My sweet, sweet girl.
Coraline.
Your hair is like the sun.
Shimmering all day long.
It glows each time you look at it.
Coraline.

My sweet, sweet girl.
Coraline.
Your eyes are the ocean.
They sparkle in the sun.
Dark and rich with blue.
Coraline.

My sweet, sweet girl.
Coraline.
You're like a flower beginning to blossom.
An almost ripe red rose.
And you will get to be one.
Someday.

Coraline.

Once upon a time,
There was a blue haired girl named Coraline

She moved to her new home,
that was totally made of wood and stone

Her parents were very busy with there works
They gave her no attention and were playing real jerks

On a random day, she finds a hidden door, very small
But with big disappointment it ended up on a brick wall

When she got woken up by a shadow in the late night- darkness
She followed its movement, totally harmless

The shadow leaded her to the little door
So, she maded herself really small, with her knees on the floor

But when she opend the door, it wasn't what she first saw
Behind the little door, there was now a little hall

On the other side of the hall, there was another small door
She wanted to go out there, but she wasn't so sure

Finally she decided to take the risk
So she crawled thru the hall, very whisk

She suddenly ends up in a special place, where it all looked the same.
She would soon found out, it all was not a game

Everybody had buttons instead of eyes
and lots of things were happening as a surprise

There also were 3 kids without a heart and soul
Although she liked it there she wanted to leave that black hole

But for that she had to pay a price
Her real parents had gone missing and to find them, she had to think twice

Her other mother locked them up behind a mirror.
Coraline didn't know what to do, so she asked her to make everything clearer.

The three soulless kids were also locked up
They never had gotten the chance to grow - up.

So she made a deal with her other mother
If she could find the 3 souls of the kids, she could leave with the others

During her quest she met a speaking cat.
But still, she wanted to leave that place really bad.

With a lot of difficulties
She had find the odd species.

But Coraline knew the mother wouldn't play fair
So she threw the speaking cat in the air.

the cat scratched the face off the other mother
She was screaming but Coraline didn't bother.

True the passage she arrived,
in her real house in the middle of the night
She closed the door and made now sure she locked  it very tight

A long time ago
In a land far away
There was a young girl
Whose life changed one day
For once upon a time
in the little house where she once lived
an evil came upon them
one that couldn't be forgived
through a little door
lied a happiness that couldn't be compared
but was it true?
or where her senses impaired?
a better home and nicer parents
would you sew buttons to your eyes?
stay with this new family?
even if all they say are lies?

please! please! please give me something!
please give me something worth staring at!
i don't want to see this mush, this watermelon pulp
of a smoothie! i don't want to see it! give me something
i can cry over, like the mechanical lullaby from
the soundtrack of Coraline...
give me something worth
lamenting; it's not really poetry
if you're stuck in a rut and
suddenly gesture poetically
like it matters, what are the matters
elsewhere, what is really elsewhere
other than from being stuck in a rut in
a hole, where is the light at the end
of the tunnel? please don't become the tunnel,
let me see the light at the end of it -
i'm sick of peering into tunnels!
but you know what globalisation did,
i can write such ******* on the index
of pixels and feel all the more un-inhibitory;
i can listen to the Coraline soundtrack,
and watch my cat sleep,
and feel no guilt... because the world is
so large, and i rebelled against
globalisation by making it so so small,
it's so small you're not really allowed entry;
if you gained entry you'd feel castrated
or impotent;
like i said to her in her dipping of emotions
slicing her forearm open:
terror is worse than ******
(you can even hear them now, giggling while
being sterilised without an enforcement
to stop using both the contraceptive pill of
varied adverse effects and the anaesthetic
of pleasure that rubber ******* jacket)...
it's spontaneous, there's no apparent
symbolic build-up...
you can hardly expect the Autobahn system
with terrorism...
it just isn't there...
and while she sliced her hand en route the veins
i put the bread in the fridge
because it would provide a longer far away
expiry date...
and wrote that message on the kitchen tablet
in permanent ink...
i only went to a ******* because i was
rejected so many times, if felt natural
that such a profession should exist;
well d'uh, i'm all into speaking till dawn,
but sometimes a little bit of sensuality does miracles!
well, let's say it feels more than wiping your *** clean
after giving birth to a ****...
so there she was with her arm slashed,
and i encircled her wrist with my thumb and pinky
telling her: it's better that you didn't
chop your hand off.
and wearing sunglasses in the night
i learned the bonsai felines don't sleep as much
as you think, the ears are a give-away,
that sonar of theirs always keen to capture sounds,
they just keep their eyes closed,
it's not that they're sleeping,
these doctors of what is the vacuum and the existence
of anti-matter are awake
and try to hallucinate rather than dream,
hence they try hallucinating with their
eyes closed - until the real potent
hallucinations enter their minds while asleep;
dreams, dreams, dreams!
no, she can't be jealous of prostitutes!
she can't be, i paid for the ****** intimacy to feel
irresponsible and impersonal,
she didn't just do the dumbest thing imaginable
and become a pole dancer... no, she couldn't have!
what am i to do now? i've heard that jealousy exist
when you get really personal with a lover
who has a kinder profession than pure ****** exploitation;
but she did say she was abducted for ransom,
and if this isn't a lie, she did the most unselfish act
imaginable to un-servitude herself in a public exhibition
of exploitation... it wasn't a labyrinth any more,
nothing personal... while i got stuck
with music box ceramics of ballerinas twirling to a haunting;
she bought me like a kilogram of peaches
at the marketplace in the afterlife.

I
Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
Key West sank downward under massive clouds
And silvers and greens spread over the sea. The moon
Is at the mast-head and the past is dead.
Her mind will never speak to me again.
I am free. High above the mast the moon
Rides clear of her mind and the waves make a refrain
Of this: that the snake has shed its skin upon
The floor. Go on through the darkness. The waves. fly back

II
Her mind had bound me round. The palms were hot
As if I lived in ashen ground, as if
The leaves in which the wind kept up its sound
From my North of cold whistled in a sepulchral South,
Her South of pine and coral and coraline sea,
Her home, not mine, in the ever-freshened Keys,
Her days, her oceanic nights, calling
For music, for whisperings from the reefs.
How content I shall be in the North to which I sail
And to feel sure and to forget the bleaching sand ...

III
I hated the weathery yawl from which the pools
Disclosed the sea floor and the wilderness
Of waving weeds. I hated the vivid blooms
Curled over the shadowless hut, the rust and bones,
The trees likes bones and the leaves half sand, half sun.
To stand here on the deck in the dark and say
Farewell and to know that that land is forever gone
And that she will not follow in any word
Or look, nor ever again in thought, except
That I loved her once ... Farewell. Go on, high ship.

