211.5 Degrees Celsius, Adrenaline Freezes.
Did you know that?
Your heart stops racing,
No more sweat, dry mouth.
The initial fight or flight reaction slows.
you see less red."

"Mom stopped buying Epi-pens;
they're only sold in packs of two,
said she's "Boycotting epinephrines codependency"."

"Adrenaline helps your heart beat!
Did you know that?"

"At 128 degrees celcius Dopamine freezes.
Did you know that?
With desire frozen
no sense of reward
you sleep more, eat more, slip into depression.
You aren't addicted to anything anymore!
unmotivated!
upperless!"

"Mom gave up coffee,
gave up chocolate,
can't even have ***."

"Dopamine makes you happy!
Did you know that?"

"At 121 degrees celsius, serotonin freezes.
Your well-being crackles on a car window.
The remaining strands of happiness, form icicles!
You can't regulate your mood,
appetite, or sleep patterns.
You are unpredictable and sick!
Serotonin heals wounds,
did you know that?
with it frozen, the scars you've collected
stay open!"

"At 0 degrees celcius water freezes!
you are made of 50-60% water!
half of your body is FROZEN
at 0 degrees!
Did you know that?"

"At -2 degrees celcius human blood freezes.
Your hands go numb,
like when you have no gloves on?
Then your toes! Arms! legs!"

"I think I would like the numb feeling
being frozen,
like Elsa.
All those tingles are the blood warming up and moving around.
Did you know that?"


I didn't know any of that.
you're very smart.

"Yeah...
...What tempature does Oxygen Freeze?"

Well, munchkin, let's google it.
Oxygen freezes At -218.8 degrees celcius.

"I bet it's hard to breath with no oxygen,
like when we get panic attacks".

Yes munchkin,
our panic attacks
are like a frozen lung.

"Do you think beautiful trees have frozen lungs?"

Do you mean winter trees?
The ones that look like glass ornaments?

"Yes!
the beautiful ones!
Like me!
You said trees breath,
When they're all beautiful
Are they having panic attacks too?"

Some of them.
There's no way to tell them apart.
Remember, Munchkin.
Trees always thaw.

Like the Queens love.
Like my love for you.
It just takes time.

I just watched a news report:
there’s a heatwave in Europe
over 41 degrees celcius!
Forests are on fire,
people are uncomfortably sweltering,
the old and sick are dying,
climate change is happening!

I wonder
when will society
become desperate enough
about dangerous climate change
to stop using carbon-emitting fuels
and instead use renewable energies
like solar, wind and hydro?

Its hot in here, unusually hot. Hot, like someone who has a fever of over 100 degrees celcius. Warmer then a marsh mellow roasting over the torrid heat on a humid summer night. As sizzling as the steam coming off  the children who cant seem to call to mind anything on the test.
The hushed voices of  every student pleading for help.
The uncooperative teachers blind and deaf to the children's needs
the shatterd and crumbled kids
that would do anything to pass the class
the one soft-hearted smile of a sweet short tempered girl
that is loveliness on the outside but is demolished on the inside

That is what we call Highschool.
All are welcomed but few are accepted
swarming , rushing, pushing, shoving, climbing jumping,
anything you name it, but there will be few slumbering

The rules to pass are simple; or so they seem
you either make it or break it
but nothing in between

be kind, be strong, be agressive, but laid back
dont be smart, but dont be dumb, and always have fun
walk fast head down dont smile at anyone
wave your hand say hello and then you will be done.



**You May Come In

Before i close the chapter to these names
only god knows how much i want to love them
as i am
and now
i just dont care if my friends would say
until the whispering wind follows me
and say
you are cowardly running away from the reality
because that is all i see
as a way out
and i know how wicked it is
i dont care if the nowhere's night
needles of 13 degree celcius
would poke me into the core
and seize all painlessness
i dont care if its winter
would **** my soul with its negative
i wont moan
if i cant find my favorite mist of morning breeze
maybe i'll just find another kind of suffocation there
i wont be wearing my favourite blouse in the lace
but just a plain sweater instead
i wont moan
i promise myself i wont
nothing else than i could wish
please just grant my wish
that no one from my past remember me
cause in this small town
id rather fade away from minds
so the frets and laughs of us
wouldnt collide
as the way you hate it so much

Pure, white roses,
Surrounding you as I feel your hot air,
Soft, gentle, sweet as you are,
And the hot red on your cheeks as you tired smile,

In the cold degree celcius in this closed space,
You were precious as I hold you tightly in my embrace

We, harvest,
Warped in the colour of your soft hair,
We were in the creamy night full of stars,
My love, let’s enjoy this moment for a longer while.

here i am

9 degrees celcius
dragging bins to the curb
breath frosting clouds
feet cringing from cold earth
muttering quiet obscenities
trying not to inhale trash perrfume
looking up to see sunrise colours dance
waving to brave/stupid morning walkers
thinking early birds are overrated
hearing  the resident kookaburras laugh
thinking caffiene, caffiene,  caffiene

here i am

i couldn't possibly do these sort of shifts 7 days a week,
i just did these brutal shifts back-to-back
the past Saturday and Sunday...
those: once in the blue moon or rather...
when the football season is finishing and sports is dead
and musical festivals and concerts take the priority
of the crowd...
it's so unlike working in construction:
sure... you may have to wake up at 5am...
  start work at 8am... but you finish work at 3pm...
4pm... get home for 6pm and relax a little...
recharge...
   because you go into a construction site and you're
like: right... this and this needs to be done...
and it gets done: or it doesn't get done...
esp. with roofing: it all depends on the weather...
if it starts raining you're not going to sit around:
clock in 8 hours when for half of those hours you
didn't do anything... you're not going to sit in the canteen
and read the ******* newspaper... are you?

what's the difference? this current job i'm doing
is apparently so, oh so easy... crowd management...
management of a drunk crowd is always easy...
right? nothing can go wrong when a bunch of men
start drinking and become emotionally stunted
when watching football, right?

