there's one detail that capitalism will
not learn from communism:
you can't defend individualism
while at the same time promoting
collectivism,
      you can't have both!
you either have the promotion
of individualism, or the establishment
of collectivism...
you can't have both!
     stop faking it! stop reaching
for the unreachable!
       you're fooling yourselves thinking
that you can have both
individualism and collectivism
at the same time:
the fable is older than you think:
it's the cliche:
you can't have your cake and also
eat it...
     capitalism is schizophrenic
when it comes to the siamese
rather than the twin concept of
individualism & collectivism...
it has to reduce itself to an ethnos...
    and what gorgon face that is...
i find it slightly funny to see
capitalism attempt collectivism,
while being so reluctant in disavowing
individualism, trying to "break"
away from it...
                 i could almost muster up
a ha ha...
                         so i will: ha ha!
schveeden schveeden...
                 meegen weegen V...
up yours!
    here's my answer!
  you disrupt our society,
we use pawns to disrupt yours!
                                          ***** galore!
the collectivism of individuals
will bring you nothing but misery...
the inviduation of collectivism
will bring you nothing more
than what you mot despise:
         that piquant form of socialism,
i.e. a nationalist bias...
         bottom line is
you can't expect to juggle both
individualism & collectivism...
       you, can't, have, both!
                  you have to drop one,
or keep neither...
                       i find is strange to
remind myself of the second world war
and find that there were
two forms of socialism at war...
   one (the german), a national form
versus the other (the soviet), a
globalist form...
                 the capitalists just made
a grand authority of hollywood adverts
that spanned 50+ years...
           now the capitalists are
seeking a collectivism,
having apparently lost
their individualistic approach?
         **** me! **** really hit the fan!
you can really see panic these days,
i admit, it's contained panic,
but cotained panic / delayed panic
usually breeds fascism...
or as the alt. media likes to call it:
western chauvinism...
like i said once before:
panic is worse than fascism...
and it's proving itself...
              the emergence of fascism in
western culture is a delay
mechanism of what's actually
the chaotic invigoration of
delayed panic...
           why can't capitalism consolidate
individualism with / within
the concern for collectivism,
without asking the question of
               ethnicity?
           i can't stomach the pathology
of post-capitalism...
                attempting a "communism"...
i really can't stomach it...
                           world war II was really
only about the conflict of
two forms of socialism,
  one concerned about empire building,
the other about national autonomy...
a capitalist nation like america
was only invited by chance...
    they weren't supposed to enter
the european dialogue,
their dialogue was and always remained
with an answer to pearl harbour...
what the **** were tha yanks
doing in europe? no one asked them!
                i do remember days
when i'd visit my grandparents and
say: the polish girls are the most beautiful
in the whole of europe...
these days?
                  not so much...
most of them turned into ******,
moving to western europe
and buying bucks via their *****...
   am i bothered? no!
           i already said once before...
i'm part of the dodo-nonchalance project!
**** your monkey & your
darwinism & you d.n.a. argument
asking for an evolved man to feel
concern in terms of up-keeping something
of "worth"!
                      niet! no! nie! nein!
take your david attenborough,
                                      and *******!
ask him to narrate pornographic
films, while you're at it.

Exhausted
from feeling
   reeling
peeling away my exoskeleton
of mossy vehemence

Disgusted
from festering
pestering bacteria
leeching my energy
depleting my senses

Desensitized
towards romance
no chance
for me
Sinking
in a swamp
instead of grasping
for relief

Ashamed
for allowing
disavowing
natural instincts
Crying
   dying
internally invaded
by poisonous neglect
  Suicide
by choking on
your spoken words
I kept

Wandering, disavowing eyes might enhance a face's beauty, but the invisible heart's ceaseless efforts truly portray the soul's mysterious existence.

Desensitized by the sands of time
I'm abhorred you're a cultural cog
Bobbing on the surface
you find eating gulls disgusting
but don't bat an eye at nauseous oil slicks

I wish I could set it all ablaze
so we'd pick our destinies more carefully
Or more care freely

You see me as a motley mesh
Flesh covered by cloths from mismatched fads
Yet, you're a pretentious simian that's forgot our past
Just a gussied up grazer, disavowing discomfort
scoffing at any endeavor that isn't grass flavored

The chimers on the lawn are all robed outcasts
bellowing to the fodder eating fodder
the posh set the stalks to be mowed over
But for the justice of all the inside out bulls
leaving their wallets on the ground
the entrail fashion never catches on

Careful casting blessings in tongues not truly understood
It's said there is a serpent that entangles dragon's blood
And spitfire be a voice so loose with foolish finds
Looking towards inviting angels, but be the demons in disguise
Karmic value matters in existence past the alibis
So negligent some limbs behave upon the Tree of Life

Do you count the numbers or apply them?
Do the readings code the river stream?
Divine and simple too easy to believe
I'm starting to think that many will not in aeons, come to perceive
Regressing back into the caves
To fight the tigers with their blades

Spirit can always evolve, but beside the spirit remains an umbra
The serpent that binds  as the helix to merge with yours
Through the jungles in your mind and beneath your ocean's floor
Tempting to eliminate duality in disavowing ways
But comes the wave and overstep of the orchestra's score
Written by the master architect to arrest ophidian psyche force

Ability looked at the cards
For mercy with a silver eye.

Survival was not self-immolation.

No matter. No spirit.
No silence. No echo.
No piety. No touch,


An anesthetic to minimize shame
Anesthetic for temptation.
Anesthetic for the terror of wild abandon.

Ability bled delicately, red to silver the moon's translation as cold as ever.

His dignity long misunderstood, vague until now. She his witness and detached accomplice.