IV
My North is leafless and lies in a wintry slime
Both of men and clouds, a slime of men in crowds.
The men are moving as the water moves,
This darkened water cloven by sullen swells
Against your sides, then shoving and slithering,
The darkness shattered, turbulent with foam.
To be free again, to return to the violent mind
That is their mind, these men, and that will bind
Me round, carry me, misty deck, carry me
To the cold, go on, high ship, go on, plunge on.

Night patterns shine on her reflection,
Tonight she is all alone.
The water deforms her face,
She killed the girl she use to be.
She stares in the ribbon of water,
The forest growing deathly still,
That type of haunted, ghostly forest,
That leaves you with a chill.
She can't seem to find my way back to Texas,
She wish somebody would point her to Tennessee.
But first, before she meets the one who is hers,
She must be able to meet herself.
She looks at this girl, yet she doesn't see me,
Her beauty shields who she inside.
She is so insecure and has to hide.
Yet she does not want to commit suicide.
Instead, she wants to live all alone.
In a dark, sick world.
The ones like in Coraline,
Or the night before Christmas,
Just a haunted, wicked world.
The one she loves is just so perfect,
She loves him more than anything.
She wants him to know it will be okay.
Her light comes from the ones she shines on his day.
She is just scared, not of him or if he'll love her,
For that is clear to see.
She's just scared of herself.
She murdered the girl she use to be.
The clouded night grows calmer still,
Demons rising with a deadly trill,
Angry eyes, all despise,
The question remains.
The terrifying question makes her heart this world,
This world of growing hate.
It is a simple question that has sent chains on her arms,
Bound her to her hell.
And she can't escape, there is no hope for her,
As he is not there to hold her hand.
Chase the demons away,
Or kiss her tonight.
She just wants to know one thing,
One thing that will set her free.
They, come, they take Rosie away,
She screams into the black night,
Kicking her legs against the other girl,
"Andy!" She calls out, but he is not there.
Her heart breaks, but this person is too strong,
Her heart grows cold as they take her away.
Rosie goes limp, dropping her letter,
Her love note to Andy.
It falls onto the muck on the ground,
The breeze lifts her hair.
The siren is heard from the land,
Dear Rosie is almost dead.
Her eyes turn wide and black,
Dark tears streaming from her once beautiful face.
Darkness, Evil and Terror fill
Her soul.
She is more scared than you could ever imagine.
She opens her eyes for the very last time,
Before she sees her love meet her eyes.
He smiles his famous lop-sided smile,
And takes a good look at her.
Because he's always, always, been there for her,
This story is that of a happy ending.
He chases her demons away by a simple wink,
She didn't have to go to Tennessee.
Because she remembers he is with her always,
A smile stretches on her face,
And immediately she hugs him,
Hoping the kiss she will give him is enough to repay him,
For all that he's done, all that he is,
She loves the Andy she knows.
She wouldn't change him for anything.
Andy, you have always been there for me,
I am so proud of you.
I hope my love can chase your demons away,
I love you.
Love, Rosie.

snuggling on the couch, watching coraline

your **** shoved in my face
ready to blow
forced in my mouth
almost chalky dry

holding my hand in the store
hugging me tight because mom has a new boyfriend

pushing me against the sink
thrusting in

crying on the couch
you smother me
till i smile

first night i met you
hands down my pants
you asked me to get on top
i said no
it happened
anyway

helping me work my way to college
moving for me
buying me
so many
many
things*

hard **** against my thigh
rubbing
forceful hand against me
too hard
frightened

hugs
kisses
he takes care of me
cries when he tells me how much he loves me
tells me how i saved him
from depression,
suicide
anger

if only to tell you the depression you brought me
like one of the many presents
wrapped tightly
i swallowed
let it spread to my lungs
now i only breathe pain
i did not dissipate the bad parts of you
i consumed them
and now they are mine
to bear

"What happened to the girl I used to know?"

She's still here. She will always be here. I still love pickles more than eating a regular meal. I still love watching Coraline even though I've seen it 67 times and I still cry when she finds the 3 lost children soul. I still draw like I'm in grade 5. I still read Doctor Suess books for inspiration because he was a genius, yeah I said it. But people have to grow up, things become hard and complicated. One day you're going to a sleepover then waking up to a call that your dad had a heart attack and has died. Then you blink and you're starting at him while he's laying there in a coffin while your mom has buried her head into his chest crying and crying Because she has to lose the love of her life today. While your grandmother is rubbing her back because she has to say goodbye to her son today. Do not ask me "what happened to me" I am only 16 and I have to worry about my mom not falling apart and I have to teach my brothers things 16 years shouldn't have to teach younger children. You do not get the right to ask me anything because I am trying my best and I am sorry I haven't been able to feed your ego lately.

.well... a horror movie soundtrack is just a choice... there's always a loop of the song dreaming, from the coraline soundtrack; i'm such a sentimental schmuck.

fasting all day,
blood sugar levels low in
the later afternoon...
filling up on an English
breakfast leftovers past
midnight...

it's raining... and there's
still more than 3/4 of
a whiskey bottle left...
but it's raining...
and...
   i suppose i should wish
to write something...
but then... then again...

with the bedroom window
ajar...
putting on some horror movie
soundtrack...
and subsequently listening
to the rain...

do i really need another "poem"?
another, rather *******
statement concerning
flashing numbers...
in red, rather than emerging
words from a blank space?

no... not really...
there's just something about
a recalibrate of the body
after a day of fasting...
it's like ******* Ramadan
with me, almost all year round...

i guess with the whole globalist
affair... i sleep-stalking
my time in these hours...
at twenty minutes past 1am
most people are asleep...
while i'm...

   just shy of pouring myself
another drink,
and contemplating falling asleep
mingling a horror movie
soundtrack and the falling rain;

rhapsody of the most gentle
scuttling, tapping...
i call it...
    the aqua-aranea effect...
water-spider effect...
       ghostly piano of the night...
weaving a lullaby like
no other lullaby could ever
be sung;

like the hallow call of the impeding
inevitability of death -
and: that rare grace:
of primordial yet at the same time:
eternal sleep.

