.and what if the referendum was secured, by the single vote, if it was predicated on: only and only if, there's a 60% consensus... the current debate is taken place, because the consensus is, extremely marginal... we're talking about fringe politics, outlier political opinions... the the remain vote is argued with the same verocity as the leave vote... for the benefit of outlier opinions... if only there was a predicate: it will be passed... as long as there's a 10% difference between the votes... 51.9% for leave to 48.1% for remain, of the country having voted... if only the whole point of voting, was akin to the "ancient" enforced tactic of drafting men to serve in the army... 67.7% voting areas voting to leave... 32.3% voting to remain... yeah... the "obscure" parts of england... with scotland, clearly being an anomaly with regards to "obscure" rural regions... should the argument come: concentration of power, in urban babylons.

someone should, really, really try to remaster
that vague piece of work

                       that pristine rhythm
    section: notably on the song bite now bite
from the album
          eat your heart out -
                              by... a belgian band:
of all bands... it had to be, belgian...
  ******* choccies (KLINIK) -
   oh look, an intra-racial slur...
                                                     chocolatiers...
because what would be fun:
  if language was plain, safe,
                                                      in vitro:
and not the islam to the individual -
   whenever: i, am to submit,
                     to the language of the other?
well obviously malice is reserved
for something else, but not for breathing,
thinking or feeling,
   or for that matter:
     the "problem" of idle hands...
itchy hands...
               i guess some of the throng,
of the volk: chatter chatter chatter...
    bite... chew... but then forget to
swallow... (sow s-, s-, swo-, swo-...
'the **** an A charge in, eh?
                                     i guess, that's how).

but no one
likes to see
narrow
verse
likening it
to the Milan
fashion
show
catwalk

                               and all those poems
that look like this:

|begins here


               (no
      move-
                                 -ment
                 in
               between)


|ends here:

|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|­zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|can anyone please tell me...
   why zee / zed:
              is a conotation
                        depicting the process of sleep?

and all this nonsense:
                   england is spelled with
a capital: who says it's anywhere but london?
E this, E that,
    E sat on a wall
       and...
                    didn't fall accidently...
i know a rat when i see one...
   Nigel, Nigel (see... capital N,
implies emphasis, like italics or a colon
does)
       Nigel... can you please bring back
your fwend, Dawid?
                     just a few questions...
2 and a half 'ears lay'ter...
   and... no end in sight...
to those loitering... shuffling their feet...
how many votes do you actually need...
when there was only one
                     for die volk
- and i have to admit...
       it was close...
                roughly                      51 to 49...
i know why they voted leave...
           because of the people who poured
in, most, probably momentarily
back in 2004...
                              the people who were
taught two, of 20th century's prime lessons,
by foreign entities...
               arbeit macht frei
               und?
                        communism.

         so no laid-back work ethic coming
with the windrush, was there?
                    conflict of interests...
**** it, if i were strapped to a caribbean
island, i'd have a laid back work ethic:
                             ka-reeb-ib-ean.

yet still this whole blah blah debate...
          like... let's forget the good friday
agreement...
   but finally...
            we can have the old terrorists back...
so...
            maybe the IRA will
                  out-compete the jihadis?
or at least scare them?
  or... dunno...
                                            ol' Jack...
ol' Jackie boy'o will: simply...        unravel?
am i rooting for it to happen?
no...
                            but it would suggest
that i'm rooting for being part of
                a historical event,
                            like the treaty of versailles...
or the weimar rep.,
                            and i was the voice
on the bottom,
               sifting through
                     eclectic ambitions to find:
culture that will never become
mainstream...
                                           almost
forever destined for the: archaic archive,
now forever the footstuff
                            of the gargantuan a.i.:
alternatively known as a.i.p.:
                   artificial intelligence purgatory.

- hey, i can't compete,
    i'm just a kid that forgot to bring
his crayons, and instead brought
   some matchsticks and toothpicks.

if only: 2 years prior to the referendum
they had a plan...
   but they thought they could do
a joker trick,
         so there you have it: agent of chaos...
agent of chaos says:
  people, 1 vote, politicians?
         an infinite number of votes by
the looks of it...
                  voting is not reserved
for the people, de facto,
                       given:
we now have a strange despot on our
hands... der volk...
                    what a strange monster...
was i leave or remain?
   neither, considering that i ended up
drinking to stay somewhat sane
for the past... oh... 10 years...
    on debit...
                well... why would i even
consider drinking into the excesses of
phantasmagoria              on credit?
that would be stupid, as stupid didn't.

in summary: to minor points...
    i can understand why people don't like
poetry...
                                                 porcelain...
or the fact that their everyday language
is already peppered with poetic techniques...
figuratively speaking...
                   akin to:
   where does the technique of poetry
end, and the comedy begin?
                     yeah, that: "not literally" part?

who would mind:
   it's not an elitist "thing" to like or dislike
a medium...
                 i like the "breathing" space in
the optics... of... the never to be seen
                              literary paragraph...
i like cascades...
                         paragraphs are sometimes
a strain on the eyes...
like watching really fast cars
zoom past you on a very small race-track...
**** just gets dizzy...

