Libertad
und Freiheit
mais liberté
avec des conditions
mit Schmerzgedachte
con dolor del corazón

Das Gehirn
versteht nichts
mais le cœur, el corazón
se duele, me duele,
nous afflige
wie diese Krankheit
de la peur, de l’amour
de la vida

Finalement, la tristesse sort
und ist jetzt etwas anderes
Keine Gesundheit
pero
no es enfermedad,
no es felicidad ;
C’est ‘rien de tout’
« I’m fine, honestly »

Keine Wahrheit.
Keine Wirklichkeit.
Alles falsch,
alles klar

Je ne suis pas sûr
La tristesse
La felicidad
Die Krankheit
La vida
L’amour
Das Leben
Die Liebe

Je veux les tuer
Keine Funktion
Pas de tristesse
Pas de vie
Keine Liebe

Rien
de Rien
Nada
de nada
Nichts
von Nichts

Unglaublich.
Incroyable.
Increíble.

En pocas palabras,
tout simplement,
einfach ausgedrückt

Die Geburt und
el nacimiento y
la naissance

Est la mort
y la muerte
und der Tod

Fácil
Facile
Leicht

Wenn wallende Wolken
Wie Wattebauschen
Den Himmel berauschen,
Die Sterblichen lauschen
Dem Klang der ewig unendlichen
Freiheit.

Uns,
geht alles gut.

Deine Augen, die hübschesten.
Dein Gesicht, das schönste.
Dein Lächeln, das hellste.
Dein Lachen, der glücklichste.
Dein Geruch, der beruhigende.

(Alles geht mir gut)

Dein Umarmung
Trost.
Deine Stimme
Ruhe.
Dein Kuss
Freiheit.

(Alles geht mir gut)

Meine Anerkennung deiner Liebe
Deine Anerkennung meiner Liebe

(Alles geht uns gut)

Aber dann gab es die Zeit,
Veränderung.
Unsicherheit.
Beklommenheit.

(Alles geht mir fremd)

Mein Misverständnis deiner Liebe
Mein Misverständnis deiner Anerkennung

Aber ich verstehe.
Verstehe ich gut.

Die Anerkennung ist nicht so.
Die Anerkennung gab es nicht mehr.
Die Anerkennung wird der Verlust

Der Verlust des Trostes
Der Verlust der Ruhe
Der Verlust der Freiheit

Der Verlust der Liebe.

Called Religion before Romanticism:
Darling Radha’s swing,
Pressing softly to her blue
Beloved Trickster’s skin.

Called dharma, grace, and savoir-faire
Confounding fated will,
Called freedom then for putting off
The destiny we fear.

From her swing I can believe
In good romantic faith-
While makers of a moment’s
Beauty, steal a tear away.

When I laid,
Bathing in the roaring spray
At the feet of the lower falls,
And wandered through soft blue
Volcanos guarding Atitlan.

When I watched,
Clouds burst from his fingertips
Cold war to choral glory,
Seid um schlungen Millionen!
An die Freiheit! An die Freude!

When I found,
A girl whose smile couldn’t hide her pain
Singing her song’s last echo,
At once the world was not the same, but...
How could I ever know.

How could I ever know...

After the West was won with lies
One man said, "God is dead."
I mute the TV from her swing,
Smile, and bow my head.

It’s a free country, whose prices are skyrocketing,
skyrocketing with the number of secrets.
Pick up pamphlets proclaiming promises,
but look how the fine print demands your liberty.
Everything is written in the same language,
the exchange rate for a few dollars.

Pieces of paper riddled with numbers, dollars
burn through pockets, leaving scars with pain skyrocketing.
The poor and huddled masses all speak the language,
exchanging on the black market fragments of skeleton secrets.
Torch in one hand, book in the other, let’s ask Lady Liberty
why the cobblestone was pressed with broken promises.

Collect the torn shreds of scattered paper promises,
recycle, dye, reprint, now you have dollars.
Hear the cracks ring through the bell of liberty,
sending a sound shockwave skyrocketing,
blowing the dust off old, forgotten boxes stuffed with secrets,
lies that became incorporated. We all cry in the same language.

A father speaks to his daughter in the language
of soccer games and zoo trips. Shattered promises,
fill the gaps between their hearts, fueled by secrets.
Problems he tries to fix by handing her a few dollars.
His excuses keep coming and her frustration is skyrocketing.
She desires greener pastures, to run away with liberty.

In Korean it’s jayu. In Russian it’s svoboda. Liberty
translates to the same message in every language.
Liberté, the distance between oceans is skyrocketing
as worn hands struggle holding glass promises.
La libertad! Paper sons are born spending hard earned dollars,
confusing pesos with dollars, their lies with their secrets.

The walls are willing to whisper your secrets,
silence can be exchanged for handfuls of liberty.
A binding contract, you’ll get paid with dollars.
The ultimate truth: it’s the universal language.
Homes are built on a foundation of hollow promises,
with no door to escape, and the scaffolding is skyrocketing.

