Eloise in a Christmas tree,
swinging a straight razor
at the children below.
  Never held enough
as a baby.
  Never in love
just a maybe.

Eloise's father
in the living room,
drinking the news.
  Those *******
******* and *****,
  he screams.
Never held enough
  as a baby.
His mother smelled of
  a late night and
pineapple blend *****.

Eloise popping Prozac
like Tic-Tacs.
  Fantasizing about
shooting the school body.
You sonuvabitch,
her father screamed.
He penetrated--
She screamed
  and writhed.
Wrists held.
Body pressed.

Beans and toast
  for dinner.
Mom left dad because dad
  isn't big enough
or makes enough money.
Enough. Enough. Enough.

Eloise was supposed to be
a miscarriage.
Her dad lost some toes
when he missed a log.
  Chop, the axe said.

The world is a swinging place.
Whispering in the dark.
A hushed frenzy.
  Mix and **** out,
her gun let out a shout.
Eloise, queen of the
  student mass grave.

Eloise's father turns on
the news.
He drinks liquor instead.
Eloise on the t-v.
Oh, woe is me.
He went to the shed
  and blew his head
clean off.

The world is a swinging place.
The world in a frenzy.

i heard you mention my name in an elevator once
coming up from the second floor to the penthouse suite
you kissed my forehead and dropped your suspenders
blouse, skirt, ******* hit the ground
all that was left were your white lace lined socks
and your pretty saddle shoes untied and loose
I ran my hand through my hair you one called apricot  
you seared me with your hands
and burned a hole through me with your mouth

eloise and i curled up underneath the christmas tree
covered in glitter, and pine needles
the soft crackling of the fire
and the nutcracker soundtrack playing over the speakers
safe in her arms and happy again

Say I was a sea captain in that life.
Say I sailed a barkentine, the Eloise,
on the Azores run out of Lisbão.

I was a sea captain in that life.
I sailed a barkentine, the Eloise,
on the Azores run out of Lisbão.
I found a green disc under my bunk
and instantly knew its use.

You have taken my books.
You're no sea captain.
The color you paint your toenails
is that of weathered brass.
The salt on your neck
and in your navel tastes
vaguely impure, like spray - delicious.

Say I was a sea captain.
Say I had a dinghy named 'Alouette.'

I was a sea captain.
I had a dinghy the crew called 'Woody.'
She sang when the wind stroked her ribs
and the spars rattled. Never mind.

Never mind the night breezes off Mosquito Island,
the roll of the berth as we lay
at anchor in North Sound
plotting our run to Anegada
so you could see Pomato Point
and what the chart called 'numerous coral heads.'
That morning, with Fallen Jerusalem
to port, you said four prayers, one each
to your gods and a last one to Sunday,
which you had neglected for years.

The swell in Drake's Channel is rising.
It will rise all through the night,
and if we are not too drunk on this fine black ***
we will rise with it.

I almost cried the second time her thigh grazed mine. The air shared between school girl fantasies of jump rope and freshly baked poppy seed cupcakes. Just enough to make me ponder whether the bounds of earthly consciousness were an object of her manipulation. And I, simply her willing subject.  

The oh too warm days on the side of the pool. The bright rays permeating the soft pretty pink promise of youth. Never delineating from the canvas of blue gray green tiger stripes I captured every time I looked up at her.

There were only feelings of nervousness, maybe a little anxiety. The feeling of a canary perched in its open top brass haven of beautiful imprisonment.

That’s what it was like being in love with Eloise.

Protrusions of the finest rose thorns. Strangulation by way of sweet, sweet cyanide. Dropping off the prepossessing coast of Amalfi.

I hoped that she too never stopped touching me, but I knew that a boy would come.

A boy would come to take me gentle Eloise away. To contort her limbs and fantasies of childlike innocence into rough boyhood.

Why should she try to keep up with him?

I was warm. I refuged her hollow bones as one does a migrant sparrow.

But like any kind thing, you must issue release. For the worlds most marvelous of things have no business being kept from displaying their beauty.

The way her feet curved and curled at my unsavory dispositions. The hugging of sandles by way of freckles and blue glitter dolphins.

I knew how I felt.

I knew because I had felt this way before.

Never daunting, or in bad taste. Not shamefully or with unrelenting dissatisfaction.

So how come she couldn’t do the same.

How come I’m left with camera film of beachy Saturday’s and coffee gelato. Of ripe succulent fruit. Her strawberry lip balm. Tire spokes peaking out of the side of mulberry bushes, and the space between our palms when her hands interlaced with mine.

And she’s left with none of me at all.

how far can analysis go,
if philosophy books do not
utilise grammatical words / categories?

i dare say, let's begin with
that mathematics calls coordinates,
a simple (x, y, z) of the algebra
that translates into
  (1 across, 2 up, 3 diagonally) -

in language, that's a bit more
complicated:

   the category of prepositions stretches:
on, in, from, with, counter(-) -
with or without the hyphen affix making
counter a suffix...
                against is still minded
as a preposition...
                               as...
  
oh god, i believe in the trans-movement,
although i believe in the transcendence
of grammatical categorisation of words,
minus the meat & two veg,
and minus the floral pattern analogy
of female genitalia... for ****'s sake.

language, you must admit, has more
coordinate "starting" / incision markers
that mathematics had or ever will, "have".
why?
                 simple... 26 beats 10 digits...
even if there's the c k q...
              Siamese i.e. -
               the grapheme ae...
                      whatever...

  i hate the devilishly debilitating stance
of having perfected language and
treating this perfecting as anti-"scientific"...
   your parents originated from norwich?
if not so: i'd think so.
                    
       i'm about this | | close to losing
my temper and frying a belgian waffle...
calling in Thai with a crisp Eloise salad and
reminding the inclusion of the use of tamarind...
that over-salty peanut butter paste...

i hate being the person to break it to you:
language can be re-celebrated
having tasted the piquant pompousness of
over-exaggerated establishment of science
as a quasi-religion...
                          
language can be as scientific as an -logy
affix -
    as long as it minds the bouncy-castle
of grammar, notably categorisation words
of the orthodox caste choice of woo-woo-wording...
it's best to begin with shrapnel,
notably the already titled observation,
correlation between mathematical coordinates
and worded "coordination"
        via prepositions...

               we already sharpened
the islamic five pillars into two:
  a- (without)
                             the- (with) -
the prefix distinction, unfortunately is only
entertained by the indefinite articulation -
since a definite articulation has a higher name,
most distinguishable...
            
