she forgives the notion
that her photographs are images
to her they are epic tales
to her they are living creatures with lives of their own
they speak to her
worlds full of life and motion
they jump up and get personal with you
still life breathing in motion implied
a girl with dreadlocks moving against the
trees in background
you can sense her laughter
you can feel the warmth of the sunshine
taste her sweat and perfume
epic tales to be told silently to your eyes
beautiful thoughts captured still life
growing in the heart
taste of her dreadlock beauty's hand

Dreadlock Rasta;
No like informa,
No like imposta,
**** smoke; burning da trees
Mango scented leaves,
Burnt grapefruit scented breeze.
Wolly mammoth size locks,
Steal wool, *****, tied in a knot,
Jamaican colors wrap tie; sitting on top.
I and I, believe it or not.
No woman no cry,
No problem;
Him cool as a rock.
Charles Dickens by his side,
Studying stanzas, deciphering plots.
Prayer's meeting;
meditation- never stop.
Water’s blue waves,
Fresh fish after 12’o clock.
Under the bridge, find my spot.
By his sweet Sugarcane from,
Miss Parker Sugarcane shop
Burning a spliff, because the ****
is his only green; pastures plot.
Mary Jane, his only queen be,
Never leaving he; love him or not.

I push the button,
3
2
1
The jaws of the train clunk as its mouth opens,
the 9am crowd surging through its hollow body,
eying up the row of sickly plastic benches.
The wheels tighten, I loosen my tie,
off to the office, I sigh,
as I pull out today’s ‘New York Times’.

My eyes drift towards the woman across from me.
A fragrance of citrus and strawberry drifts off her shoulder
as she plumps her pout in the screen of her smartphone.
A bead of sweat poised on her collarbone
glitters like the diamantes on her nails.

We slow,
screeching against the rusted tracks
before the machine-lady hybrid speaks:
‘East-
a split second pause
-Sixty Seven Street’.
No one gets off, so we simply sit
beneath the sizzle of electric bulbs,
their garish light numbed by ***** glass
that cradles the bodies of last week’s flies.

Like an aged rattlesnake, the train creaks and hisses through the tunnel.
I’m attacked by a river of thick black hair
belonging to an olive-skinned woman who yaps into her cellphone:
‘no, no, quiero ver Times Square!’
I close my eyes and listen as her tongue rolls and dives
taking a bite of my bagel from Starbucks.

‘East-
anticipation
-Seventy Two Street’.
Although preoccupied with different thoughts,
expressions
destinations
the bodies on the carriage drift and sway with the motion of the train,
as it stops
and starts once more.

Two children in uniforms twirl around the carriage,
their laughter more electric
than the current that bristles below our feet.
A man
tickled by the dreadlock that sweeps over his face,
looks on with jeans so baggy
his legs melt into the seat.
The Jamaican flag blares from his t-shirt.

Next to him, a man bakes in a moth-eaten waistcoat
clutching a wallet with quivering fingers.
I follow his gaze to a picture of a woman
black and white with coffee stained edges.
His wrinkles deepen as he smiles at his
wife?
alive?
I notice glittery pools of the past forming in his eyes,
perhaps not.

‘East-
my stop
-Seventy Nine Street’.
As I glance down at the platform’s monotonous shades of concrete,
and brush the dust from my grey tweed suit,
I think to myself
how colourful Upper-East Side is.
I shall never stop travelling on the 9am subway to Seventh Avenue.
Without it,
how boring my life would be.
Without it,
I wouldn’t be me.

teepee dwellers gather rounddancing flames, natures soundhappy hippies, beads and banglesvegan food but leather sandals save the earth, soap-dodgers pleadflower power, worship weedhate pollution, love the treeslove and peace, pure and free dreadlock strands, ***** handssymbolic signs from aeresol cansacrylic colours produced by manthe hairy eco paints his van van thats spews black filthy smokebalding tyres, handbrake brokesigns of peace and global gleeno wipers, tax, or m.o.t workin hippy knows the scoresummer paid by winters choremother earth their passion causeand some drive home in four by fours

sitting on the floor barefoot in a baby blue dress
perfections dreamscape hewn in lace
romance flower of such gentle strength
and such sweet grace
my life was a blank page
waiting to be written
waiting for my wanderers heart to be smitten
for this wild child dreadlock princess
for this gentle soul to sing her heartsong for me
tremble no more for all darkness is gone
with eachother we are stronger than moonlight
with eachother our hearts beat as one
my life to you and for you my sweet
be my wife
be my life

Sick dreadlock disease
I am not much different
warmed by your baggage

The most elusive
you can’t love me with no heart
but the seeds still sprout

Up against the wall
charred and naked, you remain
hung like awkward Christ.

