i return to these words that are barely
an architectural promise of a house as a mere:
rummaging squatter,
that this will eventually become
scrutinised by eyes beside my own...
well it's not like i rhyme-on-the-cheap...
i've been trying to watch some penny
dreadful episodes:
what would woman do without
the devil; i suppose man tangled with
god is nothing but an obnoxious brat...
the devil of emotions
and their plethora; this belittling god
fiddling with stones and creases
in york oak stand-alones...
                          then it came like
an itch: poached-taming-(of a)-toe...
just a tatty... a humble:
i am pretty sure i saw the letters
prefix a toad somewhere: po-ta-to(e):
ah... there! poached tame toad...
a sputniks for a brainz...
in penny dreadful: john claire
the name of victor frankenstein's monster:
oh dear old god: this continued
exasperation with poetry:
one must live a most unsatisfying life
to cross the rubricon of
old testament anemia:
            i think i admired wordsworth too... -

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...
i will not heed to market emphasis...
(Ꝛ if you might ask:
there's no leg to stand on...
the "R" falls into a turddle -
a tumble: a trill)...

ꝛ - a missing hammer: it would seem...
a sickle my dreading of apparents...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

clamour for the subjective experince...
none of this: hammer to a nail
sort of "magic" that leaves
one... sensibly "ostententious":

a semi-decent poem contra:
a good night's sleep...
always the latter...
   but unlike today:
6am wake... giving blood for
scrutiny - subsequently...
a broad need for 4 hours in...
a makeshift wilderness...
from Hainault Forest
to Havering County Park...

                        i would clearly have
to start all over again...
should i mind reading back into Tironian
notes and what i had expected to find...
it will suffice to mind...
the characters of empress wu...

         國 (guo)

beginning: coming back to bite some back
from a beijing pork belly:
where you'd first have to make caramel
from the sugar dissolved in oil:
before all the wine would care to glisten...

             𤯔 (ren)...

                              in reverse:
ren-guo - people (of) nation...
                      walking past this field:
impromptu: please keep off of field...
that's what i read...
      this was exclusive -
there was not need to denote further...

and this funny oddity:
saying good-morning or a hello
in an environment that's beside...
walking down the street with a stable
hound of anonymity surrounding
crisp grey blockage of: the amass!
yet people are so expecting
a common courtesy to brief you
on a morning: good...
is it? incessantly so! apparently!
switch them to the torment of the cements
and the back-to-basics apathetic crew
is on the counter...
ghost faces...
  but push them far enough to be alone
and into nature:
they pass a stranger and apparently
demand a prompt: hello!

i go into a depth of nature like
i have *** with prostitutes in a brothel:
i want to have as little to do with talking
that i'd loan: smothering someone
to shut up...
i came for the crows the knee-high-hallubaloos
of nonsense that...
i will extract myself to break
fasting to give blood by foraging
some blackberries...

i still prefer the lesser democratic voices...
it's not that robert duncan was going
to be a stand-alone show akin
to gibsberg...
but... my house is currently in disarray...
i'm playing chess by having
a makeshift kitchen in my living room...
i don't even know where the spices
are! but i'll manage
to bake a **** fine moroccan kobhz!

- this little but current focus for a genetic
"protection": half of me,
then a quarter, an eight, a sixteenth,
a 32-and-a-third... jump toward
64... 128... and... from all these fractions:
half and half:
beauty is no longer viable:
i imagine love as being a prized
bull kept for nothing except
for ******* the gene pool silly...

that's "love" from a darwin from
a materialism: breeding racing horses
or... both the submissive
and the contentious workers -
pay up! but i am not looking
for the generic beauty of
the plateau of the women
employed as surrogates
in this darwinistic harem...
            
isn't it obvious? it would have been
better have be allowed ourselves
to be dead: aborted...
but then: critter load: make-up...
i actually offend my own existence
by affording these dorian gray
parades to take hope in puruing
norms...
i like the scaps i like the wounds
i even like nibbling on the shellfish!

****-****** literature is my achilles
heel...
better a heel than trodding along
with faking a ******* knee...
robert duncan... jack spicer...
i like reading eyes by (metaphorically)
licking up the ****...
and it's not like i might give good head...
i employ a growth of
***** hair to convert my chin
to a niqab like i might: perhaps blink...

then again: face-masks and fashion?
is... this... somehow...
a "thing"?
            well it must be new:
it's nothing from the sort
of the elders i might care to remember...
i walked the scenic route...
blackberries and horseshit...
everything is baking in a procrastination
of: tickle the rats' nibbling...
scrutiny of the lesser of the food
hierarchy: omnivore that i am...

yes... that i like petting criters
that find themselves adamant in their
superiority...
but who have yet to see me:
teasing myself with
a: what if...
                 hours match-up to
not keeping count: there's a fog of them
that goes way back to...
out of the womb... then abandoned
by the scholastic detail that
allows them to float: limbless...
and then return to earth: degenerate...
and less than amiable...

        douglas murray is probably
a hot topic... i too sometimes bewilder myself:
it would have been best to have
allowed the pendulum to swing both ways...
but he (ol' doug) speaks very well:
his writing is... beside the generic...
salt of grain: akin to my own...
for a cubic's worth of water...

    i don't want this tongue to be somewhow
exasperated with concerns for this / an "art"...
or that it can belittle a scientific bone...
thrown to the politics and red herring marches...
spins the doctor: no plates...
forever the new lies
kept in the same old... rhetorical: quirk-and-quickness
of the quilled-tongue...
a knock-knock stone cold: generic...
must: mediocre...
tired of living tongue of poetry
that has to become tired:
truth has to tire so easily...
so that politics: and the freshness
of lies and the no-niche-audience-allowance
can cast their:
"vote"... their... archaic... illiterate "X"..

i will not poetry for rhymes for
exasperations - fooled i: to you: to pursue
that paragraph of fiction - either...
but as freely as this will not:
become an exercise in myopic-claustrophobia...
so it will not rhyme:
perhaps: to advent a coming of my
prescribed punctuation:
but more: your own, your "post-nationalistic"
canadian:
something the people of India or
China will not share with you...
because:
they are still of the mindset: China...
India... hell! Russian is towing suitor!
individualism collapses nations...
whether with a homogeneity of ethnicity
or the heterogeneity of liberalism...

           a wonderful collage of stories...
from the 20th century:
agony aunt israel bewildering
to either confront or defend...
            2000 years have somehow passed
and: europe is no new: "anew"...
it's the same old bland palette
of readily ethno-primed availability
of spices...
hurrah for thyme! and rosemary! mint!

from some mythical above
to this drudge of the pressurised castor -
there was something about robert duncan
that might always have:
made me... diverge from...
it could have been expected...
stash a tonne of bricks by day...
weave in an escapism posit of cinema
come sabbath...
now... escapism into... where?!
critical reignition of marxism:
that sort of marxism my parents escaped
from from under the old soviet
yolk of the satellite state
of poland: thank **** i too am an
immigrant:
but i see no repatriation politics
either...
               go back to a state of
the littlest of all bald envy necropolis
Impoleons?

            no among my native people:
among the natives of these isles...
a thespian: knee deep in ****...
           faking best predicts a survival
rate of this uncoiling...
it's a nation full of: self-
pre-determina...
                  automated prefixation that
can never allow itself to:
make sensible coagulations
of the odd sociable pint...

this atom world this atom's worth
of man...
best life lived as designated
to a harem...
  my and my leftover "blues"...
this world of god and the adventures
of...
no longer available...
thus this one "reality" presented:
playing by man's rules
for the purpose of man's eventual:
transcendence...
a dwarf riding a hunchback
        toward a goal that's a talking donkey!

what's otherwise best?
this has to be an: exercise in futility -
that it had to come from somewhere like:
borrowed prior -
that it could only be borrowed prior:
this tongue had to be inherited:
it could never be acquired -
that a native speaker is...
of a higher status to a bilingual -
because the earth breathes rights...

i forget: i am not equipped
with the desirable physiognomy -
problem being:
when i might find black males
attractive like i might lions: distinct...
i have this ****** on my brain
that says to me...
  well... well...
     i'm not gay.. but i'm certainly
not heterosexual:
even if Flaubert might ask the question:
blondes, brunetters - afro-beauties:
ivory envy?
  what can i do? fest on a hard-on
chemical "oops" / short-cut?
i can't possibly have... a beijing fetish?
a mongol fetish?
i can't? there's only one variation
of interracial mixing...
i guess... so...

     it would be so much easier
to just be gay and leave this world
with a ******* massive **** salvo
of: not coming back!
               to **** a black girl:
not enough...
to not **** a black girl: doubly knot...
******* a lemon while
staring at the sun:
the sado-masochism of
all the post-colonial empires...
and me: whittle ol' resurrected
******... or searching:
the elder prus - the new estonians...
some little european *******...
i imagine...
going to Kenya and running
for parliament:
to concern myself for the voices
of the: minority!

it's... fiddling with the already
prescribed narrative:
trying to make a lee evans jokes
out of it... but...
it's not ******* happening woe-o'-sunshine...
is it?!
it's not like i'm strapped
to a northern monkey
reservation... while still retaining
my: immigrant southern fairy:
commuter hell "debate":
this is not devonshire...
this is not bristol: i'd love to scoop
up a life of a decade's worth
up in Bangor... but it's not even that...
pay by way to:
a collective identity crisis of:
zee vest...
            
if it's anger: perhaps...
it's more a seance in glorifying confusion:
it was once perhaps a little
bit... naive...
but then... who's naive enough
to repeat two-folds of yesterday
within the confines of a day:
to- / to- are not future even
if subjected to incremental changes...
fx/dx changes that might
spawn alternate realities...

        the breaking of a donkey's dollars
worth: i do fishing in the indian sea...
with some... somali pirates...
it's not like i'll ever wake up from
this guilt... the guilt that might
riddle a people that inherited...
i inherited exile from my fathers...
i inherited: no...
the ****** aristocracy didn't tend
to their garden... there was no Eton...
no rugby no football...
there was only a partitioning...
to look toward the past is
an agony that i wish to only hide
in the english countryside...
after all, i thought: who would't want...
make a feast of conquest of this land...
but in a way that was norman:
that the anglo-saxon debauchery could
be... delianted
and brought to a celtic-esque heel...
with a dash of neo-paganism:
a york-up sort o' pie...

without disturbing this dilligent
people of: a most fervent... attention to detail...
it's an island... it's devoid
of any continental squabble...
no mongol ever... no ottoman ever...
it break my heart...
it reminds me: although it shouldn't
remind me...
the aristocratic class (they deem themselves
as much, so why deny them?)
of this country are like the ******
aristocracy
of the three partition "era"...
as napoleon was celebrated "elsewhere"...
with the resurrection
of the duchy of warsaw...
and... england made a beef from
a wellington...
and how the confederacy of germans
repaid the english during the first:
thirst for war...

                   a shogun's pride:
no one would invade japan:
given the persistence of pressure
from a civility of: glamour creases...
it's still the ******* canon rolling
the pawns and pins...

i have but this little interlude in time
to entertain: a history i have learned...
beside citing the obvious apple
hanging on a tree...
who? the burning vietnamese monk?
that's who i am going to... erase...
2000 (circa) years of history with?
this is how i play: conquistador-catch-up?!
this is my whittle muhammad
stage-fright?!

these new surgical masks are
not imitations of the niqab...
the arabs are not drying up their dinosaur
marrow reserves and are not
scouting for willing sodomite freshers
to their gargantuan wealth-soiling
of "morals"?
no? this is all... a pauper's conspiracy
theory... god!
i try to imagine the conspiracy
theory of kings!
it must invite a realisation of
a god or gods...
and at least a quarter of an abstaining
pademomium!

the poets and the sceptics
living under: the... gates are open...
a republic under "scrutiny"...
the philosophers and the
geocentrists - have allowed
for nothing more... than this...
thespian "bureucracy" of
shadow "fiddling"... tail with now:
tail best quite...

attention spanning the glorifications
of non-replica, generic
Solomon comes to the furore
front: then a mismatch
when the brain: swiss cheese project:
is treated at the Avignon
pontiff...
the harem and debauchery shifts
focus...
there's that "we're" and...
dumb-lasso-dumber than you'd
pay the libido of a camel with: for...

i have to always imagine myself
petting cats... or dogs...
to have to dissociate myself from having
perfect: the needs for either halal or
kosher demands of leather...
i best prefer the pipsqueak of
a meow to... an actual oink
in the litany of cogs and perhaps:
clogging up the machinery of
"jurisprudence"... as some Jain might...

borrow from... export very little to...
come the omnivorse of the east
and all succumb to:
boy-scout avenues of:
yes ss'ir...
most loathsome ss'ir...
                     i have to interrogate
the dead man as i am:
the best example of a cul de sac
of dreams: the...
pedestrian could mind not thinking:
imagine: imagine the corpus deity
of: unimaginable thought...
or one which has
an alias: unthinkable imagiation...

memory freelance architect prior
to noon...
is somewhat justified with...
a boredom of a cat come
5pm... but by then...
no cat is ever really bored...
and i have no need to concern
myself with dogs... or leashes...
or desires to: address a
workability of legs...
          to: give scrutiny when all
other examples are wheelchair bound...

he held a piece of paper:
between his hands... like my shadow might:
hold a butterfly...
exasperation:
that philosophers of ancient greece
said: poets begone!
no wonder this...
currency... of wanting to imitate
a petting of animals...
and... this thespian autocracy
that no elders could abide by...
it can still be excused:
the role of actors:
the role of shadow-thieves...

it can still be salvaged...
some of us are still the same rummaging:
in ruinous...
wordsmiths or... best...
plumbers... not some aspirtation
beckons for youth...
it must rhyme:
it must come down to: 2 + 2 = 4
sort of: flimsy poetics...

i'd must prefer to be a
homosexual plumber these days
that my very own mediocre leftover...
thank god i do not encompass
a courtship of a woman:
then imagine!
what did i do with my time:
that i do so much!
having made... so little money!
ghosts can't spend: ****!
i did with my time that
would not allow woman
to turn time into money!
thus i turned money into monkey's
play on elephant and
called tha pennies: p'p'eh-nuts!

  the old man dies:
the youth of man was never
supposed to be born;

god... this was supposed
to be profound?
with this idiosyncratic lost...
spontaneity of punctuation...
i take this reading as
a leverage for making
image: of an anchor dropped:
that would sink the ship.

Praeludium in via ...

Vidi heri mane quando ridebam coloribus egregiis,
Eradere auro , trans tabula caeli , tentorium ...
Excelsus super omnes montes mundi mole fratres
Nimborum desertum , ubi non sit humana exsuscitatur .
Et non vidi nobili altitudo futura ...
Bonitas terribilis Vidi , *** indomitus.
Et peregrinare in ea carne existimarem Semel tamen divina ,
Nunc datum est scire , et non confundamur ab eo opus .
Ambulavitque *** Deo, quod nunc facio , et passus est ... accentus
Proditio amor et passionibus , quamvis non recipiat ecclesia ,
Divinitatis naturam , ne occulta omnia confitentur ?
Audis tu solus in universo ab duces ineptum
Ipsos victu pascuntur finguntur mendacii .
Sed ambulavit in vobis, ex ea ipsa mundi redivivi ,
Proelia ante hos annos multos, in carne nostra, amissis vate sacro .
Nos sequi vestigia veterum monumentis, ut ostensum est ;
Quia ex nihilo nati sumus , et adhuc in filiis tuis, ac spatium vivendi ,
Latebunt , quo melius in manifesto , vultus ingenio tegmina.
Ego sum primus , et consilium ... Memini tamen alta urantur
Humanis uti licet , *** aliena michi negotium.
Lorem quid ad ignorantiam et extra ,
Quia vidisti me in tenebris, in ardentem rogum meum .
Si sustinuero , praeire , ubi angeli labuntur ...
Quis autem, si non satis est dedicata piget.
Irrisorie , quoniam ego scio quod salventur , et saepe etiam ,
Post tantum est **** , et sic esset forma in re firmatam ?
Imago Dei , huc ad nos omnes in sanguine ipsius ,
A primis ad ultima, ut alpha et omega, gladius acutus .

Prologus : ( Os meum labitur )

Puer fui servus ad aras tam sacras ,
Hymnis immaculatorum : et absque iniquitate .
Quod *** ipse portabat diadema thons nudus ...
Expositum Spiritus meus, qui intellexi gravitatem.
Quis credit sanctum profanae habitu virtutum
Et illi qui in eo sunt ut carnifices ovis ad occisionem ,
Innocentes cogit induere larvis ad porcellana et operuerunt capita sua ,
Et filii eorum diriperent pueritia , vinctus catenis rudis .
Sicut teenager : ambulans in naturis hominum omnium adprobante ,
Et egressus est a me omnes, qui violatores extiterunt in coinquinatione verebatur .
Angelo fidem reperto cecidi inveni sanctitati
Nomen meum in ea , et curet abluitur dubium inveni .
Venit ad nuptias, et omnes dedi uxorem proditione ,
In solutione huius coniunctionis nostrae et sine intervallo in solitudinem imposuit ?
Traiectus mortalis caro mea reliquit me solum in sanguinem ,
Cor ejus scissum est , absque omni cultu ex ordine funem .
Angelus autem meus et leniat iras mansit dolori
Mea lux, in vigiliis, in nigrum, quod est victa ,
Admonens quia carnis mortalitate ... maxime
Angelus vult me et tremor et durum accepimus.
Et ego factus sum quam ... traumas vitae ac lacrimis
Et dimisit , in specie quae sunt post , veluti a me plagas .
Nox deinde calor intensior saunas percipimus ...
Sicut est mihi in choro , relictum est , nisi ab illo esse extensum ,
Et invicem tradent , et mortalem , ut impunita essent, sed numquam mihi ...
Non tradent ; effundam spiritum meum , et non totum .
FYLACTERIUM creare ex omni me , et oculus innocens ...
Quod amari posco sum ​​ut carbo margarita alba et nigra ;

Section I : Sacrificium Doll

Part I : ( litus sanguinem )

Ne revoces me pupa enim priscis recesserunt cavernam
Sunt inanima appetant , non realis forma in utero ;
A puero bibere rubeam ore exploratores in vastissimam taberna ...
Dum nati psallens FARRATUS agros effusi .
Vadimus ad domum Dei , in plagis , in magna pecunia debetis ...
Hoc non est ad oras Nunc cruore manant strigitu rubra de memoria , polluetur .
Nulla est enim me primus ad ignitionem gloriae ...
Quando autem mens aeterna , in omnibus placentes, causabatur laetitiam .
In stellis ibi verba quae ego volo inauditum revocare,
Quia descendi ita pridem apud venire primum ?
Sollicitus purus fabrica MYSTICUS chaos genitus antiquorum
Mitti expectant limine signa magica.
Interdictum revertatur in carminibus meis , Licinius, ut audacia ,
Quia oblitus est mei fere est: nunc originem , ut tragici.
*** filii bibere, et se abscondunt nati seorsum
*** aquæ in sanguinem, et super triticum, et arefecit fœnum, et humida !
Signum quod venturum est mutare et laboro mentem.
Facies in luna ALLUCINOR in metu torquetur , horror ...
Dumque in fauces manu stare super pectus
Inter ordines diu frumentum umbra nigro ambula
Genus servo meo animas infantium .
Aestas flavescunt, Phoebe caelesti audent .
Mea sola mcestas lupus sonitum audiri potest ,
Et *** feris leo in pontumque moueri relinquere ...
A natura mihi dolet cupio concupivit paradisus reducat .
Vidi terram terror , ut sanguis in sinu
Ater sanguis in terra , quae facit viventia ululare ...
Sicut **** habet stultitia non dicam prava vel !