the older i become the more it hinders my output:
volume, quality, whatever you want to call...
perhaps it's censorship (in a way) -
a ****** lenovo keyboard: not wide enough
to properly place my hands to not look down
but ahead at the genius of QWERTY...
since... believe me: the classical order of the alphabet
conjured up by the French (perhaps i'm
remembering incorrectly) is not really important:
what matters is the entire body of the scripted
language... words don't unravel from a prerequisite
of abcdefghijklmnopq...rs...t...u...v...w...x...y...z
is that all the letters?
i actually don't know fingers dart backwards &
forwards... or, not really... when playing this
"piano" anyway: as long as all the required
letters are invoked in the required words:
hey presto! meaning!
                      there ought to be 26... funny...
there are 32 letters in the ****** (western Slavic)
alphabet... the same number as the teeth
in my gob...
but sometimes i "lose" a poem... whether it's censorship
when i make a post: ****! gone...
or whether i'm callous with the ctrl + c / + p / + a
scenario when i drank a little bit too much...
i don't know... perhaps i'm writing for
some elite that doesn't want the public to read
my work... i like to think of it that way...
but losing a poo'em can become so disheartening
that i i sometimes want to forget that i speak:
let alone write... now longer periods when
i can rekindle a makeshift monologue:
but then i have to find something technical in language
to reorient my purpose...
it's becoming less & less easy...
esp. since i'm not writing fiction...
  just... grass is green... butternut squash soup is
more than hearty: but it will never match up
to my better take on the Heinz canned classic... period...
not enough chilly in the Heinz... canned classic...
& never eaten with a slice of bread...
it requires vermicelli... like most soups do...
like a decent ****** chicken broth...
which also requires... well: poaching the carcass
but  base set of vegetable...
a leek... a celeriac root slice...
parsley root... a carrot... garlic... celery stalks...
parsley - the green leaves...
salt, pepper... & vermicelli...
oh... & plenty of time...
i'm disheartened when i lose a piece of script:
it's not Shakespeare (obviously) but so much emotion
can flow into the cascade that:
tabloid newspapers are given bragging rights...
are, ahem... "important"... so... my writing...
whether by censorship or not...
or my clumsy fingers when putting across
a body of text from one canvas to another... goes wrong...
hours become days when i find a new:
desire to write... since... writing is much easier
to thinking...
writing is much easier to thinking...
as thinking is much easier to speaking...
- but all of a sudden my life has changed a little...
writing is so much easier when you're
not "doing" anything...
mein gott... poems flow & flow... snippets
of narrative arrive at your forehead & fingertips like
postcards from your ex-girlfriends missing
you dearly from exotic locations: as if being married
& having children is still not enough because:
they didn't have your children & aren't married to you...
the poo'em i lost was about... two days ago...
travelling to Wembley Park for... an induction...
the role? being a steward...
i figured: enough of youth can be wasted on dreams...
literary dreams...
let's inject some... proper... grass-root ambition
with... RE-AH-LI-TY (****... phonetically that's
REE-AH-LEE-TEA/EE/AE)...
this writing "business" isn't going at the pace
i want... sure... i can brag about...
wow... almost 40 thousand views of one poem...
there are over 6K poems of mine, just here...
Wembley Stadium can host 90,000 spectators...
one poem of mine can muster up... almost half
of the capacity?
not bad... but... not good enough...
lucky for me i can relate for this sort of thirst when
drinking... sometimes i'm content with
a bottle of wine... at other times i need a liter of whiskey...
go figure... but not when so many idiotic pundits...
when there's this media masquerade happening...
i'm in the shadows: i'm listening to what people
are listening to... i never leave traces in the comment
sections: a waste of time...
makes thinking about certain things easier:
when you don't air your opinions...
after all: that's pseudo-rhetorical...
the true art of debate is... withdrawing from:
debating... the dialectical position is:
first mind diacritical marks (sorry... none in English,
& yes... it's still more ugly
when phonetically charged with graffiti "mishaps"...
misnomer: "shortcuts")...
- where was i? oh right... perhaps i "missed" something
in my original lost sample of a narrative:
although (last time i checked)
this website provides automated save as drafts
when you stop typing - after a prolonged period
of typing: my bad...
writing is so much easier when life is uneventful...
i could tease that word: uneventful into
a katakana syllabary: i almost want i almost have
to i therefore (not almost, but) must:
un-eh-vent-ful...
oh look at that: sitting pretty like a toddler
with a drumstick of a chicken (leg)...
**** it: my writing is going nowhere...
i have more ambition to simply let it... sizzle in its own
juices: or whatever better expression is handy...
none come to mind...
i need to look at people: i need to study people...
the internet is an echo-chamber to begin with:
it used to...
a jukebox narrative... such freedoms were
once available... mein gott... what music
i discovered when foraging on youtube...
in two years... gone... the algorithm got ******...
period: bad grammar is an exemplification
of this load of: hot-steaming... mix of **** & *******...
i need a real job... wasting my youth on writing
is not enough: perhaps my writing will catch up:
or my readership will... either way:
i'm not aiming for anything under
the title-weight of a Bukowski:
lucky ******... but i'm also not aiming for
the almost near obscurity of... the Black Mountain poets...
who was their leader... Larry?
Lee-rrr...       eh... it's not like a tarantula didn't
crawl into an English mouth & "somehow"
numbed the tongue for the end result of:
nein zu tremolo! ****'s sake... if i only asked:
why the French Fwench... but they hark so:
never mind...   yes, yes... Larry Eignar...
**** me... that took a while...
but there's another... a "renegade" on the...
ha ha... steppes of "Cambodia"...

          Russell is a likely connotation...
but incorrect... let's see....
     wait... Charles Olson... ol' Ollie...
he? he was a black mountain poet?
you ******* kidding me...
no chance in hell that will pass by me
given.... concerning his Maximus poems...
like: **** no...
i'm a critic i'm a nobody i'm a porveurour...
now i remember the ******'s name:
Robert ******* Kreely...
him! Kreely: Creely... Creeley...
**** it... fling in the vowels...
lets see what sort of a trebuchet **** master
you... ought... might... make.
oh.... wait.... important "news"...
an... apostrophe "missing": plain Jane typo....
where?LET(')S i.e. implying the shortening of:
the inclusivity of the collective... "US"..
      wunderbar!
                 schön!
that's the umlaut O... ergo... shoo... shoon...
great!
                           kaninchen und...
                        rosa ball-ons!  
i know a ******* balloon from a *******
ball-on... it's like telling me...
what's the difference between an omicron
and an omega...
i.e. do you really need to tell me
the difference?
sure... if it was an upsilon: you *******
clueless Greek!
what audacity:
you ******* clueless... Greek...
what... better some Iranian...
arriving from... Belarus?!
oh sure... i really want to live in Kenya...
among the ivory beauties with skins
that hide their bodies...
******* milk on toast... some chocolate:
sprinkled... i see teeth & sclera...
& some mahogany...
  ****? i'd **** anything that moves...
even south Korean girls geared up for a game of....
ping-pong....
my bad... what?
or is that: WAT like... WATT...
the energy unit or the Samuel Beckett novel
that over-competes James Joyce's Ulysses?!

