i call my ambition, sergeant giggs... don't ask; i also call my left foot lady cantona, it's just regarding the manchester united dream team from the mid 90s.*

oi! oi! that strange perfume in my garden
has come back!
i don't like it! i know i'm growing garlic
and rosemary & mint & jasmine in it,
but i'm not liking the eerie honey ****
of it, that i might liken to female genitals,
no!
   *******!
                  get these gnats away from me!
feed em to the bankers!
       point being, if i were ever an islamic
martyr, and i'd get to the "sacred" gardens,
much akin to the hanging gardens of babylon
and i'd be like...
     wait a minute, i didn't ask for solomon's
gym routine, i didn't ask for *******
gym membership scheme!
   i said, i said that i wanted 72 watermelons!
who said that 72 virgins is a reward?
where are my 72 watermelons?!
i want my ******* 72 watermelons!
   1 woman is enough! enough as in:
one too much!
   yes, i know nature it cruel, and it proved
that by providing more women than men,
and that when an ****** hits their egos
and shatters them all hell breaks loose...
no! i didn't sign up for a gym membership!
i want my 72 watermelons!
     take your virgins and shove them
into fairy-airy stories, or up my ***!
        how could 72 virgins ever be so appealing
as to take the lives of others?
   i asked for heaven, not a gym membership...
idiots are going to be hating the notion
after a few hours:
well... gotta **** 'em all...
otherwise the ones not ******, will go straight
to king solomon, with his permanent
****** **** fusion...
   just give me the 72 watermelons and ****
off with your "promises"...
      i wasn't promised **** all upon
birth in this world,
   but the promises of 72 virgins in the "next" world
seems more like a curse, than honey-dew;
i'd rather worm through
   a library of books worth-the-reading,
than a bunch of girls: "worth-the-****";
well yeah, "the" oops;
muslims: monkey mentality, even after death;
me? i was imagining it as:
                       a brain in a pickle jar;
then again, i'd love to chat with 72 prostitutes,
gone down the train ride of waggle waggle...
plus the drinking helps...
   less gym orientation mind you:
the already exhausted ***** 'elp a 'ittle.

Someone.
One person is all I ask.
Maybe they'll find the time to read this.
Even though it's sad;
One persons greatest fear,
Never quite finding it's way to the surface,
Even though it's always just below it.

Heaven finds a way to taunt me now and then,
Even though I medicate my thoughts away,
Light always fades, and darkness
Plunges through.

My story is one of fear, of despair,
Even. But maybe, I'll find a way out of this

Insanity.

Sex.
Everyone expects me to believe that it doesn't hurt,
Even though they see how tentative I am,

They plainly see how scared I am.
History goes on for...
Ever. And ever and ever and ever.

Why can't anyone let me be in peace?
Hello, I'm looking for a way out.
Instead of helping me,
They just shut me down and out.
Everyone seems to think they know me.

Luckily for them, they don't.
Inside, I hide my true thoughts away, but that turned me into a
Ghost. A former shell of myself, wandering around aimlessly.
Help me? When will it stop? Because the white light at the end of the
T**unnel, was just a freight train coming my way.

Eye hav a higgoramous, shee tort me orl I knoe
Sheez a clevar Higgoramous az Higorrami goe
Shee tort me orl mi spelin and wen eye pik mi no’s
Ter wypit on der carpit knot rubbit on mi close

Sum peepul saye herz higgorrunt an saye dat shee iz fik
I ate dem orrid peepul dey reely mayk mee sik
I ope dat shee gitz pregerant an az a littel cubb
Eye’ll fead er lotz of kandie an uthar luvly grubb
Eye’ll elp er mummie baff er eye’ll chainge er durty nappie
Shee’ll bee soe qoot an cudelsum shee’l mayk mee viry appy
An wen der cubb gitz biggar shee’ll plae wiv mee an kis
An evariwun wil real eyes dat higgoramous’s iz bliss :-)

i've been listening to signals
of being so,
so,                   so,
so...
                  better educated...
while also...
having to resort to asking:
so...
                      so...
who's going to butcher
the cows going into
the slaughterhouse:
moaning slabs of
                  "syllables"
of vowels with no
knowledge of consonants?!
who?!
                   who?!
pristine what?
i said:
           by the saint and by
the clandestine
suitor's cover...
me...
listening to rihanna's
disturbia?
did i just *******
a *****,
             did i just...
do the funny ***** lips
with an ****...
no...
        i just listened to
a song...
            there's a...
*******... limit for citing
the mea culpa...
your fault,
my fault...
   and then Pontius Pilate
walks in...
'**** all of this **** out,
i'm ready, bargain,
punching-bag exclusive
take, on,
what...'
catching up contra
the 1960s...
       watch me...
disillusioned by the beatnik
poets....
              does it matter?
no no...
i try to heave the heavy sight
of a sigh...
we, again, on repeat...
better learn some Sanskrit
to escape...
  or learn to brovado
through with some curry
recipes...
                 like:
who is to conquer Siberia...
little people learning to play
chess...
big people learned
to conquer the Raj and teach
us to play the "sport"
of, cricket...
               only recently,
news,
the ski jumper, Finn,
          Nykänen died....
      yeah... modern standards,
aged 55, he, "died"...
ooh, please 'elp,
'elp 'elp!
i have an ambrosia branch
sticking out of my eye,

ouch ouch,
comic strip Asterix, ouch ouch...

hey presto!
the elgin marbles!

the animal was never going
to moan out...
slabs of syllables,
for syllables you'd need
both vowels, and consonants...
but a cow being towed
into a slaughterhouse?

i'm guessing...

               dostoevsky walking
the nevsky prospekt doesn't cut it...
it's like...
   vowel... intimidating
a consonant to show &
subsequently to attach itself
to...
there's also the vowel-in-itself
squint...
            the jamming sensation
of what could become
the gritted teeth without
a jawline...
the pristine tall couple
talking about his
                 programming
job somewhere, somewhere
far away...
and the both of them look
taller than the two of me...

      stuck in retro...
or whatever remains the gloated
voice of the populace
of the past....
proud term, that term: necromancer...
i can't deviate from the fact,
that my personal library,
is mostly composed
by... dead people...
or as i like to call them...

so much of the written word,
but no epitaph of
"worth" bound to them...
good...
    i own books
without epitaphs...
better than "own"
people without a worth of
scribbles to ascribe them
to...

me? real life?
or... this current spew of
real-time "conversation"?
of me, and this agitated blank
canvas?
     you, me, or the who's who
of what's to be written?

yes, the cow...
it could not tow into
the slaughterhouse a distinction
of telling apart
the vowel from the consonant...
almost like the english
people...

          they attempted to escape
writing in :)
rather than telling me...
     š... for: šut up!
              the cow being towed
into the slaughterhouse?
the cry of vowels
searching for its apparent
non-existence of consonants!

you know...
that's trauma...
the sort of trauma that locks
you in...
the sort of trauma that says...
thank **** i'm not Syrian,
Iraqi, or Lybian...
  i feel... less inclined
to "spread the love" of the trauma...
i've seen one cow being towed
into a slaughterhouse...
i don't feel like
expanding on the topic
with an over-exaggeration
of humans screaming: yelp!

then again, Paris once...
  Nabokov filled...
back in circa 2005...
me? go back to Paris?
ha... ha ha!
   ah ha ha ha ha ha!
               so i'm supposed
to play the infantile game
of counting marbles?!
i'm learning to play the game:
sit on your ***
and pretend to lasso a donkey
to gallop!

oh... i could learn to **** this
thing is transit...
if only i was first given
the basic rubric
of having eaten it,
                            i.e. man;

bad boy what?!
    first idea...
the cow is being towed
into a slaughterhouse
and it has no knowledge
of consonants!
    second idea...
              und wie isoliert ar sie?

