What breedeth this thy high rage,
          My foxy fraulein?
Why not instead bruit me my sin?
And I shall to thee truly apologize
   Right here, now, yea tonight!
For morrow's holy light
Must not upon thine hot anger rise.
Discord should we always discourage.

Like this to me doth this issue seem:
That a man falling in hot love with
A fraulein at first--a verily dream
Damsel--would be thinking forthwith
The world of her, and would not
Notice in her even a single fault.
And he all earthly treasures may
Her promise--saying things that never
To light would come in order to sway
The heart of that babe like Lucifer
Eve deceived. "Make my mouth thine pit,
Peach, and i'll swallow up thy sweet ****."
Yet having wedded her at last whom he,
By her comeliness, was moved; why then
Would a man his wife--the perfect lady--
Afterward seek to divorce? Most men
Do choose alone by our wandering sight,
Seeing not marriage with an eternal insight.

/political correctness is a term used for people who have forgotten, near-archaic social formalities... oddly enough, social-formality is still obliterating political debate,  and is only existent, when met with political "dialectic"... since ancient Greece,  dialectics has been the enemy of politics, since it curbed the stampede of orchestrated, pristine, rhetoric... which is why politicians stutter, or mishandle... what was once a fact, has now become a statistic... which is... something you call: diluted ****, or diarrhoea...

political correctness?!
    what is "political"
about an ontological
focus of a priori
   social formalities?
   political correctness,
id est:
    satus quo prolongation?
as far as i know that
ship has sailed...
perhaps like the Titanic's
maiden voyage,
not blessed with a champagne
bottle christening...
a Kantian revival against
the Hegelian "dialectic"...
after all, he was the Copernicus
to what became the Marxist-
Galileo fiasco!
    if only Copernicus
became a martyr for looking
down the whirlpool of
a flushed toilet... who knows?!
*******... spaghetti
al fresco and Venitian blinds...
fatso mafiasos and
Marlon Brando dyslexia
due to cotton buds shoved
into his cheeks like
a ******* jerbal...
             gallows the schmuck,
hence came Zodiac Leo...
i'm actually apprehensive
about the fact that political
correctness is actually
an: apolitical statement...
seen that khaki attired king rat
scuttling about giving
shadow commands?!
me neither...
   but at least in a dictatorship...
some *******
doesn't have a choice,
but own up...
    illusion of the emperor's
new clothes...
you're right... the clothes
are rented...
   because there weren't any
to begin with!
   no wonder there's a shadow
spine to the "pristine"
idea of democracy...
chivaraly was also,
once upon a time, a novel idea
and an idea with a span of
history (ideology, vogue)...
      but came the undertaker
and buried that *******
with the maiden's hankerchief
he used as target practice for either
*****, or snot...
    political correctness is any ugly
term for what is otherwise
a root of social formality,
   laughable, even still...
  political correctness has no
a priori root to pivot on...
   political correctness attempts to
be a form of social formality,
but it's... kinda hard to
speak about an unspoken rule
that has been passed on
and is anti-political,
id est: intuitive... hardly the curious
child with a stick and a wasp hive...
      people feel unhinged...
no wonder!
        a social formality is within
the ontological a priori focus...
an inheritence that's silent...
but, politics, is never exactly
   an a priori focus...
              tinged with a posteriori
artifacts, it usually cites
Napoleon, ****** and Russia...
             to be "politically"
incorrect, is to what? what?!
                    momentarily relaxing
social formality?
                gender neutral pronouns
of the western world... ha ha!
a much older debate about
pronouns exists in the Slavic world...
made concise be the use of
the pronoun you...
     and of course,  i...
       which focuses on a loss of the title
herr und fraulein...
              ha ha...
told you that nag hammadi library
shepherd and pivotal St. Thomas' gospel
was going to be a hit...
              Chinese whispers in Judea...
the current... thrill of bi-cis-dunno...
doughnut?
    - only two people worth
admiring in the 20th century:
Lenon and Kennedy...
   the sort of people who true... fans!
i make a falsetto,
some Hannibal Lector will be
on my heels, thinking up
a ritual where, I'm actually eaten,
in a snippet of my body, akin
to the tender-bits of my liver...
   way to go... a sabbath encore
of those ***** ****-takes of beauty
Scotch banshees!
       fifth limb and the word: USURPER!
nope... make my tongue
into a ***- (yes, like
****** I might call the urban
of what is a renowned country's
worth of Billy, hence
the hyphen attaché)...

     whatever is politically correct
(mind you, german idealism,
rigidness of vocabulary,
only 3 definitions of a word
are utilised, the fourth
becomes a writers' scurvy
or a ***** tattoo in a thesaurus)...

whatever is politically "correct",
hence the ambiguity of -ness
is an orphan of both social
formality & informality...
who the **** would asked
for a political butcher,
let alone a member of parliament
take on a rabbi's son?!

nooooo....   oooooone....
       lovely,  ain't that
the pretty siht:
sight of a tightening
of a cravat prior to
the folded napkin in heavy cotton
before the state dinner...
minus the China and
the yardstick worth of... silverware...

came the ümlaut...  
the closing of the parabola...
the shy messiah...
the rollingpin of omicron,
the ******'s worth of omega.
   und?!
          ah...
    the siamese twins of H
in the tetragrammaton...
once a wave (W)...
     once a particle 3D (Y)...
jew counted matchsticks
   and read a book...
Pole has 1 to count,
       afro-boy has 20+ raps
for one gil scott-heron
  for every ****** factory
and for every if it came to:
this revolution, lardy lardy,
was televised...
now we're praying that it
could please! please! shut! up!
            
the toying with Greek and
a crucifix that became the tongue
of the golgotha-cranium?
   do the sons of light caste
a shadow?
       surely "we" read the light
from shadows...
   night, however...
is... without form....
        devoid of the triangle
and the square...
    the universe is ever expanding
is the closest they came to
giving it a geometry...
and then they finally settled on a:
linear proposition...
   came the "big" and the "bang"...
and then the, "supposed"
sparrow eater worth of vacuum...

there is an understanding
of social formality
  (a priori)
     as there is a knowledge
of social informality
      (a posteriori)...
    political "correctness":
a claim of being...
       politicians should learn this
mantra:
    to be politically "correct / incorrect"
is to be... apolitical...
   what?  
                just because
the church bred atheists...
a parliament can't breed apoliticians?
  granted...
     the parliament has a luxury
of a god on a string...
          and a suddenly materialised
"god"...
             the church is already a warm broth
of gurgling **** in the shadows...

for whatever the audacity of
youth apparent,
the fervour in me is hardly
as Dynamo for Alt.    
        in what remains an inherited
burgeon of power....
   than a plebiscite of gambling...

who speaks of political correctness
is only speaking of
a buffer zone to the ham trough...
yes, thank you,
I know there is no talk of
political correctness in the scenario
of a uniformed police officer
and me drinking a beer on a bench...
politicised bystanders...
****... me...
   can they flip and omelette like
a pancake?
        social formalities don't need
a stray dog's worth of tongue
to suddenly discover
the arithmetic of counting teeth!

Hands, as delicate flowers fraulein.
Life so delicate, yet strong as spidroin.  

Daughter, mother, life, death;  tethered Aura
of preternatural forces, you are Sophia on Quora.

I am now realizing what's more ah
sweet aura, for the fores of life to crystallize and form a wet web;

A rainbow of sunshine's warm energy, sweet synergy,
dancing between the alpha and omega, love's light in victory.

Bite Schoen, Fraulein !
Jouons avec les mots rébus
Nus et sincères.
Appelons une chatte une chatte
Et une bite une bite.
Mouillons et bandons
Suçons voluptueusement nos mots tabous
Jusqu'à la moelle
Appelons cul Luc
Et bite Tobie
Lâchons-nous
Sans laisse et sans harnais
Vive la bagatelle sans filet
Quand j'avance tu recules
Comment veux-tu comment veux-tu
Que je te culbute ?
Ou tu préfères encule
Soyons salaud féminin salope
Vicieuse masculin vicieux
Jouissons de toutes nos jutes
Buvons nos vins clairet
Et nos sirops typhon
Universels et panachés
Tu préfères à la cuillère ou directement au pis du mammifère ?
Jouissons, mignonne
Cochon cochonne
Allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avait éclose
N'a point perdu cette vesprée
Les plis de sa verge pourprée
Baisons Baisons
Qu'un sang impur arrose nos sillons.
Tu préfères zizi, anguille, oiseau ?
Moi je me présente quand même
Je m'appelle Orphie et si tu veux
Tu peux prononcer Orphée
Et toi ma chatte de lynx, ma pie qui chante,
Tu dis utérus comme si tu voulais me dire
Que tu es musicale et que je dois
Te prendre à la hussarde de ma clé d'ut
Ou ai-je mal compris, serait-ce ma clé de huit ?
Moi j'appelle ton repaire palourde,
Conque de lambi ou hortensia,
Zmeu, car tu te transformes quand tu veux
En nuage de cerfs-volants
Et tu m'emportes avec toi tourbillonneuse
Tourbillonneuse oui car tu réinventes la syntaxe et le lexique
Tourbillonneuse, adjectif qualificatif, féminin singulier
Dans le creux profond de tes dents acérées
Quand tu me suces j'oublie tout
J'oublie que tu t'appelles Eurydice
Et je jouis en Aura dans tous ses orifices
Ne sois pas vulgaire
Ne me dis pas je t'aime
Mais dis-moi chaque fois que ça te chatouille
J'ai envie de toi.
Ou baise-moi là tout de suite
Et tout de suite ne veut pas dire vite
C'est lentement que je veux t'administrer mon vit
A petites doses
Tu préfères devant ou derrière ?
En haut ou en bas ou côte à côte ?
A propos
Tu sais que lès ça veut dire à côté
Et que ça a la même racine latine que latéral ?