Freiheit! Voices skyrocket into one language,
tearing holes in liberty where promises lied,
it all costs something. Dollars buy secrets. Dollars hide secrets.

I didn't see it coming;
I expected nothing else.
Thirteen years old, hiding behind the rules
so I didn’t have to face
that shortcoming, that missing piece.

Once I had accepted limitation as
the sublime:
something that would come in time.
The constraints, then, gave it meaning,
deciding who says what.
Syntax is rules, and rules are limitations.
Without them, we are-- what?

But in time I came to want it,
that freedom to--
I traded "pressure to not" for "pressure to do".
Peering through the rhetoric,
I ventured into the upper reaches, and
I came apart.
There was nothing to hold me together
in this elevator, its yellowed walls crumbling away.

“Not all freedom is good. You can have terrible freedom.”
Was it the mother or the Aunt that said this?
Or Friedrich “entsetzliche Freiheit”--

Ah, Schiller.
What of the Mrs? Did she have freedom
in her husband, in Richard F.?
More freedom in the
(****-and-) (ball-and-) chains
than in the haze of youth?
The most, then, (it can be presumed)
from her departures: first to Alaska,
then even farther north, from where none return.

As freedom dissolved into expectation,
itself now another limitation, I wondered.
Which had it worse:
the woman (machine) outside the yellowing elevator walls,
or the girl (ghost) pacing within?

Ich sei kein Dichter,
hast Du gesagt,
weil Du Dir einen Reim auf alles machen willst,
hinter dem Du Dich verstecken kannst


"Ja",
hab ich geantwortet,
"Ich bin kein Dichter",
aber bist Du überhaupt ein Berliner?

Ach, Sarah über das Zeichen beim Dasein
Wie der gesammelten Wege eines Weges
Des goldenen Feldweges rein charme

Der warm tragenden Wände unter die Schatten
Die heißersehnte Erfassung
Wird die Freiheit des ewigen Raumes geben
Auf die Hand zur Leinwand des Antlitzes der Natur
Die Quellen der Submarine, der versteckte reine erste Mensch

Den Thron zu führen, das Flüstern nicht aufgezählt der Weisheit der Wehen
Der lebendige Anfang der schaffenden Zeit.

. i'm sorry, i'm about to be pedantic, given the near, hit & miss terrorist attack near the houses of Parliament... one seriously injured... send my regards... i rather wish him dead, with what's to come...

i.e. his fault!
     mea culpa!
**** it, crucify the egyptian
along with...
these people think they can
pass off
  the dead sea scrolls,
and, somehow,
forget, forge,
the nag hammadi archeological
evidence
of encyclopedic evidence?!
you have to be
******* kidding me,
and enforcing a game
of hide & seek in the footnote
section....

   macht frei...
   St. Paul's of
London heard the
Wilhelm Zeppelins...
   macht ein freiheit!

alles ist freiheit,
    und alles das schon war!

you want another Heß rephrase?

     how about viz einz...

  ha ha? mein frau?
  
  
               parading the skies over London,
that, current, lunacy circus central...
bereft closure to
the Cairo district,
and...
funny... post-colonialism
is not, exactly, littered with
nostalgic echoes...
          somehow, the whole "*****"
is missing...
  
           but there is a point...
pedantry overcomes me...
Bukowsky? Russian...
but Bukowski?
western Slavic heritage...

the person in question...
sorry, it's a required pedantry...

piotr... strzok....
          ssssss't' je suis...
                   + Occam's razor...

     RZ is a grapheme...
         je m'appelle...
   je, je...

                too many consonants
jumbled together?
oh look...
here's an alternative...

   piotr stżok...
**** me!
how did an R and an "excessive"
Z still appear / disappear...
with a levitating dot above
a letter, that, English
only invokes to be, "proper",
over ιoτα?!

there is no in excess consonant
in the name,
   you simply don't know how
to cut syllables
in translated-worthy surnames...

see how rz became a ż?
concerning the English dominance
of the Latin alphabet...
you're not exactly mispronouncing words...
English, inheritor of
ancient Latin...
   hasn't bothered to deviate with
a concept of orthography...
    that rare strand of literati
aesthetics...

         sorry, it hasn't...
you can exactly mispronounce words,
without a clarity of syllables
under the tongue / scalpel
of the eyes digesting the timing
of pronunciation...

intra-verbum -
up-and-coming journalists,
bothered about the
inter-verbum
utility of the semi-colon?!
you're joking, right?!

            now watch them learn
the fact that Latin,
genesis - Horace -
hoc erat in votis -
         (this was the point of my
wishes)...

               accumulated both the acute,
reign, and the umlaut,
from above...

the the tailing...
as plain and simple...
revisionism of sigma (σ)...
   in the frivolity of a Parisian café
(technically
                          cāfé)
              garçon... garςon...
because, if we're really going to play
these sort of games?
   gloves off...
         now i'm punching at punctuation
from both above and below
a word, deviating from inter-verbum
punctuation indicators,
working my way into the
intricacy of inter-verbum...
  oh don't worry...
you can have the EMOJI hieroglyphics
to mind...
and... whatever other degeneracy
comes to mind...
   i'm stealing the Hebrews.

