if i was a pearl i’d feel itchy scratchy stuck inside an oyster shell if i was a tree i’d  be a big fat redwood fantasizing about Julia Butterfly Hill living and peeing around me if i was a dog i’d be a Catahoula hound if i was Italian i’d be Sicilian if i was pasta i’d be spaghetti if i was Icelandic i’d be Bjork if i was a rock star i’d be Elvis Presley Bob Dylan Jimi Hendrix Jim Morrison John Lennon Bruce Spingsteen Maynard James Keenan if i was i writer i’d be Herman Melville Mark Twain James Joyce William Faulkner Thomas Bernhard Yukio Mishima Naguib Mahfouz Phillip K. **** Gabriel Garcia Marquez Annie Proulx Lydia Davis if i was a poet i’d be Walt Whitman Sylvia Plath Ted Hughes Gwendolyn Brooks Pablo Neruda  Heather McHugh Carl Sandburg Robert Frost Arthur Rimbaud Dante Alighieri Homer if i was a painter i’d be Leonardo Da Vinci Michelangelo da Caravaggio Johan Vermeer Rembrandt van Rijn Paul Cezanne Marcel Duchamp Jackson ******* Mark Rothko Ad Reinhardt Anselm Kiefer Susan Rothenberg if i was a photographer i’d be Man Ray Ansel Adams Edward Weston Diane Arbus Robert Mapplethorpe Sally Mann Helmut Newton Richard Avedon Annie Leibovitz if i was a philosopher i’d be Socrates Plato Aristotle Jean Jacques Rousseau Sören Kierkegaard Immanuel Kant Karl Marx Georg Hegel Friedrich Nietzsche Henry David Thoreau Ralph Waldo Emerson  Jean-Paul Sartre Jean Baudrillard Michel Foucault if i was a singer i’d be Woody Guthrie Otis Redding Grace Slick Bob Marley Joni Mitchell Marvin Gaye Johnny Cash Patsy Cline June Carter Patti Smith Chrissie Hinde Nick Cave P J Harvey Beyonce if i wa a band i’d be Velvet Underground Ramones *** Pistols Clash Cure Smiths Joy Division Uncle Tupelo Pixies Nirvana Nine Inch Nails Madrugada Sigur Ros White Stripes Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra Justice of the Unicorns if i was a boot i’d be Chippewa Frye Ariat Red Wing Tony Lama Wellington if i was a shoe i’d be Christian Louboutin Jimmy Choo Kedds Chaco Chuck Taylor p f flyer if i was a dress i’d be Channel Dolce & Gabbanna Giorgio Armani Marc Jacobs Comme des Garçons if i was a cowboy shirt i’d be H bar C Rockmount Temp Tex Karman Wrangler Levis Strauss Lee if i was a hat i’d be a Stetson Borsalino Stephen Jones if i was a fruit i’d be a mango apple banana blackberry if i was an scent i’d smell like fresh perspiration jasmine sandalwood ylang ylang the ocean if i was a doctor i’d be a gynecologist neurosurgeon if i was a flower i’d be a hibiscus rose orchard if i was a stone i’d be a sparkling ruby diamond opal if i was a knife i’d be a k-bar switch-blade machete if i was a gun i’d be a Remington Winchester Beretta Glock AK-47 if i was a car i’d be a Lamborghini Ferrari BMW Saab Volkswagen GTO Ford Mustang Dodge Challenger if i was a  TV show i’d be Law and Order if i was actor i’d be Charlie Chaplin Humphrey Bogart Steve McQueen Robert De Niro Ed Norton Shawn Penn if i was an actress i’d be Marlene Dietrich Ingrid Bergman Natalie Wood Audrey Hepburn Marilyn Monroe Helen Mirren  Meryil Streep Brigette Fonda Robin Wright Julianne Moore Angie Harmon if i was a female comedian i’d be Gilda Radner Lily Tomlin Nora Dunn Joan Cusack Sarah Silverman Tina Fey if i was a  football player i’d be Sid Luckman George Blanda Walter Payton **** Butkus Mike Singletary Joe Montana Jerry Rice Payton Manning LaDanian Tomlinson  Drew Breeze if i was a celebrity i’d be Charlotte Gainsbourg if i was a rapper i’d be Tupac Shakur if i was a movie director i’d be Sam Peckinpah Robert Altman Stanley Kubrick Roman Polanski Werner Herzog Rainer Fassbinder Louis Bunuel Alfred Hitchcock Jean-Luc Godard François Truffaut if i was a bird i’d be a eagle hawk sparrow bluebird if i was a fish i’d be a dolphin shark narwhal Charlie the tuna if i was breakfast i’d be a French toast pancake folded in half with 2 strips of bacon in between if i was a cold cereal i’d be snap crackle popping rice crispies shredded wheat cheerios oatmeal if i was tea i’d be Japanese green matcha Irish breakfast Tulsi Thai holy basil Lapsang souchong Luzianne Lipton if i was a soap i’d be French hand milled ayurvedic Avon Ivory Dove Pears Aveda  if i was a man i’d be a football basketball baseball tennis swimmer athlete if i was a woman i’d be a track star runner writer painter gardener doctor nurse yoga mom i'm just scratching the surface and the beat goes on lahdy dah dah

