.perhaps it's a good thing,
that i don't succumb to witty
rhyming poetry...
i hate rhyming poetry as much
as Bukowski hated disney...
Homer didn't rhyme...
  and all the better for it...
this rhyming fetish,
whereby, when you start
rhyming, succumbing to
some quasi orthodoxy?
   getting caged?
       better than rhyme...
   noticeable signs of impromptu,
and absolutely no, so
signs of editing...

      if god is dead in philosophical
discussions...
then rhyme is dead
in poetic composition...
    we, really don't need curriculum
poetics for GCSE students...
cages, entrapment,
   not bothering Stendhal from
the brink of a post-existentialist
despair sitting in
that other graveyard,
  the library shelf...
    and seriously?
    why Jane Austen on the 5 quid
banknote, and not Mary Shelley?

and there's a reason why i will
not make a single youtube video...
why?
       on a certain level of the popularity
stratum,
   it's become this,
  american nostalgia for high school,
the gossiping, the undermining,
the atypical Brutus confidant circle
of "content" creators...
   net-novellas -
   a bunch of people my age...
******* up to the tele-novella
       ergonomics that Polish grandmothers
watch, imported from Turkey...
or the English 1985 Eastenders
soap opera...
   ******* have to be different,
through and through,
drive on the "wrong" side of the road,
then they have to start calling
tele-novellas, soap-operas!

short attention span, sure sure...
no problem...
          do your ******* homework
during the week, watch the omnibus
on the weekend...

what's this one youtuber, who said
something about the advertisement blockers?
by the way...
   Samsung?
     all videos have been demonetized...
perhaps on the odd occasion
a vevo ad... but that's about it...

       advertisement blockers?
  seriously?
   are these people so ******* impatient
that they can't locate the mute button?!
i see an advert: MUTE...
   i think of something,
   to craft an anti-zombie
   pause, moment, anything...
    why block advertisement -
when you can merely mute it...
and listen to the vacuous sound
of celestial orbits?

        within a certain tier of content creators,
it's already the ****-smearing,
soap opera, back in a high school
playground "nostalgia"...
  sorry... not for me...
but thank you, for taking the effort,
to take a reed, dive into a lake,
and breath through it,
while remaining covert, hidden...

         again... numbers numbers numbers...
i'm still exercising a freedom of
"speech", but i rather prefer the
practice of writing, as the appropriate
res extensa of the vector origin
for this cascade, the res cogitans
as it were...

   and there really are only two forms
of nuanced language:
a study of philosophy,
   or the study of: law...
      but this youtube **** show...
   this: back in high school,
no revenge time...

                 i only tuned in for the music,
but then these youtubers started
propping up in the recommendation
list for the music i was listening to...

die krupps postscript suggestions
came up with x,
   wooden shjips came up with y...
lao che came up with z recommendations...

on a side note...
   ha ha!
    mark manson's book...
  the art of not giving a ****...
it mentions Bukowski...
  only read the sample...
        that he was a, loser...
and loser is specifically derogatory
term in American society...
to which i reply?
   and what the **** did
mark manson, actually win?
Bukowski at least won
a childhood where his father beat
him silly in the ******* bathroom...

you haven't exactly won anything,
mr. manson...
   if you didn't lose anything
to begin with;

and if you have?
   let's see the follow-up of
to your bestseller,
         of "not giving a ****";
but we won't, will we?
      - hardly brown-nosing,
the guy's dead,
1997... i have to keep
the integrity of the dead
on my bookshelf...
      
      who reads this
reverse masochism of the self-help
literature genre, anyway?
you can't even use these books
as a counter to a decent roll
of toilet paper!
   unless you want to scratch,
ahem, sorry, wipe your *** with
the pages, and start an **** bleeding!

and what is the only variant of classical
music, heard on a radio?

    well... there's the fama radio night
sessions - with not adverts
   radiofama.com.pl -

it might be your take on what the french
tell the english, i.e.: euro-trash...

but no adverts...

                          and there is no reason
to concede to reviving punk,
hippy music didn't see a revival,
why should punk?

   a variant of classical music radio,
akin to bbc 2, or classic fm...

       that "oddity" of a morphed bbc 4
internet coverage, akin to lionel nation...
and what i mean by that,
is not h. d. thompson's gonzo...

          the allure of the, un-scripted...
and all of this is raw, flesh,
language at a smithfield
                   or a billingsgate...

talk-radio as the logical conlusion
of exposing your child to classical music...
it's genius -
   reverting back to classical music
once you're older, and don't play
an instrument?
                      what's the point?

dr steve turley bashing out a medieval
mash-up on the guitar...
            and that's "not" even
inspiration for a rock star status...
i like his smugness -
    it's... zesty, lime-like:
             certainty of the twinkling
of the eye that consists of:
    a remaining - intact, i.e., sane.

bbc radio 4?
      what, with zee archers nonsense?
this radio novella
that keeps propping itself up
like a bad take on eastenders without
the kray brothers?
          
                  talk-radio is all about
a non-existent "script":
       the flamboyance of spontaneity...
with the crux, being?
                
                                     ensō -

the only aspect of ζεν, a ταoιστ might
respect.

      p.s.
                  do i believe in u.f.o.  s?
(****, acronyms and the plural article
attached to them, mind boggling)
     no... but i've seen one, so the belief impetus
is, kind'ah missing in me...
             i've transcended speculation,
a question-worthiness on the matter...
since the question no longer manifests
      itself in the narration impetus?
the impetus for narrative, is narration per se;
and how lovely, it is to see
a noumenon...
      when the world of phenomenons
reads like this:

  the times newspaper, saturday, july 21,
2018,
               OVER 70,000 CHILDREN
PUT ON PILLS FOR DEPRESSION...

great headline...
     alas, a chemistry degree (3rd)
from edinburgh uni.,
     am i chemo-phobic?
                 i should ask myself that
same question, when i next
brush my teeth, apply shampoo to
my cranium,
   or wash my hands.

apart from genitals -
   i'm having this sensation of a tongue
contra mind "dysphoria"...
                 it's not exactly a limb...
it's not like an amputee with
a ghost limb...
                         more like:
                   a mind, a body,
   a soul... and then the wriggly worm,
raised up on high in novels...
and then groveling in areas
where rabbis didn't take to revision
with a pair of scissors...
   buttermouth from the oral ***.

have you ever made a spider a Palestinian? i have, today, refreshing the paint-job on the back of my house, a whole family strutting away from fresh paint being applied (poets cure boredom, they simply don't know it), the cardigans erase & rewind, my uncle would be perfect with his age to work out the demographics - my age circuit, 30 and listening to the palette of those in full-throttle of the 1990s - anyway, refreshing the paint on the back of my house, not for dough, but for the sweat of my brow - learning i succumb to acrophobia on the ladder - but i did it anyway... i love phobias, they're not the fear, they're like a box of chocolates... you never know what will make you startle... it's not permanent, phobias shouldn't be considered permanent, they're too reflexive... and we all know that nibbling them in the reflective realm immediately suggests irrationality, not to a reaction, but to a continuum of a reaction: a ladder, a giant spider to boot. but i never watched a spider eat fresh paint... watched the ******* do the nibble on paint... ***** - a getty cardinal spider shooting paint pollutants with its leg, eating the Chernobyl cocktail, the rainbow melt in a puddle of oil spill... junkies everywhere; so that done, a beer and a quick look at the Olympics...

if table tennis was as relevant as table tennis -
i prefer table tennis,
judo is too cool too - classic Greek wrestling
with feet to match the hands -
i think in terms of the Olympics we're in
the Gobi desert - so many sports are shown only
once every 4 years, the once that don't make the dough...
i'd prefer the Olympics without the pop culture
exponents that keep us hungry for spectacles
during the 4 years apart -
hand-ball, Romania thrashed by Angola -
ladies first, of course,
and weight-lifting, weighs in at 48kg and lifts
80+kg... well Jihad John versus G.I. Jane...
a pretty match up... look, i came from a certain background
i won't be making politically correct statements,
if it weren't for my personal initiative i'd be scooping
grub from an industrial flat surface roof like my father...
i don't mind getting paid... i just love the fact that i will
and if ending up homeless, i have enough heart already
to start a religion, or something.
of course i'll miss my personal library of books and albums,
who wouldn't? i'll join the divorcee crew and it'll be
like it always was supposed to be.
but am i really that ridiculous? think about it,
i use ridiculous words in my vocabulary, after all i went
to a catholic school, it was bound to happen -
not true secular cool, sorry -
but is my usage of certain words completely penniless
more ridiculous in the form of an oligarch buying
a pearl entombed in a custard pie? of a yacht for a month
at Monte Carlo? seriously? if i utilise the words
Paraclete or Antichrist after just skimmed rereading of
a psychiatrist's religious venture in Jung's *answer to Job
am i as ridiculous as those barons?
i don't think so... i read that book like Flaubert instructed
concerning all books: read in order to live it -
a book is a transplant, some leave a heart, come a ****,
some a brain, some a pint of blood with a book...
i hope to leave the worm of hell licking your ear for a sloppy
Jim - read Jung... almost atypical German Christian
intelligentsia byproduct, neutral Swiss just after the second
world war... Freud read Nietzsche and so did Mussolini...
****** was very much Jung... it's a strange book...
we all know that the Greeks hijacked Judaism...
the Romans were like: whatever that meant...
shoved it into a cauldron of the prefix omni-
and attributed to the prefix geographies and geometries
all inclusive (herr deutsche came along though) -
but the Greeks hijacked the oddity of Judea at that
special time because they had scientific inclinations
rather than aesthetic inclinations of the Romans,
and they wanted answers... got **** all...
it's not the Jews that thought the Greek involvement
ridiculous, it was the Romans... hence the omni-
and -presence, -potency, etc. - the Greeks just had
those mythical names for ****... Logos, Sophia...
that's the funny thing with mythology and history -
the book of Revelation by the looks of it simply looks
like a redemption of Oedipus... mythology is a logic
of history where either none was recorded on papyrus
since no one required hush-hush intrigue talk and people
spoke to each other face to face rather than to a profile -
mugs and mustard seeds -
you can always buy the book, C. G. Jung answer to Job,
it's peppered with too much Greek, and very little
Roman care... the theological addition of a globalised world
(under monotheism, failed and thriving, whichever)
is bound to play the montage of omni- and simply add -
God = omnivocab - i have my limitations of words -
i had to censor or rather select a vocabulary in order
to process the interchanges to reach a conclusive churning
without an ultimate goal other than to preserve a continuum,
like Balzac boring everybody with the 19th instalment of
the human comedy. so after reading this book on religious
matters by a psychiatrists i'm sorta bothered...
i'm tripping... obviously not seeing any hyper-geometry
of your choice... i just think the Greeks did the most horrid
hoarding and looting know to man... which reflected
the looting of Byzantium and never reaching the Holy Land...
the barbarians never cared to be honest, they only
started caring when they started to castrate the boys
for the "holy" choir rather than circumcise them...
then they went Berserk... the book of revelation can only
mean the quantum mechanics of history, bound to
mythology - Oedipus was very real... the blackened
heart of Greeks even though Aristotle, Socrates, Plato...
that intellectual import and expression didn't help...
after all Eddie Gein gave birth to the latter part of the 20th
century pop culture... Texas Chainsaw... Haemorrhoid Hannibal,
House of a 1000 Corpses.. history and journalism
dismisses mythology, i dismiss journalism as simply
a hyper-sensitivity that keeps dialectics out of the picture,
a monologue of opinions... mythology just doesn't seem
that insensible given our perspective into history with Darwin
and millions of years ago with the sea-turtles... you know
how gossip works... it sooth the reality of it had happened...
because we prefer oysters and chicken thighs to digest than
the tales of Eddie, oh yeah... Fe Maiden... d'uh!
the Greeks looted the Hebrews to purge themselves of
Oedipus... the weakness came by keeping estranged with
Narcissus and iconoclasm... you want an extract?
bombshell blonde at your bidding -
assumptio mariae: mary as the bride is united with the son
in the heavenly-chamber, and as sophia, with the godhead.
basically Mary is a schizophrenic ****-child of lust
for a Roman centurion who makes the story of a ****** birth
her wish to bed-wet her son (Jesus) into joining **** John
and Toe into her ****** (***** *****, like her already)
in heaven - she thinks her body will **** her "******-birth"
son and her wisdom (Sophia is her alias, or nickname)
will **** god in the head. oh hell this is sacrilege -
i'm not afraid of it... boo! ha! caught you mouth dry with the
boogie man. so this is a psychiatrist reasoning his religion...
as i said, the Greeks had no omni- Roman put the **** back
into his boots before he starts river-dancing...
all these quizzical ultra-mythical words that the Greeks
used starting with the Logos and Hippocrates were attached
to the failed Platonism of the unconverted Damocles principle
and the tyrant succumbing to drink and never bound to
a sober wish for anything more - (i'm guessing his intentions
were laid with Nietzsche as source of discipleship) - in short
let's just say that Platonism failed in practice,
and it needed a populist movement, a redemption from
the curse of Oedipus came from Hebrew with the schizoid-birth,
Joseph bin Adam was: better bite that ****** of the cow-fruit
and remind her of the stoning practices around here -
oh it's all pretty much Eastenders around here, it's
not the ******* Vatican marble corridors, we're talking
Gaza dust sneezing while whipping the donkey's *** to
move along... split-mind: beautiful metaphor... premature
dementia, obviously misunderstood... if premature "dementia"
while so much creativity among the split-minded...
it's like all the zodiac signs became jealous of Gemini,
incorporating Gemini-Solipsism... well, i have a neck like a bull
and a *****-count like a charging bull... but the thinking
behind the 3.a.m. is kinda staggering... oh right, you want
more quirky clues from Jung's book:
- silvia loret
- maritza mendez
- aria giovanni             (get a hybrid and i'll believe in Disneyland) -
****, that ain't what i was going to write, never mind,
you get a chance to see the palette of what's fudge for
fucky-fucky sized 16+ and what the Renaissance men
knew would be better than duck-feathers in pillows;
- meister eckhart: gott ist selig in der seele
- puer aeternus: vultu mutabilis albus et ater
    (of changeful countenance, both white and black)
- pius XII's apostolic constitution (munificentissimus dei)
   words like muni-imus really make you train in
    grammatical arithmetic, don't they? playing doctor with
   them as to where to cut them for a aqua format of rivers
   is quiet like reciting a 5x table up to 30 (sometimes)
- oportebat sponsam, quam pater desponsaverat, in θalmis caelestibus habitare (the bride whom the father had espoused had to abide in the heavenly bridal-chambers): st. john damascene (encomium in dormitionem);

summa summarum?
Nietzsche answered Job... this is my answer to Jung as also an answer to Lot - **** your daughters, your wife turns into a pillar of salt... and i equate that as a precursor to the man of sorrows on the ****** crucifix - salt is a metaphor for misery (that's etymology for you); and the Roman phonetic encoding survived over the fates of Egyptian and Babylonian is precisely why the adopted son of Caesar later made his uncle's adopted nephew his successor - as with the four dogma canon gospels, we're replicas of the tetragrammaton... well... i was never confirmed, i'm one short of joining the god-men that came out from catholic school after choosing a name for themselves they could have changed not having wished to be known by the two names given to them by their parents... few did... i just ended up an acronym of Einstein: M C E.

