i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?

Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….

Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy

There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska

From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings

Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!

Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart

Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”

From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.

Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful

Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.

the gentle clinking of

differently colored bangles

combined with

the savory scents of

spices I cant pronounce

and

chanting I can’t quite understand

feels more like home

than a television

and a frozen dinner

Brown sugar sapotas
Blending with custard alfonso mangos
And bold sweet lime juice

Georgette saris
Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces
Mixed with peals and rubies

Gently sloping palm trees
Swaying in balmy sultry air
And hazy golden sunsets

Frenetic yellow autos
Competing with dusty zipping mopeds
Mixed with ambulating pedestrians

Aromas of cumin
Blending with the sewage
Other times with incense

Glows of brass oil lamps
Singing in hums of prayer
Added with turmeric's incantations

Brightly-patterned salwars
Accentuating gemstone bindis
Comfy fitted leggings

Savory masala dosas
Coupling coconut chutney
Meter-high filter coffee

you can't go far wrong with chutney.
a large pickle jar,
gold topped
with a seasonal trim around the rim,
made with patience and love.
- just add a strong grip
with stronger cheese
and a selection of savoury crackers
- and there you have Christmas.

if pre 2000s pop was a twin town of chedder, then post 2000s pop has to be twinned with sodium hydroxide, or palmolive / dove; this pope is high on crack, reshuffle and scrub down the kareoke, please! soap opera just turned into sing-alongs, it became cheese opera due to the repeat for a century to come... now it’s all about cheese opera and soap... the sort of cheese that might give a mitchell a half-mined-mile into coal mountain... and the soap ready for the twitter democracy of the required comment that’s about a cried-on pancake eaten with cranberry chutney but not the turkey.*

even if i write the most spectacular verse
it goes with the geese into the couldron
of a second life / un-becoming...
the latter is very much true with regards to feeling,
you’re in a race to claim a zeno record
against the turtle... but but still the flea beats you,
going against kantian symbolism, concerning 0,
it could also be the decimal point, rather than negation,
like the way i was given the x-men collection
at £10, seven movies...
i started with multiplying 7 by 10... to get 700...
then i added the 7 of each film,
added the “symbol of denial,”
moving the rubric for seven movies, sigma £10...
that’s like £1.70 for each movie...
the remainder is abstract as to relate the arithmetic.
well i was in the best club ever on a friday...
the street.
i bought myself a three quid leffe beer bottle
nearing the litre and with a champagne cork...
opened it...
walked by the police swinging a jive of gulp
and un-repentant... you want me to repent
my alcoholism serialising alcoholism as the problem?
you’re the problem:
i never box drunk...
you know how many marriages have failed because
of over-cooked pasta or under-cooked potatoes?
too many.
ready-meals like school-meals in england prime
for the selling of pre-prepared digits of chips
also ready to spend more time in the glue / spiderweb
of the television, which forgot its place
as a pleasant distraction of
the news for the small-town folk or national
pride via sporting events.
but you know what really ****** me off...
it’s called illiteracy for a reason...
but it’s also called religion concerning the literacy from one  book...
like the koran... or the bible...
strange that that isn’t illiteracy all by itself...
but it isn’t... literacy is then measured by the secularisation
mechanism of homework...
children don’t lie... their social status does not expect it...
it’s more like: i don’t like you... snail goo in a shell missing snail...
i like you... butterflies at the lunch break...
so in this dream i’m sitting in my bedroom
with this little boy... two fiendish creatures enter...
the boy says: this is allah...
he’s fat and burned...
(i hate the freudian self-projection of dream interpretation)...
the other is “schizophrenic,” i.e. two faces inter-mingling...
then the second dream... the fat monster is there, on a throne,
and a bunch of muslims...
suddenly they run away...
i’m left with the crisp fat ugly one...
and i forge the twinned dream interpretation...
ah crap... that placebo schizophrenia experiment
lasting for 7 years worked...
i made medicine in-effective in england...
now i’ll just encounter idiots who think they know me better
than i know myself...
who will deny in order to amuse themselves...
who will not craft a doubtful mechanism to encourage
courting / polite thinking... the so called: end-of-all-implausible-possibilities,
reduced to all the pessimisms known as plausible realities
of english society.
by the way... after seeing the boy’s knowledge of that
deep-friend bulge of the double chin...
i walked from home to dartford bridge... and then to barking...
and then took the bus home...
if i didn’t run from that first impression...
i wouldn’t have been the re-interpretated “schizoid” twin...
missing in the second dream by the throne
with the muslims running for leather spanked...
couple dreams for a medium of thought entering the
unconscious...
i hate self projection... it goes against
that limit of the most sophisticated pigeon service
known as freudian mail...
imagine a more sophisticated system without
pigeon, postcard, poststamp, e-mail... can you, given dreams?

As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.

Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.

Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.

Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.

Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.

Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.

As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

I am waiting for a twenty two.
Two eleven's have past but they will not do
from Piccadilly to Putney
home in time for ham,cheese and chutney
and here it comes.

Humming along brum brum brum
get on the bus
swipe the card
not too hard
taking a seat take the weight of my feet
and in the air from up the stairs the smell of food
someone is chewing on chicken
******* on bones
the women in front are gabbling in phones
and the child behind cries
I've dropped my fries
then an old lady slips on these crispy fried chips
and the bus comes to a halt.
The driver jumps up
screaming this isn't my fault.

Not my day at all
just wanted to get home with no smell of chicken
no phones in my face
but now I'm stuck in the bus
face to face
with the realisation that Putney and ham with cheese and Chutney
is slipping away.
No
not my day at all.

.on a lighter note, from what you'll find included below... the Rolling Stones or the Beatles? well... as well when asking the question John Coltrane or Miles Davies, or, or... Bach, Mozart, or Beethoven... in the last case? the latter. **** me... he loved music so much that he became deaf... just like Homer became blind; god, i love these famous instances of benevolent reasoning; with its cruel culminating outcome / closure... fate, it would seem... but then the sly nudge by something akin to... well i'm unsure which i prefer: Michelangelo's creation of Adam... or Rembrandt's Belshazzar's Feast... i think (but not doubt) that i'm more fond of the latter depiction.