                    i woke up at 6am... left the house at 7am...
started my shift at 8:15am... finished at... 7:30pm...
got home at: five minutes shy of 9pm...
   i had to wash my ***... smear it with a good dollop
of cream... change my underwear
because... the pair i was wearing throughout the day
turned my *** into a: snail slugging it across
******* sandpaper...
    prior to starting the shift i did the next best thing
to eating twice while on it... i took a ****...
once upon a time i would keep it in...
   head-spinning... sometimes feeling like i've been
hit with a hammer over the head trying to fall asleep
on the tube... woken up by the lodged **** in my ****...
no more!
      so i took a dump like: "****-Break" takes a ****
in American Pie... toilet paper spread all around the public
toilet seat...
    ooh... better than an ******...
but then? where did all that gas came from?
and i'm not even talking: stinking solipsistic farts...
that you identify yourself with...
i'm talking... silent: a cow just sneezed sort of farts...
maybe that's why my *** is so sore...
but these shifts are brutal... i couldn't do 5 days in
a row... i'd be mad to do them...
three weekends in a row is enough...

                mind you: today i had to cover two football
games back-to-back...
unlike the Tyson Fury boxing match...
these, were, not, fun...
   fun in the sense of: the stadium was split...
19K for for the first match... blue and parts
of the red zone at Wembley...
start at 12:15pm... finish: thank god one team won
3 - nil in full time...
                 come 2pm we were readying ourselves
for the second crowd...
   during the first match we just loitered...
since our stands were completely empty...
if people think that running is hard...
standing is either harder...
   i tried to ease the strain of my body mass on my legs
by hanging onto the railing and lifting myself up...
i sometimes do that when weighing myself...
imagine how many kilograms you can shed
by standing on the weights and pushing your hands
against a table... from 100kg i can weigh in at about 78kg...
that's using my fingertips...
what if i clenched my fists? how does that translate?
simple maths... me pressing my fingers onto someone
lying down would imply... 22kg of weight...
not mass... weight...
           but if i were to do the same with a clenched
fist? i'll measure that tomorrow...
now... imagine swinging that amount... of weight...
not mass... since my arm / hand probably doesn't
have the mass of 22kg... but it weighs that much...
when there's slow-gravity invoked: pressure...

brutal shifts... but rewarding shifts...
today i had my first proper intervention...
about 20 ******* started screaming at me...
oi oi! yes: you! you... you ******* idiot...
it's hard to not be an idiot of sorts when...
you have 20 other idiots screaming at you
telling you to do something...
as the saying goes:

panic is worse than fascism...
   panic is worse than fascism...
******* wild-eyed clueless sissies...
i walk up to them and say:
you know i can't hear a word you're shouting
at me from several rows up...
since the rest of the people are chanting:
or being disgruntled by the score-line...

get a medic! get a medic!
   what's the problem?
get a medic! shrapnel of: a heart attack...
a stroke! a fainting! ****'s sake: which one is it...
so i ran down and told the "guy with the radio"
that we have a medical emergency...
the guy with the radio mumbles something
into the radio or nothing at all... panic stricken...
control room must have noticed something themselves...
i ran to the first aid room and implored
the paramedics to come quickly...
**** me: quickly for some is slowest to others...
they leisurely gather their equipment and
that silly wheelchair and... take a stroll...
a literal ******* stroll to the point of concern...
by the time they get there:
the medic team of one of the football teams
has already ran up to the point of concern:
person in question...
          
         things were sorted, let's just put it that way,
more medics came... a make-shift wheelchair
that's used to wheel someone from a row of
spectators was employed:

panic is worse than fascism...

        turns out: a false call... yes... it was one
of those instances where an old-timer had
outlived his capability to be a spectator at a live
football match... it was probably he last...
he just sort of "pretended to be a woman"
and fainted... old age caught up with him:
he should have been watching the game from
the comfort of a nursing home: on the ******* t.v.!
he didn't have a heart attack... he didn't have a stroke:
he was mr. smooth panic-inducer...
the sort that's translated into the youth of today
with their panic attacks...
what's someone who's schizophrenic or psychotic
to say?
well... i've been diagnosed with a psychotic "disorder":
i don't know how much of its true
and how much of it is concerning:
what psychiatrists get paid for...
what dead artists do: by employing all those
people after they die... critics, writers of books of
biographies... museum critics...
dead artists seem to be the best employers...
by the looks of it...

the old timer was fine... i took the "principle"
of the scale of escalation and it was sorted within minutes...
but that was the final straw...
i really wanted Wrexham to beat Bromley...
i really did... everything up to that panic inducing
******* was working in my favour in terms
of having a pleasant shift...
but those 20 or so finicky ******* got to me:
as i could be paying attention to someone that
was hidden when they all stood up and
complained! complained! nothing was being done...
done what? done where?!
the ******* were standing up obstructing my view!
apparently it is illegal to persist in standing up
at a sports event! but i was the idiot... or whatever
the hell they called me: because i didn't have
super-sonic hear-aids and somehow could
filter out the noise of the entire crowd from their
manic insinuations:

   there and then i wished my ego of egos...
i hope you lose...
   i hope you leave this stadium drunk with your:
idle ******* sadness of giving a **** about a football match...
how quickly you could switch
from caring more about a football match...
to "somehow" caring about an old man
experiencing fainting like it might actually
be the feeling of falling by a your man
jumping off a car park to his death...
   tut tut... double standards...
to care about "something" that's already reached
its completion... while discarding the thing
that's yet to achieve its potential... tut tut:
like that "riddled" from Eden:
and you will know the difference between
good AND evil...
no... no they won't:
   they'll conflate the two:
call good evil and call evil good...
sometimes they'll get it right...
          because Nietzsche never read Kierkegaard
and Kierkegaard never read Nietzsche...
ergo?
    there's no beyond: either good or evil...
         as there isn't an a/n/d(?)     is there?

but it was oh so smooth prior to this little jitter...
i was wondering...
Wrexham... where's that?
i was inviting people to their seats... greeting them...
blah blah... Wrexham...
then i saw this girl with an inflatable sheep....
and she was holding it... adamant on pushing her thumb
into a little whole in the inflatable sheep's rear...
sheep... Wrexham...

