Once day there was a ***** cat
she was very fat
and wanted to **** herself
with a shelf
but that would be impossible
because cats cant touch shelves without explodingble
which means, they would die
and then it jumped high
and landed on a road
and was killed by a toad
driving a foor weel drive
oh ****
that ***** got hit

Drip drip drop
I watch the blood run dwn my leg then pool on the bathroom floor in one spot
Drip drip drop
I lock the door so i wont be caught
Drip drip drop
I lock the foor so i wont be stopped
Drip drip drop
I look at my leg this is for my flesh as i carve n F
Drip drip drop
This is for the ******* remarks in place i carve an A
Drip drip drop
Im done with being called an idiot accedentally so i carve an I
Drip drip drop
For everyone who called me a looser or laughed i carve an L
Drip drip drop
People who made me feel useless this is for you as i carve a U
Drip drip drop
This is for those who made me realize what i am so i carve an R
Drip drip drop
This ones for me the last letter i carve an E
Drip drip drop
I lay in the tub watching the water run red replaying FAILURE over and over in my head

Brian Molko was already doing the current wannabe-trend of trans-sexuality long before trans-sexuality was a common "thing"... tracing back some ulterior taboo settings... today on my way to work i spotted my first trans-******: wow! obviously he had manly hands... large... he was tall... he had large feet... but slender legs... and a face, with all that necessary make-up of eyeliner... hair? not very long... shoulder length... yes... a deep voice... but then again my godmother has a husky voice from all the smoking and drinking... but i fancied him... the dynamic on the tube was magnifying... three women sat beside him while he was talking to his geeky (maybe, probably) boyfriend, a plump chap with eyeglasses... i couldn't stop thinking: ah... the solidarity of men... when in shortage of supply of women, men will find alternative avenues to compensate for women, men will find women in men... the idea that i might be a transphobe never occurred to me: but it did occur to me that women: for all their supposed glorification of acceptance would never allow men to be attracted to men who are: beyond merely the thespian gay-lord, *******... ally... this... "freak"... i fancied this man... i could omit all the stressed "imperfections"... but such a feminine-feline face... it really suited him... i wanted to kiss him... i was thinking... i'll tend to the "oysters" and all the tender bits and bites of being with him... andd do the butcher's work with a *******... problem solved... this skin-head middle-aged (i'm coming to middle age, or life expectancy, not the lottery of mortality, mind you) sat next to me and was sort of nudging me with a shadow missing in the full-glare of the lights of the tube... you fancy him? insinuations via body-language: yeah... i do... is it wrong? nope! check the women sitting next to him... do you fancy them? nope... me too... of the three or four women sitting next to this trans-****** specimen... none had a lovelier face... mutations just... "happen"... the eureka-oops moments... i could seriously forget about the shared dimensions of large hands twice as big as that of a geisha, same with the feet... i could forget the baritone voice... i really fancied this boy... in a way that gay-lords just make it difficult having mingled with actors too much and not retaining an aura of: suspense and: something in me is frigid, alien... i shouldn't but... hell... i really should! i will! benevolent London that is... he was prettier than all the women i saw that day... like my grandfather once said: there are no ugly women... there are only abandoned... if not abandoned then neglected women... to think that women could ever be neglected: says as much about neglected men... men will find alternative avenues to women when the women self-exfoliate in their "privilege" of: first-come-first-served-and-thus-the-only-served menu... **** that! but what was special about this trans-****** specimen? it reminded me of the time i fancied Brian Molko, still do... in a non-gay sort of way... in a Plato the Plumber there's a blocked toilet of reincarnation afloat... it was actually, sort-of, actually-sort-of-funny watching the women on the same carriage trying to read my reaction... for once a man was more attractive than a woman to me! wow! being accused of trans-phobia... in London? well... only if you can't pull it off! it's like saying: coulrophobia! fear of clowns! with the clowns being without make-up? conflating the Apex Twin gargoyle from Window-Licker?! yeah... scary ****! the grin that's the length of the equator... i couldn't be attracted to a standard homosexual... Thespian leeching or intellectually pleasing akin to a Douglas Murray... or body-building blah blah... but this trans-****** specimen? that's an affront to a woman... all women... a man can have a prettier face to a woman's if... a man deems the exampled woman to be nothing more than akin to a lineage of... never arrived at cosmopolitanism... beetroot countryside proud... all red and irritated... i fancied this one... i was one step away from askig him: can i have your number? again, to reiterate: i didn't mind the deep voice... i didn't mind the size of hands that could match mine or the size of feet that could match mine... i was... infatuated with the magic dust of PIXIES! maybe that's what i learned from going to the brothel... but if you're going to play the trans-****** game... can you please avoid the mishandling of the Hippocratic oath... so little is actually necessary to accomplish a ****-heterosexual confusion-attraction that leaves women feeling inadequate: you, wouldn't even want to begin to believe! i'm now currently thinking of that film: the Odd Couple... Walter Matthau as Oscar Madison and Jack Lemmon as Felix Unger... Felix being the male-feminine counterpart of the feminine-man slob child pampered to: or however this quadratic works... i wouldn't be doing the cleaning and the cooking out of a feminine dignity to avoid doing the hard work of society's demands... no... i'd be perfecting my cooking to match up to the sort of food available upon heading out to a restaurant, i.e. not eating out... i've seen some car-crashes of trans-****** attempts... but this one stuck out for me because i started to think along the lines of: who needs women if men can appear prettier than women?! i'll just close my eyes when hand meets hand... it's a sickly sweet sensation but i could stomach it: if the conversation was kept to a satisfying lubrication: and it wouldn't be even remotely associated to the feminist-gay "commonwealth"... alliance... i don't need homosexuals to tell me XY&Z... i'm actually grooving this trans-****** trend: if spotting the exacting specimen to curtail all the wannabes... if there's an authentic Brian Molko specimen walking around... wow! reimagining being *** starved on the Western Front... a few guys with more artistic inclinations... rather than the rough sea-faring roughage of **** on the spot job done become involved... prettier faces than those of women... i could: no! i would succumb! it's just the terror in the eyes and on the faces of women... hey presto! a stick has two ends! freeze eggs... follow a career... demand a car a mortgage blah blah... my my... what a curiosity this trans-****** worked up to a perfection specimen of disphoria awoke in me... good enough cushioning blanket of sleeping with enough prostitutes... now i really want to sleep with a man... which is not gay... i'm bored of prostitutes... they're like any other woman: you pay them... yet they still complain as if you haven't paid them when not getting a hard-on because of (x) tiredness, (**) distraction, (***) life... per se... whatever... but those female faces... i pretended to be snoozing... they knew i knew... i kept an itch of a blink at this specimen... woman: ANGRY... no... actually... not angry... woman... what the **** is going on? of the times i went to a gay club and didn't pick up a Francis Bacon i wondered: did i drink enough? homosexual lust and all that same-for-same feminine-pro erotica of the jealous stone-rub-stone-offensive... the trans-****** "confusion" is a bright light... if done properly... done... naturally... i'm mesmerised... without... obviously... without... people succumbing to the breaking of the Hippocratic-oath... obviously... i despise the gay-pride movement... at least the authentic trans-sexuality movement is subtle... it's philosophically laden with a curiosity of more lips and less **** stressing fist-*******... this morphing of the pareidolia toward: seeing a female in a man's face... or seeing a man in a woman's face... hardly gender dysphoria... *****-utopia and... just as children look alike, regardless of ***... so do old people... also regardless of ***... but to achieve a heterosexual attraction in the realm of trans-genderism? it can't be forced... it has to happen ha-ha-naturally! i'm laughing at myself... only briefly... i'm more inclined to see the female in a man without seeing the homosexual... because homosexuality is like that quote from... no... not Human Traffic... about being gay and eating *****... how... eating ***** is not for real men... while ******* **** is all All Spice Alles Mensch... whatever... the gays are too proud might as well look out for the shy, proper, proper shy... trans-sexuals without any anti-Hippocratic-Oath mishandling(s)... the women become jittery thus...

