The shopping channel calls to me
It wakes me up at night
To sell me things I do not need
Nor would buy, if I was right
But apparently, there's something wrong
My brain should be re-wired
I only purchase things on here
When I am really over-tired
I have a room specifically
For things bought on TV
I've ginsu knives and shredding blades
And juicers!!!...ninety three!!
For some reason the kitchen things
Just seem to catch my eye
Especially at three a.m.
That's the time I need to buy
I've magic bullets by the score
Processors,  I don't need
But, if I ever put them all to use...
An army I could feed
I've got socks for diabetics
Things to make your ******* stand out
I've got exercise machines galore
I've got three things that help gout!
My credit card's at the limit
I know the numbers off by heart
The post man knows me by my name
I even have my own **** cart
To deliver all my purchases
They just load it and deliver
It almost comes here by itself
It's enough to make one shiver
I don't know how it started
I think the countdown clock...ah, yes
I thought it meant the game was ending
I phoned in and bought a dress!!!
I've got jewellery by Joan Rivers
George Foreman grills...they fill my den
I've got perfumes for the women
And lots of things that make you men!
My wife cannot contain me
She's sent me off to get some aid
But, if they sell it on the telly
I'll buy it sure as getting laid
I've bedazzled all my clothing
I eat dried fruit and jerky too
I get Christmas cards from Ronco
I'm a shopping ****** through and through
Each month we have a garage sale
I sell off some of what I've bought
But, then I go and buy it back again
Without a second thought
My friends have all but left me
I rarely go out of the house
I just sit here and go shopping
I don't even see my spouse
Set it and Forget it
That's a phrase I love to say
But wait, there's more...is another one
That helps me through the day
I used the last one on my wife
One night while having ***
She told me "Set it and Forget It"
I'm off to dreamland Tex!!
My shopping's an addiction
One I hope to beat some day
But now, the operator says...
I have to get my card and pay!

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

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

No one saw it coming,
that warm September day-
Not the workers at the pudding shack
Who mixed sweet treats for pay.

Not the Rookie at the pressure valves
Not the people in the town
It was the Rookies’ rank incompetence
That set in motion what went down.

Nine vats of Snack Time pudding
Exploded with a roar
Nine hundred thousand gallons
Went oozing out the door

The workers never had a chance
On this, their final day
Ending up like Easter bunnies
For a giant’s holiday

That mighty wave of chocolate.
Like a Tsunami hit the town.
Sweet creamy death swept over them
Deliciously, they drowned.

Others turned and tried to flee.
They ran for all their worth.
The swift were lucky to escape
This scrumptious hell on earth

The survivors of the snack slide
Lost all they owned in town
It was a diabetics’ *******
Everything was chocolate brown.

It was the worst snacktastrophe
Our land had ever seen.
Obama sent marines with spoons
The air force dropped whipped cream

Consisting of grown, persisting as shown and unknown. Insisting entities, rivalries and sworn enemies! Deformed, forewarned, formed, informed, mourned, performed, reformed and scorned. Dates of great storms! Family tree of hate, horns and thorns. My family tree of gore, horror, more, poor and sore. Perhaps of mishaps galore. Briefly sit

back! I’ll roughly take you back… Heck! Back to a time of attack,
blacks, slacks and whacks. My family tree of practical, tactical, methodical Aztec. Some beckon and reckon in seconds. A family tree of crime, grime and rhyme. A nation of communication, dedication,
dissemination, motivation and procrastination. The splendor of sin

of my corruptive, disruptive kin. They rely more on the color of one’s
skin. My family tree of abuse and misuse that misuses and seduces! Family tree of warfare and welfare legalities, moralities and family-prodigies. Picture this scriptural twist! Some assist on a kiss. I insist
some are idealities in social technicalities. Alcoholics, diabetics,

******, exotic, fantastic, Catholics, eccentric, horrific and poetic. I persist… some gnomes, some roam, some in poems, some with no homes. My family tree of adventuresome, awesome, handsome and troublesome. My family tree of beautiful and bountiful! Some are a
handful some handicap some locally and vocally-rap. Some slap,

gift-wrap and yap! Some are snuggly, pretty, witty or ugly. In my family tree, some crippled, some with pimples, some with freckles
and some that heckle. Some belittle and little, some wrinkled and old. Some are bold and pray to the lord! Some are Frio, meaning cold we
were told. Some I say, are poor with no Amor. Some are here no more, in my family tree of Amor.

too many fictional stories have congregated,
into what was once a three-dimensional
space, new age agism (joke)...

      but... whenever three dimensions exist,
with a frequented present,
a nostalgia for the past,
and an imagination for the future...

whatever...
  doesn't it bother, anyone,
that too many fictional stories have overpowered
the rarity of the reality narrative?
no?
  just me then?

         sole idiot, just the only Robinson Crusoe
idiot around these parts,
of: the rediscovery of the world?
just me? no Friday?!
just me...
good good... good to know...

well then... i've achieved the stature of
paying due concerns to a *******,
rather than repenting before
a crucifix with... what... what...
deaf people gesticulate...
         no... i couldn't go blind...
i'd have to have tender skin...
as any blind man would need...
to read Braille... tender skin...
that sort of arithmetic?
you're kidding me...
you're not expected to have the hands
of an aristocratic courtesan,
compared to the hard, thick
layered buck of a guitar player,
or some hammer yielding "minotaur"?!

then i'm thinking...
perhaps all aristocrats should be blinded...
well....
   we could cater for their bodies
in light of their embodied souls
as twins... dualistic...
           save the hindered body,
with what becomes the unhindered
body of what becomes:
an unhinged soul...

              but i am but a fool...
who could suspend such architecture...
and succeed in asking for success
of the originating of the said construct...
Edward the Confessor?
  he put you up to it?!

            such great mammoths of the worth
of man have died...
and the world...
    the world...
                assured itself neither day
gained not day lost...
assured itself neither blink lost,
or blink gained...

just like god said...
           i can't be bothered with what
has become too intricate...
too personal...
too free-willed...
     no... i can't do it...
even running the marathon,
i cannot introduce myself
into this affair a second time...
i "thought" it a great idea the first time
round...

            second time....
let them assure themselves in icon,
and the subsequent iconoclasm of
the anti-thesis of dyslexia...

   all?                         ah...
good to know...
      all of them?             ah.... elaboration
of the sigh...

