i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?

.all this is suggesting is: i'll meet you half-way; given that "this" question was always going to hover over "us", given that there's a disparity between English: a people, and English: a language... evidently the natives cannot begin to envision themselves as a lingua franca peoples... no wonder, their language has been "hijacked".... the "xenophobia", but like kevin spacey said: well, i'm here, am i suddenly supposed to, *******? playing the ******* *****-eyed poodle is not on the cards, but at the same time, it's hard to envision this language, as a people... given all the infringing demands of the anglo-saxon economic model into areas, where displacement is rife, subsequently... i can understand the concern of the natives, given that i didn't transgress the base principle: don't **** their women. see what a mild spaghetti-custard blip of history we're getting into? i am expected to integrate, but i'm not expected to integrate. i am somehow expected to be told to do what others want, but at the same time, i'm expected to protect my individual rights... no "parallel" anlogy akin to a catherine perry song? no kitty-*******, just around the corner? i can see islam... you know its prime sense of failure? that arabic would and never will, become given the same lingua franca status of english... you're complaining, or is it me stating the facts? evidently is a language reaches a lingua franca potentiality and subsequent expression, the natives will suffer... i'm not a native, but i can only imagine... what the consequences are... being ram-packed with excesses in ***** purchases... so much for a protected status of international economic ventures... like: i am waiting for the intra-national economic counters... can't see them coming, or i can see them, in a Casandra conundrum variation. there's still the topic of the natives... rarely can the English be allowed an outsider perspective without a sediment of their language being used, by a foreign entity... now, or never, why? you have somewhere important to be at as of: tomorrow? can you blame the natives, given that their language is a lingua franca, and not just, relegation to a national idiosyncracy "pH scale" differentiation? as a foreign entity, you know what i've learned from living on the most outer aspects of London? sure as **** it's not Cheltenham... i speak the tongue, i'm no genius, it's only English after all, it's hardly anything near Mandarin... what i feel sorry for, are the jihadi buggers who were born here, and were never taught their native sprechen... whatever the hell happened to English, and what Islam is jealous of, it came about naturally... arabic was never supposed
to become the standard bearer, the lingua franca of commerce and disinhibiting individuals entrenched... which, implies? i can look at the natives, with a more piercing dedication: excuses... excuses could be had, if, your, language, wasn't as "******" as it currently is... seems like i've reached a status of post-integration... now, i'm asking the language, the sort of application usage cruxes, that a native, simply wouldn't.

                         there's just so much
                           baggage,
that madmen
can carry,
for the "sane" standard
bearers of civilization,
of civility...
    at least some
of these outliers have
the *****
to not cower behind
an insanity plea...
     most of the madmen?
imagine
a tiger in a cage...
after a while...
          the tiger becomes
tamed by
zoological structuring
of its day-to-day...
and everyone's happy...
but that doesn't make
the tiger into a *******
bonsai, a feline "companion"...
beside the point...
  it's when some medical
conditions are slandered,
exposed to metaphor,
misnomer,
             that the madmen
receive the package
of social constraints
"levitating" just above
the state of being dormant...
but in this scenario:
well... that settles it...
now we know what
a level-playing-field looks like...
intellect,
and the debacle concerning
trust...
               well...
i've learned of trust
the upside-down way...
    relationships,
notably with a russian
specimen...
              me, ******,
why was i thinking i wouldn't
be ****** over?
   oh... right...
i can claim all
the responsibility with
what i "did" with a *******...
but when it comes
to the "affair" of a woman:
of free disposition,
i'm suddenly the culprit...
psychic trenches,
there "we" are,
entrenched in some plateau
of what seems to be
Belgium,
   and there "they" are,
entrenched in the same
plateau...
            sigh sigh, one more
for the party...
point being,
   people have not unearthed
the + + + + +
aspect of this debacle...
it's now a level playing field...
everyone is suspect,
everyone is limited...
a true: forensic quest for
democracy...
  all the other incidents
came and went,
always, as if: in passing...
  so this incident can also
come, and go, in passing...
solidarity to what?
to whom?
or rather: with?
            i can deal with this
sort of indigestion
surrounding my day to day,
but before long:
what other sop-story is
supposed to grab my attention?
clarity of intent,
   unlike someone experiencing
a psychotic break-down
of the psychic labyrinth...
a transcendence of
the categorical incentive...
somehow:
  the categorical imperative
was never supposed to mean:
what it meant to begin with...
the categorical imperative
has somehow lost the whole:
living by the standard
of a maxim...
               given that all maxims
are true...
  much harder to "test the waters"
with aphorisms...
            sure,
observable facts,
    then...
               disinhibited fictions...
glorification?
  today i had a problem
killing an ant...
   i was taking a ****
and had a problem killing
a moth that decided to freak
out the inanimate objects
of the bathroom...
       yeah: oh sure, sure,
i'm all for Herod's "conundrum"...
point being:
   we now know what
both sides feels...
         we now know...
       that there are outliers
on either side of the "debate"...
one: i am suspect,
but two: so is the counter-suspect...
no sacred cows...
   no: i think i'll just milk
a muslim in new dehli
for the jyst and thrill of a per se...
- at least now:
s.j.      w?
                or the conservative
mediator crowd of:
      there for the sake
of outrage only on the behalf
of outrage-in-itself?
past the phenomenon,
i can only return to the anti-phenomenon
of the noumenon (per se)...
which is not disappointing,
seeing how the whole "feel"
of it is begs the crux
fathomability of the individual...
just another skim read /
listen to the modern day
                          pharisee...
heavy sighs,
   blinded eyes...
frivolous waggling tongues...
but deep down,
most of the people are
content with having to experience
a revision...
  the revision being:
a level playing field...
   behring just attacked
the elites...
this?
    this dog ***** pile of
media attention?
         good...
        now everyone's uncertain...
i'm not afraid to think it,
and put it into writing...
    after a while:
   you just tire...
   you get tired of hearing
just one side of the story...

      what could leave someone
extreme: glee "riddled"
just leaves me exhausted...
     but at least the schizophrenics
are off the hook...
at least there's still some
belief in personal restraints...
even with a debilitating condition...
at least these people
are not facing the collateral
stereotyping of someone
with: the clarity of intent...

         there's just me, at this point,
thinking to myself:
and why did "they" drug me
to the point of:
making "them" feel uncomfortable...
clearly my mental faculties
have not been
                 car-crash dimished...

welcome the new hybrid...
soul mongrel...
           what is it about the polacks
that has made them so...
immune?
     i guess only recently
Poland has celebrated
the centenary of independence...
i wouldn't know,
i'm strapped to England
in metaphorical strait-jacket
  (what is metaphor
compared to metaphysics?),
   sober, drunk,
drunk, sober, etc.
               i was given a crash-course
in multiculturalism,
i guess i assimilated...
   back in school there was
the popular irish gang...
and there was "my" group...
of all the outliers...
   we used to spend lunch breaks
playing cards...
but when i heard news that
i would only be fully integrated,
once i gave up my native tongue
which i used to speak in
private?
    that broke the camel's back...
the centenary of independence
of Poland...
i wouldn't know...
i'm in "exile"...
   which is: economic "war"
came to where i come from
after the fall of the soviet pact...
and...
                every time i go back
to visit my grandparents...
i am only associated
with that country by speaking
the language...
and boy, it's not so ******* rosy
on the inside, compared to what
is being pushed to the outside...
Poland is like a: death-zone...
**** me, even the Hungarians
know how to ***** themselves
when it comes to tourism...

    i am, in "exile"...
            come to think of it,
most of the Muslims in the west
have it worse,
but i blame their parents...
i had one Pakistani friend
in high-school...
   now that i succumb to
reminiscence... yep...
he spoke perfect Urdu;
    but all these outliers?
   what their parents did...
****** themselves into
an integration mechanism...
not retaining their mother tongue?
like all these,
western jihadi prospects...
speak about 10 words of arabic,
and they are "attempting"
to compensate...
   i somehow feel for them,
a complete mine-field
of a mind-****...
       like being impreganted
by a virus,
a cancer...
     the linguistic dysphoria...
so yeah: if everyone would please
like to make heavy scrutiny
of the blatantly obvious,
regarding the genital region,
and forget a sobering note of
worthwhile problems,
namely the language dysphoria
of muslims, in England,
feel free to keep looking
at the genital "problem"...
            
clearly there's a dysphoria horizon,
i would know,
given that i have retained
my mother tongue...
but they haven't...
               and all they want is probably
so little...
   i remember that my father
once called me
the bellybutton of the world...
referencing me as
   an english child...
  that's how the Polacks view
the English: the bellybuttons
of the world, center of attention,
yada yada...
                 gender "dysphoria"...
you have to be *******
kidding me...
              what about the language
dysphoria of Muslims
                    in the (v)vest?

jak to się mówi:
            tym co się od razu, ma?

i can understand the language
dysphoria, well,
being a 1st generation immigrant...
i can't imagine being
born to 1st generation immigrants,
not retaining my native
tongue,
   knowing only the tongue
of integration,
   it would feel alien...
   like i was impregnated
by a foreign body,
   retaining nothing of my "******"
natural resources...
so... the problem we've arrived at
is very real...
  more real than gender dysphoria...

hopefully i'm less "schizoid"
at the end of this marathon,
and more: relieved to be merely
bilingual...
entrenched bilingual -
            so no, not a polymath...
or rather: not a polyglot;
my maternal great-grandfather
apparently was,
spoke 7 languages,
disappeared somewhere near
Niagara Falls...

   the plan was: England, stop-over...
via Argentina
   and toward the U.S.,
****... seems i was side-tracked
into remaining,
being shackled to these isles.

I gaze upon its splendor weeping
A masterpiece beyond fathomability stealing my breathe away as time stills and the emotions bloom...
This is love!
This is magnificence!
This is existence!

