i can't stop feeling this pounce of melancholy,
and i mean: it's like a lynx pouncing on my chest,
i can't even claim a clinical dimension to it,
it's a sadness that comes on two fronts...
   it's a sadness that i left Poland when i was 8,
and the greater part of my life was spent
using the English language...
         and i find the Anglophone world so devoid
of consistency... all this post-truth
          labelling...
       this throwing of the cartesian maxim the other
way around, the "i am" really does
   predated the "i think" scenario on the hopes
of asking for a genesis, a (0, 0) / (ο, ω) coordinate
beginning... yes, i know more of a dougnut
   and less the orbit of a planet in the latter case...
     i can't believe i'm getting this technical -
but it sometimes happens, you know?
i don't really like it... i'd love to write about less
claustrophobic matters, less constrictive intellectual
matters... and before you shoot me down
by denouncing the crass lack of motivation -
                i am frail in undertaking another "poem",
and i mean that as a way of saying:
              terse narration and no claim to technique,
or at least that's what i know is modern...
           i watch the following list of videos
as a sort of freak-natured lullaby while drinking
Obey the Walrus         I FEEL FANTASTIC
Agamemnon Counterpart       Username 666
Cursed Kleenex Commercial      There is nothing
Performance Olivier de Sagazan 2008  
     The Wyoming Incident        My Dead Great
Grandma’s Coffin in My Own backyard!
K-Fee Car Commercial       Pretty Woman
Fatal Diving Accident        Girl Goes ****** During
Makeup Tutorial       Paris Catacombs Lost Footage
Shaye Saint John – Hand Thing (yes, copy & paste
given the uppercase lettering, i can be lazy
once in a while) -
                          so i do see a lot of potential in
these clips... if you can't dazzle them: might as well
scare them...
                      but i watch them and then write
a native-language poem while listening to
    music accompanying a zbigniew herbert poem
by tadeusz woźniak - and i get all nitty gritty
when using a language i should have forgotten
aged 8... and i type one out and i am brought
to tears with it... and then it vanishes from the html
blank...
             and then a deeper horror sets in,
which Ezra Pound would have liked
and it merely means: ten quotes by Horace,
a video, with only 230 views on youtube...
                    no one would dare say carpe diem
like a cliche after seeing this video...
             but still the sadness persists...
and i can't make it systematic, not systematic in
the sense that it might appeal to the zeitgeist of:
the January blues, or... i need the pharmacological
rainbow...
        i have a miniature vineyard... enough for
35 litres of wine... and i make the wine myself...
i pick the grapes...
i crush them, i buy the yeast, i melt the sugar until
i get runny sugar-thick water,
   and you know? out of the 5 litre holders for it...
i get about 10 pristine bottles of wine,
roughly in the range of 15% a pop...
                   from 35 litres i get about 10 pristine bottles
of wine... quality-wise: the stuff you'd expect to
buy in a shopping market...
       and that's the sad part...
it bothers me that i've waited for long for the wine,
i might have mentioned it a few months back that
i do actually make my own wine... but given the addiction
it's a product that could only last for something
worth celebrating...
                     these days people speak of a marathon's
worth of abstinance from the stuff for a month...
    which is a bit sad, given that if people ventured
into producing their own alcohol, they'd have
a Dionysian month of binging on it... and then having
11 months being sober... until the natural cycle comes
back, like the rare event of a comet...
    i'm sad i lost a few poems on the way...
but i'm also sad that the drinking should begin by spring
and that i'm ****** already...
                  that i'm still buying whiskey,
and when i do actually drink that one bottle of clouded
wine today, i'll feel a sense of the most minute accomplishment...
   i can't stop facing this industrialisation of
everything... whether it's alcohol, or art...
   or intellectual debate...
   sure, i'll listen to Breitbart for a bit...
then i'll listen in on how we've began mutilating
language... then i'll think of god, and recount
kant's concept: imagine the pangs of despair i felt
reading through the second volume of the critique -
if you do: you'd be surprised by what's involved
in transcendental methodology...
    what could possibly obstruct you in the existence
of: said word... not enlarged in religious practices?
   i am comforted by the fact that kant deals with
god on a non-religious basis...
    religious i mean: worthy of a reciting only one
book a thousand ******* times and building churches...
if god is merely lodged in your mind and allows
for a narrative, who is sane enough to take that
narrative initiative from you, considering the fact
that you're not bound to kneel and read only one
book a thousand times as if that one book held
the sole capacity for your vocab exfoliation and learning
of the alphabet?
     how can you ever be bound to a cognitive detestation
of god? that really must be painful...
considering that thought is so ****** whimsical, frail,
   picky, panicky... give it all you want...
you can't establish a cognitive detestation of god
  on the simple ground that thought is being bombarded
by a 5:1 ratio of the senses versus 1 non-sense -
    which god evidently is: given the numbers of
the good-church going folks... kneeling lunatics i call them...
but the simple fact that you want to do a lobotomy on
yourself with atheism, is a bit like saying
you'll censor the mathematical statement 1 + 1 = 2...
      at least the concept of god is: language exists...
and can i add to that? if a being as such exists:
he wouldn't consist of games... the verbal colliseum
of anagrams and crosswords... language you seize
to be entertaining... it would spell out a clear
format: a x, y, z      vector precision:
    starting from point (0, 0) moving to (1, 1),
  (2, 2)        to ( 5, 5) etc. you'd get a y = x graph...
   not a ******* parabola of nuance and political
chess... or nuanced ***...
                    and is that a.i.?
           well: the french question about man inventing
god because it would be useful is much better said
these days since we we have the capacity to create ourselves...
and given how it looks: i'm going to be a caveman
trapped in a two-dimensional world of the collective
consciousness by the time the true avant-garde in this
medium starts... creating a god became boring...
so many had to recreate himself in the robotic form...
    man is currently needing this exploration...
forget the space project... it's a case of definition...
but i'm still melancholic about the wine...
     i've been waiting to sniff it and feel the sharpness
of the alcohol for a good 3 months...
       and i really wish i could write in my native tongue
so easily as i do in my acquired tongue...
     i'm sad because i'm drinking the whiskey
prior, rather than getting completely sloshed on
what alcoholism looked prior:
    it's that curse of town insomnia and how we don't
celebrate enough of what comes with natural
cycles...
              which means that ontology is dead...
given we've managed to tame the seasons...
  means that any ontological question, based on
the cycle of wine-making, brings us to a more dreary
position than with nietzsche's god is dead...
look here: at least you have something tangible...
   you can't erase god from thinking...
it's the primost a priori essence of every, single man,
it's not an a posteriori fact,
god is there, in that a priori medium like space
and time...
                              and why do people never claim
that god can contain a dualism, primarily because
the herd is encapsulated by a monotheism?
              if god could ever be an a posteriori you'd
be forced to experience some sort of revelation,
and later encounter the evil contained within the concept's
dualism, so in actual sense: be considered mad:
for not making certain choices in life and wishing to
reach for the pulpit... mind you: i had such an experience...
and my life didn't become better for it...
     evidently i should have pressed harder for
the ontological argument of: marrying the girl...
but then the same ontological argument came back
to me when i started making wine...
                      meaning i could produce alcohol
on an industrial level... and forget any ritualism involved
in consuming it prior... since i would only be
left with an addictive socio-pathological use of the
once celebrated, collective engagement by waiting for
autumn to ferment and keep me warm through
the winter... which i suppose is when all the Greeks
were kept together... drinking and ******* rather
than bother to exploit natural resources like gas and oil...
but hey! that's just me...
         but there's a sadness behind this...
start making your own wine and you'll see it...
which is to say: i don't know whether i'd have lived
a happy life with my russian fiance...
             i have only a quantum idealism to mind
expressed by fanciying myself counter to the history
i'm writing right now...
    so why is god as a priori bound as time and space?
well... why would you otherwise get so many eager
atheist gobs to reach for an argument?
                  i find that the most authentic atheists are
murderers... why? they have transcended
    the cognitive debility of an atheistic argument...
      i'll prove god does not exist by "thinking" about it...
my my: what a lovely congregation you have there!
      i'm not even trying to be clever here...
  well... there's an antidote to this scenario...
               so he's permanently lodged in our a priori
  "consciousness" (might as well do away with psychiatry
******* about with its three-layer cake of
con- subcon- and uncon-) -
                   and he's not lodged in our a posteriori
"consciousness" - i hate becoming the fiddler on the roof -
because what then? experiencing the omniniscence
and the omnipotency and whatever other trait that ******
thing does, would translate as what?
     at best a monotheism... or a place where people concentrate
in numbers... not necessarily worths of being beyond
the estimates concerning their congregation...
            it's dangerous to claim a god in the a posteriori
realm...
                that's why the safest place to keep him is in
the a priori realm... where all the big things happen,
or don't happen, depending whether you're from New York
or Hiroshima...
                    and following from kant's distinction
in transcendental methodology concerning time and space...
and god...
                 it dawned on me that he did see a distinction
between mathematical language and the lingua of
  doodling and anagrams and all those poetic jives that
give no precision...
    if time... then space...
                    if god...            then nothing...
and how are dual in the a priori realm...
       only that with regards to time and space
i'm more likely to throw a 1, or a 2 into conceptualising
these things, than i am to throw an a, or a b into it...
    algebra is secondary in talking about these two mediums...
why? because i'll get a definite rationalisation of
time and space... if i tell you the fastest man on earth
can run 100m in under 10secs...
                       if i throw in x y z into this: i might as well
end this whole narrative with: oi! Zeno! give us
that Achilles joke!
                when i mean god i mean: medium of
communication... that's not necessarily a democratic
omni-versed plateau of sponging everything every human
has to say...
       but i primarily throw 1, 2, 3... 4, 5... 8, 9 and 0
into the a priori conceptualisation of time and space...
  but if i do the same when i throw in the other symbols
into the a priori conceptualisation of god and nothing -
sure, mathematical symbols can be phonetic encoding,
as one, two, three, four... five, six...
          but apply them as one two three four to time and space
and there's no way to rationalise time and space,
because time and space is met with a nonsense
in dealing with a phonetic encoding of 1 (as one) -
due to the vacuum of space... and the timelessness of
    time as a ref. point fixated upon... let's just leave
it with the vacuum of space... 2 overpowers two (because
of to and too), 3 overpowers three (because of free)...
4 overpowers four (because of for)... not only that:
but they're more about photographic memory
and visual conceptualisation ease - no one really bothers
   a - z to be anything more than: what they actually
are as phonetically: awaiting pronunciation.
sure... letter can become mystical in a sense of:
   y looks like a tree (other than pine),
           H is a rugby goal...
                               w is a cosine graph...
                    y is a serpent's tongue...
              but that's mysticism and that's also: fair enough!
what bugs me is the opposite of the a priori
magnetism... as opposed to space and time...
god and nothing...
     well... if i throw 1 and 0 into a priori thinking
about working time and space...
  i'll get, say: 365 days in a calendar year...
               or that the acceleration of earth if 9.8 metres
per seconds squared... (cubic gravity evidently
becomes a bit pointless -
                                        imagine it:
   9.8m/s(superscript)3...   or 9.8m(superscript)2/s...
or whatever variation...
no wonder the chemists got the ****-end of the stick
when they were told they weren't allowed into
the heaven of superscript... but sent to the subscript hell
of writing dwom oxygen... ah shame: Faust! i'm coming!)...
yes... but throw 1 - 0 into the a priori
"conceptualisation" opposite of time and space,
i.e. god and nothing... the best answer you can get
is matthew chapter 1 verse 8... or SIX SIX SIX!  boogie man!
well... not... you throw in the symbols α - ω
into the a priori "conceptualisation" of god & nothing
and you get, e.g.: δατυμ -
which basically means: it can't be meaningless -
       otherwise we'd be stuck with animalistic intuition
and intelligence, overloaded with sensual intelligence
and not marred by the murk of thought...
  how this devolution happened is beyond me...
  no amount of wit makes up for the sensual sharpness of
a monkey shouting at a congregation: spy! snake!
and all with the bare minumum of phonetic distinction...
    thus α - ω are slightly meaningless when it comes
to time and space, i know these symbols to enter
this a priori venture, but we're still primarily talking
about using 1 - 0 symbols to get at the knitting-work...
just like in verse, i say of a crossword
    sound of Valhalla (4),
                 and you say: 1 across... horn!
                              and then we get the pretty picture.
3a.m.
       and the wine ritual is about to begin...
      

precursor - title correlation
body -

mind of:

C                oh

    oh                      Ri

n'ah.   (half an hour fiddling with a 502 bad
gateway; traffic these days! jeez!)

I.

it don't know what's more frustrating for the reasons that it's so good... i can't choose... it's a close call... either listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides from By The Way... ugh! why didn't they release that as a double album! Stadium Arcadium was not that good as a double-album... all the prior albums are MAGIC... literally... for ****'s sake: GOLDMINE is literally just that... there's that... i can't concentrate on making my own translation of Ovid... i'm yet to scribble down the translation i have... i can't even drink my whiskey properly... the other frustrating focus? watching Armand Duplantis break his own world record of 6.21metres... the ****** has still at least 10cm in him! a record that will have to stand-still for the next 20+ years... i'll be dead before this record is broken... Сергій Бубка best be sleeping... i'm listening to the music, reliving the end of the World Athletics and trying to heel-myself-in-the-buttocks: better get a move on boy... hmm! "trying"... i'm actually heeling myself in the buttocks: no time to wait... one can wait for a bus... one cannot for one's own incentive... ol' Lizzy is coming up the mountain... she's coming with the proper closure of the 20th century... however many popes she outlived... however many prime ministers and american presidents... come on Lizzie... just one more year... i'm actually dying to spend money with whittle Charlie printed on the notes... my fingers are itching... but **** me... music so good By The Way should have been a double-album... no! Stadium Arcadium was not the salvagable double-album worth session... i'm getting "schizophrenic" vibes... i know that poetry is not an entertaining medium: it's a complacent self-congratulatory, thereupeutic load of *******... it's obnixious when staged: the exasperated art of speaking with speed... today i realised that i much prefer drinking to having ***... i like the preservation of my brain with a hard-on of itchy fingers than any actual ******* hard-ons... the knife opening oysters or plucking out the eyes of deer... best the eyes be gauged out... than having deer stare into car lights... hybrid confusions of static, motivated to move... frozen in a make-shift imitation of root and clay and copper: bam! one more statue down...

II.

it's no wonder why i'm not looking for a girlfriend, it's no longer bewildering why i'm not looking for a wife, at best i'm looking out for that ancient custom of Roman emperors: to become a foster father, a surrogate - i'm yet to find a match-up... i almost did, but she undermined my chances by undermining her own seriousness in such affairs... but clarity does come... as much as i might be a surrogate father to her son or daughter: i wouldn't be faithful to her... i would steal the night and run away into a brothel... but there's something else... the whole dynamic of publishing has changed... the whole idea of a library has also changed... i own more valuable books in my private collection than the public library of Romford... which is me peering at the dire straits of what the public is fed... i know why i don't aspire for pair-bonding... perhaps man so levelled aspired toward the imitation of birds a long time ago... perhaps swans are truly noble creatures: for one hears of widow and widower swans... perhaps parrots: born from those monstrous beasts that were the dinosaurs can imitate our talk... all that's this reality within the confines of "perhaps": nonetheless, it's all true... but perhaps being the mammal that i am... i moved from a community of chimpanzees into a solo-ride of imitation-bear... perhaps i only entertain the opposite *** on the encounter of ***... i couldn't land a conversation with a woman outside the constrictive-framework of work, so much so: i would abhor the mindset of men that go on dates with women: buy them food and then EXPECT... i leave that ******* out in my interactions... pay-up-front for what you're about to receive otherwise don't play cat while the woman plays mouse... or rather... a rat in cat's clothing: the woman therefore becoming a rat-trap... mind you: i can't think of a more terrible idea than the modern version of: eat first, **** later... at the old ****** proverb states: a hungry ****** is angry... a filled ****** is lazy... god forbid i ever become tempted by those dating sites... i'm currently looking for the original Latin text of Ovid's the Amores book 2 poem 6... why? what i have in my hand... and what i'm finding... it's like what Robert Pinsky remarked about once: TRANSLATIONS differ so much from one translator to another...

they have done it... UEFA are mad... just to get my
accreditation for the women's Euros final
at Wembley they're asking me to bring my passport
with me... so is Wembley the JFK of Florida
          space-shuttle launch? Houston? am i leaving
the country?
                but the girls have done it...
funny: some other people are still complaining:
IT'S TOO WHITE!
   there's not enough diversity in the team...
          that's me also planning to go and live
in Kenya and become a model for toilet paper...
i'm sure i could replace that known Koala bear /
golden retriever or perhaps i could go there
and model for soap adverts...
it just so happened that racial tensions (only football
could create them) rose up for a little:
just one night the day England lost to Italy
on penalty shootouts... because... 3 black guys
were playing a rigged roulette...
            then again? me? and the African heat?
fat chance...

find me the original Elegy VI: the death of Corinna's
pet parrot...
oh man... and her name was Polly...
i sat up late last night trying to find something
interest on the television...
bam! thank you ma'am...
                       kurt cobain: montage of heck...
sort of reminded me of...
                           a SCANNER DARKLY...
                           mind you: i sometimes do enjoy
a one-man show... or at least two...
there was this brilliant show in the West End...
Stones in his Pockets...
       two actors... sharing the roles of...
                  about 15 people each...
but it was back in circa 2001...
so... maybe it was Louis Dempsey
                                                        & Sean Sloan...
mind you... i'd still love to see Samuel Beckett's
             NOT I...

