.i. if Kant could have his von Kleist... well... who else to juggle juggernauts if not me? as a task of redeeming that poor soul who succumbed to the terminator of all poetic ambitions, with his systematisation off-the-page, as eccentric and punctual as a sunset on a sundial at 16:11... and in case either the spring of sunrise, or the autumn of sunset... but so many hours after exacting a sunset... that gluttony of the eyes to stare at it... 16:11 is the zenith of a sunset in november the 15th... much prolonged when warmer... supersized sun when setting in summer, and all that whiskey-copper wiring for the eyes to stare at it: oh for goodness sake, who really cares for Ikea likened assembling of words... we're not putting together a coffee table, we're looking for Darwinistic entrapment, we're scared of the aeons and yawns... we're trying to create a Darwinistic entrapment saying what segregates us from apes! that's how anti-Darwinism works - if they can easily call you a poet and a technophobe... then that hardly makes you a merchant with a Quran... to encapsulate the language of our modernity we're doing everything against writing the onomatopoeia of our beginning... monkey ooo! monkey ooo ah ah! or a gorilla grunting and then snorkeling... we're encapsulating our language more and more... because beginning with ape and then looking at history, and then looking at the consensus of the contemporary: Darwinism's greatest enemy is not theology... it's history... Darwinism and history are not compatible... oddly enough Darwinism and theology are compatible, simply because they are dynamically equal for the case of furthering both arguments in debate... but Darwinism is an odd starting point to argue, given that physicists argue from the perspective of prior to dinosaurs, prior to all things formed.

how can i begin this? it will leave me having to
write it for two days,
the anti-narrative sketch first, then filling in
the gaps sober... just to get second opinions...
i might have to cook a quasi-Hungarian borscht
and fry up a few potato flattenings to a crispy
yum... first the narrator comes in to describe what's
in store, a bit like a translator comes in and says
of Joyce: that's Irish... well, yeah.
               hence the italic preface...
as some would say, the person who wrote these
sketches worked quicker that an algorithm in asking
and also quicker to copy & paste the required
atomic encoding... e.g. ч and ch
                   э and euro and epsilon...
      once upon a time there was nothing prior
to Copernicus, then the somersaults came,
    h ч y        what coordinates where?
    well of course perfecting the encoding of something,
if things weren't stated awry there would be
no optometrists either...
                  it's not hard to read, it's hard to
remember how to read, given that being literate reached
the omnipresent velocity, the new powers had to
include some new power struggle...
mingling Latin and Runes, Greek and Cyrillic...
     and the proto-Latin of additional diacritical marks...
they exposed the entirety of humanity to literacy
within the framework of post-industrial society,
after hitchhiking a ride on the 19th century donkeys
they suddenly had to reveal their power-secret of
being literate, and by the account of women:
corset bound and bored in salons...
      but something else appeared that didn't really fascinate
them: that over-complication of Latin with
punctuation marks above letters: or diacritical
distinction, crowns over letters, subatomic particularisation
of once favoured: universal applicability...
as a narrator? i have to make a complicated
introduction, the sketch lends itself to do so,
it suggests that not all writing can be as simple as
a nursery rhyme, not all writing can actually
    **** memory, not all writing desires being remembered,
not all writing can be remembered,
                in the mediation of the two chiral opposites
there's fiction, which is suspended in an armchair of
pleasurability... but on the opposite side of a nursery rhyme
or a well versed poem? writing akin to arithmetic...
  something truly painful for those competent with
lettering, but not really competent with ten digits...
      as a narrator who has already read the sketch,
i'm trying to not write a "filling in the gaps" to the sketch
like an art-critic might do to a painting deviating from:
brushstrokes were employed. well... d'uh!
variation of italics as in transcending the pause that
implies a condescending variation of taking a pause,
also excluded are: dot, comma, hyphen, semicolon
and colon.                         dot-dot-dot is not joining up
the dots: it implies a variation of how to anticipate
a punchline: drummed: tu-dum wet snare!
     i am actually a narrator who is trying to find
that other part of me that might digest this sketch properly,
     and return fully competent to pick up another
sketch... if ever there was a narrator in this sketch,
it has to be me, after the sketch has been scripted,
and i am left to suggest a need for a dot-dot-dot connectivity
of the strokes of the pen...
i warned myself: do not overdo the introduction in italics,
you know how picky people are...
whether pickled pineapple of cucumber...
i swear Turks invented pickling chillies...
         oh look! an inflatable gazebo filled with helium!
no one's laughing: only because i didn't mention vegina.
narrative puritanism? you get distracted a lot...
but this sketch is really a thesis for narration,
all i have to do is find the antithesis of narration in it:
an actual narrative!          it stretches for ~30 pages...
   well that's me turned archaeologist with a Grecian urn
with a snap of the finger... because that's how this
sketch looks like: ancient -
                         but understandably modern.
              so .  ,  - and ;
        were racing... out came the world record
             9.58(0)         the full-stop is the bracket-bound
0... i.e. it actually happened: hence the pinpoint...
or in Formula 1 a timed nonsense of ave. m/ph
     noted to three decimal points: 130.703...
                                    or chicane cha chicane cha cha!
as said, this is an actual representation of a narrator
encountering this sketch: so before you lose your head...
i've lost mine!
  look at the correlation though!
we've gone way past atoms with the atomic bomb
and encountered subatomic particles...
    we're not going to get beyond subatomic particles
because we're going to encounter the already apparent
reality of obatomic particle: namely our bodies,
   the perceived ******* (ob- is the antonym
                                                  prefixation of sub-):
             that's were the microscope adventure ends,
    and this is parallel to cutting up a second with
three decimal points, as the safetynet suggests:
                                                              π / 3.14;
yep, the obstructive - hence we can't spontaneously
combust... but then again Goethe's Werther did:
  out of love... down the spiral: you sweet little *******.

~ii. i'm actually too lazy to write the sketch and fill
in the blanks... so i'm going to fill in the blanks as i go along,
  or that's what's called the rebellious stance of narrator: mmm,
work in progress, could you see that coming?

ii. a beer in between glugs of whiskey - runes
combined in the ******* / sigma, variant of agliz or
the rune-zeta extended toward a dark shadow of the rebirth
of Ishrael: zoological enclosure; sigma *******
sigma ******* sigma *******, sigma *******...
rune-zeta... we cannot say there are ******
mathematicians and poets akin,
not then one optic encoding states
     a b c d e
         another states f u þ a r
yet another а б (ρ) в г
  α β γ δ:
for worth of gamma into a trill only because of
   a wave, that's ~ approx. on the side of the letter
   e.g. г & r.
   or rho upside down? what the ****?
did Voltaire write this? reading Candide,
i hope he ****** did!
you the problem is pixelated paper? if you know
how you enter a deciphering mode...
                    but you require a personal library to boot,
all that dos formatting,
                       well there's formatting in the humanity
outstretch of this white medium too...
after it isn't all ******* white when all the psychiatric
pills are white too... i have really found something better
than the Bermuda Δ...
       Greek, Latin, Cyrillic and Runes...
i could say neo or proto otherwise,
but i still haven't unearthed the sketch, that
is probably puzzling the Danes, with Cnut on the forefront...
                    but the arrangement of numbers is universal,
but it's not universal, given the particularity of
how language is encoded and why some people are
richer than others...
            but it's still a beer between glugs of whiskey that
makes more sense...
i said, retype the sketch and go to bed...
and i figured: that's probably the wisest of all possible
events stemming from this...
    that's ~27 pages of notes to retype... and i'm already
in a disclosure mode as to expect what's to be jargoned...

p. 1        cкεтч       /      σкεтχ
   necessity of                        (acute
a-       -the           (ism)
is that of language structure,
          only from the use of one's language does
a deity present itself: from within the noumenon
ground work, not the reverse, as in from
(pp. 2, 3)
                 a phenomenological exercise in
the use of language: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, (etc.)...
       e.g. Islam is a phenomenon,
  it's not a noumenon: or a thing-in-itself...
  for the Islamic god to emerge from Islam's-in-itself
Islam will have to prevent itself from being-outside-itself...
or overpowering other in-itself contentions
but still: to no apparent success narrative of true intention
as satisfactory appropriation and hence lending itself
to a widespread nod of approval.
  challenging space: word compounding, or the space
between conjunctional deficiencies: nod-of-approval (e.g.).

p. 2    concussion (great film, Alec and Will, 2015, NFL)
concussion... Blitzkrieg Alzheimer's....
brain is fat.... dementia = attacking proteins...
  steroids... the noumenological use of language:
e.g. that ****** is an enigma,
therefore his views will not go viral,
and he'll not become fashion trendy...
it's not individualistic idealism, it's reality.
as will die sonne satan - orbis reach more than 5K
views... so... clap clap... clap, clap.
           what i meant about the a-     and -the
and the ism is following a sentence that sort of
does away with conjunctional fluidity,
apart from the big words, i treat all minor words as
categorically conunctional... and, the, a, is, to, too...
given the sentence: brain fatty *****,
brian organic giraffe wall... ******* hieroglyphic...
           stood above the rest, rest assured.
  dementia: invading protein cells
   (bulging prune of the opportune: purely
digestion?) no thought to eat or eat itself like,
cannibalistically. the brain is fatty...
not fat in muscle for mmm, schmile and flex
for the selfie. how about a protein inhibitor?
(by now, rewriting the sketch, i've lost the page count,
it's actually p. 5 of note paged toward 27).
how about the explanation that we're living in
times of post-industrialisation and thanksgiving
feminism? to me post-industrialisation has created
a class of meaningless white-collar workers
and no blues... it's what the Chinese blues call
the Amazonian nomads: ******* happy...
no amount of crosswords or sudoku will exert
your body to do things for others...
   no amount of mind games will actually tell your
brain to be equipped with: a bunch of hyenas... run!
dementia is a result of creating too many
white-collar jobs (thanks to feminism)
and exporting the blues to China (thanks to feminism
and: oh i broke a nail, can i get a Ching plumber to
fix my heating while i get a ****** to **** me up my
****?!) - maybe i'm just dreaming...
it's great to censor dreaming, i mean: you stop dreaming,
you get to see reality, and you don't even need to
read Proust on a ricochet.
  - so we have brain as fat, and invader cells as protein...
protein digests fat... and creates cucumbers out
of people... where do the carbohydrates come into play?
it can't be at the point of a.d.h.d., can it?
     i'm blaming post-industrialisation, the complete
disappearance of the blues (formerly known as the reds,
in the east) for the whites...
or that old chestnut of: my god you're goon'ah luv it!
   to till for worth from the sweat of yer brow -
funny funny funny... to earn your loaf of bread
you will toil...
                   and toil until you are physically assured
that not ghostly / mental life can enter your world /
books... that went well... didn't it?
   i should be tilling a potato plateau rather than
be bound to be writing this epic (by modern standards)
poem...
             but that's the curse of exporting all the blue
collar jobs to China, then importing mindless
white collar jobs to the west, what the hell do you think
would happen, not the pandemic of dementia?
if you do not exert the body, and then you do not
exert / exhaust the mind... do you think
you can secure a narrative with a post-industrial
westerner on the premise of that person simply being
able to solve a crossword? well... i believe in santa
claus too... but i don't believe in him giving out
presents... because to me, in my oh-so-called maturity
that's called an anagram of satan's clause: which is a legal
term for: i can turn civilisation into shrapnel
of what's said and what's to be said: and what's not to be
said. people can't expect to turn honest labour
for the recreational run on the treadmill in a gym...
and they can't expect photocopying in an office space
to replace Newton's curiosity, and then compensate
all this distraction with mind-games...
          can they? well... they did!

