given the history, all our predecessors held dear,
given the history,

well... i'm starting to think that utilising
italics meant an enumeration,
meaning that utilising italics
gave us non-differentiated stresses everywhere
and on each letter

by that i mean: people italicised entire words to
leave the stresses of individual letters to a continued monopoly,
italicised words meant not adding the acuteness of
stressed correspondance (post-code) to a letter, like é added to e...
it's running out, the monopoly of literacy - but the last
Bastille is on diacritical marks - è, or i ate it / cut it short,
walked from the movie theatre before it ended,
when i collage - ah! ****! found the erzett! ʒ -
the ß of minding a borrowing of ř! in that poem of mine...
woodland bořki - to replace the rz sound akin to ż -
i was looking in the wrong place, looking to stitch
in a plagiarism from Czech - but there it is, the equivalent
of schafres S (ß), the schafres R (ʒ); ha!
to simply change the aesthetic, and i have:
woodland boʒki.

see Communism rising its ugly head with the intelligentsia
once again? ***** pepper shaker shaker, prep talk moan shake
once more... never believe socialist utilitarianism,
the English are the masters of that... never believe it though...
the English, by definition? the utilitarianism bit is correct,
but they also follow the carrot bit of the stick... the carrot
is evidently the capitalistic motto: a Caribbean cruise.

but what this poem really means?
i really feel like punching someone in the face,
preferences like with Middle Eastern
appearances, while Sodomising
western values of politically coerced into
democratic robots... it really feels like that...
wanting to punch someone in the face,
and oddly enough it feels good just thinking
about it rather than actually doing it -

the universality of the Cartesian phrase -
non-factual, never factual, never to be factual,
the Iranian volleyball team taunting
the Polish volleyball team,
if a terrorist attack happens in Poland,
i'd be surprised if piglets fly further than plumbs,
and we get French braids on beards rather than
the hair plantation - of the lowest caste
i obviously emigrated -
i had some intelligence to shine through,
to a degree agreeable more or less,
remember i'm working on fame from
the basis of myth (a marathon) as in endurance,
rather than on the basis of being photogenic
(which i'm not) and the short-lived held breath
100 metres... the Olympics is really a barometer
of life otherwise... the Iranians are really fond
of getting braided beard from Poland...
i guess the English are too impolitely politely nice...
Thesaurus Rex would solve a all rhyming clues
with its catalogue of synonyms -
also... i'm a poet, critics of poetry in English
know jack-**** from Jack the Ripper...
i did't steal the language, i merely epitomised it
differently, you merely wrote an analogous epitaph
that was so ******* boring everyone applauded
when you spoke it the sake at a funeral
as you spoke it on a Bar Mitzvah... oddly enough
western society is lactose intolerant the year round,
but when someone dies the fondue set is out,
everything orange including the Essex
suntan is out and oiled to a greasy joke
that only gets a pig's grunting worth of encore.
it's odd, but the best way to write poetry without
English teachers telling you left is left
is by imagining someone being punched in the face,
bleeding nose squished cherry -
it's the violence that we're not allowed that we're told
about about our ancestors who freely exercised,
it's harsh... you're tingling with the anticipated wait for
expressing it, in the end you're turned into an atom
bomb of passive aggressiveness;
a bleeding nose squished cherry - even so, you want more,
more, more, you want the actual ferocity of the act,
not some cinema ****** of passiveness...
there are thieves around us, ghosts, not real thieves
wanting your belongings of handbags,
i mean the real sinister thieves... in one generation
the people of Empire and colonialism were turned
into the people of Globalisation and brothels...
well the brothels bit is currently debated whether
slaves ought to experience paid pleasure,
or whether slaves should just serve warm macaroons
for bourgeoisie opinions to be debated a Tartar stakes,
i.e. never really leaving the saloons of Gucci skirts
and the cancan dance of indivisible politics.

Fashion rarely looks to the Brit awards for style inspiration but somehow fashion finds its way, in dribs and drabs, to its red carpet. These awards are the unwanted stepchild of the red carpet and generally, this means it’s a bric-a-brac of high-end and high street looks. For every Rihanna in couture you have a Little Mix in Asos.

Such is life, though, and there were legitimate trends, aside from the James Bay/Kylie double hatter. First, in the spirit of Angelina Jolie’s 2012 viral, there was a Right Leg – as flashed by model Lily Donaldson and singer Lana Del Rey. Nightwear came in a rather lavish Miss Havisham-esque form via Florence Welch (cream slip, eiderdown wrap, bed-hair) and Rihanna (a lilac slipdress covered with seashell patterns), and which unexpectedly preceded Alexander McQueen’s autumn/winter 2016 collection. Finally, there was a definite nod to The Wizard of Oz’s Emerald City via Jess Glynn’s sparkling green jacquard suit, Kylie’s backless heels and Jack Garratt’s toned down double-breasted suit.

There were the half-successes, too: Adele’s cascading liver-red dress and matching lipstick was grownup, but compared to her memorable 2013 Valentino hit at the Grammy’s, it felt par-cooked. Singer Charli XCX has been a frow regular at this year’s London fashion week, so she went predictably designer in pale green Vivienne Westwood. But she was let down with her slicked-back hair, a styling addendum that somehow overegged the overall effect. She also looked stiff and uneasy, probably because, at 23, she was too young to pull it off.

