yesterday's cycling session broke me, perhaps not so much
the cycling as having cycled to the former village of
Wennington: oh **** me... this is sad...
it's not like wild fires on the news in California or
in Spain or Greece... this is right on my doorstep -
well... i felt pity: not guilt... i don't own a car...
                      it's pointless owning a car in London...
the public transport network is just too good
and owning a car is too expensive...
        plus i can go anywhere on a bicycle... i can skip
traffic... i: don't have to pay insurance...
i don't have to pay road tax... i don't have to pay
for an m.o.t. and i don't have to worry about breaking
down... just flat tyres from time to time:
and the odd crash... touch wood...
i only had one... but it was all my fault... i was drunk
and lost control of the bicycle while trying to avoid
a pothole...
               but it was still a great experience... falling
over the handlebars must have looked something
of a Francis Bacon painting... smudges of movement...
a black eye... a massive wound on the forehead
and on the cheek... a skid bruise on the forearm
and a massive bruise on the right leg with a mount
of an incision: a garden of lavender and plus around
it of dead blood...
                          spectacular, absolutely spectacular:
crashing like that on a bicycle...
   at work there's this girl: Harini - the law student...
the one who kept on nagging me
about how there are too many white judges...
   too many white judges... in England? or was she talking
about barristers? either way... i tell her:
as long as a system of meritocracy is in place...
then what has race got to do with it?
   equity, right? the equality of opportunity not
the equality of outcome, no?
a variation of natural selection - the most naturally
gifted at X ought to do X...
anyway she once rode those electric scooters...
but fell off... and she never went back on riding it...
*****... literally... how do these people live any life
worth contentment?
          would i give up my passion for cycling
just because of one crash?
                                    fat chance... sure...
the first time after the crash i was shaky...
                                     shaky ******* Stevens...
at one point a pain came back to all the areas mentioned:
and a headache too...
then again... as the saying goes...
drunks have the GPS implants of birds...
        and they also fall like sacks of potatoes,
meaning: they hardly break anything...
two examples...
1) the GPS of drunks...
                 i unexpectedly booked a flight to Athens...
don't ask... i was having one of those psychotic episodes...
which is sort of like a panic attack
   but a psychotic attack is a panic attack
     in reverse... you crave adrenaline to suppress it...
and unlike a panic attack which is localised on the spot
and in the moment... a psychotic attacks takes you places
and can last for days as you build up more
and more adrenaline from doing something very
unfamiliar... i flew to Athens... i spent the night
crying in Hyde Park (what the **** am i doing?
i don't know what i am doing) - then went to Gatwick
Airport in the morning... took a shower in the airport
bought new clothes in fat-face and ****** off...
  arrived in Athens... found a ****** hostel in the worst
part of Athens: one Diogenes of Sinope after another...
(bums, homeless philosophers)...
opened that bottle of absinthe and sat down on
the street... i remember... with my left hand i covered
my eyes and with my right hand i was pointing
at something... and laughing my socks off...
magpie-type cackling... maybe it was the absinthe
or maybe i was seeing something:
proud Greek with their expensive-pension
economies... ha...
            ****... what year must it have been?
     i was supposed to be working on the Olympic village
for the 2012 Olympics.... i'm guessing 2010 or 2011...
just before the Greek financial crisis emerged on
the global scale of being known about...

second day? i go into this market square and sit in a cafe
and start chatting to strangers...
turns out i'm going to join them in going to a *******...
mind you: i'm still in psychotic mode...
this could go either way... bad for me... or bad for them...
if they're lying, that is...
            complete strangers... just met them...
hmm... when in Greece you never really know if you're
talking to someone who's Greek...
some are pale in complexion while others look like
Syrians, Arabs... then again: this was my first time in
Greece so i shouldn't have expected to know what
the average Greek looks like: complexion and all...

so we get into the car... just outside the Parliament
and we drive acres and acres out of the city centre...
it must have been at least 30 minutes...
i had drank some of my absinthe prior: left over from
the night... we enter the *******...
oh man... my first time... i've been to brothels before...
strip clubs... a strange aura...
                  completely different... more teasing...
drinks... yep... immediately a girl walks up to me
and places a green plastic circle next to my glass...
what's this? well: now i do know: "green light"...
   for a private dance / something more...
    at least i knew that i was broke... i was broke...
i had about £30 in my bank account (funny... now i have
an emergency £3000)
                   but i'm like: i'm sort of enjoying the
show that's already costing me £5 a drink...
but she sticks around, we start chatting...
   then another older stripper gets involved...
blah blah this blah blah that...
                 i catch the eye of a third: the look she gave?
i will remember for the rest of my life...
it was not a scornful look, nor angry...
i was already burying my face in the older strippers
chest with her giggling: two on my arms
and a third looking on...
                   one of the guys that came in me kept
nagging me for money for drinks:
i said i have none...
until it hit me... i reached point £0...
            my card was denied...
                               credit card? me? me and a credit card
only met once... once upon a time...
when i was a kid and had my bank account set up...
credit cards are so ******* annoying: at least
that's what i found...
         you pay for something...
  and then... wait for a month to get the bill...
sure... credit in the form of a mortgage i can understand...
it's just credit cards i don't understand...
i only work with debit...
      i spend what i have rather than have what
i shouldn't have spent money on...
so anyway... this bouncer escorts me to the nearest
cash machine...
    as i tell him: to get some cash out...
i get the ******* escort and all (i said that already,
i know) to a hotel... he ***** off to talk to the concierge
while i fiddle a bit at the cash machine...
then... i start ******* myself...
          ah... the sort of "sobering" ******...
i look where the bouncer is and... leg it...
literally speedy Gonzales it out of there... or did i just
sneak out? memory: fuzzy... perfect when it
comes to a-b-s-o-l-u-t-e truths like 2 + 2 and spelling
but memory from experience? fuzzy... fiddly...
anyway... first time in Athens... no map...
nothing... zilch... i don't know how i managed
to get back to the hostel with the already disgraceful
fact that i ****** myself...
     i was thinking: oh... ****... this bouncer is going
to bring me into an alley and beat the **** out of me:
wrong... working on a debit system means you
can't overstep the mark... i didn't own anyone
in the ******* any money: i was bad-money free...
but that's the point a drunk has a GPS like birds
have when migrating...
                    that's why i won't stop drinking...
it's too good for my brain... and the liver i can box
around with... but how the hell did i manage
to find my way back to the hostel when the car trip
was like 30 minutes long... we must have been doing
(on average) around 40 km/h that's 20km (circa)...
in the end i stayed one more night in Athens...
no... i didn't visit the Acropolis... i had it in plain sight...
i liked the fact that it remained on the hill
and i was down below: some things are best kept
forbidden... but i did manage to write some poetry
in the hostel...
    i then emailed my uncle and asked him for enough
money for a bus ticket... from Athens... via coach
to Katowice... through Macedonia, Serbia...
  Hungary... Czech Republic...
           and then to my grandparent's house...
where: finally the psychotic attack was soothed
by reading a book or two and talking with my grandfather...


