[Intro: Big Sean]
I look up
Yeah and I take my time, *****
I'mma take my time, whoa
Power moves only, *****

[Verse 1: Big Sean]
Boy I'm 'bout my business on business, I drink liquor on liquor
I had women on women, yeah that's bunk bed *******
I've done lived more than an eighty year old man still kickin'
Cause they live for some moments, and I live for a livin'
But this for the girls who barely let me get to first base
On some ground ball ****
Cause now I run my city on some town hall ****
They prayin' on my *******' downfall *****, like a drought, but
You gon' get this rain like it's May weather
G.O.O.D. Music, Ye weather
Champagne just tastes better
They told me I never boy, never say never
Swear flow special like an infant's first steps
I got paid then reversed debts
Then I finally found a girl that reverse stress
So now I'm talkin' to the reaper to reverse death
Yep, so I can kick it with my granddad, take him for a ride
Show him I made somethin' out myself and not just tried
Show him the house I bought the fam, let him tour inside
No matter how far ahead I get, I always feel behind
In my mind, but **** tryin' and not doin'
Cause not doin' is somethin' a ***** not doin'
I said **** tryin' and not doin'
Cause not doin' is somethin' a ***** not doin'
I grew up to Em, B.I.G. and Pac *****, and got ruined
So until I got the same crib B.I.G. had in that Juicy vid
*****, I can't *******' stop movin'
Go against me, you won't stop losin'
From the city where every month is May-Day at home, spray your dome
****** get sprayed up like AK was cologne for a paycheck or loan
Yeah I know that **** ain't fair
They say Detroit ain't got a chance, we ain't even got a mayor
You write your name with a Sharpie, I write mine in stone
I knew the world was for the taking and wouldn't take long
We on, tryna be better than everybody that's better than everybody
Rep Detroit, everybody, Detroit versus everybody
I'm so ******' first class, I could spit up on every pilot
The city's my Metropolis, feel it, it's metabolic
And I'm over ****** sayin' they're the hottest ******
Then run to the hottest ****** just to stay hot
I'm one of the hottest because I flame drop
Drop fire, and not because I'm name dropping, Hall of Fame droppin'
And I ain't takin' **** from nobody unless they're OG's
Cause that ain't the way of a OG
So I G-O collect more G's, every dollar
Never changed though, I'm just the new version of old me
Forever hot headed but never got cold feet
Got up in the game won't look back at my old seats
Clique so deep we take up the whole street
I need a ***** so bad that she take up my whole week, Sean Don

[Bridge: Kendrick Lamar]
Miscellaneous minds are never explainin' their minds
Devilish grin for my alias aliens to respond
Peddlin' sin, thinkin' maybe when you get old you realize
I'm not gonna fold or demise
(I don't smoke crack, ******* I sell it!)
*****, everything I rap is a quarter piece to your melon
So if you have a relapse, just relax and pop in my disc
Don't you pop me no ******* pill, I'mma a pop you and give you this

[Verse 2: Kendrick Lamar]
Tell Flex to drop a bomb on this ****
So many bombs, ring the alarm like Vietnam on this ****
So many bombs, make Farrakhan think that Saddam in this *****
One at a time, I line them up
And bomb on they mom while she watching the kids
I'm in a destruction mode if the gold exists
I'm important like the Pope, I'm a Muslim on pork
I'm Makaveli's offspring, I'm the king of New York
King of the Coast, one hand, I juggle them both
The juggernaut's all in your jugular, you take me for jokes
Live in the basement, church pews and funeral faces
Cartier bracelets for my women friends, I'm in Vegas
Who the **** y'all thought it's supposed to be?
If Phil Jackson came back, still no coachin' me
I'm uncoachable, I'm unsociable, **** y'all clubs
**** y'all pictures, your Instagram can gobble these nuts
Gobble **** up til you hiccup, my big homie Kurupt
This the same flow that put the rap game on a crutch (West x6)
I've seen ****** transform like villain Decepticons
Mollies'll prolly turn these ****** to ******* Lindsay Lohan
A bunch of rich *** white girls looking for parties
Playing with Barbies, wreck the Porsche before you give them the car key
Judgment to the monarchy, blessings to Paul McCartney
You called me a black Beatle, I'm either that or a Marley
(I don't smoke crack, *******, I sell it)
I'm dressed in all black, this is not for the fan of Elvis
I'm aiming straight for your pelvis, you can't stomach me
You plan on stumpin' me? ***** I’ve been jumped before you put a gun on me
***** I put one on yours, I'm Sean Connery
James Bonding with none of you ******, climbing 100 mil in front of me
And I'm gonna get it even if you're in the way
And if you're in it, better run for Pete's sake
I heard the barbershops be in great debates all the time
Bout who's the best MC? Kendrick, Jigga and Nas
Eminem, Andre 3000, the rest of y'all
New ****** just new ******, don't get involved
And I ain't rocking no more designer ****
White T’s and Nike Cortez, this red Corvettes anonymous
I'm usually homeboys with the same ****** I'm rhymin' with
But this is hip-hop and them ****** should know what time it is
And that goes for Jermaine Cole, Big KRIT, Wale
Pusha T, Meek Millz, A$AP Rocky, Drake
Big Sean, Jay Electron', Tyler, Mac Miller
I got love for you all but I'm tryna ****** you ******
Trying to make sure your core fans never heard of you ******
They don't wanna hear not one more noun or verb from you ******
What is competition? I'm trying to raise the bar high
Who tryna jump and get it? You're better off trying to skydive
Out the exit window of 5 G5’s with 5 grand
With your granddad as the pilot he drunk as **** trying land
With the hand full of arthritis and popping prosthetic leg
Bumpin Pac in the cockpit so the **** that pops in his head
Is an option of violence, someone heard the stewardess said
That your parachute is a latex ****** hooked to a dread
West Coast

[Verse 3: Jay Electronica]
You could check my name on the books
I Earth, Wind, and Fire’d the verse, then rained on the hook
The legend of Dorothy Flowers proclaimed from the roof
The tale of a magnificent king who came from the nooks
Of the wild magnolia, mother of many soldiers
We live by every single word she ever told us
Watch over your shoulders
And keep a tin of beans for when the weather turns the coldest
The Lord is our shepherd, so our cup runneth over
Put your trust in the Lord but tether your Chevy Nova
I’m spittin' this **** for closure
And God is my witness, so you could get it from Hova
To all you magicians that’s fidgeting with the cobra
I’m silent as a rock, ‘cause I came from a rock
That’s why I came with the rock, then signed my name on the Roc
Draw a line around some Earth, then put my name on the plot
Cause I endured a lot of pain for everything that I got
The eyelashes like umbrellas when it rains from the heart
And the tissue is like an angel kissin you in the dark
You go from blind sight to hindsight, passion of the Christ
Right, to baskin' in the limelight, it take time to get your mind right
Jay Electricity, PBS mysteries
In a lofty place, tangling with Satan over history
You can’t say **** to me - Alhamdulillah
It’s strictly by faith that we made it this far

Ultra Violet magnetic field of high voltage adrenaline showers the streets like speeding sports cars.
It's a rare occurrence of unregulated foreign madness.
I felt my inner chambers open and through them I explored my city in a new fashion.
Pulsating skies and electronica vibes.
Golden halos fall all around and the people, all friendly faces, liberated from their steel rooms.
I can hear the cries in the air.
A step closer, a heart willing to beat louder. A flower courageous enough to grow within the industrial tombs of the living dead. A divine light is what is lighting their way out of miserable decay.
- C.Ek

She yelled from the bottom of the stairs

"What the **** are you DOING!?"

My neighbor, Mr. Monroe with the mustache, ring on every finger and a parrot that talked, pressed his face to the glass to look down at her.

"What the **** are YOU looking at?"

Mr. Monroe quickly went back to his day time soap operas and corn flakes. He never left the house because he believed their was going to be a grand earthquake where everyone that was outside getting food, shopping or at the beach, would die. He told me he believed that his house was a fortress and that God or mother nature or what have you could never touch him if he just stayed holed up in his room with his corn flakes and bath robes and old Sunday newspapers.

"HEY GUY, LET'S GO!"

I gingerly stepped out of my place. I stared up at the sky which was blue spattered with white clouds that were inching slowly toward the ocean. It was a beautiful day.

"******* FINALLY. What were you DOING?"

"Just getting myself a little more ready then usual."

"WHY?"

"I'm nervous or something."

We were headed to a dinner with my parents. I was going to introduce them to Alice and wanted to make sure all my pampering was in order, my mother could always tell if I forgot to comb my hair or use deodorant, my father didn't care. I walked cooly and lightly down the stairs.

"Well you smell like a laundry mat people have been drinking and ******* in."

"Thank you baby."

I kissed her on the cheek, waved up to Mr. Monroe who had gently re-placed his face upon his living room window, and headed to my car.

---

"So what you are you gonna' say to them about me?"

