PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi

The riled route master and the hacked off hackney carriage weren't bothered by the boris bike, they simply barreled along the bus lane oblivious to the wobble, blind to the blindsided and bent on beating the amber to red, til they were halted by the growth factor of a chelsea tractor straddling lanes and field testing the choice of right or left and failing the screen test set by the sat nav, thereby giving opportunity to the swarm of office staffers snatching their chance and chancing their luck, dancing past with their fat chance of swiping in before nine and avoiding the chagrin of the boss who's been the bane of their short sojourn through the city of lost dreams, chance encounters, thin fortune and rushed hours. This is London.

rereading is sheer masochism; poems that are like quantum maps of complete disorientation, walking across horizons with a crazy Bermuda triangle compass constantly spinning, with no scientific entry point of potential of itemisation, a bit like π, and yes, re-wording or revising a poem in english you have to deal with conjunctions that turn out to be prepositions, and indeed pseudo-adjectives too; so many ******* modifiers of phraseology.

one of the reasons, i find,
why man encodes sounds,
is because of the images
he generates;
****, ******, war;
we encode sound to hush,
we encode sounds as a way
to trivialise if not simply obstruct
images, we find "peace"
encoding sounds, to limit the possibilities
of generating images,
we're not keen on generating images,
we encode, we encode sounds,
without the zenith (the sound of raindrops)
nor the nadir (the sound of rapes),
we try to encode sounds, but we never
really decode image recurrence
as necessarily being obstructed,
we say the same **** like our toiletry practice,
sure we encode sounds perfectly, elaborate spelling
and grammatical technique,
but when we paint we depict...
we can't encode to decode-an-obstruction in that medium,
we can't surd the **** thing from ever
repeating itself, we depict in order to
conceive a pendulum and a forward magnetism,
images don't seem to be artefacts of obstructive-decoding,
of sentencing to a taboo, more like passive-encoding...
easier the crucifix or an electric chair...
we can encode sounds, but we can't encode
images, since we exploit them
for an unnecessary repetition -
the regurgitation of life's something, and an awareness of it,
we can encode sounds with the 26 surds...
but then the medium of assembling contortions
of shapes in the medium of the rainbow
gives air to exfoliate - the oyster pores opening
up eagerly for experience, however painful...
try it... you can't encode red of a rose or the sunset
with oils of the required sediment / pixel...
encode it... *red...
we love to hush matters and brush them aside...
which is why painting by posthumous artists sell
for so much, we have civilisation but no tribalism...
no society as such...
we encoded the pains and pleasures,
but made experiences doubly opulent by a lack
of encoding the rainbow spectrum into either white or
black extremes... sleep or blankness...
indeed sounds are easily encoded,
but images and conventions of experiences aren't...
with encoded sounds there's no mirroring effect...
they remain, the everlasting imprint on the psyche...
i can convene with you over the sound of the periodic
A, as it supposedly instructs you in it being pronounced
via the allowance of being strapped into
the role of dentistry's guinea pig...
but where are we with green? is that short
of amber to instruct you in what? what?
imagining a meadow, or instructing you to talk
like a Hackney hipster after puffing dead a blunt?

None but the cobbled Hackney will accept
Their Postcards sign this Doveling Bond, betwixt
So both decide a Limo; And dated Theft
Of many Soul-Chasers which do not Exist
From there both Virgins took a Scandal-Plate,
Wrapped in Hookahs only the Wise could see
Goodbye, First Perfume! Not from what will sate
The Photographed Script of what they should be
From this a Problem looms. In such Stone-Bowl
We become the very Thing we disgust
Hearts still cry out for the Thunder they stole
And baste their Image on the Throne they must.
Realise, just now, the Name of this Theme
From Enlightenment whose Founder they blaspheme.

once rastafarianism entered language ploys with wittgenstein's language games in mind it misplaced pronouns, existentialists just dittoed the signifying moral singular with the un-signifying immoral plural; like i was partly holocaust bound, ha ha (example); cherub and a scotch bonnet of my opinion tingling a contest of: chilli v. pepper v. horseradish. let's just say i'm a plasterer rather than i.q. me as a drinker. slaps in chequers on a bench to sober up momentarily.*

trust the saxon, trust the saxon to speak worse german
than the bavarian, and entrust german to the turk
above the saxon; trust the audacious saxon to leave the alphabet's
diacritic out, to spell like a roman would, from the celtic netherlands of gloom
in scotch egg on a couch, the potato of them all,
trust them with audacity and vocabulary  to conquer the world:  
relieving us norse with ****** never mind
the geese of brazil; exact roman care for all dwindles and fibrous excesses,
conquer the world what have you,
at least you have black skin and opera sunsets
while i have white skin and grey clots of 7pm in september,
or as the censors announced:
rather my vanity than the proof of god,
rather me than you in the minotaur's prison of winding zigzag vocabulary;
you're left politico correct i have three thousand
longboats waiting, you're right i have the same number
awaiting wind and sail. trust the saxons among bavarians to do the following:
but you have the caribbean and that's worth more than kenya
in a 100m sprint. you have the caribbean and i'm african,
nuance the scandinavian proust waging war with
a burnt toothpick not giving enough warmth. each me of the lost tribe walks asking:
blondish in the sea i dare you to walk and reason
the heraclitean suburbia of the river of emptied housed-in arsons worth a life.
come alaskan winters come!
trust the saxons to conquer the world without a holy implied for empires
and lost tracts in order that the romans might utilise proper a and proper o
while the saxons in **** with normans and celts said:
we'll roman-speak about the amazon girlies while our girls party out
a craft of whitened cotton for champagne ship-sailed virginity!
trust the saxons to speak worse german thank turks in order to bind by migration
an island as a ship, and sail away sail away wondering
why the roots of other european nations used the goggles to speak
as much microscope as microphone when accenting
and, in so doing accepted dialectics rather than a pompous excess of fibrous ginger plastic
known as dialects: in england dialectics is known as dialects - caged owls elsewhere
didn't coo coo but mooed with gags in nostrils sneezing when snorkelling:
we say error in sussex and say wok cumin seed sizzle in essex;
close enough to be a cockney in hackney rhymes up a mango.

Sorbian, meaning, tickling the armpit of Germany
in terms of what's the desired encoding;
the variations of person:
            čłowjek (upper sorban)
               cłowjek (lower   "    )
     čovjek (croatian)
                           člověk    (czech')
człowiek (polish)      clawak (polabian)
              człowiek (kashubian)     človek (slovak)
                                 człowiyk (silesian)
         чoлoвік (ukranian).

' well, there is a little misunderstanding with the
  czech caron e (ě), mind this later.

yes, the peasants spoke more softly
compared with urban sharpening of accents,
so that you knew that in urban areas South
London has hardly Hackney Cockney,
and never Richmond, like Essex never spoke
good Yorkshire -
                             so they sharpened the letters
and that translated into involving accents
to later be abused -
                             the recipe? yes,
i was cooking Ukrainian Borscht today -
apart from the fact that Borscht isn't exactly classified
as a soup, a Borscht is a *Borscht,
   it transcends the category of being a soup,
just like rosół transcends the same category of being a soup,
           it's a very fine version of what is otherwise
chicken soup -
                            and as a critique of western cuisine?
why are all western soups like puree? they have
snot consistency, they ever never see-through -
they're all ******* creamy, like toddle-pulp of mauled
faeces - as if a bird feeding its chicks with regurgitated
products - eastern soups are see through,
floating bits you can see, a bit like the sea turned into
a Narcissus clarity. let me tell you,
the nurses love hearing the answers to the questions:
do you do any exercise?
                 yes, i walk everyday, once a week a take on
the miles.
             do you smoke?
        i try to fit within a packet of 20 a day.
do you drink?
                   only on alternative days.
        do you eat your five-a-day necessary ration
of fruits and vegetables?
          i don't like fruits... i avoid them...
vegetables? sure.
the basic ingredients of an Ukrainian broth?
        carrots, beetroots, celery, parsley root,
potatoes, leeks, fibre: green broad beans,
                   mushrooms,
                         red borscht concentrate
           white borscht concentrate for the sourness -
garlic.
                             (base? chicken, salt to taste).
well, coming back to the czech variation of the word
person... i feel there's a need to somehow find
diacritical uses coherent -
                                  i can only see it as
the nakedness of the original phonta (variation
on quanta: a specified sound being encoded with each
letter) -
                      it's diacritical marks akin to punctuation
marks and a few mathematical deliberates -
                  e.g. caron:
                                                        z
                                                      š
the z is invited to be applied to the s to make a shush
stress -
                                       arms wide open looking to
the sky for manna from heaven -
soon enough and y and j were confused with
yaks, tetragrammatons and some Spanish conquistadors
named Jesus - whether jumping or yanking the
shortest straws while sitting in a kayak -
or as Jacky said yards ahead if himself -
                   for every Jew there's a yew tree blossoming.
              there should be a rule of law stating:
only such and such diacritical marks to be applied
to vowels, and such and such marks to be applied to
consonants - but, evidently, this is not the norm -
             these are not merely unconscious accepted
aesthetic consideration, when i was being taught
French at school, i was never taught that
    ê (circumflex e) does as much damage to pronunciation
as does the è (grave e) - i.e. the circumflex is binding
the two letters in-between the stressed vowel,
while the incisor e with è cuts the word off when it's used -
              so the caron (mathematically more than? i.e. >)
  asks pleading to the skies for a letter to balance on?
   and the circumflex looks to the earth to find the seashells
and pebbles?
                             as in less than? i.e. <     ?
i rose above language, i rose above spelling because
i decided i could say to Bukowski's claim of genius:
tie your shoelaces before you talk to me:
simple as simply said: whatever lessons in life
i have to learn i'll learn them by my own accord -
               being drunk in Europe is the norm,
as is prostitution -
               last time the police booked me for drinking
i wasn't there... last time i talked with the Bulgarian mafia
i went back to get my debit card back,
            the **** showed me a wallet with 100 or so more
credit cards, i said: none of these are mine...
          the police cruised pretending law abides to the
standard imposed by politicians...
                   prostitution is fair game, but
keeping the girls contrary to self-employment is abhorred....
            me? i just don't do the dating scene,
should i be harrowed from that hide & seek of western
society's women woefully fishing? can i?
i can't be bothered with the games and the Geisha.
                       - you reach the proper level of appreciation
when you start to ridicule your heroes -
                                  you overpower them,
there's no point brown-nosing them with excess over-quotation,
you brown-nose them for a while, but then the gimmicks
begin... and they know it to be true:
    i' peg down Mr. B like anyone critical of getting an
education: learn to spell, and punctuate, and tie your shoelaces.
       you can't let them get away with it... those dumb-*****,
you can't: we all have a sad story...
    does anyone give a ****? m'eh... probably not.
it's the part when he says he read philosophy
but never bothers the ideas behind into a narrative:
                                   with him your end up *******
before Sophia rather than ******* her...
                        you have to **** her at some point...
                  no point ******* women and simply
******* before the deity -
                  better nothing ******* women and not
******* before the deity of worded fertility -
i was brown-nosing him for much too long...
                 whatever he said in his defence,
i'm aiming to capture the imagination akin to ****** addicts.
                      and that's hardly a feat to undertake.
so yeah, punctuation marks and some mathematical marks
above the Latin... Greek went wholly toward the Cyrillic -
oddly enough a Persian, Cyrus, entombed it into the strength
it possesses, rather than some Saint...
                                        so if i'm a loser at considering
myself a citizen of the world... what is Syria to me?
                                               Syria to me being Anglo-Slav
is:                    when Ramses destroyed Syria...
            don't come here with Westminster, please don't,
leave it out in the open with the paedophiles...
                                            i'm a citizen of England,
not of this world: you keep concerns over Syria where
you're at... if i can't be a citizen of thee world in a world
of globalisation, don't include me!
                                    diacritical marks, punctuation
alongside mathematical Copernican -
                                             yes, umlaut and the colon:,
what's the list? an extra oh... the latter phrase for
          omicron.
                                               Boršč or z z (zed zed)
             or h h (tricky, hay hay? ****** ******?
                               hatch hatch?)
            evidently the pronounced: shoo!
                                                        stinker that one:
given z morphs into h when given s or c...
                                i guess it's easier with      šč,
                   a.k.a.           shch...
and the most frequently asked question in English?
(by the middle class), how do you pronounce this?
                   you know why gangsters don't attack
educated people?
                           they love the fact that people made
the effort to learn reading and curtail other peoples' efforts
in changing perceptions -
                  for me it was always about being taught bad
French and rewriting the laws of stress -
                       i'll never understand the caron on vowels:
sure, the French makes it assured to make the circumflex
and the grave accenting above vowels synonymous...
  &