But only for a moment...
Only for eternity.

when i see postmen delivering letters,
                                   i think they feel ashamed
of having a poet among them rise
to such global prominence,
i could end right now and have reached
an Urban II pulpit, just as he
was getting started...
  i used to admire Mr. Know-how for a time
out of sympathy... but then that slowly died,
only because i found people who
had some respect for learning to tie
their shoelaces, and spell words...
      it turned out to be the most abhorring
form of rebellion,
       i could have written all possible
synonyms of red in acronym, just to
make the use of the thesaurus made for
better use... or said ultra-acronym
variations or red, like: crying-mason...
and you would have hopefully said crimson...
  but let me be clear... he got my attention
in Glasgow... but after a while...
    even if i had a cradle of appeal
i might come off as lousy...
               but still, when i read him write
like this needed to be a dyslexic statement,
i thought he might write something illuminating
in hieroglyphics...
           i wish i had a respect for not spelling
words correctly... grammar **** or not...
                    there's no point playing with genes
if you're not creating a plateau on
the internal organs of fathomability...
  genese don't necessarily translate into memes...
     people with a perfect good set of genes
will only still be football players...
        just gagging for a concussion to show-off
their Achilles bravery... i have heroic
   drinking battles, no one bothers to celebrate
new year's day with me... i found out
the hard way: even the brothels aren't open
on new year's day these day, as Auden might
have predicted, all the lonely hearts go to...
oh right... perhaps it was the male-on-male
orientated brothels that worked throughout the year...
  after a while it's not that you despise the body
for all its necessarily purposes,
      but after a while, the body does so little
that the niqab does so much more,
    after a while the head wearing a kippah
does so little aisatsu, that you start to ridicule
the practice as an excuse to headbang at a rock
concert in a maggot pit...
after a while the hair does so little that the hijab does
so much more...
                  can you imagine a Mongol inventing
a hijab? horse-skin ****** wrapped around your
head... thank god for the silk road and the silkworm
produce from china, or wool from the shepherding
states...
             otherwise? a ******* tragedy...
    it's also true in reverse... buddha curled his
******* using the thumb... but he bluffed
the sign-language and necessarily pokered that one
into sign-language saying: down the middle!
           we had sundials and clepsydras for a reason,
as we also had libras, for a reason.
            should i fear a man with only one book?
or should i fear a beast with only one "word"?
  well, these days the former is true,
    but when lions said more than men in terms
of authority... could could complain it wasn't so?
  let's just imagine, that whatever we write today
will not reach a heritage status of the paintings
in the Lascaux caves.. well-brokered that statement...
since an african mask carved into an Baobab
by a shaman will fetch much more worth
at a tribal convention, than a african mask
enshrined into confusing a baobab with an Acacia
fetch at a gordon gekko's winning prize
for the most caviar rather than sushi being ate.
the point is... i was just thinking of writing a short
introduction to an actual poem i intended...
                   you never expect such things to happen,
esp. given you just escaped building the pyramids
safely rooted in masonry, and having to
     wield some Atlantean imagination
for the hanging gardens of Babylon...
to be later told: oh don't worry, we have people
to build as a colliseum, you stick you
to intellectualism of the four letters...
   and then jesus comes along and about a billion
people are rounded-up talking about salvation
by reading only one book, saved by complicating
only reading this one book, by stating
how many times certain words are used in them,
to ensure everyone after Moses can plagiarise
ancient Egyptian into contemporary Hebrew
(only when Charles II can speak Bulgarian or
Romanian)...            horrid numerology...
oh! oh! there are 20 references to the word pray
in the bible! it must mean something!
   how about? bla blah bla blah....
well... d'uh! blay and blaw: Otis Redding (doughnut /
       ice-cream man)
                               and        Sam Cooke
(don't know much about hissing tories)
    so true too, turns out Abel (blay) was also known
as clay.... even though Cain was the vegetarian...
   so that makes Cain (blaw) the god-wind when
Cain slaughtered Abel and the earth unearth
      a curse that made Cain into a nomad and less and less
into a vegetarian... ah, the Scoots buckled and backed me
up on whether blaw came with the lyrics
      son of a preacherman, and whether my
    rubric arithmetics of sentences could ever chirps
up that smokey blonde Dusty.
   hey man... sit up for 48 hours, write about
writing on napkins, and then have a whiskey,
and watch 2 gloomy days turn into clear-skies
  and a visible sun, setting.

i might not have the communist savvy
with regards to your economic policy,
but you have neither,
the nationalistic savvy regarding
the capitalistic savvy regarding my
standpoint...
    no! i'll play the ignornant *******
riddled hum brigade!
         you teach me economics,
i'll teach you ethno-centricism..
   i'm pretty ******* sure
that you'll teach me the former question,
as i'll teach you the latter...
    are we not left unsure?
  are we?
            you teach me to count,
i'll teach you how to spell words;
are we gravitating on that being
the best accuracy of fathomability?

a many a great things have happened recently...
hmm (insert a weasle's snigger)...
i was watching a russian production of...
the escape from sobibor...
yes... i know that rutger hauer is dead...
but not unless listening to some vex'd...
citations from blade runner:

    firey the angels fell - leaping thunder rolled
around their shoulders -
burning with the fires of orc...

at least that's what i heard...

    i want, more: life... ******... which echoes...
no not that 1987 tv flick...
the russian produiction...
      of recent years...
          upon this the god's green earth...
        i could watch... schindrel's list two times
in a row... before being subjected to...
escape from sobibor...
                if only i had a toothpick handy
and pickles and some martini and god forbid
the onslaught of yawns...
         only one aspect of the film stood out...
a sort of:

    the death of Matti Nykanen...
the finnish ski-jumper who ended up being
a stripper...

    i didn't recognize him at first...
or "at last" i'm usually good with faces...
esp. those on film...

         i think the film itself was supposed to
be... the need to capture "the look"!
      oh believe me... a cary grant or
a gregory peck would never...
                                a rock hudson?
a john wayne: drawl... yep: that six-a-piece
sharp shooter...
guns 'n' roses: civil war...
opening citation: from cool hand luke...
paul newman eating all those... hard-boiled eggs...
paul newman couldn't give "the look"...
that antithesis of roxette's pop stamp...
the verb that is actually a noun...
when there's someone worth it...

no... they could never convince me of ever
having: "the look"... these major actors...
paul newman or a robert redford...
i'm counting only the men...
this one's spezial...

        from first hearing queen... to seeing the movie...
Karl Frenzel...
   that same tortured soul
of a Ralph Fiennes playing Amon Göth...
i had to wonder...
did they decide upon psychopaths...
or was it already a priori from the words
first uttered in the hitlerjunge?

nope... completely amiss...
is that really christopher lambert?
raiden from mortal combat...
connor macleod...
                 hell: if this be the fate of skin
to be a much later devised
disguise in stretch-armstrong of leather...

but it was all about "the look"...
it was so intimidating in it being intimate...
"do you still remember me"...
i don't think i had such trouble
with val kilmer...
then again: who's the busy body
in my receding memory loop-hole to loot
from?

  they must have used dubbing...
otherwise it would seem that christopher lambert
spoke the very base of german
like a puppet of a ghost...
most certainly a changed man...

he had that look in his eyes that read:
i don't remember myself...
this face is no good: for you... either...
and it truly wasn't...
truly petrifying this enigmatic cloak
of ****** features...
but those two voids like a lemniscate (∞)...

i can X with my eyes when concentrating
on the egoism of the tip of my nose
and see the water inside the aquarium
all blurry and salty and mirage prone...
but not this...
this was a sensation of...
seeing an unrecognisable face...

again: i'd sooner revisit watching schindler's
list: because of it being in black & white...
otherwise cudos for the work
by a yanuš kamińци... that red dress:
"here" and... "there"...

for a russian the poles are traitors...
but thank god for the bulgarians
being the bell-boys of their whole
affair of wounded pride...
given the bulgars frequent the aisles
of st. cyril...
             but it looks like... the mongolians
are having... "counter-productive"
thoughts: themselves... good for them!

so close to the germans:
is it eastern europe west of kiev?
is it?
  traitors... oh god... those minor
denominations of the baltic states...
   perhaps... once upon... a time...
prussia would have been just a pocket of influence
akin to estonia... or latvia...
let's not mention lithuania...

it was a christopher lambert... by god...
sure... he was suited to age...
isn't everyone? but not like this...
in a positive way, though...
incomprehensibly unrecognizable...
a loot of enigmas...
well... if gérard depardieu a citizen
of ol' mother russia...
what doesn't stop a christopher lambert...
being dubbed when speaking german
like a manakin does running...
eyes that scream rather than peer...

it's one of those sad affairs of appreciating...
beside theatre... acting...
of course everything is in the detail
of the edit and the production of the end
product: with at very little hiccups as is to be
avoided...
it's a russian production: nonetheless...

but thoese eyes...
i didn't remember him...
was it perhaps donning the uniform...
or was it perhaps... perhaps of:
    seymour hoffman?
   but why couldn't i pick out...
a b-list actor... look at me... mr. hierarchical prone...
but no?
    chris cooper... bruce greenwood...
sure... no problem...
always the general, the "protagonist" of
"real" life... somehow along the line:
hardly a basis of a shadow meets shadow
compromise...

i think i saw a human being that became
unrecognizable from the burden of life
off-screen! i actually found a conviction from
a thespian... i saw two blinding cauldrons
of ire... which was...
ire... it wasn't fire...
    two blinding cauldrons of ire: i saw...
a blue tinge of flame... i saw tears...
it wasn't a purity of fire that will be later
made into a recycling power...
it was...

a fire that keeps intact a status quo...
that unfathomable perspetive
and an unmoveable object:
even if armed with the binding will
of a sisyphean determination:
where are the demons whipping him
to comply?!

   i was two blinding cauldrons of ire...
i saw fluorescent blue of glowing squid and less
revealing monsters of the deep...
i saw... a face disguised as a mask...
i saw a face from beneath a donned niqab...
more clearer than the glee of smile...
the chubby moon-clip
or the scythe of reasons behind...
the bulging shadow of harvests pending...

all this... and not much more...
  i'm good with faces...
   apparently not good enough...
was it really christopher lambert playing
karl frenzel in escape from sobibor?
i try to bypass the glamour and all that dry
artifact affair of keeping score...
to denounce all actors as...
the last and the least obliged to put pressure
and fathomability of the concern
for human... "things"....

what sort of a man is a christopher lambert
wearing.. if his eyes are...
pencils and needles piercing me...
that i can't recognise his face?
have i been gorging on too many
digestive biscuits... or something?

    by faking it... but i didn't see a slouch
of wanting to fake it...
given the numbers...
          what are the puny rhymes...
                   i want to see a rhyme
that riddled a blunt hammer-axe at the end
of this... foreboding of "contemplation"...
i want to find it soothing
for man to justify the antics of a slaughterhouse
concerning the wailing pigs
and the... cowering aum litany of the...
sanctity of beef...
            or the lesser kind via
the goat of the graces of riccota...

          i don't exactly know what i saw
in those eyes...
    but i saw enough to make me forget
a face.... i would most, be assured to...
have a memory of...
i was drawn into the eyes...
it's not like brian may aged so badly...

i did see the flabby skin of a pig become
stretched... then contracted...
over a square mile of a Berliner's post-code
"hum and oops"...
    little ******* good that would ever
do me!

              these tires need to be burned...
this soil needs to be shovelled...
this butter needs to be spread on
oozing warmth toast...
this rootweiler requires a leash:
are you the sort of walker
to allow a lessening of tension...
mind you: this "hanz" and "heinrich"
tends to tug along like
a pirañha on a diet...

                 the other head
of... the clamour fest... of feeding of...
cerberus... this night-walker this...
shadow-thief...
                   this... burden of my pride...
synonym coupled with ego...
rottweiler to the east...
       dobermann-pinscher to the west...
get this...
a ******* pop-up head of
a dachshund heading south:
                                        in lombardy!
hey presto...
                    my luvvie-dubbie companion!

for me... give me a harem of 72 dogs...
i'll sooner dog-wrestle bit
and chow-mein
and clash with teeth before...
         don't make me...
preside over the gratification of having
72 virgins: that same number
of the names ascribed to the hebrew god:
you and not you...
"you" hairy-hey-rab! ibin!

there's a barking... i'm pretty sure i don't
hear anything worth biting into?!
i'm quiet unamused hearing barking...
when i'm not entertaining
the convinction to suma summarum
it with: chewing...

              i would most certainly like
to hear less barking...
****** punctures of flesh...
i'd like that very much...

              i'd like filled stomachs of dogs
to be the only precursors...
the wolves are at the gates...
    
           words like daffodils easily
plucked up...
                  is that serious enough of "us"
to have these minor griefs...
as... vectors for what's to become
of the unfolding rest?

