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

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

if charles chooses a coronation name that isn't his baptismal name, he'll be ******, after all: we need that name for a hope of patronage and idiocy when politicising saudi arabia as a "reliable" ally.*

why is it that
cats love listening to handel?
well, when
active during charles ii's
reign he was the cream
of the crop, and a cherry on top;
the cats say: handel over bach
any daydream to come!
they should have never
renamed big ben (after benjamin
disraeali) as the queen elizabeth tower...
she's got the ****** bridge
at dartford!
what's next, Lizzy of Stonehenge?!

502 bad gateway bypass...
title: shattering of stone
body:
in the rubble: a mountain could
be found;
as might be suggested...
given enough time and there's plenty
of it, as there is of space...
the now known deserts of the world...
were once great mountain ranges...
the ancient Egyptians even tried
to replicate this truth by erecting pyramids...
as if implying: look! look!
there were once mountains here!
now! there's nothing but sand!
how the gods, grunted at the idea of mountains
in what is not Sahara... fickle creatures
like the creatures they created are...
who knows... perhaps there will one day
be the desert of Himalaya...

i felt it coming at me like a freight train...
i was going in for work sharp...
woke up at 6am, had a coffee and ate the prepared
bun with pickles and liver pate...
but couldn't finish it... drank a coffee and smoked
a cigarette... had a shower, pampered myself
with about 7 different pampering products...
usually i'm obviously to how i smell like...
but on the bus i could quiz myself:
who here smells like soap and who here smells
like either stale bread or a curry / eggs?
that's the 86 route for you...
it's the immigrant bus... and... funnily enough...
i'm an immigrant myself... although...
it's different when you come to foreign shores
aged 8... and thrown into the education system
rather than bypass all that jazz & enter the work
force... by immigrant status i'm a veteran of sorts...
by 7am the pains and spasms in my abdomen were
becoming excruciating... i could feel
a plug-hole of a **** building up...
      like a bear before retiring to hibernation...
i wouldn't be able to just simply, **** this plug-hole
of a **** out before or on the job...
why? because there would be more to come...
dizzying effects of focus...

i was nervous... she said she would be coming to
do a shift today... who? Jeminah...
she sent me a text telling me how anxious she was...
i figured... the best... blatant: covert question
would be... you worried the trains are not working?
oh... you can get the 86 bus... the tube might be open...
pulling a long long stick...
a lever even... something Archimedes would
use to lift a mountain off the ground...
she felt anxious... oh... because of those two storms?
Eunice - the worst for 30 years...
red weather alerts? you worried about that?
i was seriously stroking a massive bear silly...
she felt anxious for all the reasons i wanted her
to feel anxious about...
n'ah... the way to get to the venue wasn't on her mind...
neither was the weather...
she was found out... she didn't want to be in
the company of the other girls...
and because i put my foot down:
this is getting silly... i'm not going to get blamed
for your son's and her son's friendship fallout...
telling the truth...
    what a recurrent theme with me these days...
well... at least its not a soap opera style of
a multiverse of competing dramas...
there's only one... and i'm fortifying myself with
all the right answers... i need to play this out
like an opera... petty **** that can grow and grow like
that must be explored from many angles...
down the line...

she didn't show up... the other two girls involved
acted slightly funny... she must have passed on
my Pontius Pilate messages: i'm washing my hands clean
of the matter... you girls created this issue...
you sort it... those two boys are not falling out
over something their mums did...

handshakes all round... two clingers...
one ****** with a nervous tick but one guy with
cerebral palsy... well... oddly enough...
having been a recluse for almost a decade...
i have managed to surprise myself by fitting the role
of a people person... i don't know where i was storing
this confidence... self-assurance... stoic silence...
i don't feel the need to talk unless talked to...
sure... i might say an anecdote or two:
how Millwall fans at Fulham told me a joke
about a West Ham player who's fond of kicking
cats... cat lives matter...

the shift itself... West Ham are back to their usual
antics of not respecting lesser opponents...
Newcastle are on a campaign trail to survive
in the Premier League... two of their best players weren't
playing: yet they still managed to draw 1 - 1...

who do you think are going to fall?
i says: Burnley had it coming for the past two years...
yeah... Watford is a boomerang team...
one season on the Premier level...
the next on the Championship level...

seems i can have much fun with people,
whether coworkers or the actual public...
the freaks among the coworkers follow me like
dogs, while the public?

an old lady wanted me to use her camera to take
photographs with the West Ham mascots:
some bear mascot was first, then Harry the Hammer...
i had to tap Harry's shoulder when a father asked me
to call him back while he moved along the stand
so he could go back and have a photograph taken
with his kid: so heavily padded he almost didn't feel
my touch...
but he went back...
then that retired police officer that took my side
when some busy-body ***** of a: not my supervisor
kept on demanding i put on a face mask...
that infernal: secular niqqab...
the retired police officer noted: he's distraught...
**** the club: if they can think they can get away
imposing their own rules: all staff must wear ******
coverings... this busy-body even said:
i don't you not covering your nose...
so, what then? my chin is capable of breathing?!
scale of escalation... the from me to the supervisor
to the busy-body third part...
the ex-police officer used the hypothetical
argument: but i have a deaf person, friend,
sitting next to me: he needs to lip read...
how is he going to read my instructions if he can't
see my mouth...
and then... well... i wasn't bothered...
wearing these nappies always brings back
memories of my grandfather's funeral...
he was a big deal in a small-town where i was
born... a foreman in the metallurgy industry...
he knew a lot of people...
but how many showed up to his funeral?
not even the half that i'd have expected...

we kept chatting... my supervisor later came up
and asker me... so...   ?!
oh... you know, we just talked about life...
his father was a widower... living in Cornwall...
he used to get free grub from the local (pub),
but when the pandemic hit...
he lost all WILL to live...
and me says: you know how people say that
you can die from a broken heart,
i guess you can also die from being denied
WILL... we agreed... we shook hands about x3...
like a post-scriptum he asked me for my name
and i asked for his... Mark...
now living in East Sussex... but originally from
Dartford...

Mark said he had thick skin... and i told him...
your eyes are watering... i don't believe it...
looking at them feels like watching a very bountiful
aquarium... you're not going to fool me mate...
life... plus, it's not against the law to not wear
the *****... as i later said:
now you get to see who the people with OCD
and the hypochondriacs are...
yeah: it feels weird... i'm walking around without
the "*****" while my wife is still paying
servitude to outlaw rules...
but if they want to... why deny them the right...
sure sure...

but i had to use a member of the public
to infiltrate the hierarchy on the job...
he used the proper arguments... i was just thinking:
perhaps people just want to see my face...
recognise it... see ****** expressions...
after all: we've been playing a game of pretending
to be Muslim women for two years...
how about we start playing hide & seek once more?

what happened later... the curiosity of the children...
i looked at them, smiled, they smiled back...
they felt so comforted... they felt like:
well... thank god this cubist-esque freak-show is
running and hiding... little girls, little boys...

like i told Mark: but the young 'ung suffered... too...
you need to see people faces,
i might have slouched with the expression
of "****** recognition"... but expressions matter...
you sometimes have to out the tongue to the face...
you want to see someone laugh,
at ease... nowhere near the culture & the people
of Afghanistan... this might have to be the building
block of the supposed "great" restart...
seeing people's faces...
esp. when it comes to children...
they want to see faces they can trust...

but it's outright blatant...
i'm not going to make a comparison between
The Beatles "vs." The Rolling Stones...
for me it always been
Bruce Springsteen "vs." Chris Rea...
no... can't choose...
who the **** do i couple Bob Dylan with?
i'm currently sipping some whiskey while
in the company of ol' Bruce...
ah... Bob Dylan vs. Tom Waits...
        Tommy 'ol boyo...
                    live circus... going out west (live)...
Tom Petty though...

there was one expulsion... a ginger she-male...
all the fans were laughing: don't give her out...
the SIA guys were playing gorillas while
i was on my break... putting my hand on the shoulder
of the hurt party... calm... calm... you ginger ostrich...
stop pandering to the parade of:
already lost teenage hormones...
it sort of worked... i giggled... and no one
became involved... i chewed on my gum like i
like might have been found chewing on a broomstick
or a horses' mane...
i chewed so hard until my jaw hurt...