Some people remind you
of hurricanes
    cold surfaces swirling,
crushing
      the glare you get from an overhead
light
        off bathroom walls.

Drinking Duchamp Whiskey
                 0 grams of protein
             250 milligrams of sodium
               34 grams of sugar

The grouts of your favorite poetry book
                  bound in a trapper keeper
know
            how you will be forgotten.

It's first words
are "The day thee art"
and you fill in:

-'someone who won't freak out
              about what I do.'

-'the oils from your nose
     smeared across those
        bacterial tiles.'

But remember what the poet meant:

                 The Stagnant Bourgeois
e     v     a     p     o     r     a     t     i     n     g
  out of existence because
Darwinism
      has a germ any scope can see--Greed.

            Some people
the fittest and weakest
are in one big ***--getting crushed
    no matter what

only one word prompted me: szło,  i.e. as it went...
urgh... phobias for slavs.... she was drininking tango...
(strachy na lachy, piła tango; czarna bandera! i or spanish y,
janosik! hula huj! niby, oby, nie prawda).
ugh, i sat there, on the throne, with my **** eager,
i felt sick more about a ******* relationship than the actual
taboo infested act... family via ****, what a dross!
back to level 1 of art, heterosexual, and onan,
                it was alway going to be
akin to history, and the caurosel... bilinigual "dyslexia" -
carousel... kabbalah in the moment, loss
of fixation on the tetragrammaton...
and i woke up today, fiddling with my hands
like a blind buddha...
that handsignal he is understood to "wave"
about in statue form, how the ring finger
bends and touches the thumb's nail...
and that's to represent a family,
index woman, middle man, pinky a child...
and why we use acronym base
for putting on a ring onto the ring finger,
touching the tip of thumb,
meaning Caesar said: all good...
outside the coliseum...
so that's what blind buddha said...
and like i already said,
in the future philosophers were sellers
of dictionaries, and lawyers were
sellers of thesarus rex...
you mention the dinosaurs,
and i'm supposed to say: you're the lucky un.
i drank in order to remember
that i must forget...
but still my previous life was flashing
before my eyes...
like i was about to engage in
re-imitating it... a *******'s load of hope
groping the eyes of those who,
stranded in the desert, suggested an oasis...
as the title suggest: always about
cliche, about a faux pas... and yes:
an opera...
  i want to be the linguistic orginating in
chemistry, seems i am,
how the english tongue took to
late christainity, the un-orthodox mention
of st. thomas' gospel unearthed from
an egyptian desert... 30 miles south of Cairo...
or so so...
            i might like to read an existential
novel of the children bound to feminism
and i.v.f., and how horrid it was to live
with your parents, and economy,
   and how the shame came,
in pakistani format...
                 just thinking...
my **** said much more 30 minutes prior,
but the i.v.f. narrative and how our nature
was dislodged by our power to overcome
our foundations, and still people died
in earthquakes and tsunamis...
                 but indeed, szło:
how it went...
                and thus my reason to give it ***...
like learning french, masculine and feminine forms,
of the said word,
  szła = she went; szedł = he was dasein / walked,
ergo revision szła = he was dasein...
   and that's the reason i didn't really
love my russian girlfriend, she said
polish was primarily defined by
   ш ш ш, i said huш, she said: шut up!
   the last love and the only and the end, of a concept
and matrimony to fiction.
let's deal with realities... play marbles,
talk about gambling and gamble...
**** it all away... flip coins and
do whatever is necessary, having found love
is rare more than a peacock feather for a quill,
and let's just, grow up.
every, single, time, that jewish ghetto freak
of a god comes up, an all encompassing word,
that can encompass mere noun, from mere sound,
from mere onomatopoeia, into a verb,
   a lament configuration that just encrusts itself
into the concept of a noumenon...
past terms, present terms, future terms...
and sexuality...
  szła шedł szło...
     three sexes, one, the last, neutral...
               and when psychology comes along to play
the game of anthropology you'll say
what i said... she dasein, he dasein,
   it, the world, happened...
                             and that's a thank you
to a philosopher of lore (20th century) for being
able to complicate my life, and
   celebrate the ghetto god of Jews...
  nah, they can keep the crucifix and their
Judas reward like altars...
  all that gold needs the stink of prayer
and sycophancy... like they do in Russia:
priest stands before the altar, reads an orthodox
