obviously chappy has a different connotation
(slang meaning for the orthodoxy resumed
in dictionary, i.e. bow-tie synonyousness)
in English language, etymology to no other
borrowed word from South African...
chappy just means a pigeon-walk of groove
when listening to Brit-Pop, or cheeky post-punk,
a bit like imagining a bowler hat on your head
while walking down Oxford St., so that's that
chappy; pigeons are naturally gifted in head-banging;
you're a chappy if you donned Ben Sherman shirts
without a belt, wearing jeans, styled on
an Oasis hit single... premature Quadrophenia
attainment to fit it... that how i define a chappy...
the zenith of Brit Pop, Ben Sherman shirts loose
over the waistline of jeans and sport sneakers,
and an Oasis single as the baseline for the heart to thump bu boom...
a real life chappy was this kid in primary school,
Tom... the exactness of what later became a metrosexual...
prior to that they were called chappies,
Ben Sherman shirts not tucked into a stiff pair of jeans...
you never could imagine an Englishman so under-dressed,
he must have come from Manchester
as was the obvious answer back then.

daj, do wynagrodzenia: reszty.
daj: to niby: siebie;
a... dam... dam...
ale pierw: powiem:             to!
(ich) nicht werden
                  geben (ihr) das nacht!
first... i'll punch myself
hard enough to give myself
a plum-eye: ******* pacifists...
and then?
    then i'll strap a trouser belt
to protect my knuckles...
and then... then...
                    then: we'll "talk":
who might find a translator
ready...
   god...
i'm gagging for a
knuckle exchange...
        almost... itching!
like i might await
a shaving... from a Turkish
barber... in Essex...
of all Danish palaces;
and why would i want to allow
consort with these women?
considering the fact that
the russian ones believe in trans-national
grievance taxation:
of someone... who hasn't...
actually died...
              you know what?
*******...
suffer...
       watch me wipe my ***
with a satanic smile
ennobled
by a coulrophobia...
excesses of vogue
                      atypical models...
how is it... that...
coulrophobia doesn't translate
in reverse?
  and what's up
with the black privilege of
jass music, akin to white mozart...
as...  
  sure as ****, the drum would be
the first, and only thing,
prior to the people learning
the ******* clarinet!

oh drop me your ****** ***
holocaust dead bomb
on a polish ***...
     i triple, quadruple dare you!
you *******... ivory coast
   centipede!
               i'm *******...
as watts: wild-eyed...
       unstrap me from this
"unreality" of conversation...
then undo the internet banking...
and the rest of it...

             not adam watts!
    glitter & doom....
who?      tom waits...
oh **** me... blue valentine?
if that's not a **** with me
album... what is?
                 live circus?
        
do i look like a ******* ****-
(see the hyphen?
it's a prefix... the english are
lazy sometimes: couldn't,
i.e. could not,
remnants of shakespearean
english...

       i'll always cite macbeth...

  time, thou anticipat'st my dread
exploits: the flighty purpose never
is o'eertook, unless the deed go with it.
from this moment, the very firstlings
of my heart shall be
  the very firstlings of my heart.
   and even now, to crown my thoughts
with acts, be it thought and done.

it's hardly a racial slur, ergo...
why so ******* sensitive akin to a french
footballer or a ballerina?
   ****- (hyphen! hyphen!) ergo a prefix...
as already mention:
no, no...
   it's not: no iraqi ever called me a pa-ki
      (pákí)... yeah...
and you never called an afghanistani an
afghan, ever, no?
   pure camaraderie in that part of
the world... all the way... yeah yeah... yeah...
-stani (suffix) is sometimes missing
because... the english like to shorten words...
e.g. why is daniel: dan,
why is matthew: matt?
  why is muhammad: mo (farrah)?
                                    ******* pansies...
police your circumcised penises fiddling
english teenager girl, first,
come after my vocab. justifications: after;
savvy?

or a gypsy?
   by now...
     i'm looking like any
traveler...
and the world...
       forever resembled
a world,
  in the confines of
      a claustrophobia...

but... if there's a bigger concern for
a world...
  and a freedom...
i want a bare knuckle fight...
a black eye...
namely...
you bring  BOXING GLOVE...
and i'll bring...
     a LEATHER BELT...
wrapped around my knuckles,
and the wrist...
    like i might care to give
a second attempt to smile...

ah... the men... who care
about minding, if not in the least,
keeping women...
      bye bye, bye bye...
       and i've allowed myself
to know my grandfather...
as i did the slap in the face...
and...
the key question:
in the unfathomability of counting
the 32 / 4 ratio...
alas... one fist... one smile...

and countless... dentistry encounters...
because?
   because the rest?
the cultural artifacts of a today?
  lost to h'americana...
            as i might have wished...
for my prior genes
to make an autobiography
in **** germany...
  
   what?
  
      well... obviously: the oops.

no, for the crescendo...
you know...
           i'm getting this funny vibe...
gott ist tot... it's not really spectacular...
nietzsche really believed in eternity,
to the point where he pointed:
what does science offer, only old age...
what does religion provide? eternity...
oh nietzsche was big on eternity...
   gott ist tot is as unspectular as:
is it: how to do you pronounce x,
or is it: how do you pronunciate y?
debate:
              everyone says around here
the former... since no one wants to be a *****...
pro-nun-ci-ate (pro-nun-cíate)...
   might as well replenish the vocab. bank
and replace the word with:
how do you elocute z? / recite)....

gott ist tot / gott ist tod...
    "same ****, different cover"...
you know why i believe in god?
    not the christian reference points...
salvation blah blah, saviour and hide & seek blah blah...
n'ah... where would i derive all my vocab.
hunger if not from him?
   some men derive their vocab. from
women or gambling...
            i am not in the position of their
luxury... so god it is...

            primarily though?
               god is metaphysics...
             ergo? his judgement is not clouded
by metaphysical questioning...
it's impossible to receive a metaphysical
answer from a metaphysical question
when engaging with a metaphysical
ontological paraphrase of one's own search
for meaning in this mortal frame...

oh sure sure, my belief in god is as juvenille
as anyone else's belief in humanity's
clarity when it comes to jurisprudence
and its application...
    i've experience "jurisprudence" once...
drive-by phone theft...
me and three fwends...
   i catch the number plate...
i tell one of my fwends to note it down,
police station, report, culprit found,
a sit in at a barkingside police station
looking at mug images,
spot the ****** (it was dark when the mugging
took place, photographic memory, **** happens)...
a court session, australia is playing england
at the ashes (****, i missed it)...
in court the defence lawyer shows me
another picture of the culprit...
back then photogrpahs had dates
attached to them...
the photograph? over 4 years old...
i tell him: but this photograph is 4 years old!
how can i identify if this is the same
person: i, myself, will probably
don a beard in four years time!
      a simple slip-up...
        now that i have a beard:
it's so much more fun than growing your
hair long... i hated the nickname
chewbacca back in high school when i was
growing mine for a french braid...
i walk out of the court,
come to terms with the detective...
and i see the same hunger in him as i see in me...
will justice be served?
highly unlikely... since the victim
didn't recognize the *** in the mug-shots...
justice was probably not served...

   and this is how god plays into all of this,
hell or heaven, blah blah...
man created the figure of domina Iustitia
as blind... god created death to be blind...
justice was never supposed to be blind,
death was: the unfortunate deaths
of teenagers in car accidents,
among all the other freak accidents...

clouded with so many metaphysical questions
i don't appreciate man's ability to adhere
to jurisprudence without being
subjectively contaminated...
i have more belief in an "imaginary"
god than belief that strains me to belief
in man's sense of justice...
          the nuremberg trials are a rare exception...
but only when the culprits are
unabashed and fathomable by a collective
sense of pride... a blidness...
i believe in god, because i'd love to experience
the judgement of a post scriptum of
metaphysics...
  personally? i have been wronged...
heavily...
            i will not name names....
i know when and how i was wronged,
and by whom...
                2007... Canterbury...
      i won't name names: i'm not a rat...
man is too clouded with metaphysical questions
to begin with, god isn't,
he's a metaphysical ontology "bias"...
which is why, he is primarily a jurisprudent
answer...
   i'd love to experience divine jurisprudence,
hell or heaven are not of my concern...
and i don't imply divine jurisprudence
associated with the polytheistic take of
jurisprudence via a solipsistic mechanism
of a minor god and the person in question
without the hurt party...
in monotheism the god is solipsism personified...
these days: also the personna non grata...
so no... gott ist nicht tot...
            he's a personna non grata...
i just don't appreciate the human *******
of law, law governance...
   come on, in england you can receive
an a.s.b.o.s. for your cockerel being too loud
in the morning, your dog barking...
           would you trust man with
jurisprudence?
  a woman was cleared of the ******
of her husband
       when she hammered his head into a pancake:
over an abusive relationship...
police, weren't, "there"?!
sure sure... the hammer will do...
i believe in god without a sense of reward...
i just don't think man is capable of
passing justifiable laws...
no man could ever pass the eternal laws,
gravity... 100°C for the boiling of water...
i need a being  who has groundwork
in eternal laws, in unshakeable laws...
the ten commandments aren't:
you shall not...
   more... maybe, you shouldn't...
they are the most pristine jurisprudent
laws available... the: maybe you shouldn't,
eh, chappy?

       i just don't like playing the thesaurus game
on the more tight-knit game
of "passing" the wink-wink of Solomon's
judgement...
please, **** me please,
i'll eat 20 raw herrings in a cream sauce,
slurp 30 oysters,
eat 40 strawberries on a hangpverl
eat out about 50 harem virgins
like a castrato if you ask me, nicely,
**** camel cockey:
lucly i landed on a black gold slurp
with plenty of bangladeshi slaves:
******* of riyadh...
     what did muhammed tell you?
you camel jockeys / sand *******
have clearly forgotten...
******* arabs: short attention span...
you need to remind
the retards...
the dajjal would come from the east...
a palace of gardens...
well obviously the prophet wasn't
thinking about genghis khan...
            
  hmm barbarians...
vikings, arabs: yet so inclined to like poetics...
funny, that...
the civilized peoples banished
the poets...
            the ruling class and their cushioned
people: sacrosanct sycophants...
wankers, basically.

    the hajr? muhammad spoke of the dajjal
coming from the east,
and the east being a city of gardens...
where isn't riyadh and where is mecca?
isn't riyadh east of mecca?
was the dajjal to come from the outside
of islam, or from wtihin?
      last time i checked...
sh'ite islam isn't friendly to sunni islam...
if islam was the one true religion...
would have a shcism have occurred?
i don't think so...
   a persian would never bow before
an arab... that much os true...

oh i believe in god...
given how man practices jurisprudence...
is it some sort of, a, thesaurus game
i wasn't told about?
to me the human quest for jusctice is
a thesaurus game...
man is incapable to pass but one,
eternal, law...
he's great at nuanced laws...
laws allocated to sports...
i mean, **** me, cricket?
the best vocab. you'll ever pick up...

even god isn't as pertinent
in making the sort of music associated
with the limited alpha-to-beta
of A, B, C, D, E, F, and G...
wow! seven... seven?!
how many heads does the beast
of revelation have? oh... 7!

i'll stop tolerating islam, and start respecting it,
when it, acknowledges its presence
as a character study in the book of revelations...
then i'll just move on,
having made my point...

until that time comes...
    it's 600 years shy of becoming what
degenerate christianity has become,
oh and it's ripe...
it's gagging to implode!
600 years and wait for it to become
the next secular vasal conglomorate...

the warning muhammad gave
about "the best from the east"
was in point of question:
   a reference ti gneghis khan...
more like ibn saud:
  thst fat diabetic one eyed ogre...
and the legacy of decadence he left
behind...

saudi men with slavuc girlfriends,
buying up pink cushions and *******
chihuahuas...
**** after ****...
  you know the three slavic proverbs?
1. better a sparrow in your
hand, than a dove on your rooftop?
explanation?
better the small joys at-hand,
than impossible possibilities out of reach....
2. a drunk can spot east,
past mecca, whenever honing
the safety of his own bed... even at night...
not much of a proverb...
3. i don't care to rememeber...

once toleration comes into play,
i will, respect... just a waiting game...
i'm pretty sure no iranian will
bow down to a sunni camel jockey...
i like proud *******,
it implies: there are absolutes,
un-moveable goal posts...

                      if you are ever to bind yourself
in supporting a "side" outside a sports' dynamic,
always the outsider...
always the outsider... in this case?
the ****'ite islam brigade...
       the persians...
the sunnis can shove it...
   *****, bones, whatever....

                   ****'ite islam i can
fathom, even respect,
sunni islam i just tolerate...
  as much as iran takes claims for the
big satan in ref. to h'america...
well... if h'america supports the infantile
saudi arabia, who's to blame them?

you know that polonaise joke about
about the pacifism of jews in
2nd world world war poland?
the joke ran along the words:
weren't the jews shooting the nazis
using crooked elbows (rifles)?
they always seemed to miss them,
taunted into walking into gas chambers,
the ******* hobbits...

          what? some bolshevik Brooklynian
jewish rada is to spare me
                 the pay-up diffrential
telling me, i was wrong?

  as i said before: the nazis lamented
when the warsaw uprising happened...
no, st. paul's doesn't stand proud
because, because...
   even with the blitz...
                 the luftwaffe were told:
you drop a bomb on st. paul's: firing squad...
and when notre-dame de paris -
last time i checked...
   the nazis didn't luftwaffe the **** out
of paris... did they?!

                  the nazis weren't mongols;
no people so well versed in chanel in terms
of their military being so well
   suited & booted could ever make such a
                              architectural sacrilege...

what?! people under the silicon curtain
are gagging, begging even: for nazis!
can i be the first?!
i just want to please the hungry!
if not punk then moving swiftly into ska...
am i the first?
   siliziumvorhang...
well, **** me... from under the eisenvorhang...
what's with these neo-communist pseudos?

and the hebrew god?
a jealous god... so a god with the knowledge
of the existence of other gods...
why wouldn't a jealous god have
no knowledge of other ("imagianry") gods?
to be jealous of only one's own existence?!

3 / 1: that's the ratio....
that's the only ratio... 3 times i experienced
love at first sight:

when i fell in love at first sight...
malina, samantha, janina,
priya....

equal measure: isabella of grenoble...

in reverse:
magda, promis, ilona, kot (i forget her name,
7 years old, first kiss, you can be forgiven
to forget, she had two twin sisters
and she was the senior,
her fasther drove a distribution truck,
milk, i think)...

****, i actually mismanaged
that ratio...

i believe in "a" god...
since i find too much of human jurisprudence
to be riddle with the thesaurus...
i don't think man can pass
law, he can "suppose so"...
but he will never pass the sort of law,
made forbidden,
or absolutely allowed....
i don't believe in a god akin
to the sort of a pontous pilate god
where i'll always find myself
outside of punk evolving into ska...

         mind you...
i'd hate to be trapped within
the confines of an atheistic exclusion zone
of intellect,
      to be trapped in nothing is one
thing, but to be trapped inside
the confines of an atheist's "nothing"
is quiet another....
i don't like being a hamster inside
a cognitive wheel of another...
   god is the jurisprudence spirit,
man the metaphysical spirit...
and i would very much like to stand
in the light of divine law being passed
to finally feel my shadow...

kult: brooklyńska rada żydów...
  not familiar?
  i forgot punk a long time ago...
esp. when californians came up with their
version, ergo? ska...

i'm currently taping a film
about the silesian vampire...
how strange, that the prussians came
back into the ***** of the polonaise...

growing a beard is so much fun!
fiddle after fiddle: and no violin!
atheists bore me
as much as the theistic hags
who's only ambition are
the thrill associated with Sunday
h'america and cinema...
               i can imagine only one
heaven...
where i am blind and given
               a large library of music.

HOT WHEELS.
I went from broke to buying a Lamborghini,
Price tag not so teeny,
Sleek and black, for my driving academy,
Or should  I buy the red Ferrari?
Command a salesman to "comprare"?
Wouldn't he be a happy chappy?
But would it make me happy?
I could be buying loads of stuff,
But when you're old, you've got enough!
To me, consumerism is in vain,
My peaceful simple life in the slow lane.
So, today I did not buy the red Ferrari,
Or indeed the sleek Lamborghini,
There was no Hot Wheels Driving School,
Consumerism as a manipulative tool.