                                but i can't...
you know i can't...
we drink up north to keep warm,
or. "fool" ourselves in keeping warm...

so?
  ******* with your coffee and baklava!
take your caffeine addiction
and your diabetics...
out of this place!
                                 *******!

the sign reads: NOT WELCOME!
no... no Martin Luther King Jr.
speech at the University
of Newcastle...

     no! no! nein! nein! nein!
up yours.

the people in question pushed
the wrong buttons,
and the people who pushed the wrong
buttons unconsciously...

i'll be the last of my people
to leave these isles, on a boat
charged with the gravitas of
Charon...

             believe me...
    i'm thankful that i didn't **** your women;
i was accused of ****?!
                              not once;
ha ha...
    they still think they won the cold war...
ha ha!
ah ha ha ha ha ha!
the war where there was no war,
and, rather,
    colonization imploded upon itself?

Let me write you a poem, not because I can but because I have to
Your name drips like candy off the tongue, in a world that seems empty of all else your pulse feels like drag racing on a highway.
Put your hands on me.  Bluntly and stop, thinking and start feeling me. Crawling into your bed and holding your head up so I can peer into your mind, to see what I can find.
I want to remind myself of how much I mean to you
and how late nights are form fitting dresses on an anorexic,
Sugar pills given to diabetics.
red markers given to cutters, or braces given to people who stutter.
You, are every if and or but I’ve ever ignored. I implore you to understand me
my nooks and crannys, my would’s, should’s and can be’s.  
I want you like ****** coursing through my veins.
I can’t contain myself.
Skip town on a bus, to find your way into my room on my bed under my sheets, my skin, my heat. Beat me, leave bruises on my thighs so when my lovers see them they have to ask why and I have to hide you, like a drug addiction and bad breath in the morning, you feel like global warming against my skin, when you literally lift me up I’m reminded of how small I am in comparison.
Let me write you a poem, not because I want to but because I’m in love with you.
Had you fooled didn’t I?
Let’s get one thing straight.
I hate the way you make me feel.
I’ve taken too much time to heal these wounds and you remind me that they’re still fresh.
My body feels like it’s in love, I can’t think of anything else when you’re around
except the sound in my own head.
I fell in love with you like a razor blade cuts across fresh skin.
Quickly, and with the malice of a thousand swearing tongues
I found your name on the end of a list too many times to forget.
and I hate it.
Because I never write poems for people I am not in love with.
So forgive me if I can’t come to grips with the idea that I have
fallen for you like a snow storm, like the rain that shatters glass.
Kicking and screaming, on the soft grass.

Let me write you a poem, not because I can, but because I’m afraid that I have to.
If I don’t write these memories down then I might forget you.
and I don’t want to.

Every morning I must slay a mighty rusted dragon. His jaws gape as he waits for me. I climb his belly slowly, but persistently. When I reach his mouth I throw myself in. I burst from his stomach and slide down his back and he lies with his wounds and waits for tomorrow. I will slay him again today. These dragons are everywhere, waiting to be destroyed every morning by commuters and diabetics and dialysis patients. We must grit our teeth as the needle pierces the skin or as the engine starts again. We take that bitter pill and emerge victorious. But to what end? The dragon will be waiting the following morning as he always has, as he always will. It is the curse of the modern man. Each day we will slay this dragon until one of us is too weak to fight.

But I know, too, that this dragon is necessary. He is the grain of salt in my morning that seasons the bike ride down his back. I have learned to enjoy riding through the rusted iron bridge that is his throat, and yes, even the climb I must endure to reach it. Each day I must slay this dragon. I must. It is for me that he exists, not the other way around. And I will slay him each day until I am struck by an automobile or die of a blood disease.

So when I rise tomorrow, I will look him in the eye and he will wink. And I’ll know that he is not just a hill capped with a rusted iron bridge. He is the plight of modern men. He is the eternal struggle that must be, else life would be tedium. and we need each other, him and I.

When I wake, I will rise and slay him again.

And again.

And again.

what happened to you?

your mind used to be a cemetery for boredom right next a maternity ward of inappropriate laughter.

you spoke like an owl was perched on your ribs, your wisdom was profound.

but what happened to you?

I named your lips nectar and honey and mine were two butterfly junkies trying to get a sugar high.

I could have sworn I heard  your name in the winds whisper through the leaves lips, but autumn came far too soon.

and when it seems like things want to get sweet again, time becomes a rehab for relapsing diabetics.

you were a beauty among beasts, a rainbow on an oil spill.

But even rainbows can't be out when the sun is not.

The sugar courses through my veins like adrenaline.
I feel it in my blood.
My arteries expand with energy
And my ankles start tingling from the inside out.
I feel like I should go to sleep
Is this how diabetics feel?
I feel like my body will start to swell
And I will explode once my innards take over my flesh.
I will turn into a cloud of glittering crystals
And unicorns will spout from my eyeballs.

Roses are Red.
Love is Blue.
Candy is sweet.

