Don't worry it's not what you think
Another tale of woe
Of Tiny Tim and all the rest
And the ending we all know
Scrooge and ghosts and la de da
They do it in one night
But, that was Charles Dickens way
It's time we got it right
Nobody works the way they did
The poorhouses done and dusted
If Scrooge was here and lived today
You know he would be busted

So, I'll bring you up to date on this
And Scrooge can come on too
It's been a couple hundred years
Let's make this carol new

Scrooge had let Bob Cratchit go
Due to labour laws and stuff
He didn't have a union
But old Scrooge had heard enough
Every year the same old thing
And every year he cries
It's only for one day each year
At least till his kid dies
So, Scrooge was sitting home alone
Checking files on his screen
Debtors owing money and
Re runs of Mister Bean
Scrooge kept his accounts on line
So he could work on them at home
He got more done here anyway
He felt more comfortable  alone
While surfing through his evict notes
A pop up screen appeared
It said "I am The Marley Virus"
And Sir Scooge, I should be feared
Scrooge cursed the interruption
He thought the virus was a joke
But, when he tried to clear the screen
A face appeared and spoke
Right there before his rheumy eyes
His partner showed his face
Ebeneezer hit delete
But Marley held his place
I'm not a ghost like olden days
I'm a virus now you see
I've moved into the future
And Scrooge you must hear me
You will not get a visit
From three ghost like stories old
We've gone hi tech, it's apps you'll get
And your story will be told
Three icons will be on your screen
Once I have told my tale
You'll click on each of them in turn
And you'll ignore all your mail
Each application will come forth
And will take you back in time
Remember Scrooge, the end result
Could be the same as mine
But, Jacob, I'll delete them
I'll run a scan and then reboot
The reason for your being here
Will then be surely moot
Marley let a piercing howl
And he left Scrooge with his screen
The were just three icons there
Where his desktop once had been
Scrooge clicked one, it opened up
It was Christmas past for sure
A video of Scrooges life
Was playing now, and more
The background everchanging
Showing Scrooge in younger days
When greed and avarice were not
The ruler of his ways
Remember now, we're modernized
No ghosts, so all went well
Scrooge remembered all the good times
As far as I can tell
The video ran on and on
It showed Scooge when he was nice
He thought you know when all is done
I might just watch this twice
The screen went black, the music stopped
And two icons took their place
He clicked on icon number two
And he opened up it's case
Donation links appeared at first
To charities galore
But Scrooge just passed on over them
In fact he showed them to the door
He saw the files of eviction notes
And of receivables and charts
He knew that he would lose one day
And the next, would need to start
To work on all this quickly
Year end would be here soon
He'd evict all of the deadbeats
And then they'd sing a different tune
He saw pictures of Bob Cratchit
Of his family and his brood
Of their meager Christmas Dinner
And the apparent lack of food
He saw how they were happy
How just together meant so much
And beside their electric fire
He saw a tiny crutch
He watched the clip and saw the pics
And in the end it warmed his heart
But there was still another icon
And this app must play it's part
You know where this is going
So, I would drag out the tale
But, in the end all his possessions
Went on line for a huge sale
He clicked upon the icon
And all his files reappeared
And then ...right before him
Each account slowly disappeared
Written off, deleted gone
No money did they owe
The ledger had been vanquished
No balance did it show
This took almost two hours
Each entry in the wind
All accounts forgotten
All eviction notes were binned
Scrooge, we know was changed then
We heard he was a better man
But, in truth he only changed one thing
A new virus protection plan
Remember, it's the future
And corporate greed is still around
And no accounts will be forgotten
Till Scrooge is six feet in the ground
I know you know the story
You want him nicer in the end
But, if that's the way you want it
Go watch the movie once again!!!

We shift
Shuffling deadbeats
Wind south
Wind north

Biting to be
Filter the lungs
Breathe in the smoke
Fill in the guts

Consume me, consume me
Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw
Salivate static
Want, want, want

It’s no wonder we’ve grown endless teeth
Beneath our loveless grins

Can we even
Part the crowd
Anymore?

Day One:
A voice speaks to me.
When you realize that being lost is so close to being found, you see a sea of family members plagued within the lineage of licentious newborns and hospital beds. You become yourself, a lisp.

Day Two:
Long ago in a city left unscorned he was torn, from the cokeheads and colorful regimes, angels sing long songs of separation anxiety and **** withdrawal.  I was torn from the deadbeats of supposed society and three day vicodin trips into my mind. So can you let me know when I get there? ‘Cause I left there running…I wonder, did someone ever tell you that two strangers could twist around your neck at beck and that three parked cars and seventeen lonely nights could haunt you for the rest of your faces.

Day Three:
Tell me of your drug induced hallucinations.

Day Four:
Wait. Hear. Can’t you listen to the relapse? Stop, think. No. gone. Left. Love. Return. My curious addiction. Go back into yourself and listen. Can’t you hear your soul call to me? It’s loud.

Day Five:
I remember prizes at the bottoms of cereal boxes, right before the net broke. Will you be first? Snap back to reality.
It’s dark in here. Wretch from me… I am crying, screaming,
haha! I’m melting inside!

Day Six:
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower, but the seed inside
Caked over in grief, we are not plates that match. But fools of folly caught in a sea of coke and disillusioned discord. Speed stands between directing and orders to death’s soldiers.

