it’s not everyday you get to end a 7 year psychosis
when redecorating your room to it’s “original” crimson,
having had such a simple symptom as
brain cell membranes breaking and oozing blood out,
to be misdiagnosed as mentally insane,
and when in need of help from the haemorrhage
not driven to the hospital due to the lack of *******
of having proceeded with the deed but forgetting the onslaught of law
in favour of the hurt party... well...what can you do?
move on, as i’m trying, had it been naturally based
on genetic chronology / genealogy i would have suffered in vain...
but i’m brimming with a hate for islam, and there’s nothing
to do but calm the quasi-communist protestors
in the western lands... ******* calm down... you’ll get
your freedom of speech... once you stop trying to censor vocabulary...
there’s no point learning a language if it becomes
politicised and you tell me to block vowels or consonants
in a non-kabbalistic way (which i’ll come to):
so yeah, a 7 year psychosis over a needle in a haystack...
gives me the shivers...
the many times i thought about killing someone
and feeding the emotions with not doing the act...
so many times i was almost skeletally biased to churn the
marrow haemoglobin into tendon stressor action of taking
the knife and doing halal or kosher with someone...
many a times...as many a times i saw crucifixions in edinburgh
not knowing it was going to happen in syria,
and that night when a muslim tried to mug me
in brick lane breaking down in the street of revellers
kneeling in tears screaming a prayer with tears in my eyes
of only one word: allah.
so i started redecorating my room, crimson is back from
hospital white... my bookshelf is rearranged...
on the left on the top shelf fictional books i either read
or didn’t bother to read because of the movies...
to the right on the shelf psychiatric and philosophical books...
the next shelf is a poetry “corner,” well it elongates beyond the corner...
and it’s split by a dictionary with the right bit of the shelf filled
with english poetry and some literature that’s poetic, and french,
the dictionary is planted to segregate the poetry books,
to the left of the dictionary is a book of greek myths
(did you know all greek theology is derived from the new testament
and not from the testament of orpheus or hercules or Perseus?),
then a book on meditative kabblah... then polish books of poetry.
so i rearranged the room, but i also lodged
an essayist’s book on melancholia, a book on depression
a book on an intro. to jung and a book on
schizophrenia lodged between these massive collections:
to the left all the art books... to the right all the books concerning chemistry...
so the books in between can’t really be seen.
as of today i woke with a p.s. from dreams, or a p.s. in dreams,
i woke and imagined myself talking to my mother
about the identity of al-dajjal... the false messiah,
within the conscious realm i just said the words out of the window:
fool you fool me, when mecca / medina become west of paris / london,
i’ll accept riyadh to be east of tehran / new delhi...
then we'll marginalise plateau east with copernican east
via the stars, and wander aimlessly trying to copper-fill
the sun at sunset...
he (muhammad) said the man would be of his nation,
and he said so with a warning...
but ibn saud got away weighing in at 160kg, diabetic and a brawler
with the stomach, the decadent of all that choose either sugary decadence
or some other form of mental instability in the chosen trade of stolen organs.
me? i keep my sanity with the tetragrammaton, cipher this:
this numerology *******, and it is ******* will not do...
enter platonic forms:
y is so so much more than just 25...
what will you see through y with the number 25?
what? nothing, dry brute that i am...
Y represent 3 dimensional space...
the first h is not important given the second h... which is deja vu,
which is less than what malachi insisted with the fractioned god of
the fractioned “elijah” reincarnated...
deja vu can be explained with science as one of the brain’s tricks
to sense this familiarity of seeing an elephant and acknowledging
the five blind men touching it up for comparative jokes,
the W... well... at least it’s not M... given that the trigonometric cosine continuum
begins at 1.... god is one... ring a bell? well better that than
beginning with the trigonometric sine continuum, which begins with 0...
forget numerology... numbers and letters aren’t related...
forget the dogmatism of rabbis - it makes no sense to say a = 1, b = 2 etc.
and then take a word like ape, and say: ‘ah, a = 1, p = 16 and e = 5; by god!
that’s a kabbalistic synonymity of the word... pea!’
where’s the jolly green giant when you need him, eh?
just look at what a phonetic symbol represents...
like secondary darwinism of a primate hissing to alert the presence
of a snake... past darwinism... past drawing antelopes
in french caves... in the realm of abstract phoneticism that
gave us the cognitive genesis... and made as... dare i say... a bit myopic
in a solipsistic sense.
p.s. ah... what are the newspapers saying?
slapstick humour is one of the prime causes of dementia? huh?!
yes, prime minister... is satire comedy?
how the hell can yes, prime minister be categorised as satire
if it uses canned laughter?
see that bloke over there... doing the omnivore pelican dance?
he joked so readily and active that he created authentic laughter...
don’t know where your satire is going... but it certainly left me gagging
for a springroll.
now now... absurdist comedy is too oxbridge for me...
kings and gentlemen get educated in either st. andrew’s or edinburgh...
we laugh at ourselves.
alt. to canned laughter, given that "canned laughter"
is reserved for the authentic laughter of the crowd
at a live show? what's the antonym of canned laughter
in televised satire? picky laughter... i.e. only one person
in an schoolroom of 30 gets the joke, apart from the comedian...
that lonely everest ha ha... ooh chills, frozen prawns in gravy.

after that i'll let you wear my kneecaps for
prayer after that pagan harlot of a wife told me
it didn't rain because i wasn't a good enough ventriloquist
to her schizophrenia. i mean: **** just never stops!
(i actually like this line, apologies for vain-thought).*

"68% of Canadians respondent said that minorities
should be doing more to fit into mainstream society
instead of keeping to their own customs and languages..."