.......................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­.......... (click) etc.

hence?
           well on the up-side...
once you've read some magnum opus...
say... the cantos...
    for some strange reason...
you can sit back, listen to some choccie
music from the underground...
open the book...
   and just stare at the poetry...
    without having to reread anything...
a bit like...
                  a painting...

                                    sure as **** you
can't do that with a novel,
      with its rigid, cluster-**** of a descriptive
paragraph: she said, he said,
then another descriptive paragraph:
he said, she said...

               as much as i love novels...
  give me a poetics of a framework of freedom,
or a philosophical monologue
    by some helmut
    (german) - oh look...
     another intra-racial slur...
    helmuty: germans...
                  derived from?
              helmut kohl -
                    german chancellor 1982 - 1998;

ah... what an enriching experience.

I have eaten my paramour
sweet remnants on my fingertips
like failure on tour
None could understand our love
the insatiable ferocity of More
the taste of crunching agony
rocky road, choccie baby,
crumbs haunt my floor

.just search Polish, England, vermin... there clearly is a difference between a racial slur, and a dehumanizing slur... well... it's good that i have a soundtrack, Pearl Jam's rats from the album Vs., and Ghost's rats from the album prequelle...

i get it, the English are sometimes lazy, when speaking... but... there's a difference between a racist slur and a term that dehumanizes a people... i say ******, i say Dr. Dre, i write ****- i forget the suffix... but... you know... being deemed vermin, by ethnicity... that's not called a racial slur, that's called a dehumanizing term... vermin is not a racial slur, it's a dehumanizing precursor of radicalizing an impetus for genocide... so? ****** ****** ****** ****** ******... **** **** **** **** ****... just like greg focker in meet the parents on a plane: bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb... just look up the story, in England... when a bunch of leaflets were posted through the doors of Polak families, calling them vermin... what?! racial slurs are one thing, dehumanizing slurs are another; ******* ******* and their serf pakis.

oh i'm not in England to play
along to whittle Oreo,
whittle Choccie...
  or some uncle Tom...
         i'm about to parade my
Pontius Pilate closure...
i'm here for the cider,
for the ale,
and for ms. amber...
and... for...
   kasabians': club foot...
i can't be a friend to a fellow
European who's embroiled
with his commonwealth...
Rotherham vassal-postcriptum...
see the V?
see the V?
                          here's an I
to clarify...
      dictate your kleinscheißetirade
  (little **** tirade)
on some other continent,
bring back a curry recipe from
India, or something...
but don't expect
me to bow down to non-Europeans....
you... inselvolk
  (island people)...
            i am frothing at
the mouth, and restraining myself
from biting your ***... taub...
numb...
i can respect other cultures...
by your, "standards", of, "respect"...
but i will never be you...
this... this...
this was was the hardest aspect
of me integrating:
i will never be one of you...
Zeppelins are hanging
over the skies,
and i'm, itching for a blitzkrieg...
this, this... is what
precisely makes a man
enroll in supposition the status
of the enemy...
the commonwealth came
before the European stature...
  i've learned the language,
but i didn't relieve myself
of the mutterzunge... ergo?
i'm not fully integrated...
i'm not fully integrated?
integrate the following *****-slap
from Europe...
see how you like your
****- sauce then!
oh i'm praying for no-deal or
a hard-deal.. scenario...
i hate deserters...
and the "British"...
are, in my mind... ethnic-deserters...
punish the *******...
like that song,
a post-colonial power
attacking a post-colonial power...
circus!
applause!
   something much finer than
watching the t.v.....
billy joel... we didn't start
the fire...
lyric in particular?
Belgians in the Congo...
well...
      Brussels in the U.K.
although i speak the natives' tongue...
i should care about their
fate... because?
what?!
                 my ethnicity gets called
vermin...
   and i'm like...
hula hoop around this *******...
because the hope entrusted
to the progressive ontology of humanity
always undermines
the sarcastic undermining in
the current in situ...

   but i don't care...
next thing i'll hear is that i'll
only be "properly" integrated
if i paint my skin copper,
grow my hair into a turban's
worth bundle...
then... i'll be the protected caste.

thank god England is an island...
makes the whole boarders debate...
debate?
an island entertains
a boarders debate?
an island?
an island can have authentic,
clarifying,
serious debates about boarders?!
you're joking, right?
you want to have a, "boarders" debate...
being strapped to an island?
i "said"... are you... ******* joking?

