Limp hair,
Sopping, strung out
Pallid skin
You look hollow
As if
Lying on a hospital floor
Was too soon for a coffin
Hands smooth down frizz
Your mouth, ajar
Bits of chalk, grinning
Only you could
You itch at the humans
Coming in
And out
In and out
Who couldn’t oir tus palabras
Thinking, too young and stupid
An immigrant
So you sat
Waiting
For the gringos tontos
To fix you.

Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.  

The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.

With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.

Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.

Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.

For a start, I smell like ammonium
Fresh from the salon
A change to reflect the change I feel in me

A change for myself
Not for you
You just got lucky

Destiny conspired against me
to bring me here, too fresh
with static frizz
from polyester layers.

Fresh from him last night
and the boy before

My greatest right
is my greatest privilege

and I'd abuse it with you too.

My name means “gracious gift of God”, but this is not what I am.
My name does not mean “gracious gift of God” because I am not the product of one,
I am the product of many.
My name means “she sees,”
But there are glasses perched on my face with every intention of helping me see what is only a few feet away.

Isis, the most powerful Egyptian Goddess lives right between Jessica and Brady.
Isis is the goddess of magic and nature, two things that I love dearly yet no one knows about.
She stays unknown, and hidden, like she does not want to be seen.
With great excuse as well, because Isis is the only accurate depiction of me within these 16 letters, 7 syllables, 3 words.
Because I am not bound by connected lines
With spaces in between that have a bigger picture,
I am not my name in the most formal way.
I am the way that my curls frizz when I’ve forgotten to treat it,
Or the way that my hand flickers and wavers over a paper
When I’m about to forget an idea.
I show myself as a simple person
But I am not just one person.
With every breath you take you remove a piece of yourself
And breathe in a piece of someone close to you.
For that reason, I am not myself, not wholly at least.

I am the way my mother cuts down people with their own words,
The way she brought me to numerous swimming classes and taught me to love the ocean,
Or maybe the way words roll off my fathers tongue like he was born with this knowledge.
Maybe I am the way my friends tell me only absolute truths,
Or the way they only think in hypotheticals.

But come to think of it now,
These have all mixed and pieced together to become a part of me.
So maybe
In the end
I really am myself.

Sometimes I wish there were two of me;
And sometimes I wish there were none of me.
I wonder, if I were to split myself down the middle clean,
What I would do with either side.
Maybe I would send my right side to school;
While my left side mellowed in poetry all alone at home.
Maybe my left side would fall in love;
And my right side love herself.

I think I would teach my right side manners; she would talk very properly, with her posture being straight and definite. Her hair would be braided into eight neat sections, not one strand being audacious enough to fall out of place onto her forehead. She would sit with her fingers clasped neatly on the lap of her freshly pressed dress. Her smile would be bold but not daring; with dainty dimples guarding her cheeks. She would be the most beautiful girl you’ve ever met. She would be the fresh dew coating morning grass; she would be the last sip of peppermint tea in December. That would be my right side.
I probably would be a lot easier on my left side. I would set rules but probably forget to enforce them, maybe. My right side would be jovial and carefree. She would wear neons and bellbottoms so wide they swept up every splinter she graced over.  She would wade in the bog in August’s damp mornings and you’d be shocked when a splash of water touched her unkempt hair and the slightest curl would form under the frizz. She would love anyone aimlessly like the hopeless romantic she was; she would break hearts and she sure would get her heart broken; but she wouldn’t mind, a broken heart to her was nothing but a separation of phenomenal worlds, and in fact she missed revelling in the fiction of her own. She would be the weeds lining your back yard; every last one of them. The yellow dandelions that you would never pluck because you wanted them to grow into the white fluff that you could make wishes on. That would be my left side.

Except when reality hits, I remember I can’t split myself in two. So I guess my left side and my right side will remain where they are, being the prince and the pauper of my conscious thoughts. They might not be completely fiction; however, I know that because I’ve met them before. Sometimes my right side counts sheep for me before bed, while my left side smiles radiantly at me when I wake up. If only they could ever meet each other, I know they’d become inseparable. They do say that opposites attract, you know.