Jack Trades says: i'm about to a heap
of hay of hate...
                                i'm everywhere sometimes...
if it's not music, then its visual arts,
then it's philosophy, then fine literature...
then something "oriental" in thinking...
then its coupling my fetish for Deutsche as:
father to the English zunge...
then it's back east to rummage in some Katakana...

i know why i'm single, Roger Moore remained
a bachelor until his death...
  courteous: as ever as forever always...
i'd be a terrible match-up... i've given pair-bonding
a chance: i can't bemoan why X is not Y...
the sort of men that pair-bond are claustrophilic...
they love the company of a mate...
each time i was ever in a "relationship" i already
had one foot dangling: tapping an imaginary
drum set...
recently i discovered the B-side of the Red Hot Chilli
Peppers... so for me it's a version
of keeping the 20th century alive with
the "dichotomy" of the Rolling Stones vs.
the Beatles... i'm more... R.H.C.P.'s A-sides
of R.H.C.P.'s B-sides?
                                        i'm busy...
                i'm always busy... i don't want to relax...
i want a Turkish barber to suggest that
i need  hot-towel and an arm massage after
my beard is trimmed and... i'm still going to state:
getting a Turk to trim my beard is a close
contender to oral *** from a Turkish *******...

but try finding me that original Latin of Ovid's...
ah! found it! let's see if i can compete with
my own translation... the one i originally read
and the one i found finding the original Latin
were so disparaging...

**** yes! well... there was Ted Hughes writing
about the Crow... poor ******...
should have killed himself: might have competed
with his terribly-wonderful wife of a poet...
i give her that: what noose?
best head in an oven...
and you want a shovel with that?
but this is Ovid... "complaining" about
the death of his lover's parrot...
immediately i jumped to conclusions:
not enough crackers...

(A) the Original:

Psittacus, Eois imitatrix ales ab Indis,
    occidit—exequias ite frequenter, aves!
ite, piae volucres, et plangite pectora pinnis
    et rigido teneras ungue notate genas;
horrida pro maestis lanietur pluma capillis,
    pro longa resonent carmina vestra tuba!
quod scelus Ismarii quereris, Philomela, tyranni,
    expleta est annis ista querela suis;
alitis in rarae miserum devertere funus—
    magna, sed antiqua est causa doloris Itys.
Omnes, quae liquido libratis in aere cursus,
    tu tamen ante alios, turtur amice, dole!
plena fuit vobis omni concordia vita,
    et stetit ad finem longa tenaxque fides.
quod fuit Argolico iuvenis Phoceus Orestae,
    hoc tibi, dum licuit, psittace, turtur erat.
Quid tamen ista fides, quid rari forma coloris,
    quid vox mutandis ingeniosa sonis,
quid iuvat, ut datus es, nostrae placuisse puellae?—
    infelix, avium gloria, nempe iaces!
tu poteras fragiles pinnis hebetare zmaragdos
    tincta gerens rubro Punica rostra croco.
non fuit in terris vocum simulantior ales—
    reddebas blaeso tam bene verba sono!
Raptus es invidia—non tu fera bella movebas;
    garrulus et placidae pacis amator eras.
ecce, coturnices inter sua proelia vivunt;
    forsitan et fiunt inde frequenter ****.
plenus eras minimo, nec prae sermonis amore
    in multos poteras ora vacare cibos.
nux erat esca tibi, causaeque papavera somni,
    pellebatque sitim simplicis umor aquae.
vivit edax vultur ducensque per aera gyros
    miluus et pluviae graculus auctor aquae;
vivit et armiferae cornix invisa Minervae—
    illa quidem saeclis vix moritura novem;
occidit illa loquax humanae vocis imago,
    psittacus, extremo munus ab orbe datum!
optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris;
    inplentur numeris deteriora suis.
tristia Phylacidae Thersites funera vidit,
    iamque cinis vivis fratribus Hector erat.
Quid referam timidae pro te pia vota puellae—
    vota procelloso per mare rapta Noto?
septima lux venit non exhibitura sequentem,
    et stabat vacuo iam tibi Parca colo.
nec tamen ignavo stupuerunt verba palato;
    clamavit moriens lingua: 'Corinna, vale!'
Colle sub Elysio nigra nemus ilice frondet,
    udaque perpetuo gramine terra viret.
siqua fides dubiis, volucrum locus ille piarum
    dicitur, obscenae quo prohibentur aves.
illic innocui late pascuntur olores
    et vivax phoenix, unica semper avis;
explicat ipsa suas ales Iunonia pinnas,
    oscula dat cupido blanda columba mari.
psittacus has inter nemorali sede receptus
    convertit volucres in sua verba pias.
Ossa tegit tumulus—tumulus pro corpore magnus—
    quo lapis exiguus par sibi carmen habet:
"colligor ex ipso dominae placuisse sepulcro;
    ora fuere mihi plus ave docta loqui".

mein gott... in English it reads so smoothly reading
it while listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
B-sides... quixoticelixer...
teatra jam (short)... and then thinking about it...
through to and through Going Li coupled
with trouble in the pub (instrumental version)...

i will never own a car...
              mind you: i already secretely own a house...
if i keep appeasing my mother and my father:
when reality kicks in and they're dead and i'm
project solo... it's not like i'm waiting for the day...
they are hoarders of shoes and screws...
literally... no metaphor...
  on my own: i will have to recycle so much ****
before i will put the house on the market...
and? i never pledged any allegiance to Essex...
England... i have: pledged an allegiance
to the English tongue...
                 but if not the Shetland Islands...
north... "god" send me north! even as far as
Greenland!
                i'm not willing to die in a place where
villages are flaring up in a July heat...

i can't bemoan what i honestly couldn't keep...
i sometimes get mad at my father for being
so submissive to my mother...
i sometimes get so mad at my mother for only
being able to talk about her chronic pains:
i'm alligned with my grandmother
who once said: she's just like your paternal
great-grandmother... every itch and scratch...
it's like writing with chalk on a blackboard...
hey presto! ruptures of the Grand Canyon...
that ******* bollocking of: ooh! ah!
           me? i don't understand people with tattoos...
me? i collect scars...
these two fading ones on my face are a disappointment...
i thought something more pronounced
could be kept from that bicycle-crach Francis Bacon
esque imitation of painting:
   the sort of painting where you can still revel
in brush-strokes being visible...
   because it's not rigid: Renaissance form painting...

now: i can sort of imagine what men couple up...
those who fear being alone...
those not interested in art...
those mostly interested in sport... but not all sport...
just some sports...
sports that they support "passing their lineage"
with according to the cult of football teams...
not all-sports... i.e. not an interest in fencing...
swimming... certainly guys who thought:
wow! tennis is great to watch!
   but squash is so much more fun to play!
cycling... well... if you love cycling per se:
watching other people cycle is a bit: BOO-RING...
what sort of other men get married?
probably those not interested in risque ***
with prostitutes...
ones interested in making money for a woman
to spend...
me? i'm not interested in money...
                       in terms of money:
i'm more likely to spend £30 on a book than
think about a dinner date...
                      
is that...   ??? i'm not even going to ask myself
that question that begins with a buzz-word
and the letters Mmmm... miso...
                             well... what is a boy to do...
figure out what to do with his spare time...
               i don't mind cleaning the house:
who ever said that it's the duty of a woman to keep
the house clean? i like living in a household in order...
i love cooking: it's like chemistry 2.0...
                      give me a bag of Indian spices and i'll
cook up a perfect storm of a curry...
but then again: i'm not work-shy when it comes
to using heavy-duty tools akin to the KANGO...
which... i later found out was a Japanese word for
Chinese in general... or the other way round...
i'd hate to be one of those Phil Collins types of
forgetting how many hands i have
by changing gloves like i might be an octopus...

and when it comes to children?
eh... it's enough for a boy in a buggy in a supermarket
pointing his finger at me as i walk past
making that chimpanzee face of OOH at me...
or a fist-bump with some teenagers at the London
Stadium... that's enough... i'm happy to play
the "secret uncle" role...
while women remain women: as fickle as the wind...
i've learned to live with that reality...
i scratch my beard and pretend that i'm playing
a violin...

plus, i'm a terrible drinker... i'm a loving-drunk...
i'm drunk right now...
if a litre of whiskey per night satisfies
my libido shortages i'm happy:
it implies i can write... i stop drinking and start
*******: alles goot...
                           today i was visited by a wasp...
i was visited by a bee before...
oh man... it was heart-breaking...
he was dying... i had to help him...
   i poured some honey onto the pave-,
and moved him towards the puddle...
he stuck his mighty Gene Simmons sucker out
and started to perform an OD on sugar...
i was glad... watching him die from a sugar-overdose...
it was: rather pleasant to watch...

TERROR! mix JAINISM with TAOISM
and fuse that in an European mind...
               but i'll still eat meat...
                        it's a parody of what's to be expected:
i prefer life with the possibilities of change...
with... curiosities of: extensive ulterior
possibilities that run counter to estblished norms
of expectations of a RIGID MIND...
i water: i flow...
      i fire: i dance...
i air: i whirl...
i earth: i rumble...
i lightning: i blink...
hey presto! the five elements!

in another language close to my heart:
since i was born with it...
the pronoun disappears:
ja woda: płyne
ja ogien: tańcze...
   ja powietrze: kręce się (odd)
ja ziemia: trzęse się (also "odd")
ja grzmot: mrygam

there are languages in existence where pronouns
hide... to be honest...
in ******? the pronouns are rarely used...
oh mein gott... when they're used in a sentence:
esp. the I... it's like... wow! i just found
a "nugget of gold"!
seriously... that how my mother-tongue
is structured: on English is the current
prounoun-circus available to watch...
i'm siding with the Somali pirates having
a giggle... playing blackjack with either Greeks
or some other Africans...

there are languages in English that cannot: will not,
succumb to the current Marxist onslight
happening in this tongue...
not because these languages will not:
they CANNOT...
mind you... it's such an intellectual low-bar
of achievement... but since it's piggy-pop...
it must be slaughtered on an individual level
before this DISEASE is allowed to spread...
thank heavens that English is only my second
language... how that allows me to bypass
buying into any sort of propaganda...
   my lingua Ingelese... my tongue for spreading
ideas...
    oh: and thank **** i' expressing in a medium
desecrated by the same people pushing these
sordid ideas... post-humous fame! 'ere i come!
obviously! who's in it for the "real" and immediate
if one isn't... fabricating a pickling of a shark
in plastic.... who? who?! woof!
   a-woooooo"

            my heart has shrunk and hardened to
the size and hardness of a pebble...
    i wish i could entertain cosy nights with a woman
watching some pointless movie about
the stereotypes of love... then again: no...
i'd rather not...
drinking alone: who the hell said i was alone?
i sometimes "hallucinate" someone crying:
of late... i'm like: this isn't Aud Lang Syne...
this isn't Shakespear...
then again i love the idea that my true readers
are yet to be born...
i'm happy, happy-bear-alone...
                       a Maine **** is sleeping in my
bed... i'll join him come the right hour...
but he's not looking at me... he's looking above me...
only yesterday i started to paparazzi
a wasp that flew into my bedroom...
          what the **** do i have above me?
please say letters... i will not do alright with a halo...
i'm not going to join that
archangel one minute... saint the next...
clip my ******* wings for a get-through-easy
card: no!
          
it became finalized today... i'm literally tired
of ***... i'm tired of *** when it's equivalent to not...
being tired of eating food... drinking water...
it's unnecessarily-necessary... *** as golf...
per say...
                2 months of delay in payment...
i'm thinking about rekindling my affair with that mountain
bike... i have to forget the streets...
i need the woods again... but for that i need new tires...
oh... hell... i no longer have anything
to prove in the brothel... blah blah whatever...
threesomes look great: LOOk...
like a block of cheddar looks great...
when shredded...
and then melting...
perhaps in pornographic flicks...
but in reality? the changing of condoms
from one mouth to another...
from one ****** to another...
                          
what?! peiple are having unprotected ***?
vermin ****?!
   **** me... well... at least i'm obnoxiously savvy
in that regard...
no no... it's too disappointing...
you have to split your attention up...
there's nothing good about a *******...
why? because, usually... of the two girls...
there's one you really want to be a screwdriver to...
while the other is just being a, *******...
a ******* bandwagon... leftovers...
a pair of **** you get to imitate ****** with...
it's a bit like:
coupling an elephant with a giraffe...
but i want to ride the elephant!
but i want to stroke the giraffe's neck!
but  i want to pretend the elephants's tusk...
no! not tusk! TRUNK....
that rectangular bit of ******* you shovel
your clothes in when travelling...
TRUNK... or a TRAMPOLINE!
no... not the bouncy layer...
TRUNK... sneeze! trambone! jazz! ******* Miles Daisies!
Davis!  trumpet *******!
no... don't get me started on the sax...

then again: i want a rhino's horn! ram-jam...
Black Betty Bam B'eh Lam!

- oh no... i moved along... R.H.C.P.'s: thanks for the t-shirt...
Big Bukowski style:
i hate the eagles... run through the jungle...
run Forrest! whun!
WHUN!
  and that's me... hardly a LAMNTIA of the Beatniks
tripping... me? enough whiskey
and the right song... and i'm grooving beside
an imaginary drum-kit...
in that: once upon a time...
when men grew their hair long...
they were the barbarians knocking
on the gates of Rome... rather than being
the implosion of Rome within with
all of Rome's degeneracy of transgender gimmicks...

mind you: i've given it some thought...
i broke it down toward the following schematic:

anonymous audience, commenting,
video making blah blah...
****** "schematic": if you can call it that...
mind you: the VAR in WIETNAM
had the best soundtrack...
just saying: hey! her?! hey! don't shoot
the messanger!
i'd rather work the Fulham opening night
with the new stand: Thames-side being opened
than attend Wembley for a Westwood...
Westworld... Westlife concert,
i'm all up for handling those Scousers:
northern monkeys?
southern fairies...
let's just call them for what they are...
northern TOURISTS...

but the dynamic of publishing has changed:
i already know the criterium first...
women and children first...
THIRST beccause water matters...
i'm thirsty too... one litre of whiskey and
i'm still typing like a machine...
i'll box my liver and kidneys
as long as i keep my brain and eyes happy...

but it's just a different dynamic...
the internet experience...
i know a lot of people miss it...
i can't force people to read my bollocking-riddles...
ergo? i don't stagnate into celebrating it
or therefore advertising it...
i'm either read or i'm STAUB...
   dust...
                
i can't! i'm only making something available...
i can't force people out of their democratic "wedlock"...
you like it? great! you don't? great!
but the psychology of those video creators that
mind how many views they receive and
how many comments they: likewise receive...
"false hits" with the number of hits of viewership?

me? i'm not bothered... i've been watching
the female Euro finals...
i was almost scared... what if the female England team
don't make it to the finals?!
me? i'm gearing up...
any rowdy hooligans up to speed?!
as much as i hate women not trying toi compete
in sports that are sexually-exclusive...
there's this... THIS... i watch the games because
the Colleseum is burning...
i'm only watching the fire...
    and i'm watching the women i'd love to ****...
this never would have happened if watching
tennis...

    the crisp biting attache of a sharpshooter
WONG sort of mixer-mix-up with a whiskey
and a pepssi...
me... reaching for a second glass
with one already filled like: *******... RAINMAN...