Met you at Metro
you told me you could love me
nerdy hipster ***

Blackened ***** thoughts
I ******* killed Nikki Sixx
just to lick your boots

Harangued by drunkards
don’t want a “**** up my ***”
but thank you kindly

Sit on ***** and spin
lustful carousel, how cute
rinse off daddy’s frown

she opens a pack of
sheffield english type  number five cigarettes
i rest my head in her lap
as she reads a french newspaper
its raining in paris and theres a girl there who is unhappy
dreams of romantic places never have sad girls in them
she must be a tourist

she sips some strange brew of teas
that has a heavy bouquet
loam and flowers..like a sweet wine
she suddenly laughs and translates a piece of the
french news for me
but i dont hear what she says
i only hear the rich beauty of her voice
i only hear the captivating beauties of her
i lean up and kiss her
she tastes of the sea and english cigarettes
i am lost in her essence and her her girlish delights

she pokes me and makes me look at a photograph in
the paris newspaper...its the sad girl
she looks english
that graceful beautiful elegant sadness
that only english girls can speak without ever saying a word
jezebel sips her tea and smokes her english sheffield cigarette
holding it like girls hold cigarettes in that dainty way
i forget the english girl and her sadness
as i lay looking into the eyes of this dreadlock hippie queen
janis joplin plays softly from her mp3
shes tapping her bejewelled toes to the ancient music
bachelors in literature she loves the written word
she has read everything ever written by anyone
she has read her way through forty years worth of poetry by me
and corrected my atrocious spelling along the way
this is morning in her arms
now you know why i am so in love with her
now you see why she is everything to me
she leans down and lays a single tender kiss on my cheek
and tells me she loves me
this is heaven

the other side of shatterbox's wall
is my room
stretch my hand out
feel the warmth of sun on bare skin
turn my closed eyes to the sky
and drink in the day like wine
intoxicating and bitter aftertastes
but cool and filling the senses

i slake souls thirst for essence of a gluttons bread and butter
taking the dreadlock girl to bed with me
she makes headway to her notions
of making a home here and finding a reason to stay
but i am wary of the fast female now that
i am so entangled within the gears of this past one
my lusts seep from her and soil the sheets
she laughs at this unconcerned

we go for dinner and we laugh and play
on the beach
she loves to be in love
she loves to whisper under the sheets long into the night
even when we are the only two there
i dont want another relationship
i dont want to repeat the last one

grapple with eachother till dawn
and smelling like fresh *** we dash out to the store
get doughnuts and coffee

she eats doughnuts the same way i do
i dont want a relationship

its the wine talking
but the shatterbox man next door
has reminded me that its too easy in this world to end
up alone in a room with nothing but your thoughts

And he's provocative, a provocateur, a beacon of free speech and foul speech and vague speech and pointed speech, pacing the Conference Room Alamo on the ground floor of the Hilton, testing his lapel mike, asking the crowd of eighty, ninety to move to the front rows, and he mouths something to the photographer, a dreadlock'd skin and bones white boy, and the photographer flanks the crowd, angling the shot to solidify the intended narrative: he is a provocateur, a popular provocateur, a staunch opponent of political correctness (which this bystander must note strangely equates to a champion of hate speech), a former poster child for the alt-right, but—and quoting here—he says, "I cannot be pigeonholed," and perhaps that's it, the secret to his former success, his viral, shapeless nature, a terrorist of language and persona, and perhaps that's it, the secret to his demise, his shape forming, his identity emerging from the podcast ghettos and GOP speaking gigs, and he's on the stage and he's in all white and this is intentional, this is the redemption tour, the other-side tour, and the crowd claps now as he pumps his arms (at this point in the presentation they used to shout, I should point out), and he calls Hillary Clinton "Satan's ingrown *******," and the men in the audience laugh and pant and cough, and he spends fifteen minutes on fake news and hit pieces and the nuance of video editing and how liberal snowflakes won't stop protesting his appearances (for clarity here, there were no protestors at this event), and he wraps everything rather quickly (especially for the $150 ticket price) and says he has a minute for questions, and a young man, twenty-five or so, asks for tips on becoming the God King of Internet Trolls, and he, the popular provocateur, says, "Ah. The next generation is coming up from behind."