Tom Waits - going out west (live)...
now we're talking...
prior to Prince dying: you had not access to
songs like Party-man... Trust... all copyrighted
material... yeah.... but i own the best of CD...
why can't i stream it?!
oh, right... he's dead... free-for-all...
free meat for the crows...

why oh why would someone walk up to me
and ask to take a selfie with me?
yeah... this American accented dude...
i watched him through the second half...
off his nuts...
but at half time he walks up to me and asks...
can i take a selfie with you?
sure... weird...
am i famous?! or am i just ****** approachable...
all the other stewards are like bricks in
a mountain: but mountains don't have bricks...
or they're over-anxious busy bodies...
it's like people never learned their NVQ training...

safety, security, service....
the service part is the building part...
you pass off being attired in safety / security tactics...
but... service comes first...
you talk, you interact... you learn to be human...
one year of this, before i ask for being given references...
that's when i'll work toward looking toward a more
permanent employment as a chemistry
teacher... even though... scribbling this sort of *******:
i'd love to become an English teacher...
ha ha... an English teacher... even though i'm not
English...

i need the references... working with my father in
roofing... no, can, do...
they don't want familial ties in references...
one year... i'd still do these gigs on the weekend...
but one year...
you get a chance to deal with a football crowd...
you got a belt... when it might come to dealing
with a classroom of rowdy children...
like Louis XIV stated... it's the trick of the eye...
look the authoritative type...
there's nothing more to it...

then these three supporters at the front...
when they first started singing the song for the cat-lives-matter
footballer who was more into... kicking
cats than a football... how did the lyrics go?
almost Dr. Seuss...
he kicks with his right foot... he kicks with his
left foot... i pursed my lips... i tried to cover my
face with my hand... all the while trying to as
instructed: not taking sides... not showing emotions...

but their remarks came fast... i must have looked
interesting...
so where are you from?
Russia? guess again... Ukraine? nope...
Czech Republic? nope... ******! yep...
but i've been living here since the age of 8...
and i'm 35...
have a nice life: she said... one of them was
ginger... presuppositions of Irish... the beard was
pulled... oh my god, the girl looked proper, proper,
drunk...
i went on a break... i came back:
oh! he's back! you know you're the only one
without a hood on! all the other stewards...
the guy who's usually here is somewhat asleep
while prying open his phone...
where's your pancho against the rain?
oh... i gave it to a spectator... blah blah...

point being... i was actually waiting for her...
Jeminah... all the time... she didn't show up...
i've just received a text from her...
what is... drotaverini hydrochloridum?
i had to take it today...
a rubric of buzzwords...
it sells alongside suggestions akin to the morning-after
pill...

well, it will be a rubric of buzzwords...
i had to take some pills for the cramps in my stomach...
it just felt like one of those Sprintsteen,
Chris Rea, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty sort of nights:
when you feel nervous about thinking bout
a girl while simultaneously feeling nervous
about taking a ****... so you feel like taking a ****
at 7am but delay it to until 5pm... 6pm...
because the girl's easting away at your mind...
you're getting cramps in your abdomen
like you you're about to do a clown trick
with balloons turning them into theoretical poodles...
because you just love the girl:
you just love the girl...
she might be a single mother, she might think
she's a woman... but she's just a girl to you...
even though you're not her father...

oh right... the buzz... words... as someone who studied
chemistry i should know what drotaverini hydrochloridum
is... it's for the abdomen cramps...
for: i ought to have taken a ****...
but here's me stalling...
will she, will you come?
DROVATERINE....
an antispasmodic drug...
   used to enhance cervical dilation during child-birth...
i'm giving birth: to a feeling...
i think i'm in love... she's all anxious...
Bruce's: Maria's Bed... yeah... i'm on that same page
in this story...
esp. noted use in Asia and Central Europe...
i'll be lazy: i'll cite it verbatim:
it's structurally related to papaverine,
is a selective inhibitor of phosphodiesterase 4
and has no anticholinergic effects...

the way i see it... i'm giving birth to love....
i want her fat **** to sit on my face...
sorry... what?!
i'm being absolutely serious...
just looks up the article on Anticholinergics...
i don't have a womb...
but i have a heart that seems to have
sunken into the levels of the intestines...
while i get all spaghetti tangles
for brains...
i'm in love... i can't help it...
she a cougar red head... a deep red...
a mahogany red...
i can't stop thinking about her...
it's exactly impossible to live:
without having to think about her...
anxious cluck by cluck...
if she's not going to abide by failures in life
then... no... life's not worth living without her:
when she's at her pinnacle of failure...
let me pick her up...
let's pretend there's an old world
worth looking at... that there might be a world war
in the theatre... none of these proxies in
the H'American department of... up-keeping
hard-ons and kaleidoscope coyotes...
now for the text messages... why weren't you around?!

i wrote this yesterday, i went downstairs for sone grub
because i couldn't fall asleep...
my mother came down... saw me in my TOMBSTONE
mode... drunk... what? you want me to punch
myself in the face? lucky for her, lucky for me
i remained silent, because the night was silent...
she ****** off i ****** off... today i made mein vater
und mein mutter some ******
chicken broth with vermicelli...
all the usual suspects were used...
the leek, the parsley root, the carrot,
the garlic (skin on), the celery... chicken... d'uh...
although i didn't use the chicken *******...
that's going to be used for a curry...
  
and what are my other options? living alone?
paying rent to a landlord from hell?!
shame... sure... but the attic is full of clutter
and there is no basement...
plus i have a private library the deservedly might
need a proper: HEAVE! HEAVE!
50 oars...

i'm in love and not for all the right reasons...
if my youth took the route of an atypical man...
starting from 20 working my way up...
yeah... but i went mad at the age of 21...
******* invisible choir, great wind dispersing it...
psychiatry that tried to attempt its regression
tactics of implanting me with false memories...
giving me anti-psychotic drugs that fattened me up
until a nurse said:
you either loose weight... or you'll be put
on high-blood pressure tablets...
so... i bought a bicycle... lost 20kg... cycled off
into the sunset...
now... 35... years old... oh... look...
they're looking... they're actually interested...
the young girls have: "woken up"...
yeah... by now? i'm not interested...
i don't and i didn't pay much attention
to the game of genes... it's a fractional impossibility...
unless you're cloning yourself...
by the time you're a grandfather...
only a quarter of you remains...
  why bother with the argument?
        it's silly...Darwinistic unrealism has always been
a thorn in my side...
eh?                            my genes have my consciousness?
i'm... translatable to future generations?
sure... but they can't be my own...
why would i be interested in young girls...
if things worked out for me like they might have
worked out for other men...
a walking *****... and spare parts of monetary dough...
i never wanted to make money...
i took the principle left around for others to see...
between the aesthetic and the ascetic...
well... St. Francis of Assisi...
other men in my position: who have hungered and
been left out in their 20s... now in their 30s can have
their comeback...
their revenge... me? i'm trying to court
a woman 4 years older than me... with a boy
that's 11 years old...
i said: bully them into teaching your German...
you know, it's the mother tongue of English...
grammatically the two languages are very much
aligned... Fredrick... "bully" them into making
you learn Deutsche... i said BULLY i implied:
persuade... do i need to use sign language...
finally... though... a third head on the Hydra...
if i had a little Frankenstein in my possession...
i could be learning Deutsche proper with him....
a youngling like that... sponge for brains...
maybe i could teach him some of my ****** zunge...
wow... no no... that's the whole point of turning
toward art... by 35 i could have been earning
100+ £... yawn... no, truly...
playing this to-and-fro with younger girls
because i now might have status...
not much fun... to be exacting...
single mum... problems at school...
you should learn German rather than French...
he understood it splendidly...

             just you wait... i'll get him into modern German
folk music... did i buy her off with my homemade wine
and him with my own made banana loaf with hazelnuts?!
here's to me!
salute!