/                                          there's a difference
between sycophancy
and, being:
                       endearing...

like there's a difference
between
what psychiatrists
fear -              empathy

and what the generic
  (yes, that's a collectivist
term for society)

crave, in the form of sympathy...

why why, oh my...
words actually do possess
the fathomability of squares
and other forms

of ad abstractum;
        so... can you make
my sudden surprise: generic?!

    ginger ninja, ******* son of
a skivvying mom (um?)
   'ere we go! 'ere we go!
     rhyme and rhythm -

   now watch me perform
    a... mahler!

enough rhyme to encompass
a rhythm for you?

  - ginger ninja... **** me:
   good that i didn't think it up,
             but merely passed it on.

(that seriously implies the genesis
of the concept of a paragraph,
in english,
      utilißing the hyphen...

i'm foreign:
   english isn't exactly to become
a serious concept...
     i fiddle with it without playing
a violin...
     i toy with it...

    the mortus operandi
  of the memoria of my great grandfather
(on my mother's side)
  was that i was supposed to play
the piano...

   sure as **** i'm playing one now...
but all my notes
are "surd"-encodings...

   inorganic now...
              organic later...

ha ha! that ******* i're celtic
                              ginger ninja! ha ha!

it's a love: that transcends
                            domesticatic a woman;

because there's an alternative
to keeping one?

               really?!

mmm...  just the thought of an alternative:

   one word clue...

                  yummy:

                           mixed-race "*******":

jay-jay- jay-may-can       oopsie far-vour
   (that's québécois
for                                 vow-oh-r
   voo...
                     trump pursed lips...
    
                         far-  -voo- -voolevie-
                  voo-va-voom...

and no... it's not a... favour...)
            
come to think of it,
   i prefer organic canvases
             of implementation,
           since: no poet actually
convened to surprise the, "idea":
which was already a priori in
            an ontological canvas;

this? this is just a posteriori!

   am i the first person to actually
paint onto a psyche rather than
                    a blank canvas of wool?  

what a ******* ****-head that i am
infuriating such ideas without
any actual implementation strategies!

                                                    ­                      /

it would best appear that:
  talking really aids talking to flesh -
and yes, beside the psychoanalyst
triad theory of the "narrator" -
          the ego can become an ailed
limb - a limp arm,
an amputated food -
                     when the square
doesn't fit through a square shaped
opening: the ego become fidgety -
and it aches beyond the ache
of being, a physical inconvenience /
convenience...
    the ailing ego is an ego
that can only construct a cogito
without the ergo dynamic of trickling
toward a "satisfying" sum...
           because there really isn't
any other suited adjective -
  other than the already aired:
because there is.
         i wanted to concern myself
with the dynamic of what is sickly
or at best: an unease unit
of fathomable concern...
              ego must,
ego = limb...
           it's not a central
foundation to all things apparent...
          and believe me when i state
that i require verbiage to make these
statements...
           when the ego is a cubus,
and thought is the "river"
                        quadratum -
       having to encompass the perplexity
of the Freudian Triad...
  it doesn't really matter,
  does it, to concern a cube passing
through a square, when a triangle is
concerned, is it?
                  a mental "illness"
  needs to encompass a "flat earth"
akin to reading maps: no good knowing
a spherical globus exists if you
can't get from A. to B.
                     that is why i don't
understand a stigma with regards to
a "mental" to "physical" dichotomy -
which it has become having divorced itself
from dualism...
          the ego being a limb and
thought a body,
       reiterates my concern with how
mental illness cannot acess the freedom
of a body, or thinking,
                 in a fluid manner:
akin to the thoughtless extracts of
               a disembodiment ascribed to
ballet dancers...
             hence the sickly limb comparison:
the whole affair isn't worth
an atomists' venture to find: a middle,
a nucleus...
                     a sick "ego"
                              disvalues a concern
to think: akin to any worth of
****** function...
            the conscious-unconscious
paradox of the ego is that:
    it's health is supposed to coexist
with the way one treats a hand, finger, elbow...
the fact that a "sick" ego is by no means
sickness apparent doesn't mean that
it is not a form of: dis-ease -
  not a bad word, merely a reformulated
aversion of saying it quickly...
  there does exist as - negation
   of ease...
                       i have found this with
myself...
                          apparently
it was necessary to outdate Latin grammar
once again, while keeping the ego
a necessary ingredient worthy of theory
when cogito ergo sum was
summoned... because where is the ego
in that? the ego is the antithesis of
a narrator of fiction!
             who ever said that fiction
was without Trojan walls and biological
membranes?
                   the ego is either foremost
an ailing limb: or the unscathed narrator!
it can't be both!
          - but the limb comparison makes
more sense, since what is primarily
distrupted is thinking: rather than writing
a book!
                    i have experienced
the distruptive ego like a fidgeting snare of
a limb in metaphorical Parkinson...
               but i am not keen to
sub-assert a division of it worth a sub-ego
and an id... without an ob- prefix to boot.
a "sick" ego disrupts cogitans
in that there is no ergo
       to make a cohesive translation into:
wanting to be a bellerina - i.e sum...
i.e. sum *** non cogitans...
  and that's because the ego is a heavy
load, already not stressed in
the original maxim "prompt" of:
think - and you will be...
  well no... most of the time it's a case of:
don't think, and you will be...
      the fact remains:
  the ego treated as an ailing limb is
akin to an ailing limb disrupting
the sigma of ****** expressions -
             with the sigma of ****** expressions
being best met with mere: thinking...
                 hence the irony of
a "mental" illness -
      there is no ailing thought -
but an ailing ego -
  which is a contradictory summation
of character, presupposing
a character is at the same time narrator...
the stigma? well...
   a person of interest is asked to
have both status of a healthy character
and an ailing narrator -
      or rather: a character
incompetent of having a narrator...
   or whatever this constricting observation
implies...
   the fact still remains:
   the ego was allowed a Ronin status
when working from the Cartesian maxim...
    it allowed itself to flourish in Freud
who took to impregnating it with
  a pseudo-Christian analogy...
         if there is an element of medicine
in philosophy... ha...
     odd...
            how can the mind be ailed by
the body prior...
      there must be a paradoxical intersect
of ergo ( = ), i.e. ≠...
                    whereby the same is true
for: the mind can be ailed by the body:
but the only prior to a body is a mind...
            since there is no prior to a mind
to express: body...
           otherwise why are we to concern
ourselves with a "mind" of the underdeveloped...
ah... but the underdeveloped body...
       hence?         |    a ******* stick
in the ground!
                  it's a simple juggling act of
two *****... on thinking terms,
but yet it is simpler to juggle three *****
on un-thinking terms!
              all i "know" is that
a sick ego dissonates the fluidity of thinking,
and it doesn't aspire to anything
but that in its ailment -
to make it any more complex to
suggest an atomic caricature of
the Freudian id - neutron / superego - electron...
   an ego that distrupts thinking
does not make a cohesive unit worth
a theory...
                 you put a stick into the river
of Heraclitsus: the stick will remain
a stict - the question is always asked
concerning the river!
                - as far as i am concerned
the disruptive ego has "unfathomed"
  the fathomability of thinking -
       notably:
          the mundane cul de sac thinking
of ordinary people -
a lost day-dream break from inacting
a "greater-good" focus of: transcending society...
     and attaining: "the" individual...
    i've experienced the sick ego
unable to convine itself with staging
thought: akin to an theatre with
a stage unable to consider itself:
    not fit to hoist actors on it!
                   hence my concern with
res vanus...
            the "thing" within res cogitans!
the whole point of:  (ego) cogito ergo sum!
          which is why those who have
reached the status of, say: prima ballerina
exact a "cogito" ergo (ego) sum status!
- at some point i really will be
starting to digest the VII-XI ponderings
of Heidegger...
                  bewildering myself as to how:
1939 a.d. was conjured.

.perhaps that's how the majority of the anglophonic world responds to absurdity, via comedy, via that shlogan: keep calm... worry later, laugh nervously... but given that the 20th century saw the french and the germans, attempt grappling with existentialism, and the absurd... to now see the anglophone world jump the train, late, as ever... and somehow catch-up with mainstreaming the absurd, or existentialism, as if it were a subject matter for: dummies... absurd literature... contemplated in silence, counter the absurd reality... staged, via comedy, with an immediacy of reaction? whereby the desired reflex is laughter... but where there's no canned laughter "compensation"? oh... i'm sure you'll find it hard to translate the absurd from a french mind, into an english gob, via the medium of comedy... given that comedy is absurdity per se... something without a need for focus... and now... ascribing it a focus of attention / address (of "concerns")? you're kidding me, right? some jokes aren't funny... like the best comedy is the sort without a premeditated script? spontaneity being the mother of slap-stick? in situ and (in) quo tempus? the anglophone world partied for most of the 20th century, now they're playing catch-up with 20th century continental thought... obviously allowing themselves the chance to side-track the whole "game" of "catching-up" via the medium of comedy... if that were true... we'd have to ******* "ditto" out, every single ******* word in the lexicon, and put a comma in-between all the words... to allow a fathomability of an unfathomable canvas of nuance.

while watching the gavin mcinnes
interview for 1791...
     ah... pedantic pet peeve...
as someone who comes with
a full-bodied array of accented
parents, 1st migrants...
            oh... look... ****... so am i!
thai...
                lady-boy ******* thrill...
tirade vs. tirade...
h'americans, all sounds the same...
there was no actual distinction
being made...
             from poland to england,
from england it was supposed
to follow: argentina then u.s.a.,
to find out what happened to
my maternal grand-father
who disappeared in a suicide attempt
at the Niagara Falls,
or at least that's where
   we sent his last postcard from,
polyglot, spoke 7 languages...
apparently...
   you wanna know the proper,
old continent variation?
      tyrad: no, not "i tire of trade" -
tire-aid,
              if you want lessons in
elocution... you've come to the right
place...
   i'm entrenched in england,
looking out at no-man's land...
**** on me... the ******* Atlantic!
no: not tire-aid,
ty-rad...
    it's written tirade...
but you can also speak it as follows:
tyrad(e)...
  english, mandible...
like a jaw...
                       like you want more
hyphens, intra-verbum,
to ease off the syllable puncture
wounds from the already
sharpnel post-deutsche of
anglican ßaß?
            how about i cite a magyar
psychiatirst, a dr szasz...
now we're talking!
     i asked one barmaid...
is the S or the Z the surd,
or is it equivalent to the ******
version of sharp objects?
   **** it, let's go full zeppelin and
just write the interchange grapheme...
ßaß...
    the house of ßaß of Poland...
Poland, the brothel of monarchs...
foreign rulers came in,
ruled,
   then with fickle brains
decided to carve the territory up...
no wonder...
  the current "rulers" of Poland?
like allowing the Eire to rule Iceland...
paradoxical complications
of sorts, never to be resolved...
thai-raid...
       thai-rad.,
                    inject an aspect of
the tetragrammaton into the equation...
and you'll find yourself
in the company of latin gnostics,
not the greek sort,
        hey, if every letter in this phonetic
script is a pair of *******
and a waggling tongue of
invitation within the protruding *****...
the arabs are all high-minded
with their scribbly lines...
and the necessary open orthography
in road signs,
at least the jews managed,
somehow,
   to hide their vowels,
as diacritical marks...
   on street signs?
         a ******* vowel roulette...
good luck spotting the wheel of

