daj, do wynagrodzenia: reszty.
daj: to niby: siebie;
a... dam... dam...
ale pierw: powiem:             to!
(ich) nicht werden
                  geben (ihr) das nacht!
first... i'll punch myself
hard enough to give myself
a plum-eye: ******* pacifists...
and then?
    then i'll strap a trouser belt
to protect my knuckles...
and then... then...
                    then: we'll "talk":
who might find a translator
ready...
   god...
i'm gagging for a
knuckle exchange...
        almost... itching!
like i might await
a shaving... from a Turkish
barber... in Essex...
of all Danish palaces;
and why would i want to allow
consort with these women?
considering the fact that
the russian ones believe in trans-national
grievance taxation:
of someone... who hasn't...
actually died...
              you know what?
*******...
suffer...
       watch me wipe my ***
with a satanic smile
ennobled
by a coulrophobia...
excesses of vogue
                      atypical models...
how is it... that...
coulrophobia doesn't translate
in reverse?
  and what's up
with the black privilege of
jass music, akin to white mozart...
as...  
  sure as ****, the drum would be
the first, and only thing,
prior to the people learning
the ******* clarinet!

oh drop me your ****** ***
holocaust dead bomb
on a polish ***...
     i triple, quadruple dare you!
you *******... ivory coast
   centipede!
               i'm *******...
as watts: wild-eyed...
       unstrap me from this
"unreality" of conversation...
then undo the internet banking...
and the rest of it...

             not adam watts!
    glitter & doom....
who?      tom waits...
oh **** me... blue valentine?
if that's not a **** with me
album... what is?
                 live circus?
        
do i look like a ******* ****-
(see the hyphen?
it's a prefix... the english are
lazy sometimes: couldn't,
i.e. could not,
remnants of shakespearean
english...

       i'll always cite macbeth...

  time, thou anticipat'st my dread
exploits: the flighty purpose never
is o'eertook, unless the deed go with it.
from this moment, the very firstlings
of my heart shall be
  the very firstlings of my heart.
   and even now, to crown my thoughts
with acts, be it thought and done.

it's hardly a racial slur, ergo...
why so ******* sensitive akin to a french
footballer or a ballerina?
   ****- (hyphen! hyphen!) ergo a prefix...
as already mention:
no, no...
   it's not: no iraqi ever called me a pa-ki
      (pákí)... yeah...
and you never called an afghanistani an
afghan, ever, no?
   pure camaraderie in that part of
the world... all the way... yeah yeah... yeah...
-stani (suffix) is sometimes missing
because... the english like to shorten words...
e.g. why is daniel: dan,
why is matthew: matt?
  why is muhammad: mo (farrah)?
                                    ******* pansies...
police your circumcised penises fiddling
english teenager girl, first,
come after my vocab. justifications: after;
savvy?

or a gypsy?
   by now...
     i'm looking like any
traveler...
and the world...
       forever resembled
a world,
  in the confines of
      a claustrophobia...

but... if there's a bigger concern for
a world...
  and a freedom...
i want a bare knuckle fight...
a black eye...
namely...
you bring  BOXING GLOVE...
and i'll bring...
     a LEATHER BELT...
wrapped around my knuckles,
and the wrist...
    like i might care to give
a second attempt to smile...

ah... the men... who care
about minding, if not in the least,
keeping women...
      bye bye, bye bye...
       and i've allowed myself
to know my grandfather...
as i did the slap in the face...
and...
the key question:
in the unfathomability of counting
the 32 / 4 ratio...
alas... one fist... one smile...

and countless... dentistry encounters...
because?
   because the rest?
the cultural artifacts of a today?
  lost to h'americana...
            as i might have wished...
for my prior genes
to make an autobiography
in **** germany...
  
   what?
  
      well... obviously: the oops.

no, for the crescendo...
you know...
           i'm getting this funny vibe...
gott ist tot... it's not really spectacular...
nietzsche really believed in eternity,
to the point where he pointed:
what does science offer, only old age...
what does religion provide? eternity...
oh nietzsche was big on eternity...
   gott ist tot is as unspectular as:
is it: how to do you pronounce x,
or is it: how do you pronunciate y?
debate:
              everyone says around here
the former... since no one wants to be a *****...
pro-nun-ci-ate (pro-nun-cíate)...
   might as well replenish the vocab. bank
and replace the word with:
how do you elocute z? / recite)....

gott ist tot / gott ist tod...
    "same ****, different cover"...
you know why i believe in god?
    not the christian reference points...
salvation blah blah, saviour and hide & seek blah blah...
n'ah... where would i derive all my vocab.
hunger if not from him?
   some men derive their vocab. from
women or gambling...
            i am not in the position of their
luxury... so god it is...

            primarily though?
               god is metaphysics...
             ergo? his judgement is not clouded
by metaphysical questioning...
it's impossible to receive a metaphysical
answer from a metaphysical question
when engaging with a metaphysical
ontological paraphrase of one's own search
for meaning in this mortal frame...

oh sure sure, my belief in god is as juvenille
as anyone else's belief in humanity's
clarity when it comes to jurisprudence
and its application...
    i've experience "jurisprudence" once...
drive-by phone theft...
me and three fwends...
   i catch the number plate...
i tell one of my fwends to note it down,
police station, report, culprit found,
a sit in at a barkingside police station
looking at mug images,
spot the ****** (it was dark when the mugging
took place, photographic memory, **** happens)...
a court session, australia is playing england
at the ashes (****, i missed it)...
in court the defence lawyer shows me
another picture of the culprit...
back then photogrpahs had dates
attached to them...
the photograph? over 4 years old...
i tell him: but this photograph is 4 years old!
how can i identify if this is the same
person: i, myself, will probably
don a beard in four years time!
      a simple slip-up...
        now that i have a beard:
it's so much more fun than growing your
hair long... i hated the nickname
chewbacca back in high school when i was
growing mine for a french braid...
i walk out of the court,
come to terms with the detective...
and i see the same hunger in him as i see in me...
will justice be served?
highly unlikely... since the victim
didn't recognize the *** in the mug-shots...
justice was probably not served...

   and this is how god plays into all of this,
hell or heaven, blah blah...
man created the figure of domina Iustitia
as blind... god created death to be blind...
justice was never supposed to be blind,
death was: the unfortunate deaths
of teenagers in car accidents,
among all the other freak accidents...

clouded with so many metaphysical questions
i don't appreciate man's ability to adhere
to jurisprudence without being
subjectively contaminated...
i have more belief in an "imaginary"
god than belief that strains me to belief
in man's sense of justice...
          the nuremberg trials are a rare exception...
but only when the culprits are
unabashed and fathomable by a collective
sense of pride... a blidness...
i believe in god, because i'd love to experience
the judgement of a post scriptum of
metaphysics...
  personally? i have been wronged...
heavily...
            i will not name names....
i know when and how i was wronged,
and by whom...
                2007... Canterbury...
      i won't name names: i'm not a rat...
man is too clouded with metaphysical questions
to begin with, god isn't,
he's a metaphysical ontology "bias"...
which is why, he is primarily a jurisprudent
answer...
   i'd love to experience divine jurisprudence,
hell or heaven are not of my concern...
and i don't imply divine jurisprudence
associated with the polytheistic take of
jurisprudence via a solipsistic mechanism
of a minor god and the person in question
without the hurt party...
in monotheism the god is solipsism personified...
these days: also the personna non grata...
so no... gott ist nicht tot...
            he's a personna non grata...
i just don't appreciate the human *******
of law, law governance...
   come on, in england you can receive
an a.s.b.o.s. for your cockerel being too loud
in the morning, your dog barking...
           would you trust man with
jurisprudence?
  a woman was cleared of the ******
of her husband
       when she hammered his head into a pancake:
over an abusive relationship...
police, weren't, "there"?!
sure sure... the hammer will do...
i believe in god without a sense of reward...
i just don't think man is capable of
passing justifiable laws...
no man could ever pass the eternal laws,
gravity... 100°C for the boiling of water...
i need a being  who has groundwork
in eternal laws, in unshakeable laws...
the ten commandments aren't:
you shall not...
   more... maybe, you shouldn't...
they are the most pristine jurisprudent
laws available... the: maybe you shouldn't,
eh, chappy?