Lentement disais-je
Parcourons nos bréviaires
Et chantons nos poèmes lubriques
Et cantiques tantriques

Veux-tu que je te fouette de ma langue rose
Et que j'engloutisse de mes grosses lèvres tes petites lèvres
Fais couler ta liqueur que je m'en pourlèche
Suce-moi le sein
Je veux que mon aréole change de couleur
Et que mon mamelon devienne de la taille de mon dard.
J'aime quand tu dis ça
Tu dis fais moi ça
Ou j'aime ça, tu savoures
Et même dans un simple ça va chez toi
Je sens que tu es dans tous ses états.
Tu veux que je t'apaises et en même temps
Tu ne penses qu'à brûler de plus belle.

Et chaque fois que je renais des cendres de tes caresses
Tu as tes yeux d'anthropologue qui réclament encore le tout et les parties
Et je fais mine de me plaindre
Je te dis que tu es Insatiable
Mais déjà je bande Incurable
Car il suffit que tu me regardes
Avec ces yeux de chatte lynx de ces instants-là
Pour que je batte des cils.

Tu es caniculaire en permanence
Tu es humide et généreuse quand tu chantes
Je te prends, tu me prends par la barbichette
Le premier qui jouira
Aura une sucette
Et moi je tire la chevillette et la chevillette cherra
Car je sais que tu es mon ombre et que je suis la tienne
Nous nous fondons dans nos ombres respectives dans le miroir
Et c'est dans nos ombres que nous nous faisons tous ces câlins jouissifs
C'est à travers elles que nous montrons
Nos envies et désirs d'immortalité
A travers les petites morts répétées
Les petites extases quotidiennes
Des mots quels qu'il soient qui nous lient
En de petits cailloux sur la route qui mène aux neiges du parinirvana.

Alors pour résumer notre texte

Je commence par le titre,
A toi la dédicace et à moi la préface.
Préliminaires obligatoires.
Tu m''exposes les grandes lignes de notre mémoire
Et je procède à l'introduction et au développement.
A toi la thèse à moi l'antithèse ou vice et versa.
Avant de conclure par une virgule
Je récapitule et j'écris le mot faim
Et toi tu continues sur le même rythme
Car notre histoire n'a pas de fin,
Notre histoire est Insatiable et Immortelle.
Tu es la Muse je suis le Musc
Et notre film se lit non pas en noir et blanc
Mais en yin et yang,

i truly must have had one of those, very, very memorable nights, that i somehow also want to forget, so implant myself with false memories, oh, i've seen this done in a clinical environment, in psychiatry: it's called regression - a psychiatrist will call you up, he or she might have a handy student overseeing the "interview"... then he / she might insert a sort of: on the whim / "by the way" a speaking out-loud, referring to you in third person... e.g. oh... he was abused as a child... again.. to reiterate, today i woke up thinking i was screaming into the deafness of the night, not screaming via de profundis... more like... vitriol energy screaming: you ******* idiots! but i have proof... a nice, plum of an eye-sore... no mascara could do it justice... so it must've been a decent drinking session... my father just asked me... who gave you that LIMO... slang in ****** for a black-eye... LI-MO... thrill! i can find that in katakana: look at me go! ****... on L in Japanese... no trilling of the R either... WONG, WONG WONG.... let's see...  ha ha... oh but there is... you just have to be a rat, scuttle around the "palace" for a while... リ゜
                       モ
so when asked: who gave you the black-eye? i replied...
i was having issues with my shadow, who else?
i was punching myself in the head so hard, hey presto!
plum! ha ha...i always blame the shadow, we're always wrestling, no drinking session without a proper, fighting antagonism, the day  my shadow stops punching me, i, imagine, is the day some woman will come round and: ha ha... "kiss it all better"... for the time being... i like punching myself, i like... putting out cigarettes on my knuckles... masochistic little art of pseudo-algebra: X here, XXXX in total... it's always a good drinking session when i loose control, it usually happens when something is infuse... some minor biopic concerning Ted Bundy will do it... the erotica: YA-WN... i'm still trying to get paid... capitalism: sure... for some... i'm waiting... if they only pay me, properly... self-employed or PAYE (pay as you earn)... no one has bothered to clarify this with me... capitalism for some... i'll work, **** it... but the idea of bungee-jumping from some high building... no... not too alien... i can stomach the gravity, the thrill... i know that upon impact i'll meet sigma... alias of soul... my body's rent to begin with... no worries... i think i punched myself in the face since tomorrow i'm doing a stewarding shift up in Oxford... **** know's who's playing... i just want the supervisors to see my face... my whittle plum sore... if asked obviously i won't be telling them: i had an argument with my shadow... got in a fight, in a pub, self-defence... blah blah... oh no no... this metaphysical paradise belongs to me, to me: alone!
i almost feel terrible drinking this litre of bourbon,
you can't get better bourbon than ol' Jacky-boy'oh...
every time i open a bottle of bourbon
i'm reminded of the sort of perfumery you'd
most associate with a brothel -
bourbon scents = brothel scents...
bourbon is most certainly better than whiskey...
wait... no it's not...
bourbon is sweet whiskey...
i'm not much of a Laphroaig sort of guy...
come to think of it: on the spot...
i'd prefer a smoky whiskey... a Scotch whiskey
than this... sickly sweet bourbon...
perhaps i shouldn't have done
the no. 1, 2 & 3 (****, ****, *******)
& the no. 4 (the "baptism") prior...
sometimes you start drinking & absolutely nothing
feels right... i think my socks are stinking...
pregnant woman sensitivity to scents,
to tastes? do i really want to eat some cappers
or some gherkins to reach a counter balance
to this... sweetness...
i still haven't checked my newly set up bank
account regarding whether i've been paid
for my stewarding at stadiums...
o.k., o.k., think about going to the brothel...
let me just hope
i can sooth my disgruntled little self
with some decent d.i.y. music choices...
               or... if i get enough in... it really will
not matter what i'll be drinking by the end
of it...
Laphroaig... well... it's a bit like Marmite...
you either love it, or hate it...
i'm undecided... like i'm undecided about
bourbon... any other day i'd be loving it...
today... i'm undecided...
  perhaps i'm just used to drinking cheap whiskey,
cheap generic stuff...
i elevate the drinking experience by romancing
it: fraulein bernstein (ms. amber)
& mr. whiskers... etc.

- it really just takes a cigarette break & looking up
at the night sky... oi! baldy! where's that
old ******! never mind, but a night sky without
the moon is always an ugly night...
now i know what's up...

why did i watch no man of god today?
i had company when watching this movie...
but... how many more, how many more *******
movies about Ted Bundy? sure...
the movie was more about the FBI profiler
Bill Hagmaier... but still...
do we really need yet another movie about
Ted Bundy?! o.k. i know a little...
his mother had him out of wedlock,
he was raised on a lie: his mother was his "sister"
while his grandmother was his "mother"...
i dated a Russian girl for a while...
when i met the goons, sorry, her family...
way back in 2007... in St. Petersburg...
i was given the Ted Bundy introduction...
her mother was her sister...
her grandmother was her mother...
         what a freak of a woman: great ****...
tattoos and piercings...
she did this one number on me...
all scabs on her lips...
imitating the singer from hed(pe)...
wait... i'll look him up... jared gnome-head...
no offense: jared gomes...
all scabby... i implored her... take them out...
i implored her... cut those ******* dreads...
she complied to the point of...
proposing to me... she even chose
the ******* engagement ring...
she wanted me to get a tattoo... i refused...
even though she was this upstart tattoo artist
in the making...
she wanted me to get dreadlocks:
again... i refused...
thank **** that i disappeared from Edinburgh
and headed back down to London...
Ilona: thank you for introducing me to
BULGAKOV... i really enjoyed that book...
esp. reading parts of if
on my wait from St. Petersburg through
to London with a stay at Warsaw...
eh... as much as i love Dostoyevsky...
how he belittles Polacks every time he gets...
not to my taste...