i swear, the biggest anti-ageist
comeback missing
from the script of we **** the old way
lies with the scriptwriter's
phobia of o.c.d.,
                 i'm guessing he experienced
it personally,
              i wish he experienced dementia
clearer of his granddad
   succumbing: o.c.d. in old age?
it's not big deal... it's no big deal...
             enough botox and soon all that glamour
and paying your respects soon fades,
fattens up and chokes on the artistic
rubric: you need rich artists to
satire rich people... stop nagging
at Katy... be, *******, thankful,
you little cat-whiskers for a ******
moustache kitty-fiddler...
           ever **** at a girl taking a selfie?
let's say it's a blank canvas, and
you're working on it...
        how can this girl can become a
crown or the abhorred fling with
missing Welsh fetishes of excess
           ****** dangle-bits?
                       i have few entry points
i like i consider...
                 before she shaves the *****,
but did you know my godmother
           is a doctor and she doesn't shave
her legs?
                     i joked at that,
i joked for the simplicity:
              why do i have to don mine
and the theory of Darwinism is never
complete? because of aesthetics,
there's a natural instinct, a natural bound
contraband that IS NEVER, EVER TINGED WITH
CHRISTIANITY... **** Radio Maria and
Priest Rydzyk too along with
                John Paul the Tarmac Kissing Saint...
popes like pop-stars: the world's a stage:
better look the prettiest...
             thank Katy... she got cool and rich
enough to covert any criticism of wealthy kids
of Las Vegas...
                          if she wasn't here i'd be dead:
i don't love her like a girl might love
the next best: never-left high school bestseller
for young girls...
                                     my black horse is
quirky and still working on working smug
rather than donning a thong at a cat-walk...
                 but my point?
the comeback the gangsters should have served up
those ****** lips?
                                rapper movie
fakes never taught you how to shoot...
                the gun goes linear: shoot, vertical...
not cool-sly horizontal...
                         you're shooting with a blind spot...
rich girls' songs for poor girls to
cat-fight over who's the better gimmick
of impersonator...
                      but the old Hackney farts still
don't have the quick-snap-comeback...
                  the colts keep referring to E2...
a postcode...
                       the old ladies should have said:
i better move there, seems like a hot-spot
for the postcode lottery!
                           the colts keep referring
to the E2 club....
                             the crew, the gang...
i'm still thinking about these pensioners
nailing them to chairs and drilling through their
bones to the marrow for the Moscow ladies
acting out the faint in the hands  
                       of chevaliers of her retirement plans...
E2? is that a postcode lottery for
                 the losers?
and the "sad" story is? in Poland we all came from
a Communist housing estate...
            only peasants in semi-detached housing...
i guess all these smart-*** young folks
are pretending to be gangsters when all they're
all aspiring to is own a pair of shoes with hay sticking
out of them: and i.t.v. come november...
               well, the casting was smart,
the accents 10 out of 10...
                   but the final point of the accents
in talk?              slow math...
                            is      E2 designated as
the case for a joke about postcode lottery?
                 one thing they're loudmouths...
another that they're also foul-mouths...
                             can't be one and the other...
                  if you're going to be a prop'ah
foul-mouth, better be a slow-mouth
               or a shush-mouth...
                                  and if you're going to
be a loud-mouth, i'd prescribe you Southampton's
away-support choir: oh when the saints...
oh when the saints come marching in...
                                no wonder gang culture
never picked up from loud-mouth birthrights of
the suggested History X...
                               borrowing from History ***:
flash news! there are more things on
my head than just hair to play toothpicks with concerning
self-doubts and the easiest solution:
            a man was crucified...
                               some say we never perfected
democracy as the civilised peoples of the world
as the Jews never perfected plebiscites as the
              "backward" peoples of the desert...
           if race coordination can't be joked about
but getting offended at:
           i'd love the Irish potato diet and the
dates served for breakfast lunch and dinner in Israel...
or in better representation?
the Pig of God... Jesus stinking like a pig
                 before the perfumes of Pilate...
skew: north-by-northwest: a good Hitch reminder:
sheep up toward Scotland...
                           but pigs that north and east...
well: pigs...
                         or how to make words
holy and meaningless when talking about the price
of butter...
                     but that's beside the case for
a quick comeback about the postcode lottery...
           or the grit of Bronson - the film,
esp. the nurse scene...
                       no spoilers... you never know when
it's happening...
                                 the greater the film,
the more monologue orientated...
                                    claustrophilic -
                                                   so you wonder
shoving that **** into the craniums of little boys:
why are they making them do it...
                        and at what point is it legal in
the social realm of guessing at all the rainbow possibilities?
   my theory? most paedophiles had failed
relationships in their teens...
                                  and they never wanted to
experience the complexities of a woman who finally
realised: ****! daddy died! i'm not a princess!
                   it's not a fear of being inadequate,
it's the fear of an inadequate woman...
                  the most adequate woman is a woman
who still resolves to the idealistic world,
rather than the realistic world -
                                   i never understood the
criminal hierarchy...
                                       in the criminal ring it would
appear no moral superiority is akin
   to bullying in school...
                                              choose the easiest
loss of moral judgement and bash it into the head...
    or what Marquis de Sade taught me...
               for most men it's the pink elephant in
the room...
                              or a light-bulb...
****** and theft is still all Robin Hood, the instilled
   heroism: moral ambiguity...
               i don't see how the other crime isn't also
an ambiguity...
                              the *** of man is already displaced
from the *** of woman...
                      why wouldn't age by that ****** ambiguity
not be squared? and doubly unfathomable?
   what made me write this?
               standing at a bus stop...
a girl coming back from school...
                                                 what?
this is a cognitive ping-pong...
                                     what?
                                                   what?!
               i'd dare David the Naturalist come out
from his comfort environment of
                 two monkeys *******, gorillas
with harems and all that easy gesture...
                   man and woman? eyes.
     all the limbs and bones captured by the eyes...
it's not that i don't spend enough time among people
to start imagining these quirks...
                 it's that i spend enough time
                 among people to not start imagining
quirks.

.oh, i've seen a muslim woman unveil herself from under a niqab in a street in hackney... it's the moment you see what the band cradle of filth call a: persian nightmare.

it's almostly the most perfected contrast of divergence,
how there is great criticism of the muslim attire,
and a complete lack of by the appropriation
of the sunglasses...
can i mind you that cenobite butterball?
   i find people wearing sunglasses to be
autistic, or at least people a knack at being
terrible at eye-contact...
           i know that the niqab is satan's postbox,
but the sunglasses are the answer,
      of the autistic carousel of eye-wanderings
of autistic children...
are they looking at me, or pretending
to look at copernicus, to argue:
you really don't need a flat earth
to read a map, because you really need
a 3 dimensional something or other....
    niqabs are about as welcome as sunglasses...
either it hides a saudi "princess"
   or an autistic child,
             and both are pretty much alike,
although one above the other,
admonishes a "knowledge" of a, papa.
    which is also called a waving goodbye in
slavic.
           come on though: meeting the niqab
and sunglasses in butterball?!
   that's ******* desperate...

and yes, although i can't believe i've had a note
making session, which, i did call la la land
impromptu...
yes, they are excerpts of: i wish i was gay
& also a jew, slightly more the jew emerging
from a cosmopolitan culture of constantinople,
even though the turks loved that bit
of ****... elif shafak? do i really need any
more words?! can we at least call it:
an orangutan playing the banjo?!
     do i really need more words than
elif shafak?
            who am i to pay the compliment,
than the compliment itself?
          
the biblical commentary regarding homosexuals;
will homosexuals ever become dodos?
the biblical critique of homosexuality
always seems a bit awry...
    was the bible written in a time when
hetrosexuality was guaranteed a success?
why was homosexuality criticised,
given that hetrosexuality was pretty much
akin to gambling?
      i don't understand why people do not
understand the ancient critique of homosexuality,
with the uncertainty of hetrosexual activity...
mind you, i love ****-eroticism in art,
i find that hetero-eroticism has no part in
crafting an art...
  but i also do not understand why
the biblical critique of homosexuality is so
frowned upon, given that in the times
of the said text being written,
     there was a dodo counter-argument...
there was a real chance of a ******* metaphor,
most gays, akin to the greeks,
were salvaged from the upper-tier class
of aristocracy...
           what's so ****** wrong with
facing reality?
               i don't mind the *******
oddity, but you still require
hetrosexuality to provide you with
two *** lickers!
       i actually can understand the critique
of homosexuality, given the times that abortion
was half the way into conservative dogmatism
established as a:
    sort of luxury;
i can't believe the obnoxiousness of modern
people regarding the ancients...
  please, begin by desecrating graves!
ever wonder how uncircumcised penises look
very much like bloated octopi,
or like an octopus trying to internalise a laugh,
while attempting to **** into an empty whiskey
bottle, with the ******* pinched,
turning into a bladder pouch, expanding?
akin to:
fame -
             or that stamina mingled with the tenacity
to be able, to repeat yourself
(notably in the interview medium)
with the tenacity to appear straight-faced:
seemingly mummified?
   and once you actually do manage to ****
into an empty glass bottle, you start to
admire the bladder...
   it is anything but amazing,
  seeing how your bladder can expand to hold
a litre of *****, without you noticing
the internalised expansion...
and then watching a litre sized bottle of
one present whiskey, begin to fill with
                     the shy of amber liquid...
it's still bothersome,
  this critique of muslim attire,
           notably with the western answer that's
equally disturbing, the sunglasses,
     it's one and the same to me,
the same butterball cenobite quest -
who gives a toss about your ******
contortions,
    as the niqab, they reveal very little to me...
it's almost an autistic revision
of the supposedly empowered
women of islam...
                what i could get behind those
sunglasses, it a darting carousel of
eye-contact...
                chances are i'd probably get
more eye-contact with a gorilla,
while also getting more oral *** with
a ******* oyster behind that curtain.

Every poem sounds dumb
when read
in the right voice.

A GARLAND FOR NATIONAL POETRY DAY 2014

My Once and Only Garden

It’s no longer mine
But I pass it
Nearly every morning.
It’s untended,
Overgrown, autumned,
The camellia needs a prune,
The irises have gone;
The garden needs
A good seeing to.
A sad garden to pass
Nearly every morning.



The Chestnut Avenue

I came back to fallen chestnut
Shells, conkers, everywhere,
But the leaves are still
Thinking about falling.
No wind you see.
On other trees I pass,
The lime,the white-beam,
There’s a crinkly brownness
Scattered across the path.
So dry, no wind,
September sun.
The chestnut avenue
Has some way to go.
Wind, rain, frost perhaps
And the leaves will fall.


