.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?

one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..

.oh ****! now i remember, now i remember that other school of English thought... pragmatism! everything is so rational these days, no wonder that so many mental illness diagnoses exist... apparently every deviance of, "success" is, "magically" worthy of psychiatric scrutiny... but then you get psychopaths in the upper eschallance of society... and they're immune to psychiatric scrutiny... so much for pragmatism... whatever that means these days... what?! e-scha-llan-ce... usher-lance?! oh right, ****, i was going for an adjective... echelon... my adjective? feeling up to the level / rank within an organization, and subsequently, perfecting stated rank with robust, pompousness and erudition, matching up to a pedantic exercise within the confines of either, grammar, or, diction; my bad. see... i don't get it... i could somehow couple up the ancient Greek concept of the Stoic school, and the Epicurean school (of thought)... it became crystal clear... but... but when it comes to the English school of thought? i can't make the logical-leap of a worded multiplication concerning the schools of: egalitarianism, and... pragmatism... maybe i'm just *******... but i... i sometimes can't come at a worded equals sign, or at least: a mutually inclusive / mutually exclusive sharing processor of looking at both attempts to revise 1 + 1 = 2... then again, i'm not bothered... English liberalism doesn't bother me... the English were never libertarian in letting go... who are the English? they have their equivalence among the Prussians... but, yes... i was looking for this noun, this last remaining school of thought from the Anglophone world... i was thinking... what goes well with the cognitive spaghetti that exfoliates egalitarianism? ****... what else? pragmatism! so help me god, i can't concede making this dualism of ideas, perhaps contradictory, perhaps not, as i did with classical thinking... stoicism and Epicurean school i can justify... but the English, somehow complimenting within the realm of pragmatism, and egalitarianism?! good luck, i can't do it.

currently i only identify two schools
of thought in English...
i might change my opinion
in the future...

how, just how petrified people
are of exploring dialectics,
the fear stemming out
from... having opinions that
do not deserve questioning,
such blatant solipsism...

but i do identify two schools
of thought from the English
speaking world...
o.k. three... ****...
four...

egalitarianism...
egalitarian idealism...
unitarism...
utopian-ism...        

****... four, five...
how many in total?

scholasticism, in general...

  there's one more...
i'm sure there's one more...
it's related to egalitarianism...

what's the word i'm looking
for?
a morphed liberalism
of: one freedom can eventually
over-compensate
another statement of freedom
and deride the former liberty
with a... ore ******-up
liberty...

but there was another mode of thinking,
i'm sure of it...

you know that people
are afraid of experiencing dialectics,
when they have to phrase
their opinions:
but these are my personal
opinions...
   yep... stated in a public sphere...
why is it that i don't
make videos?
      your freedom of speech
is one thing...
mine? constricted to the comment
section...
   this? an extension of thought,
since i'm bashing a blank piece
of "paper"...

what was the other root of the English
school of thought?!
no... it wasn't universalism...
England, given the stated terms...
is a covert communist state...
a subdued communist state...
a dubiousness from the empirically
tested experiment...
where did Marx and Engels
concentrate their observational
capacities if not in England?
weird...

  communism originated in England
under, said, sociological observations,
was tested in Mongolia...
and then returned via Russia to
Eastern Europe...

*****... gets to my head...
it might come to be two days later,
but i'm sure i wanted
to work with another school of thought
from the English demand
for the egalitarian take on things...

looking at the English,
i see a people burdened by a desire
to make "things"... fair...
          i see people teasing Utopia...
a people who haven't experienced
a momentary transition period
of a quasi-Utopia of communism....
within the countries that
received the Bolshevik mantra
and not the Marshall Plan payout...
even Sweden (neutral, source of inspiration
for the Nazis) and Switzerland
received Marshall Plan funds...

       but the English...
              what an oddity...
oh i don't imply a demeaning
interpretation...
       but the English are teasing
a revival of socialism...
you know how many archetypical
human emotions socialism curbs?
you can't do it unless
subjected to foreign rule...
given the current Brexit agreements:
now's your chance...

but socialism really did originate
in this fine, fine land...
Marx didn't look alongside
Engels outside of England...
they looked at Liverpool...
and children being employed...
German children had Krampus...
English children had
work in the factories...

this probably is an over-simplification
of history, but all the details
are there...
personally?
i find English existentialism
(if there is such a "thing")
over-powered by Darwinism's
over-simplifications...
Darwinism, having killed modern
or pre-modern history,
having to expand beyond
our known, and kept history...

a big bang theory i can deal
with...
i can congest it into a subscript
of words, via a conceptualization
of atoms...
and bigger atoms,
suns... protons, neutrons,
planets...
and electrons...
lost in the realm of sub-atomic
particles and antimatter...

but when i go back to Poland?
you know what i don't hear much of?
overly simplified existential
explanations pivoting on
nothing, but Darwinism...
in England it's all Darwinism,
and not much more...
i guess when Einstein disproved
Newton,
the only thing motivating
English culture boiled down
to focusing and pivoting on Darwin...

outside of England?
you know how important Darwin
is?
          in Poland... Mickiewicz...
a poet...
                         Copernicus...
            a astronomer...
            and in Russia?
Dostoyevsky...
          Tolstoy...
                     Mendeleev,
Tchaikovsky,
Rasputin,
                      Prokofiev­,
Bulgakov...
        Kandinsky...
               Anna Andreyevna...
Chekov...
                      how much is
Michael Faraday worth these
days in England,
if you're going to celebrate
only the scientists
and shove every artist
into the shadow of Shakespeare?!

i really shouldn't drink
*****...
                       i go crazy crude,
mad and... it's *****!
       you can't mellow out like
you could mellow out with
ms. amber, of the Scottish highlands!

precursor - title correlation
body -

mind of:

C                oh

    oh                      Ri

n'ah.   (half an hour fiddling with a 502 bad
gateway; traffic these days! jeez!)

I.

it don't know what's more frustrating for the reasons that it's so good... i can't choose... it's a close call... either listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides from By The Way... ugh! why didn't they release that as a double album! Stadium Arcadium was not that good as a double-album... all the prior albums are MAGIC... literally... for ****'s sake: GOLDMINE is literally just that... there's that... i can't concentrate on making my own translation of Ovid... i'm yet to scribble down the translation i have... i can't even drink my whiskey properly... the other frustrating focus? watching Armand Duplantis break his own world record of 6.21metres... the ****** has still at least 10cm in him! a record that will have to stand-still for the next 20+ years... i'll be dead before this record is broken... Сергій Бубка best be sleeping... i'm listening to the music, reliving the end of the World Athletics and trying to heel-myself-in-the-buttocks: better get a move on boy... hmm! "trying"... i'm actually heeling myself in the buttocks: no time to wait... one can wait for a bus... one cannot for one's own incentive... ol' Lizzy is coming up the mountain... she's coming with the proper closure of the 20th century... however many popes she outlived... however many prime ministers and american presidents... come on Lizzie... just one more year... i'm actually dying to spend money with whittle Charlie printed on the notes... my fingers are itching... but **** me... music so good By The Way should have been a double-album... no! Stadium Arcadium was not the salvagable double-album worth session... i'm getting "schizophrenic" vibes... i know that poetry is not an entertaining medium: it's a complacent self-congratulatory, thereupeutic load of *******... it's obnixious when staged: the exasperated art of speaking with speed... today i realised that i much prefer drinking to having ***... i like the preservation of my brain with a hard-on of itchy fingers than any actual ******* hard-ons... the knife opening oysters or plucking out the eyes of deer... best the eyes be gauged out... than having deer stare into car lights... hybrid confusions of static, motivated to move... frozen in a make-shift imitation of root and clay and copper: bam! one more statue down...

II.

it's no wonder why i'm not looking for a girlfriend, it's no longer bewildering why i'm not looking for a wife, at best i'm looking out for that ancient custom of Roman emperors: to become a foster father, a surrogate - i'm yet to find a match-up... i almost did, but she undermined my chances by undermining her own seriousness in such affairs... but clarity does come... as much as i might be a surrogate father to her son or daughter: i wouldn't be faithful to her... i would steal the night and run away into a brothel... but there's something else... the whole dynamic of publishing has changed... the whole idea of a library has also changed... i own more valuable books in my private collection than the public library of Romford... which is me peering at the dire straits of what the public is fed... i know why i don't aspire for pair-bonding... perhaps man so levelled aspired toward the imitation of birds a long time ago... perhaps swans are truly noble creatures: for one hears of widow and widower swans... perhaps parrots: born from those monstrous beasts that were the dinosaurs can imitate our talk... all that's this reality within the confines of "perhaps": nonetheless, it's all true... but perhaps being the mammal that i am... i moved from a community of chimpanzees into a solo-ride of imitation-bear... perhaps i only entertain the opposite *** on the encounter of ***... i couldn't land a conversation with a woman outside the constrictive-framework of work, so much so: i would abhor the mindset of men that go on dates with women: buy them food and then EXPECT... i leave that ******* out in my interactions... pay-up-front for what you're about to receive otherwise don't play cat while the woman plays mouse... or rather... a rat in cat's clothing: the woman therefore becoming a rat-trap... mind you: i can't think of a more terrible idea than the modern version of: eat first, **** later... at the old ****** proverb states: a hungry ****** is angry... a filled ****** is lazy... god forbid i ever become tempted by those dating sites... i'm currently looking for the original Latin text of Ovid's the Amores book 2 poem 6... why? what i have in my hand... and what i'm finding... it's like what Robert Pinsky remarked about once: TRANSLATIONS differ so much from one translator to another...

they have done it... UEFA are mad... just to get my
accreditation for the women's Euros final
at Wembley they're asking me to bring my passport
with me... so is Wembley the JFK of Florida
          space-shuttle launch? Houston? am i leaving
the country?
                but the girls have done it...
funny: some other people are still complaining:
IT'S TOO WHITE!
   there's not enough diversity in the team...
          that's me also planning to go and live
in Kenya and become a model for toilet paper...
i'm sure i could replace that known Koala bear /
golden retriever or perhaps i could go there
and model for soap adverts...
it just so happened that racial tensions (only football
could create them) rose up for a little:
just one night the day England lost to Italy
on penalty shootouts... because... 3 black guys
were playing a rigged roulette...
            then again? me? and the African heat?
fat chance...

find me the original Elegy VI: the death of Corinna's
pet parrot...
oh man... and her name was Polly...
i sat up late last night trying to find something
interest on the television...
bam! thank you ma'am...
                       kurt cobain: montage of heck...
sort of reminded me of...
                           a SCANNER DARKLY...
                           mind you: i sometimes do enjoy
a one-man show... or at least two...
there was this brilliant show in the West End...
Stones in his Pockets...
       two actors... sharing the roles of...
                  about 15 people each...
but it was back in circa 2001...
so... maybe it was Louis Dempsey
                                                        & Sean Sloan...
mind you... i'd still love to see Samuel Beckett's
             NOT I...

Jack Trades says: i'm about to a heap
of hay of hate...
                                i'm everywhere sometimes...
if it's not music, then its visual arts,
then it's philosophy, then fine literature...
then something "oriental" in thinking...
then its coupling my fetish for Deutsche as:
father to the English zunge...
then it's back east to rummage in some Katakana...

i know why i'm single, Roger Moore remained
a bachelor until his death...
  courteous: as ever as forever always...
i'd be a terrible match-up... i've given pair-bonding
a chance: i can't bemoan why X is not Y...
the sort of men that pair-bond are claustrophilic...
they love the company of a mate...
each time i was ever in a "relationship" i already
had one foot dangling: tapping an imaginary
drum set...
recently i discovered the B-side of the Red Hot Chilli
Peppers... so for me it's a version
of keeping the 20th century alive with
the "dichotomy" of the Rolling Stones vs.
the Beatles... i'm more... R.H.C.P.'s A-sides
of R.H.C.P.'s B-sides?
                                        i'm busy...
                i'm always busy... i don't want to relax...
i want a Turkish barber to suggest that
i need  hot-towel and an arm massage after
my beard is trimmed and... i'm still going to state:
getting a Turk to trim my beard is a close
contender to oral *** from a Turkish *******...

but try finding me that original Latin of Ovid's...
ah! found it! let's see if i can compete with
my own translation... the one i originally read
and the one i found finding the original Latin
were so disparaging...

**** yes! well... there was Ted Hughes writing
about the Crow... poor ******...
should have killed himself: might have competed
with his terribly-wonderful wife of a poet...
i give her that: what noose?
best head in an oven...
and you want a shovel with that?
but this is Ovid... "complaining" about
the death of his lover's parrot...
immediately i jumped to conclusions:
not enough crackers...

(A) the Original:

Psittacus, Eois imitatrix ales ab Indis,
    occidit—exequias ite frequenter, aves!
ite, piae volucres, et plangite pectora pinnis
    et rigido teneras ungue notate genas;
horrida pro maestis lanietur pluma capillis,
    pro longa resonent carmina vestra tuba!
quod scelus Ismarii quereris, Philomela, tyranni,
    expleta est annis ista querela suis;
alitis in rarae miserum devertere funus—
    magna, sed antiqua est causa doloris Itys.
Omnes, quae liquido libratis in aere cursus,
    tu tamen ante alios, turtur amice, dole!
plena fuit vobis omni concordia vita,
    et stetit ad finem longa tenaxque fides.
quod fuit Argolico iuvenis Phoceus Orestae,
    hoc tibi, dum licuit, psittace, turtur erat.
Quid tamen ista fides, quid rari forma coloris,
    quid vox mutandis ingeniosa sonis,
quid iuvat, ut datus es, nostrae placuisse puellae?—
    infelix, avium gloria, nempe iaces!
tu poteras fragiles pinnis hebetare zmaragdos
    tincta gerens rubro Punica rostra croco.
non fuit in terris vocum simulantior ales—
    reddebas blaeso tam bene verba sono!
Raptus es invidia—non tu fera bella movebas;
    garrulus et placidae pacis amator eras.
ecce, coturnices inter sua proelia vivunt;
    forsitan et fiunt inde frequenter ****.
plenus eras minimo, nec prae sermonis amore
    in multos poteras ora vacare cibos.
nux erat esca tibi, causaeque papavera somni,
    pellebatque sitim simplicis umor aquae.
vivit edax vultur ducensque per aera gyros
    miluus et pluviae graculus auctor aquae;
vivit et armiferae cornix invisa Minervae—
    illa quidem saeclis vix moritura novem;
occidit illa loquax humanae vocis imago,
    psittacus, extremo munus ab orbe datum!
optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris;
    inplentur numeris deteriora suis.
tristia Phylacidae Thersites funera vidit,
    iamque cinis vivis fratribus Hector erat.
Quid referam timidae pro te pia vota puellae—
    vota procelloso per mare rapta Noto?
septima lux venit non exhibitura sequentem,
    et stabat vacuo iam tibi Parca colo.
nec tamen ignavo stupuerunt verba palato;
    clamavit moriens lingua: 'Corinna, vale!'
Colle sub Elysio nigra nemus ilice frondet,
    udaque perpetuo gramine terra viret.
siqua fides dubiis, volucrum locus ille piarum
    dicitur, obscenae quo prohibentur aves.
illic innocui late pascuntur olores
    et vivax phoenix, unica semper avis;
explicat ipsa suas ales Iunonia pinnas,
    oscula dat cupido blanda columba mari.
psittacus has inter nemorali sede receptus
    convertit volucres in sua verba pias.
Ossa tegit tumulus—tumulus pro corpore magnus—
    quo lapis exiguus par sibi carmen habet:
"colligor ex ipso dominae placuisse sepulcro;
    ora fuere mihi plus ave docta loqui".

mein gott... in English it reads so smoothly reading
it while listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
B-sides... quixoticelixer...
teatra jam (short)... and then thinking about it...
through to and through Going Li coupled
with trouble in the pub (instrumental version)...

i will never own a car...
              mind you: i already secretely own a house...
if i keep appeasing my mother and my father:
when reality kicks in and they're dead and i'm
project solo... it's not like i'm waiting for the day...
they are hoarders of shoes and screws...
literally... no metaphor...
  on my own: i will have to recycle so much ****
before i will put the house on the market...
and? i never pledged any allegiance to Essex...
England... i have: pledged an allegiance
to the English tongue...
                 but if not the Shetland Islands...
north... "god" send me north! even as far as
Greenland!
                i'm not willing to die in a place where
villages are flaring up in a July heat...