2) drunks fall like sacks of potatoes...
my godmother had this anecdote... she was sitting
on the balcony of her flat... she heard
a whizz of air and a thump on the ground...
apparently one drunk was locked out of his house
by his wife... he tried to get in through the balcony
having climbed the roof and descending
from the 10th floor to the 7th... well: when there's
an "oops" like that... he fell... 7 floors...
what's that? 30 metres?
                he fell like a sack of potatoes...
like that Salman Rushdie opening where Satan
is falling head first and careless... while Gabriel
is falling trying to invent wings flapping and crazy...
probably feet first trying to be: SUPER-CAT...
catch a rhythm of the flapping hope to land on all 4s?
it gets me every time i replay that memory in my head...
the way she dropped the punch-line:
i like my godmother... i don't see her frequently /
not at all... but she's a heavy drinker too...
intelligence... it burdens the mind sometimes...
we need to slow down...
she's a doctor i'm a poo-et...
                        anyway... so she hears this whizz in the air
and a thumb... the ****** landed
   about 10cm from a metal pike... in some bushes...
7 ******* floors... he gets up and utters the words
'o kurva' (i.e. oh ****)... and walks off...
that's a bit like me and my cycling "accident"...
a guy got out of his car and ran up to me
bandaged my head while i was figuring out
why my hands were red (from touching my forehead):
two old women screaming...
i was asked if they should call the ambulance...
gladly they mistook my drunk-state for a state-of-shock...
i was like: no no.... but thank you...
i walked off... came home and took the best
medical advice available: self-prescribed (of course)
i.e. sleep...

i sometimes wonder why i'm not your stereotypical drunk...
i drink to hyper-focus on something...
i never get angry... well... i get angry at things:
because they're so ignoble... then again:
defining what a "thing" is hard when dealing
with a well-crafted table or a chair...
i don't actually know how to define "things"...
even "nothing" is a "thing"...
            the supposed "nothing" is a gateway to antimatter...
i suppose the closest "thing" to a THING
is what's an abstraction in the distance...
something you pass at speed that you: don't necessarily
ignore but don't take a concentrated account of:
you don't focus on it... ah! i know the best
example of what a "thing" is...
esp. in a gallery... looking at a painting hanging
on a wall... that's perfect... the wall is a THING...
because you're actually looking at a painting...
mind you... i appreciate all the classical paintings
of the Renaissance... but... you can't see any brush-strokes...
i like paintings where brush strokes are
visible: it's painting then: it's not geometry riddling...
painting by way of insinuating the idiosyncracy
of the hand by leaving several if not dozens of "accents"...
that's why i compared my cycling crash
to Francis Bacon's paintings...
                         well, sure: because the theme of the macabre
also helps... as did his ****-erotica...
and the drinking...
thank **** i'm not a loser drunk that needs
to drink to pronounce some averse trait of masculinity...

better for me being this loved up fool
with a GPS of birds migrating in my head
and a body that behaves like a sack of potatoes
when any harm should come to its bones...
i fall like a cube... a sack of potatoes...
anyway...
         can i imagine living a life that...
like this coworker suggested: oh no, no no...
one fall... i'm not getting back on the electric scooter...
*****...
          then again: cycling is my passion:
i hate runners... those arithmetic arthritis wonders
of the world: jelly-knees i call them:
if you're going to run! run on grass!
and mind you: if the "mob" should ever come for me...
they better not be driving cars...
cars make no sense in London...
too expensive...

                        now... the pivot... i have an 8am appointment
with my hairdresser tomorrow...
i needed to start drinking early so i could write
this and go to bed by 12am...
i'm coming to the ****** and i don't want
to come to the ******...
  the heat-wave is over... i can finally breathe...
ah... i think that's how you write...
or begin writing...
                all those very important people
and all their very important "autobiographies":
let's face it... ghost-written while still alive...
   i guess biographies make more sense...
i think fame, in the truest sense is a testimony
of post-mortem...
    i don't believe in fame in one's own lifetime...
i think fame is something akin to
what's most temporal: what can be passed on...
what employs being passed on for so long
that the name most associated with...
for example...

who invented Champagne? Dom Perignon...
ha ha... back in Poland we were taught
the French song:
frèe jacques:
        
frère Jacques
frère Jacques
dormez vous?
dormez vous?
sonnez les matines
sonnez les matines
ding ding ****
ding ding ****

                 it's a burning memory... like watching
Cartoon Network... when it was... good...
i don't believe in a fame of the living...
the dead are proper dealers in this concept...
fame... how people strive for fame...
whether through good or through ill done against
others... because fame doesn't escape
the muddling of good & evil...
the fame and the infamy...