              - on these isles for most of my life...
35 - 8 = 27... twenty-seven ******* years!
and no chance at a pluck at the Rose...
up north she was giving it up to grooming gangs
from Pakistan... down south...
shy ******* nunnery: "all of a sudden"!
but now... ah... this... hybrid of Scotch and English
stock... i'm shuddering... i'm still getting these
cramps in my abdomen that says:
you have a womb... what?! i'm transgender?!
what the ****?!

that's why i didn't want to earn money...
well... it's not that i didn't want to...
you see what happens when you go mad aged
21... and how you figure things out...
at least now i'm not a target...
i don't have anything to offer expect for...
knowledge...
it's a blessing...
since... it's hardly what any woman wants...
women tend to want only their own advice...
they conjure this advice like witches conjure up...
perhaps the rosemary herb
goes well with lamb... but like the Turkish
broads suggested... but if you add it to beef...
oh! mein! gott! the Turkish lavash!
with that red onion & parsley roughage of
a side salad... mouth-watering stuff...
i don't really need to see the competitive hard-on
of whatever Sultan to counter the Hagia Sophia...
just that beef lavash...
and yes, you'd be wrong... English cheddar
works just as well...

but... i'm no Frank O'Hara... there's no qualm in
me about not being a painter...
why i'm not a painter translates to me as:
why am i not a painter?
i abhor colours... well... i like some more than
others... the amber and the auburn...
the greens... whiskey... autumn...
but when it comes to movies?
i prefer them to be black & white... less strain
on the eyes...
if images are moving? black & white...
sure... no one is expected to paint in black & white...
like no one is expected to write in
rainbow hieroglyphics... i can stand for an hour
beside a colour painting...
it doesn't move, i don't move...
time, the world: moves...
fair enough...
but colour-riddled movies?
a strain on the eyes...
    why am i not a painter?
                     why am i not a narrator?!
i'm clearly neither... what's the middle ground?
priest? psychiatrist? *******... poet?!
oh you have to be choking me to make me joke...
let alone laugh... but i'm not rhyming...
but there was a time and a place
when people identified this art with
a need for mathematics... measure... ticture...
rhyme... music...
like **** that's happening now: proper...

- perhaps it's not painting, i think it;s painting,
perhaps lacking in colour, perhaps lacking in contorts..
in shapes, in disguises...
what? no traffic light: goes green?
no traffic light remains red?
no middle ground for the amber?
no cyclist prepped to be the shepherd of traffic?
to leech onto a truck where he might be
visible... to orientate the roundabout congestion?
no one, ever, minded, this?!
before moi!
           oh... what shame... what utter shame...
we were supposed to help each other out...
not be these... petty demigods...
silly ******* idiots...

             i might have to reiterate my stance...
she's giving me the love-ups making me feel like a woman...
i'm getting cramps in my abdomen...
sure... i ought to have taken a **** 7 hour prior...
but i keep it in... like a bear about to hibernate:
a plug-hole ****...

- anticholinergic agent are substances that block the action of the neurotransmitter called acetylcholine (ACh) at synapses in the central and peripheral nervous system...

-  anticholinergics are divided into two categories in accordance with their specific targets in the central and peripheral nervous system and at the neuromuscular junction: antimuscarinic agents, and antinicotinic agents (ganglionic blockers, neuromuscular blockers...

she says she's anxious... i'm nervous too!
i'm getting cramps in my stomach...
i'm giving birth to love...
i want access to her son... i want to learn Deutsche
with him... is that too much to ask?
i don't have the sort of money
to access younger, fertile, girls...
i'm left with single mothers... MUFFAS...
oh... she's rounded... like the earth ought to be...

i'm still shy on one reply...

Apologies for the lateness of this message, came home and "had to", i.e. wanted to make some Silesian gnocchi with beef in a dill and a horseradish sauce... cooking for three, it takes time, then I fought up on some footie... was soaked at West Ham, but it was a good shift.... so what happened to you? Weren't you supposed to come? I found out late that the tube was working, managed to use it on the way back... so what happened? What were you anxious about? The bad weather the day before? I took a walk for a newspaper when the storms hit... it was almost fun-windy... at one point I stood rooted in one place for about 3sec being unable to move... the winds almost roared, i even stopped listening to music on my headphones as I listened to the wind whizz by and ruffle the trees... sort of like ASMR but with a loud speaker... I imagined the wind ruffling the trees like someone brushing their hair on an ASMR video... you feeling better though, yes? You doing Fulham this week?

but we're talking about a psychotic girl...
one layer of narrative against another...
she might as well conjure up
a missing 13 year old cousin
to just test you...
thar's how it works...
this reality, this ugly "thing"...
and the deviances of how much
i want to sleep with her...
there... i said it... beautiful view.

Dusk seeps and blurs the skyline
come the close of day
a pinky lilac ribbon
heralds night unto its stage.

The journey is a long one
clouds heavy, threaten rain
drops fall, refract a tiny world
and get wiped away again.

Yawning motorway before me
the lamps lick overhead
tarmac seams provide the beat
and keep my conscious fed.

Driving through the velvet hours
with widened, tearless eyes
I could be the last one left
under orange studded skies.

The rear view mirror silent
no followers in sight
the road ahead deserted
blank darkness left and right.

The headlights kiss a pilgrimage
from Dartford all the way
up into the Highlands
where ghosts of old clans play.

The cast of fading reason
blindness gives me bliss
mechanically motioned
riding the abyss

of barely wakeful notion
'cross the bones of England's spine
inverted patterns play upon
the windscreen all the time.

Punctuated by reflections
blue signs winking in the black
past Sheffield, Leeds and Darlington
where I'm never going back.

Driving through the darkness
steeped in rayless calm
rouged by dashboard luminesce
atramentously embalmed.

A window down to rouse me
night air beholds a trace
of perfumed secrets, blown on wings
that dance about my face.

'cross this scarred and sceptred landscape
it's said all roads lead to Rome
except the ones we love the most
that always take us home.

The snows of un-illumination
settle gently on my breast
aimed towards the mountains
running north, then turning west.

Though a social creature
I crave the company
of oneness in transition
just the road and me.

Humming, ceaseless through geography
with resonance my friend
dreaming while I'm wide awake
from beginning until end.

The shipping forecast soothes me
singing songs of gales
and this machine is just a ship
with tyres for its sails.

Out upon an ocean
of blacktop, good and firm,
through slow and haunted moments
with no need to turn.