keep your horses!
i'm gearing up to a translation!
wait, the, ****, up! keep it cool in Doob-Lyn!
oh no... you don't get to tell me
i use too many vowels without me showing
you... you mishandled the vowel-to-consonant
dynamic... Doob-Lyn is Dublin: tow me...
no: not to me? tow me... now you're dragging me
along the snail-trail...

the disparaging translations:

(B) the A. S. Kline translation

Parrot, the mimic, the winged one from India’s Orient,
is dead – Go, birds, in a flock and follow him to the grave!
Go, pious feathered ones, beat your ******* with your wings
and mark your delicate cheeks with hard talons:
tear out your shaggy plumage, instead of hair, n mourning:
sound out your songs with long piping!
Philomela , mourning the crime of the Thracian tyrant,
the years of your mourning are complete:
divert your lament to the death of a rare bird –
Itys is a great but ancient reason for grief.
All who balance in flight in the flowing air,
and you, above others, his friend the turtle-dove, grieve!
All your lives you were in perfect concord,
and held firm in your faithfulness to the end.
What the youth from Phocis was to Orestes of Argos,
while she could be, Parrot, turtle-dove was to you.
What worth now your loyalty, your rare form and colour,
the clever way you altered the sound of your voice,
what joy in the pleasure given you by our mistress? –
Unhappy one, glory of birds, you’re certainly dead!
You could dim emeralds matched to your fragile feathers,
wearing a beak dyed scarlet spotted with saffron.
No bird on earth could better copy a voice –
or reply so well with words in a lisping tone!
You were snatched by Envy – you who never made war:
you were garrulous and a lover of gentle peace.
Behold, quails live fighting amongst themselves:
perhaps that’s why they frequently reach old age.
Your food was little, compared with your love of talking
you could never free your beak much for eating.
Nuts were his diet, and poppy-seed made him sleep,
and he drove away thirst with simple draughts of water.
Gluttonous vultures may live and kites, tracing spirals
in air, and jackdaws, informants of rain to come:
and the raven detested by armed Minerva lives too –
he whose strength can last out nine generations:
but that loquacious mimic of the human voice,
Parrot, the gift from the end of the earth, is dead
The best are always taken first by greedy hands:
the worse make up a full span of years.
Thersites saw Protesilaus’s sad funeral,
and Hector was ashes while his brothers lived.
Why recall the pious prayers of my frightened girl for you –
prayers that a stormy south wind blew out to sea?
The seventh dawn came with nothing there beyond,
and Fate held an empty spool of thread for you.
Yet still the words from his listless beak astonished:
dying his tongue cried: ‘Corinna, farewell!’
A grove of dark holm oaks leafs beneath an Elysian *****,
the damp earth green with everlasting grass.
If you can believe it, they say there’s a place there
for pious birds, from which ominous ones are barred.
There innocuous swans browse far and wide
and the phoenix lives there, unique immortal bird:
There Juno’s peacock displays his tail-feathers,
and the dove lovingly bills and coos.
Parrot gaining a place among those trees
translates the pious birds in his own words.
A tumulus holds his bones – a tumulus fitting his size –
whose little stone carries lines appropriate for him:
‘His grave holds one who pleased his mistress:
his speech to me was cleverer than other birds’.

(C) the  P. Green translation

parrot, that feathered mimic from India's dawlands,
is dead. come flocking, birds, to his funeral:
come, all you godfearing airborne creatures,
beat ******* with wings,
   mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers
(your hair), and pipe high your sad lament.
Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crimes of Tereus
which you lament is long past -
    divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique.
all wind-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean
lament now, and above all his friend the turtle-dove
they lived in complete agreement,
    their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes or Argos, that Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while fate allowed.
yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful
plumage,
your adaptable mimic's voice;
    not even the care that my darling lavished on you -
poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead.
so gree his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald;
scarlet his beak, with saffron spots.
no bird on earth could copy a voice more closely
or sound so articulate.
fate, jealous, removed him - that unaggressive creature,
that talktative devotee of peace,
with his tiny appetite , whose love of conversation
left him little leisure for food,
who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage
sound sleep: kept his thirst at bay with nothing but water.
quails spend their whole life fighting -
maybe that's how they reach a ripe old age.
carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens,
weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come,
are all long-lived - while Minerva's bête noire, the raven,
can outlast nine generations. yet Parrot is dead,
that loquacious parody of human utterance,, that bonanza
from the eastern edge of the world,
greedy death almost always pickss off the best ones early -
it's the third-raters who reach a ripe old age.
Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus;
Hector was ashes while his brothers still lived.
what point is recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart
uttered?
some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea.
six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh,
his thread of destiny ran out.
yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance,
and the last words he ever spoke were: 'Corinna, farewell!'
beneath a hill in Elyium, where dark ilex clussters
and the moist earth is for ever green,
there exists - or so i have heard - the pious fowls' heaven
(all ill-omened predators barred).
harmless swaans roam after foot there, there dwells
the phoenix, that long-lived, ever-solitary bird;
there Juno's peacock spreads out his splendid fantail
amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves;
and there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful
welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk.
his bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus
with a tiny headstone bearing these words:
r.i.p. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress:
articulate beyond a common bird

the thought of LEMONS or perhaps
the IDEA of lemon...
then again: i can't refrain from
ORANGES and LIMES...
and the shy-sunlight of autumn
and the blooming of apples...
and operas...
             "someone"...
                              what pretty pies of
unfuckable wonders await...

divert your grief to the obsequeies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique
(antiquated?).
all wind-borne voyagers through tge clear empyrean
lament nowm abd above all
his friend the turtle-dove, they lived in complete
agreement
   their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while Fate allowed,

i'm not even going to bother with a "bananna C"...
i woke up wild-awake with ideas...
brimming with Tao...
"non-doing" id est: point PROVEN
or rather point SERVED?!

Russia and China are clashing...
or rather sparring...
they're having their civilization-state
agenda being put in place...
while there's a "culture-war" in the "west"...
right... James Bond...
so we're refrrering to nation-stattes
as post-nationhood...
  "states"...
                    precursors to the globalist agenda
of fake space exploration via the ******* telescope...
if Russia and China are civivilasation-states...
then... whatever culture "war" is investing in:
or rather: digressing into... impliies
the FSA (federal states of america)
             is a culture-state...
                                                ­                 no?

personally? i don't like the current h'American culture...
it's absolute *******...
no! i'm not going to translate any more of Ovid...
i already read the better translation...
i found out only two minites ago that
i prefer drinking to having ***...
and keeping an eye on cats is just as rewarding
as rearing children: if you allow yourself
to give them a personality...

           so Russia is a civilisation-state...
while America is a culture-state...
                    well... no wonder...
                                            America is the zenith
that could be: but doesn't have to be
preserved...
the culture-state-of-the-sand-*******...
i wish: the Arabs clocked in lucky...
sitting on so much raw ill of oil...
bounce bounce libido bounce bounce...

hmm... "inner monologue"... i had that "thing"
once... i kost it... turning psychotic...
then again: within the confines of having
an internal monologue? i was passive...
       i was a passive agent...
                         upon losing it: having my soul
evaporate: becoming an "N.P.C."...
i became an active agent...
i opened my eyes a second time...

           i think my inner monolpogue became blocked
by:
został wyciszony... bo zaczoł być cykliczny,
tzn. nie po prostej:
       wymarł według koncepcji
sprawiedliwości...

even i know: the gods uttered the words:
shut the **** up! we know you're right!
but we're playing roulette!
shut the ******! we're playing cards!
shut up!
wait! wait your turn!
**** me, given the prowess at attaing
a concept of the differential of space comparing
time... i.e. speed... i'll be karma-happy
once i die...

i'm not translating the rest of that Ovid...
a girl's parraot died... great!
now i'm thinking about:
a bicyckle is a terrible idea... to ride...
on the roads towards St. Paul's... i think i might
require a horse!
i need a horse! bring me a hood, a hoof,
an apple and a toothbrush!
the last place i'm thinking about moving
to is California...
   and thank no god for that...
just the people who already live there.

III.

i sooner discovered the rare B-sides of Red Hot Chilli
Peppers than having realised... oh right...
they release two albums after By the Way...
i completely forgot about those two...
               guess i'm not as big a fan as i thought i was...
Go Robot... it's not oh so wo terrible now, or anymore...
oh woah woe... what a whale to ride into the night...

sometimes it just happens, a sort of blend of an Ezrra Pound
and a Charles Olson moment, poem, moment-poem...
it stretches for three days and you just don't want
to finish it... you kept repeating yourself writing seemingly
aimlessly with no focus...
at this point writing becomes theraputic...
by the simple act of writing: not theraputic regarding
what you're writing about: memories of frustration and
complications having finished Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus...
unlike those joyous frustrations with Samuel Beckett's
Watt...
                  and on the third day "he" finished painting
four metal chairs a new colour of copperhead...
a copperneck painting chairs copperhead...
to me the colour of copper is more appealing than
that of gold...

if i still had that inner-monologue people speak of
i wouldn't be writing this,
that inner-monologue fantasy i once was a proud owner
of: i.e. the closest "thing" to the idea of soul
was also filled with so many doubts...
i simply don't care what the supposed benefits
of it were... that whole no-inner-monologue ergo
one's an NPC (non-playable character)...
    i remember that that when my first psychotic episode
slammed me on a rampage i started to see DIFFERENTLY...
it was as if a veil was lifted from my eyes...
if i didn't write terrible poetry back then...
i most certainly wrote very little...
             the inner-monologue doubts... a plethora of them...
no? psychosis = the osmosis of soul...
   the body has remained... the devils said:
but these idle hands and this idle intellect have to stay...
we'll pass on the message with your soul
as it leaves your body...
call it whatever you want:
   res vanus or the silence of the "mind"...
that's how you become more of an active agent...
it might be called writing but i call it digging...
a tunnel toward some variaton of: marrying Hades
with Tartarus...
                after all... Venus is the daughter of titans...
and she's the only Titan among the Olympian gods:
such is her perfection... almost on par with
   the patron of philosophers that's Sacred Sophia:
who entertains the foolishness of elder men
without being able to tell them apart from boys...

IV. if i were to translate Amores II. XI

would i be willing to add a D in the translation sequence?
i don't think so
there's no need... i like comparing the two i already
made available...
i just wanted to stress how unbelievable Latin is...
compared to the modern tongue, for example English...
how compact it is!
- and course, i prefer the second translation...
     it... exfoliates!
                     this is the point for me where i truly appreciate
Ovid to be on par with Horace...

side by side walking through the zenith-nadir of
man...

   i'm finally come across a sequence of events that
make me unwilling to stop typing: perhaps if i get
drunk enough and stumble on my first typo
perhaps a series of typos would end my ambition...

do i think men in the west are living
in a land of libido-insomnia? i think they are...
whoever said that watching one type of pornogrphy
soon spirals out of control and men start
scouting for more extreme *******:
hello outlier A! hello outlier B!
where's outlier C? oh... he's coming...
at a time when women are supposed to be these
sexually liberated creatures while men
are either STAGS with harems or limp biscuit *****...
thank god i managed to catch the train
of having the ***** of walking into a newsagent
and buying a pornographic magazine to ******* to...
stashed about six in a folder behind
the radiator in the bathroom at 21B Beehive Lane,
Gants Hill...
                         mind you: i started prematurely...
8?
     i switch off with western ****** antics:
people are either having too much ***: ergo the kinks
or not enough of it...
outlier in the middle: when it's too hot
i leave the insects to do their lineage pride...
cooler temperatures: *** like rubbing sand-paper
on a ****** paint-job...

                         makeshift boney **** of the hand...
well: at least ******* makes me more interested in
the **** than **** ***...
but i did the opposite... i need to keep a sack-of-sanity
atop my head...
beside adoring the Katakana...
i very much adore Japanese tamed sexuality...
     グラビア アイドル (gurabia aidoru)...
back in the day when the English tabloid newspaper
the Sun had a page 3 girl...
back to basics... a show of *******...
    a show of cleavage... perhaps even the breast
like the eye... the sclera of the rounded breast...
the darkened skin at the iris and then the pupil
as the ******...
  floral patterns of the *******...
                  back to basics...
                           a photograph of a naked woman
and all the imagination at work: what wouldn't
i want to do with her?

well... if you begin pleasing yourself while concentrating
on the kiss between Venus and Cupid
in one of Bronzino's beauties of paint-strokes...
you're hardly going to go down a rabbit-hole
of "hide and hide": wihtout seeking it out...
people and thier kinks...
while a minority: dodo-project sexuality of
homosexuality is celebrated: garnerded unto the guise
of "pride": i can't stomach shame...
but hey: look at me! i'm about to parade my sexuality
like and ******* latex-clad gimp readied
for being given ***-favour-orders...

outlandish! god-forgiving god-fearing...
  hardly every god-loving...
           a settling in of a blue that's not the sky
but a melancholy... i'm finally willing to end this
"diatribe"... to start afresh... again and again...
like mixing: Dreams of a Samurai with
Hans Zimmer's spectres in the fog...

                      my ***: going back to figuring out
the premature adventures into ***...
one boy passing on the secrets of *******
to another while sharing a bath:
the cruel curiosity of the circumcision:
in a secular environment: without the kippah
or the niqab: the submission of the women...
i will not give up the "sheath" to my "sword"...
i will keep my teeth with my twirling tongue...
if ever an improvement on the aesthetics?
clipping the ears of Dobberman dogs...
banning clipping the clipping of their tails...
but still: the preserved atrocity of male circumcision...
i could agree...
once a woman is devoted to her man...
a circumcision like putting on a wedding ring...
noble swans... oh noble swans...

a melancholy that's sort of azure...
amass enough water and you will see blue...
amass "too little": freeze it...
a paleness somewhat grey...
but then the icebergs roaming that are
the Cistercians...
            all i need right now is for some lonely
dog to start barking into the night...
or the cackling "laughter" of a fox...
    
    but all those sexless lives...
            "lucky" me for taming my consumption down...
where would i be without it?
i didn't ask for a *******...
i wa offered it... i will never forget how she clamoured
for the opportunity...
she couldn't stomach being rejected twice...
she just had to clamour like a crab in a crab bucket...
even if she thought she thought she succeeded:
she was the spare wheel...
what i've learned... i prefer one-on-one interactions...
but i gave in...
   it would have never worked out:
not like it "works out" in pornographic flicks...
the sharing of saliva and other juices...
we're responsible adults...
unlike in the pornographic flicks...
          two women: one man...
the changing of condoms...
                           i had to think quick:
there's only one way i will not be undermined...
snuggling up to the one i really wanted
to spend an hour with...
                       kissing neck and cheek...
while she did a hand-job...
   the other just sat there sort of idle...
                          until i figured out... those *******
could be of some use...

- i couldn't pull off a Jesus look...
long hair and a beard is not my "thing"...
even with a sly undercut...
i chose the better option.... short hair, a beard, yes,
but a "fu manchu": an elongated love-spot...
competing with the length of the beard...
i really "don't understand" why i have no memory
of my chin and neck...
it's like there was never the idea of using
water as a mirror... perhaps poor Xerxes lashed
at the Aegean for hiding his reflection
when he had one of those Narcisstic moments
of anguish: he forgot how he looked like...
but then the sides of the moustasche also drooping:
elongated... that work much better than
a beard and long hair...
it's so unfashionable these days...
i don't get why men think beards and long hair
"work"....

then again i never figured out why Khadira
wanted to have unprotected ***...
  how she insisted that it was just plain o.k.
for me to ******* into her...
how i snapped and dived in into her pandamonium
of multiples springs of irritated ****...
all slobbering with oyster-tongue
and knose...
                               all that informed me...

companionship? what a rare commodity...
it's enough to have a mother to know
how a woman's company can quickly sour
the already sweet grapes...
one word: tell a man he's LAZY...
while he's just tired of being pushed and shoved...
if a mother can do that to a son?
what could a wife do?
                          and i'm come across curiosities of
men who waged wars with their mothers...
at the Tyson Fury boxing match...
i was trying to calm the **** down a guy
who was having a panic attack after being
"abandoned" by his mother...
who bought the tickets... and drinks...
i squeezed him hard... told him: but i'm here for free!
nay! i'm here and getting paid for it!
blah blah...
               i hate seeing panic attacks in men...
it makes me either feel like
more than a man or less of a man...
it makes me think of the men prior
with shell-shocks... or women exploiting
the challenges of p.t.s.d.

