If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,

And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,
Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,
And dying to say something unanswerable.

The moon, too, abuses her subjects,
But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,
Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,
White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.

No day is safe from news of you,
Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.

for Ruth Fainlight

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it ***** out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches? ----

Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That ****, that ****, that ****.

.one of the great dissatisfactions of life: dreaming... which makes me suspect of the anglo-saxons and their subsequent branches of sub-ethicities... they dream... they have recurring dreams... lucid dreams... i find that slightly suspicious... i rarely dream and if i do dream, the dreams are so bogus or so uninteresting that they make no sense to: "interpret" them via any freud-cubism schematic - that a woman's sun hat implies: the depth of ****** and promiscuity, or some otherwise bogus stretching it mate, really stretching that analogy... but why do the anglo-saxons have such lucid dreams, even recurring dreams? are they descendants of joseph: der traumgehhilfe? last time i had a dream? oh... family invites me to say, three memebers of the family don't like me... **** the rest of the family with a knife, a gun and a baseball bat (somewhere in south east asia)... a few of the killed members run into the street to die... i somehow pick up a kalashnikov and shoot the murderous 3... then i jump into slender boat with a motor with 3 or 4 women... 'jesus'... and i escape the scene of retribution sailing to... cambodia! **** me... even sylvester stallone or jason statham or arnie wouldn't star in a movie as b-movie as this... but anglo-saxons seem to have the most vivid dreams... two good examples: h. p. lovecraft and william burroughs... is dreaming a form of escapism? if so, then evidently i'm quiet content with reality... like today: too much pop psychology, too much self-help guru mishmash, too much advice: not enough stories... video streaming a game being played... etc., so i retreat, even from modern music, into? here's a beginner's guide list to medieval music:

       1. qui habitat in adiutorio altissimi
       2. da pacem domine
       3. agni parthene
       4. dum pater familias
       5. chevalier, mult estes guariz
       6. virga iesse floruit
       7. walther von der vogelweide's
                 palästinalied
       8. codex buranus no. 179:
                     tempus est locundum
       9. non é gran causa
      10. herr holger
      11. herr mannelig
      12. die eisenfaust am lanzenschaft
      13. meie din liechter schin
      14. under der linden
      15. mayenzeit one neidt
      16. mönch von salzburg (das nachthorn)

   why would i have stopped at merely
Orff's reading of Carmina Burana -
                 sure... that's the entry point...
   but the radio only plays o fortuna till
the cows come home in a full-moon lit night...
yawn...
    if only: fortune plango vulnera,
      veris leta facies, omnia sol temperat,
     floret silva, or... or!
   a monk's love song for the queen of england -
were diu werlt alle min:
              were diu werlt alle min
              von dem mere unze an den Rin,
              des wolt ih mih darben
              daz diu chunegin von Engellant
               lege an minen armen.

but no... it's o fortuna or nothing from that album
on the radio...
    i get it, great song...
   but why is auld lang syne only sung once
a year, on new year's eve?!
              
as with women, so with music, one simply tires of
contemporary examples: not exactly the music
but the lyrics behind the music...
                        music will never change to appease
the brute and the beast... but modern lyricism
is just agitating... it exhaust with its choice
of subject matters...
                                and by the looks of it...
    i spend too much time with music to find myself
in needing the comfort of a woman's voice,
a cuddle or relationship or whatever you want
to call it from now on...
           i am wedded to three women that will
never materialize: Euterpe, Sophia and Amber...
and all the better...
                                i could never wallow in what's
currently being wallowed in...
by some who have these recurrent dreams
and are unable to stop them from recurring...
hence my suspicion with the anglo-saxon traits
of vivid dreaming: this cruch of relying on dreams...
of so easily being ***** by celesto-cerebral powers
that impregnate their sleeping heads with
these realities that only exist in the mind and
a sleeping mind at that!

