~Many people rely on the convenient, easy ways of living in this age of fast food, plastic packaging and rapid development. Most people do not care to see why they live the way they do or what it takes to live in such a way. Toxic pollutants leaching into our earth and water should not be worth the convenience! Third world women working in dusty, cramped factories to make designer purses for fifteen year old girls. Garbage is America’s biggest export and it ends up in China, on the coast of Somalia... anywhere that American citizens won’t be bothered to see it.

~What does it mean to buy a pack of plastic razors? Some metal, some chemicals, some plastic, more plastic for packaging. Use a razor a few times and toss it in the garbage. Somewhere, maybe at La Chureca, someone will pull the rusted metal and plastic from the landfill. They might make one US dollar per day collecting scraps of aluminum, glass, plastic and other scrap metals. What does it mean to wear deodorant? The plastic stick isn’t reusable. The ingredients are highly toxic. Aluminum-based antiperspirants have been linked to Alzheimer's and cancer. Soap comes in plastic bottles, coffee makers made of plastic, water bottles made of plastic… hell, my plastic shower curtain came wrapped in plastic packaging.

~Americans are lucky. Indoor plumbing with quality water. Green lawns and exotic flower beds. Buy and use, throw away and repeat. Big corporations pay off politicians to pollute. Industrial waste, land erosion, low air quality, pesticides. Why are we so quick to trust an artificial sweetener being promoted by a company that makes poison? They call you a hippy, a conspiracy theorist. They tell you that you only live once and to stop being so worried about it all. I ask them, how can you look away? Deforestation and destruction are all around. Those that profit are not concerned with what happens to the land after the loggers and miners have left the ground scarred and desolate.

~Modern living is a hoax. Yeah, you get around quick in your car but at what cost? Carbon dioxide, greenhouse gasses choking us and everything alive that lives with us and cannot speak. Can’t you walk to the corner store? Can’t you grow a few things in the garden or in the windowsill? When was the last time you saw a sunset and didn’t take a picture of it? Dairy cows packed together so tight they can’t turn around for your glass of milk. The disconnect is everywhere. Overpopulation. Overconsumption. People don’t care.

~They can choose. They can choose paper over plastic. They can buy a water filter instead of 20 plastic bottles. They can bike to work. Anyone can lessen their impact, anyone can think more deeply and live more sustainably. But we’ve made it so easy to be lazy. We’ve become so dependent that we’re forgetting to use technological gains to make the way we do things better. We’ve come so far that we’re forgetting what brought us here.

~

‘We are slaves in the sense that we depend for our daily survival upon an expand-or-expire agro-industrial empire – a crackpot machine – that the specialists cannot comprehend and the managers cannot manage. Which is, furthermore, devouring world resources at an exponential rate.’ Edward Abbey

‘In the developing world, the problem of population is seen less as a matter of human numbers than of western overconsumption. Yet within the development community, the only solution to the problems of the developing world is to export the same unsustainable economic model fuelling the overconsumption of the West.’ Kavita Ramdas

‘Water and air, the two essential fluids on which all life depends, have become global garbage cans.’ Jacques-Yves Cousteau

‘Globalisation, which attempts to amalgamate every local, regional, and national economy into a single world system, requires homogenising locally adapted forms of agriculture, replacing them with an industrial system – centrally managed, pesticide-intensive, one-crop production for export – designed to deliver a narrow range of transportable foods to the world market.’Helena Norberg-Hodge

‘Throughout history human exploitation of the earth has produced this progression: colonise-destroy-move on.’ Garrett Hardin

i.

for the past few weeks i've been doing an experiment,
thankfully philosophy allows such things,
of course, they're deviations from what i'm used to
in chemistry, they're less, what's the word?
spectacular - but they are nonetheless experiments,
and that's the beauty of being grounded in some sort
of science (trinity of biology, chemistry and physics
and that's the limit, beyond this there are only
pseudo-sciences)... medicine? that's the tsarina of
learning: like any tsarina: gets down and *****,
and yes: mathematics is the genteel queen.
philosophy on the other hand seems like a vagabond
in learning, never really pieced together,
never really sentenced to a single direction:
and for that matter, thought can become less narration
that stretches into the sort of philosophy that Sartre
embodied with his novel, and more into thought becoming
experimental...
you might be wondering what the experiment consisted
of... well, over the weeks i've been sadistic unto myself,
it's to do with trying to figure out the modern curse
that's the 3D's: debt, depression, dementia.
                i can't fall asleep without a bottle of whiskey
cigarettes, sleeping pills and music playing in the background:
which would make me a terrible partner, anyway.
   beyond that though, for weeks i repeated a pattern,
i fell asleep to the *hellraiser ii: hellbound soundtrack
by christopher young...
       day-in-day out: as if to pressurise the idea that
the faculty of dreaming could be censored in the same way
that thinking is censored in liberal speech
eroding people's vocabulary, **** included.
     what i mean by that: every day i woke up with 15 minutes
of despair, then the zenith came after i lay in bed
for 4 hours and felt too many leeches ******* at me...
   those 15 minutes of despair were always there,
but then i usually got up and went about my daily business...
i admit that whiskey could be to blame,
anyone could argue the alcohol-is-bad argument,
but arguing as R. D. Laing might have that it's
also a sedative if you don't include social adhesion to loosen
the tension of going out and dancing:
then i don't see the point of saying it's all bad.
         sleeping pills (i found) are not 100% active without
what the prescription states that you should do:
i exceed limits, but then i write during the night -
            create a balance and i'm sure any insomnia
might be made minimal... anyway:
so i've been doing this roundabout experiment,
listening to the above album while falling asleep,
but then yesterday i decided to fall asleep listening to
godspeed you! black emperor's album F♯ A♯ ∞,
and guess what the experiment proved:
  i felt little or no anguish for 15 minutes,
obviously the usual groggy of a pseudo-hangover,
  but that doesn't mean staying in bed for 4 hours
because you feel **** about life 'n' all...
                   as already stated there's what we call
a cartesian dichotomy, that somehow altered mental
states cannot be translated into a physicality -
depression in this sort of language becomes lethargy -
people never seemed to connect the dots that
state the monism of everything having a pairing either
side of Humpty-Dumpty sitting on the ergo fence
asking about a flying omelette... ergo is a variation
of what precipitates... depression = lethargy...
the purest kind of what i know (i have enough psychiatric
literature to redeem myself from what would
be deemed quack-medicine with their quack doctors) -
some say that taking the vitamin B12 supplement
could help you: or that weak digestion is to blame, too.
i would be quack doctor if i was in a position of power,
and since i am not really earning anything from my
"poems", what sort of power can i abuse? trust -
but then again these are thought experiments,
           i first experiment on myself, then note down
the observations i have accounted for.
               so what will my unconscious eat today while
i switch off my consciousness? i was thinking of
the cure's disintegration album,
         perhaps that's why i did weeks of falling asleep
to a horror movie soundtrack, to later move into
neo-prog "rock" and then into 80s goth melancholia...
    i'd say that pop ****** melancholics off...
and such a nicer word for depression...
                   it's not even close to compression and has
nothing to do with aviation or the Netherlands...
     melan, melan: ah! melanism - a certain darkness,
    choly -         condition of darkness...
       and that star of Bethlehem appeared at night...
man of sorrows, well that's just blatant;
           but for all the romanticisation about darkness
and the mysterious moon and all the insomnia,
i still prefer the anti-cartesian explanation of actually
creating the proper answer to what has become
a dichotomy between the physical sciences and
the pseudo sciences, given that ergo is a precipitation
then for the two opposite to become inseparable
depression must be equal to lethargy: which is a variation
of the grander genus (family): metabolism.
               is this the point where i re-quote that famous:
doctor! heal yourself!
                                      well, if there's anything to go by
i have in my mind, given my life a prolonging in a way,
what was it... amitriptyline?
                                         the new ******* for
the respectably prone to citizenship's serenity of leaving
other people to their own demises -
  i mean, look at all the teetotalers: hyperactive bunnies
with too much energy that translated into things like
the infamous pyramids and the doubly infamous chimneys.

ii. the danish girl

i would have never thought that the transgender movement
had such a puritanism about it,
such platonism - nearing martyrdom;
who could have thought?! i only managed to see the film
today... i'm a sentimental ******* and i was choking
on not crying at the end of the film
here was a true representation of an artist,
         there's he (einar wegenar): a successful local
artist, within the confines of Copenhagen,
modestly famous: primarily because of having
perfected a technique and sourced it in a childhood
memory that keeps haunting him,
    thus he keeps repeating it, although with slight
alternation to refresh it, but no photograph to work
from, hence my previous statement:
  memory is the best cinema or arts' gallery (this
is not a universal statement, memory doesn't always
heal, or fascinate or have the ability to revitalises itself
or become the most potent "hallucinogenic" experience);
and then she's there (gerda wegener), also
painting, but more in line with paying the rent
rather than appeal, rich people needing portraits to
hang on the walls of the future of their lineage
        in years to come so someone might boast:
that was my ancestor, who founded the first bank
of Copenhagen sort of stories -
and all she wants to do is be an artist like Einar;
and she keeps coming back from galleries with her
works and they never give the critics any appeal
at being original - they have a suggestive generic
quality to them: precisely because they've been painted
for money. art is cruel in that way,
  when critics reduce producing art like they might reduce
being a cashier in a supermarket on the basis of:
job done... then comes the offense from the artist.
the beauty of this film is the platonism that soon explodes,
the near innocence... i really don't know how
the transgender movement borrowed from this:
all those Baphomet ******* with too many parts,
silicon chests and ***** and what not?
       this is one of the finest forms of defamation -
these days the transgender movement is so sexually
potent it doesn't really deserve what can only appear
as a self-imposed crucifixion...
              this story predates the unearthing of the nag
hammadi scripts, it's intuitively bound to what was
unearthed in 1945...
      einar sees the desperation of gerda, he knows
that he'll simply remain a local artist,
    bound to a square mile of earth, local, provincial
even... what he decides on is best expressed
by Marilyn Manson's lyrics: now i'm not an artist
i'm a ******* work of art.
        how can not this resonate further into the film
if not by this motto:
it is a consecration of a memory, to invert it and
un-seize the moment long ago experienced and now
fuelling art, or the repetition of a safe technique established.
one man's frustration and a woman in a cage:
the potential seen - then a sudden bursting of madness,
the evident anti-cross -
                                  to say he had reached his limits
and she was kept frustrated and under-appreciated is
blatant enough, this self-sacrifice for a woman to
find her subject, was all too evident when she utters
the words that: the student overcomes the teacher,
and that's the whole story,
                       he has to walk into the canvas,
     in whatever way imaginable, and what a better way
than on a whim to escape the dreariness of parties
   by dressing up as a woman, after gerda's model
is late so she can continue a painting and einar
has to step in and wear a few female garments...
       to later realise the Dionysian consequence:
                                  only to the utmost excess, from here.
this could hardly be a propaganda movie for
the transgender movement... the "propaganda"
aspect ends when you hear children imitating this
artistic "prank" in today's society...
      it wasn't a prank in the slightest: but a profound
expression of love between two artists...
          outside of art the whole transgender movement
is still only ***** and silicon **** of Thailand's lady-boys:
that's not reality?        
although i actually did choke with nearing to cry
in the closing scene...
    unlike the Christ story... there was no resurrection.
so hans and gerda travel to the place where
einar depicted the landscape in his revisions,
       and both of them are standing there
        and it's ****** pulverising with so much depth
upon being so little when reduced to a canvas
but because you see the painting first, do you later
see the landscape with more emotion...
     and i thought to myself: gerda will recreate
the landscape in her own eyes, she'll what he saw
and what he gave up for her to paint him in his
transformative (transfigurative) state of becoming
lili elbe...
                     that's why i was about to cry -
     that she could put lili aside, and return to /
resurrect the memory of einar the locally famous
artist... that she would apply the same technique in
painting lili / einar but turn her attention to
landscapes... as if to imply that both of them became
reunited before all the madness of life came chasing them
into extremes.
          to my dissatisfaction? after the film ended
and before the credits started rolling... postscriptum facts
after these true events... she continued to paint
lili / einar as she did, which prompted her to fame
on the Parisian estrade; after seeing that, written down?
tears? what tears... i'm actually thankful that i choked
on them and didn't do an outburst necessarily...
thank **** i wasn't watching the film alone!
     i know that i might have invoked a sense of:
rough around the edges with this description, but i'm hoping
it's abstract enough to make the film more potent:
filling the blanks with images;
still, this was used for a transgender movement?
                                                did he make it plainly obvious
that this was a transcendental transgender iconoclasm?
         it's the platonic element in it that steers this whole
story, away from what 21st century movements regard
as prototype for their ******.

