What I learned in life is,
That no matter how good a person is,
sometimes they can hurt you & because of this we must forgive.
It takes years to build trust and only seconds to destroy it ..
We don’t have to change friends if we understand that friends change..
The circumstances and the environment influence on our lives,
but we are the one who responsible for ourselves..
That you have to control your acts or they will control you..
That patience requires much practice.. that there are people who love us,
but simply don’t know how to show it..
That sometimes the person you think will hurt you and make you fall..
Is instead one of the few who will help you to get up..
You should never tell a child that dreams are fake, it would be a tragedy if they knew..
It’s not always enough to be forgiven by someone,
in most cases you have to forgive yourself first..
That no matter in how many pieces your heart is broken, the world doesn’t stop to fix it ..
May be God wants us to meet all the wrong people first before meeting the right one..
So when we finally meet the right one we are grateful for that gift ..
When the door of happiness closes, another door opens..
but often we look so long at the closed one.. we don’t see what was open for us ..
The best kind of a friend is the kind in which you can sit on a porch and walk…
Without saying a word & when you leave it feels it was the best conversation you ever had.
It’s true we don’t know what we have until we find it, but its also true,
we don’t know what we’ve been missing until it arrives..
It only takes a minute to offend someone, an hour to like someone,
a day to love someone, but it takes a life time to forget someone.
Don’t look for appearances, they can be deceiving, don’t go for wealth even that can fade,
Find someone who makes you smile, because it only takes a smile to make a day better,
find what makes your heart smile..
There are moments in life when you miss someone so much..
that you wish you can take them out of your dream and hug them for real..
Dream what you want, go wherever you want to go.. because you have only one life..
and one change to do the things you want to do ..
The happiest people don’t necessarily have the best of everything,
they just make the best of everything that comes their way.
The best future is based on the forgotten past..
You can’t go on well in life until you let go of your past failures and heartaches.

Uma casca solta, prisioneira de uma falha perfeita,
Perfeitos são o mitos, aos olhos de gente fechada,
Explicações são fraquezas, de acções de fachada.
Não sei mais quantas vezes eu repetirei, a ceita!

O peixe escorregadio, que vadio desaguou do mar,
Se esconde na toca do Coelho, que é toca desafeita,
Num segredo moribundo, de computador de aldeães,
Segundo um mito motar de um braço partido ao luar!

Essa vaquinha que pastou, pintada de vermelho corado,
Desfeita tantas vezes no pasto, moribundo da praia vazia,
Era apenas um segredo, pintado nas veias do tal marado,
Que mais ligada que a mentira à realidade, produzida, diria!

Que se fodam os mitos, que se lixe o correto, porque certo?
Estou eu, e eu, segundo os mitos que considero correctos,
Não tiro nem ponho, continuo caminho fora, boquiaberto,
Enquanto penso, na esperteza dos enxames concretos!

Na sementeira alheia, vanguardeira cairá tão perto,
Seu ***** espaço de terra, de um vazio moribundo,
E eu cumprida a missão, estarei bem melhor decerto,
Porque tudo como nada, tem um preço de vinda ao mundo!

Escolhas guardadas comigo, desde o dia que nasci,
Cabe ao meu cérebro processar o dia, é costume,
Que de tão leve vive meu lume, que ela não teme,
Limpeza de água, que cai e faz fumo, e aprendeu!
Autor: António Benigno

Código de autor: 2013.07.25.02.10

i keep looking at people become serious diarists, like Paulo Coelho writing the alchemist, which can be an odd experience... i've got ants in my pants and i'm a dog's bone away from playing dead, sitting in mantra of: load off visiting Singapore and never getting the hangover joke of Bangkok... sinus gaping pore? it's all ******* feathery anyway... flusters of rouge should fantasy come to life.

learn to cackle, thus said: invoke a magpie, to learn laugher -
ha ha (etc.), as can easily be turned into a cackle,
only magpies cackle and even funnier,
applicability of diacritical markings,
as if stealing letters of silver spoons...
Scōtlānd: meiné skoot,
overt
           lá                           -nd...
spacing for the macron -
          and hence the acute without spacing...
                          truth to the tooth
and elsewhere bone-shattering governing the rattle
of the ribs... a canary's song least that of worth
with a woad's pigmentation...
               or said ivory to turqouise...
azure, and vented in lavender...
           but the cackle came
with *Scōtlānd: learn the linguistic
arithmetic! the macron und umlaut
synonym... if applying it learn it,
if not applying it: learn Bulgarian,
Oristice the peacocking accents...
        turquoise though:
Eurydice... Orestes... synonym of acne...
so few do, in that the diacritical indication
is a higher-tier arithmetic...
            such that the less implied is
governed by the impeding peacock variation
that suggests Da, in all prevailing -isms,
                   as saying raw, to a Tartar
over a horse limb steak galloping toward Ukraine...
         but here we are: adorning tartan
of chequers and navy that mingles blue & purple...
                       and here we are abiding to
the Faroe Isle recluse...   spelled aisle    said
i'll...      and that i dare not wallow in it much further...
haggis neeps and tatties... wanking over
a cow's testicular dangly... truant to all truth...
        and all truth to the truant rodins....
  thus to laugh excessively is to cackle like a magpie,
   and hark a phlegmish soar with the raven...
                and end all tragedies without
a Hebraic definition of ha as
      the: direct article... for good manners suggest
that no clue be justified in cradling the sigma
of either the zenith of the Babylonian tower
or the spiral of condescending might twirling into
an imploding tornado over Egypt and all things
                  extravagantly Pythagorean...
  or as Balaam said: i rode a donkey out of Yerusalem:
sprechen yiddish.            
               three years among them...
  and i can say with much demand: Scōtlānd...
scootlaand...     if i ever learned to cleanse,
i also learned to adapt... a circumstance of thinking
myself adequately counter-inept to share
   the Baltic with Lapland skiers, as synonymous
and congregational in being translated into Ęglish
          for what already is: a truancy when cultural
criticism isn't enough... because the culture makes
one truant from engaging with it... because there
is no culture to be critical of...
                   a hermit foretold and with clasped hands
   gave alms, and later: with a slow clapping
          made hands orate what the tongue made shoelace-
                                                       ­         (op+. -spaghetti)       .

