.i'm in luck, they're selling it at under 11 quid right now,
stock dry - gone in an instant - laphroaig like -
but not as smoky - but smoked scotch it it
at £10.34 - oh the little joys of having little money to spend -
you end up less picky and less hoarder and
the junk yard.

na głowe sypano mi, tak popiół:
     popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
           popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
                 popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
                  (not my words... lao che's dym)...

me, beer, cigarette, outer-suburbia -
police whizz past, silent with flare
or screaming toddler and Odysseus' 20 sirens
with wax in the ears of oaring company
akin to Ajax'ς vitality -
along the way, my neighbour (who's mother
killed my cat.. listen, i know he had
heart problems, he was on aspirin -
but kidneys, even if complicated are not
real problem, felines take longer to ****
than do the no. 2, pigeons don't have kidneys -
they're always of an **** diet of diarrhoea;
write like Aristotle sometimes,
forget the facts, be wrong, get it wrong,
never put a glass cup into the waterfall of
poetic cascades - get it wrong, be wrong -
get to know yourself - it's not that dumb
to be predictable in yourself -
if you allow self-predictability you will
see certain social events as being pointless -
you'll see friends and "friends" -
self-predictability is a verb, compounded -
i already know i'll make references to grammar
and it being missing in philosophy -
no, not coherence and appropriate arrangement -
i mean undoing the box of thing-in-itself
and the subsequent tennis with a brick wall,
to surprise yourself when something is unearthed,
a little piece of the puzzle - simulating awe,
the genesis of all that's to come, even awe from a yawn
and boredom... it's here somewhere... i'll karate
catch it with chop sticks.... (looking around)...
i don't know, might be a moth or a fly...

Antichrist: or a summary of Antisemitism - a variant of,
or at least a concentration - mainly confiscated
by Christianity - prime complaint:
a democracy of Anointed One (Messiahs) -
obviously a manifested justifiable practice of Antisemitism -
the throng of Golgotha intelligence quotient -
Jew v. Jew, and one convert from the delusional
4 x 4 (in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy
                                         spirit... hold on!
                                    i make four gestures... and make a fifth
                 with Romeo and Juliet talking -
St. Matthew-Luke-Mark-and-John... penta penta pent-up
pentagon - evidently there's a pentagrammaton somewhere:
ah! i b l i s.                       Surat no. via Rumi - 7:143 - veils and
the one - reward in heaven - more veils, gardens veils,
grapes in heaven veils - stomach a veil - hunger a veil -
rewards in heaven also veils - the poem?
praise be Jesus - and Jason and the Argonauts - and whoever
wanted a strawberry flavoured pastiche to lick tears off -
love's apocalypse, love's glory -
         well bloodhound eyes say it all - droop drool -
droop & drool... Jack & Jill... went up the hill, and passed
the Grimm Bro. baton to Hanzel und Gretyl in the 100m x4
relay of Disney Limps - then rabbinical literature to sober up -
Albotini's Sulam HaAliyah (Ladder of Ascent, formerly Jacob's
ladder - to be: Ladder of Skip-rope; Oxford, hello! yes,
can you please consider un-hyphenating what is desirably
a compound worthy word in the practice of German?          )?
is a bracket necessary anywhere and i missed it?
Antichrist - or a very strange form of antisemitism -
be like a Jew, congregate applauding in the right corner: Jesus -
in the blue corner: Crux Golgothia.
export from Portugal - the said book -
key principle (kefitzah) jumping or skipping (dilug) -
and this being applied to the one practice of mystic Judaism -
the ****** gematria; hishtavut (stoicism) -

me - is it still 20 quid for an eighth?
Sim (my neighbour) - yeah, but these days
                                       they sort of cheat,
                                       you'd get an eighth nibbled on,
                                       twenty for a tenth?!
me - ******, well, we can't expect it to not happen,
         we had coin debasement - clippings of silver
         keratin with Siliqua, third stage and
         all encoded authority is gone: Thomas and Anne
         till death and nail clippings be fraud unison in
         the depart (or when narration extinguishes
         a character, the character is worth nothing -
         the narrator wakes up - all the characters run
         like phantom-hares into nonexistence -
         phantom! thin air!
politeness said: only one **** at the wacky wee ö wee
(umlaut O / double oh, 007 - 00'7 - double u... oh!
                                 i get it!                             Jamie Oliver!)
DEI.GRA.REG.FID.DEF.
   "   (-tia) (-ina)(-ei)(-ensor) -
all that would have been clipped - authority of visage -
the courtesan only knew the mint in silver
and the mint in the flesh - hence clipping of coin
to erase the authority from the holy authority of words -
in the beginning - but once dei.gra.reg.fid.def.jpeg /
                                   dei.gra.red.fid.def.gif.