i should have come home and reflected on spending
the past several hours on a shift
in Bishop's Park, overlooking Putney Bridge
watching the tide of Thames' recede back into the great
mouth before mingling with the salty waters
of the North Sea...
     all loved-up with the cold the dark and the wind
putting on some Woljiech Kilar soundtrack music
from Dracula - love remembered...
well... i was in the mood for something like that:
i put the track on... nope... can't feel it...
i'm tired, i'm cold i need to put on something to groove
to... we ain't going out like that - Cypress Hill...
tiredness swells the imitation pigeon-strut
in my head... bouncy-Billy will also ask for a chance
to express himself...
    the joke ran with Martin's team (Chelsea)
losing for the first time since 2006 to Fulham...
         the police officers were in a good number...
they even brought their horses...
two stood across from us when the final whistle was
blown... one of them started "laughing": if that's
what horses do, i.e. laugh...
no onomatopoeia here: hey Martin! even the horses
are laughing that Fulham beat Chelsea in the most
local derby of London...
    Craven Cottage is what? a mile at max two from
Stamford Bridge...
          one can only love the ever infuriated Martin...
but still the Thames receding...
   at first glace i might have stretched across
the balustrade and probably touched the surface of
the water... by the end of the shift when the river-bed
started to be exposed i started to wonder:
all that volume and now apparent air where once
there was water...
  no river in the world akin to the Thames...
tide in and tide out... at Westminster it's a river
that rid itself of the kettle and is nonetheless standstill
and boiling - during the day...
while eating a chicken wrap of torsos and tortillas
talking to a Norwegian who came over to watch
the football for the week...
last time he was here in the 1980s... have things changed?
the oyster one-touch travel card...
sure... it has just become a little bit more expensive:
but nothing has changed that much...
but during the night, and if its windy... well: clearly
there's a flow... a tide in or a tide out...
by the time i got to Goodmayes i walked past the brothel:
thank god i have nothing more to prove
thank god i have satiated my base needs and that's that...
what am i looking for? a compliment to a pharma-knock-out
of generic painkillers in the form of a bottle
of whiskey...
    too tired to **** not tired enough to think:
maybe i could fall in love again...
   fall in love... fall in love: but... ugh...
               fall in love and not pamper a woman's needs
with all those basic "tattoos" of courtship...
i might as well ask any future father-in-law:
so... where's my cow, my wedding dowry?
                     where's the pick-me-up to work with?
well if manna from heaven will not drop into my lap...
i hardly think... who the hell needs a car in London?
given the oncoming ULEZ restrictions?
bicycle, underground and the trains, plenty of buses...

today i was sent the most odd message from a coworker
who i am supposed to do a shift at the ice rink
on Sunday...
i was rather surprised - a "box" i never thought i would
unbox (as it were)...
i'll be honest... she's damaged - seriously damaged:
i'm on the "top" of the pile of damaged goods...
a mythological schizoid - ageing - each year turns
out easier as the madness spreads around me:
madness or the crushing mundaneness -
mundaneness or mediocrity -
    in a democracy it's all and the same: in the grey yolk
of bureaucracy -
         pushing letters through keyholes that leave
no door open: unless playing the "system" like
a criminal or a mummy with five different shades
of children from five different fathers...

                       the trouble with Russian girls is that...
they don't like a boy who appreciates music by Placebo...
huge disagreement... her take on Nancy Boy was
rigid and could never be biding: no appreciation of the music
for you... well... that be that...

this girl is hurt... i am hurt: everyone's hurt...
but i still find reasons to find silly happiness in cooking
cleaning, general groundwork labour of changing
the garden - some carpentry: cycling...
keeping up appearances of a well-kept diet
and perfumery of all sorts... at least dressing like
my idol Karl Lagerfeld... like an animal wears its fur...

she even changed her name to Frankie -
Frankie... i.e. is that Franklin, Frank?
no... it's actually Francesca...
the running joke with another girl i work with
runs along the line:
wouldn't that be something, to put on your CV
if you managed to convert her?
convert? or reconvert?
after all she has managed to produce offspring...
god knows why she's not in contact with her daughter...
but it's not like she was always a lesbian...
forced lesbian... it's not something a priori:
it's a posteriori...
after the facts that include: her biological father
beating her biological mum...
her biological mum abandoning her and her siblings
to escape with her dear life...
    how her step-father is like her biological father
but then the problem arises: the mother is unhinged
and now her step-father is facing splitting up with her
mother... of all the siblings she's the only one
keeping contact with her mother...
the other siblings, at least one... is ******* up to
her biological father who was: the greatest intersexual
boxer of the domestic environment to have ever lived
(in her eyes at least, i bet Tina Turner could compensate
such allowances of vanity)...