                                  there's a "point"
to "the" point, only given that "the" point
   is gambling on "a" point, without a recurring
point of curbed ambitions of
                   said: "point" being demaned
  in the first place...

in the existentialist vernacular that's also
called: juggling the "ditto" / inverted commas -
two things are apparent:
                        three things are being said.

only when language is "unnecessarily"
complicated does life become the so craving for
answering: life's short, life's simple -
  yes, but that being said -
language is elongated, with death being
the centipede to a butterfly's two weeks' worth
of gilded glide and pomp and
         colour-dyed circumvent of
the numb-packing grey and, everyday.

Wind blows.  Snow falls.  The great clock in its tower
Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:
At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .
The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.
We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.

We are like music, each voice of it pursuing
A golden separate dream, remote, persistent,
Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair.
What do you whisper, brother?  What do you tell me? . . .
We pass each other, are lost, and do not care.

One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing,
Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him;
One drifts slowly down from a waking dream.
One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . .
Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.

One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.
Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.
A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.
He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils:
A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.

Death, from street to alley, from door to window,
Cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching,
Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.
But why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect?
Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?

Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled,
A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes
Down jangled streets, and dies.
The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely,
Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.

Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways;
Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways;
From freezing rooms as bare as rock.
The curtains are closed across deserted windows.
Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.

Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight;
Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly;
Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone;
Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered;
Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;

Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror,
And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not;
Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,--
They are blown away like windflung chords of music,
They drift away; the sudden music has died.

And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly
And sees the shadow of death in many faces,
And thinks the world is strange.
He desires immortal music and spring forever,
And beauty that knows no change.

Stump Junction...



              “How Ya Gonna Keep 'em Down on the Farm
                          (After They've Seen Paree)?”

                       -a song of the First World War

Speak not to us of Paris by moonlight -
How are they gonna keep us down on the Seine
When we have seen the gaiety of Stump Junction
By the romantic glow of sweet mary jane

The twinkle of gunfire from a .22
As Cousin Eloise potted beer bottles
While her new guy Kolby took a long ////
On her old guy Shane-Boy’s low-rider rims

The county mounties busted up the fight -
Speak not to us of Paris by moonlight

it must be a clear misunderstanding when someone utters the words: 'you hurt my feelings'... taking offense etc. last time i checked... doubt is outright discredited... yet in doubt: such a plethora of emotions... bundles of emotions... emotions that i can't bestow a narrative onto... it's not like the lack of emotions matched with denial... doubt's plethora: it's a pale version of love... in all but certain times... a pinch of uncertainty is always welcome... as is being offended... it's a loose-paradox (paradox: probably a misnomer in the context) of... an imploding objectivity... all those who claim objectivity also claim: being cognitive pure... not being dragged: muddled by emotions... why are emotions so undeserving to be felt... i'm tired of the silence of the heart for almost forever... when people say they have "****-hurt feelings"... or that they might be "offended"... it's not that... i see it as: implanting emotions... somehow it's easier to digest thoughts: since... "somehow" thoughts can exist in both an: in vivo as in an in vitro staging... you will probably never take thoughts seriously... but emotions... that raw slice of cured beef? well... it's not that i "hurt" your "feelings"... it's only that i gave you... feelings you never prior experienced... no one has hurt feelings: never... people only have bothersome feelings they cannot digest... no one is hurting... there are only a few with indigestion qualms... but since it's not the stomach but the heart... no one their pigeon brain starts to coo coo: cook up nonsense...

in light of recent events, in England...
a proselyte: of a former Islamic persuasion...
gets stabbed, slashed... whatever...
for wearing a Charlie Hebdo t-shirt
at speakers' corner in Hyde Park...
does it matter she's a woman:
does it matter whether or not she
was actually talking or merely wearing the t-shirt?
a proselyte...
i'm sort of one: teasing at the adventure...
i'll write the word ****** because...
well: giggle... bundle...
i will not censor my thoughts...
but because i will not utter the word:
i will not: it's not for the debility
and some "sacred past"..
but i will not scream it: choke my thoughts
with it... i'll reach the platitude...
urban slur that it has become:
you... don't... "own" the word...
i don't need this black hole punctuation
marker...
                      the "N-word":
god grease this "taboo": i have better pork
to ****...

- when enough drink is in me
i'll be writing under the influence:
but i won't be cycling... i tried that once...
i collapsed on the side of the road
clenched my bicycle
like a woman might clench a ****-buddy
and just... lay there... i was aiming
for the moon... it was a moonless night...
i started aiming for the constellations:
it was cloudy... i just lay there on
the pavement...
it felt... very village-esque...
as if the Red Army just passed through
having seen the well-dressed SS-men
running for their life in scuffles
and... torn limbs... in rags...
thank god the Bolsheviks were not
those ****-smeared Mongols...
who ate nothing but rancid horse-meat
and drank nothing but horse blood...
but it figures...
can i please talk to some of the sensible
Muslims: the ****'ites?
the old world Persians... even they're ******:
how come a bunch of camel jockeys
started to dictate to the Persians
a new thinking parameter?
the youngest of the monotheistic brat-dom....
so easily offended...
my greatest "fear":
the jihadi with an acute sensitivity
most associated with: French footballers...
why are these Muslims as sensitive as
French footballers...
Islam was once so gracious:
i was almost willing to "revert"...
i was implored by some Muslims to do so...
that's the thing with associating yourself
with Muslims in the west:
a feeling of conversation soon turns into
a feeling of conversion...
i asked one ****-
            -stani who approached me in a park
while i was sipping a beer...
why are you single? he implored...
a man of your stature...
shouldn't be single...
i didn't ask him whether this was England or
whether it was Lahore..
i just asked him what:
Alif-Lãm-Mĩm
meant at the beginning of a surah...
he brushed it somehow "aside" with a:
'only god knows'...
sorry... but that's not good enough...
i have to be the worst type of
a convert prospect...
although the best should an architecture
student... come along with a joint...
me with two beers... him with Le Trio Joubran:
that is happened in Amsterdam:
of course it had to happen in Amsterdam!