cheap write *******:

i almost wish i was bitter - but as i'm ageing -
it's not so much bitterness - a woman in her 60s
will say about her son:
well he's sorted his life out,
he's in his early 30s, has a job,
a wife, two children...

this man... has "sorted" his "life"...
more like when darwinism meets
existentialism -
hardly a sorted life -
a sorted life by ape standards -
not keikegaard's standards: if any...

it's not about bitterness -
but i would be more inclined to say:
early 30s, wife, kids... mortgage...
the rollercoaster is just about to start...
the kids: oh sure... cute...
until they start having a mind
of their own...
and... they will betray the senile
old fool that will come,
eventually...
and off to broadmoor with 'im!
life sorted... when the children could
almost be treated as pets...
fine! fine...

it's not out of bitterness -
i'm thinking... more on the lines:
i'm getting my years tally too...
i'm getting used to my own "solipsistic" routines...
it's not out of bitterness:
it's out of having my own routines:
my own idiosyncracies -
that i will take two ciders for a walk
(perhaps a dog would be better) -
and my shadow -
and take two home and drink them
with a tease of brandy -
and want to get to that sweet k.o. point
come 12am so i can,
wake up: frisky and fresh like a sparrow
full of song come 8am...
well... that's me...

i can imagine how symbiosis happens when
you shackle up with someone
in your early 20s...
forget doing it in your 30s...
my ship / my train has sailed... a long time ago...
i still can't find anyone i could
speak to about philosophy -
and to be frank? i hope i never will -
not now - when i wanted to talk about it:
no one -
now it doesn't matter -
because i don't want to talk about it...
i might slide in a sly ref. to something -
but... the aspirations for conversation
on these matters are... i would just tell someone
to buy a self-help book and kindly *******...

if women: hit the wall...
i've reached my impasse -
i have dug the trench long enough - deep enough -
i can proudly say it's a labyrinth -
and i'm happy in my labyrinth -
it's not much: but it's not a cage -
and this is not some bitter me:
woe me - blah blah -
i have routines - i like to sit an extra 10
minutes on the toilet - becauase -
i'm automating a massage of my prostate...
apparently... bid on this poker being true:
the fear of over-doing it and...
haemorrhoids... the same fear associated with
sitting on cold stones for too long
(ref. lethal weapon II - sam and martin riggs
sitting at the beach)...

but this is not what i was intending to write...
i've been trying to cut down on watching youtube...
i figured... what i should have been doing
was watching an english soap-opera -
akin to eastenders - religiously -
instead - i would have, at least: plenty more ref.
points...
but as for jokes... i make the odd "mistake"...

it's always like watching a paul joseph watson video...
i'm not a fan but i'm a fan of entertainment -
i must have a really low i.q. because
i find lee evans to be a rare genius of comedy...
old school funny - the body can become
a language for comedy -
you really don't need to over-talk the jokes -
after a while intelligent stand-up monologues just
bore me: humor of the monolingual crowd -
anagrams and... too many ciphers -
nothing wrong with your base crude of:
a ****** expression, the body itself -
the language can take a break -
but i must be really stupid for liking...
universal comedy... for me lee evans is a universal
comedian...

but this one video is likewise...
blackpill jesus - the inequality of the dating market:
it's over for many men...

and i'm like: those pro-life arguments are
just starting to kick in...
no... seriously... those pro-life arguments are
starting to kick in: right about now...
what arguments?
sometime in the distant future
an untouchable ** will come into contact
with an untouchable XY example -
long may they prosper -

but all of this is like... watching delayed...
abortions... walking abortions -
by: when darwinism met feminism:
and the two -isms lived happily ever after...
some people... really don't want to be told
they'll be walking abortions:
well: quasi-abortions... the living-dead:
by all standards of darwinian selection -
again... not bitter... routine baron -
but not in a culture:
we could talk about stendhal -
but we won't...
we could talk about bukowski: of all people!
but we won't...
we could talk kabbalah and gnosticism
and the nag hammadi library...
but we won't...
we could talk about music!
but we won't...
first sucker through the floral gates
of the ******: **** first in... head last out...
but at lucifer dived head-first from
a star...
by comparative images:
caesars were born via the caesarean section...
the rest of us...
let's just say: there's no more ***** envy
after a human head starts to:
appear from a place it never should have...

my 20s are a fog...
i might remember 4 odd *****...
one picked up from a club who decided to
take a taxi with me towing but
forgot she was riding with me
and did her usual: jump from a moving car
and not paying the fare...
which i later paid...
cocoon *** under the bedsheets and:
coffee in the morning with three homosexuals...

that south african: again cocoon *** under
the bedsheets - second time lucky for her...
but... is it technically "****"...
when she wants to ******* but is somehow
not aroused and she hasn't spoken to
any ******* about using some cream
and you little richard in that sort of purse...
sandpaper friction?

the black girl at my birthday party...
the right sort of cocktails...
the right sort of music: cedric 'im' brooks...
and then... proper coccyx ramming
that left me with a plum hue tattoo
in the eden of my ***** the next morning...
finally! a black girl with an *** that allowed
her to ram her coccyx into me...

i'll miss some... other... details from elsewhere...

but of course that thai surprise...
picked her in the park...
random as any lottery jackpot...
beers on the bench... more beers at the house...
some jazz... cigarettes in the garden...
later ****** in the shed...
walked the thai surprise home...
why thai surprise?
i wasn't sure... sports bra -
transgender "issues" were only starting
to come to the fore... "4 out of 10"...
tom boy haircut...
until the hand reached into the underwear
and i found oyster...
but prior to: thai surprise...

those ***** were free...
the brothel ***** are more vivid and... well...
there was always some kissing involved...
for some reason i can remember kissing prostitutes
more than ******* them...
with the "free women of the west":
it's more about... the sort of *** that is comparible
to... when foxes in essex come and mate at
night... you forget whether you kissed...
but oh sure... ******* sure did...

it's not sad it's... visceral...
work with enough raw meat in the kitchen -
curing it - slicing it -
rubbing it with marinade -
after a while you're no longer objectifying
anything: you're being subjected to it...

but i do wonder with regards to:
some people would like to know they're walking
abortions - the abortions pandering to the pro-life
argument... otherwise the pro-life argument is
a bit like: shackling - a safety-net guarantee -
or whatever: because what's the argument when...
there's the coming dissonance
of pairing?

perhaps i haven't said this more often than
i should...
of the books i've read... mostly french and german
and scandinavian existentialism -
with a tease of russian...
darwinism and existentialism can't sleep together...
that's what i originally thought...
how can existentialism reconcile itself
with darwinism: when it can't...
darwinism is existentialism for women...
the quantity: not the quality argument / line of reasoning...

i can't reconcile myself with darwinism -
a weakness or just:
there's just too much borrowed from a plethora
of animals -
so many studies concerning apes
and **** similis -
and even the mantis -
but... the noble swan and the phenomenon
of the widow and the widower swan...

days when you could just listen to
bloodhound gang's hooray for ******* and...
also find falco... you almost desire
to walk away from the sandpit where
the children listen to nothing but
philip glass and penderecki and speak
in sudoku language...
otherwise there's missing the middle ground
and reaching for the ***** and *****
of punk and... the scent of burning leather
wrapped in a ****** of stiched together
foreskins...

and i can't imagine... but i can...
cutting someone's eyelids...
and watching them... endure the subsequent
insomnia while having to plunge their
head into water ever 10 minutes...
******* is no help...
ear: eh... cartilege -
but the eyelids... we could be rid of those:
couldn't we?

because i know the potential sleeping in me...
i decided to arrive face first and meet "him"...
just so i don't miss the jinx:
i grab my ******* with one forcep of index
and thumb of the hand...
with the other forcep i pinch
the eyelid of my left eye -
funny... the skin feels... synonymous!

no, i can't reconcile darwinism with continental
existentialism:
as i can't reconcile the former idealism
of mine - not even after a ******* -
where's jack?! where's the jack in me?
but gym and squash and rock climbing later:
i was dating a crab and scraps were
the vulture's ambrosia -

what became of aphex twin? he slowed down
and that cul de sac became...
something known as burial - album untrue...
darwinism was always going to be impossible
to reconcile with: the role of humanity
beyond - it's almost easy to transcend the pure
animalistic comparison -
there's neither fire, nor the second fire:
electricirty in the nocturnal, feral heart of
the bottomless pit of anima -
currently: curated by over-stretched facts
and sleepwalking statistics...

bound to england for the past 26 years...
the closest i came was an: encounters of the third
kind with an australian oddity...
why would i date an english girl?
i thought they were into their pakistanis?
that's a question that's not a joke...
seek and you will find: mongolian-esque
rummaging...
the tartar "heretic" of crimea...

on repeat on repeat...
climbing over a fence from a darkened park...
came across a 15 year old running to and fro...
in the days when i still owned a phone...
tried to teach her how to roll a cigarette...
cleavage more visible than her neck...
reunited her with disgruntled friend
lying face down at a bus stop...
a black cat befriended me...
and this lass was running away from me
and toward me...
she texted about 20 people with my phone
before contacting her mum and dad...
and her cabbie dad later picked the two
of them up from a bus-stop at the tesco metro...
but of course prior to she had to take
a selfie of the three of us...

in the back of my head... the silent whisper
and the prosecutor simply whispered...
why not ask her to climb over the park fence
with you... and do the nightmarish deeds justice?

in england for the past 26 years: genesis aged 8...
and, well... "no luck"...
mongol attitude no likey-likey-lucky-or-lackey...
reciprocating "hubris"...
i guess i must be lucky...
come and go ******* like a nomad...
and: should i take myself more seriously...
invoke a talk about diacritical marks:
and those non-existent in the english language...
an octopus audience: the tenticles
do not count as 8 x 1...

20s... a complete blur...
and those vivid conversations in the brothel...
when i faked a death and managed to
get my overdraft limit increased...
and spent 4 hours in that ****-warehouse...
and was asked in the "interlude"...
wouldn't you want two at the same time?
i once heard:
the world is divided into men who have
slept with two women...
and those who haven't...

i gladly declined...
with two i'd need a room of mirrors...
hungry leech eyes need mirrors...
one simply can't have the 1st person shooter
experience anymore...
one would require as many mirrors when
*******... as a woman would require toys
to ******* with...
it might as well be called:
the mirror deity that spawned narcissus -
although - the more contorted
nightmare of narcissus -
the faces riddled with onomatopoeias
rather than words -
and faces that truly deserve to hide behind
a niqab...
or if the eyes become too fungus esque...
would require the samuel beckett's not i...
mouth like an intrusive phallus metaphor
of exposure...

in the past decade: well thank god
*** never became boring, routine...
it didn't require dressing up,
using third party limbs... and pieces...
*** was scarce - therefore *** was feral -
*** was never allowed a relationship -
*** never became familiar,
*** could never become mundane words
that would allow themselves
advice from some journo agony aunt column...
*** was a rarity -
and when it wasn't... kissing became more
important... and itchy fingers that
would read in braille the earth and its contorts
of a woman's body...
there was never a whip or a gulag
of infantile barbie imaginings to rule, either...

sometimes i would indefinitely try to catch
the certain days of winter when
spring blossoms prematured with buds...
if i was lucky... the magnolia bushes would also
blush...
and i would become a dog-***** of these perfumes...
walking for miles and miles per night...

the body takes care of itself:
trouble is... the mind doesn't...
better to allow it this sort of cameo cinema -
memory is the most ideal cameo cinema -
nothing i have mentioned is par excellance -
more... on par: per view...
if memory can't become a cinema...
what's left? nostalgia of 20th century cinema?
that can only live for so long...

as a "transgender" moment...
perhaps i can compete...
willingly ingest a tapeworm embryo...
keep it for 9 months...
then... ingest some praziquantel and ****
the little ****** out...
that's... the closest i'll ever come
to uniting myself with: the female ordeal
of giving birth: imagine...
the ego coupled the delusion the size
of the universe...
i really should start looking for a tapeworm
embryo... keeping it for 9 months...
and then... hey presto!
extra-protein pasta!

otherwise: oh sure... the would-be abortions...
only learn much later...
that they are... not the pro-life argument
they heard as embryos of foetuses...
they are... much to their amusement...
the walking-abortions they were to begin with...
while the pro-life arguments sort of...
die off... when... the fully grown...
self-aware specimen is given charge...
the pro-life argument dies...
the mortgage on a engagement ring...
the shackles...
it's only a pro-life argument...
until the incel mushroom pops up...
then it's no longer a pro-life argument...
ha... delayed abortion: slackers' argumentation...
yeah but no but, oh ****...

frankenstein! it talks! it breathes!
it's immune to all those philosophical cul de sacs
of arguments!
the slow death - the lack of gene motivation
tactic to: pass...
ha... to pass...
in the vicinity of the courageous virus...
shockwave reminders of: genesis vivo...

give me the fully formed xenomorph...
but a genesis vivo: akin to the film LIFE?
wouldn't you believe it?
form... a xenomorph has a concrete form -
a rigid square is...
well... it's not an imploded square -
a hyper-geometric revision...

modern anglo-speaking world and...
milan kundera's existentialism:
i will only kiss when i close my eyes -
but nonetheless -
i will open my eyes when kissing...
because i'm bluffing...
and gambling on... the hope that...
even the sofa "architecture" of a woman's
body reclining to entertain the 300 spartans...
eyes always open...
daggers for eyes...

upon the zenith close -
i imagined myself to be more...
buck-tooth antics -
trivia and encyclopedic knowledge -
pub quizes -
*** on wisteria lane -
no mongol horde ever passed the clefts
of pickets and homebugs...
and this... grand sanity project...
people never seem to go, truly mad,
from... gossip.... glibs...
or soap-opera immoralities: of flacid oopses...
perhaps it is true:
most people never go mad...
what horrible lives they must lead...

perhaps that is very true:
so true it deserves the bells of nortre dame
to echo...
inside a can kicked down a street...
kissing a ******* is not a basic immorality...
having toy soldiers and wars of lies -
and soap opera demagogic dramaturges?
wasting other peoples time with:
there's no crease in a sunrise -
when there are no clouds to stage the subtle
detail of diluted hues of seeing:
a giraffe's belly when it's lying on
the ground?

some people never go mad...
and they do require language to be as strict as:
what's precursor formal -
dear sir / madam...
and every time they try an informal: oops...
it's never on paper...
but always in a mouth that's exploring
the fermentation process of a glass of wine...
me?
gods' **** and gods' blood...
cider / beer with a tease mrs. cognac:
that's the elevated status of whiskey via: née:
ms. amber.

could i be a father and an alcoholic?
no... ever time i tried to exfoliate my own language,
my... idiosyncracy, my solipsism,
barriers and people reaching for...
prime navel and crimson as the standard
colour for lipstick...
one can only stomach so much...
before treating oneself to a hermit's adventure...
on the odd chance... giving coordinates
of the day-to-day...

i would have died a decade prior...
if i didn't find voyeurs to look at a language...
that cannot be spoken by someone alive:
among the living... to the future dead!
i was alive once, too! to the future dead!