i was broken yesterday... i know how much i ****
off women's football but i still ended up watching
England play... who did they play?
never mind... they won...
i was going to watch the Sweden vs. Belgium match...
but i thought... if i had a hairdresser appointment
at 8am tomorrow... i need to be asleep by 12am...
go get up at 7am and shower and blah blah...
then i have to go to the Turk to get my beard
and moustache trimmed...
but i'm still not watching football...
i'm watching Tom-Boys with long socks
and hair dangling pretend something...
sure... there's some green of a football pitch...
but i'm not watching the football...
weird... when i watch female athletics or female
tennis i'm watching athletics and tennis...
   for whatever my opinions i have:
i'll watch... what the hell...
at least it's more interesting than some ******
Hollywood movie based on a comic...
or an overtly existential meditation that came
too many years too late: since we covered the outpouring
of Bergman...

now...

    there's the thief... the burglar and the opportunist....
there's this Slavic motto:
znaleziony nie skradziony...
found not stolen...
i operate this maxim...
when it comes to money...
i have found a £20 banknote on the street one...
i have £10 banknotes once or twice...
i've found pounds... i've also found pennies...
would i be stupid enough to find such devaluating /
evaluating / re-evaluating "things"
(money, that's another "thing" in my gallery
of "things" that i can't place... justly...
Nietzsche was attempting to write
his magnum opus: the trans-valuation
of values before going south of cuckoos...
money is one "thing": am actual "thing" is another...
i find a £20 banknote? i'm keeping it...
found / lost ergo not stolen...
the principle of luck...
i could have spared the man the agony of
crafting ideas about a simple answer to his question
about trans-valuation... money! no ditto!)

i've been a thief before... i managed to steal a compact
disk record from a shop...
Queens of the Stone Age's song for the deaf...
i was sly... but this was different...
i was tired from cycling... i bought a bottle of whiskey
and a bottle of Lukozade... berry: ******* merry...
at the self-service outlet... ooh... what's this?
someone left the newest version of
either a Samsung or an Apple smartphone...
is it at 10.3 or whatever the hell it is at?
lucky me... i need a new phone...
so i grabbed it... it was just lying there...
packed my rucksack...

well... i didn't steal it! it was just lying there!
but i don't need a new smartphone...
i just don't want the one i own to **** up on me...
i honestly don't remember the last time i topped up...
i have £0.75 on my account and i'm still using it...
each peddling started to weigh down on me:
if it was money i wouldn't have cared...
if i found money: like i sometimes found money
i wouldn't give two fivers-worth-of-***** for
anyone who lost them: the idea behind money
is that it's transactional...
they taught us the wrong lessons in school,
e.g.: what would you do if you found a briefcase
of money on a street? was it bribery money?
was it ransom money? it's ******* money...
might as well be leaves of a tree come autumn...
money? i'm ******* keeping it..
no morals... no: no nien niet nie!

but here i am with this... £1000+ smartphone...
i ****** it... start cycling home....
i get this numbing headache without an ache...
i remember the time a former "fwend" of mine went to court over
a stolen phone...
how i helped him but he didn't help himself
therefore didn't help me...
what prompted me?
the phone started ringing...
  
who was calling? "mommy"...
hell... if it read "mom" i'd be like... *******... ******...
so much for your spontaneous lapse into
pretend Alzheimer's... imitation amnesia...
but the calling card: "mommy" got to me...
i actually don't want a new phone...
i don't actually need a new phone...
i just need the one i have to work...
mind you... money never talks:
money always listens...
i have no scrupules over money:
                      money lies on the streets all the time:
sure... most of the time they're pennies...
but sometimes... if you're humble to pick but one...
lottery-luck... you might find a pound...
or a tenner... or a twenty...
but... "mummy" is calling...
i was like: if it read: "mum"... i'd be like... lazy ***...
leaving his / her phone on the self-service station...
my gain... your loss...
"mummy"... "mommy" kept ringing...
i was already at the end of Oakland Avenue
trying to figure out how to turn off the phone
and get the SIM card out so i wouldn't be tracked...

i don't need this... however much i was tempted...
i was tempted...
but then the dawn of something akin to reason
came to the lightness of my mind...
better i return this find...
it's not gold...
and "mommy" is calling... so... it wasn't an idiot
that just left this £1000+ item in a supermarket...
as the sayings go:

myśl dobrze mów dobrze rób dobrze (a) będzie dobrze..
on Oaklands Avenue i had that "moment":
after seeing the person calling me on a found /
not a stolen phone... "mummy" is calling me...
if it simply read as "mum"... i'd be like:
well, too bad... Alzheimer prone:
spontaneous memory idiot...
this phone is mine...
          i didn't steal it: i just found it... but then something
kicked in... a headache without a headache...