They say it is an art
It keeps me quite apart
It's never seen as good
Yet happy me not
understood

My grumpy life is good
I see the roses
Tinted love
My sadness makes me happy
From such a grumpy chappy

It is the way to go
The docs do say
It's so
I'll live a little longer life
More grumps i say as I get
older  

I start the day full moan
A grumpiness full drone
It never ever leaves me
My grumpy tree  
Pure freedom

So next time I'm about
Expect a grumpy shout
You'll know its from my heart
My grumpy life
This sad old ****

it has been exactly since ~3p.m.
                                                            yesterday...
                                       through to
3p.m. today: that's 24 hours +
                                      4 o'clock, 5 o'clock rock,
          6 o'clock,
                                          7, 8, 9
                     10, 11 and the upcoming twelve
         24 + 9 + excess passing the 36th hour...
oh this is just target practice -
                  what used to be
   serotonin has become adrenaline:
   spawning cobweb shadows with
   a mere arm-hair aligned with an itch:
i say to my cohabitants -
        i'm too poor to rent an apartment
with my contemporaries,
         and i can't be bothered to look cool
for 10 years... before the money starts
coming in... a day before a tongue spoke:
and see you in 20 years...
         and see you in 30 years...
the people born prior to 1975
       and after 1969 came out to earn
£57,000 a year... while those born
after 1979 and before 1985 had a wealth
*** of £27,000...
                            who are the landlords?
quick digression, i love how the idea
of exiting the bloc (it used to be designated
to the eastern bloc, now anything east of Calais
if a bloc... the European bloc -
        my my... ain't it love-ly?
   they wanted an Australian points system,
so first came the Australian plastic currency,
boy, i was happy, cashing in my first Churchill
miniature that i could dip in baked beans
and use as a spoon) spread beyond the old
stereotype... and the points system?
you know who's smoking the hookah of
panic here?            
                            the freelancers of nationality...
   they haven't fitted in...
don't worry... they'll keep you,
but after seeing you they just thought:
once the cheeky chappy, now a chavvy chappy...
  we love the E2 dialect, it's hardly Coccers
or bonkers... but after my day
(i'll relate to it in a moment)
       i heard to prop'ah Cockneys giving it
all the guv' and n'ah and
        what's Kilimanjaro in Cockney slang?
all the Cockneys are living in Essex,
   Romford, Chelms and the Essex lads
from Ireland are a bit shy, never talk to
the old people who used to live on
the Isle of Dogs or the Wharf -
              East London moved, and i'm in
the thick o' it... you ***...
                       i'm here,
open ******* spaces and hedgehog counts
to mind... never the next Susie from
Whitechapel doing the runner from Jackie,
             and funny that,
the day began during the night,
sober, i tested the idea: if you gonna go
nocturnal, stay sober...
                  fast... drink coffee in the morning,
and what some proper bollocking
        on the box...
                               i say: revivals never
sounded more like bells, the 1970s
had Patois... the old parle with dread-lock Sam...
             i squeeze in a bit of Norse
and hey presto... Ahmed's your uncle...
                     'cos we all like a bit of
way-hey banter, the: back in the day
   when the 1966 squad was best known
for West 'am...
                               am i sensing the idea that
i'm licking off the prop'ah beef burger 'ere?
                    what the **** rhymes
with Kilimanjaro?
                                wait! got this one:
apples & pears - stairs...
                          you gyro?
                        no! wait... the two Cockneys
weren't from south London,
this ain't Peck'am talk... this is proper grub...
         jar squared: verb, meaning?
     i know my neighbour, heard him
lecturing his wife over the wall about
the diminishing concept of family in the "west",
           to me that's
the Cockneys meant by guv'nah:
                           aw right der geezer,
   stop that fidgety: don't be late tomorrow,
let a man eat his plums and wear his trousers...
       i swear: the only good cinema these days
is English cinema...
                                 i said! the only good cinema
these days is English cinema...
               if i didn't watch
       we **** the old way during the night,
after spending my day as i did (i'll get onto it,
hold your submarines)
                               i would have pricked my ears
on the two Cockneys next door
   at 4p.m.                  finishing some job...
but given the "guv'nah's" attitude: 'aving
a laugh at coming early tomorrow, if at all.
     my day?
                 i wished i could say i woke up
early...
                            the entire spectrum
of sunrise...
                            epileptic shock from the sun
after smoking a cigarette at 5a.m. when
all the constellations where out...
                          not enough sleep,
as the Russians say: no good to live but to
not have seen snow.
                               it shivers with enough
hours under your belt...
                                      i'd love those
Soviet torture chambers of sleep malnutrition...
gents? when the ***** and the cards and cigarettes?
    i'm currently the most loathed
  person in America... which technically makes me
more than simply unemployed...
        anyway...
cut my hair... two millimetres off the helmet...
off the cranium... not crew cut, not skin on side
and some ***-fluff on top...
in the night, when the moon is bright,
   my two millimetres of hair look like skin...
oi! Skinners! the shame would have really been
to have protruding ears...
                                    come to think of it,
i love the contorts of my shadow more than
the body my shadow disdains...
                  i decided to visit my old school
after that...
                     ...............................
do you know the feeling of getting onto a bus
when you having been on any other form
of transportation (other than your legs)
for a few months?             surreal...
                   and even that's a bad way to describe it...
this is where words simply fizzle out...
                            they just did the white rabbit
trick and you're felt with nothing else to
do but squeeze into the top-hat and hope
that some other magician will pull you out
rather than another: white rabbit.
                          so the 499 from my house
up to Romford (sunny! glorious day!
   shirt, sleeves rolled up,
           denim trousers, navy suede shoes,
azure shirt, headphones, bus ticket,
wallet, packet of smokes, and the ride -
smile all you want - when you smash a sports
car you don't have the view of a dozen
horrified passengers there with you
to practice your ultimate Buddha gimmick -
Ching-Chong Eyed and smiling)
                oh yeah, the insurance... huh?
   off at Romford central, and onto the 86
courier from Bangladesh to Ilford...
                    what did i miss in the list above?
ah... three copies of poetic optometry...
written by? moi, n'est pas? oh come on,
let's not get the ruler out: mangetout and manage trois...
                           (only fuel is horses)
           the 86 is a double decker, the 499 isn't...
sun in my eyes behind the glass the enhanced star
gleamed: what privilege -
               by day the star
                                           by night the star in
   a mirror that's the moon -
                                         selfish helium
giggling into a hydrogen Hindenburg fury!
                 or that's what the scientists say...
how they worked it out, i'll never know...
                            but apparently the sun
is a H-He           something or other...
            H because of atom bombs,
   and He because we giggle like idiots when we see
it: never the thirsty horse in cowboy movies.
   got off at Seven Kings...
in between school girls eyeing everyone and everything...
just my luck... schoolchildren...
                               everywhere on the bus...
just there...
                                    and also just nowhere...
         so i got off at Seven Kings and went into my
old catholic school...
                                  waited at the reception for a good
5 minutes (good to know they're still teaching
people manners with regards to the uttermost
productive necessity of bureaucrats)
               -              i asked about my old English
teacher: does Dr... er... does Mr. Thomas,
        er, does Mr. Bunce (Thomas) still work here?
   yes, he does.
             you see, i'm a former pupil of this school
and i wondered if i could have a meeting with him.
oh, that's impossible, he's currently teaching.
                     Kafka... note this in your afterlife...
         well... in that case, could i leave him a message?
oh sure, just write your name and your contact details
and he'll get in touch with you.
   well... i need a bit more than a scrap of paper,
can i have a notepad?
                 sure.
                                    so i took  the pen
and the notepad and sat in this grand refurbished hall
of the school that used to remind me
of chemistry labs stinking of old wood and sulphur,
of the old ways... of being beaten and Pink Floyd
escapism and all the hippy crap...
                               what a grand place this has become...
it's no longer known as C. P. Catholic School...
but the plus version: C. P. Academy...
  but you still walk into the plus surroundings and there
are still pamphlets written by Father Ted
about *our Lord and Saviour christ Jesus...
          or Hey! Zeus! in Spanish... same ****...
different cover...
                               but i was well dressed in my
Indian summer wear that's Indian summer:
English September and October...
              i'd move the calendar up a bit...
get the kids off anti-depressants...
                           anyway, i had my three copies
of the "first edition", try tell that with the internet
breathing down your neck... it doesn't, matter...
             but i did write him a lovely note:
unchaining me from the straitjacket of grammar!
                  i wrote from what year i graduated
2002 (g.c.s.e.) or 2004 (a-level),
                        and blah blah and one more blah
later                    walked back to the reception
  and asked for a rubber-band...
                   then i bundled the whole thing together
and asked if she could give it to him...
                    of course, she replied.
                            p.s. if you don't mind,
Mr. Thomas, you can always shove one of those
copies into the school library...
                         p.p.s., someone stashed
the book about the Gnostics by some German in
there once... maybe i'm thinking along the same lines.
      the journey back?
i walked.
                                 i walked from Seven Kings
to Romford...
                               taking a stroll
with one hand in my pocket (left)
because holding a cigarette in the other is never
exactly great when it's not doing something...
that's what the pockets are for...
not exactly suited for your wallet... but your hand...
when you're strolling in the green-belt fields
segregating the outer-most London (wannabe
Londoners / Eastenders) and the Essex inheritors
of Cockney... Kilimanjaro?
                                  Kilimanjaro?
                 ­                          me, i don't Essex
either...           most of the bankers chose this
district for the scenery, i.e. standing in a field
that isn't a hill or any sort of elevation
and beyond, yonder, the glass shards of their
former institutions...
                                        4.7 miles... not bad...
  a stroll... and that's without any food and solely
on coffee and a sleepless night...
           a butterfly fluttering along the way (only one)
and a fresh ripe auburn conker lying beneath
an oak tree (also, only one)...
            but what hit me was walking back...
it was truly like reading the book of revelation...
13:7... all the way from Seven Kings through to
the Romford: the street vendors, the bookies,
the Muhammedian car dealers...
                  the bewildered ones walking into
mosques, Sikh temples...
                                       one man cleaning the patio
entrance to a church from weeds...
                           cheap Kentucky chicken from America
         (if you think, that they don't synthesise
the meat in cat food and call it tuna or beef
but rather use actual meat... you're grossly mistaken,
    it was on the news...
                                         they are already
capable to synthesise meat...
                                     they do it in the perfume industry,
they're doing it in the food industry -
    a childhood memory of asking why they were
smearing lipstick on the frogs they caught...
they replied: they burn easier...
                  and they did... paint a frog lipstick
pink and boy... that's a French marshmallow, right there)...
           but if you ever walk that stretch of road...
               revelation 13:7...
          i'd like to see the Evangelists wriggle out
of that one...                       oh sure...
i treat religious television like some meathead
might watch football... it's game on after 5 minutes...
but anyway... that was my day...
           all 36 or so hours of it... how was yours?
                                                          ­                        g'day!

for a drunk: i can manage
                                  the cannabis induced
                                       chill...

   what, with england and
                      the laughing gas epidemic...

oh yeah, you can spot about
9 bullets of
the concentrated stuff
  in one evening's walking
                                                    session...

who would have thought
that english humour,
black as the advances of
melancholia
                                    required a: booster...

but then i've never heard
of: (and now it's a concept)
dyslexia in slavic languages...
no wonder

given my: not-so-bright observation
of -
            perhaps its a dialect
of east germany...

one example...
    the tinniest of "errors"...

                rammstein's ich will...
    past the veil and Volford...
      like counting knuckles
whenever not teasing
a punchbag,
      or a stomach on the *******...

there's an apparently missing S...
       what i hear what i hear:
what i see, but don't hear is ich...

and back into language games:
in slavic that's
literally translated as:
                  theirs -
mind you:
i also find the use of the apostrophe
sometimes confusing in english,
it's this one aspect of english
i'm still groveling over...

   have to forgive them for not
concerning themselves with this, minor,
detail...

       theirs,

                        the plural possessiveness
of the collective other...

               hardly a case to unload
with: there's -

     which in hounddog
                gobble gobble down
a goebbels as in:            
                                      there   is,

ya, i know, prostitutes for an hour,
the part of me that's supposed
to feel jealous of owning a car
when i own a pair of legs,

                    and you get to mind
road tax, while i concerns myself about
spaghetti al dente and shoelaces?
i'll take the shoelaces,
  thank you, very much.

   but this is a recurrent theme in:
well: at least sort this "orthography" out,
the english use of the apostrophe
when concerned with
            the plural, the possesive,
and the: "slang" add-on of is...

notably the problem: St. Paul's
             and what if not many Pauls?
you can't exactly note that,
depending on your aesthetic genesis...

                   Pauls's - paul-sysyz...
god forbid i be the one steering
           the hindenburg over London...
    
but clearly there's a dispossesive
pluralism involved in the possessive
article of apostrophe S,
                                                      's...

ich can imply: not the german first person
pronouns, subsequent with
                                        ()Pad...
                cheap, monetißing on grammar...

but in the çited song?
              there's an "enigma" of a missing S...
if you just listen...
it's not ich: closing in on
a lost harking...
         missing phlegm of course...
         there's clearly a sentence
bound to...                                   isch...

details of linguistic technicality
are like itches:
or tooth-aches,
   can't seem to fathom the irritating
S+ in                singing:    ich will....

     namely isch...
             or how the germans managed
to consider a phrase for:
                              shutting up!

a hornet's needle jerking off on
an ear drum...
  one russian lass once suggested
that i spoke too much: sh    sh sh    sh...
and never               hagh-shhh'd...

i know, the U would give up
the Hugh...
    not the ******* Freckled Heffner...
that: faking i'm not spanish
english actor, you know:             (  
                                                      
                                                         (
those eyes,
bypassing a fringe and not even settling on
a raised eyebrow...

******* want to dance...
   łired...
                łorth...
                         which is basically W:
who the hell calls a letter so rigid as
an upside ranging M and double-U?

      is that a real name,
                                or a prison, ksyva?
there is no iota in why or Y
               but a hollowing out,
          a mummification process...

         ******* deutsch-schprech-*****...

nibbi-nibbi: imitating a goose-quack
with the four primes above,
   and a thumb as base:
             of the hand...

        oh i agree, oxford english profs.
have nailed it perfect...
      even though there is no concept
of loan words in english
******* over hindustan...

             but there is the antithesis
of deutsch genesis,
       just shove in the hyphen and
people will read you
           Mendeleev no problem...      

remnants of old Saxon can only be found
among chemical nouns:
      hydrocrabons doesn't require
  a: cut up technique akin to
   Burroughs and Tzara
                 to mind: hydro-carbons...  

look at that ******* aesthetic!
    ugly as a hog snuffing a human
**** imploring to ask at the altar:
grovel grovel grovel:
                    turnips and birch leaves!
       truffles and caviar...
  
most impressive...
    sooner the breath of Miles Davies
squeezed through a horn,
than a sneeze let out from a pork
snout...
            both deserve applause
nonetheless:

there's a missing S, in rammstein's song
ich will:
                 must be an east berliner
"hidden" plot to harvest the dyslexics.

- because playing the grammar game,
fused with only the pronoun
category...
             well... that's not going to vork...

- mind you, in poetry,
     is like... saying: a beginning of
a "paragraph" in poetry,
   not an interjection as such,
  just a "grievance"
         with what's already in
full momentum...

              - did i mention my concern
for the apostrophe usage in englsih?
      basis of: not      use?

hence the stability, and its perpetuation:
hence: usage.

         oh we can go on and on and on
with the technicalities of "hidden" english
"orthography":
   which is really a concern for
either the aposthrope, or the hyphen....
    
reigning superior over
the literacy monopoly of priests...
    degenerate ******* suddenly took
the human route...
and did... what any new-found-literati
would:
           play the fox in a chicken-shack...

miser *******...
                   good to know who i'm
up against...
                      and i can do more in
an hour with a *******,
that you might cling to with,
a post-scriptum nasal cavity being
called a ******* with a boy
     being 30 years his senior...

  these days ****** would not have
been published...
      
fashion's playthings that are called:
the sojourn of days...
  what the french call the yewish sabbath...
   nothing out of the ordinary...
just...
               a formidable
   perplexity with a damnable reflex...
an assorted
comparison of: feeding a tiger.

           it's still a concern for me,
to mind a pluralism of the pronoun,
with a possessive article,
  and: the "innocence" of hding
letters that the english know all well
how to employ...

        ich:              theirs...

                ich:             belogning to them...

          ich:  which is i, in bavaria...

              i(s)ch to propagate speaking
german in a song, or with:

             shish kebab ***** or something?

ich:
                  chappy chappy non cheerie
chop of...                         ich...

    i hark to assert your presence, dear sir...

call it hyperbolic on the literacy
scale...
               but you move beyond
the "concern" for pronouns...
  and revel in the fact that:
   no philosophy book has ever utilised
the shortening-script
   of acknowledging grammatical
pillars...

                   you can inhale into
a rubber ***, call it a balloon, minus
the evidently loss of injecting helium:
and than -benign- the other
              with a case for a ******* umbrella!
fungus party: unlike the tree -
stood on one leg,
         and branched out in a Y -
or gott-tore?
                one revisionist argument
with:
        since the incubated pawns
of a pine forest...
                        no schizoids near an oak...
        farther that i might: "see".

               cut in:
        Pauls'               (with a zee?
                    seppelin *******!)

         certainly: Paul-seßez:
   or:            Paul's: ßyz,

    ha ha... funny alternative of cis,
which is congregational surmounting:
                    çis -
    which is not: sister.
  
what?
               ka-ka macaques *******?!

how come the close approximate
of there's and theirs?
see?! don't know how to lodge in
an apostrophe with the latter example...
but you almost itch thinking
it's necessary...

                       mind you,
i'm bilingual, i don't hide behind
     a /wəːd/ for word encoding
    to: vaguely imitate computer coding...
but there are people who
pursue this: second tier of
       a former, exhausted literacy...
              
reduced 2: not 3: as in free,
                    and that's not: too, either.
when prior to secularism
the power dynamism of the clergy
was obvious, and...
                 but now the deviat
literate can only be mad...
       where's the fun in what
continues to constitute the, grey,
everyday?
              there really is a tomorrow
to mind...
            in writing this?
         i'm just making claim that
there might be a yesterday to
contend with;

but clearly there isn't...

               ich: plural in the possessive
form,
             whatever "it" there is
that belongs to them -
                                        there's
an otherwise unexplored
          existential celibacy to not mind
this writing...

        such obscure testimony of
not: winning...
                        
    a mind in two formats:
soft- and there are virus
ridden repercussions...
   and hard- and there are...
  virtually sessions of reiterating:
there's nothing to worry
about...

   comes the age old conclusion:
there's an age-old
             sub- / ob-ject
         splinter('s) worth (an) ego
lodged in the timber of a mind,
in "metaphor" descriptive
element to attune a shovel and
                 the bristles of broom to...
mind as dust, and mind hiding...

you can't exactly "hide"
a shadow, with a hand
enlarging the capacity of your trouser
pocket to suddenly
become anti-narcissus:
      mesmerizing by staring
at your shadow,
           let alone the stillness
of the lake-water,
          or rather:
          catch-up with him by
the shoreline of a sea...
     troubled waters breed no
                                     death: sarcasm.