that ****** moth is here somewhere! there it is! catch it!
                                                             ­   catch it!
SLAM!          and the job is done )                                      ).
i really waiting a bus stop pretending to wait for a bus
toking on a joint - joint is mix tobacco and wee wee
and spliff is pure? i forgot the slang - haven't been
addicted to it in years.
Sim - yeah, that's how it is. work in central london -
         have to get up early in the morning.
         corporate finance - no that's a commercial firm,
         corporate finance - McDonald's, etc.
me - oh cool waiting for  ghost bus - never get paranoid
         then?
(police cars whizz by)
Sim - n'ah, a perfectly decent area, got stopped once,
          three years ago.
and the price goes to the laziest narrator in history - absolutely
no engagement with characters - it's too real, everyone's
lying - this is the second time i spoke to my neighbour properly
in the past.. ooh 2002... 14 YEARS - it's not even funny -
no amount of marijuana will make you feel comfortable -
you can mate and make Kingston handshakes and what not -
this is purity of absurdity and western isolation,
we went against the maxim: no man is an island on purpose,
not by chance like Robinson Crusoe -
at least Crusoe had a talking Friday - we have a ghost
of Michael Faraday on Friday - ******* disco blink blink -
poet... or alt.: the narrator complex - inhibitions toward
character craft and pseudo-schizoid symptom -
believing in ghosts is easy, fiction writers and their ghosts
and abortions, hardly a way to escape from that -
poetry: rebellious narration - just anything with narration,
modern fiction is read like a chess match between deep blue
and Kasparov - or Pavlov v. Jezebel playing gynaecologist.

blank.... blank... wait for the atoms trilled R to make
their toady presence felt -
the more pricier the whiskey the more pristine water,
i.e. you get drunk more easily -
anyone that smokes marijuana and thinks
they're clever are stupid; how many people are out there that are
stupid! - resounding hearsay-hooray!
drugs, ******, crack, blow, marijuana, ****, ***,
  cannabis, dope, ******, mary-jane, 13, M - herb shake -
Humphrey saying to Bogart - that joint. as said in Saudi
Arabic - a Ferrari G.T.I. and MeKubalim HaMitbodedim
                  )
                                  -chism - schism - sky - ski -
                                  cha cha, cha cha - kilo or 100th -
                                  1000 thd. - hundredth a thousandth -
                                  - where then the acute,
                                  timber from Czechs -
                                  kebab from Mesopotamia -
                                  and the Trojan horse to boot -
                                 chatter - chopper whopper -
                                 astoikism - not chew off
                                 curve into cherish but
                                 cravat chew in -
                                 Slavic mining zed - czarna
                                 ciasność - blackened claustrophobia.
a Buddhist clap
                   immersion -
left handed the right hand claps against air
                  )             )              )               )            ) ) )            )
a night at the Opera, right handed the left hand claps against air
(                       (        (            (               (          ( ( (            (
scimitar Luna - so they said, would like an audience with the
further unmentioned mention -
you're mates with neighbours who over 14 years you only
spoke to the count of thumb and index on occasion -
and thus necessarily high -
i was going to write something really important before
i finalised this draft... but i forgot what it was...
got almighty this whiskey is good...
i'm smoking salmon and pickling reindeer hooves and antennas;
a bit like practising Chinese miracle medicine with
whale blubber and Mongolian nostril hairs.

it's not about loving your enemies -
this love sinister must be invoked as: making your
enemies bearable.

i'm sure i had something concerning poetry and narration -
ah! it was... poetic compensation -
a.d.h.d. narration - attention deficit hyperactive disorder -
true - all psychiatric terms are metaphors -
at least outside the psychiatric realm -
poetry as a.d.h.d. meaning: shrapnel narration -
a custard pie of missing characters -
poetry: i.e.: the inability to believe in ghosts
or write characters - claustrophobic or agoraphobic narration?
a mix of both - poetry - the inability to conjure
Ouija fancies - poetry, the over-specialised gift for
narration, but an inability to invent characters -
poetry, the truth of the narrative, and the truth of un-invented
characters, poetry: the ability to narrate, coupled
with the inability to create characters -
fiction and the dumb narrator - poetry and the exquisite
narrator - fiction and the exciting characters -
poetry and the God - our focus is based on that vector,
or bias to that vector - fiction and the Oscars -
narrator and director - when to change from first person
to third person - again Burroughs was right -
images 50 years ahead of writing - a bit obvious,
nothing spectacular with that phrase -
lightning and the sons of thunder: 12 of them -
made the tetragrammaton less spoken and swear words
fucken-uppen censored so the crucifix and **** could
collide - a fine fine excuse - the Boeing 747 first
and later the quasi-sonic broom shoo' 'mm -
poetry as fiction disguised when fiction was given
a seance with pure narratives - splinter group:
philosophy's juggling with pronouns esp. the plural deviation
from first person as if to proper punctuation -
psychiatry and the theory of pronoun usage -
poetry and the pronoun rōnin (macron = umlaut -
count to two, or prolong - reasonable man / **** sapiens, pre-noun pro-adjective / adjective attache-noun, noun counter-noun es duo-adjective, Kellogg's sunrise cockle-doodle-dip-in-tartan-chess) -
only poetry mediates the parallel vectors of prose-fiction and philosophy - it consolidates the use of pronouns, art of poetry alone -
pure narration we're talking about,
the narrator and characters of its fancy,
philosopher and dialectical placebos (character equivalence)
with self-conscious moments, mono-pro-noun - alone i name -
the sacred squash wall of lecturing an invisible audience -
rummaging epitaphs in a graveyard along with birth dates
and live by dates - yes, that sacred we philosophers use -
an entire theatre was summoned to continue in appearing
sensible when writing without fictive apparitions -
enabling a fluidity in pronoun use, without sensible letter
writing, as in dear sir,
                                       me in reverse, thank you.