Ability swallowed his bile and licked his lips as it stung his insides, appropriating the mannerism of the stone prince, vigilant of the ever presence. Stiff upper lip, a  gaze cold. Dead.
Ability was not born an orphan. He adapted this persona in memory of They who molested his sincerity and are still walking free among the living, feeding from the corals of truth. Innocence and good will as innate a pleasure principle as the ignorance that abounds would be unlearned in a meticulous exercise of freedom, keen conversation and select divulgation of self. No more would a vampire ravage his inner whole unless absolute expulsion was the contract. Giving himself to vice completely, void of distraction and sacrifice. No longer able to cope with his solitary confinement he tiij ti sealing every possible entry, every capillary that might one day offend. Today, dry of want, need, desire, in a perverted disillusion, content in the agony of unlearning helplessness the noble intention of needing nothing from anyone the prudence of minimal human contact the virtue of knowing god from man and the insistence of the free to differentiate the two.

Superiority was a given for Ability as innate as the goodwill, innocence, and ignorance that preceded his testimony to the moon. As indifferent to everyone else as mankind's general ignorance of god. As insignificant as god's indifference of man. As inconsequential as Ability and his devotion to man. A man. A priest.

Ability tended every nuisance. Choice. Taste. Expectation. Desire. He did not quite digest the simplicity of an ideal that was now the enemy- the ideal of taking humanity seriously. Ability, in wonderful lysergic incantation feared these suspicions to be true.  A belief no longer internalized by Ability the Free who now came to understand this bastion of truth: the longest repressed offense mechanism: mankind is alone and has only itself to blame.

Ability's innocent sincerity was ignored, forsaken by he who was dead inside. Ability would bury him as a god only to watch him resuscitate as a mortal. Only then would ability look him- the medic, priest, doctor- in the eye. After disavowing his first and second testament. Ability nailed to his forehead the very first commandment: that of self-preservation.

Ability was divorcing doctrine from totality. Romance from self. Wearing his best clothes, washing his face and feet for the volition to go it alone until death. Roaming strangely the terrain and rivers of Planet Earth, a planet who like himself was almost conquered by Cruel Mankind, Ability realized he had come before the Priest. Ability no longer imitated the passion of the Christ. He laid down his cross. He began his own manifest. For salvation, redemption, and freedom. No longer at the worship of his own tomb, he swallowed his own seed and took his life.

Equality and the Golden One

Wrote with her hand
scribed a desire so  primal
inside all of us

A union formed of prose
describing an Anthem
a value, reason

without number disavowing
a collective will.
Men are free, Ayn said

In turmoil  Equality and the Golden One
found the tunnel and electricity
and began again

our struggle.

(an almost lipogram)

It is missing!
Just as a lost paramour
or a forlorn suitor of a now hollow past,
causing a lack of all glamour.

My lass’s familiar touch hiding
astray in murky clouds of a dulling rainbow,
my writing turns to a wan pallid world
as I scour my mind to supplant this loss.

Assailing yon dragon with quill in hand
I spurn my awaiting angst,
stalking as Orion’s own conspirator
disavowing all doubts of my own ability.

Sallying forth I do not tarry.
Words assault a wall of lofty doubts
born of naught but a foolish phobia.
Scaling mighty ramparts,
my anima’s flight attacks a radiant moon.

Until, with a final onslaught
my thoughts find laconic catharsis.
As twilight’s shroud is found approaching,
with a concluding flourish of a now
worn writing tool,
my lost lass of misty pasts...

returns.

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved

so many people seem to be only limbo dancing...
fat-diagnosed                         meta-humans,
                   and juxta...
they the are scorn of a thousand
chinese labourers...
                      who later squirm...
    i forget what speaking english was about...
it's this carelessness
  that somehow surmounts the ideal practicality of it...
  it's somehow shadowy...
  somehow removed from all need to:
extract a core of struct cipher...
             long before the software makes
man his decrepit-self, there's
the metallurgy of the conclave...
                           and the is the minor statement:
if man is to breach a culprit worthy of being denoted:
a meteor.
                      prior to the hardware,
there needs to be a software insurgence...
                  a fail-safe mechanisation,
with us, imprinted as: beyond the death of god,
the death of sleep... and the capacity to dream...
                      nihilism revolves around retracting the
last ******* cursor...
                               all machinery rests,
it's a question of whether organic matter ever
    contradicts its inorganic humanisation...
             if i am bound to rest, then i bound to not
be woken from such a rest via a nightmare...
   erradicate nightmares, thus erradicate the organic
cursor bound to invoke...
  all other contradications that counter the
originally intent escapade...
                               if indeed $ is a symbol that is insomniac
when 1 - 9 symbols are used toward no signifying σ...
that there is no actual prefix in arranging a - z
as there already is, perfecting arranging the 0 - 9...
   with the σ being the more: well addressed... in being
                           what is the reigning smmation of
the symbols a - z, as the simply unknown cradle...
   so if the symbols 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 can be governed
by $...
            what number can govern
                               a, b, c, d, e, f... r, s, t, u, v, w, x, y, z...
if not Ø?                   emtpy talk...
                       0 is a symbol for negation...
                  say of 0, Ø: you get affirmation..
  and you can say as much as you want...
        it doesn't mean you'll get the proper mediation
of being nearly human in the endeavour, a mediation
that demands: losers and winners, paupers and kings...
    man outlived the concept of letters and words
having any worthy construction...
    anything worthy of collaborating with...
                 there is no higher grownd with words and letters...
   it's the five-sense endorsement man that's
at a loss...
                    as long as
  there's the fewest numbers
                        to posit, once the
              hierarchy of 0 is stated after the comma...
and the number of crude denials are mustered...
  toward the million-shared among the 1% and not
the 0.1%...
                  once the Tolstoy's opus is worth:
0.0000000001 readership...
                      and a poem is 1.000000000's worth...
    we'll continue with this warfare of symbol...
       hierarchy:
               the one denied by the many: is the hierarchy...
and the one acknowledged by the many: is the monarchy...
   somehow it was worthwhile reading Kant,
given he suggested 0 = negation...
meaning that 1 = affirmation, but that was the least
   bother for me to attest...
                       i just found
    disavowing myself from the argument of god
as befitting man: who had no standard in a termite mount...
or an ant colony...
                         if man was indeed prone toward
such perfection, i'd have no concern to form a politics at all...
    man, as a political animal, as an animal non-intuitive,
as an animal overcome with conscience,
  has no place in man: guarded by such angelism...
  coinciding with duty and fakery: for the worth of prayer
and an albino amnesia.
and never prone to intuition and a synchronisation of the senses,
but rather their divergence... epitomised with
sharpening them in the sphere of intoxication...
        if man was indeed prone to such perfection,
    i'd have no concern from a politics at all...
  man, as a political anima, as an animal non-intuitive:
as anima ego-centra...
    could be neither a tangens or an omni-servitude
divergence of all the species, on the palette...
esp.  wondering if he could be:
  insect prone, rather than bedroom fuelled by mammalian
        jealous prods into: ******* gladiators!
                          religion only relapses into upkeeping
this utopian dream of it never happening...
   of a congregation...
                    imagine the Koran or the bible in China...
    common-sense numbers of China said: nope!
               the Chinese would have said: me mongol,
and slaughtered each other... for the bride to be!
  i really didn't want to write this for a reason that it might
be made dogmatic, or kept for posterity,
or a welcome inquiry...
                              i simply wonder why we dream
of world peace, and yet come up with such
diabolical schematics as Jung's collective unconscious...
    and all that: as if dreams really did require a 1 + 1 = 2
rules of interpretation...
    and all our dreams where: **** or phallus dreaming...
protruding in the oven of being flacid, once, so overcome with
thoughts, than in dream, or Buddha's awakening:
pretty correct in being: full blodied,
  stood up to overcoming shyness...
                                     and at least said: an astronaut's hello...
     ego to hyphen, non-complex word... complex
word to Houston... why wasn't it mission Hermes 13?
     i don't think we should believe in those gods...
but it would make great strides in asserting them
as best in a modern vocabulary...
                              Hermes overrules Apollo...
               there was a message intended in that vanity project,
surely!