i seriously only have a couple
of words to make a counter-argument...
this won't take long,
this is not going to become
one of those video tirades
  (Beethoven's ode to joy
is still playing in the background,
and yes, i am moderately sober,
i had to cook up a butter chicken
curry with a coriander
    and mind chutney for the chapaties...
chap chap... bud bud...
you want a stereotypical
Apu from the Simpsons?
just watch Australia's master-chef
from this year,
and look up a guy called
Sashi Cheliah...
    buddy bud bud... you get
the picture; it's his recipe...
   curry all day, curry in the morning,
curry in the afternoon,
curry in the evening,
dreaming of curry)...
internet de-platforming...
isn't it... technically illegal?
       just curious...
because...
             my internet provider cannot
exactly switch off my access
to the internet...
like a bailiff...
   i'm not paying the electricity bills,
so they come, and switch off
my electricity supply...
   what "we're" talking about is
a case of illegality...
   to de-platform you'd require
a service provider to implement sound
justifications...
but then...
   paradox avenue:
    they're not getting the money
needed to be a service provider...
so... i'm only supposed to have
the infrastructure of buying ****
online, and banking online...
   STOP ******* UP WITH THE *******
PLAYGROUND! PUT THE SAND
BACK INTO THE SANDBOX...
PUT THE WATER BACK INTO
THE TRAFALGAR SQ. FOUNTAIN!
it's illegal...
              why aren't the hardware
companies, beating the living **** out
of these software providers?
websites are software,
they're not the computers,
the cables, the workload of Atlases...
****... this is becoming a tirade
worthy of a video...
but Beethoven's ode to joy is playing
in the background,
and i never feel like talking...
itchy fingers you see...
the devil has work for idle hands...
it's illegal...
   because it bypasses the terms
of agreement you already made with
the internet providers...
so what... you can only do so much
on the internet?
these people have paid
for their internet connection!
                 what, a, load, of, *******;
so? ensure they pay less
for their internet access...
  given that a limited internet access
is being implemented...
i'm already past being ******
off at the jukebox...
       now i'm fuming... kettle mad
just around the time when
the water starts to boil.

Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense.  Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant...)

Note the third eye in the figure's forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a ******-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)

Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.

Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.

Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods' image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic... but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I'll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).

Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it's just a big lie...
bow before a multi-armed freak?  Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan's world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.

“Then you should have let me die”
My father’s words to my mother in a fit of frustrated rage at something so small I hardly remember it now
Ah, I think the conversation went something like this,

                                                        She gave him his dosa
                                          “Where’s the chutney to dip?” he asked
                                                       “No chutney. The coconut isn’t good for you”.
                                          “Why...don’t you know how hard it is for me? How could you do this?!”

No, that was a different conversation, but they all embody the same thing
My father’s struggle with his tumor        after tumor                          after tumor
And as chemo pelts the tumors like wrecking *****, my father’s spirit is equally as exposed to the onslaught
Like wisps of smoke, fragments of his struggle leak out into our house, our family

My mother carries the weight, coupled with her own baggage
She simply tightens the buckle on herself, almost choking but standing ever more upright, a towering hyperion
While praying
She prays
                  He prays
                                   They pray
Falling back to childhood, to their hope, their trust in God
The hope that keeps them alive through the sheer force of their will
I’ve noticed that “God”

Is like a medium
A medium of belief in yourself and hope for a better, brighter future
A medium I stubbornly refuse to use, calling myself an atheist, the rebellion within I suppose
“Well it’s all the same” mom says

Maybe so
Maybe I will one day rely upon that medium, deeply, simply to retin the hope that someone is there for me, even if that someone is myself masked as an external “God”

“I knew then that the Lord wanted me to help people”
He said, an old man in his 80’s, clearly displaying signs of the vicissitudes of life
Couldn’t walk, cooped up in a room 24/7
Yet here he was, not blaming, nor resentful
But in tears not because of his own struggles, plight
But because the Lord gave him a chance to “help people”
He had an opportunity to improve diabetes treatment
Efficiently collect blood
“help people”
Because the Lord allowed him to get into college late to “help people”
That was his miracle

Even if no one was in time to help him

Like the teachers in Chennai, India we saw while visiting family three summers ago
Forgoing a well paying job at a government school, money and comfort
To teach somewhere where they believed they’d make an impact on young minds

Little children growing up to become scientists like the women promoting mushroom growth
To increase the village’s protein intake and empower women
Easily grown at home, it’s not meat, it’s a mushroom

The man who forged ahead to build a canal for the village, a pioneer starting a movement of innovation

An old woman in her late 80’s helping a single mother  keep her job

No cash at my dad's favorite bagel shop, the owner who allowed me to pay later

Simple little things, it’s the little things that hook you more than any superficial bait
And place you on a cloud of warmth

I belong

People can be so terribly kind
To a stranger, to an acquaintance
                                        to a friend, or even
                       to a foe
Yes, there are wars being fought, people dying every second

But as I look up at the hazy blue clouds drifting lazily along outlined with flecks of gold almost like a halo
The humming breeze caressing my cheek, the scent of dew drifting by
I couldn’t feel more glad to be alive
So, please don’t say you wish you were dead

Just open the window and gaze at the ever changing sky
    Whether temperamentally torrential
Or a lazy, hazy, pink or blue
And relish that single moment you are privileged to be a part of
Shared by countless others around the world

But although the seemingly endless sky may cover everyone
At that moment, at that place, at that time the sky and all its magnificence is
All yours

.Filling my life with emptiness
...I used to be productive
But now productivity
Is like a jar of chutney
sitting in the cupboard
for years.

All I want to do,
is just sit in my room
and observe
observe it
shrouding my room
see the dust floating in the air
Like a cold, moldy coffin
And find a hole to jump  inside
and hide
my mind
colours
colours
colours
col ours
call ours
call hours
c all hours
see all hours
see the things I could not find in a minute
See a purpose in small things takes hours
I don't need a purpose.

There was an old person of Putney,
Whose food was roast spiders and chutney,
Which he took with his tea,
Within sight of the sea,
That romantic old person of Putney.

Old school, gymnasium, Christmas fair, Thursday night.
Hoops at either end. Tables. People. A woman carries a baby,
could be the PE teacher’s. A Ugandan flag. Jars of dark purple
jam next to jars of chutney, perhaps. The youth, us once,
flit between here and the hall. A choir, maybe thirty strong,
sing Santa Baby. Parents watch, as do we. Half a minute.

The head. Still a towering, suited figure. Handshakes all round.
What are we doing now? Voices like knots of consonants.
Geography man. Flecks of grey stubble. Procedure repeated.
Finger pointed. Scrabble for a surname. Exclamation.
Years rattling back to the front. He remembers, as do we.
Head of sixth seven years ago. Instant recognition. Repeat.

Half an hour. The place, no longer ours. Never was.
Friends the same. Memories. Dust between dark and light.
Car. Back seat. Barely two miles. Little traffic. Turn
into street.  Step out. Chill drizzles the face. Handshake
again? Again. Time and place discussed before home.
See you tomorrow then. Yeah. Yeah. Front door key.