yes, i know he said he was a vegetarian, delicate counter-priesthood prince - a manner of vegetarianism that expressed an abhorrence of the practice of Eucharist, i too think the Eucharist as a metaphor is a bit porridge: i.e. yucky.  but as Wagner said to him: up north, either you eat meat or you lose the plot (loose - ß - again, not scharfes S - but die scharfes'zart - sharp-tender - already prerequisite of what sharpening omega meant for the w); mind you: salt & pepper to taste according to your own palette - if you're not a sugar ****** you won't over-salt the sauce... and you certainly will not overcook the pasta, halfway between dreadlocks and poodle hair: desirably experience bound al dente, and here comes Socrates with his knowledge of al dente: me no muffin! true that... like all these excess sugar breakfast cereals - ******* the outside, soft inside... or like the idea of ants having an exoskeleton... that's pure culinary theory - al dente exoskeleton; did i already mention salt and pepper to taste? yeah, the beef stock cube is salty, but not salty enough, given the already unsalted meat and vegetables: i cook, i take care of a toddler - Nietzsche keeps bragging: cooked by a cyclops.

who would have thought that a personal
revision of mama Italia's classic
could end up being so tasty;
Nietzsche is the foremost diner in my humble
abode: i just like the way he says:
who let woman into the kitchen?!
that's right, i deviated from the standard recipe
of mama Italia's cooking for papa don
Giovanni - honestly? in lonely times at
university when everyone was into ******
ad drunk debaucheries, and ****** fancy dress
parties? Aria Giovanni saved the day...
just look at the classic beauty, plump as a plumb
in between two cream bergs - such
exfoliation... where's that daddy long-legs
on the catwalk... come on! shove a malteser up
her *** like a suppository escutcheon - i'm sure
the salad leaves will keep her starving even more,
or walk her in Gucci with a drip-pole -
intravenous therapy while on the job -
but can you believe what only a quarter of a teaspoon
does to the Bolognese sauce recipe?
wonders... you don't add the carrot, or the celery,
among the vegetables you add button mushrooms,
and the three colours of peppers -
onions and garlic (a lot of it) as standard -
oregano, rosemary and thyme too,
some Italian five-spice - but the fennel seeds!
the fennel seeds! after i learned to cook i see
ready meals are diabetics in disguise,
and restaurant foods as defunct -
what? we're all expressing our capacity to
make choice, apologies if you made the sort of
choices you now hate... hardly a reason to
complain about my exercise in freedom,
i don't blame you, i'd have chosen differently
if i were you too... but there we go...
i'm cooking Bolognese from scratch because i like
to tickle my sense of smell and the buds of
the palette garden, i look at the sauce and
write fiction: the plot thickens...
                                                     and that's the great
3 minute microwave sequence on the other
side of the spectrum... because we're all so *busy -
busy bees and that's merely the generation Y
dads getting hormonal treatment from tending to
babies - choices choices choices -
                                                          oddly­ enough
the mediocre work that goes on in those glass
shards - by comparison, the default argument is
pretty obvious: i too would have not invested
in caring for art, or as i once said:
you can't get good art and raise a family -
you can create good art that will support the family,
you'd end up being a great technician,
an artistic engineer - the standard model of bridges /
already in your head - is refining yourself
via plagiarism - you end up plagiarising yourself -
but come one! a quarter of a teaspoon of fennel seeds?
well, i'm not talking cumin seeds...
or maybe it was the turmeric powder that
coloured the onions yellow while frying?
2 tablespoons of garlic - for sure, enough garlic
and we're already talking Dracula -
~5 strips of bacon too -
                                          no, not necessarily involving
carrots and celery - why be boring?
this is me in my furore days in an organic
chemistry class at university - back to the esters
and perfumes, but this is raw, it's analytical
chemistry, it's nothing synthetic -
birds and the bees and some hippy buckles over
a giant butternut squash - which is why i find
people who ably memorise and recite poetry
are the same people who probably write polemics,
and do the peacock verbal dance for a woman
in a restaurant - rather than give her raw grub
of your own calibre - 1 cube of beef stock
dissolved in water - simmering for about 40 minutes,
tomatoes chopped - obviously tomato puree -
500 grams of mince beef -
                                                ever think that poetry
could reinvent journalism and also the way of
writing recipes? FENNEL SEEDS! that's what goes
in first, you roast them in chilli infused olive oil -
let them sizzle for a bit - and yes,
you pour some oil into salted water where
you'll be boiling the spaghetti - the oil means the
spaghetti won't stick together, plus pouring
oil into a saucepan of boiling water is the other
famous pastime of chemists... the former?
watch paint dry. i'm pretty ****** sure i missed something,
like mama Italia missed something to keep
the recipe a secret - well... there's Parmesan cheese
to garnish and fresh basil -
                                                and if i were raising a family,
i wouldn't be listening to the dead skeleton's album
dead magick... oh sure, the reward would be:
i'd have a little crowd at my funeral, some gibberish
about how many people knew me so well... but really
didn't... the whole street profession...
                i never got the idea of solitude and how it
might be sad from the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby song -
don't know never became an impressionable counter -
oh yeah, Darwinism helped! it helped a lot
in creating a world view, a world view that said:
don't touch this ****... leave them to it:
these people are more influenced by opinion columns
of newspapers than philosophy books -
in England, where, i dare say, the daily telegraph
is actually respectable, as is the guardian -
and the central of the two opposites? tickling
tabloid, i call the times posh tabloid, because it is
a posh tabloid: i like the way fame
desired for sales becomes toilet paper
the next day... or the newspaper on the street
that gets the footprint on the plastic surgery escapades...
love it! mm, yes darling! lovin' it!