One immeasured here to there
one simple action: drive
unknowing of the distance
only sure I will arrive.

And though dawn will surely seek me
for now I'm content to hide
among the blessed darkness
clasped by shadow deep inside.

I'm compelled to move forever
through ghosted, unlit time
the road ahead unhindered
the solitude sublime.

I can see my childhood amongst the fenced bomb shelters no longer there.
And the Goats’ Field still lies empty.
The River Shuttle’s gentle banks are gone now, replaced by cement walls.
So Billy can’t scramble , won’t wade and ford.
Cheryl won’t swing and Jenny won’t scream her thrill of horror.
Steve’s feet will stay disappointedly dry – much to his mum’s delight.

The meander remains,
the trees still bow to the much-reduced majesty of the Shuttle,
but we can’t join the dance from the walled edge
– we can only drink in the river’s weak echo.

- Willersley
- Marlborough
- Lamborbey
- Halfway Street
- Ye Olde Black Horse

The snooker hall, full of ‘don’t tell your mother’ chatter
and I can’t reach that blue spot even at a stretch.

The Glade stretches and hops down to re-join the Shuttle
- River Cray
- Foots Cray Meadows
- River Darent
- Darent Valley

to hospital wards full of discarded mothers, falling back into the river and drifting to the Dartford Creek barrier, erected by the well-meaning against the anticipation of that Boxing Day tidal wave

- a calculated sacrifice of our pasts for a hoped-for last laugh.

i sporadically entertain my uncle's ex-girlfriend
at the house from time to time:
don't ask me why...
    she dated him when i was...
8 through to 11...
                       donkey's years ago...
days when the st. valentine's park in ilford,
essex... was like: alice in wonderland...
it had tennis courts, it had a mini golf course,
it had an open air swimming pool...
   it had exotic bird cages...
                                it had row boats
on the pond...
                 i mean: if my ex-girlfriend was
still visiting me...
                  i don't know: rather... i don't want
to know... my uncle is rather estranged and
that's that... i saw her a year ago:
i made her a curry...
                         i saw her today: in between
the odd house job: flinging concrete etc.
i made...
         she could practically be a stranger...
but that's... exactly the point...
here's to extracting water from a stone...
   i'll write this and it will not really tickle my
fancy...
    once, perhaps, not so long ago -
                    i'm just fudge-packing myself
into a lullaby of lolz... from the "narrative"
prescribed to me, you, "us" by the...
ahem... philanthropists...
                    hell: better with the misanthropes...
at least they are not scheming
philanthropists...
        indeed a "polyphony" of tastes...
which is a curry...
                    nowhere in europe except in england
this demand for the blues and the Raj...
the compliment:
   'this tastes like a restaurant dish...'
  and she wasn't kidding... she did bring a bottle
of wine and a bottle of gin...
i did used about 6 chicken *******...
i hoped that with the coconut rice
and the naan breads i'd have enough for
4 people today and for 3 people tomorrow...
    em... yeah...
                i watched her like i might have
been a woman and cooked for a coal miner
in a 20th century Silesia...
              the sri lankan curry with apple cider
vinegar and the coconut milk blah blah...
but... hell... apparently i can save myself
for a night (once in a while) from
self-deprecating humour and take a word
of a stranger as: rigid dogma...
      that i can cook better than i can write...
            i felt sorry for... having read enough
of Knausgaard and know: fish-fingers...
   scandinavian food?
   oh, you mean like two days ago when
i figured: rödbetsallad - sure... if you have
the right meat... but it doesn't **** to know that...
raw beets with carrots an onion
   chilly and some greens with a....
balsamic vinegar, orange juice, olive oil
and dijon mustard is a **** good dressing...
i mean: hide the japanese sushi..
give me raw herrings in a creamy / tangy sauce...
baltic "sushi": suit you, sir... oooh...
fastest eaten dish in town...
    tow the town across the atlantic -
settle the score on the coast of maine...
or nova scotia: scou-shia...
         nova orbis...
                 i cook good food... that's so much
more comforting that scribble these little details...
after all... i pride myself on the arsenal of spices
i own... whoever has their nukes can keep 'em!
i drop one black cardamom grenade and we're
in for a proper party!
the kolhapuri masala - which is poetry -
a "polyphony" of sorts:

10 dried red chillies
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
6 cloves
1 tbsp black mustard seeds
50 g unsweetened desiccated coconut
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp red chilli powder

i surprised star anise is not invoked -
surprise me less: i am not - no black cardamom?
it must have been a different masala -
obviously a textbook use of ginger / garlic pulp
and turmeric... and onions...
and tomatoes...
and how is it that the "west indies" survived
so intact: was it purely on the argument from
sanskrit - perhaps...
who am i... little ****** from a place
where haggis might have originated...
but most certainly a type of broth that
uses... cow intestines: honeycomb tripe...
well... that's just ******* spectacular!
we're also the people that will eat
a chicken heart goulash / chicken stomachs...
nothing is wasted but...
hell... to have the oil fields of arabia
or the spice garden of india?
              tough question!

what was or is leftover?
   the parsley revolution?
        the basil    "
                            coriander?
     what was haggis... is still haggis...
and neeps and tatties?!
        allspice - nutmeg and paprika...
bland (apple imports from "kazakhstan")
europe of old...
blushing spanish oranges...
        whale fat from the north...
chimichurri: give me curry for an oak
of beef: a stump of it... argentinian -
give me spices for a steam engine...
                   trade offs...
                 and that buddha soft-patch of
inquisitive philosophy spin-offs in
the western canon: feng shui pseudo-zen
or tao...
     unlike selling protestantism
when none arrived with the spanish toward
the west or the port-of-geese in hai!nippon!

followed up by listening to some iron maiden:
after all: they did release brave new world
at a time when their x-factor etc. days were
over so they could delve into hiring a new
army of listeners: they weren't going to
sit on their laurels like led zeppelin et al.,

- only prior i watched two woodland pigeons
battle on a pergola i erected and weaved
a wisteria into it... the female was perched looking
on... i never imagined woodland pigeons
to hold such ferocity in their slender guise -
they would jump on top of each other
in an imitation of mating and with their
feet as fangs rip into the manes of each other...
throats throbbing with a short-of-breath pulse...

i broke the battle by having to pass
under the pergola with bags of sand and cement...
as man and with dealings in imitating
nature:
    well... a history as an etymological affair of sorts:
hardly...
   pigeon: gołąb (******),
              holub (czech),
                         golub (croat),
               golob (slovenian),
                     porumbel (romanian),
        balandis (lithuanian),
               galamb (hungarian)...

   looks like... the closest etymological
cousins of a ******'s pigeon is:
the croat and the *** pigeon...
               but... uncle auntie here...
pidge-on: pij-off:
      the german           taube...
the french pigeonne...
               picciona (italian)...
                                paloma (spanish)...
   "hence" the romanian porumbel...
but not the alt-saxon taube...
     or the norwegian    due...
or the swedish: duva...
           estonian tuvi finnish kyyhkynen...

do i dare see what...
not to bother dear mater mortuus...
greek!  περιστέρι (well... sure looks like...
a future of pigeon... em...)
turkish!                   güvercin...

almost like the story of Islam is a story
that ended with Muhammad
and began with Ishmael ibin
     Hagar the housemaid for Abraham's
wife Sarah...
     almost that: "same ****, different cover"
scenario...
but with words...
   and words alone:  after all...
is there any relevant history outside of
etymology - given that... napoleon invade
russia ****** invaded russia:
i.e. that shamelessness of repetition?