The menswear was far more experimental. To wit: Labrinth in a blue and pink orchid-print suit which, unaccessorised, had just enough humour to work (it looked like a box of Cadburys Roses). Mark Ronson did his usual trick of pepping a cleanly cut suit with the odd flourish. This time it was a monochrome dogstooth suit covered with a static print. Even JLS’s Marvin Humes, in a Yves Saint Laurent bomber jacket, epitomised the modern man. And what Carl Barât lacked in pizzazz he made up for by wearing a Hedi Slimane suit (although less said about the James Bay hat, the better).

The misses, of course, were plentiful. The mullet dress is the trend that refuses to die (see Cheryl Fernandez-Versini and half of Little Mix in various synthetic horrors). Alexa Chung rarely puts a brogue wrong, but here in a velvet bustier dress, was fairly forgettable (lesson: don’t step out of your style lane). Then, of course, there was Keith Lemon, who pillaged the misses of awards seasons gone (the Pharrell hat, the pseudo-Gucci blazer … everything really). What did you expect from Keith Lemon? The Brits then: a series of blind taste tests on the red carpet, none of which gets full marks.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

so many people seem to be only limbo dancing...
fat-diagnosed                         meta-humans,
                   and juxta...
they the are scorn of a thousand
chinese labourers...
                      who later squirm...
    i forget what speaking english was about...
it's this carelessness
  that somehow surmounts the ideal practicality of it...
  it's somehow shadowy...
  somehow removed from all need to:
extract a core of struct cipher...
             long before the software makes
man his decrepit-self, there's
the metallurgy of the conclave...
                           and the is the minor statement:
if man is to breach a culprit worthy of being denoted:
a meteor.
                      prior to the hardware,
there needs to be a software insurgence...
                  a fail-safe mechanisation,
with us, imprinted as: beyond the death of god,
the death of sleep... and the capacity to dream...
                      nihilism revolves around retracting the
last ******* cursor...
                               all machinery rests,
it's a question of whether organic matter ever
    contradicts its inorganic humanisation...
             if i am bound to rest, then i bound to not
be woken from such a rest via a nightmare...
   erradicate nightmares, thus erradicate the organic
cursor bound to invoke...
  all other contradications that counter the
originally intent escapade...
                               if indeed $ is a symbol that is insomniac
when 1 - 9 symbols are used toward no signifying σ...
that there is no actual prefix in arranging a - z
as there already is, perfecting arranging the 0 - 9...
   with the σ being the more: well addressed... in being
                           what is the reigning smmation of
the symbols a - z, as the simply unknown cradle...
   so if the symbols 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 can be governed
by $...
            what number can govern
                               a, b, c, d, e, f... r, s, t, u, v, w, x, y, z...
if not Ø?                   emtpy talk...
                       0 is a symbol for negation...
                  say of 0, Ø: you get affirmation..
  and you can say as much as you want...
        it doesn't mean you'll get the proper mediation
of being nearly human in the endeavour, a mediation
that demands: losers and winners, paupers and kings...
    man outlived the concept of letters and words
having any worthy construction...
    anything worthy of collaborating with...
                 there is no higher grownd with words and letters...
   it's the five-sense endorsement man that's
at a loss...
                    as long as
  there's the fewest numbers
                        to posit, once the
              hierarchy of 0 is stated after the comma...
and the number of crude denials are mustered...
  toward the million-shared among the 1% and not
the 0.1%...
                  once the Tolstoy's opus is worth:
0.0000000001 readership...
                      and a poem is 1.000000000's worth...
    we'll continue with this warfare of symbol...
       hierarchy:
               the one denied by the many: is the hierarchy...
and the one acknowledged by the many: is the monarchy...
   somehow it was worthwhile reading Kant,
given he suggested 0 = negation...
meaning that 1 = affirmation, but that was the least
   bother for me to attest...
                       i just found
    disavowing myself from the argument of god
as befitting man: who had no standard in a termite mount...
or an ant colony...
                         if man was indeed prone toward
such perfection, i'd have no concern to form a politics at all...
    man, as a political animal, as an animal non-intuitive,
as an animal overcome with conscience,
  has no place in man: guarded by such angelism...
  coinciding with duty and fakery: for the worth of prayer
and an albino amnesia.
and never prone to intuition and a synchronisation of the senses,
but rather their divergence... epitomised with
sharpening them in the sphere of intoxication...
        if man was indeed prone to such perfection,
    i'd have no concern from a politics at all...
  man, as a political anima, as an animal non-intuitive:
as anima ego-centra...
    could be neither a tangens or an omni-servitude
divergence of all the species, on the palette...
esp.  wondering if he could be:
  insect prone, rather than bedroom fuelled by mammalian
        jealous prods into: ******* gladiators!
                          religion only relapses into upkeeping
this utopian dream of it never happening...
   of a congregation...
                    imagine the Koran or the bible in China...
    common-sense numbers of China said: nope!
               the Chinese would have said: me mongol,
and slaughtered each other... for the bride to be!
  i really didn't want to write this for a reason that it might
be made dogmatic, or kept for posterity,
or a welcome inquiry...
                              i simply wonder why we dream
of world peace, and yet come up with such
diabolical schematics as Jung's collective unconscious...
    and all that: as if dreams really did require a 1 + 1 = 2
rules of interpretation...
    and all our dreams where: **** or phallus dreaming...
protruding in the oven of being flacid, once, so overcome with
thoughts, than in dream, or Buddha's awakening:
pretty correct in being: full blodied,
  stood up to overcoming shyness...
                                     and at least said: an astronaut's hello...
     ego to hyphen, non-complex word... complex
word to Houston... why wasn't it mission Hermes 13?
     i don't think we should believe in those gods...
but it would make great strides in asserting them
as best in a modern vocabulary...
                              Hermes overrules Apollo...
               there was a message intended in that vanity project,
surely!