       i just don't like playing the thesaurus game
on the more tight-knit game
of "passing" the wink-wink of Solomon's
judgement...
please, **** me please,
i'll eat 20 raw herrings in a cream sauce,
slurp 30 oysters,
eat 40 strawberries on a hangpverl
eat out about 50 harem virgins
like a castrato if you ask me, nicely,
**** camel cockey:
lucly i landed on a black gold slurp
with plenty of bangladeshi slaves:
******* of riyadh...
     what did muhammed tell you?
you camel jockeys / sand *******
have clearly forgotten...
******* arabs: short attention span...
you need to remind
the retards...
the dajjal would come from the east...
a palace of gardens...
well obviously the prophet wasn't
thinking about genghis khan...
            
  hmm barbarians...
vikings, arabs: yet so inclined to like poetics...
funny, that...
the civilized peoples banished
the poets...
            the ruling class and their cushioned
people: sacrosanct sycophants...
wankers, basically.

    the hajr? muhammad spoke of the dajjal
coming from the east,
and the east being a city of gardens...
where isn't riyadh and where is mecca?
isn't riyadh east of mecca?
was the dajjal to come from the outside
of islam, or from wtihin?
      last time i checked...
sh'ite islam isn't friendly to sunni islam...
if islam was the one true religion...
would have a shcism have occurred?
i don't think so...
   a persian would never bow before
an arab... that much os true...

oh i believe in god...
given how man practices jurisprudence...
is it some sort of, a, thesaurus game
i wasn't told about?
to me the human quest for jusctice is
a thesaurus game...
man is incapable to pass but one,
eternal, law...
he's great at nuanced laws...
laws allocated to sports...
i mean, **** me, cricket?
the best vocab. you'll ever pick up...

even god isn't as pertinent
in making the sort of music associated
with the limited alpha-to-beta
of A, B, C, D, E, F, and G...
wow! seven... seven?!
how many heads does the beast
of revelation have? oh... 7!

i'll stop tolerating islam, and start respecting it,
when it, acknowledges its presence
as a character study in the book of revelations...
then i'll just move on,
having made my point...

until that time comes...
    it's 600 years shy of becoming what
degenerate christianity has become,
oh and it's ripe...
it's gagging to implode!
600 years and wait for it to become
the next secular vasal conglomorate...

the warning muhammad gave
about "the best from the east"
was in point of question:
   a reference ti gneghis khan...
more like ibn saud:
  thst fat diabetic one eyed ogre...
and the legacy of decadence he left
behind...

saudi men with slavuc girlfriends,
buying up pink cushions and *******
chihuahuas...
**** after ****...
  you know the three slavic proverbs?
1. better a sparrow in your
hand, than a dove on your rooftop?
explanation?
better the small joys at-hand,
than impossible possibilities out of reach....
2. a drunk can spot east,
past mecca, whenever honing
the safety of his own bed... even at night...
not much of a proverb...
3. i don't care to rememeber...

once toleration comes into play,
i will, respect... just a waiting game...
i'm pretty sure no iranian will
bow down to a sunni camel jockey...
i like proud *******,
it implies: there are absolutes,
un-moveable goal posts...

                      if you are ever to bind yourself
in supporting a "side" outside a sports' dynamic,
always the outsider...
always the outsider... in this case?
the ****'ite islam brigade...
       the persians...
the sunnis can shove it...
   *****, bones, whatever....

                   ****'ite islam i can
fathom, even respect,
sunni islam i just tolerate...
  as much as iran takes claims for the
big satan in ref. to h'america...
well... if h'america supports the infantile
saudi arabia, who's to blame them?

you know that polonaise joke about
about the pacifism of jews in
2nd world world war poland?
the joke ran along the words:
weren't the jews shooting the nazis
using crooked elbows (rifles)?
they always seemed to miss them,
taunted into walking into gas chambers,
the ******* hobbits...

          what? some bolshevik Brooklynian
jewish rada is to spare me
                 the pay-up diffrential
telling me, i was wrong?

  as i said before: the nazis lamented
when the warsaw uprising happened...
no, st. paul's doesn't stand proud
because, because...
   even with the blitz...
                 the luftwaffe were told:
you drop a bomb on st. paul's: firing squad...
and when notre-dame de paris -
last time i checked...
   the nazis didn't luftwaffe the **** out
of paris... did they?!

                  the nazis weren't mongols;
no people so well versed in chanel in terms
of their military being so well
   suited & booted could ever make such a
                              architectural sacrilege...

what?! people under the silicon curtain
are gagging, begging even: for nazis!
can i be the first?!
i just want to please the hungry!
if not punk then moving swiftly into ska...
am i the first?
   siliziumvorhang...
well, **** me... from under the eisenvorhang...
what's with these neo-communist pseudos?

and the hebrew god?
a jealous god... so a god with the knowledge
of the existence of other gods...
why wouldn't a jealous god have
no knowledge of other ("imagianry") gods?
to be jealous of only one's own existence?!

3 / 1: that's the ratio....
that's the only ratio... 3 times i experienced
love at first sight:

when i fell in love at first sight...
malina, samantha, janina,
priya....

equal measure: isabella of grenoble...

in reverse:
magda, promis, ilona, kot (i forget her name,
7 years old, first kiss, you can be forgiven
to forget, she had two twin sisters
and she was the senior,
her fasther drove a distribution truck,
milk, i think)...

****, i actually mismanaged
that ratio...

i believe in "a" god...
since i find too much of human jurisprudence
to be riddle with the thesaurus...
i don't think man can pass
law, he can "suppose so"...
but he will never pass the sort of law,
made forbidden,
or absolutely allowed....
i don't believe in a god akin
to the sort of a pontous pilate god
where i'll always find myself
outside of punk evolving into ska...

         mind you...
i'd hate to be trapped within
the confines of an atheistic exclusion zone
of intellect,
      to be trapped in nothing is one
thing, but to be trapped inside
the confines of an atheist's "nothing"
is quiet another....
i don't like being a hamster inside
a cognitive wheel of another...
   god is the jurisprudence spirit,
man the metaphysical spirit...
and i would very much like to stand
in the light of divine law being passed
to finally feel my shadow...

kult: brooklyńska rada żydów...
  not familiar?
  i forgot punk a long time ago...
esp. when californians came up with their
version, ergo? ska...

i'm currently taping a film
about the silesian vampire...
how strange, that the prussians came
back into the ***** of the polonaise...

growing a beard is so much fun!
fiddle after fiddle: and no violin!
atheists bore me
as much as the theistic hags
who's only ambition are
the thrill associated with Sunday
h'america and cinema...
               i can imagine only one
heaven...
where i am blind and given
               a large library of music.

i was watching batman (1989) and batman returns (1992)
today, and i couldn't stop layering over birdman (2015)
over both films, it was such a comedy, you knew
that it wasn't a serious engagement
in the role, i just kept picturing
the internal monologue -
the action scenes were already
a gimmick when in the birdman
the explosions start with the critique
of what people actually like to see -
and that critique that the joker
is no more a weird'o than batman
dressed in black leather / spandex -
i just wish heath ledger took a break
from acting, and they did the same
sort of film about the actor behind
the joker, but how would they internalise
the essence of the role: the laughter...
internalising a husky voice can be easily
done when the actor in a different role
can talk easily and speedily without that
haunting husky role of the original part...
but the laughter? it would never work,
which is why jack warned heath
about playing the role... 'son, beware
the laughter.' still, what an enjoyable re-watch,
putting over the birdman nostalgia
over the seriousness of the acting in the
originals, you can actually imagine him
going for a coffee break and taking a ****
when the original screening took place,
the whole: back to reality - it really amplified
the films in a quirky way;
and i still think the joker is the only
doppelgänger that can't be tamed: i'm guessing
because of coulrophobia -
and i could still see remnants of this mythical
doppelgänger on heath in the imaginarium
of dr. parnassus... the clowns are onto you,
you can't steal one of them from
the jammed mini or volkswagen beetle with 20 of them in it,
plus the crying clown, everyone's heard of that
one, they mime laughter, this vocalised doppelgänger
of a clown is cursed -
because unlike actual mimes they don't surd
bewilderment being stuck in a box, or touching
a brick wall obstacle... they surd laughter,
and they share it among themselves in a circus,
vocalising that surd is a curse,
since vocalising an actual mime leaves you
without the actual abstractions,
and from what i heard, brick walls are silent
like graves, unless of course you punch one
or smash a car into one.