Part II : ( Crucifixo et Inferorum Animas Excitat)

Nam inertis est gemere pupa altari parato, in sacrificium,
In lapidem calcarium, et in cavernam, ubi sunt wettest fingit arcus !
Un - res sunt, sed etiam *** vivit in vulneribus animae , ut in glaciem ,
In horrore frigoris fictilem , ita *** pedibus non vocavit.
Serpentipedi mucrone subrecto , remittit praecise a pupa in collo ,
Et non potest dici , quia non habet pupa voce clamare.
Puer, et egressus est a tabernam , aspectus eorum quasi a naufragii vile ...
Ut curem hominem a superioribus agentibus , corpus totum mundum.
Infra in concavis locorum asperitate visa petram
Magna voces resonare in tenebras , et vocavit nomen tacuit.
Eripuit animam trahit nauta Multo gregis
Ubi aereum reddet unicuique antiquum signum desideratum .
Et venit ad bibendum aquas illas vitae malis mederi ...
Porcellana , et liberatus a vinculis mortis obscuris sentiat frigore ;
Animas in captivitate , unde nemo mortalium loqui
Sed statim liberavit remotis perforabit clavi ...
Omnis **** , qui dicitur Golgotha ​​, olim in cruce positus .
Omnis autem mulier quoque, ad quod omnes tales sunt tormento
Et facta est , dum consummaretur sacrificium insita primum sic infirma est,
Et intantum ut nisl tot annis perpessi .
Signati post fata diu Quod murus ignis in Terra ,
Stigmatibus ferre posset ita etiam multa futura!
Quod signum erat in manu mea, ut labatur pes meus, et dimittam ...
Tamen adhuc vetera perseverare illusionibus , et non possum excitare multos .
Ego, qui iam tantum conligati Lorem ferrum quid reale,
Factaque est infinita in dolo : Ego sum ​​, et desiderio erat pax.
Nam et ego quod negas , nisi aspera ac rudia mei liberatione ;
Angelus liberavit me , et nunc inter saevus sigillum frangere conantur .

Part III : ( The Return of lux)

Qui a mortuis Surrexit , frigidior , ubi de somno , ultrices in somnis , per
Et obliti sunt intelligentiae invocatum est super sancta miserunt innoxia verba ...
Et inde apud hominem , ut maneat MYSTICUS sequuntur revertamur ,
Ea aetate in inferno commemoratione praeteritorum.
Qui suscitavit eis manum meam , et pugionem eius lumen gloriae,
Relicta meae effercio fluere sanguis subito currere libero.
Ex profundo flamma surgit millennial amisso puella puer ,
Quæ est angeli redivivam sinit luce clarius ostendit .
Et omnis qui non occaecat oculos ad intima ;
Infideles , in momento temporis ponere in obprobrium .
*** stellae ab Diua sacrorum opera voluntatis
Dum coccineum limen transeat , lucem adfert .
Momento enim omnes in caelo et in terris sunt ,
Sicut dies longus tandem inclinatus ante noctem veniat .
In tenebris , claritas multo maiorem et perfectiorem descendit ,
Eorum, qui dum in nomine meo orbata est devium.
Sicut incensum in conspectu angelorum ira animos eorum , occlusum ...
Ferrum IRRETUS texturae talis effugere nequeunt carcerem
Nam quicquid occaecat vidit lucem et scindit
Nisi quia in templis revellens mortalibus irae.
Et , postquam ipsæ fuerint fornicatæ infidelium , ut uoles, petulans ,
Et factum est in excogitando dogma , quod de ratione immemor ?
Horrendum non fides sit , tamen ita fecisse ,
Ante finem exspectent praemia petunt .
*** enim , ut est in paradisum suscipit dereliquerunt ...
Imago autem libertatis quam servitutis et negotio.
Nimia tempus extractam converterat a gladio:
****, ut spectet ad salutem in lucem , caeca lumina sua .

Antiphon alpha :
Quia hoc est ut , barbaris quoque innocentiae gentilitium mendacium vendere ...
Numquid et vos vultis emere , aut aliquam nunc forsitan putas,
Ad sciendum neque rationi consentaneum neque aetate sapientes ...
Quod si non moverent malles *** saltare!
Pleni sunt somnia noctes ; Dies mei tantum ...
Ego ad bis et quem maxime diligebam , in purpura quoque , et aprico occasus .
Ego autem haec imago non ad tangere memoriam tot ,
Qui replet in sanguinem furoris me , et frigidam desiderio finis .
Et considerandum est quod *** in ultima desperatione rerum , in cuius manu mea, equo et pilos in ore gladii ,
Nam ni ita esset, nunquam tamen inde trans familia .
Sed abusus est , ut fuit, et quidem instar caedentes sepem
An ut reliquos omnes transcendunt omnia , amice!
Ego superfui , transfiguravi ascendi in fine est ,
Multo magis quam erat, non plus quam diruere animus .
Sed tamen , quia speravi in solitudinem , ut a somno exsuscitem ancillam meam in flamma ...
Ardet , o superi, ut arbitror , usque uror dissiliunt!
De caelo et magis obscurant vestris, et tridentes, et contritio ,
Audio furorem tympana caelo antiqui gigantes hiemes.
Dii irascantur et ecce valide erutas ,
Uvasque calcantes Angeli hominis Illi autem vinariis ageretur ...
Recordatus sum in omnibus navigantibus battleship galaxies ,
In die ortus nubes inter exaestuans, quod ' vaporem ...
Depopulari Sodomam et Gomorrham, ad contumelias !
Ibi eram: et *** impiis non perire denique gemitu.
Ut illuderet mihi : et populus , quia ego bonus sum male velle ,
A Deo est, quam diu tot mala ferre cogetur .
Ego autem non sum solus , quia multa in eo et detorqueri
Deus remittit, nam adhuc sed non est intellectus ;

Section II : Hostiam de Spider

Part I : ( Rident Primus )

Caelum non egerunt pœnitentiam super ulcus nigrum est furore , et in indignatione, et in iustitia :
Et factus sum caro , quamvis intellectus non mortale .
In antro loca , quæ transivi , et dæmonia multa discurrunt ,
Et locis minus adhuc amor in search of a provocare .
In quo autem in craticiis tectoria atria mea, et thronus fuit stabilis ...
Et super collem , ubi dolorum laborum animae perit labor in mundanis ,
Transcendi vincula et consilio fidelium expectabo laudatur.
Ignis et sulphur et, semper est dextera arderent super altare ?
Ridentem cogo faciem meam : non enim veni , ut velle,
Ut in hora *** iam iuvenem, *** proposito aureum ...
Quæ pro impenso super solidum, pretium quis ,
Qui autem non cognovit , quomodo cupiam sibi solvere ...
Furor solitudinis nascitur ira nascitur ex malitia,
Qui autem contemnunt me , quia sine causa Provocantes me .
Quid est **** , impunitatem , ne quis putaret se excusat ;
Quam sapere , *** culturis tuum: mergi , in balneis , in ardentem .
Loquor de inferno, qui est infidelis nescis ?
Neque enim suis oculis effossis clavorum ...
Loquor cruciatus qui daemonia fecerunt superat .
Primus erit mihi dolor meus *** omnis fera voluntas ut ratio ...
Ut qui me conspui caro quod ambulans ,
Nescis modo larva facies mea , abscondens se.
Attendit ad illa nihil nisi insipientis solis erratur in sonis cantus
Tantum numerus ratus e fratre soror .
Sed in caelestibus quae sine causa nata est incestus est alchemical ?
Habitat in me peccatum occultum compages sǽculo.
Sit mihi vim inter gentes auditus est ABSURDUS musica ...
Spiritus meus qui regit omne simile est genitus.

Part II ( vindicta aurum )

In hortos, in quibus cupiditas sanguis rosaria semina ,
I , in manu eorum , qui esurit Quorum sitit aquam surgit !
In quaerere dilectionis affectum bestiis pavi eget
Quid faciam ut pudeat , habet me non elit .
O **** , quo impune ausu palamque vociferari ,
Quod amor sit ex me credis , et me opus manuum tuarum ,
Ut timidus , et cucurrit ad me latere turba depravari ,
In simulata excellentiam tuam , et ipse te vile animal .
Coniunctio oris linguae quasi telam laqueari
Si fieri potest araneae ; et fugiet a turpis ut octo pedes nidum ...
Et *** jam non calidus humanitatis indignum ,
Cogitans te meliorem quam reliqui descendes !
Ut vitae pretium millies , tibimetipsi .
Creaturam factus sum nocte expectant te aranea heu !
Nolite putare quia ego audirem . utrumque stridens cruris ...
Odium ductor tuus , et equi ejus , et ascensorem ejus .
Et in vestra web Video vos, Quirites immune ungues acuti ,
Ad toxicus venenum , quod oculis non potes, nisi te , octo ...
Ex quo bases Caesios sine timore, et sic primum
Ut dolores tuos comedat vos accendentes ignem caelum ;
Detur paenitentiae venia , quae dicis omnia cogit , ne superare dolores ,
Qui tibi semper, quæ videtur , non est potentia ad non noceat .
Et ascendit ulterius sapere plus pavoris tui ...
Numquam puerile ludibrium ulla facta .
Omnis domus tua dissolutae horologiorum ad socium non est ?
In desertis chaos est gaudium, ut si quod habuerunt.
Surgit in novum ordinem , nemo potest negare chaos genitus locus ,
Dum descendes perdunt, muneribus laesae.

PARS III ( Ultimo Rident)

Et sic videtur quod Angelus se et ante deam
Angelus autem nominis vocare aliquis tenuerit formarum.
Et qui in illis est , maiora sunt, ego saepe ad extraneas ,
Fingunt enim se perfectum , ignorant eorum saevitum ,
Num amor crustacea tam veteri quam in praedam , et mendicum ,
Quod minus quam tuum est , quam sumpsi eaque cibum ...
Est autem tarn coquina sicut clibanus tua vadit et ora
Ipse, ipse est extra te praemium virtutis tuae chores ,
Sicut enim res suo cuidam negotium , qui meretricem ... Lorem ipsum leve,
Putas praemium amaret , et mendicum , falli te .
Quid autem vocatis me alienum **** ... amor est malum , et hoc pudet,
Et similiter anima atque animus , quibus tandem corpus infirmare.
Vides tantum larva ... sub aspectu nisurum
Larva ut me in tenebris tenebris latet .
Circa collum tuum habebis , ut falsae aestimationis pendet a mortuis, et corona ,
Quia sterilis tibi relinquo mundum , Intenta ancillæ.
Consurgitur in excitate de reliquis abire tibi , qui sunt cognati mei
De manibus eorum procul offendant pedes vestri ?
Qui manet in coemeterio quasi mortui
Non tollere incorruptione Nimis tibi dubium .
Hue tacito lachrymis virgines flere ...
Ad mea, et robur , in quo praeda, gregibus rursum super vias hominum ,
Ad eos qui non ineptis metus mutetur ,
Aureus transmutare non magis quam plumbea nocte dies ;
Quod verum est de fine , qui scit ... Alchemist
Magistra rerum artes a me in profundum.
Ágite , quod sum aggressus creatura placet mutare ...
Ut res sunt nostrae demiurgorum lasciva oscula enim calidius ?

Omega Antiphon :
Non est autem in Utopia , non videtur quod ...
Donec ut nosmet ipsos cognoscimus prima quaerimus imaginem .
*** et in sacrificio sui ipsius , a volunt reddi obsequium ...
Qui ad reformandam et divina se , *** Leo renata agnus mitis !
Sicut in Christo, ex parte in qua invocatum est cicatrix, et vulneratus est ...
Sed simplex conversio ad dissimilis vultus nolui .
Memini dolore meo, ut acer et vehemens ...
Donee tantum possum emissus dolor servare sensu caret.
Quomodo potest aedificare paradisum non est, nisi in se mutant ;
Mutare ante mutatum esse non est in medio ; quae est in via .
Qua ad paradisum , et oportet eam, et non deficiunt,
Ne ad caelum, nisi quam nos aedificare illud infernum iniustitiis nos .
Utopia , non ruunt ad genus humanum, nisi a te, tu es qui habitavit ?
Nisi quod est extra omne malum quod in se corrumpunt ,
Manifestum enim est , nisi malum, quod mundatam ab omnibus malis moribus.
Tunc malitia faciatis abstulit senex super pluteo tom .
An non intellegat , quid est salvator ...
*** diceret quod non omne quod simplices filii ingredi
Regnum caelorum , et inde ad delectationem pertinere ...
Et quomodo potes perfrui , si tibi placet , cauillando crudelis ?
*** aurora tempore domini nituntur hominum planeta ...
Numquam imaginandi praecipiet ut discat primum voluntatis.
Non armorum vi , nec inutile mandatum ...
Sed *** modestia , et misericordia ; ergo qui ad cor suum in satietatem,
Gáudii innumerabiles et celebrationibus quae causa ?
Sed animus intendatur dolores peccatum lacus.
Ubi plausus rotundum vt quilibet sensus ?
Modernitatem iocabitur ullum definitum ornare.

Section III : sacrificium sui

Part I : ( hortos perditio )

A ziggurat sublatus est , arenosa in calidum lateres , quos coquetis in igne ...
Septem fabulae in caelum, sicut turris Babel ,
Quod in solitudinem, et in

i don't know why i found redemption in the tetragrammaton, sure, my mother cared for two elderly jewish ladies, one escaped the Holocaust (surname Roßhandler) and the other of established English rooting (surname Rockman... thanks to her, upon completing my g.c.s.e. exams i got a complete collection of Bernard Shaw's plays) - but i find it there, ping-pong salvation every time, translating it akin to arithmetic: 1 + 1 = 2 is very much akin to Y              H            W          H, which i started calling the perfect chirality - chiral meaning non-superimposable:
                                       A                      &                  E, i too ventured to call the double H dualism a déjà vu - but i know see them as vantage points, more electrons and quantum physics than protons and neutrons - well, it ****** well fits the schematic: sine (M) and cosine (W) - sure, crude, but i'm not looking at the geometry of the mouth... language on the base of pure optics... and no, not necessarily adjective noun compounds for emphasis to argue a point, just easily an easily accessed point of reference...     so quantum physics calls it the non-independent ontology of electrons: a. particles (Y, centre 0 on the x, y, z graphs - apart from the heliocentric and the geocentric models, here's another one of similar causality)... and b. waves (W, the formerly stated trigonometry suggestion) - and hence the two vantage points bound to H... apart from Adam and Eve lodged in between... which suggests that the geocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like waves... while the heliocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like particles: microcosm Copernicus blah blah; well, more like pseudo-Aristarchus of Samos.