The Cons fed no rations...hahaha

The house breaking Burglars are Chris, Joan, Tom and Kelly
Ably assisted by Jim and Cindy, the black and white *******
who broke up their families, move in together, to **** each other
Life's too short, forget abandoned spouses, what the hell, ok
Then there's Linda, who's had three husbands in ten years
all leaving after a while, leaving her with two kids
to look after, what a palaver, where's a true lover
These ******* ****, use and take then do a runner
Her trust in ******* men ruined to pieces and no nookie

All dysfunctional lives, full of pain, angry at the world
Yes we're in Limehouse, but do we have to **** sour juice
They're all seeking to vent, seeking revenge for their miseries
Look that couple upstairs, always bright, styled like Vogue
neat and tidy, full of laughter, going places, yuppie cts
See quiet husband, walks like Bowie, with a kin of **** swagger
And the wife so cute and petite, drives the shiny Red Mini
He ***** her every night, I hear them, I tell you
Their skins glows, shines like the sun, too happy by half

Chris the Scot married to strife and bother
The criminal life is such wahala, police here and there
its hide and seek, no money, no nookie, no nothing
Well OK, there's Tennants and Special Brew to drown the blues
****** hubby again in Wormwood Scrubs serving ******* Majesty
Tom ain't stealing as much as father, have to beg next door again
Joan is ******* and ain't making no money, now in the duff
only fifteen, by ******* Nobby, from the Young ******* Socialist Brigade, Kelly is also ******* and only twelve, what a life
Ahh ....  life on the Estate is life in *******

Listen you all, here's the deal, here's the number
Those ******* Happy couple at number fifteen
Why ain't them struggling like us all, where's the cushty
You don't see them carping, the ******* are loaded,
Them knobs have it all, smiling and laughing like *******
Let put some fire up their *****, let's teach them street life
Hears they think they are royalties, let tax their ****** *****
I'll be the lookout, you kick in the ****** doors
Liberate their valuables, we'll all have a party

******* Nora, the quiet man has blown a frigging gasket
Says he gonna tell all we are crooks, gonna evict us, the fool
Go get the posse, go put out a contract, a ****** for the jump
We are Eastenders, born by Bow bells, and we look after our own
How ****** dare the toffee nosed tory, says I should go get a job
as if, working for honest gain is our thing, ****** idiot
Yes mate, the boys are out, the contract is on
Let's see Jackanory tell us a bleeding story
Hero to Zero is now playing at Roman Street market

Break them up, mash  them down, ruin their lives
lets play 'trading Places, see how the cts feels
I already see cool man strung up. dangling on a rope
How dare they live happy and comfortable
two wages, car, dining out, new attire every day
Come on Jim, Cindy, Linda, all go get your mates
There's work to be done, no time to play
We are the TUC, that's Thieves United Confederation
And we've got the ******* Red Boys in the Team

It's down Tobacco road for Mr Tory, the bleeding ******
Ain't no more laughter, we'll put them in the gutter
Lie and slander, defame and harass, topple Saddam
Get the ******* Red mill going, its round Robin time
How's yer father,  no more mate, not ****** likely for a while
Yer only leg-over is gonna be legging it to the Social Security
Its Dole time, pain and miseries for you sunshine
Sing a song of hate, pariah on a roundabout
Yer marathon man now mate, come meet the Red Devils

Here, They need no ******* introduction

it has been exactly since ~3p.m.
                                                            yesterday...
                                       through to
3p.m. today: that's 24 hours +
                                      4 o'clock, 5 o'clock rock,
          6 o'clock,
                                          7, 8, 9
                     10, 11 and the upcoming twelve
         24 + 9 + excess passing the 36th hour...
oh this is just target practice -
                  what used to be
   serotonin has become adrenaline:
   spawning cobweb shadows with
   a mere arm-hair aligned with an itch:
i say to my cohabitants -
        i'm too poor to rent an apartment
with my contemporaries,
         and i can't be bothered to look cool
for 10 years... before the money starts
coming in... a day before a tongue spoke:
and see you in 20 years...
         and see you in 30 years...
the people born prior to 1975
       and after 1969 came out to earn
£57,000 a year... while those born
after 1979 and before 1985 had a wealth
*** of £27,000...
                            who are the landlords?
quick digression, i love how the idea
of exiting the bloc (it used to be designated
to the eastern bloc, now anything east of Calais
if a bloc... the European bloc -
        my my... ain't it love-ly?
   they wanted an Australian points system,
so first came the Australian plastic currency,
boy, i was happy, cashing in my first Churchill
miniature that i could dip in baked beans
and use as a spoon) spread beyond the old
stereotype... and the points system?
you know who's smoking the hookah of
panic here?            
                            the freelancers of nationality...
   they haven't fitted in...
don't worry... they'll keep you,
but after seeing you they just thought:
once the cheeky chappy, now a chavvy chappy...
  we love the E2 dialect, it's hardly Coccers
or bonkers... but after my day
(i'll relate to it in a moment)
       i heard to prop'ah Cockneys giving it
all the guv' and n'ah and
        what's Kilimanjaro in Cockney slang?
all the Cockneys are living in Essex,
   Romford, Chelms and the Essex lads
from Ireland are a bit shy, never talk to
the old people who used to live on
the Isle of Dogs or the Wharf -
              East London moved, and i'm in
the thick o' it... you ***...
                       i'm here,
open ******* spaces and hedgehog counts
to mind... never the next Susie from
Whitechapel doing the runner from Jackie,
             and funny that,
the day began during the night,
sober, i tested the idea: if you gonna go
nocturnal, stay sober...
                  fast... drink coffee in the morning,
and what some proper bollocking
        on the box...
                               i say: revivals never
sounded more like bells, the 1970s
had Patois... the old parle with dread-lock Sam...
             i squeeze in a bit of Norse
and hey presto... Ahmed's your uncle...
                     'cos we all like a bit of
way-hey banter, the: back in the day
   when the 1966 squad was best known
for West 'am...
                               am i sensing the idea that
i'm licking off the prop'ah beef burger 'ere?
                    what the **** rhymes
with Kilimanjaro?
                                wait! got this one:
apples & pears - stairs...
                          you gyro?
                        no! wait... the two Cockneys
weren't from south London,
this ain't Peck'am talk... this is proper grub...
         jar squared: verb, meaning?
     i know my neighbour, heard him
lecturing his wife over the wall about
the diminishing concept of family in the "west",
           to me that's
the Cockneys meant by guv'nah:
                           aw right der geezer,
   stop that fidgety: don't be late tomorrow,
let a man eat his plums and wear his trousers...
       i swear: the only good cinema these days
is English cinema...
                                 i said! the only good cinema
these days is English cinema...
               if i didn't watch
       we **** the old way during the night,
after spending my day as i did (i'll get onto it,
hold your submarines)
                               i would have pricked my ears
on the two Cockneys next door
   at 4p.m.                  finishing some job...
but given the "guv'nah's" attitude: 'aving
a laugh at coming early tomorrow, if at all.
     my day?
                 i wished i could say i woke up
early...
                            the entire spectrum
of sunrise...
                            epileptic shock from the sun
after smoking a cigarette at 5a.m. when
all the constellations where out...
                          not enough sleep,
as the Russians say: no good to live but to
not have seen snow.
                               it shivers with enough
hours under your belt...
                                      i'd love those
Soviet torture chambers of sleep malnutrition...
gents? when the ***** and the cards and cigarettes?
    i'm currently the most loathed
  person in America... which technically makes me
more than simply unemployed...
        anyway...
cut my hair... two millimetres off the helmet...
off the cranium... not crew cut, not skin on side
and some ***-fluff on top...
in the night, when the moon is bright,
   my two millimetres of hair look like skin...
oi! Skinners! the shame would have really been
to have protruding ears...
                                    come to think of it,
i love the contorts of my shadow more than
the body my shadow disdains...
                  i decided to visit my old school
after that...
                     ...............................
do you know the feeling of getting onto a bus
when you having been on any other form
of transportation (other than your legs)
for a few months?             surreal...
                   and even that's a bad way to describe it...
this is where words simply fizzle out...
                            they just did the white rabbit
trick and you're felt with nothing else to
do but squeeze into the top-hat and hope
that some other magician will pull you out
rather than another: white rabbit.
                          so the 499 from my house
up to Romford (sunny! glorious day!
   shirt, sleeves rolled up,
           denim trousers, navy suede shoes,
azure shirt, headphones, bus ticket,
wallet, packet of smokes, and the ride -
smile all you want - when you smash a sports
car you don't have the view of a dozen
horrified passengers there with you
to practice your ultimate Buddha gimmick -
Ching-Chong Eyed and smiling)
                oh yeah, the insurance... huh?
   off at Romford central, and onto the 86
courier from Bangladesh to Ilford...
                    what did i miss in the list above?
ah... three copies of poetic optometry...
written by? moi, n'est pas? oh come on,
let's not get the ruler out: mangetout and manage trois...
                           (only fuel is horses)
           the 86 is a double decker, the 499 isn't...
sun in my eyes behind the glass the enhanced star
gleamed: what privilege -
               by day the star
                                           by night the star in
   a mirror that's the moon -
                                         selfish helium
giggling into a hydrogen Hindenburg fury!
                 or that's what the scientists say...
how they worked it out, i'll never know...
                            but apparently the sun
is a H-He           something or other...
            H because of atom bombs,
   and He because we giggle like idiots when we see
it: never the thirsty horse in cowboy movies.
   got off at Seven Kings...
in between school girls eyeing everyone and everything...
just my luck... schoolchildren...
                               everywhere on the bus...
just there...
                                    and also just nowhere...
         so i got off at Seven Kings and went into my
old catholic school...
                                  waited at the reception for a good
5 minutes (good to know they're still teaching
people manners with regards to the uttermost
productive necessity of bureaucrats)
               -              i asked about my old English
teacher: does Dr... er... does Mr. Thomas,
        er, does Mr. Bunce (Thomas) still work here?
   yes, he does.
             you see, i'm a former pupil of this school
and i wondered if i could have a meeting with him.
oh, that's impossible, he's currently teaching.
                     Kafka... note this in your afterlife...
         well... in that case, could i leave him a message?
oh sure, just write your name and your contact details
and he'll get in touch with you.
   well... i need a bit more than a scrap of paper,
can i have a notepad?
                 sure.
                                    so i took  the pen
and the notepad and sat in this grand refurbished hall
of the school that used to remind me
of chemistry labs stinking of old wood and sulphur,
of the old ways... of being beaten and Pink Floyd
escapism and all the hippy crap...
                               what a grand place this has become...
it's no longer known as C. P. Catholic School...
but the plus version: C. P. Academy...
  but you still walk into the plus surroundings and there
are still pamphlets written by Father Ted
about *our Lord and Saviour christ Jesus...
          or Hey! Zeus! in Spanish... same ****...
different cover...
                               but i was well dressed in my
Indian summer wear that's Indian summer:
English September and October...
              i'd move the calendar up a bit...
get the kids off anti-depressants...
                           anyway, i had my three copies
of the "first edition", try tell that with the internet
breathing down your neck... it doesn't, matter...
             but i did write him a lovely note:
unchaining me from the straitjacket of grammar!
                  i wrote from what year i graduated
2002 (g.c.s.e.) or 2004 (a-level),
                        and blah blah and one more blah
later                    walked back to the reception
  and asked for a rubber-band...
                   then i bundled the whole thing together
and asked if she could give it to him...
                    of course, she replied.
                            p.s. if you don't mind,
Mr. Thomas, you can always shove one of those
copies into the school library...
                         p.p.s., someone stashed
the book about the Gnostics by some German in
there once... maybe i'm thinking along the same lines.
      the journey back?
i walked.
                                 i walked from Seven Kings
to Romford...
                               taking a stroll
with one hand in my pocket (left)
because holding a cigarette in the other is never
exactly great when it's not doing something...
that's what the pockets are for...
not exactly suited for your wallet... but your hand...
when you're strolling in the green-belt fields
segregating the outer-most London (wannabe
Londoners / Eastenders) and the Essex inheritors
of Cockney... Kilimanjaro?
                                  Kilimanjaro?
                 ­                          me, i don't Essex
either...           most of the bankers chose this
district for the scenery, i.e. standing in a field
that isn't a hill or any sort of elevation
and beyond, yonder, the glass shards of their
former institutions...
                                        4.7 miles... not bad...
  a stroll... and that's without any food and solely
on coffee and a sleepless night...
           a butterfly fluttering along the way (only one)
and a fresh ripe auburn conker lying beneath
an oak tree (also, only one)...
            but what hit me was walking back...
it was truly like reading the book of revelation...
13:7... all the way from Seven Kings through to
the Romford: the street vendors, the bookies,
the Muhammedian car dealers...
                  the bewildered ones walking into
mosques, Sikh temples...
                                       one man cleaning the patio
entrance to a church from weeds...
                           cheap Kentucky chicken from America
         (if you think, that they don't synthesise
the meat in cat food and call it tuna or beef
but rather use actual meat... you're grossly mistaken,
    it was on the news...
                                         they are already
capable to synthesise meat...
                                     they do it in the perfume industry,
they're doing it in the food industry -
    a childhood memory of asking why they were
smearing lipstick on the frogs they caught...
they replied: they burn easier...
                  and they did... paint a frog lipstick
pink and boy... that's a French marshmallow, right there)...
           but if you ever walk that stretch of road...
               revelation 13:7...
          i'd like to see the Evangelists wriggle out
of that one...                       oh sure...
i treat religious television like some meathead
might watch football... it's game on after 5 minutes...
but anyway... that was my day...
           all 36 or so hours of it... how was yours?
                                                          ­                        g'day!

always the lactephiliacs, never the cows / always the milk drinkers, never the mongrel eaters of coco puffs; bridesmaids ahoy!

i have absolutely no idea
as to happened in
the past 10 minutes...
  but it did...
        news of a sweet
  *******
hanging himself from
a well established group:
oh **** me,
back in the day, me and my
friend sam used to pretend
being punks and skateboarders,
we'd head to the RM1
nightclub and go mental
on metal and alternative rock
music,
   and then walk back
from romford to ilford,
singing *backstreet boys' song
forgetting to take the bus...
so yeah, under-age drinking,
sticky floors,
       mushrooms growing out
the ******* ceiling, the whole
dalmatian...
      given the drunken eye
it used to remind of:
   is that a cow barking,
      or am i ******* hallucinating?
no, i swear, that dog
just mooed!
   so why is that moon still up
in the sky?
   death pulling a joke with
                       its scythe sceptre?
the holy grail in the other
hand, consisting of an emptied
cranium...
  in my version of shakespeare
   of hamlet
yorick wouldn't be found seeking
"narcissus" talking to a skull:
   he'd be drinking wine from it!
what? god conjures
   parasites, man conjures dracula -
what's the problem,
    at least the former is just itchy-weird
while the former: oh **** me:
           zee makaber-romantik!
- but just now i started
looking at a youtube video:
thank **** i didn't get into
the community of making videos...
it's like revisiting a schoolyard
   playground:
watching these recent videos
is like telling yourself:
where was i when i should have
been watching
the english soap opera of eastenders;
where was i?!
              evidently not glued
to a t.v. like  that scene
from a clockwatch orange...
                  it's when people
get together that all hell breaks
loose...
  and yes,
    i'm one of the "cis" men who
can't believe that blaire white
is transexual... argument?
she's not a thai / brazilian surprise...
those ***** (pretty) boys
can pull a quick one on someone
like trainspotting's begbie...
  i must have said this before...
   well, i'm making time for
not being of the sort of people that
watched soap opera...
             about a fictional east-end...
i have the east-end of everywherer,
the internet!
               incy wincy spider came along
came along to a portion
of his web, sat down with a fly,
looked at the example and said:
forget our previous hierarchy,
i'll play the lion,
you play the hyena -
         these two are just about ripe
for zombified-dentistry of
biting the larynx;
but in all honesty,
   looking at the internet and the content
i sometimes watch,
   i could have been high-brow
about not watching the soap
opera eastenders...
   but now i'm in the mud within
the internet orientation...
   it was bound to become
just that...
                 thank **** for
producing content that is
not-passive, and can be absorbed while
falling asleep;
but still that image of a grown
man all the more
   pleased, to drink a cold glass
of milk upon waking up,
and not needing that ugh of all ughs
that's a "compliment" of corn flakes,
or shredded wheat cereal...
  milk on its own is just fine...
   i know that i'll turn my ****
into a geyser with a chili powder accent;
which is something you'd
probably call: **** *** in reverse.