Vor Gedichten und Gedanken
Weichen alle Schranken.

Freiheit sitzt dahinter, dort,
Jenseits der Verzweiflung
Wahre Freiheit ist:
Nichts mehr zu verlieren zu haben
Außerhalb von Halt
Singend, nicht schreiend
Im freien Fall.

Das macht sie so gefährlich.

Fallende Hunde bellen,
Laut.
Sie beißen zu,
Hart
Und oft ins Leere.

Ich falle auch,
Nur singe ich nicht,
Ich schreie auch nicht,
Bin lange schon verstummt

Fallende Hunde bellen laut
Und ich glaube ich verstehe.

.alt. title? drunk's acrobatics, but prior to? nazis nazis nazis, my grandfather doesn't have bad memories of the soldiers clad in black coco chanel numbers occupying my town of birth... he remembers: herr! herr! bitte bonbon! and they would give him sweets so sickly that my great-grandmother would have to put his hands under the tap to unstick them... even some otto *******wasn't a bad man, he was a soldier, he probably had a wife and children... he was human: not a part of some modern cult following of a horde of mythological evil... i once mentioned the name: krupps to my grandfather, he, having worked in the metallurgy industry clearly remembers the krupp family... i mean, magnificent feats of engineering: krupp K5, schwerer gustav... the gustav? come on... compared to the soviet OTR-21 tochka? ha ha... and why prevail with the cultural significance of nazis? movies, video games... worthy opponents? i can't see them like the sort of fetish they are for the modern soviet antithesis left in the west... even in poland the youth will say: zz-top - sharp-dressed men... wehrmacht's M40 and M43 Heer uniforms... everyone can agree: the best dressed army in history... which leaves me with a fetish for the german language from time to time... i just can't help it... besides... ah... the sub-plot title... drunk's acrobatics... well, it's England, it's June, Wimbledon is in full swing, cricket: england will face off australia and lose the semi-final, india will play ne zealand and win, australia will win the world cup... but it's so hot, or so humid... come morning i either fall out of bed and continue sleeping on the cool wooden floor, or, like i did yesterday, go into the corridor and sleep on the wooden floor there... mid-dream wake up call from the heat... thinking i was still in bed about to fall onto the floor from a height of half a meter... fall: i did... from the corridor landing onto... the ******* stairs! 1.7m fall onto a ******* zig-zag of gradual elevation... and upon reaching my final destination just shy of my head being split open on the kaloryfer (radiator) i woke up just a little bit more and simply utter: o kurwa (o' kurva... oh ****)... drunk's luck... minor aches / bruises the next day... head feels a little bit wonky... like i put on a kippah to the side of my head like a bowler hat donned by jack lemmon in the apartment (1960)... like icarus / lucifer head first a-grade drunken acrobatic dive into the unknown... seemigly picked up and thrown off the landing... pure magic... clearly. again: the left is really obessing about nazis, i'm starting to suspect they have a secret fetish for the uniforms, that they want them to return... they are seemingly searching for their ******* unicorns, their mythological army of satan... while there was poor otto *******saying: bitte mein gott: ein morgen und ein weißwurst und pumpernickel für frühstück; doesn't get simpler than that.

apparently it's become pointless
stripping someone
to a pronoun,
            given the "gender neutral"
modus operandi,
  of the existentialists' "i",
ditto: being designated,
    "worthwile",
   to the confines of the maxim:
to angels - vision
of god's throne;
          to insects -
   sensual lust...
              mind you,
   when weren't
       the emblems of,
said region,
              digested within /
by the confines
     of the ivory cavern;
limp phallus,
        dry *****...
              dry mouth
and a wet tongue...
       synonym of
            talking: a deßert;
note:
    punctuation marks
(apparently),
   are not best
synchronised with
conjunctions...
          which sounds
like a grammatical
enigma, that are not best,
   but so does **** sapiens:
which stems from
nomadic right to left,
             wise, man...
any further blah blah
and you concern yourself
with extracting
toilet paper...
        or, whether or not,
111 via the ****
    subsequently smeared
across a wall is
not the most perfect
        archetype of graffiti...
     siarka...
                sulphur is a word
with a- priori
         connotations,
    stressing the hyphen
"prefix"...
                    denoting:
without a prior example...
   an etymological cul de sac...
a dodo...
                           συλφoρ...
because disecting a word:
  συλ-                -φoρ?
                sol associated with
the spontaneity of phren?
        history is but
one narrative...
           but what became
of the hammer and the sickle,
became the tongue and scythe:
  
                  für
                       freiheit!

said a poem,
     objecting to the confines
of, paragraph,
         stating:
                     myopia, darin!

knackered... absolutely knackered... i wish i did yesterday's
shift at the London stadium...
i've built up an implosive furore with the crowd...
i just look at them: hmm... look pretty excited
but at the same time content...