20th century literature is, quiet literally
something akin to the cave paintings at
Lascaux - big brother isn't watching -
nor is the publishing old guard -
i just find it unreal that so much rests upon
the internet these days, the people have no
idea what power has been granted them,
they petty the use of the internet with
their earthly squabbles of a marketplace,
while, running parallel: the lost infatuation
with democracy as necessary organisation -
turns out it's unnecessary organisation:
because we ain't go anything better -
hence political disillusionment - rampant in
what western society deems the pinnacle
and the Libra of a fine balancing act -
religiously? that famous: "mystery of lawlessness"?
that's the internet - imagine a time when you
could bypass some publisher, some adherent
to a state doctrine, when you could turn poetry
into physics, not the waffle of metaphysical Keats
waiting for a kettle to turn into a volcano
or a whistling horse, but to turn the dial to
point at the reality of things:
quantum physics (derived from quanta,
a variation of datum: particularity of input
energy) gave poets breathing space,
metaphysics became shadowy, Hades like
learning, obscure and all the more necessary
to build-up its strength while puritan physicists
lost their sway of power with the fears of
the atom bomb and all things quantum -
so while the physicists became dazzled with
all things quantum, the metaphysics took off...
entombed in an apathetic (without pathos)
subjectivity: a calm heart, much more than an
embracing heart - yes, i am aware that i have my
wacko moments of feeling, but this ticker is
made of stone - and that usually means a chaotic
thinking process, spontaneity being the key
in involving yourself with real-life narratives
then never suppose a character study: what you see,
is what you get: my sanity plateau?
talk about music rather than make poetry musical,
it's a pale shade of red or blue when you
have guitars and orchestras and the poet,
a voice in the wilderness - nothing but pins dropping
to exemplify the talk... i don't understand
the need for poetry being a kindred of musicology,
i don't understand rhyme, i don't understand
being conscious of poetic prescriptions of technique
very much akin to language's artefact minded
grammar: noun
                                v. poetry's pun
grammar's verb
                                       poetry's metaphor... etc.
my deviation? being an adherent toward music,
and returning poetry back to its true purpose:
puritan narrations - not conscious of what's
expected, or what defines the art,
very much the beginning of cubism and later
innovations in art, i just can't stand rhyming poetry -
it's too conscious of itself by what it's defined by,
we have learned of a new subjectivity:
the unconscious - we might as well exploit it
while objectivity gets crushed into bewilderment
by quantum physics -
thus said: i feel like i'm a dervish spinning
counter-clockwise in a chaos of tornadoes spinning
clockwise while listening to two songs:
tool's *right in two - and muse's stockholm syndrome:
i can't be bothered translating the feelings
entombed in these two songs with a rhyme...
poetry should be less stuffy than it already is...
it should be a statement of the supreme effort: freedom.
all of this? spurred on by rereading passages from
Jung's gegenwart und zukunft (1957), alter:
          the undiscovered self (1958) -
it's seemingly odd (but not too odd) that books
written by psychiatrists are more popular than
philosophy books in the anglophile culture -
as already stated, i can't read philosophy in english -
maybe this is why psychiatric literature is so easily
accessible in this tongue, what with the self-help
movement, it the grandest prescription that no pill
(unless it's a sleeping pill) can be prescribed -
i'd say, if you want to read philosophy in english,
i'd start off by reading a book from psychiatry -
Jung is by far more adaptable than Freud
(Freud's for the rich people who have ***
written on their foreheads in permanent ink -
        and: daddy didn't care, mama was
                                     struggling feminist who
     forgot to breastfeed me) -
       but of course the 1960s Scottish superstar
(who drank, rightly so) from Glasgow: Laing.
well, sure, the Hungarian Szasz (shash, not sas,
or zaz... shish kebab... it ain't the difficult) -
impromptu deviation: what's funny about Heidegger?
he says: you need to study Aristotle for 15 years
to get him... and that's very much true for him also...
two years... TWO YEARS it took me to read his book.
that's what's interesting about this book,
a literary anorexic, in at 79 grams (pages) -
the interesting point? in physics, there are things
that are not independent of observation -
i like that conundrum, the mere idea of it is titillating -
running joke for the past two years: ***** ***** tat for tat
months later -
                          well... i'm not the one trying to
dress you up in a straitjacket with a label: this is poetry...
can't see **** for miles with how i write.
so there's a purpose, some things are depending on
being observed - which is a good thing, which means
that this world could not be independently sustainable -
its dependency on existing lies akin to our
desire to be independent of it - so all the religious
blah blah means something - even after 3 years
of rigorous studies in chemistry i come back into
humanism with a furore of agitating religious paraphernalia -
mind you, i do have a scientific approach toward
language - grammar and algebra combined -
meaning? certain words have become post-grammatical,
i.e. algebraic - not categorised as nouns or otherwise,
but as algebraic signatures: primarily because no one
really knows what to do with them, apart from
church yoga, standardised: e.g. x = god,
            i = y                  and the                  world = z,
predictably transcending the casual use of language
when shopping for cheese in a Parisian grocery store...
err... je ma'pel gorgon, avoir vous fromage?
nope, took to English too much - i was learning French
in primary school, but i had an existential crisis
aged 9 or 10... my brain refused to learn another language
after having just learned one from scratch -
                               the mute in class soon turned into
an avaricious reader... so parallel to my life, i now hear
stories about children being diagnosed with depression...
try being thrown into the deep-end of the pool
with your former development using a language
automatically, into having to learn the language without
no major influence of a teaching authority...
                                  no wonder the accent game
   sort of imploded and i started speaking sometimes tosh,
sometimes posh, and sometimes east London oh'rite?
                             ale casem tes jak rolnik -
                            owszem, czasem jak mieszczanin też.

yes, i know he said he was a vegetarian, delicate counter-priesthood prince - a manner of vegetarianism that expressed an abhorrence of the practice of Eucharist, i too think the Eucharist as a metaphor is a bit porridge: i.e. yucky.  but as Wagner said to him: up north, either you eat meat or you lose the plot (loose - ß - again, not scharfes S - but die scharfes'zart - sharp-tender - already prerequisite of what sharpening omega meant for the w); mind you: salt & pepper to taste according to your own palette - if you're not a sugar ****** you won't over-salt the sauce... and you certainly will not overcook the pasta, halfway between dreadlocks and poodle hair: desirably experience bound al dente, and here comes Socrates with his knowledge of al dente: me no muffin! true that... like all these excess sugar breakfast cereals - ******* the outside, soft inside... or like the idea of ants having an exoskeleton... that's pure culinary theory - al dente exoskeleton; did i already mention salt and pepper to taste? yeah, the beef stock cube is salty, but not salty enough, given the already unsalted meat and vegetables: i cook, i take care of a toddler - Nietzsche keeps bragging: cooked by a cyclops.

who would have thought that a personal
revision of mama Italia's classic
could end up being so tasty;
Nietzsche is the foremost diner in my humble
abode: i just like the way he says:
who let woman into the kitchen?!
that's right, i deviated from the standard recipe
of mama Italia's cooking for papa don
Giovanni - honestly? in lonely times at
university when everyone was into ******
ad drunk debaucheries, and ****** fancy dress
parties? Aria Giovanni saved the day...
just look at the classic beauty, plump as a plumb
in between two cream bergs - such
exfoliation... where's that daddy long-legs
on the catwalk... come on! shove a malteser up
her *** like a suppository escutcheon - i'm sure
the salad leaves will keep her starving even more,
or walk her in Gucci with a drip-pole -
intravenous therapy while on the job -
but can you believe what only a quarter of a teaspoon
does to the Bolognese sauce recipe?
wonders... you don't add the carrot, or the celery,
among the vegetables you add button mushrooms,
and the three colours of peppers -
onions and garlic (a lot of it) as standard -
oregano, rosemary and thyme too,
some Italian five-spice - but the fennel seeds!
the fennel seeds! after i learned to cook i see
ready meals are diabetics in disguise,
and restaurant foods as defunct -
what? we're all expressing our capacity to
make choice, apologies if you made the sort of
choices you now hate... hardly a reason to
complain about my exercise in freedom,
i don't blame you, i'd have chosen differently
if i were you too... but there we go...
i'm cooking Bolognese from scratch because i like
to tickle my sense of smell and the buds of
the palette garden, i look at the sauce and
write fiction: the plot thickens...
                                                     and that's the great
3 minute microwave sequence on the other
side of the spectrum... because we're all so *busy -
busy bees and that's merely the generation Y
dads getting hormonal treatment from tending to
babies - choices choices choices -
                                                          oddly­ enough
the mediocre work that goes on in those glass
shards - by comparison, the default argument is
pretty obvious: i too would have not invested
in caring for art, or as i once said:
you can't get good art and raise a family -
you can create good art that will support the family,
you'd end up being a great technician,
an artistic engineer - the standard model of bridges /
already in your head - is refining yourself
via plagiarism - you end up plagiarising yourself -
but come one! a quarter of a teaspoon of fennel seeds?
well, i'm not talking cumin seeds...
or maybe it was the turmeric powder that
coloured the onions yellow while frying?
2 tablespoons of garlic - for sure, enough garlic
and we're already talking Dracula -
~5 strips of bacon too -
                                          no, not necessarily involving
carrots and celery - why be boring?
this is me in my furore days in an organic
chemistry class at university - back to the esters
and perfumes, but this is raw, it's analytical
chemistry, it's nothing synthetic -
birds and the bees and some hippy buckles over
a giant butternut squash - which is why i find
people who ably memorise and recite poetry
are the same people who probably write polemics,
and do the peacock verbal dance for a woman
in a restaurant - rather than give her raw grub
of your own calibre - 1 cube of beef stock
dissolved in water - simmering for about 40 minutes,
tomatoes chopped - obviously tomato puree -
500 grams of mince beef -
                                                ever think that poetry
could reinvent journalism and also the way of
writing recipes? FENNEL SEEDS! that's what goes
in first, you roast them in chilli infused olive oil -
let them sizzle for a bit - and yes,
you pour some oil into salted water where
you'll be boiling the spaghetti - the oil means the
spaghetti won't stick together, plus pouring
oil into a saucepan of boiling water is the other
famous pastime of chemists... the former?
watch paint dry. i'm pretty ****** sure i missed something,
like mama Italia missed something to keep
the recipe a secret - well... there's Parmesan cheese
to garnish and fresh basil -
                                                and if i were raising a family,
i wouldn't be listening to the dead skeleton's album
dead magick... oh sure, the reward would be:
i'd have a little crowd at my funeral, some gibberish
about how many people knew me so well... but really
didn't... the whole street profession...
                i never got the idea of solitude and how it
might be sad from the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby song -
don't know never became an impressionable counter -
oh yeah, Darwinism helped! it helped a lot
in creating a world view, a world view that said:
don't touch this ****... leave them to it:
these people are more influenced by opinion columns
of newspapers than philosophy books -
in England, where, i dare say, the daily telegraph
is actually respectable, as is the guardian -
and the central of the two opposites? tickling
tabloid, i call the times posh tabloid, because it is
a posh tabloid: i like the way fame
desired for sales becomes toilet paper
the next day... or the newspaper on the street
that gets the footprint on the plastic surgery escapades...
love it! mm, yes darling! lovin' it!

Titanic
****** berth, she stands,
Maiden stream deflowering the
sunlight.
Immense furore along the dock.
Streamers, banners, brass bands.
Herald the beginning of
the end.
Magnificent and stately,
There she stands, a glory to behold.
Pomp and splendour,  
Wealth with greed,
All set to sail the seven seas.
A dream of life,
A life of dreams

Splendour of their own,
Scrambling ice mountains, glisten
Shining a fateful allure to a frozen death
A stern captain,
Calm, dignified,
Guides the ship of dreams unto her nightmare,
“Astern”, he cries, unheard through
muffled joy….
Crunching, crashing, listing,
A myriad of smashing crystal,
Destined for the deep,
Air thick with screams of terror,
Young, old, rich, poor,
All scared.
Mortified corpses float,
Water littered with deceased,
While the living dead look on.
Hope’s dashed,
Time dies silently.
Carpathian angel,
Saviour of souls,
God spoke,
Their souls were saved!
Livvi  Kent  2012
ladylivvi1@hotmail.com

the grovelling pig...
and the snivelling dog...

the snorkelig tabloid &
taboo of...
anything beside
the born blue: whale...

an arsenal of ****-joy words...
a much bigger
"assumption" of...
raj-stan spices...
to compete with
the 20th century arsenal
of the manhattan
project of h'america...

     and whatever the soviet
sly of empire-building
came to pass: and pass it did...

no one is celebrating...
how... pacified...
the disintegration of the soviet
"empire" took a postcard
turn in the events of history...

when the roman empire
disintegrated...
             no one is going
to go forward and bless:
how the russians played poker:
and... folded?

              to leverage in the oligarchs...
the... eternal flames of parody blues...
of avarice and that story of
yachts: tripping on...

greed is beside the l.c.d. "tripping"
chess pieces avarice...
the "insomnia" tactics of:
happy boys... shooting rich-boy
bullets at... all the more happy:
rich boy targets...

a french riviera target nuance: dulce...
deux...
       excesses of letters...
comes the grafitti with a tow
of toe-tied batman:
only val kilmer will do...

       yes... i grew up on "serious"
cinema... "serious":
i.e. "curious"... i.e. bored...
existential feats of bergman?
the magician?

    a film that would never allow
me a want to subscribe to...
reading into...
what's beside... pop culture propaganda...
not under the umbrella of the soviets...
or the historical nazis:
or...

          this time compass of:
a withstanding inconvenience of
hiatus... and hubris...
        scandinavian origins story...
                
      the red sq.... promenade... delight...
in... to fashion a hugo: who boss:
boss of who? via: hugo's who's hugo: who?
this advent of claiming...
riddles from the 20th century...
all clear: calibre...

   prior to 1945... exciting years...
and of that...
as if... waking up... from a family affair...
king edward VII:
       Bertie 12/20
                             give 'im a "sigh"
of relief... let's make that... a reasoned
fraction...
              mr. cig ar ah-rette'tsar...
                 herr 12/24...
                              herr halbzeit...
                world war I borrows...
19th century and... the insightful delight...
of the ruling elite and "******" affairs...
after 1945...

  so many years... of having to...
have... one's humor... dislodged from...
a coronation:
the republicans...
contra: the libertarians...
blah blah...

               because...
by no means... the russians were...
ploy:
Bertie the... and Tsar Nicholas...
didn't resemble clones...
               herr halbzeit... who the **** was he?
it's not so much a conspiracy theory...
it's... everyman's fiction...

  who's going to bother time well
spent: in the advent of requiring said
events to have happened...

             ****** was an ugly surname...
and how he... confiscated...
how he... rode to events like a Khan...
and usurped... nay!
hijacked! the aritocratic houses!
and they... fell... head: oh look!
no heels!
                   look!

   kopf-uber-ferse!

they're english! the fwench wish
they weren't cousins...
but the house of ßaß!
it was all a family affair!
                
                       the affair was so minded:
that poor h'america was involved...
and... how... the freed people from
the trigonometry of tyranny under
king george III... escaped...
then had to... choke cousins...
and fake cousins...
and bride themselves to...
the fire-bombing of Drezden...
etc.                         and more...              etc.

people with tattoos...
yes... those who don't mind history...
history and their amnesia project...
i have... skin clean from...
auschwitz imposed...
or that glorified ink-itch of modern times...
i have history:
my mind is tattooed...
loser loser: and a winner of what?
a tax on a car?
a road tax? a car i also own an
m.o.t.
                  i've learned to ride horses!
give me a horse!
**** your traffic car sterility:
i'm in love with the double-decker bus!
from london through to honk-*******-kong!

the 20th century can't just
become some... amnesia deposit...
history is a fake: i was supposedly...
only... "dreaming"...
          through to the Weimar Republic...
but i'm not invested in...
culminations...
in... old scores and schools of thinking:
taxing the dead... etc.

                i drink when i truly enjoy writing...
and... imagine... that i do:
imagine writing for a newspaper...
writing as a chore...
that has to be necessarily...
an artifact of sobriety and...
journalistic integrity... mmmpphhhghh...
sorry...
   journalistic integrity?
apart from a war or... ***** dealings
when all the culprits have had
their feet washed by a:
jesus christ look-alike...
    a... idi amin... retired in saudi arabia?

one could say... since i was born
at the end of "it": that i was... have been...
hijacked by the 20th century...
to write... a parody... epitaph...
someone has exacted me...
to write... an exit... wording...

perhaps because... there's still that
20th century immediacy...
all the other centuries... could...
not celebrate...
they could march on... into...
a dream-esque satirical state of progress...
perhaps they did dream...
while we're struck by the insomnia
invented by the 20th century...
well... the 19th...

when Prometheus...
            Frankenstein: fire! bad! ugh!
when Prometheus...
               when Promotheus...
St. Peter would love to entertain
the thriced acknowledged...
thus: no denial...
      Michael Faraday...
   or that lightbulb men-struosity...
     Edison...

   to clone a sheep...
        the perfected beijing-valkyrie
of the genetically perfect:
zero acne... blah blah...
               but a clone: clone?
   trouble that...
if not soul: then autonomy...
clone to pet?
ah... clone to pet... ah... ha ha! ah ha ha!
a clone to pet!
answers: the clone's self-determining
autonomy: alias: S.D.A.
        eh... it's missing a letter...
let's just keep it as "soul" for the minors...

ah ha ha: giggles oh my! the furore from
pandemonium!
the idea so lodged in the inferno...
the last time anyone heard just
laughter... was when...
****** was first... "investigated"...
in-ves-ti-ga-ted... gay-ted...
see: missing letters... somewhat...

and yes... there is... the closest approximate
of... flying lizards...
of... turtles out-living...
   beside what could be...
contrived... exoskeleton mush of muscles
and brains...
magpies...
of all the birds... magpies...
the closest akin... lizard folk...
to descend from "angels"...

   magpies are like... the cinema
depicted... velociraptors...
   magpies are the modern velociraptors...
the crows can croak their odin *******
off all they want...
the woodland pigeons do their...
whatever striptease echo coo... coo...

magpies... for me... magpies are...
the heirs of the velociraptor...
proof?! ah ha ha! proof?!
what proof is there that...
an asteroid... hit the earth...
and wiped out the dinosaurs?!
i haven't seen any "proof"...
  i've just heard... an undeniable fiction....
supported by science...
so here's mine!
the magpie descended from the velociraptor!
have you even... heard the magpie...
the variation of its communications
vocab?
it's prehistoric! compared to other birds!
even in the words of humans:
they are... conflated with:
gypsy-mythology:
that they... seek silver...
anything shiny...

           intelligence is a curse...
what proof is there that a meteor wiped
out the dinosaurs?!
what's history like in the hands
of man...
with active negation:
i.e. "the holocaust didn't happen"...
let's write our own:
play dough history...

the magpie is a direct descendent of
the velociraptor...
somehow the d.n.a. survived the meteor crash...
the turtle is still here...
the birds: still are...
the jelly-brain pickle of the great t-rex:
the serpent is still wriggling away...
but i ask: what proof:
what greast... undiscovered crater?!
the Mariana trench?
there's? big squid **** and all range
of car-boot sale *******?!
there?

                 a statue of shiva too:
snorkeling... to boot?!
    i've been alone and "lonely" enough...
of all the common birds...
the magpies... the magpies...
the "teutons" of the skies...
the velociraptors...
                  you've heard the seagulls...
you've heard the crows...
you've entertained the sparrows...
the woodland pigeons...
the robins remained mute...
the kestrels remained mute...
the magpies were the most vocal...
and when vocal... at most: in variation...

velociraptors...

yes... this is "history"... it's "history"...
with journalism and... "journalism"....
              last time i heard...
a louis XIV made it into the t.v. with...
a sidekick show of Versailles...
eh... Phillip II Augustus...
    "perhaps"... just "perhaps"...
           the lion in winter... who the ****
ever happens to remember a historical
excavation fetish from 1968?!
it was only a ******* cameo!

not for the actor... the capetian!

Little dormouse,
nun trying leather,
desperately cleans up her stigmata.
I hear you whisper prayers,
I see you twitch to stop yourself
to sign the cross
and I feel your foreign fear.

Little dormouse,
can you only muster
a half-riot, a part-furore?
Do you need a bit of blasphemy
to wash in dirtily
in order to be forgiven again?
And know, When you’re an angel,
floating up to live with the lullabyes,
will you grip your shoes
with your little toes?