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!

just when the provincials spoke the common tongue and ensured the urbanites were demasked, and all courtesy went out the window, and there were no actors left to fake an air of superiority and a stiffening of the upper lip... when the urbanites became baptised in a river of dung, mud and fear - and couldn't play our a theatrical adaptation of pseudo Oscar Wilde's: Airs and Superstitions... the champagne bottle-neck was chopped off in the countryside, not in the prosthetic urban environment... and god that bothered them... they could no longer fake being ultra-pro-xeno when in fact wholly anti - even having ethnically cleansed the Caribbeans to speak their own racist tongue didn't help much.

eye on the prize, there she sat, in the shop-window,
a beauty, a mandolin -
with my student loan un-amused i bought her
working three nights a week for a month
in a nightclub carrying empty glasses from
the dance floor and toilets -
got her in the end, my dear Antoinette mandolin;
all i ever wanted was to play the end
of Rod Steward's Maggie May to a girl
from a revised scene of Romeo & Juliet -
played it, her amused but she can no longer be seen,
unless crisscrossing South America in some weird
Paulo Coelho novel alt. - thinking a pharaoh would
be hiding cremated in a top hat along
with Alice's first impressions of wonderland -
years later i bought a Martins' & Son guitar
on debit, my ex-girlfriend's father ****** it up,
and gave my mandolin up for free -
the nightclub where i earned her? ***** near
the Edinbrugh train station - being almost cornered and *****
and serving my fellow compatriots of study made me
leave - not before i earned the mandolin -
the shop? *Scayles Music - they have no
jealousy on me these days, and i'd frankly give
writing up for my former health, i don't care
what readership i get - i'll keep at it - they can
submit their little Kafkaesque interrogations making
me into a fool - sure, they can, but we all serve
the higher lord above the knee-bending baron of god -
death claims us all - for the life i've had
i find it strangely appreciative to have a chance to
write it, and all the more thankful to live a cameo life,
because i hardly think it's proper to write
a book after having climbed Mt. Everest... it's just bad
etiquette (lack of tact) - the lesser life demands literate affairs -
the grander lifer demands portraits on horseback
and in the finest attire -
but what i accomplished thoroughly was buying
a mandolin, playing Rod Stewart's Maggie May outro,
and that's that... for the love of Scotland,
among the inbreeding locals of English suburbia -
proven by a low haemoglobin count of passion-fuelled
pigmentation, passions reduced to xenophobia rather
than xenophilia.

Sister Rosetta Tharpe licks her wounds and oils her cords, a casual observation to start things off, to jump-start the mind with the cables that undoubtedly fuelled Ms. Tharpe's canon, or cannon if that works in context. Just something, anything, to jolt the good old stream-of-consciousness into action, for my mind to finally get the guts to 'inspect' that "empty" rathole where the guns of the 'enemy' are waiting in vain, my mind thinking (by itself) that if I wait long enough I can starve them out. But my mental adversaries are cunning and adept, able to go without food for days, weeks, months, eating moths, worms, rats, and slitting the snakes open to drain their juices. The snakes, the snakes, the snakes, my ultimate fear; the snake around my neck. Hung on the scaffold, standing ovation. Maybe I can burn them out..?

There we go, I writhed you loose, you ******.

I click a four-count in my silent mind, and I crawl in, like the good soldier I am, thinking all the time that I should have read Manual of the Warrior of Light by Paulo Coelho; without a doubt, judging by the title alone, it would have done me good. The last click of the four-count is the cocking of the hammer on my tool, be it a torch or a pistol; proxy war gunslinger, existential riot. Nothing to lose, and nothing to gain, ******* long nights in the hole, nothing to hope for once I escape, but another batch of darkness, and another painted face, asking "Are you okay?" ME answering in my male hangup "Why wouldn't I be?"

Now onto the metafiction cliché:
You can always escape, but you can never hide, like the cheddar cheese villain in just about every movie known. And never were it more true. Contemptuous nature can lie benign in the brain, prostate, or breast for a long time before it becomes malignant; and escape is always an option to prolong the inevitable. But I come from a people of brooders, an own ethnicity in its entirety devoted to judgement and yuppieism. There we go; another red-dot-underline to signify the royal introduction of another previously foreign '-ism.' Standing on the conveyor belt, side by side in a circle **** of prejudicial rhetoric: "Everyone are so unpleasant and gross," comic-book thought-bubbles in every direction, through every head, like malicious rays from the omnipotent sun of groundless hatred.

No sun for the land of the brooders.
No real sun.
But it will still fry your skin.
4th degree burns.

Return of a friend;
Return of a fiend.
Might be both, and it might be neither, but it doesn't matter, as all eyes are fixed on their feet, and the few inches of pavement in front to avoid any collision.

Close some doors today, not because of pride, incapacity, or arrogance, but simply because they lead nowhere - Paulo Coelho

Nowhere hurts more than nothing.

Beijou-me
e imediatamente senti seu gosto amargo
sob minha língua.
Tragava teus sentimentos
para um presente distante.
Não importava o ontem;
não importará amanhã.
Seu nome, seu número,
sua memória,
seu endereço virou canudo
e me levou pra outra toca.
A história, sempre a mesma:
Um curioso, um coelho,
Um papel, um chapeleiro,
Uma toca, o mundo inteiro.
Sentia meus pensamentos voarem;
de copo em copo, trago em trago, tiro em tiro,
mais e mais
pra aquele instante.
Por vinte minutos...
ou doze horas.
Não importa;
o doce sabor do seu néctar lisergia
não tocou os fios loiros da Aurora,
já não está aqui agora.

I once knew a guy. He worked 2nd shift at a factory. This ******* was always complaining about how much he hated his job. How can he not be grateful to have a job that pays $9.75 an hour?!
He would always say that he made $16.00 an hour when he was working construction, which he
Had been doing since he was 15 years old. Is he a ******* lunatic? If I were making $16.00 an hour, Id have a hell of a drinking problem, and a wife who I could look at while we ****. ****, this kid is a rotten liar.  That was his story until about 3 or 4 weeks later. Now he was a boxer. "Yeah, almonds are really high in protein, and protein helps build muscle back up after its broken down."
I cant believe these ******* ignorant people are actually believing this kid. In less than a month he went from a supposed construction worker, to a boxer. ******* Bob the builder to Rocky… If he was making $16.00 an hour, why would he take this job? I asked him this one day, and he said,  "My boss was just too much of an *******." What a line of ****. Like I said. I would give my left ******* nut to be making that wage. If he's serious, then I am currently speaking to the dumbest ******* I have EVER met.