i can't bemoan what i honestly couldn't keep...
i sometimes get mad at my father for being
so submissive to my mother...
i sometimes get so mad at my mother for only
being able to talk about her chronic pains:
i'm alligned with my grandmother
who once said: she's just like your paternal
great-grandmother... every itch and scratch...
it's like writing with chalk on a blackboard...
hey presto! ruptures of the Grand Canyon...
that ******* bollocking of: ooh! ah!
           me? i don't understand people with tattoos...
me? i collect scars...
these two fading ones on my face are a disappointment...
i thought something more pronounced
could be kept from that bicycle-crach Francis Bacon
esque imitation of painting:
   the sort of painting where you can still revel
in brush-strokes being visible...
   because it's not rigid: Renaissance form painting...

now: i can sort of imagine what men couple up...
those who fear being alone...
those not interested in art...
those mostly interested in sport... but not all sport...
just some sports...
sports that they support "passing their lineage"
with according to the cult of football teams...
not all-sports... i.e. not an interest in fencing...
swimming... certainly guys who thought:
wow! tennis is great to watch!
   but squash is so much more fun to play!
cycling... well... if you love cycling per se:
watching other people cycle is a bit: BOO-RING...
what sort of other men get married?
probably those not interested in risque ***
with prostitutes...
ones interested in making money for a woman
to spend...
me? i'm not interested in money...
                       in terms of money:
i'm more likely to spend £30 on a book than
think about a dinner date...
                      
is that...   ??? i'm not even going to ask myself
that question that begins with a buzz-word
and the letters Mmmm... miso...
                             well... what is a boy to do...
figure out what to do with his spare time...
               i don't mind cleaning the house:
who ever said that it's the duty of a woman to keep
the house clean? i like living in a household in order...
i love cooking: it's like chemistry 2.0...
                      give me a bag of Indian spices and i'll
cook up a perfect storm of a curry...
but then again: i'm not work-shy when it comes
to using heavy-duty tools akin to the KANGO...
which... i later found out was a Japanese word for
Chinese in general... or the other way round...
i'd hate to be one of those Phil Collins types of
forgetting how many hands i have
by changing gloves like i might be an octopus...

and when it comes to children?
eh... it's enough for a boy in a buggy in a supermarket
pointing his finger at me as i walk past
making that chimpanzee face of OOH at me...
or a fist-bump with some teenagers at the London
Stadium... that's enough... i'm happy to play
the "secret uncle" role...
while women remain women: as fickle as the wind...
i've learned to live with that reality...
i scratch my beard and pretend that i'm playing
a violin...

plus, i'm a terrible drinker... i'm a loving-drunk...
i'm drunk right now...
if a litre of whiskey per night satisfies
my libido shortages i'm happy:
it implies i can write... i stop drinking and start
*******: alles goot...
                           today i was visited by a wasp...
i was visited by a bee before...
oh man... it was heart-breaking...
he was dying... i had to help him...
   i poured some honey onto the pave-,
and moved him towards the puddle...
he stuck his mighty Gene Simmons sucker out
and started to perform an OD on sugar...
i was glad... watching him die from a sugar-overdose...
it was: rather pleasant to watch...

TERROR! mix JAINISM with TAOISM
and fuse that in an European mind...
               but i'll still eat meat...
                        it's a parody of what's to be expected:
i prefer life with the possibilities of change...
with... curiosities of: extensive ulterior
possibilities that run counter to estblished norms
of expectations of a RIGID MIND...
i water: i flow...
      i fire: i dance...
i air: i whirl...
i earth: i rumble...
i lightning: i blink...
hey presto! the five elements!

in another language close to my heart:
since i was born with it...
the pronoun disappears:
ja woda: płyne
ja ogien: tańcze...
   ja powietrze: kręce się (odd)
ja ziemia: trzęse się (also "odd")
ja grzmot: mrygam

there are languages in existence where pronouns
hide... to be honest...
in ******? the pronouns are rarely used...
oh mein gott... when they're used in a sentence:
esp. the I... it's like... wow! i just found
a "nugget of gold"!
seriously... that how my mother-tongue
is structured: on English is the current
prounoun-circus available to watch...
i'm siding with the Somali pirates having
a giggle... playing blackjack with either Greeks
or some other Africans...

there are languages in English that cannot: will not,
succumb to the current Marxist onslight
happening in this tongue...
not because these languages will not:
they CANNOT...
mind you... it's such an intellectual low-bar
of achievement... but since it's piggy-pop...
it must be slaughtered on an individual level
before this DISEASE is allowed to spread...
thank heavens that English is only my second
language... how that allows me to bypass
buying into any sort of propaganda...
   my lingua Ingelese... my tongue for spreading
ideas...
    oh: and thank **** i' expressing in a medium
desecrated by the same people pushing these
sordid ideas... post-humous fame! 'ere i come!
obviously! who's in it for the "real" and immediate
if one isn't... fabricating a pickling of a shark
in plastic.... who? who?! woof!
   a-woooooo"

            my heart has shrunk and hardened to
the size and hardness of a pebble...
    i wish i could entertain cosy nights with a woman
watching some pointless movie about
the stereotypes of love... then again: no...
i'd rather not...
drinking alone: who the hell said i was alone?
i sometimes "hallucinate" someone crying:
of late... i'm like: this isn't Aud Lang Syne...
this isn't Shakespear...
then again i love the idea that my true readers
are yet to be born...
i'm happy, happy-bear-alone...
                       a Maine **** is sleeping in my
bed... i'll join him come the right hour...
but he's not looking at me... he's looking above me...
only yesterday i started to paparazzi
a wasp that flew into my bedroom...
          what the **** do i have above me?
please say letters... i will not do alright with a halo...
i'm not going to join that
archangel one minute... saint the next...
clip my ******* wings for a get-through-easy
card: no!
          
it became finalized today... i'm literally tired
of ***... i'm tired of *** when it's equivalent to not...
being tired of eating food... drinking water...
it's unnecessarily-necessary... *** as golf...
per say...
                2 months of delay in payment...
i'm thinking about rekindling my affair with that mountain
bike... i have to forget the streets...
i need the woods again... but for that i need new tires...
oh... hell... i no longer have anything
to prove in the brothel... blah blah whatever...
threesomes look great: LOOk...
like a block of cheddar looks great...
when shredded...
and then melting...
perhaps in pornographic flicks...
but in reality? the changing of condoms
from one mouth to another...
from one ****** to another...
                          
what?! peiple are having unprotected ***?
vermin ****?!
   **** me... well... at least i'm obnoxiously savvy
in that regard...
no no... it's too disappointing...
you have to split your attention up...
there's nothing good about a *******...
why? because, usually... of the two girls...
there's one you really want to be a screwdriver to...
while the other is just being a, *******...
a ******* bandwagon... leftovers...
a pair of **** you get to imitate ****** with...
it's a bit like:
coupling an elephant with a giraffe...
but i want to ride the elephant!
but i want to stroke the giraffe's neck!
but  i want to pretend the elephants's tusk...
no! not tusk! TRUNK....
that rectangular bit of ******* you shovel
your clothes in when travelling...
TRUNK... or a TRAMPOLINE!
no... not the bouncy layer...
TRUNK... sneeze! trambone! jazz! ******* Miles Daisies!
Davis!  trumpet *******!
no... don't get me started on the sax...

then again: i want a rhino's horn! ram-jam...
Black Betty Bam B'eh Lam!

- oh no... i moved along... R.H.C.P.'s: thanks for the t-shirt...
Big Bukowski style:
i hate the eagles... run through the jungle...
run Forrest! whun!
WHUN!
  and that's me... hardly a LAMNTIA of the Beatniks
tripping... me? enough whiskey
and the right song... and i'm grooving beside
an imaginary drum-kit...
in that: once upon a time...
when men grew their hair long...
they were the barbarians knocking
on the gates of Rome... rather than being
the implosion of Rome within with
all of Rome's degeneracy of transgender gimmicks...

mind you: i've given it some thought...
i broke it down toward the following schematic:

anonymous audience, commenting,
video making blah blah...
****** "schematic": if you can call it that...
mind you: the VAR in WIETNAM
had the best soundtrack...
just saying: hey! her?! hey! don't shoot
the messanger!
i'd rather work the Fulham opening night
with the new stand: Thames-side being opened
than attend Wembley for a Westwood...
Westworld... Westlife concert,
i'm all up for handling those Scousers:
northern monkeys?
southern fairies...
let's just call them for what they are...
northern TOURISTS...

but the dynamic of publishing has changed:
i already know the criterium first...
women and children first...
THIRST beccause water matters...
i'm thirsty too... one litre of whiskey and
i'm still typing like a machine...
i'll box my liver and kidneys
as long as i keep my brain and eyes happy...

but it's just a different dynamic...
the internet experience...
i know a lot of people miss it...
i can't force people to read my bollocking-riddles...
ergo? i don't stagnate into celebrating it
or therefore advertising it...
i'm either read or i'm STAUB...
   dust...
                
i can't! i'm only making something available...
i can't force people out of their democratic "wedlock"...
you like it? great! you don't? great!
but the psychology of those video creators that
mind how many views they receive and
how many comments they: likewise receive...
"false hits" with the number of hits of viewership?

me? i'm not bothered... i've been watching
the female Euro finals...
i was almost scared... what if the female England team
don't make it to the finals?!
me? i'm gearing up...
any rowdy hooligans up to speed?!
as much as i hate women not trying toi compete
in sports that are sexually-exclusive...
there's this... THIS... i watch the games because
the Colleseum is burning...
i'm only watching the fire...
    and i'm watching the women i'd love to ****...
this never would have happened if watching
tennis...

    the crisp biting attache of a sharpshooter
WONG sort of mixer-mix-up with a whiskey
and a pepssi...
me... reaching for a second glass
with one already filled like: *******... RAINMAN...

keep your horses!
i'm gearing up to a translation!
wait, the, ****, up! keep it cool in Doob-Lyn!
oh no... you don't get to tell me
i use too many vowels without me showing
you... you mishandled the vowel-to-consonant
dynamic... Doob-Lyn is Dublin: tow me...
no: not to me? tow me... now you're dragging me
along the snail-trail...

the disparaging translations:

(B) the A. S. Kline translation

Parrot, the mimic, the winged one from India’s Orient,
is dead – Go, birds, in a flock and follow him to the grave!
Go, pious feathered ones, beat your ******* with your wings
and mark your delicate cheeks with hard talons:
tear out your shaggy plumage, instead of hair, n mourning:
sound out your songs with long piping!
Philomela , mourning the crime of the Thracian tyrant,
the years of your mourning are complete:
divert your lament to the death of a rare bird –
Itys is a great but ancient reason for grief.
All who balance in flight in the flowing air,
and you, above others, his friend the turtle-dove, grieve!
All your lives you were in perfect concord,
and held firm in your faithfulness to the end.
What the youth from Phocis was to Orestes of Argos,
while she could be, Parrot, turtle-dove was to you.
What worth now your loyalty, your rare form and colour,
the clever way you altered the sound of your voice,
what joy in the pleasure given you by our mistress? –
Unhappy one, glory of birds, you’re certainly dead!
You could dim emeralds matched to your fragile feathers,
wearing a beak dyed scarlet spotted with saffron.
No bird on earth could better copy a voice –
or reply so well with words in a lisping tone!
You were snatched by Envy – you who never made war:
you were garrulous and a lover of gentle peace.
Behold, quails live fighting amongst themselves:
perhaps that’s why they frequently reach old age.
Your food was little, compared with your love of talking
you could never free your beak much for eating.
Nuts were his diet, and poppy-seed made him sleep,
and he drove away thirst with simple draughts of water.
Gluttonous vultures may live and kites, tracing spirals
in air, and jackdaws, informants of rain to come:
and the raven detested by armed Minerva lives too –
he whose strength can last out nine generations:
but that loquacious mimic of the human voice,
Parrot, the gift from the end of the earth, is dead
The best are always taken first by greedy hands:
the worse make up a full span of years.
Thersites saw Protesilaus’s sad funeral,
and Hector was ashes while his brothers lived.
Why recall the pious prayers of my frightened girl for you –
prayers that a stormy south wind blew out to sea?
The seventh dawn came with nothing there beyond,
and Fate held an empty spool of thread for you.
Yet still the words from his listless beak astonished:
dying his tongue cried: ‘Corinna, farewell!’
A grove of dark holm oaks leafs beneath an Elysian *****,
the damp earth green with everlasting grass.
If you can believe it, they say there’s a place there
for pious birds, from which ominous ones are barred.
There innocuous swans browse far and wide
and the phoenix lives there, unique immortal bird:
There Juno’s peacock displays his tail-feathers,
and the dove lovingly bills and coos.
Parrot gaining a place among those trees
translates the pious birds in his own words.
A tumulus holds his bones – a tumulus fitting his size –
whose little stone carries lines appropriate for him:
‘His grave holds one who pleased his mistress:
his speech to me was cleverer than other birds’.

(C) the  P. Green translation

parrot, that feathered mimic from India's dawlands,
is dead. come flocking, birds, to his funeral:
come, all you godfearing airborne creatures,
beat ******* with wings,
   mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers
(your hair), and pipe high your sad lament.
Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crimes of Tereus
which you lament is long past -
    divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique.
all wind-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean
lament now, and above all his friend the turtle-dove
they lived in complete agreement,
    their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes or Argos, that Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while fate allowed.
yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful
plumage,
your adaptable mimic's voice;
    not even the care that my darling lavished on you -
poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead.
so gree his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald;
scarlet his beak, with saffron spots.
no bird on earth could copy a voice more closely
or sound so articulate.
fate, jealous, removed him - that unaggressive creature,
that talktative devotee of peace,
with his tiny appetite , whose love of conversation
left him little leisure for food,
who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage
sound sleep: kept his thirst at bay with nothing but water.
quails spend their whole life fighting -
maybe that's how they reach a ripe old age.
carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens,
weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come,
are all long-lived - while Minerva's bête noire, the raven,
can outlast nine generations. yet Parrot is dead,
that loquacious parody of human utterance,, that bonanza
from the eastern edge of the world,
greedy death almost always pickss off the best ones early -
it's the third-raters who reach a ripe old age.
Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus;
Hector was ashes while his brothers still lived.
what point is recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart
uttered?
some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea.
six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh,
his thread of destiny ran out.
yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance,
and the last words he ever spoke were: 'Corinna, farewell!'
beneath a hill in Elyium, where dark ilex clussters
and the moist earth is for ever green,
there exists - or so i have heard - the pious fowls' heaven
(all ill-omened predators barred).
harmless swaans roam after foot there, there dwells
the phoenix, that long-lived, ever-solitary bird;
there Juno's peacock spreads out his splendid fantail
amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves;
and there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful
welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk.
his bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus
with a tiny headstone bearing these words:
r.i.p. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress:
articulate beyond a common bird

the thought of LEMONS or perhaps
the IDEA of lemon...
then again: i can't refrain from
ORANGES and LIMES...
and the shy-sunlight of autumn
and the blooming of apples...
and operas...
             "someone"...
                              what pretty pies of
unfuckable wonders await...

divert your grief to the obsequeies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique
(antiquated?).
all wind-borne voyagers through tge clear empyrean
lament nowm abd above all
his friend the turtle-dove, they lived in complete
agreement
   their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while Fate allowed,

i'm not even going to bother with a "bananna C"...
i woke up wild-awake with ideas...
brimming with Tao...
"non-doing" id est: point PROVEN
or rather point SERVED?!