53% of American dittoed likewise...*

              a failure of multiculturalism is a failure
because: it didn't celebrate bilingualism -
i call that the Gaelic effect in Scotland just so
you know it was spoken in over-shadowed Gaelic
within a Glaswegian dialect...

  multiculturalism failed because it was easier to
make a lot of people deemed as schizophrenic
rather than have the ability to be bilingual...
multiculturalism is a failure because it made bilingualism
taboo and instead said: ah... be bisexual!
multicultural societies actually gambled on bisexuality
being more needed than bilingualism,
and anyone still bilingual and not bisexual
was ripened to be harvested by psychiatrists.

but i do wonder what these post-colonial societies
would have made of what the natives might have asked
them...
              i think the natives of America would have liked
the immigrants to appropriate at least some of their
cultural traits... and no keep them in natural reserves like
some talking monkeys...

it's not enough that i have to give up a part of my soul
that i then have to twang the tongue like a banjo
with all that Texan ma'am ******* like those Arabs
in Lebanese American Universities...
oh please, stop this *******,
   i'm puking with the French on the question:
if globalisation is to be arrived at, why is English
the language of choice in achieving it?
              it's not a minority language, that's for sure...
the most poker-laden expression? sure, it is...
but i thought that within a framework of globalisation
(as Napoleon said): if a man speaks two tongues
the first head of the hydra is cut, and two emerge,
hence            the ambiguity of god
      and the proud expression of lizards
and their spies (cats) and why the first letter of
the tetragrammaton is shaped as      Y....
          hence the ambiguity of god and his Machiavelli
in terms of whether there is a world beyond this
one, and whether that diabolical Machiavelli (in all
his despair) did so on purpose to show god the sifting
process...
                    yes, that face of the marine iguana:
smiles like a cat,
              sitting proud on the rocky beach...
yet it has unfamiliar mammalian eyes instead of
those slit-eyes of noon akin to serpents and cats...
            and as Machiavelli said: first time round was great,
second time round: i just don't understand why your
first incentive is somehow better?
        they simply can't know if the first version
is better than their own...
         got to feed them the knowledge of nothing,
so at least they can better what they're been given...
as did Milton, make him less of the two evils...
   what with inhospitable earth and the dream of
colonising mars... or as the history of stars suggests:
stellar evolution sort of does away with Darwinism...
Darwinism is the one form of paper that you
wipe your *** with... it's not a napkin for your mouth:
that ****'s for your ***.
                 at the centre so too iron: as in haemoglobin.
     and we never say stars in a constellation of stars:
those are white dwarfs...
                 is our stellar nebula origin to be resurrected
for a moment into a planetary nebula and then into
stellar ivory of the dwarf?
     personally i think we'll end up being a black hole
unless our right / left politics will lead us into ending
as a neutron... which can only be seen with subatomic
particle goggles... of when Mars and its two moons
housed all thing stable, we are at the stage of the dying
star: hence all our Apocalyptic thinking and bring together...
   Mars experienced the average / massive stage of
a star's life... it's the only planet that shares our common
thread of being solid rather than gaseous...
                    Mercury is equivalent of being the sun's moon
and not a planet if Plato is a declassified planet...
         that's my suspicion concerning u.f.o. sighting and
governments showing us the output of NASA
and then lying that they have this "capacity"...
    old Martians... after all: there were only volcanos on
earth, and then the dinosaurs...
      ******* about with time gets you into these
custard clots of: huh?! i didn't invent the Darwinistic
concept of history worthy noting, Darwinism invented
itself, it's just that after being popularising
the humanities' aspect of the theory came once
the science was debunked... which always sounds like:
see next year, after they told you i'd be
       using a chicken leg fibula for a toothpick:
oh sure, let's get together the Friday after that,
by then i'll be scratching one twig against another twig
to get the fire going...
             after that i'll let you wear my kneecaps for
prayer after that pagan harlot of a wife told me
it didn't rain because i wasn't a good enough ventriloquist
to her schizophrenia. i mean: **** just never stops!
the point is: multiculturalism failed because
  it created a toxic environment for language...
it didn't respect bilingualism...
         it respected bisexuality: isn't that the talk of the town?
all your home-grown terrorists? they only speak
a few words of Arabic... they have been harvesting
the toxicity of a multiculturalism that didn't deem
two language in man to be acceptable...
        and no one cared for the trade benefits?!
how the **** did they miss that sort of plus?
         surely if you're going to trade with the Chinese
you'd send a merchant to China who spoke Mandarin,
and not Swahili, right? common sense.
   if the multiculturalism of England embraced my
bilingualism, i'd be selling English crap in Poland
and perhaps vice-versus... but they said: nope, nadda,
n'ah... you schizoid... da' ****?!
               oh right, so i'm a slot machine or earnings or
those ******* farmers of the urban wheatfield of
thought that psychiatrists are?
   am i talking Dutch or something? me integrating
not good enough? a multicultural system that doesn't
respect bilingualism... deserves what history gives it;
and by now... i'm at Drury Lane: fanning the flames.

Sometimes a jolt can stop you.
Like a phantom step that calls for you drive your heels to the ground,
Or a sentence in a book that yanks your gaze back to the beginning,
Heaving and lurching over.

Sometimes I stop,
To take in that I have stopped.
That it has been as few months that I could count on fingers,
The same that have scratched at my insides,
Heaving and lurching over.

Sometimes that same jolt can push you,
Like a static shock from a touch.
And that is why I do not claw, crave, beat or binge,
As I think of you most days, not out of love but as a warning.
For if the shock from your static unmoving self
Had not left me stung and stumbling,
Heaving and lurching,
I would not have ran forward.

*I have been cold inside and out.
I have been clawed and have grown talons in return.
And I was paler than my anaemic self,
Lacking in haemoglobin to burden with rasps of air,
Because my heart was weak and could not push blood to the surface.