by simply watching 'don't call me crazy'
with regards to mental health... a bbc3 documentary.

i find a few pointers, apart from the fact that i've learned
English to a standard that i could
be misjudged as a native, what with african psychiatrists
   and the history of England as  a postcolonial nation...
     the problems of premature depression
and other divergences from the "norm"
  (or is that a tu-dum tss... "the norm"?
i never know how to tell the joke a proper
way, so many jokes are mothered
by punctuation, i don't know
how many there are that aren't) -
so aside from that... the fact that i'm
faking being British... if you have any grievances
against me: you'd better me Ukranian
or Lithuanian... otherwise? *******.
yes, i know the Poles did terrible things,
Vlad wasn't the only person ready to
do sadistic **** on people by impaling them
on sharpened-wooden poles...
   and you thought the crucifix was bad...
but oh look... the artists inserted a peddle-stool
so he could stand while on the cross...
rather than actually: hang from it.
talk about a woman faking an ******.
then again: he was all kissy-kissy with
a centurion having cured the ravaging libido
of his "demon possessed" daughter who
had a hot bagel flirt under her skirt for him...
or as i say: **** a prostitutes
           **** for an extra ten quid: the sigma
of how many ***** that thing has seen
turns your tongue into a dagger...
that's where i have seen my salvation:
   not in the eucharist or degrading symbols
of a godly stature.
       no, the point is:
this misapprehension of where the origin of
thinking resides...
  the true materialists posit the origin of thought
in the brain... but, honey-bee, the brain
is preoccupied with its materialistic responsibilities...
to shoot adrenaline when bungee jumping...
why think it isn't already preoccupied with anything
but thought? the brain doesn't think
no more than the heart might... or your *******
wetted or your phallus becoming *****...
there's no point in ascribing thought to the brain,
even if you abstract the source of thinking
toward the brain as a *mind,
     the suggestion parallels what the brain does,
and what the brain isn't...
   as with the notion of god...
          ridiculous for most people:
or also ridiculous when man is taught to stress
his "individuality"...
                               both seem on equal footing
to be considered phantoms, but the individual is
more of a phantom than god...
                             and as Diogenes of Sinope found out:
you'll find god and the Archimedean eureka
quicker than finding an honest man -
who takes a candle at noon into a market square?
     ah: that famous lunacy...
but in the beginning the word was with god,
       yes, because when we started we only said ooh ooh!
and made those frightening monkey faces to
war off evil spirits and the Arabic third eye, evil.
   Darwinism created historical fiction...
           a bit like science fiction, but instead of looking
forward, historical fiction is looking back,
toward a time when people struggled against
the elements, and had no sense of having to think
given their actual pentagram equilibrium was tuned
into what was around them...
                   the senses could never deviate from
the world of shouting down a cave and hearing echo,
it's only when thought emerged and conceived words
   that the dubiousness of simple musing:
chicken or egg first? created auxiliary sense perceptions...
   we have left the sensual world...
           for we have "enriched" our lives with
thinking, the byproduct of which is what scared me
about this bbc3 documentary... that all mental
illness stems from allow thought to automate itself...
      in other words having no moral compass...
in other words: not having read a single book
   and learned a process of equating thinking with
narrating... as a sensible option to what others tend
to do (the innovators), and allow narration to be a void...
into which they pour all their thinking to
fill that void... with, say, Thomas Edison and the lightbulb...
Isaac Newton and gravity...
it's just scary that people can allow automated thinking,
     made even more evident that counters
the punitive transgender pronoun scenario
   that only focuses on the pronouns: he, it, she.
these youngsters in the documentary are dealing with
submitting to a pronoun focus of: i, it, you.
                      in some vague sense of a religiosity,
that they cannot allow cogito ergo sum into their minds,
a possessiveness of body, that later translates
into an identification with the mind: which is -
well, if you're going to posit the origin of thinking
in your brain, which isn't even there - you mind
as well posit the mind, seeing how the soul
is argued against primarily through our mortal condition.
   is the eye the window to the soul?
  and the brain merely a paraphrasing of that statement?
perhaps...
              but i wouldn't be too worried
             as Walter Benjamin was about art in the age
of mechanical reproduction... i'd be worried
that art is bound to the morgue of psychiatric institutions...
that art is not a term that suggest the origins of
   such ailments:
due the original lack of it in such places:
  but that that it was never there... and that finding
art can be therapeutic is why art can be scolded
               and establishment art is nothing more
than the pinnacle of us, having abused words,
waging fewer and fewer words, can't produce
    a work of beauty... merely a work that occupies
a space.
                art = space...
          that's the statement these days...
being oversaturated with scientific assurances has created
this insurgence of over-competence or making
art not art in a sense timelessness, as in Dante's
comedy isn't equal to space,
            but that it's equal to timelessness...
    or a statue by Donatello...
                          these days art = space...
because it's not going to be timeless... it was once
the iconoclasm in metaphor of: the lion of Judea...
          Lucifer as the morning star...
                         it will not be timeless because it
has been reduced to the establishment's aesthetic
of tracey emins' unmade bed... or
       damien hirst's the physical impossibility
of death in the mind of someone living -
i never said these things aren't art... some people
said cubism would never be art compared to
surrealism... but shove a triangle into Pythagoras'
head and you get some sort of mathematics...
              it's based on that principle...
what wouldn't work in the case of hirst would be
to put a cancerous tumour into a plastic cage...
people would associate it as some sort of atomist
representation of a nanometre worth's of some
larger thing... i do appreciate the fact that big
art works... it needs so much face to embody
the fact that you are to think about it...
                         and not to have a **** over it:
it's art that's anti-arousal and more and more
and more about how to juxtapose it in your mind,
always to abstract the brain as the mind
   and to never appreciate the idea of having
to source thinking as solely endemic to the brain...
the brain is busy, the heart is busy...
            we have perpetuated an outer-body
experience throughout our time since the time when
we first acquired the phonos of thought...
                 and it is a peculiar "sound", thought...
a dance memorable to actually having a hope in
possessing a soul... even after all sturdy things
shrink into the obsolete, and even vegetable.
but the piece i'm referring to?
     kinda paradoxical... given that a shark would
probably eat you... but then again counter-paradoxical
given the fact that most shark-attacks
     make the shark refrain from eating you,
but merely nibbling on you and leaving you alive
albeit nibbled on... maned... with scars...
so i get the part where the shark is in fact:
an impossible death to conceive... only for the lucky few.
  apart from the fact that the shark is caged
like a prehistoric mosquito lodged in amber...
              woodland gold, amber...
  that's the literal interpretation...
                                 but it's still a moving piece,
modern art isn't crap at all... it's just something you
don't get an ******* over...
            take any still life and apply a cognitively
based chemical reaction: stimulate a narrative...
in that famous phrasing, connect the: dot dot dot(s).
    become, in that almost ridiculous sense:
     a Sherlock Holmes... but all that died was about
a minute's worth of your attention...
this is what's fuelling revising a need for television,
big static things... my personal favourite?
that Tate Modern installation by richard holt -
hand on heart: about 3 times...
              i felt like a mosquito drawn into that:
ah the bright shiny light... 180º and a glass ceiling...
that's all it was...
                   art in the age of mechanical reproduction
has to almost ridicule man, or at least ridicule
the idea that he can become an individual,
    as was the ridicule of man that he could become
a god...
               sooner or later any attempt at individualism
becomes trendy, vogue, and magnetises and
monetises a need to mimic, replicate... one punk today:
20,000 punks tomorrow...
       /
           but that sort of mincing is mostly associated
by the bewilderment of our own success...
                           it's almost like a we're engaging with
a sabotage process: deliberately trying to undermine
ourselves by staging a variety of "anti-social" endeavours
we promised ourselves upon a belief in the "individual"...
      modern pieces of art debunk that myth,
it's that modern art pieces require so much space that
gave them the most adaptation prowess over, say,
a puritan's concept of art, as in a Turner painting...
           classical art can be put into a Florentine market
square and be passed by quiet casually,
because it provides an assurance - it forbids engaging
in an iconoclastic vigil, it's an assurance of the past
and how golden it was... but a modern sculpture
in a busy place where many people congregate
without first allowing it the asylum of an art gallery
and people will treat it as a chance to hone on it,
vandalise it, or steal it and sell it from scrap metal...
       modern art requires an asylum to be accepted,
an art gallery is an asylum where people with
good intentions enter and leave appreciating something
that, to the pleb, would get a rotten egg thrown at it.
    and as with regards to how i phrased something
earlier? how philosophy talks of the logos
     that doesn't see the phonos: or the dichotomy
between actual sound, and sound ascribed a
optically-phonetic disparity encryption:
deepened by a self-styled aesthetic of the "ruling elites"...
          and in the beginning the word was with god...
we're merely licking the toes of such a possibility...
         and just you try to bypass the orthodoxy of
encoding sounds with queer spelling...
                     you, in a sense, learn two-languages
with every single one you learn...
   how to say it and how to write it...
                              and then there the how you hear it
and how sometimes you hear different lyrics to
the ones sang...
                         a bit like the Chinese,
who, upon reading the English translation were
bothersome to get rich quickly after seeing
too many matchsticks in ideogram translated as merely
Li Po; i'd too go bananas and become frustrated
and retaliated by getting to Einsteinian grips with
the mathematical alphabet that bore Li Po... i.e. 1, 0
through to 9.
      ah yes... philosophy that doesn't appreciate
grammatical words, or in that sense credible for a biologist
not necessitating a genus to ease any argument,
to actually further it... or to play ping-pong...
   grammatical words are equivalent to the subconscious
given we tend to write some a sense of fluidity...
the unconscious? schematics akin to triangles...
  "images" or rather shapes...
                             beginning with Δ: isosceles...
later varied to the Γ triangle of Pythagoras...
          and as far as we got, a respectability to
not conjure up a square as worthy of encoding a sound...
nearest being the H... and that turned out to
be much ha ha ha.
                   still... i can't come to grips with these teenagers
in the bbc3 documentary talking about
automated thinking! i'm not denying it, i'm not
doubting it... it's just a question:
          how could such a pronoun muddle come about
that you discourage ownership of all your mental
activity? and instead leave a rampant kindred of an
abandoned snail's shell body to wreck havoc?
   it's almost like a a want to refuse to use words...
or encode words... rarely are people told
that the eyes are used as encoding organs...
                   but that the tongue knows no filters...
what the eye ingests... the tongue sometimes can't
digest... and vice-versus... that what the eyes digest
the tongue can't ingest: hence the rebellion
against contrary political ambitions -
   the ears? well: the ears are allocated the heart as
a partner... the tongue and eyes are entwined...
but the ears are allocated the heart...
                     you tend to feel words more than
hear them... because by the time the tongue
represses combining itself with the eyes to
that elevation of thought... your body becomes
autocratically synchronised to a sort of music
of heightened of unanimous response...
             well, it's not exactly a fetish watching such
documentaries.. iconoclasm in metaphor...
  i swear i wrote this before... how philosophy avoids
grammatical genuses... and how all too
ambivalent poetically equivalent nouns and verbs
are to hide our imperfections that precipitate from
art... iconoclasm / anamorphosis in metaphors...
                         camaïeu in allegory...
                   divisionism in pun...
                                       chiaroscuro in imagery...
gestural abstraction in onomatopoeia...
                     just some examples, and none necessarily
     convincing - as ever... this is my excuse
for i am always bound to say language is Alcatraz
   and my escape from Alcatraz is bound to metaphors,
fo

As I ponder, perplexed by the possibility
Of a premature passing that may present itself to me
I consider and calculate
Though my conclusion may be crude
That the finest fix for my fear is a feasting of food
I munch on a morsel, my mouth making moisture
Overwhelmingly open to offal and oysters
I'd take them, temptation takes its toll
Curiosity for calories that I can't control
I'd have them, Hoover them, heck I'd hoard 'em
But by now I believe it's basically boredom
Not a necessity to nibble the nosh
It's late I ate a plate at eight, I can wait my gosh
No, I know there is no need
To slurp on soup or scoff some seeds
Only fatigue fuelling the feeling to feed
Got to get to grips with this gross and grotesque greed
Choking on choices, trembling in my chair
Do I punt for the pudding, the peach or the pear?
Selecting such seductive sweeties
Or dealing with death, diets and diabetes?
While I wonder and weep about what will win
My insatiable starvation stumbles on a sin
Not funny you'll find when you're finished and fat
'Cause in the kitchen on the counter there's a KitKat
Four fiendish fingers fascinate the feeling
So seductive, my senses soaring to the ceiling
Try to meet it, cheat it, beat it, defeat it
But what the hell, I don't care, I'll just ****** eat it.