    i can't believe it... since starting this... rather menial
job... i've been referencing it like mad...
i really shouldn't... i remember days when i was
sitting in my ivory tower touching on subjects
like the Katakana... with so much free time on my hands
i'd explore...
       i'd try something akin to Miroslav Holub...
in all earnest? i was never much of a poetry reader...
but if i were to compare Miroslav Holub with another
Czech: a Milan Kundera... well...
Kundera "stole" my youth... Holub cemented
my early adulthood...

          i'm sort of envious that i don't write like him...
you're almost always envious of the people
who don't have much of a readership...
              i could never be envious of Stephen King...
he figured out a method... a structure...
mind you: i never read a single Stephen King book...
not that i'm being pretentious...
i just didn't feel the need to read him...
       the whole horror genre is... limited for me...
horror needs to be visual...
   i can't be scared of text... via my imagination...
it's different, though...
   i once had an ******* reading some Marquis
de Sade... which might tell you a lot...

        i'm writing about work that i think is...
not really work... so what did i do with my day off?
i ****** off on my bicycle for about 4 hours...
yes... i know... 60+ kilometres in 4 hours is not
good enough... but i did stop off to drink a bottle
of cider and buy some Turkish bread for this
greedy dish... 400g of beef can disappear in one
sitting when shared between three people...

      i'm pretty sure surgeons don't write about their work...
but this Czech immunologist somehow did...
maybe that's why he's so under-read...
he was an immunologist foremost...
it's almost as if people don't take his poetry
seriously because of that...
                but either him or Kundera...
the former...

                    i don't even think i'm working:
oh... i'm pretty sure i was working when working as a roofer...
manual labour can do a work of miracles...
at least you don't need to become a gym hamster...
bunny... whatever you want to call it...
all that physical potential... wasted on... treadmills...
if at least those treadmill runners could be
the ones that generate energy... that's stored...
like a watermill...
               you know... generate enough energy
to power the lighting in the gym...
maybe someone should invent a treadmill that
allows these people exercising to do something
useful...

60+km in 4h... it's not good... but then again i did
cycle into central London...
   past the houses of Parliament...
May 1st... so a lot of the ****** protests...
but pretty tame...
            traffic lights... terrible traffic...
i could have probably put in an extra 20km in those
four hours if i cycled out of London...
but i'm a curious creature... plus... i said to myself...
nature... or... "nature":
yes... i want to cycle into central London
to look at some girls... where's the best place
to spot some girls? Brick Lane...
                Oxford Street...
    
   imagine my disbelief... there aren't that many...
that might attract your attention...
i tried... didn't find any... well i did find the opposite
***... but... there was nothing curious about
any of them... they all looked like tourists...
i hate tourists... well... i don't hate tourists...
only today i was speaking to this Danish guy...
who found the English very friendly...
which probably implies that he wasn't talking
to an English man... because: i'm sure as **** am not one...

but i did cycle into central London
to look at some ***...
                eh... it's sometimes worth it...
but all the under-read poets are the ones i am most
jealous of... such style... such grace...
don't even mention... Maya Angelou to me...
please don't... i've been keeping a KLEX...
in my **** for an entire day...

what's a KLEX?! it's a ****... with remnants
of a ****... that... when properly treated... when having
sat down on the throne of thrones...
explodes into an "******" of untangled intestines
that also gives you an *******...
woke up in the morning... had a ****'s play in three
parts... the 4th part... i kept for the entire day...
the KLEX...
              of my god... the glorious agony of walking
home from Romford station... trying to **** in the far
with the ****... meditating on torso muscles...
is this what **** *** feels like? you get the shivers?
the sweats?
    the agony... i've already emptied myself
in the morning... all i have is a **** and some shotgun
**** in me... **** ******* it in...
it's trying to get out! **** ******* it in!
it's trying to get out!
    i get home... haplessly undress... take my socks off...
sit on the toilet...
                                      BOOM!

i just dropped one on Hiroshima...
          because it's unlike the slithering sensation
of a serpent when it feels... really smooth...
when you've eaten the right sort of food and it has
become properly digested and...
i've kept this one hidden for an entire day...
if my **** had a tongue, while walking...
it felt like licking ice... can you imagine?

mein gott... the relief... better than ***...
for a while i was of the mindset... **** it... pull down your
trousers... you have tissues in your pocket...
crouch... on a piece of grass and do your ****...
no no... the agony first... walking just agitated the ****
more... more agony... wait for the release...

- seriously though? why would i even entertain some
some high-brow topics?!
the time's not right... i have cat peacefully sleeping
in my bed... i have a ******* sending me selfies of herself
indicating she misses me...

one thing amazed me today... i've found out about this
already, from my grandmother...
she liked watching me eat...
               fair enough: because i ate as someone who,
in the words of Socrates: ate to live...
rather than live to eat...
                    
after coming back from the Putney Bridge shift...
i only had a bagel with scrambled eggs and some bacon
for breakfast... wolf! fenrir! i sometimes "misplace"
actual hunger for ****** desire... all of a sudden...
no... these are not beer goggles...
they're hunger goggles... every woman is
attractive... in my head i sometimes do a few revisions:
like my grandfather used to say...
no woman is unattractive... some are just neglected...