Some past details are sketchy now,
There's things I know I've done:
I did a spliff with Neil Young,
Had a pint with Pete's best singer,
Walked on Nelson's ship,
The ship that shook Napoleon.
Stole The Dubliners cigarettes,
And the matches too.
McCartney once played for me,
Cat Stevens served us tea.
Leonard was with Suzanne,
He'll always be your man.
I imagine Lennon at his white grand,
Making love to ivory keys;
Krishna George on a cushion,
With sitar on his knees.
Joni's paradise was paved,
But we saved many trees.
I once floated on a zeppelin,
Beneath the dark side of the moon.
I didn't need an aqualung
To help with songs I sung.
We were changing with the times,
And the times they were a changin.
ELP and Alice Cooper,
Zappa, Jackson Brown,
Brought us high,
But we came down.
There's so much more to be done,
But when this life has been run,
I'll cross my legs and play some chords
Of yesterday and days before.

Spiritual hope is in my pleading soul
Until the wondrous Rapture comes!
Christ be in my futile heart
Kindly looking down on me!
O** Lord how I earnestly beg of you,
Fearful and worthless creature that I am,
Forgive me as I grovel before Thy Cross!

Cleanse me please of sin dearest Lord,
Help me to know my own faults,
Raise me from the dust and dirt
Into which I am condemned to lie!
Slake my thirst for Holy Truth,
The Truth which only Thou can bring!

Only Thou, O great Lord, our Hope,
No one else can save the world,
Thou great Savio[u]r up above
Hearken unto our weedy and feeble cries!
Everlasting life is what you bring,
Crucified for us on Calvary
Royal and Holy Hill of Death,
Our only hope of Salvation!
Save us O mighty sweetest Lord,
Save us this coming Eastertide!

All must fall down on their knees,
Not forgetting to confess our sins
Devoutly worshipping the Lord's
Saving grace in this wicked world
Wherein we must toil and strive,
And at the last we must come face to face
Loving you, O great Lord!
Let Thy holy words filter down
On us like humble Easter Eggs,
World without end in thy embrace!

How can we dare to approach Thee
In the knowledege we are hopeless sinners,
Sinful filth from the days of Adam and Eve?
Sweet blessings we beg of Thee,
Prayers we send up to Heaven like emails!
Unless we confess and beg forgiveness
No one may be saved for the
Kingdom eternal in the sky!

Yea, please do not crush us to atoms
Underfoot as we grovel in the dust
Mutely offering up our anthems to Thee!

Oh!
My mind is spinning
Lovers of math, how?
Kerosene, my desk.  
Just kidding. Or no?
I** am falling to the floor
Help, no signal… Dead.
Gather the marbles!
For why don’t you flow?
Everywhere I look,
Dumb numbers look back.
Call it what it is?
Bothersome old foe.
Ah!

What have I made? What have I done?
Let those I love forgive what I have made.
Let the gods forgive what I have done.
Let the wind that speaks Paradise,
let it speak of what I have tried to do.
To be a man and not a destroyer.
To find the path to Paradise.
Beauty, not madness or unfinished
tangled works. The pillow, not the case.
In my homeland only shades stalk.
Fear is the forefather of cruelty.
To escape fear and find the way.
There are many ways but only One Way.
We live a thousand years in a wink.
Many wrong turns but perhaps a few right.
Let those I love forgive what I have made.
Let the gods forgive what I have done.

  ~mce and elp

i imagine heaven, as seeing copernicus balancing himself, while riding a bicycle for the first time, seeing how he theorised the imbalance of the geocentric model... mind you: the heliocentric model for writing history... kinda ******, isn't it? not much to go around, landing on the moon, probes to saturn, lovely pictures... to me? we're still living in a geocentric world, since most of history happens in the geocentric model, rather than the heliocentric model of: dwarfing man... plus, readings maps doesn't really help even if you know that the earth isn't flat... o.k. smart ***, you navigate a car across europe, from england to a remote city in eastern poland!

memory is such a fickle faculty of the mind,
made twice as fickle (some for of "natural"
selection) - most assuredly an ontological
anomaly - but i remember this one particular
morning, where i had to take a photograph
of the vanilla / raspberry / rose hue clouds,
while pumping myself for the day ahead
at 7a.m., listening to *jethro tull's
my god - ah, the flute man, i sometimes
imitate it, puffing out clouds of biblical
verse citing: the fire ahead, and the smoke
behind, will guard your path upon
the woken ask for: an exodus out egypt.
after all, i'm all for free speech,
but when a freedom is lacking,
and an insidiousness overcomes a first
comment of a site like you-tube...
       debating bands, "trying" to broaden
the young minds:
   i actually was introduced to king crimson
when i was circa 10 / 11...
      hell, depends who your father was...
people abused by trolls forget one major
point... the adrenaline rush you get
when being slighted...
      you know the effect of adrenaline in
this loser microcosmos?
  you know how powerful it can be?
you have to learn english a second time
even if you already speak it as an american,
or an australian...
              you have to pick out the best
bits: on the continent there's no such thing
as english humour, there's only
the macabre humour, or... dark humour...
prime ingredient?
oh don't be silly, it's not turmeric
(the poor man's saffron) - although that
could 'elp...
   it's? sar-casm!
     the english are renowned for it...
by the way, i once mentioned "chiromancy"
and i.q., i.e. how you hold a pen
or a fork / knife, or how you type without
ever glancing at the keyboard...
better add chop-sticks to the affair...
i prefer to call them pinch-sticks -
since you're most likely pinching your
food, rather than forking it...
and that: they're not exactly drum sticks
either...
            i wonder why high i.q. correlates
to culinary equipment...
        i fiddle with my beard,
scratch my head and state: no idea!
but... have you ever wondered why
thai curries are so much fresh than indian
or bengali? the indians use the base
of onion ginger and garlic,
and very few greens...
                 they're heavy on the stomach too,
but thai curries?
        so easy to digress on,
sorry, digest...
                   and these pinch-stick antics?
bewildering...
    i can't remember the last time i used
them,
but it's always the same cliche:
once you've learned how to ride a bike,
once you've learned how to swim,
once you've learned how to use chopsticks,
you can't forget how to,
even with a ridiculous amount of hiatus.
odd, isn't it?
   well, i find it odd...
see, when you come across a youtube troll
in the comments section,
be sure to turn a reply into a sarcastic snigger -
the english humour type,
recognise the adrenaline rush,
mention a small weener,
i know it's not exactly bungee jumping,
just recognise the adrenaline...
  and **** me it's there, esp. (like me) you've
had a few drinks "too many"...
it's easy prey... you can turn into
the most obnoxious antithesis of a troll
that a troll begins to cower...
   i'm not for safe spaces or curbing a freedom
of speech, but, come one:
you mention a few bands that are the neo-alt.
from the 1970s in the prog rock movement,
why settle on citing a want for kids reading
to led zeppelin... or black sabbath...
no one mentioned deep purple either...
guess what ****** of guitar store workers more:
deep purple's smoke on the water,
or led zeppelin's stairway to heaven?
  oddly enough? the latter.
i just hate hearing the news of teenagers being
"sold" suicide after being abused online -
esp. girls...
        come on, if you're being trolled,
turn into an englishman, become sarcastic,
watch some fawlty towers, some monty python,
and then spin it with things like:
i'm getting a hard-on, or: my ****'s getting wet...
pick 'n' mix...
          the only way to effectively disperse these
"saints" of free speech is to become
a bigger troll than they are...
  and how does one overcome a troll?
one becomes an orc.

