Goddess above me!
Snake of the slime
Alostrael, love me!
Our master, the devil
Prospers the revel.
Tread with your foot
My heart til it hurt!
Tread on it, put
The smear of your dirt
On my love, on my shame
Scribble your name!
Straddle your Beast
My Masterful *****
With the thighs of you greased
With the Sweat of your Itch!
Spit on me, scarlet
Mouth of my harlot!
Now from your wide
Raw ****, the abyss,
Spend spouting the tide
Of your sizzling ****
In my mouth; oh my *****
Let it pour, let it pour!

You stale like a mare
And **** as you stale;
Through straggled wet hair
You spout like a whale.
Splash the manure
And **** from the sewer.
Down to me quick
With your tooth on my lip
And your hand on my *****
With feverish grip
My life as it drinks—
How your breath stinks!

Your hand, oh unclean
Your hand that has wasted
Your love, in obscene
Black masses, that tasted
Your soul, it’s your hand!
Feel my ***** stand!

Your life times from lewd
Little girl, to mature
Worn ***** that has chewed
Your own pile of manure.
Your hand was the key to—
And now your frig me, too!

Rub all the much
Of your **** on me, Leah
****, let me ****
All your glued gonorrhea!
**** without end!
Amen! til you spend!

****! you have harboured
All dirt and disease
In your slimy unbarbered
Loose hole, with its cheese
And its monthlies, and pox
You chewer of *****!
****, you have ******
Up ******, you squirted
Out foetuses, ******
Til ******* you blurted
Out into space—
Spend on my face!

Rub all your gleet away!
Envenom the arrow.
May your pox eat away
Me to the marrow.
**** you have got me;
I love you to rot me!

Spend again, lash me!
Leah, one spasm
Scream to splash me.
Slime of the chasm
Choke me with spilth
Of your sow-belly’s filth.

Stab your demonic
Smile to my brain!
Soak me in cognac
**** and *******;
Sprawl on me! Sit
On my mouth, Leah, ****!

**** on me, ****!
Creamy the curds
That drip from your gut!
Greasy the turds!
Dribble your dung
On the tip of my tongue!

Churn on me, Leah!
Twist on your thighs!
Smear diarrhoea
Into my eyes!
Splutter out ****
From the bottomless pit.

Turn to me, chew it
With me, Leah, *****!
***** it, spew it
And lick it once more.
We can make lust
Drunk on Disgust.

Splay out your gut,
Your *******, my lover!
You buggering ****,
I know where to shove her!
There she goes, plumb
Up the foul *****’s ***!

Sackful of skin
And bone, as I speak
I’ll ****** your grin
Into a shriek.
****** you, ****
****** your gut!

Wriggle, you hog!
Wrench at the pin!
Wrench at it, drag
It half out, **** it in!
Scream, you hog dirt, you!
I want it to hurt you!

Beast-Lioness, squirt
From your *******’s hole!
Belch out the dirt
From your Syphillis soul.
Splutter foul words
Through your supper of turds!

May the Devil our lord, your
Soul scribble over
With sayings of ordure!
Call me your lover!
Slave of the gut
Of the **** of a ****!

Call me your sewer
Of spilth and snot
Your ****-sniffer, chewer
Of the **** in your slot.
Call me that as you rave
In the **** of your slave.

****! ****! Let me come
Alostrael—****!
I’ve spent in your ***.
****! Give me the muck
From my *****’s ****, slick
Dirt of my *****!

Eat it, you sow!
I’m your dog, ****, ****!
Swallow it now!
Rest for a bit!
Satan, you gave
A crown to a slave.

I am your fate, on
Your belly, above you.
I swear it by Satan
Leah, I love you.
I’m going insane
Do it again!

cheap write *******:

i almost wish i was bitter - but as i'm ageing -
it's not so much bitterness - a woman in her 60s
will say about her son:
well he's sorted his life out,
he's in his early 30s, has a job,
a wife, two children...

this man... has "sorted" his "life"...
more like when darwinism meets
existentialism -
hardly a sorted life -
a sorted life by ape standards -
not keikegaard's standards: if any...

it's not about bitterness -
but i would be more inclined to say:
early 30s, wife, kids... mortgage...
the rollercoaster is just about to start...
the kids: oh sure... cute...
until they start having a mind
of their own...
and... they will betray the senile
old fool that will come,
eventually...
and off to broadmoor with 'im!
life sorted... when the children could
almost be treated as pets...
fine! fine...

it's not out of bitterness -
i'm thinking... more on the lines:
i'm getting my years tally too...
i'm getting used to my own "solipsistic" routines...
it's not out of bitterness:
it's out of having my own routines:
my own idiosyncracies -
that i will take two ciders for a walk
(perhaps a dog would be better) -
and my shadow -
and take two home and drink them
with a tease of brandy -
and want to get to that sweet k.o. point
come 12am so i can,
wake up: frisky and fresh like a sparrow
full of song come 8am...
well... that's me...

i can imagine how symbiosis happens when
you shackle up with someone
in your early 20s...
forget doing it in your 30s...
my ship / my train has sailed... a long time ago...
i still can't find anyone i could
speak to about philosophy -
and to be frank? i hope i never will -
not now - when i wanted to talk about it:
no one -
now it doesn't matter -
because i don't want to talk about it...
i might slide in a sly ref. to something -
but... the aspirations for conversation
on these matters are... i would just tell someone
to buy a self-help book and kindly *******...

if women: hit the wall...
i've reached my impasse -
i have dug the trench long enough - deep enough -
i can proudly say it's a labyrinth -
and i'm happy in my labyrinth -
it's not much: but it's not a cage -
and this is not some bitter me:
woe me - blah blah -
i have routines - i like to sit an extra 10
minutes on the toilet - becauase -
i'm automating a massage of my prostate...
apparently... bid on this poker being true:
the fear of over-doing it and...
haemorrhoids... the same fear associated with
sitting on cold stones for too long
(ref. lethal weapon II - sam and martin riggs
sitting at the beach)...

but this is not what i was intending to write...
i've been trying to cut down on watching youtube...
i figured... what i should have been doing
was watching an english soap-opera -
akin to eastenders - religiously -
instead - i would have, at least: plenty more ref.
points...
but as for jokes... i make the odd "mistake"...

it's always like watching a paul joseph watson video...
i'm not a fan but i'm a fan of entertainment -
i must have a really low i.q. because
i find lee evans to be a rare genius of comedy...
old school funny - the body can become
a language for comedy -
you really don't need to over-talk the jokes -
after a while intelligent stand-up monologues just
bore me: humor of the monolingual crowd -
anagrams and... too many ciphers -
nothing wrong with your base crude of:
a ****** expression, the body itself -
the language can take a break -
but i must be really stupid for liking...
universal comedy... for me lee evans is a universal
comedian...

but this one video is likewise...
blackpill jesus - the inequality of the dating market:
it's over for many men...

and i'm like: those pro-life arguments are
just starting to kick in...
no... seriously... those pro-life arguments are
starting to kick in: right about now...
what arguments?
sometime in the distant future
an untouchable ** will come into contact
with an untouchable XY example -
long may they prosper -

but all of this is like... watching delayed...
abortions... walking abortions -
by: when darwinism met feminism:
and the two -isms lived happily ever after...
some people... really don't want to be told
they'll be walking abortions:
well: quasi-abortions... the living-dead:
by all standards of darwinian selection -
again... not bitter... routine baron -
but not in a culture:
we could talk about stendhal -
but we won't...
we could talk about bukowski: of all people!
but we won't...
we could talk kabbalah and gnosticism
and the nag hammadi library...
but we won't...
we could talk about music!
but we won't...
first sucker through the floral gates
of the ******: **** first in... head last out...
but at lucifer dived head-first from
a star...
by comparative images:
caesars were born via the caesarean section...
the rest of us...
let's just say: there's no more ***** envy
after a human head starts to:
appear from a place it never should have...

my 20s are a fog...
i might remember 4 odd *****...
one picked up from a club who decided to
take a taxi with me towing but
forgot she was riding with me
and did her usual: jump from a moving car
and not paying the fare...
which i later paid...
cocoon *** under the bedsheets and:
coffee in the morning with three homosexuals...

that south african: again cocoon *** under
the bedsheets - second time lucky for her...
but... is it technically "****"...
when she wants to ******* but is somehow
not aroused and she hasn't spoken to
any ******* about using some cream
and you little richard in that sort of purse...
sandpaper friction?

the black girl at my birthday party...
the right sort of cocktails...
the right sort of music: cedric 'im' brooks...
and then... proper coccyx ramming
that left me with a plum hue tattoo
in the eden of my ***** the next morning...
finally! a black girl with an *** that allowed
her to ram her coccyx into me...

i'll miss some... other... details from elsewhere...

but of course that thai surprise...
picked her in the park...
random as any lottery jackpot...
beers on the bench... more beers at the house...
some jazz... cigarettes in the garden...
later ****** in the shed...
walked the thai surprise home...
why thai surprise?
i wasn't sure... sports bra -
transgender "issues" were only starting
to come to the fore... "4 out of 10"...
tom boy haircut...
until the hand reached into the underwear
and i found oyster...
but prior to: thai surprise...

those ***** were free...
the brothel ***** are more vivid and... well...
there was always some kissing involved...
for some reason i can remember kissing prostitutes
more than ******* them...
with the "free women of the west":
it's more about... the sort of *** that is comparible
to... when foxes in essex come and mate at
night... you forget whether you kissed...
but oh sure... ******* sure did...

it's not sad it's... visceral...
work with enough raw meat in the kitchen -
curing it - slicing it -
rubbing it with marinade -
after a while you're no longer objectifying
anything: you're being subjected to it...

but i do wonder with regards to:
some people would like to know they're walking
abortions - the abortions pandering to the pro-life
argument... otherwise the pro-life argument is
a bit like: shackling - a safety-net guarantee -
or whatever: because what's the argument when...
there's the coming dissonance
of pairing?

perhaps i haven't said this more often than
i should...
of the books i've read... mostly french and german
and scandinavian existentialism -
with a tease of russian...
darwinism and existentialism can't sleep together...
that's what i originally thought...
how can existentialism reconcile itself
with darwinism: when it can't...
darwinism is existentialism for women...
the quantity: not the quality argument / line of reasoning...

i can't reconcile myself with darwinism -
a weakness or just:
there's just too much borrowed from a plethora
of animals -
so many studies concerning apes
and **** similis -
and even the mantis -
but... the noble swan and the phenomenon
of the widow and the widower swan...

days when you could just listen to
bloodhound gang's hooray for ******* and...
also find falco... you almost desire
to walk away from the sandpit where
the children listen to nothing but
philip glass and penderecki and speak
in sudoku language...
otherwise there's missing the middle ground
and reaching for the ***** and *****
of punk and... the scent of burning leather
wrapped in a ****** of stiched together
foreskins...

and i can't imagine... but i can...
cutting someone's eyelids...
and watching them... endure the subsequent
insomnia while having to plunge their
head into water ever 10 minutes...
******* is no help...
ear: eh... cartilege -
but the eyelids... we could be rid of those:
couldn't we?

because i know the potential sleeping in me...
i decided to arrive face first and meet "him"...
just so i don't miss the jinx:
i grab my ******* with one forcep of index
and thumb of the hand...
with the other forcep i pinch
the eyelid of my left eye -
funny... the skin feels... synonymous!

no, i can't reconcile darwinism with continental
existentialism:
as i can't reconcile the former idealism
of mine - not even after a ******* -
where's jack?! where's the jack in me?
but gym and squash and rock climbing later:
i was dating a crab and scraps were
the vulture's ambrosia -

what became of aphex twin? he slowed down
and that cul de sac became...
something known as burial - album untrue...
darwinism was always going to be impossible
to reconcile with: the role of humanity
beyond - it's almost easy to transcend the pure
animalistic comparison -
there's neither fire, nor the second fire:
electricirty in the nocturnal, feral heart of
the bottomless pit of anima -
currently: curated by over-stretched facts
and sleepwalking statistics...

bound to england for the past 26 years...
the closest i came was an: encounters of the third
kind with an australian oddity...
why would i date an english girl?
i thought they were into their pakistanis?
that's a question that's not a joke...
seek and you will find: mongolian-esque
rummaging...
the tartar "heretic" of crimea...

on repeat on repeat...
climbing over a fence from a darkened park...
came across a 15 year old running to and fro...
in the days when i still owned a phone...
tried to teach her how to roll a cigarette...
cleavage more visible than her neck...
reunited her with disgruntled friend
lying face down at a bus stop...
a black cat befriended me...
and this lass was running away from me
and toward me...
she texted about 20 people with my phone
before contacting her mum and dad...
and her cabbie dad later picked the two
of them up from a bus-stop at the tesco metro...
but of course prior to she had to take
a selfie of the three of us...

in the back of my head... the silent whisper
and the prosecutor simply whispered...
why not ask her to climb over the park fence
with you... and do the nightmarish deeds justice?

in england for the past 26 years: genesis aged 8...
and, well... "no luck"...
mongol attitude no likey-likey-lucky-or-lackey...
reciprocating "hubris"...
i guess i must be lucky...
come and go ******* like a nomad...
and: should i take myself more seriously...
invoke a talk about diacritical marks:
and those non-existent in the english language...
an octopus audience: the tenticles
do not count as 8 x 1...

20s... a complete blur...
and those vivid conversations in the brothel...
when i faked a death and managed to
get my overdraft limit increased...
and spent 4 hours in that ****-warehouse...
and was asked in the "interlude"...
wouldn't you want two at the same time?
i once heard:
the world is divided into men who have
slept with two women...
and those who haven't...

i gladly declined...
with two i'd need a room of mirrors...
hungry leech eyes need mirrors...
one simply can't have the 1st person shooter
experience anymore...
one would require as many mirrors when
*******... as a woman would require toys
to ******* with...
it might as well be called:
the mirror deity that spawned narcissus -
although - the more contorted
nightmare of narcissus -
the faces riddled with onomatopoeias
rather than words -
and faces that truly deserve to hide behind
a niqab...
or if the eyes become too fungus esque...
would require the samuel beckett's not i...
mouth like an intrusive phallus metaphor
of exposure...

in the past decade: well thank god
*** never became boring, routine...
it didn't require dressing up,
using third party limbs... and pieces...
*** was scarce - therefore *** was feral -
*** was never allowed a relationship -
*** never became familiar,
*** could never become mundane words
that would allow themselves
advice from some journo agony aunt column...
*** was a rarity -
and when it wasn't... kissing became more
important... and itchy fingers that
would read in braille the earth and its contorts
of a woman's body...
there was never a whip or a gulag
of infantile barbie imaginings to rule, either...

sometimes i would indefinitely try to catch
the certain days of winter when
spring blossoms prematured with buds...
if i was lucky... the magnolia bushes would also
blush...
and i would become a dog-***** of these perfumes...
walking for miles and miles per night...

the body takes care of itself:
trouble is... the mind doesn't...
better to allow it this sort of cameo cinema -
memory is the most ideal cameo cinema -
nothing i have mentioned is par excellance -
more... on par: per view...
if memory can't become a cinema...
what's left? nostalgia of 20th century cinema?
that can only live for so long...

as a "transgender" moment...
perhaps i can compete...
willingly ingest a tapeworm embryo...
keep it for 9 months...
then... ingest some praziquantel and ****
the little ****** out...
that's... the closest i'll ever come
to uniting myself with: the female ordeal
of giving birth: imagine...
the ego coupled the delusion the size
of the universe...
i really should start looking for a tapeworm
embryo... keeping it for 9 months...
and then... hey presto!
extra-protein pasta!

otherwise: oh sure... the would-be abortions...
only learn much later...
that they are... not the pro-life argument
they heard as embryos of foetuses...
they are... much to their amusement...
the walking-abortions they were to begin with...
while the pro-life arguments sort of...
die off... when... the fully grown...
self-aware specimen is given charge...
the pro-life argument dies...
the mortgage on a engagement ring...
the shackles...
it's only a pro-life argument...
until the incel mushroom pops up...
then it's no longer a pro-life argument...
ha... delayed abortion: slackers' argumentation...
yeah but no but, oh ****...

frankenstein! it talks! it breathes!
it's immune to all those philosophical cul de sacs
of arguments!
the slow death - the lack of gene motivation
tactic to: pass...
ha... to pass...
in the vicinity of the courageous virus...
shockwave reminders of: genesis vivo...

give me the fully formed xenomorph...
but a genesis vivo: akin to the film LIFE?
wouldn't you believe it?
form... a xenomorph has a concrete form -
a rigid square is...
well... it's not an imploded square -
a hyper-geometric revision...

modern anglo-speaking world and...
milan kundera's existentialism:
i will only kiss when i close my eyes -
but nonetheless -
i will open my eyes when kissing...
because i'm bluffing...
and gambling on... the hope that...
even the sofa "architecture" of a woman's
body reclining to entertain the 300 spartans...
eyes always open...
daggers for eyes...

upon the zenith close -
i imagined myself to be more...
buck-tooth antics -
trivia and encyclopedic knowledge -
pub quizes -
*** on wisteria lane -
no mongol horde ever passed the clefts
of pickets and homebugs...
and this... grand sanity project...
people never seem to go, truly mad,
from... gossip.... glibs...
or soap-opera immoralities: of flacid oopses...
perhaps it is true:
most people never go mad...
what horrible lives they must lead...

perhaps that is very true:
so true it deserves the bells of nortre dame
to echo...
inside a can kicked down a street...
kissing a ******* is not a basic immorality...
having toy soldiers and wars of lies -
and soap opera demagogic dramaturges?
wasting other peoples time with:
there's no crease in a sunrise -
when there are no clouds to stage the subtle
detail of diluted hues of seeing:
a giraffe's belly when it's lying on
the ground?

some people never go mad...
and they do require language to be as strict as:
what's precursor formal -
dear sir / madam...
and every time they try an informal: oops...
it's never on paper...
but always in a mouth that's exploring
the fermentation process of a glass of wine...
me?
gods' **** and gods' blood...
cider / beer with a tease mrs. cognac:
that's the elevated status of whiskey via: née:
ms. amber.

could i be a father and an alcoholic?
no... ever time i tried to exfoliate my own language,
my... idiosyncracy, my solipsism,
barriers and people reaching for...
prime navel and crimson as the standard
colour for lipstick...
one can only stomach so much...
before treating oneself to a hermit's adventure...
on the odd chance... giving coordinates
of the day-to-day...

i would have died a decade prior...
if i didn't find voyeurs to look at a language...
that cannot be spoken by someone alive:
among the living... to the future dead!
i was alive once, too! to the future dead!