(nb. not proof read, apologies in advance for any mistakes, upon rereading will correct if any appear - or i'll just keep them...)

look at these two slogans: let's make America great (again)!
complimenting the English variation
let's get our country back! ring any bells? i guess you must
have heard one or the other as an English speaker -
it's hardly surprising - the English Prime Minister singing
a little toodeloo then uttering the word right upon
reentering number 10 - shambles ahoy! every rat and
mutineer bailed - we're in free-fall, Trotsky had it coming,
this guy hasn't - hardliner but a bubble-gum tongue -
it stretches like a joke my English teacher said:
how was copper wire invented? hmm? two Scots
tugging and pulling in opposite directions a two pence coin -
for all their worth, they joked the blond quiff of
both Boris and President Donald Yeltsin - where one
gets drunk on egoism, the other just gets drunk -
even though they don't like him in Scotland, they sure as
hell bought the slogan like a Big Mac - the problem is
there's a zenith, and then a necessary decline -
you can reach the zenith of breaking the 100m sprint,
but then a stock-market dip (necessary) -
much of Britain's exit from the European Union was due
to the campaign trail of the Doodle T - the best politician
i assume is the one that enjoys the most prodding jokes,
which also means the majority of votes,
jokes and votes walk hand-in-hand - people don't want
leaders, they want caricatures - after all, the little existences
have to matter with a joke in the Oval office.
i can't imagine the unholy alliance of feminists running
the place in the west - Theresa May in England,
Hilary Clinton in America, Angela Merkel in Germany,
Ms. Le Pen in France, the Polish prime minister
Beata Szydło - it has to look like a 2nd Cold War scenario,
a break from World Wars... Putin and pukka Tyson Trump
on the other side, macho v. macho - man talk and
the ultimate bromance. i know that Nietzsche referenced
genius too much, assuredly i hear that a lot too around
here with child geniuses storming around for silverware -
children geniuses and not original? so technically you're
talking about data storage in porridge - trained monkeys,
right? those children will be scarred for life as if they
saw their parents ******* - what sort of genius is a genius
if he doesn't work from blank but is there are a memory
gimmick to boost hopes of curing dementia?
philosophy doesn't do geniuses, it does things like Spinoza,
solitary wanderers, loners - outsiders and mesmerisers,
there's no genius in philosophy - there's only solitude -
granted that an open-minded psychiatrist is a modern subplot
in not reading philosophy - where is the ultimate source
of compassionate solely theory based (anti) psychiatry?
in reading philosophy books rather than exercising authority /
abusing it - R. D. Laing is a perfect example -
who wrote after reading philosophy books - i mean read them,
in the English speaking world i recommend reading
the works of the anti-psychiatric movement of the 1960s,
which was much bigger than the Beat Movement - obviously
not as dazzling, but with poetry you're imitating Philippe Petit
(film, the walk) - i watched it and my legs experienced
needles, and a firm assertion of gravity and the location
of the floor - films like that are worse than horror -
you share the heart of the original, but given it's Plato's cave
we're talking about representing the events, you realise
that no matter how much you want your shadow to be
Philippe Petit, you hear from the outside world, your legs
are firmly on the ground - basically: **** that - men are not
born equal, they have to live by principle to be at least moderating
their excellence into a respectable cohesion (democracy) -
quiet simply juggling their strengths with their weaknesses -
man is not born equal, he was to strive for equal measure -
when subduing their strengths and when exfoliating them -
no man is born equal, as no man is an island - the two synchronise.
(i'm deliberately masking what's coming)...
but there is genius in philosophy - but only in one area of
interest - religion... we know that popular beliefs are
grounded in plagiarism - the Trojans became the Romans
via the accounts of Virgil, and we know the Trojans in
becoming Romans plagiarised the Greek polytheism -
Zeus became Jupiter, Poseidon became Neptune,
Cronos became Saturn, Hera became Juno, Aphrodite
became Venus... etc., it was done to mimic the Greek heart
from the defeat at Troy, to invoke a heart that overcame -
every pauper and every king would identify with
this pluralism - but a second plagiarism had to come -
it was prophetically echoed from approximately 2000 years -
the Greeks later plagiarised the Hebrew concept -
the monotheistic concept, yet because their thinking
was so advanced (or so they thought) they dismissed the
sects of the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Essenes and
the Zealots... their hero was their antagonist - and nothing
of their learning was actually work their concerns since
they boasted of their Aristotle and their Plato and their
Socrates - the peddle-stool effect appeared -
but what if a Latin man (well, these letters are Roman) were
to say - never mind the son, how about the father?
in Christianity the father is rather anonymous in his
omnipresence etc. - but let's assume on the biological tenet
that we are referring to the old testament god -
would we want to plagiarise the Greek plagiarism of
Hebrew? i already mentioned the four prime canons as
imitations of the tetragrammaton - of course they're
intended to not be identical accounts, but there must be
two that are mirror images - i.e. referring to h      &      h
of the tetragrammaton - if there are no two mirror images
then we are bothered - i can see why the Greek mind thought
that Y refers to a convergence, a mother, a father, a child
and the entry point to the gospel: a genealogy -
Y being representative of a convergence - past and present,
following through - this is all about first impressions,
from what i can remember and regurgitate back -
in Catholic school we were taught by majority the gospel
of St. Mark - the others were discredited -
i can't tell you if there are two identical gospels (or at least
with very little variation between them) - what comes after
them is what comes after all essences of religion,
bureaucracy - imams and priests, yoga teachers and
whatever it is that comes with religion for the common man,
but in the new testament this is the essence, a shady
reinterpretation of the tetragrammaton - but a Latin man
who didn't bother to attribute symbols with nouns,
but made his alphabet musically orientated for the
castrato and the choirs to come - a (alpha) b (beta)...
o (omicron / omega) it became obvious that the four letters
arranged as so with missing Adam and missing Eve
would provide more than just four interpretations of
the same event / person - for when a Greek has to cut off
-lpha from a to attach it to another letter to create meta,
the Latin man has only to cut off less, perhaps dentistry's
ah, or otherwise cut off -ee from b... the world is full
of such possibilities, and this is the only area where
genius can be applied to philosophy - the genius of
philosophy is within religion, and nowhere else -
of course mind that i don't identify myself as one -
i treat genius as an angel or a demon, that fairy-tale
race of creatures that whisper into your ear - markedly
geniuses are more powerful in demanding an individual
rather than clones of the individual, e.g. Mohammad
and Muslims, Jesus and Christians... which is why i suppose
the genius of Moses also allowed others to write on sacred
paper, but of course excluding Malachi for falling into
heresy with a polytheistic concept of reincarnation, not
oddly enough Malachi's was the last book before the two
major strands of his heresy emerged like Behemoths.

