And they are doing white
Cars,
Nice haircuts and,
Broad Boulevards,

They are doing slick radio Ads,
Smooth charcoal voices,
And Western music,

Gliding with thoughts of Cashmere,

Air-conditioned Kaftan's catching the breeze just so,
Dark glasses like reflective buildings
Perched on tight noses,

Moving forward with morning talk shows in,
Gleaming white cars,

Fabulous fingers prodding perfectly balanced power buttons,

Opulent mechanisms,
Fabulous manoeuvres,

In Dehli they are moving swiftly,
Their stylish Sari's, airborne.

.all this is suggesting is: i'll meet you half-way; given that "this" question was always going to hover over "us", given that there's a disparity between English: a people, and English: a language... evidently the natives cannot begin to envision themselves as a lingua franca peoples... no wonder, their language has been "hijacked".... the "xenophobia", but like kevin spacey said: well, i'm here, am i suddenly supposed to, *******? playing the ******* *****-eyed poodle is not on the cards, but at the same time, it's hard to envision this language, as a people... given all the infringing demands of the anglo-saxon economic model into areas, where displacement is rife, subsequently... i can understand the concern of the natives, given that i didn't transgress the base principle: don't **** their women. see what a mild spaghetti-custard blip of history we're getting into? i am expected to integrate, but i'm not expected to integrate. i am somehow expected to be told to do what others want, but at the same time, i'm expected to protect my individual rights... no "parallel" anlogy akin to a catherine perry song? no kitty-*******, just around the corner? i can see islam... you know its prime sense of failure? that arabic would and never will, become given the same lingua franca status of english... you're complaining, or is it me stating the facts? evidently is a language reaches a lingua franca potentiality and subsequent expression, the natives will suffer... i'm not a native, but i can only imagine... what the consequences are... being ram-packed with excesses in ***** purchases... so much for a protected status of international economic ventures... like: i am waiting for the intra-national economic counters... can't see them coming, or i can see them, in a Casandra conundrum variation. there's still the topic of the natives... rarely can the English be allowed an outsider perspective without a sediment of their language being used, by a foreign entity... now, or never, why? you have somewhere important to be at as of: tomorrow? can you blame the natives, given that their language is a lingua franca, and not just, relegation to a national idiosyncracy "pH scale" differentiation? as a foreign entity, you know what i've learned from living on the most outer aspects of London? sure as **** it's not Cheltenham... i speak the tongue, i'm no genius, it's only English after all, it's hardly anything near Mandarin... what i feel sorry for, are the jihadi buggers who were born here, and were never taught their native sprechen... whatever the hell happened to English, and what Islam is jealous of, it came about naturally... arabic was never supposed
to become the standard bearer, the lingua franca of commerce and disinhibiting individuals entrenched... which, implies? i can look at the natives, with a more piercing dedication: excuses... excuses could be had, if, your, language, wasn't as "******" as it currently is... seems like i've reached a status of post-integration... now, i'm asking the language, the sort of application usage cruxes, that a native, simply wouldn't.