When did news parody
stop being funny?
Was it somewhere between
Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in
and Donald Trump’s hair?
Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London,
or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations
(bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)?
When did the news
start doing Chris Morris’ job for him?
When did they start
pre-satirising the headlines?
“No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government.
Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for *******.
Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina.
I swear, I didn’t
make any of those up.
The actors on Saturday Night Live
are more statesmanlike
than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning.
How the hell do they breed these
creatures?  These gurning,
overgrown foetuses with their
conveniently dead ****** sisters to get
all wet-eyed and tumescent over,
their boomingly hollow controversy and
their total, catastrophic
crashes of personality.  
These loathsome
organic constructs who would seem
more relatable and trustworthy if
their image consultants made them wear
Nixon masks for every
public appearance.  

When did it all become
this strange, sick spoof
of itself?

Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich?
Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats.
Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it.

Okay.  
I made the last one up.

a minor amnesia - nonetheless it happens,
there's another word for it...
skleroza: spontaneous forgetfulness...
this fickle creature that's memory...
thankfully i have a stash of about 5 major memories
that i like to revisit...
play them over and over in my head...
since... i'm not on the crux of death...
well... since i'm not...
i have become more prone to exercise
the freedom of memory than i might want
to watch a movie...
trouble comes when i'm not my own d.j.,
in a car... heading toward... ******* IKEA...
in Enfield... where the phlegmatic crew of
dodo are this close | | to learning the arithmetic
of time...
a song on the radio... Belinda Carlisle...
circle in the sand...
in between talking with my father...
                  nothing metaphorical about that...
- so you know how old bob marley was
when he died? 36...
- you think he would still be touring?
well... he wouldn't need the money...
**** jagger does it for the joy...
          
i can't write narratives...
it's not like we're estranged...
but... it's complicated...
i think this is one area of my life i will keep
off-limits when writing...
i can be as honest about ******
as i can be about horses...
the narrative never took place...
believe me...
we talked about a range of things...
morgage

then when we came home an hour
later than expected...
she (dearest mother)
was probably drinking alone...
throwing little tantrums of me and father
alone time...
well... not to mention he was absent
from the most crucial years of my life...
from 4 till 8...
how does the ugly side of immigration
look like? brain-drain...
we: the diaspora members...
away from the motherland...
for the "better life"...
i too am playing catch-up...
how did ol' Leo frame it?
every happy family is the same...
but every sad family is sad uniquely:
in it's own unique way...

   get Wittgenstein to sort this
tautology... i'm not going to bother...
come to think of it... it's not even
a tautology... a tautology would be more
focused on thesaurus rex...

we had a conversation about football
and music... re-mortgaging...
even Bowie remained true to music...
he probably didn't tour...
but still made new content...
singing about mortality and ****...
i think i'm having this playback moment
in my head...

but then this song came on the radio...
magic fm... belinda carlisle...
circle in the sand...
all of a sudden i had this urge to listen
to a song, that song reminded me off...
oh hell... exactly: what was it?
the search began with: 'the message'...
mc-****-fartery...
      round and round...
jokes aside... i had to listen to belinda's
song on earphones once more
before the "revelation"...

  it seems obvious... "now"...

nik ******* kershaw - the riddle...

exactly... how did i get "the message" wrong?
two strong arms... blessings of Babylon...
blah blah: toe-tying-riddle...
almost like good luck is expected...

come to "think" of it...
a revelation... even though there's that monotheistic
focus on the patriarch...
puppet... strings...
missing *******...
i'm having a hard time not thinking
that ha-shem... the nameless father of hey-zeus
and the ha-ha-mighty blah-lah-al
are not... primarily... feminine gods...
well... conjured up from a ****
rather than a working 'ed...

they're irrational... and can be reduced down
to... the three heads of Cerberus...
they are never really depicted...
worded sleuth pulp fiction harlequin traps...
most artists?
oh **** me... even the ****'ites would agree...
get your eyes to focus on something...
that's how much i dare to admire Islam...
from the ****'ite perspective...

what ******* topic is this?
i was about to pour myself another drink
and this thought like a blitzkrieg came
flushed from a ******* in the universe
where all the gods and nothings
congregate from indigestion and
constipation...
a ******* miracle: a diarrhoea moment...
of sorts...
the monotheistic veneer... of "patriarchy"...

what?! she wants a ring of gold
and my ******* too?
how about a tent's worth of a kippah
on my ******* tonsure?
a man would require a screwdriver...
a hammer... nails... screws...
it would make sense to have many
involved... than this pressure of solipsism...
vampire... succubus... leech...
a ****** hail mary...

**** speak...
                    so great... the technological advances...
atheistic secularism...
but there's a ******* grid-lock to mind too...
no a ****** dam...
a rich cognitive custard...
it's just that: a cognitive custard...
like Moses rekindling a belonging concept
along the lines of being lied to:

monotheism hardly serves man...
i can find appeals to the illusion it presents...
but... hardly...
looks like the "plenty of fish in the sea"
metaphor is drying up the concept
of a "catch"...

the conversation with my father are
off-limits in my purpose of writing in the first
place... unlike a Knausgaard...
i'm the drinker... he's the teetotaller...
he's the workhorse i'm the... chicken-scratcher:
if i had ink...
but i'm also probably ten beaks pecking
resounding at this... grand... oh my god...
******* piano of QWERTY...

genius idea... what?
qwerty... because the orthodox memory erosion
of the alphabet is of any use?
suddenly everything has to **** me off...
it has to be dipped in still water...
it has to be believable...
monotheism is concretely a religion
designated for the preservation of women...
why my *******?
oh... because if you don't have it...
i can... ******* at a leisurely pace?

that a woman can ******* without inhibitions...
while i have to be shamed?
*******, *******...
i don't even have enough slander to express
what my heart reacts to these days...
i don't have "hurt" feels...
i have... agitated feelings...
thank you for waking me up from my numb...
apathy...
but what do i hear? "hurt feels"...
****'s sake... those people don't even recognise
what feeling is supposed to feel like!
they're all french footballers... "hurt" all of a sudden...
wow! so...
"hurt" is translated into the parameters of:
feeling per se?
imagine my shock finding out that
apathy has dulled "i.q." to so little that...
you must be hurt to feel...
you can't be spontaneously agitated...
you must be hurt...

bring out the hot horseshoes...
let's have some fun branding these *******-waggling-
***** aside...

just wait for the breeders to wake up
to having children that turn into freely-arranged
agents of will...
i'm passing through a decade where there's
boasting...
but sooner rather than later...
there will be some hidden mention
of those... pickled-cabbage:
why do the 'indus find pickled cabbage
"funny"?
not eating beef sounds pretty funny...
or like that "proverb" from Morocco:
there's no water, in the desert...
then... what... the... ****... are... you...
"doing" in this, here... land of replenished
roots?!

******* camel jockeys...
what do "they" call them, proper?
sand-*******...
it would take a Bengladesi to get
smart notes on the caste "system"....
Aryan has no origin in Europe...
it probably originated in Indian when
they first came across Persians...
who are... oddly... "pale"...
but have not bartablondine aspects
of their ****** expressions...

ivory skinned like an Iranian or a ***-
without a suntan?
"you" wanted trenches...
here's my designated plot...
"you" wanted ******* to overshadow
real.. culprit-esque concerns...
the jealousy of a woman
knows not bounds...
most especially when a father-son
privacy is engaged with...

   if i ever encountered male jealousy...
it was always rare...
almost never...
         but female jealousy? anything...
everything to belittle the opposing "authority"...
ha-shem... the jealous deity of women...
blah-lah-al of...kept secrets stashed in the niqab...
allure of the ******* eyes...
come on...

****** ******* mary:
that matriarch of sold foetuses and
walking abortions...
at least there was something adventerous
in conceiving the existence of Loki...
of Thor...
there's nothing... original about the point
of monotheistic gods...
that there are three...
is Islam the truest of religions?!
they had a Sunni ****'ite schism... didn't they?
once again:
i want to believe in something:
to give me momentum...
give be a willing acceptance to excuse...
an overarching stressor of incredulity...
and a... "what life"?

well... existence is...
out of every instance: a persistence to:
instance... a persistence...
that's... existence... ex-
out of...
and stance...
dis-ease... a negation of ease...

there will be plenty more of those car
journey listening to magic fm...

an "original": whether mind, or thinker...
that mythology of evil that the Nazis provided...
******* Armani suits and boots...
or whoever designed them... Hugo Boss...
what are we left with,
to mind matters of collectivism?
the evil of censorship instigated by...
halfwits and ******* haemophiliacs?

a myth of evil that could be...
galvanised... momentum and emblem...
what's on offer... currently?
grey-suits and...
expectations: that it's the "21st century"
something magical is about to happen...
what's the difference between the 20th century
and the 18th century?
the 19th century...
so what's the difference between
a pebble, a cliff edge and a mountain?
don't know... a river? a lake?

that same **** different cover excuse
like some wonderful was going to happen
in the 21st century...
like there was a promise...
where is this **** coming from?!
oh yeah... but it's the 21st century...
i was hoping for gravity to ******* and turn all:
short-circuit awry...

i can pretend... for a while...
but after that while passes... i turn into a real mystery
of a door **** gone berserker...
are there these societal expectations
to simply **** **** the next...
blow the next... ******* origami of OXFAM
purple-fest whimpering "dead-doughnut":
although i'd cry... if it was a stray dog
from the streets of Seville...
******* camel-jockeys...

  it's not even a inhibited play on pronouns:
there's no: "they"...
i thought the trans-lobbyist covered the plug-hole
of cognitive-****...
there is not "us" or "them":
gender neutral is me...
armed with a strap-on ***** on my ******* forehead...
a bit like... that hebrew practice of...

so i had me a "friend: a fwend...
maybe that's cornish for something in velsh...
you know how word salad sounds?
on a persistence?
sure... a son of divorce...
what am i? his ******* uncle?
his mother undermined the concept
of al dente spaghetti...
we're talking fractions of people...

people eat ****... leave the universal utility
of pork aside...
mind you: not water in the desert...
and not piggy too...
the leather shoe... the belt...
it's not exactly kosher... is it?
i have this backlog of a peoples...
at least a priest only attracts confessions...
i'm not at knife point
easy... for this triad to work?

if my fwend mentioned cognitive custard...
but the concensus of word salad
is socially broke on the norm...
so blah blah boo'yah assortment...
enriched strawberries...
juicing much later...
i can understand cognitive custard... pie...
but a word salad?
that's.... what doesn't deviate from
solipsism... this solo "project"
of "you and i"...

                       psychiatry is persisting to be
deemed a branch of
the Hippocratic oath....
but it's not...it's pseudo-"medicinal"...
it's hyped-up... idon't remember
that junction in a life...
hardly worth lived... just lived...
of my 20s... what mea culpa stressor of
those psychopaths?
currents under the broken wheel of...
attempts at supressing..
momentum? this whole ******* "flake"
of barrage?

by word salad you're implying i
have, speak... low i.q....
    non-hieroglyphic suede...
non-answerable... past replica...
woe wow salad...
but how i understand it...
a cognitive custard...
well... thinking is messy:
you ******* dim-wits!
        ought-i: thought...
i don't like being ridiculed...
or expected to her a less i.q. than what's...
nuanced at a ****** favouritism... Balkan-esque...
seriously... *******: before i ****** someone...
ugh attached to that: wind... now there's a purpose...

yeah... so what's what?
this is the least of my "concern"?
well... as they say in the west...
as long as the brain-drain happens...
we can forget about keeping the native 9 to 5ams...
sort of... but hardly... justifiably...
less than expectedly...
capitalistically boast: not exhausted...
sort of...

i can understand cognitive custard...
meddle some more...
word salad?
your ******* ****- nig-
of sorts is speaking your language better than me?
******* sour crass of a native's ***!
*******...  and you deserve it.

You came too soon, the four of you,
into this world.  Your mother,
recognising the feeling,
did what she had to do
to give birth to you,
cleaned you,
disposed of the afterbirth
in nature's economical way.
But you had no experience,
no knowledge of how to be kittens.
Almost still foetuses,
furless, unmoving, cold,
you did not stimulate
her maternal instinct.
She did not recognise you
as her babies. Lying against her belly,
you did not know how to suckle,
and she, not ready to feed you,
walked off.
You had no future.

A bucket of water, I thought, would speed
your departure from the life
you had barely started.
But you, recognising the element
you had so lately left,
were at home in it,
swam untroubled under the surface
like tiny, pink sea creatures.

Unwilling to watch longer,
I gave you a quicker end.
Your mother, unlike me,
resumed her life
as if nothing had changed.

we are all falling
and eating our eggs
so blindly we eat them
we chew up our teeth
like a mouthful of chairs
like a gathering of bears
like a discordant tea party
we lap on our legs
we love all our swines
we swallow our foetuses
we plant pretty flowers
and consume each other’s mouths
like we’re trying to really taste
our mouths are so dry
we saliva each other
our insides are outsides
we are all sea creatures
we are all so wet and bubbly
we are so blatantly in love
like drawers full of teeth
like hands full of piano keys
like carpets soaked in birth fluid
we all are so slippery
we’re blinding our faces
we’re deafening our toes
we’re eating our eggs
and we’re falling

you learn it the hard way, you actually can drink warm shots of *****,  provided,  you have a brisk, Icelandic chaser, notably white European Bison *****, and apple juice infused with mint...

pije, pali, konia wali...

it has been agreed, a drunk man is half
the miserable sight of a woman...
no wonder a woman *******
is more appealing than a man,
who shines.., like Louis XIV,
******* in a lightbulb...
            ha ha... ******* want *******...
and there I was, thinking that
bottle of alcohol also ought to have
warnings about any *******,
other than oral with a pregnant woman...
wonder... does alcohol really harm
foetuses, or does the constant banging
of a cockrel do more harm than
awaiting sunrise good?

hence the question, i don't know.

pije, pali, konia wali...

as a drinker, in company?
i can have a social drink,
my grandmother had a nostalgic
hallucination of a taste that
provoke memory, so I bought her
a porter beer...
and we drank it together...
książęce: aromas of honey,
coffee, rührkuchen und
bitterschokolade...

grandfather simply replied:

koniec świata;

now the IVF part quest for ****** chills...
citation granny, is no citation
worthy of the urban lawyer,
frozen egg + spe4m donor factory...
the part where I'm cited as "******"...
urban mongrels contra
                  rural pedigrees.

pije, pali, konia wali...

there are but three ways to clear the head
before the excavation of a blank
page... rarely it involves addressing a delayed
slightly constipated dump...
but sometimes it does...

pije, pali, konia wali...

           then it also takes doing no.
1, no. 2 (as mentioned above)...
and no. 3...
                 i have no idea where ****
additiction comes from...
i'm more of a claccisist in this field...
moving pictures do not really
stimulate the mind to work off
a stattic picture...
    if you never did no. 3 i. e.
****** off on the toilet...
                 because you never bought
a ***** mag with your casual take
on the metaphor of smithfield market...
or you've never been,
driving to it at 1am in the morning...
coming back with half a porky corpse...

pije, pali, konia wali...

I think people are confusing objectivity
with ***** subjectivity...
like any clean cut of a scalpel...
or like eating a soft boiled egg...
you crack the shell, leaving the papist
yolk, intact...

pije, pali, konia wali...  

at leat objectifying a woman
does not subject her to the cring worthy
labyrinths of emotional men,
or whatever the hell cheating is...
   or juggling...
        ****** off at fine art,
only once did I bother to explore
the ****** extension of latex...
a kinda of bedroom niqab fetish...
but most of the time...
static images, blood down below,
paths of imagination in the head...
not to mention that ***-mad mongrel
that **** my leg...
luckily I didn't kick him,
but politely asked... are you finished,
and ready, to hunt a mare?

pije, pali, konia wali...

