posit iota

posit: i(ota)
  then follow up
with the following
posits:
the D of id...
    iota's cousin
is spelled:
iota delta omicron
tau...
although some languages
extend that via:
iota clashes with the macron I
of the J... idjota...

mourning makes me so ****** *****

oh hell: mourning makes me so ****** *****...
i can't help it,
as i can't help the idiocy that i succumbed to...
tomorrow? i'll have to wake up at 4:30am
and leave the house by 5:20am...
catch the second bus, then the train then two
tubes to Charing Cross for a shift that's:
sign in? 7am... shift begins at 8am... ends at 7pm...
i had to "bash the bishop" tonight
without climaxing but establishing a good blood
flow to the *****: because?
well... if i get a whiff of the scent of oak of the coffin
passing near me... i'll drive myself mad
like a horse bashing its head against a brick
by being irritated by a grain of sand being stuck
in its ear...
i've spotted these ******* in these UCLA t-shirts...
what? you didn't study at UCLA...
prior to that there was a trend in school with guys
wearing hoodies with the word: DUFFER on the front...
Catholic schools: we'd have non-uniform days
to raise money for charity... duffer? the meaning?
a stupid and inefficient person... well: d'uh! no wonder
it would sell...
ooh ooh... liver tingles: it's pinching my ribs...
how many ciders have i drank today?
can't remember: i figured: better start early
and finish early... 10pm the latest... 6 hours sleep
ought to be enough...
stone temple pilots: art school girlfriend...
one of my favorite songs... so much better than that
Brit Pop intellectual-trash of... what's it what's it?
ah... PULP Common People: same theme...
man... i'm really *****: i don't know whether it's
the idea of ******* death: it's no necrophilia, no...
she wasn't my grandmother: oh boy, believe me:
i won't be grieving my grandmother's passing:
either one of them...
my paternal grandmother didn't even see me,
i don't know what she looks like...
she abandoned my father and left him to be raised
by his grandmother and her second husband
(a foster grandfather)...
  while my maternal grandmother? you know:
i'm pretty sure the invention of the telephone works
along the lines of: someone can call you...
and... you can call someone...
               my best friend, my grandfather... ****'s sake:
he was dying for about a month... stabbing himself
in the leg with scissors... some other *******...
did i get a phone-call?! nope!
two days prior to his death: the worst part being?
my now estranged uncle was in on it:
he came round once and talked about "perspectives"...
i remember that time rather vividly:
that's when i started to explore myself: lose weight...
i walked marathons...
i had this funny feeling once when i walked into
a field and toyed around with a blind rabbit...
i swear to god... the hawks were circling...
i picked up this tiny little thing: this blind rabbit:
his eyes doubly shut with some weird looking dried-out
mucus...
and yes: thank "god" that i didn't have a camera with
me... i'll let some dwarfs into my head to dig a proper
hall of kings in my head filled with memories
and no gold! ha! that's what i'll do...
well... thanks grandma and grandma...
at least ol' Lizzie provided me with hope and a promise:
don't **** yourself, not till i'm dead, Matthew,
no problem Lizzie... i won't...
****... she's dead... well: i don't see a point of contemplating
death given what i've strived through...
drinking will **** me, i know that...
but? until it does: i'm going to have one solo party
after another solo party...
i'm already buzzing about waking up at 4:30am tomorrow
morning...
mind you: that soaring eagle of a sun that was with
with in Scotland... well... obviously she was going to
receive a dreary reception back in London:
if it didn't rain in London i'd be calling a horse a *******
zebra...
my prediction? there will be glimmers of sunshine:
there might even be a rainbow...
i like flipping coins from time to time...
don't know: something must be wrong with me:
backgammon? yes... chess? not really... i hate chess...
Edinburgh... it was rather funny watching the old streets
i used to haunt as a chemistry student...
i remember my first year: i seriously can't remember
any rain... Scotland is apparently famous for rain:
my first year? i don't remember a single day of it ever having
rained...
- so i sopped myself to a state of pretty:
hmm! well... i too can don a university of Edinburgh
t-shirt while i cycle into central London...
yes, dearest Lizzie... i'm way ahead of you...
if people could don t-shirts with the word DUFFER
i can be "sort of proud" of my education:
sure... no Lamborghini... no Di Caprio harem to boot...
crustacean ****** habits...
well... if it has to go down with the prostitutes:
it will go down with the prostitutes...
at least i have one Turkish one who prefers to
"live dangerously":vi.e. **** without a ******...
whenever i stop thinking about exploring
this one last fetish of mine: wearing a latex suit
while getting my phallus donning a ******
****** off: hmm... i'll let you know what
flesh on flesh feels like...
who hurt me? who hurt me?! do you know?
i think i know...
no wonder i channeled all my energies into prostitutes...
it's no ******* wonder...
i can pay to be tender... to be a cyclops
with these massive hands...
in my head i'm already eating away at my own hand:
i need the "comparative literature":
i need to do away with the pinky and its knuckle:
to her the hand proportions: just right...
the last girl i was with? to my surprise...
i thought she was going to ride me...
she inquired as to why i was kneeling before her
and why i had so much INTENT in my eyes...
dunno... why are you naked?! stupid question...
no no... she spent the entire half an hour
******* me off.. i must have mentioned it...
i thought: i felt like i was being circumcised...
i wouldn't go as far as: Prometheus having  his liver
eaten by two eagles... but at some point i thought
she would stop *******: hey! no milk comes from this part!
o.k.: whatever...
i like a girl that employs a sense of sadism
in giving pleasure at the same time...
very much appreciated... her mouth and lips
turned into a Mantis wedding the Venus Fly-Trap...
i know why she was so stern with me...
i "rejected" her on at least 3 occasions...
she actually asked me: why did you ignore me?!
i should have replied, something akin to:
i didn't see: hide & seek in you...
i didn't see the playground...
i see it now, is that: "fair enough" between us?!

my god: when you concentrate on so little details
and focus on ***: how many pixies and kinks suddenly
disappear! when you've been *** starved... wow!
now i sort of understand why cats sleep so much...
i'd sleep so much if each dream i had would
begin with me scratching my finger-tips on a brick
wall: then... touching a woman's body:
to compare texture... yummy! yummy yummy yummy!
it feels like doing the butcher's work
(esp.) around the bones before
dipping your fingers in a tub of butter... ooh!

nothing compares to the inner-thighs of a woman...
no! no! nein! niet! nie!
and the eternal sacrifice of the birth of Buddha
of the most sacred ****: i could: i would...
slobber over it: into it...
like a leech! like 12 leeches!

no: i'm not a political animal, i'm not a social animal:
i'm a ****** CREATURE...
creature is not animal... i'll have you note...
ha: the day begins with dealing with a toddler...
a girl...  we're playing with cat playthings...
i teach her to roll ***** after she establishes the ability to throw
them...
blah blah: centuries later...
the queen dies... oh ****... well... PROPER ******, no?

me? **** me... i'm running out of prostitutes...
i think there's this other brothel in Stratford...
i need to look for a new brothel: i'm running out of women!
well, no... there's this one more i'm: well: she's craving
to hoodwink...
she dons glasses: those wide-rim glasses that makes
you wonder: what would she look like if she took
them off?! a bit like a fat girl... that: "what if"?
i'm running out of prostitutes:
i need to find a new brothel...

who ****-hurt me? whoever did... at least i'm loved up
with the "close encounters of the other-kind"...
i'm happy... my feelings are an ocean
and my heart is a sinking pebble...
these women are not so easily hurt...
well... at least not by me...
for years: i, my parents... esp. my father wondered:
are you a, munchkin?! are you, a dwarf?!
this was my inability to find a "friend" in the spectrum
of the entirety of the English lady...

please, don't, ask me, that question...
it's not my problem!
i stopped caring...
i can't give two shots of a whiff of the ***** against
the wind to even contemplate sharing
a life with a woman these days...
what?! what?!
i'm a 30 year old self-sanctifying saboteur!
i'm a man in his prime!
am i going to give that up?! nope!

summer is finally over:
back on the menu? fish and chips! and? curry!
LAMB and DHAL DALCHA...
but as i explained to the person i was cooking for:
if you're making a dhal dalcha:
you need to blitz the dhal... esp. since it's chana dhal...
mind you: chana dhal is popular in central
Europe: "my" people make a soup out of
chana dhal... a lentil soup... known in central
Europe as simple GROCH... the soup is called
grochówka... of course she was going to disapprove:
but if you're making a dhal curry
and adding meat to it? you need to blitz
the dhal...
          
             after making it i realised i'm a big fan
of making curries that do not include adding tomatoes...
and this dhal dalcha is probably better than
a chicken Korma... also: lamb is so much tastier
in a curry than chicken: chicken sometimes dries
out... mind you: i was using leftover lamb from
the previous day when i roasted a whole leg of lamb...
and this dhal dalcha is so much better than
a Korma: it's sweet in its own way...

    ****! no Garam Masala... where was that recipe
including 18 spices? ****! can't find it... well...
the one with 10 or twelve ought to be just right...
as long as i can find that black cardamom i should be o.k.,
bingo!

what a splendid summer it was... i'm glad it is
finally coming to an end... the long days are passing...
the eternal night is nigh...
more time to write: more time to drink...

i'm back in the elements of cooking the sort of food
that's seasonal for any European:
curry in the autumn and the winter...
everything heart-warming: i'm back in the kitchen
like a devil razing (best curry recipes?
the ones without reviews from the NDTVfood
website) the cooking of sinners...
well... a chemist in a chemistry lab...
                             i watched a few cooking shows...
Australian Masterchef is probably the best...
    today Marco Pierre White was on...
scallops and calamari served with squid ink sauce...

a labourer works with his hands...
a craftsman works with his hands and head...
an artist works with his hands, his head... but also his heart...

hell Marco Pierre White can see art in the culinary
industry... i don't... whenever i walk into a kitchen
all i see is a chemistry laboratory from my days spent
synthesising esters in the organic lab...
my heart wasn't into chemistry: my brain was...
but also my phallus and the mythology of Faust...
i.e. whether it was Goethe's version or Marlowe's
when Faust asks to see Helen of Troy...
i too would have asked for that wish from Mephisto:
was she worth it? was she really that beautiful?

when i cook i don't see art... i see chemistry...
the kitchen is the closest i ever got to getting back
into a chemistry lab... i'll gladly stay here...
i have other areas of life to explore.

i like looking up these shadow-people, the labourers
away from the spotlight, away from easy reference conclusions,
Ludovico Arrighi is among them, as is
the high jumper **** Fosbury - no belly-flop in
the competition after... after 1968 the road signs
told every jumper to expose the back and ***
when overpowering the heights -
Philippe Petit is outside the world, the ultimate
expression of solipsism, what grandeur (previous
attempts, the dyslexic source: the graphemes, æ,
previously i wrote grandeur as: grandeaur,
grandaeur, etc., somehow the syllables of only
vowels can leave you momentarily dyslexic,
when we're talking pure consonant graphemes
we have an aesthetic performed,
sheering can become šeering, whereby the diacritical
input overpowers excess spelling of graphemes,
such examples arise from what became the silent H...
or the surd H... ping-pong with the tetragrammaton...
e.g. dhal - which is said with a macron over the a:
dāl... but the trinity of spelled words gives rise
of neurosis... unless it's a word as conjunction,
the tribunal of aesthetic in keeping language beautiful
will prefer the spelling dhal or even daal rather than
what i proposed). concerning Ludovico Arrighi's
italics type... the skewed rhombus alignment /    /
is prescribed for emphasis... i need something to introduce
something that doesn't stress emphasis, but
sarcasm / ridicule... when i write something,
as i did in Christianity 2.0 (two point oh),
i'd change the direction of the ~wind, i.e. instead of
/    /    for emphasis, i'd like to stress ridicule in the
following direction:    \     .
but that's beside the point, it's like a western with
English not applying noticeable stresses...
for example the English trill, or the French hark...
they should be equipped with diacritical marks
of distinction... some sort of uniformity
of suggestion... the northerners trill (roll)
their R, the French used to, now anything but
a puddle of phlegm... but indeed, easy dyslexia from
pure vowel graphemes... cutting up graphemes
with diacritical incisions (safety, in a persistent vocabulary,
following the method of philosophical methodology -
hence my casual use of diacritics and graφemes -
i.e. when graphemes can't be constructed due
to a lacking of grapheme intention - unlike θ and φ -
supported by their alignment of a twin sound,
the Greeks would never consider applying diacritical
marks on p, t, h - unlike in Polish, where the h
is distinguished into a ch for aesthetic purposes -
e.g. chleb - bread and huj - **** -
but overpowering the vowel graphemes produced
their disappearance and the emergence of diacritical
vowels, e.g. the acute o (ó), which is a U, i treat
the diacritical mark as an incision point for the parabola,
cutting up the omicron, and that seems natural
given that the Greeks already did it without the acute
sign, i.e. the omega (the double u) - ω - again,
aesthetic reasons, the forgotten gallery of words
is there, you just have to forget Chomsky for a while.
but indeed, breaking up graphemes provides us
the necessity for diacritical marks,
the ancient Roman graphemes might have disappeared,
but they're still digitally present: mostly concerning
major words, like onomatopoeia - or encyclopaedia -
graphemes behave differently with the barbarians,
the latter encyclo- example is obviously nostalgic,
the ono- example does a reverse grapheme variation
of oe... but modernity expresses these couples
with individual distinctions - i.e. encyclopaedia
could be written utilising... well not a caron - not quiet
***, and more p'eh - the resurrection of the tetragrammaton
is necessary, i'd have inserted the variation without
minding French, i.e. grave accent on e eating away
the last vowel... or vowels... i.e. encyclopaèdia -
so avoiding the French usage that would cut off the -ia,
i'd insert it for reasons of interacting with a h, p'eh.
Joyce's Finnegan's Wake should have been written like this...
instead, it was written without noticing the diacritical
marks, and therefore made it's pompousness known
by omitting diacritical marks, therefore succumbing to
excessive spelling... or the ruin of Delmore Schwarzt -
nurse! scalpel: sch(sh /sz / š)- -wä(łä)- r(z)'t - drum-kit
wet snare tss't like in jazz.
still i need to define the R being trilled (rolling ball)
akin to the å - but of course the umlaut would do the job
likewise - but it's the aesthetic purpose that's necessary,
i guess umlaut designates an eased concept of
arithmetic included above the sound: i.e. prolonged,
count +2.

but these are but minor points of consideration,
obviously it would take decades to implement, and knowing
human endeavours in this realm, once fixed, once
fixated, nothing will hardly change - due to the already
existing utilisation, whereby it works perfectly to segregate
people... and the fact that there's no linguistic bible to
mind... but talking about orthodoxy and meddling with
dogma, i'm still bothered about the Malachi heresy,
how could it have been implemented?
i mean, a polytheistic concept of reincarnation is the oldest
form of identity theft, isn't it?
monotheism is incompatible with the concept of reincarnation,
this is the weakest spot / the blemish in Judaism...
Malachi is the actual inventor of Christianity and Islam,
he introduced the concept of reincarnation with
the return of Elijah, as mentioned in the New Testament
where Jesus is compared with Elijah...
it's a monotheistic heresy... reincarnation has no place
in monotheism, yet there it is, glaring at everyone from
the page... it was Malachi's error that gave rise to
schism... the litmus test of a monotheism is it's inability to
succumb to schism... well, Christianity is poly-schismatic,
Islam suffered an infection of schism early on...
Jewish schism?  you either practice or don't...
you either don the full attire of a Hasidic jews or you simply
turn your opinions toward earthly matters...
and so much rigour just because they didn't care to
roll the ******* back during ***, all that much work
from snipping the *******... early intervention did the job,
snip the skin off and we have the most ridiculously
funny god in the thought of man, an entire Mongolian
horde of intellectuals have been spawned from his existence...
imagine if god intervened when plastic surgery came around...
wouldn't be so ******* funny by my count.
****! listening to the radio and standing up between sentences
then realising there's no go-back button... it's live...
sometimes the oddities of not being your own d.j. can be
petrifying, when you're working against the river-current
like a Salmon of rhythm.

lastly... i guess this is a major point, in a magazine article
some dung-heap of opinion wrote something
about poetry, in ditto:
a policeman shoots dead Michael Brown in Ferguson,
Missouri in August 2014, Maggie Smith's poem
Good Bones goes viral, it wasn't about Ferguson,
it was about life being short and often terrible -
continues with: poetry is the language of crisis, of
profound thought and deep emotion, it may not be
much read these days, but it is certainly felt...

is that all true? is poetry the language of crisis?
i think that assertion is a load of *******...
it's a bit like using a hammer to paint the civil room's
walls (living room, i call it the civil room) -
if i'm reading poetry i'm not commuting or lying in bed,
i'm perched on the windowsill in a quasi-akimbo pose,
sipping a glass of bourbon with coca-cola and
smoking a cigarette, mindful of never wanting to
wear contact lenses or eyeglasses,
poetry is more than this idealism about it,
that you read poetry to savour the moment of critical needs,
i read poetry because newspaper articles **** me off...
poetry is like newspaper articles when those monstrous
literary ****** get going for months of necessary
attention to finish them... poetry, when drinking
bourbon, smoking a cigarette, quasi-akimbo on the windowsill,
perfect use of spacing, i bet most people who stick
to poetry will have better eyesight when they grow older.

