Fat people have no heads.
They end at the shoulders,
they are clipped off at the neck.
Never talk to fat people.
You may talk to an expert,
to a dietitian or a doctor
but never to a real live fat person
because fat people have no heads.

Use the word Epidemic
at least once, especially
if children are involved.
Children are always involved,
so use the word Epidemic
at least once. Fat children
still have heads, usually;
only fat adults must be
d e c a p i t a t e d.

Because he still has his head
you may talk to a fat child,
especially if you offer him
a box of chicken nuggets.
Entice him to say Alarming Things
with a box of chicken nuggets.

After the word Epidemic
segue from concerned anchorwoman
to stock footage of fat headless girl
browsing the racks at J.C. Penny’s.
Segue to fat headless mom
walking with her fat headless son
on a sidewalk populated by
fat headless pedestrians.
Voice-over Alarming Things
about fat headless people
not getting enough exercise
and segue to fat headless man
stuffing his fingers into a box
of McDonald’s french fries.
Fat people eat only McDonald’s
french fries and we will be right
back with more on this story
after a word from our sponsors.

Cue McDonald’s theme song.
Pretty people Golden Arches
laughing with their heads
as they eat McDonald’s french fries
with their heads
and never gain a pound.

you see i saw the dietitian this morning and i have to avoid foods

that are high in saturated fats, like low fat milk and low fat cheese

and sardines and tangarines and i have to lay low of coca cola

as well as snowdrops marshmallow chocolate, and i need to

really look after myself, in a way to make my cholesterol low

i can’t have hot chips except for oven fries, low in saturated fats

i can have gravox but it has to low in saturated fat not like fatrty gravy

i am having steak and broccoli and cauliflower tonight,

and i am grilling the steak

i bought some nuts for afternoon tea and i forgot to get the yoghurt

but i can have a tangerine for morning tea and a few nuts as well, dudes

next wednesday at the poetry slam, i am going treat myself to a coke or two

and get back into my meal plan after that is over

you see athena is going to work towards me not getting hungry between meals

but it might not work, seeing i am used to eating too much

you see i still have spurs in my foot, but athena is working towards making my feet comfortable

ya see dudes, i am going to try and make this work, i know i like coke as a cosmic drink

and it may improve the source of my life, but if i work to cutting down on coke

i might lower my cholesterol and i might feel better

you see i don’t want to go in the psych ward again, cause that is where the crazy people are

and i am not crazy, last time i was there i was a artist and writer and i performed

concerts to improve the quality of the inmates life

ya see, i like coke but i might need to cut back, so i can lower my cholesterol

and not make the dietitian say, there isn’t much point you coming here

and i think i will feel better, and think about the stories i want to write

but i don’t want to go to the nuthouse, because they are all delusional

so, dudes, i white roll with low fat cheese and sardine and tomato for lunch

i nibbled on nuts in the afternoon and for dinner i had steak and broccoli and cauliflower

and for tonights snack i will have a tangerine,

and i will try to do this every day, no cream buns for now, no coke for now

my mum will help me with some of the ingredients for what i am going to eat

sardines are good, and so is tuna and salmon

i want to save money, so if i cut back, not give up, just cut back on coke junk food etc

i will feel healthy, and if i feel angry i will write it out of me

like yummy srcummy cream buns and fruit and nut chocolates yuuuuuummmmmmmy

but athena is going to work to lower my cholesterol and make me feel better

because i feel like the forces of evil are trying to get me to do what i used to do, in 1989-90

and i still hear voices of people saying i am SHY I AM SHY, i can tell you one thing, I AM NOT SHY

i don’t want to get fought of killed and i want athena to help me from dying of high cholesterol

you see i don’t believe in fasting, and i want athena to heal my body, with each of my medications

you see i know i ran off my fat and then i became fat again, but then when i was running

i obseesed so much with it, i kept yelling at my schizophrenic voices, so running was really working

but in hindsight, i still want to walk, and hopefully i can get back into running again without the voices

so, come on guys, please help athena to bring my cholesterol down, ok

We talk about food but
not about food.
When I stand on the scales, shaking, eyes darting from
side to side, like I’m
desperately looking for an escape route, you know
who I’m scared of.
When I lose a pound, you know
that I’ve had a **** week.