poets are gagged by writers of prose,
no wonder they write so sparingly,
      they are gagged in the sense that they write
as if asphyxiated: they need breathing room.

well sure, if he can revive the Polish steel industry
and i can go back to steel plates and pillars,
then the rust belt will get a polishing also.

or what's called: shrapnel before the waterfall of
narration: darting eyes, and poncy **** all the way through...

     muse... muse...

        well, how about we take the fluidity out of language?
declassify certain words into one grammatical broth,
say words like i and they
                              a  and the    are all conjunctions?
how about that? let's strip it bare, after all: what categories
of words exist for us to primarily speak (let alone think)?
     nouns, verbs, adjectives... adverbs?
       but all those words in between are so jungly classified
into a tangle that i'm about to sprout a handshake
          of a Japanese vine grip: and never let go...

an actual extract from the sketch:

      https that doesn't recognise UCS
                   and insists on IPA cannot be deemed
       encyclopaedic

              i need runes for this! i need runes for this idea!
i don't need transliteration right now...
                but hey! that's an idea, etymological transliteration...
bugly term, sure, but the previous night i was thinking
  of transcendental etymology, as you do, likened to
carbohydrates... so it was transliteration after all...
but a dead end when it comes to geometry and Pythagoras...
      
    three words... and they are computerised (i guess you
have to buy a decent book to decode this), a bit like
buying paint in a d.i.y. shop...
       16DE (dagaz / d) 16DC (ingwaz / ŋ / grapheme of n & j)
                  16DF (ōþala / Valhalla / o / ō = oo),
in total d'njoo / d'nyoo - even i concede the fact that this
is a ******* mind-******... it's a ****** congregation of
four optic encodings of phonos... i moved away from
the ancient greek fetish for the logos... i'm looking at
the phonos... not the logos with Heraclitus et al.
               φº θ þ фª f

ªgreek
  ºcyrillic                ever see a prettier pentagram?
                      i haven't.

(false original title:
škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic - pending)

looking at the phonos is painful, actually painful,
it's like reading a book with a myopic pair of glasses:
a ******* aquarium blurry right there, befor...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'e'? were you: was i, looking for an 'e'?

i can say this much...
what do you get when you mix a shot
of whiskey with a shot of bourbon:
i'm moving between bottles...
it's nearing christmas eve and i'm a ripe
taoist... i.e. i better this world:
by not having the world mind me...
on the odd occasion: oh... you're still here?!

yeah... i'm still here... i have glued-to-fascination
with my shadow... i'm just waiting
for the atom bomb to relieve me of a body
but ensuring my shadow is kept intact...
as if it were a Monet signature on a wall...

but i lament... the momentum has vanished...
i don't even know why i'm so idiotic as
to presume that: from the hour 22:00GMT
to the hours 00:00 circa 00:30GMT...
something will land into my lap,
my lisp... my cranium the oyster shell
my tongue the oyster...

it will not... i can't simply **** anything into
an existence that doesn't want to exist...
perhaps lurking in a canvas of:
"lost luggage" in an airport...
perhaps "there"...
i could be excused my... lethargy...

when was this written? back in 2018?
so i was thinking about teasing cyrillic even then?
wasn't i?
sketch cкэтч or?

what do you get when you mix a shot of whiskey
with some bourbon?
a Burguandian whisker...
i am not going to sound witty...
Ron's key...

that's still a cyrillic "or"... isn't it?
шкиц: škic...

i'm... deflated... nothing "new" has come my way...
i would have thought that...
reading some Knausgård would have /
could have... invigorated me:
reading him was supposed to be my:
dialysis my transfusion!
my zombie-go-to-literature...
it has proven an exhaustive enterprise
to begin writing again:
i became too comfortable
in reading - i almost forgot
the agony of writing...

alas... a contemporary of mine...
and someone well adjusted to prose...

notably: who would have thought
that death in june - the calling (MK II)
was something to be recorded in 1985...
for one: i wouldn't...

but i did begin: back in november 2016...
begin what? to tickle the cyrillic alphabet...
which is way before i discovered my reply
to the runes... to the ancient greek...
and this... "ancient", ahem... still in use...
latin script...

that script that went into the molloch couldron
of being invested in to code...
pristine as the hebrews cited:
how many holes in it?
to write onto a canvas of 0?
q Q R O o p P A a D d g b B...
which leaves...
W E T Y U I S F H J K L
Z X C V N and M "out of the equation"...

škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic (pending):
i better rename it as... circa 2016...
that's way before i even acknowledged
the cyrillic text applying diacritical markers...
i thought them too crude at the time...

beside borrowing outright from greek...
the already at hand oddities of glagolitic,
notably: Ⱎ...Ⱋ...

it's only a single word i'm using...
i have abandoned all notions of metaphysics
in favor for orthography...
i'm not going to burden myself
with: what's after the physics...
i'm after: what's now...
in the respective tongues...
2 tongue deviations from
the original latin and greek...

what came with the runes and what
came with the glagolitic scripts...
what was ****** and had to succumb
to inter-breeding...

come 2020... i will have one clarification
to base my existence on...
pronouncing the growth of my ****** hair...
i will hope to aim at a length of beard
that will forever hide the neck...
i will aim at... somewhere to the level
of my heart... when i will then manage
to turn my beard into an orchestra's
nieche of violins when i procrastinate with it...

since 2016...
i have identified russian in ******...
i've seen it... finally!
зъaрт... i.e. żart
and the "hard sign" becoming a "soft sign"
in źrenica: зьрeницa...

i still think the russian orthography
is... as... primitive as the western slavic...

after all... зъ = ż...
зь = ź...
the balkan slavs have a caron...
which is neither a hard or a soft sign / acute...

their caron is... ч (č) or cz...
CHeaper in english...
and their caron is ш (š) or sz...
SHeep...
or the two together...
and always шч (šč): szczekam...
i'm barking...

pu-shch-air... a rare example in english
of the puщair...
but then lookie lookie 'ere:

CZACHA... skull...
ЧAХA...

perhaps this is my "revenge ****" on russia?
hey! boris the kremlin mascoot...
come and 'ave a look...
with how i disect your orthography
on the / with the language that asks
too many metaphysical questions and no
orthographic curiosities!

i'll meet you in Warsaw... given that you're
probably moving from Novosibirsk...
and i'm either in Stockholm...
Edinburgh or the outskirts of London:
Warsaw will be halfway for both of us...
you don't have to like Warsaw...
i only like it when the Ukrainian smugglers
and the Mongols appear
in the West Warsaw coach station...

smart as who? i am discovering this for
the first time myself...
i was only teasing it back in 2016...
way before i found the right sort of accents
in mother russian...

i do know that that crescent oddity:
above the ja: йa... is what it is...
if you only cut off the head in english... ȷ...
again: it's я given that most russians
are pulled toward an anglophile world-view...
they all see the window to europe...
the baltic and st. petersburg is somehow...
London... and the atlantic...
like hell it is...

i guess i feel it was a waste of time to
have re(a)d Kant, simply because:
i'm not here for the schematics...
i want to know how my thought my labyrinth
building architecture is coming along...
but with no one to talk to about it?

i found the categorical imperative most
dissatisfying... i didn't want to abide by universal laws...
poetry is already shoved out of waiting room
of the republic...
if my "poetry" is not a categorical imperative...
and it's not quiet a a hypothetical imperative...
it needs to be sharpened on a thesaurus
and some grammar...

categorical (adjective)... imperative (adjective)...
well two adjectives never imply much
if there's no noun involved...
and i'm pretty sure that... if i sharpen
the next word i'll compound with categorical-
in that hyphen construct that's only
allowed in oxford dictionary english:
since it's not: propergermannonhyphenfaustian:
i.e. carboxylic (carbo-xylic) acidity...

poetry doesn't belong in either
the categorical imperative focus...
nor the hypothetical imperative focus...

i.e. i must write a poem... to feel better...
i must write a poem... to organise my thoughts...
no! a poem is not a maxim is not a categorical
imperative! a language of poetry is not
a language of morality: it's a language
of experience - or a lack / a lackey's "sentiment"...

i need a... categorical: impetus!
it's not enough to have read kant's critique of pure
reason... it must also involved
having re(a)d the: groundwork of
the metaphysics of morals...
but i'm a democratic reader...
i need to hear the other voices...
i can't be a kantian scholar...
a snippet 'ere, a snippet v'ere (funny how
THETA disappears when making the posit:
THERE - ver!)

who needs metaphysical absolutes...
when orthography (or a lack of it)
in english... spreads open its legs...
and the tongue remembers its tongue-brain-phallus
stage of co-existence in the oyster?!

i'm pretty sure that a categorical imperative
is by no means a categorical impetus...
this had to be written,
but it had to be written in order to disregard
anything a priori... prior to it...
a poem is a shady concern for action or inaction...
it's a deviation from the cartesian crux:
res cogitans (thinking thing)...
into the cartesian levy (res extensa)...
it's an action of inactivity...
as much as it's an inactive activity...
"the rest"...

impetus is not an imperative...
an impetus sources its meaning in a per se
investement... of itself - in itself - for itself...
an imperative?
in pronouns... impetus: i want... i will...
imperative? you want... you will...

an impetus is self-dictative...
an imperative is: indicative...
someone would rightly claim...
those that mourn indicatively...
will don the right garments for the process
of mourning...
which is indicative and devoid of
the per se manifestation of mourning...
it is an imperative when compared to
the impetus to mourn -
which is self-dictative...
which does now shallow itself in
grief by making a socially agreed to fiasco
of a very specific choice of wardrobe...