verse, his back against the people kneeling
behind him, as the depiction of Judas
in the scenario of the last supper...
and you can't even sit and listen to the choir
doing a rendition of Bach... some church
attendant tells you to not sit...
and appreciate the choir...
"modern" Russia for you...
   what's with this cult of modernity?
we are living in times where modernity is cult,
it's nothing but cult, or the limit...
modernity is a cult of journalists...
they're almost anti-darwinist in their expression...
poetry, poetry has to, attack journalism...
i see no other way to go about it...
   marriage... hmmph! шło, how it went...
well... it went like this:
siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak...
chłop powiedział.... i to było tak:
   an idiot mongolian played the imaginary
harmonica doing motorboat with
his lips and moving his index finger
up and down against the "slur" of excess phlegm...
(a woman was sowing poppies,
she didn't know how,
a man said: like this... and both became
Glaswegian ****** junkies to "feel" good)...
   i broke up with that russian hyenna
just before she embarked into m.d.m.a.,
yes, i'm a happily alcoholic concept of
sanity, for what sanity's worth looking
at other people claim their rites of passage
beyond religion, beyond anything,
as said: only choice, and subsequent regrets
and joviality: if prominent on the faces
of some you encounter in the fudge of
modern grey matter / area.
i can only say that this current transgender
movement is almost as prominent as
what's inherent in the english language,
how words like table, chair...
pineapple, do not have gender in the language
per se, there's no masculine or feminine
conceptualisation of simple things,
someone who's french might say
a chair has male qualities,
   and a table has feminine qualities...
it's subtle... refined to a very slight
           chance of spotting a variation of spelling...
e.g. шło (how it went), and the two variations,
one for man (шedł), and one for woman (шła)...
evidently the anglophone language has too
much money, and even more spare time,
to actually un-poeticize the nag hammadi library...
i mean, everyone is killing poetry,
but this sort of ****** is beyond any worth...
the genesis of this story begins with
psychiatry and the 1960s, primarily a Scot,
a Glaswegian, r. d. laing, coming straight out
of c. g. jung.... freud is for rich people and
the only oedipus: Wilhelm II of german...
it must be a luxury, it can't be anything but,
it must be a luxury to have dreams
and to also have an interpretation of them,
right? they call them the snowflakes generation...
i just call them freud-tards with their toothpicks
for trees forests of "depth".
looking at the way jesus is depicted, with a
void black halo around him:
i'm suspecting we wasn't a big dreamer,
to lift the veil: an imitation of Joseph,
seven lean years, seven bountiful...
   and how so few of us actually have a rich
dream life... we don't, not everyone is invited
to lead such a double life...
  some do, and they have recurrent dreams,
well, one dream over and over and... what a boring life.
i dream sometimes, but it looks like scrambled eggs,
too many: dreams within dreams...
   then again, if i followed the diagnostics of
w. burroughs, i'd probably feel embodied in dreams
if i shot up ******... or smoked it...
  but i prefer a rested body anyway.
so yeah, a bit quasi-etymological,
those "idiosyncratic" but rather specific words:
шło... id.... that it went / how it went...
  and so it went...
english doesn't have a *** in language,
   nothing to decipher whether a man or woman uses
it, unless you congest it with
   excess pronoun shrapnel...
          excess pronoun and conjunction shrapnel...
the only thing that resembles saxon in post-Hastings
french viking invasion are the way chemical
nouns reflect what a german makes of
antidote to claustrophobia:
                  habbeschneizergoo, or thereabouts.
let's just say: language as theory.
   this is mine... what do you have?
ah... right... a concrete heart, an empirical heart...
does that allow counter defining an origin
not related to the big bang, but a meow or a woof
of knuckling a tree... i.e. extracting sounds
and later appropriating the invocation of sound
to later state pointless mantra, and otherwise
read more, see less?
   if we're talking sounds, or the big bang
is my idea of the φoνoς, look... the ancients
beginning with Heraclitus had logos...
or word, until that concept became ghetto...
now we have so much music, and that one
defining "sound"... i say φoνoς, to counter
the science of the bang... and yeah, it's apparently "big"...
just learn a science to a degree level,
and then relax unlearning it writing philosophy...
you just might spontaneously write poetry,
     and gave a libido of a Solomon, but no harem;
gents! handshakes! handshakes!

