.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.

what's the difference
between
    garbage - #1 crush -
wumpscut - torn skin
and...
guns 'n' roses:
        rocket queen?
different hard-on
for the subsequently
variant day?
you'll have
to talk to me
   in more synch...
  i look at paintings,
i then look
   at a blank canvas,
one that i'm about
to emplopy phonetic
encoding onto...
and i'm like...
    pol ***'s mountain
of ash
   and ink, yes?
i just want
the screwdriver's worth
of pain
to ***** in -
          schmerz:
sh-mer-zzzz
  you can buzz that
end, can't you not?
let's leave listening
to conspiracy aside...
let's focus on...
  why did they march
andrei chikatilo...
into a cell...
and shot him
in the back of the head?
so... no firing squad...
done-in
in a prison cell...
so...
this is the part where
you tell me
about the urban myth
of the marie antoinette
cockroach:
   as to how it can
live without a head
for two weeks,
before it dies from
starvation...

the execution of
andrei chikatilo,
in that cold cell
in Ukraine...
**** me... take me there,
that's my Disneyland...
i want to experience
the trapped
groaning and moaning,
relieved by
the silence,
of the execution space.

feeling electricity?
you know...
they don't tell you...
the pain?
the pain from
being electrocuted?
it's, numbing...
electrocution numbs
you,
via Zeno...
  since it's paradoxical...
in that it numbs
you...
but also excites you...
ever been
electrocuted
on the sly?
mildly?
   it's like...
      
            like...
       teasing two magnets
apart,
or together,
the pain is so...
piquant...
it's so rare...

  after watching so much
******* as i have...
you start to revel
in "forbidden" pleasures,
rarities...
something less -esque
lucian freud...
and more francis bacon...

while you grow a beard
to only deal with
a tic -
of an inability:
to not scratch the protruding
*****
growing on your face...

i grew up having
to experience ******
examples...
   sorry... petting a dog
was always going to be
more fun...
  see... i don't get it...
you can have a perfectly
suited ******...
   spending, all day,
licking pieces of paper,
then pretending
to do the scissors...
on the "cut" mark...
all day...

   and then he'd see you,
and hug you like
he was about to squeeze
all of the life out of you...
hug you in
a "burleqsue" variant
of love...
  'can i return to
hugging my shadow,
"petting" a cat,
or grieving
  owning both a dog,
       and a leash?'

  no, when the fact being:
this ****** came from
a family,
whereby the original
"god-the-father"
   had an ******-riddle
relationship
with two sisters...
so... i'm supposed
to feel bad, anti-critical,
orthodox,
the be the sacfred ground
type of anathema?

       the same ****** could
walk the dog,
but all he ever did,
was pretend to be a pair
of scissors...
he could cut up
a newspaper,
with not sharp objects
available...
like a ******* guillotine!

- but not when
human perfection is
relegated...
   and human degeneracy
is given prime agency...

- i'll only entertain
owning a dog...
if i don't have to employ
using a leash...
or a (kaganiec): muzzle...
that's why i don't
like petting cats...
there are no obstructions...
sure...
one will snuckle into
my chair, for about an hour...
but once i've drunk enough,
and take out a cigarette...
she's ready to be rid of me...

petting a dog?
that would be fun,
to train it to be equipped
with a freedom,
that would not force
me to employ a leash,
or a muzzle...

that's like...
better than stating
a frivolity for the need
of a girlfriend...
hands down:
  if i could own a dog,
and not employ
   either a leash
or a muzzle...
that would be like...
owning an exotic bird...
in an environment
of crows...
  but no birdcage...
by then,
that would be... ******* magic.

- i stopped going
to martial arts classes...
when some disciple,
managed to kick me in the groin,
after i refused
   to HA with every movement...
kicked in the *****...
folded into a foetal position...
i heard no sorry...

so here's me...
comparing
   garbage - #1 crush -
wumpscut - torn skin
and...
guns 'n' roses:
        rocket queen...
"thinking" as to why
the Ukranian
police shot
   andrei chikatilo
in the back of the head,
in a prison cell...
   and...
  the urban myth
of a decapitated
cockroach living
for a further 2 weeks...
after the stated fact...

i was only prompted
by the christine chubbuck
scenario...
  it's not like
this happend via
the hollywood edit process
of: shot in the head,
immediately dead...

what happened
to christine chubbuck
gave me access
to the execution
of andrei chikatilo ...
after that,
it was easy...
              wunderbar!
now i know...
that being shot in the head,
does not serve you
an immediacy of death...

christine chubbuck -
andrei chikatilo:
why was he shot
in the back of the head,
in a prison cell?

with events like this...
who the hell needs
to visit disneyland?

there was an audience... there is still an audience...
i wonder about it...
i'm such a conservative deacon in the comments
that... i leave very little traces of interaction...
i tried getting ****** into the whole affair
of leaving comments - like i might have left
grafitti tags on the pillars of bridges...
                   there was an audience... there's still an
audience... i imagine...
or i rather: translate with metaphor what i'm:
trying to imagine...
              three moths have attempted to fly into
my room to spend the night free from fear...
i caught two in my hand... put the clenched hand
to my ear... no... not the sea trapped in a seashell...
close... sound effect of... rain on a tin roof...
a moth trapped in a cage of a hand...
it hasn't rained for days... weeks even...
       the most... bountiful of springs in england...
and everyone is... supposed to handle the affair
like the 2nd coming of ribonson crusoe...
          i can: because i'm used to it...
                    peacefully anti-social...
                     it's hardly bragging but:
there's an audience... there's always an audience...
here's to me: getting regularly milked...
or... laying some eggs with the sunrise and the moon...
i am... at a stage of maturing from...
a phase where... i did... once upon a time...
care about what i wrote... for my own gratification:
but... not any more...
         i've reached a point where...
i can join the ranks of the 4 Dada Suicides...
     'the four' (who) 'took nihilism of the movement
to its ultimate conclusion, their works are
the remnants of lives lived to the limit and then cast
aside with nonchalance and disdain'...
Vaché (overdosed)... Rigaut (shot himself)...
Cravan and Torma (disappeared)...
        the latter two... probably lived a life in
approximation to what might have happened
to... Richey Edwards...
born on...                  disappeared aged 27...
death is the last clue...
    not that i'm going to imitate what's already
claimed...
but... a mile from my home...
i can... find... ample resources... hemlock...
the stems are poisonous...
      i've tried... lilac mushrooms... dog mushrooms
they call them...
i don't know whether i ate a poisonous
one or not... it wasn't...
    a muhomor... amanita fly agaric...
           but... when the circuses have died and
the bread is still there...
no new movies... no sports...
what can beat: the old tease of mortality...
the grain-of-sand per month's worth of movement
added... to the tally and
the curriculum vitae of vivo per se...
                   the theatre of death...
     if i don't think about death with a joke...
i stop being... ridiculous in life...
                   i like the thought of death when...
life doesn't preserve any... sense of...
any... alternative... "light" entertainment...
it's not like i'm planning an escape...
rich and about to clone myself...
   and teach the clone "me" to be: a "future" - and me...
i almost can see how someone must
have tried to cheat death with the available
avenue of cloning...
but... the subservience of the clone...
the clone being what?
       someone must have learned the hard way...
i just interjected the question as an: and...
which is a conjunction...
          but if you're gonna go...
hell... seal a room and yourself in it...
and buy a... metaphorical tonne of lily of the valley...
go to sleep... and never wake up...
death... even death has to become entertaining:
in thinking terms - at the very least...
the only real eventuality among...
half a dozen of impossible things to think about...
daily... and here's that apple...
   if nietzsche... sentenced the source
and future disease from the 19th century...
well... so much for overcoming nihilism...
         nihilism... after all... is not... apathy...
   and even with the death of nihilism...
                              at least nihilism still asked
for moloch-esque sacrifices of will...
     apathy? what does this slug ask for?
it asks of you to... well... wrestle with yourself...
hence that "overlooked" quote:
if a day has many pockets...
       yes... those pockets of self-realisations that
provide a glitch of proof...
a proof of... having to find dominion in
settled dust... oh to hell with grand metaphors
of staging revolutions brought down
from mountain-tops!
- and i'm literally drinking my way through...
what 19th century nihilism became:
a 21st century apathy hangover...
      i'll spare the 20th century the rites of...
a mythical new beginning... a year 0...
        100 years give or take... each side of the end
of the 20th century...
but... nihilism is no longer... the standard:
to overcome...
             as much meaning can be derived from
a peanut as from a falling star...
to be this: subjective sanitiße everything -
                       i hardly think... a dickens would
require an objective reader...
what is an objective reader?
someone who studies: rather than reads...
newspapers...
someone who probably proofs reading...
by also ensuring citations are... made abundantly
clear... archives... etc.
well... better contemplating the theatre of death
than... say...
"normies":
    ahem... the critique of china...
       point: can you imagine... if... communism...
was thought-up... when...
the french revolution began? the only revolution?
rather than the russian oopsie?
well... and communism began...
when... engels and marx... went to the north
of england... and... prior to the manifesto...
wrote of the details of child-labour...
this is not my thing but...
it gets to the point where:
you can criticize china all you want...
but there's no smart... or dumb way...
to go about... pretending to be at war...
with a population of a billion people...
that... if push comes to shove...
could be conscripted instantly...
              to point out... is to exhaust the argument:
to have an argument for:
"western" principles of democracy...
here... have some balloons... here's a keg
of helium... 'ave fun...
by now... saudi arabia is secretly planning
a jihad into the Xinjiang province...
saudi arabia: the vatican of the islamic world...
is secretly trying to... blah blah...
no... the saudi princes are strapped to their yachts...
the bangladeshi slave labour blah blah...
yeah: but whittle ol' england needs
the Neds of Lahore and their tier up from
the chimney top: crescent moon-lick... slick...
- but to be this... fired up...
                it's simply exhausting to have:
a freedom of speech for such high demands...
not need to hide behind the ideals of love...
or being misunderstood...
             in no defence... but... under the guise
of that grand word: capitalism...
the sub- thorough: made in china...
                and what now? the jaw dropping
counter to the very delicate status quo?
it's beyond nihilism... when such upheld
values allowed for artistic rebellion...
to the moon: been there, done that..
europe the old man... h'america the newly
acquired *******...
       you want politico jargon ******* squeezes...
sure thing...
     stoic india... always the stoic india...
to **** off the competition - cheap soviet steel...
the soviet union's nuna 2, on 13 september 1959 -
in between: frank sinatra's:
fly me to the moon - 1963...
and thus... r.e.m.'s yeah yeah: 20 July 1969...
it's hard to compensate / compete with
that sort of a trojan hard-on ***** of
the elgin marbles...
                              at least the germanic peoples
played and understood the ping-pong
with the slavic peoples -
the hungarians on the side...
but not this... african trash for beijing...
the mongol capital of crimea...
and golden hoarding project: typo...
   when they came riding in... smeared
in **** and week old **** and horse blood...
to make... the labyrinth of the baghdad library...
a pyramid of skulls...
squeeze me: to this tired state of lost
the head to a guillotine chatter-box...
even the events of napster unfolding...
and all that's being streamed and...
now's the time to kiss and cuddle prostitutes...
and wet mr. whittle dicky for second
chances of a lost digestive... in that pond
of brew...
                easy fools to fool: those camel back
rich in dino-blood: soul black...
like espressos of mecca... flowing rich
and dying with a soothing...
from amnesia and diabetes...
and amputated limps when... sugar ingestion
leaves them... dancing ballet on only one foot...
because: porky pie and ms. amber: ha!
all bad!
                so much for... what's waiting
the white girl pornstars...
the liberated afro-h'americans and the service...
of beijing shrimp ****...
double edged sword... the height and...
all those attaches... of a fine... fine...
procelain piece of ***...
no-man's-land... the middle ground:
of... mercedez-benson-and-hedges...
        on my way out... the apache / sioux /
dodo / aztec / mayan / dodo (again) projects...

semi-closure...
   gary glitter - rock & roll part II
     ian watkins (of lostprophets) -
                      shinobi vs dragon ninja...
sorry... that one was a paedo...
              toddle-****** for the latter...
and it's not like... i enjoyed the music
to begin with...
i can't see an ad hominem argument
for the former...
                 toddler-******: esp. if the output...
well... it's not trash...
   it's: dad mantra... it's dad claustrophobia...
my take on:
mahler contra pergolesi....
            counter: invest in 100 years to come...
of which... you will...
find a future reader: being alive...
not having re(a)d you...
1986... the reader is born...
1997... you die...
you are discovered... come...
2K and 7... 8...... perhaps 9...
  a time-reference of...
         13 years from the readers birth to your
death... it's Glasgow... a very rare...
sunny... afternoon...
psychosis of the reader...
         1997 through to... 2008...
              that's 11 years... so...
what matters most is... how well you walk
through the fire...
that one about the crow and the madmen...
and each: having his niche:
his "social distancing" clause...
writing was fun when one could
stomach the: in the background...
when people lived their: very troublesome:
important... surgical precision...
nobel prize winning type / typo lives...
writing via a sense of voyeurism was...
well... hardly the self-evident blatant it has
become...
escape into fiction (lies you tell others)...
escape into imagination (choking ties of
tier-a: as above... with tier-b: as below)...
or escape into memory (lies you tell
yourself)...
but i rather the memory...
the cinema of it...
i forget to blink when: blinking is akin
to... signatures... autographs of famous people...
bull... shyte: philately...
         lepidopterology... half closure of the semi-
closure... a brilliant metaphor...
      when the **** or the latex gimp suits
are not available...
there's always that 14 year old "idea"...
of... a tamed *******...
well... if you imagine it as... love at first sight...
you're 16 she's 14... and...
you're dating her older sister at the time...
and then... she disappears...
within the confines of her first and last
unflowering...
but the pristine first-impressions become
less metaphor and more: idealism...
it's fun... when there's a concensus of it being:
forbidden... it's what drives both the hunger...
and the feeding...
that it's never actually realised is beside
the point: made... in... lars von trier's
nymphomaniac...
          too catholic of me: born into it...
but... repressing the urges... is as much as...
delighting oneself in them...
ergo: the necessary *******...
so much for... *****-******* and oyster
slurping... when... you have been...
ahem... told to **** it up...
with the: "excess of skin"...
excess of skin / chemical imbalance
in the brain...
how about... i allow... a triatoma infestans...
to quicken my: dementia...
the myth goes... along the lines...
a horse with a grain of sand...
via its ear... will bash and ram and ram and bash
its head against a brick wall:
in an attempt to rid itself of the irritation...
conformity:
cul de sac queers and kwerks...
i lampoon on a sunday...
the rest of the days i'm free...
clued into: cwown...
which is... somehoo: velsh... in parts...

- by death i imply a riddle...
                 by death i imply:
          freed from the cinema of highly edited
pseudo-living...
not even among the stage of the theatre...
but at least...
cinema got one thing right...
   the suicide of christine chubbuck -
the urban myth goes along the lines of:
a cockroach was found... alive... 2 weeks...
after its head was guillotined...
       it's like that... bane quote:
and... the andrei chikatilo... reality...
non-verbatim:
                 'perhaps he's wondering... why
someone would shoot a man...
before throwing him out of a plane'...
rephrasing:
   'perhaps he's wondering...
why someone would shoot a man...
after throwing him into a prison cell'...
unless... he wasn't... expecting...
to wait for him... to die... of a urban myth...
2 weeks if not more...
brain-dead: heart still pumpking...
horrors from Kiev... Chernobyll the *******
icing cream topping the gwand:
godzilla: pie in the sky...

     i cared... once... once... that was:
upon a time...
these times don't really require much focus...
the space itself poses enough
liberty... no need to look as far back
as there's to look forward...
     the 20th century killer: zenith...
****** and ferriswheel of events...
                waking up to the new mandarin
plateau... it's like...
waking up from... the refreshing cain
mythos relatability...
always from h'america...
otherwise... bullet to the head...
king soldier: human rights...
   yeah... nice... the shame of homeless people:
there's an alexander the great...
a a diogenes of synope: with a hippocratic
oath... loitering around the corner?
hell! go wit' the flou...
                 jump-start a prison adventure...
less... high morality ****-pants
asking questions on the way...
people of high morality
and high: low social status importance...
**** someone...
better than becoming philosophically
homeless... blah blah...
                         i'm so little i actually
define myself as:
at liberty to preserve the lives of moths...
yes... well that's nice...
for anyone asking to: ride the easy... roulette.

it's not plagiarism,
rather, a collectivist
coincidence -

    i can't believe people
in the former days would
reduce themselves
to plagiarism -

    they'd sooner die than
relieve themselves
of an original idea -

   working with a mythology -
how could such
differentiated people
achieve copernican
globalist relativistic /
globalist impetus,
  and yet, somehow succumb
to an ethnocentric -
    genesis of unoriginality...

yes, unfathomable,
the concept of polyphony,
synchronicity inter-people...
    plagiarism is a modern
phenomenon,
   it doesn't exists in
collectivism of inter-ethnic
conundrums of
segregating categorization...

      just like evolution is god's
take on the thrill of gambling...
an original idea...
   allowing an in group focus...
it could never be a plagiarism -
    the segregating process of
techno. advancement...  
         toward a...
less cultural appropriation...
and more?
   cultural loaning...
      "plagiarism"...
       perhaps i should "read" into
solving crossword puzzles...

now plagiarism is easy...
any son of sam
is not an arsonist...

             but as my continued fascination
continues with
    andrei chikatilo...
and batman, the dark knight rises
scene on the plane:

  why would you shoot a man,
before taking him into a prison cell?!  

ah... christine chubbuck...
this fascination... will not, die...
such a solemn,
              vernacular death...
worthy of a Vatican pawn-ship
of preceding the scourge of death.

