He struts through the street
With an arrogant stride
A staffy at his feet
Fills him with pride
Baseball cap on his head
Peak points in the air
Yea blood I'm hard
And I don't seem to care
Trackies and hoodies
Are the code of his dress
Big golden chains
Hang low on his chest
Sock's pulled up high
Above his designer boots
I'm a council house chav
So proud of me roots
I'm hard and I know it
And I'll rob ya of bread
Don't mess with me
Or you'll end up dead
His attitude stinks
Filth falls from his gob
With a chip on his shoulder
He don't want a job
But under the bravado
He's as quiet as a mouse
Living his life
From his council house
His mum is on drugs
His dad is long gone
No wonder this bloke
Turned out to be wrong
So show him some kindness
Just a friendly word
Might just be the the thing
That stops him doing bird
I somehow much doubt it
But its worth a try
Cause deep underneath
He's a friendly guy

Look at all these wannabe gangsters
Terrorising our streets
That one's wearing camouflage trousers
Just wait till you hear him speak
'Dems bear skills mate'
'Can you lend me fifty bar?'
He sounds like he's from Los Angeles
Doing time in the yard
But he's not
He still lives at home with his mum
And his pregnant girlfriend
And he's under the thumb
You see them outside Tesco
But they're not shopping for pesto
Let's go
They've seen the old bill
He's known around this town
For selling dodgy pills
Guns, knives and slang
That's what you need
If you wanna be in their gang
No education
Just a stolen Playstation
And don't forget the ****
Even on a school night
They're out doing speed
You'll see 'em in the park
With a bottle of cider
Then they'll start
On a poor old-timer
Tracky bottoms
And a Burberry hat
Chav fashion
Cause they think they're all that
But the funny thing is
They don't have a clue
They don't think like
Me or you
They think that they're rap stars
Dreaming of fast cars
But they're just wankers
More like 'wannabe gangsters'

Seetaro mai akela chaand si thi wo
Foolon ka mehekta guldan si thi wo
Thi nadi jaisi aviral,chanchal
mere dil ka haal si thi wo

Ghani dhoop mai chav si thi wo
Kisi geet ki addaon si thi wo
Thi hava si mehekti, komal
Mere dil ka bhav si thi wo

Beech majhdhaar mai nav si thi wo
Khusian ka pura gaon si thi wo
Thi koyal si meethi,nishchal
Mere man ka abhiman si thi wo

Paido par wo patto waali hari bhari koi daal si thi wo
Holi ke rango mai sabse saadi ek akeli gulaal si thi wo
Thi wadi kasmiri koi
Mere geeton ka sur aur taal si thi wo

Mandir mai wo shankhnaad si,pooja ka prasad si thi wo
Baarish mai mitti ki khushboo,badal ka dharti se sanvaad si thi wo
Thi meri wo beti pyari,usse hi ghar 'harshit' tha
Mere ghar mai sooraj si,Mere ghar ki shaan si thi wo

Thi ab wo jo nahi rahi,aakhir khata kya thi ki usne
mana hi to kia tha na beta shaadi se,
Par dosti ka haath bhi to badhaya tha
Teri Bezatti toh nahi thi ki usne
Fir kyun tune usko har ghar badnaam kia
Dushman na kare,dost hokar tune aisa kaam kia
Chali gayi ab chhod ke mujhko,wo akele jeevan ki saanjh mai
Meri khushiyan,meri duniya,meri pyari jaan si thi wo
Meri pyari jaan si thi wo

Bachpan ka samay kabhi na lautkar aata ,
Har waqt bus yaadon ka aasma reh jaata ,

Khelte the hum bhi khub dhul ko udel ko,
Maaf kr diye jate hamare sabhi galtiya aur bhul ko,

Jab chaha has lete they ,
Aur jab chaha ro dete they ,

Chhote chhote aankhon me sapne bade hote the,
Na kisi se bair,sare log apne hote the,

Par ab tou aansuo ko chahiye tanhayi ,
Chehre par sirf jhoothi muskaan hai chhayi ,

Zindagi ki tapish mein kab bachpan guzar gaya ,
Kab bachhe se bade ** gye zindagi ki daur mein nazar hi nahi aaya ,


