I'm the next act on stage.
Good.
It's about ******* time all that needed to be said
Finds a way to get out.

So here's the thing:
I've made mistakes
I've ****** up a lot, and I'm willing to admit that
Because every ******, I learn from it
Unfortunately sometimes it takes more than once.

So my first big ******:
I made love.
18 years old, questioning everything
ANGRY for the first time in my life
Really truly ANGRY
and REBELLIOUS
Like I've never been before.
So angry at a God that presumed
To ask everything of me and give nothing back
Who took and took and took and took
And let others take from me, from others
Especially women, a long long time ago
And maybe they were stupid
And maybe they were awful people
And maybe they deserved it but they were STILL PEOPLE
Still women
Still girls like me
Scared and lonely
Hungry for an outlet for all of the ****** passion
And anger DEAR GOD SUCH ANGER
That had built up inside.

So I was mad
And I felt alone
Except for one thing
Him
He who I now look back on and wonder what
My rational brain could have seen
In a hundred thousand eons of pain and suffering and loneliness
What it could have seen in a rat
In a **** like him
But he wasn't that bad
I'm just angry

We made love
We loved each other
And I had anger
So we made love.
As if loving each other made it alright
Because what they never tell you in Sunday school
What they never really get across with all the
"Shou shalt not's" and "Don't touch that's"
About chastity
What they do tell you is don't do it
But they never ******* tell you why
Because it isn't going to last.
It really just isn't
Even though you think it will
Put that stupidity aside and see for JUST A SECOND
It won't.
Just assume it wont.
And you'll be with someone else
And they'll be hurt
They will actually be ******* SHATTERED
That you didn't save anything special for them
That you have nothing to give them that you didn't first give to someone else.

So yeah, I left.
I'm usually the one that leaves.
Out of 10's or 20's of loves
I'm the one that usually loses it first
Except for twice...
Nah... Nah now it's thrice.
And I loved again
And left
And I loved again
And left.
And at one point I felt sorry for what I did
But nah, that was an illusion
Brought on by the tears he wept when I told him
I had nothing left to give only to him.

Then I met another Him
And I told him early because
I was SO SICK AND ******* TIRED
Of having to hide what I had done
Pretending to feel guilty about making love
To a little **** who I loved once
But no, he wasn't that bad
He didn't know any better
I'm the ****. I am.

So I told him
And he got scared
But then he came back...
Oh my god he came back, I thought he would leave.
And he held me tighter
And he loved me more
And he forgave me
He moved on
He trusted me
But back up a little.

And breathe.

His name was Hunter.
And when I met him, I was dating the guy I thought I would change for
And a week later I left.
And I immediately got googly-eyed over Hunter
But also someone else.
His name was Collin.
Collin got to me first, because,
Crazy thing
He seemed more mature
And like he could handle it better if I didn't want to be attached yet
So I told him I didn't want anything serious
And we made out.

And then I started falling more for Hunter
Because Collin was a one-upper.
And Hunter was sweet and interesting
Intelligent in speech
On our first date
We discussed Neitzche in a ****** local burger joint
And he was beautiful
In my life I don't think I will ever find Adonis in the flesh again
And eventually, after trying very hard
I got him to kiss me
God how he kisses is like tasting wine
And has the same affect on my mind
And excites my body beyond what I've felt before
And that lasted the whole time I was with him
It still hasn't gone away
To this day if he kissed me
I think my cells would fly apart with joy

Now here's where my shittiness comes back in
And makes everything confusing
So I was making out with Collin one night
And Hunter the next
And I told them both
I ******* TOLD HIM
"We are not dating."
I said that.
Exactly that.
Meaning there is NO commitment
NO expectations
YOU can do whatever you want with whoever
AND SO CAN I

Eventually Hunter persuaded me to be his girl.
So I basically just started ignoring Collin
Stopped making out
Stopped hanging out
Stopped talking pretty much
So I could be with just the one I had COMMITTED myself to.
And we were happy.
Until I told him.

Then he was hurt.
He felt betrayed
Even though I ******* TOLD HIM
WE ARE NOT DATING
During that time
He felt he had claim on me during that time
Just because he had kissed me
He said "I wish you had told me how little a kiss means to you
I would never have ******* kissed you."
And I got ANGRY
And then you know what?

I said I'm sorry
I said you're right
I said "I put his feelings before yours, that was wrong, and it will never happen again."
I should've never done that.
I didn't do anything wrong.
And I gave him power over me
That no one should ever have.

We spent the last month or two
In despairing bliss
Knowing that at the end of the college semester
Which had been so short
He would go home to Georgia
And I would return to the mountains
And I had played the long-distance game before
And would not do it again

I should have just taken what I could get

So the last day, we helped each other pack
We cried
So much
Into each other's shirts and shoulders
Hearts breaking but hopeful
For a promise
I promised him
AND THIS IS THE ONLY THING I PROMISED
That at the end of the summer
We would both be available
So that we could try again
THAT'S IT

So I cried my way home
And he took his plane
And we Skyped until 2 his time every night
After about another month
The usual sadness and loneliness hit
Being home is bad for me
I lose sense of up and down
As I feel my wheels spinning on the ice
In the freezing summer between springs
I missed him
So much that I felt empty
I ached and hungered and died every day
Though it was nice to see my old friends again
But the worst thing happened
I remembered that I like flirting
And I had already ****** up once

Why not do it again?
Three more times?

For two months I didn't make love
I ******
Mindlessly
Cuddled for a bit with a friend
Then he'd admit he liked me
I'd tell him I wasn't going to date this summer
And he'd get hard
And he'd get insistent
"We can just be friends with benefits"
He'd say
He genuinely liked me
They always did
One even said he loved me
I had no such emotion for them
I just wanted to not feel so alone

So we'd cuddle, talk, kiss, ****,
And I'd go home every time still empty
Still cold
Still alone
And sad
And guilty
And for two months I wandered around in that hell
Wondering why it wasn't getting any warmer
Wondering how the **** I was still alone
With all these men that wanted me so bad
And every night as I fell asleep I thought about Hunter
Oh God... I could never tell him
No, he would never understand

And he didn't.
When I finally told him
Not because it was any of his ******* business
BECAUSE IT WASN'T
We were not dating
There was no commitment
No promises except that I'd be there in the end
We kept admitting love for one another
Which was a mistake in retrospect
But he had no right to feel such claim on me

The worst part was that he had asked me over the summer
And I had lied and justified
And gotten angry
SO ******* ANGRY at him
Every time he got suspicious
HE HAD NO ******* RIGHT
And I got angry
Because I was guilty
Especially because it wasn't helping
And all I wanted was him

So I told him
Not because he had a right to know
But because I finally trusted him enough
And wanted no secrets between us
Wanted one SINGLE ******* PERSON
Who I could show my whole self to
Tell everything to
Just one
And I wanted it to be him
And he was angry

And oh god for days he was angry
And every night he made me cry
Because I told him to let it out
That it might help
So he called me *****
He called me ****
He called me cheater
He told me that nothing meant anything to me
That nothing was special to me
Nothing physical would ever be special or worth anything from me
But... But I still don't understand
Honesty
That was important to me
That was everything to me
And I had given it to him
I don't understand
Why he walked all over it
Why

That
That's enough
I can't talk about this anymore right now
Ask me again another day
Just not right now

Alright I guess I should anyway

So the last month of summer
I was with no one
I spent every night Skyping him
Every night either crying in the hurt of his angry words
Or singing my love and praises for him
And when he went on a trip and couldn't call me
I took pictures and screenshots every night
To show him I wasn't out again
I was at home
Safe
Alone
Waiting for him

A month it went on like that
Until it was finally one week before school
I drove down to the college, picked him up
He greeted me at the door and I lept into his arms
And he held me and we cried
And there was love
And I felt complete
And I could finally breathe again
And the gasps wracked my body with pleasure and pain

I took him and we spent a week of heaven
In my home in the mountain
He met my family
And they all loved him
And we talked
Once in a while there would be a sad moment
But he said he'd try
He said he loved me
And I had hope...

Why didn't he try?
He left me when we got back to school
Why didn't he stay
I don't understand
I've tried so hard
I've mended fences with God
Hoping he can help me
But it's taking time
And it doesn't mean anything to Hunter
Why?
I told him all of the truth
All of it
And laid myself at his feet
Just asking that when he was done abusing me
Done being angry
Done with his vengeance
That he would love me
And keep me
And stay
But he left
I don't understand
I tried. So hard.