she used to be a man's woman once...
but now she switched... ******* without all
the Hippocratic misdeeds of the modern, current, narrative,
cutting off ******* and other genitals,
hormonal treatments... it's almost as if Joseph Mengele
died in body but his spirit lived on...
it's like a never-ending Auschwitz or at least
encryptions of mad-scientists for thirst of knowledge
have continued on a side-note of eugenics...
but at least with the closure of the 20th century
there was safe ******* experiments undertaken
by individuals without any authority of government:
the boys would grow their hair long and put
on eyeliner...
    perhaps even use girly perfumes or wear
dresses, nail-polish... hell... even sniff ******* or wear
them... but not with medical authority creating
irreversible ****** changes...
the girls would put on more weight or work out
and pretend to be East Germany's Olympians...
cut their hair short... who came the Pixie girls...
get tattoos wear signets: those bulky rings worth not
a gram of gold but their own worth of bulk...
    and like Francesca get an undercut with a Mohawk...
change their tone of voice... defence defence defence...
and become suddenly less and less agreeable...
still retaining a feminine smile and the odd feminine giggle
that could be unearthed...
or like with her text...
'hey... i want to go ice-skating after our shift...
do you think you'd be up for it?'
sure... although i only ice-skated twice in my life...
a long time ago, 13? i fell every single time...
i looked like someone who escaped from having
suffered from Polio...
i'll still look like someone who suffered from childhood
Polio akin to Israel Vibration's
Wiss", "Apple Gabriel", "Skelly"
      or Ian "Lane" Drury...
                                    instead i sent her a text replying:
sure... but i'll look like a spider equipped with
roller blades... i'll need to bring a casual set of trousers
just in case i fall and rip my work trousers...
'ha ha ha ha(insert crying with laughter emoticons)...'

oh sure... it's not a date... i'm not just going on a date...
we're not going for dinner...
i'm going ice-skating with a lesbian...
a butch-lesbian a hiding woman...
tattoos six-pack and muscle...
no wonder: only hours prior i was admiring
a would-be Brian Molko on the tube...
        
she followed up with a text of yet more defence:
but i'm skint - it will cost £10.50 for an hour
and a bit...
      we'll see i reply... as if she was implying:
if we can't get in for free... would you be willing
to pay?
i didn't reply with agreement to paying for...
then again: i'm not thinking about ***,
or homosexual conversion therapy...
i just don't remember when a girl last asked me to
go on a date with her... after all:
isn't a girl asking a boy to go ice skating with her
sort of asking a boy to go on a date?
she said she was quiet adapted to ice skating:
she owns a pair (of ice skates)... and i'll be the hilarious
polio walker / spider strapped with roller blades
trying to swim in quicksand...
mind you... i'm trying to rid myself of the past two
interactions in the brothel... terrible ***...
that one with the madam where i was limp...
the fate of the Sabine men gripped me...
i won't deny it...
second time... she calls herself my favourite:
she isn't... she's deluded... to the amazement of the other
girls i like to **** in the brothel...
i only extended my per usual 30min stay
by clocking up an extra 30min because i was so close
to climaxing from a *******: knock knock on the door...
time's up... no... not this time...
i'm going to finish... ergo...
but even she has paved her way onto a path of too much
physical augmentation...
if the **** don't come first... then the duck quack lips
reveal themselves first... she's an aging *******
and she has never done anything in terms of work
prior... no laundry no till service...
pregnant aged 14 and in the profession aged 16...
this is the murk and the sully of the gallows
of everyone: once, former, youthful idealism of love...
trotting a horse with broken legs like
waking up into birth by a man sitting in akimbo
for too long... standing up with numbed legs...
moving awkwardly...

obviously i was going to be robbed of Khadra and Mona...
Mona became stupid for getting pregnant
with a customer... hmm... i wonder who...
last time i saw her i teased her without a ******
and this massive fright gripped her face
because i was only teasing and she thought i was
a premature ejaculator... clearly a ****** was subsequently
used and the deposit in it: **** knows...
she should know... i haven't seen her since...

i think i'll text Francesca (Frankie) and tell her...
bring your skates girl... if we can't get in for free i'll
pay for the two of us...
only two shifts prior she was insinuating about
going for a pint: i just replied: i would...
but i had to help my father write the fortnightly
invoice and send it in...
like tomorrow... tomorrow i'll have to help my mother
with the taxes and VAT...
they're getting a new accountant and she lied
about doing her taxes on a spreadsheet...
**** me... i probably used Microsoft Excel twice...
twice, properly... but since i only used it twice...
i'm a bit rusty... so much worth of secondary school
education or the university...
   they taught us the bare minimum of real-world
life-long tools of the onslaught of technology -
   hammer and scythe i can use to count heads...
oh well: there's bound to be some crash-course for dummies
on the internet...

i waited until 9pm for the three of us to sit down to
eat some fajitas...
i overdid it using Kashmiri chilly powder
and three fresh chillies in making the pineapple salsa...
but the hotness neutralised itself with the addition
of the tomato salsa i made... and the guacamole...
the sour cream and obviously cheese, esp. cheddar
neutralises all possible excess spices...
we ate, chatted... one big ******* family,
me, father and mother and my "brother" and "sister"...
well... at least the cats meow and don't bark...
oddly enough: i'm happy... mediocre sort of:
that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
were the protagonist - a corrupt police officer -
is forced into a nightmare of having to relive his
eternity in his childhood's bedroom...
living with his parents...
shouldn't the horror be... your parents getting divorced?
i don't know why mine are still together...
they must be freaks... i must be a mutant:
well... born only two weeks after Chernobyl:
no riddles, only clues...
     i keep the conversation going...
i help around the house...
  