                         there's just so much
                           baggage,
that madmen
can carry,
for the "sane" standard
bearers of civilization,
of civility...
    at least some
of these outliers have
the *****
to not cower behind
an insanity plea...
     most of the madmen?
imagine
a tiger in a cage...
after a while...
          the tiger becomes
tamed by
zoological structuring
of its day-to-day...
and everyone's happy...
but that doesn't make
the tiger into a *******
bonsai, a feline "companion"...
beside the point...
  it's when some medical
conditions are slandered,
exposed to metaphor,
misnomer,
             that the madmen
receive the package
of social constraints
"levitating" just above
the state of being dormant...
but in this scenario:
well... that settles it...
now we know what
a level-playing-field looks like...
intellect,
and the debacle concerning
trust...
               well...
i've learned of trust
the upside-down way...
    relationships,
notably with a russian
specimen...
              me, ******,
why was i thinking i wouldn't
be ****** over?
   oh... right...
i can claim all
the responsibility with
what i "did" with a *******...
but when it comes
to the "affair" of a woman:
of free disposition,
i'm suddenly the culprit...
psychic trenches,
there "we" are,
entrenched in some plateau
of what seems to be
Belgium,
   and there "they" are,
entrenched in the same
plateau...
            sigh sigh, one more
for the party...
point being,
   people have not unearthed
the + + + + +
aspect of this debacle...
it's now a level playing field...
everyone is suspect,
everyone is limited...
a true: forensic quest for
democracy...
  all the other incidents
came and went,
always, as if: in passing...
  so this incident can also
come, and go, in passing...
solidarity to what?
to whom?
or rather: with?
            i can deal with this
sort of indigestion
surrounding my day to day,
but before long:
what other sop-story is
supposed to grab my attention?
clarity of intent,
   unlike someone experiencing
a psychotic break-down
of the psychic labyrinth...
a transcendence of
the categorical incentive...
somehow:
  the categorical imperative
was never supposed to mean:
what it meant to begin with...
the categorical imperative
has somehow lost the whole:
living by the standard
of a maxim...
               given that all maxims
are true...
  much harder to "test the waters"
with aphorisms...
            sure,
observable facts,
    then...
               disinhibited fictions...
glorification?
  today i had a problem
killing an ant...
   i was taking a ****
and had a problem killing
a moth that decided to freak
out the inanimate objects
of the bathroom...
       yeah: oh sure, sure,
i'm all for Herod's "conundrum"...
point being:
   we now know what
both sides feels...
         we now know...
       that there are outliers
on either side of the "debate"...
one: i am suspect,
but two: so is the counter-suspect...
no sacred cows...
   no: i think i'll just milk
a muslim in new dehli
for the jyst and thrill of a per se...
- at least now:
s.j.      w?
                or the conservative
mediator crowd of:
      there for the sake
of outrage only on the behalf
of outrage-in-itself?
past the phenomenon,
i can only return to the anti-phenomenon
of the noumenon (per se)...
which is not disappointing,
seeing how the whole "feel"
of it is begs the crux
fathomability of the individual...
just another skim read /
listen to the modern day
                          pharisee...
heavy sighs,
   blinded eyes...
frivolous waggling tongues...
but deep down,
most of the people are
content with having to experience
a revision...
  the revision being:
a level playing field...
   behring just attacked
the elites...
this?
    this dog ***** pile of
media attention?
         good...
        now everyone's uncertain...
i'm not afraid to think it,
and put it into writing...
    after a while:
   you just tire...
   you get tired of hearing
just one side of the story...

      what could leave someone
extreme: glee "riddled"
just leaves me exhausted...
     but at least the schizophrenics
are off the hook...
at least there's still some
belief in personal restraints...
even with a debilitating condition...
at least these people
are not facing the collateral
stereotyping of someone
with: the clarity of intent...

         there's just me, at this point,
thinking to myself:
and why did "they" drug me
to the point of:
making "them" feel uncomfortable...
clearly my mental faculties
have not been
                 car-crash dimished...

welcome the new hybrid...
soul mongrel...
           what is it about the polacks
that has made them so...
immune?
     i guess only recently
Poland has celebrated
the centenary of independence...
i wouldn't know,
i'm strapped to England
in metaphorical strait-jacket
  (what is metaphor
compared to metaphysics?),
   sober, drunk,
drunk, sober, etc.
               i was given a crash-course
in multiculturalism,
i guess i assimilated...
   back in school there was
the popular irish gang...
and there was "my" group...
of all the outliers...
   we used to spend lunch breaks
playing cards...
but when i heard news that
i would only be fully integrated,
once i gave up my native tongue
which i used to speak in
private?
    that broke the camel's back...
the centenary of independence
of Poland...
i wouldn't know...
i'm in "exile"...
   which is: economic "war"
came to where i come from
after the fall of the soviet pact...
and...
                every time i go back
to visit my grandparents...
i am only associated
with that country by speaking
the language...
and boy, it's not so ******* rosy
on the inside, compared to what
is being pushed to the outside...
Poland is like a: death-zone...
**** me, even the Hungarians
know how to ***** themselves
when it comes to tourism...

    i am, in "exile"...
            come to think of it,
most of the Muslims in the west
have it worse,
but i blame their parents...
i had one Pakistani friend
in high-school...
   now that i succumb to
reminiscence... yep...
he spoke perfect Urdu;
    but all these outliers?
   what their parents did...
****** themselves into
an integration mechanism...
not retaining their mother tongue?
like all these,
western jihadi prospects...
speak about 10 words of arabic,
and they are "attempting"
to compensate...
   i somehow feel for them,
a complete mine-field
of a mind-****...
       like being impreganted
by a virus,
a cancer...
     the linguistic dysphoria...
so yeah: if everyone would please
like to make heavy scrutiny
of the blatantly obvious,
regarding the genital region,
and forget a sobering note of
worthwhile problems,
namely the language dysphoria
of muslims, in England,
feel free to keep looking
at the genital "problem"...
            