Kya din they chalate they baarish mein nao 
Ab khud ko chupane ke liye sochtey hain kha jao,
 
Na kuch paane ki aasha thi or na kuch khone ka drrrr,
Mast rehte they jaha apni hi dhun idhar udhar,

Koi lauta de bachpan ka sawan
Fir se mehak jayega mere dil ka aangan ,


Khelte they khilone se aaj khud khilona ban gaye ,
Bachpan ke sunhere pal na jaane kha kho gaye,

Maa se lipatne ke  bahane bnate,
Maa ke aanchal ke chav me hi so jate,

Chhote se kadam se saitaniya bde karte the,
Papa Ki pyari daat pr bhi ro dete the,

Jab bhi rota mai,Maa apne sine se laga leti thi,
Sahlake haath sar pr mere muskura deti thi,

Maa ka dudh jaise amrit ka pyala tha,
Sach me hamara bachpan bahut hi nirala tha,

Amrit ka Ek ghut pi kar bhi khush ** jate the,
Duniya ka sabse bda sukh maa ke aanchal me hi pate the,

Yaad hai hume wo khubsurat bachpan ke pal,
Muskura dete hum jab bhi yaad aate wo sunhare bite kal........

4th collab. Poem composed by
Sonia Paruthi & Manish Shrivastva

i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th

Moon zoos zoos on the moon in white man spaceship zoos on moon,
earth chavs chavs on the earth in a burberry chav ship chavs on the earth,
sun ***** ***** on the sun in racist spaceship ***** on the sun.

you know that, only in england
you can wear a t-shirt in january,
and concede that (it's chav scots
clearing the path):
reading a søren kierkegaard book
qualifies you as mentally ill?
odd, isn't it? read a philosophy book
get a psychiatrist... where's the ******* bookmark?

DONT DO DRUGS KIDS


O a sis, John cooper clarke.
Pink floyd, getting ****** in the park.
******, crack co caine.
******, messed up again.

Council estate, tmazipan,
******, taliban.
A paper cup and a ball of string,
Ive lost me phone I'll use anythin.

Trying to get hold of my man,
Thames Valley police catch me if u can.
Tried to get the monkey off my back,
fallen down and landed in the crack ..
between the pavements,
easy street,
walking round no shoes on ma feet.
Touch this and you'll get burnt.
Been 20 years and I still havent learnt.

Loosing teeth, bad legs, getting older.
Are the winters getting colder?
Global warming ... What the ****?
****** ..coming in on a salad truck.
Chav pants, naff fkin trainers,
little going on ... no brainers.

Mental health, welfare state,
think your spot on, think your great.
Urban people telling how it is.
Fk me,  took to much whizz.
Walking round, feeling fantastic,
look at me dancing,
pretty tragic really ...

Stupidly asked some bloke to dance,
now im in the back of an amb ulance.
A saturday casualty.
Its an average weekend for me.
Going mad, on a ******.
******* world,
No surrender.

(c) mandy rigby  and p skez 2012)

(now 4 yrs clean .. can i get an Amen?)

Sometimes in life,
I pause where I stand and take a breath,
Forgetting about my sorrows and strife.
For once not fearing death.

Sometimes I live,
Like the seed of a tree,
Not needing to forget, or forgive,
Just flying around; free.

Sometimes I lie,
Just to get people off my back.
I'm feeling upset because of a guy,
But it's not like many people really give a crap.

Sometimes I cry,
Because I want to let out the stress I have
Over that one guy,
Who is just a chav.

Sometimes I smile
Because once in a great while,
He makes my happy
Even though at the same time he makes me life ******.

Sometimes I shake,
I can't handle what's really at stake;
Loosing someone like you,
Is something I can't live through.

Sometimes I want to scream;
You did break my heart
And I'm only happy in dreams,
Where we're not living worlds apart.

Sometimes I want to yell,
Because you feel compelled,
To keep secretes from me,
As if it'll keep from making bad memories.

Sometimes, I feel the pain
You caused with a knife,
Through my heart's vain's.
Nearly ending the meaning of my life.


And yet,
Somehow. . .


Somehow in life,
I pause where I sit,
Taking a breath, no longer feeling the knife,
Planted there by some twit.