Day Seven:
The difference between God and his counterpart is that he makes exceptions!
Except me.

Day Eight:
Accept me!
Please.  
Wait.
No.
don’t slow,
speed.
I can only take so much forgiveness,
is a decision, and I cannot make it.
I am without it, leave me breathless.

Day Nine:
The angel of death waits
He comes for me, but I am running, finding, hiding my inner Nemo in the hands of oxycodon, privileged in the amenities of amphetamines.
I am tired of running!
Haggard.
Take away my hands, my restraints.
Let me feel
again.
Please.

Day Ten:
I am awake.
There is an apple in my field of vision.
Kiss it. Love it.
Take it to hedonism and back again.
But it knows too much.
So tell it everything will be ok.
It lives in epilepsy.
So placate it.
Resurrect my apocalypse.

Let me tell you something
About life as seen on TV
It may appear ideal
But that ain’t the way it should be
The goodie has no end of ammo
The baddie is never in with a shout
But in our world today
It’s always the good guy who loses out
He loses out to the *******
The puff with the SUV.
The girls drop a nice one instantly
For a flutter of profanity.
The ***** always get laid
While the dude’s  left out to dry
And for all that goodness he’s got
He’s alone a lot and why?
It’s a question I asked myself
For years and years to come
To the conclusion that all winners
Are deadbeats, jerks and ****.

liturgies of lethargy
lull their sleepy tongues,
and run among my stumbling dreams
towards the visceral setting sun
keep the soldiers’ safeties off and order no retreat
you can’t afford to chip your teeth for the price of being numb
stay glassy eyed and leave your pride
behind the backs of bus seats
with notes, sharpie, and lies
these men are not what they seem
this world is a messed up dream
while the elite claim to delete the supposed deadbeats
as if they deplete the city’s concrete streets
i want to scream
they’re really the secret
to keeping the working class alive in the heat
to keep the coffee shops open on every street
to keeping the cheap soda purchased
at the indiscreetly laundering cover up convenience stores
you would only see when you’re walking pavement
breathing in the scent of cigarettes and pollen spores

Broken hearts can't mend amends;
so forget what you've seen,
Forget what's been said.
      Without each other, we are one short of      
       alone; Two deadbeats, one heart beat,
       short of being dead.

Distinguished disguised dancers
masquerading man-made makeshift moral-plays
complete compelling communicated classical conversations
penetrating pontificated, pompous perceived perceptions
incisive impregnating indecisive ideologies.

nomads, no longer nomads
humanity, hardly humanity
children, no longer children
innocence, hardly innocence

agitated ardent adversaries arguing
open-ended opposing opinions overtly
disregarding discussed details on.. display
meager moronic monologues misused mindlessly

as..

politically-powered perverse points of 'principle'
vigorously virtual virtues vehemently vested in
stolen sordid 'salient' solutions set to 'save'

To save what?
A system born to fail?
A culture devoid of culture?
A materialistic, sophomoric generation of deadbeats and mindless sheep?
A corporate ******* of sound bites and advertisements?
A persistently forced state of wage slavery?
A game of he said, she said, I'm right and you're wrong?
A seemingly endless spiral of despair and dissatisfaction?
A time and place living in fear of the next epidemic or incoming atomic bomb?

Where's the sense in that? I mean seriously. Why can't we all just get along?

Droves of the dead,
drive through.
Women and men,
dogs doing tricks.
Shiny cars,
and slum deadbeats.
They are like rats,
finding the cheese.
Or maybe god?
Rich women,
poor men.
A nice guy,
in a car soulless.
Screens of pixels,
a father yells.
A mother cries,
her daughter falls in love.
Sunrises,
and then falls.
The dead rise,
soulless and unforgiven.
Trying to find their way.

You're long overdue,
as if you ever knew the time,
time for you meant something to do,
somewhere to go,
but not something to be.

Is it goodness and mercy?
oh mercy it's not,
the bubble you sit in
is the one that will pop, but
it bothers me that what I see are
the rip-off merchants
collecting kudos for even bigger
flim-flam, ten cent men,
for the
cheats
and the deadbeats,
the tax dodgers,
those who make and won't pay, those
who make and just take it away,
the fraudsters
who love to lord it and
I'm really getting bored with it.

For you there's a reckoning due
and not before time.

This place is for deadbeats and misanthrobes, I am neither.

there's disgust in my eyes
and i can't breathe
his mom comes in
and sees
the bongs and the cigs
and fourteen year old girls
and a fourteen year old boy
and a twenty year old man
and me
she smiles and closes the door
and i can't breathe
because this is normal here
and she got high with them last night
and she probably will again
when i'm long gone
and i can't believe this is your life
and i feel sick to my stomach
and it has nothing to do
with the skunk in the air
but with the "mother" downstairs
and the deadbeats,
the broken,
and the painfully innocent
up here