your is the roulette... yours... hmm... your's...
for a while... the latter was underlined...

life used to be so much simpler when...
language could speak for... "itself"...
no one could use it: somehow, "somehow"...

i applied for the role of a Wembley Stadium
steward on a whim...
i thought: **** it... writing is not going toward
a projected: Ginsberg stastus...
i'm not going to compete with the leftoid jargon
of the 1960s... lucky me...

i'm just a terrible "millenial"...
i use an apostrophe like i migh5t secure understand
of the Pythagorean hypotenuse...
some C "squared"...
Wembley Stadium steward...
this... cacophony of hierarchy "suddenly" hits me...

i can understand authority...
tier one, tier two... vampire... zombie...
sure, sorted...

of the supposed 12 rules for life...
one of them reeds... i suppose that's reed: read:
reeds... sorry.. n'est ce pas...
pet a cast on the sreet?
you know, how hard it is... to pet a cat..
on the street?!
if you lived in England...
wolves... what wolves?!
foxes... oh yeah... plenty of those...
but... petting cats?
a bit like explaining...
a jpeg. take up less volume... ha ha: "volume"
than a pdf. file...

why i was mo4e than ready: i'll never known...
perhaps i'm a closeted fan of Ed Sheeran,
perhaps i like children in the role of:
a fathering figure...
perhaps children like to
poke my beard & lips...
perhaps this... perhaps that...
perhaps i'm ******* Santa Claus...
or what's Satan's Claus(e)....
all these freebies... cough up!

or... i just like making people "feel" included:
"feel" is one "thing", REALISED... another...
it might sound like newsspeak...
but... i don't want to ingest another...
Manchester Bomb Arena spectacle...

SAA... a week in Brixton... 7 days...
but they require a cohort of at least 12 applicants...
it elevastes your status as steward to:
someone who can: "juggle"...
be legally obliged to utilised force:
if necessary...
i like... i like... i like...

first ZOOM call in my life... ******* Ludite...
luddite... ugh... that double D kills me...
surd: you don't hear(d) to: begin with...
so... what... spelling "mistake"?

oh sure... the ****** transit & traffic...
train from Romford through to Liverpoool St...
then the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
great... the arch...
a black coffee from McDonald's & two croissants from
Lidl... morning... done...
no more... morning sickness....
come late afternoon Somali girls eyeing me up in a black
tie... o.k. sure... fair game: "gamble"...
hunting what?
i like this understudy of what's man...

i arrived an hour early...
waited the tad bit... of a little... we exchanged formalities... but then i watched as...
two groups formed...
the ****-shock-show of the multi-cultural urban... ahem... "class"... with one rep. & the other... mostly... asian men... with their... asian rep...

12 rules for life... seriously?! do you know how hard it is... to pet a cat? sorry... can i make you reiterate... petting a cat... lucky me... for petting two cats today... "strays"... but... do you know how nearly impossible it is... to pet cats, is?! you don't pet a cat because you can... you pet a cat out of the whims of: the cat willing you to pet it!  just like i like... sitting on my windowsill listening to foxes bemoan their lack of ****** adventures... it's England... foxes... ergo no wolves! d'uh! cull the foxes... you cull the erotica of the nights!

between... sigourney weaver... &...
mmm... winona ryder...
raven 'air...
two winners... how harems work...

Tuba Büyüküstün...

apologies for the phrasing...
if all the supposed gems not donning niqabs
that are western women
are so... *******: NIGGERCOCK mad...
Tuba Büyüküstün... oh... look at me...
you think i want some anemic blonde:
stereotype?!
raven... hair!
sure... the black male specimens are
handsome, attractive: if i were a woman:
i would... ha... "problem"...
why don't i want to...
the ****** antonym... because a white girl
really wants to... do a black guy...
do i... "have" to have the same
compulsions with regards to a black girl?!
Turkic! **** yes!
Mongolian... probably!
Tuba Büyüküstün...
or... swans probably don't have necks...
no... swans probably don't have necks
when you see this:

(although sophie skelton looks
better in the initial photograph...
papa best preached)...
swans don't have necks...
not with her...
around... to... curate... a balett of
nodding  approvals...

Caitríona Mary Balfe... i'm so loved up...
in that i once remarked in private:
bemoaned: that the Scots have forgotten
their native tongue...
swans have no necks...
swans don't need necks...

the neck of Caitríona Mary Balfe
eyes... too...
or the short-styled hair... & eyes
of Tuba Büyüküstün...
don't get me started on the hands...
those petite Antoinetes of joy...
the most ****** aspect of a woman is bound
to her hands... i'm missing a knuckle! or at least
*******!

woo-man!                         woe-is-me!
woe-is-man!             woo-man!
i'll bark i'll gargle... not for the sold-cold "soul & eternity"
of the d.n.a.:
but rather for that Muhammad never achieved when
competing with King Solomon!
then again... King David had the better tale...
the love of music, the writing of the psalms
&... defeating Goliath...
king Solomon was... compensating with
the excessing in the exploitation of women...
eh... Solomon &... proverbs can be tested...
true... or untrue...
but psalms... unconditionally...
sung... or... lost...
no antonym-synonym dynamic...
you either remember or you forget...
you don't merely remember & pseudo-remember
via changing the narrative a little: or a lot...

what a neck... on this Irish beauty...

two frotiers formed.... one side...
the cosmopolitan, readied to talk to women
in possible women in authority, etc.
whatever are the preferenfes....
i really adore the ROYAL: third person:
ONE might...
or the plural WE....
"genger plural pronouns":
not since the existence of the "crown":
i am subject to ol' Lizzies stipends!

i am her mouthpiece wherever she's:
not m'ah ******* grandma!
on zoom calll i was sked....   (scared, for sked)
what were British values....
i was asked....
i replied... universal?!
i passed some mythological...
Kennsington Test...
ooh p'ah! ******* hurah
join the Union Jack brigade!
who's kidding who?

              the red coats are coming!
last time i 'eard?
not enough of 'em are "coming"...
come to "think" of it: beside staring at goats...
"going": where?
do "we" need to "go" to Afghanistan
when... Afghanistan is coming to us?!

sorry... what?