I'm too nice. It makes you feel bad. It makes you feel mean. It makes you uncomfortable, being silent when I reach out.
Reasons to leave.
I'm too attentive. You can always be sure I'll try my hardest for you. Buy you little things. Bring flowers. It's boring. You know it shouldn't be but somehow it's just too predictable. Somehow you wish you wondered if I'd stay, and every day I reassure you that I will.
Reasons to leave.
I'm too in love. My love for you makes you feel guilty, as if you can never match it. My sensitivity to your desires makes me sensitive to your dissatisfactions, and although you know it shouldn't, it irritates you that you can hurt me. It makes you feel uncomfortably inadequate again. You remind yourself that love is not a contest between lovers to be the most devoted, nor to be the least injured, and so you've neither lost nor won, but still you have a sense of both, an unsettling sense of both.
Reasons to leave.
Your discomfort leads you to anger. You lash out, ashamed even as you do, and my forgiveness enrages you. You want me to hate you. Want me to react as you would if you were abused. Wish you weren't the abuser. Wonder how you became so. Hate me for bringing it out in you, for before you met my soft, pliant love, my understanding heart, my forgiving mind, you never wanted to strike anything lovely with the flat of your hand to watch the welt rise, a satisfying flaw.
Reasons to leave.
Who are you becoming? Who have you become? It can't be you who is wrong, not when you've only been reacting. I've laid myself down. That must be it. I have goaded and invited you. I've tricked you into hurting me and then shed tears as if I didn't know it'd sting, and yet I refuse to fight you. It must be because I can't. If I could, it would mean that you were attacking someone who meant you no harm, only love, only LOVE! No, no it must be that I have no fangs of my own, only guises. It must be that the only way I can hurt you is to lower you, to make you hurt me and then feel the guilt of it, to turn you against yourself. I have engineered this. You won't be tricked by me! You will keep on until I admit I planned to control you.
Reasons to leave.
It has been too long. Something is amiss. By your estimations, I should have folded by now- confessed that I was never nice, only weak. Repented. Explained that I tempted your cruelty in order to make you loathe yourself. Apologized. Begged. But it has been too long, and I am still forgiving, I am still hurt but not vicious. You decide I need to understand I've done wrong. Apologize, you say.
Reasons to leave.
I do. I am sorry. And you find that the sorrier I am, the angrier you are. The more I tell you you are right, the more you want me to tell you you're wrong. To fight. To be cruel. Untoward. Wrong. You want me to fight so that I will prove I am like you, show my colors. After all, I made you this way. I must be as you are to have brought such venom out in you with such skill. I apologize again. I beg. And you find that the begging makes you want to hurt me, sink a knife between my ribs to watch me squirm the way you're squirming, spitted on the notion that perhaps, just maybe, I was never cunning or sneaky, never manipulative, never trying to take you down... The growing, sickening feeling that maybe I was telling the truth, maybe I loved you, love you. Maybe I really just wanted to bring you flowers.
Reasons to leave.
And now you can't look at me. You wish beyond anything you have ever wished before that you still believed me underhanded. But the part of you that respects me is growing, that understands me, and with it grows a horror that you have acted on a false certainty. And now even as you realize that, you realize that if you apologize, I will forgive you. And if I forgive you, you will hate me for it. And if you hate me for it, you will no longer have any excuse outside the boundaries of yourself. If you hate me for it this time, it will be from a dark, ugly thing inside you. Something you will have to be responsible for.
Reasons to leave.
Because if you never acknowledge it, never apologize, I can never forgive you truly, right? And if I can't, then you can't hate me, and you can't have been so wrong. And so you don't. And for a while it seems to work. But then you realize that somehow, I am not holding you responsible for your cruelties. Nobody is. You've not acknowledged them, and I've found some infuriating way to ignore them and love you past them. And you realize it's not fair. You need it to be fair. It's maddening. It makes no sense.
Reasons to leave.
And now you understand that there is only one way to escape the torture of being forgiven for something awful that you never even apologized for, having sidestepped so many imaginary snares that you've tangled yourself up in your own assumptions and insecurities.
And so
You leave.