i truly must have had one of those, very, very memorable nights, that i somehow also want to forget, so implant myself with false memories, oh, i've seen this done in a clinical environment, in psychiatry: it's called regression - a psychiatrist will call you up, he or she might have a handy student overseeing the "interview"... then he / she might insert a sort of: on the whim / "by the way" a speaking out-loud, referring to you in third person... e.g. oh... he was abused as a child... again.. to reiterate, today i woke up thinking i was screaming into the deafness of the night, not screaming via de profundis... more like... vitriol energy screaming: you ******* idiots! but i have proof... a nice, plum of an eye-sore... no mascara could do it justice... so it must've been a decent drinking session... my father just asked me... who gave you that LIMO... slang in ****** for a black-eye... LI-MO... thrill! i can find that in katakana: look at me go! ****... on L in Japanese... no trilling of the R either... WONG, WONG WONG.... let's see...  ha ha... oh but there is... you just have to be a rat, scuttle around the "palace" for a while... リ゜
                       モ
so when asked: who gave you the black-eye? i replied...
i was having issues with my shadow, who else?
i was punching myself in the head so hard, hey presto!
plum! ha ha...i always blame the shadow, we're always wrestling, no drinking session without a proper, fighting antagonism, the day  my shadow stops punching me, i, imagine, is the day some woman will come round and: ha ha... "kiss it all better"... for the time being... i like punching myself, i like... putting out cigarettes on my knuckles... masochistic little art of pseudo-algebra: X here, XXXX in total... it's always a good drinking session when i loose control, it usually happens when something is infuse... some minor biopic concerning Ted Bundy will do it... the erotica: YA-WN... i'm still trying to get paid... capitalism: sure... for some... i'm waiting... if they only pay me, properly... self-employed or PAYE (pay as you earn)... no one has bothered to clarify this with me... capitalism for some... i'll work, **** it... but the idea of bungee-jumping from some high building... no... not too alien... i can stomach the gravity, the thrill... i know that upon impact i'll meet sigma... alias of soul... my body's rent to begin with... no worries... i think i punched myself in the face since tomorrow i'm doing a stewarding shift up in Oxford... **** know's who's playing... i just want the supervisors to see my face... my whittle plum sore... if asked obviously i won't be telling them: i had an argument with my shadow... got in a fight, in a pub, self-defence... blah blah... oh no no... this metaphysical paradise belongs to me, to me: alone!
i almost feel terrible drinking this litre of bourbon,
you can't get better bourbon than ol' Jacky-boy'oh...
every time i open a bottle of bourbon
i'm reminded of the sort of perfumery you'd
most associate with a brothel -
bourbon scents = brothel scents...
bourbon is most certainly better than whiskey...
wait... no it's not...
bourbon is sweet whiskey...
i'm not much of a Laphroaig sort of guy...
come to think of it: on the spot...
i'd prefer a smoky whiskey... a Scotch whiskey
than this... sickly sweet bourbon...
perhaps i shouldn't have done
the no. 1, 2 & 3 (****, ****, *******)
& the no. 4 (the "baptism") prior...
sometimes you start drinking & absolutely nothing
feels right... i think my socks are stinking...
pregnant woman sensitivity to scents,
to tastes? do i really want to eat some cappers
or some gherkins to reach a counter balance
to this... sweetness...
i still haven't checked my newly set up bank
account regarding whether i've been paid
for my stewarding at stadiums...
o.k., o.k., think about going to the brothel...
let me just hope
i can sooth my disgruntled little self
with some decent d.i.y. music choices...
               or... if i get enough in... it really will
not matter what i'll be drinking by the end
of it...
Laphroaig... well... it's a bit like Marmite...
you either love it, or hate it...
i'm undecided... like i'm undecided about
bourbon... any other day i'd be loving it...
today... i'm undecided...
  perhaps i'm just used to drinking cheap whiskey,
cheap generic stuff...
i elevate the drinking experience by romancing
it: fraulein bernstein (ms. amber)
& mr. whiskers... etc.

- it really just takes a cigarette break & looking up
at the night sky... oi! baldy! where's that
old ******! never mind, but a night sky without
the moon is always an ugly night...
now i know what's up...

why did i watch no man of god today?
i had company when watching this movie...
but... how many more, how many more *******
movies about Ted Bundy? sure...
the movie was more about the FBI profiler
Bill Hagmaier... but still...
do we really need yet another movie about
Ted Bundy?! o.k. i know a little...
his mother had him out of wedlock,
he was raised on a lie: his mother was his "sister"
while his grandmother was his "mother"...
i dated a Russian girl for a while...
when i met the goons, sorry, her family...
way back in 2007... in St. Petersburg...
i was given the Ted Bundy introduction...
her mother was her sister...
her grandmother was her mother...
         what a freak of a woman: great ****...
tattoos and piercings...
she did this one number on me...
all scabs on her lips...
imitating the singer from hed(pe)...
wait... i'll look him up... jared gnome-head...
no offense: jared gomes...
all scabby... i implored her... take them out...
i implored her... cut those ******* dreads...
she complied to the point of...
proposing to me... she even chose
the ******* engagement ring...
she wanted me to get a tattoo... i refused...
even though she was this upstart tattoo artist
in the making...
she wanted me to get dreadlocks:
again... i refused...
thank **** that i disappeared from Edinburgh
and headed back down to London...
Ilona: thank you for introducing me to
BULGAKOV... i really enjoyed that book...
esp. reading parts of if
on my wait from St. Petersburg through
to London with a stay at Warsaw...
eh... as much as i love Dostoyevsky...
how he belittles Polacks every time he gets...
not to my taste...

2007... a pivotal year...
to cite Jung from the Answer to Job...
perhaps there are some female readers
in my audience, perhaps the Zodiac is to be minded...
this quote...
Luciferi vires accendit Aquarius acres -
Aquarius sets aflame Lucifer's harsh forces...

a lot has happened since... 2007... don't you think?
oh, look-look... she was an Aquarius,
i am still a Taurus... but that break-up...
my god... what a harsh trip...
i remember walking up to her apartment armed
with a guitar... about to play her a serenade...
REJECTED: ha ha...
pushed back by her ex-boyfriend she was
******* and her ex-boyfriend's friend...
a Russian... ha ha... oddly enough:
called: GERMAN...

it's so almost yesterday... i can sigh a sort of relief
from this memory...
it's good to remember...
i never sought out that quality of forgetfulness...
i want to remember... i cherish memory
above thought... it's theatre...
i want to... remember... select...
what... i want to remember...
so that it can have a recurrent presence in my mind
like... that drill "sergeant" of
pedagogy that instilled 2 + 2 = 4 into me...
the ******* alphabet...

now i know why i have this bad taste
in my mouth from drinking bourbon...
it's not that i'm drinking bourbon...
i love bourbon...
when the Scots took the smoky route...
the Irish took the mellow route...
arriving at bourbon years later:
and on a different continent...
                                     do, i, look, bothered?!
i hope i do: i (might) also hope that you might
"think" i do... but... you're not, you don't
(seem to be)...
so? back to sq. 1: 'ere we go...

mighty fun playing the ******* or are least
pretending to be one...
akin to... pseudo Jack Nicholson
in that cameo role of his as
enrolled by: actor playing actor playing
an actor: Keith Allen...
Bodies... Dr. Tony Whitman...

me, you...Joseph Roth &
the doppelgänger, right & "who" else?!

now i know... that cigarette break really helped...
the bad taste in my mouth...
of course! i must be drinking h'american liquor...
i knew something was up...
couple h'american liquor with watching
no man of god i.e.
not another Ted Bundy flick... o.k.
women are attracted to psychopaths...
wannabe cannibals... fair, *******: enough...

black culture is superior to white culture...
sure... white people are ******* gagging
to incorporate it...
inter-sectionality always existed within
the confines of religion: religion was
always post-modernist... given the current trend
of "thinking": it always... incorporated
outside influences to create a cohesive:
snowball effect... what's ******* new?
discovering the continent of America in a tin
of ******* sardines?!

there's no tree, there's no dog barking...
you're just asking for a a wrong type of a mental
gymnast to make some, weirdly allocated,
point, of ref....
i'm not doing it... god help anyone...
no... not even the ******* devil would get into
this much... anti-fascinating sort of "juice"...
i wouldn't...

o.k. now i know...
i was drinking this most, bountiful of a fully-bodied
red wine yesterday...
a south african 2020 shiraz...
by the name of arabella (name sounds familiar...
an arctic monkey's song?!)
origin: western cape...

i think i must have mentioned
smoky whiskey vs. bourbon...
well... this glass of red was so good...
i had to breathe some nicotine smoke
into the glass... let's go... full out theatrical
on this: "blood"...

to reiterate... why so many movies about Ted Bundy?!
modern ******* is so...
******* ugly... even in the brothel i would never
want to **** women like the women ******
in *******... ****?! come on...
******* with the addition of choking?!

as a child i had a categorical dislike for liver,
pork liver... semi-goulash
with onions... with the addition of mash
& gherkins... or pickled beetroots...
this sort of material, this sort of ***...
puts me off...
i scratch my head and think:
Abel... because H'america was built on
the CULT of CAIN... their fascination
their celebration of serial killers...

prior to mentioned...
America is a CULT OF CAIN...
i'm with the Iranians on this...
     three names congregate...
Kurt Cobain... shot himself in the head using
a shotgun... sure... that's one way to go...
but... shooting yourself in the head...
doesn't simply "solve" the matter...
recall...
   Chrstine Chubbuck *** Adndrei Chikatilo...
bullet to the head...
for both...
a quote from Bane... a Batman fictional character:
perhaps he's wondering:
why someone might throw a man...
out of a plane... before shooting him in the head?!
why would you shoot someone
in the head... in an empty prison cell?!
if you were not expecting them to rot?!
best explored with the added tenderness added
to the attempted suicide attempt of the incel
that Ms. Chubbuck became?

why not make more movies about
the Zodiac killer... anyone?!
oh, sure... here's me readied to ******* to little
Wisconsin... or... **** knows where!

i was having some d.i.y. d.j. issues...
thought experiments... undogmatic & kernfeld...
"issues": yeah, i couldn't remember the song's name...
no, wait, the artists...

last came... the origins of the niqab hebrew
vowels...
the: hmm...
come to think of it... there's more...
such is the nature of hidden things...

Adam Kadmon [tetragrammaton(s)] apex...
Atzilut (nearness)
Beriyah (creation)
Yetzirah (formation)
Asiyah (making)...

vowels like diacritical markers...
caron, tail... umlaut...
well... for the Hebrews...
   A - kametz...
    E - tzere -
    I - chirek
   O - cholem
   U - Kibbutz... some others... i will miss...

the study of vowels, though...
since they are hidden...
the entire concepts of vowels in Hebrew...
the niqqud...
i ask... looking down at the chiromancy...
of, my... right, hand...
did not the vowels arrive in "our" consciousness
via the Sefirot root / branch of...
the Malkhut?!

    Adonoy... you know... when the current people
perform *** & it's so ******* off-putting:
primarily because... they talk...
during *******...
&... i don't want to be talking during ***:
why invoke / invite "god"?!
they can't... Niqqut / Malkhut the deed...
o.k.... not that i'm ******...
just... mildly annoyed...

      you don't need to **** & speak at the same
******* ****'s sake time!

Europe... some weird ******* funnel for
the world to congregate around...
white women... white women and their *******
sado-masochism...
the cult of cain in america...
white women and their afro-****-boys...
cry wolf while i go around arming myself
with Thai surprises& Turkish delights...

i oust my shadow from my presence
with a few drop-dead plums in search for "light"...
imagine me punching a woman silly to
later reason wth me...
oh... but no one is going to say anything about
me punching myself silly "SOY"..
been my: bean my baby?!

      now' the time i hark, now's the time i bark...
now's the time i fill the night with a stomach's
worth of...              GRUNT..
indigestion...

       die stücke, bewegen sich!
schach, ja?! nein?
                       was ist die alternative?!
hund?! leine?!

-
as my grandfather said: hand of a stone, heart the size of a peanut, and the "individuals" will be yours hiding behind a wall... as i replied: sooner man will hide behind a people, than he will expose himself to be one, of the people; i know who i belong to! albus & rubrum... sink, azure... sink.

because the poor girl christine chubbuck
died in a hospital bed,
under narcosis
while the fiend
andrei romanovich chikatilo,
died, in an ukrainian cold
prison cell floor,
  without any painkillers...
            which he probably didn't mind...
ever so often, only half fraction
of the brain is affect,
the rest? explores...
                perhaps pain became
his ally...
                how long do you
think they kept him caged like
that, with a shot in the back of the head?
well...
you show me a movie like
   christine i will naturally become
curious...
      he survived his brain damage
until he starved?
          but what pains might have
been spawned that will, always,
make, ******, a pop culture icon,
                  and never, the horror...
you trying to find only nazis as
the zenith of horror?
           ha ha!
                   you never read anything
about the ukraine, have you?
               those remnants of
mongolia...
           ha ha... i like american
*******, they're funny...
             fear is always: wide-eyed!
         the part where the internet
trolls start bragging: uh, uh,
their women...
             what women?
           "my" women?
                       these aren't "my" women...
hey, a study of h. h. holmes...
            past the "fantasy" and
back into reality i don't know
what the bragging it about...
      better ask the advert
   #greet-the-saudi-prince...
     with what? a hatchet or a knife?
   personally the whole primitive
aspect of burning national flags
lacks all the humour of:
******* on them...
          must be a pakistani "thing"...
these people could do one
better and not plagiarise nazis...
how about a game:
          ******* on books you
want to burn?
                           well, if you really
want to insult...
burning books just insults
the publishers, and printers...
        burning books ensures
ideas of those opposing you become
beacons and are doubly
defended...
        but the act of ******* on a book?
well... the work of publishers and
printers is still there...
   but the work within?
      you ****** on it,
                why burn the artefact?
just say the paper was rough
and you needed soft paper
to wipe your *** with;
                                         problem?
oh, right... niqab...
                her mouth for your eyes only...
and your genitals for her mouth only...
i see...
        easier to start a fire...
               fair enough:
           but now we can have an honest
dilema as to what constitutes
                    an authentic protest.
i'll count the book burning
authentic,
       when you allow yourself
to show your genitals in public,
          as she might her face,
   and you might actually protest
by playing the afghan-*******-game
on a flag, rather than digging for
coal, or chopping trees for
a fireplace...
                   don't burn it!
**** on it!
                       ah... so i thought...
a throng of castratos.
                can shackle men in curtains,
have no stomach for how
bulgarian prostitutes dress
in a brothel in officer-manly grey
attire...
                big tease...
                no more...
                        thong for what?
  linger-ray for what?
         arousal?
                    ma-ma-madonna
       ***-***-***** complex...
                we're not exactly here,
together bound to pulverising body
heat to keep 16 year olds free from
the metaphors of eating ice cream...
and the courosel if intimidating
insinuation..
                     ***** please,
110 quid an hour,
                   i can leave without
a single *******...
                    that's not the bit i mind...
i mind walking back into
the labyrinth
            with an echo of you
giggling while i transgressed
the ******* ethos of:
   no lips touch these lips with
their lips...
                      oh...                   oops...
my bad...
           and how many times i
walked among with a knife and
a bottle of whiskey suffocating in
asking them: **** me...
                                 too many times.
- but honestly though:
if you're going to seriously
protest... start ******* on the flag
you concentrated your protest
on, rather than doing the ali-g
of burning it...
            makes me look bad in
this generational sphere of
                "identification politics"...
   no... second time
               the 2nd democratic convention
that's the "academy"
             happens seeing it
the second time...
                       a brewing fourth wave...
because when does an actor not act?!
         when can an actor
ever make an oath an antithesis
to grasp authenticity?
           ****...
           throw these magicians
             onto a stage and tell them
to play anything other than
a helpless foetus...
          matthew mcconaughey can
rub his nose all he wants...
                      line them up!
            just... throw them onto
an actual theatre stage...
                       and lets count
the magic tricks of the art of editing
to mind them then.

in all fairness, it was one of of those simple overcast,
English sort of days...
i love such days, the sun's lazily hiding
behind the clouds: no chance to implement green
energy via solar panels...
very English... very islander...
     hell, chances are these might just be the Faroe Isles...
it'll do...
weather like this makes me: miserably happy...
or, rather... happily miserable...
   you spot a crow paired up: why do crows in England
tend to fly in pairs?
over on the continent crows congregate...
they antagonise the sky with a presence equivalent
to a Messerschmitt raiding party... horde...
black crosses casting shadows from high up...
in England... the mythological kingdom of crows...
they pair up as if... Odin himself is peering on this land...
what's it like in Scandinavia?
i woke up with a thought, though,
i put it to the back of my head until the day's chores
were over...
what the hell happened to women?
where are the women a boy or man would put
up on the wall on a poster?
what the hell happened to...
women like Joan Jett...
Rachel Weisz (notably for playing a role in
a Stendhal adaptation with Ewan McGregor)
my hot... the archetypical blonde
for me was not Marilyn Monroe...
it was Cameron Diaz after seeing her in The Mask...
**** me, do i have to mention Morgan Weaver...
what's that other one
the really: fit as hell brunette...
oh... right... Alex Morgan...
                   Olga Smirnova... Diana Vishneva...
don't even get me started on
the tennis...
Eugenie Bouchard or... Garbiñe Muguruza
those Spanish "sad eyes" when
smiling... horiziontally:

   (
               )
   (

odd... isn't it... if you pair up two ( ( brackets like
that... and associate them with eyes...
while doing the opposite...