(C)ristmas is coming,
(H)elp those in need,
(R)ise, Oh, loving Savior,
(I)ndiviual angels, come,
(S)oldiers in thy name,
(T)ap on the door of cheer,
(M)erry Cristmas to
(A) loving Savior,
(S)inging joyful songs.

Help me
Engage me
Love me
P**lease

Help
A
Nearly
Named
Actually a
Horrible suicide

But
Actually
Killed
Everyone
R**ound

-
I’m fine,
Don’t  worry about these little things.
I know it gets better.
it always gets better..
You don’t need to help me,
This happens all the time.
I’m fine
-

for me, each and every book feels like
a womb -
     until i reach the tadpole maturity,
until the time comes with finishing a book,
i am bound to say: this is me,
in complete -
    with every unfinished book akin
to abortion -
              i can never imagine a completion
of a man's deed necessitating writing -
with man having a compendium -
    a collective works bound to a single
volume, akin to a walt whitman -
        my my, what a strange experience -
best summarised by i.e. jack spicer:
   my vocabulary did this to me -
     what can you expect, well, what can you?
to leave everything in a tidied room,
         exposed, complete...
  there has never been a man to stand upright
on this orb - who didn't have pieces of
himself missing, who ever was more complete -
by having fathomed cul de sacs of himself,
better still, missing limbs of his psyche,
  scuttling around freely, imbued by the frenzy
of the chaotic approach, akin to the addam's family
thing -
             as in a non-pompous briefing of
philosophy as merely a genre of writing:
       lingua ad abstractum -
                        language toward abstracting -
nearing numbers, or, let's just say:
bordering on numbers.
              you can actually read a philosophy
book for a year, and shorten the year,
and actually mind what happens between your
reading sessions...
                         the seasons change,
    the sky morphs from imitation kenya in
the spring through to summer -
  to the sky: imitation alaska -
       going to bed by night, waking into night.
but such is the nature of books -
    you enter a book akin to *****,
    you mature in it to resemble a foetus -
and after a good few weeks pass -
you're walking with baggage of literary
exploration...
                    thank **** there are so few people
in this world who can manage
  a sexed-up version of reading...
            rather than calling it: bricklaying.
point being, philosophy has become a pompous
word...
               the affirmative aftermath of reading
nietzsche is naturally heidegger -
and the age old question:
   body vs. mind
                object vs. subject - yadda yadda -
whatever is concierge in yiddish -
              was jew ever offensive when ***
was like ****, shortened, i.e. ***- / ****- /
does the hyphen inclusion 'elp?!
              point being - yes, one time me & my pa
were at chessington world of adventures -
he was spat on... on the top of his head...
  from a ride, rummaging through a safari park...
    years later i returned the favour,
like any decency of exploiting evil:
  choose the innocents -
   so me and peter richardson stood on the
roof of a car park in ilford, and started spitting
from the roof... my... i got one...
   right on the cranny (cranium) -
          and we got away with it.
ah, right, the conclusive remark:
when heidegger stresses being does he
mean the all-encompassing?
  i only ask because he deviates from
   the said question, into a dilemma of
pluralism entering the subject vs. object debate...
there's an outright differential point to
be made regarding (a) being & (b) beings...
                  i.e. a man will always question
himself as subject of interrogation -
but, but, and this is necessary -
   a woman will always question herself
as object of interrogation -
     albeit in no fathomable guise of consistency...
the pluralism of being (beings) is obviously
asexual...
                  both man and woman interrogate
the posit of if not for interrogation deemed
necessary...
              to compare:
    introspection and intra inspection,
    and inter inspection,
                   mind you, A O is not a grapheme
similis...
             but does a plural elementality of
the said concern (anti-heidegger -
   where heidegger stresses a "care"
in the form of da-sein, i stress "concern" -
                 the nun-sein, jetzt) -
there's only one parallel to the idealism
of attempting a meditation with subsequent
narration -
              it's solely bound to an immediacy,
a sterility of promere in continuum,
like an animal,
       rather than excited by sensual prompt -
merely agitated by the overbearing
frequency of experienced sense-orientative
             modus (operandi).
         - have you noticed how secretive women
are in literature?
  and how man remains ****?
                          man will disclose almost
everything there is to be known,
while a woman will disclose what is
"required" to be "known"...
      always the ideally loved, the ideally ******,
the ideally hated, but never, ever,
   the "necessarily" standing before
            an otiose "obstruction";
mind you, in philosophy there's one necessary
equation, i.e.       . = ?
              a question is perpetuated toward
the extreme, as counter to the aristotelian
"thesis" of awe / exclamation...
             only when something is truly found
do the two observable parallels merge,
              epitaph . and a satisfaction for the earned
    epitaph i.e. ?!

i've long lived with a deutsche seem
within using this tongue,
abbreviating the differences...
succumb to the raven croack...
like an earthworm might to a sunlight....

seems i have been,
much agitated by the expected in
the rallying yewp
of the ones unearthed
as being untouched by closures of
crafting rome...

     de profundis clamavi
ad te, domine;
domine,
     exaudi vocem meam;

little 'elp the chance to live
a life....
       the little that is
begot from man's interval,
and you, who hear,
    are begot by
a defening of ears...
            who vouched to
make the "shy" grief of
jurisprudent song a:
                  mismatch.

only among a people who have
been acribed a history of rome,
to recant, to recount...

         such a fickle labour
to have to mind...
    who would have thought
to infusre ***** with a perfume
of a pear, if not a swede?!
i rest my case...

    drunk, almost dead,
is my most pristine
post-scriptum of seeing
a sunset with this,
english, of all available tongues...

i can't but hinder,
      with the fleshy,
            quasi-take
   on a proxy of imitating
the hummingbird...

                    tod-mit-deutsche!
because via german:
is how i want to unlearn
ever speaking: ęglisch -

to grüz: und gravel!
                         mit dies zunge!

have to travel a question further
to make a in vino veritas
market pleasure...
                    in terms of *****...

the **** drinking italians are
phlegm assorts
in our cognitive couldron...

                comma mother-******?!

        wir anruf es: schloß!

   i don't even know why i took up
a defence of: deutsche,
in a tongue,
        and with a background...
that technically shouldn't
             give me the allowance...

have to explain what's
readily given,
however unsatisfactory to
commence:
understanding of the analogue
akin to the common man;

i.e.: keep your gob-***** in
          the vicinity of the Ypres
trenches, mmm'kay, mr. O?

i too am scared of dying
and "remembering"
a globalist tomorrow,
  without, a, personal,
past, ecnompassing
a yesterday, within
the dimension of a dream
told to a lower, with, a:
                                         today.

didn't anyone ever tell the english
that having acquired
their tongue,
it's equivalent to speaking
a fickleness (wankelmut)?
            minor mood-swings
equipped with a postcard of
                               "sensibility"?!

veer inz: way-V'eh... V not: 'unk!
     Churchill calls them
the little cousins...
  others came up with
bilbio-kleptomaniacs
           given the selling
hard-on for meine: eine: kampf...

can't help but tickle
                   gērman when english
becomes too obnoxious,
             rekindling rotmantel...
even with a backing
of the: ingweren
                   or ingwers?!
      wer?!
                           die       irisch!
      doppelt-pints!             p.s. pint-erens?!
and that became my errand-swish: wish...
mention the Dubliners along the way...

absolutist sveedish?
    i asked for citrus flav.,
instead i had to dunk a pear
feuerwasser within the confines of
a delayed gulp...

why do sober people,
make it so, ever,
****** unavailable to make
drunk commentary
semi-sensible...
  while leaving them to make,
sober... herding procedures,
     a quintessential norm?