Protein! Fibre! Vitamin D! Calcium!
So constipated.
What’s a carbohydrate that isn’t bread?
I had half a bowl of porridge and half a cup of tea this morning–
I was in a rush! I didn’t want to be late! I sleep in
until 10am now! It’s great!
But you know.
****.

We talk about food but
not about food.
****.

i'm sorry, embracing darwinism is an abandonment
of carpe diem: there is no way that
the anglophone world will ever fully embrace
existentialism, the anglophone world is
orientated around up-keeping their golden
quack's worth of the goose that laid
golden eggs in a grimm's tale -
    it will not pass me, even though i'm drunk
and half the spectator's worth of chant,
you're not getting "one" past me...
             why? it's simple!
            the english speak more shakespeare
than dante...
             and that's for starters...
     whenever i look at english t.v.
i'm less glutton & more anorexic,
    less political & therefore more docile...
the ******* nodding brigade.
  nod, sneeze, nod some more,
pretend it's head-banging, you *******
tickling peckham *****...
          *******, and **** your
ellie charlie and prince albert whatever you
******* call him of edinburgh
who could play that vampire, like he always
plays a vampire, that charles dance:
****** has a 11" ****'s worth of voice...
now come on, darwinism is nearing death...
    i'd prefer the idea of nibbling on bamboos
like some panda; you sure we didn't
evolve from bears, instead monkeys?
mono-apparent diet though...
come on, take it to ease up life...
             seems i has a lost sense of humour
running rampant...
     even the russians are laughing:
**** me: that's a joke in itself...
          moscow giggles?
    that really ought to come from a *******'
**** joke philander of breezes
smoking a cinnamon ridden pipe
with a jew on the side...
               kippah for a bowl?!
             what, jews are careless when saying
a joke, you being anti-semitic all of a sudden
while i say mine?
       chinese never slurped a noodle soup
while utilising chopsticks?! you sure
you didn't see grandpa ying-ju slurp
that chicken broth up?!
they didn't! bring in the french cuisine experts
regarding au jus!
*******, gonna boil them like,
wide-awake,
oh i've seen a chicken get decapitated on
a stump of wood, with the cannibalism
that ensued, while the decapitated head
rolled off the slub, lazy eyed while
the other chickens made a religion,
and pecked at the blood...
           silence of the lambs had its hannibal:
time for a caesar:
       concerto of lobsters....
           shrill... itching with a chalk pecker
on a blackboard...
so what's absurd with coupling darwinism
with continental darwinism?
well...
  man gets the monkey,
woman? she gets the black widow & the mantis...
that's what!
            i'm not not up for that sort of
gamble...
          someone should have said:
english darwinism does not couple well
with continental existentialism,
to be honest darwinism is the enemy of
existentialism...
   the two can't co-exist!
          we already have the thematics in
place with women:
the upper hand, given the numbers,
man resorts to monkey, woman?
   a black widow spider & the mantis...
   who has the upper-hand?
   english "existentialism" i.e. darwinism
is crude, obsolete, hardly revelatory -
tell you what's crude about "reality"
one man who just sat on a toilet,
another who sat on an armchair,
and another who sat in an electric chair,
walk into a bar...
                  what? there's no joke,
the joke is already stated in the disparity!
you don't reach the heights of existentialism
with a shortcut akin to darwinism...
you don't get that benefit!
        come on, get with it:
you already have enough fickle people
playing peanuts and gherkins with:
             god is dead: enter the dietitian;
you're busy, make a move at imitating
the icelandic peoples,
and incorporating an app. that tells your
mating partner, if you're at least 5 times removed
cousins: you know, so we don't get anymore
orangutan reminders in human form
(downs, eyes really close together,
can't miss them: the mad call them: 'ere
by god's grace... or that strange form of love
coming from a psychotic *****);
no, darwinism is really ******* in terms
of "trying" to catch up to continental existentialism...
darwinism in comparison to existentialism
is a neanderthal...
   oops...
       man gets the drumming monkey,
a girl gets the black widow & the mantis -
       and then we inherit the nag hammadi
trans- of everything without exception sexuality:
boy gets pink, girl gets blue...
and we're all happy gleeful
  passing st. peter with a ***** strapped to his head:
**** me... these "pearly" gates, look
    just like those gates of auschwitz!
can i just have the fate of those
concerto lobsters, please?
    i'd like to sing a song while boiling
within the zenith of a castrato exclaiming:
          i lost m'ah *****! yet i kept on singing!