                            a (kametz)

        
i (chirek)                                           o (cholem)





              u (shurek)                   e (tzere)      

mind you: that's an anti-thesis of
the Zen concept of en-sō           -
you can't exactly draw a perfect
hexagram...
     but you can... when drawing
a pentagram... the eastern circle,
is the western pentagram...

   same **** with h'americans teaching
the english to spell out
and speak: spaghetti -
   pierdolone kluściaże...
oh look...
    another googlewhack!
kluściaże
   http ://tiny   url.
                  com/y5p    n745c...
that wasn't me,
                was it? 'throth'?

it's almost like discovering a cymry Y
(sim-roo)
             we can play this game,
day in, day out...
become very pedantic about
all those, many, many, many english
idiosyncratic variations of:
where diacritical markers should
be placed,
where a phonetic writing
of an otherwise orthodox speaking
of the word,
    and all the lack
of orthography, beside the base
of spelling...
   reading one language,
speaking the same language
differentiate...
   and how english just allows
a plethora of accents...
                       you name it...

this is my avenue,
i get off right about, now...
       staring too long at
the mendeleev table...
   i'm seeing cut-and-fix "problems"
that require explaining...

    the time is ripe,
    i can't just leave Ezra *****-nilly
on the fence...
should i ever visit h'america?
   two places i want to visit,
the fly-over states,
   and little town h'america...

      no... nothing else...
not the grand monstrosities of
the urban enclaves...
not exactly the pompous north-east...
or the detached north-west...
            as that some askance-neu -
perhaps texas...
           i'd love to see
little-****-town-h'america...
          the outliers...
        where the gąsienica
     of the czołg...      
   (caterpillar of the tank)
    has made pâté of the mount of pol ***:
as much bone as brains...
   a porky-porky fetish
                         of imagination -

nope...
      a place i could mesh myself into...
"disappear"...
        
      tie-raid...
    ty-rad...
 ­                  poe-tay-toe...
                             p'oh-t'ah-t'oh      

sure, sure, same language...
cricket, baseball.

   p.s. wanna see the phonetic tongue
on a word such as, fade?
sure you do:
                               fay'd.

with no real reference to u2: i still haven't found
what i'm looking for -
which is music in a nutshell...

            hell... with all those guitar virtuosos...
to name a few... joe satriani...
                           john petrucci or steve vai...
but it wasn't what i was looking for...

   working backwards... something on the lines
of tom verlain...
      something: more laid back - guitar music:
sometimes lyrics are... bothersome -
              
           well... and the virtuoso music is simply:
a mood killer...
then the youtube algorithm starts
to glitch and fond memories of the jukebox
pop up like phosporescent moles...

            tommy guerrero...
                              no mans land...
                     a real shame to be writing anything
while this is playing in the background...
i'd settle for a wasp's nest of a head -
busy body me with both hands tied -
sipping a ms. amber in a corset and stockings
(bourbon) with some pepsi through
a straw...

                      i did think i was looking for
this something with egberto gismonti's solo...
apparently not...

   and for all its worth: the cut-off point...
i.e. what was once a calm revelation
of a lake...
becomes a frothing waterfall:

sometimes words are like bones anc concrete...
but me, being lazy...
                 teasing dyslexia or...
whatever...
                       you can say all you want
about... kevin spacey...
i'm not going to play the devil's advocate...
but...
                drift off... drifting off...
the required amount of prescriptive sleep...
no dreams...
i so too thought: i thought so too...
we wouldn't be buying sleep and dreams
over the counter...
big pharma excavations....

lester burnham...
and of course... kaiser sow'z'eh...
          sure... otherwise a kim novak /
     james stewart...

                      proper immigration:
send us your women... your ukranian... women...
and the brain-drain:
the best folk...
blah blah blah... blah blah...
what a load of...
glued to the concept of island:
easy to spot a border...
i guess...
                   it's always the carte blanches:
of a cate blanchetts and neurosurgeons
that make it...

no wonder... rewards in ***...
hmm... how about a genocide worth of *****
into a tissue... flushed...
gets the blood boiling...
Paris pre and during and "sort of"
after lockdown...
spike in female depression... no no...
this that and the other...

    so much more with... ****** and ***** banks...
i feel truly sorry for... women...
that will have to give birth to...
worker ants... construction workers...
not those pretty battersea shelter for
"stray" cats and dogs "nurses"...
i will  feel really sorry for the women
who will have to "forget"...
what's that term... hyper-... no...
  gyro- no... hyperbolic... no no nein!

hypergamy! yeah... and some women will
clearly not... up and up and more up...
if only i were a milkman's son...
a tiny little enclave... a stage...
the sea... the cliffs: i the next...
fisherman... the next trucker...

women of the world unite!
but this article... rage...
women don't need men:
of the same class - of the same dada venture...
the same dandies the same:
throws out a perfectly good electrical appliance...
because... "forgot" to check the plug fuse...
same ****... different cover...
all stereotypes... slavs are good workers...
all the plumbers and electricians
circa 2004 - 2018 were polacks...

everyone's a ******* poet over in:
englishland...
and a journalist...
and a whitney houston diva!
        well... no mistake there...
since all the n.h.s. nurses are dancing tiktok...
and...
i once thought it was: slavery...
unless: but i was... wrong...
about that well explained aspect of:
not a slave... but... rather...
being... conscientious...

          well... if you say it like that...
the ex-patriates who had tea with mussolini...
they weren't immigrants or:
high price of culture...
nor that anywhere west of the river Oder
experienced the cultural enrichment
of: that one-time-hit of mongolia and
the golden **** horde...
or that... some pakistanis still have a name:
muhammad... and a surname: khan...

it could be worse... it could be... much worse...
i could be... circumcised...

hell... have children: teach them how to ride
a bicycle: have them listen to mylo's
sunworshipper -
or stick around aging people...
walk up and down creaking wooden stairs...
and hear them snore...
while the bed lamp is still on...

with children and the fear of the dark...
with aging people and the fear
of death... and that's the middle ground
of focus...

royskopp - so easy - elevator music...
horror movie soundtrack:
nostalgia for the 1950s / 1960s
of the 20th century...
now... i can almost understand...
nostalgia for... circa:
the three muskateers...
         vikings...
                            but this sort of
nostalgia: "early on"... em...
the graveyard is the new musuem
with the added splash of al fresco artistry:
the wind, the shine, the peckish sparrows...
the rain...
the hot the cold...

'french single women were supposed
to be miserable on their own...
      thrilled from the pressure to hook
up' - adam sage...
          sage my st. augustine's sololoqui
burnt and smothered in sand-paper...
***...
            
   the world of *** toys and ***** banks...
and... casual joe says:
tables and chairs... brick walls...
buildings... magically popping up...
thin again! thinning air...

oh... i'm not *******... the french ladies
the english ladies don't really care much
for: women of the world unite...
press the war button...
otherwise an invasion is riddled
without bullets of rifles...
written on a postcard: wish?!
i'm coming over...

                     who's paying for the viewcount
of / and credibility?
heidegger and blue boy: remember me:
i'm asking... me standing before
the mirror - in half of adam's attire...
whithered: en vogue...

                  musik for the jilted generation...
heated debated looking for alternatives...

*** toys and ***** banks...
       white knights and... placebo hearts...
how i sometimes wish...
this was an abortion of a beethoven
and this was the medium of the grave...

i would much have better not been sold:
the child, the boy...
whatever that was circa up to the age of 21...
dress me up... in stilletos...
and horse reins and claps...
and tell me: plough this 'ere field...
better that... than the myth of the child of man...
that man is ever a child...
beside the lie in waiting...
tugged and pulled along...
    constipated / claustrophobic language:
that much i can understand...

i wish for having pristine:
leather like skin...
but since my skin: isn't doing my bidding:
that i am doing its (bidding)...
fur... living fur... cats for cuddles...
there's one sleeping in my bed...
right now: and i know that if i pick her
up... one of those bath floating ducks
playthings of a box of music of meows...

sensations: regarded as bone thinning...
and via tooth-loss inspired:
fwench kissing...

- junk-box of suprises - as random as a kandinsky
canvas or a burrough's paragraph...
better this kid achieved maturity
within the confines of an abortion...
than... this... one sure short: missing ******:
insert - ***** and ditto...
the constipated and less so:
islamic harem of the martyrs...
when three holes are given the liberal
shakedown...

to be shamed by *******:
when one isn't conscripted into
               circumcision: that flake
of living skin: the new niqab...
is like: the old, the new, the old...
moral compass of mommy kiss your cherubs
goodnight... **** daddy's **** prior...

wunderbar!
                    learn from spewing stewart...
learn a ditto: at least...
learn:
|
|
|
|  this is how you get a marker and decide
on how a paragraph begins...
cooking a slice of tender beef: aside...
into the beauty of a mid-western...
half baked cookies...
cookie dough jam: the ice-cream...
the crucifixions of no new tomorrow -
the same old... replica of constipation...
and... orthodox jews learning the violin...
like it's a slaughterhosue for horses -
and by miracle of the ching-chang-wall'ah...
prunes! prunes of the squirm!
lemon meets Paris...
meets... lemon meets...
a wine connoisseur... mr. lemon has
a busy schedule... all of asia... "practically"...
mr. lemon arrives in beijing...
                  suddenly the concept of batman
spawns... a centipede torso of...
availability of movement...

cul de sac protests! of course...
bag a cockerely and interrogate him in...
finnish!
it's as if... "they" almost forgot... to...
circumcise and castrate...
and have a 1UP on us... for that...,
much desired... quack!
choir of castrated oink voltaires:
no... those we call...