Rage...
A fuelling flame, burning bright
Rage, Rage
A dancing fighter captured against the cold of the night
Nowhere to go,
but still, he moves to find the center of the light
refusing to grieve as he moves past the cold winter night
Rage, Rage
as the cold be fought like a blight
What sin can be found against the dim, darkness amidst fright
where men be fondled across the crooked bridge high
on the cold winter night
Rage, Rage
do not run nor let the ego falter
take on the cold winter night as if it were a blight
good soldier.
Rage, Rage..
like a fuelling flame, burning bright

fangs dripping
poison—dripping with
death.
yellow eyes slither stalking,
so hypnotic in their convincing;
in pursuit, our every step
pressured into flight’s direction.

a nightmare’s seed
planted beneath pillow,
following into dream.
the serpent’s coil riding
headrest’s rooting *******—
even slumber thought safety
infected.

a viper of self-consciousness, the
familiar of societal impositions
fuelling reflection’s hostility;
its venom—an injection of insecurity.
fangs dripping poison—
fangs dripping with
dishonesty.

Across the span of fissures,
Marring a weather worn land,
Two, of The Elements toiled,
Splinters biting into their hands.
Air and Fire,
Barefoot and tired,
From opposite ends of the world,
Planks in hand, their journey transpired.
Towards the centre that was chaos,
That was disorder and fear,
Of what happened when the Elements met,
When they had come near.
Colossal the effect, Air fuelling Fire,
Fire enveloping Air,
The energy too intense,
Their bodies it sheared.
Thus, eternally wary, since
That time of Destruction,
They sought to overcome,
A life growing into dysfunction.
For a land remains empty,
Without fire to be the Dark's fall,
For Air in an empty land,
Gives life to none at all.
Thus they build,
each passing step,
A fence with sins inscribed,
To remember the sacrifice.
To understand what they were,
When coming close would not hurt,
When they could let live in peace,
Instead of driving the world into the dirt.

I wish it was easier for
people to forget, if things left their
mind as easy as they let
them in, tough skin
wouldn’t wear thin
as easy as it is right now,
my past is full of imperfections
and bad decisions, leaving unstitched
incisions beneath the brink of sanity,
but who’s isn’t? every time falsities
start, my mind races
with my heart to contemplations on
when to finish, they tattoo the past
of others on their insecurities,
fuelling the fire that burns a hole
into respect and reputation,
creating a vicious cycle
of revenge and envy,
each gossip verbally vomited
into naive ears pulls the marionette
strings of perception into the road normally
taken, two roads may have diverged
at a yellow wood, but when the ignorance
burns yellow to ash,  the road less taken
seems blocked, so the next time you hear
something about another, don’t be too quick
spread the word, the game of
telephone can get a little distorted when
the next phone call
you get is that they
were found hanging from
a rope.
                                MJB

the ontological basis, comparatively
with what the people think when too many
politicians exist due to centralisation
of government, with so many parliamentary
members paid a wage yet still so aloof
that they have no eagerness for local
governing of things: we all know the Orwellian
metaphor of pigs by the trough:
cabbage and porridge, we all know the joke...
but when the zeitgeist of the populace is
plagiarism and ******* you must surely
admire politicians... they feed the people
facts slowly, instead of feeding them
carbonate ***** of wheat to bloat the chickens'
stomachs, they feed them breadcrumbs...
politicians delay matters so much so that
conspiracy theories arise...
for indeed people are not so much critical
of politicians, but of the number that emerges...
esp. those not schooled in sophism,
but rather schooled in unnecessary observance...
there is more to observe on the streets outside
the palace of Westminster than there is within in...
the lawn Mohican on Churchill's statue
with a pink lipstick around his face
and Caduceus revised Baphomet on his walking
stick... how i prescribed myself headphones to
create an artificial cerebral buzz-maker
each time i hear the blood sizzling fizz...
without everything being too quick or too immediate,
politicians are delayers of things...
they want the schoolroom banter to take place,
they're the ones unafraid to make and poke fun at
each other, sophism is intended for that...
philosophy takes offence too easily, hence it's
dangerous, it's limited to public engagement
because it's intended for individualisation of circumstances:
whether you end up homeless on a street
or ordained a palace and a crown;
you can't describe philosophy in five minutes
in the same way that you can't limit politics into
the same confinement... zoologically speaking it's
necessary for a lion to be kept in a cage as long as he's
being kept in it as a glutton who frequently sleeps
because he's well fed and doesn't dream of lamb-shanks
but instead of  being Simba (a Disney character)...
politicians delay and provide dietary requirements
of what the public ought to know... they're
like dieticians, they give you a dietary scheme of things,
because so many of us are prescribed duties
it would be madness to suddenly tell you:
Martians visited us last December, we need to
throw away our workman's utensils and go and pray
to them for free food and unlimited electricity;
in this sense i can't disrespect politicians,
i just think that an excess of them in Parliament is
what's fuelling a public disgruntling...
but the thing is... the politicians that people are disgruntled
about are not those in the mainstream, they're
not from the centralised "celebrity" batch of politicians,
they from local governments, and their presence in
the centralised house of commons is really disgruntling
to the public in most respects...
either way, admiration for politicians slowing it down,
disrupting the sharing of facts so that we
can accept our functions without anarchistic boredom
being awoken like some Godzilla...
in terms of facts i want to be a Columbus,
on my own initiative... i don't want to be a ******* turkey...
wanting to be a turkey breeds conspiracy theories...
in a torture chamber you just here: 'but they fed me this!
but they fed me this!' 'and you were stupid enough
to mistake facts for propaganda? catch the surf, ******!'
wanting to be a Columbus means you don't care
to own a plasma television and a Ford Mustang.

staying up late just thinking of all the could-beens and should-beens that could and should have been us.

what if we'd tried a little harder? persisted a little longer? held on to each other as tightly as we should have?
would you be by my side then, instead of the empty void staring tauntingly back at me?
would our hands be clasped together, interwoven,
your eyes that once bored right back into the back of mind haunting me wherever i would go,
your touch tattooed into the skin of my palms as they once were?

what if i hadn't let go?
what if i'd learnt fate's cruel lesson that
possessing the trait of fickleness never awarded anything but everything slipping past, earlier?
would you be willing to stay with me then, and forgive me for all the wrongdoings that i would inevitably cause?
would we have ever evolved into more than just an idealized dream drawn from a fragmented memory,
the idea of an irrevocable love that despite having been mulled over for what would've seemed like an eternity,
has never seen the light of reality before?

then again, everything does appear only better when it's all in your head.
when i can still pretend that you are who i expect you to be,
and i may be accepted for who i am truly,
excess baggage of unneeded insecurities and imperfections weighing me down and all.

is it better to be cleanly rejected or to be
torn down bit by bit,
night by night,
spent just staring at a blank screen and waiting,
hovering over imperishably,
pure naive hope fuelling the drive to continue delaying the inexorable?
foolishly believing that crossed fingers and
any lingering feelings that hadn't yet been sieved away by the
jaded culture we exist and drown in today
would perhaps, even if accidentally,
as if out of a fairytale that i starkly don't belong to,
send me a text back?

How can we stand in a world
That forces us to live on our knees?
Fight when the heroes are just villains in disguise
And we're living life on the ceiling

We burn money
And use the same fire to destroy the bridges
That were built to bring us together
You are led to plead for a life that is yours to live freely
Fear a leader who should serve to protect you and your family
Lost in the mists of uncertainty

All for a 'brighter future'

But brighter is wrong when the correct term is whiter
How about we paint the world
Red, white and blue?
But oh how the blue runs red and drips on the carpet
And all that's left is

White

And it's funny to me
How you all fail to realise
That a white canvas
Is blank without a bit of colour

- p.d.e

i can clearly hear how english mutates...
a book review by a channel... better than food...
the book he's reviewing is goETHE's captain faust:
and the non-avengers...
but no...

i don't hear: stick an umlaut anywhere you please...
i, "for some reason"... do not hear
a: Θ... a göethe... or a goëthe (ladin alphabet -
the germans know about this)...
there is this... goe-ether association...
it's sometimes a riddle of goë, göe...
or quiet simply...
the remains of the ancient latin grapheme (œ)?

educated people make this distinction -
and they'll catch "you" out on it...
since... they represent the Hyacinth Bucket brigade...
gynocentrism doing a snail-trail:
one step forward... two steps back...
it's beside what the linguist "says":
a bucket is a bucket a ***** is a *****...
otherwise? glorifying such a harsh reality
of a surname like: bucket... but not beckett?
no... "samuel"? well then...
it's not a bucket if it's somehow
translated via chernobyll as: bouquet...
is it?! is it?
because even in french: they self-cannibalise...
i.e. they "eat" some letters...
they write one language: but speak another...
what isn't bucket what is nonetheless
bouquet? well... isn't it: bouque-?
it's not even that... boo-k for the ones that
still hear... and can write grafitti schlang...
in some variation of a german...

becuase educated people can get away
with treating GOETHE...
as?  '/ˈɡɜːrtə, ˈɡeɪtə'...
or in simple-me-and-you being bilingual...
fiddling around we arrive at:
Göerte... which is "said"...
but this "lunatic asylum" exception has
to be written: with a clarity of a *******
Greek THETA... a fin! the end!
which always makes lying easier...
when you can: say (a)... but... but...
imply (b)... like some "metaphor"...
some forever useful tool of nuance...
some "spectacle"...
it's easier to lie when... you say (a)
but are "implying" (b)...
then you can blame it on...
not allow the literacy of the masses:
quite as much... you require... exceptions
to the rule... to **** out the lesser educated
"people"...

don't get me started...
born? Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski...
perhaps i should have never left...
3 years in Edinburgh...
over a month in St. Petersburg...
somewhere in Paris, Stochholm, Venice...
Athens... Belgrade from a distance...
Amsterdam... two weeks in Kenya...
and a nonchalant attitude surrounding
London... a strong distaste for Warsaw...
a myth of Cracow...

and no, i haven't been everywhere...
but... after a while... does it really matter
where you go, if you're bringing
expectations with you?
expectations and postcards?
clichés? clichés expectations and postcards?
and... a whole lot of strangers
you haven't met?
tourism and: feeding the ghost town
mentality... perhaps a ghost town would be
something to behold... instead of this...
atypical metropolitan casualness of avoiding
each other... busier busier: and no more
busy than once pronounced dead...
but wait for it: you're at least given a "scene"...

but no... i know one language that
makes pedantic orthographical observations...
but i also know a language that...
write one way... speaks another...
whichever way, best, to suit it...

and you "know" it would only be Fa-Ber'g -
no... borrow the j- from je suis...
if that last E was not an acute É...
but an grave È (grave... or? gráve...
grrrr'av... not a hey hey grave...
GRA-Vity)...

hence? my point exactly..
if the diacritical markers are respected
in fwench... with an acute É and a grave È...
why do "we" need... I(i) and J(j)?
why not... I(ı) and J(ȷ)?

besides... ever imagine writing an autobiography
like a Knausgård... defender of the runes
for a sentence in volume 1...
major google-maps ****** *** volume 2...
i write that with a "glee"...
i mean... you can be immediately be put off
writing an autobiography...
just to avoid the mediocre descriptive elements
of using something more complicated
than a hammer...
for an otherwise... less than a hammer's worth
of banality: evaluation of modern banality /
procrastination...
no one we have been given these complicated
tools... and to the best of our abilities we
best procrastinate, using them...
i hardly think a hammer would be used
to... pretend to play the drums...
but yes: Knausgård... the defender of runes...
irony... but the mr. google-earth guy to turn to...

yes... and before i discovered a past...
there were the runes... and there was
forever this latin morph of the barbarians
"thieving"... but there was also the glagolitic script...
apparently! and before that there was the greek!
and... somehow... i did arrive at having
to master some vague understanding of
mother cyrillic!

