I could get into the whole
an artist says a hard thing in a simple way
but that doesn't seem to be the case
if I have to see one more black and white photo
of an empty playground
I'll burn every camera store to the ground
and if I hear anymore about how pained your soul is
I might just shoot myself
artsy fartsy
silly *****
these words come willingly
but truth be told
I'd rather read the ingredients on my shampoo bottle

Is a **** considered art?
Especially if done well?
Own your stink and wear it well
Mastered, certain, to excel

Let it go, loud and proud
Hot air rises, I just found out
Subtle hints, a certain smell
Right before the dinner bell

Try spinach, cabbage, as well as milk
For the best results
I think you’ll find it helpful
If you were to start a cult

Train yourself to **** at will
Fog the mirror near the windowsill
I meant no harm
Relax, act chill

Pay it off, with a dollar bill
Then blame the dog
For a cheap thrill

A silent assassin
Creeps inside your nose
Just one whiff is all you’ll need
For you to become exposed

A toxic mix so strong it knows
To run for cover before it blows

the number of ghosts engaged with *** toys...
you almost forget to wonder about the whole
debacle (clearly it's not a debate) - queen Sheba
was right when she said to king Solomon:
the world will be governed by a yellow race:
(coppery, garnished with choc, alter rusty)
no exceptions to the Japanese having the physiognomy
of something resembling all things Germanic...
   porcelain white, excuses for the blonde -
             then the unearthed and then earthed brown
that's represented by all Asiatic hues;
they dropped the atom bomb and we're worried
someone else will drop another? what about those people
who do military deals selling pistols and bullets
and machine-guns; aren't they on the priority list
of concerns? atom bombs don't sell much warfare,
they don't, you drop a nuke you forget there
was a war in the first place, it's called the simplified
variety of the end...
           if it weren't for the ethos of
the kamikaze, there wouldn't have been
a hiroshima & a nagasaki...
         there would just have been a hiroshima...
proud ******* told the whole lot of nagasaki
citizens: our fate is your fate, listen to the credo!
                  first time lucky... boom! x-ray flash!
i've got the opposite of bone on that brickwall...
              i have noon shadow: perfectly captured
like a replica of a Fabergé egg to represent
a chicken! but Dylan could have sung -
    preference to the x-ray and the sedimentation of
bone into the archeological... nope... a-ray stood out,
    apparently detailing shadows was the way forward.
      but i don't blame them...
there's no reason to blame someone that
manages to fill your childhood slack
on imagining things that aren't really there
with Godzilla vs. Ghidorah (ghee: dorris, slash: door'ah)...
still, the western civi faces fresh allegations
of feministic chuckles and the ghosts of
*** toys... cos any **** would be an adequate
fleshy piston for the gyroid stanza of
  being agreeably equivalent to milking a cow...
that really bites the biscuit,
a Greek might have all the theological answers
but he's still sidelined because he hasn't figured out
an parabolic entry into a ****** using
        a straightened Floppy: for that necessary
arousal being satiated... come to think of
it: god would be better pleased with an argument
than a woman pleased with an orgsam
that might lead to the lost argument for god...
it's not enough that a tornado doesn't make it easier,
they apparently "do" too;
most of the jokes come as no surprise:
   mine's still alive.
                              it's still ghosts in *** toys...
           you got to look at ******* as a quasi-
Attenborough moment of curiosity,
      does it get me wired for a marriage? not really...
does it bewilder me thoroughly? of course it does...
          ghosts in *** toys...
                          could this turn into something
quintessentially dictatorial? probably...
          there's no point thinking you're right
if you don't allow the other person to speak out...
  and on that note... dialectics is interested in only
two people having a debate...
              not necessarily an argument...
debates only exist between two opposites of a required
conceit to be levelled and a plateau to be trodden...
   dialectics is never an en masse concern for vitality,
dialectics is not theatre,
       but as it stands, dialectics is misunderstood as
a theatrical attempt to achieve a congenial
narrative where everywhere is informed (consensus
omni)...
              clearly Socrates is Socrates (misanthropic)
and Shakespeare is Shakespeare (artsy fartsy):
the former needs a stranger and a park bench...
the latter needs a stage and a theatre and commotion;
thinking the two will unite is already a prerequisite
of dictatorial rule...
                                   additionally?
you can't learn dialectics from the direct source that
discloses the existence of such a medium...
not Plato... and i'm not saying that i know it:
but i'm saying that no slogan chanted in a march
   will create a less embittered narrative than
my own mind might already provide.
ghosts in *** toys, boney *****,
       **** tricksy risque (or if it would be worthwhile
to be born with the pleasurable **** experience gene);
              which amounts to one billion Chinese
doing it right...
       i wish i was born into a family of seven siblings...
then at least i might have, what is known as:
        a western acquisition of a satiable sense of humour;
the "hey man!" sort of attitude that states that all
operatic endeavours have to be relegated to a tone
above the castrato: namely chipmunk.

