Woman at diner who knew Fugazi,
I wear all these pins
on my denim jacket
waiting for someone like you
because a t-shirt isn’t
loud enough.

Woman who knew Fugazi,
waitress at diner,
had “seen them twenty times,”
without exaggeration—

with cracking olive skin
and graying curly black
hair to her shoulders,

the light refracting off my pin
my friend bought at a record store
in Philly      reflecting her the image
of a slender, voluptuous youth
donned in fake leather
worn Levis and beat Vans

shaking her mop of jet-black curly hair
in a throng of like-minded dressed
individuals in a dingy club
          angsty Washingtonians
fleeing the Reagan Youth

mad at Capitalism
mad at Middle Class,
mad at Excess, Abuse, Malaise—
driven by the furious punk rhythms
of sweat-drenched Fugazi.

Woman who knew Fugazi,
friends with Ian MacKaye,
hadn’t seen him in years—

waitress at restaurant
where the scrambled eggs are dry
and the coffee is stale.

Waitress at diner,
Mother now,
wife, adult,

                 [[punk]]
at heart.

Washingtonians, this Wednesday afternoon, come to the Starbucks on 1600 K Street to become acquainted with some young, interesting, average income level Asian American guys and gals. Instead of meeting Asian American doctors, lawyers, and consultants, you’ll meet Dr. Dre copycats, alcoholic paralegals, and T-Mobile wireless salespeople.

These guys and gals are looking to meet new friends that include: white, black, Hispanic, or any other race of people, just as long as you aren’t a F.O.B. Because after all, they don’t want to perpetuate the stereotype that Asians only hang out with other Asians. Just kidding, we love our F.O.B brothers and sisters! But **** stereotypes.

If you are a Washingtonian who likes drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana, stop by and make a new Asian American friend who will provide mixers and match you on a blunt. Please, do not ask these guys and gals for college study notes for Math or Bio, because all of them have dropped out of college to pursue their artistic passions, like: writing a novel about having a white group of friends and being the token who reads Tolkien and likes Toking; playing electric guitar in a grunge, punk, post-emo garage band with your black buddies who like Fugazi and bad brains but ******* hate Green day for selling out; and drawing sketches and painting portraits of the half-Asian girl you’re dating on a wide canvass, but really you’re secretly into selfies and taking photos of breakfast on Instagram.

We don’t discriminate against the kind of alcohol you drink, whether it be wine, beer, or liquor—within reason please don’t bring Franzia or Rolling rock, this isn’t college anymore. Yes, we get it, you’re highly considering attending this group because you’re a huge Haruki Murakami fan and you’re wondering two questions: are our Japanese American patrons also huge fans of the author, and do our patrons behave in a similar fashion to Murakami’s characters like Toru Watanabe and Toru Okada?

First, our Japanese American patrons are huge fans of Murakami and they own books like Sputnik Sweetheart and The Windup Bird Chronicle, but they also think the author often is obsessed with Western culture, in a way that possibly, and seriously possibly transforms him into a Brett Easton Ellis derivative based on Ellis’s American ****** and Glamorama.

Second, no these particular patrons do not behave like Murakami’s characters, because they’re real, living, breathing human beings, and not some fantasy figure or made-up person! But enough of the rant, please come though and let’s have conversations about jazz and talking cats.

While we respect Asian American actors like Ken Jeong and Randall Park, we really aren’t interested in having a lengthy dialogue about The Hangover’s Asian **** scene, or how Park was kinda offensively funny in The Interview. Although Park is awesome in Fresh Off The boat! All we really want is to just drink jack and cokes and smoke Marlboro lights and have conversations about the latest trends in indie rock and Hip Hop culture, and whether Citizen Kane was better than Casablanca, or vice versa.

At the meeting, we will have our guest speaker Jeremy Lin’s college roommate George Park answer questions about Lin, as well as a special appearance by Steve Yuen’s ex-girlfriend Marcy Abernathy who will give us an inside scoop to Yuen’s fetishes as well as his quirky habits. We will also be providing free snacks like LSD Pho noodle soup and Marijuana Mochi ice-cream. On a serious note, we’ll be giving out guilt-free Twinkies.

Before you arrive at the Starbucks, you’ll be getting a name tag and a free A.A.A T-shirt that wasn’t made by little children from China; instead, the shirts are made by Ronald Mai, our aspiring fashion designer whose twitter handle is @thatsmyshirtwhiteman! If you’re interested in coming out to the group our first meeting is this Wednesday at 6 p.m.

Leave your apprehension at the door and walk in with a warm smile, as you’re greeted by an expressionless face. And phoreal if your car is messed up and you require a ride, please call A.A.A’s number at (202) 576-2AAA (we know we’re phunny). Hope to see you there, and if you don’t come, you’re a ******* racist! But seriously come out and meet some cool *** people.

People of Wal-Mart:
what the **** is wrong with you?
You are reducing our lives
and prices in unison...

Today, in passing, i saw on T.V.
a special report:  a year
after super-storm Sandy, New Jersey
still hasn't gotten its
sand dunes back.

This is news?

It took 5 years for the
Gulf Coast to begin recovering
from Hurricane Opal.
No national headlines about
Okaloosa Island a year later.
It was flat.  It didn't
used to be.

A year after Hurricane  Katrina,
all i heard was that Kanye West
thought President Bush didn't
care about black people.  But
Wal-Mart helped with logistics
deliveries.  Because Bush asked (kind of).
We  basically lost a major city
that time.

Where was our airborne toxic event?
Our 15 minutes post mortem?

Thanks for helping, Wal-Mart.
But this is all your fault.

Because without cheaper stuff,
the People of Wal-Mart
would still be able to think.
They would know that
consumerism is great, but also
that it is an identity crisis.
A buzz in their heads.
Our nation fights wars
for capitalism,
but our soldiers fight
for their lives.

So i will see you on
Black Friday, Wal-Mart.

We are dying here in the
South, we have to save
a penny where ever we can.

And, People of Wal-Mart, don't forget:
No president cares about any individual.
The greater good prevails.
And **** your sand dunes, New Jersey.

i don't really question the existence of god;
i also read
a very pop poem by a maya angelou -
the phenomenal woman -
what's great about pop poetry:
unlike pop music - yes...
these are the lyrics and also:
thank god there is no music to accompany
it...
i might just like it...
   then again: Wagner... a rarity -
in that he also wrote the libretto for the operas...
perhaps that's why the music feels
a tad bit as an indigestion -
         heavy on the germanic side...
but pop poetry: well...
it's for people who probably wouldn't
want to experience a democracy
of the whole "affair"...
who's a jack spicer or an al purdy in this:
teasing of leashes to tug at
the greatest number of acolytes -
           words although once: written
with a blood of pigeons - this diluted
ink from flight -
                     and on some variation
of flimsy paper -
           maya angelou doesn't resonate
with me like: hell...
even walt whitman doesn't resonate
with me... what resonates with me
is the english...
tongue of many abodes:
i feel sluggish and shy to have to burrow in
this tongue for:
no reasons really given...
i'm not running off to claim a reading
of louis zukofsky or a delmore schwarz...
i like how the hebrews can retain
status of missing the stereotype galore
of: become lumber-mill owners having
started off selling toothpicks...
   i don't question the existence of god in as
much: i am a fiction nugget in what's
already an apparent: loss of sensibility -
that i imagine a grave and the shallow warmth
of a shadow marrying itself to night:
how the shadow has married itself
to the sea of night and how i have:
only bare minimum inclinations for the project
with a thought: here and there...
i have come to distrust the faculty of
memory: in that... i am also purely
unimaginative...
   i couldn't conjure you a Dumbo even if i tried...
content on the restraints given:
i do imagine myself in two ways:
a breaking of the neck when falling
on the gallows...
or turning into a pickled cucumber stashed
away in some obscurity... like a prison cell:
even though i have done nothing so wrong
as to give me justification for enduring
such squalor...
but that's that... in a prison cell
i can imagine myself staging a coup d'etat of
lying back and watching a memory cinema
like "something new"...

jude law: the third day...
the music hones in on the project -
alias? the wicker man...
so nothing new: but a welcome reinvention...
i'm just wondering whether or not
demdyke stair provided the music...
probably not...
            it's the wicker man through and
through...

  as i sometimes digest culture:
i can find a canvas to meet an outlet and
it's hardly a critique:
oh i'm not that rich to hold
a sensible job at a newspaper
where i am paid to watch television
and make critique of it...
                would i?
                what a formidable platitude
of expectations...
  
             why don't i question the existence
of god: teasing at a gnosticism... perhaps...
at judaic phoneticism: obviously...
but no...
some ruth Ginsberg dies...
a supreme judge...
i have had one notable experience
of man made law: a revision of thou
shall not steal in my life...
i was a witness of a theft...
   i was on the team of the grieved party...
a witness accuser -

      we were walking a car pulled up
my fwend's phone was ripped from
his hands: i asked for the number plates
to be noted...
they were... due process was furthered
and i was summoned to look
at mugshots...
i summoned the little gremlin to court...
the incident happened in the night
but for lack of imagination:
my memory is furnace -

               in his (the gremlins') defence
a photograph was used to debase my assurance
from leaving pristine confrontation
against the use of a mugshot...
the year was: when england won
the ashes...
     the defence presented a photograph:
and argument: can you recognise this face -
the picture was dated:
in the days when photographs still
had a vivid neon crayon of red
imprinted on them: as i pointed out -
two years from now i hope to be sporting
a missing chin... i.e. a beard...

i don't think there was any weight to
my argument...
after all: the injured party didn't recognise
the mugshot - i did...
i don't actually know whether
the drive-by phone-jacker was convicted...
it's beside the point:

gravity - an unquestionable law...
gravity and death -
     the film moon starring sam rockwell:
and there i was thinking that
clones would only be used to further
the projects of centaurs and caesars...
i was so ******* wrong...
the soul destroying project of:
only one authenticity left to deal with...
this clone is a machine deposit...
it's not a would be: futuristic project
to keep death at bay...
anyway...

    i am sooner to find myself in
the "supreme court" of a law that states
itself paramount and unbiased -
adjective adjective adjectives...
       that sort of law i can stand...
   but to come across... nuances...
man's inhibitions...
man's jurisprudence jargon of synonyms
to lessen the blow:
something less hoisin comforting
in a marinade and: peppery / itchy /
sneeze conjurer...

          i will sooner come across a law
of a deity: like gravity - mortality
is itself a bundle of tenure possibilities /
day-dreams -
i will sooner come across that:
yes... deism and that's because...
a theist would want gravity to be bulldozered
for an interlude in miracles...
but i will sooner come across
these laws...
than... confined to a court...
have to stand sober and marionette-esque
pretty to specify all the plethoras
of nuance... that man ordeals himself
with...
i.e. a theft is not a theft when...
the third party recognises the culprit
but the injured party doesn't...
at least that's what it felt like from
my experience: i didn't hear a follow up
on the passing of judgement -

           well... at this point i am not surprised
that everything i write has a tinge
of juvenilia - it's the same base project
of 1 + 1 = 2 and: god exists or doesn't...
i'm so far beside myself:
the demiurge as a bad joke for the greek
polytheists -
       is or isn't: question or no question:
fundamentally fudge-packing
and custard goo ruining a smile -
best looking toward those serious
orthodox closures from the russians
on the topic...