Were they children of
A loving Joint family
In a small village of
Of God's own country
Were they twelve in
Numbers of boys and girls
Making it a festival
In times of togetherness
Not a single day
They make a war
Having together
Their all day food
In a small dining room
Filling it with loud
Crackers of laughter
Enjoying even a
A watery porridge with
Fried coconut chutney
Together they slept
In an open night hall
Sharing their beds
And pillows with love
Seeing them sleeping
With their innocence
Standing the moon
With a sweet smile !

You Use To

drop the turkey

twice on special holidays

glaze the ham

with stubborn certainty

that lime chutney was

just the ticket

Sterno steaks

brought your short lived

grilling career to a

screeching halt

not to be outdone

by the half- cooked goose

with New Year’s champagne

what I wouldn't give  

to see you

greasing

the kitchen floor

with poultry again.

Garden to my left,
colors so bright
the snapdragons and sweet peas
nod their watercolored heads
in the morning's silken light
chutney-colored wall
leading to my door
shoes neatly stacked
with toys in baskets
upon the concrete-patterned floor
plants align the window sill,
marking the flipside to my kitchen
reminding me of wafting tastes
in the form of stir-fry
or juicy chicken
to the right
a pumpkin-spiced ball of fur
my Ginger nestled tight
body rising and falling
in deep slumber's purr
his springtime pillow
puffed just right
The laughter I hear
fills my ears and heart
as children, (mine, too)….play
and I sit with my legs upon the
Tupperware chair
and contemplate the day
Between my palms Turkish coffee
entices with its delicious steam
and here come the thought police
to interrupt my desert dream

Back off *******,
I'm not going to jail.

promise me! promise me to get me out of this hell-hole i put myself in! promise me! i don't know why i put myself through, several days of transcribing a snippet, this was merely a snippet from Kierkegaard's oeuvre, but, how unbelievable! each word was a labour, prop up the book in the right place, read, don't look at the keyboard, let the devil find work for idle hands... look for the devil who would be able to write like he might read Braille! my god, the punctuation, ****** an elephant's ***...the essential Kierkegaard - edited by howard v. hong & edna h. hong: hurt my sensibilities, or, rather, my pedantry, when it comes to punctuation... transcribing is not plagiarism... its brick-layer toils... one word, after another... if i were translating from Danish, i think i'd punctuate the text better: to give it some... panache! some: oomph! you know? this is my dedication, i'm supposed to be awake at 7am... i already shined my shoes, i've already prepped my white shirt, black trousers, black clip on tie, i have my papers (credentials) in order... tomorrow i'll be at the London Stadium overlooking West Ham take on Leeds United in the FA cup... like always, i'll be more interested in the crowd... spotting a pretty girl among the "yobs"... because i truly care about football when it's on the t.v.: in real life... i once stood with three cans of beer and watched a non-league / non-professional match compromising of enthusiasts in a park, at a distance... i couldn't see much... i still don't see much difference... unless it's on the t.v.: the stadium doesnt really "frighten" me... but this one time in the park, i sort of looked the Michael Myers part... headphones in... one young woman was trying to... communicate to this older woman: also walking her dog... about confronting me... i think i "said": gaze... i looked at them... the younger woman was trying to tell the older woman about confronting me... the older woman told the younger woman: YOU, HAVE, NOTHING, TO TALK ABOUT, WITH THIS, MAN! i was drinking a beer, standing... a decent distance from the football match: but i also remember that... that 1995 Charity Shield game at the Old Wembley between Manchester United & Newcastle: ants kicking a grain of sand... obviously i didn't understand why i might pretend to be a *****... my new favorite word... *****... alias for paedohpile... if i don't look menacing and some woman can "think" she stands a chance against me: merely posturing... then we have issues... oh **** me... transcribing... that's worse than plagiarism.... i once did the most pristine plagiarism job on some... social-science course up in Edinburgh... i was having to make up credit scores, being the romantic idiot... losing my virginity to Isabella of Grenoble... oh, get a French girlfriend, take up French... i hate the language... they write what they don't speak: phonetically... which is sort of in line with my prior ambition for the plunge - to transcribe some Kierkegaard, but also translate some SZYMON STAROWOLSKI observations... circa... 1650... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth... sorry.. it's not going to happen... i've done enough transcribing enough *******'s worth of: this punctuation needs to... "go"... to better understand myself... through this iron maiden of: someone else wrote: what someone else wrote... i'll leave ol' SIMON for another take... given... transcribing is a labour... writing, freely... idiosyncratically: appealing to my, appeal...  how, why, when... oh i can deal with that, these days... it's not even concerning what sort of thesaurus peacocking exfoliation is being used / abused by the writer... i'm... more allured... by... punctuation... since i don't bother to rhyme, since i find all lyricism a tad bit... crass... what else is there? the measure of: how to stop... how to begin... how to "objectify" the conjunction-intermediacy of... punctuation... no manner of human speech can be / could be encapsulated by comparing it to a river... point being... i'd rather write as freely as i can, about the most mundane events in my own life: prop up my subjectivity than... somehow... "somehow"... succumb to some sensible objective reality... objectivity does not give me a drive... it does not equip me with a manly persevence... it's antithetical to what i understand as human nature simply because... ha ha... objectivity has been owned by the English... it's their lot of being sensible... like watching would-be journalists looking at what's currently happening in Kazakhstan... then trying to compare it to... the posturing: the civilian security of protests in Ham-Ham-H'America... and it's like... so what? the people are simply, expected to, take it?! the liberty's of the individual that believes himself to be outside the collective will... sure... well... sounds nice... unless of course... the hive really does come after you... i'm all for individual liberties, after all... i own a private library that could put the public library where i live to shame... although... i'll give them a sly one: Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus... they owned it, i simply loaned it... fair enough... but i'd rather write about women... i was having my haircut done... closed my eyes... because... hell... the mirror and ****... with my eyes closed i was stroked by this blonde bombshell... we talked about owning dogs, about owning cats... Alsatians? oh, i really have a hard-on for them... i used to own a dobberman... prior to it being illegal to snip their ears and cut their tails... she was a cat that does that to her? like she looks to be self-harming? perhaps she should nickname him Freddy Krueger?! my maine ****? oh... it's rainy, he just sleeps in my bed... he usually sleeps with me.. what?! the bed's big enough for the both of us... i'd love to own a boxer... i'd love to own a rottweiler... i'd also love to own a Triumph bike...