2007... a pivotal year...
to cite Jung from the Answer to Job...
perhaps there are some female readers
in my audience, perhaps the Zodiac is to be minded...
this quote...
Luciferi vires accendit Aquarius acres -
Aquarius sets aflame Lucifer's harsh forces...

a lot has happened since... 2007... don't you think?
oh, look-look... she was an Aquarius,
i am still a Taurus... but that break-up...
my god... what a harsh trip...
i remember walking up to her apartment armed
with a guitar... about to play her a serenade...
REJECTED: ha ha...
pushed back by her ex-boyfriend she was
******* and her ex-boyfriend's friend...
a Russian... ha ha... oddly enough:
called: GERMAN...

it's so almost yesterday... i can sigh a sort of relief
from this memory...
it's good to remember...
i never sought out that quality of forgetfulness...
i want to remember... i cherish memory
above thought... it's theatre...
i want to... remember... select...
what... i want to remember...
so that it can have a recurrent presence in my mind
like... that drill "sergeant" of
pedagogy that instilled 2 + 2 = 4 into me...
the ******* alphabet...

now i know why i have this bad taste
in my mouth from drinking bourbon...
it's not that i'm drinking bourbon...
i love bourbon...
when the Scots took the smoky route...
the Irish took the mellow route...
arriving at bourbon years later:
and on a different continent...
                                     do, i, look, bothered?!
i hope i do: i (might) also hope that you might
"think" i do... but... you're not, you don't
(seem to be)...
so? back to sq. 1: 'ere we go...

mighty fun playing the ******* or are least
pretending to be one...
akin to... pseudo Jack Nicholson
in that cameo role of his as
enrolled by: actor playing actor playing
an actor: Keith Allen...
Bodies... Dr. Tony Whitman...

me, you...Joseph Roth &
the doppelgänger, right & "who" else?!

now i know... that cigarette break really helped...
the bad taste in my mouth...
of course! i must be drinking h'american liquor...
i knew something was up...
couple h'american liquor with watching
no man of god i.e.
not another Ted Bundy flick... o.k.
women are attracted to psychopaths...
wannabe cannibals... fair, *******: enough...

black culture is superior to white culture...
sure... white people are ******* gagging
to incorporate it...
inter-sectionality always existed within
the confines of religion: religion was
always post-modernist... given the current trend
of "thinking": it always... incorporated
outside influences to create a cohesive:
snowball effect... what's ******* new?
discovering the continent of America in a tin
of ******* sardines?!

there's no tree, there's no dog barking...
you're just asking for a a wrong type of a mental
gymnast to make some, weirdly allocated,
point, of ref....
i'm not doing it... god help anyone...
no... not even the ******* devil would get into
this much... anti-fascinating sort of "juice"...
i wouldn't...

o.k. now i know...
i was drinking this most, bountiful of a fully-bodied
red wine yesterday...
a south african 2020 shiraz...
by the name of arabella (name sounds familiar...
an arctic monkey's song?!)
origin: western cape...

i think i must have mentioned
smoky whiskey vs. bourbon...
well... this glass of red was so good...
i had to breathe some nicotine smoke
into the glass... let's go... full out theatrical
on this: "blood"...

to reiterate... why so many movies about Ted Bundy?!
modern ******* is so...
******* ugly... even in the brothel i would never
want to **** women like the women ******
in *******... ****?! come on...
******* with the addition of choking?!

as a child i had a categorical dislike for liver,
pork liver... semi-goulash
with onions... with the addition of mash
& gherkins... or pickled beetroots...
this sort of material, this sort of ***...
puts me off...
i scratch my head and think:
Abel... because H'america was built on
the CULT of CAIN... their fascination
their celebration of serial killers...

prior to mentioned...
America is a CULT OF CAIN...
i'm with the Iranians on this...
     three names congregate...
Kurt Cobain... shot himself in the head using
a shotgun... sure... that's one way to go...
but... shooting yourself in the head...
doesn't simply "solve" the matter...
recall...
   Chrstine Chubbuck *** Adndrei Chikatilo...
bullet to the head...
for both...
a quote from Bane... a Batman fictional character:
perhaps he's wondering:
why someone might throw a man...
out of a plane... before shooting him in the head?!
why would you shoot someone
in the head... in an empty prison cell?!
if you were not expecting them to rot?!
best explored with the added tenderness added
to the attempted suicide attempt of the incel
that Ms. Chubbuck became?

why not make more movies about
the Zodiac killer... anyone?!
oh, sure... here's me readied to ******* to little
Wisconsin... or... **** knows where!

i was having some d.i.y. d.j. issues...
thought experiments... undogmatic & kernfeld...
"issues": yeah, i couldn't remember the song's name...
no, wait, the artists...

last came... the origins of the niqab hebrew
vowels...
the: hmm...
come to think of it... there's more...
such is the nature of hidden things...

Adam Kadmon [tetragrammaton(s)] apex...
Atzilut (nearness)
Beriyah (creation)
Yetzirah (formation)
Asiyah (making)...

vowels like diacritical markers...
caron, tail... umlaut...
well... for the Hebrews...
   A - kametz...
    E - tzere -
    I - chirek
   O - cholem
   U - Kibbutz... some others... i will miss...

the study of vowels, though...
since they are hidden...
the entire concepts of vowels in Hebrew...
the niqqud...
i ask... looking down at the chiromancy...
of, my... right, hand...
did not the vowels arrive in "our" consciousness
via the Sefirot root / branch of...
the Malkhut?!

    Adonoy... you know... when the current people
perform *** & it's so ******* off-putting:
primarily because... they talk...
during *******...
&... i don't want to be talking during ***:
why invoke / invite "god"?!
they can't... Niqqut / Malkhut the deed...
o.k.... not that i'm ******...
just... mildly annoyed...

      you don't need to **** & speak at the same
******* ****'s sake time!

Europe... some weird ******* funnel for
the world to congregate around...
white women... white women and their *******
sado-masochism...
the cult of cain in america...
white women and their afro-****-boys...
cry wolf while i go around arming myself
with Thai surprises& Turkish delights...

i oust my shadow from my presence
with a few drop-dead plums in search for "light"...
imagine me punching a woman silly to
later reason wth me...
oh... but no one is going to say anything about
me punching myself silly "SOY"..
been my: bean my baby?!

      now' the time i hark, now's the time i bark...
now's the time i fill the night with a stomach's
worth of...              GRUNT..
indigestion...

       die stücke, bewegen sich!
schach, ja?! nein?
                       was ist die alternative?!
hund?! leine?!

Powdered face with tired eyes
grey lids showing through the "lies"
in fantasy you wander far,
dreaming who you were and are.

And hung upon a wicker chair
your cotton frock and underwear.
And on a tray, a stubbed cigar,
some cigarettes, a chocolate bar.

Grand Daughter of SDP members
hoisting their own red-letter day
with today's Innere language
Writing in English
they grant empathy
to their penfriends abroad
a long way from Heimat

Practice renders perfection
Writing as a seasoned second language scriber
kindly sharing view's
from Frankfurt am Main

and i saw, four figures of fire rise up
and transverse the night sky...
     to reiterate: i'm used to seeing wandering
stars... that's almost usual for me...
to reiterate:
    if i'm originally writing in English...
i have to go back, to the zeppelins...
und ich gesehen, vier zahlen aufgehen
und querlaufend der nachthimmel!
mein gott! ich war rechts!
                                  der zeit ist reif!

of the 3Ps i once cited: priests psychiatrists & prostitutes, there's also a 4th P... poets? then again, i'm not too sure, too much soapy-water, too much cuddle-fiddling going around, not enough gusto akin to Julian Tuwim, Witkacy, Dante or Giuseppe Belli... i mean, go for it, go see a priest, see what he tells you: repent! some ******* solipsistic mea culpa - only you exist! it's all your fault... right... everyone else is ******* blameless?! go see a psychiatrist... if they don't prescribe you regression - i.e. want to implant you with false memories, they'll prescribe you the sort of drugs that make you wet your bed at night! or **** you out, out of a yin-yang... zombie! oi oi! ZOM-BIE! i.e. EE! alternatively... go and see a *******... if you ever thought you had erectile-dysfunction... go and see a *******... never fails... well... it fails when you've drunk too much and she's being an overtly timid little *****: but even then you cuddle and share tongues... what's eyes in Romanian? what's freckles in Romanian? what's nose in Romanian? then you exit the brothel, get on your bike and scream like a werewolf all the way home, harking, grunting, ******* at yourself for drinking too much... but you still exit the brothel like a gentleman: in their own words... you kiss two on the hand and the one you just spent an hour with on the forehead... then you go back again and ask for the Turkish girl that was so eager to sleep with you... this time you go sober... turns out she's a nymphomaniac and you're into that sort of ****... wholesome stuff... nothing ****-funny... none of that Dubai crap... wholesome... oral *** without a ****** and then all that protection while she talks something funny while you try not to speak a word: word... who needs god in the bedroom? elevation of animal noises just won't do? all this talk during *** is a ******* turn-off...