Ek chand gumsum sa hai
Door desh rehta  hai.

Jab b puch lo kyu udas hai
Koi baat nahi kehta hai
Kya kho gya hai uska jo door desh me dhoondta hai
Sans is zami me hai
To vha ku ghumta hai.
Muje fark yun padta hai
Ku Maine is chand ko haste hasate dekha hai.
Ladte jhagadte roothte manate dekha hai.
Us chand Ka taqiya b uski ankho ki nami mehsus karta hai.
Bhai jan to hai par aapi ammi ki kami mehsus karta hai.

Vo vha aasman ki talash me gya hai
Apne sapno k jahan ki talash me gya hai.

Ab use is shehar ki chamak b raas ni aati
Kabhi bethkar sochta hai k is shehar kash na aati.

Maa ki panv ki jameen ko jannat hai janta hai.
Jo samne se jhagdta tha phone pe ammi Ka Sab kha manta hai.

Us chand Ka dil b toota hai kisi se keh ni paya
Sab kuch saha Akele
Bas Roye bina reh na paya

Ab Dard kam hai Bas kasak baki hai
Khalish baqi  hai jakhm pe thoda namak Baqi hai.

Or Hume intezar hai k vo chand Jane ab Kab hasega

Kab utha k tasveer zindagi ki usme rang bharega

Chudi bindi mehndi libaz Sab shaunk thode kam ** gye hai
Ye Sab dekh k hairan hum ** gye hai

** skta hai ye likha b use na pasand aye
** skta hai nazarandaz kare ya nazarband kar jaye

Hume yakin hai vo Khud k  Masle hal kar legi
Sabr or dua dono mile h use aj ni to kal kar legi

Dhal jayega jald vo saya jo chand pe aj betha hai.
Ek chand gumsum sa hai
Door desh rehta  hai.
Ek chand gumsum sa hai
Door desh rehta  hai.

there's always that trailing off i get when i write,
oh god, whiskey is a ******...
    it drags you like a mermaid to the depths,
i start to feel an anchor in my mind
even though my heart is steady-numb...
   and i evidently become slightly dyslexic...
  but hey! what can you do:
     either drink and be miserable,
  or drink and unfold with terrible spelling at
the end of a session... and feel shame the next
day, having seen the outpouring
from the previous night...
      better still... i could recommend tending to
a small vine-patch...
and like me: taking a break from whiskey once
a year and drinking your own produce...
    unless of course you have a local turkish shop
nearby that sells out-dated beer
  at half the price... let me tell you:
that's ****** marvelous... nothing like
out-dated beer... it's right up there with the rollercoaster
and the kick! my my! it's so sudden...
      but it hits the spot,
all the disorientative effects of mushrooms:
without excess Dali lodged in your eyes...
so yeah, out-dated beer... double the trip...
but today is different, i have about 30 litres of
home-made wine just ready to be drunk,
   i've downed one bottle and i'm running
errands with the next... but i'm not miserable
in that i'm washing away my sorrows...
the funny thing about making your own wine
is that once you drink it: you celebrate...
you start to think about all the effort you put
into making it... how you picked the grapes from
the vine, how you squashed the grapes,
how you stood bedazzled by melting sugar
        in a little bit of water over the stove
(and how it started looking very much like
heavy water, or mercury, but see-through) -
and how you sniffed the stench of yeast,
and then waited for a month or so for the ****** thing
to take up strength...
   and now you're drinking it...
                    oh yes... wine in essex is very much
agreeable... and my my: i am really celebrating this
endeavour... it's not as fake as going to the shop
and buying a bottle of wine... i am drinking
my own work... i am celebrating, there's no god
or omen in the world that can tell me otherwise...
    i waited a year for this, well: two...
i don't know what happened last year, i mistimed...
the grapes froze, there was a sudden surge of frost
and i was really upset because of it, 2 years ago
i was drunk like a skunk for several days
and wrote some poems in between,
      and put my own wine on the christmas table,
but since i was ****** for so long, i could only
showcase one bottle...
      well they do say there are spirits out there,
and i must say: wine, esp. your own really is
the veritas, as the saying goes: in vino veritas...
    bring it back to whiskey, or Ms. Amber as i like
to call her... she's not sour, and she's pulverising,
so she's no friend of the tongue... in case you're wondering
i'd like to call herr goebbels right now...
         but can you feel a shame of having misspelled a word
drunk, because your hands started to feel
   a bit like a daddy longlegs with one or two legs missing?
in terms of the keyboard...
what are the prime digits?
right hand: ******* - ****! now my hands feel conscious
of me talking about them...
middle and thumb (for the spacebar) -
   index finger for the opening bracket (  
pinky finger for the enter button -
                 to make room for the next line -
which makes me wonder about my left hand,
it would appear that i'm left handed when before
the keyboard -
   the main provocators are the index
middle and... surprise surprise! the ring finger!
the left hand thumb sometimes does
                       use the space bar also...
the the right hand ring finger is hardly used...
i remember watching my doctor type at a keyboard once...
a bit like a crow pecking... it went like this:
index (right) index (left)
    index (right) index (left)
               index (right) index (left) - it was agony...
it was a bit like standing at a supermarket cashier with
an old lady in front of you, buying butter and milk
and talking for an hour while counting her change...
   ageism? no! just your typical life-bound comedy of
how the stats stack... we spend this many years in traffic...
and my, the hand thing...
       yep, next thing you'll - aha! there is the ring-finger
utility in the right hand after all - it comes with words
that come shortened, i.e. you'll... the ' mark,
and also the backspace button...
                  i was going to say: (the shift button?
pinky owns it) - as the great kabbalists have this fetish
of looking at your hands, it's worthwhile to note down
this geography of the keyboard...
   they'd just point at the indententions of the hand
and spew words out like: girdle of venus...
     malkhut (silent h) -
                 which brings to mind:
   we already know the name is silent,
  since you might be served an indian dish called
dhal... and in fact you would be served such a dish,
but you'd only say you ate daal... or dāl...
then again that's also true with the pedant puritan
who'd note it as: dhāl... which is funny that this isn't
merely coincidental... a language that doesn't
use diacritical marks, and has a third arm sticking out
of it in terms of what letters remain silent (but are
inserted into words nonetheless), and a concentration
of the same rubik's "cube" akin to y and w...
      y and i are so close! you can almost feel them pushing
together, or giving birth to something!
  why?! why?!
                         (insert snigger)... drunk humour:
it gets the better of me sometimes...
   so yes, that thing about kabbalists and the hand thing,
other words could be included, like: keter,
               bina(h),             gevura(h),  
strangely enough Hod...   tiferet (what a beautiful word),
    yesod....     chok(h)ma(h)...   chesed...
netzach! hey! surfing u.s.a., i think i'll bring my banjo
to sniff out whether i'm part of the scene:
dangle dangle plop plop... ah poo...
                   p pi po'h...           and last weekend
we had snow... it scared the bejesus out of people
for a while, but things returned to normal nonetheless...

- interlude -

the tyranny of being conscious...
long recognised by eastern philosophy and the practice
of meditation...
  to be away from me...
        and they do so, splendid,
and then all toward vanity, given you're forced
into dreaming... so even when you're not even
conscious... i.e. unconscious...
   you're being fed a dream...
  and however disroted that you in the dream
is... there's still you...
oddly enough: if i make thinking = dreaming
   i can honestly say: i wish i dreamed more
than i thought... me not a mighty oratory gob
after all...
            evidently doing hallucinogenics
   was to excavate the dream into the waking hour...
and that's how i'll leave this interlude,
   i just imagine andy warhol testifying about fame
at the opera...
   or that's me bound to watching:
   alain de botton... or what does need diacritical
marks: alain dé bóttą...
                        dé bóttą... the art of travel,
                    on the QE2...    
      dé bóttą! oh the marvel, French of all languages
is nasal and glottal! when speaking Polish you
might as well be talking in razors...
                  Greek and lisp, English and Cockney rhyme...
and the lost trill of the R... R hollowed out...
                and once again to modern times:
the imperial march (darth vader's theme) vs.
     beethoven's 9th symphony...
                                                             tra la la -
both as universally acknowledged as the sound of
a ****... and perhaps a pigeon's coo-woo
                                                                                       -

...the interlude actually contains what ignited me to
write... drinking aside, but drinking too...
   in all too a great happiness that somehow i live
a life that asks for narrative minimalism,
               i can say: and in between i did **** all,
i thought profanity was necessary,
            and how i'd wish i'd have written a epic
like don quixote... but then i thought: keep it real,
keep it real... av a laugh...
                           i'll probably taste the sour from the wine
sometime soon, once the narrative becomes a Gobi
and i get worked about the eventual loss of
   a carpe diem quickie...
                           but it's still there, for the moment...
        and having realised that: it's gone.
               and i did say:
    by the personnae principle, in line with not writing out
a Tolstoy, i have to admit that i never know
who i encounter in my exploits...
            and there is a personnae principle at work here,
it's not Shakespeare, that much i know,
   it's the practice of personnae incorporation that
does away with: and Titus said:
                                      veni! vidi! vendredi!
(oi oi, enough of the French static, ya ponce!)
          so that's that, poetry has come to resemble
   modern art... given the personnae principle
we have done away with all the intricacies of
        writing a Shakespearean play...
Titus - lo!
   Anthony - a plum tree!
                          as a person competent with narratives
i ask for all people to leave the building...
   a pit of tongues i might also add...
      populo in singuli!       ah freckles and ash...
it has to be: pertaining to the vulgate...
   nothing better than speaking illiterate latin ol' boy...
  a bit like richard brautigan
writing the pill versus the springhill mine disaster -
there the buds of the concept personnae (without clear
indication that we are dealing with a crowd,
so no memorable quote or character, the narrator
is trying to keep his **** together, pardons for the laziness
and lack of indicative marks that there are actually
more people in the room than could be expected...
me and drunk me make up a thousand crude-essentials
as to what is intended to imply: having a good time) -
    sometimes poetry is just that: a quickened code for
acting, albeit without any character-study,
        or diet, or paparazzi...  and it's so quick... you've
watched a movie like a mosquito lived its life and you're
writing the credits...
       like richard brautigan wrote that poem -
      when you take your pill
           it's like a mine disaster.
       i think of all the people
      lost inside of you.
richard brautigan! richard brautigan!
this is the mine disaster company, over!
         yes, we number 34 souls in total.
       and there's your thesis! it must be hard to
write "poetry" and never, not once: experience
the Styx in your travels, the pit of tongues,
         or the personnae principle...
              always bound to rigid narrative constructs,
alway having an aliby with a 'he said it!'
          it must get horrid sometimes,
   living that life of a puppeteer / narrator -
     never really drunk with pesky humour -
       never once enjoing a wicked thought -
        a meddle on the omnius frivolity of life...
but personally? i find it almost bewildering that
of all the ancient Greek gods... Hades was homeless...
that's before Hades was a noun designating a place,
a realm... i just find it hard
to believe that of all the gods, Hades didn't have a temple...
    the only god from ancient greece that didn't
have a temple... sure, they had a statue of him,
  but there was no temple to see to benediction...
now i really think i've over-stepped it...
                     the wine is imploring me to end this
polyphonic nonsense, and think of a monophonic
sound of a woodpecker... relax... think of the sound
when wood is chopped...
      relax... forget this circus of what could be
described as a theoretical exploration of a schizophrenic
symptom... think of a monty python sketch...
        calm



                                                                                 .

sure, the romance, they are the new gods,
     Paris, Rome, Barcelona (don't ask me about Madrid,
                                                       too royal),
a Venetian mask i would don, and become the quixote fighting treadmills rather than windmills -
although to Rome i have not walked
                for my footsteps to encounter the pave,
but in the Venetian pirate lair, plunderers of Byzantium
i have set foot on, at the same time to have learned
of the number 613 near a synagogue and heard the shofar.
Paris (not the Trojan) is the cliche synonym of Eros -
elsewhere Gemini: St. Petersburg as the Amsterdam
   of the north, and Edinburgh as the Athens of the north.

well, such a verse does indeed desire
                                                 more translation of Horace,
as in nimis ex vos, sed non satis ex "ego",
  yes, "ego" the abstract component of you that's
free from the three tier psychoanalytical *******,
what superego, what id? forget it! there's only you
and only "you" - work with me:
               too much out of you, but not enough
               from your alter (synonym of "ego" -
               Jungian shadow porridge);
but as promised, yet more Horace

               deus inmortalis haberi dum cupit Empedocles
               ardentem frigidus Aetnam insiluit.
               sit ius liceatque perire poetis:
               invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.
               nec semel hoc fecit nec, si retractus erit,
               iam fiet **** et ponet famosae mortis
               amorem. nec satis adparet, cur versus factitet,
               utrum minxerit in patrios cineres an triste
               bidental moverit incestus: certe furit ac velut
               ursus, obiectos caveae valuit si frangere clatros,
               indoctum doctumque fugat recitator
               acerbus; quem vero arripuit, tenet occiditque
               legendo, non misura cutem nisi plena
               cruoris hirudo.

but of course i'll translate, but prior in dogmatic proposals...
keep the book of revelation of the Ιωαννης,
discard the rest... the four primers are a parody of
the tetragrammaton - so gentle in his own land
yet such a vicious serpent in Egypt? which one's the fraud?
messiah of just hanging, standing still,
40 years in the desert or 40 hours on the cross?
and all that iconoclasm and modern too via narcissism?
"bring out the selfie shtick! oh wait... my hands are
nailed to a ******* crux!" and this persistent 2000 year old
negation - and being spared, the Romans, or
rather the alphabetum, Roma est mort but you
can still ask the italians of a cappuccino - Chino and
Khaki elsewhere with the Lombardy League ponce
rubbing shoulders with Saxons... Chino Versace
whistle at a Bella... you can still see c b g long after
and the coliseum in ruins... it wasn't swallowed up!
i too though the second H in the tetragrammaton was
intended as a déjà vu - it would sit perfectly with
anti-, the concept, but not the man as such,
and indeed the Y would make a perfect tree of Golgotha
in that tweaked geometric, then W and seas
and continuance - Roma alphabetum, sole constructor
of computer robot? maybe... but you see, the H
is a slippery *****, it's silent, like in Khaki... or
as is the usual case in Hindu - Dhal... it's not so much
déjà vu but silence - a necessary surd to make spelling
pretty... dyslexics think spelling is a bit like arithmetic...
it's actually an aesthetic, but they do find it as hard as
arithmetic, and that's why they're genius at numbers...
but the aesthetics is missing, so they cling to numbers
and the aesthetic is missing, and everything associated
with money... well, it's a bit ugly, isn't it?

... (postponed translation)... yes, London is Hades...
    doom and gloom.

but indeed the Gemini in the tetragrammaton,
but first the principle of three-dimensional space (Y) -
just look into one of the corners of a cube (yes
the room you're sitting in),
and lastly the principle of waves, whichever,
sine or cosine as you will, looks better that way
than mediating the ad infinitum of 1, 2, 3 etc.,
sea and constant fluxes (fluctuations),
pin-point the opposite, the principle of one-dimensional
space (a definite coordinate, rather than three-dimensional
space and that ****** indefinite coordinate) and
subsequent ripples, which aren't necessarily waves:
my tools? a-       and -the            and every other ism
that might act as an auxiliary attaché - time (W).
but indeed the anti- implementation that serves as
direct Gemini chiral-ism: the latter serves no close
resemblance to be guided to Golgotha,
hence guided toward Megiddo, and a crucifix also there?

**** such religiosity twice over with its vortex,
as promised the Horace translation

       Empedocles, desirous of godliness in being so,
       having icily strutted toward old age and by
       old age near frozen, was prophesied to jump
       into flaming Etna. as they want, let the poets
       have a right to a death (of their choosing).
       who whomever against his will saves,
       twice-over rattles the suicide's intentions.
       it hasn't been the first time, it's not that easy
       to say it: i am human. he wants to immortalise
       himself, fame posthumously. he writes poems.
       why? maybe he urinated on his father's grave,
       maybe in a place basked by throngs he took
       from it the vices and in solitude became
       desolate with inherited uncleanliness of urbanity?
       like a bear with scars, prison bars he breaks open,
       scares off the wise and the foolish, such
       the adamant nature of compulsive poetic labour,
       whoever he grasps with recitations he
       finishes off, the leech attached to his skin will
       not fall off, until satiated with enough blood.