                    Sardinian...
                                 and tenors...
and: purple ******* sacks of a culmination
of a beard / stubble...
all bishop: all kosher... the voice!
the crescendo: better: unlike rain on
copper roof plating... tulips in goth...
goth: some would call...
strawberries: looking plump...
as juicy... and edible...
             come the cushions of a december
plough...
                  
            i much agree for the concerns
of the: seasonal dietitians...
root veg through winter...
the rest will follow: choir imperatives...
            
             tap tap... drum-roll: more chaotic...
and all the right: lost precisions...
akin to the enigma of:
the ballett of soft teasing snow...
come night and the toll of moon...
                  
            striding to find accents of heaven...
with worded: brush strokes of
the easily irritated fathomability:
bulk prize - it's still... a ******* square...
leaning tower of Pisa or cubism...
Picasso or no... Picasso...

all are waiting, the encore,
the alphabet... the encyclopedic entries...
suggesting: no banter for a worth if a wriggling
seance worth of shrapnel...
or that... arachnophobia:
and the scuttling spiders...
or the ones you touch... coin-flip...
limps stressed: tense... folded...
preteding to... play dead is all they ever do...

tommy the satire gun: ownership contra
worship... like... something from
a ***** universe...
before the sober judge...
before the sobering jury...
the drinking... "aristocrat" of accusations...
i drink... i drink...
because that's when i tend to scubadive...
skydive... i tend to spew: stew...
tell the truth... that drinking and listening
to music is one of those hazard free
"side-projects"...

        i find my heart among the sparrows...
such is their love for life...
i find my tongue among the crows
and magpies:
such is their critique of life: per se...
i find my feet in that magic carpet ride
of the widow swan:
a fate near impossible... nay...
completely: not near: impossible!
petting a dog for its worth of thick
cranium...
   circles galore! circles and circles...
this is not me stroking a leash...
or.. being fidget genius
over a muzzle...

        thumbs up: the ****...
                   more sparkle?
more colour? more dehydrated shrimp
paste? shrimp *****
and mr. lemon serves up:
an experience of tourism from beijing,..
mongolian squint eye:
squiggly noon ugh... sun...

warsaw the parade of ghosts and echoes...
esp. the underground
when the trains roll in from Kiev
and further east...
karma-alcoholic & cinderella "ulterior"
opt outs...
            by best decipher for ads...
i.e. counter... oculus per oculus:
eye for an eye...  shylock and i agree...
a violin for a violin...
a horse's mane for a bow...

                             better than: the end...
             ditto...
                            lady justice gave both her
eyes up... to pressure
a box into abiding by rules
of the guillotine...
  like hell: will this supposed soul...
this branch of learning:
psychology and the logic of non-existence...
ever...
because of how asthma and irregular
breathing... mr. itsy-witsy
and mr. boogie rain-man..

                             **** up and **** with
the readily available...
i'll watch...        a best canape of voyeurism...
is akin to: faking a pose of
atlas... when... performing the banality
of the metaphor of sisyphus.

how soon... is... savannah brown,
to represent sylvia plath?
                                               too soon?
i say, too soon.
                  i have come across
my second fictional charioteers...
ragnar and athelstan...
   ivar the boneless and...
  bishop heahmund....
                      my "concerns"?
Αγνή Παρθένε...
              χασμουρητό:
   (χ) chi...
                   chasmonreto...
while i thought of?
the hungry only feed their
thought by usurping a freedom
from hunger!
                      how the first wave
of heathens learned to be humble...
while the second wave of heathens
aspired to be... noble...

   who, are, we, versed in
teutonic chants?
      de pacem domine?
            might i, site, a sing-along
to a kumbaya?
              replica?

             salvare mea dominus,
mea praesentia....
          quod iustificationem
   vestra autem praesentia et vestra
   salvus erit immoderata cuiusque
     luxuria subsequenda...

see... leftist intellectuals
always **** at the teet of islam,
in terms of the blinding lights
of "consciousness"...
but, what does, 'fathom', begin,
and end with?
                    
the antithesis of
a soul?
  the anti of a psyche?
well, there's
the yawn,
and only the yawn
to counter
the winds of breath.

          at each of these medieval
chants... i weep...
           i weep from a certain
presence of joy that cannot
find translation within the confines
of the modern world...
i cry, because i find the sort
of joy, that cannot be,
associated with the joys
of the modern world...

      to think... a pagan...
twice over...
         ragnar in athelstan...
the source of knowledge...
worth more than gold...
and ivar in bishop heahmund...
purity, truth...
          an antithesis of
pagan jeleousy...
  nobility...
            what man is not
allowed to cry,
in celebrating the slow...
snail like climbing
manifestation of
a conversion?

         if man is ever allowed
to cry...
       it's at this...
         that element of beauty
of a transvaluation of value...
   ragnar in athelstan: knowledge...
ivar in bishop heahmund:
                       value(s)...
to be of noble cause,
is to demand...
                           and what if...
sisyphus... didn't roll the stone
up a hill?!
  what if... he just let it sit...
and pretended the stone
to be a mirror...
  not so much a "mirror" adequate
for an image, reflected,
more.... a "mirror" of
his thinking?
  surely... thinking is born
from the existence of inanimate things...
rather than animation?
    thought surely has to
source itself in inanimate objects...
first... before moving into
the fog like argument of evolution
working from the ontological extensions
of apes...
              ex similitude rurus ut similitude
      (out of similarity, back into similarity)...
ad imitatio...
        (toward imitation)...
        et regressio
                     (and regression)...
          but... all the critique of byzantine
culture... once a convert to a byzantine hymn:
forever a convert... to a byzantine hymn.
even the ancients can't allow themselves
to convert the heart from allowing
the heart to absorb the conversion that has
a pristine fathomability of the mind:
in its state of being: thoughtless.

the conversion pilgrim:
from catholic,
                 to hebrew...
back, en route,
                 to Byzantine chants...
   was anyone ever, really,
worried out the metaphor: Byzantine,
to replace the word: bureaucracy?
i was more worried about
a conversion via sung psalms.
          and if it is music,
and i cry...
                   i treat that as
a worthy authenticity worth
investigating...
given... Ragnar valued the knowledge
of a monk...
while Ivar...
  the nobility of a christian
warrior bishop.

                    how may i ever repay
my slander...
       i will only repay that slander...
with my honesty...
i need not torture myself,
in fathoming the unfathomable
rites of repenting...
          i will cry, upon succumbing
to the sand psalm...
and if that is not enough...
then i will continue to renounce...
and slander...
   for what are the tears of the honest...
equal...
         to be equal made...
upon the lashing...
the "repenting"... the "pure"...
the liars?!
                   liars do not cry with
joy... liars cry...
to masquarade their hidden ambitions /
or whatever other hydra head
pops to mind...
                 guilt.
i cry... because beauty needs to be
celebrated... with the only worthy
and available alms... tears!

this would be considered a "world salad", by people who's ambitions are to write books, but who barely lack the ambition to read a newspaper thoroughly, let alone a novel... or like those a.a. gill dyslexics, who "write", well, write by talking, having slaves to write for them... if these ***** are "writers", then i'm a ******* "orator"!

i've mentioned this faux pas once:
to read a hardback copy of a book
with the sleeve on, is a rare faux pas.
you only read hardback books
with the sleeve off,
because there are actually two
the ends* when reading a hardback
edition...
(a) the end of actually finish to read
a book, and
(b) putting the sleeve back on...
any bibliophiles erotica manages to
invoke this "minor" detail.

brooding, brooding,
asking for a balancing act: ah!

it's not the essence of thought to
think about thinking,
babushka dolls and all...

the cognitive equivalent of
the taj mahal before me...

     tibet is the vatican of the orient...

the displaced eskimo and the white
buffer reef of the northerners...

to think is not to un-think
thinking & "meditate"...

                within the realm of void-creation
nature answers: vacuum does not
belong to nature,
            all holes must be filled,
from each unto each other:
  an extract of worth, however small,
however big... from each
an extract of worth.

act!

ah! that's it!

    there's the "correct" cogito ante actum,
as there's the "incorrect"
        definition of those, who have been
morally satisfied...
      the cogito circa cogitans -
the former school:
though before an action,
            but that is as abstract as nothing
compared to the second tier,
only with a fathomable morality can
there be a cogitans = narratio parallel,
semblance, equilibrium -
   not before this point can you have
the leisure of making thought
narration...

         to think about the existence of
thought is more profound than
the cognitive escapism of an existence of god...
sorry, but that's how the cookie crumbles..
to de-fetish the existence of thought
to be below god, is:
   (a) an excuse for argue the existence of
a god, and (b)
that's an open suggestion.

but you can't exactly enjoy thought
as narration when you overcome the ought-process
of having established an ethical model
for not thinking about ethical conundrums...

    cogito is a unit that replaces the
psychological unit basin / basis of ego -
there is no ego to be spoken of,
only **** sigma - which is identified by
thinking...
           in the rationality of identifying
with thinking, the ego has no
storage fathomability to store memorable
scenarios...
                   if thought it order,
then ego is chaos...
       there is no ego totality -
  but sure as **** there's a totality of thought...
ego: incisor point in
psychiatric anatomy.
      
to think about the existence of thought
is to move beyond an "ought" dimension of
thought, the θ question -
              is debating the existence of
a god, moral, or immoral,
since...
       well... since, inquiring beyond
   self-knowledge, i.e. acknowledging
a second tier of consciousness, i.e.:
thinking about thought...
        cogitans circa cogitatio
      is the foundation into theological
inquiry, from this basis: furthered;
why?
         the circa contra the ergo...
           when did thinking,
verb /  non-verb process ever extend into
a ghost limb?
when did thinking ever arrive at realising
a posit of "self" or "consciousness"?
         never in my reading has thought
managed to extract it's own identity without
an indicative unit of ego...
           thought always paralleled the body,
it never imploded into a per se of a "self"...
to which it furthered itself to consume
by exhumation.
                        there was never a
thought conscious of thinking -
          since the preoccupation of this
investigation was always shrouded,
if not merely preoccupied by a theory of, ego...
of agency...
                or else, a self-cannibalising
entity of good, fed by man's belief
  to satiate a vengeful hope to be mastered
into a genuflection.
                           i, oddly enough,
establish my existence from the standpoint of
cogito circa cogitans -
think about thinking -
         since i no longer desire thought
to mark me as a student of ethics...
i've obliterated the θ-debate by making myself
parallel: in a shady guise of solipsistic interaction...
since i have arrived at this point,
i have no freudian three tier theory,
of affix subs- or obs-,
              to parallel their straitjacket unit
of incompetence...
   nor a super- to a sub- or an un-...
                 i am, the Minotaur,
                and thought, is my labyrinth.

and the "problem"
of excavating an individual,
from the
least essential,
namely elemental
concern for:
                 an argument for
the objectivity of
    water fathomed into
                           tsunami...
there is an:
                 exaggeration of
the individual...
                        ***** in(to)
a tissue...
              the rest:
               remains attempting
to be bored...
        having failed
that...
          jordan b.
         peterson contra
           r. d. laing
                  arguments...
                                         if any...
why didn't
    the army take to
"questioning" the affair
into bombing the wave?
    soy boys got in the way?
what became of the alpha
male pluralism?
    phallus
gott ereticle de-impetus
before the ego
started
to jargon cognition
  within a
       fathomability of itself?
******* could have
at least bombed the
wave...
     like they might
and have, argued,
  the tsunami of
      insistent
            impregnation...
being worthwhile,
turned
   into a historical
                    summary!
apparently
drunk people
said the most sober
things...
given the sober,
led, to
an inexhausitble
attempt to revise
  old, and useless...
vacated to walking
a dog: usefulness!
   but **** can a grandson
lay
    a linoleum floor,
paint the ceiling and walls,
and paint the furniture...
you...
*******...
  just get a chance
to moan about:
            deviances!
**** it...
i'm almost happy
there came
a snapping of serving
a schema of nerves!
     indolence
deserves
           (when reiterated
with speech)
              an illogical
summation, expressed
in deviant acts of:
seriously,
don't think anything
      beyond this extract!
whole to the devil:
******* with you,
and a god, too!