i hate it when a ~haiku is forced upon me, but such
is the case, and it's not a case of dittoing out
a mechanical aspect of that body that's
known as vocabulary:
thus, suddenly, as if a ****, or
a reflex the tongue commanded
the entire body -
left-wing obstructions gave way to
right-wing rebelliousness -
    the left said the tongue was no dagger,
the right said: merely a dagger -
the gyroid: or the muscles we never thought
existed! lanky tendons, etc.
    never the microscopic proof reductionism
and never the telescopic proof           ",
always somewhere in the middle:
and that's about right.
               i wrote a poem, it sounded about right
and then i get the wanked-over shoulder
calling it life-support dandruff
because of the many sprouts possible -
as ever: some come and give a voice unto
the people, and some come and give an ought
unto the people.
               a choice that's mutually inclusive
of thought and choice as a battleground
for the mechanisation of language into
sulphur gas and bayonets
and a thousand wildcards charging and screaming
lost toward the bewilderment of
   forgotten sexting.
      what a mighty affair:
the only country delving the prospect of
an atom bomb being dropped again doesn't believe
in munition economics and doesn't see
that the paranoia can be stopped when the capitalist
sober-heads enter and say: but where's the profit?
there's not profit in an atom bomb:
it ends too soon,
     you never got a Hollywood chapter yoyo
      concerning Hiroshima or Nagasaki...
you got one about Pearl Harbor...
a competent act of war... but not like our
civilians really matter: we civilians got the treatment
of being active members of the army,
while the army personnel were given civilian
Pilate status, the army was given civilian status
and the Japanese civilians were given army status...
oh forget the noodle swindler -
that handwritten hoola-hoop spinster of
carbohydrates is long gone...
          or the greatest paranoia against all other
nations comes from a nation that actually used the weapon!
       i could write a haiku version of what i lost,
but i'll still have to write something about you-tube
vloggers and how they are the newest version
of the objective propaganda machine that's in
the Islamic camp of merchants...
       prophet-merchant? give me a break:
if his word doesn't sell, then who's does?
my endorsement? less of a cosmetic light-touch surgeon
attitude, my endorsement is that of
Morphy Richards' Soup Maker...
cooking pumpkin soup...
  pumpkin... well: it's hardly an easy peel when it
comes to cooking butternut squash...
it's a disaster! a hell to endure! no wonder it's the veg
that frighten offs the ghouls and the ghost
you can't peel it, you have to Apache skin it
like getting a colonial wig: scalping your way into
the high court, albeit minus the greyish curls -
******* is a king of culinary demises
that were sought out expeditions -
you have to knife your way beneath the snail-like
shell and then there's that cobweb of mush
with intrinsic fake seeds / flies lodged in
the orange cobweb - for all that effort
i appreciate it more as a lampshade than a food
source... but then the advertised starving Africans
as anti-colonial compensation for "our"
grandfather's recollection of monochromatic cultures,
before globalisation took off.. hmm.
the soup? pumpkin, potato, onion, garlic,
nutmeg, paprika, chicken stock,
salt and pepper to taste...
tomorrow? a pumpkin risotto...
hey! seasonal abundance, Spanish strawberries
in late winter are too watery anyway...
   people forgot that certain things taste better
in season, that's namely fruits and vegetables...
   go outside your fancy, outside your whim,
you'll finally have to say: my eyes eat
at the very credibility of such things being
there without the season... but my tongue does not
taste the thing that requires a pentagonal sense
honing in toward an agreed to democracy:
it ain't there... as ever autumnal fruits make their
way toward the culinary redcarpet -
                   apples, pears....
     but the real ice brokers remain tangled in
the gnostics of dairy *****: you only see the *****
when the milk turns sour...
              and the two segregate
their cauliflower bergs and that pristine seethrough
        matrix -
then it's like watching the 1054 schism:
          aquasal herring
                               and aquadulci tench -
as painful as listening to my father speak english:
it's just ****** painful,
i write english and speak it like an Anglo
   and he speaks it like an Arab:
with me it's: left right left right left right
and his is an ancient form of actual Latin
              right left right left right left -
of the tongues that appropriated the Latin lingua
optics that weren't conquered it's the same as it was
for Seneca of Virgil, e.g. red beast / proof of all
scientific generic category principle: **** sapiens
                  upright man / bestia rufus -
and that's still orange beast - then aliq for yellow:
then liquid and runny khaki - a monetary equivalent
of money.
          but of the tongues
                      which is why i kept my mother tongue,
i can't imagine what would have been the case
had i not kept it intact... i'd be whitey boy bleached
into an anaemic Arian with those rubbery red
             lost for words rabbit crazy irises that
albinos sport when on the sociopathic treadmill:
that's a daily commute for most people.
i should have anticipated something better coming
out of a forced bad gateway message when
i tried to published and didn't save the outcry...
but it was never a reality when defined by a few
people... it always necessarily the many,
the market square, the hustle and bustle,
     then again few took to ****** to say love...
understandable: if something is called private
it's not called reality, because so many people
have so much **** to say in public that they
treat private life as a tabernacle -
reverse that and suddenly you find people
who possess a "voice for the multitude",
but not (not oddly enough) a thought -
ah the caring scream when not bound to
the horror genre of politics: it's too late!
               end here: a prior to rather than, a
desirably said to appease and conform:
by now we're all cited as having only said
an onomatopoeia of what words should sound like -
we're found hacking a door to shreds with
an axe, rather than merely curling our hands
so the knuckles can be used to knock on the door.
still, i made pumpkin soup today,
tomorrow i'll make a pumpkin risotto -
and the pumpkin is, rightfully, the halloween king
of all vegetables: i am not surprised it's the perfect
lampshade people leave outdoors -
hell of a thing to peel, a butternut squash
would have been simpler to make...
but for the first time in my life:
  i actually appreciate the colour orange...
as said: cooker orange is beyond that fluorescent
acidity of a citrus fruit:
  cooked orange is actually grand...
raw citrus orange?                and a handful
of creepy crawlies.
    funny how the spectrum necessarily made me
endorse a soup maker, rather than the next
big thing in the realm of toothpaste and mascara.