- and all this, to mind being in possession
of a wife, and fireplace as counter?!
            as all such comfort are
welcome...
          i can't but find a blister of a burn
i, simply can't help, but: scratch!
    it's the oink-pink hidden beneath
the unparalleled agitation
that demands my closing-in
                      of attention parameters.

Hi dudes and welcome to Jupiter where we have the concert of the decade where we have some Christmas poems to share with you
First one is Christmas party time
I am having a party
The famous Christmas party
With eggnog and fruit cake
And a beautiful fruit punch
Everybody gets on the dance floor and we celebrate with songs like
Working class man
The clapping song
And you took the words right out of my mouth
Then after that we add a Christmas carol to brighten up your day we could choose
Jingle bells and away in a manger and joy to the world
But I could play a version of
Winter wonderland
Wouldn't that be cool
Party party party as Christmas
Is coming soon
It will start about 6-00 am
For presents
Going right up till noon
I am watching the parade from Niagara Falls and they play nice music in the background
To really brighten up the day
Time to party party party party
Every day and night
Playing six white boomers
Into the beautiful light

The second poem is santa loves life like me
You see he flies with his reindeers every Christmas Eve
Delivering presents to every boy and girl
You see he comes into a parade with marching bands and floats
And he welcomes you all here
Saying ** ** ** saying ** ** ** you see santa oh santa
Loves life like me
He eats your food and drinks your drink and reindeers have a nice carrot or two
Santa will party all over this town never ever ever lets out a frown for santa is happy very very happy such a happy Chappy
Come on santa party dude
He is a jolly person and he delivers presents to the boys and girls
Santa oh santa he loves life like me
Yo hey he is a very happy dude
And he gives presents oh yeah that is sweet
Everyone who loves Christmas
Loved this man indeed
Everyone at the North Pole is working making sure the presents are all packed
Yes santa oh santa
He loves life like me

The third song is I love Christmas
You see I like going out to sing carols and having a lot of fun
I like exchanging presents with the people I really love
I will watch parades on YouTube
And I watch parties in the vlogs
I am trying to diet at present
So I can't eat sugary foods
But I am doing things right
By going for a 1 hour ride on my bike
I end up nowhere but really I am
Getting somewhere
And despite of all that I love Christmas
Oh yeah party on I love Christmas
You see I know I have a mental illness but I love to have a party
And Christmas is the time which makes me very happy
I like singing carols and sitting in The park
Soaking up the atmosphere
Enjoying every moment
We wish you a merry Christmas
Yes a ripper Christmas
Enjoying your Christmas dinner
But don't eat too much
Some people worship Jesus
Some worship god
Kids worship good old santa
Yes, that is why I love Christmas


Fourth song is santa having a party

Oh Christmas tree oh Christmas tree
We're having a good time
With the Christmas tree
Oh Christmas tree
Santa having a party
With marshmallows and broken chips yeah what a day we are having
And watching Christmas carols down at crace
Having a good time oh yeah
Whether you want to celebrate
Or whether you party mate
Yeah it will be the coolest thing you'll ever see
Christmas tree and holly too
Santa is having a party
Party party party party
Santa oh santa
Santa is having a party
And afterwards he goes from
House to house saying merry Christmas to all

onomatopoeias proved to us the existence of actual realities with our inability to encode them given our phonetic vectoring of assertion and amiable frames to conduct the practice of farming (e.g.), onomatopoeias showed us the boundaries, we can hardly write the sound of rain with the 26 notables, so we turn from the practice of onomatopoeias and raise the flag of imagery with so so many comparative associations, like, like, like / akin to.*

after i ate cat snacks
i realised two thing...
a. cats have a really coarse palette
   in terms of taste-buds
b. i never intended my poetry
    to be read, esp. by me,
    so it seems i'm looking for
    an orator; a bit like chopin
    looking for a pianist
    to play the silencer notes
    of scores, written in the realm
    of chaos of surd musical notation,
    gangrene on the page;
    readily amputated,
    i never write to speak it,
    i'm looking for a slave to do the fiasco
    for me - sounds cruel,
    but i guess kindness comes at a price.
    he's just a pianist and gets to be called
    an artist - let' just say he's a learned
    decipherer of scores...
    london was built on grime & grit...
    liverpool was built on ore-land (northern eerie land),
    my heart was left in scotland...
    i never write for oration -
    i left my heart in scotland, dancing on the roof
    of the old college (of law).
    honestly, the thinking of musical composers
    always fascinated me, that schizoid-arena
    of near-to-miss theological theory of
    predestination working in them,
    the ability to see the sound lag of a violin
    or a cello, decipher it and note it down
    in the universal language of music,
    forget Esperanto... noting down the sound
    of a raindrop, a hammer striking a nail,
    i'm jealous of this enigma... i truly am
    and i am unabashed by it...
    my musical expression seems so dumb and quartered,
    i've been given the rhythm section of the composition,
    the parameters of punctuation...
    i'm not jealous of prose writers,
    they're the ones that say: an opera for an hour -
    they define the longevity of the **** thing,
    i possess power over yawns and impromptus
    of the orchestral cowbell known as the silvery triangle.

Time To Meet My Seven Other Selves...

With Me, Everything Is Happy, Joyful And Fun
But, Then Again, Me? Not The Only One
There Are More Than Me, There's Myself
Myself? Not Such A Happy Chappy

Myself Is A Depressed, Sad, Sorry Excuse For Split Personality
There Is Also Him, Him Thinks Logically, And Has Not One Other Emotion
Him, Is Deadly Cold, Not Meaning To Be, Its Just How Him Works
And What About He, He Is Very Violent, Angry, Full Of Ferocious Rage
He Isn't Angry At Any Particular Thing, He Is Kind Of Just Angry At Everything

Have You Heard Of Mr, Mr Is Alittle Different, Just Alot Crazy, Inverted And Insane
Mr's Thought Patterns Are What You Wouldn't Call Sane, He Is Unusual
Mr Should Be In A Mental Institute, If Only, Mr Is At Odds With Him, The Logical Thinker
And Best Buddies With Mister, Mister Is A Kind, Caring, Down To Earth, Lovely Personality
Mister Makes Everyone Feel Wanted, Mister Makes People Feel Special, Wanted.

Now Master, Not Exactly Happy, Nor Sad, Nor Angry, Logical, Insane, Or Kind.
Master Is Kind Of A Meeting Ground For All The Other Personalities. A Mixture Of Them All
But At The Same Time, None Of Them, I Guess Master Is The Most Normal Of The Seven
The Common Controller. It Takes Alot To Bring The Others Out, Except Mr, Mr Shows As Much As Master

So Now You Know, Do You Think I Need Help.
Master Doesn't, Mister Does, Mr Doesn't Want To, He Is Angry At The Mere Suggestion Of It, Him Thinks It's The Logical Thing To Do, Myself Is Too Sad To Do Anything, And Me Is Too Happy To Need Help.

Not One Of Them Asked I, The One Who Sits Back Watching The Other Seven, Never In Control, But Always Watching.

Do I Want Help??

Do I??

some people forget that writing into excess is never a modern sign of wavering... it sometimes means that there's enough for it to be exhumed... call it instant-archaeology... it's not about other people's conversation, it's about their company, and that far from being reached let alone being riddled...*

a letter to a lovely Ms. ***.:

hey! stop exposing your Nancy like a nun and poke back with a conversation - i'll sooner be dead than a monologue.... Florence Nightingale hear my plea - i love how the following "strings attached" gets attached... 3 thousand miles away, living in a cultural ferment of only youth included / exposed content... but no otherwise: curb the chances of oath and here plops a plumb punch... never heard of 5 o'clock shadow with such an explanatory shortening expressed with the least bereft: or right twitching buttock for a enamoured heart-attack heart: a clamouring clown said: if someone painted a Mona Lisa on my face... if someone... i'd ditch the circus and the claustrophobia antidote trick... so ** and no Santa... and ha and still no Santa... it.... it? it?! hey! hey presto al fresco! god, and i wrote this and i wasn't even fifteen readied for a cougar and: she's his p.r. / publicist... whatever the **** that means... they can and can like the wold and the three guinea pigs;
p.s. the wolf's advances are heaving packed, sure, but asthmatic: or three nights in Paris. you'll never write a book in London: everyone is being prescribed eternity with a timescale of 100 years max... and i do mean that retaliation to the question in Icelandic terms: test your d.n.a. sequence, stop frolicking over forced saints taking care of retards... or ditch the whole Darwinism; how many down syndrome kids does it take it take to chop a tree into firewood? one **** and a whip. see how far the joke goes? me Chimpanzee, me Panda, me me! forks and up yours! build that building of royal surgeons and public opinion -
autumn always auburn, chequers auburn with oak -

kingly European - that coming of winter -
                    Czech and the Carpathian mountains -
oh sure... now the Romance...
the Romance... now gone... fish 'n' chips...
                       i lived in England 20 odd years
the most romance i ever received was an A
at A-level history.
                                             i'm still asking you about
the sort-**** resolve though...
                                             i'll start laughing
when you get off the *** of rocking that
bellybutton girdle or curbbing.
                **** me, Hindu cows of ethnicity in
former Empire bound villages entrapped
by nostalgia;
                 sounds like the perfect breeding ground;
and it is, given the ultra glass like people
who feel the stamping of a mosquito dead
like they might feel a Serbian insurrection
into tonguing Ottoman:
but of course the English man engages:
because he "knows"...
                              just as long as he learned
the cabbies ref. i'd be
fine                            in championing
him on every turn...
                                   chappy ain't no
chappy to be a happy lad... so what
does that matter? i'm quasi 21st century
but actually trapped in 20th century.

                                                 i do love that
it's all happening in H'america...
                                                         makes the trivia
questionnaires a lot shorter...
                                           every time i think of
eating i think of a H'amburger rather
than              a H'entucky -
                                            because the inflatable
Juan with draw-on stubble
                 married a Chasing the Dolly wife -
                    and never mentioned Mozart once...
FAME = P + CANON
                        Pachelbel's Canon -
or... the nuance of the millionth plumber:
   y'er toilet made e burp?
                           hence the maiden at the aisle
and the ******* in the cot...
                    and the serenade of the Cotswold runny...
flapping flapping furore -
                         or the chicken grease off my cheek
in fully glaring applause: rather than i tattoo
a knuckle on some ponce Netherlander
spitting onto a Polish girl's cheek and some pseudo
Irish tells me that i need psychiatric help.
ENGLAND!
                         *******!
Handel grew fat and you grew slim...
                       Shakespeare wrote and you demanded
Emoticons!
                          Emoticons rather than emotions!

you can try to escape Europe, you really can,
but trying to submerge Poland as a colonial
country akin to the Africans will only demand a greater
rift in your little delusion,
                                   by god my heart is a kindred Scot,
nationalist...
                          and i will rip that bloodied cheek off yer
******* cheekbone the minute you say yer-nay-own...
                          play chequers an' tartans wit ye!
i'll make Jack into a stripper and the union into
haemorrhage George and jolly Andrew...
                           you make me into your little
Ethiopian herder i'll make sure that little
emblem of tourist insignia dies with it...
                        Spain is cheap... given the English standard...
Greece is too...
                                  the Alps are a cheap middle-class
**** and the Carpathians are Dracula...
                                          whoever gave these wankers
the Greenwich compass thought twice about the same
wankers... contemplating a trip to Mars..
                oi!
                              glaciers!
                 oi!
                                        the Mariana Trench!
oi!
                             ah, **** it...
oi oi... toe foe un luv 2 twin bananas!
*** yer bananas!
                                             yes, we employed a few
of those specimens to straighten the problem out:
none returned, all remaining became classified as:
with cannibalistic tendencies:
                                          stimulants increasing
deviating behaviour? synonymous rhyming:
                        crime
                                         slime
2 + 2 = bonkers...
                                  cannibalism
     altruism
                                   hedonism...
               soothsayer's saying:
                                if not a limb, at least a thought;
yum yum yummy.

A friend has a problem with his computer connection
The dashed thing keeps losing its inflection
To wits end my friends computer did drive him
And last evening the picture was rather grim

At some time later tonight he'll be online
Hopefully his computer connection will be working just fine
It has been a frustrating period for my friend
Having his link to the outside world taking a lend

Observing the sidebar of the computer screen
There is not a sight of him to be seen
A search party is required for scoping my friend
As his connections seems not to be on the mend

This hour the outlook is very very bright
My friends connection is lighting up the green light
His woes have been sorted and he'll be a happy chappy
Not being able to reach him has been rather ******

Brumbies night live

ACT v lions


Hi dudes and welcome to gio stadium
Where the mighty brumbies will be trying to win after some terrible performances they have had and mate it is going to be a great match
No matter who wins and the brumbies who are number 4 in the Australiasian conference and we have to hope that they have the power to best the lions this evening on brumbies night live
With the last win from the brumbies being on March 15, and they are bound to win tonight and mate it should be cool, our first entertainer is George from red hill
Take it away George

Coming out tonight
With a lot of power
The mighty mighty brumbies
The team of the hour
They will beat the odds
Never giving up
Come on brumbies
You must win yes please be the best
Brumbies team brumbies team
They must fight hard tonight
Knock the lions completely out
And pile on the tries
Brumbies team brumbies team
Will we win tonight
Come on brumbies players
Please put on a fight right

Thank you George and tonight brumbies night live will be great
If brumbies win and not lose and now here is Peter from cook



Go brumbies we will fight them
Go brumbies we will never lose
Never, brumbies will win tonight
Go brumbies this is footy
The big game they play in heaven yeah
Brumbies we must win tonight
Go brumbies beat the lions
On our home we need to win
Yeah mate we must win oh yeah
With our players playing average
In other games
Our last win was March 15
Come on brumbies we must win
Come on brumbies we will win
If we put our mind to it
Get our mindset right yeah
Come on brumbies
We must beat the lions
Yeah we will win if we play well enough yeah we will win hope-ful-ly
Yes we are the team of the week
If we win tonight
Go brumbies we must win yeah
Go brumbies we will beat South Africa
Yeah dude we will be triumphant yeah
Go brumbies

Thank you Peter and lets hope brumbies win tonight and if our mindset as you put it is right we will win and win well

And now here is John from Casey



Come on the brumbies
We need to be triumphant
We need to show South Africa
Who is boss
Come on the brumbies
Hopefully we won’t lose this
Cause if we do our adrenaline
Will be pushed right down oh yeah
Come on the brumbies
The lions will be waiting
But we must win
Never ever give in
Because it must be our turn
Dance goes the cheer girls
And cheering goes brumby jack
As the brumbies are superb
Yes we will win oh yeah
And the team to win tonight
Will be the mighty brumbies

Thank you John and I hope the brumbies are listening because mate
They are due for a win and if they are good enough they will win battle and conquer and now here is rick from kaleen with a brumby rap



Yo hey brumby team
The best team at the GIO yeah
We will fight we will say
That we will beat the lions hands down
Come on hey brumbies team
Everyone will cheer you as you take the field
With the crowd going brumbies Clap clap clap brumbies clap clap clap
Brumbies clap clap clap right from start to finish
You see brumbies we beat the tahs
At their own game yeah we are cool
We haven’t won since then
But the lions tonight will be our feast
We will trample all over them
And say brumbies clap clap clap
Brumbies clap clap clap
Right till the very end
Go brumbies yo from start to finish
Duuuuuuuuddddddeeeeee!!!!!

