Broken razorblades haemorrhaging
beneath my voice, I tried to sculpture
the pain beneath my intentions.

To sew them underneath with blunt
needles. venting the devastation that
clustered beneath, I wanted to bleed out.

If I needed wings to soar they were plucked
before I flew, and the razorblades were
haemorrhaging beneath, I'd cut them myself.

no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

I am haemorrhaging. My life is haemorrhaging right out of me. I feel faint like a distant star on a foggy night. Oh where is the moon?

I burn too weakly now, masked by shadows that the wayward children lose their way home. They stay lost in the cold and crying, 'Oh where am I?'

Where have the other stars gone to, disappeared from their posts? They run away; they run out to play. But the children are still crying. Oh what do I do? What do I do?

I am haemorrhaging light, but it is still not enough to light the way home. In furrowed frustration, where are the other stars? In determined desperation, I light myself ablaze.

A heat grows within, and I haemorrhage more. Brighter and brighter I burn, piercing through the galaxy, through the dark void of space and through the foggiest of nights.

Look.

The children look up to see the northern star shining so brightly; too brightly that they are afraid to move. What is wrong? They asked me.
My voice quavers under the strain. Go home, I pray. Be safe. I can only burn this one last time for you.

This spectacle of mine drew the others home; they ask me with jeers, with curiosity, with worry. What are you doing? Why are you doing this?

I give the stars no answer but a question instead, where have you been?

And then the walls in me cave in and I explode.

A burst of light so bright it blinds. So bright it is burned into the eyes of the children that each time they close their eyes, they will see me. See me lighting their way home. But look up at the night sky now, and I am gone. I have burned out.

In all absolution and regret, I am returned into stardust.

Oh where am I now?

Incompatible, haemorrhaging  decimal points - from the hand of greed
Unbeknownst to those without a quant or quality
Death & equality
Money or ******
And if you're asleep, then let's coalesce
An acrid past in an acid bath
Xylem & phloem
Stockbrokers wilting into ordinance through capital
Yet another example of the cyclic futility of inebriation
Built up by *******, encouraged by intolerance
A needle full of cement and a casual whiff towards sentiment
You are a component, insufferable but worthless
The vacant unmeasured tenants of reality
Consumed by a silver lining laced with Ambien
******* won't make you indestructible
Prepare for a weak heart, fat **** and sports cars
Fake tan dribbling from your million dollar dandy
Into the lead-infested neuropolis named 'fertility'
And if we can't 'predict' economic downfall
Then we must 'ensure' it with social prosperity
All watched over by machines of loving grace
Left under clawed toes and prayers with bent backs
Clothen ears, earwax, anxiety and a box full of Vicodin
You...Don't know where you stand because you never knew
No new news, an insemination to propagation, fruitless
Seeded in tongues with an emulsified analogue of the truth
A compound, molecular in structure, stable, nootropic
Gods gift, ink on paper, weightless
Where is the honesty in currency? Money? Trade?
I've made what I've made, you make, you don't make
Energy fades, everything fades
Our lives are mistakes
Ghosts of a digitised embellishment
We're not smart
We are knowledgeable
We are insane
We are a texture in patterns in vibrations
Unprecedented, Eden, monolith
Yemen, Syria, Egypt
Glazed over with apathy, rejecting attentiveness
Global pandemic
Do you think you do enough?
Enough to warrant subjectivity and an opinion?
Social pariah, religious ignorance, indifference
1929, JSOC, Malcolm X, Davidians and al-ʾIkḫwān
It's a self imposed thought crime to embrace authority
Never to question, never to learn and think for yourself
Lay down and let monopolies & psychopathy progress
Complacent, unwilling, lazy and dumb
Why won't you let it change?
Why don't we help one another?
We're all becoming one side of a dice
Immature calves being bred for the slaughter
Becoming secular and ignoring we are but one hand
Abstractions giving light to fireworks at night
Gunfire and depleted uranium polarising dawn
There are two sides to life, consciousness in 0's and 1's
We are binary
π
Uzumaki
Fibonacci
Here is the last of me,
Subject to none.