one of my replies... you know, a liter of whiskey can go down well... i get double drunk from good conversation, i rarely encounter what i'd consider a good conversation... that's why... i much prefer to drink alone, of note... i had more fun pretending to talk to myself than expecting "talking" to be an anti-canvas with some, living, breathing: might have kidney failure, etc. punk or, sociopathic? here's the script:

see you now,, i'm just about to rewrite a Kierkegaard transcript.... i can't imagine it being much fun... the whole process is so unoriginal... but oh, oh so necessary... that i sort of don't want to live without it... bonus points... i''ve drank enough to make it... bearable... trans-scripting....i danced a little in my bedroom, donned my cat with a pair of sunglasses.... thank god i'm not kind of a sort of H'american version of a... "winner"... so much of life can be tolerated when it's not being competed for!...

i've just filled out an induction form for the West Ham stadium, played niceties with my supervisor, sent her an emoticon, LOLz back... i'm pumped up, ready to smack a few teenage boys into shape, what, could possibly go wrong? speaking below the depth of breath / audibility, watching the birds... i want, i want to give them a second, a third, a fourth... chance... let me give these people a chance... i know their failures... but... the possibility of being loved by one of them, whether man, or woman, whether pseudo-woman... i'll go as far as to say... i wouldn't mind a "Thai surprise"... i know they're capable of it... give me this already acquired heart of stone... and i'll show you... that they'll bleed rivers of honesty... just a little while... that is all i ask...

this is all, of course, before the plunge begins...
wait...l of course there's more, there have to be constellations
involved!

it was originally titled: Private Library Allure...
now, i'm "thinking": two ripe mangoes...
a mango curry or a mango chutney,
or perhaps, both?!

i have this one particular constellation in mind, that's visible to the naked eye, don't worry about - wait... let me take a second look:

•
                  •


                    •
      •



           •

•
    

            •          (circa)... the big wheel...
the grizzly she... in terms of gods & men...
there's an replica: much smaller...
so i guess this is the microscope: since it is enlarged
while the identical constellation
is a telescope...
       no matter... i'm thinking of this constellation

                                 •
                          
                          •
      
                   •
                       •
                    

                          •
                             •
                                •



              •
          ­                                            •

the scorpion constellation, it only appeared once
(to my knowledge) in pop culture,
in Dreamworks' the Prince of Egypt...

now wouldn't that be a waste... me simply drinking,
not allowing alcohol to be the extra calorie intake
that might require me to scribble...
waste of a good whiskey: should i simply drink it
and not focus on scribbling...

point being, i'm about to undertake something
i'm not very keen on, to prove a point,
i'm about to transcript two of the most profound pieces
of writing that recently caught my attention...

not to mention i'm reserving bragging rights...
my private library is... richer...
than the public library of the town of Romford...
i might be an alcoholic,
but i'm also a bibliophile...
there's nothing more precious thank a book...
perhaps a tonne of bricks...

why did i decide to cycle in these temperatures...
****'s sake... i'm old school,
i don't "trust" wi-fi cordless earphones...
the temperature dipped so low that
now the wires are performing at sub-optimal standards...
sort of hushed...
mind you... i love the cold of the January nights...
******* get such a hard-on for the wind
that they almost feel like they've been pierced...

none of the following will be original content,
but i just have to transcript it...
maybe a whiskey refill... a cigarette...
i need to get into the groove of typing up
someone else's work...
oh ****, there are two of them...
well... at least one of them i will not have to translate...
however: do i want to include the original...
all those diacritical markers (ctrl + c / ctrl + p)
will be rather fiddly... do i have the time?

- oh, right... i'm here... the above was...
"somewhere" / "sometime" else...
a sort of... quantum-dasein...
past-participle... black hole... blah blah...
i'm still gearing up for the transcript
of Kierkegaard...
the translation of that ****** equivalent
of the Czech: YAN HUß

-------------------------------------- (pending line)

the pending line is not moving... i've already
written a pre-scriptum a day "late"...
i think i'll manage the Kierkegaard...
but none of the ****** "crap": since...
i'm not about to translate...

once more, please refer to the essential Kierkegaard...
edited by howard. v. hong...
& edna h. hong...
            hong? i too have a terrible surname...
a bit like ******, or Stalin...
people see Elert... they immediately prompt me
with: so... you're AH-LERT?!
i never hit them back with with...
you sort of missed this zeppelin...
it's etymologically german...
in earnest... it's missing: SCH...
that's... ESCHLERT...
          but i have no trouble with people
who like... low hanging fruit...
pedestrian interactions...
         a peasant among among peasants...
a peasant who can discriminate against
peasants...
my given surname at birth was no much better...
fellow countrymen...
oh... i remember it... this one time...
tricked me...
open your mouth...
so i opened my mouth...
then quickly closed it...
i was spat at... a fellow countryman spat
in my face...
although he was aiming at my mouth...
i hold... not allegiance to the English...
1997... why was i deported?
for being an economical migrant?!
oh... the world is now, somehow, ******* welcome?!
i hold not allegiance to the English:
to the tongue: all...
but i also hold not allegiance to my inherent
****** reference... i'd rather just call it
a "reference"...

i abhor both parties... one for sort of telling me to
******* because:
they're now the church-going party of people
and my grandfather was conflated with being
a communist party member:
sure... since... socialism in a soviet
satellite was very much the same sort of shin-dig
as it was in RaSHa... ROSIYA...
*******... wanking me off a little...
**** Poland... **** England...
both can sink... to... whatever they deem
to be acceptable by their standards of...
oh... in England... peer Lord Ahmed... *****...
Rotherham... fun times!
i don't even want to know anything about
Poland.... my ethnic class by birth...
i'd rather ******* and create trans-ethnic mongrel
gremlins with a a girl from Kenya...
in Kenya...
yeah... me... in Kenya... creating a pseudo-Brazillian
republic of... copper-skinned polymaths &
multilingual freaks!
sign me up!
                  
i really didn't expect to mind much of me...
it's nice that... they read so little nd watch so much regurgitation
of a t.v...

like i once pointed out: objectivity is...
overrated... hell... it's more than that...
by now it has been hijacked by fake-news and
anti-science pseudo-narratives...

which tells you a lot about a people who
seemingly tolerate Muslims...
tolerating Muslims that don't tolerate Sufism...
i'm good with the Turkish barbers...
anything else... you better ask a Hindu...
how do Hindus "tolerate" Islam... if, at all?

these are not my words... they are a verbatim
transcript that most public libraries will not own,
but i own... ergo...

the subjective existing thinker is aware of the dialectic of communication. whereas objective thinking is indifferent to the thinking subject and his existence, the subjective thinker as existing is essentially interested in his own thinking, is existing in it.