oh so ******* true...
   no woman is unattractive... some are just neglected...
that's so ******* true...
i get hungry... i get tired... i become ***** as...
don't know.. my face becomes the following:
my mouth becomes the eye of a Cyclops...
while my eyes become two mouths of Orthrus...

but that's what's something amazing when eating
alone in public... you bring your household habits into
the fore... for everyone to see...
you're not eating with your mouth open...
you're not watching anything beside the food...
you wipe your mouth and finger generously...

the look on the chicken shack "restaurant" personnel...
before and after...
what did i order? the classical box...
two pieces of chicken... fries...
can i eat in? sure you can...
i'm not into processed burger fillets... i need...

    ich bedarf knochen mit "mein" huhn!
i need nones with "my" chicken!

lightened faces... once they saw me dissect
that chicken thigh and leg...
KNIRSCHEN... i.e. CRUNCH...
hmm... some bones...
cartilage? no... bone...
       knorpel oder knochen?!
does it even ******* matter?!
   let's eat...
        
              it's when i started biting into the bone
marrow... of the chicken legs...
no... i wasn't wasting any of it...
none of this is waste... hands shaking...
i wish i was drunk...
     i was just hungry... it's as if Eid passed me by
without the proper sort of impromptu
to stop...
                  i might as well licked my finger tips...
but the look on those guys behind the counter
serving this chicken...
yes, me too... i'm glad you washed your hands...
before serving me this dish...

why did my grandmother find it important
to find me in that "80 to 20%" attractive
eating something?
            maybe it's the Socratic methodology...
i eat to live... i don't live to eat...

this isn't work... this is a joke of work...
            work sets you free:
arbeit macht frei: conjured up like sometimes
from an ancient textbook...
since no conjunctions...
since no pronouns...
  sometimes from a: how Latin used to be
spoken.. maybe the ancient Latins did use
pronouns and conjunctions...
but... didn't... when writing?!

                  i only do it to get out out the house...
   you start cleaning the chicken bones from all
the muscle... then you bite into the marrow...
obviously the chicken shop owners will look
at at you with a degree of glee...
look! he didn't waste anytthing!
just the potato chips!
                            
i need sleep...  beste zu schlafen:
                         mal als sie ar...
                            
eis ist nein schnee!
               licht ist nein farbe!
mann ist nein affe!
              
                                 freiheit ist nein: arbeit!

Dein Atem stockt.
Dein Herz verklingt.
Dein schwacher Körper – unbelebt.
Deine Seele auf dem Weg in die Freiheit.

Doch ich bleib hier.
Gelähmt von dem, was passiert.
Überfordert davon, was passiert ist.
Es wird Jahre dauern zu begreifen, was niemals passieren wird.
//
Und der Schmerz kommt und er geht.
Doch jetzt grad ist er hier – es ist schwer zu verstehn.
Dass du nicht mehr hier bist.
Und das alles, was bleibt, die Erinnerung ist.

Erinnerung, was für ein großes Wort.
Es ist Zurückversetzen an einen besseren Ort.
Eine bessere Zeit.
Etwas, das dann doch nicht bleibt.
Es ist Sehnsucht nach dem, was mal war und was niemals wieder sein wird.
//
Denn mit einem Schlag war alles vorbei.
Du – rausgerissen aus dieser Welt.
Verloren deine Träume.
Unerreichbar deine Gedanken.

Dein Atem stockte.
Dein Herz verklang.
Dein neuer Körper – frisch belebt.
Deine Seele frei zu gehn, wo es besser ist.

Charon:

churning memories
from a black
tide fleeing
   with a voice upon
the wind.

this is a perfect example of what happens when you're a "poet" and not a novelist and you take an entire day to finish some scribbles... i have a principle to follow... that's the uninterrupted pillar from Japan that's ensoo (i won't bother employing the macron o)... エンソ... drawing the circle in one smooth motion... i literally can tell you: the circle is there... but few can draw it perfectly without some variability to detail signatures of an ellipse... somewhere between Omicron and 0... squashing a doughnut... blah blah... i can't be a novelist... i figured out this impasse from the very beginning... i sit down... write... i'm out... i couldn't possibly interrupt myself with daydreaming and writing about drinking coffee, romancing the typewriter... well... beside the design of QWERTY... and... why is it that there are 2x shift buttons?! well... like the Marquis de Sade's uncle's library: of books to be read using only one arm... ahem... the other used to *******... when you're trying to type something verbatim... it makes perfect sense to have two shift buttons for the uppercase sentiment of aesthetic, esp. when employing italics...

well then... imagine my surprise...

ok baby
i tell you Sunday night
kiss (heart)

     (kiss)

come Sunday night...
i send her...