Once a **** is given, one can not get it back.

I heard somewhere recently
that people are the most creative
at the times they think
that they are utterly useless:
like in the morning before getting coffee
or while surrounded by ******* co-workers who won't shut up about their stupid gun collection
       (cause seriously, no one cares about how big your **** isn't, Phil.)

The amount of ***** anyone can give in a day varies based of many factors - the amount of sleep someone has the night before or if they ate breakfast that morning, for example, can determine how many ***** a person has to spare.

It is in that spirit - despite my better judgement -
I am writing to you at four AM.
Sitting in my underwear,
Forcing my eyes to stay open, licking my dust-dry lips.
and realizing that I forgot to brush my teeth -
I'm writing that tid-bit that down
in hopes it will embarrass me into making a proper oral hygiene choice
sometime in between when I finish writing this and before I pass out from exhaustion.

If someone deems a person or a situation not worth their emotional effort, they can choose to not give a ****, despite having ***** they can give.

Today at work:
Everyone kept asking me if I was alright
I told them that I think so -
because, that's the truth.
But also because it's easier to say than
"I don't want to be here, and your face annoys me"

A **** is approximately two damns. A **** is two *****, and a **** is two rat's *****.

I don't have much to say in this piece
So I'm hoping that self-deprecation
and artsy-fartsy stream of consciousness
still passes for decent poetry these days.

Taking a **** is morally objectionable.

when the time comes, a drunk will speak
more sanity than a sane person is
capable of, then we'll be ripe to talk about insanity,
and incapable of "treating" it.