because, what is the summation?
certainly not politics,
and certainly now, apparent,
guide toward journalism...

   what is the summation?

as honest as i might be i say:
why would you concern
yourself with prostitution,
given that you have your **** boyfriends
running the show?
all the prostitutes in england
are romanian anyway:
  why give a toss as to whether i kiss
of **** them?!

see: memory is always fleeting,
it's the only coincidence of
exercising mortality...
         memory is a cannibalism,
although stressed for no
purpose, other than the per se of:
becoming "educated"...
     i liked being schooled,
but the problem is...
           what doesn't require
a managed fathomability...
less complex, like a caged tiger...
i would pet a caged tiger,
just like i sometimes imagine
myself wrestling with
a ravenous rottweiler...

         love the smile...
             and the tooth sheen...
     just want to kiss that poor
******* to sleep,
         it's like mad barks
to later: mad said so...
                  my pwetty pwetty pooch...
haaaaaaaaaar...
you see that madness in its eyes,
and it's showing its teeth
as if it's sharpening them...
         tongue in place for a sack
of testicles...
    or a bad hair day... feverish...
bleach blonde...
       there comes a day when you...
actually want to bite the dog's
***** off...
    to get to grip with his
supposed rabies....
   well:       thank **** ****** diseases
are not transmitted via
saliva...
                 kissing a prozzie would
be bad enough, but not getting
a ******* while at it?
          ****.... the miracle of las
        vegas and: a hope for amnesia...

i'll admit,
   memory is prime confession
of mortality,
         i hate to part with it,
yet i have to, pass it off on the "sly"...
   i die three death:
              the death of forgetting,
the death accomplished by sleep,
and the death, that's a gravestone...

dangling a crucifix is about
as much of a hard-on as...
              a digestive biscuit dipped
into 5p.m. tea...
                  a serenade coming from
a castrato...
            pointless as: **** all could
                     ever, but nonetheless, is.

i still want to be awake in a post scriptum
of death taking a glance at me,
wrestling a rottweiler...
**** the 72 virgins, there's no fun in
that enterprise....
                  i can almost venture
into feeling the canine saliva mingling
with mine, and the teeth gnashing
against each other, reaching pinnacle
with exchanged nervous systems
attributed to the eyes...

    can i just reiterate the poor choice
of reward, with the 72 virgins?
    pagans sought more refined rewards
for the dead in their "backwardness"...
thank **** the jews
      only seek an immediacy to pass:
from living, unto the dead...
              a p.s. of:
a book that becomes a brick...
                       less an agitating poetic
paragraph...

             i actually woke up with
an auditory hallucination, of course due
to a lack of visual artefacts:
              uchyl -
                      gently open the door...
as i did, half awake half dreaming...
      i still want to die and be woken
with a wrestling-match with a rabie-infused
rottweiler...

                    i can't stomach
           the impetus for 72-tight-*****...
it's like spotting a walrus protecting
                                                           a harem...
unless you ****** a ******,
you might know of a certain type of
gesticulation,
           imitating scalpel using a phallus...
tender excess:
                      no other way to call it...

why would the "gain" of
       72 niqab fores be made the alternative
disneyland?
           apparently m.g.m.
   is not translated into...
what's apparently missing:
             cutting the genital niqab open...
way past the fore-skin,
i mean: you ever ****** a ******?

      it's not like a man recounting his
first *******...
               and 72 of them?!
        either mad, or Muslim!
can't see past the sado-masochism
of exaggerate puritanism;
i could see 72 romanian prostitutes,
no problem...
          
           but what reward is there,
when there isn't, any?
             females are too subjective,
in terms of their "lack" of genitals...
       just give me a chance to wrestle
with a rottweiler infused with
rabies, to chance a french "kiss" against
his canines...
              and you can keep
    your terrorists and attaché naan bread
bits, of, finicky,
for whatever consensus you're
                                           aiming for;

because that part of the guarantee?
is, not, my, concern.

youtube channels...
northern ******* monkeys...
shaun vs.
the iconoclast...
what?! i've integrated,
"you" suddenly get to tell
me that regional
differences,
   or regional
          nuances,
or regional biases,
somehow, don't matter?
i thought that integration
was inclined
to follow your "in-bred"
biases... no,
that was never on the table
with the playing deck of cards?
the **** do the english want
within the reasonable constraints
of integration,
or a fellow european,
oh, right... the lazy intervention
description of pakistani,
i.e. ****-,
            that will suffice?
good good...
      i'm back in the early 2000s,
with a song like
hold on by limp bizkit...
because i just know
that an ******* dysfunction
wouldn't work
with grooming gangs
and ******* teenage girls...
i'm not a moralist...
i tend to find legally binding
women off-putting,
******* with a bulgarian
*******? no problem.
i just hate being lectured
all the ******* time...
savvy?
          i might have been
misinformed,
but, now? no, no....
               can't have a chance
to make the appropriate
statement, "mate" / "bruv"...
i hate to inact a sense
of reacting with a remark
for inappropriate scandal
fathoming...
       so i was supposed
to integrate, but
then not integrate into intra-national
"taboos"
      of the southerners
moaning about northerners...
oh...
   integration is the prime aspect
of simply learning the language...
and the rest is just:
monkey fairy: *****-nilly?
that's how it works?
  you integrate to the point
of passing a spelling test,
but you don't integrate
into the fathomability
of intra-national biases...

   the **** do you "actually" want?
you don't know, do you?
i lick some cymru,
i spend 3 years in scotland,
and i'm still expected
to conform to the existential
"concerns" of someone
running away from Bristol
& Devon?!

         wow! just, wow!
do i compliment the audacity,
or just tame the stupidity?
you know...
in terms of a mind-****,
i'll sooner spend 2 hours
staring at a *******
      washing machine...
than listen to this current,
diatribe...
         so i "integrated"...
but now the locals are
"finding" problems associated
with the other integration
prospects...
    
         they are still prospects...
integration was not the willingness
to run 110m hurdles,
but jump the 8m high jump event...
and they never allowed
themsleves to retain
their mother-tongue...

             point of interest:
i have to be diagnosed as
a problematic individual,
i have to be deemed a schizophrenic...
it's much easier that way...
sure as **** i'm not
a grooming **** overlord...
but i need to be a problem...
**** me,
given the current climate in england,
you experience something
esque resembling "god"?
you're a problem,
     i'm used to that,
i always thought that sort
of experience would always
assure itself to be made revelled
in, in paradoxes...  
"god",
you're not off the hook,
you're more so: forever suspect...
esp.,
if there's no clarifying agenta
of sharing interests to over-state
the experience, and subsequent
markers...

i could have integrated into
an english society,
but sooner, rather than later,
i realized that...
that, that wasn't what i was
integrating into...
  i wasn't integrating into anything...
great idea,
but... no...
         from under the iron
curtain, toward the curtain of jack...
n'ah...
  power hierarchy...
   unless you want to ask
some of my "imaginary" voice
attaché subscripts...
          
   during the times when
a madman has more sanity to boot,
than some adherent
of sanity, with no madness' worth
of intent...
       i should have never smoked
marijuana those 12 years ago...
but at least the whiskey is taxed...

integrating into a foreign culture,
by simply speaking the language...
that's the base requirement...
but then...
   ah... ha ha...
     local cultural requirements...
see... this is the language
of the natives...
   but where are the tattoos
of the natives, dates,
geogrpahic nuances,
     biases...

         not 'ere...
      i'm a sponge of a person,
i succumb toward that itches
right, feeling is beyond this tier
of integration.

/secularism can't be anything new
compared with the monotheistic
    quest to convert paganism:
           same ****, different cover,
                     aim high: look down below...

coming from a shady sheikh with
oil reserves...
           the **** am i supposed to feed
the deisel engine? salt?!

      nice...             nice...

  kept me quiet with cotton-candy?!
******.

   i alrteady mentioned the transformation
of: psychiatrist is the new priest,
eucharist via the funny pills on your
way out...
      i'm not rich enough to buy: talk,
with a psychologist,
   sorry, i'm sure an oops is aligned
with this statement;
although i'd rather not, sell, or
                                                        buy it.

imagine: a body, worth a spa.

          that's how i see, the, "other",
             ah... you know...
         the usual gatsby paupers...
               hardly the scuttling rat solipsist
donning a chance to game: hide,
     and subsequently seek...

half baked irony... those sort of people...
      ladder-step-counters,
   chandelier mishandlers,
            they come,
   the supposed-party,
                                            dries­ out.

dentists and radiologists faking
dr. entitlements,
      relieving the surgeons,
                       a mr. butcher status...
good to know how all people
are made manifest, in being humbled...

apparently there might be a problem
with my identifying as a whole
upon, the "concept" of west slavic...

          not even a history but rather
a perpetuated nostalgia...
             not even the communists would
have conjured up: bleaching people,
esp. when not guaranteeing them
a grammar, basis,
            namely: that thing you do not
deem to be allowed change...

      so... pronouns are suddenly
trans-grammatical?
      i was actually hoping to branch out
into an antithesis of metaphysics...
thank god we already possess
orthography, to clock into the benzene
ring allocation process...

as far as i am concerned,
i only picked up the english language,
when it began to disintegrate
into: less an accuracy of day-to-day usage,
and more into:
       god forbid this be a philosophical
circumstance...
         i can't even posit a circa!

so:
    in the thinking concerning meta-,
and of the ortho-,
       and of the trans- (populism)...
should ask me about the trivialities of
genuine concerns,
             about the asylum post-scriptum,
and how: the wrong madmen are
running the show, high on unearthing
st. thomas' gospel...

                apparently the sentiment
        relies on: -1 + 1 = 2 dynamic:
because linear mathematics is never about
coordination, nor was puritan arithmetic
about: anything other than fudge
                                                  and beavers...

i just learned the ****** language!
****!
         do these natives have to make-up
these artificial difficulties,
    this: transcendence of grammar?
                can we allow but one constant?!

we can reverse the "popular" movement
by approx.,
    namely returning to the crude,
"deaf": encoding procedures...

      ~theta:
                                   v'eh point,
i.e. the-

                   more or less: ~F elsewhere...

also neither acidic or alkaline,
   given:  φilosoφy...

           as ever... insert a key into
a lock: φ...

                                  turn & enter: θ.

so H is either a vowel-catcher,
         or it's an impetus for:
chitty-chitty-bang-bang...
                            consonant-­morph...

