/               listening to lionel nation:

    a lawyer...

     and i... seriously can't tell
the difference

between what a lawyer
calls a play-on-word,

             and what a poet is...

who the hell needs to ingest
psychadelics,
   when you can listen
to a (probably) retired lawyer?

i appreciate that people
like stand-up comedians,

        or what's called cabaret
humour in eastern europe -

nope, no stand-up
       beckettesque: monologue
humour in some parts
of the world...

cabaret comedy?
                  a... dialogue...

but it's not like i'm
a scholar and will write a book
about this minor observation...

lawyer within the ratio comparison
of a poet?
    can't tell them apart...

the EU hinges on monetary
transparency...

fidgety with an algorithm,
entry:
  greek act of putting coins on
           the eyes of the dead...

apart from charon (karon,
no, chitty chitty bang bang)

       i guess that's what
nietzsche called the alchemical
principle, the book he never wrote,
but anticipated:

about the transvaluation of
all values -
                 id est: the second tier
of the gold standard,
the concept of money
  transvaluates:
   id est: translates a value of
something,
into a value ascriptive
purpose of another...
  
  then comes the description...

britain was always
in an informal agreement
with the EU,
given that it kept its currency...

it was never a formal bond,
inscribed with the sharing
of a collective currency,
    there was no vote to begin with,
the import of eastern european
labour coincided with the fact
that british children experienced
the cold sweats of:
   having to fall into a victorianesque
bbq of manual labour...
instead staging madness...
    
   england always retained
its currency... so what the ****
is blalxit?
         on an island,
   with its own currency...
   a bwehxit would have truly
happened, had britain adopted
the euro...
   the rest? a smokescreen.

- but there is no actual noun
to "decipher":
greek act of putting coins
        on the eyes of the dead
put into the griding machine
of words that is an algorithm...

a rite, but no name for the rite?!
seriously?!

there's is no name for it...
hence this poem, as a counter
explanation...
   a zeno paradox
coinciding with the example
of achilles and the tortoise.

i appreciate the ancient greek
analogy:
  or rather, "ancient":
in that... it was a... age of curiosity.

came the satanic dark ages,
came lucifer's enlightenment period...
where the **** are we at?
did we skip a part, a page,
a "something" from
inscribing humanity's autobiography?

no... but we are alive,
          and we are outside heidegger's
sense of dasein...
         having moved into the domain
of                   jetztsein...

considering the fact that,
german, as a "language" with regard
to how to define space...
    in translation in english (of course)...

    zeit... sure, time...
but space?
        raum?          oh right... roam?
nein nein nein!              oh... room?
                       das ist alle?

hence the second composite of time,
outside the casual expression
'there was a time... when...'
           akin to the: once upon...

no here, no there... jetzt!

p.s.

   well yeah... carpe diem in "reverse":
or as i like to call to -
immaculate immediacy -
a trance stace of waiting and waiting,
but never actually awaiting
anything, to be particular.

i was about to start writing this up when i thought:
another whiskey Quincy? **** storm,
spilled the remains of the one i barely touched
before having to pour myself a:
puritan Scot in Cheltenham.

now, i heard people say any town in Essex
is a ****-hole...
                            fair enough...
but there are darker recesses of England you
must get to know before making that
assumption...
                  sure, London, proper London,
zones 1 - 4, E17 (post code, outer reaches,
Walthamstow, used to have a dog racing
track - played there once,
like a typical Paris catwalk, those hounds)
can skive off Greater London
                    like New York can laugh off
New Jersey, it's pretty much like that...
the only thing is: Londoners don't know what
exists outside this area: the buffer zone.
this is the buffer zone...
                 you experience England outside of
this very sensitive area of integration,
take for example a 3 hour coach trip to
a little town of Cheltenham in Gloustershire
not far from Oxford (a hub of learning)
and Bristol (Massive Attack, and that
bridge by Brunel - funny, engineers are above
architects, in that engineers build things
that *work, architects are like science-fiction
novelists rather than scientists -
do you know how many problems workers
experience, because an engineer
"forgot to mention" something essential in the plans?
at least an engineer gives you a read table,
all architects work for Ikea -
          ah, here's pieces a - z,
put it together yourself) - anyway...
              spilled my Quincy whiskey, now i'm a puritan
of scotch - unlike that damning quote from
1950s Hollywood: whiskey with a drop of water...
   ok ok... a little **** of ice floating about...
when will the nagging stop? no one says jack
about putting water into authentic absinthe...
      why? cos it goes cloudy green when you do!
(too much digression, news paragraph).

   i was leaving London on Friday,
murky the way i like it... Albert Bridge never seemed
so out of cinematographic urgency -
               but the west end with its grand buildings
appealed to me to start imagining
                    Oscar Wylde ghosts leaving these places
for promenades in top cats and tiaras for the ladies...
                     west London... the best way to see it
is in transit... preferably rather urgently...
                    and in a coach with other people not paying
attention...
                       the Thames receded into the estuary (
as it does), those housed in boats experienced a wake-up
call with a 10° ***** into the mud -
                                past the Chelsea pensioners' abode,
past many monuments to be exact...
   and then onto the open M4... past Windsor Castle
and the streak of aeroplanes about an aerial mile
apart landing at Heathrow -
                                  3 hours later, there i was,
in Cheltenham - chitty chitty bang bang,
apparently dubbed the hub of all English literary
endeavours - well, if you're going to host
a literature festival, wouldn't you claim to host
it with at least one patriotic son of the word?
did i see any statue of a famous poet or writer in
that little rugby stockpile of excess triceps?
nope.
           well, at first i thought it was cute...
                                a little Portobello, albeit
without the St. Petersburg paintwork on the houses,
houses as grey as the skies...
                                           got lost looking for
the b & b hotel i was supposed to be staying at for
the night, went into a gas station, asked,
i was apparently only adjacent lost -
                           old school, map printer and no
g.p.s. on foot -
                                  i once read a map and navigated
a car from an obscure Essex city,
to an even more obscure city in eastern Poland,
past the dreaded Penta Germania consisting of:
Düsseldorf, Duisburg, Essen, Wuppertal and
obviously Dortmund -
                                           i call it the whirlpool
of navigation...
                            anyway, so i found the abode,
what a nice little place it was, shied away from
all the traffic - a lovely garden,
a room fit for a journeying writer,
          actually, everything a writer could hope for
to lock himself away and write,
            tunic scenic - everything to ease the literary
constipation - the surroundings, the whole decor,
i even took a picture thinking: shame if no
Balzac were to not emerge from these rooms...
                           i sure didn't,
i dropped all the things, took a shower,
went into town to do the g.p.s. topographic of
the city so i wouldn't need a map in the future -
bought a bottle of whyte & mackay with a huh?!
apparently this brand isn't popular...
               went back to the room and found myself
drinking in front of the dreaded sight...
well... it was a room fit for a writer...
               but it had a double bed in it...
and a mirror at the desk...
                                    i downed one puritan glass
and looked in the mirror: i don't need your company.
looked away and found to my amazement the
truth of modern writing: the industrialisation
of writing... it emerged in the 20th century when everyone
did it by himself, with a typewriter -
        the industrialisation of writing on an individual
scale can be quiet debilitating when trying to
rekindle the quill... i didn't write anything, i doodled,
and those were bad doodles, it wasn't writing,
it was doodling... i drank a quarter of the bottle
and went out...
        went into the first bar, ordered a Guinness and
and sat down by a table with a
(later disclosed) Gloustershire University student,
a Canadian, jacking-off a script for some
B-short-movie in a public place: to catch the oozing
exfoliation of inspiration from crowded places -
if ever that worked, it might have ever worked
in a graveyard...
                             we were joined by his friend,
some peasant, we got chatting, boy, it was such a thrill
to exchange names... the Canadian's name
i did remember: Darcy...
                          he had that look about him that made
it worthwhile to remember his name,
ah, when names fit the image...
                         chubby, pig-blondish, hairy...
i'm guessing a native of Quebec...
                               but i could be wrong.
so a few hey hey, yeah yeahs later i asked if they
knew something about this gig on the festival slot
that was starting tomorrow, 5 p.m. and for free...
sure sure... got to eye the guide... so i asked:
so, maybe we could meet up at this place at this time
and go from there....
                                  Titanic looked more graceful
sinking than the reply...
                                                 i had to really check myself,
this isn't London psyche chess, this is:
we are small people from a small town,
we think a charming stranger is a serial-killer...
                    the Yorkshire ripper case scenario,
not last... first.
                              i might have been ******* a lemon
by then and pretending to be drunk squirming
a Buddha look - i pretended the polite noting down
the details: suddenly i didn't think like attending
this ****** venture that would start at 5 p.m., end
at 12 a.m. and according to my travel diary:
having to wait 2 hours to catch the 2 a.m. home.
so i went to the first instalment of the "literature"
festival... lemn sissay and salena godden -
and i have to admit, it was a corker - a true
a champagne cork popped and hit the crystal
chandelier and i laughed... and that's how i lost my
virginity to "spoken word",
                                         i wasn't listening to poets,
but i was thoroughly entertained, i swear that
at the end of her performance Salena pointed into
the dark (great tactic, how can they be nervous
if they can't see anyone? they stand on a pulpit of pure
light and see black ahead, where the nerves?)
and said: esp. to my friend over there...
                i might have involuntarily back-laughed /
snorted like a pig trying to catch enough lung volume
for a ha ha...
                          got chatting to this lovely middle-aged
couple: told them: i'm being ***** with gags.
                prior, i was watching the queue build up
into the room, with a god-awful grin on my face...
i couldn't take it off...
                         perhaps because i was looking at
the demographic and thinking: where are my peers?!
i spotted about three people in a close age proximity -
the rest were farts and soon-to-be-farts...
                             now Sissay freaked me out...
in a good way... i met the two after the show,
i brought two copies of my own printed work to give to
them... i had to ask their publicist if i was allowed
to touch the Aegean marbles... luckily i did,
but then i asked the stupid question to Sissay:
so who were you trying to imitate when your eyes
were bulging out nearly gauged out like a Pink Floyd
song video of: teacher! let these children go!
               i should have associated something African
freakish in mask, a strengthening - the sort
of look that New Zealander rugby players put on
to frighten people off when dancing the haka -
he really did talk like that...
                                       the little devil voice didn't help
either... but i only asked that "stupid" question
while mumbling something about how hard it was
getting published and how anyone aged nearing 40
forgot the free press of the internet emerging and
how he asked for a q & a after the performance...
and... hand on my heart:
                                   got asked one question...
          and answered... only one question...
                                        a complete and utter ******* meltdown...
   not: oh yeah, so who's your major influence...
                      a Samuel Beckett moment from not i.
later i standing outside and smoking, a grand English
dame of the west approached me,
chitty chatty kiss the hand later i got to say the most
famous line known to the current Englishman:
unfortunately... from Essex.
             honest. anyone asks you in Essex the question
they always ask: so where you're originally from?
                         anywhere else in England
they just ask you: whe