******* a Boat

There’s this girl,
A young woman really,
On a boat.
Not living on it yet
But plans are afoot,
Along with essential repairs.
It’s not ‘Offshore’
Like Penelope Fitzgerald’s
Boat on the Thames.
But in a quiet and placid mooring
On the River Lea instead.
I thought of sending her this book,
But it’s all about liminality,
People somewhere in between,
People who don’t belong on land or sea
. . . And the boat (eventually) sinks.


Still Waiting

We sat on the seat
Under a bower of roses
In the herb garden
And she talked in that singing
Way of talking that she does;
Such a tessitura she commands
Between the high and the low
With a falling off portamento
Glide - from the high to the low.
Her hair stills falls
Across serious freckles, auburn hair,
Gold with a touch of red
Like her mother’s only softer,
Like mine once was, and my mother’s too.
She has a slighter frame though,
and is still waiting, waiting
For a real life, a woman’s life.


Cyclamen Restored

I went away and left it
On a saucer, watered,
In a north light
Near a window sill.
Its pink flowers were *****
And nodded a little
When I moved about the room.

On my return it had drooped,
Its leaves yellowed.
There were tiny pink petals
Scattered on the floor.
I put the plant in the sink
For half an hour.
It revived,
And the next day
Seemed quite restored.


Driving South

Driving south through
Dalton, Shoreditch,
Hackney and Hoxteth,
The Hasidic community
Garnished the Sunday street.
Driving down the A10
South towards the city:
The Gleaming Gerkin,
the Walkie Talkie,
and further still,
a Misty Shard.

As a child, the buildings here
Were so much slighter
And a grimy black;
The highest then, the spires
Of Wren’s city churches.

Sundays to sing at ‘Temple’,
With lunch at the BBC,
Driving south from New Barnet
In my Great Uncle’s Morris,
Great Aunt Violet dozing in the back.


Gallery

Small but beautifully right
For her London show,
Good to see her surrounded
By tide marks from the shore,
Those neutral surfaces,
Colours of sand and stone,
Rust (of course) from the beaches
Treasured trove, metal
Waiting to become wet
And stain those marks with colour.


Ascemic Sewing

Having no semantic content
These ‘words’ appear on the back
Of a chequered cloth of leaves
Backed all black
Stitched white,
A script of a garden
Receding into
Trans-linguistical memory.


September Dreaming

Facing the morning
Above a barrier of trees,
Oaked, foxed, hardly birded,
I would  wonder while she slept
About the richness of her dreams,
Dreams she had spoken of
(Yesterday, and out of the blue)
And, for the first time, in all
These precious but frustrating
years we’d slept together,
shared together.
I had always thought her dreamless;
Too fast asleep to experience
Envisioned images,
Sounds and sensations.


Think of a Poem

She told me in a text about
Think of a Poem
On National Poetry Day
Just a week away.
That’s easy, I thought,
There’s always that poem
Safe and sure in my memory store
Once spoken nervously,
under a rose garden walk,
but there, there
for evermore . . .

Who says it’s by my desire
This separation, this living so far from you. . .


Missing Music

Today I read a poem
Called The Lute: a Rhapsody.
‘From the days of my youth
I have loved music,
So have practised it ever since,’
Says Xi Kung.

In his exquisite language
He then describes its mysterious virtues,
And all the materials from which it’s made.

How I miss my lute, its music,
And the voice that once sang to its song.


Drawing

I wonder if she’s drawn today,
And what? I wonder.
John Berger says:
Drawing goes on every day.
It is that rare thing
That gives you a chance
Of a very close identification
With something, or somebody
Who is not you.
I wonder if she’s drawn today,
And what? I wonder.

A polemic:
— noun
a controversial argument, as one against some opinion, doctrine, etc.; a person who argues in opposition to another; controversialist.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


our principals have principles.
principles as long and as shallow as a
tv sound bite.

give me ten careful good persons who have the courage to say,
I am unsure.

men and women who can acknowledge that
doubt never changes never ends.

who do not lie with sweet surety
for the cameras to salve their self-knowledge of
prideful lies, yet ashamed of their piece prizes.

when you cannot pay back that student loan,
email them asking for the ten bucks back
you once sent them.

liking the sound of their voice filled
with hackney trite, and give us tripe,
not once but over and over again,
with greater ease of the groove,
then oops, a single apology,
now that they have taken away your choices.

doctors who do not plagiarize
with reckless abandon,
whose credentials are self-certified

mislead so ease.

Bill gets $700,000 to make a speech.
He charges only $500,000 for old friends.
Poor Hillary, she gets a trifling $200,000

Ask Maureen of the New York Times
tells the truth between the
news that is filtered then called
fit to print.

But when they say,
see me and believe,
then send
me ten bucks, once more into the breech,
go and register to vote instead.

we have sacrificed our ability of hard reflection
on an altar of mushy easy cheap construction,
accepting polemics as political philosophy.

we chose this.
we yearn for crumbs of certainty
in these uncertain times.

how we long for a man who can say
unhesitatingly:
let us try this
and if not perfect,
edit and change,
even start over again.

doubt never changes never ends.
seek out these men.
s  elect them.

Tell me something you know
with utter confidence that
men have constructed
that cannot be improved.

when I gaze upon the poems
of my early days,
see the typos
and the hackneyed,
I amend, even delete.

doubt never changes never ends.

outside the fortress walls
behind that you hide,
your enemies are
constructing new technologies
capable of going under over through
the old concrete
of yesterday's stale minds, worse,
molding the lazy ones.

Those who are certain
never confess that
their actions can have
evil consequences,
until you put them in the docket.

then they say,
I did not know.
they knew.

they say
I was only following orders of the
principals.

The worst is yet to come.
The tv is on and the soundbite lies
unceasing.

Those who get played,
are the ones who did not play,
but watched tv.

He wakes and takes a bit of time
to snort a little sweet white line,
left for him by Jackie who
gives him bed and board in Hackney, in
return for dealing dope on the
street they call
no hope.

He stays alive from nine to five by
working at the Superspar
where the metal in the trolley
and the face of Shirl'
the girl who comes in Saturdays,
(quite dolly in a lot of ways)
is far more rigid than he'll ever be.

He thinks about a break for tea but
the clock says only five past three
so
it's time for one more line,
then he looks again at the clock,the time
is five.

He speeds along on the crest of dope
back to the deals he seals,
on the street they call,
no hope,
and
back to Hackney where
he and Jackie,
make the time to slowly
snort
another line.

Who in the Owl's Mind will text the Viper
To Strike once he swoops for his Evening Meal?
You see now, how Silly is this Encounter
Like making Soap from an already Dead Seal
Such Exaggerations warrant no Fare
To guide the Limo in price for a Hackney
Yet for her Shoulder you offered to Care
Whilst laughing at this desperate Lackey
Happy for you, a Word again-and-again
Flooding your Bell-Machine to Heart's Complaint
You must stop this as I must will do then
If Virtue your Chaperone keeps his Quaint.
So, the Song plays on and I on Paper
As you Party on and I don't Matter.

.i never thought of it like that, until today... "keeping" a "pet" fox is really ecological... huh? yeah, really ecological... you don't need a compost heap... apparently foxes are more related to canines than vermin... omnivores... they'll eat meat, but they'll also eat rice soaked in meat juices, with carrots or sweetcorn... ecological pets... come to think of it, my household barely throws anything away... thanks to Oliver Brady... god... those saddened eyes of the wild, pleading, begging... how could i refuse?

i really hate talking
at people, rather than
talking to people...

i should know...
back in merry old England,
i was misdiagnosed
with a mental
illness...
   schizophrenia...

i guess, because,
being bilingual is a case
for a disability if
i don't have an Indian
accent...

which means
all of the Scots are deranged
lunatics...

i play along,
like the good puppy...
why?
i like the drugs...
AMITRYPTALINE...
NAPROXEN...
i know the little book
of prescription says:
DO NOT TAKE
WITH ALCOHOL...

but i, i do...
come to think of it...
leave enough pause...
and you can stop
the air-quote "                 ",
you really can...
just pause long enough
to let the ridicule sink in...

drugged up in England,
because i'm not either
English, or a Somali...
but hell:
             i have the most perfect
soundtrack song...
to feel 1960s groovy...

   puscifer's undertaker
   (renholder mix)....

   so as i listen to these to-and-for
youtube videos,
the internet drama...
that seriously should have
stayed locked down in a high school
playground with a few
punches being thrown...

what a ******* headache...
when will someone join me
in saying: CAN YOU PLEASE STOP?!

that's when i start thinking
about the safety of professions...
truck driver, garbage collector,
plumber, plumber...
at least he gets a ******* ***** theme...

oh i've been cringed with
the mentally ill label...
love it... the drugs are great,
have myself a little cocktail with
the *****, and sleep for over 10 hours...

but it's England...
why am i no surprised?!
  tell me?
           my neighbor thinks it's his
rule of thumb, rather than law,
to tell me what i can & can't do on
my private property?
  
           Bukowski was right:
war, war all the time...
i remember my youthful self...
a boy who believed in love...
       and he once loved..
        
the same boy that decided:
**** it... i'm not here to be accused of
****...
  i'll go to the prostitutes...
i can only be accused of
a non-payment...
              
how did i end up going to that
   18 year old party with only girls
suckling at a male presence like
an octopus about to feed?
  
don't ask: i don't know...

                as that never aging quote
goes:
   the lunatics will lead the blind...
the lunatics... will... lead... the blind...
on the funny side of things...

i'm pretty sure you can only
go "mad" once...
and since the authorities already
used the "mad" card...
i guess i'm just shy of
a close shave with a guillotine...

which is a nice thought to possess...
i'm actually looking
forward to my day-trip
to London tomorrow...

        i'm gagging in spotting
the tourists from the locals,
in the most obscure places...
   **** it... might as well head toward
Hackney and find my
death wish while also fishing
for a pint of Guinness...

   can't drink  Guinness outside of
a pub... you need the patience
to let it flow like a waterfall in slow-motion...

but like i said...
i don't mind the label...
            the drugs are great!
and they befit the perfect
chemistry lab... my my... 'ed,
otherwise known as:

Breezy Brian!

City
almost  done now,
the fun somehow has left these streets,
but weary feet are tramping home, sick to death and weary to the bone.

Rtoseberry avenue
postcode EC1 and then
it's gone.

Clerkenwell green,
scene of many unpleasantries leaves me and on to St John's street and
more city feet.

Old street not paved with gold except for the elite and more weary feet tramping on.  

It's the end of another day and the city always had its way with the few and the lucky ones escaped by bus,
not us,
we went hobo on the city street, tramps and dodgy people, feet so sore and where if when we look to see the Shoreditch box park know we are not far or free of Hackney and the night falls dark across me.

I do
I do
Said twice, but in my heart I knew it wasn't so.

I go because I must've been and seen it all before and though I know it's rotten to the core it draws me like a magnet and I am being trawled by some megaline or dragnet.

The streets beat me down and the pirates in this ***** town have stolen me away,
just another bedtime story written underneath the evening stars and just another ending of the day.