the goddess deadlocked sweetly
her pale eyes pierce my soul
with the words i hear in her face
reproach me for laying loves upon the alter
of her freedoms
she lifts one delicate hand
signify
but it is her warm hand that catches my eye
for i know within that strength
within that tender caress of a woman's gentle forgiveness
i could find redemption
tears break upon my face like waves
as i struggle to find the words to sway her
this dreadlock princess goddess woman
lifts one hand
signify
her swift eye
and pale thin lips do shine far too brightly
the goddess deadlocked sweetly
please forgive me

i'll tell  you when communism actually works...
   communism can never
be an instigator of some internal problem,
that'll never work,
   however much *** you smoke, however
many dreadlock girls you send to a protest...
   the perfect example for the effectiveness
of communism?
                     ok, ok... socialism, whatever...
why did sweden receive marshall plan funding,
when it was neutral throughout the second
world war?
                 communism will only rebuild
syria...
                   it's the economic policy
    for a post-war period... it dissolves naturally
once a competitive plataeu is achieved...
prior to that plataeu being achieved?
               you need ant-like-collectivisation...
communism is not a failed system,
  it's the only system in post-war scenarios...
how can you capitalise in a war-torn country?
the capitalisation already happened,
prior to a war, with arms deals...
                   you can't just shove communism
under the carpet...
         communism, it would seem,
  is not in competition with capitalism,
in that scenario, it is a failure...
               but how can capitalism rebuild
a country like syria?
               when a brother distrusted a brother,
a neighbour a neighbour,
   a butcher a carpenter...
                     communism is not aligned
to capitalism per se for sake of competition,
                 there are ulterior needs for its existence,
the new enemy of capitalism is
          the marshall plan model of:
  who deserves... and who doesn't;
   for ****'s sake... at least the poles were doubly
taught integrity to fend for themselves,
rather than being pumped with free dosh...
     so why did a neutral country, such as sweden
receive marshall plan dosh (money)?
     with our bare hands, we rebuilt
the warsaw starówka (old town)...
               and yes, the misery had to be equally
shared... but most people outside my age
bracket remember it fondly, obviously except
the years being placed under martial law,
             suspecting a second russian invasion...
communism is a transitory economic model,
it times of absolute crisis,
          such as the war in syria...
               capitalism can't rebuild syria...
which doesn't mean that syria will not return
to a capitalistic model, it just means that
    only a transient communist model may allow
syria to allow to a capitalistic model,
  if that's what's to be desired,
          if capitalism were to resurrect syria,
you'd get competitive arms dealers necessitating
the prolonging of the civil war:
to boot... there are no capitalists in syria at
the moment...
                          they're all foreign...
                         seriously, wake the **** up!
stop fearing communism in a boxing match with
capitalism, that's a trap...
               it's an economic policy in post-war...
                obviously it outlives its welcome when
enough people have finally reached
                 the chance to compete in a "friendly" /
olympic manner...
                        but communism has a place...
and its place is in such instances...
                      it is to rebuild war-torn nations,
and it is, but a momentary solution that even
    if communism were a person, it would understand.
             it was never an inherent evil
   that needed to bring down nations,
      it was intended to lift them, from the ashes
       of war, and give such ashen nations:
                              one brick, two brick, four.
the west is always talking to itself,
   in a cushioned room, donning a strait-jacket...
what now? trans? trans?! transgender is the problem?
looks like we'll need a lot of butter and coconut milk
to oil of the west's throat, so they can keep on talking
  absolute crap.

Don’t stand for too long
Or even wiggle
Because that's exercise
And exercising is a behavior
Unless it’s time for the daily walk;
Then you must go
Even if it hurts and you feel like a dog
On an invisible leash.
Never spend too much time alone
In a room away from the people you barely know
With whom you are stuck all day and night and
Forced to share toilets and
Puked-in shower drains and
Cramped kitchen counters and
Painful secrets you wouldn’t even tell your mother.
Precious heartbeats spent alone
Are called isolating and they are bad.

A smear of avocado hastily forgotten on a butter knife
Raises suspicion and a quarter teaspoon more must be replaced.
But heaven help you
If you pour a milliliter too much orange juice.
This is disordered behavior
And the few offending drops must be poured out.
Time will teach you
That wholesome rosy-faced girls much younger than you are
Holding clipboards with your life on them
Will treat you like a child
And disregard your hard-earned quarter-century
As a fish disregards an airplane.
Black tea past three o’clock is criminal;
It must be eschewed
Lest the minuscule amount of caffeine
Affect your sleep eight hours before bedtime
And override the Seroquel and the Ambien and the lithium.

And don’t you ever shut the door or flush the toilet
‘Til they’ve come in
To ogle your **** and ****
And when you’ve finally proven yourself trustworthy enough
To shut the door and flush
Never stay in for more than three minutes,
Even when taking a dump.
You will be suspected of purging
And you will be grilled like that eggplant you didn’t taste
Until you beg them to take your blood and say
Please please check the electrolytes and the pH
And I will even *** in a cup!
I don’t care! I just need you to know
I’m telling the truth.
And never say you feel sick to your stomach
Especially when it’s true.
That’s just an excuse people like us use
When we want to yodel to God
On the big white telephone.