And I can't let go of him
How can I?
I invested my whole self in the warm and golden dream
Of lying in his arms at night
I changed myself to be what he wanted
I changed my mind to match his
What more could I do?

Don't I deserve forgiveness?
Haven't I earned just one last chance?

the sum of my parts
is not greater than i am as a whole, no,
i am not simply a collection of scars
and ******-up storylines, oh,
i
am more than
the gristle and bone
the fibers interwoven through my arms
my lily-white striped clavicle
this corpse is my throne

i am not simply a ******
i am a ****** with a history
i am mauve valleys' majesty,
i am more than just my regrets
and my atrophies
and if it's not commendable, well, at least it's a story.

i,
simply because of my condition,
have lived through more than you could imagine
i have burned down in the depths with fire-skinned demons-
with messes deeper than your credit-card sins-
and i
have managed to get through it

these are my battle scars
i've fought ******* wars
and yet you shun me as if i'm not a hero
as if i'm not honorable for just making it
but i know you simply don't possess the tenacity
or the strength of wit
to deal with my ****
there's no reason to reproach
the type of behavior which keeps me alive
when i've done greater things than you ever will

stop staring
like i'm some sort of reject
like i'm something to pity
like i'm something worth nothing
like i can't recover
this is just a bad habit
and though you may find it disgusting i know i
can find worse dirt staining your mind

even if i leave this life
without a square inch of me unscarred
i have never backstabbed
i have not given in
while your inky secrets stay unspoken,
mine are imprinted upon my skin
and darling, that's all there is

if i am hateful, i will show you so
i have nothing to hide
my mouth isn't lipsticked shut

so what
if i cut
i'm still a good person
and though my battle is visible
there is nothing more around the corner
i am here to stay
so are my scars
and that's all there is to say

precursor - title correlation
body -

mind of:

C                oh

    oh                      Ri

n'ah.   (half an hour fiddling with a 502 bad
gateway; traffic these days! jeez!)

I.

it don't know what's more frustrating for the reasons that it's so good... i can't choose... it's a close call... either listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides from By The Way... ugh! why didn't they release that as a double album! Stadium Arcadium was not that good as a double-album... all the prior albums are MAGIC... literally... for ****'s sake: GOLDMINE is literally just that... there's that... i can't concentrate on making my own translation of Ovid... i'm yet to scribble down the translation i have... i can't even drink my whiskey properly... the other frustrating focus? watching Armand Duplantis break his own world record of 6.21metres... the ****** has still at least 10cm in him! a record that will have to stand-still for the next 20+ years... i'll be dead before this record is broken... Сергій Бубка best be sleeping... i'm listening to the music, reliving the end of the World Athletics and trying to heel-myself-in-the-buttocks: better get a move on boy... hmm! "trying"... i'm actually heeling myself in the buttocks: no time to wait... one can wait for a bus... one cannot for one's own incentive... ol' Lizzy is coming up the mountain... she's coming with the proper closure of the 20th century... however many popes she outlived... however many prime ministers and american presidents... come on Lizzie... just one more year... i'm actually dying to spend money with whittle Charlie printed on the notes... my fingers are itching... but **** me... music so good By The Way should have been a double-album... no! Stadium Arcadium was not the salvagable double-album worth session... i'm getting "schizophrenic" vibes... i know that poetry is not an entertaining medium: it's a complacent self-congratulatory, thereupeutic load of *******... it's obnixious when staged: the exasperated art of speaking with speed... today i realised that i much prefer drinking to having ***... i like the preservation of my brain with a hard-on of itchy fingers than any actual ******* hard-ons... the knife opening oysters or plucking out the eyes of deer... best the eyes be gauged out... than having deer stare into car lights... hybrid confusions of static, motivated to move... frozen in a make-shift imitation of root and clay and copper: bam! one more statue down...

II.

it's no wonder why i'm not looking for a girlfriend, it's no longer bewildering why i'm not looking for a wife, at best i'm looking out for that ancient custom of Roman emperors: to become a foster father, a surrogate - i'm yet to find a match-up... i almost did, but she undermined my chances by undermining her own seriousness in such affairs... but clarity does come... as much as i might be a surrogate father to her son or daughter: i wouldn't be faithful to her... i would steal the night and run away into a brothel... but there's something else... the whole dynamic of publishing has changed... the whole idea of a library has also changed... i own more valuable books in my private collection than the public library of Romford... which is me peering at the dire straits of what the public is fed... i know why i don't aspire for pair-bonding... perhaps man so levelled aspired toward the imitation of birds a long time ago... perhaps swans are truly noble creatures: for one hears of widow and widower swans... perhaps parrots: born from those monstrous beasts that were the dinosaurs can imitate our talk... all that's this reality within the confines of "perhaps": nonetheless, it's all true... but perhaps being the mammal that i am... i moved from a community of chimpanzees into a solo-ride of imitation-bear... perhaps i only entertain the opposite *** on the encounter of ***... i couldn't land a conversation with a woman outside the constrictive-framework of work, so much so: i would abhor the mindset of men that go on dates with women: buy them food and then EXPECT... i leave that ******* out in my interactions... pay-up-front for what you're about to receive otherwise don't play cat while the woman plays mouse... or rather... a rat in cat's clothing: the woman therefore becoming a rat-trap... mind you: i can't think of a more terrible idea than the modern version of: eat first, **** later... at the old ****** proverb states: a hungry ****** is angry... a filled ****** is lazy... god forbid i ever become tempted by those dating sites... i'm currently looking for the original Latin text of Ovid's the Amores book 2 poem 6... why? what i have in my hand... and what i'm finding... it's like what Robert Pinsky remarked about once: TRANSLATIONS differ so much from one translator to another...

they have done it... UEFA are mad... just to get my
accreditation for the women's Euros final
at Wembley they're asking me to bring my passport
with me... so is Wembley the JFK of Florida
          space-shuttle launch? Houston? am i leaving
the country?
                but the girls have done it...
funny: some other people are still complaining:
IT'S TOO WHITE!
   there's not enough diversity in the team...
          that's me also planning to go and live
in Kenya and become a model for toilet paper...
i'm sure i could replace that known Koala bear /
golden retriever or perhaps i could go there
and model for soap adverts...
it just so happened that racial tensions (only football
could create them) rose up for a little:
just one night the day England lost to Italy
on penalty shootouts... because... 3 black guys
were playing a rigged roulette...
            then again? me? and the African heat?
fat chance...

find me the original Elegy VI: the death of Corinna's
pet parrot...
oh man... and her name was Polly...
i sat up late last night trying to find something
interest on the television...
bam! thank you ma'am...
                       kurt cobain: montage of heck...
sort of reminded me of...
                           a SCANNER DARKLY...
                           mind you: i sometimes do enjoy
a one-man show... or at least two...
there was this brilliant show in the West End...
Stones in his Pockets...
       two actors... sharing the roles of...
                  about 15 people each...
but it was back in circa 2001...
so... maybe it was Louis Dempsey
                                                        & Sean Sloan...
mind you... i'd still love to see Samuel Beckett's
             NOT I...

Jack Trades says: i'm about to a heap
of hay of hate...
                                i'm everywhere sometimes...
if it's not music, then its visual arts,
then it's philosophy, then fine literature...
then something "oriental" in thinking...
then its coupling my fetish for Deutsche as:
father to the English zunge...
then it's back east to rummage in some Katakana...

i know why i'm single, Roger Moore remained
a bachelor until his death...
  courteous: as ever as forever always...
i'd be a terrible match-up... i've given pair-bonding
a chance: i can't bemoan why X is not Y...
the sort of men that pair-bond are claustrophilic...
they love the company of a mate...
each time i was ever in a "relationship" i already
had one foot dangling: tapping an imaginary
drum set...
recently i discovered the B-side of the Red Hot Chilli
Peppers... so for me it's a version
of keeping the 20th century alive with
the "dichotomy" of the Rolling Stones vs.
the Beatles... i'm more... R.H.C.P.'s A-sides
of R.H.C.P.'s B-sides?
                                        i'm busy...
                i'm always busy... i don't want to relax...
i want a Turkish barber to suggest that
i need  hot-towel and an arm massage after
my beard is trimmed and... i'm still going to state:
getting a Turk to trim my beard is a close
contender to oral *** from a Turkish *******...

but try finding me that original Latin of Ovid's...
ah! found it! let's see if i can compete with
my own translation... the one i originally read
and the one i found finding the original Latin
were so disparaging...