it was bound to happen, after all my fascination with
the complications he was writing about
became incubated in a hibernation for some time,
but i already said, once before, you get the zest,
you get this unending hunger like a vampire
should you come across philosophy last, esp. after
being unable to blossom in chemistry's affairs
to a suitable self-satisfying level of expertise,
then all those migrating electron diagrams in organic
chemistry give you enough to read philosophy without
cringing or finding it too difficult - counter reading
it with major literary works and you're part of
the circus frenzy; so yesterday's afternoon and
apart from all he mentioned to a dichotomy rather
than a dialectic about empiricism and transcendental
idealism - the expansive topic of regression...
i just had to spot regressive bookmarks, or
bookmarks of regression that people unearth as if
from the dead; such is the nature of these bookmarks,
people do resurrect them, in as least number of
examples as possible:
a. i've met a Greek who was still bemoaning
    that Istanbul is still "actually" Constantinople
    (the local turk has stopped selling
     black market cigarettes in his shop
     imported from eastern europe, so now i'm
     resorted to smoking the portable shēsha pipe,
     that lovely creamy extra-thick smoke
     of pure jasmine, which cigarette smoke
     anorexic and blueish-grey can't compete with),
b. actually i don't have an example at this point
     because i digressed about not being able to
     buy cheap cigarettes, but there are plenty others...
oh! right, the atypical American example
with the constitution and gun laws and how
it is rarely argued that the government is turning
bonkers and someone might get a thrill from a second
"French" revolution, or some other horrific affair.
c. ah forget about it.
so within his abstracts, from one per se to another,
a simpler Kantian conceptualisation is
a Matryoshka doll, he purposively defined things
as in-themselves, and to him a noumenon (thing-in-itself)
was far better understood than a phenomenon,
because phenomena i'm guessing he too thought
were discriminatory, unfair, bewildering,
for example: why did the Beatles matter? it's bewildering,
you can't juggle such a question on your own
terms, you can't play the Rubik cube with such a question,
fair enough if you want to play the clarinet,
but it's like that, best epitomised in the film Amadeus
where Antonio Salieri bemoans the phenomenon that
Mozart is... the sophisma figurae dicta (sophism
figures out statements) to no advantage - for example
the liberté, égalité, fraternité all men are born equal
*******, i.e. can i run a 100 metres in under 10 seconds?
NO! of course Antonio is persuasive, in that he himself
is persuaded to talk, because he cannot fathom
the phenomenon that Mozart is, and he isn't - as such
phenomena are hard to grasp, you can't put in anything
into them other than envy, respect, jealousy, joy
or whatever you wish akin to the central character of
Steppenwolf who wants to walk with the giants,
thinking the giants are waiting for him... are they?
the noumenon is oddly enough more fathomable,
it doesn't necessarily attract, it neither necessarily repel,
in its abstract formulation it can never be a phenomenon
at best it can be a sub-phenomenon, it can work below
the surface of things, but there will never be any
glitter or princely yawns surrounding it.

July's soft murmur
Gave way to
August's howling
Obscured by boisterous
Moans of the wind
Screams turned into
Subdued yawns

Shrivelled leaves
Whose life the sun absorbed
Succumbed to the devastation
In all their grandeur
Scattered on the ground
In delicious hues
All they epitomised was
Inevitable gut-wrenching ends

Blind optimism bloomed
To tend to the wounds
Reeling in drawn-out decay
Autumn pain
Demanded to be felt.

Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder?
For I was torn between the wondrous musing
And the unfaithful, the treacherous verity.
Dad said that it lies in the wit and the wisdom,
Mom believed it to be synonymous with serenity!

I roved in reverie, pottered with presumptions;
What is beauty? From where does it emanate?
But may be, there was no oasis to my quest.
The answer breezed in and out, gusted here and there;
To catch hold of it was a big, big test!

Was it the reflection in the mirror?
The unbearable, the ill-favoured, it couldn't be.
The face that lacked glow, the face sans any sheens,
It longed for glory, for eminence.
I sighed; for was beauty the boulevard to my dreams?

There are the gifts of botany lacking blossoms,
And scads of scars blotching the moon.
But never could they blotch my view:
Splendor couldn't stop itself descending upon my eyes!
Even in murk, even in dim, I could descry hue.

'Twas in my eyes, they could life the lifeless
Like a shore serenading a cove or
The Ocean constantly kissing the shoreline.
These epitomised allure, incarnated love.
For me, it was an emotion 'divine'!