    )
                (
    )

) ) those down-cast eyes... but i guess it all comes
down to... a variation of rereading hieroglyphs...
hell... even further! it's archetypical...

who else is on my list... Paula Badosa...
Monica Puig...
i don't even know why i like the actress
that played the incel Christine Chubbuck...
point being: never shoot yourself in the head...
if you have to... stab yourself in the heart:
as Kafka prescribed... unless you have
a shot-gun available to get rid of the whole head...

i saw it in the movie... and... since i have eclectic tastes...
Christine Chubbuck shot herself in the head...
films make you want to think that she
died... instantly...
ever hear that urban myth about a decapitated
cockroach... it apparently died 2 weeks later...
no... not from missing head:
from a missing mouth... the cockroach's body
continued to live on, even though the head was...
ahem... "missing"...

i think i've touched upon this once already,
the infamous Ukrainian serial killer:
Andrei Chikatilo... it's very much that quote
from Batman... Resurrected... the one with Tom Hardy
playing Bane...
the quote, verbatim:
perhaps he's wondering why someone would
shoot a man! before throwing him out of a plane!
from the film about Christine Chubbuck's attempted
suicide on air: agony of an incel...
she didn't die, immediately... from the head injury...
she died later down the line:
on life support machines...

so i'll re-quote, concerning the execution of
Andrei Chikatilo...
why would he be marched into an empty prison
cell and be shot in the back of the head...
oh... now it makes senses...
he didn't die immediately...
he was brain-damaged...
he didn't bleed out from this head wound...
it must have taken him about... 2 weeks to die...
from either dehydration or from lack of food...
but the movies will never tell you that...
some do, thought...

why would you take a serial killer into an empty
prison cell and shoot him in the back
of the head: if you weren't expecting him
to pretend to be dead for... a little while, longer?
would the Ukrainian prison guards subsequently
**** him with arrogantly looking
objects?
******* ****** and what not?
i expect they might have...
i like entertaining myself with such scenarios...

but like Kafka said: aim at the heart...
you're not going to die from a head-injury...
your might not be aware of it...
it would be otherwise pointless to make a film
surrounding poor, un-****** Christine...
leeching off support-machinery...
kept alive...
ergo? ol' Andrei was shot in the back
of the head, in an empty cell...
left to partially rot away...
probably getting ****** on, ******* on...
well... did he deserve any better?!

yet i woke up thinking...
why do all the pretty girls... become prostitutes?
the most beautiful ones i ever caressed:
prior to scratching my fingertips on some pavement /
brick before touching their bodies were always
the prettiest of the whole lot of them...
but in general... with the advent of post-brothel
simping... paying for nudes directly
rather than ascribing oneself to:
i'm *****... i'll take the 3rd person ****-show...
fair enough...
but i'm not paying directly for: directly nothing...

they could have been football players,
nurses, ballerinas, actresses...
they turned to ***...
sure... of the 3 or 4 Ps...
poets, priests, psychiatrists or prostitutes...
they're in line...
perhaps it's for the best...
every, single, time...
of the times i visited a psychiatrist,
psychologist... after all: a psychologist has no
power to prescribe you the required pharmacology...
i have my own reading list...
so...
to hell with a priest...
i can't be a god-fearing man when i am supposed
to churn out a regurgitation of a:
benevolent all loving god... not in my part
of the woods...
so, prostitutes!
less talk, more touchy-feely...

yet so many women have decided to take up
this route... hardly professionally...
only via the easy way out...
it's not like most of these girls are capable to touch my
own body... i go to the source...
Turkish... plain in sight... Romanian...
i'm not paying for a ******* video of her
*******, body on body contact...
better assurance to what a date might provoke...

but it's not like they're aiming to be ballerinas,
the minority always will...
sure: and i'm also not a car mechanic...
****** poet, events steward...
a few clues to a upper IQ also missing...
not right up there with the opera singers... either...
i like the middle ground, though...

like today... i was walking to Collier Row to buy some
spiced ***, some orange peel,
some currants, for a Christmas cake...
beard's all bushy... the moustache has taken charge...
i have a date on Monday...
one sip of coffee and i pick up extra foam...
this ****** jungle needs to be trimmed...
so i went to the Turk...
now... if i really love a piece of clothing...
i'll repeatedly wear it...
a Fat Face brown shirt... thick enough for winter
to only wear a dark brown t-shirt underneath...
crock-coloured material trousers...
cotton? brown leather shoes... ankle high...
and... a new addition... a brown-green...
baker-boy cap...
maybe the bushy beard readied for a trim...
or the baker-boy cap...
a green & grey shawl...
one female, two female, three females down...
smiling, giggly... the: oh i love the pretend
curiosity / nervousness... excitement...
best i love myself: the last loved-up curiosity
left me... with too much nostalgia...
in as quickly & out as quickly as a ******* allows...
i'm out...

KORA: the lead-singer from this ******
band Manam... where are these women gone to,
all went to *******?
impossible... given can compete... compliment
men's addition to civilisation
they reduce themselves to the meat-market?
seems like a waste...
while they could aspire to sing,
to dance ballet... fair enough...
a ******* does the work of a psychiatrist...
yeah, sure, watch me complain...
but i'm not going to pay for frivolous expenses...
i need the touch: i'll get the touch...
no ******* free-rides...
people that talk during ***...
people that aren't mute or onomatopoeia prone...
can't understand them: i don't wnat to
understand them...

a more complex schematic i had in mind...
on the 14th of December my mother booked in
this pedicurist...
i hope she comes with her 1 year old daughter...
it was most fun the last time she came,
my little Frankenstein...

last time i clucked, she clucked back...
she implored me with the knowledge
that she was hungry, she also had cold feet...
i took her up in my arms and cuddle her...
i was being scrutinised...
this pedicurist had a friend in tow...
apparently i had all the advantages of a Scandinavian
physiognomy...
a darkened beard, a darkened brow...
yet illuminating moustache / soul patch:
blonde...
   the leftover of my childhood colour of hair...
i wish she brings this little... critter back into my arms...

it's not mine: less heartache from a perspective of
ownership... this little babe... i own bonsai tigers...
coming into staged ownership of a baby girl...
not my own... how fun it becomes...
i out on some vinyl record for her...
she tries to memorise me...
she puts a finger into my mouth...
she tugs at my beard...
i wink, she winks...
             i give her an onomatopoeia...
she gives me one back...

little Frankenstein...
that's why i should have children, they'd be too experimental...
following the schematic:
i'd ask the little critter:

  e  i
a  M o
    u        (y)

English alone... Y... why... alias of "iota"...
            
Y: to... także samogłoska, nie?
i guess there are more vowels in ******
than in Anglo-Saxon...

  ą   e  ę
a  M  o
   i y u/ó

in anglo-saxon Y is not considered a vowel,
it's considered  a consonant:
a... spółgłoski...

i lent this pedicurist some albums:
pablopavo - telefon
wooden shjips - west
vomito nergo - fall of an empire
hanzel und gretyl - uber alles
biran jonestown massacre - aufheben
dead skeletons - dead magic
electric wizard - dopethrone
spirit - 12 dreams
ryan adams - s.t.
u.n.c.le. - war stories
om - adviatic songs
trentemoller - lost
the soft moon - s.t.
allah-las - s.t.
uncle acid & the deadbeats ,
naam,
chromatic - will for love
in extremo - verehrt und...
tame impala - innerspeaker...

just bring me your little Frankenstein!

tending to a babe, via keeping a makeshift...
listening stream of...
Masquerade, oh beloved little kitty:
of a would be Frankentsein...
speak me some assurance!

...and that i own a bed.., but rather sleep on the floor... make-up an Ibiza from a Beirut... i rather **** the fathoming of a fizzle... to somehow compensate the tirade... this most unwelcome clue and loss... this gravity toward a... copper skin... and spit of biting totoises toying: limbo years... leftover... come... cushioning brief: fudge-packaged "thought"... this limbo-slant... as somewhat crude work-around... kiev a... "scheme"...

vielen dank zu gott! many thanks to god!

my greatest fear is that of homelessness...
who's to fear... to fear and "what"?

to be at home is some synoynmous
with something:
beside a being: and a home!

loitering in the quasi lane...
i'm about to travel across
europe with three rotten
teeth and i'm to suspect:
myself toying with some
variation of journalism...

       i see no end to the cold,
or war... the warm or
the shrapnel excavation
project...
when communism
was beast established
among the slavs
as your: yours one and truly...
antagonistic
warsaw pact whistling
and lobotomy...

even if i were the evil genius
of descartes...
i wouldn't be so...
fine detailed: ****...
      so... pristine... so...
otherwise... lobotomy blues...

exactly! what's scary is not
the laws being implemented...
but how... easily they are...
talk about climbing a tree...
talk about learning to ride
a bike... achieving a pass
with a bruised knee...

              a scrap: heaping...
lost teeth and... what of the jihad...
for the lost fraction of the ummah...
what of the jihad...
expected... in the chinese...

where is the ummah to be
summed to salvage...
and save the...
frolic over...
              the detail... in hair...
when hair is being shipped
away to "elsewhere"...
for ****-holes awaiting...
xinjiang... hair from...
would be... hibernating bear farts...

the jihad! the jihad!
i'm guessing the arab elites
are in on the "gimmick" with
the choke ***** men...
because... jihad only behaves
like a jihad on former
cursader territory...
south of france...
herr tao is somehow immune...

calls for being debility funny...
calls for...
bonfires of the turban of the sikhs...
orientating...
the house of gondor with
the house of rohan...

                 we'z needz 'air!
atypical confused jihadi saladin would-be...
we must all thank...
vielen dank zu gott!
                   but i still wait...
for the jihad to save the... project islam inc.
of the ummah...

sloth-riddles of the islamic project...
clearly they want to stamp on
the face of a man beaten down by...
a non-resurrected christianity...
too scared to face off with...
chinese atheism...

      *****-soldiers... where the ummah
where the... oh... wait...
the bangladeshi being paid
in "reperations" having
a chance to relieve themselves
with a game of cricket...
i'd sooner send... the locust
to abu dhabi than allow a foot
of mine to set...
on a worse idea beside the already
ailing reality of venice...

once upon a time...
was the fortune of settling on the basin
of the river...
all that oil must have shot those
arabs to the head...
the egyptians started screaming
at the camel-jockeys:
you never listened to the sand-*******...
did you?

all that black gold in one's pocket...
all that... yacht ambition...
all that and that...
all that frivolity... prized pride of
the... ahem... "ummah"...
looks like the chinese muslims are
forever and the will of the dubai classics...
fern fusions readied for...
the wigs!

       ****** readied they are...
some mongols would dear strap a horse
to their grave than excavate a hair plough
from...
eh... slaving prior to genocide...
it's like... they are... "allies"...
               it's a genocide mingling
with a joke... of slavery...
but the slaves did work that...
oh no... the germans didn't trust...
the hebrews with anything...
they performed genocide like a "failure"...
or rather a joke...
  
ask the serbs...
ask someone in rwanda...
you never perform a genocide...
by way of... imitating slavery...
by... stalling... by making people perform
menial tasks...
hello horror...
hello the sleeping ummah of islam...
to outright **** a people...
you wouldn't want them...
being teased...
a god teasing and his precursor for
having a 2000 year old wait
to establish: re- ishrael...

         the outliers of rome...
alaos pagan... converted to
the judeo-greco project of: three rotten teeth...

"toxic masculinity"... problem?
not enough of it is going around...
enough for it to be shared...
likewise...
my retreating toward...
japanese insinuation ****...
gravure idols...
   hell... absolute "toxic femininity"...
porcelain white girls...
all... lemon *******... peanuts dead...
while their... glob-trotting...
glutton sized up 66s...
   have forgotten the concept of:
insinuation ****...
foreplay...
all readied for...
extract ******* woman...
****... bred for... **** like a piston...
****** readied...
   blah "blah"...

       it doesn't translate... plain jane...
the sort of toxic you seek...
in man... revels in a deity lady madonna...
i **** myself over all second come...
blessings! blessings they calls them...
yeah... the best dates i've ever had...
concerning the "middle path"
of buddha is bound to the clarity
of a transation in a brothel...

so much for a justified jihad in xinjiang
to... save the people of the ummah...
pseudo malcom X consricpt... 0...
negation... not going to happen...
    japanese porcelein ****...
but they'll wait for the hyprocrisy...
they'll come for the arabs first...
when they finally engineer a man...
that will be better than all
the supposed doping advances of western man
allowed...
  
i'm starting to like *******
from the perspective of a japanese hard-on...
insinuation...
    i'm less the ****** and i'm more...
about to sniff a stinking dog's bowl
of processed meat of a ****'s oyster behalf...
i like that...
less *****... more hard-on...
     n'ah... i never did buy into the whole:
sorry loser ******* in amsterdam
cinema sessions...
    i liked... the tease of a tier...
more imaginative... more human...
than... a tease of a harem via a niqab...

so... no jihad come xinjiang?
should we suppose the mongols also invested
in a conversion and it wasn't the grand
imitation buddha kahn?
the wrath subsided: god was proven...
time for meditation...
    what's a jihad...
when you could entertain...
the... tsunami of the horde of...
the fall of angels.... fully-workable replica
metaphor...
what's the ****-poor islam "spread"
by comparison?
                
no real ummah then...
   unless...
that's diesel of a lamborghini burning
rubber on a tarmac in knightsbirdge
for a faking 'ard on...
    
  two days from now...
i'll be passing through germany...
        i'll be retiring 2 weeks to that land
of paradoxes that's my land of birth...
the aristocratic democracy brothel
of crown and... *******...
foreign hands foreign lands...
all the ready to retreat into their habsburg cul de sacs
of prior to: asserted powers...

no... there's just that...
"we" forgot a healthy ground for
doubt... the plethora of emotion...
the rollercoaster of it...
there's just now... the yoyo-denial cringe
lobotomy...
the best best cringe...
slav soviet communist...
Teddy! Teddy! sell 'em spleen
and iron grips!
no good Warsaw Tadeusz!
Beijin new bwest fwend!

            t-eee-sted...
                  new zealand: tee-st...
not station: tested... but...
t-eee-sted **** the rats and retards...
the philonthropes...
because...
   the noise made by bwah bwah...
  the misathrope...
it's like an accent from...
that last best reserved concept
of growing figs... otherwise a...
goof-ball and course for ralph...

now for the self-congratulatory letter
of championing the dodo project:
well thank **** for not solving this brain-drain
spaghetti puzzle and not exactly buying into
the d.n.a. project ugly pass...
with all that..... bewildering...
"consciousness" debate...
michael myers' "consciousness" debate...
one... 'em... those sudoku nuggets
of... "sober"?!

best resolved...
i drink alcohol to keep calm...
after i forgot to... take my ****** pills...
my... i came late to the party...
21 was illegal to smoke marijuana...
amitriptyline... 25mg...
how many times do i think
about a slaughterhouse?
i think of all the boys with:
chemical soup for brains aged
16 and under...
i was lucky...
they only got to me aged 21...
i was still allowed to retain
a labyrinth of wording(s) to shelter my anger with...
surprise? what surprise?

toxic masculinity = not enough james bonds
running amok for...
oh... weight... *****-whipping...
there's all that... i forgot what...
period drama this was all about...

drink drink drink...
i'll sooner kick my liver dead than...
allow society to sober my half-wit frankenstein
brain of theirs...
    i'll die with:
i don't scare myself with drowning...
i don't scare myself with falling...
flat into a pancake...
i shouldn't be afraid of homelessness...
but i am because...
this avenue of the freely available stars...
and those... made rebel...
that will answer to me...

                  the butterfly... waiting...
for the most pristine... prized... first...
insecurity of... h'america about to be exported...
and it's a... oh my! a zephyr...
tornado... one of those: flush 'em...
when you 'ave 'em...
sort of... scenarios...

hegel: improtune... the will of the thinking man...
thought is a butterfly...
it's hardly... a well-knitted-marx-beard-and-sweater
of consolidations...
  
honest to the god i don't believe in...
i'd shadow **** that crucifix if it
had a japanese gravure model hanging on it...
******* as insinuation...
they did catch me...
libido pressed...
aged 21...
they would have got to me aged 16 and prior...
with ****** and former brain:
the chemical soup...

          i want to smash **** up... then i remind
myself: wait... and giggle...
   the extract... mikhail popkov...
                 albert fish... fan boy for every:
groupie of history...
            is that... like... a somewhat missing:
oops?
        CHRISTINE CHUBBUCK...
               INCEL...
       wouldn't it be... just.. oh so strange...
to... drag a man into a prison cell...
and shoot them... obviously retaining leaving
them there to rot...
   andrei chikatilo...
                              the urban myth of cockroaches
being subjected to the guillotine...

sure... whizz vite boyz aged...
napoleon dynamite... jeffrey dahmer...
      16 is the right time to call brainz...
chem. soup...
bubbly...
me comez 21... me's perfecto...
   me no cain signature idiot primo...
                 i like me horror story...
i get to play the... plot line of
the anaesthetic...
                      
who is to be surprised by: who's who...
of anyone's who of...
the currency of... this... surf...
lost... a "somehow"...
a "somewhat"...
oh... this is... for... today?
                                this has to be...
the advent of the pontius pilate metaphor...
no... not me...
dies ist alles sie:
   scheiße!     es ist mich?
              verwesendtrauben....

kommen, sehen... der welt...
                           verstopfungselbst.

chopper: chop-off-chew; a 502 bad gateway bypass cheat code...