  arbeit macht frei: would be a question
imposed by the workaholics -
which is never a never real question...
to write toward a tongue that
will never be spoken that only eyes
will decipher...
i never read what i write...
as i write what i see i automate
on the basic principle of: extending
beyond the friction of the digits -
fugazi *******!
fugazi jackson *******...
a half smoked cigarette in my lips
starting to draw ms. amber's wetting -
nothing like smoking tobacco
via a soaked filter stinking of
                       maple syrup of a bourbon...

but that the topic remains:
the laws of men and all of man's nuances...
at least there was something akin
to keeping sanity with:
all are equal before death
and a ledge...
             aren't all... equal?
      all are equal before death:
death the court jester of the versailles
of heavens...
   death the joker death cry me a clown...
cry me ****** frictions that
can become an eternal smile!
death no bomb death the joke
death of deaths and death's ashore
sunbathing on the tide
of the Styx with imitation of Thames...

      evelyn waugh's gilbert pinfold's ordeal...
pushed to the limits of
a stress membrane being breached:
a claustrophobia of any and all ego projects:
akin to egoism -
my metaphor for the schizoid "adventure":
or what it was first:
a promising future via bilingualism...

but that man has these laws...
his own graces and his own demises -
the hindering bias for:
money juggling and monkey rendering
the concept of honest work:
in the service sector can there be
an authenticity of work?
with all the loitering and keeping up
appearances "in between"...

i bellow with a mule's agony of a last
breathable breath to source
the vanity of cyclopses -
   i no longer can hear anything for
the worth of these letters and these words
just automate themselves:
i see auroras of a congestion that
allows me to escape this poorly lit
night sky...
a moonless night promenade...

                i hyperventilate with
a purpose to only pursue a vanity that's
the least: that it doesn't rhyme and
propose a fire for the invitation
of stressor memory bundles...
my little corner of impatience becomes:
a penitent proof of...
worthless unimaginative spell-binding...
but at the same time i am lost
should i come across a formal lingo...

                       a language of translation
or a language of: feral and honest locality -
that which has to be preserved for
some ulterior this that and the other...
it's no surprise that charles dickens
isn't celebrated on the continent...
should he be?
   i'd like for him to be celebrated:
don pickwick...
                
               just how man passes laws...
this jury on the possible
irregularities of the heavenly spheres...
the arthritis of the glue
that stands firmest when
the moon swallows a shower
of meteors...
gobbles them down with
a pauper's glee...
              that there must be a dinosaur
graveyard and: no-brainer explanation
for the meteor -
how an why this meteor that
killed off the dinosaurs hasn't
been romanticised and given a name...

hell: call a ***** a ***** a screwdriver
a camel jockey...
even if the name for earth:
is this same blunt: earth...
that the moon is still a bland scythe...
bleeding gums murphy...
but it would be nice to have a name
for such an event -
Mr. Oppenheimer -
the meteor that killed off the dinosaurs...
how's that?
there's a mt. everest...
there's a name for a turtle of a rock
that's Ayrs in How-Stray-La-La....
             i can call an atom a proton a neutron
and an electron...
there's hydrogen and there's helium...
i can give names to:
even though my authentic
materialistic atheism sensibility doesn't permit
me like some vanguard vegan / jacobin
mention... Kronos or Hyperion...

          **** for thought:
big bang... is pristine in it being:
so uninviting to resonate with:
well... it does... all murders of the modern...
i'd like to call the meteor that killed
off the dinosaurs and ushered in
the advent of the spider monkeys:
the **** simils and the **** sepia and
the **** sapiens as...
  
same old same old variation
of caucasian in mishaps -
  some grandfather mandarin -
some father mongol -
   some turk of a son...
           whittle ******* of brides that's
part Viennese pastry
   and part London gluttonies of the broken
bones pie...

i'm here for the party: are you here
for the party? we're here for the party!
i couldn't imagine myself as anything
more than an extension
of the primo party project:
eating the culinary half-oyster of an
egg that's a poultry-abortion...
i love it!
   i love it so much i scramble it...
i poach it... i soft and hard boil it...
i even add a scallion from time to time...
i'm here for the party...
here's to... still using language that
never bothered to settle down to tow
a mute... buttonz of galore...

                well... it could have helped
to conjure up a parthenon of sorts...
a get-together of imaginary side projects -
but the modern sensible man
this highly elevated man wrestling
with some also unseen
microscopic and tuning his worth
to an argument for: more more more...
i'm actually devastated by this new guise
of atheistically prone materialistic
sensibility: a word salad or just
some forever golgotha custard come about
from crushing bones...

i was sensible once... when i knew of
joseph stalin: the little georgian that
hijacked the russians...
or adolph ******: the austrian that
hijacked the germans...
  i was sensible once...
this is no time to be sensible...
this is a time to be: wholly pointless and
incessant!
why wait?!

As humans, we are quite thoughtful
Given such a beautiful and powerful mind
Yet we aren't trained to utilise its magnificence
So at certain times we tend to overthink the awful
And dwell on all that we know
If only we had continued to explore as children
O' I wonder what is there to find
In our society though, conforming is virtue
So what fate will befall me if I stray far from the collective mind?

We speak of the Unknown as if we know it
It's majesty forever lost in a fugazi
Our own little lie in our own little world
Try as we might she remains unknown
A wonder untold, a joint unrolled
And as her mysteries unfold
She reveales herself again as we had always known
Unknown

The essence of something is Nothing
The essence of thought is Being
For it could not exist without it
Without silence, sound would not be
Without space, matter would not be
It is the home of awareness
It is everlasting abundance
It is the beginning and the end

There's comfort in discomfort
And love in being lost
There's thinking and there's knowing
There's fire in the frost

I find myself at the end of a short journey
Most everyday, these days, if I'm honest
And I find I don't remember the journey
Soon, I won't remember it happened
Even forgetting the ending to it
A journey to my friend's house or the store
It's all sand that was washed away
By the ever-forming tides in my brain

I wish the tides were more effective, obviously
Wash me away as a whole entity, cleanse the world
They say there's pain in forgetting
Which I guess would explain why I'm like this
I have a friend who used to say they were a cancer
It was when we were younger and I didn't get it
Maybe it was because of their zodiac, I thought
But now I'm older and now I get it

After about a week of deliberation, I see it now
This, in a sense, is a song or a tale
That, if you look closely, debates the ocean
A frightening and dark depth of immeasurability
Would it be a pop culture reference now;
If I were to say I'd see for myself
Or would it simply be a pretentious reiteration
Made in the poorest of tastes?

My best years are behind me, I tell myself always
Thinking "oh, how I've wasted my time upon time"
But I've been telling myself this for my whole life
So when the **** were my best years, really?
I am perhaps the most attuned I have ever been
Rather than a teen singing opera in the streets
I am an adult screaming into metal tubes
Pretending that one day it will make me a living
Stretching my body thin and disappearing under pools
Pools of sweat, blood and tears, in a manner of dramaticness
The sun burns my skin off and the salt in the waves irritates the exposed muscle

That previous line was too long and it didn't fit the scheme
But I think that sort of helps with the deranged nature of the prose I present
I say to myself as I keep writing lines that are almost as long as that one

What the **** is rock music?
People tell me "oh I don't follow what goes on with rock music"
Or they ask me "what kind of rock music do you enjoy?"
But then we're counting Elvis Presley and Les Rallizes Dénudés as the same genre

Rambling on as usual, which presents a conundrum, do I finish the poem yet?
Or do I expose more of the thoughts with no connection?
I guess the connection is these are the things that keep me awake in the dead of night
And these are also the ones that I wake up for
Here's another one: Why do I love?
It comes so quick and stays so long and pains me to say that it churns my stomach
It makes no sense and though it's an impulse I cannot control I wish I had some modicum of understanding
And there's an even longer line, to show how strongly I feel about this!

You know, the reason I switched subject materials (or maybe I didn't even do so)
is partially because I forgot I was writing this, which fits in with the subject to begin with
It comes and goes in waves and threes, triumvirates of pathetic hasty fugazi deliberation
Ill-considered and hazardously conceived, murdered at birth
In a video game, that'd be called "spawn camping", and I for some reason felt the need to point this out

The time I tried killing myself (or succumbing to these waves, if you will)
It was the very waves that prevented me from it
I stood, perched, completely naked but for a pair of underwear, on my desk, looking out my open window
I felt the need to jump and I didn't even think about who might miss me on that day, I could think of no one
But then I kept thinking and things came up, musical concepts or scenes from films or random thoughts about historical figures
And before I knew it, I was sitting.
And though I'd felt it just as strongly as before, I could somehow even procrastinate suicide
Now if that isn't a superpower, I don't know what is!

The waves, they crashed against my open skull and my exposed brain matter
And before I knew it, I faced both the predicament of pebbles and skin
My amygdala and hippocampus were both as flat and smooth as the skin of a newborn
And yet as wrinkly and terrifying as Willem Dafoe in the Lighthouse
And there I was, a trembling infant, wracked with grief, paranoia and the shivers
And there I was still yet, I was Methuselah and I forgot what made me so

If I have to be honest with you, frank and earnest, as vulnerable as I always am...
I forgot why I wrote this by the time it was completed
But that is not the only thing I've lost
I look in the mirror and I see an ocean, formless, unending, ceaseless, hurdling ever toward
Toward, toward, toward
What is your identity, oh great one of the waves?

It was all a blur...the day I met you
A headache of which 200 MG of Ibuprofen would not satisfy
You might as well have cut my forehead open and questioned if its contents were love or lust
I didn’t know
I had a headache

Oh it was a doozy
Whew Whew Whew
Thoughts whizzed around my head in zip a dee doo das
Fugazi's of  Love or Lust
I don’t know
I have a headache

Secrets we share
Because we like the Cohen brothers
Love Torchys tacos
Because people gossip but don't care

When your mom dies I'll help you clean her house
I'll drop everything and come down to be with you

I'd leave  my life now but then I'd have no stories to tell you

Remember in the summer when we would steal swims in random apartment complex pools

Texas sunsets
Bright and fading
Just like you and me

We had to skip town again

All these courses for you in  grad school
All these cities for me to rethink

Sometimes I'm fatigued and my mind and heart can't settle on a single person or thing

Palpable memories
Remember getting high and listening to fugazi
Just like you and me

This is that remarkable shish,
Extra ordinary type of writing,
That makes me feel some type away,
With my thoughts, solitary.

Befuddled by my own mindset conspiracy
Contradicting predicaments.
No Coachella for me,
My thoughts on parole,
Lost in a pandemonium with pious fiends
Blunted thinking of the known, unknown,
Unknown of the known, unknowns.
Things that we know we don't really know about.
At that time I felt like somebody chose me,
Feeling amorphous as a "POET"should be.