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

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

such that you are, a bane of hurt
that to him a rib, a bane of craft rebellious
that i too rebellious
against my creator -
i did indeed take a book
into the forest
like i'd take a slice of glass
into a desert,
and herded horses, eating camomile
flowers, gesticulating,
pouring beer into my hand and
letting them drink it,
watching the ******* sunset
of london like watching a Chav buying
underwear in Primark + Armani = Primani...
the pair of them walked home...
i ripped off flowers from the spring bloom crop
to ease the footing... something resembling
Lavender and indeed camellia: a wedding, no pause -
for their feet treading - the most colourful
garbage littered and not bothered -
just left intact, like the many shades of autumnal auburn
littering the streets come November.

Searching me down
looking for the prada
thinking every chav is selling narcotta

I  am a university man I said
well you resemble a local crackhead
said the rude fed
Whats with those meds
I went chemist for my mum
Do you think we're dumb?
tell us the truth son
those drugs are full your addiction
and that bike do you have permission?
no its my sisters she's at college
she recently left
that's technically thief

because why would you want to write something, that might make people do things? why bother writing coherent instruction manuals for televisions? why not write "incoherent" Kandinsky moments? why not go along to the Cabaret Voltaire? why not say that the only twists in the plot of philosophy books is based upon contradictory statements of the narrator? why even bother requiring that Apollonian sensibility of making things ultra-geometric rather than hyper-geometric? if there's an opposite argument, i would recommend reinventing the ******* wheel.