I'M NOT GOING TO DO THE FOLLOWING
BECAUSE IT'S RIGHT... some absolute GOOD vs. EVIL...
i'm going to do this because i want to FEEL...
goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood...
like glue mixed up with goo...
because that's the focus of reality...
Abel's revenge...
on the vegetarian: moral-posturing Cain...

i can't put a kid through this... the parents will probably
grill... it turns out she was 7 years old...
her for losing her phone / a mini-computer
on a self-service counter in a supermarket...

i had second thoughts: i like second thoughts...
thought that read: not because it's RIGHT...
something selfish... animating the ancient strives...
i want to feel good...
like the mantra already stated:

myśl dobrze mów dobrze rób dobrze (a) będzie dobrze...
(think good speak good do good and
maybe all will turn out good)

as i was turning the lost property in... i already received
several phone-calls from "mommy" / "mummy"...
i think that stealing this phone would have felt
much more thrilling than simply finding it...

so me and this police-officer start talking...
found this phone... yeah... 10 minutes ago...
where is the phone / where is the "mummy"? she's on
her way...
           any details? so she can say thank you?
you think i got a thank you?
i received no thank you... oh: glory to the inhibited
nature of man concerning what's good in this world...
i didn't want to be thanked: thankfully i wasn't thanked...
i could have easily ****** off with the phone:
insurance probably paid for such circumstanes...

but this is why Cain slaughtered Abel...
people are naive... i'm thinkiing:
the gods were probably just as naive: if not more...
i think the gods were naive:
me? i just tested being exceptional...
but if it was money? oh: like ****...
no chance... money is money...
money is both stone, both tree,
both a heart-transplant...
i find money... i'm keeping it...
                i have no morality concerning money...
but when a...
what sort of parent... gives authority of ownership...
of something worth over £1000 to a prepubescent
girl?! and expects not to "forget" once in a while?
is that authority and worthiness building works?
you need, strangers, to ask themselves moral
questions!
          i didn't have to ask the said moral questions:
i could have profited outright from
this scenario!

        but i asked them: regardless!
because? i wanted to feel good rather than feel lucky:
lucky on the basis of "theft"...

it's highly uneconomic to mix fizzy drinks with whiskey
coming from a plastic bottle than coming from
a can...
better, better still?
leave the already opened bottle of pepsi in
the sun... and each time you unscrew it...
after filling up... shake the bottle up...
to keep the fizziness in it...

i wish i were more evil that my inherent ontology
disavows me from being...
then again... burp... ****... 30 minutes down the lines...
i do visit strip clubs and brothels...
so... i'm sort of like...
                i'm already what's best reserved
and at the same time: what's best kept hidden...
what's to be explored:
by those not willing to explore to begin with.

.guess i must have hit the vein, nay, a ******* artery, must have gobbled down an oyster, muscle and brains altogether, simultaneously!

i have one, only one pet peeve...
that casual mainstream media
expression...

    but it's the 21st century!

i get the bollocking frizzle of
***** hair, translated into Janissary ******
attire... excited...

what the **** are you talking
about?

   21st century, what?
we're in our infancy!
            and what came prior?
you seem to forget the first half
of the 20th century,
and bulk in cultural
              expropriation of other
nations...

   us Poles had 100 years if liberty,
thank you very much...
we're not about to do the German
hip Berliner St. Vitus dance
magic, just yet...

******* hippies...

       Solidarity movement
pamphleteers, migrants of Florida,
bias, you name them...
yeah... "heroes"...

                    ******* usurpers,
Judases...
             and from the city i was born into...
where's the ******* metallurgy?
export of cheap labor,
originating in Spain!
      how's the youth unemployment
working for the Spaniards?
good? good good...
goof ******* *****!
   no say cheese in Swiss German
and show us the 42 teeth of over-perfecting
that schmile!

        Swiss guard, up & ****!
*******...

       i hate the sophistry,
loath it, baron over it...
this but it's the 21st century...
what sort of excuse is it?!
   there's not excuse!

                 reverting back to covert
popularization of prostitution?
even the Bulgar prostitutes lie,
about being Romanian,
i never tell them,
even though the word, dobrze...
   o.k,
    хорошо...
   is not a romanian word...
    you lie, you fry...
         i'm actually fond of making
chicken hearts, and pork liver sauces...
i can work the stoves...
             **** it... give me any meat,
i'll fry it... make a garlic onion sauce
out of it...
    nee bother...
   strawberries?
perfect fruit for smoothies...
tried it, just today,
with nein (nine) passiot fruits,
and an arithmetic for the one hand
including strawberries...
         crème fraîche replacing
yoghurt...
                          milk,
milk milk milk milk...

but...

what's the ******* excuse,
for making excuses of the 21st century
as the ******* pinnacle?
will the 22nd century look
fondly on us?
  
i'm only looking fondly for the death
of Lizzy II with much
anticipation, because of,
what i assume will not be the case
of Chuckles III,
rather, Georgie VII...

the 20th century passed...
what sort of excuse, in liberal terms...
is there to posit,
for keeping the Greenwich Mean Time?
frankly?
  the ******* excuse i've ever, ever,
heard!
         it's the 21st century...
whoop-tee-doo-daa
                        (H)    (H) -
told you... without the (YW) -
a god that's a vowel catcher...
or pivot for laughter...
can't get more hebrew-philic than i.

i ******* loath the: but it's the 21st century
argument...
    lost the italic lettering and the colon
from the use of bold -
monarchy?
  well, suit up & boot up
for the transgressive pomp & circumstance,
that alternative
to pride & prejudice...

  ha ha!
            god... laughing at oneself
is probably the only cure there ever will be...

but come on!
the: but it's the 21st century!
  
what sort of, argument, is that?
  it's not like ontology begot
an x-men algebraic variation,
an exponential derivative,
    a Holmes' hound of a bag of
necessary excuses!
      some ******-evolutionary leap
of benevolence
to excuse a connection of peer-to-peer
connectivity,
somehow erasing the 20th
century, and ennobling a... "fresh start"
with 21 as the fore!

i might be a peasant,
and i might drink to excesses some
people would wish they could
muster a stamina for...

  but please, leave the fairy tales to
the Danes,
  hans christian andersen and their
Grimm bro. counterparts...

but it's the 21st century...
**** me...
    you mean the ****-up century?!