As it is written,
I am gifted,
I know it's fugazi
Come learn something...

pseudo-expression's
       jagged diamonds
  a fugazi sans brilliance,
  shiner midst vague skies
           in the eye of
       practical indifference

title: at <H. 20>
body:
troop movement
w.
ammo shortage:
abandon
   <H. 20> position.   502 bad gateway bypasses have become more fun than looking for google-whacks

i once tried to be this dad-rock sort of guy:
a massive fan of the stuff from the 1960s and the 1970s...
but... the more i explore the 1980s...
i'm finding out that... in all honesty?
sure... the 1990s grunge scene etc.:
not to mention TOOL... Fugazi... etc.
   but... hmm... well... there's a war on...
no one knows how far its going to go: or how
it might escalate...
          i'm not going to take sides: or write with
moral overtones regarding what is good
and what is bad...
i've heard the argument that moral judgements
are not right: to mediate this conflict as
a third party... or just as a person...
moral grandstanding: Ukrainian flags on profiles...
pouring Russian ***** into the drain...
just drink whiskey...
                          this stems from the Pariah Principle...
i'm just guessing to giggle a little:
the doping scandals finally got to ol' Vlad...
because it was funny when Mo Farrah pulled out
at some point... as did Bradley Wiggins...
started making income from adverts...
           yeah yeah: no, doping of athletes is not
systemic... all over the world...
   i guess some countries just have better doping
schemes...
   and while Russian was kicked out from
the mighty club of the G7 that was for a while G8...
i guess no one likes being left out...
no mention of China expanding the club into
a G9 or India for that matter... G10...
            plus... if the whole world spins the narrative
that you're evil... Russian subversion of American
politics... you're going to one day wake up and be
like: o.k. - fine... i'll be evil...
             aren't people liable if they slander someone
for no good reason / proof? can't someone be
sued for slander? i always thought the Russians
to be evil geniuses... but that softens the blow:
they're smart - in a malicious way because:
hell... what's there to do in a Russian winter...
you can only **** so much and drink so much *****...
so you get into hacking... for fun...
        but it's not Ukrainian politics was ever pristine...
i remember the days of the Orange Revolution
when Poland was involved in Ukrainian politics
for a while... long ago i said to myself...
it would be useful is Ukraine was allowed to join
the E.U. - just after the "famous five" joined back
in 2004... obviously i have no proof that i said something
along those lines back then... i wasn't writing then...
blah... politics... as ***** as money...
   i rather think about... how i managed to get
a ******* to want to meet me outside of the brothel...
rent a hotel room for the night...
pay for dinner... get a free **** all night... talk...
improve her English... learn some Turkish in return...
and music... i rather think about music...
i was going some ironing in the afternoon...
and i realised... of all these old vinyl records
that i brought back from Poland from my grandparents'
house... the ones my parents collected...
i was stuck on Maanam's Nocny Patrol (1984)
for too long on repeat... let's see what else is there...
oh... the original New Order Low-Life vinyl (1985):
**** me... an object that is older than me by
a year... well i did already know that New Order
emerged from the collapse of Joy Division...
well... the suicide of Ian Curtis... the precursor of
Curt Cobain - post-punk... well what came of that...
i never liked punk... more into psychedelic rock...
prog rock... but like i said... 60s and 70s music...
it grew on me... then... i grew out of it...
the whole boomer schtick of: we had the best music
your music is ****... give me a break...
- and it's not like i could get into Joy Division either...
i tried... it would be much easier to get into
65days-of-static if i were going to be perfectly honest...
or boards of canada...
      i tried... but... you can't let a tragedy go to waste...
so with the emergence of New Order...
and never looked into them... blue monday... faith...
but never looked into entire albums...
gateway album... Low-Life...
   and then it hit me... this is really the proper alternative
to The Cure... the Smiths... Depeche Mode...
i must be having this post-punk phase...
               at one point youtube was spewing out
post-punk suggestions all the time for me...
as if in the good old days of youtube being the best
jukebox on the internet...
plus... on a vinyl that's 36 years old...
oh: with the older vinyl you can hear the imperfections...
"imperfections" or rather the crackling...
newer vinyl doesn't have that crackling...
now i have a few good hours in the bag of going through
the entire New Order discography...
again... this conflict... i'm not even following it...
i've built-up a media burnout after all the repeated
news about Covid... i followed it at the start...
until... people started clapping for the NHS...
i switched off... i' already switched off regarding
this conflict... i'll make that dreaded hippy statement:
make love, not war...
  well... i'm on it... perhaps if i could be a mediator...
i'm not going to use moral language...
i'll just show people what life can be life...
do some ironing... put on a decent vinyl from the 1980s
plan a *** marathon in a hotel room...
with a girl you have no qualms over the "body count"
as some guys look for frigid nun types...
ah... what a mandible beauty...
            elsewhere... yeah... people are fighting...
but people are always fighting elsewhere...
- and it's not like nothing is being done...
over 1 millions refugees fled to Poland...
      i went into a forest and found something symbolic...
a branch of wood in the shape of a Cossack sword,
the shashka...
             i think my extended family might have
been affected by the UPA genocides during the Second
World War... mind you: the Ukrainians cheered
when the Nazis invaded... mind you: such wounds
should run so deep in me... it's ridiculous...
i should, maybe, just maybe: have the English attitude
toward the Norman genocide of Anglo-Saxon nobility
after Hastings from a purely historical point of view...
but then again... i knew a woman: my great-grandmother
who had to give opiates to her new-born daughter
(my grandmother) so she wouldn't cry when
they were running and hiding on the front...
  or how my grandfather remembers his uncle lying dead
in the back garden after being shot by the Nazis...
or how he would run up to two SS-men in their infamous
Hugo Boss black and shout: herr! bite bon bon!
and they would give him sweets so sweet that
his hands would be stuck together... etc.
           there is a lineage... memory... it's almost like
one person having many hosts... you can't exactly cut it
off... but... how ridiculous western democracies look
now, for their former criticism of Poland not taking in
enough refugees... really?
just like Turkey didn't take in enough authentic
Syrian refugees? oh... the type of refugees that drove
the trucks of peace in Nice... or performed
the Bataclan attacks? the Cologne *** party?
no Ukrainians on rubber-inflatables crossing the Channel
from Calais? i get it... the wrong sort of hue...
well... i guess old grievances can rest for a while...
you must really try your hardest not to be called
racist... but then one day you'll wake up
   like a Russian... after being called evil, foreign affairs
meddler... Olympic cheat and be like...
**** it... i'll own that slander... i'll just act upon it...
hmm... Dinosaur Jr. - but that's more grunge
than post-punk... no no... post-punk is something
very beautiful... it gets mixed up with the term Indie...
like... the Smiths are probably considered Indie
rather than post-punk... but i think they're post-punk...
god... i hate punk... probably as much as rap...
- and it's sort of a crying shame...
Russian, back in 2007... was such a welcoming place...
obviously my then Russian girlfriend
timed trying to get impregnated without my knowledge...
how does it work with women?
the highest chance of getting pregnant is just after
a woman's period: i'm not a woman, i don't know...
she was supposed to be on the pill...
hey, unprotected ***... well... she was rich enough
to not need my money, just my genes...
but the people were so welcoming...
i'd put the Russians on par with the Scots...
oh hell: her father was a timber oligarch out
in Siberia... she had multiple flats scattered around
St. Petersburg and even Moscow...
i look at it as follows: being a ***** donor doesn't
really cut it... what, just reading a man's profile:
window-shopping for *****?
obviously she wanted the relationship
to get to know the character of the man...
rather than some objective rubric: education X,
employment Y... but character? in person?
in practice? well... that's Z(ed)...
               well... if i'm not going to the type to
shoot bullets from a machine gun...
i might as well be shooting something else
somewhere else...
                              is that the conclusion you come to
when she calls you... tearful... in a happy way
and says: 'i think i'm pregnant!' - i think therefore i doubt...
i don't think that applies to how women
use language...
years later when i visited her... hmm... toys scattered
all over the apartment... hush-hush atmosphere...
she invited a lot of people round...
i think she was still with her newly wedded
neuroscientist: would be dumped months later...
married some poor Scotch schmuck...
well... at least she's keeping a tally...
    she might get to no. 5 and finally be like:
                     well... that was a good enough party...
no ***, just watch t.v. with me...
   oh hell no... i was exposed to Marquis de Sade
"too early" in life to somehow ******* without
a proper hard-on...
              well... first shot with the Turkish girl...
second one might hit the mark...
who knows... but this one photograph she sent me...
there's this young pretty thing sitting
in the background... a nice looking bump...
hmm... the last time i was there....
and shot a load into a ******... must have been...
oh... 4 months? 5 months?
what happened to that ****** with the payload?
women are such subtle creatures...
i might just be living in La-La-Land...
             but your mind sometimes goes out to lunch
in a non-demented way...
   it's not like people are transparent with each
other... it's not like we don't have our secrets...
secret avenues that other people never hear about...
it's not like that doesn't happen...
maybe the less i know and the more i speculate...
the happier i am... whether it's true or not...
i like to think that women like for a full beard
a hairy chest and a hair stomach, a 6ft2 100kg posture
is something that's worth salvaging...
freely given, on a whim: because... eh...
   i'm not a fat 4ft9 stinking Mongol who left a lot
of people in Pakistan with a surname: Khan...
and he done that by ****...
                                 spectacular... life...
and as long as i'm in a working environment and
i treat the... less lucky guys with candour:
with a camaraderie... what could possibly go wrong?
obviously everything...
                     but if they don't know jack ****...
and i keep them at a mutual-respect length...
ah... no open flirting with female coworkers...
at work... i feel so fake at work sometimes...
   at least in the schoolyard there was open banter...
at work i have to force myself: all the time...
            i just want to be left alone... do the shift...
*******... go back into seclusion and scribble down
thoughts to remind myself: i would never say as much
with my mouth as i "say" with the use of my
itchy-finger-tips... it's staggering how rhetoricians find
talking so easy... what's the old suggestion?
they enjoy the sound of their voice?
must be... i drift... mmm hmm... 1980s post-punk...
feels good... now that New Order discography to sift through.

Fugazi - The Argument (2001),
an album i liked to mention that
they forgot with Kwik Save supermarkets
and the 7 elevens - tangy twangy Boy Dylan
like lyrics about the mid-western
fake on punk, with the refused's the shape
of punk to come, sonic youth,
and oddly enough cobra killer's l.a. shaker.
i knew tool were ****** when
their last album hit the supermarket shelves
along with cucumbers and lack
of kosher meat (10,000 days), even though
not punk; remain cool... remain cool?
remain alive you Hilly Billy.
the swedes never did no much suede
as Elvis with the shoes: chopstick tap dancing:
hey! a pair of drumsticks!

This is that remarkable shish,
Extra ordinary type of writing,
That makes me feel some type away,
With my thoughts, solitary.