Alif-Lãm-Mĩm: is that sort of quiz
akin to turning letters into numbers
and "seeing" patterns... there's that Hebrew term
for this practice... it's not chiromancy...
it's not the concern for the Zodiac...
it only takes three letters...

"666": ΧΞϚ

last time i checked: "they" were breeding black
athleticism over Hebrew intellectualism...
Hebrew intellect fell short &, sour...
with what came out of Marxism
and... Freud still chokes:
but it's hardly a ******* celebration
when translated into skyscrapers...
when there's also that alias of the ****
with the football stadium... no?

but the "******" can be celebrated for his
physical prowess...
there are more holier words in this language
than a slur i hope to confess has become
more of an urban doodle: prepositional-punctuation
marker....

at least i'm not screaming the "N-word" in the back
of my head like some stuttering numb-nuts...
it's there... plain to see...
if i were to write: Niggerian instead of Nigh-Gear-Ian...
it would imply... what?
the same sort of hyper-sensitivity associated
with Jihadi Johnsons alias:
macabre: Russian ballerinas are more cut-throat
than these French footballers...

there are more sacred words than require
black-holes of: translated into "thinking"...
the name of the Hebrew god...
hidden within a "name for a name":
ha-shem...
there... i'll go as far as that...
i will not utter this word...
but sure as hell i'll make a great dough
of it: seeing how it might rise...

**** a black girl: colonial superpower, i...
the English are the tourists of Europe...
i don't think the Polacks ever felt comfortable
in their backyard... ever...
the argument goes: since the English went
all over the world... the world now has
to come knocking...
for all this ****** weather: you're more than
welcome...
Japan is an island... it has much
better weather: go figure...

another example... a former ISIS bride has returned
to England...
she's living in a £500,000 house
and has been giving treatment for
a prosthetic extension
of a lost arm: "lost" in a drone strike...
**** me... should have fought for ISIS...
pumped myself up with all those
amphetamines all those warriors were
ingesting because:
drink is... b'a'a'a'h bad (stutter?) i bet
you want...

hypersensitivity:
great at running...
but... no good at swimming
or for that matter: rock climbing...
from a tree unto the rock...

no matter... i was watching the Australian masterchef
contest and spotted a stand-out...
her grandmother was of a south-east-asian
"persuasion"...
pure as chalk...
well... "good news": ol' sandpaper man
comes in... 2nd generation
of interracial breeding...
well... two generations short...
what's that like in dog years?
the first encounter... done...
2nd... by the 3rd turn product pops out...
all is bleached...
worked with sandpaper... of white: piglet skin...

what a pretty fine explanation...
this connect: nuanced: "us":
greedily waiting the next: new...
conversion...
how do born & bred Muslims treat
proselytes...
converts... "reverts":
if not black h'american Malcolm X
stints...
all white... Mamluk / Janissary types-typos...
second class: ha! "citizens":
i don't trust these anaemic-**** smears
from the sand-pits of wannabe Congo
any more than...
no... great curry...

how it came about that a western man
had to become: educated by
some... retrograde... concerning words:
he would never ******* use!
even in a bilingual sequence of "events"...
mind you... the niqab would come about
as sort of... useful...
concerning the mythological blonde and
her ******* tirade of cough-ups!

get the **** real: ******:
the blacks just want to be...
blacks... the whites just want to be:
white...
you... play-up your jazz
while i drown my ******* Prokofiev...
you be black... i be white...
women always: some great heritge
of brotherhood making a comeback?
must be a Vancuever sort-of
a shin-dig...
investment in lady... qualities...

just about right: how h'Arabs treat those
Bangladeshi whips...
you have to whip those h'Arabs into
owning some ******* whiskers...
brown-beat doesn't even cover it:
with the copper-necks...

- just don't get me started on the Turks...
Turks... supposedly Muslim...
but their alphabet originated with the Mongol
geography...
seeing how the Turks licked at Vienna...
spent so much time just below
the Carpathian mountains: in Europe...
the best barbers and the best
prostitutes known to man...
oh and the ****'ite Persians who still love their
iconography...
Charlie Hebdo was wrong in that respect:
i bet Muhammad was a handsome *******...
a camel jockey / goat herder...
an illiterate par excellence...

it's not like he was immediately liked in his
local Mecca...
i have my "theory": in praise of older women...
i'm pretty sure she was the elder
the literate... the business mind-set illuminated...
she must have been the person who
wrote down the first Surahs...
who? Khadija: Muhammad's first wife...

eh... and they really do think they're the dog's *******...
Eddie Izzard's explanation is still tip-toe for moi...
my francophobia will not go away:
i can't speak French and not retain a French accent...
that will not pass...
therefore? i will not learn French...
i'm not going to speak French like a foreigner...

clearly i wanted to convert to Islam once...
"clearly"? hmm...
i once listened to this spectacular adhan and cried
like a Janissary...
what put me off Islam?
****-
    -stani Islam...
                 Saudi Islam...
     i'm still teased by the Turks... well... Turkish prostitutes...
once upon a time i also
heard vaughan william's fantasia
on the theme of thomas tallis... and also cried...
i cry at beauty... that's what i do...

my ****** lot... because the Hebrew's devil is older
than my devil...
imagine... coming from a people
that still defended the last paganism
of the Lithuanians: the last paganism in Europe...
the year: 1410... a battle between the pagans...
the Tatars (remains of the Mongol Horde)
the Polacks: lack-land lack-land...
and the Teutonic Order...