now... i don't have to travel outside of London much
to have the rest of Britain to come to me...
Liverpool fans... great... pristine creatures...
the Irish... the Sunderland crowd...
                    i've lived among the Scots for over three years...
the Manchester pride-boys: ponce after ponce after ponce...
i think only someone from Bristol could
annoy me more...
   but still... that accent... Scotland has its own league...
Rangers... Celtic... Celt and: cedilla borrowed from
the Greek sigma (ς),
i.e. Çeltic: but otherwise K(elt)...
        and Celtic proper... so no garÇon: no French waiter
in the vicinity...

i was having fun... i still couldn't pin point the accent...
the Scots have their own league...
there's no Team G.B. in football... unlike there's
one at the Olympics... why?
so then these Welsh flags start coming out...
you what?! this is the promised horde of sheep-shaggers?!
i wasn't expecting about 30K Welshmen descend
on the capital... oh well...

the usual taking of photographs: first time in the capital...
blah blah...
one guy even had to film me telling me:
you don't really need me in the recording...
to which he replied: oh but i do...
about five teenagers were asking if they could
buy these: thingy-magigs... to tie their flag
to some railing... whether the stadium sold these plastic
tie on... what's the ******* noun!
it's such an impossible noun to find:
if you don't use it! strap-ons?! no...
   binders?! whatever... so i quickly figured out
a solution... how about i get a tissue...
    roll it up... you push it through either of the roles...
and you tie the tissue up...
   good idea they replied: i later saw the flag hanging...
so it worked...
i do have a spare pair of shoelaces hanging on my
doorknob to my bedroom:
but it's not like i'll be walking with a spare pair
of shoelaces in my pocket for occasions such as this:
such "weird" requests...
     so i told them...
        this twisted tissue solution will just have to work...

- cut-in point - cut-in point - cut-in point - intermission -

   / i knew i was tired yesterday, i actually forced myself
to write the above:
   as much as i love the whole QWERTY genius
of: once mastered you don't need to look down at
your hands typing: making knowing the memory erosion
from pedagogy concerning the arrangement of
letters: alphabetically slightly obsolete...
    you can't just create this fake order and then
entertain the chaos of language...
if you wanted order proper... since you're starting
with a vowel... all the vowels should come first...
the actual order would be more coherent
   if it was written as follows:
a, e, i, o, u, b, c, d, f, g, h, j, k, l, m, n, p, q, r, s, t, v, x y, z
that's how the alphabet should be
memorised... it's actually easier that way...
because it's a bit like saying:
acids... cut off point: alkaline(s)...
    beside the point... for all the genius of QWERTY...
if we're talking technicalities of the ctrl+ functions
added to the typewriter...
it's sort of idiotic to have put ctrl+c so close to
ctrl+v...
                  fair enough... ctrl+a is a decent amount
away from ctrl+c... but ctrl+a(ll) of the script
+ ctrl+c(opy): what has v? to with the word: paste?
i can use both hands... it should be ctrl+p...
   because you're tired... and slightly tipsy...
things can go wrong... thank **** i saved as much as
i have saved... to catch the sort of language at the extremities
of consciousness...
                thankfully i remembered what i wrote...
but if i were being truly honest... i lost some original
words... and i sat there... for about half an hour:
i'm never getting them back... i overlaid what i already
saved with extending the salvage project...
      obviously erasing what was to be added to the original
ctrl+a / ctrl+c...

never mind... i've lost dozens of poems like that...
i said: **** it... i'm done with cursing the crucifix...
i'm used to losing precious things...
better get used to it... calmed myself down...
i'm still left with nearly 2K of words from that state
of consciousness...
   i know what i was writing about... i'll just
reword what i "think" i wrote... no biggie...
   and to no surprise... i woke up in a good mood...
i'm done keeping to things...
   some people write a Haiku and think it's somehow
special... i'd find writing so little so dissatisfying that
i think i wouldn't have written anything...

but yes... the alphabet could be better arranged...
because those randomly placed vowels
in between consonants are not really indicative of anything
coherent... people complain that
the people invented the gods...
     that "god" made us in his own image...
but people say: we made "god" in our own image
to excuse our sometimes horrible behaviour...
hence? the inertia of: no divine intervention...
    it's a double-edged sword...
but the alphabet?! we sure as **** created that:
evolved towards it...
i think it needs a coherent revamp...
to hell with the classical model... sure... learn it
if you must... but then rearrange it like i have
rearranged it... so that you put all the vowels
in one basket... and all the consonants in another basket...
at least numbers follow some coherency:
odd, even, odd, even, odd, even...
but obviously you can't do that with letters
since: they're not exactly constructed via a binary
set of standards... you can easily mistake a D for a T...
a B for P... depending on who utters what word...
it's not... vowels "vs." consonants...
for a binary system... you'd need...
the same amount of each possible "choice" of "yes"
or "no": you can have the binary mathematical model
of odd, even, odd, even...
but... in the English language there are...
fives vowels and 21 consonants...
                         and at that: consonants require vowels
to be uttered... be... not ebb...
              then you have things like -SH- and -CH-
   but the original alphabetical order is pointers...
some man created that order... well... i don't like it...
the next time someone asks me
i'll use my model... because i like it...
    the vowels don't need to be inserted randomly
akin to (beside A)
     d e f
       h i j
        n o p
     t u v             unless of course there's some
yet undiscovered mystery concerning this choice
of choice of placing the vowels in that order
and between these consonants...
   some acronym? i'm not even going to think about it...
                                                                                               /

- end of intermission - end of intermission - end of intermission -

the instruments might have changed:
but the hunger is still the same...
i think people have outlived if not exhausted the point
of the selfie...