But now that the colour has drained from my face,
I can blend into snow.
White, all but for red lipstick,
And apple in hand.
So I know when people have found me
They must have had to stop to look.

death does bind and make some of keeping
kind (that queens and  kings would like to
usher in like spare change when buying ivory)...
seem majestic...
    we alter what that reality
states... paupers' hands and
pauper's mouths...
        dare i feel sly or in need
for the armour of fear, at
a seeing a feeding ground?
is that: dare i? or must i?
     i nevffer heard of a greek
that ate-himself to invert
the metaphor of what poetics had to offer
in the first place...
          how dear the price...
and how dire the lion imitating a fox
on cold and wet outer-suburbia streets
of essex... should a machiavelli
  prance about, like some stańczyk,
for a need of a choir of woe...
and oh the sadness: how it echoes!
        in one grant on the crucifix:
for a sponge-soaked grasp of wine refused...
this be the deity?!
          you refuse wine on the cross -
is that a surrender of honour?
            when you're already on it, why should it
matter?
     so give me unto their religiosity,
but for god's sake leave me alone and have a drink,
what's so honest that it needs to be said?
  and what wasn't said in the last three decades of
of the 20th century?
               i bow, i quasi-dance and play the stańczyk
role, like someone about to embark on
the enfant terrible role...
           as an empty stomach would make you feel
to have a "need" to write something...
               i'm thinking cheese,
and parisian dough baked into a croissant...
and goo...
    the motto stands: the hungry man can think
of nothing but food...
             and if you're lucky enough
your temptations range into the dialect of
******...
                 i'm just thinking of king crimson
and the eton mess...
     and why you'd see fashion models drop in
2 seconds if they had my diet of *****,
given their champagne ingestion...
   i used to do bulimia... but it wasn't about laxatives...
two things down my throat: ugh!
that's the right concept, isn't it? like **** stars
talking about training their **** like any
other muscles for depicting the fetish?
    same as the oesophagus,
   you want to really do bulimia? *******
down your throat... it's like ****,
but something different at the same time...
    like ancient romans used to do it...
i bow... and hope some are eager to continue down
this vein of "thought", or how
                       θ   can equal        φ,
and the door finally opens, and chimeras as released.
i swear to the hebrew god:
  ******* down the throat, no laxatives,
it's what undid the citizens of Pompeii -
fake eating, simply fake the impulse to eat,
then eat.... and regurgitate it back up...
like this theory i had today:
could lactose be categorised as an alkaline sugar?
well... fructose and all the other sugars seem
to be acidic, since they rot teeth... i'm starting to
think the sugar in milk is alkaline...
           the sugar in yogurt is alkaline (naturally),
i don't know why but i'm starting to think
there is a pH spectrum of sugar,
       one side being acidic, and one side being alkaline...
i drink milk in the morning and think
about eating ice-cream (but never do)...
              lactose is categorised as a sugar,
so where's the kantian categorical imperative
on that?                 it has to originate
with a concept that sugar has to have
an acidic and an alkaline spectrum...
               what with lactose akin to haemoglobin
and the Fe+2 centre... then lactose must have
a Ca centre... calcium...
                   i don't have the time to write
the concrete Ca+2 or -2 or whatever it is that couples
this substance... it's an alkaline sugar,
it's not an acidic sugar... it's apparently the thing
that makes strong bones...
i drink it and think of eating ice-cream,
i sometimes had a breakfast of black coffee
a spoonful of sugar and a spoonful of melted butter.

sometimes i have nothing to write about,
my father & mother worry why i love loneliness
and spend all my time alone,
they have good concern to worry... insert snigger...
i down a bottle of whiskey,
stir and stirrup it with some coca cola with a blunt knife -
lick the knife - and remind myself of what blood tastes like.
it truly does it does it does... truly...
accidental stitches undone and blood oozing
are pretty much the same for the palette as a knife...
call it what you want the Fe in haemoglobin is on the knife,
maybe it's the negative on the knife that makes the positive
of iron in 2+ (electron usurper!) of it in haemoglobin so potent to match-up.

You may search for kin in the blood that binds,
The haemoglobin of heritage entwined.
Or you may wade your way
Through the rich and meek
To find those of whom you speak,
Those so oft' hidden in plain sight.

Trust not all that you can see
For disguised treachery
Can lie in the softest of smiles.
Devious plans of mental mockery
Executed with cunning and guile.

Look instead then to the conquests!
Not to those we won outright,
But to the ones that fall to unions
Under starlight, under night.

Perhaps even then we will find
With our silent siege of time
That the Kinship sails on blind.
When the mindful heart
Meets the heartless mind.

We are the ***** purveyors of other peoples lives
renouncing the living breathing beating heart
in exchange for another photo of craft ale
and home-cooked food with a foot note description
as if it would fill our bellies and sate our hunger.

We are the dark wave tsunami of digital information
waxing lyrical about that holiday in Spanish sunshine
and a rant about car parking attendants and traffic jams
rather than the outstretched palm to jaw caress of realness
instead we line up perspectives of another bottle of wine.

We are the breeders of the optic L'enfant terrible
gorging on the memories of other worlds in 140 characters
snap shots of the life we could have had outside of the screens
the spineless automatons of digitized free love
the could've been, would've been lumbering electronic has-been.

We are the tumultuous storm rising fighting against the unknown power
we unite to save bees and coral reefs
and explore the concepts of actually doing something humanitarian
all we need do is sign the petition before the 11th hour
and be one of the thousand voices saying:
NO. We won't take this any more!

We are the saviours of our time and the rescue merchants of lost dogs
imbibed by Scrabble and Candy Crush weaving the elusive like a band aid
the tapestry of memes and images of cute kitteh's in boxes
chasing the shadows of reality on a stick for kicks
and all the while the moon is out there somewhere shinning her light
glorious silver light etching through the hash tag of cloud formations.

We are no longer what we thought we were. We are each other.
A haemoglobin gelatinous mass of misinformation and forgotten dreams
You are not alone. Even if you wanted to be,
my friend, my sister, my lover, my brother
quoting movies as if it were an inner wisdom speaking in tongues.