.when did i realize there was no point in lying? people who are pathological liars tend to forget, the scrutiny of memory; my god, memory has a bias for scrutiny, why do you think the powers-at-be are relentless in exhausting it with scholastic examination, marking, the whole rubric of needless demands?! lying also erodes the capacity to engulf and, keep, memories... telling the truth, counter-wise? memory becomes a cinema... whenever i remember something, i remember it because it was truthful, and it becomes a subversive cinema reel that i sometimes tune into... point about pathological liars, they're just like the pristine students in the days of high school... they end up being the best students... given? for the lie to be true, they have to remember the lie, word for word, by a demand that demands them to disclose it, and they can't make variations... you have to keep the lie as intact as an eye aiming to bite into that forbidden apple... you deviate... the lie implodes... lie covers lie until what takes place, is, until enough coverings the original lie is covered with, a naked statue emerges... satan's original sin was a lie... man's "original" sin was... that it was altogether... "original"... to transcend the stated law; you can't be a liar, and have a ****** faculty for memory... you lie, bad, real bad, if you don't have photographic memory... bad liars make bad killers / accusers... to lie... you need to remember the original focus of the subsequent thread! and there's only one thread of events... you can't juxtapose what happens contrary to what is thought, because thought is a theta-precursor of a moral: ought... plus we're mortal! **** only happens once for us paupers of existence!

you know, sometimes you have to bring a few songs back
into your abode having walked the nightly death toll..
the maneouvre,
   the manouevre...
the manouvre...
**** it... it's French, which is worse than English
on the number of surds and what equates into the clarification
of syllable...
there's this son of a site manager on site at where
my father works...
he asked...
for the spelling of the word: T O R C H...
there are only two syllables!
   tor-ch! chitty chitty lucky fucky thai bang bang!
it's not even natives who are proud...
proud as in: up-keeping something...
these ******* make us look silly
defending their culture...
seriously?
you can spell T O R C H?
   give me a breather...
                        i'm not joking when,
i try to joke, that these people exist...
apparently the claim that we're all literate
isn't true...
i know the authorities promised us
a literate mass of people...
but apparently that's not true...
the whole:
but it's the 21st century argument... ???
gone, out the ******* window,
we're starting over...
it's not happening!
no chance in hell!
i'm not buying this *******
quest for an en masse literacy project...
no... sorry.. not happening...
   i don't, speak, French...
   and even though the English primary school
system is superior to the secondary schools,
esp. the faith schools...
  i should be speaking a third language
by now...
   namely German, which is why i'm teasing
using it...
French? no! no! i don#t understand
the logic behind hiding syllables
and exposing sometimes unnecessary
diacritical marks!
**** don't float,
moreover: it doesn't flow!
it's not a ******* river,
or a **** exposed to a high concentration
of fat!
no!
         it's not happening!
whatever the English think that
somehow speaking French will do to their
children... it's... gone!
i'm not thaat honk of a clumsy
**** facet... forget it...
they might have the better good...
but in terms of linguistics?
is Dianna Specer alive?
thought so...
   i wouldn't dare to even send my shadow
into that custard clumsy clown
show of a mine field of mistakes:
just readied for my mistake to take place...
but as you do,
walking back home,
in the scary streets of outer suburbia...
scary men, scary witches...
ooh... can get a man better
than a ******...
                 that famous, "supposed":
thrill of the chase...
more like:
i've got one, let's have another one...
hope you're enjoying your harem
you little camel jockey...
i'll side with the Iranians
and the Bangladeshi...
never the ******* undertaker
of the desert switch and frivolity -
isn't... "frivolience"
and adjective, without an affix, -ness?
yes, -ness is an affix,
not a suffix...
           a quality agitator of
a, somehow, mundane word...
but rarely does it happen,
coming home with songs
that begin and end
with rotting christ's
(greek black metal)
                     Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού
album,
and begin with
the soft moon's album,
of the same name, debut...
rarely...
        usually my way of thinking
is such shrapnel material
that i notice the difference...
this time i couldn't...

i couldn't help that instance,
in my memory cinema
with regards to an incident in the night...

i write fast, so i don't lie,
i'm probably prone to write
faster than you read...

the traffic incident involving
two cars parked prior to an X
junction with a pack
of deer in the middle of it,
and me walking past from a drinking
session in a field of wheat,
drunk like a skunk,
noticing a young deer-ling
looking back at me...

so i gave it the chase...
i charged at it...
the flock of deer with their offspring
ran down the road,
and jumped over the fence,
and into the opening of
a field, subsequently into a forest...
so i managed the traffic incident...

now...
   am i lying?
and i would lie because.... ?
what, likes, shares the whole sha-bang of
using social media?
     em...
   i groove to the clash's
rock the casbah...

   sure, three mares,
about five young Bambi types...