He promised me an everlasting love,
And a life full of dreams and wishes,
Instead I've got a load of washing,
And a sink full of ***** dishes,

He promised me a romantic dinner,
New dress and my hair in wisps,
Instead I've got me jarmie's on,
With a can and cheese and onion crisps,

He promised me a dozen roses,
And choccie's in a box,
Instead it's a bunch of daffodils,
And a pair of Simpsons socks,

He promised me a lovely house,
With sweeping gardens serene,
Instead I've got a council flat,
But my wheelie bins are green,

He promised me a spa weekend,
His time in me invested,
We ended up in the local pub,
At the end of the night, arrested,

But after all is said and done,
Were stuck together like glue,
We haven't got material things,
But the love we have is true.

while taking out the garbage: i lift the lid and on it, about five white cobweb-weaver spiders... curiosity never leaves... on the inside too, a stash of freshly laid maggots, still awaiting their proper foetal form... good to see a dormant hierarchy not yet played out.*

****-show here, ****-show there,
  ****-show almost always
(certainly now)
  and ****-show almost everywhere
tiresome the politics of ideas
tiresome the ideas of politics -
chit-chattering as freely as sparrows
and then the sinking ship -
and then those enpassioned sparrow
morph into rats and jump
across the pond, from this sinking
ship that europe that has "apparently"
become...
  rebellion here, natural sea-borders
that ease the ****** argument
for the great guillotine to come along
and chop the head of
      self-elected choccie politicians -
autocrats:
                fat sleuths and even fatter
sloths -
       and then across in central europe
they say: your politicians can't
be allowed to elect their own judiciary:
well well, isn't that a bit
odd in choccie's complaint?
   given no one elected them, but there
they sit, nonetheless -
but outside this:
   one the tale of a church segregated
from the state?
                         only one remains after
all: the incy-wincy spider within
the walls of rome...
                         what is going to emerge
well: if the anglos can have their
referendum where the people spoke -
honestly: i don't know -
        ****-show here, ****-show there:
but if we could look at the choccies:
no sore thumb propping his head up:
you could never imagine as many
autocrats in just one place -
               like a swarm of flies
                          on a dog's **** in a park.
apparently not enough "exotica"
          can be alarming, can be hindering,
can be anything but appealing -
   no point mentioning the war
                          in the ukraine then...
where's that butter and cinnamon?
                              i need to blend in.

pre-scriptum that's actually a p.s. - shock value: staggering! what? peering into an empty glass, where once pirate ***-one-eye and damsel in distress ms. pepsi once resided! shocking! what now? well... guess that means a refill; ahoy the next glug glug! shave my ***** hair and call me p'ooh bear while you're at it; go on, skippy... MOVE IT!