watching a German substitute come on is a bit like watching the opening scenes of Gladiator... the German tribe north of the Rhine resounding to the decapitation of an envoy... painting in writing, ascribing the appropriate diacritical marks to the Venus bathing the alphabet the Anglos kept as source of their demise; naked unsupervised to stress certain sounds and thus unsupervised the slang emergence, and total ignorance of diacritical marks of football commentators, stemming from disengagement from dialectics as the supreme proof... from the film: 'tu bista ***! aß sēhta'h fuhta'h ūnna'h!' - das längezeichen, ein verlängerung (two definite articulations of the definite article, a quarter das, a quarter die) - the macron, an extension;
one H the vowel / breath catcher, former H the precursor of catching breath, the latter, a breath shortened, mildly operatic... from the cradle... to the grave... but watching a German match is like watching the battle speech in the opening scenes of Gladiator... a substitute comes on, the announcer says his first name, the horde bellow out: bastian... Schweinsteiger! macron v. umlaut, when did - also mean a horizontal colon above a letter? just now. i'm still surprised that the English are too proud of memories of the Empire to even allow the greeks to utilise diacritical marks, and leave themselves jaded with computer encryptions, ugly emoticons ( :) as a perfect e.g.) and acronyms... what a waste of when revelling in Ave Britannia, Empire of the Pond... ruler of mirror ripples rather than turbulent waves - but it's like that, whether in the Bundesliga or the UEFA championship... a substitute or a goal scorer... like a ******* german tribe antagonising the Roman expansion tactic, the bellowing grooming of a beast.

in terms of song subjects, i can't feel the vibe
of urban socialites and heavy affairs,
any more chromatics' songs akin to
the velvet underground and i'll just keep
staring at only having done marijuana,
whiskey, and the deadly Salvia Divinorum,
many a good Aztec died from this plant,
very few fared to become Proustian shamans
of changed perception - but seriously,
a second more with the haunting female voice
enticing me and i'm done.

but there are some extension i made from
having the oeuvre of Iron Maiden and Slayer,
post-2000 music to me is hardly represented:
the chromatics (**** for love),
the besnard lakes (until in excess, imperceptible ufo),
uncle acid & the deadbeats (blood lust) - i need
to get mind control for one song, under your spell,
naam (self-titled),
dead skeletons (black magik),
tame impala (lonerism),
wooden shjips (west),
moon duo (circles),
black ox orchestra (nisht azoy),
pop levi (medicine),
                                     allah las (self-titled)...
i mean, it's out there, the alternative, it's out there,
but people don't like sharing their personal tastes
for a public reason, but a personal reason,
as long as personal interests are necessary all
public coercion is lost in the art world for
a scrap heap... so true the myth and so also tiresome
the idea that art is best kept (at least the obscure type)
for a Don Giovanni adventure - i mean,
had i more money i'd invest in art more -
but the retaliation was inevitable,
the karaoke culture of philip k. ****'s prediction
of the *man in the high castle came true...
well, it wasn't a prediction but a fantasy...
karaoke culture took over, pop is karaoke, the few
brave souls are there, but the general public is starving,
1950s American cinema and 1970s American cinema,
music prowess in the 1960s -
well, if you steal from artists... why expect any art to
exist if that art isn't simply advertisement?
ever used the radio? i would have, kept my honour...
how many thieves prowl in western society
under the disguise of technological progress?
too many.

*if i were polish, i'd add the Czech utility, to change -sz- with š, and -cz- with a sharpened breve / upside-down circumflex above... and not learning the specific encoding of diacritical marks gave us the linguistic alphabet... -sz- with š as replacement, -cz- with č, to simply drop the z... this is painting, and the only painting you can have is with stresses on the sounds... so in example:
škoda że tak mało času
it's a shame that there's so little time.

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I question myself... When was the last time....
I've been all work ... No time to unwind...
Yesterday..Today....All of last week...
I've been grinding...for a purpose...
I can't stop for one day...
But if I did , if I stopped for just one day ...
I would be all play... Forgetting my cares...
Walking barefoot in the sand...hair down...
Laughing... Just one day ,
forget the master plan..
But what if it would have been the plan all along...
to relax...release my stress... the manipulation of free will..
My soul would be talking to me...
So easy to feel when I let go of the world and just be me..

My destiny, my purpose...to ensure I still exist.
Waking me back up, hitting me on the insides...
I don't want to resist ... Bring it into creation ... What always did exist
Truth....that I gotta grind to survive...can't get lost inside this mind.
Being a slave to a time frame... 9-5 causing all my distress ...
Wasting me away... Suppressing my talent and keeping it at bay...
an honest days work... But I could do better... I'm suppose to be GREAT I say... But is it too late?
To be a rebel! A guerilla on a mission..
to feed life into a nation of deadbeats..speak words like an apostle...
until they're willing to crucify me...John the Baptist me..
Better yet Kennedy...Malcolm X...Realize my Potential and straight up King Me!
Check mate because everyone that was great, met a similar fate.
There is no debate . You wanna be great.... Then you gotta be brave...
Pray for courage, because theses hate filled people will discourage ....
Like prior examples and media samples..
Propaganda, but the truth of it...lies within the proof I spit....
wake up and smell the **** piles...wake up and see the waste land...
we are in the matrix and you chewing the wrong pill..
because life feels good when your frozen under a deep chill...
Reality the land of the lazy, non doers,
pessimist unaware of their own personal power ... Reality ...
Why do they hug this coward..
Why can't we hug a ****...perception fed...through a long tube of B,S
Deception.... as I place my feet in the sand...
that the beach is as good as it gets..
Fighting against society rules yet embracing the truths ...
A **** might have a good heart... But how did he get that name...
Probably bad news ... I want to give him a chance but I won't be the fool...
Just my luck ... Society flips a coin and I'm stuck ...
Stuck in an earth suit... Yet my spirit is it's own world ,
no matter where I'm at... I feel the sand between my toes...
I choose to bring happiness in my soul.. Everywhere I step...
Joy....From the bottom of my soles..
My light glows and shows...as I remember I've been working just as hard...
so maybe the sand might just be doing its job....
All I have to do is be my true self... That's the energy...
Straight from the source... The best light I know... Used to create me...
For I am temple...as God flows through out me!