"I'm a boxer now, don’t **** with me"
Do you think you’re a badass because you're wearing a shirt that says Stone Gym, with a pair of boxing gloves around it? Let me explain something you little punk….If you were EVER to try some of your little **** games around me, I would take a ******* crowbar to your neck without a second thought. Think about it….What would win? A crowbar? Or some ******* tattooed knuckled hands? Think about it.

5 weeks later….

Next thing I know he is coming into work with books. Charles Dickens, Henry D. Thoreau, Paulo Coelho, Kahlil Gibran, Plato….
What the ****….
So you're really working your way up the ladder. You go from construction, to boxing, to being a ******* scholar? Let me tell you something you little *******, these ignorant factory pigs might be buying all of your *******, but I'm not. Let me guess….You're going to be writing poetry in the next "phase" of your life….

There are no more secrets in this world.

Everybody knows everything about everybody.

Just today
13 people
from my social bubble were
LIVE on Facebook;
One of them was taking a ****
and reading Coelho while at it.

Everyone is LIVE now,
forgetting to be ALIVE for once in a while.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsbTKjzp-4A]

According to Paulo coelho without
solitude love will not stay long by your side,
because love needs to journey through
the heavens to reveal itself in other forms.

So baby when. I whisper solitude like an unforgiven question mark
Don't coil up in a ball of fury, with a mighty roar
But please understand. my love,needs rest.
My solitude is not the absence of your company
but the moment where my soul is free
Where my uncharted spirit is free to speak with it form
My love needs to journey
through many heavens to love you

Baby realize this
loving you is not easy
my wondering eyes pierce  through
many uncharted heavens contemplating
whether there is another angel up above for me

My solitude sets my mind free
My solitude sets my heart free
My Solitude reminds me that my love is an act of faith
and not merely an exchange of wants.

Baby realize this. It's so lonely when you don't know yourself
My solitude reminds me of not being afraid of my own shadow
my solitude reminds me of why I am enough
My solitude howls at me like a shadow in the dark reminding me
not to be afraid of the void .
Of the unknown
my solitude reminds me of why I said yes
my solitude is my only warm embrace to why
I spent countless nights dreaming  of you
So please remember this
embrace my solitude like a long lost love returning back to you
and take faith in this
even though I journey through countless Clouds into the heavens
I will always come back to you.
Free form from the atmosphere
Ready to love.

.  .  .
with the earth radiating from the light
and human existence out of sight,
your “personal legend” can be found
if motivation is pursued around.

preaching the search to encounter your soul,
coelho clarifies your spirit can be transformed whole.
the wanderlust embodies the mind and the heart
you are you and the truth cannot be forgot.

leave behind the past and hold on to the present for perhaps
worrying of the future time will sooner elapse.
power is wondrous and can amaze even you,
the strength you attain controls beyond what you knew.

this book has character speaking straight to within
eyes interpreting the messages you may pass to your kin.
so find yourself on adventures to perceive what the world has to share
& your "personal legend" will reveal itself by your faith and prayers.
.  .  .

Like breeze caressing in its
trap a feather grey in air’s
flight so have I
been caught
in un fulmine dei pensieri di
appena circa una dozzina
di minuti
fa.

And I have to most urgently
capture Me in this
flight and non-tormenting
air bubbles coming
out of my watery
&
treelike sight
by
breathing this moment
of realisation
gently
yet hard/strongly
while I’m at it,
at Shepherd’s meaning
of Treasure in
Coelho’s work cast
especially on me
& my antics of Now.

And that letter
here to be
shall be
lost
for a moment under
that pencil:
scribbling on sun-scorched
plane passing,
logophilia
and greater future to come
and
be
done.

For when you
finally
drink from a little bit
of Life itself in
you without any stimuli
foreign to you,
you’ll see that
It
is it that’s the most feverish
in what’s the best,
the sufficing binge.

I’m giving into
your hands this
redemption of mine till
I
AM,
for currently it
is the biggest truth
given to me
by
Allah.

I sense these Signs
as they find each other on Me,
like they make me insert
all the answers,
intentions,
with a hard semblance
and the durability
of the terrace wood
against my worked up skin,
in my lungs.

To where will my Own Legend
lead me?
There are certain
premonition
and in-depth
in this moment,
in the castle of the epilogue,
of the book,
in crystal blue,

in how all the world now
persists in my head
desiring to leave
a trace somewhere here
so as not to let go
of my hand
from its.

And the Sun
that parts almost at
dusk through
a hollow in the clouds
stormy-like
behind my back
seems to be winking, glance throwing,
of a foreboding,
of its presence,
waning,
on what will be able
to come.
And it’s gone.

And how Pueyo would say it:
“May no one deprive
me of living.”
I say it to all the pop culture,
and these false suns
“I’m not yours to take”
as much as I can.

And should we not listen
to understand
instead of
to reply?
Aren’t constant thoughts
that replying,
and pure being that
taking in (all the striving),
like when facing forest
in a
cold
prickling
air
to encounter?

Hold me like that,
that as I am,
in your hands
for a while.

It was the downtown coffee shop where they first met
A beautiful morning on the first of May.
She glanced up from the Paulo Coelho book she was reading,
Into hazel eyes that refused to look away.

Fast forward to a year later, outside the same place.
He got down on one knee.
"I will love you forever, Marry Me" he said.
She whispered "yes" for all the crowd to see.

Five years later she lays in bed,
On stained pillows that bore marks of the tears she has shed.
Heaving dry sobs as she remembers way back when,
He promised he wouldn't cheat on her again.

Two months later she feels a pain in her chest.
Doctor says it's terminal, she has a year at best.
He breaks down and begs forgiveness for the cheating
The deceit, the lies, and the girl who won't stop calling.