- but prior to... did you know what
slavs love cabbage? all the pakistani point this
out: slav love cabbage!
today? i watched the film Layer Cake
and made some cabbage soup...
Layer Cake being? the pre-to-a-bond-film
taster for the actor Daniel Craig...
it was hardly a Guy ******* Ritchie film...
woz itz? but... a decent actor advert...
with "hindsight"...
if i watched the film then...
or as i whatched the now...
and all the known actors jumped the train...
well... cabbage soup... base?
a decent polish / jewish chicken broth...
most of the chicken goes into a ***...
except the *******: you make a *******
roulade with that...
and proper potato bakes...
potato bakes like Heston Blumethal
boils a soft egg...
tatties in cold water... until they start boiling...
then you hunch over them...
boil them for a decent fiver...
turn off the heat...
again... hunch over them...
like an inquistive condor waitig for
the water to stop bubbling...
asking the question: are we all ready...
for the oven? yes, my toy soldiers,
are we, ready?

apparently they taste like christmas
tatties in waistcoats!
my my... what a lovely affair!
cabbage soup? you really need a complete
lack of imagination and a work-around
using root veg...
the european way...
but what is preferred is ensuring
you make a cabbage soup like...
a slav treats a cabbage like a frenchman treats
an onion: you suffocate it...
an hour minimum...
until the crass ******* boils out...
and you're left with...
a sweetness... and softness...
bay leaf all-spice (english spice) included...
some kiełbasa (etymology?
root... kieł- derived from the plural?
kły... canines... suffix -basa?
baza - base... canine-base...
something that requires an understanding
that elevates the dog, "debases" the man...
no quran reader will understand this:
for lack of a better word: shaming food...

where would pakistani cuisine be...
without the pantheon of hindu spices?!
i'll eat like a dog and in so doing:
live a tier above a king...
i still find it highly unimaginative...
to call one fruit "forbidden"
and one meat: "impure"...
whatever Gabriel spoke to Muhammad...
never really explained crab meat...
crab meat crab meat...
the Maldive muslims eat crab meat...
what's crab meat again:
when it concentrates a comparison
with ol' porky porky? scavenger of the seas...
what's with the muslim beef on pork?
and god was critical...
of his perfected animal worthy of
consumption... looks pretty silly from
Beijing... so Beijing is ensuring that Muslims
"look silly"... well... "live"... silly...
so god was so... this that and the other...
then he lent his "all knowing wisdom" and said...
no... this one animal... which you can...
butcher and make use of...
all that's missing is the oink and the hoofs!
or whatever it was: i can't eat the oink,
the grunt remain's the bacon's owner...
and perhaps the "hoofs"...
but such a pristine animal...
tapeworms come... much larger in size...
from aquatic flesh... so...
tic-toc... tic-toc... pull a sly porky on me or...
Gabriel my ***...

the Pwophet sez!
much easier these days: to, "get away" with "it"...
camel jockeys turned oil barons...
yachts... whizzed-up-*******-white-****-****...
and never... the odd-ball from
that long extended lineage of the family
living with a cuddles *****, soft toys...
east of Beirut...
that pencil girth's woe explosion in the sky...
"built" by people...
who employ slave Bangladeshis for
a sunday's worth of sabbath cricket in the desert...
i thought that deserts were only good
for waiting for qurans and dinosaur blood
and myopia and... the odd dehydration
hallucinations?!

i'll eat some sushi to sober up before
i accompany my mother: circa 60 getting
a hip replacement surgery done on her...
i'll sober up: but first things first:
spew...

mind you... below you will find some
ancients inscriptions...
i had to wonder: if the precursor text
of the anglo-sphere people...
the germans and "celts" of the british isles...
the welsh... the scandinavians...
was bound to runes...
before the latin men came...
what did "we", the slavs, use?

before the greeks allowed us entry into
the realm of mediating the otherwise:
quasi-fathomable?
cyrillic is what came: AFTER...
but there was a prior...
i'm no longer interested in the prior...
no more than i am interested in greek...
i once slurred russian cyrillic
for not having any diacritical markers...
i knew they had them...
but that they were... crude...
for lack of a better word...

how does that theory sound?
the: ex Africae omnis est Africanus...
sorry... what?!
giving my scrutiny of phonetic encoding...
am i closer to speak...
or thinking, and if not thinking,
then, reading?!
by the looks of it...
i devolved from encoding in
chinese... perhaps not so much:
sanskrit... but i most certainly suffered
moving across Siberia: obviously: not "i"...

mind you: i've looked at "it" and thought...
me, reproduce? add a stranger to the equation
of my family? i'm just happy to end
the libeage... thank god i don't have
some inheritence complex abounding...
no expectation, no "legacy" akin
to a surname like Rhodes (circa NY)...
i was born with one ****** surname,
which changed... i'll die with another ******
surname: that never made it to a status
of Eshlert... nonetheless! i'll leave...
like a ******* Einstein of an acronym:
E = MC... good for me! bravo ty! bravo ja!

beside the egyptian hieroglyphs...
i'm yet to read something...
from... Congo... perhaps i'm just too ignorant...
or the -igger shade was just too much
that it... grabbed my attention and
i forgot that the victim olympics didn't
happen every 4 years...
but every... whimsical time-span of...
a quarter of the length of a fortnite...

whatever: all out of africa implies...
i'm writing in a devolved chinese...
frozen bits across the siberian fickle desert...
next stopover? Novosibirsk!
no need for pyramids in Novosibirsk...
no "awe" to be found...
when you're toe-dead numb from
frost bite.... is there?!

my letters are a sieve... they allow meaning
through like hands praying to cusp water!
it's, the, reality...
you have ****-wit socialists on one side...
and then... this hyper-inflated
darwinism is all historism on the other...
middle ground, people!
"democracy"! i stand stand both the marxism...
or the darwinism... but arguments failed...
or? we can have the extreme of both ends
of the argument! enough of reading
Pasternak will teach you...
hey... shhh shhh... the collective can
congregate any minute now...
they don't need that many intelligent people
to rally them...
what your, "your" side needs, though?
if enough brass people: stupid enough
to entertain, to lulluby...
em... that's now much to "go on"... is it?
the intelligent with pour gasoline
on a fire...
the entertainers will simply pour
cold milk into a saucepan that contains
milk you're warming to...
melt some butter some honey and an egg yolk
to self-remedy: devoid of big pharma influences...
a witches' brew for a cold and soar throat...

side note: do i "worry" about not having children?
if i lived on the Faroe islands,
Greeland, Iceland, Norway -
i most probably would probably mind...
small town mentality: enlarged...
then again: my family, "my" and "family"
is not exactly accomodating...
why am i not spending time with my grandparents?
at least one side... the "patriarchal" side
drops off: accomodating the madonna anyways...
a sister (my mother) and a brother (my uncle)
are waging a war...
this... "eastender" soap opera is...
i don't have the finances to grativate away
from it...
enter children? and they'd be more ******
up than i already am with my libido
and no outlet... i've stopped seeing prostitutes:
no because i felt "bad":
that one time we only pretended to be
leeching / kissing oysters just because
i forgot to trim my ***** hair:
like some western feminist argument
about the exploitation of romanian women "matters"...
when... the labourer drones of men
of building sites... coming in to work...
hangover... might perhaps... stop...
fuelling the english lush economy...
i didn't want to have children because:
family-wise? things, "things" are messy...
and there's no magic carpet to get me out
of here... not when the last surviving remnant
of a past... i.e. my grandmother,
talks to my dementia riddled grandfather
with the words...
and he stresses them: you no good...
skurwysyn!
elaborate? sure! z-kurwy-syn...
from-a-*****-son..
my grandfather's mother...
well... let's put it in facts...
my grandfather is an illegitimate (
oh **** me, i spelled that right, drunk)
son... his mamma then married...
the father of this illegitimate child...
was a polyglot... spoke 7 languages...
emigrated to the U.S. of A...
remarried, fostered some shards of glass...
and sent his last postcard...
from Niagara Falls... before jumping
into the kamikazee sun...
oh my family is perfect...
then this mother of his...
had two children with a man...
who would beat my grandfather...
which is why he became a "pioneer"
coal-miner aged 15 or 14 or 16...
then this one kid ended up being
fostered... then this "watermelon" of a kid
(nickname) came out...
from a love affair... and when the "*****" died...
his quasi-foster father lived with him...
and in this custard: he...
the father semi-god-know's what...
abused the old man for putting up with
him as a love-child: in wedlock...
and... well thank god there was
no epitaph to begin an end with...

me and children? i am gracious,
i am kind... i don't want them to inherit this
history... which is worse than
a history of germany... at least those *******
had the nazis... which is worthwhile
in terms of exploiting them via video games
as those: evilz badz guyz!

i always think: the sooner i'm dead -
the more chances i have
to either dream... or breathe...
currently i quasi the former and accept
the reality of the latter...
but me and children? my, own, brood?
em... for some capitalistic driven darwinism
pressure ploy of narrative?
taxes and retirement plans for
the western: placebo: aged?
grand'm'ah and gwand'p'ah not fit under
the same roof... set them on the butcher's
path toward the "shop" of wrinkle
and: pristine effortless economic
endeavor... the pig's the lot...
economic meat and... about as barren as a dinner
plate scooped up for examination
once a pauper sat before it to supper...
ingenious! if only, if only we were all born
into a Charlie ******* Dickens' lot of life!
then, only then, we could, we could
perhaps, perhaps: write about it!

i have seen how people have lived their lives...
how... they had wish to write about it...
which always involved a lot of other people -
movie scripts written by directors
and not... actual manuscripts of scripters...
they would write... but then:
started to gag from **** at the mere of thought
of being: brutal, honest, honing...

people either write an honest autobiography,
they ghost it: have someone write a biography,
they write an autobiography that's
designated as: tabloid...
but most importantly... they forget...
a "Moscow"...
when i was in Moscow... i felt like i was
in London for the very first time...
a last time...

i did mention that i didn't envy the russian
diacritical approach...
the odd: miss and "there"...
but no... i didn't envy them...
to me there was no russian orthography...
there is an orthography: which you mind
above any metaphysical discussion...
when, and only when... aesthetics comes
into play...
i.e. rz = ż and ó = u and ch (cerp i ha) = h (samo ha)
this is how orthography is born...
sorry... i'm too "busy" dealing with
orthographic ******* to even mind
your "metaphysics" or a death of (it): interim...

as i stood at the feet of the tower of babel...
i started to su doku the pieces that
pleased my eyes... and the pieces...
left in leftover arabic squiggles of
the remnants of the 20th century...
and the new emergence of environmental
beijing free-of-syndromes to spawn
the 21st... or...
the child of a one-child-state-policy
without a Beijing... only a gradual evaluation
of... concerns for...
not giving birth to yet another ****-wit
of the world's counter to: another
****** of a gullible persuasion...
given that law is blind...
he must have been born: deaf!