it's so apparent: to be hung-up on the trifles
of "love":
more like... the barrage of youth and hormonal
cocktails of agonies that must end in defeat
and monasticism at best...
"defeat" is rather an open word...
becoming tamed with: retreat and introspection...
she asked me to get her shawl
as the sun was setting and
while bringing it to her i had a sniff of it...
no perfumes... just the scent of skin
and a woman in her 50s...
   the smell of: an old maid... not a ******...
an old maid...
but how refreshing: tame make-up...
nothing too protagonist or shock-circus!

second slurps from an uncle's engagement
of ***** in pigtails?
well... it's just nice to hear a stranger
compliment your food...
esp. since this wasn't some formal setting
for a restaurant...
if i could earn on the basis of peanuts
and compliments and...
               how michelangelo was...
           no not constipated...
no not conscripted...
        not contained...
                        pope julius II...
michelangelo was... COMMISSIONED...
   well... what a noble begotten proof of...
the truth of labour...
            so much for the derelict promise:
the ugly work - although still towing
a grand scheme of aesthetic with it:
akin to plumbing or electrical scrutiny -
or waterproofing -
   but as i have learned:
   the work less scene does gravitate toward
repaying a man with a sense
of ingratitude -
for the work itself -
   after all: there's no work of art to slobber over...
to guise oneself in a fetish for
sending postcards...
the work itself harbours an ingratitude
to the person who performs it...
that "minor detail" of something working
without fail...
hardly a bureaucratic competition:
grizi-piórek (a slang term for a bureaucrat)
literally: feather-nibbler...

    the bewildered youth of man and that
which comes of him in the later posit of life
as aging - for not enough has been
cited concerning old maids -
the crippling opportunism of girls
that turns us into comic atlasas with
only poses to a name -

     i have to hide my admiration for old men:
esp. those that write their little
jokes: praying on existential shot-hand
and their unshakeable rationale -

a brief interlude into a concept of a new
life: my uncle's ex-girlfriend:
i've been to the brothel:
the "joys" of flesh *** flesh are such
unwelcome avenues that i know
how desperately i ******* to smother
the solipsist in me but at the same time
nullify the ****** out of
respect for a caricature of conversation:

that the stars were mentioned and that
venus or mars was among them...
by the geographic posit of edinburgh:
and the firth of forth i held with a certainty
a more than concept of n.e.w.s.:
north east west and south...
but north east london: that gargantua is no
edinburgh...

only today i posited myself on mashisters' hill
and the mouth of the thames...
and where the dartford bridge is
and where canary wharf is...
it doesn't help much to travel into
central london and stand before Thames...
to finally flip out a compass...
this odd river that has no flow
but a tide...
a river with no mountains...
no Vistula no Danube...
this cruel passable detail:
  a river without mountains with
a tide but now flow...

decipher for me this grey murk of eels
wriggling hollow...
she asked me: is it difficult to go back
"home"...
burden by the tired toiling among
so many monolinguals:
can i tell apart the accents on these isles?
that i can tell a scot from an eire-fiction
that the welsh still: hope for god grant
them their same old future tongue...

veneti...
                  veneti...
                                         veneti:
it is that it has become more and more
difficult to leave "home" than arrive
at it... but from populist english so
thoroughly breeding into a stiffening sire
and clamour of pict sacrilege -
grand echoes of unused words...

old maid who graces the same existential
pangs as me: aimless hollow head spermatoid...
after all the hormonal whirlwinds pass
and there comes a second nakedness...
before trust and a spontaneous jumping
to conclusions that never arrive at anything
more than the generic cul de sac...

to have to disbelieve mothers...
             it is necessary to have to disbelieve mothers...
for no greater grandiosity incumbent...
a brief interlude and how i can:
simply peacock-strut... exfoliate like
i might... have forever succumbed to
the latin variation of bulimia and that old
variant of ****...
willingly running ****-naked into
a riddling throb of nettles...
with disembodiment and an aspect
of freely arrived at nerve extensions
clinging to an ancient eucharist of
tentacles that the tongue would only counter
having to bite and nibble and suckle
on a mint leaf: with the body's proposal
of immersion in nettles...

to make rous of numbing ****** details:
no ****** from taking  a ****...
no litany of broken words:
clinging to consonant prone onomatopoeias...
crude ascertaining archaic:
purity of vowels: mongrel heart and soul
whilst towing... a mongol or two...
pictures of fortress crimea... the grand sicz...

only because she was not a woman
in her prime: a new orientation that doesn't begin
with me in middle age having amounted
enough poison apples and **** frenzies
and all those lies spoken during ***...
at best: even in the brothel...
for the love of god i dared not speak...
so much for anything
when *** has to invoke words...
not the silence not the pulsating vowel
throttle...

                    i linger for the last linear concept
of unnerving details...
that last came with these words
and will last revel in them alone...
for the greater audience i...
i have no scheme to usurp the pop from
the better hidden...
that some things have to:

let "them" have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother over mothers:
when death finally tallies my shadow
as her ******-on from fear loitering
of shrapnel!
let the people have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother of all mothers:
- but given the inbetween leave
me to my cenobite affairs of a bedroom
i keep for a nursery of moths...
to ward off the spiders with my drunken
breath...
give me clarity in the depths of
a bottle's end met...
            
  - so this is what it feels like to arm-wrestle
with a hand strapped to the bone crushing
revelation of hanging on a crucifix -
so this is what nodding with approval
feels like when competing to the end scenario
when lying erratic and scared
on the tablature of the falling guillotine...

it must do! i feel a need to concern myself
with feeling than with thinking:
i despise this celebration of numbing
objectivity: as someone once said:
subjectivity is the only truth...
after all: i am subjected to...
i am firstly subjected to...
only later i object: i objectify:
i give me spatial pardons and awareness...

as a subject under the protection
of a queen i am: first come first served...
not last... in this secular objectification
policy of "what if" futures...
i answer to the queen:
i am subject of the queen:
i am subjected by the queen...
such a ****** party to attend with no
god and this object cranium per crown...
that it has to become so impersonal
that the h'american free verse poets:
that elizabeth II has so much more
than mere grandma edifice...

i am subjected to something prior:
only later can i object to it...
some variation of a "double negation":
a talk over more gin and tonic...
or bourbon...
how could subjectivity become
so defamed... like it was forever a lesser
variation of the res extensa /
thought attache...
that subjectivity is lesser has to come
from people who only regurgitate
a once fabled scientific positivism of
a new and glorious age of Eiffel...

objectively "speaking"...
the regurgitated "facts": it's not like
science is even the incessant harangue!
from voice and a well:
an echo and a re-:
                             by now: there are "concerns"
as to why the echo fades and is
not gravitating toward perpetual
momentum...

               by now to revel in tired bones,
sinew... in the perfumes of burning fat:
vegan protests... vegan wishy-washy...
that somehow in a future 2 years from now...
the cows will have the eyes
akin to petted critters like that of:
fortune of future:
demands of cats and dogs...
i stated today: big cats' eye do not
hollow out... there is no serpent-esque
"myopia" of the eyes...
cats are spies for the serpent kingdom...
disguised as fur-*****...
but intact the blistering choke
of the slither... eyes that ****...
eyes that could feed the most blue-bodied
extract from the speark-head
of mammalian hierarchy...

   what little dough for slaughter eyes me
in the fashioned cow..
i leave all honesty for the dogs:
among the tying with bones...
but never these bonsai tigers...
heavy shields of hipolites...