why would i go to a *******,
                                             if i had the chance to go
   to a brothel?
it's a question that suggests both a barber shop
       and a ballet...
   do my hair-do on twinkle toes...
          and a cheeky pirouette donning a mullet...
                               **** the tease fetish....
  let's get into the nitty-gritty of eating your *** out.
that's probably the first and last reason i will never
set foot in america... the ****** tease of
                              what used to be brothels...
but are now ****** ballet excuses...
                             and it's like:
   oh they're not slaves, i paid them,
            they charge an extra tenner if you want
to eat their ***** out... this weird **** they do...
they cream up: and you're off! piston maniac....
                        fudge! fudge! fudge!
                                                      plop­'s a daisy!
i don't know how the brothel devolved into
a strip bar...  
                                  don't know, don't ask me,
but if they are *** slaves... then i'm a slave to my own
libido...
                          and that's way more harsh
taking to moulding those dough cheeks of a buttocks
into scones... let me tell you.
    moaning scones... groaning scones...
                   angry scones...
                                               tickled crumpets...
oh i can be a pornographer... for sure,
     there's nothing as easy as writing pornoraphy
having watched enough to the point of: boredom....
so bored, that you end up writing about it;
   a bit like the case of wearing two pairs of sunglasses...
****! my eyes are watering!
              i'm crying hot tears!
                                  either that, or i'm laughing!
what's the point of strip bars, in all honesty?
                  i'd ******* in the national gallery to some
renaissance masterpiece... or fiddle with some marble
****** sooner than... go to a place where
you're merely teased?
                          what sort of sadistic ****** would
go to such a place?
                       you want to go to a place wherer
once you *******, you jump into a bath and have
a cold shower, and she's on the bed mastrubating...
    because you're saying: honey... you're hot as ****...
and she's like: watch my hand do ping-pong
       with my ***** with you taking a cold shower
       gasping for air... to make similis... parallel
comparisons.
             i just don't know why bulgarian prostitutes
fake being romanian...
           some people do know the word: harasho /
dobrze / o.k. / and it's spelled in cyrillic as:
                    'АРАШО
                            ' = i don't actually know what letter
to utilise in engaging with the romanic equivalent
of the cyrillic                 ha ah         ha....
    it's almost as if the cyrillic patriarchs knew no
humour, or for that matter... ever laughed.
               **** are bulgar women worthy of
a harvard stipend in terms of looks and other
delicacies of their body... they just exfoliate like
                                      morning dew in april...
i just don't understand why they lie about being
romanian...                       but back to the comparison...
what's the difference between a ******* and a brothel?
the former hosts perverts...
                                   the latter hosts plumbers...
hot enough? i said are you moist enough?
                  why would you go to a place where
you watch... but can't touch?
                                or can touch... but in such a way
as to be the equivalent of stroking a dog's head?
     what's the point of teasing the man's stratrum
of "supposed" superiority?
      that throbbing hard-on... is it really going to help you?
i'd find more point in throwing coconuts:
                                aiming at a giraffe's head.

pre-scriptum: zapisałem sie... jutro wyśle zdięcia... fatalnie zakochany w tych grotach.

jak by mnie myślnym / myśliwym tokiem myśli nie chcieli równać z sobą to bym odmówił, lecz nadali film wedle Sokratesa, a ja Anglikom odmówie, bo chcem, nawet po kurz Mongolii, mam dość tępych Irlandczyków! przeciąg mnie dusi! te wyspy to wyryty gnój Ameryki.

te zdzięcia zbyt kuszaące - jak już powiedziałem pewnej dziewczynie na internecie... nie sprzedam mojego głosu jeżeli mi nie zaplacą! a nic nie dali, jeno gówno! to powiem je w gromadzie takich co mówią na migi - jak ten co z pochodnią na wejście smoka a poszedł trysta razy! zapominieć mówienia po polschu (ja niby Żyd, w Buenos Aires? no, niby post-Holocaust, to takie tango a nie tanz Bar Mitzvah w aleii Golders Green) - jak jedna: wiem skąd burak jest jak niby pochodnią nad ziemi chwytem w otchłan piękna i stokrotki... czyli: co jabłoń da, to róża odbierze, piękno niby było jadalne, a owoc ten jadalny był pięknem, który nigdy nie odda cierpieniu zacmienia, a jednak ponownie, ponownie, ponownie; jednak nadal w wstecz na gre: ojczyzna! ojczyzna! z agrafką po to by odnaleść tą sfobodną szlachte naszego rozbroju: co znaczy życie nasze a ich jeno kichnięńciem, księcia, ktoóry ksiądz imitacją ochlał wedle vino veritas!

kurwa! kartoflana gleba tłumaczenia Joyce'a!

Londyn to ino klejnot Arabii, tu nic nie rośnie, jeno głab czyli muzg kapusty, to znaczy oklask Mensa... nie?!

te zdzięcia i ja to jak ramie w ramie ze złudną imprezą za tą Ostanią
czyli mortum fatali

jak Narcyz wpatrzyłem sie w nie i myśle by nawiać na wyspy Owcze czy też Mongolie, zdala z tej lachy "swiata" i ludobójstwa ekonomicznego, wkoło mnie tylko wieprz gra na wiolonczeli, i tak dobrze gra że motłoch nie zna falszu od falsetto, jeno udaje na tle cytatu psa mówiącego: sausages! sausages! how! how!

więc wole w tych lochach odbytem powiedzieć co Zachód zna jako rękopis mojej zdrady, bo ja tu następnej i tej cholernej minuty wole w Syberie gnać, z duchem czy bez ducha... Gangrene Green... mysli tu jakiś z Essex'u tuman że Rzym odlalazł bez akcentu na literach; bo tu każdy pyta czy jest szalony czy tylko napisał Alicja w Kraine Czarow i Pedofilii.