"I'll tell them we have a lot of *** and like movies."

"Really?"

"I don't know. Why not?"

"Seems strange."

"Were strange."

"What if we get married and they say that at our wedding and its awkward and my parents get mad."

"I'm not thinking that far off."

"Well you ******* SHOULD!"

Alice opened the window and stared out at the ocean which passed by with blinking blue reflective lights, beach combers and sand dune cops. There were many surfers wading in the light blue water waiting for the NEXT BIG ONE. I thought it was funny how they could sit out there for so long, not doing anything, and call it some kind of religion. I liked the idea of doing nothing and it saving you, I wanted to join but I was afraid of sharks.

"Do you want to get married to me?"

"No."

"I wouldn't either."

We drove down the highway but hit a big block of heavy traffic. We were gonna be late.

---

By an instinct I acquired either by fate, magic or the hand of the GOOD LORD, I ordered a hamburger with curly fries. The waiter was a young kid fresh out of college with a messy head of hair and a slight limp stuck on his right leg, he said it came from a biking accident but the kid looked like a scrapper.

My mother was alone on the other side of the table while Alice intensely examined the menu. There were clouds in her eye not of insecurity but of determination for my mother to accept her and pull no punches, when she wanted something she got it, like me.

"To start I am so sorry about your father not being here. He didn't come home last night and I haven't heard from him all morning so I suspect he forgot and slept at the office to get an early start on this Friday morning."

"It's fine Mrs. Kindle. I just feel so BAD for you."

"No worries. It is sweet of you to say though."

"Very sweet Alice. Yeah, I'm sorry Mom. Dad's an *** like that sometimes."

"Yes he is."

The water was warm when the waiter brought it. I hadn't looked at the menu but everyone was ready to order. I was thinking about my father all holed up in his on-site construction office, sweating over blue print over blue print, re-examining every last comma, every last note until it was "perfect". He had tried to get me into the business but I always hated a path that had already been trampled and organized upon, I didn't see the point.

"So how did you guys meet?"

"We actually met at one of Joe and Abe's parties."

We actually had met at a hot bar with loud music and cheap drinks with the wind ripping men and women to pieces outside and the bar man said we looked like we would make a good couple but we had never even looked or talked to each other but because this one little bartender in this one little hot tiny bar gave us the idea that maybe, just maybe, we would be good for each other I bought Alice a drink and then, thinking it would be funny and how she hates cliches, she bought me a drink and we got very drunk within the dark heated bar with the people swinging back and forth with the loud quick hipster electronica madness that spun all around us invisible in the smoke and the liquor and the cigarette smoke and there, in that dark steamy bar, we talked and talked and talked until I got a little drunker then her and she took me home, which we laughed about in the morning after we had drank a couple glasses of wine and tried to have *** but were both to drunk to talk or have *** or even kiss for that matter, we fell asleep on top of each other's faces and both of our necks were twisted and hurting in the morning.

"We call it "Our Spontaneous Romance".

"Very funny."

"Alice, do you know what you want yet?"

Alice, keeping her eyes down on the menu not looking up for a second.

"Not quite."

My mother shifted in her seat, she was getting anxious because she wanted to eat and she was worried about my dad. He'd been "busy" with many "things" that he "didn't like to talk about" or was "too tired to talk about" and it made my mom shift and silently sigh after every conversation either about the subject or related too.

"I'm going to have the soup and the sandwich"

"Turkey sandwich and salad for me."

"Healthy."

"Have to be."

"One sec..."

"OK."

"No rush."

"Mashed potatoes and gravy and ribs, that's what I want."

"Very nice..."

"Very nice."

"Thank you."

Alice was nervous. She ate mass amounts of food when she was either nervous or in tight confined places where she needed to converse but had absolutely nothing to say, the large order was her scapegoat and she would later blame it on *******, anxiety and depression, half of which was probably my fault. Alice didn't want to meet the parents, she thought it pointless, a waste of time and pushing towards something that may not even actually happen. She believed being invisible in a phenomenal world was the only way to go through life and in some respects, I agreed with her but also, I knew deep down, she was a little crazy, as was I.

---

"Thank you for meeting Alice and I for lunch Mom."

"Not a worry at all, I'm sorry about your father."

"I'll talk to him later."

"It was very very nice meeting you, very nice."

Alice and my mother shook hands cooly and suspiciously underneath the 3 o'clock sun. They hadn't talked much at lunch and I honestly didn't know how it went at all, they spoke about their food and that was it. Perhaps they neither hated or liked each other, maybe they were simply indifferent towards each other's presence and what they meant to me at all. They smiled, Alice waved as did I as my mom drove away down the hot black top. Alice, still waving said.

"Horrible, that was just horrible."

"I thought it went right as it went, neither here nor there."

"We didn't talk about anything but the food."

"Maybe that's all there was to talk about, some people meet and have absolutely nothing to say to each other, happens more then you think."

"Sounds right must be right."

"Let's go."

We both walked to my car which was boiling hot inside, the kind of hot when you enter when one wishes they couldn't breathe. We quickly opened the window turning on the radio listening to an old blues station for a second. I but the gears in reverse and slowly backed out of the restaurant parking lot as Alice neatly put on her dark sunglasses and rubbed sun tan lotion on her face, leaving a small patch on the tip of her nose. I paused the car before entering onto the main road.

"Let's get married Alice."

"I was about to say the same thing."

I pulled onto the main road home, nearly getting in an accident with a road biker who shook their fist violently toward my gleaming fender. I lightly smiled, embarrassingly laughed to myself, merging on. We were off.

You’ve got your ragtime, got the blues
Got country, rock, dubstep, each a different hue
Hip-hop, rap, Americana, funk
Disco, electronica, they all go bump
Indie, groove, folk and heavy metal
Screamo, emo, punk, they’re for the rebels
Pop, classical, tribal, thrash
Dark wave, bluegrass, techno, acid
Garage, roots, acoustic, dance
Alternative, jazz, *******, trance
Afrobeat, christian, reggae, jam
******-tonk, surf, ska, big-band
Ambient, industrial, club, tin pan alley
But who’s ever heard of plow music?

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.....Electronica*
Cloudy days bring me back to who I was.
Thinking about myself, cuz no one does.
Im a lone warrior walking silently in the midst.
Trying my best to live without a balled fist.
Dont take my spiritual innocence..from me.
I am not fascinated by the dream of money.*
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.....Electronica
Take me to new dimensions.
I fly away without attention.
Theres a new world existing in my mind.
This new world is perfect..because the new world is mine.
No laws, no regulations, no taxes, no classes.
Just a place for good vibes for myself and the masses.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.....Electronica
Help me escape the cage.

Spectrums to sound waves.
One infinite pulsing heart.
Synth to love you so...

Oh, how hallowed electronica has grown
since the electro-festivities became known.
Now that stellar conflagration
consumes our nation.
All hail techno-paganism!

Our wicked philanthropy and righteous sins
keep us down, drugged-up and praying.
***** mind, clean conscience.

In heathen choice we are condemned
to experience pleasure
beyond what animal would comprehend.
Our souls will be set aflame;
We are to feel the sear of elation,
The fiery rush of indescribable sensation.
We gather to bring the collective to new planes,
Transcendention is the ceremony's name;
The expansion of consciousness
using molecules as tools
to reexamine 'mortal'.

As the booming music
from the crowded
student center
attempts to
beat my heart
right out of my chest
I retreat
into my own quietness.

Writing poetry
on a neon yellow
Post-It note
as the college kids
around me
talk about
that awesome house party
last night.

I think about how
I cannot have
the love that I want
but I know someday
I'll have
the love that wants me.

And now
the booming music
does indeed
make my heart race
as my quest for love
pauses
to rave out
to electronica music.

I pump a metaphorical fist
not to party
but to proclaim
that I
am a hopeless dreamer.
Deal with it.

Maybe dub step isn't so bad.

I am from my mama's toes,
as my dad
walked out the back screen door day after day,
its rusted hinge screeching.
A reminder of the torrential rain of argument
falling on my little head

I am from pine trees
of sap and sticky sweet
and the seed ticks. Climbing to the top
checking your neighbor for where they’re hiding later
I am from a southerly wind blowing
the smells of an unkempt garden as flowers grow tall
and strong, while families fall apart like the suffocating weeds next to the roses

I am from the strong arms of 5 different oaks
holding me up like my father was supposed to
the branches of those who tried to fill
the pothole covered road
in my heart, but never could.