i've seen a u.f.o.,
yep - a weird orb - hardly a helicopter -
and hardly an aeroplane -
i disclosed it once to a "friend" -
   apparently in europe the entirety of
the oddness of the universe can be caged in
the mind of a psychiatrist - that's europe -
apparently every odd observation
requires the secular
"priesthood" of psychiatry -
everything, has, to, be: normalised;
the sort of *******-tickle-talk
that allows you to return
to talking about the weather...
or yesterday's eastenders episode
on the by pedohpilia bankrupt
b.b.c.
  so? **** it, play along:
the funny people will crack any
time soon...
         even though i have seen
an u.f.o. i'm sticking the the british
take on "sensibility" i.e. lying.
so this paddy walks up to me,
a british citizen like any other,
but has this "royal" airiness around
him...
  he thinks i'm mere peasant
and he's a ******* monarch!
          he suddenly think i can't
comprehend english...
but he can... then i ask him
to recite the alphabet... paddy can't!
sure, you see a u.f.o. when
you have to immediately curb your
enthusiasm, because you're in
europe, and europe is "sensible" -
     so you practice your sense &
sensibility: see no evil, hear no evil,
speak no evil: but **** me:
think up a tier of horror
                  above the holocaust!
if we're allowing science fiction,
if we're allowing the "dream"
but never the reality,
  if europe discarded idiot priest
for a psychiatrist,
i'd probably prefer the idiot priesthood
to the secular "priesthood" that's
psychiatry...
        i've seen an u.f.o.,
but as you might expect, i'm "european",
i'm supposed to be the sensible one,
the never: over-fluttering in
excitement -
                       ****, i saw a u.f.o.
actually means: i saw ****, nothing
really happened.
            i'm occupied, the drinking is
hardly a drag, and the music i'm listening
to isn't that bad, after all;
hell, i must have been drunk watching
this electric light orchestra "glyph"...
you start to try to convince people,
   when the people try to convince themselves
belonging to some day-to-day
everyday mundane collective "sanity" -
**** it, you do what you have to.
a bit like this "surprise" regarding the
transgender movement...
         3 year old trannies...
   ever read r. d. laing's the politics of
experience and the the bird of paradise?
i hope to hell that r. d. laing will overshadow
freud, perhaps even jung...
after all: what glasgow giveth one
does not dismiss so easily...
                not without a brawling
spectacle in the back alley...
     what glasgow offers: one does not discard
even upon a 2nd reading.
                 and this is truly a topic of
the proper regard:
          all of politics is an aspect of experience -
as ever, with respect to heidegger:
   there's there-being -
but there's also mit-sein:
     with being, i.e. what?
                           mit-sein has no actual
coordinate to ensure a contract of
analogues -
             not a flat earth my aß...
you ever navigated a car via
    antwerp, eindhoven, venlo, duisburg,
  essen, dortmund, hamm, bielefeld, hanover?      
that serpentine is a ******* killer...
you travel east from that muddle of roads
you'll be a ******* general of the boyscouts...
      no, no GPS... play god, looking down
on a paper, yes, paper map!
            navigate that ****!
       oh right, 3 year olds and trannies...
why the surprise?

       jesus said to them:

   when you make the two one, and
when you make the inner as the outer
and the outer as the inner and the above
as the below, and when you make the male
and female into a single one,
      so that the male will not be male
and the female not be female, when you
make eyes in the place of an eye,
          and a hand in the place of a hand,
and a foot in the place of a foot,
        and an image in the place of an image,
then shall you enter the kingdom.
    (the gospel according to doubting thomas) -

so... trannies?  
              
      a ******* elephant in the room...
it's almost like people don't want to cite
where this entire zeitgeist furore originated from,
i.e. from the "heretical" gospels of
the "lesser" followers of "christ"...
         by now the whole affair
is staring me in the face with burning
coal-eyes...
            if only the nag hammadi
library was found in modern day israel,
and not egypt, and not the story of
the flight of joseph and mary to egypt -
   and not the account of the secular historian
josephus in the reign of nero,
   and the book of revelation ref. nero
rather than augustus...
               hey, i inherited this crap...
even though the old testament is ridiculous,
at least it's only so "ridiculous"
as to be "ridiculous" given the time-frame...
the new testament is just a blatant lie...
a blatant greek lie...
        it's the nadir of what came prior,
i.e. the excellence of poetic harvesting by
the greeks -
         the new testament is a death of poetics -
a religion carved out of:
    the uninhibited testimony of
ever perpetuating the hunger for the next
groove messiah...
       odd, jesus christ perpetuated -
             moses christ sounds a tad bit sour...

never mind, perhaps, sometime in america,
as it stands, in europe, we're stressing
keeping up appearances,
  we're being sensible,
                  we're being the apparently
"well-attired" -
                  there's a "we" that has agreed
upon the secular priesthood of psychiatry,
i'll just ask,
    is it worth the spectacular,
given that so many people are gambling
with the mundane?
       so? shut up, and try to laugh internally;
it didn't help me having either 1 of
the 5 senses to craft an account of
an oddity...
     i was told to step back into line...

   and this, by ordinary civilians...
           i'm pretty sure that army personnel are
more liberal to such odd events, than
your everyday grey-day joe:
you know the guy, you pass about 100 of them
in an urban environment:
that face, so unmemorable that it's almost
like looking at a concrete slab.

- you've seen a u.f.o.?!
- nope, i must have been blind drunk hallucinating,
  sorry to disappoint, ol' chap.

Each morning we awake with our heads buried into each others chests, as if they were bags of sand.
As if, everyone outside of this tiny room, would disappear.

Each morning he would tell me I am beautiful, so I stop wearing makeup and feeling the pressure to shave.
I don’t change out of my pajamas or shower for a week and he still tells me; ‘you are beautiful’.

He is all too familiar with my history to lie and I am all too familiar with the grey area of comfortability that I paint for myself.
And yet still I reply; “I love you too”
and he believes me without hesitation.  

This feeling is so familiar that I no longer can tell if it is a lie or the truth.
But I know that he believes me.
He looks down at me with big rounded eyes as he smiles, and I tell him;
“crows-feet do not look good on anyone so can you please soften up your face”.

No night is complete without my relentless nagging to watch a film
and afterwards, I still complain.
I complain when he ignores me while playing video games and I complain when he talks during Eastenders.

I have this compulsive urge inside of me to text him about every aspect of my life, while he is at work, from going for a walk to taking a bath.
He never replies.
But he congratulates me when I do the dishes even though he works 6 days a week while I sleep.

He makes loving me seem so easy. He makes me feel as though I am worthy of being loved.

We are both aware that I have molded him into being exactly what I need him to be-
Both protector and provider.
Both willing to take on the hefty weight of my sins without burdening me with his own.

When the guilt becomes too much he calls me both ‘baby bear’ and ‘princess’ while he rubs my back to help me sleep.

When he catches me searching for my old lovers name on facebook, he says nothing.
When he tells me he bumped into my old lover on the street, he detects my mood change and holds me closer.

I know that he is hurting inside too, but I allow him to comfort me everyday that it rains,
and in this little town, that’s more often than not.

I don’t know why I feel closer to abandonment and burnt out flames,
than I do to the shelter he built for me so I never had to go cold again.

Every restaurant we visit, every pub we drink at, I see every man who has ever sat in his place.
I can’t resist the temptation to tell him the story of when another man sat me at this very table.

I don’t know what to tell him when he asks me why everything I have ever needed is not enough.
I think the answer lies somewhere in my art.

You build our future, while I build my career.
A career of box wrapped trauma converted into a museum spectacle.
You piece me together until I am complete, left feeling so content and so- uninspired.

The distinction between falling in love with creating art and falling in love with the pain that brought me here is not clear.

I can not deny the underlying humour when I cry to a ghost of a man, asking what parts of me he is not able to love.

I dug a hole so deep into your chest, so I could bury my head and forget all the heartbreak that came before you.
And you forced yourself so deeply into my heart that you are willing to ignore all the warning signs and for that I thank you.

(with apologies to Gil Scott-Heron)

You will have to stay home, sister.
You will charge up, tune in, drop out of all activities.
You will scroll through memes, trawl the news,
Skip the tea, you're running low.

The epidemic will be endlessly televised.

The epidemic will be brought to you in a trillion parts,
With declining commercial interruption.

The epidemic will show you pictures of Trump and Boris blithering,
Dreaming of fried chicken at the end of televisation,
"Oka-a-ay...".
"You are a terrible reporter!"

NHS-badged Hancock will look the part,
But cannot answer the question
Should I look after my sick self-isolated seventyish neighbour?

Fauci facepalms
And is gone.

Watch out, guys.
The epidemic will be televised.

The Epidemic (starring Tom Hanks) will not be brought to you on the big screen.
There will be no big screen.
The Epidemic will not play Glasto
Lit by 300,000 Androids.

The epidemic will be brought to you by friends and strangers.
The epidemic will be televised.

The epidemic will not inject fat into your posterior.
You will not need to shave or deodorise.
As it turns out, you are not worth that expensive holiday.
The epidemic will make you a bedroom star
Vlogging your incarceration to ten followers.

The epidemic will be televised.

There will be pictures of coughing queues at supermarkets
Toilet roll riots, thermometer wars.
There will be pictures of you and your best mate
Pushing that cart down the block,
Packed with Branston Pickle baked beans
Though you posted fifty times online about hoarding.
You will not have dressed for the occasion.

You will not care who wins Love Island.
You will not care who wins The Great British Bake Off.
Eastenders will be cancelled
After 35 years of continuous drama.

You will dodge the police for a quiet walk
On a brighter day.

The epidemic will be televised.

Reporters will cough.
Ministers will be replaced
Suddenly
Parliament will be suspended.
Politics will cease to be televised.

The epidemic will be right back, after a message.

You will have to worry about a germ in your bathroom,
Your food supply, the tiger in your tank, your loved ones,
Whether, if you cease to breathe, there will be a ventilator.

You will consider getting in the driver's seat.
Where to go?

Would you like to see your mother?
Would you like to cross a border?

The Caravan Park is occupied
By the Military.

Slowly, slowly
The screens will darken.

The epidemic will no longer be televised.

The Epidemic is not a game.  You cannot return to a previous Save.

The epidemic is live.

(Voice 1-male)
This is not living
This sitting, nightly arrangement
Its purpose of entertainment
How could I care for the world around if I cannot hear it, touch it, taste it for myself?
We watch the same screen from opposite ends of the world
You have the best seat and I allow it, so you don't miss out
And we fill the void between us with empty crisp packets and the last dregs of a lonely can.
Once not so long ago
You would rest your legs over mine and consume the space.
And although I complained,
I never once minded, not really.

(Voice 2-female)
I wish you would touch me
Like you used to
Before we stagnated somewhere between Eastenders and Big Brother.
The way you would run your fingers up and down the soles of my feet.
Before work piled on the pressure
And you became too tired to tell me about your day
I remember when we didn't need the tv,
When our entertainment was the sound of each other’s voices,
Or the crackle of vinyl as we made love under its arches of sound,
Upon this very sofa
Where we now sit in awkward silence, together, yet apart.

(Voice 1-male)
I wish you still asked me about my day,
Even though I may not answer because I don't want to bring you down
Still it would be nice to know you cared.
I wish that remote would separate itself from our relationship,
Instead of being our adulterant, as we use it for the only pleasure between us.
I wish that at the end of the night, you would sit with me in silence,
The way we used to
Just wrapped in each other’s arms
The only entertainment we needed then,
Was listening for the moment our heartbeats synchronised
I wish we could have that again
Instead of you going to bed without so much as a good night kiss.

(Voice 2-female)
I wish you would follow me to bed
Instead of wallowing in front
Of your latest boxset conquest
You don't even say goodnight
As if I am doing you a disservice
And i wish you knew that in bed I cry
Longing for you to be as enthralled by me
As you is the TV.
When was our bed no longer the source of entertainment?

(Voice 1-male)
I wish you knew that I cry when you go to bed
Missing the time
When we were more important than sleep.
I wish I could turn off the television
I wish I could turn off my mind.
But I see that you no longer want me,
Or have any interest in me
When all I need is for you to ask
How are you?
Throw your arms around me
Take me away from the world
I need no other entertainment than that
Most of all
What I wish
Is that we could silence the world
And just be honest
And see that we are not that different
We are the same as we used to be
Before television took the life
Out of you and me
I wish, just for once, we would talk

i’ve learnt about enough online bullies to bully back

why do people immediately assume that pixel white = talk? where i'm sitting i'm curious: who's talking? must be scary to think pixel white as enough public to equate "speaking"... which it, never was... there's not speaking involved in writing onto this pixel white... if no one owns this space, no one gains from it, and if no one gains from it... then it's just another blank space; play your little hit-le-rs games elsewhere, i do gave the lessons and the gob to answer, but **** me... it's always so ******* predictable, i might as well be talking to someone fixated on watching EastEnders! big shark bite bad... sir just comes short of: are you sure who you're talking to?

if you've asked me to read your work, rather than provoke me... come on! asking is better than infuriating! i know that most people are infuriated at being asked, but not asking is doubly infuriating... i have ample time on my hands and hardly any excursions to bother myself with... Krista, don't read too much into the content without delving into the context, it's not a personal reprimand, or some viability into an answer of an allergy... i can retort to an immediacy of offence being taken, although an offence not being planned to encompass a narrative... so please, have something bothersome to plague me with, like caring to read your work, which i will gladly do, but please remember, the man on canvas is never going to satiate your attempts to reprimand the man due in conversation, sorry to disappoint; my offer is still vacant though.

internet drama**

it doesn't really bother me,
   i'm about to embark on a internet-free hiatus
for a month,
         perhaps it should,
but it somehow doesn't,
    a CSRF hack on my account in place
cross-site request forgery hack is in place,
why should i not be surprised?
all i know is that being reasonable
these days, is to not have an reason at all,
you can be as reasonable as you care to be,
  but madness has been normalised
and by the time we're finished,
the sane will entomb themselves in
the asylum, while the insane will run amok...
   umbrellas upside down
shouting: we're collecting puddles!
we're collecting puddles!
for a straight month i will be clean shaven,
hair trimmed, spending time
with sane, civilised people,
within the confines of the drama
that unfolds between grandfather, grandmother,
uncle, father, mother, me...
          and upon my return,
if the hack is still in place,
   i won't suddenly break-down and
whimper, i'll add a second tier post-scriptum
addition to each, of the 3K+ poems,
and then i'll a third tier,
    and then a fourth...
and perhaps even a fifth if i am
worth the bullshitting material,
  and then i'll revisit the turkish barber
and get a second trim,
    and then i'll watch the day advance
against the wintry night,
and then maybe, just maybe,
make me a snowman...
          the only way this gob is going
to stay silent is if you cut the tongue out,
cut the hands and then gorge the eyes out
with a crow's beak attached to a short stick...
i am well aware of my errors,
  although i am hardly aware of
the errors i perpetrated without being
allowed an explanation...
  there's but one aspect of high school
that i abhorred...
     the "need" for drama...
                    i hate drama...
     as any man would say:
  give me war! but don't give me drama...
              war is every man's mother,
when compared to the drama of having
a wife.