perhaps i could have convinced myself
to convert to Islam...
but then... what the hell do i do with
the *******... ms. amber and all that bourbon
that... always reminds me of a brothel?

the Hebrew god...
well... it begins with the implosion and all that's
clockwork with the Greek Δ -
that became the Y or... the serpent's split tongue...
funny story...
i was chatted with a Greek on a train to central
Warsaw from the Modlin Airport...
my god... how similar Greek sounds to Spanish!

look here: γΥ!
                           eh? eh? it's a sound structure that
requires an umlaut when transcribed into
Latin:                     gÜ...
one parabola... two parabola: a pair of wheels:
goo!          of the ghoul!

i do believe the story of of Carmenta (the Cimmerian Sibyl)
because... why shouldn't
it not be mythological that the genius
of Sejong who invented Hangul...
enough time passes...
journalism becomes history and history becomes
myth... or... there abouts...

all for the best... now that we're all seemingly
literate...
under too much weight of history:
it seems that i have inherited too much...
and i have inherited too much:
there's a plateau of a horizon...
so much history for a single man to digest:
ingest... that we have hoarded so much
of it... enter filter... enter skim-reading...
but it happens  ever so often that a Quran arrives...
a fire... but then... all the restrictions
that come with it... so much with keeping
too much from the past...

if only Islam could have cured me
of my drinking solution
to the boredom associated with
the soberness of the everyday: platitudes...
perhaps enough: just enough of *** could
curate me towards a better path...
such are the times:
there's plenty of drink: available...
but never enough ***...
unless you're a performance artist...

i feel most sane on a bicycle... feel safest
when being overtaken by a juggernaut of
a truck's volume...
a critique of traffic...
i feel... completely bewildered when
a mini-cooper: this sized: ||
takes... this much: |       | of space
to overtake you...
while... a man driving a van...
or a truck sized: |       |
takes... || to pass you...

Gallows Corner roundabout...
the last thrill of a cyclist taking to orientating
traffic... in the newspaper...
another solipsistic cyclist was mowed down
by a truck turning left at some junction
of Holborn...
me and my unconscious spatial coordination
arithmetic: not some ******... although:
a ****** would probably wave hello
this was a paediatrician cycling to her job...
i don't pity her... let the earth be light
upon claiming her body...

most cyclists that die on the streets of London
deserve to die...
how nonchalantly they ignore...
how... no... nonchalant is a timid word:
how... blasé they seem...
every time i pass one of these solipsistic
bulges geared up for: target practice
i forget to laugh...

i feel human... i bought 70cl of bourbon...
gorgon... bourbon: watch me turn to stone...
**** it... i'll sober up tomorrow morning
on the dual carriage way...
why not take the risk?
i'm most sane when drinking and scribbling
or when cycling...
i was expecting to see some lovelies in
Upminster... but...
since i was riding a road bike with 23cm wide tires
i was looking down for... ***-holes...
more than looking up for cleavage...

but this glorious spot... just outside of Upminster...
beyond Cranham... easing into
Bird Ln... through to Tomkyns Ln.
while walking across the A127 Arterial...
the organic beauty of England is starting
to grow on me... i love what the Saxons did with
the place...
perhaps the Welsh and the Scots: the origins story
Britons that the Romans met would have
done just as much...
nice... tended to garden...
i once felt nostalgic for the land most associated
with Polacks occupying it
but a land the Swedes wanted... the Mongols...
the Russians... Turks and Germans...
i imagine i'd be as much involved with
a love for the organic north America
while missing the love for the...
culture that lay on top of the organic spectacle...

i much adore this topography...
of course i can hardly appreciate the natives
having too play the game of capitulation
of former colonial herd "animals"...
hurt feelings? or feelings aroused?
you felt them: your problem...

how the English capitulated to their former subjects...
it almost hurts... almost: no... it hurts...
i love this land...
i'm hardly going to agree with the people...
nicety... politeness:
you give them a ******* mosque in the middle
of... i've was invited to the Reagent Park mosque
as a prospectus convert...
what is it with having Muslim "friends":
you're only "friends"... "proper":
if you convert?!
what's that recipe you have for the Lavash?
who would have thought that rosemary
works just as well with beef as it does with lamb...
oh right... that was it?
fair enough... *******!

see... that's what put me off Islam...
****-
  -stani: Rotherman...
bad taste man... it just left a bad taste in
my mouth... i ended up without a mouth...
pretending to eat via the hole i **** from...
i'd scoff out some diarhoea digestive juices on
my meal and then... vacuum it up with my ****...
i remember the concept of teeth...
though... teeth were nice...
so was the tongue...

****-
  -stanis ruined my vision of converting to Islam...
i'll settled for this... makeshift of Christianity...
gnostic.. because... well:
in my position: you're not teasing at Hebrew
superstitions... you must be...

oh this land... this most glorious: serene land...
how breath-taking "concept" of Scotland...
all the finicky irks of the rolling hills of
what's mostly England...
on a bicycle: best...
do i mind the locals?
well... do the local mind their former colonial
subjects?
what's that saying: thanks for the recipe?

you see me in Bangkok... you see a *******
chimpanzee die from dehydration:
sweated out from his... salty... nut-sack!
i'm not going... to hell with south-east Asian
humidity...
it's a cancer... i'll best survive with "the idea"
of keeping up a hard-on / narrative on...
prospectus ghost horizons...
the Faroe Isles... *******: GREEN-LAND...

that's where Frankenstein's monster would
have went... i'd go there too...
the agony of summer...
everything decomposes too quickly...
the flies... the maggot **** the flies!

oh for the love of these isles... perhaps not the people:
then again... i rather drift in & out with
the anglo-saxons than be jumbled up with
"my" people...
you start to appreciate despising the
******* diaspora after a while...
i guess the Polacks are the most willing to
integrate...
whoever showcased the dynamics of the
congregation project of Chicago...
somehow forgot...
i'll drink drink this 70cl of bourbon:
don't worry... i won't clog up the arteries of
the NHS with my antics...