     ...

that's all i send...
and she replies...

    yes tomorrow i'm off

i seriously wasn't expecting that... i thought she was
going to dump me like Jemminah...
but then again: she's not an English girl...
she's not a European girl to say the least...
i too have my roots in the Caucaus steppes...
she's Turkic i'm a hybrid of Aryans and Mongols and
**** knows what... great... now i can plan
booking that hotel room...
             i am surprised... time to bend this universe
into a surprising night of love making...

reply:

yes tomorrow i'm off

i've found this one hotel in Barking with a Parkside view...
i'll make a booking in the morning / noon...
we can go for a meal at some restaurant...
i'll buy some brandy, or whiskey, proseco, strawberries...
once i book the room i'll text you and we can meet up,
how's that?

good baby
i mesaj to you when i'm up

   well then... until tomorrow (kiss)...

and that's how it should have been for... donkey's years...
i'm a woman... ****... ha ha... sorry...
i'm a man... she's a woman...
                          i give her what she wants...
she gives me what i want...
and what do both of us want?
    to escape the ugliness of this world...
the ugliness that's not inherent to this world per se...
well... beside gangrene, cancer... parasites...
people make this world ugly for other people...
we're here to make this world... slightly more bearable...
i stopped caring... she did too...
i'm a "poet" she's a "*******"...
                  but: we're not into the thrills of
                                    cheating on monogamous partners...
that's for the disappearing middle-classes of
"journalists"...
                  i'm done playing mr. nice...
i'm about to embark on playing the role of herr freiheit!
i want to resurrect myself into the memory
of myself climbing the rooftops of Edinburgh's
Prince's St. after yet another disappointing night out
dropping bricks from the roofs
and screaming an ancient call for war...
                                 i'm done with social standards...
hell... if everyone is breaking norms and etiquettes...
hmm... stand back? relax?
   n'ah... n'ah ah...
                                          i'll better them...
                      i'll destroy them...
                                       i'll make them timid...
scared... obscene... fringe...
                                              i'll go right to the source
of my "cis-normative-binary" blah blah alphabet soup
antithesis! it's going to look ugly...
a bit like... the ***** of Babylon riding the Hydra
beast of revelations... Babylon... aren't all the tongues
suspended in time in London at this very time?
Turkey... Iran... Iraq... eh...
                             she sure as **** isn't going to be attired
in the sun... and an iconoclast that i am...
   but that's what i love about ****'ite Islam...
that's why i think there needs to be a third branch of
this religion: to stabilise it...
    i lost hope in Christianity when i thought:
well... not another Jesus imitation...
     this religion is pretty much... this religion degenerated
into a polytheism with the number of schisms it has
"celebrated"...
                   lucky me: born into Catholicism...
yet? against my will: the baptism...
                             even Richard Dawkins was confirmed:
him being an Anglican and all...
me? i haven't... i couldn't have a church wedding...
i haven't been confirmed...
i don't have a confirmation name!

*******! another two exhibitions that i really want to see...
art and sensuality in the houses of Pompeii
at the archeological park at Pompeii...
oh ****... i thought it was in London...
    mind you... not everything comes through or to London...
the whole world might come...
but Pompeii's erotica hasn't...
        well... there's always Edvard Munch: masterpieces
from Bergen at the Courtauld Gallery until Sep 4...
but recently i've been having too much fun
watching sketches from South Park...
    i was never a big fan... well... apart from Team America
and that one line: Matt Damon... ha ha...
but those sketches of Tuong Lu Kim
   vs. Junichi Takiyama...
                        well... i have a nickname for my female
cat too... hell... i'll even employ the Katakana...
ヤマモト: empress - ya-m'ah-m'oh-t'oh...
   the male cat meows constantly: i want food...
let me into the house... please come upstairs turn on
the light and let me sleep in your bed...
but this "empress": i don't think i heard her meow...
she sort of... no: i have no access to the sound...
a bit like with a crow's croaking... it's croaking
but it's also a KRA- prefix of sorts that morphs...
just like you couldn't really write down a transcript of
Mongolian throat singing...
oh right... etymology...
     two words...
       yamamoto... i know where that comes from...
motać się... i.e. to struggle...
                 the additional letters hide the original intent...
because... unlike my male cat...
she... doesn't meow to indicate what she wants...
esp. when wanting to be let in from the garden...
hence...
             but she also does this truly weird thing...
imploring for food... she will stand on her hind legs
and with her front legs she will make a...
imploring gesture... as if testing: amen...
   or some Buddhist / Shakespearean kiss metaphor...
rubbing her paws together...
another word... KACAP: Кaцaпы (plural)
KACAPY... because what would a ****** think of
the current conflict between the Russians and the Ukrainians?!
aren't they both Cyrillic?!
i started wondering... maybe the etymology of
this intra-racial slur is derived from kaptur (hood)...
no... it's not...
it's derived from KAC (Кaц) - which means?
hangover...  
         meaning? even i know that Polacks have a reputation
for being drunkards... but...
the slur is derived from: but at least we retained
some civility - joviality in our drinking ****** -
the Cossacks and Muscovites were brutes when drunk...
the suffix -py (-пы) is unimportant...
     empress yamamoto (cat)...
                   well... i should text her around 12am tonight
asking her if she's available to spend an entire night
with me in a hotel...
   for £70 i found this decent one in Barking...
            hell... even if i throw in extra for wine, strawberries
and a dinner... it will come cheaper than
paying £120 for an hour in the brothel...
she might bring some ******* and i'll be like:
you know... like with those two Irish guys who thought
i was an undercover journalists...
that hit in the head from laughing gas...
see... i'm on the borderline of inherited a faulty gene
of high-blood pressure...
   so... too much coffee and mix that with nicotine...
i'm sort of immune to the effects of *******...
or laughing gas...
         with ******* i can do with coffee and a cigarette
after "fasting" from smoking for an entire day...
and laughing gas?
   i can myself laugh... on a whim...
   i just think of something absolutely stupid like:
i think i'm in love and i'm already giggling...
    eh... the mantra of: laissez faire sexuality...
it's so much easier with women when it ****** OBVIOUS...
well she can't "somehow" hide her over partners...
virgins and nuns aside: it's so much easier
to heave a hardened phallus and a hardened heart...
there's no allure of the western concept of romance...
there's absolutely none...
but you couldn't do that with European women...
and i won't go as far east into Asia as say...
beyond Iran... Turkic women...
    after all... i'm looking for a second schism in Islam
to be spearheaded by the Turks...
why? well... if Moses was the grassroots Messiah:
a proper fighter and a poet...
    a philosopher-warrior... then Hey-Zeus Crissy
was a cosmopolitan messiah...
the Turks? the Turks bring cosmopolitan Islam
to the fore... the right sort of levelling Islam...
they drink beer! they're the best barbers known to man...
****'s sake... even that beer of theirs:
Fiçi? probably the best beer in the world...
and no... i'm not into memes or emoticons...
that, above, in the title, in the (brackets)?
that's an ideogram for cat... most probably borrowed
from Chinese by the Japanese...
               the Manchurian crisis and speedboats...
it's truly fascinating... given the Chinese ideograms
are probably just as old as Egyptian hieroglyphs...
but more: x-ray vision than using actual forms
and adding colour...
could i conjure up the idea of a cat from that little scribble?