Two-faced
(12.12.2020)
—adrianatamara

Any price I'd pay
For the sun to shine,
For the flowers to bloom
For a breeze to play with your hair,
All this I wish
To give to you
As if it were mine,
Just to get you out of that gloom,
Just to brighten your eyes
Take away that stare,
Any price I'd pay
For a jester to make you laugh
For a handsome man to love you back,
For the world to do your bidding,
Of all the things
I want for you,
This is only half,
If it were up to me
Nothing you would lack,
You'd be sitting pretty knitting
Nah, I take that back I think
You'd be laughing
Singing; beautiful in pink,
Not a care in the world,
Not a frizz in your hair
Whether it's straight or curled,
Any price I'd pay
To put the wind under your wings
To give you many wonderful shiny things,
For you to experience pleasure
Unbridled and without measure,
Any price I'd pay just to see you smile
A sight so dazzling;
I could see it from a mile...
© okpoet

The sky turns a bluish gray
My soul just up and ran away
The ocean is near
The roar you can hear
A salt in the air
A frizz to your hair
Run away with me
Let’s hide from society

The Swirling shadow of infection
sweet nectar oozing
festering
hate
breeze *** with easy pace
flowing meat
me
a boiling sea
disbelief

fuzz and frizz
sweat then ****
heat, heavy, baking skin
his

broken, jagged, sharpened, ****
crawling, clawing, innocence
stuck

My thoughts frizz and sizzle away incoherently
Killed too soon by my anxiety.
You asked what's wrong with me
And thought I was exaggerating when I said everything.

Write. Write it down- make it rhyme.
That'll clear my mind
Stop the darkness from clawing it's way outside.
Make a list- that's what she makes me do.
Make lists for everything from weekly chores to properly cleaning each room.
Lists lists lists lists lists.
I can't take this.

Anxiety. That's something wrong with me.
Why right now I'm crying in fetal position shaking violently.
Introversion. I'm scared of my own voice- though I've been taught it's a voice that's wrong and insignificant-
I'm scared of it.
Weakness. I can't stand up for myself
Protect myself from this awful hell.
I can't be good enough.
Never good enough.

Amidst the deafening silence looms a voice,
Heard not once, until - boom - a voice.

From where does it escape? I remain unsure
for it is not clear. I cannot assume the voice.

I begin to search, search for something more
yet I am still here, and only me it consumes (the voice).

Why am I the prey of this carnivorous beast?
My skin cannot camouflage! It is a lampoon, the voice.

I search and rummage and hear ticking tocks
and pay a visit to my wishes, they vacuum the voice.

I remember watching a steady steam rise,
And her dark hair would frizz and bloom... her voice.

At the end of an isle stand a man and a woman,
Their fingers intertwined, glued by the groom's voice ---

I feel a tingle on my face form Reality's swift slap;
"Natalie, I've been calling you." I swoon. His voice.

A frizz of hair and froth of cloudy breath
Walk down the dimly lit, puddled mirror
Of wet sidewalks
Shushed by the rush of the stampede
of bullets that shoot along beside
Pushed by an exodus of ex bus surplus minds
Flowing with the tide

Feathers flit and twitter overhead
With sticks and bits to make their bed
A sparse sea for company
Drops down to flow alongside me
And wet the grass
Which grows between the sidewalk slits
And rocky pothole pits
Beside the dark leaf stains and plodding feet
That beat a slow, releived retreat
From crowded bus seat

oh sure sure, because Burroughs
didn't exactly celebrate his
****** addiction in his writing...
what's there, not to celebrate?
alcoholic or not,
              i enjoy the masochism
involved in the recuperation period
of, the next day,
for about two hours,
before i come to my senses and
retain some form eloquence...
my English verbose plush...
              of a tangerine, or a plum...
but hey...
        no one says to a painter:
too many colors, or...
  not enough colors...
    but i'm pretty sure that
         Mozart was criticized...
in that film: Amadeus...
         by Emperor Leopold II...
too many notes... too many musical
notes...
          ****... well...
let's just listen to the ambient music
of the refrigerator's drone hum,
snooze, buzz and frizz.