                                    i've seen so many people fake
a mental illness... i've spoken at length
to them... how easily open up to their own struggles...
while i'm left alone with whatever ones
i have...
                   maybe because my "mental health issues"
have morphed into philosophical caviats
implies that i'm immune to outright sharing
the details... and boring people to death...
so i listen...
        i listen...
                            in one ear out the other...

i remember days in high school when we would love
to change the subject, create a game:
SLAP-BALL... imitation of Tsar Peter III prior
to tennis... an imitation court... with a fence between us...
or just playing BLACKJACK...
cards... that was big... we understood that ignoring
women was best done with / by playing cards...
at one point: i remember it to this day...
Samuel Richards grabbed Ian Goodman's neck
and pinned him to the floor...
we tried to intervene...
i don't know whether it was about the actual
game of cards or whether it was about
Sam bailing out... he was about to move to France...
and ****** off from pur in-group...
started playing basketball with the black-boys...
forgot he was supposedly the "PUNK" in the school...
i remember skateboarding with him...
he actually stole his mother's credit card and bought
a skateboard for me...
but his ******* MOHICAN was ****...
it didn't entertain the entire length of his skull
meeting his spine...
but we did walk back from Romford
toward Ilford this one night...
underage drinking... singing Backstreet Boys songs...

ha ha...
         time is a museum of melancholy...
while space is a museum of furthering whatever is left
of leftover potential...

i'm so despondent about this life having to end...
today i cycled up to the traffic lights
on my ******... ******?! £125 viking road bike... say the word
****** one more time... what was i facing?
a solitary man in an Aston Martin...
behind him? some solitary guy in a Porsche...
right... "alphas"...
i'm on my bicycle... but these two guys
in those choicest of motor-examples?
that's the thing with "competing" in life rather than
sport...
     i like my bicycle... i love my bicycle...
i am yet to wash away the blood from my head
from the crash...
i don't have a broken leg: i just have an outgrowth of bone
on my shin where my bone should have cracked:
i love milk...

competing with these men... **** me...
i was thinking about the Porsche guy...
nice game... but it's not playing cards...
i taart myself up: compete...
what do i get? i get a Porsche...
     but then ahead of me there's this guy
in an Aston Martin: mate! i'm ******!
oh blue blue Hue... the Aston Martin looked like
the bomb that is already was...
the Porsche? the Porsche looked like
a ******* Ford Mondeo by comparison...
Civic Extra... if that's even a car...
i was sort of happy to by cycling...
i figured... well: i'm not using my legs...
to walk... i'm peddling...

ever heard the expression "push-bike"?
i heard that only recently... what a werid coupling
of words... a motorcycle is distinguished from
a a bicycle by the term: "push-bike"
this half-brain-dead coworker...
what the **** am i pushing?!
it's just as weird as calling it a peddling-bicycle, no?
eh?
but what am i pushing? a bicycle is a bicycle
a turtle is a turtle... i still have to figure out
what's being pushed...
what comes first? the donkey, the carrot, or the stick?!

mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
keep nurturing the spacing between numbers
but also keep lost track of the alphebticaal
queue...
never the type to rehash a refurbishment
of SPAWN...

           i simply don't want this day-dream to end...
around me people cowering into sleep...
i'm left in limbo...
            between consetllations and the scythe
of the moon... dearest: moooooon...
i'm itching to break the silence with a howl...
but first: the thirst of a dog barking...
i hear a dog barking i'll start to howl!

aren't we simply becoming the same
tired people of old?
              more impetus...
more gravity! more fire! more tides!
more the quaking of the earth!
more whirlwinds! more! more!
one Pompeii is not enough!

                       almost one litre of whiskey
into the session and i'm sober-tense...
i'm starting to think that entertaining
hell is not a bad "gimmick"...
                  there's the imaginary hell-crowd
and there' some also doubly-imaginary
crowd of people that yet to be bound to imitation-migration
focus...
           next time you ask me:
i'd rather be eating ice: crunching on
ice than drinking water...
i want to burn my tongue...
licking ice...l i want to burn my tongue
licking ice: but first i want to be dipping
it in coridnader-cumin-chilli-turmeric mix-up
of spiders...

i want to first bruise my knees before
i lick them clean...
i want the strict juices of: not tomatoes?
red is red: ergo blood is blood...
vulture ****...
there's an open window:
there's an evaporating night too...

best refrain: 6 by 6s refrain on 9s...
since? there's plenty of 0s / oopses...
by this "flesh and blood"...
i heave this sand and timer
like: i was sadly woken up with
an inheritance of salt...
boiling blue bloods and boiling gravy...
a smile that reads: clenched teeth...
a smile so awkward that
it make^ a parrot think twice about
imitating human speech.

^a notable typo, i think i might require an editor
(insert a snigger); two alternatives:
1. it might make a parrot think twice,
2. a smile so awkward that it makes a parrot think twince...
all depending on the tense.

Mind is a super computer they say.
It can think of millions of stuff in a matter of day.
From the bombings in Iraq,
to the hurt in my best friends heart.

From the moment its up,
It never stops,
To stop. Blink or breathe.
It keeps running at night.
The subconscious consumes power.
Often leaving the mind tired at the break of dawn.

When it meets people,
it reads the signs at many levels.
Subject of talk,
Body language.
Positivity of the vibes,
The way the person jives.
A handshake.
A wink.
A hug.
A swiftly made jug
It notices everything.

In all this processing.
It accumulates a lot of clutter!
And the mind with all the confusing thoughts,
becomes like hot butter!
Sparks fly like an electronic of fire!
And it needs something to distract it.

What works best is a bit of exercise.
A bit of chattering,
Or writing it all out.

Some find solace in Games or Movies.
Why do they work?
Because they engage all senses,
And make the mind groovy.

Smoking and doping do great too.
But reducing the processors of our mind to grade two!
Hallucinating and dreaming 80% of it.
The mind thinks its being more productive that most of it.

But illusions destroy us further.
Making the mind believe it’s just another wonder.
Wonder though it is.
Using only 10% of it we create,
Science, History, Mystery,
But this wonder has a lot on bate.
If it goes in the wrong direction.
Even thinking too much is an addiction!

Original thoughts are like endorphins to the mind.
Making it jump and do cartwheels inside.
Stimulating discussions are named that way,
Because engaging in one makes us jumpy all day.
It satisfies the mind that,
I have done something constrictive besides,
Whiling my days in sorrow,
and waiting for the morrow.

Mind is like a baby that need attention,
if not given that it runs in all directions.
Mind is a super computer that needs,
the dedication of a programmer.

Be that programmer and feed your mind the right numbers,
And see it become the eighth wonder!

Jug- short for juggle.

Arduous late Winter
woes amplify in February
false hope

We’re all sick
of constrictive clothes
and cold climes conducive to staying in

Cabin fever running rampant
45° t-shirts & sunglasses
everyone driving with their windows down  

Hoping Vernal rituals
performed early will
hasten Spring’s arrival

I’m done
fed up
ready to move on

Going crazy in the cold
writhing to get moving unimpeded
by frigidness and snow

I’m ready for Spring
for Summer
for Fall

I’m ready for the scent
of thawing soil in the air
biking in the Sun, verdance, and flowers in bloom

I’m ready for grass between my toes
Fireflies, crickets, peepers
and warm night stars


I’m sick of frost reddened runny raw noses
sick of numb fingers and toes
and having precious few daylight hours

I’m sick of combatting glacial winds with layers,
of treacherous icy apathy,
and dreary bleak boredom

I’m sick of not being able to sit on the ground
sick of long pants, long socks, long sleeves,
and silent stagnant long nights

So, despite the fact
that I’ll pine for January
every day over 90°

Despite the fact
that when mosquitoes swarm
I’ll wish a frost would **** the little *******

and despite the fact
I’ll get just as fed up
with temperate seasons

I still want Spring
and then Summer
and then Fall

But February brings false hope
and despite the lengthening cheery sun
months still stand

between us and t-shirt weather
mild nights, grassy hills,
  and emancipation from an inclement icebox atmosphere

I like all different kinds of music. As cliche as it sounds, it's true. I could never understand how people say that their favorite genre of music is just "rock" or plain "rap". Single syllables, especially when applied to musical preference, tend to make my muscles tighten up. It's just too constrictive for me. I like words/genres like "Alternative Jazz" or "Riot Grrrl". "******* Electro" and "Psychedelic/Soul". The words themselves just sound more appealing. Seriously, when will you ever hear the words "psychedelic" and "soul" in the same breath? Let alone the same connected phrase with a slash between them?

By far though, my favorite genre of music has to be "Dream Pop". I love the music. With all it's soothing, relaxing, hazy beats and lovely, distorted vocals but that isn't the real reason I call it my favorite. The reason I do is the words "Dream" and "Pop". The two words together bring about such vibrant imagery for me. Dreams, to me, mean a lot. I'll have a really exciting one and won't be able to shake the atmosphere of them for the entire day afterward. After a particularly scary one, I usually won't be able to get rid of that sense of doom and danger that always comes along with a horrifying nightmare. It's a bless and a curse but there's nothing like it. Especially for me.

And then there's the word "pop". Also a very image-inspiring word. You can pop a pimple. You can pop a bubble. You can eat an ice pop(sicle). You can say hello to your Pops. Pop, pop, pop. It's a very entertaining word. Short but sweet.

Put the two words together and you have one highly interesting phrase. "Dream Pop". It's so soothing and lovely. I really can't imagine a better combination of words.

i sit in a boat
and im so far from shore i have forgotten which direction the horizon follows me
i am so far from home the word sounds foreign and construed as an apology
i am so out of reach the seagulls will never dive deep enough
or swoop shallow and barely disturb the oceans sequence of tides and rhythms
to pick me up

i sit in a boat
the waves steady flow acts as a clock to keep me sane
it rocks me
it rocks my boat
back and forth in its tick tock motion
the fact that i haven't seen any fish glide by
and wrap themselves in the warmth of the crystals dancing on the top of the water
creates a feeling more violently lonely in the pit of my stomach
than the fact that i sit in a boat all alone

i sit in a boat
in the middle of the ocean
in the middle of nowhere
its easy to comprehend that there is nothing above me
the sky is a blank sheet of paper
the horizon falls all around me an encompasses me
looking up makes me lose time with the waves

its harder to comprehend the likelihood of nothing below me
when i fall in the water
and when i wave my arms towards the diamonds above me
when i blow air though my nose
and keep my eyes shut tight
when the water begins to get cold around my feet
towards my chest and on my shoulders
when the light green water that has comforted me like a mother
that has taught me like a father
the waves that have kept me in sane like a teacher
disintegrates into a dark murky black
so quickly i have no time to notice
where the pressure is too loud to hear any lessons
where the touch is so ice cold every hug feels like a constrictive hand around my throat

i sit in a boat
its easy to understand i am alone up above
no one calls dinnertime
no waves rock me to sleep
no birds call their mates
no bugs fall in and out of their reflections
its harder to fathom that
under the peak of the water
under the tired lazy strokes
i look intently and see nothing
i look intently and all i see is how
in an ocean that stretches forever
and falls off of the horizon
i was alone before i realized it
i was alone when the sun reached down
and bounced off of its blue playground
i was alone when it comforted me and i was alone when it choked me
all i have ever been
is completely alone

.pr.s.: well... if i am deluded? can i claim melancholly to be of equal ontological excuse to a flu... and say: i was infected by a mental illness? and there was never some, "mythical" origin of the illness... as you're sure i'm aware, i do not associate mental illness as having origin in a genesis of solipsism... there's nothing Kantian about it... for me... mental illness is very much an extension of virology... but this be the tempus for the crux of the body contra mind dichotomy... which since the 17th century hasn't been resolved... or has been... by the zombie squadron of the pharma-ingesting spooks of: awaiting a phobia of the white-coats urban myths... of course i fall to sleep thinking about killing someone... why wouldn't it? i end up eating a chicken the next day... what's the difference of a "somebody" for the worth of "something"?

whiskey,
           KMFDM...
very much akin
to ready to blow...

   nine inch nails...

the kids and the punk
and what
was industrial rigid...

and "being" white...
well...
if we're all going
to geneology
the whole "concern"
for history:

originating from
a people
with not tabloid
literature
having succumbed
to colonialization...

"save" the white women...
what?!
with not asian fetish?!
who, are, you?
teenage suicides
engaging in social
media...

             well...
Freddy Mercury was
just revived via:
another bites the dust...

what's agitating?
the inactive presence
of a screen,
that, i somehow need
to make tattoo of...

scripted rhapsody of
the believable people...
like:
people who arm their
psychology with
the orientation
of... "petting" tarantulas
or boa snakes...
touch all you want:
but try a second time
to extract character
and behavioural nuance
from these... "things"...

me?
voluntary celibate...
cenobite *** a
lost leash of leather straps...
every time i ****
off: the hand
becomes the ****...
grip and no soft pouch
of a cuddle of
****** in,
either lip, or...
no... i don't know
what a "missing"
******* feels like...

punk bores me...
punk always bored me...
esp.when championed
by commentators
alligned to...

do you know what
the entry criterion
for the proud boys
was?
   being punched...
no... not on the face...
and having to remember
a recital
of the pleb's favorite
cereal brands...

how about a new
limbo for the "worth"
of entry...

punching yourself
in the face
20+ times...
and then remaining silent...
while the history
of your mother's
****** exploits is
revealed to you
by your grandmother...

how's that?
i pet a cat, i *******,
shape of the water
(females *******),
i take a ****,
i take a ****:
yeah... sorry..
no scented candles,
no internet cameras...
did i coincide with
jordan b. peterson:
yes...
i will never **** these
women...
given they're
**** actresses from
the 1970s...

i, like: vintage...
quirky hair
with the...
gob's worth of *******'s
worth of scrap...
and a bullion
of throbbing quirk
looping lips...
  
i have assimilated
over 20 years in england,
3 years in scotland...
being asked: where are you
from?
like some ******* tourist...
****** me off...

was i going anywhere?
or... point being:
am i, "anywhere"?
ah...
so i am nowhere:
so reading Heidegger makes
a lot of sence, then?
given that
                    no
is no sein
          and that...
as much of where
                    is "there"...

but this sort of pedantic
address for the use of language,
does translate into
the habitual, and the "readily" given
use, concerning the "idle"
hands of a plumber...

a lay-job contra
the pedantic interest...
well... sure...
              we can succumb
to investigating contrasts
that are not worth the while
for being 2 x 2 rubric
statements...
having lost purpose
as 2 x 3...

thus, at times...
i almost forget...
      time...
                 that precedence
hierarchy...
  the precedence membrane
of who are allocated
the purpose of being
contemporary...

   i... somehow...
forget to dismember
the cradle mimic sound
of insect
(entombed in the cracking
wood),
with the rattling sound
of a lizard limbo...
to the R of the trill...
like... what gives off the same
found of creaking
footsteps,
or the burning of wood...
close approximate...

yet there are some people
who i know are not
deserving of a precedence
whether in hierarchy or...
but these people will
congest themselves
to a bite-luck quest
of argument in reproductive-recreation...
so?
failure escapes them
now...
   failure?
           will not escape them...

greeks might have
"invented"
1 + 1 = 2...
no argument, loose association...
but the hindu theologial
rubric, stating:

evil deed + apathy = good eventuality
                                       for all...
  is necessarily false,
is worth being negated...
i like the Hindu algebra
of time being both:
expansive, & constrictive...