I realised: Not in the skinny legs and the fair hands
It is found in the vivacity of spirits.
Neither in the mascara nor in the mole;
Beauty has never found it's way through these,
It resides in the heart, in the soul.

I could sentimentalise,
throw flowers on your memory
agonise the opportunity to part with any gratuity,
wish you could see every success
through meaningless desire to conjure what never was
what never will be.

As you ebbed away to degeneration,
every strip of dignity
was a drop in the temperature of your cold stare
that epitomised our tenuous connection.

Even if truth be told,
would there be anyone to understand
how you created something so arbitrarily
only to derivatively destroy it?

Dreading the end before it's begun
Obsessed with the ending endless fun
Ongoing feverishly until she tires
My own selfishly determined desires
Epitomised by a crocodile
Drowning but still volatile

not really the gay science by definition nietzschean...
just... pure... narration / uninhibited narration,
narration ex “anonymousness.”
anyway, he misguided his theory,
he thought that goethe
epitomised his dyonisian qualifying
orientation... goethe was apollonian
as a judge... so much so that
he wrote all his verses sober;
oh the dross that my hangover brings
so much clarity i'm actually content
with it;
but the loss of narration, that fine art
of expressed and kept tribalism ("barbarism
by the camp fire") is neurotic in western
societies... with retort it re-emerged...
just jumbled up... thanks to tristan tzara...
exploited to full potential by william burroughs
via the polaroid / cut up method /
ransom letter of cut out letters glued onto
a piece of paper / as ****** up as quantum physics;
so the next time you meet your friend,
remember the quanta, he has a particular
expression to give you, minus the obvious mannerisms
that are self-explanatory, and kept to him knowing himself.

write and you will see azure or aquamarine in blue, and as man is almost hue blind in order to make him a decent painter (even though his technique came from the raphaelite school, it’s undermined by childish endeavour of the cubists), so too woman is blind to forms and makes her an adequate child of virginia woolf; i concede, the delicacy of sushi and the subsequent frailty of the tongue is epitomised by complex layring of letters to avoid stressors above, below or in them (theta), and this frailty is no more apparent than now... among the english-speaking youth; why? they have an outlet... the internet... i didn’t have that in my youth... the only outlet i had was in thought.

Silence, nothing else but silence now, am I really dead
No more the sound of cannon fire or smell of rotting dead
Is this the death I feared so long, is this my eternal rest
The grasp of war relinquished now, my duty dispossessed

Incessant rain, falls constantly, to torment and pain my soul
The battlefield a quagmire now, that swallows’ soldiers whole
Thousands, countless thousands of men now dead or dying
Hell, on Earth is Passchendaele, to be its witness, horrifying

I have no sense of being now, my corpse bequeathed of breath,
My soul now purged, awaits its fate to meet the sacrament of death
My dreams of home abandoned now, my weapons cast aside
Now duty paid to God and King, my epitaph epitomised

But from the very brink of death, I feel my pain again
Returning from the heavenly gates, soaked by that ****** rain
Delivered from God’s holy grace to Satan’s gates revived
From the peace of my eternal sleep, my comfort now deprived

Back to Pilckem Ridge once more, to a Flanders blood-soaked trench
Where grey faced lads with bowing heads, sit silent in the stench
Corpses laying side by side, half buried in oozing mud
All faith and hope abandoned, the price now paid in flesh and blood

I prey for the Lord to take me and release me from this hell
Remove me from perdition, reposed in perpetuity to sleep where angels dwell
Let me succumb, dispense with me, undiminished in your grace
Deliver me to eternity and redeem me from this awful place

My headstone stands on hallowed ground, near Tyne Cot, ***** Town
Eternal sleep, my answered prayer, now rest in peace where I lay down
I gave the best that I could give, till I could give no more
Then blessed the Lord that saved my soul, but cursed the ****** war