             che bber ttruttrù! oh ddio mio che cciammellona!
   e ppoi sc'è la bbebbella e la bbobbóna!

like the men who put women on a peddle-stool,
this idea that: women are unable to ****...
or some Cinderella *******, i have the same problem
with the English, the people,
i don't know why... i always seem to envision then
as these ideal people... well... concerning what
they say: you'd think so...
perhaps not the people per se:
rather the society they have envisioned...
well... so much for the society they envisioned...
where's the best part at?
where?! 10 Downing St., there's where!
that's going to be a running joke for, some, time...
it's not that i even care...
it started to turn foggy, "all of a sudden"...
you know how fog looks like in the night?
like... someone breathed a breath of milk
powder into the atmosphere:
the street lights are visible, the moon is...
but people are less and less: visible because...
they tell big-little-truth: which are lies...
it's not the sort of lies associated with..
why would my supervisor send me
a sample of her fruit cake... white lie: oh... great
baking technique... like **** it was...
whenever having *** i always found it
suspicious that a woman might get pleasured
from the *******...
whenever it happened to me with prostitutes:
i still wouldn't believe them...
i would be met with scolding: OW...
yeah: they couldn't believe it either...
they couldn't believe that being authentically pleasured
i didn't buy into them being pleasured...
hey, weird as the world is... enough said...
so my supervisor sends me her take on
a fruit cake... oh **** me it's sweet...
it's so sweet it's like the antithesis of *******
a lemon... i mean... even though *******
a lemon is not exactly cringe... but a lemon
is a sweet-acidity... this load of *******
it is just SWEET...
i have to brew myself a cup of coffee
and not sweeten it just in order to... to...
recreate a concept of palette for my numbed tongue...
it's terrible: women can bake worth of ****
these days...
it's too sweet... i rather **** a lemon...
alright, here's to the plunge...
what are we working with...
two *****... *****?!
if there are two women... trying to look
unattractive... oh **** on me...
we even don the same haircuts... but i have the beard:
they don't...
i'd still... you know... do some plumping...
male sure something is working, correctly:
you read is correctly:
MALE SURE... no... not "MAKE SURE"...

are these women supposed to have invisible sniffer
dogs around them, does it take having 5 children
to say: mmm... something is scented "funny"...
*****... for starters...
and that's like... normal... for the woman to
sniff you? sure, the compliment is great:
oh, you smell good...
           so does a fresh paintjob on a pristine looking
bathroom, but who am i to brag?
and it's like the most basic job:
lowest i.q. threshold imaginable...

i can say, i look the part... why do i look the part?
is some ******* **** going to stop me
taking a pint of beer to an area where i'm not allowed to take it...
or will some 6ft2 bloke...
donning a pristine coat... affirmatively pedantic
in questioning his attire... stop... 6 lads...
from doing likewise... because... i look the part?
because i'm a male and... ahem: "i'm entitled to being
entitled to the entitlement of being entitled of
being in a functioning role whereby i'm not given
leeway?!
optics... no one is going to take a woman seriously
in a position of a steward... even if she tries to pull it off
as a ******* ****... sorry, no...

reality tends to bite back...
even Brandon... oh my mother knows Brandon,
he works the Romford Blue Sapphire gym...
we talked about dogs... about him being abused about
the public, me trying to explain to him that:
he too has a breaking point... imagine that:
you going off a tangent...
see... this is what bothers me about the English...
Brandon says he's a home... manager...
some sort of manager... that he lives with his girlfriend...
i message me mumz and she clarifies...
he's not a manager... he's a senior receptionist...
he lives with his girlfriend... hmm... he might have
a girlfriend, but he probably lives with his parents...

status, hierarchy...
****'s sake... he says he's a manger of a gym, house, manager...
yet he... works added hours as a steward at sport events...
or the second girl that sniffed me up:
because i'm all ******* fine for being sniffed...
she apparently has a private... personal? huh?
business... oh... she just does this **** on the side...
right... 5 kids in...
you know the advantage of not being famous...
you can sort out a lot of ******* among your coworkers...

oh **** me, the atmosphere is great...
Emma loves pythons... you feed them... frozen, mice?
interesting... so they wouldn't eat anything
that's already killed, they need to be under the illusion
of having killed something?! wow...
imagine... living without eyelids... blah blah...
she's almost like this scary feminist blue-tinged hair fairy...
but...
oh my god... if no one's looking...
and i look at her earlobes... no... come to think of it...
if i just look at her ears... yeah: but me writing about this
is not exactly me telling her during hours of work...
oh you smell nice... counter-*******-productive
if you ask me... why? because now i'm thinking about *******
you!

the most ****** parts of a woman... her hands...
why? because if i were she were we were to hold
my ******* emblem... i'd ask myself to be rid
of the pinky finger & the 4th knuckle...
a woman's ears! it's like... itchy... itchy... smooth...
smooth... ears, hands... chin... neck's pleasure-dome
of tenderness... wild eyes!

and you know what: i watch these grown men
"indocrininate" their offspring into either
a support of a football team,
localised prejudices, yet those "disappear" when
support for the / a national teams surfaces...

hey, so much for pork eating
when you're Muslim and cousin *******...
i guess eating pork must be as much
confusing as cousin-*******, no?!
i guess pork-bad = ******-bad!
**** them, these ****** specimens...
who's going to care for them?
is Romania the only option?

        ****** riddled i.q. starvation oops...
how do you write oops in the plural?
as much as i might be discriminated to
eating pork, where does most of leather come from?
shoes? PIG... belt... PIG...
sorry... "cousin": you're about to **** your
grandmother's sister... or whatever happens
in Pakistan...

sinister taunt... how else to combat these
audacious suicide-bombers...
shame their ****** culture origins...
keep them there... they better settle for being there...
aww.... look at that...
only today... a Pakistani mother, daughter & grandma...
the daughter... all sort of fiddly... sort of weird...
to tongue out... trying to lick the grandmother's tongue...
even my cat doesn't do that...

eating pork is bad...
right... while god created all that's good...
god created cumin! turmeric! ******* ****** camel-jockeys....
right... cousin-******* is somehow divinely inspired?!
******* to Dubai... ******* to where there's no "racism" /
slavery invited by the Arabs using up Bangladeshi flesh...

OI! ARAB! COUGH UP! YOUR RIDDLE OF KFC!
power, supposed power... now... a joke; always
the little people, one litre of whiskey will always make you a convert, given, that you get to see so many zombies from the mere experience of ingesting a pint, two pints, three pints of beer...

with me? you need to play a longer game.

- are they still going on about the war of words?
here's a new one i learned...
i believe that onions are the only plants in existence
that have consciousness - or rather:
are receptive of pain...
you chop down a tree... eh... not much...
perhaps a splinter under your nail...
given, in light of debate, ahem "debate" in Parliament
concerning the ethical way of killing lobsters...
boiling the: B'ah BAD...
but freezing them etc.: not so B'ah BAD...
i once dated a girl who found it funny that
in her childhood she would pour salt on snails...
i accidently step on a snail in the dark
in the garden i hear a crunch in my heart...
sorry, mate... didn't see you coming...
it's like this one time - thinking about it still
gives me a pseudo-PTSD...
Poland: where else? walking alone, "somewhere"...
i come across these two boys (i am also a boy
at that time) - oh... so what are you up to?
the reply? **** me...
oh... we caught this frog, we're smearing it
with lipstick then we're going to set it alight...

erm... o.k... see you later Jeffrey & Henry H...
******* Major Major, whatever...
o.k. that i'm not a presbyterian: shoot me...
give me a raw herring in a yoghurt sauce and i'll
tell you to stuff, your cosmopolitan sushi up
your ******* ***!
there, said it, no turning back...
    i'm done, with people, telling me what i can and
can't say... but killing animals in an unnecessary manner:
that's beneath even me enjoying
a few poultry abortions on toast...
a toasted bagel... with some cream cheese...
some raw smoked salmon (is it cooked if it's only
smoked?) some dill and... mmm... a squeeze of lemon...
beats a cucumber every single time...
curing... funny that... you pour some acid
on a sea protein and it starts a cooking process...
that's ******* weird...
it's "unconsciously" receptive of the cooking process:
to heat... via an acid...

right, right... that new word...
        syn-propanethial-S-oxide... said the cis-man...
that's the **** that onions release when you
cut them... which makes you cry...
ergo? you think that perhaps onions are receptive
of pain? should we have a Parliament debate akin
to lobsters regarding how one might prepare onions?!
i think we should... also... a debate about
eating oysters... after all: invasion of privacy:
peering into those shells... don't you think?