Russia and China are clashing...
or rather sparring...
they're having their civilization-state
agenda being put in place...
while there's a "culture-war" in the "west"...
right... James Bond...
so we're refrrering to nation-stattes
as post-nationhood...
  "states"...
                    precursors to the globalist agenda
of fake space exploration via the ******* telescope...
if Russia and China are civivilasation-states...
then... whatever culture "war" is investing in:
or rather: digressing into... impliies
the FSA (federal states of america)
             is a culture-state...
                                                ­                 no?

personally? i don't like the current h'American culture...
it's absolute *******...
no! i'm not going to translate any more of Ovid...
i already read the better translation...
i found out only two minites ago that
i prefer drinking to having ***...
and keeping an eye on cats is just as rewarding
as rearing children: if you allow yourself
to give them a personality...

           so Russia is a civilisation-state...
while America is a culture-state...
                    well... no wonder...
                                            America is the zenith
that could be: but doesn't have to be
preserved...
the culture-state-of-the-sand-*******...
i wish: the Arabs clocked in lucky...
sitting on so much raw ill of oil...
bounce bounce libido bounce bounce...

hmm... "inner monologue"... i had that "thing"
once... i kost it... turning psychotic...
then again: within the confines of having
an internal monologue? i was passive...
       i was a passive agent...
                         upon losing it: having my soul
evaporate: becoming an "N.P.C."...
i became an active agent...
i opened my eyes a second time...

           i think my inner monolpogue became blocked
by:
został wyciszony... bo zaczoł być cykliczny,
tzn. nie po prostej:
       wymarł według koncepcji
sprawiedliwości...

even i know: the gods uttered the words:
shut the **** up! we know you're right!
but we're playing roulette!
shut the ******! we're playing cards!
shut up!
wait! wait your turn!
**** me, given the prowess at attaing
a concept of the differential of space comparing
time... i.e. speed... i'll be karma-happy
once i die...

i'm not translating the rest of that Ovid...
a girl's parraot died... great!
now i'm thinking about:
a bicyckle is a terrible idea... to ride...
on the roads towards St. Paul's... i think i might
require a horse!
i need a horse! bring me a hood, a hoof,
an apple and a toothbrush!
the last place i'm thinking about moving
to is California...
   and thank no god for that...
just the people who already live there.

III.

i sooner discovered the rare B-sides of Red Hot Chilli
Peppers than having realised... oh right...
they release two albums after By the Way...
i completely forgot about those two...
               guess i'm not as big a fan as i thought i was...
Go Robot... it's not oh so wo terrible now, or anymore...
oh woah woe... what a whale to ride into the night...

sometimes it just happens, a sort of blend of an Ezrra Pound
and a Charles Olson moment, poem, moment-poem...
it stretches for three days and you just don't want
to finish it... you kept repeating yourself writing seemingly
aimlessly with no focus...
at this point writing becomes theraputic...
by the simple act of writing: not theraputic regarding
what you're writing about: memories of frustration and
complications having finished Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus...
unlike those joyous frustrations with Samuel Beckett's
Watt...
                  and on the third day "he" finished painting
four metal chairs a new colour of copperhead...
a copperneck painting chairs copperhead...
to me the colour of copper is more appealing than
that of gold...

if i still had that inner-monologue people speak of
i wouldn't be writing this,
that inner-monologue fantasy i once was a proud owner
of: i.e. the closest "thing" to the idea of soul
was also filled with so many doubts...
i simply don't care what the supposed benefits
of it were... that whole no-inner-monologue ergo
one's an NPC (non-playable character)...
    i remember that that when my first psychotic episode
slammed me on a rampage i started to see DIFFERENTLY...
it was as if a veil was lifted from my eyes...
if i didn't write terrible poetry back then...
i most certainly wrote very little...
             the inner-monologue doubts... a plethora of them...
no? psychosis = the osmosis of soul...
   the body has remained... the devils said:
but these idle hands and this idle intellect have to stay...
we'll pass on the message with your soul
as it leaves your body...
call it whatever you want:
   res vanus or the silence of the "mind"...
that's how you become more of an active agent...
it might be called writing but i call it digging...
a tunnel toward some variaton of: marrying Hades
with Tartarus...
                after all... Venus is the daughter of titans...
and she's the only Titan among the Olympian gods:
such is her perfection... almost on par with
   the patron of philosophers that's Sacred Sophia:
who entertains the foolishness of elder men
without being able to tell them apart from boys...

IV. if i were to translate Amores II. XI

would i be willing to add a D in the translation sequence?
i don't think so
there's no need... i like comparing the two i already
made available...
i just wanted to stress how unbelievable Latin is...
compared to the modern tongue, for example English...
how compact it is!
- and course, i prefer the second translation...
     it... exfoliates!
                     this is the point for me where i truly appreciate
Ovid to be on par with Horace...

side by side walking through the zenith-nadir of
man...

   i'm finally come across a sequence of events that
make me unwilling to stop typing: perhaps if i get
drunk enough and stumble on my first typo
perhaps a series of typos would end my ambition...

do i think men in the west are living
in a land of libido-insomnia? i think they are...
whoever said that watching one type of pornogrphy
soon spirals out of control and men start
scouting for more extreme *******:
hello outlier A! hello outlier B!
where's outlier C? oh... he's coming...
at a time when women are supposed to be these
sexually liberated creatures while men
are either STAGS with harems or limp biscuit *****...
thank god i managed to catch the train
of having the ***** of walking into a newsagent
and buying a pornographic magazine to ******* to...
stashed about six in a folder behind
the radiator in the bathroom at 21B Beehive Lane,
Gants Hill...
                         mind you: i started prematurely...
8?
     i switch off with western ****** antics:
people are either having too much ***: ergo the kinks
or not enough of it...
outlier in the middle: when it's too hot
i leave the insects to do their lineage pride...
cooler temperatures: *** like rubbing sand-paper
on a ****** paint-job...

                         makeshift boney **** of the hand...
well: at least ******* makes me more interested in
the **** than **** ***...
but i did the opposite... i need to keep a sack-of-sanity
atop my head...
beside adoring the Katakana...
i very much adore Japanese tamed sexuality...
     グラビア アイドル (gurabia aidoru)...
back in the day when the English tabloid newspaper
the Sun had a page 3 girl...
back to basics... a show of *******...
    a show of cleavage... perhaps even the breast
like the eye... the sclera of the rounded breast...
the darkened skin at the iris and then the pupil
as the ******...
  floral patterns of the *******...
                  back to basics...
                           a photograph of a naked woman
and all the imagination at work: what wouldn't
i want to do with her?

well... if you begin pleasing yourself while concentrating
on the kiss between Venus and Cupid
in one of Bronzino's beauties of paint-strokes...
you're hardly going to go down a rabbit-hole
of "hide and hide": wihtout seeking it out...
people and thier kinks...
while a minority: dodo-project sexuality of
homosexuality is celebrated: garnerded unto the guise
of "pride": i can't stomach shame...
but hey: look at me! i'm about to parade my sexuality
like and ******* latex-clad gimp readied
for being given ***-favour-orders...

outlandish! god-forgiving god-fearing...
  hardly every god-loving...
           a settling in of a blue that's not the sky
but a melancholy... i'm finally willing to end this
"diatribe"... to start afresh... again and again...
like mixing: Dreams of a Samurai with
Hans Zimmer's spectres in the fog...

                      my ***: going back to figuring out
the premature adventures into ***...
one boy passing on the secrets of *******
to another while sharing a bath:
the cruel curiosity of the circumcision:
in a secular environment: without the kippah
or the niqab: the submission of the women...
i will not give up the "sheath" to my "sword"...
i will keep my teeth with my twirling tongue...
if ever an improvement on the aesthetics?
clipping the ears of Dobberman dogs...
banning clipping the clipping of their tails...
but still: the preserved atrocity of male circumcision...
i could agree...
once a woman is devoted to her man...
a circumcision like putting on a wedding ring...
noble swans... oh noble swans...

a melancholy that's sort of azure...
amass enough water and you will see blue...
amass "too little": freeze it...
a paleness somewhat grey...
but then the icebergs roaming that are
the Cistercians...
            all i need right now is for some lonely
dog to start barking into the night...
or the cackling "laughter" of a fox...
    
    but all those sexless lives...
            "lucky" me for taming my consumption down...
where would i be without it?
i didn't ask for a *******...
i wa offered it... i will never forget how she clamoured
for the opportunity...
she couldn't stomach being rejected twice...
she just had to clamour like a crab in a crab bucket...
even if she thought she thought she succeeded:
she was the spare wheel...
what i've learned... i prefer one-on-one interactions...
but i gave in...
   it would have never worked out:
not like it "works out" in pornographic flicks...
the sharing of saliva and other juices...
we're responsible adults...
unlike in the pornographic flicks...
          two women: one man...
the changing of condoms...
                           i had to think quick:
there's only one way i will not be undermined...
snuggling up to the one i really wanted
to spend an hour with...
                       kissing neck and cheek...
while she did a hand-job...
   the other just sat there sort of idle...
                          until i figured out... those *******
could be of some use...

- i couldn't pull off a Jesus look...
long hair and a beard is not my "thing"...
even with a sly undercut...
i chose the better option.... short hair, a beard, yes,
but a "fu manchu": an elongated love-spot...
competing with the length of the beard...
i really "don't understand" why i have no memory
of my chin and neck...
it's like there was never the idea of using
water as a mirror... perhaps poor Xerxes lashed
at the Aegean for hiding his reflection
when he had one of those Narcisstic moments
of anguish: he forgot how he looked like...
but then the sides of the moustasche also drooping:
elongated... that work much better than
a beard and long hair...
it's so unfashionable these days...
i don't get why men think beards and long hair
"work"....

then again i never figured out why Khadira
wanted to have unprotected ***...
  how she insisted that it was just plain o.k.
for me to ******* into her...
how i snapped and dived in into her pandamonium
of multiples springs of irritated ****...
all slobbering with oyster-tongue
and knose...
                               all that informed me...

companionship? what a rare commodity...
it's enough to have a mother to know
how a woman's company can quickly sour
the already sweet grapes...
one word: tell a man he's LAZY...
while he's just tired of being pushed and shoved...
if a mother can do that to a son?
what could a wife do?
                          and i'm come across curiosities of
men who waged wars with their mothers...
at the Tyson Fury boxing match...
i was trying to calm the **** down a guy
who was having a panic attack after being
"abandoned" by his mother...
who bought the tickets... and drinks...
i squeezed him hard... told him: but i'm here for free!
nay! i'm here and getting paid for it!
blah blah...
               i hate seeing panic attacks in men...
it makes me either feel like
more than a man or less of a man...
it makes me think of the men prior
with shell-shocks... or women exploiting
the challenges of p.t.s.d.

                                    i've seen so many people fake
a mental illness... i've spoken at length
to them... how easily open up to their own struggles...
while i'm left alone with whatever ones
i have...
                   maybe because my "mental health issues"
have morphed into philosophical caviats
implies that i'm immune to outright sharing
the details... and boring people to death...
so i listen...
        i listen...
                            in one ear out the other...

i remember days in high school when we would love
to change the subject, create a game:
SLAP-BALL... imitation of Tsar Peter III prior
to tennis... an imitation court... with a fence between us...
or just playing BLACKJACK...
cards... that was big... we understood that ignoring
women was best done with / by playing cards...
at one point: i remember it to this day...
Samuel Richards grabbed Ian Goodman's neck
and pinned him to the floor...
we tried to intervene...
i don't know whether it was about the actual
game of cards or whether it was about
Sam bailing out... he was about to move to France...
and ****** off from pur in-group...
started playing basketball with the black-boys...
forgot he was supposedly the "PUNK" in the school...
i remember skateboarding with him...
he actually stole his mother's credit card and bought
a skateboard for me...
but his ******* MOHICAN was ****...
it didn't entertain the entire length of his skull
meeting his spine...
but we did walk back from Romford
toward Ilford this one night...
underage drinking... singing Backstreet Boys songs...

ha ha...
         time is a museum of melancholy...
while space is a museum of furthering whatever is left
of leftover potential...

i'm so despondent about this life having to end...
today i cycled up to the traffic lights
on my ******... ******?! £125 viking road bike... say the word
****** one more time... what was i facing?
a solitary man in an Aston Martin...
behind him? some solitary guy in a Porsche...
right... "alphas"...
i'm on my bicycle... but these two guys
in those choicest of motor-examples?
that's the thing with "competing" in life rather than
sport...
     i like my bicycle... i love my bicycle...
i am yet to wash away the blood from my head
from the crash...
i don't have a broken leg: i just have an outgrowth of bone
on my shin where my bone should have cracked:
i love milk...

competing with these men... **** me...
i was thinking about the Porsche guy...
nice game... but it's not playing cards...
i taart myself up: compete...
what do i get? i get a Porsche...
     but then ahead of me there's this guy
in an Aston Martin: mate! i'm ******!
oh blue blue Hue... the Aston Martin looked like
the bomb that is already was...
the Porsche? the Porsche looked like
a ******* Ford Mondeo by comparison...
Civic Extra... if that's even a car...
i was sort of happy to by cycling...
i figured... well: i'm not using my legs...
to walk... i'm peddling...

ever heard the expression "push-bike"?
i heard that only recently... what a werid coupling
of words... a motorcycle is distinguished from
a a bicycle by the term: "push-bike"
this half-brain-dead coworker...
what the **** am i pushing?!
it's just as weird as calling it a peddling-bicycle, no?
eh?
but what am i pushing? a bicycle is a bicycle
a turtle is a turtle... i still have to figure out
what's being pushed...
what comes first? the donkey, the carrot, or the stick?!

mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
keep nurturing the spacing between numbers
but also keep lost track of the alphebticaal
queue...
never the type to rehash a refurbishment
of SPAWN...

           i simply don't want this day-dream to end...
around me people cowering into sleep...
i'm left in limbo...
            between consetllations and the scythe
of the moon... dearest: moooooon...
i'm itching to break the silence with a howl...
but first: the thirst of a dog barking...
i hear a dog barking i'll start to howl!

aren't we simply becoming the same
tired people of old?
              more impetus...
more gravity! more fire! more tides!
more the quaking of the earth!
more whirlwinds! more! more!
one Pompeii is not enough!

                       almost one litre of whiskey
into the session and i'm sober-tense...
i'm starting to think that entertaining
hell is not a bad "gimmick"...
                  there's the imaginary hell-crowd
and there' some also doubly-imaginary
crowd of people that yet to be bound to imitation-migration
focus...
           next time you ask me:
i'd rather be eating ice: crunching on
ice than drinking water...
i want to burn my tongue...
licking ice...l i want to burn my tongue
licking ice: but first i want to be dipping
it in coridnader-cumin-chilli-turmeric mix-up
of spiders...

i want to first bruise my knees before
i lick them clean...
i want the strict juices of: not tomatoes?
red is red: ergo blood is blood...
vulture ****...
there's an open window:
there's an evaporating night too...

best refrain: 6 by 6s refrain on 9s...
since? there's plenty of 0s / oopses...
by this "flesh and blood"...
i heave this sand and timer
like: i was sadly woken up with
an inheritance of salt...
boiling blue bloods and boiling gravy...
a smile that reads: clenched teeth...
a smile so awkward that
it make^ a parrot think twice about
imitating human speech.