i identify as the blood stains on your sheets
the holes we ripped in the edge of your bed
i identify with the deadbeats in the streets
and the clouds of smoking dancing over your head.
i fell in the forest with no one around to hear me
so the question begs, did i really fall?
i'm stuck between a rock and a hard place,
i've been everywhere but i'm going nowhere at all.
you reeled me in with your thin feelings and
your brown eyes and your white lies.
you wore against my bones when all along i've known,
you bore your plan inside me this whole time.
you've wasted plenty of mine,
and you made your scars plenty deep,
but have the nerve to ask me why i'm not fine,
you haunt me in my sleep.

There are castles, three,
each a home to me
harsh winds blow on
whichever one i go
on
to
and i becomes I only when I question
the why of it

you may wander the streets with a million deadbeats
but your home wherever your heart lies
is the silver mine you carry
with you.

I stifle my cries and blot out the pain
the castles, three,
are always to blame.

Once when it was Wednesday or some day
I enjoyed
magic or necromancy was employed
to slowly destroy me
hence
the castles, three.

Nothing spoils the taste
like
the taste of utter waste
I tasted it
in the waste of it
now in place of it and
in spite of it
I hit
the jackpot.

Castles are gone now
how I love
writing that

I want to go to the "Land of All"
But oceans keep us apart
On a Petrol-stained sailboat
I'll make my journey to reach you

"Believe in Flashing Stars;
A new horizon in the limelight"
Makes me want to go explore!
Trapped: I can't go home.

Rivers: overflowing dreams.
Cast my line to catch my fame
Hook, Line, Sinker
I became the bait.

If I am going to drown
Might as well go up in flames.
Rivers cast me off,
Now I am a cast-away.

Close my eyes tight
Hide from flickering lights.
The tide recedes
No longer blind.

Stuck on my wooden shore,
Arms outstretched, grasping dreams
Ocean rise, lights floating.
Deadbeats slowly sinking.

Bubbles floating to the top
Before freedom, they pop.
Tried to find the "Land of All".
But they denied me entry.



© Sofia Villagrana 2018

Im in love with the thought of being in love with love, but holding me back, is the one that I love, cause she don't know love so she isn't loving me back, I'm up with the sun writing these personal letters to her with my heart, I'd give her the world, cause she is the world but the world is falling apart, the last man she loved was her dad but he abused mama and liquor, got drunk as a skunk and came to her room to touch on her and sister, I know that she steal, I know that she lost, I know that she lie, all to survive but I'm still by her side because I know why, she ain't scarred for no reason, men say they love her don't ever mean it, people promise her but don't ever keep it, act like her friend and tell all her secrets, I know that she bad but I also know that inside she wanna be good, she's an angels disguise, she's dying inside she gotta get out of this hood, these streets taking our babies, making prostitutes out our ladies, deadbeats out our brothers, why are we killing each other, because that's love right? and now she puts my heart thru ache cause she wudnt loved right, she think that love is gettin ****** right, it's sad.

it truly is a rare find...
          no... not louis zukofsky's -A-...
juggling adorations for Bach's
polyphony...

       i need to sketch this...

i have two demands...
    a young man should only read
philosophy when he was
started to tease his 21st birthday...

by accident: and no accident...
Hume of all people...
            but i was young and i made
a faux pas:
i started to collect music... compact disks...
too early on...
i should have listened to the radio...
it's not like i will
return to... taproot...
i might return to: dry **** logic...
i will not return to korn
or slipknot...

although... when mojo was still
in print... and there was that prog rock
special... and i... bought up...
the top 50 prog rock albums...
some yes records...
gentle giant...
                        pink floyd doesn't count...
king crimson...
doesn't count either...

in all honesty:
   the only albums i bought that...
are not a "mistake" of...
youth...

             probably the oeuvre by tool...
but then... that's writing musing:
something one might enjoy in
the background... writting... doodling...
some music prevents you from
simply listening to it...

i can't remember the last time
i wanted to rhyme my words...
    i somehow had to... think rhyming
to be... something to be abhorred...

if sarcasm is the lowest form of wit...
then... rhyming is the lowest
form of escapism:
how one might pride oneself
claiming a rhyme...
                      
           i can't remember the last time
i took a tool album on a bus ride...
or read a book to it...
   i desired... metaphorical laying of bricks...
to be absolved by the music:
cushioning the background...

    a bit like... Proust lining his study
with cork...
  there was always a music to fall asleep to...
when i discovered...
christopher young's hellraiser soundtrack...
hammock's ketonic...
dead can dance - into the labyrinth...
            
    when i first heard ola gjeilo's northern
lights choral pieces...

combichrist - today we are all demons...
godspeed! you black emperor...
die krupps - machnists of joy
:wumpscut - bunkertor sieben...

                   an ex-girlfriend elevated
me from rammstein toward in extremo...
i elevated myself toward...
   garmarna...
wardruna... hedningarna...
    żywiołak...
                      danheim...
                                                heilung...

i also found some lao che...
                      notably the gusła album...