Little dormouse,
moving your lips slow,
to look better to the snake.
To be new-born, translucent
In the half-light.
Such sanguine wine,
your flesh and your offer is.
The drugs and our pleasure
the pressure of our nature,
which we will not bow to.

Little dormouse
wants a bad habit,
not a good man.
Wants to understand,
things forbidden to think.
Wants an unhealthy metaphor,
not enough,
she wants to want more.
Under smiles,
there's proof the world is anything,
you’ll find whatever you look for,
but not the love.

A
Drop.

Then it came
Pirouetting.
It came clattering
It came guttering
with furore and fight
with rhythm and rhyme
like many dancing feet.

On steel roofs
On downy pines
and baobabs
and old cracked earth
Pattering and shimmering
drawing dust from dirt
women and men from houses
enshrining the sky with their trembling hands.

even a week is sometimes
     not enough to recuperate
from a novel -
    something has borrowed too much
time and expects its worth a miracle of
a penny found on the road of
the eternal walker:
long the road toward a majesty
of the riches...

          whatever novel it might be -
and with it,
   a paralyzing ****** of doubts -
whether sober or intoxicated,
not even when: wine and music
and a book of poetry suffices...

just like now:
Beethoven, kalimotxo,
and the preferred gems by
Frank O'Hara to suit the music...
chez jane and blocks...
if ever there is something
missing in terms of
Beethoven: it's a voice reading
a poem,
  but not reading it,
not like a Beatnik who would
read in the furore of jazz
in the past century...
   anything more than what
is still not a whisper...

and like some farce of
the sword of Damocles...
the pen of Dickens...
        not the labours of a novel,
no... not the month's long
journey into the labyrinth...
music and drinking
simultaneously with a novel
will never work...

but a poem can...
my god... some wine some
classical music and... words...

   when there's music and wine
who needs words like
labyrinths when:
  just on the tip of the hour's
passing: a bird in the form
of a poem...

all i can say in the most mundane
phrasing...
   but i have capitulated
all prior to thrill and audacity
for a novel...
   a month's labour:
and silence...

   a soul in such hiding...
feels hardly a thought necessary
to reinvent itself in its prior
activity:
   an mingling of wine
and music and words: come and go...

like all novels:
  as much an accomplishment
of the writer, as an "accomplishment"
of the reader...
and is it so wrong
to not be agitated with emotion
that: a month's worth of
base arithmetic sentences -
the logic of: once upon a time
               as the logic: the end...

sanctity of prose:
  that sensible nature of that
sensible afternoon
  of that sensible life,
   of that: unlived crucifix
      of a shadow's confiscate;
routine and sitting
akimbo on some far removed
stage:
  of a sea knocking
on the door of earth -
seeking rhythm -
                          or a heart.

as mundane as this language:
i'm not going
to find a different language
to change this evening,
even though not awe:
or relief... but a paralyzing
doubt has overpowered me...
and, come to think of it:
that's still much more
than a heart's worth of
sitting's comforts in
        the armchair of apathy.

the reason behind some of my poetry: i do appreciate the fact that some of them are sloppy, and aim at crafting an expansion of the vocabulary i already have, but as i drink i relax it happens automatically, but i know i can return to the sober reality of increased volume - all i know is that when i do this unwinding into what i can only call abstraction, it's because i'm entering the joycean domain of finnegans wake, which isn't exactly brothers grimm or disney territory, given that the book is dedicated to his struggle with his daughter's diagnosis of schizophrenia. one example comes with words like the prefix nou(n)- and the suffix -verb, which i borrowed from the kantian transformation of the word phenomenon (that which can be clearly understood due to the no. of similar analogues, and their seemingly constant re-, i.e. repetition, recurrence, re-emergence), hence the meaning i derived from the new word is: the activity behind a noun, e.g.: wheel... wheels rotate on a flat surface, and due to gravity roll down hills; another e.g.? bird - birds sing in varying degrees of diversity and they fly, and share a common origin with reptiles, since they hatch from eggs. i think that's enough examples behind the meaning nouverb... perhaps i might change it to nouneverb, because if translated into french, the french might make connotations with noué vogue, and i don't want this word to mean simply new verb, but the activity behind the noun.*

poets are known to use technical terms of poetry,
to invoke a knowledge of the topic,
perhaps even to condense matter, nonetheless
they use technical terms for balance, and orientation
in what they're saying, the key indicators as it were;
but i find it strange that in every philosophy
book i read, there are no prime technical terms:
of course you will find logic compounds,
like phenomenology, ontology, metaphysics,
but you find that such balancing acts require
a constant reminder of these words, and when
inserted into very long expression, there is no
prime balance with the words that i have not seen
expressed in any philosophy book i read,
whether it be heidegger, kant, kierkegaard,
sartre, nietzsche, tatarkiewicz, whoever -
none of them use grammatical words, nor have
produced an account of the dynamic when
deviating from standard lessons in grammar
which can be longwinded - and an absolute
dross; my english teacher didn't like to teach it,
in my two years under him we have less
than a dozen lessons, most concerned with
writing formal letters, and whether to end
the letter signing under either yours sincerely
or yours faithfully... the expectation was to
speak it fluently and mould the written language
from that - if it's comprehensible with the tongue,
it will be comprehensible with the quill.
but enough of that, i'm still adamant to stress
my censorship of dreaming, perhaps because
i just loathe freud and find jung quirky enough
with his religiosity and that book of his
about hallucinations and telekinesis like in that
film interstellar where the books fall from the shelf,
but it's primarily because there is a more important
subplot: today i woke up and remembered something
from 20 years ago, primary school, year 5 (aged 9),
our teacher called in sick and we were left to our
own devices, we were assigned the task of doing
long-division mathematics, and long-multiplication,
the whole class was in furore, but i just did the
****** task (fresh off the boat, you know, vito corleone
ambition and what not) - teacher's name ms. mcguire -
the teacher came back, scolded the whole class
excluding me - then she gave instructions to do the
assignment i did the previous day, and she told me
i could do whatever i wanted... just like the whole
class the previous day... so i read a book.
oh hell, if we're going that far back... pst... a secret,
on the gants hill roundabout there used to stand
a magnolia coloured cinema, the odeon...
i remember seeing armageddon there even though
a few hours prior i fell into a pseudo-epileptic fit
(a weird sensation in the head, crawling into the jaws,
i clenched my jaws, and then a spasm that travelled
into my stomach and started the convulsions and
the pain increased... i've had about three of these
in my life... for days on end after the last one,
i kept falling to sleep in fear... a fear of clenching my
teeth) - oh and the mummy, the little princess
(even though i bought a ticket for jumanji),
gladiator, lord of the rings fellowship of the ring
(about 3 times if not more), mission impossible,
the three kings when i broke one of the seats and
fell on my ***... but back then cinema tickets were
bearably affordable... not anymore... and it took
ages for the film to be available on vhs (when
blockbuster was still around - actually, there is one
left near the loughton central line station - a bit
back to the future for me; yeah, and valentines park
nearby where you could play 18 hole short-distance
golf, but that's also gone - now all you have is a block
of flats... just a massive vitro phallus.

we know how those doctors about to retire type:
index punch, index punch, left hook index tap,
brawler's right kiss index tap -
thumbs are for the spacebar!
but this little oddity got me thinking: i can tell
you that my grandfather had beautiful handwriting,
and a massive library, and all of this... under
a communist regime... more books than
the modern capitalist household, let me tell you -
oddly enough i followed suit, never truly recognised
my father aged eight at victoria coach station -
4 - 8 under my grandfather's construct -
6 - 8 psyche of a child given a doberman by
his mother and left, upon return asking
for a devil's mask in warsaw, the same devil
mask a furore at a fancy dress party in school
ripped by friends all wanting the share of
suffocating under plastic.
but this got me thinking, i never had the
proper handwriting fluidity for an A grade in
english during examination, that's always a grade
more than anything you put your mind to
in terms of content. so... on handwriting fluidity:
omega alpha beta flows nice, because the greeks
managed to convene that letters had to
have names, no wonder the export of greek lettering
into mathematics and science...
imagine if it was the romanic letters:
that's *** arr squared: peeing on the arc of triumph
seeing sqaures?! bonaparte with a bunch of pirates?!
no! πr2, the area of the ****** circle!
never mind that, that's just me overstepping
the giggles, but i think because of the non-complex
denotation of the romanic letters we have terrible
handwriting, just like it sounds, punched in by dyslexic
judy separately: look - a'    b'e    c'e     d'e    e'  z'ed.
no wonder the alphabet turned to programming
and cyborg fancies - plus it's no fun trying to remember
alpha bravo charlie... i mean, it's a bit ****, that nato
phonetic ******* over the phone: oscar v. ω?
ω! romeo v. ρ? ρ! sierra v. σ? σ! let's face it, greek
too ancient and romanic trying to speed up... no wonder
there's a bit of charlie and the x-ray;
or maybe this whole phoneticism is a way to say -
keep that ugly so we can lego it into beautiful stances
of the fencing tongue.

i wanted to have a bonfire over a week ago...
since the recycling centres are still
closed...
          but no... a neighbour of mine...
had about four each night...
     the english herr - angielski panicz -
didn't mind...
      but when i was about to burn some
evergreen... and as evergreen burns...
when it's still retaining some of its moisture...
it would burn... with a white smoke...
some other neighbour would make
a complaint: are you having a bonfire?
but my husband has asthma...
i own a garden... but i'm somehow...
by law... able to burn garden ****... in it...
once upon a time: but now?
at any given hour...
mother runs up to me... but this other
nieghbour has his washing on the line...
the washing would be infused with...
pine scent?
           but it wasn't about the washing
drying on the line...
the pet peeve project of england:
look toward h'america!
england "somehow" failed...
            two h'americas if not three:
a new breed of punctuation...
there were always the two europes...
   the germans were pushed from
the lands that... they once occupied...
pushed across by the slavs...
who in turn were: funneled by
either the turks, the huns or the mongols...
yes... it's a pretty picture... england...
esp. in the grand vicinity of
the A406 ring road around London...
because anything that teases
the M25...
        over a week-ago....
i wanted to stand before the altar of fire
and say a thing or two with:
the iblis of the quran...
the god of the old testament...
how i made of clay...
am so akin to the spirit without form
of the fire: i - clay - the majority
poker form of water:
i need to breathe... a fire needs to breathe...
i happened to read some rumi
with a milder than usual hangover...
usually an appreciation for some
late in his oeuvre Rembrandt helps likewise...
no... it had to be rumi...
     i come as a rummaging odour...
i'll just throw two or three contending
terms...
the shahada... the testimony -
  tawhid: yes... the H is a surd / apostrophe...
   which could make a hebrew blush...
given a trinity emerges...
    ' י ' ו
               the apostrophe for...
where you'd find the vowel catcher:
the first: the urn of sighs and inquiry (ה)
   and the second: the urn of laughter (ה)...

what is the boasting of:
    la ilaha illallah - the dog term for god
in the language of the maltese is: allah...
again: all?     aaaah... is sigh...
and what of... yalla imshi? camel jockeys
and... the saudi crown... washed in...
because yugoslavia is not... bound
to some ******* translation of yemen...
perhaps not the croat translation...
that mess of... the turks receding...

it really is a "thing" between me and
the english: rich-pants:
h'america: the hope! the beacon!
lucky for some they speak english...
pockets of spanish...
hopes for fwench: but not really...
and the *****-volk don't get out
as much... there's no need to know
whether there's a diaspora hive ment.
in their midst...

       i like slurring... probably as much
as i like jazz...
          oh... i couldn't have a bonfire...
because of someone's asthma...
again: i'm not superstitous but...
when a strong independent woman:
such as my mother...
has a nervous breakdown...
because... i showcased my displeasure
as some variation of an omnipotent
child-god...
no... if... the last leg standing
'ebrews could have countless...
and this... mediator "jinn" can have
four nights in a row...
and there are no complaints...
no one is suffocating...
    well... petty can sooner or later
become an avalanche...

         how do surds work?
in english pretty **** well...
you could technically erase the letter H
from the alphabet...
   say... i own a 'atchet...
      but not when coupled to an S or a C...
sheer: yeah... the "invisible" caron
covering over the S...
   cheap ****: and so above the C...
            closer: szkoda: closer: czekam -
      shame in the vein of: casually: oh well...
and: i'm waiting...
if the pronoun is to be invested into
the word: then in the past participle:
czekałem (i waited - "as" a man)
   czekałam (i waited - "as" a woman)...
     chec-chec-w'ah-w'ah...
gifts of the trade: smithy to the words...
shame the tower and the tongue
do not count for the love of 7...
but... these two already have... profit for
the right sort of narrative...

gender neutral pronouns...
how about the already available:
gender neutral nouns -
no one would call a sun feminine...
no one would call a moon: masculine...
gender neutral pronouns
in a language where:
the nouns are gender neutral!
that mighty oblong IT referential
to almost anything...
including the thinking "res" of man
that being the id -
   and the need to fake... the anaesthetic...
for a psychiatric inquiry...
to sedate a man while keeping
him awake... like a zombie...
   like less than a zombie...
            like a ghost: character in one's
spectacle of the third person...

         surds elsewhere?
           eh... raj butter: dhal... d'aal... or
the macron above the a: to elongate...
      in-valid contra:
   ynvalid contra... welsh... akin to
  the iota in: bid... well... byd...
                           buddy: is no -ee- is he?
he is...
                  inṽalid...
                        i said it three times to summon
st. peter and the cockrel and the morning
of denials...
    someone was choking on a pebble...
someone was the future saint stephen
getting drunk from nibbling on a bud of rose...
if the letters are not dancing...
then... i too: no... then i must be sitting down...

   gnome! 'nome!
                      a gnostic reading... a 'nostic reading!
new rules... the goal-posts move...
medicine and the art of: DiaGnoStiCS!

the hebrews teach only rule for
concerning oneself with god:
the islamic variation you rarely hear:
the taqwa - the fear of god...
which comes hard... to come by...
life requires a dear-almost-forgotten...
audacity to claim its... cherries and prunes...

newly converted proselytes...
        would be asked to cite the tawhid...
but never be allowed the comprehension
of the taqwa...
           one is never... truly...
allowed to be obedient to but one master...
which is probably why...
to grace the ordeals of many...
drunk on love while retaining
the sort-of rubric concerns of sober people...
drunk on the liquid that was
used to disinfect surgical tools...
      etc. etc.
                        
                what good of me: worth of anything:
is that sober regurgitating machine:
clog in the pick-me-up of / for:
the sacred truth of the media...
at least when the church was concerned...
i would be this...
miasma: ushered into a pre-sumptous
hades of sorts:

           in england: there's that vain hope
that... somehow...
that scene... where...
john adams (paul giamatti)...
meets king george III (tom hollander)...
i too whim at: and blink and winkle...
at the idea of a haircut...
and a retained scalp...
        a burning of the beard
and the theatre of the guillotine...
the glass-eyes of a mad king
and the: furore of the upcoming
project to come!
that what was to become...
h'america...
what not what became of england...
and what not...
the old tired breed of systems...

according to rumi: *****-whipped-***-cream-pie
surfer: the statement is universally
afghan:
   man is the created...
woman is the creative...
bless the mongols, the mongrels...
the seals, the apache, the confiscated
budgerigars... the mangos...
the willow trees of queen victoria's
periods as a widow...
the crazed slumbering spiders...
catch a constellation of stars along
with the cobweb nothingness
of the most: easily... agitated stars
in transit in the body of bothersome flies...
the god of gods and son:
who is better known as...
either the prince of leeches /
mosquitos...
                   hybrid effort...
i drink his if he drinks mine...
        the blood the blood!
            
flies: 'ere brown blood...
           almost mythological to have
to digest...
            the throne stands... empty...
          and... once more...
              the neck: upon which...
a crown should rest...
is... plucked...
but plucked... with no word of envy:
as...
      headless...
that the throne... stands... empty...
      and who is... to... bypass the gravity
of the upkeep of grafitti jargon:
to... "master the wave(s)" as... it were?
some... poor slavic shmuck from
a former satellite affair
of the soviet... empire?
     no no... to perceive!
is to not! project!
            fickle heart of woman
and a young man...
we are not to be eased with phonetic
miracles of mere... 'ebrew...
before long...
the arab: our golden goose...
our milk and honey and black gold
and yacht affair...
but what of... the... aldous huxley
of... beijing... the... slaughter
of all religion and of virtue and of vice!
the freed new land
of ethical inhibitions... castrated!
these new land of:
frankenstein's galore!
    oh the joy of...
           inter-racial biases and inter-species
furore!
where one frankenstein is left...
gasping for air: a new breeding-groom
is left waiting to rekindle...
the pax... that science be...
freed from the moths of history
of ancient greece and rome...
squinty-eyed... lemon ******* furore!
of... hardly a buddha training:
yin- the divine sparkle...
yang- the devilish inhibitor...

               the western way:
to better man by interracial breeding...
one should hope to mind...
the slur... skin-head...
between the african and the european:
mind you... what of the eskimos?
the japanese?
never mind...
the skin-head... and the... afro-"tinge"?
what about the raj: the subcontinent...
the... copper-necks?!
what of... the skin-heads...
and... the arab and sub-arab...
the indian cumin and coriander folk...
the copper-necks?
  must i?
   oh but i must...
       if the whites are the skin... heads...
if the whites are... hautköpfe...
then there's a: in-between to distinguish
black from white...  "..." and nanny "..."...
dumbo surds...
      kupferhälse...
                         isn't it... therefore...
somehow... fair?
  the zoo of ethnicity vocabulary:
afro-saxons... twiglet-fringe...
                  my best chase: doberman bark...
as ever... when the there's a reality
of the ubermensch retired in berlin:
active in beijing beside...
the fear of the theory...
the reality... god only knows...
draws... a ******* blancket!
     so, thus... frankenstein can have...
his... warewolf and octopus bride of
8 known vaginas...
and 10 more unknown unknowns...
because... Dr. Rumsfeld is...
too quick to point out...
any other: known knowns...
or... knowy known knowns...
or... unknowy knowy know: knead: dough...
oops savvy... born from piling
up missing link nukes to...
the bread that was born from
stockpiles of rubble from iraq...
dr. know-know: and as of: "now"...
                                   oh... oops: unknowingly:
no: and know oh knowy: gnomes...

if we're working from anything
it's "us" working from...
- if the greatest trick the devil ever pulled
was to convince the world he didn't exist... -

<'paul / lack>
       h'american racial slur for someone
of a western slavic ethnicity -
target practice for not being russian...
actually, though... phonetically...
polak - polska - polski - polka
    the italian gringos love the term...
like they still owned latin
and greece and... most importantly...
the libido governing...
            carthage...
      it's... parfâité complétant...
                           complétą... mind... the -nt
in fwench?
                the h'american "racial" slur...
you speak the most pristine
single word identifier:
not paul... not pole...
but ******...
     which i now truly known: what it is derived
from... king john's nickname...
of the angevin quest to keep most of
france...
  the nicked: 'lackland'...
        
   well... if the devil was so generous...
as to... do the devil's work...
then god... must have pulled a "similar" trick...
the greatest trick that god ever pulled
was to convince the people that the world...
didn't exist...
the fate of all science before
the altar of promise of faith...
which... the promises of doubt and science
ever ushered in...

who would want to invest in a life...
in a life in a fake...
a forgary of a world...
skinheads and the coppernecks...
i like racial-slurs...
              it's what keeps civilised
topics bound to the tattoo of chin-up
and knuckle...
nothing: pacified-aggresive...
*****-squint / squirt...
      i don't even know what...
shrimp-****...
curly-brains...
    candian-goose...
ice-c­ream ***** soda and blessed:
the ever-green of wisteria and
tokyo and toronto?
        
           niqab foreskins?
school 'em! ******* kippahs?!
          i love the racial slurs...
because: no sooner than...
well... to the heavens! we "glide"...
surf... chances of seeing a glaring
naked eye picture from jupiter?

  the greatest trick the devil ever pulled...
the greatest trick a (solipsistc) god ever pulled was...
this world was a forgery...
and that all the evil in this world was:
ontologically sound: bullet-proof!
it was our own fault!
     we were... the only monkey
with... ambitions to investigate the dodo projection!

i feel the absence of the polar opposite...
in that either a god...
or devil... ***** itself into a duality
of supreme kim jungian frown oohn..

best love ever spawned...
watching the grass grow tall...
taller than one's capacity to envision
a knee-height... with or no prior to:
kneeling at the altar;

     the greatest trick... he didn't exist...
     the greatest trick... this world was a fake...