Compassionate Christ, epitomised embraced

Devoted disciples, purposely placed

Above all, powerful praise

Forever first, sovereignty stays

Faithful father, welcoming will

Powerful purpose, fellowship fill

Highest honour, royal reign

Mindfully made, known by name

Each day edified, zealous zest

Daily devotion, radiant rest

Celestial city, glistening gold

Astounding angels, beautiful bold

Temporal trials, due defender

Jehovah-Jireh, sovereign splendour



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

if journalists weren't
           the whiney ******* to begin with...
   do i even have to provide
         a copyright infringement
                on a citing emily dickinson?
  just asking,
       because i wondered upon
seeing primary school pupils
             being taught: phalanx formation,
or the old tale of Noah:
        hand in hand...
hand upon hand to give a vote...
                i'm past thinking
about the hindu gods acting as
the gods: who taught people to tie
their shoelaces, subsequently
     pushing them into a sprint,
        that never resulted
                   into a gallop of a mustang...
well **** me,
      if that **** runs on a
            photosynthesis
                                  shortscript
that's grass and not a birch tree...
                                                    hug it.
i just see: eating dwarfs...
                  but it's not that,
a sunday supplement of a newspaper,
****, gott'ah have a cohort...
             magazine (i.e.) -
         i'm walking through a mirror labyrinth,
a minotaur to own my own:
   of what doesn't really regard
   scribbling graffiti...
                  but on a serious note...
     why is there a bother for trans-
trans-gender?
                      with every book review
i've read,
             it's a man reviewing a man's
book, e.g. john carey on steven pinker...
and there's
                   jackie annesley
on laura freeman...
          once "this" gets solved
it's going to become funny
watching inter-****** sporting
events, outside the realm of
tennis and curling...
                   without a thespian
attitude of: faking it.
   the modern age is seriously
epitomised by a woman giving
birth to a siamese twin...
      it's like which part do i ****
             and which head do i talk to?
you can't exactly fake it,
when boys read boy books,
and women read, girl books...
   oh look... a diminutive counter
to a martini: whatever the bartender
knows & does... without the shacken part...
       trigger ******* happy
from here on in...
                    or ear on a dog leash /
     fishing line...
                 ****... shay... shayken...
shacking or shackles?
                         shaking...
    but where's shay?
                             shay i, or should you,
answer that, question?
  must be a fantasy of a french speaking
princess with blonde hair
   and ***** hairs dyed blue...
      and a man with ****** hair:
otherwise known these days:
    bearded man: look at me - i'm dancing
naked!
                  well,
that's without the kangaroo hop or kick
attending to dr. pangloss...
   as read on the no. 86 bus
each morning in circa genesis of 21st
century.
          missing diacritical marks
is disorientating,
      but there's no chance of applying them
to english...
      because there are too many
particular instances when
they could be applied,
         subsequently there would be
no universal impetus for use...
              perhaps: archetypal
                                     familiarities?
arch and no arc...
                   i make an oath toward
YHWH...
                         gay ******* all day,
and i mean that in the "archaic"
                 substance / meaning of: gay.
hunk of a back, or hunchback?
   this is becoming
quantum physics ****...
                   c, k, q...
                          you look at it:
and it's a sound with the cipher C...
then you look away
   and it's a de-cipher that constitutes
K & Q...
                   buy hey...
              it's worth being a tourist
once in a while, not minding
this observation.

TAKE ONE: not enough time to relax and for the buzz to wear off, i.e. not reflective enough, jumbled mess of feelings, spaghetti tangles - also not enough alcohol for me to relax into writing something with genuine feelings...

i don't know why i'm sitting up and trying to force this
onto a piece of paper...
i'm literally: knackered... i'll be unimaginative...
force of habit i guess... nothing more:
     i'm not expecting to write something spectacular...
not since leaving the house at 10am...
getting to Wembley for 12pm... being one of the first
people from the company, not even the managers
were there... a shift that started at 12:45pm and ended
at 1am...

buzzing

i got home at 4am... which i reckon isn't that bad,
walking to Wembley Park Station... ****...
and the underground worker i asked before the shift
promised me that: oh no, the Jubilee line is not
affected by the night-tube drivers...
only the Central and Victoria lines are affected...
that's the information i read up on the TfL website
anyway... ****... oh well... walked to Wembley
Central and everything just clicked...
the N18 bus was almost packed... sitting in traffic...
generous driver opened the back doors and about
5 of us jumped in... went to the upper deck...
took off my coat... took my tie off...
      unclipped about three buttons from my neck
down... and the buttons on my sleeves...
rolled them up...
               what just happened... did it?
       tired, buzzing, tired, buzzing... if only i could
get a beer...

put some music on...
    my life is currently epitomised by...
                FooR x Majestic x Dread MC - Fresh
but obviously i wasn't listen to that...
Piano and String Quartets from Schubert's The Trout...
for the love of night buses in London...
and esp. after an event like that: you can feel the vibrations
of everything going back to normal...
   i can sort of imagine a Halloween party this
year... with someone dressed up as the year 2020...
with a face-mask... a face shield, pandemic white overalls,
yellow plastic gloves...
  yeah... that would really make up for a great
Halloween suit...

ended me being the only supervisor in charge of about
20 stewards... there were these two others
but one was busy with his 16 while the one i was
supposed to work with ****** off somewhere
and never came back... i was originally only supposed
to be allocated 6 stewards...

man-down... let's do this...
   surprisingly very little trouble...
                 vaping... drunkenness: obviously...
it's not a football match: you could actually drink in view
of the "pitch"...
            but i was like: wow...
    94 thousand people in this hole in the ground that
rose up and dragged walls around it...
and right in the middle.... this tiny... tiny...
    stage... a boxing ring...
                 at first it was sort of unimpressive...
the crowd was scarce... the day was still here...
the artificial lights looked like someone was
shining light into mirrors...
                 light was barely coming out of them...
Tyson's cousin was one of the pre-fight fights...
me running around tending to all the stewards
under my supervision, tending to their needs...
and obviously... one *******...
but when i say *******... well... it's complicated...
even his mother said that he has underlying
mental health issues... and a drinking problem...