demdike stare - tryptych - £30 for a c.d.,
not a vinyl... and i did buy it...
   vomito nergo - fall of an empire...
hanzel und gretyl - uber alles... etc.

             wooden schjips - west...
            distance - repercussions...
   dead skeletons - dead magick...
       the besnard lakes - until in excess...
   uncle acid & the deadbeats - blood lust...
naam...
    the soft moon...
              allah-las...
    the chromatics...
         pablopabo & ludziki...
           black ox orkestar - nisht azoy...

last time i heard... music under the radar...
vex'd...                     burial - untrue...
          which probably translates best
in the north east of london...
from that... doom of the southern estates...

   rotting christ... a greek "dark metal" band...
kata ton daimiona...
    susumu yakota - grinning cat...
       beat bizarre - somersault industries...
younger brother - weird on a monday night...
bohren & der club of gore - mightnight radio...

   i listed all these examples for no
particular reason...
  apart from: i did buy physical copies
of these records...
   i don't trust the radio in...
either playing any of this material...
there's already that whole...
affair of    HARAKIRI DIAT -
  primitive knot - puritan...
                 ******* of brutalism...
                    years of denial - body map...
filmmaker...
          i'd love to own a physical copy...

it could be just so plane jane & basic
to know what you were looking for...
honestly: it doesn't work like that...
that "thing" you were "looking" for?
it has actually been looking for you...
  you are only sieving...

    irritated by a stressed rubber-band
song on replay... sick-poppy-uber-glue-pop
song like mabel's: don't call me up...
or... britney spear's criminal...

                  ****** ***** music taster...
or... refreshing a desire for iggy "z" pop(s)...
but sometimes an album just happens...

always big into the dandy warhols...
every time... she said...
you listen to... good morning...
think of me and how you ****** me...
ex-girlfriends...
and a brief mythology of smurfs... to boot!

one album stood out...
from all those listed...
     i was never a big fan... prior to...

                  aufheben...
                 by none other than...
the brian jonestown massacre...

           that's one album... and the other?
heavy moon's... fünfzehn (15)...
      it's not a case of itchy-thumbs...
but the drill srgt. of rhythm stole my index
and thumb on this one...

    music: it's hardly what i think of it...
it's what feeling it dictates me to write...
no... i could never be a needle-drop...
internet's busiest musical nerd...
i can't fathom music like a nerd...
a drunk? oh yeah... as a...
a music that i enjoy drinking to...
rather than writing...
   that's a breath of fresh air...
   like ******* for virginity...
  that same quote: yes... making war for peace...

then... on a second listening...
neue echos der erinnerung... what a blast...
too busy... fidgeting with my
constipated variation of solipsism...
echo-sputnik...
years down the line...
someone less... disinhibited...
took to warping time and gizmos
with a pen and a litany of typos...

     a rare moment... false praises...
in the moment though: the angels were singing...
then... memories...
too many memories of...
     tangerine dream... and... kraftwerk...
sensible... german music...
no... i was completely wrong...

i guess i was my usual self...
perched on a windowsill
sitting on my folded foot...
and i caught a "neighbour" looking
at me from afar...
   trying to escape the straitjacket
of glued-eyes to t.v. mantras...
and i decided: fun to catch a rhythm...
and **** clicked...
there was a lunar eclipse...
the sun-worshippers suffered a great deal...

i did buy the van **** parks album...
songs cycled... oh yeah!
big fan! i used it... to pass the time...
when... decorating the civil room...
                     pokój (room and peace)...
   ciwilny... i.e.: the living room...
        well... when i was painting the ****
"think outside the box"...
to watch the box... with my dear dear
muvva...
                   because...
you'd only listen to van **** parks...
when... painting a living room
with your mother... moving furniture...
that sort of: project of escapism...

     medieval music and orthodox byzantine chants...
medieval music and...
frank zappa... not the music... though...
the interviews...
             walther von der vogelweide...
                  chevalier, mult estes guariz...
       vox vulgaris - la suite meurtriere...
                    
some people should know...
their language is not... yet... supposed...
peer...

the concept of
the diminutive...
    mały-malutki-maciupki...
the diminutive as a form of endearing...
a size...
wielki-wielgochi...
                      diminutive:
concerning the same word...
a standard prefix... a suffix variation
of gradation...
because! yes! english is awash with
said: plenty!
                    the assured: sire
of the shat upon: shire... by queer
buckingham!
                
                  for any love...
this most loved... this debased...
and a loot of a frown....
          the furrowed brows...
to own a bed to fit two sleeping
in it... ******* in it...
yet more... is to presribed from
an "effort" of sleeping on the hardening...
beside it...
like a greed riddled *****
of a bed-fellow caving to... scrutiny...

furrow-of-brow-down-bidden...
because of a leisured frown...
this and what... to escape with a love...
made ideal...
less of a love and less of
the gymnast who might parade
with ******* statures
of: the well bent...
that of the AK-47... and WD-40...
well oiled... scripture...

                  the music enjoyed...
the music orb: tow: revised...
              
  fidgeting... fetching... fidgeting...
fetching... calls for nuance...
loop holes.... writing under the
policy of spoken truths...
BBC radio 4... depeche mode...
punk-esque and...
              and writing under
the... lost under-belly...
who who's of the cringe fest...
  litany... mollusks r us...
   and... the crab-fetish...
   gamer-no-gamer:
biggest hard-on...
                like... the insensitive...
parody of *******...