however women think that taking a selfie
is equivalent to artists painting self-portraits...
sorry: most women are not artists...
the self-portrait is a peering in: an introspection...
it's not about taking a quick-snap...
it's sort of a consolidation of either a beginning
or a break from some subject matter...
for example... Walter Sickert's
first self-portraits as a young man are
not narcissistic... i've have the same "problem"
even though i don't paint (i wish)...
this terrible fascination with the mirror
and that act of peering into it feeling like
my face is about to melt... the youth of a man
as an artist: the treading on allure in darkness
and of darkness and off darkness...
but after a long career: studying Venice's architecture
and Camden Crime Scenes... he returns
to the self-portrait... but by then...
he's painting himself as an old man:
eating a spoonful of beans... or...
by then the photograph was invented and he's
painting a translation of photography...
lucky *******... back in the day when photographs
were black and white... he could work
with colour in a way prior to not envisioned...
with white grey and black...
   he could reignite his imagination of colour:
as if colour didn't exist prior...
the project: the world was always white grey and black...
i don't know why artists didn't figure out
a subject matter on how colour can mutate
when working from a white grey photograph...
why the white cliffs of Dover... calcium rich...
couldn't become... say... yellow...
because of the excess sulphur in them...

now, when i say that i write about "work":
i think i'm actually lying...
i don't "work" work... i have this job so that i can
have enough free time to pursue writing...
didn't i write that dead artists are the best
employers in the world?
aren't they? aren't the scavengers of art critics,
gallery curators not profiteering from the dead?!
thank "god" that poems are not like
paintings... if there is any exhibition of them:
it's all mental... the poem gets dragged with
the person dragging it...
the painting remains on the wall for another
person to appreciate it... still stuck to the wall:
of hollow sighs and other... memoranda...

   but the selfie is not a self-portrait...
women don't take selfies like men used to paint...
the camera has become a makeshift mirror...
it's so alien watching women in public use
a live video feed to check how they look...
i think women are afraid of a mirror...
of the stillness of the lake...
       i think women are more susceptible to
any "improvements" in technology than men are...

besides the point... when i write about work:
i'm actually writing about my interaction with people...
i've oddly reignited an old fling of mine:
i was never a true misantrophe...
   but i could never become a philanthropist... either:
you can be both at the same time: oddly enough...
since there's no exacting term for being
a simple philantrophe...
                             in terms of coughing money...
strange how a love for humanity is associate
more with giving out money: to be left alone...
i.e. being a misantrophe through and through...
than simply giving up something priceless...
your care and attention...

             i've learned to love people...
               not in some luvvy... dubby... eekie sort
of way like: sure... let's grab a pint... let's "talk"...
you have your life: i have mine...
somehow we're here at the same place at the same
time... let's just try to not make this
  too complicated.... savvy?

there's a reason why i'm doing this "work":
some people are envious... even the ones
working in the pharmaceutical industry...
sure... they get paid more... but i also write on the side...
and who can say... yeah... i managed to watch
the Tyson Fury boxing match against Whyte
for free... and i got paid...
i'm surrounded by people who paid to see the match...
i watched it for free... and i got paid "peanuts"...
technically... technically:
if you were to include the price of the ticket...
i was probably "paid" close to a £1000 a gig...
give or take...
       that's why i'm still having a circus of laughter
running through my head...

i'm getting paid to mind drunk: disorientated people
get to their seats...
but at the same time... since December of last
year... i yawn at the events people pay decent
money to attend... i love this dynamic...
i get paid to watch something for free...
i sometimes watch, i sometimes switch off...
the event becomes more boring and
the crowd's reactionary response becomes
more interesting... physiognomy?!
****** expression...

   like in this current event of 20 Welsh idiots
having a "community" panic attack over an old timer
having a hard-breather...
insults pass me by... but "we" got there on time...
even though the first-aiders were taking a
stroll: no one died...
i'm like...
    i need to be among the blood the *****
and the phlegm and the sweat...
the bone crunching arithmetic... found two new
plums (bruises on my hands and legs)
from the excited state they were in: hugging me...

maybe... i'm just relate-able...
i never write about work... if i were to write
about "work": having worked in construction sites...
man is the least mandible substance:
being so firm in his beliefs and existential
cages... it's not water... you can't achieve anything
with man presuming he's water
about to boil at one hundred degrees Celcius...
esp. when drunk

i did wonder... though... where the **** is Wrexham?
or, how would you write it?
'rexham? the W turns into a Hebrew:
yod-surd...
  you don't chant: Wrecks-Hams!
but... jeez: cheese: mind the jazz: Louise!
  W-R? what a dynamic!
the last time i came across such a bewilderment
was within the contained environment of
G-N... i.e. 'nostic... i.e. gnostic...
  
i don't do this "job" for: whatever it involves...
i'm not even going to bother getting
that infamous S.I.A. badge... whoever owns it...
well... let's put it out there...
they, have, really, beautiful, teeth!
or, rather: they don't, have, any...
    either because they were bullied at school or:
whatever... muscle, brass... Belgian pate...
whatever... i was in conversation with this one guy:

- so where are you from?
- Romford... Essex...
- oi oi! oi! oi! cotton candy!

we choked aside... i wasn't pushing him...
whatever the ******* rules are:
no drinking beer in view of the pitch...

- i don't want any trouble...
- believe me, i don't want any either...

the matter: i considered, settled...
we mediated a compromise...
i don't want those
self-aggrandising "badges" in my vicinity...
it's sort of unsettling that they have this
authority... so much of it they exercise without
conscience... without having the psychological capacity
to mediate a soothing conversation...

oh but i do know what i have a menial job...
that it's a low skill job...
dealing with large crowds...
drunk crowds...
like this time when the old timer was having
a hard time having to breath...
and i reacted instantly...
i had about a thousand eyes looking at me...
seeking reassurance...
fear is wide-eyed...
               i was plying poker with them...
stern face...
             do i give a **** whether i'm being paid
"enough": no...
but i guess it might matter when a woman
might say: i don't mind the romance...
but do you have a plan?
technically... i'm sitting on a Nicholas II
last Tsar of Russian banknote...
i might have a plan...
say: to rebuild Damascus...