i know what i'll spend my money earned on, in what priority, i'll spend them on a brothel, i'll spend them on a *******: after all... she will spend that earned money on trivial matters, she will buy a pair of shoes: i'll buy a pair of shoes when the ones i'm wearing will become worn... i hope i can write this without an inkling toward spite... i'm happy to be childless, i'm happy to not be married... how best to decipher my feeling, at present... FAUN... WAINAMOINEN... i will not trust the leftist cosmopolitan brigade to break up this... resurgence of a folkish spirit among the Hyperboreans... making a resurgence in song, in wording... covert... under the radar... seemingly sleeping... even Heidegger mentions this... of the people is very much distinct to: of the folk... people inhabit cities and the make-shift constructs of nations... the folk? they inhabit the land! why should an African feel welcome among the winters and the crows... when i... giggle like a child... foreign among the lost seasons at the equator with the macaque monkeys?! these people are not here to belong... they know it themselves... however many safety-nets are placed for our liberal liking & their comfort... they are unnaturally "here"... our own worst enemies... white "liberal elites"... one cocktail after a second... after... no more water to churn out alcohol... these people have come for a reason... i don't know what the reason is... better living is hardly requesting more complications from technology... when life can be simplified from the closest of the most close connections... hier: hoch norden?! alle er tabt! tysk er æsten dansk...
deutsch ist fast dänisch! we might have fought wars among each other... but at least we belonged, together, even i... liberal as i were, for so long... it's not like i can't be... leaving a route for allowance for other cultures, other races... but... i'm... becoming more... detached from reality... detached from purpose... from the geography... from the forest... language is my last defence... these people shouldn't be here because they shouldn't be here: they shouldn't be here because... there's no need for me to be among their culture! their people! if i don't need to be somewhere, why should someone "think" it necessary to be among "my", people? mongrel ******* mongrel gives us this... ****** culture! hardly any tourism... i can be a tourist in Africa... would i want to live in Africa? no! so... why the ****... thank you Russia... WE, HAVE, NO, SHARED, STORIES... JUST... THESE... SOCIAL-JUSTICE ARGUMENTATIVE POINTS... EVERYTHING IS POLITICAL: HARDLY NARRATIVE... SUFFERING FROM MEMORY EROSION... IN THE IMMEDIACY OF JOURNALISTIC *******... i bemoan this sudden quest of man: because... i believe in its failure... a failure most gross... my heart prays for this ****** experiment to fail! fail it must! scheitern es muss! svigte det skal! lethargy kicks in... being too pleasing... too pleasant... my mind retorts: almost automatically... i'm QUITS! why? looking at children... i don't want them to suffer this mental diarrhoea in future years... i want them to look at faces most familiar... i'm SLEPT... i'm QUITS... ******* SAVVY?!

i've been a hermit for so long,
shunning human contact with only minor
outbursts of contact with strangers,
old men on park benches
talking about their grandchildren
and sons-in-law,
Rayleigh bicycles, seasonal diets
(not buying watery strawberries from
Spain in the winter months,
eating more vegetables - in general -
binging on local, seasonal fruit
from local farms),
prostitutes in the brothel, talking...
*******...
but always in concentrated outbursts
of interaction...
someone in London around Whitechapel
stopping me while he implored me
to fix his breaks...
hands up... listen: if i had some tools...
i'd try...
this spurned me on to now ride around
with some tools... i only need about three...
obviously i'm not going to take a *******
pump with me too... there's a reasonable
point of what i am willing to do for strangers...
so i gave him some advice...
it's the back break, that's faulty?
remember... take longer to break...
since the front break is only working you
might go forward by breaking too heavily...
and if you're going to break heavily...
stand up on your breaks...
and leverage yourself on the handlebars...
put extra pressure on them: top down...
homeless men...
once i ******* this woman for sitting
down on the pavement with this homeless man
i knew who migrated from Romford
to Seven Kings...
gave him a cigarette and laughed a while...
with some fwends... some autistic guy from
school who... got into drinking...
blah blah...
     so she starts attacking me with...
YOU! YOU! i just waved my hand and told her:
i'm not going to argue with you...
i suppose she was implying i was supposed
to be talking up women...
i was there for a Guinness...
later that same night i went to the brothel
for some love... or as i like to call it:
cuddle & giggles...
- that one time this crazy Rastafarian started
talking to me about the Hebrew deity
deformity (in his Rastafarian way)
we started talking from Romford
he dragged me to... Hackney... of all places
to distribute pamphlets to black Baptist churches
i had a "date" with a few fwends to watch
some boxing on t.v.,
- i won't even mention that one black guy
who took me on a carousel of his crack *******
addiction... that was a long time ago...
the two of us were strapped to the insides of
a phone-box while he took up a crack-*******
glass doo-di (what would you call it?
a glass smoking pipe?)
******* madman... that's also at the same time
i was having my first psychotic breakdown
from... smoking marijuana and fasting...
and walking around London...
so many more isolated instances of "dealing"...
interacting with... people...
now this... from my period of isolation...
social hibernation... where i threw myself at writing
so heavily hearted...
graveyards, forests... at night...
there was this one funny instance...
a car parked in Bower Wood...
took a while to take a **** on the grass...
owl... check... fox... check... rabbits... check...
deer... check... something cracked some
branches while i sat on a log bare-chested...
i actually opened my mouth and uttered
the words: that's not a human... is it, are you?!
walking almost blind screaming at the top
of my voice, growling... snarling...
through havering county park... climbing past
a barbwire fence to get up close to
the horses grazing in the field...
in the dark putting my hand against a horse's mouth...
i can forgive the horse...
it thought i might have something in my hand...
like a sugar cube or an apple to nibble on...
it started nibbling on my fingers...
bucktooth ****** turned around and his hoof
almost skimmed my forehead...
i still wonder what it might feel like
to be kicked in the head by a horse's hind legs...
i tried it once... punched myself several times
in the face until i gave myself a black eye...
i still have marks on my knuckles from the time
i took pleasure from putting out
cigarettes on them...
i guess i don't dream much...
i need to be closest to reality through...
the only best available a medium that most
resonates: pain...
- or perhaps a quote from Pablo Coelho...
the alchemist...
as a teenager i was planning on travelling to India...
India came to London,
****'s sake... the whole world came to London!
why would i leave (Greater) London?
if i were to travel across the Thames...
i'd be in a completely different country...
i once cycled from Romford to Greenwich...
already the difference were visible...
the north is like... what's the right comparison?
BUDA...
the south of London? PESHT...
less underground, more trains...
trams of Croydon, for ****'s sake: i thought that
trams were a Berlin / Warsaw "thing"...
if i wanted to: i'd ******* to Edinburgh and...
find the old place i was staying at
in my third year... Montague St.
just off Nicholson St.,
i'd go back to the mosque near Appleton Tower
for a curry... i'd perhaps do some bouldering
on the Crags... if i were to find my mountain
climbing shoes...
i am still, yet, to eat a deep-fried Mars bar...
or a deep-fried pizza...
like **** i am ever going to...
just today i ate a revelation...
usually... smoked salmon... well... obviously
on a bagel... with some fresh cucumber and dill
with a decent dollop of mayo...
today?
soft white cheese... the smoked salmon
& some lemon juice...
wow...
- finding work outside the family business...
i.e. not working with my father has become...
refreshing...
he... he could "abuse" me verbally as best he could...
you're doing this wrong, you're doing
that wrong... strangers? no chance...
but this own son: he treated the harshest...
i said to myself: **** it... i'm not putting up with
this sort of UBERSCHEISSE!
i haven't worked in... has it been a decade?
"worked" worked... i wrote... investing in
people not yet born!
the people, my contemporaries: sure, i care...
but... i'm not writing a Dan Brown novel:
am i? i'm looking for... longevity...
i'm looking for immortality...
to hell with not being paid...
to hell with spending money in ways that makes
you regret it: you will never find yourself
earning money: but you will regret... spending it
in ways that deviate from a "pattern" of
well-kept endeavours...
i don't mind spending anything on my bicycle...
why? cycling is my last outlet
of... aloneness "tourism"... to hell with going
on a cruise... i take up cycling to...
Thurrock... or deeper into Essex...
hell... i'll cycle into central London...
ah... sigh of relief... i'm alone...
i like dodging traffic... i like the added thrill of large
objects that might **** me...
but at the same time i adore the abundant emptiness
of the countryside...
well... it's not: "empty"... but writing makes it out
as it is... no ******* Wordsworth's worth
of ode to nature here...
perhaps some... die grenzwacht hielt im osten...
folk songs in, esp. in die deutschezunge...
- i think i know why, why i find this language
so endearing... it's all about the infiltration process...
i could... wholeheartedly... abandon it...
with even having to wear shoes...
i feel so much for it: yet at the same time...
if i were recalled to the mutterzungen needs...
i think i might... how i can hold twin-allegiances
i will never know...

uns ander'n brach die kraft...
und heute noch und immer
    den weg nach osten zeigt...

so far away from people... yet so close...
to put into writing...
i would have loved joining the army...
chemical engineer? ZYKLON B...
rings a bell...
now... reengaging with people...
on a minor scale of what an army cohort
looks like...
i still feel ****** getting a chemistry
degree: not leaving school at 15 and joining the army...
then again... i really don't know what
i'd do with too much money:
you can always have too much money:
even if you earn... £15,000 a year...
i remember my student years back
in 2004 circa 2007 (circa, ergo, no hyphen +/-1
a year in the "bracket")
beside the student fee...
£3000 could easily cover the rent,
the food... the odd spontaneous going to
the cinema... the gym fee...
well, fair enough... as students... we weren't paying
council tax... but £3000 could cover a lot of things...
if we're talking earning... £15000...
and you take a Paulo Coelho approach
akin to: there's nothing to ******* find when
you get to the Giza pyramids... when you *******
to Brazil... you seen the world doesn't actually mean:
a local crack-head took you on
one of his ******* shimmy run...

i don't belong no more in Kenya than
a Kenyan belongs among the Hyperboreans...
sure... if he feels suicidal...
and abhors his people so much...
but look where Brexit left us...
all the Polacks suddenly didn't feel welcome...
not part of the multicultural project
of the implosive Empire as they might have
felt...
what English soldier ever fought
on the lands of Poland during the second world
war... yet... how many ****** pilots
fought for Britain?!
huh?! huh?!
history implies: people keep on forgetting...
the labour of love for us that love
to remember... like...
the world offers us rubrics borrowed from
school...
i don't mind an African trying to live
in Europe... but **** me:
you won't find me living in Africa
any time soon!
sure... the macaques are cute...
to hell with the heat!
no time soon!
i, need, seasons!
i need, eating, bland!
what, rosemary & rhyme not good enough,
for you, ******?!

smoked salmon managed to bench press
my liking for raw herring...
miss the raw cucumber, the dill, the mayo...
add some soft white cheese...
some lemon juice... keep the bagel...
now we have ourselves a sport!

the Polacks have left the shores...
hello tourists... your anti-racist rhetoric has
paid off!
i'm hardly native...
weren't your own natives...
your own fathers supposed
to bemoan the fate of your own daughters?!
you don't...
and... i'm... somehow... supposed to?
i'm much more invested in the men...
i need... rigidity... structure...
women always tend to **** it up: anyways...
some... amnesia principle...

FAUN:  WAINAMOINEN...
unplugged... "v"...
  NIRVANA's unplugged sessions...
choke... shotgun shot to the head..
Christine Chubbuck vs. the Court of Courting Blind...
rich Russian girls taking  picture of the pitch...
i'm standing in the middle...
i guess there's also me involved...

- from my hermit phase... being engaged with so many
people... esp. the children... oh god... i love the children...
for someone who enjoyed their absence from
society...
to be so, greedily... reengaged.... like a snap....
almost weird...
but... almost like: I: WANT: IT!
sure... i'm but a pawn in this role...
but... here's my excuse... i'm also anders-wo...
here's my antithesis of da-sein...
anders-wo...          am-ich?!

tid: til begynde! ja: nu! kvik!
tabt en time
tabt løs "næsten" alt...

         fanden du:                     ord så blød

KURWA MAĆ!

-
if people can't understand morbid, why the tourist attraction equivalent to the london dungeon? macabre means: a body with a shadow.

roulette:

            one of the free was "lucky",

in that one of them

  did it with a shotgun...

         the remaining two?

           cockroach mumbling
in an Ukranian death cell,
      brain dead, but body alive
shot in the back of the head
probably alive for two more weeks
after the execution
of a single shot, in the back
of the head...

while the other,
  the ****** on life support machines
until, finally! the pity!

because some things are never
really managed in total,
only partial...
           or as i might add:
    
        kafka minded:
             the stab in the heart,
                    a death apparently
countless times "slower",
        but yet mindful of
               the spaceless "time".

or?
          fly icarus!
                                  fly!

rarely do you spend a night stumbling
around a town
       drunk, figuring out a fortune of
a face, a luck of a smile,
          decisievely:
                          never much cared
for language other than for thinking with
it, lucky some, who actually use
it like they might use a hammer...
      what then, came first?
                               the hammer, or the nail?
god, i had to escape the chicken-shack...
and... looks like i almost did.
            if ever: the exhausted language,
and then there's the hidden
linguist, somewhere, probably in
          Posen... lumbering away at
a second language, that is apparently a tier
just shy of: making competent
users.
        - and i did forgot drinking
with a mirror...
                        instead took photographs,
of a snail... a snail...
         point being:
    i don't even remember how i brought
it home...
                                         bribe?
unlike hallucinogenics...
           drinking... yeah...
                                   yesterday is vague...
i drank less, walked more,
and brought home a snail...
   a ******* snail...
         once i brought back a hedgehog...
once i brought back a frog...
      next day?
          that has to be some sort of
hallucinogenic drug teasing me to remember...
i don't know who that person
is in the photograph,
   he claimed that breathing alcohol
filled breath on a snail
                   was appealing to the snail...
he even claimed that the snail
had dermatological properties of
healing: slight, discomforts...
             hardly a wart, just a skin hardening,
so this guy placed the snail on
the skin hardening and started to
feel the cosmis ****** of feeling
        the snail eat up the "concern" with
its under-belly...
            my first girlfriend told me
of the time, as a kid, when she used to pour
salt on snails...
   i remember seeing two boys
play with frogs...
            ******* used to smear lipstick
on the poor prince charming
                         and then set it alight...
YOU, CAN'T, THINK THIS **** UP...
i too wish for such a depraved imagination...
come to think of it,
   on a completely different topic...
public intellectualism is only a western
concept...
               a bit like religion...
good in private,
                        but out in the public, open?
the public intellectual who has given up
his private intellect:
      god... the scrutiny that comes with it...
there is such a thing as a privacy
of intellect?
                     just asking:
      because even poetry isn't an open
and closed scenario of a seagull
regurgitating in order to feed the chicks...
and yes, chickens are natural
cannibals... if you've ever seen a chicken
on a stump of wood right and just after
the axe-chop...
                  you'd see the remaining
nervous system after death...
                 and how other chickens will
jump on the stump... and drink the blood
of the Antoinette...
   with Antoinette's head still, partially moving...
unless of course you're thinking
about Hollywood and...
   christine chubbuck:
                 and that one shot to the head
that Hollywood couldn't make: instantaneous...
   like Kafka, i'd go for the stab at
              the dark, namely the heart...
because why would you even
think it was a mild execution...
             with andrei chikatilo:
          back of the head, left in a prison cell...
god, i can't stop to imagine the marvels
of this cockroach urban myth of surviving
               in a limbo of succumbing to a diet...
say all you want,
  but i'm pretty sure there's enough
reason to contemplate the inverted niqab
of hollywood...
             groove the shades, though...
can't **** for a hundred metres though...
              the Veil of Thespian...
oh hell, it's real...
              not as ****** obvious as
a ninja trying to look slim in a desert
wearing a velvet bin-bag...
         but i'm pretty sure there is a Veil
of Thespian...
             Louis XIV even said it:
                            the seemingly holds
the sway of power, before the jury,
           to appear...
                     rather than be...
        qua (as being) in antonym form
must give birth to: quiff (as if)...
        frivolity and cotton candy smiles...
people are beginning to make
   the assumption that poetry will save
         them from the tyranny of acting...
besides the point,
  given the example...
          if only there was an instantaneous
death like depicted with:
heavy editing, and no thespian involvement...
i can't help but see a movie
and not see a piece of paper
                    and a pair of scissors...
odd... because i wouldn't make
the same connection
               with a pear and a magnet...
               moth and macaroons?
appears i wasn't even "forced"
       to wear this veil...
                    acting should have really
been left to neglect in
   a theatre...
                      on behalf of
    democracy... why not speak of
                           the thespian tyranny?  
all the other forms of art are
starving...
                 why even bother wondering
why moden "art" (painting)
                is a bit off, trying to escape
                             plagiarising geometry?    
it's not healthy...
                       modern painting is
starved for the benefit of one medium...
that can't even fathom itself
           as member of the same family...    
yeah...
                    well, i guess i could
throw in the minstrels...
        but then i passed a busker on
                                  the street last night...  
poetry in public?
                  unless you're competing
                   with a mad christian preacher...    
but acting is both mainstream and
subversive...
                               (it) doesn't necessarily
require a stage: to find an actor...
           but if i'm not living
under a thespian tyranny...
             then i'm no more a poet than
one: requiring to write in orthodox rhyme.

at what point that the sense of taste before
subjectively exclusionary
to the point of teasing itself as being
synonymous with objectivity?

beside: taste as subjectively inclusionary
is somehow a: bias
for example in two statements

(a) the Indian-subcontinent cuisine
is superior to the rest of the world...
  
   (b) Baltic "sushi" is superior sushi-sushi...
sushi-proper... Japanese "mushy" - no shy-moo
in sight...

well... question is... what can be objective
about taste...
perfect example... pasta al dente...
no one can argue with that one...
pasta is either just underdone and therefore
perfect or it's overdone and it's
only worth to put in some chemo-tomato
soup canned...

you can also overcook rice...
objectively you cook without salt...
which implies that if you don't cook with salt...
you're not exactly cooking at all:
as i once heard: food without salt isn't food...
it's produce...

it's not subjective to say: under-seasoned...
but still... the statement -
the Indian subcontinent cuisine is superior
to all the rest...
since there would be an argument for
south-east Asian cuisine... Chinese cuisine...
Italian...

there would be but...