no! seriously! how many ******* times will we have to go over this format of reciting biblical compliments to each other, chapter 1 verse 1 through to 3 like it's worth 30,000 word essays on hermeneutics... if any rational man could see that somehow 3 words = 30 thousand words... he'd have written a dictionary in 10 languages, and thesauruses combining 3 of them for aesthetic purposes of non-tutored rhetoric: the talk that made drinking a pint less about st. st. st. stuttering, and more about: rub-dub-rub-dub... why in seashell the sea and in cave the echo? psst... don't wake them... the English rationalists will have a monkey scout on the trails of such loose language insensibility... they'll keep the power of the un-tripped domino with Shakespeare... the only country in the world where a dictator exists... and no one wants to own up to the identity of who he is.*

for all its worth, history is like science, quiet frankly history is
a science of humanism, so many facts in science, as there
are dates in history -
we educate people for the hamster catch -
drill them Pythagoras to reach a blind spot,
likewise quantum twins:
here too, there too,
Xerxes mad lashing at the sea for disobeying,
some Emperor of Japan not lashing at the sea
and allowing a samurai smooth tsunami stroke
against the neck wipe a million shaven heads
and a beard from the cares of
the few entombed in modern pyramids: harems.
if only Xerxes were transported to Japan
and began lashing against the sea for disobeying,
sent a few army bombers to disperse the wave,
maybe then we'd know why he failed
in his conquest of Greece...
apathy is the worst kind of madness,
it breeds no King Lear... it breeds no fear,
no theatrical splendour...
it just showcases the homeless man
at Covent Garden with the sign: please help...
walking past in fake diamond but nonetheless
esteemed ownership for status...
i'd run naked past... but to prove what?
that brother C.C. owns a t.v.?
prove what, and to whom? the grey mass
that entombs a life we once had
but are left to this perpetual-awe riddle
of up-kept science and ridicule of awe from
the beginning? up-keeping awe in science goes so
far, as Cancer Man said: the minute
they reject my book, i turn into the subverting
agent of their success... they don't
publish my book i un-publish their so called-truth
books, which become nothing more than
cookery books... the people of Siberia
are stern enough to survive without some
mush from upper-east side, some
London elitist with a flavour for Dubai...
to attain the uttermost objectivity of man's concern
is to devolve his highly evolved protection
of the subjectivity of the state, or patriotism,
of the Hegelian protective ownership of goods,
of the Marxian communal dis-ownership of such escapades:
to give birth to a God of jealous inquisitions,
one must give birth to a God of jealous intentions,
as of any time as the one time in mythology,
no greater time would be assured in being equal,
to his being... oh i favour the Cancer Man...
the object remains intact, censored subjectivity has already
been in place with the enforcement of
keeping Shakespeare saintly, erasing all existing memory
of, i admit, unnecessary bureaucracy to merely
draw a halo over a frying-pan of scrambled eggs...
it doesn't matter how right or wrong i am...
people have been given an almost eternal history,
