it's the 50th anniversary edition of william burrough's naked lunch, with the original cover, looking at all the annexes is like watching modern history with Russian annexing Crimea, anyway...

indeed the nature of addiction, i chose mine to
cure my insomnia - i *chose mine -
the less nasty less mythical name for it is indeed
metabolism - any hard-craft alcoholic walks into
a bar - drunk ******* and egoistically gluttonous
idiots come out like giraffes - vomiting into
the gutters, more Marilyn Monroe moments
showing off knickers even without the metro gust -
you drink enough and watch people drinking
for the psychoactive ingredient for dis-inhibiting
effects (buttered up talk, smooth there, quasi
Don Juan wannabes) - as Burroughs said: PLAN
YOUR ADDICTION - become addicted if some other
weakness is beating you - amtitriptyline doesn't
work without alcohol to what's desired as the lullaby
effect prior to K.O. - don't measure up to a veteran,
he'll beat you with experience, given it works -
i can imagine why hallucinogenics aren't metabolically
affecting - too much implants concerning the
world beyond, and god, and the secret of the universe -
you can't get addicted to these things - because there's
the bad trip, and you're off the hook - no more spiritual
trips looking for answers - repetition of the everyday
kills it off like flicking off a light switch - but, years
after the Beat movement, the Beats really did underestimate
the addiction of marijuana - they thought it was
the ****** drunk... oddly enough marijuana is linked to
alcohol and ****** addiction, it too is metabolic -
i'm not a medical expert... but i have heard of stoners
and their munchies - anything relating to food,
to metabolism is included, marijuana is the middle-guy
between the standards and Disney -
you heard of being monged, right? marijuana is as addictive
as alcohol - originally a giggly drug, a conversation
starter - marijuana - ends up being
an Jason Segel and Ed Helms film Jeff, who lives at Home,
it's this uncontrollable effect that proper intentions of
marijuana have: supreme thoughtlessness - or
the present vogue concerning "mindfulness" -
Jeff basically overthought himself on the high - he didn't
detach himself from thinking, now he's paying the price -
he's making completely random associations -
and why do stoners always waste their time in front
of t.v. or television - marijuana is a purely auditory drug -
******* to the park, pretend to be a fake Buddha imitation
and create the void in yourself to make your mind
the M25 at 3 a.m. - but this innocence with the Beat
movement associating itself with marijuana is partly
why it was legalised - the government wants rejects and,
to be frank? retards - that's why they legalised it -
they knew with the munchies jokes that marijuana had
the same metabolic addiction components as alcohol and
***** - you're metabolic dude! once addiction sets in
you're no longer in control of brain-freeze - you didn't
think it up on the psychoactive Everest - when the nice
sensation was still there, marijuana realised you zombie much
later - all the in-jokes of stoner culture suddenly passed you,
simulation dementia ensued - i'm way past the psychoactive
asset of alcohol, no slurred speech, no nothing -
but i retain the psychoactive point of metabolising excess
alcohol: if i didn't, i would sleep! i wouldn't sleep!
don't get me wrong, i get the point that i can't really
experience the negatives of reaching the psychoactive purpose
of alcohol and ***** in a street or join the football hooligans -
and surgeons drink to calm the nerves and calm the hand -
but alcohol is more cool headed and less phantasmagorical
than ***** addiction, for one thing your palette improves -
you find the most boring tasks liberating -
but the nights are the real nights, esp. if slumped on the sofa
watching t.v., unless you don't have a backlog of un-watched
Versailles or Billions episodes, you really need to go for
a 4 mile walk and breath the air - then half-sleep for
about an 2 hours (because you have limited money and
sometimes you pass a day without Auburn Whitney) -
you become rigorous - the prime solipsism - no time for
girlfriends, doesn't matter, my genitals weren't mutilated
as a child, no one forced a ****-*******-marriage-ring
on my finger - i can actually enjoy addiction - i end up
eating one meal a day - of course my face looks candyfloss
puffed up - but my soul is partly helium pubescent -
alcohol addiction is not ***** addiction even both
are primes of metabolism takeovers - no hung-overs too,
no blackouts - no fake "i can't remember" stories
when something ****** up happened - and certainly no
innocent look at the fact that marijuana is also a metabolic
addiction - unless of course you limit psychic ingestion
(excluding music, music is great to arrive at thoughtlessness),
but as most stoners (the next alcoholics) prove,
garbage the mind with American Dad and then get hungry -
binge eat - the stomach can drag the brain right down
into the acid pit and fry it - zombies galore - you won't be
able to catch yourself stopping thinking, the stomach
will do that for you, and you'll enter the zombie apocalypse:
just like my neighbour - there's a rat-like ritual involved,
for example, most people get sleepy from marijuana -
so it's not an addiction standing at a bus stop
pretending to be waiting for a bus and smoking?
that's addiction - the metabolic Gargantua has already caught-up,
addiction is primarily a solitary affair - it just depends
what you do with it... i'd be ashamed with my alcoholism
if i didn't write poems - the counter-effect is that i feel
some sort of social-inclusion when the day finishes -
i feed the cats, write invoices for my father (40% of
18 - 35 year olds live with their parents, because all
the foreigners bought all the houses intended as: buy to let -
is my money going down my drain, or is this
a post-Freud Oedipus stigmata killing familial relations
altogether?), cook, clean the house once a week,
cut the cats' nail and brush them - and to counter
what i don't do? can you imagine listening to a symphony
with only violins playing? not so genius hearing that
sort of Hollywood story with only cameo characters speaking.