**** yes! well... there was Ted Hughes writing
about the Crow... poor ******...
should have killed himself: might have competed
with his terribly-wonderful wife of a poet...
i give her that: what noose?
best head in an oven...
and you want a shovel with that?
but this is Ovid... "complaining" about
the death of his lover's parrot...
immediately i jumped to conclusions:
not enough crackers...

(A) the Original:

Psittacus, Eois imitatrix ales ab Indis,
    occidit—exequias ite frequenter, aves!
ite, piae volucres, et plangite pectora pinnis
    et rigido teneras ungue notate genas;
horrida pro maestis lanietur pluma capillis,
    pro longa resonent carmina vestra tuba!
quod scelus Ismarii quereris, Philomela, tyranni,
    expleta est annis ista querela suis;
alitis in rarae miserum devertere funus—
    magna, sed antiqua est causa doloris Itys.
Omnes, quae liquido libratis in aere cursus,
    tu tamen ante alios, turtur amice, dole!
plena fuit vobis omni concordia vita,
    et stetit ad finem longa tenaxque fides.
quod fuit Argolico iuvenis Phoceus Orestae,
    hoc tibi, dum licuit, psittace, turtur erat.
Quid tamen ista fides, quid rari forma coloris,
    quid vox mutandis ingeniosa sonis,
quid iuvat, ut datus es, nostrae placuisse puellae?—
    infelix, avium gloria, nempe iaces!
tu poteras fragiles pinnis hebetare zmaragdos
    tincta gerens rubro Punica rostra croco.
non fuit in terris vocum simulantior ales—
    reddebas blaeso tam bene verba sono!
Raptus es invidia—non tu fera bella movebas;
    garrulus et placidae pacis amator eras.
ecce, coturnices inter sua proelia vivunt;
    forsitan et fiunt inde frequenter ****.
plenus eras minimo, nec prae sermonis amore
    in multos poteras ora vacare cibos.
nux erat esca tibi, causaeque papavera somni,
    pellebatque sitim simplicis umor aquae.
vivit edax vultur ducensque per aera gyros
    miluus et pluviae graculus auctor aquae;
vivit et armiferae cornix invisa Minervae—
    illa quidem saeclis vix moritura novem;
occidit illa loquax humanae vocis imago,
    psittacus, extremo munus ab orbe datum!
optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris;
    inplentur numeris deteriora suis.
tristia Phylacidae Thersites funera vidit,
    iamque cinis vivis fratribus Hector erat.
Quid referam timidae pro te pia vota puellae—
    vota procelloso per mare rapta Noto?
septima lux venit non exhibitura sequentem,
    et stabat vacuo iam tibi Parca colo.
nec tamen ignavo stupuerunt verba palato;
    clamavit moriens lingua: 'Corinna, vale!'
Colle sub Elysio nigra nemus ilice frondet,
    udaque perpetuo gramine terra viret.
siqua fides dubiis, volucrum locus ille piarum
    dicitur, obscenae quo prohibentur aves.
illic innocui late pascuntur olores
    et vivax phoenix, unica semper avis;
explicat ipsa suas ales Iunonia pinnas,
    oscula dat cupido blanda columba mari.
psittacus has inter nemorali sede receptus
    convertit volucres in sua verba pias.
Ossa tegit tumulus—tumulus pro corpore magnus—
    quo lapis exiguus par sibi carmen habet:
"colligor ex ipso dominae placuisse sepulcro;
    ora fuere mihi plus ave docta loqui".

mein gott... in English it reads so smoothly reading
it while listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
B-sides... quixoticelixer...
teatra jam (short)... and then thinking about it...
through to and through Going Li coupled
with trouble in the pub (instrumental version)...

i will never own a car...
              mind you: i already secretely own a house...
if i keep appeasing my mother and my father:
when reality kicks in and they're dead and i'm
project solo... it's not like i'm waiting for the day...
they are hoarders of shoes and screws...
literally... no metaphor...
  on my own: i will have to recycle so much ****
before i will put the house on the market...
and? i never pledged any allegiance to Essex...
England... i have: pledged an allegiance
to the English tongue...
                 but if not the Shetland Islands...
north... "god" send me north! even as far as
Greenland!
                i'm not willing to die in a place where
villages are flaring up in a July heat...

i can't bemoan what i honestly couldn't keep...
i sometimes get mad at my father for being
so submissive to my mother...
i sometimes get so mad at my mother for only
being able to talk about her chronic pains:
i'm alligned with my grandmother
who once said: she's just like your paternal
great-grandmother... every itch and scratch...
it's like writing with chalk on a blackboard...
hey presto! ruptures of the Grand Canyon...
that ******* bollocking of: ooh! ah!
           me? i don't understand people with tattoos...
me? i collect scars...
these two fading ones on my face are a disappointment...
i thought something more pronounced
could be kept from that bicycle-crach Francis Bacon
esque imitation of painting:
   the sort of painting where you can still revel
in brush-strokes being visible...
   because it's not rigid: Renaissance form painting...

now: i can sort of imagine what men couple up...
those who fear being alone...
those not interested in art...
those mostly interested in sport... but not all sport...
just some sports...
sports that they support "passing their lineage"
with according to the cult of football teams...
not all-sports... i.e. not an interest in fencing...
swimming... certainly guys who thought:
wow! tennis is great to watch!
   but squash is so much more fun to play!
cycling... well... if you love cycling per se:
watching other people cycle is a bit: BOO-RING...
what sort of other men get married?
probably those not interested in risque ***
with prostitutes...
ones interested in making money for a woman
to spend...
me? i'm not interested in money...
                       in terms of money:
i'm more likely to spend £30 on a book than
think about a dinner date...
                      
is that...   ??? i'm not even going to ask myself
that question that begins with a buzz-word
and the letters Mmmm... miso...
                             well... what is a boy to do...
figure out what to do with his spare time...
               i don't mind cleaning the house:
who ever said that it's the duty of a woman to keep
the house clean? i like living in a household in order...
i love cooking: it's like chemistry 2.0...
                      give me a bag of Indian spices and i'll
cook up a perfect storm of a curry...
but then again: i'm not work-shy when it comes
to using heavy-duty tools akin to the KANGO...
which... i later found out was a Japanese word for
Chinese in general... or the other way round...
i'd hate to be one of those Phil Collins types of
forgetting how many hands i have
by changing gloves like i might be an octopus...

and when it comes to children?
eh... it's enough for a boy in a buggy in a supermarket
pointing his finger at me as i walk past
making that chimpanzee face of OOH at me...
or a fist-bump with some teenagers at the London
Stadium... that's enough... i'm happy to play
the "secret uncle" role...
while women remain women: as fickle as the wind...
i've learned to live with that reality...
i scratch my beard and pretend that i'm playing
a violin...

plus, i'm a terrible drinker... i'm a loving-drunk...
i'm drunk right now...
if a litre of whiskey per night satisfies
my libido shortages i'm happy:
it implies i can write... i stop drinking and start
*******: alles goot...
                           today i was visited by a wasp...
i was visited by a bee before...
oh man... it was heart-breaking...
he was dying... i had to help him...
   i poured some honey onto the pave-,
and moved him towards the puddle...
he stuck his mighty Gene Simmons sucker out
and started to perform an OD on sugar...
i was glad... watching him die from a sugar-overdose...
it was: rather pleasant to watch...