you know, i can **** before i become homeless; yes? ok... cheerio.

when i experience no intelligence
after being educated, it's
hardly an expectation to
experience any after... desirably hoped for, that
which offers up the antonymous by-product that's
despaired after so freely, and all those more profitable affairs
of a literate nature to engage with: to be
enslaved likewise missing; oh the gravity
as nothing falling, the tears on my cheeks
with *vide cor meum, ah, but you see,
i can stomach a cage and being caged,
should i be forced into a freedom that's
only homelessness.
oh so many insignias of pause that were never
given a mathematical rubric of allowed deciphering!
that grand pause of arithmetic in the undecided
length of pause between (,) (.) (;) and that italicised
pause of (:) readying (a) list(s) of emphasis; let alone
the hyphenation of all the lost emphasises of Pompeii
(embark tongue tied into the grapheme æ);
or embark asking between the threes that are
direct and indirect articulation of plurality,
given then the anti of pluralism is god, and that's neither
direct or indirect, consolidating the direct as prayer
and the indirect as atheism.

im am now undesirably  happy
I was once desirably unhappy
but with sadness came comfort
self pity became my favorite sweater
and now overzealous joy is the cardigan  I thought I would never wear
in the back of my closet, where I wish it would have stayed
change came in every season
winter was now spring
how I longed for the snow
underneath my sorrow was ability
ability to understand
now understanding slowly slipped
from my finger tips
so do not gaze at me with a confused and disapproving glare
while you sip from your every morning coffee
containing precisely three sugars
and two creams

I walk the land of the other kind
only women who seem to have lost their right mind
would tarry in fruit other than theirs
and indulge as if they are them

sweet pulp running down the chins of all my objects
small objects
nectar filling me whole
I speak for women like
like me
who do things desirably
willingly, cascade torment
befell the hands of such little age
and quietness is the first stage
before we turn and move our arms lightly
breathe swiftly
come and go
come and go
stay
leave
then we leave
nothing can bring me to care
oh nothing nothing little master
deadly words
sharp laughter
discreet plans or no plans is just the same
in the book of not lies
but something else

move were life takes me
life life just take me there
takes me there
brings me here
upon the shore of a thousand different hearts
beating simultaneously
in the oven of my baking brain
thoughts pounding loud so loudly

in
out
in
out
in
out

I believe
I believe that I have conquered you

I walk the land of the other kind
I seem to have lost my mind

Kiss me deep,
Like the ocean.
I want to feel the waves
Crashing down.

Hug me tight,
Like a sweater.
It's yours I wear
That fits like a gown.

Whisper so soft,
Like the crystal snowflakes
Gently falling
From colder realms.

Touch me tenderly,
Like a newborn baby.
Enhance my senses,
I want to experience the sights and the smells.

Tug at me desirably,
Like the guiding wind.
I feel my garments getting looser
And my desire even stronger.

Make me yours completely,
Like lovers often do.
I want every part of you.
I can't stand it any longer.

the truth is
i fall
in love
with almost every
single girl
i meet,

the tall ones, the loud ones, the petite ones,
the heartless ones and the caring ones,
i'm vulnerable to
them all,
to the extent
that i even
surprise myself,
at times.

i can't help it,
and this is no
exaggeration.


my love for these women
is not immortal,
i can assure you of that.
it often transforms into
extreme hate and disgust,
i begin to loathe them
and soon
myself,

i'm a disease,
really.


whilst my love is genuine,
so is the pain
i will inevitably
suffer,
because of it.

at first, i become slowly obsessed,
my affection is exponential,
i say all the right things
and i'm often not
full of ****,
i can close my eyes and picture
the next
6 years
with this girl,
my life is injected with
unsurpassed happiness,
and i plan never
to let them go,
its bliss.

but then,
something goes wrong.
always.
its normally minuscule-
a slight rejection,
a misinterpreted comment.
my expectations are set
too high,
i know it.

the cigarettes start,
the depression kicks in,
give me a beer
a joint,
my life seems so much
worse
than it is,
i know it.