- you didn't see me coming;
i didn't even see you leave... -

since the greek letters i tend to most "forget"
are:
- gamma lower-case (γ) because
of the upper-case upsilon (Υ)
- lower-case zeta (ζ) becaue
of the lower-case "11" (ξ)
- eta, lower-case (η) is no real grief
with lower-case EPSILON (ε)
until... you enter the cyrillic
"debate" of е and э...
- lower-case NU (ν) and lower-case
UPSILON (υ)
- Ξ (Θ, Φ) i.e.: XI, PSI, CHI, PHI...
return: that first 'un' is an ale'ks...
alex... but it's not an X in the way that
CHI expresses itself in CHurCH...
lay-teΞ...
- then again... greek orthography begins
in SIGMA... those... quasi-germans...
those remnants of the northern / teutonic
crusade... those Pruσσianς...
or... Prußianς...
the greek F and the greek "F"...
key into a keyhole: Φ...
key turning in a keyhole: Θ...
the iota of four uses... Θ, Φ, Ξ... Ψ...

but that's only the greek... i will not touch
on the glagolitic... until, barely skimming
the draft months earlier...
until i come with my own diacritical markers
and show you: how i was wrong...
yes... the russians do use these markers...
but they, mostly... do not "accent" them...

because i'm no Ezra Pound i didn't have
to imagine going as far back
as the Taoist ideogram...
because i remained bound to the anchor
of europe and...
i really didn't find anything of worth
in africa encoding: silence into their
verbiage with anything:
beside the odd spell of hieroglyphs...
so? i am not an Idaho man...
or whatever mid-western miss-western
******* the genius came from...

i don't have an ideogram:
i have a synonym... the sound is exactly
the same... but Charon 'ave their eyes!
mind you...
ądam and ęwa are off limits...
as is: ł... then again: given that i write in english...
em... "yes, and no"...

but here's my rubric... a rubric implies:
i will not narrate this crap:

don't get me started on the russian variations
of Y... i once said... because the greeks had
names for their letters... and the romans didn't...
well... in western slavic: Y "why, I" has a name:
e'GREK... iGrek... e and i are interchanged
between the western slavs and the islanders...
but the russians?
let me Shakespeare that for you:
pre-scriptum - don't ask me...
how oh how a german umlaut infiltrated
the alphabet: i blame catherine the great...
you have...

е (ye)
ё (yo)
й (-y-) - which acts like a "ȷUDAS"
ы (ý) - alt. to? ıGREK
ю (yu)
я (ya)

all that's missing is a: иы variation?!
let me check my pentagram of vowels...
e, o... u, a... oh right... IO-T'AH-T'AH-T'AH...
sinking the ******* POTEMPKIN!

it's for the best: i'm entrenched in two languages...
which makes me "schizophrenic" /
bilingual... ergo? i have to write in at least:
four... pepper in some latin etc.....
and modern slang? i need that...
and some german... and perhaps a dash
of Gaelic... and some scandi-navigational
pseudo-romancing the rosetta stone...

the rest is quiet "simple"...
a french-atypical acute... because there's no gr'ah-v'eh!
grave ole...
and a dot... like the dot used for no real purpose
in english...

i.e. ь involves the acute...
while the ъ involes the "horde" symbol...
either the dot above the Z in ż or the caron
above the R: ř...
alternative interpretations invoke
even more: 'hide and seek" mechanisms
of the russian Y...
  объект: interJEct with an obJEct...
thus? there just seem to be gradations
of hiding a why (y) with its added vowel...
and its mutant й... crescent mongol moon...
and all the rest of "it"...
since when you "borrow": yew borrow...
you get something along the lines
of: e.g.:

ć.        ць: c.f. surnames ending with -CKI
ń.       нь
ó.      "u" or? Loonin...
ś.        cь
ź.        зь
dz.     ž (dzik - boar - the wild adjective is a tautology)    
ż.      ř       rz   (зъ) or? ж...
ł.       woad... łagodny (he - gentle)
                        łagodna (she - gentle)
š.      sz.      ш             (sh)
č.      cz.      ч               (ch... you're not foreign
to graphemes... mr. Æ ms. Œ...
you simply haven't seen it applied
to consonants... only vowels!)
щ     šč     (szczypta - pinch -
a germanic, saxon "ch" is a cz...
or a caron above the C...
ch' ch'.... akin to the caron above the S...
sh' sh'... so far away from "god": YHWH...
yet so close, so, close!)
ha ha... a "dangling bit"...
and i thought the russians weren't
good at hiding "things"... from ш to щ
you have hidden: a caron a "c"...
a ****'s CHeap... in a dangling "left-over"...
of an otherwise caron S... heap of SH SH ****...

in terms of the cerp and ha and samo ha?
the greek χ (chi) comes into play...
but not like a cheeze...
more like a vowel-catcher breath...
eerie as ****... a HA HA with...
cHA cHA! i.e. like the surds you allow
hindu words access to: gnostic -
'nostic... or... knife... i.e. 'nife...

it's no surprise for me, now...
out of all the black caribbean kids,
the indian and pakistani,
the africans... i was one of the first
to: come out swinging from under
the iron curtain:
distrust levels? high... near almighty...
not enough "japanese" in me
to squander a late debt from
Hiroshima or some other etc.

in some remote original draft...

as ever, i drink, and am a nobody, but then i find myself inclined to look upon the god of gods: whatever remains of worth for the phonetic encoding... whether latin, greek, rune, cyrillic, or ⰒⰑⰃⰀⰐ ⰒⰉⰔⰏ (another googlewhack)... the glagolitic phonetic encoding... sure, first they'll ban the runes in sweden, before realißing that... there's another alphabet... the glagolith...
                  Ⱉ = Ω, given Ѡ = ω...
         this alphabet has been suppressed, long enough!
to be honest? i've never seen a more beautiful letter,
anywhere, other than in the glatolith...
     Ⰿ = M = ᛗ...
                      maybe that's why i like my given names
so much...
                            ⰏⰀⰕⰅⰖⰞ
                 i too! i too have a past!
             i don't need to peer into pseudo-arab ***
the quran religiosity of hieroglyphs
of the northern africans, camel jockeys!
                             there's, oh there's so much
more at stake than the runes...
                what of the Kiev Rus vikings?
this, this is their language:
                ⰕⰑ          "ⰏⰑⰆⰅ"          (może = maybe)    
(to = this)
                                                   (ⰜⰀ = trzeba, trza /
                                                            tsa)­
            ⰕⰔⰑ (tsa)           ⰃⰀ (ga)     ⰂⰀⰓⰉ (vari)
               (gadać = converse... gavari)

    Ⰴ (d)                ⰆⰫⰕ (żyt = fathoming life)

                             ⰆⰫⰕ (worthwile noting:
this is out lot of, a, life)...

      ⰛⰫⰛⰍⰀ (szyszka = cone, of the ᚦᛁᚱ /
                                     ⰡⰑⰄⰟⰀ - fir /
                              jodła tree)

see, i can't solve crossword puzzles...
      i don't know where i would begin,
fathoming this sort of "plaything" thesaurus...
i can play a solitaire mahjong,
i can solve you a su doku puzzle
without wanting to compensate myself
by competing...
                  
   but i do know...
                    what conjured the atom,
the letter?
  what conjured the atom, the letter,
and subsequently, the alphabet?
        noun...
                  the cipher conceptualißation
of making a name, smaller,
so small, in fact...
that letter emerged, and names were
no longer indicative...
of a meaning...
  so much so, that units were
formed, fathomed...
and when merely giving names
to these units, akin to the greeks,
alpha...
        which had to become a-lpha...
and beta had to become b-eta...
          well... only thanks to the latin men...
they became songs...
sing-alongs...
   very much thanks for the H vowel
catcher of the hebrew god...
ah... said the castrato...
  b'eeh sang the castrato...
           em...
  obviously the devil managed to keep
some of the letters...
z'ed...
                 it's still bewildering...
how the latin men "reinterpreted"
the northern runes...
   as the greek men "reinterpreted"
the north eastern glagolitic script...
and to think! to think!
    Ⱃ = R = ρ = rho...
         but what happened, "elsewhere"?
ᚱ = R... but... but... where's the trill?
R, as a letter, looks like it's about
to hide a leg... and start rolling...
ripping apart all other onomatopeias
associated with the rattle of a rattlesnake,
or the sound it could make,
to associate itself with the sound
of water boiling... where did that "go"?
with the french hark "innovation",
and the english tongue...
being bitten and left numb by
a tarantula?!
                      
  point being... i never imagined myself
much of an archeologist...
i always found:
  if you state your "necessary" freedom
to speak?
you're a tongue inside one cranium,
at a particular time, in a universal space...
but, like kierkegaard,
you care more about a freedom to think?
i'm "here", i'm "there", i'm "i'm"
like heidegger might state...
                  using this very modern
language that's english...
          but then sliding back into...
an obscure region of history...
      in two places at once...
        at a universal moment in time,
in a particular space...
                   talking exhausts me,
whenever i start speaking for more than
ten minutes,
there is a cotton mouth infestation,
my tongue turns into a serpent about
to shed a layer of its skin,
and, if i'm lucky,
i will not swollow the tongue...

                    and why wouldn't the runes
be more protected, but currently under
siege -
             both the latin text and the greek
text (respectively),
had the ambition of performing an
x-ray on the runes and the glagolitic texts,
treating them as pseudo-hieroglyphics...

but they found similarities,
   which made this foreign phonetic
encoding systems relateable...

ᚠ = F
                ᚢ = U         (copernican "up-side-down")
ᚨ = A (strange sort of arithmetic, / \
                                              )
               ­ ᚱ = R (d'uh)
   ᚺ = H...
           ᛁ = I
               ᛋ = s
                ᛏ = t (what's with the "bending knee",
so much for the supposed: "arrow"),
               ᛒ = B...
           ᛖ = Σ = E...
                   ᛗ = M...
                   ᛚ = L...
                  ᛟ = o - crude version of circle...

so? the latin men had an easier way to
fathom the runes, and ingest them
into the x-ray vision of post-latin...
   the greeks with the glagolitic script?
much harder...