J++
  ロ      that's the simplified version... in addition
       to perhaps adding elements of T, ð and F...
cupboard... nope... i'm too European too Latinized...

no surprises elsewhere...
notably with the fact that we're not that much different
to the ancients...
modern times reflect the trials and tribulations
of emperor Augustus...
abortion was common in Rome...
lex julia de maritandis ordinibus (18 b.c.)
& lex papia poppaea (9 a.d.)
the arguments haven't changed...
extinction contra: not allowing such VIPs to emerge
akin to Newton or Achilles...
personally? fat chance of me reproducing...
from observing who actually reproduces...
sorry... life is remarkable in and of itself...
                 but sometimes people disappoint...
i too have been prone to have disappointed
based on the investment in what was expected of me...

lucky for some to have the attention span of moths
and be content with watching the daily news...
that's what turned me off from furthering
the relationship with the first girl i pair bonded...
we broke up... well: me doing it on the sly...
she doing it blatantly: in mutual agreement
when she said the following words:
i just want to sit down with someone to old age
and watch the news on television...

               **** me: i was quicker than a lightning
bolt bailing out!
me? i want to close my eyes and listen
to fire... i want to close my eyes
    and hear as fire nibbles on wood...
how much sloser is a lightning bolt from
light? and how much slower is fire from a lightning bolt?

stupid questions: but also awe-inspiring questions...
because what is question-worthy
and what is philosophical, these days?
it's not something anti-scientific...
it's more... post-scientific...
                         a bit like post-modernism...
i'm writing (or at least i hope)
writing some post post-modernistic in that
it's post-scientific... because? objectivity is a ******* drag...
it's so unlike the pretentiousness
associated with associating subtle scents and taste
hues of a wine:
   instead: calling it the ****** obvious:
a cherry's a cherry...
    eh... it only goes as far as that...

trouble obviously comes with time...
       because we're bound to be plagiarising each other
after enough times passes...
or we relegate someone for someone else
out of spite... out of jealousy... out of material gains...
out of sycophancy...

time's dearest slow trickle of foundation,
unlike the already established unfathomable
extent of space...
one can find a claustrophobia among
the stars with the magic trick of the ego
dying and being reborn toward
the practical activity of thought...
one can find that parallel when coupled
to demoniac sexuality hang-overs...
sleep-walking through, a thorough rereading
of Ovid...
    i'm in disagreement with myself...
Horace... or Ovid?

  a bit like saying: Hades? or Cronus?
        the old gods haven't died... no Hebtew deity
would or therefore could undermine
the gods of these letters...
no sacrifice could outlive its sacrificial rite of passage
for the sacrifice per se,
      Latin scriptum is and forever will be unlike
the Hebrew conquest of the Cuneiform
or the egyptian hieroglyphs...

i drank a little... i'm happy... tipsy...
i'm going to text her come midnight... are we on for tomorrow
night?!
   i don't mind rejection...
my cats like me... and i like drinking...
so... it's still 0 - 0...
i just wanted to paint a picture of
omicron zero, degrees superscript...
etc. bubbles... all is bubbles...
and 8... and B... and... the infinity symbol...
an eight reclining...