so that they don't believe in an eternity...
but whereas a wolf once attacked a flock of sheep
and could be easily distinguished by adaptability,
the wolf within the sheep, as with the sheep within
a metaphysical suggestion (abstract) is no longer
distinguishable... we evolved to cannibalise each other...
whether intentionally in isolated cases, or poetically
with unintended cases of isolation...
we gave birth to a greater death than that of god...
we gave birth to the death of poetry, by precursor
to a death i mean the birth of the mediocre.
all the avenues are exhausted... all that fanciful
cocktail of clown and mime and acrobat are done...
we turned to comparative existentialism, as we always
did, we always wanted to protect the lamb from the wolf,
the fly from the spider... but when we were given the
bigger picture, the pyramid, the schematic, we became
so scared of our natural power that we created an overwhelming
seemingly over-worldly power of the atom...
we pitied the lamb lost among a pack of hungry wolves...
but then we gave sway to the industrial slaughter of cows
for mere food fights in schooling institutes that cared
more for imagining ourselves without body rather than
without god... god is dead... enter the dietitian.
as one swine plucked the heat from another swine's comfort,
another anorexic prickled her skin against another's
for the other's to only feel nerve and bone than anything
mammalian... we, the lizard people of the severed cranium,
who, through our concreteness to fact:
as in science as one fact changed, so history without mythology
no fact remains with the mythology of hindsight, the what if...
who cares if it happened, why are you trapped in the mythology
of what if? we are truly lizards... to the core that we imagine
the canvas of our fancies (muscles, fat, fibres) so gluttonous
with ****, while leaving cold skeletal phonetics dyslexic,
broken... why then so many people dare to read?
want to? want to escape the horrid comforts of the papier mâché?
fibula... but is that φι- or θι-? you don't know,
before you could teach the coherence of the movement of such
bones, you enveloped them in moulds of images,
which you later called sacred, and knelt before them,
in the worship of former stone engravings, which you engraved
on canvas depicting learned folk who were bitterly ignorant...
then you desecrated graves... giving fake skeletons
property over pointless words, words that could never stretch
to the sentence of: i love you... you left them,
in slogan canned, until started asking: where are the dentists!
where are the dentists! we need dentists!
you we simply slurring a stupid karaoke into a microphone
while your grandmothers ****** your very lives day by day;
but hey! ooh those steroid biceps that would
end up giving you a heart-attack when running
against true athletes of 200 metres at 20 metres dead;
oh believe me... those tourist trips to Auschwitz?
they're fakes... you don't have to go on a tourist trip to
Auschwitz to start realising you're living in hell...
those trips are only real for people who've been there
for real... even those Israeli schoolchildren have no place
there... it's a place designated for Nazis and Poles
who identified themselves as Jews first...
mind if we import the Sphinx to Trafalgar Sq. for
kicks the tourists might admire in between breaks of
watching Netflix?