(insert: my own questioning furthered from the genesis of this 19th century Danish thinker... point aside... i am... the queen's subject... i am not, the queen's object... the queen is not forcing me to be subjectively objectionable to... say... building a new wing for Windsor Castle... i can't be, regarded as the queen's object... constitutional monarchy doesn't work through the expedience of extension... i am the queen's subject, i am not her object... i am subjected to the queen... the monarch... but i'm not... "objected"? i'm not objecting to the hierarchy she presupposes, predisposes with... it's almost a "paradox"... but as a subject... in the most immediacy... as a subject... i am not her object... i am not her servant! that some people, within her immediacy are her objects, by regal extension, her guards, her... ******* tea nannies... sure... but... i am beyond her claim for being objectified... i am "subjectified"... how? i can fester... concern for the monarch, i can adorn her with "dasein": care... but her regal extension dilutes itself... her regal power... the cut-off point... is... when she can no longer objectify me... i can be no more her ******* tea-*****-nanny... her soldier... hell... a police officer is not made a police officer by some royal decree.... a police officer is a subject of the regal authority... a soldier? an object of the regal authority... why? the soldier serves the crown... the police officer? serves the public: the subject of the subject(s)... not... like the solider: the object of the object... to be subjected to "something": is hardly demeaning when otherwise the supposed stance of being "demeaned" is to be: objectified... counter to any sort of "argument": to be objectified... is to be spared... the experience of being: subjected to... i.e. / e.g. to objectify a woman... is a synonymous expression for... not subjecting a woman to... what objectifying her in the first place might... entail... by objectifying a woman... you're at least not subjecting her to... the undercurrents of objectification per se...

even i am thinking to myself: this sounds stupid...
the fox is currently having an asthmatic fit of giggles
come 2:20am...
if i am objectifying a woman as a "thinking thing"...
then... i'll be less likely to subject her to: think...
if i am objectifying a woman as a hammer...
then... i'll be less likely to ask her to:
also bring some nails along...
that's the positive on the micro-scale...
because on the macro-scale?
i'd rather be the queen's subject than...
be her... well... the extension of the queen:
her object... her tea-*****-nanny...
her soldier... her... prime minister...
it's a ******* weird dynamic... but...
it's the most pristine that has ever existed... period...

constitutional monarchy ought to be
the envy of the world, for some of the bad apples...
it still i... it should never be undermined...
should it ever be... i'd call that... treason!
to the very fabric of reality!
and as someone who was diagnosed as schizophrenic?!
go figure... but don't come cryuig to me...
make, sure...
you have some "ice-cream" **** readily available
to sa e you, some Rotherham **** heart-throb...
why oh why... having lived n these Isles...
for as long as i have...
the would me mothers of my would be children...
i'm not even going to beg to, ask...
low i.q. breeds low i.q.:
naive... people(s)...
           genius is an aberration...
it's a  mutation...better stuid and reproductive...
work along: plenty for the ants..
*******, ants...
and once they age?
darts?! football matches?

i can't blame them!
i have yet to cite them proper...
although: thank god the filter
of having to invest in having to read...
in people actually reading

therefore, his thinking has another kind of reflection, specifically, that of inwardness, of possession, whereby it belongs to the subject and to no one else. whereas objective thinking invests everything in the result and assists all humankind  to cheat by copying and reeling off the results and answers, subjective thinking invests everything in the process of becoming and omits the result, partly because this belongs to him, since he possesses the way, partly because he as existing is continually in the process of becoming, as is every human being who has not permitted himself to be tricked into becoming objective, into inhumanly becoming speculative thought.

the reflection of inwardness is the subjective thinker's double-reflection. in thinking, he thinks the universal, but, as existing in this thinking, as acquiring this in his inwardness, he becomes more and more subjectively isolated.

the difference between subjective and objective thinking must also manifest itself in the form of communication ˣ. this means that the subjective thinker must promptly become aware that the form of communication must artistically possess just as much reflection as he himself, existing in his thinking, possesses. artistically, please note, for the secret does not consist in his enunciating the double-reflection directly, since such an enunciation is a direct contradiction.

ordinary communication between one human being and another is entirely immediate, because people ordinarily exist in immediacy. when one person sttes something and another acknowledges the same thing verbatim, they are assumed to be in agreement and to have understood each other. yet because the one making the statement is unware of the duplexity (dobbelthed) of thought-existence, he is also unable to be aware of the double-reflection of communication. therefore, he has no intimation that this kind of agreement can be the greatest misunderstanding and naturally has no intimation that, just as the subjective existing thinker has set himself free by the duplexity, so the secret of communication specifically hinges on setting the other free, and for that very reason he must not communicate himself directly; indeed, it is even irreligious to do so. this latter applies in proportion to the essentiality of the subjective and consequently applies first and foremost within the religious domain, that is, if the communicator is not god himself or does not presume to appeal to the miraculous authority of an apostle but is just a human being and also cares to have meaning in what he says and what he does.

objective thinking is completely indifferent to subjectivity and thereby to inwardness and appropriation; its communication is therefore direct. it is obvious that it does not therefore have to be easy. but it is direct, it does not have the illusiveness and the art of double-reflection. it does not have that god-fearing and humane soliciude of subjective thinking in communicating itself; it can be understood directly; it can be reeled off. objective thinking is therefore aware only of itself and is therefore no communication, at least no artistic communication, inasmuch as it would always be required to think of the receiver and to pay attention to the form of communication in relation to the receiver's misunderstanding. objective thinking is, like most people, so fervently kind and communicative; it communicates right away and at most resorts to assurances about its truth, to recommendations and promises about how all people someday will accept this truth - so sure is it. or perhaps rather so unsure, because the assurances are recommendations are the promises, which are indeed for the sake of those others who are supposed to accept this truth, might also be for the sake of the teacher, who needs the security and dependability of a majority vote. if his contemporaries deny him this, he will draw on posterity - so sure is he. this security has something in common with the independence that, independent of the world, needs the world as witness to one's independenceso as to be certain of being independent.