Roses are full of thorns… They hurt if you grasp them. So be careful when you handle them. Otherwise you’ll get cut by what feels like a razor blade. And if you handle them with love and care… you’ll get the same reaction. And I can be compared to a rose… I can hurt you if you handle me the wrong way… But if you treat me right, I can do the same for you. I am very emotional, so be careful.
“Love is like a rose. It has thorns every step of the way. When it blooms it will become beautiful, and you will cherish it forever.“

I finally learned that there is no such thing as true love. That it is all just a big hoax. That when you think you’ve finally found it, it just disappears like if it were evaporated water. Love is a very strong word, let alone emotion. It takes a big role in life… But hate does also. It is a much stronger and harmful word then love. So be careful… And don’t toss it around. Because if you do, you’ll get hurt. I don’t want to get hurt again… But I know I’ll fall head-over-heels for some guy and get my heart broken, again. I’m sick of it.
“Love is for suckers.”

Candy… Umm… It is something some people can’t live without… Not an addiction, but just a want. So people should get over it. Diabetics can’t even eat it, I don’t think. So why have it? Why want it? I guess I’m candy… Some people can’t have me. But then again some people have had me, bt just tossed me aside. So I guess I’m not so sweet.

if you're a "heavy", i.e. a serious
drinker like me?
        if you're getting
                the bout of hiccups?
for god's sake man...
                       eat something!
you're going to choke,
if you don't eat something hearty;
                like a schnitzel;
you're going to suffacate
                             on your phlegm!
comparatively:
alcoholics teaching diabetics about
the sugar content of alcohol's
           calorie worth of penny sweets
    dynamo, comparison, made,
to stage, a status quo, of some
      remote sensibility... oi! tarzan!
stop swinging from that vine!
          don a suit!        
ah ****... he actually did it...
                          thing's a bit like that;
otherwise what?
    lasting, by listening to some tina turner?
  no, not that...
            frankenstein's monster with
       a one-liner (cameo):       fire! fire! bad!
same as sugar...
imagine it though...
                alcoholics teaching diabetics...
even shakespeare couldn't write about this kind
of scenario.

Three in the morning, halfway
through my shift at a printing
plant. I'm tired as always, my
mind frazzled, my eyes bleary.
I'm creeping through the night
as I proofread technical manuals
and pharmaceutical ads and
brochures aimed at type two
diabetics. I'm on life support
here, stuck in a depressing gray
environment, a vampire on the
graveyard shift, the burial
ground of too many aging English
majors struggling to make a buck
while the rest of the world is home
asleep, dreaming in color, people
whose minds and bodies will forever
have a normal relationship with
sunlight.

As I proofread, I listen to talk radio
with its opinionated personalities,
irate callers, and nocturnal candor,
all of it making those Sinatra-like
wee small hours of the morning fly
by like a moth rushing toward
a bright burning bulb.