    "my" world?
has already disappeared...
   by coincidence...
i've watched how...
            
    no... i'm not here to make sense,
to invest in a non-empirican
standard of a (0, 0) vortex
of beginning:
clinging to being perpetually
cleaned...
  amnesia-ridden...

         and even if i let my
ailment be known "to" or
"in", "public"...
                              the life of
a baker, or a butcher...
can't become overtly,
  "complicated"...
unless it's a genetic anomaly...
because a flu...
is a type of virsus...
poly-morph...
that is never...
    translated from person
to person...
mental illnesses are
never deemed worthy
of the strict scrutiny of
virology...
like...
all of thinking is safe...
and is not ridden with
       pathology...
  like... mental illness
is a hubris of medicine...
   like: all of medicine is
only physical,
and no metaphysics is handy...
how...
      
     like... mental illness is
such a pathology,
such a fetish,
that... it cannot be correlated
to something,
aking to the phenomenon
of propaganda...
  sure...
           the common flu...
i know where my mental "illness"
stems from...
a russian girlfriend...
who told me...
she was abducted as a child,
and *****,
and what not...
trying to excavate
an ******* from me...

mental illness?
   well... bilingual is the new ******...
and any personal
interaction is: worthy of
the... very understanding public...
you know what song
i have, to rely to lodged
in my mind?

   rob zombie's - michael...

me?
     yeah, i know:
a beard doesn't make a man...
then again...
i rather be subject to
something being itchy,
than itch for something...

proud boys:
you sure you joined the right club?
what... entry level of:
get punched by the "sharks"
having to cite breakfast cereals?!
wha......?
    it's like i'm tied with
this chick from Siberia...
    and i can't get be rid of her!
it's like:
we married...
   upon the cranium ring
of death being part of
our ceremony of fingers...
she ****** around,
i went to the *******...
   it's like: that ******* giggle of her's?
that **** is haunting...
russian milk skin...
some new variant of aristocracy...

so... proud boys...
get punched giving names of breakfast
cereals?!
right...

ever punch yourself in the face
to the point of giving 'erself
a plum-shadow?
****! better rewrite than in
"english":

          pflaumeschatten;

oh i'm married...
i'm ******* certain of it...
but the priest
wasn't a closet pedohpile...
it was whoever
the it that strangulates
my he to she and
her she to my she
of a St. Mort... or death...
yeah...
i'm married: post-scriptum...

punch yourself in the head
20 times for a black-eye,
and then tell me:
there is not an element
of virology
worth being investigated
in the realm
of mental illness...
common flue...
and...
being a girl who says prior
to wanting to *******:
i was abused as a child,
i was molested...

better death being the *******
priest
than some *******
dog-wishing leash of a:
scuttle for words & worms...

she can be as *******
randy as hell...
while i can have the "pleasure"
of having kissed several
prostitutes...
   marriage, inverted...
because i just can't stop
myself from seeing similarities
in...
   the public realm...
of...

the foul breath of the other's
ego...
  ****** for biling.
   psychotic for by 'er ego
  'ur ego too...
         it's like a marriage
of the anti-materialists,
the wedding ring of paupers...

mentall illness is so funny...
when having to compensate
its difficulty,
with the "difficulty"
of having to attire oneself
with the role of
being a supermarket cashier...

it's like:
this is medicine, yes?
so... what isn't metaphysics,
isn't exactly mental illness,
but a meta-illness...
  so... the orthodoxy of the scalpel...
heeeeeeeeeeeeeeee heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
******* fairground!
let's do circles and zigzags!

and that one *****
that told herself:
                   i have to get away....
my love has a grave
and i ****** well hope
there's only her name
on the crux of the marble...
and her ghost
******* my dead body
to boot.

spontaneous amnesia:
   well, you know,
something akin to further
a liking of something
just: hammer to the nail
apparent,
and for that matter: useful.

headphones plugged into
the laptop,
and everytime i want
to tap the repeat button
of a song...
i look sideways and at
the windowsill,
pretend to scratch my nose,
and find the hand
with no further utility...

not a rigid diagnosis
or a pre-mature dementia...
i have a bank's worth
of the brain to sift through...
they almost added the next
nodding parrot to
the unslept pillow of
the numbers of man...
via the rubrics of school...

even i can't believe that
university education
was a waste of time...
mind you: those 12 hours
a week in the chemisty
lab. were worth it...
esters...
   organic chemistry -
   and to think:
  if only, they made
perfumes in Scotland,
apart from the drinkable
amber of the 'ugh Scout...
wh'o would have known...

but this is unlike
that season 5, episode 11
**** switch from
the x-files...

                my internet rummaging:
basic,
    china shop, bull...
run in
and charge against
a cluster-**** of
      a presupposed cloud
of letters  

first attempt:

e f                                     /f
o o s o r o o l t                /o
e v r                                /r
e f e e n e s e l e              /e
v r
m                                     /y
n c o s c s s e s                    /s
u t                                          /u
t o m u b i                           /t
e l o                                    /l
t c y                           /m
t c                             /b
n s n i e c              /n
a a                          /a
c b s c c m i n c   /c
    n i s i i t             /i

the sentence?

for every subtle complaint
of conscience:
    consciousness becomes
limbo-state constrictive

rubric...

f f
o o o o o o o o o
r r r
e e e e e e e e e e
v v
y
s s s s s s s s s
u u
t t t t t t
l l l
m m m (anomaly in
the form of... the hierarchy
of chronology, i.e.:)
b b
n n n n n n
a a
       (second anomaly)
c c c c c c c c c
    i i i i i i

2nd attempt:
to showcase a "cloud":

**** it... copy &
paste, and stop pretending
bashing the mole
popping out from
a hole...
   this isn't quantum
mechanics...

                      s f
             c m c o o i s f s
           r r y e c e i s i e
                                 l o e s v
        r s v s o n e o s s
             e u n c i n t t e l l m c b
         b m n o t t o t a a  c n c e c o t o c
                                                      i n u e e i

****... i made another mistake:
how much does it take
to not make a mistake...
turning the picky-of-attempting
random...
of merely rearranging
letters in a simple sentence
to "resemble" a cloud
of... letters... atoms...

there was a time when staring
at the blank of a laptop screen,
and listening
to something by
nine inch nails was fun...
in the immediate
intermediate spent of 15 minutes...
the depth of idiocy reached
the depth of what
has become the suspect
total of man... me missing,
of course...

nothing new:
i guess i discovered the origin
of geometry...
or:

|
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and

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like some mongolian
****** pretending
to play the harmonica
by moving his
index against
a blurr of flapping lips...

me... throwing matchsticks
against an index
of a brick wall
of pixel...

namely?
i could never be a serious
existentialist,
i was sort of fwench in...
give me a cat,
i'll pet it,
i'm no good with goldfish:
i forgot that
you need to change
the water...
because water is like
air with fish...
fish turn old, stale water...
into a medium unbreathable...
no...
that death wasn't traumatic...
and the fact that i am still
naive squat buck tooth
is...
           when fate gives
you the same lesson
thrice...
     and you still haven't learned
it...
    i guess that's when
a god begins to cry...
or laughs...
or becomes angry...
or whatever the gods do
along with what
the petty people,
the petty ambitious people
minded...
to have no role beside
the role they served their ambitions
in fulfilling...
i.e.: never made it to Hollywood...
just to a position of
lawyer...
**** me... about time i started
playing the ******,
given the "ulterior" motive
narrative "went missing"...

funny thing that,
geometry...
i almost forgot how much of it
is necessary to
orientated myself
on the linear platitude...
but how funny in how i can't
rearrange
a simple sentence
into a cloud of "random"
letters...

|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|/|
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obviously "you" kept count...
9
                           and 11/
maybe that's something related
to spacing...
and whatever became A.I.
was never indented
for what once was... handwriting?

strain on the ******* eyes,
for all i know:
this be a vanity project
and something that can't
compete with tabloid journalism
making it to print...

so... airy-fairy whims and...
yes, the burden of the echo,
and the shadow...
   came the answer:
profane:
  and he was educated
by the school of life...
   sure...
  but my time at both school
and university?
  was spent being self-taught...
beginning with
this lounge of a tongue...
you know?
  you can write ENGLISH
    like so:                       ĘGLIŠ?
somehow...
i have no heard of dyslexia
as being evident in any tongue
other than the ĘGLIŠ zunge?

**** it: postcards from
H'america and from
           Oh'stray-bullet-trails...

now i know why such
*******...
i'm completely enthralled
by the engineering
of A.I. and phonetics...
given: English speakers
would not have involved
their A.I. algorithms
to be affected by diacritical
markers...
given that... d'uh...
the english language
doesn't use them...

still... "cyberpunk"...
no... i have no ambitions
to be published
    by the poetryfoundation.org
as i am, just about
to "compete" with
something akin
to the unauthorized
autobiography of jung ****...
jockey... Jack...
                          ū.3708/?
ah ha ha! ja! gustav...
                             bad joke...
but you get the idea...
so when did soy boy
       predate bleach boy:
last time i heard or seen:
best bleach afro curls...
    and call them: churros...
but ******* a black girl
doesn't exactly make me less
of a racist than
a bigot who minds tongues...
am i?
   so... that whole Malcolm X
tirade of...
  you know the one...
    on the odd occassion...
yeah... two...
(not at the same time)...
but was that ever to be an excuse?
something from being fed
video footage and then
having to resort to:
music, before i open up
a parachute standing up
and still think i'm falling...
often or not...
             or not...

hell... this beats scribbling
graffiti on walls,
or becoming a sensible
quality proof for...
the jobs of worth already
being taken...

and i almost pray for
the work of ******* collector
vacancies to be
advertised for the unemployed...
i'd love for the unemployed
to be subject
to advertisements
akin to the jobs
            of a ******* collector...
i've looked...
     no ******* collector
vacancies available...
           oh hell...
    i forgot about wanting to
be a veterinary physician a long
time ago...
                but i guess:
no chances for me being
a ******* ******* collector...
so 'ere...
                         eat this.

She molds herself
a silver pen
Embedded with rubies
crystals and gems.
She pours her life
out on fragile pages,
unleashes her thoughts
from their constrictive cages
But one dark day,
the pages were found
Lampooned and humiliated,
she hit the ground
Along with her
fell her silver pen
the crystals now stained
with the darkest red.

Repost; Various countries.
These Double standards.

With Gaza terror
resounding screams
of babes mothers fathers
sons grandparents all
shot by devils army
of cobras hiding
in plain sight
as the chosen ones
of their horned
adversary type God.

Constrictive pythons
Suffocating for decades
every child born where
no peace can ever exist
as long as unarmed
civilians cannot fight back;

He who burns innocent
souls by an old weapon
of his ancient genetic
deviated cruel make
up will again
die by greater deadly
weapons raising
for justice right now,
faster then the last.

And then only then
these primitive demons
Will be no more.
Neither their demonic
witchcraft invocations
Nor by any heavy
outwardly weaponry
against humanity
unarmed civilians

Never those komodo
Culprit ever will breathe
to smoother precious
innocent life again.

The tyrant regime rising
shamelessly orders to not
do nothing to aid
Palestinians
But only Ukrainian.

Our quest is to
unite find and stop
whoever of us all
will be targeted
for demolition next.

We all already know;
may we invoqie the main aider narcissistic culprit USA and its other puppeteer number two sadist sadist  Sinister.
Satanyshu.
"Over the top Biden" 100.000 civilians mothers children fathers. And over 10 thousand Palestinian young boys kept in prisons deplorable degrading humiliating pipe beaten, injected sterilized Gestapo headquarters number two Israel pruning human Palestinian, eating grass people!
For all if us to witness
hellish army of malice, greed, blood thirsty human genocidal lying garbage Israel.
Trashing Palestinian indigenous beautiful people to the eleven winds assassination of character Hamas' fighters  are not terrorists, Hamas is hero defender of peoples civil rights violated since fays if yore. 
The suffering three generation parents, for three decades in Gaza concentration death camps forbidden into their holy lands.
As we all boycott Nasi agenda, without end. Demonstrating worldwide, roaring for Israel, USA and England to "stop fire, to free Palestine" free civilians and allow humanitarian aid trucks in to feed children left alive to no avaid"

Now Palestinians civilians starved famined for over a month!
The only sound now israel understands is of bomb falling as if by copycat **** regime id israel brewing in waiting for decades against humanity.