born

named after a three,
a brainstormed term
or the same old family name

celebrated

bred

thrown out in the open

eyes widened by the true visions
of the world

self confessions,
both harmless and self deprecating

the only answer to be given back
are tears out of the lack of reason

make a stand against the machine
with trembling
limbs, having courage is absurd
but to live it out is a choice

leave a flower for a few days
without water and it will perish

at peace
at ease

easier to let go
harder to leave

you just don't gather these,
your dissatisfactions in life,
distractions, warning signs,
long durations of time,
probably months without
someone to do,
you keep them until they hurt

why do you keep them
all to yourself?

do you know these people?

they're always right huh?

they're never wrong.

that's why you're there.
I'm here.

we don't resist.

we just want to live in our
own way of how the world
could attain peace,
then we die silently soon after.

By: Cedric McClester

You say you want diversity

At your elite university

But your thirst for tuition

Places you in an awkward position

Because when your recruiter makes a call

Wealth will usually trump it all

And most likely it’s exclusive

Or should I say, non-inclusive?


So admission tends to be

Limited to the same folks I always see

In the line ahead of me

And, you won’t let me in for free

So never mind Affirmative Action

Which has undergone some redactions

Because of the adverse reactions

Of those expressing their dissatisfactions


It’s not a matter of superior intellect

As some of you might suspect

It’s the turf that you seek to protect

Like the monuments you *****

Attempts to level the playing field

Lack the same kind of appeal

I’m just trying to keep it real

But, you already know the deal

Despite how it makes me feel



And it’s not like we’re not driven

How many years of free labor have we given

You’re surprised that we’re still living

Or, that the past is not forgiven

But after all is said and done

The sins of the father will visit the son

So if you happen to be the one

Are my chances still slim to none?















Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

How do the senses relate to "being?"  The senses can seem to
be objects residing in a subject/object world, but perhaps there
is a unicity present, in that, senses and sensing might seem as
one, or being.  The mind will picture things like eyes or noses
which pull into the separation cage of belief and illusion.  But,
backing off from all these floating thoughts, with their nagging
dissatisfactions, it might dawn that being appears as senses
and sensing, and eyes and noses..and separation's shadings of
being are blatantly exposed...

i guess we get it from the hebrews,
as the stereotype goes -

i don't know how it happened -
i had a student bank account,
long after i graduated -
what is a student bank account?

2000 quid over-draft limit: interest free!
funny, isn't it?
i had that way past the expiry date,
i'd say way over fives years...

and i was titilating the -2000 quid
over a few months...
evidently some genius at the bank
noticed this, and said:
no no, you've have your little
student honemoon, time's up!

so i gets me a letter and says they'll
be reducing my expiry date to
500 quid below par -

    at nearly -2000 quid in my account,
what? what else?! panic...
so i calls them up and say:
look... i can get on the + scale,
i just need more time,
     i can't do it within your stated
authority...
nice lady, great conversation,
so she goes through the routine
questions...
   mobile phone? no.
  car? no.
    mortgage? no.
   how much do you spend on
luxury goods?
     em... i have all the "luxury" goods
i might ever need,
  take a philosophy book...
sometimes you find one that can last
you 2 ****** years to digest...