Just hanging around stuck in the background where Echo and the Bunnymen sing sad songs,they're not funny men and I'm not one too.
Going to take my Queen and fulfill a dream,dine in style at Mile End,wend my way down to Nandos,pay for chicken,sticking less to the plan because I'm only a man I travel to Hackney where the wild men of Shoreditch come out to attack me with rolled up newspapers,their capers amuse me until I blink twice, and I see, that my Queens seen it all and goes off in a huff,
Puffs of smoke are no joke when you're born as a bloke because the magic don't last,blast it nearly passed it,the turn off for middle age,junction twenty six on the revolving glass mirrored stage,but I made it and now I'm back in the sun waiting for my Queen to come,my apology accepted along with the promise of a day trip to Poundland,stand and deliver while we shiver our timbers and limber up for the party on interstate four,
sore from the laughter we take a bath shortly after because we like to stay clean,my Queen thinks I'm ***** and men go that way after thirty but I'm not so sure.
I have pure intentions and clean underwear,does she care? I think so but it's so hard to know what she's thinking,she tastes of melons when I'm drinking her in.
In this flotilla where the will of the one doesn't win,we all stick together, whether it's a good thing or not,
but I've got a plan and because I'm only a man it's a good one and so I carry on and she carries me,I meet her mum and she marries me..sounding obscene,I mean I married my Queen,not her mum.

It's all in the spaghetti which I'm sure that SHY YETI'S BEST OF BRITISH - PART 1 doesn't cover,so it won't keep me warm but no harm in me looking through this facebook and cooking a dish,should I wish, for some it's back to interstate four,where the cops will be waiting with a ticket to the potteries and a fine for the finder of the stopped timex watch winder.

where was I
in Mile end?
yes,
going to spend but stay lean as I talk with my Queen,
and so it goes on.

i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ******* blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.

when you start talking... you rarely unravel the brain's conspiracy for secrecy, you never want brain = heart automation with solid theories that are rarely given an individual bias to be based on... a bit like those pencil-pushers working in offices for MI5 or MI6 who thought spying was all in fiction, but rarely confirmed the fact: in the c.v. it was stated: show your intelligence to prove the vulnerability of others easily persuaded... that's called providing intelligence... and those adverts for london hipsters on brick lane and hackney pavements just blew my cover... because no one really knows if one will doppelgänger the plot... with the body alcoholic and the shadow intelligent, or vice versa... the oddity... please call david bowie.*

in the freudian sense we get an origin of understanding
with a little boy, who's about to become oedipus,
we have diagnostics from a complex, the oedipus complex,
but with jung the childhood origin of diagnosis is
missing, childhood isn't the source of the problem,
after all we are born with a weak bladder and weak
**** muscles, hence the diaper, hence the elevation
of the problem into the realm of a collective unconscious,
i.e. the plumber doesn't know what the electrician does,
the electrician doesn't know what the artist does,
or how he does it, it's not that we're all unconscious
unable to craft any collective or individual meaning,
but i can recognise a freudian sympathy in 21st century
practice of psychiatry from a jungian one...
the freudian simply assumes your childhood was a nightmare,
that you were abused... but to a jungian - with the
offshoot of the testimony of laing's anti-psychiatry
never mind szasz... you say you go drinking at night
into the woods alone... they sense a fear in themselves
and simply un-diagnose you; which i managed to do...
i can count about 10 psychiatrists who diagnosed me
this that and the other... but they never asked me about
the problems in my mature being, they were looking for a
hurt child, sure i grew up in an environment without
a father between the ages 4 & 8... my father was just
a voice on the telephone and the first nintendo,
a gameboy... but i was surrounded by older people,
my great-grandmother read me a picture bible
and taught me to tie my shoelaces like i'd tie a ribbon
of a present, my grandfather took me for walks with
the two dogs i owned: axel a dobberman and bella
the alsatian, me piercing one of his bicycle tires to get
him off work at the steel factory for a day...
the steel factory closed, went bankrupt, or simply sold-out
to foreign spanish investors, many people left the city
of my origin... never mind...
children are not compulsive liars... but those who
emerge from childhood become compulsive liars...
children are selective liars... once the cookie jar is
opened... once the dog ate the homework...
they can't even combine lying with imagination,
after childhood you can't even do that, you can't
even combine lying with imagination -
there are no images involved, only words, black holes,
symbolism... all you get from an expected combination
of lying and imagination is that imagination
becomes ****** expressions, bordering on apathetic
****** expressions.
but guess what, above all what i said...
i was diagnosed as mad... but i never set foot in an
asylum, a knothouse (knot, yes, madmen are
like knots, jumbled up, the linear pattern of vitality
suddenly becomes a knotted sphere with only cats
able to unwind it - set loose the cats into the madhouses
of the world!) which can only mean ONE thing...
if i was diagnosed mad, but never entered a madhouse...
i'm assured by the laws of deduction, that, i, am,
in, fact, in a society that's a madhouse...
no wonder people can't appreciate the beauty of
the world, they took theology to the parasites
and explained things that way,
plus they advertised, started traffic signalling...
now days people simply pass trees and mountains
nonchalantly... they're more interest in what's organising them,
once words were kept in books... those great bricks,
but since people managed to make everyone literate,
the words broke out from the alcatraz of their
enticement and ventured out, like robots trapped,
and became adverts coca cola and warnings 50mph...
then the beauty of the word disappeared, because everything
in diamond contortion odd simply became dull,
dull because life became faster... and there was
no way of allowing reflection on unmovable things
to contain any speed - otherwise become a dog,
hold something resembling a branch in your mouth,
bite down, keep it in your mouth long enough
while you carry down the stairs a copy of witkiewicz's poems
and your tongue will become alive and numb
with poison... it will become a poison arrow...
and now that arrow is aimed at your heart.

believe me, you grow out of it
(*******),
   you reach the natural conclusion
as women do,
    experiencing menopause,
your's the least actrattive cunterpart,
no choice...
          you just grow out of it...
you just get bored
                       you just grow out of it...
it literally become a case of
   huh?
     yep, it becomes a hmm equation...
and if you're not married,
  5p.m. feels like 9a.m.,
                         the **** is going on?
fyck, uleterior motive for spelling
   thick...
           so what the fyck's going on?
pop culture... fuckle me...
                   send some more sleeping
pills my way,
    so i can pretend to be in a
heavyweight boxing match
         fighting both klitschkos
   at the same time, in street fighter mode
of pretending to be blanka /
            zangief / vega?
    i'd **** over him
               any-day-of-the-week,
such **** ******* /
     dhalsim - mr. stretch-armstrong /
                           mr. fantastic...
tekken never conjures up
an equation
      that music does
   i.e. the beatles (street fighter)
vs. the rolling stones (mortal kombat)...
tekken never really made it
         for "equality" status:
                        equal status, i get it;
nonetheless, men tend to grow
out of the practice of *******,
  just like women
   are automated to experience
menopause...
                       you just get bored
of the hand as ****...
                       d'uh dummy dum dum
+ a mongolian harmonica
    (index moving up & down
with the lips perforking
          the motorboat effect,
encapsulated within the brrrrrrrrr;
sure, the missing trill of the r in english...
    and there are no diacritic indicators
that the letter ought to be the sole-source
of vibration...
           hence no roll with the umlaut ä -
   sounds like chinese wow wow wow yo
  boat...
             yoyo that ****?
      count that as two:
          hämmer, i.e. haamer...
          i.e. hāmmer...
              or ha'mmer... so what's with
the trigonometry of the m?
  how many more times do you have
to wave a goodbye?      
                  but the scandi- version?
middle-class english,
   i love their slang,
        they slang a longer word into
a shorter word,
   but never bother to adffix a hyphen
for invigorative measures...
    it always seems to be: oxford approved;
if americans are yanks...
                   the british? wanks;
jiggy-jiggy-mah-jig.
         totality bound by sources found
    in either peckham or hackney;
oh right, the roll...
  an aangstroom, i.e.  ångström...
                    linguistic ballistics...
        **** gets funnier when writing fiction,
the irish and the slav prefer the hyphen
of differentiation in a convo, i.e.
  - and so
- so what?
the post-germanic tribes of anglo saxons and
americans?
    they prefer the inverted commas
and the he said...
                          e.g. "i was saying," he said.
yes, i know that's a fictional character
"speaking",
     but you could at least count,
   toward expressing the correct arithmetic,
i.e. 'i was saying,' he said;
                            yes,
i know no one was saying anything,
             you were thinking someone
was saying something you "said"...
          so why was it never the irony of "citing"
with only two index fingers,
   as opposed to
         two index and two middle fingers?
i swear to god, that's not how
you quote...
                    if you're ever going to quote;
it can only mean
   a beginning of ambiguity,
   by invoking "     ", you're making war
on the thesaurus.

remain campaigners
are Neo-Nazis to me,
they want Germany to
rule - *******
Aryans and the stag do;
try buying a house
in Hackney you *****!
425 thousand to mind!
i'll buy the slave trade's worth of
Minnesota with Kenya
and Kent to boot with that. *****.
n'ah mate! n'ah!
i'll pile on the Cockney you pill the
urban gay-parade worshippers
fancying the remain campaign -
once it mattered, now it doesn't, really -
maybe i'll wake up
with SS-men in fish-stockings
or rainbow tights - whoever,
the gas, the chambers, the broken skeletons.

two hundredth of a millisecond can be bought for one Satoshi,
a Satoshi is a hundred millionth of a bit-coin, or byte-coin -
whatever variation of the name - by the end of it there
will be 21 million of these coins in circulation; hot topic:
London, how this started to unravel come 1998,
slowly Hackney disappeared off the map as a hub of art
and whatnot, Camden came prior - they say central Paris
looks like a museum, as much can be said about central
London: no artistic vibe - we jumped ship, extortion -
in Silicon Valley 8 people share a three bedroom house,
$4000 a month's worth of rent, they're reduced to shift-sleeping,
a day divided into 8 hours, and as was noted,
this isn't a boat load from China , nerds and
app. entrepreneurs - in the end software will be
able to own money, imagine: Uber, taxi, driver-less cars -
the ancient lore of black cabs in London and the knowledge:
that proud A - Z gone, ****! gone! added to the fact that
there's nothing left to invest it - which is why, i assume,
is the reason why gambling adverts number more than
alcohol adverts... bet 3 6 5 et al. - if there's nothing to invest in,
then the only alternative it seems would be to gamble it away;
or at least being spurred to do so.

it's hard to imagine what literature will be like either,
let's face it - you look at the early 20th century
and it's there, you look at middle through to a quarter
past 1950 and it's still there - you look beyond that
and i really don't know what i'm supposed to be looking
out - i don't suppose there's an ignorance hovering
over my head - it just hasn't hit me in any way
relevant, given that in England only important
people get to write books - t.v. personalities, glamour
models, footballers - ghost writers are the norm -
England doesn't seem to appreciate important books
by unimportant people: the machine requires diluted
vegetable oil and a steep hill to get the car moving -
it requires this sort of image for marketing a book,
marketing a book, selling it, and perhaps reading it;
it's hardly moaning about the situation, it's the actual
situation - but as it turns out, there are alternatives -

              to count the number of birds in my vicinity,
              today i managed to finally identify
              a bird that was bothering me for some time,
              just today - put a description into
              the algorithm... a finch! but more precisely...
              a goldfinch! so let me count the number
              of birds i spot with my naked eyes:

               1. goldfinches
                                                        2. robins
3. canadian geese              4. mandrakes
5. crows                                                6. seagulls
     7. a crane                           8. sparrows
9. blackbirds                     10. a kestrel (once)
11. woodland pigeons             12. magpies
                               13. song thrushes;
                      14. swallows.

and to think, i don't have to leave the house to watch
such variety - i'm waiting for the day that they create an app
for birdwatching - but i'm pretty sure they won't,
unless it's birdwatching in a museum of stuffed animals.