- sure, but if i were to do it... oh, something smells "funny"...
not good, at first, just funny...
she wanders with her eyes then focuses on my neck
draws in and sniffs it... oh... it's you... you smell good...
yeah... i do that... but in a brothel...
once i've paid to pass the paywall...
i take her hair in my hands and sniff it...
because she's lying next to me, naked...
and i'm naked it... but i don't ******* follow it up
with any words: i'm already intoxicated
by the scent...

if a man were to sniff up a woman - in public, or better still...
in a professional environment...
and these are the same women who get confused when
they are abused by drunk and disorderly lads
at a football match... like Louis XIV said:
perception is everything... for ****'s sake:
if you don't look the part... a hungry *** starved
yet still a beaming with joy angry gorilla...
you're not going to get away with much...
not in that sort of scenario...

a quest for double-think: my new motto is...
YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME THE TRUTH,
JUST DON'T LIE...
what's the middle ground? this supposed house
manager (ahem, elder receptionist) -
well... we ended up talking about him
petting a dog... an american pit bull terrier...
but he called it by some other name...
where he walked: Raphael Park, eh?

oh the nights spent with dangerous ladies...
loved every minute...
the only place where i can: breathe me...
and breathe them...
where i don't have to be ignored, displaced...
******* of a man...
esp. among Romanian or Turkic women...
to hell with those overrated blonde ******...
give me Tuba Büyüküstün and i'll give you
the ******* Taj Mahal... eh... some prostitutes are
just worn beauties... you rub them the right way
some sort of Genie ends up appearing...
usually: grr... viciously... wild-eyed...
anyway... none of them could ever get in between
my affair with Fraulein Bernstein (whiskey)...
it sort of *****... but life's life... and death's death...
no point making complaints...
ooh... **** me... all that raven hair... and Turkic...
recipe for disaster...
why? well... because she's not exactly copper-skinned...
she doesn't look like she has a pernament suntan...
like the Raj girls from... wherever Delhi is...
(I know where Delhi is! for, ****'s sake!)

if we're being so adamant in living in a post-racial
society, surely i can pick and be fickle about
my sort of potential cocktail of genes, no?
does it always have to be about black on white,
or white on black... can i... hmm...
i'd like something more curious... again:
can i stick with the Turkic women?
i fancy that depth of a shared history...
the Ottoman Empire knocking on the door
of Europe (even though the Greeks cucked)
at Vienna... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth replying...
while being back-stabbed by the...
Prussians... Russians... Swedes...

o.k. i tried being extra special and slept with...
two black girls... not that i greatly enjoyed it...
o.k. i enjoyed ******* one...
but the other one gave me the creeps...
how, can, i, ****, a woman,
when... she has two children sleeping in the room...
she drags them out of bed...
forces them to sleep on the floor while i'm
THEN supposed to do, what?!
**** her?! she probably had *** since she
started to fake having a ******... instead ensuring
her inner thighs were tight enough...
or whatever the **** was happening...
i just asked her: can i sleep here tonight...
she agreed... i woke up in the middle of the night
while little afro Jerome was standing at the foot
of the bed ******* at a makeshift ****...
so i grabbed him and placed him on my chest...
the end...

*** is ugly... unless it's with a *******...
in a brothel...
   come to think of it... since: i'm always drinking
when i'm writing...
the more i drink the more i wake up...
i was going to suggest: the more i sober up...
no, the more i drink the more i wake up...
but i'm not of the "woke" brigade...
i'm of the SLEPT brigade...
    waking is for the people who are still somewhat
sleeping... or... rather... awake in a zombie-state
of consciousness, mantra-riddled *******...
what could get me drunk?
if i were drinking... as always...
a good conversation... i'm a sucker for a good conversation
like i'm a sucker for pop music when i'm sober...
AQUA: TURN BACK TIME... anything
by ROXETTE...

- and as it happens at every football match i steward,
i see a dad with his younglings...
sure... that could have been me,
but, my psychotic trip: exit at the age of 21...
sort of sorted my future affairs for me,
perhaps i wrote in my 20s... something or other...
but i wasn't really there: or here...

   i get really jealous when i see a guy with a pretty girl,
or when i see four or five guys, friends...
then again: i hate companionship,
i prefer the presence of animals...
    dogs i can almost stand if i don't require them
to be put on a leash... on a leech of authority...
i can stand objective language as long
as it is prescribing me authoritative pointers...
but objective narration bores the hell out of me...
it's so... so... unimaginative...
if objective narratives were a women
i'd call them a stuck-up-***** fakery
of a flaky "******"...

                             while Pearl Jam became
what Nirvana could never become... grunge-dad-rock...
i don't mind... i truly don't mind... after seeing
enough faces you start thinking along
the categories of: TO PREVENT A SECOND HILLSBOROUGH,
TO PREVENT A SECOND HILLSBOROUGH...

seeing so many people i sometimes start
thinking about working in a slaughterhouse  -
then again, to seem less psychopathic
i think about the people working in slaughterhouses...
it's not fair that i... wait... i'm not getting paid
for this... well if it's free: then i suppose anything goes,
right?
          
    oh what could have been...
oh sure sure, it's great... getting sniffed up by women
in their 30s with 5 children in tow
thinking they are single and childles...
white knight anywhere, anyone?! no? keep sniffing...
darling... and it was this running joke...
*** habits came up... one blue haired freak of a girl
that keeps snakes: some 3ft long, pythons...
she said darling but i forgot to lip-read her
mishearing: daddy... i've been called DAD before...
don't ask why...

i morphed Darling into Daddy... for the whole *******
shift she kept nagging me...
Daddy... this... Daddy that...
o.k. with a 7  year old i could understand...
i could cuddle a toddler... do all that mother-goose ****...
she or he could pull my beard... ;oke my eye out...
i don't do friends, i i don't do dates...
i do prostitutes, i do whiskey,
i do forests at night, i do graveyards at night...
i do German thinking...
  i might come across as autistic or as an imbecile...
but i think the same of you...

how unfortunate to have children of your own...
esp. girls... how unfortunate...
imagine the distaste in your mouth at being called
a father at some point... then again: the same goes for having
a son... it's a nice idea... a very nice idea...
but i'm here not on some ******* mea culpa
clause... i've reached my prime and i wasn't selected
for the replica... it doesn't bother me in that:
i always had a melancholic disposition...
given that i'm ageing... i have acquired a melancholic
sense of self-deprecating humour....
i'll sooner commit suicide than die the death of
"loneliness"...

   it will most certainly be a pristine night...
cloudless... with a full moon!

what's that counter argument i keep hering?
what's that? i said: WHAT'S THAT?!
oh you know that ******* yin-yang masculinity
undermined. that we should all be *******
farmers: not enough coliseums...
plenty of vegan hot-spots though...
love, my ***..

   personally i don't know how white girls ****
all these african boys... for me, ******* a black
girl is sort... sort of crippling...
anything beside something Caucasian...
in the raven hair category... i'll sooner *******
to Asia than i'll acknowledge to ever
coming from Africa... the Somali inbreds
**** me off the most: listen, curly-braids!
you're not here to be paid to watch the football match!
why isn't anyone paid to watch a football match!

once upon a time they were known as the Yanks...
the Yankees... these days? oh, you know...
these days some of us just call them the WANKEES...
the WANKS... cuck-barons of the world..
yeah, i once had respect for these people...
it's sort of waning day in, day out...

but if i'm expected to fight someone else's fight...
these days i'm going to say: no thank you...
i'm already gearing up myself to marry death...
how's that?! of course i can see the little people,
of course i love animals as much as i love children...
they're one and the same to me...
personally... and i'm seriously disorientated
by fraulein bernstein... eternity?!