Thirty seconds stolen in your room
To brush unruly hair is forbidden
Unless your waist-length hair
Is nearing dreadlock status
Because you might be Up To Something in there.
You can say **** but not fat
Unless you are justifying a tablespoon
Of Catalina dressing
To the Food Police.
You can’t have a hand mirror because
You might smash it and hurt yourself
But you will be surrounded
With lovely, breakable little picture frames
Full of inspirational quotes.

If you’re upset at dinner
It’s called anxiety.
If your heart hurts and skips beats
From years of puking your guts up every day,
It’s called anxiety.
If you need your space
It’s called anxiety.
If you can’t meditate
And you get so bored that
You let a juicy pregnant wolf spider crawl
Over your hand and arm seventeen times
And instead of OM SHANTI OM your inward chant
Is I Am The Walrus
It’s anxiety.
If you tell them you’re not anxious
It’s anxiety.

You can’t have your wallet
And your phone at the same time
So you’re less likely to run away
But they never check to see
Where your debit card and ID went off to
When you trade in your wallet for your phone.
They never notice the triumphant curve on your lips
Nor the slight stiff rectangle
In the breast pocket of the flannel shirt
That is perpetually around your waist.
You will keep these with you
All day and all night
In case someone drives the final corkscrew
Into your ear and you must vamoose
Before you find yourself
Floating white-knuckled in a deluge of blood
Grasping a cheese grater
Surrounded by seeping lumps of people meat.

But this house models the real world.
You are sick and you have no idea
What’s best for you.
After three weeks they know
Exactly how you work
And if you don’t agree with that
You are wrong.
You will relapse one day.
If you don’t agree with that,
You’re wrong and you will die
Because you can never quit cold turkey with food.

You must learn to enjoy the food
That you fight and claw and scramble to make,
To enjoy each perfectly metered tablespoon
Of peanut butter,
To delight in hastily and stressfully prepared dishes
Upon which you are terrified to put condiments
For fear of being told the selection is inappropriate,
To relish weak iced tea with no ice because
Someone took it all and never filled the tray,
Sparingly seasoned with two Splendas,
Carefully handed out and locked away by the keyholders,
Never sweet enough,
Never ever sweet enough,
The real sugar of real life replaced by
Bitter ******* brandied with the saccharine syrup of so-called safety.

Trippin and falling, high like i can’t touch the ground proper
im stallin and falling like prophetic time stoppers

so stop!

and watch a television show, because when it comes to us you just can’t know

inside the body, outside of time, shulgin synthesized drugs parody the mind.

seen black holes ebb and flow, but you think you on a ro’?

Put on ZINNs shews and check the news

HEADLINE TONIGHT:

PSYCHONAUGHTS PREACHING TO THE MASSES
FROM THE pew pew pews….

our lazers are in favor

ignite the light,

PEW@!

mind blown dead slaver.

2) Silence as my psyche gets psychedelically psychonaugtic, toppin my minds eye-conic depiction of psychotropics, an ocean of dreams, im sailing through thoughts, so potent it seems, l on the drop, this is some ******-logic……

3)…..Naughty nautic.  Sailing through waves of rhymes, try to , but when it comes to the jugger-or-naught, you can’t stop it.

so we dreadlock the dreadnaught just so god can fill the hair lock,

fall from the sky, slow down and reverse this verse,

cause there is no up or down, just forward or rewound,

straight

****** LOGIC

sitting here in the late summer daylight
watching her tending to the line
see all her strength and beauty
know her complexity's and her easy smiles
know the girl kicking off her jeans backseat in the cool night
know the woman standing here by her man
everything iv ever wanted
no half measures...no lies

and i gather her up in my arms
gather up our wondrous dreamin
and we weave us a blanket of sun and stars
wrap it round us like a hearts lovin arms
we walk it on down by the old cathedral
sit hand in hand on the steps of forevermore
kissing our hellos and smile to eachother
no one will tread on our sacred stones
no one can stop the sweet love that shines in us
no half measures...no lies

my dreadlock honey asks me
to speak to all of you
weave you a poem
tell you the tale
how we had been two very lost souls
crashed into eachother in deepest dark places
of the world
saved eachothers lives
ran for the border and survived
now madly in love
no half measures...no lies
into the forevermore

You will find me
In willows
Plucking fire files
From the evening
As poets ink
and weave lines

It is where I am
Most humble
Here under
Dreadlock canopy
It harbors and sings
An evening sonnet
As leaves tune the wind

My ink flows well here
Soft and forgiving
Along the parchment
Like the tamed northeast
Blowing through limbs above

You  will find me
In willows
Lost in pages
Of past loves and
Attempts for forgiveness

This timber is tall and full
Sending down strains
Of blades that I forge
When in reach
I pull to review
An inspiration, a memory
A past love

I sometimes wonder when
My willow will give in
And not lend its
Strains down to me