We love urban, ice wrapper choc full, dense with matter, cream the power runs through, finding space, each cell. Unit, one by one, stacked upon deck, pile, floating concrete and multi access path. Crank each floor, glass patent steel, glint the Thames, Humber and Clyde, a boat in the reflection, slum cleared gentle penthouses on the other side. Dogged, ***** not allowed, Barking, Hackney, Toxteth, Little Ireland aka Cardiff gone. Dodo, hatchet, escalate poverty, high rise cool, the high rise flat.  Crowning glory, a sea of chiming memories, stirs the tenement cat. Swept beneath the paradigm, catapult off the parapet, somersault into a different time, moonlit skyscrapers, street sweepers become the concrete and the fifty foot glass dancers, cross between the cargo arches, gargoyles and shields bring them to the ground. The twisted metal of prams and brand new cars grind, traffic in drones, and the city drowns. Strip turn central, gorgeous girl, Hoxton lad, a touch too Dad, deposit on a Liverpool street pad, generation retro spinning fractal, money linear pavement uber yellow, scuttling insects and street martins, skylarks flying Saint Pauls cross and ball bearings, shopping centres unending. Biting into Cheapside, the hidden livers, gold delivers, pure to stay the shivers, the office block rises. Sharp bends, the bridge divides, shark rides the sky, dumps the bank and pierces its side, docks in every city worldwide, rivers pink with the ticklish blood of regicide. Pumpish, Victorian, sweet and blue, the older the City the quicker the glue. Mortar rectified a moment to ***** and overawe you. Shock, new wave architecture, backhanded awe. Brum pill wave beast eat your heart out, find another Chinese storm, currency blizzard, scales hardly balance, aha you had it, now you simply own. Own the moment, the pebbledash, corrugated roof, outside toilet and underground transit. We love urban, your moment we cherish and drain, there is nothing we can’t refuse to understand, too complex to refrain. Bounce as we ride the terrace and its suburban long train. Take your sweetheart on the nightbus, ****** him her, the hier of your plane, that’s where they will love you in the memories of the life near the top floor, and the final flight you were too drunk to gain. Seventy Two, you’re only thirty and you’re on forty one. You’ll fall back or you’ll begin ascendency. Shrink with wisdom, pick up the building, a tool, dreaming of scaling London, young a journeyman, jousters young son, learned, resisted the gun. I’ll fight with two hands, pile bricks or guide with a pen. Draw your city, write my memory, bind moment with every fragment, underpath, cycle through. Lights fading, jumping colours in the district where the girls who live the density beyond you and me, each element boiling their hearts and steaming potent New York’s paths. You had poetry in the apron of your mother’s lap, golden syrup and milky sap. You love urban, fifties bubble contrast in your seventies shunted through urban oasis and with that unknown factor, uber bijou, ‘Finding Nemo’ flat. We are urban, you are fashion, you are the generation that copied that, found the culture in the swinging city, post uni shack. Seven Eleven, Atlantic side heaven, promised more than double checking your watch before bedtime. Look at your daughter, she’s got ‘more than’ you hoped for, already in the palm of her sleeping hands, waking up to a metropolis only she will understand.

this isn't a time for nostalgia aimed at the times of the 2nd world war, only liars and cowards attack anyone except their enemy, to ease their sentiment at thinking they're liberal leftists... somehow the Cartesian formula doesn't work for them... odd... thinking doesn't magically precipitate into being... they're only liberal leftists... they'll never be conservative leftists (communists)... they value the anti-solipsistic stance of individually too much, hence their karaoke outpouring on X-factor - we need nurses! we need doctors! no! they're saying we need the next Frank ******* Sinatra to lullaby us to death. too much national pride aimed at reminding people of the past is degenerate in the presence, the future by such historical arithmetic is always bleak.... who cares for a Faraday is a light-bulb works, who cares for a Newton given the mechanics of rocket-launchers... and who cares for Shakespeare in the age of omnipresent literacy providing us sonnets?! in the age of desperation, former fame was revised, creating the backlog of fame into a single measure of being current, when once a man slaved for a lifetime to achieve it, modern fame is nothing, in comparison on the merit of utility and productivity - fame is hardly a concern for any of us given Orwell and the c.c.t.v. (or holy ghost), that will never materialise into a person of the Paraclete; best assurance, the famous donkey, the stick and the carrot... democracy only works within a sensible number to express it... applying democracy to insect methodology of plumbers, electricians, personal trainers etc. is merely an illusion... a moment in history where the weak attack the strong... and to cite Darwinism? we were already too intrinsically overtly bio-diverse to merge with the diversity of nature surrounding us... we were perfect chiral chimeras, non-super-imposed images... thus Darwinism and snippets, or crossword clues... i can't believe the English banked all their pride on an Aristotelian footnote... but then miracles do happen... not always a welcome distraction from the nuances of mishandling politics - or was that always a b.d.s.m. affair?

i too could rage at the belittling English society,
well... i might as well...
i'm not in Manchester, the Hackney populace
was relocated to the outer-suburbs to make
the "nation" proud - never seen so many
black dudes strolling near the countryside -
but that's another zoological matter -
what?! with the new dating show with all knit-grit
bits exposed you'd think that all Darwinian
comparison made it to the ten quid banknote -
the one objective language that has no zombie
adherents - poets' strike... oh wait, i forgot,
you prefer the ready-meals of song -
the English do, lazy ***** the whole lot of them -
i won't be making many friends and i don't intend to -
after the ridicule, the slander, the jokes -
i'm heading east! east it is - i'll leave a **** with
my signature in England - let the Scots find it
and shredder the ******* islands into snippets from
some novel; so you think you're not Soviet fated?
Jack will become Jackson - etymology is all about nouns -
you think i'd stay in this ****-hole? i got the message:
VERMIN GO HOME... i'm looking for a place
to relocate to... i don't like the Irish playing the prißed
puppets of the English... Michael Palin seeking
Europe in 2007, found Bohemia, found no litter,
vermin living in beauty while English outer-suburbia
rots? Euro trash? more like Benidorm suntan -
you started it... you little "not in my name" will not sell
me your phobia currency of Herr Censor -
odd, the colonial past was somehow erased because of
the Beatles - odd, isn't it? cultural contribution
erased the shackles... funny how things work out in
the end. i have been a complete and utter integration
failure, i blame the Irish and a catholic school -
i rather go home among the other rats -
i don't belong here - but at least home is where i left off,
aged 8... 22 years into analysis English and using it
i can preserve tact - Bangladeshi will write you a next
Shakespeare... just so it all looks pretty... and convenient...
i rather live there, i have no fake psychiatric history in
the country of my birth... the west ain't all that after all...
i'm with Snowden on this one, but i have the cushion
of speaking the tongue... the almighty west is nothing
but good music and charcoal films -
propaganda omniscience - the west asks for media
transparency, but i end up reading a tabloid newspaper
given the opinion section of *the times Monday to Friday -
some ******* mogul mongrel trying to be a Martin Luther -
it's basically a tabloid newspaper, i don't trust it -
the ultimate freedom corrupts - if revising foreign
governments is based upon media freedoms, then i think
the west did a ******* job with its own media -
without restrictions you get a box of chocolates and eat
all the best dimwits out - or a box of mixed nuts -
the Brazilians are the first to disappear.
plus the west doesn't like poetry, it prefers music, as in
the passive ingestion of art - never your own,
always someone else's - so you can be filled with
unexpressed egoism to occupy a space worth a cubic
metre or two... fun & games fair enough...
was i ever stereotyped? pushed to a limit,
am i one of those Chinese 2nd generation immigrants
that play the koala bear role in poetry who prescribe
the origin and figurative forgotten for a prize?
i don't think so... if i ever escape this ****** ****-hole
i'll be the king-rat, to my liking the Polish government
is being inspected by the E.U. about non-democratic
agendas - god i pray for an E.U. invasion reprimand -
i really feel like shooting someone by illusion defending
my conscience imagining simply throwing a pancake.
and why? because, at least, in Poland i talked to a
neurologist and was diagnosed sane -
while in England i was given to the dogs (psychiatrists)
and was diagnosed insane - at least i'll be
with the sane people and not some perverse form
of paedophilia of Alice in Wonderbra...
leave these agony aunts aside, leave these perverts
to their own demise - and if truly my friend,
as i did staring into my killers eyes,
if he only took me to a hospital to prove it was
a genuine mistake of misinformation about a certain
Amazonian plant... then i wouldn't be writing this verse...
but he didn't... he took me home...
as ever, i write this letter without pseudonym but under
the acronym: the misinformed (which really isn't an
acronym, i just liked the rhyme);
so if after 22 years spent in England i head to my vermin
abode, i think i'll be happy... unless Scotland beckons
to liberate it... otherwise? **** this ****-hole.

most nations are divided by
either the south vs. the north,
or the east vs. the west,
well... some, not all,
there's no clear indication that
there's a true indicator -

in the case of england though?
well... you
have the emergence of
a "demographic" slang,
and apology for a lack of a better
word,
but i already indicated
this to be a misnomer,
meaning?
               third-parties,
i was never into coining a phrase,
so i took the lazy route,
and unquoted ("     "   vs. '        ' -
hence the inverted commas)
what would sediment into a fluid
pretense for rhetoric...
sure, the picts know
that glasgow is poor, while edinburgh
is rich...
   but that's an anomaly
of the rules...
       most of the underground
services are bound to the earth-worms
of north london...
  south london barely touches
on the convenience of underground
services...
               the underground
stretch of influence goes as far
as brixton (victoria line) -
   and morden / mordor (northern line) -
   **** me! on the north end, we're going back
as far as epping! farmland!
croydon? croydon?! talk about
                heathrow for ****'s sake!
   what the **** happens in west ruslip?
so kilburn is not a mini-havana / kingston
a jamie-jammin-chicken-****-fetish?
marble arch through to edgware
not a niqab "cat walk"?
             i knew i'd loose my compass
when strutting in london...
              homerton, hackney whick,
stratford...
           oh **** me, you go beyond
   hainault....
can you believe they still have
a video rental shop (blockbusters) just
outside of woodford station?!
               cities within a city,
like all modern micro-states of
frowned upon nation-states are:
   london? a city-state...
                           it's not a nation-state,
that 19th century: uh-hum...
                       ya ya...
                          i'm living within
an ancient-greek tickle of a city-state...
i'm living on the membrane,
i'm at the gates
  of the barrier between
   a city-state, and a nation-state...

newcastle, liverpool, manchester are
not actually considered to be
city-states...
           they're national-disconcertives...
   birmingham? ha ha!
           is it either? is it not the lahore
of the north-west?

mind you, me drinking an ale from
newcastle, walking in essex,
the "demographic" slang springs to mind...

i'm a southern fairy... drinking a
northern monkey's brew...
         ain't that a cause for rhyme?
i'm ******* sure it it:
what thrill in crafting art,
   within the confines of a mind
that knows no ill,
               for what of art,
if there be no ill of mind -
         to craft the thrills of true art?
is not art the craft that
          encourages control
over a decomposition, into the vigour
of ferment,
  like wine, like cheese,
                    so too...
   a florentine gallery...
    god: by a tarantula's bite, immobilißed
in the uffizi: mouth agape, pretending
to yawn.

ah yes... a reminder:
with a northern ale in the southern lands
of england...
   ******* southern fairies...
      bollocking northern monkeys.

When you drink your Veuve Clicqout and eat your honey roasted ham.remember for a moment,
Barry Trent.
who sets his table in a tent on Hackney marsh,
he bends over,under harsh light,most nights
eating bread and jam.