it's not really about the beard,
well, it sorta is...
i grew mine so i could fiddle with it...
which puts me in a position
where i say: violinist, in the classic fm
philharmonic!
i'm thankful that i was able to grow a beard,
no, not to look "trendy",
****! i was about to ditto in the word cool...
you never realise how much vogue
and indeed: fashion, gets invested in
when we're not talking about clothes
but about a person's vocabulary...
yep, so i'm 30 and have a beard:
or let's just say, ****** hair had the same texture
as ***** hair...
the gods are laughing,
how to discover exist, become so self-conscious
that you're able to tell a joke,
and then laugh back...
       that's why philosopher have beard,
you can just see it in them,
wait a minute: **** consistancy hairs
are growing on my chin!
  mortal have that poker hand ready
and waiting for the existence of gods,
   a Frankenstein momentum...
it's funny... so we just keep on enjoying ***...
   and the reason why i wasn't distraught
about the Fritzel case? i read
marquis de sade's ******* novella...
that doesn't mean i don't think about
       being a spec, a second in Hades' lava lamp
reincarnation flow... like we, really are:
recycled goods...
          laughing about it gives us armour...
reincarnation is so Hindi, i'm
about sport a bindi (that red dot on the forehead,
that macedonian wish we were **** with an
empire, shindig setting sun)...
you're the one talking to me in braille...
i'm  a half-wit trying to compensate the conversation
with an observation:
modern life looks like a revival, or an attempted
revival of the art of dialectics...
humanity is really trying to revive dialectics,
or as the platonic dialogues seem to suggest:
find the right enough of people...
find enough people to agree with you,
there's absolutely no mention of disagreement
in the platonic dialgues...
well... they're really monologues...
back to square 1...
                      it's hard to envision a dialogue
between people, it's even harder to stage
a dialogue, given that we'd have to
take to the art, or quasi-geometry...
and have to constatly fake it happening,
by faking it i mean acting as we really
cannot disregard our apathetic communion
toward the mere act of talking...
    dialectics is an art form... and it's begging to be
revived... but it seems to be failing in
an attempt to revive it...
                        everyone is just shouting
over each other, exchanging insults...
  joking... apparently comedy is trying to slow
things down, comedy is a pseudo-art-form
that's more arty than art itself, it's fartsy...
   who could have thought a **** (**** in polish means
luck) would ever make people laugh...
  we're all in the slaughterhouse askin idol guillotine
to: lay to rest, make ammends,
                say something, something profound,
if not prophetic.
              i just see a chat show host grappling
with an interviewee about how to engasge with
a dialectical art,
   we do live in very artistic times,
people call it minimalism,
they draw a square and you're expected to say
it's profound... because the art of dialectics
doesn't exactly agree to taking offence...
   it means retracting from the fictive monologue
of writing books...
it's a biblophobe movement...
        we're talking retraction,
we are saying: marriage doesn't do it for us anymore...
i'm trapped, in this world, and i have a stash
of 2000+ years of memory that i'm asked to
revise / improve on...
     you expect any different, from what i'm doing now?
people are in want of dialectics,
  they are bored of group therapy yoga....
and they're tired of being treated like
canned laughter... or an audience
with prompt cards they later don at political
rallies...
  like: when to laugh, followed by a t.v. editor
telling some minion: prompt the verb laugh
at an audience at a big brother show...
   i'm drunk, but i'm not stupid,
actually, being drunk and writing this makes
me ulta-conscious... i wouldn't say
intelligent... i think of myself as a sieve
most of the time... but you know, life, life gets
in the way and you sometimes a few
stupid mistakes, that you are thankful for.
i can't remember the last time i used
a dictionary... or a thesaurus...
       and i opened the fridge door about 100
times before i opened the front door...
and walked to the shop
where the cashier knows my name...
i'm like Bilbo Baggins who decided to stay
at home and said: ******* adventure!
i'm staying home and reading J. Joyce.
   we can't find dialectics, no more than we
can ask for a socrates real, by reading plato.
but it's nice that plato suggested that
philosophy could be theatre, i.e. staged,
made into a dialogue...
     just when we were bound and keen to
our sophistry, to our rhetoric,
and felt no emotional content could be bound
by mere talking...
     dialectics is a shade hanging over modernity,
i can't read a sun-dial with it hanging
over us... why art is so ritually minimalistic,
because this one art-form is missing...
no one is going to approach dialectics
is there isn't a real case for expressing empathy
and merely rooting it in: a need for comedy.
that halo-of-an-oasis is going to dry up...
(yes, written while under the medical care
of a headache... that **** is just lodged in my ****
and is teasing me... come out you little
cupcake, i'll flush you down the toilet, pronto!
or as the poles say it properly:
gówno przez ciebie gada / ****'s talking
through you... oh gladness, the oven bound parasite
booked for 37 degrees of the body's high-end
of temp.) -
but it's being staged as we speak,
   an art form, deviating from up-start and on the ready, go!
art of rhetoric...
               modernity is equipped with competent
talkers... persuasive and gnat-like annoying
with their provocations...
  what's missing is dialectics...
  how one side can question and become almost
mermaid... dragging someone into nodding
if not clapping approval...
      we can all agree that some people do talk
with the art opf rhetoric being almost
self-taught... ******...
                     dialectics is so much stranger...
it's an art of speaking that has become
      like a dusty moth infested ******
of a 80 year old nun...
                     she bakes great cookies though,
let her off.
               it's not that we're even having
these discussions, we're slobbering a chance of having
one with lies, shouting and "in your face"
dynamics... it's not even that we can
imitate plato enthralled by socrates, constantly
agreeing, going: aha, yup (nod nod nod,
******* pigeons)...
                    we positioned ourselves for the basis
of having to express hostility...
       because to have reached such a freedom
as we have, that we dare to call it: esteemed,
or highly regarded as in need of improvement,
or redefining.
  we seem to be unable to say why we
can't resurrect dialectics...
           all the talk-shows on a late friday night
will not answer that question...
     i'll spot the Halley's moment though...
a comet known as Hailey (hey! bruce lee)...
        when artists return to less abstract concerns,
we have all the science we'd need...
   can the arts stop contemplating new york
traffic grids, and ******* stops
and we return to celebrating the human form?
   it will really be something to see
dialectics... i.e. with one person so persuasive
that the other person doesn't argue...
    and i mean that as a concept anti despotism
without a massive throng of people doing
a political mantra chant of sheep, herd, approval.
it's like that question about consenting to ***,
that part of you that says: can i actually
think this?