That is why I reach farther
Holding what I can
Because frankly
I like being lost
Lost in willows

if you saw my eyes
the ones that couldn't fill the tears
the blank eyes
the ones that cant show feelings
the ones that were once bright
that showed happiness for you

if you saw my hair
the hair that I dyed because you loved colour
the hair that is now a mess
the hair unclean and became its own dreadlock
glad something of me is joint as one

if you saw my skin
the skin so dry
the skin so uncared for
the skin so colourless

if you saw my wrist
where your name is in ink
where it'll always be
the only part of you left

if you saw my heart
but you can see that whenever you want
you took it with you
I wander if you are looking after it
the way only you can

i seem to have found a new impetus
to write,
   when i was embarking on
a £3000+ a year tuition fee
at UCL's SSEES school,
   i had this diabolical desire to write
a book about Hey-Zeus!
   but then the nag hammadi
came into orbit...
   and i suddenly lost interest
reading footnotes of encyclopedic
entries...
      so i had to find something...
against the trend of poets
who write about reading books
in the upper echelon of society -
yeah, that kind of artsy-fartsy poetry...
i write... about...
   not having the resources
to write a book...
   about the geographic anomaly
of the spread of
    of the beulenplage,
         zee...   schwarzplage...
within the confines of the immune area
of europe, in which i was born...
just between old capital Cracow,
and Masovia...
           this... little... scratch of land...
which apparently first established
the content for the idea
                   of quarantine...
i only write these little "poems"...
because, i know,
  that i will never have the proper
resources to write a book about
this anomaly, in the phenomenon
that was the bubonic plague...
genghis khan could appear in this
time period and say:
   ****... more effective than me...
i don't write about reading
books... i write about not being
able to write a book of my eclectic
interests congregating...
   why this geographic anomaly?
given... the islanders of Britain were
not immune...
             i wish i could have
written a Hey-Zeus book...
   but, like i said, the nag hammadi
library crept to my attention...
but... how come the region of Europe,
where i, and my ancestors were born...
had some immunology working
in their favor?
   plus... i figured...
  i already have a chemistry degree,
why not play the drop-out card...
given that i was studying with
people 3 years shy of my post-21...
and...
         they just met London
coming from the suburbs of
Birmingham....
    who, later, invited me,
   to student theater production
depicting the Gaza strip mentality...
telling me: WE'LL CRUCIFY YOU!
i sort of nodded... imitating
a suggestion: a ha...
                and supposing myself
offensive by not speaking...
   left with a supposed phantom
of Roy Orbison (who was always better
than Elvis).    
             i swear to god,
even in high school, you made alliances
with certain bullies...
   you befriended them...
    the ones that succumbed to trouble
by physical assault...
   and you became sort of friends
with them... like Ryan Curmy...
   could have been a great footballer...
last time i met him,
high as a kite...
popping ****** pills... aged...
in his early twenties...
           who smacked dreadlock Ashley...
tall as Goliath, dumb as a ******...
it's not like we were even friends...
but we shared a pax non bellum...
     so yeah...
i write, because i have a shadow impetus...
i wish i could have had enough
resources to write about the geographic
anomaly of the bubonic plague...
      surrounding,
the, probably first, conceptualization
of               quarantine.

942 days 14 hours and 5 minutes
Since I lost you
Each day I remember you
And tell myself you will come back
And I'll spend time with you
And I will tell you how I love you
How I miss having you around
I wanted to write something for you
As soon as you left us
But I couldn’t bring myself to accept that
To accept that you were gone
To accept that you wont come back
Before I lost you
Death was a myth
And funerals were celebration of life in disguise
I didn’t know loss until you left
I didn’t know hurt until you were no more
I never understood regret and guilt
Until you couldn’t hear my apology
And so I cried
For all the times I refused to pick your calls
Because I was mad at you
For all the times I didn’t share my poems with you
For the times I hated you for abandoning me
And I cried for you leaving without a goodbye
I cried because death took you
And I never said how much I loved you
And even when everyone was saying goodbyes
And even singing praises about you
I knew if you were around you laughed
Because you never understood human hypocrisy
Because you knew those praises weren't real
Because you knew you were kind but never meek
So they gave you false praises and cried because they had to
And I realized even in death they misunderstood you
Cause even in death all you would want is them to be real with you
And all around me were people filled with guilt
Not sadness just guilt
Though the world might have forgotten about you
I didn’t for a second allow myself the thought
I wanted to remember you
As a reminder
Of what happens when we hold grudges
Of what happens when we don’t forgive
Of how we lose because of pride
Of how painful it is to lose and feel guilty
And so when I looked at your casket
There you were eyes closed
With that single dreadlock on your forehead
I begged you to wake up and forgive me
To smile at me, heck even hit me
But you were gone and it was too late
And I saw something I couldn’t forget
You in a wooden box lying in it
With that face of yours
That made me angry some days
And made me happy most days
And when they lowered you to the ground
When they made you one with soil
A piece of me followed you to the after life
A piece I will never recover
Others lost a friend, a son and boyfriend
I just lost a brother I had abandoned
A part of me I could never get back
And each day I pray for your forgiveness
And pray for peace of heart
Joyce Tshibasu