     ~600+ years or so, later, Islam deems
                 secularism as the new paganism...
i would have believed the: blank slate
argument,
         only if grammatical rules were
kept intact...
           but since the communists are dead,
and the chinese only pretended...
  i'm guessing boredom,
         or rather:
              a disorientating narrative
of a profession allowed this to take place
in "consensus" establishment...

           i've just acquired this lingua,
i'd have more sense in respecting it,
   than abusing it, disintegrating it,
               "unlearning" grammar that i haven't
properly "learned"...
          hence my suggestion:
                        teaching a counter-innate?!

you can't exactly teach a counter-innate
fathomability of a language...

   playing god among atoms is
one thing...
               but playing "god" among words?

you can spot the idiocy of
                    a Pilate-esque "voyeurism"...

     this is a public medium!
           yes yes, i have my idiosyncracies
to mind, which implies that
           there is no agreed upon: consensus...

hardly a chance to mind deconstructionism
within a grammatical paradigm;
better mind the non-existence of
the concept of orthography in the english
tongue...
              or perhaps this be the tongue
of a people, too preoccupied with
metaphysics,
       given their lack of conceptualißing
diacritical marks,
       via and toward an orthography rubric...

a second tier of mannerism, eh?

i don't actually remember writing these words
(ref. to a schematic revision (b)...
all the way through to 5 minute sketch
in a Polish supermarket / edradour distillery)...
am i to find myself being ashamed by them...
i clearly saved them for the draft tenure...
to find myself agitated by their very existence...
getting drunk and writing...
it would be so much easier to simply drink and drive
and cause an accident...
then i'd sober up... there on the spot!
but to have to feed into a responsibility of writing
when under the influence?
and there are no hallucinogenic drugs involved:
to... "expand" on?
every time i see something that i clearly wrote...
i am doubly clear in:
an inability to recognise it... something came over me...
most -esque to a cynddaredd...
rage... to write with a ferocity of a blindman's
sneaking a peek from within behind the prop of blindness...
i don't remember writing these words:
but i do remember that i was drinking...
and if i remember that i was drinking...
i can't expect myself to remember writing these words...
to write poetry sober?
well sure... but what would happen if,
"somehow" a self-censorship impetus overcame me?
what if cages of narrative and the prosaic
took over me? and i could... quiet simply...
find the iron maiden of poetics in a drinking session
to boot?
then i wouldn't be: uninhibited...
with a pairing to the ears catching a drift of:
years of denial - body map e.p. -
i do not recognise myself with or in these drafts...
i see the poems of architecture that
never surprise with a rhyme...
i can see the zoological animal of a man bound
to customs and regulations of a lexicon...
never such roughage... such fibre...
in a spontaneity...
never a letting go... or rather...
hanging onto a razor that's the only "leftover" base
for a ledge...
it's never feeding a quality of fleeting
or of chaotic... esp. that the vicinity shelters...
a made bed... a private library of records and books
that have been dusted...
the house is clean... the dinners are cooked...
i do not remember these berserker outpourings...
it's almost "funny": to have written something...
but at the same time... being unable to recognise...
except for the idiosyncratic punctuation markers...
and a knowledge of diacritical markers...
it's not for my eyes to peer at a second time...
it was already agony the first time round
when i wrote what i wrote as... this most uncertain "i"...
if these drafts are better for those about
to squat... i am not their owner...
these are forbidden children with mother past...
i see no father future worth for them...
they are to be chained and beaten into
an archeological rubric: aye! december the 22nd 2019...
etc.,
come midnight i will want to have forgotten
even having written this!

at least when taking photographs...
there's something you can detach yourself from...
not when making these escapades of wording...
you can allow yourself: most assured...
a pressure to be alien to them...
to be ashamed by them...
there is never a novelty to them:
never a novel binding -
such is the nature of these words...
they are the houses that are to be abandoned...
perhaps stop-over places of cohabiation
by (psychological) squatters...
i gave these rooms, these words,
the original dimensions...
stop-over places between finding (a) ritual
and sacrifice and altar at the feet
of a Dostoyevsky... or some other...

esp. the somehow arrived at:
over-burdening tone of "know it all"...
which none of it is allowed a translation
into a formal use of the tongue...
because it was never about finding a cutie
in a rhyme...
or a psychology to be washed in rose water
without some knee-**** and bulimia reaction
when the sulphur would come out...

these drafts are abandoned poems...
because i am most certainly cruel to myself...
i cannot help not being cruel to myself...
that's how i always mistake kindness...
i have always mistaken kindness...
since whatever kindness i offered i did so
from a lense of selflessness...
the ghost aid... trivial 3rd party seances of
kindness... ghost hands and ghost tongue...
because i am a tyrant unto myself...
i am most cruel: unto myself...
the number of times my "ego" becomes
a tool for self-laceration is... quiet frankly...
hardly the 2nd tier of unit for
a personality and a fathomability of character
that would ever allow a person in...

even if i am right... i cannot allow myself to gloat...
happiness is such a butterfly of time...
such a whimsical affair...
it can be appreciated...
but once it is... a tonne of bricks
must fall onto it for a sense of stability and:
how best to feed capriciousness
with an immovable object?

it's one of those questions that will never allow
itself to arrive at "wisdom"...
a notable statement usually juggled
by certain youthful muslims is:
there's no water in the desert...

i'm pretty sure that's supposed to imply,
something, other than...
of note... i have stopped biting my nails...
the argument was:
i like the taste of keratin...
and i "know" keratin in nails and the keratin
in hair...
how i have succumbed to enjoy
clipping my nails...

like i never smoked a cigarette because
i was nervous...
i needed circa 5 minutes to lag behind me...
or scout ahead of me...
something to scout ahead and lag behind...
something to capture a pensive
evil-brooding of the brows...
or imitate a cat inclined to entertain
itself over some cobweb it would later
ingest...

now these clipped nails...
it's almost as if i found my teeth to be
necessarily itchy...
itching bones...
of note: those bones that itch when
left exposed, signatures to the former
muscle, flab and ghost tenants they were
once landlords to...

how else? there's no more a dissatifying ending
as that in cinema of: the end...
i still don't know why the credits roll...
the old movies...
the old... the passed...
this has to feel like an abandonment
to the very last...
i might as well call it: 15th january 2020...
circa 15 minutes past midnight.

two moths on my bedroom
celining...
and a bogus:
         grab them by the *****
using boxing gloves
   mosquito
                                scenario?
plenty of
entertainment...
                see...
    can't get past gang ****
   and going to a *******
not treating her like both
a psychiatrist and a priest...
somehow
      taking a loss of exposed
lips... juggling peaches...
      in her...
   eating you up giving
                                       a kiss;
i can demand
stomaching horror....
        but this little artefact
equivalent to a scarab beetle?
   prostitution is akin to
******, isn't it?
                 sure...
and i'm the "sly"-****-wit
   within the confines of the whole
affair...
       kissing is like:
de-objectifying the "pupose"
of body...
     gave one, no one more
"necessary" tarantula arithmetic
to counting fiddly bits
         in the format of limbs...
almost mantis *******...
leaves me
    stung and
                   sort of "bored"
in the fathomability of an inabilty
to write a little,
   or write a lot...
                 limp **** 'ad it sorted...
        says the odd: jive mcsmith...
no...
            just liked the odd kissing
sensation that genital plucking
         stole to make an industry...
frenzy-**** and a bucket
of maggots: to designate
        imagining the whole affair...
not violent and certainly
not pretty...
   just the bachelor /
     plumbing standard:
                                botched affair...
but gang ****
and cuddling my affair
with kissing one?
               shy one brick richard...
i truly can't cement
that **** into
                a toppling of
a chess idea...
                   limit:
   the king is precious...
         but the queen is the most
powerful piece...
              so why do both
require to don a crown?
   sure: whoop-see logic...
      hot-air-balloon okays
                   many years later...
the ******* question
equivalent to:
  why are birthrates
equivalent to a tsunami...
categorising humanity
with disco: earth wind and fire,
and water...
                 and:
       the identifier of the four
made: pristine
insect-like
           with a subjectivity?
unfathomable:
  to take to making
a hammer a subject...
to allow an:
                               objective cool;
   with an: under-which,
     there isn't exactly a: that;
bumb-note,
  fizzles out after enough
digressions and
          indigestions...
         like a yawning
tiger: centre-clue to
           not subjecting oneself
to a fireplace...
      rather,
objectifying "with-concern"
for... the "prometheus"
     who stole the lightning-bolt
without Zeus minding...
        no one ******* minded...
     a t.v. -
    hand saviour the lost
concern for the mythology
and temporal "grievance"
   of ushering in a lightbulb...
father must have been
asleep, allowed
for the crucifixion to happen...
happily forgotten
  michael faraday...
          and whatever news...
   as in that: rhombus of
attention-deficit-square of:

                              n


    w                     ­                             e


                                ­ s

****** graphic:
   lucky there's a vowel in the whole
anti-slavic: "too many" consonants
                          dip into spresch...
oh don't worry,
akin to fiddly-bits,
akin to chop-sticks
     and pretending "adult" humour...
something a billion peeps
might digest...
     if there, were... a billion
                  bored mouths to, invest in..

given there's only one...
    pray and pillage
                         "vulnerability"...
     blah blah
               and:
           i'll be tired of revelling
in making a point
about identifying with a tomorrow,
to suit
        a soon to be
     nostalgia goon of:
                  "authority" with
                 a status quo impetus.

somehow i rewarched...
father of the bride today...
in between planting three
roses: hybrids...
cool names like: prima ballerina
tea sunset... etc.

   the wedding itself didn't put
me off...
beside the princess diary
   and... catching that whimsical
thread: hook... and sinker...

i also thought about two things
today while watering the grass
just so: with the drainage:
to get the proper mush-mush
feel of stepping on it...

the grass is going to become
my new pride...
swans... left in the bathtub...
bel-air...
and the fresh prince therein...
the ice-sculptures...

but that... there was a myth...
still alive... in 1990 h'america...
of a production and export
         dynamic?
           who was the last man to
walk in shoes that were
produced, last... in h'america...
beside that... "desgined" in calofornia...
manufactured in a chinese
sweat-shop?

mind-boggling...
a bit like... poland... once upon a time...
had a metallurgical heart...
men were men that did the honest:
good...
call the electrician or...
change the fuse gone dead
in the plug... first?

i thought about two things
when watering the grass...
i thought about smoking a cigarette...
and about... jerking off...
i did the former...
forgot to bother myself with
the later...
***... when you don't have access
to... a systematic toil of the matter...
can become...
hardly an exercise of pleasure...
it can become anything...
except that...

             before walking into
a brothel i'd rub my hands against
bricks....
in order to... feel...
an exponential worth of skin
upon touch...
toughened skin...
         it felt: most likely...
that i'd find a soothing sensation...
when it concerned the "question"
of leather... it's not akin
to curating pig-skin for leather
for a sofa...
it's still... a life with a breath...

they might want to ban...
the father of the bride...
                  i don't have the quizzical look...
or two munchkins at my disposal
to park 200 cars...
or a gucci suit i'd want to fake /
pull off as black... when in fact...
deep seeded navy...

           they might want to ban
the movie because...
                manufacturing jobs...
in h'america?
california produced sport shoes...
did they... magically... spit on...
laurel leaves to conjure up...
prosthetics and...
gum-bear bacon to sleuth...
and wear to be worn down...
come... the 20 year gap?

           cherished plum! eye of my mind...
a daughter to be readily sanctified...
so cherished that she will have...
her... pride parade oops in white...
and..
it's a movie like no other movie...
since...
  the metallurgy was shut-down
in eastern europe...
the divisions and the winds
assunder...
cheaper does it...
but the quality...

   i still own a shirt... fathomed
in bangladesh...
     i could wear it for fifteen..
     but... given the currency of:
made to be easily exhausted...
the chinese "embargo":
nothing is to be traded globally...
if it is... it is to be manufactured
in china...