Thank you rick and that was a cool rap beat for the mighty brumby team
And I hope they win against the lions tonight and now here is harriett from
Deakin


Brumbies team show the crowd a good time
Brumbies team show us how you win
Pile on the the tries
Make sure you never look like losing
Never lose go the brumbies team
Brumbies team fight till the final
Siren mate show us your style
Come on brumbies we must win this evening come on mate we must win oh yeah
You see the brumbies and lions meet this evening who will win
Who will ****** win
Everyone cheers for the brumbies this evening at 9-30 we will know the result
Brumbies team we will win this evening
Brumbies team we will win this game
We must fight we will conquer to be the best overall you see we are the best

Thank you harriett and that was a great song about the brumbies hopefully winning well let’s hope the beat the lions and very soon we will be watching the kickoff between the brumbies and the lions
Go brumbies

And welcome back and we are about to start this brumbies night live match
Against the lions from South Africa
Go brumbies go brumbies win this match
Come on brumbies we need to win this yeah we do and we will
Well, I hope anyway go brumbies

Welcome to half time and the mighty brumbies are leading at the half time break by 19 points to 8 and this is a crackerjack game of rugby mate and now for our half time entertainment and first of all is Gordon from Macgregor

Yes mate we were down and
I felt bad when the lions started well
And scored the first try
But the conversion was missed
And the brumbies got in
And with their successful conversion
We lead 7-5 but the lions were given
A penalty to the lions mate made the lions retake the lead but
We stuck at our guns at 8-7 down
And we pushed ourselves to the limit
Then we scored a great try
And again we converted it 14-8 was the score the lions tried to put pressure on us but we stuck at our guns and scored a unconverted try
It was 19 points to 8 at half time
And what do you reckon brumbies fans are we going to give up I say
No fear
Thank you for the summary Gordon
And now here is olly from Fraser
Go the brumbies win win win
Go the brumbies win every time
When we play so late at night
We have to see whether we can put up a fight
Go the brumbies win oh win
Go the brumbies make sure
You don’t give up this lead
Thank you olly and now it is time to
Start the second half
Go brumbies
Kick some ***
Go brumbies
Show some class
Come on brumbies win against the lions

Welcome back and it is full time at gio stadium and the brumbies beat the lions by 31 points to 20 after a very good second half of 12 - all the deadlock couldn’t be broken and here is Patrick from wanniassa

Here comes the brumbies
Here comes the brumbies
The ACT brumbies
Beating the lions 31 points to 20
What a picnic
Here comes the brumbies
Here comes the brumbies
The ACT brumbies
It was a very good win indeed mate
Those mighty brumbies won and the crowd is happy
Like a real smart happy Chappy
Here comes the brumbies
Here comes the brumbies
The ACT brumbies
We provided the best entertainment
You have a ever seen
Yes we had a picnic
Go the brumbies
Go the brumbies
We are the champions
Of the territory of the ACT
Especially tonight yeah
Go the mighty brumbies
Go the mighty brumbies
We will provide some of the best
Performances of the super rugby
Oh yeah what a picnic
Go brumbies you are the best

Thank you Patrick and now we cross to the brumbies cheer squad
Brad and Thomas and Daniel to cheer like they have never cheered before

Hi everyone at the brumbies game
I hope you enjoyed us win 31-20 mate
We put the pressure on the lions
Keeping above them anyway we want
They scored the first try converted it to trail by 4 but we piled on tries and
Won by 11 and the second half was 12 all dude, what a match this turned out to be and the lions tried and tried and tried but we were better tonight oh yeah, thank god I nearly died
As the crowd yelled so loud
The brumbies supporters stood up
Nice and proud and we had a good mindset tonight better than the lions
But the lions still played well
But we were better really really cool better mate yeah mate yeah
Go the brumbies on brumbies night live kick ***, go brumbies

Thank you brad and Thomas and Daniel and yes it was a great win by the brumbies and it was a 12-all second half and thank Christ brumbies lead the first half and now here is Pete from Melba

Go the brumbies go the brumbies
We won yeseree
Come on brumbies
Come on brumbies
This night was ours oh yeah
It was an even second half
But the brumbies still was leading
Yes and we cut the lions in two
And their hearts were a bleeding
But lions played well
But not well enough
Go the brumbies go the brumbies
We’re the best in the super rugby
Well on our good day, mate
Go the mighty brumbies
We are the champs of gio
But hopefully we can win more
To show today was no fluke

Thank you Pete and now it is time to go, so here is our final curtain song

As we draw the final curtain
And it is the brumbies on top oh yeah
Time to head out to go to our houses
While the wild ones have their beer
It was a very good match
The lions were displaying pressure yeah but the 12-all second half meant
The brumbies are the best
Oh yeah bow bow
Yes, the brumbies are the best
See you next time we have brumbies night live

or the alternative precursor to the spice girls
(yes, i did buy their debut -
      baby spice, well, my infantile
fetish with cute, clean cut blondes, meh,
old story)
                 but **** on me, President Reagan
was a former actor -
     i have no personal interests in the debate,
well: i like to see real life Hollywood,
i like films, from time to time...
    20th century moustaches are these days
relegated to hairstyles....
  you know why we don ****** hair?
the ***** are pruned and trimmed
for a ***** movie: we like to fiddle with it,
esp. the hair crop on the chin,
     i could become a violinist with it.
what spurred me on? Marvin Gayes heard it through
the grapevine, or as i say:
  down the **** gold, auburn, amber, beer,
whiskey, **** me! a correlation!
or a categorical imperative some would say:
             heard it down the wheat shaft
in between men having their prided little Richards
cut off - fun ******* fun -
         that's me and washing my hands
writing poetry in advance to my body language
transformed starting to style myself
on the baguettes hit from the 80s:
dance like a pigeon, nod pigeon in a walk,
the guy that was so jealous of me
is now a manic depressive -
       and i'm like: so what? jog on!
                      i was stupid for 10 seconds of my life,
better write out bail...
                        they should call it
the s.d.i.             (sniffer dog investigation) -
it doesn't look even remotely disastrous,
     only with that Antoinette quiff and a moustache,
      oh we loved the pern wigs
before the bowlers and top hats...
          it's as if the Victorian era was an era
for mourning the death of God, truly.
all the little revolution stemming from the death
of someone ending a bio at 1900 didn't matter...
    he was philosophising at a funeral...
i'm just watching the vehement application
of Vatican non-curriculum activity stemming from
archeology started off in Egypt under the
title: St. Thomas' account the doubter / the philosopher
gaining ground in all things trans-,
                a return by "popular" demand,
first the authentic Christianity of the gospels
and now infuriated Islam and the unauthentic application
of the recovered gospels -
   can you imagine there being a brokering
       gamble on literacy back then, would the priests
have made fishermen literate back when it
was stated: keep them wholly physically intact,
let's not interfere with their physical prowess,
we need their physical strength, undermine their
physical strength with being able to read: and we're ******!
   a fisherman wrote that gospel?
                     (insert snigger) -
        only in the 20th century could the benefits
of education a son of a roofer / metallurgy agent go
down sour... first they said they wanted me to
come upon the plateau of what education is about:
the just dispensation of wealth,
   but then they heard about my background and
simply said: nah, that ****** can clean the dishes...
the worst part?
      i would have agreeably been a street-cleaner:
but not after having invested in education!
      that's a ****** insult!
                so here's me,
high as a kite on *****, listening to poets talk
about depression for a while thinking:
    where's the wheelchair?
                             and when i'm through
i tune in, listen to Marvin Gaye and start dancing
like a pigeon strutting:
           guillotine horizontal chopping the air up,
        twerk a bit in the bathroom
and feel Chappy Jolly -
                   i'd stick a thumb up my *** if i wanted
to as reversal of the *******
                                being accusatory -
don't educated me and steal from those who don't
want to be with their common sense education
                and give me absolutely nothing
chemistry related to do it...
        i'll just start writing and turn the heat up on
being a hermit...
                              becoming educated is a monstrous
delusion that the priestly caste of society dish out
             once they dished out literacy,
              but once literacy has become exhausted
they dish out education in the broader sense.
i was walking back from the supermarket today,
and picked up a pound coin from the pavement
(thanks Sinatra, that'll pay the rent)
    and started fiddling with it in my hand:
some people have lucky charms, emeralds and
what not in necklaces and other memento forms,
i started fiddling with this found pound coin,
  Whether's Original colouring - not quiet copper,
indeed more like solidified bleached out caramel,
when i walked with my hands partially clenched
like a gorilla's and balanced the coin
on the *******'s phalange -
        and suddenly i was holding a philosopher's stone...
        it all became visceral - clear, poignant,
this little thing can transform anything from
        copper into gold -
   from iron into gold...
               where the alchemist sleeping when
they were passing this stuff about, including
the blimmin' cobblers?
                       it can also include asking
the magpies to fly in and say: not all that glitters
is gold... where are the silver spoons?
              oh for sure, the eagle as emblem / mascot of the state
  is doomed, take the Third ***** and the Roman Empire...
             no one ever bothered the sparrow to be engulfed
in replica on standards of a marching enemy...
    the crow seems pretty safe too, funny
            the eagle is a crushing curse of failed predatory
alliances when embedded in metal for man
   to strut toward a harrowing end.

Don't worry, be stupid,
So sang some bright chappy,
I feed you lot of gits,
Don't worry, be stupid!

She knew not what she did that day.
The day she let bunny out to play.
His hutch lay vacant, her bunny was gone.
Tear trickled down her rosy cheek, missing her bunny.
She left for the party at the end of the week.
Put on her gear which was somewhat perverse.
Short skirt and sharp black patent heels.
Through the graveyard on this bright moonlit night,
Carefree and happy, would be meeting her chappy.
Her heel got caught in the muddy clay.
Fell to her knees.
From a cavity in the ground, appeared menacing bunny.
In his best huntsman’s jacket, he was out to find prey
In a bit of a panic, she realised she was trapped.
Caught in chains.
She petted him every day.
Tonight was bunny’s time to play.
She was his bunny girl.
© Livvi

i actually did own a doberman pinscher called axl... yes: no e in the same. ****** was mad, what do you expect? his ears were sliced so he could look like some urukai orc of isengard... try trimming the ears of a human being: to then pretend "think" they'll be wiser... that part where they chop of the tail of a doberman? i wasn't around when that happened, i can clearly picture the plastic surgery on my axl... so what am i going to say about circumcision? makes the ******* mad! they're sending ****-picks to people... how about i just watch you smile? is circumcision the ideal motivation for preserving life? like you need the complete vuvla to be attracted by it? ******* surely isn't fun with that revision... just as much as saying: a billion ching changs... or we could do away with the lips and call these people the todkompflächeln; personally? i'd begin the aesthetic surgery on the ears, maybe making a few "elves" would help the situation... otherwise m.g.m. gets no mention, because those ******* don't even know what ******* with one feels like: i can peel mine back for *******... but you can't cloak with one during the grand practice of: taking a ****.

billions... it's starting to look very much like a *****,
given the character names... i mean: wags?
next season is bound to invoke the nick
*****... it has become an existential prison,
since the moon landing: bye bye
the brothers grimm and the fairytale...
i know this because someone has already
made the same conclusion...
billions? who'd i like to doppelgänger?
   mike wagner... scalp him, skin him, whatever,
i am trying to believe that i don't have
that wry smile of his when writing this,
the cheaky chappy type of smile,
what i can tell you is what happened yesterday
after my drinking session ended...
spring's impeding, *******, i'm going to
watch more television since i'll be sad having
moved from, what could be best described
as alaskan funfair... night by the 5pm mark...
i sometimes get the shakes...
but only out of anger, that boils down to
my neighbour complaining that i sometimes
lose the plot and say things aloud...
the boundaries i'm crossing is equivalent to a bird
singing in the night...
    but last night, was, spectacular...
   i forgot what chess even was...
   i had heidegger's *ponderings ii - vi
(in hardback) on the windowsill...
                       i had a crescent version and a complete
version of amitriptyline (25mg)...
       nurse! scalpel i'm getting a headache!
    ami-tri-pty-line (ptee line? or pti lean?
yes, lean, no fat on it;
   so as i was about to get the sucker punch
i was playing imaginary dominos
even if just that, or throwing invisible dice,
exchanging positions of these two pills
            and four swan (brand) filter tips...
i do remember saying something into the night,
what it was? i don't know.
            so it was either dominos or "throwing"
dice on a book on the windowsill,
moving the one complete pill and the other
bitten off crescent (what's that? about 13mg?)...
and the filter tips...
                and it was on a hardcover surface
of a book on a windowsill...
             i knew i would take the plunge at
some point, the question was when that would happen;
i don't know what i had to even cherish
the grace of thought at that moment...
the next oddity came with an empty glass
and trying to balance it on the parapet ledge...
it turned out to be a case of fractions...
     the tipping point stood at: two thirds...
it would never be done in halves, and certainly not
quarters...
              see... mm... money is fascinating
as a concept, how it was arrived at;
  i can know the man who invented the lightbulb
(jefferson, right? ol' tommy)... money?
   no clue... who could have "blinded" the greeks
to the extent where we stand now?
      the more i drink the more i think that this
cann't lead to any sort of accomplishment other than
the stated words...
    i do really retract into speaking verse that
i never write down... it's there one minute, gone the next;
but that domino / dice thing with 1.5 sleeping pills
and 4 cigarette tips (yes, i can roll a cigarette
like a machine, so the tips were not ***** by tokes
to remind people of marmite / vegemite of australia
colouring): i smoke cigarettes thinking about a sun-tan.
why was i doing this?
don't know, what's the point of playing domino
or throwing dice to gamble?
                     there is a chiral point to be made,
or at least a parallel point...
         a chiral-parallelism, as is the case with concept
of parallel per se...
such that title suggests i stole "something" that actually
steals...          hollywood and cuckoos...
      there are always two ways of saying the same
thing: moving forward, however dichotomous those
sayings are...
                  since that approach later turns into
a dualism that then eats at psychologism and morphs
into monism and: we're back at square one.

i'm actually writing in Turkish akimbo on the floor,
****** uncomfortable,
can't do the hunched monkey spine of Blitzkrieg...
the problem lies with my cat,
a Maine **** that's actually a bloodhound
come bed time... his ******* operatic meows
get to me... he will meow down any werewolf's howl
any night of the week, with 200 variations...
he's like a dog when bedtime comes,
he rapes his way into my room,
takes comfort in my writing chair,
keeps me up listening to βετo βετα's
between two selves - i call this the reason
for never stealing from Hinduism...
outside of Hinduism the economic model works
just as effectively as Auschwitz with cows...
come to petted animals, putting yourself
second doesn't... you get to see the many variations
of character in these buggering fur-*****;
****** got gassed, i see it as a natural karma...
because why would he have a Jewish girlfriend
who committed suicide with him the bunker?
i won't pity them... ****** knew the measure
of things, having been gassed himself
he knew the wounds: and so will millions who
thought world war i was fought in vain...
remind me... as once the northern invaders
accommodated the Roman alphabet and dropped
the runes... what you conquer you express
as an incorporation of certain qualities...
luckily the German work ethic was unshaken...
but it shook the English sensible life:
work! work! work! ready meals in between:
two favourites! two! cheese cauliflower and lasagne.
to keep up the once colonial Herrwettlauf in
charity limbo... you ain't donating to any Africans...
Bobbie Geldof fooled you...
it goes into milking the ivory skinned skin-heads
once retired... Africa is more than just a suntan...
it goes back into ensuring we don't work
in Chinese factories under lynching-contracts...
case no. 0 (or contract) - we'll just call you when we need you,
otherwise we'll contract the cheap steel and cheaper
salt from the Dead Sea:
new social order... after all that colonial piracy i'm sure
we can afford investing in a body mass indexes...
is this how efficiency is structured?
quality control and quantity control...
well, capitalism knows quality control...
but it does't have the foggiest about quantity control:
hence so much waste, and supermarkets throwing out
food into the gutter... the quality control is there,
but the quantity control is missing: always excess, always
excess, always excess... sure i get the Muslim
argument about drunken Brits in Spain and Leicester...
but what about those Saudi children speeding
in their sports cars? no one going to criticise them?
after 50 years... our shame will be a greater
instigator of global warming than a diesel engine...
cheeks puffing up into rose and rose and everything's
finally not so rosy as we thought.
so here i am, writing in uptight akimbo without
the writer's hunch of reverse Darwinism,
all because my Maine **** is acting like a bloodhound,
gets depressed before bedtime...
why are these animals needing my bogus company?
when it comes to music i'm selfish; ah! he
doesn't like the night and the modern orchestra of
grizzly exhaust engines doing the baritone with rasping
the new church bell (phlegm) with a hark uvula...
it's called Irish poker for a prayer...
the van de graaff toy generator is on in the darkened room -
then the typing ****** him off, he's off...
thank **** for that...
but why is it that the once infamous Axis strategies
are creeping into those that strove to defeat them?
we are getting Japanese karaoke culture,
we're getting welcoming euthanasia programs spanning
the dicta of Belgium and Switzerland,
as people want dignity in their death...
they're queuing up to the once known enemy...
maybe it's because these Axis powers were
never colonialists...
                                 just finishing watching Indian
Summers season two you get the picture...
god and the dodgy monkeys...
stay... sit! stay... sit! **** it, let's lynch that Eton ****
of privy accents... ol chap... ol chappy...
trot along... the turban bomber and half
the thought that a Pole learning obedience from
Russian and German would learn to be cinnamon
skinned in England... i'm almost suspecting the
Irish are the SS in the project.. generation of the Vietnam
saint soaked in gasoline... oddly enough
that has no place in Europe, apologies that i don't
share the sentiment... it's obviously the
counter crucifixion scene and emblem,
but only in: LET'S MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN...
i told you be afraid of the blonde ferret...
i see the prognosis just like Britain exiting the European
union... California is not even America,
who gives a **** about the American Secular Vatican, anyway?
it will be like as if Canada was part of America
and resembled Scotland in the Jackshit Union...
gross the vote on the puppet...
the Democrats will get New York (the equivalent
of London) - i don't know how to twin Reading,
and that blue belt of remain campaigners linking the two,
half of who would speak as much of French
as an advert concerning the sales of socks...
or enough German to order a pint of beer in a Bavarian
pub... well, Canada would vote like Scotland,
one revolutionary figure (who was actually Muslim,
and never cared for African-American concerns
of Baptism... singing hallelujah was never part
of the do)... can't be replaced with another revolutionary
figure... he was never exactly a Martin Luther King Jr.,
more of Malcolm X than you thought...
that strip between London and Reading
will be translated into Ronald Reagan's resurrection...
a billionaire is more ridiculous than
an actor? well... who we going to call the pretty boy
and the favourite of media cartoonists? boots on the ground,
a society that doesn't practice dialectics is not
only rude, but out-of-date...
the debate of the park bench now resides in separate
stadiums, monologues that involve something
that physics unearthed: two sources of negativity
existing in two places, at the same time...
if this is a debate, then i got the postal code wrong...
the dialectics of knowing nothing became: i still know
nothing, but i have 4 million people supporting me.
i imagine the cavemen to be less subjective that we
try to imagine ourselves as resembling, Michael Palin
in the Sahara... cavemen worked on instinct, not on
appeal to the intellect... that thing
about the jokes of the vibrating lips and the index finger
moving against them to invent the Mongolian harmonica...
given the complication of urban life... well...
you'll hardly revise that bit... that part of life is gone...
i assumed that the more we evolved the less
naked we became... but given evolution and having
created this parasitic symbiosis with the natural
elements... the more i think of it: the more naked we're
becoming - the more dependent -
the original sin as conceived from the delusion that we
were disabled by our originally conception of nakedness...
it only comes now... once the dependency kicks in
and we're all in bow-ties and cocktail dresses...
hello Herr Fetish and page 3 milking of the farmyard
cows of our imagination - Islamic eye-fetish,
we heard of footfetish... must be about oral ***...
knees baby knees, Arab has eyefetish on your knees...
i have a fetish for hands... see how the cameraman zoomed
in on the hands of the women fencing?
once instinct governed us... and instinct's expression
of intelligence was: i challenge the alpha male,
i'll get **** with his concubines in the harem...
these days intellect governs us... and intellect's
expression of instinct is: i challenge the alpha male,
i'll whip up a horde of lawyers, file a lawsuit
and get away it because he nudged me in a supermarket...
honestly, i don't think educating people was a great
evolutionary step forward...
we have more law-prose liposuction on the pages of
history than a Tolstoy could muster a novel -
and because we taught everyone literacy,
the once necessary backbone of our economy,
the workers... well... let's just say that the Founding
Fathers made their muscles into oysters and molluscs,
floppy protein spaghetti... wiggle wiggle, yeah, wiggle wiggle, yeah...
defeating Communism in a place of the world that was
prone to some sort of religiosity, enzyme John Paul II -
i'd bruise his forehead and lips against those airport tarmacs
i'd get to be the inventor of sand-paper and
the Antichrist's assault on the biblical reference:
it only takes on saint to defeat the congregation... it starts with him...
or with that Calcutta Lady and Hitchens...
and oh... lookie here... up pops Hydra China:
America will be great again... but chances are...
the hot dog and the hamburger will never be re-invented...
watch the pendulum... op op oop oops here it swings
while the Hawaii communal laugh about starving
on coconuts.