The Assignment
The stitched gauze blistering upwards
Warts & ***** matter slithering up the arm
An enigmatic stench of mortality
Solomon in scrubs
A Djinn infected with humility
Wandering for what
Digging up a severe lack of confidence
Entombed with proprietary nuance
Dressed for an exodus
To undermine the decadence
Content, maggots wrapped in hair
Showering the idea of significance
Coiling comparatively, larvae in womb
Tetragrammaton, the seal of metatron
Electroencephalograms, gloved hands and air dripping
Formless in essence, an opaque blur

You are a child, you have no right
No right to reject prophecy, no right
No right to lead us with ink on hand
A town alive
Ushering in sinusoid delirium
The rapture will commence the rebirth
Those who seek utopia
Nor good or evil
Ordo ad chao
Consequential matrice of paradise
Lattices vibrate in sympathy
Sacrament, a doppelganger of truth
Embodied in a pool of white noise
Partials of static, collected
Rotting on my tongue like heaven's night
Standing figures of choked brimstone
******* skin into a wounded mouth
A wish house inhabited with flesh
Reflections to nowhere incubating adolescence
Jack-knifing a model of self
Into an abstract quartz of emotion
Faltering into fog, electric supplements of truth
Journals to which I find delusion

We belong here
Torturing an empty casket
Looking for acceptance, emptied happiness
Drowning in a temporary penance
Cubic zealots anchoring abhorrance
Undermine an attempt at the vessel
Wilting morbidly toward surfeiting iron
Lashed off walls like flaked skin
Encapsulating ***** in infection
meandering amongst godflesh
Bones torn from sockets
The lens to see the chandelier
Climbing into unlocked houses
Settling in amongst the precious

The smashed memories
Porcelain teeth
Pruned fingers & moulded hands
Halo of the sun
An alternative to consciousness
Stumble around the alphabet
Introduce geometry
And let madness interfere
Beothuks & Wynn
Clawing at my mind
Chapels magic, sacred
Symmetry, gentle effortless life
Rogue, effortless entanglement
Mansions painted in nostalgia
Dripping with molluscs
Heralding the other circles
Drawn in red, repulsion

Blue, reversal and probing in my mind
You're not here
Tender sugar, sacred salt
Gyromancy of soaking light
Slaves to perdition
Fingernails dipped in platelets
Haemorrhaging tension
An autumn in fog
Caution is caustic
Melting through your cheek
Revelation, concentrate spectrum
Palace hated acetate in youth

Etched in his mind,
The internal war,
Haemorrhaging blood,
Hidden once more,

Slowly he’s dying,
His body too weak,
Paralysed lips,
Unable to speak,

Traumatic life,
Slipping away,
His heavy soul,
Aching today.

He witnessed it all,
The burden unseen,
Screaming their names,
Tortured in dream,

His cries settle,
His memory fades,
Wiping the tears,
For former comrades.

(Repeat)

Behold! My sorrow storms straight through daylight.
And not on the last stroke of midnight, when demons sleep.
To entangle me with its invisible ropes, ropes tugging me tight.
Twisted, Swooned, crushed, haemorrhaging deep.

Labyrinth of shame, heralding my doom, looming ever close.
Earning waste with each second more, till sudden salvation.
That scarce shall cast upon my dim verse hugely verbose.
Inside this too stagnant a mind flows nothing but indignation.

Malaise made manifest with the profusrness of a poet's pain,
Entitled as imbalanced brain, a fresh sign of insanity.
Idle hours thrown away like confetti and time spent in vain
Narrow words written by young hands but a spirit of mundanity.

Morbid fascinations of mine with this lack of hope.
End so soon as I leave this world, unable to cope.

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

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

too many black suitcases
in this world.

mine gapes,
guts spilling, insolent in an otherwise
check out ready room (bed abandoned,
two coffee mugs dripping
dry).