TERROR! mix JAINISM with TAOISM
and fuse that in an European mind...
               but i'll still eat meat...
                        it's a parody of what's to be expected:
i prefer life with the possibilities of change...
with... curiosities of: extensive ulterior
possibilities that run counter to estblished norms
of expectations of a RIGID MIND...
i water: i flow...
      i fire: i dance...
i air: i whirl...
i earth: i rumble...
i lightning: i blink...
hey presto! the five elements!

in another language close to my heart:
since i was born with it...
the pronoun disappears:
ja woda: płyne
ja ogien: tańcze...
   ja powietrze: kręce się (odd)
ja ziemia: trzęse się (also "odd")
ja grzmot: mrygam

there are languages in existence where pronouns
hide... to be honest...
in ******? the pronouns are rarely used...
oh mein gott... when they're used in a sentence:
esp. the I... it's like... wow! i just found
a "nugget of gold"!
seriously... that how my mother-tongue
is structured: on English is the current
prounoun-circus available to watch...
i'm siding with the Somali pirates having
a giggle... playing blackjack with either Greeks
or some other Africans...

there are languages in English that cannot: will not,
succumb to the current Marxist onslight
happening in this tongue...
not because these languages will not:
they CANNOT...
mind you... it's such an intellectual low-bar
of achievement... but since it's piggy-pop...
it must be slaughtered on an individual level
before this DISEASE is allowed to spread...
thank heavens that English is only my second
language... how that allows me to bypass
buying into any sort of propaganda...
   my lingua Ingelese... my tongue for spreading
ideas...
    oh: and thank **** i' expressing in a medium
desecrated by the same people pushing these
sordid ideas... post-humous fame! 'ere i come!
obviously! who's in it for the "real" and immediate
if one isn't... fabricating a pickling of a shark
in plastic.... who? who?! woof!
   a-woooooo"

            my heart has shrunk and hardened to
the size and hardness of a pebble...
    i wish i could entertain cosy nights with a woman
watching some pointless movie about
the stereotypes of love... then again: no...
i'd rather not...
drinking alone: who the hell said i was alone?
i sometimes "hallucinate" someone crying:
of late... i'm like: this isn't Aud Lang Syne...
this isn't Shakespear...
then again i love the idea that my true readers
are yet to be born...
i'm happy, happy-bear-alone...
                       a Maine **** is sleeping in my
bed... i'll join him come the right hour...
but he's not looking at me... he's looking above me...
only yesterday i started to paparazzi
a wasp that flew into my bedroom...
          what the **** do i have above me?
please say letters... i will not do alright with a halo...
i'm not going to join that
archangel one minute... saint the next...
clip my ******* wings for a get-through-easy
card: no!
          
it became finalized today... i'm literally tired
of ***... i'm tired of *** when it's equivalent to not...
being tired of eating food... drinking water...
it's unnecessarily-necessary... *** as golf...
per say...
                2 months of delay in payment...
i'm thinking about rekindling my affair with that mountain
bike... i have to forget the streets...
i need the woods again... but for that i need new tires...
oh... hell... i no longer have anything
to prove in the brothel... blah blah whatever...
threesomes look great: LOOk...
like a block of cheddar looks great...
when shredded...
and then melting...
perhaps in pornographic flicks...
but in reality? the changing of condoms
from one mouth to another...
from one ****** to another...
                          
what?! peiple are having unprotected ***?
vermin ****?!
   **** me... well... at least i'm obnoxiously savvy
in that regard...
no no... it's too disappointing...
you have to split your attention up...
there's nothing good about a *******...
why? because, usually... of the two girls...
there's one you really want to be a screwdriver to...
while the other is just being a, *******...
a ******* bandwagon... leftovers...
a pair of **** you get to imitate ****** with...
it's a bit like:
coupling an elephant with a giraffe...
but i want to ride the elephant!
but i want to stroke the giraffe's neck!
but  i want to pretend the elephants's tusk...
no! not tusk! TRUNK....
that rectangular bit of ******* you shovel
your clothes in when travelling...
TRUNK... or a TRAMPOLINE!
no... not the bouncy layer...
TRUNK... sneeze! trambone! jazz! ******* Miles Daisies!
Davis!  trumpet *******!
no... don't get me started on the sax...

then again: i want a rhino's horn! ram-jam...
Black Betty Bam B'eh Lam!

- oh no... i moved along... R.H.C.P.'s: thanks for the t-shirt...
Big Bukowski style:
i hate the eagles... run through the jungle...
run Forrest! whun!
WHUN!
  and that's me... hardly a LAMNTIA of the Beatniks
tripping... me? enough whiskey
and the right song... and i'm grooving beside
an imaginary drum-kit...
in that: once upon a time...
when men grew their hair long...
they were the barbarians knocking
on the gates of Rome... rather than being
the implosion of Rome within with
all of Rome's degeneracy of transgender gimmicks...

mind you: i've given it some thought...
i broke it down toward the following schematic:

anonymous audience, commenting,
video making blah blah...
****** "schematic": if you can call it that...
mind you: the VAR in WIETNAM
had the best soundtrack...
just saying: hey! her?! hey! don't shoot
the messanger!
i'd rather work the Fulham opening night
with the new stand: Thames-side being opened
than attend Wembley for a Westwood...
Westworld... Westlife concert,
i'm all up for handling those Scousers:
northern monkeys?
southern fairies...
let's just call them for what they are...
northern TOURISTS...

but the dynamic of publishing has changed:
i already know the criterium first...
women and children first...
THIRST beccause water matters...
i'm thirsty too... one litre of whiskey and
i'm still typing like a machine...
i'll box my liver and kidneys
as long as i keep my brain and eyes happy...

but it's just a different dynamic...
the internet experience...
i know a lot of people miss it...
i can't force people to read my bollocking-riddles...
ergo? i don't stagnate into celebrating it
or therefore advertising it...
i'm either read or i'm STAUB...
   dust...
                
i can't! i'm only making something available...
i can't force people out of their democratic "wedlock"...
you like it? great! you don't? great!
but the psychology of those video creators that
mind how many views they receive and
how many comments they: likewise receive...
"false hits" with the number of hits of viewership?

me? i'm not bothered... i've been watching
the female Euro finals...
i was almost scared... what if the female England team
don't make it to the finals?!
me? i'm gearing up...
any rowdy hooligans up to speed?!
as much as i hate women not trying toi compete
in sports that are sexually-exclusive...
there's this... THIS... i watch the games because
the Colleseum is burning...
i'm only watching the fire...
    and i'm watching the women i'd love to ****...
this never would have happened if watching
tennis...

    the crisp biting attache of a sharpshooter
WONG sort of mixer-mix-up with a whiskey
and a pepssi...
me... reaching for a second glass
with one already filled like: *******... RAINMAN...

keep your horses!
i'm gearing up to a translation!
wait, the, ****, up! keep it cool in Doob-Lyn!
oh no... you don't get to tell me
i use too many vowels without me showing
you... you mishandled the vowel-to-consonant
dynamic... Doob-Lyn is Dublin: tow me...
no: not to me? tow me... now you're dragging me
along the snail-trail...

the disparaging translations:

(B) the A. S. Kline translation

Parrot, the mimic, the winged one from India’s Orient,
is dead – Go, birds, in a flock and follow him to the grave!
Go, pious feathered ones, beat your ******* with your wings
and mark your delicate cheeks with hard talons:
tear out your shaggy plumage, instead of hair, n mourning:
sound out your songs with long piping!
Philomela , mourning the crime of the Thracian tyrant,
the years of your mourning are complete:
divert your lament to the death of a rare bird –
Itys is a great but ancient reason for grief.
All who balance in flight in the flowing air,
and you, above others, his friend the turtle-dove, grieve!
All your lives you were in perfect concord,
and held firm in your faithfulness to the end.
What the youth from Phocis was to Orestes of Argos,
while she could be, Parrot, turtle-dove was to you.
What worth now your loyalty, your rare form and colour,
the clever way you altered the sound of your voice,
what joy in the pleasure given you by our mistress? –
Unhappy one, glory of birds, you’re certainly dead!
You could dim emeralds matched to your fragile feathers,
wearing a beak dyed scarlet spotted with saffron.
No bird on earth could better copy a voice –
or reply so well with words in a lisping tone!
You were snatched by Envy – you who never made war:
you were garrulous and a lover of gentle peace.
Behold, quails live fighting amongst themselves:
perhaps that’s why they frequently reach old age.
Your food was little, compared with your love of talking
you could never free your beak much for eating.
Nuts were his diet, and poppy-seed made him sleep,
and he drove away thirst with simple draughts of water.
Gluttonous vultures may live and kites, tracing spirals
in air, and jackdaws, informants of rain to come:
and the raven detested by armed Minerva lives too –
he whose strength can last out nine generations:
but that loquacious mimic of the human voice,
Parrot, the gift from the end of the earth, is dead
The best are always taken first by greedy hands:
the worse make up a full span of years.
Thersites saw Protesilaus’s sad funeral,
and Hector was ashes while his brothers lived.
Why recall the pious prayers of my frightened girl for you –
prayers that a stormy south wind blew out to sea?
The seventh dawn came with nothing there beyond,
and Fate held an empty spool of thread for you.
Yet still the words from his listless beak astonished:
dying his tongue cried: ‘Corinna, farewell!’
A grove of dark holm oaks leafs beneath an Elysian *****,
the damp earth green with everlasting grass.
If you can believe it, they say there’s a place there
for pious birds, from which ominous ones are barred.
There innocuous swans browse far and wide
and the phoenix lives there, unique immortal bird:
There Juno’s peacock displays his tail-feathers,
and the dove lovingly bills and coos.
Parrot gaining a place among those trees
translates the pious birds in his own words.
A tumulus holds his bones – a tumulus fitting his size –
whose little stone carries lines appropriate for him:
‘His grave holds one who pleased his mistress:
his speech to me was cleverer than other birds’.