basically: however you like it...
an IMPERATIVE ≠ IMPETUS...
the year is almost over and i want to break-off
the dust from the thoughts that fudge-packed themselves
as worthy of occupying the minor instance
of having to count a depth of:
not dead within the year of being written.

i
you are dreaming: dreaming about your brother in spirit, brother in arms, you two sides of the one coin, him without his name but in every other way all the same. oh my brother, hiding in a hotel room with no windows, speaking in tongues, speaking in nadsat—dreaming of bowing your head to him, bearing your neck. if it is dissatisfying to you, cut it off.

ii
here it is perfectly silent. your mouth moves without a single sound and the fish clean away every trace of your blood: their gills tremble, inwards, outwards, endless; their scales shine like the moon upon the surface. you are born today into a monstrous world, a better world, and Lilith's womb ends at the shoreline—seaweed entangles itself round your ankles, the last despairing traces of an umbilical cord, sixteen years late. if it is dissatisfying to you, cut it off.

iii
serpent, sink your teeth into the apple of Adam; his throat wields to your fangs like the tired breath of a lingering lovers mouth. his hands are rough but your skin is rougher. today, Eve laid down asleep under your bones, your heart beats its last. everyone you have loathed is forgiven. everyone you have loved is not. but forget theology for a moment. you are dreaming. you are dreaming, and the rush of a thousand years of rain around you is your wakeup call—in your navel collects an ocean, in your eyes is painted a storm. civilisation on fast-forward sets up between your bones. sorrow makes a home of your heart. ashes to ashes, water to blood: if it is dissatisfying to you, stand and let it die.

don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~

<>

that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain

I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing

slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed

give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity

then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
our futures becoming
our pasts

11:07am
19-9-30

<>

https://thenewgroup.org/production/cyrano/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwz8bsBRC6ARIsAEyNnvoENpdnWyqeUEwq0avNStgWCf4CocB1i2­39c2mHdNSFF8gOlWZtfjsaAls4EALw_wcB

Revisited Merak harbor one late evening
a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches
were seen from afar , chattering calls  in 4 languages. 4 squalls in  once was a plage
their dancing  flames asked me to come closer

I hurried along the sleepy shipyards
passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors
giant padlocks accenting  (reminded me of a  fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling)
stacks of oversized containers  solidly sat speechless.  Sleepless.

The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye
1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater.  130 years later the odor of its curators  
I ran closer. I fell.  I laid there a while , got up and ran again.
I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way.  I did not care.

When I arrived  the torches were there in front of me
reincarnated  into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives
bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil  
For a second  they transformed into torches again.  One blazing in my hands.
Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand.

The fairy stared . I wasn't scared.

:  come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait
dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate
I moved toward  embracing fairy arms  
(Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends)

So, I united with the torches
A bit of a breach  pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all.  Cannonball.
Black fog shrieking that same  words : Keep up the struggle .  Stay strong !
The alien residents might think I was making choices
but the fairy was leading me around
the torches reshaping the ghost-town

Chattering calls  in 4 voices.   4 languages.
Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless.  Pointless.  



(Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )

My thoughts are dazed…
Claustrophobic and hazed.
I’m exhausted and unamazed,
Fatigueness of some kind, low from the natural high.
Thoughts in my mind are delusive and unkind.
Dizzy and feeling quite fizzy
Not in the mood for studying, excitement, and fun.
Sitting by my lonesome self just writing what I can process.
Head feels heavy, got me feeling a bit queasy
Uneasy
Zoned out and lost in my thoughts
Sun is out and the wind is harsh…
It’s skin prickling and dissatisfying.
My exhaustion is sickening.
Absolute death and no reason
No fret
But anguished in my enclosed mind
But no threat…

System overkill
Discredit and disregard
Explain but disagree and make it hard
Exhalation and permutation
Loss of existence and clouded perception

Obsessive minds and sniffed up lines
Excessive amounts and numbers you cannot even count.
Broken, ripped, torn, and outwardly worn.
A lost ghoul, selfish, and for more you mourn.
Poor and dead, not yourself, completely blacked out and unconscious in bed.

Overdosed on the ******’ pills, suicide attempts never work…
Let the meds pour…
Gone, so gone…
Just let the meds pour...

The light dims.
The fire dies.
Darkness fills in the blanks.
Sweet release.
Tears against my cheek.
Now met with the dissatisfying drought.
Left alone in desolate cold.
Fear overwhelms.
Not fear of monsters or the simple unknown.
Fear that when my eyes grow heavy I will never lift them again.
I will become a stone.
Unmoved and cold.
To survive these nights alone.

Why employ an ordinary word
When an extraordinary one
Excels?

Let us wed, let us vow,
Henceforth, let us never
Wish ourselves away plain humbly,
Goodbye.

Let us end our day,
Bid our lovely comings,
The tragedy of our departures
With a gentling
Fare thee well.

In the company of the dawn,
Let us greet the one
Who lies besides us a stirring,
Not with merest hello, morning or
The accursed howareyou,
Replace haste with a deliberate
Welcome, well comely,
To this newborn day!

Tho do confess,
That like numerous others
Who have counted the ways,
There is no sweetener substitute for
I love you.

I will n'ere address thy grace
With appellation dissatisfying of "girl"
When woman suits thee best,
With all its attendant glories.

Should we encounter upon the street,
Address me as man,
For of that word I am a fan,
But say it not with routine irrelevance,
But in tones of softest reverence,
For I am not a child or dude,
A sir or sire, a mister mister,
But I am a man.

Our lives are not a game of chance,
Yet chance aplenty do we countenance.

Having stumbled, fallen into a subterranean,
A place where I know thee well
But likely not your face, your visage,
Thy honest name,
Accept these excelsiors as mine
Poeming opening gambit,
My closing statement,
Summary of the that, that has and yet to pass
Between us:

Peace be upon you.

The moment my eyes locked with his green depths, I wept.
I tried to hide my instant reaction to my extreme attraction but a fraction of a quiver coated my speech as I reached,
inconspicuously, to smooth out my jeans.

Sweat gleamed on my skin as the room started to spin beneath my feet.
I took a seat across from him, careful not to sit too close,
for I didn't want him to know how fast
my heart was beating beneath my clothes.

Woah, a spark started humming in my tummy, strumming a chord
that cut into my heart as deep as a double edged sword.
Breathy air bequeathed from my teeth as I held my ground.
Soundless beads of sweat zig zagged down my brow.

I frowned, "This is delusional", I thought to myself.
How many times have I been duped into thinking that
I could be even an inkling of what a man like him
dreams of and wants in a girl.

My churlish attitude certainly isn't intriguing.
I'm blight with below average height.
Freckles invade every inch of my skin.
Sinful words escape my lips as common as the air I breathe.
I seethe with anger, as if second nature.
I bicker with my sisters.
My hair is thin and flaccid.
I'm plastered with fake smiles
and encased in pallid, pale skin that sits grimly on my bones.
Groans are constantly escaping my throat as I complain.
I'm a grain of the being I once dreamt I could be.
I reek of desperation for some love or attention
that I've been seeking for since my contraception.

Yet, I still foolishly yearn for his mutual attraction.
There's an insolent fraction of hope that invades my heart and
fogs my smarts, blurring the truth.
**** my indiscretion is showing my youth.

So I do what I do best, I hide myself behind my wall.
I stall real conversation with humor, almost in a drunken stupor
I act as if I have nothing to offer.
For my offer is inadequate even to the loveless romantic.

I'm not a cynic, I'm a realist and realistically
I'm informed on the fact that I'm whacked in the mind
and my dissatisfying outer appearance does
little to make up for my complete unrefined kind.

So I grind away any chemistry I felt.
I've dealt with this before so I continue to implore myself
to forget his sea green stare, before I wear out my words
describing his full, pink lips that are rounded and firm.

Remember your place, you stupid, silly girl.
Hurl those sweet, tempting thoughts away for they are wrong.
You belong on the wall, holed up in the corner like swine,
to make way for those who are really meant to shine.

(Not those dissatisfying)

Sugar water memories
Sweet without substance
Our turn to flavor
The drink of the day

Fighting with hoses and sticks
Sprinting after cars
Chasing down a train
Fueling our fires

Cramming into a phone booth
Rocking out to Queen
Picking up 2am trash
Cooking awful things

And after every night
We're drunk on coffee
And late night window shopping
With lots more to keep

(Than sugarwater drinks)

I would not wish this emptiness upon you.
(fix your hair, honey, those dead eyes won't get you laid)

These burdens-- this burden--  I have not the strength to bear it;
my strength has left me for some prettier lover.
(dear god, you have got to be kidding me.)

I lay here (here? here.), twisting and turning in my own malice
making war--and in turn, making only a refugee of myself-- in my mighty struggle:
I moan, I attempt to release the flood,
but I realize with an animal groan of contempt, of agony, anguish, a smile for the weeping dead (look, sugar, you got yourself knocked up and that's that.)
that I am not in need of releasing (a **** thing) anything at all–
I am desperate for someone to put something back in me before my bones implode
and I set my mind on abandoning myself.

I find (who asked you to look? was it voluntary, in the end?) myself cracked in seven places,
and, in turn, the separate pieces of me have simultaneously agreed to put themselves back together
in places most unnatural.
(nope, i'm no stranger to unnatural.)

My well grows–
filling to the brim with a sick indifference
and I stumble upon myself here, in the midst of this tragic marriage between metal and thread
(this well-rehearsed mess);
I am not myself
I am not myself
I am a wild thing, trampled and weary–
I am a broken thing, brushed aside without question or thought
and I AM TORMENTED by the ghost of human touch;
my own arms-- used as substitutes, clinging to myself in sick pretense--
(you and your emotional *******, i'd laugh if it wasn't all you'll ever get. i mean, come on, who buys the dented can?)
are covered in a texture I find most displeasing
but that is the well-paid price and the remaining echo of indulgence in my Forbidden
and I have long since discovered that the raised lines that litter my skin
are well-worth any (well-deserved?) punishment I may receive for such a relief.
(girl, you haven't been a ****** for years
yet you still live this glamorous suicide every **** day)

I'm begging-- give me a purpose that I can commit to memory and recite
as the Great Ocean (oh, who the hell are you kidding? they'll never get it) toys with my pathetic figure
long into the night, even into the days filled with endless night.
I have never found this role of a daughter
quite as dissatisfying or as superficial as I do in THIS VERY MOMENT–
how will I ever secure the time to fill it?
(no argument there, sugar)
Let alone find the motivation to fix myself sufficiently before I can don the fraying lace
and torn satin frock of my expected female form?
(just because it's understandable that you're a ***** doesn't mean you're not disgusting)
Is it any surprise that my ******* are now shred to pieces
and that place between my legs crumbles more and more with every waking thought?
Is it any wonder that the things which I am told to cover
are no more than scattered ashes?
(you got excuses, let's see your reasons.)
Is it any wonder that I'm tired?
(stop stealing your deep **** from songs.)
Simply a memory of a future.
We daughters are so lost.