BUT...

   what if a, ******* stag was there
to boot?
Santa not getting enough horn
*****?!
       how am i supposed to know
if a harem just lost its
alpha met, and is standing
disorientated in human
cement territory?

                 i'm not a child...
   i get bored, as i got bored of
lying, a long time ago...
           it's pointless to make *******
impressions on people,
which, you will evidently never meet once
more...

             yeah... deer, no i didn't count
how many there were...
i'm pretty ******* sure there
wasn't a stag in sight..

otherwise i'd be musing how many
imaginary acorns i could shoot from
my ***... with those antennas
shoved up my ***...

but traffic problem solved...
what was funny was that i didn't finish
my beer...

   Santa...
on an imaginary sleigh,,,
deer in front, no reins...
running like a madman
with a can of beer in one hand.

I was suckling the barrel
of my grandpa's favorite gun,
when Gloria strolled in,
head held high,
like a 12-story *****.

"What the **** are you doing?"

"Nothin', sweets, I was just wondering about the taste."

Gloria mixed herself a Mt. Vesuvius,
unplugged the telephone,
turned on the tv,
dug her nails into my weary couch,
over and over.

I didn't ask how her day went,
she didn't call me babycakes,
we didn't touch,
I just watched as she changed channels,
sunk further into oblivion,
I traced my kneecap with
grandpa's gun,
it was something to do, I suppose.

"You know you got to get out," she finally said.

I looked like a suicidal *******, baptized in cobwebs,
and every word I threw at every guest teemed parasitic.
I hadn't left the apartment for awhile,
it seemed like every time I did, I would collide with
some enemy, and my bloodlust was subsiding.
I didn't like it to be so awfully one-sided.
"Hey, look at me," she demanded.

Maybe the neurons are crippled,
can't cross the synapse,
or perhaps it's this culture that
listens only to the false priest in its head,
but when no one else around you is living,
it makes the whole gig seem a bit pointless.
"Gloria, sometimes it's better just to die."

Some get that way by playing it safe,
memorizing mantras, righteously abiding by rules,
some get there by cutting seams,
lost in purposelessness, partaking of
ether, marijuana, alcohol, or anything
that's buzzy enough,
some find their sweepstakes in curls,
in fantasies, on the internet, or in the aftermath,
some claim the spoils, some gracefully accept
determination, some divorce their wives,
some happily raise their pulse to the heavy metals,
some review albums and cut down the *******,
some write love stories for our grandmas,
our moms,
our ex-girlfriends,
some find it in politics, right winging, left winging, chicken winging,
some in bomb threats,
some find it in supremacy,
others in melting pots,
some cheer up over breakroom chitty-chats,
some in **** ***,
some in sympathizing with pedophiles trapped in iron lungs,
some when they have hit the bottom rung,
some by rationalizing,
boosting themselves above half-wrongs,
to coast on the half-rights,
some by breaking up,
some by declaring war,
only to get discouraged, yet proud of the scars,
some kids dance to experimental music,
some write blogs about capitalism,
some find it kicking it with bitter vegans,
others while murdering their parents,
but everyone is a winner,
everyone is right,
everyone has earned the paycheck,
the vacation,
the **** wife,
and the key to eternal life.

“Listen here buds”
I’m not going to
**** around
or hold back
or try to even the score
and in return
“Don’t **** with me”
“moooore”*

This is an ode to ol' Stuart
Or Brandon
Or Stubacca
Or Bongshit
Whatever you want to call him
Call him it
Conflict
Resolution
Resided
In Penta rips
I reminisce
Too **** often
That’s what I am here to admit

I guess that is the purpose of this poem
Is to make all the apologies
I left unsaid
And to leave all the unsaid
slights behind

Because in my mind,
I was not a good roommate
And you weren’t either
But our insult based arguments would deflate
Recognizing we were both underachievers
Two ******* calling the kettle black
Denzel Washington Movies
And Back
In Quail
Room 1514
Was a “Kozy Shack”
Was not for the weak
Lungs
The haziest of all hostels
A blaze fest
A Bro-out Brothel
"OB Get the ******* door!"
"And don't forget to lock and towel"
Escape from the real world
Into the mythical Qualcation

The Adherol - know it alls
3 Pills of dex – 45 minutes crushed text
Book and and back when we were hooked
  “This **** is just like doing M”
Thank christ for all your friends in MGMT
As it didn’t stop you from copying them
Mr. Rintoul had bigger fish to fry

And I was frying them
because the kitchen was foreign
So at 4 in
The mornin’
I’d be cookin’ creative
Broke *** creations
Cause stomach pains
Are a serious disease

Please
Don’t take
This poem
The wrong way
Because back in the day
Are the days I miss the most
We played host
To a family of friends
Anyone would want to boast

Thank you for reminding me it was your birthday
Every ******* year
Every elaborate party
You deserved
No Hissy fit was unwarranted
Speaking on behalf of a floor Matt
You know the one you parented
The upmost respect remains
For papa Stewie

And when I got my dewy
I got a few hugs of sympathy
While you laughed in my ******* face
And when you couldn’t find a roommate
I happily took that place
And when I left movie night in the trailer
To go do slam poetry at a talent show
You made me feel so out of place
And when I returned with my 100$ winnings
You were the first person I bought a pilsner case

The fact that you never made the break through
To see the majority of the time
We were laughing at you not with you
Doesn’t seem to be an issue
Because maybe you did know all along
Staying in check
Punishing us
stoner massages
That could break necks

Now these days with a real job that really pays
Stuart Rintoul will still tell you he is LiViN’
Even - If he is stuck in Edmonton
This separation
“Is horseshit”

Let me state it one last time old pal
This poem is not meant to offend
And deep down from Roses to the Corral
I hope you bang all my ex girlfriends

I should have never left you all those times for *******
Or in the words of Tuner “PP!”
I should have stayed and watched Blade 3

To all those
who really knew Stu
It was really me
eating all the peanut butter
by the spoon
But blaming it on you
Was too opportune

Stu,
You are
******* clutch
******* decent
And so ******* “chitty”

You were the best friend
I should have never asked for
And for this
I will never
**** with you
Any
“mooooore”

Warm toes, cream floating in the coffee
A sweet red apple encased in rich toffee.
Cheesy mashed potatoes and bangers
Cheeky whistles of the old clangers.
The comforting tune to Watch With Mother
The antics they get up to in Big Brother.
The two adorable children in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
The all time favourites that Mary Poppins sang.
Gob Stoppers that used to change colour in the mouth
The warmth of the sun as you travel south.
The cotton wool smoke in Camberwick Green
Rainbows with crushed apricot colours in-between.
Sunsets sunrises who could ask for more
A true gentleman opening the door.
All these things I would not mind doing twice
if not more because they are all things nice.

Come on over,
and we'll craft a new key to the kingdom,
all I want is to cut the seams,
pulverize the patterns,
rewrite the Hamlets and all the works of Hemingway,
what are you doing now?
nothing?
great.
Come on over,
I have a handle of SoCo,
I know it's your favorite,
we'll shoot the **** and
chitty-chat about how
it's so easy to drink.
Come on over,
and brilliant minds
will strum guitars,
**** ivories,
croon with weary pipes,
all in plain sight.
Come on over,
this world wasn't made for us,
so let's force it into submission
with controversy and batshit revelry.
Let's lay on the carpet,
and swoon to the love that courses
in our veins,
let's help me to the tile
when the evening's endeavors come back up,
let's write a new Odyssey,
let's sing a new American anthem,
let's light the apartment on fire,
let's talk about how badass my girlfriend is,
what are you doing right now?
nothing?
great.
Come on over,
and I'll be your slave.
Whip me with criticism and fright,
I'll give comfort and brighten
the corners,
mix you a drink,
play you a Monk tune,
dance like I invented it,
and make you nostalgic for the 70s
like I lived each millisecond of the decade.
What are you right now?
Nothing?
Let's scare the ******,
the politicians,
the folks keeping scores,
the drunkards down the road,
self immolation?
Great.

When you hit the bottom,
come to me,
your world-savvy
Midnight Man.