Darwinism wasn't somehow pop.
with at least one
19th century thinker:
         i can understand the pragmatism
the entire English locomotive
work-ethic of: seeing clearly...
why is Darwinism less inherently
vogue or... not...
than... the Copernican "feud"... of optics?
it's not less before or after seeing
that **** similis of a ****-flinging
ape... grandiosity of the gorilla...
the chimp... aside...
while having to admire the *******
macaques like crows...
i blame the Estonians for being the people
who killed the last example of
a mammoth...
i can admire the whole:
no, wait... i don't...
yet still in me...
some.... materialistically clad
atheism of Lutheran sensibility...
i don't admire this readily available Darwinism
because... well... it devolves me from
an ontological status
of dealing with abstracts as having
to delve into a concreteness of...
skeletons...
if Darwinism was "unfashionable"
at its awakening:
un-palette-able by standards executed by
some, Nietzsche...
it was deemed a signature of being
a German academic...
while not being versed in...
the least: a knowledge of Stendhal?
well then: Flaubert must have been...
a...
          sign along to whatever tune
you like...
as much as Darwinism is right...
i don't like the shape-shifting take on focus
for man to clean-up...
or be forever undermined by...
the similarity of man and / to ape
was well known in antiquity...
i distrust this sudden penance of...
reiteration... this blitzkrieg of "enlightenment"...

vogue... counter vogue: this neu-brennpunkt...
new-focus...
the ape is yet to be extinct...
you can... you have to admire
an arican running...
you'll hardly admire a hebrew for his intellectual  
prowess...
the african will be admired, though...
well then...
look at me... admiring an african or a hindu...
attempting to... ha ha... SWIM!

throw 'em into the deep-end and watch 'em...
S-S-SINK...
oh i can't beat your best runner...
but sure as ****...
if white boy can't jump...
black boy can't swim!
let's reiterate to clog up the already
available volume of lettering:
if white boy can't jump...
black boy can't swim!

oh believe me...
white boy can't jump...
but black boy can't swim, either...
so much for...
that history: from africa... detailing
the passage of apes from africa
via... lost swimming instructors....
beside the Egyptian hieroglyphs...
these Africans wrote... what?"
oh... the white girls replies with...
and his most... celebrated asset was...
having a phallus sized 12" long...
welcome... along purpose: tool...
the ancient Greeks had a retaliation
of this: emblem of success...
barbarism...
****-exfoliating...

           and all you ever achieved was...
something you were inherently gifted with?!
so little... i was expecting so much more
from your... "lot"...  a 12" *****, walking...
with an argument from some whitey
****-neck was... the last...
of my expectations...

i actually wondered:
there's much more to this man than...
dolly-fiddling-a-fill...

she is a white girl...
i'm not use to her...
she is a white girl...
sooner i: you too... confiscating a
bow-tie...
than leaving the scene without...
incriminating details of...
"purpose"... "pose"..
you tell me...
she's a white girl and she's getting
all the right, proper, piston work-out
come, readily made... available...
she's even importing them on the ducky-boat-load...
because... "ancient" Libya is...
ha ha...

she's a white girl and she has a ****'s worth
of a watermelon slice in her...
i'm not begging...
i'm just gagging for a life without having to chance
to have to... procreate with this...
beached whale of...
the least...
let the Nimrods procreate and reproduce...
i hold no allegiance to a sum total of man...
let the idiots take their fill...
i am... done!

let the idiots take their ride...
i'm done with these existential qualms...
you're ready, no?
dear, ******... you're readily available
to continue? no?
well... i'm not... the antithesis of an intelligent
"arachnophobia"...

smart doesn't procreate... it doesn't dwell
on offspring...
why my distrust for Darwinism?
it's ideal for the staging of the continued prowess of...
Nimrods...
it's almost counter0-intuitive...
well... it is...
   the super-apes...
the gorillas... the chimps...
the down syndrome Orangutans...
closely aligned eyes... you "see"...
down syndrome... imitation...

  but all those fruit monkey shrinks?
the macaqueces?
the baboon is off-limits?!
bonsai spice gwirls?!
         you ******* with me?
what's new... what's old?
what's the same?
     between you and me...
the tiger... a bonsai... "tiger"... a cat..
lions are the least aesthetically pleasing...
the leopard...
**** me... even the hyena is more appealing
than a lion...