                              kippah looters...
******* statues...
old school cringe and toblerone lego...

maurice! oh maurice!
please entertain the advent of
whittle steward!
              
  yes... best to pretend to grieve.

This is America
Where the rich only get richer
And the only thing that’s free is poverty
Where a single mother cooks Spam out of a tin can
In a 30 cent dented frying pan
Where little black boys clutch their guns to their hearts
Loaded and cocked;
Ready for the **** to drop

This is America
Where everything costs more than a dollar is worth
And even the dollar stores are 99 cents and up
Where Asian schoolkids get called Ching Chong
By fat middle class white boys devouring Ding Dongs
Where women’s bodies are controlled by men
In Ralph Lauren suits;
Spewing their propaganda on love and hate

This is America
Where the devil’s truly in the details
And if you want to make it big, you better have something to sell
Where healthcare is monitored by the government
Siphoning out your drugs like a treat for good behavior
Where crackheads and dope fiends and pill poppers
Are one in the same;
Minds and bodies and spirits riddle with addiction

This is America
Where jail time is a punishment not rehabilitation
And broken men evacuate our prisons with nowhere to go
Where incarceration is code for a controlled population
Killing culture and cops and citizens like a gnat between your fingers
Where higher education is a necessity but only somewhat free
Pell grants and work studys;
Graduating and finding yourself with a useless degree

This is America
Where immigrants seek asylum
And we call them bottom feeders and lazy day laborers
Where the borders “need” be stronger
Assigning them men with dogs and guns trained to shoot to ****
Where little Mexican girls traipse across the desert
Bare-footed and thirsty;
Hiding in the brush to avoid the copters

This is America
Where freedom isn’t free
And the only thing worth a buck is your soul
Where underage girls give a quick **** for a quicker bump
Abducted from their Kansas white neighborhood
Where **** is prevalent in a Christian society
******* and *****;
Always searching and seeking for the money shot

This is America
Where money is handled by crooks and thieves
And the poor, cold and hungry, suffer on the streets
Where panhandlers and beggars flood the suburbs
Abandoning their upside down mortgages for a solitary corner
Where every single material thing is a luxury
Taxation on *******;
Living paycheck to paycheck for a box of tampons

This is America
Where the middle class barely exists
And it just doesn’t cut it, your 40 hour work week
Where your earnings are garnished by social security
But the elderly are still struggling to make ends meet
Where retirement means a part time job
Office work or retail;
Dealing with the public for the next 15 years

This is America
Where free speech isn’t so free
And censorship exists despite our history
Where college kids speak their minds in poetry slams across campus
But the working class chit chat about television
Where hipsters and deadbeats stake their claim on
Restaurants and bookshops;
With ironic names in Helvetica print


This is America
Where we shed our blood for the greater good
And send our young and naïve to the front lines
Where soldiers come home to their families
Now realizing the only thing they know how to do is ****
Where they watch their children play in the streets from their bedroom window
Suicidal and Homicidal;
Placing the end of a shotgun in their mouth

This is America
Where reality TV reigns supreme
And more people know the name Kardashian than Einstein
Where kids are taught by underpaid unionized men and women
Holding the future of the country within their poor hands
Where schools can barely feed their students
Stomach and mind;
Both empty and starving, craving for attention

This is America
Where ignorance is the greatest epidemic
And keeping your mouth shut is the greatest sin
Where you gotta stand up and shout the truth
From the rooftops of Brooklyn to the sandy beaches of Pasadena
Where you gotta write and sing and rap and talk and feel
Pour it out and soak it up;
The true loss of the American dream.

in all fairness, it was one of of those simple overcast,
English sort of days...
i love such days, the sun's lazily hiding
behind the clouds: no chance to implement green
energy via solar panels...
very English... very islander...
     hell, chances are these might just be the Faroe Isles...
it'll do...
weather like this makes me: miserably happy...
or, rather... happily miserable...
   you spot a crow paired up: why do crows in England
tend to fly in pairs?
over on the continent crows congregate...
they antagonise the sky with a presence equivalent
to a Messerschmitt raiding party... horde...
black crosses casting shadows from high up...
in England... the mythological kingdom of crows...
they pair up as if... Odin himself is peering on this land...
what's it like in Scandinavia?
i woke up with a thought, though,
i put it to the back of my head until the day's chores
were over...
what the hell happened to women?
where are the women a boy or man would put
up on the wall on a poster?
what the hell happened to...
women like Joan Jett...
Rachel Weisz (notably for playing a role in
a Stendhal adaptation with Ewan McGregor)
my hot... the archetypical blonde
for me was not Marilyn Monroe...
it was Cameron Diaz after seeing her in The Mask...
**** me, do i have to mention Morgan Weaver...
what's that other one
the really: fit as hell brunette...
oh... right... Alex Morgan...
                   Olga Smirnova... Diana Vishneva...
don't even get me started on
the tennis...
Eugenie Bouchard or... Garbiñe Muguruza
those Spanish "sad eyes" when
smiling... horiziontally:

   (
               )
   (

odd... isn't it... if you pair up two ( ( brackets like
that... and associate them with eyes...
while doing the opposite...