oh, but of course,       middle class sensibility,
         in this pseudo feminist society
some words are sacred...
        you write the word
**** and immediately the protest
slogan: how dare you!
   somehow over the past ten years
censorship got out of hand,
but what if i say: i'm healing
when i used to listen to my
great-grandmother talk of war
and frightened, feeding my grandmother
opiates to hush, while her brothers
were slaughtered?
         no on cares to mention my
intentions... because no one cares to think:
oh poo poo the Blitz blah blah blah...
       those people abhorred by my
statements don't have first person accounts
to deal with... so i'm guessing i
have in my hand the sieve... and in my
other hand a whip...
                       i guess i'm really a thistle in
the ***-crack of neo-Nazis...
         or the shy ones, at least...
because i have the first person account
  tattooed into me,
they think i'm an idealistic,
tucked away in an outer-suburban house:
a frustrated white boy,
         ah ****, no colonial past,
frustrated by women's freedoms,
      **** me! this Irish Jack is trying to teach
me a thing or two about women,
in a pub he tells lies about me
she comes up to me and says: i want to help
people...
                 first they imagine heaven,
but then don't know how to interact
with each other in a frame of ten minutes...
i kiss her forehead and the eyelids,
the Irish **** still can't believe it...
                    cos his mamma and papa
divorced while he was saying that family
is valued: tucked away with his video games...
   you tasted you mother's over-cooked
pasta, you little dip-****?
              i have... no wonder your father
preferred take-away.
                        if you can't cook the basics
you can't cook ****... or maybe it was
slugs instead of pasta... i'll never know...
me? i'm the agitator,
             i'm waiting for someone to **** me,
i don't mind...
                          i'll kiss the person
who wants to and say: inherit my nightmare
for just a while...
                                    i don't actually
see how the English matter in the Germanic
world...
                let alone the Norse world...
                      i turned on the t.v. and listened
in on 1950s English...
                          they actually cared about
poetry those days... the Empire was still
there... these days? grime, East London blasphemy
and a: ooh, you better behave
                    teacher! leave our kids alone!
         sure, i'm a delayed journalist,
i have **** of people they didn't even think i had:
tough luck playing the idiot,
           but you get to see people in their
full bollocking's worth of attire...
          play the saintly part for just long
enough and people come out like
   those village homosexuals...
                   well, given the science,
and social norms, no wonder the heterosexual
is a thing of the past,
     give the perverts enough freedoms and justice
and the original model is an ancient relic...
         but that's just me...
i didn't force you to read this...
            i just find it odd that, somehow,
****** wasn't a saving grace for Zionism,
        imagine Zionism without a catalyst...
      even the Sheikh of Saudi Arabia said:
we don't have alcoholics here,
               only diabetics...
               why not give them a chop of
Bavaria and keep them sprechen Yiddish?
   that's what ibn Saud said to F.D.R.,
and i'm thinking... you cosy little *****...
you keeping these words holy, aren't you?
                  i can't use them?
i can't engage with them?
                          i did love the great nostalgia
dripping from the film a bridge of spies -
      i look at my grandfather and think...
are they for real? he's on a comfortable
                          pension...
            he retired early... what with the western
view of: gambling on retirement...
             men my age can only be saved by a war...
     the nostalgia concerning:
           oh yes, we are the good part.
the Soviet spy is treated nicely...
                        always nicely over there...
the American spy is given insomnia torture...
   never so nicely...
                                     Soviet B & W
                 as ever... the adamant Americans
always the serenity saints...
                          but i still manage to write
the stuff that bothers me from a first-person
perspective, suddenly the world is bigger
and colder than some teenager's bedroom
manifesto...
                        they said it was intended to be
a phone book... instead it was an autobiography...
   because Jill was gang ***** so many times
the word ****** was like a cactus shoved up her ***
   siusiu-majtki - she even found
                            ethnic languages offensive
because the google-translate didn't work:
   suddenly something became covered and she
wasn't informed... as i was informed
by today's article: FEMINISTS
BLOCK FREE SPEECH, SAYS BLACKWELL...
Blackwell is a feminist... or a former one...
          but as the new cohort marches in,
her concern (aged 83) puts her in the "dementia"
pile of *******...
                                       i agree:
diaper intellectuals...                             soft-cushions
                      once a Dada... now a Daddy! Daddy!
he offended me!
                                            well, i too would
have loved to walk through life and
only experience self-love and apathy...
                     and this is in a democratic society!
no wonder the export value dropped
dramatically after the child abuse scandals...
     a despot? at least he owns a harem
and isn't ashamed of owning one...
     seems democracy is purpose bound
to kiddy-fiddle and the obscure chance to
pet a dog...
              so even though i own a heritage
if it's not from a mouth of a lazy bourgeoisie
girl or boy: i'm branded compatriot of some
obscure first in the air cause...
                            we don't live in happy times...
  we live in times of tyrannical youth...
                     i'm just 30 and i can walk down
the street and spot you 30 little Hitlers in
uniform...                    
                                           and they haven't
even failed at anything, and already
they're screaming: DOWN WITH
                ESTABLISHING OLD AGE TO
BE ACCEPTED AS THE WISHED FOR ASCENDANCY!
               i know people who've seen
  black-clad SS-men, SS-men who were asked
         herr! bite bonbon! would give
  sweets to children so sweet that their fingers were
stuck together...
                               what do you have?
except history books and propaganda?
                           apparently it's called a "conscience",
   or how language is experiencing the most
abhorred version of censorship,
                                     not what is said:
the full extent meaning,
               but bullying certain words out of existence,
and that ******* smiley...
                                    it's perfect then!
   round of applause!
                                           the thing about
inheritors of a colonial past... they're never grounded...
    they're never realistic...
                 from colonising America the powers
at be decided it was turn to walk on the moon...
                           now it's Mars...
               usually the ones who are considered mad
are actually the ones who the collective feel
uncomfortable with...
                   because how could an individual
state common sense... when it's suggested that
that common sense is stated by the collective...
           well... apparently not...
common sense isn't a universal alignment of shared
interest in reasoning... an individual
possessing common senses comes into scrutiny
from the darker recess of "social bonding" -
            he's seeing the collective sense -
      which is not common sense -
                                common sense isn't common...
              everyone wishes that ordinary Joe Gray
could say something common,
          but Joe Gray only says something
omni-prevalent -
                               an automated version of
persuading: i.e. the past-reference of persuasion:
i.e. already persuaded -
                                           the bland c.v. repertoire
on game shows on t.v.: job and spare time hobbies...
                           the point of c.v. is to make
people ****** boring...
                                            that gimmick of:
and my life was flashing before my eyes...
           &nbsp

I'm learning that there are different rules for different situations
And sometimes one can be too honest
Because the truth can be a weakness:
The veil may be the only thing left to hold onto

He was guarded and shrewd, holding the world at arms length
And truth was beauty and intrigue
He raised his head, locked it in a steel gaze

He was open and pure, immersed and inseparable
But the truth doubled him over, cutting deep

And how can it be my fault
As unknowingly I weave pain between blood stained hands
And how can it not
When the fragility is theirs: they walk the only path they can see

I'm giving bread to the ceoliacs
Chocolate to the diabetics
Did I think they needed it?

Equal treatment ain't always fair.

INTELLIGENCE IS A SCABBY INFECTION,
INTELLIGENCE OUTSIDE OF MENSA
(THE I.Q. H.Q.) SHOULD BE TREATED
WITH SUSPICION,
INTELLIGENCE IS A DISEASE IN
WESTERN SOCIETY, INTELLIGENCE
IS COUNTER-MATERIALISTIC,
NO CASE FOR PRODUCTIVITY,
HAVING EXPORTED ALL OF IT
ALONG WITH THE DOZEN AMPUTEE LIMBS
TO CHINA...
AND AS THE MUSLIMS CONQUERED WITH EASE,
SO THEY SUCCUMBED TO DEBAUCHERY
OF THE BLACK GOLD....
THANKFULLY I WENT TO A *****
BEFORE THE EASTERN EUROPEAN BROTHEL
OPENED ITS TSUNAMI OF LIES AND DECEIT...
BUT AS ONCE WE WATCHED THE ARABS
CONQUER WITH VERY LITTLE BUT SAND,
WE SUBSEQUENTLY WATCHED THE ARABS
BECOME BARONS AND DUKES OF DUBAI...
DEGENERATE SCURVY PASSERS-ON THE DISEASE...
it's basically watching retards grow impotent
rather than indolent... or maybe both...
lazy Arab *** in Niqab because the sugar levels
got the better of them, with both men and women
wearing extra-size napkins... Saudi Arabia
being the joke of the entire Muslim world:
welcome to the equivalent of the Vatican;
it only takes one schism to make it all a load of
chirping charged-up *******;
i'm just surprised it came so early, well, not really,
given most terrorists think they're directly
descendent of the prophet... who turns out to
be a patriarch - given such father-son obedience and slaughter...
can these Islamic terrorists please defend either
prophet or patriarch, because, by the looks of it
they're more inclined to defend the latter status than the former;
whatever, the once agile Arabs with their simple
Koranic sense of belief are nothing more than
overweight diabetics these days... you could skewer them
and rotationally fry them like swine.