two groups of people at Wembley...
mostly Asian men... an Asian rep...
& a group led by a Jewish girl...
talk of tortoises...
Sikh... Tamil... Sanskrit... men...
& women... ******...
Stalowa Wola: Iron Will... which is
an actual town...
Harry... the guy with tattoed hands...
Ewelina: Evaline...
**** me... another single mother...
how many more single mothers will i have to pass?!
i don't mind it:
ancient Rome replies with:
the surrogate father...
chances are...
i could be a bad genetic partner...
i wouldn't mind... raising children that weren't my own...
i swear to the only god available on such
matters...
he'd just nod approving me as
surrogate father...
to hell with it...
CORALINE - DREAMING...
ancient Rome sends you a postcard...
you'll reply?
        no? fair enough...
i could i wish i could...
a little: BAMBINO of my own...
bit then again...
investing in so much of my own...
what if... they are killed...
hell! ****** is one "thing"...
but what if by some stupid circumstance of
a traffic incident?!
ergo?
i very much like the idea of raising children that
biologically "belong"... ahem...
"elsewhere"...
not their souls, their minds.. though...
n'est ce pas?! VOU... that's not how
ALTHOUGH is assembled?
AUL: ALL.... VOU? it's not VOW...
ate the G... no, kiddy?

i love children... esp. those that are not my own...
i could love them & love them like
an Abraham... nein... i could love them like...
a god... i could love children in a way that...
mirrors.. the moment they arrive at...
exploring the game of:
hide & seek...
there was never any playground invoked
to summon: the game of bulldog...

i'm glad i have no children of my own...
more of my seeing and less of the eyes of my "choosing"...
petty tender heart-felts: demands...
i'd rather father the children of "unavaliable" fathers
than father my own...
ancient Rome is messaging you...
dearest...
   look how much easier it all becomes!
you raise someone else's child... but...
should said child die... become murdered...
erm... what of it?
a statistic... i feel no inclination to give a ****...
i invested in the mind... the soul...
the body can ***** itself to death...
as it does... but it's not my own...
i can be as much detached from its fate as is most purposively
ridden: to riddle me...
i'm glad to not raise my own!
it dies... it's murdered... do i care?
no... life replaces life... here we go: the grand
carousel... it's not like i have name like:
McKenzie or... McDougal...
so... no... no lineage... i'm a baron of the most
atomised of times... the individualistic
sanctity: real or supposed...

ancient Rome replies:
the negativity of single mother households....
compensated with... the freedoms of...
paternal surrogacy... give me a break!
ha! it's Eden! i come with not leverage of....
ownership! i owe nothing due to
the Darwinistic impetus!
i'd be freed from whatever is expected of me...
there are no investments...
in pronouns... might we:
the royal one?

ha!

it's no much easier to have children
that turn out to be girl...
ha!

i'd rather be a surrogate father to a "daughter"...
come to think of it...
i'd only want...
to be a father... to a son... biologically....
a daughter can...
Mayflower herself... or ***** herself all she wants...
from a father: unto a son...
like that "******": Matthew & Son (cat stevens)
or... "dreaming": Coraline...

the inquisitive cat... the teenage girl...
the "felix"... the Urdu... somewhat...
the inquisitive cat... kommen die nacht....
alles ist nacht...

if there's no democracy in poetry:
then there's no democracy at all!
maxim: non-la-rochefoucauld

Scream, I want you to scream,
Rag doll-- tearing at the seams,

The thread that's threatening to unravel,
The baked bread that's burning the faithful,

I want to hear your lion roar,
You're so mundane always a bore,

Your mind is scarily sublime,
But Coraline, the time is mine,

This is the test, the pitfall of the faithless,
You may be a mess, but show them why you get no rest.

You’re my moon, a pleasant light
highlights your features.
Hey moon, got a light?
Would love to stare, sit here, smoke a j to this.
We could make our problems go Up In Smoke and have Nice Dreams with more blue dream.

If only i could kiss you.
Want to, but my lips are tighter than the ****** mary.
**** with your boy like a priest, but not that predatory.
I’m in no rush to get in your caddy shack like bill murray.

Why hurry?
We can admire the night sky as we lay in the grass.
Maybe this can be enhanced now that my eyes are blacker than Coraline’s?
Let’s not mess this up by being childish like we just ate Trix.
We aren’t kids anymore, don’t do this.

I may use the lord’s name in vain a lot but, jesus christ, it’s the only ******* thing he’s good for.

death to the hair!
all the men burning their
hir!
yeah... the missing A...
must be...
Cymru-Silesian...

         coraline soundtrack -
dreaming...

       davy jones' - theme song

edward scissorhands' -
ice dance

once i used to cry...
but have you ever watched
snow fall,
in a graveyard,
at night?

it'a like...
the souls of the dead were
being reborn...

so little of this world
is due to the up-keeping
of a fleeting-thought,
its objectification
of this world..
and so much of it...
is due... sorry,
dough,
of what is not thought,
but is felt...

hence my disgruntling at
what is at most: disgrace!
cheapening emotion,
how could you!
how could you
cheapen emotion to a level
of elevating thought?!
heretics!
i'll say it again:
blasphemers!

who are you to demean
emotion in favor of thought,
which you cannot convince?!

batman returns OST -
   birth of a penguin part 1 & 2...

no wonder i go and ****,
once my grandparents are alive...
a week or two...
twice a year...
weeks after Christmas,
and weeks after Easter...

4am over-shadows...
that concept of a lingering
guilt, about some cleavage
named Kelley Scarlett...
      my due... your turn...

death appears, and disappears,
but then the "magic" of mortality...
ever watch snow fall
in a graveyard?
      
              ever watch a supposed
Dervish in said "in situ"?
i could have died,
but upon a reinterpretation,
i did't have to live,
to subsequently die,
to live once more...
i... just didn't require
to live, at all.

I have kaleidoscopes for a head
And bombs for lungs
I have a string for the bombs as a heart,
Pulled just right and god knows what’ll happen
I have a blu ray dvd player as feet,
“Clumsy and awkward human walking ahead,” says the sign
The sign is my skin, so everyone knows what they’re getting into
Some would call that baggage
My eyes are purple buttons, not from Coraline, but from the fact I love that color
My soul is the one unknown factor
My soul is the monster that keeps reaching for the string
My soul no one will know what it is made of

Beauty, Beast, married twain.

Lion, lamb, whole again,

Sun in Cancer, switch's bane

Free o' folly, words a-gain |

Poison Somber, dues to vain,

Vein of coraline, flowers rose.

undeniably, the relations between men & women have
hit rock bottom:
bottom to the rock, rock at the bottom:
perhaps with want of a heart...
undeniably, the relations between men & women
have... slouched... hit the snooze briefing...

sample:

thank god for that... easy to spot Saturn with your head shoved up your own ***? never mind... but great: you do you... moralistic busy-body... ha... minding my language... why bother using websites where freedom of expression is paramount, where there's no prerequisites of watching words? you must be fooling yourself, fraulein zensieren; i doubt that you'll find peace.

freed from responsibilities,
freed from: being freed...
freed from looking for something:
freed from looking for nothing,
one shot, two shots: three...