Let us catch the flashing lights
that light up London
new and old.
Let's hear the stories told
of ships and quays
and lovers loving from balconies.

let us see with our own eyes
the tower and its towering spies
and where the traitors lied  and children cried and died
with blood upon the king.

let us kiss the ring on the hand of the Queen
have you seen where she lives
and gives artsy fartsy parties?
The queen of hearts indeed.

Who was found guilty when the great fire took hold
in the London town of old?
Did the dear baker go and meet his bread maker
with tears on his cheeks?
Nobody speaks about that anymore.

It's sods law
God's law
can you hear the luddites roar?
London bridge is falling foul
of poor men
I can hear them growl
burn you baftard burn.
But 'turn again **** Whittington'
Won't turn and let the poor folk in.
Another rich man on the take
one more loser that we make the mayor of London town.

Another fake
the bridge never fell
it was made of wood
and engineered by those good poor folk
as they slaved under the mighty yoke
(yoke's a joke I did mean oak)
of the invader.

So let us catch the flashing lights
that blind us to the
real sights
and we'll not see
we'll never be
any the wiser.

T'was the day of Thanksgiving and all through the house
the women were prepping and cursing their spouse.
Outside it was cold with lots of snowflakes
the turkey was chillin all ready to bake.
The hubbie's all lazy sat fat on their ***
doing nothing but drinking beer from a glass.
They were screaming and whining about the tv
til one vile man started a game of fartsy.
The stench of bean dip now filled up the room
when all of a sudden there was a loud boom.
One idiot had said "hey let's see if this works"
then they picked up a candle like adolescent jerks.
Big Fred bent over in front of the flame
then his pants caught on fire because of his aim.
The men started squealing like wee little pigs
trying to put out the fire by dancing a jig.
"Stop, drop and roll, you absurd little twit"
all of the men dropped til the fire had quit.
The women all standing looking in awe
started laughing hysterically  at them all.
The men didn't laugh they just got off the floor
walked back to the couch to check on the score.
The women returned to the kitchen to finish
which prompted their laughter to diminish.
Now people I warn you with candles don't play
cuz nobody wants to be homeless on Thanksgiving day.

i seem to have found a new impetus
to write,
   when i was embarking on
a £3000+ a year tuition fee
at UCL's SSEES school,
   i had this diabolical desire to write
a book about Hey-Zeus!
   but then the nag hammadi
came into orbit...
   and i suddenly lost interest
reading footnotes of encyclopedic
entries...
      so i had to find something...
against the trend of poets
who write about reading books
in the upper echelon of society -
yeah, that kind of artsy-fartsy poetry...
i write... about...
   not having the resources
to write a book...
   about the geographic anomaly
of the spread of
    of the beulenplage,
         zee...   schwarzplage...
within the confines of the immune area
of europe, in which i was born...
just between old capital Cracow,
and Masovia...
           this... little... scratch of land...
which apparently first established
the content for the idea
                   of quarantine...
i only write these little "poems"...
because, i know,
  that i will never have the proper
resources to write a book about
this anomaly, in the phenomenon
that was the bubonic plague...
genghis khan could appear in this
time period and say:
   ****... more effective than me...
i don't write about reading
books... i write about not being
able to write a book of my eclectic
interests congregating...
   why this geographic anomaly?
given... the islanders of Britain were
not immune...
             i wish i could have
written a Hey-Zeus book...
   but, like i said, the nag hammadi
library crept to my attention...
but... how come the region of Europe,
where i, and my ancestors were born...
had some immunology working
in their favor?
   plus... i figured...
  i already have a chemistry degree,
why not play the drop-out card...
given that i was studying with
people 3 years shy of my post-21...
and...
         they just met London
coming from the suburbs of
Birmingham....
    who, later, invited me,
   to student theater production
depicting the Gaza strip mentality...
telling me: WE'LL CRUCIFY YOU!
i sort of nodded... imitating
a suggestion: a ha...
                and supposing myself
offensive by not speaking...
   left with a supposed phantom
of Roy Orbison (who was always better
than Elvis).    
             i swear to god,
even in high school, you made alliances
with certain bullies...
   you befriended them...
    the ones that succumbed to trouble
by physical assault...
   and you became sort of friends
with them... like Ryan Curmy...
   could have been a great footballer...
last time i met him,
high as a kite...
popping ****** pills... aged...
in his early twenties...
           who smacked dreadlock Ashley...
tall as Goliath, dumb as a ******...
it's not like we were even friends...
but we shared a pax non bellum...
     so yeah...
i write, because i have a shadow impetus...
i wish i could have had enough
resources to write about the geographic
anomaly of the bubonic plague...
      surrounding,
the, probably first, conceptualization
of               quarantine.