Don’t knock on my heart today, the shadows have won and I can’t find my way
to unlock the bolt and let you in to see, those vulnerabilities inside of me.

Don’t dial my love this year, its meandering, lost; forever, I fear
Wandering loose as it mocks my hurt soul, laughing in jest as it goes for a stroll.

Don’t reach for my hand anymore, it remembers the pain of the skin that you tore
Carefully scheming the timing just right; pretending to love as you sliced with the knife

Don’t look in the depth of my eyes, I’m far too aggrieved to show what I hide
You smile disavowing that things are all wrong; content to ignore and continue on.

Don’t lie in my ears I plead, it’s been too many times and my trust won’t accede.
A prevaricator’s psyche is one to abhor; my worlds upside-down, and the ceilings the floor.

Don’t knock on my heart today, the distance of “us” is too far way,

Priorities matter, you laid yours in line.  “Congratulations” I cry,
you achieve what you work for in time.

Poetry is pretending

Tending tepid wounds
Before they can be found
Disavowing secrets
To which we're all bound

Inditing a dimension
In which one can hide
Casting an enchantment
To bewitch our jagged tides

In and out
Wreck and reject
Prying off nails from nameless coffins
Bearing forgotten respect

Speak your mind
Teach it a language
Show that it's a maze
with complexity unbested

Insanity's a sage
Fear, a selfish shepherd
Dreams are lily seeds
Reality, a bristled ****

Tear, singe
Break, bring
Touch, cringe
Climb, cling
Hope, sing

Poetry is pretending
We only show what's written

“The whole work of man really seems to consist in nothing but proving to himself every minute that he is a man and not a piano key.”*

to O. F.

Maybe your soul is a kite right now
as I am writing on the kitchen table and
winter orchids are  earnestly blooming,
May you be peaceful in the final womb
Dostoyevsky wrote about you, the humble one -

There is a hole now in the shape of morning
I can't find you smelling pears anymore.
Only my eyes filled with dust over your casket
You hid your dreams so deep,
devouring oblivious dreams
She poisoned her milk and
that's how you learned to deny
all the streets you never went.
spring sun used to find you listening
to the solitude of trees, while the seasons were recycling your shyness.
Somehow you didn't notice the light slowly descending
into the green chaos, or just the old mundane hatred,
the embrace of a disavowing (d)evil.

- this poem could be full of the noisy blindness of life
of crushed dignity and helplessness
I want to find the right letters to write
only two impossible words: pure heart-

Farewell delicate soul,
You have died enough
.

Too intimidated by my mind
I am of well divine
don't worry, I haven't even reached my prime
so, still, time is of the essence,
just don't forget about my presence.


Remember that I have been where you are
been through what you have
felt what you have felt
and seen what you have seen.
don't pretend to leave those things unseen.
don't be ignorant
be resolvent,
try and be solvent.


Dissolve and degrade the disavowing  mentality
and start on your reality.


I am only here for a few,
so let's bathe in blue
for I am true
and nothing and everything will be new.


please, do not be intimidated
for I only wish to be emancipated.


I want to feel
just as much as you do,
I want to see
just as much as you do,
I want to hear
just as much as you do,
I want to be thee,
just as much as you do.


so please do no be afraid of intimidation,
because I'm just your imagination.
                                        (m.s]

My mind is an open palm, raised to the trees
avowing and disavowing the love of sunlight,
and translating fractured thoughts caught on the breeze like cottonwood seeds,
snatched by a hand in the air;
like the way we used to catch mosquitoes, and ended up with one one another's mingled blood crushed into the lines on our palms
and to be honest,
I didn't mind it so much.

I guess I wanted to reclaim something
I guess I wanted to take back a little of the life that was siphoned from us

I am sick of lifeblood being stolen and replaced with poison, and the anticoagulant that keeps it flowing long enough that we never know we've been bitten until it's gone, and carried away in someone's belly, where it melts into so many others inside their stomachs

It's so easy to let your heart get to racing, long enough that you don't know what's being taken from you. Like the first time I let a man take off my shirt in the back of his car; he used his hands  to show me where I could stand to be improved; carving another woman into the air,
and she would live there like a ghost for so many years.

Sometimes I still see her.

Sometimes I am afraid that I'll never know what it's like to feel safe in the eyes of a man.

But I always feel like that now; peeled clean, exposed, disrobed to the heels in front of everyone. And there are so many hands, creating ghosts for me to fear. I am afraid of being afraid to let anyone near me, especially since I welcome it so easily.