There were two packs of Pyramid Reds,
three packs of Marlboro 100s,
a trendy girl's white knitted cap with a zebra print bow attached,
and a banana flavored ****** scattered across Drew's dashboard.
I met him at Delta,
the restaurant where he worked,
which was more nursing home than modern sock hop.
He lit up,
told me we were bringing denim jackets back,
and then dragged me to pick up a bird feeder for his mom.
"How is um-****, what's her name, rahhh...Rachel?
he asked two stoplights into our journey,

"She's really good, man. Things are just going swimmingly."

"She wants my nuts."
Drew thought every girl wanted his nuts.
It had become a regular catch phrase.
While it was his ritual to begin our talks
inquiring about my girlfriend,
it was mine to ask what the number
of ladies he had slept with was up to.

"Oh, I'm not for sure, baby. Let's see, there were twelve
at the restaurant so far this year-"

"Twelve?"

"Yeah," he said grinning,"my ******* managers had to give me a
talk."

"They gave you a talk for having a bomb *** life?"

"Not exactly. They were telling me to lay off the underage ones.
Lawsuits and **** like that."

"Awesome."
Just then some hefty white woman
with her hair in a bun ran a stop sign and
cut in front of Drew,
he didn't swear,
nor did the jackassery interrupt his flow,
he simply threw up a hard *******,
and continued forward.

"The total is definitely over thirty. Thirty, thirty-five,
somewhere in there."

We stopped at one of those breakfast chains,
that synthesize the ancient all-night diners
of American mythos.
Two for the smoking section,
and we were placed in a corner,
across from a burnt out
workingman,
who smelled of **** and aggression.
Drew chain smoked,
while we both burned through cup
after cup of coffee.
Drew had ****** two of the waitresses
that were on duty,
one came by and chitty-chatted with him.
Her name was Beth.
Someone broke her nose when she was seven,
she had a fella who was a waiter there as well,
both talked to Drew like he was a cousin or
an old high school friend.
Our waitress had blonde hair.
She was twenty-four,
but raising her sister's ******* child,
and supporting her mother on
tips was cutting lines into her
tiny face.
Drew was talking smooth to her,
no doubt he slept with her before the
end of the week.
When she left he said,
"Isn't she sweet?
She's a ******* sweetheart.
Do you think I gotta chance with her?"

"Yeah, man. You're being a real pro."

"I thought so," he said as he took a deep inhale,
then let the smoke glide between his smiling teeth.

Drew waged a political war that lasted 10 cups of coffee
and one pack of cigarettes.
The first casualty was the ******* that drive 350s and don't
have a hitch.
The second was the wealthy.
Glen Beck.
Capitalism.
American ignorance mistaken as patriotism.
Needless to say,
we got along wonderfully.

We talked of old times,
like a couple of old guys,
and I was surprised at how distance
had shaped our views so similarly.

"You're lucky, man. You got yourself a nice girl, all settled n' ****.
All I got is ******. I just **** them, they fall in love,
and I put 'em in their place and go to the next one.
It's ******* sad."

"It's not sad, you just haven't found the right lady, I suppose," I said trying to make him feel lighter.

"Nah, I probably already met her, and just ****** her.
I don't even respect the girls I sleep with enough to
take them back to my place. Most of them I **** behind Delta,
a couple of times by that Walgreens off Kickapoo, Wal-Mart,
Denny's, um **** even behind that Petopia store."

"Behind Petopia? That needs to be the name of your book."

it truly only exists in english-speaking societies...
after spending 3 weeks in poland,
god bless the pine woods and the number
of birch trees... and the -18°C temperatures -
   i can't but feel this aura of insanity hanging
over any western society...
        it's this languishing in people censoring
each other in a vocabulary battlefield -
               it's this persistent need to censor yourself
when the word best used, is deemed by others
to hurt their ears... as if i were standing over them,
with a drill to their ear, or
    a raven claw about to gauge out their eyes...
         i never understood it, but it's happening
in western society...
no wonder society stands firm with the lynch mob of
Ełk... it wasn't a scene from Nice,
nor that bloodbath in Paris...
                       a toll of only one soul, stabbed
in a kekab shop...
      Islam will be hardly welcome in Poland:
you need a very ridiculous version of catholicism,
as is the case, from where i reside.
                    there was no candlelight vigil...
there were only his contemporaries
    lynching the poor Tunisian...
            his shop was destroyed...
and a few other, innocent people got smacked in the gob:
like the 21 year old's death: for no reason:
  just to fill in the rubric.
                       the hashtag from Poland circa
December 16th? #wolne media...
            apparently the media were no longer welcome
in the sejm...
    i just can't tell you anything grand about that,
i was watching it from a public television set,
in a cafe drinking strong coffee...
      while four Ukranian women were eating chicken
and other eastern european delicacies...
waiting for their coach to Kiev...
                   and that pauper making a sandwitch in
the bus-station...  no butter: a slice of ham
slapped into two slices of bread...
        and god: that frost below zero...
finally i could breath air! free from African and
Arabian pathogens... like they say:
bacteria, viruses and parasitic lifeforms require
heat... you get cryogenic treatment in Siberia...
    for a long time: i felt ethnically completely...
mind you: it snowed in England today,
   but it was a teasing type of snow...
  it's practically not there anymore...
                         why did i write certain ''poems''
invoking racial slurs? at the frustration of being
dislodged from whiskey,
and the keyboard...
                       i rather throw enough negativity
into a blank canvas than a punch on someone...
       but it's there: citizen versus citizen and how
we are to speak, so unfeelingly: so un-freely...
                          and the curse of having that nagging
justification for what we said while exhaling
      helium...
                       i am, however, after something more
serious... namely why there are only two diacritical
marks in the english language, and they are closely-proximated,
on the ι (iota) and the j... and nowhere else!
               it's a bit too tad presumptious that these
letters received the treatment for accent-prone recipient
mandates...
                                  english has so many examples
it deviates from when diacritical rules are invoked...
     tri-                 tripple           try  and              tip -
   random, i know...
                         but given the ι, there is no reason why
a dot above it should be the sole incissor...
     why doesn't í exist? yes: the acute iota?
                             much concerning the
lost trill of the Ar...
                                              and if i were to rewrite the
alphabet, you'd have clear beginnings,
   and even clearer borrowing to put the masculine
sound last, as in the case of Ar...
     so to borrow from the periodic table...
a...    be... ç.... (so s ***** off)
                     deed...                 e...
                         ef (e minor, F needs e to exist as distinct,
but because of f being at the back, beginning with e,
     we'll not count it as an autonomous letter)...
              gee....
                                ­                             aye-chitty-chitty h...
                        laughter knows no alphabet...
ah forget this... it's getting muddled!
  the greeks used original names to encapsulate phonetic
units, apart from η (eta), μ (mu), ν (nu), ξ (xi), π (pi),
  ρ (rho), τ (tau... hence no taoists),
                            φ χ ψ (phi, chi, psi) -
question, why not pha cha psa?
          evidently vowels were used to stabilise
  the consonant grounding, but you could have used
other vowels to stabilise the sounds φ χ ψ -
  evidently the h when coupled to a p or a t is only an F...
     but in Greek that's future: not effigy.
        thank god i took to chemistry at some point in my life...
i can fiddle with these curiosities...
           Latin has exhausted its musicology...
it's no longer an alphabet that might give us a mozart,
or some poor castrato choir...
     and from chemistry, is has to name certain
letters nouns...
       like omicron or omega... being names
more than mere sounds designated the o & ω symbols...
latin will not sing anymore for us...
   we need to strenghten the alphabet recitation...
  some letters can remain simple,
but others have to involve an: o into omicron rigidity...
  or an ω into an omega mystique...
     which translates into quick-speaking and slang...
and i don't know: 3 weeks without the internet...
strenghtened by being sober... and actually being able
to read a book of 400 pages by kraszewski...
      and i come back,
   i wish someone on the periphery of London have
         the same European experience as i had in my native
soil...  a strange experience of a monochromatic society...
       western people my age had to resort
to the internet...
                           it's so less exhausting...
                             you start to think about going fishing,
rather than shouting your point of view into
   a dajjal-eye of a video channel...
                                                 i've only been back from
a mono-cultural society, and i didn't even think about
  drinking my loyal share of whiskey...
      it's so so exhausting, beginning with learning words
in order to later censor them...
                          and yes, i wish i could go back...
      i would have been a third-generation metalworks
worker... but globalisation happened...  
                    mm hmm... what am i doing here?
       well, i'm certaintly not thinking about it...
                          england has become exhausting,
using english has also become exhausting...
      no wonder i started listening to finnish folk bands...
   i need a ******* breather.