you what? i love this land... perhaps the wolves
have been culled...
but the foxes are still running rampant...
well: if life throw you foxes:
you're not going to exactly: ah-woooo!
bark? for the love of life: i will never
bark or take to the leash...
i own two maine *****...
i exhausted them while grooming them...

they ended up spending the afternooon
sleeping in my bed...
i'm hopefully going to retire to it:
with a horror movie soundtrack somehow:
soon...
spontaneity of narrative... closure:
more impromptu... less of that...
masquerade formality...
this god blessed land...
if only the Spanish armada...
like the Mongolian ships...
should the conquest of Yappon could have
been envisioned...

anyone still reading this still bothered about...
GG?
the consensus of... a neGlected...
     Giant...
i think... this former soy boys catching
their Goliaths... catch 'em cold... sober..
or... simply exchange them?
to perform so well in slam-dunk prowess...
reinvent classical music via jazz through
towards blues... rock... etc.?

somehow the weight on my shoulders shifts...
a Nigerian ****** turns out to be an urban slur that
doesn't invoke a Nigerian...
a soy boy vegan: perhaps...
i implore the use with coercion tactic...
for those offended: yeah... i'll just implant some
emotions into your heart...
it's very much offensive for my to intrude with
proper spelling...

let's be honest: anyone who has been:
honest... is by now... tired of walking on eggshells...
**** a black girl... what, you?! colonial beast!
yes... confuse the ****** with the Croat...
the Russian too... hell... throw some Ukrainian bias
while you're at it...
anti-racist western girls are...
eh... m'eh... if i can get what i want for
half a decade's worth with some Turkish raven
hair... beaus...
do i... have to mind... pronouns... prospectus quotes etc?

like i said... wait for the bleach..
or... the sandpaper...
i've seen the complete works...
i was ****** with... love... affairs...
girls that dated me...
sure... but they had younger sisters...
and their younger sisters were more...
most attractive...
terrible combination:
dating a girl while her younger sister
is more attractive...

for all the choices and Heidegger...
lucky loser...
no... thank you...
to be one of these super-sensitive Islam propagators...
me? convert?! *******: no!
best keep that ***** in the niqab...
if it were a bone tomahawk..
it would be a female... declined limbs...
blinded...
a torso readied for *******...
imagine that... a replica machinery...

oh i'm sure... Muhammad... was a handsome beast...
but i'm thankful...
that the first... last... true religion...
met a schism so early...
Muhammad was so easily undermined
not keeping a nepotistic promise for
a cousin Ali...
early schism: no truer than:
truth is somehow sold?!

i fiddle with my beard:
whoever says otherwise... no... i'm still playing a violin!
i'll sober up solo... cycling against the gusts of wind...
Eloise...
Eloise!
England... oh this well deserved and welcome land...

my land....
in deutsche:: mein(e) erde...
i watch the locals: capitulate....
   what are you?! slugging *****-best-please
sumac? i... i am to surround  suspicion?

this glorious land....
                   this.... glorious land...
this: ING-LAND...
best forget the wolves..
given the foxes are prunes...

i once used to frequent museums and galleries... but then i came across forests and graveyards... ancient yard of arts... and then i found the hands of a 2nd sculpture: the nearest i've been to god in terms of seeing a visage... i've already heard what i need to hear: a choir descending in church... give this works a second pair of hands: and call them less weathered: but more moulded by a second attempt: more than a mountain might need a tornado, or the deserts be resurrected into mountain ranges by time! i know, necro-sculptures are certainly not Elgin marbles... but at least when adoring these statues i am not bound to listen to ******* lawsuits about ownership: the dead own them... nor am i sick from the stuffy air of incense of a museum imitating church practices... just the common sickly sweet rot of autumn infuses them... and i know: even if they were made from marble: i'd rather watch them being "revised" in the immediate sense, than have to ascribe a human topor to them, being left so mutilated, without those slight diversions they have kept intact.

wątpliwości obdarują człowieka myślą: wert ein zweite eisenvorhang: früher immunität zu die schwarzplage.

  that is my single most important observation:
did these people, my supposed past
really concern themselves with perfecting
sanitation? the map of the black plague looks:
mighty odd!
      there's that "bit in the middle"
where it's akin to me buying take-away food
  one half a year from the local turk
selling the "speciality" of fish & chips:
i feel ill, i fill gloated, bloated...
    no offense to the turk selling me the food:
i like the idea that turns into a practice
of actually like washing my hands like
a surgeon before cooking the food
i am about to eat: prior giving thanks
to a father about putting saliva than
apples on a table before me...
            it really makes more sense being
able to cook your own food
than taking a short-cut...
     i ******* hate take-away food:
i will bloated like i just ate a puffer-fish
alive...
      i woudln't eat from a restaurant...
and thanks to somone like
Paris Hilton: i'm pretty sure i would
be fine having eaten her pooch munch;
hand on my heart + scout's honour:
i'm sorry...
            i rather cook my own food than
take it easy and visit a restaurant...
       i might ******* in the meantime,
  i might pick-my-nose...
    but at least know that i would be most
likely to wash my hands with bleach...
    i know i will wash my hands
my my proper way...
                 maybe it's the deep-fried staple
of all the good food being in need
of an oil bath:
     but i'll scrub down proper and
have to answer for:
    did i see it proper?
   if it wasn't cooked 4 x 4:
     i guess i can only assert but one
vector, eye, in a menu of paid
compliments.

     - the following extract ought
to be filed under: almost 2 months ago
it made: sense perfecto! -

- there are two strands of thinking,
one by immersion and the other by
"digression" (trans-metaphor,
id est snowball effect that can't be stopped,
colloquial: lack of a better word,
post scriptum bloom spontaneity;
verb-verb complex), the former immerses
itself in quantifiable rigor,
god the non quantifiable, s-
-elf-reductionist inertia of one,
**** qua deus est chimera, alt. **** insapiens.