a lazy ****, lodged up your ***...
suggesting
   itself, ever so slightly as being
present...
  man... the most terrible drinking
companion to date...
   in such moments it's never
much,
    it's not you're going to be *******
out a boa-sized tapeworm...
but you know: the general
discomfort, like wearing female underwear...
and it never is much,
it, just, *is, there, forcing you
to think about its presence,
and that's more annoying than:
are we there yet? no. are we there yet?
no. are we there yet? no, no, no!
******, take the plunge,
be off with your ******* sloth
dynamic of pretending to be a cute
parisian pastry in the display window
in some parisian bakery!
*******!
  that's what the blank said to me:
write me a funny one...
   less ***... and more:
         the confinements of taking the 2no.
for a stroll, past st. peter's gate
and toward the throne of thrones...
sure thing floating choccie...
     but just:                     imagine!
mmm... stardust and cinnamon...
   my grandfather had this knack of
describing his **** as:
         i was just around the strawberry
fields... oh look! i also found a dozen
plums, and a handful of, cherries!
have those with milk, and that's
            the perfect laxacative, that is.
on a serious note though...
(what's the onomatopoeia for snigger?
that painful kind of laughter?
                don't know? me neither) -
it's hard to think when you
have a "hitchhiker" who has suddenly
outstayed its welcome...
             a bit like the nicotine
"hangover" in the morning...
         **** me the excess of phlegm...
you hark, you bark, you snort backwards,
you spit, you sneeze,
you do everything possible to clear
the cavities...
   after a while you finally reach
the morning bliss of:
  smelling mint next to you...
you obviously water it to make the scent
exfoliate and become more potent...
but on a sober note,
this sunday times magazine
article by india knight got me thinking...
well... not really "thinking"
just bothered...
      she's moaning about loneliness
and the solution: ***-bots...
    she mention ****-boast gabriel -
and the flacid **** when you'd prefer a cuddle...
the sad bit?
       apparently men are the prime
instigators of this "phenomenon"...
   men only need ***-bots, someone tell them
they're loved...
   thanks... next i'll ask a cave to echo back
a hello for me, morphing my voice
into that of adelle's...
   look at my face... it came back in spanish!
biggest turn-off, (how to teen girls write it? ah!)
                                EVA!
sieve the eden eve into it?
    now i know that's funny, but i always write
it assured that it isn't...
sometimes i get it wrong,
   sometimes i even get a laugh for myself...
which brings me to the crucial point...
company?
           well yeah, i have "conundrum" -
the memory of a sober me from 1 hour ago...
    he likes to iron shirts,
  watches female football...
         likes ***** dancing because:
"apparently" - the film with the best soundtrack -
loves cooking, loves taking out the trash,
turns into a menace with his cats...
               no, i'm not buying it...
ah, what's the point of selling myself like that,
it becomes a pretty boring ambition
of getting to mid-life and ******* younger girls...
i always thought that youth guards youth,
but... no... sour note that part...
   well... nothing like turning to the guard
of cenobite invitation...
   and **** me, that ship has... sailed!
   oh look, a pretty moment,
                     a ship on the canvas of where
sky meets sea, and a lonely ship,
           and a sun taken to skinny-dipping!
just like a gay might say with
exact syllable peacocking: mar-ve(h)-loose!
louse? sure dingy-dingity-****
    two sopranos and three ballerinas later...
john? was it john? daaaarling...
   you're my favourite compensation
                                              to arthritis!
seriously? ***-bots are a man's thing?
    so they made their pro-bot movies akin
to ex_machina...
  but do people still remember
    that ***-bot in spielberg modern twist
on pinocchio via the a.i. movie?
   wasn't the ***-bot male?
                        lucky girls...
here with my bone-structured "****" imitation...
who ****** who with a
       flacid soft-pouch-of-a-kangaroo
****? shanta claush? sean... i told you to stop it!
     shorry.
                      shure you are.
ah, **** yeah! ****** joe! -
now that's tacky, we've moved on - now they're
called the teenage mutant turtle...
     teenage.... turtle... mutant... avengers?
whatever:
michael, raphael, gabriel, uriel, saraqael,
    raguel, and remie....
   theology and fame... ah... you probably
heard only the fraction 2/7...
    what part was the part where "lonely"
was implied?
the part where i like my own farts...
    or the part where i find it really, really *******
difficult to even sleep with a cat in the same bed?
or the part that i fall asleep best,
with a lullaby of a horror movie sountrack?

ivory beauty...
simply: pearls,
when she smiles,
and then,
closes her mouth
into a form
of an unfathomable
oyster...

           skin,
as perfect as i wish
i too had worth
of possession of...

  black, ivory,
implies: pearl teeth...

  i could have travelled
to Kenya,
i did,
but then this scuttle
of pleasure,
appeared before my eyes...

scrutiny of the nose,
cheeks,
edges of jaw line...
        and the skin...
and she was,
just...
           dark chocolate,
illuminated
by the moon,
ivory, smile,
   no? no good?
no *******
               copper family,
no choccies?

it's called copper by arab
standard,
   mahogany by hindu
standards...
           and... choccie
by... eastn african standards...
lighter africans,
the further you head west...
tribal overlord,
sold his fellow creatures
to the fabric of the economics
of trade...
why would i ever have a hard
on for west africans,
when east africans,
in theri pristine depth,
were the original hard-on
intent?

         no this that
and the other...
    no... Brazillian mulatto?
i just loved the fact that
she was pure black,
in the moonlight,
and....
             drive me crazy...
      perfect, skin...
copper skinned arabs,
and some vague variations
of
a former mongolian invasion...
rekindled...

i repeated myself,
i'll get a chance to repeat myself
this parody...
until i'm the lost aspect
of upkeeping
any sense of sanity...

            also copper skinned,
like some philippines
     european ******
excesses...
well... with porcelain
***, indoctrination
practices akin to nazis...

happy ******* camopers...
last time i fancied an ivory beauty
was in kenya...
  and the subsequent next?
at a supermarket
where i bought bourbon...

                    you know,
ivory beauty,
choc skin,
which implies:
   beelzebub didn't take
a **** on my face
with the acne and maggot
feed...
lucky, come to 'ere supper...
  