Our quest now is evident, many promise to chop Israel's brutal grass cutting machine and its head snake.
~~~

e.g. máteùš

i admit, i could have added another acute e to the spelling,
but i thought: that would really be too crowded,
a bit like, from the depths of hades, there arose
a sentence, that, might, have, looked, like, this.
                   too much punctuation, a crowded space,
what was necessary was some fresh air, and an open field
  somewhere down the middle of the word.
             ah... noticing this... chemists write numbers associated
to elements and compounds *subscript...
     hence punctuation is like a chemistry script.
               diacritical involvement? that's like mathematical notation,
i.e.  write out                       x cubed, or y squared...
                   where do you place the 3 and the 2 with respect
to the algebraic hypotheticals? well, they go above,
   well: to the right corner of the hypotheticals;
              very much like diacritical marks; but of course,
this is language, so they are placed directly above the letter -
       but the comparison stands: both are punctuation statements,
chemistry of subscript notation of punctuation, inter-words -
mathematics of superscript notation of punctuation, intra-words.
    nietzsche once noted: polaks are the french of
                                            the slavs.

                now... about that congestion, and a due comparison...
  it comes down to the relation between acute, grave and the caron.
     in french:        e.g. the word crème fraîche
          ah **** the antonym of the caron, the circumflex! that too.
       thus into the aesthetic...
                the grave e (è) in the word crème?
                   the aesthetic ugly would look like this crèm...
               because that's the function of the grave e - it's as if
to pull back the word to the beginning, or at least reigning in the m,
     so the second e is not even pronounced.
         now the word fraîche and the dynamic of the circumflex
iota (î).      it does something similar to the grave diacritical mark,
       simple optometry... it's a constrictive symbol,
                       a biblical comparison to Samson pulling
    two pillars so that a temple falls...
                      î
                fra    che
but once again, the french aesthetic, the e is once more redundant,
  but, good heavens, imagine simply writing         fraîch... ?!
      so the circumflex and the grave accents have their similarities.

now, the second word, máteùš:
          here we have a different dynamic,
        the reason i didn't write it as mátéùš -
                     for one, having two diacritical marks on letters, side by side
is already pushing it, but three? and the fact that one of the letters
   doesn't have a diacritical mark, namely t? well, that already excludes
the letter from the word, which would make the word morph
   into máéùš:         otherwise, the original would be noted in algebraic
form as                       x = letter without a diacritical mark
        v = letter with a diacritical mark,
                                                           ­                  i.e. xvxxvv,
but imagine the variation              xvxvvv.
    anyway... what's the difference between the circumflex and the caron?
the caron? it hides one particular letter with regard to s;
   in slavic, that letter would be z...          in germanic?     h.
how you'd say shish (kebab).
                             i was once accused of pronouncing the word kebab
in arficaan... i can already see an entry point of diacritical
marks into english... africaan?   acute accent on both e and a
   so i don't say the word with a macron on the a (ā)
                                             kebāb (kebaab), africān (aan) -
**** this digression...
     back to the story...   what happens in the word     máteùš
which is antonym to the french aesthetic? primarily the grave u (ù)...
   and its relationship to the caron s (š)...
    the grave u suggests to the s: put on a cloak, put on a fez
of magical properties, so that the z will not see you, standing next to me.
        so the s duly agrees...
               without the caron above the s? how would the word look?
     z would come along, and rip off both their diacritical marks
z: u! give me the grave!
ù: no!
z: oh ****** well yes!         (pluck)
    right now i have a torso.
       s! the caron!
š: ok ok, just don't steal my curves.       (pluck)
z: ah... both arms and legs.
      now all that's missing is a head...
      oi! fake iota! the overdot!
i: sure, whatever, i never needed it in the first place,
        this is me sitting down, i stand up, and it's as if it was never there - I.
                                (pluck)
ż: aaaaaaaah...        (āāāāh, alternatively, i.e. ā = a x2).
  
p.s. and yes, ż is an orthodox letter... e.g.?   żart.... joke.

it's almost become a standard... in making the internet
  a bit like the choice of television
channels in the early 90s...
      bbc 1, bbc 2... i.t.v....
  and then there's the alt. that's channel 4...
channel 5 comes later, but
     i don't even watch that crap...
i've reached the point where the social
aspect of the internet doesn't exist...
it's literally one-dimensional...
  and then comes the "real" life bits
that people using the internet concern
themselves over...
         ******... i walk to the bank and
do my banking with a real-life: human
interface...
   i didn't ask for an interest-free
            overdraft... but since my student
days when it stood at two-thousand quid...
mine still stand at: five-hundred quid
         interest free...
                   what am i going to do with that
allowance? buy a scooter and deliver pizzas?!
  i watch these youtube videos
and their twitter stories and i'm like:
huh?!
          i don't get it!
                       did these people pull out these
stories of "apartheid" out from their *****?
  juicy **** stories?
                 i had to invent my own "m.t.v." /
m.c.p. (music computer network... lgbtqrsia...
    you're missing a few letters to join
it to the alphabet... but i guess that's how
acronyms work: music - computer...
and then the network bit is like: hello! i'm here!
hello!)
              it's not even about being socially
uneasy... globalisation created these large distances...
last time i had a pint with someone i knew:
i walked about 5 miles to the destination...
last time i was in the high-street i realised:
i'm actually not going to buy anything from these
shops... maybe a pair of headphones for
under two quid and a bottle of water...
           oh that famous saying: in the "real" world...
what, like internet banking and russian thieves
hacking your accounts isn't the "real" world?
              amazon.com / .co.uk isn't the new
   highstreet shop?!
                      too much ******* matrix analogy!
i can't stand it... i'm taking a **** 3 times a day:
first the chocolate... and then:
                           foo! a ******* geyser of ****...
                   i swear i just drank two cups of milk
and i'm thinking: an intolerance to lactose?
          have i drank a chocolate milkshake in
the past five hours?
            no... but i swear to god my **** feels like
i just rubbed chilli powder into it...
               strange how the internet can become
so constrictive, that you're almost hugging a boa snake...
           and the feeling it mutual...
brick walls become all the more fascinating...
once you read a news review article about
    free speech... it's like: now i really don't think
like talking...
                         i know i'm writing in a public
sphere and i might be considered as: a wocal vorrior
      in publishing it... but where i'm writing...
it's just "raindrop" tapping shrouded in
earphones of music blazing...
          a bit like talking when in bed with someone
and the rain just taps the tin roof...
                         i.e. for those yet to be born;
it might come in handy, some day.
            but the internet has shrunk for me, it's not
even as expansive as it deems itself to be...
          most of the time it just feels like
daytime t.v., how the hell did that happen
is probably the same reason as to why television
is what it is... poland won 2 - 1 against
monte*****... i think my fascination with
the internet declined to a few pages after hearing
about language being so restrictive...
           surely it would have been easier to be
illiterate and having the full capacity of the body
being exercised to a job, rather than having an ill mind
and having to succumb to the gym, and exercise...
now i'm scratching my nose going: nod nod... aha.
i really have allowed myself the "luxury" of
recreating the television... most of the time it's
hellopoetry           facebook (4 friends, used to be over 200...
deleted them myself), i called twitter: twatter...
      had a post here and there, never became engaged
to stage a fright! akin to being deleted...
wikipedia...
                       youtube...
         oh and certainly dictionary.com for etymological
reasons...
                               sometimes amazon.co.uk
if i want to buy a book or a c.d. -
          otherwise?
                                  the point of a fraction 1/10 of
an iceberg being seen... and 9/10 being unseen...
and that's without the deep web...
then it's more like 1/100 and 9/100, and the 90/100
     i'm thinking: covert army plans?
          it's an attempt to recreate the television (i think);
evidently it might, but it probably won't work...
i just hear stories about the 20th century decades
when television first came about,
and 1 person owned a television on the whole
street, and people who didn't have one
used to congregate...
               usually during news and football
matches... then everyone had one...
                      which translated into ageing people
having conversations in the supermarket check-outs...
both men and women (it isn't just the women)...
                        me? i'm talking to a blank canvas...
if writing could be (remotely) compared to painting:
   it wouldn't be treated as either: prompt for
conversation... or equivalent to a comment section...
i guess bypassing any publishing deals does that
to writing, as in: aww... you lonely?
                   ****! i'm drinking and i don't know
whether i have diarrhoea or that i'm constipated!
      it's almost both!
                 i can "talk", the reason being:
    i'm writing from the outskirts of London,
and you (e.g.) live in San Diego...
                                   it's not lazy or anti-social or:
ooh i'm scared to leave the house scenario...
                            what is... is... what isn't... was...
there's no chance going back to the 20th century.

what is it, gaggles, giggles, hiccups, frivolities of nonsense, you can stream me all of them to perform the rightful description - point being, like any "ally" to an idea, i move up the chain of history, beyond pole, czech, russian... there's the pearl, the oyster to attach myself into the ethnicity counter-germanic, slav, with a missing e? well, słowianin (swovianin - sw'oh-via-nin, you alright on the consonant count, brat?!) słowo = word. i could be called mad, but then i write parallel to what i see, and what i write is what happens before my eyes, obviously mismatched to say the least, and never the perfected hindenburg perfection of "waiting for it"... but this isn't a back to the future prediction of lightning either.

e-ver -
            i-ver;
  talk about a need for a grapheme...
             it's just: ha ha ha ha... funny...
     i remember this one time,
my ex-g.f. younger sister...
  the one that became my muse:
cushioning lips -
  almost ***** -
     you know: fat, plump to invite
cordiality -
                         you know the problem
with poles migrating?
  they don't congregate,
hammersmith is an exception of
an area highly concentrated by poles,
otherwise?
    a pole meets a pole in england:
what a surprise!
    i saw you buying polish beer...
  żywiec?
          a **** good beer...
                     mazo mazo mazowsze (sz = sh
cz = ch, yzwz) -
                  one hand knows:
the H catches the vowels - but it also
serves as the pivot for laughter -
  aH hA hA hA!
           batman? probably the only
"superhero" worth investigating,
   given that all the baddies are batman's
alterego...
              two-faced joking billionaire
who's enigmatic with a pet penguin to boot...
a "superhero" who's only "super power"
is a **** load of money...
and some grease in the cranium...
          really, the russians are behind all of this?!
i find that the germanic tribes of lore
can never find themselves agreed-upon
singularism of an origin -
the french will remain french,
the germans german,
       lost the spaniards -
the english were always a tad bit paddy
mongrelling themselves with celt...
                in an anglophone realm of
language -
    it's much easier to identify yourself
as a slav, than a pole, a czech, a slovak,
       a russian,
                             a bulgar,
      a roma,  
                          a croat,
                     a slovene,
     funny... it's almost desirable, to be able
to identify yourself in the most accessible
           and broadest spectrum of tattoo...
   in the end there's only western europe
   that's described as western at the limit of
berlin...
       never helsinki...
                     and my god, so much land after
berlin -
            tilting toward *anadyr...
                        the process of subsetting in
the anglophone world -
          if only welsh and gaelic was more pronounced
in this realm,
perhaps then the english could identify themselves
along a more germanic heritage,
embrace it, and not treat their affairs
down the simpleton route of a football skirmish.
i actually can't find any "english" in all
honesty - on these isles it's easier to
name a gael and a pict, a wael too,
  but an anglican?
                what are they, really,
  anglo-swabians, anglo-saxons,
   anglo-pomeranians?
     these days you're already talking about
                            anglo-slavs & afro-saxons!    
i'd still prefer a blackbeard sharpshooter
  (3:1 mixer of *** & pepsi) -
                    or a flaky monotonous-****
cosmopolitan;
  just saying, who am i to judge,
       i once tried laughing gas -
                  and didn't even laugh -
        as always, the sometimes apparent banality
of cogito per se came up with all the necessary gags;
because it shouldn't be, the prompter of
all "necessary "gags"?
     to consider the brain as devoid of thought genesis,
since man tends to think about the entirety of
his body-geography -
     nuisance, or nuance?
                       thinking is the unnecessary
action that resolves no necessary "action" -
         it's a free-falling limb -
                whenever a prompt to kick,
to throw, to spin,
                            to mix - never is there
an equivalent prompt to think...
             that said: to truly meditate is to harness
a slingshot's worth of straining -
to refrain from thought -
                     to allow the building up of strain -
prior to a release such as this...
                  and from what i found is that:
thinking revolves around a quasi-claustrophobia...
its boa constrictive presence suffocates -
   until it reveals what is its most naturally
ontological about it: pathos & irrationality;
obviously if scrutinised beyond this -
   a homing device for specified interests -
               thought in autism -
                                thought in specialisation;
but by a majority rule-of-thumb:
          a pathology and the most
                 irritable irritability - irrationality:
the random selection of non-coherent set of
"intertwined" set of facts.

You make me feel like I'm collapsing in on myself
But in the really good way
I promise.
Your whispers weave their way down to my chest and wrap themselves around my lungs
Constrictive
Forcing all the air from them til I can't breath.
I don't want to.
You roll your eyes to heaven and laugh
While stars burst behind mine.
With every fond shake of your head my heart pulses 3 times quicker.
You've turned me into a hummingbird, a mouse,
I'm vibrating.
And I'm floating
The dead weight around my ankles evaporates when you sigh.
Soon enough I'll have to be tied down.
I'm a helium balloon filled with your giggles and off-key singing and 3am questions of "why are we here, monkey? what are we doing? do you think dogs understand us? what would happen if i put marshmallows in the microwave for 7 minutes?"
I'm expanding I'm inflating I'm going to burst.
I'd be happy to.

I didn't know
That there was life outside those cramped walls
Of the hell I called my home
I stand here now
Where open sky surrounds me
And this freedom
Feels more constrictive
Than those walls ever did

I didn't know
That I wouldn't know how to stand
When I was no longer being forced
To kneel before the lie
That broke my heart
These beautiful spaces
Are too bright for my eyes
That only knew the dark

I didn't know
That the cruel lessons they taught me
And those I had to teach myself
Those things that helped me survive
Weren't going to help me live
Here on the other side
Of this"happy ending"
In a world I never thought was real

I didn't know
That there would come a time
When all of my pretending
Would have to come undone
All the wounds of battles past
Would have to be bled dry
Of the infections and lies
That never let me heal

I didn't know
That I would ever find
Someone to believe in
Who could peel away these lies
And hold me as I shake
With the fear I couldn't show
And the tears I couldn't cry
Please don't walk away

I didn't know
That when the battle passed
I would still be fighting
It's all I've ever known
Not knowing how to give up
How can I surrender now
I thought I'd run forever
But you speak to me of rest

I didn't know
That I was still human
Still allowed to feel
That anyone would ever want me
Or that I could be good enough
So speak the truth to me
But be patient
As I learn to believe it

I didn't know

there is a very infamous instance of bez-osobowość
when you cross the Polish border at the airport
and get searched...
the celniks (guards) - provided you know the zunge:
will address you in a without-person(ality)
language / syntax...

how / i.e.? verb laden, verb exclusively,
averting pronoun usage...
i guess this is a counter to what....

oh i love Jordan Peterson aging and in full
schematic rearrangement of
post-modernistic mode "word salad"
buzzing... i'm buzzing too:

two nuggets of verbal beauty: a shine
on a sheen...
sheen being the already available glit of
a metal... shine being if a metal is exposed
to light and almost, "almost" reacts like
water or mirror...

- negotiating identity into adulthood...
- "terrible war in our culture"

     what war? what culture: to be exact...
cf. kołakowski's: culture and fetishes...
really? is there a culture "war" or simply...
this is not a war "war": this is a civilian fetishazation
of combat... this is passive-aggressiveness
of atomized-***-drive-derivatives
a cis-mutation parody regarding
a concept of: species...
this is one massive a-hole (forgot the bomb)
of an anti-Darwinism...
one might stretch it to the extent of calling
it liberal Darwinism...
or: on the basis of a humanistic whim
we can't harness the power of a lightning strike
nor can we harness the winds of a tornado...
but we'll sure as ****: make pretty boa-constrictive
grammar out of how we forget about trading,
capital...

identity "politics"?

- ideas of identity are narrow, hedonistic,
unsophisticated, self-serving...
- identity groups: whim-based, ****** identities,
race, ethnic...
- predicated on the notion of the immediacy
of...
- you're not a *** machine...
- anxiety hopelessness misery...
- subsidiary solution
- integrated self...

   hmm... so not the differentiating self of self?
to integrate a self "off" a self: toward the self?

consumer model?
integrating integers or integrating the collapse
of fractions?

a poem written while listening to a podcast
rather than music, which would be echo chamber
solipsism...

- play with someone else...
- invite someone else...
- there's you and now there's you that's a husband...
- responsibilities and opportunities...
- not gratifying your short term whims...

fair enough... go on herr doktor...

- immaturity vs. non-negotiation...
- learn to love someone...
- 20 years ago: self-consciousness and negative emotion
on par...
- flesh yourself out...           stretch...

huh? community? what community?
i have lived across from my neighbours for over 20
years and the closest i got to them
was when she and her daughters paraded
naked in the bedroom and later
moved on to getting another hubby...
married or "married"...
cohabitation... moved across the street
two doors down and still no ******* conversation
about: oh the weather is dreary and oh:
the garbage men forgot to take my garbage
or: oh the traffic is bad blah blah...

- definition definition definition:

the defining of the finite
the indefinitable infinite...
time is a flexibility of not counting / not measuring...

in out in out

- no action without the good...
ah... nugget! finally!

- consumerist capitalism
- idiocies of a degenerate protestant liberalism
driven by postmodernism...

well, given that when Moses spoke to unsaid X
said: ehyeh asher ehyeh...

i.e. i am: that         ↓
                        → i am ←