Dune not be bashful, grumpy, leery
or any other contemporary dwarf man
regarding countless less well known dwarves
(that never got a chance
to play a bit part) such as wham
bam
thank you ma'am
linkedin with emergence
of Internet and poetry slam
opportunities availed by Nast tee Uncle Sam,

which characters (albeit fiction),
nevertheless, helped spawn a quiet yet free
global, radically riotous,
totally tubular snow white transformation
affecting a societal and human specie
but also augmented, credited,
engineered, et cetera contributing
to paradigm seismic shift that garnered tree
mend us plentifully birthed schema,
impacted and transformed how wii

(more particularly many gifted minds)
bridged geographical distance
(encompassing all four corners
of the Earth) to enhance
what came to be called the world wide web,
courtesy Sir Tim Berners-Lee
hewing digital strong armed lance
information super high, "Cyber Revolution,"
etc allowing one to prance

and essentially transcend reality to brook
cyber sea ghosting, fostering, embezzling crook
commanding, commingling, communicating, hook
line and sinker, et cetera courtesy nerdy kook
with an excellent access and outlook
reaching the most distant cranny and nook.

This (bit a bing chitty chitty bang bang)
democratization of information,
manifestation toward
exponentially faster processing capacities
(latest technological trend heralds
Quantum computing – promising
to transform the world into
twenty first century space race)
more powerful than pen or sword
(based on principles of Moore’s Law), reward
witnessing atheists to thank good lord

electronically solidifying
binary unification swiftly tail lord
engendering greater dependence and reliance  
figuratively shrinking the drinking gourd
allowing far flung aliens, family,
friends, et cetera to ford
great distances via sophisticated electronics
courtesy of super smart motherboard
enabling ever more complex
futuristic electronic contrivances,
the generic **** Sapien gibbon could afford.

Analogous to Medieval Age
this quiet ***** riot creation
(ushering on thee global stage
equally as controversial when
la cage aux folles aired)
vis a vis Internet did un cage
actual overcoming physical barriers
ushered Hallmark gauge
marked by Computer/Digital Age odyssey),

especially sharing pixelated page
at light speed, where the ordinary individual
could keep in contact )
albeit with every now and again
a bit torrent rage
and in some instances tapping
smarts of a preschooler considered a sage,
which kindergarten lad/lass
commandeered a handsome wage

whereat the parental figure
did gently cajole, wheedle or beg
their wealthy progeny promising
son/ daughter of a healthy nest egg
framing almighty dollar
as theatrical masterpiece jpeg
storing money in Swiss
bank accounts or hollow leg
perhaps christened Meg
or if an avid weekly reader
of Moby ****'s Queequeg,

who felt incorporeal storied power
of Herman Melville as zen unseen aid
instructing hypothetical rich kid
to drop out of school
before his/her first grade
cuz of all the money he/she made,
which affected modus operandi rendered obsolete
child worker laws  
and no sweat of brow getting paid
people used bitcoin (protocol
which implements a highly available,
public, and decentralized ledger)
additionally making purchases
with scant keystrokes to complete a trade.

As with any major dramatically novel scheme  
light bulb idea scribbled on napkin
or other scrap of paper
via modeling brainstorm viz cutting up cheese
or spraying whipped cream
originating as a flash in the pan
aha eureka moment, or dream
as rough blueprint subsequently
underwent beta testing,
before declaring pc innovation supreme,
whereby outstanding persons
in the tech industry
clamored to join Kidde team.

Whether seventh day add vent
hissed or other religious creed
powerful binary processing
rooted and impacted particularly
after tooth house sand
years after common era (re: anno domini)
earth shaking incarnation indeed
and ramifications in all walks
and talks of life sought expert need.

Coven chanting children murmured Luddites be ******!

Thus spake Zarathustra
(cue the opening scene
from Planet of the Apes)
upon witnessing as if king or queen
(in reality father or mother)
didst get immediately
dethroned thus, increasing mean
average positive netzero
effects on society, especially lean
microchip i.e. integrated circuitry
miniaturization "green"
technology (and eventual
attendant affordable price),
viz said trappings
upon global market
invited absolute zero dust, a must clean
as a whistle work space,
and manufacturers laboratory be microbe free
hermetically sealed vacuumed "clean.”

Countless portable computers
unbeknownst soon invited
florid colorful expletives
upon heads that did wantonly hack
impromptu malfeasance called cyber crime,
especially as majority proportion of population
didst purchase these dime a dozen,
countless electronically sophisticated contrivances
every Tom, **** and Harry

snapped up these smart machines
excitedly keyed away
ofttimes indifferent to gunk
on unwashed hands
plus bits of food particles
eventually caking hardware with grime
subsequently necessitating technician
charging gobs of moolah
sans to unstitch in time.

Gooey glop getting suctioned out
vaunted vips venting vitriolic vocalizations
emphasized obvious
NO FOOD OR DRINK rule to abide
cuz suctioning tower computer
or laptop presented vulnerability
plus unforeseen downfall against fried
food and greasy hands ended up hide
ding hardest to reach locale
on circuit board no matter
how expert technician pried
“end user” yelling out gratitude
to geek squad member helping
before he/she went side
dulling out front door

eagerly awaiting
remotely controlled self driving vehicle
transporting self taught techie guru home
to an obscure gated destination,
an uninterrupted distant, yet pleasant ride
eventually amateurs encouraged
to tinker like an apprenticed tailor

akin as raw troubleshooting recruit
oft playfully feigned to be soldier spy
pretending to repair bowel of computer
when in truth visiting
supposed outer limits of functionality
legality, and radicality shadowing dark side
which lined illegal benefits
of labor saving devices.

The sound of silence
written on the subway walls
though heretics opposing
latest technology and felt sinister chill
(just ask Punxsutawney Phil),
the Internet ranks as greatest dog sent rill
lee where wiz kids ranked
chatting killer apps with grateful dead
information superhighway as heavenly manna
with artificial intelligence street cred
since introduction of white bread
and powdered milk biscuits
baked by Ahmed.

it's called an idea in jungian: collective consciousness, which is harsh on latin acronyms in freudian consideration of the id being added the α & β for explanation of κ... makes sense in cyrillic, but not in black sabbath's solitude of explaining the solfège (sole-fledge): rhyme and the acoustics of latin gave song, fully embraced by the english from latin... leaving the aspirations of the byzantines lagging behind aristotle to define what's grecian. chitty chatty bonk bang ****, and a puff of smoke left by the cartoonish quote of the road-runner that came along.

Yours truly does readily confess
the following poem crafted more or less
approximately a year ago,
when coronavirus (COVID-19)
wrought havoc creating global mess
when panic against collective temple did press
a feeling of melancholy and world-weariness.

Along luscious green acres banks steep grade
(in close proximity to
Petticoat Junction) naturemade
Perkiomen Valley watershed,
verdant landscape displayed
yours truly, (a garden variety
proto human) arrayed

solely donning birthday suit,
whose fifty plus shades hair gone grayed,
i.e. one infinitesimal measly mortal
whiles away hours, laid
back days of his life as
the world wide web turns
comprising second decade

of twenty first century
civilization, where
coronavirus veritably waylaid
furlough afflicts populations feeling betrayed
entire fabric **** sapiens staid
threadbare existence now best describes
chock full of endemic ennui proliferates,

where vast majority of people afraid
to leave their houses lest COVID-19 played
greater havoc, whereby society already upended
unemployment factor at record high since...
Great depression witnessed
courtesy somber parade,
ninety years ago benchmarked

from May 11, 2021,
an invisible oppressed heaviness weighed
down the madding crowds
aghast how stock market trade
hit rock bottom making paupers,
ill fate clobbered breadwinners
circumstance none could evade

October 29, 1929 haint no charade,
when Black Tuesday hit Wall Street
bitta bing bitta bang bitta played
bitty bitty chitty chitty bang bang
linkedin with irrational exuberance portrayed
American economy supine splayed
versus March 11, 2020 characterized
coronavirus outbreak as pandemic

by the WHO subsequently signaling
Trump cited "fake news" and not dismayed
to expedite drastic measures
none would impede golf nor Mar-a-Lago
leisure him sipping lemonade
acid test tee zing 'bout quaffing electric kool-aid
without getting his doggy dimples in a bunch

he grudgingly complied and obeyed
purveyors (governors) and Anthony Fauci
complete United States government shutdown
approximately mid/late March 2020
which undertaking generated brisk business
grim reaper experienced
(still does) protracted heyday.