Ham would be a luxury he don't see too much of those,
wearing clothes a size too small or sometimes just to big to fit,
but you don't really give a monkey's for the flunkies who live hand to mouth and living South as rich folk do
I bet you think your **** don't stink,
think on
one day we'll all be gone
and equalised.
In someone else's eyes you'll be the Barry Trent,bent and ghostly,
mostly.

Swings and snakes
it only takes one rung to fall,did someone ring the bell for hell,is it supper time?
A half filled bottle of Geneva gin
say,
Buddy can you spare a lime.

An intrepid outsider just visiting London,
Smitten, dazzled, by stunning illuminations,
From within a black cab, transporting me,
Not only weaving in present day airy streets,
But through stacked layers of storied history;
Some dark, treacherous and dastardly sinister,
Some light, celebratory and blithely triumphant.

On alighting from the Hackney Carriage,
(use of the word ‘carriage’ emphasising
a vivid stretch of a willing imagination.)
Museum of London beckons, offering pleasure,
Absorbing a tableau of delightful treasure,
Engaging unfettered thoughts and feelings,
Absorbing echoed cries of distant past eras,
Reminders of who we were and who we are,
Plunging archaic depths of vicarious displays,
Delicate fingers pressing upon vibrant pulses,
Within this webbed tomb of sanitised decadence.

In the coolness of encroaching night,
She slumbers, this anchored sprawling behemoth,
Suffering barking dogs, wailing of infants,
Sweet kisses of lust in cardboard-strewn alleys,
Screeches from a gaggle of hen-partying girls,
Screams from urban foxes, cries of a feral cat,
Curtailed by hurried rumble of clattering steel,
Train arteries busy pumping, wheel to wheel,
Ferrying the masses, crammed together classes,
Silent tubes exposing the numbness we feel,
At destinations end our tensions slyly unpeel.

Busy pedestrians skirting human detritus;
Shunning, vagabonds, tramps and thieves,
Amidst intermittent beeps of frantic car horns,
Squealing brakes and hot roaring engines,
She encompasses this amorphous miasma,
Towering skyward, snaking deep underground,
A blaze of coloured light, her own silent sound,
Inhabitants ‘pigged together’ the majority above,
But many, ignored and mistreated, surviving below,
Recognised, yet avoided; pretending, not to know.

Ancient sewers, dead rivers and even deader bones,
As far back as hunter gathers, howling and rutting,
Stout wooden pilings, now sodden river sentinels,
Whilst fire-blackened-pain from early conflagrations,
Blaze through time, ashes of destruction, no deterrent,
Romans plying trades in walled Londinium’, aye,
Emotional fingerprints etched into carved stone,
Resilient through Viking and Saxon times alike,
She survives, strives and thrives, our proud Lady,
Welcoming all, galleons, tea clippers and schooners,
Surging through her carotid artery, such spoils,
For the Big Smoke, tea houses and coffee shops,
Parks and palaces, bridges, tunnels and hovels,
Where now, the bedecked Town Crier? Is all well?

Brash glitz and glamour of threatened Tin Pan Alley,
Cultural elite behind facades of Doric columns,
While Roman foundations bold form, hold firm,
Twisting through the underneath, far beyond forever,
London crunches into the future, unstoppable,
Embracing humanity in a technological fervour,
She adapts, snarls, struts, proud and confident,
Akin to a sentient beast lapping up our needs,
Feeding desires, never judging, only accepting.

My very being saturated within this teeming city,
Of the city, I’m now enmeshed in the infrastructure,
Heart, mind and spirit willingly shackled, captivated by,
Cold agglomeration of steel, glass, concrete and stone,
Wreathed in transient emotions of warm flesh and bone,
Giving and breathing life unto all, even me,
An intrepid outsider just visiting London.

Bay and beach
Wind and waves
Sun and sand
Tools of play
And pools of pleasure
To herald rock and roll
Held me on one fine funny day

Whipping gripping sun
Running rolling waves
Breezing sprucing spray
Cuddling cradling swing
Seesaw Sea, a scene to see  

An ebony boy for joy
Curled n’ squirreled
And scrubbed shiny sand
Made of wet velvet waves
Basked and bathed
Bathed and basked
And on and on and so on
Bath n’ bask filled his day

Cheerful crowd on a wild boating spree  
Expert loner on his confident bouts
With batting waves for surfing thrill
All and sundry kindred, rid of color or creed  
Joined n’ enjoyed nature’s extravaganza

Tots trotting helter-skelter
Splashing on slippery waves
Jubilant lads fad of hackney ride
Wayward youth awkward way forward
Trespassing bikini lasses passing by

Receding light inked in crimson red
Dipped glowing globe at the far end of sea
Paving way to the emerging coolant moon
To shower his delightful light for rest of night

To state what seems true
it's about the ratings
don't you
agree.
We shall gather up plaudits to Lord around Shoreditch and Hackney to Bow and watch as the ratings go up.
We shall sup on our tea somewhere down in Lea Green,which is South of the Thames, or as the crow flies about two beats from Lewisham,these are names that I know,places I've seen when I've been down on my uppers and up on the downers,where stories to tell are retold by the fires that burn bright in hell,but I'm well,
It's the ratings we dream,the ratings that seem to be honey,making money more money and funny how sweet it becomes,number like runs on a wheel,spinning the new deal,rating things real when they're not,like spot the ball when there's no ball to be found.
The sound of the ratings that comes through the grating grates on my ears,a whine,electronic,white noise and quietly ******,turning me on,tuning me up,making me look good and I'm just a dwarf plant that grows in the wild wood.
Even better than this as the ratings reach up to **** on the sky,there is payment that's due from the ratings that you long to give.
Why,
I don't know how to live is a mystery to me,a case of rate it and see how it goes
and ratings are all about shows that we take,things that we break,hearts that we make full of joy.
To state what seems true
I am sated on ratings and fated to be
a number in someone's
dating directory.
Did I say dating?
I meant rating
almost the same
but not quite.

chopper: chop-off-chew; a 502 bad gateway bypass cheat code...

i know what i'll spend my money earned on, in what priority, i'll spend them on a brothel, i'll spend them on a *******: after all... she will spend that earned money on trivial matters, she will buy a pair of shoes: i'll buy a pair of shoes when the ones i'm wearing will become worn... i hope i can write this without an inkling toward spite... i'm happy to be childless, i'm happy to not be married... how best to decipher my feeling, at present... FAUN... WAINAMOINEN... i will not trust the leftist cosmopolitan brigade to break up this... resurgence of a folkish spirit among the Hyperboreans... making a resurgence in song, in wording... covert... under the radar... seemingly sleeping... even Heidegger mentions this... of the people is very much distinct to: of the folk... people inhabit cities and the make-shift constructs of nations... the folk? they inhabit the land! why should an African feel welcome among the winters and the crows... when i... giggle like a child... foreign among the lost seasons at the equator with the macaque monkeys?! these people are not here to belong... they know it themselves... however many safety-nets are placed for our liberal liking & their comfort... they are unnaturally "here"... our own worst enemies... white "liberal elites"... one cocktail after a second... after... no more water to churn out alcohol... these people have come for a reason... i don't know what the reason is... better living is hardly requesting more complications from technology... when life can be simplified from the closest of the most close connections... hier: hoch norden?! alle er tabt! tysk er æsten dansk...
deutsch ist fast dänisch! we might have fought wars among each other... but at least we belonged, together, even i... liberal as i were, for so long... it's not like i can't be... leaving a route for allowance for other cultures, other races... but... i'm... becoming more... detached from reality... detached from purpose... from the geography... from the forest... language is my last defence... these people shouldn't be here because they shouldn't be here: they shouldn't be here because... there's no need for me to be among their culture! their people! if i don't need to be somewhere, why should someone "think" it necessary to be among "my", people? mongrel ******* mongrel gives us this... ****** culture! hardly any tourism... i can be a tourist in Africa... would i want to live in Africa? no! so... why the ****... thank you Russia... WE, HAVE, NO, SHARED, STORIES... JUST... THESE... SOCIAL-JUSTICE ARGUMENTATIVE POINTS... EVERYTHING IS POLITICAL: HARDLY NARRATIVE... SUFFERING FROM MEMORY EROSION... IN THE IMMEDIACY OF JOURNALISTIC *******... i bemoan this sudden quest of man: because... i believe in its failure... a failure most gross... my heart prays for this ****** experiment to fail! fail it must! scheitern es muss! svigte det skal! lethargy kicks in... being too pleasing... too pleasant... my mind retorts: almost automatically... i'm QUITS! why? looking at children... i don't want them to suffer this mental diarrhoea in future years... i want them to look at faces most familiar... i'm SLEPT... i'm QUITS... ******* SAVVY?!