that's like picking pennies off
the pavement...

and, luckily, she said:
we'll reduce the overdraft limit by
200 pounds per month...
    last time i remember i hovered
above 800+ quid in my bank account...

obviously i have *******-of-a-drinking
habbit...
       but like now...
   i'm drinking, and tomorrow?
  i'll be drinking...
      and only in western europe is this
stigma of living with your parents...
look... mate... come here:
    jean-paul sartre (the nobel living
author for the novel nausea)?
he lived with his mother,
   had a ****-of-a-girlfriend and ******
university students...
plus he was cross-eyed...
    to ever think that i.v.f. and test-tube
babies pander this "non-existent"
disciplinary commune of "dear brothers
& sisters"....
   the current pupeteer in poland,
this pan kaczka? lives with his mummy...
he's not the president, he's not
the prime-minister... but he's playing
the one joker card in politics:
  he's probably 2 inches shorter than napoleon,
ugly as a ******* touristee mug
with the houses of parliament on it,
or a i (heart) london... whatever...
point being: he's playing the last remaming
card, it's not a joker card...
   it's the entry point of the last remaining
card: the schadenfreude card...
sorry... but this card does come into play
after certain limits are breached,
               but that's hopw ontology works.

i still remember that joke told by my glaswegian
english teacher (imagine
learning english from a pict) -
how was copper-wire invented?
               two scots arguing over a penny.

still... how i managed to get from a -2000 quid
dept and into the +, how did i manage
to ease the blow by allowing a gradual deflation
of the overdraft limit by charming
the bank lady...
      i do have to admit, one little
noughty secret... i found myself wake-akin
*****, i walked into my bank and talked
to the manager: i need you to increase my
overdraft limit, my great-grandmother has died
and i need enough money for travel expenses...

what really happened?
         oh... you know... 3 hours in a brothel...
10 quid entry, one-hundred-and-ten quid an hour...
and the perfume of bourbon everywhere...
   what?! sometimes a man has to do something
about his libido trapped in a strait-jacket...
girls don't mind...
                   i just kept minding that they
were bulgarian, and lied about being romanian
as if to imply that romanian girls
better outsource bulgarian girls in the trade...

      so this is me thinking:
you really want to argue "feminism"?
                go to a *******, see what she thinks,
namely? feminists abhor her trade,
they want to liberate them!
        the girls? far **** away from being liberated...
thrill ***... i heard one story of a friend
of her's being killed by a pundit...
      russian roulette they call it, i guess...
then this other ******* telling me:
oh, personally? i think that every woman should
try prostitution for a while...
   what's that beautician's word? poly...
                               poly-amorous?
oh hell... looks pretty...
                         does it feel "pretty" in practice?
not really...
                      there are really two
great dissatisfactions in the realm of prostitution:
1. not giving a man an ****** after
   one 1 of working the piston (sorry,
imagery and *** are always crass and laughable)
and (this will shock you)
2. actually receiving an ****** on the job...
oh boy, no. 2 is horrifying to them....
   it's not the job that debases the *******:
   it's an ****** with a pundit!
an ****** with client is probably as bad
as being ****** with an egg-beater,
          or an elephants trunk, or a horn of a rhino...
sorry... but that's how it's written...

+ lucky me, she just sighed an "ouch" -
   and said: you're only the second -
          and so out went my ***** envy:
    anyway, i was always more envious of beards;
taking notes in a sikh temple.

yeah... -2000 under par, and still i managed
to wriggle out...
      i swear one of my ancestors was
either jewish or scottish...
      smooches for that lady in the bank
that allowed me a gradual decrease in my
interest free overdraft limit.

The place waned beyond the contextual,
The knowledge unsaid by person in prayer
“I am not meant to feel” yet all do swear
By a sentiment undeserving. All
Dissatisfactions leave distraught, maul
The romantic, hatred of the primal
Taught wrong yet right, compassion’s unending air.
I feel a conviction, which I partake

Sealing fate in my own troubling hate
Thoughts given to the truly natural
“I am not meant to feel” yet I do want
To hear the call of the romantics great,
Reject the primal thought. Tasteful
Classics brought to a nonsense dying pant
              As wrong an act as an inescapable conviction taught

and i have lived the life of a butterfly -
we all get a chance,
it usually lasts for half a year -
there's courting, there's even the remote
"concern": mystique regarding
a taste in music,
one might even venture as far as working
a ****** night-club job to buy
a mandolin...

it's a grand awaiting...
there's a cocktail of personality,
character building...
there are even scenes of carnal endeavours...
there's taking a bath together...
there's: using a ****** to ****
while she's on her period...
there's the 7 hour marathon the night
prior to the day you're about to leave...