so i situate my ego on an equilibrium,
i decided to rekindle the old sketch,
engrossing the legs to walk,
while the hands turned purple-numb
   in my care to exhaust parts of my
body: to no relevant pursuit...
well: that's called
the ego situated between the equator
of legs versus hands,
  as the old saying goes:
  the devil makes work of idle hands...
or should i rephrase that:
   better take to walking
for the prime source of inspiration;
and truly,
    if my life was a dream,
a fairy tale, an account of living
in north korea... i'd be more glad
working in a sewer...
              but i stick to the maxim:
my life is so boring,
  i decided to write about it.
that's 9... nine (not nein) years
as a quasi-celibate...
     what between the odd
south african teacher with dry
genitals that i deemed to call
the equivalent of ****...
    and the several romanian prostitutes
who taught me how
the madonna-***** complex is real
in women when they began *******
by smearing cream into
          their vaginas for added lubrication
at the end of the day...
        and i thought that the worst
thing imaginable was me jerking off,
starting from age 7 / 8...
   women have much more imagination
in the realm of genitals...
  anyway...
   or that Thai girl i picked up in a park
drinking beer, a rush of sudden conversation,
took her home, ****** her in
the garden and ******* into my arm...
      so it's not like i wasn't aware of
being sensible about how or where i
plotted those flowery-***** sprouts...
  i haven't been circumcised
so i know what a quasi-circumcision
looks like, i know from ****
how i am better off rolling it back
so my "lack" matches up to her floral patten
of the *****...
    ******* once circumcised
makes no sense... absolutely none...
       the ******* exists for the sole purpose
of allowing a ****** "*******"
prior to the zenith of your brain's completely
development... early 20s is a time
when your brain is fully developed...
    which makes abortions, a tad bit
excessive, riddled with protestant
predestination arguments...
   you can't **** anything
  that isn't exsaxtly human form...
let alone fully developed (minding the brain)
prior to the age of mid-20s...
    the only thing that's killed is a potential...
stacked in the what if universe alongside
the Nazis conquering Britian...
      which is why, i guess,
people source the cogito genesis within
the brain, or should i just call it Brian?
       i'm not saying go for it!
  i'm saying, under the circumstances,
i first ****** her with a ******,
     she said take it off,
so i asked her: please take the pill...
so she took it...
    then she "forgot" to take it...
   she even chose the engagement ring...
    then i finished my "studies"
in edinburgh, went back to london
to start a new degree and work part-time
as a roofer...
         and then all hell broke loose!
  thankfully i am not writing like a Don Juan
might write...
  if my life was as colourful as the exploits of
Don Juan... i wouldn't be writing about it...
   i'd sit idle and watch the movies
provided in the memory-cinema...
   getting a hard-on ever so often
and completely disregarding *****...
       but i'm not...
   so here goes...
                     but you know what's scary?
she told me this, the one i "forcefully"
impregnated and can't stop thinking about?
she told me in her sacred heart of intimacy
that she was abducted as an early sprout of
teen due to her family being well off in Russia
and kept prisoner... and sexually exploited...
   as a kid...
                   now that i think about it:
like i already mentioned,
  i don't have a rhino's horn needing ****
in terms of ******* into a tissue or a ****...
i don't have this urge to be an arsonist
to plop a **** into a woman's womb...
maybe losing my virginity to a third year
exchange student of psychology from
Grenòble / due to the accent on O
   it's actually Grenòbl -
    what, you think i lost it to a *******?
no, *** starved spent a year and a half at uni
i decided to have a poke with one
   when i went to Poland to visit my
grandparents... told you: a total ******* of a story.
yes, she was Ukranian,
  she had one gold tooth...
   and we drank ***** and i ****** her for
two hours...
   after which she was like: you done?
then we lay in an embrace and i kissed her
forehead and cheeks...
  and she said: you're a good person...
apparently not!
     ****!
            the worst is that the brain is so late
in registering all this *******...
   if we're talking we're genital prone
from, literally the word go...
and the brain only catches up to the body
once you pass being aged 20+...
who's to do what when they engage
in a relationship who tells you
they've been abducted, and evidently
*****, and then they twist and turn
   your care to provide, but bypass it
and tell you: it'll be fine, **** me,
impregnate me, and we'll work it out
after...
               i was about to sit my final exams
and get a job in Scotland at some chemical
plant! what the ****, what the ****
am i doing living a sordid life,
paitning my face to a clown
   and "partying" at Halloween?
   now i'm saying what she said to me:
life is ****...
         well... it trully is right now...
the greatest joy i have is: walking, drinking
4 cans of beer...
    passing a winter tree,
the sky hazy with cloud, and a scythe of a moon
looked from under a tree, bald and synapse filled,
scattering it's twiggy centipede arms...
   and i say:
      it's not exactly a scene from a poet
in graveyard,
   more like a drunk in suburbia: but i get the picture.
all i meant to say, is that after the very brief
relationship... i didn't do anything stupid
as to impregnate someone...
     i don't even know if i did...
     but as Nietzsche once said:
no one really tells me anything these days...
and so, the last news i heard concerning
me was my father saying:
   don't you think there's a shaman in your family?
if that isn't a pleasant surprise
much congested with huh?!, i don't know what is.
i said it already:
Thai bisexual girl, picked her up in a park,
she was drinking alone,
took her home, played her some jazz,
then switched to playing her
  michael greilsammer, and we ****** in the garden,
i ******* into my hand rather
than... rather than? this ain't *****-land,
what, her face?! sicko.
             then i walked her home,
put on her a jacket of mine which she drowned in,
and just outside her home
   she gave me a necklace with a ring
attached to it... that changed colour.
              so you want tartar (i.e. raw) poetry?
well... this is it...
         i can't be as systematic as de Sade...
but i can recount a memory or two...
               oh, ** **, don't get all *****
on me... it's a sad sad (insert snigger) tale...
          have i ever ****** a black girl?
yeah... picked her up in a Stratford pub,
this plump middle-aged beauty...
she takes me to her flat...
                two kids in it...
   she throww Hanzel and Gretyl off the bed
and tells me to aim at her squeezed tighs rather
than her ******... i do about two strokes
and then say to her... i can't...
   i remain in her bed, when i wake up
little nergo Hanzel is standing beside the bed
looking at me,
   completely naked i take him up
   and lay him onto my chest where he falls asleep...
  gently stroking his frizz / afro /
scortched keratin...
     and as i endlessly say:
   there no imagination in this, only experience...
if there was any to begin with...
i'd be Colonel Mc-******* Disney
(you know what's scary...
   i'm writing this and there's complete silence
around me... akin to that ancient Polish
proverb: cicha woda, brzegi rwie...
    i.e. silent water, tears away the shores,
tea tie tare tear tears tares... she picks
sea-shells on the sea-shore...
  that's gagging for the tetragrammaton to appear,
if not the already stated arguments
bound elsewhere).