******* what?!
   classical *******...
whatever happened to the tabloid
page 3?
   apparently men with recoding hairlines
have more testosterone...
apparently watching a woman's breast
releases, whether dopamine
serotonin, or... as the cigarette quote
goes... Oscar Wilde?
    the most pristine five minutes,
that leaves one (mm  hmm...
a royal pronoun,  both singular,
and plural, for a pleb that's minus
the entourage of leeches...
mind you... why not the common
slang of sycophancy in syco...
that Y... not tree not serpent splits...
hollowed out... to differentiate
from the other,  crude grafitti of
******pathy, shortening)
    most disatisfied...

pije, pali, konia wali...

perhaps j. c. is the king of kings,
but i sit on the, throne of thrones...
no. 1, 2 and 3...
    no scented candles,
no... god... cursed the theistic joke...
a woman has to *** squatting...
a man just stands...
than again: bigger bladders?
*******, easing analysis muscles,
jerking off to static nudes...
how is it on the other side?
moods, scented candles, lying back...
literature that ought to be
read with one hand?
        d'uh and the *****...
sure... g. i. Joe of a boy aged 8
when Barbie burned in th stash...
out comes Ken 2.0...

pije, pali, konia wali...

easier for a man to stomach a hand
as if it were done ****...
than explore beyond the floral pouch...
than... getting a manicure...
and... not using the Vizzz...
the Vizier... hardly a comparison to
encapsulating... snoring...

i always ask the intrigued relic of
dating... so... you want to hold
my hand, or is male maturation
so grotesque that it has no...
voyeuristic appeal?
   well... thank **** for that!
with my little finger I served
poached, a former hydra behemoth...

the knowledge of, good and evil...
                                                X
which isn't exactly a mistery of +...
   the conjunction translates as X,
cross-eyed... not +...

pije, pali, konia wali...

                      it's easier calling it
the no. 3, considering how...
sitting on the throne, apparently
masages the prostate...
hence the stigma it would seem...
no scented candles...
no grand whizz of faking headache
and snoring of excavating dodos...

pije, pali, konia wali...
    
ah... back into the syco contra
****** and the hollowed out
Y question...
                         σý-co...

         'sigh-co...

hence not so much the hollowed-out
Y... but rather, akin to gnome gnostics...
the particular instance of
surd letters,
not being clothed in surd attire...
     elsewhere diagnostic...
otherwise in the already given example:
   'nome...         'nostics...

yes, i know, the borderline 'sigh-co...
psst... as happens, when letters
ignoring greco-semite
        stubbornness,
remain syllable amputees looking
for torsos of words....
magnetised limbs mechanic...
letters primitive, bound to syllables...
not the greco-semitic
construct of names...
       shortcuts with the NATO
alphabet is the curse of 15...
   a ******* worth of a telephone
conversation will not craft
an originality of either Aleph,
Omicron, Ayin, or Omega...

       may i remin you the greco-semitic
stubborn ram... ploughing
constants in science?
aha! ****** music thought...
no one really heard of
rotting christ or
         mícháel greilsammer...
last of the Roman sons...
sang arias of castratos!

pije, pali, konia wali...

     finally! ad the title implies...
what's the diffrence between
a man buying shoes,
and a woman buying shoes?
probably the packaging,
or more to the point...
a man walks into a shoe shop
wearing old shoes...
he buys a new pair,
buys them, puts them on,
packs his old pair into
the newly bought pair's shoebox...
and walks out with
his new: economic sketch
and the concept of recycling...
primarily because i've never seen
a woman buy a pair of shoes,
and walk out of a shop
wearing them...
   not once....
      and thank **** it rained hail
and razor rain today,
after post-noon greenhouse
suffocating toffee sun...
and the sky was painted a continental
grey & plum as the earth gave
its first, authentic breath of spring...
not once, have i seen a woman
buy shoes... and walk out
in them, putting the ones she
wore walking into the shop,
among the moosehead trophies,
skinned furrs,
and her, other,
      hunting expedition catches...
into the insomnia and iron
forest, of foraging for sales.

thank **** i had an existential
****** looking at me,
as I put the newly purchased shoes
onto my feet, and the old shoes
into a carrier bag...
    in those rare instances,
as true as: mould the iron while
it's lukewarm...
          come to think of it...
this is french existentialism
in the open... unable to encompass
a voyeurism with a guilt
of a peepingtom or Cambridge Analitica...
pure existential voyeurism...
guised Edenic...
     out in the open...
       bound to the habits of
man shopping, for shoes...
                 rather than a woman...

hell, hades and the high-water mark
of a tide...
      
     (he) drinks, (he) smokes,
   (he) smacks the monkey...

     if you didn't know, already.

i don't get it... actually i'm against it; i simply have no idea
what these natives are talking about...

come to think of it, having acquired the tongue on
secondary recommendations, i'm literally acting out
a: what the ****? huh?

gender neutral pronouns?
        well... there's you, and there's i...
      that's pretty neutral where i come from...
      i'm not about to spell out either
                  h e l e n...  or
               m a t t h e w for that matter...

or as ha-satan said:
                  you sure about this ha-shem /
******, she-he, ha-she, ha-she-she,
                           hash...

******* fiddlers, the irish, hobbit people...
    gonna shrink into a microorganism any time soon?

i already told you the gender neutral pronouns!
and that's how we usually talk when we're
formal and not endearing, and personally
enforcing the conversation, we don't associate
people with names...

we have two simple gender neutral pronouns
you might use when buying cabbage from a farmer...
hey! you!
                                        aye aye!

the **** are these people on?
        i actually wish they were on acid... i really do...

i just went through 3 tiers of taking a ****,
which means i have greater concerns than what
these ponces are getting cold sweat over...
                      honestly... you have to be really kidding
if you take to these grammatical transgressions...
because they are grammatical transgressions...
     now... if you said: my grandfather was a communist
party member...
                 i'd be like... so he has a decent pension?
and you'd say: yep...
                     he's a vegeterian in the morning,
a carnivore in the afternoon,
  and a cannibal in the night when he eats
out my grandmother's *****.

                             he's thinking of oysters all the time
after he's done his due.

   eh... the irish... thank you j. r. r. tolkien -
          i can't think of the irish without thinking of
the furry feat of midgets...
                                 oh i'd gore their women,
for sure... they have these cheek bones so plump
that it's almost like a hard-on for slavic eyes
   that are quasi mongol...
                ******* these women would be equivalent
to watching a full-moon...
                             ******* hobbits...
          a giraffe sticks its head into an elephant's
           ******...
                  what do we get? far sighted animals.

but it's true! i can't stop comparing j. r. r.'s
hobbits with the irish... the scots don't fit the bill...
the welsh are quasi celtic...
                        i'm scratching my head at this point
trying to revise the problem i have
with the linguistic ****** in the west these days...
look... i acquired this tongue, i didn't inherit it...
but even i know the reasons to not abuse it...
   since these days? it's a joke...
           and it's not a good joke either, it's
no lee evans or an eddie izzard type
   of slap-stick vs. awckward body language humour...
      
ah... ****... go   oon! **** a hobbit!

            yes please!

              but there are gender neutral pronouns
already in place!
                   an atypical conversation

- hello, i'm Helen.
  - hello! i'm Matthew.
  - you a he / she?
- dunno... you             i   or   i you?
- huh?
  - you having an outer-body experience
    or not?
- what's that?
   - what you called: concerning a fake *******
   but no womb; but sure...
       your visage is 100 per cent proof fuckable.

i can't believe native speakers of this zunge
  deformed it to the state where it's like
                    peter the great's collection
of pickled foetuses aborted due to their deformities,
stashed on display in the st. petersburg
museum: kunstkamera... hmm + a ******'s
                       glum smile....
         kunstkamera... photographs
                                       of female genitals.

why have the natives abused their language so
much?
            i and you are gender neutral!
                          what are these retards on about?

oh, and advertisement, καπριτσιολογια's natural ******* offspring works well with the perfectly pitched representation of the dynamism on the scales of cross-parallel social strata (i.e. "psychology" / social standardising en masse): a new york grid system: square square square, rectangle, square square square: shoeshine popsicle goldfish pig's trough.

i found the investments of psychology
all too unfathomably capricious,
where the ratio of theory
to full-extent concrete proofs is a solution:
in that when one theory fails
another two emerge, and so on and so forth,
in that great existential ******
of dream interpretation, the golden cockerel
of freud glees with anticipation
to sprout a gigantic volcano gush of microscopic
life to enter the great **** eye that
cannot peer into itself and consider
both being and nothingness, as the great
ego eye of man does from the fully formed foetus
nimble footed and thumbs on the ready
in the grand coliseum of life - just a great
fishing net where once the mighty fisherman
st. peter caught fish, now herr anti-sanctus freud
catches foetuses of frogs - the womb the water
of these paradoxical amphibian representations;
psychology, the study of dreams, the extinction
of soul - apparently even asthma is unaccounted
for, the way in which thinking becomes
what thinking always was: a malignant capricious
medium pulverised by five vectors, and
the sixth a form of two selves: the selfless and the
selfish... dragged down to the molecular
degeneracy of explanation using genes,
but not protons neutrons or electrons - that's
reserved for the sun, the planets and the cosmos.
indeed, if psychology is the study of breathing
and not the study of thinking: imagine
what a hot snarling and wet breath raising
a voice in anger does to a cosy psychologist sitting
in his office, surrounded by ******* figurines
and african voodoo masks... sends him running...
the inverse form of asthma, asthma with words,
the angry asthma, of uninhibited thinking,
pure vocalisation of emotion...
no, i think less and less of psychology...
i think i'll just call it *καπριτσιολογια:
the study of caprices, the study of whims -
e.g. a guy walks into a McDonald's, orders
a big mac in the following way:
- yes, but no lettuce, no mayo, no cheese, no
  onions... just the bun the meat and ketchup.

i’m not here to pay my taxes
blah!
octopi strings attached into thinking
i’d down a bottle of *** without the hawaiian angels!
to hell with you!!!
she’s
the last cause i have of me,
but it’s
the one that makes billions accounted for
in history, dead numbering 70,000
by only one historian's care for facts, that's
when history is dyslexic with numbers instead of words,
it says: solomon's appetite, the reverse onomatopoeia
recorded of hum? mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... *******
waves of virginia ah wooooooo!

*um um dumb d’uh 9 oh 6, 5 ah ah index pinky 1 2 3... ******* retards... throw that alsatian off the red brick wall to learn a few mannerisms of broken feet! i’ve had enough! pickle those foetuses in brine for emperor peter the great to intercede! i’ve had enough of the philistine peasants! i’m going coo coo in the artefact of the rolling composers loosing it in the muzak spectacle of the st. petersburg fountain; give me davy jones’ eternity on loop without insect ***** or interactant activity of the interpreted state of affairs, for the dictator to civilise his “insects” and reel in a misery that could never be a puppeteer’s excess shadow of string with the shadows wholly formed into balance of a hand picking up a stone excusing any excess of cobweb to interfere.

A strawberry red bale
that gratitude was dale
but her waist ran a bijou
a chestful day in May  

and her thigh was derry with such a motif
that was ye trumpet from Sunnyvale tonight

where her sweet tooth went ravishingly bare
while incredible vibration she'd shareware
indeed, a variation hypnotically sound
like her chestnut roasting bonfire where

tactfully dressed in love attire
we happen to know that travel so far
with the web now our thoroughfare

and dire by dawn fit her ankle again
that entail her sprangle
though her selfie is the grandeur soon
with foetuses In her bottom.

i summon and conquer your dreammind
with ghosts of aborted foetuses
and we rampage through the corridors
of your indoctrinations.
knock on the doors and you answer
with your deadmind ex nihilo,
manifestations of deeper fetishes,
like the one where you
want to fuckkids and have that power
because you have nothing.
your life is nothing but a bookend
waiting to fall off the shelf.


*n u drag ur naked body thru the blood n the glory of a fight that still has some losing left in it. u lick away ur bruzes n sleep in catatonia coz ur mind fuckedya. had enough but it was pillory n stocks n u swim on the back of a nightterror. still u drag that useless body thru gravel n rocks n icecold water, washing off the dust n the silt n the beggared belief of the siren call of a dream u had when u was young but now its gone n ur left grasping at the pebble of a memory that was once a mighty boulder but time has weathered m worn its face n peeled away all the best parts until now it is smooth n useless n small, an insignificant little morselpiece of what it once was, and u turn it round in ur hand n bury it in the silt.

if you asked me, i'd tell you
that i started reading the master & margarita
in st. petersburg...
then in the warsaw airport...
and that i liked tsar peter's pickled foetuses...
but that i found the hermitage
a bit leopard-print leotard tacky,
i mean a little bit ****;
nah i mean really really **** ha ha,
i mean it was like a carboot sale in essex of a gallery:
classics just jumbled up, a junk shop in the least;
homelesssness of paintings invoking
a translation of the cube into traffic parallels:
like a desecrated jewish graveyard of paintings
stacked against each other like tombstones.

Am not writing to whom it may concern
But to the poets whose silence i want to discern
You are the prophets of the
Word
And if you mute you earn our world no profit
Am worried you have gone hiding
And abandoned your call of writing
You have denied your pens the justice
And you have played mute in many instances
Where is your voice?
Your fingers have slept
And you haven't poured your heavy soul unto the paper
Why are you not talking about the evil that has cast a blanket over earth dwellers?
Don't you feel this tangible darkness that has enveloped our planet?

Where has your voice been when fathers have been sleeping with daughters
Or it no longer matters
For mothers to lie with their sons?
Why have you spared your ink
And just watch as kids stop taking milk and water and fight over beer
None of you has been bold enough to write about that man who betrayed his nation for a piece of gold
Have you forsaken your mission?

Your silence is too loud
Are you dumb of the warning sirens
And like the ostrich,you have buried your head to the soil with pride
I wanna know why you have played dumb:why thee borrowed your ears to the waters and non of this you hear
And our women throw their foetuses away like a man doing open excreta
Arise oh writers arise and wipe away this coming darkness with the light from your papers for when the good are silence its evil done enough
I wonder why writing pads are clean
Yet men have stop desiring man and are siring thoughts  to woo men  
Why have you not quoted the scripture to condemn this abomination?
"Behold woe unto to man who lies with another man"
Are there no writers to pull of this dark shirt of evil we have donned?

Am not playing saint by asking these questions
But my conscious is burdened
I need to offload this nagging from my shoulders
Only you poets who can set my mind free
So arise African writers
Let your pens bleed the truth
Two wrong never make a right
But what you write can rectify all wrongs
For prosperity will never forgive a man who goes to sleep during the day while goats eat his barn of yams

the **** euthanasia scheme would
suit people like me with
a dermatology problem, wouldn't it?
i'm up for it to be re-introduced with
those *****-soaked tears of motor-neuron-disease
wheelchair bandits...
**** you not i'm all up for the hospital beds
to be serving Panzer brigades...
they can claim the god of warring for all i care...
just get me off this aquatic asteroid pronto!
**** your little excuses for slip-ups,
get, me, off, this, *******, asteroid!
i've seen women begging for a curb on their
reproductive capabilities after Chernobyl,
don't entice me with *** changes you ******
entitled: supra-feminism... eat your foetuses
after they passed capital punishment against
my life in the bedroom of some egyptian peasant...
as i'll say only once: if you're going
to **** me... **** me properly, so, that, i'm, dead!
i don't have time for living it out as a *******;
what now? no *****? yep... the man is
gonna sing an opera à la castrato to the tunes of Michael Jackson.

we just provide the bang, you provide the number of bangs as necessary to craft an execution of poetic extinction via ideology of supposed "survival" with executing the myth of Dr. Faust, because too ridiculous, which begs the question: so Darwin and the Galapagos turtles isn't a good joke akin to some pervert inspecting butterflies who turned out to be a ******* - because of that cherry skin buttocks?*

all this LGBT thing going on
doesn't appeal to me to
reproduce, i just can't be bothered to get married,
i can't be bothered feeding
heterosexual labour
with the end product being higher prostitution
of surrogate mothers,
you have the power to grow ***** into
foetuses and designer babies, i'm not
necessary given this passive-peace;
i'm liberal up to a point,
after that something horrid takes over...
leave me alone, get the ***** bank to be completely activated
and surrogate mothers the new prostitutes accomplish
a new stratum of earning and spending:
heterosexuality is dead...
or if alive it's what enslaves...
i'm no longer the necessary the body to provide
choice, science over-powered man,
not unlike man over-powering nature
akin to china and india,
but over-powering nature unable
to out-number nature's example of ant of termite;
oh indeed the power, and family as pathological...
enslaving nature limits our growth,
liberating nature dis-inhibits a care to gain power over
when still the earthquake and tornado and hurricane...
science is merely millimetre and a gram!
why take faith in itemisation of such nature
when satiated with dinner you take the dog for a walk
and still look into the distance without clear
dissection - because you do not dissect a living thing,
and when science dissects, it presuppose the thing
to be dead, whether dead or alive, but in chemistry
and physics the thing is either too ridiculous to be alive '
or too grand to be alive -
yet the popularisation of a biological theory
is like the birds & the bees, and the hives, and the candlestick
wax made from pollen of what could have been honey...
biologists are the nazis among scientists,
because, i mean, they're not exactly surgeons,
or medical students, are they? they're about as useful
as psychologists when you have historians
and literature students to make the healthier point of *huh?