God help me.
God help us.

There is comfort in being crushed to one another;
our essences coalescing in our minds and open hands crashing together to catch the cottonwood memories, stinging before we know what’***** us.
There is comfort in being bled together, our grief being wed together, and being folded into one another in the bellies of sleepless nights.

God help us
There is nothing I can do except feel numb next to you.
God help us,
There is nothing I can do except feel alive in pain next to you.

My mind is an open palm, raised in a question,
Translating fractured thoughts,
Caught between us.

Imagine;
behold a glorious luminescence;
a radiance without equal;
an opulence of which still Eros
could have only dreamt.

Coalesce;
be encased in a provocative warmth
of indefinable bearing and scope;
beseeching the sacred
while disavowing the profane.

Awaken;
greet the day
through a dichotomous portal
with burden pulling one way
and aspiration drawing another.

Strive;
endeavor to find consequence
in a world whose noisy hands
(some set in "smiley" faces)
steer us toward the precipice
while we grasp forever but for an instant.

Spent in terms of patience as excesses , now, abound
Common law and jurisprudence are now no longer sound.
Tribal rule runs rampant in the steel belt of the West
Where raging Trumpists violate, seemingly absolved from arrest.
Democrats wring their hands and bleat, aloud, foul play
Republicans roar with gleeful mirth and veto every say.
The Fat Cats of the oil game rub their hands with glee
With the cost of fuel escalating, to ruinous heights, for thee.
Catastrophic global floods and wildfires rage at large
Fueled by rampant climate change, unchecked now in its charge,
Political expediency, bold power lust and greed
Depict man’s abdication of remedial actions need…
Like Nero we all laugh and fiddle, shrug and fail to learn
Ignoring the collapse as our darling Planet burns.

Russia kills and maims and rapes and bellows it’s demands
Disavowing war crimes as the blood flows from their hands,
Rule book’s out the window, she holds the world at bay
With overt nuclear threatening optimizing Putin’s play.
Regardless of the outcome, Russia is condemned
For the next 10,000 years she will mirror ******’s trend.
Ukraine will arise again, Ukraine shall be secure
But the global condemnation Russia suffers…SHALL ENDURE!

Unlike other nations, China’s plan is long
They map out their objectives in a 500 year old song,
Patience is their virtue, diligence their strength
And little on this planet will deter their competence.
The populace supports their totalitarian regime
And their ascension to Superpower status, is uncompromisingly supreme.
Commercially a powerhouse, with military might
And an ambition to conquer the whole world, as of right.
China’s tentacles reach out through mantles of trade
Extending worldwide in a vast networking blade
USA, Africa, Europe and the East
With a recently conquering infiltrated feast
In thrusting South to the Pacifica Islands, ensnared,
Rendering, startled, fortress Australia, scared
With New Zealand aghast, dithering hither and thither
Leaving them ideologically and economically, ridiculously aquiver??
China weaves her long term fat, greedy spider web
Described, perhaps,as Plumish Pink… than rather Hellish Red!

The voice in the wilderness, howling it’s concern
Roaring it’s objection to the fact WE NEVER LEARN,
Mistakes remade repeatedly, Mankind outstays his hand
At the risk of phased obsequiousness….The timer’s running out of sand!
And time is of the essence here and courage is the key
But the combination’s lethal with our WEAK MENTALITY.
It only takes one tiny phrase, an insult out of place
And that offended nuclear nation suddenly plays their hidden ace….
India and Pakistan, Iran, the Middle East,
North Korea and potentially a remilitarized Japan, may join the feast?
The rampant insecurity found right now across the globe
Shall guarantee a reaction, which is likely to explode.
The cataclysm shall erupt….. WE SHALL CEASE TO BE!!
….Then the rat and the cockroach shall own eternity!


M.
The Voice in the Wilderness
In New Zealand, aquiver.
15 August 2022

She hated lewd offers
but thought, as she fled rationality
there is a deficiency 
a feeling as if
dormice gnawed on her tender heart
unthreading her very being

in the old school
fearless foul mouthed men
with big shoulders and hero's chests
new how to take a woman
so she would lose herself
caring for nothing but
spilling her
clitoral incandescence
into kingdom come

out of the question
was dissolute lust
its quivering equivocations
of undoing and redoing
in a torment of feeling,
as if blood thirsty
disavowing, yet starved for love
like a cry of the void

the feminist

She hated lewd offers
but thought, as she fled rationality

"Taboo and Transgression reflect two contradictory urges"

there is a deficiency
a feeling as if
dormice gnawed on her tender heart
unthreading her very being

"The taboo would forbid
the transgression but the fascination compels it"

in the old school
fearless foul mouthed men
with granite shoulders and hero's chests
knew how to take a woman

"Please Master"
Please master can I touch your cheek
please master can I kneel at your feet

yet she would lose herself
caring for nothing but
the spilling
of her clitoral jeweled incandescence
into kingdom come

mystery woman
with a **** in hand
plays the piccolo
in a hot swing band

out of the question
was dissolute lust
its quivering equivocations
of undoing and redoing
in a torment of feeling,
as if blood thirsty
disavowing, yet starved for love
like a cry of the void

her throat  
a spiral armed galaxy
her heart and ****
hounded moons*

the feminist

squirt (title): pompoms scream (body) - to bypass the 502 Error Gateway...