"so you'll just zip this life
closed..." it leers,
haemorrhaging treasures
gently offered, and *****
laundry, "...will you?"

this page, this pencil, will not
fit; must I leave you, too, behind?

Hitting you up side the head,
concussion from my lyrical spread.
You got cerebral haemorrhaging as
my words hit you with a even spread.

Your ears are bleeding,
            dry mouth as nothing said.
My words drip from your ears
                       enough you said.

But im not the one taking
                weak **** shoots.
You tried an failed,
now your get syllable assaulted.

But no prosecution,
cos the only
          witness is incoherent mumbling.

If you come at me again,
better get those words sharpened,
       cos they need to get  past

your breath.

As they blunt at the moment.

My words are a razor cutting your throat,
     you'll bleed out but, ill smother your

Haemorrhaging silence,
On bottom of my shoe.
As i throat choke you,
                  listen to that...

Its the silence of you,

And I looked at my watch,
      your the last second past,
uninteresting and not worth remembering.

Daylight is over rated,
showing the weakness
         that caresses  the darkness.

Where strength is whoever walks,
                      when the sunrise knifes
                      at every vein of existence.

Haemorrhaging the beauty of silence,
                  daylight is the noise of an
                  awaking purgatory on life.

I find the allure of burgundy hues,
          not one for the corpse of grapes,

                                                              being  

squeezed of every essence of life...

But the allure haemorrhaging forth..

I could be buried within this collage of
                                                      elegance.
­
And when I dig myself from it,
                      
I would  paint,
  
                                seeing  a picture of vigour.



Not the outline that others see ,
                                                when
                its chalk lined on the canvass.

Its not deceased,

                           this moment has only just breathed.

When the bereavement  of a seasons passing
                                                                     lingers,
leaves fall like haemorrhaging droplets.

Tree's like skeletons of past life,
        waving in the wind.
Shadow now claw longer than before.

As life decays, beneath..
      frigid breath crawls along the landscape,
those left above entombed in decay.
mortality of surroundings..

I'm a sanitary towel
      soaking up unconceived
                                      wording.

You bleed them heavily,
                   the smell of copper
                                      syllables

Haemorrhaging upon me
        saturating deeply I'm
                                        used.

Throw away like it wasn't
         personal,  but I'm now a sentence
                                           completed.

Slightly collecting on the singular
lingering moments before I was
able to pause and watch them bleed.
screaming verses muffled with duct-tape
haemorrhaging. They were my toys of
every pain I had suffered. But I bled
random thoughts on their flesh and sighed.

I can hear the lullaby of life,
            serenading
our movements to where
we sway delicately to its
                                inevitable
conclusion, a moment that
is elegance haemorrhaging to
                                                 silence..

*"Life is a masquerade of motions, we dance till they fade,

Within beauty  
there is always the smile
                         of a clown

Its lips red bleeding on
             the petals of white.
Rose's haemorrhaging.

Within the fragrance of
                      clotted aromas,
we cling to the reflections of beauty.

Corrupted within the smiles
of a clown,
          bleeding on petals
of white roses corroding.

LIGHTHOUSES OF THE MIND

"Fiction is to the grown man what play is to the child."
R.L.S.

Come Louis and play
with my food

transforming my  porridge
with a sprinkle of imagination

so that dusted with sugar
it becomes a land

buried under snow
and now with milk

a land invaded by
a white sea

the mind flooded
with thought

wave upon wave
of seeing

the food itself
taking second place

to whatever Thought
can get its teeth into

when seasoned with
such dreams.

And on nights in Nice
or in La Solitude in Hyères

writing in the dark
with your left hand

to spite the sciatica
fight the haemorrhaging

the partial blindness of
Egyptian ophthalmia.

"New Songs of Innocence" or
"Whistles for Small Whistlers*

finally becomes
"A Child's Garden of Verses."

Robert Louis Stevenson
creating in the night

lighthouses
of the mind.