Long I remember
When alone I’d run
To the sea side shores
For sandy mud-pun walks
On where waves lengths strength
Stretched and end reached
And never passed
And on cliffs patched
Where nests all sea birds
Was a shamble of noises
And a squabble of fights

Some were stealing from others
Others were killing others
Many were murdering in angers
Little were busy battling hungers
Rest were roosting and resting  
Grooving and grooming

Sporadically, a Tern would call
Kwi! Kwi! Kwi-kwiii!
He would gather his feathers
And fully beautifully display
Their clean preened length
Before her maternal mate
To strengthen their eternal fate
And she would appreciate
With gestures affectionate
Her lover’s majestic exhibit

A pair of Puffins pretty would come-Penguins and Magpies black-white coats
Rainbow beaks, puffed cheeks and orange webbed-feet beautiful creatures
Innocent as ever, active as always with mouthfuls of sea foods-fishes
Irregular, her wobbling gait weighed down by her food and hasty walks home-
Worried hurry to luckily escape being bullied and robbed his foetuses’ foods
Along the long ways home full of lethal ruthless poachers and predators:
Feral opportunists and scavengers lurking near paths to their nests
Pitiful I’d feel at how unfair nature is to these hardworking birds
And helpless how they would surrender their hard-earned meals

With Hornbills’-heavy headed huge beak, Ducks’-webbed feet
Fowls’-heavy flying body and an imbalanced Penguins’ wobbling walks
She can’t match the Petrels and Ravens merciless ruthlessness
The Gulls’, and Kittiwakes’-scissor sharp beaks
The Hawks and Ospreys lethal hooked beaks
The Gannets’ and Kites cheetahs’-top speeds
Or the sitting Sea-Steller swift lift of their wings strength  
Piteously he surrenders his hard worked worth meals
And risks another long journey back to survive

A Gull would run, chasing the receding waves
Fast pick a pebble-like coloured sea shell crustaceans
Then poke his long hooked-edge beak
To peep and see if there was anything worth to peak
Of the wavy tides hustles and the sea-side buzzing bustles
The patience of waiting, of watching and of walking
Before the stealth Stilts, their competitor strides
And another giant wave of waves roars and come calling
And they wiggle as they walk and run to escape his sad slaps on sands

The Walrus and the Otters
The Sea-Lions and the Cormorants
Would all nest to rest invest and reinvests
On their furs and feathers fond interests
The Seals and their pretty Pups all would leisure
In colonies on wet large rocks far and away
From washing-waves and terrible-tides and sea-sands
And their Bellow and low and moo like loud grumbles
The irregular moo-mee! Dins of the fish markets rumbles
Would fill and drown the sea-side sounds
Mother besides kids-compassionate
Protecting its investigative innocence
From the cruel colony crushing crashes

Then there would come the tranquility of twilight
The much awaited time for all sea-lovers and watchers
The last of coastal day’s romantic rushes-lovers large leaving to burn their passions
A time when lovers would leave their cottages comforts hand-in-hand: arm-in-arm
To cuddle and cradle and canoodle-to freely display their amorous love
In the sands and mud’s pads, last before the sun bids them another goodbye
The mother of all coastal auburn burn magnificence-the setting sun
The colours of the coastlines as the sun burns touched the ocean’s horizons
It so an enthralling, captivating sight of the sun and the sea and the scenic serenity

The nights quiet with billions lights of signaling stars
and the midnight’s silent with the gleaning moons
These are the nights of the most patient, passionate, romantic passengers-the night watchers
Beautiful! Munificent! Glamorous! Awesome! Splendid! Spectacular!
I’d use all the adjectives there is to describe the alluring scenery of the moments  
So precious-so peaceful to the mind, to the soul and to the heart-a holistic healing
The captured memories of the stars studded nights and the magnificent moonlit midnights
Alone in the nights with just the silences of the soothing breezes on the palms fronds-restful!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

and for some reason, whenever the night sky engages
with me: i feel no lessening of meaning,
no dictate superior -
not that i can't grasp something -
or shove myself into the sky beyond
atmosphere -
     it's no the universe that makes me feel
inferior, dwarfed, insignificant -
i count the bodies in a linear pattern -
plumbers, electricians,
   chemists, doctors -
   its this unanimous collectivism,
faked-staged as individual rights that
bugs me...
               oh i'm not jealous -
    but let's face it:
      to speak for the entirety of humanity:
is to not speak for any humanity at all...
man's insignificance doesn't reside
in the stars, in pillars of men standing as
tall as to tickle the constellation -
         it's so much more linear -
in that, the man next to me sees no stars,
sees no heaven,
but only: the next day -
and an art, or profession: that demands him
perfecting it,
       solipsism is thus in the guise of
a placebo effect -
   yet so few fathomable re-entry points -
to put the thought behind in a crevice
of shadows...
        and are men not twice the foetuses
when compared to women?
     a man's ego will forever remain
a foetus-like creature -
                simply because the universe
is feminine -
in that a woman has the "burden"
of carrying through a new, beginning -
which is why a woman's ego will never
be a foetus liking -
  unlike the man, who has an ego that is very
much foetal -
       we contradict by compensating
metaphorically -
         and somehow that leaves us
less contradictory that we might think...
   a woman's ego can never take to
a foetal form, a woman is already
the carrier of the universal -
   which is why so many, if not all women
"lie" - well, hide truths -
and write such terrible books,
if any...
   the moment a woman writes a book
of truths, is the moment she is abhorred
by her ***...
women don't write truths -
a man will stand fully attired in his
nakedness, while a woman will stand
in a burqa -
    peering, so little revealing -
                    the joking poker player.
man is twice the foetus to a woman -
since he emerges from one space of mystery
to another space, of even greater mystery...
a woman at least has the upper-hand
on man by incubating him for one part
of the flux...
       what has man to offer by comparison?
two world's worth of two *******?
      another thing,
i'd love to be included in this debate,
even though, i think so little of it -
      this consensual *** gimmick -
what do you call losing your virginity at
a university house party, where both
both of you are drunk,
   and she decided to go lie in your dorm room,
prior to the end of the party,
and you go back to your room,
and want to fit in with her in a single bed,
and you start kissing,
   and then you begin to engage with
her in *******,
you're drunk, she's drunk,
  but then she suggests in a sober fashion:
matt, put on a ******...
    consensual, or not?
    so you put a rubber on,
  and lose it...
                      she's 21, you're 18...
what was non-consensual about that
sort of theatre?
      could it well be, that having *** while
drunk, pivots on the crux of:
put a ****** on?
i remember testifying for a friend in
court, his phone was stolen while we were
walking,
   i told him: write that number-plate down,
then in the police station i recognised
the ****** from among the 20+ mugshots,
he didn't,
   while in court the ***** lawyer
showed me a picture of the "defendant" -
it was 2 years old...
so i said to him: so you're telling me,
that people these days have all made
dorian grey pacts, and don't change?
  what i i told you that i could probably
don a beard in 5 years?!
the case didn't end well,
   simply because my friend couldn't
identify the mugshot of the culprit -
     and people might mock while i believe
in a god: for one - the universe is a stretchy
womb - and i'm twice the foetus in it...
for another reason: people haven't exactly
mastered jurisprudence -
they can be all cocky when it comes to
laws in science -
but in terms of the lesser laws -
     people know as much about relativism
as einstein knew about quantum physics...
that being said: very little!
       it would be hard not to make a mistake,
einstein was a physicist of the telescope,
of course he would have faltered on
the level atomist investigation -
you don't suddenly get to play with
the heavenly orbs (planets, stars) -
and then get to play with the ants
  (electrons, neutrons, protons) -
       knowing the big doesn't exactly imply
you'll get to know the small,
                                 and vice versa;
and as all men are: we are twice the foetus -
women? only a foetus once -
and then the incubator of constellations -
of man's ideas and thoughts...
  women are only foetuses once...
men? twice...
          and there are so many secrets women
haven't, and never will tell -
no matter how much they "think"
they're written -
     women will never tell the ultimate
truth... it's just simply impossible -
and with the end of life -
man is still ****-naked in eden -
while woman is dressed in a niqab -
peeking through a post-box at the world...
it wasn't muhammad's invention
to create the niqab or any muslim attire -
muhammad revealed the koran -
and the arab women "revealed" the niqab...
and then muhammad was like:
the **** is this!
        and the women said:
well, if you've spoken to
the angelically-handsome gabriel -
try talking to us a second time...
         how far does indeed the scorn of
women flow, to the pits of tartarus
where queen sheba, queen of jealousy,
strokes medusa's serpentine hair of
serpents...
     the oppression was created by women,
there is nothing manly about
putting a ******* wool bucket over
your head and pretending to be a calamity
jane ninja!
   i can't even begin to think that
the islamic attire was created by men...
   surely, after a few centuries,
arabs would become the new jews -
i.e. whitened, michael jacksons...
    you sure enough vitamin D is being
ingested, surely they'd start to become
whiter...
          like the jews did...
  but now, still the same old arabs as
before...
       let's face it: was coco chanel a man,
or a woman?
                 so why would a man give
two farts to the wind's worth of fashion?
don't ask me, i'm drinking,
and i just told you how i lost my virginity
to a drunk psychology french exchange
student,
   and how i feel no guilt having lost it
drunk, and her drunk,
   but the words: put a ****** on -
as being: well, that's consent, alright.

it's language, of course i'll be desperately self-conscious and worried and ashamed like i had been caught with a thong, attempting being a transvestite; i'm a man, i ought to be on a building site! instead i have about a hundred chinese per head tailoring and making things tick... what is this ****?! what, everyone had a poetic potential in them? so poetry has become an excuse, the art of excuses? hey! eh! play the jockey part, i'll do the moaning from now on... be the cashier at a supermarket, i'll do the dying bit of the existential convention of the many trades being advertised to foetuses! well obviously when you make music free all art forms will follows; everyone forget Newtonian causality? good... which means you'll all be artists... in your spare time; i do truly wish i had the inhibitions of a labourer, a smithy, at least then i'd know my life was full; rather than being a scarce exhibitionist as guiding the normalised feeling of inertia, coupled with hopes via the digits of readership.*

i can't do anything more
to this poem:
a Hackney hipster (live editing);
i can feel the shame of not
owning a cupboard and putting
it in there, dyslexia what have you,
html typos etc.,
i guess i'm just worried
by the speed of your reading
misappropriating it to
a different meaning, and
undesirable activity via quote into influence
of expression that shocks people
and gives them straitjackets of hope.

I

for weeks prior to your death i sat with a premonition
of bad writing and a toothache -
not that i ever thought much about my writing -
or that i would have to think very little of it:
more on the lines of - id est quid est -
                                      mind you - i took my mind
off writing by working in the garden  -
the pergola had to be erected so an evergreen could
be cut down -
and the wisteria that was hugging it
could be cleaved from it and dropped onto the:
prior mentioned pergola...
there was some light cement work on the fence:
a little trench had to be dug so the neighbour's
weeds would not burrow beneath...
                all that since i last saw you -
come late july - most certainly - no... wait...
come to think of it... it was late august...
me and your son-in-law (my father) were driving
across all of europe -
and on the way back i remember the heat on
the belgium france border...
                 it was an immense sensation of
whale lung thrown onto a frying pan of a stoney
beach... or at least: the sensation of stickiness
is how it could be imagined -
                perhaps that's how you can ever
begin to read a bruno schulz's cinnamon shops -
immediately from the first sentence:
that barrage of ultra- something or other:
ubergrammar - no... just that necessary style i am
yet to accustomed myself to...

II

that was 3 months ago - and i'm still learning
that: we live by regrets and memories -
which are hardly sins -
just as i remember, you'd say...
'call me every month and check up on me,
call me up and say "hey grandpa! how's
it going?!" i know we both can't talk
on the telephone - to talk you need to see
hands move, you need a face to peer at...'
that is my regret...
although the last words we exchanged
were about you wanting to buy me the rest
of karl ove knausgaard's mein kampf...
which, 3 months later, i knew you would...

IIIa

i've finally sat down to scribble something
down - if i were using my right hand
and a pen on a piece of paper
you'd immediately recognise my hand-writting
and tell me how unrefined it is:
that i'm chicken-scratching -
that i write like: kura pazorem -
   and i'd tell you: precursor of the next
stage in the process: i'll be typing
through and through...

      you died on the 23rd of october
at 5:30am if i remember, 5:10am
sounds better - circa -
            your wife (grandma) called
circa 11am on the 22nd of october and left
a message - i was out walking
complaining: how i'm not alone enough,
premonition after premonition -
she called in a confused state although
i beg to differ - that you were heaving
your last pangs of life
in a hospice - or that she just placed you
there...
i had my ticket booked for the 24th hoping
to catch you: just yet...
on the 23rd i was told at 8am...
your daughter my mother told me
upon waking, then left the house to pretend
nothing had happened...
i got up, cleaned the house...
i begged a deity or simply ex nihil that
i might cry that i might be left with
a sinking sensation...
by evening i was sitting with a headache
worth a siamese twin and hardly
welcoming the next morning where
i would fly out...
    sketchy: barely any details...
and that's how sorrow, grief, anguish...
began to creep in...
the tears your daughter cried...
i would gentle waver in a pseudo-dance
with her in the bathroom
as she cried into my shoulder
and would later
blow her nose into my t-shirt...
it pained me that i was unable
to release my heart from these piles
of rock...

IIIb

it's the 1st of november: guy fawkes night...
i'm sitting sipping a 30% cherry *****
and pretending to chase it down with some pepsi...
3 months ago i told you i quit smoking,
i lied and i didn't lie:
i continued to smoke 2 a day -
when i wanted to write, when i pretended to write -
and on the odd occasion that i proved
to myself that i was writing: i smoked 3 per evening...
hardly the usual pack a day...
3 months ago when i last saw you
i didn't smoke a single one...
for the last 3 weeks i saw you...

IV

the most vivid image i have of you is you
picking up knausgaard's autumn and reading
an extract about eating apples -
how he never leaves apple cores -
just eats the whole apple so that there's
a pleasure and then a debt at the core:
of bitterness -
i pondered this twice on a walk...
if you leave enough flesh around the core...
three bites along the length of the apple...
and you fiddle the apples seeds
with your tongue and teeth...
there's hardly any bitterness of...
eating an apple like a magician...
hardly any lesson invoked concerning life...
but that wasn't our usual conversation:
you already exhausted your cameo cinema
of memory to the point where
i would remember the surnames /
names of the people in your life...

colonel zydaczek in your days
as a military gendarme...
on parade in warsaw...

V

the intricacy of the hell that is family...
i can't be fooled about how unhappy your marriage
was...
kept for reasons of propriety or some other:
safety mechanism or the best kept excuse imaginable...
what might have been preserved if...
say... if i were the sort of man that was born
into the 20th century -
                many years prior to 1986...
you would have been a great-grandfather for
at least 10 years...
it was hardly necessary to be the only grandchild
but that i was... and remained...

VI

you're dead and i'm still three-quarters alive:
how can i write some solace for myself:
how can death become this spectacular cut-off
point where i can no longer harvest
any memories of you...
you're dead and i'm lingering -
not completely debilitated:
just unsure whether a mountain is this
grand metaphor for something
that is:

today i tested whether grief is an aphrodisiac,
i ****** off to humbert humbert's
fantasy since it was already freely
available and felt no need to go beyond
what was already taboo...
then i took a shadow and i knew that
if on high: herr omni- c.c.t.v. cyclop eye
would not be looking at such details...

you're dead and i'm not going to beg
for rhymes and odes -
to write some miraculous epitaph -
beside cutting up onions today -
tears! finally! tears! i managed to cry
authentic tears once more!
it only took cutting up an onion to do so!
but, with such tears...
no softening of the heart -
heart's still a stone...
and brain is still... hardly a whirlwind of
disposed thoughts
and only: pickled with eye, ear and tongue
extensions:
pretty hoarding fungus chappie: sort of...

VII

i'm happy to tell you the world is still
"happening": whether by concerns for dasein
or a lack of thereof... but the mud / **** flinging has
never been greater...
you took the best of what autumn had to
offer...
a bouquet of bronzes and geld,
of frivolous yellows and burnt orange translating
itself into bold deepenings
of transcending prime artifacts of:
her gown of sweet scented rot: of(f) brown...
you should have seen the light
as it married itself to a fleeting of once
formerly amen of green...
the blistering sky as blue as a aristocracy of
angelic blood: formidable events took
place: i imagine you were in conversation
with someone...

VIII

the ceremony itself was unspectacular...
if the restrictions weren't in place:
i imagine many more people would have come...
three women stood out from
the rest, i imagined them to be your
former lovers...
i stood at the entrance of the church
not wanting to talk to anyone...
closing my eyes i moved from side to side
like a tree teased by the wind...
you were attired in prof. trim of navy
as i was... black can hardly be associated
with mourning or with a funeral...
i chanced upon navy...
grey was also visible...
but black is for paupers / plebs...
something more refined was in order...
navy or a darkening - charcoal grey...
we talked about this: or at least i imagine it
to be so: black is reserved for
priests and for crows...

IX

since your death i have found a return to england,
every time i left you, i left dear mother,
poland,
i guess not anymore...
since the headache of all the formalities:
and your son (my uncle) being so unbelievably
circa 50 years old...
never mind... and your wife (my grandmother)
i landed in england as i only landed
in her ***** only once prior:
the first time -
hardly excited like the first time -
but content that i... don't really have anything
to return to: that feral land...
for the first time i can become
so carelessly formal: expediently pressed
to poker my stay in those black-holes of
a land: you were dying like a patriarch
of former communism when
abortions rights were atheistically pronounced
and liberally secular...
the women came onto the streets
in protests of their rights being removed:
that they would have to give birth
to deformed foetuses...
notably? because by biological deficiency:
they would still have to be born...
since ****** or **** didn't play a role...

barbarous land of catholicism...
and all this time i was like:
so... what's it like then?
i ******* into a tissue and flush it along
with the crocodiles...
am i committing genocide?!
if i were given a fixed amount of *****!
perhaps... but this ***** comes
like glue or salt in the oceans!