///////////////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\

TAKE TWO

i'm finally sitting down and willing to write something
that might feel equivalent to squeezing a lemon,
something genuine... like: i might cut myself...
and then squeeze a lemon... pour some salt on the cut
that came about by accident while cutting vegetables...
i want this night to sink in...
i missed last night... i only got home at 4am...
mind you: that's a good record... if you're leaving Wembley
at 1am... Wembley Central...
getting the N18 bus to Oxford Circus... then the N25
bus to somewhere like Manor Park...
switching to N86... getting to Romford... then walking
back home... in your hand... some memorabilia
(programme) from the Fury vs. Whyte boxing match...
you still don't know what just happened...
some people paid a lot of money to see this match-up....
but you? you were there... for free...
and getting paid on top of that... first take...
i tried my hardest to capture everything...
impossible... not after 4am... i mused for a bit
until 6am... saw the sun coming: i'm out...
this rabbit's heart is pumping too much...
its legs are swollen from all the running around...
i got up at about 2-30 in the afternoon...
   looked around... what the **** just happened?
where was i for the past two days?
i know i left home at 10am yesterday...
   i came back home at 4am today... so that's pretty
much two days gone...
   where was i? where...
                  somewhere... somewhere...
            let me tell you... in a stadium that's supposed
to be fit for a football match...
seeing 94 thousand people crammed in...
with nothing to look at but this little stage...
a boxing ring in this hole in the ground that rose up...
it's so... different... i have no better word for it...

so i calmly sat down... watched a little of the West
Ham vs. Chelsea match...
got bored... went out to buy three ciders... drank one...
then started making dinner...
Silesian gnocchi - the trick being...
you cook potatoes... let them cool...
        you squeeze them into a "mash"...
cut them into four portions...
                      take a quarter out...
add a quarter of potato flour... one egg-yolk...
mix it... first with knife and spoon...
then with your hands... if you went all in with your
hands you'd get too much goo stuck to your fingers...
then you add the removed quarter of potatoes into
the mix...
         once properly kneaded... you pinch little
doughnuts from the dough...
                         you pinch... roll them in your hands
and then squish them by inserting your index finger
into them being in the cusp of your hand...
then... you boil them in water... two minutes once
they rise to the top... then... you get some cold water
into a bowl... and take them out... put them into
that cold water so they firm up...
   and slightly stop cooking... but to firm them up...
and then you serve these with a nice onion sauce
and some pork belly and some... pickles... coleslaw...
i knew that i needed to do something today...
return to reality...
   i knew i needed to watch: this is going to be painful...
brilliant show... dark comedy at its finest...
i knew i needed to take out the garbage...
yesterday was yesterday...
                it's another world... another stage...
it's not a world for poets...
                 there was a point where the poet was needed...
i already mentioned the incident...
a mental health crisis...
   a muddle of conversation... the guy was with his
mum... she bought the tickets...
but he was being a complete *** about it...
well... he went off... left him... because he asked
her to buy him some spirits... but they don't sell
strong alcohol in any stadium... just beer...
he became ******* about that... he was already drinking
the night before till late...
too exited to see the fight...
          what a ******* muddle... drunk... abusive to
my stewards... each time i had to step in and try
to not... call in the intervention team... the SIA ******
that would come in and handle him physically:
twist his arm and be all wide-eyed with fear-adrenaline...
i'm not ******* radioing in for those ******...
we can talk this over... no need for violence...
no need for an ejection... let's play ping pong...
i tell him: listen... you paid to be here...
i'm being paid: to be here... see the difference?
it's not fair that i get to see this for free: and get paid
for it... while you're just willing to forgo seeing this fight...
your mum bought the ******* tickets...
stay... look! the lights are on! there are 94 thousand people
packed into this stadium! stay...
i took him to the side... he cried... ashamed...
rightly so... panic attacks... cry all you want...
but you're still going to sit this one out...
here... if the crowd is too big... sit on the seats reserved
for the disabled people...
more space... you'll be surrounded by stewards...
twice he tried to leave... once i had to ask my manager
to speak to his mum when he became a sort of a missing
person... found him... sat him down...
he watched the fight... personally? i too was overwhelmed...
but i was working... so i could let that show...

it's almost funny... me writing this... it's like the fight
didn't even happen... well... it sort of did...
but for me... it felt like... playing with toy figurines
of superheroes... or some G.I. Joe...
sure... but i was switching at watching two ants
fight in the distance and the screens above them
that enlarged them...

and to think: this was no my role... my official title
was media escort... i helped about three new media
personnel to get the proper credentials:
but the rest were usual... the other supervisor ******
off somewhere so i had to fill his role... take care
of the VIPs and the people who paid extra money...
faces that became blurry... didn't recognise any of them...
fame is a cruel bride...
i was more concerned with the wellbeing of
the stewards i inherited... from only supposedly 6
i had... about 20... kneeling to each of their whims...
some were just too neurotic: too confrontational...
i had to step in to explain to the public:
he's a nervous creature... spare me the trouble...
just... go along... it'll make my life easier...
just stop making the argument that smoking
your portable-shisha is not smoking a normal
cigarette... listen... i've become a contained
animal when it comes to smoking since 1pm...
and i have to wait until 1am to have a drag...
if i have to do it: you can too...