Coulrophobia

(Poem by Serenus)

Ghostly

Chalk white face

With a blood smeared smile

Dead dark eyes

That beam into the

Soul of a child



A freakish laugh

That sounds off as a warning

Razor sharp teeth

Used to keep

Countless mothers mourning



The monster hiding under the bed

That gives your children chills

Playgrounds keep him fed

And babies are his “happy meals”



He is not your friend

Don’t believe his lies

He’ll eat your kids- alive

With a side of fries


He's a madman -Its apparent

He uses the alias Ronald...

Warning to ALL parents...

Stay the hell away

From McDonald's!

In the shower
I keep peeking out
making sure
no one is there

I’ve never seen ******
but somehow the shower scene
Is stuck in my head
but... mine stars Pennywise

The movie isn’t real
I know that
I’m a grown up
but in the dark...
i don’t feel like it

ive stopped sleeping.
the dark hall outside of my room
always seems to hold
a pair of glowing eyes

Some fear spiders,
It is called arachnafobia.
Some fear hospitals,
It is called nosocomephobia.

But how...
How-
Is it called?

Xenophobia,
Fear of strangers.
Coulrophobia,
Fear of clowns.

But how...
How?
How do we call this?
The fear of myself.

the little people: and their grand words...
some within reaching the stasus
of colossus,
       while others groveling like
maggots, come back to the collective
unconscious (memory):
        with a stalled craft to make
the morbid fusion of an impetus...
        the grand people:
          and their concern for the lexicon;
secularism had but one advantage,
the holiness of the subconsciousness
of lingua...
              but, apparently, the communist
didn't teach anyone anything,
other than what needed to be minded:
a reiteration of the winding back
of ******* symbolism,
          back: into the clock-face of
resembling an impeding loss of
a status quo...
                         before the altar of
unmoved pieces of chess,
the current, unfathomability of
a "sudden" move...
                  pawn-broker: pawn-maker,
crude: the collection of
   a tsunami mingling with
the antithesis of the holy ghost within
the shackles of:
                            a zeitgeist...
bounty and beauty bound to
the same curator,
            of the fallen curtain
revealing the androids of future
depictions of kings, raised,
subsequently toppled,
   yet nonetheless kept:
   at a leisure...
                         toad-markings
of the first supposed bite...
like a kiss of the enchanted prince...
who kissess, before
             the other churns a bite?!

i might laugh at attire, but,
all of the fashion industry is
structured around ******-*******...

there is still not greater insult
than what other people eat...
and i can't stomach culinary insults...
the omnivore that i am...

how i ate those dried-out fish-snacks
with a St. Petersburg drinker,
and that every-man's orange caviar
i won't even bother to question...
culinary insults... doesn't matter:
can dress the ***,
                   in a king's tug & ware...

culinary insults are the depth upon
which you base making
           fashion "statements"...
    
see... the western concept of the "left"
is Mongolian to me...
                   i, simply, cannot
comprehend it...
                    one would expect:
a rule of thumb;
  instead one receives a conclave
of giving "it": the index finger...

           which isn't even a forfeit of
tipping into narratives of
the current circumstance...    
         in the omnipresent:
membrane - of -
      fragility within the confines
of: being reactant to
whatever enzyme is made
adjusted to thrill,
  or make *******,
             of a future without
                                            a yesterday.

who let the "idiots" in?
mind you: there are no idiots among
pawns, merely sacrificial lambs...
       and who said that grammar
          could be given a religiosity,
and a deconstructionist-dogma-medium
readily stalked, and subsequently
made: unfathomable?
                it could have worked...
    the anti-nationalistic agenda...
         but given the attempts to
puruse a feat of ridiculing the basic
foundation of a, coherent expression
of a coherent acquisition of language,
with not real basis of nation,
  but erroding the prime of
the individual to start a zoology-creep
invigoration?
                
             there are sensibilities than
transcend nationalism...
    as there are sensibilities than make
"transgressions"
      of globalisation...
         grammar is the only orthodoxy
that remains intact from
the segregation of the church and state...

        i already stated that i am,
blissfully unware of a need to take to
engaging in the catholic bureaucracy of
confirmation...
             but a direct attack on grammar
is a self-defeatist mishandling of
secularism...
                             grammar = dogma...

         since can         dada,           truly rule?!

sure, attack grammar,
  with an unconventionality of the use
of language,
   that doesn't assertain a use of language
with the social focus of
    the pleasantries of formalism...
transgress language formalism...
                and, suddenly,
all cobblers become death-aspiring
"artists"...

                  why isn't artist deemed to
by synonymous with gambler?!

      what a bleak picture,
    a fiction that's the fiction of Dicken's
bleak:
                     something or other...

     yet i love being attached to
a current narrative...
          this: culprit conversation
interlude of a people...
                        
               beside the canadian pronoun
incident...
        and using grammar orientated
words...
       can anyone tell me why english
uses so much conjunction-preposition
shrapnel of a bullet to the letter
to the gun with an aimed word?

        papa germanicus uses a lot of
Faustian... conventionality,
of making words into:
  hydrocrabon-length words...
    compounds...
                          without these little
in-between bothersome flies...
        and he is: papa germanicus...
given his:
   well... he's not regarded as
anglo-pomeranian...
            or anglo-bavarian...
aber: ein: schwab!
                     aber: ein anglo-sächsisch...

petulance of a foreign son:
    before an aged, almost non-existent,
father -

gereiztheit von ein fremdsohn,
    vor eine alt, nahezu nicht-gabe,
                     die vater.

zorn: manchmal
            ertriken mein verstand...
  für ein blick von ein herz!

i can't imagine the remants of
Saxon, to be of must gesticulation
in cultural norms,
          when the remains
of the *****,
           are made to stand... schtill.

ęgleesh will not even begin
to bleach me...
           have the globalists and
their tattooed bodies...
           cheap franchise of
a coulrophobia circus...
               now i have a tattoo:
1410!
                                      1918!
apparently eating fungus
         is but one route...
                  of the spider Atlantis-mythos
monkey...
        as became the common practice
of eating
               remnants of
    aquatic genitalia embodied
by oysters:
  ******* poetics,
as in...
                 once you devour the desire
to ****...
               who the **** needs
to paint like a van gogh within
the origins of the trans-African
                      highway toward a today?