i switch gears
and become
my worst
enemy,
i'll begin to ignore
her, give her the
cold shoulder,
my hate unjustly
grows,
i'm a monster.

her feelings are no longer
priority,
its all about me
and my sadness.

sometimes
its justified.
most of the time
its pathetic,
i know it.

but you see,
i'm an infectious parasite.
for some reason,
girls often respond
desirably
to my premature love,
but for another reason,
its the worst thing
that ever happened to them,
and me.

don't worry, even i think this is all a bit too wacky... but then i eat the placebo of feeling the emotions of https://goo.gl/tzEPhO / dido's no angel album, and i really concentrate on the symbol... and it feels less wacky after a while; i'm always apprehensive about influencing people, even if they number the 1 or 2 or 3, less than a dozen... these are sensitive areas, where there's a seemingly en masse acceptance for either accepting or criticising such potent reminders of human history... always apprehensive, only because i do not really care much about illuminating footnotes... always apprehensive... it's an apprehension born from not wanting to influence new arguments in these debates.*

why is it always either 1:30 or
13:30 when men hold sway the hour hand
and women the minute hand...
or it's either 18:05 or 6:05 when women
hold the hour hand and men the minute
hand? well, never mind, a new
interpretation of the ☿ (mercury), lineage
of all sourced prophecies, the crescent horns of
mobilised islam, by the power that mobilised it,
that of the feminine nature...
and that femininity mobilised islam in
christianity with the emergence of the nag hammadi
library, and no official plan to instigate it
along the lines of canonical orthodoxy...
an undercurrent emerged in christianity with
the parallelism drawn by the historian josephus,
a false prophet, the unearthing of the library in
egypt... the flight of joseph, mary and infant jesus
to egypt... but as the symbol clearly suggests...
the crescent moon became mobilised by a
feminine ontology... St. Thomas' gospel working
its way, into the mainstream, although well hidden
in the undercurrent... replacing all known
canonical orthodoxy - and you know,
if your prophesy about the end of the world,
and to prove your prophecy to be true with the
culmination of the atom bomb, and the only
way you can imagine proving your words true...
then i guess you'd have to get yourself crucified
to make everyone follow your words to ring true
should they actually be rather unconvincing;
a crucifixion would desirably create a *****-like
influx of people who'd believe you
and follow all the preparations through -
Pythagoras' estimates about the future had
about 30 followers... and he's still covered in dust
in school libraries and mathematics lessons;
judaism is still a minority religion:
the last words of convictions from it were written by
Isaiah, who was cut in half for going among the
people, as a former courtesan.

"I had fun tonight."

The keys are in the door,
His hand is on the small of her back.
When she turns for one more kiss,
He helps by pulling her into him.
His arms are wrapped tightly.
They can't get enough.
Suddenly the door is thrown open
And they are on the other side of the doorway.
He quickly reaches back to close it,
Keeping always one arm around her thin waist.
Her feet no longer touch the floor,
But their lips never unlock.

The bedroom is up the stairs and down the hall,
I don't think either of them can wait though,
The living room will have to do.
The coffee table is nudged,
The couch receives them readily.
Slowly, slowly he  unzips her tightly-fitted red dress.
Working his hands gently down her back,
The red dress comes off willingly with one tug.
Breathing heavily, she sits up,
Perched on his hips, she starts furiously unbuttoning his white dress shirt.
This simple task cannot take any longer.

"Wow."
They both breath taking in each other's bare chests.

Entangling her fingers in his hair,
It begins again.
His lips are so gentle and sure,
He needs no guidance,
From lips, cheek, neck, to her soft, strong shoulders.
She knows to slide one hand caressingly around his shoulder,
Down his side,
And let it sit just below the belly button.
Teasingly.

He's anxious.
She's ready.
There's nothing now to stop them.

The sun is up.
Her head is resting on his chest.
He's playing with her messy, morning hair,
With the other arm wrapped desirably around her waist.
Their eyes meet.
A wink,
A giggle follows,
Soft "Good morning," kisses are shared.
It's not long before his wandering hand finds her bare **** cheek.
Squeeze.

It begins again.


Xoxo.

I hate myself entirely
for not really taking you seriously
when you offered an embrace.
I have wished since then, so desirably
that you would ask for the fourth time.
For the past 3 times
I thought you were joking until I saw your face.

And now I guess I've missed this opportunity of just a simple hug
because now you're with her and all I can do is shrug

I can hear the way someone is able

to hold the notes in a harmony

like the angels themselves sing

within them from the heavens.

I can see the way a light shines

in the corners of someone's eyes

as they hold the hand of a patient

knowing that is exactly where they're meant to be.

I can feel each graceful stroke

of an artist's paintbrush

where their body and whole being meets.

And all these moments,

I admit,

have made me envious

of their absolute surety.

I have become so engulfed by a life

that is not made to be my own.

Wanting desirably to have the assurance

of a solid purpose like theirs.

But in doing so, I have lost focus

of the recognizable aspects of myself.

Aspects that deserved to be admired

by my very own senses.

For, I can hear the way the softness of my voice

is able to ease the mind

of a troubled soul.

I see the way a light shines

in my child's eyes when she looks at me

before her.

I can feel each graceful stroke

of the pencil I hold where

my body and whole being meets.