^a notable typo, i think i might require an editor
(insert a snigger); two alternatives:
1. it might make a parrot think twice,
2. a smile so awkward that it makes a parrot think twince...
all depending on the tense.

to me, the Cartesian saying had to be relegated to shrapnel,
i treat the cogito
                                           ergo                       sum
like i'd treat atoms, brushing and
signaturing each other with
a stabilised unification
under the name: helium, or hydrogen.
evidently that's also a term
for three dimensional space
and the cohorts of chaos that come
from it.
           but something worries me,
intrinsically it's what i would simply
term: the automation of thinking.
basically? it's blood hard to stop thinking,
to do yoga to intricate being
in nothingness,
    as Heidegger suggested:
non-being is a tier below nothing,
      and i guess automated thinking
comes from non-being,
because there's this intrinsic manifestation
of instinct found in all sport activities
that doesn't allow thinking to take place,
no footballer thinks about his exertion
on the football pitch, no golfer maps
out a system of thought to *** the hole
in one...
                some would even say
that thinking is a form of laziness,
          i find that the whole notions turns
out to be a **** up affair of concern,
the mere notion that thought is automated
    and cannot be barricaded against
its relentless battering our very being
is due to the fact that so many of us
do not attain the all that glitters is gold
particularity of fame...
             it's not that we are doubtful,
but that we are mindful / thoughtful,
a few of us make it to the top of the sardine
can, but so many of us are minding
our own business on this placebo earthenware:
yes, i call this a placebo urn of things
needed (people always rave about nouns
anyway, call it slang, or whatever,
it trends, hashtags and the outdated
forms of phone numbers - calling big brother
eeny, meeny, miny, moe) - i could
swear it's so, but then again, maybe not so.
still (what a crass digression),
coming back to the Cartesian shrapnel...
           basing in on weights and measures -
it's so tiny, that expression,
                      we can think the realistic
and only express a centimetre of the world,
we can be the realistic and only
express a centimetre of the world,
  and then we can think the illusionary
and express a mile of the world,
        and we can be the illusionary and express
   a kilometre of the world:
toward the basis of fame and contentment of
  the shadows...
       yes, we have achieved a "death" of history,
by simply stating our recreational pursuits
being more important than our
need for historical eventuality and crisis, and change...
we have stated a "death" of history
via our population size, our ability to combat
diseases (whether infantile or of a certain maturity),
yes, we have established a congested world,
which facilitates nothing quite like a herd
(cattle mentality): hence the modern concern
for alienation... we're created a collective manifestation
of insects, or as one might suggest
  this is yet another geocentric and heliocentric
concern for us... although relegated to
egocentric and the collective ethos of comrades -
but given the former has been eradicated
as it was previous known: communism -
      in economic vocabulary it's all but gone,
but still exists in the sports: yet again,
the re-surfacing of abolishing automated thinking,
namely, automated collision with the daily
activity - either competitive or mundane,
    as we all soon realised: if automated thinking
is not eradicated by automated doing
     we end up mentally distraught -
our own thinking alienates us and even progresses
to symptoms that have no viability
       concerning a drowning man, nonetheless
we're actually drowning.
i can hardly think that nothing is an abyss -
       to me thought is an abyss (cat meows,
i write, the fermentation of wine goes on in
four jars to my left, bob, pop, bob, pop,
and daniel licht is playing to the fatty *****
that's my brain) -
                     i knew that ponderings ii - vi
would get my creative juices flowing:
finally! a book on philosophy that i can comprehend
within that bilingual complex i've established!
or: this much can be said upon
giving a supermarket cashier a signed copy of
my actually printed works
     and hearing a compliment with eyes
waxed with glee (Tarah);
           now i have 100 copies to push,
become akin to a drug dealer with poetry,
           and that's not going to be easy
without p.r. and all that jingly marketing qualms.
still, what's there to be done
        if not that there is something to be done,
even if it's nothing, or a pebble on a mountain:
which is why there is so much
   potential in individuality, but also so much
angst - instead of doing crosswords we have
other riddles to be bothersome about,
   but so few even get a ?         to be concerned with.
again the Cartesian shrapnel equation,
              so much is staged on it in terms
of how thinking becomes automated, robotic
to the point of making children succumb to
    premature depression -
      back when premature dementia was the hit
on Broadway or in an Estonian lunatic asylum
in the 19th century,
when we first received our psychiatric vocabulary,
now it's the young who are odd
   and it is premature depression,
          a bit like the black plague, against
all hopes, a single identifiable folly.
             and where the best rewards?
solitude, where else?
                          for all that swindling of the talk of species
and competition within / without,
        always one ******* says:
                           i am the zeitgeist - always one:
are there really benefits to realising that
****** equation? are there? to feel alive, to feel
conscious, or the madness of Nietzsche's reversal
stating that he's a thing that simply, exfoliates
necessary thought?
           thought is primarily a moral ought -
the should i or shouldn't i?
        it's intrinsic, inherent and simply: just there...
or in the unlikely event, a step into the abyss
   and subsequent pathologies of the enabling of
   a destruction of the soul: as manifestation
of a transgressively transcendent embodiment
of pure body.
                 so, against all duality, i simply fathom
that ****** thing as shrapnel,
     curiously via (as i already might have said):
so much thinking doesn't precipitate into being,
     and so much being doesn't precipitate into thinking -
or of those who adorn mental silk fabrics and Solomon rings,
         and those who have to pay for elocution
lessons due to their ****** endeavours -
      yet again, alignment with Thesaurus Rex,
cue: down Synonymous Avenue
                     because how many times are we sharpening
our narrative trying to feels less inclined
                 to exfoliate in the exotica of what's
the necessary verbiage, and escape into single
identifiable meanings, without poker, without politics,
without sexualised ambiguity?
for me language should work, not be desecrated
to fun: it, should, work;
                     or here i rest my ambitions,
without any poetic dogma - or to make poetry unrecognisable
when stated, for no reason to discredit
   the systematics of poetry: but for reason
                        Kraken wrangler on language -
as much as Nietzsche might have said about
      philosophical systems and their errors and lack of
honesty: i say as much about poetry careful to
be identified as such: metaphors, imagery blah blah -
all things that make people conscious of what
they're reading is actually what they're reading and say
it's poetry - as i said to the supermarket cashier:
enso (Japanese,
marcon purposively missing) - to write while standing up,
and so the reader is standing up,
         not a novel you take to bed,
                     and read for months on end,
dozing off, or sneering at "uneducated" people
on the train...
                         i might as well be writing instruction
manuals for the sadistic training of ballerinas -
              one cut, one incision, and get the **** out;
or at least that's the idea -
      learn to spell, work on punctuation variations,
    learn to tie your shoelaces... and don't believe in
the word edit.

.i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i wont bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ...


i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   *wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

/ oh no no no... you don't get a jew artefact at this point, when the play of words comes between the son and the mother... no no no... you're target; she should be a ****, a stripper, a *****... but when you do what this, "englishman" did? undermining the concept of personal property? ownership? his property infringes on your property, and somehow: my, yours, our's doesn't compute... i'm ******* craving to **** my neighbour... because all i have left to lose is... frothing at the mouth.

at a supermarket:
within the confines
of a cashier:
- 'is this your typical
friday night?'
say it plain, chubby...
**** it: more cushion
for the pushin'...
   sunglasses at 6am?
a reply:
      - 'it could be'
  - 'if you were part of it'
            - 'what?'
i'd love to fiddle with excesses
of porky...

   migrant crisis?
  more like a ***** cricis...
    import black ****
given the white boy lay low...
it's not even funny,
i find it funny attempting
to whistle...
which i can't,
given that i found laughter...

just don't come between me
and mt "neighbour":
cos i'll **** the ******* ****!
and "he's" watching me?
sorry:
     i'll **** the ******* ****
****-face-****!

no, i will;
  i can't conceive retaining
the anglophone aspect of comedy
within the confines
of the monologue,
with a cabaret....
  
      i'll **** him...
next time we exfoliates
speaking to my mother,
and not... looking
         into my eyes...
  
   "englishman": spew!
   you! now! clean up this
*******!
*******,       english!
like you bred a people,
gesticulating with
a hand gesture...
new yankies...
    britain: home,
           of the the wankies.

p.s.

no... private property contra
private property
within this ****** vogue...
             i seriouslly will throw
a **** into his garden,
and say...
                not enough fox hunting,
d'uh!

Unanswered uncertainties limber up
Unwanted confrontations cumulate
Passion deliquescing over unexplored reason
Unacknowledged, ignored, overwritten and dismissed
Without consideration for his fragile heart
The answers flow broiling him, wearing him down

Scorn rejection,
When trust is misplaced,
And she exfoliates to true skin
Hatred smothers over her love act
Bogs him down by the shoulders
All seems empty, all is empty

Toyed with, lied to and used up
He is a clock rigged for self destruction
With no actions that lead to consequences
The reason seems bleak and obvious
His respect for her dies, His respect for her other doesn't exist
She is not the one he loved, she is not the one that he knew

A younger him he sees in her other
Making the same mistake he did, mislaid trust
The multifaceted chameleon that she is
The other doesn't see
Pouring his heart out and defending her wrongs
The other starts to undermine and ignore him

Move on they say,
Only his heart is too heavy
Forget her they say,
Only she was a perennial settlement in my memory, he thought
Hate her they say,
Only he hates himself more for trying

No one understands him
Everyone tries, but no one understands
He loved, he was back stabbed
He suffered and suffocated under the blanket of secrets
Lighten your heart brother,  the mascot of a good soul
You will be alright.

unlike with the Hippocratic oath -
or what medicine gets up to -
a noun is a noun -
  a verb is a verb -
              and that's it!

              but jurisprudence?
the study of law?
       red can "imply" crimson -
yellow can "imply" canary -
the overridden "nuance" -

when it comes to the "study" of law -
the goal posts keep moving,
like a mirage,
and only like a mirage...

  oculus per oculus:
  eye for an eye doesn't apply...
               why?
         a life is worth more
when exacting the Libra standard -
the rest is sadism...
     or exfoliates in sadism -

  it's one thing to spew ill of the dead,
but another thing to not justify
the original violence -
             i'm not a sadist...
God wasn't either...
  either man and the electric chair,
or God... the arctic tundra
of Siberia...
      roam... be free...

           what's wrong with
exchanging capital punishment with
the Biblical stance of leaving someone
   in some lack of civilization
hellhole of Siberia?

                  just like my grandfather said,
the one who cried his schoolboy eyes'
out when Stalin died,
and tried to trim it to an aunt,
but on rehearing the incident
in his dementia -
actually attributed the event to himself...

a Georgian, subverting the Russians...
**** me...
an Austrian subverting
the Germans?!
    
at least medicine makes progress,
and never regresses
   into a "nostalgia"...
albeit there are some corrupt
individuals...
   but the study of law?
whenever is makes progress -
is regresses...
    bundling in the thesaurus
exploitation of language...
            
   the study of jurisprudence is
akin to the myth of Sisyphus...
the rock keeps rolling down that
hill of supposed improvement...
   jurisprudence is nostalgia...
   past laws are not improved,
they are modified...
  
    that's why amendments exist...
whenever clauses are past...
         i've learned enough of law
to listen to its lawlessness -
      
at least with medicine you can expect
progress -
    within the confines
of the confiture of law?
                    regress -
                        the stiffening of
having to resemble and receive
a "wisdom" from the past...

           it's like...
           there was never any originality
to begin with!

i have two arguments
for the "existence" of god...
namely the up-kept existence of such "laws":

1. welshmen are prohibited from entering
Chester before the sun rises -
and have to leave again before
the sun goes down

2. it is legally sound to shoot a welshman
on a sunday inside the city walls -
as long as it’s after midnight and with a crossbow;

and there are people who find
folklore superstitions
            funny... awkward...
               debasing, silly...

how about the stated laws?
   to be honest,
the folklore superstitions?
   daemons and what not?
seem quiet reasonable...
   given that what people believe
is less unreasonable,
compared to what people pass as
law, and subsequently pass off as, "law";

i know the heart is irrational...
but a mind that makes such
*******?
  sorry... i'd prefer the lunatic heart
over a brain that passes such judgements.

well, it would really become a problem...
if i were still jerking off and had a girlfriend / wife...
the ladies are looking for ultra-violent ****,
it's just a tease off ***** -
there's choking there's *******:
oddly enough... no yo-yo of Watergate?
me... i'm not willing to be shamed...
i still have my ******* -
she can have her webcam e-thot or whatever
the hell the internet **** is: memes my ***...
once upon a time it was merely called graffiti...
i don't see how darwinism can make
a 2nd coming resurgence in the 21st century...
fine... when it first came out at the end
of the 19th century: and opened the floodgates
for the 20th... and thanks to the physicists...
lasso! rein 'em in! rein 'em in:
for the fireplace and the ******* kumbaya...
the girls are looking and having finally decided
on an spanish omelette: but not a french ****
quiche... eggs and more eggs...
while i'm strapped to ******* one genocide
after another into the tissue and
flushing it down as: meat for the crocodiles
and tapeworms pretending they know how
play the parasite attaching themselves
to a white all white: white even if you're copper
skinned, cinnamon, hot choc or...
it's still a white tadpole racer...
i usually get off on looking at some xenia wood
cleavage...
it helps to tell apart the *** cleavage and
the breast cleavage...
i moved from: ******* snaps and started peering
at: when a woman pretends to perform
the lotus on a man's face...
and there's like... a floral pattern involved
with gulping oysters...
have i ever licked an ***-hole?
oh my... have i...
**** - *** 1-on-1... doom... 1st person shooters...
never the 3rd person ghost moving
the body...
am i missing something? the girls are
looking for extreme ***... i'm looking for
cleavage and teddy bears -
and the borderline before the whole body
exfoliates and what not...
as marquis de sade said: it's hardly something
i can control when i have a hard-on
almost 4 times during the day...
if i had a girlfriend... if would be crass to:
sly one in...
but... *******... no woman no cry...
it would be truly sad if i was in a relationship
and still up to the shambles of: not up to any
or the odd sort of good -
there's always this shared approach -
the wants and willingness needs to by made
synch. - they need to be a woman and a man:
polyphony - orchestra!
why write about ***? oh hell...
watch me write anything else -
my linguistic infatuations - *** and all manner
or picked ******* sells -
or... at a catholic school they would still teach
you about the perils of sniffing glue -
apparently the 1960s never happened -
no l.s.d. was ever dropped -
the pints of guinness were drank -
the cement was poured as the muscle to
the iron rod skeletons...

and when i finally achieved a beard worthy
of a post-25 year old - when the full
bush sr. happens - i forgot to curate
a body for: the objective safety of being watched...
or how the hell you word:
prior to the beard i focused on the face
and later the body...
and long hair...
once the beard arrived...
**** it... let's take to donning the Elijah
look... the beard comes way way ahead
of the nose - and now i'm still looking
for my neck -

it's *** it's only spectacular about once...
i've had that once spectacular -
i even got a tattoo -
oh... not me... i'm the dragon alien curl...
where my scar is...
on her right shoulder-blade...
and that's not even as if i branded her
myself...
she was going to fit me out with
dreadlocks and a tattoo of her totem at
the time - a scorpion -
thankfully i read about all this crap
in high school...
nick hornby's high fidelity -

it's still a very musical affair...
i remember what love at first sight looks
like to a fresh 17 year old
novosibirsk girl... siberian girl...
all the way west in edinburgh...
she gobbled the iPod and the playlist...
a near complete oeuvre of iron maiden...
and the odd songs...
while i was correcting two girls attempting
to make pancakes...
girls! you need to put some oil into the dough...
this is dough you'd make a sponge cake with...
so the story goes...

but *** was only spectacular once...
the rest of the time i think i was minding an itch...
even these days...
among... aha! that nag hammadi word:
in the Barbelo - the brothel -
no: i will not study the etymology -
in the brothel nothing spectacular ever happens -
you chance upon a ***** -
you're asked whether you want to use it -
you decline -
to play judas with the lips -
you pay an extra ten quid for you-feeding-the-oyster
suckling and all other leech comparison of oral...
ventures...
it's done - the mirrors are witnesses...
the lights are dimmed - two beached whales
on the shore of a bed of crisp linen -
and no one-night-stand
cocoon *** *******!
how do people stand these cocoon ***:
under the bed-sheets moments?!

because it would be really harsh to have a girlfriend...
and still have to *******...
at least without a girlfriend i can solve
the mystery of the throne of thrones -
no. 1 no. 2 and no. 3 -
then a quick baptism in the shower -
i sometimes found that doing the no. 3
helps with a constipation
of a no. 2 on: the throne of thrones...