Befuddled by my own mindset conspiracy
Contradicting predicaments.
No Coachella for me,
My thoughts on parole,
Lost in a pandemonium with pious fiends
Blunted thinking of the known, unknown,
Unknown of the known, unknowns.
Things that we know we don't really know about.
At that time I felt like somebody chose me,
Feeling amorphous as a "POET" should be.

As it is written,
I am gifted,
I know it's fugazi
Come learn something...

Such crude and foul filth fills the minds of us,
all of us, no pure, sweet angels exist.
Beneath the surface- all that we ever discuss-
and amidst the house shrouded in mist
Is where thoughts leak out like a cuts soaking pus,
Where wrong bends to right and wrongly persists,
Where woman are stripped and men are whipped,
Where colours are scratched off and blood runs from fists,
Where truth is only true until someone twists
it like a noose for a neck for their unassuming victim.

This is what we live in- A house with a thousand ceilings.
This is why some give in- Above them another man is kneeling.

And when their old ceiling becomes their floor,
they pour pennies down through the cracks
and laugh at those scrambling down below.  
They watch them feel the walls for a door,
making smug remarks at the class each lacks:
“ Not a single painting or books in a row.
How on earth can they expect their riches to grow”.
But its not about how you know it, you know.
It’s not about having any fine things to show.
It’s natural persistence- the breeze and the rivers flow.

To climb the construction in which you have been confined,
is to fall for a foolish notion- a Fugazi another man designed.

I was born in it’s basement, among crowds
and foul, rotten breath. Flesh was scratched
from our backs as we were standing bowed,
they left some shoulders with their heads detached.
But I never fought to the top or leaped,
Never fought back in any fight I was matched.
I crawled, sickly on the splitting wood floor,
in search of what lay behind an old closed door.  
It took a lifetime time for me to find,  
but it lay there wide open with sky falling behind.

Our Mothers beauty lay within our Fathers patient arms,
and I ran to greet them while the house sounded it’s alarms.

His hands did not shake, her sea’s didn't boil.
But that old building now lays deep beneath their soil.

for those yet, imagining themselves alive...
i "kwa'ight"....
quiet... quite...
         acquitted...
if there's a rock to be lived
under:
i'll just be the rock... i once had a faint
notion that i was alive...
i had what might be congested in a summary:
a thirst... a willingness...
summary and all those
broken things... "things"...
within the enraged solo
projects of solipsists...
self-"betterment" up a cul
de sac... has... infiltrated my
breathing: crease... count in german:
eins zu zehn
jeden do dziesięć...
   kurwa jebana mać...
poor traffic... thd ******* blinkers are
on... a turning right done awry...
ein(s)... one... jeden...

eine ein eins jeden raz one
zwei dwa two
drei trzy three
vier cztery four
fünf pięć five
(pięść is a denotes a fist... a faust)
sechs sześć six
sieben siedem seven
acht osiem eight
neun dziewiendź nine (nein nein)
zehn dziesięć ten....

mind you...
be drop the pointless diacritical marker
on the iota... we'd see more "punctuation"
markers: where, otherwise: we wouldn't...

i congested myself with counting
in three languages to somehow...
ease-up...
ten? informant: he / him!
ta? informant: she... shimmy(?!) her's...
hisses of his'...

i will not bring the Iberians into
this discussion...
what's left, though? scraps
of language and language policing...
******* and bells...
twang... death to the ditto... blah blah:
bleach and mythological blondes...
scraps i do one job good for you...
most... better... will not trace lineage...
no smear...

          t"they" never think less of
the Yugoslavs... i'm tired of being a punching bag of a people...
of all "people": the Irish not 'ard enough to
challenge the English have to find...
come the Soviets come the Nazis simultaneously...
looks like integrating into English society
didn't allow me to forget...
this zunge doesn't erase the ******* blows...

rich, though... no surprise that the Reesh
would squander and throw their *******
potatoes like monkey **** at...
oh i guess: shelved "life"... peoples...
if i were living back among my brethren...
i don't think i'd be living at all...
what would i do with not being
agitated concerning... minor... qualms?

the ******* leprechauns... priests...
are less than the english...
but are somehow tier above the pollacks?
it's no offence when it sounds proper...
in a foreign babble...
dzida...

          i'd just ask the Eire son...
so... ahem... where's your ******* Celtic?
gone... non-existent?

aon, dhà, trì, ceithir...
   còig (what's wrong with co'ig?)
sia,
seachd, ochd... naoi... deich...
so the grapheme CH = X of greek origin...
a ******* hark?

the Irish like the ******* Arabs...
the British did this to: oos...
it's impossible to live with these
go-to-party "solipsists" to begin with...
integrate? into... or for what?
rot? that's a-plenty...
but when some spaghetti monsters
and those potato jargon-fiddlers start
their usual **** about a fellow
european people...

it's not like the Croats or the Serbs are
ever mentioned...
they vent to h'america and youz zee...
zese irish and italliano guinnea pig-me-ups...
kwoss-eyed... you know...
best bitterest better...
inbreeding... takes a chunk of coal...
chalk and cheddar...
mustard...

  inbreeding mentality... superiority complexes...
no reimagines parmesan cheese like
it's not... shredding... old skin
off of heels...
talk stinkiny witchy with a missing R...
this massive ******* gloat of "riddle"...
that suppose: it's also a man...

       while the world... "also" happens...
these little: belittling interferences...
as if we were all supposed to be crowned kings
or queens... it's not that i'm even elevated
above these concerns...
but that i must have them...
must: if i were a king... i most probably wouldn't
even entertain the sense of hearing
on their existence!

in a society of sociopaths and solipsists...
a massive get together
of protest happens once in a while...
i get drunk and dump ****** words
onto paper...
i'm not alone in this "adventure":
yet i'm beginning to be...
more and more sorry for having
such... indigestions to sorrow over...
moral relativism is out
in the words of the choicest
of the choiciest...
   i'm looking for something beside
the superlative adjective: choicest...
the diminutive "concern"...

which doesn't exist in english...
and i can't exactly introduce it using my:
mutterzunge either...
correct spelling?
look at it... choiciest vs. choicest...
the most most choosey...
to pick of calculus exponentially incremental
details of observable shifts...
the exponential aspect of detail...

how many of the Irish still speak
their Gaelic...
apparently there's a Scotch version
of the tongue...
but... the Scots will not speak it...
completely submerged in their union...
they'll just exfoliate in how distinct
they are from a Loon'don'er
speaking the same language...
you could probably rewrite trainspotting
using that linguistic language
embedded in the dictionary
of:

   how i met your mother, the mute...
/ (haʊ) /
       / (aɪ) /
                 / (mɛt) /
               / (jʊəp) /
                               / (ˈmʌðə) /,
                        / (ðə) /          / (mjuːt) /

i wonder... and what if we started writing
like this? proper... phonetically...
like linguists?
the side note of /(x)/ though...

the written word is doubly ambiguous...
to the point of no return concerning
the sufficiency of its practicality of use...

ʃeɪk  ænd
                ˈʃætə...

if i had the time and *******' worth of
writing a poo'em like a linguist...
if i had more love for the Irish...
sowwy... all love spent on the Scots...
from these Isles at least...

sheikh who? shake your: *****?
that's ******* fwank zapp'ah...
      
but it's not that... i have qualms with
the Irish over the stature and seriousness
when occupying the "underground"...
i won't rap: god forbid i...
"**** someone": my catchphrase
wouldn't be:

allahu akhbar... it would be that teutonic chant
of: gott! mit! uns!
if that Norwegian hyper-smart terroroist
chanted those words...
what words? these words:
gott! mit uns!

   but around these isels...
you'd think there might be a sense of solidarity...
among the catholic irish and the
catholic poles...
but no... tępy ajrysz...
  blunt-irishman...
                  one side arguing for the other sides
dislodging of "i.q."...
same with those spaghetti swindlers...
the...

mind you... ****** is not a racial slur...
it's actually better to denote a pole a ******
since... not kinh john: lackland...
the whole hiss-tow-stowwy...
i'm not pole: positioned...
i'm not...

    divorced from "my" people:
and the "mother" land...
                  Warsaw the last great end-venture...
keeping it up...
mawa: little old gone...
         in the hunch fabric of
lessening the diaspora approach...
you don't think i mind the missing links...
when there's a collected agenda for the purpose
of a purge of the intelligensia...
now... because only the Jewry suffered
a historical lineage of tonguies
towing complaints....

         **** it: the russian sayingly... newly invented:
**** me?! ******* too!
but in the english realm who's the lesser
******* among the polacks and the irish?
who's less gingerbreadman?
my side... most probably...
how will we ever let the 20th century become
past?
oh **** me... we will need another
war... but chances of that are...
sort-of-slim...

             no? it might begin with:
bypassing loan-words...
and how self-help gurus and famous psychologists
refrain from infiltrating lost hybrids of
focus, that there might be a clearaance to
discover society outside the realm of pop!
saavvy?
i don't like this...
psychological testimony of:
what's an alpha male?
not me... what's a beta male?
not me... what's a malaise?
what's an omega man?
everything that an alpha male is...
in that... there's an antonymous discharge
of needs... requests...
demands...

how many Irish still speak their...
diego / alfonso magic "whisker" ****?
that ******* Gaelic?
so much for aardvark "typo" in Scotch...
because it just so happens...
you speak an over exfoliation of lettering...
the aesthetically bogus: claim of...
no... no "originality":
i'm not even going to bother the higher
tier of diacritical markers to
instigate "something"...

but this whole: i'm a lesser "european" when
it doesn't suffice in north american parlance...
i'm sort of... em.... ******* bothered?
history seems to be a lesson
in teasing small-**** and the infinite
summary of infancy... last time i heard...
because the Mongols never made it to... "x"...
because the Turks never had ownership of Vienna...
because it took both the Nazis and the Soviets
to make me bow...
in England? the invention of snooker...
tennis... football... rugby...
bored people... obviously...

how: else: woudln't you have capacity...
need... to invent so many coliseum...
distractions to mind: and take seriously...
if you knew: you were an island dwelling folk...
and you staged your pride in not being
invade-prone...
a bit like the whole of east London's
pakistani-land...

wake up 40 years from now... from...
little bengali land...
the Pakistani grooming gangs of the supposed...
while i'm getting more and more irrritated
by paying for ***...
having Bulgarian ****** pretending to be
Romanian....
you see the grit in my use of teeth that aare never used to
nibble and conjure...
a "drying of bones"?

i will complain about the Irish as i will about the
tail-tan'ohs...
******* spaghetti slurppers...
we of the same European origins and the same
brain-drain... because the anglo-saxons
fiddled out a mechanism for...
a "coming together"... of...
a people... just like germany was confederated...
into a federality...
wow!

  the pope receding... on paper...
the Irish make complaints against the Polacks...
the Irish demean the Polacks...
nice nice... here's to me equipping myself with
Haitian "nouns"...
you, *******... ginger: knuckle-fiddle-numb...*****!
what Celt wishes himself to have
a Cyrillic ancestry?! almost all...

have your little i.r.a. memento...
       i'm only concerned about
a pomeranian, conrad... quest...
aren't the czechs / hungarians locked into
that... posit of being: without an access to
a "window"... hardly... that the baltic...
already is... Samaritan....

porsch monkey: among the slurrs... "poet"...
pshek in... denotative lingo...
it's a: thank you...
i call you worse:
    karot... burak... syberik....

thankful though: it's hardly a slur...
king John was known as lackland...
given the shrinking of the Angevin empire...
thus "we"... shrunk to the duchy of warsaw:
a satellite of Napoleon's ambitions...
then the Warsaw Pact...
pandering to the Bolsheviks...
blah blah: now more pandering to
woke ha-ha-h'americanacancan...
the mythological blonde: always on my mind...

the first words in my language
they managed to speak and they somehow managed to
call it a slurr... and polish: paul-leash isn't?
pole position, heading north?

say strawberry in ******?
TRU-S-KAWKA...
     paul's on a leash of nibbling on the quarters
and halves of would be barons of pandemonium...
we were teenagers once...
and once upon in an Ilford mall...
we bought compact disks...
rival schools... fugazi...
coal chamber's dark days...

  those where somewhat architecture days,
though...
you can't make this **** up...
you probably have had to live it, sort of.