         forge a 2nd schism of Islam:
spearheaded by the Turkish barbers...
i'd love to work with Turks and Afghan Sufis
to reform Islam...
     whatever i do on the "stage": i'm always doing
something sinister in the background...
but it's like the women i work with fail to
realise: you do know that i've visited brothels,
prior, so... what's on offer?
i too have my standard... albeit they are sinking:
sinking...

i never write about work... people are just
strange...
i was trying to place this current adventure of
accents coming to London...
no... it's not from Liverpool...
no... it's sure as **** not from Manchester...
hmm... where, the, ****, is, Wrexham?!

then the flags came out... white on green
with a blatant dragon across... oh ****... sheep-shaggers
united...
why are all the girls from up north prettier...
more approachable than the girls from the south?!
a girl from Sunderland pulled at my beard
like i was a ******* leprechaun stroking
a bald-patch for good-luck and rainbow...
this other girl from Liverpool kissed my cheek...

that's what happens with reading philosophy:
you want to retain being contained /
content with being amazed: in awe...
the further up north you go: the more of the valley
of the dolls you leave behind...
but the Welsh girls looked sort of...
mystified in their... potential for beauty...
they were beautiful... but sort of neglected...
if i had a woman to mould...

different... Wrexham is pretty close to Liverpool...
but like my "coworkers" mentioned...
they were a hassle... what hassle?!
you talked to them?
we were joking between each other
about me taking extra money for taking photographs
of them...
that's where the old tool and the new tool comes in...
no one... no one... wants to be bound to taking
a photograph of themselves...
it's so much different if someone else is taking
a photograph of you...

you're not painting: you're semi-blinking!
what comparison is evidence?!
to hell, with, female, "logic"!

my two example?

oh... the girl that was working with me:
thankfully she was worried about her youngling
having been left with a child-minder... smashing her
head against a glass table... getting stiches... blah blah...

slaps of the the hand... high fives...
low fives...
   knuckle-bumps... blah blah...
              human traffic... Ryan Reynolds...

KELUAR - PANGUNA (the hacker remix) -

managed to move one drunken guy from
posit X to exact X...
    job done...
          moved another... distressed cry-baby...
wrong this that and the other
               x     y                    z

as i escorted him... he shoved me a tenner (£10)
into my hand... telling me... no one was willing
to help me: beside you...
i refused at first... but he attacked me a second time
with gratitude... i wasn't going to refuse a second time...
so i took the tenner...
took him up to his seat... wow! a free bottle of whiskey!
job done!

on my way back into "position"...
some chubby little hobbit approach me...
- i need to take a selfie with you!
   my friends think i might be wrong!

blah blah... apparently i took up a guise...
a visage of some famous rugby player...
what was the name he mentioned?
i'm pretty sure he mentioned the rugby player's name...

he had to take take selfie with me...
he subsequently took a picture of me on my own...

this other instance: first time out of Wrexham...
filming the whole "thing" walking out of the
vomitory... i said to him: you really don't have
to film me...
he replied: but i do! i do!
        ****... i'm going to become someone's
nightmare...

i never write about work... "work is not work":
arbeit ist nein arbeit!
            "arbeit": ist...

i just think of the hierarchy...
the self-aggrandising self-importance folk...
the ones who would: clearly:
first rather shove and push than
talk "things" over...
           i hate these bullies...
that's what's keeping me back from gaining
a "door" license as a security guard...
i don't like violence...
    from my experience: i'm relateable...
maybe i would get extra pay...
but these are not martial artists...
these people have ****-all clue about
engaging in judo...
they're makeshift rapists...
they might have a high opinion about themelves
because they get five pounds more an hour...
but they're: soft-meat...
they're semi-******* in terms of
what's to be communicated:
i'm not looking for escalation:
out of a Darwinistic obviousness...
i'm looking for a... oh god... a Christian sense
of social-containment sensibility...

             if a crusade is the only pardon...
i need enough pushing... i need enough barbaric...
overtaking...
        i'm waiting... i'm like water...
i need to boil...
                 i'm waiting... die zeit ist nicht reif!
the time is not ripe...
or i need for the earth to... slouch... in her defence...
nur dann!
   only then!

geduld! geduld! warten! warten!
        herkommen... stille... wiegenlied, ich dürfte singen!
s(ch)till sein... alles (ist) güt

Hot weather

Translations degrees and Celcius, thin white shirt, ready
going into town, monday... Small window opportunities
to fill my day and sky, blue and powered by the sight of you,
in the sun and the music panasonic... Office chair empty,
the day will never come, and I keep staring at you and me...

City skyline in morning goldshine, a little boat crossing the
river, life can be so simple when looking, but new watch tells
the story is different, big is cosmopolitan, metropolitan, closing
the angles, and corners where you are buying your stuff. Beauty
is unmoving through buildings and traffic jams inside my mind

Ahead of time the paper says it all, when unwritten. Hot
weather and you need to splash with something that isn't
water, so you are told. I am listening to your words, songs
to build expectations coming from near and far, a new in-
spiration dripping from your fountain, I see the city...

if i were to pray to god... i don't think i'd would
tease his boredom -
     in islam the adhan: the call to prayer is
heard in the heavens... but the prayers aren't...
the church bells are heard...
perhaps even when a choir of castratos sings...
but never that ******* of credo mumbling
and "confessions"... it's not teasing the vanity...

well... yes... god... nothing too personal...
       it's hard to imagine anything of nothing...
the sober, scientific, objective: ex nihil...
        out of nothing - i'd wish...
then we'd all have the properties of stones and trees
and a that sort of adapted consciousness
of: never born with legs... with will...

to me: something from nothing...
      the sober, mature, scientific approach...
yes... but i don't think about a higher power...
i think about an invigorating force...
                    something to propose momentum...
something that concerns us to debate
whether free will exists... but enough of that...

there's still work to be done in the garden...
all the stumps are out...
          had to come the day where i'd heal
the earth by letting her breathe...
    which involved digging her up...
doing a pancake with her... then getting a fork
and twisting her into little pieces...
about half a meter of decent earth...
before the clay would appear...
in clay... you won't be finding any earthworms
at these depths... half to a meter in...