oh i did manage to watch the entire Fury vs. Whyte
match... by then everyone was watching it...
so i could cool off...
some cute black girl VIP asked me if i could call
in a blocked toilet in the VIP section...
i have the stewards a heads-up when approached
by a Frank Bruno lackey (think... Mr Pickwick
and Sam Weller... but this wasn't a Sam Weller you'd
want around... nothing humourus about this
Sam Weller... just a star-struck busy body)...
oh he has a body-guard... he's going ring-side...
he needs extra protection...
i passed the message on... hey... i was only assigned
the role of being a media escort...
why the **** am i doing all these other roles?
and... **** me... this is only my second shift
at Wembley... the first shift was a joke...
i was on level 5 in the glass room... telling people whatever
the **** i was telling them... now... in the thick of it...
i'm stressed one minute... relaxing the next...
i'm coordinating stewards left right and centre...
i hate the idea that just because i had a radio
and an ear-piece i'm the ******* island of peace
that Noah found after the flood...
            i already know what that Manchester ******
of a "supervisor" is doing... betting online on the sly...
i clench my teeth... grinding my teeth: everyone's alright?

by now i'm already doing what i usually do at
a football match... i yawn... i'm thinking of returning
to my garden, to my bed and finding some peace...
because... that's the usual standard...
10% of people do all the work of... let's cut the pie up
fairly... 50% of the work...
which would make them: sentence prone to get
their bearings in doing... oh no no... not menial:
manual labour... that's the whole **** joke...
doing... menial... manual.... pointlessness...
i'm thinking: did the Nazis read the myth of Sisyphus?!
- and it's not like we're a cohort of bricklayers...
we're ensuring people don't become over-excited...
we keep them in check...
pick up a brick... throw it... great...
but then try to not argue with a human being...
try to appease them...
tell them: listen... mate...
i too love freedom... believe me... freedom...
so i watched...

  these supposedly high tier women... well...
that's a great dress... that's great ***...
but... ahem... i can't seem to be able to distinguish them
from prostitutes...
personally? i think i've had better looking women
in my bed at £120 an hour
than... £3000 an event at a dinner table...
sorry... i think i'm sparring with some of these days...
i'm looking out of curiosity... some of the stuff they
float is... so... unimpressive...
   maybe that's why i look like it like...
David Attenborough looking at...
oh wow! i just thought of it...
imagine... a pre-history... where...
           that meteor: what proof?
        killed... not massive lizards... but... massive insects!
i get money... you get a lot of fluke on that...
i have a kaleidoscope of pyramids and stars of David
in my mind...
i was not, supposed... to this work...
it just became automatically assigned to me...
because... only a day prior... went to the Turkish
barber... went for a haircut... looked pretty SS...
just needed the suit...
   once i got bored of the high-payers sitting around
too long after the match i sort of started interpreting
a funny march... i'd walk around the glass wall
with a: slide up... move leg forward... stomp...
repeat... repeat...
  
   oh man... but once the VIP "celebrities" were pushing
the lines...
the manager didn't call me to intervene:
but i intervened...
familiar faces... honestly? i didn't recognise most
of them... i can count my fingers... i have two hands...
i can count how many toes i have too, believe me...

i did see Frank Bruno when he was returning from
ring-side... he looked like such a shell of a man...
he actually brushed against me...
almost paranoid... half the man...
       i guess that's what happens in this sort of business...
someone always takes you over...
he wouldn't have received a 94 thousand crowd
for one of his fights... but maybe he sorted spotted
a kindred soul...
i just thought: Frankie ol' boy... maybe you should
switch from what sort of sport you watch?
you were a boxer... why not decide on...
Olympic judo? that's still fighting...
but the rules are tighter... it's more of a play-around-rough
up... you're not in harm's way from a concussion...

and... let's face it... the Fury KO of Whyte?
that wasn't a proper undercut...
he skimmed his chin... he: skimmed it...
it wasn't an outright Mortal Kombat undercut...
he didn't punch him: he kissed him...
and... Tyson has no body of a boxer... aesthetically...
he's fat at the hips... he has love-handles...
and... i guess that's what happens when
you reach a certain height... 6ft9... i've seen men taller
than me... most of them get a hunch... their shoulders
are not proportionate to the rest of their body...
they're much smaller...
personally? i don't think Fury has an aesthetic physique...
maybe that's useful... it must be useful...
like i never understood men that strive
to have the size of their arms to be almost proportionate
to the size of the legs...
makes no sense... to have the same volume
of arm to leg...
you know: you just want some aesthetic bulk
around your collar-bone...
  that drips down a layering of details...
Fury is a love-bun... around the waist...