I need a spark of truth
A doting girl to establish love again
In my world of cutting pain
A pain that embeds and does not subside
An agony twisting and turning.

I feel your pain too
A double dose, a double shot,
I feel your anger, your rage,
The words you put on the crumpled page.

The daze I find myself occupying
Helps me to eradicate unwanted thoughts
Which used to play out in a sequence of brutal events
Where ghosts fight with tyrants, and angels fight with hellfire,
My mind is a messy affair, dusty but clear enough to hurt me.

You are observing my destruction, the world’s destruction,
It is all coming down, crumbling on our unhealthy cognitions,
Dreams are too far gone, love is stuck in a capsule of misery,
And the hope list is haemorrhaging ink.

We are truly dying.

LIGHTHOUSES OF THE MIND

"Fiction is to the grown man what play is to the child."
R.L.S.

Come Louis and play
with my food

transforming my  porridge
with a sprinkle of imagination

so that dusted with sugar
it becomes a land

buried under snow
and now with milk

a land invaded by
a white sea

the mind flooded
with thought

wave upon wave
of seeing

the food itself
taking second place

to whatever Thought
can get its teeth into

when seasoned with
such dreams.

And on nights in Nice
or in La Solitude in Hyères

writing in the dark
with your left hand

to spite the sciatica
fight the haemorrhaging

the partial blindness of
Egyptian ophthalmia.

"New Songs of Innocence" or
"Whistles for Small Whistlers*

finally becomes
"A Child's Garden of Verses."

Robert Louis Stevenson
creating in the night

lighthouses
of the mind.

an apple a day, keeps the doctor away... that's how Fiona from Fraserburgh started the conversation this one time... with riddles... this was one of her replies... an apple a day, keeps the doctor away... the other riddle was: what walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon and three legs come the evening? man! he crawls as a toddler, walks upright in his prime and then uses a walking stick to prop his walk... i didn't get either of the riddles... being bilingual i don't understand the pastime of crosswords, plus i write so that's doubly damning to understand... nothing's entertaining about them... but... give me any numbers game... su doku: for example? there's nothing intelligent about it... it's an optical disguise of: what would otherwise make me sense of how katakana was first written... that's why i admire Hanguel (Korean) equally: it's the closest writing system to the European writing system...

girls and their ******* riddles...
    was i being autistic or something? it took my
high school sweetheart to tell me:
she fancies you... Fiona... Fiona: with that lisp and curly
hair...
                 yeah: she came up from London
and stayed with me in the student flat for a while...
i do remember...
   how she kept her virginity intact for almost a year...
or maybe longer...
  i wasn't going to push...
i remember how she lost her virginity:
i pretended that my phallus was a scalpel...
my first time was terrible: first times are terrible...
first times are like: a killing / what i imagine
a kosher celebration of killing a goat is...
just get it over and done with...
in the dark... in the cocoon of bed-sheets...
for man: at least... awkward, wonky...
a bit like watching a daddy-long-legs spider
walk... compared with other more agile spiders...
one urban myth i heard from a former
friend of mine (Ian): the daddy-long-legs spider
has the most venom of all spiders...
but... it has short teeth so it cannot penetrate
its prey... so... we're talking disabled spiders now?
like that urban myth about the 2 weeks
a cockroach has to live once it has been decapitated?!
that one?
- and once upon a time i was thinking of
going travelling... India was calling...
i had this plan... fly to India... and then walk back
to England... seriously...
i was young, i was stupid...
    i was also reading some Paulo Coelho...
who... like the only maxims i ever used - i.e. Tao told me...
to sit the **** down...
        so i sat down...
wait a minute: India is already here!
not exactly here: but the people are here...
**** me... the whole world is here...
how many people have gathered in London...
i'm guessing over 200+ languages...
who's coming?! who's coming?! or... who's here?!
who's here?!