It Seems ... Mr. Ross ...
Has BROKEN Some ... " Boundaries " ...
  
But ... If It's Not Him ...  
It's That Man ... " Ali G " ... !!!  
    
Or Maybe A ... " Pundit " ...  
On Late Night TV ... ?!?  
    
But ...  
Shows That They're SLAMMING ...  
Claim To Be ... " Comedies " ... ?!?  
    
Can Someone Explain ...  
How They Get On ... TV ... ?!?  
    
" Have I Got News For You "  
    
Is On ... BBC ...  
As is ... Mr. Ross ...  
But NOT ... Ali G ...  
    
Channel 4 ... Is The Channel ...  
Where He Seems To Be ...  
    
But ...  
Now They're Complaining ...  
That Things They Are Saying ...  
AREN'T Really ... " Funny " ... !?!  
    
But ...  
THIS Is ... LONG After ...  
Execs' Get MONEY ... !!!  
    
NOT Just Celebs' ...  
But THOSE ... TV Heads ...  
Who CLAIM That ... " The Edit " ...  
Didn't Get To ... THEIR DESK ... !?!  
    
So ....  
What Were They Doing ... ?  
Instead of ... Tape Viewing ... ?!?  
    
Now ...  
That Is A Thought ...  
To Leave Your Mind ... " Stewing " .............  
    
See ...  
THIS Is ... " The Problem " ...    
With Critics and ... " Liberals " ...  
THEY ... Twist and Turn ...  
Like ... " Arjen Robben " ... !!!  
    
It's OKAY To USE Blacks ...  
For ... SHAMELESS Displays ...  
EVEN If A GREAT MANY ...  
DON'T Behave THAT Way ... !?!  
    
But Some SILLY Blacks ...  
Are READY To Say ...  
    
" Don't worry i'll do it ! "  
    
Just For A ... " PAYDAY " ... !!!  
    
That's Just My View ...  
Cos' TV ... Is SEE THROUGH ...  
    
DON'T EVER Be Fooled ...  
They KNOW What They Do  ...  
    
These SHOCK VALUE Stories ...  
Remind Me of ... TORIES ... !!!  
    
and Like ... MOST of Them ...  
THESE Stories Just Bore Me ... !!!  
    
I Thought This Was WHY ...  
We Have The ... " Watershed " ... !?!  
    
Cos' ...  
By The Time ... Half Past Nine ...  
Shouldn't Kids Be IN BED ... ?!?  
    
Parents ... Be CAREFUL ...  
Which Channel You PRESS ... !!!  
    
Cos' Your Child May Just Be ... ???  
REPEATING ... What Is Said ...  
On ... Late Night TV ...  
To Get Some STREET CRED' ... !!!  
    
This Is MY Belief ...  
It's Those SAME TV Chiefs ...  
That PUT ... FOUL-MOUTHED Actors ...  
On .... " Comic Relief " ....  
    
They KNOW What They're Doing ...  
They SET UP ... SHOCK Viewing ... !!!!!  
    
From Soaps Like ... " Eastenders " ...  
To ... Late Night Agendas ...  
    
To ...  
CONJURE UP ... Figures ...  
From Ali G ... " WIGGERS' " ...  
To RAPPERS Who YES ...  
Are REALLY ... Gold Diggers ... !!!  
    
Who Just Try To ... SHOCK ...  
With Words That They've Got ... !!!  
    
THESE Rap Battles Generate ...  
MILLIONS of Sales ... !!!!!!  
    
Don't You SEE ... ?  
Thats' The Plot ...  
    
DON'T Sit and COMPLAIN ...  
Cos' The Lot We've Now Got ...  
Is Running ... AMOK ...  
    
Somewhat Like ...  
... Your SNOT ... !!!  
    
Whatever Has Happened ...  
To .... TECHNOLOGY .... ?!?  

Unless The Show's LIVE ...  
Can't They Just Use The BLEEP ... ?!?  
    
EVEN If The Show's LIVE ...  
I Suggest They Start Using ...  
Technology ... " Tricks " ...  
    
And Then THIS Whole PROBLEM ...  
Could Simply Be ... FIXED ...  
    
PROFANITY Is ...
Part of ... REALITY ...  
    
And REALITY Is ..  
A Reflection of ... " WE " ...  
    
The Image of ... YOU ...  
And The Image of ME ...    
    
I Hope ... This Little Poem ...  
Has Helped You To SEE ...  
    
That ...  
ALL of This ... NONSENSE ...  
Is Simply Just ... BLEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPP ... !!!!!!  
    
And THAT Is My View ...  
On These **** ...  
    
.... " Boundaries " ....

once upon a time, my english teacher (a pict), blamed english soap opera (namely eastenders), for his students treating books like bricks, or at least door stoppers.

yep, and the most entertaining drama
i've seen unfold, was between my
neighbour's dog, and my pavarotti's
worth of a cat: every time it rains
and his meowing, i'm an inch's worth
close to phoning *amnesty international
on grounds of: human abuse...
hate this ginger ****, this castrated frankenstein
monstrosity meowing all the time...
it almost feels like i guillotined his
******* + testicles off, even though
i'm the ******* of pedigree annoyance
tactics...
   but, really? it must be the jazz pedigree
in me, transitioning from classical music
that really, gets me,
i hate bands that disrespect bass guitarists...
i'm either sly, or pedantic, or simply
nerdy...
       i don't like bands that forget bass guitars,
i like to think of them as a buffer criterium
segregating rhythm guitar and the drums,
bass guitars allow a harmony,
listen to enough jazz, and you'll know -
i like, and i also don't like bands like
metallica... i must be deaf...
   i must have had a mumbai elephant stamp
on my trombone's worth of owing an ear,
but i can't hear drums...
        so i must be deaf...
   i know the bass is there,
but it's subtle... too subtle for my liking,
it might be a guilt-ridden thing,
having lost cliff burton...
    but i have to be a bit deaf guarding a reminder...
i have no respect for bands that
hide the bass, and bask in rhythm guitars
and drums...
              sorry, but bass guitar is a crucial
mediatory medium of what comes after:
either solo guitar or the already apparent
"stage fright" of vocal exfoliation...
and that's truly the case, the most "soap opera"
i've seen these days, was staged
by my ginger-ninja and my neighbour's *****...
when people become too docile to become
interesting or entertaining,
you revise yourself using animals
as a blank slate...
         and i must be deaf,
   i can't hear any bass guitar on the majority
of metallica's songs...
       devil's dance is besides the point,
being stated;
    just call me deaf and we'll be ripping
                   a dollar bill to the hush of: evens.

.if you want the fresh impromptu, you might as well skip this unpublished draft, i'm even starting to think about leaking my hellopoetry.com password... but given my suspension... FOR 8 MONTHS because of some soccer mum not having encountered something akin to a harlequin novel... i'll leave it at that: •••••••••••••••••, here's to some depeche mode... last time i checked, even africans have the same inside of their hands "whitened"... there is no racial difference to be allowed to read into chiromancy... i met one ***-, tomikuni... he also inquired about reading my hands... we're all pale, governed by the thumb, when asked, or not asked, to hold "something".

and what is the only variant of classical
music, heard on a radio?

    well... there's the fama radio night
sessions - with not adverts
   radiofama.com.pl -

it might be your take on what the french
tell the english, i.e.: euro-trash...

but no adverts...

                          and there is no reason
to concede to reviving punk,
hippy music didn't see a revival,
why should punk?

   a variant of classical music radio,
akin to bbc 2, or classic fm...

       that "oddity" of a morphed bbc 4
internet coverage, akin to lionel nation...
and what i mean by that,
is not h. d. thompson's gonzo...

          the allure of the, un-scripted...
and all of this is raw, flesh,
language at a smithfield
                   or a billingsgate...

talk-radio as the logical conlusion
of exposing your child to classical music...
it's genius -
   reverting back to classical music
once you're older, and don't play
an instrument?
                      what's the point?

dr steve turley bashing out a medieval
mash-up on the guitar...
            and that's "not" even
inspiration for a rock star status...
i like his smugness -
    it's... zesty, lime-like:
             certainty of the twinkling
of the eye that consists of:
    a remaining - intact, i.e., sane.

bbc radio 4?
      what, with zee archers nonsense?
this radio novella
that keeps propping itself up
like a bad take on eastenders without
the kray brothers?
          
                  talk-radio is all about
a non-existent "script":
       the flamboyance of spontaneity...
with the crux, being?
                
                                     ensō -

the only aspect of ζεν, a ταoιστ might
respect.

      p.s.
                  do i believe in u.f.o.  s?
(****, acronyms and the plural article
attached to them, mind boggling)
     no... but i've seen one, so the belief impetus
is, kind'ah missing in me...
             i've transcended speculation,
a question-worthiness on the matter...
since the question no longer manifests
      itself in the narration impetus?
the impetus for narrative, is narration per se;
and how lovely, it is to see
a noumenon...
      when the world of phenomenons
reads like this:

  the times newspaper, saturday, july 21,
2018,
               OVER 70,000 CHILDREN
PUT ON PILLS FOR DEPRESSION...

great headline...
     alas, a chemistry degree (3rd)
from edinburgh uni.,
     am i chemo-phobic?
                 i should ask myself that
same question, when i next
brush my teeth, apply shampoo to
my cranium,
   or wash my hands.
__________
as any drunk might,
   now i know why my parents decided
to leave Poland...
   Chernobyll...
           when you hear the facts...
about a single gram of Uranium, U-236,
2.34 x 10 to the power of seven, years
being the "half-life" or...
****, i should have read over my
chemistry notes from Edinburgh...
before the particle fizzles out...

                 i was lucky...
i am to born again with the age bracket
of 33... which means i only received
a Cain tattoo on my right shoulder-blade...
birth-mark,
apparently i suffered greatly as a child,
hernia and all...
            i had the birth-mark removed,
i'm pretty sure i was a donor,
my flesh became donated to
   some scientific lab and studied...
here's my Shylock pound...

given what's currently happening in my
home city...
with the slow decay, the ever more increasing
number of cancer victims, middle-aged....
they're talking about the sort of cancer
that... moves, visibly, under your skin...
people are freaking out...

     it's not a joke,
   the soviets wanted to hush hush the whole
affair...
                   3.2 of whatever scale...
was hushed... but the reality was
aquivalent to 400 x-rays in a spell of a minute...
i was under the impression that i was
the child of economic migrants...
   eh eh...
               i don't think that's actually the whole
picture...
   come on! if people were hot and bothered
in Minsk... Belarus...
           this wasn't a ******* tornado...
tornados come and go... we're talking
500 years of after-effects...
               even my great-grandmother
remembers how the trees in the local park
were affected... streaks of autumn trees...
among streaks of actual spring green
phosphorescent trees illuminated
by street lamps...
          like the current phosphorescent green
oaks in england...

   they fled... and took me with them...
who gives a **** whether i came to england
without speaking the language...
hiding in toilets at my primary school...
but then... one day...
after self-teaching myself the language,
studious, labour of the mind,
books and books...
i was the teacher's pet...
             i remember this one time...
st. augustine's, near barkingside...
i was the only kid doing long arithmetic...
while the "natives" decided to
stage a: lord of the flies sort of coup
against the replacement teacher...
and what happened when our...
  ****... ms. mcguire! can't believe i still
remember her name...
  i wasn't happy that the children
were scolded,
  i did my work, they didn't,
and i managed to do whatever i wanted
while they had to catch-up
on what i already did...

         for whatever childhood i had,
i still remember it fondly...
    my father being unable to teach me how
to swim in the english channel,
me teaching myself to swim out of sheer
will and determination: competition...
i know people brag about:
how smart they were so early on:
                             yadda yadda bull... ****!

now i am here to take out my investment
in this language,
   to... peacock and strut...
        as i am also glad to not brag about
being a polyglot or a... eh... somewhat polymath...
either this... or a slump in depression
and suicide thinking:
   as always... i don't get out of bed
and think of one impossible thing,
   i get out of bed to overcome one suicidal thought...
not all suicidal thinking is the end game,
some of it relieves you in having
integrating a kick-up your **** to get out of bed!

so... the picture...
well like any past-time of any: happily to be drunk...
walking is one,
the other...
       i wanted to experience a hamsa...
     i was going to do the whole hand,
but i figured: spare some of that ink
for what you're going to write on your grandfather's
80th birthday card...
poor ******...
     he still remembers getting sweets from
two SS-men in black,
  sweets that would stick his hands together...
he still remembers how his uncle
laid in a patch of green, shot dead,
how the russian soldiers would rather prefer
to sleep in the barns with the goats
on hay rather than in beds,
how most of them were teenagers...
and how my grandmother's ultimate insult
to him was: that he was a skurwysyn:
  *******...
     well... he does have 3 other brothers...
half-brothers...
                         eh... clown needs to juggle?
however bad he was...
we did go fishing together...
    but now that he's demented...
and has a dementia routine...
                    it's hard to tell what it feels
in this, transition period of the perils of
us, the mortal men...
                  i could never associated mortality
with any sort of morality,
other than it being dictated by one's
own ambition: to keep as many people
from my private life as possible.
           so when my jewish neighbor
recently converted to islam drops by and
comments about my barber skills:
you and my son look like you've just been
released from auschwitz birkenau...
we laugh...
            and how it suits me... beard and all...
monk...
      cool cool...
   i'm still studying the qabbalah...
                    christianity became... too poverty
stricken for me, in terms of points of reference...
although not circumcised...
why would i be?
                          that extra bit of skin is
for me to not be ashamed of jerking off once
in a while...
   pije... pali... konia wali.

            and this is where the: right hand doesn't
know what the left hand is doing...
regarding chiromancy...

              tzayach's...
i tattooed over chokhmah,
                chesed and netzach....
for the love of god...
there's no     girdle of venus on either
of my hands...
  either hand looks like there's
a letter imprinted on them: M...
                i had a "fwend" in high school
once... god, what is it with the muslims...
either they want to **** you,
or convert you!
    started his own muslim chiromancy...
talked **** about how there's
the number 72 on my hands...
the number of names of the goat-blood
                               allah god...

no... i'm pretty ******* sure that's an M...
anyway...

p.s.
and then you look up those words ref.
chiromancy...
                 as ever, better to bewilder yourself
with what's in front of you,
in your posession than to *******
yourself around the zodiac brothel of
          ... well... even the zodiac killer
is more fascinating than all this: "constellations
talk"... yeah, and a paragraph of
marquis de sade's writing is more
of a hard-on than some harlequin novel!

i tattooed over the words:
    chokhmah...     in the sefirot tree:
wisdom... yah...
            chesed...        ditto:
    love... el...
               netzach...             ditto:
victory... adonoy tzevaot...
   2, 4, 7... those are the allocated numbers
to the sefirot tree...
   whether or not gematria is your thing...
because i'm the type of, "guy",
that likes the maxim: i'll meet you half-way,
now you meet me, half-way...

how could any muslim,
think i could convert,
  to the brat ******* son of christianity,
who keeps nagging,
and nagging, and punching and screaming...
if, that is, monotheism is a noble cause...
why would i look toward
the evolutionary direction...
no past, only forward,
how much of darwinism is about:
forward...
   all our ancestors were idiots...
ah... but what will those,
who will inherit what we... floundered think,
of us?
         not much, by the looks of things...
what have i done?
   to love wisdom,
is to find victory...
   the will, will come from itself,
and the power, vested in it,
i don't need to look for the "logos"
via the christian deity...
   i merely look at the genesis of the idea...
Heraclitus...
            and that's it...
and why do i do "stupid" things when drinking...
like pretending to tattoo my hand?
i do not possess the luxury of dreaming...
rarely... i do, but mostly:
it's the abyss that entertains me...
so i have to do something stupid
within the framework of a "today",
that i might sharpen my memory for
a "tomorrow"...

       i have nothing to learn from
the christians...
                  i might as well turn to paganism
if, and only if,
my... deposed fascination with
judaism diminishes...
                    i don't even care whether
i'm a jew or not, a yew: paraphrasing
the prefix from yiddish...
those people, were citizens of Paul-on-a-leash...
land...
                this is the best i can offer...
i'm not... **** like the ******* caduceus
of protruding veins wrapping
the ******* intact?