- otherwise who can't forget the flight of the Jewry
from the area...
once there was a makeshift synagogue on
Coventry Rd.,
now there's a 7th day evangelical war band
gathering pulpit... source...
i was expecting a mosque: in all honesty...
it's a common suggestion:

now first comes the flight of the Jewry...
the whites are somehow 2nd...
but as i explained to my mother today...
i feel sick in a monochromatic...
homogeneous society...
i went to Cheltenham once...
to hussle my own self-published book...
i felt ill seeing so little minority
representation...
it's not like i'm brainwashed...
but among these minorities in Loon-dune
i'm a ******...
back in Warsaw i'm a feral animal...
among "my people" i'm zero-punkt-zero-nic...

the vagabonds of the world decide to congregate
in Loon'don... for some reason: ulterior or
altogether "other"...
the world has congregated:
is this still about the English having their
nationhood infringed?
perhaps from a perspective
of the Midlands... Birmingham...
but over 'ere...

funny that... i live in England...
but i probably interacted with more Irish
and more Scots than the supposedly
demographically first...
i probably encountered more Pakistanis too...

so what's the difference between
a Samaritan and a Sarmatian?
you're running? i thought i ran...
i might run... who's running?
is it raining?
is that... ****'ite iconoclasm?
sign me up...
            
but living among the Irish who are
not living in Ireland...
a tired old bunch... sometimes...
it's hard to fathom their identity crisis
since a whole swab of them
spoke a zilch of Gaelic...
it's like with these over-impressed
succcess stories of "integration"
from olive-pound land /
****** copper...

the parents want to integrate...
that **** backfires...
the grandson retains the tongue
to his grandma to speak
back to her her native...
yet his... "in-between"... "integrational english"
becomes a sick joke: stereotype...
almost a cul de sac accent...
the sort that has to breathe into a phrase:

oi oi! bown and bwead!
  em... bone and bread?
how does that work?
i guess it must work "miracles" from places
where the ingestion of gelatin is
foreign... transcending "foreign":
too alien to compose...

yes... detailing the promises of pork, pig...
the most economically sound
animal: beside the hoofs...
you can utilise almost... "almost": all of it...
one way of the other...
an animal that can never be a waste:
unless you're into dabbling into a cannibalistic diet...
plus... lamb... lamb: *******: stinks...
the aged lamb...
plus... how would you herd pigs...
pigs aren't herded...
it's a theological anger at...
camel-jockeys being unable to... harvest
the only potential of farm-food... via the pig...
pigs aren't herded:
i've only heard of a herd of pigs
and that's when there came a time
to treat a trough like an array of teats when
the porkies were 'ung...
is it a despised animal?
a despised animal because:
and the devil reimagined himself as a pig?

so god looks like a mythological blonde...
the devil looks like a piggish minotaur...
why this demise of pig?
why this gratification in the islamic mirror
of words looking accessible: i.e. dog | god...
my all mighty: allah: blah-lah...
fork in the road: are we 'appy... "now"?

but when you live among the diaspora of the Irish...
you'd sort of suppose... what's the gaelic for green?
now that the internet is here...
i can find out for myself...

why demean the pig? was the pig created by
the ******* devil?
or is this one of those Abrahamic ploy-toys...
rigidity structures...
to leave you surrendered...
go against anything else: beside the pig...
it's such an economic model, creature...
you can utilise almost all of it...

not all of us were born Afghan sheep
herders... savvy?
that eating pork is somehow signature
of inbreeding and s schizoid tinture...
wh'ah?! i lost the TAU along the way...
o.k.?!

it's a waste of time having arguments
with... oh forget: rag-muffin'...
inbreds... i wass thinking about ***...
i picked a spot... Rotherham...
Pakistani grooming gangs...
oh... right... here's a lollipop... here's some dosh...
i'll get a hard-on with a girl who didn't mature
into prostitution wtih a crack-******* 'abbit...

chances of me ******* low i.q. is like
zilch then? i imagine the tirades...
the knife-insinuations...
**** a barrister: **** for life...
settle down: solve **** concerninng:
immmovaable objects:
the sun still has "egotism" to rise
and call it tomorrow...
and her ******* own too: to boot...
imagine that!

why go after the pork 'n' pie?
why pet a dog?
why pet a cat?
     i've already mentioned...
sometimes lamb: just stinks...
lamb kidneys?
STINK... SCHTINK!
but you also can't keep pigs
in an environemnt where you also use
camels instead of horses... no?
no one is talking about this...
because... it's probably too obvious to have
to stress this ******* argument....

came the Ottomans... the Mongols...
the Soviets for a while...
came the Nazis...
why weren't we the people who championed
each other at snooker...
why didn't we invent football...
tennis... cricket...
rugby... i don't want to blame the English
for their race...
but they have been privileged in:
intra-"whiteness" terminology...

what English soldier ever stood ground
on ****** soil?
i've heard of ****** pilots having dog fights
for the battle of Britain...
how the enigma machine was not merely
the work of Turning...
etc. etc.
gravesend: i'm here reduced to "biasing"...
yet i'm giggling at the remote prospect
of "gravity"...

i have clues to concern myself over...
ownership...
          a hierarchy of a cascade...
time follows time...
this solo project of "individuality"
was never going to... "work"...

pending...

   connlach dearg...

    but the welsh still speak welsh... no?
i guess that Carlsbeg moment of:
probably the best'ly integrated people in
the world... the Welsh are...
they still exfoliate in having a punching bag
of their tow-tongue...
unlike that most, supposed... oppressed people
of the... anglophonic world affair...
the Reesh that speak no ditto of Gaelic...

who are, you, you people?!

like it were a letter extracted from another:
an iota from a psi (Ψ) -
or   "     from either theta (Θ) or phi (Φ)

ᛉ is not exactly an upside down
cross...
but all things run on
clockwork - here: around here...

but isn't the driving force:
this peter defying gravity
more than... what the "lord" and "savior"
managed with parched lips
upon golgotha:
i seek tel megiddo -
              i seek and i seek
and i'm nowhere to be found:
bound to a blindness that reads:
and this book will be required
reading for years to come!
and we will strive to
keep illiteracy paramount...
come the sudden switch-over...
we'll replace standard
literacy with: attempting
3D experiments on 2D canvas...
with coding the monster project
of a.i. -
    if i were a man that worked
for the n.h.s. and drew blood
for comforts of detail and
the necessity for still-life...

whatever the noun-denotation
of the hippy symbol: ☮...
                i have extracted the rune
from the omicron...

it's not heart-surgery -
                      old father Yr standing:
an elk beside a birch tree...
suppose there might be
some dog-esque antics of
******* against it...
lifting the impossibly invisible
lineage of linen to extract
that: suppose i were attempting
to sit in a saddle and ride a horse:
a dog that i am, *******...

i "suffer" for what zenodotus noted...
✝ 180°...
             i have before me a contest
from last night...
i wasn't even trying
to counter the original...
i started thinking:
how indistinguishable hope
is from doubt...

   clearly: the sensible chargehands
of philosophy in france
came with their existentialism:
in systems in clear-cut-packaging...
there was no room for
a plethora of emotions
associated with doubt...
there was an evolution of
the original statement -
but doubt was never to be invoked...
outright negation
as a pursuit: modus operandi of
sorts...

the original:
   - doubt (dubium) - it's still used...
something is dubious...
   - i doubt (dubio) -
god... so much of ******...
grammar-wise is akin to ancient
latin... pronouns are hidden /
incorporated into words...
  
          i arrived at no clear antithesis (
an-t-fes-sys)
           i didn't pry open
this stale bread with
sartre's outright negation policy
as moveable pieces...
that subjectivity is scarred...
that objectivity is nothing really
but watching shifting goalposts...
or a snooker match
or... a meditation on
neptune...
                  
     the original: dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
                            doubt, thought, being...
                dubitum, cogitatio, esse...
     can it... translate like such...
whether antoine thomas aptly capture
the truest of all intents:
so much of thinking goes to waste:
daydreaming - which never manifests
itself in being: anything but...

         i just wanted to come to the synonymous
project origin...
doubt is most certainly a plethora of
emotions: i never doubt by objective
standards: by doubting i am forever
subjected: subjective - etc.
objectivity is a certainty -
doubt doesn't allow me to be objective...
so the origins of a canvas...

but if in the public sphere people
are seriously debating 2 + 2 = 5...
via 2.4 + 2.4 = 4.8 = 5...
and they are... collage educated and...
there's no nuance of custard... leftover?
a butterfly effect...
over "there" there's a hurricane...
i am the anemic butterfly...

i will not come proving that
modern ****** is very similar to ancient
latin... it's painfully obvious to me...
życie: life
  żyje - i live
          życiem: with life...
życiorys - an accenting of life: nuanced -
perhaps even borrowing
from physiognomy...
          etc.

dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
  here's my alt. "interpretation":
hope is as uncertain as doubt is...
it's almost foolish to tinge hope with
certainty and doubt with uncertainty...
there's no real hindsight...
to bother with...
my hope is both an uncertainty and
a certainty: a doubled-edging at
the itch... an itch that would require
two hands to scratch it...

how does it sound, therefore?
   spero, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
i hope, therefore i think, therefore i am...
the original proof is undisturbed...
   pronoun that becomes a verb-complex
for an otherwise inactive noun
  spero becomes spe(s)...
                         cogito becomes cogitatio...
sum becomes esse...
                    
it's not very much different...
the original is intact...
all i'm attempting to deduce is that:
hope is very much a doubt...
that hope is doubt...
that both hope and doubt fathom
the same replica of emotions
in their bouquet of: deadening actions...
it's an impossible standard
for moving: the impossible
object: perhaps it was a pseudo-Sisyphus
tasked with inventing
telekinesis and moving
a mountain instead of a stone...
after all: it's not like someone
was tasking him with the deed
for eternity:
  a midnight cleaner in an office
block...
the tormented could have
simply sat and befriended
the stone with thought...
          without having to move it...
a stone a nuance of mirror...
a test to agonise the olympians
for having otherthrown
their predecessors...
time wasted... time earned...
    give me limbs of gravity...
give me: soul...
and i will outlast the gods lost
to their... belligerence...
no war against things inanimate!
always the war of tricks and ploys
to masquerade their own
inhibitions: taming that ol' sod
from the exploits of the harem etc.:
don juan-esque exploits conquering
a nun...
  