                       once upon a time: said a David to a Goliath...
oh man... the VIP section was a treat...
i walk in... start talking to the catering staff...
help them with removing the bottles...
and there's this... i hardly can say this about most
men i meet... this pretty copper-neck curly:
i don't ******* know what he is...
half-Somali half-Kurdish... it's London...
it's Danzig... but we get on...
busy? not so busy? who have you seen?
he says: i don't know most of them...
me too... i couldn't tell you who's famous and who
isn't...
   i spotted this itchy look...
"famous" women...
   herr primofizier doesn't recongise her...
slim clad... eh... 10th of a buttocks exposed...
i'm still ******* running on blank...
Love Island type of celebrity... sorry... what?
i'm not even talking to the VIPs... i'm talking to the catering
staff... they seem less: oh... you see me...
ergo... i see you...
                so he pulls out a bottle of Budweiser...
i tell i wish... just give me a cold bottle of Sprite...
back up... back up...
   i've seen too much of that face on t.v.
Dermot O'Leary leaving via the press entrance / exit...
my stewards ****** up... he was supposed
to be leaving via the "VIP" entrance / exit...
he really did surprise me... i spontaneously say hello...
hello back...
             ****... i didn't bring my t.v. along...
weird... seeing people of superficial fame
in real time... i mean: Kant's famous.. but he's also
dead... it's like a hall of mirrors...
when you see someone on t.v. but when you
see them in real life you're like: so... where's the t.v.,
mate?! because it was different with Frank Bruno...
he was a boxer... he did something beside
present a t.v. show...
                 tiers of fame...
who else was on the list... best those...
THOTS of love island?!
         me... i thank the guy part of the catering staff...
who gave me a cold bottle of Sprite...
Paddy McGuinness...
         i have to actually type these words into a search
engine... regarding who i saw...
indian comedian funny eye...  Romesh Ranganathan...
and? he was walking past me with...
QI cast... search engine... Alan Davis... Davies...
   anyone else?
        Stuart Pearce! but... that was another occasion...
he walked so casually past me at some other
football match...
        no... wait... there was one... ****... there wasn't...

it's new territory for me...
trying to ensure a bunch of stewards are tended to...
and... seeing people... fame... ha ha...
more like a social club... given... there's...
what... 9 billion in this world?
i'm thinking... double-down... take to some art...
wait... with luck... once you'll die...
ah... then it'll kick in... but by then...
you'll already be dead... so... it really won't matter
to you...
                  hmm... now that i have seen
famous... "famous" men... men that should really
walk with either t.v. segments of their incursion
on the pop psyche or... tags like: hello, my name is:
Zee / Zed... and i'm famous beause:
penicillin and ****...
TAGS... i am yet to see a famous: a F'AH-MOUSSE:
i.e. woman...
          the famous men... just as disorientated
like the rest of us... rich men?
sort of in-group scared... well... buoyancy...
it's so much different to what i've already experienced...
supervisor of stewards... do it properly...
crowd management can take on army-like-rigour...
famous people don't keep each other in check...
well... they do... when they get into trouble...
but they do this: keeping-each-other-in-check
when it's too late...
             i once went to a Big Brother... whatever the ****
it was... with this high-school friend of mine...
Tina... signing... opening... whatever the **** it was...
and while in the crowd...
placards... reading APPLAUD... blah blah...
with... "celebrities"...
and now i'm mingling with "celebrities"
and... all i'm thinking about is...
talking to the catering staff... for a free bottle of Sprite...
because: that's human! because there's a God
and no Pharaoh!

- and i know i attended this high pretege event...
i know that... where hierarchies of men
tickle thumb... tickle thumb...
i'm still of surprised why i haven't been allocated
a place in an asylum...
well... the fight was one... but i was trying to
keep this panic attack riddled beef-cake of a boy
from:
funny... that... there's this one lineage of madmen
that cry... have panic attacks...
while their mothers remain stern... priceless:
while there's the lineage of "us" that have
the capacity to make our mothers cry...
because we cook, we are custodians of
the household... we tend to our gardens...

               and we also tend to people...
                      supposed upper tiers of people...
levelling ground...
            like i said... if there was anyone famous
in this crowd... i spotted about... 3 or 4 faces...
the rest... skim reading... tabloid journalism...
i much prefer talk to the cogs and the generalisation
of machinery... it was a success that
some of the stewards that under me replied with:
i want to work with you again...
because you listen to my concerns
and you implement a change in making
my concerns abate...

                 now i'm relaxed...
the 3h trip via N18, N25 and via N86...
relaxed me... as did Schubert... the Trout...
             tonight's the night i drink to excess and
think... well.... "think" about people...
i'd rather think about masks... masquerades...
and Madame... Tuss... Tusseouds...
   Tussauds... too many ******* vowels!

this grand event happened... seriously?!
American Pie...
what if you were to sing...
Nights in White Satin?!
           or Combichrist: Sent to Destroy?!

Unlike most tales of nostalgia,
the recollection of sentimentality
relating to my first coup de foudre,
was to that of a Baker.

When I first saw her, she was all
in white, too young I was then to
know, or even care about virgins.

I was overwhelmed, she epitomised
everything there was about purity.

That was last century, now it is 2019
and I am also in love with a baker.

Sheila is the impossible conquest of
the 21st century.

Carroll of 20th Century Fox in The
Carpetbaggers was just as elusive.

But, as George Bernard Shaw once
said;

"An Irishman, is nothing but his
  imagination ".

           <>

Carroll Baker
Born May 28, 1931 (age 88)
Johnstown, Pennsylvania, U.S.
Nationality American
Occupation
Actresswriter
Years active 1952–2003
Notable work
Baby Doll (1956)
Giant (1956)
Something Wild (1961)
How the West Was Won (1962)
The Carpetbaggers (1964)
Harlow (1965)
Native Son (1986)
Kindergarten Cop (1990)
Height 5 ft 5 in (1.65 m)[1]
Spouse(s)
Louie Ritter
(m. 1953; ***. 1953)
Jack Garfein
(m. 1955; ***. 1969)
Donald Burton
(m. 1978; died 2007)
Children
Blanche Baker
Herschel Garfein