****... here's a chimera for you:
**** of a Hermes, heart of a...
     head of a...
                  feet of a...
and a tail of a dobberman-albino-monkey:
when it was still aesthetically pleasing
to trim the ears and cut off the tail
of that particular dog breed!
   and... i'm still drinking...
                      what have you...
bitter, inconsistent, whatever you like...
i'll just trap this in the internet index,
open a newspaper from sunday,
that big one, format,
                   the old school way of reading
an english newspaper:
   having once tried folding a page
on the tube (underground)...
              never mind, thank god i still have
my *******...
i don't look like a ******* loser
all of the time jerking off
without having one...
         yeah: i'm pretty sure the kippah
has something to do with:
the imitation game, of medieval monk's
donning the tonsure haircut.

p.p.s. em... revision, it was actually U-235...
and the core of a nuclear power-plant...
being exposed...
   like 40 ******* Hiroshima explosions
in one hour, non-verbatim...
but Chernobyl was a ghost town
without the sort of tourism manifesto
of Zionists...
who would have to revisit
the grave of their ancestry...
                  no "big" deal though...
m'eh, just a little glitch...
no children in Frankfurt being told
to not play outdoors...
just a glitch...
                the holocaust is forever
the major no. 1 human disaster...
pre-planned...

     say... why study jurisprudence,
when not having studied the thesaurus
helps, i mean:
isn't all of the jursprudent concept
based upon access to a thesaurus,
aren't all nouns: "suspect",
readied for the synonym spaghetti
counsil? no? my bad?

  oh, oh... good to know! really great,
great to know: who the ****
is peddling this sort of *******!
weasels.
even your own shadows will
not forgive you...
mark my word...
whether angels, demons,
your own shadows will not forgive
you...
you'll be dancing the *******
1518 dancing plague:
whether you like it or not!

      let's take a summary:
what looks worse,
Chernobyl or, Auschwitz?
how many tourists visit Auschwitz,
how many tourists visit Chernobyl?
hmm...
    tough number to crack open
for comparison...
          this is the one time i will
craft a crux for / of moral relativism...
who was gagging for it,
and... who wasn't... when it happened:
"out of the blue"?
        let's just say:
Chernobyl wasn't premeditated...
Auschwitz, was...
           now i did start learning
about the qabbalah for a reason:
the holocaust wasn't the worst horror
of the 20th century,
the 20th century prime tattoo of historical
events: wasn't Auschwitz...
       and i will, continue,
to learn qabbalah, denoucning my "christianity",
for this, sole, reason...
the yews, jews, yids,
aren't the only people alive in this world,
i'm not going to buy into this
solipsistic narrative complex...
esp. when i will, forthrightly:
denounce who was crucified...
      i'm done... with the unearthing of
the nag hammadi library in 1945,
complimented by the josephus ben matthias
historian...
             how jesus, "son of god"
played chinese whispers in the gosepl of
st. thomas...
   n'ah... n'ah mate... i'm done...
            find yourself a ******* imam
or a rabbi: my mind is made up!
ich will tanz diese tango...
              egal du wie es, oder nicht!
sorry... whether deutsche or not,
west saxon grammar translates itself:
*** essex bound.

we will learn to keep people
in their echo-chambers:
soon enough...
just like with the sketch i'm
rewriting for the 5th time...
about the "forgotten" jihad
in the xinjiang...
because: no jihadi: "proud warrior"
of the ummah will ever find himself
in... except in xinjiang...
no need for a xinjiang jihad
to "begin" with...
thank god for the afghan spirit
of burqa praise!
and the pashwan or pashweerie
poetics of the clever women...
i will not hear a *******
mouses' peepsqueak
from these taliban turban rolls
of toilet paper readied for
a ******* squat!
*******... never a jihad when you
need one... or...
true true: depending on
the "where"...
because you don't have
one arab supporting arab superiority...
against another arab...
you need the iraqi influence
to via that kuwait *******...
but when the saudi arabs attack
the people of yemen?
a long prolonged vowel of your choice...
and a tetragrammaton vowel
catcher surd of a consonant H...
what bother?

internet soap opera pop culture...
i want to meet onision as
michael myers...
i'll be found dead... contemplating
torturing an animal...
but? when it comes to something
****-esque? i would like
to contemplate recycling...
**** me...
we celebrate the predator in
a tiger form...
but have to shame him in the human form:
if acting alone...
why shame what you can also eat?

i don't get it... the predator is...
celebrated if feline...
perhaps group mentality is part
of the strategy... to be witness:
be involved... to be third party sources...
a predator humanoid...
rare... isn't it? cleaarly non-existent...
which would make me an accomplice...

what did i "say?
i never integrated into english society:
proper...
there was no trans-generational aspect
of worshipping soap opera britain...
grandmothers watch soap opera
in poland... apparently everyone watches
eastenders in the vicinity of London...

i said: humanity adores predators...
the feline and the aquatic...
but when it comes to predators of its
own, categorical definition?
it shames them...
how can you adore one and the same
essence... but then...
differentiate it as either + or negative?

no wonder... that "we" introduced
the microscope and the telescope...
the "big" in the small picture...
as the "small" in the big picture...
the solipsistic extreme and:
the democratic right of the vote...

but still no news concerning the xinjiang jihad,
yes? no news...
the jihad is still thinking about:
crusading it into the north western aspect
of europe...
somehow nothing jihad related
is bound to the spanish term:
reconquista...

aren't any muzzy fiddle-tongues required
in the xinjiang vicinity?
no? that's ******* terrible!

and if i wanted to watch internet culture
like i might watch... english soap opera...
i'd love to visit onision akin
to michael myers...
i don't know... 6ft2 lying about being shorter...
257pounds (lying about being slimmer)...
and women get away with the vanity
project of age...

i would just like a teddy bear to play
with...
i'd love to play-dough a psychopath
into a workable silence...
imagine me: when i find it irritating
my maine **** quarus imitating
pavaroti... i tell 'im...
**** and **** into the space provided...
nein nein! am meisten hoch nein!

well: schaudermichbauhölzer!
i drink... i sink into appropriating german...
i know, i know...
it's bad gesture... like biting your nails
when watching a football match...
or binging of popcorn...
but... i drink... i lick some german ash
and call it: resurrection!

this is my 5th attempt...
and i'll "publish" it...
because...
there's something quiet...
forthcoming...
when you think you are able
to outsize someoneone...
to stereotype physics...
to play the bogus Goliath against
a sly David...
personally i don't mind...

didn't anyone at any time in history...
ever want to play the statue role,
the cameo of a supposed imposing nature?
like a silent mountain?
it's not like i'm an authority figure...
perhaps i question some demands...
demands being: audacities...
and... that one last bet that will end your
luck...

i don't want to impose...
i don't want to... scare people off their
audacity to genesis ex...

i just want to stand a titan-grandeur;
and see mortals play gods beneath me,
like a mountain;
again... with no exceptional size measures...
nothing for the alltäglichmensch:
grau-mann-sache to mind...
a fraction above the average...

sober: of no worth of a judge...
silent, though? oh i love to sit back...
and read a book that actually reads itself...
when there is no narrator...
when the characters play themselves
in the multi-level care for the crib
and lullaby for glue... of the tender toddler...

the dog on the leash...
the cat on the whim... outdoors...
will i hear about the xinjiang jihad...
any time soon? no, i probably will not.

i just can't get rid of the moths...
5 for one bedroom
and... it's hardly an enterprise
in cubisms' revisionism...
daddy larva -
should i leave some
cotton for these poor
delights...
                  am i riddled with
a western "world" exhausted...
like... the pops of no new
genius?
  like polyphony was never
at play:
   when the rigour of man
made it: less of an affair that might
suggest green tea
and the superfluous
fling of a pancake at
a constellation of: nowhere...
  a crucial time for messiahs
and for caricatures...
magicians and iranian baklava bite-sized
retreats...
  not necessarily iranian:
could be lebanese!
       it's not like this grand past,
this grand history...
this inheritance tax on the mind
was to be ever borrowed from
a concentration on the trade
routes surrounding the baltic sea...
i... inherited... nada! nothing!
i acquired english when i should
have given inclination
to tsarina cyrillic and minor hector
mandarin...
       it's so unsurprising, though...
to catch up on the bbc radio 3 adventure...
to reach a platitude of i.q.:
i finally! finally!
fathomed the point of an english
soap opera... eastenders...
i didn't find an i.q. focus to mind...
a continuum perhaps...
but it has and always has been
just... ever so tiresome...
to compensate i.q. -
or to overstate it...
             it's not that i found soap opera
dumb... but after waking up
to bbc radio 3... i knew i was missing
a narrative: an assurance...
a soap opera is an assurance...
however banal the pursuit of harlequin
is...
it's there: a persistent brick upon brick:
wall!
      well... it's one compliment to hear:
that children "like" you...
that dogs or cats like you...
but... for god's sake... moths?!
i am not quiet assured a status in alignment
with a buffalo bill...

so much for nabokov
and the whole ****** and the entomologist /
etymologist...
catch them with what?
my bright oozing bulb of a phosphorescent
appreciation for the punchy cliche
goldberg variations?

to be honestly endeared by a dog...
to be made forthcoming
by a quizzical attention span of cats toying
with poker...
      but to make endearing
inquiries in the realm of insects...
who... fathomed... the flies...
a mythological man with an authentic
given name that came to be
the realisation of the myth of Beelzebub...

well... so much for sharing...
on the crux of a noun... like any other...
be it a moth... motte... ćma...
or a butterfly... schmetterling... MOTYL...
globalisation and...
well... no real etymological sensibility....

not even in sharpnel wording:
    in: w,
               im...
                        z: with, mit
o: about, um...
                      od: from, von...
so much for a shared purpose a sharing
of tattoos and ******* blisters...
like old age is a crease...
and youth an argument...
best invested in pickles...

                the ordeal of the night sky...
while having to grind a gripping
reality of something profoundly
stupid that it cannot be anything beside
stupid...
         a concept of a solitary pine...
when a pine as solitary is
impossible to fathom:
or a birch thus solo...

        an oak: while the adventures
of birches have come to their
natural advent of regrets...
           and this solo coffin shadow come
noon stans procrastinating a
show of shadows borrowed from
an overflow of the Styx...

Thames: a river... with... no authentic
tide: from mountains toward
the sea...
no... the Thames is an inauthentic river...
if it's a river to begin with...
a sea knows a concern for tide...
but a river?
a river should know no mirror
bogus "now" of a tide...
the Thames is like the Bermuda Delta...
an irrational high-rise ****...
enough to pluck one's eyes
out for...
   or don a sheikh hanky panky teasing
that 19th century morbid whitey
of celestial: wool! my eyes! needs! woolz!

some banal Clarice chasing a hunchback
Circe with a Charon towing...
impossible gravity of walking a stupendous
walk of arrogance:
this two-feet-tow...
my bucktooth and arithmetic:
theatre von der nacht:
lepper zeppelin -
   authentically lisping minor details:
an accent "here" or... "dasein"...

teatr nocy...
               ćma i jej obcy:
a moth and her other...
              like some proto-digestion
of custard and borrowed glue...
me left to my own: deus "ex" machina /
**** in machina device-works...
a concept of switzerland came
with both the tickling time-keeper
of a form of clock and some lesser
known 20th century protagonist
by the name of Young...

                  persuasions please!
i can leave my i.q. on the diatribe for
the persistent allowance
of the desired... "englishness" of:
queue...
            bread the brittle futurism of
a sanctity of bread:
beside this "thing" dubbed irish...
and gnats and breadcrumbs...
itches furthest from the last
encompassing loiter...
of a truth salvaged via
a tartare steak...
a kogiel-mogiel...

                  a bread-owned soaking
up of a spilling yoke:
like it's a french... "thing"...
teasing an affair of a wig...
best: warsaw will forever be...
an interlude of:
the concept question from
london toward tokyo...
i.e.: why can't we have nice things...
answer?
we... ahem... never had them...
we tried... vaginal ****-wit
from Brandenburg or that ****-****-wit
from lady muscovite...

here's to samson-frankenstein's monster...
the furore surrounding
the faroe islands...
the 20 thousand(s) composition
of the shetland:
united schkootland repose:
'aggis neeps 'n' tatties!

enough salz undz pfeffer
und we have haz ours...
hinderburg-esque hogmanay!
of the british:
not lived among the vilsh...
or the scuttling furore of the:
'igh 'anders...
          
cutie pie pork chop
worth a *******'s towing:
that last vanguard of / if:
              "too few"...

no... no good lending an ear
to listen to "shared": charred...
etymology of greek or russian...
London's desperate plight:
*** ordeal that never has to happen...

there have to be concerns
for calling it a new 9am...
just because it just so happens
in Edinburgh...
  there's the chopping of wood...
there's the ordeal of castratos
attired in niqabs...
the harems of the ottomans are
still a fetish for imagery best
sourced in Vienna...

            to worship the night:
is to find enough of day...
as sacrificial:
as banal... as enough...
to think with an exhaustion
of compensation:
     it's not that i dare not: dream...
but it's not enough to dream
to begin with...
i will harvest this eternal night...
to eat away at the day's
mediocre...
              mirror mirror...
             your wish for status lake...
i see no question-worthiness
in either sea or river...
how is it that i write
to fathomable formal linguo?
                  mirror in the shadow...
mirror in the lake...
murky time of river
and the hiding grey of the sea(s)...
come tide come swelling of
hinterland ambitions...
this little norse retreat of my
last perspective...
            perhaps i just want
to die a death pronounced by
having to don an agitating
pair of shoes: that demand...
towing a scenic incredulity of
a miser's mile?!

         how's that? roundabout
faroe isles! an itch of spreading butter
on... toasted bread:
notably a sourdough crusted:
new holborn sort of "adventure"...
no.. nothing new...
here's to drinking some more
while making it simultaneously
well-reserved ast having
the same inviting prospect of...
looking for:
a loot of a shakespeare and a full-stop.