ˣ double-reflection is already implicit in the ideas of communication itself: that the subjective individual (why by inwardness wants to express the life of the eternal, in which all sociality and all companionship are inconceivable because the existence-category, movement, is inconceivable here, and hence essential communication is also inconceivable because everyone must be assumed to possess everything essentially), existing in the isolation of inwardness, wants to communicate himself, consequently that he simultaneously wants to keep his thinking in the inwardness of his subjective existence and yet wants to communicate himself. it is not possible (except for thoughtlessness, for which ll things are indeed possible) for this contradiction to become manifest in a direct form. - it is not so difficult, however, to understand that a subject existing in this way may want to communicate himself. a person in love, for instance, to whom his ****** love is his very inwardness, may well want to communicate himself, but not directly, just because the inwardness of ****** love is the main thing for him. essentially occupied with continually acquiring the inwardness of ****** love, he has no result and is never finished, but he may nevertheless want to communicate; yet for that very reason he can never use a direct form, since that presupposes results and completion. so it is also in a god-relationship. just because he himself is continually in the process of becoming in an inward direction, that is, in inwardness, he can never communicate himself directly, since the movement is here the very opposite. direct communication requires certainty, but certainty is impossible for a person in the process of becoming, and it is indeed a deception. thus, to employ an ****** relationship, if a maiden in love yearns for the wedding day because this would give her assured certainty, if she wanted to make herself comfortable in legal security as a spouse, if she preferred marital yawning to maidenly yearning, then the man would rightfully deplore her unfaithfulness, although she indeed did not love anyone else, because she would have lost the idea and actually did not love him. and this, after all, is the essential unfaithfulness in an ****** relationship, the incidental unfaithfulness is to love someone else.

as a side-note... these impossible, to my mind:
imaginary "problems"...
say, for example...
the racist... the non-racist... and the... anti-racist...
do i use racial slurs, sure, but i always tend
to "translate" them to by implicitly urban scenario
tokens... i'm a "******" if i don't get on time,
i'm supposed to work for free...
i think of racism along the lines...
well... you, know... that Pakistani grooming
gang in Rotherham...
it doesn't affect me personally,
i'm a bachelor, i don't have a daughter...
but... even on my level, since i'm so far away
from the issue... i start to get affected...
**** is the lowest of the low...
i once ****** a *******... all giggly and drunk
at first... but then... she started crying during *******...
a burn-out moment on her behalf...
i had to stop... o.k. you're selling yourself... willingly...
but... i'm not going to... whatever...
if she might have claimed p.t.s.d.
i could also claim the same...

*** is ugly... just before perching myself on the windowsill
once the night arrived...
i heard a voice in the darkness... thanking me...
at the end of my garden... i wasn't exactly listening:
i never listen... but these words of: thank you
sort of penetrated me...
where is the supposed "Ummah"
when it comes to the Uyghurs?!
the fond fellows of Arabia... would rather send
their suicide virgins to the western land
with prospect of conquest, with prospect of seeking
our proselytes... than...
keep their Ummah intact... do the Arabs really think
that their Chinese believers are...
worth so little to them?
           where are the attacks on China?!
eh... Pakistani uncle said grandma
then decided to **** some cousin...
  sorry... low... hanging... fruit...
   i need a drink...
                            
        i can understand racism... esp. given the attempt
at a multicultural society...
i rather think of myself as a non-racist...
****** a black girl, ****** a Thai girl...
****** an Indian girl...
but... this... white, female, anti-racism stance?
i don't get it... daddy issues?
they must be daddy issues... parental issues...
you have to purposively make yourself anti-racist...
affirmative action buzzwords...
you can never be: the highest pinnacle of negation:
not-racist... you have to be actively: anti-racist...
you can never be passively: non-racist...
you have to... do... "x, y & z"...

these words shouldn't even see the light of day...
so much *******...
all of it... crass...
as much as the Brazil-Project of interracial
new-Arab interbreeding sounds great...
newly tanned "Spaniards"... "Arabs"...
"Indians"... if you've ever visited Kenya...
i remember being approached by these three gorgeous
Kenyan girls working the pandering circuit...
black skin glistening in the moonlight...
as if someone rubbed them with butter...
plump... one of the local Kenyan boys asked whether
i'd like to visit a local bar... i declined...
i forgot myself... took to the hammock...
slept the whole night in the open...
some ****** stole my cognac while i was asleep...
me? we best interact...
but... interracial breeding sort of disrespects...
the seeming aeons of... what allowed black people
to be black... what allowed white people to be
white...
it's no good, like... black girls are not angry
when the white girls are giving up so much ***
to their male counterparts?

if i'm supposed to "think" about race... sure... i'll give
it a short shot... because i'm expected...
i have a furry river and.. by now:
i'm more res vanus than res cogitans...
i don't think i need to think on the basis of
narration... i'll just be reactionary...
not because it's easier... it just seems rather...
necessary...

anti-racist: tropes! they are just that... people try
so hard to not-be... X... that they almost forget that...
they are X... because they are compensating for
the environment they were brought up in...
daddy's sins... mother's opinions...
by now a racist is better suited for conversation
than an anti-racist... who the ****** bleached "us"?
it's like: i can't the difference between people...
like... Somalis don't look more ancient than the rest
of the Africans?! maybe i should find more Ethiopians...

i sometimes think of "existing" in a way that...
elevates the posit of: exiting...
sure... cogito, ergo... blah blah...
but that's not enough... to exist is also readying
yourself to exit... existing is a pseudo-continuum
of rented... time, body... in order to...
make the banal finalities of / for an exit...

i find looking at my library that reaches the ceiling
more entertaining that watching television,
to be honest i prefer watching inanimate things
more than those caught up in animation,
my memory becomes the film's director,
and my imagination the producer,
while many personae come on stage with my thought.*