Brian Molko was already doing the current wannabe-trend of trans-sexuality long before trans-sexuality was a common "thing"... tracing back some ulterior taboo settings... today on my way to work i spotted my first trans-******: wow! obviously he had manly hands... large... he was tall... he had large feet... but slender legs... and a face, with all that necessary make-up of eyeliner... hair? not very long... shoulder length... yes... a deep voice... but then again my godmother has a husky voice from all the smoking and drinking... but i fancied him... the dynamic on the tube was magnifying... three women sat beside him while he was talking to his geeky (maybe, probably) boyfriend, a plump chap with eyeglasses... i couldn't stop thinking: ah... the solidarity of men... when in shortage of supply of women, men will find alternative avenues to compensate for women, men will find women in men... the idea that i might be a transphobe never occurred to me: but it did occur to me that women: for all their supposed glorification of acceptance would never allow men to be attracted to men who are: beyond merely the thespian gay-lord, *******... ally... this... "freak"... i fancied this man... i could omit all the stressed "imperfections"... but such a feminine-feline face... it really suited him... i wanted to kiss him... i was thinking... i'll tend to the "oysters" and all the tender bits and bites of being with him... andd do the butcher's work with a *******... problem solved... this skin-head middle-aged (i'm coming to middle age, or life expectancy, not the lottery of mortality, mind you) sat next to me and was sort of nudging me with a shadow missing in the full-glare of the lights of the tube... you fancy him? insinuations via body-language: yeah... i do... is it wrong? nope! check the women sitting next to him... do you fancy them? nope... me too... of the three or four women sitting next to this trans-****** specimen... none had a lovelier face... mutations just... "happen"... the eureka-oops moments... i could seriously forget about the shared dimensions of large hands twice as big as that of a geisha, same with the feet... i could forget the baritone voice... i really fancied this boy... in a way that gay-lords just make it difficult having mingled with actors too much and not retaining an aura of: suspense and: something in me is frigid, alien... i shouldn't but... hell... i really should! i will! benevolent London that is... he was prettier than all the women i saw that day... like my grandfather once said: there are no ugly women... there are only abandoned... if not abandoned then neglected women... to think that women could ever be neglected: says as much about neglected men... men will find alternative avenues to women when the women self-exfoliate in their "privilege" of: first-come-first-served-and-thus-the-only-served menu... **** that! but what was special about this trans-****** specimen? it reminded me of the time i fancied Brian Molko, still do... in a non-gay sort of way... in a Plato the Plumber there's a blocked toilet of reincarnation afloat... it was actually, sort-of, actually-sort-of-funny watching the women on the same carriage trying to read my reaction... for once a man was more attractive than a woman to me! wow! being accused of trans-phobia... in London? well... only if you can't pull it off! it's like saying: coulrophobia! fear of clowns! with the clowns being without make-up? conflating the Apex Twin gargoyle from Window-Licker?! yeah... scary ****! the grin that's the length of the equator... i couldn't be attracted to a standard homosexual... Thespian leeching or intellectually pleasing akin to a Douglas Murray... or body-building blah blah... but this trans-****** specimen? that's an affront to a woman... all women... a man can have a prettier face to a woman's if... a man deems the exampled woman to be nothing more than akin to a lineage of... never arrived at cosmopolitanism... beetroot countryside proud... all red and irritated... i fancied this one... i was one step away from askig him: can i have your number? again, to reiterate: i didn't mind the deep voice... i didn't mind the size of hands that could match mine or the size of feet that could match mine... i was... infatuated with the magic dust of PIXIES! maybe that's what i learned from going to the brothel... but if you're going to play the trans-****** game... can you please avoid the mishandling of the Hippocratic oath... so little is actually necessary to accomplish a ****-heterosexual confusion-attraction that leaves women feeling inadequate: you, wouldn't even want to begin to believe! i'm now currently thinking of that film: the Odd Couple... Walter Matthau as Oscar Madison and Jack Lemmon as Felix Unger... Felix being the male-feminine counterpart of the feminine-man slob child pampered to: or however this quadratic works... i wouldn't be doing the cleaning and the cooking out of a feminine dignity to avoid doing the hard work of society's demands... no... i'd be perfecting my cooking to match up to the sort of food available upon heading out to a restaurant, i.e. not eating out... i've seen some car-crashes of trans-****** attempts... but this one stuck out for me because i started to think along the lines of: who needs women if men can appear prettier than women?! i'll just close my eyes when hand meets hand... it's a sickly sweet sensation but i could stomach it: if the conversation was kept to a satisfying lubrication: and it wouldn't be even remotely associated to the feminist-gay "commonwealth"... alliance... i don't need homosexuals to tell me XY&Z... i'm actually grooving this trans-****** trend: if spotting the exacting specimen to curtail all the wannabes... if there's an authentic Brian Molko specimen walking around... wow! reimagining being *** starved on the Western Front... a few guys with more artistic inclinations... rather than the rough sea-faring roughage of **** on the spot job done become involved... prettier faces than those of women... i could: no! i would succumb! it's just the terror in the eyes and on the faces of women... hey presto! a stick has two ends! freeze eggs... follow a career... demand a car a mortgage blah blah... my my... what a curiosity this trans-****** worked up to a perfection specimen of disphoria awoke in me... good enough cushioning blanket of sleeping with enough prostitutes... now i really want to sleep with a man... which is not gay... i'm bored of prostitutes... they're like any other woman: you pay them... yet they still complain as if you haven't paid them when not getting a hard-on because of (x) tiredness, (**) distraction, (***) life... per se... whatever... but those female faces... i pretended to be snoozing... they knew i knew... i kept an itch of a blink at this specimen... woman: ANGRY... no... actually... not angry... woman... what the **** is going on? of the times i went to a gay club and didn't pick up a Francis Bacon i wondered: did i drink enough? homosexual lust and all that same-for-same feminine-pro erotica of the jealous stone-rub-stone-offensive... the trans-****** "confusion" is a bright light... if done properly... done... naturally... i'm mesmerised... without... obviously... without... people succumbing to the breaking of the Hippocratic-oath... obviously... i despise the gay-pride movement... at least the authentic trans-sexuality movement is subtle... it's philosophically laden with a curiosity of more lips and less **** stressing fist-*******... this morphing of the pareidolia toward: seeing a female in a man's face... or seeing a man in a woman's face... hardly gender dysphoria... *****-utopia and... just as children look alike, regardless of ***... so do old people... also regardless of ***... but to achieve a heterosexual attraction in the realm of trans-genderism? it can't be forced... it has to happen ha-ha-naturally! i'm laughing at myself... only briefly... i'm more inclined to see the female in a man without seeing the homosexual... because homosexuality is like that quote from... no... not Human Traffic... about being gay and eating *****... how... eating ***** is not for real men... while ******* **** is all All Spice Alles Mensch... whatever... the gays are too proud might as well look out for the shy, proper, proper shy... trans-sexuals without any anti-Hippocratic-Oath mishandling(s)... the women become jittery thus...

i should have come home and reflected on spending
the past several hours on a shift
in Bishop's Park, overlooking Putney Bridge
watching the tide of Thames' recede back into the great
mouth before mingling with the salty waters
of the North Sea...
     all loved-up with the cold the dark and the wind
putting on some Woljiech Kilar soundtrack music
from Dracula - love remembered...
well... i was in the mood for something like that:
i put the track on... nope... can't feel it...
i'm tired, i'm cold i need to put on something to groove
to... we ain't going out like that - Cypress Hill...
tiredness swells the imitation pigeon-strut
in my head... bouncy-Billy will also ask for a chance
to express himself...
    the joke ran with Martin's team (Chelsea)
losing for the first time since 2006 to Fulham...
         the police officers were in a good number...
they even brought their horses...
two stood across from us when the final whistle was
blown... one of them started "laughing": if that's
what horses do, i.e. laugh...
no onomatopoeia here: hey Martin! even the horses
are laughing that Fulham beat Chelsea in the most
local derby of London...
    Craven Cottage is what? a mile at max two from
Stamford Bridge...
          one can only love the ever infuriated Martin...
but still the Thames receding...
   at first glace i might have stretched across
the balustrade and probably touched the surface of
the water... by the end of the shift when the river-bed
started to be exposed i started to wonder:
all that volume and now apparent air where once
there was water...
  no river in the world akin to the Thames...
tide in and tide out... at Westminster it's a river
that rid itself of the kettle and is nonetheless standstill
and boiling - during the day...
while eating a chicken wrap of torsos and tortillas
talking to a Norwegian who came over to watch
the football for the week...
last time he was here in the 1980s... have things changed?
the oyster one-touch travel card...
sure... it has just become a little bit more expensive:
but nothing has changed that much...
but during the night, and if its windy... well: clearly
there's a flow... a tide in or a tide out...
by the time i got to Goodmayes i walked past the brothel:
thank god i have nothing more to prove
thank god i have satiated my base needs and that's that...
what am i looking for? a compliment to a pharma-knock-out
of generic painkillers in the form of a bottle
of whiskey...
    too tired to **** not tired enough to think:
maybe i could fall in love again...
   fall in love... fall in love: but... ugh...
               fall in love and not pamper a woman's needs
with all those basic "tattoos" of courtship...
i might as well ask any future father-in-law:
so... where's my cow, my wedding dowry?
                     where's the pick-me-up to work with?
well if manna from heaven will not drop into my lap...
i hardly think... who the hell needs a car in London?
given the oncoming ULEZ restrictions?
bicycle, underground and the trains, plenty of buses...

today i was sent the most odd message from a coworker
who i am supposed to do a shift at the ice rink
on Sunday...
i was rather surprised - a "box" i never thought i would
unbox (as it were)...
i'll be honest... she's damaged - seriously damaged:
i'm on the "top" of the pile of damaged goods...
a mythological schizoid - ageing - each year turns
out easier as the madness spreads around me:
madness or the crushing mundaneness -
mundaneness or mediocrity -
    in a democracy it's all and the same: in the grey yolk
of bureaucracy -
         pushing letters through keyholes that leave
no door open: unless playing the "system" like
a criminal or a mummy with five different shades
of children from five different fathers...

                       the trouble with Russian girls is that...
they don't like a boy who appreciates music by Placebo...
huge disagreement... her take on Nancy Boy was
rigid and could never be biding: no appreciation of the music
for you... well... that be that...