      ...someone always wants to be the one who
wrote the lyrics of Aud Lang Syne...
   that one song... ritually song on these beautiful isles...
just give me that... and all of Shakespeare can
hide in a library and never reach the stage of
a theatre...

unlike tennis players... we don't bow out...
we die... either by our own hand
or by the fading light of prescribed dementia...
we didn't allow ourselves to live
on easy terms... we certainly will not die:
allowing others to think we died on easy terms...
k'oh-g'oh yamamot'oh...
empress "?!" cat...

        neko...

               while time stumbles on a repeat...
everything: yet nothing... ever changes...
fashion changes... we're still the same creatures
from 2000 years ago...
simple pleasures... simpler deeds...
yet all the more complicated complications
of life's adorned schematics...
life is still life...
only now life's become the individualistic
horror-show of:
the re-established focus for "transparency"...
for...

             something is truly new...
   unknown prior...
                   there's a shift... it's almost quasi-tectonic...
it suggests to me the sentiment / statement of:
i'd be sooner dead than be in want
of learning about it...
  to be able to solve it...
                       i've had my problems...
i think i solved them...
Turkic women were always more...
appealing to me than European "royalty"...
if a woman has enough bravado
to tell you: men are better cooks than women...
right... sorted...
    i don't need to compensate chasing
after women already ***** by Afghan migrants...
to hell with that sort of crap!

nein! das ist der zweite diktieren!
amerikanisch-frauen "denken"
ist nein: universalübersetzung...
no... it's not...
that **** can stay localised in New York...
help me?! help me?!
help yourself...
     that's the message i heard...
right... so?
               **** the ******: forgo the virgins!
don't touch the European women...
go for the exotica of Turkic...
Arabic...
                Pontius Pilate says: 'ello from 'ell...

well... tennis...
   female tennis vs. male boxing...
like for like... i really don't understand why it's so...
just like i don't understand:
well, i do now...

    i just managed to watch the Matrix resurrections...
yep... i'm on board...
  i believe in gender dysphoria...
                         it's very much clarified for me...
only a woman in a man's body
    or a man in a woman's mind could have written
this sort of movie...
   it's basically a romance story
              with zombies...
                       the hive mind: zombies...
since there's no longer a chance to liberate anyone...
no one is an individual in the Matrix resurrections...
since? the hive mind can be switched on...
ergo? you don't even require agents to do anything...
it's a very ****** up sort of romance...
it's like... what comes after the Matrix resurrections?
the Matrix: reincarnations?
   i.e. only a limited number of "souls" exist
   in this world while the rest of the people are:
de facto - defaults?!
        i always found reincarnation to be a cruel concept...
it's elitist in that: perhaps there's no
European ****** royalty at hand...
    Tsar Nicholas II and King George V...
or that wild-eyed half-breed (sorry) -
   you'll see the picture if you type in...
       oh ****... can't find it...
   some half-wit related to Mary of Teck or someone...
or the Habsburg Jaw... infamous...

    it is: what it is... and i will use this language because
it's the necessary language to use...
but at least some royals are sensible enough
to untangle themselves from that vile practice
of breeding within a close-knit community of relatives...

the rest of us have been politely asked to breed
within the confines of scientific sensibility...
    why should they be allowed to continue that vile
act of tititalitng ******?!
hell... if they want to try the route of ******:
no problem... as long as they do not reproduce...

i know: who would have thought that the new
Matrix movie would spawn such emotions and thoughts
in me... completely "unrelated"...
well... it's not like in Plato's "theology" it isn't
mentioned that as punishment by the gods...
men would return in the bodies of women...
this story is as old as... the memory of ancient Greece...

i was hoping for some nostalgia...
i got nothing... just a confused narrative...
      because there really wasn't anything convincing
about this movie: beside the fact that
gender dysphoria is authentically: real...
in its unreality when based on a former architectural
logistics of the constraints of man...
   i should know... being a man...
i'm fixated on things remaining things...
esp. concerning inanimate objects...
           no need for telekinesis...
   "i", personally idealise the movement of traffic...
a cyclist can become a traffic-shepherd if he knows
his way around... say...
cycling behind a truck or a bus outside
of the realm of the blind spot... on the outside
of a large vehicle... being in full-view of the driver's
rearview mirror...

since i took up cycling in central London?
i cycle aggressively...
    how many stories of cyclists being rammed...
minced under the wheels of a truck have i heard of?
zilch! nada!
          that's a good thing...
i'm not saying that's because of me...
but... you need to teach people some *******
etiquette... an etiquette of movement...
the laws of traffic are pristine...
   i don't need some oblivious, solipsistic sacred cows
to **** up my bicycle-ride into central London...
pretending that they are pedestrians on wheels...
learn, your, *******, place...
respect... larger, moving, objects!

und wir links
barbarossa im ein
eissenggurke:
left tod...

              sasch
nuanced
schwabe:

        my grieving limiting:

freiheit von kopf!

    haben hier: jetzt!
            zerreißen und spatz...
deise:
  GRAB-GESAMMELT...

       schatten-atmen... neinstimme?
pseudo-zasch?