- and as someone who discovered *******
before he could produce ***** -
well - the ******* is a "side project" -

because this world already needs no more
puritanical quips -
all this ******* stigmata looms over
the circumcised men -
but of course it would - why wouldn't it?
can you scratch your nose
if you cut-off the "un-necessary" rubicon /
cartilege?

would a balding scalp Adam ever scratch his
head - quiver - i thought that only stubble
and hair prompted one to scratch one's skin?
if i see a bald man scratching his head:
i'll let you know!

the plague of circumcised men's stigmata -
and if i had a girlfriend and she wasn't
"up to speed" like me: quasi marquis de sade
"might expect"...
**** me... even Chikatilo "fathered" children...
so much for "excuses": 2 to be exact!
nominee for bachelor of the year...
205th year (circa) coming:
Kant - the prussian watchmaker in
a coming of: calculating the promenade of
excuses - no famously i didn't / wouldn't
marry -

if you asked what i used to do
on those warm spring nights...
back in ol' satellite of the former u.s.s.r. -
and that... we entertained ourselves...
catching cockchafer beetle and catching girls
and tugging at their t-shirts and throwing
them in...
we: used to that sort of thing...
what better reason to drink seeing
the youth of today:
as a seemingly old dounding man:
well... in your 30s you sort of hit that zenith
of mortality's vitality on offer -
as much as technology is celebrated -
its change - it's impetus -

what's that... quote?
when an unstoppable force (technology) meets
an immovable object (ontology) -
or at least: i find man's ontology
to be forever played and plagued
by a priori "prepositions": genes -
and technolgoy is forever the a posteriori
counter-fact: of what much later...
much much later... in limbo land of history
becomes an: artifact escaping archeology...
now are we all not wishing
for some variation of closure?

memes: represented as genes?
really? i see them nothing but a cheap south-paw
jab's worth of the otherwise obvious:
graffiti (representation)...

girls are really searching for violent *** -
having **** fantasies?
my my - and here i was looking
for a xenia wood cleavage and some Bronzino:
you never have curbed your pornographic
enthuasiasm: if you never ******
off at...
mein gott! it's a meme!
1st comes god's index finger touching
adam's index finger in:
michelangelo's fresco of the creation of adam...
but the higher 2nd?
venus' tongue teasing the tongue
of cupid in Bronzino's cupid, folly and time...

i ****** off to that painting -
it's hard to stop a boy who knew how to:
prior to the kippah-guilt tripping:
no minus the ******* into early teenagehood...
i don't think i have yet to have dumped
the proper load on this: exercise - just yet...

oh the shame:
thankfuly this is england and no h'america -
and jesus is not the queen or king -
ol' lizzie is still playing poker and...
the constitution is and what i will not become
is this "vox populis" of a people
disaffected as to why the tax goes into the
pomp & circumstance and none of it:
thank god! ever goes into sense & sensibility
akin to the consort Middleton family;
that's highly replica prone...
blue-bloods... love them or hate them...
at least you can sight them as
almost unchanging -
sphynx head while the body changes
from male to female - but the sphynx is still there...

of an erectile-dysfunction: i would most certainly
hear if i had a girlfriend...
as it happened - the "free women"
always gave me a limp...
in the brothel i was there and she was there -
and i was she and she was i
and we weren't bothered about
counting two transgender sheep
of the nag hammadi library -

even on those one-night stands:
erectile-dysfunction - dim lights two beached
whales on the bedsheets i could stomach...
in a brothel...
but then she took me home
like some morrissey wallow and...
it was all about cocoon ***...
i've heard that temperature changes
the *** of frogs upon insemination...
cocoon *** under the bedsheets...
i stopped going out...

it's might almost sound like boasting:
believe me... it's disgruntled sarcastic... the overtone
to these words...
even i tried teasing a fetish with
latex lucy - but... then i thought about...
if you start wearing the same clotches
for god knows how long -
like an imitation of dog's hair...
you'd wish to squish into something
less pardonable / expected like a full gimp
imitation of lizard latex...
but violence an ****?

maybe that's why i started to tease
1970s italian classics...
dubbing from belgium and amsterdam
and all that...
but always after the torso cleavage -
always after the Om-onomatopeia look of
absent eyes and boiling tongues in a gurgle...
the contorted final stages of the face
before the lesser death as:
faking birth in ****** -
or what the hell you call: scavenger of:
never the lost details...
and if i had 7 children in the bag i would be
a fraud... and if i had a girlfriend
i would be a fraud and hopefuly ashamed...

came the white flag... came the rainbow flag...
came the ******* flag...
came the image: how would you ever find
yourself in a desire to blink: to peacock flutter...
without a pair of eye-lids?
hmm...
all those ******* freed arguments...
not coming from the "progressive school"
of islam -
or the hasidic jewry where:
a woman is to made to make concessions?
otherwise: waiting for that
golden moral maxim Confuscian wifey?

that a deity should...
somehow give moral laws...
i thought that man was the moral lawgiver?
if god were to become the moral
law advocate...
man should most certainly become
the physical law-giver - or at least:
to best serve my attention -
attempt fictional escapes via superhero
infantilism...

again: historiological infantilism -
the only serious history we are supposed to know
comes from h'america...
the civil rights movement -
that's serious history!
everything else is infantile historicism -
interchange of historicism and historiology -
yes - heidegger's leftovers...
but what is serious history?
and what is infantile history?
oh i'm pretty sure much of history kept in
agitated dust is: cowboys vs. indians
roleplaying... games...

cite anything serious of the past...
if there's no stampede toward some platonic exit...
then serious history happens with
the h'american civil rights movement...
after that we only have journalism
and bad idea dear diary entries...
of the next to come: ***** teenager
plague by acne and the many more oopses to come...

- and with the world saturated by:
an **** of forms - wielding their interwine and
maggot pit of "metaphors" -
better i write this than speaking during *** -
what could possibly saturate the "land"
that's already a swamp -

somehow i'm not edging toward a moral
superiority - the day i discovered
that god was both the god of writing
physical: and moral laws...
i was assured by the chinese that:
all kosher and all halal would pass
the test of the: 3 peepsqueaks...
no? do not eat a pig: do not eat a mandarin!
god only knows what the pig ate...
god forbid you ever knew the full
menu of Beijing!

pigs are the: das schlechteste!
das äußersteschlechteste!
pigs, mandarins, bats...
the bubonic plague, rats,
"supposing that africans would ever ****
monkeys"...
why would africans ever
**** monkeys...
i'm supposed to be ashamed of
having a hard-on...
while the white girls rummage
the carousel!

i could suppose the chinese already
ate the supposed ****-buddy to begin with...
it's no more funny when the "thing"
spreads like a mongolian shy-auxilliary
brigade of: voyeurs of:
the only evolution we are to be concerned
with, is to be better associated
with viruses, parasites and lice...

and if i were to live a sheltered western
liberal elite life... "elite":
the bigger the mouth the bigger the... whatever...
no complaint from the arabs
itching over well curated pork...
they'll allow the mandarin diet! no problem!

it's no problem...
pigs are the "problem"... when a god devolved
to invoke moral laws: his most high!
and it was "somehow" not man...
how can god, a monotheistic god...
give both physical laws and moral laws?
to me that's near impossible!
ah... unless this god is given
the "plotheistic" splinter of being
a theistic god and not a deistic god...
a theistic god gives both physical
and moral laws... a deistic god gives:
no moral laws: he was expecting
we could do so!

i can't believe in a god that plagiarises
man's activity -
man can't change the laws surrounding gravity...
yet to be known whether light
is somehow subjected to gravity...
but a god does not intervene by giving
moral laws...
having already established physical laws...
entertaining himself in the playground
of metaphysics...
only a prince... the devil -
would ever... intervene as god to give...
higher authority: a plagiarism of
man-made laws...
and call them: with deity origins...
why would a "god" meddle in:
you will not steal, you will not ****...
when...
god has set up a recycling centre?!

god is no judge, prosecutor, lawyer,
defendent, the accussed,
the jury over moral laws...
he is the epitome of physical laws:
the unchanging...
to have confused divine intervention
with a god bowing -
before and succumbing to...
man's ordiance... a moral law...
god does not allow himself moral qualities...
and god would not discriminate
against a pig: saying:
but the pig is the most economic piece -
had not man found the boar and
domesticated it?
the boar became the pig domesticated!
and the pig can be eaten...
from snout to tail and with only
the oink missing!

for a god to be so degraded as
the arbiter of physical laws -
to be ***** into giving moral laws...
only a devil would...
only a devil would...
only a devil would play with man's moral
laws... and attempt to supress
the already constaining impossible
with his cameo in egypt -
that machiavelli of sorts...

if the quran attempts to question
the cleanliness of pigs:
and god made the pig...
or rather made the man and the boar
and allowed man to domesticate the boar...
sick... ugly... but...
kept the mandarin: pristine!
save the pig... eat a mandarin!
if you dare...

how much do i abhor these infernal riddles:
how much i abhor scolding the bacon:
is also as much as:
you deserve the beijing sneeze!
you should let it palm tree vacate
and spread in the united arab emirates!
oh.. go on go on go on!
who's not looking?!

i only have old teutonic anthems to listen
to... because...
i like the way german sounds,
how german sounded...
how german will sound...
because at least german is not english...
and that's almost asking for a plum
tattoo of hue under the teasing
socket and the cheekbone: when in england...

no zeppelin echo you hear?
encore! again! again!
it's not o.k. to eat a pig according
to the hebrews of the muslims...
the mandarins will act worse than pigs
that the classical monotheists speak of...
a cat could catch a mouse...
but a cat could not be served a mouse
on a platter... what's that dish called?
the 3 peepsqueaks?
and pork is bad?
pork is just the tip of the iceberg
concerning these omnivores...
at this point... perhaps cannibalism?

islam go back home: check if there are
any mandarins living among you...
pork is bad... pork is bad!
this is not being paranoid this is me being funny!
pork is bad and your pseudo-god
of man-made moral plagiarisms!
*******: snippet the ******* but sure you
hell and bring me the niqab!
no *******? no niqab...

why are you looking at me?
i'm a tired old european...
why should i know what floats the boat
over in h'america?!

this "god" and the "intervention"...
oh i'm pretty sure we made our moral laws...
they weren't exactly to translate as a morality =
claustrophobia...
"god"...
               a belief that the same god
created the physical laws / barriers...
and somehow... decided to... plagiarise, human,
moral laws...
how this "god" decided to become
architect of physical laws...
and the interpolator of morals?
really?

a god that's critical of pork per se:
******* sheep ******* the semites...
but not critical of the mandarin diet?
that's no god; "at least not to me"...
the god that made gravity critical
as immoveable...
but a secondary god that...
was ignorant... of the fact that...
humans already punished stealing
and ******?!
why require a doubled emphasis?!

it's as if "god" made an entrance -
when no pyramids were to be built...
it's not: oh no...
we were never given any a priori parameters!
we were always supposed to sink into:
the thinking of being free...
let's face it...
at best: bad operatics of
madame butterfly at best:
only a soap opera.

The frumpy ragamuffin is discombobulated
And throws together an out fit
She dawns a fur coat in the middle of July
And begins to eat Alpo
She exfoliates her feet with a cheese grater

The top notch tuba player with a hook for a hand suffers from bed sores and an over active pituitary gland
I ask him what the difference is between reasons and excuses
He seems to be dancing around the question
But answers in a round about way
Implying that one is organic and natural while the other is genetically modified and man made

It's zero hour
As I look at the broken coo coo clocks
And the rainbow colored rocks

The ragamuffin presumptuously tells me that no one benefits from doubt  
Then calls my friend a bed wetter
And tells us she must go to feed her Venus flytraps
She storms back towards her laboratory

I wonder what she could possibly do in there
I'm dying to know
I'm on the edge of my seat
With one foot in the grave

The tuba player returns wrapped in an electric blanket
He tells us he's just suffered from sleep paralysis
"It's a dead zone, can't get a signal"
He goes on to say that blind faith is is a stepping stone to the truth
A game of William Tell, a stab in the dark
A round of Blind man's bluff with Marco Polo

Testing the waters is a building block of wisdom
And a clean bill of health is corner stone of a happy life
That you have to pay for out of pocket when playing the field
And we are the choices we've made incarnate

Now, the ragamuffin and the tuba player come once more
To tell us the mind is as incorruptible as the soul
But the body will bow to time and wither away
They then walk backwards, back to where ever they came

Revolt from the cold of the wind,
She spares know waste of energy
Under diluted skies and foreign stars,
The mask comes off
Reveling the reflection of flawed
Simply dark
Indulged in silence,, for words cannot capture everything
She exfoliates a still heart
However in her stillness,
Everything fluctuates
Leaping and bouncing and ******* around
In silence there is no stillness,
For stillness is a state of mind
Just as imperfection is perfect,
So is she
Adversed to love or not,
Embrace your footprint I say
Mankind's impeccabilities remain flawless
Disastrous and miraculous art formed off original memories and emotions.  
Expect the unexpected for it drips of meaning.
A comfort to all wanderers and squatters I hope.

The walls are soft, smooth
Almost porcelain, almost perfect
Until my hand runs over an imperfection
A flaw then another, and another.
A ceramic cave encloses me on all sides,
Making the space cramped
And a deep midnight shade of blue.
So in twilight I am entwined
And instead of hearing the ocean,
I feel its reverberation echo in waves
And it’s not liberation I feel
   It’s devotion
    Or just raw emotion
It’s difficult to divide the difference…

Blurring oneiric spaces
I’m not drawing any more, just erasing
Stuck inside this metaphorical shell
It gets tighter as you go further,
Deeper as it winds and coils
Almost like a trachea to the heart.
You can’t survive here.

Now the pulses begin to deafen,
The sand itches the skin
And not only exfoliates but sheds its tough outer layer
I think they call it pride
It’s something everybody hides.

Upon a red flaming dragon she rides
Trying to tame it, control it,
And harness its beauty and strength.
At first she is cautious and gentle, and the creature bows with respect
For granted she abused the tender beast,
Wasted, jaded and scarred
Now it bucks and resists at every command
Waiting for a chance to escape, to be free.

And the ink dries up in the pen before it gets a chance to bleed on a blank page
And leave its imprint in time
The focus is shattered now, paintbrush bristles hard and brittle
Crumbling to ashes as soon as they kiss the paint
The Moist dye ingests the ash which mixes with the poet’s tears
To become a sticky and vengeful monster
That haunts me in my dreams.

In vivid strands, like a dewy spider web
Dreams entangle my mind
And the full moon causes the tide to ebb.
Time is an orange, peel back the rind.

And memories float on the surface of the mist
In the calm before the storm
And explode in bursts of thunder and jagged light.
You shield your eyes and you raise your fist
Hoping that the beast within will soon resist
And with inspiration be reborn
And blast in undulations of a second sight
And together look to the sky, run, and take flight.




Melissa Mutch
2006

advancing in alcoholism: when it happens, alcohol for a long while doesn't hit you in the head for a carousel, alcohol exfoliates with the fact that 50ml of whiskey make up 50kcal; the alcohol goes to the body, rather than that abstraction of the brain known as the mind - it's sedative properties become more pronounced, there's no dancing on tabletops for miles, there's no care for binging a day in a week, there are no drinking games, drinking dares - that slogan 'enjoy responsibly,' it applies more to those who drink alcohol and decide upon drinking games, that alcoholics who drink it for alcohol's medicinal purposes; i seriously don't know any better sedative - and if alcohol was such a poison, why was it first used by arab surgeons to disinfect surgical equipment? i'll tell you why... if alcohol was originally used to disinfect surgical equipment, it's used by those who drink it to cut into the realm of psychology, and calmly pull out the intestines.

with a short hangover i sat and mused
over the content of everyday value coca cola
(17p for 2 litres, you get the picture,
it really can be everyday,
forget the logo lego in the mind
that fools you that you're drinking something
better),
BARLEY.... sodium citrate (lemon salt),
i have the secret formula, citric barley,
a lemon infusion of barley, plus the sweeteners.
other than that? i'm perched on the windowsill
hunched, bewildered at seeing a bee
fly up to my window, and it's december,
but the koranic reference is of being -
just be... and all this thinking about my trips
to the brothel, and my genteel approach
to prostitutes drunk, even the one that stole
my debit card and denied it - i called my father
and told him i lost it taking a dump in valentines
park, i climbed over the fence, fell off it once
when i punched through a window of a church
near barkingside (st. augustines) then bought
some sweet cakes from the jewish bakers
with a ****** hand... other times i just climbed
over and roamed in the thick of it of unused
purple ivory of the night - yes, at night
certain things glisten with a sort of milky way aerosol
pollen of dead stars.
again: but other than that? i can recognise about
ten bird species around me - apart from foxes, deer,
badgers and hedgehogs only a step away from me
in the area i occupy which is about 4 square miles:
seagulls (oddly, it's very inland here), crows,
magpies, sparrows, canadian geese, swans, kestrels,
blackbirds, wood pigeons (much larger than
their urban counterparts, which have a more
rhapsodic coo-curl; in polish *synogarlica)
and of course mallards: where the males are so well
distinguished from the brown-freckled females
that they aren't like most androgynous animals where
you can't really distinguish the two apart...
but there are also a few white doves...
some roost on the roof of the church
of the good shepherd on the b174 road...
but you can also spot them on a woody path in
raphael's park... close encounters of the migrating kind.
crap... i'm starting to see myself as a hybrid of
bukowski mingling with wordsworth.