post-scriptum: czemu nie piszom Řešów? bo im škoda? Wojewoda Prostanoga ptija - bo to po Ruszku pyta... a cygan... to znacy chyba. Holender i stare smieci... ale boli kiedy powrót stanowi więcej niż tempus lux.

she just said, a disturbed song lyric: i want to play with your evil inside... true story... a Novosibirsk girl... who invented this masochism of globalisation? florida china... california spanish apples? sometimes me and a tiny village in crimea would do, just fine... i don't understand why people get bored about brick walls so quickly, or don't contend in chess... or make an easy su doku puzzle extra complicated by repeating 20 seconds of a type o negative song...

mi niet nie(t) budyed...
                                                   me charisma...
   me pogrom...
listening in on football hooligans...
   dirt, naked,
                                    which was much more than an
american girl doing a hand-job
                             trying to buy alcohol later...

just thinking: arab has oil (black gold)...
now he wants snow...
   arab wants snow?
    can the ****** manage the cold?
what the **** do you take to integrate
eskimos in alaska or ultra-mongols
in siberia... sun-cream, or sunglasses?
arab has black gold... now he wants snow...
****** wants snow...
        i'm laughing because his women
aren't equipped to standardise that
environment... they'll need much more
than a niqab if that's what you're trying
to colonise... seriously... much more
than a niqab... niqabs don't work in siberia...

  be slavic *****...                   we darwinist...
you ******* darwinist?
                       you survive, or you
                                           die? like... die?
die telling funny jokes?
                         you darwinism?

i mean... i love watching a woman
exposing her genitals,
******* on screen,
                         all wet and i think i'm
watching daffodils...
                        it's spring...

i clench my teeth and imagine sheep..
then i take a bite... and *sheer...

bradzie!                  idziom!

                  ­   finally... what wakes the barbarian...
and what gives it so much support,
given rugby is so... so... ******* boring?

just look at the horde... look at it wriggling
and angry...
     all those yachts can go to hell...
i remember owning a doberman,
and he bit into a **** and there were this
maggots wriggling inside of it...
  that really defined my childhood memory...

what's the west if not a trans- debate
about genitals? so... what the **** is that?
boiled, scrambled or poached?
           or the next post-Freudian metaphor...
what is it that might even provide me
for a cohesion strategy?
        
but you're still need more thana  niqab is you're
going to spread to siberia,
the jew hating in the koran seems a bit of a fake,
given the invasion of germany...
    some ******* queer look at debating free will...
the muslims are doing the jews deported from europe
a favour... really...
      how coulnd't they...
the problem is... what favour are the muslims doing
to the europeans?
  
pasnawitz harasho... the **** is this model of springbox
talking? the english talk spaghetti nasal in american,
i know that... they're like nag nag nag nausea...
      peppercorn on the ******* throat...
          i'm trying to actually write what a Bulgar
******* calls harasho...
     nie(t)   that tao is annoying... in polish that's written
as: i won't build this...
         nie............. budjed....
                       harasho?
ok... look... there's no laughing about it...
   i just get -арашo....
  i can't find a ha... maybe because that's because
н             couples to en, or na na na, na na na...
nursery rhymes would be easier...
harasho... or... dobże? or dobrze? or ok?
     china ching or quang moong do?
try a Beijing duck!
                           iffy... it's like you almost
want to pick up these influences for the mere
hell of it... given the fact that your message is
so different...
              
   it's just problematic...
how do you not attach ю (yu)
   to э (aha! no attache letters!)
and then not say niet budyed....
                                   ниет будюэд.... how?

i'm only writing this because i've been told to hate poland,
and then later told to call england the narcissistic
bellybuttons the the world, with their greenwich 0...
   i actually don't think i was told lives...
given that english women are reducible to
     bridget jones diaries, or a rotherham journal of a
teenage girl...
  
    i swear... if i'm not marx and there is no engels...
then this is a revision of victorian england...
                        given the english treatment of children
or the concept of marriage...
    that's hardly me boasting...
               what's coming, living with your parents?
drinking to excess but still able to watch the oscar ceremony
with them and then writing your father's
      invoices?
                       hence the pyramid argument:
throw one of a one-armed bandit into the equation
and let's never meet on what could be called
a mutuality or.... that shared plataeu akin
to a.a., because the internet never fosters that attempt
at cohesion... well... unless people flock to
suicidal sites...

  me? i'm still much more bothered about
ниет будюэд... and whether that really does translate
as niet budyed...             yack jack jesus yahweh
had me bewildered why genghis khan came along.

Co tam Aga ,dobrze będzie,
W biegu, w pracy oraz wszędzie,
Zawsze szukam twe objęcie,
Bo Ty dajesz mi oparcie,
Albo jestem w wielkim błędzie.

Przekazanie, przełamanie,
Będzie dobrze, a gdy nie,
Popędziesz szybko do mnie.
Przytulimy, opatrzymy, twoja rany w moje ramie,
Nie bój się, bo i ja się wykrwawię.