i still can't believe i'm entombed in about 4 months of the total of my life: which now stands at 30 years... those 4 months are like the facts of sunrise followed by sunset, summer prior to autumn... i should be counting my i.q. score as if i was counting marbles... to think that 4 months, spread across the cities: Edinburgh, outer-London and St. Petersburg are as necessary for me to continue to write (even though i preferred manual labour) as they aren't... i just mean... i have fonder memories that keep me occupied in what i deem the cinematography of disorientated cognition - but for 4 months of my life to be so designating the "progress" of my endeavour... it just so happens that we easily accept natural grievances, you never hear talk of god's imbecile jurisprudence among cancerous children... usually among the wealthy and the reasonably healthy: talking about the pointlessness of a god, using the most crass example: a tapeworm, or such other sucker. still, 4 months to provide the momentum for writing? the girl in question? last time i saw her, she was playing butcher with her hand, some idiot told her to cut down her arms, rather than her wrist... and the boy's friend? apparently he was diagnosed as bipolar... so all ends ******, should it begin ******... as a thought that's more akin to a warning: learn to let go.

epitaphs and maxim fit perfectly where livers and hearts
used to be - as to d.o.b. and d.o.d. - death? oh, i've met
him before, he released me from his trickster
clutches and said:
revision 2.0.
                     so i started revising
my life, undoing all the wrongs
i've ever could have done to others,
to my surprise, i was roaming
a wilderness - not a single person
in sight!
               deer and foxes,
kestrels and falcons, seagulls and crows,
woodland pigeons and sparrows -
magpies and cranes -
                    blackbirds and squirrels -
yes, death, i've met him before,
           i only wish it was the one time
that i had - kicking the calendar -
on a saint's feast day preferably,
to overcome them all...
                and when the *jaskółka flies
high, there is little chance of rain...
    but when a swallow flies low:
the chance of rain is imminent -
                  thus epitaphs among skeleton:
where once the lodged liver, now, a few words...
i've met death before, by my second time
i hope to place the laurel leaves under
poets' buttocks to epitomise laziness
    than on top of Caesars' heads -
for haphazard ruling of a dominion -
yes, death and i have met before,
in a haemorrhage likened to an epileptic spasm
we conversed ever so briefly:
before the hyenas of lost law came and
fearing the most audacious prognosis:
****** me into 7 years of imitating premature
dementia - as in any autobiographic sketch:
people lie...
                     boy meets girl,
        girl loves boy, boy loves girl,
   girl thinks she's perfect, boy thinks: well,
  there's always room for improvement,
girl tries to make boy into a piggy bank...
  girl stops taking contraceptive pills,
boy isn't informed about having to put a ******
back on... boy and girl break up...
                  boy heads home to work,
  girl is rich and continues studying...
               girl sees boy with his ex partying...
become Hera like jealous,
            ends up ******* the boy's childhood friend...
the boy played happy birthday to the friend at one time...
  the same friend that sent a picture of his genitals
to his ex... yep, the usual soap opera...
                boy's friend attempts to **** him
using the former fiance's knowledge in anthropology
about poisonous Amazonian hallucinogens...
              boy get high, gets fooled into smoking
the poison up... boy experiences a haemorrhage-epilepsy -
   gets twisted in a web of deceit, for some reason gets
diagnosis as a schizophrenic... resurfaces with poems
  such as these: no one has proof of anything like this
happening... Rasputin comes in to congratulate everyone
and starts to applause... the girl gives birth to son...
son doesn't know the whole story, will probably end
up killing the boy after his mother tells him enough lies...
          boy is waiting, rubbing his hands like a fly:
          whenever you're ready;
i love it, for all my education, i've only learned one thing:
   distrust everyone, and avoid everyone
                     and coagulate with a hermit's plausibility
           of the isolated life,
           in a society of however many millions
              who nod to the words: god is dead,
        and we are slaves unto the dietitian:
who begat in physics the calorie atom we so forcefully
                  occupy an interest in.
yes, death can come once more...
            all i see is skeletons and epitaphs -
  gravestones and where once a heart pounded:
                    some easily forgotten words.

the world is too big for me to lie,
and if you think i lie,
then i'm sure le petit prince
met you on one of the planets journeyed to.*

or poetry on the internet, are we all neither
mammals nor lizards or birds to be force-fed
this ****? i hate turkeys with stomachs
stitched up for bulimia-ready
augmentation...
here's a guitar... twang twang twang
three string base rhythm...
here's my voice...  now my voice
i'll keep personal to be in kinship
with an acorn fall...
and i too might taste the devolved
loved-up tongue which
once would speak... abbreviating
the excess, as neither necessary or expected,
but still loved-up, instilled in loving...
but for now... not so much...
more for the gallery of superficiality of
sticks and called bulbing limbs of beauty:
where once the fashion designer
now a dietitian... once colour and cut
now the calorie intake and burn-off...
as one limbo headed lamb of the catwalk
sat on my knee and inquired a normal talk
while i joked she was always to be a welcome elf
of our twinned lost appetite,
should the hungry child keep asking for toys
rather than a bacon bun.