Puff in that fiberglass and
Let it course through your
Blood. It’s that feeling again.
Yeah, THAT feeling-the one
That makes you feel so invincible.
That bittersweet taste begins
To crawl its way into your lungs,
And you stop caring about what’s
Around you and start to feel
What’s in front of you.

Clear skies become cloudy,
Dirt lodges begin to crumble,
Diabetics start passing out,
Wasted kids  lie on the sidewalk,
And  all you can think about
Is  that small connection
That was ignited off of a
Very small spark that
Lit the kerosene on fire
And nearly morphed you
Into a corpse.

You don’t ever want the fire to
Go astray, but it’s better off
With the Fray. Every fiber of your
Being is bound to this feeling-
You’re addicted.
This want is now your need, and
The only thing you can do
Is let it course on through.
So, keep puffing that fiberglass
And don’t let the circulation stop.

apparently alcohol is
a problem,
  in the european states...
i'd love to know
what the sugar rates
are like in arabia...
there must be a
baklava anonymous...
a diabetics anonymous
no one is speaking
about...
              baklava?
great with milk...
               esp. at 1a.m.
filter ******* wafer-thin
paper-crust that makes
the doughnut shy
  and curl away into
dough...
      the only people who
made the pistachio worthwhile?
apart from the ones that
salted them and made them
into gelato?
        the sand-******* /
camel-jockeys for sure
with their baklava:
   sugar lava:
   or sugar tiers...
          whatever,
i'm drunk, the milk's running
via gulps and the pastry
iz.... d(ee)-vine...
         who's to argue?

hubris

cypher: d'
    'e
         -           antithesis
of non-negation: Tt...

i.e. to decipher: lost a
snake's tongue
and a tree's branching out
i.e. Y. (502 bad gateway bypass)

i'm coming up to doing this job for a year, come December,
late December i will have done this for a year,
time's up... time to rewrite my curriculum vitae
point to people who will give me references and apply
for a teaching job...
                                   if i can manage drunken football
spectators and people with mental health issues
freaking out on me and me calming them down...
if i can supervise a team of at most 15 people...
    i think i can tackle a bunch of rowdy teenagers:
even though i have this motto in my head...
sure, i could teach high school chemistry...
   i have the background for that, but...

sometimes it's not what you teach:
but who you teach it to...

same ****, different cover borrowed from that old chestnut
of: it doesn't matter what you know
but rather who you know...

if i could land a job as a primary school teacher i think
i would never again regret not having children
of my own...
i rarely do.... sometimes... there's this "evolutionary psychology"
element to my thinking but it rarely conforms to
what most people speak about...
notably about women...

women? how can i not love women...
i couldn't live with women,
i couldn't do what most men get up to with women
i see them with an invisible leash on their necks...
in the supermarket like down-trodden
beasts pushing the trolley while a woman
is throwing in, not necessarily good food...
certainly not vegetables, not fruits,
ready-*******-meals...
me?! i had a fancy for pizza today...
obviously i'm going to make it from scratch!
obviously i'm going to first make the rising
mixture of a little flower, dried yeast,
sugar and some water... wait for it to rise
and then make the pizza dough... d'uh...
but i see these guys with women who throw ready-made
meals into the trolley... seriously?!
one hour less watching pointless television
and enough time to make a PROPER MEAL...

i sometimes wish the television could be replaced
with a fireplace or... at worst an aquarium
with pretty fish in it... in between? *******...
esp. during the winter months...
i'm not even buying into the whole stereotypical
"oh honey, i'm tired, i have a headache"...
maybe i'm just a freak like that:
lethargy makes me *****, it's an aphrodisiac for me...

the best year of my life... state funding for
the drinking and the writing and earned money
for... prostitutes...
i don't believe in the concept of a worth of virginity...
women are like leather...
the best leather is worn leather...
over the past year having regular ***
(i try at least once a week, the rest of the time
i fill with epic cycling routes, reading, writing,
thinking, not thinking, drinking)
has taught me that there's this great veil
of ******* hanging over society...
clearly i'm a tame **** / a gentlemen or i'm sometimes
peeping into the extremities of ****** lives of...
not actual people: actors...
once more, to reiterate... we are living
under a Thespian Tyranny...

i once mentioned that we live under a Silicon Curtain...
if there was once an Iron Curtain coming from
the Soviet Union... now there's the Silicon Curtain
coming from stateless entities, companies...
who the **** knows or even bothers to care...
the media conglomerate coupled with internet social
media companies... oh... and let's not forget
the dating apps...

a rekindled fascination with Taoism from my teenage
years having found a pinpoint to a person
whom to associate Taoism with, i.e. Zhuangzi
have paid off... the best way you can help the world
is to forget the world and let the world forget you...
but with the current state of the world...
i'm growing "paranoid" / suspicious...
i'm on my own path, i'm living a life of a freedom
some kings would weep over to have...
i don't want to engage with the world...
i've forgotten the world, but it seems the world
wants to remember a little bit of me...

ooh yeah... that little mix of brandy and whiskey...
let's call her, i.e. the spirit: bra-     +   -ndy
                                                vs. bran-  +   - d(y)
          whis-  +         -key...

a quadratic... brankey... ****...
     brakey... sounds better...