         Ⱂ = Π = P = ρ (rho)
                 Ⰰ = A = ᛉ = Z...
             Ⱇ = φ = ᚦ = θ...
                             Ѡ = ω...
                Ⱑ = A...
                          Ⱔ = ε....
                                            Ⱚ = θ...

but i agree... you couldn't get "our"
peoples to where we are now,
with these pseudo-hieroglyphics...
   after all: Ⰿ (M) is a beautiful letter...
in glagolitic terms...
          but... it's too complicated for us,
at this moment in time...
it might have had all the necessary
practicality in its necessary time...
that it was allocated to...
but... given people these days
are looking at X-|ɔ\
                              / \ /_ / ?
                            how ******* hard must
it have been, when,
the phonetic encoding,
was as hard as it, to now, us,
it seems?!
                   so... whatever is happening
in sweden, right now?
       i'm not bemaoning it,
   i have a tattoo... it reads: Sienkiewicz...
the swedish deluge of 1626–29... a.d.,
          **** it, ban the runes...
i've "just" discovered the gagolitic phonetic
encoding, the sort of **** that
st. cyril and methodius had to work with,
and it wasn't as easy as translating /
incorporating the runes...

                     oh sure, i'm waiting...
                 first they ban the runes...
   then they'll have to learn something akin
to the glagolitic script...
             returning back to their x-ray
latin lettering...
                       i still can't believe that
james joyce got away with writing finnegans
wake... without ever employing a single
diacritical marker...
spewing out... what became the modern
english grafitti spreschen...
   e.g.: lolz...
                              und: L8ER...
it's like: the worst of the worst of what
already is the worst in the form
of the h'american demands for acronyms.          

after watching an old couple walk
past me into the supermarket:
    or unlike the men climbing
           the matterhorn:
   which from postcards seems so
much more majestic in its formidable
shape than the goliath everest
    (from postcards) -
                 5 miles, a dark forest,
  and i can show you where english
druids chant: satanus in excelsior!
   and i thought i spoke bad english:
it's: in excelsis satanus...
       i would have approached them,
but then i was alone,
      and there was one idiot shouting
and about a crowd of twenty disciples:
you could hear the murmur
   adhering to the chant from a distance
of about 300 metres...
                    i only had beer on me,
no goat blood, no woad pigment...
                crash a party when they
were having a party in complete
darkness?
                     it's a good thing there was
a song change on my headphones
               and for a minute i picked it up...
wait a minute: i thought i owned
these woods, walking at night?
               ragnarök blood of Hvalba:
unfortunately the norse founded
kiev,
           so if they founded kiev,
                they must have past where
i made mark as: the land immune to
                                       the black death...
if i were an academic with a stipend,
   i'd write another boorish book on the matter
to attract moths...
          but the old couple, hand in hand,
shrinking but not exactly disappearing...
     in me the inherent conceptualisation
of a twin, like a limb missing,
  but with all my limbs intact...
              yet still a twin gleaming in my mind,
as the story i was told in my childhood
no echoes like a behemoth ghouling:
    they said to me:
   did you know that in this world there exists
a person that looks exactly like you?
         what? so i started looking,
      not leonardo, not brad,
                    can't compete -
            if i really am the stronger twin
                 who sent my twin to the plough
and the hearth... am i not to suddenly
    lick ash?
                  but the old couple:
   what a rarity to see, dwarfs,
                                  of former majestic
forms... elsewhere the single mother with
a baby in a buggy at 10 minutes to 11 during
the week, bewildered by reading
frozen foods labels...
           oh... about the supermarket...
grr... mein gott!
                    Surabhis! Surabhis everywhere!
the joy of walking into a supermarket
last, aisles as spacious as any king's
    lonely castle...
        but in the hours 12 in the afternoon
till about 5 in the afternoon?
        traffic jams!
                   zombified shoppers, women,
of course, children to boot...
                           how many times i might
have bumped into them...
      gaze lost, hazy eyed...
                 sometimes i had to walk down one
aisle, emerge from another, just to pass
  a woman standing fiddling with her
hair...
           the new meeting place, apparently,
but that's beside the point,
   the more i listen to radio,
  the more i learned that i'm far from
a music snob...
            take for example:
       free deejays's song
                            el amor es un party...
what? cuba not pretty any more?
              but there's a worthwhile observation
in there:
        only rich men have the chance
        to play a woman's game of "the chase"...
        only rich men get to "chase" women...
        the poor schmucks?
                          ****! have to live with them.  
****... i need to find that
    one exchange in ingmar bergman's
film wild strawberries:
            when the old man wakes from
a dream-memory in which he is
the ****** of a **** scene...
        where a woman is teasing a man
to the point, until he transcendes
                   a teasing woman,
                       and finds a Jezebel...
so upon waking...
                the "children" are picking
flowers in the rain...
                          and there's talk of
abortion...
       at this point it's gone beyond
castration...
                      the conversation invokes
the death-mask of man,
    or man as tomb, and woman as
the robber -
                         apparently once impregnated
man cannot ask for his ***** back,
and in some twisted way:
           and as much as i'd like to "cheat"
having found the screenplay online,
   i have the misfortune of owning the ****
movie...
        and how i like returning
to silent cinema, black & white, foreign,
with subtitles...
                     at this point,
because didn't place the subtitles: on top
of the screen, but at the bottom...
   well, **** me: am i looking for
Cindarella, because focusing back
on those faces means i seem them without
lips and merely eyes and noses,
   and perhaps a chance to spot
   a wriggling, morphed into an insect
st. peter's, if not van gogh's ear!
              or the lost "art" of handwriting...
Cinderella? my focus is so low from
      the action, that i might as well be
  watching, either a ballet, or a *******
riverdance!
             dr. isak borg (a)
marianne borg (b)
        dr. evald borg (d)

such a weird and heart-numbing thinking
went into writing this...
i have a history, a past:
regardless of having children and with
their existence: some sort of guarantee
for a future...
that i have a past, a history,
and it exists... outside of its current
written format,
that i can escape with or without having
children: that i would have probably
later ***** mentally...
having ingested all this third party
quasi-history propaganda
for the only history that's being
salvaged: the insect prone libido
of a status quo... well then...
let my "failure" be the patent for all future
success.

"Every time I look into a mirror I see the eyes of the devil".
The perpetual flame of life
A new dawn, an enlightening dusk;
The translucent sun
The convection of eternity,
Abysmal adversary,
The convocation of co-eternal legions!
''Every time I cry I see the face of God".
Influencing twilights perfection,
Hells paradise devouring
The ardent fervour of the carmine flame
Piercing the atmosphere,
Constantly tantalising the air- fuelling.
The forests engulfed, bellowing from the apse shaped canopies
Violet blue threads of of ribbon;
Wofting unto nothingness
Vapourising smoke.
Natures delightful beauty, casting a shadow
The conflagration immanently consuming lands;
Raging across the earth
Dehydrated and scorched.
Baptismal tears vanquishing the fire,
Heavens standing ovation, applauding
A contained flame,
The sound of rain the fires lamentation.



1997 ELEETE J MUIR

Come the time,
Come the time,
It all makes sense
In that finite line.

Is it really that tomorrow never comes,
when have you last experienced today?
we are living in a historical prediction,
one with constant revision,
and relatively blunt precision.

If you choose to discard all that which you have marred,
smudge with thumb into a softer shade,
standing back and admire your piece,
knowing such things helps men die in peace.
ahhh that final fade…
Come the time,
Come the time,
It all made sense,
All is me that is mine.

The temptation to desire,
the desire to abstain.
Fuelling all that burns,
I Must win the game!

Goes the time,
Goes the time
All I made is cents.

All that I have, eats me now.
wraps its lustful tongue
around my dusty neck
living out the rest in goodwill.
Now is the time,
Now is the time,

Now is time!
Now is time!

STOP

i've been to kenya, all that these "charity" adverts are fuelling
is ignorance, they're presupposing
all the african nations are like kindergarten,
they're insulating them... it's like that:
give a man fish or give him a fishing rod,
i.e.: give a man money or give him a
method creating & subsequently circulating wealth:
these charitable companies are insulting
african nations to be at a loss,
they're only feeding european bureaucrats
who are really the only worthwhile
charitable pay-cheque givens, odds 4-5.*

a retired lady selling poppies
for a feeling
committed suicide
being hunted by ninety-nine
charity organisations...
charity organisations...
start-ups akin to apps of
cue: shaved face, young, eager
****** venom ****** statues
of jealousy...
all the bankers' wives have
a tier system, the origin of
charity companies
(surely a wife can't be as pristine
as her husband):
first two don't count,
third: modern art "collector",
fifth: philanthropist,
seventh: possessor of an O.B.E.
and as one bemused englishman said:
king arthur and the zimmerframe table
of knights with walking sticks rather than swords:
money made people lazy, less adventurous,
let alone less tribal and communist,
adventure just became predictable,
tourism...
the modern shopper is envious of
the hunter gatherer... so envious
he wants to look the part, but live as modern
lazy allows... after all... all the gym sessions
can't go to waste... got to run standing still:
hey! don quixote! leave the windmills!
check out the treadmills... you see a caveman
anywhere in the sweaty parlours?
i don't.

Ya know .....

I'm down with … Problem Solvers … !!!
Not those … who use … Revolvers … !!!!!

By this I mean …. " Evolvers " … !!!!!

"Logical" … Thinkers … !!!
who … Don't Wear … BLINKERS … !!!

"Evolved" … like … " Incas " … !!!  
who … "Peruse" … The View …
"From" …. "Machupicchu" … hues …
to blues now seen ….
in …. " New Age " …. crews …. !!!!!

NOT SO … Evolved … !!!!!

NOPE …. would seem …. NOT …. !!!!!!!

"Problems" …. up top ….
"Evolution" …. dropped ….
for …. " Dropping Bombs " ….  !!!

"Inhumane" …. wrongs ….
as wrongs ……. move on …….
and become … " More Strong " … !!!!!

I Evolve … to belong …
where wrongs … " ABSCOND " … !!!!!
because what …. " Evolves " ….
are thoughts that … " Revolve " …
On ….. " Cerebral Planes " ….

Do you get what i'm … saying … ?!?

Higher levels of … " Being "
where there is … " No Ceiling "

A place where … " Believing "
that ….. " HIGHER ACHIEVING "
is something …. " ALL PEOPLE "
are seeing ….. Each Evening ….. !!!!!

and … Each Day … " Receiving "
"Within" … " ALL THEIR " … Teachings … !!!!!

"Darwinism" ….. Removed ….. !!!
and ….. " Eugenics " ….. Too ….. !!!!!

Instead …. STRONGER Movements …. !!!!!
are things I be …. " Choosing " ….
to be a ….. " Good Student " …..  !!!
who … " Evolves " …
with … MORE … " Prudence "
than … " Ignorant " … Tutors … !!!!!!

See … Evolution of … " words "
I put into …… " VERSE "
"Evolve' … where things … " Work "
Even if … they may … " HURT " … !!!!!

because of their … " Clarity "
Revolving round … " REALITY "

Reality …… where …… " VANITY "
Denies … so many ….. " CHARITY "

The type … where people
.…… RISE ABOVE …….  
These acts of … "Evil" …
and show …. " LOVE " …. !!!!!

Instead of …. All This ….

" Self-absorbed " …. stuff …. !!!

It's clear some have … " evolved "
just far … enough …
for them to …. " Absolve "
their acts of …. " LUST " …. !!!!!

LUST … for … Each Other …
ahead of their … Mothers … !!?!!

LUST … for … " Destruction " … !!!!!
of our …. Fellow Brothers ….
when we … NEED … " Constructions "
that … BUILD …and DON"T … "smother"

A way to …. " AGREE " ….
and … EVOLVE to be …

……. " FREE " ……. !!!!!

and find ……. " UNITY "
that bypasses … hatred …
in … Vapid Type Racists … !!!
with … " **** Type Beliefs " … !!!!

They NOW … have … " Evolved "
"Beyond" … their … White Sheets

It seems that …. Their Offspring
Now … " RUN " … companies … ?!?

where  colours are … " Mixed "
"Dissolving" … to … "FIT" …
in with …. " These Racists " …. !!!!!

NO ….
"Evolving" …. THERE …. !!!

because most … are … " Scared " … !!!!!
to evolve …. to that …. place ….
where they're … NOT AFRAID … !!!!!

to fear …. " Retributions "
for YES …. " Contributing "
to such …. " Revolutions "
that are …. " Evolutions "
to finding …. " SOLUTIONS "
that … INSPIRE … " Movements "

for …. " EQUALITY CALLS "
that … Benefit …… ALL …… !!!!!!

The Rich … and … The Poor
cos' … that gap … FOR SURE …

" Evolves " … to … Ensure …  
That …. We Can't …. " IGNORE "
These things ….. " ANYMORE " ….. !!!!!!

"Dissolving" …. The Void ….
where we have … " Unemployed "
Might Help … some … " Evolve "
from …. trying to …. " ROB " …. !!!

But that …. " Evolution " ….
is … Needed … " In Boardrooms "  

Don't get it … " Confused " … ???
to …. " EVOLVE " ….