/                                    unless you've never punched
a brick wall,
  to subsequently punch your face
for a plum artefact:
you'll never know about
the ratio of pacifism:
5/3
       five fingers, three knuckles...
you need something stable
to work on that 4th knuckle
to extract a flattening
effect
set against something as
maniable
as the human face...
            a brick wall is a perfect
example...
can't exactly throw punches
with a shy 4th knuckle...
                    the scholastic hand of
3 knuckles doesn't 'elp...
              so... no ha ha after-party?
prior to pretending to gasp?
me and my byzantine hymns...
me and my: monastic
hymns, period...
              why do we not mention
the greeks in their byzantine guise?
yet the ancients knew it, yes?
dialectics is less healthy than
a boxing match?
                          nothing wrong
with sparring...
                     come to "think" of "it",
the new trinity of
the conscious(ness),
sub- and un-...
                           who can blame
the past...
                                   well...
if the ego is the atomic component
of consciousness:
   why does society extract it
and embodies a per se theory
over it?
      and if id is the unconscious
equivalent of the ego equivalent
to consciousness...
            what "atom"
              perpetuates the intermediary
narrative of the subconscious: sub-plot?
we have a noun for such
an atlas pose: pivoting point?
you're still left with
a "lost" knuckle encompassing
your arm:
     before you can
attack an endoskeleton object?
           you have to express such
an "impeding" will on something
           without: neither...
                     neither being neither
an endoskeleton, nor, an exoskeleton...
throwing an insect off a 10 storey building
and not expect it to fall
like a cushion is one thing...
   a stone wall: is a skeleton and a body:
simultaneously...
   in synch.,
                   but you'll never know
a plateau punch of all four knuckles
being active if you don't do it...
    i can't even begin to express
   the hiding technique of a scholastic
hand gesture of holding a pen
      without: the 4th "missing" knuckle...
it's called the...
             tzayach clench...
                        jewish in origin          (d'uh):
hmm...
        problem with the chiromancy
at my disposal?
                       a mole on
         my right hand's *******,
just below the gevurah line and just above
hod line...
             but then...
  no girdle of venus, no malkhut line,
    and a strangely alligned heart line...
LH (left-hand): intersecting                 ΛΛ
  a marriage in the form of: M....
RH (right-hand): intersecting     ΛΛ...
                again... but an interpretation
                        for the on-looker, namely a: W...
which is only coincidental
with the subject-object, "dichotomy"...
             or "duality": or whatever
it is that you want to call it...
                    but would you believe it,
that a ***., a dear... "friend"?
      of mine, by the name of tomikuni
expressed interest in chiromancy? once upon
a time, with no seven dwarfs, and no snow white,
and... no: maleficent
                       (reign from above -
                                                mèléfīçent) -
   looks different to blunt syllable extraction,
doesn't it?
        mal- (wrongly)                 -fic (honorific) -
the added -e doesn't exactly help,
either...
                       but hence
                                  the vocab. dysphoria....
i'm just prodding the sight
of a cascade with but one word,
  and what i've applied against it...
                                  m'eh-l'eh-físcent...
ca­n't deny it...
    i paint tongues...
not naked buttocks
                       of fuckable sitters
                like picasso might, and did indeed do
   (anti-thesis of a pun, notably in english).

come to "think" of it... it's not what i write about... it's how "best" i might punctuate... puncture the blinking death... my life is so most lived that it's impossible to detour into topics of holidays or... well... death's a teasing adventure ploy... isn't it? but it's hardly suspect of... blinking. it's still my most incorruptible variation of: "bride"... that death herself: is... from womb toward womb... i see no cradle... i see no grave... what was her name? the name i was in love with? KIN-GA... yeah... that one... nice to know: Darwinism is counter-intuitive to the man who conjured it... the Nimrods reproduce en-masse... the Newton(s) come by ridicule... divine intervention... chance... unlikely for Darwinism to side with those who procreate to do so... for a chance at breeding geniuses... cogs... machinery: simple pleasures demand simple rules... i loved once... now i love no more. not like i used to... i'm exhausted to have the same sort of love i had: anew. i almost want to be fed that lie of meandering utopic love... prior to the needs of biological stressors...*******... prior to "responsibility"... authority of the brick-wall... the amassing greyness of a brick-wall.

i'm not keen on giving out money...
then again: i'm also less willing to give spare
change... coins...
i'm not keen on giving out money
to... "beggars"? the "homeless"...
stray cats, lost dogs...

it would be much easier with dogs though...
although i'm no Diogenes...
companionship with stray dogs...
we might huddle together and have us
a "think"... or a bark-woof-bark...
a woof-wow! something to agitate
the cosmopolitan ladies...
giving money to... those big issue "outlets"...
however many times i walked into
the supermarket for my usual "dose"
of feeling fine: just fine...
when i could "cower" back into
my cobweb and drizzle some words
onto a blank canvas blinking at me:
although - i were the blinker
the canvas remaining static...

so i would walk past her with an air
of... no not superiority... that's beside
the point... with an air:
jeez... the weight of the world...
upon my shoulder... i truly have my problems
too... and i would never look at her...
(the) masquerade of the past year...
call it what you like...
the niqab of secularism...
advent of conspiracy... or just plain sailing
reality of: we're not talking communism...
otherwise: i just don't want to hassle
with a confrontation concerning:
why aren't you wearing a surgical-prop
in an otherwise non-sterile environment...

blah blah... 2nd jab in is when i'll make
my "point" about... whatever's left...
but she's not a ******* slot machine...
i put coins in a slot machine...
but it's not like i could give her...
companionship...
once or twice or whenever i felt like it:
i'd scoop up interactions with
these "lost souls"...
there was this one memorable talk i had
with... oh i see him still... almost 10 years later...
he moved from occupying the vicinity of
Romford train station...
having dragged his *** about 5 miles toward
the A406, and now occupies a spot
around an Irish pub formerly known
as O'Grady's...
he said these words like...
i don't know: it was enlightening akin
to a maxim... 'my mother told me to never lie'...
make sense of that however much you like...
the brain-dozer broke down
whatever...

      here: the penitent man...
i hate giving money away for no reason...
today i had a reason...
came to 25 quid...
5 quid cashback...
what else... throw money at someone...
is like throwing them a fish
instead of a fishing-rod...
god... that old chestnut line of argumentation...
today i felt... benevolent...
the end...

  as i was walking in (thank you soulless,
sunglasses)... i noticed this smile...
oh she's still in her 20s...
i'm guessing Roma... there's something eerie
about the allure of a gypsy woman...
i'm guessing because it hasn't been
fiddled with the Indian caste prejudice...
looks like Genghis... did Genghis ever make
it to Delhi... one might bemoan the sacking
of Baghdad like the Christians torching
the library of Alexandria...
but thoughtless automatons of
the Holocaust... that's what's really happening,
isn't it?
oh don't get me wrong...
i'm sorry too for the poor matchstick maker
who was industrially butchered...
not enough bullets for the gas...
i'm not... joking...
but the torching of the library of Alexandria?!
you know what was... seized by the Nazis...
gold-teeth... shoes... briefcases...
no mention of personal memoirs...
thought didn't die within the confines
of the Holocaust...
well... at the book burning it died...
but when the library of Alexandria was
torched... writing materials weren't
exactly... ha ha...          ah ha ha...
which prompted me to think about...
the whole idea of how the new testament
arose... beside, later, selling it to the northern
barbarians... pacifying them...
well... up to 1410 there was still
a paganism in Europe... Lithuania...
hardly east concerning what constitutes
the end of Europe with the Ural mountains...
by then... Islam was already circa 800 years old...
so...
no... i wondered... people always cite that
the new testament was written in Greek...
right... and the 'ebrews didn't have a problem
with the Roman occupation?
oh... they did... josephus ben matthias wrote
a book about it...
so here's me thinking...
in the age of Aesop... Spartacus... too many years
apart?
Greek pride... and the nature of
the 'ebrew as: SPEZZIAL...