                        Frankie dealt me two nuggets of hashish
in the past 4 months... once i was desperate
when the hashish ran out so she gave me the number
of a marijuana dealer: great green all the way from
America... i only used the service once...
maybe that's me being bulletproof...
i'm cutting down on drinking and i will never return
to smoking marijuana to achieve a Buddha-esque glow
meditating while high and hungry...
weighing in at 78kg... it's a bit of a yoyo with me these
days... from 99kg through to 103kg...
but then... i pinch myself: i summon the ***** to pinch
back... hmm! no man-****... so i could try out for
some amateur rugby matches...

a butch lesbian asking a boy for a date to go
ice skating... i feel... truly terrible for all the conventional women...
i would have offered a cinema date...
she beat me to the better sort of entertainment...
she said: let's go ice skating...
i would have retorted: i do own two bicycles...
how about we go cycling in the night...
round and round Raphael's Park...
round and round... and if we're lucky...
and if the winter air aligns itself with some idiot
setting off fireworks... we can get snippets of whiffs
of imitation autumn... as if the leaves of the trees
have fallen in the dry crisp air and someone
set them alight and there's no rot and knee-deep
digging of plush-decay exfoliating a sickness
in the air... how's that?

i'll send her the text... hell... i'll pay for her...
i'm not interested in ***...
she might be a butch-lesbian trying to hide her
femininity... but she still smiles like a woman...

oh sure... i remember the last conventional:
heterosexual date i was on...
we met in a sweaty night-club... if we kissed we kissed:
i don't remember... she gave me her phone-number
i gave her mine... i was in the company of
about 3 girls who i met elsewhere, otherwise:
also randomly...
at least one made something of her life...
she ****** off to Norway - totally off-the-grid...
by now probably breeding huskies for sleighs...

the next time we met... i bought two bottles of wine...
the "date"? a job interview... we talked...
subsequently we went to a pub while i had a pint...
she was feeling claustrophobic...
i was the alcoholic and she became the **** of boredom...
she excused herself: some prior engagement
with her girlfriends... i guess she thought she got away...
i way happy to get away by same mechanisation
of oppositional psychology...
all this talk within the confines of carpe diem that
centred upon: what do you / what's you living
should i think about life insurance - will we live to be 70
years old?
well... that's the cherry on top with Francesca...
you want to go ice-skating? sure...
you want to go cycling with me in the night?
sure... life insurance / what do you for a living?
how much do you earn?
             can we live a little outside a prison within a prison?!

so much for Dawid Bovie's idea of the androgynous man:
if i'm to be surrounded by "butch" lesbian
and prostitutes: that's my lot then...
i'm not going to succumb to the CV-project-veritas
in-vitro infanticide females with CHOICE
like... my spunking into a bucket and calling it:
falling asleep with the sound of rain
trickling trickling on a metallic roof...
in the night when the horrors come and horrors
claim all the little details of frailty
of mortality...

                  for every tear-jerking sympathy for
a Romeo there's the mantis of
   a Judith kissing the decapitated head of
                                                             Holofernes:
**** it... the prostitutes i truly loved ******* are either:
pregnant or on "holiday"...
i passed the brothel only two nights ago...
i spotted a man walking out from the door...
he froze like a doe in the headlights and didn't move
until i turned my head and kept walking...
i was about to blast out with wind and voice:
no shame in having to share women
we will never impregnate!
start thinking like a woman, dear man...
think on ground of evolutionary bias...
for every women there's this boast of:
50% of men reproduced successfully...
while all the whole lot of them the 100% of train-wrecks
and Piccadilly butcher's antics with the flab
have... their greatest success story to ever live...
i could be worse off... than right now...
i could have married an ugly woman:
by definition: if a most feminine man
grows his hair long and applies some slapstick
makeover creases of eyeliner...
i can forgive him his match-for-match size
of hands... height... size of shoe...
but never an ugly woman... UGLY...
that goes beyond mere the physical-glass...
i'm talking: character... there's no prime-ego
LEGO building block... no architect's corner stone...
there's nothing to work with...
just everything to work around...
to avoid...
                    
    if: for ****'s sake... i'm not planning: i'm providing
the revenue... i want to go ice-skating!
she doesn't have any money? i have "too much"...
i don't: but for the worth of life in life that's only
to supposed to span a month's worth of living it...
hell: i have no better idea to pass the time...

at one point i found out that Francesca has some Irish
roots... you're Aye-Reesh?!
              really? never would have conjured up
a sharing of ******* on a leprechaun...
**** it for good luck... like circumcision:
that's apparently Hebrew for: good luck...
with the addition of: ensuring your bride to be
be donning a niqab and all those "other"...
culturally sensitive, exclusive terms of
cultural-dis-appropriation: or whatever the **** is
coming out of H'America...
             once upon a time when that cultural export
was relevant: these days: nothing new to be
found... except the abandoned moon...

well... i sent the text... sure... i'll pay for the ice-skating...
but you have to promise me to go cycling
with me during the warmer months
with me... don't worry about having a bicycle...
you can have my mountain-bicycle
i use for the winter months
while i'll get on my summer month
road-bicycle...
we'll head toward Thurrock...
and elsewhere that's Essex friendly
and far away from London outer-suburbia...
fresh... fresh...
Jean Claude van Dame...
                       Fresh: that's her idea of working out
before the shift... and then going ice-skating...
FooR x Majestic x Dread MC...

                oh well... life in Loon-downs...
or is that: no apples... i'm sure there are no apples...
if she takes the bait...
i.e. i pay for both of us going ice-skating tomorrow...
she better go cycling with me during the
summer months...
she says no to ice-skating tomorrow
i'll become Trojan in my own defense...
if she wants to be all ******* lesbian defensive...
i can be defensive too...
i'll arm myself with enough brothel visits to erase:
first... comes... oh my grandmother disappointed
me... i could have been there for my
grandfather stabbing himself in the leg
while entering the state of AGONIA...

                    i could have been there: she? trying to protect
me against the advent of mortality?
or her... biting my grandfather's alcoholism she
induced by being a terrible woman?
his last pleasures?
crossword puzzles... cycling, fishing,
rekindling with the day-tripper postcard sender
vouch! you're the simulation tourist with
his... grand... chill... no... not -dren...
his... sole and only grand-child... i.e. me...
him buying me the books i read over the summer holidays...