I am from my brother’s teachings,
and long walks in a warm rain
always ending too fast.
The sword fights with a long haired bohemian
who stole my heart in a flash of lighting
that I took back with a parrying blow

Smoked filled rooms
as I pretend to be someone else,
and learned of life in a binary universe
trippin on my spear as I fight through life

Forbidden to get dull
Less I lose the fight
My brother’s disappointment; ringing in my ears

I’m from the struggle of believing
in not believing.
My life, proving to be the site of one’s parents,
setting out Christmas
as they realize Santa isn’t real

I’m from a humble beginning
and an arrogant pride
that has given me freedom
to go where those haven’t dreamed

I am from the life I have chosen
to make for myself
I am from Punnet squares
in the back of class
sitting next to a friend

Wanting to know what my kids look like
ff they’ll be as good as I hope
like my mama dreams

I’m from rain on a leaky tin roof
putting me to sleep
making false peace

I am from the water
that rushes through my veins
as I break through the walls
and join in another world, of fish and muddy water

I am from escapes to Neverland
in the moments were I remember
I’m a kid and you’re a kid
and I laugh because I don’t always have to grow up

From my mom’s lemon pie
I hail
like the sugary sweet stickiness
and the ****
pucker you lips boys
lemon.
and the fried chicken

From a stove that hasn’t seen
the fanciest meats
but left us with a five star feast
at my parents hands

I miss when I came from
a smoke filled house
detectors going off
fat back and grilled cheese
burning in the pan.

I like to think
I am from a world
and all I learn
all that made me grow

I am from distinct beginnings
as my life separated
but I have but one
means to an end

I am from a fire place
and screaming wood beetles
as we pressed their backs
but that’s a happier time
that I know I’m from
but can’t remember
I was too young

Now I am from a firepit
Tall
as our conversations
our father singing drunken tales
too beautiful to believe
to fantastical to forget
sparks flying at each crakle
like fairies of fire
cascading in the air

But also from his wrath
the anger
nights spent in a room crying
wishing I could leave
clinging on only because I had yet to learn
I didn’t need him.

So I came from silence
between me and him
longer than forever
louder than the Nazgual
screeching out at us through the TV
a movie my father and I shared, so we could pretend a little longer.

I am from sneaking out a window
not to leave
but return
to when me and you got along
the asphalt
raking out hands
while we climbed to the top
that frightfully tall roof.

the stars leaning in to catching our fall.
the forbidden bottle passed between us.
the world looking like a nicer place
until we crawled back in the doors of reality

From the tear, resting on the edge of these words,
as I recalled your laugh
the real one
the music of it.
cried because I have not yet heard it
someone stole it from your soul.

Maybe freedom can bring it back,
or only further burry it
were the mad men buried it.

I was taught to live
as though not else mattered
the autonomy offering freedom
but still cling to what we had, for however long
our childhood
not as great.
grown up too fast.

Queen Mab holds my origins too
as does Fantasia
and Disney.

Eargon and Sapheria
swords of blue flame
holding my attention
locked away in my mind
as I watched their adventures
and others go by.

A House of Leaves
containing confuzzeld wonderment.
my brother making me challenge
what literary told me was possible
enjoying the complexity
and escape

I am from the Moulin Rouge
the green fairy of absinthe
with same
long haired bohemian
sitting next me, holding my hand

I came from a Secret History
bunny, laying flat in the snow
Dionysus holding the blame
the Greek world with bigger secrets
6 people of a strained friendship

I am from a radio
and an Ipod
the CD player and TV
music being my soul

Ambient, Pop, Grunge
House, Rock, Jazz, Classical
Blue Grass, Country, Electronica
A multitude of noise, dying to a lullaby

Headphones
soft n’ squishy
pressed tight to the drum
drown out the world I beg
they comply
my fingers moving along the click wheel
for a new assault
cilia fibers dying off
you know the world I am from
we shared it often times
and yet you are shut out
the world of 2 sisters
roads walked together.
but I am not from you side of the street.

I am from a dirt road
made long ago
that you will sometimes wonder on to.
but run back
to the smooth and familiar
Pavement.

She's got cool aid in her veins -
neon pouring through the rain
A lighthouse heart with red lips
shooting straight from the hip
I've been craving her since the 80's
like a cowboy gone******* crazy
A hundred million blue balloons
lift me straight up to the moon
I can see earth and all its pretty
lights when I look inside her eyes

It's been one hell of a night.

She sat in blue light, artificial,
fingers tangled in dreds, natural,
head bobbing to bare beats
and **** draws upon the well of
electronica, O' jazzia,
O' sense-sinking psychedelia,
O' fleeting fingers ******* false feelings in the dark;

And this is what music is.
This is what music has always been.

The arrangement of sounds to tell a story,
paint a picture,
build mindscapes and landscapes upon which stories and feelings
will meld and melt and freeze to ice,
hot ice,*
a paradoxical nocturnal noctuary of dreams and nightmares and candles dripping with wax.

Sing me home, Chet Faker,
bring me back to your apartment.
Sing it long and sing it low,
(This gas station fluorescence sure is ******* the eyes.)
sing me back to Boulder, Colorado;
to Joliet, Montana.

O' jazzia, my jazzia,
my sweet sand dollar saxophony,
will you meet me in Amarillo, Texas?
Will you play me a tune before the water-meter puts me to sleep?

Dendrobium Nobile is from the orchid family,
A plant containing 17 phenanthrenes
exemplī grātiā: 3,4,8-trimethoxyphenanthrene-2,5-diol.

A pharmacological stew, and a stimulant
of some kind.
I think sleep will be possible

after another while.
Spent the night dancing
to grime, garage and electronica.

time gives way to the broken sensation
of loud electronica
its thriving Bass has no consideration
of humanity or emotion
but we can all relate to that
its just a fact

that ours is a generation of apathy
whether it be;
apathy in contentment
or apathy in despair
we just don't care
and i am sick of those words

"i don't care."
its pure but subtle poison fed to us
from some iron tower that will never see rust
and it will never stop transmitting
it's signals to you
though it seems the message is getting through
and I'm not labelling you, lets make that clear
But I'll tell you my biggest fear:

that we're all going down a drain
and its one without love, the one without pain
'cause its the easiest path to travel
fear consumes me at this thought
for we're being turned into something we're not

but in this grey suburbia air
there is no raindrop with a pair
and i can't find somebody to love
of that; this lonely Vancouver rain will always remind me
its eternal forests dripping up from the sea

i need to unwind and find the time.
goodnight suburbia...

Music! Drums!

Beatings of hands on outstretched hides
echo through the night.
Dancing children, moonlight cricket moanings,
Cast over vast savannas with
Elders chanting, visions and transcendental moments of
harmonic bliss playing on the bird bone flute. Flash to
Electric bass booming in the dark with keyboards
and young girls twisting in the firelight
pentatonic realities of electric guitar playing  
funk, and the procession of notes
perfect!

All souls one, beating with the night.
Beating with the drums.
Screaming half naked, wild and full of drugs
and the right ones.
A harmonic industry of electronica and ecstasy, a decadent tribal fantasy land.

here we go again.

Our conscious being, outstretched over the fabric of time and space
played by the hand of the ancient primordial tribesman of protozoa. Every note an eternity, every moment of every being and everything beating as one!
Tranquility and soliloquy of music.
Harmony and beauty and intelligence.

Pulse movements and beat droppings, spinning by the neon lights.
Cannibals of interwoven overlapped miraculous hippie skirts
with dreadlocks and armpit hairs, unshaven legs and unmistakable smells,
and no one cares.

New age alchemy of alkaline waters and wondrous miraculous healing stones in ***** dens hiding from the undercovers.
practicing yoga and tantric rub downs, relaxing in the hanging curtain of smoke.
Lecturing on the absolute perfection of the tetrahedron in the ashes of Buckminster Fuller seeking complete shelter and sustainability from this monstrous and hideous human creation of western ideals and ramen noodles.

Speaking of elves in the absolute present sense and giving them names! Leaving little room for debate, and honestly, why even bother if you're that far down the rabbit hole.

Electric forest hallucinations,
Ego death and eternity.
Music in the background of the night
and in the background of my life
speeding up and slowing down
to conform to the tempo of the soul.

Entire band coalescing to a lone thought,
guitar fades to a single sailboat tied to dock over a silk blue stream hanging by the moon.
Bass fading to the single tribe song beating of the drum in time
and that drum beats fade to the memories of rain on the aluminum roof,
frogs croak by the pond at my childhood home in Eastern Kentucky,
rain falling on the pond also,
fireflies and crickets in the hung-over dew of the morning.

Fades to a picture of the Earth in the black and empty backdrop of space
a spec of dust in the cosmos,
hanging by a thread to eternity.

In her head she kisses Mickey Rourke
to the sounds of jazz lounge
or electronica, imagining the City

sky-lit skyscrapers
hoarding robotic lives
only she & Mickey are alive

only they are worth it
their joy-ride of lust
holds them in it's grip

but only the wind forgives
the stars that hide
the love soon to be torn apart

I live my life in defiance.
I defy you with every preference, every decision, every passion.
I refuse to think like you, to dress like you, or to eat like you.
I don't believe in a religion.
I reject modern western values,
I refuse to care for money or for power.
I listen to indie music an electronica.
I read Nietzsche, Walt Whitman, and Diane Ackerman.
I dance to the sitar.
I'm politically liberal.
I ingest psychedelics.
I frolick buck-naked in the woods.
I make love.
I thrive on love,
I rejoice in novelty,
I exalt in sensation in
My defiant existence,
But I eat unorignality.