Abraham! oi!
    an eternity spent among children...
or... with 72 virgins... your take...
         oh no no no...
i'm not taking these *******,
these supposed virgins anywhere...
i'm taking the children... throw in 72 rottweilers
if you're at it... i know time well spent...
but knowing my luck... i'll be bound to a hell
where women sniff my hair, or my neck...
even though i'm not exactly anything to peer at...

why are these Indian women looking at me oh
so funny? i'm not rich, what?! am i funny?!
then again, working around the Turkic manifesto of
a woman's beauty... some of these Raj girls give
me a hard-on like not other... they have eyes that tease...
white girls' eyes are all anti-racist: seek *******
zombie...

white girls are currently only available for black boys
given white girls' anti-racist "trauma"...
so here's to building up a New Brazil!
   yeah.... that's also called me looking elsewhere...
oh, no, not for commitment...
   for the sake of it!
anorexic bleached hair... in need of psychiatric help...
or otherwise beached-whale types...
feminists with pink hair... can... ha ha... CAN i say NO?!
or do i have to?!

ich bin verheiratet zu die nacht und nicht(s)!
ich! allein! bin!
was ein...ziemlich.... gesicht...
from time to time... Saxony?!

z-mooth ah smoochies... and... a "blah"...
what was written in hell: by hell,
must return to hell... please... no tenderness, here,,,,

Have you seen the girl
down by the beach?
The one in pristine colours;
the one too far to reach?

"If only she knew,"
he mused, "if only she sees me."
Perhaps he's just too far to view
he laughs, "...or maybe it's because I'm 'me'."

He gazed upon her silently,
hoping she wouldn't notice.
Alas his heart yearned constantly
for her eyes to turn and meet his.

And as he sat and yearned and pined,
he heard a whisper in the wind.
A passing thought came up to his mind-
her heart was taken, his fair Fraulein.

Discomposed, his thoughts danced a gavotte
amid mournful, clumsy rhetoric.
His mind got tangled and besot
to read her thoughts in manic heartsick:

In his mind he saw upon her brow lay stolid furrows;
with thoughts unsaid she sings, content, her lullabies.
Streaked with wounding sorrows, hushed, her voice in alto-
she sings despite the callous alibis.

"If only she knew,
but maybe that's just unlikely."
Or perhaps he's just too far to view,
he laughs, in painful soliloquy.

Lodestone, lovesouls, the boundaries of my blue blooded lover
Gentle mother with a fresh razor cut, do you know how much you hurt me?
Chocolate and candy on the table of the mental ward, mental *******
Figuring out what works, our ways, our quarks, or muons and gluons
Milk chocolate dissolving on your tongue, not bitten, forbidden, bitte fraulein
Gloria, gloria, shalom, assalamu alaikum, hands out, shake 'em
Pull the sword from the stone, water matters, patterns carved in bone
Love is lone, dove, rain from above, mud, life is not crud, maybe

Medusa slips into necessary days, 20th century,
completely by accident, it was a chemical spill

nobody was there to clean up this ms stake
but she was definitely sorry

boy was she in for a surprize
it wasn't golden at all

it was all about the wrong moment
wrong in every way

1944, Germany, Medusa on stage
Fraulein, in tap shoes, wearing powder kegs
beneath her stage set and she had no idea where she
might be but she knew exactly where to stomp down

exactly when to toss that feathered purse
and to whom to throw it, with a moue
a dimpled kiss and a wink

goodbye, my love

undeniably, the relations between men & women have
hit rock bottom:
bottom to the rock, rock at the bottom:
perhaps with want of a heart...
undeniably, the relations between men & women
have... slouched... hit the snooze briefing...

sample:

thank god for that... easy to spot Saturn with your head shoved up your own ***? never mind... but great: you do you... moralistic busy-body... ha... minding my language... why bother using websites where freedom of expression is paramount, where there's no prerequisites of watching words? you must be fooling yourself, fraulein zensieren; i doubt that you'll find peace.

freed from responsibilities,
freed from: being freed...
freed from looking for something:
freed from looking for nothing,
one shot, two shots: three...

**** me... let's go to the brothel...
or listen to dreaming...
from the coraline soundtrack...
something to escape this itch of a...
ahem... "gripping" narrative...
as about gripping as a bloodthirsty lice...
for ****'s sake...
to the brothel with you!
idiot!

or at least pretend to be caught up
talking with your shadow,
or jesting at: igloo! igloo!
shaking the paw of your cat in
the zenith of his, ahem:
"personal concerns" for cleanliness...

Darwinism & all manner of anti-subjectivity...
cat ladies... ****'s sake...
cat ladies?!
i love cats... bonsai tigers...
i love petting cats, esp. maine *****...
you can just ignore them...
i like petting cats by ignoring them...
you go: do your thing... "thing"...
*******!
and they do...

ugh... men & this romance concerning dogs...
i watched closely...
i read enough William Burroughs to also know:
there is never a wasted moment when petting
cats... self-absorbed "ballerinas of solipsism"...
a dog implies... ****...
a leash... a german shepherd... a muzzle...
specified hours for doing the rounds...

mina jak kot srajacy na pustyni...
a grimace of a cat taking a **** in the desert...
i can just ignore the little ******...
ha ha... "little"...
coming close to 9kg... "little"...
plus... cats are less perverted than dogs..
from what i've noticed...
dogs are more prone to orientate their self-hygiene tongues
around the genital regions...
cats? less likely...

cats are les likely to lick their *****:
& no *****... lick of the paw... paw rubbed against
the head:
never a wasted moment... bonsai tigers...
sure... i'm a cat man...
i've hear rumours that
cauliflowers used to be purple...
**** me... i heard a story that carrots used
to be purple...

dogs & *******... leaches & muzzles...
as much as i love dogs...
sure... i have a dog...
i have my shadow.... that's dog enough...
melancholy & cats & the drive of curiosity...

to the brothel with you!
take Milton with you... for ****'s sake..
bonsai tiger!
bonsai tigers!
urgh... of course i'll be huffing & puffing
with corrections!
for your own good!
but only years later... will you... finally...
succumb to the argument...
wait... i said a decade... wait...

men & their ******* dogs...
******* hey presto ******* licking fwends...
*******...
BONSAI TIGERS...
what could possibly be wrong with you...
it's great to simply ignore...
i eat... they eat...
what's the ******* rattle of argument?
who owns who?
bodzio bodzio... headbutt & acknowledgment...
i'm here... he's also here... "he"....

leash? muzzle? do i look like a man
desperately seeking companionship?
yeah... where's that leash... where's that dog?
seriously.... ******* with that dribble yet to
imitate doing a nutmeg...

for those yet to die: & for those to die...
here, now...
no good Samaritan...
hello, goodbye...
                    i just envision one proverb...
mind, the, *******, traffic;
seriously... mind the traffic;
that's coming from a cyclist...
mind the ******* traffic.

as someone who used to fall asleep listening to Christopher Young's soundtrack for Hellrasier II: hellbound each night for almost a year... i've spiced it up a little... le chant des templiers - chant of the templars... unless it's raining... then falling asleep to the sound of rain... i sort of allowed myself to focus on something i'd best call an: agreeable veneer... each single time i try to avoid banter with colleagues: yeah, i know i sort of must but the mere thought of banter makes me feel ill... i'm not here to make friends, i'm not here to get into a relationship with someone i'm working with... well sorry... so much for a woman's excuse when dealing with football hooligans: oh but you wouldn't talk to your mother, your sister or your grandmother like that... well i'm all three of those things... yeah... sure... and like there aren't men who would *****-slap a "steward" on a ******* whim... while i have the whole 6ft2 and 100kg worth of defense... i'm not here to make friends... we used to have friends in high school, tightly knit friendships, very idiosyncratic in-group / out-group preference... i don't think i had any friends at university: perhaps one Japanese guy, Tomikuni... but by then superficiality kicked in and people were branching into hierarchies and chances of seeking out nepotism... now? again: an agreeable veneer, but deep down i'd rather speak a robotic hello how are, enjoy the match to a crowd of 200 strangers than pretend to be friendly with colleagues... even today i was *******... sure, there was a shortage of stewards, so instead of initially patrolling the crowd upon entry via the park we were spontaneously put on the turnstiles, great! an adrenaline rush... then after we finished that task we were allowed to go back to our original designation... i radioed the control room: control, control, park 3 returning to designated position... copy... the park had 6 stewards designated to patrol it... for a good 40 minutes? who was there? me! and only me... **** it... came 9:30pm and a demented Quasimodo was ringing the bells like there was no tomorrow, i sat on a bench in the graveyard, took off my right shoe and readdressed the situation of a folding sock on my sweaty foot... if these sub-Saharan pseudo-Arabs are thinking about work as: loiter... listen... they once spinned the narrative the narrative that Covid was a "racist" virus... you know how many of these copper-necks i've watched... go into the toilet... do their either no. 1 or no. 2 deed and walk out without washing their hands?! too many... that's how many... pretty much all of them... at least the blacks are actively willing to integrate... imagine if the blacks didn't integrate... would they be singing in the Baptist choirs?! would these blacks even sing, if they remained chained to their African tongues?! and? oh my god, the blacks are the cleanest, most pedantic ******* out there, they can almost compete with white neuroticisms... that's how good they are... but some of these *******... so i sat there for a while drinking too much coffee listening to the bells of All Saints' Church... footsteps: my own... the moon, almost full... alle das ist die nacht! all that is the night! the forever hardly any flow of the Thames... is the Thames a river, or a makeshift: pond?! oh sure, i'm agreeable, at face-value... what i've learned from the English is the double-edged sword psychology... being two-faced... at least a Russian might tell me outright: oi! ****! oh, no no, not among the English... polite comes first, anything else comes second and of note: with dire consequences you were never going to expect... see: flimsy ****... an agreeable veneer... i'm actually gagging for the moment of confrontation where i roll my eyes back, hide my pupil and iris and merely show my eyes as fully sclera entombed before grieving an over-hyped teen... tensing my muscles... over-sizing myself... that's yet to come... i'm currently leaving each shift slightly disappointed... not enough adrenaline... i want, more! but to hell with the current whereabouts of the action... even if i were raised a catholic.... don't protestants get confirmed? sorry, i "missed" being confirmed... i was reading some Gnostic literature... i "forgot" to get get church "approval" or, "disapproval"... whichever... do i care? my current top three tier "guys" to emulate... Jason, Michael... Pinhead... i abhor people that are satisfied with being safe... i hate weakness as much as a **** might abhor keeping to a standard of germs... i abhor, weakness... a lag in responsibility... in drives me nuts! i could almost **** for a thrill of knowing that i'm killing something; lesser... i'd be killing it by also inquiring into myself as... paradoxically being: kind... it... yeah.... oddly enough... "it"... i abhor weakness in people... which is why i am a face of an agreeable veneer...so many ******* are just weak... pencil-pushers... hierarchy-minders... the weak might have inherited the earth... but what "earth" are we speaking off? this, *******?! oh, wow! dementia prone bollocking, right, this one? i need to sleep, i need to remind myself of my romance with the night...