/secularism can't be anything new
compared with the monotheistic
    quest to convert paganism:
           same ****, different cover,
                     aim high: look down below...

coming from a shady sheikh with
oil reserves...
           the **** am i supposed to feed
the deisel engine? salt?!

      nice...             nice...

  kept me quiet with cotton-candy?!
******.

   i alrteady mentioned the transformation
of: psychiatrist is the new priest,
eucharist via the funny pills on your
way out...
      i'm not rich enough to buy: talk,
with a psychologist,
   sorry, i'm sure an oops is aligned
with this statement;
although i'd rather not, sell, or
                                                        buy it.

imagine: a body, worth a spa.

          that's how i see, the, "other",
             ah... you know...
         the usual gatsby paupers...
               hardly the scuttling rat solipsist
donning a chance to game: hide,
     and subsequently seek...

half baked irony... those sort of people...
      ladder-step-counters,
   chandelier mishandlers,
            they come,
   the supposed-party,
                                            dries­ out.

dentists and radiologists faking
dr. entitlements,
      relieving the surgeons,
                       a mr. butcher status...
good to know how all people
are made manifest, in being humbled...

apparently there might be a problem
with my identifying as a whole
upon, the "concept" of west slavic...

          not even a history but rather
a perpetuated nostalgia...
             not even the communists would
have conjured up: bleaching people,
esp. when not guaranteeing them
a grammar, basis,
            namely: that thing you do not
deem to be allowed change...

      so... pronouns are suddenly
trans-grammatical?
      i was actually hoping to branch out
into an antithesis of metaphysics...
thank god we already possess
orthography, to clock into the benzene
ring allocation process...

as far as i am concerned,
i only picked up the english language,
when it began to disintegrate
into: less an accuracy of day-to-day usage,
and more into:
       god forbid this be a philosophical
circumstance...
         i can't even posit a circa!

so:
    in the thinking concerning meta-,
and of the ortho-,
       and of the trans- (populism)...
should ask me about the trivialities of
genuine concerns,
             about the asylum post-scriptum,
and how: the wrong madmen are
running the show, high on unearthing
st. thomas' gospel...

                apparently the sentiment
        relies on: -1 + 1 = 2 dynamic:
because linear mathematics is never about
coordination, nor was puritan arithmetic
about: anything other than fudge
                                                  and beavers...

i just learned the ****** language!
****!
         do these natives have to make-up
these artificial difficulties,
    this: transcendence of grammar?
                can we allow but one constant?!

we can reverse the "popular" movement
by approx.,
    namely returning to the crude,
"deaf": encoding procedures...

      ~theta:
                                   v'eh point,
i.e. the-

                   more or less: ~F elsewhere...

also neither acidic or alkaline,
   given:  φilosoφy...

           as ever... insert a key into
a lock: φ...

                                  turn & enter: θ.

so H is either a vowel-catcher,
         or it's an impetus for:
chitty-chitty-bang-bang...
                            consonant-­morph...

     ~600+ years or so, later, Islam deems
                 secularism as the new paganism...
i would have believed the: blank slate
argument,
         only if grammatical rules were
kept intact...
           but since the communists are dead,
and the chinese only pretended...
  i'm guessing boredom,
         or rather:
              a disorientating narrative
of a profession allowed this to take place
in "consensus" establishment...

           i've just acquired this lingua,
i'd have more sense in respecting it,
   than abusing it, disintegrating it,
               "unlearning" grammar that i haven't
properly "learned"...
          hence my suggestion:
                        teaching a counter-innate?!

you can't exactly teach a counter-innate
fathomability of a language...

   playing god among atoms is
one thing...
               but playing "god" among words?

you can spot the idiocy of
                    a Pilate-esque "voyeurism"...

     this is a public medium!
           yes yes, i have my idiosyncracies
to mind, which implies that
           there is no agreed upon: consensus...

hardly a chance to mind deconstructionism
within a grammatical paradigm;
better mind the non-existence of
the concept of orthography in the english
tongue...
              or perhaps this be the tongue
of a people, too preoccupied with
metaphysics,
       given their lack of conceptualißing
diacritical marks,
       via and toward an orthography rubric...

a second tier of mannerism, eh?

Chitty Chitty bang bang :p

printing 20 copies of a cirriculum vitae...
tomorrow's london job convention,
and i'm...
                    criticism of one's writing,
writing per se,
              i never actually like anything
i write,
   on the odd occassion:
the process of doing it...
                                                  mid-30s...
regrets?
     don't know...
                 is there anything worth
the attention of regret?
                     i have the c.v. in my face...
and i'm thinking...
          half a nurture of lies,
half a nurture of truth...
     tomorrow i'll play the inquisitive child
with it...
    i just figured...
if only a job as a trash collector...
or...
      an executioner...
    something that requires
    eager,                            itchy hands...
of the latter?
   not from a perspective of pleasure,
derived from sadism...
   i just had to pick up a posthumous
bukowski publication
   and think to myself:
    when it comes to novels,
i will never reread them...
   i don't know how people manage
to reread books,
   then again:
   i can be found rewatching movies...
but...
i guess that's why i gravitated
toward poetry...
   like painting,
   like blinking...
   a poem? oh a poem i can
reread, over and over again...
until... i'm still staging an
anti-pedagogy practice of memorißing
poems -
that famous memory
  errosive substance...
   no... i won't memoriße
a poem...
   for the simple fact that,
i'll sooner return to it,
reread it,
   and experience a pondering
tool...
       who doesn't like poems
                          like strait-jackets?
oh, they're "out-there"...
they usually rhyme...
   or they make the application
of poetic technique
                              overtly known...
sometimes i'm less
a "poet" and more: a butcher...
   i'm given raw language,
i reply with raw, language:
pork chops, chicken thighs,
you name it...
          as ever:
   metaphor is no release,
  but a constricting glutton blob
of exhausted patience
   when it should serve one,
   to speak directly,
on matters of no transcendent potential.
- but i guess that's why
poetry appeals to me...
   like painting, like anything,
suddenly the gargantuan
blocked-toilet
    of human traffic under democratic
conditions...
where is the authenticity of fame
when...
   the only "authenticity" of fame
  is best served by a posthumous revelation...
otherwise?
  the current selfie of
                  a isa longwell...
**** me, i was looking for
what can be best described as
the "hollowed-out" Y in english...
i couldn't find it...
   ply, dry... it wasn't there...
i had to look up something in welsh...
there! there! the ******'s there!
     ddu meddwl yn
                                ngoleuni

sorrow: tristwch
     pride: balchder -

you know what helps with
the welsh W?   the ****** Ł...
   and you know what
helps with the welsh CH?
       no... it's not chitty chitty bang bang...
it's not chatter...
   it's... akin to the ****** CH...
hem... hem... hem...
not a hark...
              a dried out ha-sound...

chwerthin (h'łer'θin)
                θ / φ / F...
            to θink about θou(gh)t per se...
is a lessening of the awe construct /
motivation,
within the confines
of the genesis of φilosoφy.
          
           llawenydd (joy)...
oh sure, sure...
   all the ****** surnames are bad...
they have, "too many"
consonants...
   i'm reading a few words
in Welsh and i'm thinking...
great sparring partners...