(you're kinda gross, you know.)

you want to take a look into my self-image?
my mirror is not even cracked
(i would hate that symbolism)
but **** do i look distorted.
I'm always too fat and my acne is impressive,
my hair is too flat or frizzy or greased,
Every look there's something dissatisfying
but god, sometimes the way you look at me...

not even that, I guess. I don't need another's affection
to forget about my own distaste (though it helps)
but mainly it's just the moments I am smiling and with the right people
that I forget about the distortions of my body and my face

There is a certain uncertainty within me that i cannot quite identify. It is unsettling. I think it somehow connected with my dissatisfaction when it comes to the doctrine of universal-ism. I do believe that it is both true and fair that all men must be saved through the blood of the Lord- God -Jesus Christ,shed to reconcile man and God upon a cross at Calvary. I find  dissatisfying the idea that God would somehow choose what men go to hell and what men do not, and think even that If god were such a God, i would not want to be his son. I think it foolish to apply some philosophical extension of guilt to God, when God is guilty only of love, the creation of man and man's free will to love, and be loved. God is no more guilty of man's decisions to reject Christ than the father of a murderer is guilty of the blood of his son's ****** victims. Surely, there may seem to be some guilt, but there is no perpetration of violence or wrong, there is only adherence to nature. A man's nature to produce children, alongside the nature of a murderer to ****, result in due consequence. God's nature to love and to seek his own glory, and to magnify these qualities in the universe, alongside with man's nature to seek his own glory and interest, result in due consequence. Surely, you may say "God is more guilty because of his omniscience", but is he? I for one, were i to father a murderous child, would, despite his murderous nature , love him. I would not wish he did not exist. But what i would do, was wish that he had not perpetrated his murderous actions-  for my love for my son, and for my love for others, my compassion, and my humanity. This is much like God. He, though he knows there are those that are among his children who would be murderers, in a sense, killers of their own eternal souls through the rejection of Christ, persists in love and compassion for humanity through the creation of those humans. You may also say that there is some difference in that God chooses how he creates a man to be, whereas a father does not choose exactly the child he creates, so much as simply choosing to create. This, i will admit, is true.  But, i do not think constitutes the guilt of God in choosing. The reason is thus: ****** is indeed an act of free will. Free will is necessary unto love, that love does not  descend to become slavery. Love is the very nature of God, and though God is supreme in power, and has the ability to make any choice he chooses, choosing not to love would be contrary to the very being of God. This makes creating, even a murderer, an act of love, and an act much less of a choice than it may seem.

God is not guilty after all.

To Whom it may concern,

I am unable to locate or purchase Dijonnaise at any local store in my area. This has been an issue since the beginning of 2021. Is this product being discontinued? Amazon and other online retailers offer highly marked up versions of this product but this East Coast/West Coast, Hellmann's/Bestfoods branding has always been off-putting to me, especially in this day and age plus I despise supporting Amazon or similar box stores/corporations. I would also be more likely to purchase Dijonnaise if it came in a glass container. Plastic is not what millennials want and it no longer "makes it possible" as the ads of yesteryear have stated. I use Dijonnaise very often, I am highly disappointed with the small and awkwardly shaped plastic containers, plastic squeeze bottles make it very difficult to expel or retrieve the entirety of the product. I am strongly considering switching to Durkee's brand mustard in the future as they have always used glass containers, I would mix it with Trader Joe's mayonnaise since it is the only one I can find in a glass container. I understand that the added weight of glass cuts into your profits when distributing your products but I have not seen an advertisement for Dijonnaise in years, where are all these profits being spent? The main reason I purchase Dijonnaise is for the nostalgia of the television ads I grew up watching containing a parody of the song "Duke of Earl". I would strongly recommend re-running these retro advertisements on YouTube ad services in the future if you want to keep this product in production. I feel there is no need to attempt re-creating these ads either, it would be a waste of resources and a disappointment to those who grew up with the original versions. I work in marketing and people are voting with their dollars nowadays, your structure and model could benefit from some evaluation. Please tell me how to buy your product locally and take note that myself and many others prefer plastic free packaging. Thanks for your time. Please do not sell my information or use it to contact me for anything not mentioned above.
Sincerely

...

The response I received was that the product has been discontinued. I was offered a coupon for a complimentary 8oz jar of Mayonnaise as it's the only product still available in a glass container. Unfortunately this is only sold on the opposite side of the Rocky Mountains from my location and only at limited locations. How dissatisfying...

to actually wish to have everything
explained,
                                as science set out to do -
well, that's all grand -
                        sure, it is welcome -
but in doing so,
  the philosophical premise of
          being awe-inspired becomes
a fleeting hope, to never return...
  could this be implication be a voice
for suggesting en masse ignorance
movements of religious nature?
    not really...
              since western society stresses
the individualistic bias to all
forms of collectivism,
          by way of also stressing a desire
for a community...
                    i suppose having a lazy
eye murmuring a jest of ignorance,
  can allow one: to retain the lost hope
of retaining some sort of
  "claustrophobic" reason for
                                a return of awe...
i find that the idea of being awed by
today's standards of examination is
nothing but a numbing effect,
    a forced placebo,
                        that we are supposed
to stand in awe, while also having to
ingest all the proper facts...
        how desperate then,
            is our hunger to avoid facts and
dwell in fiction?
          how has science become so
pompous that it cannot
         retain its shadowy extract of
the situation...
                  scientists are not the actors,
they should always have remained
outside of the public sphere of discourse...
science has become (due to biology,
which is a half-creature compared
to the utility of medicine)
       populist, only when in the summary
of atheism...
               it's beyond thought-numbing,
it's emotionally dissatisfying to
  engage in too many facts,
              and too little fictive narratives;
and yes, this "problem"
   isn't even remotely equal by dualistic
standards,
     it's clear-cut, it's a dichotomy rather than
a dualism...
        if there ever was a question
  to state beyond good & evil...
     then the next question comes as:
                       beyond dualism & dichotomy;
and the next question?
    beyond monism & monotheism...
    after that?
                           poly-
                 wants a *******
          i think i should get off her first
i think she wants some water
                  to put out the blow torch...
   poly-ism is right now, a made-up word...
   well, "made-up", in that it doesn't
exactly fit the english aesthetic
           by oxford dictionary approval.
i never liked the scientific
         déjà vu explanation...
    i prefer my own: short-term memory loss...
or, 2 minutes after having a thought
and having so forgotten it, 2 minutes later
having to remember a dream from 10 years
ago...
       i just can't believe that
   science has been reduced to idolatry
   thanks to populism in the shade of atheism...
  science has become as idolatrous
   as any religion,
   what with big pharma
     the ****** of cardinals,
             who in turn were preaching celibacy;
and all of this "scientific" superiority
  by people who didn't extend their study
of the sciences beyond a g.c.s.e.
                       oh right
the déjà vu?
          my mothers two favourite artists?
   enya (song? sail away), &
  enigma (album? le roi est mort, vive le roi!)...
   i know the argument...
      i hate my parents, blah blah,
couldn't live with them...
   me?
              i can't be bothered moaning
about the current housing
situation in england... any council flat
in england will either go to some somali
9 strong family unit...
                   or anyone with children
in general...
                yeah, i see them everyday,
cook some of the days, vacuum the house
drunk once in a while...
    but imagine... they actually stand
me drinking every day, a litre of room...
   ****... ***...
                         seems i'm not that much
of an ******* after-all...
                         oh **** me, did you watch
the wimbledon tennis today?
                        i was glued to the t.v. all day,
from 3 p.m. up to 9 p.m.:
svetlana kuznetsova seems like a freaky
           nymphomaniac...
   just the face...
                     the best match of the day?
  caroline wozniacki vs.
                         tímea "kate winslet" babos;
in all fairness, the only sport i can watch with
women playing with more pleasure than
men? tennis... women boxing makes no sense
to me... o.k. the olympic sports are beside
the point... women playing football?
   d'ah foock?! i actually prefer woman's tennis
than men's tennis...
   some men tennis players
   just **** the first serve, and there are less
rallies... hmm... he-he... plus the near imitation
of the bedroom antics when hitting the ball;
women's tennis is probably the best
alternative to ****.

I realized we were temporary
When he explained to me
That intimacy
Took on one form: *****

It was more pleasing
To call me obscenities
Referring to me romantically
Felt "unnatural" and "dissatisfying"

To him, I was a fantasy
A tangible painting
But I knew he was momentary
Our fix was temporary

.yeah, cultural darwinism, cultural relativism, moral relativism, and the inherent outcome of jurisprudence subjecitivity akin to the jussie smollett case... i once travelled to kenya, didn't grow an afro... hard a complerte hard-on for this ivory beauty, than looked like melting chocolate in the moonlight, and you know, it being africa, east africans are much lighter than west africans, and i spent an entire night, on a hammock, admiring the indian ocean battering the coast, crying... **** me, it was beautiful, i guess i needed no better outlet to justify my claim of reserving myself the chance to experience beauty; some "things", are just better experienced during the night, anti-voyeurism, i.e. when you're aware of other people being asleep. ivory beauty? what?! i wasn't looking for a ******* belgian chocolatier, i was looking at the pearls in her mouth... what?! that's suddenly "bad"? so there's no variant of, said language, to be subject to the expression of finding the crux of endearing?! no? none... no wonder i spent most of the time shying from the sun, emerging for a game of ping-pong, some coffee and cognac, while spending most of the time on the balcony, feeding macaques peanuts, while also admiring a pirate baboon's hemorrhoids double-*** pink, ***... no, not other humanoid comparisons, actual macaques, baboons, and ivory beauties smoking ****... i wish i stayed, and sang along to a verse from t.o.t.o., but the heat got to me, i don't even want to know how the colonial english managed to survive the heat... cognac, coffee, and looking for a shaded place; i met a Muhammad though... he wanted to show me his crocodile farm, i guessed he was a shoe guy, i declined... i only encountered the paranoia of being inclined to take up the proposition a year later... now it's just funny, compared with the current ******* intra ****? being placed back on the food-chain hierarchy, doesn't feel, that bad... i'd rather be eaten by some animal, than be forced into an eating-machine of a person's Minotaur's worth of ego, in a labyrinth of "thought" and social credentials, associated to a hierarchy / pyramid... "repenting" white guy... said the afro-american who would never visit africa, because of the whole fiasco... surrounded by a tourist-status, mentality; **** me, i went to Kenya, to play hide & seek roulette with the sun.