“But maybe your real job is shopping…”

Sleepwalk through stock footage.  Life as
documentary.  Soundtrack of horror movie score:
ambient electronica, bubblegum nostalgia and
**** love songs.  Everything becomes
visual metaphor: blackbirds, barcodes and
birthday candles; Big Pharma pick & mix;
lipstick ritual; pigeon superstition; fraying flags
of fading empires; migratory patterns of
shopping trolleys; special offers; fantastic prizes.
Worker bees are vanishing - they all want to
be queens - and our hives overflow
with honey, but are empty and dead.  We got
infected with aspiration, with individualism.  
Generically unique career consumers: remember
when you were more than your credit rating,
more than your demographic, more than your
market-driven self-diagnosis?

cold string lights
warm street lights

sweater
scrunchie
mask
mittens

fogged over
grey bus ride
it's always
morning
in this world
i've made for myself

tapping keys and
blazing screens and
soft wooden
electronica dreams

coffee cups with
grease on the outside
and swirling flakes
of keep it together girl

don't let your
fingers freeze
and hope that
your toes get warm

and at night pull
the velvety clouds
over your eyes
after you slip down
like hot wax
off a candle

washed down with
soap and daily regrets
washed down with
cold wine and ink

wash
rinse
repeat
tomorrow
but for
right now

*it's all over now
baby blue

she plays the music loud
when no one is around
she dances like there's no tomorrow
and never a yesterday
she basks in the palpable sound
of her rapid (rabid) heartbeat
bare feet pounding
into unhallowed ground

A thing to move is a thing to die for
With so many things
A man can get confused
With wars billowing human and black smoke
While everyone else is cheerin', makin' jokes
There once seemed that there was a dream
That I was given so hence thought about
A high note of praise from somewhere else far off
A broke hope revealing itself that we ain't up to *****
Hope touches itself in the night just to continue for the morning
And it will touch itself again
Maybe thats the only way to go on
Or maybe it isn't
Who is the pencil to say?
Who is the pencil at all?
Who is the question maker that begins and ends these things
That we call life and who are we?
Critical fat menus burn in the streets
Once we all realize we are apart of the disease
With crocodile torch rockets that spin from the minds of mad
And the sane play cricket just because it is a fun game
Can it be, O' Lord, that our time has come at last
Where the mercury music of lore is now finally past
For electronica
Is the music of the machine God
And we obsess over this music but some times
I couldn't believe it any less
Moving through this time of destitution and reforms and political
Fervor
I remember, or, I tell myself, myself, myself
That we are men and women underneath stars
That we were once underneath blankets
Crying for our mommies
I tell myself this
I tell myself
I tell myself

We are modern Origami sprawl
gritty boxes, evolving
on a blighted sea of sprinkled dusk.
Witching this Epoch hour
where will I find you
jeans throng a poison prescience giant
like a fill-in-the blank Bell
soon to be bird-like & quivering
a Clinging beyond ourselves
electronica loud-mouthed
beep beep
a motorcycle dazzle
some drop in the heat
oh Che Guevara
nothing's changed
nothing's real

democratized and somehow made literate...
that's the game...
yet... i'm prone to wishful thinking...
any thinking is welcome...
lately it is all shrapnel...
i can't get a narrative out of my "egg" even
if i wanted the chickens to goose strut...
step... strut...
i know what i'll write will be a banality...
i just write in order to recognise myself...
amongst all the flurry and ghosts...
i promised myself i would write something
without summoning
katakana, Hangul... Cyrillic...
Greek...
   god forbid i summon the runes
or the Glagolitic script...
                fiery late Latin it is: in English...
even the Germans used diacritical distinctions...
oom-lout...
                  um? at the hairdresser today...
ha ha... a fiery plump blonde of a spectacle...
talking about patriarchs...
coming to Ing-Land aged 8...
not speaking a word... of the native...
i said i had a mental block...
i didn't... i remember the trials...
the tribulation... but of course...
children are excused from all sorts of troubles...
my intake of stress dried up...
you're a kid thrown into the deep end of the pool...
not speaking a single word...
once you do...
                        PUMA... a label...
the difference of pronunciation
stuck with me...
"apparently" it's not PU'M'AH...
it's PEW-MAH: PEU-MAH...
                 she became so interested in my life
story: her seemed more interesting
to begin with... that she cut my hair into a...
makeshift Mohican...
        
oh English is hard to learn:
we have so many words that sound the same
but are spelled differently...
so i rejoiced:
to two too...

             being the wordsmith that i am...
English has plenty more fiddly bits
to gather... it doesn't take a Samuel Beckett to...
Samuel Beckett... because of WATT...
is more fun to read: fun to read because
it's so ******* frustrating than...
Ulysses...
                 sowwy...

i will not conjure up the Korean script...
although i'm gagging to conjure it...
having just cooked beef ribs in a sweet...
Koreans love their sesame... don't they?
in a sweet sesame soy sauce...
the Koreans love their sesame...

i too thought it was weird: biTTer...
maMMal... doubling up of consonants...
but the Koreans also do it...
to hell with the ideograms of the Chinese...
serpents...
who needs a ******* wall like that
when you have a phonetic encoding
akin to... turning chop-sticks into shoelaces!
no one is going to attack that!

it's like... attacking the Chinese ideograms
with the Western emoji...
or the ancient Egyptian hieroglyph!
impossible!

i can stomach i can understand
the Korean Hangul...
or the Japanese katakana...
eh... Thai... Vietnamese...
it's not... oh i'll eat the food...
but the language doesn't... irritate me...

somehow... strangely... the day is complete(d)...
the moon is seemingly hovering
in a: disputed distance of 570...
the world is adjourned...
by some relapse into sports mentality with
the Ryder cup...
         hey presto... missing the hole
in yo ** **... highlands!
              gerbil attack: my second to none:
wish for praise...

the best "thing" to succeed Depeche Mode
had to come from Russia...
all "manner" of electronic music
had to come from Rye-sh-ah...
no?

it truly bothers me, the ******* i watch:
you'd expect visiting a brothel would
leave you... "advantageous" enough to replicate
these... movies...
no... the prostitutes... i'll call them
prostitutes rather than ***-workers...
are... pretty much... uniquely: pristine...
terribly conscious with regards to personal
hygiene: i like that...

what i know and what little i know
i know best...
******* is...
well: i'm put off by most of it...
i need to scale it down to...
Italian classics... the idea of ****
horrifies me & my sensibilities...
the ******* i sometimes come across...
i rather snoop around some ***** flicks
to catch a drift of some tenderness...
but all that... face-*******
****... n'ah... it's not like i have
restrictions "guessing":
am i about to father a child?

in the good old days...
under the Roman Empire...
fatherhood of... the brood that wasn't your
own was common...
among the rich...
if i had the money... sure..
Step: Stephen... wholesome... moi...
but.... down the "lineage"?
of trickled down wealth?
n'ah... n'ah: ah...

                 w;ah?

502 bad gateway bypass:

Ahab bin Haroon:
the lost Arab slave-merchant
who also traded in spices
and silk on the sly...

i'm sure there is more terrible music out there... sometimes
the you-tube algorithm is generous, weirdly a.i.:
it spits out: at random some generosity...
this time round? some band from Sweden,
i'm hugely into Swedish music,
for me the Swedes are currently: what the British were
back in the 60s and 70s and 80s of the previous
century... well excluding Abba:
personally? Abba is more innovative for me demanding
the proper understanding of POP than the Beatles
will ever be... for me it's all about Abba... odd...
only yesterday i remembered this song
by Cradle of Filth: her ghost in the fog...
oh the stuff i sieve through... the last time i was this excited
about discovering a band / artist it was...
****... there's a list:
Distance (when dub-step was a genuine genre)
   :wumpscut...
Die Krupps...
    Tool... but that's donkey's years ago... i have
the donkey's ears concerning that adventure...
King Crimson...
  Ghost... another favorite feature from Sweden...
Wooden Shjips... Demdike Stare...
this is closest to Die Krupps... this new band
the algorithm spit out... Priest...
two guys wearing those black plague masks
later detailed in the Venice carnival...
those Charles de Lorme black raven masks
and one guy singing in... a gimp masks with studs...
nice... i'm getting ***** just listening to
all this dark-wave electronica...
it's the sort of music you listen to to get in the mood
to visit a brothel and sleep with a *******...
i mean, this one song is outstanding...
      PHANTOM PAIN (again, priest)...
     fair enough... maybe this band: the KLINIK from
Belgium that were around in the 80s... are up there..
of course i'm a musical snob sometimes...
you have to be a snob sometimes: esp. when it comes
to music...
am i going to be a Bukowski and say that all modern
music is **** because i'm some classical music buff?
no really... but i like listening to music that allows
me to think about the contortions of the body during
***... and: luckily for me... i've found another artist
that just opened the floodgates to do just that...
if anyone Prokofiev... well: basically all the Russian composers...
i don't mind the Germanic composers...
but i prefer German medieval music: Teutonic chants...
those guys would sing and play...
before Bach's reorganisation into polyphony...