        i could actually pull of
a decent Welsh
                  pronunciation...
      well...
they're hardly what the English
joke is about:
about pushing a sheep off a cliff...
and...
     sheep-*******
         (ddafad-rhyw)...
        (rył - masculine
   past participle of
           of: ryć -
                      to burrow;
  ryła? feminine
past participle of... ryć:
    which is gender neutral);

finally,
   my phonetic counterpart...
at what point was making
an insult the terms
of agreement for expressing
being endearing?
   right about now...
   as with the picts being...
                             bagpipe *******...

   this sort of language?
                   i'll need to find something
akin to being a *******
lumberjack...
     or something that can allow me
to not...
                  bump into people...
i could very much do
away with being a warden in
a lighthouse...
             to do something,
that is absolutely necessary...
   but doesn't entertain
  the debilitating circumstances
     of some variation of hierarchy...
safety pin commandos,
paperclip generals...
      whatever you call them...
at this point?
  who the who would want
to be an α-male...
    when... all that opposite ***
attention, also implies
                           a β-male drag?
imagine a job...
where...
you're as indispensable as a *******
hammer... in a sea of nails,
and countless canvases of
planks of wood.

hence yours truly (me)
seeks mental health services
without any luck
even after reading Scripture
from my namesake who exuded pluck
after paging thru
the AETNA Medicare directory,
whether a group practice or individual,
I expended energy and precious time today
June sixth two thousand and twenty four

hoping to get linkedin and truck
with a suitable therapist,
cuz various and sundry issues
such as chronic anxiety, dysthymia,
obsessive compulsive disorder,
and panic attacks plagues
sexagenarian old body electric
matter of fact mein kampf
and hard times reducible
to four letter description
conveyed by the word yuck.

Exhaustion prevails courtesy emotional distress
self evident to any anonymous reader
predicated on morose poetry of mine
invariably discouraging positive ambitions
for friendship receiving,
yet I experienced
unexpected welcome response
from over the hills and far away
where Teletubbies come to play with me,
whose fealty being a ***** buddy
gratitude sexagenarian does express
and so what if three score
plus five year old does regress.

Once upon a time
more than half century ago,
in a faraway galaxy
this second born and singular son
of Harriet and Boyce Harris
(mother and father since passed away
May third two thousand and fifteen,
and October seventh
two thousand and twenty respectively) though
both parents during their lifetime
beset with impossible mission
to administer to my psychological woe
and actually unwittingly exacerbated

dysfunctional behavior of mine
exhibited, jump/kick started,
and witnessed videre licet
courtesy their verbal
browbeating with ultimatums
aghast at irregular impulsive decisions
to attend this, that or another institution
of higher learning
post high school graduation
psyche subjected to actions experienced
being whipped back and forth,
to and fro, hither and yon
analogous to ma yo-yo.

Scads of irrational thought processes
bombard nooks and crannies
within me swiftly tailored
harried styled noggin
sense and sensibility
doth create veritable boondoggle
stumping psychological masterminds
even Sigmund Freud himself if alive
would be mystified and ask ghost writer
of Mary Shelley to craft sequel,

where Doctor Victor Frankenstein
rids trademark neurosis of mine
shape shifting Matthew Scott Harris'
witnessed when whirled
wide web of electrodes
activated courtesy toggle
subsequently flash brilliant lightning bolts
in tandem with deafening booming thunder
reconfiguring bitta bing bitta
chitty chitty bang bang switch  

rendering corporeal cerebral flesh
truly significantly reconstituting
dogma, enigma variations, karma,
and persona of aforementioned
poet of Perkiomen Valley into altered state,
whose psychological state now mimics,
dovetails, and approximates
that of Neanderthal man
forever linkedin to seventh heaven.

visually delicious as  germane strudels
the following cooked years ago
courtesy me noggin awash with noodles.

Yours truly crafted remaining poem
around 27th July 2018
idea arose within me cerebral dome.

...As poetic theme came to mind
     in a Serge without a waiver
thus, I took a virtual Page
     from Google LLC to slaver
with little effort
     in an acceptable
     rhyming rant and raver
about said American

     multinational technology company
     that rode dot com bubble,
     where other startups did quaver
specializing in Internet-
     related services and products

     rolled out amidst
     much fanfare palaver
though odd, how such an obvious
     idea hit me like figurative brick
over thine noggin

     upon instantaneously espying
     Lyudmila Vladimirovna Rudenko
     Soviet chess player, and second
     women's world chess champion,
     from 1950 until 1953
     when bitta bing bitta
     chitty chitty bang bang
     that eureka momenta did click

mental wheels and cogs
     as if...an oil derrick
hit a mother lode, thence subsequently
     inducing automatic flick
     as latest feted persona grata
     gets done up in bold face and/or Italic,
nonetheless a commendable
     spontaneous fantastic burst

     of inspirational magic
commensurate with mine
     modest prolific quixotic
of course, I WON'T applaud
     idea de jure as terrific
and puzzle over, how such "a ha"
brilliant idea did not occur to this -

     Ok la home ma sooner
     ushering world wide
    webbed ******* "FAKE"brouhaha
sooner to the mind
     of this humble ****
Louie, who admittedly
     feels tidy bowl flush with
     goo goo Lady gaga

(tony the TIGER FEELING great,
     a mild euphoria if gifted
     as lottery winner)
over the top smugness -
     unaware of jeering ha ha ha
within dark internet arena,
     where the much maligned,
     loathed, and feared Jaw

bar wall key (jabberwocky)
     dwells ready to pounce
     outsize egos hated
     like an incorrigible outlaw
hmm...perhaps cognizant

     ex post facto, I set
     a deadly faux paw
forever remembered as
     ornery oaf forced to eat raw
bits (hexadecimal at that!)
****** in via last turkey in straw
     that broke the camel's back.

Meaning the corporeal complex edifice
housing these lovely bones,
where linkedin logorrhea ably
strives to break out
in meaningless song
yobble hum hum ****** dee dee
and dance courtesy
an unexpected burst of energy
helped fashion a second rate poem
heaving up from deep within the key
of Matthew Scott's ideas – née
Harriet and Ozzie
stereotypical 1950's family prithee
i.e. unexpectedly manifesting que
cull lee coalescing, butta not three
endeavors crafted since quota we
kind to exhaust passion before zee...

land revisited, when
a call for shot eye
guarantees, a plethora of ideas
wordlessly will take flight
into the cerebral realm will fly
necessitating exertion from this guy
will necessitate me to type
briskly before hie....
forget what dreams are made
when supine I restfully lie
otherwise once fully awake
I would be forced to pry
remembrance of things past
from the night before trying
to scour subconscious
with plentitude, whereby

ah...whew...just when
I felt at a loss what to write...
bitta bing bitta bang
(optional chitty at no extra cost),
lo and behold ear splitting,
appalling sounds did invite
until dusk hands clapped
over each ear tight
to muffle noise pollution spite
fully generated by
rambunctious youths,
who know no right
that rosily gunning engines quite
obnoxious, and that conviction
edited (by me) tubby polite
buffer this chap hunkers
down for the night
after switching off the end table light.

The following constitutes the e-man
soup pay wanton declaration
emphatically, independently,
and obnoxiously
transmitted thru ether
these loathsome roar of dirt bikes
punctuates the formerly quiet air
where local high school
teenage mutant ninja
male turtles blare
(an educated presumption)
at top notch threshold decibel
definitely inducing deafness,
which will soon be clear
to those motorheads
flooring accelerator scaring deer
and other sparse wildlife,
whose engines I hear
miles away, cuz this bard ****
got extreme (ear river rent)
hypersensitivity to sound
perhaps linkedin
tummy predisposition,
could allow ma

self to expound,
whereby scrawling how painful
eye experience,
where 21st century
urban jungle doth abound
to exacerbate anxiety and panic,
aye noticed round
about puberty, and plugged up ears
to dull the nerve wrack
king Breitbart cacophony
even family pet
dogs (part Border
Collie and Hell Hound)
barked with shrill torturous yap,
which reverberation did
assault and pound
analogous to round after round
of ammunition being fired
making an audible sound
within mine delicate constitution
evidenced by lower gastrointestinal bubbling,
churning, and gurgling
kickstarting what feels
analogous to molten lava
rumbling from ore face leading
within mine leadened belly.