She withers away right in front of his eyes
And he's left with no answers and nothing but whys
Remembering the day at the cafe where they first met
She died 2 months later, leaving him with nothing but regret.

that history happens in america -
it's hardly a history as: historicity and more
showbiz...
        such that there's a trickling down...
it must be a dilution...
            nothing as spectacular
as: all eyes on h'america...
                                and elsewhere:
"elsewhere" the hobbits as such:
the whittle people of whipped cream
and croissants...
                   even france in the anglophone
context looks like a pompous,
powdered and pampered cuckoo and ape...
or germany... a somewhat feral
elevation...
             but it's not like in the realm
of the english-speaker there's any outside
influence...
          say... reading an essay by
milan kundera -
                              the: this, that and the other...
for a spectator - it's hardly
belittling pointers...
            after all... to expect a harvest
of something irish...
                         dunces and collateral...
not the irish...
     the figment of my imagination people...
the sub-membrane of tick-tock
glue and societal prospects of oiling and gluing
together...
       in the advent of the current "crisis":
but since this is not ancient rome...
  but it is given the replica coliseums of football
events...
    hardly a concern for: bread & circuses...
oh the bread, the bread is plentiful...
the circuses... well...
              fear is mighty entertaining...
as i walked through the labyrinth of outer-suburban
streets at night i had a thought:
which didn't evolve into a narrative...
or a river or how... the very large
could ever fit into the very small...
that there could be some mundane pickpocket
of detail...
     it was only a grand:
how best to return to our own little hell...
   to the pickled juices...
to the softened tendons and cartilage...
to edible sinew...
  to ****** at marrow cooked tender...
                 this personal little hell...
with a heaven a grand scheme of loosely
associated democratic pillars...
kept in tow like apparitions of formerly
used dog leash and muzzle...
   however: to be best reminded
about the disparity between the french
and the talk of ***...
                   the english and...
                                    the puritans...
but moi humpty-dumpty...
          sitz on zee fences among the whittle
people making concessions
to the: beside the altar...
              rather... the confessional cubicle
of mother russia's 'oomb: dangle the W
or the apostrophe and: extension...
  i.e.       wording: 'omega...
                      or... 'omicronomicron...
         woe in the wooing wool tangle...
   or at best: label everything erotica!
             call arachnophobia... erotica!
                the clickbait cider bubbling style...
mania-tripping at seeing numbers
from a grand void of 0 views
prop themselves like... elder judges
of the republic of mushrooms...
              teasing the project of investing
in hallucinogenic-will gangrene of
ingested: soap-water gurgle...
                    passing into the aether!

words more words and no great story...
hell... bordering on borrowing
a greek letter / two...
culmination?
          to have to jest at america...
given... the predisposition of knee-****
reaction of the upcoming event...
it's a teasing...
            in summary:
i believe that there's an america...
that only happens... in america...

i have to reiterate this...

i believe that there's an america...
that only happens... in america...
   which is: beside the cultural export
machinery of the film...
and the... well... perhaps the music...
perhaps a book... or poem...
but not really...
            the film... most certainly...
ford & film...
                   but it's hardly a mercedes
and a heidegger...

forever america: the church burden...
    and for such a protestant sensibility...
nearing a return to the outdated
               catholicism...
because not of the ritual... to be taken seriously...
it's that the ritual is a prop...
so to... take thinking seriously...
which is a complete inversion
of values of the protestant guise...

the lack of pompous rituals to make
thinking a serious affectionate prefix
with no real borrowing of a definite noun definition...
that the protestant has no...
lax in the ritual: sleeze out a seriousness
of "thought" - or rather...
this overt self-consciousness
introspect...
                     but to hide behind
the "taking it seriously" eucharist...
this blanket of metaphor...

       or... american high schools...
                   casual clothing...
                          otherwise in england...
a "catholicism" of...
less the schooling and more...
       uniform binding "******" & "bistro"...
metaphors no metaphors...
best: misnomers...

                              in between:
a solo and cross-"country" roadtrips of
the american youth...
                     from the outside in...
well... it's hardly a country...
         croatia the size of Illinois:
hypothetically...
            cross-continental...
and leading toward borrowing something
from... so anywhere to go...
anywhere to be...
it's hardly reverting back
to some proto-lingual dutch... lisp...

all the world in the cusp
of your hand...
but the inability to revert and find
a return to... the zenith period
of ol' merry england... dickens...
here outlasting the empire: morphed...
barren land with a continuum
of a loot of souls...
once the barbarian local have dried up...
which is... unlike the story
of the spanish tongue...
which was never going to be
a competition with the french...
who merely nibbled at some variation
of elsewhere...

         of the little people and the little
places...
beside the whole mongol-esque
landmass of russia...
                  which is a quickly equipped
revision of mc'edonia...
            
the odd promise of: only via new york...
we congested european rats...
but in the open country...
and to travel to america for the fetish
of a road-trip?

       what about pablo coelho...
notably... it would take... a bilingual...
knowledge of dickens and cervantes...
and laughing at aztec bones talking
backwards... rattling...
then the pristine "impossibility" of not
moving anywhere... expecting...
telekinesis and telepathy in a *******
town... aspiring to a prayer to IT...

        i'm a very simple person...
notably when i speak...
but when i write?
language tends to... over-complicate itself
without my wish...
perhaps i would like to tame...
expand... peer at a pop-sized audience
of a harlequin romance novel...

i've been to russia...
trains...             trains...
all the way from st. petersburg to moscow...
there's no concept of a car...
there's the train...
siberia is allocated a mention
of a train artery...
   i'd like to visit the faroe islands...
and... the kamchatka peninsula...
             alaska...
          given: what is stockholm, venice...
paris... athens... barcelona...
tying myself to a source of story-making...
story-constipation...
       cosmopolitan bravado...
              but... in the giggling recluse daydream...
of somewhere like...
            
     why this forever not... settled...
tongue tangle of lost geographic extension of detail:
to the ******* moon?!
now: nearing the impossible...
no wonder the nickname of english cricketers
is... tourists...
which they are...
                      but not for the love of god...
would i want to start of
a railway line to replica artery and veins
in africa...
      this... malevolent philanthropy auspice...
tour two:
i have more regard for
a misanthrope than
a philanthrope... given the categorical
imperative: Kant mingles with Tao:

maxim: the best way you can aid the world...
is for the world to forget you...
and for you to forget the world...
which is somewhat a conundrum...
                i.e. by some famous taoist...