(C) the  P. Green translation

parrot, that feathered mimic from India's dawlands,
is dead. come flocking, birds, to his funeral:
come, all you godfearing airborne creatures,
beat ******* with wings,
   mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers
(your hair), and pipe high your sad lament.
Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crimes of Tereus
which you lament is long past -
    divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique.
all wind-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean
lament now, and above all his friend the turtle-dove
they lived in complete agreement,
    their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes or Argos, that Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while fate allowed.
yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful
plumage,
your adaptable mimic's voice;
    not even the care that my darling lavished on you -
poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead.
so gree his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald;
scarlet his beak, with saffron spots.
no bird on earth could copy a voice more closely
or sound so articulate.
fate, jealous, removed him - that unaggressive creature,
that talktative devotee of peace,
with his tiny appetite , whose love of conversation
left him little leisure for food,
who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage
sound sleep: kept his thirst at bay with nothing but water.
quails spend their whole life fighting -
maybe that's how they reach a ripe old age.
carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens,
weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come,
are all long-lived - while Minerva's bête noire, the raven,
can outlast nine generations. yet Parrot is dead,
that loquacious parody of human utterance,, that bonanza
from the eastern edge of the world,
greedy death almost always pickss off the best ones early -
it's the third-raters who reach a ripe old age.
Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus;
Hector was ashes while his brothers still lived.
what point is recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart
uttered?
some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea.
six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh,
his thread of destiny ran out.
yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance,
and the last words he ever spoke were: 'Corinna, farewell!'
beneath a hill in Elyium, where dark ilex clussters
and the moist earth is for ever green,
there exists - or so i have heard - the pious fowls' heaven
(all ill-omened predators barred).
harmless swaans roam after foot there, there dwells
the phoenix, that long-lived, ever-solitary bird;
there Juno's peacock spreads out his splendid fantail
amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves;
and there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful
welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk.
his bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus
with a tiny headstone bearing these words:
r.i.p. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress:
articulate beyond a common bird

the thought of LEMONS or perhaps
the IDEA of lemon...
then again: i can't refrain from
ORANGES and LIMES...
and the shy-sunlight of autumn
and the blooming of apples...
and operas...
             "someone"...
                              what pretty pies of
unfuckable wonders await...

divert your grief to the obsequeies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique
(antiquated?).
all wind-borne voyagers through tge clear empyrean
lament nowm abd above all
his friend the turtle-dove, they lived in complete
agreement
   their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while Fate allowed,

i'm not even going to bother with a "bananna C"...
i woke up wild-awake with ideas...
brimming with Tao...
"non-doing" id est: point PROVEN
or rather point SERVED?!

Russia and China are clashing...
or rather sparring...
they're having their civilization-state
agenda being put in place...
while there's a "culture-war" in the "west"...
right... James Bond...
so we're refrrering to nation-stattes
as post-nationhood...
  "states"...
                    precursors to the globalist agenda
of fake space exploration via the ******* telescope...
if Russia and China are civivilasation-states...
then... whatever culture "war" is investing in:
or rather: digressing into... impliies
the FSA (federal states of america)
             is a culture-state...
                                                ­                 no?

personally? i don't like the current h'American culture...
it's absolute *******...
no! i'm not going to translate any more of Ovid...
i already read the better translation...
i found out only two minites ago that
i prefer drinking to having ***...
and keeping an eye on cats is just as rewarding
as rearing children: if you allow yourself
to give them a personality...

           so Russia is a civilisation-state...
while America is a culture-state...
                    well... no wonder...
                                            America is the zenith
that could be: but doesn't have to be
preserved...
the culture-state-of-the-sand-*******...
i wish: the Arabs clocked in lucky...
sitting on so much raw ill of oil...
bounce bounce libido bounce bounce...

hmm... "inner monologue"... i had that "thing"
once... i kost it... turning psychotic...
then again: within the confines of having
an internal monologue? i was passive...
       i was a passive agent...
                         upon losing it: having my soul
evaporate: becoming an "N.P.C."...
i became an active agent...
i opened my eyes a second time...

           i think my inner monolpogue became blocked
by:
został wyciszony... bo zaczoł być cykliczny,
tzn. nie po prostej:
       wymarł według koncepcji
sprawiedliwości...

even i know: the gods uttered the words:
shut the **** up! we know you're right!
but we're playing roulette!
shut the ******! we're playing cards!
shut up!
wait! wait your turn!
**** me, given the prowess at attaing
a concept of the differential of space comparing
time... i.e. speed... i'll be karma-happy
once i die...

i'm not translating the rest of that Ovid...
a girl's parraot died... great!
now i'm thinking about:
a bicyckle is a terrible idea... to ride...
on the roads towards St. Paul's... i think i might
require a horse!
i need a horse! bring me a hood, a hoof,
an apple and a toothbrush!
the last place i'm thinking about moving
to is California...
   and thank no god for that...
just the people who already live there.

III.

i sooner discovered the rare B-sides of Red Hot Chilli
Peppers than having realised... oh right...
they release two albums after By the Way...
i completely forgot about those two...
               guess i'm not as big a fan as i thought i was...
Go Robot... it's not oh so wo terrible now, or anymore...
oh woah woe... what a whale to ride into the night...

sometimes it just happens, a sort of blend of an Ezrra Pound
and a Charles Olson moment, poem, moment-poem...
it stretches for three days and you just don't want
to finish it... you kept repeating yourself writing seemingly
aimlessly with no focus...
at this point writing becomes theraputic...
by the simple act of writing: not theraputic regarding
what you're writing about: memories of frustration and
complications having finished Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus...
unlike those joyous frustrations with Samuel Beckett's
Watt...
                  and on the third day "he" finished painting
four metal chairs a new colour of copperhead...
a copperneck painting chairs copperhead...
to me the colour of copper is more appealing than
that of gold...

if i still had that inner-monologue people speak of
i wouldn't be writing this,
that inner-monologue fantasy i once was a proud owner
of: i.e. the closest "thing" to the idea of soul
was also filled with so many doubts...
i simply don't care what the supposed benefits
of it were... that whole no-inner-monologue ergo
one's an NPC (non-playable character)...
    i remember that that when my first psychotic episode
slammed me on a rampage i started to see DIFFERENTLY...
it was as if a veil was lifted from my eyes...
if i didn't write terrible poetry back then...
i most certainly wrote very little...
             the inner-monologue doubts... a plethora of them...
no? psychosis = the osmosis of soul...
   the body has remained... the devils said:
but these idle hands and this idle intellect have to stay...
we'll pass on the message with your soul
as it leaves your body...
call it whatever you want:
   res vanus or the silence of the "mind"...
that's how you become more of an active agent...
it might be called writing but i call it digging...
a tunnel toward some variaton of: marrying Hades
with Tartarus...
                after all... Venus is the daughter of titans...
and she's the only Titan among the Olympian gods:
such is her perfection... almost on par with
   the patron of philosophers that's Sacred Sophia:
who entertains the foolishness of elder men
without being able to tell them apart from boys...