The Interview.

My agenda today is an interview,
I'm looking forward to meeting you.
Come along, sit right down, have a beer,
Waiting for this chat, my dear,
I'm asking, "Can you make me happy?"
You look an intelligent chappy!
What does make women happy? Let's chat,
If you please women, they'll give you a clap.
Do you always wear a kind smile?
Grace for women, for a long while.
Do you aim to manipulate?
This women do not appreciate!
Do you yell and swear and bluster,
No, to women, you won't pass the muster,
Are you a man of peace?
Yes, that would really please!
Yes, that would make me happy!
A peaceful, loyal smiling chappy!

Now, let's conclude this interview,
I did so enjoy this chat with you!

Scooped some loops of troops with their heads offed, scoffed, at the loss with the cost from my own losses, in lawless, flawlessness accosted by pentecostal brothels hugging it out with the clout of the lord.

Oh lord! what am i talking about, as I am doubting the amount i can pile on my brow, and not break a sweat, playing my stakes to their best, and jettin, while i'm still a veteran in the scrambled lettering of my iris, spreading viruses, inside us, uniting us, to Set...

The scores straight with annihilation on my mind, and an island for them to find, my station at the shrine, to launch codes in kind, to your denied existence of the lines in time, cruxing the fluxing path of inevitability, crossing out the math of probability, clearly seeing everything that once be, bettered. Be. Been, about to be, grinning again.

Because it tickles when i'm stoopid, but im snoopin steadily through your blueprints, moving amongst your movements, and proving that you will lose this, in clueless, fluid, drizzling down the drain with your social stains, still straining the veins to my brain, trying to maintain one sane morsel of a reason not to **** you, i love you, but booooom.

Making room for my assumed solitude, in astute rudeness to the rudimentary business of idiots, stand back i got this, and when im into it, there are no limits to what my digits do, in true blinding hoops of halos bent, in unrelenting wrenching of a stint, of greed, but having everything needed, and settling for sanity.

If humanity had a hand, it may demand a stance in return for a burn that's graphed away, in firm concerns made in forgotten stays of my patience, ghost writing in payments, to my slavers, giving blood to my saviors, saving us from the lesson.

I merely choose to burn in the learning curve, that curbs my satisfaction with distractions, with past tense presentations, intending to mend in venting of the clues to the other news askew ..

In smoking away the blues to hues of happy, haphazardly, chappy in the final hour of sappy nights, of goodnightless fights in righteous might, of my mandatory story telling, of the felling of the fireworks in finale fires that burned, until the uncle died, and smirked from the casket of a bizerk card shark, barking from the starkly stripped semblance of a resistance to tyranny

Its tearing me up to think, that i care, laying bare, to the bruises, these intrusive abusers use to move this rock from its plot, and stop, a catastrophe..

But i'm mastering.

Disguise.

HI GUYS AND GALS

today i did a tournament of bowling at belconnen bowl, it replaces the usual bowling weekend

and my scores were pretty well awesome, well, that is what i think, anyway

i got 128 and 157 and 141 and 148 and 138 and 135 and 161 and 127 and 162

and i had few members of my team getting 200 games which was cool, maybe a medal, i don’t know, have

to wait and see


here is a poem


i had fun at bowling

it was fun it was fun

i had fun at bowling

i bowled pretty good

i got 23 strikes, which was awesome, dude

i got a good number of spares

and so many near misses

even a dismal 3 near the end

but i am happy a very happy chappy

bowling was fun, bowling was rad

i enjoyed myself today, and i kicked some button yeah bowling, was awesome if you take a look at it

bow bow

it is fun just bowling my parramatta eels ball down the alley

i am not a wally

i have no dolly, but i say

cool man, i had an awesome day today

and everybody looked like having fun

you see it is radically awesome to get 23 strikes

oh yeah, mate





































9.00 SQUAD


FIRST GAME




1              X             29

2              X             48

3           9 -              57

4           9 -              66

5           5 3             74

6           7 1             82

7           7 /             101

8            9 -            110

9            8 1            119

10          8 1            128

TOTAL SCORE         128





SECOND GAME





1                X               30

2                X               56

3                X               75

4             6 3               84

5             5 4               93

6             9 /              111

7             8 1             120

8                X             139

9             7 2              148

10           7 2               157

TOTAL SCORE          157




THIRD GAME    





1               6 -                  6

2              7 2                15

3                 X                35

4               9 /                 51

5               6 3                60

6                8 /                 77

7                7 -                  84

8                7 /                 104

9                   X                124

10            9 / 7                 141

TOTAL SCORE                141




10.30 SQUAD





FIRST GAME    






1                  7 2                       9

2                  7 /                      29

3                       X                     54

4                       X                     69

5                   5 -                       74

6                   8 1                       83  

7                      X                     102

8                    8 1                     111

9                    9 /                       131

10             X 7 -                         148

TOTAL SCORE                         148



SECOND GAME




1                  8 /                          19

2                  9 -                          28

3                  9 /                          46

4                  8 /                          66

5                     X                        85

6                   9 -                        94

7                   9 -                      103

8                   9 -                       112

9                     X                        130

10                  8 -                        138




THIRD GAME




1                    7 /                     17

2                     7 /                     37

3                        X                    57

4                      9 /                     71

5                      4 5                     80

6                       9 -                     89

7                       7 2                    98

8                        8 1                   107

9                        8 1                    116

10                   7 / 9                      135

TOTAL SCORE                            135





2.00 SQUAD




FIRST GAME




1                        X                   27

2                        X                   45

3                     7 1                    53

4                     9 /                     72

5                      9 /                     88

6                      6 -                     94

7                      8 /                    114

8                         X                   134

9                        9 /                   152

10                    8 1                     161

TOTAL SCORE                          161




SECOND GAME




1                          X                     13

2                       3 -                       16

3                          X                      35

4                        9 -                      44

5                        7 2                      53

6                        9 /                       72

7                        9 -                       81

8                        9 /                     101

9                           X                    119

10                      7 1                     127

TOTAL SCORE                           127




THIRD GAME





1                           X                       20

2                       9 /                         40

3                            X                      60

4                         9 /                        79

5                         9 /                        96

6                         7 /                      115

7                         9 /                      133

8                         8 -                      141

9                         5 -                       146

10                    6 / 6                       162

TOTAL SCORE                              162

\alt

work-around title: Çymru among the Ottomans (Ę vs. Щ)

a propos: pre-scriptum... in the background demdike stare's - janissary , for one reason or another... the fantasy of being in the legion of either the janissaries or the mamluks... hell... let the sultan have his harem... he's still going to favour the slave girl from the north... Hurrem... give me this one ******* from a past of romance... this Khadaia... i'll see her once more just to catch her name properly: all i have is the prefix Khada- while she hushed the suffix... over all that's on offer in this playground of freedoms... hedonism never tasted this... limited... when it is so freely available... 4 years without touching a woman's body and then... resurrected with a pulverising urge to touch one once more: over the debacle of grooming a female cat who was eagerly entertaining trans-species ***... *** is ugly esp. when animals come to the fore...

in all honesty: i wasn't convinced when i initially
read the list of ingredients...
not at all: or one bit...
i wasn't going to read the instructions
or... watch the video...

   i forget which flatbread i used...
gözleme? no... there was a SH grapheme at the end
of the name...
not the SH of hiding the H with
a Czech caron:  š...
the Turkish variation...
               the cedilla "s":    ş...
certainly not bazlama...

lucky me: first the Turkish barbers...
then the Turkish prostitutes...
now Turkish food...
i had a similar fetish for Indian girls...
hardly a fetish: one uneventful
summer: should we say...

ah... here we go... lavash... flat... bread...
funny how...
oh i can just imagine...
the year when... the ancients stumbled
upon using yeast when mixing
flour and water... watching the first
yeast infested bread rise up
like a sunrise in the heat...

blame the French... or don't blame them...
it's hardly mesmerizing watching
a hot pan with a tortilla on it...
the earth would still be flat for thoese
civilizations...
or how... yeast was used to make:
wine rather than drink ultra-sweet
grape-****-juice of the diabetic h'arabs...

no... i wasn't expecting the recipe to turn out
as it did: better than the local Cypriots
making imitation turkish with their doner-kebabs...
all those raw vegetables to somehow counter
the grease of the lamb...
raw (albeit) spanish onions... i.e. sweeter
and juicier... raw iceberg lettuce...
raw tomatoes... raw cucumber...
pickled chillies...
two sauces... a diluted chilli sauce and...
yoghurt garlic?
i've been gagging for some yoghurt mint:
but no... no... none of that...

- now i'm back from the days of drinking ms. amber...
i'm back on the drip of "blood":
wine sooths... wine... progresses: slowly...
esp. cheap wine in the form of kalimotxo:
the blood of Montezuma!
a toast to Montezuma!
    gradual involvement in intoxication...
never a lag like with ms. amber...
never waking up still drunk...
             drunk in the process of drinking...
much better...
and when enough lubrication has been
downed: 2 bottles for a night worth drinking
through...
3 hours of sleep at best: but all this...
mind like a whirlwind...
ms. amber: you have stiffened me for the last
time... your supposed
cure for my ailments come too late:
i'm stiffened: i'm numbed by you...
i will no longer associate you with good
tidings... never mind my own deeds...
now i prefer a drink that will creep up on me...
there will be a statement surrounding:
succumbing to gradation...

- the same year the ancients
invested their genius / imagination into pursuing
the use of yeast in baking:
making flat-breads become sunrises
as they... started to ferment... grapes?
all the stags and the bears are in on it
come autumn when they fill their belly's full
with rotting... fermenting fruits...
and stumble around the world
like they might be inclined to acknowledge
the existence of Bacchus...
a bear's drunken walk: i can't match
with a dance... perhaps these words might
just suffice...

- come to think of it... since i'm in all my 35 year old
splendour...
i think i fitted the bill for being
an "angry young man"... most of us were...
but... thankfully... as i've aged...
i've noticed how so few people have
the capacity to drink some sense into themselves...
even Nietzsche preferred barbiturates...
i can't say that i would:
in vino vivo! veritas comes after...
animation... scandal... trenches...
at 35 i can say the anger has... slowly diluted itself:
i guess the anger was at youth itself:
it must have been...
to be angry at being young is every man's
ball & chain...
with two exceptions of Paris and Adonis...
now... the sweet melancholic cloud
that makes my sense of humour subtle...
sharpening my ridicule: since i'm still yet to
receive pointers on wit
and...  reactionary tongue-whip anecdotes...
oddly enough i picked up a copy of
Rousseau's the social contract & a letter
about spectacles...

why haven't i picked up Rousseau earlier?
mind you... with this tongue i now use...
i could never read Rousseau in english...
i can read Bertrand Russell in english...
but every philosophy book i ever read was
read in my mother tongue...
the tongue with all the fancy diacritical stressors...
"so-called" by the people
who don't use them... who have Charles Dickens
calling a spelling-mistake
an orthographical transgression... ******* to that...

- suppose i wanted to paint...
well... writing is not exactly painting:
Frank O'Hara noted how terrible orange is
on canvas: unless the orange stands as
synchronised by actual oranges
in a still life depiction...
orange elsewhere? on a metallic alloy
on a bicycle... i cycled a few schoolboys
once on my Trek Marlin and heard
a compliment about it...
i should have painted...
but then i like that self-deprecating joke
i once heard a Glaswegian say
in class: how was copper wire invented?
two Scots arguing over a penny...
i have diacritical marks for contorts...
and if i'm really desperate:
as i sometimes am: i'll lend an eye on reading
some katakana...

why haven't i read Rousseau earlier?
perhaps i was too stupid too young too naive...
perhaps i should have a tattoo of
Robespierre on my buttocks...
perhaps... just... perhaps...
like someone might have a tattoo of
Roy Orbison to counter all that's Hey-Lvis
in that waterboy flick...

wine is like oil on a bike chains...
for the brain... the wine tide as i explore...
a slowly breaking of the dam
of formality...
but i'm not painting: come to think of it:
i'd hate to paint...
i like skeletons: i like sounds...
i like to walk into a forest at night
and listen to some wild animal tender itself
on breaking a dry branch:
or... misstep on a crunch of dry
autumnal leaves... while i bask shirtless
in the moon on a throne of a stump:
where once a tree stood proud...

that there exists a culture of celebrity:
a vacuous life-support machine of cringe...
in my vicinity: some trees have a higher
status than "people" in the greater prospect (potential)
of the world...
of note... this tree: let's call it Henry-eta
near Chigwell... bulging: crass: entity...
breaking all manner of contemplating girth...
famous: by my concerns...
hard not to miss...
try figuring out: celebrity in a forest of pines...
stilettos or anorexic models...
by then: prostitution doesn't seem that
bad... that bad when compared with
what "they" do with the models...

skeleton and skin being adorned with:
a second layer of fabricated: skin... nothing more...
a body that grieves its former status
of being: mandible... all over:
i think of models as i might think of glass...
a shattering: a breaking...
a variation of... arthritis...

        oh... well... in between the wine:
ms. amber returns: like a stimulus... an injection...
to keep me focused on the cascade...
i'm yet to cover the ground of narrative
i was keeping fresh in my mind...
ah... yes...
of note... only in England...
the multicultural project...

  i still retain my native tongue...
in the privacy of my own abode: i speak it...
i don't speak English...
i speak English to the people who speak
English...
a formality...
English in England is a "lingua franca":
i pity the natives for not have enough
incentives to learn another European tongue:
i guess that's what's happens with
"spazzial relationships" in the shadow
under the yoke of cousin ******* the h'americans...
pity them?
oh no no... blame them...

who was Yusuf Stalin? a Georgian...
tactical subversion of the Russian people...
where is the Georgian alphabet and where
is Cyrillic, or Greek for that matter?
where is... Armenian?
"where" is code for: comparison...
   like the supposed people integrated into
English society:
these... born & "bred" types... typos...
they speak English... at least i can resemble
an Englishman...
most likely i'll be mistaken by some
quran pushing ****- as being a German...
insult?     (oi oi... mr. -stani, don't worry...
the English just slosh with slang sometimes...)

the people of the subversion...
they speak English but... ha ha..
if they only managed to retain their mother tongue:
perhaps something of England could
also be retained...
clamouring like ******* ***** in a bucket
to no avail...

Napoleon's ditto: a man who knows two tongues
is worth two men...
all these new integration projects
who want to integrate so bad... so so bad...
that they "somehow" forge their mother tongue...
talk English as the language of mediation:
it's not yours...
it never will be!
**** me... if all these people retained their
mother tongue rather than playing:
i'd feed you to the pigs for playing
this ******* drive-by stealing mobile phones
"gangster":

what if ol' Adoolph was Swiss and not
Austrian?! imagine that... no... wait...
you don't have to...