                                ↑

and not... i am what i am... since...
there's a clear distinction between the pronoun
'that' and 'what'...
conclusively...
by 'that' i'm implying vectors...
by 'what' i'm implying: questions...

what? well what?!

i am what:                 !
                             ?  i am  ?
                                     !

but Moses wasn't interrogated in a what whom
fashion, no: i am what i am spoke to him:
who spoke to Moses?
i am: that, i am...

  that... precisely that, i am that: who?
would god ask who of / off who of / off himself?

i still find it preposterous that this commandment
is so vague on the Islamic mind
as to not cherish the name Allah
but shout it while killing innocents:
and in his greatness the jinn swarm
to take the metaphysical procrastinators to
the hell of the 72 "virgins"...

la ilaha illa allah -

    mind you: the Maltese word for god is
borrowed from the Saracens
and is also blahllah... no: allah...
all? ah!
a relief it would seem...
how easily you could censor that word out
of a person's vocabulary and not take it in vain...
it's a Hebrew game i very much like playing
since i make-oaths of ****'s ******* ****
like a cobbler...

i still can't figure out whether to think of
culture wars as civilian fetishes of warfare or not..
culture war is a fetishised term...
war is a fetish term for poets who
are living out a rigor mortis of intellect...

now for the gates...

א                                                      ­               ע
    
i might be behind the literature,
what i know is: kametz (a)
     tzeré (e)
                  chirek (i)
cholem (o)
                       shurek (u) - pentagram...

hmm... Greek Satanism... which is not very much like
WASP Satanism that mingled neo-******
with a sour-**** vibrancy of proto-*** chimps
of the North American "sentiment"...

the revised niqqud from the niqqud
i learnt outside the realms of the internet is as above
(cf. aryeh kaplan meditation and kabbalah
samuel weiser inc. box 612
york beach, maine 03910
isbn 0-87728-616-?)

chirek became hiriq (בִ - i.e. BI - ב, bet hiriq) - i
kametz became patach kamatz gadol (בַ בָ - b'ah) - a
tzeré became segol zeire (בֶ בֵ - i.e. b'eh) - e
cholem became holam (בֹ - b'oh) - o
and...
shurek became kubutz shuruk (בֻ וּ - BAV) - u

a story of the gate:
א                                                          ­           ע
(ayin)                                                     (alef)

through which: הה Heh and Heh walked through
to find the husbands י (yod)
  and ו (vav)... oh sure: bot sisters...
Heh and Heh walked through these gate(s)...
and so became coupled into a name best associated
with "jehowa": i.e. he who hides them (vowels)
like the niqqud and the niqab...
some sort of conspiracy theory against
a society built upon monogamy...

so i met this pretty little 5ft2 36D Puerto Rican
all the way in Hawaii, or to be more specific: Kauai...
on the internet...
and since any mention of formality and inception
i'm on the phone to her every Sunday
(and i'll probably call her today:
Monday's and Tuesday's are her days off)
and we talk for an hour and i feel: ****...
only 10 minutes have passed...

but i'm still engaged with the current trend of anti-cinema...
culture war my ***...
a bit like revising that vision of St. John's...
believe you me when i say:
four horsemen... and one donkey-rider...
so that's 5 riders... the donkey rider
being obviously slower than death
since he'd be the one riding last giggling his ***
off... maybe him and the donkey would
be laughing... maybe even a talking donkey...
the vision is grotesque:
hyper-parody of Islam stealing the "saviour"...

now i know why i didn't drop any acid or ingest
any magic mushrooms...
this one time in Amsterdam me and this
Egyptian were mesmerised or rather fearful
having drank some ***** and smoked some marijuana
watching these two roomates of ours in a hostel
ingest magic mushrooms and waste the experience
on watching American Dad on t.v. in a darkened room...
Germans: so go figure... p.t.s.d. of history
or whatever you want to call it...
you'd think that ingesting psychadelics
you'd want to be in the sunshine in a forest
for some transcendental speech impediment onset...
not some dingy hostel room watching t.v., right?

case? the opposite, ingest some alcohol, fast,
then think about the hebrew alphabet...

yes, the great advent of anti-cinema...
a cultural shift...
when actors became producers...
notably? true detective... starring matthew mcconaughey
and woody harrelson...
when actors became executive producers...
perfect hell-storm to **** of cinema franchises
for the children...
from the days of: parents go out for a date
and employ a babysitter to...
kids go out and shoot up laughing gas
and eat fast food and fast **** in an alley
while the parents sit indoors and watch decent content...
maybe because actors have more time
therefore more freedom to feel into their roles
maybe because to write something good
you need to waffle for more than the space
of ~3h or like a pop song becomes prog-rock
after the 3min mark?!

in a way modern Polish "behaves", or rather:
is structured like ancient Latin
in the pronouns can be omitted to give meaning
to sentences:

ja myśle (i think) can simply be expressed
as myśle (pronoun-verb) compound of (i) think:
thinking... myśl (thought) myślenie (thinking)...

i.e. cogito ergo sum is a summary of
current Polish...
since there's no need for:
ego cogito ergo ego sum...
there's no need for i think therefore i am:
there's an anti-pronoun imperative
in sentence structure...
this without-personhood dynamic
perfectly compliments...
the anglo-protestant queer fetish for
exemplifying the plurality of it
via they...

       also...
borrowing from Greek Satanism the pan-Slavic
distinctiveness of
the following:

     щ: šč          ?: ść

deszcz: dešč: H hiding, or how the hebrew god
lingers in European psyche...
funny... that the **** Germans thought
themselves as Aryans...
given that the Polacks from the 15th century
onward compassed the arrival of an Iranian
tribe of... no... not Samaritans...
but the Sarmatians...

deszcz: rain
    dość: enough...

szczerość: ščerość: truthfulness...

i never thought the fetishes would spill out
and over into my reaching out with my tentacles
and start to... squeeze... out all the fetishes
into apple pulp sort of goo of glue sort
of averting the nasal thrill...

for a people who made ***-identity into politics
like Darwin and the lesbian faction of
existence running its course: cul de sac
existentialism of ******-identity politics
"politics": these days you have to say
"red" red... "blue" blue...
"train" train...

  mein englischleash: nein nein: niet ein leine!

what culture war?
perhaps a cultural lethargy, a cultural exhaustion?
i can see it as that... but a war?
for what? a quibble?
a ******* carrot on a stick?
a war for a donkey?
no one spotted the unearthing of the Nag Hammadi
library coinciding with the Dead Sea Scrolls,
how Isaiah died (being mutilated
at the torso, cut in half)
and how "suddenly" Christianity quivered its
last to estrange the European ontology
from the European will borrowing
from the nurture of winter in the Hyperborean
realm of melancholic rejuvenation of intellect...

the Slavs would sooner wage war against
themselves than allow
the Germanic self-flagellation of importing
cheap labour from former colonies...
these "good Christian" vessels of soullessness:
vacated by the riches from Arabia
eat ******* camel jockey types and typos
in H'arabic...

there is no culture war... there's only a cultural vacuum:
a lethargy: a great stink about this whole
myopic miasma...
with the established state of Israel and what
remains of the jewry in Europe
the fascinating dynamic of the arrival of a muslim
cohort of: sensibly minded idle citizens
that uber uber uber uber...
kamikazee delivery drivers from the mouths
of Bengal... hey presto: cheap as chips analogies...

so there's no problem with calling they it not i?
after all: it is a pronoun...
it's coming, they are?
          hmm... fetishes to the fore...
*** first: but the worst kind of ***:
non-procreative ***...
that's the worst kind of ***...
me and my old lady... i sort of told her:
it's an ancient practice borrowing from Roman times...
surrogacy of males...
i don't mind that you have a daughter
and she's not biologically mine...
guess what? that means i'll be less hung-up
if she "fails" morally...

     i clearly don't mind leaving a fractional imprint
of mine, hereditary on a passing fleece of a feeling
with an offspring...
i'm here to play a game of her throwing
three pebbles into a pool and both of us diving into
it to find them... mystique harry potter esque
the philosopher and the two women in his life:
life rediscovered... lazily tripping up over
sunlight and the predictability of daylight hours
on the tropic of cancer...

the rest of me is unpredictable like the weather
in northern europe: esp. England...

but these fetishists could have chosen a different
angle than latching onto grammar...
by the looks of it i'll gnash at bone
and grit by iron teeth (eisenzähne) with a "debilitating"
glee of: welcome, welcome, all are welcome
to the knochenernteausgraben (bone harvest
unearthing)...

even in sub-culture pops... hormones?
am i that bothered about testosterone levels in
males (like i might have some control over it)
when it comes to how stubble i can deal with
like i might sniff ******* or who's not living with grandma
like this woman is fertile, no, this woman is not fertile:
she's renting her womb to two homosexuals
vying for a proto-baby
    and this ***-first dynamic is going to go on forever
before Russia joins forces with China and India
and leaves the atomised man in
shrapnel still clinging to the crucifix-*****?
as if 2000 years of the rabbis warning us against
the advent of the self-sacrificial saviour were not
a lesson in diabolical narcissism...
it's plain as day to date...

          even with the structures intact...
christianity is unlike hinduism...
this makeshift monotheism with
polytheistic tendencies for schisms
is unlike any original European polytheism...
there's a U.B.D. / B.B.D. (use by date,
best before date) attached to it... like food...
given... well... christianity is food if you think twice
about the metaphor of the bread and the wine...
**** me... phoo! the wine has become a rancid
balsamic vinegar and the bread is mouldy!

islam on the other hand is only bound to the strength
of the dino juice... black gold...
it's strength is only temporary given
no longer needing to burn wood and instead
using gas and the mechanisms of oil propellers...
temporary ibn Saud paradise...

hardly a critique of capitalism: which is a force for
good... should the capitalist be the one
building railroads and autobahns...
giving wages, providing stable work,
pensions...
but the current capitalist is a capitalist in name alone:
chances of an honest wage for honest labour?
chances of a pension?
gig economy, the underclass of workers i'm in
already dictate the failsafe dynamic of
"contract" with: an "optional opt out"
regarding a pension scheme...
there is none...

                            some daydream akin to the ****
project circa 1950s with a home a stability
without the frenzy of hustling...
one generation old one generation bound...
some eugenics variation
and oh how the women love to call out
the men who didn't reproduce
but seeing some of the women that have
i do wonder what sort of pristine genetics are
being pressed and passed on
since i'm in an intellectual-zombie-land
from time to time... or pretty much all the time...
so i drink: to numb the pain...
so i drink: to numb the pain...
hmm... maybe that's why i drink:
to numb the intellectual dead-weight i have
surrounding me...

it's a good excuse... there is no other...
jeez... coming back to that without-persona language
the Polish border guards sometimes you:
the verb-exclusive pronoun-de-clusive
pronoun-non-inclusive of:

zdjąć - take off.. achtung achtung!
i.e. not
            zdejmij - czy czy: could you?
czy mógłbyś zdjąć twoje buty?
could you take off your shoes?

               so much for some vagary of an upheaval
in the queers for grammar in English...
it's almost very funny: but it's only just slightly
funny coming from a people not used
to how depersonalisation happens in language
when spoken off: rather than of or to...

like that saying from true detective...
am i a good person?
no... i'm not a good person...
i'm a bad bad man...
the sort of bad man that keeps the other bad men
away from knocking on your door...
i'm that sort of bad man...
the sort of bad man that keeps your
idiosyncratic selves in check
before they are no more than a statistic
in a serial killer's tally 正

                but even i have rules and sensibilities
that question when experiencing questionalibities
of: basic structures, like in language:
grammar...
       that sort of **** just makes me hit the monster
button within me...
and my ego becomes less a unit
of identity... and more akin to...
      a mouth that chews, grunts, burps...
bites... my ego is currently in the form of:

mundnichts... mouth-nothing....
        pupilleessenauge...
pupil eating eye...
                   in mich: ein legion von
alle der schrecklich gedanken!
         ha ha! wie ein teuflisch zirkus!

from the videos i watched online -
i can truly attest one thing
and one thing alone:
    ars dialecticis est mort -
  i.e. the art of debate is dead;
nietzsche was wrong
in slandering dialectics -
the most civilised societies
allow dialectics -
  there's no point defending
a "freedom of speech"
when there's no discussion to be had.
street preachers excused -
       what's the point of free
speech when there's no
      "freedom" regarding discussion?
there is no art of poetry,
the only supremacy of art is
the art of discussion -
           but since this "art"
is nowhere in the framework of
a revival, why bother?
what's the freedom of talk,
when all it surmounts to is a
blatancy of a placard?!
              dialectics is dead,
it died with socrates -
       what we're receiving is
an echo-chamber of monologue,
point being:
    i don't even know what
the mongolians are trying to
keep up with...
            and when did
cis- become sis-?
              given the examples,
we are shy of the 26 "unique"
encodings of said speech...
                    never did a kettle
breed a cat...
                        we're done debating,
there's no debating,
  there never was a debate to begin
with...
              we're not going
toi debate, because we are so
entrapped in an ultra-individualistic
crap (yes, i will throw custard
at you) -
         what orwell deemed
cogito duplex (double think)
   has morphed into
an uprising of revisionism:
      coetus cogito (group think) -
how did you expect people to
cling on to the bleaching process
of clinging to pronouns,
when these are being usurped?!
         the art of discussion is dead!
dead! dead! dead!
                  with your nag hammadi
christ 2nd resurrection?!
            iconoclasm gave birth
to the death of dialectics -
       we no longer have effective
measures to study a dialogue -
   we only have examples of
a mistrust in monogamy,
and monologue -
                          i see no future
for the art of dialogue -
                  which is why this lost
art strengthens the position
of the ultra monologist: god.
                      we're not having
a discussion, 1 year to 10 years from
now...
         prior to writing, history must
have been written akin
to a phraseology of claustrophobia -
constrictive -
   suffocating -
                 we wrote to gain
intimacy with thought:
instead we gained the intricacy of
intimidation...
                   whether that be by
thought alone, or otherwise...
      prior to writing history
        history was the lessened &
continually lessing observation
deemed worth "observation",
but of course we exfoliated in our
"demands"...
                 besides the point:
the art of discussion is lost -
  since we have established our worth:
to be none other, than,
  a desire for fictitious tales that lead
to no other discovery, other than
a discovery of a cul de sac.
                 no morning with no
cockerel to croak its adhan -
   i'd revive in the anti-pentagram:
an adhan at morn,
              and an adhan as sunset...
  whatever freedom you give -
shame the freedom of speech
  never allowed the revival of dialectics -
but what can expect,
   given that this freedom arose
from a language that abides by no
diacritical desires -
     where no eye to tongue to breath
speak of diacritical markings be said -
hardly a surprise that
  the art of debate be revived...
          seems easier to club a person
dead, than to squire with his
saber i a duel...
       shame, to be honest...
               the lost art of debate,
which makes all subsequent "debates"
on the internet, a superfluous act of
guilty-pleasure procrastination.

my senses can only detect 14 billion light years out
a little depressing- thinking how old the universe is
and the morality of replacing religious views
might be morally deceptive where
our sight is limited and science tries to explain expansion
maybe our views need fantasy and Gods to limit
the raging decadence of society
perhaps we need fairy tales
we need to stop finding new Galaxies
and go back to the
more constrictive Golden Rule
so I try to suspend reason
and get Faithful
but the engines and physics
and my attitude
put up barriers
and it's a great Paradox
a large conundrum
I cannot figure
alone
God i wish for a God

i have learned to live despite your bitter soil.
i will thrive without your support,
as i always have.
i am hardy and i do not wilt when the
cold comes.
you will not **** me,
not with your herbicides and
your kind words.
you will not tame me,
with your great blades that
churn the earth.
i will bloom through your efforts to
**** your garden,
a stubborn marigold in your sea of tulips.

you will not take from me what you want.
come time for me to bear a snowy head,
i will travel on the winds,
away from your small,
constrictive garden.
you will never wish upon me again.

I’ve been given a life of bliss
Into the church I slip
To worship this
First on the list
Is where to sit
In the holy pit
Of soul and spit

In the church there’s a battle
Between a serpent’s rattle
And the deafened cattle
There’s heaven and hell
In the seven sins I smell
Tainting the holy well
In which I dwell

I see pews
Of bad news
And my muse
But shy blues
Make lies loom
And I’ll die soon
In this spite tomb
Where I hide doom

The flamethrower
Game goer’s
Blame lowers
Shame knowers
To lanes slower
And a constrictive halo
Doesn’t let brains grow
So if the pastor say so
They’ll live in a daze glow

Their entropy
And my atrophy
Start centering
Around catastrophe
When what has to be
Is shooting flak at me
Dastardly

Two sides collide
And I must abide
To survive
The hive
Where demons and angels
Are leaving me mangled
Constantly tangled
In their angles

Some are good
Some are evil
Jesus saves
But do his people?

visit a turkish barber... was better than visiting
a bulgarian *******... seriously....
   a shave and trim felt better,
than any felatio would ever will...
      imagine!
i discovered the turkish barber,
after, just, after...
i discovered a *******...
whether ukranian or bulgarian...
   don't worry...
   i might have a child...
but given that i'm not
circumcised...
         the whole "m'ah" pleasure...
sure... when oral *** comes into play...
but pulling back my *******...
during *******...
      h'uh?!
                 the pulled back *******
was always constrictive...
         boa seeking new skin...
shedding its old skin...
   the **** is this blame game about?!
i don't want to be guilty of
pro-choice,
when... just now...
i salvaged a life of a moth...
  it flew it, attempted to plant
its larvae into my clothes...
   i caught it, released it...
      i hate being plagued by abortion...
i would **** a ******* spider,
a moth, a fly...
         an unborn foetus?!
seriously?!
       now i know why i grew
a beard... it's like smoking
a cigarette... a past-time...
something to fiddle with...
      attention-******* the capacity
to think....
      if i am going to by misogynistic...
stealing kisses from prostitutes
is "currently" misogynistic?!
         really?
             what, oyu never heard
of a story by a ******* when her co-worker
was murderered?!
no?!             then you haven't lived
through of what's desired to be
the worth of: enough!
             i hate being blamed for
an abortion...
        i don't know: she was ******* her
ex-boyfriend, she was *******
a hot-be-free alpha-looks while
married...
                 my moral agony is a lie...
it's not like
    not wearing a ****** gives you
access to "pleasure",
when you're not circumcised...
   circumcised men, h'americans...
for all their moral argument worth,
simply, don't know...
Zeus had the same discussion with
Hera...
    who derives more pleasure from
***... men... or... women?
from what i remember...
sorry... from what i know?
             men derive ******
pleasure by deriving it from
giving ****** pleasure,
rather than experiencing it!
circumcised cuck-load...
i don't respect gentile,
h'american, circumcised men...
i'm not!
                fuckes simply
buckle and give in...
allowing squids to **** them
off!
                  what sort of respect
can i have to the circumcised
gentiles?!
    the jews?! fine... they have rules...