And all of these moments,

I must admit,

are just the beginning

to what is my surety.

I remember,
water dripping,
slowly,
trickling,
down two lovers hair,
face,
eyes,
lips entwined,
hands grabbing,
in desire for what they so desirably longed for the whole day,
yet had to suppress their need,
they had to hide it quietly inside their explosive beating hearts for each other.
I remember it all,
it was once a memory that always made me feel nervous inside,
creating butterflies in my tum,
tubes tied,
and now I'd like to think it has become a,
meaningless,
emotionless feeling inside...
why am I lying to myself,
that memory still compels me to watch it in my mind,
replay a time where I onced felt how it felt to be loved,
cry,
and cry,
and cry,
because of the broken glass thats left a crack in  my heart,
a crack that can never be healed by anyone else,
all thats left is that one memory of the shower before he quickly,
vainly,
disappeared from his lover.

or what should have been titled: product endorsement by vloggers with the following introduction, lost in terms of original content, that will have to be necessarily rewritten in a lessened heaving of the breast as proclaiming original ease of composition... but since this is not the first instance of such a blunder, it is actually a joy to see: to see the lack of clinginess to one particular instance, over all others - not here, not here the one-hit wonder of pop culture that's rampant... you might find this siding with the mediocre but it's due to the fact that it wasn't said many times and cannot be desirably uprooted from such a perception, and entombed in sacred marble of "forever cherished"; thus said, few writers realise that their works are like fresh fruit and vegetables... they too have their b.b.d. (best before date) and their u.b.d. (use by date) - i believe that no one alive can claim a b.b.d. for their work and still be alive... period. the u.b.d. simply states: before you, the reader, actually dies... but then again, that's a bit overly pressure laden with the writer's presumptions: nonetheless it's there... poems and books like fruits and vegetables, the writer ought to be a refrigerator, the reader the oven... i guess it just means: keep your cool, while others turn to populist hysterics if something looks counter to their norms... that's how it is, any poem's or book's b.b.d. (best before date)? when the author is dead.*

that famous saying:
an apple a day keeps
the doctor away...
i suppose there's another
one of kindred invocation:
a poem a day
keeps the psychiatrist
at bay - alter?
writing poetry is a bit like
watching a psychiatrist
try to wriggle his way
out of a straitjacket -
they're not called
the thought-police for no reason...
and my my: i thought
that was only in the Soviet Union?

I came across
such an indescribable feeling
which I thought
was beautifully breathtaking
and desirably mind blowing
but
when I feel deeper
it became
agonizing

We are embraced in the bath
of our friendship, unharmed
by the curiosity
of my family, caressing

You wander off
to the eyes of my sister
in which we are desirably naked
with a vigorous member

I notice it and revert

You are back, close
Everywhere is your body
adjusting itself softly
to my soul, fulfilled

is my sleeping desire
for your warm body
full of all the years
since we were together
      
and were not together

at any point in history:
a suicide could come dressed in
a geisha - a madame butterfly:
such that the personal anguish
was so great that...
   life was a languishing veneer...

not that now a toothache is
anything but irksome -
for such a small thing of concerns...
when it could be...
a pain in my back...
    
       here's to a lost of "missing" libido...
enough people
or the least amount of people
no wonder, no lust...
cutting back corners...
    the banality of work the menu
of the menial...

      after all... it wasn't so bad to begin
with... to secure a bowing out...
come the rot and snooze...
  still working magic on a pixel page...
it's not like
there was any fun with paper
in schoolroom aeroplanes or
origami...

                 that the 20th century had
all the worst... and all the best...
it's desirably believable that
my zenith of reality can be at best
a toothache...
          
and how painkillers are not:
what i rather prescribe myself...
a toothpick upon which a nugget of
cotton is dipped into
whiskey and then smeared in
some powdered cloves...
that of course... before the clove oil
arrives...

before the pristine genetic programme...
the rest of us:
to the cauldron of moloch's embracing
womb - not to the ***** of abraham... "we"...
it would have been better
to be aborted...

by snails' pace: two steps forward
three steps back...
thankfully this world is anything
that can overpower my ultimate
will:
           the world around me
is not worth living in -
yet i'm still here for at least one
spectacular!
i will not allow queen elizabeth II
to outlive me...

it can't be anything but odd but...
seeing new money minted
with a new figurehead...
that would be... something...

popes come and go...
i started to become critical of my beard
today: came the scissors
and two mirrors...
and subsequently a blocked plumber's
job... spectacular...
no more "Engels"...
just a more refined version
of a ruffian...

       for anyone who can believe in
self-
        (automaton prefix complex)...
-love...
              how much can this world
bribe me with libido...
or... well... there's not even that...

when will the concentration
camps reopen?
                     coolly - sly - slumbering -
but without the necessary
consumer flock: masses...
         i too could hope for a shirt
that has a label that reads:
stitched in ireland...

                something genius is waiting...
so genius that nothing
good or evil can be given clarity
with a constriction
with: a red, amber or green
of a traffic codex coming up
to a junction...