tiger... cheetah... a creature of cringe...
with a fringe of dreadlock...
buy ******* arguments: elsewhere...
hello 1am no sooner..

i'm tired i'm... lingering on: broke...
i have a *******...
while there's a a canvas i simply can't... express myself
onto...
peel me a carrot...
confine me to teasing a peel-off-of-a-grape...
no... you won't...
the 20th century somehow died...
a death via a least expected take on...
procrastination.

what i've learnt about bands... say, they're headlining over
two days at one venue...
on the first day they play all their major hits...
it feels a lot like a struggle: i struggled to not yawn
even though i shouldn't have...
sure... they played all their best songs...
                  Scar Tissue, Under the Bridge...
among others... but the whole flow of the set-list felt
disjointed...
           the crowd felt too fresh...
                 and sure: on the first day the venue was sold out...
if i wasn't working i don't think i could appreciate
a back-to-back spectacle by the same band:
no... i wouldn't be stupid enough to buy tickets
for two consecutive days...
     isn't it enough that i ****** up my knees, feet and back
earned over £400... spent £35 on a t-shirt
and bought myself lunch: the best steak & potato
pasties in town?
no... i wouldn't have bought tickets for yesterday
and today... i would have thought like most people might
think: they're going to play the same songs...
nope... bands with a big enough oeuvre never play
the same songs... if they're playing two or three days
at the same venue...
   today's set list was much better...
because they only played Californication, Give it Up...
and By the Way...
    that's the only three songs they split between
the two days...
       sure... yesterday i was writing about being spotted
for what i do...
these two women started hovering around
where i was placed... i spotted them once...
disappeared... they reappeared...
one was my sort challenge... a big girl...
a big girl akin to ALISON TYLER big girl...
sort of the same height as me... all the necessary freckles
of a brunette and not a ginger...
lovely curves: big... not fat... just big...
she kept eyeing me up... i don't know whether
the crowd gave her the "*****-and-giggles" or whatever:
but her friend started to try and comfort her...
scratching her back... then caressing it...
her bra strap became exposed... then her friend tried
to hide it... and she kept looking at me with
these doe eyes...
     i couldn't allow them through the fire exit...
since only personnel can walk through freely...
so i told them: there's this disability bay up there
and the seats are far apart...
you might not see the band: but you'll hear them...
that's the best i can do...
       they left and i never saw them again...
maybe i'm just imagining things...
    who the hell buys tickets to a concert and suddenly
conjures up "panic attacks"?
i'm not saying: fakes panic attacks...
  but conjures them out of thin-air!
            maybe i have a story in my head that sort
of deviates from "reality"...
            hell... i'd buy tickets to a ******* opera instead...
that's usually a tame musical experience...
but still a musical experience...

just to the end i figured something about crowd
control, it's just a minor detail,
i sort of knew why things were done as they were
to be done: egress...
how to get over 30K spectators from the pitch...
two routes...
one route? a bottle-neck... up the stairs...
onto the concourse...
second route? a whale's ****** sized exit through
a tunnel...
what do you do? you block off the whale's ******
sized exit through a tunnel for about five minutes...
by placing traffic-cone people in high-viz. jackets
by this exit... today i felt like i was the only
controller on an airport tarmac...
moving my hands: indicating direction for
the initial crowd leaving to take...
           better orientating airplane...
   up the stairs... to the right... to the right (my right,
their left)... that's the whole trick...
establish a flow up the stairs... so that enough people
take the bait... which creates an initial split in the crowd...
since the bottleneck route can only take so
much traffic... and while people congest around
the high-viz. traffic cone people... right...
one flow established... now pull apart
the cordon of high-viz. traffic cone people
apart and let the mass of traffic through the tunnel...
makes sense...
                   i know there's no need to think about
such simple things...
but what news do you usually hear from Mecca
at the time of the Hajj?!
    what's the news? about 70 dead when the crowd
stampedes and crushes everyone...
i hate working with people with large eyes:
fear has large eyes...
    and panic is worse than ******...
               you just want people to go to an event
and leave safely... some drunk wizards and philosophers
will always be found... but that sort of stressing of
"individualism" is about as useful as
a gherkin on a pile of cucumbers...
                     i hate losing my temper with drunk people,
thank god it's a concert so you do have to shout
because of the ear-plugs...
and stand there like some hyper-inflation of "******"
gesticulating via "on MIGI": in MIG...
                  a make-shift deaf-person talk with the body...
it's not an acronym, it's a word borrowed from
******: in flashes... finger language...
hand arm body language...  
          wink wink... smile... neck turning insinuations...
i don't know if i'd make a better postman...
i think i'd make a great housekeeper when
people go on holidays and need a caretaker...
perhaps a great dog-walker...
certainly not a dentist or a heart-surgeon...
that path is lost... i'm not going to pick that sort of life
up... i'm still thinking about picking up
the role of a chemistry teacher: although i'd prefer
to be an English teacher...
  