(b) raw herring with gherkin, apple and dill
in a creamy sauce on a slice of toasted rye bread
is... well... what's the alternative...
a slice of raw salmon on a cushion of mushy
rice dipped with soya sauce / a green horseradish...

(a) a curry is... in all fairness... a gravy...
a stew...
   yes... but what over gravy / stew has an arsenal
of spices that could match you
to the Soviet stockpile of atomic warheads?
even yesterday as i was recovering from (a propos,
more on that later)

i came about a curry base recipe...
most other recipes involved merely
throwing some Kali dust mindlessly at tinned
tomatoes with the usual suspects
of onion, garlic and ginger...
however many times i did make this
recipe: turns out there's a difference between
a korma and a pasanda
        and since i was defrosting some lamb...

- but that i have a korma powder in my arsenal...
it's never enough to just... use a "swiss army knife"
when cooking...
i can't stress it enough, for the base:
onions, garlic, ginger... carrots... a green pepper,
a red pepper, chopped tomatoes,
say... madras curry powder, cumin, coriander,
turmeric, SMOKED paprika...
and of "course": ground fenugreek!

there's only an exclamation mark
after fenugreek since once i followed a recipe
that said to use seeds...
the first time i used fenugreek... like the first
time you use... Szechuan pepper...
or a black cardamom...

and then obviously... some sugar...
sultanas, ground almonds... coconut milk...
the best ****** sauce i ever tasted:
but there was more to it... you can't just
throw Kali dust at a can of tinned tomatoes...
or restrain yourself to merely onions, garlic, ginger...
what if i were a priest and i'd frown
at garlic? well... that i know:
                 asafoetida (a fennel like the scent
of rotting garlic)...       anyway...

am i being objective or subjective?
          for me the Italians can't just cut it with...
rosemary, oregano, fennel, thyme, marjoram...
plus... the health benefits of turmeric
and ginger?
it's essentially a stew... a gravy...
but no other cooking allows you to play
chemist once more...
  and i sometimes do miss those organic chemistry
experiments at Edinburgh
that could sometimes last for weeks...

subjectively this... objectively: under-seasoned,
not al dente, overcooked, too salty...
too spicy... bland... but there will always be some
h'american comedian who'd say:
burgers and frankfurters make the world
go round...
yeah... and in Russia you have this
pancake fast-food outlet that serve you...
well pancakes... with caviar...
because you can drive a car and eat a hot dog...
apparently...

the Indian-subcontinent cuisine...
give me that... and i can forget the rest of the world...
with one exception: Baltic "sushi"...
that food is ingrained in me like bone
or a croak-and-gargle to a crow...

- but if taste cannot be subjective to be a "respected"
opinion...
then it's back into the robotic, objective:
edible... inedible...
and the minor-objective cues of... al dente...
spicy... salty...
   this whole "superiority" statement...
                                  even though the amount of spices
& the kaleidoscope of nuances
of say: merely fennel...
                          a tulip is not a tulip is a rose
isn't a rose is a blimmin' buttercup...
nonetheless, elsewhere: a tomato is a tomatoe
is toad-matted-o... hiccup...

which brings me to... the toothache...
this close to a second astra-zeneca jab and
i might be on course for a second round of health
tourism...
it's not like i haven't tried...
over a year ago... visiting my local NHS
dentist...

- can i register? i was registered elsewhere
but i neglected that practice
plus i moved from the Ilford vicinity...
no i haven't been to a dentist in over a decade...
but now this 15+ year old filling has come loose
and...
- we are currently not accepting any new
NHS registrations...

well sure, with the pandemic and "pandemic"...
so i called the emergency number
and managed to squeeze in a visit for
a makeshift filling that... if i wouldn't bit into hard
toffee could last me well into 4 months...
apparently...
but when an opportunity arose circa June of last
year i hopped on the chance to travel abroad
to see a dentist...
well... it's been almost a year & that one hiccup
when that tooth hurt again:
why have we lost out intuitively-superstitious
grasp of sensations? it hurt to the bone...
when my grandfather died and... what... nothing?
here it is... at it again...
a year later and i still can't register...
i'm guessing... another year to wait for registration
and then... maybe 5 years to see a dentist proper:
for the root-canal treatment!
or... get that second jab... ******* to Poland
to see a dentist... privately...
well... even if I saw one privately in England
based on the quality of the temporary filling?

well... the filling is still intact...
what came across as a toothache might have actually been
a gum infection...
but since any sort of acute pain first disorientates...
antibiotics all that painkiller sobriety:
mr. zombie dr. sleep...
after the feud with the brain passes...
after your mind has opened up to nonsensical dreams...
the alleviation of acute pain brings back focus...
tooth-tip below the berg of gums...
rat's a labyrinth clearly i don't care much
for the jab to meat-head through a moshpit at some
festival, or turn into a copperneck on some beach
in Greece...

elsewhere: simultaneously... a cacophony from the news
outlets...
when Christine Chubbuck shot herself in the head
because her toe was too small...
and a movie was made about her...
with the end scene of her being strapped
to a hospital bed... because... well...
she didn't use a cockcroach buster of a shotgun...
a Shasha Johnson... and her litany of race-baiting...
it's like that butterfly effect:
one man's toothache is another man's bullet in the head...
or a woman's in this case...
Christine Chubbuck wouldn't die from
that urban myth surrouning headless cockroaches
dying from starvation...

the list though:
      CLINDAMYCIN-mip (clindamycinym) 600 μγ-
the antibiotic...
    codeine phosphate hemihydrate / paracetamol 15 / 500μγ
      CO-CODAMOL...
and since this painkiller is prone to give
you constipation...
   something for your stomach-lining:
    OMEPRAZOLE 20μγ...
    
but of course... a curry would help... to get your
digestion up to speed...
3 days of constipation and a mere thought of an Indian
arsenral of spices... a whiff of them...
charge of the **** brigade!

- and for someone who loves food... chewing more than
yapping with a red-hot poaker of a propaganda juice toong'...
however est. or anti-est.
   one brain-wash less either side of the fence...
but i know which side is a rhetorical cascade
and which side is a mantra machine...
which side is grizzly-arghh and which side is...
boistrously waspish...

but that's not all of it... you'd have to be familiar
with the Marathon Man...
Dustin Hoffman, Laurence Olivier...
   whoever said all nazis were evil?
   Christian Schell...
               well... it's a joke...
EUGENIA CARYOPHYLLUS...
              syzygium aromaticum... if you've seen
the movie... aromatherapy? clove oil?
em... sure thing... yeah... it's primarily aromatic...
sure, the bottle reads: only for external use...
insufficient evidence to suggest analgesic properties...
hello mr. rat... hello mr. chimp...
hello mr. southpaw chubby-jab brigade...

time's for experiments... anyone and everyone to their
scepticism: what works best for you...
chance of me getting root canal treatment...
a drowning man will grab a razor's edge...
a drowning man wilbb grab a razor's edge...
because all medicine is beyond rancid beyond
chalky... i wasn't expecting the clove bud oil
to be... syrupy sweet mind you...
but as someone who wants to return to evenings with
ms. amber whiskers and the basic point
of the mouth and teeth: to ol' chew-chew...

lessons learned... waiting in line -
       to bypass the waiting game with placebo scepticism
of the otherwise effective painkillers and
antibiotics... but as a man who's irresistable
to any sort of agitation & momentum...
the immediately available: whatever proof or lack
of it there is...

in the back of my mind: it's hardly arsenic;
for now it's just me, the tooth and Christian Schell
and a song: 'if i had teeth made from diamonds,
             if i had teeth made from diamonds,
             i'd be on a diet of milkshakes!'
          
p.s.

original title: by
original "work":

bitter sweet
myopic
glutton

    anything to push through Eugenia & Herr Schell.

To Plath
Chubbuck
And Duncan
Whose deaths I adore
Haha! Education
Is just another way
To suffer

Life as an art
Did you take it because
You feared it? Never ---

(Beautiful things
Will turn ugly, will rot
And become *****)

Why isn't illness
A right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

macht frei... arbeit...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      für einz! ich war auf zweck!

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

/                your supposedly free women,
  are like a bad idea of compensating with sports trophies;
can't lie, won't lie... allowing myself entertaining dating one of them, and then actually dating on of them... i'd rather... heat up a nibble of a pair of scissors with a cigarette lighter... and then... make a tattoo with the metal being given a quasi-metallurgy status; it's not even pedantry... it's just the ******* obvious;
  can't exactly love someone who slaps you in
      the face, when you can't punch them back; what?
relativism of mental tattoos?!        

               i... really want to hear the feminist
excuses.... coinciding with
a women beating her son
with two: slit... belts
worthy of adorning the point
of fastening female trousers...

and then... listen to:
to that "woman" giving
me a slap in the face for
keeping visiting my
grandparents a private matter...
i! want! to!
  n'ah... **** it... whatever...
a slap in the face is the usual
hello, when you go to russia,
esp. from siberian standards...
why bother... whatever
it is, that is, that actually isn't?!

bulgarian prostitutes
treated me better,
and i thanked them for it,
by treating them likewise;
a ukranian *******
with one gold tooth
treated me better,
called me a good man...

that one bulgarian *******?
called me a nice man...
it's not that compliments
are the shallow tongue...
but if you're normal,
and fathom deviancy?
   and are subject to a compliment?
unlucky you,

                for then, writing a book.
within the confines of
the woman in my life...
only prostitutes confined me
to embody anything good...
the others?

     hollywood 1950s translation
of transvestite politics...
       come to my childrens' christening
while i apply a cheese grater
to your face imitating cheese...

               oh and the persistent
"self-consciousness"
aspect of a mea culpa:

pontius pilate said: ecce ****!
         does that count?!

if we're going to play this sort
of game...

  why did they take
chikatilo into a prison cell,
and shot him in the back of the head
there?

           hmm?

my imagination is running wild
at this point...
  given that christine chubbuck

shot herself on air in a t.v. studio,
but subsequently died semi "braindead"
on a hospital bead?
    
it's a Bane quote:
why would you... shoot a man...
before throwing him
out of a plane?

  i.e. why would you shoot
a man, in the back of the head,
before putting him in a prison cell?!

doesn't the imagination
    just run wild?
can, or can't it?!
            
       you... execute a man...
in a prison cell...
              it's not the ******* guillotine
public spectacle...
   it's...
   a shot to the back of the head...
in a prison cell...

             problem?

  the supposedly instantaneous
death of "killing" the brain
in american myths and american cinema...

i want fear...
i am fear...

                      and i am anti-cinematic
censorship of realism:
        
  i(s)ch bin die großpfarrer -

i have been denied too many times...
to live a casual, ordinary life,
to subsequently...
deny myself, something,
akin to this!

like i already said:
   my mother tends to forget giving
me a lesson concerning Hubert,
Hubert, who's mother
commited suicide
by drinking white vinegar
to shrink her stomach
into a killing *****...

           i liked Hubert...
but then she... lashed out with two...
slit sized belts against me,
and then put me into a hot bath...

it's not like my girlfriend really minded
that giving me a slap on the face...

well...

          serves you right:
whatever your "problems" are
in the current sphere of affairs...

                         moths catching flame?
dogs meowing rather than barking?

      do i ******* look like i care?

the only kindness i've ever learned,
or was allowed to learn,
was in the medium of prostitution...
outside of this realm?
  whatever you deem as normal?

  that's taboo, and suspicious to me.

honey primer for the death-lasso
of choice...
here's no... alternative...
for entries into hotel dallas...

      there's all the quick-equipped
miachel frenzied ******
of shovelling all the empty
eggs... limbo embryos speaking
whole, while scribbling
braille in fractions...

on the grand altar of Moloch...
and there's that cue of them
also playing-deaf playing dumb-hard-of
ever being heard:
burn a bra all you like...
i won't be burning a vinyl record
any time sooner than the sooner,
or a now...

here the crumpet solves its
esteem when facing a brawl with
a croissant...
here the ant lifts a mountain in its jaw...
here american head charge
overtakes the sales slipknot records...
here's the first... the last...
here's the lapdance of being reassured
to hear the ec- the ech- the ech-oh-oh-oh-oh!

ever hear the vibration speak
multiple tongues akin to a hydra?!

i'd be worried if they spelled it was:
the wielki lebowsky.. sure as **** a russian
spy... otherwise?
that laid back... dumb pollack...
which is hardly a *******...
              
  i call it bile, i call it acid... i call it...
the sort of populism of darwinism doesn't
like... when your spine stand *****
and you wake up dancing to
what a chinese army square march
of: that lot of the lost abode
of tiananmen square looks like...
when the chimps get the herpies...
and the lions start to turn all fidgety prone
when the affairs of being excited by
that infamous translation of the chase...
suddenly "oops": i.e. become missing...

          who's to become the last
bridge of king solomon's harem... that last
period piece to be the ghost to
the last known location of the gridlock
of last clinging to coal...
are any revision of thios obscure
period ore going to be a matter of choice?!

for the love of my fellow countrymen...
and country...
but only at a distance...
perhaps me better dying from an overdose
of patriotism in that ******* that future
jewel of the ottoman empire that's
become the better part of Istambul...

it's hardly enough to quiet simply...
die...
but who the hell... or has been dying
with the sort of ammo that would
give him or even a her...
the sort of "forever" thinking that would
leave one with epitaphs as
consorts of: the matter... temporal...

right before ol' charlie zee drei...
is about to be my hand of god...
my limbo argentina of lizzy's prized
asset of...
      i want to spend a tenner with
ol' charlie on it...
before i die...
i want charlie on the banknote...
before i feign enough affairs
of concerns as to whether i'm shy...
or not... i want to spend charly's tenner...
i want him to be bound to the escapade
of crown and *****...

i want to see charles throned!
i want to see charles crowned!
****** better not change his name...
i'd call 'im: third chucky the lucky!
he's no george the IX or some richard
the IV.... charles name given...
charles king to govern...
and bright lights the third!

i am waiting... lizzy will not live
long when the prized attache of
the duke of edinburgh solves the riddle:
no... no clones allowed...
locating the prowess of a hardly visible...
then again: who's going to pay for the cure
of not being made subject to the stampede...
that's half the emblem value of a crown?

but the frankenstein is in our grasp!
we can cheat death...
however many more years a dolly of pardon,
the sheep will allow...
how many more years it would take...
for a clone to replicate the psychology
of the host, bearer and the futurism of what's
to be inherited...
besides all that...
the clone would become a michael
jackson?! ******* to the point where...
no harem would suffice?!
ever play playdough with a faking
of immortality - attempting to transcend
individualism with poker / polka dotting
of the grand, grand... bet?

                  i'm currently in the process
of applying ice-cubes for a hard-on of an idea...
look at me... who's who and who's
the falafel flinging arch-ape?
darwinism is an ideology...
a bit like...
                 it's not that it's wrong...
but... it's a thesis... and as a thesis
it's also an idea...
and there's only one way to counter it...
with an idea...
so that there's a currency...
an antithesis for it to come toward
a symbiosis of... in equilibrium...
                    
                   looking up an ape's *******
is pretty much not enough
to state: bertrand russell just roasted
an aristotle...
            in no defence of the greeks...
wasn't a bertrand russell a philosophy historian...
who was... subsequently...
made into a mezzo-soprano...
becoming galvinized by adoration
for wittgenstein:
the genius! will a lion know
of a sunday... should he also roar
to somehow later yawn... and in between
a wednesday and a meow:
concern itself with a concept of friday?!
because it's golgotha
crucifixion "o'clock"?!

     hardly... who's the who of what
will not become the revised glory days
of the polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
or great britain: when the charles dickens
was asked to look inward: ****** himself...
the great of what isle...
the scots living in iceland?!

             or the baggage of U.2.I.R.A.?!
god help us... alcoholics and narcos...
with all that history aids aids it allows...
anonymous anonymous.
   the... anon. anonymous.
     oh; we're here...
                 fidgeting when it comes
to custard creams.... and all that shortcrust
packing!

when ol' charlie lands into my lap...
into my hand of a worth of spending a tenner...
until then... not until...
will i consider calling it a...
an execution in demand for...
being dragged into a cell nicknamed...
the "christine chubbuck lovelorn:
forever the homecoming queen
harem lovelust"...

urban myth: dead-shot to the head...
the decapitated cockroach lives
2 weeks without a head... ah... ah... ha...
it's hardly about being owning a sense
of humour... when all you need
is a reality check...

advent: and a soccer-mum and all those
period pains and
all those many more one direction
fandoms dying pretty in their teens...
here's my voice... morphed into...
burden: to gloat...
never mind the gloating...
but when someone can replace
having to stage staring into a mirror?

call it... dying from a lack
of obstruction from the dimension
of the abstract;
or hotel... coal-founded: florals and the annals
of would be: back to...
without and a with alzheimer'*******br>of: huh?!