**dicam Siculique poetae narrabo interitum.

Kaiser's hiccups
/are/
   and \were\
   legendary
and probably
  |will be|

having a little break cleaning the house, after having taken out the garbage, the dustmen always come later than the postman, around 2am, i'm guessing my street is their last point of call... which suits me just fine... the house was almost entirely cleaned, vacuumed, floors wiped with detergent... ugh... **** it... lazy fingers... i opened up my guitar case, the PIECYK (amp) is ******, i still have my first ever acoustic guitar but i'm missing three strings, my electric still has all 6 strings... i'll get some jam out... i haven't practiced in years... i figured: if i can't find a drummer... if i can't find a bass player... try the mandolin outside a girls window once, give up the dream, put a poster of a rock band on my wall... do some art when i'm completely "out of it": drunk... poetry: not a most spectacular art... well: it would be spectacular without all the ******* puritans of form, rhyme and: meter? they call it a meter but not a metre? that's a bit like telling someone you weigh... that's mass in kg multiplied by "X" is... 999.6N... ah... i know... science shoved it's pickled brain into casual talk: the distinction between weight and mass... mass came after weight... weight is still commonly expressed foundation akin to height... but it was a welcome break with my seemingly dead electric guitar... dangled a few jangles and jingles of remembering when i used to play... Silverchair's Shade, Red Hot Chilli Pepper's Under the Bridge... Eric Clapton's Layla... Link Wray's Rumble... Grieg's in the House of the Mountain King...

only today i realised that people are truly lonely...
odd... when i was in my utter depths of despair:
no one came... but who did come? me!
i picked myself up, no one was willing...
but then... coming across a descending /
an ascending choir of song in an empty church
then hearing a great wind disperse the singing:
i did have my technological asset with me...
the hallucination, the, "hallucination" was so potent
that... regardless of putting in my headphones
or not... the singing continued...
it was only when i scuttled and hid beneath
the altar and took the altar cloth off the altar
and covered myself momentarily with it
then starting running around the church like
a headless chicken... i know! i know! i know with
a BURNING I KNOW... if i uttered a word
i would hear the wrong reply!
either a god descending or a devil ascending...
after all... either side has a singing choir...

people are truly lonely...
i'm alone... loneliness is something that
attracts people to me...
i can't stomach loneliness...
for me that's like... the cul de sac of former
extroverts having an orange with no
orange juice to trickle down into a glass:
half full? regardless the optical misnomer of
calling the same glass: same... half empty...
i am more than willing to do this security
job because i get to do some decent work...
like being a chemistry teacher...
it's a great narrative canvas...
i write over what was already talked (over)...
that's how you get to paint by writing...
you're not some Tolstoy's...
no... not some Pavlov's dog trying to wet his appetite
but also sweat... via drooling saliva...
before my shift i had that random conversation
with mother...
she was watching the t.v. adaptation
of Leo Tolstoy's War & Peace and i said to her:
i don't recall having ever read Tolstoy...
he's not like Dostoyevsky, is he?

so we compared: Tolstoy is the writer
of the macro-cosmos... of events that shake nations
and the individuals: "individuals" are sort of:
chess-pieces...
it's the sort of literature of the salon...
Dostoyevsky is a psychologist...
a world war II might be taking place...
but... but... some Heinrich *******is getting dealt
a terrible hand of both luck and fortune...
like i said to my ailing mother:
she half-jokes aligned with giving birth to me
being her crucifixion...
i joke back: maybe if i wasn't born
i would have both my hinds...
i was once called a: hunchback angel by a guy
advocating the advent of the DUB-STEP musical
genre... way before DUB-STEP became bust
and only associated with SKRILLEX
"drop the button buster, beat, blah blah"...

reimagine drunk conversations in a pub...
in a PLOOB... Scouse? i don't know... maybe somehow
someday, maybe...
    ich sehen rot.. ergo: ich aufladung,
i.e. go! i.e. gehen!

people are so lonely, not having read anything of
philosophy...
if i were to learn anything from the sage-father
that my father isn't....
read philosophy when i'm old and clinging ton sanity
with a chance: oops...
*******... death end clue...
what?                        before you're dead...
please leave your nappies alongside the rest
of the remains of you...

i was having a: drinking session with
newly married couple... Irish traveller...
i downed his, my, his, my: whichever pint
long before the closing hours were done...
Frankie... Francesca...
**** me... Matthew Conrad "m.d."

it's called: tunneling!
me what?! a **** was asking me to g back
to her flat to sniff some *******...
smoke some ****....
i'd love to...
        but i need to make my mother
a coffee come 9am...

i never realised people could become so lonely
and when drinking enough become so blatantly obvious
about it...
it took me one night trip to find a fox's corpse
by the side of the street
to subsequently find a skip and some black bin bags
wrap the road-****... walk with it for almost five miles,
stopping off at the house to weigh myself
then me and the carcass...
amassed to about 7kg... a big, healthy *******
of a fox...
when i was picking him up from the pavement
at 5am a man and a woman were eying me up
like: no... not a ******... a shaman...
they should i might be pretending to chop the fox up...
i just didn't want such a beautiful creature,
beautifully dead, serene, lying on the side of the street...
the only burial i gave him was throwing him
into some thorny bushes by a stream...
another time i was playing i-see-you-but-you-don't-see-me
with another fox... sat on a curve and just eyed it...
until a woman passed the fox and me sitting across
the street drinking a beer... WE'RE MEDITATING!
did the fox flinch? nope... the woman walked about a metre
from the fox... ****** didn't flinch...
i was working up to the TOTEM...
it took one afternoon of the door being opened to
my kitchen and me cooking up two curries...
hey presto: BRODY...
that ****** came for leftovers from meals for over a month...
until, he stopped coming...
i'm guessing he was hit by a car...
but... i'm guessing my care for one fox being
somewhat properly buried and another fox coming
to inquire about: what smells so good
is the reason why i have captured such great photographs
of a fox in my garden...

- hmm... date? or after work coworker drinks?
i know that i scribbled in my little notepad
when she went on her Nth visit to the toilet...
my guess is that males have weaker bladder
of the sexes... a SPRINKLE OF SOME MARIJUANA..
i'm waiting for VOLTAGE...
i'm about to hallucinate in ink... burgundy mixing itself
with Bishop Purple...
those first 30 minutes after a sunset...
cycling down the A12 with heavy traffic... reaching the Green
Belt between Romford and Mark's Gate...
breathing through the nose...
Spring is teasing... Spring is teasing with her
oncoming stealth of scents...
the earth is yet again starting to breathe...
first comes the botanical kingdom,
soon after will come the kingdom of the insects...
wait! i have not heard of an angel or a demon
associated with botany! in charge of, say... roses...
too good of a mark for a Saint George with...
or was that St. Stephen...

write like an imitation of ice-skating...
pretend to fall... gain momentum...
think out a thinking of shadow, curb,
night and walking Ninja hey-presto! feline...
think a loudness: think the loudness...
the ***** of a 4 x 4 pedestrian cross
section of Tokyo...
leave your cycling attire on the bed, stinking of you...
watch a female cuddle and curl up to your Lycra
long-shanks for the specific reason: been cycling...
acid on a bicycle... the 1st and the only ever tRIP...

i always wanted to travel to India...
and walk back to England...
i always wanted to do that...
second: if? aha... QUESTION "question" questing onion
quest of an onion... ANSWER:
i swear, i: as it were... as it is... i: as it were:
i of i, i off i, i vs. no-i...
not i vs. not-i: schizoid broo... Brrrrr... BWOOM(B)
***** a-plenty with witches...

fly fly away my little star...
fly fly away my little st'ah... st'ah...
Stachurski! da da da... ditch Z-Detusche:
na minute, na chwile! na jedno
i drugie dingo dingo!

Lord of the Mushroom!
and mushy peas... and... dhal...
Lord... Bel
              פִּטרִיָה               (Be-EL)

i'm shocked that the gnostics didn't...
to be honest? what was missing in Hinduism?!
what was missing in Hinduism?!
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

oh yeah... that's a Satanic laugh that is...
a laugh that makes the existence of soul viable...
it is a glowing...
when one internalizes laughter with eureka
and mixes it up with stage-fright and a "hate"
for the sound of one's voice...
but then from time to time...
one is caught singing while doing chores and finds
one's voice appealing to be given song
rather than words to speak or write...

but not even in Egyptian mythology...
it was coming! it was ******* coming home!
the botanical godhead...
in the pantheon was missing!
was missing in the pantheon!
the

פ
P / PH / F (greek sidelined, referee: TH)eta
ט
T
ר
R(esh)
י
    YOD: first son of Yiddish: YON... by a boy named
YON...                  a

      e                                               i
                            Λ
                            Y                                  (LY)HH
    
                  o                       y

ה
hello friend: vowel catcher and laughter generator ...
ה not Π... that one connecting letter: ח

hmm: older than capitalism and communism,
but to simply the problem up:
capitalism is the lion
and everything English...
capitalism is the bear
and everything Russian...
vice versa for communism...
the English bred their mythos on the superiority
of a lion and... a unicorn... more a Celtic, Scottish... thing...
the Russians on... a union with the bear...
the bear and the two headed eagle: ergo:
another unicorn...
like the Srbs... serbs... two headed eagle?
the Soviet downfall with the two-headed eagles
of Chernobyl?
       ******: moi... i seriously sometimes forget
my own ethnicity i'm so caught up in English
metropolitan... cosmopolitanism...
      the Global City-Free-States... CITIES AS STATES...
very imaginable...

not City-States... rather... on the global connectivity
project?
what Dinosaur what meteor?
what super-volcano what Yellowstone
what man?
  it's a bit like Pompeii...
give the worlds greatest party and then the volcano
explodes...
better than a meteor: a volcano killed us...
Yella Big Yella...
            the greatest, supposedly no OB-EASE:
into obese...
          ah ah... tongue out... speak! the prolonged A
of neither ah not āh...
                      -
                        2

                                      ****... that's chemistry's notations...
                     2
                  -                                 (huh?!)

the macron over the A... for AAH...
i.e. not an:                                                      ah!

                        á!
                                               A
    
                                   H                        H

           á                                   'ey?!
                                ha ha: key?    hey?!

the burial ground of...
    hmm...
               BEE-EL...
      
PHTRYH: the godhead is that of a mushroom...
people partied to the music of: infected mushroom...
a god is making himself known...
like the false god of H. P. Lovecraft
horror-imago: Nyarlathotep...

precisely! what vowels!
PH or P or F?
   two H's emerged... a good sign that it's PH
for aesthetic reasons...
scribbling this down...
i feel like i'm actually left-handed...
a diametrical opposition to the stasis-enforced
gravity of nothing falling: everything sitting...

ph(aeiou)t(aioue)r(aouei)y(aueio)h(aeiou)

if insects can be allowed the dimension of godly
creatures: thousand blessings on the head!
the lion's head the eagle...
emblem of the Volk of the Volcano:
a Mushroom-Head...
                    
toilet... ah... welcome relief... the water is running...
running...
hmm... from a top... otherwise flowing...
if...
lake: mirror imitation, Lake Narcissus and
his brother Sea Samael: Death...
     like absinthe before adding water like it
was milk...
the water is in tide: with tide: use the FORCE...
tide...
   like water found the force... the force:
with force water found gravity via tide...
earth found gravity with the quake
fire found gravity with the sparkle of the stars...
fire... charcoal peered at night at the already
lighted... as he admired the lightning with fear...
no lightning ever warmed...
comforts of a distant home... fire found gravity
envying the stars... Prometheus who?
and the brothers of Gaia?
Fero...
                fire...
                              AQ... the water brother...
ah... forgot about the younger sister:
AIA...              air...

what a weird ******* date, coworker after shift drinking...
i've never been on a date with a lesbian...
i felt... TESTED... we watched almost the entire match
Chelsea women vs. Tottenham Women Hotbras...
coming close to the end of the shift she asked
if i wanted to go drinking...
sure... why not...

            hmm... it became a date... after she bought the two
rounds i paid for on our previous encounter
when we actually went ice-skating and i became
a local internet sensation for teaching seagulls how to fly:
wearing ice-skates, frozen lake: fly fly!

so we start... the pub is getting busy...
it feels worse than a strip-club...
at least in a strip-club most people are naked
and people get to wear imaginary masks...
in a pub? **** me...
people are dressed up and are made to wear
imaginary clothing! ha ha!
masks?! what masks... a LIE is 10 masks... one lie equals
10 masks... because a lie concerning
the body of soul... is accented with more than
a physical imprint...
LIE MASK AS IF PRETEND SUPPOSE SO
AS IF AS SO CALL IT QUITS
ACTING

it felt like a date... she was getting all nervy...
going to the toilet... checking her phone all the time...
i was patient, smart girl, while i was pretending to
opt out from her OCD... check the phone...
check the fridge-freezer... check your opt out
capacity for a TV license...

how do you go out on a date with a lesbian?
neither you nor her are advocating for woke talking points...
about pronouns or... Furry? listen...
she talks to me about getting FIFA '22...
i finished gaming off at PS1 and reliving the golden days
by re-watching the walkthroughs of
MGS2 (metal gear solid 2)...

because? movies are ****...
i don't want to want these women...
i want... a ******* canoe and a ******* paddle!
and a grizzly bear cub to cuddle and a birch tree to cuddle!

MUFFA!
YEROYI... AHMADI-DEM-BASHAI
YAMSH'EH GIBYT!
VAZOL: OCH TIBI IM PEO-OM-KATA
ES O I TOBOM.

no language suddenly praise with the rigidity of
continuation...
i'll be honest... what do i need a woman for?
to get old, get a haircut... buy food...
not watch the sunrise or the sunset...
instead watch the news on t.v. watch the t.v.
not watch the aquarium?
don't own an aquarium?

own a car but don't own a bicycle?!
in London...
it was 2: so nie to know you: snooze:
represented by letter Z or 2...
if 5 is S and 6 is b...

                     the marriage of letters
to numbers... numbers? meaningless...
absolutely... meaningless...
199 KILOGRAMS
200 CENIMETRES
X contra "x"...

        dead-weight marrying
      1 + 1 + 1 = 3
when marrying
o + n + e = one...
              ah! but 3 and one are different!
former? the forever unit...
latter? the splinter, E3...
forever question...

               turn 3 into omega...
when sharpen it up for a SH... hide the H...
wake up the Z... hide the Z
emerge with a v above an
                           S

call it crown....