******?
   inbreeding scrutiny?
the lack,
the loss of a protruding
aspect of the cranium,
i.e. the occipital bone...
          my concern?
why are south asians so
similar,
to africans, when it comes
to a loss of a protruding
septum?
the thai, the south-asians,
share
the same septum "paradox"
with the africans...
  the septum is "squashed"...
with the septum being, "squashed"...
the south asians share
the same charactestic
of the africas...
    protruding,
           exfoliating
   alar cartilage expansion...
  what?
i was already told what my "difference"
was...

a "flattened"
occipital bone...
so?
let's figure out the diabolical
differences of the nose, yes?
why are south asians
so similar to the africans,
given their similarity
of the nose structure?

   namely?
   thai *** afri-c'ah-c'ah...
    the flat bit...
known as the nasal "spine"
dorsum nasi...
if someone is going to
mention my
"under-development"
of the occipital bone...
i'll mention their own,
antithesis
of the protruding jew /
roman nose...

          thai... flat upper structure,
akin to the african...
and then...
the extended nostril presence...

what?!

    oh right... it's not racist
if its attempted against
the russians...
as much as i hate the russians...
i'm with them,
on the subject matter...
     **** it,
let's listen to some static X,
and turn up a berserker mode
of information transit;

        cue crazy...
now cue the "sanity" police...
ah ha, ha ha ha...
       aren't we all just
the sort of happy campers
that this world
is looking for?
   i hope we are;
nay,
       we always were;
always,
the "right" sort of
happy campers.

you come across someone,
who does the "leg-work"
for you, akin to surviving life,
and you,
come across gore...
and then you start to "think"
about...
     'where is this anesthesia
coming from?'
hmm...
   it's hardly a curiosity,
            the acting? oh, no, surely not...
that las vegas ****,
when it can have hierarchy
of staged eventfulness...
when the "tortured" person
is supposedly:
tortured,
but on the point of death,
cared for?
a torturer with a caring voice...
my my...
   concerns were raised,
let me repeat that...
concerns were raised
about the tortured victim's
wellbeing...
             h'allo h'america...
plastic nation providence...
                 with a fwench
       précisément...
why the **** lodge
an acute, on a vowel,
in between consonants?
  was i, going to, "miss" it?
   pro-v-dą-ssssssssssssssss...
point being:
you know what a thespain
hierarchy, "looks" like?
the current state of affairs...
no one knows what is,
and isn't, "real"...
             this is the "beyond"...
whatever is deemed authentic,
is suspect,
and what is suspect:
suddenly becomes authentic...
it's still a thespian "conspiracy"...
   in a culture,
when only one form of artist
is leveraged to state intent...
back in the mid-20th century
is was the musicians,
but now?
   we have, thespians...
who pawn-broke the dictum
of the politically alligned...
in the "grand" scheme of things,
what with collateral
and what not:
   keep your mouth shut,
buckle up...
    as much freedom for me,
as moral constraints are permitted
to keep me free...
useful idiots, useful dodos...
ha ha! ha ha!
   iron curtain... ha! ha!
  what? hard work?
what about the, thespian curtain,
the ηθοποιός κουρτίνα
      ìthopoioos,
oh, right...
    you want a phonetic dissection,
yes?
for some reason,
i sniff, sniff, sniff,
sniffed out choccie hazelnuts...
writing this...
a nasal hallucination...

ac'tor: ηθοποιός

                       ìthopoioos,
          ìthopoiös
   (one is, allowed,
the basic arithmetic of
letters, given this
"transgression" of
the umlaut, replacing
the ωμεγα,
    i.e. the whole "concern"
for a,                           ρωμ?)
   sure,
oxford dictionary,
there are hyphen allowances
for inter-wording,
   but there aren't any
apostrophe allowances
for intra-wording...

   ηθοποιός:
        ήθοποιός:
   η'θοποιως:
     ephopoious...
actor...
     e' pho' "pious"...
        ephopιous...

now watch the cascade,
e to the i, i to the e,

  -eta-
       -theta-
         -omicron-
            -pi-
          -omicron-
             -iota-
                -omega-
                -sigma-

         e'tho'p'oh'i'ous

so much for keeping
letters as nouns,
and...
    no castrato-sing-along
variation.
see!
a pweetty gweek
waterfall!
  mama mia, all over again!
great, now we can all
be fwends,
and on a sober note,
reiterate...

like the byzantines...
they just over-"did"
themselves in diacritical
mark application,
to your standard,
latin, phonetic encoding...

iron curtain...
my my...
             but there's a thespain
curtain in place,
and ******* if you think
i'll move as far west as
japan...

                                        and i,
that becomes an e...
                  η (eta),
    that becomes   ì,
         it's... "complicated"...
the eastern orthodoxy made
diacritical markers "unnecessary",
the western orthodoxy
simply, "forgot", to make application
of them...
hey presto! the modern english!