never mind... i started my usual drinking session
with nothing in my head...
i just remembered... i woke up... "INSPIRED"
i was like: wow! i don't have to tighten the bow
of thought and launch the arrow of ego
into: hey presto! pulled this one out of my ***
like a "miracle"...
             ergo? crap... what to write about?
what to write about? at first i thirsted for writing
about writing...
which is no minor call-to-arms...
but it's better than writing about reading...

   i figured... newspapers get published each and every
day... there's "something" that's always "happening":
some next misery, some mingling of contexts,
some misunderstandings...
i'm never going to be content with the already
haemorrhaging oeuvre...
if i had a mouth when thinking, "thinking":
i couldn't shut up...
    
like i already said: an apple a day keeps the doctor
away... right... which doctor?
for me it's more:

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrists away...
i don't even know i want to peer into Latin
to translate: i don't think psychology / psychiatry:
pharmaceutical pebbles were a thing back then...
ergo... no amputation...
no liver transplant...
it has to remain in English:

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrists at bay
                 ditto                                        away...

newspapers are published daily...
i have to find old reasons for new reasons
to keep writing: i can't allow myself to write about
ideas: i'd become constipated creatively...
i can't write maxims either...
i need to write a self-journalism:
i need to write an imitation of water...

IMITATIO AQUA...
                  imitation of water...
what's water in Mandarin... let's stick to the trigram
for now...
something soothing...
i'm becoming a self-journalist...
right, right... water...

ooze: freeze...           水 (shoo'e)

--  --
-----
--  --

                   it truly: almost feels like...
a face that resembles water...
                 see... one of my greatest pastimes
is spotting faces in clouds...
i have this itch for pareidolia... mostly clouds...
i sometimes imagine eternity being trapped
in a bubble watching...
   Jupiter and his son Polyphemus
               of the planet...

                 exactly! what was i going to write about?
threesomes ****... i felt disconnected...
******* told the donkey to dangle the carrot:
apparently it taught the donkey
a carnivore diet... it's... ******* disorientating...
i'm guessing this is just an impasse...
i should be simply drinking and enjoying the music
i'm listening to...

but i'm a workaholic-alcoholic...
            i'm not going to stop drinking... ergo?
i'm not going to stop writing,
i know that the more i write i will not be writing
anything of consequence...
of something to base stop marks on...
but at least what i learned from the Ancient Roman
poets: conversational overtones are the key...
to the clue: and "somewhere" there's a door...
i will write about living:
i will write about living like it might be a river
continually preserved by some
"magical" mechanism of upkeep...

and isn't journalism sort of like that?
poetry can become journalism...
i think i'll make poetry a journalism:
a poetry-journalism complex...
i did the poet-philosopher thinking a long time
ago... i'm tired of it...
poet-philosopher deals with the element of earth:
unshakeable things... easily trodden on...
i'm asking for the status of
poet-journalist...
  for ascribing the venture into water...

among a few drunkards in some pub...
from which i was excused from...
on false allegations: for throwing a pint of beer
across the room...
whatever... we started talking...
this guy was from Birmingham...  blah blah
blah x3 later... are there any rivers
in Birmingham?
no? just canals... well... this is London...
there's old father Thames...

NO RIVER: NO FLOW...

seriously: i'm pulling these poems out of my ***
being contemplative about constipation...
i'm writing less about writing
and more about not thinking...
i was so good at thinking: thinking per se:
i.e. narrating my own life...

ah! res cogitans, res extensa... here's a curiosity!
res mutatio: things, change...
i've changed...
i've explored avenues and cul de sacs
other people also do... but in the world of reality
that's constrained by geo-political localities...

i'm stroking my beard...
i need a haircut... i need my beard trimmed:
no one beside a Turk is allowed
to touch my beard! no one beside a Turk!
i only trust Turks with the bristle of a beard...
keep the length: just tidy it up...
ugh... older women... bear comparisons...
you're such a bear...
call it: yawn of a bear: on the word LONE-LY...
am i? next time try a word best associated
with a GROWL...