i've been a hermit for so long,
shunning human contact with only minor
outbursts of contact with strangers,
old men on park benches
talking about their grandchildren
and sons-in-law,
Rayleigh bicycles, seasonal diets
(not buying watery strawberries from
Spain in the winter months,
eating more vegetables - in general -
binging on local, seasonal fruit
from local farms),
prostitutes in the brothel, talking...
*******...
but always in concentrated outbursts
of interaction...
someone in London around Whitechapel
stopping me while he implored me
to fix his breaks...
hands up... listen: if i had some tools...
i'd try...
this spurned me on to now ride around
with some tools... i only need about three...
obviously i'm not going to take a *******
pump with me too... there's a reasonable
point of what i am willing to do for strangers...
so i gave him some advice...
it's the back break, that's faulty?
remember... take longer to break...
since the front break is only working you
might go forward by breaking too heavily...
and if you're going to break heavily...
stand up on your breaks...
and leverage yourself on the handlebars...
put extra pressure on them: top down...
homeless men...
once i ******* this woman for sitting
down on the pavement with this homeless man
i knew who migrated from Romford
to Seven Kings...
gave him a cigarette and laughed a while...
with some fwends... some autistic guy from
school who... got into drinking...
blah blah...
     so she starts attacking me with...
YOU! YOU! i just waved my hand and told her:
i'm not going to argue with you...
i suppose she was implying i was supposed
to be talking up women...
i was there for a Guinness...
later that same night i went to the brothel
for some love... or as i like to call it:
cuddle & giggles...
- that one time this crazy Rastafarian started
talking to me about the Hebrew deity
deformity (in his Rastafarian way)
we started talking from Romford
he dragged me to... Hackney... of all places
to distribute pamphlets to black Baptist churches
i had a "date" with a few fwends to watch
some boxing on t.v.,
- i won't even mention that one black guy
who took me on a carousel of his crack *******
addiction... that was a long time ago...
the two of us were strapped to the insides of
a phone-box while he took up a crack-*******
glass doo-di (what would you call it?
a glass smoking pipe?)
******* madman... that's also at the same time
i was having my first psychotic breakdown
from... smoking marijuana and fasting...
and walking around London...
so many more isolated instances of "dealing"...
interacting with... people...
now this... from my period of isolation...
social hibernation... where i threw myself at writing
so heavily hearted...
graveyards, forests... at night...
there was this one funny instance...
a car parked in Bower Wood...
took a while to take a **** on the grass...
owl... check... fox... check... rabbits... check...
deer... check... something cracked some
branches while i sat on a log bare-chested...
i actually opened my mouth and uttered
the words: that's not a human... is it, are you?!
walking almost blind screaming at the top
of my voice, growling... snarling...
through havering county park... climbing past
a barbwire fence to get up close to
the horses grazing in the field...
in the dark putting my hand against a horse's mouth...
i can forgive the horse...
it thought i might have something in my hand...
like a sugar cube or an apple to nibble on...
it started nibbling on my fingers...
bucktooth ****** turned around and his hoof
almost skimmed my forehead...
i still wonder what it might feel like
to be kicked in the head by a horse's hind legs...
i tried it once... punched myself several times
in the face until i gave myself a black eye...
i still have marks on my knuckles from the time
i took pleasure from putting out
cigarettes on them...
i guess i don't dream much...
i need to be closest to reality through...
the only best available a medium that most
resonates: pain...
- or perhaps a quote from Pablo Coelho...
the alchemist...
as a teenager i was planning on travelling to India...
India came to London,
****'s sake... the whole world came to London!
why would i leave (Greater) London?
if i were to travel across the Thames...
i'd be in a completely different country...
i once cycled from Romford to Greenwich...
already the difference were visible...
the north is like... what's the right comparison?
BUDA...
the south of London? PESHT...
less underground, more trains...
trams of Croydon, for ****'s sake: i thought that
trams were a Berlin / Warsaw "thing"...
if i wanted to: i'd ******* to Edinburgh and...
find the old place i was staying at
in my third year... Montague St.
just off Nicholson St.,
i'd go back to the mosque near Appleton Tower
for a curry... i'd perhaps do some bouldering
on the Crags... if i were to find my mountain
climbing shoes...
i am still, yet, to eat a deep-fried Mars bar...
or a deep-fried pizza...
like **** i am ever going to...
just today i ate a revelation...
usually... smoked salmon... well... obviously
on a bagel... with some fresh cucumber and dill
with a decent dollop of mayo...
today?
soft white cheese... the smoked salmon
& some lemon juice...
wow...
- finding work outside the family business...
i.e. not working with my father has become...
refreshing...
he... he could "abuse" me verbally as best he could...
you're doing this wrong, you're doing
that wrong... strangers? no chance...
but this own son: he treated the harshest...
i said to myself: **** it... i'm not putting up with
this sort of UBERSCHEISSE!
i haven't worked in... has it been a decade?
"worked" worked... i wrote... investing in
people not yet born!
the people, my contemporaries: sure, i care...
but... i'm not writing a Dan Brown novel:
am i? i'm looking for... longevity...
i'm looking for immortality...
to hell with not being paid...
to hell with spending money in ways that makes
you regret it: you will never find yourself
earning money: but you will regret... spending it
in ways that deviate from a "pattern" of
well-kept endeavours...
i don't mind spending anything on my bicycle...
why? cycling is my last outlet
of... aloneness "tourism"... to hell with going
on a cruise... i take up cycling to...
Thurrock... or deeper into Essex...
hell... i'll cycle into central London...
ah... sigh of relief... i'm alone...
i like dodging traffic... i like the added thrill of large
objects that might **** me...
but at the same time i adore the abundant emptiness
of the countryside...
well... it's not: "empty"... but writing makes it out
as it is... no ******* Wordsworth's worth
of ode to nature here...
perhaps some... die grenzwacht hielt im osten...
folk songs in, esp. in die deutschezunge...
- i think i know why, why i find this language
so endearing... it's all about the infiltration process...
i could... wholeheartedly... abandon it...
with even having to wear shoes...
i feel so much for it: yet at the same time...
if i were recalled to the mutterzungen needs...
i think i might... how i can hold twin-allegiances
i will never know...

uns ander'n brach die kraft...
und heute noch und immer
    den weg nach osten zeigt...

so far away from people... yet so close...
to put into writing...
i would have loved joining the army...
chemical engineer? ZYKLON B...
rings a bell...
now... reengaging with people...
on a minor scale of what an army cohort
looks like...
i still feel ****** getting a chemistry
degree: not leaving school at 15 and joining the army...
then again... i really don't know what
i'd do with too much money:
you can always have too much money:
even if you earn... £15,000 a year...
i remember my student years back
in 2004 circa 2007 (circa, ergo, no hyphen +/-1
a year in the "bracket")
beside the student fee...
£3000 could easily cover the rent,
the food... the odd spontaneous going to
the cinema... the gym fee...
well, fair enough... as students... we weren't paying
council tax... but £3000 could cover a lot of things...
if we're talking earning... £15000...
and you take a Paulo Coelho approach
akin to: there's nothing to ******* find when
you get to the Giza pyramids... when you *******
to Brazil... you seen the world doesn't actually mean:
a local crack-head took you on
one of his ******* shimmy run...

i don't belong no more in Kenya than
a Kenyan belongs among the Hyperboreans...
sure... if he feels suicidal...
and abhors his people so much...
but look where Brexit left us...
all the Polacks suddenly didn't feel welcome...
not part of the multicultural project
of the implosive Empire as they might have
felt...
what English soldier ever fought
on the lands of Poland during the second world
war... yet... how many ****** pilots
fought for Britain?!
huh?! huh?!
history implies: people keep on forgetting...
the labour of love for us that love
to remember... like...
the world offers us rubrics borrowed from
school...
i don't mind an African trying to live
in Europe... but **** me:
you won't find me living in Africa
any time soon!
sure... the macaques are cute...
to hell with the heat!
no time soon!
i, need, seasons!
i need, eating, bland!
what, rosemary & rhyme not good enough,
for you, ******?!

smoked salmon managed to bench press
my liking for raw herring...
miss the raw cucumber, the dill, the mayo...
add some soft white cheese...
some lemon juice... keep the bagel...
now we have ourselves a sport!

the Polacks have left the shores...
hello tourists... your anti-racist rhetoric has
paid off!
i'm hardly native...
weren't your own natives...
your own fathers supposed
to bemoan the fate of your own daughters?!
you don't...
and... i'm... somehow... supposed to?
i'm much more invested in the men...
i need... rigidity... structure...
women always tend to **** it up: anyways...
some... amnesia principle...

FAUN:  WAINAMOINEN...
unplugged... "v"...
  NIRVANA's unplugged sessions...
choke... shotgun shot to the head..
Christine Chubbuck vs. the Court of Courting Blind...
rich Russian girls taking  picture of the pitch...
i'm standing in the middle...
i guess there's also me involved...

- from my hermit phase... being engaged with so many
people... esp. the children... oh god... i love the children...
for someone who enjoyed their absence from
society...
to be so, greedily... reengaged.... like a snap....
almost weird...
but... almost like: I: WANT: IT!
sure... i'm but a pawn in this role...
but... here's my excuse... i'm also anders-wo...
here's my antithesis of da-sein...
anders-wo...          am-ich?!

tid: til begynde! ja: nu! kvik!
tabt en time
tabt løs "næsten" alt...

         fanden du:                     ord så blød

KURWA MAĆ!

apparently that's also me:
outside the internet
segment of my life...

http://tinyurl.com/ybu5nujl

although i'm glad
that it's not everyday...
birthday parties
of 18 year old
girls are............
       exhausting...

no, really...
   when i left the party i left
a girl standing in the door
attempting to woo me in
for the night...
left lamenting asking
people:
do you know the direction
to hell?!

****...
people boast on the internet
all the time...
      suntans,
or some exotica from
a holiday in Thailand...
never a little piece of
Piracy in terms of
skin color from Hackney,
east London...

      i'm starting to contemplate
one thing,
and one thing alone...
what would the demigod
Narcissus make
of a photograph,
if a mirror was smashed?
perhaps like any mortal...
i abhorred and subsequently
abhor watching video
footage of myself...

i simply gather...
Narcissus has no memory faculty...
a photograph is a memory atom,
a mirror is an object...
and the visage reflected in it
is also a memory, albeit
passing...
     ergo fluid...
  
Narcissus can be Narcissus before
a mirror, looking down
on the still water of a lake...
but sure as ****
he doesn't have the ***** looking
at a photograph...
  apparently Narcissus becomes
Dorian...
        the imagination...
stemming from **** *******
and blocking
reproduction...
          
Narcissus could never peer
and bind himself to a Gemini visage
within the confines of the sea,
or a river...
   hence?
     out of curiosity...
what would Narcissus do...
  with a photograph?

Wandering minstrels blow their bubbles and the music makes my troubles wander too.

In the pipes of Pan where Loki lurks to entice strangers, see his works of trickery, not for me the rooting ram nor the nabob I'm the stay at home and feet up comfy man.

She plays the price of whist, solo twist it stick while down East London way in Hackney Wick they build pontoons to ford 'Old Ford' a trick the Romans knew.

Running through each mountain pass like a river steaming in the dawn I become a molten mass of limitless enthusiasm only to fall into the gaping jaws of the waiting chasm which was waiting all the time for me,
I am much better the comfy man than one who spans the continents, explodes into the elements.

I call for tea
she says make your own,
in my home she is the castle
and the queen.

Bay and beach
Wind and waves
Sun and sand
Tools of play
And pools of pleasure
To herald rock and roll
Held me on one fine funny day

Whipping gripping sun
Running rolling waves
Breezing sprucing spray
Cuddling cradling swing
Seesaw Sea, a scene to see  

An ebony boy for joy
Curled n’ squirreled
And scrubbed shiny sand
Made of wet velvet waves
Basked and bathed
Bathed and basked
And on and on and so on
Bath n’ bask filled his day

Cheerful crowd on a wild boating spree  
Expert loner on his confident bouts
With batting waves for surfing thrill
All and sundry kindred, rid of color or creed  
Joined n’ enjoyed nature’s extravaganza

Tots trotting helter-skelter
Splashing on slippery waves
Jubilant lads fad of hackney ride
Wayward youth awkward way forward
Trespassing bikini lasses passing by

Receding light inked in crimson red
Dipped glowing globe at the far end of sea
Paving way to the emerging coolant moon
To shower his delightful light for rest of night

Bay and beach
Wind and waves
Sun and sand
Tools of play
And pools of pleasure
To herald rock and roll
Held me on one fine funny day

Whipping gripping sun
Running rolling waves
Breezing sprucing spray
Cuddling cradling swing
Seesaw Sea, a scene to see  

An ebony boy for joy
Curled n’ squirreled
And scrubbed shiny sand
Made of wet velvet waves
Basked and bathed
Bathed and basked
And on and on and so on
Bath n’ bask filled his day

Cheerful crowd on a wild boating spree  
Expert loner on his confident bouts
With batting waves for surfing thrill
All and sundry kindred, rid of color or creed  
Joined n’ enjoyed nature’s extravaganza

Tots trotting helter-skelter
Splashing on slippery waves
Jubilant lads fad of hackney ride
Wayward youth awkward way forward
Trespassing bikini lasses passing by

Receding light inked in crimson red
Dipped glowing globe at the far end of sea
Paving way to the emerging coolant moon
To shower his delightful light for rest of night

it's language, of course i'll be desperately self-conscious and worried and ashamed like i had been caught with a thong, attempting being a transvestite; i'm a man, i ought to be on a building site! instead i have about a hundred chinese per head tailoring and making things tick... what is this ****?! what, everyone had a poetic potential in them? so poetry has become an excuse, the art of excuses? hey! eh! play the jockey part, i'll do the moaning from now on... be the cashier at a supermarket, i'll do the dying bit of the existential convention of the many trades being advertised to foetuses! well obviously when you make music free all art forms will follows; everyone forget Newtonian causality? good... which means you'll all be artists... in your spare time; i do truly wish i had the inhibitions of a labourer, a smithy, at least then i'd know my life was full; rather than being a scarce exhibitionist as guiding the normalised feeling of inertia, coupled with hopes via the digits of readership.*

i can't do anything more
to this poem:
a Hackney hipster (live editing);
i can feel the shame of not
owning a cupboard and putting
it in there, dyslexia what have you,
html typos etc.,
i guess i'm just worried
by the speed of your reading
misappropriating it to
a different meaning, and
undesirable activity via quote into influence
of expression that shocks people
and gives them straitjackets of hope.