this girl is hurt... i am hurt: everyone's hurt...
but i still find reasons to find silly happiness in cooking
cleaning, general groundwork labour of changing
the garden - some carpentry: cycling...
keeping up appearances of a well-kept diet
and perfumery of all sorts... at least dressing like
my idol Karl Lagerfeld... like an animal wears its fur...

she even changed her name to Frankie -
Frankie... i.e. is that Franklin, Frank?
no... it's actually Francesca...
the running joke with another girl i work with
runs along the line:
wouldn't that be something, to put on your CV
if you managed to convert her?
convert? or reconvert?
after all she has managed to produce offspring...
god knows why she's not in contact with her daughter...
but it's not like she was always a lesbian...
forced lesbian... it's not something a priori:
it's a posteriori...
after the facts that include: her biological father
beating her biological mum...
her biological mum abandoning her and her siblings
to escape with her dear life...
    how her step-father is like her biological father
but then the problem arises: the mother is unhinged
and now her step-father is facing splitting up with her
mother... of all the siblings she's the only one
keeping contact with her mother...
the other siblings, at least one... is ******* up to
her biological father who was: the greatest intersexual
boxer of the domestic environment to have ever lived
(in her eyes at least, i bet Tina Turner could compensate
such allowances of vanity)...

she used to be a man's woman once...
but now she switched... ******* without all
the Hippocratic misdeeds of the modern, current, narrative,
cutting off ******* and other genitals,
hormonal treatments... it's almost as if Joseph Mengele
died in body but his spirit lived on...
it's like a never-ending Auschwitz or at least
encryptions of mad-scientists for thirst of knowledge
have continued on a side-note of eugenics...
but at least with the closure of the 20th century
there was safe ******* experiments undertaken
by individuals without any authority of government:
the boys would grow their hair long and put
on eyeliner...
    perhaps even use girly perfumes or wear
dresses, nail-polish... hell... even sniff ******* or wear
them... but not with medical authority creating
irreversible ****** changes...
the girls would put on more weight or work out
and pretend to be East Germany's Olympians...
cut their hair short... who came the Pixie girls...
get tattoos wear signets: those bulky rings worth not
a gram of gold but their own worth of bulk...
    and like Francesca get an undercut with a Mohawk...
change their tone of voice... defence defence defence...
and become suddenly less and less agreeable...
still retaining a feminine smile and the odd feminine giggle
that could be unearthed...
or like with her text...
'hey... i want to go ice-skating after our shift...
do you think you'd be up for it?'
sure... although i only ice-skated twice in my life...
a long time ago, 13? i fell every single time...
i looked like someone who escaped from having
suffered from Polio...
i'll still look like someone who suffered from childhood
Polio akin to Israel Vibration's
Wiss", "Apple Gabriel", "Skelly"
      or Ian "Lane" Drury...
                                    instead i sent her a text replying:
sure... but i'll look like a spider equipped with
roller blades... i'll need to bring a casual set of trousers
just in case i fall and rip my work trousers...
'ha ha ha ha(insert crying with laughter emoticons)...'

oh sure... it's not a date... i'm not just going on a date...
we're not going for dinner...
i'm going ice-skating with a lesbian...
a butch-lesbian a hiding woman...
tattoos six-pack and muscle...
no wonder: only hours prior i was admiring
a would-be Brian Molko on the tube...
        
she followed up with a text of yet more defence:
but i'm skint - it will cost £10.50 for an hour
and a bit...
      we'll see i reply... as if she was implying:
if we can't get in for free... would you be willing
to pay?
i didn't reply with agreement to paying for...
then again: i'm not thinking about ***,
or homosexual conversion therapy...
i just don't remember when a girl last asked me to
go on a date with her... after all:
isn't a girl asking a boy to go ice skating with her
sort of asking a boy to go on a date?
she said she was quiet adapted to ice skating:
she owns a pair (of ice skates)... and i'll be the hilarious
polio walker / spider strapped with roller blades
trying to swim in quicksand...
mind you... i'm trying to rid myself of the past two
interactions in the brothel... terrible ***...
that one with the madam where i was limp...
the fate of the Sabine men gripped me...
i won't deny it...
second time... she calls herself my favourite:
she isn't... she's deluded... to the amazement of the other
girls i like to **** in the brothel...
i only extended my per usual 30min stay
by clocking up an extra 30min because i was so close
to climaxing from a *******: knock knock on the door...
time's up... no... not this time...
i'm going to finish... ergo...
but even she has paved her way onto a path of too much
physical augmentation...
if the **** don't come first... then the duck quack lips
reveal themselves first... she's an aging *******
and she has never done anything in terms of work
prior... no laundry no till service...
pregnant aged 14 and in the profession aged 16...
this is the murk and the sully of the gallows
of everyone: once, former, youthful idealism of love...
trotting a horse with broken legs like
waking up into birth by a man sitting in akimbo
for too long... standing up with numbed legs...
moving awkwardly...

obviously i was going to be robbed of Khadra and Mona...
Mona became stupid for getting pregnant
with a customer... hmm... i wonder who...
last time i saw her i teased her without a ******
and this massive fright gripped her face
because i was only teasing and she thought i was
a premature ejaculator... clearly a ****** was subsequently
used and the deposit in it: **** knows...
she should know... i haven't seen her since...

i think i'll text Francesca (Frankie) and tell her...
bring your skates girl... if we can't get in for free i'll
pay for the two of us...
only two shifts prior she was insinuating about
going for a pint: i just replied: i would...
but i had to help my father write the fortnightly
invoice and send it in...
like tomorrow... tomorrow i'll have to help my mother
with the taxes and VAT...
they're getting a new accountant and she lied
about doing her taxes on a spreadsheet...
**** me... i probably used Microsoft Excel twice...
twice, properly... but since i only used it twice...
i'm a bit rusty... so much worth of secondary school
education or the university...
   they taught us the bare minimum of real-world
life-long tools of the onslaught of technology -
   hammer and scythe i can use to count heads...
oh well: there's bound to be some crash-course for dummies
on the internet...

i waited until 9pm for the three of us to sit down to
eat some fajitas...
i overdid it using Kashmiri chilly powder
and three fresh chillies in making the pineapple salsa...
but the hotness neutralised itself with the addition
of the tomato salsa i made... and the guacamole...
the sour cream and obviously cheese, esp. cheddar
neutralises all possible excess spices...
we ate, chatted... one big ******* family,
me, father and mother and my "brother" and "sister"...
well... at least the cats meow and don't bark...
oddly enough: i'm happy... mediocre sort of:
that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
were the protagonist - a corrupt police officer -
is forced into a nightmare of having to relive his
eternity in his childhood's bedroom...
living with his parents...
shouldn't the horror be... your parents getting divorced?
i don't know why mine are still together...
they must be freaks... i must be a mutant:
well... born only two weeks after Chernobyl:
no riddles, only clues...
     i keep the conversation going...
i help around the house...
  
                        Frankie dealt me two nuggets of hashish
in the past 4 months... once i was desperate
when the hashish ran out so she gave me the number
of a marijuana dealer: great green all the way from
America... i only used the service once...
maybe that's me being bulletproof...
i'm cutting down on drinking and i will never return
to smoking marijuana to achieve a Buddha-esque glow
meditating while high and hungry...
weighing in at 78kg... it's a bit of a yoyo with me these
days... from 99kg through to 103kg...
but then... i pinch myself: i summon the ***** to pinch
back... hmm! no man-****... so i could try out for
some amateur rugby matches...

a butch lesbian asking a boy for a date to go
ice skating... i feel... truly terrible for all the conventional women...
i would have offered a cinema date...
she beat me to the better sort of entertainment...
she said: let's go ice skating...
i would have retorted: i do own two bicycles...
how about we go cycling in the night...
round and round Raphael's Park...
round and round... and if we're lucky...
and if the winter air aligns itself with some idiot
setting off fireworks... we can get snippets of whiffs
of imitation autumn... as if the leaves of the trees
have fallen in the dry crisp air and someone
set them alight and there's no rot and knee-deep
digging of plush-decay exfoliating a sickness
in the air... how's that?

i'll send her the text... hell... i'll pay for her...
i'm not interested in ***...
she might be a butch-lesbian trying to hide her
femininity... but she still smiles like a woman...