**** me... let's go to the brothel...
or listen to dreaming...
from the coraline soundtrack...
something to escape this itch of a...
ahem... "gripping" narrative...
as about gripping as a bloodthirsty lice...
for ****'s sake...
to the brothel with you!
idiot!

or at least pretend to be caught up
talking with your shadow,
or jesting at: igloo! igloo!
shaking the paw of your cat in
the zenith of his, ahem:
"personal concerns" for cleanliness...

Darwinism & all manner of anti-subjectivity...
cat ladies... ****'s sake...
cat ladies?!
i love cats... bonsai tigers...
i love petting cats, esp. maine *****...
you can just ignore them...
i like petting cats by ignoring them...
you go: do your thing... "thing"...
*******!
and they do...

ugh... men & this romance concerning dogs...
i watched closely...
i read enough William Burroughs to also know:
there is never a wasted moment when petting
cats... self-absorbed "ballerinas of solipsism"...
a dog implies... ****...
a leash... a german shepherd... a muzzle...
specified hours for doing the rounds...

mina jak kot srajacy na pustyni...
a grimace of a cat taking a **** in the desert...
i can just ignore the little ******...
ha ha... "little"...
coming close to 9kg... "little"...
plus... cats are less perverted than dogs..
from what i've noticed...
dogs are more prone to orientate their self-hygiene tongues
around the genital regions...
cats? less likely...

cats are les likely to lick their *****:
& no *****... lick of the paw... paw rubbed against
the head:
never a wasted moment... bonsai tigers...
sure... i'm a cat man...
i've hear rumours that
cauliflowers used to be purple...
**** me... i heard a story that carrots used
to be purple...

dogs & *******... leaches & muzzles...
as much as i love dogs...
sure... i have a dog...
i have my shadow.... that's dog enough...
melancholy & cats & the drive of curiosity...

to the brothel with you!
take Milton with you... for ****'s sake..
bonsai tiger!
bonsai tigers!
urgh... of course i'll be huffing & puffing
with corrections!
for your own good!
but only years later... will you... finally...
succumb to the argument...
wait... i said a decade... wait...

men & their ******* dogs...
******* hey presto ******* licking fwends...
*******...
BONSAI TIGERS...
what could possibly be wrong with you...
it's great to simply ignore...
i eat... they eat...
what's the ******* rattle of argument?
who owns who?
bodzio bodzio... headbutt & acknowledgment...
i'm here... he's also here... "he"....

leash? muzzle? do i look like a man
desperately seeking companionship?
yeah... where's that leash... where's that dog?
seriously.... ******* with that dribble yet to
imitate doing a nutmeg...

for those yet to die: & for those to die...
here, now...
no good Samaritan...
hello, goodbye...
                    i just envision one proverb...
mind, the, *******, traffic;
seriously... mind the traffic;
that's coming from a cyclist...
mind the ******* traffic.

this has to probably the best weekend of my life... yes, as a weekend i hardly think anything will top it... although i'm working in three different locations: yes, if i heard about SML sooner before promising to do a shift at Wembley for the Taylor Hawkins tribute concert, i would have spent the 3 of the most glorious days in Basildon... alas... but i guess today filled me up: there's always the next year... and then Sunday? a shift at the Romford ice rink...

it was a perfect day... i'm sitting back with a smile
on my face... relaxing with a whiskey...
i have until about 3am before getting up at 9am and
heading out to Wembley for the Taylor Hawkins gig...
i managed to butter up one of the managers
in such a way that means i'm starting at 12pm
and not 9am and i'm part of the internal staff rather
than outside... sinking into depression for 15 hours...
i buttered the managers by never blowing-up...
and being extremely punctual...
and getting good feedback from the crowd...
arbeit macht frei! truly! it's not a **** joke...
    i'm not doing pointless work...

but today... hell even getting to Basildon was a doddle...
all i had to do was walk for 10 minutes to the petrol
station on the A12 for 2pm... give a co-worker 10 quid
and get dropped off at location, then get driven back
to a bus stop opposite the petrol station i was picked up from...
they only forgot to mention that i needed
a black t-**** rather than a white shirt...
but that was soon dealt with...

SML... short of: Show Me Love... a Garage festival...
i never liked Garage music... i'm currently sitting listening
to the Verve's Lucky Man... then i'll listen to Pearl Jam's
nothing-man...
mind you: i didn't like Garage music when it was popular
in school... all the ******* ("popular" boys)
followed the music... MC ******* Mallets...
   they'd play some pop song and rap over it...
a pointless genre of music if you asked me...
Garage compared to Rap is a poor man's choice:
at least Rap music samples certain things...
Garage music is basically rapping over entire tracks...

but... at first we were allocated our spots...
i thought i was getting punished by Dan: once more...
but now i'm starting to think he really likes me...
i was placed on the entrance...
i was the first person the crowd would see...
i had to keep the flow of the crowd in the parameters
of the L cordon to the entrance and...
ensure the artists where allocated their parking space...
oh sure... i saw all these "artists" up and close and personal...
i swear to god... i have never seen so many
beautiful Essex SLAGS in one place at one time...
i love slags... they dress ridiculously...
they look ridiculously ridiculous...
some can pull off the look... others: unfortunately can't...
i don't see even close to this much of *** as
i see: and i see plenty of *** and legs in a brothel...
but here?! **** me... that's different!
i wasted my youth going to rock concerts...
i should have been going to Garage concerts...

one group of lads walked past with one exclaiming...
good ratio, eh boys? i hollered after him:
mate! believe me... the ratio is (*******) beautiful...
oh yeah... it's like 5 to 1...
i know why Dan put me in this position...
he knew i could filter the whole movement of people
and i was the poster-face for first contact....
i took photographs of girls before the SHOW ME LOVE
banner... blah blah... and...
ah ha!

i mentioned this woman before... the doe-eyed woman
from the London Stadium...
the one i really fancies... the ****...
turns out her name is CHILL-Y... i'll have to ask her again...
she used to be a nursery teacher,
before becoming a recruitment consultant...
she had a company she shared with someone
who disappointed her... she broke off from said X
and "took" the people she recruited with her...
even she reiterated that she didn't take them:
they left of their own accord...
i mean: i have the absolute hots for this woman...
who was i paired up outside? yeah... her...
she looked like a scared doe at the London stadium
when i first saw her... too many people...
i wasn't going to talk to her casually in front of so many
people... perfect opportunity to make my move...