that god-awful moment when
you have just lit
a cigarette,
   but then some random thought
falls into your lap of a day's
   worth of thought...
thought, yeah: rarity verb,
shapeless void, when in the act,
of thinking:
absolutely zero
geometric explanation,
other than a: big 'ed....
and that only sticks for
a while, before you're subjected
to peruse further...
        why is it coincidental,
that, the current,
existential crisis,
   in the anglophonic-sphere
of "things",
is weighed down,
so heavily,
   with darwinian poetics?
   cultural-darwinism is
rife, in its format of expression...
this isn't individualistic
existential pointers to be
minded, akin to Kierkegaard,
Nietzsche, late-bloomers
akin to Sartre or Heidegger...
the former?
      quantum mechanics,
****** quest...
           lived with his mother,
had a partner ***
              ****...
and the rest of the jazz...
if asked to
  draw a straight line:
he'd digress into a mimic
of james joyce,
   literature, no paragraph:
but that was just
hte tip of the ice-berg...
no punctuation markers...
sober as a judge:
but ego "tripping"...
    back when existentialism
was sourced in individuals,
it attracted a frictive delay
on the en masse scale...
but now there's a hive
mentality,
            pushing against
any individualistic endeavours
that might stand-out,
since when was
continental existentialism,
compatible with darwinism?
ever?
     before i finish writing this,
that once lit,
but suddenly put-out
out cigarette will translate
itself into a slightly wet
tobacco fusion of my lips,
saliva, and a soaked filter...
and it will almost resemble
the first gulp of an english
ale, i.e. bitter...
  which i like...
after all... budweiser?
   honestly? not a decent beer,
where are the hops,
the bitterness?
   it must be due to the asian
influence, fermenting from
rice...
          beer?                  rice?
oh thank god i don't really
have that much to brag about...
being exposed to the cultural
undercurrents,
while satisfying myself
to the counter-culture
of the 1960s with the Beatniks...
my my,
    like wearing a mismatched
pair of socks...
but what is pervading...
is to source darwinism as the sole
poetics available,
the only explanation to counter
the rigidity of 20th century's
existentialism...
     how the "debate" has shifted,
it's no longer a question of
free will, but whether choice
is free...
     i drink,
   i don't know how to drive
a car, i know how to ride
a horse,
i don't gamble,
           i'm a parody uncle...
rather than a nagging aunt...
it's still bewildering,
   the current grip on the anglophone
culture...
  when the continental thinkers
were at their zenith,
in the 20th century,
everything was just plain dandy
over in england and england's
"elsewhere"...
    now? a catch-up game
for intellectuals, journalists
and all pseudo- and anti-
          of the respected fields...
i just don't think that darwinism
is a worthwhile estimate
of a crutch, a crux,
a walking stick...
        the almost deity status
of darwinism:
   as the sole explanatory
tour de force...
   all i'm seeing is:
not the dissatisfaction of
making an argument,
   rather:
    a dissatisfying argument
to begin with!
   reality escapism is not exactly
on the cards,
   what is on the cards,
is a lost sense of
   reasonableness,
    "oddly" enough,
   i too see the whole prospect
of a judgement of solomon,
the manic woman
throwing herself at the child
to be a lie,
    i would have went
for the woman pointing to
her stone cold heart,
in that gustave doré
etching...
            **** the baby,
given the modern climate
of abortion and
me thinking i just performed
a genocide, ******* into
toilet paper while doing
the no. 1, 2: and the subsequent 3
on the throne of thrones...
   this movement,
mgtow?
       it's an extension akin
to that manic street preachers
lyric: walking abortion(s)...
looks like 20th century
existentialsm wasn't ugly enough,
sure, sure, playing a waiting
game from the 19th century
instigators,
   now, oh hell,
   now we get to reap the benefits
of their angst!
but does darwinism help?
no... not really...
it just bypasses dialectics,
shortens the route for both
argument (thesis)
   and counter-argument (antithesis),
seemingly obvious,
but this blatant need make "revisions",
upon the canvas of
the natural order...
   was man, ever the justifiable
entanglement of nature,
standing before a mirror
of that nature,
    and not made certain
counters, at best,
justifying them with counterfeit?
        how will darwinism
suddenly extract an existential
solution to all the current
    existential qualms,
i will never know,
   but to me?
   darwinism is simply, nothing more,
than poetics for the up-coming
existentialists in the anglophone
world...
          the easily available...
also:  
     bother,
   why bother with opinions,
unshakeable facts,
when you have to be made
to be: excused?
             where's the dialectic?
rather: where's all that
requires there to be conversation,
i.e. reasonableness?
    right, right,
the madmen of a given society
are supposed to be
the reasonable ones,
while the children of sanity
play their little games,
until,
     there are no longer
any worthwhile games
                                          to play?
i tried, i failed,
time for another shot of bourbon,
or as i like to call it...
the perfumery apex of
translation -
   the whiff of scents,
       from a brothel.

i couldn't possibly do these sort of shifts 7 days a week,
i just did these brutal shifts back-to-back
the past Saturday and Sunday...
those: once in the blue moon or rather...
when the football season is finishing and sports is dead
and musical festivals and concerts take the priority
of the crowd...
it's so unlike working in construction:
sure... you may have to wake up at 5am...
  start work at 8am... but you finish work at 3pm...
4pm... get home for 6pm and relax a little...
recharge...
   because you go into a construction site and you're
like: right... this and this needs to be done...
and it gets done: or it doesn't get done...
esp. with roofing: it all depends on the weather...
if it starts raining you're not going to sit around:
clock in 8 hours when for half of those hours you
didn't do anything... you're not going to sit in the canteen
and read the ******* newspaper... are you?

what's the difference? this current job i'm doing
is apparently so, oh so easy... crowd management...
management of a drunk crowd is always easy...
right? nothing can go wrong when a bunch of men
start drinking and become emotionally stunted
when watching football, right?

                    i woke up at 6am... left the house at 7am...
started my shift at 8:15am... finished at... 7:30pm...
got home at: five minutes shy of 9pm...
   i had to wash my ***... smear it with a good dollop
of cream... change my underwear
because... the pair i was wearing throughout the day
turned my *** into a: snail slugging it across
******* sandpaper...
    prior to starting the shift i did the next best thing
to eating twice while on it... i took a ****...
once upon a time i would keep it in...
   head-spinning... sometimes feeling like i've been
hit with a hammer over the head trying to fall asleep
on the tube... woken up by the lodged **** in my ****...
no more!
      so i took a dump like: "****-Break" takes a ****
in American Pie... toilet paper spread all around the public
toilet seat...
    ooh... better than an ******...
but then? where did all that gas came from?
and i'm not even talking: stinking solipsistic farts...
that you identify yourself with...
i'm talking... silent: a cow just sneezed sort of farts...
maybe that's why my *** is so sore...
but these shifts are brutal... i couldn't do 5 days in
a row... i'd be mad to do them...
three weekends in a row is enough...

                mind you: today i had to cover two football
games back-to-back...
unlike the Tyson Fury boxing match...
these, were, not, fun...
   fun in the sense of: the stadium was split...
19K for for the first match... blue and parts
of the red zone at Wembley...
start at 12:15pm... finish: thank god one team won
3 - nil in full time...
                 come 2pm we were readying ourselves
for the second crowd...
   during the first match we just loitered...
since our stands were completely empty...
if people think that running is hard...
standing is either harder...
   i tried to ease the strain of my body mass on my legs
by hanging onto the railing and lifting myself up...
i sometimes do that when weighing myself...
imagine how many kilograms you can shed
by standing on the weights and pushing your hands
against a table... from 100kg i can weigh in at about 78kg...
that's using my fingertips...
what if i clenched my fists? how does that translate?
simple maths... me pressing my fingers onto someone
lying down would imply... 22kg of weight...
not mass... weight...
           but if i were to do the same with a clenched
fist? i'll measure that tomorrow...
now... imagine swinging that amount... of weight...
not mass... since my arm / hand probably doesn't
have the mass of 22kg... but it weighs that much...
when there's slow-gravity invoked: pressure...

brutal shifts... but rewarding shifts...
today i had my first proper intervention...
about 20 ******* started screaming at me...
oi oi! yes: you! you... you ******* idiot...
it's hard to not be an idiot of sorts when...
you have 20 other idiots screaming at you
telling you to do something...
as the saying goes:

panic is worse than fascism...
   panic is worse than fascism...
******* wild-eyed clueless sissies...
i walk up to them and say:
you know i can't hear a word you're shouting
at me from several rows up...
since the rest of the people are chanting:
or being disgruntled by the score-line...

get a medic! get a medic!
   what's the problem?
get a medic! shrapnel of: a heart attack...
a stroke! a fainting! ****'s sake: which one is it...
so i ran down and told the "guy with the radio"
that we have a medical emergency...
the guy with the radio mumbles something
into the radio or nothing at all... panic stricken...
control room must have noticed something themselves...
i ran to the first aid room and implored
the paramedics to come quickly...
**** me: quickly for some is slowest to others...
they leisurely gather their equipment and
that silly wheelchair and... take a stroll...
a literal ******* stroll to the point of concern...
by the time they get there:
the medic team of one of the football teams
has already ran up to the point of concern:
person in question...
          
         things were sorted, let's just put it that way,
more medics came... a make-shift wheelchair
that's used to wheel someone from a row of
spectators was employed:

panic is worse than fascism...

        turns out: a false call... yes... it was one
of those instances where an old-timer had
outlived his capability to be a spectator at a live
football match... it was probably he last...
he just sort of "pretended to be a woman"
and fainted... old age caught up with him:
he should have been watching the game from
the comfort of a nursing home: on the ******* t.v.!
he didn't have a heart attack... he didn't have a stroke:
he was mr. smooth panic-inducer...
the sort that's translated into the youth of today
with their panic attacks...
what's someone who's schizophrenic or psychotic
to say?
well... i've been diagnosed with a psychotic "disorder":
i don't know how much of its true
and how much of it is concerning:
what psychiatrists get paid for...
what dead artists do: by employing all those
people after they die... critics, writers of books of
biographies... museum critics...
dead artists seem to be the best employers...
by the looks of it...