i much prefer: tease at the world...
to play a commitment to a body
with a toying of an overburdening shadow
"suitcase": thoughts bent toward
hades...

  how the russians never invented
a narrative tied with a car...
or a horse... or a train...
given... that "enough" of siberia...
i guess... the nature of english...
it has to be exhausted prematurely
with inhibitions of...
island genesis...

             ants in your pants:
to the moon and back...
by way of bystanding...
the hebrews are shy nomads...
the arabs are wannabe and camel jockeys...
the hebrews are shy nomads
and the english... am i to be guilt
riddled by learning / borrowing /
not speaking in tongues / accents...
anglo-whale and the hebrew glitterbox
of details...

and i too took to a road-trip in
an adventure bias of taming the impersonality
of the ego: that automaton
of grieving a collected
           shy and shadow fancy of spew
my numb prospect of the disused
muscle... stiff coming
as with the prospect of a snake making
me be startled...

            always darwinian a priori...
like some copernican heliocentric primordial...
SONST-WOHIN

      some variation of the fwench "other"....
sonstwohin is a dasein...
beside a fixation on the golgotha...
  mirrors and mirages...
frogs and testickles...
                           tatar stakes and Kiev
contested between proud Muscovites
and sorrow-riddled-Pruß...

who could have been traced back
to the concept of shoelaces
with the Lithuanians, the Estonians...
the Latvians...
if there was a lessening of pressure
from the Scandinavian tribes
to excavate a modern presence...

can't we call the english the ulterior
semites?
if one prefix is in play...
toying with a definition of semite:
anti-: an argument against
heb' marx or some arab tailor...
  but the island dwelling folk...
the ulterior-          prefix beginning with
the atlantic sea: and the myth of atlantis...
lend me your rubber ear...
lend me having invested in...
the precursor...
having from an invested rome...
some wouldn't question...
metaphor celtic england an Afghanistan...
that Rome teased the germanic
people...

but because of the Huns...
and i am somewhat...
borrowing a sorrow with a term
like etymology... vandal?
it has to be so cheap and so easily
stolen...
             for the worth of goth
and spain and later... north africa...
a people and a "place"...
                
         greek seems unchanged...
tickling a sound akin to spanish...
but that... latin is... dead...
and how italian isn't... nowhere near...
the ordeal of concubine and church
monstrosity...
          well...
                 i must be! new h'american!
              and the old...
                        in that... perhaps i could
visit these colonies and never...
      best second attempt expat stature
within a combat of Tokyo...
                        
a car...  a car... a crayon! a crayon!
my horse! my hoarse inability and...
shooting practice with debility angelic!