- of note: if ha ha h'america of the united
is supposedly this beacon: this success story
for all the english speaking people of the world:
it should: by now... be... a well oiled:
bilingual Behemoth...
like the Swiss "project": of the Benelux or
the Scandinavian heap of blondes outbreeding
gingers...
h'americana should be well embedded
in a fluidity of come English come Spanish...

if h'america could be a success story:
it would be a bilingual conglomerate...
i guess it's just easier to speak only one zunge...
no?
how many tongue arrived on these isles?
i should be learning Romanian come to think of
it...
no one is going to meet me half way
concerning my: tongue...
while these asiatic ******* abandoned
their mother tongue to play petty
gangster... i sometimes fall asleep:
counting teeth... i have no worthy comparison
with the point of sheep:
i like to imagine teeth...

how they become the lesser half of Mongol:
with their mongrel "forgetfulness":
if we just cherished the medium
of the tongue used to invite commerce:
real or meta-...
perhaps... we wouldn't be cycling through
Barking looking at people feeling comfortable
donning those Pakistani pyjamas!

don't get me started on the Rotherham
"livestock" affair... i have no sympathy for
not being ******: looking elsewhere
at ol' Turkic raven hair...
at £2 per minute i'm not going to...
suddenly... "suddenly" do what?
pity the high earner
while she *****-off the concept of *******?
thank god i still have *******:
which implies i can ******* with pleasure...
but while interacting with HER...
she can peel it back and i'm left with
her tender mouth and my numbed metaphor...

castration, mr. ******... doesn't feel so bad...
compared with having your "excess" skin
guillotined...
i started to ******* long before i had
any use for *******...
the thrill is in the shaft...
aged 8 i did it myself...
circa 10 i taught a boy a year younger
about the joys of jerking off...
in a bath... while my mother scrutinised us
while she ironed some clothes...
oh... the gloves are off...

it might be a bare knuckle fight:
but i wrapped a leather belt around them
for a sense of purpose... alias for security: covert...
if the beacon of the world
grew up: sensibly: as a bilingual federation
it was supposed to become...
what? the Swiss are all schizophrenics:
for having the capacity to use 2+ languages?
******* retards:
you live with the reckoning that:
some people deserve their own bollocking...
you hear it... in the distance:
like churchbells...
esp. at night... when the air thins out...
i have no sympathy...
no empathy...
the remains of Malcolm X's mantra of
how there can be a never-ending war:
a "cultural" war:
just use the women as ammunition and
shields...
they're dump enough: Sabine as they are...
bring women to the fore of warfare...
you're not dealing with Gaza strip slingshots...
you have invested yourself in: trenches...
show me a Panzer i show you a naked
white girl...
the prize for all these sub-Saharan gambits...
i don't want to **** sub-Saharan girls:
maybe Boko Haram might...
can i... tickle a Turkish *******?
wait: do i "have" to?

you bring women to the fore: this little shitshow
will never end...
drop an atom bomb: no difference...
the supposed "collateral" becomes
the biggest asset... mind-bending load
of: otherwise what a sword ought to do:
the biggest killer: compassion...

don't worry... the recipe is still invested in me
scribbling it down...

- persisting with all these: Asiatic bundles of
"integrated" joys...
living among these isles...
you begin to wonder:
now... i generally think of the Welsh as a bit...
cuntish...
but... at least they have this...
unnerving ambition to retain their:
Briton spreschen: before the Anglicans
and their Normandy landing quasi French
came along... the Welsh still retain their
*******:  Çymru...
i lost faith concerning the Scots...
they're just... accent clowns...
accent clowns...
          they trill their R and sometimes forget
to F their TH with: t'ings...
like their elder cousins that... perhaps:
might... usher in some Gaelic...
astounding: the concept of the Welsh:
because: they are more a concept than some
concrete evidence of nationhood...
oh: they're beyond merely organic...

some says the king's route was to mind:
from London through to Edinburgh: more like St. Andrew's...
all this time, though...
it was en route to Cardiff...

- of these isles... these glorious isles:
where's the Gaelic in a man from Edinburgh?
the Sikh beat you to that tartan turban
or something:
posers of accents... the whole lot of you...
one up with the Velsh...
at least they still retain their concept of mother...
and tongue...
accented pretenders: it's not what they speak:
it's how they might: speak...

******* sing-along sprache Gael...
i simultaneously don't want to stop writing this
as an excuse for: not wanting to stop drinking
wine!

back to that Turkish recipe...
i had to make a full roundabout at some point...

even now i still can't believe it...
frozen beef, which implies: it would be more easily
sliced into an imitation pancetta:
carpaccio?
        **** me: the whole bonanza of nouns!
most not "gender neutral" too!

wine wine wine wine!
bring me more wine!
wine wine wine wine: to hell with whining women!
wine wine wine wine!
bring me more wine!
she can't feed me... i'm the devil in the kitchen:
i'll cook my own!

the "government" of delayed words in
transit toward: a proper translation...
notably?  sunak...
   not aleppo pepper...
   not sunmak...
    ah... SUMAC!
red onions sprinkled with some
salt and sugar... fiddled with...
crushed... a dash of lime juice:
to get the pickling going...
tender hands of a Cyclops...
then the addition of fresh parsley
and some SUMAC...
that's the radish for you...

the meat? beef... beef and rosemary?!
fair enough: let's have "us" a go...
it only takes 10 to 15 minutes since...
the beef is sliced oh so thinly...
plus... the marinate:

4 tablespoons of oil...
2 tablespoons of red... white... either...
wine vinegar: for curing the meat...
after all... you dip any seafood into acid:
it'll cook...
Bolshoi cannibals of ambition
and all that ballet on the side:
raw herrings as: Baltic sushi in a creamy
dill sauce...

believe me: the Ottomans have interrogated
post WWII Germany...
they're stiches and tattoos by now...

tzatziki...
but the marinade of the meat only takes
about 10 to 15 minutes... since the beef is sliced
so thinly: from frozen...
the marinade?
ol' pestle 'n' mortar...
black peppercorns...
4 cloves of raw: living garlic cloves...
2 springs of rosemary...
sea salt... 4 kashimir dried chillies...

strips of Turkish mozzarella...
i'm of the persuasion:
let's see what the Ottomans had on offer...
the ******... the barbers...
this... pristine cuisine...
it sounds like: shuk shuk shugar shig shig:
chug a fog... chappy chappy chim-shee...

bound to the anchor of a revision:
of these isles... i'm starting to harvest more and more
respect for the Welsh...
i'm starting to suspect that...
the Irish don't require:
the Scots seemingly never will...
but the Welsh: forever will...
display their adamant decorum...
to keep in mind their mothers and their tongue...

let me stress is:
ich bin nicht Ęnglisch:
    lie down... szczeka: it barks...
Щ...              

Copernicus Copernicus: seriously:
where are you?! literally: "where"?!
not literally: a somehow a now...
    
counting matchsticks i presume...
to hell with these semi-literate folk who have
the supposed reins: yeah: now... for now...
but not when time is allowed to imitate space
and stretch...
the currency of shouting for "justice"
dies a death slower than a death succumbed via
a crucifixion...
i'm no sadist... i love animals above
the status of fellow humans...
but... there comes a time that...
i'd rather... savour the company of a dog...
above... someone that might resolve itself
to speak letters back to me...

- you can only insinuate when dealing:
dwelling on the furore of the Hebrews...
but in the confine of these isles...
i hae no greater respect than might be allowed
for what's already arrived at:
they have: KEPT... KADŁ...

      EI CWSG GYDA COCH CLORIAN:

almost every Jew will amount to the maxim:
i be: the citizen of the world:
which is borrowed Greek...
   somehow there come to excuse when:
strip-down... striptease...
the last of the Holocaust survivors is dead:
appeasing the h'arabs and h'americans
for their deepened trough and
monzzie?
  yeah: sure thing...
             me and my stupid
delusion concerning that ol' chestnut
of the certainty of death...
i'm not willing to pressure
the delay button... to be honest.

this is what music foraging on youtube used to look like, you'd find gems, 6 years old, approx. 10K views akin to Undogmatic & Kernfeld: thought experiments... you know... you travel outside of the anglosphere of said language, what is the opinion of a Greek or a Pole about Fb? not much... it's only the english-speaking "cool" kids that are making all the fuss... i mentioned minds.com to a Greek guy i was giving directions to, once, in Warsaw... he looked at me as if i was the first person to show him a ******* elephant... 5 blind men followed and we know the story from there... catering to the natives: who will never be or ever have been satisfied... they just need their: banta... their ****-storming, their gravitational pull toward bloodsports: rather than dialectics... nothing is ever to be done... who can shout the loudest... who can rock the boat the most... who can translate past playground grievances into a web of anonymity and avatars... as far as i am concerned... these social media firms, these u.s. firms have long gone stopped catering to primarily english speaking people... all these anglophone calls: Fb will fail like myspace failed... blah blah... these firms are tired of brats... elsewhere these spaces are utilities... they're not an extension of either thought or life... collateral damage of those first exposed... the Greek will still use the platform... the Pole will also... i too remember my childhood: hide & seek... digging holes in the ground and throwing marbles into them from a distance of five metres... creating chalk labyrinths on the pavement and flicking beer bottle caps filled with plastecine through them... and no... styxhexenhammer666 is not banned in Poland... i never wanted youtube to become what it has become: 72 virgins? give me a library of music for all of eternity and i'll be an 'appy chappy... i don't need some count dankula regurgitate a wikipedia entry about tarrare - oddly enough: i too can read... see... i blame both sides for ******* up my foraging tool... the "legacy" media and the indie vlog "creators": creative really reative, spewing regurgitation after regurgitation... i'd hate to be drafted into this vulture journalism of video making... at least when you pay a *******: you pay an honest wage... and she subsequently spends the honest wage on **** i wouldn't even buy... so the funds are given to the person who otherwise keeps the economy running... a woman... oh yes, i've been watching closely these indie "creators"... lucky for me i watched enough of them to round them up and say: this much... there's a big difference between a "creator" and a commentator... if i'd want to listen to an audiobook containing the current journalistic spew: anyway... half of these stories in the "news" are tabloid ******* that gave rise to 24h news reel and the vacuous space feeding the tapeworm of insomnia... since when did news outlets think they could produce an amphetamine alt.? clearly they did... i can't keep up, i won't keep up, to hell with going against these giants... youtube was never about these indie "creators"... music and music was always the prime concern for me... lucky for me remnants of the old a.i. still give me chances to glimpse records like CLANN - Seelie... these indie "creators" become just as tiresome as the legacy medie snippets... you want a more ******* version of CLANN's Seelie? try Salem: king knight (2010).

.just some after-thoughts, when a post scriptum becomes, a pre scriptum... you know... i sometimes think this lingua franca, that's english, ergo: lingua inglese is bombarded, London is the microcosm of the world dislodged from the realities of other natives... there's a grand congregation happening, of hosts, and even here, on the outskirts of London, where all it takes is a 30 minute walk to go pet a horse or a tender young bull, "randomly", in a field, spot a fox, or chase a herd of deer who "wandered" into the middle of an X junction creating a traffic debacle... but the language itself this, lingua inglese needs updating, notably from the "real" grammar nazis... i'm not just going to give up my new earned rights of literacy, for all the years of being kept in the dark like some ******* mushroom, just because, someone feels it is necessary to feel lazy, about establishing rigour, discipline in using this former tool of power, like i'm going to bend over some lazy peasant... no... dis-ci-pline... you need it, i might drink, but i'll still return to this language with great respect, for the per se worth of adherence to it... it already is a metaphysical person / "person" to me, at least i can offer that much, as much as is necessary... one question though, echo-chamber... it's enough for dyslexia, it's enough for emoji, it's enough for: l8er... it's enough for "gender neutral" pronouns... see... that language i was born with... that **** won't stick... certain languages have pronoun-"augmentation" associated with verbs... e.g.?
                                            mogłem (past-participle masculine
                       of i could have)
                        mogłam (past-participle feminine
                    of i could have)
this, inherent bias, within the confines of the english language, well, i didn't expect it to be so rife, until i witnessed it being exploited! now at least i can pander / side with the natives: funny - coming to a "madman" for sanity quotes, for rigour... well... because there's no fun without someone not having the ***** to counter the libertarian farcical tragico-comic current circumstance of: "pushing the boundaries"... like i said: a lingua ingelese echo-chamber... no belly-button status of the world for you... this viper of an idea, this sordid wasp of a "conundrum" will not spread elsewhere, i feel inclined to contain it, with english regulations of grammar... just like i learned this language to begin with: first the language, then the grammar... physics first, metaphysics later... first the experience of communication, then the theory of communicating... thank god that some languages have an unshakeable foundation, e.g. western slavic: where the pronoun is integrated into verbs with a gender discrimination structure...
  further examples?
                miałem (i had - masculine)
                                                     miałam (i had - feminine)...
so the problem is contained... in this, sometimes erring into sharpnel of, what could have been: a bullet of a tongue; or, i dare say, will hopefully preserve itself, to be it.

i guess.... wait... are stars supposed to that?
i just witnessed two,
transverse the night sky:
    in that, more than the already
perplexing circumstance of a straight line...
to the naked eye:
   they're not supposed to move in
a parabola fashion, are they?
    yes, last time i checked, this was never
going to be a metaphor for
the current state of european politics,
   to the naked eye:
    i would be unable to witness a comet,
and, on the odd occassion,
   the blitzkrieg accent on the sky
by a meteor falling...
            i never had the tools to measure
the difference between a falling
meteor appearing in the sky,
                      to a lightning strike -
time wise...
            after all: is a lightning strike
confined to the same category as light,
yeah: light from the sun?
   i guess this is were awe comes...
          once again: if i somehow manage
to come across the facts -
   i'll give my narrative of a temple's
worth of structure to the blinded,
enraged skin-headed Samson to pull at
the pillars...
                now, with regards to:
a black girl in a supermarket...
   well... i've done it,
    i can clearly state i have become
fully integrated into the multiculutral
experiment that's England,
   it didn't take that long,
               ******* contra being attracked
are two dfifferent ball games...
the language is here,
                 working just fine,
   some native prejudices are somewhat
here,
            i have a harder time
"not understanding" the quickened
paddy taljk, to me the scots sing,
and they managed to preserve
                                     the trill on the R...
so, as they would say in
    a clockwork orange type of fashion,
fully rehabilitated, ****, sorry, integrated...
i can find myself being attracked
                           to an ivory beauty...
side-effect?
    whenever i visit my grandparents,
whenever i pass through
   the urban landscape of Warsaw...
   i feel...
        an extreme nausea,
paranoia,
                 sifting through my in-born
mirror of homogeneity...
the whole process takes, oh,
                     i'd say, roughly 20 years...
brain-washing?
      or a want for a sense of belonging?
my only sense of belonging in
Poland is only related to the use
of language, culturally?
      hybrid at best,
                    or not even hybrid,
mongrel...
                sure, the impeding disaster
of putting a physical hybrid
           with a metaphysical hybrid...
i don't even know how i'll feel
when the ****** tongue dies with
the people i could associate to by speaking
it...
maybe i'll be lucky,
having the luxury of not one death,
but two, in my life.

p.s.
   stating the ****** obvious,
surds...
   lingua ingles(e)
              and not lingua inglesé...
how can i not be stating the obvious,
that's how practiςing
    literacy works, doesn't it?
who has ever heard
a guitar player not say:
    i'm not playing,
  i'm simply practiçing                ?
i guess the origins of the french
         cedilla come from
                                     the greek sigma,
i.e. if it's so smart,
how come a drunk, like me,
                         has to "unearth" it?
always, it's always about
the fiddly bits of language,
english is peppered with
      rules, that are not dogma of
pedagogy...
         of the pedagogic experience...
"somehow" surds appear,
i.e. "silent" letters...
   e.g. there's no (g)nome
         but there's diagnostics...
this, this lingua inglese...
this supposedly "universal" language
for a global community,
and then all the particulars
associated with the native idiosyncracy...
mind you...

     i woke up with a dream,
righ rarity event...
   i was sitting,
then i started walking,
i looked behind me,
a ****** church procession was
walking with banners
and crosses, dressed in black,
i turned my head,
and there was a bunch of
schoolchildren walking toward me,
i was eating a raw chilli...
a boy from the throng coming
at me was eating a raw pepper,
'hey mister'
and pointed at a piece of
a raw papper lying in the grass,
insinuating i lost it...
i replied:
                                          'chilli'...
er­m...
        who the hell would ever need
to amplify dreaming
with a psychadelic experience,
esp. if that person is usually
sleeping for 10+ hours per day
and is dream-starved?