I can imagine staircases already
From her legs up,
The sassy strut divine
     Of deities descending,

Her curvatures, delight,
Carefully cascading, lather me
As hands on her hands, as fingers,
     Or *****, my spirit.

I am nowhere near my mind
Within her mind,
The clauses of her mind, this flower.
     O her oblivious flower, opened, bare and all.

I can hear it all already, all,
Her steps deceptive,
The pleasant cries and onomatopoeias,
     A princess or a pheasant somewhere,
     Surrendering, the grin
          Of suffering.

I can sense it, feel it, peal it from our canvasses,
Which were carcasses for so long, taste it,
O sweet molasses,
     Which intimacies were hers,
          Were mine.

We're mine alone.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Rebellion – for too long the status quo,
is, in our day, a predictable show.
Antichrist irony, absurdity
shockingly daring incongruity
no longer shock the bourgeois, you know…

Alone in the temple of glass with a rock,
you’re out of traditional symbols to mock.
Surrealists did it much better than you –
and it meant a lot more in ’32.

You chew your cud on the cattle-wagon
overused shock-tactics (moo ! ) now draggin’
(or herding) aboard the iconoclast train
(b)lowing through boxcars your bovine refrain:
“to, um –  make people think…”  Oh Lord, how uncouth.
Nihilist narcissus – tell me, what’s Truth?
Must creative always be subversive?
I discern, in your frenzied discursive,
a dull and predictable lack of life.
While you brandish that plastic butter knife
I  seem to note, in your constant ******,
dearth of artistic ability.  Must
bohemian acolytes (some yawning)
ever be deer in the headlights, fawning
before the ironic gesture? It’s sad;
the bitter is sweet but the art is bad…

They circle hors d’oeuvres on opening night
like moths around white wine in candlelight,
cerebrating in a modernist void:
contemporary aesthetes, overjoyed
to know once more that life has no meaning;
the planet is doomed; that kings are queening;
that chic just arrived, escorting philosophy
(Forgive us, Duchamp, for all this monstrosity).

I long for Hudson River School sunsets
Old Dutch Masters, religious art, portraits,
Red, green, or black propaganda-art?  NO !
The view does not merit the price of the show.
I’m dada-ed to death, beyond the surreal.
Conceptual gimmicks have failed to conceal
your want of ability, values, and faith
In the book you despise it is written: “thus saith
the fool in his heart: that there is no God…”

You: Postmodern Art – **to the firing squad!

I wish I could run to end of the cosmos
Just reach the reluctant intellectuals
Just so I could catch a glimpse of them ducking out of the limelight
I wouldn’t bother asking them
It wouldn’t do any good
They wouldn’t have much to say
They’d be a bit focused sticking to their morals
And criticizing the museums
Tell them to open up just a little bit
So that way everyone could rush in
Empty canvas in hand
Or typewriters
Or a marble slab waiting for them
They’d rush in
Bringing a beautiful fire to everything else
Explaining themselves to Matisse and Greco
Mona Lisa and Caravaggio would understand though
At least I think so
Van Gogh laughing in utter delight
The fire would burn all the glitz and convention
But all the passion
Emotion
Angst
Uncontemplated beauty would shine brighter than ever before