“Tears are words that need to be written.”
― Paulo Coelho

after rereading some of Nietzsche, not that i was some
little miss sunshine American teenage rebel when
i started reading him to begin with,
he came much later - and i never really liked him:
not disliked him, just never liked him:
even though i read his Thus Spoke Zarathustra in
one sitting... rather lying in bed all night...
             but i just never managed to come to grips
with his use of adjectives / nouns - genius... greatness...
vanity... blah blah... an inferiority complex was
my reading of him - even though some crucial points
can be salvaged -
come to think of it, here's my attempt at an
"imitation" - it's not some outright propositional
aphorism of sorts -
    it's not necessarily - unconditionally true...
this is mostly a "prepositional" a posteriori -
                                     necessarily but... at the same time:
conditionally true... and yet... at the same time:
it's not at all true...
   it happens when...
           a man is no longer a boy...
the man is still living with his parents...
alternative? rent a room with a bunch of strangers...
flatmates... in my vicinity? how many men
have the same living arrangement as i?
oh... i'm not an Ed Gein type... there's plenty more...
i can count at least 6...
i'm not the only odd-child freak...
poetry doesn't pay...
                but at least i'm the custodian...
chores... cooking, gardening... i'm visible compared
to the others...
chances of my parents growing old
and in the western fashion of throwing them
into an old people's home? little or outright none...
point being... i've been looking at this
for a long long time...
concerning mothers and sons...
i don't think i'm going to write this in third person
ooh ah: Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman...
   i think i'm going to write this, more, personally...
a man's satisfaction with life,
increases, exponentially,
   when he sees... that his mother...
                      is dissatisfied with her son's life...
oh ****... that's not personal at all...
           it's sort of counter-intuitive... but it's true...
when a mother can't boast about her son's life...
career... etc. - when she goes to the gym...
has her little social events... a bunch of menopause
hens get together and talk crap over coffee...
her son this, her son that...
   some are grandmothers... some have to take care
of their grandchildren...
some hen's son is married a third time... blah blah...
DJ... earns £X,000,000...
                           and there's me...
poet? philosopher? i don't even have to crop up
into the conversation... ******* tree-shepherd...
i ******* into the night for a walk into
a forest... i ******* in general...
                 most parents would bundle up together
some money for a wedding...
did i, ask for one? did i ask for help getting
a mortgage? i guess not...
                do i pay my share for the monthly
food bill? sure...
    but it's odd... when a mother can't boast about
her son's achievements...
or for that matter: she can't even mention him...
in the company of other women...
because... she has no grandchildren out of wedlock...
or other issues...
and that's when the joy of life comes in...
if a mother can't boast about her son,
or... she can't really say anything bad about him either...
when she doesn't really have an idea
what to say... it's like... he's sort of a fern...
a plant... he's there... but he's not really there...
he's... "da-sein"... he's an abstraction...
            that's when i know that my quality of life has
reached a zenith...
            dumbfounded...
oh long are the days of the 19th century
with jack the ripper woman haters who would
"teach" frigid women lessons of giving it up
on prostitutes... these days... men like me just go
directly to the source...
    i love prostitutes... love them to bits...
at least they don't create a limp-**** Madonna-*****
complex... enough white wine aphrodisiac...
enough exercise aphrodisiac and i'm good to go...
no poker games no dates...
there: flesh meets flesh... no games...
   but that's how i find it...
                                there's a lot my mother pretends
to not know about me...
  how i champion solitude...
            how i'm not bothered about:
even at work... how many of these girls ganged up
on me, when i took interest in one of them...
another hasn't showed up to work for weeks...
how would i take, rejection? like so...
to the brothel with me... done...
                       when a mother can't boast about her
son's life... that's when...
the son lives a most satisfying life...
  since she can't boast... she can't also say anything
negative... because the life is staged in:
neutral... oh he drinks blah blah... who doesn't?!
yes - the greatest satisfaction a man can attain from life
is, when, his mother is most dissatisfied with his life,
how freeing it becomes: to know that you are living
on the bare minimum: how satisfying that you
have the bare minimum of ambition -
that you are content with merely the antithesis of
Frankenstein's drive - vivo per se: life in itself -
that somehow you're more of a freak than Frankenstein:
only in the imagination of a woman couldn't
the monster become a philosopher: perhaps the philosopher
is more of a monster to a woman than
the monster itself: with whatever prods and temptations
that might befall the usual man...
to seek some sort of existential redemption when
coupled with a woman...
that somehow... a reproductive outlet would solve
all his woes... if only: to give thought a death:
an ultimatum of (th)ought i dead end...
           it is most necessary to have at least a mother
in one's life that might cherish the simplicity of life
from a perspective of a son who:
really... doesn't really care much for hierarchies...
for... grand-standing... for vanity...
it's welcome to have a woman in one's life that
is dissatisfied with the life you're living with full
satisfaction... with striving for an almost ascetic aesthetic...
but at the time: no, not really...
on a whimsical winding-up...
                  frivolously meeting expectations...
frivolously not meeting them...
being a man who a woman can't boast of...
            so much is needed to find oneself with life...
esp. when da-sein (concern) is replaced with:
hier-sein... the simplicity of a merely the coordination
of hier, ich bin... that sort of translates as
a spontaneity of thought... narrative...
           a whirlwind of memory...
                   April 1st... snow... overcast skies...
then spring and sun and a trickle of honey...
then one woman ****** you off: off to the brothel with
you for some luvvy-dubby-juicing-up...
problem solved...
                   hell... i can imitate women too...
i can be as fickle as they allow themselves to be...
i don't need to be a proud-ridden
Menelaus... women... i can share...
the real problem comes with shoes...
      i couldn't possibly walk in someone else's shoes...
but when it comes to women...
sure... she can have gone through a cohort of Roman
legionnaires... but i will not walk in someone
else's shoes... quiet impossible...
but isn't that what most modern women craved?
for pain to be pleasure and for pleasure to be pain?
ha ha... "ownership"... protection...
last time i checked this woman in the supermarket
asked me... if i could... put a large bag of dog food
into her trolley... and i replied...
   and... am i wearing... supermarket staff clothing?
chop chop...
                 well... no... that's not what really happened...
i actually did help her out...
because... i'm still a man and i like weaklings...
esp. of the opposite ***...
  it gives me... cotton-candy sensations when i help
weaklings... but what gives me even more
cotton-candy sensations is the potential...
of being able to abuse my power...
         it's always in the back of my mind...
               that's the true thrill... i can seriously just
retract my help and pursue the threat of *******...
that's the true pleasure... sure... helping out is nice...
just... plain Jane... nice...
but... having in the back of my mind this *******
is... like: ooh! ha! wait... wait... retract...
keep him hidden... wait for the right moment...
and then... pounce!
                - but it's worthwhile...
keeping at least woman in your life dissatisfied with
your life... because: you're not "somewhere"
where you're supposedly, apparently supposed
to "be"... unless we're talking ******* heart-surgeon
and not some, random... x-ray analyst...
we're talking plateaus... unless i was born into a family
of pig farmers... from a lineage of undertakers...
oh hell... women always want more...
more of everything that life has to offer...
i'm glad of the stock of man...
    the least is always the most impressive...
          man in love with frugality...
                      good music, good whiskey...
one good meal a day... clean socks... clean underwear...
ironed white shirts... ironed trousers...
hey, i'm good to go... i once planned a trip to India...
didn't go... stunned myself by discovering
a lot more of London and the Essex countryside...
that... ******* Paolo Coelho quote from the Alchemist...
about... finding what you've been seeking
within yourself rather than... at the foot of the pyramids
of Giza... blah blah...
          women just complicate matters...
so many ******* complications...
who is to say to me that i ought not to gain the most pleasure
from life by... simply walking?
or cycling? or... whatever out of the fading blue, blue?
from waking up in the late morning...
brushing my teeth, harking up last night's phlegm from
having smoked too much? from vacuuming
the house, from washing the floors
with antiseptic juice?
   who is to dictate rules that would entice if not outright
force me to a pair-bonding?
i have always been alone... the seclusion born out
of being an only-child, sure...
the company of animals "helps" a little...
but i hate the ******* fur...
          it implies i have to vacuum the house
almost twice... but aww... looks so sweet sleeping in
my bed... ****, get real Matthew...
he's shedding more fur than a ******* sheep at
a christening of come spring...
   ugh... but it's not like you're going to make
a ******* cat-burger out of him...
little ******... little 10kg cat *******...
     prostitutes: yes... a big yes...
                  i wish i could want to have a relationship,
i sometimes wish i could desire to have friends...
friends... a big disappointment...
i once tried to share my woes with one...
apparently my woes were worth zilch...
since his woes were apparently greater...
but it's not like he was able to share them with me...
friendship on a superficial: glance level...
so i was like: **** it...
            i can always bash the keyboard into an aside...
keep this blank canvas thirsty for more skeletal
lettering... by the time he might come back
i will have moved on... with plenty more juice...
friends... b'ah! always the same type of...
disappointment... just like women...
       perhaps someone always very mediocre gets
lucky... pairs up...
           oh - and then the anguish...
when their pair-bonder dies...
                 broken heart...
                            dies from a broken heart...
dies from a lack of will to live...
                   it's so much more, profitable, emotionally,
to succeed in the pursuit of a solo project...
no one is going to miss me,
and i won't be the one missing anyone...
hence? allowing the flow of souls through this
conundrum of: is fact, is existence....
is life...
                           i must be coming across as if filled
with spite... no... i'm filled with repose more than
spite... i'm joyously malicious...
i like myself best: when i project
being: unavailable...
   not that i could offer anything to a woman...
i have allowed myself to be freed...
from the superficiality of woman...
                     oh... what a... relief...
                    i can't help to think...
stoic feminism?! i thought it was simply...
a mono-cultural thought experiment?
feminism and that's that...
but... cynic feminism?! the cognitive diversity
of male thinking... compared to the...
narrow stream of female thought...
              no match... clearly...
                               what a waste of time... if everything
has to be sieved through the sieve of
feminism... what a massive... YAWN...
women have always came across as boring
when they tried to intellectualise themselves
and weren't... readily-giddy in the bedroom...
a ******* waste of time...
    women who'd have to talk to rather than ****;
a bit like... drinking olive oil
rather than frying **** in it;
                                absolutely senseless;
sorry... but if women are given allowances
via tic-toc to spread **** about men...
                 oh sure, sure...
i'm just going to sit back and take it...
        like **** i am.