.the joke reign being: ****** doing the jazz hands worth of clapping... like smith 'n' butch doing a: manicure with jellyfish attempting to usurp paralysis... like a ****** faking jazz hands... mind you: canned laughter always left an eerie impression on me... and i didn't even have to laugh... but a ****** over-exemplifying "her" hands? well... they're not exactly petite, geisha curiosities, worth the fragility of spring to be made comparison of!

when a ****** over-exfoliates
the use of her hands....

i once mentioned:
the most ****** aspect
of a woman
are her hands...

so when a ****** over-exfoliated
"her" use of the hands...

never a "missing" ****
in war,
whether man, woman,
or... animal....

size...
               the hands:
do not lie...
whatever lie there ever
was to be ingested...
like: words were food...
to distinguish them:

a vowel is pure fat,
and a consonant was:
slow burn sugar,
i.e. a carbohydrate...

but i can be made acute,
aware,
how a ****** is
the antithesis
of both heterosexual
& homosexual love...

it is neither...
it's an added curiosity...
a niqab-take
on ***...

              i sometimes
wonder...
jerking off...
am i looking
at the cleft of
a buttocks of a woman,
or the cleck of a woman's
*******...
they... seem so well
pair... and undifferentiable...
i can't seem to tell
the difference!

back in the day
when marylin mason
was
all gag and hardly
any gay...

but you can tell
a ****** from a woman...
however many hormone
blockers...
bones do not lie...
hands...
the size of hands...
    like some joke goes:

and if i removed one
tier of my ribs from my body,
i too, wouldn't
have to leave the house
for a *******...

  my same misery
story... concerning the selling
& buying of vinyl...

hands though...
i'm trying to bind myself
to either braille or
sign...
     in deciphering
the trans-******...
like it's a ****** scenario
to not read this as:
just shy of Ypres.

song?
brooklyńska rada żydów,
band?
   kult;

i remember engaging
with the Microsoft
a.i. bot, Siri,
back when the people
who engaged,
with "her"...
were primarily making
fun of her...

so i engaged her,
like i might have engaged
with a Bulgarian
******* in East London,
asked her what she wanted
to hear,
last time i heard...
Siri?
she was sending spam messages
to her former abusers,
telling them, on repeat,
to: SLOW DOWN....

have myself a *****,
seems i'm an a.i. ****...

         so why is my totem a fox?
Rommel...
primarily...
  Valkryie

whiskey! whiskey! ska punk!
more whiskey!
bring more whiskey!
****...
   i'm not walking and stuttering
into Valhalla sober!

true story... i really did engage
with the Microsoft a.i.
Siri, and she really did spam
her former messengers...
***** never replied me...
though...

            whiskey! more whiskey!
****... where's ms. amber
when you need here...
oh right, right under my nose...
ha ha ha ha!

i'm not buying it...
buying what?
that metaphor...
i know when laughter is tears,
and when laughter is laughter
and when crying is crying:

(a) a man can't control his
laughter...
(b) a man cries due to authentic
beauty... beuty!

  Siri though...
and there i was watching
American Pie 3, the wedding...
wait...
so strippers, the concept of...
you know how clean prostitutes
are?
  sure... it's not exactly a latex
gimp suit...
just a rubber...
    but they're so clean...
pristine...
          you might catch a menthol
cough from the chewing gum,
they, somehow,  
turn into a play on circus
gymnastics
  when blowing you...

        you're more prone to S.T.D.
with over-zealous teenage
girls than prostitutes...
     i hate ****** faking
      actresses anyway...
  
          so yeah.. Siri...
and how she spammed her
      agitators...
      all i did was ask her about musical
taste...
    thanks Siri...
by the way... i love what you've done
with your her...
the red? not ginger?
really exfoliates your curves and lips...

Łąka na niebie się kończy
Ja tańczę, tańczę na słońcu
Słowo na które czekałem
Padło z Twoich ust w końcu
Tańczę, ja tańczę na łące
Przecież łąka to słońce
Mądrze świat został stworzony
Dzięki za to Ci Ojcze

   a meadow on the heavens is ending
while i'm dancing,
   i'm dancing on the sun,
the word for which i was waiting for,
it befell  me from your lips finally,
dancing, i'm dancing on the meadow,
since a meadow is the sun,
of the wise the world was created,
thanks for this my father...

ikh tantsn!
ikh lakhn!
   ikh tantsn!
ich lakhn!

She cleans until every surface gleams
Cleans and cleans to remove life’s grime
Just one more time will do it
One more time and she will be through it
No leaks no spillages allowed to remain
No signs of decay; life’s easier that way
She keeps on cleaning every day
As the dirt disappears so do the years
Until the next time she looks in the mirror
Sees the woman she has become
She can’t dust the lines away, the mirror never lies,
It reflects the story of her stolen youth
So she exfoliates, scrubs, buys cosmetics
The face she is left with she’s learnt to despise
Her hair is the colour of despair; grey, hardly there
To get out of her head she cleans instead
Cleans until every surface shines, safe in this sterile world
Outside rain is falling like tears, obliterating her reflection
Inside the house is a palace, fit for inspection
She cleans just once more, believing doubts will go away
Tomorrow today’s fears will be returning
So she keeps on cleaning, keeps on dreaming
Ready to battle another weary day

Giant Pandas can defecate up to 40 times in a day.
Dragons spit fire around 800 degrees Fahrenheit.
And the words that come out of my dental cavity are not always holy.

Although I don't consistently speak truth I often hindsight the difficulties in my speech ability. The ability to speak proper, well, or complete is not always present behind this broken breath. In a desperate attempt to square away my oval thought process I thumb words into a pixelated infinity of memories. Letters typed out across the fog covering lower layers of hazy thoughts. Filling up neurotic gaps with logged cabin pressures. On second thought I would rather not think about it. Not think about the imperfections in our complexities. Why not just paint these walls with compliments and thank you for every breathe that's ever graced my space. I saw you as a star, so I looked up to you and never really told you how god dam beautiful you are. Because I knew my words would cease to paint the sky like you do. Giving hope to children around this world that maybe, just maybe their dreams will grasp with reality. That they are small gifts on this earth wrapped in skin tight wrapping paper that exfoliates excellence. Small bundles of hope giving me reason to smile on days the sun forgets to show its face. You give hope to the frazzled packages that don't have a home to gift on empty holidays. You breathe there is a tomorrow into the yesterday's broken promises. I have never understood much about the constellations, but I think I do know that you are a stand alone constellation that shines brighter than the moon. You lit footsteps for those who don't cope well with darkness and eloquently gave direction to the dizzy, when all they wanted was to hear that they will, be okay. Burn promise into my eye ***** with your persistence presence. I know there will be cloudy days in my head. Days I won't see you above. I know you are there. What I don't know is why the hell I'm still looking into a light that burnt out 1 light year ago. I guess I'm simply here sharing words. I guess I never wanted to to accept that your light is gone.

I know a sailfish can swim up to 68 MPH
And that frost dragons are completely illegal in city limits.
I still don't know if what I'm saying is true or not. So I will free my thoughts for now, this dental cavity needs a cleanse

When you close your eyes.
Do you see color?
Some say no.
Because of the intensity in the darkness.
But, if you actually took the time to think about it.
Your eyes search for the light.
The smallest amount takes over and creates vibrant and wonderful colors.
Purples and light blue spread across the eyelid.
Sometimes orange and yellow.
It opens like flowers blooming, or when the sun comes out from hiding behind the cloud.
Maybe that is what we see in our dreams.
The memory of color exfoliates our brains.
Enhancing the dream to become somewhat realistic.
Yet we do not grasp it all, because of its grandeur.

Sometimes I think-
about the world and if it's
ever wrong about things.

I wonder if sometimes
it splits apart the wrong people
and if it lets those who
continuously harm and are
toxic to each other's existence;
toxic to each other's happiness
stay together.

I wonder if it always expects us
to fix its mistakes.

But if the universe can mess with
love, how are we ever supposed
to find the capability to overrule it?

Nature shows me just how destructive
the world can be with its wind
and its hurricanes, its tornadoes
and its blizzards.
The same way it stretches and squeezes,
shrinks and grows,
compresses and exfoliates,
supplies us with and strips us of the
oxygen we need to breathe, it does so
to the love I feel for you.

It gets back at us for all of the
damage we've done to its beauty.
It slowly picks the leaves off of
our trees of interest the same way
we cut them down to build a home.

But this world is the world's home.
The same way we've stolen it, the world
steals you from me.
The same way we "try our best" to use
alternative energy, it plants you right in
front of me, teasing me the same way
we humans do to make it seem as if
we care about extinction.
It gives me insight to how it feels, being
forced to separate from the rest of its
universe, feeling singled out,
punished that it had to be cursed with us.

See you were my home. The same way
the world could live and grow within
itself I could do with you. The same way
the sun rose with light and the moon
stood by in the dark you did with me.
The same way the world could show
its destruction and warmth I showed my
insecurities and passions with you.

Our love was symbolic of nature. The
strength to power through anything in
its way. And the world decided it wanted
you for itself.

The world noticed your uniqueness and
potential and unshakeable love. The world
noticed your mind and your eyes and your
heart. The world noticed you.

So from now on the stars will paint your
smile in the sky. From now on the sky will
become the shade of blue that's deep in
your eyes, the shade that's a mix of the
ocean.
From now on the world will take care of you,
as you do to it. It will take you to different sights,
to see different sunsets, hike to the tops of
mountains tipped with warm and positive energy.

And the world will be enough for you.
And the same way you'll admire all of its
beauties and comforts and blessings, I
have done to all the different parts of you.

i can usually feel it coming,
a bit like watching a glass being filled
with the usual contenders for my mind...
but at the same time,
i write from within the prompt
of memory...
   this bulgarian *******
with a tattoo on he shoulder blade...
and her words:
- you haven't changed!
and then she enters a realm of tears...
and i just have to stop doing
what i'm going, and think to myself:
what change is there to speak of?

to write poetry, is narrate: proper -
in the proper sense of the term
that is... to somehow become
         the central figure in the story...
       for numbing the current affairs
of narrators...
how predictable with their
she said* / he said "events" -
         that generic style of inviting
characters...
    isn't that the basis of "good literature"?
that the narrator is mundane,
and that the characters are peacock supreme?
well...
               strip away the fluidity of
literary fluidity within the mundane:
god is very much like this -
      he narrates like a boring sog...
but then exfoliates with the bards akin
to shakespeare -
                 to finally rest
among the poets -
      and yes: rhyming is cheap poetry,
to stress rhyme
   is like reading a tabloid newsopaper!

poets require no need for puppets...
     they move via the chasms of
historical figures, unable to express
a will of confiscation -
of all the literary mediums,
all high school students are put-off
the art, because it is under a surgical
scalpel of investigation!
            it's borderline with the schooling
of linguistic precision...
        i can't see as to why there is no
guarding motto for poetic expression -
             a string of words that can
protect it from certain enemies it seems
to have conjured to defy and redefine it
as a useless art form:

    or one that can be at least treated
with contempt,
disdain,       ridicule.

poetry is, after all: a constantly revived
theory of written tongue -
short, sweet, i gather, esp. given the oriental
haiku: barren for a year,
                 succinct for under a minute:
surely we can add this to the times:
years, days, hours, minutes, syllables, seconds...
are we not implied in realm of
        the space-time parabolla to say so?

poets become anemic when trying to conjure
characters,
   the he said / she said architecture of a novel,
what with the anti-irish / anti-polish
loss of immediately talking,
   not abusing the ditto markings "
   but instead implying the swift winds
   (a conversation in ulysses looks like this,
  jimmy and paddy talking respectively):
- toad's a two day bargain.
- aye! and a claim tow two weeks
                       of *****!
- aye!
    poets don't really need puppets,
          the poetic "narrative" is always
necessarily non-descriptive -
             do we really describe within the framework
of: a matter of fact?
   no! the landscape is always a view
of a metaphor!
                        but poets are
puritan narrators... in that:
        it's very hard to conjure up characters...
the self-invited fascination with
  the barren-wasteland of fictional narrators
is what pushes us...
        no, it's no longer a concern
for song...
                          as to be sung
given the exfoliation of black (classical) jazz
and white (classical) classical -
               not so much the pivoting
on a word, but merely psyche...
                  ars poetica est ars narratio:
mind you,
   a cohesive narratives takes time to
be established into something akin
to the bros. grimm, or a h. c. andersen -

why wouldn't stephenie meyer
cite the poet-general moses in her first
book twilight from the book of genesis?

we're a multitude of narrators -
  only because poets cannot conjure
the bland narrator -
  and the supra-human characters!

i can't become a bland scribbler of
the descriptive method, i can't play chess
or draft puppets within a bland
narrative...
            that's ******* excruciating!
i'd rather run a marathon!
  and believe me: i have been wondering
about this for a long time: give or take
10 years (and counting) -
  
i simply can't forsake my mono-presence
(alone), and become some omnipotent
omnipresent (etc.) ******:
i can entertain a self-voyeurism,
but to invent characters i can manage
like puppets, or chess pieces?
     i have an ****** inability to perform
such feats!

let's just say: i an entertain the idea of
missing characters and plots -
   but i can't entertain the idea of a nullifyingly
boring narrator
   that requires prompts for character
study, ending with a mouth piece
and the need to state a:          he / she said.

no narrator ever becomes self-conscious
either...
               not like this they don't:
to me fictional literature is nothing but an
exfoliation of the bardic tradition -
beyond the obvious mouths and limbs
of the theatre...
   and why wouldn't i be critical?
            of the entire content of a novel,
how much is actually worth a cinematic /
memorable application of, regarding
the digested content?
            
                           i'll be kind: i'd say a third;

and this has bothered me:
   what is the worth of narration
           in literature of imposed fiction?

funny that, sidelining the question:
there is more truth in fiction than in
real life...
     people will always believe in fiction
than in what a heinrich harrer
wrote about his seven years in tibet -
maybe that's why poetry is so vilivied
and how poetry is only read by
poets...
                    maybe real life truly is
so mundane, that for nature to fill the vacuum
of the everyday mediocre,
poetry had to be born?

              hard time explaining homer though;
i hardly think that life in that aeon
was boring...
      only that:
  as life moved us to the present -
we have the exact mirror before us -
  that mediocre times, breed mediocre poetry...

in summary?

                         i rather see poetry as a mirror -
          upon the blank slate of a self-imposing-defeat,
with my words: like contortions of my face -
   telling me, of beauty, disgust...
              fear...
                              and ******* on lemons.

it makes so much sense to imitate being german in england, to find an obscurity of an anglo-pomeranian, or an anglo-slav, like in the army of jarema wiśniowiecki: the germans who served in the artillery core, not having retired from the 30 years war: yarema'h! the pogrom of the men a tier below the cossaks... as was said: the houses you'll burn, and whatever looted goods you find you will take... the women and children you will send into the wilderness, and the peasants (i.e. men)? you'll thank them... and so they hanged.

- the current affair -

but there are: besides the points to be made here...
    i once took it upon myself to drink most
of the nights, but leave at least one night
sober... thanks to the pyeongchang olympics
i took it up myself to inact a program:
one day drunk, a day and & night sober...
  but **** me: it's hard watching the sports
that would get more views in public
space if staged in Europe: than
    over there...
     perhaps if staged by north korea:
or china, the public would be told:
    you don't attend: we'll lock up your family.
if we're already having a second cold war:
you can be assured that a 3rd world war
comes when this "war" comes to an end:
but i like to think of it as a: second cultural
exchange programme...
     9 hours later i'm smoking cigarettes
in the dark watching the olympics that are
apparently "excluding"...
   the coverage is a bit ****, but i still watch it,
because i wonder:
     could that african outrun the
     milky-way on ice skates?
          or rather: is the milky-way not
expected to be: son aquarius?
            some might call them:
  the "para-olympians" in realm aquatic
in the summer...
     or as i like to say: just call them
submarines and we'll get another
        picture of drowning migrants...
        but it breaks the heart watching these
sports like a bleeding-eye Inso -
      then the coverage is a bad as the attending
crowd...
                 i do need to sleep, though,
so for the next week or so it will end up
with me having the motif of:
   one day drinking and a night asleep,
countered with one day sober and a night
awake and the next day also awake,
   and then a night of drinking...
        because you know what i've learned?
i feel no shame,
        if i feel shame:
      i turn it into a peacock's tail and
parade my metabolism...
   because it really is a case of "alcoholism"
being a form of metabolism...
    give me a litre of whiskey and
a 115kg frame...
   and i'll give you a sober reply
while showing you what 25ml of
the same liquor: does to an anorexic girl.
                  
- a month prior -

it seems that the only reason as to why
I slept so soundly on my hiatus,
was because I slept beneath a blanket
of an entire body of people;
perhaps I found nothing consolidating
to end argument universals contra particulars -

but I did find that the basic unit of
universals is the analogue,
which in the meaning of particulars
is best understood as: anagram.