                             - is there a need to drink
and write... while marrying yourself
to the barrage of unnecessary bricks
that align themselves to the cuddle-cradles
of kcal-atoms?
     i thought that drinking was
synonymous with exfoliation...
hell begot peacock-strutting...
              old maid didn't have me leeching
for ****-practice tendencies to posit
proofs...
             at some point i am going
to have to leave people without a comfort
of a diatribe...
i'll extend my over-arching scrutiny and
tell you:
on this basic base prize...
i leave no selling of satellite...

come 2am and i'm still awake and drinking:
it doesn't matter...
what matters is...
being invested in a repetition
and the glorified emblem for all that's
the worth of tomorrow:
the conjunction barricade of english:
my queen's last ordeal...
well **** me... it has to be my queen's
last ordeal before i **** up to the h'arab
sheikhs...
n'est ce-pas?

oh... wait... like the french didn't look
glum and whatnot...
like the past wasn't a pass at rebirth...
like venice didn't pirate away details of
constantinople...
i am tired of guilt...
you... italian fuccofinickyfuckers
bless venice... now! now! have complaints
concerning the hagia sophia...
because who isn't to abandon the greeks:
because of greek pride...
which is all that little: pride...
designated to books:
greek schoolchildren... will not read...
some ancient anthem of
northern barbarians: perhaps the bulgars...
most certainly not the... island-bound
mongrel...

            the english will not be reminded:
yes... that much is true:
but they can be executed for a lineage
of inconsistency...
that poland can somehow be associated
with polar bears...
hell... "we" are associated with
bisons... and storks...
          no need to educate the new
or keeping an ordeal of the old...
let's call my mediocre
the no-mans'-land rupture...
it's not exactly dervish planned territory:
citing india as borrowing extension
with afghanistan, pakistan,
bangladesh, sri lanka...
            who am i buddha tow: juggle...
jumble wisconsin proto: or a collective:
pan-european...
mingling justices... arms told to be torn
off...
   romance from 18th century europe:
kissing the feet of Kiev...
while in the western: what if...
the sea affords us... no need teasing
a wait for a tide...
      this little scare and...
      my little future of cain that...
arrived at a blinding prospect of
nationhood that has to retain a presence
akin to Siberia...

belly-tow flipside an agony of
this fissure of gill and borrowed depths of
searching for the dolphin aided dive...
i have no befriending lefts...
had i the rights i'd make them
pronounced: enough to champion
diacritical scrutinies...
but no but now...

- how is that:
   -rhetoric          has reached a fever;
and a pitch to make
a ***** into a jerusalem
as a prefix towing exemplar...
before a noun
and a yankie akin to
pre-
          variation of pro-
               not withering into the anti-
cyst and some future be told...
                      chimes from haven:
and the pennies from ginger-root borrow
of lobotomy...
        
   gutting a pig: glorifying a monkey...
chanting: freed red sox...
                a somewhat: hives
of Boston... while we all have to retort
to a question...
not because we woz all hebrewz...
but coz whizz or: or else...
worst hinterland:
an estonia: that there's
more of new york than there's
of this.... hinterland...
of... convincing: this is not "asiatic"...
this is still DOS europa...
bulging to bug the bothersome
chastised bullock off a bull
and the silent churn tow charge...

some variation of a pre-
and a self- prefix:
          to compound this custard
nostalgia sweet-tooth jesus h'americana...
same old variation of how
estonia is about the sizing up
of new york: and...
              
                     my own sowing tow-tie
this little increment this little
wave this loiter masquerade...
   such privy to make a choice!
from the slaves toward a slam-dunk..
otherwise making rummanations
to towing a sanctity of old pauper
Warsaw...
                 my little little first and last idle
concern that's a Cairo agitated.

in love with the sign language i taught myself: wave, and then extend your *******... it's called a hang-job in signlanguage; it's like waving a goodbye, with the goodbye being more a ****-off, than a goodbye: god give me better grace, i love the shake of the hand as if jerking off, and subsequently the extended ******* to add the compliment; ****! it almost feels like the welsh V!

i know how it feels being an "illegal" immigrant,
second time round though?
   legal as a kite, or a yellow submarine,
but that's beside the point, as i told my father
today: you've seen the state of english
these days? these acronyms and the middle
class favouritism of emojis?
you've seen it? this is a language?!
these are covert methods to prevent people
from learning computing code!
**** em, someone has to shove em,
kick em up their lazy **** *****!
           work you cunty *** sleazes!
work! what? not congregating on
the monasteries? imagine me as a rabid
dog, owned by henry viii, about to chew
off your leg!
   ****** thinks i'm not "properly" integrated...
so why is it, that i know english language
better than your ****** populace?!
riddle me that, all day, from monday through
to sunday, and the irish bank holiday,
a ****** like me loves a bit of
riverdance on the sly...
       so?
                hello?!
                   so you gonna ******* do it,
or retreat into your lil 'obbit 'ole?
******* *******...
         no wonder the i.r.a. gave up:
who gives a toss about fighting transvestite
***** after 20+ odd years...
even the spies were like: you will not
find me engaging in this sort of *****
for the next 'undred years...
   i'll genuflect st. paddy's shamrock
and call it jewish twice over,
than behave like those, ******* perverts
of the ęnglischspreschen* -
and that's what you call fishing,
my mired youngling.
i tol my papa: ******* keepin' wit'
the times?!
    look at 'em... ugly 'n' "spontaneous"
like the ******* elephant man...
         ooh: goonah fly an eff off wit a kyt...
like **** you yo will...
     fly me a yorkshire spud 'stead 'irst...
you ******* dartford dodger....
       said the 'ackney lass...
see: i speak more english than the 'acking
english....
     it's about akin to 'eaching poker:
you learn the cockers:
you learn the:
                   two doors down luv,
and if ders no shlang for that 'ort of phrase:
there ****** ought to be, next week:
    ya 'acking cockney 'onker!
now i feel like a right *******...
         or like i really need a propah
jerking off... which is y means that
it can only be
answered in jai jai, or the slip of tongue
on led zeppelin's d'yer mak'er, as
the scots 'aid - druid in make-em mon -
   what's that, maca ******* roons?
       tall order, for slanging off almonds,
****, 'et's toast 'em,
           ******* were never gonna
          learn the ******* bagpipes anyway
just tell 'em to learn the dog whistle,
or the orchestra's triangle.

i sometimes read the "elitist" poems and poets of
poetry-foundation-dot-org...
and i wonder...
well: there's no real distinction between
the "ancient": pre-technological-mass-reproduction
anticipatory essay of Walter Benjamin
of awe: find the Louvre and the Mona Lisa...
awe... such a tiny painting and...
awesome... entertainment value of what used
to be entertainment value of movies...
i do love the grit of 1970s cinema...
the 1980s futurist macho-"fascism"...
hell... even the 1990s had some great flicks
a great round-off of the medium...

a LAYLA BENITEZ-JAMES
translates a BEATRIZ MIRALLES DE IMPERIAL

such words are: not borrowed
or rather: in ****** it's A in Deutsche its Z...

jestem otwartą raną
języka

mówić tak nie wiele boli

-

ich bin ein offen wunde
von sprache

zu sagen so klein weh tun

-

apparently it never hurt the Chinese drunken
poet-monks to write anecdotal
syllable counted observations
concerning seeing a blue moon
with drunken-blood-shot eyes...

the Japanese or Chinese poets never complained
that they didn't have a novel in them,
quiet the reverse of this scenario...
there's the budding novel yet to be written
by a poet...
   is there?
a true meditation... a few words...
no need for a novel... an eternity of thought
mingling with everyday tasks
and then... hopefully: a spontaneity of
laughter recalling words akin to...

no kanji, no hiragana...
back to square, one: katakana...
katakana Ki - tan - ah...