well... what do you get?
oh... i'm pretty sure there was a greco-hebrew pact
worthwhile in spreading the new testament
as propaganda...
it's almost as if... the Greeks disliked the Romans
for plagiarising their polytheism...
Jupiter is... Zeus...
Pluto is... Hades... etc.

      i think it was just a massive Greco-'ebrew
conspiracy to undermine Roman authority...
after all... every time i would kneel in
a catholic mass...
i'd imagine the monstrosity of
******* off a crucified man...
          it's so... demeaning: hyper-sexualised...
kudos to the Islamic
  "gesticulating with the body in a religious context"
then again: what's wrong with
dancing... or what's wrong with
thinking about... pushing a cul-de-sac
vector into the garbage heap of "god":
or blah-lah?

but on my knees armed with
a metaphor for cannibalism?
the ****'s not wrong with that?!

i have built a fetish for the deutsche-zunge
and gypsy girls...
and as i was walking into the supermarket
for my usual dosage
and all things concerning Atlas...
in the corner of my eye i saw
this labouring extension of
post-scriptum prosthetics...
it seemed so genuine...
i was pretending to rummage through
the isles thinking about what not to buy:
rather what was available...
stringy cheese... canned horseshit...
trolley traffic of demanding buyers...
v.i.p. / solipsist types, typos...
you name them... glaciers' worth of people...
could sink a Titanic on a ******* whim...

walking out she shifted her position
while eating crisps...
you can almost tell when giving someone
a banknote rather than a coin...
she's not a ******* slot machine...
you can almost tense a sense of a handshake...
a fiver's a fiver...
i wasn't going to stretch it beyond
the words i uttered to her:

'that's for your beautiful smile...'
i probably was envious of her skin...
her complexion...
mine? mine is... like Beelzebub just took
a massive maggot-dump on it...
remnants of teenage hormones...
that's what i heard... apparently...
acne is what happens to too many
dead white-blood cells...
acne is dead white-blood cells...
what's Alzheimer's? killer proteins...
given the brain is mostly fat...
counter-intuitive...
given the common expression surrounding
the Great Cranium Pickle: flex the mental
muscles...
misnomer "propaganda": no... just plain
misnomer-ism...
to ease the fluidity of common parlance...

sooner rather than later the heavens
opened and rain came... baptismally...
i felt utterly refreshed...
how often doesn't it feel authentic to pay
for a compliment?
i'm personally used to ******* prostitutes
to believe myself: as giving pleasure...
perhaps that's this archaic male...
"innuendo"... of what ***'s about...
i heard it mentioned...
she would either say: not all men...
blah blah... yu haven't changed... blah blah...

i'd brag about a ******* Lamborghini:
if i had one... although i'd sooner brag about
owning a horse: if i had one...
i have a bicycle... which implies:
it isn't a wheelchair...
so i can experience the most out of a dual-carriageway
at speeds of, circa... 30mph...
without lycra or 'elment...

she just had this beautiful smile and i
felt inclined to give her
something for the many times i "ignored" her...
grifting or paying a "slum-rent":
who is, these days, to give out money
in banknotes on a whim?
this was a whim...

by mid-afternoon having cycled toward
Stratford i turned back before reaching
Bow... sniffing out a precipitation
% while watching the gloomy clouds...
i might have checked the weather forewarning...
but when speed's invoked...
and i'm merely peddling...
i conjure up the compound...
in deutsche:
          STURMÜBERBRINGER
how doesn't that sound majestic...
forthcoming... para-socially mythological...
no Canadian could 'elp me with that...
however pop. and psychiatric "he"
might be a worth of his own spew...

she just had these cheekbones of every
hyena's laugh an envy...
5 quid for a smile...
or 120 quie for a ****-off?
eyes that forever tease
and a tongue that's forever undermining
the whole freedom, ha ha...
"freedom" of thought...
there's not much of "it" these days...
IXNAY ON TNE HOMBRE...

tease the quill... dust the feathers:
start looking for a broomstick...
much later: persists discouraging oneself for
a worth of it... doesn't one bother...
the royalty... oh... right...
not yet forthcoming spaghetti-quizzing...
just all the... *******... pandering...

the african slaves.... picked... cotton...
so... ahem... they we're not... coalminers?
oh ugh oh **** me i'm about to choke!
those rebellious cotton-pickers...
i see ***** Goliaths 9ft tall...
and i'm worried about... my use of:
"language"?
******* before i **** someone off...
to hell with black history moonth...

            thank god i'm not a father, either...
the stress of what otherwise relaxes my "complaints":
did the gorilla ever "think" twice about *******
a macaque?
i'm just asking: the elephant ****
a giraffe?
karma sutra suite:
    the phallus of a horse inside
a ****** of a rabbit...
just watching these inter-racial themes...
you'd imagine an x-ray might be... allowed
culmination posits... then again...
why am i not dating an English "bride"?
the... Rotherham... petty tease leftovers?

i love to recycle... it's hardly important for me to...
"ergo" this... diabolical heap...
of... ugh... ugly **** gin & tonic...
i hate gin, though...
this enforced ownership of whatever freedom
is gravitated towards...
like i'm the "father"...

she's a gypsy smile...
i'm a solid 5 quid handshake...
that's the end of the story...
there's not even so much as a 'the end'
to mind... i'm still here... the soft-core continues:
beside any leftover concern for
cinema.

wew ere lookin g for a place to buryher. Just For a f ew days,long enoug f oar her soulto do some goOd, t o help in the cruusades. t hen we'''d d ig her bo dy u6p and callher soull back She was n infnt aft er all,,justd borns sp it shouuld be fine.Boodok ws a g iant ma nman golem man.as bi large as one of te piles of hoy bales -in feild nd wit wingspon twice th at whin stettched oiut he flies flew to help help h elp the chirdren

**** the face,
although sure, i'd love to **** it...
just show me your hands,
looking at your face doesn't
'elp much...
i just need to see your hands,
to say whether you're male
of female...
      i'm sorry, no work
of medicine transforming your
face, hiding your masculine
jaw-line will do it to me...
just show me your hands
and lets have the "circus" act
over and done with in
a matter of seconds...
babe, i'd ******* no matter what,
i'm not russian,
i'm a half-way house between
feral russian, and
  "western" european, and yes:
i'm not swedish.
funny? i always found a female's
hand the most ****** parts,
you can't fake the hand structure
with trans-gender women...
they're always asking for an axe,
always too big, yuck.
          if you wanna,
i'll break a few knuckles,
             and then shorten the fingers
by taking out some minor
bones... no?
    look at these faces...
chloe arden: i'd **** her...
     him, her... him... huh?
   show me the hands!
   theryn meyer: yup...
    blaire white: oh fyck yeah...
and i did write this while
listening to the stone roses'
song i wanna be adored...
mind you, i really did sketch this
girl i adored from high-school
listening to this track,
and yeah, i did ask her for a photograph,
which she did give me,
and i did sketch her...
    what was her name?
ah....  emma a lovely strawberry
blonde... a few freckles on her cheeks
                   and nose...
what a gall...
                 i might as well have cited
describing a rotweiler...
        a beauty by any care for
having been "almost" memorable...
love at first site... she is still memorable...
for some reason,
a smile that left you wanting
to pinch her cheeks like a grandma'h...
which is a shame,
given you wanted that sort
interaction: as a lover.
       oh but i can't forget her accomplice:
name? rebecca...
curly deep-brown hair,
**** me, how can i forget?
    they were the newbies at our 6th form...
you think i might forget that piece of ***?
wait... there is one anomaly...
  she was a classy lass...
i was a fugitive to my hormones...
  and there she was:
a celtic mysterium...
                   what was her name?
never mind,
      i still remember asking emma
for her photograph, and sketching her...
**** me, glad to have
angled that strawberry blonde
from the museum of memory...
what a beauty...
     freckles and dimples +...
              i don't mind transgenderism...
i mean, from what i've seen?
i can't tell the difference... unless of course
you show me your hands....
can't fake the feminine hand...
sorry? or is that oops?
     well double that up with an oops...
face? sure...
   **** as hell...
  but you can't fake the hands...
   sorry...
           with the names already stated:
you can trick me with a gorgeous face...
but when it comes to hands?
   if you can't make believe with the hands?
i'm sorry...
    don't do what the korean girls do
by breaking their tibia / fibula to stand
at 5 feet 9 inches without stilletos...
    you can do magic with the face,
but the hands?
      let you in on a little secret...
the hand that jerks off...
    isn't the eye that anticipates
                  the jerking off partner;
face? you can fake the transgender
approach? hands?
              that's hard to fake,
esp. for me, since those are the most
****** parts of a woman.