Presenting written access to
excellent outlook powerfully pointing
to the Inferno as Divine Comedy
by Dante Alighieri
and also a best seller titled fiction
written by author Dan Brown.

Within underworld vastness
Beelzebub, formerly known
as either Triel, or Yophiel,
a former Seraph turned
high-ranking demon,  
considered one of the Seven
Princes of Hell and oversees
the Order of the Fly.

He, alongside Satan and Lucifer,
forms the triumvirate of Hell
and  one of the supreme
monarchs of the Inferno.

Audiological ***** of mine
impossible to avoid unwillingly
being part of loud
buoys George culture club
emanations impossible to dub,
thus helplessly bombarded, exposed,
and subjected to discordant
damaging noise found
yours truly to flub
attendant tasks, especially grub
bing to earn chump change
to avoid mingling at social hub
rather remain hermetically
sealed, where nub
body cant see me, hence
that concludes thine literary rub
a dub dub with three men in a tub.

Dune not be bashful, grumpy, leery
or any other contemporary dwarf man
even countless less well known dwarves
(that never got a chance
to play a bit part) such as wham
bam
thank you ma'am
linkedin with emergence
of Internet and poetry slam
opportunities availed by Uncle Sam

which characters (albeit fiction)
nonetheless, helped spawn a quiet yet free
global, radically riotous,
totally tubular transformation
affecting a societal and human specie
but not credited contributing
to paradigm seismic shift that garnered tree
mend us plenti fully birthed,
impacted and transformed how wii

(more particularly many gifted minds)
bridged geographical distance
(encompassing all four corners
of the Earth) to enhance
what came to be called the world wide web,
digital strong armed lance
information super high, "Cyber Revolution",
etc allowing one to prance

and essentially transcend reality to brook
commanding, commingling, communicating, hook
line and sinker, et cetera
with an excellent access and outlook
reaching the most distant cranny and nook.

This (bit a bing chitty bang)
manifestation toward
exponentially faster processing capacities
more powerful than pen or sword
(based on principles of Moore’s Law), reward
electronically solidifying
binary unification swiftly tail lord

engenders greater dependence and reliance
figuratively shrinking the drinking gourd
allowing far flung aliens, family,
friends, et cetera to ford
great distances via sophisticated electronics
courtesy of super smart motherboard
enabling ever more complex
electronic contrivances
the generic **** Sapien gibbon could afford.

Analogous to Medieval Age
this quiet ***** riot creation
vis a vis Internet did un cage
actual overcoming physical barriers
ushered Hallmark gauge
marked by Computer/Digital Age odyssey),
especially sharing pixelated page
at light speed, where the ordinary individual
could keep in contact )
albeit with every now and again
a bit torrent rage
and in some instances tapping
smarts of a preschooler considered a sage
which kindergarten lad/lass
commandeered a handsome wage.

Whereat the parental figure did cajole,
wheedle or beg
their wealthy progeny promising
son/ daughter of a healthy nest egg
stored money in Swiss bank accounts or hollow leg
perhaps christened jpeg
or if an avid weekly reader
of Moby **** Queequeg

who felt incorporeal storied power
of Herman Melville as zen unseen aid
instructing hypothetical rich kid
to dropout of school
before his/her first grade
coz of all the money he/she made,

which affected modus operandi rendered obsolete
child worker laws
and no sweat of brow getting paid
people used bitcoin
(or other online currency)
additionally making purchases
with scant keystrokes to complete a trade.

As with any major dramatically novel scheme
light bulb idea scribbled on napkin
scrap of paper
via cheesy or whipped cream
originating as a flash in the pan
aha eureka moment, or dream

as rough blueprint subsequently
underwent beta testing,
before declaring pc innovation supreme
whereby outstanding persons in the tech industry
clamored to join Kidde team.

Whether seventh day advent
hissed or other religious creed
powerful binary processing
impacted near
earth shaking incarnation indeed
and ramifications in all walks
and talks of life sought expert need.

Coven chanting children murmured
Luddites be ******!

Thus spake Zarathustra (cue the opening scene
from Planet of the Apes)
upon witnessing as if king or queen
(in reality father or mother)
didst get immediately

dethroned thus, increasing mean
average positive
effects on society, especially lean
microchip i.e. integrated circuitry
miniaturization "green"
technology (and eventual
attendant affordable price)
viz said trappings

unleashed upon global market
invited absolute zero dust, a must clean
as a whistle work space,
and manufacturers laboratory be microbe free
hermetically sealed vacuumed "clean".

Countless portable machines
unbeknownst soon epithet florid hack
coining impromptu called cyber crime
especially as majority proportion of population
didst purchase these dime,

a doze in countless "end users"
snapped up these smart machines
excitedly keyed away indifferent to gunk
on unwashed hands
plus bits of food particles
eventually caking hardware with grime
(eventually necessitating technician
charging gobs of moolah
sans to unstitch in time.

Gooey glop getting suctioned out
technicians venting expletives
emphasized obvious
NO FOOD OR DRINK rule to abide
cuz suctioning tower
or laptop presented vulnerability
plus unforeseen downfall against fried
food and greasy hands ended up hide
ding in hardest to reach locale
on circuit board no matter how expert pried

yelling out gratitude
to geek squad member helping
before he/she went out side door
eagerly awaiting

remotely controlled self driving vehicle
transporting techie guru home
to an obscure gated destination,
an uninterrupted distant, yet pleasant ride.

eventually amateurs encouraged
to tinker like an apprenticed tailor
akin as raw troubleshooting recruit
oft playfully feigned to be soldier spy

pretending to repair bowel of computer
when in truth visiting supposed shadowing dark side
which lined illegal benefits of labor saving devices),
the sound of silence
(written on the subway walls)

though heretics opposing
latest technology and felt sinister chill
(just ask Punxsutawney Phil),
the Internet ranks as greatest dog sent rill

lee where wiz kids ranked
chatting killer apps with grateful dead
information superhighway as heavenly manna
with artificial intelligence street cred
since introduction of white bread
and powdered milk biscuits baked by Ahmed.

impossible mission of mine to bare witness
whereby mine (***** rubble) puny *******
describes a bent shaft, particularly when cap
locks on first observed by the missus when
we consummated *******, though nicht
married, cuz the rutting urge overtook both
of us 24/7, 365 days year not omitting the
leap day, which arose because planet Earth
doth circle around the sun within 365 days,
5 hours 48 minutes and forty six seconds
to orbit the nearest star, according to NASA,
and while that calculation (rounded down
established by Nicolaus Copernicus in the
16th century, when he proposed heliocentric
model - quite controversial to the church ladies -
upending geocentric theory placing the Sun
at the center of the solar system, with Earth
orbiting around it; his theory was detailed
in his book "De Revolutionibus Orbium
Coelestium" published in 1543) to three
hundred and sixty five days, we - twenty
first century **** sapiens, recognize as
a typical year, those nearly 6 extra hours
do not conveniently disappear bitta bing
bitta bitta bang: I recognize omission of
most chitty word choice, but latched on
to a song which shares the same name
as the movie, a 1968 children's musical
adventure film directed by Ken Hughes
and produced by Albert R. Broccoli (not
necessarily the guy kids wanna blame for
their favorite vegetable) starring **** Van
****, Sally Ann Howes, Lionel Jeffries,
Gert Fröbe, Anna Quayle, Benny Hill,
James Robertson Justice, Robert Helpmann,
Heather Ripley and Adrian Hall driving the
innovative idea (credited to Julius Caesar,
who introduced it as part of Julian calendar,
adding another extra day every four years
to more accurately align the calendar after
segueing into the Gregorian calendar, a solar
calendar used in most parts of the world today
based on the Earth's revolution around the sun
and named after Pope Gregory XIII introduced
in 1582) with the solar year; essentially
making him the "inventor" of the leap year
added to account for the difference.