nights like these are so rare... i drink more than i write,
i don't actually care about writing,
sometimes i just want life to sink in...
i left the house after doing some minor chores:
preparing a mushroom soup - oh, not creamy,
none of that English cream soup *******...
clear... a dollop of cream can be added later,
the mushrooms were not blitzed up, sliced... floating...
the broth was based on extracting as much from
a carrot, a parsley root, some celery...
a leek... if only the local shop sold some celeriac...
a bay leaf, allspice, a pinch of cinnamon
some paprika... one or two cloves... fresh leaf parsley...
a mushroom and a chicken stock cube to counter
the need to salt: i still salted the broth a little...
black pepper... obviously i also had to cook some pasta
to later float in and around the mushrooms...
garlic... with its skin on... oh... about three teeth's worth...
all rounded up on a decent amount of butter:
after all... if it's a clear soup... you want some oomph!
since no protein is being used, you need to counter
that lack with some fatty lubricant...
ha... the commute... if i'm lucky an catch an express
train from Southend Victoria into central London
it takes me about 8 minutes to travel from Romford
to Stratford... then the central line to Victoria...
then the victoria line to... ****... two stops... oh...
right... to Victoria station, then the district line to Putney Bridge...
today i had to get a district line to Earl's Court
so i could catch a district line from Edgware Rd.
toward Wimbledon...
just this once i wasn't feeling it...
all afternoon i was exhausting myself while thinking
of Gemma...
******* butterflies, didn't eat anything, drank a little
whiskey... and to think: i used to love coffee with cream
or milk... now? always black... with the added dollop
of whiskey, two sugars...
i saw her again... but **** me... the butterflies weren't
there... i fall in love easily...
but i fall out of love even more easily...
reality kicks in these days... i think i have aged:
falling in love with the idea of love...
reality is bound to disappoint me...
to think that i might be with a woman - earn money...
in order to pay for unnecessary **** is... giving me a limp ****...
that women are the prime instigators of any economy:
what would a man spend money on?
whiskey? bicycles, spare parts... the odd shoe...
some socks?
capitalism is not going to survive the onslaught
of emerging bachelors... skint *******... i know:
i'm one myself... no wonder women need to be propped up...
paid more... why? they'll spend the money!
men won't spend jack-**** on... jack-****...
i still have a mother, i'll sometimes buy her flowers...
but to hell with buying a birthday card...
a kiss on the cheek and a few words...
why would i buy flowers? when i can have daffodils
randomly spurting up in my garden some February?!
am i... going to chew on vinyl: that licorice plastic?
- first time i came across Gemma she was so giddy...
flirty... and that was only on Saturday...
on the ride home she would rest her elbow on my leg...
get a headache... stare at me when i pretended
to not be looking through the side of my eyes...
i mean: for a 39 year old... most 20 year olds don't look
at pretty...
today she was so reserved... cold...
oh... right... well... thank god i had an ideal in my head
rather than what could possibly come...
a sort of scenario was playing out in my head
from the movie: As Good As It Gets...
a single mum will always put her offspring first...
regardless of whether the offspring was conceived by
an abusive alcoholic ex that beat the kid and choked her...
sure, sure, i'll allow all people to have that *******
luxury of being existentially filled by having children
they can subsequently ****-up...
me? i'm just happy when i grab the eyes and full attention
of a 4 year old girl looking at a glowing marble /
fluorescent squid that i become momentarily...
at least in their eyes... perhaps this current job i'm doing
really is a stepping stone to becoming a secondary school
chemistry teacher... oh **** me... if i got into a primary
school environment: i'd have my fun...
it's also good that i have an underground sort of mindset...
to the brothel i go: eerily 'appy oh oh...
- since Saturday after first meeting Gemma
i sort of forgot to ******* - oh, none of that only-fans
crap, scented candles, ****** or streaming...
like i once noted: on the throne of thrones...
take a **** which oddly enough is always predicated
by ******* while sitting down...
*******? i sometimes need to relax the **** muscles...
******* helps... and then a quickie in the shower...
yeah: but after our second encounter today:
with so much reservation...
it was going to be either Kendra Lust or Samantha Saint
on my mind...
why do all the pretty ones always go down
the route of ******* or prostitution?
is it the sort of mentality that beauty ought to be shared?!
i mean: **** me... an oak tree is beautiful...
it can / has to be seen by almost anyone...
is that the same with women?
- so we stood there talking *******... me...
one lesbian (if i were a Don  Juan... she could perhaps be
a nun... but a lesbian? "conquering" that?
eh... not exactly ugly... but a butch mentality...
slap some make-up on, close my eyes... most definitely
****-able) - we ended up talking about bones...
where are the smallest bones located...
i suggested the wrists... the parts of the body most
flexible... Gemma retorted... no... the smallest
bone in the body is in the ear...
now i'm going to google that... to see... ****...
she was right... the smallest bones in the body are
the: malleus (hammer), incus (anvil) and the stapes (stirrup)
and they are located in the ear...
then onto the turnstiles... oh god... the turnstiles at
Fulham are like a century ahead of the turnstiles at
Oxford... ******* Brummies... lovely folk...
almost if not more lovable than... Scousers...
GEORDIES / MANCUNIANS are not SCOTS!
   don't even get me started on those south western
***** from Bristol...
yeah... well that was great... i felt like a teenage boy for
about two days and now my honeymoon period
is over... reality bit back...
   all my dreams and fantasies crumbled...
                  whatever initial attraction she gave me...
she now was fulfilling her role,
she had a job to do... i was reduced to a status of:
less the person to initiate her, to comfort her to someone
on her plateau, hardly any "superior"...
it's nice to be sober up on this reality-juice...
it makes all the more sense to seek ideals like:
that's a bottle of whiskey that i'm calling ms. amber...
fraulein bernstein etc.
there are always the prostitutes...
it's not like i was going to play a good uncle Caesar
and profane myself with surrogacy of a child that isn't my own...
i don't have the sort of resources.

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

- the current affair -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jedyny grzech martwych jest: vox uber gott.