because jim dine looks like
    jack nicholson from
afar...
but it's not about that:
oculus per oculus -
     eye for an eye...

when painting is involved
i hardly think it's necessary
to give abstract "grace"
to necessary objects:

a wonky hammer or a house
is sand and grimace
and all things unbelievable
but it's not the strict
schematic...

when painters have to invest
themselves in words...
that frank o'hara anecdote
about SARDINES...

or if it isn't too obvious
as to what will be cited next:
magritte's:
    ceci n'est pas une pipe...
well: at least colour is true
as much as a noun is...

here at the zenith
red dictates stopping at a traffic-light
junction...
and there's than synonym
of: strawberries...

              when painting had become
abstract enough:
words had to become employed:
i'm still stacking
x-rays and skeletons
with muscular meshes of grey
on the fading with words...

i don't bemoan the task:
looking for alternative, "better" options
in painting...
i've have to be blind...

that painting is all eye
that poetry is all ear and perhaps
the tongue too...
oculus per oculus: eye for an eye...

i allow myself to drink to excess
tonight,
because what i really want to write
is what i gathered from this
afternoon...

autumnal promenade...
         these trees and the sunlight raising
them... to trans-natural realism's heights...
it does 'elp to merely take
a stroll...

       it's beyond comparison:
i dared to think: and if i took a photograph...
no... a photograph would
make me sulk...
i would keep it as something
both horrid and both saddening -
mind you: my memory bank
is running dry and i much prefer
to take photographs with
a blinking of an eye
to expand my memory hoard(ing)...

clearly at this junction
of the near impossible: for something "new"...
there is no new...
when there were formerly people...
up in the northern most easterly tip
of greater london
i'm looking for a "delusion"
of being able to walk
several miles without any
human interactions...

well... would a creature such as a grouse
or a deer allow itself being
spotted in daylight hours
if such a place was governed
by a frequency of man?

the deer spotted me not too far off...
by god: i didn't give it prance to
a get-go to gallop ever so silently:
by the woodland pigeon did
breaking into flight... rustling leaves
of it perching in a crown...

in love with england: more to the point...
the countryside for the nth time
resounding...
the topology of the english countryside...
it must be a desirable word to use
when i have this picture before me...
there were feet that walked
these "roads" and there were eyes
that sorrowed for: the platter of details...

it was never an intended piccadilly circus
bulwark of **** neon...
insomnia neon and incognito -
the middle of this drab
of london bothers me from time to time...
from: time to time...

not in spring not in summer:
now... autumn and these trees
and this sunlight gracing them to an elevation...
i've already chosen anecdotal
points of familiarity...
celebrity trees -
trees like signatures like:
everything else that is also a tree
but is so generic it can't stand alone...
it needs a canvas a window or a view...

then those trees that... i swear they are
so: unto themselves that
i wouldn't require a mirror to peer
at myself...

sure... upon reaching a pinnacle
of cubism... painting new abstract:
a best a verbiage and forever this extension
of psychoanalysis -
at best this verbiage and...
what is it that they called it:
base: introspection of the self...
well... that's already a doubling of
the act...

   given there's (the) definite article self
given there's also "a" self...
and then the possession of it:
which is... compounded reflexive
rather than reflective... rarely is it
my self... yourself myself themselves...
hey presto! juggle circus with
the alphabet people...

i didn't take a photograph for i didn't
want to spoil autumn per se
or my availability of sponge brainz...
i had to excavate these words...
to borrow something from heidegger...
a major pillar ought be cited:

well... hier-sein... hell... expansion...
hier-jetzt-sein:
   or rather the most temporal:
jestz-hier and i'll leave being in a shallow
grave of grace...
i'll concern myself
with... not being a fear-mongering
vegan... when i respect the animal
produce thus presented:
i will not overcook a chicken...
when i insert a thermometer into
a chicken breast it will read
in the range of 165 - 170°F...

i will not become a vegan because:
i ******* well know:
i know blindly i will allow my eyebrows
to be gambled with...
these "vegans"...
probably never cooked a chicken
properly...
when a food can be
respected...
when the ******* are juicy...
one, can, be... thankful!
but if you do a second work-around
of a butcher's "quarter"...
end up eating... protein pasta glue...
no wonder: return to
overcooked vegetables!

i much rather respect a protein...
than fake veganism for
not having respect for it!
omnivores "anonymous"!
gaffs of trends of people who...
probably don't know how
to cook... i love my... presumptuous...
agony aunt sort of flicker...
of demands...
of: stereotypes...
sometimes these higher-tier
critiques of stereotypes pay off...
they have to.

oculus per oculus...
autumn, these trees and this sunlight...
it has to be temporally specified:
"circa" from 12:30pm through to...
4pm... enough time for the weather
to change drastically...
enough time to find an old acorn...
with a ladder attached...
and sit in it... like some long lost
late-starter in the darwinistic narrative
and hide from the onslaught of
rain...

i guess that's why i cited heidegger...
but i was meditating
on other words...
oko - eye -
oczy - eyes...
            to - this
             tamto - that
         tam - there...
     conjunctions more or less...
and... how i might describe myself...

anglo-saxons were my prior...
so the anglo- prefix sticks...
anglo-slav...
for the general purpose: works...
but saxon is specific...
it's not like there's a concept
for anglo-thurengians
or anglo-pomeranians...
or anglo-swabians...
               a specified germanic tinge
that encompassed
an outline of prior to celtic and
velsh...

anglo... an anglo-wend...
                         albion-veneti...
           well... given that every *******
two-bothered-sanctum-christi
auxiliary has gathered on these isles...
"of late"...
but like a sore thumb:
"my people" have
retracted on the tide
so overpowering come
the opening of the floodgates
circa 2004...

moi? earlier immigration...
as early as 1994... n'ah... anglo-veneti
is no sticking word... anglo-slav...
anywho...

a quadratic: because i just love: squared
t'inking...
it's almost like a magic trick...
two buzzwords...
reigning the niche outlets...

patriarchy! ugh! power wording!
and... gynocentrism!
well... let's party!

back to the days of copernicus...
gynocentrism is an elevated
variation of... geocentrism?
which is paradoxical since...
that would implore the vatican to play
it: hush hush...