Prefix proxy, all hyphen additions pre/post;
ars poetica shames itself with rubric & rigour;
poetry as the resurrection of chaos
via versus IKEA poets: who think poetry
requires an academic manual, art (per se)
as the "relaxation" tool of semi-autistic doctors,
hindering 7 pillars a near infinite supply of hues;

science makes the incremental judgement
and yet so many nouns are missing.
Revisionist: the "big" Q (?) - bang, ****,
what's the difference: non vox in vanus.

Modern "philosophers", if not mere spinster
hide behind word-pillars, using if not "refining"
words on their primitive 1st derivative,
one dimensional formality, absolute,
whereby words become crutches, rather than pillars.

Hence the bombast and lack of fineze.
Yet ask the etymological question as to
why a word's zenith must be kept unchallenged,
hence the stressors (in italics) and
hence the subsequent abyss.

Every word can unravel and heed toward
its own history of non-cause,
but a champagne-happenstance.
Look into grammatical complex akin
to verb-verb dichotomy within the nouns *****,
subsequently Madonna.

With a cctv crow perched on my shoulder,
glued to the mono-lingual Arab of
the Riyadh greenhouse perks and demise,
black gold gluttony,
would be muhammedan avatars of the forgotten
celibacy abiding by merely adhan sustenance.
The Arab, jinn or dajjal, or he with one eye
or he with one tongue?

The greatest display of art is geological,
in that eternal marrow of once moulded by hand,
thus given into Eloise (god of wind),
twice the sermon of mourning upon
the weathered faces and rigid genuflex limbs,
penitent gargoyles and saints akin;
not sheltered in museum of last upheaval
cherished by gluttonous suitors
and postcard frozen envy;
grave watchmen of mortality's final dynamo:
procrastinating in idle mourning,
sepia exiled as the currency franca,
moulding by day, harvesting moss by night,
yet still perpetually lullabying a teasing
chance of crux signum of unfolding hands
to butterfly flutter risen; eventually the instilled:
not yet.

Yet they do not belong neither in shadow
or bubblegum paralysis to seize a chance at
grimace before the epileptic paparazzi seizure;
weathered stone, time, scythe in hand,
pads from a master anonymous to a Rodin and then,
rather time & the Chinese five winds,
moulded repentant galore slowly itching away,
pinch by pinch by the irritable constancy
toward a crab gravity:

   what do you call a man who earns a living
from young women? Alfons.
   - and what do you call a man who earns
a living  from old women? Rydzyk.

I take it must be a healthy observation,
for are not graveyards the other,
less pomp and yet more grandiose exemplars
of the kept artefacts?

How few are know in the latter as fabled scribes,
procrastinations of life among dry quills?
No these statues belong here, in the museum of air,
wind and rain, with the hands of the elemental
artist's work ad continuum ex ****.

**** in analogue, home ex analogue contra populis
(while watching pigeons squadron - "x" -
against the stiffening of limbs against ale cold);
with only a pair of eyes to travel, man, alone,
perpetually seeking an alternative avenue:
that perpetual en masse cul de sac tsunami
of all mortal venture: reason vested in the motto:
not asked for: enigma in **, enigma non ex ****
(complexes, systems, traffic);
enigma diem est non carpe
(an enigmatic day is not worth seizing,
since what is best unlived,
is best translated into what ought to be written);

note to don Juan:
had I lived such a bountiful life,
I wouldn't have bothered writing a book,
laying a brick stacked in puzzle upon
a wall would have sufficed;
boorish clausure, inevetible glass of mud,
a riddle Hardy upon Liszt divulged
with feminine weakness:
I'll adore a peacock' s feather in a hat,
prior to and forever through.

believe me when i say:
     i will always trust the turk the barber...
   i will actually trust no other ethnicity
of a man to call himself a *barber
if he isn't the latest ottoman fashion from
Istambul...
      because?
    please! show me the forest for me
to aspire to lumber-jacking hacking
     that imaginary forest into a british library!

i did ask for Königratte: and they sold me:
the soul can never be sold unless in the priesthood...
in defence of Thespians:
             or those who sells their shadows...
i don't know what is worse...
eh: why not face it:
    a polish girl will always prefer
Adam Mickiewicz...
   while the ex pat immigrant polish boy
will always rather cite Julian Tuwim...
   or as the ancient saying goes:

siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak,
       a tu chłop powiedział: i to było tak...

ihr menschen, wirklich würdig sein
  ein zweite eisenvorhang...

     if i din't know: i wouldn't be asking
you to reply in german for
          me using english grammar...

ł: remains of the trinitarian formula -
on a basis of a t -
      bottom up or bottom down?
      it's becoming a case for inspector clouseau
looking for handwritting
  in such examples.