second shift at Craven Cottage, the Fulham stadium...
well **** me...
i was in luck! Tony, this ex-military supervisor
asked me straight up: you want to do pitch-side?
do i?! the first shift i did was walking around
the park outside the venue, meeting & greeting incoming
fans... but to be allocated a more responsible role?!
you cannot believe how refreshing work has become:
you cannot believe how refreshing tiredness from
work has also become...
i don't know how it happened, but...
ARBEIT MACHT FREI is... ringing high and loud...
perhaps that slogan over a concentration camp
was always a bad joke...
i can't imagine that the Germans thought all the Hebrews
were lazy, not diligent workers...
even my grandfather remembers Hebrews in Poland
selling matchsticks and getting rich,
after all, what was that pre-war saying the Hebrews
had when putting down Polacks?
ah... wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
your streets, our tenements...
maybe the Germans thought that a lot of Hebrews were
studying in the Yeshiva? nothing practical for society,
or that all Hebrews were somehow rabbis...
whatever it was... well a slogan above the entrance
to a concentration camp: where in a concentration
camp you'd perform a parody of work,
e.g. move one sack of rocks from one end of the camp
to another, to later move it back...
it's not like concentration camps were... munition factories...
a German bad joke...
but if, like me, you spent your 20s and early 30s
working in patches... the odd week on a construction site
doing some roofing, the odd month...
but mostly concentrating on writing...
and now this, steward at a football match...
some rigour re-imbued, some strategy,
some responsibility... i can't press the matter further...
sure, i'm not a football player, i'm not a film actor,
i'm not even the head safety officer in the ground...
i only put on some identifying clothes...
an accreditation badge and a uniform...
what did i get? people asking me questions as to where
to go, if they were sat in the correct seat...
for a man to feel useless, to be without authority:
that's horrible, writing poo'ems would never give me
that...
a compliment from a supervisor when i pointed
out that a woman was drinking wine in view
of a football pitch: which is illegal...
'nicely spotted'... after he approached her and asked
her to finish her wine from view of the pitch...
at the end of the match three boys came up to me
and asked me whether they could
pinch a piece of the pitch...
i let them... how their faces illuminated the place:
it was so dear to them: i couldn't just not let them
(mind you, they only pinched a piece of the astro-turf
lining the actual grass pitch, they didn't hear
that they were pinching fake grass...
let me leave them happy, after all...
i was providing a service)...

prior to leaving for Putney Bridge from Newbury Park
(first getting two buses there,
oh, i'd say a good decent 2 hour trip,
i've started to fall in love with commuting)...
one quick hot dog, with a Turkish toppish
of squeezed onions, parsley,
white wine vinegar, salt, sugar, gochugaru chilli flakes
& some sumac - well... squeezing the onions
releases their juices, making them less bitter:
actually sweet...
i only came back to Romford on the 86 bus
having arrived by train from Stratford
to Goodmayes - it's still zone 4...
all buses are zones one to four... Romford being
in zone six (if using a train or the tube)...
a two piece chicken meal with fries & a coca cola
zero... gulped down at approx. 12:20...
then... the most glorious cigarette to add smokiness
to the digestion...

starting work, proper, in your mid-30s...
while your 20s were spent unravelling a psychotic breakdown,
borderline schizophrenia:
that wouldn't fly, my supposed "schizophrenia"
dissolved when the element of bilingualism came in...
why should i only "hear voices" in English...
when i didn't hear them in ******?
the illness made no sense...
it didn't tap into my bilingualism...
why?! i read up a lot on this topic,
from Julian Jaynes, Jung, Richard Bentall,
R. D. Laing... no mention of schizophrenia coming up
against bilingualism...
misdiagnosis?!
i was never going to be merely a ******* victim...

now i see the bigger picture, music always helps...
the overseer - glass + unbreakable soundtrack,
James Howard's theme...
sure, the bonus of being pitch-side was also being
able to watch the match...
making new friends... well... colleagues...
i talked with Danny about our interests...
his was crypto-currency mine was music & cycling...
he used to cycle: until he hit a tree...
blah blah... time flies when you're talking...

oh such a little role of heroism on my part...
just minding people...
all this life truly requires is these little roles of heroism,
of responsibility...

i was at university, dated... i worked as a sub-contracting
roofer on construction sites...
i'm sorry to say this...
no relationship with a woman comes close...
to the amount of satisfaction received from
having a role that's more than a mere job you get paid for...
being responsible for the safety of others is...
probably somewhere in the hierarchy of where
the status of teacher is placed...
yet not with the current affairs of pedagogy:
of indoctrinating younglings into ideology:
whatever it's called these days...
intersectional *******, anti-racism, critical race theory...
teach them ******* English: the language,
teach them geography, chemistry, history,
don't turn them into spineless zombies
where they resort to a "rebellion" of succumbing
to football fanaticism...

me & Danny concluded: he "supports" Arsenal,
i "support" West Ham... but, "support": not really...
i just love the sport itself... i wouldn't be found a mile away
from the nearest crowd of avid club chanters...

my god, how refreshing to be in a position of authority,
even if it involves being at the bottom
of the hierarchy, being merely a pawn...
i can pull it off though... a welcoming yet intimidating look...
6ft2, 98kg... two jackets clad...
arms folded in front of me, arms folded at my back...
calm, collected... smiling... observant...
perhaps relationships with women were great...
they filled that void i was fed by literature prior
to my engagement with the opposite ***...
did i leave these relationships disillusioned?
of course!

   would i ever return to them? my heart is a stone...
mein herz ist ein kleinstein...
it has stopped bothering me, it bothers me less & less...
i'm not built for love, for romance,
that's why i don't want to write about it,
or even think about it...
i imagine that should a scenario present itself...
i'd be loved: but i wouldn't be able to love...
i'd merely... insinuate... i'd be on the receiving end
whilst doing the utmost minimal to
reciprocate... i'd be a cold-hearted *******...
oh... the mushy-colt aged 21 is long gone...
thank god...
could i love again? intimacy i can get with
a ******* in a brothel and not think twice
that a girl outside the profession of prostitution might
not give me an *******: again: is there something
wrong with me? why can a ******* give me
an ******* while some random girl picked up
in a bar, can't?!

i prefer talking to strangers than i ever preffered
talking to established friends...
it's not high-school anymore... there's no more
high-school banter... come to think of it...
the formality and the clear lines one cannot trespass
when conversing with strangers / colleagues...
come to think of it:
i'd tend to tell strangers more than the people
i was friends with... taboos enter the dynamics of friendships...
you can't tell of your innermost woes to friends,
after all... with friends you're supposed
to have a good time! no?