oh sure... i remember the last conventional:
heterosexual date i was on...
we met in a sweaty night-club... if we kissed we kissed:
i don't remember... she gave me her phone-number
i gave her mine... i was in the company of
about 3 girls who i met elsewhere, otherwise:
also randomly...
at least one made something of her life...
she ****** off to Norway - totally off-the-grid...
by now probably breeding huskies for sleighs...

the next time we met... i bought two bottles of wine...
the "date"? a job interview... we talked...
subsequently we went to a pub while i had a pint...
she was feeling claustrophobic...
i was the alcoholic and she became the **** of boredom...
she excused herself: some prior engagement
with her girlfriends... i guess she thought she got away...
i way happy to get away by same mechanisation
of oppositional psychology...
all this talk within the confines of carpe diem that
centred upon: what do you / what's you living
should i think about life insurance - will we live to be 70
years old?
well... that's the cherry on top with Francesca...
you want to go ice-skating? sure...
you want to go cycling with me in the night?
sure... life insurance / what do you for a living?
how much do you earn?
             can we live a little outside a prison within a prison?!

so much for Dawid Bovie's idea of the androgynous man:
if i'm to be surrounded by "butch" lesbian
and prostitutes: that's my lot then...
i'm not going to succumb to the CV-project-veritas
in-vitro infanticide females with CHOICE
like... my spunking into a bucket and calling it:
falling asleep with the sound of rain
trickling trickling on a metallic roof...
in the night when the horrors come and horrors
claim all the little details of frailty
of mortality...

                  for every tear-jerking sympathy for
a Romeo there's the mantis of
   a Judith kissing the decapitated head of
                                                             Holofernes:
**** it... the prostitutes i truly loved ******* are either:
pregnant or on "holiday"...
i passed the brothel only two nights ago...
i spotted a man walking out from the door...
he froze like a doe in the headlights and didn't move
until i turned my head and kept walking...
i was about to blast out with wind and voice:
no shame in having to share women
we will never impregnate!
start thinking like a woman, dear man...
think on ground of evolutionary bias...
for every women there's this boast of:
50% of men reproduced successfully...
while all the whole lot of them the 100% of train-wrecks
and Piccadilly butcher's antics with the flab
have... their greatest success story to ever live...
i could be worse off... than right now...
i could have married an ugly woman:
by definition: if a most feminine man
grows his hair long and applies some slapstick
makeover creases of eyeliner...
i can forgive him his match-for-match size
of hands... height... size of shoe...
but never an ugly woman... UGLY...
that goes beyond mere the physical-glass...
i'm talking: character... there's no prime-ego
LEGO building block... no architect's corner stone...
there's nothing to work with...
just everything to work around...
to avoid...
                    
    if: for ****'s sake... i'm not planning: i'm providing
the revenue... i want to go ice-skating!
she doesn't have any money? i have "too much"...
i don't: but for the worth of life in life that's only
to supposed to span a month's worth of living it...
hell: i have no better idea to pass the time...

at one point i found out that Francesca has some Irish
roots... you're Aye-Reesh?!
              really? never would have conjured up
a sharing of ******* on a leprechaun...
**** it for good luck... like circumcision:
that's apparently Hebrew for: good luck...
with the addition of: ensuring your bride to be
be donning a niqab and all those "other"...
culturally sensitive, exclusive terms of
cultural-dis-appropriation: or whatever the **** is
coming out of H'America...
             once upon a time when that cultural export
was relevant: these days: nothing new to be
found... except the abandoned moon...

well... i sent the text... sure... i'll pay for the ice-skating...
but you have to promise me to go cycling
with me during the warmer months
with me... don't worry about having a bicycle...
you can have my mountain-bicycle
i use for the winter months
while i'll get on my summer month
road-bicycle...
we'll head toward Thurrock...
and elsewhere that's Essex friendly
and far away from London outer-suburbia...
fresh... fresh...
Jean Claude van Dame...
                       Fresh: that's her idea of working out
before the shift... and then going ice-skating...
FooR x Majestic x Dread MC...

                oh well... life in Loon-downs...
or is that: no apples... i'm sure there are no apples...
if she takes the bait...
i.e. i pay for both of us going ice-skating tomorrow...
she better go cycling with me during the
summer months...
she says no to ice-skating tomorrow
i'll become Trojan in my own defense...
if she wants to be all ******* lesbian defensive...
i can be defensive too...
i'll arm myself with enough brothel visits to erase:
first... comes... oh my grandmother disappointed
me... i could have been there for my
grandfather stabbing himself in the leg
while entering the state of AGONIA...

                    i could have been there: she? trying to protect
me against the advent of mortality?
or her... biting my grandfather's alcoholism she
induced by being a terrible woman?
his last pleasures?
crossword puzzles... cycling, fishing,
rekindling with the day-tripper postcard sender
vouch! you're the simulation tourist with
his... grand... chill... no... not -dren...
his... sole and only grand-child... i.e. me...
him buying me the books i read over the summer holidays...

women are so ape so cruel...
i stopped believing in what's idealistic and rare before
me: which i can't replicate...
i'm happy being freed from:
i don't earn the sort of money that the state
demands taxing me... weird? no!
i don't earn enough to be taxed!
weird... i'm sort of pretending to be a jellyfish
afloat... simulating gravity:
gravity is always a simulation in the medium
of water...
                by air contra vacuum:
the mountain breathes in winter a cascade of
frigid snow slides down...
a Michael Schumacher goes skiing...
****** races cars at 200kmh... one loose turn and twist:
cranium like an opening of a watermelon...
jellyfish fighting for life dead-locked style
in a sick-bed while people nearest to him
think about magic-spells: how best to live without
him: how best to milk the cow with *****
instead of milk... hmm hmm hmm...

if she wants to go on a date with me to go ice-skating...
and i'm supposed to be paying for it...
she better be readied to go cycling with me
during the summer months...
if that's not going to happen:
she shouldn't have suggested
going ice-skating in the first place, for ****'s sake...
like: anything by Bricktop in ****** is
Shakespeare to me... perhaps even more...
living with the times...

                                oh well some well: Samuel!
Samuel: you're not Samantha... learn to become
a transvestite first... before we employ the ****
Hippocrates to mutilate you, o.k. darling?
    learn to grow your hair long...
learn to put on make-up... learn to wear dresses...
learn to sniff female underwear...
Samuel! Samuel! you're not Samantha (yet)!
we will not give you up to the Joseph "Hip-replacing-******"
Mengele: shy away from everything American
in the realm of: worth being culturally exported
and influencing foreign cultures: esp.
in the basin of the origins of the English ZZZUNGE...
that's England...
                  
HIPS FOR KNEES!
                    America: beacon, former: beacon of the world
to come... came one Cain for every second cannibal
no Satan was spawned: at least that's Iranian paranoia
covered: converted, shut the doors on Tehran...
bigger whoops happened when...
Garry Glitter became pop once more
with the release of the Joker movie
and that mad dance scene...
on the 132 steps where Shakespeare Avenue
meets Anderson Avenue...

    i will never, ever... visit... anything... remotely...
resembling... or being curated as being:
North America... i've had too much north american
cultural anemia...
             prior to words not being so much politcal
as agent orange doing all the "talking"...
                                  
  tam tam tam dam dam dam... ditto... do no more than
the necessary "evil": just, bass: on the base
on insinuation;
hell... if the afro-cosmopolitan is the new "cool",
the new "groove"...
let's just keep it... marred: in murk: in murky.

.                           revolution?!

   what revolution?!

i can't see a guillotine!

****...

hey! guys! there's no guillotine!

there's no talk
of a revolution
when there's no guillotine...

your talk of, a, "revolution"
would make Marquis de Sade
cringe,
and shout down a toilet
than out of window
of the Bastille..

this isn't a revolution,
it's on;ly 2018....
you have to wait!
  
why are tthe people so slothful,
yet at the same time,
eager, to work?
we're looking at "changes"
come 2045...

  the year...
that apparently stabilized
the 2th0 century for
20 / 30 / 40 / 5...
no...
let's keep it with
sucker-punch Billy...

i love being a drunk...
makes all the sober
people look...
******* stupid;
and i don't even mean that....
it's just a military
fatigue...

         it akin to:
coulrophobia...
yeah... big time... women making
excursions
for fatigued wool and silk
dresses...

       one question does the job...
honey, can i play the clown
at our honey- berry's birthday
party?
do women go into
mascara parlors,
window shopping,
with a man tagging along?

         honey...
do you really need me to tag along
while you shop for
make-up chemical
parade of tested adherents
for your beauty of your
expectation of fur...