These beasts of burden with their potent power,
They plough the fields for hours and hours,
Working for the farmer,
Never do they complain,
Strolling through the vineyards,
Harvesting next seasons grapes,
Time and time again,
While Amish farmers use theirs gifts and treat them tenderly,
In all their bridle wear,
Made in traditional way,
Left over gifts from these gentle giants,
Their deposits natural,
Have been used to heat and build a dwelling, if not somewhat smelly,
While keeping gardens blooming in a most productive way,
Some of the many things a workhorse does in a day,

Workhorses they also dwell in city life,
While walking through the city streets,
Mingling with the passers by,
Or controlling the traffic,
As part of forces supporting royalty,
Through regal processions,
Walking boldly proudly through a cacophony of drum beat sounds,
In a disturbing row,
All this noise and full furore,

Please respect these fine beasts,
Brethren of our world,
Poetry in motion as with such grace they move,
One thing for sure,
they can help us save our world with their minimal emissions!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

“I believe I’m gratified to have loved her,
If not where would my heart have been,
My eyes were radiated by this naiad,
Regalia she has given will last ever ageless,

To have been near her held her hand,
Brushed my fingers through her hair,
Listened to her incentive ways she had,
Given to me before she had gone faultily,

Rivers flow as wind carry life’s ballad inlet,
Leading me deep into the paradise I longed for,
Overwhelming protecting me from world afar,
Strong caring is what keeps our souls as one,

It’s an obsession the way we let ardor consume us,
In her eyes I found new visions have been revealed,  
As the sea forgets in its furore lading aboard,
No rest from travels it is my libation for memoir,

World of the deep fell into darkness of nets,
I would have liked my naiad by my side,
I imagine that my heart palpitating sadness,
If I were to pique the naiad would it make all well,
I shall never KNOW”
By Andrew Guzaldo 10/07/2018 ©

some people forget that writing into excess is never a modern sign of wavering... it sometimes means that there's enough for it to be exhumed... call it instant-archaeology... it's not about other people's conversation, it's about their company, and that far from being reached let alone being riddled...*

a letter to a lovely Ms. ***.:

hey! stop exposing your Nancy like a nun and poke back with a conversation - i'll sooner be dead than a monologue.... Florence Nightingale hear my plea - i love how the following "strings attached" gets attached... 3 thousand miles away, living in a cultural ferment of only youth included / exposed content... but no otherwise: curb the chances of oath and here plops a plumb punch... never heard of 5 o'clock shadow with such an explanatory shortening expressed with the least bereft: or right twitching buttock for a enamoured heart-attack heart: a clamouring clown said: if someone painted a Mona Lisa on my face... if someone... i'd ditch the circus and the claustrophobia antidote trick... so ** and no Santa... and ha and still no Santa... it.... it? it?! hey! hey presto al fresco! god, and i wrote this and i wasn't even fifteen readied for a cougar and: she's his p.r. / publicist... whatever the **** that means... they can and can like the wold and the three guinea pigs;
p.s. the wolf's advances are heaving packed, sure, but asthmatic: or three nights in Paris. you'll never write a book in London: everyone is being prescribed eternity with a timescale of 100 years max... and i do mean that retaliation to the question in Icelandic terms: test your d.n.a. sequence, stop frolicking over forced saints taking care of retards... or ditch the whole Darwinism; how many down syndrome kids does it take it take to chop a tree into firewood? one **** and a whip. see how far the joke goes? me Chimpanzee, me Panda, me me! forks and up yours! build that building of royal surgeons and public opinion -
autumn always auburn, chequers auburn with oak -

kingly European - that coming of winter -
                    Czech and the Carpathian mountains -
oh sure... now the Romance...
the Romance... now gone... fish 'n' chips...
                       i lived in England 20 odd years
the most romance i ever received was an A
at A-level history.
                                             i'm still asking you about
the sort-**** resolve though...
                                             i'll start laughing
when you get off the *** of rocking that
bellybutton girdle or curbbing.
                **** me, Hindu cows of ethnicity in
former Empire bound villages entrapped
by nostalgia;
                 sounds like the perfect breeding ground;
and it is, given the ultra glass like people
who feel the stamping of a mosquito dead
like they might feel a Serbian insurrection
into tonguing Ottoman:
but of course the English man engages:
because he "knows"...
                              just as long as he learned
the cabbies ref. i'd be
fine                            in championing
him on every turn...
                                   chappy ain't no
chappy to be a happy lad... so what
does that matter? i'm quasi 21st century
but actually trapped in 20th century.

                                                 i do love that
it's all happening in H'america...
                                                         makes the trivia
questionnaires a lot shorter...
                                           every time i think of
eating i think of a H'amburger rather
than              a H'entucky -
                                            because the inflatable
Juan with draw-on stubble
                 married a Chasing the Dolly wife -
                    and never mentioned Mozart once...
FAME = P + CANON
                        Pachelbel's Canon -
or... the nuance of the millionth plumber:
   y'er toilet made e burp?
                           hence the maiden at the aisle
and the ******* in the cot...
                    and the serenade of the Cotswold runny...
flapping flapping furore -
                         or the chicken grease off my cheek
in fully glaring applause: rather than i tattoo
a knuckle on some ponce Netherlander
spitting onto a Polish girl's cheek and some pseudo
Irish tells me that i need psychiatric help.
ENGLAND!
                         *******!
Handel grew fat and you grew slim...
                       Shakespeare wrote and you demanded
Emoticons!
                          Emoticons rather than emotions!

you can try to escape Europe, you really can,
but trying to submerge Poland as a colonial
country akin to the Africans will only demand a greater
rift in your little delusion,
                                   by god my heart is a kindred Scot,
nationalist...
                          and i will rip that bloodied cheek off yer
******* cheekbone the minute you say yer-nay-own...
                          play chequers an' tartans wit ye!
i'll make Jack into a stripper and the union into
haemorrhage George and jolly Andrew...
                           you make me into your little
Ethiopian herder i'll make sure that little
emblem of tourist insignia dies with it...
                        Spain is cheap... given the English standard...
Greece is too...
                                  the Alps are a cheap middle-class
**** and the Carpathians are Dracula...
                                          whoever gave these wankers
the Greenwich compass thought twice about the same
wankers... contemplating a trip to Mars..
                oi!
                              glaciers!
                 oi!
                                        the Mariana Trench!
oi!
                             ah, **** it...
oi oi... toe foe un luv 2 twin bananas!
*** yer bananas!
                                             yes, we employed a few
of those specimens to straighten the problem out:
none returned, all remaining became classified as:
with cannibalistic tendencies:
                                          stimulants increasing
deviating behaviour? synonymous rhyming:
                        crime
                                         slime
2 + 2 = bonkers...
                                  cannibalism
     altruism
                                   hedonism...
               soothsayer's saying:
                                if not a limb, at least a thought;
yum yum yummy.

by now i'm adamant at not finding a
publisher...
    what i call step higher
than writing and putting
it into my drawer...
by the way, who wants to
live a publishing furore that
only prescribes autobiographies
of footballers?!
   who?! the masses? the masses
will always do!
                 i'm drunk
and have a glum expression on my
(oink) face...
    piglets coming...
      i will own a michel de montaigne
and never read all of it...
       i guess darwinism is an answer...
literary selection comes with
the package...
             as does that question:
what's normal?
                    it's hard to base a heart
on it, more like facing up to a head
and still not knowing...
if we go through all the rubric of
existence we only arrive at:
the english were right... everyone else
was wrong... and to be frank?
i'd love to senda hundred zeppelins
in the direction where the saxons
succumbed to celt blood...
              what pretty songs...
a bit like unlearning that time when
ulysses asked wax to drip into his ears
while his men took to rigour and oar....
    hard to be the *****-man...
celt girls are pretty, don't get me wrong,
but i prefer to locate my own drinking spree;
celt men love their fantasy of a russian
oligarch princess... i had one for 5 months;
didn't bother settling down with her for life,
hence my ars poesis.
all the regrets you could figure out and master...
i have my drinking habits ready,
i didn't mind to write a moby ****
   or reymont's trilogy of the peasants
either... the glass if full: the gob is empty...
           the bed feels unslept in at 3 o'clock in
the afternoon, the cats are busy sharpening autism
in the garden...
         imitation:
feed it enough words so it becomes
fat?
    perfect excuse for a waterfall...
waking up i thought about the irony of
metallica losing its bassist in a car accident...
doesn't the rhythm section explain it?
isn't metallica the band that hates
bass?
                 it does have bass as intro...
devil's dance is probably the best insurance
leveraged song to example,
a few others fall into place,
but the rhythm guitar overtake the need for
bass, therefore the hush...
   yet there's this overpowering of drum,
i'm ego tripping with this music,
i want to hear bass prescribe the rhythm
and isn't it the case that those watchful of
ensuring rhythm make up too many rhymes?
rhyme | rhythm...
                  i need music to replicate
4 dwarfs *******...
bass, solo guitar and vocal, rhythm guitar
and drums...
alternatively bass, vocals, rhythm & solo guitar,
drums...
      4 oompa loompas prancing on the stage
and the maggot-pit of being part of the audience...
and that divergence spectrum akin to
a micro- / tele-        scope.
             you feeling the itch? my scalp is itchy,
i'm getting these thoughts and can't resort to
a pgf. file encoding... and i can't talk about it in
jpeg. like some god-horrid pic of your
former boyfriend's psychopathy of sending a ****-pick...
how about i take you to the zoo
and we watch penguins bathing?
     kowalski?!                                   hoy!
nugget fidgety crackers of concern,
    scheming critters that need you to invent toothpicks
that people, can suddenly become...
        you want a viking wielding an axe
on the opposite side to face that resonates as crux
comb-over... you don't want the pettiest of
the pettiest pickpocketers that steal from the dead...
you never take that to the plateau of nationhood,
that **** is inherent in singled-out individuals...
i am drunk, and i think i'm being lazy
with spelling... god help me...
      i'd freak out if i had a bukowski tactic
to back me up... dyslexics are apparently very good
with numbers... but they rarely tell you that they are,
good with numbers...
metallica is not too keen on bass: ba ba ***...
based on the concept of a hearing-aid;
you sometimes sop over the idea that it is there
at the beginning of a song... and then it: disappears!
magic... like the story of the original bassist for the band,
who died...
             maybe that's the reason that bass
is missing in all their works after his death, like some
sort of reperation currancy that extends into "the next life".
i want bass man... i really want bass to give it
proper polyphony, to give it layers...
but then again you can train an orangutan
to prance about on stage, crouching tiger farting monkey
look on his face;
  and all in all, the drunken humour i'll
never get to say at a party, if ever a party to attend, or if ever
needing to be funny.
i am starting to see the joke:
start slim,
  end:
                                                                                                   fat.

I have words
   good words
      all the best words
         they come out of me
      in fountains
   cascading
waterfall words
   flushing away doubt
      over the edge
         over the precipice
      I speak
   falling words
splashing words
   drowning words
      there are rocks at the bottom
         broken bones
            buried treasure
               known unknowns
            wrapped in reedy words
         left here by thrill seekers
     terrorists, murderers      
   rapists
jumping off cliffs
   swimming over rivers
climbing the walls that I built
   I am a great builder, you see
      but it's not all about me and my words
   I have questions too
Why do the bubbles breathe when I can't?
   Is this light refracted a mirror of the dark?
      Is there such a thing as a grindelow?
         Can't we stop them?
           What is this weight
              pulling me down
                Can I swim?
              Will I drown if I don't win?
            Don't look too closely
       for I don't know anything
   I never did
Let me back in
   I always win
     You'll be sorry
         You will be sorry
     all that will be left
   is a scorched blonde wig
a scorched earth
   a pile of empty emperors clothes
      and legislated words
         captured in email,
            cooked until raw
         served over the body politic
      burnt and broken by the fall
    of ***** grabbing brawlers
  drowned and forgotten in a furore
of water hurtling towards the forgetful sea
   and it's endless tides will bring the bodies back to shore
won't wash away the misdeeds, you don't know that half of it
you will never be clean
  But not me
    I am very rich you see
       I will float away on an endless tide
         of empty promises
            corporate endorsements
               and established exploitations
                  leaving only the roaring echo of the flood
               in which all your words
            all your worthless worlds
         were washed away
      so ask yourself
  on voting day
   who do you hate less?
   who do you hate more?
will it always be this way?

even my mother says: i've become a ******* peasant in this society of suggested tact hidden and later exposed in group theory, a ******* peasant! no wonder this society gave us Newton! well, i just say: origins of the English woman: fair play originating in **** (Greece)... but god knows where the paedophilia fetish comes from; stone cold hearted *****... swim the Thames solo!

i'm waiting my 40th in ten years time, and i'm already looking like a disgraced idol, fancy that, rebellious against the crucifix ideal of a six-pack stretched on the rack of vertical suffocation, a fine magic trick, between the years 18 through to 21: now you see me... now you don't! the same amount of time it took "salvation" to start up his dyslexic library of Al Capote's brood of thigh-thick neck gorillas doing the muscle-work... oh i have no concern for youth or Madame Tussauds (it wasn't enough for the ***** to capitalise on the Victorian hearsay to take photographs of the dead, you had to mould them... the cure between you and me is... cremation and dispersing in the Ganges to fulfil the element's haphazard inclusion... all the horror comes from the resurrection, and keeping the body seemingly alive in both death and life: plastic surgery is always worth a coffin prior, and the body isn't even worth a burial, just a advert for the proceedings to keep the familial ties in furore for the media! leeches that serve no medicinal purposes! c.i.a. heard of me first; just before the N.S.A. revelations i could have been warned, public security all in all, at least Saddam was a name that wasn't *Big and at least Saddam had a surname Hussein that wasn't Brother. oh ****'s happening in England, you bet... all the Irish horses win the derbies... it took me about 3 years to forget all the effort i put into magnetising *****, turned out that after 3 years i ended up being a stereotypical 50 year old idol with puffy cheeks battling insomnia as best i could.... but of course, the same people who loved looking at you aged 18 suddenly turning gangrene green with you aged 50 and summarising it as: i too wanted a hot-air balloon ride into the sight of paparazzi! imagine, i've just passed 30 and you're 50, Johnny, i'm looking as much-****-you-all-as-you... it's wonderful! if i wasn't awake for the past 40 odd hours treating alcohol as a magic sedative i'd be raging with a wine bottle around the place too... you know that women cry best when they lie?

i can understand the common foe,
indoctrination en masse,
but i just don't understand this atheistic movement;
esp. the vector of its clenched fist,
perhaps Radio 1 not playing
iron maiden's *bring your daughter to the
slaughter perfectly collapsed argumentation
for rage against the machine versus
the x-factor christmas no. 1?
well, there's that... but why is atheism
not attacking secular religiosity?
why not attack the parents who indoctrinate
their children to support their football team
to sway them away from hooliganism?
you want to attack old perverts and the nunnery
of grannies of the catholic church
but feign to recognise the same brainwashing
of those children taught that they were
predestined to support a football team
of their un-choosing? would't we all want puppets
like those given to us... replace the churches
with the modern coliseums! replace factions of
dogma with bending Beckham from Leytonstone
in full guise of arthritis or gummy toes
kicking up rugby ball for the head-in with
a set-piece - **** TEE! DUMP TEE! WOBBLE
THAT ONE IN WITH A UKULELE SOLO!