hmm... brothels... the pockets of Jerusalem any man
might wish for... no, i became truly angry watching
the Game of Thrones... you what? some dwarf is going to
have all that sensual fun... in the mind of that grub
of a writer? and i'm going to fall prey to celibacy?
a dwarf is going to have all that fun?
o.k. Darwinism is a lie:
the strongest don't reproduce...
Christianity and Darwinism are not compatible...
who, really, reproduces? the weak and the idiots...
that's what i love about reality:
it's objective... you just have to slip in your subjectivity
into it once in a while: **** a **** of
someone suffering from prostate cancer
into the snow and then sing like Frank Zappa sang:
don't you be eating the yellow snow...
i knew one had to be false: either Darwinism or
Christianity... when i was confronted with
the maxim: turn the other cheek i recoiled with
much anger... what?! i was a child back then...
i think i'm still a child right now...
but i just couldn't stomach that "truth"...
you what?! i can't hit back? i'm supposed to be a
punching-bag?
that's a bit ****, isn't it?

oh but at the brothel... last time i walked up those
frightful stairs and paid the £10 due for entry
asking how many girls were available...
the Madame... receptionist said that two were
available...
i saw one... sitting down... then the Madame sat down:
and she repeated herself: two are available...
i'm in luck... and my god... she does look the part
of a leather chair... her body looks like it could be
stretched to all unimagined possibilities...
that mole on her face adds to her allure...
hmm... next time... when's my next time?
ah... ****... on the 30th... a shift up at Craven Cottage...

that's what i realised when i was thirsty today...
i started jerking off to pictures of Turkish girls...
Romanian girls...
Hispanic milfs... i'm so ******* turned off by
loud-mouth western *****... probably blonde...
i'm turned off like...
you might throw a stone into a lake:
i'm sinking to new depths...
i need the olive skin the raven hair...
the supposed highest prize of a blonde white girl?
n'ah... n'ah ah... that's not happening...
like to like... now i truly am turning the other
cheek... of my ***!
i'm simply not interested...
give me a Mongolian girl... a Siberian Russian
lass! something juicy... something plump...
i'll take that... i'd not fidgety... i'm not bothered...
just something to squeeze...
a plump plum of a woman of Romanian stock
is worth my eyes i'd have to waste
on otherwise stuck-up English nuns!

oh, but this Madame really broke the camel's back...
i thought camels had humps:
rather than humps... i'm going to **** her next...

i fell in love with literature a few times in my life...
i can't remember the first time, proper...
but the first time: not proper was on the 86 bus riding
to school reading Stendhal's the Scarlet and Black...
i watched the t.v. mini-series first:
then read the book... i fell in love with the book...
French... though... i could never learn it:
too many surds... written one way:
but spoken another... i love how naturalization works...
you pick up local prejudices...
i've picked up the local prejudices of a
hatred for anything French that can't be eaten...
but i also picked up a German-philia...
i love the German tongue... it's the elder of
the dynamic that exists between the shared
constitution that's allocated to the English-German
schematic!
but the French?! as a tongue?!
write one thing: speak another... i *******, hate it!
no wonder i didn't learn it in school:
i should have been taught the elder Germanic tongue
of the cousin of English!

the other time i fell in love with literature
i was in St. Petersburg dating a Russian: well... a a Siberian
girl... she introduced me to Bulgakov...
i knew some Russian literacy prior...
but this novel avoided me...
now? i'm living in a currency of a hallucination...
Behemoth? that black cat in the novel?
he's not black... he's ginger...
ginger looks better when staged against the green of grass...
Behemoth is Quarus...
and he's not fond of either ***** or chess...
i'm fond of whiskey and su doku...
he's...he's fond of sleeping and pretending to count...
and... mind you: if he were given a name
from the book of Milton: it wouldn't be Behemoth...
it would be Belial...
plus Behemoth was black... Quorus is ginger...
and ginger looks so much better against
the backdrop of the green grass...

i ******* abhor these people that are dog-lovers...
these... leash-handlers...
what's your bother with cats?!
cats can be ignored... yet they still manage to come back
and implore you to give them attention...
dogs...leashes... muzzles if they are of a certain breed...
stories of children being mauled by dogs...
**** me: men and their ****-takes of companions in
the form of dogs! why do i prefer cats?!
guess i'm a believer in the gods of ancient Egypt...
Set... Anubis...
darkness draws me to throw the arguments required...
the fox and the wolf...
i can't stand smart: implosive, modern...
cosmopolitan sensuality!
it's riddles with a fake woman!
all i see is a fake woman on a fakeness of possessing
a womb... sitting with a crown of timber
on a throne of sand!

well... i could have asked for a better afternoon...
but you rarely can... ask...
if you're drinking and there's this couple of woodland
pigeons perched in your Eucalyptus tree at the end of
your garden...

Woodland Pigeon Nest Building....
it's a note i took...
rarely.. no.. clearly impossible to witness
crows mating... or the cackling magpies
for that same reason... but pigeon?
i know that the woodland folk are larger... cleaner...
but they still heave the same ontology
as their cosmopolitan cousins...
how many male pigeons i saw rejected
by theiir female counterparts?
too many: i saw too many pretend to fly
into a tornado when a female rejected them:
they lost about 100 points of an IQ scoring
when female rejected them:
they hafe that glass-look in their eyes
akin to: what the **** just happened?
did i fly into a tornado: or was i actually supposed
to fly into one?!

i love women... like i love dogs...
hmm... leashes... muzzles...
i love cats more though... esp. thorough-breeds...
Maine *****... what leash, what muzzle?!
they're like prostitutes...
they like good company...
they're kept by keeping good company;
one's own...
i was making the bed chastising Christianity
i would have spit my phlegm onto the sacrificial altar
if i knew better...
no, you, silly little ****!
you're not going to own the stature of Belial
in the Legion to Come!
you *******-dim-whit! you sacred cow
of Golgotha! i will make 100 beds before i see you
make statements of the sort you made:
even the most evil men in history have made wise-sayings!

you have no ******* excuses!
you... sacrifice for the entry of hell into this currency of
realms a bit of it... what sort of harrowing was
it that you didn't decide upon staying down
there and reigning, ensuring everything would
stay in order? never mind...

a beast is stirring in me, i can't tame him sometimes,
i was supposed to wait until the 30th of this month
to return to the brothel after a shift at Fulham
unfortunately i have already began preparations
for the past three days... stroking the "whittle Richard"
while taking a ****, sometimes several times
a day... school uniforms... legs in nylon...
bare legs with knee high socks...
my head starts whirling with a sort of gravity
that you feel when standing still and not falling...
i need a woman's scent on me...

that's stroking the "whittle Richard" without
climaxing... that's what you do: to get the blood flowing,
i knew men as young as 16 who were pressured
into using *******-supplements...
     me? i really did have to think about Margaret Thatcher
and try to get a *******...
well... no... it wasn't Margaret Thatcher...
the middle-aged woman across the street...
not a beached-whale... but not exactly ****-curvy
that plump-peach come plump-peach type...
still... i just saw her today and was like: yep...
i'd do her...
   i remember going crazy once...
like the prostitutes tell me: you're good mad...
not the bad mad type: the good mad type...
again: prostitutes, psychiatrists, priests...
                                                    i tried all three and
it seems the girls know so much more...
but this woman across the street had a thing once
of walking bare naked in her bedroom without any
curtains... this one particular evening i was lying
on the sofa watching Silence of the Lambs...
she walks in... bulging ****... like a milking concubine...
such unfolding of fat that i got a ****** within
seconds...
    she walks out... but that's not the point...
minutes later her elder daughter walks in... also...
bare naked... it's enough to get a stiff one and then
watch it drop... to then get a second one...

but that wasn't the end of the whole "silence of the lambs"...
no more than five minutes passed...
her young daughter walks in: also bare naked...
another hard-on... oh for ****'s sake...
i felt like being Marquis de Sade in that film Quills...
where he laments with a funny sort of anger...

then ****** me! ******* you, Abbe!
have you no true sense of my condition?
of its gravity?
my writing is involuntary,
like the beating of my heart.
                                       my constant *******!