6 months of a butterfly's existence...
in this ape cranium...
for all it's worth...
after that: en masse politico...
and this glorified: delay of gratification?
as in a train timetable?
and the "delayed gratification"
being nothing more than...
taking a train journey?

all my best instances of using language
are... probably exhausted...
then comes the bypassing tactics...
bulgarian prostitutes in east london...
again: there's no thrill...
but there's also less psychological baggage...

in between there's music...
i'm only thankful for having this existence
forced upon me...
because i can at least appreciate it...
i can't write it: but i can appreciate it...
perhaps that's the lowest ebb
of being a composer...
that... almost assured...
disdain for being able to write music:
but not enjoy it...
to be even remotely distracted by it...
i honestly can't imagine
Beethoven being able to enjoy music...

i'm waiting for the story about a painter
that went blind...
and painted blind afterwards...
paintings with a priori red and blue
and cubism and...
what emerged from the gob of
the cerberus a posteriori...
with regards to red and blue and cubism...

but my... how people have aged...
i fair no better: nearing 34 i can double my age...
i was buying a liter of ms. amber today
with some ginger ale...
and i fell in love with the cashier...
the usual suspects of: plump, short...
but eyes are wild and wide as the oceans...
it's almost as if she was attempting
to look for the inverted niqab...

what is keeping people certain
of an idealism around poetry and love?
is no one out there with a broken leg...
limping: "all of a sudden"?
everyone's an idealist... up to a point...
then some variation of existentialism
comes to the fore...
and when it does...
it does like a sour grape...

at best most satisfied with what life
has harvested...
a nuance here, a mistake on my behalf
regarding: what could have been
treated as friendship...
but otherwise before me?
a hell is: just a little bit worse than
where i currently reside...
a heaven is: just a little bit better than
where i currently reside -
which by such estimates is...
limbo...

big words: splinter wounds...
this is what it feels: remotely: "feels" like...
over-priced punctuation
arithmetic or otherwise...

at least with a vivid pain i could
imagine it better...
better as in: elevated above...
the numbing...
that crowns itself the king most
non-specific...
there's always something concrete...
but by the time it is allowed
a concrete argument...
there's that diffusion in the spirit
of negation...
since it can't be doubted...
there's that alternative en route of
denial...
if only one were to keep one's
dissatisfactions in great a number
and always incremental...
no life changing prospect...
no back-log of an event and its cascade...

if one were a tad more vociferous...
no matter... baron night awaits
with his usual constellation of stars
and... his desert of a dream that never comes
even as an oasis fata morgana...

indeed: sleep is a fact...
dream is the fiction...
i have the science... i don't have the Stendhal...
what's left? a sample of how somone used
language that did not revel in
terms & services post-scriptums...
no political obligations...
no heavily invested in character listings
and plot twists...
this is at best...
a raw cucumber...
one would wish for a gherkin...
it's a raw potato and not an oven baked
crisp and golden wedge...

it's a postcard of an evening...
or at least: nearing midnight...
you can sense this barrage of exhausted
recurrences...
when life becomes a preditable plateau
for whatever life's worth it has
lodged between the thrill of youth
and the nagging of hanging scythe
and the dead serious shadow...

at least this allows me a rare "insight"
into either the saturday or the sunday edition
of newspapers... with headlines like:
i don't need a man, i need a ***** donor...
the opinion pieces...
the restaurant critics...
this really must be a lived elsewhere...
it's not a life coincidental with me...
it's synchronised - but parallel...

i can find myself here: almost grateful...
melancholic - but grateful...
that... i neither have: in order that i might gloat...
or that i don't have: and allow myself
the chance to cook it myself...
i sometimes imagine why i would never
find myself in a restaurant...
it's that old saying:
some people eat to live...
while others live to eat...

the restaurant is therefore an alien concept...
i find a brothel more accommodating...
when i found it more accommodating...
but even that funfaire died a solemn wave-goodbye...

if there's a moral argument against brothels...
i find one for the restaurant...
perhaps i will never be a big fan
of talking while eating food...
esp. if... the conversation regarding this
seance... was usually reserved for
the people who would eat something they
just hunted...
perhaps...
talking while eating food is weird to me...
esp. in a theatre of a restaurant...
talking while ******* is also odd...
maybe i'm just odd...

then again: what's new?