perhaps my theory of learning comes too late,
it's experimental, still, it's only curated to me...
i still don't know how i learned English...
when i came to these isles...
perhaps i watched some ******-Doo on cartoon
network... i do remember...
that GI JOE movie... that really cool animated
movie... from the late 80s or the early 90s...
COB-R'AH... COB-R'AH...
                           silly little **** that i am...
hell... back in the day we used to play tic-tac-toe
with the girls... we used to dig a hole
in the ground... and throw marble ***** into it
sometimes we'd put more marbles in the hole
prior to the throwing session...
we... gambled... with marbles...
or we'd put chewing gum into bottle caps
and invent labyrinths where we're slide the
weighed down caps along... **** me...
did we role dice? to make moves?
i do remember getting hit by a swing... right in
the head from the back... where the kippah /
tonsure shave ought to be...
it hit me... i stood still... touched the back
of my head... the hand came back with blood...
i started crying and was taken to hospital for
stiches...
and when evening came... all the kids gathered
round and we played hide & seek...
or we talked...
i wish i could remember all of that with more
clarity...
i don't even remember how i learned English...
got thrown into the deep end of the pool:
swim ******... swim...
i had a copy of Disney's animated Robin Hood...
in Deutsche... perhaps that's why i'm teasing
myself so much with the zunge...
well... if i can't find a partner in England...
perhaps i'm thinking... let's try Germany...
          perhaps the women over there are...
more... "sensible": is a word that doesn't even
cut close to the slither of a cut...
sure... i remember... St. Augustine's primary
school in Barkingside... hiding in the toilet...
mute... unable to to speak...
then, suddenly... out of my own initiative...
i started reading...
hey presto... i started talking...
          my parents didn't speak this ****** tongue...
my father tried to teach me how to swim
on several occasions...
i'm ashamed to say that i speak better English
than my father... is that how immigration works?
for 2nd generation migrants, sure...
but 1st generation?
i also learned to swim on my own...
         peer pressure got the better of me...
and i'm thinking... this German "thing" i have...
my thinking is aligned...
what is the art of learning a new language...
well... i guess you'd have to start with a bank account
of nouns... oh... you need to have a bank acccount
of nouns...
red ist rot
    spatz is sparrow...
backwards and forwards we go...
swan ist schwan...
    sonne, mond und himmel: sun, moon and sky...
respectively...
i think you learn a language by first
associating yourself with the nouns...
calling things by their proper: designated...
understood, encryption... cipher...
nouns are ciphers...
because that's how you decipher what
someone who speaks another language
is talking about...
after the nouns? come the verbs...
what is done around nouns...
a tree?
   ein(e) baum...
you: du...
     chop... hacken...
down... nach unten... ein(e) baum...
to: zu... machen: make...
ein(e) tisch - a table...
oder / or...
                     ein(e) stuhl! a chair!

when i was younger it just: came! boom! like a big bang...
i was mute one day, speaking fluent the next...
but now that i'm older...
i'm thinking about going into hiding
somewhere in Germany... how do i do that, though?
i need a bank account of nouns...
that's sort starters...

i need to ensure i disorientate sky in my mind
for himmel... then i'll burn verbs into my head...
grammar itself will come last...
and since... prepositions, pronpouns,
conjunctions... are shrapnel...
i'm least worried about adjectives... although:
adjectives tend to be the most complicated...
well... unless it's an adjective like:
the best...
       der beste...                 beast...
do i need a French acute E to stress the second
E in beste?!
         no... i don't...

reddich... face...
    rötliches gesicht... see... adjectives morph...
from red: rot, to reddish... on its own: rötlich...
but coupled with a noun like: face?
the added suffix of -es...
oh the accenting would be a doddle...
under no circumstance am i learning Russian!
Greek... i could learn Greek...
but i have a fetish for German...
even though it should have been Danish,
or Finnish... Swedish or Norwegian...
nope... it had to be German...

it will take me months to start investing in
the noun bank account in German...
then the verbs...
then the adjective... i don't even know how
to categorise adverbs when it comes to speaking
a language... what's an adverb?

eh... conjunctions, prepositions, pronouns...
that's already taken care of...
the words in these categories take care of themselves...
they come, they go...
no one really gives a flying **** or a nun's "wisdom"
about them...
i don't understand why a small minority in
the English speaking world has such a hard-on
about one category of this shrapnel *******...

V US M! you what?!
come to think of it... hmm... i think i might have pulled
a truly spectacular trolling campaign with this
former love interest of mine...
well... i insinuated when we were travelling
to Oxford that my grandfather: god rest his soul
still had memories of asking two SS-men in
black clad: Hugo Boss uniforms for sweets...
that he said: herr! bite bon-bon like German might
write it, as one word: herrbitebonbon...
that he received sweets so sticky that his mother
had to out his hands under the tap
to unglue them... that the Russian army were all
colts... and slept in barns with goats...
true story... no need to lie...

i think i just trolled her: insinuating that i'm
secretly a ****...
   then there was this Millwall fan...
who just turned as a grandfather...
   and his comments were: oh, you're with him!
look at him... Adolf ****** over 'ere...
marching... hands behind his back...
                  i always said... if people want a villain...
they'll get a villain...
but... it's not the sort of villain they'll be able
to stomach...
**** me, i trolled her...
   but she doesn't look like the atypical pink faired
***** brigade type of post-careless
global communist... whatever it is that these
people are up to...

   can you believe it, though?
who attired the Wehrmacht?
      yeah... Hugo Boss...
                            i must have trolled her... a little...
just a pinch of salt... just a little...
but look how amazing they looked...
ah... never mind the sickly sweet mustard Khaki...
i'm talking about the philosophy
of Karl Lagerfeld...
wear your clothes like animals wear
their fur... **** me: in Deutsche!

wie tiere anlegen ihr peltz!

i have a comfortable, petty, standard...
look like a ******* tri!
         brown shoes, brown-green trousers...
brown t-shirt... dark... dunkel...
and a lighter heavy shirt... also... ebenfalls... braun...
braun-grün bäckerjungekappe...
i'll change my attire when the seasons change...
right now: ich bin hier...

but hell... if merely speaking German...
wanting to learn it... is a sign that you might be a ****?
i'm ******* going for it!
in defence of my historical enemies...
i'll be the first one to show up...
why? there's a historical tie... either at the pelvis
or at the *******... i have no narrative with
these newly arrived people...
expect in England... what... with these Pakistani
kiddy-fiddlers?!
right... well... if you're going to start somewhere...
might as well, start there, no?

well... at least with the Turks.... i'll gladly go to a Turkish
barber shop... "my" people had some run-ins
with the Ottomans in the past...
and if... they see... that i have a potential for a
fu manchu... because my moustache is blonde
as is my love spot... while my beard is brown...
and i didn't ask for one...
that they're doing the styling of(f) their own accord:
so be it... they know better...
i don't mind Muslims...
as long as they are Turks...

the rest? sort of... huddle... *******?!
i mean: who could have it even conceivable...
how can you mingle... rosemary...
with beef? but apparently you can!
i hate lamb... Nomadic meat... rich in stink!
in circumcision! i hate lamb!
******* Semites and their protein preferences!
Hebrew or Arab... all the entire host of them!
i hate lamb!
stinking meat... but these previous cultural
jewels of monotheism...
not too bothered about what of cheeses
they gobble down... if any...
at least a pork pie knows where a truffle is
hidden... ******* camel jockeys...
necrophilic usurpers of mountains...
backwards death-riddled people...
their superiority complex is... insufferable!

       you have to belittle these sort of:
******... cousin ******* sorts...
i get the gloryhole bukake fetishes...
but cousin *******?! come on...
how ancient do i have to be to allow
these people on Noah's arc?!
cull them... what?!
                      if push came to shove...
would you?
it's called a bullet to the head...
ask that lovely.... Ukranian serial killer...
why he was dragged into a cell...
shot in the back of the head..
ask... left for dead for almost two weeks...
ask... christine chubbuck...
femme incel... ask her...
            i'm not here to... care...
i'm looking for something:
"something"... exclusive...
exclusively monogamous... swan ******* lake...

now... let's line then up... shot to the back
of the head... in an isolated cell...
please... stop selling me the Hollywood
******* that a shot in the head is the quickest
way to die: no... it isn't!
******* psychopaths....
stab to the heart... that's less cruel...
but a shot to the head?
that urban myth of a cockroach....
living its best days without a head...
for almost two weeks...
why would someone... shoot a a man...
before... putting him inside any empty
prison cell?! bleed out of your ******* head:
herr orientierungshilfe?!
jawohl! jawohl!
   das ist rechts! beifall! beifall! zugabe!

how much i loved and wanted to love...
yet... how so little was afforded to me...
no matter... the world is what it is...
a very predictably unpredictable focus for
a deityto master...
  nichts ist nein:
   was hält diese welt: zusammen!

mein... besitzen... ich! bin! ihm!

sure... sure... pork is bad... but the niqqab
and cousin ******* is ******* kosher!
silly little "oink"-beards... inbreds...
protein selective wankers...
because your shoes... your belts are...
what? not pork?!
   your god is the equivalent of me saying:
i have an *******!
cousin *******... you insulted pig...
how about i insult you...
the pig is the most graciously domesticated
animal... priority over the dog...
but then again... you have have women...
that you treat like dogs...
eh... ****** cousin *******...
    nothing new...
nothing old... just same old... same...
i'd like to say: disappointment...
but i'm used to that, sort of crap...
you do you...
  but just don't get me involved...
******* *******...
         yeah yeah... you do that drill to the head...
no... we're not talking...
we will never be talking...
not over some vegeterian dish
or the idea of a global H'american quest for
a universal democracy...
come to think of it...
wasn't the H'american experiment...
the exact... antonym... of what the Soviet
communists attempted?
global democracy... is it so different
to global socialism?
thank god... that i can't tell the difference...
******* camel jockeys.

id est contra sic (502 bad gateway bypass)

dare to write something
beautiful only once...
the rest of the time you can
spend it (i.e. time)
finding the world rather
ugly...

            (caught you mother-******!,
no i can publish my original intent!)

i sit on the windowsill come the night and look out
at the clouds and the moon and everything else
the night might allow me to see,
but at the same time i'm tricking my cat into
"thinking" that i'm sitting on a windowsill drinking
and looking at "something"
for him to subsequently imitate me when
i'm not on the windowsill to do the same...
he decided it was worthwhile to imitate me...
sometimes he sits on my usual spot
(although not perched like a crow,
sitting on a folded leg, crunching the bones
where my leg ends and my foot begins)
or he sits parallel to me on the windowsill
in the bathroom...
i look out, he looks out...
what he doesn't know is that when i'm looking
at the horizon and the moon and trying
to conjure faces from the clouds i'm actually looking
in... these external objects just aid me in introspection,
i have this cauldron of memories stashed in me
that i bring to the fore in a labyrinth of
thought...
it helps to elevate and bring together
a mixture of thought-memory... i can't escape thinking
without memory: it has been drilled into me from
an early age, mind you: everyone has been drilled
this complex: thought-memory within the confines
of pedagogy... very quickly we are told that
thought-memory is prime while thought-imagination
ought to be extinguished...
i.e. you should really imagine a circle if you've already
seen a circle, but you should remember
that... A = πr²...
                                no? within the confines of modern
pedagogy we are absolved of any imagination:
we apparently have none, no imagination to put up
with a mundane job by imagination little critters of
escapism on our own behalf within ourselves...
and memory? well... personal memories can sort
of "**** themselves" when it comes to memorising
rubrics of arithmetic and spelling...
or the ingestion of historical facts that: when coupled
with the ongoing onslaught of journalistic overload
mean very little... in a time of libido and historical
insomnias...
well i do know how to escape from something
mundane presented before me...
i remember better times,
memory is a fickle creature: it takes time to control
it in order to select the most pleasurable memories:
and even then, it doesn't ****** work:
pedagogy did that: we had to remember things we
would rather wish to forget because they have
to relevance in our life, or how we apply our skills
or non-skills... but of the personal memories we
gather: they are automatically filtered by memory-itself,
a "cognitive selection" takes places:
who says it's either natural or unnatural,
is must be both... then again: you can't remember everything,
but i prefer the cinema of memory mingling
with thought (or its narrative aspect absent
of the ******) than if i were lost in imago-cogito...
the imagining-thinking...
my cat "thinks" i'm looking at something interesting...
i'm not... then again i am: i'm looking backwards:
i'm reflection on, for example, today...
Poet of the Coliseum... supervising blah blah...
what crept up today was what has crept up
at the London Stadium for the past several shifts...
the Jeffrey Dahmer (ugh... a surd of H)
show... i swear to god i'm sensing that i'm giving off
vibes of a serial killer to certain people...
in the work environment people try to cue
some personality, some personal references to fellow
coworkers... me? i'm trying to push back with as much
ahem... "professionalism" as possible...
i'm here, i work, i'm done, i'm out...
i drink alone, i don't drink to talk i drink to write...
but over several shifts this topic was raised and i'm like...
can't we talk about Ed Gein?
he was a much bigger cultural influence on America than
the whole lot of them put together...
all the serial killers were white... huh?!
what about that black guy... why isn't Samuel Little
famous, based on the body count?
we talked about America... racism blah blah... south...
i said i didn't have a thirst for seeing America...
Kamchatka, the peninsula? oh yeah... America?
no really... it's a land of the celebration of Cain...
clearly... elsewhere serial killers would be taken into
a prison cell and get shot in the back of the head
and as the urban myth goes... they wouldn't die
immediately... sure... the brain would be ******...
but the heart would still be ticking tick-tock...
a bullet in the head is not some magical immediacy of death...
ask Christine Chubbuck... she was on life support
machines in limbo because she only not only
missed her brain but merely damaged it...
like that urban myth aligned to:
a cockroach loses its head... what does the cockroach
die of? starvation...
Franz Kafka was right (stab the heart)
Kurt Cobain was wrong (shotgun to the head)...
am i seriously giving off vibes of a serial killer or something?!
well... finally! i found one Subway outlet that
accepted discount vouchers...
ate nothing beside a slice of pizza i made the day earlier
when i woke up... i was getting dizzy from low sugar...
i ordered a foot-long chicken something or other...
and a drink... £5.50... decent...
i love Subway... why? the bread is prepped,
the meat... then you get to the salad section and the girl
asks you... what would you like, onions? sweetcorn,
salad, black olives... etc.
     it gets them all the time when you reply: all of it...
i ******* hate fussy eaters... if there's one "class" of
people i hate more than vegans it's: fussy eaters...
i hate fussy eaters...
i'll eat dried fish and drink beer with Russians talking
about fussy eaters and how: no...
peanuts are not the perfect compliment to beer...
Russians gulp down dried fish while drinking beer
like the Thai add dried shrimps to their curry sauces...
idle me... i do believe animals have souls...
i just don't think they think...
how can a dog think when all he can is utter
a bark or a cat think if he can only utter a meow?
what "thinking" is there bound to man's
"deciphering" of the sound the cat utters
with the letters M-E-O-W... blind men see more
with their agility to think than cat's with their
utterance of a meow...
i know: an onomatopoeia...
                              but i guess that also conjures
up a correspondence to character...
petted animals build a character off of the person
petting them... herded animal, farmed animals
are different: if there's a "problem" of numbers
then i assure myself: cows have no personality,
they're no petted beasts... ergo?
they return to the godhead of cows...
and i close the lid and never ask Pandora for her
knitting skills... to unravel my closed box
per se explanation... as happened with Beelzebub
and Hey-Zeus of Golgotha becoming the
Lord of Mosquitos... everything ******* vampire-esque
stems from that "metaphor" of this wine is
blood and this water is also wine...
i do know how he managed to get those people
drunk on water...
he wasn't alone in the desert for those 40 days and
40 nights...
nope... if he managed to get people "drunk" on water...
he must have taken them into the desert with him...
imagine not drinking water or eating for a month...
what would happen after those 40 days and nights?
you'd drink a glass of water
and become revived: "resurrected"!
you'd be glad and happy and seemingly drunk...
why? you haven't been drinking water for 40 days!
the moment you drank a little you'd be *******
seemingly drunk! it's the ascetic veil!
everyone should know what it is!

look at me... talking curtains and veils and mirrors...
but it is what it is!
i would be drunk from drinking water
after spending 40 days in the desert without a drip drip
droplet's worth of ease...
******* "mysteries" my ***... i must have been there...
in my sleep... so much so that now that i have a body
and a capacity to dream: i don't dream...
i must have seen what truly happened:
i bypassed the Byzantine grandeur of the choir singing
and said: when a Byzantine forgets that he
was a Greek primo, is the day that...
well... it's a day like any other...

i really don't know what "they" are trying...
even with all their ******* wigs i will not find black
women attractive... all the white girls can have
all the black boys: i too find something attractive about them,
but i can't compensate with the reverse...
i'll settle for... Gypsy... Romanian... Indian...
the odd black girl might spice my thinking up
once in a while... but that's like finding an emerald
in a heap of sand...

hmm! ha ha! me living in Africa... i was actually
thinking about ******* off to Kenya to try
and become a model for an advert... advertising soap...
or custard... since Western Europe is collapsing
like a gecko pretending to me a sloth...
but fair enough, circa London: the whole world is here...
as long as i can keep the mystique of people
thinking i'm this evil person, i'm all for it...
i like the idea of being thought as evil:
thinking you're evil: when you're not...
makes life so much more easier...
you don't have to worry about moral grand-standing!
you have no superiority "complex" over anyone...
you just "nod"... yes, yes yes...
i'm evil... well... better a presupposition of evil
(however much deluded)
than a supposition of good (however much well-intended)...

but in the workplace, mein gott... these horror stories...
these women...
i don't know how they managed it...
she makes her 3rd mistake with this guy:
who doesn't pay her child support...
3 kids, works 6 days a week as a nurse in
a hospital... blah blah...
how many mistakes do you have to make
before you start learning?
Pontius Pilate made it spot on:
a sport of washing your hands clean from:
no... not from being responsible for the self...
rather: meditating on not being responsible for others...
for others' mistakes you would otherwise
not make: i can understand being responsible
being responsible for others who would otherwise
make you responsible...
but not... not when the responsibility is aligned
to: people owning up to their mistakes
you would otherwise could not have made...

Christianity: the bogus focus on attempts of
ownership... own up?! no, oh no no...
so don't own up?! oh no, no no...
what then?!