Some observers would go insane
Climbing up to the top of skyscrapers
Jumping off
Screaming, on their way down
DUCHAMP
Conning the police out of their guns
Putting it to their head
Walking into the middle of the street
Welcoming the buses with open arms
And I know you want to save those people
But it’s not up to you
We’ll see them again someday
Hopefully they’ll understand it then

Don’t cry for them, though
Look at all the others
Running through the streets
Naked
Without shame
Greeting their friends from so many years ago
As they stand in front of Rothko and he looks into both of their eyes
And they stare back trying to let themselves be encircled
With smiles
That shine like halos
As they look at their sisters
Without lust
And with compassion
While they express their enthusiasm for jazz
And sing as loud as trumpets
Dancing as fast as a piano

I’m finished crying for the dinosaurs
Or feeling guilty for Christ

I jump into the smile of the moon
I spread my arms wide open in front of the sun
Just to let him know that he’s welcome

"Chess can be described as the movement of pieces eating one another."*
-Marcel Duchamp

Relics and old wives
telling tales for telling.
Reminds me of living
in America, dying.

I think about America
when I see a sidewalk
cracked, clean spider webb'd.
There are so many cracks here.

In the dark, America
looks like any other jar
of ink. You could walk
forever without noticing the blood on your feet.

The day the bombs
drop I'll be sleeping. Oh
what a horror when you
wake up and realize where you've heard that sound before.

if you stood here for hours
as you did in the louvre
maybe you could see the artful
space penetrated by pillars
walls barely containing the serenity
of a weekday afternoon

to your left, some modern piece
of what looks like a bright red payphone
one half-full-half-empty plastic cup
teetering over the top like it wasn’t sure
which way to fall.
only the black handle knows what numerous i-love-yous
the filipina maids at 3pm tell to secret lovers
or their families back home.

underneath, a yellow **** stain
like some duchamp
although the inebriated ahpek who made it probably
didn’t know how to pronounce his name.
du-champ? du-camp?
aiyah who cares. Art is still art.

trailing across the marble swirls
in the pockmarked concrete floor you find a footprint
and perhaps those who cast it years ago
are the faceless men at work.
hard hats atop their plastic bottles
laying back to the ground, eyes glued shut to the insides
of their eyelids as if in prayer for forgiveness
from the sweltering sun.

further left a metal centipede forged by abandonment and thievery
of bicycles left to rust - seats wrenched away from
their rusting frames
like a prisoner shackled to a wall, nails slowly pulled
from his fingertips.
and the centipede is a ******* because the wheels don’t go
round no more if they are even still there.
but is it still stealing if you take away
something unwanted?

and in the next few hours or so, if you should linger
stay slouched in a corner
Or seated on mosaic tiled stools
at a checkerboard table like a king.
watch as performance art
children
fresh out of class
but uniforms stinking of stale p.e. sweat
defy the big man through football
or ice-and-water
or making a hell lot of noise
even though the stick figure painting says
NO BALL GAMES
life imitates art
life defies art
life destroys art

there are so many things to see for free
in this common space
maybe we don’t value it
till some bold-faced girl paints
the staircase gold
then we cry out - THIS IS VANDALISM
THIS IS NOT ART
maybe if we stopped for hours rooted -
rooting - we would see the artistry
of the common space
but all we want to do
is to rush past each other and slam our doors shut.

I play a game of chess with Marcel Duchamp
Stripped bare totally but with looks still in the mood
I make a final move to rook him into my moan
'You know I want to be the darkest queen of your dreams'
He lifts calm his queen as his eyebrows but without really looking at me
picks up my rook contiguously
deepens some of his penetrating basses and whispers playfully:
' You already are my sweet Rose Sélavy and shall stay so eternally but …
you know … for now...'
and that 'but...for' mutes my **** mount line
highlights a grin of an ingenious rhyme and briefs a victory
on every strategic corner he knows to reach so well to
at once turn me on at an endgame pattern of check
to mate
'... c'est la vie sweet Monsieur S' he whispers
' I want to be the lone king for my queen'
and pushes solid his queen towards my defenseless territory.

i think future history will show PewdiePie as Marcel Duchamp
and the ideas curated will be
something.