Be True My Youth ...
Be True ... Be TRUE ... !!!!!

Don't Do The Things ...
That Make You ... " Blue " ... !!!

DON'T Lie to yourself ... !!!
Because ... Those Who DO ...
End Up Having ... PAINFUL Moods ... !!!!!

TRUST In That ...
Because ... That's The Truth ... !!!

I'm ... Saying To You ...
To ... Just Be TRUE ... !!!

Because Doing This ...
Can Help You DEAL ...
With Your ISSUES ... !!!

Do You Think It's Cool ... ?
To Give ... ABUSE ...
On The Street ...
And In Your School ... ?!?

Well Here's Some TRUTH ... !!!!!

That May .... " Exclude "
And That's NOT GOOD .... !!!

And Gives You Proof ...

THAT It's Better To Be TRUE ... !!!!!!!!
Than Walk Through Life ...
With A ... RUDE ATTITUDE ... !!!

TRUTH Makes People ...
.... RESPECT You .... !!!

But You Won't Get Respect ...
For Being ..... RUDE ..... !!!!!

Now Check This Out ...

I'm A Dude ...
Who Deals In ... TRUTH ... !!!!!

Poems I write ....
Will Give You Proof ...
That Truth Can Make ...
Your Wordplay .... " COOL "
And Even Get You Into Schools ...

Passing On .........
What You've Been Through ...

Now Isn't That Something ... ?
You'd ... Like To Do ... ???

If Words Could Make ...
Some Cash For YOU ... !?!

But TRUTH Can HURT ... !!!!!
DON'T Get It Confused ... ??!??

LIARS ...
Hate To Hear The TRUTH ... !!!

Be TRUE With People ...
Who You .... " LOVE " .... !!!!!

Because LYING Makes ...
Loving ... TOUGH ... !!!!!

And May Result ....
In ... NEGATIVE Stuff ... !?!

Being TRUE ....
Results In ... Finding Love ...

Be TRUE ... REFUSE To Lie To Prove ....
You're Worthy of Respect ...
When Facing .... FEUDS .... !!!!!!!!!

Cos' That's When TROUBLE ...
Starts To ..... BREW ...... !!!!!!!

Do I Have To ...
Give MORE Clues ... ?!?

STICK To TRUTH ...
NOT ... " Attitudes " ... !!!

THINK It Through ...
Take Time ... " REVIEW " ......
What It Is ...
That I'm Saying To You ... !!!!!

Being ... " False " ...
Just May Result ... ???
in Seeing Things ...
Like ... Gang Assaults ... !!!

Or Worse The LOSS ... !!!
of ..... " THAT THING " .....

Without A Cost .... !!!!!

Truth Can Make ...
These Actions ... STOP.

FALSENESS Also ...
Leads To ... PROBLEMS ... !!!
LYING Simply ....
Forwards ... NONSENSE ... !!!

I'm Saying ....
Use Some ... " Common Sense " ... !!!!!
And Use The TRUTH ...
As Your ..... " DEFENCE " ..... !!!!!!

Because Lying Leads To VIOLENCE ... !!!!!

NOT ... All The Time ... !!!
But ... LOOK For Signs ...
Take ... " My ADVICE " ....

DON'T End Up Doing ...
STUPID Crimes ....
Because You've Told ...

" A CROCK of LIES ! " ...

Check The NEWS ...
And Be ... ADVISED ...

Lies Provide A Simple Guide ...
That TRUTH Can OPEN ...
..... " Peoples Eyes " .....

While Those Who LIE ...
Are ..... " Criticised " .....
And End Up With ...
UNHAPPY Lives .... !!!!!

EASTENDERS' Shows This ...

..... ALL THE TIME ..... !!!!!

LYING  Can .....
Leave You ... " downsized " ... !!!!!

By This I Mean ...
Lies Can ... " Create " ...
Your Own DEMISE ... !!!!!

This Is Why ....
I'm Saying ... TRUTH ...
Is ... BETTER For You ...
Than Telling .... " LIES " .... !!!

TRUTH Is Something ...
For The ..... " WISE " ..... !!!!!
And Helps You Lead ...
A .... " HAPPY Life " ..... !!!!!!

Words of TRUTH
Are NOT ... " Devised " ... !!!

They Simply Come ...
From ... LIE FREE Minds ... !!!!!

I'm Using Mine ...
Through Use of Rhyme ...
And Through Usage ...
of ... " Poetic Designs " ...

These Words Are TRUE ...
And Simply Are ...

... " Big Virge's Views ! " ...

I Choose To Use ...
The TRUTH For Food .... !!!

Because Food Like THAT ...
Supplies ... The FACTS ... !!!!

NOT A life ...
of Smoking ... " CRACK " ... !!!!!

Drugs Like ... THAT ...
Can BREAK Your Back ... !!!!!!!!!!

And Leave Your Life ...
On ... " Dodgy Tracks " ... !!!!!

So ... Do Your Do .... !!!!!
LIVE LIFE ... Be Cool ...

But Do What's RIGHT ... !!!
When Sharing Views ...

ALWAYS ...

... " BE TRUE " ... !!!

title: humming
body: beside Kafka; one of those 502 bad gateway hacks...

i'm not going to write about how i'm being an *******,
forget that,
i had two weeks of living alone to figure out:
yeah, very doable, i can do this alone...
only once or twice did i find myself talking to
myself... i said something in English then
answered back in ******... wow... two very different
people... they must have met up Berlin: of all places...
but i was glad... didn't get into a boxing match
scruff with my shadow... so no black eye...
thank god my left is returning to normal:
when that psychotic ***** of a cat bit me while i was
trying to wash her for having taken a lazy ****...
wow... i can count four... knuckles...
sure... the cigarette burns on the middle and index
are still healing... but as someone who enjoys pain:
i'm not bothered...
mein gott... we were expecting havoc at the Oxford
vs. Bolton Wanderers match...
only a week prior the fans of the latter team threw
a man from his wheelchair...
maybe it's just me... maybe i look the part...
i'm not some scruffy anemic Asian kid that a good
gust of wind could blow over...
perhaps i belong to a cult of: put out cigarette butts
on your knuckles... make them wonder...
but i'm not even a south-paw...
but like Louis XIV once remarked:
the trick is in the optics... never mind that:
i always admired his brother more...
                                     philippe I, duke of orléans....
him an frederick II, hohenstaufen -
well... there is also philip II augustus,
from the Captetian family...
               but no... i'm not going to be made
to feel like an *******...
Jeminah: Jemma... i thought it was Gemma...
she slandered me...
i already know she fits the stereotype of
an ava max song: oh she's sweet but a ******...
at night she's singing where's: m'ah m'ah m'ah m'ah my mind...
i should have gone to the brothel...
take off some steam...
          girls can hot yoga all they want...
i need a proper good **** to get things off my chest...
i tried psychiatrists,
priests?! i guess i'm a poet...
but prostitutes were always my go-to therapy
sessions... i need to "talk" by touch...
well... i didn't... i also forgot about *******...
i'm so into this little ginger ***** that:
don't get me started... too many *******
obstacles to begin with... the prospect of raising
a boy with her... i'd be keener on raising a girl...
but...well... even Henry VIII didn't get what he
really wanted... so, go figure...
plus... if i landed that lottery ticket of being
recognised as the father... he's 11 now... so that's what?
7 years of coughing up child support?
in the meantime i already sent her a text...
so... you threw that banana loaf in the bin, yet?
knock knock... i left you a bouquet of flowers
at your doorstep, in the middle of the night come the 14th...
and that card and all that sigh and onomatopoeia
and how i hate roses but pink roses can pass...
esp. if they're a pale rose... but sure...
no... it's not purple... it's fuchsia pink... blah blah...
go figure... no reply...
i'm not going to reply her... no chance...
i think she's playing the game of: ooh... when i see
him, next time, in person... i'm going to lay it into
him! he's going to regret it...
yeah... the girls on the stewarding team were having
a spastic mr. fantastic fall-out...
i told her... it's my fault... i just waited...
but when your boy's friendship with the other girl's
boy that's on the team came to the fore:
i stepped in... by telling you:
you slandered me... then blamed it on the other girl...
i even used a confused emoji in the message...
i never use those modern hieroglyphs...
ugh... i must have recoiled with that sort
of drunken spasm of: w.t.f.?!
i even texted her: listen, my grandfather was an alcoholic,
as much as i loved him,
we'd go cycling, fishing, mushroom foraging,
but every time i visited my grandparents
during the summer holidays when still school
he'd disappoint me by having a week-long
drinking ****, black out... **** the bed...
and i know that women that live with alcoholics
build up with "sixth sense" of smelling
alcohol on a man... you've lived two violent
alcoholics, they beat you and your boy...
but the alcohol you smelt on my might have been
my cologne...
stunned... i'm guessing she still hasn't motivated
herself to leave a reply...
what day's it today? Tuesday... ergo tomorrow
is a Wednesday... the day she spends talking to her
female councillor... so she's going to bring me up...
she better talk to her about... meeting me for the first time...
being engaged in a healthy professional team-work
interaction... but... at the same time...
slandering me... while i gave her a bottle of homemade
wine... a banana loaf for her son...
and a bouquet of flowers on Valentine's day...
there's only so much a man can do...
the rest is up to the girl...
            if she want to be around abusive alcoholics
than... drinkers that'd prefer to fight themselves,
who cycle to end up getting thrown off their bicycle
from: there's no adequate onomatopoeia for a sigh...
AH doesn't cut it... it's that's obviousness of the remark...
and HMM is too inquisitive...
i mean: how do write an word that's merely
a sound that's a signifier of: exasperation?
of defeat?
     write it for me... i know i can't...
so back to the "party" song list:
bruce springsteen - human touch
rihanna - cheers
lionel richie - dancing on the ceiling
kool & the gaand - celebration
pink - get this party started
roy orbison - you got it
ghost - call me little sunshine...

   i'm not the ******* in this story... i should be the *******
in this story... very much so...
but since i played the girls against each other...
like i already said... 10 years of drought from
female attention... then... all of a suddden...
i'm getting chest constipation from feelings...
i'm getting constipated and bound
to that metaphorical-misnomerism of
claustrophobia: of the chest, too...
my head is aching: it feels like it's shrinking...
10 years of no attention... if not more...
and then: wham! bam! thank you ma'am...
10 of them show up... with kids...
and they're like: hey you...
                                               what?
the avenues of possible romance have dried up?
now you're all here... and you're each playing
the Brutus role, back-stabbing each other?
but at the same time... with such: obviousness...
you must have forgotten how it was done back
in your high-school days...
you're getting lazy... no: you've gotten lazy...
if a guy can play you off each other
by simply waiting? i told them... lies have short
legs... the truth will come out to the fore:
of its own volition... just wait...
lies breed contradictions...
they're not some ******* array of Zeno's Paradoxes...
there are only contradictions that leave
loop holes in the narrative...
they reveal contestations... irregularities...
x + y ≠ z... even though... it most certainly ought to...
yeah... less English soap opera akin
to Eastenders and more... Jane Austen's Emma...
a trivial load of *******...
but i know i'm going to get the back-slap from
all of this: because as a man i'm sort of expecting
the worst from a #metoo / #metoyou aftermath...
if they're not all clamouring to get into my good books...
i don't know...
i stopped trying to understand women a long
time ago... i love them too much...
but... if ****'s going down this route...
    i'm going to have to think about doubling down...
get some extra armour...
love them a little bit more...
sort of... apply more metaphors of violence...
dismember them... bit, by bit, by... bit...
**** it... we're game...
i'm already half and half away from a drowning
man crazed with saving himself by gripping
to a razor... cutting my hands in the process of saving
myself... gone with the wind...
no... this ***** is going to learn a lesson:
the hard way... by someone insisting that she can
be loved... she will not get away so easily...
i'll give this doe some time to digest some of her
*******...
               maybe she'll do her backwards and forwards
with her councillor and the councillor will be like:
oh, you, stupid girl...

by the way, that's now how algebra works...
but if she's outright willing to self-sabotage...
i know a little a bit about that...
but not so outright, like that...
and just imagine, we used to be men
that would glorify women in song and in verse...
what has become so terrifyingly real
in our quest to rid ourselves from being
influenced by women... that... we no longer
seek, or therefore need,
to be influenced by them?

shocking... i'd want to be a Chris Rea singing
about Josephine...
or an Eric Clapton singing about Layla...
oh man... i wish i could have been those guys...
but how can i be?
my best options are: either prostitutes
or single mothers...
there's no in between!

idiot, serves you right for falling in love
out of touch, out of time, out of what would be deemed
respectable! ******* ****... idiot...
you better slap yourself awake or i swear to god,
i'll find a 4th, a 5th arm to do that for you!
******* plonker... blunt knife...
headless nail... ugrh!
as much as i'd want to sign about women...
i, simply, can't! they're already mothers!
now i have to play the ancient Roman game of
the good, willing, dog with a tail between its legs
goody-two-shoes...

no... the Rolling Stones and the rest of them
can *******... right off the map of time...
right off!
i don't need their influence...
they had their fun... they can take that ****
to the grave... come to think of it:
i would have never liked to have the easy life...
but come on, outright...
give me the pain... don't play this
carrot & the stick game with me...
i'd rather the pain than this game...
like she can... am i going to be writing
generously about single mums?!
i can, sort of, try... i can write a verse about
having smelly socks too...
but you know... it's not going to exactly stick...

shtick...
      nothing around right now expect how black
guys banging white party girls
with sharpnel of language: in the affirmative...
yeah... hmm.. uh-hmm... blah blah...
at the same time...
white boys looking at black girls
"thinking": no, sorry...
i'm not attracted to that...
you better spike my drink with
some ****** before i bed that *****...
sorry... i'm not going to sleep with her....
she'd sooner be Mongolian than i'd sleep with her...
once more... the Pontius Pilate side
of the story...
   i'm... washing... my hands... clean...
of any affairs... that might arise... come from this;

but sure... have your little interracial escapades...
i don't mind seeing more pseudo-Arab tanned
people... the whole interracial antic is sort of
diluted out of existence come the 2nd generation...
you do you...
but i don't want to feel forced into purposively
having to love a black girl: because being
anti-racist is: just about right...
can i just be: non-racist?! do i need to have to side
with the white leftist quasi-liberal anti-racists?!