     - so Francesca asked me to go drinking again:
again a date doesn't feel like a date...
am i supposed to know about the plethora of female
sexuality?
         **** McDonald one day...
   straight out of Orange is the New Black the next?
just for drinks... i thought we would equal out the tab
on who paid for what previously...
went into the pub at around 20:30 came out around
00:15... we watched the females' football league...
her team, Chelsea beat Tottenham at the Leyton Orient
ground: no plague of parakeets...
honestly: hand on my heart and one on my ear
standing naked before four mirrors:
i did not hear about wild parakeets... parakeets
in general since: only since i worked the Craven Cottage
shifts... Bishop's Park was full of them!
there were no wild parakeets in Essex... not that i know of...
i once listed down all the birds
i could see from my garden...
seagulls, kestrels, two hawks battling in the air,
woodland pigeons, urban pigeons,
crows, magpies, sparrows, swallows,
robins, blackbirds, Canadian geese (migrating),
mallard ducks (also migrating), swans (migrating ditto)...
but sure as **** no parakeets!

in that session i bought only 1 round...
she was hungry so she ordered food...
three plates of food...
fried wings with two sauces...
a bowl of cheesy fries with strips of bacon
and a bowl of popcorn chicken which
i first thought was: battered and deep-friend
mozzarella nuggets...
i had three things... showing off my eating skills...
my grandparents never used to eat
the cartilage and the best meaty bits
off of the chicken legs, drumsticks or wings...
i went a step further...
a bit like eating a whole apple... including the core...
aa magic trick of eating:
you begin with holding something in your hand...
then it disappears completely...
holding an apple, whole, and eating it whole...
subsequently is a bit like playing with a top hat
imagining red eyed albino bunnies, from Albania
(albino >< Albania).. clash of borrowed letters
but two completely different meanings...

etymologically: Albania: land of the Albinos:
Albanios? more like a he, noun...
a mountain, a he...
                 a lake: he and she... neither, always:
if reading English like a native
of the tongue...
                        Albatross from Albanions...
poetry borrowed from a dictionary, rigid function:
hiding the rhyme
exposing the etymological "rhyme".
Alba-
                                      white...
a dyslexic meets a Daltonist in Dover..
the dyslexic arguments are along the lines of:
Dawid Bovie... dead... pish-poor shapes to be be
before huddling out the grave
for a Madame Tussauds pose and a quick nap
and not asking for
a Doppelganger like Sisyphus without a stone
but the equivalent worth of the stone
in pebbles...

    i would be a fair god...
if i'm willing to give birth to an angel of the Botanical realm
since there's the Lord of the Flies... Beelzebub..
and there's the Lord of the Mosquitos: Jesus "sacred heart"
reincarnated by Jungian inspection
a literal: MOTHER... ******...
Chirst...
                      it's not enough to play the pig's blanket
and pretend a crucifix is a ***** and in dire need of being
used by a ******* according
to Marquis de Sade...
Phateroyah...
                     obviously the vowels will change...
with vowels like water and consonants like earth...
punctuation is like air... punctuation and a physical
representation of writing: nothing ethereal,
nothing metaphysical... writing with expression
on our faces... writing as something less and less
a claustrophobic or its implosion: to an effect...
writing less about an extension of thinking...
in the Cartesian dynamic:
res extensa: via writing, alternatively:
if one were to be prone to smoking enough marijuana:
auditory hallucinations... writing is
by definition the same variant of the EXTENDED classification
as a schizophrenic's auditory hallucination...
the former just forces it upon others...
the latter is unwarranted access to a corrupted ego...
a hurt ego...
an ego without the capacity to imagine,
to dream, to digress...

i showed her how to eat chicken proper...
i ate three wings, two chips avoiding the bacon and cheese,
and about three popcorn nuggets...
i forgot myself: once all the cartilage on the bones
was cleaned off... i went in to bite into the bones...
the ends are sort of soft and marshmallow-almost...
not in texture... in my reimagining:

reimagining - hmm... Kant...
         remembering...
a prior... remembering...
   a posteriori: reimagining...

if a crime happens we don't have an a priori remembering
tactic... ingesting the realm of a prior
with memory... remembering...
that's what we do...
what came before 5? S? or !!!!! five exclamation marks?
or? >>>>> five more-than signs?
did 5 come before five?
did words spawn numbers
or did numbers spawn words?
clearly they're not identical...
and they operate two different realms...

we have words for numbers...
as we have numbers that are also letters...
but numbers are not words...
even 3.14159....
                   is not a word, but a letter: Pi i.e. P...
it's not a word... it's at best a letter...
i'm thinking the gods are words and the angels
are letters...
  while the anti-gods are constants
and their "angels" are numbers...

constants?
                         3.14159..... is not a constant... it's a freak of O...
a circle... and a whole mythology of the Wheel...
O... ****** VENUS...
  phallus... the egg... Oh and 0ero         Z: zed extended
via snooze: zzzzz... harps and snoring... terrible music...
constants? in numbers as if creating a word?

6.02214076 × 10²³ mol⁻¹

                     Avogardo's: the equilibrium dynamic if
i remember correctly...
today i learned about...
     Jakob Fugger... back in his day worth around
400 billions "x"... who financed the construction
of St. Peter's in Rome...
i now wish i visited Rome instead of Venice...
          i would have had more fun in Rome...
  
(algebra is the reply, letters imitating
numbers... should the inclusion of MOL be a problem)...

i bit off the chicken legs marrow...
she was in the toilet about fifty ******* times, each time,
ordering more drinks...
we came in at 20:30 and left at around 00:30
at one point she was in the toilet and
i just remembered something...
they have this "thing" in Japan... where you pay a stranger
to pretend to be your friend...
i'm not pretending... but conversation is dry...
i try to ask questions: i ask questions,
i hear replies... but i don't hear reciprocating
questions... Mr. Familiar has or had no problems?
people confide in me and yet
whenever i try to confide in them
i'm told to shut up...
oh... i get it... i do...
before i knew it i was this heaven-sent ideal...
i was the strength and they were the weakness...
i see it now more than even...
she can tell me about her abusive past...
her drunk father who kissed her mother with knuckles
instead of lips... how she's a lesbian but also
a butch ******* **** with hands almost as large as mine
and how her daughter was put into care
because "X"...
but my shizophrenia is a "schizophrenia" is...
i wasted my 20s on anti-psychotic drugs and psychiatrists
that i bundled up and threw into a hornets' nest of
******* *****, threesomes (just the one, but one is
the threshold)... prostitutes: you talk more with your
eyes and your hands and your other endings
and your nose than you care to ******* lasso a string
of coherent words together...

my problem? what problems?! exactly...
there's nothing wrong with me: i have no regrets...
i don't need to speak to someone with an endearing
sake of self definition... i can just scribble notes down
and leave them for some yet to be born
****** of petty things...
i can do just that... no wonder i can't open up...
talk about... "me"? that's still packaged goods...
i'm waiting for the morbid call of a biography
postmortem...

it's strange going on a date with a lesbian...
it's not a date it's me going for after-work drinks
with a colleague...
it's me and her eyeing up the same behind the counter:
tight ***, fake eyelashes she can pull off...
her unwashed pink-fading dyed fair:
feminist... it's me telling her a little about my past:
i had long hair before,
i couldn't pull off a Jesus...
i would only grow a beard if i cut my hair...
short...
she's still trying to find me on social media...
god: i love keeping a girl in suspense whether or not
i have any social media presence...
best try it out with a lesbian first...
we talk about dating apps:
i have a knowledge of their existence...
but hardly a knowledge that might demand
the pressures of: USAGE...

i end up drinking the night away with a revelation...
i was eyeing these two pairs of love birds for some time...

when i was at the Ol' "John's" taking
a whizz... this Greek version of Freak... o.k. o.k.,
ETHAN ROARK type... balding on the top
of the cranium, allows his hair to grow long...
didn't you know...
Garry Glitter was released... he's already
been harangued by the ******* "police"....

what like Batman did a "forever"?
          
   i get paedophiles doing a second jester runner
with meeting up with underage:
sorry... not boring enough?
it's like pretending to be a mandible,
aerobic classed agility with
a prosthetic... that's what ******* a teenage girl
might feel like:
i rather run with deer....
or charm a fox into becoming my totem...
should i be reincarnated what might i come back as?
i'm not banking: i'm saying: fuchs!
fox! LIS!
if i were to freely roam the prance-lands of Essex
as a fox... that's me, done and dusted...

but i wouldn't inhibit a man willing to repent...
after all: if no forgiveness?
the Muslims were right: no crucifixion took place...
did it?
a 78 year old can be given a heave's sake....
life's fruition and that's done...
sorry for the hurt parties... living their:
adamantly purposive lives
with the weight of: Abel not dead...
sorry... the story goes... Cain murders you....
you're still live yet:
you're supposed to be dead...

i'm only making excuses for Gary Glitter...
i wouldn't be for...
Ralph Heimans...
                                 it's music and i can't stop
listening to Rock & Roll parts I & II...

**** me: i ended up the night...
she hated ***** accents.. Liverpool-day-john-ion...
part Eirish: skirmish: scoot!
a Swabian swap... an "oops": Ludwig... or was
that Lufthansa...
this girl, a ***** bridge,,. i'd love to add hired
bride...
                  but instead?

Traveller Irish... i was talking to a bridge...
bride...
you want a drinking race?
ejecting the two pairs...
i snuggled down my pint: his pint...
in 3x glugs... i saw a phantom of an opera...
what?she told me she never used social
media before marrying?
why do i need to Afghanistan to find
datable brides? i squeak and wriggle myself
into the CAMPER VAN culture...
Irish travellers... so? i'll drink with them...
i'd drink with a repentant ******* asking:
was it anything like Nabokov prescribed?!

£30 for 3.5grams of ****...
time excavated? 30+ hours...
£120 + £10 for entry for an hour with a *******...
well... i'd love to prove my masculinity
with having a competing:
hopeless: always alive sort of battery life:
kept up: *******...
but even i think *** is primarily a dosage of
insect desires...
mammals like us sometimes
tend to play games to escape the pressures
of ***...
requested: what? getting my beard trimmed
or getting my underwear "lost" or my ******* "trimmed"?

i get it... ******* are people who are not afforded
a chance to compensate...
relieve themselves through the shared
antics of (shared) grief...
just like Jesus Christ once crucified can't be
resurrected! n'est ce pas?!
what if... the ******* can be left alone...
in his freedom and a freedom-sickly-cage...
what if?!

a bit like saying:
but i can't be anti-racist...
i can be a non-racist...
but i can't be: anti-racist...
                    there are humans either side of
the "argument"...

one mighty argument of goo after another...
inverting the whole dynamic of dates...
seen your face for over a year...
now i heard your voice: your soul...
you heard me laughter...

a naked table, a naked chair...
a dressed table, a dressed chair,
a lightbulb with a cloche...
rigid Slavic KLOSZ...
walls: brick or slab...
naked... wallpaper slapped on...

   how did that "date" end up?
i was speaking to Irish Travellers...
the ****** types... caravan dwellers...
with the girl... snogging before
ordering a pint....
how she was Lady Margaret all pristine
didn't drink or use social media
before getting married...
i was chasing pints...
race: 3x glugs down...
  i out-chased him...

the pub was closing, we wanted the people out...
strange so, talking to this Irish Traveller Lassie,
most settled people with mortgages or
council houses, flats... avoid speaking to Irish Travellers...
but the revelations she uttered...
i might as well been talking to a Muslim girl...
by her account...
she didn't start drinking before she was married...
she didn't use social media,
she said that in the travellers' community having
a social media account is a bit like *******...
hell: i think it's much worse...
fair play to the capitalistic system...
but social media is what it is...
         it has marketed our private-lives...
not written as a complaint...
                        i allowed for that to happen...
willingly...
now i can't simply walk away from the gallery...
i still don't know what to do with it
instead of making if a reference point akin to:
the red and the amber and the green
of traffic lights...
the "system" wasn't going to capitalise on the market
of my dating preferences and ****** encounters...
sure... i don't mind a public "dear diary"...
a place to store links to music videos when i forget
to add them to my browser's bookmarks:
because i've probably added the same song twice...

but Kant has been bothering me...
ever since i wrote:
a priori remembering
    and a posteriori reimagining...
why do i think that it's impossible
to a priori reimagine?
              
i need to go back to the rubric
and try to burn it into my head like the alphabet
was burned into my mind once...
one of the following four
is impossible:
    with the simplest expression for each:

(analytical) a priori                             (analytical) a posteriori
1 + 1 =2                                                   not every man is a ******
wrong!                                                   some men are
that's synthetic a priori!
+, /, £

(synthetic) a priori                               (synthetic) a posteriori
1 + 1 = 2                                                   £: money makes monkey
i synthesised these                                either that shaman
numbers...                                              mushroom on an ant's
analysed what prior?                            buttocks or:
the increasing number                          the botanical "anomaly"
the added, subtracted,                        money is: asexuality it's
multiplied,                                              what if Adam gave Eve
by god sq. rooted?!                              her first un-earned banknote...
1, 2, 3, 4...                                              spend freely! not having
                                                                earned it!
                                                               what if Eden and the apple
                                                                are wholly outdated
                                                                metaphors?

hmm...

the first £10 she got? was that money earned or money freely
given? was she handed down an allowance or
her first earnings? the trickling down idea follows suit:
if her father gave her money for free... for completing "chores"...
if he gave her an allowance: worse still...
without chores...
why wouldn't expect the sane fir passable:
future partners: daddy day-care "hoes"...
                           my daddy this, my daddy that...
HUBBY no. 2... give give...
i drink less... i smoke some marijuana
and i remember that i read some philosophy...
no new grounding since Wittgenstein
gobbled down Spinoza in a ferocious
of homosexual madness of jealousy...
misunderstood by at least 4 parties...

*** and women unplugged...
some of us boys are playing a game of Alchemy...
solid silver, liquid silver...
i guess plastics are gassy silver...
***... can i please assume there might be
two mouths breathing?

I ate your breath before you ate the apple...
i ate your breath while you gauged
my eyes and saw milk in your *******...

in the labyrinth of: i sigh...
i'm to your bidding bound, sire...
i ate your breath long before you might have ate...
that fruit of autumn, fallen, rotten...
fermenting.... this rotten fruit...
no, not plucked from three... ripe and sweet...
rather picked up attired in autumn's clothes:
auburn, over-ripe cinnaamon-brown,
orange and yellow...

you gave me a drunkard's bear or ilk!
male deer! you gave me a drunkard's apple!
i might be stumbling:
but i'm still chiming with the blues!
what Mosad Mandarin faction of
the intelligence community?

   ching-fang-*******-wall'ah-CHANG
wrote a similar (liar) armistice peace-war:
if we can't use this military equipment...
let's, make... ******* movies!
woo yee HA!

Baron astronaut, ergonomic... a house ought
to have two doors: H... a house
ought to have rooms focused upon the dynamic
of Y...
oh **** your woo! woo! glue my ***
of the Tetragrammaton:
i heard it once before:
the Arabs got their pearly and Kentucky bound
Timothy....
while the Hebrews got the paranoia...
windmills in Chelsea, London,
not Kansas... New Lit Bits of Jersey....

i was left aghast... um... i laughed...
i couldn't say the words ****... pairing it up with her voice...

well... according to sources all knowledge a piori
is ANYLYTICAL... but what was i "analysing"
when i was conjuring the letter R or the number Z?
i borrowed the circle from the sun
and the house from the cave?
i must have done so...
i probably conjured the game of rugby from
the sea's tides and yoyo from an egg of a dodo...
and the goal posts from the letter H...
ripples in the water ZigZag and M and W...
cosine as the refined W
and sine as the refined M...

   a parabola confined in a W...
D in do and devil...
God with Dog and: all?! ah!

    i'm not dumb: i just want to extract more from Kant
than people, ever had, toyed with a jihad of had the Hadiths
in a puddle of paper: equaling the refined weight:
of the organic worth of bark? timber: temples of stone
have turned the gods all cold:
about 5 kilograms for a stash of a week's worth of newspapers...

please please don't let me understand myself:
please oh please don't let me understand myself:
when i'm sober and especially when i'm slightly drink...
drunk... drunk... and smoking a bit of ****...
and...

grass is green: after having established that
not everything is grass
and not everything that's grass is green
wheat? grows like grass...
but it's not green...
and it grows taller than grass
and cows and horses don't eat it...

i could watch a thousand movie and listen to a million
songs... i could even manage to love a woman
and her tell me in the cravat adorning mammal skin
caravans... but i'd still go to bed with Kant...


   it's not that difficult but i need to ask myself to burn
this rubric into my mind...
under each the easiest expression: an abstract...
i just can't word it differently:
a priori remembering...
true...
a posteriori reimagining...
also true:
after the fact of seeing a tree...
can i see a tree prior?
ergo? i can't be capable of a priori reimagining...
first i have to see a tree...
but upon seeing the tree i can't reimagine it...
therefore i can only reimagine what comes after seeing it...
how do i practice a priori remembering?
on the most practical level...
i remember 1 + 1 = 2...
history and memory...
sure... but what of history as epistemology?
as a child i'm not really taught that 1 + 1 = 2...
knowledge and 1 + 1 = 11... not "somehow" just by
"coincidence" of the missed meaning of the cipher +,

epistemology and etymology are the only
two branches that should be given access to the study
of history...

reimagining a tree is impossible in that it's a realm
of geometric abstractions that borrow from
geometric orthodoxy and render them useful:
a tree is a home, i can, reimagine a tree...
if i reimagine myself as a bird or a monkey
perched in a tree... reimagining the roof...
via the sky... but that's hardly likely,
mountain and cave dwelling: home...
a prior reimagining is in its own right something...
but reimagining resulted in the dimension
of a posteriori...
i reimagine a tree and make it: a talking tree...
i apply pareidolia...
or like with clouds... those favourites...
why would i reimagine clouds a priori?
i can... but then that would imply reimagining
cauliflowers... or rather: clouds remind me of
cauliflowers: but that's not reimagining either
clouds or cauliflowers: it's remembering what each
looks like and why, subjectively i remember:
that i think they're alike...

hmm... proof: no pudding....
clearest blue...
          or solid green... the Jade from China...
XINY X= CH
we can apply the letter X in our tongue...
that's what marijuana morphs:
the perception of time... 10 minutes already
feel like an hour....
xolera... cholera H! hhhh...
                 xorwat - croat...
                   xemia - chemistry....
chmiel: xmiel:
                              toad breath!
the stuff i sniff up before going to bed!
you ******* DYSLEXIC...

choroba: xoroba...
sickness...

  DYSLEHIC...
                   i'm asking for upgrades...
i hope my upgrades are not too: demanding...
i'm asking... i'm asking...
i'm getting **** all...
well then... best not become a priest
and conjure up what i might need...
i may need this that and the other...
Hebrew...
i'll need the vowel hiding prerogative
to be minded... i'll need Kant..
punctuation marks and numbers....
most certainly letters...
plus akin to comma....