the difference between a pretentious ***, and a pretentious ***
that has any venture into a self-reliant awareness
of the thespian act,
  can summarise it by using the pronoun
scalpel -
        i wouldn't go on youtube and talk...
luckily i know how the pendulum of
power wrecks havoc -
never feed them regurgitated passive crap,
get them flexing the mental straits -
get them to the gym!
       for the love of doodling -
              and all the reliefs from thought
being dubbed *agony, and subsequently
institutionalised and given the jacket
in which you can't scratch your head, or nose.
just like today: i know that i don't
have a novel in me... schizophrenics on
the other hand are walking examples of a novel...
     just look at them like an atomist might
and you'll see the electron smog
         making them finicky between engaging
in pro and neutro.
                    they have decoded language to
the point of language being rejected as sacrosanct,
iconoclastic, muscular verbiage...
i like them... they're my culinary patriots of
the same (dis) negation of ease...
         and was it not said that to classify poetry
you have to rhyme, as it was later termed:
to classify philosophy you need to ask a question?
why?
        can i just call philosophy a need to encode
something? i'm making parallels with modern sprechen,
   i'm liberating myself while in the background
people are writing code and deforesting the Amazon
patch of land.
             and i never bothered to write in the pixel
market-place: ta' 'un fo' un' banana!
i never left a single comment in the comment section
on any website...
   websites... funny concept...
   they're like a library with only blank books in them....
  you enter and scribble on as many books as
you can... you never really have the audacity to
hear someone else talk...
you're always gagging to write something on
a blank page... like a graffiti artist...
   or a giraffe... but the bricks are approx.
   the segments of Beelzebub's eyes in pixel...
but i could have used the article scalpel -
which is a proto-Socratic variation of the debate
concerning particulars (the) and universals (a)...
   or... i'm pointing as something clearly defined,
or i'm a magician conjuring up something
that hasn't been clearly defined...
   and the 20th century summit of philosophy,
the pronoun scalpel said i (self) and you (other) -
subjectivity objectivity tumbleweed and a whistling in
the background...
     man and his extracted canvas...
hardware and software...
                        the barons of software cannot
understand the importance of hardware,
hardware is always the lesser thing of interest...
butchers and surgeons...
     while the software brokers known as
psychologists tell you to paint a pretty picture...
let it be known that Freud created the psychoanalytical
scalpel, he coined is as the id -
vector, pointer, incisor, that... later morphed into
verb-neuter: it.
             is my writing perplexing?
  isn't the world perplexing? we get exposed to so much
variation of what function we are supposed to
   perform, that we aren't being taught the grit & grime
approach of telling people: money has absolved us
from thinking of any nation, of any tribe,
of any ethnicity, money can't rekindle tribalism
of "primitive" societies... why then fool people
into having these intense convictions of "belonging"
and "solidarity", when the world still stands
on a cliff of (a) takes out the garbage, (b) sells you
underwear, (c) fixes your car, (d) speaks for
you before a judge with some authority... etc.
  and i'll write ******... why?
i thought you might be more offended by
a dyslexic variation of certain words...
but then i have this book - the ****** factory
by gil scott-heron... the revolution will not
be televised, that guy... mjumbe is Swahili
for messenger... i feel itchy...  i feel this
orthographic urge pinching me... primarily because
english as a language anywhere and everywhere
doesn't even convene over the concept
of orthography, because it doesn't have a concept
of utilising diacritical syllabification of words -
   when i look at english i'm watching ***** amsterdam
hoes doing the hokey-pokey, ***** ******* me
       to replace my eyes with a pair of *******...
    m̄-júm̄-bé... there, now that looks like a proper
cane, cravat and bowler hat gent, walking
   into a 20pence per use toilet at Liverpool St. station...
    because it was never about writing
an instruction manual for a "do it yourself" selling
price of an Ikea table...
                    that's why i said m̄-ài or (ma'ai) -
mmá ài          - well, there was no point in elevating
the competence of literature by forging a forgetfulness
   when reapplying a second level of configurative
complexity with the little additions,
otherwise known as trying to imitate the semitic practices
of words and women, hidden.
                 it was never going to work...
    but that's what we're left with...
     a gigantic mess...              every single one of
us to our idiosyncrasy - or collectively bound by idiom,
   which is the opposite side of a piglet-skinned european.
       it's still bewildering how chinese ideography
survived... maybe because it was always abstract
    skeletal, and not hieroglyphic definitive owl,
snake, or pyramid...
                  all dues to them: invest in complication
prior, move away from sing-along a-to-z simplicity
and save money on the health service when
people get erosion of the brain while watching too
many voids, encapsulated by q, r, o, p, a, d, b...
        we have as many ailments as there are
easily accessible routes into speaking this ****** language...
and the reason behind why so many accents
exist of it being spoken: because there are no
diacritical regulations to talk chav or cockney in
the first place... or why people would
make this eloquence of abstracting sound with
            modern acronyms akin to c u l8er.
the fact that i'm writing this partially intoxicated
makes it all the more pleasurable, relaxing even,
        would i write something sober sometime?
once in a blue moon, when i'm feeling constipated
and get a headache... it's sign language from
here on in, like this mobile phone advert:
   phones (index + thumb extend, other fingers folded
to imitate a telephone)
    for (4, folded thumb, four protruding fingers:
  index, middle, ring and the pinky) -
you (u, the bullish horns of rock and roll,
   headbanging and a few dead brain cells, \m/,
i.e. protruding index and pinky, thumb folding
a clenched marriage of middle and ring fingers)...
  as it goes... when i read a message by other people
i usually bypass the emotional content,
   and sent them packing to Alcatraz with a bunch
of chinese chess masters.

mindful...

i still have
a worth of half
a steak's worth
of frying to do...

to the ultimatum:
medium rare...
roses are red:
but only well cooked
steaks are pink...
"chewwy", side note:
bite bite.

       by now...
the world is anything
and everything
but a beautiful
place,
   to write such words.

for a song to make
you cry,
for a song to make
you itchy...
of this flesh...
  but of the same
sense of flesh,
without a sense of
belonging...
and then coming
across
a borrowing of
"reiteration"...

        that lost sense of
appeasement...
    self-congratulation
was never made into
a charles dickens' novel...
pride, pride: i too 'ide...
and 'yde...
                ******* *******'
worth of a hidden gem's
worth of a "winner"...

   ah wee,
ah chew,
            i chewie...
-wwy...
  chav and the chavvy
liquorice all-sorts
of the new vatican:
the victorian
puritans...

                ah chewbacca...
ah the disgruntled masses...
ah this, ah the other...
ah: and all of england,
but none of London.

so... no part of, velsh?
woe and woo your
parts of...
              timid,
and static,
   and...
                 immobile
crippled to me.