   フルイケ    ヤ
     カワズ     トビコム
   ミズ    ノ      オト

no oto: the sound...
i'm guessing water is... mizu: return to
kanji: a returning from to:
   水 a word as picture...

but there's no budding novelist in here,
nor is there pain...
frog: カエル (kaeru) is not a picture-word,
it is a word-sound...

              self-explanatory "bias"...

ワタシ (watashi - i am)
      フショー     シタ      (fushoo shita - wounded tongue)
i absolve myself from entertaining
any conspiracies of entertainment
for the mass of later: distinction...

alternative route while cycling:

サイクリング (saikuringu)
    air, open mind...
wind: my soul - a silence
a lost intrusiveness of the helplessness
of others...
            クーキ
                        アイタ (aita) マインド (maindo)
カゼ (kaze, wind):
stone for heart...
               イシ (ishi, stones)
                              ココロ (kokoro, hearts)...
trickle... like sand... from desert
by time: a mountain!

        ヤマ:
                         yama - mountain...
parrot in the snow...
        オーム  (oomu)
                               ノ
                 ユキ (no... yuki)...

oh **** no... i'm not moving to Tokyo...
i don't want to speak fluent Japanese...
i just want to escape what i last saw
in the feminist panel on Vice News...
i'll ensure that Japanese is like me
in that film about the mad genius mathematician
of the film Pi... i'll put a drill to my head
prior to having to somehow:
now insure myself concerning these
blaze... arguments of "reality" of:
Plato the Plumber and the reicarnation
blocked-toilet... sort-of-speak...
i'm ******* off to Japan...
at least thinking about how the "Samurai"
encode their speaking is a relief
when listening to this Iron Maiden
of "heroic" gymnastics of post-feminism...

i feel completely... oblivious to what's happening...
just today i took a very magnificent route....
i challenged myself...
it's not spring yet... it's not summer...
i'm not allowed the later hours of the day
reserved for these seasons...
Cold-harbour dumping ground next to the Thames
was willing me to do a lap...
ah... maybe next time...

the route? from Collier Row through to Hornchurch...
then onto Upminster...
from Upminster toward Aveley...
from Aveley toward Purfleet...
well... seeing the Dartford Bridge Crossing...
no wonder i could get my geography straight...
the Thames never feels south... even though
you're orientating it from the perspective of the north...
up to Rainham...
obviously i had to venture into the little village
of Wennington... the one that was burning
only August of last year...
because... hey... it's not global warming...
a return to the ice age i reckon...
this little Arab interlude and palms will last only
so long...
my god... burned down houses...
get me a ticket to 1990s Sarajevo!
   that's how bad it looked... they're still clearing
up the mess...

from Rainham back toward Hornchurch and via Harold
Wood toward Harold Hill...
i know there's a Paris... i was a teenager in love
with Stendhal and i visited Paris solo...
i know there's a Paris but i'm starting to think:
maybe: MAYBE there is a "Paris"?
just maybe... this is London on the outskirts this isn't
London for television...

コドク (aloneness - kodoku):
        (existence with everyone)
ソンザイ    ト
           ゼンタイ            (sonzai to zentai)

nope... i'm not learning fluent Japanese...
i'm not going to travel to Japan to pay
taxes, to buy ******* sushi
and feel: a part of apart...
however boldly bad: grammatically...
i hear some ******* argument in
the western sphere... i start to scribble
katakana... i look into the scripts from India...
hell... i go as near as Greek allows...
i morph Latin with European additions
of diacritical markers...
i don't want to be constipated by an "argument":
or lineage of: ******* arguments of people
who have... zero... absolutely no...
inclinations how funny it all must be...
for someone misdiagnosed as schizophrenic
circa 2008... looking at the year 2023
almost gleefully... Beelzebub rubbing his *****
hands... the madman turned out to be...
pretty sane... given the current currency of
consensus!

    i have not invested in having children:
care to complain? me neither...
am i earning enough money to complain that my
money is going toward up-keeping
the mistakes of single-mothers? no...
i'm earning enough for a solo escapade...
i don't earn enough to be taxed!
i stopped drinking...
i can start imitating the bear in the realm
of a perpetual winter of contentment...
i can realise an ape imitating a bear:
i can exist-hibernating...
                            if i don't need to go to the cinema:
what's the point? i can...
go and see an art exhibition and wonder...
once at the paintings...
second at the old women trying to push
these young girls into my orbit as if implying:
go talk to him...
  but i'm here to admire the paintings, aren't i?!
am i here for a date?!

plus... i don't need to own a car...
i can cycle to almost anywhere in London of my own
volition and ease of exercise...
i don't need to spend money on *******
that most women would spend money on...
i have a recycling fetish...
i have little ambitions of curios adventures that
don't really require me to stress hard-pressed
constant hard-ons to compete with other men...
if i really feel like it...
i'll declare *** for recreational purposes as:
probably most boring...
given the adventures of cycling and swimming...
but if must-be-must...
hell... the brothel with me and it's all over:
proven point... in an hour's worth...

i am a truly liberated man...
thank you woman, for showing me the path...
your liberation has liberated me beyond
your wildest anticipations!
i am once and for all, truly freed from the precursors
of what freedom might have tasted like...
if not for the social-stigma of the bachelor status...

フリーダム (furiidamu - freedom)
                  ハイカイ (haikai - loitering)
スワル (suwaru, sit) -
                  ハクシュ (hakushu - extol)

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.