alt title: nox! νύχτα! noc (nychta)! / gwnaeth nhw anghofio

four days on antibiotics because of a tooth-ache...
more like a gum throbbing...
a nerve ending shouting session...
and what did i learn?
i love being sober as much as i like drinking...
i don't think being drunk is even invoked...
it misses me, "somehow"...
the "well not really"... i find that to be drunk,
proper, you also need a side-dish
of a stimulating conversation,
as done per solo: well... to the gallows of stupor
with you!
beside that... today marked the day
when i remembered what a bee sting feels like...
the first time it was me laying mud on
top of this helpless bee... kneeling
in the mud... getting stung...
today... this little zeppelin ******
fell off a tree and into my hair...
while attempting to brush it off
i gained a signature of its needle
and a little bit of its ***...
the part where it dies from taking a fatal shot
at: please, someone... comb my hair!
acute pain is more than whatever is on
offer in the hallucinogenic realm of things...
mushy-fungus-hitchhiker:
ride i am not...
acute pain sharpens reality and "reality"...
take me, 4 days sober... now i'm having
a formidable sessions...
i'll get to what's bothering me in a second...
i'm almost happy to say that i'm drinking
to shake off all the clove-buds and other
anaesthetics that numbed me comfy...
but a whiskey in the morning...
even if you're going to do all the chores
in the garden...
let's face it... there's no good mood of chore
even if you spike it with drink...
some people don't relax when writing...
some people constrict themselves and out pops
out the **** of fiction and fantasy...
i tried watching t.v. this evening...
i never bother to turn on the radio...
i'm my own d.j. plus that thing the wind
was doing with that eucalyptus in my garden...
the thing the clouds were doing...
i think that's plenty of fire while
the t.v. can die... on a Friday...
i once asked for a sabbath for journalism...
even though the Sunday edition with its news review
is probably the best day... so a journalistic sabbath
would be a Monday...
t.v. can ******* on Friday...
i do adore being sober as much as i love drinking...
after all...
from 118kg down to 101.8kg...
i can already feel the sunken cheeks of slimming...
i even started to admire myself
in glass while watering the fruit trees in my garden...
i'd swear that i grew a beard to
make a second emphasis of contortions on my face...
**** on me! here are the first!
of the world... buzz-words...
hypergamy... blah blah...
   *****-donations...
   ha ha... well... it certainly looks like...
no sooner rather than not ever...
we'll be ******* our third cousins... for sure...
well... if you think about it...
a whole lot of women...
going for... a whole lot of *****...
from one man...
    isn't that... ahem... complicated?
         unless he's a magician, a psychiatrists
and a tree surgeon...
i see! melodramatic o fortuna type feel:
if all these women...
   are being impregnated by this one...
bank account...
  that's all he is... a yellow walrus...
what are the chances of... 2nd generation ******?!
2nd, 3rd... sure sure... back in the old testament
days... same father... two "opposing" mothers...
no complications...
just, that, *******, riddle... of... forehead...
against... a... brick... wall... to... curb...
demands... for... original... thinking!
just saying... happy to be drinking...
shivers and shakes and demonic faces of hallucination
come 2am... oh... and dreams...
bogus... dreams... nonsensical dreams...
dreams on a whim for Eloise to ****...
to midnight!
i have a new drinking salute...
   nox! nychta!
                 oíche!
             so we are, aren't we... certain...
of... best for "moi" but not when another
"moi" best of... come together
in a slobbering case of gene pool fog...
cousin-some-share... that imbecile father...
well... here's me not dreaming
of any other dream-gene-pool...
i'm a walking abortion, don't you know?
i just came late... much later than expected...
expected the golden horde to allow the same
freedoms...
in the old days... the chains of the mistake
of that one night stand...
i can see it now...
it would be impossible to be chained
to the next come next sheered ****** the better
mechanised no better than deus ex machina:
i.e. **** in machina...
the bus-driver... the ******* plumber...
i surf with words...
i don't hold... lend me a sociopath and a brothel
and we'll have us a jolly good night...
i have about £140 quid for the occassion
and two litres of whiskey to get us through...
well... me my shadow and a cat i'll call...
mr. bowler...
because girls in yorkshire are disappearing...
and that's old news...
i see boys disappear all the time...
hardly teased by sweets and bad parenting
tantrum traps...
what came from barbie and what
came from g.i. joe... certainly not fans
for chess or su doku...
sorry but if the police are not willing to do...
anything... what the **** am?
a slave herder?
their father?
a "concerned civilian"?
                   i haven't been ****** for free in well
over a decade...
coming to 15 years...
   i'll let this one black girl off because
she had a skinny ***
and my ex was friends with her
and she slept over and i gave have a few
k.o. cocktails and... we matched...
on that karma sutra scale of...
i assure you... no elephant ****** a bunny...
as a tease of prep for childbirth...
could have had a cesaerian...
            paid... the napkin... paid...
the magic... what carpet? probably paid...
oh... it's sobering, proper sobering to pay...
notably: ******...
a ship might sink... but that fat-flat-skim-reading
of skin will never fade from my memory...
i'm sure my lips were leeches and i had
her eyelids... with the mascara itched onto them
i write this...
to-ast!
          night! nox! nychta!
                       i have no heart to either write
or drink during the day...
give me the day and the clear dichotomy
of the body and the mind...
i want to be drunk of the exercise of the body
to calm the mind...
but i also want to be drunk on the mind
to not exercise the body...
for me there is no mind-body dualism...
there are punctuation points that favour
a mind-body dichotomy than a dualism...
like...

writing is an extension of thinking...
it's not an invitation to waggle your tongue...
but of course... i'm proud of my students
who only recently were illiterate and are more
than eager to speak aloud what they can read...
rather than "think" it...

to excess!

why would i "believe" to be a molusk...
brain-and-bondy-entwined?
this sponge of a... pickled... brain?
bound to a duality...
clearly defined rubrics...
if numbers are things...
words are beings...
and that genesis of numbers: nothing!

singen! singen! doof schweinschnauze!
who ever said we'd need those
72 virgins underestimated our
need for...
       ahem... siebzig-zwei...
      rottweilers! arithmetic that against the 3
gratis eins of cerberus... blah...
it's no fun drinking when...
well... your excesses are not mine...
st. augustine... a cololoquy?
           ah ha ha... a soliloquy...
colloquial is akin to: n'est c'est pas?

          shh... me my, moral: ought-i narrative...
project zero... Munich: munching:
tripping at fahrenheit gizmo degree 106...

did "we" invite anyone to make this
a spectacle of teasing only-fans stature?
how can you ***** words?
put them to the test of graffiti?
is that it?
sell them cheap... make some counterfeit
robo-jungle-jingle work
the shorteing... already short...
missed the mark...
excuse the farmers...
you savvy with the tractor?
the Romanian strawberry pickers?
how about the the concept of a seasonal diet?
i don't really need strawberries
in winter...
i don't actually mind... no strawberries at all...

i'm here... whatever freedom might be
allowed for me in the land of
the freed Polacks strangulated by the powers
at be that were: in the 20th century
in the variant of the Russian...
Soviet... Prussian...
****... ends up with the Belgian
chocolate... kite-runners... typos...