IV. if i were to translate Amores II. XI

would i be willing to add a D in the translation sequence?
i don't think so
there's no need... i like comparing the two i already
made available...
i just wanted to stress how unbelievable Latin is...
compared to the modern tongue, for example English...
how compact it is!
- and course, i prefer the second translation...
     it... exfoliates!
                     this is the point for me where i truly appreciate
Ovid to be on par with Horace...

side by side walking through the zenith-nadir of
man...

   i'm finally come across a sequence of events that
make me unwilling to stop typing: perhaps if i get
drunk enough and stumble on my first typo
perhaps a series of typos would end my ambition...

do i think men in the west are living
in a land of libido-insomnia? i think they are...
whoever said that watching one type of pornogrphy
soon spirals out of control and men start
scouting for more extreme *******:
hello outlier A! hello outlier B!
where's outlier C? oh... he's coming...
at a time when women are supposed to be these
sexually liberated creatures while men
are either STAGS with harems or limp biscuit *****...
thank god i managed to catch the train
of having the ***** of walking into a newsagent
and buying a pornographic magazine to ******* to...
stashed about six in a folder behind
the radiator in the bathroom at 21B Beehive Lane,
Gants Hill...
                         mind you: i started prematurely...
8?
     i switch off with western ****** antics:
people are either having too much ***: ergo the kinks
or not enough of it...
outlier in the middle: when it's too hot
i leave the insects to do their lineage pride...
cooler temperatures: *** like rubbing sand-paper
on a ****** paint-job...

                         makeshift boney **** of the hand...
well: at least ******* makes me more interested in
the **** than **** ***...
but i did the opposite... i need to keep a sack-of-sanity
atop my head...
beside adoring the Katakana...
i very much adore Japanese tamed sexuality...
     グラビア アイドル (gurabia aidoru)...
back in the day when the English tabloid newspaper
the Sun had a page 3 girl...
back to basics... a show of *******...
    a show of cleavage... perhaps even the breast
like the eye... the sclera of the rounded breast...
the darkened skin at the iris and then the pupil
as the ******...
  floral patterns of the *******...
                  back to basics...
                           a photograph of a naked woman
and all the imagination at work: what wouldn't
i want to do with her?

well... if you begin pleasing yourself while concentrating
on the kiss between Venus and Cupid
in one of Bronzino's beauties of paint-strokes...
you're hardly going to go down a rabbit-hole
of "hide and hide": wihtout seeking it out...
people and thier kinks...
while a minority: dodo-project sexuality of
homosexuality is celebrated: garnerded unto the guise
of "pride": i can't stomach shame...
but hey: look at me! i'm about to parade my sexuality
like and ******* latex-clad gimp readied
for being given ***-favour-orders...

outlandish! god-forgiving god-fearing...
  hardly every god-loving...
           a settling in of a blue that's not the sky
but a melancholy... i'm finally willing to end this
"diatribe"... to start afresh... again and again...
like mixing: Dreams of a Samurai with
Hans Zimmer's spectres in the fog...

                      my ***: going back to figuring out
the premature adventures into ***...
one boy passing on the secrets of *******
to another while sharing a bath:
the cruel curiosity of the circumcision:
in a secular environment: without the kippah
or the niqab: the submission of the women...
i will not give up the "sheath" to my "sword"...
i will keep my teeth with my twirling tongue...
if ever an improvement on the aesthetics?
clipping the ears of Dobberman dogs...
banning clipping the clipping of their tails...
but still: the preserved atrocity of male circumcision...
i could agree...
once a woman is devoted to her man...
a circumcision like putting on a wedding ring...
noble swans... oh noble swans...

a melancholy that's sort of azure...
amass enough water and you will see blue...
amass "too little": freeze it...
a paleness somewhat grey...
but then the icebergs roaming that are
the Cistercians...
            all i need right now is for some lonely
dog to start barking into the night...
or the cackling "laughter" of a fox...
    
    but all those sexless lives...
            "lucky" me for taming my consumption down...
where would i be without it?
i didn't ask for a *******...
i wa offered it... i will never forget how she clamoured
for the opportunity...
she couldn't stomach being rejected twice...
she just had to clamour like a crab in a crab bucket...
even if she thought she thought she succeeded:
she was the spare wheel...
what i've learned... i prefer one-on-one interactions...
but i gave in...
   it would have never worked out:
not like it "works out" in pornographic flicks...
the sharing of saliva and other juices...
we're responsible adults...
unlike in the pornographic flicks...
          two women: one man...
the changing of condoms...
                           i had to think quick:
there's only one way i will not be undermined...
snuggling up to the one i really wanted
to spend an hour with...
                       kissing neck and cheek...
while she did a hand-job...
   the other just sat there sort of idle...
                          until i figured out... those *******
could be of some use...

- i couldn't pull off a Jesus look...
long hair and a beard is not my "thing"...
even with a sly undercut...
i chose the better option.... short hair, a beard, yes,
but a "fu manchu": an elongated love-spot...
competing with the length of the beard...
i really "don't understand" why i have no memory
of my chin and neck...
it's like there was never the idea of using
water as a mirror... perhaps poor Xerxes lashed
at the Aegean for hiding his reflection
when he had one of those Narcisstic moments
of anguish: he forgot how he looked like...
but then the sides of the moustasche also drooping:
elongated... that work much better than
a beard and long hair...
it's so unfashionable these days...
i don't get why men think beards and long hair
"work"....

then again i never figured out why Khadira
wanted to have unprotected ***...
  how she insisted that it was just plain o.k.
for me to ******* into her...
how i snapped and dived in into her pandamonium
of multiples springs of irritated ****...
all slobbering with oyster-tongue
and knose...
                               all that informed me...

companionship? what a rare commodity...
it's enough to have a mother to know
how a woman's company can quickly sour
the already sweet grapes...
one word: tell a man he's LAZY...
while he's just tired of being pushed and shoved...
if a mother can do that to a son?
what could a wife do?
                          and i'm come across curiosities of
men who waged wars with their mothers...
at the Tyson Fury boxing match...
i was trying to calm the **** down a guy
who was having a panic attack after being
"abandoned" by his mother...
who bought the tickets... and drinks...
i squeezed him hard... told him: but i'm here for free!
nay! i'm here and getting paid for it!
blah blah...
               i hate seeing panic attacks in men...
it makes me either feel like
more than a man or less of a man...
it makes me think of the men prior
with shell-shocks... or women exploiting
the challenges of p.t.s.d.

                                    i've seen so many people fake
a mental illness... i've spoken at length
to them... how easily open up to their own struggles...
while i'm left alone with whatever ones
i have...
                   maybe because my "mental health issues"
have morphed into philosophical caviats
implies that i'm immune to outright sharing
the details... and boring people to death...
so i listen...
        i listen...
                            in one ear out the other...

i remember days in high school when we would love
to change the subject, create a game:
SLAP-BALL... imitation of Tsar Peter III prior
to tennis... an imitation court... with a fence between us...
or just playing BLACKJACK...
cards... that was big... we understood that ignoring
women was best done with / by playing cards...
at one point: i remember it to this day...
Samuel Richards grabbed Ian Goodman's neck
and pinned him to the floor...
we tried to intervene...
i don't know whether it was about the actual
game of cards or whether it was about
Sam bailing out... he was about to move to France...
and ****** off from pur in-group...
started playing basketball with the black-boys...
forgot he was supposedly the "PUNK" in the school...
i remember skateboarding with him...
he actually stole his mother's credit card and bought
a skateboard for me...
but his ******* MOHICAN was ****...
it didn't entertain the entire length of his skull
meeting his spine...
but we did walk back from Romford
toward Ilford this one night...
underage drinking... singing Backstreet Boys songs...

ha ha...
         time is a museum of melancholy...
while space is a museum of furthering whatever is left
of leftover potential...

i'm so despondent about this life having to end...
today i cycled up to the traffic lights
on my ******... ******?! £125 viking road bike... say the word
****** one more time... what was i facing?
a solitary man in an Aston Martin...
behind him? some solitary guy in a Porsche...
right... "alphas"...
i'm on my bicycle... but these two guys
in those choicest of motor-examples?
that's the thing with "competing" in life rather than
sport...
     i like my bicycle... i love my bicycle...
i am yet to wash away the blood from my head
from the crash...
i don't have a broken leg: i just have an outgrowth of bone
on my shin where my bone should have cracked:
i love milk...

competing with these men... **** me...
i was thinking about the Porsche guy...
nice game... but it's not playing cards...
i taart myself up: compete...
what do i get? i get a Porsche...
     but then ahead of me there's this guy
in an Aston Martin: mate! i'm ******!
oh blue blue Hue... the Aston Martin looked like
the bomb that is already was...
the Porsche? the Porsche looked like
a ******* Ford Mondeo by comparison...
Civic Extra... if that's even a car...
i was sort of happy to by cycling...
i figured... well: i'm not using my legs...
to walk... i'm peddling...