ό, upsilon, omega...
poo, t'oo'l...
          now you're going to tell me,
that just the iron curtain was lifted,
there's no thespain curtain to lift?
no? no?
  no... ultimate reality counter...
so communism was one dream,
capitalism was another,
an actors' dream within a dream,
and...
what possibly could amount
to a poet / painter?

ah nay nay...
        + side aye,
   minus side: no...
   huh?
              so not nay?
for every aye,
there must be a nay,
but this *******
of ayes to the "right"
and "noes" to the left...

      poet, painter, sculptor...
we're all still living under
a bunch of sophists /
rhetoricians &
             thespians...
           how can that even be
denied?
it can't...
    once upon a time one
lived under the allure of
alchemists...
   at least they,
pushed the boundaries...
at least under the alchemists,
we had, or achieved something...
how far can you peddle
a fake?

          how far can you peddle
a lie?
       back when the west
had an authentic enemy,
   the soviets...
           now? this...
thespian curtain?
              of course i'm going
to be despondent...
after watching a gore video...
with "the man" entering
the room, and the gimps
worried about the state
of the tortured ditto heads?
ha...
     i can't tell the difference
between what is
authentic, and what is,
inauthentic...
   and believe me...
       this thespain curtain...
this anaesthetic of reality...
   much harder to lift,
to topple,
                 than mere iron.

22 hours ago LOL! I'm not Asian at all though Asian cultures are so rich and beautiful, their mythology interesting and less convoluted (perhaps?) than Greco-Roman mythology. Norse mythology, though, is interesting as well though just as fickle. And Egyptian! Of course, that stems from the months that I spent reading too much Rick Riordan. Either way, race isn't relevant between us. You're British. I'm American, and definitely not a "bad" person. Plus, not all ****** encounters are worth a moan or a groan.

  11 minutes ago you know: every time i para (i new term i picked up from someone else's comment... para implying paraletic) i have to wonder: what was it that i wrote that wasn't on canvas that might haunt me the next day... but you did say you don't get suntans... i went out with this russian girl once... very tsarist and all who did think that having a suntan implied you being of lower class... lower rank... because the aristocracy were all feeble vampires that hid in chateaus and what not... not exactly screaming vitamin D! just an idea: if you don't get suntans... i presumed... well... perhaps: your skin just doesn't do the copper-serpent trick of trickling through down to auburn / whiskey when the sun has its play with it... unless raw-ish ginger and freckle by freckle: it doesn't matter... you porcelain would be lobster by the end of it... all peeling and... eczemic...but i always have his nagging sensation in the back of my brain like i'm somehow Tony Soprano the narrator having "second thoughts"... sentimentalist through and through... mythologies... you cited a few but it's not like you would cite the Slavic mythologies... then again... what's there to "cite"? Rick Riordan... never heard of him... too much time spent on Heidegger, Knausgaard and Dickens, lately... three books i'm reading simultaneously that i don't seem to "want" to finish since... a little bit of this, a little bit of that: my grandfather having died and me being close to him... blah blah... ponderings VII - XI, my struggle vol. 4 & the Pickwick papers... respectively aligned to the rubric of authors... you're right... race isn't relevant... but saying you don't get a suntan... or can't... sort of enforces me staging a bizarre comment like this... i didn't jump to the logical conclusion of why you don't suntan... you can't? or like i already cited this one Russian exclusivity of: only serfs and farmers have suntans... it's a lower class "thing": we chateau dwellers like ourselves... porcelain skinned... anaemic... you're absolutely right in confessing that race isn't important... antics with a black girl i will not summarise... the self-evident works of piston(s) and lubricant of oysters... but unless you've been living under a rock... what's with all this attack on "abstraction" regarding pronouns and grammar... in general? it's like being attacked on two fronts: it's like the shared invasion of Poland by Germany and the Soviet Union... i fall back on race because it's so... charismatic at times that it becomes unavoidable...  it's like detailing the exclusionary inheritance of a daffodil... or a giraffe... "race" wasn't important until the point of: people having other people telling them "what languge is appropriate" and "what language isn't appropriate"... come on... you're not wed-locked (whim-locked more like) to this pre-suppositional stigma of fearing the tag "bad": i hope you're glad to still allow yourself a tendency to sometimes denote yourself as: person... i recently filled out the census for stats... i was also recently applying for a job as a prison warden... race popped up: or how i'd identify... i had come to encounter a neu-begriff... being American you know of Italian-American compounds... the stereotypes... Irish-h'american... blah blah... British is such a joyous term... god forbid i'd "identify" as English... Anglo-Saxon... so i kept the prefix... Anglo... and attached... well... have a look: Anglo-Slav... i don't see how some people feed the etymological lie that there's somehow an "E" missing... of a collective of a people that competed with "your" tribe during the cold war... bogus points for me as being of a people fudge-packed between the two: of the most... inglorious ******* of events... hell... i sometimes wish i was Croat or one of those Balkan ******* juggled between Rome, Byzantine and the Ottomans... heritage... i best compose myself: last time a Muslim identified me as a ******* ***** at the Reagent Park mosque while selling me prayer matts i was like: i'll let it pass... perhaps i have a more pronounced occipital bone... but i agree: race is not important... let alone in how language is used... a zebra, being a horse... is not exactly stripe material... a leopard doesn't have dots... the tiger doesn't have stripes... they're all cats... how about the grammatical issues concerning: the big cats don't ******* meow? it's not like i was going to make a joke about cushion-*******-lips either... while chalk girls torture themselves with imitation botox: duck... ****'s sake... came the world of chalk and choccie and all the world's masochistic mantras hit a ******* high note for the castratos to sing about! race isn't important: but calling a square a square, an apple an apple... a tiger a tiger: somehow bloodily obvious, is... i can get with the project of abstracting man (woe... +man)... but when the attack comes within the confines of the asylum of ******* grammar & algebra?! what would i otherwise resort to? when i drink to excess & only have a canvas to work with... fine... but when i faced with someone directly: i became doubly drunk on conversation... i'm somehow assured of being race-baiting... like reimagining dragon chasing: down the steeps of "old"...h'america... which part? i always imagine myself living a life of fullest fulfilment living in one of those... fly-over states... in some ******* where i can become my truest taoist...beside the current tongue i've acquired.... the past tongue i want to: less than merely forget... i sometimes thought: bilingualism could be an advantage? isn't mandarin the vogue-"prose": these days? i'm glad, though... i was certainly drunk... but i spelled out the most fathomable discretions...here's to you: and (a) tomorrow!