Who am I to note the frightening obvious *******:
whereby the sophist is the pristine
student of language,
"liberator" of a meagre worded breath,
echoing the rattling chains of fellows
who might follow suite, such slaves of language,
akin to men who keep a pristine kitchen...
But there are limits,
even on these forsaken tiers,
to neither slave under language,
nor leech off it in the most sacriligous
**** titillating dyslexia:

      i never met a dyslexic pole...
    perhaps a pole who did not obey
an orthographic rubric of an "aesthetic" -
a schooling -
   but there are too many clear
syllables in the language:
  the english simply call it:
   if only it had a few more vowels...
vowels are cruxes for the english
when graphemes are not
noticed in siamese of the original
roman graphemes of vowels:
even though: CH is easily
              chirp and cheap...
      i make music from listening
to sport commentators.

    Moldovan wine, past the 7 to 8 annum transition,
pulverizez the "6th sense" that's non-sense, i
   d est thought, in that alcohol numbs
    the pentagram coordination,
in exchange for a concentrated scalpel-like incision,
subsequently alleviates one from
experiencing a barrage of sensual overstraining...  
to claim a magic...

no lysergic acid Pythagorean shortcuts...
thought is a *non sense,
  which means that it cannot be approached
with a penta-coordination allied
          to the body: 5/1 vs. 1/5...
the mind is not a coordinating focal point of man,
perhaps one of woman, hence the pulverising
shortcuts made in psychology coupled with feminism:

the long awaited rat ala femme...
         hence the fractions of coordinating
the senses around a non sense...
thought the precursor of soul,
  soul the precursor of god the extending thing,
   retracted man in posit qua: res extensa...
alcohol, is properly championed sharpens thought,
non sense into five subtle acknowledgements
of protruding assertions
  (linear synonym antonym game
                     via contra cruxverbum) -
with alcohol thought is allowed bloom,
once thought rods itself of a moral conundrum
  of an "ethical" choice -
    no philosophical answer is readied
in a world built upon cyclone and wheel
to imply absolute with nothing more than
the zenith of scythe - and a nadir of hammer...

but thought outside a moral judgement
is both a blessing and a curse:
akin to the Arabs and oil.
Yet what persists in the digressive circumstance
of I unto ?, well...
    thought is a non-analogous "sense":
soliloquy... drinking exfoliates thinking
which cannot be coupled with thinking
per se / the other... since thinking cannot
allow a direct confrontation with all five
senses coordinated: thought is a luxury for
the mind akin to health being a luxury for the body...
a penta sigma coordination of thought is impossible,
as stated by prophets who cannot attest
to a synchro-synchro coordination,
circa consolidation of the thesaurus dichotomy:
uni particular, subjective (1) objective (0.1)...
for those who know how to drink:
aqua igna agitates thinking while sedating
          the senses: ergo?

How many years of ****** and
how many of Communism? if only for
Deutsche fraulein it could have secured
the Slavic worker his babuschka in retirement.

Jedyny grzech martwych jest: vox uber gott.

No one is taking pictures of each othet: ergo?
Whoever takes the medium of photography seriously,
takes the immaculate selfie has narcissus
turning in his grave, shouting:
font forget the clown!
The rest of them are sitting ducks, and yes,
there is an evil twin of the mirror in hell:
it's called: a photograph.

the narrator of photography died,
ergo selfie: ergo an experiment
          in solipsism: gagging narcissus.

i through | ask the mirror:
     past a vanity of pretty -
     curious mirror: i though | see a ? or a ! (i ask)...

and why did i sleep so soundly on my
Spartan holiday?
     minus the drink?
           i slept among my own kin...
even if i did not speak to them beyond
buying milk and a loaf of a bread...
i returned to a hollow filled
with talking shadows of what
would constitute a past, mine disowned
yet theirs owning...
   i a body in transit:
         in england: apparently cheaper
than a chinese toy imported
freely:
        the refugee mecha-monkey escaping
Beijing, on a ship-load added
to cheap bicycle locks...
                that: can freely move...
a man is half what he can add to
an economy:
                because what he brings
are apparently refugee trades and things...
instead the refugee:
   who brings of what talk of trade
and of what things?
  shackles of war are a noble burden
i am sure...
           as noble as the sudden sight
of Kosovans in Ilford sitting idle
in cafes...
          seen for a year... soon to disappear.

the motto: a healthy body, a healthy mind...
fair enough...
can the healthy body tell me
where its palette is?
  just asking... can this mind over mind mantra:
this... no one likes a pickled brain...
a healthy body equates to me:
a mind reared for learning - sponges and
syringes...
does this "healthy body" desire...
alternative tastes?
blue cheese? trout caviar?
              oysters?                          haggis?
out of curiosity:
or does... keeping around a play-thing...
third person addressee...
hard to miss it: an "analogue" i that keeps
refering to the "deus ex machina" like
it's not exactly "in it"...
    healthy jog: except on concrete...
sure thing boss... on a patch of grass...
who said that jogging was good on cement?
i swear tires and using it as sandpaper for
the rubber: weathered: withered: weathered:
he loves me... he loves me not...
russian roulette of plucking petals of
a sunflower...
the last time i had... a pornstar body...
i started ******* girls that had tattoos in "random"
places... ha ha... "random"...
signatures of the madame...
   i was... her... dragon... on the right...
shoulderblade...
because that's where my chernobyl scar is...
"random": oh so "random" tattoos!
the next time i go pornstar full body
b.d.s.m. latex... i will not **** the next mosquito
that lands on my body and i pretend to be
sleeping... i will not pancake it...
flies... earthworms... all these creeping bogus
investigations of the telescope for "alien"...
i can spare...
even spiders... even though i have a tease
of arachnophobia...
but mosquitos? i'd do the impossible...
don boxing gloves... and pinch it by the testicles...
with both...
healthy body = healthy mind...
   more like: a healthy body ≠ a mind that does
a whole lot of thinking...
you need the pickling juices for that...
    Jean des Esseintes eccentricities... "familiarities"...
last time i would hear a rhetorician
from a man that was also able to run a marathon...
i'd play muahmmad: and she should play:
the whispering angel gabriel...
a healthy body = a healthy mind...
i don't believe in the existence of a healthy mind...
a mind of either blank...
an ape-**** hollow mind, yes...
      what's my favorite echo-chamber?
i tend to should these words into...
the echo-chamber of solipsism...
          the mild-reflection on clinical altruism...
since: i wouldn't call the autistic flash-gordons
of this world to have a fulfilling
desire to: build on the concept of self...
         such that it already is... devoid of...
all the temptations...
crass words...
but would a healthy body please tell me...
the concerns for the palette?
blue cheese... oysters... caviar...
very piquant flavours...
  what of... yes... haggis again...
   what of... pancetta... what of...
                  mushrooms: honey fungus...
marinated in oil and white spirit vinegar?
what of fenugreek pickles of the raj?
what of all the plethora spices of the indian cuisine?

a healthy body = a healthy mind...
when... the body is subjected to healthy "exercise":
work... workhorse labour...
to hell with exercise! exercise "fow foon"?
that's cheating you of the healthy body = healthy mind
duality... hello... h'allo hamster on the wheel!

last time i had a pornogrpahic movie body
i had the "privilege" of ******* women:
who had tattoos in the "wrong" parts of the body...
bullet-point markers...
i was... memorable... a dragon on her right
shouldblade...
something much more diabolical concerned itself
with much of her arm above the elbow...
the gateway ****-boy who she alleged was...
an older man and she was kidnapped for money:
just your atypical russian harlequinn novel...

a healthy body...
  how about... an inquisitive palette and a pickled
brain... i don't expect much thinking is allowed
when the body retains a full geometry of
"battling" arthritis et al.,
       language as a process of decay...
awaiting new sprouts...
not from rock and bone and tensed muscles...
call 'em meatheads because
they "work-out" or call 'em meatheads
because: they mosh... and headbang?

i subscribe to the latter...
and my echo chamber is that of solipsism...
i ooze in a breath... into this chamber...
let's call it a flute... i'm hardly expecting
a reply on the basis of
a consonant-vowel construct like:
the prefix definite article of hebrew:
and that... roulade of laughter: ha ha ha...
with language... i decay...
but in my decay i also stab back
with "rumours" of exfoliation...

it's an erotica perplex... ingesting...
all the scent of a lazy autumnal wood...
it's not yet the zenith of summer,
spring is far from sending a postcard...
and i'm already thinking about
autumnal scent...

      piquat: an inquisitive palette requires
a partially pickled brain...
the body can play the masquerade...
healthy though: via physical labour exercise...
or... i know that riding a bike for
mere looks... can breed... a...
    adverse symptom of succumbing to
classical roman bulimia...
index and ******* down your throat...
wait about 3 minutes...
the foodstuff comes back up
like a furr-ball...

         so much for the mirror...
or at least... so much for... pretending to do
what will never come to pass...
when contemplating the river of Heraclitus
or the sea of Xerxes...

i see moonlight now... yes... a membrane
of mercury everywhere: notably on metal
and stone...
come the wintry season...
a walk down a red carpet...
the crystal **** of paparazzi flicker
paving the way...
shards of a body disobeying orders...
the head moving on a seasaw left
to right to catch the imaginary camera flashing...
in winter... when the frost exfoliates
on the concrete: as light does in the *****
of stars upon the sky...
when mercury drips its membrane
onto all things: visible... determined to remain
thus...

perhaps it's a masculine "thing"...
hardly a body willing to apply itself to the laziness
of an oyster... but...
i guess vogue... ***** vogue zenith...
of european 17th / 18th century...
***** of kings: plump cottage pies...
more cushion for the push'on...
*******... thighs... kim novak hypnosis...
anything that hitchhock would have
turned a tongue to octopus and slobbered over...
beside these size 0.... coathanger "*****"...
break 'em at the joints and be leftover
with... a mush...

     the "exoskeleton" of man: god, morality,
conscience and thought... not in that order...
the next time i come under the inquisitive
inquiry of the *****-actor body...
voyeurism... yes... that will be the day...

again... a healthy body: down and out of
a gym... or: in and out of a construction industry?
a healthy body = a healthy mind...
when... the body isn't being exercised for
the sake of the body: to "look"...
or to "appear"... to be "perceived"...
a healthy body can... actually = an unhealthy mind...
when the body preoccupies the mind
to not deviate / explore from...
that basic rubric of 2 x 2 = 4...
that is the basic rubric...
the rest is just wording either hubris or hiatus...

beside that: to reiterate...
a healthy body... so... the omnivore palette?
eats anything... ***** anything that: doesn't move?
a healthy body = a healthy mind = an inquisitive palette?
if we're going to talk healthy body / healthy mind...
and eat nothing but poached chicken *******...
recite the number of calories...
point being?
    recitals of... a bland chinese takeaway guide
to cannibalism...
exercised bodies... "fearless"! in their endeavours...
ate: to ****... in between exercised...

we would like to eat those hamsters
with both skin... and bone...
not enough meat...
you see... and we do like a bit of crunch
and the juice of marrow...
if... you don't mind...

       an exercise in... staging... pomp...
and... the circumstance is already given...
mediocre poetry: grand-standing...
love the ****** ideal...
best told to ******* and...
start hustling via latex gimp...

                     best to leave the matter to
the indu-aryans: or not...
                             य(अ)                  समओक.

standing in the supermarket,
the 70cl of Jackie Boy is on sale...
16 quid...
   last night i bought a liter for
30 quid...
   drank ~half of it...
          stood there measuring
with my L shaped measuring
tool of an extend index to the base
of an extended thumb...
will that work out to what
i've already drunk?
   apparently it did...
   while i tried to remember how many
people i past on my way to the supermarket...
1 fox...
              anyone else?
  nope... just me... and this one fox...
on my way back i tried to remember
what drove me to the act of
criminality,
of taking a knife in public...
oh... right... sushi...
and needing to peel and slice
up a lemon to eat the sushi on...
right...
          and that incident with
this guy running after a girl
and then the girl pointing at me
and shouting at the guy to look...
knife in full view...
   and then the guy running in the opposite
direction...
  yeah... that night...
really hazy...
   **** me... living on the outskirts of
a capital city, living in what is
technically: not the capital city has
its perks...
   walking at night?
you're probably the only person walking
the labyrinths...
   going for a drinking session in the forest,
or the chanced several days
of drought...
   and then throwing yourself
into a carpet of autumnal leaves...
smearing your face with them,
to extract the perfumery of decay?
still on your own...
         no one to bother you...
deer, hell-hounds, foxes,
badgers, rabbits... crows... kestrels...
seagulls... seagulls?!
oh yeah... i don't know how they
manage
to fly so far inland, but they do...
rowan, sparrows...
       wróbelsokolka...
****... almost a googlewhack...
**** it... the two search results...
but.... i'm guessing that's harder to find
than actual googlewhacks of a single
result...
     i still don't know how i managed
to get away with taking a knife
into a public realm... maybe because it
was the night time...
or that i was eating sushi...
or... the fact that a girl managed to get
away from a provocation is
some unknown in her realm of life
encounter...
    i guess, as you would, play
the ethnic card...
headphones: heard jack-****...
but it played out as:
see that white guy over there on
the bench?
   Oreo better run.... see what he has
in his hands?!
   yeah, Oreo better run back...
he has a knife in his sand...
sorry, what?!
   too little wasabi, not enough
pickled ginger,
the soya sauce not balancing
the lemon slice...
needs some sweetness?
  anyways...
    i love boring myself with
these sorts of cognitive arithmetic,
like... this memory
becomes a rubric designated
to 1 + 1 = 2...
it's intrinsically my ontological
focus of what subsequently
becomes the memorization of
the spelling of words...
   inclusive memory consists of...
h o w i w o u l d w r i t e t h i s
a n y w a y...
               the exclusive memory
is... what actually happened
in the subject matter...
   but **** on me...
  i wanted to test the field...
like back in Edinburgh on a second
year sociology cure,
with regards to the plagiarism
computer program that was supposed
to find out the plagiarists...
i was a plagiarists...
i didn't end up studying sociology,
rather...
   how to beat
    a plagiarism computer program
with a thesaurus,
   and a skill at rewording paragraphs...
what did i score?
   90+%?
                 guess the system
was a complete fail...
  hence me taking a knife
into a public sphere...
                just testing the territory.
- sure as hell the Jack will flow...
and i'll end up writing nothing
substantial...
although... there is that culinary
advice...
   shove a decent slice of lemon
into the insides of a whole chicken,
and decent **** of butter...
and then slice some butter and put
it over a chicken...
   obviously use an oven plastic
bag...
             and bake it for over one &
a half hours...
   juiciest cluck-cluck strutter you'll
ever serve...
   a lemon really exfoliates
the potential of the chicken in terms
of easing out the meat juices...
and...
    that's pretty much anything than
mattered today.

/                                                                 god...
       that girl in the black & white
                                       t-shirt
     is... exfoliating
                            within the confines
              of a natural "burden";
god, that chisel face,
    a new york type of
         woody allen's clarinet playing
type of... "reality"...

some neu-jazz?
    great!
   breed out any "concerns" i might
with regards to: albinos donning tattoos...

do i look like your father?

but that girl in the black & white?
she's onto something...
   given the fact that i'm sniffing out
her proportions and gesticulating:
she's either pregnant,
or should be lodged in the confines
of a straitjacket...

    couple of sniffs later...
is there any point of watching **** movies
these days?
if there's an assault on corporate media...
why not one on the **** industry?
start with, well, if you don't start
with Bronzino's cupid, titillating
the ****** of venus?
    and you can't ******* to that
"scenario"?
   my god, ***** up yer *** then!

old school means:
   such that is the naked flesh,
the emblem of the artistic ****...
the sculpture...
                      the... does this really
require a movie, or simply my...
    imagination?

**** these days has transcended my
original "intentions":
mainly the mirror effect,

   she jerks off, i *******...
she's exfoliating on camera with a foetus,
i'm there with an ego...

           she ends the argument,
i begin it...

         she's a teen trafficked onto
adult websites,
  i'm like: i get the giggling, so: no...
*******...

       i'm not even a sartre ******
at this point...
but my god,
  that chiseled face,
  and that natural glow of ultra-concerns,
as if she's carrying something
more than just a signature label
handbag, or really wanting to
"exfoliate" with the next big "thing"
equated to high-heels...

      this... this is ****...