the old timer was fine... i took the "principle"
of the scale of escalation and it was sorted within minutes...
but that was the final straw...
i really wanted Wrexham to beat Bromley...
i really did... everything up to that panic inducing
******* was working in my favour in terms
of having a pleasant shift...
but those 20 or so finicky ******* got to me:
as i could be paying attention to someone that
was hidden when they all stood up and
complained! complained! nothing was being done...
done what? done where?!
the ******* were standing up obstructing my view!
apparently it is illegal to persist in standing up
at a sports event! but i was the idiot... or whatever
the hell they called me: because i didn't have
super-sonic hear-aids and somehow could
filter out the noise of the entire crowd from their
manic insinuations:

   there and then i wished my ego of egos...
i hope you lose...
   i hope you leave this stadium drunk with your:
idle ******* sadness of giving a **** about a football match...
how quickly you could switch
from caring more about a football match...
to "somehow" caring about an old man
experiencing fainting like it might actually
be the feeling of falling by a your man
jumping off a car park to his death...
   tut tut... double standards...
to care about "something" that's already reached
its completion... while discarding the thing
that's yet to achieve its potential... tut tut:
like that "riddled" from Eden:
and you will know the difference between
good AND evil...
no... no they won't:
   they'll conflate the two:
call good evil and call evil good...
sometimes they'll get it right...
          because Nietzsche never read Kierkegaard
and Kierkegaard never read Nietzsche...
ergo?
    there's no beyond: either good or evil...
         as there isn't an a/n/d(?)     is there?

but it was oh so smooth prior to this little jitter...
i was wondering...
Wrexham... where's that?
i was inviting people to their seats... greeting them...
blah blah... Wrexham...
then i saw this girl with an inflatable sheep....
and she was holding it... adamant on pushing her thumb
into a little whole in the inflatable sheep's rear...
sheep... Wrexham...

now... i don't have to travel outside of London much
to have the rest of Britain to come to me...
Liverpool fans... great... pristine creatures...
the Irish... the Sunderland crowd...
                    i've lived among the Scots for over three years...
the Manchester pride-boys: ponce after ponce after ponce...
i think only someone from Bristol could
annoy me more...
   but still... that accent... Scotland has its own league...
Rangers... Celtic... Celt and: cedilla borrowed from
the Greek sigma (ς),
i.e. Çeltic: but otherwise K(elt)...
        and Celtic proper... so no garÇon: no French waiter
in the vicinity...

i was having fun... i still couldn't pin point the accent...
the Scots have their own league...
there's no Team G.B. in football... unlike there's
one at the Olympics... why?
so then these Welsh flags start coming out...
you what?! this is the promised horde of sheep-shaggers?!
i wasn't expecting about 30K Welshmen descend
on the capital... oh well...

the usual taking of photographs: first time in the capital...
blah blah...
one guy even had to film me telling me:
you don't really need me in the recording...
to which he replied: oh but i do...
about five teenagers were asking if they could
buy these: thingy-magigs... to tie their flag
to some railing... whether the stadium sold these plastic
tie on... what's the ******* noun!
it's such an impossible noun to find:
if you don't use it! strap-ons?! no...
   binders?! whatever... so i quickly figured out
a solution... how about i get a tissue...
    roll it up... you push it through either of the roles...
and you tie the tissue up...
   good idea they replied: i later saw the flag hanging...
so it worked...
i do have a spare pair of shoelaces hanging on my
doorknob to my bedroom:
but it's not like i'll be walking with a spare pair
of shoelaces in my pocket for occasions such as this:
such "weird" requests...
     so i told them...
        this twisted tissue solution will just have to work...

- cut-in point - cut-in point - cut-in point - intermission -

   / i knew i was tired yesterday, i actually forced myself
to write the above:
   as much as i love the whole QWERTY genius
of: once mastered you don't need to look down at
your hands typing: making knowing the memory erosion
from pedagogy concerning the arrangement of
letters: alphabetically slightly obsolete...
    you can't just create this fake order and then
entertain the chaos of language...
if you wanted order proper... since you're starting
with a vowel... all the vowels should come first...
the actual order would be more coherent
   if it was written as follows:
a, e, i, o, u, b, c, d, f, g, h, j, k, l, m, n, p, q, r, s, t, v, x y, z
that's how the alphabet should be
memorised... it's actually easier that way...
because it's a bit like saying:
acids... cut off point: alkaline(s)...
    beside the point... for all the genius of QWERTY...
if we're talking technicalities of the ctrl+ functions
added to the typewriter...
it's sort of idiotic to have put ctrl+c so close to
ctrl+v...
                  fair enough... ctrl+a is a decent amount
away from ctrl+c... but ctrl+a(ll) of the script
+ ctrl+c(opy): what has v? to with the word: paste?
i can use both hands... it should be ctrl+p...
   because you're tired... and slightly tipsy...
things can go wrong... thank **** i saved as much as
i have saved... to catch the sort of language at the extremities
of consciousness...
                thankfully i remembered what i wrote...
but if i were being truly honest... i lost some original
words... and i sat there... for about half an hour:
i'm never getting them back... i overlaid what i already
saved with extending the salvage project...
      obviously erasing what was to be added to the original
ctrl+a / ctrl+c...

never mind... i've lost dozens of poems like that...
i said: **** it... i'm done with cursing the crucifix...
i'm used to losing precious things...
better get used to it... calmed myself down...
i'm still left with nearly 2K of words from that state
of consciousness...
   i know what i was writing about... i'll just
reword what i "think" i wrote... no biggie...
   and to no surprise... i woke up in a good mood...
i'm done keeping to things...
   some people write a Haiku and think it's somehow
special... i'd find writing so little so dissatisfying that
i think i wouldn't have written anything...

but yes... the alphabet could be better arranged...
because those randomly placed vowels
in between consonants are not really indicative of anything
coherent... people complain that
the people invented the gods...
     that "god" made us in his own image...
but people say: we made "god" in our own image
to excuse our sometimes horrible behaviour...
hence? the inertia of: no divine intervention...
    it's a double-edged sword...
but the alphabet?! we sure as **** created that:
evolved towards it...
i think it needs a coherent revamp...
to hell with the classical model... sure... learn it
if you must... but then rearrange it like i have
rearranged it... so that you put all the vowels
in one basket... and all the consonants in another basket...
at least numbers follow some coherency:
odd, even, odd, even, odd, even...
but obviously you can't do that with letters
since: they're not exactly constructed via a binary
set of standards... you can easily mistake a D for a T...
a B for P... depending on who utters what word...
it's not... vowels "vs." consonants...
for a binary system... you'd need...
the same amount of each possible "choice" of "yes"
or "no": you can have the binary mathematical model
of odd, even, odd, even...
but... in the English language there are...
fives vowels and 21 consonants...
                         and at that: consonants require vowels
to be uttered... be... not ebb...
              then you have things like -SH- and -CH-
   but the original alphabetical order is pointers...
some man created that order... well... i don't like it...
the next time someone asks me
i'll use my model... because i like it...
    the vowels don't need to be inserted randomly
akin to (beside A)
     d e f
       h i j
        n o p
     t u v             unless of course there's some
yet undiscovered mystery concerning this choice
of choice of placing the vowels in that order
and between these consonants...
   some acronym? i'm not even going to think about it...
                                                                                               /

- end of intermission - end of intermission - end of intermission -

the instruments might have changed:
but the hunger is still the same...
i think people have outlived if not exhausted the point
of the selfie...

however women think that taking a selfie
is equivalent to artists painting self-portraits...
sorry: most women are not artists...
the self-portrait is a peering in: an introspection...
it's not about taking a quick-snap...
it's sort of a consolidation of either a beginning
or a break from some subject matter...
for example... Walter Sickert's
first self-portraits as a young man are
not narcissistic... i've have the same "problem"
even though i don't paint (i wish)...
this terrible fascination with the mirror
and that act of peering into it feeling like
my face is about to melt... the youth of a man
as an artist: the treading on allure in darkness
and of darkness and off darkness...
but after a long career: studying Venice's architecture
and Camden Crime Scenes... he returns
to the self-portrait... but by then...
he's painting himself as an old man:
eating a spoonful of beans... or...
by then the photograph was invented and he's
painting a translation of photography...
lucky *******... back in the day when photographs
were black and white... he could work
with colour in a way prior to not envisioned...
with white grey and black...
   he could reignite his imagination of colour:
as if colour didn't exist prior...
the project: the world was always white grey and black...
i don't know why artists didn't figure out
a subject matter on how colour can mutate
when working from a white grey photograph...
why the white cliffs of Dover... calcium rich...
couldn't become... say... yellow...
because of the excess sulphur in them...

now, when i say that i write about "work":
i think i'm actually lying...
i don't "work" work... i have this job so that i can
have enough free time to pursue writing...
didn't i write that dead artists are the best
employers in the world?
aren't they? aren't the scavengers of art critics,
gallery curators not profiteering from the dead?!
thank "god" that poems are not like
paintings... if there is any exhibition of them:
it's all mental... the poem gets dragged with
the person dragging it...
the painting remains on the wall for another
person to appreciate it... still stuck to the wall:
of hollow sighs and other... memoranda...

   but the selfie is not a self-portrait...
women don't take selfies like men used to paint...
the camera has become a makeshift mirror...
it's so alien watching women in public use
a live video feed to check how they look...
i think women are afraid of a mirror...
of the stillness of the lake...
       i think women are more susceptible to
any "improvements" in technology than men are...

besides the point... when i write about work:
i'm actually writing about my interaction with people...
i've oddly reignited an old fling of mine:
i was never a true misantrophe...
   but i could never become a philanthropist... either:
you can be both at the same time: oddly enough...
since there's no exacting term for being
a simple philantrophe...
                             in terms of coughing money...
strange how a love for humanity is associate
more with giving out money: to be left alone...
i.e. being a misantrophe through and through...
than simply giving up something priceless...
your care and attention...

             i've learned to love people...
               not in some luvvy... dubby... eekie sort
of way like: sure... let's grab a pint... let's "talk"...
you have your life: i have mine...
somehow we're here at the same place at the same
time... let's just try to not make this
  too complicated.... savvy?

there's a reason why i'm doing this "work":
some people are envious... even the ones
working in the pharmaceutical industry...
sure... they get paid more... but i also write on the side...
and who can say... yeah... i managed to watch
the Tyson Fury boxing match against Whyte
for free... and i got paid...
i'm surrounded by people who paid to see the match...
i watched it for free... and i got paid "peanuts"...
technically... technically:
if you were to include the price of the ticket...
i was probably "paid" close to a £1000 a gig...
give or take...
       that's why i'm still having a circus of laughter
running through my head...