she asked me a little bit about myself...
it's not like i'm going to boast about having a degree in chemistry...
i told her... i'm only doing this to get good reference...
ideally i'd love to teach primary school children:
as they say... it's not what you teach:
it's who you teach it to... but if i couldn't...
sure... high school chemistry?
where have i lived? Ilford... Romford...
oh... and prior to being 8... Poland...
my accent? oh... i couldn't put on an Essex accent...
i think you have to be born in Essex to have an Essex accent...
plus, i speak two languages so that buffers the chances
of me having a proper Essex accent...
like a Cockney accent...
she lives in Kent... in Dartford... Kent boys are
apparently different...
i knew this moment would come...
she has two children... looks like... the father of her
children didn't stick around...
she has these beautifully scared eyes...
like her beauty is slipping from her fingers...
she's probably only 10 or so years older than me...
she's stunning... i like older women...
and she's the sort of an older woman i'd imagine
being a widower to...
i really could imagine being with an older woman
and seeing her die first...
taking care of her... and spending the remaining
years of my life memorising every detail of
her in the years i spent with her...

so... i rationalised my first position as: well...
i'm the first face the crowd would greet...
i'm good with greeting people... blah blah this
blah blah that... before the hounds of the search teams
would get their hands on them...
i was hoping for something more... once the crowd
was almost entirely in... mind you: i managed to sieve
through all the beauties coming in...
it was like a roller-coaster for my libido...
Dan comes along and says: you're getting swapped...
**** is going to take over... tell him what you're doing
and just come to the concert arena and...
**** it... just float... walk around... be everywhere
and "nowhere"... **** turns up... he has no high-viz.
jacket... i radio in the predicament... i'm told to give him
my high-viz. jacket... grand...
now i look like someone of a higher rank...
i still have my radio but no high-viz. jacket...

and? i slither between the crowd of mostly women...
ah! so that's why i stopped going to night-clubs, yeah?
i slither around loads... loads of women...
i watch them dance, get drunk, dance some more...
i prowl... slowly... in between... i go behind the stage...
in front of the stage... bring water to my fellow colleagues...
blah blah... the looks i get...
i find that women have really low self-esteem...
there's one doe... there's another: all deer in the headlights
sort of aloofness...
sure... they can dress revealingly... but inside:
in their minds... they're all wearing NIQABS...
it's just one big mighty... farce!

one pokes me, i turn around, she waves at me...
i wave back... about three purposively pretend to play
snooker with me... bumping into me...
i'm wearing this tight fitting large black t-shirt...
copper-neck serpent has his sun-tan back...
his torso is bulging and so are his hands when folded...
another girl grabs my hands and starts dancing with
me... implores me to spin her around like a ballerina...
then spins me like a ballerina...
ah... these beautiful women... no wonder i never had
any success in the night clubs...
now that i look like i have some authority:
i'm all over the place...
another stops me in my tracks and implores me to
smile... i smile... and we dance this little dance
of moving left to right with our necks and heads...
she's only satisfied until i smile back...

i get put on a gate while some problem is getting
sorted... i tell myself: wait until the guy who asked
you to stay there comes back...
good thing i waited... some ******* high as a kite
jumps over the perimeter fence: straight into
the security area... tries to jump over that...
i stop him just as the managers walk up to me...

there's this other girl who approaches me:
are you security? i've just found this phone...
i take the phone and drop it over at control...
half an hour later i'm at control watching Dan give the phone
to a friend of the girl who lost it...
**** sake's i go on my first break and say:
i have some sandwiches in my backpack...
Dan takes out a 20 squid and says:
buy me a burger: no cheese... no sauce...
just the meat and the bun...
oh... and get something for yourself... seriously?!
yeah...
great... free 6 squid burger...
cheese, please, BBQ sauce and mayo...
i'm done with the ketchup and mustard combo...

oh... and i'm standing there fixing my radio to my trousers...
these two girls walk up talking to me about
pregnancy and toilets blah blah...
they say: you're playing with your *****?
what?! i'm just putting the radio onto my trousers...
i hate you one says... then retorts...
i can't hate you... you have beautiful eyes...

see! i could have been approached by countless women...
but most of these women fear rejection
so much that it's impossible to know...
whether you are approachable or not...
i shouldn't be going to brothels to "bury / drink away
my miseries"... but if it really takes a geared-up
drunk girl to break her inhibitions...
it really doesn't work like that...
i'm catering to their safety... once in a while picking
up an empty glass bottle from the floor ensuring
they don't step on it and slip...
i'm sober: they're drunk...
i feel awkward... they feel elated...
                                 it's a bit ******* pointless...

plus i have my sights on Chill-y...
from the very first moment i laid my eyes on her:
her nervy looking eyes...
eyes that read: i'm middle-aged and the men in
my life are really not worth my effort...
i'm going to spend the rest of my life alone...
my children are already starting on their adult path...
well... the Wembley shift is on tomorrow...
i wish i was at Basildon tomorrow...
but i already promised the London shift
and i buttered the managers up to the point of being
allocated inside...
i admit that i liked the first Foo Fighters' album...
i don't care much for their mega-band arena filling songs...

hell... until i meet "her": which is probably... never...
i'll follow up on the methodology of the VERCRUX...
i'll keep splitting my soul between many romantic
and ****** encounters... not when i'm 36 and in my prime...
i just don't want to be "thirsty": i.e. desperate...
that's why i waited for the right opportunity to pounce
on Chill-y... i couldn't just speak to her in front of everyone...
but Dan sort of noticed it...
that's why i was paired up with her at the beginning
of the event and was paired up with her upon egress...
we stood together and pointed people in the right
direction and chatted...

such a beautiful woman... i can imagine myself
being her widower... of **** me! what's wrong with me?!
i'm going to the brothel after i finish the Wembley
shift tomorrow... and yet here i am returning to my
teenage years' romanticism!
well... i guess that's how you balance the whole affair:
you **** a lot of women in order to fall in love
with one... i still don't know whether i'm in love with her...
i like the idea of love...

but i'm not going to give up the years of my prime
on just one woman,
i need more than one: it would be selfish of me...
plus? id abhor levelling off my testosterone levels
by taking care my my DNA-halves (children):
like i told Chill-y... i'd love to be a primary school
teacher... like i was having a conversation with these
two fine ladies: who had to go the primary school
of their children and tell the teachers:
you''d not indoctrinating our children
your sick identity-politics of a non-biological
reality and gender politics...
i agreed with them... you don't go after the children...
you don't teach children this *******' worth
of identity politics!