when will people stop ascribing
poetical techniques
   to mental disorders
       in their casual, informal,
ascription sequences?
     psychosis does not translate
into psychopathy...
just because the two words share
the same prefix,
   doesn't imply that -
   "somehow" they're one and the same...
melancholy:
lethargy, and a lost sense of cognitive
"will"... automated thinking...
how many times during
the day do i imagine throwing
myself under a train?
   for the hard-on about 20 times
before i get out of bed...
   which is 20 times less than
when i stood on a roof,
    on an industrially sized complex,
notably the scottish widows hq
near st. paul's and thought
about jumping...
     and pancakes...
    and the thrill of the fall...
and then the initial shock
of impact, followed by a pause...
and then the sigma of pain rushing
into my body...
     schizophrenia is a different
version of lethargy,
   most mental conditions are
lethargy inducing,
                     or quasi-paralyzing...
one psychosis can last a year,
or years, another, can last a week...
but when your thought patterns,
are subverted by auditory hallucinations,
psychosis: the trip for champions,
l.s.d. trip will not do justice
to a psychosis "trip",
         alcohol helps as both
a sedative... & a pentothal derivative...
it's: disinhibiting...
          but not to the point
where i send someone a ******* ****-pic...
what sicko would do such a thing?
a psychopath would...
    psychopaths do not have
enough emotional "intelligence" /
gradation to encounter an ego-dissociation,
last time i heard:
instead of a healthy dosage of
serotonin,
      they have a pathological dosage
of dopamine: or some ****,
equivalent to that...
      if i were an expert on this matter,
i'd be paid...
     and since i'm not,
i'm simply concentrating my attention
of the general public vernacular,
namely:
      why are psychiatric conditions,
spoken of,
   in such poetic terms,
heavily reliant
             on the technique of metaphor?
we already have the phenomenon
of premature depression,
which seems to coincide with
the 19th century phenomenon
of premature dementia (schizophrenia)...
psychiatric literature is my thing,
when i went to a psychiatrist
i was told: 'you have good insight
into your condition'...
i just nodded, kept my mouth shut,
when i went to the *******,
i was told: 'you're nice'...
"forgot" my genitals and smooched
for an hour,
   i just forgot the fun part of kissing,
got bored of looking down on *******
and the gymnastics of genital
interaction...
   when i was supposed to go
to the priest... i...
             funny story...
   i walked into an empty church...
   paranoid as ****,
smoked a joint, walked around central
London, cowered into a church
near Camden Town
(opposite the postal service
hangar - near to the King's Cross
Station) -
              went to the side altar,
took a white sheet from the altar,
lay under the altar,
   and heard... a descending choir...
got up... started running around
the empty church...
   without saying a word...
     then a great wind...
   a breath that imbued me with a fear
much greater than what i was
experiencing on my psychotic "trip"
on the street...
        i thought, yeah "thought"
of one word:              SATAN...
    and the 40 days and nights spent
fasting in the desert,
    i called my ex-girlfriend
when i got out of the church:
while some Spaniard was walking in,
sat on the curb, phoned her,
and said: 'can you come over to
X location, and bring me some bread
and water?'
       whatever they say about
the sort of marijuana extra-strong
chemically enchanced skunk
of England? you can... become psychotic...
if you smoke, and walk in public,
and put nothing into your gob.
conversion? what?
   just plain honesty...
      no wonder i kept my mouth
and didn't want to convince people,
i still don't... **** happens...
             this was, when?
   oh... back in 2007... when i was 21...
now it's 2019...
   i rarely recount this event,
it's too much of an existential shell-shock...
i'd compare it to a suicide bomber
detonating his vest on the bus...
and you're, literally just taken a sip
of coffee while walking down a street...
do i believe "god" exists?
i don't have to...
          do i have to convince other
people that "god" exists?
   no... not really...
                  i'm glad i kept that event
to myself for so long...
          but it just gets on my nerves
when people mingle an outlier,
like me,
    with psychopathic individuals...
if you've never experienced a psychotic
"trip"...
   you know jack-****...
           take some l.s.d. and...
look at the bright colours and the sparkling
neon lights...
the end...
            given that i know of no drug
that allows you experience
auditory hallucinations...
   funny... isn't it... given how auditory
hallucinations are...
   by my estimation...
                 the sort of "pain"
                      that would leave some
wishing for a ******* toothache;
it's the sort of "claustrophobia"
     with the only "room" is your own head...
and your ego is being flushed
down the toilet of a shy hive of "spectators"...
as i've aged: **** me... 12 years...
yeah... i can tell when it's stable,
and when it's not...
        once i walked from Romford...
to the Dartford Crossing,
           then toward Barking...
   somehow managed to catch a bus...
left the house at 12am,
came home at 11pm...
   blisters on my feet...
     just because i had a vivid dream
of sleeping on a couch downstairs,
and an ominous shadow figure standing
outside the window...
    i was kicked into this trance-paranoia
state where i had to walk it off...
i had to translate this mental pain
         into a physical pain...
that's how i began knowing that
physical pain can alleviate the symptoms
of mental "pain"...
        which probably explains
why the pwetty pwetty teenage girls
choose to self-harm...
   just saying: it's not right,
    but now i can sort of understand
the justification...
         an old man is able to justify
melancholy...
   his life is at its end,
   the house has been built...
               but this current phenomenon
of premature depression?
              speculation after speculation,
after some more speculation...
    but to just blatantly borrow from
a psychiatric lexicon,
   to justify explaining one's general
abhorrence to any given event?
   a psychopath as also being psychotic?
**** on me...
  what a poor choice of words...
bad analogy,
   and even ******* description tactics...
but i guess there's still some use
for poetry in the collective parlance
of a vulture journalism class of people...
at no point encountering a psychotic
episode implies
losing i.q. points...
            in my scenario:
                    the faculty for learning
rigid chemistry rubrics...
was replaced by an unihibited thirst
for language, and its conveyance.
i still don't get it:
   "journalism" as reading journalistic
articles...
   i'm not convinced...
           that sort of, "journalism"
belongs to a sunday edition of a newspaper,
in the news review section,
or... something akin to
that section: letters to the editor...
but ++,
             poetry is still in use...
       psychiatric terminology used
as the crux of adjective and subsequent
metaphor...
              psychosis has so little
with psychopathy that...
             i just don't know where to begin...
again, there are outliers...
        a axe wielding psychotic
who managed to ****...
                             1 person...
   before experiencing a shattering
sense of guilt and a continued sense
of disorientation
                      from auditory hallucinations...
how i tamed mine?
   fear of god...
                       yeah... that "guy"
on the *****-nilly side of the petulant opposite
of the happy-to-pray-folk...
        but a psychopath?
  cool, collected... enough brain-numbing
dopamine in his head, or lack of...
   like: a part of his brain is just
"dead"?
      well... 49 is not a bad number...
it would usually take about 7 jihadis
to ramp that number up to over a 100.

to get drunk... that some cats have
a fascination with ice-cubes...
that i like riding my bicycle
like i might like having
an umbrella opened when it has
been shoved up my ***...
for the rainbow of plethora...
reasons unknown...
amnesty within details: unknown
origin... Trojan...
     but now it's most certainly
a joy from riding a bicycle
that can "overcome"
what's knitty-gritty of:
peering down a peddling on gas...
gears, churn... charge...

bicycle man...
less... grow a beard... or pepper on your chest...
grow... a... *******... niqab!
beside ether of effort...
grow a pair of ******* and a team-up
for a bollocking... which is like...
church bells ringing in m'ah hears...

language limitations and
now... not now... here... but there's not card-folding...
the bicycle...
the ghost limb extensions...
crisp with ivory...
it's not like it's the 20th century
where you go somewhere
and take the thrill pill...

         because unknowing...
not by consensus standards...
but because of them...
crab **** and also... bucket / boquette

yes... the mythological blonde...
like i have a mythology of my own...
the beard like pretending to be playing
a violin... **** me... by now it's almost a cello...
and there's a mythological chin in the bush...
as there's a mythological jawline...

if i were to own a horse...
if i were a stamp-collector (and there's a specific noun
for "him")...
if i owned a car...
but more importantly: if i owned a horse...
coming to seizing the sight of Thames
on foot... just before
the Dartford Crossing...
in the murky waters of almost teasing
sea-salt-gross-air...

but then the same, likewise...
time shortened... on my ******* donkey's
worth of a horse that's a bicycle...
expediency tool two feet:
follow...
no... more than that...
commentary on societal post-soviet
resurrection of
the slavic people would never adopt
communist mantras...
perhaps the Mao schooled chin-skits might...
the Mongols?

of course the super-individualistic
germanic cohort would never...
blah blah... for the pockets of resistance...

for once in my life i don't
want to write, or drink...
bicycle for a horse... ready...
tomorrow... readied...
off we go... to find the justifying number
of ghouls!

After much thought who cares
if Hendrix kissed the sky
or the madman ran through the fields
I's rather be moving on with Arthur Alexander
with Georgia on my mind
Then I shed a tear that the beat boom
ended the endearing early sixties pop,
where men From Dartford took reworkings of the blues,
refashioning Satisfaction as a paean.

The Beatles with their diminutive Yeah Yeah
Do you call that music ?
I surely miss Cathy's Clown
more than their Price of Love