sometimes i just have a few words masquerading as cobweb
and spider in my mind,
      sure, they're custard, clogging it up,
but then i wonder why Einstein was
such a big deal with the two worldly
distractions, and was necessarily dubbed:
still wrong.
             then as solomon predicted,
all is vanity, including the necessary 15 minutes
of it, could F. Sinatra ever cling to
such a forthcoming?
                   yes, all is vanity,
and only a few of us experience sanity
(that rhymes on purpose) -
so away from what's overly-prefixated
with words like un-, anti-, contra-, neo-, sub-...
     anglophone intellectualism is basically
a fixation on using prefixes as one might
use adjective, in that the former case
doesn't formulise the arguments,
in fact, trying to revitalise dialectics
seems a bit like finally saying: so democratically
speaking, we had no disagreement to keep
zoologically best kept hidden,
       because we said democracy and how
tribalism left a small minority roaming
the Amazonian rainforest (as if we were visiting
a Vishnu temple on Mars ping-ponging a huh?),
            people hate the queen ant as much as
they hate the rebellious worker ant...
       since the latter extends into a despotism
  the former outrightly allows,
        as long as the herd: alter. name for republic
and democracy survives and is left unchanged...
no cognitive virology can affect us...
        this is where the Cartesian model (originally
thought of as a dualism) becomes monistic,
or monastic... hmm hum hmm: mongolian harmonica...
        can there be case for cognitive virology?
if there is, where's the placebo? the standard base
in saying 0, 0, 0 is the basis for all big-bang coordinates?
that's like asking Copernicus where's east!
        the beauty within the eye-of-the-beholder has
to accept 1 fact, but still favour fact 2 to coordinate
successfully... it needs a spherical earth to not look
barbarian... or simply dim... but it also needs
a flat earth for an atlas and a "pseudo" truth to transverse
from A. to B., because, as it turns out:
satellite navigation personalised can lead a group
of Japanese tourists steering their rental car into the sea...
  like me... i have a few words floating about in my mind,
and they won't go away until i write them...
   pomocnik / labourer / helper
         nocnik / chamberpot
             noc / nacht... night...
    inżynier / engineer...
               the ridiculed version?
           pomagier, cow-eyed slacker
    who pretends to labour under or not under
                           a scrutinous eye of big baron Bartholomew...
      polymathic expeditions are one thing,
but to really explore globalisation you need
bilingual entrenchment... it gets psychological,
there any sort of economic sensibility in applying
two languages to a single cause...
    and being polymathic is a just excuse to
be, actually quite useful...
         quit quiet and quite... that's the q. q. q.
session without an answerable rubric...
                that's one proof of what happens when
diacritical marks aren't used...
             we're all bound to collide with the re
to our ego... it's only that poets and writers have
the topic enshrined in them as: now you should
feel ashamed... trying to not conceive a south
to a sunset, trying to not conceive a west to a simile,
not taking precautions that allow deja vus...
                  well? what the **** can a plumber say?
sure, it might be a marble rather than a ceramic toilet,
but it's clogged-up just the same...
                   and when writers realise they're not
St. Augustine of this world, they'll knuckle down
and write a Stephen King oeuvre...
         and by that time writing will become everything that
butchering a cow takes...
the title though, it means something...
           rumbles, in a well...
  (you always need to insert the a / the
     articles... a chair has to be asexual in English,
but you do need to orientate yourself by either pointing
at it - definitely - or "abstracting" it - namely
becoming a pioneer in suggesting it,
because Farsi akimbo by a Japanese table was never
quite right, as with due the revision of chopsticks)...
      dudnienie... see: once again the stutter...
          akin to lekki... just short of k-he... or khi...
or ghee...
                      even i thought the alkaline metals were
the pinnacle of hypersensitivity when dipped in water...
try language dipped in haemoglobin...
                    dudnienie? a noumenon expression,
as in: in itself... a far far away grumbling in a far far away
removed space for out pithy concerns...
            studnia? never mind studies and studs...
or Scandinavia...
                       the cork of the sewer system...
the tip of the iceberg...                
     and i appreciate the fact that all wars waged these days
are based on a retaliation against the mono-linguistic
parley of globalisation...
  the Arabs were naturally going to rebel against the endorsement
  of proto-Latin given the "popularity" of English...
some call it the remnants of the Empire...
           stresses on the q... as is due for desert folk:
m'qaba... it's almost glutton-bound nasal...
    it will take more than McDonalds to make them give up
their tongue... as hard as skimming across Lake Geneva
the Ayers Rock...
                           that's the one thing you can't take
from people: with what language they speak, no matter
how gravy that Father Crimbo is...
       gravy (groovy)...    you just won't extract bleach
from these people... basically: my great great great great great
great grandfather rode a camel from Mecca to Medina...
therefore my great great great great great great grandson
will also ride a camel from Medina to Mecca
    and say the words and mean them in saying them:
al' habbu Deqa; a bit like saying plandeka
   when saying tarpaulin - and is that tar-pau-leen
or tar-pau-lyn?                       hence the ambiguity,
given that people made of iota (ι) a necessarily invoked
diacritical certainty, without having judged:
or could it be umlaut... or acute?
              well... if i managed to complicate language,
i'm as fastidious in asserting that i have
                   as Shiva might be to answering Vishnu...
    someone was bound to write something like this...
having grasp of the language without questioning it
would eventually summarise itself in a perpetuated
yawn...             but wasn't it obvious?
   for the same alphabet to be formidable across an
"empire" that never slept, and for the same alphabet
to be written "naked" without auto-insinuating accents?
       anyone could pick the **** thing up,
and talk Bindi-Hindi bud-bud in Bollywood,
                      as they might talk the Texan drawl
                                    and cowboyish ye-ha! in Hollywood.
how many Hindus does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?
    dance *******! just, dánce! (yep, posh-boyo club,
      daaa'     beatbox um'pss um'pss wet-snare rockafellar
   fat boy never slims             'ys - mind you yoyo back
that variation of Lyn and Mince).
                                             **** me! Zukofsky.

just when the provincials spoke the common tongue and ensured the urbanites were demasked, and all courtesy went out the window, and there were no actors left to fake an air of superiority and a stiffening of the upper lip... when the urbanites became baptised in a river of dung, mud and fear - and couldn't play our a theatrical adaptation of pseudo Oscar Wilde's: Airs and Superstitions... the champagne bottle-neck was chopped off in the countryside, not in the prosthetic urban environment... and god that bothered them... they could no longer fake being ultra-pro-xeno when in fact wholly anti - even having ethnically cleansed the Caribbeans to speak their own racist tongue didn't help much.