woke up lazy, usual me, unusual me
when i think about it,
going to a catholic school we had to adorn
catholic school uniform,
blazer, tie, polished shoes, trousers,
white shirt...
i liked it back then: i have one specific sunrise
in winter to remember, having just
discovered jethro tull's aqualung album
when the mojo music magazine was still
in print and they listed the top 50 prog rock albums,
obviously the no. 1 spot was reserved for
pink floyd's dark side of the moon,
don't know why king crimson didn't win,
i guess the complexity of the matter didn't have the appeal,
but it was good, wearing school uniform,
having two / three days of your own clothes days
once you coughed up a quid or two for charity,
the point being... you can't tell rich from poor
if there's a specified attire... plus there's less clingy
exceptions to be made, less imagination involved,
less care for having to pick your next attire the previous
day to impress someone, less discrimination altogether,
as those non-uniform days proved:
a maths teacher said i looked like a lumberjack once,
mr. crickmore, ex-trader on the f.t.s.e. floor,
turned maths teacher, supporter of manchester city,
so i was wearing a three coloured chequered shirt
(blue, red and white), jeans (obviously blue)
and red converse... lumberjack he said... fair enough,
but the dim truth of it all is that reality is dull
off the catwalk, less creativity of cloth, it's more about
comfort, as i found when i decided to do a fox fur trick:
become like those inanimate things just a little,
be more peculiar and attentive when something changes,
starting from the digit 1, and then expanding into
a sequence we call phenomena - so i liked wearing
school uniform, i was, after all, enlisted into an army of
jesuit youth... although i rebelled having read a book
about heresy (mainly the gnostics) and didn't want to be
confirmed, and wasn't; but there's less discriminatory
behaviour if everyone wears the same all year round
and there's no peacock days involved -
and subsequently the days of my prime schooling
are remembered with less regret, and less adults
exploiting a semi-fact of how **** it was and moaning
and moaning about it just in order to sell it to gullible youth.
but today?
woke up, lazy as hell, the c.d. i put on to fall asleep to
was obviously finished, turned the radio on,
classic f.m., had to hear something breezy and airy
without larynx that the violins are, not to mention
the woodwinds, and the news, had to hear that,
the toilet was too far away (not really),
two bottles of coca cola, one almost empty,
urinated into it, ******* the cap, fell back to bed,
lay there for about half an hour, news came, heard it,
got up... made cinnamon coffee smoked a few in between
my "tuberculosis" coughs (it's minus 4 degrees in the nights,
i drink a few bottle of beer on the trot, hence the coughing),
had about 3/4 of a bottle of whiskey left,
went back and turned on a few compact disks (
i know, i was born too late to collect black vinyl 12", oh well,
80s silver craze), poured 1/4 of the whiskey over ice,
and instead of pouring the other coca cola's bottle content,
i didn't realise i was pouring something in
that, upon opening didn't fizz... AH ****!
yep, mixed 1/4 of whiskey with my own ****...
had to pour it away... but what a waste!
after that it was all downhill... made a tikka masala curry,
adding sweet mango chutney to a list of ingredients
too long to remember...
and upon my usual walk for ***** a strange thing
happened in the supermarket...
a gorgeous late 40s woman cashier inquired about my hands,
the longbow man's V to the french bandaged,
and whether my hands were cold... something
about buying muttons...
you see, i once wrote that the most ****** part of a woman's
body are her hands... ... ...
she was ****** flirting with me!
in my head a few minutes after it sounded like:
put your cold cold hands onto the warmest parts of my body...
as i said also, once: when a woman becomes erotically
pulverised the temp. in her mouth drops,
and the temp. in her... ahem... increases; juices flowing.

A lifetime in the building industry
and with hands as hard as ebony
dad took hold of me
and we walked upstream
to catch our tea.
Fish we caught a plenty
quite illegally
but such a lovely tea they made.
and mum made tomato chutney for salads
a ballad of our days
plays out frequently
in a memory
by the river.

Now it's gone into a more modern time
no weirs to walk across
no islands where we swam too
just a rushing torrent
tormenting me
a misery for all to see
and we used to have such good fun there.

Dad's gone too sometime back in eighty two
and the river stays
plays again
rewinding
binding me to the past.
Nothing lasts for long except those snapshots
of have and haven't gots
and I had lots of both.

In the city of Mumbai
When you want food and now
You reach out to grab
The glorious vada pao

A round golden ball
Filled of potatoes n spice
You have one and you are reminded
Of all things good & nice

The great Equalizer
Liked by all, big or small
Have it with chutney or chili
Whether you live in a bunglow or a chawl

Dip it in sambar
or stuff it in a pao
Have it any way
You will only say "wow"

I had one today
I ate it with glee
I have realised like all mumbaikars
The vada pao is meant for me!

We blew out the Sun and went on our way home, in your eyes I saw death, but in mine you saw none,
left alone now.

The window was opened and fresh air,
fresh where it used to be
came flooding in to cover me with the scent of the pine tree,
the chutney of corn,
that was the day that death looked,
I was born.

Three score years on and that long ago and still I know little about nothing I know.

Time still stands with the latch on the gate,
as to when it will close
I will wait
and see.

We blow out the Sun again and the bright lights of memory lane come flooding in to cover me and still in the time,
still working the line,
I breathe easily.

We need more patience
Excitement
An array of food eludes
Prelude to a kiss
At his glance
Strawberry of love
essence

Earthly food cleanser
rinse
Better planning
The host appetizers
Little bites big mouths
Love commanding
Kiss worth
Still crying at birth
Food date
masquerading__

So much posting
postprandial
She is cordial
somnolence.

Your best foods in
France

Love and marriage petit four

The finest ingredients
La pour

Marriage to be obedient

"Patience is a Virtue"

Like a Professor of food,
it's so deliciously

She's the artist melts
and blends
artsy fruity deviant

"Painting the Marriage"
what colors
would you use?

Everything alive
The fruit stays fresh
Changes after awhile
Like your marble tile
The fruit that once was
Big teeth smile
Now got slightly
bruised
and you threw it

Kinda shabby chic used
A love sometimes
not to digest
So spoiled like a pest

A + love so valent.

Like a science within us,
food so good
is desirable
Woodsy Robin Hood

Rich man poor man
Marriages hit the fan
But food talent.
So Lucent
With delicate style
of patience
Our Galley Kitchen Spices

He's like the tycoon of
the magnet

Your eyes sleepy
"Racoon"

Like a magnification of love

He's the Baron with the
richest herd

of sheep's

Your digestion tryptophan

Roses all over the quilts
"I love you"

Being a sweet potato
your marriage

Gold ticket of casserole's
winner lotto

Food significant
deep thought

like the movie role
you're finished

Science the anatomy
perished

The apples of
cider spiced
chilled

More advice
"Applique"
how it's written

is it true?
Or mystique with
magnification

Hot food steams
like a furnace,
different

flavors of taste
The smells come
Strong with intensity

What marriages like
demolition of guilty
breakdown
Breakdown of food less fat
and the right calories

Art shows vibrant galleries
She is cooking up a storm
In her Galley
There she is racing
Mrs.Mustang Sally
Accountant of food
Mr. Tally or Dr. Love
Dr. Who competition
Who knew

Antique art Risque
So divine
things hold low down

He's looking up traffic
moves with shapes
Graphic
The pears divine
Apple pink lady tree
It groves like a
Honeybee how it
(Stings) with mystery
The history of historical cars
Bentleys don't break
my Brooklyn bridges
Variety page of
food mixed
with
Clarrisa & Chutney

But the stars just stay so
Movie Robert Downey
"City of Soho"
**-Oh! No

Marriages come and Divorce's
that once were

Those frequent traveler
to "Rome"
once bare he sees me
there

You breathe out to take another
breath help me

Who is out there to listen

We need to light up
Eiffel Tower to glisten

All you see are new
births to
have and to hold

Everything feels out
of touch but the food is hot

But it's like the time of
depression shot

You keep shredding
more tears still

eating jolly the fine bites
of "Holly"
Jolly Mustang Sally
Parrot Miss Polly
Marriages of food diary
Zen of Topiary
Love to be kissed
with food for thought
Nothing more than love
Cook workout to be sought