                                 if still alive: i'll lso require death...

chwila: xwila: a fleeting moment...
lapsed timing...
           c H-A
arecz: samo-H-ah...
                  nie na xixota.... śpiew
raptem: tak! ha! ha! aha!

daj znać gdy ty i ja,
tak nagle żyją... i nie... o tak!
i mihght have a Frenchman's heart
to want: Romance after news of
a hereafter..
the moon is blue
the sun is bronze...
the air is milky in the morning...
the water is traffic and there's no
traffic... i'd like death before the explaining mantra:
what's worth a life: squid parody on... ******* skates?!

the love of the gods is doubly insulating...
first they try to demolish you: one ******* fatal claim after another...
the they employ women... they too... *******.. fail...
what are you rounding up against, you?!
sails without winds and no boats to sail with,
the supposed... great artefacts of claiming
the winds!

i once sat alone in a park... hair growing freely....
i had no addition of a face with the addition of hair...
i had no beard, not stubble...
the wind was and my long hair was
and there was, no war, no famine...
there was only dancing and twice reading
into a Charles Dickens...

twice: a rereading a text not available
for journalistic imprints of:
that satisficed mantra of derailing:
expectations of the meddling-ground....

oh well: oh nothing...
oh riddle me some more: nothing...
life is cheap: buy it bought!
sell it sold!
       earn it not living (it); earning it!
ergo: "living"... and (existentialism)...

   a king's frown is a beggar's stomach...
money makes money:
onions grow on trees!

giving birth to the son of Mammon
was... not... hard?
seriously?!
                          thank god i'm twisted in my own
sort of superstitious way...
when there's talk of a birth of an angel...
my ****** demands become joke...
i forget something, and within the confines
of something: almost: everything...

save180:

p'oh tay t'oh
but not
toe-may-toe
that's not
t'oh may t'oh
but...
t'oh m'ah t'oh

         if only it was a p'oh t'ah toe t'oh.

or that worth of gimp, the hotted sauced out
cradle of predatory amusement              banked on,
                        i have the notes,
mind you, you're clearly laden
with khaki material,
to mind the blackshirts of the SS,
a Vandal epiphany -
                 less khaki juice
and more blackcurrants -
                  or so the motto stands,
asserting brief and all that thought
of tomorrow.
                   all i'll add with this
vague blunt alcohol ridden self?
the vampirism of the abandoned trill
of the R...
                   that's the Vlad-blatant
abandonment of the trilling of the R -
and the competent disregard for
linguistic laws...
                 until tomorrow,
until i find my sobering-up manicure
and in rewrite the notes i've made
when inspired...
                      and i have made them...
it's all about me being nicknamed
a Viking for my tolerance to drink
you under the table, and dabble with nods,
or the blatant hiding of the tetragrammaton
with ghee (said gee) and otherwise,
                  (Indian butter) -
or dhal - or quiet simply daal / dāl:
against the aesthetics, ouch.
     again in French: je t'aime: ř - adding zero
hour to the said: sharpening the shrapnel -
                       jaded temp. / jay temp. /
                  j-j ****** or the rue flu.
oh it's there, in the notes,
as i benign the thought: unfit today,
payday tomorrow.
wait... i might have a sober moment tonight...
         encapsulate that with a question
about Iran, and a quasi-stop in conversation...
        or counting the strokes in a handwritten
variation:
              Yen ( ¥‎) = 4
                      pound (£) = 2
    matchsticks...
                             elsewhere also matchsticks:
º (red)
                = R E D (3, 4, 2) matchsticks,
                 º (
writing is termed another variant of arithmetic,
the total is 7, for one ideogram) -
             the sigma for red
   is 9, but divided by three means
        the European model falls 4 short
of optical indigestion.
     ř (caron) - caron of the missing z -
         not the variant of caron s and c with z:
czekam (i'm waiting), or szukam (i'm looking),
English has this pronoun priority
                   to be included in every phrase,
or what provides the British Empire fabric:
            how a-  (indefinite)
     and the-    (definite) articulation secures
pronouns with excess modifications
  as already apparent conjunction modifications
worthy of exegesis into the exotic / excess.
there are 7 pages worth of notes,
   but i have three quarters worth of whiskey to
drink... give me an Andy Warhol moment
suggesting: in the future, people
will have only 15 minutes worth of rechargeable
         infrastructure; hence the pending /
ongoing / will return to in a minute.
reintroducing the trilled R vogue:
    is a bit like incubating a vampiric
in English,
                    rzekomo (apparently so)
       řekomo -
                         variant of: as already stratified.
               still, the trilling of the R
is so out of fashion in English it's necessarily
a vampirism qualm -
                   never nearer the French hark
when the R summarises a rolling effect -
      by imperial standards charred.
howe then to resemble a trill?
           r̭ ?
                   or wave akin to wavering
                       (ñ) that's necessary above an r?
i need the trill represented!
    for thrill a better word -
                  or 0 and the minded gambit.
as said caron the missing H...
       twins in
                 Y or three-dimensional space,
and W
              of trigonometric absorption...
waves hunny, waves...
                          and three dimensional space
and rabbis... honey cluedo pooh bear...
i still need to find the trilled r!
**** me, the trilled r! virgulilla:
or thus said, a patent otherwise.
        yet again a ******* Yeti,
    counting matchsticks in Japan
   rather than in Iowa...
             cos it really ******* mattered
given the knots -
       and other reminders...
         yen, or Jenny,
      v. p o u n d
            (2 1 2 2 2);
          ś (acute) half-missing caron
      inc. grave v. š (caron)
             or the Sean Connery effect -
e.g. środa (wednesday) or škodaª
             (insert a H or a Z)
           for pronunciation
                        of the Czech car manufacturer,
already the Tetragrammaton descends:
   ªwhat a shame, it's such a shame.
       Mishter Bondè:
                                tequila sunrise?
ney - ney shaken nor shackled to a shtir (
šush it, and wise up, mš. moneypenny).
    just say Sharon and write Šaron:
dimples!
                         or how to paint a Kabbalistic
anatomy of the mouth to slow variation
between ś (acute) / no consonants will ever
acquire a gràve - necessary: the e isn't said
accenting / syllable scalpelling cutting up...
but still the coran s (š - to mention
ch in cheap, and šiš kebabs too).
variation of cutting up the caron into
acute and grave?
      ś: the tongue is primarily squeezed by the psyche /
breath and the mouth rekindles eating a lemon
tightening it's juiced up and juices the tongue
to sting with missing saliva -
š? primarily a serpent's hush -
  the mouth hollows out -
         the breath enters a so does a pufferfish:
antics of hollowed out mouth follow suite,
the diamond or double L

       bone                                    soul
               L muscle                            L teeth
  tendon                               tongue

synonyms and Γ apart -
                                 of the LL, or ΓL
                    or LΓ or ΓΓ.
                      the diamond diadem -
assertion of bone: whether caprais or
   cousin in the mandible family...
    is a tongue a muscle?
            still the Kabbalistic anatomy dynamic...
  the kinned appearance of H or the
variant of bone...
     or?
              a-
                     (+)
                              -theism,
it doesn't mean that God doesn't exist,
it just means that God has no logical attachment
to man's sprechen,
            the omni- can be rightfully disregarded
in that rubric consolidated within
categorisation of: lazy...
      a- (i.e. without)  
                            theology,
              ­       or our abhorrent freedoms of will,
nurtured by a universal lack:
       atheism contemplates talk of god
without a contradictory circumstance of the
human endeavour to find itself a *******
     lacklustre of comparative Raphaelite
                 illustration...
                           always the favourite,
aren't they, the crucified ones, rather than
those enthroned? aren't they? so why are the
Japanese asking about their ****** culture?
over-sexualised west?
let's ask Yokote,
   let's ask Takeshi,
let's ask Masahiro,
             sure... you can ask me:
  i prefered prostitutes because i actually
knew i was using my phallus rather than representing
a ******* identity of some egocentrism
regarding the skyscraper -
                     and the last girlfriend i had?
i wouldn't wish her to be a companion of
any kind of a Mongolian invader as part
of a horde... i had an argument with her
and was so unhappy i actually wished i was dead...
          jerking off never seemed so holy
as when encountering this woman who
stood by the motto: life is ****...
           but i guess money does that to you.
**** me! i never expected to be so Japanese in
my outlook;
tragic, i know, but what can you do,
    you unlock the floodgates of feminism
and you think that lions will start to provide for
the household? then you aren't lionesses; obviously;
or reluctantly so:
           i find the 21st century is withstanding
  any kind of revision, given the 20th century's
revisions aren't working
        for any worthy necessitation of reciprocated
stipend.

i'll just say what it is, quiet frankly a beautiful
elaboration - for maxims are shake-shocks -
i'd call all proverbs or maxims Blitzkrieg annals -
well, something of that sort, once said:
a flash of genius, but then years of squabbling,
before someone emerges with what the maxim
requires: an elaboration - one of plain, simple
understanding - but of course, after the elaboration,
someone must second the elaborated understanding,
and put the genie back into the lamp,
and oddly enough, write a poem - the twist is,
the secondant must too elaborate on the elaboration,
as way to deviate and start a new subject matter.
this has been the case with what i picked up
a few minutes ago, Kierkegaard's Christian discourses,
the care of lowliness: do not worry about what
you will wear - the pagans seek all these things.
i for one know this to be very true -
once in a while i travel into London for opera and
ballet - i put on my standard outfit for the
occasion - so i basically do not look like a ***:
brown trousers, navy jacket, navy shoes,
light purple shirt - a typical grey area in a crowd -
and already upon stepping into the crowd,
that vast sea, i feel like i just temped into an
ant-mound, a colony of itchiness - in fact i used
to wear clothes in variation - no... well, let's just
say i'd get airs of contempt walking down
the golden-plated streets of civilisation -
where enough chewing gum patches create a horde
of concrete dalmatians -
but that's beside the point, that passage is ingenious
in its simplicity, Kierkegaard is a rarity in
philosophy, he writes like a novelist, there's an
actual narration in his works - he can almost
remind me of Rousseau (rue sow, said) -
i don't the concrete ideas (both are completely different)
i just me stylistically - Kierkegaard as such
is uncomplicated to have a firm footing in systematisation -
like i once said: systematisation is not
so much dishonesty, as a military approach to
language: a strict (limited) competence of language
(vocabulary) - and the incessant Holtwitzer* /
Howitzer style of bombarding a key concept, revising it,
coming at it from a different angle - but refining
certain concepts, instilled with what i already mentioned:
a strict competence of language / systematisation:
limiting the vocabulary; Kierkegaard epitomises the
Heraclitus river - it flows and flows - never minding
the whirlpool of the anti-claustrophobic fathers:
who's works are just that: all of them comfortable fitting
into a suitcase. ah crap, digression over,
mind you, it's not easy finding google whacks - it takes
a decent imagination to misspell a word to get the billions
reduced to 1: apparently there's a website dedicated to
them... well, that's a 2nd in my diary.
anyway (hopefully for the last time) - the comparison
of the bird and the lowly man, the two are unlike each other,
one has it easy, the other has a beginning in which
he sets out to be a lowly man, or to not be of such
disposition... the bird already is, what it is, so
the bird has it easy - the man faces a hardship of
the optical illusion, kindly provided by Vogue et al.:
he composites this with the bird's ontology as
pure animate - singing for its own delight,
the bird's death by impatience should it ponder itself
as being a bird, rather than as being-in-itself -
so there's the bird, pure animate presiding over its
ontology and not allowing hesitation or anything...
where am i getting at?
                                       the javelin throw,
the discuss throw, the baseball throw, gymnastics -
and Noah's ark: and the philosophical concepts
went up to the ark, two by two of their respective pairing:
existence & essence, subjectivity & objectivity,
good & evil... and of course animate & inanimate (objects),
for this is crucial for me... there's no thought
attached to the above stated activities, there is man's
respective animal-like representation - intuition and
gamblers luck remain in the head,
no boxer in a boxing ring can actually be said to be thinking,
too many chemical reactions are taking place,
and these athletes are not exactly chemically minded to
talk about the next more... that's the animate side
of man's ontology - the bird on the wheat shaft singing -
pure and simple... which brings me to consider
the following object that i have in my hand (head,
but never mind, i took it out and it's in my hand now) -
the inanimate nature of man... the buildings around us,
the garden fences... thought was derived from
us having the shadow duality with being animate,
we have instilled in us an inanimate nature,
from which thought is derived from - along with all
that comes with it: telescopes, hammers, autism,
solipsism (self-conscious autism), syringes, l.s.d.;
i set out to find out how we conceived thinking in
the first place - apart from the cliche duality contained
within: good v. evil or beyond that... well, beyond
that there's this... i could find no reason to imply that
man has only one nature in this pair going up to
Noah's ark... this stretches into the common misunderstanding
in the western world in the realm of medicine,
or as i like to call it: the Cartesian dark ages...
whereby a mental health issue is treated on the basis
that we are only animate beings, which, to my understanding
translates as: you have a puppet inside yer 'ed
and one of your strings snapped, mate... that's
what i don't understand... why is it that western medicine
conceived this idea that our nature is only animate,
and that we have to have a respective dynamic in
our mind to comply with the body's animate nature?
this is where the inanimate nature of our inner
life comes in, where thinking is derived from -
otherwise there would be no ****** good reason to
sit under a ***(h)i tree like a plonker for days,
would there? hey! probe all those words in the Asian
languages - dhal! probe! buddha! probe! probe them
all, wake up the h in each and every single word,
then start probing the y and the w in European languages!
boom! out pops a variation of n.e.w.s. of
Jewish mysticism.

no other - a windowsill and an open window -
sitting on a folded leg and slouched
like a crow - i would be begging for it to rain -
no other music can capture rain -
safety net of all that sporadic improv. -
                      other other music - except jazz...
whether it be rain nibbling on the countryside
or the full-on cosmopolitan havoc of grey,
dust, grease, cement and rats and glass...
                 never mind: because i never thought
i'd say this...
                of the moderns... closely ruling out
wojciech kilar - for no particular reason other than
he's probably more known -
christopher young - since his hellraiser stint...
what's new - the revamped pet cemetary?
well... if christopher young was primo...
      soon to follow him... graham... plowman...
work on h. p. lovecraft adaptations...
                     horror as a genre...
                                the music wins me over...
however spectacular the visuals are...
                               if the music isn't bone grinding -
unsettling the nerves -
well... that's like pop music when it's raining...
i guess: oh i guess jazz can capture more feelz
when it comes: when it's raining...
when it's lazily sun-dazzling with the impression
of an "underneath" sizzling sensation -
or melting butter - or for that matter melting chocolate...
or adding splashes of cornflour made in water
to a sauce and watching it thicken...
this recipe i will remember by heart...
i will have to at someone point...
but this dhal was quite sublime...

   scrap book recipe...
          a man in a kitchen...
               and in hell... the devil's mastery...
almost like a chemistry experiment...

       half and half: masoor and mung dal... lentils...
kabuli chana (chickpeas)...
    a bay leaf...
              3 cloves...
  a tsp of cumin coriander turmeric
                     chilly powder and another of kashmiri
   chilly powder
                chopped tomatoes
  coconut milk...
            onion ginger garlic
                spinach
      gochugaru flakes coriander for garnish...
veg and chicken stock...
                          ghee...
butternut squash...
                    cayenne pepper (1 tsp)...
    i was looking for a pinch of asafoetida...
i knew it was in the kitchen...
    alas... also know as a substitute for those
vegan cults that don't include eating onions
and garlic... or perhaps just onions...
    cinnamon stick? no...
but three decent pinches of a homemade
garam masala...
  and yes...

   https://ministryofcurry.com/moms-garam-masala/
is the only spice blend...
   the russians can have their nukes...
the americans can have their nukes...
i have an arsenal of the following spices and...
i'm feeling... like i just had a manicure done...
the only garam masala:
asafetida, bay leaves, black peppercorns,
black cardamom, cardamom, cumin seeds,
(sorry, no black cumin seeds),
      cinnamon, cloves, cordiander seeds,
dried chillies, fennel seeds, fenugreek seeds,
(mace? no mace)...
         nutmeg, poppy seeds, star anise...
turmeric...
          again: no stone flower...
well... that's almost covered it...
                it's not the recipe asks for black
mustard seeds... those i do have...

                   cult recipe and it says: who needs...
meat?! even i'm convinced...
god i do love a good steak tartar...
    anything ****** and oozing wriggly bits
of life - as tender and gelatin grizzly as a...
even the names: bleu... ooh... saignant...
  haha... medium: demi-anglais... what else?

the butchers rolling in their graves
when someone orders a steak: fini-bien...
                          or some other frankenstein of the kitchen...

coleman hawkins - the high and mighty hawk...
some guys were putting up a fence
for me and my neighbour - it only took 15 years
but who's counting - they were told to
cut out all the bushes and foliage in my garden...
so that they could get a straight line
and so the fence would be put up...
unlucky for my rosemary bush...

r.i.p. my rosemary bush...
        today i started to salvage the poor thing...
the newer shoots i placed in water for
a drink and hopefully 2 weeks from today
i might think about planting them back in
the ground... for the rest of the bush?
i had to freeze the rosemary...
all afternoon my fingers were scented with rosemary...
which is fine... when you're working
with a raw piece of lamb...
but i'm no walking and breathing and aching
lamb of god about to be hanging
on the cross...
                even through the soap...
an afternoon of my hands being heavily scented
with rosemary...

vivaldi can have spring and the other three
faces of "god"...
holst can have his mars and the other circle of hell...
but thank the high-flying-****
that jazz can capture a rainy day better
than that song: i'm only happy when it rains
by garbage...
            
  guess i'm not letting go...
         an active rebellion against classical music...
one jazz record after another and i can gravitate
to...ward... the entire e.p. being played...
none of that new wave harakiri diat l.p. scene -
much appreciated... but i always need to move
beyond the half-an-hour mark...

         then again: i can't see how jazz could
compensate for snow - snow on the exit format -
jazz doesn't - then again...
no, categorically...
                           if there's only a sly insert of drum...
no horns - the piano and some guitar -
  
   otherwise you can't go wrong with
joshua redman - back east...
         a modern classic - notably with zarafah...

speed-conversations - none clinging
to a cameo of a date...
                 fickle minded - always changing
the course of events that... nonetheless remain
intact on binding themselves to a blind will -
        
music and all these interpretations are my own -
too bad to see and have to work with
a cipher - what's behind this image -
what's behind that image -
at least music stands stark and shivering naked...
less chances to abide by some propaganda...

unless of course mathematics is to be given
the crown - i hardly think: one shouldn't really
think about music -
                one can never really fathom
the constraints and the escapees from these
constraints... these constant revisionary scribbling
over and skimming the orthodox:
brick-on-brick intricacies of: immoveable objects
being: nonetheless moved...