Virtù contro a furore
prenderà l'armi,
e fia el combatter corto,
che l'antico valor
nelli italici cor non è ancor morto.

woman's tennis is always more entertaining than the men's one-on-one, there are more rallies, more play in general, it's not one of those premature ******* stereotypes of a serve >110mph, or three-touch tennis... plus you can just imagine a clean-version of some shady *****, but with maria sharapova suspended... it's gone a bit quiet.

a beautiful day at Wimbledon, a ****** day up in the north east -
calm the nerves, calm the nerves,
go for a walk to buy whiskey and don't
look at the finálé of the Portugal v. Poland
game (yes, that's how i painted the
syllables in, like i manged to get a *sh sound
in Greek, linguistic surgery, i.e.
σ-                       -χ-                  -ι-                   -τ
sigma                chi                  iota                ­tau
s-                        -h-                -i-                ­   -t         used
-igma                 c-i                   -ota                -au     not used)
i would say cheese grater either - you cut the buggers
up, it's a real mean anatomic revelry to mind what
to use, what to snip off, some might say a fashion
statement - or one of those fairy-tale moments
in variations of Cinderella - in the more gruesome variations
the two horrid sisters have their heels cut off,
or their big toes, they put the glass slipper on
and blood starts oozing out - i'm sure i've seen that
variation on the tale; beside the point,
the neighbours were supposed to get a new fence,
the fence installers called yesterday asking for my neighbour's
phone number, apparently they didn't have it,
phoned today, neighbour comes back with her worries,
a scheming ***** by the looks of it,
doesn't want a new fence, a woman, play three men against
each other - a Jewess recently converted to Islam
(never mind that, i like colour, i hate bleaching
people or stripping them bare to a "respectable"
ennui of defining them by pronouns alone,
if someone identifies themselves as... whatever...
i identify them also... there isn't going to be a a blank
canvas of respectable leftist or whatever language here
just like you wouldn't heave the earth by simply
stating it's an orb, would you now?) -
it's her fence and yet i'm talking and later my father
to the person about to put it up - in England
it's like in Hong Kong - you honk honk clockwise,
not anti-clockwise, the fence to my left is mine,
the fence to my right... ain't...
it ends up being a furore - i'm angry, my father's angry,
Poland just lost - but when i'm angry and don't
write my rage into poetry i enter into an autistic simulation,
i don't make eye-contact, i'm not angry with the
person i'm gesticulating to, an autistic virtuoso of
sharp tongue averted eyes - pretty much a Steptoe and Son
scenario - it ends up being a case of finding one email
(that doesn't exist) among 220 containing a supposed
phone-number... god... why did you endow me with
enough patience to enter relationships with women?
never mind, forget i even i asked that -
the ******* is your answer, i admire that conviction,
why would you ******* if you didn't have one?
being circumcised you definitely need a *******,
being circumcised and still ******* is pointless,
waste of the revision, Judaism, Christianity and Islam
thrown in together - that was the warning
to Abraham about to circumcise (rather than
sacrifice, Victorian polite society is done, gone) Isaac,
don't do it... now you need a constant sparring partner,
oh yeah, and here are some rules: 613 minor commands
in Judaism, 5 times a day prayers in Islam,
and this ****** comedy version of atheism in Christianity:
i'm sure atheists don't congregate -
i guess you need a plan-β - given the fact that the mere
idea of god is ****** into us, you still end arguing
and either / or off Kierkegaard -
for some it's a necessity to pursue ritual -
for other's it's a necessary means of writing books
and earning a backpack's worth of wages... win win
whichever side you choose.

you should see having Chinese slit eyes after smoking back when i was 21 and was in the prime... miss those days... not's it's about reaching the 36th hour threshold of not sleeping, getting fidgety hallucinations of objects rather than themes, not even bothered about a deeper meaning of life by dreaming: **** dreaming... ever heard of the Soviet sleep experiment? well, i have a detonator to knock myself out, the perfect combination: a cure for chronic insomnia, or those who suffered the highest damage from what might be a one-punch-knockout-let's-handshakes-with-Hades... you think there aren't rich people who'd need someone to cure them from chronic insomnia due to a brain haemorrhage? do i look like a ******* saint of Calcutta? ENCORE! whiskey (depending on your previous intake of the stuff, not any old spirit, Scottish perfumery, i told you Edinburgh was the new Paris and the already established Athens of the north) -  AMITRIPTYLINE (25MG - milligrams) - and 500G PARACETAMOL... i once mentioned that other painkiller... why am i putting myself through this? well i know i'm suffering, no point hiding it... **** the liver recharging, i need my brain more... the Soviets didn't find what i found... a cure for insomnia of brain haemorrhage sufferers: alpha rat? me... hence the added flow of subjectivity, pondering more than the ****** Zodiac premonitions - there's always a doctor for whatever condition is probably not as celebrated as a charity run for cancer... so as Socrates said... i'd be charged with making pensioners rebels, since they seem to be only ones who are on my wavelength - they're worried about the silent scythe, i'm worried about the all-too-loud scimitar; ******* complimentary like a burger and chips.*

because he was selling his beautiful lessons,
which are beautiful, i admit,
the meek man said: i'll just cycle down this
park, this square mile, and nowhere else,
because i'll just be a tourist in Jerusalem
as much as a tourist in Florence...
and you know? i'm trying... oh wait, buy
them? paradoxically - the suffering was sold,
then the idiot bought the same suffering,
and the two contested in the Garden of
Gethsemane: you can't lift the word alone,
by trying to illuminate it alone will
cast half the world in night, hence the
scimitar world of Islam, from where i was
released to illuminate the adherents of
your illuminating flock of the Atom
Bomb and the Holocaust...
let's just say a few ordinary Jews,
like the neighbours next door, who are
Jews, the woman converted to Islam,
because the Hasidi Jews believe in
a second coming of... well... let's just
call it a dinosaur sequence...
i don't believe the American hot-dog
machine could create those roving objects...
they're coordinates...
but listen! listen! ha ha! it's a win win
scenario! either those other beings in
the universe will help you to improve
your ways by being stupidly mesmerised
by their Santa Clauses (law term),
or they'll **** you and give you your
wish: not economic unity without
individual strife, but unity per se
without the concept of economics... like i said:
win win... Thor and the Dark Elves -
N.A.S.A., hello! hello! look where Lucifer
falls... and how your ******
think white is the same as red... oh look,
a Polish boy... i give you freedom!
or like Islam predicted, if i leave England,
my one day in England that's a year
in Iran... will just speed up the process...
they'll just hone in on the place where
the coordinates disappeared from -
because you'll be killing off their
scientific investigation, which goes back
to YHWH... and not to Kant's God
or the omnipotent prune that could be
both plum and pumpkin... well...
i heard people like to gamble... let's gamble!
because like you said: Picasso and the
primitive man rather than the Renaissance men...
you interrupt their scientific interest
which will end with my natural death...
or you do something stupid, and change
the timescale... question is...
if i ever travelled back to my home
would they stone me? then you'd all
have to submit to Islam - look how angry they
are... or i could take the scenic route,
get to love sadism and get to love pain...
and... well... what a kaleidoscope
of variations with a thought of an afterlife!
if i'll be able to sit in hell for the duration
of my mortality... i think a radio,
an infinite supply of whiskey, cigarettes
and white pages and ink and pornographic
material will prove anyone's endurance
to get chatting with Wittle Adoolf.
i'm joking... i have a redemption clause...
when i was a fat teenager with acne,
after i lost the weight and started smoking
marijuana, i reached a momentary of
attainment of Nirvana, which is western
tradition involves an induced form
of thoughtlessness: not mindfulness;
for a few golden months i'd smoke dope,
not think, enjoy music, and get on with
work and studying... these poems are
a byproduct for my way toward redemption
of once more experiencing that state
of mind... free from suffering...
by death, i am promised having attained it
once more, rather than having to have
to perpetuate it carefully like a Buddha might...
that's the only solace i have the ****** up
things i usually write:
as i was later the one to teach demons
to appreciate the solace of drinking, by
way of calming their infuriating ontology
inducing them with a sedative they might
perceive as the double-jeopardy of fury...
drink the waters of furore to calm
the otherwise persistent nerves -
all very well with 21st century sensibilities
running and ruining the place,
as if the 21st century was a reason to
have reached a Utopian benchmark and
exclaim the usual shock: in the 21st century?
unheard of! in the 21st century?!
how impossible... yeah, and croissants from
the 18th century never tasted better either...
shock treatment of Darwinism...
the ones that are sitting on cushions
are wondering why anyone would chisel
stones.

several addictions have them, several
music genres have them regarding
their listeners -
    hell, a lot of people go by a nicknames,
marijuana smokers are stoners,
or loafers,
     ******* users: coke heads -
    ****** - dope fiends?
         or is that lepers, or is it scurvy?
metal music fans: meatheads
due to their head-banging antics -
the punks the ikes,
            the gays queers -
the transgender folk trannies -
     the feminists the ****** -
although i'd call them the sapphos sisters...
anyway...
    they can beat you down with regard
to your own antics -
i'd love to see another pissy-pants
  annoy oliver reed, and see if he'd laugh...
that being said:
   alcoholics probably have the best nickname
compared to the rest of them...
ha ha - hellraisers.
ah, on that note, having mentioned oliver reed,
oh, his athos? pristine performance...
it's gonna sound gay, but i also had
a crush on aramis: you know,
that refined english gay gentlemen without
hissy fits, what can you do,
you're young, your brain is moulding,
it will full decide aged 25...
  as it turns out: it was just a glitch of a child;
anyhoo, i watched this somewhere,
that heath ledger inclined himself
to pinch a doppelganger's case for his
role as the joker, after watching a few
tom waits interviews...
     it wasn't exactly theft, given that actors
are the respectable thieves in this world,
besides that,
   so there i was, watching the 1972
film henry viii & his six wives -
and as henry viii (donald pleasence)
started to age... it dawned on me,
in a subtle way: hey! oi oi!
     it's tom hardy playing bane!
obviously without the mask and the chain
smoker's voice raspy voice -
just the mannerism / punctuation marks
in the performance;
wouldn't you know - i've actually found
a suitor, and ****, even if the production
back in the 1970s was low...
   it doesn't matter: i was watching, actors!
i was watching the respectable thieves!
i was watching actors and thieves and actors
and thieves!
actors these day? more like burglars...
and there is a difference...
    acting, as if the audience isn't in the cinema...
sneaky little buggers...
back when acting was thieving!
i still think my favourite cinematic moment
in history,
  is when octavius caesar (roddy mcdowall)
reacts to the news of mark antony's
(richard burton) death:
the soup is hot, the soup is cold,
antony is alive, antony is dead...
                    and then the furore!
those really were thieves before they were
actors... not they are "actors"
        when in fact they are burglars.

in a room filled with the music, it's hard to say what
the emotional intensity change feels like when the headphones
are in, next on the menu:
camel's masterpiece - another night -
from the album moonmadness -
and here, what Islam ought to be
kindred to: conscious r.e.m. akin
to epilepsy - and no pagan in sight -
the approaching October with
his Octavian prose of shrugged shoulders -
and an article about gender-neutrality
and fleabag - 2nd year at Edinburgh
is was all about skipping the late afternoon
tutorial, doing the shopping
and foraging on Last.fm... for the next
progressive rock-band...
hence camel, hence spirit, and many others...
a new mode of basking in the sun for a tan...
what you're thinking -
bad question... i don't want to know...
as all pubescent conversations go... that's
the one question you cite as: minus 100 points,
on a tally of 300... the end,
hello Tolstoy. so that's me,
camel's moon-madness album,
an opinion section about gentrification,
and how your genitals never bubbled into your
'ed, because it was not necessarily minded
before ******* took over...
so gender neutral... awe at the power of science...
they could have got 19 pence anti-cancer pills...
but H.I.V. was more important...
yep, never did ****... and don't intend to
join the feminism of: let's do ****, and stop
those ******* leaving us barren and destitute in
their funny guy shags guy...
if that ain't a woman thing (doing ****)
to discourage men from doing men...
i know why the majority of bachelors under
the Octavian rule of thumb would be
pressed grapes and end up as wine...
hands up: just saying... i plead guilty...
and the art of dialectics left to its own
devices produces this... no point to hook-up onto...
less agreed on and even less argued against...
dialectics like a derelict house for you:
shaky Stevens with the knees... PRAY!
there's the church, and there's the holy ghost,
who's never to be a personified,
ugly nuns praying for alcoholics...
and if there was a more successful brothel scheme
than the nuns of the Vatican... please let me know.
lying and being angelic faced: if ever
there was a bigger turnoff than that,
i'd be banking on that 'um.
so there's camel and the fleabag sitcom -
        there's also a.... burp... and that too including
something else...
                            you know... Poland seems
like a rather sane place to be a child... well, that's
1986 through to 1994 -
                     a sane place...
                                          a sane place being raised
by you grandparents -
                                   because your parents
were establishing a new lie in England and were
away...
                  a pretty sane place...
        whatever the western world is selling: i'm not buying...
you never know, it might just be malaria...
                     as a propaganda composition to
    seek out personal benefit?
   no... like looking for an honest man is as hard
as looking for god (Diogenes and the lamp debacle
in the marketplace, later understood as pure Nietzsche,
n'ah ah)...                    i keep thinking about
my childhood because that's the period where things
were sane... getting exposed to western ideas just
bred more ******-doodle-do than i'd care to say,
or Snowden and that guy who found North Korean a haven,
so much for press-freedom... at least you
can spot the dictators, the magic mushroom people
running the so-called "free media" are tyrannical moguls
who want their faces printed in tabloid papers as if
tabloids meant mirror...             at least people
want to assassinate tyrants... no one seems to give a toss
about these Eton Boys' Club Furore:
bow down to the messiahs! comparatively enough
zeros (000000000000000) on your cheque, is like
                 inches in the length and girth of your
one-night-stand capabilities.

i know the ******* had a breakthrough in the Actors' Studio, and moaned and groaned his way through interview after interview, and that no woman was mentioned...*

some say locality, some say orientation,
they mean the locus but stress the orient
with purpose and demure to an advent
beset by a Catholic calendar to
celebrate the saints and pay-off the castratos
add ******'s genitalia to the violin
for baritone of brass sound
with angelic choir one of Hannibal's trumpets
charging in to shake things up...
but what an opening, i'd rather watch
1980s Hollywood horror drenched in
Parmesan than 1990s thrillers than
post 2010 comedy...
but there's still Lawrence Lipton and his book,
you can try to encapsulate the beat movement with
the slogan: insurrection of slang against
imperial vocab sophistication...
the beats were all about the "square", or the "hip
culture, Eucharist of jazz and poetry",
the beat movement from a historical perspective,
kinship via repertoire to the Renaissance
Sistine Chapel crew, much the same,
the tetragrammaton ingested by the crucifix,
no bust of Samson, not Caligula,
no Marcus, not even Nero, a symbol derived from
a tool for torture rather than thinking, Louis XIV and the sun
can hide next to that thing, the iron maiden too...
with humans you sometimes wish to be a chicken,
at least the butcher knows you're edible and
does a kosher death to you... but with humans?
you hardly know... it's a gamble...
never mind the benefits of Darwinism,
i'd rather be a chicken these days,
at least i'd know the hierarchy perfectly,
rather than jellyfish through all arguments
and argue non yet continue in disgrace to: "improve",
yet not really improving -
for the non-existence of an imaginary being like god
it's no wonder Disneyland came about,
but using such alphabetic symbolism is hardly
stressing the use of imagination, more or less memory...
that's what the nobles stressed anyway...
ensure they can't memorise these phonetic encodings
and keep them entertained by imagining things
from the dull embrace of labour via heaven...
but i had it another way... memory: the greatest cinema...
memory is the perfected cinematography -
if you're good there won't be a prime, a central character
played by your conscience,
if you'e bad there will be a cold-sweat,
a sweaty sword unearthed from a haemorrhaging wound
(woond rather than wound, as in winding the clocks back?)
by translation of image a dinner fork digging into
a medium-rare stake... memory is the perfect cinema...
well... if you have a memory worth rekindling
into phantasmagorical images not appearing,
makes looking at inanimate things all the more
entertaining, given you actually want to remember,
then memory is the perfect form of cinema,
i go there very often... the bully conscience always
tries to sell me a ticket, i tell it i'm a shade rather than
a v.i.p., every time it lets me in, although nagging...
memory is the perfect form of cinema...
i know that in reality imagination dons the crown,
but that's throng-centric, i'm talking a rich-boy's
palette of champagne and caviar, memory is the mono
pleasing experience, it's not the crowd furore anticipation
for a gasp to be louder than a yawn.
i swear the English are passing on slapstick-humour
with the membrane " "... i can feel it... it's a Pontius Pilate's
way of saying things... Chinese whisper two-point-oh.

I said "I've had enough", you didn't hear me.
Right now, it's too late. It's too late for you clearly.
No life is left for you, and I've got no rue,
There's no way I'll ever feel blueful for you.

You have bones that crushed, some were just broken.
The sound of neck snapping? It is truly golden.
Blood that was dried up, and blood that was dripping.
Oh my my my, I was not even tripping.

Your skin would make a mighty mighty fine gown.
After all this time of you putting me down.
I do want to **** you, no questions asked.
Let me have my moment of brutal bloodbath.

I think your teeth would make fine accessory.
Again, no, I will not be ever be sorry.
I'll stop when there is no more fluid in you:
Saliva, blood, sweat and maybe *** too.

Now this seems unlikely of someone my age.
Yet maybe you weren't warned of what fits my rage.
And maybe, just maybe, it is your own fault,
For flaunting too much until I've lost my gall.

Perhaps I will tear you, your sad flesh apart.
Watch 'til it stops in my hand, your beating heart.
You and I both human, I wish to live longer.
I wonder if you look pretty hanging from the rafter.

Ending you swiftly won't be all that fun.
Slicing you with knife or shooting with gun.
Maybe I'll make art, creative, intricate.
Maybe you got no guard up, check and mate.