I am small.
When I scream my limbs shrink shorter.

I eat my hair.
The frizz sends me into claustrophobic tremors.

I have seven teeth.
I unscrew them with frantic fingers wrapped around a flathead before I sleep.

I never sleep.
When j sleep I keep a test tube of your thoughts twisted in my sheets.

I've seen the largest rivers.
I never travel because I fear sprouting feathers, being a freak.

I've planted 10 trees.
The roots sinch my toes and bring me to my knees.

I have never known how to be enough
always either exceedingly too much or not quite there at all
I wonder, did you feel like I was suffocating you?
or did you feel like you had to coerce words out of my mouth for me to admit I felt anything at all?
I am reckless in my emotions, impulsive in my words
I spent months learning to pretend I'm not plagued by your memory
I wonder if you spend time mourning what we lost
I wonder if you get a stomach ache when you think about the ending
or if it's a heavy sigh of relief, a warmth against your skin
I wonder if I'm best kept as a memory
tell me, what makes you think of me?
the frizz in your hair, or the bad taste in your mouth?
your worst day or your best- It'd be a pleasure to be any of your days at all

If you think of a life with me, picture me with soap in my hair, bubbles lining the strands of my wet-with-sweat frizz.

Picture the tomato-sauce-stained plates with bits of pasta, scattered by the sink like the continents of the world when it should be just Pangea, one place, all neat.

Picture me holding the sponge, scrubbing the red out of the white plates we ate from.

I'll picture your arms wrapped around me, head resting on my shoulder, murmuring behind me that I smelled like sweat.

Picture me smiling at the honesty and then listen to me complain to you that we should get this done. WE.

I'll picture you rinsing after I told you to and I'll hear your whining about your tired arms and how you're impatient about feeling my lips on yours.

And then we hurry, we wash the dishes together and there is soap in my hair.

We wash our hands which go to each other's waist and then we pull closer and then your hand is on my face and the taste of your mouth is on my tongue.

And then we stop. We stare.

Picture that, PinkInk.

She’s beautiful,
A fallen angel, you see.
Not because she believes in god-she doesn’t.
But because she’s saved me.

Time and time and time again,
My parachute when I’ve leaped off the edge.
The current of wind to return me to sanity,
The words of wisdom that heal my insanity.

She loves to scare people,
With her interests in Wicca and Satanism,
She’ll kick you if you dare
Mess with her or someone she adores

She acts like she has no heart,
Like she doesn’t give a ****.

And why shouldn’t she?
When they all end up using it against her.

The way she lines her eyes - her devils disguise.
The way her hair is a mad mess of frizz.
The way she cries for the guys on the US show
It is
The most amazing
Thing to
Watch.


She is so ******* beautiful,
Like a fallen angel

She doesn’t  need her wings.

When I was young I believed in all the cool things that I see,
I believed they were great, awesome, and strong as can be,
There I was a boy so little so eager and so meek,
And yet only kindness did I weep,
I thought to myself that I wasn't fit,
To be so inspiring, and weak as a slip,
And so I sought to be higher in all aspects til',
I could see myself greater than any of it,
So I learned to lie was first of my lips,
Because of the scorn of sorrow that oppressors brought with,
So I seized power from their hands of defeat,
But power was maddening to a lad in his nick,
He grew mad and evil until a fate had a frizz,
And the kind words of wisdom gave his heart a big itch,
Then he remembered kindness, it wasn't really a smidge,
So he went on his journeys with a curse on his tongue,
He breathed it so long it stuck onto his kiss,
A taste of poison everyone saw sweet,
Only his fallen enemy knew it,
He tried and he tried yet the boy couldn't fit,
He meant some, he tried some, he prevented but would sit,
He wanted to stop but he couldn't on run,
Like he was on ***, but the honest won't lift,
So farther in the future he sought to make mends,
He started keeping shut with only the truth with his rends,
But sometimes the courage would not work to his blend,
So he struggles to the day with a hint of conviction and then.