ever heard the expression "push-bike"?
i heard that only recently... what a werid coupling
of words... a motorcycle is distinguished from
a a bicycle by the term: "push-bike"
this half-brain-dead coworker...
what the **** am i pushing?!
it's just as weird as calling it a peddling-bicycle, no?
eh?
but what am i pushing? a bicycle is a bicycle
a turtle is a turtle... i still have to figure out
what's being pushed...
what comes first? the donkey, the carrot, or the stick?!

mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
keep nurturing the spacing between numbers
but also keep lost track of the alphebticaal
queue...
never the type to rehash a refurbishment
of SPAWN...

           i simply don't want this day-dream to end...
around me people cowering into sleep...
i'm left in limbo...
            between consetllations and the scythe
of the moon... dearest: moooooon...
i'm itching to break the silence with a howl...
but first: the thirst of a dog barking...
i hear a dog barking i'll start to howl!

aren't we simply becoming the same
tired people of old?
              more impetus...
more gravity! more fire! more tides!
more the quaking of the earth!
more whirlwinds! more! more!
one Pompeii is not enough!

                       almost one litre of whiskey
into the session and i'm sober-tense...
i'm starting to think that entertaining
hell is not a bad "gimmick"...
                  there's the imaginary hell-crowd
and there' some also doubly-imaginary
crowd of people that yet to be bound to imitation-migration
focus...
           next time you ask me:
i'd rather be eating ice: crunching on
ice than drinking water...
i want to burn my tongue...
licking ice...l i want to burn my tongue
licking ice: but first i want to be dipping
it in coridnader-cumin-chilli-turmeric mix-up
of spiders...

i want to first bruise my knees before
i lick them clean...
i want the strict juices of: not tomatoes?
red is red: ergo blood is blood...
vulture ****...
there's an open window:
there's an evaporating night too...

best refrain: 6 by 6s refrain on 9s...
since? there's plenty of 0s / oopses...
by this "flesh and blood"...
i heave this sand and timer
like: i was sadly woken up with
an inheritance of salt...
boiling blue bloods and boiling gravy...
a smile that reads: clenched teeth...
a smile so awkward that
it make^ a parrot think twice about
imitating human speech.

^a notable typo, i think i might require an editor
(insert a snigger); two alternatives:
1. it might make a parrot think twice,
2. a smile so awkward that it makes a parrot think twince...
all depending on the tense.

wont be long before shes blowing trumps trumpet
***** little cuntservertive strumpet
armageddons coming unelected to the ball
this ******* party is going to drown us all
military fluffers for when the going gets tough
were all going **** diving and its going to be rough
all the ****** in the universe couldnt help me get it up
for our new prime sinister and its new world ******

Stop ******* crying you *******, why are you so ******* dependent?  Of course he's ignoring you, it's because you're such a huge burden on his life.  Everything is a problem and you can't just be content for five ******* seconds.  Consider it a miracle that you've lasted this long together.  Maybe if you had some friends to distract you, you'd feel better.   Too bad you don't have any, because you're a burden to them too.  All you are is a sack of attention-seeking self-pitying *******.  It's pathetic how weak you are, you can't even pretend to be a normal person?  What the **** is wrong with you?  Are you trying to be a disappointment?  It's working.  You make your mom cry.  Your dad only brags about your brother.  Your relatives find you awkward and uncomfortable.  God, why are you such a ******?

I’m  at work
Buzzing to get out of there
Out of the fluorescence
And the din of screaming children
As it downplays the howling heads
Of their mothers who
Dream of their children’s exposed
Necks and getting out of the grocery store
Before it starts to rain.

I am Bobcat Goldthwait
underneath
The large hanging lamps,
pale green as barge lights
I make little sounds with my lips
And tongue, little incoherent sounds
To push the time forward .

A man comes through
My line holding a beige patch
Of cloth
Over his exposed trachea beneath,

with a voice like he crushes cement
puts it in his coffee
and ***** it up through a fiberglass straw.,
He drops some
Toothpaste and a brush on the counter
And says to me with that mutilated
Voice:
“there are only two types of *****,
Big old *****,
And old big *****.”

His skin is blotchy in the cheeks
like the husks of craters seen from the sky,
and the corners of his mouth
are dry and cracked
snaking and splitting outward like dry riverbeds.

For a second I want to laugh so hard,
That people will think I’m crazy, and
Maybe one of the twitchy managers will have
Me committed.

If he says any more, it’s this:
“You’re young, enjoy it,
if you worry
About the fuckups now,
you’ll Be worrying
until you’re an old ******
and that doesn’t do you any good,
***** hates the old **** ups.”

I wrote it on the back of my hand one day, I told you that I needed you – you wiped the smile off my face with your thumb, like I had smudged the words right out of my mouth. You taught me invaluable lessons I am sure never to forget, I was schooled by you, in ways I never really understood. I was a child, innocent by the very lapels on which you grew me up. Dragged me up, scuffed my shoes at the front and back. Untied my bra strap with your little finger and told me, listen here, love, I know exactly what I am doing. Made me believe in you, you did. Made me fall for every word. Made me fall for every whisper of love. Tenderly I was hooked by you.

You were the machine of my creation. Your greatest ever work of art. You sculpted my very inner being, tied me to my soul with burnt fingers and made me believe I was worth nothing more than ****. Your purpose was excellent. Completely fooled I was, your succinct underhand ways grievously ruined my sight. No longer could I see reality, living in world prepared for, cooked up and served by you. I lost a lot of blood in those first few years, a lot of good stock died. My passion became my greatest detriment, for should I talk you would take the words from my mouth and mark them in the air; deconstructed with a red pen you would make me realise my mistakes.

Thank you for all you have done. To me. For me. With me. My ear is no longer connected to your mouth. I can breeeeeathe without having to miss a step. All my love that I was proud to possess had been given away, but I was proud to have failed you, I was proud to weep under you, I was proud, to have loved you and not gotten away with it. I take full responsibility for all my tremendous actions, the ones I gave for you, laid down in honour for you, to wipe your pretty little feet all over the back of my head. I turned around to face you and slapped that face right off your mouth

Loved I was by you. Needed I was by you, to be, you. I wrote *******, on my ******* fingers and shoved them up your ****. Now you talk my language, now you wait for me to see you. Now you know I am no longer your dishrag, your teatowel or your muse. Got it back I did, got back my heat, my fury, and glory. Action packed with honour and fire, loving and loved. I learnt from you lessons which I shall never forget, I was schooled by you. Wanted to thank you, for I am no longer afraid, my sweet ******, of you and your heart. This is a glorious world, one which you will never feel.

Not sure how it really works
I go and ask the clerks.

Ages five and up…
it’s hard to ******,

he said.

Really? It’s simple?
Give an example.

Turn on the boy and he'll find the girl.
Everyone's given it a whirl,

he said.

*******, I’ve already:

poked out my eyes,
which left them leaking.
bruised my thighs,
which won’t stop aching!
and sealed my heart’s demise
for future breaking.

Stunned and oblivious he cocked his head
opened his mouth and said:

You’re doing it wrong.

get the **** up out of your 1993 hole of "this is the worst generation ever", anti-social media, and "put your phone down and look at the trees". The first step out of the labyrinth is letting yourself know that you arent getting anywhere when being stuck in the past. Fat chicks are hotter than you remember; if your wondering, confidence is key. Michael jackson died and the man taking his place is a what you would call, a "******". The gay man that sits next to you on the bus is more productive than you are and you think its impossible because "christianity is the only way to go".
Move on from the past, generations are moving through and you can either jump on the train or miss it and be stuck in a field of greasy haired, rock and roll, pale men that forgot about their mother.