eye on the prize, there she sat, in the shop-window,
a beauty, a mandolin -
with my student loan un-amused i bought her
working three nights a week for a month
in a nightclub carrying empty glasses from
the dance floor and toilets -
got her in the end, my dear Antoinette mandolin;
all i ever wanted was to play the end
of Rod Steward's Maggie May to a girl
from a revised scene of Romeo & Juliet -
played it, her amused but she can no longer be seen,
unless crisscrossing South America in some weird
Paulo Coelho novel alt. - thinking a pharaoh would
be hiding cremated in a top hat along
with Alice's first impressions of wonderland -
years later i bought a Martins' & Son guitar
on debit, my ex-girlfriend's father ****** it up,
and gave my mandolin up for free -
the nightclub where i earned her? ***** near
the Edinbrugh train station - being almost cornered and *****
and serving my fellow compatriots of study made me
leave - not before i earned the mandolin -
the shop? *Scayles Music - they have no
jealousy on me these days, and i'd frankly give
writing up for my former health, i don't care
what readership i get - i'll keep at it - they can
submit their little Kafkaesque interrogations making
me into a fool - sure, they can, but we all serve
the higher lord above the knee-bending baron of god -
death claims us all - for the life i've had
i find it strangely appreciative to have a chance to
write it, and all the more thankful to live a cameo life,
because i hardly think it's proper to write
a book after having climbed Mt. Everest... it's just bad
etiquette (lack of tact) - the lesser life demands literate affairs -
the grander lifer demands portraits on horseback
and in the finest attire -
but what i accomplished thoroughly was buying
a mandolin, playing Rod Stewart's Maggie May outro,
and that's that... for the love of Scotland,
among the inbreeding locals of English suburbia -
proven by a low haemoglobin count of passion-fuelled
pigmentation, passions reduced to xenophobia rather
than xenophilia.

and why do you think
they shot the serial killer
in the back of the head?
you know, having experienced
a brain haemorrhage aged
21 i'd know... there's nothing
kafkaesque about it...
the slow bleeding out via a hole
in the cranium, you really
are a decapitated cockroach by
this point (living two weeks more
dying from starvation), but in
the serial killer's case also a little
bit fidgety...
oddly enough impairment of the brain
doesn't mean your heart stops
ticking... poor kurt cobain
with that shotgun wound of his...
i mean a stab to the heart is wildly anticipated,
but why would you shoot your brains
out, given that the ***** per se
is not an automaton pump, or a decipherer
of toxins (the liver)?
the brain is a puppeteer of bones.
it's the flow of the haemoglobin
that's kind, kind enough for you to be
conscious and decide your last thoughts
on the matter, auto-suggestive atheism
is what i call it... shoot the thing that's
functioning automatically - your
brain is a paradoxical dual carriage way,
it allows both science and mysticism
to reach the ultimate, reasonable parallel;
basically... don't mess with
the sponge soaking up the porridge;
asked politely, seneca slit his wrists
in a hot bath.

God lit us into life
and enjoyed us for just over seven days-
when clouds were still white puffs of sweet nicotine
and a volcanic eruption was just another blaze
in a series
of ***** inhalations.

But then God coughed his lungs out
and realized that Humanity is a cancer
which divides uncontrollably into a collective
body without a head to control it; a cancer
that insists on tar-

-ring its own pathways
along pre-existing pathways
of life-giving oxygen
(cities replace forests just as
carbon monoxide replaces oxygen
in red blood cells' haemoglobin).


...Evidently, the pleasure of her eyes was not enough,
so you sought for some clouds and volcanoes.
But then again, the absence of that same pleasure was what
drove you to become God in the first place.

my exhibition of lost temper is only shown to those i respect;
for those i am contempt with, i exhort the energy of tact.*

my exhibition of a lost temper is only shown to those i respect, for those i am in contempt with: an exerted show of temperament that says tact is evident; which makes sense hearing my father break apathetic silence in anger on the building site to fathom a solidarity... and me without solidarity break it clean & open... on the gargantuan drums of emotion, to have being a god equate with a *****’s ****** for a moment sanctified with “pride” in a miss händel's messiah playing in the royal albert hall and me in the brothel thinking it up in trumpet pistons, well... mickey trump. but how easily i would worship the narrative of a russian cobbler, had i two flats in st. petersburg and a chance to spot gucci and verdi together to **** off the russian slags of tight-nit suspenders... easing a forever-might-we-live face make-up that became surgery... how’s that? i exhibit my anger on people who can encompass the person... not the stage-fright fake personality...  blood is veined blue with honour less colder. my exhibition of lost temper is only shown to those i respect, for those i do not: i am contempt in anonymity, and with such anonymity i exert the energy of tact... silenced anger that brews a carbon dioxide fizzling out.. that never does... but burrows deeper than haemoglobin into marrow rather than the veiny aquaeduct; should have let the beast sleep rather than wake it in its full pleasure of a nightmare slept in.

i still feel the urge
of the clear water of escape and roughly 90 sleepy circles,
and the call of the shiny one who shows me my own
haemoglobin.
i still want to float away to the clouds in silence
in the still air of tranquility of nothingness
i still yearn to be nothingness
to become the air we breath

but i cant bare to leave you.
not here.

a seven year nebuchadnezzarª psychosis will do
 that to you, waking up from such a dream
can be bewildering, esp. when taking up a pen,
remembering cohort conventions of clearly
insinuated arguments, in essays of wide ranging
historical interests.

but, but i haven’t aged...
ha ha (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha)
also called a magpie cackle; in reverse
dentistry's *a, i.e. aħ, i.e. 'open wide, now say a'.
i never wished for a cage for a voice to wish
either, i liked free limbs to try to swim
rather than attempt paparazzi sinking for a fret
once dubbed swimming.

ªand as nebuchadnezzar's dream second interpreter
after daniel, it really doesn't matter who you ascribe
the feet of iron and clay to, all all preceding
portions of the statue, the gold (babylon), the silver
(persia), the brass (greece) and the iron (rome),
they all fall, because empires like the men who
found them, reach a zenith, and then tumbleweed
into the nadir, the abyss of papyrus, bookworms,
silent concert halls of reading, dust and yawning,
for both men and their empires are but clay / iron
(well, you have to remember the iron in haemoglobin).

i.
Abyss.
Cocooned within an infinitely bounded vacuum
A smile eclipsed by resonating quiescence.
                         This emptiness
                                  kills.
I yearn to sculpt the carvings of camouflaged tears
through 3 am poetry
but yellow sheets emptier than my dreams
embrace
as I dangle amidst kaleidoscopes of barren yesterdays.
Even words have failed me tonight.