morbidly
i let my teeth fall out
and my hair frizz
and my life disintegrate
because
we all need a muse
and if you're not tortured
you're not creative

I'm not a poet... just a blah-blah machine... intellectual stuttering does involve: searching for... the best choice of words: which do not necessarily add, toward a nomination of intellectual girth... delayed stature... a Pole, like Jew, is more himself in exile, than with a stubborn claim of "origin", or rather, past... a people who have truly understood themselves, among themselves, are the ones without a heritage of a land... which is an ultra-form of democracy: the people have already spoken... the people, having no obligation for: a people... have no necessity for: a land... the Germans are infants in this line of argument, given: der VOLK... 2nd nomadic participation of a secularised people are the Poles... least because the most vocal among the throng of Lithuanians, Estonians and Latvians... grind teeth and say Crimea is not Ukrainian... where land and people are synonymous, in development.

it's sometimes hard to envision the democratised voice as not being either: too personally "impractical", or too "impersonally" practical; of which, politicians fall into the latter category... hence democrscy's shadow dictator, known as the status quo... mind you... even Sisyphus wasn't allocated the task of moving an unmoveable stone... that being said, i feel no need to bask in some intellectual tectonic shift observation, as this is, quite simply, the most unnecessary allocation of words that, needless to say, are said, without encompassing a motivation for any subsequent dynamo expression... lazily rolling a cigarette as precursor, and... a serpentine of rattling skeletons like playing a magician's, xylophone.

       a cold shot of 100ml of żołądkowa gorzka, followed by a rolled sweet Virginia tobacco cigarette... and a walk in a park... high spring scents... and that perfect companion readied for mirror and introversion: there are two, shadow at my most nihilistic, and "loneliness"... at my zenith, which is a gratitude, resembling the closest excavation of the truth bound to carpe diem: a sunset... was it ever going to be a day worth
completing?

     the conundrum of a stiff 5am wake up call,
   some would call it, a stretch of the imagination
to craft a pivot on, that might realise a continuum...
    closer to the heart an empty stomach,
than a claustrophobic mind...
    for once in my life I imagine people
who find thinking unbearable,
   trying to measure their ails in the ethereal,
dissecting the mind entwined with
the soul, or what some would argue is
the sigma of the mechanisation of
the body... nibbling at love from
the unconscious rhythm of the heart,
prodding at desynchronised patterns,
aches of loving bound to
a scaffold without an executioner:
other than oneself...
      perpetually seeking a biography
spanning but two weeks,
    of Nabokov's counter-lollipop-16
frizz in goosebumps...
     my... am I so sterile as to dream-up
a cougar on a leash?!
                 porcelain beauty
before the altar of a bull and
the infuriating moorish -sculinity...
porcelain youth,
    hybrid came the minotaur...
somehow archetypes are stiff
as the introduction of the god
Solipssus into the parthenon...

   un-*******-believable:
    Fraiser's concept of self
some greenish 'reesh 'nome -
  can we do away with the surd letters?
there aren't that many after all,
given the english are famously
tingue-numb vowel impersonating
consonant "grievers' wounds"...
        'ockney 'acking 'ockney,
and some dame off her frrrrr'ah
  ick'ing         'ockers!
       hmm.... súm!
     anything to get past
old riveriera, *** Sinatra...  
   *** martini super dry with
a dupper-uber wet:
    snout of a mole in the caverns of
finding false teeth and
dangling ding-**** virginity...

in a brothel 'ardly the cherry picker...
if you've never been...
   you've never been,
                  and s much can be said
about that...
       what do you call an Arabian
leech?
        a minor European with a taste
for Bulgarian seconds...
   but of course, that white....
  dress is because we all took to
replica monogamy of certain animals
seriously...
          but that weight of
a ring finger,
     has me itching for the down-trodden
being mawled in my mouth
to later constitute pet food,
   almost seems familiar,
but not quiet,
    came those seeking fire and
were vigour prone,
came the necromancer and
tried to raise the dead,
before the living priesthood
began talking with the lead tongue
of mammon...

     the ones who do not monetary
authenticity in the following coins:
a pence, a two pence, ten, twenty,
fifty... perhaps a quid...
     a snippet of royal metal...
   why wham! and not aha!
                               ?
too much, eureka connotations?
bewildering, like 500ml bottle of *****
in Poland, and 25ml "shots" in England...
**** first of puke blood prior to
taking a ****?
        dunno! hence the tycoon
bonanza!
   a bit like asking a pirate parrot
for a quote only by pulling out
one of its feathers... to get the...
    mechanical parts: geared up to
Cucklington.... and that is by no means
a place i can associate, either drunk,
or sober.