pierdole, jade do Turka, bo inaczej ni-ma rady: pospolicie, czyli na pszysięge: klnąć! nad to:  ścisk ‘zora, o! tyle! gleba!  ścisk - tym ‘zorem siekać, i u-ci-sss-kać! no to dopić: pod ten brak  šatana - tego Ukrainskiego atamana - brak mu ręki - bo na ścisk - jak to mówie: cisza - szmer i śmiech! a to wiadomo czemu tak auto-matem iota ma główke - czemu nie ćιsza, jeno cisza? a no, dla tego! ja nie prosie by tak prosić na gotowe! a tu wysłane! cygan z dywanem perskim, a i tak nie wygoda! bo czemu kropka nad ι‘otą? a bo sie czyta Spinoze i sie pyta: nad literami grawituje tym pytaniem. - to też znaczy: poza lewą nie wie co prawa ręka robi - bo to oczy czytem jedno, a zór lepi drugie - kto by domyślił sie inno turkie ğ to jak ‘glika ha, ha gag - ab surd! grav’ niet kā’ron! bo i tak: śmierć metafizyki jest nowo-narodzonym szczylem (ščylem) ortografii - czyli dwa razy po krótkie i - jakby jota - głucho puste widzi-mi-sie (brakujący ogon, czytem: diabł ma rogi - a zatem: pytń  o ‘gon... jom ci pszepisze Ajrysza Finnegans Wake, tym bogatszy, a przy tym powiem: pierwsza cegła pod ten mur: al-buraq - czyli ten burak - czyli, die rotebeetemauer - jebaniec poniemiecki, jeszcze mu mało pożyczonych słowików... cirp ci kuźwa dam’nom, bedzie bi-da! bi-da! kozmopolitan tylko górali i szkocki akcent bawi na lublu... to cie kurwa zabawi, prędzej dziób pingwina skryje sie w moim łokciu, jak i dąb na tle mojej dłoni! pije, pali, konia wali... w imie ojca i syna, i duchownictwa szarańczy. post / pre scriptum: wolno myślący człowiek nie ma teorii ego, jeno mape, nie algebre o ten niedosyt znaka X - dawym imie - dycha! co pincet znaczeń, dycha! nie nie, aby podpis analfabety - tzn. X i ego, ** i superego, *** i id - tzn. to tamto, owanto. wu czy u - czy wiem i nie wiem, czy: kiedy piszesz i wydalasz cieć klaustrofobii - czyli: chłopie nie pisz jak plotnik fobii jesteś - ad abstractum - od nowa: Zyd na Gestapo - pewnikiem nie żaden: Brzeczyszczykiewicz - schusza - jakby odwrót: syty - szyschkami - šon - ko-kurwa-konery! jebudjed; budujem? da da... ja ni kocham tybi ty ni koi me. a to co? działa NA-WA-RO-NE-SO-LA-TI-DO. ponownie - sprość: ğnome - ğnostic - cisza nad gje.*

i to prawda,
   ta Grecja...
       kołyska zachodniej
cywilizacji -
   tzn. bahory,
      młode gówna:
   kakaшki -
lecz! Virgil i co Turek dobrze
wie... Grecja? nuda
i szambo murmur
w Edenie pirackim zwanym
Loon-dyn...
       bo ci powiem co ci powiem
a ci powiem jak Zagłoba -
   tym bardziej kochać
jak czerni syn w pieśń nad góry ‘niem:
   Bo-***! mój to ulubieniec.
           pisz wiersz ‘ciupki -
maciupki paniczku -
   pisz wiersz po każdej
książce...
              a co w Polsce?
meandry uczuć!
   tak, tak, z babcią ci powiem
nie o Greckiej piekności -
powiem ci o Turkeckiej -
    - co, za... SIKSA!
- i sam bym głowe w ogniste dupsko
diabła wsadził po modłach przed
ołtarzem nie jednej iskry Aten
                          blednącej -
   w tamtą strone jedzie w czern
ubrana żałobą piękna -
w pół kroi sie Ukraina i Grecja...
a tam, tam w post scriptum
Byzantina - siedzi wicher serca
cerkiew i meczet cukrzynka -
martwe to morze, morze,
martwe, lecz nie sól inno cukrem
lśniące błoto, jakby
   z Szanghaju *** świnski -
   córa dla starego i młodego -
Sühan - Sühan - Sühan Tuğba -
     po nią znów 100,000 łajb płynie -
dawna Troja -
  bo ci powiem co ci powiem -
     Turk nie Muzułman -
po Alim drugi - godny sfat Pers'a -
bo jak nie - Turk u progu Europy -
nawet i ja na podziw przed
    obchodem Kaab'y siedem razy
motłochu wart ogląd szkarabu -
i ten słodki adhan -
           bo dla szczoła śpiwać to
na marnie -
     boli też pruch po tych starych
bakach pośmiewiska papistwa...
   jebana kurwa mać w koło to samo -
nie wiem jak, ale
    wolałbym zdradzić chrzest
niż go przyjąć -
           ponownie -
ale jeno pod chorągwięm Turka -
jako janczar -
         chociaż tam jest: śpiew!
a nie, dzwon, dzwon w głąb 'pusciany!
czy też krokiem: kra kra krasnoludy!
fu!
     gorzkość i brzydota!
          mówie! Turek po łacinie
zacina? zacina - alfa-kurwa-becik
po jakiemu? nie po Ł'cinie
godnym Lwowa?
           z Turkiem moge, bo sie
chce, on i tak już lizał Bałkan
   i prawie zawstydził Wiedeń!
    ale to ciwilizowany Pan,
         bo umnie ubrać i nawet
pozwoli wypiç kiedy kości wychodzą
z ciała ogrzać cień!
     o tyle lepszy -
jaki przy Turku z Troją w ręku
i przy Perskim stygnięciu jest
ten prostak Arab...
     a jak im sie skończy czarny glut
to będa eksportować pioch!
    już wiem gdzie,
         na plaże Albionu!
             i tyle powiem -
   o Turka warto byłoby zdradzić -
bo skąd inne, piękniejsze od
  Greczynek niż ciup-ciup pijące
         wróbelki z nad Bosforu?
   Turek drugi Ali i trzeci podział
Izlamu - bo wkręt Ł'ciny -
             i tym też -
               sfoboda -
                 tym też dawny Byzan -
i Troja - i co jak nie Rzym -
        ostatni kalif -
                    i tym Arab w świecie
jak Żyd -
          ale o tym mniej od Żyda -
bo to bogacz na wielblądzie który
nie tylko nie może sie zmieścić przez
oko igły, a co też nie może
zmieścić sie w swe portki!

ah, grand are the hours after taking the final shout-out to mr. ****, grand amusement entails, a wriggly *** waving dance around the house, and a deep breath, matched with a deep sigh, gone are the hours contemplating whether he's coming, or he isn't.