And this question lies: Where my sweetness went?
Well I'll say this is the furore years spent.
Let me bite my lip, appease bloodlust call.
I present my masterpiece: ****** in the hall.

my brain has a priority,
i could endeavour to do a Soviet
sleep experiment,
but, to be frank, my liver can
become knock-out mush.

where else would you find a flag of red, white and brown?
where, if not in the toilet - god, i hate people lying -
it gets on my nerves -
             it's not like we ate the fruit
of Eden and came up with
not knowing anything -
          what became the ultimate
poetic canvas, has, truly, expired
under my watch -
          it just became too much of
a tedium, than a source of inspiration -
   all they ever did was recite
the safety-net passages of a ******
affair - and yes, i do have a memory
of a specific thought, on of them being:
  what will be the last song i'll ever hear...
i started pondering:
              King Crimson's *epitaph?
   or Madonna's material girl? i couldn't choose -
so there i was, sitting on the throne of
thrones reversing the pleasure of ****,
Frank O'Hara was there,
            and my book was there,
apart from the odd typos, it actually
felt pretty good reading some of these poems,
for the first time, a perfect environment to
read my own poems: on a toilet.
                flush!         echoing            flush!
sounds about right...
             sure, i enjoyed them,
but what i did enjoy more was wiping my ***:
hence the title: red, white and brown...
blood from my ****... if this is pain...
sign me up for more...
              that's what i don't understand:
he lied about the lie (you know
who the protagonist of Milton is) -
       we learned to lie -
   people always bemoan toothaches,
now... toothaches i can understand,
no one lies about toothaches -
   but the rest of our bodies?
those ******* molluscs and oysters?
i don't even think they are able to conceive pain...
bones... sure, i get it...
teeth especially... but those soft pouches?
they either harden up, or die off...
people just lie about pain...
they love the crucifixion scene they
want mourners to stabilise them in
their bed-ridden-riddle -
          if i'll tell you it hurts... i'll tell you
why, perhaps i was wiping my *** too
vigorously, proclaiming: now, those
pederasts really know how to write a poem...
    i can't imagine the major organs
succumbing to more pain than the usual
pain someone chooses to attribute them
through abuse... i see death and think:
you're the right odd cheater in giving out
anaesthetics... aren't you?
                  it's when it goes to the bone...
i can imagine pain in bones to be like anything
above the soft-tissues turning into
snails and some child-sadist pouring
salt on snails... or smearing frogs with
lipstick and setting them alight (i have seen this
being done: ******* freak-show,
that's all i thought)...
              as one man said: death comes slowly...
or in all honesty: death comes painlessly -
          but i don't know if the red on the toilet
paper is equivalent of impeding death,
   or merely an optic impediment that i have
no solution to...
         all in all... i rather keep that cranium
canary of mine content with synthetic sleep
than keep my liver toxin-free -
                     sure, i wish i could
experience analytical sleep these days:
  analysis, i.e.: we shipped 10 tonnes of x
                          we shipped 10 tonnes of y,
                          we put into storage 20 tonnes of z...
i know what manual labour is like,
   i mean, roofing isn't exactly doing a manicure...
the whole: doin' it for 20 years argument
doesn't really matter... i have one complete
roof under my belt: Scottish Widows' HQ (St. Paul's
on the Central Line) - and if you think,
for a moment, that i wouldn't rather be up
there, on the roofs, winter thinking about
long ships and the wind, and
summers and jeans and frying ******* -
           then you're sadly mistaken -
    all i have for entertainment these days
is a few women, who have a secure life,
                bake, vacuum, all the 1950s stereotypes,
****, throw 'em in! and in their spare time
write poems... oh sure, me the fiendish brute,
the ogre - the whatever that comes from
a woman's arsenal of - because being puppy-eyed
and sopping, just doesn't do it justice enough...
            in that respect, Philip Augustus (the 2nd)
of the Capetian monarchy was a woman...
  yep, had a ***-change and manipulated
               Henry II, Richard I and John
                          like a woman might in an ****:
three holes... one has to fit to adequate pleasure.
oh soft sweet death... why are you languishing
in the worded furore and taking your time?
this is getting, a little bit... too ridiculous:
all those abstracts of feeling, idealists everywhere...
but never from personal experience:
   and just because you read idealists across the learned
spectrum... doesn't necessarily make you one...
        sometimes you turn into a realist -
and what most people can face up to:
            exhibit a. angry man
exhibit b. pacifist man
                exhibit c. a stick
        exhibit d.                               a riot scene.

i've seen a u.f.o.,
yep - a weird orb - hardly a helicopter -
and hardly an aeroplane -
i disclosed it once to a "friend" -
   apparently in europe the entirety of
the oddness of the universe can be caged in
the mind of a psychiatrist - that's europe -
apparently every odd observation
requires the secular
"priesthood" of psychiatry -
everything, has, to, be: normalised;
the sort of *******-tickle-talk
that allows you to return
to talking about the weather...
or yesterday's eastenders episode
on the by pedohpilia bankrupt
b.b.c.
  so? **** it, play along:
the funny people will crack any
time soon...
         even though i have seen
an u.f.o. i'm sticking the the british
take on "sensibility" i.e. lying.
so this paddy walks up to me,
a british citizen like any other,
but has this "royal" airiness around
him...
  he thinks i'm mere peasant
and he's a ******* monarch!
          he suddenly think i can't
comprehend english...
but he can... then i ask him
to recite the alphabet... paddy can't!
sure, you see a u.f.o. when
you have to immediately curb your
enthusiasm, because you're in
europe, and europe is "sensible" -
     so you practice your sense &
sensibility: see no evil, hear no evil,
speak no evil: but **** me:
think up a tier of horror
                  above the holocaust!
if we're allowing science fiction,
if we're allowing the "dream"
but never the reality,
  if europe discarded idiot priest
for a psychiatrist,
i'd probably prefer the idiot priesthood
to the secular "priesthood" that's
psychiatry...
        i've seen an u.f.o.,
but as you might expect, i'm "european",
i'm supposed to be the sensible one,
the never: over-fluttering in
excitement -
                       ****, i saw a u.f.o.
actually means: i saw ****, nothing
really happened.
            i'm occupied, the drinking is
hardly a drag, and the music i'm listening
to isn't that bad, after all;
hell, i must have been drunk watching
this electric light orchestra "glyph"...
you start to try to convince people,
   when the people try to convince themselves
belonging to some day-to-day
everyday mundane collective "sanity" -
**** it, you do what you have to.
a bit like this "surprise" regarding the
transgender movement...
         3 year old trannies...
   ever read r. d. laing's the politics of
experience and the the bird of paradise?
i hope to hell that r. d. laing will overshadow
freud, perhaps even jung...
after all: what glasgow giveth one
does not dismiss so easily...
                not without a brawling
spectacle in the back alley...
     what glasgow offers: one does not discard
even upon a 2nd reading.
                 and this is truly a topic of
the proper regard:
          all of politics is an aspect of experience -
as ever, with respect to heidegger:
   there's there-being -
but there's also mit-sein:
     with being, i.e. what?
                           mit-sein has no actual
coordinate to ensure a contract of
analogues -
             not a flat earth my aß...
you ever navigated a car via
    antwerp, eindhoven, venlo, duisburg,
  essen, dortmund, hamm, bielefeld, hanover?      
that serpentine is a ******* killer...
you travel east from that muddle of roads
you'll be a ******* general of the boyscouts...
      no, no GPS... play god, looking down
on a paper, yes, paper map!
            navigate that ****!
       oh right, 3 year olds and trannies...
why the surprise?

       jesus said to them:

   when you make the two one, and
when you make the inner as the outer
and the outer as the inner and the above
as the below, and when you make the male
and female into a single one,
      so that the male will not be male
and the female not be female, when you
make eyes in the place of an eye,
          and a hand in the place of a hand,
and a foot in the place of a foot,
        and an image in the place of an image,
then shall you enter the kingdom.
    (the gospel according to doubting thomas) -

so... trannies?  
              
      a ******* elephant in the room...
it's almost like people don't want to cite
where this entire zeitgeist furore originated from,
i.e. from the "heretical" gospels of
the "lesser" followers of "christ"...
         by now the whole affair
is staring me in the face with burning
coal-eyes...
            if only the nag hammadi
library was found in modern day israel,
and not egypt, and not the story of
the flight of joseph and mary to egypt -
   and not the account of the secular historian
josephus in the reign of nero,
   and the book of revelation ref. nero
rather than augustus...
               hey, i inherited this crap...
even though the old testament is ridiculous,
at least it's only so "ridiculous"
as to be "ridiculous" given the time-frame...
the new testament is just a blatant lie...
a blatant greek lie...
        it's the nadir of what came prior,
i.e. the excellence of poetic harvesting by
the greeks -
         the new testament is a death of poetics -
a religion carved out of:
    the uninhibited testimony of
ever perpetuating the hunger for the next
groove messiah...
       odd, jesus christ perpetuated -
             moses christ sounds a tad bit sour...

never mind, perhaps, sometime in america,
as it stands, in europe, we're stressing
keeping up appearances,
  we're being sensible,
                  we're being the apparently
"well-attired" -
                  there's a "we" that has agreed
upon the secular priesthood of psychiatry,
i'll just ask,
    is it worth the spectacular,
given that so many people are gambling
with the mundane?
       so? shut up, and try to laugh internally;
it didn't help me having either 1 of
the 5 senses to craft an account of
an oddity...
     i was told to step back into line...

   and this, by ordinary civilians...
           i'm pretty sure that army personnel are
more liberal to such odd events, than
your everyday grey-day joe:
you know the guy, you pass about 100 of them
in an urban environment:
that face, so unmemorable that it's almost
like looking at a concrete slab.

- you've seen a u.f.o.?!
- nope, i must have been blind drunk hallucinating,
  sorry to disappoint, ol' chap.

.if you had any, you'd also know, that the act of urinating, while standing up, is equivalent to a video of a woman ******* in the shower... although... in this scenario: water isn't coming in, it's coming out. ****! i hate being lectured by circumcised men that aren't rabbis!

i always wondered whether
   richard brautigan
was right about laughing
in bed, with one of his girlfriends,
giggling at the work
  of richard von krafft-ebing
when it came to the act
of a man, *******...
peculiar case: after that shot
of lead went into his head...
  not that i'm laughing...
perverse ****** acts...
   apparently...
      i should be inclined,
   as the passive recipient
      of the homosexual amour...
impotent masturbators...
hmm...
        as one deviant said
to the other:
               just give me the 2D
framework of a *******...
the other scenario?
  of a 3D woman...
  oh... you mean the type that...
might...
    "suddenly" become pregnant,
akin to the "******" mary?
funny story, that,
it's been going on for well
over 2000 years...
   i mean, the simple bias
for curiosity just, gripped me...
then i started thinking...
but was richard von krafft-ebing
circumcised?
was he exposed to a strobe-light
effect of flesh,
just... *****-nilly... parading?
did i ever think about *** like
that before i heard of whittle richie
prior to being "indocrinated"
to the freudian cluster- / mind-****?
it (or he, i.e. me)
   can get an *******
with a *******...
but with a woman, say,
    a nurse, or a, whatever...
he's got a limp ****
     for some time,
   before the arousal kicks in...
and hey presto! little jimmy
  has a birthday cake
and a hogmanay bonanza of:
metaphors, fireworks, metaphors,
fireworks!
- i'm that sometimes has
a melancholic "******"
when listening to templar chants...
like... i'm giving birth...
through my head,
   to a foetus, that's actually
a vacuum...
but it feels so good...
it's like: you weep for the pleasure,
and you know you're
enjoying the lament...
because, right at the end,
when you stop...
  you leave a sadistic signature
of a quivering giggle...
point being... over-exposure...
which began, in my life...
around aged 7...
started jerking-off aged 7...
after having found
a *****-mag. in the catacombs
of a church that was being
built...
     but it never became
a scented candle moment...
it never became a web-cam.
*****, live streaming,
earning money moment:
    which some girls frequent...
no...
  it was straight on
the ******* (throne of thrones),
done the no. 1,
done the no. 2 (sort of)
doing the no. 3
   (dilation) -
   ploop...
      done the no. 2:
useful, really useful,
    this, god the ****,
  son the phallus...
   and a holy ghost of *****...
next up: every time i *******
i begin to wonder:
that butterfly effect, "thing"...
you know... a butterfly *****
its wings in one place,
and a tornado happens
to take place in another...
so... basically only women
shooting blanks (****)
  get to enjoy the standard
deviant act of ***...
but...
     i'm starting to suspect
that... having a *******
is a bit like donning a habit...
what the monks wear...
now i'm guessing that
pearl jam (that grunge band)
released their album
vitology when reading,
if not the work,
  something akin
   to von krafft-ebing's
psychopathia sexualis...
i'm guessing:
naughty boy touched
his fiddly bit...
   yeah: as "naughty boy"
always does when he's
standing at the ******
aiming for that: 100% accuracy
of a welsh longbowman
in the 100 year war
against the french...
look... they even paint
bullseye in some urinals...
gotta aim: j-        -ust
   about right... squint the eyes...
but would circumcision
make men more...
degenerate, over time?
if there were no jewish
rubric involved:
  it's like a... "treat":
that "extra" skin can come off:
snippy snippy...
but you have to follow
these rules...
   what happens when
those rules are no imposed?
hey... i'm starting to stare
into blank, which i once called:
the feeding abyss
  thinking:
         sure, the added
impetus...
     to... search for the supposedly
"lost", "extra" weight
of the body...
  a soul "apparently" weighs
21grams... what's a *******?
i'm seriously going to start
calling it a habit...
          (NO EXTRA B FOR
INSINUATION OF: HABBIT,
was shouted over the megaphone).
homosexual feeling as an acquired
manifestation in both sexes...
p. 188 of the psychopathia sexualis...
love those words
mentioned - parathesia
  & hyperaesthesia...
or... sometime -esque of what
a man feels, within "god's gratitude"
of owning a habit...
you cut that **** off...
well... what are the chances
of aggression being, triplet?
****... the arabian girls were so
*****... they first had
to snip-off parts of their genitals,
and then made them
      put on a niqab...
             ***** as... well: ****!
all of them could be
the equivalent of a genghis
khan in terms of:
    in the *****,
of the Mecca Surrogacy club...
as i suspected:
surrogacy: the elevated form
of prostitution...
but at least now two
gay-lords (meet the parents
ref.) are *******
     and incubating...
me? as free and as brisk as
a ******* sparrow at this point...
i just want to see
how far relegated i will become
when more, and more
human freedoms are unearthed
and applied to: zee vill
               aus zee wolk.
   so that's all good;
    it's already one thing
to have anaesthetic type of ***
with prostitutes, once a year,
or perhaps two...
   it's another to be told:
you ******* because
you're having gender disphoria
or... you're the *****
in a homosexual relationship...
funny that...
   maybe the whole
  "erectile dysfunction"
is related to mingling in a society
of circumcised males...
who subsequently have
no religiosity,
  no moral authority
ascribed to them,
  as related to the orthodox hebrews?
you know...
i'm starting to think...
i could probably find
a common parlance
with an orthodox jew...
given: he's circumcised,
          and i'm not.
- because that's what
this: extra bit of "flab" is...
   you don't feel a need
to explore: "further" territory...
you're not strapped
to a ******* *****-machine
conjuring up new ways
to fill up that absence...
    the ******* van gogh /
st. peter's sentiment
of the ages...
       my bet... in the furore
of the events...
   jesus wasn't circumcised...
hey...
i gamble... but not on horses,
or dawgs (as...
   ***** ****** would
                          put it:
                  yeah... i like dogs).
so yeah...
not many jokes about
    circumcision, of males...
  and... not many uncircumcised
males... making jokes
about habit comparisons
and: the exponential rise
of ****** deviation
  of circumcised males...
being *******...
   that... the one ****** "deviance"
they could have been allowed,
of sitting down,
taking a ****,
taking a ****,
and bashing one to the grave
of: "imagining" genocide
was stripped from their,
should they ever encounter it,
state of rejection...
   **** me, shylock asked
for a pound of flesh...
   i'm asking for what's...
****... dunno...
  how much does ******* weigh?
yeah... 21 grams?
the same as the superstition
of the soul when it leaves
the body?
    cool...
                 that's not much...
- so my sole ****** deviation
is to do the nos. uno, dos, tres...
but ***** over there
was a web-cam,
scented candles...
    income...
    and... what appears to be...
something more than
  the missing *******...
            i look down:
oh... right...
              so i keep the *****...
for all their use...
  i'll be excluded from
the castrato choir of the vatican:
******-dooby-do;
i'll just ghost-**** my way
                 out of this scenario.
- so what wouldn't be
a problem with circumcised men...
their hindered libido...
their subsequent
                      rebellion against
their hindered libido...
no religious structure...
the woman no being in the mood...
and the subsequent
possibility of outlet
   of a simple: uno, duo, tres?
****... i guess i'll never know.

i hate talking about darwinism
outside the realm of the individual,
i can encompass darwinism
with a sense of individualism
but what we're being sold is a collectivisation,
an economic model, and eradicating
personal theological practices will not help:
i like the algorithm fluctuations
between 1 (existent) and 0 (non-existent)
it's a bit like a paradoxic: Siberia...
Sahara... Antarctica... what's the other
hot alternative? a Jacuzzi in Las Vegas?
but when darwinism looses its individualist
approach, and tries to collectivise...
we're talking my grandfather's youth...
idolatry, communism, or both exchanging,
intertwined... all the entrepreneurs in a furore
while the share prices on Wolf St. gave way to an avalanche!
or in kindred tongue, via Mafia:
boom bara boom and spaghetti Bolognese -
brains for marbles, Don Quixote with napkins
in his cheeks for the Oscar-winning accent...
and i guess your landlady was named Frizzy Mary
like some ******* cocktail.
(question mark is missing due to innuendo irony
of pronunciation prolonged without, irony -
plus no soprano would read poetry
to mind spotting that gesture...
there's no stage, no spotlight, no crowd, no applause...
it's poetry... you can prance in flamingo ******
and interpret as much as you like...
if the poet isn't there to ramble about copyrights...
you can take it as your own:
without the poet: his poetry is yours, and you too, an ****...
now translating this metaphysics
into physical terms invokes
variably a circumstance of: you're a cannibal... so say bye bye
(go on, give a wave) to vegetarianism.)

if i can read with sympathy and empathy,
it can only translate into: when reading my
own bits & bobs i’m an executioner -
with my work being charles I -
but that’s relevant, i can’t be a one-man
stalking sycophantic groupie,
and for whatever criticism comes my way
i know the price of the maxim:
true virtue is unafraid of criticism,
oddly enough because it is already overly self-critical -
e.g.? the peacock and the encyclopaedic content
of the cantos of ezra pound almost desires to
be sung and not squared-up to be relevant,
given that in the majority of life’s canvases
the privacy of such thinking is for the reclusive readership
allowance, that might undermine all
reckless speeches that either slither through the amassed
audience like an electric serpent to stage a furore,
or simply attract ridicule and dispersion
with a joke’s punchline drum roll - tu dum tss.