the crusades were
not a reply...
to the concept of jihad...
jihad
   is not reconquista?
but jihad is,
reconquista,
so what's the word
for crusade,
                in arabic?
crescent-
     maroondering
   (close, almost a google-whack,
2 search results)

         crescent-"maundering"?
have to start calling
the ottoman tactic,
the turkic,
the "anti"-arab mind-set,
the expansion into the european
balkans...
        milošević:
         milo-sh-eh-vee-"c";

there were also the northern
cursades of the teutons
against the prussians
and the lithuanains...
with polacks being the punching
bags...

         i almost wish i would relate...
but...
     i, "sort of", can't.

what's that blow movie character,
tht johnny depp character?
i was once upon
a time approached by
a "paddy chav"
  character in high school...
georgie jung
what with my french braid...
what with two years
growing my hair long
in highschool,
being called, chewbaca?
                      paid off..
but not...
          af you'd expect...
i had teen girls:
   ****-pants asking me what
shampoo i used...
        herbal essence
i'd reply...
                 i pretended to
rock climb,
i was big on squash, gym,
and cycling...
and where did that get me?
liter of ms. amber
and 10 years later:
i kind of looked back...
i began to "forget"
that there was something
wrong with me,
i never pointed a finger,
but this england we're talking
about:
if there's nothing wrong
with this island,
then sure as **** there's certainly
something wrong with it...
now? now i give a **** up
to the point where
a supermarket cashier
calls me darling or not...
that's what i give a **** about...
whether i chase her to the floor
to pick up her keys,
and, "whether" of not i remember
to tell her: good-night...
**** california dreaming...
i could have wanted to
revive the life of  american dream...
i never wanted to see the norwegian
fjords...
      me?
not even as far as iceland...
i....
       want the reincarnation
procedure associated
with the faroe islands...
wardrunga...
the crow,
pecking, croacking,
pecking, croacking,
croacking, pecking...
   one eye blind...

              kán skål...
i don't want to visit:
cali-for-nya...
                  i want to go somewhere
to practice the patience
of Tao...
      like south yorkshire...
or the foreo islands...
     i want to live a life...
where the world:
is dead....
to me, and any "beside",
extension of my imprint,
indentation...
      i want the world
worth the Tao inversion
of nihilism...
i want:
      **** the world:
but i'm still in it sort of
scenario.

                  this is not the sort
of instagram h'american
blueprint *******...
    no... this transcends
the "casual" traffic
of "information economics"...
or whatever new spew
comes our way...
                        
  what sort of, "economy",
dictates the rules of "information
economics",
when a hude portion of "it"
is censored?
          
i don't want to go to a montel
parking-lot,
florida, las vegas,
new york,
los angeles,
berkley,
         ******* disneland...
i just want to visit
the fareo islands...

   mind you,
the english, as an island peoples....
do not resemble
island peoples' ontology...
of being...
solipsistic...
  idiosyncratic...
the english are an island folk,
that "think"
but then sooner or later
retract "thought"
in being aligned
to a continental mentality...
            
sámal joensen-mikines....

   i come from a continental
stock, and history,
living among island peoples...
and yet...
i'm no more an island "person"
than i am a continent "person"...
maybe... just maybe,
i'd get the drift / riff
  into an islander mentality
if i lived on the faroe islands
or iceland...
not in britain though,
not in in ireland...
          i don't need to buy into
all of this ****,
this Pakistani
   virtual reality of Brimingham,
this Hindu / Sikh Manchester
pandering *******
"as if": every now, "supposedly"
likes cricket, for ****'s sake!

    i don't like being told
what to do, esp. a second time,
tome, of when i did,
what i was supposed to do when
learning the language,
by some,
           ****-boot-licking
   strap-on-ultra-gagging-******-tour
pansies, with a fetish
   for prepubescent drag-queens, o.k.?!

the english...
they're hardly the islander
stereotype mentality equivalent
to someone who's faroe
or icelandic...
they're continental through
and through...
look at them now quiver
at the prospect of
"getting it wrong"...
******* wankers...
    saxon son's of *******...
i live with them:
but that doesn't mean
i have to like them...
   their language,
having impreganted me...
will not, result,
in, some *****-slapped
integrational pristine *****-*****
of regurgitation,
will it?!