   what a gruesome weekend... what a rewarding
weekend... i only woke up at home and
only spent 12am through to 2am scribbling and drinking...
as much as i love the idea of home:
give me a horse! and a good stretch of an Ukrainian steppe!
i've earned enough to 0 my debt and spend
the rest on prostitutes... which i will after the 1st of July...
because... i have nothing to spend it on...
plus... if the economy is going to work...
the women need the money... i just buy whiskey...
band t-shirts after seeing them in concert...
some food from time to time...
but... better the women have the money to spend...
but i'm not just going to give money to women
via marriage... via marriage that means
having a limited amount of ***
and hoping for people to attend your funeral... ah ha ha...
better i give the money to prostitutes
and have *** in return... makes sense...

i was actually dreaming about this manic weekend
finishing...
i was dreaming something akin to...
which i did fulfill...
the last day...
   singing die eisenfaust am lanzenshaft
(Teutonic Crusader song)
while walking home from Romford St. to where
i live, while drinking some cider,
smoking a cigarette or two...
admiring the night, the stars... the lateness of the sunset
of high June... wishing to find my cat sleeping
in my bed... waiting for tomorrow
in the form of waking up at 12pm,
cleaning the house... waited for the boiler technician
to come at 2pm and get paid £80 for 15 minutes'
worth of work...

then cycling for an hour... then making lunch
for dearest father with the leftover steak meat...
then making dinner power: roast chicken...
some vegetables... i'm always in my "element"
when cooking...
cleaning the house: that too...
        i have at least one night until a shift
at Wembley for an Ed the Ginger gig so i can
completely drink myself under the table:
the Matrix setting: there's no table...
as there's no "under": therefore...

                      i work hard i drink hard...
crowd control: eh... work for retards...
but these army references keep trickling down
from the top to the "stormtroopers"...
i don't know why the Somalis and other copper-neccks
like working with me...
once a make-shift supervisor...
i'm still their supervisor...
i think they just like saying the word: Matthew...

i was away from working for enough
to know... that work and youth don't mix...
und ihre schwerter blinken...
    
if i had more time: i rather walk into
the:
verdunkelt-wald... mondbeschienensilberlocken...
than a lampezündetehaus...
das knarren von kniefern
im alles das ist nacht!
                kuss mich morgen:
zu wahrheit die gähnen-mittag-von-die-sonne:
sonne das nie blinken oder schlafen...
nacht ewig: ein nacht alles uns!

i disintegrate into German from English
since... English is sort of German with some
*******-workings of pseudo-French workings...

oh but the conversations you hear...
the sort of fears blacks have concerning American culture...
the anti-racism culture of England...
too much was said in order for me to write
something equivalent to a haiku:
we, just, get, along...
   sure... i get it... there are outliers...
anti-racist white girls and their fetishes...
i have a fetishes for mushrooms and cats...
and caterpillars... i have a fetish for Turkish girls...
i have a fetish for Teutonic crusader songs...
i have a fetish for the German tongue...

but the young copper-necks like working
with me... i like them... i like their hue...
they're lazily employed at first but they soon build up
momentum...
when that happens i just start singing Teutonic songs
in my head.... i.e. we're here to get paid...
we're not in an army...
i'm planning to ******* to the land of Nod
from 2am through to 12pm... with my cat sleeping
with me... sure... i wish it was a woman...
let's not wish on too much...
first i need to scratch my scar tissue...
peel off some scab... eat it like a dog...
Jemminah really ****** me off...
not that she was an easy catch...
   but because she was a ginger and an impossible catch...

but that's the beauty of life:
you're never going to get what you "think" you're
supposed to expect... that never happens...
no one is ever promised to be born with
a crown of thorns of the crown of England...
are they?!
the idea is to diffuse the "situation"...
unlike in Republics... the old ways remain
the same... keep the majority a majority...
and then keep a scrutiny on the minority
that want to exist outside of the realm of the minority:
faking majority rule...
but?! first you have to sort out the fake minority
rule of PRIDE politico *******...
no one likes a minority detailing rules
for a majority to follow...
what one likes? individuals to detail rules
for a majority...
individuals > minorities when it comes
to the dynamic of ruling over the majority...

   classical western democracy cannot ever champion
the minority... a sub-class that undermines
the class of people that require to be guided...
this sub-class of individualism can never
undermine the individual...
but individualism is not somehow spawned:
orientated: dictated: by precursors...
it "arrives" when it must "arrive"...
                      
           give my heart and my feet a rest....
spawn some new idiots...
some spares of asp, wasp...
this night... drinking cider under this one specific
weeping willow...
dreadlock i.e. Jamaica is nowhere to be found...