Mike and Moany - the gerbils...
i thought you liked them?
no...
      i can do the sheered
woolen artifacts...
when it comes to spreading
lipstick on frogs
and testing their
pyrotechnic susceptibility potential...
watching the Mike Myers' twins...
no... really...
count me out of
the necessity to make
an argument for a race...
i'm out...

done...
i never liked the English
existentialist argument to begin with...
too individualistic,
too finite...
             too much of:
enjoying  a hell
of a good time...
    it's a simple economic logic
focus...

what you're selling?
i'm not buying.

it's that simple!

i don't have to buy what you're
selling!
stand with it all stacked up...
i'm not buying!
somehow i think
the English intellectuals
forgot the basic principles...
i'm, not, buying!
savvy?

god... ugh...
i know the French are bad...
about their oversee of diacritical
application,
and how they make no
sense when syllables
come into play...
and the Germans... yeah yeah...
i get their scrutiny of
method and dedication...
their teutonic charge within
the confines of ******* screws
into place...
    
         but i'm still not seeing
an clearer...

there's talk of a revolution
in the English tongue...

so...

         where's the guillotine?!
oh...
so...
                 what revolution?!

because what could be worse than
a coulrophobia?
       a clown grinning,
                not wearing any make-up?
catch me some time during
the week doing just that,
            perched on a windowsill...
****, if ******* won't laugh,
might as well scare them
      to adopt investing in diapers...
at least there's a motivational
tool in place to
                       mark a loss of a
    couch potato...
                                 but you know...
when a woman dons lipstick
and eyeliner...
             everything else a man
does subsequently is treated
as war-paint... azure woad...
               but can a clown not wearing
any face paint actually smile?
pe(h)pe(h)? what's your take on this?
heeeeeeeeeeeee....
    and then that Bolognese grin...
churn, chirp, choke, or spoon?
                    well, you know, make-up...
after a while your get to explore
then Norman of what makes
people edgy...
                       smiling without
using face-paint is one way to go about
things...
                         some dare call the
oversimplification of poker game tactics...
     so where did i put my
tux to attend a ballroom spectacle
of: wish those chandeliers did a
Newtonian apple "trick",
                 minus Volatire's poetry...
       spotting a clown grinning without
make-up is probably as rare
as spotting a woman wearing no
make-up, flirting...
                          call sasquatch,
or some apache stoners,
                        we'll throw some dice
into a cobbled alleyway corner
and pretend it's chess...
          because at that point
   a question is propped:
                    does counting really matter?
       fear has hopes,
                  love? something
in between a wheelchair and arthritis...    
sure: nazareth, cow bell added to
     son of a dog...
                and the dangling crucifix...
because no one has actually
investigated the nag hammadi
library, and not seen
         the trigger of st. thomas'
gospel...
                    last time i checked:
the church wasn't exactly interested
in archeological findings either...
                   due justice:
word for word, and no words above
the vicar...
                 back into
dinosaur bone findings...
             **** it, just give me the
sunglasses and allow me to dream about
jamaica.

i never understood why some people are so adamant at telling others how to govern, most notably the anglophone world, as if rotherham didn't happen... tyranny this, tyranny that, it's always the opinion of safeguarding foreign investment; people never complain the illegal toys from china, because all inanimate things are always and always will be legal, but people are most of the time: deemed illegal... yes, i'm part of the integration process that failed at its most spectacular: i speak better native spreschen than the native populace, poking fun at dyslexics all the time, watch me having 'un in 'yde park: and let me tell you, if you want to read a proper book, stand over a homeless man with a sign, read it, then look at the homeless man, there's your proust in comic form.

what did costello call the italian grease-*****?
dikes, or was it guineas?
   i can't remember, i do remember that
trigger called rodney *dave all the time
in only fools & horses -
funny that, you ever watched the box-set?
no, canned, laughter.
    a bit like the office -
     i find canned laughter intimidating,
it's like getting punched in the face,
completely disorientating -
i never seem to know when to laugh,
since i'm fed fake rolexes down hackney market...
if it's funny, i'll tell you,
  but most comedy these days is
for an audience of turkeys, force-feeding them
gags that aren't really there...
    with the amount of canned laughter
going around i'm starting to feel paranoid,
i swear i'm the only person sitting
in a room watching a "comedy" -
but in the background there's that annoying
cloud of laughter,
    i'm starting to wonder: what's more fake,
the gags, or the canned audience?
   too bad for coulrophobia -
   my first impression of the clown,
or should i say, clowns, was in a circus when
the circus still had animal performers,
   and lemonade in plastic bags...
   and me and my grandfather, leaving me
in the audience **** scared of the grandiose
persona of the crowd amused,
while he went off for a glug of ***** on the shy,
there was me, his umbrella,
   and about 10+ clowns crammed into
a fíat 126p kneading in & out of the car...
yes, that dot can change:
     raining from above:
             i did mention that hindi dress
with indicators as not sari but as sārí?
never mind.
           oh right, what was i going to say?
i'm just bored of the "n- word" controversy...
    i'm going to have to start amusing myself...
i'm going to start calling "them"... ha ha...
      nigels;
                      guess the trilling and the double
GG breastplate was too much for some
people learning to, spell...
             i like that... spot me a nigel next time
and let's keep it piquant in terms
   of pickles of the tongue;
ah, almost forgot...
   met an atheist once, who just loved christmas
carols...
    well, no, i never met him, just heard of him,
a real poppy (pop star - of the movement)...
   tell you what... if you said:
oh, i really like that da pacem domine,
  or that salve regina chant of the templars,
i'd be like: cool cool...
     me too...
                 kinda competes with the islamic
    adhan; christmas carols? not so much.
        and do we need to state afrikaan
  with those two there? yes, we know:
it's prolonged, so wouldn't it look more eloquent
in the form of: afrikān? these signs are there,
so why not use them?
          these signs are like the overt-layer
of what's already the hidden layer of vowels
in hebrew...
           the story already begins, with the conundrum
of having names for letters (rather than
syllable constructs) -
               and in hebrew that means,
oh ****... right... a gay beginning...
the two adams...
          א‎ (alef) & ע‎ (ayin) - who predate
cain & abel...
                         and this always bothered me,
two letters which are seemingly vowels, but aren't,
who's mother was kametz -
                   perhaps they are the branching
off into the construct of LΓH,
           that breaking apart of the tetragrammaton?
well, given the prefix rule in the construct
of names for letters (which the latins
barely scratch, because it's a singing language
primarily, hence the ability to convene
            upon encapsulating music in scores) -
what do you get, with the prefix rule
when you construct a word,
   being given: alpha lambda phi alpha beta eta tau?
i.e. what word do you get, when you rid
the following combination of name-to-a-letter
affix?

being considered overtly feminine
as employing the gesticulations
of a poetic farce:
    to name but a few:
      had i the intact pytharogean,
church approved: inferno,
purgatory and paradiso intact in me,
i'd think: no problem!
         hakuna matata... ***** please...
but now, come to think of it:
sharpest bullet aims at a knife...
     and i really don't know what
the **** that means:
         all i know is that beckett's
watt is the best example of irish
linguistic ingenuity,
overcoming the english...
rather than the stalemate beginning
with ulysses...
              and that i like:
             playing for the minor role...
have enough acid quotients
riddling my liver that i somehow
began to love,
brushing up an existence on m'ah
bones...
                in terms of consciousness...
memory bank eroded by
a lack of phonetic adhering
sentimentality...
    sure: it might look ugly...
but i can't help and subsequently see
people attempting a
shortened-scriptum...
                   as in 2 toward to warden,
and too:                 why ~ i,
         spoke one way: fed another;
so, clearly a ****-show,
    a coulrophobia circus...
                        what the gentiles like
to be enjoyed by their children,
pure gymnastic,
            and remember: no animals!
the new "manly" man?
never knew why they
furnished their vocabulary
in a misnomer of: trans woman...
giving the origin deficit is that, of a man...
being ascribed a trans- prefix
doesn't exactly dissolute the origin,
of, being a man...
              to correct the usage of nouns
is going to take a miracle:
            unless the prefix acriptive: trans-
is demeaning: then why use it?
      you glue a ***** to a woman
and sure: i'm inclined to call her a trans-woman...
because the basic involuntary
bias of origin is left intact!
       have your brain in a smoothie
blender some other day...
     but if this **** is sold and bought,
glistening on pristine paper that doesn't
imitate ink-bleed on fingers...
       no!
                 nein!
                          some new rich-list
fetish incubated by the Vatican not keeping
check of the nag hammadi library?!
          a priori become:
        haywire, full communist anarchist...
i can't stomach a reality of
incompetent erasure...
           bad time to be taking lysergic acid,
given that: supposed sanity
is tripping and slipping...
          into a precursor state of
                            the french revolution...
now...
      when you find an authority lost in
regaining prestige?
                          lucky monkey got to read...
and what he read:
     wasn't in favour of those
who couldn't...
   ah: so that's what you call it,
   this cognitive puzzleword much affected
by bugging memory?
   sly reading / stomach reading "evidently"
becomes ventriloquism...
        come to think of it:
any algorithm, notably google,
        has become an alternative dictionary...
so either we call "it": a woman,
   or we loose the trans- affix,
                           in calling "it" a man...
point take: a transitional-man is a paradox...
hence my chance ti rewrite it
via:
        so either we call paradox: a woman,
or we loose the trans- affix
in calling paradox a man...
    can't have trans-  and "woman" at
the same time...
               trans man i can understand:
and that's a sane statement...
      but trans + a presupposition of (a) female?!
doesn't ******* work!