             i have my own head
to think with and to think for...
i don't need some Bristolian /
   Devon *******
telling me what a **** can say,
and what i can't!

made easier...
thank god i didn't come 'ere
for the women,
but for an armchair's worth
of language utility.

i should really stop watching these
youtube videos,
hearing people talking is
becoming... drag...

        esp. when drinking...
just put the music back on:
buddy body...
                  said the parasitic ego...
i can only entertain
about two new opinions,
per day...
      with you congesting
me with all this blah blah...
            don't get me wrong:
i do enjoy it...
        he enjoys it! "we're" fine...

just gender neutrality...
of pronouns?
             - he said there's more!
- and there is...
        how, certain languages...
can't escape the genderism
of their nouns...
     fwench...
         for one...

what about when you
become: pronoun disorientated,
i.e.
    you begin addressing
yourself via the plural
fabric,
   and in a doom-esque
style first shooter...
  you have to look back through
your eyes...
and breathe out a...
    'huh?!'

who wouldn't be perplexed...
       more music, less talking
videos...
**** me, you know the radio
station that plays decent
pop music,
and doesn't succumb to
advert interludes from
             circa 11pm to circa
6am...
            FAMA radio...
   https://radiofama.com.pl/

               yeah i know it's not
Wagner...
   but i like the fact that
adverts die after a certain hour
of the day,
and people are trying to
fall to sleep...
       esp. if they're not being
knocked out
  by a bottle of whiskey...

funny story...
i was once in a Liverpool st.
a black cud (cuddly thing,
a bit on the, lardish side)
stood next to me
with a white girlfriend...
   - see, she giggled,
i think she was... "in, on the joke"...
so i asked him...
- what are you drinking?
- *** & coke...
- oh, that's a ****** name for a drink,
i don't want the run-down
of the recipe,
i want the meal...
so what are you drinking?
- a *** & coke...
i had to eye him up and down,
down and up...
   fair enough, buckeroo...
- blackbeard!
the girl laughed...
      me, the interracial couple,
and some mongrel
with a proud irish in him,
and some pakistani...
standing side by side...
for a while...
oh god,
the pain, the embarrassment,
of having to explain to a stranger
that you have just been
strapped to: being stood-up
for a date...
             hey...
every time i flick my hand...
my shadow "friend"
i can't shake off...
     i didn't ask for a scribe
to dictate to a god my every
c.c.t.v. movement...
        hell...
         just have to roll with it...
but there was a giggle,
and yeah, he did don a beard...
what else would you call
a *** & coke... if not blackbeard?
a black isn't exactly black
when he's not coal...
but chocolate!
         the **** was he drinking?
a jack sparrow?
   to be honest,
that does sound better...
many people these days...
are not exactly concerned
with furthering the memory
of eddie "the patch" thatch...
- o.k., just give me the pagan music
from scandinavia and
some byzantine monk chants...
   i'll figure out some Mahler
when i'm in need of thinking -

it almost felt like standing
in Trafalgar Sq.
among all the throng
of the pigeon collective,
just prior to them taking
off by a slithering snap & bite
of telepathic panic
being induced on them...
      
    yes, because:
what did it feel like
is, probably twice as important
to reason...
given the casual expression...
what did i think about?
**** me...
i didn't think to begin with...
here's my cognitive luggage...
thinking always comes
after...
and, unlike feeling...
is never measured
     interim...

       measured feeling...
which of course, being measured...
allows for a post-scriptum
of thought...
delay...
                   pieces of a puzzle
that do not fit
for a personal gain...
since the puzzle / labyrinth is
already prosecuting you with
an a.i. semblance
       alternative -
the womb of all things abstract...
that... automated birth
from the womb of per se...
wriggle there, little sprout
of ego, *****-esque...
  into either that bright light...
or the yawning darkness...

no... feeling is not so bad,
but a tongue attired
in a stiff tuxedo will do you
one better...
   sure...

hey! oi! penta mann!
well, i can give you a sketch
of contradictions...
i'm about to live in a country
that freely accepts
Daesh refugees...
oh, just some stupid teenager...
but you know...
        there's no tongue-in-cheek
with this...
   prejudice contra:
and this is not about being
right or wrong,
rather: i told you so mentality...