it was a year of peter bjorn and john with what later became an advert - what meant Olympic integrity, when R.E.M. didn't sell it's the end of the world (as we know it) to Microsoft... because it would just mean another mansion of 22 toilets and 16 bedrooms, rather than the standard bog where the ****-dolphins laughed along with Dr. Susie...

i remember the night well...
we met some producer looking for the school playground
of gimmicks in a bar in the plush part of
moving the Afro-Carribeans out of Hackney into
Havering, so that the Olympics "legacy" could be
established with a mirror pristine look for
that locals never ever would resemble: the Japanese
pensioners and the tourists: harr she! squat *******!
squat! squat in the workplace, squat at home!
we ended up at a party where i was
wearing a t-shirt with the iron cross,
gott min uns, she was Finnish, we started snogging,
out came the prowler t.v. presenter looking for
more ***... miquita oliver was there,
and so was simon amstell (the prowl hi
i already mentioned), as we were leaving bloc party
arrived when one of our accomplices was all giddy
like a tour-fan-****... we went to the producer's
pad... ******* for the Hitchcock blonde using it to
start a conversation... you upstairs in the attic
shivering on a massive bean bag...
cuddles... shivers... cuddles...
now your children are ready to go to school...
can't blame me for nostalgia... i can't blame myself
for not keeping a wife and tax revenue or life insurance...
spending the night there, breaking up
when the sun rose... so much for high school sweet hearts...
it's true... the hipsters thought i was a hipster **** that
one time... i'm laughing about it now...
but thankfully the song i mentioned had no
ethical superiority surrounding it...
thankfully this memory will not be worth much,
it's like a bunch of Romanians selling shoes at
a Polish open-air market... peter bjorn and john's
young folks crept up at the heels of uninspired people...
well, even the monetary fund or the tribal fund of
sticking together, breach of justice, to eradicate tribalism
give it alcoholism without expression...
keep the monetary tact in line with piranha...
well... it's part of a homebase advert from now on...
so it means there's no emotional commitment to be leveraged
for any other purpose than a purpose per se, which ends
on the last dot.

Does it make you tingle when a lovely young lady says,
hey are you single, do you fancy a night at the flicks?
and after a coffee at her place,
your face says it all.

what would you call it?

a bit of luck that the nip and tuck pulled your paunch in,
thin and lean
you know what I mean

a screen on the green and a salad dish.

Like a fish out of water
I caught a
bus to Hackney
sadly
she was in Putney and
I never saw her at all,

perhaps I will see her in
some cinema feature
at the Odeon cinema
next week.

the english numbing of the trill, as in robot being spelled
                  яobot.
                      i don't mean yabot - i mean woe-bot -
because that's what southern english does -
         head up north? north east, i.e. manchester?
   you'd probably hear the trill-drill on the argon.
    
   southern pansies numb it... they go: goo gulag wah wah peddle
      imitation jimi hendrix.

       it's some next quasi **** rel;ating to a chelsea yah...
                             why was it ever a chelsea grin?
                                            it should have been called
a hackney grin... but, evidently, the poor ******* were more
humane when inflicting violence on people... they actually killed
them, rather than maiming them.

             sometimes death, really is, the just compensation -
because the slouching ******* that comes prior to death?
                    julius would tell you:
                                            et tu, brute?!
that **** came at an angle, and i mean... light doesn't bend,
             it doesn't tell newton: we're gonna yoga bend right around left,
                          down a 90° angle... then do a 180° flip...
          and then end up as a sun at 360°... mmm'kay?

or the name       nathan -

            and the automatic insertion of a y:
            naythan...

                                                            othe­rwise náthaniel.

              ßkrut:               shortcut
                             the invocative nick, the name,
                                                           ­                          or just pseudonym,
or just a cousin of alias...
                               as in...         in the *** of things -
                                         e.g.      ****               "the juggler"      jameson;
j missin';       yep, that's right... and also a g.
     ah... to boot...
                   a lesson in guarding peacocks in a babylonian harem:
suave.

what?!
so, you're telling me this is some
sort of scam artist get-together?!
i was of the ones
gagging for money?
oh ****... out of the hierarchy...
looks like...
you're under scrutiny
   about what you earn and
what you spend,
and whether you're not 1990s
sit-com nice...
     appealing to the rejected
sort:
   god... every time i see grey
people...
i just want to pinch them
saying: are you, for real?
every supermarket cashier,
any other and any "other" to every
"same"...  
       the pillars with their decapitated
heads of st. paul (the jewish apostate)
and the (st.) john
      (came the living,
that left as the dead)...
video?
             that's my ultimate
masochistic trip...
traction... video count?
really... really?! do i have to...
well... if this is freedom,
and this, "freedom" is used to
make "consciousness" counter-context
posists, relying, primarily
on content...
two boxes: both end up
as per se ontologies...
          you really want to push...
those buttons...
you have no idea about?
i've met two girls and one jew
who, muted, and without me
trying... just shook their heads
to a: no-no...
    now, thanks to this website
i can match my sight on
the true poverty,
that of language...
if i'm about to cling
to masochism, i'll just turn off
the radio, or my nostalgia f.m.
simulation, and tune into some of
these youtube "social" commentary
"journalists",
these pseudo h. p. lovecraft's...
these...
   'i can read,
so i'll read'... yes... clap clap...
need a ******* clapper machine
with a minus of missing
canned laughter?
i can read too!
would i ever make a *******
video?
slit my wrists first...
****'s sake...
                       next time i tune
in to one of these socio-political
"commentary"...
orientated around global affairs...
i'll start playing
the hill-billy sing-along
game of: who's who michael...
and who the ****
is this: in my earnest?

  gag order...

  unless it moves...
silence...
is... ultimate horror...
   if i was not to be loved...
why would i bother...
with anything,
beside the antonym of love...
why not allow others
to stand on the razor's edge...
what's the point
of the variant subtleties of
love...
     when... upon being feared
is not the same,
as being respected...
when...
you can hold a *******...
a minute as raw a a fruit
plucked from a root
of a tree...
to immediately become
tender...
and... almost clay-like,
mandible as one's own
jaw...
               to then compare...
a *******,
to a cat that's all too eager
to snooze, delay,
a variant of deep sleep in
your bed...
to...
   whatever the hell was
to become of *******
when it came to
sitting it out
   at a turkish barber...
and the latter?

   all the more: satisfying...
less... taxing...
that's me...
if i ever found homosexual
arousal...
it was...
when my ears
and the vicinity of scalp
were teased by scissors...
and clippers...
and my neck...
by a straight-razor...
with my eyes closed...

   and some of us prefer
necrophilia...
thankfully
i went to the brothel first...
before i grew out of it...
and decided...
the more prominent thrill...
and cheaper...
but almost within the same
confines
of time...
but... at a turkish barber...

tricklet piano music...
so... i'm white ergo i'm pork...
he's black ergo he's beef?
he's semitic ergo he's lamb?
and then they three wise monkeys
of mongol,
   thai and ***, yes?

oh sure... i'll make a video,
but that doesn't imply
i'll be insulting my audience...
it would be insulting my audience...
if i decided to give up
my filter-layer of literacy...
it's like the vatican around
'ere...
         talk is cheap...
              obviously,
otherwise...
   what remains...
    is conscripted to an effort...
and... let's just say...
making videos...
is a passive en'ga'ge'ment (german:
g'ah g'eh)
               to the material...
what the mind translates
into speach...
  is what the mind has to see,
first...
   what the mind
hears before seeing...
will only translate itself
into murk, fog...
                            and...
                     the lost point of
(the original) observation;
people speak too freely...
    even the ******* royals know
the difference between
an ultimate freedom,
and the ultimate power,
made crux,
  ) on the inhibition of a freely
allowed disinhibition     (...
make as much nuance as you can
from the last   )               (
sentence...
          talk like diarrhea
implies a constipation
                 of original thought.

On the white stripes of concrete
In hackney
Wet spring petals
Like a pink
and white cosmos

i never understood why some people are so adamant at telling others how to govern, most notably the anglophone world, as if rotherham didn't happen... tyranny this, tyranny that, it's always the opinion of safeguarding foreign investment; people never complain the illegal toys from china, because all inanimate things are always and always will be legal, but people are most of the time: deemed illegal... yes, i'm part of the integration process that failed at its most spectacular: i speak better native spreschen than the native populace, poking fun at dyslexics all the time, watch me having 'un in 'yde park: and let me tell you, if you want to read a proper book, stand over a homeless man with a sign, read it, then look at the homeless man, there's your proust in comic form.

what did costello call the italian grease-*****?
dikes, or was it guineas?
   i can't remember, i do remember that
trigger called rodney *dave all the time
in only fools & horses -
funny that, you ever watched the box-set?
no, canned, laughter.
    a bit like the office -
     i find canned laughter intimidating,
it's like getting punched in the face,
completely disorientating -
i never seem to know when to laugh,
since i'm fed fake rolexes down hackney market...
if it's funny, i'll tell you,
  but most comedy these days is
for an audience of turkeys, force-feeding them
gags that aren't really there...
    with the amount of canned laughter
going around i'm starting to feel paranoid,
i swear i'm the only person sitting
in a room watching a "comedy" -
but in the background there's that annoying
cloud of laughter,
    i'm starting to wonder: what's more fake,
the gags, or the canned audience?
   too bad for coulrophobia -
   my first impression of the clown,
or should i say, clowns, was in a circus when
the circus still had animal performers,
   and lemonade in plastic bags...
   and me and my grandfather, leaving me
in the audience **** scared of the grandiose
persona of the crowd amused,
while he went off for a glug of ***** on the shy,
there was me, his umbrella,
   and about 10+ clowns crammed into
a fíat 126p kneading in & out of the car...
yes, that dot can change:
     raining from above:
             i did mention that hindi dress
with indicators as not sari but as sārí?
never mind.
           oh right, what was i going to say?
i'm just bored of the "n- word" controversy...
    i'm going to have to start amusing myself...
i'm going to start calling "them"... ha ha...
      nigels;
                      guess the trilling and the double
GG breastplate was too much for some
people learning to, spell...
             i like that... spot me a nigel next time
and let's keep it piquant in terms
   of pickles of the tongue;
ah, almost forgot...
   met an atheist once, who just loved christmas
carols...
    well, no, i never met him, just heard of him,
a real poppy (pop star - of the movement)...
   tell you what... if you said:
oh, i really like that da pacem domine,
  or that salve regina chant of the templars,
i'd be like: cool cool...
     me too...
                 kinda competes with the islamic
    adhan; christmas carols? not so much.
        and do we need to state afrikaan
  with those two there? yes, we know:
it's prolonged, so wouldn't it look more eloquent
in the form of: afrikān? these signs are there,
so why not use them?
          these signs are like the overt-layer
of what's already the hidden layer of vowels
in hebrew...
           the story already begins, with the conundrum
of having names for letters (rather than
syllable constructs) -
               and in hebrew that means,
oh ****... right... a gay beginning...
the two adams...
          א‎ (alef) & ע‎ (ayin) - who predate
cain & abel...
                         and this always bothered me,
two letters which are seemingly vowels, but aren't,
who's mother was kametz -
                   perhaps they are the branching
off into the construct of LΓH,
           that breaking apart of the tetragrammaton?
well, given the prefix rule in the construct
of names for letters (which the latins
barely scratch, because it's a singing language
primarily, hence the ability to convene
            upon encapsulating music in scores) -
what do you get, with the prefix rule
when you construct a word,
   being given: alpha lambda phi alpha beta eta tau?
i.e. what word do you get, when you rid
the following combination of name-to-a-letter
affix?