you wouldn't might not have guessed it: but there's a pagan music revival happening in Eu-rope-Ah...Ew-rope(?)-ah.. eh-ooh-rop-ah... there's a revival in pagan music: an undercurrent... the people have almost forgotten the "great" composers... not so much "forgot"... but if it has to come between elevator muzak... and nothing... give me an Ottoman burak: even the whole of the west's zenith of culinary ambitions... seems pale... who would have thought... stuffing filo pastry with minced beef... properly spiced... cumin... coriander: to hell with Simon & Garfunkel's Scarborough Fair: parsley, sage, rosemary & thyme... what about BASIL? BASIL is the best... scented candle alternative... loner... no **** readied Sherlock... oi! Holmes! where's your ******* Watson? forget your wallet or what?!

seems... eh... seems such a waste to merely drink
and not allow oneself to trickle onto
some page some dribble: some doodle...
it would be a waste of some cider or some ms. amber
to merely drink...
as Horace might have said
in what was once: conversational-overtones in
poetics... when i had a friend still close to me
from when i was lodged in the fabric of pedagogy:
from those seemingly mythological days:
in school...
we banded up... come the lunch break...
one anglo-saxon... pure fella: by breeding...
Ian...
we played cards...
we were like all the stories franchised
by Hemmingway in: men without women...
i tried... i really tried:
i asked one girl for her photograph
so i could sketch it and give it back to her...
per usual... she just giggled and brushed it aside...
what can a boy do'oh... knead dough for
some time...
we played cards and were oblivious to
all that was boiling beneath us...
oh the tirade... is there a better word
to encapsulate the h'american rebellion
against education?
new venture "capitalists":
they'll sell you coffee-mugs and t-shirts...
how's the outlook on a spanner? on a *****?
a dime for a nail?
my my... if i were paid in nails or peanuts
rather than these transcendental objects
of "currency"... i'd stash as many pebbles
in my might and call it: both a mountain
and a camel's ****!
- the rest of us were nomads...
displaced peoples of the world...
the ******, the Egyptian, the Pakistani...
in an otherwise Irish Catholic school...
- prior to 2004 i was quiet a commodity...
the only ****** known to the locals...
i acquired a taste for Guinness...
i gulped it down: glug glug: came the kosher
sacrificial goat...
now i drink some of the goat milk
and pretend to think: i pretend a lot of things...
it's pasteurized... i can't tell the difference
between a long-life milk from a cow
or what's being sold as: goat's...
now that this is life...
i "think" of an afterlife...
no great plans... oh forget the harem...
i have a insomniac libido as we speak...
i can't keep up with a constant hard-on i'm being
prescribed: no Duracell bunny 'ere...
an eternity closest come: Valhalla...
or a Deutsche drinking house...
were songs are sang...
                      sauf noch ein!
which is stereotypical of a Wend...
                       because the Russians are never
jovial creatures when drinking...
they probably never reach
the tickling sensation from drinking...
Stephen King managed to push out another
novel from his cart of apples...
pity me: i never re(a)d a novel by Stephen King:
i never will... it's not out of higher
literary ambitions...
it's because...
well... i started two books about a year ago:
the posthumous papers of the Pickwick Club
was Charles Dickens' first book?
really? well... no matter... a year later...
it was originally serialised...
- and Knausgaard's vol. 4 of the mein kampf...
if you've read volumes 1 - 3...
it doesn't matter if you stop quarter of
the way into... an autobiography that...
well... it's not Kierkegaard... is it?
imagine my surprise at not being
able to test any maxims of la rochefoucauld:
i suppose all of them are true:
true in as much as they best
be "thought-experimented"
in the stated suggestion of said enterprise...
in...
mannequins? no...
when people leisured themselves
into politics: clocks and... nothing to do with
tabloid journalism to gear up the masses...
- all of a sudden a "what if" drops on me...
my grandfather wasn't a child when he
ushered in the words: herr-bitte-bon-bon...
of the two-schwarz-clad dobbermen
SS-mensch: what if... i was...
not on the "suspect" list
some tier above the Jew and the Gypsy...
what if Hittite Leering Herr... Adoolph...
forgot to put his faith in the Luftwaffe
and the miracle army drug as prescribed by ISIS
(amphetamine) and instead
started to *******: PANZER-GRABEN...