what's questioned is whether  i'm prone to eat
a McDonald's  or identify myself as a Slav...
that's what's questioned... would i eat a status quo?
it's a hard question... would i rather integrate
            or leave a poor babushka
riddling what could have been
had October come in alter guise in 1917?
              the quo vadis
question is only a roundabout...
a clarifying circus-fair...
                     summated:
we long to live locally... embedded
  into a crucifixion as one might be
    into a circumcision.
                   and beyond such an affirmation?
negligence and a harrowing...
words spoken over lakes:
the instilled nations,
words spoken over seas:
   the instilling of the experiment of
globalisation galvanised...
     words spoken over rivers...
       as standardised narrative woken...
and later cue: unmoved.
       we're all here, with quivers for
a worthwhile of demands...
and still the belief in pacifying troops
of when the word becomes an actual
punching clench for the knuckled signature...
only then i see my coerced duplicate
arranging a feast for fattening politicos en masse.
           ferris and cartwheel summary,
for every eager ****** wetting clot
    of the feminine oyster slurring due to
excess saliva outpouring...
       funny how she earns enough Fahrenheit
when slobbering the oyster trail to a warm-up
and cools her oral into refrigerator standard
while suckling as if at a teet...
                     the mouth cools down,
the fleshy marrow pouch heats up...
        you start to think: Copernicus is next
to explain this conundrum...
              by god i sometimes wish i had the chance
to don mascara... for the fun of it
to make my iris whether blue or green
   hypnotically caged in that socket of
blink blink... blink blink...
        brown and mascara looks just as good
as a a van morrison song might...
well... aren't we all hopeful that it's just another
case of negging?
n'ah... just a duchamp pisoar... worth's
legitimacy of noun in the medium of art...
    my vocabulary can't be as ****** ugly as
what people do to people these days...
i count mine as softcore, Attenborough ****:
worth a narrative with an objectivity myocle;
'cos the other eye still has to squint to look
pretty and infused with the activity
that has a myriad count of termites for
a mother, with that invisible ***** attache
toward: birth as continuum of constipation:
blind drunk Mona Lisa slipped one out
with Antoinnette while the guillotine smirked
and snarled a: chop... chop chop!
it almost sounded like clapping, not so long ago.
    all that was said and was nonetheless missing
was a queue in which everyone sang
      baritone bard sang in duo
                 with a castrated evangelist a cumba
           lonesome texan: don mclean's starry starry night,
by now van gogh (gau not goth) would have
cared, and mattered, simultaneously....
   sha la la la la la la la la la la t'da....
      (approximate count)...
               oops'e said lazy Daisy...
                                 and the day was just that...
lazing with Daisy on a mercurial Sunday
    that prescribed the message of the omni-encompassing
yawn.

i'm not the one, who'll pander your parents' indulgences... there were always precuations regarding the extracting of libido into a sanctified act, as there was alway rubber... ******* and you prescribing me a guilt-trip... your parents brought retards into this world, i don't have to bring a ******* thought into it, either!

front page? evil strikes again,
terrorist attacks in barcelona.

page 9?
   down's syndrome husbamd barred from
*** with wife wins £100,000 damages...

can i say, that you, deserve it?
     the day when down syndrome men
are employed in the construction industry,
or in sanitation...
   that's the day when you'll hear
the sound of applause and never hear
the sound of bombs exploding...
  
*******, making cripples out of healthy
people while: pleeeeeeading,
pleeeeeeading for the retards beneath the cross!
**** it, shove them into the sewers,
let's see what happens,
   i'm just tired of what islam already
says,
i'm tired ot the "correct" pronoun
arguments,
  i'm tired of st. thomas' gospel,
i'm tired of transgender "issues"...
   i'm tired...
  thank **** someone has the shortcut
"argument" of detonating a bomb...
i'm just tired of this western "supremacy"...
i can't be bothered
with people making content-economics
of counter arguments...
  it's much more entertaining
eating sweetcorn, or beetroot...

next time you call for a plumber,
ask for a plumber with down syndrome...
i'm sure your toilet will end up
looking lavish, as a *marcel duchamp
"fountain*...
       oh sure sure, take a **** in it...
invite islam and say:
   no! no taboo!
    a bunch of grandparents *******,
**** **** for sure, no taboos...
             well.. you deal with them!
i'm already having a hard time
peeling a pumpkin!

who would have thought, that *******
your cousin, wasn't such a bad
thing, esp. when western society
extended their "fertility"
that only produces down infants.

once upon a time i used to get drunk
smoke some cigarettes
and listen to music...

the current mainstream dialectic is
ready... cuties on netflix...
lucky for me...