- you're bloated, you reek of alcohol.
- i know, i sometimes look in the mirror.
- your liver is giving up.
- i'm not bothered,
   i'm like a child with cancer,
   fearless:
   i prefer the death of youth,
  than the supposed wisdom of old age:
it's a roulette after all...
    the mind has the capacity
   to be like iron: turn to rust.

and that's how conversations go; i said to her:
lepie swój grób przedczasu -
lipie go, wiem, wiem że igram z ogniem,
a nie z ogryskiem jabłka...
to przecież wiem, i na tyle dobrze -
ale lepiej mi umrzeć, złożyć swe zwłoki
przedczasem -
  ale mieć w swym oku gwar
                            zainteresowania
              i zamknięty zegar podziwu...
gwar, phe! tonący statek nie danej obietnicy
   o chęć o jutro!
lepiej mi umrzeć przed swym czasem,
niż ten marny widok starości...
  jak to mówią, ci na tym marnym szczycie,
  na tym szczycie garbatych -
        z tym pięknym pokłonem przed
                                          ołtarzem czasu?
    ah... *starość nie radość...
       wole przed czasem - za młodu -
aby tonąć w kwestiach podziwu na to
wszystko -
  niż w jakiejś poczekalni -
          bez ambicji na podziw,
                   bez aspiracji na coś po jutrze -
wole za wczasu niż w czasie -
               kiedy czas przestaje chodzić w koło,
czekający nademną - wisiący,
                                  jak gilotyna -
  i jeno myśł, że skowronek opuści młot
                         na huk:              kaput!
i pogna w lot ku kolejnego serca,
  ku kolejnego dnia, mówiący:
   ten, już swoje zrobił, dajcie nam następnego!

you can't exactly say two lies
simultaneously,
   esp. when one is considered
non-verbal...

and i've been with the veterans
of the scene to know:
  oh baby, yes baby... mmm...
     that placebo voice of woman
you've paid for
  to stand stark naked
and have no cognitive-armour
(i.e. a thought) to go with it...

because there aren't any similarities
of dissection... and painting a ****,
are there?

roma women...
                   how many?
               to the limit of ten -
and taken up north by Istambul's pimps...

so they say they're romanian...
   luckily enough i've had
a russian girlfriend...
              just while the hour was up
one spoke through the door
to the one that was with me...

  хαрαшо...
                       harasho (huh?
that's dobrze)
                                            i.e. o.k.

a spark "soliloquy" was left in
my head line the razor vibration
   of the last chime of a church bell
at midnight...

    a ******* left with an ******
is like a shunned wolf...
                   apparently there comes
shame with a pseudo-epileptic reaction
and limb stiffening...

          can't imagine what giving birth
would do: to compensate...

point being:
                       roma roma roma...
  so they lie about being romanian...
but speak -                            bulgar...
given that bulgars use cyrillic...
and... i'm pretty sure: хαрαшо -
        is a slavic term...

ever looked into the eye of a dying
sparrow, held in pouch of your hand?
lying for a per se
         is...
                         i actually don't
know what the motivation could be...

lately i've had to slide off my bed
onto the wooden floor,
    posit my body so that
i could make out certain points
of my body against the canvas,
with eyes closed...
          notably my rib...
five fingers...
         and then the thumb pressing down
on two artery avenues on my body...
1. in the right arm-pit
   2. just above the collar bone
(slightly to the right)
                                 to feel my pulse...
all of that:
   to get a dosage of impetus
some would like to call... meaning...

come to think of it...
    my local health service nurse
    is nagging to see me it would seem...
periodical mail through the door...
last time she wanted to check my pulse
touching my wrist...
  i sort of: dropped the veil from
her eyes...
telling her...
                 you know there is no
pulse in veins?

           so i said to her:
  if you really want to check my pulse...
  thumb against these two coordinates...
one in the right arm-pit...
   and one just above the collar-bone.

good to know,
                               good to know...
   (insert
a malicious snigger
while you're
at it) -
bypassing the natives
and rummaging
in their tongue
for puritanical reasons,
  never meddling in
their localised
accent derivatives;
just because i live
in the south of
england,
  doesn't mean i believe
in fairies and
numb-*** northern
monkeys of newcastle...
and they say that
the picts have
an undecipherable lingo...
go to liverpool i tell ye;
coming back from
glasgow after seeing
a tool concert,
            after kissing
a german girl in the crowd
because i sheltered her
from the squeeze of the mob,
we shared water,
yada yada...
            on zee boos...
     how prettily i
blended in when two poles
agitated a scot,
and i began talking
    to the scot
about mandolins,
        and fav pop soongs...
madonna's material girl...
    sure sure, sprinkle some
  king crimson while you're
at it...
          ******* pict didn't even
know i shared the same ethnic
background from the two *******
he insulted, over, what probably
was...
                 a tirade...
in the lesser sense of the word
governing length...
                  tie raid? ha ha...
     bypassing the natives suddenly
becomes a joy...
                as ever those
bulgarian quasi-greek ******,
    pretending to be romanian seafood...
just one word, and they'd be stunned
when pretending...
                  harasho, or?
        dobrze...
                                A o.k.
       oh yeah, worked a nightclub
just in order to buy a mandolin,
played the romeo to a fiona
outside her window,
      just in order to play
rod steward's maggie may...
a few years later,
         just gave it away, for free,
at a guitar shop.