well... who needs to go to the gym...
when you can garden...
it's a bit like... if you ever ****** wearing
a ******... and when you haven't...
the only real ****** comes when...
    you send some mail of would-be sputniks...
shame though... if...
she is lying about taking contraceptives...
for that "one and only" moment of life's tick
list...
                   fizzle fizzle out past...
but a few hours spent wearing gloves...
and it's numbing... when working with earth...
sure... you're using a shovel
a fork etc. -
but when you can't feel the earth...
it's a bit like that ****** sensation...
         should it matter to a man not circumcised?
hardly... it's enough of a bother to pull
the **** thing back and choke
whittle richard's heard into a proud plum...

but then to feed the naked hand to the earth...
one of those many other substitutions
for the hide & seek zenith of ***...
   in a shower... pouring water...
onto the neck and just above the occipital bone...
a less protruding occipital bone...
well... designation?! ******!
wow... just like that... i can whip-up
a venom... it's carboxylic acid mingling
with some ebola leftovers...
                                                    ­      em...
preferred temp. of the water...
approx. 4 - 5 degrees celcius beneath room temperature...
not cold cold...

"not enough ***"... or no *** at all...
         learning from the octopus...
                               8 things planned...
           i planned that trip to the brothel...
a little bit too late...
now there's the garden...
                   and there's that period of evening...
can it just be as simple as...
a glass of scotch... some pepsi max...
some jazz: but not too much - i don't really want
to think... blues would be great...
but it has become a period piece...
              like a jane austen adaptation...
a belgravia... something from charles dickens...
something simple like:
alice in chains - man in a box
down - stone the crow
danzig - 1000 devils reign...
                            
                 so yeah... god... prayers...
i still like to attach thought to what would...
better be a tongue for a brain
or a brain for a tongue and at least 7 aeons
of silence...
                    prayer or mumble...
i can't see no advantage...
  i'd pray by crying when finding something
beautiful...
i'd pray by dancing and screaming
when finding something more than the sort
of beauty that'd mobilise my heart to
quench its thirst... needing my sweat...
more than my tears...
and i'd pray... by walking into a dark forest
at night... strip half naked and scream
and growl and return the beast to the father
of the night... force my mouth into
fallen leaves and turn this mouth of mine
into a snout to forrage for mushrooms...
once... near Harlow - Essex...
i did just that... upon the break of dawn...
took a bottle of bourbon with me
and ate... a lilac coloured mushroom...

    how did i end up walking from Romford
through to Harlow in the night?
i remember i had about 6 beers...

prayer... yes...
       well i was "praying"... for an unusually cold
April...
my fridge is broken and it's not making
any more ice-cubes...
it would be super handy for me to be able
to leave a bottle of scotch and a bottle
of p' max or c' zero on the roof just
outside of my window...
   walking up and down the stairs come
the ungodly hours of 2am: i really don't want
to rouse the cats...

cabbage - plastic - playdough -
       some flour an egg a tbs of oil and water -
to live without... a categorical impetus -
other that: in times of the most dire needs...
to explore the endless avenues
of what can come from:
an absolute informality of language -
a metaphor and apostrophe
followed by a colon -
                            
      a fusion of impetus - this current climate
of gardening and what's... probably
the justifying what is happening:
not much... besides...
        
                               i wouldn't be thinking
of *** being on the menu -
wordsworth's celibacy -
                       japanese girls attired
in mannequin bodies with porcelain eyes
and... that skin of unblemished tinge...
something had to be forever uninviting...
or better still...
              it had to be leveraged...
other outlets had to be fathomed...
                    nothing of what might be bemoaned
should the crux of dragging ghosts
and regrets all chained up: into
dreamworld and some other circus frenzy...

to rub ones hands ferociously against
bricks before the luxury of touching a body
was revelled in.... it had to be...
*** and disney...
                          then the distillation process
of culmination could homage me...
as... allowing a flow of water...
or whiskey turned into lemonade when
the erotica of taking a ****
was like all the genital parts included
for her treating the unshelled oyster to queen's
cringe...

a... oddly weird cooling... a very... cool april...
anything to stop this...
it always sounds more **** when it's
an epidemic...
pandemic is hardly something to get all
hot and bothered about...
                                 god's sneeze...
                          and all that omni-
                                            prefix litany...
it's truly the most secured claustrophobia to
think of: gifting to later be grieving...
when at best: the magical finger tripped
up schumacher when skiing...

     or... some other spontaneity...
                              if ever some hegel...
i hardly think i'll live to read the phenomenology
of spirit...
   i've skimmed through the lecture notes
that inspired marx: the philosophy of right...
lecture notes... not even aphorisms...
not even maxims... lecture notes *******
a marx and...
     i'm not even going to bother...
claustrophobia...
dealing with both the marxist ideologues
as is the case with dealing with darwinist ideologues...

no god for a sense of:
no imagination... as long ast the facts can be
distributed and well regurgitated...
does it matter?

all that i can pour into "its" existence is my thought...
humble i, bring a stone before the altar
of the pyramid...
that i know of the "other" pronoun...
in greek... that's: θ(ought) i?!

by then it's already too late... the key has already
been inserted into the lock...
and has been turned...

                    margaret cirko, 35...
               $35,000 dollars worth of fresh food...
gone to waste... in pennsylvania...
and here they are... keeping me on a schizophrenic
leash!
i guess it's true then:
the madmen will lead the blind...
perhaps i only have one eye left in me...
i just watched a morse code wander the sky
that had to be feeding something my
unconscious could desipher...
the facade of consciousness that bears
the burden of the foetus and the stone stood
ground... my eyes didn't melt from
the exalted...

                    but i'm starting to think...
really? the crucifixion is... the epitome exit?
for a demigod? what about...
left hanging on a meathook...
                     for days... with the insertion
under the chin...
or with hands tied... having ultra-******
performed between the coccyx and the ****
when pretending to be the candle imitation
while the hands are tied: screaming the toll...
for the entry into gamorrah...
cherbu honey cherub honey for the old man
magritte: charon... das ist ein kamin!