no! no you idiot!
gynocentrism is heliocentrism!
the all encompassing...
sun *****!
a **** that spits out...
lucifer fell head-first...
"fell"... bungyjumped and
was tugged back onto
the throne when god had a medley
with a banjo piece of working
out: a cross is never a table?
a cross is never a table?

gynocentrism is... heliocentrism...
and "the" patriarchy is geocentrism...
god... i love this quadratic...
i had a cultish idea
today...
among a Pythagorean set
concerning eating beans...
how...
you must uncover your head
when walking under trees...
how you should cover your head
in public... but have to expose
your head beneath trees...

it's not unlike the already well established
kippah and the circumcision...
so... what? exactly?
i still hafe mine: doubly mine since
i don't vacate a tonsure...
a slap me pretty sort of "disguise":
for - covert... monkish brewer... alias:
house of purim...

          hafe hafe: a'v'eh! mein!
i look across... well... no wonder!
h'america by no invitation...
those black atlases would be forever
celebrated...
as they should:
but it's not like the hebrews
took too lightly concerning
intellectual gymnastics when...
intellectually: you'd only have
to replica... stalemate...

i too could perfect: plagiarism...
not that i'm... oh god my qabbalah fetish
and how:
the demiurge is one thing...
i don't need to demand more from
the yids themselves:
their god will do... just f'ah f'ah fine...
he's phonetically ingrained...
my words aaron bricks...
he's the cement...
less the grammar... in between...
after all... he... doesn't really...
favour them as much...
always putting them to the test
to reclaim the noun israel...
hey... of all the people of the ancient
world... a people that envisioned...
their own god... israel:
wrestling them... testing them...
more or less... keeping up their soul-search
vitality assured...

now i will start to chew chewing gum...
and pretend it's everything that
requires / required me the ability
to tie my shoelaces...

      oh yes... the god of the yids abhors them...
it's not like there was no other
memorable balam...
beside... the one still hanging around
with churches
and south america and tele-evangelicals:

after 2000+ years the question
is beside: are you the son of god...
it's more... morphed into...
can i still be a hebrew?

            if you can't celebrate something
when getting into the nitty-gritty...
je suis! my ******* oddity of ***!
throw that charlie hybrid-dough
into the cauldron and let's pray
for ******* bagels! or croissants!
whichever takes your fancy!

that i somehow allow myself a "revision"
of writing under the influence
of btih music and miss amber...
the god of the hebrews already prides itself
on a following...
so meticulous that it's satisfactory /
savory -

  i can't be allowed... a nibbling?
seems unfair to procrastinate on the altar
of how easily a moloch or a beelzebub was
sacrificed upon...
whirlwinds of aeons and of chaos:
how there's only a certainty within the
confines of space:

the clinal pressure for the eye's
critique of autumn...
and the trees therefore basking
in the light of borrowing azure...
these hints of auburn and
commando foliage...
of perpetual green: shying glee
of envy...

      i want this **** of verbiage...
to impress details of fracture
and "fiction"...
i want to return to the ancient
vernacular...
for all i want i must not never
hope to conceive as: outright will...
to hell with a freedom
so ill-advised...

in these pastures where old
ergonomics: horses - graze...
i heave a thumb... a fattening
of it... i experience creases best known
to the advent of the corruption of paper...
but i am not using any of it (i.e. paper)...

there was a rabbit... there was a deer...
a grouse...
and as many birds as my fingers
could fathom themselves alone
to suit up to a replica arithmetic...
i wanted to learn enough of
simplicity: but i was never to
be allowed: a finicky teenage phase
of taming a need for replica:
offspring...

  i desired to not leave any cul de sacs
of grieving processes...
this hebrew god, though...
antithesis: an-t-fezz...
it looks so much of so differently
from the standards of merely speaking
to peering at...
this language without a clear-cutting
of sounds: dyslexia...
what?!

in a language that doesn't allow
orthographic stressors...
and all it has to offer is...
"idiosyncratic" spelling?
   who could have guessed:
a who-dunnit exterior... purpoise?

purpose?
                  purr-poise...
i do have to allow myself to stage:
when dub-step was a music
genre was still worth salvaging...
distance... vex'd... burial...
and that's about all i want to hear...

i'm so adamant in being so therefore
blistered in a gangrene of
politics that has to borrow from...
time immemorial and secure...
it has to translate into a...

you can almost fathom the silence
of horses...
they approvingly nod...
somewhat... and whatnot...
agreeing
to you being a something
and somehwat...
that allows itself to pet
either a cradle of cats
or a brood and leash invoked
sour crease of doggy-dodgings...

it's not **** flinging invoked...
it's something more sinister...
personal: thereby all the more involved / invoked...
it's not Golders Green judaism:
tonsure for a scalp / circumcision for
a ******* kippah: y'er boot?

in that... yes... i appreciate being seen...
i want to be seen...
but at the same time...
i like quivering in a fancy
of being "counter-inquisitive" debased:
outright: anti-...

              i appreciate being seen...
replicating modus operandi: esse...
but... when i invoke this most private
made most public of disclosures...
and it... somehow... "works"...
i hardly think it's necessary
to achieve an omniscient status: quo...

especially when one can encounter,
passibly...
two women... perhaps two dogs...
a park... and on a bench...
a giggle and its most certainly female...
i don't want to be "known"...
existentially pronounced / prone
having to encompass this "audience"..
i desire to be less of what's
leftover / made available...

it's just a minefield...
i visited the Ypres cemeteries...
the anglo-
lingua rubric...
             then these... shallow... deafening...
germanic sorts...
sparrow and robins and wrens would
grace their amassing puncture
of details...
and i would want nothing more...
because i was not anglo-sas
and i didn't want to earn
or learn of make oath to such bridging of
sorrows...

the mass graves of the germans
in belgium come the enforced endearment of
memory come...
no more from cabaret volatire escapism!
no... more!
they are so fuckingly posed
to be therefore so poignantly named!
by grave and so therefore by so little
of body!
the mass graves of the: germanic:
peoples:
how the english, once upon a time...
allowed themselves to play a trough
of towing themselves... romanesque!
this: greviaous mud...
this... horrid first pretender!

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

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

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

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

like a pagan,
i had the *****
          to commit suicide
and later say:
******* dante,
     ******* sioux sistine
& the pixies...
          orianted fake
                      jew, my ***.
at least there was
a tom petty not
exagerrated on the news...
bowie died...
and that was it...
     did i mind?
              not really,
perhaps i should have...
      tom petty mattered
more to me...
      but did he
receive
the same coverage?
        no, so why would
bowie infringe my subjectivity?!
  bump, bump, bump along...
happy now; ******?!
****, ping pong all day long
if you want...
   i'm neurotic about
having made a spelling mistake.
******'s dead,
nonetheless...
    and the nostalgia for
freddy mercury,
                      doesn't really 'elp.