women are so ape so cruel...
i stopped believing in what's idealistic and rare before
me: which i can't replicate...
i'm happy being freed from:
i don't earn the sort of money that the state
demands taxing me... weird? no!
i don't earn enough to be taxed!
weird... i'm sort of pretending to be a jellyfish
afloat... simulating gravity:
gravity is always a simulation in the medium
of water...
                by air contra vacuum:
the mountain breathes in winter a cascade of
frigid snow slides down...
a Michael Schumacher goes skiing...
****** races cars at 200kmh... one loose turn and twist:
cranium like an opening of a watermelon...
jellyfish fighting for life dead-locked style
in a sick-bed while people nearest to him
think about magic-spells: how best to live without
him: how best to milk the cow with *****
instead of milk... hmm hmm hmm...

if she wants to go on a date with me to go ice-skating...
and i'm supposed to be paying for it...
she better be readied to go cycling with me
during the summer months...
if that's not going to happen:
she shouldn't have suggested
going ice-skating in the first place, for ****'s sake...
like: anything by Bricktop in ****** is
Shakespeare to me... perhaps even more...
living with the times...

                                oh well some well: Samuel!
Samuel: you're not Samantha... learn to become
a transvestite first... before we employ the ****
Hippocrates to mutilate you, o.k. darling?
    learn to grow your hair long...
learn to put on make-up... learn to wear dresses...
learn to sniff female underwear...
Samuel! Samuel! you're not Samantha (yet)!
we will not give you up to the Joseph "Hip-replacing-******"
Mengele: shy away from everything American
in the realm of: worth being culturally exported
and influencing foreign cultures: esp.
in the basin of the origins of the English ZZZUNGE...
that's England...
                  
HIPS FOR KNEES!
                    America: beacon, former: beacon of the world
to come... came one Cain for every second cannibal
no Satan was spawned: at least that's Iranian paranoia
covered: converted, shut the doors on Tehran...
bigger whoops happened when...
Garry Glitter became pop once more
with the release of the Joker movie
and that mad dance scene...
on the 132 steps where Shakespeare Avenue
meets Anderson Avenue...

    i will never, ever... visit... anything... remotely...
resembling... or being curated as being:
North America... i've had too much north american
cultural anemia...
             prior to words not being so much politcal
as agent orange doing all the "talking"...
                                  
  tam tam tam dam dam dam... ditto... do no more than
the necessary "evil": just, bass: on the base
on insinuation;
hell... if the afro-cosmopolitan is the new "cool",
the new "groove"...
let's just keep it... marred: in murk: in murky.

Anyone wanna chat I'm bored. And waiting for ember evanescent to finish creating a poem for me so wicked bored anyone up foor a conversation.

Dear followrs
Thanks for keepin
In touch stay that
Way plz thx: D


                                                           Love,
                                                                T-Gold

I'm okay
you know,
like this.
A matress by
the cold concrete foor
bareskinned
thin white fabric shredding
warmth
our legs laced
and
my fingers dancing
on your chest.
The sunlight makes it's
way throughout the closed windows
and I felt scared,
for myself.
Because I envy the sun,
whose rays touch you
in just a single wrap
while
there are still parts
of your body
I have not touched.

You climbed unto my heart and sat on that throne,like all was yours and I too would suffer that faith.

You were right, though I fought and struggled soon your blue eyes a crushed me like the tempting sky

Your pink lips wrapped mine in a rose scented haze and my resolve was over.

It died as quiclly as it spruted and a lingering dissapointment hovers on my chest.

I had been weak and I had let that one gaze of nothing but infatuation both entise me and crush my dreams of ever healing

I do not still love you and if I do then maybe hell is right next foor

to write: in order to be unable to recognise
oneself in the writing -
        impossible to stress a variation of amnesia:
it's a... it's a...

             the current philanthrope: archaic for:
philanthropist -
                   because no there's no new-outfit
for a misanthrope...
                             vaccinations blue-checkers...
a game of chess:
   with narratives...
               alliance of white: as doubt...
                     and alliance of black: as denial...
but this is not a game...
  no one plays a game to feed such
a gluttonous slouch of staging:
                       demoralization projects...

brain-sponges and some variation
of music as a wheezing...
                    or a helium gargantua:
laughter in a vacuum...

it's sometimes to think about the eyes:
unless there's a concern
for either mountain of a canyon -
it's impossible to think without the sea...
i somehow wish that i could
fathom the eyes as a simple
prelude to having two stones
in a trouser pocket...
and fiddling with them...

i want to make my tongue enshrined
in the confines of an oyster:
some forgotten gem...
   i dream about homelessness
and all of life's tragedy
                of: beside a prison...
the freedom to roam...
        but i somehow stumble...
if only the determination
              of a classical lore akin to
Sisyphus...
              
                    it's always impossible
to borrow something from
the Greeks...
           then again:
who were the Greeks at the fall
of Contantinople...
             breaking bones to fiddle
with the buckle of Islam...
            it's almost tickling the suspense
lying in wait...

a marlboro cigarette is unlike
a camel cigarette...
              i say they add something
to the puff...
        happy to have been freed from
the nicotine hangover...
but it somehow aids these scribbles...
it's not much...
    it's not madame bovary or
anna karenina...

                                time is playing catch-up
and i... hope for a seclusion
of assets...
     i mostly lie before
a sleep pattern completely petrified...
not that i rarely conjure
ushers of dream...
                   but that...
            it's always the same impossibity
of being a son of a father...
or some other monstrosity
of time: noted... when abiding
with a grandfather...

if i could question the ownership
of my ears...
if i could replace my eyes
with either two stones in my pocket
fiddled with like a pair of dice...
or shelter in the "myopia"
of: one eye for the canyon...
the other for the mountain...

  how is it that i am so at loss...
where is a pick-me-up of ambition...
i am without ambition...
in that: should i enjoy ambition
and make myself a prospect
of a career in politics...
in that old sequence of...
people coming together!

      i as a we! are not! corrupt!
it's so impossible to attempt to live
a life of an honest man...
then again... before such a question
is posed: one must...
turn the fudge... bother the barley...
grind the bits to a flour...
if i were given a compass
and asked to be placed
on the spectrum of:
counter the philosopher's stone:
money... what would i do...
if a servitude of implosive meaning
were ascribed to a sudden
revision... if name and title should
be engraved on... peanuts...
and we were all... "suddenly" elephants
behind the "riddle"...