Xa

in the prosektorium...
             the dissecting-room... the morgue...
after all... i knew that walking around town
and putting up the necrologue would be easy...
3 x 100ml of ***** bravado and i was:
pirate-chested hairy!
my long coat and all the your pearls of beauty
would start calling me gwandp'ah...
the bureaucratic details of your death:
someone had to identify you in the coffin...
i was expecting something: completely different...
i'm not sure someone can prepare
you: prepare you seeing a dead body...
esp... a dead body attired for a ceremony...
hell... i've seen a roadkill before:
a fox... i kept feeding a fox for a month...
seen a fox up-close...
i imagine a dead body "by accident" is a lot different
to... i've seen a  man knock another man
dead - one blow to the head
and a pancake on the street...
it's a bit different... seeing someone...
so well presented: for: the ceremony...

Xb

upon entry i remember the colour of the tiles:
what a bewildering window-shopping
reference, a sponge of a waiting room,
i don't really knew what it was that it was
supposed to be waited for:
identifying you:
you adamant to not get new porcelain worth
of teeth: milkshake baron you...
slurp up the rest of your meals...
i supposed... you and your missing
prosthetic teeth...
but first came into view your shoe:
which wasn't yours...
but as an extension of your feet
i guess it was...
it was "just there"...
             NUR DA...
                     peeping from above
the horizon of the coffin...
teasing me before i would come
antlitz zu antlitz...

arms folded: immaculately cut fingernails...
a bruise from the igrawka
of dryp dryp dryp...
your sunken cheeks...
your lips stitched together:
yet your sunken cheeks...
your inability to borrow a jaw... strong enough:
that pearl of a pear of your chin...
your frivolous last expectation
of the already lost hair...
of course i couldn't be a pure
atheistic / materialist -
i was a child again: i wouldn't call it
a soul: i would call it
the sigma-of-animation...
the sum-of-animation...
obviously this was missing...
that detail that essence was lost:
the earth implored for the body to be
paid as ransom...

but there you were: face somehow
recognizable: yet returned to the generic
project of the dead, the babes
and all those daddy-long-legs
anorexic models parading exhausted
beauty on catwalks of:
skin a leopard... dress a skeleton etc.

now we have conceived that:
i want to drink to tell the truth...
i will not revise this like some comedy
sketch:
it's not the best i can do:
it's all i can...
let's not pander to critique or a lack
or audience...

Xc

i do remember a "little" detail concerning
you...
you were a philately enthusiast, weren't you?
no wonder only i among the closest kin
wanted to sleep in the room
where you least heaved:
spewed some blood and were
surrounded by books...
and there be postage stamps!
i "stole" 4 albums with a collection of
them... i hardly think of selling them
to pay for electricity...
believe me: sooner i dead in belgian
euros or swiss franks at a dignitas clinic
since i'll be left completely solo
than have to...
sell them to sustain myself...
but as it happens... your wife...
my grandmother... was furiously tasked:
well... tasked me...
with withdrawing the 500zl per day
of all you 7000zl worth...

money money money:
i do wonder what grandma will spend all that
money on...
i don't think i'll want to inherit:
but these stamps are...
well... i have photographs of you from
1965 when you were still a young man...
but you were my grandfather:
i own your identity card...
with a photograph taken circa 15 years ago...

the circus / the church already stated:
you have died you are relieved from
all things temporal...
why the spatial details at all matter:
coordinates "hier" coordinates "da"...
and "sein" and "abwesend"...

you became a brother at the funeral...
you were no longer hierarchal with contest
for power broking future and past...
my brother: not my grandfather...
the priest: father, said so...
       *******' load of hierarchy:
fiddling sputnik violins from kindergarten...
roman catholicism...

grandmother still stresses her upbringing
ever-more...
she still thinks we are vermin-people
and that ****** should have started
with us rather than with the hebrews...
you and i know that's
a ceremony of: no comment...

how would you have detailed this approach:
i know how you would have:
it's not even worth mentioning since
we would already graze upon a superiority
complex with an inability to brush it off
with a laugh...
because we wouldn't laugh...
it would be a a headache to detail:
and i was born with this "other" half
included...

XI

look! we're nearing the devil's dozen...
which comes to the clue:
13: as jesus the hey-zeus!
       proto-paul and the propaganda
of how the hebrews and the wounded greeks
overthrew the romans...
ruled for a bit... and then...
come... the ottoman turks...
sort of... gave head....

XII

we could joke: ich: the plural ownership of they,
ich: haben - that deutsche and i,
one might always expect a dog to bark
come the night...
no no... this all too much detail for all:
the necropolis of poland that's nuanced
egypt - they have to buy up lease
for their graves...
carve out graves without dates of death:
they buy out 2nd mortgages of pyramid
democracy and crux...
the hebrews left pretended to giggle:
hard torn with the ashes...
me buying up history which could
never compete with an anglo-1960s
detail: snippet...

XIII

that i find an oyster wriggling in
the shell that's a skull that's somehow
a chewing gum's worth of a tongue...
this phantom of ***** white that's white
that's also stained with burgundian lashes
of agony of sipping wine
while spilling it over the cranium
of golgotha...
scalped...
learn to detail this new graffiti....

XIV

i talked to Paul before i took toward
the darkness and two ****** pretending
to be virgins upon the mt. of Kierkut...
he asked me how tall i was...
then he stood a step one above the tally
of my count, above me...
to measure up...
  and as he talked i had no face:
he would only concentrate on the region
that was supposed to be an ownership of
my heart...
once... i talked to a nurse on defeaning
tube train...
i was lip-reading...
but this thief: he told me... Piccadilly Gardens
of Manchester...
in the prisons with
the russians... and those that punched above
their weight... would inject vaseline or
whatever might... cushion a "sudden"
disappearance of knuckles to
make a full-fat-pouch of a fist...

poluse... not ******...
this guillotine measured "short" would bemoan
his luck with women...
around us... women walked like
sacred cows...
any old mongol would have... would have...
soud-hampton high on Herra...
this is just after your funeral...
i had to take a walk and pretend to
breathe and own a dog...
my list of excuses writing you
are drying up...
what with the promises of the islamic
republic of the world...
all these untouched all these
unloved virgins of the wriggling harem...

XV

arktyka - antarktyka -
antarktyka - arktyka -
             sąd - sad -
  sad - sąd -
      judgement - orchard -
           arctic - antarctic...

XVI

an... AFFOGATO...
well... that's 30ml of espresso...
and... a scoop of ice-cream...

XVII

what daughters-in-law there could have been:
if... bread was skimmed...
and the milk was...
trickling down from heaving...
stones instead of believing oneself
to be a courtesan of cows...
what promises governed the hebrews...
when... for what was their lot:
and subsequent loot...
the qurun drilled a blackening portal...
the arabs celebrated...
the russians would always inherit
siberia...
estonia was given  snippet
of the baltic sea curated by the danes...
lithuania shrunk into memory and beyond...
germany frau benß fur immer merz...
the huns / gargoyles in southern greece:
i.e. and northern macedonia...
balkan pirouettes of detail:
regained pride...

ah! ya!
ß = "z"
s = s
c = k
z = "c"                 jawohl!

XVIII

herrbittebonbon!
and your finger sticky from all that
SS-toffee...
translation: herr! bitte! bonbon!
which you always were...
the 1939 prior to the "adventures"
of the 20th century...
which sedated the grand yawn
of the british empire come
the zenith last exhaustion of
the 1960s and then some
"tremor christ" quasi canadian
for the finicky "end-of" summary
of a ******* football match-up...

the ottoman Janissaries vs.
the egyptian Mamluks!
   vs. the Mongolian horde!
                 in german it must sound
universal:
ist der straße gerad(e)?
to hell with asking in one's native
spreschen... future bent... nuanced got...
this returned alt vater spreschen...
i come with a shadow that
king arthur combated...

XIX

i would be writing a wriggle of russian:
if i were also writing enough finesse of
diacritical detail(s)
but given this diacritical blank:
dyslexia prone pro-latin english
UMPIRE stutter EMEMEM EM...
i would be: but apps don't work
with cyrillic or ancient turkic...
chopper
čopper... wait... what use is that...
extra P?
            çopper?
hiding the "jew" the god... the mammon...
H - one leg one arm of
the tetragrammaton...

        i don't actually mind...
it's not a conspiracy low i.q. "theory":
the dictates of rhyme and fact...
best posit a revision of
punctuation:
the hyper-stressed: newly arrived at
jerusalem kippah brethren are:
insomniac: "somehow"!

it's more a: huh?!
"they" missed the poetry train
and the hyper-cultural-reinvention
of the 1960s... still stricken-blind by
what... erik lehnsherr (henry hillside)
had to endure...
what are these puffs of blistering
a pyramid a sight... these halves?!

like we'd had to total: amost...
a crew of party poopers...
we were we are... these shadow-deafness
"equipment" best excusing:
           für immer fortschritt!

     tsukunft: in ergets nit...

  so much for hebreq married to germanic...
and not to the neighbour... zunge...
yiddish wasn't born from ****** tonguing
long: oi! oi! lithuanian spears!
the last remains of paganism...
by prior to moscow... blah ah ha ha...

it's not like the jews married themselves
to ****** or russian...
they said their jingle-bells with
pseudo-germanic:
yiddish... didn't they?

**

i've just seen a corpse readied for a funeral...
coffin and all...
walking through a graveyard
at night is... all too easy...
come to think of it...
i want to sleep in one...
my mortal democratic oath:
i can wait...
no matter...
give me two sponges and enough of them
soaked in acid to wait...
allow my tongue to get drunk...
my ears to succumb to deafness...

how you could deviate from german
with a spice of the odd 'ebrew...
you could...
yeah... i'm one part convinced this
secular niqab tactic does work:
as long as the arabs own
all the yachts and the air-conditioning
and all the camel milk and leather...
but... once they show...
entry points for disgruntled
mongolians...
        
        my corpse is waiting
for the 22nd century for all this to become
a promethenian platitude worth
of yawn as any... prior:
or future:
but thank god...
i'll be left without having made
any genetic investment...
perhaps an idea of mine...
perhaps some artifact that i allowed
myself to keep for a transition
period...

der ende!
as it happens... the world is...
my grandfather died...
i have little concern for the better half of it...
i'm cradling a wound of a quarter...
i guess that's how you
contest things passing guised in
matters of a temporal inquest...
however it goes...

drunk this night...
sober... two nights solid tamed with...
the worst kind of sober:
a socially expected sort of horrid;
a 14 day self-isolation presccription;
otherwise? me?
jog-friendly... whiskey and cat's whiskers!
*******! birth of h'america come
november!

empires die in afghanistan:
among the pashtun women.
oh yeah... lived for being fed the soul
of Karen and Mr. Surprise: a Gein Mommy's
Lover Boy -
butz the baconz iz oh soz sizzlez! ya?!

a raw challenge of words - not some tartar genius -
it's a "question" or not - and it's a roulette -
it's a gamble -
it's: words not roasted -
words not roasted in an oven of academia -
esp. oven roasted via a masters in arts:
english lit. or jane austen studies - majors -

i can't exfoliate just yet -
i have to catch the midnight train into tomorrow...
because - "something" needs to be tended
to - and i'm about to become
a very responsible nouveau adulte...
i have no time to talk about philosophy -
how i found the time to read it
is another matter -
but talking about it...
seems pointless if... not also weilding
a hammer - heidegger's:
can we talk while doing something else,
menial - and escape the banality of breathing
by on the side - supposing thought?

the crux of the hammer and the nail...
and this talk - or no talk - escapism of sorts...
the isolated words to be "thought" about...
"representation content" and...
what... "what": "reality" is made of...
a speaking that has to return back
into the yoke of thinking -
and not something as practical as...
hammering nails in... ad infinitum...

knock knock... who's there?
Descartes who? Descartes i doubt the table
but not the chair i'm sitting in;
ever knock knock on a leather chair?
there's no superstition of "jinx" associated...
or i could just as well be drinking...
my "thinking" is already
on the train about to leave: come midnight...

raw tartar steak of genius -
words not baked via an oven of an academic
degree in the direction of... modern linguo?
my way all the way back from:
esters RCOOR'
aldehydes RCHO...
carboxylic acid(s) R-COOH...
all that but above all this...

the austrians really do know how to
make the best coffee...
something a christoph waltz would say...
the austrians are (a)
the germans are (b) - high, low - whatever
floats your boat of comparison -
and i do only have an address and a name...

Der-Franz (Vienna since 1929)
A-2512 Oeynhausen
Sachers Strese 7...
hazelnut flavour... coffee...

hans landa eating a strudel -
is probably the best strudel in the world...
and on all days...
but this... it's also a hugo boss uniform...
it's crisp cut... and...
say all you will...
when a girl might wish for a cindarella dress...
any boy would wish for a hugo boss
that clean cut and readied
for: being ironed twice daily...

as of yet: i'm yet to expect a darwinistic
furore - fever - of the coming of
the close of the 19th century and
the opening of the gates for the 20th century...
second coming of darwinism leaves
me hardly convinced -
oh but it's true - oh but yes yes -
some of us are working in the knitting
of the kingdom of the Brine -

this so-called culture war:
words make bad bullets and sentences
are hardly rifles to shoot them with...
paragraphs like bombs: would do...
if congested into... non-paragraphs...
end of james joyce's ulysses or...
jean-paul sartre's iron in the soul...

the rare events of a postcard being sent by
a philatelist...
or a lepidopterist coming clean
on the metaphor of: the most forbidden fruit...
of which king john of england
would never find out about:
sooner the magna carta...

i'm tired of and i have always never tired of...
byzantine chants...
what can anyone actually remember
of the remains - apart from the chants...
or the bureucracy?
the youth that riddled them with canons
and a library that contained only one
book...

i can't even bother to stomach the correct
grammar -
unless it's a translation...
english: red herring...
french: hareng rouge
german: regenbogenforelle
you wouldn't expect me to succumb to
Ablenkungsmanöver / heimlich maneuver
of a spin-doctor, truly!
english: rainbow trout,
french: truite arc-en-ciel...
german is already given...
polish: pstrąg tęczowy...

nietzsche was right... we are the slavic
equivalent of the french...
we share most of their grammar 1-2 1-2...
why i didn't learn it proper?
they write one thing -
then say another -
i can only see excesses of letters
in written french... once they start
talking... all those letters come
and disappear under the suffix- umbrellas...

otherwise... i'm tired of having the need
to sharpen words -
words: would be bullets -
are not pencils -
sticks and stones and all things
associated with infering information:

otherwise just as last night - attempting to fall
to sleep: giggling and imagining myself...
having walked into the north sea off
the coast of norwich...
shouting: i'm a whale! i'm the beast from
the sea! i'm a whale my primordial
mammalian ancestor! i will swim to Denmark!

talk about living through a drought of:
where the english seems to be the dream-a-lots
having never felt a leash of metaphysics
around their necks tighten and give themselves
unto catholic mantras of central europe -
or how the italians are still christian in name only...
otherwise the go to:
aestheticians and romantics of the fig...

these words are not...
how did i perfect cooking chicken ******* without
the torso or the limbs -
the torso and at least half of the limbs
went into a most perfect chicken soup...
the remains and some frozen goods
went into a **** chicken marinade...
thyme... thyme... check y'er dubliners'
on the surd of H in that one...
it's θyme... otherwise's it's t'inking: time...
not so, paddy o'brian? patrick?

snail-paced grammar:
2 steps forward... 1 step back...
at least in the confines of this leftover:
catacombs of Latin...
we are all the children of Rome -
the hebrew were wrong about two alphabets...
the greek and the latin...
spot on! spot on when it came to...
persian cuneiform and egyptian hieroglyphs!

back-up... the glagolitic and the rune scripts...
somehow accomodating the overlords
of judea... otherwise: really stretching
the history for a personal experience...
what alphabet is this?!

- concept of beauty in the 1950s:
none other than the bleach mingling with amber
that was marylin monroe - the blood of which:
and the modern "beauty?
ava lauren - otherwise i call it:
the mandible jaw of ***-appeal gymnastics -
leather beauty - some worn, torn and -
the jigsaw puzzle that comes naked and
there hardly a kennedy romance at stake...
because even in her mature years -
it's "something" that would appeal
to Rodin's hands...
it's already... it leaves me at ease to ****
like a shotgun into my one "crooked" leg folded
and hunched like a crow perched on a windowsill
of the new-born Papillon -
marylin the icon? untouchable...
ava lauren the limbo montage and:

even this poo'em is proof:
why lament the crux of a would-be Liszt performance?
"views"... if that's anything to go by:
i have an *** and a ****** -
implies... i have more than a head a spine to prop
it on and a tongue's worth of an oyster
dissected between the 32 shells...

that views should count: a fountain of youth!
of a body i am certain...
of a soul: i know what i have -
only after i have lost it -
shared company - rejoice soul! hell doesn't exist!
as they call say: via their slavic proverbs:
the devil is without a soul...

perhaps i'm asking:
are not some of my words infantile?
d(evil) and go(o)d?
do or do not...
come to think of it... what makes people
invite the ****** eye into their ****** *******?
to boast or gloat?
i hardly think so...
from the times i watched...
and from the times i was the protagonist 1st person...
sometimes the third person attitude
is... well... imagine being in a 69 position
of reciprocating each other ******* & "*******"...
faber & faber...

if you have a ******* **** in your face...
and you're slurping and slurping...
what out of body experience can you expect
to have... to really and you really
want to appreciate the face of a woman
pleasuring herself and somehow you
on the side...

bogus and boring the same old
*******...
in that cocoon of: under the bed-sheets...
like two foetuses *******
amphibian bode -
placenta erections and:
the place where no two mouths meet!
otherwise:
she rodeod to the point
of a complete tail turned coccyx erosion!