    )
                (
    )

) ) those down-cast eyes... but i guess it all comes
down to... a variation of rereading hieroglyphs...
hell... even further! it's archetypical...

who else is on my list... Paula Badosa...
Monica Puig...
i don't even know why i like the actress
that played the incel Christine Chubbuck...
point being: never shoot yourself in the head...
if you have to... stab yourself in the heart:
as Kafka prescribed... unless you have
a shot-gun available to get rid of the whole head...

i saw it in the movie... and... since i have eclectic tastes...
Christine Chubbuck shot herself in the head...
films make you want to think that she
died... instantly...
ever hear that urban myth about a decapitated
cockroach... it apparently died 2 weeks later...
no... not from missing head:
from a missing mouth... the cockroach's body
continued to live on, even though the head was...
ahem... "missing"...

i think i've touched upon this once already,
the infamous Ukrainian serial killer:
Andrei Chikatilo... it's very much that quote
from Batman... Resurrected... the one with Tom Hardy
playing Bane...
the quote, verbatim:
perhaps he's wondering why someone would
shoot a man! before throwing him out of a plane!
from the film about Christine Chubbuck's attempted
suicide on air: agony of an incel...
she didn't die, immediately... from the head injury...
she died later down the line:
on life support machines...

so i'll re-quote, concerning the execution of
Andrei Chikatilo...
why would he be marched into an empty prison
cell and be shot in the back of the head...
oh... now it makes senses...
he didn't die immediately...
he was brain-damaged...
he didn't bleed out from this head wound...
it must have taken him about... 2 weeks to die...
from either dehydration or from lack of food...
but the movies will never tell you that...
some do, thought...

why would you take a serial killer into an empty
prison cell and shoot him in the back
of the head: if you weren't expecting him
to pretend to be dead for... a little while, longer?
would the Ukrainian prison guards subsequently
**** him with arrogantly looking
objects?
******* ****** and what not?
i expect they might have...
i like entertaining myself with such scenarios...

but like Kafka said: aim at the heart...
you're not going to die from a head-injury...
your might not be aware of it...
it would be otherwise pointless to make a film
surrounding poor, un-****** Christine...
leeching off support-machinery...
kept alive...
ergo? ol' Andrei was shot in the back
of the head, in an empty cell...
left to partially rot away...
probably getting ****** on, ******* on...
well... did he deserve any better?!

yet i woke up thinking...
why do all the pretty girls... become prostitutes?
the most beautiful ones i ever caressed:
prior to scratching my fingertips on some pavement /
brick before touching their bodies were always
the prettiest of the whole lot of them...
but in general... with the advent of post-brothel
simping... paying for nudes directly
rather than ascribing oneself to:
i'm *****... i'll take the 3rd person ****-show...
fair enough...
but i'm not paying directly for: directly nothing...

they could have been football players,
nurses, ballerinas, actresses...
they turned to ***...
sure... of the 3 or 4 Ps...
poets, priests, psychiatrists or prostitutes...
they're in line...
perhaps it's for the best...
every, single, time...
of the times i visited a psychiatrist,
psychologist... after all: a psychologist has no
power to prescribe you the required pharmacology...
i have my own reading list...
so...
to hell with a priest...
i can't be a god-fearing man when i am supposed
to churn out a regurgitation of a:
benevolent all loving god... not in my part
of the woods...
so, prostitutes!
less talk, more touchy-feely...

yet so many women have decided to take up
this route... hardly professionally...
only via the easy way out...
it's not like most of these girls are capable to touch my
own body... i go to the source...
Turkish... plain in sight... Romanian...
i'm not paying for a ******* video of her
*******, body on body contact...
better assurance to what a date might provoke...

but it's not like they're aiming to be ballerinas,
the minority always will...
sure: and i'm also not a car mechanic...
****** poet, events steward...
a few clues to a upper IQ also missing...
not right up there with the opera singers... either...
i like the middle ground, though...

like today... i was walking to Collier Row to buy some
spiced ***, some orange peel,
some currants, for a Christmas cake...
beard's all bushy... the moustache has taken charge...
i have a date on Monday...
one sip of coffee and i pick up extra foam...
this ****** jungle needs to be trimmed...
so i went to the Turk...
now... if i really love a piece of clothing...
i'll repeatedly wear it...
a Fat Face brown shirt... thick enough for winter
to only wear a dark brown t-shirt underneath...
crock-coloured material trousers...
cotton? brown leather shoes... ankle high...
and... a new addition... a brown-green...
baker-boy cap...
maybe the bushy beard readied for a trim...
or the baker-boy cap...
a green & grey shawl...
one female, two female, three females down...
smiling, giggly... the: oh i love the pretend
curiosity / nervousness... excitement...
best i love myself: the last loved-up curiosity
left me... with too much nostalgia...
in as quickly & out as quickly as a ******* allows...
i'm out...