  it's such a boredom to:
not turn into an oak... wake in the night...
to settle for the polyphony of
falling rain... an imitation
of a time-dial where otherwise...
creep: sand is otherwise invoked...

the dictum commonly referred to as?
the cogito? shouldn't it be commonly
referred to as: the cogitans -
i.e. from res cogitans (thinking thing)
doubly i.e. the thinking
rather than: the i think?
a definite article invoked as precursor
to an escaped pronoun from
the clutches of latin wording?
the i? an i?
                ah...          "self"... / selb...
a norwegian pyre...
          joan of d'arc...
                                    
         it has to become an absolute indistinctness:
indistinguishable: ability:
            indistinguishability -
a lack of an ability: spell that in math:
a nuance of quadratics?
am i to exhaust my memory
bank of: what's phonetically simplest
and what has to become
this monstrosity of encoding?
parle parle parle...

i have to arrive at:
dubito & spero to be: indistinguishable:
before the sobering blow of:
cogito... that also requires an
outlet into being: of sorts...
i cannot distinguish between
hope and doubt...

      both are plethoras riddled
with mine of exploding salt...
i'm wounding myself on a crease...
it's hardly a thirsty dagger -
how would poetry of puritanical narration
freed from a theatre and a supposed
audience... entertain
a seance with bilingual schizoid
quads?
the hyper-inflated status of
native speakers...
the denigration of bilingualism as:  
oh: this little "thing" acquired...
nothing more: since not born
with...

it's blatantly apparent:
i couldn't possibly teach...
push a buggy through a muddied trench
i just might...
howl to satiate the moon
with a tinge of blue
and watch as blood turns to ink
on this illuminating scythe of
forwarded futures:
we must acknowledge a past
as a guilt and never a nostalgia...

Hecate: hecat(e) contra: hey-cat-e!
it's not impossible in how
the syllables cascade / are juggled...
god bless the sober judges
of the last remaining shadow:
as standard: before the execution
come noon...

                i am yet to read any phonetic
encoding from africa:
except for the hieroglyphics:
which have become a emoji standard
for: limp owl ghost limb etc.
why is it odd that
asiatic people, notably the chinese:
cannot write narrative:
and their poetry is only haiku?

spaghetti: even though they have
ownership of noodles...
it's not like these people have
words: they wish they could sing...

but if if you have such
syllable complexity as
𡔈 (chu) - not chew: choo-choo...
and that's already so complex...
but arrives back at
Marco Polo's altar that sacrifice
of c + h + u...
what's stopping you
from... exfoliating in:
an art designed for either
sanskrit spreschen or the arab jolly
bunch of camel jockeys?

well... it's not like 0 was ever
to be derived from a squashed
doughnut of oMICRON...
never!
   beta 8...
                  god! n'eh-ver!
if you were burdened with beijing...
syllables: no words...
no ******* words!
you wouldn't... somehow...
exfoliate in numbers?!
shrimp **** applause?
i stopped minding
the pride of africa a long time ago:
let's 'ave 'em those long
trunks of elephant
and blonde ***** attache:
trunks of: ***** ***** wooly woo...

but if you have complex
syllables: like the chinese have...
hell... the fugazi shoguns attempted
a dial-back...
simplified their efforts...
there's still that persistence for
'aiku...
       counts! the sticks! ths stones!
arrives back with tonnes
of matchsticks and no clarity
of: how a wild fire does so:
pre-emptive automaton d'uh:
'cos' no: that fog in the rational mind
of man has to persist...
incistently...

                like a borrrowing from
insomnia...
but you can imagine...
letters "magically" turned into
numerical grievances
and a system of germartia was spawned...
for the office of the grand rabbi
of kiev...
A would have to equal 1...
B subsequently 2...
but the ol' hebrews decided
to keep their vowels niqab to begin with...
so that became a lost cause...

officially the hebrew have an alphabet
with not vowels...
with exception the gay Adams
of Ayin and Aleph...
        i will not hand-over
this hangover for much longer...
by designation of the tribe and for the tribes'
allowance sake...
i curse the moon: i howl after it:
cognitivelly:
to free my neighbours from
the reality i have to digest...
call it metaphorical howling if you must...
i have, to, heave... this...
junction of "coincidences"!
i am mad for the purpose of taming
a tongue: arrogance need master(ing)...

tired wheels: the same old burnt rubber
as made synonym with muscular
tension...
the same wheel of crushing heel!
i am my own less arrogant
finnish quake dressed in mystery
of a bothersome dwarf and troll...
learn beijing secrecy they say...
escape the mundane emoji heiroglyphs...
what word in any of these african
tongues was ever inscribed
in a system of phonetic encoding?
it took me years to unearth...
yes: a GALOGOLITIC system
was there...
i was looking for the antithesis
of runes...
before the greeks and tha latin brats
spoiled
the adventure...

i'm asking without judging concerning:
how you can simply come:
come this anti-thetical mathemtical
brain-drain: slave-whipping
and tell not grieving authority:
this is, how... you will... GRIEVE!

in england: for a people that have
never been licked: teased by a mongolian
horde: only extracting -
"*******" sold by their own
aristocracy - coming to h'america...
i am! offended!
samuel l. jackson plays a common
robber armed with a 12" *****'s
worth of a shotgun!
i am! most! offended!
here's to the goon sq.!

           after all... linch me with
the sauerkraut: too many vowels...
too many vowels...
always with these ******* vowels!
like they simply forgot to
castrate the choir! ****'s sake!
if there's a bounty for an ottoman
castrato! i'll willingly pay for one!
i don't exactly feed a need
to **** one... as long as ******
hits the highest pitch notes of
squeel...
              to have exported africans:
olympic sized...
they didn't solve the "problem"
of intellectual jews without a sense
of irony: arbeit macht frei is...
well... a maxim for...
the germans having to glorify
the physical splendour of african
bodies... notably...
intellectual glorifications
remain in the gutters and the concentration
camps...
in the dust and grievances...
the mind is not allowed
telekinesis...

    i stand before a mirror and pretend to
chew...
its not exactly known as to what...
but i mimic -

九       which is 'nine': 9...
         denotes: jiu: a french concept of sauce...
that it's not "really" is another
poker hand refraining
from: the ol' 19th century wild card
romance of: we comes
as prior to the comes
of the conquistador comes...
having ****** the mayans
and the aztecs into...
the pyramids of giza?
no apple & pears?

the altar? elevated?!
             i come cannibal...
for the glory of the one true god:
yes... he has found new flesh...
bound to the scrutiny of africa
and the dull shamanism of mammon...
kneeling bloods of african-can-cannah...
moi?! truant jew?!
when this adventure took off...
my little people of north eastern
europe: concept...
where not invited into the history
of the roman empire...
don't ask me why they had
to focus on whittle ol' precursor
imitation afghanistan that's
now hang-man's-land
of -ing...
                          borrow me some sorrow
from can-can-attache?
or... haughty-stray-layla?!
                 to live among the scots...
is to best forget one's attempt
to live among:
white-flight Loondon...
         honest as might: becomest a
birth of a kippah donning god...

you want... a translation?
         łąnt... i can that i can...
translate phonetically...
it's to no one's aid:
unless i'd be scribbling with
choice of either braille or morse...
i WANT... look at that...
rigidness of letters...
then let it come alive!
add some diacritical scrutiny...
let european breathe into it!

crab bucket list: listing the near impossible:
deimension of: to do...
like my first and last litany of
best kept secrets...
this wettening of an oink:
strapped to an over-gresed...

to tell a solemnly swear:
this grit of supposed demoracy -
one lie is ahead:
thirty more to somehow make
it to: a coming...
i die a ******: not being one...
there's this lost ambition and there's
this ambition and karma
and a plot narration apiece
with: all the sensible saints
and hardly: any of them:
arrive at an angelic status...

what i once imagined:
as a freedom to think:
to narrate without a need to pursue
mute onto paper...
i once imagined thinking
to be aa freedom above speaking...
little did i want...
that it had to become
this itch for trigger happy...
and the octopus of hands
that learned a new lesion...
a tightening of tendons...
an overworked scrutiny of muscular
fibre... fat for brains...
to have to congregate upon
this same altar...
this same:

   given an... wait for it...
entre-prunal..  
french is "bad": english is just
as bad..
i see a tree: there's a forest...
scholarship: a word i want to be
left with...
entreprenaurel..

that's obviously a wrong
spelling... must be drunk irish...
must be...
        entry-pre-nautical...
entrepreneurial...
          pre-               neurotic?
god give the next
beijing latex queen tiger:
the power to spell...
    or rewrite a 9... into a new...
or neu...
                      wery much like
a sam weller to question my
sancho...
because the opera is a forever:
forever always sing-along...

it's almost a necessary joke...
what's the differene
between an anglo-saxon workaholic
and a west-slavic... alcoholic...
the latter doesn't call
you 10 minutes to 9pm
come a friday
with... neurotic demands
for a frivolous scrutiny of:
monday's are ripe...

the bad taste in my mouth:
i'm missing both a tooth
and a moth...
that anglo-saxons pair up
with the japanese:
consitency:
it's not infamous: it's true:
arbeit macht frei...
it's a solid mantra for:
peoples lost to the cogs
and machinery:
as i demand to watch:
humanity... suffer...

            it's almost very much so:
humanity requires this pseudo-deity
this demigod:
this shame-riddled observer:
third party "spokesman"...

i want to hear...:
the creasing of the cushion...
the arithmetic closure for...
bones that might have
concerned themselves
the completed "architecture" of:
sitting in a chair...
as one Iowan might translate to...
the hybrid promises of: a lot of Maine...
give me a losing promise:
this last craze!
i heave to have to dabble:
this old soviet curse!

this is not my tongue!
'ere! hear how i drop:
zeppelin conjunctions!

translate?!
dies ist nicht mein zunge...
hier: hören ich wie fallen:
  ladybirds auf: Livonian...
cruss... little be of V...
gott, mit, unß!

crescendo!      
get african multi-african: proper
******...
come prokofiev's battle
of the ice...
******* mongrel shelter
smacker erst piece...
you who do not own
a history of my my, own...
who are the arabs
concerning the quest
for explaining the niorthern
crusades!
barbarossa was pickled!
tired arabs?!
here: now!
hier: jetzt!
                teutonic branding
of colours:
schwarzkreuz: auf..
                  weißtaubefeder!

and i am... somehow... expected:
to tire of the forthcomings of
a "delicate" past?
this english ignoble... precursor...
**** the hellish all that
might require: needs to Elgar!
who is Elgar?!
who the **** is Elgar?!

i tire of a people that are yet to know
the experiece
being involved in a mongolian: tirade...
or... a post-scriptum of... ha!
sever... this grandiosity:
this teutonic plague!