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

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

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

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

The thrill of flying
doing somersaults in the air
Hanging by one hand
on the trapeze
Their faces full of scare

Met a fraulein on the seven days of waiting
Been dreaming of those days and all the seven nights waking

I crossed the James River
Would you have crossed I wanted to know
It was full of beer bottles
At night had an erie glow

You keep a pistol locked and loaded
By the nightstand in your room
Hoping to shoot holes in the new full moon

Everyone loves you empty of feelings
So you are feeling the pain
There is no sweets in being around the world while left standing in the rain

Take the assualts posted on the magazine's page
Flip through the pages , turning up the volume of rage

Remember when the world was yours
Stuck in Vegas in a Vega
Yelling , "The world is mine !"
Sacrė bleu (●~●)_/
                    /  ♤
                        /\

i can sort of see it... the ice age...
the melting of the ice from the north...
which probably did...
create floods in the middle east...

wake up... drink some milk...
go back to bed... get a pumped up while
listening to so music...
get up again... drink some whiskey...
smoke a cigarette...

      yep... floods...
                  start puking...
      oh mein gott... what a relief...
almost like taking a ****...
      puking... regurgitation...
   that beautiful sight of thick sick phlegm
and inverted ****...
      you can almost see the split
milk...
      well... a bit like fried eggs...
the yolk... isn't even there...
but the protein curd is there in little
islands surrounded by the thick smear
of acid water... and phlegm...

         right... one slap... two slaps to the face
by my own hand... i'm awake... i'm awake...
troubles in Sweden...
   thank you for the deluge...
  troubles in Germany: thank you for the two world
wars...
troubles in Turkey... whatever: Ottoman...
troubles in Ukraine: yes... thank you:
Bohdan Khmelnytsky...
          troubles in Russia... well... no surprises...
troubles in the U.S.A.:
                  but... i have just discovered the existence
of meritocracy in England...
the asylum of all the nations of the world...

the three outlets for a man to truly enjoy...
*******...
   ******* out diarrhoea...
    oh... that's just a relief: that's why i could
never entertain homosexual acts...
and now... esp. in the morning after drinking
some milk prior to drinking some whiskey...
puking...
        wait a tick... so i am almost like a woman,
i too have three "holes"...

i have to admit... i watched some... dire...
dire... horror **** last night...
   i don't know how it happened...
i must have been unable to fall asleep...
ah... there's this channel: horror ****...
staged... or real?
   female prison...
       female prison guard... the actual sadist...
no... i think it was real...
the way she used that truncheon...
the way she forced her ****** to gag
the female prisoners...

        you need to be seriously drunk to stomach
that kind of ****...
and i was seriously drunk enough to stomach
that kind of ****...
    but... well... if you're armed with
enough Marquis de Sade scribbling...
                   you wake up the next day...
drink some milk... go back to bed... listen to some
music... get up again...
drink some whiskey and... puke...

i was seriously only trying to find a video
of a pregnant woman *******...
silly little me...
                 but this **** is so... ugh... freely available...
i turn into a right ol' limp **** when
i see people... use violence during ***...
it's such a turn off...
i almost ***** myself into jerking myself off
to that crap...
                       whatever happened to... tenderness?
the idea of... how... do oysters replicate?!
seriously: show me a video of how oysters ****...
i'm curious...

i must be the wrong sort of drunk...
get me in the right mood and i'm a fiend striving for
lust...
   violence... that comes last...
i even imagined myself in a confrontation with
someone... i'd kiss them first... try to lick their face...
for the recoil...
better than pushing and shoving and any judo
tricks...

i've seen some pretty wild ****... but this was on level
with that movie: Hostel...
this wasn't deep-web shady... covert stuff...
out in the open...
           you can't think the same after seeing
that sort of crap... readily available...
maybe that's why *** is so dangerous...
esp. when all you want is a yummy-tummy-teddy-bear
of affection from a woman...
and instead... she wants to be humiliated...
debased...
          a thin ******* line...

                 or rather: you want to give her
a yummy-tummy-teddy-bear's worth of affection...
but she might be like: nein!
         Fraulein hiss! spank me! subject me to
****** violence...
                  i have my kinks... but...
                              that's just... wong... wok wong...
Mongolian hype wong...

it's sort of like... just because a woman feels bad...
and by feeling bad she has to alleviate herself from feeling
**** she has to sink further down...
which most women do...
        i'm not giving into those urges...
at least prostitutes have already reached peak bottom:
the nadir of *****... but... that's where you can
find women to elevate...
   or at least... that's what i found...
kiss on the hand blah blah...
    even i wasn't expecting to try ******* for the first
time aged 35... well... not like it did anything
for me... coffee... *****... nicotine...
eh... *******... i'll pass on that one...

                    adrenaline... give me adrenaline...
i need that... but... you can't really make a synthetic
drug equivalent to adrenaline:
it's auto-generated... which is a good concept to have
in your pocket...

it's good though... watching **** like that...
you recoil... a bit like watching a David Attenborough
nature show... detailing the lives of insects...
you sort of... jeez... really? ugh...
i want yummy-tummy-teddy-bear **** ****
cuddles and sweat-smear muscle and pelvis pains
hours later...
              what a turn off... feminism and her bride
of sadism in female's liberation movement of
exploring nothing but ***: but ***... it's everything:
with the prefix: ***-.

well... maybe that's just me...
          i'm fine with that... i'm fine with not being
an *******... that's truly: a perfect recipe to
imitate the life of Pangloss...
                  albeit: optimistically yet forever suspicious...
of life from the per se basics: up!

she came overnight, well, maybe just two nights ago,
but only today i felt her during the day
when i cycled like it was supposed to be a Sunday
afternoon...
she came with her frostbitten fingertips & lips...
i thank her for finally doing away with the pleasantries
of Autumn...
Autumn in England always felt like
Summer in Scandinavia...
something so temperamental so befitting my
disposition... centuries must have passed since
my ancestors didn't move a muscle from
these abodes...
she came with what i can best standardise
with the Bauhaus song: bela lugosi's dead...
don't ask me how: the why is somewhat self-evident...
like an elephant is... but a mammoth isn't:
or rather... like the mammoth was...
right now... a song is wrecking havoc in / of my mind...
i can hear the lyrics, somewhat:
just like i can see forms in dreams...
beside the usual abyss the odd humanoid form...
no... i can't hear the lyrics...
i can hear an Amazonian shout...
it consists of only word...
   it's burning my mind to an impossible unrest...
all thanks for Maanam's nocny patrol
album... i've had this episode once already...
with Alexander Borodin's Prince Igor...
it took me several years to decipher what
the music i remembered i remembered...
since... a ******* elephant stepped on my ear
& a donkey fresh kissed me while
an oyster ****** up my breath...
mein gott! why this song, why this song now!
why is it ravaging my mind with such
unrest!
  it's a pop song... but it's not in English...
no... wait... it's in English... **** me!
   now it all makes sense...
(the) Pretenders... i'm a mother!
                         i'm a mother!
             i haven't listened to it in a while...
- she came with such surprise...
it only took her about 3 days but at least 2 nights...
to change Autumn's gown into her ivory & pearls...
mother: dearest sister... i welcome you...
with incestuous glee...
finally i can drink a little & be drunk with this little...
i can huddle with a bathrobe in the middle
of the night, with some hoodie underneath
some t-shirt too... a ****** of wool on my head...
smoking like a choochoo flying Scotsman...
she's finally here? is she?! she has finally come?
to drown my sorrows away...
the times when sprinkles of rain will settle on
the ground... by night they'll be like paparazzi flashes
of a photograph being taken...
head tilt to the left, head tilt to the right...
a frenzy of diamonds left on...
the dreary concrete pave...
illuminating my eyes: dare i blink...
red carpets stretching far, far: into the sky at night...
diamonds on the pave...
and all that's happened...
water froze... time froze... space expanded...
a breath that i can see in the cold...
im die kälte... ein shatten ist erzählt zu brennen!
brennen mein zweiter-wenig-schatan...
brennen! wärme mich!
perhaps i ought to borrow some pan-germanic tongue
beside mere German...
eh... Dame Winter doesn't do "her" justice...
Fraulein is somewhat degrading... although:
n'ah... Ms. Winter... i miss "something" from time to
time too...
      gå glipp av... forget the Scandinavian origins
of Germanic, later English...
morphed by an addition of French...
point being: vinter ist hier!
enough said... best enjoyed...
beside the seasons of spring & summer:
sure... the body must appreciate them...
but... but the mind appreciate winter & autumn most...
they are the seasons to be reflective...
with all the abundance: our progress leveraged
a snooze button or something?
when spring comes & summer with her abundance...
where people are probed to reflexive orientation...
in late autumn and throughout winter
i can reflect... in that guise i can believe myself
to be a seasonal writer... if i'm a writer at all...
doodler, scribbler...
i'm just happy she's here...
i can finally see the volume of my breath...
i can herald the dichotomy of...
when outside... against the wind when cycling...
hardened ******... itchy shins from the cold...
i can return to... pseudo-bear-skins and candles
and... the most welcoming solitude...
every single alcohol drank tastes much better
when... the air... is as cold as the liquor poured...
although... to properly enjoy the hardened "stuff"...
*****, whiskey... the temp. in the air ought to
reach a Siberian frenzy...
but when it comes to beer or cider...
at least the insects are sleeping...
you can take out a garbage can without a bother
of juices from the heat...
you can luckily avoid the maggots...
danke der kälte!
      nein lästig, kleine fliegen:
nein (indefinite): nicht (definite)...
             nichts (nothing)...
  there are two ways of ascribing negation...
one is definite (not), the other is indefinite (no)...
i best leave the rest to her...
i still want to drink two ciders but also
have 8 hours of sleep....
          this has been: PLEN-TY.