            i don't have a subscription:
it's enough to have a working
light-bulb here and there
and running water to do miracles
with turds and ****
into a gluttonous
pearl duchamp...

                     i'm not coming back
to whatever i felt invited into:
culture war double-think propaganda...
orwellian cult either side...
ad hoc apocalypse...

when the movie thirteen came out
i was 17 years old...
       last time i checked...
    13 year old girls would walk
up to me in the playground and
ask what shampoo i was using...
   herbal essence... i guess i had an angel
tied to a leash made from
the french braid of my hair somewhere...

i try to remember the movie...
vague...
the soundtrack, though?
      make it with the best...
stand-out track...
                thing with movies...
the first version of the secret life of walter mitty
from 1959...
        any... day... before the existential
salting the wounds with
                     the ben stiller introspect...
the day-dreaming sequences
of the original though...

bbc radio 3 over classic.fm...
      because no adverts...
           bbc radio 4... i'm not yet... mature
for talk radio... lionel nation though?
rubber-ears...
            i am out: i fold...
         i have no skin or meat in
the dialectic...
   after all... my 20s are a mystery...
i can point to being 21 at some point...
come age 33 i reached some
waking up momentum and a crippling
fear surrounding the mortality
of those closest to me...
                
i'm sure the song lemon
wasn't done by someone like
                    thievery corporation -

perhaps that's what happens
when you buy frank zappa on vinyl...
and don't find enough time...
or empty carnival space to be the only
pair of ears in the vicinity of
the gramophone...
so you... put on earphones
and tune into talk-radio...

                  while writing a "poem"
is more or less: writing with a handicap
by way of suggesting:
even if you gave me the simplest
crossword puzzle...
    i wouldn't want to solve it...
                 i suppose anyone
who can cherish a crossword puzzle
would rather do that...
than write... an archaic doodle
that perhaps might rhyme:
to seek of even numbers and geometry.

what sort of punishment is this?
i beg to differ
should anyone insinuate otherwise:
that is isn't some sort of macabre
way of polishing shoes...
two days strapped to the bed...
unable to eat all too able to sleep...
did this torture arrive while
Taylor Swift's army scrutinized
the internet for the comments
and came with the idea
that her concerts were somehow
safe spaces for all:
how as the security team we didn't
receive bomb threats otherwise
****** frustrations and ****** deviations
how there wasn't a male
******* in the vomitory and then
exposing himself
because the ratio of male to female
toilets was so unaccommodating
and how the women would
take advantage and just simply
walk into the male toilets unannounced
and... i assume: or... i even hope
that they wouldn't be caught *******
into the urinals...
that would really be a Duchamp
moment of how to treat the rainbow
brigade of confused sexuality...
i wish i was drunk a little more:
it's not Edie is giving me heartache
because i'd rather do my driving license
on Kauai than spend another 2 or 3 weeks
on this godforsaken continent...
imagine melancholy
imagine lethargy
and a sloth that's a catharsis...
this is me: at my best estimation:
resetting...
i don't know what for...
but i'm in no way in control: able...
to summon a will to live...
if i'll be able to bounce from this
i'll be remotely happy...
but so much lies so much undercurrent
narratives
how this one, elder gentleman
insinuated:
and they called me obtuse...
for whatever reason... this Gen Z
candy can crush...
         candy can crush...
        cancan dancers aged 14 new age
brave new world feminism
and into the mix thirsty men from
Arabia: these female dissonance this
losing my plot and my think
it's only, now, sinking in...
                  but... if i allow myself
to concentrate on words:
because i'm not writing this from an abode
of ****** frustration, constipation blah blah...
a genuine concern:
how long do these women "think"
they can pull off the walk-around
pithy for a harem...
           pithy for a harem...
i actually had to look up the meaning
of the word: pithy...
personally? i think it's adequate...
if you think about it...
given i've seen so much white flesh
and it felt like an epileptic fit
with strobe lighting to boot...
and it just is... somehow: not annoying?
somehow there isn't an overload
of sensation, stimulation...
the way these women unabashedly just
parade a faking of innocence
and then groom the younger siblings
into committing the same sin
of over-exposing males to their finicky
travesty?
seriously, seriously:
i'm paying the price of working
security at a Taylor Swift concert...
i usually drink but this is not
me dealing with the afterthought
of drinking too much:
i've seen too much...
i just walked into hell...
i walked into hell 7 ******* times...
and Islam is not going to just
justify to me that
a just reward is 72 virgins waiting for me
as i try to persuade the minds
of people: i'm about to ****...
to tell me: Allah is the highest theonym
because Allah is not the highest theonym:
YHWH is... the cyclops...
                     Y
                H       H
                     W