- i too am waiting for my libido to die off -
anytime soon... like right now...
no harem therefore "jazz hands" and the algebra
of "magic fingers"...
idle man and all that *** that could have been...
until that magnetism is steered off a cliff
of: not another tomorrow -
                    at least no ***** or *** doll upon
the horizon -
            no point getting intimate or personal...
only a few days back i found a weakness in
this exoskeleton -
standing in a shower... pouring running water
onto the back of my head...
i almost knelt and said my prayers from
the exhaustion of succumbing to this multiple-******
of nuance...
       right on the spot where
a higher evolution of a more, protruding occipital
bone: as i've heard it once before: being noted...
i'm waiting for my libido to **** itself off...
in the meantime no harem...
imagine my luck when it comes to
the wisdom served up by men like king solomon...
even by then:
this most exhausted man had
to settle for a swan's dignity in monogamy
with the queen of Sheba...

                 but it's hard to translate wisdom
when you have all the basic forebodings
already at your disposal... the harem will discover
***-toys and you will be...
the limp **** in the whole affair...

                 such hard-on feats of fear when it comes
to... two cakes too many
when all you've been asking for is, merely a slice...
jazz... i can't find
a clint eastwood in alcatraz...
or steve mcqueen in sagan...
               or witold pilecki in auschwitz...      
but i can find myself in jazz...
hummingbird or some, other, champagne flute
and that bothersome fly...
nothing against flies: everything against
mosquitos... i would **** those buggers with
the same joy of donning wool having
just sheered a sheep or two...

jazz and: the wriggling fish...
jazz and all the fish out of water...
i'd call them constipated ***** and lobsters
but... jazz and the wriggling fish...
jazz and smoking a cigarette to appreciate
the deaf centre point of night's culminations...
living close by to central london...
"walking in" and not feeling like
anybody important: or a tourist...

       if i wasn't a billy joel: i would most certainly
not want to be a bob dylan -
hard to be living the obscure with a cross
made up of iconography...

the applauded and the: billy joels' piano man meets
neil young's old man...
they shake hands and subsequently depart
where the crossroads begin, and end...

believe me when: i'm the last to be believed...
usher in a dozen penguins attired
to be... fizzy kosher dosh...
in all their napkins and bowtie-neck strangle 'em
into a hush of a bamboozle...

such the life the music the mathematics
of living in shackles - wriggly ol' ****** with
those improv. would-be-turns and...

how many words will it take for it to be clear...
i have nothing but rejoice at clinging
to my obscurity... primo amigo:
alea iacta est: too bad for me...
or too bad for my shadow...
                       faking being a gemini
in the horoscopes of fate and superstition...
shadow: mime out of the confines...

      these is my second chance at retaining
the crown of obscurity? is it?! is it?!

   to have to burden oneself with love...
akin to... well... if i were about to spoon her...
but no... i wanted to catch the 8 hour kipper....
but every time i would fall
to sleep... i'd fall asleep with a tarantula bite...
numb all over to one side...
because i was oh too willing to fall asleep
when clinging to her...
like a bracket fungus to trunk and core...
one side of me complete in numb...
which had a rubric of recitations
should all else not be true...

but *****! that slap in the face...
                             come to think of it...
i'd like something to eat...
less **** with... that could pinch me...
i'm starting to think that
being ganged up by a group of hyennas
is not such a bad way to go...
perhaps being mistaken for a tuna
when a shark attack is being
noted...
            hard to imagine
sharks or bears or lions as having
sadistic undercurrents to their day-in-day-out
beats...
  even sharks nibble but never gorge
and feast on... this cranium solid first and only
hope when it comes to god
not making mistakes when gambling...
the ******* roulette or a black jacks' "choice"
of cards...

i can't exactly "think" this out to appease
a gravitating en masse...
                       pour me another shot and
debackle! all in the faith and hope
of un-thinking thinking...
trying out this suction tenticle of the void...
replacing descartes' res cogitans with
res vanus... what is due: is due...

no more wisdom from me aged 34
as me aged 73... there's only rain and jazz...
i'm buying time...
concerning whether it would be even
remotely likely to appreciate jazz
when it's snowing... unlikely...
very much hell-bent unlikely...

      - who would have thought that peering
into an aquarium would have to,
become more entertaining that zombie-clad
watching a t.v....
what ever happened to the watching
a klepsydra... or the tick-toe-tightening
of seconds into minutes into hours...
dying from the skeleton diet of time
whenever catching-up: unaware with
the clock in the confines of:
old people not really...
no, not really, listening to coleman hawkins'
much of anything...

                     because this doesn't tease
the affections of the young...
like a trainspotting revamp might....
because there's, clearly no new dracula...
and there's no new: new....
                     i wait patiently like a salamander....
no easy picking no low hanging fruit...
no fatty boy'oh to matter...
         no leeching off the three-quarters
of                               the better part of the engineering
cohort that were behind
the manhattan bridge... or Malbork Castle...
and hands on hands: do touch...
the event horizon of a dead star...
                    in that: pulling fabric...
basic genesis... talking fire "misanthrope": "god"...
bushes outgrowing fungus when
it came to 1970s ***** flicks:
notably in fwench and italian...
                   prune the perm hair...
                             keep that afro on a leash!

these days ***** is half of the cure's nostalgia
and more...
onomatopoeia and...
    refining the contorts with painting...
and keeping the act on a hush...
               the lazy hands speaking
dozen **** cracks being discovered but
none being experienced...
bone the hand...
it's called a ****** just because
of oysters... it's called a ******
because of the clams and of the irises...
and because the tongue:
god... ever time i wanted it to exfoliate...
it's forever that timid tulip!

         what came of a ****** became a hand
and the cusp... and what would never
become a San Francisco needle hinge epidemic...

was anyone praying that
one direction would become the next rolling stones...
cougar: meow...
that **** jagger was going to be
the "reincarnated" harry styles?

           knock-knock... who's there?
a premonition... i.e. touch-wood...
base: i will require the wood to be touched
by bone - notably a crunch of the knuckle in how
the fist is formed / fathomed...

        otherwise known as the lap-lapping-dance-off
with a tongue wriggling in imitation
closure of a worm...
or a fighter for a boxing champ. contender...
belt-up... knot and noose down....
the new news is no: good skit...
i **** myself to fickle my shadow
whenever i see a hoopla or a trance inducing
recoil of the swinging dancing spare
of a: rope that's not leftover for
the dangling first come first served...

daydreaming zeppelins...
the day the elevated english man will fall...
and bring down the bowler hat with him...
touch the philosopher's stone and turn
that attache of good taste into an umbrella...
the same day i stop daydreaming
about zepplins...
will see me think of the anglo-saxon
as whittle brother... the younger Swabian...
and all part of the infuriated minor
Germany that found inkling to behave
like the nomad Yids...
and move... and move... and...
never the sort of people to conceive of a ship...
without also being receptive of carrying
an anchor!

then again...
                   monkey man albino and...
forever the one to follow the white rabbit back home.

with him included? the devil's dozen, or
the 13 -
             then the hours of Horus:
noon - Simon Peter -
later with covenant
of the hour: holy spirit,
and the minute hand: son
                       and the second hand: the father
oh quiet the trinity handful,
given year zero -
            hours 12 through to 1
Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew,
Thomas, Matthew, James, Thaddeus, Simon, Judas

                                    s / p.
                    s.                                 a.
                   θ.                                      j.
                  j.                     Δ                     j.  
                         m.                                  p.
                                             b.

look at the ******* clock! something's awry!
Simon peter 12
     Andrew 13
        James 14
                   John 15 (3 a.m. / p.m.)
       Philip 16
         Bartholomew 17 (5 p.m.)
        Thomas 18 (six)
                         Matthew 19 (seven)
                James (ibn Alφaeus) 20 (eight)
     "θ" (nine),
                  Simon K9'ite - ten
          Iscariot - eleven     - clocks are wrong...
the year 0 a.d. is based on this,
               twelve disciples, twelve hours a.m. / a.d.
and                                              v.  
                                                 p.m. / b.c.,
   hence the trinity / Δ -
an hour for the holy spirit to catch on,
son monetises the minutes
and the father being omnipresent understands within
seconds...
                       but i was aiming to do justice to the harvest missed
last year, i was intending to make wine;
hence the list of ingredients,
a) wine yeast;
             b) yeast nutrient:
                                diammonium phosphate,
magnesium sulphate, nicotinic acid, magnesium carbonate,
   thiamine hydrochloride, zinc sulphate, ferrous
ammonium sulphate, biotin;
   c) pectolase:
                    pectinase enzyme, dextrose monohydrate;
d) bruclens cleaner / steriliser:
                   sodium percarbonate;
  e) fine fining A: silica sol,
                  "      B: chitosan (derived from crab and shrimp
shells, contains sodium metabisulphite)
                 f) two months' worth of patience.
it's that time of the year where you make wine
(just a little bush, enough for 12 bottles) -
and gestapo a curry -
                                   a tarka dhal
and a kheralan chicken with coconut milk...
i love when **** decays, it tastes better than
when **** blossoms and isn't exactly edible
but merely colourful.

some claim it's an aesthetic, others claim it's the mystery of lawlessness, because in all honesty: upper-case Q could be written in lower-case as ǫ, rather than q, all too familiar is ρ (rho) - and there is no law suggesting any convention should be kept to a model of standardisation... hence the dichotomy experienced by dyslexics to the familiar argument: why the disparaging phoneticism from optical aesthetic, why write that and then only say 'y'? much of modern English borrows from the seemingly unnecessary h insertion borrowed from Hindu... dhal... the aesthetic insertion of a surd-letter into an otherwise convenient phonetic-encoding... although either an umlaut or a macron is missing above the a to prolong it; and depending on your aesthetic palette... i'm already advocating a change to sz & cz by stressing the replacement using the caron: š / č... in English the equivalent is bound to words like shrapnel and chatter.

as anyone would say *idiot, i'd say tuman,
that's because:
                          when syllables are inconvenient
i'd stress that, and write túman...
if i were saying swamp, i'd be right
in also saying bägno - obviously
there are distinctions, akin to punctuation
marks, diacritical marks are effectually
"punctuation" marks, well... inccissions
embedded in words;
these aren't rhetorical assertions, they're
biased on the basis of optometry.
then i might add: with a straw
                      alternatively słomką...
otherwise the noun słomka, i.e. straw,
wheat shaft... a shaft hollowed out
and as Polish girls know all too well:
snakebite (at English universities,
half beer, half cider, a head of
                            blackcurrant juice),
but back east it's just beer and raspberry juice
concentrate: funny... where's the rhapsody?
if the ą is used at the end of the word
then there's an intended action involving
the stated thing... but it's not a universal
statement, just this particular instance...
it's odd, i wake up from my Alaskan vigil
and realise i didn't take my sleep-synthetic
requirements to go to sleep during the night
and wake up during the night...
  that means i'm annoyed, putting it mildly.
words that shoot into my head like sunrise...
newspapers are the bearable versions of Proust,
   bypassing publishing houses can allow
for diarrhoea talent, and no to constipated
critically acclaimed blah blah...
    it's 8:36 in the morning and i don't know why
it's ****** beautiful... everyone's so content
with being busy, doing something, anything,
everything... it's that critical moment in autumn
when the leaves on trees have lost the stalemate
with ******-twisting winter frosts,
   and fall into the ***** of death and rot...
and then these random words enter my head,
words i either forgotten to use or are too obscure
to use in the first place, polish slang...
e.g. kumam, i understand -
     p'stro, a condescending consideration
     for explaining something worth contempt
to the other, but not the self, i.e. the magpie attitude.
   i can't help myself, seeing English *******
on by lazy ***** with :) and :( and acronym talk
i feel i have to provide an antidote...
  the ' in p'stro?         bulging / building up,
there's no p in any language with a syllable
distinction worth a diacritical mark...
   and now it's 8:42 in the morning, and i have half
a litre of whiskey to sniff... should i?
what's Copernican west to Copernican a.m.?
   gentlemen only drink in the afternoon...
yep, and Ben Hur drank in the morning for
the calories awaiting the chariot races...
ha ha... i'd love to see a drunk goldfish...
    but it's fun like that... so many serious people out
there who learned the Pink Floyd march of
the hammers... i don't think i can take a bishop
with a bishop's attire seriously...
                   or a skinhead Buddhist monk...
they're all baldy baldy vaseline hoping for the sheen...
can any authority be taken seriously?
       now i'm truly bullshiting...
i lost this one word in my head... sieve:
motyl, butterfly,
           ćmá, moth (that's a slingshot need
          for acuteness on the a, slingshot is the stress on
the c, and the stress on the a is the actual missile,
   oh, by no means is this orthodox),
  język, tongue / language,
  ozór, edible cow tongue: very tender
in creamy horseradish sauce accompanied with
Silesian gnocchi...
            Q is the acute version of K & C,
i.e. what would otherwise be deemed é to an e.
   wolny, a penalty kick / someone who's free,
  wapń, calcium...
                  what i'm basically saying is that we encounter
so much vocal poverty in this world,
so many words are disused or underused or simply
abandoned...
                        someone weeps over a disused building
weathered by the elements...
   i see an opportunity to engage squatters,
or in the case of words: poets.

Tujh ko wafa ki raah mein chalna nahi aaya...
Do roz bhi tu haath ko thaam na paaya...

(You could not learn the art of walking the faithful route...
You could not even hold my hand for a couple of days....)

Meri kahi baaton ko tu sun hi nahi paaya
Teri kahi baaton pe yaqeen bhi nahi aaya

(You could never hear the things I spoke to you....
I could never believe the things that you spoke about..)

Mujh ko nahi hai gham ke tera ishq na paaya...
Gham hai ke ishq dil ko tere chuu hi na paaya...

(I do not regret that I could not have your love....
I regret that love could never touch your heart...)

Khudsaari mein kyun kar ** tumhein kuch nazar aaya
Deed e nazar tha surat e zaati mein samaya

(From amongst your self involvement how could you have been able to see anything...
The vision of your eyes was completely encompassed by self imagery..)

Baaton pe pad gaya hai kyun sannate ka saaya...
Zabaan ko bhi zaayka e alfaaz na aaya...

(Why have the talks now been covered with the shadows of silence...??
Even the tongue could not taste the flavor of words...)

Baksha nahi rehem to tujhe bhi nahi aaya
Aankhon ko meri tune bhi hai kitna rulaya

(You didn’t spare me either and even you could not have mercy on me.....
Even You have made my eyes cry so much)

Har baat par tune berukhi ko hai apnaya...
Har baar maine rishte pe malham hai lagaya

(For everything you resorted to callousness...
Every time I have been putting the bandage to our relationship...)