clearly there's a dysphoria horizon,
i would know,
given that i have retained
my mother tongue...
but they haven't...
               and all they want is probably
so little...
   i remember that my father
once called me
the bellybutton of the world...
referencing me as
   an english child...
  that's how the Polacks view
the English: the bellybuttons
of the world, center of attention,
yada yada...
                 gender "dysphoria"...
you have to be *******
kidding me...
              what about the language
dysphoria of Muslims
                    in the (v)vest?

jak to się mówi:
            tym co się od razu, ma?

i can understand the language
dysphoria, well,
being a 1st generation immigrant...
i can't imagine being
born to 1st generation immigrants,
not retaining my native
tongue,
   knowing only the tongue
of integration,
   it would feel alien...
   like i was impregnated
by a foreign body,
   retaining nothing of my "******"
natural resources...
so... the problem we've arrived at
is very real...
  more real than gender dysphoria...

hopefully i'm less "schizoid"
at the end of this marathon,
and more: relieved to be merely
bilingual...
entrenched bilingual -
            so no, not a polymath...
or rather: not a polyglot;
my maternal great-grandfather
apparently was,
spoke 7 languages,
disappeared somewhere near
Niagara Falls...

   the plan was: England, stop-over...
via Argentina
   and toward the U.S.,
****... seems i was side-tracked
into remaining,
being shackled to these isles.

don't know, never used them,
for me the experience was
akin to:
walking to a supermarket
for a 6-pack of beer,
passing a thai bi-******
on a bench, frantic in conversation
on the phone,
buying the beer
in a supermarket,
walking back, stopping
to ask for something,
or she was asking for a cigarette
lighter... sitting down with her...
talking... blah blah...
asking: you want to come
home with me?
consent.
     cool cool,
a few beers later,
a jazz record...
          ******* in the garden
when night came...
then walking her home,
giving her my coat,
as she explained:
i'm drowning in it...
         a necklace with
a ring attached,
to be paid my compliments...
   i keep gagging at this memory
for, all the reasons,
that suggest,
and the times i went to
a nightclub in essex?
   and didn't get so much
as a kiss, or get laid?
and this sort of **** pops up?
beer, supermarket round,
a random girl,
a public park bench,
******* in the garden?
          sometimes i drift into
central london...
brick lane...
  the clubs there,
and i'm like...
           what the **** happened here?
dating apps...
ah... so...
not the classical circumstance
of clarified transaction,
no man, no *******,
"something,  "in between?"
i guess i never married because:
(a) chernobyll birthmark
that kept people wanting to **** me,
from a state of infancy
(b) high blood pressure in
my early 30s
(c) acne...
           (d) 6ft1 and a full crop of hair...
(e) i forget what that is...
  (f) not circumcised...
(g) the "existential" concerns
for global warming
   and limiting the population
of the world...
  which, in new dehli sounds
a bit like: blah ah ha ha ha ha!
winners all round.

my god, i tried, i tried,
but what became more important,
was regards to how:
i could perfect the most spectacular
failure of myself...

           prostitutes helped...
i tried speed dating once,
let the whole scene with
a room-mate of mine
doing a big-*** L index-thumb
hand signal against his forehead...

     and then i never dated,
i don't actually know what a date
is...
   dating... compared to...
arranged marriage?
      what's that?
   someone revealing themselves
to another person online,
but when there's a need
for conversation,
all the facts are known?
  is, that it?
            
             i thought that profiling
was a repository for intelligence
agencies...
   so... i'd write an internet dating
profile,
    but then revel in any private
information, that would
reveal my personality,
before...
       the wining and dining?
so... what would be the point
of disclosing all the sort of information,
that might be required,
on a date, for the sake of conversation?!

i must be a + + autistic or something,
i skipped the dating apps,
went straight for the company
of prostitutes, passed the priest
and the psychiatrist...
            
  that really was a thai surprise back
in the park...
   how is that "scored"?
   he.... she was somehow a 5...
i figured...
    the lesser the "quality",
the higher the chances for a hard-on's
worth of a madonna-***** complex
antithesis of limp ****...
    implying an *******...

if social media was a "thing"
back in 2007...
and dating apps were a, "thing"
in 2017...
   i've just spent 10 years living
under a rock...
        as rare as it is...
i did the organic scout routine...
never "buy" a *******
for credit, keep everything debit...
and... on the odd occassion
that you chance a ****-buddy
while picking her up from
a public park bench...
                    well...
        
       chances are... you'll come across
a thai surprise.