*** is ***... no need to bring grammar
into this "debate" with a bilingual "schizoid"...
otherwise: hello Chloe...
is Chloe ready for a circus?

for all the *** in the world...
it's never something appealing for the eyes...
it's numbing for the parts that
imitate ******* snipping...
and otherwise... it's always more fun
casually: in third-person...
very much akin to reading a book...

because this piece of writing will not topple
your below average amateur post
from the free-range harvest of:
and this one tested this *****...
and this one was showing off: how she can
still get frisky when pregnant...
and... this sore loser is hardly going to...
because...
the greater pleasure comes from music...
to me *** is a most:
dyssynchronyous act...

how some people still manage to focus on saying
something is beyond me...
i'm left with onomatopoeias...
half-wit compositions of somewhat consonant
leverages - somewhat vowel expansions
of breath...

never does god even into this brothel...
i show him the "niqab" and all that's visible
is either silence of the hebrew definite article: ha...
why would i somehow
fathom a god in forms? not words?
with a c.c.t.v. focus etc?

- ******* on the roses, eating the roots
and sniffing the ashes -
variations of the modern: fine and lean
cannibal... because none of this invokes
the mandarin: specialz elephant ivory
"herbalism"...
cos if beijing don't sniff it...
we'ez knot snifz it... woz!
n00b wording and "get some"...

ל... find me a F(ucking) in 'ebrew, levite!
kametz = no aleph or ayin...
chirek? "i"?
well... it's и in cyrillic... א in 'ebrew...
but the latter is: an A...
the other gay Adam to Ayin...
and: whenever jeffrey "napoleon dynomite" dahmer
went along...
hiding vowels... and two vowels
treated as consonants...
you'd have to be born in London,
Golders Green to keep up with
the Hasidi...
because wherever they go...
the quarter is followed up with a ghetto...
like a bayz payot caduceus... listening: sparrows
chirping!

would a myth of Eve the prozzie Lilith
even matter at this point?

it only comes down to: integrating
or keeping with the purity of the forbidden fruit
that isn't *******...
but... cousin *******!
i've seen how this old forbidden fruit looks like...
it slobbers... it doesn't speak...
it's wheeled around: it doesn't walk...
the old fruit of eden: ******* your mother,
******* your cousin...
because i know what the next forbidden fruit is...
the circa 16 year old...
but that doesn't invite genetic: non-chernobyll
"status teases"...

inbreed far enough so that no outsider
will ever want to meddle with the ****** politics
of: the first ever niqab ultra...
because the muslims were never:
but really were about... the power dynamic
played out in rumi's *******: sufism...
a tier up from: gentlemen! let's broaden our minds!
Lawrence! ***** in the air! adhan!
compensated by the christian *******
at the altar...
religious gesticulation toward proving
the existence of incubuses: a very feminine affair...
when the broomstick stops "working"...
and there's no sabbath to attend...
and high-tier french socialite society
moves to London...
and the Viennese patisserie was always better
than the Parisian yoke-riddled flat and custard
agitation prone...

i poke my head out of my whittle
hermit cave...
and oops is supposed to happen...

or... drink enough cider and a shot of whiskey
at the same time... and...
it's almost like you're part of
the baltic culture of eating... kashubian herrings...
or generally pickled herrings...

why the **** did Amon Goeth say...
casimir the great - so called -
told the jews they could come to Krakow -
well, even history says:
first they were jews...
later they were polaks...
or: no... they weren't polaks to begin with:
not with that history allows us to entertain...
likewise...
"they're" not h'americans...
israel seems to be...
somewhat of a safebet gamble...

if i heard that one palestinian had roots
in saudi arabia...
like all those "pakistanis" circa 2001 that
had roots in saudi arabia...

the subject - the **** -
the tender geopolitics in between -
the 7 year madness of nebuchadnezzar
that never made it into a ben-hur esque movie
****...
shame i say...

of course this will not reach a far greater audience...
ah... what am i missing?
a ****** - a plump *** - a decapitated madame tussauds
monsier de sade *** toy / would be barbie or
an otherwise ripe cucumber...

my agony: extending the *******
into a cusp of a bone hard hand...
rather natural -
not unless - the proper deal is associated...
me and my ******* and
the girls being circumcised...
well then...
that would almost be like me...
being james cook having just visited
the Easter Islands!

today:

i've sort of quit smoking...
but as you: or don't...
watching the eurovision song contest
results come in
while drinking some southern comfort
admiring the moon while the clothes drier
was wheezing it's last r.p.m.

i thought: well... at least a session with
in a dentistry chair can become
more pleasurable...
i saw more cringe than fringes...
when culture dies there's
that... added shock of:
i wouldn't call it an itch...
it's not a case of goose-bumps...
it's a sickly sweet sensation...
it's "something" that makes you want
to *****, trouble is:
you did some 50+ stomach crunches
and have eaten bad
blueberry ravioli...

so... there's not much in the tank
to... so you're basically forcing up bile...
but i cycled into central London today...
i passed Soho plenty of times...
i never bothered to venture in...
i was looking for a look of reciprocation...
from a gay-lord...
otherwise i was there eyeing up
some *******...

because: obviously i wasn't scouting
for comic books...
comic characters... perhaps...
capes? not so much...
a ******* ****-storm of....
marching for Palestine... congregated
at Hyde Park...
i did my usual round around that
bloated space of green...
on my way back into Essex
i had to cut through the swelling of the vein
of bodies...

i was almost tempted...
i wish i would have been...
it would be silly to shout obscenities...
although i did manage to build up
this toothache on my way back...
like i was given this evil-eye for being:
the usual suspect...

how much did i want to laugh while
passing this protest with the words:
gott! mit! uns!
  looking for an itch... looking for some
manna...
like the protest of homeless men on
oxford street among all the shoppers,
atheists... materialists...
i was almost... enraged by a seed of jealousy...
of not being... part of something...
wouldn't you?
i almost wished to don a kippah
or the star of david cycling into this throng...
this river of people...
gott! mit uns!

łamany łbem:
            broken with a head....
divided by a head...
and When i think about it...
i don't... i think about not thinking...
designated orientation concering
a "lost narrative" of res vanus...

głowa (gwova)...
        doubled down dutch privy to Welsh...
with a head...
        z głową...
which implies a neck... shoulders...
a balancing act worth of spine...

      łeb: for the animal... pysk: the snout...
canines...
  łbem: stressing the point of forehead...
hammer...
with a head, hardly absent...

yesterday:

a minor amnesia - nonetheless it happens,
there's another word for it...
skleroza: spontaneous forgetfulness...
this fickle creature that's memory...
thankfully i have a stash of about 5 major memories
that i like to revisit...
play them over and over in my head...
since... i'm not on the crux of death...
well... since i'm not...
i have become more prone to exercise
the freedom of memory than i might want
to watch a movie...
trouble comes when i'm not my own d.j.,
in a car... heading toward... ******* IKEA...
in Enfield... where the phlegmatic crew of
dodo are this close | | to learning the arithmetic
of time...
a song on the radio... Belinda Carlisle...
circle in the sand...
in between talking with my father...
                  nothing metaphorical about that...
- so you know how old bob marley was
when he died? 36...
- you think he would still be touring?
well... he wouldn't need the money...
**** jagger does it for the joy...
        
i can't write narratives...
it's not like we're estranged...
but... it's complicated...
i think this is one area of my life i will keep
off-limits when writing...
i can be as honest about ******
as i can be about horses...
the narrative never took place...
believe me...
we talked about a range of things...
morgage

then when we came home an hour
later than expected...
she (dearest mother)
was probably drinking alone...
throwing little tantrums of me and father
alone time...
well... not to mention he was absent
from the most crucial years of my life...
from 4 till 8...
how does the ugly side of immigration
look like? brain-drain...
we: the diaspora members...
away from the motherland...
for the "better life"...
i too am playing catch-up...
how did ol' Leo frame it?
every happy family is the same...
but every sad family is sad uniquely:
in it's own unique way...

  get Wittgenstein to sort this
tautology... i'm not going to bother...
come to think of it... it's not even
a tautology... a tautology would be more
focused on thesaurus rex...

we had a conversation about football
and music... re-mortgaging...
even Bowie remained true to music...
he probably didn't tour...
but still made new content...
singing about mortality and ****...
i think i'm having this playback moment
in my head...

but then this song came on the radio...
magic fm... belinda carlisle...
circle in the sand...
all of a sudden i had this urge to listen
to a song, that song reminded me off...
oh hell... exactly: what was it?
the search began with: 'the message'...
mc-****-fartery...
      round and round...
jokes aside... i had to listen to belinda's
song on earphones once more
before the "revelation"...

  it seems obvious... "now"...

nik ******* kershaw - the riddle...

exactly... how did i get "the message" wrong?
two strong arms... blessings of Babylon...
blah blah: toe-tying-riddle...
almost like good luck is expected...

come to "think" of it...
a revelation... even though there's that monotheistic
focus on the patriarch...
puppet... strings...
missing *******...
i'm having a hard time not thinking
that ha-shem... the nameless father of hey-zeus
and the ha-ha-mighty blah-lah-al
are not... primarily... feminine gods...
well... conjured up from a ****
rather than a working 'ed...

they're irrational... and can be reduced down
to... the three heads of Cerberus...
they are never really depicted...
worded sleuth pulp fiction harlequin traps...
most artists?
oh **** me... even the ****'ites would agree...
get your eyes to focus on something...
that's how much i dare to admire Islam...
from the ****'ite perspective...

what ******* topic is this?
i was about to pour myself another drink
and this thought like a blitzkrieg came
flushed from a ******* in the universe
where all the gods and nothings
congregate from indigestion and
constipation...
a ******* miracle: a diarrhoea moment...
of sorts...
the monotheistic veneer... of "patriarchy"...

what?! she wants a ring of gold
and my ******* too?
how about a tent's worth of a kippah
on my ******* tonsure?
a man would require a screwdriver...
a hammer... nails... screws...
it would make sense to have many
involved... than this pressure of solipsism...
vampire... succubus... leech...
a ****** hail mary...

**** speak...
                    so great... the technological advances...
atheistic secularism...
but there's a ******* grid-lock to mind too...
no a ****** dam...
a rich cognitive custard...
it's just that: a cognitive custard...
like Moses rekindling a belonging concept
along the lines of being lied to:

monotheism hardly serves man...
i can find appeals to the illusion it presents...
but... hardly...
looks like the "plenty of fish in the sea"
metaphor is drying up the concept
of a "catch"...

the conversation with my father are
off-limits in my purpose of writing in the first
place... unlike a Knausgaard...
i'm the drinker... he's the teetotaller...
he's the workhorse i'm the... chicken-scratcher:
if i had ink...
but i'm also probably ten beaks pecking
resounding at this... grand... oh my god...
******* piano of QWERTY...

genius idea... what?
qwerty... because the orthodox memory erosion
of the alphabet is of any use?
suddenly everything has to **** me off...
it has to be dipped in still water...
it has to be believable...
monotheism is concretely a religion
designated for the preservation of women...
why my *******?
oh... because if you don't have it...
i can... ******* at a leisurely pace?

that a woman can ******* without inhibitions...
while i have to be shamed?
*******, *******...
i don't even have enough slander to express
what my heart reacts to these days...
i don't have "hurt" feels...
i have... agitated feelings...
thank you for waking me up from my numb...
apathy...
but what do i hear? "hurt feels"...
****'s sake... those people don't even recognise
what feeling is supposed to feel like!
they're all french footballers... "hurt" all of a sudden...
wow! so...
"hurt" is translated into the parameters of:
feeling per se?
imagine my shock finding out that
apathy has dulled "i.q." to so little that...
you must be hurt to feel...
you can't be spontaneously agitated...
you must be hurt...

bring out the hot horseshoes...
let's have some fun branding these *******-waggling-
***** aside...

just wait for the breeders to wake up
to having children that turn into freely-arranged
agents of will...
i'm passing through a decade where there's
boasting...
but sooner rather than later...
there will be some hidden mention
of those... pickled-cabbage:
why do the 'indus find pickled cabbage
"funny"?
not eating beef sounds pretty funny...
or like that "proverb" from Morocco:
there's no water, in the desert...
then... what... the... ****... are... you...
"doing" in this, here... land of replenished
roots?!

******* camel jockeys...
what do "they" call them, proper?
sand-*******...
it would take a Bengladesi to get
smart notes on the caste "system"....
Aryan has no origin in Europe...
it probably originated in Indian when
they first came across Persians...
who are... oddly... "pale"...
but have not bartablondine aspects
of their ****** expressions...

ivory skinned like an Iranian or a ***-
without a suntan?
"you" wanted trenches...
here's my designated plot...
"you" wanted ******* to overshadow
real.. culprit-esque concerns...
the jealousy of a woman
knows not bounds...
most especially when a father-son
privacy is engaged with...

  if i ever encountered male jealousy...
it was always rare...
almost never...
        but female jealousy? anything...
everything to belittle the opposing "authority"...
ha-shem... the jealous deity of women...
blah-lah-al of...kept secrets stashed in the niqab...
allure of the ******* eyes...
come on...

****** ******* mary:
that matriarch of sold foetuses and
walking abortions...
at least there was something adventerous
in conceiving the existence of Loki...
of Thor...
there's nothing... original about the point
of monotheistic gods...
that there are three...
is Islam the truest of religions?!
they had a Sunni ****'ite schism... didn't they?
once again:
i want to believe in something:
to give me momentum...
give be a willing acceptance to excuse...
an overarching stressor of incredulity...
and a... "what life"?

well... existence is...
out of every instance: a persistence to:
instance... a persistence...
that's... existence... ex-
out of...
and stance...
dis-ease... a negation of ease...

there will be plenty more of those car
journey listening to magic fm...

an "original": whether mind, or thinker...
that mythology of evil that the Nazis provided...
******* Armani suits and boots...
or whoever designed them... Hugo Boss...
what are we left with,
to mind matters of collectivism?
the evil of censorship instigated by...
halfwits and ******* haemophiliacs?

a myth of evil that could be...
galvanised... momentum and emblem...
what's on offer... currently?
grey-suits and...
expectations: that it's the "21st century"
something magical is about to happen...
what's the difference between the 20th century
and the 18th century?
the 19th century...
so what's the difference between
a pebble, a cliff edge and a mountain?
don't know... a river? a lake?

that same **** different cover excuse
like some wonderful was going to happen
in the 21st century...
like there was a promise...
where is this **** coming from?!
oh yeah... but it's the 21st century...
i was hoping for gravity to ******* and turn all:
short-circuit awry...

i can pretend... for a while...
but after that while passes... i turn into a real mystery
of a door **** gone berserker...
are there these societal expectations
to simply **** **** the next...
blow the next... ******* origami of OXFAM
purple-fest whimpering "dead-doughnut":
although i'd cry... if it was a stray dog
from the streets of Seville...
******* camel-jockeys...

  it's not even a inhibited play on pronouns:
there's no: "they"...
i thought the trans-lobbyist covered the plug-hole
of cognitive-****...
there is not "us" or "them":
gender neutral is me...
armed with a strap-on ***** on my ******* forehead...
a bit like... that hebrew practice of...

so i had me a "friend: a fwend...
maybe that's cornish for something in velsh...
you know how word salad sounds?
on a persistence?
sure... a son of divorce...
what am i? his ******* uncle?
his mother undermined the concept
of al dente spaghetti...
we're talking fractions of people...

people eat ****... leave the universal utility
of pork aside...
mind you: not water in the desert...
and not piggy too...
the leather shoe... the belt...
it's not exactly kosher... is it?
i have this backlog of a peoples...
at least a priest only attracts confessions...
i'm not at knife point
easy... for this triad to work?

if my fwend mentioned cognitive custard...
but the concensus of word salad
is socially broke on the norm...
so blah blah boo'yah assortment...
enriched strawberries...
juicing much later...
i can understand cognitive custard... pie...
but a word salad?
that's.... what doesn't deviate from
solipsism... this solo "project"
of "you and i"...

                      psychiatry is persisting to be
deemed a branch of
the Hippocratic oath....
but it's not...it's pseudo-"medicinal"...
it's hyped-up... idon't remember
that junction in a life...
hardly worth lived... just lived...
of my 20s... what mea culpa stressor of
those psychopaths?
currents under the broken wheel of...
attempts at supressing..
momentum? this whole ******* "flake"
of barrage?

by word salad you're implying i
have, speak... low i.q....
    non-hieroglyphic suede...
non-answerable... past replica...
woe wow salad...
but how i understand it...
a cognitive custard...
well... thinking is messy:
you ******* dim-wits!
        ought-i: thought...
i don't like being ridiculed...
or expected to her a less i.q. than what's...
nuanced at a ****** favouritism... Balkan-esque...
seriously... *******: before i ****** someone...
ugh attached to that: wind... now there's a purpose...

yeah... so what's what?
this is the least of my "concern"?
well... as they say in the west...
as long as the brain-drain happens...
we can forget about keeping the native 9 to 5ams...
sort of... but hardly... justifiably...
less than expectedly...
capitalistically boast: not exhausted...
sort of...

i can understand cognitive custard...
meddle some more...
word salad?
your ******* ****- nig-
of sorts is speaking your language better than me?
******* sour crass of a native's ***!
*******...  and you deserve it.