The sun’s bright, even through my raybans
Old school and Black,
I found them at a party amongst some old cans,
Anyway, the sky is clear and bright,
Like the smile on my face and the glint in her eye.
Everything is good and I think maybe I’m happy
The sun makes her glow, sat next to her I’m one happy chappy.
She works the pout because the camera’s about
So I Smile, it’s effortless, it comes so naturally.
Everything is good and I’m thinking I’m happy.
A mouthful of that Sainsbury’s cider
And I’m thinking to myself I want to be inside her.
It’s cheap and has a strange tinge to the flavor
She’s looking at me I’m sure, god this tastes like feet.
But she’s all-sweet, one glance and I’m beat.
It’s all banter and larks from the boys,
Summer dress in February, summer joys
She talks of love and a broken heart,
I’m thinking this girl’s precious like a piece of art.
One of a kind like Mona Lisa
And I’m dying to please her.
Inadequacies kick in and I’m self-conscious again,
What if she likes big muscles, flat stomachs on her men?
**** it she’s here with me now,  
Some guy says something and she laughs,
That cackle that cry, now my minds in two halves.
****, he’s funnier than me, skinnier too,
Now I’m panicking, AH! What do I do?
She’s averts her attention back to me,
She catches me staring  so I look at a nearby tree,
Pretend to be in wonder, at least I stole his thunder.
She thinks it’s cute, if it works I’m not going to dispute.
But the next thing I know
Hours have passed and the suns gone down,
I’m still in sunglasses when we’re off in to town.
Despite the temperature drop, I don’t feel the cold,
Because holding her hand I’m back to 12 years old.
On the play ground and shy, running about like I’m a jedi.
Excitable, laughable and most of all Happy,
Nothing matters I’m care free
Free to be me, even if I did want to be Obi wan Kinobi.
She’s even more beautiful in the pastel orange glow,
The street light warms her face, my smiles still on show.
Beatles hit the nail on the head,
So we twist and shout till we’re talking of bed.
Talking with out words, because its her eyes that speak,
And I’m weak.
Embarressed at the prospect of what to expect
I look at the floor, then her eyes,
Oh God this is happening, I’m about to score.
The awkward thing is
I’m acting like nothing like this has ever happened before.
Im not saying I’m a *****,
just I wouldn’t complain if it happened a bit more.
God she’s Beautiful, and what was half is now full.
Her dress comes off and and so does my jaw
I could’ve rubbed my eyes red raw,
but I don’t
I appreciate every dent every shape,
Don’t get me wrong my mouth was still agape,
And something downstairs was trying to escape.
My hands tremble as I place them on her skin,
And we begin,
She softens my nerves with a kiss,
What more can I say… That night, was bliss.

Tom Sutton

Sarah Mclachlan - Plenty - the one time you told me
i was Eastern European, of long-forgotten Europe....
and you were Irish, then i knew.... time to breed
a knuckles's hello....  should i really mind reality?
you, godforsaken paddy skin-head?
throw a ******* paddy / potato
at me i'll get clued in at where
Chelsea gets tribalism of Hammer-smith...
oh lucky you, the Irish tentacle...
maybe the next Irish in me ought
ti dance the ******* leprechaun dance
for new years'... cos' that had to be minded
in newspapers...
                     i'll the be ****** of goth to mind
enter the dragon, starring the ill fated Brandon...
                   an you be the anonymous ****-wit
pardonable journalist with angst prescription
                      when mommy ****** the
milkman and daddy said: huh?
  or shave my head and become a fake neo-****...
                 or the atypical Irish-head...
       some said Celtic, but some said: Sale-tick-ticking-blah...
the meat-heads bashed their heads together...
                          wedlock northern:
every Mc-Noodle.
                      later read Mac.                                tosh
                                                       or Celtic
in the Glasgow curriculum, as said: Mac. arched Ranger...
    for the clover leaf brigadiers
                                               aye... spoon the
shovies! banknote worded:
                                                two pence a punch...
                some call it a London mo-cheese-sum
(mohican - heir to a higher phrasing: cannot but
will do) - and so the Australian banknote came
sooner than the migration points system:
as ever, plastic first, spooning baked beans
and later the "trouble": as Glasgow estate shimmered
the saying: concrete does two blues,
                          Hertfordshire horseradish:
alter. marketed green slime: or: guacamole...
   god, i wish i was soppy sometimes...
                             at times when it was least
explanatory to mention Vaughan Williams...
                  perfectly now...
        snotty curiosity ever went as far as
a hanky... or later read: a chappy chopping
wood with echo, blistered with
e-oh e-oh and the faked yawn, done, repeatedly,
  for purpose of a masquerade:
                 or Apache tribalism etiquette
saying: oh... h'allo'h h'allo'h h'allo'h;
pompous blues and said Peter to mind
                            while some geezer did the beat
          for the slang while regurgitating an attack
of the Zeppelins.

Eyelash blinkered in hubris Rubik’s knight
Elevation of pogrom ennobled by triaged triumph minus the cynic summation of all light
Littoral swank bronzed like starlet fantasia with a Carey mountaintop jeer
Reichstag extinguished blaring sirens of cacophony capers to benumbed Linkin Park cheer
Knells intrepid by quakes of remonstrance staged in histrionic applause
Southern Colonies shifting in Charleston surgical in orderly slugabed dogged laws
Slipshod through ribbacles of rengall zenkidu among the sertivine poison ivy
Grimace at gamboled rivulets of a moribund Vanilla Sky for departed wiseacres of savvy dicey ICE toxic Harvey Dent slimy
A mannequin Marx Ralph alienated the truest alien by pioneering disdain of a hostage giraffe summiting a Swiss Alp
Master of time 12th bradycardia for Generator design parked beneath escarpments of base aphasia milquetoast in killjoy Strickland nickels away from a gubbertushed mouth
LOST legend enunciating the furor of epochs of egalitarian traipse
Trapped by the bootlick of a wrinkle of Van Winkle revolutionary agape
Curved by soliliquy master of belletrist prose
The vogue can’t help but bunt, balk, denounce the remembrance of Lady Madonna pose
We beat the muckrakers of rummaged lisp of culinary suns that the sons of privilege are emoluments to apolaustic zeal first known to transmogrified nuns, before the poppies made the few into many and the notion of an insuperable line of infinity into a spherical nullification of the concept of none
Estrapade engorges the fustilug magnet of the kitsch Kenosha Chicago Demolition drive-by-derbies “once read”
That two kings one Titanic by skin-color dashed dreams the other both the coins of tails eloped with heady dreams of head
Sacrifice shadow dancing with pettifoggery in slumps of aboriginal dances of marsupial rice
Native to extortion gouged blind as Samson exacts lachrymose cremations of Pikes Peak trick-or-treat aghast with fright
Temples raised in 46 years cemented never in the Mumbo Jumbo politics of those lacking the oceanic schadenfreude among queers
That by their exclusion the panmixia of fluid alchemy is dauntless scrabble limited by NORAD notions of Tears for Fears
Henpecked rooster awakens the serfdom of Ronald’s (sly spy) Drugs sailing with dovetails of elapse downtrodden in modern clubs
Drunken *** addict sell-out charlatans berated  by Ingram Angles sent by maleficence are the grubhub of Harriet Tubman torching promising tapestries with rugged rugs
Slinging the bait of fish-hook dimples on freckled effigies of ****** humiliation outmantled by Mickey weight
I thunder a fulgurant explosion against recrimination of white-collar criminals that philander saturnalia in pretense with facetious swarpollock freight
Crooks of tyranny exhort the paranoiacs of indemnity to sunken canned soup applause of a Warhol extortion
Berating my audience with drooling slavers of inelegant tortoise byzantine like an Istanbul dredged with intortion
Mr Deeds is not a champion of BRE Properties nor the pinnacles of inertia, a psychiatric squeeze
My orange juice is not a car chase against treecheese in terminal punitive disease
Soaring with the prosperous tongue against the walloped nativism of pounced impounds having too much fun
I let the other guardians of the order of salvation pivot vitriol in loaded dice against Orangutans of Swedish minted gum
Caesar died for the seizure of Anglican pride of a namesake percolating millenia for Brutus in the Washington Bullets of a conquered Ottawa on strike carnal with Chauvinism in regional divide
Never has there been a more hollow trope than the agency of deep state defamation of a scurrilous backbite of gnashing pride
Lost to pollster tricks of acquiescence and caricatures of a menacing personage Swift on the Riff but never the snarling Menace of a Blondie Biff
I tower above the anthills of conformity of luxury in Jamaican Bob Sled Teams testing the curiosity of enlightened “What Ifs”
Canada Dry for striking people enthused by Rye abides in the memory of reform that skulks the skunks that make every Scudworth cry
Because a Dental Dam damsel living in streets of peril fascinated by distance is the contortion of entreaty in the pasquinade of attempts at American Pie
May the city of a figurative crucifixion burn with the irony of a thousand suns as Wendy’s burgers unload on prejudice with albatrosses of winsome puns
Fixed data interpolated by convenient lies of serial killers who aim for blue skies shanked in Oswald infamy for the imposture of any flashbang revenge against cinematic guns
I blacklist the Zemeckis villainy as a trudge of travesty
Hedged lies blinkered by Batman and Robin puns redeemed by Dinosaurs of Amnesty
Obviously belittled by futures etched by a more honest infinity
Because 88 keys are not a stroke because the infinite bees know the parlance of divinity
Invited lissome taxidermies of Capone against teetotalers of parvanimity of vainglory overthrown
Showers the honest hominist reckoning of a world where neither crudity of know-nothing radical polarization owns every inept baritone
Crusading a secular war because the gubbertushed eccedentesiast spinsters of Santa Cruz deserve a gassy overtone
Torch the SC Pacific Avenue for peace
Let the world unite behind a singularity with purpose in ventilation of Speedman’s release
That antithetical Jacks of many names are wed with the progeny of enduring lists of NSA protection rather than rentgourge Denver PD eager to chaos decimated by the decimals of a region forever boycott and impeached
To the decisive curling of the frolicked Abandoned Pool servitude crass disasters are the sheol of impudent flagrant overreach
Regnant on the turmoil of invented throne
I scowl at the chicanery of Capone’s Chicago sweltering with Kenosha infamy tossing contortionist strippers a vulcanized bone in a DIA Diamond that even 11,500 years of knowledge is surpassed in condemnation of screaming E.T. calling the right home
Speak Now because the reach of forever is God appeased not by a kowtow but a mobilized ambition for Why? When? And How?
History will remember gentility as the kind steward rather than a Disco Demolition Derby of urbacity venerating a seasonal Golden Cow
Hipsters flock with folly to South African extortion for freebooters who bootlick the aceldama of war against the sublime currency of a winner surrounded by thugs
TOO MANY URBAN KIDS ARE TAUGHT BY REDUCTIVE TAUTOLOGY TO HATE The United States of America RATHER THAN NURTURING SYNCRETISM IN PATRIOTIC HUGS
Imperfect in design with disagreement in plainest sight
Sometimes libertarianism with a Democratic twinge is clearly in the right that should believe in reform even when the footloose girouettism is too tight
Yet forestalled for authentic grit the grisly rentgourge of venal abysses knows the countermand against Rand with hyperboles of the clearest *******
The true flock congregates around scepters built not with militant graft but a promenade of sultry dance for the defiant C.L.I.T.
Exercise with the Rock knowing school buses of dogmatism inferior are distraught
Dying dogmatism is a peacock of industry the yeggs can easily unlock rather than truckle with truculent Scottish Rites tasty with Connery Scotch
Defenders of the misleading staircase because of the carapace of Hovering pertinacity easily won and bought
Neither scary nor deliberate streets are rumpus of elevations of unbounded anarchy considerate but robbed by the illiterate
That the delegated mansion will be robbed by the cooperation of the remorseful idiot recognizing his snide mendaciloquence in destructive Roswell Records limerick
Scowls are on petrol and patrol hoping Tesla is a short of bravado too intrepid to sanction free-for-all profligacy in alleys that bowl
To the Emerald Street lie of hypes of perdition rather than merely a seasonal token embarrassment coal
The fossilized future is the irrevocable past because more respect is needed than the ***** of a maskirovka caste
Diamond Lightning in Bhagavad Gita prancing with the delusion of the everlasting mummification of Brawndo ash
Dinner with Egyptsy malingers on tomes etched flippant in integrity and all about the curated snare of kitsch cash
The cache valley of LASER tag shattered like Joseph Smith flagellating the confederate hayday with articulate gnash
Fast & Furious the amused by Suburban subway know the trailblazer trashes of The Stupids’ being Einstein about Boogie Dubs rather rash
Streaking through a Tucker rule the Buccaneers live for the SoulSeek of a riddled ruler benighted of prerogative of Roger Goodell bumping in his Ferrari the tucked serenade of Tool
Wrong band because they linger in the shadow dancing backpages of scandals of Norweigan hourglasses of shameful hush hush Vikings mining furloughs of pulverized anticipation sand
Humbled retinue shelves the ossified limpid droll drool
As the haze of submarines scouting pridefall galls of indolence betraying innocence becomes moral cigarettes of Menthol Kool
Reparations for chappy chapstick games of bowery riches
The urbane needs to read, discern and maneuver against whiplash found in Navi witches
Swapping homes with crack addict legalese an *** to a bronzed party crackling with cackles Home Alone
Knows a toiletry of escape gullible like Seahawks wishing they could contain a fumbled season by Mahomes
Jones methamphetamine paranoiac manure desiccated by folksy homilies of brimstone cremation deserts his flock to abide by a flagging wayward temptress
Decimated by the agency of time his Austin crenellation flounders in grimace of the untimely swoon his covert empress
Blinded by the light of darkness in subversion
Excoriated for the deeds of his permission to demote commotion into only an acquiescent dance with barbed etch-a-sketch conclusion- a half-baked *******
Quacksalver poetaster wrinkled with hatred simpering paranoia strangled by Hendrix abeyance of turgid delusion
Lurid underground Princeton gilds infested with defected dementia in cozens in the fritty of heralded mistress SHE appointed
Sandlot ravens cloistered the bravado of thirst for chosen words scrappy in clawed henpecks the pointless illegal sanctioned to brusque witticism anointed
Lamps of pathway sparkle with coruscated stargazer Winslet dreamy swank illustrious by providence
Engrenage of delopes of pettifoggery identity staggers the woozy dismal day of disjointed wounds on Native sons Denver can’t damage in a lonely campaign for the prodigal bends of Overlook Lorraine Motel bent
Intrepid in gallantry I swoop the scrivello tusked with might
Penetrating the vivid dreams of the serenade of alpenglow daylight
That love might rule over chance and probability above the specter of dynasty prodigy progeny tithing gravity in rent
Yet this taper of majestic poise will outfox even the careless gambles of the prodigal son Mr Sender already traipsed conquered and went
The mountaintop is so clear from the cloister of authenticity drinking Eminence Front of the WHO rather than the coherence of the near
Because titans shepherd the good flock without insult and not quavering with insuperable time flackey with tremulous fear
I dare this day to outlast benighted ignorance of the narrow gate of a persecution tsunami on a Lisbon tear
Because galloping ahead of the internecine sheds the serpentine craft of 3:1 Genesis met with the worst fleeced fleer
Not auctioned off like ******* vogue to the disfavor of poor taste
I am the true Royal Flush that can always count on the aced basic but mostly acidic flourish of a jest in bass predicated on the basis for Mozart pH
Today could be the summit of acclimated prodigy in startled degrees temerity could never bet against
Because you better bet the Bros and Cos of civilization are skilled in ostentation of Sterling Pound defense
Never offensive to the liturgy of triumph beckoning an apocalypse now tentative memory on a Manifest Destiny frontier rarely on wickers of extinguished cattle ranchers knowing the gamut of acumen to defend a fortress with the best fencing James Bond could dispense
Now is either a cordial joke of a flagrant anarchy balking at destiny
Or the sunrise majesty of the twelve tribes and beyond defeating the stingy bees of infamy
Your choice doesn’t defeat my voice
But your action heralds my loyalty with a triumphant Victoria of an age not for agelast geeks intimidated but living clairvoyance with fidelity to the right choice for the right time to swim in elegant rejoice
(1977 Words)

Now my cousin had a baby, about a year ago or so.
And we saw him first on Facebook, far before they let us know.
Such a handsome little chappy; yet another lost relation,
But we went down south to visit, as we forced an invitation.

“Oh, isn't he lovely” they said as they peeked,
“Isn't he gorgeous - all round and red-cheeked.”
They looked and they smiled, “What a well-filled-out child.”
Some laughed and some roared and some shrieked.

There sat the baby like a pink piggy jelly.
There, but for eyes, sat a big pleated belly.
His arms and his legs must go two-hundred pound,
And that’s only part of the huge flabby mound.

“Oh, we can't stop him eating,” said his mother, Irene.
“And just quelling the flow makes us feel rather mean.
We know that he's growing; it can't be denied,
And he's partial to dog food, so they're fed outside.

Well, thanks for his present; he was ever so pleased.
And the girl down at Mothercare (first name Louise),
She’s like one of the family; she's really first-class
At exchanging us things that will cover his ****.”