   how the hell do people even find
the diem or the motive behind it,
to craft the sort of "1 + 1 = 2"
   momentum, that becomes carpe diem?!
I heard some say (well, I thought it
through):
     dzień ma zbyt wield małych "trosk" - - - - -
(wyroków by zważać na innych...
       tzn. rz pirdole skolną
    ortografie bez autobiograficznego
  zaparcia na: NEIN!
  szambo szfedzkie...
     wiwat!
                 F to finał...
  nad machaną rę(n)ką...
   czyli, tyczy to:
       wodą... e e e! goń ty sam
zza gównem...
                 pierdolonym Soviet
ma tylko bjet...
     bjet... ubogi nasz pan...
       twinie!
                     maciuk jet harciuk!
ble na nowo (Ь)
     i ble na start (Ъ)
                       to mi... kurwa... nowina!
- - - - - - - - - - - -
   (I lost the sense of paragraph
and punctuation)
       the world already knows
of those who shoved carpe diem
down the ***** of public figures,
and lived out
the motto of: carpe tutti...

  better english with none,
than Russian with.... pseudo
impressionism of diacritical marks
beside the geometrical
revisionists of the blank canvas...
    thing...
        nice post-Greek lettering,
shame about
the lack of... finesse...
           when teasing the third tier
of lieracy,
   spelling, grammar ****,
     punctuation, breathing ****,
and diacritical distinction:
**** thappy toad zee gwafrifrifritee!
B7LVARK...

         there is nothing grammatical
about spelling...
             there is simply an aesthetic
involved...
          an "orthography"...
minus the "grammar" Nazis comes...
   the people that say:
   I really don't see why literacy is a
necessary benchmark of education
for the sort of jobs,
    that really require nothing more
than consumer supervision of:
the minimum literacy of
reading advertisements...
         what else?
    if people are sour about an aesthetic
of the written word...
without concern for punctuation...
let alone diacritical application...

PEOPLE ARE SEMI-LITERATE...
     if grammar "nazis" exist,
then people are semi-literate...
   they equate thinking with speaking...
and then file "complaints"...
   as to how their thinking
diverges from speaking
because of sophistry,
    and how talking doesn't integrate
itself back into thinking
because of philosophy.

filozofia: zapał, i - las ~ zapałek.

I've seen carpe diem exhausted
on the shoulders of the routines
of retirees;
    better the life akin to the thrills
of a doormouse,
  or an intellectual,
than some, mythical Taj Mahal of
orgams, reduced,
   into a pale lighthouse insignia
of violent purple, namely black,
masquerading white,
in a sober, en masse, funeral yawn
grey.

   this can only become a "difficult"
reading, something that always seems
to excavate: primo uno...
     and nein auf omega...
   not as an insult this... "thing"
concerning a semi-literate people,
just concerning the people:
who have been taught to read
in order to "read enough"...
   and how much of that is focused
on punctuation?

       tilde contra macron.
just an idea of fathoming pause,
and the comma, ' from above...
     e.g.
                  czas ~ na mosty
   sound slightly different to
    czas - na mosty...

       in no defence and with no concern
for a rubric of populism,
   the half-forgotten:
  neue-punctuation: Saß...
              given the Oxford compound
of the attempt to break (-) away from
using shrapnel...

hence by "arrogant" claim concerning
the literacy of the genral populace...
these come as minor observations with
minor impetus being guaranteed
of populist dent...
          flimsy ******* gay
oops-e-daisy patchwork Adams sort
of reminders to begin a tomorrow
as brimming on: "resolve"...
   and above all: impetus!

      the men should join the army...
Bratislava quarter limbed voters
and the crab eating fetish
reaching its penultimate lap...
for some reason,
I haven't been given the Darwinian
drive,
   somehow lost with
the remainder of my inheritance,
ha ha! slumped into
a canvas remindful of a:
cinemagoers' jerking off screenplay.

That’s the thing about pain;
it demands to be felt.
John Green taught me that,
on a cold November night,
with the moon high and bright,
the wind rapping at my frail,
poorly built windows,
sending an unbearable,
uneasy chill throughout my room.

Nothing torments me more,
than having to toss you away,
dispose of your remnants,
to wash and scrub the mere
fragrance of your soul,
from this interior,
made of creaking,
wooden floorboards
and flimsy painted walls
that people like to call,
a home.

I suppose it’s time again—
to be alone.
Just when I’d gotten used to
being intertwined with someone’s soul,
my very essence being painted
with your once existing love.

But the loneliness,
it seems to have rendered
my happiness more likely.
It helps me to enjoy the finer,
simpler things.