               'but wouldn't it just happen to
arrive at a best so...'
for a work of power
that leaves no derepency of will:
even beside that once nuanced
starter-pack...

   to reach this global glut of expansion:
introducing a new world
where there's no immediately reached
for "alternative"...

whispers of talking about
schwobb: or rather... herr klaus schwab...
pierdolony SZWAB...
     shvab... a new era post saxon...
cost-efficiency (has to be) nuanced....
by anything other that: nuance per se...

even i know the first base adventure
of technology -
what was 1998... and... the elders
were happily brimming with sleep...
i remember this one vaccine...
and we were in on it...
the scare surrounding meningitis
among the population of the youth

i was exposed to chickenpox...
there was no necessary vaccination:
i was assured the antibodies...
blah blah...

it's not impossible to jump to conclusions...
it's just: the grass is green
on this side of... this already ashen
world of former groceries...
beside the world of lust
and broken limbs...
how the plumbers had limbs...
when there was a need for...
a butcher shop...

but don't you need... consumers?!
don't you need a lullaby worth load
of people?
     coming to the streches of
imagination:
  i want to pretend to schmile...
then i don't want to...
but i do...
but i don't...
  
                              same old german
thirst purpose and a man
strapped to a chicken-shack of borrow...
i might ever want to die
from something as *******
as a toothache...

           and... for that reason:
hell is mesmerising: it's actually glistening
with... rubies and auburn shades....
there are some acorns.
to "investigate"...
there's the baltic gem...
like... stone esque caramel...

               i heave this imperfection
of language because:
i want no chance
for me to become a.i. replica...
b'aah b'aah gwammar
  some velsh, perhaps cornish...
always disguised with
probing punctuation...

                   truly, though...
a toothache is the last resort of authenticity...
a cat taking to snuggling against
your thigh when watching t.v.:
wishing...
there was a dozen of us...
and we were hunting mammoths
in estonia...
and the fire comforted us...
we fell asleep by talking
and throwing banter about...
words like pancakes...
and we pretended a night
was zenith and the day nadir...

         but... perhaps i alone "forgot"
to dream?
perhaps i was the last man
to have "forgotten" to dream...
each night i drink a whiskey
and hope to rekindle my affair
with an architectural projects
that's all jokes and bubblegum
spaghetti tangling of towers...

                 dreams have become devoid
of: their original deviances
from grammar and instruction...
i dream a vacant...
burning blackness:
with nibbles of mirror and smoke
being thrown out
to encompass a replica
of insurgence - like some great borrowing...

in a formerly geocentric world...
that became the heliocentric world...
that is now a gynocentric...
my towers my supposed *******
protests against mountains...
they are no good...
down in the trough in the burrows
and the trenches...

this is all i have demanded...
and it's enough to...
allow a shyness of space...
become consecrated with
the zeal of time...
       i have to keep my sorrows
on a leash...
with only one question
having to bother me...
can i allow myself to die...
having lived this most
mediocre of lives
and pretend... that is could have been...
something... spectacular;

vainglory:
fortunes of whim.

NOBODY

If nobody loves you,
it's me. Your quite
desirably,
but I'm
nobody. Even
she
couldn't like
a monster as
me. But it so
hard to ever
find a man like
me. A young
black male ain't
rich yet, best
from
the west.
None
but loving
You so real !
#C9_FM

can we at at least agree then certain
things are non-quantifiable -
in that however much or how little
of a quantity that "exists"
or "does not" exist does not disturb
its (the "existent" or
"non-existent") quality?

(i just wanted to say the above,
the lower tier addition is, by my standard
of introspection, mere jargon).

         there's no real satisfaction in
obtaining a quantifiable parameter
for a being that said quantifying
being desires a necessitated answer
to begin with...
                there is no god
other than man in god, as primarily
instrumental to deface a need for
   languishing desire for sabbath...
                     not everything in this world
is perpetuated by a fathoming
quantity - measure -
some things simply require a quality
and what is almost immediately
unmeasured - a qualified ordinance;
dare i apologise for sounding
like a quack?
        science nonetheless quantifies,
it does not delve into quality -
to science 1% alcohol is just as true
for 40% content of a litre of ***** -
              there just simply isn't a
"proof" for a god...
                      because there's no
quantifiable "evidence" for said existence...
                 and the "proof" of
a qualifying "proof" is twice-more
non-existent than the object in question
"desirably" requiring a proof of: existence!
we can quantify the speed of light,
but we can't exactly intact the quality
of travelling at said speed.
                         i'm not trying to dumb
down the process of an "investigation" -
it's only that the humanities belong with
the question,
               the sciences could never, and
ever will give a life-insurance worth of
a question-answer....
             why would the science ever give
an answer, and drain the immediacy
of a thrill away so easily?
          
p.s.
something that has no quantity-parameters,
is only quantifiable
if quantifiable at all,
within the framework of
                        a quality-reliability
structure...
                                ­   but having said that,
a quality-reliability is not exactly
    quantifiable when compared
to a quantity-replica
(there is no quantity-replica with
newton, there only was, one newton) -
      it's sad seeing science become wasted
upon the "question" of god,
              since there is no worthwikle
investigation for a necessary measurement,
other than the body count of
the next jihadist.
                          as ever, a much anticipated
unwelcome affair of discussion / "despair".

Sometimes the wordplay
becomes too easy
Because for once to say
Desirably choosy
As the expressions are repeated
So does the sentiments
Papers are thrown or words deleted
So are the statements

Eyes closed, the requested wish is
listen to symphony
A vice host, but represents the pieces of harmony