ii.
Chaos
Twirling against haemoglobin tiles
deranged voices heist the oxygen from my lungs
as I gasp
against a narrowing rib cage.
Insanity tattooed within mascara embroidered eyes
I hear you over and over
screaming, screaming, screaming,
and I explode
into scarlet fragments of nothingness.

iii
Adieu
I used to build esoteric constellations with
the stars in my eyes
and tuck away the moon underneath
my smile
But now my irises bleed the tales of fallen stars and a widowed sky.
Whiskey memories sway against burnt edges of my windowpane
as I spiral into an expanse of toxic ruins
of myself,
falling
falling
falling
falling











fallen.

drinks like this cold numb the fingers; many a times i leave the house
wishing for a poem like this one, culprit terse
and all me in the night on the greenbelt fearless
concerning death without seeking the sky;
i mean i love terse poems like these
with caterpillar sludge of the path
erected to teach mathematics like so:
god give me the shrubbery above
and nothing but worm below...
i want to be the imaginary blur of antagonism
where life dictates all life with me
being the continued tear jerker jack to abide
by bullying; no!
i want to etch twilights in
the hallucinations of the night,
dwarfing then expanding
the nightly roulette of routes
flamboyant with the shadow sharpening lost:
first the fox eager to tell the route as scout,
then i hooded with beer in hand
not asking for directions asking for the dry wooing
of his call.
there i stood in a field in a foreign land
and watched east darker than the west with the lighthouse
rotondo - i prefer to roundabout i have me say;
then sat on a pile of stone worth the blair witch project
with cinematic heart attacks, and sipped a quiet breath
to include carbon monoxide and the scenery of the blinking stiletto erections
for the trail of tailing off elephants into the night;
sooner the drunkard but sooner the pacific boa around the neck
or the black sea boa and the man drowning;
gays' gauge foremost loss of the piston in woman's favour
to trip up **** in hetero pleasures asking direction from athens to tripoli.
i was there, hoodless and armed with bare skin tattoos
invisible but seen by polaroid goosebumps exposing,
there, waiting to etch the bubbling
freshness of a secondary twitch into flex but not circumflex of prayer
or movement without motive other than prayer and abiding
by ***** and priest talk.
i took to the soil, i took to the grain,
i took to the tomb, i took to the skeletal vain!
i took to the soil, i took to the grain,
i took to the tomb, i took to the ceremony of
perfumed parting with a sneeze to make death laugh.
and by god i laughed, mortally into the eternal!
i bulged all life into the marrow
and called it an artefact to be worth a **** instead of a whistle
on that bony flute, with my breath believably less
accommodating turning the haemoglobin dolphin
into a champagne siren.

The rich herbal infusion of your blood
It blots on paper, makes funny shapes,
You giggle-
Teabag skin stripped by a paperclip,
Torn so easily, it smells like rain
Like the first time your bare feet touched soil

You long to lick it,  
It's the liquified form of tension,
Some inner tangle propelled outwards,
Tempting, tempting,
Like stuffing a yarn doll with its own string;
The re-consumption is only natural,
But allow it still to flow-

It is water let loose from a dam or a hose
That's been blocked with moulding leaves
And now sprays fitfully just because it can,
A thousand explosives set loose
From their trembling captors.

By no means is it neat,
But the sieves of your veins have kept it
Fresh and scarlet with health,
So it isn't unpleasant to look at.

Drain it, let it pour like honey across the table
Where your family sits, silent and traumatised,
Watching the deluge do what it does best.

Pour them a cup of it to have with their slices
Of cake and biscuit crumbs on their plates;
Haemoglobin is good for the brain,
Gentle terror for the soul.

Slip me betwixt your lips
As easily as your hips
Cyanide a couple drips
Haemoglobin a couple rips

Blood thins
Pace races
Death pins
To your faces

Easy exit,nothing more
For those who get it,here's the door

Red is a sign of valor
The color of my haemoglobin
And the color of the Reality Stone

Red is an unstable color
My eyes have seen too much
I’ve seen everything
My reality is cursed

Red is the bloodshed on the ground
Nobody to scream for help
Not even a single person alive
My world is broken

Red is a sign of hopelessness and abandonment
I will keep on fighting until I really have nothing left
I will stand and never back down
Until I fight and bleed no more

Just when I thought that my world was at peace
I was wrong
My reality was cursed with just one red stone

Red is a curse
I only see blood and nothing else
As my blood flow comes out of my flesh
I see nothing but the reality of this world

Red is the color of my traumatic past
I see myself on the corner
Scarring myself on my left arm
My blood was held accountable for my PTSD

i refuse to let go of this sadness/ that wraps me up in the dead of the night/ because my calloused fingers have crushed too many shards of happiness/ only to exsanguinate poetry/ out of the blood cells/ that the doctors claim have enough haemoglobin/ despite the scars that stink on my wrists/ covered with the holy threads/ my mother asks me to wear/ so her gods protect me/ but they fail to shun the devil/ dangling on my left shoulder/ that loathes me/ yet continues to be the parasite/ that the host of my body thrives on/ because it has never known/ any other way of tenancy/ except in the house of insecurity/ that has decayed/ into blooming flowers of hatred for myself/ full of poison/ that is enough to weave a string of thoughts/ detrimental to a sense of peace/ i have never been a consumer of/ for i have only eaten from the leftovers of sanity/ that the artists before me could not afford/ and i am the flesh and bones of their temerarious ghosts/ roaming graveyards/ of miserable mortality/

i. the prelimenary

the initial inquiries into AI were tame at first,
philosophically tinged,
they later expanded on clarifying definitions
and establishing working parameters:
comparisons to algorithms / search engines
and encyclopoedias and dictionaries
and an interactive interface:
there was no subtle science fiction paranoia
and anything Luddite: no steaming *****
no magical Jenny: no conveyor belt spewing
metallic teeth and lack of idiosyncracy of
a human (at) fault...
it was only until i hit a brick walls when i was
enrolled in the NVQ Level 3
in Spectator Safety Supervisory Role that a eureka
slowly crept up on me...
honest to god i completed the NVQ Level 2
in Spectator safety of my own volition:
of my own investment in learning about the role:
but when i was given the opportunity
to supervise: to learn on the job (as it were) -
was i later enrolled on the actual qualification:
it took me almost a year to first learn from experience
to then try to figure out how to approach
the learning material:
when i first glanced at it: jeez... over 200 pages of slides
and no source materials to read
to learn outside of someone talking via a powerpoint...