Tap. Tap.
Distant sound from above
Kept silent within a fragile soul
Tap. Tap.
Drowned out through fear and love
A wind beyond a persons control

Tap. Tap.
The baying of the storm
Branches frolicking on every gust
Tap. Tap.
Long shadows start to form
Fickle weather displays it’s disgust

Tap. Tap.
When will it cease?
How does the window not shatter every time?
Tap. Tap
Darkness within, fearing a release
As the peace is shattered in my mind

Tap. Tap.
Glass explodes within its rage
The storm whistles through empty eyes
Tap. Tap.
Anger escapes its fiery cage
Smashing all that it touches with its cries

Tap. Tap.
The storm is let loose
The fire, the fury, the furore
Tap. Tap
Through insatiable abuse
Frustration angrily reaches its glory

Tap. Tap.
There’s nowhere to turn.
No escape from the pain it spreads
Tap. Tap.
As the world starts to burn
All placations are torn to shreds

Tap. Tap.
The clouds roll past and the winds subside
As tranquility restores the mind
Tap. Tap.
Regrets form like tears and fall like pride
Promising no more, promising nothing. No next time.

Tap. Tap.

he was an idiot for half
a second,
afterwards pride took over,
and he was told to be
the half second all his life...
but it mattered not
to be quicker or quivering,
because all the adventures
of life died a quickened
urban stability of 9 to 5;
strawberries came early from
spain, watered down "juicy";
i wanted acorns in autumn
i got bitchslaps in august;
bishops were in furore...
the idiot danced the clandestine surf
and it just left the koala hugging
a secret of aurora sunrise of the
ayers rock that acted like antarctica chiselling
of the kangaroo yo-yo hunting:
made boo, made orange... made worms
from morning, and early bird fed quote.

What unspoken grief
Have you hid in your depths?
What reply do you seek
That, you visit the shore
as a recurrent wave, incessantly?

What is it that you look for?
Bowing down your mighty self
To a shallow wave that wets my feet
And the sand underneath

You roar in fulsome furore
Yet grieve in silence
I cannot fathom
The depth of thy grief-
You are borne out of your own tears

In the folds of night, as a wave, you came
Charioted in a filmy dream
All night you were with me
In love’s uncharted land, we roamed

You sang to me sweet rhymes of love
Echoing the lore of romantic lovers
Your voice choked and moist with passion
Overwhelming me with an ecstasy so rare

You fondled me with infinite tenderness
Opening in me all inlets of pleasure
Our hearts with divine furore filled
And we knew love’s sweet benediction

In the seclusion of that silvery night
Looking into the corners of your love lit eyes
I saw an ocean of rising and receding tides
And took a dip in the whirlpool of love

All night I inhaled your scent
Knew the warmth of your breath
****** the sweetness of your lips
Alas! With dawn, you faded away like dew

Quando tu venisti, una notte, verso il suo letto, al buio,
e le dicesti, piano, già sopra di lei: Non ti vedo, non ti sento.
E la ghermisti con artiglio d'aquila, e tutta la costringesti nella tua forza
riplasmandola in te con tal furore ch'ella perdette il senso d'esistere.
E uno solo in due bocche fu il rantolo e misto fu il sangue e fu il ritmo perfetto,
e dal balcone aperto la notte guardava con l'occhio d'una sola stella
rossastra,
e il sonno che seguì parve la morte, e immoti come cadaveri
la tristezza dell'ombra vi vegliò sino all'alba.

you never want the people, poetry never wants the people, the effective performance of democracy before Pilate left the Jews scarred entering unconquered territories of the former Roman Empire, where the phonetic encoding was far more precious than that ****** Christianity of enabling the circumcision without the 613 minor commandments missing... too fickle too whatever it was... people bring with them the bubonic plague, Protestantism, all the recent crazes in gaming... they never bring in the Rōnin Aishas - they always bring the riffraff of hopes and dreams readied for the few worth the ambition - they bring in all the bones except the spine - they're not here for a poem, they're here for a coliseum - the furore! - you know what i hate about seeing ballet or the opera? the ******* clapping... too much of it... i might live in a village, but going to an opera house feels worse than walking the countryside... the clapping is not even an ******, it hurts the ears, esp. culminating with encore! and bravo! who let these peasants out on the town?! who?! compare that to a Slipknot mosh-pit and you get the picture: with the former you get an exactness on what limbs were used... with the latter you're a pit of dismembered pieces akin to heston blumenthal cooking up whale *****.*

****... italics and the airs of how to pretend
the earth is jumping skip-rope
rather than in smooth ovals circulating the canary globe -
i forgot what i was supposed to say...
... ... ... ... ah! in the 20th century you wrote books
and earned and gambled the earnings...
in the 21st century you write and you gamble...
a lot of people are trapped in the 21st century,
writers don't have the leisure time -
if you write you write out of a love for the actual
act of writing, none of us will have a chance
to write and gamble on the horses,
the two fused - we write and gamble -
there's no chance to earn anything more it -
the harsh reality being - you have to chose
a certain type of poverty to accomplish a continuity
with writing - by writing you are providing the
inaccessible answers to escaping capitalism -
you have no answers, you have proofs without
question - i can't write and party like 20th
century's elites could - i don't care how far criticism of
my writing goes - the public looked far too long
at the wrong crowd - we're the new Antoinette Marionettes -
the moral brigade is out and about -
Bohemia even in ideal will soon become the sudden
implosion of Yugoslavia;
but what of the great injustice they did unto Franz Kafka?
he said: better print my works in LARGE PRINT
or burn them... they didn't burn them, and published
his works in the tinniest of possible claustrophobic cares -
they did more justice to Bukowski - printing him
with print so large it could almost be considered a form
of Braille. i guess that's the best imagery that can be
acquired when describing humanity's moral compass -
a Bermuda triangle whack-job magnetism worth of a tornado.

the precursors of mourning have already begun -
the shadow is fleeing:
the eyes no longer show signs of glee -
where there were once two diamonds
in the skull's sockets... are but ambers of
dying frenzy -
               these are the precursors of mourning:
it's heightened since
a daughter is crying: her son is pretenisouly
solid - a harsh connotation...
she herself has said: by tomorrow you should
probably leave the house and let
me do my girly "thing" and wallow -
a girl tells a boy he's not supposed to:
as much as he might want to allow himself
to also tow along some tears: he's not supposed
to...
seems like: perhaps i was a boy then...
and the beloved dog of the family died
and one were allowed to weep over so much
animation and nuance in a bark:
but soulless the essence died... nonetheless...
even then... the man who is about
to die ventured to restrain himself in giving
me the news when i was having a sleepover
since: boys don't cry...
it's funny-numb: it's teasing tears that
are not supposed to be shed...
in the last years of his dementia he would still
remember... that same dog...
a mongrel-esque tease of an alsatian
by the name of Bella -
              me, him and the dog taking long
walks... me climbing trees
the dog barking up the tree out of concern...
he couldn't remember details
of the lives of his children...
but me being the solo grandchild...
well... aren't i just ******* special...
- and yes these past years i already witnessed
his death: we were once the graveyard
hyenas as i took him for a walk...
to his mother's grave... to his grandfather's grave
and he would also say:
this is where the two josephs with lie:
side by side...
              i'm hour away from visiting
the old country: dear "mother" will receive me
as she always did: a comfortable sensation
when landing in Cracow...
all that is modern and horrid and competitive
and obstructive to any force outside
of its cement - Warsaw passed-by...
   i'll travel to a little ****-hole of a town of my birth
from the warsaw western termnial:
where i will be approached by a mingling of
ukrainian "tourists": i'll probably spot one
or two mongols...
if it will be a sunny day: i will feel inclined
to savour the sensation that:
even Glasgow - at its most outer grim...
it would only require sunlight to elevate
a reaping presence of glum toughening -
               such this life bestows -
                         lottery, random chance...
purposively agitated wills composed
of a **** / reaping of life...
             until this choice plateau / plateau of choices...
it is unimportant for the lineage
of this man to have survived:
after all... i have not "bothered" to keep
it... rejuvenated... i had no... lineage
quest... no family name...
although... if i invoked my mother's
maiden name: Batuk... almost resonates
like Bathory... origins in the Czech sphere:
- and he implored me to call him
once a month to talk any sort of crap
with him - i hardly ever did:
we came to an understanding that
to talk... a conversation would require
****** features contorting, eyes...
probably some hands too...
is that a regret?
                  it could very well... but not
really...
i have to "man up"... there's the wait:
from the hospice to the shallows:
grave being the riddle and as he stressed
countless times: death the great leveller -
the only democratic auto- prefix:
that no one can "just" veto...
and by all standards of mortality -
born 1939: herr! bite bonbon! circling
around 82 isn't bad for a man...
it's already pushing the expectations...
so my tearing into a soppy-****-blind-poodle
wouldn't do enough justice...
after all: aren't we supposed to feel less
grief for life stretched to its limits...
even he conceded his dementia furore as:
all my friends are dead...
i sleep, i eat... i **** i watch t.v. -
i still vaguely recognise a crossword
puzzle... all that's necessary now is to
sometimes refresh myself
with a familiar face...
i do want to wriggle in feminine emotions:
still his contest:
make your heart small...
             hardened to a coil and inviting
a pebble to circumstance it further:
then you will have all other details in your
grasp, grit... boiling over crescendo...
how i want to weep...
but this impeding ceremony...
his jokes about being buried in uncomfortable
shoes: how he joked about the hebrews
being buried sitting down: so they would:
upon resurrection... get up first...
and not too long ago... a year...
my grand-uncle died: my grandmother's brother...
etc. etc.
how he joked:
             hmmph! a sarcastic sound...
this one disagreement they had:
the accusation was on the lines of:
he said that i was brought up by the communist
party (and the P.R.L.) while this...
semi-******* of a grand-uncle... one footed
with the lost foot a ghost limb:
after this daughter had a miscarriage:
newly converted to god, church and the law &
justice party mantra...
my grandfather will die: negating
any communist party affiliation...
                      so much for Poland per se...
what could possibly need to happen...
next up on the chop-a-block of: inevitable...
my grandmother...
and isn't that going to be a woozy...
a new definition of division...
my mother a daddy's girl...
my uncle a momma's boy...
           my father? abandoned by his parents
is beside stoicism:
i'd pinch a suggestion
at psychopathy - now news of death:
just this... working up to cul de sac certainties...
hours from now and i'll be
bed-side at the hospice talking
to a vision of a corpse not yet formalised...
to exercise the final testament of
his nigh...
               - point being...
his death is what i was anticipating...
              at the end of this rainbow is
the death of "my" tongue...
travel to Poland to speak some nativistic first
coming?
with strangers?
lined up they die and i will not need
to... that's probably as it always should have been:
i can't imagine engaging in
anglo-integration projects
where the tongue is first to die:
because: i'm sikh turban pronounced standing...
i could easily be mistaken for
a german: and that's hardly a compliment...
i have been a german many a times...

- but to be prescribed so much deadening
energy: for the most appropriate masculine
traits... unfathomability and a fortitude of
changelessness -
a sternness and a bleak blind certainty...
i wish i could allow myself the same...
mollusk-esque softness associated with
a pet dog dying:
perhaps i should focus on...
a vessel of a memory of me making this
world all the more hostile and
unfathomable...

from noak hill across three country parks
i ended up in chigwell row...
i admired the sensation of
feet forged to a marathon walked...
i muttered the most inaudible:
find me more aloof... more secluded...
let me join the ranks of those
already sentenced to the base reality
conundrum:
that death is a liberty and that...
i have no fear of dreams per se...

otherwise: thank whoever it is i have
to thank for the least of my talent being
exposed:
there is no: go gently into that good night...
blindness for one...
is not the cobweb of smoke
and mirrors of dementia: the latter...
i have to cherish the exactness of my
gargoyle face to keep these last remaining
tremors of life being gifted with:
an old curiosity...

i will not rhyme what's already
a technical matter...
that i want to wed my eyes my breath
with that of death impeding
and find him there: old joseph batuk...
while my father was "missing" from
me aged 4 through to 8...
because the western lands
required brain / labour drain...
i was the one who punctured his
bicycle wheel when he was engaging his
last days in employment...
that he was a drunkard from time to time:
well... i sure as ****
out-competed him...
i became a bigger drunk than he
ever was... yet by the vanity in me
owned... and by the diabolical belief
in the hebrew demiurge:
i teamed up with project focus
and spew such details... from time to time:

that it is somehow still only about me:
is because... i believe in being
reunited... in the sacred phlegm of Hades
were i have possession
of the most essential faculties to
entertain eternity:
but i no need for ****...
or for gluttony therefore no need
for taste...
i won't be needing these ******* sacks
or an islamic sacred garden harem
to satisfy my death-robbed blues
of unexcavated potentialities:

i want to catch death with its 21 supposed
grams...
how i meditated death of late
by merely walking: expecting to
chance myself with harp and
plough...
that i am forever reminded:
      to be sitting on laurels...
   as ever... to write this belittling of such
little... to be sitting on laurels
is to write poetry:
when one is expected to churn
out expectations with hammer, sickle...
and the brood's best interest...
of which: i can disclose none...

therefore to dance a romance with death:
i want to be there at my grandfather's
second birth...
when there's a fathoming for
a necessary eternity while he's my post-stamp
collector: which he was...
where so much of a year
is me and him preoccupied with
months upon end
admiring neptune...
sending vagueness via postcards
on sunbeams:

first came the atom bomb...
then the tightening cipher of a corrected
explosion in the variant of a beam...
of photons...
terribly accurate scientific verbiage...
if only my hometown assured me
a life in his line of work...
in metallurgy... well... the town collapsed
and so my father had to emigrate...
would be tree-chopper destined
to canada: stalled in england... present day...

death so... what a fine word in
quasi-germanic...
english...
   it sounds so much more horrid
in slavic: śmierć...
no amount of diacritical elevation...
should the same word resurface in
ancient: Ruś...
                            смерть...
smerts! ******* "smurfs" and all...

death o noun too hollow...
and if i didn't believe orthography existed
in english: only spelling mistakes...
well...

death "contra" deaf...
is very much akin to:

     morze: sea -
       może: maybe...
                
        but i implore to be forgiven:
since the english tongue doesn't employ
any diacritical markers:
from either above or below...
i never thought more of expressing
nuance, regarding it...
as the base: "spelling mistake"...
hell... to elevate such mistakes
to orthography status...
you imply i might demean all
that... metaphysical jargon focus...

a. g. barr's ice cream soda...
probably the only sort of drink
worthy of culprit memory...
mine own impressions
are mostly associated with soviet-esque
lemonades...
and turbo-chewing gums...
as boys we were supposed
to have this hunger for:
machinery tip-toe ***** envy
**** magnet:

ol' grandfather and me...
i liked to test horses for a gallop...
he would... tease some others with
an apple and a sugar-cube...

a life so completed but having
to leave one so ******* empty...
i don't care if death is so benevolent in her
praises of justice:
as blind as deaf and as tongueless as
she wants to stress herself to be...
i will not dare to cry...
perhaps... a year from now...
when my own presence in this world
is gravitating toward a new assemblance
of anonymity:
when... already...
my  neighbours are hollow ushers...
imps and diabolical idling...

at the hospice i want to see death
give birth...
i want to be this fairy-godmother
of clingingness and
obstruction...
fazing...
              for the ode of inbreeding
nuances of genes: which he didn't mind...
when he would reserve a stash of
newspapers for the "quasimodo"
that above him dwelled...
and how he would celebrate the antithesis
of inquiring for scissors...
slit lick and itching for a scratch...

you can't work around
having to employ cipher! not now!

the daughter cries for a father:
yet she's so estranged from him nd was...
this supposed: for the life to be bettered
by her offspring... mr. uno!
no... she's crying out of nostalgia...
i'm wanting to cry from...
a memory of me is about
to die within and with someone
nothing this world can compensate
me with...

collateral: lizard skins and hardening...
stone baron...
furthering of life is "nuanced"...
if this is the precursor of
son burying mother...
etc. in that quadratic...
i most certainly want to play
the role of coroner...
burning of bacon...

from the years 2004 through to 2007...
the summer escapades...
bicycle... fishing...
a man can become this completeness
in a memory that cannot be shaken...
obstructed with...
how i abhor readying myself for the
ceremony and the wake...

how the death of my grandfather
is less than
the grief already testified by his daughter:
my mother...
and how my father is this...
******* limbo rubix cube of cipher
decipher cipher decipher...
numb...
               when i supposedly burry
my father i will have to borrow burrying
someone else...

but before all that:
i want to chase death and laugh:
you's one siding antithesis shadow!
you's a shadow!
ha ha! i want to become this
inglorious... fester...
as to how death is defeated...
it's appreciated too literally...
it needs to be...
i can't allow death its grandiosity of
metaphors and church / clerical whimsical churns...
death is death is...
the beauty of the scents of autumn...

- yes, now that i'm scouting for excesses
of freedoms: i bemoan all those
readily cherished...
i have attired myself a beside:
this grievance of a "patriarchal" supposition...
by no way blinded
this lost excavation posit...
  death of "one" nearing the focus
stresor of selling... bubblegum...

death has to achieve a stature of mediocre...
so human yet so debased from man...
if i were to burn upon the pyre
of pagan worship... that death might
impart onto me a wizening...
a detail left in an obscurity of creases...

after his death i might "finally"
read Zły - leopold tymrand...
which i probably will: given how mediocre
all of knausgaard had to become:
celebrating flaubert's madame
bovary...
here is a detail and a corner...
a slab of death's riddle:
stone bound... epitaph thus missing;
but the immediacy so focused
upon a serenity of disclosure...

here lies the emblem of
the last carousel of life...
best kept impossibly immobile...
to lessen the creases...
and how one might...
appease the harems
of woo...
with french poodle jarry yoddles...
no one is to wed themselves
to my "unearthng":
sooner...
this poor rabbit blind...
en route toward my escapist
foundation furore....

to be "happy" is to be hardly
conceiving of... being...
inquiring...
to be happy is to be: dumb dumb
dumbfounded:
lost for words...
a limitless "etc"...
******* dim-wit... yeah...

last "things" i wanted
from the concept of completeness
was... "happy"...
for ****'s sakess with happy...
i don't want to be happy...
i want to be happy....
i want to be "sad"...
as long as i remain inquisitive!

i die or precusror: and therefore:
"button up"... i might fidget with
the nimble crow for all
that the curation of:
that requires the edible...
regal overtones overthrows
a h'americanana... of
a lasting... impossible... first...

and there's a "thirst"...
and then there's a "drowning"...
and an expectancy of
the... great... h'american way'vre....
veer into nill!           q?!