I find a little peace
in the death of plants
when Autumn has come around.
The trees change so drastically,
their leaves vibrant reds and yellows,
until they descend onto the ground,
decaying, renewing the soil that
provides nutrients for that same tree.
The thing is, is that they are changed.
They’re changed by inexorable forces,
but they continue to move on,
becoming the ultimate masters of
letting go.

On a summer night,
right after a thunderstorm,
the way the mist causes my hair to frizz,
the way the wind blows through my hair,
it reminds of a new start, a new beginning.
It reminds of a promised day of happiness.

Nothing soothes my soul more
than the sound of perfectly tuned
guitar strings being strummed,
and then fading into nothingness.
But the thing that pains me most
is it’s nothingness reminding me
of the silence once shared
between our kisses.

That’s the thing about it,
the pain demands to be felt.
No matter how hard I try
to write off these feelings I harbor,
they remain,
and I’m never able to stop—
to stop writing about you.

so i'm sitting there,
in front of the t.v.,
fresh as a daisy,
             moist like a ****:
wondering...
    this flat white coffee
advert is really something...
i remember times when
i used to order an:
americano with milk...
      apparently a flat wife...
white is an non-fancy
way of saying: just pour
some milk into it...
        too bad they don't
serve a rich white...
   huh-what's-that?
        double cream instead
of milk...
      but this advert
gave me flushes...
     i started fidgeting in
my seat, getting all hot & bothered
at the McMathematics...
   so she's selling a flat white,
or rather, she explains it as (verbatim):
two thirds coffee, a third milk,
   and a third milk-foam...
i would seriously have a problem
with that: if i didn't cut
my thumb off to make it
a complete fraction...
   that's why i used to ask for:
an americano with milk...
            so what's a cappuccino?
afro white? frizz white?
i'm a feral creature living on
the outskirts of London...
  language is hardly a way
to cage me...
   at least i found a medium
i can ****...
   and it's gagging
               for more of my
   antics...
                   and that shouldn't
even become an abstract of
a person for the person
           on the receiving end...
McMathematics: four thirds
equal a whole and not 4/3,
           i.e. 2/3 + 1/3 + 1/3 = 1;
it must mean there's a free
muffin to go along with
the fla- white (hyphen
so you prolong and ****
that sound like u b
            experiencing a brain
hae-mo-rr-hage:
                or talk like Dorry);
trill baby, trill:
                       call a hedge
the Hague via hage...
       háge háge háge...
            and hike with a hake
down the end of your fishing line
(hay'k, stutter,
                   snap:
                              ha   -k- 'eh?)
also know as
the haka: in social
sciences that's:
cultural incorporation,
rather than appropriation;
but then again:
who am i to sharpen someone's
pencil?
    if this is the closest i'll
ever get to sky diving?
   **** it:
                               free fall!

.the lost sigh of the new exasperated... the lost sigh being an anne sexton... and the new exasperated being an olivia gatwood... old pixie new pixie and borrowing from: garden state... like lazy grit... the best searched for scrutiny & with life... my own too tender heart... a mushroom cloud and a moth nursery... my own mea culpa my loiter my digression... my... giggle shot at the knee... before the already disposed kneeling; "process". the process of breaking up feuds... notably? telling the difference between broken mirrors and broken glass... a false memory of a dalmation... i call it Dunkirk but it's (it was) actually Dundee... and... drinking tequilla with an orange and sugar than a lemon and salt... and not getting laid... because... "let's forget" that was the first and last available impromptu... to settle a grief of memory... the last explored eventuality of "re-imagining" a banana: as straights and "justice"... and that grief of a grimmace when: a lemon bit into: was all that was expected! i can't let go, though... it's not like i'm holding to a harry potter impossible... dancing on the old college roof... edinburgh... listening to the shins' new slang... my most "solipsistic" spectacular... the same old attempting to solve puzzles by ******* girls with tattoos... my prized daddy issue? he's not dead in that there's also a "yet"... here's to me swimming across la manche! because... there's a heap of barley to be digested and ******* out like: tomorrow... eh?! coming across new vinyl is like... the realisation that... there's actually no new money... or no new concept of money... like pebbles are not copper effigies made into shrines and what not; it's a near impossible venture to test rich... with later boasting... beside what's necessary as: the enough... there must be a concept of... losing track of the peacock... **** me... i will have to agree that there actually is the "right" number of oysters being "served", gulped... "divorced"... moth in transit... stitching itself shut to my bedroom wall... and that's worth savouring... the inability to savour a furthering with plot of berryman sexton plath and... this robbing scrutiny of the obvious crescendo.

listening to classic.fm
has become largerly
impossible:
even if one has a stomach
a mouth and an ****...
notably from
the argument of
a bbc radio 3 d.j. -
thereby / therefore
i concur...
   it is very impossible...
to stomach classic.fm with...
the money... the adverts...
and since i forgot
to mention the ordeal
of advert when... listening
to bbc radio 3...
but that there's so much
of everything
so predictable...
   i'm yet to age around
the summit with
bbc radio 4 being...
a blatancy...
a blatancy of having
a forgiving insight
wedded to a nostalgia
of a... somehow "missing" year...
best encapsulated
by the frizz of autumn:
a haste via an agitation
that's beside (the) zenith
that's (a) death;
the english scissor cutting...
the A-THE-ISM
of the indefinite and the definite
article...
lost toward the other shrapnel:
the conjunction and pronoun
and the lost remains
of the... other...
sort of load of *******.