like today... i managed to catch a succubus
upon waking... woke before 8am slipped downstairs
for a cup of water... walked back up for a snooze
but instead of lying in bed laid on the floor...
in between dreams and nothingness
some fat girl was kissing me... *******...
oh for ****'s sake... in the morning... all this peeling
and unpeeling of the phallus...
i feel sorry for those circumcised *****... i really do...
i mean: for those circumcised *****...
they will never experience the joy of *******
as they will never experience the joy
of doing it yourself to yourself proper...
as they will never experience the joy of having
that ******* strangle the head of their phalluses
to a more prominent *******...
nor find a woman more exhilarated when she finds
our that you can do that trick...
i couldn't even if i wanted to... be circumcised...
i have two protruding veins encircling the tip
like those two serpents of the Staff of Hermes...
Caduceus...
                 each time i pull back the *******
i risk the chance of rupturing the veins...
now that would be a beautiful death... bleeding out
through one's ****...

went to the supermarket to stock up...
as usual this gorgeous Roma girl was selling the Big Issue...
the only socialist magazine i ever buy...
i don't buy the magazine for the content:
i buy it for her gorgeous smile... and those raven feathers
of her... her mocha skin...
anyway... skim reading...
HEALTH... how *** education is failing the young...
sophia smith galer...
oh right... this old chestnut...
because we had *** education in a catholic school?
i remember lessons on drugs...
the catholic system about educating children
about the perils of drugs involved...
ha ha... nothing about LSD nothing about marijuana...
alcohol passed them by...
we learned about the perils of either sniffing
glue or inhaling aerosoles... wow!
is this ******* Ukraine?! am i living in Ukraine?!

of course *** education is **** in England...
those ******* prunes are not plums
they're not wine and grapes: they're raisins...
ugh... no wonder i've been living in England
since the age of 8... now 36 and i still haven't slept
with an English girl... or a Scottish girl for that matter...
what?! it's true... Australian, French,
Romanian, Ukrainian, Turkish, Thai, Russian,
i'm guessing Ghanian... at least two black girls...
Kenyan? i'd love a Somalian girl...
let me think... nope... no English girl...
are they nuns or something?
             the *** education focuses on risk-assessments...
mind you... i did a risk assessment with
Khadija... she just giggled and said: living dangerously?
as we had unprotected ***...
now... a ****** would make sense...
if it was a full body ****** suit... that sounds
ultra ******* fun... but no role-playing...
just the raw back-wards and forwards...

truly: a man realises sooner rather than later that
he has three prime faculties:
imagination, thinking and memory...
and that he falls into at least one of the following
categories... recognising that, he: himself
is either a political animal,
a social animal... or a ****** animation...
i don't why he's an animal politically or socially...
but is a ****** animation: maybe because
*** animates man more than the other two
categories...

and when i mentioned that i abhor Thespians
with a passion: i wasn't referring to Thespians proper,
i was referring to the pornographers...
*** is unreal in reality: or at least it ought to be...
esp. if armed with two mirrors on the wall...
there are woman who can't keep eye contact
during *******... others that eat you with their eyes...
mind you: you can't learn about women at
first from women... you have to learn about
women from other men: of literature...
it takes about 5... to start learning about women
from women from yourself...
by then it's a solo project... it's not even an ego-tripping
affair... if beautiful women can share themselves
around... while those less fortunate have
the pillar of monogamy: you learn from the beautiful
women who went the route of prostitution:
well... nature is bountiful, it ought to be enjoyed:
fully! i can't just not share my love among
many... it would be unfair on the others to only
commit to one...

today i did the unthinkable... back in high school:
although it was a catholic 'un they admitted
the usual perverts... Egyptian... as young boys
we were comparing ****** hair and **** sizes...
we even measured our ***** in private and came
back with answers... i did it again...
everything looks small in my hands...
the width of both my hands and still there's
a head showing... i could pick up a basketball
with one hand by the time i was 16...

but all of this is good! it's vitality! it's virility!
as i gave this Roma girl £3 for the magazine
she smiled and said: god bless you...
where's my carriage?! where's my horse!
it felt so medieval...
i thanked her and already thought:
the gods have blessed me already...
they made me mad... and as you probably know
about the nature of madness:
you can't go mad twice... i'm recovering:
i was blessed in an instance...
oh hello there... little fella...
a grasshopper, aqua-green was clinging to my arm...
i tried to cycle ever so gently...
hitch-hiker! you're coming with me...
you're going to be so happy in my garden...
cycled with the little ****** back home...
put him on my index finger from my arm
onto the plum tree... a nice addition to the beauty
of my garden... the peaches and plums are bulging...

you couldn't possibly not learn anything
from Voltaire's Candide...
but i still don't understand English girls...
they talk the talk but don't walk the walk...
i don't understand ****** girls either...
the idea of boredom: in and of itself: by myself
is manageable... but sharing that special
instance of boredom with a woman:
to be bored by a woman? sounds insufferable...
and the damning aspect of this reality is probably
most likely to arise from ******-politics of constraint...

i couldn't stomach marriage... for one i couldn't
stomach having a piece of metal on my finger...
i abhor any symbolism of wealth in the form
of rings put on fingers...
i need my fingers clean... bare...
to me rings on fingers are a sign of a ******...
priest or otherwise ****...
they're disgusting.... just like earrings...
well... apart from those thin... very large rings...
and necklaces... all manner of piercings...
i prefer scars to tattoos...
  
hmm... anyone heard of... VAGINISMUS?!
a ****** pain disorder...
pelvic spasms... prevention of entry...
pain... i remember this one session with a girl
i really liked... no... it wasn't ****...
but she started crying during *******...
i hope she was crying about the fact that
i was slightly large back then... before i left
the realm of psychiatry and anti-psychotic medication
and let the world be itself... random...
yeah: but that felt ******...
you're ******* a girl and she starts crying...
psychosexual disorders...
depends what mood i'm in... and how little exercise
i have undertaken...
i mean: if you match up with a body
your mind has fetishes over...
plump... slightly larger... you simply can't
last a marathon of pumping
in the *******...
it's a bit like the GPS of birds migrating...
there's no explanation, proper, just a mystery...
i like this aspect of reality:
that not everything requires to be explained...
it just is... mysteriously so:
not magically... mysteriously so... because?
it's not an explanation can't be willed... summoned...
but... a human explanation of what's already
so ****** effective will not change the will
of said mystery... it just ****** is...
man can't improve on it...
and talking about it with explanations rids the mystery
of its aesthetics!
and we want beauty in our lives, don't we?!

well... i can't stand myself being this ***** and
not having an outlet... i need an outlet...
i need... flesh... i need two bodies prancing about
like toddlers in mirrors...
i'm finding myself thirsty...
i need to write an antidote to all that pornographic
exposure... i need to exercise...
i need to grasp Chinese selfless philosophy to
sooth me... i can't stomach the Greeks
or Christianity these days...
i need a second schism in Islam...
this would require... un-circumcised men...
men who might appreciate ******* with the feeling
a woman feels under the shower...
un-circumcised men who don't require
a payment for their circumcision with a woman
wearing a niqab... well... if she really wants
to... then at least linen... closer to white than black...
my god... Jesse Glynne... both ginger
and with curly hair...
    no no... i'm not missing out on the brothel tonight...
i'm already seeing how my eyes have lost
their iris and sclera: they're all shark-like
consumed by an expanding pupil...
oh... i'm serious... the Mamluks and the Janissaries
were serious people...
i have nothing left under the shadow of the crucifix...
no "higher event" manual argument
to turn my apostasy into a re-confrimation of
a faith that punishes rather than celebrates...
that moralises that punishes pleasures with pains...
this... sterile Greco-Hebrew conspiracy
against the Roman way of life...
as long as i scribble with these letters... the rest can burn:
it can moan with a mouth of a wound
that will never heal...

unspoken Voice say nothing
as well
as unwritten Words

Deeds done unnoticed,
unheeded, are beheaded in quiet
Solitude

private Executions
in a Smokey courtyard, pulsing
with Electronica

It's a Plain world
and Fancy words don't do it justice

I rap Words ordinarily
Lisping the loop to synch
with a Caller:

Chattel, chatter, and chatting
under azure Seas thru black
Cables

I hear skin and touch tears

I lisp loops like a f*g
being Scratched on an 80's
Turntable

- rock 'n' roll -
    once upon
      a time
   a Patti Smith
          in Nigeria.