lion? ha ha... lion... the king of mammals?
ha ha... ah ha ha...
   test a lion against a gorilla...
in a match-up...
then test a bear against a gorilla in a match-up...
that's the sport i'd love to see!

some vague "African thing": lion the emblem of
what?                                       BOAR and beer and BEAR...
i don't know... when i was a supervisor
and the people i was working with sort of obeyed...
maybe because i told them: free burgers...
otherwise they're going to throw them away...
catch them if you can...
OR?
                     i had the physique of:
don't **** with me... i must have said to one of them:
work with me... i don't care what the prior
supervisor said... i don't care...
she might have sent you home...
she's ego-tripping... you! me! just work with
me... we'll get through this...

well... it was hardly a landing on the moon...
oh sure... that must have been spectacular...
i mean: so many dreams concerning the moon
died when man landed on the moon...
the entire Islamic world collapsed...
but it worked... i was a benevolent person!
happiness filled the universe for a bit...
nothing was invented...
nothing was arrived at...
        but people weren't treated like slaves
gearing up to building the Giza pyramids: too!
i was given a higher authority:
but i didn't abuse it... i actually dug-under it...

i didn't become a ******* heart-surgeon either...
i came to the understanding of
the pristine man.... the man that i was becoming...
a man that others could wish could lead them...
after all... one of the stewards i was supervising
came to me after the shift and uttered the words:
it was a pleasure working with you;
hey presto!

today i ate something decent for the past 3 days of fasting
because of the heat-wave...
enough carbohydrates... enough protein... etc. etc.
and as much i might **** women's football...
i worked through the "indigestion":
i did watch the Lionesses brave it against
the conquistadores...
but... unlike watching women competing
professionally in tennis or any other sport...
i wasn't watching football...
i was watching the women...

i had my fill... i was making raspberry ice-cream...
i got bored...  fell asleep...
i sort of wished: if all these beautiful women
were less tom-boys... less affront...
like that quote from the movie: Gladiator...
when Marcus Aurelius uttered to his dauighter:
if you were born a man:
what a Caesar you would have made...

i was thinking likewise:
if you were born a woman in thinking you were
a woman: what a woman you would have
made!
        now? forget it...
i'd rather be a Darwinistic abnormality....
a vague "vogue"...
not even Copernicus could have hoped
for his perception to be this:
so shell-shocked: hijacked like Darwinism
was become... ha ha!
Darwinism has become subject to...
what eugenics tries to established as: norms
via ******... mutation...
        
                       i'm fine... i'm a mutant myself...
i was mutated from birth...
i was given the mark of Cain after the catastrophe
of Chernobyl spread to Poland...
my... care for Ukraine is therefore? nil...
       thanks: but not thanks...

and my "animosity" for women?
why i reserve the "right" to **** prostitutes and treat
them like mothers?
ingrained... unconscious constructs...
when i was born with a birth mark
on my right shoulder-blade...
a nurse in the hospital tried to choke me
to death... enlarging my heart...
you know what happens to a man...
when... he's been told that...
a woman: who is supposed to protect him:
tries to **** me? it's not a case of abortion...
it's not infanticide...
i was already born... i was already formed:
when i was first attacked: that wasn't the first
time i was attacked...

      my concern for women, ergo?
**** them: leave them...
               dogs are prized assets...
they bark and they slobber and they invented
the circle: chasing their own tails...
no no...

   this is not the time you get to dictate...
not in my personal life...
               dictate all you want in the public sphere...
however many French intellectual you wish
to summon...
            i'm going to spare you my immediacy
of heart-burn...
   i cycled to Rainham today to check out
what damage was done... i heard of none...

i **** prostitutes because i don't have time
for making dating-profile profiles...
for "likes": for glued eyes... for Parliament sensibilities...
i love: yes, prime minister, the sit-com...
the English arrogance is insatiable!
i say: **** the apples!
a poem a day keeps the psychologists away!

also? scrap concept of veganism!
there's no concept of a bullet-proof cabbage!