an apple a day, keeps the doctor away... that's how Fiona from Fraserburgh started the conversation this one time... with riddles... this was one of her replies... an apple a day, keeps the doctor away... the other riddle was: what walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon and three legs come the evening? man! he crawls as a toddler, walks upright in his prime and then uses a walking stick to prop his walk... i didn't get either of the riddles... being bilingual i don't understand the pastime of crosswords, plus i write so that's doubly damning to understand... nothing's entertaining about them... but... give me any numbers game... su doku: for example? there's nothing intelligent about it... it's an optical disguise of: what would otherwise make me sense of how katakana was first written... that's why i admire Hanguel (Korean) equally: it's the closest writing system to the European writing system...

girls and their ******* riddles...
    was i being autistic or something? it took my
high school sweetheart to tell me:
she fancies you... Fiona... Fiona: with that lisp and curly
hair...
                 yeah: she came up from London
and stayed with me in the student flat for a while...
i do remember...
   how she kept her virginity intact for almost a year...
or maybe longer...
  i wasn't going to push...
i remember how she lost her virginity:
i pretended that my phallus was a scalpel...
my first time was terrible: first times are terrible...
first times are like: a killing / what i imagine
a kosher celebration of killing a goat is...
just get it over and done with...
in the dark... in the cocoon of bed-sheets...
for man: at least... awkward, wonky...
a bit like watching a daddy-long-legs spider
walk... compared with other more agile spiders...
one urban myth i heard from a former
friend of mine (Ian): the daddy-long-legs spider
has the most venom of all spiders...
but... it has short teeth so it cannot penetrate
its prey... so... we're talking disabled spiders now?
like that urban myth about the 2 weeks
a cockroach has to live once it has been decapitated?!
that one?
- and once upon a time i was thinking of
going travelling... India was calling...
i had this plan... fly to India... and then walk back
to England... seriously...
i was young, i was stupid...
    i was also reading some Paulo Coelho...
who... like the only maxims i ever used - i.e. Tao told me...
to sit the **** down...
        so i sat down...
wait a minute: India is already here!
not exactly here: but the people are here...
**** me... the whole world is here...
how many people have gathered in London...
i'm guessing over 200+ languages...
who's coming?! who's coming?! or... who's here?!
who's here?!

never mind... i started my usual drinking session
with nothing in my head...
i just remembered... i woke up... "INSPIRED"
i was like: wow! i don't have to tighten the bow
of thought and launch the arrow of ego
into: hey presto! pulled this one out of my ***
like a "miracle"...
             ergo? crap... what to write about?
what to write about? at first i thirsted for writing
about writing...
which is no minor call-to-arms...
but it's better than writing about reading...

   i figured... newspapers get published each and every
day... there's "something" that's always "happening":
some next misery, some mingling of contexts,
some misunderstandings...
i'm never going to be content with the already
haemorrhaging oeuvre...
if i had a mouth when thinking, "thinking":
i couldn't shut up...
    
like i already said: an apple a day keeps the doctor
away... right... which doctor?
for me it's more:

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrists away...
i don't even know i want to peer into Latin
to translate: i don't think psychology / psychiatry:
pharmaceutical pebbles were a thing back then...
ergo... no amputation...
no liver transplant...
it has to remain in English:

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrists at bay
                 ditto                                        away...

newspapers are published daily...
i have to find old reasons for new reasons
to keep writing: i can't allow myself to write about
ideas: i'd become constipated creatively...
i can't write maxims either...
i need to write a self-journalism:
i need to write an imitation of water...

IMITATIO AQUA...
                  imitation of water...
what's water in Mandarin... let's stick to the trigram
for now...
something soothing...
i'm becoming a self-journalist...
right, right... water...

ooze: freeze...           水 (shoo'e)

--  --
-----
--  --

                   it truly: almost feels like...
a face that resembles water...
                 see... one of my greatest pastimes
is spotting faces in clouds...
i have this itch for pareidolia... mostly clouds...
i sometimes imagine eternity being trapped
in a bubble watching...
   Jupiter and his son Polyphemus
               of the planet...

                 exactly! what was i going to write about?
threesomes ****... i felt disconnected...
******* told the donkey to dangle the carrot:
apparently it taught the donkey
a carnivore diet... it's... ******* disorientating...
i'm guessing this is just an impasse...
i should be simply drinking and enjoying the music
i'm listening to...

but i'm a workaholic-alcoholic...
            i'm not going to stop drinking... ergo?
i'm not going to stop writing,
i know that the more i write i will not be writing
anything of consequence...
of something to base stop marks on...
but at least what i learned from the Ancient Roman
poets: conversational overtones are the key...
to the clue: and "somewhere" there's a door...
i will write about living:
i will write about living like it might be a river
continually preserved by some
"magical" mechanism of upkeep...

and isn't journalism sort of like that?
poetry can become journalism...
i think i'll make poetry a journalism:
a poetry-journalism complex...
i did the poet-philosopher thinking a long time
ago... i'm tired of it...
poet-philosopher deals with the element of earth:
unshakeable things... easily trodden on...
i'm asking for the status of
poet-journalist...
  for ascribing the venture into water...

among a few drunkards in some pub...
from which i was excused from...
on false allegations: for throwing a pint of beer
across the room...
whatever... we started talking...
this guy was from Birmingham...  blah blah
blah x3 later... are there any rivers
in Birmingham?
no? just canals... well... this is London...
there's old father Thames...