on the rare occasion that i thinking to myself:
well... i'm not exactly going to end up being a millionaire...
the game is rigged... last time i heard...
poets get paid every 50 years...
    if that... but... someone has to do the workload
for the mere passion... of course: looking for other outlets
of income...
mind you... how did Bukowski get to sleep with
so many women? hmm... well... he didn't go off to fight
in World War II... i'm guessing... plenty of widows...
plenty of girls who lost their boyfriends...
to the Panzer brigade et al.,
         so... less of luck and more: opportunity came...
hell... i remember times before the advent of social
media... you... could actually date...
there was this guy in high school with a terrible case
of eczema... still managed to get a girlfriend...
i'm not going to become rich... **** it...
less chance of me looking like a sucker should
some hot fling come around and start milking me...
who vowed that... vow of poverty?
well... it's not the Medieval Ages...
   you can hardly vow to that sort of shin-dig these days...
scrape the bare minimum...
if by bare minimum implies...
   today at the vinyl shop...
         oh... wow! Matt?! what? you don't think they
have the new Ghost record, on vinyl?
what? Impera?!
    i just found Ghost B.C. Infestissumam...
   so i started fiddling around...
   sort of oblivious to my surroundings...
some pretty teenager girls... whatever...
    bothersome flies...
                       they hover around you for a while:
then notice that you're not noticing them:
******* just as promptly as they came...
    oh man... these records are getting dear...
lucky for me the ghost record was on offer...
2 for £40... ****... now i need to find a second record...
aha! Lana Del Rey's debut...
   i'd love to hear a woman's voice on vinyl:
not that i haven't...
      walk up to the counter... she's a he he's a she?
right? i didn't ask... i just made the complicated
assumption that she was a he / he was a she...
anyway... it (sorry) they checked whether everything
was in order... some cheap-*** *******
decided to take out one of the vinyl disks and stuff
the sleeve with cardboard...
   how on earth the record was returned...
beats me... well she he he she it they said: well i can't
sell you this... hell... i'll just pick something else...
originally i was going to buy the Rammstein record
with a match on the front cover and with songs
like Deutschland and Radio on it...
but when i saw the ghost record... ugh...
Lana Del Rey was a cop-out...
            what else did i have in my hand?
Patti Smith's Horses... does that album have that
song covered by American Head Charge?
i.e. rock 'n' roll ******?! oh... right... it doesn't...
pass..
             Bruce Springsteen's Born in the USA...
does that album have the song:
human touch on it?
              no? oh... right... pass...
        well... there was clearly only one alternative...
Fatboy Slim's: you've come a long way, baby...
a bit like DJ Shadow's endtroducing...
or... Leftfield's leftism album(s)...
         i was never into any club-scene...
         but these albums... don't get me wrong...
they haven't aged that terribly...
they haven't aged akin to something like...
atypically generational... lodged to a past...
the Grateful Dead... the Eagles... em... i'll give
King Crimson a pass...
              surprising... what? oh...
the Fatboy Slim record... not that i was a massive fan...
but...
it has aged really well...
then again: most electronica ages really well...
it can't exactly be innovated upon...
             dub-step tried... sure... kudos...
some decent examples...
                           but it's almost like classical music...
or jazz... the strange death of jazz...
someone should have written a book about that
phenomenon... how jazz emerged and just as quickly
as it emerged: how it died...
did the beatnik poets drag the whole jazz music scene
down with their "experimental poetry-jazz" fusion?!
that must have been a ******...
for the saxophone player... imagine having to loose
your melody to the bass player in turn losing his rhythm
with the rhythm of the drummer because...
some idiot is talking over you with half-baked
rhymes... the ******* headache...
ugh...
                  clearly i don't want to think about it...
i only wish bands like Boy Harsher could become...
no i don't... i don't want bands like Boy Harsher to become
mainstream... sure... all the success...
but with that comes a tainting...
                 i know that if i started performing some
of these scribbles... i'd stop creating new content...
un-poetic? hmm... like no one ever read Ancient Roman
poetry... try... Horace for starters... or Ovid...
they... sort of wrote like this...
plenty of conversational overtones...
to hell with too much claustrophobic techniques of rhyme...
i'm of that school: if there even is a school
of that sort... conversational overtones...
                        a narrator that can also play
a character... sort of scenario... oh... irony:
very much confusing with no quotation markers...
now i'm being doubly ironic... now i'm being sarcastic...
but it's rather pleasant to watch younglings
walk into a shop and see someone actually sieving
through vinyl records with the intent of buying them...
it's like they spotted a dinosaur...
a strange looking dinosaur since the dinosaur
is not even 40 years old...
             it's like a curiosity experiment...
but... but... you can... listen to this music... online...
yeah... but the difference between listening to music...
on your headphones... and... on a gramophone...
when the house is empty... the room is empty...
   it's a little bit different... but hey... i'm this dinosaur...
and you're circling me looking for clues to some
magical equation / thought experiment that:
i simply can't give you...
   ******: now that i'm listening to Summertime Sadness
on the earphones... i'm sad...
i wanted to hear it via a gramophone....
winter is coming to its final closure...
               here we go... libido insomnia... girls
*******... more flesh that a porky pie's worth of
rind... but good to know that some will still
keep on their napkins / diapers on their faces...
the hypochondriac types...
        well... at least i've managed to curb all
that journalistic limp-**** mentality...
the world is sort of a haze in some distant background...
it is... but at the same time: it isn't...
not for the past 2 years...
   not with the ****-show of my grandfather's
death and a bigger ****-show of the funeral...
the world: as i currently see it...
doesn't deserve me to couple myself to Heidegger's
Dasein... what was once there-being
has become: simply... there-is-being...
                           i've read enough of German thinking
to now, finally... retort as a Frenchman might:
c'est la vie!
i'm not going to touch anything by English
thinkers... i've touched enough of Newton via
Voltaire... but Locke? who else... Hobbes?!
i'm not going to touch English intellectuals...
the people who invented football... rugby... cricket...
even if they have anything interesting to add:
intellectually... the English are a pragmatic people...
they don't like cafe conversation riddles / complications...
why bother?
   if they want to be oh so practical...
so direct two-faced... let them...
               i esp. love how they downgrade the Australians
from the anglosphere...
while having their heads shoved up some
fat H'american ***...
                no... don't get me wrong... it's just....
sort of... funny to watch...
this big... English diaspora... but...
there are gradations... like... Canadians are not a laughing
stock? but... to be English is to...
have one's head shoved up a H'american fat ***?!
seriously? right now?
perhaps it's an English thing...
to see New York... to see Las Vegas...
me? i've already seen Moscow... i've already seen
St. Petersburg... i'm thinking...
ooh... the Kamchatka Peninsula...
   to hell with Finland and the rest of Scandinavia...
i might speak the language:
but i'm hardly going to blah-bah-black-sheep
go along with the narrative...
blow myself up? hardly... i say... live a little more...
let life drag you down...
       should have employed Chinese ideograms
to protect your idea-churning-machine
of liberal Englishness... no?
     not good?               what the **** is ever good
with these people?!
  anti-racist confused pebble-roast...
                 i'm not siding with the Russians but i'm
pretty sure the Ukrainians were pretty glad
when Poland was invaded by **** Germany...
i'm also pretty sure... Volhynia & Eastern Galicia...
the genocides...
   right... so why remember anything?!
i've learned that the English have this tactic...
the history of other people is... insolate...
childish... or rather: that they remember it...
while... at the same time... the battle of Hastings?!
what a ******* joke of a battle...
but hey... it's their culture... it needs to be stressed...
not... the winged hussar charge at the siege
of Vienna against the Ottomans...
but... it's childish... for me... to give my psyche to
these events... no? but... if i were to regurgitate
the history of the Angevin Empire:
all's kosher, sonny... like **** it is...
take a ******* hike... daddy... to the highest peak
of Rotherham!

20th through to the 23rd of June
LS (London Stadium, Foo Foo Fudge
Packers)
then 21st headed to Wembley: wound
in the womb: a fetus
(can't understand why that's underlined
in red when foetus): the disappearance
of œ and øzɔfaʒ

/n̪͡mt̪͡p/ (Yele: Papa New Guinea:
mmm't         or mount: mt.)
Niveneh: no: Nineveh...
                  like Jericho but without chatter:
cauldron in the cold

      the other Siamese Twin of how language
originated in vowels
to later establish itself in consonants...

the digraph of Æ: almost Katakana and Hi:

K(appa) missing the additional 'i (<p)

i.e.                    カ-
                                らがな (HI! ragana:
regina regatta - smooth sailing, averse winds)

could compact the punctuation / insinuation,
hide the exclamation marker
attiring the iota with more than just a dot:
like so:

                 HÍ instead of HI!
also: HÍ = HI!

               as i pondered travelling on the train
sitting backwards from Romford
to Stratford
a quickie: 7 - 10min commute:

the perfections of language and the language
impasse
with the same language (as it were)
we build the pyramids
and the Coliseum
and conjured up the microchip and satellites
but still the ******* graffiti on
the walls like a sad testimony of:
not literate enough?

                   enough Swifties to me have
to exclaim to my ginger nut
i never worked in a response team
on basis / bias of positive discrimination
the industry has been flooded with
Asians (and i don't mean the artisan
Oriental cobblers, sturdy workers
i mean the Raj sleuths and sloths)

   so there i was working with "Brighton"...
4 English guys...
the ginger nut was going through
a breakup with a girl he was with for 3 years
bought Taylor Swift tickets
broke up: patchwork Adams i figured
am i a psychiatrist now?