that's the only reason i'd go into primary school
education, rather than teach chemistry to a bunch
of insolent teenager brats...
a man is a man(full stop)
a woman is a woman(full stop)
                 perhaps David Bowie was allowed
to play with the androgynous nature of himself:
but he was an artist: not everyone is an artist...
and i'm talking: fully-bodied women who said
such things: back in a medieval period they would
be the ones with ******* serving hungry and thirsty
travellers pies and ale...

some of us have become immune to any sort of
cosmopolitan strands of argument coming from America...
esp. in England... we're looking at it thinking:
what, is, this, *******?!
surely children should be taught the distinction
between noun and pronoun... noun and verb...
noun and adjective... what's... gender neutral pronoun-nery?!
**** all... pronouns are either singular
or plural... mind you: nothing is also categorised
as a pronoun... to me? that's the only "gender neutral"
pronoun... nothing is a pronoun:
but it's more than "gender neutral":
nothing is both a singular and a plural neutrality...

in a way that the pronoun I is an absolute
singular centrism... nothing is the absolute neutral
centrism... i can be nothing...
we can be nothing... they can be nothing...
nothing is nothing and also a little bit more...
of nothing... roofing? it wouldn't allow me to write this
much, about, "nothing"...
physical labour where you're expected
to produce a high quality product that insulates
a building's structure against any water invasion
is unlike crowd-control... within the confines of crowd
control: i do one after another...
that's why i'm sitting in an armchair hunched like a crow
over a keyboard... pecking at it with 20 beaks...
worth of fingers... reminiscing...

ha! in the past my high school friends laughed
at my dole...
they worked jobs in supermarkets...
they worked jobs in DIY shops... in pubs...
me? i'm currently riding the tide...
i was a "joke" of a supposed "genius"...
i hope the "pandemic" taught them a valuable lesson...
this one "mate" of mine who worked
in the Homebase between Seven Kings and Goodmayes?
i'm just watching it get demolished...
what ****** me off about him?
once upon a time i once tried to confide in him...
tell him about my problems...
what did he say? his problems were bigger than mine...
he said the words:
'oh, you want me to take out a violin out for you?!'
we parted... i hope he looked back as i raised
my hands up into the air... and then dropped them
with force... **** it: let the "pyramid" topple!

i just wanted to confide: i knew his problems...
his parents were getting divorced...
his father flew out to Thailand and picked up a newer
model... his younger sister had some sinister
disability...
he was still living with his dad.... although:
his dad was was renting the top of the house to him:
sure... he was paying rent...
but he had the sort of space to allow him having
a girlfriend...
problem: his girlfriend's brother was prone to kiss
his mother's lips when saying goodbye...
we could have talked about that...
we used to watch movies together...
i'd ask if i ought to take my shoes whenever in his flat...
whether i could smoke cigarettes...
i used to drink beer he used to smoke marijuana...
watching a 2000 Space Odyssey was a treat...
i never talked so much about a movie...
  then again: ADAPTATION... starring Nicholas Cage...
that was a great movie to watch with him
high and me drunk...
but i just wanted to confide...
i too had my ******* troubles...
and for him to state: with his ******* violin crescendo...
my problems are bigger than yours...
oh... **** it mate... you're no good to me!
i left you in high-school! actually:
i should have left you in high-school!

look at me now... i'm having the time of my life!
i even tried to help him out with his writing ambitions...
i once wrapped a copy of GEEK LOVE
by Katherine Dunn in aluminium for his birthday...
he mentioned that he cited Beethoven's Moonlight
Sonata in a novel he was writing...
well... Katherine also cited it...
it looked like a great book...
what i wrote, to him? that was the first insult...
i knew the term: i think i didn't know what it implied...
the psychiatric term WORD-SALAD...
lucky for me i read the entire William Burrough's oeuvre...
so i knew...
but he said it with such spiteful-envy...

eh... it does hurt... thinking you might have some people
remain in your life from your youth...
but... you just tend to always outgrow them...
like a serpent shedding its skin...
it doesn't hurt now... it hurt back then...
before the pandemic... but the pandemic levelled
out the playing field: tremendously...
i found my footing: i'm guessing they lost theirs...

why am i still not married? i guess i didn't feel like
raising a child into a process of indoctrinating "it"
into the patch-work i sometimes find found among
father's at football matches:
why would i want a clone of me? what legacy
would that be deserving of my current "predicament"
if i only cared about whether my son supports
the same football team i support, like my father supported?
what, a, load, of, *******!
the only "thing" my father ever indoctrinated me
into was liking King Crimson's debut album...

his hands off-approach left me able to manoeuvre
by myself... to feed on my own desires...
he once even expressed that:
philosophy shouldn't be read by young people?!
i replied: so if not in youth? what good is philosophy when
read in old age, when i might be prone to dementia?
philosophy prepares you for life
unlike what pedagogy expects of man as a child!
no... i'm not waiting! my mind is fertile:
like my libido is fertile my mid-30s...
i'm not waiting! **** that!

i'd hate to be a father who takes his son to a football match
just in order to give him bias scrutiny for
localised geographies of adherence to... said...
"patriotism"... which i find paradoxical whenever
the club-scene dissipatates and the national team takes
over the fervour... of football fanaticism...

could i really breed a child with a woman
that might adore the music i like?
i'd hate t force upon them my likes of,
for example: fear of falling - like a lion -
prodigal - you / me (1983)... what comes closest?

bruno coulais' - dreaming... from the Coraline soundtrack...
i wouldn't want children unless they are their
own truer than me: selves of... themselves...
i wouldn't want to **** them up....
it takes so much mad, starving energy to allow
a person to become themselves without you
influencing them to become a replica of you...
best watch other people **** up...
then you have enough reasons to know why
you chose the alternative route of:
ideas can reproduce... ideas are like *****...

i will not shower my would be biological
"legacy" with a sordid mind...
mind you: a mind not sordid is verily available
to be luckily reproduced in a biological legacy...
people like me appear... then disappear...
we're not supposed to maintain a status quo...
we're devoid of such affairs...
we come, we go... we're never those with the legacy
of the in-between...
we think: we don't deal with what's already
established... thinking is originality...
by consequence of this originality one of our
faculties suffers: either our imagination,
our memory, or our capacity to dream...
i suffer from a lack of dreams...
and a lack of imagination...
but i'm brimming full with a capacity to memorise...
faces.. pointless facts... i can remember being 4...

oh well: life for life... and life to live some more.