unknown to me, only prior to turning on classic.fm on the radio come the 6pm news bulletin at the start of my night shift... that demonic red glare in the sky... remnants of the northern lights descending as far south as London... no wonder my head, even a day later... reels with magnetic dissonance I can't exactly justify with any sensible rationale... like a moon madness and the fullness of it and werewolves... is there anything in our bodies that might allow us be inclined to feel magnetism: in the same vein as when old people talk about atmospheric pressure and how that dampens their mood and instigates a lethargy that's also an excusable bout of welcome melancholy: welcome in the sense of (it) being unavoidable?

i was, expecting to sleep until about now: circa 2pm...
that shift didn't help me much:
demoted for a reason: that i hushes in silenced
an ego-whisper: don't get so ****-hurt about it:
there's surely a reason...
upon returning home: a crimson cloud
in the dark sky... pumpkin spiced latte with the
ginger, Joan... Joe... ginger is a ginger is
a ****** is a ginger...
i really don't understand or want to:
these flirtations of trying to match me up
to a tailor for a Mr Bonzo... Baker St. is my favorite
underground station... so she puts her hand
between mine while mine is in my pocket...
and i guess that's how unavailable women
pet men to submit to some wishy-washy variation
of what could be a wholesome adventure in
Islam...
            but never mind... oh but i do mind...
it's like a cross between Garry Glitter's rock & roll
and Talking Heads' ****** killer...
but that sputnik of a crimson hue so huge although
it wasn't a cloud: gave me bad nightmares
the kind where you don't dream anything
but instead succumb to that summary of waking
up early in order to listen to some wham!
jeez...
last night i disclosed i was Millwall fan...
the supposed epicentre of trouble at cordon 3: DC...
where all the ******* were supposed to reign
grumpty humpty dumpty:
turns out all the children congregated and was
asked: what team do you support:
i bet it's West Ham i bet it's Tottenham...
gorgeous George the homeless was there...
and then i mimed Mill         Wall...
the kid heard me: but i had to make it painfully
obvious with the sound matched to the movement
of my lips... Mill... Wall...
a bit... in spite of my father who was... is...
a forver an ardent hammers fans...
i think it's the Scottish Connection...
Millwall is associated: by colours of their jerseys:
St. Andrews' piquat: navy: somewhat teasing
at Florentina's purple... but nonetheless
Scotch navy: which is teasing purple...
plum... plump blue...
well if Prince William can support Aston Villa
and from what i heard:
the reason West Ham have their claret and blue
is because it's a plagiarism of the Aston Villa kit...
can't have plagiarism in my vein...
so... well can't really support Arsenal or Tottenham
although: that cockerel is mighty teasing
but i'm not ***...
so the Scottish Connection: the team associated
with the dockers on the southbank...
i'm finding the London on the south of the Thames
a riddle... a welcome riddle...
surrounding the area around Elephant & Castle
a mighty affair of architecture that's most appealing
come 6am... and 7pm...
i love that part of London:
that open air asylum vibe...
i'm the most insane sane person around those parts
when my night shifts start... and finish:
but they never finish...
to support a football team simply because of
the locality... i think that's 1960s worth of
****** liberation atop the singling out word of:
groovy...    yeah baby... yeah...
watching footage from 1960s swinging London
is a bit surreal like watching
videos of the liberation of the concentration
camps of central and eastern Europe...
watching these hispters of London and then watching
the Auschwitz walking skeleton chimes...
strangely... in synch...
              because we don't have a cataclasm to
pacify ourselves with a panacea...
             the butterfly and tornado narrative...
clearly our insomnia fried brains are not even equipped
to clarify a tragedy with the antithesis of
Egyptian prowess hedonism...
maybe that's the parody of the 20th century
that i'm only sobering up to realise: while drinking...
some rabbi was sussing me out while
giving directions to an unknown tongue of a couple
trying to get to Buckingham Palace:
or rather: st. James' park:
          rabbi rabbi... what's my story?
demoted: but whoever said that the person in authority
has a voice... i wasn't wearing the high viz bib
associated with my "status"
yet people still gravitated toward me regardless
of whether i was wearing zebra stripes
dalmation polka dots or a lion's mame...
                    that just show you authority...
when there is a stature unconcerning about what
visual games are played...
the Asians just started jumping at me all giggly and funny
and like i was their friend...
tonight: more Polish cinema and some
driving test theory...
        but last night...
that allure of that crimson cloud hanging over
my eyes not letting me get to sleep
then waking up early...
     it's almost as if i insurrected hell and told it to rise...
high above and into the heavens
and punctuate the stream-of-consciousness
of heaven... it was... rather... magical...
i'll make up my plans for sleeping longer:
as intended: i'll manage... as long as i don't get
a custard-headache and a lip-trim-vibration
of being constipated...
                 Gary Glitter and rock... rock 'n' roll rock...
rock 'n' roll rock...
no amount of Guns 'n' Roses and Clapton
when coupled with the imagery of...
coulrophobia... William Wallace and the Woad Brigadiers...
because this is England and the English
are only Anglo-Saxons and there's
the Reesh, the Vealsh and the Sceetch to mind...
the Irish the Welsh and the Scots...
             look alive son, comes the Anglo-Slav.

ganz egal: like for like, it makes no difference... diff rrr... trill rasp of Rasputin in Vlad and Myrhh... the Germanic ontological constitution of constraints and the purity fetish... cult... what is purity and why is it only ascribed to a concern for evil: pure evil whereas the good is impish and denotes an article: the good vs pure evil... because rheumatoid purity... because pure evil is THE good... evil can be given a stance of being incoruptible too, n'est ce pas? otherwise, what, the ****, is worth, salvaging: to begin with?!

As I overheard my coworker
thinking aloud,
seeing how we hit it off with
a silent agreement about cutting
half an hour off each other shifts...
the words: 'I didn't see that coming...'
well yeah! Ha ha ah ha ha...
that's why I came!
I came when the crucifix
was no longer the driftwood
of history for the succulent
popish leeches to overpower
the illiterate with "magic"...
I came just on time...
not with the exhaustio(s) of
the Holocaust: just the disintegration
of the Soviet Empire...
two weeks shy of popping my head
out of a **** and a mother
and mighty the streaks of Chernobyl's
autumn in spring... ha ha...
"I didn't see that coming..."
that's why I came! Ah ha ha ha...
I came to bail out my brothers
seeing them forever teasing humanity
within the confines of coulrophobia
and those trees and those clouds
and all that is insomniac via pareidolia...
well... if God is still this mystical
spirit of changelessness, akin to what
Kiekegaard stressed...
surely a lesser judge concerning
pareidolia since not Islam
can give argument: what naturally
occurs and is not iconoclasm...
or... idol worship... hey sleepy boy
Adam... thin Lizzy oh such love
for London and Cracow I have
that Rome and Jerusalem might
as well crumble into their now achieved
status as the ***** and... Gomorrah.