NO RIVER: NO FLOW...

seriously: i'm pulling these poems out of my ***
being contemplative about constipation...
i'm writing less about writing
and more about not thinking...
i was so good at thinking: thinking per se:
i.e. narrating my own life...

ah! res cogitans, res extensa... here's a curiosity!
res mutatio: things, change...
i've changed...
i've explored avenues and cul de sacs
other people also do... but in the world of reality
that's constrained by geo-political localities...

i'm stroking my beard...
i need a haircut... i need my beard trimmed:
no one beside a Turk is allowed
to touch my beard! no one beside a Turk!
i only trust Turks with the bristle of a beard...
keep the length: just tidy it up...
ugh... older women... bear comparisons...
you're such a bear...
call it: yawn of a bear: on the word LONE-LY...
am i? next time try a word best associated
with a GROWL...

lion? ha ha... lion... the king of mammals?
ha ha... ah ha ha...
   test a lion against a gorilla...
in a match-up...
then test a bear against a gorilla in a match-up...
that's the sport i'd love to see!

some vague "African thing": lion the emblem of
what?                                       BOAR and beer and BEAR...
i don't know... when i was a supervisor
and the people i was working with sort of obeyed...
maybe because i told them: free burgers...
otherwise they're going to throw them away...
catch them if you can...
OR?
                     i had the physique of:
don't **** with me... i must have said to one of them:
work with me... i don't care what the prior
supervisor said... i don't care...
she might have sent you home...
she's ego-tripping... you! me! just work with
me... we'll get through this...

well... it was hardly a landing on the moon...
oh sure... that must have been spectacular...
i mean: so many dreams concerning the moon
died when man landed on the moon...
the entire Islamic world collapsed...
but it worked... i was a benevolent person!
happiness filled the universe for a bit...
nothing was invented...
nothing was arrived at...
        but people weren't treated like slaves
gearing up to building the Giza pyramids: too!
i was given a higher authority:
but i didn't abuse it... i actually dug-under it...

i didn't become a ******* heart-surgeon either...
i came to the understanding of
the pristine man.... the man that i was becoming...
a man that others could wish could lead them...
after all... one of the stewards i was supervising
came to me after the shift and uttered the words:
it was a pleasure working with you;
hey presto!

today i ate something decent for the past 3 days of fasting
because of the heat-wave...
enough carbohydrates... enough protein... etc. etc.
and as much i might **** women's football...
i worked through the "indigestion":
i did watch the Lionesses brave it against
the conquistadores...
but... unlike watching women competing
professionally in tennis or any other sport...
i wasn't watching football...
i was watching the women...

i had my fill... i was making raspberry ice-cream...
i got bored...  fell asleep...
i sort of wished: if all these beautiful women
were less tom-boys... less affront...
like that quote from the movie: Gladiator...
when Marcus Aurelius uttered to his dauighter:
if you were born a man:
what a Caesar you would have made...

i was thinking likewise:
if you were born a woman in thinking you were
a woman: what a woman you would have
made!
        now? forget it...
i'd rather be a Darwinistic abnormality....
a vague "vogue"...
not even Copernicus could have hoped
for his perception to be this:
so shell-shocked: hijacked like Darwinism
was become... ha ha!
Darwinism has become subject to...
what eugenics tries to established as: norms
via ******... mutation...
        
                       i'm fine... i'm a mutant myself...
i was mutated from birth...
i was given the mark of Cain after the catastrophe
of Chernobyl spread to Poland...
my... care for Ukraine is therefore? nil...
       thanks: but not thanks...

and my "animosity" for women?
why i reserve the "right" to **** prostitutes and treat
them like mothers?
ingrained... unconscious constructs...
when i was born with a birth mark
on my right shoulder-blade...
a nurse in the hospital tried to choke me
to death... enlarging my heart...
you know what happens to a man...
when... he's been told that...
a woman: who is supposed to protect him:
tries to **** me? it's not a case of abortion...
it's not infanticide...
i was already born... i was already formed:
when i was first attacked: that wasn't the first
time i was attacked...

      my concern for women, ergo?
**** them: leave them...
               dogs are prized assets...
they bark and they slobber and they invented
the circle: chasing their own tails...
no no...

   this is not the time you get to dictate...
not in my personal life...
               dictate all you want in the public sphere...
however many French intellectual you wish
to summon...
            i'm going to spare you my immediacy
of heart-burn...
   i cycled to Rainham today to check out
what damage was done... i heard of none...

i **** prostitutes because i don't have time
for making dating-profile profiles...
for "likes": for glued eyes... for Parliament sensibilities...
i love: yes, prime minister, the sit-com...
the English arrogance is insatiable!
i say: **** the apples!
a poem a day keeps the psychologists away!

also? scrap concept of veganism!
there's no concept of a bullet-proof cabbage!

The coffee has gone cold already,
a layer of cream silently settling itself,
just as I settle myself in a corner, silently...
a book between my thumb and forefinger,
but I'm not reading.
The sun has set long back,
maybe some two hours back
and I realize that by the darkening room.
Somehow, even the darkened room
is a sort of comfort, a solace.
I keep staring at the clock in a fix.
The handles never move, it lays still
just like the thumping of my heart,
which feels numb after all this time.
Paulo Coelho screams from the paperback
which I hold a tad bit too tightly
scared of letting go of one more aspect.
He tells me of the Zahir
and makes me realize once more
that I lost my Zahir.
I feel myself moving unwittingly to my desk
gulping down the coffee in a go
and taking out my diary,
I scribble something that's incomprehensible, even to me...
"The world isn't a wish granting factory "
The poster screams at me
from across the wall.
I nod with a heavy heart, "But we all wish it was, don't we?"

Avoid loud and aggressive
persons, they are vexations
to the spirit:    "Desiderata".

   Every time one sees the
   the strangled banner we
     think of George Floyd
     which makes us vexed.

         Stars are explosive
         military metaphor
          markers on maps.

         Stripes are flatlines
        graphing  genocidal
          deaths of millions.

      When you want some-
      -thing all the universe
        conspires in helping
    you achieve it.   "Coelho".

     Making America Grate.

    "It's what we all wish for”.