   it's not merely impossible:
it's just plain stupid...
  if i had one ear as a cave...
and the other as a savannah...
for sure: one to feed the concern for echo...
otherwise the derelict disguise
of a splendour of lingo...

        this... is an abadoned house...
feel free to roam in it beside...
i will have left it once i have complete
the doodle...
    it's not much because:
it's not rhyme-friendly...
                 but thanks to the h'american
school... it's doesn't matter
whether poetry is an art of
the scalpel or demands for pedagogy's
regurgitation...
whether h'america is sleeping
or whether russia is reading...

           there's that currency of the narrative:
an expediEncy...
     i'd write an A into that "affair" if i was
to be all too honest...
              it's not like english
allocates orthographic pressures
of shame... should a transgression
be posed...
                   the old mechanical baron arm
of carrot forward! stick! is precise in...
what's to be allocated!

it's impossible to drink these days:
since the moral hangover...
it's impossible to smoke a cigarette...
since the same impossible hangover...
it's not even a question
of who's contesting a replica of 100 years
sober samuel...
     it's impossible to make eternal
demands of life with a posthumous p.s.:

for lack of a better word...
of the concern for what's to be ate...
the eyes pleasure...
the ears are... ears...
cartilege: an impromptu revision...
but the tongue oh so ******* critical...
it's almost necessary to learn
a second language in order to justify
being a foor critic...

food critic? this is what happens when...
the *** drive of humans is over-stated...
bogus work... and the unemployed masturbators...
the same spectrum...
a bogus job title at one end...
an unemployed masturbator at the other...

        the grass grows plenty for the rabbits...
if the desire for banana dries up...
for the baboons...
  and there's no will to straighten those
parades... then there's... "platanitos"... etc.
                   but there's a need for a plethora:
counter the forests with paper...
        should i desire more priests?!
       it's a fear... that i will absolve myself
from retaining the last remains
of authenticity -
        for the filled goblet made by
a spew of lies...
        it's such an impossible...
  "nuance"...      "bereaving"...
                 ­                      hyphen antics...
          a *******!           compromise!
   like Noah... building his project was...
all about... the made collective individuals...
i attempt working for a lie...
i die at the attempt of working...
unless of course...
             the mind of man is so...
intricate and spectacular to be without
fault...
as to the genuine promise from afar in time...

it's a terrible affair to have
homelessness as a fear... first, highest...
to then watch videos of people
going through the tides
and somehow stomaching the lacklustre
adventure...

- so to write something that
can't be paraded - that it has to gravitate
towarding a biding personal -
to heave the half-breath
of tendering sycophancy & scrutiny...
for there to be a...
whisper of rome...
come the advent of the caesars...

what an old ******* of hope...
             it's not near impossible...
when confined to...
   the cul de sac of gauging out of eyes
and rat inclined impromptus...

the current philan-thropist
         is so bothersome like a c.c.t.v.
installation that the misanthrope is a complete
bonkers jazz *** las vegas inversion
perfect!
         via / in between the solipsist:
self-conscious autist
    and the whoever takes your fancy...
   i'm making myself suspect
of what's being readied as: "digestable"...
it's not impossible...
it's just... cow-towing i.e. depressing...
     who would have thought
that a simple trick could...
fool... magnus primo maribus -
         the first great adventurer...
the shackled chimpanzee to a 'shroom...
or the 'shroom: a fungus riddle
of the primate seeing UV and ultra-red...
the first prized cinema of purple
with fluorescence: liquid light...
                                         lux liquidum...
the demands for phosphrescnce revisionism?

thus to be schooled: "schooled" without
a slightnest idea of how to deal with
a psychopasth - that one ordeal of being robbed
with the intention of the purely materialised
mechanisation of life:
the depth of the slit into soulness...

a hybrid of nothing and ego...
to borrow a figment of the imagination:
the gravity toward an engineeer
of a longboat that's
about as useful as a piece of paper...
perhaps the assurance of a kite...
which implies the wind...
"sloth" beside an attempt at water...
if the sea were a river...
and the tide were the narrative...
but the lacklustre of heaving "nuance"...

  we weren't schooled to be carpenters...
as we weren't...
to enjoy the ******* and a narrative
of "leisure"...
       before the gnat crescendo...
like some altar for the breaking of the bones
of a horse heaving
a sought at sigh...

                 could i ask the priest crow
for more? when addressing him to quest a q.
of a magpie or a birch tree?
could i heave a stomach so riddled
woth indigestion...
                to forever quest for
a mountain's zenith...
having to begin with a pyramid's nadir...
this sand... this time...
this impossible demand for...

a lasting: a debilitating concept of hope...
that's beyond crying...
a concept: but at best...
a concern for a dog...
then again... a dog: a leash, a muzzle...
the perfect cat the "homeowner"...
the gap-year striptease crescendo!

i want to fear this avenue of
life's worded tolls...
because...
there's a respect for them...
unlike... like there's a celebration
of Diogenes... if all the homeless
were to serve a fate
of this sour-**** of a gritting over...
               what am i: as question:
possibly having to write?
if all the homeless people
were a Diogenes of Sinope...
                
  i was in Athens once...
armed with a glass of absyinthe...
some yogoslav toll-busters...
a freak-magnet of a striptease bar
with myself ******* my trousers...
finding to a bind
of a way-back...
              hey presto!
            it's not a fear...
it's an anticipation...
               a manhunter prodigy affair...
to have to have done
so little of the world attested
concept of bad: an east germany concensus...
to be in a prison
of homelessness: nuance...
the dream of the broke...
the baron of the breaking...

best equipped: with a car and a gun...
but "somehow"...
no new old: or old new h'america...
i still somehow want
to yoddle my load of unbelievable
switzerland that has to
grieve my load worth
of iowa!
         my burried the unforgotten
list of "good luck" few...

the vanity project: prior to not...
anticipating the homelessness...
it's such a judas low duo due...
                   i want as hope: and a death..
it's not but there's the braving
the tide of vanity:
the better-sit-my-*****-sit-lem'oh-bedding...
it's a continent's worth
of a lingo... it's not like...
england cruise... croatia riddle...
******* dim-wits!
           new b'est h'america!
toll the brittle old jonah cull hard-on-an-adams...