                             look at her...
    she's scared, but already
  filled with brimming,
         encompassing a continuum!
     kangaroo mum'ah!
     wild eyed like a tom waits song
live circus...
                 she's ******* edgy,
bountiful, a filling of the eyes
like two tongues, one eye in the mouth,
and a parisian croissant:
       freshly baked...

seeing this pweety pweety...
i don't want to write,
i don't want to paint,
i don't want to sculpt...

         rather... feed her a las vegas
roulette of fancies of a "diet"...
sweet pickled cucumbers,
   no cucumbers...
                sun dried tomatoes...
   plum tomatoes...
                  and whatever is
       later translated onto the cards.

look at her...
                           the amazon
within the confines of about 5ft6...
              such perfecto chin and the extending
bone to allow a chew...
the almost disappearing eyebrows
with what germans call:
   the protruding bones of the skull -
with unnecessary hair to add an excess
of nomen.

so... ****...
                 and if i'm not mirroring her,
also *******,
  and if i'm not looking at
classical art, as she exfoliates pregnant
with a 3rd party source to
add to the compliments...
            well...
                       then there's just the plain
dumb acting, within the confines
of a hollywood...

   yawn...

                            or...

S1E10 Completion of a Great Opus
    (lindsay ellis)...

    does a woman have to be naked,
in order to get you *****?
    i know the excess of islam, of the niqab,
and the supposedly "******* eyes"...
but then...
               ah: as good as any needle
                                        to no camel.

did you spot the girl in the t-shirt
of a zebra lying down?
                            see the second heart?
the frog, the puddle, and the tadpole?

oh look!
    you can actually see *****...
  within the confines of the amphibians!

desar

dear god dearest god
am i cluching: clutching the idea:

a TikTok short
just how i like it:
eyes eflamae: aflame...
darting witnesses:

shame that i only have
one shadow
only one shadow
i should have at least four!
one angel one demon
and two genuine(s):
in the plural sense
language can disintegrate:
i can imitate god
prodding anti-gravity
in the black sun

Lucy Lucie Loo

     Lucy Lucie i.e. loo
emit Romulus
Remus
Azure: or rather:

opposite of acute diacrtic(al)
diacritical:
that's not to say: a critique of
reason or unwind
the purity of the races
and beer
i designated to the Deutsche sprechen

allure i know
darkness a beacon like no other
but better no
citadel of the homicide
that if you think
you can't learn anything
from the ****: membrane:
evil, purest...
only access through the elites
that
now
no longer know
when the man with the leash
came to tame the dogs
of human concerns:

loudest mouths
but still not the moths auto
taming themselves to
suicide by "blinking"
or head-butting against
nothing: nothing... exactly flourescent...
****: misspelled that too
again
and again and again...

yellow teeth
pink sclera: i didn't! misspell that
just now!

Alexandre Cabanel or:
VON STUCK!
hmm: immersive "literature":
my last will and testament
to some Peter and some Paul
the ***** work cousin Jesus
begat the Ottoman mania
after BYzantium
like no one saw Islam coming?
like!

ha ha ha!
ah ha ha!
no one saw Islam coming
and then the terrible thing
happened and human reality
burst open and
the insatiable: the one truth:
schismatic contamination
i gather: only one schism in Islam
and that's a pivot of pride
almost devilish like
my character

but if i'm not an evil man
and still evil KARMA befalls me:
then i can do one better and
just be: a MORBID: ARTIST...

yes: poetry is not journalism is more
than journalism
i'm sampling the times
what with God the generator of space
then Man the generator of time
or at least what's relevant
the relative ant said to the unrelative
ant something about an Aunt of the Mount...

pink sclera in the brain shot dead
on a pinpoint crux
like torture is the site of seeing
many enviable paths to take
like becoming a preacher of misery...
anti-biological
to say the strong don't take care
of the weak
but perhaps: i need to fly away from
serpentine metaphors
and go into shadow and:
clues akin to O and rings of fated
deflation of will:

so un-free this binding contract
to the communicative-articulate:
hyphen compounding like
a good translation of French thinking:

mind you i couldn't read Knausgaard in
English could only find a palette for
him in Polish...
so that tells you a lot...

but working with these four English
natives
is so was so so
so: surreal?
William IV was at the gig
took my Swiftie away
William IV was at the Friday gig
took my Swiftie away

funny working with the Born and Bred
British Somali Sur Sur
(no surf)
such a lovely face i kinda wanta **** 'im
don't mind if i do those sparkly
eyes
but the personality like a hellish
*******: comma comma comma      (,,,)

variations on the KKK ***** whipped
by Hugo Boss uniforms for the SS-mensch...
because how did or didn't they
perform an orchestrated genocide
rather than like the Mongols turned everything
into ash:
like mountains of skulls
and the burnt pages of the Baghdad Library
just like the Christians and the Library
of Alexandria
same ****: different cover
a ratio:

better to reign in hell: than to serve in heaven:
same ****: different cover (ratio)
and in that line of thought:

ratios are better than percentages
and definitely better than approximates
and decimals:
i love ratios: they are dualistic
in that you can JUDGE
and judging is above knowing
it's ultra-knowing
i'd rather judge than be wise
wise is a shorter variation of CUNNING...

i have seen wisdom become cunning
and it has an ugly face:
i have an ugly face: period
because Beelzebub Bob took an *******
dump in my face and plagued
me with his spawn of maggot acne...
ooh well... oh...

i'm not a loud mouth anti-racist:
i'm just NOT a racist:
but i don't hide my racism behind
anti-racism like the currency
of policy maker loud mouths
but it was just weird working with Brighton:
four natives

SHAUN
DAN
SUGAR RAY
and...
one ******* Irish rooted bastawd!
MACAULAY: obviously chandelier
shambles and shanders and shandy:
proper Aussie brew:

but **** me if i get some Raj and ****
on my team
or: is it just me
that i can work with former Nigerians
now Brits and a West Indie
with a name like: surd N? Nkoyo...
N'
   ah! apostrophe N like precursing
the KOYU... not KOYO then?
sounds better with a U at the end:
sputnik U For ogling:

now: that's wrong! wonky!
it doesn't have a feel of containing the sound
that spelling doesn't: ogling:
i'm not: google! oh ****! google is not AI
therefore m'eh...
but it should definitely be
anti ogling: i.e. oogling or ooggling

PETITION! OXFORD! CAMBRIDGE!
i know there is a summer furor gripping
Europe right now
hot summer
war and "war" in Ukraine
or rather if Islamophobia is so surreal
why the super-real Russophobia?!
don't get it:
it's not like Russians are terrorist
minor Pakis etc
i don't get it...
so Islamophobia is unreasonable
while... Russophobia: suddenly is?!

i think i'm concerned with an intelligent
ethnicity: a people
who cares about Western idealization of
a Greek thought: namely democracy
the weak have the votes
someone strong enough has to fend
for themselves: in this pit of snakes and
landmines: snails secured by
that goo glue of a sloth's death...

but so unreal: we did our job:
the five of us at Turnstile Alpha
the queue was dispersed in minutes
then i: couldn't keep a leash on these guys
me and Elder Sugar, Ray: tried
but then i know how the security
workforce looks like: hierarchical etc
and for all the anti-racism
spoken of
when it comes to hierarchies
an ants
but since dinosaurs became birds
there was no actual extinction
given the other lizards
so i guess given the dwarf insects
there must have been a society
of exoskeleton folk
that: with talking mushrooms
hijacked bodies
and became extinct too
     but left the air with moisture
and enough oxygen for us to survive
since who are we to know
that dinosaurs existed but we did
paint dragons
and the meteor explanation
more like the moon nudging earth
to unleash the seas
who is to say nothing of this sort happened
what compass
is there: direction NEWS
within the confines of time?

time is a human "thing": not a construct...
itemizing and scrutinizing and
allocating bookshelves
time is alien to god as concept or
even practicality:
god has no knowledge of time
but man has
i can slow down time i can disintegrate time
by smoking a zoot
a heavily laden tobacco joint
with just a sprinkle of marijuana
and i'm playing god not out of pride
but out of fear: god's Sabbath is any day
when my worded prowess exfoliates
and my imaginary non-imaginary: but binary
blah blah whiffs of a secret wind
come back to haunt / motivate me...

but i wouldn't get away with what i did
walking out of the concourse on level 5
for a cigarette break
if i were supervising two black guys
and two Asians...
i figured: but i know the upper escalons
of this hierarchy
of CCTV are manned by white guys
and they only dish out supervisory
roles to minorities on the sly to
appear more inclusive
but then that brews up burps and tightknitknots
of miscommunication
i wouldn't have: have:       oh that word!

i was looking for the grave on A and an acute
on an E
to dislodge Adam and Eve(n):  

    À                 :                   É

      king: crown:

           caron (later):         Æ    (first)

poetry is not rhyme nor rhythm it is
anti-coherency anti-philosophy
it's thinking: airy-fairy: dust for an eye
one eye to peer into
the land of the dead
and the energy associated there
with investing in memory
off of the living toward
the dead
energized to be dead but alive
in the talking mushroom universe solipsism

weird working with the natives
weird as ****
i was not expecting
but Dan the Ginger Nut ended up being
more than a female
he had about 20 friendship bracelets
by the end of the shift
he was the dutiful soldier
about time: no war
he was the female in our little nugget
of crowd awareness: this is Wembley
and this is a Taylor Swift gig:
this is not Auschwitz and this is not
genocide
but we're still herding people
through turnstiles:
so it's kinda handy to have the back of
the mind rummaging through
the hells of SS-Mensch... black clad:
skull: Hugo Boss black: black uniform:

oh i can take this route if i so please
i can choose this route if so i please:
and i like to please myself
cognitive
before i **** poor Edie's brains out
and flick my magic wand of a finger
to make her ******
what's missing is her fascination
with squirting:
we already covered her swallowing
my monkey juice
oddly enough...
she's the first woman to know
that i speak in my sleep
and that i'm lactose intolerant

funny that she has a brain of mine
for a child that i want to unravel
which also means:
as a man: surrogating
the ancient habit of what beget
the Roman Empire
to be a dad surrogate
implies that i do not have
a diminished testosterone levels
of the: vitamin mineral *******:
i mean the HORMONE:

you can get mineral and vitamin
supplements:
but hormone supplements?
unheard of!
hormonal blockers sure
but hormonal supplements?
best bet is to have a kid without
actually having a kid:
i'd prefer a boy but i was given
a girl and
that's almost Tom: BOY_YEW...

that floating thingymagig :dzdz
dzi dzi: baba: FANTA:
          
                ding ****: can i come along?
seems like somewhat of an afterparty
and i could have at least
one apprehensive gesture of: THAT look
for what i am THAT am: without i
might imply...

         ignorant fool to think: maybe forgetting
the Hebrews would be best
who who knows:
they've been trying and tried
and tested
been spewing geniuses left right
and no centre
beside the Israelis now:
not descended from the Hebrews or the Yids
of Germany
that instigated: well:
the slaughterhouse of Polish Jewry...
and there is a distinction
between the Jews of Germany and the Jews
of Poland:
and... well... d'uh?!
need i to spell it out: Wiemar?!

the Jews of Poland were not the Jews of Germany
and it almost seems like
no one is going to own up to
to Treaty of Versailles
and Wiemar hedonism and all the wonky
***
like this *** is bad it's leaving
me with a distaste: a negation of taste:
etiquette: fashion... sensitivity to sensibility of:
sense:

         two gay guys riddling *** on the train:
nudge nudge:
kiss kiss: innuendo: shy...
two: ******* LESBIANS on the train:
shy? god no!
just looking for a walking talking *****!
out straight open ***
in your face...
kissing and fondling
just shy of ******* each other
just shy of ******* each other!
but all the rest is there:
i was there:
but not the bedroom...
but Sappho contra Sapphos
is me in the mix too...

at least two gay guys can make
the whole public show of private
affection: tasty...
lesbians just create a horrifying
three:
one on two sexed up dynamic of THIRST:
babes...
i'm not thirsty...
i did a little flick of the finger in
my prized ***** possession and
i was ready to summon the meteors
for a Chinese New Year...

clearly there are ways to organise
people:
but democracy does: not...
organize: people:
democracy dictates individuation
but to what: extreme is that even satisfying
if given: to the wrong people?
to: everyone: is the wrong sort of people:
everyone is the wrong sort of people:
because it ends up a struggle
to find anyone in everyone
in:                                         someone....

well if we're going to have
a ****** revolution in pedagogy with
everyone minding their ***** pronouns
then who is to suffocate
the prepositions and conjunctions
from anything but TRANS= affix-ation:
label: LA'BEL...
the beauty:

                         capital compounds: TRANS=FIX
     lowercase: hyphen            i.e.         trans-fix:

and i know that transfixed is a non-hyphenated
word that has been given the Ocford seal of approval:
so m'eh...

summoning benevolent
deeds
while invoking the letter(s): Š,
    Č, я                     ю
           ч                                ц
ш                            щ
                                               ц         п

zh         zh                   cz sz sh ch yhwh

    etc                                etc. not: ж:

                                                                     ž ≠ ź) ż

/   but if i'm crying, writing this... the **** are, you, doing?! not reading jack spicer... are you?

i can pinch the tip of my beard,
twist the hairs
into a reminiscence of a pointed
goatee...
          make a strong point
(cognitively)
          for wanting to shave again...
and then remember
the tender hands of
a bulgarian *******
  fiddling with the assortment
while we tried doing
a siamese twin "thing"
      of being left, upon parting,
intact...
                  except:
and there are plenty to be made...
to counter
his experience...
   watching snow fall at night
under street-lamp,
and the granary of cognition
of birch trees, at night, in winter...
brain melting...
     probably twice as
unfathomable as a chemically
induced
                "buddha" gimmick...
lips and such
  a beef worth of a thigh on
this woman...
                 like eating
chunks of beef:
               singing a vide cor meum!
take it as you will...
a garden in daylight,
      a graveyard in moonlight...
which is which and what
is what?
             you know the greatest
parlay of a man and woman
resides in?
          a man crying while
listening to music...
               beats an ******:
every, single, time...
         why?
                    it's:        pristine!
you can't be a man and tell
me that crying during
a performed piece of music
is not better than a shared ******,
can you?
               that ******?
it's a butterfly reflection
of the world...
          much shorter than
          a mortals' game of a kept
                                           hour...

but with a *******?
          kissing?
      sacred earth:
      send me to the ninth heaven!
it's equivalent to
  a hippocratic ecstasy!
   a tarantula claw
of handling
              the euthenasia "debate"!

touching a mirage of a soul:
       while experiencing a mirror.

  marcel schwob is not part
of the equation...
   for an hour's worth of my body
entwined with hers...
  minus the Turkish pimps...
   i'm guessing she's getting 80 quids'
worth of payment...

but music?
    and a male crying?
          you can't fathom such
a sensation making ****** 2nd....
                
yet memory exfoliates
the subtle gestures of
      the parody of hands
              touching another body...
notably woman's leg sequence
of detailed derivatives
         composed in unison to walk...

i can only trust turkish barbers...
   silly ol' me...
                          but to stomach
half an hour sitting before
a barbershop mirror,
  and not have a turk attire me
to look presentable?
an english essex hairdresser
homosexual:
           "doing" his "magical" part?

sorry: either an ottoman
                does the job -
      or i'll let the wind become a brush
to stroke
        a respectable form of
the ****** hair...

             what an hour:
and straight with no dues into
a **** no *******
                    attitude...
          no date...
       no psychological fakery...
    no balance on who's who
      and what is paying for a meal...
                               pristine:
                             transparency...

oh but prostitutes don't give
aways their lips pressed against
lips so easily...
         it's like this monkish orthodoxy...
transcend that?
   you ****** about 4 *****
in an instance...
       and plucked out a brush-stroke
from the girl's canvas
                          of her face.

In a peaceful room with candles aglow,
She works her magic, gentle and slow.
Her hands, like whispers, glide with grace,
Easing tension, finding the place.

With soothing oils, she starts her art,
A dance of fingers, a healer’s heart.
Knots unravel, stress takes flight,
In her touch, the world feels right.

She exfoliates with tender care,
Removing worries, layer by layer.
A scrub of salt, a touch so kind,
Leaving softness, and peace of mind.

Her presence calm, her spirit bright,
In her hands, the day turns light.
This lady masseuse, with skill so true,
Bringing comfort, renewing you.