i was serious about the Anglo Renaissance -
                     it has peaked -
            it's forever in a state of groundhog
day repeat... which isn't a necessarily bad thing...
              the internet has changed
   or rather restricted how we get fed culture,
an odd statement... but the internet doesn't
actually prescribe you cultural dietitians -
          i'm talking about people, getting paid
to sift through music, or other works of art:
not the critics, but the cultural dietitians...
     John Peel owned the radio back when
it was still prog rock and punk and what
became punk: grunge, and what became grunge:
indie...
                     oddly enough there is still one
cultural dietitian out there: Jools Holland...
                   cultural critics are dialectical shrapnel,
or should i say: agitators
                            that rarely enter dialogue -
           but Jools is the kind of cultural entity that
showcases new acts you might otherwise omit -
and probably will, given that it's sometimes to
forage the algorithmic trends and berry bushes of
search engines...
                                to me that's the worthwhile
side of television...
                                      but you have to sacrifice
a Friday night and watch the program...
                  my latest discovery?
                   Declan McKenna and a decent song:
Brazil...
                       obviously the band Slaves are
not knew to me: what is new to me is the fact
that the drummer is using a stand-up minimalist
drum kit (never seen them live) -
                i still lament that fact that the music
magazine Mojo disappeared from shop shelves...
      it didn't adapt as an electronic magazine -
                  but people need this sort of outlet,
where someone is professional adapted to having
enough dosh to spend his celibacy in music shops...
             and to later showcase it
for your eager palette to lick up a fancy of a band
or two...
                     but boy oh boy: to be constantly plugged
in like that?
                                  so many people have so many
interesting things to say multiplied by the variation
of presenting those said things -
                           no wonder menial tasks seem
debilitating, everyone dreams about never using
a hammer...
                        at least in political systems akin
to authoritarian communist states: only one person
is allowed to say anything remotely interesting...
             and that never distracts you to dream -
in all sincerity, the western motto is: be polite...
         because there are so many sad examples
of how people should have been taught to be content
with very little...
                                  to be the shadows of society
that are better protected from what i find to
be despotic in democracy: art.
                                             simply because it has
to be there... not physical health... art...
                art governs everything in democracy,
many people dream, too many...
                                   if i didn't have that ******
brain haemorrhage i'd be content as my father is,
day-to-day: on the roof, simple task
        perfected over time till it's like spreading
butter on hot toast than tar on concrete...
                        with the motto - zrdowie na budowie
                 (health on a building site) -
  of that i am jealous as ****-knows-what -
                    i wasn't born an entertainer - so these
poems are not intended to be performed,
   hence shying away from poetical conventions -
                 i always wanted to be in the mass of
social shadows, the people behind the curtains doing
the necessary things to oil up society...
                                this is a practical joke given my
background in chemistry...
                                           next best thing?
the Faustian myth.
                                               but still: the ivory tower.
            but we are in dire need of cultural
dietitians: the people who prescribe us art...
  oh forget the radio... the radio is not the radio
of the 1970s...   video killed the radio star...
   (famous song)... but this one slot on television
with Jools is what every aspiring contestant
  for the X-factor should watch... to simply sober up...
otherwise my prediction about how Axis powers
   allowed post World War II celebrations to
take place over 5 decades... but have started to wane
and karaoke is the standard norm -
if ever someone could have said: only Japan,
i'd gladly like to listen to Celtic folk in pups -
but no... autocue...
                                   so i guess i'm right with that respect,
           we don't have the necessary cultural
dietitians in the major forms of art...
                         the needle drop guy doesn't
compare to Jools Holland... not the same league...
            not enough music... and this is the reason
why certain aspects of the internet will not catch on:
needless to say: the internet has become a fixation
for cat videos and poems...
                                                static - static - static -
  we need cultural dietitians more than
people telling us to loose 4lb and take more vitamin B12...
                    in literary terms
television is crap...
                                             but in terms of music
the internet is just as crap...
                                the radio is just another excuse
for billboards and advertisement posters...
                    i'm telling you... Friday night,
BBC1, later... with Jools Holland...
                                        did anyone notice how ****
Norah Jones has become? a full bodied woman,
a ripe peach and pear and all the things that
woman are: fruits...                     the skinny girls
       deluded by flowers...
                           but the real fleshy girls
        by fruits. bombshell, that Ms. Jones.
1st of october... and i'm thinking whether i should
stop going to the shops at night wearing only a
t-shirt and pyjama bottoms (like your typical
English girl) -                        
                                             but then this exquisite
numbing of not thinking, slightly cryogenic in a sense
of massaging nerves and veins...
                         i'll give it a week's worth of
debate in my head, before i'll put on a hoodie.

