i find the 2nd generation migrants to
be the most racist
they may well treat a 1st generation
child with equal measure to
an adult, they'll be olive skinned
and act like far right white mate
of a ship when all the rats sung
in dive unison: find the next shore!
they 'ave a motto: british, born and bread...
they also think that social criticism
needs censoring but suicidal vests don't....
what would you rather have, harmless
social criticism or an insurgent suicide vest
in the depth of shooing i.r.a. (shaira)?
i guess neither.
but the bright smug of 2nd generation
migrants tried to defeat a 1st generation migrant,
i still write whole english sentences for my father,
he only writes pen tapped against the neck of me
getting anger out of poems...
2nd generation migrants are the filth i need to wash
off my skin... they think all 1st generations
are readied for only hammer and the manual skill...
high and mighty dwarfs... lawyers and terrible
doctors... the 2nd generation are... dwarf filth
the 2nd generation are... unable to speak a mother tongue...
dwarf filth! get this maggoty and sweaty ***** sack
out of my face... get it out of my face!*

i dare say... i understood orthodox dissection,
everything was automaton inanimate,
cardiologist heard the constant heartbeat,
the neurologist the constant electric current,
dissection like that makes sense,
automation of a thing to a near inanimate
consistency of animate makes us clever enough
to study it...
but this psychological dissection?
suddenly Oedipus turned into Ego,
and both complex:
one ******* his mother, the other simply thinking,
but upon dissection, so many non-existent
limbs created... subconscious and unconscious etc....
it's dissection as you go along, cut open the arm
hinduism's deity arms spawn into a threefold ratio...
psychology dissected but at the same time created...
and how can you dissect a creative process that
is a multiple that keeps on adding?
if you started dissecting and only kept adding,
how will the ego ever manoeuvre a thinking kidney,
a thinking liver... all these organs, defined by thinking
as governable by thinking only provide pathology:
liver (alcoholism), kidney (dialysis) -
the collective unconscious of pathogens;
i don't understand why psychology decided to
make incisions into animate thing, when an inanimate
thing under sedation carefully laboured by a medical
butcher took to cut and scalpel opening...
when such incisions only showed constant change...
it's hard to replace the ego with oedipus and allow
both a similitude of thinking, leaving the former
with no analogy and the latter with too much analogy
to only create false analogues?

A bee whistles past his ear
He feels the sound . . he doesn’t care
Averts his eyes in case there’s others
Raises his hands to fix his hair

Divorced from reality somewhat: from feeling.
Or at least extremes of:
Never exceeding amounts unfeasible:
Pertaining to the limits thereof:
Plateaued at governable levels in present:
Exempt from enth
Kept in check
His whistle wet & he’s well fed

Real words strewn along the ground
Discarded leaves fallen
Left decaying: mostly forgotten

His pants look to him pantaloons
For the good they do representing him
the man chases an end necessary; resenting
not waning, he feigns stoicism
then his creeping cynicism clouds his eyes

‘u know what buddy, u can honestly get ******’ he says ‘the 1st world cries the loudest; but is softest.  Thinks it is toughest; it is weakest, smoothest, creamiest.’
‘u know what buddy u are honestly right’ he says to himself not wanting to admit to himself that he agrees with himself,
but despite this all, his gaze’s focus still lowers
the edges become softer
& he does what he does

he wraps up in his blanky
with his bottle; safe under cover
among some big ******* to feel warm
but the swarm of bees they circle
twitching fever; rippling waves

hope to god that they don’t sting you
as u hide & feel their sway
lapping closer swooping hawk like
collective wind; they rearrange

and then

they push left !swoop! they raise u up,
( a cloud of black and brown and yellow arches and hums, hums like a razor on steroids, seeping potent purpose, pushing, coming: close your eyes for impending hell)
leaving bumps that swell and burn, they grab, they encase, they consume, they drive, they raise and they push
and they deliver u
and u obey them
and u relinquish; u fold enslaved
they push u forward  !the buzz! it wakes
it makes u groan,
u can’t ignore it
u know u need it
u’ve got to do it
u need to go