no?             the treachery of images...
hold me stochholm syndrome prone when it comes
to... the treachery of words...
outside of the realm of nuance, ridicule...
and the thesaurus...
outside the realm of those that
will not clear the way for etymology
to replace archeology...
and of those who will not worship slang!
slang the... not the emoji hierogylphic statures
of: to escape the skeletons of
within and the past...
to turn the O(micron) into a ******* smiley :)!

hegel: master and servant...
    well... anti-hegel...
the parasite... and the host...
          the master is the parasite...
call it the fruition of 1960s intellectuals dabbling
in buddhism...
or... who is the master?
the master is apparent right now...
the middle-men... of work that can be done
from home... so...
what's the need to... commute... to subsequently
and "somehow"... "work"?
arbeit macht frei... "this" and "that"...
that's... work?!

   if you can work from home...
now... currently... how much of work is exacted
to pretend to be the architectural imprints
of power dynamics - verbiage:
and verbiage is all you're going to get!
i know the peacocks when i see them...
peacocks will verbiage tinge this sort
of "logic" as they'd call it...

macht frei... arbeit...

       a terrible slogan for the people who will
nonetheless butcher the meat...
skin it, prep it...
            but then we have...
i don't even know a windowlicker or a ******...
stupid or just evil...
        perhaps just a ****** frustration
"oops"...
             or one of those never to happen
celebrated abortions...
a margaret... cirko... 35...
honestly... the crucifix?
   i'm thinking... meat-hooks and pikes...
less worth for a worth of emblem when supposedly
left hanging...
more like: a dangling tooth...

that what i think of when and otherwise
schizophrenics are blamed...
for when everyone takes it: supposedly:
more easily...
                                       this is not something
a psychotic person would do...
nor a windowlicker ******...
    dumb evil...
                        woman evil...
           you almost wish to lacerate that sort
of behaviour... to the point where...
she wouldn't be able to squat to take a ****...
no... seriously... we should take better care
of your down syndrome retards...
given what the: glorious free spirited man
has to offer: anti-government blah blah!

she should be put in a cage... for
baboons to spit and **** at...
   and she should be given a diet of...
how's that caugh?
     good? phelgmatic? roughage?
good... eat your cough then!
             and locked up... like the myth
of the beheaded cockroach living for up
to two weeks and finally dying of starvation...
i'm guessing the genesis came with...
andrei chikatilo... or that batman quote:
perhaps he's wondering why someone would
shoot a man... after putting him in a prison cell?
brain head: tick tick...
  but the old ticker is still working...
this atheistic mr. ape grand finale of...
                                christine chubbuck...

brain dead ≠ the body is dead...
Kafka: stab at the heart...
what idiot took pride in hollywood when
distancing himself from suicide with
brain injuries...
oh sure... the brain dies... so much for all those
cucumber people of the comatose worldview...
all those... on life support...
looks like the "last clue":
the "labyrinth" can exist in a pickle jar...
switched on... and off...
at long as that... butchers' meat retains
it's... rhythm...

retards... widnwolickers...
does someone with down syndrome "suffer"?
personally... i think they're very much oblivious
to their afflication...
it's not about burning witches...
it's about... stamping out an egoism
that would hardly think about...
retaining the last dripping of water...
the last crumb of bread...

          if i were a ******...
i'd be keeping a down syndrome hulk...
like in mad max: master blaster...
hell: keeping a leech as... pretending it to be a tatoo
seems more worthwhile than...
all those save africa hunger ******* worth
whacking slogans...
   did margaret cirko work for some sort of...
save africa and hunger...
                                          charity?!

if­ my words aren't trivial... compared to what she did?
then money: does indeed grow on treets...
let's pluck some and cough into a bundled
up ball of $1 banknotes!

and... keep it rollin'! rarely will i lose my temper...
but some things are worth forgiving...
repenting over...
hell... at this point every other albert fish...
and every jeffrey dunham jr.
sounds more appealing to talk to...
at least either of them... wouldn't be found...
a marathon distance's length of having
just wasted $35,000 worth of food...
in hell: keep to having cain's offspring
as your company...

i really don't know what... "it"...
of any sensibility of man...
provided the ***** and the vacuum of body
for a surrogate: clearly there was no mother involved...
perhaps she's the first child of
that wunderbarpakt
of der: zweivati?!
                     she's the first child of "surrogates"...
she is the first child of two *******
homosexual partenting schemes?!
makes you wonder...

again: lasso an oops of the cut-off where...
this becomes... virus isolation wasn't enough...
people had to designate themselves
into making politics out of everything;
again...

police! police! the thought! oh god!
the words! oh mein gott!
  police! police! ****! he's gauging out mein augen!
he borrows some german! natz-tee!
i used kinder words governing wood...
i did make-up a replacement to
the ritual surrounding tequilla drinking...
i called him a black cracovite...

slick lick of lemon? you sure...
you're smoking a cigarette...
you're agitate... some ash lands on your hand...
you lick it off... that's your new salt...
you're in galicia... which is not silesia...
you don't have tequilla you have *****...
you lick the ash off your hand...
down the *****...
oh ****... where's the bite?
you're not familiar with lemons...
but you are familiar with peppercorns...
so you bite 3 to 4 down...

there you go... a translation of the ritual
associated with tequilla...
the black cracovite... *** lesson number one...
or no *** lesson number two...
they have their precious israel...
don't they?
i best give my... incantations...
again: is that a transliterate chasm...
of finding enough syllable pauses
to read some deutsche?
perhaps... when translated into
english... and retaining their chemical
names...

                hyphen as conjunction...
to better read: ol' wolf says...
carbo-xylic...                     de-...
               of many more deeds to come...