              Christianity is rife in Africa...
well... a slave religion is befitting to supposed former
slaves... i need to elevate myself beyond this grip
of the emblem of suffering in the form of the crucifix...
let Hebrew be Hebrew and continually overstate
his conundrum with divine intervention
via: it wasn't enough! you didn't give us superpowers!

well... we do have c.c.t.v. in place, not enough?!
**** it... if that's not enough...
no wonder the mass sacrifice...
the breathing of ash into the air...
how much of a divine involvement do you actually
require before you decide to take life
into your own hands?!
how many hands do you have, before you realise
it requires at most, two?!

of course i'm *******!
i'm giggly-*******!
i see specimens weaker than me and i tend to them...
and they like me for that...
a ******* starts snuggling up to me
giving me a hand-job before i realise she was
a shallow **** and i can't get a plum "tattoo" on my pelvic
region from ******* her
and her face contorts in a semi-expression of pain....

but these women with obligations:
i was telling my fellow-co-workers,
before feminism... as my grandfather used to say:
there was something known as
the "bachelors' tax"... they were absolutely
dumb-founded... culturally-appropriate that,
*******...
yeah, single men had to pay extra taxes for
being single!

now?
i have as much "Darwinism" up my *** as i have
in my gob and as much as is allowed in head...
which is as much as my quasi-homosexuality
is ever to be nails harassed with acrylics...

perhaps women outperform the men in...
a load of bolloks...
but at the same time...
sparrow... sparrow: the call for freedom....
i am freed from the expected sanitising obligations
orientating men....

to be men...
                thank you, i most grand thank you...
thank you, thank you, thank you!
you don't even fathom how long
i've been waiting for an age of "irresponsibility"!
thank you!

i listen to these women,
i listen good, and proper...
if i were to pass on this agony...
i'd ask for the girl i was with
to be an iron maiden instrument of torture
before she could attain her status-hood
of being some... ******-Jezebel
of however capsized:
this ship is not going to sink!

                           and all the luck bound
to a barrel that's not floating on the whims
of the sea!

once a ***** habit...
     now a guilty pleasure...
                         i don't even think it's
about the taste coming back:
i could season just fine when i was
smoking 20 cigarettes a day...
it's not about that...
      when you're cycling and you're
not coughing up any phlegm...
and as you start breathing... it's like
you're breathing lactic acid and menthol
while walking in high altitudes...
i remember that sensation...
    before i met my downfall and she "introduced"
me to cigarettes... since... she used to lace
the marijuana we smoked with probably
too much tobacco...
    i know: Garden of Eden deja-vu...
                 where's your mea culpa?! you might
rightfully ask...
and i'd reply... she was a huge metal
freak back then... probably still is...
          she even got those lip piercings done
like the lead singer from hed(PE) -
scabby lips... dreads trimmed...
she even chose a song for me... i was her
herr mannelig and she was the troll living
under the bridge...
    i had to persuade her to take those rings
out: the scabs were an issue
but not a blatant issue (yeah, right...
every now and then rushing into the bathroom
to scrub my mouth...
would i go as far as dipping my lips
in some bleach? probably)
   i just told her... hard to kiss with three rings
in your lips...
i think she was hitting rock bottom...
so she had to convince herself that even
at her most unappealing... she could still
swing by a man's house and some love
and obviously if she kept her ***-antics intact...
the guy would not mind...
by the time i turned up in St. Petersburg...
nice... girly hair... short... but i liked short
anyway: since i had long hair at the time...
and she would be wearing make-up...
she would be cooking (i did all the cooking
in Edinburgh) - and she would wear this amazing
summer-time dress...
while i was wearing all linen: trousers, shirts...
brown leather sandals...

    regrets?! yeah... i wish i told that *****
to get out of my house in Edinburgh sooner!
before she dangled that carrot of visiting Russia...
if i only threw her back out of my privately rented
apartment on Montague St.
back into her student accommodation...
back into her cess-pit of Cow-Gate drag-queens
and hybrid-goths... i would have been so relieved...

well... this is not the first time i'm "kicking" the "habbit"
of smoking cigarettes...
i've done it already...
   but since my grandfather's... sorry: my best friend's
death... i sort of started the choo-choo train
once again... but i recently figured...
can't just let this June cold onslaught not be used...
my throat was killing me...
i can't smoke... well then...
              but... but... it's not fun if you just let go
of smoking...
i already mentioned:
what was once a ***** habit has now become
a guilty pleasure...

or like me studying the incel phenomenon...
studying: yeah, "studying" - i'm sort of testing the grounds...
dating apps are out of the question...
what prompted me?
last time i was in the brothel
and waiting for Khedira i started to this one
lucky Irish lad with a name that sounded feminine...
jacked-up with a bottle of laughing
gas and a balloon...

   yeah... i'd say so too... hard to place my accent...
the English are father suspicious of my accent...
and that too: depends where...
but ask an Irishman and he'll think he's talking
to an undercover journalist...
that's the aura i give... some Oxbridge ****....
but not exfoliating in your atypical class
hierarchies blah blah...

well... incels... should we mention Christine Chubbuck?
and the urban myth of: you know what
happens to a cockroach that is decapitated?
it dies of starvation two weeks later...
i swear this urban myth comes from the execution
of andrei chikatilo...
i never get bored of this quote from Bane
in the Batman movies...

'well: perhaps he's wondering why someone would: shot a man!
before throwing him outside of a plane???'
that's me... with the execution of the Ukrainian
serial killer... why would you drag someone
into a cell and shoot them in the back of the head?

anyone see the movie about Christine's suicide...
oh... when a woman does it... it's a cautionary tale...
but when a man does it: it's somehow "immediate":
the death: the bullet in the head...
Kafka: for ****'s sake... foretold!
aim at, the, *******, heart, like, you're, a vampire...

because sure... sure... and who isn't brain dead
at the best of times?! zombie ******* lovers...
idiotic trespassers of traffic... ******* ninjas!
making bad parking decisions stretching from Ilford
through to Stratford...

i'm sorry... what were we... talking about?
quitting smoking... me... i like...
this return to my teenage self...
when i wasn't interested in smoking anything...
just drinking... ah... this old taste of alcohol...
it's like sherbert pop-pop-pops!
  hmm mmm...

                yeah... i'm sort of worried...
thank god i don't have any children...
so she tells me she loves me after i returned
oral *** favours on her... listen... my tongue was
probably the 2nd tongue that ventured that far
while i'm not even going to imagine a tally...
deer... female deer? doe(s): does?! doe...
it's not: d'AZ... English... pretentious language...
keen on spelling one way...
speaking another... no wonder dyslexia is
so rampant in your people...
"my" people just have a terrible orthography...
i'm sorry... Charles Dickens  an ******* with
that elevated term for a spelling term...
notably?
morze "vs." może (a sea... vs. maybe) -
you can discount the worth of dots above
i and j immediately... **** it... revise the language...
drop those hovering dots... it's not like you
use any diacritical markers of: proper distinction...

well then... hmm... incels...
i was all for categorising them as terrorists...
why? are actual terrorists treated like... zombified
psychiatric big pharmacological zombie-inverted-thought:
no thought experiments?!
i think i argued the right point...
i've been on a rainbow of medications...
i gained around 50kg from one string...
well... roughly... i was a colt...
i used to weigh circa 72kg...
    came up to 120kg...
                         oh now i'm drinking excessive...
i need the momentum...
and i believe most of them...
you're a terrorist...
                   that's your ******* card...
"your": their...
                       who the hell wasn't to spend the rest
of their... constipated: interrogated by iron
bars of a "life" doubly subdued by
having no access to their mind?
  
   it's my inherent Slavic distrust of the: science...
ah ha ha ha... "science": the art of psychiatry...
the art of? creating monsters...
            the only "science" that... cuts corners with
the employment of pharmacological pinks and violets!
thankfully in England a psychologist can't
prescribe you any drugs...
but... psychiatrists reverse that boundary by
prescribing you all the sweets... but no conversation...
get the idea?

it's not fair that frustrated white boys
are deemed mad while all the terrorists are these *******
grand architectural logisticians of the exploration
of Islam into the decaying mind of the West!
well **** me! bring me more eggs!
let's make this omelette the size of an al fresco sized
paella!

maybe that's what's bothering me...
but i'm not bothered... i've went through it all...
at least that's how you test your sanity against
the backdrop of women...
you go to a *******... 3 / 4 times...
you escalate each time...
one hour... half an hour...
first three encounters you feel selfish and make
her give pleasure to you...
by the 4th time... i'm tired of watching you
give me a blow-job while we look at each
other in the mirrors...
so... from a *******
to slurping on a bucket out oysters of ****...
wow!
        at no extra cost?!
well then... bilingual that i am... let me just ask
my second tongue to come out...

i love you...
    waiting for two days... getting "sick": the clarity of
transaction ... i knew it was coming...
i was gearing up to it...
i was going to have two days and two nights
of cold-turkey...
i was going to subdue my drinking...
and i was going to quit smoking...
          
                     today's tonne of sand was a grand
exercise... i even had to take a break
to sweat off the sweat i was sweating
from carrying the nibbles of the tonne from
the access road into the garden to even up the down
*****... by cycling...

personally... i just wish some of these guys
could have reached out to some ****-wit
of a mentor... i re-watched Good Will Hunting today:
wow... only men could write such *******
about women... it's like: it almost felt like...
reading Madame Bovary wasn't a waste of time...
it's like... the only book every written by a woman
about women: wasn't written about  woman
after all... but by a disambiguation of Darwin (ism & co.)

so no mystery left... the nunnery project
of man's former investment... fizzy: into the ever
thinning air...
but if the walking ****** are to be imported
from Africa... can i import walking trouser pockets
from Asia?!
i could probably fit two in my suitcase...
unwrap them with some LEGO gravitas...
good as new...

             no... i think this goes deeper...
the freaky girl freaked! maybe! ooh! she found one of
my profiles on the internet...

it's troublesome though: but at least
these either best get shot: dead...
or don't plea the: i'm white therefore i'm insane...
no! you're a terrorist, mate!
you don't need some extra pharmacological cocktails
in your diet... i ingested those...
and i was apparently the one allowed
to safely walk the streets of this society
i watched crumbled circa 2007...
i still think the genesis 2007 and my own personal
memory are the best two movies in town...
ah ha... ha ha...

it's ******* snowballs and snowmen!
and it was only until i was 35 that i first tried
******* and i was left unimpressed...
since?! i managed to balance the intake of caffeine
with nicotine and ethanol...
the higher tier drugs disappoint...
                                 time... longing... hmm...

let me reiterate in another way...
put on the following song...
TERMINAL SERIOUS - GIFT FOR YOU...
and then start looking for
Walter Sickert's: Off to the Pub (1912)...
i do own the glossy art-book: i attended
the exhibition...
now tell me... the archetypical study
of the: hiding the Greek intellectual genius
coupled with older men ******* young boys?
well... terrible... the girls might be involved....

oh right! right! hello Freddy... Mc'fckn'Kruger...
really? that bad?
it's like watching a circus with have lemonade stashed
in plastic bags... your grandfather leaving you
with an umbrella in a circus freak show...
somewhat calm...

i hate commuting through Warsaw... i'm always
on edge... i always feel like needing to bite into someone's
aorta... and leave them to bleed out...
but once in London i sort of calm down...
i love the efficiency of London traffic...
     i'm a spider and London is my spider-web...
although... i'm jokingly arachnophobic....
what could cure me?
a girlfriend who'd want to own a tarantula....

so much for a girl that loves snakes...
a girl that loves lizards...
but she still doesn't love spiders...
what?!
              i want to cure my idiotic phobia
of spiders... somehow... i'm supposed
to find some godly Lilith with a snake
wrapped around her neck?
how about less the apple: how about
you hold a spider in your hand...
and let it crawl onto my shoulder and whisper...
what the crows did wrong...

because... after a while...
it's no longer about either truth or (lies)...
funny: how the English language disintegrates
from its casualness...
like so... good "and" evil... when people recite:
the definite article prefix of good...
pure evil? no?
    by now language disintegrates for me form
all conversational practicality...

the more imaginative lie is...
   the plagiarised scare of a reimagined lie...
that is not the frustrated truth...
which in jurisprudence is unlike an unshakeable
scientific fact...
man could celebrate science...
but it's "habit" of law... it's jurisprudence
is still a subjective-objective "shcizophrenic"
of nostalgia and will to reform...
         at least the study of history leaves one
able to write fictional historical novels...
what does law do? it fakes judgement...
it serves wrong judgement... when...
            ah ha...
   what a backward area of human "evolution"...
jurisprudence = paleontology...

   that's why i think that the supposed "mystery"
of "lawlessness" actually implies?
avoid the courts at all costs...
by then it's not a mystery... law is behind science...
as much as man tried to free himself
from the ******* subjectivity of hierarchies of
other men... exploring science...
nope! he still was dragged into the subjectivity
of jurisprudence... ahem... the "philosophy" of "law"...
the mystery of lawlessness?
  avoid making contact with your peers...
in a show-of-force...
   nostalgia passes... history estsblishes...

the mystery of lawlessness...
   what you live... with the ability to never entertain
a courts' summons for...
hmm... placebo-solipsism...
it's not a thought experiment...
it's an anti-thespian DE-MAND...
           the more cameo experiences you can
muster... oh really... the actor?
no longer need... the stage...
the rotten fruit an veg thrown at them?
well then... let's dig trenches... i'm good at waiting...
i don't need to be a lunatic reciting my
words on the street...
i'm good at waiting...
                    i'll wait... for what?! ah ha! beside death?!
my shadow... detaching itself from my body
and coming back with an extended index
telling me: follow "i"...

             oh, but now i'm ******* bored...
of this "exceptional" journalism, this false-safe mechanism
that spin-doctors used to rely on...
there was only one spin-doctor to my knowledge...
Alastair Campbell... that's before...
1990s England was sort of recognisable
before i was deported back to Slavic lands
and made my comeback in 1998...
what?! ooh... oh don't worry... i have my grievances
with England... but they're...
post-colonial grievances with England...
a bit like... John Inman / Michael Crawford...

well you never truly... know...
you need some dislodged limbs from time to time
to test your anti-racism propaganda...
don't you?
   does it? bulb... doesn't it? bulb...
then my sort of: lack of sympathy for Ukraine
because i don't give a **** learning from the past...
ah you know... tea-two-crumbs-a-penny...
if she's going to be the daughter of Michael... Owen...
******* toes off the readied off the plantation
gimmick...
hmm... looks like i'm peeping into Mongolian tribe
music...
   this... interracial... croack-load of ****...
it was once a cuck-hard-on that... disappeared
after a second ****...

            now i'm thinking: hmm...
9" proud... shame you can only fit 2" into her ****...
and about 1" into her mouth...
ha ha! better start find you a elephant ****'s worth
your type of "*******-egoic"... eh? heroism?!

this spells out  DANGER for me...
but what... do i know....
social engineering is more important
than actual engineering...
social engineering is a bit like...
once you build up a taste for psychiatry...
what?! talk?!
you're just going to prescribe me some
more medication to subdue my libido in
favour or a poor white girls... diabetic ****...
surprises?!

i like writing... what most people can't convert
their thinking into writing...
the whole idea of res vanus contra res cogitans...
the continuum ..
people spew ******* all the time...
no one thinks par insomnia...
beside intellect...
by mere principle of ad continuum...
any and each narrative can be exhausted...

Islam used to interest me...
Rumi... Sufism... Omar Khayyam...
Christianity used to interest me...
the Gnostic heretics...
after a while... find me a lion!
i'll start hunting for a yawn among the hyenas!
let's trade!
eh?! what do you mean what we're trading for?!
you find me a lion's growl...
i'll find you a hyenas' laughter...
we'll swap... by the concern of the crow's croak...
marbles... we'll swap marbles...

yes no yes no yes no: yes?! no?!
ah... the same...