i'm getting paid to mind drunk: disorientated people
get to their seats...
but at the same time... since December of last
year... i yawn at the events people pay decent
money to attend... i love this dynamic...
i get paid to watch something for free...
i sometimes watch, i sometimes switch off...
the event becomes more boring and
the crowd's reactionary response becomes
more interesting... physiognomy?!
****** expression...

   like in this current event of 20 Welsh idiots
having a "community" panic attack over an old timer
having a hard-breather...
insults pass me by... but "we" got there on time...
even though the first-aiders were taking a
stroll: no one died...
i'm like...
    i need to be among the blood the *****
and the phlegm and the sweat...
the bone crunching arithmetic... found two new
plums (bruises on my hands and legs)
from the excited state they were in: hugging me...

maybe... i'm just relate-able...
i never write about work... if i were to write
about "work": having worked in construction sites...
man is the least mandible substance:
being so firm in his beliefs and existential
cages... it's not water... you can't achieve anything
with man presuming he's water
about to boil at one hundred degrees Celcius...
esp. when drunk

i did wonder... though... where the **** is Wrexham?
or, how would you write it?
'rexham? the W turns into a Hebrew:
yod-surd...
  you don't chant: Wrecks-Hams!
but... jeez: cheese: mind the jazz: Louise!
  W-R? what a dynamic!
the last time i came across such a bewilderment
was within the contained environment of
G-N... i.e. 'nostic... i.e. gnostic...
  
i don't do this "job" for: whatever it involves...
i'm not even going to bother getting
that infamous S.I.A. badge... whoever owns it...
well... let's put it out there...
they, have, really, beautiful, teeth!
or, rather: they don't, have, any...
    either because they were bullied at school or:
whatever... muscle, brass... Belgian pate...
whatever... i was in conversation with this one guy:

- so where are you from?
- Romford... Essex...
- oi oi! oi! oi! cotton candy!

we choked aside... i wasn't pushing him...
whatever the ******* rules are:
no drinking beer in view of the pitch...

- i don't want any trouble...
- believe me, i don't want any either...

the matter: i considered, settled...
we mediated a compromise...
i don't want those
self-aggrandising "badges" in my vicinity...
it's sort of unsettling that they have this
authority... so much of it they exercise without
conscience... without having the psychological capacity
to mediate a soothing conversation...

oh but i do know what i have a menial job...
that it's a low skill job...
dealing with large crowds...
drunk crowds...
like this time when the old timer was having
a hard time having to breath...
and i reacted instantly...
i had about a thousand eyes looking at me...
seeking reassurance...
fear is wide-eyed...
               i was plying poker with them...
stern face...
             do i give a **** whether i'm being paid
"enough": no...
but i guess it might matter when a woman
might say: i don't mind the romance...
but do you have a plan?
technically... i'm sitting on a Nicholas II
last Tsar of Russian banknote...
i might have a plan...
say: to rebuild Damascus...

         forge a 2nd schism of Islam:
spearheaded by the Turkish barbers...
i'd love to work with Turks and Afghan Sufis
to reform Islam...
     whatever i do on the "stage": i'm always doing
something sinister in the background...
but it's like the women i work with fail to
realise: you do know that i've visited brothels,
prior, so... what's on offer?
i too have my standard... albeit they are sinking:
sinking...

i never write about work... people are just
strange...
i was trying to place this current adventure of
accents coming to London...
no... it's not from Liverpool...
no... it's sure as **** not from Manchester...
hmm... where, the, ****, is, Wrexham?!

then the flags came out... white on green
with a blatant dragon across... oh ****... sheep-shaggers
united...
why are all the girls from up north prettier...
more approachable than the girls from the south?!
a girl from Sunderland pulled at my beard
like i was a ******* leprechaun stroking
a bald-patch for good-luck and rainbow...
this other girl from Liverpool kissed my cheek...

that's what happens with reading philosophy:
you want to retain being contained /
content with being amazed: in awe...
the further up north you go: the more of the valley
of the dolls you leave behind...
but the Welsh girls looked sort of...
mystified in their... potential for beauty...
they were beautiful... but sort of neglected...
if i had a woman to mould...

different... Wrexham is pretty close to Liverpool...
but like my "coworkers" mentioned...
they were a hassle... what hassle?!
you talked to them?
we were joking between each other
about me taking extra money for taking photographs
of them...
that's where the old tool and the new tool comes in...
no one... no one... wants to be bound to taking
a photograph of themselves...
it's so much different if someone else is taking
a photograph of you...

you're not painting: you're semi-blinking!
what comparison is evidence?!
to hell, with, female, "logic"!

my two example?

oh... the girl that was working with me:
thankfully she was worried about her youngling
having been left with a child-minder... smashing her
head against a glass table... getting stiches... blah blah...

slaps of the the hand... high fives...
low fives...
   knuckle-bumps... blah blah...
              human traffic... Ryan Reynolds...

KELUAR - PANGUNA (the hacker remix) -

managed to move one drunken guy from
posit X to exact X...
    job done...
          moved another... distressed cry-baby...
wrong this that and the other
               x     y                    z

as i escorted him... he shoved me a tenner (£10)
into my hand... telling me... no one was willing
to help me: beside you...
i refused at first... but he attacked me a second time
with gratitude... i wasn't going to refuse a second time...
so i took the tenner...
took him up to his seat... wow! a free bottle of whiskey!
job done!

on my way back into "position"...
some chubby little hobbit approach me...
- i need to take a selfie with you!
   my friends think i might be wrong!

blah blah... apparently i took up a guise...
a visage of some famous rugby player...
what was the name he mentioned?
i'm pretty sure he mentioned the rugby player's name...

he had to take take selfie with me...
he subsequently took a picture of me on my own...

this other instance: first time out of Wrexham...
filming the whole "thing" walking out of the
vomitory... i said to him: you really don't have
to film me...
he replied: but i do! i do!
        ****... i'm going to become someone's
nightmare...

i never write about work... "work is not work":
arbeit ist nein arbeit!
            "arbeit": ist...

i just think of the hierarchy...
the self-aggrandising self-importance folk...
the ones who would: clearly:
first rather shove and push than
talk "things" over...
           i hate these bullies...
that's what's keeping me back from gaining
a "door" license as a security guard...
i don't like violence...
    from my experience: i'm relateable...
maybe i would get extra pay...
but these are not martial artists...
these people have ****-all clue about
engaging in judo...
they're makeshift rapists...
they might have a high opinion about themelves
because they get five pounds more an hour...
but they're: soft-meat...
they're semi-******* in terms of
what's to be communicated:
i'm not looking for escalation:
out of a Darwinistic obviousness...
i'm looking for a... oh god... a Christian sense
of social-containment sensibility...

             if a crusade is the only pardon...
i need enough pushing... i need enough barbaric...
overtaking...
        i'm waiting... i'm like water...
i need to boil...
                 i'm waiting... die zeit ist nicht reif!
the time is not ripe...
or i need for the earth to... slouch... in her defence...
nur dann!
   only then!

geduld! geduld! warten! warten!
        herkommen... stille... wiegenlied, ich dürfte singen!
s(ch)till sein... alles (ist) güt

The tiredness that sank into his bones felt so real.

He had no reason to feel exhausted, yet he was.

He rolled out of bed, exhausted.

He went to school, exhausted.

He did everything a good scholar should, exhausted.

Nothing felt energizing.

Everything was another chore on his mental list.


The anxiety of who he was curled in his stomach.

He peered into the mirror, anxious.

He compared his body, anxious.

He thought about what he said, anxious.

He pondered his every action, anxious.

Nothing felt right.

Everything incited an internal panic.


The sadness weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He stayed up at night, feeling blue.

He stayed quiet when out with friends, feeling blue.

He ate constantly, feeling blue.

He immersed himself in his work, feeling blue.

Nothing felt exciting.

Everything was dissatisfying.

Stale glass of water
A dissatisfying sip
I drink it again

such episodes do happen...
  when i write more than i read:
by that i invoke
even the wait... necessary for
the weekend edition of a newspaper
and... all the reviews come in...
of books, of t.v. shows...
imagine: people have employed
people to ingest... digest...
ingest... digest what's on offer...
while lying in bed for an hour
i had to cling to the idea
of having enough time
to listen to an hour of BBC radio 3...
call me a snob or whatever
but this is where the taxpayers'
money is being well spent...
bbc radio 3 is a flagship model
of "arrogance": well... more or less
a perfected taste...
or not that even remotely
being allowed... to pass (with)
my breath let alone off my tongue...
i'd rather employ my tongue
to trill an R or wriggle in between
chewing a decently arrived at cut
of beef - that hasn't been doubly
butchered...
although... if my memory serves me
right... the folk in england
prefer their beef done to a synch...
well-done...
doubly-butchered...
eating among the natives
i'd soon turn to a diet of
   the Jain... or thereabouts
with that plethora of spices
and lentils...
but i would go begging vegetarian
if i were served... well done beef
all the ****** time...
undeserving... rearing a colt bull
for the slaughter and not appreciating
something either bleu...
rare or medium at the rear of
rare...
a bit like contaminating
whiskey with lemonade (when bourbon
just the trick)...
or not... or when gesticulating at
something in Braille...
reading the air: or as one might
have to... tackling the Linear B...
but there are certainly not enough
hours in the day for listening to
bbc radio 3...
for a while i thought that radio 4
had the prime status...
conversation: mmm hmm:
very important...
come to think of it...
i have got used to walking without
needing the cushioning of my fatty
brainz with two pouches of
electric-current seizures... at the snap
of the fingers (etc.)
- that the wind doesn't play flute...
well i neither **** out syllables
of trombone either...
a bizarre interlude of when i actually
read less than i write...
oh i'm pretty sure it shows...
when i write more than i read...
i start to choke on my own subjectivity,
self-importance... "autism" / solipsism...
by the hand that does
imitation ****** in the no. 3 on
the throne of thrones...
sitting in an akimbo pose
at the end of the day
when what has been necessarily *******
out has ******* out
and there's only a prayer
for a tapeworm: no, no champagne
to not be... ******* out as proof
that... dieting revisionism works...
but like my fickle memory:
otherwise exposed to that almost
diabolical Pavlovian stressor testing
within the confines of pedagogy...
(k)nitty-picky what's on offer from
history... ah... the Angevin empire...
the Capetian dynasty... culminating
with Phillip II...
Henry II...
             Otto IV... not sure...
thrown into this cauldron of time...
what's on offer...
we most certainly fill this world
to the brim...
        so much so that there's no reason
or capacity to keep up...
at a time when i write more than
i read...
an exhaustion with a self
and all its abstract *******, comes to mind...
it would be so much easier
to doodle back into reading something
"important"...
but it's not like Delmore Schwarz is alive
and it suddenly dawns upon me...
apart from reading newspapers...
the odd opinion section daily...
waiting for Sunday's news review...
lately... dissatisfying...
and all the book reviews...
  well... perhaps i'm writing more than
necessary because, simply because...
well... if the substance / topic
is oh so very interesting...
the punctuation is without "umami"...
of note: the english language is
without diacritical marks
so there goes the whole idea
of meditating on intra-verbum
punctuation / syllabary...
no... i did my stint with katakana and i'm
not going back...
i need to see holes again...
to x-ray through and onto the canvas
holes in: a, b, A, B, R, O, o, P, p, g,
   d, D... q... Q...
bring me back to seeing letters
for their sounds...
after all these letters look like
they were intended for
lip-reading...
   and most of the time they are...
quirky awry ******* a lemon almost: Q...
qp
       cute: parrot... cue moi... again...