Time is always in the past

Even now

Is in the past

Now

All the years I will spend waiting

Will eventually be one with

All the years I have spent waiting

Still, I will wait

Very Zen...

But it's not because I am patient

I am not a patient boy  hums Fugazi

Or some studied guru or master of meditation

Nor am I Rip Van Winkle, for that matter

But if you ask me if I'm waiting, the answer is as it has always been:

Yeah, I'm waiting....

Circumstance-severed ties
Shine like fugazi
Labor under lies
Instead of being, set free

Smothered in shadow
Beneath that Giving Tree
Struggling to let go
The aftermath of deceit

Falling for the untrue
Failing my destiny
Calling out for proof
Smoke-signaling my sanity

Glumping in the runkle of a midge twitch
with a slinky and a serrated rainbow jackknife-
tucked into a barley-cork for daylight
at a full stop...

at Night.

some sort of contraption;
the actual
beating heart of the moon
noteworthy for gazing
at the Fugazi
of our
work

without a star to pin
to a moon’s compass
however Noon.

Trading on our whimsical affairs, we spice the McGuffin
with a pinch of twee smirk and malicious vermouth.
we gin the rigor of our spiral descent with a debauchery
to span the bloat of our delusions
combing the banks of our foggy creek beds
for applesauce
and farthings.
leaping into the shriek
of our lull.

undaunted by the stars
at the edge
of the
worst.

as we pillage
unrefined
and

unrehearsed.

days like these... i am left without any writing
ambition...
        was there any to begin with?
ambition... and writing?
                   i wouldn't call it anything: more -
this unnecessary more it already has become...
it's not an ambition,
but it's also not an escapism...
         it's sure as hell not some...
                    take on sylvia plath or anne sexton:
"treatment"...
writing either comes... or it doesn't...
and if it does: it does... and if it doesn't: with days
such as these: it really shouldn't...
but my once favourite jukebox is feeding
me a glitch... very old videos of content creators
and "new" music...
so i felt inclined to comment on that...
otherwise a snapshot of the day:
the t.v. didn't need me...
             but i still managed to squeeze in one
episode of gangs of london...
and i'll be ******* if anti-t.v. people wouldn't
find this gripping: zombie-eating-brains...
day... a very continental breakfast...
work in the garden...
                     then marinating some pork and chicken...
piri-piri and tomato puree: with additions...
like paprika, taekyung powder and tatlı (e)
ipek pul biber - turkish i'm guessing for sweet pepper
flakes... a dash of apple cider vinegar...

the pork marinated in... dijon mustard...
soya sauce... honey... garlic... etc. etc.
  
you can most certainly undercook pork...
best with undercooked beef:
well it's on a bbq...
                  it's not some fine dining...
among the neighbours... i wanted what the gardens
could be used for... since...
i see myself on a desert island with people
in the vicinity strapped to b.d.s.m. gizmos
indoors... not even for a suntan is the garden
used... or for... watching birds...
i can count at least 10 different types...
sitting and having a lazy cigarette...

     but chicken! you can't undercook it!
but getting it just right... well... chances of overcooking
it as slim...
more slim than overcooking pork or beef...
people who want a stake well done shouldn't
ever be allowed to eat steaks to begin with...
in the old restaurant... the smoking section...
the non-smoking section...
a section for people eating stakes...
and people of the bland persuasion that
want to doubly-butcher their beef:
the roast beef section...
all the gravy... all the trimmings...
the baked potatoes the yorkshire puds...

yeah... that might work...
        so much for reading up on schizophrenia
in julian jaynes': the origin of consciousness
in the breakdown of the bicemeral mind:
halal: implied idiot in hebrew...
not it implies kosher in arabic...
  and the "analogue i"...
             anything of psychology from the 60s
and an "i" with a prefix: just fine...

for lack of a better narrative:
a through (b) starting from (a) and ending up
at (c): here's a narrative with a quantum
leap... a lost pocket of reference:
IV + XV = XIX!

                    that happened come mid-day...
and a welcome break on the "throne of thrones":
alias for a *******...
to use the body in such a way that
the mind can be: more... but less and less
a constipation... more: akin to the unconscious
liver / kidney... a sponge central of
the connectivity of eyes, ears and prickly skin:
goosebumps...

"analogue": more like... collage...
an "enzyme" thrown into a "harem" of rats...
to subsequently watch them scuttle away
in... or... better... lifting a nearing rot
piece of wood... and finding the "grub"
cower when exposed to sunlight...
spiders... earthworms... house centipedes:
living in the garden...
analogue: continuously variable physical quantity
except for... a break in continuity...
and the invitation of: quality...
   zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance...
quality, quality, quality...

               alive in a truly: "static": status quo world...
or thereabouts...
supposed so...
when i can forget that the mind has by extension...
soul and god involved...
on its laissez-fair good days...
in an armchair of plotting an escape with
merely a breath...
               high minded: needs for "reading"...

    so much for catching up on my posthumous
writings of the pickwick papers by dickens...
maybe another perfect day...
a most perfect day: to be neither in love...
nor an angel of vengence...
                    to not hate but laze...
and by laze i implore myself to stress:
turn the brain into a kidney
and say: the kidney will not think...
the brain doesn't have to:
nor that it ever did...
where is my... exoskeleton of thought,
conscience, "consciousness"... soul and god?
drifting away with the clouds
while i remember the bones... the ****...
the esophagus rhetoric of backwards: if i wish...
and down the flush "alley":
literally... a choice of words riddled with
misnomers because: by misnomer it's so much
easier to forget a bank filled brimming with:
"too many" nouns...

back to music...
the only new music is the old music...
a chance refreshing of a fugazi catalogue:
nomeansno came up...
"intelligent punk rock" from the canadian
west coast...
so much verbiage in the description...

new music... yeah? fostermother - fostermother (2020)...
clouds taste satanic - the glitter of infinite hell (2017)...
for me... new implied:
godspeed! you, black emperor...

i must be getting old... 34 is pretty daft:
if it must be deemed as old...
            well... let's put it this way...
bukowski because: why not?
   that classical music "lost plot"...
classical music... it's such a tedium...
        fair enough for an event...
but i can't reinvent a bedroom an armchair...
a hunched body of crow metaphor bliss with it...
too strict the club and entry requirements...

jazz has aged so well...
whatever it was supposed to be with its worth
of the 20th century with the beatniks...
the choir girls... the homosexuals and the trumpet
players... the "experimental" load o' *******...
******* or no *******...
certainly no ******* dunked into mint mayo...
to state the extremes...
  
today... the 21st century is only 20 years old...
and i'm listening to gerry mulligan's night lights...
and: it's beyond... what's supposed
to age for the generic applause...
lazy trumpet... lazy guitar...
gerry mulligan... chet baker... kenny burrel...
not big orchestral jazz bands...
shady bars... and if i walked into a brothel
that played jazz than that...
tapeworm hypnosis of boomboomboom...
i'd consider it a church and a harem and never:
subsequently leave...

i took out the garbage: pretty adamant to
do all the right sort of recycling...
1963... that's what? 57 years ago...
the 1990s sitcoms missed the influences...
the thoroughfare of soap-opera marathons
from either england, turkey or mexico...

of the mention new music:
i'm not... "ageing"... i've reached a boring
plateau... the old flame of youth...
has fazed out...
             new music: i don't have an energy
for it...
music when growing up:
that i will still listen to... pearl jam...
offspring, silverchair... king crimson(?)...
but the new stuff...
old **** galore... better with some jazz than...
sometimes: yes... the odd excuse for Prokofiev...
but... pretending to be the maestro...
waving one's hands about in some sort
of vague appreciation: when a woman,
and drunk: it's good to know i can see cringe...
and it's my mother...

          perhaps: it would have been nice
to have invested in the idea of grandchildren...
but that would have implied:
having children... and a gambler's luck...
i never liked gambling...
the most i ever gambled was probably
2 quid on football scores...
a quid on the national... a religious institution
in england... for that one race...
i don't like gambling...
i like... the blank page inquisitive of me...
centipede of eyes...
c.c.t.v. god of wish-fulfilled omni-presence
of the litany of adjectives...
but that doesn't really matter...

it would have been nice
to have invested in the idea of grandchildren...
after all... i would be...
but that rome was built on fostering children:
somewhat... that's also a novel idea...
but dealing with 50% of you in a son or daughter...
with grandchildren that's only a 25% replica
of you...
        god forbid ******: talking about 75% of you...
if the rich started to clone themselves:
i can't imagine the hell: but a mirror is enough
to face once a day...
twice a month is just enough too...

jazz has aged really well...
2020 is a good year for jazz and even if there's no
wine... there's the lazy ms. amber...
classical music peaked in the 20th c. for me...
i can, i will... appreciate it...
if i want to give my heart a chance
to steal my eyes and create a waterfall of emotions...

- and perhaps new music...
i missed what became emo...
although i was still around for a.f.i.'s sing
the sorrow album...
how?                         filofax...
floppy disk 3.5"... dial-up... age of empires...
final fantasy VII... KMFDM: juke joint jezebel...
******... choke: doo...

sometimes the sorrows of:
not being part of the chinese one child state policy...
mother's fear... birthday...
may... 1986... chernobyl: 26th april 1986...
a nice whittle tattoo i too have...
if i had wings: i had one removed...
thankfully the shoulder-blade was kept
intact...

perhaps a brother, perhaps a sister...
perhaps my own little scoop of "solipsism"...
burden of "genius"...
no angel, no demon...
just a companion of: posit in sigma -
displaced attributes...
            weasel... a way out...
                   groom of spaghetti tangles...
      that turn into tapeworms that
turn into placentas and
foetuses in the sky: fully membraned
egos of confrontations...

                libido blues: but the "idiots"
will surive: double their claims of harvest!
numbers have no coinicidence
of effortless heart that do no:
necessarily buckle...
shoe-shine georgie met the hyper-inflated
cultural exchange: excuse...
for this trough: the pigs would eat...
the dogs would eat...
met with grimmaces...

              jazz allows me to wisen...
i can walk into a room filled with air...
scratchings of violins and...
i cna ignore the music...
take to treating it as... less...
an altar for maggot sacrifice...
a gig an altar of the idols...
i can escape it with attired and ulterior
motives...
captivate myself with a game of chess:
thought only: without playing anything
beside metaphorical chess...
as i will be playing metaphorical poker...
not actual poker...

imagine my anticipation of a circus:
******... a poatcard from either Tangiers
or Istambul...
crocodile juice from Kiev...
magic mushrooms from Helsinki...
but that's just my luck...
sober... nationalistic peoples...
Loon'don...
the welsh the scots and the ghouls of
gaelic on the "periphery"...
Dublin or "somewhere"...

                    and ms. amber and deciding...
what to do with the leftoever
rainbow trout caviar i used for christmas...
once... and now will have to use once
more... somehow...

thank god for this gift...
and this day... so easily... so made...
pristined and made by per se a complexity...
and... almost literally:
the best idea for coughing up fog.

let's be fickle in a democracy -
let's be democratically fickle -
   pheasant one evening:
           a wholesome broth of bother the next...
this is not a political poem:
you'll soon see...
             it's not in a democracy
there's a status quo "tyranny"...
          the same hands shake: when changing
gloves...
but this is not a political poem...
it's... a fickle poem...