Gypsy faith swirled with wild lebonise tongues touch so close I can make fresh salt water swing into my palms and make orange sunsets fall apart melting and glazing and get close to what I should  have rubbed with my hands I don't know why I never only reached out from where I stood.  I'm close to every person belonging to me.  Not the bitter words slavery I am finally made and maked half the rainy dry baron saharras I distracted with horizon false bare assed view of giant ledggs outside bay glass window widdowers.  Don't count clean eye glasses.  Spect ovals smeared fingers like skyscrapers below unseen explosions of arts fartsy.  Come on expect bird **** people.  A clear window.  A bird cage cubicle.  As Baching  went pecking corn and keyboard.  Don't be a fat fake chicken.  Be a glossy fox.  Be marvelous.

when i die, i'll relinquish so many riches...
that even king solomon would be envious.*

a reinterpretation of rené magritte -
man in a suit with an apple disguising him -
student with dreads and some
artsy fartsy clothes with a traffic cone
to disguise his face.

why do people cling to poetry?
its innocence - people loath poets who
rebel against poetic innocence,
they still want much technique
and little resolve - they want cute
rhyming, cute topic matters,
when the serious arts that allow
no strain provide prodigious outputs
that are later morphed into genius
(genius being prodigious output
in free-fall, spirit of gravity),
the poets concern themselves
about who's the most naive of them all:
poem poem on the page, who's the
most naive of them all?
you see, defining genius in poetry
is equated to the extent of emotional turmoil,
the less of it, the more ideal, technique prone
the output is... the more of it?
well... e.g.

yes, the english do not read philosophy,
they're too practical for that,
so practical in fact that their practicality
stems from creating problems,
rather than solving them,
they're the ones that say:
we care not for philosophical matters,
we care for practical matters,
we rather not abstract real matters
with unreal solutions,
but rather negate unreal matters
with bureaucratic solutions -
basically handing hot coal from
one person to another until the hot coal
becomes hot ****, and then thickens
and becomes un-fascinating for even the
congregation of flies.

but of course you know it stemmed back
from darwinism plaguing writing,
the necessary clear-cut plot, so everyone
knows what's going on... writing,
esp. fiction, is still just about drawing straight lines...
not circles, not squares... straight lines,
lucidity of some congestion of character intersection
with the narrator trapped in parallelism
of either allowing or obstructing tangents of
characters to involve the narrator into
being disguised.

but of course, you weren't the one punching
a brick wall when home office officers
came to take your father and mother,
handcuffed them and took them to the police station
while you were left in the room,
looking tearfully blank at a wall,
with one of the home office enforces coming
in and saying the words: 'you have a nice computer',
then turning around with... not an evil eye,
but a death eye stare... you were ~10 at the time,
shifted back to your fatherland to become
quasi autistic in silence...
only because your father provided an honest
hand for an honest profession,
while the niqab ***** multiplied in tax havens
of taxpayers' rented accommodation
in west london...

or as mickey mouse and donald would say:
make america déjà vu again... again again?
no, make america déjà vu:
rocky ***** balboa robocop sequel no. 17...
the imagination has to die at some point,
might as well be now.

Enter discreetly, and proceed to take a pew;
Artsy fartsy culture camo lines the wall
like morning dew. A raptured window
sits atop a glazing gall, enthralling all;
As fetished hook propels, sinks in and pulls you through.

Decked obsequis with dire strands of self set, alight;
Mixing murmers; Churning, gurning grunts and groans,
stoking sight. Essence blossoms
effervescently, into warbled drone;
Symphony of souls, atoned, erupting, blood accrued might.