**** that... with strangers, with my shadow...
i burned down the bridges of my friendships a long time ago...
now i walk in the realm of Hades...
and i'm all the happier for it...
there were four major attachments in my life...
i lost one in the past year: my grandfather...
under circumstances that are, to be frank... rather horrid...
and... now that over a year has passed...
i feel... no... not relieved... i feel: RE-LEASED...
from some sort of heartbreak *******...

it's coming up to a quarter to 3am...
i have a shift this Sunday at the Wembley Stadiun
for the women's FA final,
my supervisor told me as i left Craven Cottage
that there was a good chance i'd get a chance to work
indoors... **** yes...
plenty of children to burn my eyes out:
not mine, not mine, thank god for that...
i don't need to be a father to them...
what a release from some bogus obligation that
in life you have to procreate...
hell... others can do that for me... i can just stand watch
and observe how...
this be the verse, Philip Larkin...
little chance of failure, or disappointment...
the Pontius Pilate approach...

it's a quarter to 3am and i just finished my shift,
my feet are somewhat sore, somewhat chilly,
who would have thought
that standing in one place, or two places
could be so exhausting: i'd rather walk a length of
a marathon than stand on duty...
the air outside looks like... a glass of water
with someone having splashed a dollop of milk into it...
it's so... murky, so... ambivalent...
so literally foggy...

no, not me... i was once the great romantic...
after being injected with the three musceteers,
with Stendhal's the scarlet & black...
i'm the one now saying:
work is better than an intimate relationship with
a woman... moi?! pour putain de l'intention
(is that, for ****'s sake?)
i'm trying to word with with spite...
i'my trying, i'm trying... no... no good...
on the way back some girls eyeing me up...
i try to think of the guys not being eyed up...
invisible creatures...
i hope i'm not much to look at either...
but can a woman do more for me than work?
i don't think so...
i'm such a fan of this hierarchic dynamic,
a work ethic, professionalism...
i don't think i could give myself up, on a whim...
my life can leave traces of fulfillment i generate myself:
this writing... well... it's obviously not Tolstoy...
just a product of these times...
i'll settle for that...
i'll also settle for being merely any overseer in a football
stadium than a rock-star, or actor:
never mind being a heart-surgeon...

but me, the once great romantic...
reduced to a function that mere guarantees him
a pawn status... the microcosm of overseeing
a football match: it is merely a microcosm...
in the grand scheme of things:
a newly found focus... returning with gladness to:
i am small... i'm a unit...
i am insignificant... writing creatively can rob you
of this perspective... infuse you with a sickly
megalomania...
it's best to return, to reality, to people...
away from the high-brow insecurities of an ivory
tower... it's so... refreshing...
after all, no Hamlet here, no Auld Lang Syne...

no... and all the better for it...
maybe it was a bad joke that the Germans posted on
the entrance of concentration camps:
it was... if concentration camps became
munition factories... but sieving sand:
in order to sieve more sand... to perform
Sisyphus tasks... while also exterminating the potential
workers? why not think of it as essentially failing:
when the essentiality of existence was lost?

but... translated, outside of the context
of a concentration camp? arbeit macht freit?
work set's you free... i can forget about my shortcomings...
my shortcomings are replaced with responsibilities...
i can forget about elaborating this tongue to my idiosyncrasy
and focus on formal communication...
i can live parallel lives...
i can have two lives...

as i have a prowess to wield of two tongues...
i can also... wield two lives....
and i don't even need to have a wife, to have children...
i can pass off being some loner since,
i hold a relationship with myself that grounds me
differently to others: others who are exposed
to their solitude, those who do not write,
who do not add form to their being,
who refuse to experience themselves with depth...
who switch off after their swift rather than switch on...

oh, these people are apparent... chamaleon me...
i turn into a right extrovert when a situation imposes itself
on me... yet writing is not a clear aspect of extroversion...
writing is an introvert's project...
yet how these two (aspects) are consolidated has
become... rather: a revelation to me...
i never put it into practice, mind you...
now that i have...

should all the final connections of significance die
and i'll be left alone...
just give me a "lesser" creature to bother me...
perhaps a dog... but more likely a cat...
i like the cats' take on placebo solipsism...

père corbeau...

   me, disavowing the chance of romance with a woman
over a desire to fulfill the role of steward,
sure, while i do my idiot writing on the side...
"idiot": it's never going to reach Fifty Shades of Grey
traction... then again:
i don't think i'll ever write something that exhausts me,
disappoints me... i'll just write what's made available...
what i want... come whoever may wish to come...
and a nice filter to boot... this will never be spoken
in either audio or a video format...
why bother unwanted attention,
made all the more accessible via audio or video?

what's it called? camaraderie? a select number of people
don't want something being spoilt,
by the intrusion of a greater number of people?
a loss of familiarity?
it's life... a phase of transition...
we're only taking a few people with us...
within the framework of memory, of a shared experience...
it's very much unlike a football match...
a football match consists of 11 players...
either side of the opposing teams...
the staff involved with the teams...
the stewards at the venue... blah blah blah...
very much unlike writing...

walk the moon - shut up & dance with me....
that sort of colt is not coming back....
even all those regretfully looking girls coming out of
clubs in Romford, stumbling, obviously not being
able to handle their drink...
oh, that guy is not coming back...
once upon a time taking a ******* a date to
the Tate Modern for an Edward Hopper exhibition,
then to the cinema to see a movie, Troy,
then some sushi... sending her off on the train
with my then friend messaging me
she said she felt butterflies in her stomach...
said "friend" later, years later, sending her a phallus-"selfie"...
ah.. RE-AH-LI-TY everyone's worse nightmare...
any psychotic's bread-and-butter...
so engrossed in it it would be impossible
to simply vacate it, leave it...
come the marriage with death... only then...

servus! neugefundenmann!
oh... hallo mich!