no: a historian a psychiatrist a poet
a philosopher: all under ONE BANNER:
a HUMANIST...
i am a humanist: never worked with
someone with ADHD:
first time:
could feed off his scatter brain i knew he
was trying to win the girl back

that's the thing with women:
you see enough of them and enter their
personal space
you: realistically enter a harem
so there's no need to blow yourself up
for Islam and (a) Promise... of...
a harem:
me and my "ball and chain":

well... if she's 56 and i'm 38
and there's than new film about about
Anne Hathaway and the IDea of yOU

i promised myself not to have
a ******* and i didn't
but just across from me on the Metropolitan Line
two classical Sappho types:
the type of lesbians that make out
across from you on the train
because you have nothing for an ego
and there's no narrative in your head
you're just this emptiness gravity
sitting down looking
at these two lesbians making out
and they're trying to be lesbians
really hard
but at the same time they start touching
each other
so... you start touching yourself
like: massaging your legs and your neck
and then the so-so lesbians
look like: oh ****! we need a *****!
a living breathing *****!
not the deconstruction of man of: just
a phallus: **** me! get a cucumber
but the sort of lesbians that are not butch
nor twisted rainbow nor political
just purely ******: they need a friend
type of *****: lezbo:
and that's all fine and dandy
but i figured: if this open gay sexuality
can happen: transcendental
then let's not be ableist or ageist about
who we are biochemically drawn to:

i admit in 20 years when Edie's ****
and clothes with smell of grey and moths
maybe then i will shove
fern leaves up my nose:
exchange the warm tingling kiss of chilly
juice for the sting of nettles
and call it cotton: but until then...

there are three language settings in Japanese
and yes: twice at the Fudge Packers
concert and twice at Taylor Swift:
like: i can't imagine this devilish Elvis
(who had a ****** life, seriously)
having any *** at all: Taylor Madonna...
i managed to chirp at least 10 friendship
bands
the last one i exchanged with a 6 year old
groupie who
mesmerized me with my grief over other
exchanges of friendship bands
so she gave me one with
a cocktail of watermelons, kiwis, oranges,
strawberries, lemons and that made my day
because another 20 year old groupie took
my prized possession of a band with metalic
swifts: yes... actual birds...

but like me and Matt were saying:
two years ago... two years?
Red Hot Chili Peppers at the London stadium:
day one opened with
All Around the World...
day two?
opened with
Can't Stop.... or the other way round:
either way! either way...
as a citizen going to a concert having
no experience of multiple bookings
of an artist at a venue
you don't really THINK about the SET LIST...
clearly...
Taylor Swift is an ARTIST...
just like Lloyd Webber is an artist
and there's the Phantom of the Opera production
and that's also Kierkegaard
and the Changelessness of God

but like Anthony Kiedis said
of John Frusciante: the psychotic -
these guys are no longer ARTISTS: they are:
MUSICIANS!
Taylor Swift isn't a musician: she's an artist:
and like any artist: she's not endowed with
some crazy creative demon
of uncontrollable energy to have to lose
and recycle material or just become
insatiable and confrontational like
a brick wall or the sea or gravity...

meh... MERCH! merchandise!
        ugh: honing in: i too bought a t-shirt...
well... two... i caved in...
the silly idiot moi so-so...

                          i'd still give an arm and a leg
to get to see Boris Brejcha...
i don't need to know his personal story:
but yes, he apparently escaped with burns
and bruises from an airshow where
a plane crashed and he discovered Mozart
in electronics / electronica...
so DJing is not so lazy after all?
funny: conjuring up melody with only ticks
and drums and rhythm
because there are no woodwinds
and certainly there's no frantic fried egg jazz
to be the antithesis of classical
which jazz was but
electronica is the antithesis of jazz
it's what i'd call RE-

BIG word: big WORD:
i can't even spell it i have custard for brain
my best estimate is
(even with the use of algorithm,
i'm yet to invest dyslexia into AI usage
via chatGPT so who knows)

COMPROMISING is close... super: cl>o<se...
but not there, yet... yeti yeti yet...
on shift when i repeat myself
over and over again i turn into a slur and slobber
monster i think my tongue is a gigantic worm
that's suffocating me... or at least gagging (me)

one more try: RE-
electronic music > jazz > classical
not necessarily > or <
but what other punctuation marker?
| ...            perhaps: i'm starting a mixology
of e. e. cummings and OLSON
so... let's see...

COMPARTMENT + RE-
spells out, what?
ANALYZING                       that's a pretty picture

i'm actually not, going to,
scribble the correct spelling
of the word that's burning up my brain!

and so much other **** in between
Big Mo was trying to steal my sunglasses
on at least 4 prior shifts...
i forgot my sandwich and coat last shift
managed to stash it: picked it up on cordon
DC3 on Olympic Way
fair enough fair enough...
o.k. have my sunglasses: until next shift
point being so much mush and ****
i'm having to have to build in a FILTER...
veil... membrane:
it's like reality is hyperventilating and
i'm not on any hallucinogenics but
i'm getting so many cues in terms of
what's being communicated
that hearing about Islamic Terrorist attacks
on Christian folk is one thing...
but then hearing about the crushing stampedes
on the Road of the Hajj
and at the place where they stone the devil
(Mina)
ha ha!                  ******* win-win scenario:
you know what i mean?

one thing to put pebble on a pebble
and call it a redemption of the continent of Africa
via the Egyptian "clairvoyance" of:
let's leave something behind for future
generations to remember us for...
and another to throw a ******* rock: at a rock!
magic!

yes: i am the devil: a humanist:
god? yeah: he's the theorist of humanity
nothing personal
but if you have ******* gaseous and liquid
equations like water can contain salt
and the cauliflower sponges of clouds
and blah blah blah
then god is the worst kind of humanist
he's an anti-humanist...
a calculator there's no personality
attached to god
god is not a person
however you think god in trinity might be:
**** me
some magical telepathic extended thing
of Descartes? well he did try obliterating God
almost all philosophers of the circa
8th - 19th centuries tried to obliterate god
until Nietzsche finally said: ASK the FINITE ***
for CARROT then the SCHTICK...

welll) d'uh this isn't readership friendly
but i didn't just read Finnegans Wake
and admired the struggles of Delmore Schwatrz
for no reason...
pressed too long on the L without shift...

in terms of women...
and i've been with prostitutes and i've interacted
with Swifties so i have
a plethora of experience
not to say i'm in any position: advantaged to
"abuse" or reap... or... m'eh...
*** is *** but kinda of pointless
if not procreative...
so *** ON and *** OFF...
there's a switch when not investing pro-creatively
but then i don't want the hassle of
my own bad seed
so tending to a foreign body that's not
my own is ego-soothing
because i have no emotional investment:
just an emotional commitment:
and that's different because
it allowed me to morph my original idealism
of women
into an alternative idealism of women

point being:
of women: well... you won't get any BETTER...
you'll... you'll just get: DIFFERENT...
no better: just different...
after all: women are generic creatures...
you get to see that when a 90,000 event
takes place and egress is summoned, naturally...
men are unruly...
it's sad... it's sad that the concept of
individuality disappears
when people congregate...
people become stupid and no longer
bothered about individuation or democracy
or whatever they do privately
but cattle i understand and
i have my Cerberus Team on hold:
it takes about 5 people
to organize a Slaughterhouse of 300...
it truly does take only 5 dedicated Hosts
to push 300 Parasites through the Coliseum Turnstiles:

methodological: i'm not a Methodist...
i'm being clear cut precise:
it would be stupid not to learn anything from
the Nazis...
seriously: when it comes to crowd management
at large events, concerts etc
you'd be a ******* ******
not to learn from the Nazis...
how... how?! seriously?
what? how they managed to dupe all those
people into walking so serenely to
their death? is there any depiction of people
walking into the gas chambers
kicking and screaming like
children being born?!

                       hmm... not that i can recall:
plus if you see the number 90,000 in an elevated
crater as if a meteor just fell...
i'm not scared of heights...
but even i get the fiasco of vertigo
   on level 5: the whirlpool of a man made
open space:
clearly a meteor should have landed here:
but no... just man's ingenuity to allow
people to congregate and find imitations of god
with idol(s)...

ah yes... Polish could be almost like Czech
in that it could be lazy, slurry... from time to time...
i honestly have to mind this
in terms of language usage: English is provisional
Lingua Bas Franca etc
but i could become more Czech
(i have genetic roots in Bohemia)
in that:

JUS      can easily replace JUSZ
because: eh...        FABRI GAS... not GAZ...
i'm lazy and Polish is too strict for my liking
****... already:

it's not even jusz but już...
      but instead i can just say: jus... like i'm an imbecile
but rather: that's how Polish children
speak: naturally: partially Czech softly
and there's no real Russian softness
just blue blue blah blah harasho...
either way i'm going to be put into some
sort of category of "origins"
as not even Jesus was this Messianic Universal
He-Man...
so... why stress that i'll just be the Polish Matt?

did i miss something?
ah right... filter... i need to filter through
the past 4 days
and think about the best time to have a ****;
not now: i want to read one chapter
of Dune and some Olson poems.