no... well thank god for that...
i'm not getting sold life for propagandist reasons...
i'm not about to raise a mixed-race child...
sorry... the mammoths had their chance
to **** with the African / the Indian elephant(s)...
but they missed their chance...
no! how did the dachshund come about...
someone broke a few bones
in the frame of the dobermann?

enough, of the gammon... i'm an albino pinky
chimpanzee... sorted...
  enough of this racial pandering...
  deaf! hello? sorry... what?! falling on deaf ears!
it's just so ****** terrible that i don't think
any man will be available to write a love song
using a girl's name in the near future;

Jeminah... yeah... that ***** that slandered me,
then figured out that she was into me...
well... wow! a bit late for that... don't you think, babe?
no matter... now the sadomasochist has
come out... i'm going to ******* drive
you into the ground;
with past experiences from the brothel...
i'll harrow you... given your previous boyfriends,
drunks... battered you...
i'll make having a heart a living hell!

what the **** am i doing?
i would never catch myself watching a soap opera...
sure... with my grandmother...
something Mexican or Turkish,
just to keep her company...
but an English soap opera, like Eastenders...
alone? while finishing eating a curry?
right, right...
well... this is all wong...
    i was just planning to cycle for some more
whiskey, but then i was like:
i have some left, i've eaten...
i'm feeling lazy... i did what i expected myself
to do today,
i'm not, going to sit up, till 4am...
thinking up ******* to write...
i still have some whiskey left...
how about i call it a night come 10pm...
the cats are fed... i'm fed... the bed is made...
i have a woman on my mind...
i'm watching English soap opera
going akin to: huh?! with a really puzzled face...
am i going soft, am i integrating
in the fullest sense?
no no... this can't be right...
maybe i'm just gearing up to an early night:
to wake up early tomorrow morning:
fresh as a daisy... maybe i'm thinking about
meeting up her, tomorrow, at 6pm...
maybe i don't want her to think that
i stink of alcohol: get it in early, son!
house-chores... cleaning the toilet,
vacuum the house, wash the floors...
sweat some of the poison out on a bicycle...
then go and see her...
think about what the *******'re going
to do about Valentine's Day...
you're seriously going to go through
the blue orchid? ****... where can i get a blue
orchid from?
wine, remember the wine...
remember the banana loaf...
fatten the kid up... remember the kid...
you got chewing... (burp): yeah,
i have the chewing gum... i'll do all my usual...
silly little *****...
   you're going to get ****-hurt in a few day's time...
sure... sure... but at least i won't
have my heart broken...
given... i don't really have a heart to begin
with...what do i have?
fleeing emotions... fleeting emotions...
sometimes they come, sometimes they go...
they're never around to be taken
seriously...
- then again, as a drunk, i get to catch the drift
of the affairs of men and women...
i might be drunk: but i'm far from
*******... a bit like zuì quán (drunk boozing...
****... drunk boxing)
now, come to think of it...
why are these single mums at each others' throats
all of a sudden?
am i seriously that ******* special?
wait... maybe i'm just outright spastic mr. fantastic:
SPA... SPAZZZZZ...
oh right... i have assets... i don't have
a mortgage... neither do my parents...
pretty hot catch... no children... no ex wife...
no alimony to pay...
loads of books... can cook,
can clean the house, can iron shirts:
hell, figured out a methodology to iron shirts
the quickest... can fix bicycles...
can be bothered about the garden...
good interpersonal skills...
can read and manage football hooligans without
inciting violence... the silent type...
right... right...
is sometimes big on listening to
Bon Jovi...
        walks marathons, cycles to Rainham
and back...
speaks two languages...
******* Eastender Exotica right there and then!
ha ha... hmm...
o.k. o.k., now i sort of understand
the in-fighting...
          yep, it's high school all over again...
what's that famous term?

ah... divide et impera...
   divide and conquer...
  obviously though... the sceptic that i am:
i know this will backfire...
but at least i know... just about now:
why all the women in the workforce are
backstabbing each other: seeing which one will
come to the forefront...
erm... one has already won...
i don't see the point of the others trying...
but... that's not going to be that easy...
they'll be going at each other until
there's literal blood...

oh sure, that's fun...
what's more fun? my male maine ****
loves to sleep on newspapers that
i dropped on the bed while i type...
i think: he's "thinking": i'll be doing
that **** in my sleep... ******...
sure thing, Quorus...
yeah... you'll be doing that... while i'll be
meowing for eternity!
oh... conjuring up...
smoked salmon pasta...
you, *****, old **** of a worth
of 'uman;
   yeah... that's how how pronoun
gender neutrality has got you too...
you ******* 'unts!
'uck this... ***** whatever lot's
left as l'over;
f'acking sqags;
pretend butchers' boys.. little
silly pork-choppers chop chop...
'ere up... run a a round
on all the fraud that's going about
town... instead of language policing?!
honk honk in the blue...
honk for blue...
that's all you'll get...
the ******* salvation army.
bygone are the days when you'd hate
the police for simply being the police...
welcome the days when you hate the police:
for not doing the job of: the ******* police!
up your with the Yankee Wankee ****...
******* blue riddle sorts...
what are you?  a ******* metaphorical:
pick-up... need a female cyborg for 'elp?!
yeah... **** that... blue ******* ribbon...
you need that... next time someone in the citizentry
showcases more authority that
you silly ***** ever will, or could!

wow... look at me... i must have been
drinking or something...
CITIZEN... CI-TI-ZEN-RY...
    or... right... the added T..
citizenry... no wonder it's underlined...
like a spelling mistake...
which it was...
           what.... looking for?! ha.... ha ha.

while taking a ****, and (new word learning session.. mobile game... what's great about mobile games? hardly any NPC) i started to wonder... i don't watch Eastenders, i don't watch Coronation St., i don't watch Emmerdale... so... why the ****... am i watching these... youtube soap-opera drama videos?! what., the, ****?! either i'm not growing old, or i'm growing young... but yeah... mobile games... love them... i get distracted while taking a ****, and do what ever man ought to do... strain the expanded ****, and massage the prostate... plus... no NPCs... huge fan of the game, falcon squad... and candy crush for final fantasy VII fans... evidently all are anti-NPC... but how i succumbed to this internet soap opera, i will never, never, never quiet know... i need some decent music to move away from this sandbox of users... i have to, simply: pick up my toys and say, while leaving, i'm not pwaying wit you. what was wrong with mobile / mum-games? i didn't make, a single extra payment into the fabric... predatory not... these games taught me the higher form of gaming... that translated into real life... why pay extras, when you can learn to enshrine a rigid sense of patience, and pay, jack-****?

. the cure's album
*******...
is the sort of fun,
that's best associated
with the band
foster the people,
when it isn't...
   and it isn't...
                 a conscript
of mainstream;
because...
petting cats,
leaves you,
the pristine outlier...
of wishing
for reiterating
    being "known"...
bon jovi LP,
the back to the future
soundtrack,
nine inch nails...
  the cure,
depeche mode...
         foster the people:
joy division,
ola gjeilo...
       dream get-away
2 weeks...
**** the norwegian
fjords...
   me, 2 weeks
on that faroe islands...
  2 weeks kater...
i disappear for 2 decades,
and 2 lifetimes...
when youtube became
english soap-opera...
  eastenders...
coronation st. style *******...
just when french existentialism
became exported
to the scandinavians...
   right now?
i'm feeding off the export
of german existentialism
being fed onto
           the anglo canvas...
there's no such "thing"
as a curious cat...
there's only a bored cat,
or a cat imitating a dog
in terms of itself remidning
itself, of being a pet-animal;
a petted-animal is
unlike an animal akin
to feeding you abortions
akin to chickens...
   what is the standard
deviance of a petted animal?
there's no impetus
for ***...
                 i "own"
two castrated specimen
of the bonsai tiger...
cats...
                i act as if i don't own
them,
but i also act akin
to: there's nothing i can do
about you, so...
do what you "feel" is necessary...
squint eye per quint eye...
at least the remains
include:
   everyone anticipated
"feeling"
   possessive,
and subsequently in charge.

somebody set it on fire
somebody ripped the match

trio of wedges
Irn Bru orange

speckled with cherry
on a canvas of night

I am calling
from the flag square

near the building
constructed from crystals

this could be London
migraine of chalky lights

a revolving iris
far out across the bay

I’ll be home soon love
I know it’s strange

that work has dragged me
to this unpronounceable land

sweating skeleton
spilt milk network of streets

upside-down e’s
c’s with çurls of cable

and I hear the muffled diction
of EastEnders through the phone

can picture you
in strawberry-lace-

shade-slipper-socks
glass half-swollen with wine

the space on the sofa
where I should be

this night deserves me to sleep,
no: this night requires me to sleep -
this night defines me as
being asleep -
there's hardly a lesson -
should i also be bound to shackles
of a dream -
this night deserves that i be asleep -
and write no more...
but what the hell am i doing?
reading a kenneth koch poem from
1975...
i want to be kissed by the moon
goodnight...
i want to find the bed and precursor
grave -
i want to find pillows made from
gently catwalking clouds -
with paparazzi stars flickering
rather than suggesting epileptic fits
of insanity on ol' cardinal...
i was to find the bedsheets -
not with some necrophilic metaphor
of a lazy wife...
or an overtly-demanding girlfriend...
i want to find bedsheets as night itself...
i hardly think i could share
a bed with someone, these days...
i tried once... sleeping with a cat proved
to be too demanding...
i can't imagine woman:
being my siamese thanatos...
just the right sort of music...
some cenobite chants...
prior to a poultry schnitzel eaten like
a hog might grovel and usurp some
earth to find a truffle...
a truffle is not a trifle is not a chocolate
truffle...
but i digress...
what i should have been watching
is some proper english soap opera...
come sunday and the omnibus of eastenders...
beside this soap opera yuo-tue.. b'eh-b'eh;
i wish it was a 20th century "welcome"...
dream, fall asleep...
be kissed by hitchcock's valkyrie:
ingrid bergman, tippi hedren,
madeleine carroll, kim novak, eva marie saint;
grace kelly...
did doris day make it?! "make it"?
i can't imagine falling asleep with someone...
i like my bed to be the best and only imitation
of a coffin: i will probably not own...
i'll probably become cremated...
ergo? i'm getting used to the bed...
since i will not own a coffin...
no mortgage on being dead...
son of the earth: but no epitaph...
the wind can speak for me...
no next-of-kin...
sycophants of the dead might arrive
like hyenas or vultures at a killing spree
of one lion's harem...
******* bonsai tigers: cats...
if i didn't... no...
if my mother didn't own any...
i wouldn't be the one... vacuuming
the house every, single, day...
to keep her o.c.d. at bay...
but sure as **** the house is pwetty pwetty
clean...
it's clean: and lived in...
up to the point where life...
doesn't involve having to entertain
other people...
solispsism via a **** on a sardine crammed
tram or train...
invasion of privacy: somel would cite...
this night deserves that i sleep...
i should be asleep: i'm already having
to waste an hour of excesses...
tomorrow i think i will make a purchase...
i was hesitant about buying...
a louis zukofsky...
as i was hesitant about buying a philip lamantia
oeuvre...

i try to fathom finding sleep in death...
i perhaps want to find the death within death -
a cushioned sensation of a body -
but a body somewhat without limbs
or internal organs -
a body that desires sleep -
but does not desire dreams -
i always found dreams to be a circus -
elevated meanings of the already
at hand corruption of people
who settled for luxury having lost
all their avenues for adventure...
minor escapism...
pathological excuse making -
less towing shawl and frivolous:
thrown toward the wind as a greeting!

this is a night i better sleep...
never mind dreaming...
i am not expected to write...
i am not bound by soap opera insomnia...
or tabloid press smear campaigns of:
what telephone have "they" not yet
hacked?!

may god or whatever will:
preserve us all - within the empathy of:
goodnight, goodnight; goodnight.

you know you've crossed
the rubicon,
   when...
you have finally
     sifted through enough
material
beside the music videos...
  red ice tv.
   dr. edward dutton...
   dr. steve turley...
    jacklyn glenn...
sytxhexenhammer666...
tim pool...
computing forever...
   louderwithcrowder...
   paul joseph watson...
roaming millenial...
    millenial woes...
lauren sauthern...
                 shaun...
roosh v...
the amazing atheist...
    contra points...
                  blaire white...
black pigeon speaks...
             eugenia cooney...
and...
                                 etc.
   what once was
the english variant
of a soap opera akin
to eastenders...
           every trivia question,
that concerns itself
with english soap opera?
i'll probably tell you
more about
a mexican import
of a tele-novella into
                    poland...
me?
     at this point...
           i feel like a crab...
sieving through the ****
on the baseline
of an ocean...
           tried floating
to the top,
       but i was told to make
language funny,
sieving through
what remains
            recycled vocals...
                     mir, schreiben...
sorry: i just have this
a priori fetish for
   the deutschezunge...
can't help it...
i'll try...
      but russian is off-limits
for me,
  sure, i'll tease greek...
given that...
                   i've spent
a decent year trying
to memorize it...
            oh, esp. the twin-F
scenario...
          but clearly i'm
way back in the audience...
fame... b'ah!
   what is that?
                it's here one minute,
gone the next,
     infamy is in vogue
these days...
                i don't even
know what that term implies...
   fame...
             nice bandwagon
though...
       looks nice from where
i'm perched...    
esp. the whole eugenia cooney
affair...
         no... no chance for me
leaving a comment...
i just accidently came across
it...
    and...
            i'm like:
   who's going to side
   with the man who drinks
a liter of whiskey,
looks bloated,
       and...
   then... makes an afternoon
of it listening to
some polish radio station...
having fallen out of bed...
lying **** naked
on a wooden floor
to ease himself from
the odd mid-winter
heat-wave piercing
        through his
                           window?

dunno...
       i'm latched on...
and....
     i'm paying squint....
of the eyes...
         and i'm entrenched...
and...
     then i fiddle with
my beard
    for 10 minutes...
   pretending to be playing
some song from
   fiddler on the roof...
i knew this beard
was going to come in handy!
i knew it!
   i didn't a sensation
of ***** hair, somewhere north
of the groin...
  and... for obvious reason,
i couldn't just fiddle
my ***** region
for a worthwhile
   procrastination outlet,
and sure as **** i didn't
learn to play the violin...
   beard it is, beard it was always
going to be.

I’m bored of going out
People make me shout
I just love the daytime tv
A Greggs breakfast will do for me

It’s Eastenders night tonight
I hoping there'll be a fight
Or an affair that ends in a flurry
I’ll view it while eating a curry

Whilst pondering a thriller
I check myself in the mirror
And wonder why I’m fat
How has it come to that

It’s all since my mothers death
When the alcohol stopped her breath
Cause my father ran off with a ****
After he dumped us from his heart

Nighttime is when I start the tears
I’ve being doing this for years
I punch myself in the face
Look at me I’m a disgrace

No one gives a **** about me
I’m a nobody is all they see
Sod it a cake will make me feel good
Instead of sleeping as I normally would

I hate being a couch potato
But it’s really all I know
I dream of it every single day
To be a dancer in the royal ballet

It’s late and I really need to sleep
Not curled up in a flabby slumped heap
But this film has got me by the hook
Think ill sit down and have a little look