toil on & reap the spoils
another set with the walking beige

go here go there: be happy
u have no reason to not this day
just keep on going, mate my mate
lulling deep into the beige

we pamper the old as if they were children,
we pamper the children due to their inexperience,
yet we pamper the old due to their experience,
and naiveness at allowing them an extended
childhood, which goes well beyond childhood's
allowance, of so many counted years;
the old are children in disguise, children are
the old in disguise... whatever the balance...
we pay undue respect for either, and leave
ourselves with very little, other than a clumsy cotton
feeling of tending to both.

there was once a national health service
for sure, all the current pensioners
are using it to brimful excess,
respect the aged due to frailty,
**** the youth,
make them so embittered they'll pop up
middle aged torturing pensioners,
by the looks of it...
i can't even get my citizen allowance
of what being a citizen of *such a glorious
beacon of light of western civilization
as england claims to be,
i'll sooner find the cure to my ailments
talking to a coffin that i would chance talking
to a doctor around here, for a pitiful number
(58) of sleeping pills... sleeping pills! for ****'s sake!
maybe genuflecting with a dog-collar
would keep me on the social sonar,
or maybe i'm just a stranded ***** whale
ready for a selfie... whichever...
'if you're expecting a belief in eternity from me,
forget it! i wouldn't want to be stranded with
a bunch of 72 secretaries on a desert island
for 5 minutes let alone eternity.'
now i'll have to down 7 paracetamol tabs
to create a sleeping pill effect...
wait 48 hours for a written form to be filed,
an then hope, hope... to speak to a doctor...
if they're going to privatise the national health service,
they could have done it with a little bit more
decency than the take of: in-your-face... **** 'em.
survival of the fittest? great theory...
survival of the greediest... gluttons galore,
and the rest of it.
i never thought a disease such as a drug addiction
would play the monopoly card on us all,
leaving us stranded in insomniac limbo
for an eerie feeling of wanting and waiting
but never receiving aid - not even allowed
self-medication strategies... just told:
2000 calories is your medicine dosage,
air, water... and a television set...
listen to the pipe piston-maker...
listen to the rat tat tat rapper...
keen eared, ogle eyed... blunt on the scent:
and disinfected on the touch
with the bone-**** of the hand imitating
love and war... apathy and peace and everyone
on the dole - in a society where sickness is
punishable with a slow death rather than recovery,
in a society where self-employment eradicated
social security of a governable state as state worthy
in recognition to the patriotism of cheap football chants
and hymns of splendour,
in a state that eats its people in order that foreign
investment can blossom and in turn
retract to allow such a state to take a warring stance
in investors' vicinity... a puppet state
of disorientated people... where the strong are told
to sit it out... while the mediocre meddle
in organising the strong with the weak to no
distinguishing recognition being allowed...
the people are hardly identifiable with mankind;
i've seen democracy fail a countless times,
and the more it fails, the more its adherents
orate its perfection... only a system that's bound
to fail and in failing be equipped with such
a strategic defence mechanism of astronomical
proportions: esp. among the doomed fate
of non-reproductive organisms as the homosexual
coupling suggests: trample the heterosexuals...
demand slavery of all men, the freedom of women
emancipated from a theocratic patriarchy...
wed them, provide them with children,
and then a divorce... keep the idiots dreaming...
make them wage-worthy and alimony providing.

i might write a governable verse
of applause,
but no verse writes applause
when i drink my last whiskey,
pop a sleeping pill
and gulp the last duck
force-fed calorie intake for sleep
to overcome life...
may death and no dream...
i hate life on the sly...
if life likened to dream
and death the after...
i don't want to remember this life
and i don't want an afterlife;
may my life be as mediocre as
it was... but do not let promises
of second one come my way
for a second yearning of mountains
not climbed, or seas not swam through
on the promise of a trough snorkelled
through of a pig's snout
plated as charcoaled meat with two veg
and no hinduism.