the lost currency of plumping...
and the new economy of:
time-eating...
        the new economy of:
ice-queen pirouettes...
                     the basking in...
detailing the artifacts of "absence"....
the eastern european...
metallurgy dynamic...
no black slave ever worked
in a coal mine...
           picking cotton isn't exactly
the equivalent of mining for coal...
this shirt off my back?
you can have it...

              adolescence of arguments...
who is to fathom the circus...
when... one isn't allowed...
paint for ogling scare and scared face...

this house... which i can't envy...
this story: which i can't envy, either...
this bride: this take on the in-laws...
this pristine... lie:
this "reality"...
this summation of cruxes laying
the path of X walking a "question" apart...

all that's anything worth...
a... lessening of humour...
when the reflection... extracted from
water... is a ghost...
a ghost-esque synonym of fading
memory...
the old reflection... born from water...
like the old forbidden fruit...
perhaps the fruit was...
to have... stated the a posteriori
niqab: consummation point -
that the gods were like us...
should we find enough water...
to peer into... and find ourselves:
the lesser of the apes: and half-witted gods...

then born from water...
a fading reflection... a ghost visage...
but... perfected... sharpened...
and now standing before
a mirror...
what was once a reflective piece...
of apparatus...
a fading clue...
had to become...
a reflexive: frankenstein myth...
a retort! an aghast and a horrowing
miasma of... borrowed...
vowel-consonant compensations
of... left-over reasoning(s)...

     standing before a mirror:
****... reflex comes itching...
talking becomes... breaking...
a solipsistic adventure in quasi...
but... taking to...
a reflection in a puddle...
or a lake...
or a glass of water...
or... a black coffee cup...
i lose the ability to reflex my
"circumstance"...
i reflect... i fade...
i marry the murk of the diabolical
waters...

as i re-imagine cinema...
9 hours worth of...
resident evil 2... walkthrough video...
which is not...
gone with the wind...
which is not...
     the director's edit of:
apocalypse now!
or ben hur! shy of 4 hours...

but this... game... walkthrough?
over 9 hours...
a cinema for...
post-hoc gaming...
     cinema-esque revelations...
old ideas: old hamster...
but an apparently new: wheel...

- the genius that conjured up a blatant
combination of...
an iceberg (salad) and some
mayonnaise...
     who might also...
curate the geometric skeleton
of square...
along... the bonus of...
the shading synonym differentiations
of...
the in between of when
blue came along with yellow...
and... bob's your uncle...
out came green...

                      the wrapping of a tortilla...
and the unpacking of a stranger's suitcase...
then the tortilla as the reinvented:
toast... because... sooner or later...
it will be known...
continental crows are much
fatter than their cousins on the isles...
except for the freaks they...
fatten with... black pudding and blood
soaked crumbs at the white tower
of loon'down...
  by that... murk of a river...
with no... blessing of a concept
of time... as... passing...
but... instead... bothersome...
because... it has... a tide... and hours...
subsequently...

                  it's not that subjectivity is "bad",
per se...
it's not like there's a way to
escape: being subjected to...
                gravity... time...
sure... the ++ benefits of being objective
about space: one can easily objectify
space...
but one... can't... objectify time...
beside that one time it was tried...
and so history became...
"something borrowed"...
clown and circus mad envy riddle
of marking bull *******
for the dough, and...
it was never... the hammer and the nail...
the sickle and the shaft of wheat...

because the stereotype hanged supreme...
the new... "capitalists"...
had a word to say...
but also managed...
what they managed...
the mug prints... the t-shirt... prints...
d.j. arcadia!
               prometheus...
           loan word bargain:
the carbon footprint of the collateral
social distancing laws...

       and what "talk" of love is there...
what pompous ****-ah-zoid is about
to lay the foundations of "function":
best... left... undisturbed...
        this lacklustre of the idealism:
love central: i'd love you tripple
and treble "good-time"...
make you ****... **** thrice...
******* **** go numb!
   fishing for shrimps!

              curl up all your *****:
give that... "excess" of *******
the geese-strutting... "bumps"...
                      
  here's to: any and every... imitation
junk-e and the yard to fathom a be...
here's to... any and every...
imitation... fast-trolled gimmick...
moth chaser...
like an exploding bottle
of carbon dioxide contained within:
the turkish buddha...
sitting akimbo...
               a feasing of... translation...
of a postcard with a DASEIN
implied...
no smarter than... the runner concept...
designed for... he...
who... would... stand... still...
and watch... warsaw and manchester...
grovel before the alter altar of time...

how can one be...
subjective about... space?
how is subjectivity... something "less"...
than objectivity?
time is subjective...
space is objective...
             i once asked...
i'm no einstein... einstein imagined
travelling at the speed of light...
light travels with our understanding of:
c²  -
           i asked...
what of...                  c³?
                the concept of light... cubed...
subjecivity is a purely communist
child... abhored... "wrong"...
to be the subject of:
the defenders of the crown!
  i asked... what of light that is...
stationary... c³... surely there must be an equation
to compensate a loss of the mobility of
light?

the speed of light: cubed:
thus stationary: light as stationary
expansion...
              
what is so... possibly wrong with:
the subjectivity...
because of the crown...
a communist variation is: absolutely wrong...
retards are being claimed to govern
new grounding...
because the smart people are all:
objective...
the novel and the novella written
from the perspective of objectivism...

subjective is ******...
objective is genius...
        that's the ******* motto!
repeat!
repeat!
              repeat!
subjective is ******!
objective is genius!
                 that thinking is
more important than feeling...
sure... and...
not feeling is most important
to give a birth to thought!
apathetic, solipsistic... semi-
if not wholly-consumed by...
an autism of capitalistic-objectivity...
and... sociopathy...

   for all the worth of thinking:
and... that thinking...
this prized asset of objectivity...
the keter... crown...
without... the subjectivity of...
the yesod... the foundation...
            schizoid paraphrasing
a last known unison of...
a constellation... somewhere...
and a universe: for some...

subjectivity is no wrong:
if you want to be subjected to...
reading a novel by Stendhal...
because to read a Stendhal novel...
to be without a subjectivity "bias"
is to... not enjoy
the act of reading to begin with...
one will be granted a "moral superiority"
as the objective reader of...
diatribe falsetto "journalist"
bogus print-god work of
satanic **** being glorified...
what's so... communist...
about "it" being subjective...
and what's so... capitalistic...
about "it" being objective?
  
the people "in the know"
who always want to be "right"... right...
subjectivity is bad:
because...
all the ******* time...
we can just.. "opt out"... from...
being... objectified by gravity!
i much... prefer...
the subtle cookie-variation of...
well... sport... son of sam...
i'm subjected to gravity...
by being subjected to gravity...
i can cut a crisp escapism...
i will transcend the: being subjected to...
and object to it...
and i will give myself:
Icarus-esque dreams
of closely related fathomability...

but i need to know...
what being subjected to said "thing"
implies!
i can't just... play the idealist...
and ping-pong... and object-object my way
out of this... "scenario"...

the genius of capitalism
and the retardation of communism...
while... the capitalists...
exported all their... manufacturing
jobs to... the crying dragon...
well... if not ****** then...
absolute genius!

subjectivity is bad...
objectivity is good...
"somehow"...
        i like eating pork...
i also like frying it...
           the placebo...
        anemia of objectivist scrutiny
statements...
who gives a **** if you...
once upon a time...
enjoyed eating a steak...
        you will not be subjected
to beef...
you will objectify beef...
you will drop these pills...
of replica... of the stated nutrients...
and you'll ******* smile
while you're at it! savvy? sputnik jim?!

a hour's worth of the refined
art of threaded silk,
could be mustered,
to constitute more of the, authenticity
of a romanian *******,
than, it might ever justfiy
the artless confiscate of a woman
with an Albian
monstrosity of, what, is,
a socio-historical convenience,
akin to a ****** skin:
why only the transgressor only
wish to *******, and your,
prudish presence....
as a market worth
some egregious recant:
without a basis of minding
reminders...
            one could claim that
a fathomability of a male
concept of the travesty of
marketing the fathomably
   sterile, is...
                 argue from the
confiscate of:
           but men do not become
impregnated...
              therefore shallow
oath-keepers...
         therefore: the subsequent
        otherness-exageratted: S S es esses...
                     and a pity as such...

the body of a man,
                the mind of a child...

                   it surely requires
no counter-contract
concept of empathy...
just a worm and a tilt of
a boot,
                 psychiatrists are
afraid of empathetic actors
anyway...

                   empathy is the one
counter to the pharmacologist
explaration of what makes
psychiatry a humanism:
  namely dialogue...

          remove that?
        
              something akin to
a cross between
a person, and a void...

       something, worth the scapegoat
and vulture vulture with
a backdrop of: how one branch of
medicine is, and always will be:
undermined to agitate
a "proper" circumstance of the total
sum of events...

                beer interlude in
between drinking pict ****?!
           more like an irish laugh...
sane, sober people were only asked
to buy buy, spend spend spend....
who can cure this format of
an unconscious addiction?!

and as ****** as i might be,
a kite without a string attached to assume
it being: boy to earth to,
grounded...
to no "real": with or without...
                    can't help but to love
the pop(e) music interludes...
    
           a bit like tuning into
northern hyenas 'aving a laugh
in essex topology...
that is later considered: english;
      the st. petersburg fat lady will
sort and mind out the details for
you, and me, and anyone within
the unfaithful vicinity...
  of: never attempting to take to
Detroit hard rap...

        well... ain't that a ******* wonder!
could have guessed your name,
if i didn't try to, really
try to remember my own.

hey!
stop exporting
your ******
culture!
mmm'kay?
******* blatant
bolognese...
just stop
exporting
your ****** culture!
guess what...
the russian don't
have a mcdonalds
in st. petersburg...
they have
a pancake outlet though!
******* losers...
    LOO.... ZERS!
what? because
it suddenly didn't
become fight talk
making summary
of a win and a loss
   social cohort
fathomability?
           losers!
                          d'uh!
comb-over trump!
       losers! d'uh!
the people most
paranoid about
the atom bomb,
are the people who
executed the use of it...
h'america...
           *******
h'americans!
               prized pundits
worth a *******
curly badger...
      always the ones
paranoid when nukes
come into play...
being the first to detonate one...
fighting over
nord keira doing
the mimic...
                 whatever...
have your detroit
               apocalypse.

we come, withered to the bone...
and some bon jovi mingling with a bust of nirvana...
hardly to become the beatles
and the clash
                          loop holes...
for all the people burdened with ample reasons:
to quest for dust...
and the fathomability of the scortched egg...
we are to heave the tomb of stone...
better in german...

they might make a spaniard blush...
"they": that incubating few:
throng...

      ist alles!
   hier...
                   grab von stein...
grave of stone...
hier: mein jetzt...
   herz von murmeln...

told to dig....told to dig...
to have nothing more than
a god to limp calling "it" dog....
leine und rinde!

i live: as the sanctity
of being the baron of my limbs...
this hunched... limping...
excess is my conan... "reprive"...

thus come:
the gallows' yield of laughs...
which are none: to make count of!