what rules... do circumcised
gentiles have?!
  cuck-philosophy... *******
******* are more ******* than
"you"...

   no! i don't like being asserted
as pro-choice life...
         i live upon a lie...
                  apparently everything a woman
says: is the truth...
               maybe that's why i turned
to celibacy aged 21...
            i don't believe in 2nd chancing
the "problem"...
once is enough... twice is
lowering your i.q. from 120 to 80...
-40...
    escobar'oh menos cuarenta pavlov:
*******: wink wink?!

draft interlude:
(

you know how the british
treat people
of similar ethnic origins,
who integrate,
learn their tongue,
better than than might
speak it,
  and receive letters
from downing st. regarding
their tax dealings?
like ****...
                   they treat them
like second class citizens...
they deserve muslim
attacks...
            i'll lick a stamp
and send a letter to mind
the "problem"...
      i can't be bothered...
      this
p.c.s.d. (post-colonial stress
disorder) doesn't even
begin to nibble -
or tickle at me...
              you made this mess,
you fix it!
           i'm washing my hands
clean of the affair...
       i'm having not part
of it...
    i'm doing a pontius pilate
publicity stunt...
            you can come
to a foreign nation,
and enrich it, and then
you're treated like vermin,
like ****...  
  believe me...
the vultures are waiting
to nibble at the scraps...
              if you're so *******
prone with regards to
kebabs...
stuff your face with them!
then tell the mothers and
fathers of manchester to:
"stick to the facts"
  and repress their emotions...
i can recite you
the home office,
   visiting my house,
the year? 1997...
               and hand-cuffing
my father and mother,
and me punching the wall
of a room...
               your turn...
   pretending to be
   cultured, to be respectable,
to be whatever it is
that you're not...
           two-faced liars...
      i hate liars...
me? i only lie when
i go to an ex-girlfriend chistening
her first baby...
  and i lie, out of a need
for tact...
              it's just uncomfortable
to tell the truth
in such circumstances...
               all it was,
was a lie about staying
for a period much longer than
anticipated outside the
church event, i.e. having drinks
in the church...
    i only lie when i'd might
require a napkin...
             but the bree-teesh
are becoming unbearable
   to other europeans...
   they have these superior airs
thinking that ******* a black
girl doesn't make them "racist"
or whatever label might
creep-up...
        these airs of aristocratic
respectability is bugging me...
            the dukes and earls
are no better than football hooligans...       )

  i.e. the "ordinary" citizens...
they are so over-entitled...
    the casual citizen, given the opportunity....
is allowing himself / herself

overtly toward the stature of king or queen...
pack and parcel,... your ****,
from pakistan, mr. sadiq khan...
                       savvy?
             when will the english just grow
the basic, the basic implies:
a pair of *****... rather than masquerading
behind the cricketer moeen ali?!
is this the part where i day:
oh look... one slipped past the sieve!?
            maybe that's a good "thing"...

i'm talking to something akin
to hautköpfe: skinheads...
   the beschnittenmerkwürdigkeiten:
the "christened" / baptized
             peoples...
                    m.g.m. is no scalp?
as is the *******...
   why should man experience
pleasure from ***?
what pleasure can a woman,
derive from being pregnant?
so... why would man,
derive pleasure from ***?!
        if you will circumcise man...
should all women be
allowed the cesarean section?
well... if breeding with the semites...
should women be allowed
the luxury... associated with the pleasure
derived from *** by circumcised men,
by allowing women the relief from
giving birth, via the cesarean section?

say no... and you know you're and
you'll be wrong.
what's the reality of
the cesarean section?
a day or two extra in bed in a hospital...
what is circumcision
of the male phallus?
egotism...
              pompous *******...
maybe that's why i turned celibate
after my last relationship
aged 21...
          i didn't want the lies...
the finite, unimaginative lies
of women...
the predictable lies of women...
how women can't handle
drinking... and feel no joy
from the past time...
        
                   i can't **** a moth...
trying to nest in my wardrobe...
but when a woman,
is keeping a baby in the oven,
and lies...
that it isn't mine...
                 i become berzerker...
i am blind but slashing...
            i see: blind...
who am i to invest in a ******* child?!
i hate liars...
   liars esp. in the age of
scientific gratification of facts...
at least in an age of mishandled
narratives,
of mythological bribery
liars could be confined
    to an established truant liking
of a variant of comedy / trickery...
to make play of kings becoming
fools...
               but now?!
                           given the certainity?
i'm not willing to *****-father
a *******-*******.

patronising punishing
preventing
pervading

controlling
constrictive
callous
destructi­ve
demeaning
devastating
damaging
disallowing

shocking
shattering
never
nurturing empowering encouraging

desolation
persisting
pervading
transgenerational
cells

volume 15 on the local
proceedings to the rekindling 1980s...

away from utilißing headphones,

choice of constrictive soap
opera of the "desire" for space...

incubus' seminal (3rd adjective
                   "concern")
   morning view album:

battery low, i need to resort
to familiar scents of my
mother's kitchen,

volume on par with the concept
of 15,
    and there's a warm fire brewing,
incubator tactics,
like taking care of a premature
baby (which,
somehow isn't a foetus) feels
like...
  
                 crows in mexico?
storks in poland...
  why is it that storks only migrate
north to settle in poland,
as the common "myth" goes...
storks only fly north to mate
in poland...

                   as a pollack:
that's "almost" uncomfortable to state...
should be doing acid
sort of moment,
later beefing it up in a gym...
getting the bulge and the dumb
new jersey blonde scenario...

              volume at 15, headphones
out, and i'm thinking about
cushions, walls, and the surrealism
of not imploding with headphones
in the mobile arena of society...
sunglasses...
                and...

girls that cut themselves...
    one "advice" i can give...
if any...
                     heat up an inch of metal,
whether scissors or fork,
or blade,
   and then press it against your
skin and: surd the event...
allow no sparrow jitters to take hold
of your tongue...

    a bulimic man?
strange, isn't it?
as ever, in america: the double
affirmative: is it not it, it?

         i remember goffing down
sweets from, when lidl was "cheap"
and frowned upon by the british
public...
      but not doing
the *trinity gesture" down
down the throat to regurgitate
bulks, and bulks of the *******...

a reverse of donning the niqab:
peering eyes society,
c.c.t.v.
            britannia...
   and everyone on the coast
didn't mind it, given they were still
fed oranges of the north sea:
with the fruits of the sea in
terms of, the french colloquialy
term mollusks...

       something on the edges of
britain (esp. dover) left me feeling
a complete sense of alienation...
and no matter what competitive
commentator tells me:
  
       that sort of ****?
                      sticks to you, like a tattoo.
it's more than a mere tattoo...
it's a map reading exercise
reflective of the thought mapping
of encompassing a "process"
of individuation...

                     asylum, no asylum,
asylum,
                        no british raj...
asylum,                no asylum...
    chemo-castration of males
using anti-depressant drugs?
                    no america.

butterflies outside my window,
flies crowding a punk scene
into my room...

                        no "summer"...
no scortched grass,
                   no yacht...
  and bongo bongo clubbing
                  from pseudo-mussolini....
cheese-seuz!
             a bit like watching
a retired, and subsequently *******,
russian acrobat!

oh yes, but it's not: how much you
weigh, but the mass...

        so... how can you explain to
me volume 15...
  
             as a depth of noise being
regulated to the instance of
the quality, and translation of
15...

    bypassing the frivolity of
             secondly explaining decibels?

*******... whales' mating call
    to replicate sonar for submarines?!
to hone:
   and replicate (0, 0, 0) genesis
                                   coordinates?!

once a denier, twice the liar,
twice the liar, thrice the "intelligence" officer,
or "shadow" lawyer...

with a concern for a revision of:
music occupying space,
rather than "time",
   at close proximity of my cranium...

what a bollocking!
             a ******* party sentence
to take to riot!
                            or lounge!

it’s weird to question life
and the plausibility of it all.

no, not the thought of existing
but the existing
itself.

would we regret anything
if we remained simply enveloped in
the deafening linens of conformity?
knowing nothing but the crease marks lining our bodies
there to remind us
of the constrictive safety of warm — popular — demands?

wouldn’t it be easy?
to climb onto a soft mattress
listening to the soft hum of night’s — lulling —  prowl?
wouldn’t it be easy to forget
to ignore
the interrupting sound of our own timid breathing?
the rise and fall of our chests
the repetitive break in the linen’s constant form?

it is only a linen
isn’t it?
thin and pliable.
only meant for our own purposes,
our own warmth.

but yet,
at night we all go searching for our linens
our place of restrictive safety.
hoping
just hoping conformity will keep us warm at night.

eventually it all will
constrict
constrict
constrict
and will we all still be breathing?
or will the linens be too rigid?
pressing against us
rather than the breath of our own —  individual — existences?

ich suenge gerne huebschen sanc
i would not sing no song
no praise no tales of others:
justify my own adventure
of life's teeming ways
    and unjustified clamor of feelings...

        from the onset i can testify:
i'm just as ****** up as anyone
who's anyone and anyone who's no one:

don't pity me
this little stupid me
this poor little stupid me

das arm wenig dumm mich

i'm no master manipulator
i don't exactly know what i want
perhaps that's because i want so little
this little me wants so little
to drown in shrinking
to shrink and falter and shrink
and falter

asking my mother what is love
when her love is
just a constrictive riddle and a stressor
to owning
my heart for my heart to no other woman
O

         round and round the sun rises
and sets
night comes with an entourage of nightmares
and stomach cramps
and with that the body dictates
what is right and what is wrong

i don't care for intellect and intellectualizing
ethics
not from the mind but from the heart
i know what's right...

bargaining on philosophy:
a Kantian quadratic
of a priori and a posteriori
analytical and synthetic -
i've heard one is impossible

but not for the sake of knowledge
but for the sake of judgement
i much prefer the taste of sound judgement
than knowledge
hyper-fantastical non-applicable
talk of astronomers and what is
the buoyancy of the universe
suspended on a rotating disk on a camel's ****

like threading through eyes
of needle some bollocking of string theory
and i thought i'd escape all that
wasted childhood on how people educate
people
churning out people incapable of
changing a light bulb or
throwing a perfectly good appliance out
simply because the fuse in the socket
burned out...

          last time i asked my mother about
love i was 21 and i paid
over 15 years in hell
and in this hell i met god as a great wind
whirling and dispersing a choir
of singing entities
and restless ever since
i cannot compensate this riddle like
protection or the Guard of Mammon
i can't claim a reality
but since reality began disintegrating
around me
no manner or amount of psychiatric
scrutiny would endow me with
my original: solipsistic narrative of dimmed
sight...

but when it comes to manipulation:
oh yes, stay in London: the Window to the World
or don't: stay in St. Petersburg
and watch Europe: the funnel of the world
instead
or not: either -
but don't move to Kauai and become caged
not to some 55 year old woman
with a child
and an aging mother: remember i'm your
mother and i'm aging too
now that i'm this reborn Ms *******
Florence Nightingale
and i have a puppet of a brother dependent
on me kissing me gently
all our former animosity fizzled out
or that i won't be able to forgive my
own mother on her deathbed

so love is this unreasonable force?
i've witnessed a second hell
less energizing than the former
like a plateau of stones
but no hill
unlike the punishment of Sisyphus
no upheaval no single stone
to drag up a hill
but instead this plateau of rubble
and i'm here: bound to the chains of
unimaginative torturing
of self - by self...
a love like gravity a love most damning
because of the vicinity of reality
while all around me: in no special way
new atheism dies
and i'm tickled by being a proselyte
toward: having found "conversion" impossible
toward the Hebrew ways
something Islamic is smiling at me
but then the Islamic peasants like
their Christian counterparts come swarming
with bad manners
and perhaps not drunk on the furor of football
but still ill mannered
and all the bliss and intellectual comforts
of glancing past the primordial ontological
focus on man
disappears:

master manipulator my ***!
all i said was - and i was adamant about it...
'but what's the point of me visiting you
on Kauai if i have to rent and
drop pennies into the pockets of your friend
why can't i just stay with you
and instead of having rent money
i buy a ******* canoe or maybe two
and you me and Reyla
have a fun time exploring all the rivers
on that island the size of London
why don't i just better use the money
and you really think that...
we're already sleeping together
you made that adamantly clear
when dis-inhibited moaning in the hot tub
i'm seriously have a hissing fit
i have never experienced froth on my phallus
because i tried cheating
but instead i paid £130 for massaging
a *******'s bruised *** and calves and
that bit above the calves:
she didn't even have the knowledge
to **** off a ***** that hasn't been circumcised
and i know my body as i know you
and your body knows me
and i just hear this nagging realism
of mother saying: oh but you can talk
to me,
remember in ten years time she'll be 65
and you'll be in your 40s
and then widower...
well marriage and the Green Card
while you watch all those hungry Mexicans
not giving a **** still storming the border
and in any nightmare
the plummeting contention for ordinary
people to breed
bus driver replacements
and who's to say what's going to be automated
and jeez:

         and and and this is not a pretty verse
it's not supposed to be
but finally your mother reached out
because you were probably crying
and now you became the little girl
to your little girl and it finally sank in
that i'll buy a ticket the next day
and come and cuddle and *******
but i'm not paying rent when i can just
sleep on your lanai like a dog
but serious how can your mother think
that she lived her life full of frolic and
now makes it impossible for me
to rearrange your life a little
by being able to drag your daughter out
of your bedroom where she slept
with you
oh god that felt so good
dragging that mattress from your friend's
abode to your daughter's room
and setting up the bed for her
like a Jesus but unlike a Jesus
the choking joke being: well:
if can't find a crucifix to tackle and take
to Golgotha at least find a mattress to take
it up to a girl's bedroom
and then pray, pray for some **** antics
because i was the: huh? sort of looks
****** but perfectly salient
in my approach baking that 13 candle birthday cake
and right now
i was actually storming around my head
(without a head to speak of)
doing ego-juggling-with-eggs
because i heard enough public intellectualism
in English to know that people
get muddied in muddles of the performance
art of seeming confident and clued in
and with the number of books i read
myself i'm choking with disbelief at the gad
of these people having read so little
yet able to talk so much!"

love arrives outside the realm of knowledge...
i'm seeking judgement
i much prefer to orientate myself
around judgement rather than knowledge:
regardless of knowing:
knowledge becomes trivial and automated
when contending away from intellect
and ethics: spoken of
but not felt...

the knowledge of riding a bicycle
and the knowledge of swimming
the knowledge of walking
much better than questing for... blah blah
analytical a priori: 2 + 2 = 5?
given that 2 + 2 = 4...
        2 + 2 = 5? only because there was no actual
origin of numbers in Hindu or Arab
benefactors given that: if you look closely:

   2 + 2 = 5?  
                             Z + Z = S

no? it's ******* clear as daylight this is impossibly
love since it hurts because
it's not somehow defunct, devoid:
leftover scrap of makeshift food stuff divination
no wine and bread cannibalism
such loser poetics as an interlude with
a Swiss master of Cheese alluded to
when his case was presented
about using one ticket twice
to catch a metaphorical bus to a metaphorical
end of journey that was the moon
but not the stadium:

    if only it was a music event and not a sport
event...

now Edie is emailing me and i waited
in agony
for an email
thankfully i severed and ghosted her
but didn't: not really:
i was high and lonely and probably drunk
so for the next few days
i was sober and realized that i had a splinter
in my head
or like a horse with a grain of sand
in its ear started pounding at the wall
in vain trying to get it out the itch
was impossible
but now i feel alive once more
since your tears can be ascribed to:
but i can use that money for better purposes
than rent!
i can but a canoe i can at least
watch gleefully at you watching t.v.
and Reyla telling you to wake up
but i still love you snoring
and who cares
if by the time you're 65 i'll be in my 40s
and whatever that entails
but at least that's still 10 years
i will make up for the 15 or so years
my 20s and half of my 30s erased
for the pursuit of: **** know's what
now i'm supposed to make cleaning the house
a priority over writing this
and: ha! concerning writing...
well: if i were to find the semblance of effort
and care for outcome of readership
then yeah: dumb down and write
50 Shades of Grey
this literacy **** brigade is not for my liking
i will have to write the most unsatisfying
scribble for a Clued in Society of Anti-Marxists
or something
because that's how that one man's intellect
enabled the spearhead monstrosity of
how Slavic peoples congregated and left
shoes not walked in on magic carpets
then took to walking on stilts in Germanic
post-Imperial idealism...
broadly speaking: Germanic invoking
the disparity of ethnicity among the French
the English and the Germans and Scandinavians

i never understood why Denmark was
considered Scandinavian
given the past month of terrible weather
why is England even remotely considered
western when it actually should be
considered
a Scandinavian outpost
akin to Iceland why think of this place
as somehow this ideal western junction
oh god knows but i'm pretty sure
if i blah blah for long enough there will
be some clarifying justification for all this...

but it's finally sinking in...
terrible loath of me finally manages to find
the tears and knows it's love
but from previous experiences
i'm rough
and diamond but that's nothing special
but it just might be
if i get your mother to realize that we
are sleeping more sleeping
than sleeping this is ugly
             i feel uplifted i judged correctly
without knowledge
and you can judge correctly without
knowledge, per se:
when you ride a bicycle and reach
the summit of spacial-coordination
on two endoskeletons:
of one's own bones
and a bicycle frame

compared to the exoskeleton of a car
and it's just that use of mirror
and fail-safe mechanics...

clearly i don't intend to be smart
but rather: dumb dumb dumb
and i don't meet that with an air of superiority
i'm writing out of sheer desperation
and that doesn't bother me
in the slightest
once the early morning cramps
wriggled in i knew i was giving birth
to a daughter a lover a mother...

             the airy-fairy logistic of love
on paper
written O so sparingly
i would gladly bargain with a life in London
against a life in Kauai
and it wouldn't be a cage it would be a relief
because after finding her
it's not so much that i can find
another but becoming so attached
to the mint and pristine of licking
an envelope and sending whatever might
be enclosed to her

but i did delete all the explicit photographs
she sent me
i thought that was cheap of me
asking for such stuff
now, instead, i have a clean conscience
to start again
if i can be given another chance
to start and dream big
but only:

listen! i would gladly fly out to Kauai ****-naked:
in principle i will not be paying a
faking it we're ******* happy
i thought this was America
not some lost Polynesia outpost of tribal
morality
but if we're going down that route
who's to say that there need be a priest
and a church junction to finalize matters
when the "terrible" has already happened?