Dekho tumhe yeh ishq hai kis mod pe laaya...
“Ain” ab to chalo dhal gaya jo tha bas ek saaya...

(Just see at which junction has your love brought me...
Let’s now go”Ain” as that which was just a shadow has set away...)

Char pahar ki baate ab,
Ek pahar mein dhal sa gaya!
Ek pahar bhi na Jane kab,
Ek ghante mein badal sa gaya!
Dekhte hi dekhte ek ghanta bhi,
Ek mintue ban sa gaya!
Waqt ke sath tum bhi ,
Badal se gaye!

Chalo,thik hai
Badalna hi tha toh thodi der se ,
Badal jate,
Vo Kya hai na,
Waqt mil jata hume,
Hum bhi Toda sambhal se jate!

To not know where's the finish line,
But we swear, we're doing absolutely fine.
At least, we're trying hard this time
To reflect upon the nature of our crimes.

The times we laughed and hugged
Laughed madly as though we're drugged,
And the times we sung of our exploits
To friends' banter that never disappoint.

Lest we forget, times we roamed freely
But failed to enjoy the universe's glory,
Oh the times we're at mamaks watching football
While enjoying roti canai with a side of dhal.

It was small, and as all small things are,
They're always missing from our repertoire.
I'll be sure, the next time we're in luck,
The tighter I'll hold on to every last hug.

Spending every moment of the day with you
would be quite tiresome
exhausting my soul to the point of starvation

I am in need of a spiritual nourishment
a nourishment that strengthens me
feels as healthy as a vegan dhal on a Saturday afternoon

i've recently become a big fan of the Dune movie
from 1984... two year before my birth,
i won't go into the details...
but one detail really grew on me...
the idea of making a word a weapon: somehow
telekinetically charged to release a missile /
a laser shot: whatever...
where have i heard this "line" before... hmm...
oh... right... Revelation 13...
although... the beast didn't blaspheme against
the Hebrew deity: he would most likely
make foul oaths: *******, mate, e.g.,
i swear by the powers invested in me that
i will call the name the name: ha-shem...
but i will not utter the name

   Y       H
       Æ
   W     H

thinking cap on (well... a hat i found, female,
with a pon-pon, that's my 'czapka niewitka')
the Qabbalists might refer to the above
schematic as a magic sq.
a sudoku puzzle might be considered
a "magic sq."

Æ? how did we begin, as sexless creatures...
self-reproducing,
   of the Adam and the Eva of the union...
that's how i see it... but i will not utter the name...
even if i uttered it, i wouldn't utter it like
Hindus of the Raj insert surd H's into their
words... dhal... e.g. you don't hark
you don't trill the R... you language is a *******
babble...

like the French like the English:
the people who have lost the clarity of phonetic
distinction, they were already sleeping together
given tongues concerned...
i'm the ******* barbarian who can speak...

ha... that thing with orcs... that meme...
they're supposed to represent black people...
you sure? i always thought of the Orcs as somewhat
Slavic, if not Slavic then mingling with the Turks
and the Mongols... only now... just now...
have the Africans started migrating...
all those years prior, sitting on their ***** in
the sunshine of the equator...
but the Slavs: the Russian menace?
the knocking on the door of Europe by the Mongols
and the Ottoman Turks?!
Caucasian folk... most of the time i think that
Africans are docile creatures...
esp. up North during the winter months...

you really have to get used to the cold:
to build up an acute sense of something...
in the warmth: no wonder the former great civilisations
are now ****-holes...
you can do so much more in the warmth...
check your ******* privilege...
up north, when winter comes...
good luck with staging intellectual discussions...
good luck painting, writing...
sure... the desert can also **** you...
but there's a slight difference between
being cold and being hot...
ask the insects... where the **** are they?
oh... hibernating, returning to their embryotic strategy:
waiting it out...

right... Orcs depict black people... huh?!
ah ha ha ha ha!
deluded western liberals...
  i don't even know what that word means...
even if i prefix it with: classically liberal...
what the ****'s that?!
i don't literally know, i always thought myself
as liberty first: liberty thirst...
i don't even know...

those lines from Revelation 13 though and Dune...
the weapons they used... they used words
channeled psychically into a weapon and: whoosh!
a blast!

Revelation 13: 5 through to 7

5
the beast was given a mouth to utter proud words
and blasphemies and to exercise his
authority for forty-two months.
6
he opened his mouth to blaspheme god,
and to slander his name and his dwelling
place and those who live in heaven.
7
he was given power to make war against
the saints and to conquer them.
and he was given authority over every tribe,
people, language and nation.

does anyone even know how many people of
this world currently reside in London?
my last estimate read at counting over 200+ tongues...

i just told you that i am celebrating the name
of the god of Abraham - i will not utter it...
i'll say ***** little ****-wit ******* but
i will not utter that name,
or for that matter all the names bound to the tree
of life...

it seems like fair reparations for the Hebrews being
expelled from Europe in the manner they were
expelled... someone (like me) comes along
and has the nerve, the senses the intellect
to appreciate the Hebrew teachings...
oh look... it phonetically coincides with "something":
this "something" being akin to the name of
the Hebrew deity...

because what have the replacement "Jews" brought?
funny... Malta is an ultra-catholic nation...
island... yet their language is a bit ****** up...
they call gott: allah... true... check it out...

i mean: since the 19th century! there has been an identity
crisis, if not beginning with Nietzsche,
then unto not...
i could possibly pull of looking like
the depiction by Luca Signorelli...
if i grew my hair long once more... eh...
long hair... too much hassle... plus donning a beard
and having long hair is not befitting a man these days...
long hair + a beard = no, no... no no... a bigger NO-NO...

because there's a horde of people who "think"...
whatever it is that they "think"...
beside the cosmopolitan messiah's preaching...
expulsion of the Hebrews from their land,
the exodus up north summated by a genocide...
it's not even like the Hebrew constructed the barracks
and the chimneys of the crematoriums,
or the ghostly gas chambers...
so... where are the supposed pyramids of the north?!
nowhere to be found...

good enough that while i write this i have auditory
hallucinations: that i speak two tongues...
one tongue silences the other tongue....
i hear LOSER... that word gets lost, somewhere:
"somewhere" in my labyrinth...
i'm yet to find a psychiatrist that might
talk to a bilingual schizophrenic: supposed "schizophrenic":
the entire world is more mad than me...
i'm pretty tame by comparison:
i'm about to make some pork schnitzels, poach young
tatties and make a miseria (a cucumber salad)...
some asparagus on the side if anyone might be gagging...

that the people kept crying wolf...
wolf and wolf did come...

oh Gemma, Gemma, Gemma... can i call you mother Gomorrah?
i'm not even thinking about ******* her...
i am thinking about ******* her, but...
like the ancient Roman tradition of surrogate fatherhood...
i'm actually thinking about her 11 year old son...
that's how things we done in the past...

because how is passing on my genes
important when... those same genes get halved
in their immediacy, a half becomes a quarter,
a quarter becomes an eighth... an eighth a sixteenth:
so and so ad nauseam...
but passing on an idea...        mein gott!
it's like gambling with your own body's
disqualifications to reproduce properly...
to breed Spartans... perhaps not even so much
as to breed... pickling-intellects of Athens...
something... in-between...

              imagine that, working on a little Frankenstein:
sure... not my own... all the better...
the woman is always a side-"thing"...
i'm curious about the child...
maybe that's what makes single mothers so attractive...
there's a chance i can mould a child
in my own image...
you know, dear reader, where this is going:
and god made man in his own image...

that's what making me so butterfly-riddled in
the stomach... the fact that she's 39 and still attractive
is one thing... i took note when she took note
that at Oxford two younglings... 18? petite blondes
took interest in me... she had to double down...
well... that's certainly bragging:
i'm bragging that i'm observant...
sure... you can have the Lamborghini and the yacht...
i'm pretty content with my lungs,
my eyes, my arms and my legs...

i nawet krucjaty dotarły do mojej ziemi!
a więc sam czas dotarł do mnie: aby mnie obudzić...

people have taken the matter oh too lightly...
Hey-Zeus knows... if i might just tease him a little....
he might just come round a second time...
the wandering stars are proof...
i believe this might be translated as:
searching for a host...

                   i'm currently working with a... wow...
a Latvian... better learn some Latvian...

SVEIKI DRAUGS (hello friend)...
    KAA IR JUUSU DIENA (DZIEŃ)
aha... dzusu or yusu?!

sorted... it's unavoidable to merely ask about
so many coincides coming together,
the great fire of London come 1666...
come on... if anything is to be more blatantly obvious...
it's this, it's this: now... diese: jetzt!

i mean: i could be considered an egoist,
a solipsist... but then again: i share my head
with a quadratic, two tongues and hallucinations
(auditory) in two tongues, towing shrapnel of
Latin and Hebrew... mostly presuppositions
and conjunctions of the latter two tongues...
i once owned a cat, kid you not,
that between meows and other onomatopoeias
spoke to me the word: JABEŁ:
in english the translation would read
as y'ah'b'eh'w... the "stand-alone" W doesn't
have to be a "double-u": it can be a dive into
a simple word like W'hen... or W'heather...
you just don't say the word, just stress the first sound
about to be made...

too many coincides have come together to be called
coincidences...
oh Gemma... why am i thinking about Frankie?
i see them at football matches,
Leeds fans... some drunken dad going mental
over a football match... the young boy he has with him
sort of feels embarrassed...
i yawn... because: it's a football match...
i'll enjoy the game... but: support a team?
you'll sooner find me dead than in a football jearsey...

because: like i ******* care...
i care that i'm not reading Locke and instead decided
to take up the German Idealism route of
sorting boxes from rocks... mountains from seas...
that's me!

Orcs are a depiction of black people... ha ha...
what was the last place that Africans invaded?!
Rwanda was close... having invaded themselves...
that's how the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
was dismantled... the elites of said: entity
became sado-masochists and wanted to hurt themselves...
it's always the same:
and their own do it unto their own because...
they're just "out of it"...
some people just want to see the world burn
around them...
                                 they are psychopaths, sociopaths...
whatever you want to diagnose them with:
basically cowards... cucks...

they experienced too much of life to know what
merely existing implies:
deriving pleasure from merely thinking is a good start...
but, no...
that's not on the table...
like yesterday... a trip up to Oxford became revelatory...
i had a quasi-Ramadam teaser...
i didn't eat anything from sunrise to sunset...
sure, i had a coffee and a cigarette... but no food...
after sunset i tried to turkey-feed myself
some vegetarian wraps...
can you imagine how painful it was to ingest anything?

to hell with a ritualistic month...
i'll do a Ramadam on the sly, impromptu...
i figured... well at least being hungry allows me
to focus on other things...
being filled, being nourished might leave me sloppy
when observing people for potential danger;
so i do that.

Sanskrit prudence in Dublin...
because you know...
i'm your next: on cue to be the next
Delmore Schwartz in making
Finnegans Wake somehow "pop"....
not going to happen: dear son
of an Arab lost on Aran...

i thought the prize was the puzzle: per se?

oh i'm sure you have heard... the Irish...
can we please serve these people
the proper non-anglican diacritical markers?
no? we can't?
no problem... we'll find alternative avenues...
i will never find my feet making
footnotes in a Thailand...
the rich rushkeys and the rude -
compensation markers -
the culture from beijing...
always your first go to...
stomach ache...
apparently cannibalism is not so bad...
when you hear about what
the chinese are cooking...

no... can i please pet my cat?
i like petting my cat...
and there's this "how-almighty":
pretty awe-mighty Allah stressing
pork decrees as: "***** meat"...
like i said... ***** are vultures...
but... bound to water, to salt water...
well... you know that salt is...
a bit like keeping meat refrigerated?
it's a compensation guise of keeping
meat alive...
that's at least how herrings from
the baltic were kept...
ask any tapeworm or other kaleidoscope
of parasite...
no thing to be found or be bound
to being denoted: alive...
in the dead sea...

salt curates more than the viscious
sun, the desert...
salt and how it can be thought of as...
******* the juices -
esp. noted in cooking -
in a stew, a broth, a curry...
the magnet addition...
throw some salt into the equation
and watch the tapeworm
shrivel and die...
dehydrate the body...
salt caramel lollipops...

thai... thai **** beetroot:
because there was no bogus
to begin with...
eh... fickle most probably tamed
feeble stomachs...
probably glutton or lactose intolerate...
weak western stomachs that
need to be pampered...
oat free - wheat free - lactose free is
my limitation...
gelatin free too?

but the irish... exploration of
τ (tau) within the, much reserved orthodoxy
of the anglican: θ (theta)...
it has to be: catcher of the F...
upon hitting the definite article you can
see and sport a sparrow with: delta...
the fact...
the said...

otherwise... i already stressed:
the **** **** worth of truth -
the german said: leash!
the russian said: bullet in the back
of the head - like the next ukranian -
and that's how you pet a dog?
the german said: leash!
the russian said: bullet in the back
of the head... let's watch
a cascade of dominos as if:
if ever karma!

the irish myth of θought...
oh... unlike me...
looking for... oh look...
omicron O iota I...
φ phi insert the door locked...
turn, twist, θ... door opens...
****... troy's trident of
Perseus making miracles
with a strap-on *****...
Ψ pops out, motto: "check your soul"...
an atheist a materialist...
supposing... do i still have a thinking attached
to the existence of a soul,
or was it more or less...
lodged in the bribe pocket of materialism
of the body that...
cancerous evil... when not looked
at the serenity of the event via a botanical
lense of... the mistletoe...
which is a botanical variation of cancer...
it grows on trees...
and people demand to be kissed under it...
hell'oh lip cancer!

but the Irish? oh there's still that....
τ (tau) within the, much reserved orthodoxy
of the anglican: θ (theta)...
which is like saying...
the sanskrit crowd surd the H...
it's silence... the irish will never...
the θing is true...
nope... the irish will: the τing is true...
or... apostrophe the H out of the whole
"thing"...
it doesn't apply to: THE...
that theta's trip is already lost...
replaced by churchill *******
a east end london girl:
wishing Whitechapel was somehow...
a Hammersmith... comparatively?
they don't differ, that much...

the Irish searching for the tau in theta?
oh sure... no Yeats in sight...
not mention of the chinese philosophy of:
eat dogs first... salvage the cows for milk
Tao...

but in Sanskrit the H is a surd...
which... must be a Boston Irish t'ing too!
how the T can escape the greek F...
and the other greek F of φilosoφy...
otherwise... what do we call it?
ψycology: in spelling: psychology...
but in "reality"?
surd π:
σycology - no... south korean PSI... is there?
nor with a surd gamma (γ) in:
'νoστικ... i.e.
no more a 'νoστικ than... oh! the eye-itch
of having to... nonetheless write:
γνoμη (no-oo-mm)
because by now the epsilon or eta is also,
somehow: surded...

a known-aum...
and yes: the K is surd...
like in no-um... otherwise dhal or dal or daal...
or a macron appears above the A...
and we have ourselves
a gnostic ('nostic): gnome ('nome)...

nomine ex response agnitio?
ex pandectis Florentinis... repraesentatus,
com[m]entariis Accursii, Scholiis Contii...

i believe eta (η) to be the shorter version
of epsilon (ε)...
as i believe that omicron (o) to be the shorter
version of omega (ω) -
then again... that's just me...

believe my disbelief -
to first own a dog - a leash -
to later discard a dog: a bullet to the back
of the head...

but... i fold...
this is not a poker came i'm going to be
best equipped by...
it's all that more simple since...
i'm not a native: curator tourist...
it's a Dublin "thing"...
when... i'm told to stress extracting
a tau from the theta...
calling "it" a τing and not a θing...

i am allowed to relax whenever the 2nd
greek F comes into play...
"relax"... φilosoφy is somehow;
what? the *****-slap waiting in the background...
when the atheist materialists use a term
like soul... but... thinking should not
be investing itself in the existence
of a phantom, a ghost,
all thought should be invested in the body:
all body: no soul...

no wonder... psychology...
oh the name will not change...
after the "death of god" the human soul has become...
at peace in refining its sadism...
it's very gentle... it's very subtle...
it refined fine dining!

first you require the prime...
anaesthetic... a curtain of fiction...
fiction is the ultimate anaesthetic...
it's not the sort of anaesthetic injected upon...
dealing with critical pain...
sending you into a pocket of coma...
fiction is a subtle variation of
the anaesthetic... the pain of a pointless
existence requires more cushions
and less... fears of the needle...
imagine what fiction wouldn't be...
if... you would require people to be
pampared to...
to have pigs slaughtered...
cushions! to have "proper", ahem...
"grammar" and "pronouns"! ahem...