The wind
blows my curly hair
into my face.
It rubs on my coat
causing it to static and frizz
and stick up on end.
Ugh.
The wind,
it bites my skin.
My lips go numb
and my quick tongue slows.
I hate the cold.
It’s bitter and unforgiving.
It holds no mercy
in its hole for a heart.
I hate the cold
but there’s something there beneath it,
something that pleasures
and warms my skin.
The wind
it hugs?
underneath it's cruel bite.
I hate the cold
but there's something underneath it,
buried in the snow and frost,
you'll have to dig to see it.
Oh, great, it's cold again!
but what's that hiding behind it?
An indiscernible figure
behind flurries of snow
offers something
...but what?
What's that semi-sweet scent
under the fighting cold?
I hate the cold
but if I tell you that when we talk
I shiver uncontrollably
don't take offense
because I hate the cold.
The wind is bold,
the snow, it rolls,
my small body shivers beyond control,
but there's something there beneath it...

Tomorrow I will wake just like today and
Think of what I feared most
Having now become more than
Nightmare or dream
It is in my hands or
Perhaps on my back
I’m a feline I scratch
I want it off
Marring me
Far more than mere skin
My spirit is *****
I want to wash it
Seeing black run down my legs
And hair frizz like a day so familiarly faded,
Yesterday, I yearned.

the world is going down the route
of an absolute butchering of an apple crumble
and i find myself:
without a voice for the people -
perhaps the few epicurean hedonists -
among the other scuttling rats -
but not: with a voice stand at the fore
of a disgruntled mob...
   and... it's not an impossible stance...
after all: what's on my mind?
   well... there's the carrera hellcat XL...
or... more to the point...
there's the raleigh tulus 2 XL (29" wheels)...
something similar to that ancient
variation on a calibre bossnut from
the 1990s on which i managed to loose
around 20 kilograms...
once upon a time -
   in that: this great world of demands -
sometimes has you looking out for
little concerns and all the more simpler
plans of escapism -
   if this was beijing or amsterdam:
i doubt that thinking of a bicycle would
be any in way: remotely designated as
an escapist project -
                       for thought to accompany -
and i'm not really catering to
any phenomenology -
                                       either...
                backs against the walls of basics...
so that yes: this probably is
a variation of self-indulgence -
   but it's not: and never will be...
tabloid spew - it's sole redeeming need
for existence.

p.s. it just so happens that youtube
can still be fun...
ha... unwashed. season two -
faw wight faw wight...
   i might need a lightbulb:
no... not to illuminate any of the subject
matters is already dis-alienating:
DAN: faw wight and
meringue clouds... on the tinge
of the frizz!
       well: fair enough to the itv
and the bbc's attempts at anti-soap-opera
dramas:
    from DAN... to DEß -
knitted cotton? oh... nicholas' citation
of the "14"..
             around the time of
the punk's cultural appropriation
of the mohawk in blistering colours
of phosphorescent -
the punks didn't wash themselves:
while the...        НAЦИ!
you'd think... a clean-shaven...
fearful for his bald-patch and imitation
kippah: monk primo tonsure...
would have...

i'd gladly sink in teeth into the headlines...
but without a sizeable audience -
i have itchy teeth and a missing
chin - dub-step is somehow still
a music genre alive and well:
it might have been with
distance and burial...
            
     golz for gargantua: ha...
norf v.c. (volleyball club)....
                   ******* on an orange...
pardoning a shy-loan
of some word in aremnic.

Your hair’s a mess
And your eyes are squinty
And your curves come only from your lips
But that’s okay
Because I love it
You see them as
Deterrents
But I know
That every part of your body
Deserves kisses
To know that they are loved
Because where you see frizz
I see time spent learning
So I can help you tame
The physical representation
Of your spirit
Uncontrollable and free
And where you see squinty
I see eyes that are
Smooth and perfect
for me to paint in eyeliner
And where you see curveless
I see a body perfect to
Snuggle small enough
To envelop completely
In my arms
So no you’re not
Perfect
But boring is boring
And you’re anything but