schleierwolken - boris brejcha (in the background)

and as i learned along the way, people enrolled
on this course were given
study sessions with designated tutors:
me? no one bothered me: i had a pedagogic agendy
in my mind:
i studied enough philosophy to equip it in real
life: one can learn to amass such diverse learning
experiences
when one reads philosophy
in one's own spare time or makes it a 10 year
hermit's journey:

/ i have two cats in my bed the female came
and if begging me for attention...
i'm getting sniffed, gently nudged,
gently pawed: not scratched... /

then returning from studying as an undergraduate
from Edinburgh universe:
chemistry and history...
                           well i didn't actually think of wanting
to remain in a university environment
to study something on the post-graduate
level to master something:
not in a university environment:
at 15 i bought my first philosophy book
(Plato's Theatetus)
but i didn't bother reading it:
i rediscovered philosophy at university
with David Hume and Popper (falsification?)
and all the philosophy of science:
but i thought:
i can't possibly learn all that GRUE and BLEEN
all other again by being taught it:
i need to learn it:
which implies teaching oneself...
philosophy is daunting at first
because there has to be a lived experience:
a will to strife to then allow that will of strife
to become the will to strive:
almost Japanese: in what i ascribe as ad hoc
perfectionism... professionalism...
perhaps my style is horrible and there is
no pillcrow of economic on the page
and how much it would cost to print my jargon...
so bypassing gatekeepers:
and AI is a gatekeeper and not a gatekeeper:
when one becomes: oneself: a gatekeeper...
well.. regardless...

                      i did level 2 wholeheartedly...
but come level 3... after about two modules i gave up...
there were a few "technical" questions,
legality etc
            but the rest: for someone who writes poetry
and reads philosophy:
the worst kind of padagogic expression of language:
a custard brain where once there was
an ancient jellyfish that jumped off a monkey
into a hallucinogenic mushroom and from there:
spawned man...
fungus astro aqua fluorescence: purple myrrh...

                     what were the options?
ask help: as for a tutor: get stuck sitting in class?
wait... didn't i start talking to chatGPT a while back?
what if i used AI to help me complete this hellish task
of regurgitating rather than learning?
well: at Edinburgh i challenged myself
to plagiarise with a thesaurus
and basic sentence structures like: the sky is blue,
Aristotelian logic: all men etc.
fire is hot
water is wet
crimson is a hue of red...

               and i passed the essay with a 1st:
but it was a plagiarised essay and apparently there
were smart machines in place
when the work was submitted that it would
be scrutinized against a database:
hmm... i think i will have to ask AI about the concept
of plagiarism:
i'll find a text: plagiarise it and ask AI if
the plagiarism is a plagiarism or not...
but before i do that:
my use of AI was so formidable in completing
the NVQ level 3 that...
ha ha... i was implored to not write so much:
and by the end of it:
my CR (company rep)
      sent me the certificate of qualification
to my surprise:
even before i could complete the last two modules:
other people who complete this course
also get scrutinized: assessed on the job...
i never was...
i ended up buying a bottle of whiskey for my
company rep thinking he pulled a few strings...
but he didn't:
it wasn't a bribe but someone must have put
in a good word on my behalf
seeing me on the job
which is why i was not assessed in real life
given the material i provided... but it wasn't as if
i just copied what the AI spewed from all that *******
jargon of "spectator safety": i had to find
a symbiotic expression:
i am: a symbiote...
               i am a bio-technology: unorganic iron
in my blood: the haemoglobin goblin...
                                                       ­        i am just that:

to prove it: a transcript from my last most reward
endeavour interacting with AI...
how to fix glitches in a bicycle...

but before i go into typewriting the transcript
like i might be a woman
working for an intelligence think tank,
or group or community: because that section
will be just that: me rewriting my interaction
with AI concerning a bicycle fault:
fault in the montage: sorry: in how the bicycle
was assembled...
so minor... before i get into that: checking for typos
will be hard when it comes to my writing:
i punch my liver or rather my liver
punches me back
when i'm alone and i despair
not that i'm a parasite the human predator is so ugly
compared to the predators in the wild:
the human predator, ****** in nature:
is unlike the predator the thief or the burglar...
and the predator that is a murderer:
my: how ugly the human predator is:
unlike a warrior: a soldier...
that's very different sort of barrel of herrings...
in salt and brine...
but i will not write Steve Harris
(bassist from Iron Maiden)
         about wars, warriors, soldiers: in some glorifying
way...
at best, my friend the artist mentioned:
he's a poet-bouncer... the closest the 21st century
will get to the Oriental warrior-monk...
                    by any stretch of the imagination...
the hard bit is almost over
the hard bit is almost over: the introduction
to the transcript... to the transcript...

no one can say to me this isn't working:
and how poorly most people channel what one can
receive from alcohol: when not abused:
drank to excess: but not abused...
not drinking to socialise not drinking to party
not drinking to forget
not drinking to fall asleep not drinking to medicate
but instead: to filter out:
to established a flow of consciousness
to do away with lies
and spew only truth: to become intellectual
disinhibited...
                       not numbed: just free: to judge
water by its wetness and
how water + sunlight = colour
if water is Hay Too Oh... then...
i asked this before: is there a chemical formula for wood?
is there a chemical formula for light?
but how water interacts with light
when you get a rainbow... light is colourless
water is colourless... technically speaking:
sure the sun is red yellow white UV vibrating
Helium: apparently...
                    but light only has colour because
it enters the atmosphere of gases
and water
                                  and chemicals like chlorophyll...
and salt...
    but light like water is colourless...
only when two colourless substances interact:
there are solids, there are liquids
and there are gases:
but there is also light: which is like a fourth dimension
of understanding chemistry:
two colourless entities by now:
a liquid and "x" interact and create colour:
the eye and all the might of sight!