my heiving little...
               my loitering "lost" of
                     the last impossible....
that impossible looting custard
pie of heart...
                   the happiness
  of the neared impossible heart...
this bypassing this cat fickle...
my best kept nuanced smile &
faking it...

  the shoe the fiddle... the mozart
the beard the hybrid
bypass the last
vanity of a fed...
             it's my best breast
fretted the knuckle,
and a bone...
          and a lost carpenter's
*****...
        witch and no nordic
leisure of an itching...
                   because!
the ******* guise of basic!
the broken tree
with a basic of breaking of bones...
gravity of the "loitering"...
there's always the
loitering play of rambo...
     johnny-yo-yo..
            iowa: new croatia!

  lost towing the burning tire!
because! i own's us a bus!
grieving the legitimate
    and what's otherwise...
the crease...
and death is a sudden..
               my scuttle bumble:
breaking the bee.

yes, and the prolonged life:
"engineering"
process... as dictated by...
listening...
i was for a long time
described as "mentally" ill...
**** it,
bring on the ethunasia
project...
  sado-*******
pro-life advocates....
        people will never
ever known
how to make ontology
"coicidental"
with the natural world...
esp. given technological
advances...
   no amount
of leni riefenstahl
"****"...
  *****! i want to die!
because sure as ****:
blüt ist geblüt...
                    
but you will not care
foor your ailing
grandparents... will you?!
so... you want my children
to take care of them?

why is death such
an inhumane
aspect
of life?
why... no romance?
why no
byzantinischchor?
instead
byzantinischdenken?

your living will not care
for my living prior to
death,
so, why...
should i even make
theatre,
of your thought being:
the sulfer orientated
worth curation?

mother... ******* son
ego of the σχολαστικός -
    of:
s'CH'OL'A
  chase no sKip...
scholastic...
                    
Me-Te-Ra-To'N-
SKe-psIE..

   saying:
where is the consonant
"cut-off":
prefix,
  and the vowel
"cut-in":
suffix...
i.e. in the example
of ψη:
               ps'i E...

who? nor w'hat?

       people chant against
the Byzantines...
but the choir...
the choir...
are what's called
the... reserves.

the magic of advertisement...
it's not like i would drink the beer being
advertißed...
beer sure... but what's being sold?

i could be drinking a really expensive
whiskey... an irish whiskey...
but... i'm no ******* connoisseur...
give me the base-bust of the cheap ****...
and i'll rap you the drunk's
rhapsody...

        closet skeleton and king rat
that i am... not sycophancy prone...
the bass! the horns!
and we have, 'ere... something better than any
thelonious monk's big band jazz:
& orchestra...
it worked pretty well with the quintet
and the quartet...
jazz would never be so limited
as the power-3 of guitar, bass and drums...
you need the piano at some point...
and if not the horn taking front-stage...
because saxophone jazz is more
difficult that you'd be led to believe...

i mean:
i can stomach *******' brew more than
i will ever entertain: a love supreme...

the first one was a hit: to begin with...
the syllables of the three prince charming(s)
the bud frog,
the wise frog,
the err frog...

wiseguys: say ooh la la... say so... c'mon
c'mon...

coupon brigade! the adversts didn't want me
to buy the beer...
sooner or later i'd be glugging down a kosher's
goat slit of: the cider bottle turned up...
and gravity: did what gravity did best...
making the equal playing field:
no better acorn from the bad tree...
still the plateau of the impeding fall...

why would i buy more...
budweiser? they brew... making *******
from what the europeans use
to compensate the bland rye or wheat...
they use hops...
not from rice we were ever to be born...
but the advert cleaved into my like a mantis...
perhaps not because of the song...
but the frogs of the three syllables:
bud-wise-err...

  ****** rice... bleach and other detergent
fermentor *****-whips of beijing...
scared city and... believe it or not...
the vatican library was treated as such...
before the nag hammadi library...
was a chimera doberman and rottweiler let
loose... without anyone minding...

henry westons' cider... my... point of docking
to: two solid feet about to make a tango
into a patchwork of a waffle....

i could drink really expensive alcohol...
i could... to tease the buds of: spring without spring...
but... i just care about drink
and in that: i bring spring with me!
because i'm quiet fond of the drunk qui: une...
je and moi...
i drink and the imaginary drum-kit comes
out as i wait to: pressure listening to a beat
with my idle hands that are still waiting
for the devil to wake up from a slumber
as i click-click-and-wait-for-maggot-bait...
it's no piano: this alphabet of:
shouldn't we blind-teach the alphabet
as not: a b c d e f g h i...
and more q w e r t y u i o p...
and how: if you're not going to become
a juggling schizoid bilingual...
you need one tongue to speak...
two eyes to see and read...
and, most effectively: two hands to write?
since we've abandoned the concept
of hand-writing?

the sinkin sensation of throwing a stone into a lake;
breaking the mirror -
unlike throwing a stone into a river:
completely uninterrupted -
or a the sea -
faking faking faking: if only it was about
putting on clown make-up...

the sensation of throwing a stone into a lake
with it skimming / skipping before the anchor moment
of the SINKing...
while you remained shackled to the shore...
and the sand doesn't eat you up...
the forever standing wishing to fall...
the stone the heart... if only it was that easy...
the labyrinth the straitjacket of the mind
grieving... what's to be expected:
mostly it isn't...

i won't be drinking the beer...
god forbid...
once upon a time it was... down to...
the muscles from brussels...
jean-claude van ****... ****: van damme...
salute to: coors light...
the magic of movies is...
well... long gone... when the editorial process
took over with its epileptic editing
of scenes - multitasking...
what of the ol' movies and the panoramic
stage: lasting at least a minute...
before the horses... came into contact
with cowboy hats, the reins and stirrups!

british *** bonanza on: ****** ibiza...
or some other island in the mediterranean:
i was never a part of...
i could be drinking expensive *****...
and... love the taste...
but i'm more of a co-op whiskey brand
leech... the threshold is passed
and i forget inhibited sober moi...
and the price is... pointless minding
the same bass beginning...
i quiet like the drunk me -
no amount of anorexic champagne will
bother me: to...
do whatever is not necessary...

a twist then...
the current song chosen by the coors light
advert?
swimming in snow? no jean-claude van damme?