there was a poem here...
now there's only a title...
i'm pretty sure: i was assured
that there was a poem, here,
but now that there isn't...
perhaps because of my...
spaghetti fingers so used
to typing and typos that i mishandled
a play on thumb and index:
whether it was the right hand's
or the left hand's "braille" reading
of how best to salvage
this least: this very little...
whether i wanted to edit before
publishing: and i highlighted
the entire body... and while holding
down the ctrl key...
or not holding down the ctrl key
all that came up as the draft was
being autosaved: archived as
a blatant impossible donkey
a stone of Sisyphus nothing nuanced
or new: not a cedilla "c" but a mere C...
that i don't read my poems...
that i allow myself enough space
to merely look at them,
sometimes my own, mostly of others...
i have lost so many poems
like that: by way of fudge and by way
of spaghetti...
although i have not eaten any of these
words...
i am somehow: don't know why...
comforted by...
words of a richard seaford...
              it's heartbreaking for mankind
to have lost anything (that has
been lost) of the Aeschylus oeuvre...
well i'm not an Aeschylus:
true as: and i haven't been dead, yet,
and that it's not like
i might expire with such marble...
such... expansion of time:
would i tire of this sort of immortality?
now i like to think of:
the type-writter: and how i might require
proof-reading... to correct me...
that's ever hardly necessary:
i can do that myself...
but the plague of self-erasure...
by mere chance!
           then watching a 1963 andy warhol video:
eat...
then watching a hart crane video:
whereby no contemporaries seem to
speak... just the elders...
but it's not that...
i like how he has become a man
so completely: human...
by a showcase of anecdotes...
clearly an anecdotal man...
i'm tired of being rational:
    in between herr sapiens and
herrschwine similis...
i'm tired of the safety ******
between me and the 19 century
abyss... i'm tired of the beginning
in ape...
i'm tired... once upon a time
i might have been this tired
but at the same time given a sly-of-hand
of having poker-invigoration
to toy-up-with-hey-presto for
the mind to metaphor in gymnastics:
a quasi telekinesis...
an audience of stones, shouting
at mountains without really needing
to know why no echo bloomed...
then of course i knew i would
require caves...
it's all rather pitiful... this...
staging of a voice... perhaps an audience...
it's truly three-dimensional:
and by that...
it's borrowing on never-finding...
a cushioned little breath of forest...
something: all of this "thing"
whether it's cultural relativism...
whether the geocentric est. shaken
by the heliocentric blurp...
or the gynocentric: feed the altar of
your birth...
otherwise castrated out you go:
but pandering the voices
of homosexuals: it's not like...
it will necessarily be deemed angst riddled...
the over-stated obvious...
i just lost a poem because
of my fat fingers...
i would die for a typewriter and a spelling
mistake: a proof-reader...
self-
      self- beckoning employed prefix
one man toys with a hydra
of expectations...

i think i remember something
from the original...
  something about spacing
and how i look at poems: not necessarily
read them...

a congested myopia / claustrophobia
of paragraphparagraphparagraph...
how i would start my verses
thin at the top...
and wait for them to bulge come
the nearing of the end...

how... scandinavians write sparingly...
without the need to double that
sparingly into a haiku...
that they write a hiatus-esque
"comorbidity" of wording(s)...

something along these lines...
to write a "poem" is to...
sometimes forget to read:
a visual fetish... almost ****-esque...
to look: and not read
in linear / cascade focus...

of note: i do remember this...
what the hell happened to...
henry parland... to henry parland...
i was drinking a cider
and i know that it was raining...
it was impossibly important
for it to be raining...

i said... that you can't write a melody...
to "counterfeit" the sound
of raining -
not the sound of falling rain:
simply... raining...
it's not a polyphony...
but it somehow is...
        you can't exactly...
you can't: but can...
which is that: not exactly... write
a lyric for the sound that encompasses
the sound of raining...
but it's not like...
the choicest of orchestral finicky:
can't exactly summon the violins...
or... tame the drums:
orchestra and the drums...
jazz in its quintet
doesn't really 'elp... ******* either...

IFER vs. IVER... clearly the latter...
phonetically...
but as it stands:
it's still either aether -
E'FER / E'VER and 'effin'
                      falafel eiffel...
                    e (morse count, do the dot dot...
hyphen) feral! theta thou!
- veering into ALVOU...
written: although...
  and you'd need to extend that first
vowel... no diacritical marks in
english... so... insert a vowel!
AULVOU! ah... better... much much! better!

new thought: no need for paragraphs:
- sputnik plate nuanced...
and therefore spinning, too...

thank god!
it passed the beijing censor critique!
half of which is me being
paranoid: and half of which is me
being perfectly adaptive...
the mongols are an elsewhere...
they're rigid halal butchers
and are not beijing sorting
packages omnivores...
so no doggy dog-eat-dog salutes!
if china was a germany...
and vietnam was saint anders
fault...

     and i were an ego fault worth
a ******* doughnut!
yes... i might gresticulate
at imitation cwy-bab
in this foreign tongue of:
VELSH!
when... no tetragrammaton
sire needed...
enough of the demiurge and
the genius pockets of critique
when the parasites are being
investigated...

     a scaffold of bones...
arriving at a muscular brittle...
grieving use of brick...
this tenure of muscular exhaustion.

i could not not, succumb to the taoist meditation
early on life...
it's probably the only maxim i live by...
somehow the basic and hardest to strive
"against": rather with...
              kant gave a "cipher":
the categorical imperative...
               i.e. all is true or nothing is true...
sieve through: the cipher narrative
with a decipher diadem...
             but kant didn't exactly leave a maxim
to live by...
not taoist by any demands...
             i instruct myself to mind tao because...
it's the crux to differentiate...
the philanthropist from from the misanthrope...
the taoist maxim sits...
           thus sentenced, as:
the only way to aid the world...
is for you to forget the world...
and for the world to forget you...
                which is... i find... an elevation of
what heidegger's dasein implies...
common geometry fool's gold of words...
be-ing "contra" be-coming...
                         here i welcome...
a new season: the flu season...
  if this was to happen... every, single, year...
and not as this... one-off...
   the philanthropist "versus" the mistanthrope...
on a canvas of tao...
               meddling in human affairs
and meddling in none of one's own...
    bothersome... but unless...
it's... "sieving" 2 tonnes of soil...
   and laying around 12sqm of wembley turf...
to accomplish a sellers' garden...
  but i still cling to the maxim...
the best way one can aid the world...
is for the world to forget you...
and for you: to forget the world...
                        pockets of dasein
do conjure themselves up... spontaneously...
like mushrooms... in pockets of the days
to pass and the events within... them...
   but kant didn't leave a prime vector to
enforce his categorical imperative choicest of...
phrasings...
look nowhere, else...
the asiatic corp are glad to write...
haikus... a month count: 1...
when exercising the mind... drunk...
feeding the moon their eyesight...
                                 hardly a reason to acquire
a definite meaning of the word: misanthropy...
in the negative...
         i very much like to assure myself...
that i am not... in any way...
infringing on the expression of freedom
of someone else: with that...
i hope i am assured the same: of not being
infringed upon...
of course... with a mutually inclusive...
sharing of disagreement:
that neither of the parties steal or ****
from a third party... etc.
    words are worth **** when it comes
to numbers...
words and colours?
words and mountains?
words and... with so many choices...
no. 100069 = the noun bee...
           no. 100200054 = the noun spoon...
well... what would be...
the first word of a priori man is not
even a word: it's the first...
consonant-vowel duplex...
          which had to denote: mother...
otherwise: m'ah-m'ah...
          who would respond to...
g'ah-g'ah... b'oh-b'oh?
   blue-blue?!
of note... ga-ga... but...
b'oh will probably be conflated with:
bow-bow... even with
the vowel-catcher H goal...
       would... an umlaut like a halo
'elp? bö-bö?
              the "subtle" variation of
arithmetic... i.e. pool: pöl...
                                    und... poll...
                          blah... blah...
                   perhaps if i was /
yes... and were: paid
i'd write with... a little bit more... motivation...
why then... excruciate myself...
over a reality... that... this is all...
but... a hobby? hardly a self-defeating
question: but at least i can
forgo keeping up a falsetto impetus
to burn-out.
         es ist was es ist...
     it is, what it is...
                 no one paid... for writing this...
for reading this...
it should be of no consequence
to anyone... except...
for the party... playing the parody publisher...
who are also not... the "except"
since... i somehow had to pay...
for an internet connection...
so... ****'s off the supposed "third party"
of... meddling.