what with the everyday? spoiled brats locked up in their bedrooms where they think their individuality would matter in China... like **** it would... up comes the atheistic harvester and you get 1 billion obedient citizens, not in the west, with it counter-constructive anarchism that butterfly-punches the status quo, and in the words of Freddy Mercury - the show and the show offs march on.

and how many truthful poets will you find here?
or elsewhere?
every look at them as idle idealists? ever think
why they write about the essentials like they might
later write about kettles? love and love-hungry
heartaches are like a shopping spree in a supermarket
for them... they hide in shadows wearing masks -
they hide in shadows wearing masks -
i repeated myself because that's how prose fiction
is usually quoted by critics: finding a needle
in a haystack and nothing else, talk of fried eggs
on toast as one Sudanese rebel said to
a marine in Black Hawk Down: you live long and
boring lives; you reach old age not as a celebratory
march into the grave... but as a march into
the Hostel chambers of sadism... nothing to celebrate,
unless you've got all that science to later lie
in your excrement and gangrene... whoop whoop!
tug that steam-engine klaxon of Thomas for castrato's
release of opera with the steam.
back to the unit of family, you know why these poets
fake love as they might fake a statue from the Renaissance?
it's not about gym membership and:
god is dead, born the dietitian -
i'm not that much of a boorish bore to mention kcal
of a glass of milk of a tomato -
(self-conscious moment, listening to the radio,
piquant sadism, ****! i can't change the song or
even replay it... pain... pain... pain) -
my father sometimes argues with my mother aiming
his argument at me... third person party,
a child's involvement in family life:
the reason why they ****** and gave birth to you...
hiding behind Oedipus won't help,
the more you give yourself to memory,
the less you imagine (in the pop realm)
or theorise (in the education realm, the ****'s pretty much
the same, theory is like imagination,
it's just that the latter gets a bigger following) -
my mother is visiting her mother, gone for 3 months solid
if not more... being a woman (which is a crucial point),
she used to have a regime of cleaning the house
every day... i'm in charge of domestic chores and cooking...
i clean the house once a week... 2 cats.. after a week
the house looks like it has been lived in...
with her cleaning regime it just looks like a hotel...
my father's line: this isn't a hotel.
now i get it... he wasn't scolding me, he was scolding his
life-partner... i don't get reprimands for not cleaning
the house every day... i brush my teeth with a pea-sized
amount of toothpaste *once a day, this mouth
ain't a ***** toilet... no nicotine staining for 3 years...
get used to it. i'm not going to make a dentist happy -
buckle on teeth of a horse smiling exposing the gums...
knee high! so you see... honouring your parents isn't
exactly having a million on your bank-account
so that you can pay for their stay at the home for the elderly...
it sometime's just investing a little introspection into
the unit that you're part of... no point locking yourself
up with Chinese society against you and you with only
a begging chance at becoming a karaoke fest with only
one original song written by someone that ain't you.
i clean the house once a week,
i'm not a woman... i live in a house, not a hotel...
remember what i told you about the un-diagnosed o.c.d.?
2 cats, so the fur (obviously).
but my father plays ping-pong argument with my mother
through me... we've been alone for a few months...
and i hear no complaints about the household *******...
just the odd tale from the construction industry in England,
Romanians that gladly sleep on sites and work 7 days a week,
how Poles rebel against the golfers / "managers" visiting
sites under their responsibility once a month for 15 minutes...
the daily depression you won't find on youtube...
so you ask me why i retort with words like leprechaun
fascists? from those stories... don't worry, western society
idealises too much, they think they suddenly sprouted angelic
wings... you think these poets are being honest?
i think they're idealising, blind-dating their way into the choir
of pristine white virginity of having no absolute effect
on the world, that they've already changed.