The day today is like any other day
But something's different from yesterday
Before, I was cheerful and happy
Today, I am lost and chappy

Nevertheless, the show of life must go on
In spite of transforming me into a con
Bizarre, is this feeling of course
Maybe something was to happen, for better or for worse

Whatever will happen can only be seen
In the near future, live, off the screen
Still, something bothers my mind
Just wishing the stars, to be kind


|AB|

hair dashing vision deploy sud featherless\
motion in active taste bud slipped on eternal\
tip of my tongue whistle lunge internally\
**** drizzle dripped seating scampi intestine\
grip swung intensity hitting uvula grump\
the bedroom slippers pajama snap running\
throat hiccups stuck doll sitting smudge crap\
pat tack in scratch mouth I due alley loop mucus\
packing trunk wood you irritate stove chappy baker\
hunk the lock spinning the sling cling on schnapps\
surviving by the beer Craving Peace of ear confession minding\
the sake of better judgement intrigue maleficent impression\
spite traditional contraceptive contradict hypocritical Kitab rewrite\
Ktab inducting paschen arrange friction pronounce tissue adjudicated\
hit or miss mission issue clevis tension ******* metabolism buoyant crevice\
sullied virginity abolishing hip ripping meat window damp moist cherry\
fur confined steed Structurally Mounting **** transcoding soil instrumenting\
matrimony ring band regent gown slapping *** crack Larry the Cable Guy wed\

Din Din Baby Fat Naming like/
be Naming Baby Shat Chat/
bei spin nozzle creek up/
drift bottleneck swifty/
dream line bleachers/
above the body top/
under tummy tuck/
wackbush stroke/
c ******* broad/

course and stubbly moustache whiskers brush against my forehead
sending uncontrollable shivers of discontent
through my narcotic addled body
beginning to rouse from my ****** induced slumber
I catch out of my periphery the chubby cheeks
and balding dome of the man who pays to **** my **** –
days to weeks to months…
18 long, despair filled terror
never a moments rest
or a minute of peaceful sleep
despite half a gram a day black tar
intravenously gifted to a bleak and melancholy  
man-***** –
blue eyes following my every movement
ready to pounce like a rascally kitten
except this is not cute
and boarders on ****
as a sleeping / drug induced coma victim
is really unable to say yes –
the mirror holds no lie
and I see the truth each day as I wash my face
no amount of soap
can ever clean away the filth…
guilt and addiction
what a terrible combination for this poor ole chappy –

My tea is lukewarm
My tone of voice forlorn
I would have a girl friend but I have sworn
I will be free
and I am too childish to bear any responsibility
My tv is five years old and doesn't have ultra HD
It also pains me it doesn't do 3D
My clothes have holes but they are not designer fashion
I have been told to spend so I do not save
I grow depraved
not being thankful
But that is what I have been taught
by advertising
So why is it surprising I am depressed and unhappy?
I definitely not a happy chappy
When my wifi doesn't work
When my cds are scratched
When my socks don't match
When it rains I am disgusted
The weather man is someone I trusted
and yet I live a life that others would **** for
Still I don't see further than my pants draw
I need more boxers
But come on who's eaten my chocolate stash
I am due a sugar rush and then I will crash.

people started to look a bit: dumb-found
   making it into a pose,
or at least gracing the need
to pose...
maybe both at the same time?
it really was all ***** at an aerosmith concert...
start looking at *****, given a large
enough crowd, start imitating *****...
ugh... so crowded... claustrophobia reinvented...
i'd like to mind that fact...
lodging a pair of testicles
where a crown might reside,
tickling them, or should i say:
doing doing-doing tango
with my tongue, i.e. tickling them?
  hey! the gay joke! all the ladies waiting...
you sorta want to give them a chance perspective...
but then sorta withhold on giving them one...
    that's the way you say:
i kinda like beta-male
masochism... just makes sense
after a while.
    moaned & groaned, started living off
the taxpayer...
              thus came fame:
and the rollercoaster...
                   and it was all
well cushioned thereafter...
  like it might do: after a funeral...
just after in the west
they called parenthood a job...
that's when i gave up...
they they called it a job i was like:
let's just watch disney cartoons...
to minder-status me be beckoned!
just somebody with a ***-savvy
   free approach...
              i can't be bothered putting
that much effort in, when a panda
or a koala stages a necessity of
bamboo or eukalpitus leaves (merely)...
  can't, be, *******, bothered.
no, really, the argument is not working,
that natioal brigade concerning
Darwin is worse than the Poles with Chopin...
    i like him playing the piano,
not doing a makeover on my skeleton...
   it's bugging me, it's actually horrifying me...
i'm not afraid of alpha males...
am i contesting? should i?
    i rather enjoyed squash courts
mid-week, and lifting weights...
       now i'm asked to make some sort of resorts
for an upkeep?
   i can't be bothered...
i really can't...
  i have not impetus to keep the biological crown,
i have no need to keep d.n.a.
like it might stretch into genealogy...
i have absolutely no dire need to reproduce...
all those arguments can, sorta drown in
phlegm...
                i literally have no need for a
motivation coach...
                    you want to keep the argument:
you keep it!
              do all the ******* that the argument
deserves for it to be kept!
i can't be bothered...
  i really can't.... call it Mandarin or call it
Mongol... i call it mammoth mohican...
i'm saying: bye bye: and **** me,
aren't i the 'appy chappy un.
              so i'm also ****-phillic in terms of music,
music, yes, music that sounded better
than a woman in onomatopoeia mode
imitating a ******* cello.
   i just like what's pleasing to the ear:
'cos' i'm deaf my dear!
    i ain't blind, all i can see is a big fat
lipstick approved O...
               that will never be a Mozart,
and will never be AC / DC...
      you're no music baby,
and i'm not really into dinosaur history
to keep us alive, or, that said: absolutely
necessary...
              there's no perfect with a perfection
still involved...
     i say we were perfect: once upon a time,
when we're actually gone.
no, sure, go ahead,
   convince me with yet another
20 centuries (later)...
      i'm not convinced enough....
    or how i like to say:
it was pointlessly said nonetheway...
             i couldn't make sense
of it being a hearing loss or turning blind...
but thinking it out was just the cause
to sorta blink... and then turn into a Judas
on an icon canvas:
     with my head turning on an axis
  akin to a roulette;
and that,
                   ever, eternal... gamble:
was i, wasn't i (speaking the truth)?

Oh cheeky chappy
Darting around in flash of yellow
lightly go sprightly
Oh feathered cello

How you lighten my day
with your flashing ray
Oh how I love your morning sing
While flying on the wing

Resplendent in colour
In flight of fancy fine
How on gods earth
We're you allowed down the mine

thank you

maybe it's one of those nights where i don't write
anything and simply enjoy drinking
and some good music...
it must be one of those nights...
i feel intellectually lazy...
                     more than that...
i feel that my memory faculty has taken over...
culminating in a reading
of Zhuangzi...
      what was that band that did a song about
Mr. Brightside?
                 the Killers? no?
                ****... i didn't leave a bookmark...
i usually leave a temp. bookmark with a sample
of toilet paper...
                     no... not because i could wipe my ***
with the pages of the book i'm currently reading...
it's just easier that way...
but this one story was about two concubines...
one was beautiful... and she knew/ thought that
she was beautiful...
   the other was ugly.... and she knew / thought
that she was ugly...
but the ugly one was more endearing...
             the master of the inn replied to the traveller:
i treat the ugly one better... because:
i sometimes forget her ugliness...
                           this is non-verbatim of course...

i could easily incorporate the following Cyrillic
into ****** on the basis of laziness...
   following from                 щ:

     szczur becomes щur...
                             i don't think there's any aesthetic loss...
i rather find it elevated...
but with that it also means i would have
to drop the Czech orthographic aesthetic of the caron
hovering about either S or C...

because there's no щ in Czech...
the Serbians can incorporate a Latin J...
i'll just leave it as my own idiosyncratic attitude...
rigid English is also fluid English:
whatever grammatical uprising happened or is still
happening: my I.Q. was drowning in
the "pronoun debates"... so i sort of lost interest:
but English will not incorporate any post
Roman accents... perhaps that's how the English
prospered: thinking themselves as the rightful
inheritors of the Roman Empire...

makes perfect sense...

like the critique of Communism...  to me?
it converged with the already emergence of Pan-Slavism...
which was a genuine movement...
the unification of all the Slavic people...
Communism didn't work... it didn't...
in the Soviet Union...
              it worked in China where it morphed
into a quasi-capitalism...
it also worked... in the satellite states of the Soviet
Empire...

it worked in... Czechoslovakia...
it worked in Hungary... and it worked in Poland...
it did...
   how?                  mein gott!
everyone's familiar with the Marshall Plan...
so... basically... funding by the F.S.A.
          (united? states? please... nice 20th century
gimmick... nice chant at sporting events)
so there was this Marshall Plan...
        aid was distributed to the war torn countries
after World War II...
           even Sweden! (i thought Sweden was neutral?
yeah... it was, hmm!)
           was given a paycheck to rebuild...
but what else the Soviets "liberated"? sure...
         "we" received a paycheck... a "grant":
via an ideology...

                               i'm starting to think that...
music from the Satellite States of the Soviet Union
was on par with Western music...
i'm happy i kept my bilingualism...
i can go back to a culture that i'm a diaspora member
of...
         unlike all those Asian immigrant children
who's parents tell them to forget their mother tongue
and only acquire a strange urban accent...
thankfully i'm first generation immigrant...
i kept my tongue, because, as Napoleon said:
a person who knows two languages is worth 2 people...

oh please... Soviet music is ****...
i'll give three examples... maybe more...
Maanam - Krakowski Spleen...
Klaus Mittfoch - Śmielej...
Republika - **** Doll...
Omega - Gyöngyhajú Lány...
fair enough... the last song is Hungarian...

but it wasn't all bad...
                        perhaps it was bad in the Soviet Union...
well... you bring together Russians and Mongolic tribes...
the Kazakhs etc.
            but? surprisingly... the genius of Gorbachev...
as my grandfather used to say...
that it happened so peacefully!
can you imagine the breaking apart of
the United Kingdom... or the F.S.A. as peacefully?!

i can't...
    perhaps it was bad in the Soviet Union...
but after the historical facts of the **** Empire building...
there was always going to be a subversion
element to nodding to the Soviet-post-Tsarist
arena...

    i'm not saying that communism will ever be
a success... but... it's not a bad idea in crucial scenarios...
like in Poland from the years 1945 through to 1990...
it worked...
    and then... the reins are let go...
what happens? a diaspora is created...
   those adamant that communism didn't work
stay in the homeland... and rebuild it with a doubled
fervor... while those that thought that communism
worked: ******* to other countries...
i think my mother pushed my father into
looking at immigration: given she was a daughter
of a prominent member of the communist party:
**** me... my grandfather was a meisterschtick
in his profession... he was even asked to be
a peer... in a courtroom...
                     i.e. a member of the jury...

me? i was once a witness...
  a troublesome witness...
so me and m'ah "fwend" and some other witnesses
were walking down a street in the night...
some ****-
                          -stani pulls up in a car...
and grabs m'ah "fwends" phone out of this hand...
i tell the other witness to note down
the number plates of the car...
duly noted: we go to the police station
and report it...
   week or two later i'm skimming through
mug-shots in a police station...

idiocy goes to trial... i'm standing in the dock...
the lawyer of the defesense
shows me another picture of the culprit...
back in the day when there was an imprint
on the photograph: before photographs became
digital...
is this him? he asks...
i look at the face... then at the date...

this is two years prior?
    can you imagine me growing long hair in two years
time? can you imagine me growing a beard
in two years time?
so why are you asking me what someone looked
two years prior to a crime... if not asking me
what i will look like two years from now?

it was a simple ******* question...
i honestly don't know how the case finished...
i guess it was a failure because:
m'ah "fwend" probably felt scared
and couldn't identify the culprit...
whatever the case: "problem"...
i sort of lost respect for him and in a polite way:
when i was in my nadir...
he uttered the words: would you like me to
bring out a violin?
oh... ******... ****** ****** ******...
i wanted to tell him that the reason why
his parents divorced and why he was still
living with his dad
and why his dad ****** off to Thailand
and brought a Thai bride with him
and hy he now had a step-brother
and why his father was still playing Command & Conquer
and breeding Thai chickens...
and why his hygiene was terrible...
why he didn't clean his kitchen...
and the reason why his father divorced his mother
was because she was a terrible cook
    and because the third child they had
had serious mental disabilities... *******...

but... no... i didn't...
              this is how you repay me... after i stand
up to you?
   i remember parting with him after he left me
stunned with that violin quote:
i turned my back towards him...
raised my hands up and then... let them flop:
**** it... tower of Babel...

that was just prior to the "onslaught" of the pandemic...
me? i gained from it...
while everyone else was growing tired,
cold, distant: i was already tired,
cold and distant...
akin to the crab bucket: there was only one
way up...

friends! ha!

two more songs...
            Róże Europy - Jedwab...
Róże Europy - kości czerwone, kości czarne...

what are friends? in the dire straits...
only then... and by then...
you're befriending strangers...
no... no ******* childhood memories of people
you used to play hide & seek with...
or... by western standards: video games...
oh: to hell with that!

my Cerberus came to lie in my bed just
a minute ago...
i think i'll need him to stand watch should
any rat from my neighbour's garden try to nibble on
me while i take to sleep in the garden:
half frozen in nakedness on the hyper-"real" grass
that's fake...
i'll need him to watch over my sleeping body...
but that's the only great aspect of a heatwave...
while everyone else will be rotting in a household...
i'll be falling asleep in the garden...
illuminated by solar-panelled lights...
and i'll be: mostly glad to be alone...

just that silence in my head...
which i try to rekindled with multiple egos
like a Thespian and not a poet...

Communism worked... because it only works for
a while!
               it would work in Syria...
it could work anywhere for a period of 50 years...
up to... 50 years...
then it disappears... gladly...
it's not a permanent Utopian sentiment...
it's a crux: for rebuilding nations...
it worked in Poland...
                        it didn't work in the Soviet Union
because... Communism was anti-Tsarist...
but the French Republic could have...
turned into a Communist experiment:
which it did... post-Communism...

                         blah blah... i'm enjoying the music
more than the writing...
1:34am... i think i'm going to ******* to the garden
to sleep a little bit earlier before sunrise
arrives... i'll take my Cerberus with me...
to watch over my sleeping: dead body to mind
the rats not trying to give me either manicures
or pedicures...
            
    we'll have our fun... stars... moon...
a naked torso... the chill of night...
                       if i lived a place where the cold wasn't
a concern for raising bricks...
i'd be a... waste of time... or rather:
i'd be an untouchable...
i'd grow my beard to my bellybutton
and my hair strapped in dreadlocks
to my ****...

         but i do enjoy Turkish barber-pandering...
it wasn't all that bad!
         it wasn't!

see! i started off thinking about nothing...
now i have a narrative: genious sessions with Hans Zimmer!

but i really could do with certain letters in the Cyrillic
alphabet...

               i feel so bad for Maine **** cats and Huskies
in this weather...
don't ever leave dogs in hot cars in parking lots...

i really could do with some Cyrillic letters...
beginning with щ...

             via the word: truthfulness:

щerość > ščerość > szczerość....

                 i can't introduce the caron S or caron C
with the already available acute S and C...
better turn to Cyrillic...
because i'm / i am lazy... with Cyrillic being
what the English do with the apostrophe...

but i need several more letters...
i don't imply having to derive from the Glagolitic anymore:
i.e. Ⱋ...

                  i need the following:
to replace the SZ, CZ... RZ...
                  esp. these three letterings...
ж to replace rz
                              i know there's an alternative meaning
should ж be replaced with what replaces rz,
i.e. żaba: frog... rzecz: thing...
ergo?                                                  жecz..
ergo...                to replace CZ?
                                         ч...
i.e.                  жeч...

     what am i falling on? terrible ideals and mystical
Judaism... i'm trying to HIDE the TETRAGRAMMATON...

SZ...                          шatan...

hmm... this one curiosity: coupled with another...
it took **** Germany with Soviet Russia
to conquer Poland than it merely took
**** Germany to conquer France...

a human has 32 teeth...
the Polish language has 32 letters...
although... i'm trying to extend the bite...
by borrowing some Cyrillic lettering...
perhaps it's a "bad idea"... but i don't see any problem
with it...

the English language has 26 letters...
although, the same "problem": SH and CH
are also letters: even if they are composed
of two letters... sat and shat...
cat and chappy...
                                                                   no?

there are enough words in the ****** lexicon
that utilise the SZCZ (shch) coupling:

another example: szczegół...
i.e. detail...
i can't be bothered with writing one s after
two zeds before writing a c...
щegół...
                           hell... it looks pretty for any
English speaking crowd...
esp. the monolingual tourist types...

i like it... i think i'm going to stick with it...
frankly: i think i am...
but that's me... will it become popular?
i hardly ******* doubt it...
i'm just trying to hide the Hebrew TETRAGRAMMATON...
the Latin grapeme Æ in the name of the name:
in the first born Siamese of
yAh of Adam and wEh of Eve...
      the rugby goals of the HH...

   and all? because i'm writing in London...
outskirts... perhaps... but i can catch a train from Romford
toward Liverpool St. and arrive within 20 minutes...
or i can cycle...
       and still get there... with a whiff of
Bombay... and Lahore...
hmm... funny me looking at funny you:
WASP...

Richard Harris coming to England... to London...
smashing a glass window
with a poster: blacks... dogs... the Irish not welcome...
i adore authentic drinkers...
they make me believe that i don't
have a problem...
that the problem is outside of me!
because... the propable cause is that:
the problem is outside of me...
i just adapted to it with drinking...

best gain: **** prostitutes like a pirate
without a ship...
spend your night listening to phone-calls
coming in from Arab boys trying to attest
their ****-philia...

in conversation:

what's this with your husband? i'm bounding myself to being boxed as both confused with... yu need to elaborate... i promise to return a cryptic language... but just show me your head... i was going to write this... i think i will... "imaginary scenario"... a jealous man comes across a woman cheating on him... RED FLAG... what does he do? he asks the cheating woman... how about a *******?! what could be worse for the cheating woman... two men fighting over her... or... one man deciding... sure... if she's up for it... let's share! do i need that much crap or do i just allow the woman to play out her full fantasy? we're already reached a ******... we might as well elevate the ******... you cheated on me already...next stage? i share you with someone... there's no need to ****** on the wedding ring... it's what i call the de-escalation of symbolism...but all the FREEDOM! if i was in a relationship with a woman... and found out that she was cheating on me... i'd ask her for a *******... after all... mouth... ******... ****... ****... *******'s not enough: it would require a foursome! eh... you can spare him the nun antics...