Those abdominal crunches
no belly

Apple sparling Sipp
Organic

More marriages built
with love gigantic
Ships for lovers
Titanic

Love became an
assignment

Your quite the product
so regimented

An exotic smell
women's scent
The sense of
Realism present
The soul our heart
Prism
Another soul takes over
Food of empowerment
to address in the kingdom
Wat too much food wasted
And the war goes on with
terrorism
Our futurism
More food and strength
to build this world
Again at birth

Radiating and sparkling food will always be
Energy ;ike no other striking

Filled with preserves
of sweet demure
blended or singular
varieties assured
Jam's, chutney's, jelly's
and beans.  Soups,
veggies, fruits and things.
Heated with pressure
and sealed with a twist
Root cellared for seasons
enjoyed like a sweet kiss.
OLD MASON JAR
picked high from the shelf
spreading goodness to all
with some benefits of health.

i like liberal comedy, don't get me wrong,
it's funnier which,
whatever is deemed comic in
the libertarian community...
but i wonder...
           how much of liberal comedy,
would be deemed comedy...
without the over-arching presence of...
canned laughter?
no... the shtick still gets me,
the diarrhoea gimmick...
akin to dumb & dumber
or american pie?
get me all the time...
                the new voice of rekindling
slapstick classic humor...
taking a ****...
        maybe i'm just too infantile
in my comedy palette...
maybe the whole, elaboration
technique surrounding,
what used to be English satire
and became...
English ridicule is boring,
it's boorish...
it's... English satire: yes...
English ridicule? a crass *******'s
worth of a shave baboon...
the English can't do ridicule:
they do rhetoric...
    you can't tell jokes
that way...
  you look like...
a ******* amputee
about to embark on
painting a Rembrandt in
the amputee Olympics
                of associated painters of
the Louvre...
thank god i'm not English...
not even remotely...
identity politics, what?!
i already said... Paul-with-a-lack...
a Paul-without-a-flagpole...
******...
           wait...
do i look like a ******* meringue?
i abhor the sort of "funny"
where the, "funny" implies
i have to "think" about the joke...
just give me the ventriloquism
and the body language...
   intelligence has no place
in serving up humor...
if it was necessary...
i'd ask for
                    a...butter chicken curry...
with coriander and mint
chutney...
        so what makes liberal
comedy, so, "funny"?
you sure you're not being duped
by the canned laughter prompt?
i've seen how a television show is made...
the crowd are giving placard prompts...
when and when not to react...
what with and how not to react...
mostly the placards read:
BOO       and            APPLAUSE / CHEER...
all very much Stepford Wives type
of *******,
and we're only talking Channel 5,
Big Brother coverage...
   so... liberal humor...
base? canned laughter...
i hate canned laughter...
    it's not that i'm too either laugh
or not to laugh...
but canned laughter disorientates
the whole purpose of humor...
was i supposed to be laughing
when the canned laughter button
was pressed?!
well... the humor isn't as obvious,
isn't not slapstick humor,
it's... intelligent humor,
it's pure, unadulterated witticism...
it's not the classic spin
off of an actor : con-contra schadenfreude...
now comedy has found
a, "new" intelligence...
       now comedy can't be funny ha ha,
i.e. funny per se...
it needs to be... "intelligent"...
witty... rhapsodic...
sophisticated in rhetoric...
     now blue, nothing out of the blue...
that **** is just out-dated...
      what was once a slapstick...
base of humor...
is only funny in a boxing match
with a knock-out...
    the more intelligent
comedy became,
            the less profound a tragedy
incubated the equilibrium...
  a tragedy of of "hurt emotions"?
but no trauma akin to Macbeth?
no grandiose verbiage?!
this? this is it? the 'i'm offended' line?
no wonder comedy it trying
to become more intelligent.

Life too a sharp turn
Causing our jungle of dreams to burn
We made so many plans
To witness, in our class,  live Clash of clans
Zoomed in on gossips and zoomed out for a tour of building we have been seeing for last 14 years
Soon the time will come to bid adieu with eyes full of tears
One hundredth piece of chocolate gave us unworldly pleasures
Oh-those-sweet reminisce are etched in our hearts as priceless treasures
Gobbling a pav bhaji filled tiffin with one fourth of each one's share is now a distant memory
Pulling out all stops to get one pattis and samosa was our definition of bravery
Aamchaska and chatarmatar had power to drive out our blues
Trend of lollipops became a strict no-no on the list of don'ts and do's
Bhelpuri, ice cream,  chanajor garam or chuski
All the uncles had different fan base
Our sweet request for extra chutney or cola ice stick
How they fulfilled them all always left us amazed
Morning gossip monger
Isn't a reality any longer
Decorating the black board with fresh pieces of chalks
That mirth was,  Jesus knows what
Fighting over duster with other classes
This year we missed out on all those chances
We made noise,  were shut by teachers
What's app group chats are silent, all thanks to some invisible creatures
" Learn rules like a pro, break them like an artist "
Our 'action plan' was more of a drawing made by caricaturist
Morning assemblies were a snoozefest
Afternoon next-day holiday announcements filled us with new zest
Board decorations or teacher's day preparation
Everyone's train ran on different tracks never arrived at single station
Christmas celebrations or children's day fetes
We oozed oomph in our new dresses
Out of nowhere,  we could see our dreams of living last year of school waver
Every night we sleep with what-the-hell-is-this-wetness tear
Never expected that Guy upstairs to be a scrooge
He snatched our happiness making us his offset stooge
"No still lakes but life demands waterfalls "
Our school journey is a perfect example of it
It is hear , mercurial highs and abysmal lows, did we hit
Myriad of emotions gushing through while I write
It's a miracle how black boards made our lives bright
This school was like our nest
Where little babies were nurtured with the best
Soon we will fly out like free birds up in the sky
No farewells for us please,  we will never say our school a goodbye 😘

We could have a kind of farm,
I suggest,
With a little shop attached,
We could make jam and lemon curd,
Maybe chutney or,
Other things in little packaged jars,
I could bake things,
You could sell paintings there too,
We would only grow vegetables,
And fruit,
We would cook things with love,
Labour the earth with love,
Live together in love,
I feel sure that I could work the soil,
I have always felt an uncertain hard need in my bones,
To give something back to Mother Nature,
And I grew up in the country,
So I feel sure I would acclimatise,
But it is only a fantasy,
A sort of a story,
Even though it does sound nice either way.

Jam. Pickle. Poison.
Relish. Garnish. Poison.
Chutney. Flourish. Poison.
Poison. Poison. Poison.