FooR x Majestic x Dread MC - Fresh (Official Video)...
will i be buying some coors light beer?
when the wiseguys came out to support
the graeae frogs: the syllables bud-wise-err...
did i buy more budweiser?
i was a teen... i probably did...
but then... i read the label...
you're making ***** from rice and not
a note of hops?
***** ching and changer blood bribe...

if i'm not going to buy the beer...
because...
eh... 18.66 stones on 6ft2... doesn't look that
much walrus... as...
a fresh cucumber chinese soup that all i've eaten today...
the better excuse is: thick bones...
but alcohol is... or becomes:
lazy muscle... it's bloat: but it's not blubber...
fat...

apparently 18K people know this reference point...
me buying budweiser or coors light is like
me buying fat-free yogurt...
not going to happen...
thank god whiskey is not supposed to be
meddled with "light" alternatives...

to have found oneself curating for the most
fickle crowd - happily donning the solo project...
to drink without a self to drag along...
to "later mention":
to be a shadow boxer or a stair-chaser on
all fours...
to be a meddling cat owner...
whatever the name is deserved...
the tombstone silence: an expansion of
a yet to be written epitaph by a stranger...
i imagine... and there have been several
graveyards i've visited...
finding a grave with an epitaph...
is a bit like finding a unicorn...
then again... there was a nietzsche and his
book of aphorisms...
which probably exhausted the chance
for a many a people to gravestone gravity their
past and currency of a present "now"...
with a escape from both names
and dates of birth and blessed death-day...
an epitaph...
but not unless you are on a diet
of someone else's maxims...
truths that probably never come into a fruition...
as: foremostly observed... too...
and secondly... in concordance of agreed to.

come:
   and of the few -
to join in, in the spectacle
              of humanity;
however many bones need to be
crunched, broken,
and allowed a  suffocation with
                                     to allow a flute
                                                    seer...­
               if only
the mortals didn't implant
                                  a "future" from
an immortal perspective...
there is a death-defying
act...
         it's called: a lie...
  much of my mortality
has been wasted on
               this puppet show
of claiming
to be part of, the events...
      i too, once, could reap
a shadow
of an impeding trot
as arriving at a "desired"
destination...
             old age is no
achievement within the confines
of the impeding death...
   but i do love how the dead
implore for a singing
encore,
        with epitaphs and
               asthmatic half-laughs...
king matters,
   while the very many
become the favoured few...
we can work with that:
   zeitgeist is apparently
an aphrodisiac:
to counter the "heilig"-geist
                                  momentum;
can't be too prudent to mind
nearing autumn,
  and the fallen prune...
    P.R.                  für sie (foor sigh,
in quasi-german, that's english,
which is the highest form
of saxon you'll ever have
a chance to experience).

     in the title, inclusive of the syllable
count, the counter with a
doubled-up: consonant...
                     matter, though,
isn't a problem...
           you can guess i've had
entertained a background
in chemistry...
                Na is no different
to sodium to me...
             liberal arts?
        social "sciences"?
               i have a fixation worth
an itch... then i'm reminded
of the 3rd party authorities...
        you know, that form of
an insatiable itch...
               something quiet relevanat
to improvising a headache,
   migrane, in mimic form,
second cousin, boring as ****,
but nonetheless utilised...

   ah... but poetry:
the candy equivalent to:
a sweet, said nothing...

            i like listening to
the jeff deist sanity...
                     you get the feeling
of actually wanting to wear
a crsip, well ironed,
white shirt,
          being able to, yourself,
manoeuvre donning a tie
           unlike it being a noose...

doubling on consonants?
   it's not exactly an english thing,
in how, western slavic is approached...
   ch' ch' chequers or chess?
     ****... called it drit in times of draughts...
or O...                the big moom
and the lesser whee,
   but more or less a concept
arrived to, from exposure to a pregnant
                                                        ­ woman...

         sh' sh': hushing the *******
narrative?
              not nice...
    counter with a noun...

                                  shish kebab'ah!

told you H was a vowel-catcher...
minus the laughter, + a sigh...
      
     unless that's macron-style-africaan...
i.e.
          doner kebāb...

                     reign / rain from
                                           above...

   i always loved juggling,
or tossing aside,
        inter-mingling the english
punctuation marks, with a complete,
absence, of "punctuation marks"
above, or below letters...

            sympathetic fren'cheese...
(whatever the "correct" spelling
is to boot, to market
equivalence) -
                     say ******* when
someone takes a photograph
of you and a bunch of ****-clinging
turds?!) -
                        
                  right.... who knows!

some consonants are not well
equipped with a quasi-syllable-invoked
doubling...
         verbum-intra has
                  apostrophes and diacritics,
primarily the former...
verbum-inter has
          commas, and allusion of
grandeour with colons, hyphens,
semi-colons and...
                 dot dot d... dotty: dittoing -
down-to-earth metaphors
without italics, or "air" quotes.

i still love the fact that rubber-ball
                , (comma) can jump and
attach itself to ceiling of a sentence
          and become an ' (apostrophe)...

because that's what existentialist
"mastered", or rather tried to exploit,
borrowing a re-framing of
the capacity of the metaphor...
                  with:           "                    "...

what the **** happened to
the good old days of fiction with
the gaelic narrative impetus
akin to a genesis of a paragraph,
beginning with a:

    -                      yes, a hyphen!

if it weren't for the exposure to
pedantry: making language encoding
into surd a technicality-bias
               for pedantry per se...
i really don't know,
what i would do...

                hyper-literacy is not some
teddy-bear you squeeze to get a giggle
from...
              i was never fond of
americanism's acronyms,
                      grafitti,
                or otherwise
the internet fission of hieroglyphics
through memes...
                        the: an image + a word...

what, if anything, can ever be justified
      as "self"-explanatory?!

it explains itself to a self?
        i think that's a rhetorical question...
point being:
              who governs it
in bypassing phenomenology,
  and attributing a self,
      to the confines of a noumenon?

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

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

buzzing

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

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

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

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

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

TAKE TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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