is there a point, writing? not really? i was expected
to be an engineer... she was the housewife poet...
thanks! well... you can have your empty hall of "fame"...
what now? i am the failure,
he the saviour, society demands
bicycles constructed  by a one handed man...
i'd deep fry my own mother... you hear?
i'll **** your mother, dead, in hell...
while cutting my own mother's tongue out...
women, money, that's all they care about!
******* leeches! get them away from me!
suckling in an inversion of the baby...
these "things" compensating
for giving birth... as women do,
well enough... to compensate the
parasitism of foetuses...
abortion criticism: p'hah! prolong that p...
keep your church... ontology is versus biology...
counter-intuitive, i am sure...
by man, a woman is born,
by woman, a man is dead,
am i to be thankful? really?!
    really?! thankful?! i have to aspire
to this diabolical union of opposites?
       what am i, a ******* sadist?!
it's enough that i'm alive,
and having to revise birth with suicide,
that i am to suddenly to give a ****
about an ageing mother?!
thank **** that i've written enough
to contend with only a few
cult-like readers...
      i'd hate my work to encourage
comic book accessibility...
      i didn't write for the purpose
of volume, rather? a sieve...
             a well fed pole is lazy,
an underfed pole is angry:
right now? i'm angry, but there is
absolutely no excuse to pacify genuine
anger...
     to keep on pacifying anger you keep
intensifying it...
    just keep pacifying & inhibiting anger...
you won't get any more jazz...
   i'll feed you twice the auschwitz!
and now you'll pacify this drunk exasperation...
whatever: dodo the rest;
white women have become like
iron maiden furniture: a tad bit uncomfortable
to live with, let alone sit on...
   so i'm really supposed to be thankful to england?
for sheltering would-be murderers?!
am i? jews, russians & arabs the entire lot
of "worthy" citizens?! really?
my my... applause! applause you *******!!!
i'll start nibbling on my toenails if you
ask politely...
             they say power: i say bribe -
or? passing off & on responsibility -
              nothing interesting,
just another pitiable affair of a venetian carnival
hard-on...
       but in the days, when a mother
overshadows her son, by respecting her son's
would be killer, and sees her son as only:
80 years old, providing enough money for a carer...
well...
             sorry mum... ask and plead elsewhere...
you have that russian empire banknote
you stole from a jew...
      should i be afraid? then again,
that woman's family, mostly her grandchildren
didn't care to see her, as much as i did,
hence i received the gift, and her grandchildren
received jack-****...
      flip a join, flip a join, see whether
there's any purpose to the staged gamble...
england... a tough idea to reinvent the necessity
and the desire, let alone purpose or chance,
of what happened with the beatles, the rolling stones,
led zeppelin & black sabbath...
**** me: history doesn't replicate itself that fast,
and esp. in the same place...
       you know the anglophone world is trying
too hard... you know it... because nothing
of worth is materialising...
         write enough to construct a labyrinth...
and when writing enough,
   by volume, rather than context: you get
the chances to hide the essential components
of revelation...
   write to construct a labyrinth...
           oddly enough? a form of the uttermost
mode of escapism...
                      write as little as you care to
attain in summary of:
glass people - in glass houses...
very much a mob throw of the dice...
    that it becomes...
             quality is irrelevant,
                       quality is in perpetual fluctuation...
it's never a plateau foundationalism...
    or? never settled by a foundation
       of a plateau...
        rhyme otherwise - juggle grammatical
terms of the same word, within the dynamic of two,
and you have a "rhyme"...
       i am not here to make language easy,
or, to be honest: instructive...
       why make language instructive,
when we are here to make language obstructive,
ingenious, originary?
     bedtime stories are stories my "friend"...
who are you to fool by only writing
instructive language, despotic language,
language of ikea manuals for putting up
a set of shelves, or despotic enough in writing
finicky qualms of "law" revisionism?

days like these... i am left without any writing
ambition...
        was there any to begin with?
ambition... and writing?
                   i wouldn't call it anything: more -
this unnecessary more it already has become...
it's not an ambition,
but it's also not an escapism...
         it's sure as hell not some...
                    take on sylvia plath or anne sexton:
"treatment"...
writing either comes... or it doesn't...
and if it does: it does... and if it doesn't: with days
such as these: it really shouldn't...
but my once favourite jukebox is feeding
me a glitch... very old videos of content creators
and "new" music...
so i felt inclined to comment on that...
otherwise a snapshot of the day:
the t.v. didn't need me...
             but i still managed to squeeze in one
episode of gangs of london...
and i'll be ******* if anti-t.v. people wouldn't
find this gripping: zombie-eating-brains...
day... a very continental breakfast...
work in the garden...
                     then marinating some pork and chicken...
piri-piri and tomato puree: with additions...
like paprika, taekyung powder and tatlı (e)
ipek pul biber - turkish i'm guessing for sweet pepper
flakes... a dash of apple cider vinegar...

the pork marinated in... dijon mustard...
soya sauce... honey... garlic... etc. etc.
  
you can most certainly undercook pork...
best with undercooked beef:
well it's on a bbq...
                  it's not some fine dining...
among the neighbours... i wanted what the gardens
could be used for... since...
i see myself on a desert island with people
in the vicinity strapped to b.d.s.m. gizmos
indoors... not even for a suntan is the garden
used... or for... watching birds...
i can count at least 10 different types...
sitting and having a lazy cigarette...

     but chicken! you can't undercook it!
but getting it just right... well... chances of overcooking
it as slim...
more slim than overcooking pork or beef...
people who want a stake well done shouldn't
ever be allowed to eat steaks to begin with...
in the old restaurant... the smoking section...
the non-smoking section...
a section for people eating stakes...
and people of the bland persuasion that
want to doubly-butcher their beef:
the roast beef section...
all the gravy... all the trimmings...
the baked potatoes the yorkshire puds...

yeah... that might work...
        so much for reading up on schizophrenia
in julian jaynes': the origin of consciousness
in the breakdown of the bicemeral mind:
halal: implied idiot in hebrew...
not it implies kosher in arabic...
  and the "analogue i"...
             anything of psychology from the 60s
and an "i" with a prefix: just fine...

for lack of a better narrative:
a through (b) starting from (a) and ending up
at (c): here's a narrative with a quantum
leap... a lost pocket of reference:
IV + XV = XIX!

                    that happened come mid-day...
and a welcome break on the "throne of thrones":
alias for a *******...
to use the body in such a way that
the mind can be: more... but less and less
a constipation... more: akin to the unconscious
liver / kidney... a sponge central of
the connectivity of eyes, ears and prickly skin:
goosebumps...

"analogue": more like... collage...
an "enzyme" thrown into a "harem" of rats...
to subsequently watch them scuttle away
in... or... better... lifting a nearing rot
piece of wood... and finding the "grub"
cower when exposed to sunlight...
spiders... earthworms... house centipedes:
living in the garden...
analogue: continuously variable physical quantity
except for... a break in continuity...
and the invitation of: quality...
   zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance...
quality, quality, quality...

               alive in a truly: "static": status quo world...
or thereabouts...
supposed so...
when i can forget that the mind has by extension...
soul and god involved...
on its laissez-fair good days...
in an armchair of plotting an escape with
merely a breath...
               high minded: needs for "reading"...

    so much for catching up on my posthumous
writings of the pickwick papers by dickens...
maybe another perfect day...
a most perfect day: to be neither in love...
nor an angel of vengence...
                    to not hate but laze...
and by laze i implore myself to stress:
turn the brain into a kidney
and say: the kidney will not think...
the brain doesn't have to:
nor that it ever did...
where is my... exoskeleton of thought,
conscience, "consciousness"... soul and god?
drifting away with the clouds
while i remember the bones... the ****...
the esophagus rhetoric of backwards: if i wish...
and down the flush "alley":
literally... a choice of words riddled with
misnomers because: by misnomer it's so much
easier to forget a bank filled brimming with:
"too many" nouns...

back to music...
the only new music is the old music...
a chance refreshing of a fugazi catalogue:
nomeansno came up...
"intelligent punk rock" from the canadian
west coast...
so much verbiage in the description...

new music... yeah? fostermother - fostermother (2020)...
clouds taste satanic - the glitter of infinite hell (2017)...
for me... new implied:
godspeed! you, black emperor...

i must be getting old... 34 is pretty daft:
if it must be deemed as old...
            well... let's put it this way...
bukowski because: why not?
   that classical music "lost plot"...
classical music... it's such a tedium...
        fair enough for an event...
but i can't reinvent a bedroom an armchair...
a hunched body of crow metaphor bliss with it...
too strict the club and entry requirements...

jazz has aged so well...
whatever it was supposed to be with its worth
of the 20th century with the beatniks...
the choir girls... the homosexuals and the trumpet
players... the "experimental" load o' *******...
******* or no *******...
certainly no ******* dunked into mint mayo...
to state the extremes...
  
today... the 21st century is only 20 years old...
and i'm listening to gerry mulligan's night lights...
and: it's beyond... what's supposed
to age for the generic applause...
lazy trumpet... lazy guitar...
gerry mulligan... chet baker... kenny burrel...
not big orchestral jazz bands...
shady bars... and if i walked into a brothel
that played jazz than that...
tapeworm hypnosis of boomboomboom...
i'd consider it a church and a harem and never:
subsequently leave...

i took out the garbage: pretty adamant to
do all the right sort of recycling...
1963... that's what? 57 years ago...
the 1990s sitcoms missed the influences...
the thoroughfare of soap-opera marathons
from either england, turkey or mexico...

of the mention new music:
i'm not... "ageing"... i've reached a boring
plateau... the old flame of youth...
has fazed out...
             new music: i don't have an energy
for it...
music when growing up:
that i will still listen to... pearl jam...
offspring, silverchair... king crimson(?)...
but the new stuff...
old **** galore... better with some jazz than...
sometimes: yes... the odd excuse for Prokofiev...
but... pretending to be the maestro...
waving one's hands about in some sort
of vague appreciation: when a woman,
and drunk: it's good to know i can see cringe...
and it's my mother...

          perhaps: it would have been nice
to have invested in the idea of grandchildren...
but that would have implied:
having children... and a gambler's luck...
i never liked gambling...
the most i ever gambled was probably
2 quid on football scores...
a quid on the national... a religious institution
in england... for that one race...
i don't like gambling...
i like... the blank page inquisitive of me...
centipede of eyes...
c.c.t.v. god of wish-fulfilled omni-presence
of the litany of adjectives...
but that doesn't really matter...

it would have been nice
to have invested in the idea of grandchildren...
after all... i would be...
but that rome was built on fostering children:
somewhat... that's also a novel idea...
but dealing with 50% of you in a son or daughter...
with grandchildren that's only a 25% replica
of you...
        god forbid ******: talking about 75% of you...
if the rich started to clone themselves:
i can't imagine the hell: but a mirror is enough
to face once a day...
twice a month is just enough too...

jazz has aged really well...
2020 is a good year for jazz and even if there's no
wine... there's the lazy ms. amber...
classical music peaked in the 20th c. for me...
i can, i will... appreciate it...
if i want to give my heart a chance
to steal my eyes and create a waterfall of emotions...

- and perhaps new music...
i missed what became emo...
although i was still around for a.f.i.'s sing
the sorrow album...
how?                         filofax...
floppy disk 3.5"... dial-up... age of empires...
final fantasy VII... KMFDM: juke joint jezebel...
******... choke: doo...

sometimes the sorrows of:
not being part of the chinese one child state policy...
mother's fear... birthday...
may... 1986... chernobyl: 26th april 1986...
a nice whittle tattoo i too have...
if i had wings: i had one removed...
thankfully the shoulder-blade was kept
intact...

perhaps a brother, perhaps a sister...
perhaps my own little scoop of "solipsism"...
burden of "genius"...
no angel, no demon...
just a companion of: posit in sigma -
displaced attributes...
            weasel... a way out...
                   groom of spaghetti tangles...
      that turn into tapeworms that
turn into placentas and
foetuses in the sky: fully membraned
egos of confrontations...

                libido blues: but the "idiots"
will surive: double their claims of harvest!
numbers have no coinicidence
of effortless heart that do no:
necessarily buckle...
shoe-shine georgie met the hyper-inflated
cultural exchange: excuse...
for this trough: the pigs would eat...
the dogs would eat...
met with grimmaces...

              jazz allows me to wisen...
i can walk into a room filled with air...
scratchings of violins and...
i cna ignore the music...
take to treating it as... less...
an altar for maggot sacrifice...
a gig an altar of the idols...
i can escape it with attired and ulterior
motives...
captivate myself with a game of chess:
thought only: without playing anything
beside metaphorical chess...
as i will be playing metaphorical poker...
not actual poker...

imagine my anticipation of a circus:
******... a poatcard from either Tangiers
or Istambul...
crocodile juice from Kiev...
magic mushrooms from Helsinki...
but that's just my luck...
sober... nationalistic peoples...
Loon'don...
the welsh the scots and the ghouls of
gaelic on the "periphery"...
Dublin or "somewhere"...

                    and ms. amber and deciding...
what to do with the leftoever
rainbow trout caviar i used for christmas...
once... and now will have to use once
more... somehow...

thank god for this gift...
and this day... so easily... so made...
pristined and made by per se a complexity...
and... almost literally:
the best idea for coughing up fog.

i haven't "weaponised" my drinking to turn it
into writing, proper, for some time,

there's this riddle in Latin,
because i won't be looking for the words
in Hebrew, so i'll unravel
the saying in Latin,

working from ehyeh asher ehyeh,
i am that i am: toward...
i am who is...

        but god is the Holocaust
is... ego sum quod (that) /
         ut (as) - ego sum

  not who he is...
   transgender bereavement...
   since trans-racialist affairs happened prior,
Cat Stevens had a Greek Cyprus father
and a Swedish mother...

Napoleon Napoleon: best new soundtrack
for a movie...

****... i'll really need a classical
education... ego sum qui es...
i've been sleeping
i can't weaponise alcohol like i used to
to write...

maybe i've also lived a little and can't catch
the surf of loner writer bollocking,
i have all the house to myself but
it's like: i don't want to push the nuke button,
the red red red red...

there's a dancing fly on my table in
a timid stake of the last remaining light,
i almost think that i've given half of myself
up... better evening than for most
spent in Plato's cave without Homer's
spine...

since Homer's courage for adventure is
almost as crippling to inherit as
Moses' Genesis... crippling for the modern man,
modern, current man, seemingly claustrophobic,
who knows, maybe i'll unwind
and use this amber droplets to unwind,

i'll cite some common reference point,
by now i know there is no "collateral"....
i can drink and smoke some marijuana
and have 20 walls with roof included
to bounce my ego about like it's a match of
squash... i'm used to the darkness - des rocs...

i haven't missed the beauty spots...
today i failed at living a day...
i waited for cat food delivery...
i waited for a plumber...
but i was armed for cycling in the night...
as sun disappears come these days
gone come 4pm...
   i cycled like a serpent constipated by
puff and wind and wizards of feathers
to the proximity of Canary Wharf...
via the bus route 5 towards Canning Town
then back through the muck
towards Barking: demographic check...
stinks of India around here...
but at least it doesn't smell of pickled cabbage
best associated with Germans and Polacks...

mitigating 0-return flow of information...
i can't weaponise words with alcohol,
i thought i could... reading a snippet of:
I, Maximus, of Gloucester, Olson,
my new favourite poet...
but the world is shook-up Stevens and
no... clearly, i don't won't to find myself
happy, somewhat interested in how:

the world with it's buckle i will remain
with my scythe... for the burdens of
harvest are still to yield...

i knew my "unprofessional" scribbles would
suffer should i meet a ms mrs "right"...
and now Hawaii is like a Treasure Island
Black Dot Pirate tattoo, forewarning...

it's still funny to me...
the Hebrews do this magic trick of not speaking
the name of their deity...
while the Muslims hail it appropriate
within the confines of: from what i heard, last?
decapitating the heads of unborn foetuses...
propaganda or... am i going to be the last
surviving horror movie fanatic
fantasist that: membrane of: surely until it
reaches me... but until then:
nothing has happened!              bogus...

kick and scream into the brilliance of the light
of ignorance... as long as someone knows...
as long as someone has experienced
the dark bulging interior of shaking-up
human relations...

call it a grandson of pickles...
Reyla loves pickles...
it bothers me it doesn't bother me...
it bothers the supposed bothered me...
like i might be a pastor's son
with juicy snippets of bad ***...
i started my idea come 9pm... it's almost 10pm...
and i'm almost finished my escapade...
so are the cats...
no angry ***** dishes to boot...

i was born to scale the heights of
salvaging hours of upkeep as a bus driver...
that's all i ever wanted to be...
but it's hard... to do the whole...
Leibniz-librarian anti-Newton push of genius
dynamic... but i like this war...
Newton and the push of intellect-spectacular
into the public domain... contrastic
the reclusive Leibniz...

last time i heard about the current
Nobel prize winner... she was writing something
of what Knausgaard's ambitions would
never achieve...
like prize Homer or the Quran or the Bible
now... in the climate of selling to
the literate-doubly-illiterate...
leprechauns and goats...
      similis of the chin and stroking the beard
for good luck...

       luck           vs.           fate.....

by definition luck is choice...
and fate is will...

i wouldn't say, ignore the world, def(l)ect it,
there's no Cicero in me and any mind
worth of rhetoric...

if we had free will... we wouldn't be calling
out circumstances of hierarchies in
the mind of the mad animal that's man
and not the cat....
we're not free without the cages
we found ourselves, to be trapped in...

i was rereading Nietzsche today at 9am
today...
aphorisms are sometimes better than poems...
now i'll get blind drunk and dunk a blind
pit stop to strap smoking a doodie
to help me count sleep: shleep...

it still bothers me...
why did he say: i am that i am...
instead of saying: i am who is                   (?)
i'm tired of Scandinavian influences of literature...
and i'm tired of translatable new-Englishnessness
of this Molotov-multicultural
load, of, *******, *******!

come 11pm i'll be jacked up ready for sleep
come me, rewatching season 1 of BILLIONS...
only because a poet scrutinises an actor
and an actor is not: a poet, a *******,
a priest, a politician... yet still...
between serious dictatorial weight-gain lifters
of the Chinese and Russian civilization-state
authority and western:

oops-e oops-ah... ******* about?
     under the dictation of a veil
of thespian-journalism?! you, *******... kidding me?