"Dont question me he said"
(huh?)
"Its not good enough"
(well ****...)
"You are a ******"
(ooh thats a new one)
"Its my way or the highway"
(narcissist)
He held his ground
(with a big wooden paddle)
My *** was the targetboard.
Friends told me to take it...im a man
Your 15 they said.
(It still hurts)
He took the liberty of ruining my life.
(what a pleasure!)
He fed on my tears.
All i wanted was an end.
But know
I see a shrink
Once a week
To "discuss" my....well.....me
Because IM THE ONE with issues.
Because getting hit and tortured makes a kid normal and....happy.
WRONG.
Because i remember everything.
I am left to dream about every bruise
I am left for dead
In my head.
I am tormented with the want for an explenation.
I am ok
(syke)
I am just an overreacting teen
(are you ******* nuts?!?!)
Vicious.
(not even, fam)
Look.
I need help.
But he,
He needs death.
Thats the only cure for him.
Dad.
No.
P.o.s?
Yep
Loser?
Yep.
****?
Yep
******?
Totally.
I­ have no respect
(i know)

Im waiting for the sting.
For the gunshot that ends me.
Im waiting for you to give up on me.
Im scared that
In the midst of my happieness
You will come forth and mention your upmost sadness.
Im afraid you are gonna hurt me
(yes, guys get hurt and remember it too)
Im waiting for you to realize what a ****** i am.
I wait for the day you find someone better.
And though you tell me im the one,
I still have nightmares of abandonment.
Its not your fault.
Maybe i should just believe in love,
in you
But im scared
Cause ive put my faith in places before,
*and was met with overwhelmong dissapointment

Sorry that I'm not worthy
You trusted me to
Stay strong
But I failed all of you

I'm sorry that I can't be there
At least not for now
I wish I could help you
Make it through the pain

I'm sorry I cared about you
That you meant a lot to me
Yet it was too easy
For you to let go of me

I'm sorry you never cared
I was a joke, some bet
You never really cared about me

I'm sorry I'm me
A mess a mistake
One huge ******
That you wish would go away

Sorry I didn't die at birth
Like I was supposed to
That woulda caused less problems

I'm sorry I'm here
Maybe I should do what's right
Go away and disappear

I will be good for a while
I won’t cut as often
I won’t want to **** myself every day
I will actually see the other side of the tunnel

But then
Something ticks inside me
I’m reminded that I’m not normal
I remember that I’m a depressed ******

And my arm becomes full of cuts
My head becomes clouded with suicidal thoughts
And one day
When I tick
It will be enough
To push me over the edge

She waits
She waits for it
She waits for me
To ******
My stupid feelings then
Get ****** in
I can never win
It's no longer a game
Just the same ****
Different day

I take a rest
But she's ready for war
Clapping at my door
So I can snap back
Giver her a reason to attack
In my sleep
So I can't breathe
She's killing me
All I see is a girl that bleeds
And bleeds she pleads
So weak
Hanging in defeat
Off her feet, locked knees
Tears seep
Falling...
Falling free
Of the memories
The chaotic screams
She can finally leave
Truly at peace
She is taken with the breeze.

She said this is my last chance and that if i **** this up she is done with me, and I think those are reasonable terms. After all of the ******* I've put her through and all the hurt, tears, and heartbreak I am unsure why she is even playing with the idea of giving me another chance but she is and I'm going to give it my absolute best attempt at not being the natural born ****** POS who ***** at everything for a while so we can at least deal with all of our BS superficial problems and maybe get to things that are important like world problem and **** and maybe we can debate and have meaningful discussions like we used to when everything was ******* rainbows and butterflies and we were in love and it seemed like there were no problems in the world and that we'd be together forever and that we'd grow old and be happy even though we both knew that the chances of that actually happening were next to none yet we still went for it because of the hope of that small sliver of it actually working. I miss that old us, but i understand why reality set in and took us over because in the real world fairytale relationships don't exist. this is the real world and “You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world...but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices.”

It’s unusual for strong expressions to transform contextually in common usage.  “I’m *******.” is one great example. “I’m *******.” is, in origin and essence, a toned-down version of “I’m ******.” Whichever form you choose, both are self-proclaimed damnation. Unlike “I’m ******.” though, “I’m *******” has lost all coarseness and is seldom eschewed no matter how young or prim the lips that form the words. We hear it at work, on elementary school playgrounds, at church, on the news. It has become in the English language the universal acknowledgement of hapless circumstance, foregone conclusion and frustrated failure. And it translates easily from self to others to groups of any size and may be past, present or future tense. So next time you hear, “I/we/you/she/he/they are/we’re/will be *******.” pause ever so slightly and exchange “******” for “*******” and see if the transformation is as subtle but startling for you as it is for me.

In a similar vein, being a screwup is unfortunate but not nearly as bad as being a ******. Here again, two totally identical connotations of identical origin. One you hear everywhere, the other primarily in bars, the street, sporting events and among close friends and closer enemies talking or not talking politics.

George Carlin’s hilarious “Usage of the Word ****” routine gave numerous examples of how versatile is the word “****.” Some, but not all, could use “*****” but few of the interchangeable examples use the word ***** nearly as ******* effectively as the word ****. And some are not interchangeable at all: we don’t talk about things being “nearly as ******* effective.... It just doesn’t work. Similarly, “I’d like to ******* *****.” makes perfect sense but “I’d like to ******* ****.” makes no sense at all. So the words are not interchangeable.

But, for some reason, over time, the English language evolved, letting ******* mean ****** in a socially acceptable way while also letting ******* mean ****** in a ****** way or in a ******* way. And I have a theory how it happened.

Have you ever had to put a ***** in something directly over your head and maybe a bit out of reach? Of course you have. And like many a normal person you found the task embarrassingly difficult. After once or twice there’s yet again. You say, Ah ****! I have to ***** up.” And you knew you were ******. And you’d inevitably **** it up even if ever so slightly dropping the *****, or worse, falling off the ******* ladder. Then you’d really be ******! But you didn’t say that. No, that wouldn’t be polite. So you’d say you were ******* because you had to ***** up and would likely ***** it up and die trying falling off the ladder. And with so many people over and over again not so proficient with a ***** driver the language simply evolved.

Now I know you find this whole discussion a bit screwy. That’s okay. Even George found no reason to say something was “a bit fucky.”

Thank you.

2020 All screwy rights reserved

****
fuckfuckfuck

you know
six years ago
i was a freak
a ******

but then you got ****** up too
and now i can be cool

**** that
you made me what i am
i wont change for you

when i die
im dying a freak
a ******

a dead loser
with your heart

Public schooling houses dangerous and
the most delicate beings to walk shy
or stomp upon the dirt. Thou whom love
to hate, yet hate to love; teenagers. They
take their pill if good mannered, but hide it
behind false grins, if not, to find later
in a tin box dusted in carcinogens.
The golf boy doesn't hide his pill- never.
Swallowed with a glass of social simi-
-larity, he melts away but likes it.
He feels safe and warmed by the flame of
fake. And then she comes along taking a
psychedelic too many- red eyes of
their own fire. Taste the skin of ana-
-ther on her lips; sweet like cyanide tang.
She takes her own kind of pill named CANTSTOP.
She is named crack ***** by more than a-
-lot of head down murmured voices coated
in curiosity. They're not afraid of
her anymore- he is though. Slightly but
he doesn't say it. **** up- They know it.
Golf boy knows it. Crack ***** knows it. He knows
it. Small town ******- no future- can't even stay
in school long enough to see a paper.
But can play a chord like a rose in the
barrel of steel- a voice of nostog-
-ia. He makes people feel things too deep yet
barely scratches the surface of himself.
He used to hide his pill. Not anymore.
She dreams of running away with a bottle
of pennies. He drinks champagne and dreams black.
She writes melodramatic spells above
her collarbone- he spends the night alone
thinking dark things about a girl who now lacks
a soul- she used to light up. Not now though.
And they all take their pill like good little
kids.

I'm lifeless

Running out of time
Inbetween wanting and desiring nothing
Things are never easy, it comes and goes
They say life is priceless,
doesn't mean much to me
I look in the mirror and only see hate
there's nothing inside me worth wanting
nothing out here worth touching
just can't shrug off my tears
cause I've lived this life
beneath a mountain of fear

I'm nothing, nobody, and I just can't keep up
with everything everyone wants, always been a ******
I'm diseased, plagued by failed wantings
every moment passes with a bit too much haste
this life will be nothing if not in vain
I seek remedy to rivers overflowed in pain

and in the end, will I get anything I've wanted?
can't stand to live without my emotions being blunted
so I hide away in days best left unsaid,
and forgive me cause' all I'm saying is nothing worth reading,
and the entirety of whats to come,
doesn't deserve repeating.