( either thrown beneath the trodding gods' apathy
and higher, rising, contempt -
or having to squalor in man's pyramids -
myriad grain on a heap -
consort or meander in the dung heap -
the mouthful of maggots -
      in this flesh eat flesh and the ******* of
bone-marrow of a couldron of human intrigue...
either...
          mad-riddled among the gods...
or castrated and shamed among fellow men...
in my cusp: a tenderness of beauty -
an imitation bowl or at least 10 volumes worth
of tablespoons - as that:
a ferocious gulping down of water...
               and at what point is death merely
a translator of the three factions...
                        of the harvest: a perpetual presence
as one would say: one born every minute...
what personification what mythology
      when... one is always oh so busy... ) a lovecraftian
                                                       pre-scriptum...
                                  
   interlude: thomas and timothy take to dancing
in limbo... thomas wears the stilletos...
timothy dons the straitjacket...

          and for lack of a better word...
when the jazz comes on there's no one wearing
corsets - or anyone who has any stoicism
leftovers... no wise-up maxims no other
in-depth and later let's call it life...

       some call it lazy - some call it lounging -
some even dare call it
an ottoman safina in a harem -
because... that better things to kneel on
when there's a required: height difference...
i can't imagine it otherwise...
the jazz comes on and these words
become: a blob of custard imitating bubbles
as it bubbles away...

                      a stoic striptease of language...
some have it in them...
the raw edible parts that become
a steak tartar...
                          red garland anywhere
but here... a miles davis quintet
playing ascenseur pour l'échafaud...
lift to the gallows...

        it has become a terrible, a most terrible
regret of mine:
to be somewhat easy on the eyes
and having a firm belief in education...
too bad this ambitions doesn't
translate into mandarin and back...

not gifted with an a priori outsider status...
i have to compete for...
what my father didn't beat me...
but i do remember that one time
my mother taught my a thing or two
about leather and belt...
but that's a non-contest memory...
you need to be the christ
and the father is asking for you to be crucified
thus becoming the
greenwich mean-time for over 2000 years...

shove a lovecraftian god into the affair...
although i haven't read any of it,
what's the worst that could come out of...
language that will not end up
being scribbled onto a postcard...
or made into a conversation over beer...
it either has to bloat and bamboozle my ergo-ergo
into a pop:
stray bullets... clinging into unwashed
dog hairs dragging along...
sweeping the cemented tiles...

the smell of a wet dog...
    the minor affairs of washing cats...
the screetching and scratches...
biscuit for a moon - a bite into the scythe...
crumbling and slowly melting chocolate...

two engineers came to my house today...
i greeted them with:
i'm sorry... i forgot how to speak...
i can write this: can you take this umbrella
and braille?
         the t.v. was sorted: somewhat...
i'll still have to phone up and deal with
the nitty-gritty woodcrawlers...

              a testament to: how to writer an,
autobiography, any alternative to this...

           i'm going through my jazz phase...
i've had my blues phase...
                   even by my current standards of
laconic - i didn't write anything better...
i just imagine all those autobiographies
that manage to shorten the passing of a year
into a single paragraph...
then allow the ghost, and writer...
to swoon in and scoop up some other
minor detail to throw back into the juggling act
of... a passing of a minute...

chip-on-my-shoulder! that's what "they" call it!
being educated is probably my single most
biggie of a regret...
            should have learned **** outside of school...
it's almost a sin to have loved learning...
but i never learned to be a terrible person...
a con- and that suffix -artist...
which is bad from the get-go...

               here's to drinking and interludes
with a lazy bladder!
   or not drinking and pretending that hours don't
double when everyone else is alseep...
and quadruple when the cats are sleeping...

because these words could somehow become
an event - an informal get-together when
the suits and skeletons are where they should
be: closet bound... but no, again: but no...

some variation of diatribe ensues -
and whenever you get a chance to exfoliate...
to don language like peacock feathers...
like some second to Konrad von Wallenrode -
not the right history...
or not...         tare here: a tier above becoming
better tailored...
improv. sequentials...

smoking  cigarette... feels less... less of anything...
esp. less of anything health related...
when listening to someone... healthily blow
out a tune from a sax or a hornet's needle: a trumpet...
the smoke is just the salt & pepper of
adding to the mystique of a listener...

imitation of writing and painting...
the nervous composition - tapping tapping tapping...
in any case not a frivolous amount
of "something"...

                jackson ******* met...
nikita the cossack... and.... cubism was left to
a fate akin to christine chubbuck -
that infamous myth of the immediacy of death...
when you shoot yourself in the head:
unlike Kafka who prescribed -
stabbing yourself in the heart...
too bad for the urban-myth of the cockroach
dying of starvation when decapitated...

the great injustice:
Kafka asked for his books to be printed
to enlarged scribbles...
they enlarged Bukowski's writing seeing just
how... oh but so little...
i call this: the statement of the nag...
the nagging daughter of a father-in-law
that would never allow...
            circus of words...
they still print books by Kafka by people
who are expected to read braille...
while they print Bukowski's books
expecting his oeuvre to become that of a Dumas...

i'm about this close to catching moths
and sneezing bookmarkrs made from
a dollop of dust... fingerprints and all...

a recurrent "theme"...
akin to: perhaps he's wondering why someone
would walk him into an empty prison
cell... and shooting him in the back of the head...
if he wasn't expecting him to lie
in that cell for a forthnight to come!

to better respect the bass...
whether in guitar form or: that sucker for
the plucker and:
no one was expecting to explain
a bow readied for a cello to him...
so... that's jazz...

                           i'm no better or: not exactly
worse... whatever this is...
i keep an immaculate list of affairs when
it comes to the confines of a living space...
i own two cats but my house doesn't
smell anything related to the scent of their furr...
or their **** or: god forbid the scent of
cat ****... it really doesn't take away from
cat's **** even if the male is castrated...
apparently the pungency of feline male ****
is not related to them owning a pair
of testicles...
i learned that... when i started to *******
by the tender, ripe, age... of being
unable to produce any *****...
so much for the dot dot clues...
                                        spasms of spam...

gregory corso had the voice...
but unlike a bukowski...
he wasn't doing a stoic striptease for:
the most basic forward of minimalism...
the lottery... and what's "better"...
before the mirror and how one would
begin to fashion beards and distinguish
them from a moustache...
the mullet from the comb-over...
and the focus came in the shadow
rather than... the pale ghost of the mirror...
or the lake... before the mirror started
to shine its sheen: snake shedding its skin...
no leftover boots to walk in...

beside the bedtime 20th century ref. -
that there are "too many poets"...
not right now there aren't...
well... there's enough of the rhyming kindred...
but what i'm looking at is...

                what if i had a fine peach ***
to go with the whole: golem affair?
thank god! there's "not enough" of us...
wording misers... but there's plenty of...
dissected body-parts clinging to the mirrors...
i'm content...

one more for the jazz fetish...
     and no more for the otherwise...
the "king" dons dawn as this crown...
and the night for his shawl...

                    in a language that only children
will understand... or borderline with...
the image...
                there are scratchings on
the wood... some believe them to be
the schematic of a future table, or chair...

the interpolation of:
soul as synonym of breath...
                         plato's reincarnation...
it was once upon deemed a lowering
of the "caste" should a man be reborn as a woman...
plato's take on gender dysphoria...
idle words thrown against the wind...

i almost wish i were about to striptease
into a stoic with a marcus "bukowski" aurelius...
but my tongue starts licking
the peacock and...            i have to forget whether
i'm moderately read...
or whether i have read at all...

           come to think of it...
for those that despise doubt...
       i much appreciate this plethora of feeling...
it's almost akin to being in love...
a darker, love...
how can one live with two certainties in life?
one being the impeding death of all mortal
itches... and the other: per se negatio - i.e. negation?

to be in love is to fall in love with
teasing and with doubting...
            to be reminded of it is... a labyrinth
of ecstasy!
             faith and negation are just
extreme certainties...
science the paradigm...
           but doubt... the plethora to
hercules' hydra...
                                      queen of thought
and the mind stuck to a pole...
peddle the wavering quivers of the winds
united...

then again: my words are not needed for the many...
or the better excuse:
insubordinate failure of a man...
reaching a grandfather status and a...
jolly ol' christmas to boot!

children: that one most prized asset of excuse...
to every other subsequent fancy of
events either being: to one's expectation...
or... lacklustre... sodden with grief
to sink into the depths of a watery grave...
of not having met expectations
to have given "it": the original investement in!

we could almost... unanimously ascribe
ourselves to a forgiveable wanton of:
raised in a nunnery... raised in an orphanage...
raised without psychoanalysis
or gender dysphoria to mind...
raised feral...
                            oh me... and my current concern
for a jazz fetish.

the current heat-wave that has gripped England
is not doing anyone any favours...
two days running: i wake up like a turtle...
first day was great sticking to the wooden floor...
but today even listening to podcasts
became too much...
                          i woke up dry as a turtle:
then turned into a jellyfish...
    i have to admit: nights are bit more peaceful
once i managed to catch that rat...
and it was a rat... not a mouse...
                   because mousetraps didn't work
on him... the ******* cheese was gone...
  and the mousetrap...
                what was this genius rat doing?
taking the traps to where he spent the day
behind the cupboard: figuring them out?
and then coming back out during the night?
i sort of wished he would have went
for the trap with the poison cubes he could have
chewed... i really hope he would have went
for that option... instead...
            he went down the classical route...
problem being... the mousetrap guillotine didn't
break his neck...
    like back in the day the execution via hanging
seemed almost humane: provided the neck broke...
sort of like a guillotine...
   i hate it when it doesn't...
                   when it finally caught him i listened
for about ten minutes trying to wriggle out from
the trap... i took a knife and one of my cats
and... i started scratching the knife against the cupboard
holding my cat between my legs...
i was just about to open the cupboard door
when he started to fight too much...
             well? it's not like he could bite his head
off and do a runner with another mousetrap...
so i just left him like an Andrei Chikatilo...
               these are two of my favourite "urban myths":
a quote from Bane in one of the Batman movies:
or perhaps he's wondering, why someone would
shoot a man! before throwing him out of a plane...
who the hell said that a shot to the head will
**** you?
                 it sure as **** didn't **** Christine Chubbuck...
in the movie she's moved into a hospital:
sure... in a vegetative state... but alive...
brain dead so i'm guessing in LIMBO land...
but why did they take ol' Andrei the butcher...
the guy who was actually married and i'm guessing
had children... they took him into a cell...
and... shot him in the back of the head...
                          i'm guessing they did that because...
then they left him in that cell for a while...
oh... he wasn't dead for some time...
bleeding out your head? it must take some time...
that's why i never understood why people
in movies shoot themselves in the head...
so idiotic... Kafka knew all about it:
                           i too think stabbing the heart
is a more humane way to go...
         because that's when the brain shuts off last
and is not shut off first...
   imagine it like: you walk into a room
into the middle of the night - the room is lit
because someone forgot to turn the light off...
and you're there to look for something you
misplaced... and what do you do?
  you turn off the light and then start looking
for the misplaced thing...

- i mean: i'm pedantic about cleanliness...
there's some discipline in keeping a house clean...
but how did a rat manage to find its way
into my house...
               perhaps rats abhor the warmth of
Africa... but my Nigerian neighbour thought it
was a good idea to leave food around in
his garden... for his ******* love of "pigeons"...
yeah... i love pigeons too... but i'd feed
them in the park: not my ******* garden...
my cat already managed to **** about three before
one commando managed to get into my house...
vague "voodoo" practices... sorry...
sometimes when you're given a rodent problem
there's no politeness to be had...
i was rising having my washing machine /
dishwasher cables chewed through...

hell... i once petted a fox like i might have petted
a dog... for about month...
but he wasn't a rat... he used to come at a specific
time... and whatever leftover food from dinner
wasn't eaten... i'd leave a tray of it for him...
happy customer... i think i documented
it in one of my social-media albums under the name:
Brody... after that ginger actor from Homeland...
that as a fun experience... he used to walk after
me watching where i'd place the food...
and how he gobbled on it...
beside a cat... probably the next best pest deterrent...

but i've had enough... waking up tired
from the heat-wave...
               i've decided to sleep in the garden...
thank "god" my cat is still in the garden:
i left my window open when he finally decided
to come home... but... i don't blame him...
i'm too seeking out the cold...
         i don't know why some people adore themselves
and life with all this camel-jockey heat...
i hate summer... when i was a child
it was all fun and games... but as i've grown older
i have more respect for autumn and winter...

i went cycling from the hours 11:30 through to 1am...
i needed to cool off and i needed
to find some whiskey...
                      the heat also implies i prefer
liquids more than actual chew-chews...
my appetite disappears...
                            my new favourite shaky-shaky?
Greek yoghurt... some water... ice-cubes...
pumpkin seeds... sunflower seeds...
cranberries... fresh strawberries...
   it's the only "thing" that stays down...

while cycling i stopped off to buy the whiskey
and a strawberry cider:
i knew something was wrong because
my head was pulsating with a bulge that wasn't
exactly a headache...
my brain was trying to do a runner...
my jaw was stiffening...
i felt i was growing a third eye:
which usually happens when i know that
not having finished ******* = i still have to ****
some more... irritable bowels / not-exactly...

cycling in the night ought to have irritated
my ******* enough... and it did...
i'm waiting for the cooler months to rekindled
my love for eating ******...
yeah... anyways...
got home and did what was necessary...
but it took me two Sol beers with that
much appreciated lime slice...
                                  
   i hate heat-waves...
     i don't know how many rats are still roaming
the vicinity... thankfully i kept the cat
in the garden... well... being a Maine ****:
i'm sort of compassionate...
like i might be with a Huskie...
i'm going to join him in a "minute or two"...
i'm going to sleep in the garden:
to hell with the furnace of my bedroom!
but i need him to scout out for any potential
rats that might be audacious to nibble on me...

sure... a spider might crawl into my nostril
or my ear... hell... i'm not waking up in this furnace...
but this heat-wave rekindled a memory
for me... when i was younger i used to be
very much into black metal...
death metal... yada yada...
   esp. the band SATYRICON -
  sign of the trident, the wolfpack...
listening to them after so many years i'm reminded
of certain things...
nothing important...

although...
              this is important to me...
Serbian Cyrillic does use the Roman J...
A, E, K, O...

               me? i'm thinking of adding one letter
to the ****** script...
living among the English i tend to think
on lazy terms...
don't vs. do not...
                    would not vs. wouldn't...
letter eating... "cannibalising" expressions...
i heard the argument a long time ago...
the "too many vowels"...

i would introduce no real improvement...
just... particular words...
e.g.? rat... szczur...
                  i just need a Russian letter...
щur...         mein gott! it doesn't even look that bad...
because there are several words in ******
that have the щ- / szccz- prefix...
i will not touch the suffix -ść...

                i just don't want to conflate the H & Z...
i can't do anything about dość (enough)
i thought about the caron S & C...
    but... there are plenty of words that begin
with SZCH (SHCH)... in the Slavic tongue...

and... let's face it... if you already have
     dość...  you don't want ščur...
imagine if the caron prefixes and the acute suffixes
ever met in a single word:
i know the language works in its current
dictates... but i'm lazy...

                      щur:   originally:

szczerość: ščerość vs. щerość....
                                if i can make SZCZ disappear?
hell... i'd make rz disappear into ř...
                            je: suis...
                                          but still keep the ż...
just ideas... when i leave notes
to people... don't you think i don't invoke
from Cyrillic usage?!
   i can't be bothered with the SZCZ... SHCH...
there are plenty of words that could use the щ
instead...

**** me... for a black metal band...
SATYRICON are still pretty decent.

after watching half an hour's worth of
a, "debate" between
                tucker carlson vs.
                 cenk uygur
i start to experience: custard head...
like i some Scottish ******* working
on a Royal Mile in Edinburgh
candy-shop...
it's not exactly a headache,
but it's something...
                           jeez... what is this ****?
was i reborn while drowning?
blah blah blah... blah blah blah...
blah blah blah... and blah blah blah some more...
paradigm shifts...
yet still the pompous unmovable
status quo...
                what a load of crock-****...
i just can't believe i wasted half an hour
listening to these guys...
dialectics...
  back in the olden days, of Ancient Greece...
the only mediator between two
contesting sides was...
a ******* bench...
           why do you need a mediator?
why not... something you can share,
and subsequently, sit on?!
that's how i talk to old men in parks...
bicycles (Raleigh - green, military green,
pristine *******), grandchildren,
the ethics of drinking in public...
you know, the usual with old men...
**** into the wind, **** against it...
headache... all this political *******...
it's like having to do the alex
in clockwork orange...
           eyes wide open, reformed...
or on my way... while watching a *******
snooker match...
please! but they won't shoot you...
no... like that line i wrote a while ago...
concerning andrei chikatilo...
  his execution and
bane: or perhaps he's wondering why
someone would shoot a man before
throwing him out of a plane?!
so why would the Ukrainian authorities
require... a prison cell,
to shoot a man?
             oh... that's right...
the movies lied to you...
the only death that's "instantaneous"?
in your sleep...
   just look up christine chubbuck,
sure as **** she didn't die on the spot...
it's like people orientate themselves
with or without a soul around
the brain...
  like: you **** that first: up to heaven
in a matter of milliseconds...
that urban myth: a cockroach can live
up to 2 weeks without its head,
before it dies from starvation,
                                     is that true?
i don't know why i keep coming back
to this scene... a single shot through the back
of the head...
              i'm crouching, somehow
attached to like a spider to the Y point
of a cell... curious...
          just curious at how long...
well... the heart can turn off the brain...
but the brain can't turn off the heart...
                   what a fascinating style of execution...
too bad for Curt Kobain...
    Kafka wrote about it spot on:
first the heart... last the brain...
           i can't even begin to fathom...
how slowly that poor schmuck had to take
to bleed out through his head...
i always return to: how long do you think
it would take...
   being brain dead, with the body still
functioning... like...
oh you know... a brain in a pickle jar,
but rather... a damaged brain...
   and a slowly decomposing body from
a lack of nutrients?
you think that after several days
they plugged him into a hospital drip,
and kept him in the cell for years?
well... one's mind sometimes drifts...
ha ha... to unexpected scenarios...
on a lighter not... i went wild today...
two bottles, one a standard whiskey,
the other? wild turkey...
Kentucky bourbon...
****... there's a story...
        expertly crafted by Kentucky bourbon
hall of Famer Eddie Russell...
we age our bourbon longer -
    up to five or eight years -
in number four "alligator char"
     H'american oak barrels...
**** me...
         with notes of sweet vanilla,
  pear, and hints of spice:

so the Irish have Boston,
while the Polacks have Chicago
over there?
   just wondering...
             it's not like i ever want to visit
America...
           my dream...
hmm...                  the Faroe Islands.

are they waiting for you to say something,
are they waiting for you to write something,
is there some st. patron parole
for you to be later be found as somehow
waiting?
can they ever be you teased by an echo
of calypso...
or is that still the echo of a deafening...
shot in the back of head in a cell...
                    the one he was supposed to be
dragged out from... rather than dragged
into...
       the affairs of christine chubbuck incel
status... and the seemingly long and
forever "lost" myth of the cockroach...
akin to a... andrei chikatilo or a kurt cobain...
who could possibly remember the affairs
of a women being dragged from a cobweb
of the most... grim enterprises...
this be... a cadillac... an automatic...
so... no manual... gear change?!
          do i look like someone about to tire
himself by donning clown-make-up?!
sooner me on a bicycle calling it a beijing tuesday...
on a gants hill roundabout...
come the peak hour traffic...
than... for all that safety *******...
doing the same sort of replica on a sunday
with all those ****** donning stranded
strange stephen smiths...
**** 'em... here's to a ******* through that lost
worth of outlets...
the shotgun credentials...
                      the one time listening to the eagles
made sense over listening to
creedance clearwater.... revival of what?
the eagles makes sense... if all that's the spider
and the spiderweb is... a christine chubbock
as a madame of a cain harem.