PROFANITY AS THE JUNCTION
OF ALL TRUTHS...
to strut with words as oaths
O **** me... i have the entire house to myself,
Edie, there's no mother no daughter
and there's... sand, time, to begrudge you...
you above a tilting hind, broken leg...

the tired ******* are asking: for this matter
to be either stalled or, resolved...
because the Apocalypse is being stalled...
and by double the definition,
smoked, halted...

           but there's this irrational very rational
love of, love of everything that comes
matching up purple with pink...

     who the **** speaks of the Chinese these days?
the ******* Taiwanese?
the Hong Kongish shrapnel brigadiers?!

news news... north east west south...
oh, i heard it's new hot **** getting streamed....
i'll make sure this writing evaporates when
i smoke a soak of a doodie
when i do...

no Olson-Project in Ezra Pound's sight...
i'm in love, i think i'm in love...
who needs to be,
i love regardless, that i'm stupid...

i love cycling at night...
i have a small ****... but big hands...
i have a small ****... but big hands...
    she swallows...
      a litany, some are words best
constricted to be contained to sentences...

i'll smoke one and entertain
kaleidoscopes...
green and with a frenzy of luminescent
purple teasing blue...
so many serious people:

adjectives of burning surprises
key, word, BOMB BOMB BOMB...
life almost perfect, sober,
on Kauai... so remotely... "it".

i've had this massive falling out with my father today,
he came back from work: roofing... but he's getting
old so he's not harrowed with production...
he's more into taking care of details... he's more a technician
than anything...
so we've been doing up the garden for the past
month or so... i did all the groundwork...
levelled the area for him to now fiddle about with
60 x 90cm? 30 x 90cm? whichever slabs...
right... so i made him this steak salad for lunch...
and i was readying myself to make dinner...
roast chicken, chips... asparagus and quickly poached
leftover pepper (from the lunch) -
then again: i poach vegetables quickly... all...
   i like to eat vegetables likes i might bite into roast
chicken bones... i like the crunch...
     so he took off his commuter clothes
        dressed himself pretty in his: i'm going into the garden
to do some work with the slabs... sure sure...
i stuff the chicken with some lemons
and address the ******* by feeling under the skin
and lodging knobs of butter underneath...
hell... the oven is warm... you have 40 minutes...
the chips (FWECH FWIES) came in 20 minutes
down the countdown...
  i take the chicken out: because it has to rest...
you have 10 minutes...
o.k. o.k. he replies like a Joe Pesci / Leo Getz
from Lethal Weapon... but not really...
               this is me reimagining "things"...
   i lose my temper come the 20 minute mark...
i start employing onomatopoeias
                   for the sound of hammer strikes in between
oath words akin to: kurva: which are... less oath words...
nothing blasphemous here... oaths! oaths!
**** **** **** this happened! to reiterate!
the excuse came back: i'm not coming
because i have wet cement...
          wet cement?! i have a pretty hot chicken
and pretty hot fries and pretty hot asparagus waiting!
what's cement?! ******* liquid nitrogen?!
we argued: of course we argued...
that's how we show our love for each other...
in the end i had to call my mother who is visiting
a dentist and her mother back in Poland
because her number 1 fell out while
biting into a bun... ha ha... not on bone:
but on a bun... teeth are funny...
              i must have had 3 dreams exclusively
about teeth... hey! Freud! why do i dream
about teeth?!
     metaphor my **** up your ******* sprinkled
*** you 19th century "ground-breaker"...

see... i'm a man that gets drunk from anger...
ebrius ex ira...
   i kept telling him: you want to eat ****?!
there's an aesthetic about eating something!
there's a ******* aesthetic...
i'm tall... 6ft2... but i have a very short temper...
my temper comes in at 5ft1...
those ******* hammer blows to the slabs
to level then: plonk plonk plonk...
i'm sitting there waiting as the chicken cools
and the chips get crispier...

alright fool! keep harrowing!
arbeit macht frei! ******* arbeit macht frei!

then he comes in and while about to move
the chicken from the baking tray
to the cutting boat he pounces at me with some
random comment... i spill the chicken juices
on the floor and start cleaning...
ooh... you're spreading it all over the kitchen...
like you ******* clean the house...
don't worry...

     i plate everything up and then he imagines himself
as: ooh... maybe i need more sand...
that's it... i SNAP...
    my mother has this mysterious Zodiac-narrative
in her head... she's a Pisces...
i'm a Taurus... my father is an Aries...
she usually says something along the lines of:
i'm the fishes swimming between two horned
men...
yeah... but it wasn't Aries that ***** Europa...
was it?!

i reiterated to him: you don't eat food
to stuff yourself... forget what Socrates said:
what did he say?
oh: some people eat to live...
while others eat to live...
no! you're not feral! you're no werewolf!
so he grabbed a slice of multi-oat... ****... what does
it matter... oats... rye... sunflower seed loaf
and a slice of cheese...
i had to call my mother in Poland because
by then my "cool" was completely lost...
talked to mother...
listen... he said i've been drinking...
"i'm supposedly drunk": SEPLENIE...
a term for: mixing vowels with consonants...
akin to slurring...
    
   listen... i just did three days solid...
this is my day off... i'm relaxing... some of my faculties
will follow up with me on: SLOW MODE...
but he doesn't get it... i feel exasperated:
this is my ultimate insult...
what's my ultimate insult?! you won't break bread
with me, i.e. you will not eat with me...
not ******* western secular restaurant *******...
i mean: sit next to me: Asian style...
eat with me... yes? no?!

so i call her and tell her this exasperated...
he comes back... with his *******: SAND...
and i tell him: mother called...
pet names?! they call each other beaks...
dziób... dziób dziób...
beaks of birds...

so when he came back with his *******: SAND...
i told him... mother just called..
call her back...
ah... the English double-face came back
out... we were arguing just 10 minutes ago...
but while talking to his woman:
my mother... all ******* butterflies and lilies!
no wonder i prefer prostitutes...
i couldn't keep a woman...
i remember this: it wasn't an itch...
this numbing ******* sensation of people
not familial to me using my things...
Nintendo console... that was a big
give-away... i sort of liked the limp-**** sensation
overpowering my entire body...
it wasn't an erectile dysfunction: i was only 8...
but something invisible was
nibbling at me... something communist-esque...

i can't pin-point it to any foreseeable detail
of interest for a spectator...
it's personal... it's truly personal...
it's not an itch... it's not a harrowing:
it's a oyster-numbing sensation...
i best associate with oysters being digested...
hey... that's the best i can do...
it's a feeling best associated with
oysters being digested...

     oysters dipped in acid...
of the stomach...
ha... i don't haffe an exoskeleton...
yet i keep hydrochloric acid contained in my gut!

point being: i had a little retrospective moment...
father said he was bullied when he was younger
because he was raised by a surrogate grandfather
and his father was drunk who used to lie about on
park benches...

no... that's not true: according to my maternal
grandfather... he was a drunk... for sure...
but when work was required: he worked...
ahem... ahem... let me clear my ******* throat:
M'AH BODY M'AH CHOICE... no?
don't you ******* throw dry foetuses at
me, woman! when you're not being a, woman!

also: my body... my choice!
         i'll drink in my spare time to excesses you
can't handle... and i will...
and then when i sober up i'll trickle the money
i've earned to the prostitutes...
because?!
i bring neither peace or war to this pact
of: we're peer pressured into a shared existence...
are we?
no!

           you want to know something...
i'm here for the lyrics of a King Crimson song...
i'm hardly coming with either sword
or a quill... i come with a question mark:
dot dot dot ? hello...

             i come with chaos...
i come with questions... i come with what's
worthy: and as man ought to know from the beginning:
there's only the question-worthiness that's
ever to be allowed... that i have to peer into
this democracy en masse... this... "democracy":
this water of man...
from ***** to the hollowing crowd...

quench! i strike myself to tease feeling bones
in my spirit: somewhat lost...
no war... no peace...
just the revolving circle of interests
and expertise!
                       can't we be satiated by simply that?!

learn my ancient tongue of nacht and nothing!
believe me how belittling some if not most
of you have become... herded little creatures
with thoughts as if screams!
with thoughts as if screams!
           with dreams nothing more than
reinterpretations of drowning!
with dreams nothing more than
reinterpretations of drowning!
                     dearest labour of the god existent
or non-existent... save me from these
silenced lambs!

the natural dichotomy of composing
in silence:
with the aid of alcohol and marijuana
and any other truth serum...
then there's composing of words
the anti-arithmetic Aramaic not:
when under the influence of music:
which is the sonic white ingredient
that competes with big pharma...

i have a story to tell:
philosophy truly begins with
the tide of death...
if life is earth
then death is water...
it begins here:
it doesn't begin with get behind me
demon:
in old age with the answer:
if you will find a good woman:
you will be happy and not crave the intellect:
but if you find a bad woman:
you will not be content
and you will become a philosopher:
but i am mortal and before being
wedded to a woman
i am bespoke of death...

          now for the music...
i have three dimensions of German high thought:
my thought agitate me...

there's the categorical imperative of Kant
there's Nietzsche: the solipsist
rather than the nihilist
Kant with the categorical imperative
Heidegger with question-worthiness...
guides:
read philosophy in your 20s
then watch your 30s and 40s...
map out a plan of understanding
then you will have knowledge:

YD OA...
  of yod off DOA...

modus operandus: modus operandii in
the plural...
operandus: mode of operating
under a strict dictum: vox se: per
to think that there was no noble ****
intellectual project is
heart-warming and heart-breaking
the Nazis
the Nazis the Nazis
oh the Nazis
came and left so quickly:
but we're talking: we're not talking
Egyptology and pyramids
but instead chimneys and grey snow
and Mozart...

an anti-German seeps in:
Heidegger's question-worthiness
is matches in ancient thought
by the Greek Archimedes
and eureka!
i found what? these days?
the question-vector the worthiness off: to be
asking...
exclamation-worthiness:
eureka, the song: by Abba:
no new Stockholm just the Helsinki Syndrome
in a world of phenomena...
to me Kant's noumenon
is the equivalent of the Q and Anon
and ? in what is:
question-worthiness...

beside the hammer?
i don't need what could possibly look best
yellow on red
if the Mongolian tribalism
the Holden Horde:
like the colors of Ukraine:
blue above
sky blue Autumnal vagary...
then the yellow of the fertile fields...
the wheat for the bread and
beer...
Dolcce und Gabbana Lombardy...

my teeth are not artifact...
i smoke a little try to drink so little
but then the serpent comes and slithers
into my throat with so much fire
that i start to grow wings
and breathe fire:
cousin serpent: why have you come into
my mouth? slithered there by MY apple:
by my apple of the throat
who says I: you? or me?!

Matt is the Devil:
i should know: i scheme all kinds of goodies
for the children
who are yet to be Auschwitz factioned
told to be humans
segregated by ego mother
brother archetype
annoying sister insect...
i'm become poly-schizomatic:
i have turned individualism
into a persona generating machine:
i am PROTO-OEDIPUS...

i am already gearing up for the future:
my pornographic habits involve
GILFS: grandma's i wanna ****:
her previous husband was into bisexuality
and schoolgirl ****:
i'm into ******* women in her 70s:
i want to **** the GRAEAE sisters
to have a third eye:
i will **** my way into the
demands to be met to gain this mythological
dimension!

i will be the father of those ugliest of all
horrors of Heaven:
that Medusa was spawn of heaven
that Polyphemus Outis!
the gravity of the grotesque shifts
from Hell and a democracy arrives:
since what is timing when killing
a child?
the abortion, Lucy Letby's cases...
Bebe King, six; Elsie Dot Stancombe,
seven; and Alice Dasilva Aguiar
a heaven is a place where they went:
you want to go there
and... ahem: ex-plain?!
in Catholic school the pope played
bingo and golf:
had no concept of chess or cards
or backgammaon:
but somehow he knew a Kennedy... which i thought
was: a tad: bit... weird'oh...
so heaven is a place you go to
to become surrogate:
freaks... all those abortions...
what's three names to the list of the unlisted?
what is ****** what is abortion
i don't know: let's **** some six year olds
to quicken the debate...
killing 6 year olds is not killing foetuses is
not killing ***** is not be squandering
by asking ***** to be manna:
i just don't know...

        good philosophy comes:
not because you grandfather died...
or your mother:
you're grey on grey:
your coworker died...
well **** forget that i forgive
you not apologizing...
where's this night guard:
i want to meet this
werewolf zombified-vampire:
mind you...
this the fetish for vampirism die off
into the Zombie Apocalypse
when the AIDS epidemic died down:
to be less and less culturally relevant:
Bruce "the Boss" didn't sing:
the streets of Philadelphia...
so that's the one angle of ****
we covered?
besides the ******* rainbow: in rainbow....

so no cheese?
no drag queen traumatizing children...
maybe we should stabbing them...
rather than exposing them
to this **** virus of bad grammar ideas...
**** it! hey guys!
we're going for a biological impasse:
we're going to just ******* LAUNCH!
against everything!
just, *******: LAUNCH!
we're going to hijack:
**** it: hack:
the ingredients list of Gweneth Paltrous...
health-stance milkshake...
we go you us RIOT!

just checking: so when is killing a killing
and not a lifestyle coach typo
"choice"...
just let me know:

i need vitamins: i need muscle:
i need brain de facto: defects...
i need Frankenstein:
traumatized...
i need to know the cut in point
\and cut off point of meaning:
so stabbing them while they're 6
is bad: because they know Taylor Swift
is not going to capture the dragon...
so...
it's o.k. with serial killer promises
killing infants:
no riot there...
and no riot over the guillotine of white, pill...
good to know...
at least now i know
how to best behave in a crowd....

the Germanic overlord to the beacon
of usage of the English tongue...
just need to find the right sort of meassurements
to know my way around.
but i came to these lands without so much
as a tongue of my own:
so why have i integrated to deposit anonymity personas
while these ******* end up stabbing little girls?!
a bit like the story of the Polish-Linthuanian
Commonwealth:

a foreign ruler would come in:
if only once the Commonwealth gave powers
to a Russian of Origin:
what a Marcus Aurelius a quote
that would have made!
should a foreigner come to the shores of England
and still find the Welsh speaking Welsh
and the dynamic of the crows
flying at lengths: ******* apart:
huginn and muninn...

if i were to sacrifice the eye i ****** off and out of
the possession of Polythemus and the GRAEAE...
GRA-E
or... GRE-A...

           and combine thinking with memorizing...
i thought therefore i remember...
i tihnk: therefore...

therefore: not logic: i have to to...
if i think then, i have to remember...
remembering is a faking of cognitive storage:
thoughts can't be stored:
shackled: enslaved:
thoughts are reincarnations...
for individualistic purposes:
thought sometimes need to be written down:
authenticated: given person...
require signatures:
given the disparity of one individual having them:
burdened with writing them down:
and another: oblivious, individual:
not: individuated enough:
making the same claim of:
these exact thoughts passed through his brain: freeze:
freeze brain!

Kant's categorical imperative...
Heidegger's question-worthiness...
Nietzsche's solipsism=nihilism
Archimedes': eureka!
there was a third dimension i was thinking of:
it must have arrived in my son of con:
the science of -ness affix...

just think:
how poorly most people cipher the Cartesian
doubt:
so blinded by faith...
they ask so many impertinent questions
to guide them:
they have no quill to stomach:
not as guide but as tourist...
they ask so many questions that are not
question-worthy...
this is not acting immorally:
but then again: goodness is allowed to lapse
into sleep:
evil is insomniac...
and when goodness becomes complacent...
evil strikes...
and to me: that's perfectly understandable:
since then chaos ensues
and there is no madness of crowds:
just the chaos of simplicity
having to have to return to the basics of order
that is 1 + 1 = 2
vowels, consonants... an article, the article:
pronouns...
or are we going to have any more arguments
while i gag death and keep her hostage
to her finalizing her postal duties, or what?!
people not understand people being angry
who they think they can control by the summons
to the t.v. glazing neon
that is Plato's cave:
care to watch the horror of a newsreel
in the graveyard shift of life answering?
even to me:
getting a cold in the height of summertime
is weird
as is the fact that Beelzebub's emissary was
buzzing in the night...
but not that green bottle bottom maggot frenzy...
the black fly...
the wholesome miniature of a horse...
jarzębina: mountain ash...
Rowan Tree eyes are poison pebbles...
so dill...
the Egyptian with the dung beetle
the Europeans with their flies... what desert
under these unearthed roots of trees: these crowns?!