THEY NEED …. TOO …. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Greed Driven" …. Villains …. !!!!!
who clearly … Aren't … " Pilgrims "
who live by a …. " Faith " ….
that … FEEDS … " Empty Plates "

They'd say that … "They Do !"
but … is that … " The Truth "

I don't have an answer ….  ?!?
That Question's … for … YOU … !?!

Those now …. " EVOLVED "
to think past … "Themselves"

who … do not … INVOLVE … !!!
"Pursuit" … of … Mass Wealth …
as part of the …. " Well " ….
…….. where their ………  
" BETTERMENT "  … Dwells … !!!!!

Knowledge of …. " Self "
that … " Uplifts " … The Mental

A form of …. " Self Help "
that … TRULY … is … CENTRAL
to …. " Human Infusion " ….
of what should be … loosened … !!!

Our hold of …. " Confusion "
that leads to …. " Contusions "
Persecutions …. " Exclusions "
and movements so … " GRUESOME "
that they seem …. " INHUMAN " …. !!!!!!!

The words i'm … NOW … Choosing
DO NOT FEED …. illusions …. !!! ….

" Upliftments' "…. BRUISING …. !!!
has left … MANY … Losing …

A hope for …. " Inclusion "
and some …. " Distribution "
of more than … Sweet Talk ...
from tongues shaped like … FORKS … !!!!!
that … KEEP … Fuelling Wars … !!!!!!

So ….
Here's My …. " Conclusion "

It's time for … " SOLUTIONS "
that … STOP … " Destitution "
and REMOVE … what's polluting …
Humanities' …. movements ….
towards some …. " Improvements "

where LESS … are … "colluding"
to seeing … MORE SHOOTINGS … ?!?!?

INSTEAD ….. " Resolutions "
that … Provide … " Solutions "
that … REJECT … Revolvers …
…… " Suicide Bombers " …… !!!!!!!!

and … Moods that are … " Sombre "

May see … " Problem Solvers "

be the ones who we choose …..

to … INSPIRE …

….. " Evolvers " …..

This is not a rhyme
this is not a poem
there is no hidden messages between ambiguous word
or conveyed through complex metaphors
this is the tears of my heart
bleeding
fuelling me
so that I can find the courage to speak
to speak the words of my soul
the words I've been dying to say
... no
to scream!!!
The words I've been dying to shout out
as a proclamation to the whole world...

I DON'T LOVE YOU
I DON'T because I don't know what love is
but I do know you make me wonder
you make me philosophize about it
about what it feels like
I DON'T know what love is...
but you make me feel
something that must be close to it
...
if not better

I think about you ALL the time...
there is not a moment that passes where I don't think of you...
not a single message from you at which I don't smile
not a single night where I hate the dawn of sleep, because it means goodbye
ALL OF MY FRICKEN POEMS ARE ABOUT YOU

last night when you were here...
in the three seconds that we kissed
in those mere blinks of an eye
when our lips softly brushed
... I was paralysed
... It was the first time in my life where my mind was COMPLETELY quiet
the first time I didn't instruct myself through a kiss
and just let go...

now your scent is stuck to me...
I smell it all the time
the smell is intoxicating
and I think of you with every breath I take
unwillingly falling further and further into your arms...

and so I call you...
just to hear your voice...
just to hear you laugh at what I say...
because hearing your voice makes my day...
the sound of your laughter...
it's a toe curling
goosebump-giving
heart-wrenching
pulse-rising
start-smiling
start-crying
but never nail baiting...
because I know you hate that
... sort of sound.

and I envy the guy who is lucky enough to have you
I envy him with all my heart.
I have a bitterness towards him compared by only few...
and a sadness towards you compared to no other greatness...

why can't you see
that his love for you is not...
nor will it ever be...
the same as my NOT-LOVE for you

can't you see he doesn't give you the romance and the happiness you deserve
the laughter and the acceptance and the complete free will...

can't you see that I adore you
... so much so that I have turned into this monster who envies...
one who feels bitter towards someone he has never met!!!

I am lost without you...
I want you...
I need you...
I want to need you...
I Better-than-love you
I xoxo you and mwa you
forever and continuous
(not-)love (- but better)
me...

he's not my favourite writer as such,
in terms of his poetry, no finer antagonist
for his two virtues: honesty and poignant
vulgarity, and as a "drinking buddy,"
i treat him as an antagonist, you'll see why
when i write the following:

he came to america aged 2,
so obviously, knowing how immigration
works, and how adult migrants
are politely told to integrate, which
includes forgetting the mother tongue,
i came to england aged 8.
aged 4 my father emigrated to england
because the once budding steelworks
in my humble town of birth shut down,
over 10,000 out of work,
then other trades buckled under
the weight of enemy propaganda:
levis, coca cola, john paul ii, you name it.
a vague memory of my father was
impressed into me, the 1994 world cup
is my best guess on t.v.
my mother left when i was 6,
she left me a present, a dobermann pinscher
i named axel (after axl rose from guns 'n' roses),
mad *******, bit everyone
and almost took my eye out after i whipped
him for attacking my grandparent's dog,
an alsatian. so technically the earliest
cognitive developments were done
with my grandparents as my surrogates:
grandfather was high-up in society,
was a manager of one of the steelwork
conveyor belt warehouses that produced
train springs and produced the steel columns
for the 1998 world cup in france (stade de france),
but he drank, came with the job,
broke my grandmothers hand,
when i was five i marched him drunk
from his mother's birthday party through
the entire city - but i guess things happen
in your childhood that you can't alter:
his father left for america (spoke 7 languages,
so obviously not a serf), and when he wanted
to make contact his brothers lied about my
grandfather being a rascal of sorts: thief,
hooligan, so so they could get their grubby
hands on the family estate, which, rumour
was it, was rather large; and maybe seeing
the red army invade (boys who slept in barns
in hay with goats), and the ss-man in black
uniform giving him sweets (herr, bite bonbon,
although he says it like the man's name was,
yep, herr bitebonbon - child's word association,
mr. who-gives-sweets), then seeing the ss-men
in rags fleeing from the hammer and sickle dragon;
not to mention his stepfather beating him,
being a miner in the newly integrated lands of
silesia, and many more details i guess.
so anyway, they were my surrogates for some time,
i came to england aged 8 without any knowledge
of the language, learnt it pretty quick, self-taught
mostly, brain still a sponge.
father laid the foundations of dockland's light railway
at the time, but then had a chance to become a roofer.
poland was not in the european union at the time
i had to depart when i started high school,
figure out the reasons sherlock:
spent an autistic year in poland, split by not having
learned the language to a satisfactory point
and forced back to relearn a tongue i was slowly forgetting.
after a year came back to england, plan was to go
to argentina and then america the first time - alas...
but i came with a resolve to never part with my roots,
TO NEVER, EVER, FORGET MY MOTHER TONGUE.
took to studying under grandfather's motto:
matematyka, fizyka i sport / ucz sie, ucz sie, ucz sie.
so i did, went to university to study the sciences,
i could have gone to the russell group bristol or
warwick, but for the budding in me romance to have
started writing ****** poetry, i chose edinburgh.
stayed 3 years, failed french in first year after a brief
losing-my-virginity relationship with a french exchange
student of psychology, failed chemistry 2nd year,
retook exam, no summer fun, 3rd year failed chemistry,
summer in st. petersburg, retook exam and got the ******
degree: immigrants pride and pinnacle i guess.
some horrific **** after, got reduced to working in lidl
for a day, got the job, came in drunk, shoved a bunch
of pickle jars on the shop floor, cut my hand open and
left (politicians are now saying - graduate jobs for graduates,
well, evidently not). but in my 3rd year i met my love,
philosophy - took to it like fish to water, i can't lie,
this is where my antagonist comes handy - he's
being pompous and rightly so at being critical of the
poetry scene, of people studying literature to only
create more literature - i get that, but that's hardly an
attack on learning, or the sheer love of it;
and based on reading an academic work on him,
i gather he has sympathisers behind the enemy lines -
but i too don't like poetry to convey naiveness and
innocence to the world, a dreamworld where everything
comes true because of the way you think of it
a priori, since i guess when the world proves otherwise,
there is no original output of idealism, no cute puppies,
but lynched dancing bears and overworked horses
and the fear soaked eyes of cows in slaughter houses,
this *a posteriori situation leaves most former poets
crushed... crrrrrushed... they either stop writing,
continue writing lies to children, or wise-up,
become as cruel as the world, although a hermit's
cruelty - 'world, on my terms, and with whom and when
you will know that i am still here.'
but it's like that - one invents, the other gets all the credit
and the most famous one of the three doesn't know
the first one when talked about by critics and admirers,
e.g.? tristan tzara, cabaret voltaire, dada anti-war movement
of 1914, invention? cut-up. w. burroughs "perfected"
the method, and thirdly bowie used it too -
critic on television while dirges and epitaphs came:
burroughs' burroughs' burroughs'.
this world has become horrid - all those wars on paper,
all the et tu brute et tu brute et tu brutus?!
all that fame - but ask any banker about infinitesimal
calculus and he will be like... huh what?! what for?!
investments in wars, rocket projections, that kind of thing.
and about that - the horrid nature of the argument:
what came first, leibniz or newton? chicken and egg debate.
both at the same time i guess.
and it's this pervasive first in line, i want to be first in line
incomprehensibility in me -
which means there are only a few famous people
everyone's agreed on, and they're anonymous -
the man who discovered the fermentation process,
and the shaman with ***** who sifted through amazonian
poisons to find a hallucinogenic,
to name but a few of the truly famous ancients.
in conclusion - had bukowski been taught german,
or had been old enough to remember some german,
his writing might have looked something like this;
i too with acne, chernobyl birthmark,
heart condition, and a forcefully induced
****** scheme sophistication brain haemorrhage,
resulting in wrong diagnosis of schizophrenia,
fuelling my subsequent splashing money on
psychiatry books and beating about 5 psychiatrists
at their own game: given my stature of 6ft2
and 253pounds... they were worried i might do
something grotesque - hard to get a discharge,
but got one after 7 years of wrong treatment;
that's like prison, worse, you are living in a society
that tries to pacify you, seeing all the pleasures
of society with people enjoying them, dangling like
a treat, and you're told you're "sick."
i'd rather have spent 7 years with those deservedly
locked up: at least a feeling of solidarity for god's sake:
so as you can imagine, my investment in an internet
presence or the internet's appreciation of it
is about as important to me as yesteryear's snowfall.

To gaze on the face of Jesus,
A companion for you and us,
He is our forever friend,
His eternal love transcends,
A blessing that never ends,
Our Lord in no lingo limbo,
He shall survive infernos,
Ignorance ignites bigotry,
Fuelling phobias, no victory,
We could start a new religion,
For all our teeming billions,
Peace on Earth for humans,
For guidance for all of us,
A unique timeless love,
To gaze on the face of Jesus.

Standing here, now, at the apex of my brief existence,
A great void lies before me,
As dark and empty as the soulless casket I now inhabit.

I stand here because I can,
Because I am strong where others are not.
Because I have the will to see what all others are blinded by.
Because I am strong enough to see clearly through the darkness.
It is shame that blinds us.
And it is this same shame that protects us.
I see myself as I am,
Mortal
Flawed

And yet, through the void,
A silent spectre watches.
Studying me with the same fascination in which I study it,
Our eyes locked in an unnatural gaze.

We are both one and the same, and yet we are not.
Where I cry, he smiles.
Where I scream, he laughs.
Where I feel pain, he feels bliss.

Mistakes are made and written into your past
In an ink that cannot be removed
So clearly written and yet so clearly a stain
My book has been very well written,
The ink seeps from its very pages.
I stare at my nightmare,
I see his book is clean and crisp.
We are both one and the same, and yet we are not.

Anger fills my body,
Whether it be fuelled by jealousy or hate is unknown to me
I ****** myself at this haunting.
Knocking him to the floor
Fuelling my rage,
Each blow feeds my anger
Increasing its appetite.
I am lost to the void
Remorseless
Relentless
A slave to my raw emotion

When the hunger was satisfied
Control was returned to me
I stare into the eyes of the empty husk I left before me
Crippled by my own weakness
So lifeless
I see what should have been
I see my family, I see my children, I see love.
Tears begin to flow, from both me
And my lifeless spectre
The void seems darker now
We are both one and the same, and yet we are not.