not 'un of their F-F-F-F-ANG...
LE
however the ******* vont or...
want...
because you don't you toy
with words that "they" might like...
they have a cat that suddenly expressed a:
*******...
while i have a cat tidying up cushions
in which he and i will later sleep in...

white town: your woman...
playing pool at some end of
the hammersmitth & city tube load-off...
somehow the 1990s keep flooding back
to some: chess... innuendo...
shifting bricks... shifting bottle of ketchup...
my greatest love: shifting angry pockets
of IRA...
oh... wait...
       "gwnaeth nhw anghofio"?

like these isles were merely "conquered" on the focus
of Loon'dun and Birmingham alone...
oops the mosque of celts up north...
i'm just heightening: hibernating my expectations...
the Welsh and the Cornish...
my tribe my no tribe...
every time i might be reminded...
that i'm not a ******...
or part of some greater idea of "nation"
that's a diaspora of ******...
i'll sooner disappear into the 'indu *******...
marry a healthy second slur of Vishnu...

bogus: i see these brown-beaters i'm a *******
copperneck myself...
i will never be allowed to go back... "home"...
thanks for the integration play...
hybrid "lost soul"...
since English is so integral in all of things...
plum... pecker...
*****... screwdriver... nail...
hammer.. solipsism...
                to amount to n identity in English is...
so myopic... forget the tenderness of Linguo-Empire
froth.. bothered... full-stop...
the mythological blonde and her mythological
ape-short-cut elephant tusk: cuck-eye...
hello! me... (sign language interlude):
B... O... W...
       O... U... T...
              forget the braille and morse...
oh... wait... you were waiting for the cuck daddy...
but... if the cuck daddy is not ready to reproduce the
cucked baby girl... daddy's girl...
a generational pardon...
i'm not ready to reproduce:
        brick black block stwong dwyck...

oh i'm pretty sure:
one of those: pic. perfect pictures... please!
i'll die sooner than be found around
one also gagging:
having to appease
a Zulu hard-on...
like i "said"...
70,000 walking ******
on the lips of Libya...

              the envious green, eye?
the all-seeing... green tumult?
have them... i'm "dying"...
let them rot in gloat of
being rabbit **** finding out
about a camel phallus...
because... that's... how... it... works...
TOOL, FOR THE IVIORY LADY...
now i get to exercise a freedom
of tongue freed from lap...
rap or "just arrived"...
scrutiny of literacy...

           it's not like the Hebrews were ever going
to be celebrated for their physicality...
the ***** was...
thank you... for taking take of spunge-nik...
mythological blonde...
thank you... piston... tool...
           because your egoism had to pay of...
wouldn't it?
if all you have... to trace pride worth with...
******* worship...
based on size...
you know... the ancient greeks found
a large phallus a demeaning meaning in:
it's barbaric...
a bit like a shallow ****...
might also fit the criteria...

               have "them" their ******* interracial
bonanzas...
please let them have it...
let them feel morally superior...
give them a generation or two...
"we'll"... start... the bleaching process... ha!
the EURASIA monstrosity is...
heave! who's Arican?
the angwy west kind?

      german assimilate sort?
i always found the darker skinned Kenyans
best beyond having to tame... blisters...

but my parallel universe father-in-law
could be a summary of
paul young's love of the common people
and...
      the kinks... living on the thin line...
my parallel universe...
that's before... love come's first:
thirst... and lobotomy me tow two blue too...

give me a ******* bicycle!
i would most likely most clearly most
want to generate my own momentum...
than have to heave a hoof to tow too!
but i ****** your elder daughter while
my eyes turned me into a ******...
i: epitaph...
   supposedly living "since"...
give us scrutiny... enough lager...

                                 i laugh naked into the night...
it's supposedly cloudy... isn't... tell me...
it isn't?!
of those summers... of those springs...
i could tell you the no. of freckles...
no i couldn't... but i could tell you...
that bomb great bomb of flavour that's
a black cardamom in a...

          **** me... if the antithesis counterpart
of moi can **** a black boyo...
like... readily like... there's rat poison:
like there's a need for propaganda like there's
a need for insomnia hard-ons...
good for her: m'ah n'ah'm'eh izzzz...
fowel: fow'est...       GYMP...
            forest trail...
             you kept bizzy.. no?
so...
          she's busy... and when she won't be
busy she'll be burying herself
in ****** spermbanks...

as free as a southernfairy:
not being a southernfairy ever might...
you... friggin'... ******* future of moon-key!
i said:            quoth      bwy?!

its getting kind of sad
cuddling with Eloise
the stuffed elephant you gave me
for my 15th birthday
i mean i love her a lot
but shes not you
no one is you

The world
A tragedy
Sharp sticks and cherry bombs
The soul of a clown
Provoked emotions
Beautiful sad songs
Arguments or expressions

People that know love
Like Juliet or Guinevere or Eloise
To burn - to be on fire
The intimacies of lives
Their wounds
Their walks with God
The sounds and movements of their bodies
Evokes a resonance
We become monuments to them
Liberate ourselves from our suffocating mantras

The heart
A strange beast
Hope
The Crystal **** of desire
The slave of the passions
It’s in the bones, it’s in the bones
It speaks in emotions
Walk with me through this dark valley
The parts of me that are used and broken
Through error
Through trial
Through fantasy and illusion

Recognition of an ancient love
The stirrings of the Spirit
The machinery of feelings
The eternal perspective
Emotional harmony with any old God
Your heart is the beacon
Your heart is the storm
A biography of memory
Just before a kiss
Dissolves into texture  
Incoherence and immersion
The pilots of grief
Creeping dreams that flew from the light

That old longing
Waiting inside me like snakes and toads
Rose in me like a flame
Love is undying,
Of that I feel certain
Our emotions are music  
Our bodies are instruments
The most magical thing
Faith
Empathy
Echoing back
Subtle vibrations from the realm of the senses

Earth...

Should be a World of Love...


Gypsy