so... when will the inmates
of Broadmoor
have their spring holiday?

the western five pillars...
let's see if i get this right...
  what once was shahadah
is now...         jahudah...
   funny, if any, translation...
       it's not exactly disbelief...
more...
          atoms are our tools,
and...
something or other...

   salat (prayer) becomes
hadith (freedom of speech)...

no good translation
when you need one...
so the idea...
oh... not gluttony...

that would be too obvious...
fast...
        siam...
                           hamia...
but this is...
   in the western world?
an obsession...
they figured:
pretense for Lent...
one month of obligation
ought to do it...
but... each and every day?
for...
nibbling on an iconoclasm?

zakat...
            if not
gambling...
then certainly being
duped
     into giving to
charity organisations...
who... of the 3 quid
you donated...
send 2.50 to the offices
of the charity,
and 50 pence to
the people in need...
      
hajj...
sure... your pick...
thailand...
  south america...
there's a "you" than needs
to find you
somewhere,
that isn't hier...
but... "da"...
             a there
that has to be a certainty
             of somewhere...

see... it's almost tempting
to aim for shooting
an own goal via a headder
from a corner set-piece
into my own net...

            but me...
i'm somewhere between...
the existential crisis of...

satan contemplates a serpent
by gustav doré...
and...
   ruins (inner voices)
by james tissot..

            sure as hell...
          no brick in ruin
without a structure...
    someone about... how they
are stacked up...
are always identical...
but among the rubble...
          great... so satan begins
with the contemplation
of a serpent...
  me? ******* grand chav
of the universe?
     - and god said:
   'ere, start with a brick...
mr. ******* lego magic...
      throw a ******* dog's bone!

see if you can spot
the similarity
that binds these twins together...

  gustave doré's
the judgement of solomon...
and antonio ciseri's
           ecce ****...
no... no glaring similarity?
   so... solomon was right...
in giving the baby up
to the woman who had no measure
of her emotions
(stand to the left
in doré's interpretation,
while standing to the right
in ciseri's interpretation)?
    the heart of truth...
is the basis for being allowed
to throw a stone,
rather than climb a mountain...
or some wacko-saying
out-"there"...
  "there" also implying:
"out"? "out" of "what"
and what "in" to begin with?

given the current...
   Moloch tribunal / freedomi
base...
   given...
       a whole plethora of
examples...
        the way solomon is cast...
for the better judge...
the crowd moved pilate...
while his wife kept
it a secret
     that he judged wrongly...

doré:ciseri ratio of comparison...
and you'd think...
but it's not like i'm
attacking the psalm singer,
king david...
          it's solomon...
               he's no more sacred
than a h.i.v. infection...
looking at these two paintings...
i think he was wrong
in giving up the child
to the hysterical woman...
because there's always
than silent audacity,
invested in,
   of proving the king wrong...

only a silent heart doesn't
lie...
      there's just too much stoicism
in the woman's reply
regarding solomon's judgement...
akin to the wife of pontius
pilate...
succumbing to feeding
the amassed throng...

but this does't change
one iota of me
concerning my problem with
christianity,
given the emergence
of the nag hammadi
library...
       i can't just...
incorporate those writings
   as: level playing field
with the strictness of the unwavering
stance of dogma...

     i'm still having...
one hell of a time...
          trying to not be bothered
by the coincidence of
the writings of
josephus ben matthias...
the flight to egypt...
where the nag hammadi
library was discovered...
nero...
         the book of revelation
(which... i think was the first
book written
in the new testament...
no...
        no one has that sort
of coherency...
  listen...
    i don't even know the name
of my grandmother
on my paternal side!
    yeah...
at least the old testament begins
like a poem...
not a ******* phonebook
into the past!
   me? when Greek sentiments
alligned
themselves with the sentiments
of the Hebrews,
to topple the Romans...
who...
       first encountered
the northerners)...
   and guess what...
i'm rather fond of digging this
trench of...
whatever it is worth...
belief, disbelief...
      you name it...
better that, than converting to islam.

in talking to a
continuous back
underendowed chav
an alluring fact became confessed
a gilded mahogany straight and true
they do not like
methinks that's par for the course
doubtless fact I did think