what if: Pearl Harbour never took place...
but it was an honest act of warfare...
collateral precision with Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
it's not fair... it started with Pearl Harbour:
not fair: trans! gay pride! it's not fair!
fair in the theatre of war?
it wasn't fair to use collateral as argument...
soldiers fought soldiers...
i will never romanticize the warrior archetype...
no point... i still preserve myself by cycling:
because i abhor running...

i'll walk a marathon from the river Rom vicinity
to St. Paul's ... sort of hiding
like a timid umbrella of a mushroom's worth...
it's England: apparently "summer":
Simon & Garfunkel...
well... it's hardly the *******:
the Beatles...
can there be a point where
these old *******... just... die?

can i take up a whiff of what they
keep on returning to?
the labyrinth glory of the next to nothing
assorted... PLUM- BER...

- because you're not reading tabloid
journalism...
thank god: i was almost making myselv
suspect
guarding the words:
below the worth of currency...
exfoliate: i might...
tragic i might sound...
but you're still not reading
tabloid journalism: you're reading this...

wait... wait... wait some more...
wait: again...
i want the world to come into
coherency of what's leftover concrete when
i'm: properly mummified:
better... thrown into the elements...
into the fire... twice: once as body: twice
as ash...
against the wind...
where everyone might be *******
against it...
into the sea.... no... into the river...
into the lake: against the hammer
or the mirror...
just above the puddle then...

you might read me before you read
what's leftover in the tabloid press..
there's a cat jigging with r.e.m. twitching...
give me death tomorrow...
i guess i'll be content...

- but concerning the "nomads"...
at least the Hebrews prescribe a motto:
fear God...
oddly enough: Allahu-Akbar...
the Muslims have no notion of a fear...
of God... there's no H. P. Lovecraftian:
a deity with a a head of an octopus...
oh how the Muslims love to joke
the inferiority of the Hindus...
the inferiority of Islam is...
it's inability to stress a fear of their deity...
Muslims don't fear their deity...
they have no scepticism...
sure... readied meat for the slaughter...
not now... in waiting...

by having no fear of their deity...
what can earn this... deity...
respect... from prospective proselytes?!
goat is goad: is gweat!
****-smear... half-way between
proper choccie and somewhat
between copperneck...
cinnamon clad-crew...

last time i checked: Muslims have no fear
of their deity...
obnoxious crazed infancy of monotheism:
that's Islam: for me...
i distrust a people with no fear
of their deity...
why? gobble gobble... down down:
'ere we go...

hey presto! i can tell the Asians apatrt!
like wannabe racists can tell
a Croat from a Serb a ****** from a Russia...
a Czech from a...
Molotov... cocktail: non Fwech...

the face of one Korean gymnast... re(ad))d
like...
i own two cats: thank **** that also don't
own two to pair of: leash... or muzzle...

under ciara... the moon trickles
itself as quicksilver onto
metal, wood, and brick...
a rare lacklustre being revived -
and given that there's
no paparazzi frost...
the cure would never become
the stone roses:
because (a) i wanna be adored
and (b) fool's gold...
sally cinnamon: prior to brit pop...
the moon dilutes and becomes...
less a choccie broad hiding frenzy
of the buds...
and more... when the light freezes
a mirror and becomes a waterfall...
it's not white, it's not grey...
it's silver, it's not silver...
it's a gesticulation of the most absent...
under ciara...
i have seen crows turn into priests...
and i have seen priests turn into crows...
while at the same time vacant...
nothing to sell but lamb-shanks...
while Edward would tip-toe and pretend:
i eve's wearing stilletos!

how's whittle britain: way-lay-aside the,
"lady"?
fetch me a rollie that was smoked...
then died... from snuggling to
an added breath... then bring me back
a cohibian st. juan of...
wet cigars... i want wet cigars...
tobacco so wet i will have to
chew and chow-mein it rather than...
smoke it...

prize? attempting to keep cool...
with a cat burdened with a moth...
that's not a moth but a furr-ball:
that's not a ball that's a quasi-bulimia...

this, of the many...
the most memorable storm to plague
england;
because "says so".