i can't understand why immigrants tear out their mother tongue and perform a ridiculous act of integration... the whole: "english, born and bred" - oh yeah, eskimos in saudi arabia, igloos made from solidified sand! i'll eat an english breakfast, i'll support west ham, i'll give into shamelessness, whatever you ask... but i wonder: wouldn't these immigrants be better integrated if they at least managed to retain their mother tongue, while speaking the language of integration? disavowing the mother tongue breeds a disavowal of the culture being immersed in... disavowal of the mother tongue breeds contempt for the culture one integrates into... the day i stop speaking western slavic, is the day you cut my tongue out, and make me eat it! i ask you: is it not better to retain your mother tongue, and imitate the culture you live in, or, is it better to disavow yourself from the mother and embrace the father, the land, while at the same time faking integration? i know i'm faking, because i am merely a: mimic in situ... but at least i have the decency to respect my origins, which translates into: not desecrating my foreign surroundings... how many of these terrorists can recite the quran, with the recitation being in: necessary arabic? i respect the culture i appropriated by respecting the most important aspect of my own origin culture: the mother tongue remains, even though i am beyond the fatherland... you lose that: you lose any sense of decency - for both cultures, even within the proximity of the shared european experience - no such conundrum for an englishman learning french, is there?*

i remember a drawing my ex-girlfriend
showed me when i was revisiting
edinburgh for the graduation
ceremony and was helping her write
an essay while she was wriggling out
a joint for me for the supposed "added
intellectual" stimulation...
  her then new b/f, high on l.s.d. walked
in, looked at me,
   with a look of a budding fear -
   as if: something was imminent or at leaat
about to take surreal dimensions of
extensions...
        i was dope eyed and to think of it:
only remember it now.
the drawing of her dream?
  her kneeling, arms outstretched -
with a sword lying on the ground...
apparently me, standing before her,
my back turned in the drawing,
holding a sword...
            my epitome of the meaning
of either judgement, or: mercy...
  rarely do people peer through a window
of someone's snapshot of the psyche -
it seems hard to imagine
  the dream-narrator as nothing more
than an automaton -
     as if: there is no choice in what we
wish to dream of...
                     but also:
we never seem to experience dreams
in the first person, that ever apparent
third party of the person sleeping.

alcoholics, see just as well as cats do
in the canvas of the night;
what's most painful to see?
mans' selfishness, and god's...
jealousy; nonetheless,
i will gladly repeat for i have an
owning guard...
alcoholic see just as well
at cats do in the canvas
of the night:
esp. due: because
what they see what is most
painful to view: in them
the bonsai tiger,
and i, the cyborg handshake,
allowing the one, and disavowing
the other...
i have my screws,
but not the gnats that say: twist
into place.
i have my cat,
  but not the forlorn guiding step;
and if i ask, i rather not,
try to make amends...
for one last corrupt faking for
he regretted pain,
kept intact, solely, by amnesia's
sake...
             with the quietest,
and thereby the quickest
love,
        am i to salvage a chance
of refuge: by the medium of
thought: bare, and in no comparison
allowed to be discouraged from
ever being the last camouflage worth
the last feared dicta
   of apocalypse's genesis:
if i be an artefact,
   i will also be...
            the living breath of death.

Living in an alternate universe
Ignoring pop culture
By choice
Searching and seeking another reality
Another voice
Unaware of mainstream hyperbole
Disdaining ideology
Disavowing hypocrisy
Technology
Longing for another era
Through socio-anthropology
Fearing the fate of society
Civilization
The human condition
And the disappearance
Of humanity
Portable souls in cell phones
Replacing perception
The golden age of the written word
Reduced to a hundred and forty characters
Life condensed to a text message
Social interaction forsaken
For a higher score of tech magic
Leaving the alternate universe
The only hope
Of sanity

And all the Rainbows on my bed
with their colorful tunes full of laughter
and those gateway suns of her's
Couldn t wipe out
The shadows that lay in my head

All the italian spring on my time
pools of rain and pain for fools that make her laugh and cry
were for both of us
but the premices of our dawn
and the silver worth losing
Down the golden road

oh smile at my window
Reflects swearing up the block
Of stolen nights, in mindless chimes
Purple evenings, with your face in my haze
My smokes before my eyes
Hid that tenderness under my threadbare hands
that couldn t give and wait, weep and break
boy, don t you dare asking what you never gave
Tell me sweet faced girl, which step did i miss, on the staircase of your love

(the sound of footsteps in my memory.
wipe the dust of memories off your shoes!
...silence at my doorstep...)




They locked smile into smile
And time ran the soft chain around their wrists
them that could not stir a single sigh from past
and who with clenched teeth looked back in wonder
palms aimless, aimlessly reaching for the sun that never falls, but neither stays
On bitter pillows they laid each night,
From prayer to blasphemy they racked

And painted blue eyes black,
For the requiem

Parchment throats that breath but to burn
Glitter eyes under the makeup of lies
Alcohol hands rising through their mightlessness
And sweet, sweet heart that cries but no one...

O girls of the west, your windy laughter
Is it made for the leaves of my youth?
Do you remember her when you remind me of her face?
blended though pure, serene traits of whoredom cavalcade your dances
The fall in its glory, throw myself golden limp
On velvet flesh billowing, clawed, teeth gnawed, throw myself broken beast rampaging
wrecking and wracking through your hours of shadiness, through your shades of impudor...

Gorgeous...

Fling your tongue, snake in tasty waters
Pierce my heart, bass drum to your beat
Red harbour of my lust, scorned love
for scared trials, and scared fingers
Red harbour of my lust, oooh
The time is drawing close
can t you feel when the night pursues
That sometimes when the light is right
And it agrees w the dark, the dark w the shade, and the shade w the sound and the sound w the blood
and the blood w the fruit
and the fruit w the seed
and the seed w the brain
and the mind w it
and the mind w the pride
and the pride w the strength
and the strength w the taste
anf the taste w the girl
and the girl w the night
if the night pursues, when all and all agree together, the night pursues alone
Can t you feel then. You are a god.

"Gorgeous, I am a god"
"But are you mine?" shimmer smirk, that me eye caught. -Shall I get closer-arm to waist, close...closer
Mocking pout, disavowing tighs,
her eyes fell inside for the beat
Catch it back that twinkle in the air boy
Closer...
I got your eyes back gorgeous.
Questions lash
"I am a god"
kindling sigh
Sugar sigh
Surrender sigh

Gorgeous...
Thats when the whip comes in,
"I am a god" thinkst thou no more
Thats when the whip comes in, and wait for the great fleet to anchor... "anchor..." said she,
Red harbour of my lust...
in the ****** of your charms I stole my deity, silver goddess you re truly, get back, get back on your knee
Plead and plead, ablaze beat
Tide to tide, swirling heat
Burn for burns, licking seat
My's in my's... amor's bead
Rolling tenderly down her back

Gorgeous...
where shall I stop?
And where should I?