And so here I stand
As The Man I Am
Over The Man I Could Have Been.

Silver tongue, a man of steel.
My heart was his to steal.
Eyes as warm as the summertime fire.
Eros reignites my burning desire.

Gold eyes and sugary sweet lips.
His velvet hands upon my hips.
My soul alight with intense desire.
He is oxygen fuelling the fire.

Bronze body and a body brawn.
He loves me until dusk and holds me till dawn.
Oh that face, an artist couldn't have drawn.
What a loveable mind that could leave a heart torn.

Dear Red,

I see you standing beside me. Fuelling me with anger. The stuff I never felt before. I don't know how to control you so I let you do want you do best.

You call me an entity
and you died for me
inside the mouth of the shark
In shards and reclaimed pieces

You call me an entity
and still hold me on the bow
showing me way in the deep oceans
Anchoring the sails through our ails

You call me an entity
and yet use the saw to cut the wood
lighting a fire in my heart to keep me warm
Fuelling the depth cords of my soul

You call me an entity
as I walk in this empty mansion
alone and aloof chasing the phantoms
Rolling in the depth of your ever felt breath

You call me an entity
as my whispers tickles the land down under
as we tow the rainbow holding our love
Making the time to hear your sweet voice

Remember...
When comic books were the real big thing
and kids everywhere waited eagerly
every week excited to start reading
the latest Beano or Dandy
Remember…
Enjoying Dennis the Menace and Gnasher,
Minnie the Minx and the Bash Street Kids,
Roger the Dodger, Scrapper and Basher,
Beryl the Peril and Billy Whizz.
Remember…
Thinking Bully Beef and Chips were so great;
the awful things that Bully would do!
Not forgetting Desperate Dan and Keyhole Kate
who were always fantastic too.
Remember…
When we used to read the Sparky or the Topper
or the Buster or even the Beezer
without of course forgetting the Victor
or Roy of the Rovers either.
Remember…
When they had the Bunty for girls too,
the Mandy and Judy as well,
which many boys would read it is true;
though all promised never to tell!
Remember…
Waiting patiently each year for Santa to bring
the Annual edition of your favourite one,
spending hours on Christmas Day just reading;
and reading was the best thing under the sun!
Remember…
When everyone joined their local libraries
soon after schooldays had begun
When you were sure to find a book to please
and reading was so much fun.
Remember…
When books transported us to another world,
each new book a revelation,
instilling in us a love of the written word;
really fuelling our imagination!
Remember…
How much enjoyment you got from reading
and what little effort it really took,
how the pressures of life soon began receding
when you immersed yourself in a book.
Remember…
To try and make time to read a good book,
to take time out every now and then,
and you never know, with a bit of luck;
You might fall in love with reading again.

Now.....
When It Comes To How I Think...
I’m Just A... REALIST...
  
So Don’t Deal In Fallacies...
I’m Real Like... REALITY... !!!
  
So Reality’s What Feeds...
My Use of Poetry...
That’s Born From Big V..  
  
Or Yes That’s Right Big Virge...
A True Word Connoisseur...
of... REALITY Verse... !!!
And Truthful Spoken Words...
  
That REJECTS The... Absurd...
And Unlearns What’s Been Learned...
  
That Makes Some Humans Turn...
Into People Who Hurt...
As If... It Is Their Work...
To Deal In What’s Fake...
Instead of What’s Real...  
And Embrace Things Like Hate...
Like It’s Some Tasty Meal... ?!?
  
Like What Is These Folks Deal...
Are These People For Real... ?!?
  
You See I’m Just A REALIST...
Whose Poetic Thesis...
  
Believes That MORE TRUTH …
Will Be What Is Good...
For Us All To Improve...
Our Unbalanced New Groove...
  
Which Is Why When I Move...
I’m Aware That My Hue...
Is Too Dark For Some Crews...
  
So Always Stay Attuned...
For Those Quick To Hate...
Who Start To Make Claims...
That I’m In The WRONG Place...
Just Because of My Race...
Natty Hair And Dark Face... !!!
  
I’m Just A... REALIST...
When It Comes To Such Things...  
  
Like Why My Writing Talents...
And... Poetic Patents...
  
Are Not What The Masses...
Are Talked Into Having...
By Those In The Business...
Who Claim To Want Realness...
  
You See I’m Just A Realist...
  
So Yes Do Catch Feelings...
When It Comes To Women...
And Seeing Our Children...
Taught To Use Thinking...
Logic And Visions...
To REJECT Divisions... !!!
  
But I’m... Just A REALIST...
Who Prefers... REALISM...  !!!
  
And Sees That These Isms’...
And Divisive Prisons....
In Which Most Are Living...
Are Indeed UNFORGIVING... !!!
  
And Have Been... Since Systems...
Have Been Money Driven... !!!
  
Realism In View...
Like This Corona Flu...
Is Fuelling Conditions...
Mandating Positions...
For Working Transitions...
  
But Certain Restrictions...
Are NOT Yet Forbidden...
Like Seeing Racism...
On Our Televisions... !?!
  
That SHOULD BE But ISN’T... !!!
  
How Much Realism’s...
BEHIND These Petitions...
To Stop Racist Killings... ?!?
  
Well Here’s My Opinion...
And I’ll Keep It SIMPLE... !!!
  
If Governments Want...
Racism Extinguished...
  
When A Male Is Convicted...
of A... RACIST Act... !!!
  
Cut Off His *******...
And Keep Him Imprisoned...  
  
And For These Racist Women...
DENIAL of Children...
  
And NO CONTACT With Them...
And NO BAIL Conditions...
Just LIFE In A Prison...
Where Blacks Are In Vision... !!!
  
Then Racists Might DIE QUICK...
Or Might Just Start To QUIT...
Acting Like Foolish Kids... !?!
  
So You See How I Think...
Deals In Being HONEST...
  
NOT Resorting To Tricks...
Nonsense Or Falseness... !!!
  
My Poetic Scripts...
And Lyrical Twists...
Simply Represent THIS...
  
When It Comes To Our Lives...
And How We... Co-Exist...
  
... “ I’m Just A Realist “...

I'll remember the All Stars
Covered in mud from our roaming
Through summer festival love;
And starry skies above
As we wondered through the night
Until the Sun kissed us;
The rocking of bodies,
Beneath blankets of darkness,
Our skin shimmering
In the moonlight.
I'll remember that.

But the dreams changed & faded
As the world turned
A new sun rose:
Fuelling my heart with desires,
Passions of bigger things.
I grew wings and
I flew to meet the horizon.
But you, you wouldn't see me
As I went into the light.
And so, your world became dark.
I left you there. I left your heart.

I could only carry one.
I was only strong for one.
I'd hoped you'd grow with me.
But you couldn't see.
You couldn't breathe
The bigger dreams in.
The things I chose
For me. For my destiny.
You needed to fumble through more muddy fields,
Dream beneath the same stars longer.
I left you there.
Because I cared too much.
And we'd started to tear.
The seams ripping open.
Breaking us was more than I could bare.
So I left you there. I left you.

The lingering odour of skin, smoke stained
On fabric and behaviours learnt, torn and burnt
All the while representations of irony
Spring up and flourish by sounds of siren

Deep from within the unwound, forgotten back streets
A palace devoid of royalty stagnates, their enigma
Only to awaken a far from fairy tale kingdom
Where lowered heads confirm discouraged hearts

Discarded brown paper bags blow as tumbleweed
Searching a vast soul now yearning for salvation
Just as the clasp on an empty bottle is too a burden
Replicating the mirrored inadequacy of one's self

Hush, don't stir, be still and forget
There is no need to fret, for your secrets will recover
As before, your eyes will cry desert like tears
Fuelling a familiar marathon of isolated misery

The sound of sullen and resentful silence
Inherited on the wings of the ever sure failings
Closest friend of the indiscriminate rapacious lover
Whose failings  resulted in vanquished flame

Shane T Farrell

In These Days And Times...
It’s Getting HARD To Find...

People On Whom...
You Can TRULY RELY... !!!!!

Because of The Mood...
That’s Now Defining Life... !!!

COMPULSORY Orders...
To... PROTECT Borders... !!!

CONTROLS For Souls.....
Now LOSING HOPE... !!!

Due To LOSING Their Jobs...
And... RISING Costs... !!!!!

So What Have We Got... ???
A... CORONA ROT... !!!

That’s TRULY SHOCKED...
And CLEARLY ROCKED...

The Lives of... MANY...
That Are Now UNSTEADY... !!!

In THESE Days And Times...
It’s Now... HARD To Find...

... TRUE Peace of Mind...

Which Is Why I Write Rhymes...
To... STOP My Brain...
From... Going INSANE...
In These CRAZY DAYS... !!!!!

Because Its All A Haze...
And Now The Type of Maze...

That May Well Leave Some...
Finding Themselves STUCK...
With NO Place To RUN... !!!

It’s... FAR FROM FUN...
Watching Governments...
Now DESTROY Freedoms... !!!

Because It Now Seems...
That They Want REGIMES...
That ALLOW Their Teams...
To DICTATE What’s Seen...
And... WHO Can Speak... !!!

But In Truth Isn’t That...
How Its... ALWAYS BEEN... !!!

Within Their So Called... “ Societies “...
So Now Theories... About CONSPIRACIES...
Are Those That Feed What MANY BELIEVE...

But The Sheople’ OUTNUMBER...
Those Who Refuse To Play The Roles...
of... DUMB And DUMBER... !!!

When It Comes To The Vibes...
of These Days And Times...
Where Racism IGNITES...
Like... DYNAMITE... !!!

And Is Causing FIGHTS...
All Because of Black Lives...
That Apparently MATTER...
Once They Have... DIED... ?!?

So Now There Are Countries...
That Are... FAR And WIDE... !!!!!

Where The Race Discussion...
Is... Reaching Minds...
Who Preferred To Stay Blind...
To How Ignorance Functions...
And STILL Affects Lives...

WAY BEYOND Police Lines... !!!!!

It’s... ALWAYS BEEN...
What Black People Have Seen...

But Suddenly... APPARENTLY...
It Requires MORE TALK...
Than... EVER BEFORE... ?!?

But In ALL HONESTY...
It’s Beginning To BORE... !!!

ALL This TALK of CHANGE...
From... FAMOUS Names...

Who’ve Played The Game...
of... Waiting For A Train...
Or... BANDWAGONS...
For Them To JUMP ON... !!!

When They’ve Been...
... " Playing Along "...
To Get To... The TOP...

of These Industries...
Where Racism BREATHES...
Quite... EASILY...................... !!!

As LONG As THEY...
Were RECEIVING MONEY... !!!

There’s MUCH HYPOCRISY...
In Times Like These... !!!

So People Should Read...
... BETWEEN The Lines... !!!

BEFORE They Find Themselves ALIGNED...
With The Types of... Figures...
Who Are Really... SHAPE SHIFTERS... !!!!!

Or In Other Words... GRIFTERS...
Who Are Known To Be TRICKSTERS... !!!

And... Societal WINNERS...
Who Are The WORST Kind of SINNERS... !!!

Sitting At... DINNERS...
With The Type of Thinkers...
Who Prefer To Wear BLINKERS...

Than To SEE THE TRUTH...
About... RACIST Moves...

And The Type of ISSUES...
That Now... Confuse... ?!?

That Are Fuelling DARK MOODS... !!!
It’s A... " WHOLE NEW WORLD "...
That Now... UNFURLS... !?!

And Has REARRANGED...
How The Game of Life...
Will Now Be... Played... !!!

Which Is Why I Find...
Myself Inclined...
To Sit And Write Rhymes...

About What Life’s Now Like...

In....

“These Days And Times”....