Solomon will not arrive in time...
and there was no sort of David in your time
of reign: since the last one...
to begin with... but you do have...
clarification as being the inspiration
for the creation of the Mosad and the ***...
so... cuddos... bravo!
let's hear a ******* encore!

sorry... i can't have them "jumbled" up...
the dead sea scrolls refer to the end of the old testament...
the fate of isiah... the courtesan prophet...
disembolwed... cut in two...
that's one...
the dead sea scrolls are not...
the nag hammadi library... that's two...
josephus ben matthias... the false prophet...
egypt... and from egypt...

this wound is most certainly bleeding...
put more pressure on it...
the more chances of negation...
esp. from the scientific couldron of the society...
the dead sea scrolls are not
the nag hammadi library...

it echoes in the claudron...
of but a single eye shared among...
6 plucked out...
to deafen the wind that combs the woods...
and the branches that find flutes
in their hollowing out worth... of...
rattle...

                   i always wondered...
gloryhole *******...
         the imitation *****... beig soiled in
all that.. would be sponge-leeches
and liquidated butter?
        the **** of all worth of ****
with the extending umbrella *****...
and... the business of ******* was not
to sell the frolicking ambitions of...
merely a 0.01% of the... base attentions
and wants of... the nymphomaniacs?

look at us... lowly... poorly equipped peasants...
bowing before a Elizabeth Bathory...
how feeble our needs to attain
to merely warmth... to counter the cold...
to merely hunger... to counter crumbs...
how feeble our wants...
oh my pardon oh my rotting mind...

               what sort of theatre would allow...
what we digest in private?
i'd love to see ***** be made more... public...
it doesn't need to be this solitary endeavour...
just like...
this revision of grammar by the transgender
lobby... gender neutral pronouns...
what about fwench? where nouns
cannot be: gender neutral?!
what... then?!
    a chair is a male...
whether or not a chair is male when a man
speaks about it...
or whether or not a chair is a female when
a woman speaks about it...

this... transgender communism or attempting
to revise grammar...
sorry... no... can you revise
1 + 1 = 2 instead?
i'd gladfly give up my prowess in arithmetic...
i... won't be, though...
so easily swayed off the throne
of grammar...

  this isn't even my ****** ingrained
language... it's acquired! why should i care what
the natives and their...
sacred siblings of the holocaust of sanctity
do with it?!
   watch me...

                here's me... gladly giving away
the reins!

             of the people: for... the people!
a true democracy... one voice lost among the many...
and the many... voices...
somehow focused upon that one...
lost in the wilderness... somehow...
for no reason... being heard...
i'd call 20+ a class dismissed...
which is what Pythagoras had...
hey-zeus' devil's dozen of 12: him included...

thinking big is beside the point
with what's apparent... when starting small...
i dismiss the value of large congregations
of people...
outright... nothing is ever said...
while everything else is merely overheard...
i want to measure the size of my foot:
i'm told to weigh my liver
and my moral quest!

even among poetry...
this language is so... formal...
there is null of a concern for a cipher...
everything is just so... "required"...
ignoble and numb...

it's hardly a rhomus: darlin'...
nor a pola dotted bohemia ****...
so what's it; dear honey ****-squeech-p'ooh?
oh... one of those...
daddy issues?
i have mommy issues:
never stopped me ******* ******
like a trojan cohort...
or the devil... with vampirism h.i.v. worms...

or a bit of the smiths calling me deaf...
whenever you started plasyinf 65days of static...
because... me and you and the romance
of radiohead's kid a...
anything: the bends... and the chissick wonderkid...
o.k. computer with windows '98...
but not... vanilla sky and kid alzheimer's...
type 0 negative...
                    
         i'll ask again: what's 70cl of whiskey
to a juggernaut?
                       a sly slip of the tongue...
a lick of this sort of concentration
of a waiting ice-cube... brother:
it better start melting!

                    in my head: there is a god...
but there's also an iron maiden...
i can't can't... oh yes i can...
make them into a matrimony!
   there's reaching the clasy of London
beneath half a meter of revised soil...
there are... these earthworms...
these phoneic brides akin to...
you cut one in half...
it pretends to be the dead:
the brain and the Brian that's all mouth...
to think... the digestion of sand breeds
the oesophagus that's waiting to be
blopd tinged...

       retards recovered: come treefingers...
or hugging... a birch tree...
as suggested by a... later than usual...
self-employed cabby... all from radiohead's kid A...
no... not from 65 days of static...
that sort of pristine retardation is
reserved for aliens and angels...

we do have to make it inclusive that...
margaret... cirko (35... pennsylvania)
is one of "us"... good god that sort of a "riddle"
with people having made it necessary to..
"opt out"...
god forbid living among such retardations
to be claiming the stature of faking
normies...

               waking: optimistic...
                here's to me later on bound
to limbo... and shy conversations about...
what's not to have shy conversastions of...
kept... cushioned and proud and...
sly and: workaholic.... insomiac...
but never... alcoholic enough to spawn...
the lost remains of the brute of silence...
the truth-sayer of the toothache...

this... best kept in german...
     diese taubheit...
           diese schattenlos mondlicht...
diese: gebet auf mitternacht!
                                      all this... under a shroud of english...
for... a... toothpick of german...
the zeppelin... and the blitz...
all... for the made thespian... pristine...
to sharpen the edges of hollywood...

      für einz! ich war auf zweck!

"misplaced" german... always the first...
even citing it...
fiddles with details of leather...
and boots, and belts...
and all those unconscious b.d.s.m. fetishes...
and long live evita... and argentina...
and fascists in brazil...
israel: the wall: palestine...
      
i love it! what's to be expected?!
a cosmopilitan... that's what!
*** and the city feminism...
pride on oats regret!
if i see anything less...
i won't be listening to ststic x's
black & white...

Hello hello hello. I am awake, I dts d at the foot of the bed a d gobble oranges for my baby boy.
I was a dancer
You were a baker at the sqaut outside Denver.
I am push a coin in my head and flip to 43 inches below celcius.
"Noone cares". Well noone should. I feel ill
I told you yesterday, or actually I told noone
I feel ill and might like
Bit off my face I had a Jesus meltdown
Pray for them
Pray for them all
Pray for me too
Me too
Me too
I walk into a blue room