and i have been diagnosed as a schizophrenic...
i tell you...
bilingual is the new schizophrenic!
i love it... the one time when
poetry can meet psychiatry:
on its own terms: on the crux of metaphors!
i love it!

at least that's how you explore:
pseudo-medicine...
psychiatry...
the grey areas with metaphors...
the entire litany is probably an oops
and a Daisy of a correct etymology - "correct" -
otherwise misnomer applications...
a hammer was used for screws...
a screwdriver was used for nails...
same old, same old;

better you than me...
and that me is not the you about to listen
to some heavily tatooed nymphomaniac
from st. petersburg: alias novosibirsk...
i too though i was a bit mad
having moved from the outskirts
of London... into the center of Edinburgh;
clown luck at being right;
i should have been the sort
to have moved from the underbelly of
Tehran - interracially bred -
started a renting company -
and had a girl by the name of Laura...
what's Laura in Farsi Baháʼí?

i was this close to ******* my way into
the cult... this close...
suitor: better i just stick to the beetroot,
parsley root, carrot, turnip,
wholesome cabbage, potatoes...
and sure as **** no mamluks,
no oasis... no mangos... no peacocks...
just your standard ***** meat hogs...
fauns and...
what does the quran call the original:
not domesticated "pig"?
bore or boar? what do i call beer
when they only start serving wine? mead.

i wanted to have a bonfire over a week ago...
since the recycling centres are still
closed...
          but no... a neighbour of mine...
had about four each night...
     the english herr - angielski panicz -
didn't mind...
      but when i was about to burn some
evergreen... and as evergreen burns...
when it's still retaining some of its moisture...
it would burn... with a white smoke...
some other neighbour would make
a complaint: are you having a bonfire?
but my husband has asthma...
i own a garden... but i'm somehow...
by law... able to burn garden ****... in it...
once upon a time: but now?
at any given hour...
mother runs up to me... but this other
nieghbour has his washing on the line...
the washing would be infused with...
pine scent?
           but it wasn't about the washing
drying on the line...
the pet peeve project of england:
look toward h'america!
england "somehow" failed...
            two h'americas if not three:
a new breed of punctuation...
there were always the two europes...
   the germans were pushed from
the lands that... they once occupied...
pushed across by the slavs...
who in turn were: funneled by
either the turks, the huns or the mongols...
yes... it's a pretty picture... england...
esp. in the grand vicinity of
the A406 ring road around London...
because anything that teases
the M25...
        over a week-ago....
i wanted to stand before the altar of fire
and say a thing or two with:
the iblis of the quran...
the god of the old testament...
how i made of clay...
am so akin to the spirit without form
of the fire: i - clay - the majority
poker form of water:
i need to breathe... a fire needs to breathe...
i happened to read some rumi
with a milder than usual hangover...
usually an appreciation for some
late in his oeuvre Rembrandt helps likewise...
no... it had to be rumi...
     i come as a rummaging odour...
i'll just throw two or three contending
terms...
the shahada... the testimony -
  tawhid: yes... the H is a surd / apostrophe...
   which could make a hebrew blush...
given a trinity emerges...
    ' י ' ו
               the apostrophe for...
where you'd find the vowel catcher:
the first: the urn of sighs and inquiry (ה)
   and the second: the urn of laughter (ה)...

what is the boasting of:
    la ilaha illallah - the dog term for god
in the language of the maltese is: allah...
again: all?     aaaah... is sigh...
and what of... yalla imshi? camel jockeys
and... the saudi crown... washed in...
because yugoslavia is not... bound
to some ******* translation of yemen...
perhaps not the croat translation...
that mess of... the turks receding...

it really is a "thing" between me and
the english: rich-pants:
h'america: the hope! the beacon!
lucky for some they speak english...
pockets of spanish...
hopes for fwench: but not really...
and the *****-volk don't get out
as much... there's no need to know
whether there's a diaspora hive ment.
in their midst...

       i like slurring... probably as much
as i like jazz...
          oh... i couldn't have a bonfire...
because of someone's asthma...
again: i'm not superstitous but...
when a strong independent woman:
such as my mother...
has a nervous breakdown...
because... i showcased my displeasure
as some variation of an omnipotent
child-god...
no... if... the last leg standing
'ebrews could have countless...
and this... mediator "jinn" can have
four nights in a row...
and there are no complaints...
no one is suffocating...
    well... petty can sooner or later
become an avalanche...

         how do surds work?
in english pretty **** well...
you could technically erase the letter H
from the alphabet...
   say... i own a 'atchet...
      but not when coupled to an S or a C...
sheer: yeah... the "invisible" caron
covering over the S...
   cheap ****: and so above the C...
            closer: szkoda: closer: czekam -
      shame in the vein of: casually: oh well...
and: i'm waiting...
if the pronoun is to be invested into
the word: then in the past participle:
czekałem (i waited - "as" a man)
   czekałam (i waited - "as" a woman)...
     chec-chec-w'ah-w'ah...
gifts of the trade: smithy to the words...
shame the tower and the tongue
do not count for the love of 7...
but... these two already have... profit for
the right sort of narrative...

gender neutral pronouns...
how about the already available:
gender neutral nouns -
no one would call a sun feminine...
no one would call a moon: masculine...
gender neutral pronouns
in a language where:
the nouns are gender neutral!
that mighty oblong IT referential
to almost anything...
including the thinking "res" of man
that being the id -
   and the need to fake... the anaesthetic...
for a psychiatric inquiry...
to sedate a man while keeping
him awake... like a zombie...
   like less than a zombie...
            like a ghost: character in one's
spectacle of the third person...

         surds elsewhere?
           eh... raj butter: dhal... d'aal... or
the macron above the a: to elongate...
      in-valid contra:
   ynvalid contra... welsh... akin to
  the iota in: bid... well... byd...
                           buddy: is no -ee- is he?
he is...
                  inṽalid...
                        i said it three times to summon
st. peter and the cockrel and the morning
of denials...
    someone was choking on a pebble...
someone was the future saint stephen
getting drunk from nibbling on a bud of rose...
if the letters are not dancing...
then... i too: no... then i must be sitting down...

   gnome! 'nome!
                      a gnostic reading... a 'nostic reading!
new rules... the goal-posts move...
medicine and the art of: DiaGnoStiCS!

the hebrews teach only rule for
concerning oneself with god:
the islamic variation you rarely hear:
the taqwa - the fear of god...
which comes hard... to come by...
life requires a dear-almost-forgotten...
audacity to claim its... cherries and prunes...

newly converted proselytes...
        would be asked to cite the tawhid...
but never be allowed the comprehension
of the taqwa...
           one is never... truly...
allowed to be obedient to but one master...
which is probably why...
to grace the ordeals of many...
drunk on love while retaining
the sort-of rubric concerns of sober people...
drunk on the liquid that was
used to disinfect surgical tools...
      etc. etc.
                        
                what good of me: worth of anything:
is that sober regurgitating machine:
clog in the pick-me-up of / for:
the sacred truth of the media...
at least when the church was concerned...
i would be this...
miasma: ushered into a pre-sumptous
hades of sorts:

           in england: there's that vain hope
that... somehow...
that scene... where...
john adams (paul giamatti)...
meets king george III (tom hollander)...
i too whim at: and blink and winkle...
at the idea of a haircut...
and a retained scalp...
        a burning of the beard
and the theatre of the guillotine...
the glass-eyes of a mad king
and the: furore of the upcoming
project to come!
that what was to become...
h'america...
what not what became of england...
and what not...
the old tired breed of systems...

according to rumi: *****-whipped-***-cream-pie
surfer: the statement is universally
afghan:
   man is the created...
woman is the creative...
bless the mongols, the mongrels...
the seals, the apache, the confiscated
budgerigars... the mangos...
the willow trees of queen victoria's
periods as a widow...
the crazed slumbering spiders...
catch a constellation of stars along
with the cobweb nothingness
of the most: easily... agitated stars
in transit in the body of bothersome flies...
the god of gods and son:
who is better known as...
either the prince of leeches /
mosquitos...
                   hybrid effort...
i drink his if he drinks mine...
        the blood the blood!
            
flies: 'ere brown blood...
           almost mythological to have
to digest...
            the throne stands... empty...
          and... once more...
              the neck: upon which...
a crown should rest...
is... plucked...
but plucked... with no word of envy:
as...
      headless...
that the throne... stands... empty...
      and who is... to... bypass the gravity
of the upkeep of grafitti jargon:
to... "master the wave(s)" as... it were?
some... poor slavic shmuck from
a former satellite affair
of the soviet... empire?
     no no... to perceive!
is to not! project!
            fickle heart of woman
and a young man...
we are not to be eased with phonetic
miracles of mere... 'ebrew...
before long...
the arab: our golden goose...
our milk and honey and black gold
and yacht affair...
but what of... the... aldous huxley
of... beijing... the... slaughter
of all religion and of virtue and of vice!
the freed new land
of ethical inhibitions... castrated!
these new land of:
frankenstein's galore!
    oh the joy of...
           inter-racial biases and inter-species
furore!
where one frankenstein is left...
gasping for air: a new breeding-groom
is left waiting to rekindle...
the pax... that science be...
freed from the moths of history
of ancient greece and rome...
squinty-eyed... lemon ******* furore!
of... hardly a buddha training:
yin- the divine sparkle...
yang- the devilish inhibitor...

               the western way:
to better man by interracial breeding...
one should hope to mind...
the slur... skin-head...
between the african and the european:
mind you... what of the eskimos?
the japanese?
never mind...
the skin-head... and the... afro-"tinge"?
what about the raj: the subcontinent...
the... copper-necks?!
what of... the skin-heads...
and... the arab and sub-arab...
the indian cumin and coriander folk...
the copper-necks?
  must i?
   oh but i must...
       if the whites are the skin... heads...
if the whites are... hautköpfe...
then there's a: in-between to distinguish
black from white...  "..." and nanny "..."...
dumbo surds...
      kupferhälse...
                         isn't it... therefore...
somehow... fair?
  the zoo of ethnicity vocabulary:
afro-saxons... twiglet-fringe...
                  my best chase: doberman bark...
as ever... when the there's a reality
of the ubermensch retired in berlin:
active in beijing beside...
the fear of the theory...
the reality... god only knows...
draws... a ******* blancket!
     so, thus... frankenstein can have...
his... warewolf and octopus bride of
8 known vaginas...
and 10 more unknown unknowns...
because... Dr. Rumsfeld is...
too quick to point out...
any other: known knowns...
or... knowy known knowns...
or... unknowy knowy know: knead: dough...
oops savvy... born from piling
up missing link nukes to...
the bread that was born from
stockpiles of rubble from iraq...
dr. know-know: and as of: "now"...
                                   oh... oops: unknowingly:
no: and know oh knowy: gnomes...

if we're working from anything
it's "us" working from...
- if the greatest trick the devil ever pulled
was to convince the world he didn't exist... -

<'paul / lack>
       h'american racial slur for someone
of a western slavic ethnicity -
target practice for not being russian...
actually, though... phonetically...
polak - polska - polski - polka
    the italian gringos love the term...
like they still owned latin
and greece and... most importantly...
the libido governing...
            carthage...
      it's... parfâité complétant...
                           complétą... mind... the -nt
in fwench?
                the h'american "racial" slur...
you speak the most pristine
single word identifier:
not paul... not pole...
but ******...
     which i now truly known: what it is derived
from... king john's nickname...
of the angevin quest to keep most of
france...
  the nicked: 'lackland'...
        
   well... if the devil was so generous...
as to... do the devil's work...
then god... must have pulled a "similar" trick...
the greatest trick that god ever pulled
was to convince the people that the world...
didn't exist...
the fate of all science before
the altar of promise of faith...
which... the promises of doubt and science
ever ushered in...

who would want to invest in a life...
in a life in a fake...
a forgary of a world...
skinheads and the coppernecks...
i like racial-slurs...
              it's what keeps civilised
topics bound to the tattoo of chin-up
and knuckle...
nothing: pacified-aggresive...
*****-squint / squirt...
      i don't even know what...
shrimp-****...
curly-brains...
    candian-goose...
ice-c­ream ***** soda and blessed:
the ever-green of wisteria and
tokyo and toronto?
        
           niqab foreskins?
school 'em! ******* kippahs?!
          i love the racial slurs...
because: no sooner than...
well... to the heavens! we "glide"...
surf... chances of seeing a glaring
naked eye picture from jupiter?

  the greatest trick the devil ever pulled...
the greatest trick a (solipsistc) god ever pulled was...
this world was a forgery...
and that all the evil in this world was:
ontologically sound: bullet-proof!
it was our own fault!
     we were... the only monkey
with... ambitions to investigate the dodo projection!

i feel the absence of the polar opposite...
in that either a god...
or devil... ***** itself into a duality
of supreme kim jungian frown oohn..

best love ever spawned...
watching the grass grow tall...
taller than one's capacity to envision
a knee-height... with or no prior to:
kneeling at the altar;

     the greatest trick... he didn't exist...
     the greatest trick... this world was a fake...

so how did you spend last night?
- oh, you know, i stayed up
listening to music
with interludes of foxes making
noises...
       then for uncontrolable reasons
i wanted to achieve
  a transcendence via
arriving on the, plethora...
- how did you do that?
- as someone who enjoys pain...
i started to punch myself
in the head,
i figured: the amitriptyline
and paracetamol combo with
a liter of whiskey sometimes doesn't
work...
- how was it?
- i woke up... and...
         ****... it all started to fit
into a tuxedo-tight...
          i just had to know
the methods employed by young
western females
when inflicting self-harm...
- so?
- now i know,
   i can almost understand
the relief of inflicting pain on yourself,
akin to the burden of giving
birth, albeit...
  i'm confused...
   why not champion for
cesarean birth, rather than abortion?
hell, look at me,
male, a ***** strapped to an ego
inside a toy-thing of body...
- feelings?
- oh sure, even now,
i sense gravity working on my heart...
something south of the collar bone,
that "something"
  that's either over-rated
or under-rated...

point being: i know why i will
never write anything beside
verse:
   my weakness being:
   dialogues...
       unbalanced libra...
one side always dominating
the other side...
   like there's no "hypothetical"
scenario of a real-life event
of me visiting a brothel...
as for punching myself
in the head...
yeah...
            for someone who
enjoys pain
   like some cameo role
in a rammstein music video
akin to mein teil
my usual, melancholic,
morbid "european" self...

              i should have been born
in a time when the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth partition
was happening,
seeing what's to be seen
of england...

          doing the bidding
of the crucifix,
age old superstitions...
but all this modern scientific
sensibility,
         the snarky comments...
too much effort...
i write better when i do something
wrong...
  me? i can't entertain the sort
of thoughts crafted by an Einstein...
but i do know,
that the letter H... is only a surd
in translated hindi...
e.g. dhal
   (but you forgot the macron, a,
given that...
   you extend the breath
to compose daal, i.e. dhāl) -

well someone has to be pedantic,
it's not like i came from
a breeding stock,
with a generation prior to me
was ******* illiterate...

               code, no can do...
figure out a blank space in front of me?
sure...

          u'słuchać
   (which could also be written
without the scalpel apostrophe...
i.e. attached to the u
via                     úsłuchać) -

namely? buckling down...
before the internet filter algorithms
("paradox": rhythm)
      get on my ***,
i'll be long gone...
      trying to code in a filter
that appreciates
                    diacritical markers...

no... emotions are not over-rated...
they are merely over-stated...
when the heart chokes
the mind to usher out a tongue...
and the heart does choke...
but...
                      whatever is to be made
of the plethora is the whole
point...
              like religion...
privately...
          until the heart becomes
akin to that bird in the oxygen experiment
1768 (joseph wright of derby’s),
    
and requires the devil
to employ the hands to do more than
merely scratch one's head...
  fiddle, scribble...
  double consonants...
for the bounce-effect in a word...
            or a hooded extract:
double vowel, macron,
an extension...

           but i didn't "discover" the english
language to be barren
without diacritical markers...
it was without diacritical markers
to begin with...

        i know, the shame,
but of all the languages i've heard
with this print: label Latin?
the pollacks have been the most
consistent
         in the play of rubric
of the syllables...
                  that clarity...
unfathomable within english,
or french...
              the french?
they write one thing, speak another...
that's why i didn't learn it,
it was enough for my custard
fest of using english...

         belittle...
         lite...
                    eh... that iota...
(looking up, no halo)
   does it really require an 'ed?
i'm repeating myself
but... ιota...
   there... no levitating...

                   i still believe in the plethora...
given there's no
worth for the current
                         plateau / zeitgeist...

get thrown into the deep-end
of the pool
   and learn to swim -

    the blah blahs will come
    any **** worth the parade,
i'll stick to the claustrophobia
of the heart giving me prompt,
than the "unaware" claustrophobia
of regurgitated opinion
of the mind's joke of a juggling act.