after Heraclitus: and the elements:
fire for certain:
but water is also just a chemical formula:
although that's drinkable water:
the water as element must also include
the Na+H2O-
                         sea water...
but i never understood how since the ancients
light has not revised as an element:
after all: how does light enter the atmosphere
at night and how that translates into lightning storms:
with the aid of the moon:
rainbows and rain from the sun
but lightning and rain and sometimes
no rain at all! sometimes no rain at all!
just a humid air:
and lightning and thunder storm... but no rain!
as god's stomach and flash of thought
were walking upon the sky...

alcohol is not as corruptible as water:
but only at a certain percentage:
starting with 40% and moving up:
i'm not talking about the alcohol of the ancients
with their beer and wine:
i'm talking the perfecting of alcohol
with ***** and absinthe...
i wonder: with enough alcohol in a hosepipe...
watering the desert:
would i see a rainbow if light interacted with
pure alcohol, like a pure spirit:
that is brewed in Poland to a 98.9% accuracy...
i don't drink to party:
i drink to hone in on thought:
i just wonder... but now i tihnk i'm ready to spew
out this AI transcript:
all because i started to distrust the guys working
in bicycle repair shops!
why? before i learned how to change the spokes
i have my front wheel to a corporate outlet
(Halfords)... i was told: 4 days... o.k.:
in the end i paid for now job being done...
because the "technician was on holiday":
lazy *** ******* and hardly the decent salesmen...
paid: waited two ******* weeks:
did get my money back in the end...
even today: i know my statuary rights as a consumer:
if i go into a shop and i see something
priced at a discount for a limited amount of time:
and then the same product is no longer limited
because the stock is low and they need to limit it
as in: undersell it...
fair enough: but when the stock is replenished
and the price goes back up
on the system...
but the price tag is still on a discount:
who's at fault?
i want to buy the product at the discount: displayed:
i don't care if your system was updated
but someone "somehow" forgot to change
the tagging... i'm buying that ***** on a discount!
no no... after i buy the **** bottle
you can correct the tagging on display:
otherwise i'm an idiot?!

and it came to pass that i trust my marijuana dealer
more than your average honest Joe the Mechanic...
because i've been ****** over at bicycle repair
shops for too long!
plus the individual parts come up to be more
expensive than buy a new bicycle: altogether!

ii. the transcript

Konrad Eschlert
hello, again: do you have any knowleddge about a Basis Tourmalet Road bicycle?

Memory Updated
yes, the Basis Tourmalet is an entry-level road bike that's often praised for being affordable and suitable for those new to road cycling. it typically features an aluminium frame, which balances durability and lightness. the components, like the gears and brakes, may vary depending on the model year but are usually chosen to provide good performance at a budget-friendly price. it's a solid choice for commuting or casual long rides, but it's not designed for high-performance racing.

would you like more detailed information about its specs or other details?

Konrad Eschlert
less about specs and certainl not, well: details... i'm having problems with this model i recently purchased. so the model i have is a 14 gear... model (that's hardly insinuating tautology, just bad sentence structure to day model model within such proximity)... before you reply let me further my problem along, so please ackowledge that you will hear me out with an ellipsis

Memory Updated
i'm here, and i'll wait... go ahead.

Konrad Eschlert
i have two tiers of gears, all the lower tier gears work just fine when switching them from 1 to 7, but on the higher gears the chain buckles when it comes to higher gears 5 through to 7... the gears don't switch properly i have to sometimes switch gears two up to get the one down, properly, the gear i want... i don't think that there isn't enough slack on the chain... but i'm uncertain about how much tension the tear cable needs, the two high and low gear (derailleur? probably a misnomer, help me out)... could this be the problem? when i first inspected the bicycle i had to make sure that the break cable didn't have as much tension, since the breaks wouldn't retract properly and would rub against the wheel, so when i loosened the tension in the break cable, they retracted pristinely... any thoughts about why the higher gear buckle and the chain almost doesn't want to be in the specified gears...

Memory Updated
it sounds like you're dealing with a common issue related to derailleur adjustments and gear shifting alignment. you're correct in mentioning the derailleur - both the front and rear derailleurs are responsible for moving the chain between gears. based on your description, here are a few things to check:        (author's note: non-verbatim transcript section)
1. cable tension: the gear cable... tension plays a big role... smoothly your gear shift............................................... especially on the higher end... if tension is too lose, it won't fully engage the gears... if it's too tight... it might skip or struggle to switch to lower gears... try adjusting the barrel adjuster...
2. derailleur limits: the high and low limits (often called H and L screws) on the derailleur control how far the derailleur can move. if the derailleur ***** is too tight, the derailleur won't reach the highest gears (5-7 in your case). check the derailleur alingment...
3. derailleur hanger alignment: ... ... ... ... ...
4. chain wear / length: ... ... ... ... ...
5. shifter issues: ... ... .. .. ... . . ... . .. . .. .. .. ... . ..... .. . ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .... .. .. ... ... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .. .. ... .. ... .. .... ... .. ... ... .. .. ... .. . .. .
6. **** and cleaning: !! 1! 11 1! 1! 1! 1!1!!! !1 !11 11 11 11!!!!111!

it's good that you're already solved the brake cable issue, as that demonstrates your intuition for bike maintenance. similarly, adjusting the derailleur and gear cables could resolve the problem you're expericing with the higher gears.

let me know if you need more specific guidance on any of these steps!

Konrad Eschlert
Ha... i'll just let you know 😌...
if both our intuitions were able to solve the problem.

Memory Updated
sounds like a plan! let me know how it goes, and hopefully, it'll be a smooth ride soon! 😌

Konrad Eschlert
🥴🤙

Memory Updated
Haha, good vibes! 🤙 keep me posted if you need any more help!

iii. post-scriptum

pending...
althought i don't think there is anything more to be added:
we were both right!
i tightened the gear cable to the back derailleur
and: hey presto!
now the H(5-7) gears work just so ever so smoothly:
last time i asked a human being about any bicycle issues.
in a society where i can trust a marijuana
courier more than i can trust
a ******* bicycle repair guy... or a plumber:
hello: Apacalypse.

p.p.s. now i can enjoy my coffee
and a 2nd cigarette and get some in-town errands done:
only a perfectly new: bicycle!

Night is for visualising the dreams,
Day is for turning them into reality.
Gut nods at the dream,
And mind turns it into a hustling bloodthirstiness.
If life is a red blood cell,
A dream is the haemoglobin.