20 minutes into "surfing" the internet...
looking for the jukebox that once was
that once was youtube...
and not that keen on using last.fm...
   circa 2006 very much so:
that's how i came across porcupine tree etc.

- how i love drinking and listening
to music... and then: off the perch i cascade down
to scribble: long lost the hand-writting...
if this is a forever of getting used to
being a "lucky duck": a dyslexic's nightmare...
an ambidexter...
                  
        which you could quote:
if i were donning a sort of niqab that...
was a veil: + below the eyes...
                        not an ambidexter pianist?
this... the alternative... universe where this is true?
all of us being looked using
spectacle specifically designed for the sort
of Daltonists that...
      would... make the calcium of the dover
cliffs come out: sulphuric and therefore canary...
lob-sided architecture of
the imperfection that was... and is...
       the vitruvian man: alias: quasimodo...

some remains of nirvana:
  a twist of punk, grunge and... indie...
            "post" and a modernism 2.0 etc.
i'm no john peel and i don't come along
for a hard-on for any "proper terms":
because... the library is: over' v'er...
"somewhere"...

   because we're talking about the year 2001...
i was... ****... 4 years to 1990...
10 years to 2000... and a year to wait to come
up with: hell... being 15!

              the year is 2001...
i care because only recently i was looking through
the sunday times' culture magazine...
and a band i do remember from: aeons ago...
the strokes... released their debut: this is it...

and i was reading this album review...
because... the strokes did a comeback...
        the newspaper culture cohort made a note
of: the new abnormal...

               for the music i'll spare myself
the already boiling embarrassment... of "narrative"...
oh sure... fast paced: almost akin to a spy thriller novel...

look no further: glum... details in culture...
of something new...
                    i told myself...
you find something... music it is...
and curating for mr. absolute...
                       and perhaps the chance:
        blitz...
                            
                           the strokes... because... culturally...
it mattered to the newspaper to revive...
10 minutes in and if i'm not getting anything
that's no more than soap-opera or
tabloid press...
          i'll sentences myself to silence and
pretending to drink... and harvest a chapter
off of Dickens: the new bible for me...

       on repeat: Dickens can... casually...
on a good day... on a bad day...
                 do more than Shakespeare could...
because there was no bad day for a Shakespeare...
the whim... the breath... the oracle and
the muses needed to mind-**** those hands
into scribbling and rhyme...
rhyme: the lesser geometry...
          but Dickens... should have been taught
at schools...
why Shakespeare still needs to be...
turning in his grave over have schoolchildren
scrutinize his work...

   Dickens: bible darling: every day any day:
all day long over...
                              and i promised myself
that if i didn't find anything...
and even if the strokes released this is it
back in 2001...

       there's another...
                     that other quondam relic of 2001...
which was never given the same traction
of journalistic interest...
        fugazi... and the album?
                                       the argument...

the landline isn't working: the vinyl factory is burning -
i can't remember the last time
i used a phonebook... come to think of it:
i never used one...
                        talk and on the cheap:
i do remember licking a stamp...
and an envelope...
                                    
   nothing political: but democracy and its
status quo "tyranny"... bewildering in how anti-cruel...
and... dispossessive concerns this fudge
passes from one pair of hands to the other...
last time i checked: the argument for veganism
was... you eat the meat: you eat the fear...

                           that once upon a time...
oysters were... hardly a... delicacy... but something
to be eaten by the east end clot... "of bother"...

of no concern: this is hardly a competition...
a steady diet of nothing from 1991...
                   and no mention of sonic youth...
exits only...
                    and only that...
                              backrolling with the barbarians...
a comparative literature course:
from Dickens... through Beckett ending up
at Burroughs...
                          and then...
       well... Rapunzel? the grammatical overview
of sumerian?
          much closer to home...
                 rzecz:        жэч    (thing)...
   but what russian doesn't have is...
                      rzeczą (with / using a thing /
to be a thing)...  and no... the indefinite article (a) /
the definite article (the) are more or less...
for now... an english "thing"...

   Dickens mentioned: orthography...
but... can you have a concept of orthography...
without diacritical marks?
isn't the claim: orthography: nothing more
than... merely a... spelling mistake?

after all... an orthographic error is...
            śmieh to zdrowie → śmiech (correctly)...
etc. because i'm not here to bother...
   it's not an orthographic error:
when both nothing and... no thing actually
coexist... depending on the emphasis...
or lack of... i.e. i know nothing...
                          and... x has no (other) thing
of comparison to exist with for a worth
of default...
         something: some things never change...
because there's a difference between something...
or other... and... some things: which can never
become: something - since there is no: "somethings":
or "nothings": as there are: no things of said
description...

                   known knowns... known unknowns...
unknown knowns... and gnomes...
          unknown: unknowns... orthographic gnome
garden of donald rumsfeld...
                
a nice little rubric:
     noga (foot) - nogą (using a foot)...
             mowa (speech) - mową (using speech)...
     but... only partially true:
   widelec (fork) - widelcem...
      barometr - barometrem
                                              -em
                                               -ą  "sumerian" suffixes...
since apostrophe 's is hardly a suffix
when it's: a plural article...
                     and a possessive (possession) article...
or... capitulation to 'ort-'and...
                         it's: it is...              
and how the apostrophe "disappears"
                                its: red colour:
                                                      but­ for me that's...
pedantic orthography when no diacritical
marks are involved...

                     enough... not as a language: as a whole...
with... no clarity of invested in interests... for...
anything beside: a vanity project it could be...
a one off... but that it keeps recurring...
no amount of labour: for this iron maiden...

a whiff of the topic... nothing more... a teaser.

I'm talking fuzzy in a freight train of thought
I'm in the hood holders and boxcars, some of them keep passes
I'm locuting about the things we were, within the neighborhood
Part of these merry conversations, I look at my ears
From outside, I might be drunk
Not yet, as long as it's nighttime and nightcap time
The next day waits for me to leave life in the tide of indelible relief
My legacy in a catchphrase mucous membrane of delightful freedom
Crap and fuliginous Fugazi's, a part of belonging to the real things
I wondered a bit in vain and people lurk across the legacy steel
Tumescent buildings towering the moon, ebbing against the Sun and red herring crossed the desert

i just want to live a little: drink a little
ms. amber and most definitely
spill some of her on some pretend mahogany...
like i might be toasting
with the dead...

         all this life: so thoroughly
uncomplicated: sustained by uncomplications...
slyly smoke one cigarette...
perhaps two... at most three...
and still tell the white lie:
yes, i've quit smoking tobacco...

insert both snigger and a giggle:
but i love the taste and the momentary
****** of carbon monoxide
into the brain...
so, yeah: i probably might quit...
when i see a blue moon
or an u.f.o.
         "problem" i have seen the latter
and... it was all squid lile
and phosphorescent
and piccadilly circus esque neons...
i had no phone to take
a picture with...
at best... i could have shouted
at it or thrown a beer bottle at it...
for jokes...

hell: back into the life of...
mediocre...
                 into the general area of
prescribed grey...
into sitting on a couch
and not feeding goosebump
sensations of a roller-coaster...
it's enough that a main ****
luvvie-dubby is willing
to snuggle up to me...
for reasons i am trying to understand:

why do animals... like...
certain people...
why are children inquisitive about
this lineage of frankenstein...
i don't know what i would have
to get up to being given the graces
of a dorian grey outlook...
if i were handsome and generically
pristine...

i just, oh: i just don't know...
i couldn't feed mining for both coal
and idiosyncrasy -
this is me...
    jumping trains: just pretend...

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrists away...
and the priests and the prostitutes...
or so i hope...
given that i have had dealings
with all three...
it's not wonder that i want
to exhaust a need to rekindle interactions
with these assorted lots of toothpicks...

how ******* bogus it must sounds:
my soul hurts...
pose that question to any
atheist or proto-materialists
and the remedy would be what?
synonym counter of asthma?
my soul ache...
                         an itch i cannot scratch...
blessings these concerning
toothaches...
i finally appreciate...
a need for toothaches...
a toothache allows me a gratitude
for three-dimensional orientation...
i've leave this ol' oyster of a tongue
behind: to prove the point...

- so that's why i will never write
a novel!
i abhor lying: i like being robotic...
plain monochrome and at best
two-dimensional when i use words...
to lie to write fiction -
bold underlying essence of
imagination...
but it's hard when you are
curated for outlets that don't
allow imagination to be detailed
with a willingness on your beset
exhaustion of will...

      the detail in the symptom of:
negated ease...
let's just cut corners and write
a proper cipher...

yes... this evening...
i will settle for all these words of truth...
truth can be shortened
and can't be faked...
i'll take the swagger with
the freely available whiskers of whiss and key
and... doing some cliche
"queer" - ahem - "thing"...

some the smiths
or some
                 placebo... covers...
hell.. the gun club - or some fugazi...
something that allowed itself
to age...
            after a morning listening
to bbc radio 3... i don't exactly shake
with inheritance to repay
a life of bach or schumann or schubert
or... prokofiev...
the freely available material
had all the overtones of
      giving out governmental relief...

so that's how it feels: to beg...
              come to think of it...
when art can be settled as a solitary project...
when an oeuvre can be reached:
it's there a procrastinating absentee
horizon's worth...
  this goo this google this custard:
this fudge-brain sloth...
                        accenting out a replica
Kandinsky...
this is enough: this is most certainly enough...
i can still retain pride
and i can still retain "honour"...
because what i've written didn't
take much: it rarely should...
i will settle for the lazily done so...
and put all my energies
on glug-glug-glug
   and the ears propped up to the smiths...

to write fiction would be
what has to be so impossible for me...
to lie: it's not that i abhor lying:
i just find myself incapable to do it...
and if fiction is not lying:
then it's probably, at best...
imagining oneself as lying...
    i have been grieved with
symptoms that stress:
some things you will rarely want
to imagine...

              to be alone in a house
where sometimes you hear a murmur
of a cat waking from one
sleeping session
beckoning a second...
and there' a pristine vacancy
of a talk outlet reaching your...
meta-hearing...
meta-ear...                   it's all a jargon...
but if you know what words
to be equipped with...

                   for all its worth...
a feast of a day... and i didn't force myself
to remember Paris from circa 2004 - 2007.

In dips and forms
they seek themselves from others
flinging images of translucent frames
catching reflections mired in vagaries aflame
and hollow whimsical aggregations dusted and booted
such as surround themselves with compeers to court verdicts
whence in whole its the unspoken that beholds the accessories
in show though the allies of bling's dangle fugazi in blinding poses
and sway in possessed rhythms to the chanted cymbals of gilded lies
never in reckoning the wisest counsels should live and come from within.........