KORA: the lead-singer from this ******
band Manam... where are these women gone to,
all went to *******?
impossible... given can compete... compliment
men's addition to civilisation
they reduce themselves to the meat-market?
seems like a waste...
while they could aspire to sing,
to dance ballet... fair enough...
a ******* does the work of a psychiatrist...
yeah, sure, watch me complain...
but i'm not going to pay for frivolous expenses...
i need the touch: i'll get the touch...
no ******* free-rides...
people that talk during ***...
people that aren't mute or onomatopoeia prone...
can't understand them: i don't wnat to
understand them...

a more complex schematic i had in mind...
on the 14th of December my mother booked in
this pedicurist...
i hope she comes with her 1 year old daughter...
it was most fun the last time she came,
my little Frankenstein...

last time i clucked, she clucked back...
she implored me with the knowledge
that she was hungry, she also had cold feet...
i took her up in my arms and cuddle her...
i was being scrutinised...
this pedicurist had a friend in tow...
apparently i had all the advantages of a Scandinavian
physiognomy...
a darkened beard, a darkened brow...
yet illuminating moustache / soul patch:
blonde...
   the leftover of my childhood colour of hair...
i wish she brings this little... critter back into my arms...

it's not mine: less heartache from a perspective of
ownership... this little babe... i own bonsai tigers...
coming into staged ownership of a baby girl...
not my own... how fun it becomes...
i out on some vinyl record for her...
she tries to memorise me...
she puts a finger into my mouth...
she tugs at my beard...
i wink, she winks...
             i give her an onomatopoeia...
she gives me one back...

little Frankenstein...
that's why i should have children, they'd be too experimental...
following the schematic:
i'd ask the little critter:

  e  i
a  M o
    u        (y)

English alone... Y... why... alias of "iota"...
            
Y: to... także samogłoska, nie?
i guess there are more vowels in ******
than in Anglo-Saxon...

  ą   e  ę
a  M  o
   i y u/ó

in anglo-saxon Y is not considered a vowel,
it's considered  a consonant:
a... spółgłoski...

i lent this pedicurist some albums:
pablopavo - telefon
wooden shjips - west
vomito nergo - fall of an empire
hanzel und gretyl - uber alles
biran jonestown massacre - aufheben
dead skeletons - dead magic
electric wizard - dopethrone
spirit - 12 dreams
ryan adams - s.t.
u.n.c.le. - war stories
om - adviatic songs
trentemoller - lost
the soft moon - s.t.
allah-las - s.t.
uncle acid & the deadbeats ,
naam,
chromatic - will for love
in extremo - verehrt und...
tame impala - innerspeaker...

just bring me your little Frankenstein!

tending to a babe, via keeping a makeshift...
listening stream of...
Masquerade, oh beloved little kitty:
of a would be Frankentsein...
speak me some assurance!

.surprisingly, poached cauliflower tastes so **** good in between pouring drinks... with a little bit of dill... well when you're drinking, and haven't eaten anything prior, other than about six cinnamon biscuits, makes sense to make an interlude with vegetables to fill you up, rather than settling on a meat, or a carbohydrate... the seagull effect... filled stomach, with a low calorie count, before ms. amber fits the spot.

eureka! i found it, the old jukebox
that was once the youtube of
the 00s...
              and early 1-zeros...
**** right i'm proud,
   i had to fiddle the algorithm
a bit, but i managed to return
to early jukebox formality...
all it took was listening to a few
pop songs and other familiar
cross-genre songs...

it began with
uncle acid & the deadbeats'
song dead eyes of London...
the whole trick is in how far
the suggestions extend...
       obviously the first suggestions
look like this:

         now that we're dead - metallica,
  U2 - hold me, thrill me, kiss me, **** me
joan jett & the blackhearts - i hate myself
                                                  for loving you
lady gaga - alejandro
                 bon jovi - blaze of glory
   the prodigy - one man army
                     roxette - she got the look
megadeth - symphony of destruction
   the jimi hendrix experience -
            all along the watchtower...
a jordan peterson video... what the ****?!
ke$ha - die young
   **** - blue monday....
etc.
  
but then you scroll down,
and find what youtube used to look like
as the prime jukebox...
bands like:
w.a.s.p. (wild child)
   ****** jesus (i am the mountain)
spiderbait (black betty)
   pat benatar (love is a batterfield)
    jace everett (bad things)
    king dude (pagan eyes over german skies)
ghoultown (drink with the living dead)
all them witches (the marriage of coyote women)
halestorm (do not disturb)
the pretty reckless (take me down)
with (seer)
                  death (you're a prisoner)
1000mods (electric carve)
red fang (wire)
        lucifer (izrael)
   beastmaker (evil one)
   boys noize (1010)
   church of the cosmic skull (evil  in
your eyes)
     sleep (giza butler)
   the flying hat band (lost time)
kadavar (die baby die)
    valley of the sun (the sayings of the seers)
hexvessel (teeth of the mountain)
   hallas (astral seer)
  jess and the ancient ones (S/T, full album)
high on fire (electric messiah, full album)
elephant tree (elephant tree, full album)
    acid mothers temple & the cosmic...
                      (take me to the universe)
acid king (middle of nowhere, center of
                   everywhere, full album)
radio moscow (magical dirt, full album)
    borracho (atacama, full album)
               fu manchu (daredevil, full album)
somali yacht club (the sun, full album)
elder (reflections of a floating world, full album)

i think that's a decent diet...
well... not that i've listened to any of these,
yet...
but given how the jukebox is
behaving, i thought i'd write out all the new
suggestions and return to them
in the search...
                          OM i already know...
but ****...
    it took me so long to penetrate
this new ****** algorithm to find
the old thesaurus selection search result...
i mean... this new algorithm
has no notion of the synonym...
all it fires is...
   a miser variation of...
     it's not exactly antonym either.

i hope this selections helps you
                in penetrating this new algorithm
to find new music...
      it's wide enough...
apart from OM... all these bands are:
i was born yesterday new.