                                   whisdy... whisp?! whisdy...
whiskey can be too smoky sometimes...
then again it can turn into bourbon and become too sweet...
there's a whiskey in between these two extremes...
but brandy, i.e. cognac?
the last one had an aftertaste of chocolate and charcoal...
charcoal is not smoky, it's bitter... so we're basically
talking bitter dark chocolate... which is ******* great...

but i'm bemoaning the fact that i won't be making
my own wine this year... i'll try to make a bottle or two...
but landscaping the garden left me with very little yield...
well... at least i made my favourite flavour ice-cream
this year... no ice-cream like it:
mint and chocolate-chip...
and never! ever! follow the recipes on the internet!
people have become either **** junkies,
or caffeine junkies or... SUGAR junkies...
sure... the Arabs are such greater men because
they have all these NIQAB hidden ****** fetishes
and they don't drink...
but aren't they BACLAVA MAD DIABETICS
on the verge of either amputated limbs or going blind...
but sure... sure... decent human folk because
drinking alcohol is b'ah b'ah bad... *******...

i hate sugar, i hate caffeine... water and nicotine
and vomiting like an Ancient Roman
in the morning... taking a ****... nice... esp. a well rounded
****... although a diarrhoea is just as pleasurable...
*******... hmm... that's a sea-saw debate...
one time true, another time not so...
kissing... or rather stealing kisses from prostitutes...
my grandfather collected stamps...
i steal kisses from prostitutes...

clearly we're living under a Silicon Curtain
and a Thespian Veil of Tyranny...
however we interact or however we love...
******* is not how *** looks like...
like i said before: maybe i'm a tame lover...
the most extreme i ever "accomplished"
was slapping the *** of the ******* top of me
or i either bit her lip, chin or nose...
not hard... i try to be tender...

it's so strange sitting across from 5 women...
and you ****** all 5 of them...
4 are smiling at you, enticing you,
but there's this one grumpy one growing a massive
frown on her face...
as if she's putting on make-up...
you have to go with her because she decided
to go on the pill just for you and for all
the heavens of unprotected ***...
you already bought her lingerie and now she's asking
for more gifts, i.e. jewelry... oh **** me...

i stopped listening to these promises of prostitutes...
this was the last time i listened to her,
we were supposed to spend an entire night in
a hotel room together... she failed...
fair enough... once i'm done ******* these five
i'll look for another brothel, simple!

the steady influx of money has released me
into unexpected territory...
i can finally scrutinise *******:
it's ******* unappealing... it's horrid...
it's acting with the gravest of consequences...
i want a tender ****...
i don't need this western bedroom barbarism!

and i haven't smoked marijuana in well over a decade...
chances being: the chance that was
Elizabeth II dying i met with this Afghan
"Jamie" and he gave me a pinch of the ****...
even i was surprised... i used to sit up and smoke
and listen to music and vaguely remember time:
because time extended into eternity when i did...
this time round?
first i had to take my first aphrodisiac:
lethargy from a shift...
my second aphrodisiac: a bottle of 8.2% dry cider...
basically half a bottle of wine...
aphrodisiac three: i had to walk alone
in the night... hmm... that "star" so close to the moon,
esp. when detailed on all those Muslim flags...
that's not a star... that's the planet Venus...
seems like Islam is a cult of the marriage of the Moon
with the planet Venus...
fourth aphrodisiac: a sip a two a three of
either whiskey or cognac...
fifth aphrodisiac: three cigarettes...

who the hell said you need chemistry to invoke
a hard-on?! well... if you're ******* a beached-whale
i wouldn't be surprised... if you have something
against a woman that's like a leather: of anything...
chair, sofa or jacket...
i found out that women "taste" better if
they have been with a man beside yourself...
they're... more keen... they actually have some:
"ambition"... no no... it's not arrogance...
they have... confidence....

and come to them akin to a ZZ-Top song:
sharp dressed men... they ******* lose it before finding it
very quickly...
the last one i had i first had a forced *******
with... luckily the ******* did the trick the first
time round: otherwise i would have left
frustrated... and howled into the night...

second time i don't remember...

third time? a talkative... スカ... SÜKA
   Ü = UU / Sue SOON... in the ****** zunge that's...
it's not *****, *****... it's a female dog that
readily gives *** to males...
not so talkative when the ******* began...
she contorted her face as if she was in pain..

it's a more endearing word than, say, KURVA...
i.e. *******, it's more a case of:
i'm *****, she's *****, i want to ****, she wants to
****... we ****...
but none of this pornographic extremes
of Thespian nymphomaniacs,
as a "poet" i feel i have a duty to obligate
people to turn away from these faceless
shadow-stealing phantoms...

this one writer in particular, a Joseph Roth from
the Austro-Hungarian Empire noted the rise
of the Thespians back in the earliest dictates
of the 20th century...
  
oh it was funny... i only paid for half an hour...
at least not half a steak and a ticket to the movies...
but as i was about to leave: ****'s sake...
another hard-on... but the ******* was pulled back...
dried up... i laughed, she laughed when i asked her for
some oil to lubricate and pull the ******* back...
well i can't be walking about
with an "unsheathed sword"... can i?