the Ukrainian girl i was working
with when i was sexually harassed:
oh we talked about history, Perestroika...
cannibalism under starvation conditions...
     and Polish, L'viv...
                                  NIC and NIĆ
(nothing and thread)
              clearly... she started cackling
like a magpie and a Babayaga all the same...
thus the touching pointers of each
letter in the theonym

but now i'm going to concentrate on what
i concentrated with her, dear, Victoria,
i hope you don't mind...

/   Ъъ Ъ ъ твёрдый знак
'hard sign'
[ˈtvʲɵrdɨj znak] ⓘ еръ
[jer] [∅] ʺ silent, prevents palatalization of the preceding consonant объект obyékt
"object" – U+042A / U+044A
Ыы Ы ы ы
[ɨ] еры
[jɪˈrɨ] [ɨ] y General American roses (rough equivalent) ты ty
"you" – U+042B / U+044B
Ьь    /

                              ЪЫЬ

because i dated a girl from St Petersburg
and she was into literature
and a daughter of a timber oligarch from
Siberia and when
i met her grandmother she told me
it was her mother
and when i met her mother she told me
it was her sister
and when i met her father
she forgot to tell me her sister was,
her mother was, married to him...

i can get ****** up on philosophy and drinking:
but women... they get off on
something, completely: else...
so me going to a brothel
was kind of sobering...
psychiatrists, priests, prostitutes...
the sacred trinity of who you talk to:
don't trust me: i'm the fourth wheel
in the machinery: i can be truthful but
i can also be flamboyant: poetry is thus...
Muhammad was right to distrust us...
but that was a time long before
journalism came along...
now we're the lesser evil...
i don't sing pretty i don't rhyme...
but apparently the Quran is...
wait... what is it?
supposedly the envy of poets?
the Quran is a poem: like no other?
Gabriel suggested that?
                 wow!            spectacular!

or maybe the past 2 days i've been tortured
because i made an honest critique of:
so the Pakistanis say they
are the purest of races...
yet... they end up... ******* on the toilet seat
in a public toilet:
for me... to later imagine...
tapeworms of the microcosm
able to travel through *****
and osmosis
into my buttocks... to later become
dead white blood cells of Beelzebub's kiss
as i squeezed them out from my face...
is that... it?!
and this whole jumping of the queue
when signing out:
so i did say: ******:
is this concept of queue something
too metaphysical for you to comprehend?
are we standing here for: ******* alms?!
so what, the, ****?!
clearly we're not going to get along
any more...
i'm going to bail or i'm going to
zero myself out of this whole life...
pattern: just jumbling words right now...
i keep my sanity with my cat...
testing: if i can go with 2 days of not
eating properly: they can survive
with me neglecting them
should this aura of grey and miserableness
not lift me from my slumber...
because it's clarifying in its devastation
of immobilizing me...
i have been... immobilized...

so what? i can breathe but i can't speak:
is this the Taylor Swift critique of getting
sexually harassed or is this me telling
the ******* UMMAH
that your puritans are retards and
**** on toilet seats in public?!
you *****... you skivvy ***** *******...
i know you...
you're ******* ***** squalor seminal
indentations of what the Europeans
thought of the Jews in the 20th century...
we have to deal with these new incursion
of bad hygiene: once more?!
oh please... justify your singing the Surah
to the ******* stones...
you ***** ugly, *******...
cousin-******* 6th finger short on each hand!

p.s. i hope you do realize:
what's happening in Ukraine right now?
that's called target practice...
my own people are stupid
i don't even know why Nietzsche would
envy being a ******...
oh sure sure: i'm not hearing anything
concerning the French of the Slavic realm...
but sooner the Slavs...
succumb to this ****** Germanic thinking
that's not even remotely considerate
of...               the Slavs would sooner wage
war with each other than allow
any parasitical thinking into their realm...
this woke ******* monstrosity
without god, this hybrid fuckery of anti-vitality!