Dark set eyes behind the counter, counts another crop;
Foppish foolery as skin set sore adored
by boorish mop; Head of hair
aligned, entwined, principle annulled but ******;
Evoked Muse's invocation, released enormous slop adored.

Finally a noise devoid of touch, howls reified;
Chair despair sets into tumbled, mumbled call,
plea defied. Shoddy surgeon's hand
demands, gropes alleyway to shadowed hall,
Sits abreast infernal mechanites for deified brawl.

Creeping shadows come'a'peeping, Uncle Tom'a'weeping wonder,
blunders through the choice of sticky sheen
Resists the proper plunder. Whirring warrior
begins assault on castles primly stoked for seen;
Seams amended, blackened blood serene provoking chunder stream.

Followed Zeitgeist back to Black. Slow daunter back to blue;
Repairs conceptions of the Self within the mirror visored stew;
Anew the reckonings of where and why, Oh how freshly do they die
As left to see another in thyself, and loudly to decry:
Decry the aspects of bad health, no longer put upon the shelf
Stealthy pox and watermarks depart to leave aesthetic wealth;
Dealt in depths and crepts of cunning folk behind the trademarked lens
Obssessed with visibility, maneuvures us towards our end(s).

What's it like having money
In your land of milk and honey
Where people applaud you everywhere

To go to all the parties
With all the artsy fartsy's
Pretending that you don't really care

What's it like being rich
In the style in which you live
I'll take a few more of these and a bunch more of that

With your servants and your maids
Your modern day daily slaves
Kissing your **** while taking your crap

What's it like having millions
It looks mighty thrilling
Where all you have is all you need

All of the wills and wants
More do's than you do don'ts
Does it make you feel fancy free

What's it like worrying over your dough
Afraid that it may blow
Any moment off into the wind

And what is it like
Going through your life
Wondering who are your true friends

What's it like giving all of your money
To your latest honey
When all she wants you for is your stuff

Or hanging from a cord
When life becomes too bored
Cause the one thing money can't buy is love

One more lousy time sweetheart
The Elite will kick both our *****
For the chosen ones the fine arts
Look much worthier than the masses

Yes, I am artsy fartsy,

Airy fairy,

Namby pamby,

Touchy feely,

According to tu.

talking the usual diatribe against
poetry,
     is a bit like a hammer
           talking against a violin...
in that casual spre(s)chen
                             (for the shoo,
thus added, rather than: a hen)...
you can't really compare
poetry to talking to a supermarket
cashier...
                 can you?
           poetry is a violin equivalent
to everyday casual talk
          being a hammer...
it's not even about formal or informal
talk...
             poetry isn't useful...
      it never was supposed to be...
   likewise, you wouldn't use
a violin, to hammer in a nail...
you'd need an actual hammer...
         on the terse side of things:
  what the **** are you on about?
  you can't give a critique of poetry
the same critique you give to modern art,
that stresses geometry...
           and only produces a black square
on a white canvas...
            so there isn't anything hidden
in that? no braille?
              i'm sure there is some braille
hidden in that...
      maybe you're not so artsy-fartsy
as you might think you could be...
ever talk to a blonde high on *******?
no?          try it... you're going
    to chop of your tongue, and later
talk in mime.
           there has to be something
in these simplistic retardations...
             **** me... triangle...
      would i sooner associate
     ramses and the pyramid,
          or pythagoras and the protractor?
that's just asking:
    and the speed of light?
          even blinking with your eyes
          can't measure the exactness of it.
i'm drunk, and just ****** about
how poetry is ****** in talk...
                 and believe me,
i hate the orthodox poets, that rhyme,
and when uttering their own ****,
are short on breath...
                   when i cite poetry, i just mean
language...
                         and when i cite language,
i just mean god...
                  so what, you fluent in braille
                 or sign-language?
hence me, sniffer dog of the lot,
                               yep,
the germans sometimes deviate
                                      from the ß / ss...
in the example already given...
          spre(s)chen...
               yep... it would be spre-hen
        but it's spre-shen...
east germans pronounce ich - isch / ish
and western germans pronounce ich -
                                 e-hah-hark-e-hah...
**** me, in english translated,
                              that's like begging
                                for a zeppelin.