i like writing about women in a way that Marquis de Sade
never wrote about them, like i might have some
revenge strategy in place...
as long as i'm not lied to... i'm fine...
the moment people start spinning me fictions they
speak: but never write...
i start thinking about grating cheese...
or feeding my cats turkey steaks...
i take great precision cutting the steaks
delicately as if i'm preparing sushi...

i like the texture of raw, dead, meat under my fingers
in a way that compensates itself with the
touch of living meat under my fingers
after i scrubbed my fingers against a brick or
two... when touching a *******'s body
i need rough finger-tips...

but i won't be buying into this western libido "insomnia"
any time soon...
*** in real life is or never will be what the pornographic
industry prescribes or... well... back in the 1970s...
the Italian movies had tender loving care...
these days... it's ******* sadistic... all that ****
and all that one woman "vs." five men power action
*******...

if i am healthy *** with prostitutes...
that tells you a lot about the supposed "healthy"
people having "healthy" *** with other "healthy" people...
clearly unhealthy...
sure, i too have my kinks... but i don't enact
them... that's why they're kinks...
they're part of the cognitive circus that will never be seen!

well... apart from the one renegade clown...
you'll always see a clown from that circus...
i don't know why i decided to write about ***...
over-saturation is my best guess...
talk of *** in the most wrong sort of way...
that must have been the clue...
annexed ******* of disused men's capacity
coupled with a woman's over-stipend over
excusing herself in "too much action"...
whichever the case is...

the world has passed me by,
or rather: i passed the world by...
and turned around and said:
clearly no, i don't feel like it...
even for all the riches you have on offer...
i don't, feel like, it!
the richer a man becomes
the more obligation he has to his status
and the woman he, most assuredly has
to take for company!
me? i have zero to no obligations / dedications
for status and a woman of status...
i like women like i old leather:
they always tastes better if they have been
with plenty of men and i know that to be true...
****, lips, arm-pints and all that's thighs!
**** too...

             i'm not a jealous man...
i wish i could be a jealous god... but i'm not jealous
at all... that's my weakness...
i believe in love: universal...
hell... if women think it's worth sharing their beauty
and majesty.. why refrain from the argument
they're making... after all...
whether pretty or ugly: all can admire the sun
come either sunrise or sunset...

if that's how it's supposed to be...
   so it is to be...
she tells me my name is not Matteo: you can't be
a Matteo... i tell her in a groveling voice:
CON-RAD...
finally she understands me.

Confessed
about her lips
sweet and
sugar coated
Now……she
is rationing
coz
afraid of me
getting diabetics

it's vaguely odd, to make this kind
of observation,
but have you ever squinted your
eye (with the other closed)
when looking at the moon?
well, with the sun, when you squint
your eye in a similar fashion,
your eyelashes almost seem to turn
to water, if not tears,
they become soaked in light,
that almost resembles water tricklets...
but with the moon?
ah, bountiful luna
   (in other languages,
the moon is male, the sun, female,
but in english, it's the other way
round);
it is only a day since a full moon,
and i'm drinking my ***
and feeling "bored",
so i turn my attention to
the moon, a day shy from fullness...
and you know?
  squinting my eye, i see a fraction
of the sum of the orb,
and as i do, a distinct ray of light
enters my body, just
above the eye, the forehead;
my eye still has the orb intact,
but there's a distinct ray of light
heading into the area just above
my eye...
as if: illuminating,
or clarifying...
   hocus pocus sort of dynamic
this observation has managed
to produce, but it's there,
when you squint your eye when
looking at the moon,
a direct beam of light enters via
your forehead,
it doesn't travel directly into your
eye,
        rather, just above it...
a licking aspect of a
     better-late-than-never "bend".
just an innocent observation,
and furthermore,
you tilt your head from side to side,
the same beam of light moves
with your observant eye...
   i find it fascinating,
how much of science is depicted by
only the dynamic of polyphemus
(the cyclops) -
   now, in islamic myths
this cyclops, the dajjal is one-eyed,
hence islam will clearly
testify that western science is...
metaphorically speaking: the dajjal.
i'm not so sure,
i already identified the dajjal
from the hadiths...
  muhammad spoke of the
east... given a compass...
    what's east of mecca?
   riyadh...
and when he said: he will be the scourge
upon the earth,
he didn't imply a poor person...
and he said his right eye would
be bulging, like a grape...
and he would be the worst curse
to befall a nation...
looks to me, that saudi arabia
is becoming more and more
decadent, isolated,
enigmatic even, why?
   it's ashamed of the youth
it has produced, it's: petrified!
who is this "enigmatic" dajjal?
ibn-saud...
   ibn-jabba-the-arab more like...
******* arab diabetics:
no no, alcohol is haram!
sugar iz good! hav' a baklava!
go **** yourself, give me
a sand-timer you *******
camel jockey.
   there was once a "thing" called
the iron, curtain...
seems to me, we're living in times
of the sand, curtain...
  i really don't want to think
about the *****-whipping ***-cracks
of men living in these sand-dune
cities that: resemble the most pristine
apocalyptic visions of:
                                     FAIL!
ah, don't bother, start building
these babylon-esque towers on
antarctica... then you can pet some
penguins while you're at it!
come on, you can't have any other
animal in tux serving drinks...
a cheetah in tux? what are you
talking about?
               see, the english didn't pick up
on this, no one i know, or don't know
has spoken about the isolationism
of saudi arabia...
   lawrence of arabia is long gone
along with the: "evil" turk...
       great biography too...
but the sand curtain is there...
    there's nothing special happening
under it... it's like a babushka doll,
but whenever you open one up after another,
the niqab is still there...
        i wish the russian thought
up an islamic babushka doll...
  **** it: let's start with a burqa,
then a niqab... nearing the end we get
a thong and then the garden of eden *****...
i don't have the money to make this:
go ahead, like my idea, made a babushka
doll like that: you'll be... minted!
yeah i know, i'm sometimes like
a forrest gump, i like ping-pong and
i play-along with being innocently dumb...
i was born with the idea of money
as being nothing more than a comparison
to counting pebbles,
given that western "intellectuals"
bark against prostitutes...
     i've given myself to sparingly
whiff off a few grand, here & there,
because...
   if ****'s not broken,
                      why buy a replacement?
saudi arabia is, though, playing an
isolationist game for reasons you might
not suspect...
  hence the hadith quote,
   hence the sand curtain:
the older generations are ashamed
of the offspring they produced,
and their european slavic ***** *** ******...
that's good, i don't mind jerking
off... i can focus on my drinking...
   and yes, i've been to prostitutes,
and every time i get a kiss and she says:
no no no, it's against the rules,
but i still do, and get that girly
wish i was 16 giggle... well...
             grease me another frying pan:
i'm about to make a killer curry;
alter-ego talk...
matta al-britanni?
    got sent to the wrong place,
overshot the ******, sent him to goa,
to cook curries for white tourists...
seems pretty happy to me...
   better not tell him he's not supposed
to be there... like any ******:
   happy when being given a newspaper
to rip in nicely folded rectangles:
i knew one robbie... no pair of scissors
could beat him:
as they say - 'ere by v'ah grease of good:
rubby rubby, chubby chubby,
and out pops a screaming plum's head
mmm' ha ha:
rubby rubby, chubby chubby,
that's a good 'un, dash ah keepour:
talk to an amsterdam prozzie,
she'll tell you the linguo choke,
i mean: joke.
- where was i?
  oh, my, god! you know when you write
something, and keep writing something,
and you're like: girlfriend, you're gonna
blush...
   and it hits you, and it's, like: amnesia?
it's called the cut-up flux technique,
well, it's hardly a technique,
it's not the cabaret voltaire scene
to be honest...
    you don't think up a plot,
the plot thinks up itself,
   you... move along, you... move along,
but amnesia is a great technique
to focus on...
                  god, sometimes i wish
i was yoda japanese:

     squint the eye, you will,
     moon, apparent be seen,
     beam of light
        hit your forehead, it will.

and that's all it was going to be...
     but obviously the european ramble had to take
place, and involve much more,
than the recipe for ink had in store
for me, with the already twice mentioned
observation;
bad luck, hopefully better, next time.

aphrodite's child
four horsemen

shiver...
running from my
feet,
toward my
left cranium...

rotting christ
               four horsemen;

capirote...
as some would like
to stage
it to be: ku ku klux...
the nazgûl
                      9 / 4...
forward the fiktion...

i'm talking to
mushroom people...
you know,
when a ******
person talks to a drunk...
and...
  the conversation
soon turns to ridicule?
i.e. with what
two drunks talk about?

and how...
the same stoners
will revel in...
outside the realm lof
conversation,
resorting to games
outside the realm
of chess,
sudoku,
        or mahjong?

  you didn't teach me spain,
the spain taught me
what was within
the "gravity" of the reconquista...

but i thought...
that jihad...
was not a tactic for conquest...
rather:
   a tactic for reclaiming...
then?

  who,
                            are,

                                   you?

disability-pay-check
misnomers...
         arabian diabetics....
sugar frenzy...
    
you know what
the prophet Muhammad
said of the
current, House of Saud...
he said:
he would come from
the east,
  and reign: in the house...
of gardens...
   Riyadh...

  it's constantly stressed:
came, from
the east...

what is east of Mecca?
Riyadh...
  isn't it?
   we're talking
about intra-nationalism,
not inter-nationalism...

  i have no need to
base my squirm of interest,
in arabic affairs...
the polish *****
can have their sway,
i am here,
for the pebbles,
and the height
of a mountain...

  Muhammad said:
what is east of Mecca?
Riyadh...                  

  ku klux ****...
   and the spanish: capirote...

to speak this tongue
among the arabs,
who would readily
invest
in the evil personified
via a foreign tongue.

i halve myself,
to heave, forth,
the current
    dileberation.

whole plant edible
helps diabetics, type two                    
the broccoli plant

What goes around
Gets dizzy

All’s well that
Isn’t bad

A fool and his money
Has a lot of fun

Early to bed early to rise
Has no night life

A stitch in time
Is a temporal rupture

What doesn’t **** you
Raises insurance rates

When life hands you lemons
Open a fruit stand

Actions speak louder
With a PA system

The apple doesn’t fall
In outer space

You cannot judge a book
Without a lawyer

The grass is always greener
With fertilizer

An apple a day
Costs $250 a year

We’re not laughing at you
(Yes, we are)

There’s no such thing
As a unicorn having lunch

Money is the root of all
Capitalism

A spoon full of sugar makes
Diabetics

Misery loves
Therapists

Better safe than
In danger

All that glitters
Sparkles

Ignorance is
Trump

a gluten - free grain
good grain for diabetics
healthy fonio

w
                          a
                            v
                             e
                           s.



      Anxiety for me is schizophrenic
          
            I have days and hours when

              everything is fine to the point

                 of manic happiness a sort of

               hypoglycaemic reaction akin

           to those graphic highs and

       lows that diabetics suffer

          when they neglect

                  to inject

                      with

                          ins

'Your  game  is  finished".-
A  villion  
is  saying
in  Bollywood  movie.




Adoctor   is  saying
to  a  kidney   damaged
patient's  relatives.

A  sport   fitness
  trainer
is  saying  to
a  diabetics student.

A  slim  girl   is  saying
to  be  a   fat  boyfriend.