Lost to be found, every little girl want to be
Broken to be one, every little girl want to be
Yours to be her, every lil girl want to be

Presents the following slapdash
higglety-pigglety bupkis, whereby reader
experiences being mentally hogtied
perusing pseudo poetic perambulation
devoid of sense and sensibility
welcoming character assassination
concerning pride of yours truly,
who merely strung together
words sharing "arian"

as their last five letters
for no particular rhyme nor reason
quite aware that forced gobbledygook
underwrites storied reputation
of unnamed aspiring author
cramming nonsense linkedin
jibber-jabber hodgepodge fashion
deplorable basketed mumbo jumbo
giving pop slop a run for its' money.

Yours truly considers himself
(courtesy obsessive compulsive fixation
with alphabetization even when dreaming
counting sheep jumping
over figurative fence by first name)
drawn toward being abecedarian,
albeit hankers being agrarian, yet
I consider myself suburban simian
(a garden variety **** sapiens)
no more significant than alcyonarian

expressing his antiauthoritarian,
intolerance toward antiegalitarian,
antihumanitarian, antilibertarian,
agog over antiquarian tomes
replete with antitotalitarian manifesto
buzzfeeding ma (zee papa's)
sixty plus shades of gray,
cuz hive got news for you
courtesy doxy me, a generic erudite apiarian,
non-aquarian, once mighty araucarian,

(when during Jurassic and Cretaceous periods
our family achieved maximum diversity
distributed across almost entire
webbed wide world), nevertheless
one humble wordsmith
decries authoritarian, barbarian, Cesarean
segmentation of rooted centenarian elders
strongly resembling cnidarians,
who foster communitarian, contrarian
culinarian, disciplinarian,

disestablishmentarianism
decrees expatiating dogmatic,
emphatic, idealistic duly strict ethos
incorporating freedom of the press
documentarian, egalitarian
establishmentarian, filarian favoring fruitarian
disavowing jump/kickstaring futilitarian endeavors
administering grammarian, hereditarian,
questioning humanitarian
versus inegalitarian paradigms

celebrating progressive legislation
courtesy coterie as Democratic jubilarian
attributing insights to sustenance
comprising Diet of Worms
and laminarian, which boosts rock ribbed
lapidarian, libertarian, librarian lunarian,
who dons gay apparel and trumpets
majoritarian fly in the ointment milarian
espousing millenarian credo,
whereby absent free will necessitarian

forces at large effect staid
senior citizens, especially nonagenarian,
advocating nonauthoritarian, bookish nonlibrarian
nonsectarian, nontotalitarian, nonutilitarian,
beefy nonutilitarian, nonvegetarian,
and octogenarian brethren,
begat in part courtesy
ovarian haploid gamete,
which offspring could trend toward
ovolactovegetarian maybe collecting

parian ware adornments
pricey merchandise afforded
courtesy parliamentarian income
sessions conducted (without resistance),
whereby officials closely resemble
blood ******* planarian ceaselessly
patting each other
(and themselves) on the back
congratulating exulting,
gushing ala Old Faithful platitudinarian

attributing their foibles to postlapsarian
forebears awaiting salvation postmillenarian
bags already packed eagerly awaiting
deliverance into seventh heaven
as promised by divine predestinarian
a time analogous to virtuous age
of innocence re: prelapsarian
or lost souls peopling congress
and house of representatives
purportedly official do bidding

for proletarian class of population
once upon bajillion years
in the past initial life forms
similar to radiolarian
propelled themselves thru primordial sea
after lapse of eons diverse riparian organisms
with nary a hint of vocations such as
rosarian, sanitarian, sectarian seminarian
dedicated worker still going strong
as septuagenarian, or sexagenarian.

third eye blind... you know the term,
right?
****, you don't...
because i just invented it...

   what am i thinking of?
food...
          should, or shouldn't i,
poach an egg, nearing 3am...
maybe i should...

third eye blind,
which is sort of a reference to
eyes wide shut...
which is a subsequent
reference to
the madonna-*****
complex of immediate *******
and the predating limp biscuit...

i'm starting to suspect,
that all these pornographic actors,
really go into gears,
when they expect
the: third eye blind...
             i.e.?
       a ******...

              it's almost like they need
a 3rd party enterprise
of engaging in the act...
there's absolutely no interaction
between 1st party or second
party sources...

           like... there's a 5th ****
in paradise...
and he dubs himself: charlie
chuckles...
                 you watch enough
of these videos...
you begin to build up
a defecit for the act,
and more...
a thickened membrane
                                akin to a monk...
         because there are consequences:
and they in the waiting line,
become,
    measured.
  
but you ever wonder about
the "complexity"
of third eye blind?
                no?
the madonna-***** complex
was so late 19th century,
and so missed by 20th century
pop culture of "liberation"...

i'm looking at third eye blind...
it would appear...
that some women,
require...
   a hidden audience...
to engage in the act...
          why wouldn't they,
they're not looking
at the 1st person actor,
they are looking at the 2nd person
prop actor, the pornographer...
technology requires
translation...
          what are they looking at?
******* one thing,
equivalent to staging
an ****?

             come again...
i'm a bit deaf to once side...
eh... whatever...
eyes wide shut is just as well
as third eye blind...

                god, please send me a tsunami,
god please send me a storm,
a hurricane,
               a lightning bolt...
anything, anything,
to replace this canvas of nature...
me, myself, in a foetal conundrum
awaiting abortion...
      anything but this *******...
this ratio of 3 to 1...
                       how about
i drink myself to death?
how's that?
                                                     gladly...
                   which part of me
is going to escape "taking it"?
                 i too have a ******
preference...
                      less black gold from
the camel jockey / sand *******...
            and more...
well...
                 thank you for disavowing
me to make reproductive investments!
i gladly thank you:
for being served this fate.