- not that i can say i eer played
the violin...
but after a morning shower...
a day spent curating the garden
so the patio looks presentable
to the "palette" of which there
is no taste to be minded (solely for the eyes)...
an uncombed beard
does feel... less than a **** garden
kept by chance (or miracle)
of its own doing...
scratching my ***** "altar" is more
rewarding...
but, come circa 12am
and the beard is finally combed...
with its full bloom
and volume restored...
well then... the chin and the entire
jaw line can retain its
mythological status of being
hidden under this *****-galore
wonder...
a full hand of this specific rustic
is what keeps me from
having any ***** envy...
although my hands are expansive
enough to be able to hold
a basketball in one...
no wonder i prize a woman's
hands as the most ****** part
of her body...
clearly exaggerated exfoliations
of the hind and **** would
drive any man bonkers...
it's almost cartoonish but at heart
primeval / prehistoric...
what might allow me to gravitate
toward identifying an mammoth
without the word mammoth...
or a squid without the colour of
a mountain drowning in a sea...

qp... i believe that       Ф (ef, fe, phi)
are its closest "abbreviations"
insinuating "marriage"...
but unlike that Siamese coupling
of ancient-doodle-this-doodle-that
of twinning vowels (æ)
qp... did emerge as F...

      i abhor being reminded
that language is volatile...
that it "evolves" that it's an algebraic
x, y, zoot...
            confiscate one of my tongues:
for the love of god...
push me into a structure
of psychology that has only
room for one zunge...
not these bi-schizoi-duo-d(wins)...
apparently each to their own...
- because it's not even that
i'm expecting the natives to scratch
a furthering of exterior possible
with a 2nd tongue...
i'm half-way: meeting...
i'm ****'s sake all the half's need
to be passably involved for
the natives to interact with:
alias - pseudo n.p.c.
graffiti giraffe etc.

qp = ϕ
if æ = a + e...
         yes... let me return to the letters
that represent sounds...
i don't care...
mother goose, alias superior...
what the mandarin hieroglyphs are thrown...
synonym them otherwise
are emoticons, ideograms. etc.
hell... throw in the Linear B...
that whole Mycanaean shabang...
i need to see what can be later heard...
not what can be "insinuated"
what is an otherwise
simple...

my boa my 堡 (ba-o)...
my f-ort...
                    but sure as chicken crazy
******* pigeon glue
that's not a mind-****** of a su-do-ku...
for the reason that i might
love english pragmatism and abhor
the "zeitgeist" / vogue of Darwinism
like it might be a Copernican revolution...

i will not learn to decipher
Chinese hieroglyphs not because i'm
lazy but because i'm of a musical
lot... a#...
                even though i'm almost tone deaf
that's an elephant stepped on
my tongue... base my reason(s)
on an ability to whistle...
i'm too agitated to want to learn
this labyrinth of squat: x-ray...

three alphabets available on the word
go...
but it's nonetheless redeeming
to caress a bush of a beard
with a mythological chin...
all the more since i can't play
the violin...
self-                         -love?
                +
stressing my own self-
                                            -worth?
no one, beside my own toils will
write such... taming...
              beside all the lost ideals of love...
lesbians!
when kissing my teenage girlfriend in
the park when i donned long hair
like a Hindu priest...
etc.
            way before the internet was
established as this gimmick of status quo /
a Sisyphusian task-load of
bogged down in baritone...
cull of toads...
  and... gurgle... and gluttony of gurgling...
and soap bubbles...
and adventure... of skim-reading
encyclopaedic entries...

come to think of it...
reading and rereading an encyclopaedia
and somehow a revision
of a day...
come the same old spring
when in the loosening of air
come the exfoliating magnolias
that steal everything necessarily
not a vanilla mono-
                       glitch of the toast of taste, & buds...

how refreshing it must all
be: tamed, with(in) the confines
of atoms, of letters...
so far removed from the constraints
of syllables...

how "poverty" riddled
the complexity
of :
       ン   ナ    ニ    ヌ    ネ    ノ
             ア     イ    ウ    エ   オ
fudge packaging...
   might i "want" to use )( brackets...
what about an apostrophe?
to hide a surd...
e.g. gnostic = 'nostic...

   i mean... all these idiosyncratic
very latin-esque junctions
of keeping up
aesthetic practices...
    it's hardly ******* Bengali...
and even if it was...
what saved the blues (indians)
was their cuisine...
that rupture that explosion
from a standard of salt, pepper...
rosemary... thyme...
how the red (indians) didn't survive
the surge... how they admired mustangs...
how they didn't spice-up...
their bread was beyond flat...
how collectively: a breeding of man...
had to allow such curators of:
what was readily available...
left to waste... that land of the frontiers...

then came a claustrophobia surrounding
the great basin of hearth...
this spec of near impossible trajectory...
having a lace
of recurrent for a spin:
spring fresh... rekindled emotion:
once more... greater tasks for god
to contest: best nothing...
while there being a blister...
a homage to purpose within limbo...

if nothing was the mind-bending, enough...
that acting was what allowed
shadow-thieving...
from no pulpit
but i find it impossible to curate
what democracy is all hot & bothered about...
i can't find the vein...
of "purpose"...
agglomerate my first come last...
suppose there's this over-arching comfort
of predictability and
this snooze buttocks for skidding
into "purpose"...

       i'm less than agitated
by this core, defining... "purpose"...
since the purpose of journey is well
established...
but that there's also
a "well done" a pat-on-the-back
a sense of accomplishment
when laced with the "claustrophobia"
of death...
an oozing through a membrane
peeking from beneath a curtain...

     sensibly being allowed to focus
on sphinxes... cats... bonsai tigers...
because as much as i love dogs
and have, loved, dogs...
ageing the leash is a non-starter...
i much prefer an intelligence
in the eyes of something petted
than the eyes that will otherwise
merely implore: scrutiny not available...

no wonder the blah-lah muslims
implore a scrutiny of letttering
of dog | god...
in english... i ask...
all?                            aaaah...
        so who's more adhan ready?

for the sake of jumbled orange
and its jelly offspring...
at some point i might have...
most probably... encountered a completion
of rho-****...
that trilling-R-monkey...
****-similis / similis est...
         but not since the replica
coliseums burst open onto the stage
of footsie fancy...

squat... scrutiny... beside the meaning
of words...
first come the sounds....
only later... whether or not
i kept vigil over having
spelled them, proper...

any "deviation" from standarised
punctuation inter-verbum
is my own...
and as my own: i keep it.

hangs jacketed and small
erratic and unattractive
difficult to wake and tires easily
hirsute and untidy in wiry facade
nestling against mushy spongy white prop
weak, ineffectual, lazy and unimaginative
quick firing tool of tools hanging loose in useless repose
most walk away rather than engage this dissatisfying goon
always spotted in pharmacies asking for some blue pills

I would not wish this emptiness upon you.
(fix your hair, honey, those dead eyes won't get you laid)

These burdens-- this burden--  I have not the strength to bear it;
my strength has left me for some prettier lover.
(dear god, you have got to be kidding me.)

I lay here (here? here.), twisting and turning in my own malice
making war--and in turn, making only a refugee of myself-- in my mighty struggle:
I moan, I attempt to release the flood,
but I realize with an animal groan of contempt, of agony, anguish, a smile for the weeping dead (look, sugar, you got yourself knocked up and that's that.)
that I am not in need of releasing (a **** thing) anything at all–
I am desperate for someone to put something back in me before my bones implode
and I set my mind on abandoning myself.

I find (who asked you to look? was it voluntary, in the end?) myself cracked in seven places,
and, in turn, the separate pieces of me have simultaneously agreed to put themselves back together
in places most unnatural.
(nope, i'm no stranger to unnatural.)

My well grows–
filling to the brim with a sick indifference
and I stumble upon myself here, in the midst of this tragic marriage between metal and thread
(this well-rehearsed mess);
I am not myself
I am not myself
I am a wild thing, trampled and weary–
I am a broken thing, brushed aside without question or thought
and I AM TORMENTED by the ghost of human touch;
my own arms-- used as substitutes, clinging to myself in sick pretense--
(you and your emotional *******, i'd laugh if it wasn't all you'll ever get. i mean, come on, who buys the dented can?)
are covered in a texture I find most displeasing
but that is the well-paid price and the remaining echo of indulgence in my Forbidden
and I have long since discovered that the raised lines that litter my skin
are well-worth any (well-deserved?) punishment I may receive for such a relief.
(girl, you haven't been a ****** for years
yet you still live this glamorous suicide every **** day)

I'm begging-- give me a purpose that I can commit to memory and recite
as the Great Ocean (oh, who the hell are you kidding? they'll never get it) toys with my pathetic figure
long into the night, even into the days filled with endless night.
I have never found this role of a daughter
quite as dissatisfying or as superficial as I do in THIS VERY MOMENT–
how will I ever secure the time to fill it?
(no argument there, sugar)
Let alone find the motivation to fix myself sufficiently before I can don the fraying lace
and torn satin frock of my expected female form?
(just because it's understandable that you're a ***** doesn't mean you're not disgusting)
Is it any surprise that my ******* are now shred to pieces
and that place between my legs crumbles more and more with every waking thought?
Is it any wonder that the things which I am told to cover
are no more than scattered ashes?
(you got excuses, let's see your reasons.)
Is it any wonder that I'm tired?
(stop stealing your deep **** from songs.)
Simply a memory of a future.
We daughters are so lost.


(you're kinda gross, you know.)