As I got to the dietitian
I go through a summer
Forest
Full of oranges
Then
As I get caught
In the forest
A lady with oranges in her hair
Comes
Gives me an orange
And says.
“This may help you!”

first memories? my great-grandfather wanted me to play the piano... my grandfather? he expected me to become a hyena of the graveyard; concerning the the former? my piano became a keyboard, or the latter, i was called jesus by a death death girl i tried to put headphones, i was call the tenth of memory of humanity's worth memory... i was called the hunchback angel, i was called the death of death.... i have many names... i crave these associations, once walking in the street i was called death, might i breathe as silently as a shadow in the night?

p'tah p'tah p'tah,
     p'tah p'tah p'tah...
i guess that translates
at p'ah-tay-tinker-toe:
p'tah p'tah p'tah,
p'tah p'tah p'tah, ***** toe.

p'tay p'tay p'tay p'tay,
twinkle twinkle whimper star...
p'tay  p'tay  p'tay
   papa(h) to, tato
             this, my father,
               *to, tato,
    this, my father...
                              am i so cruel?
father, i wish
to be more cruel than
the question attempts to answer...
the only inhibitions
       i have are merely
   thought biases....
                    let your deeds
        come as you sought deeds
of abel's conversation,
   but let mine, come within the
groundwork of cain's ambitions
(disregarded)....
                  peer into my eyes
                    when i peer into
      the night, wearing sunglasses...
the last and the the lost remnant light...
what of the cradle,
            but of the gained number of
scientific peers....
                  rock-ah-baby-rock...
          who said anything of
allowing an object, the subject of
          questioning a capacity of endurance?
who if not non-synthetic could
ask that question within the cricus-act
of performing a sadistic act?
                    only a non-synthetic creature
could perform a circus act
   of sadistic proportions...
    having no gratifying suggestion what
the symbiosis of life-and-death are...
zombified humanoids, in excess scientific,
      with the death of god,
     comes the birth of the dietitian;
                           the true pathos awakens:
a breath, lost in skin.

I sit inside
Out my window is the moon
The presence that draws me from my most concious worries
Health, safety, fertility, image, curiousity
Why am I the way I am?
It is my experiences that make who I am, logically I know
For there to be a genuine magic, somewhere, I wish
I have a strange glimmer of hope, to bring that sparkle and magic closer to me
To revel in something greater than myself, my existence, my geographic location
Just once
I wait
And I worry
And I worry and wait
I don't think she would be proud of this, the moon,
I think she communicates with me, when I need it, when I believe it
I used to talk to spirits through my window as a child
I believed it was real, simply because I believed
There wasn't any crystal clear truth, I simply felt it
The moon brings me through the same window now
Her craters, and dips, her waning and waxing
How I have so many desires to be with her, so far away
Some nights I try to rise above all of these emotions, but my worries bring me back to Earth
A virus right now is spreading, killing many it encounters
If I believed in the power of God as strongly as I want to, maybe I'd feel some comfort or safety.
I'm open to anything, let that be known
I used to worry about my appearance so much, but I know see my actions will speak louder than my beauty
I am a lover, deep down, I crave it, I've let love absolutely destroy me, I've banked on it, I've thought about it, I've needed it, I've had it, I've lost it, let it go, destroyed it
And I've waited for it
Now, these relationships have a hazy linen over them, I can retrieve them with pictures and heavy introspection, but some part of me doesn't enjoy going back
How do I move forward each day with the thoughts of yesterday with me
And how do I do so without the thoughts of yesterday
I try not to be greedy, I try to give, I try to do what is right, and if I do what is wrong, I learn.
There aren't many mistakes I can make with my existence, I'm curious every day
I love someone around me every day
Romantically, I wish I was allowed to be close to those I want
But for now staying home is what is recommended, what's best
I miss going out, I miss getting tipsy at bars, I miss my skinny girl friends, I miss my best friends Angell and Grace, I miss driving to my dietitian and having two hours alone in my car every week...every other week
I miss seeing my therapist and my favorite teachers, I miss having reasons to create, I miss nannying, my job, and art museums in the city
I miss visiting E+an and his house in the city, I miss not being isolated
And the moon, she reminds me that all of those things aren't so far from me, because somehow she is, and yet she is right outside my bedroom window.
She is covered by clouds, and the dark midnight sky, but she is there, and she speaks a perspective I desperately seek, and I am grateful. And I do not live in fear.