games have become to represent
coping mechanisms
of... the "old age angst of not getting laid"...
i cared for a while,
then i realised:
surely this must apply to circumcised men,
no?
              why would you feel
****** frustration,
    social anxiety, angst...
    e nomine type of soundtrack?
i can sort of imagine
how paedohpilia arises:
   men, being intimidated by women
their own age...
   i can give you a theory of how
it starts...
       but the end: it always the tender
obvious...
   i once walked behind one...
knowing on outer-suburbian doors...
with one being opened...
a kick to the head...
   the shattered kiddy-****** walked on...
didn't even dial 999
and reported the assault...
       it's funny... how the concept
of law intra-man works,
when the scientific findings
of the medium, the inter-man works...
leave us, at best...
just that... inter-****,
  while the intra-****...
         eh... side note...
            
                       i'm surprised that...
muhammad...
     was a paedo...
      but not an alcoholic...
           i too found it weird that
i automated jerking off aged 8...
      my sister was an alsatian shepherd...
and my brother was a dobermann...

            my dream job,
when, working in a music shop was
disavowed...
   is still working into a slaughterhouse;
and what would possibly be so
"weird" about that?

             dating is such a bad idea
once you've invested an interest
in going to a brothel...
         dating... such an alien concept...
the complete lack
of a transaction clarification
of a date, compared to an hour's
worth spent with a *******?
             it is a "short-cut"...
but i'd also hate to play the "game"
of life...
   dating, i'd much prefer going
to a tailor,
     as i learned from doing
the brothel round...
   first comes the *******,
later the realisation of a turkish barber...

     i skipped that part...
this whole...
   date... etiquette play-thing theatre...
social norms...
   social norms:
i either ****, or i get ******.

Old notes, from before

what they did was imagine a future
the future using a memory (meme) locken in their DNA to cognize

sameness

Defragmenting your mind
disassociate certain ideas from mis conceptions

cost of living, reap what you sow

Lost and know it, is there a way

What if the show (the trial) is a series of phone calls--
listener hears both sides

--- but never speaks--
When is the reward for not doing ever as great as
the reward for done?

A riddle for the robber jailed for doing?
A query for the poet who never wrote?
The singer who never sang, an audition in silence?

Eaking, painful words that say see, soundlessly

and fifteen years passed by
I must say
I know the answer there
I must say
I see farther now than then

Suffer it to be so now. See the music
sing
Sufficient unto the day (no more)

Sop with me, come and dine.

-- Ask the guest to say grace

gracefully, the guest rises to full height,

tears the heel from the loaf,
slowly sops it in the cup of Mogen David,
provisioned by the host,
slowly lifts the soppy bread to lips open
for a bite,

taken, then chewed gently, and swallowed,

Amen. The guest sits and tucks
and gracefully scoops his portion of
a side of beef and three old hens who ceased to lay.

Grace for grace, he mutters, in his own gluttonous way.
as all the tucker's tucked into him.

Smallest child asks, who invited that?

Oh, that.
That's a metaphor. A parable. You see as if that hapt,

you remember it oh so well,
then the story ended and you woke here with memories of never beens.

Not every efforting word makes ineffable sense, some must be heard
to be spoken, other wise they lie

idle, idling like dragons spewing ashes in micro bits of death,
in their slumber atop the horded
answer to all things,

money. the real thing. the idea from which it formed.

A time trading scheme.
Back in the day, we were paid for our attention to reality, then

something changed at the DNA level, down in the core of where we come from,
effortlessly, until

air, whoosh squeeze that back outa me
breathe, old man,

old notes, like we should
honest-account the smell of Dehli
diesel idling in clogs of mopeds and vespas and honda fifties
like Saigon outside Than Son Nhut when the Americans were there

such idle words as these, left lying asif believed
now as when they flowed from a steel nib pen in some era of errors past
parsing sensibly

like old photos in a family album, with no recognizable faces or places

longer lasting than our carbon foot print,
longer than the thread to Silicon Beach sewing stiches before the skein
ripped with the receding tide of couldabeens,

before there was a fast lane, a 56 K modem was a rocket ship, too slow

here come ol' Flattop, Junior, **** Tracey's cutting edge hacker,
Flatop Jones, Junior,
cruisin' Route 66, in 1956, while the Hungarian Freedom Fighter was
grasping at
a dream,

The Yanks are coming, but
they didn't.
Seeya.

Is that it
you've finished
call yourself Billy the Kid
ain't you just the fastest shooter
and with that stub-gun as well, wow
now where are you going
Oh! I see, you're going to write poetry
are they going to be two minutes poetry
like that dunce from Dehli who write two lines *******
yes, and he's not from Dehli just a mate changing identities
Yeah! pity you can't your your tool and have some passion and stamina....
Go to your poetry, you sure need it.....