/                                america, july 18th:
  and the utter media shambles -
like ****** and steroids
for the uninitiated -
     tongues without the rattlesnake
trill of an ᚨᚱ:
   numbed w'ah w'ah peddling
of woe to row the sinking boat:
maniac adult funfair
attempting a nostalgia
for the playground game
of bulldog...

                russia, 25th march:
the kemerovo fire (siberia) -
          children frying, screaming,
perhaps even hoping -
  a shying herod, the example
of: as moloch descended...
          prayers in the fire
                  by the innocents...

england, july 19th -
   alternative to rehydrating
using water...
    a generous 5 hour sleep -
******* on the remains
of last night's lemon
     used to infuse the subtle
smoky of bell's whiskey,
playlist:

- the jon spencer blues
  explosion (bellbottoms)
- britney spears (criminal)
- twenty one pilots (heathens)
- calvin harris (this is what you came for)
- camila cabello (habana)
- rihanna (disturbia)
- birdbrain (youth of america)
- ghost (ritual)
- focus (hocus pocus)
- edwyn collins (a girl like you)
- the guess who (american woman)
- the knack (my sharona)
- cronica (herr mannelig)

and then onto buckling in
4 beers and thinking
about black holes as the pin-head
of antimatter -
a dead sun...
     dead, but not dead...

   and the first, crude graphic
tomb raider game...

   rather than having completed
it...
     since only owning
a demo...

                 investigating
the possibility of 2D objects in
3D space...
       well: the universe isn't even
exactly 3D: it's hyper-3D...
    but in the tomb raider game
you could walk up to a minor
detail in the game, a fern,
and observe two-dimensionality
in a "three dimensional space"...

   namely: the ferns were all 2D,
and rotated within a "hyperbole"
of the eye -
   however you observed the "object"
it rotated round and round,
never allowing you to see
    its demoniac otherside -

i can only expect dead suns to
behave in such a manner -
   two dimensional objects in a three
dimensional subject matter -
almost paradoxical -

     rotating at immense speed...
invigorating a near but not quiet
a postportem of a death...

       and you really can see UV light
surface
staring at a glaring hot sun with
a naked eye -
   and see the same hyper-rotation -
it's almost like looking at
molten silver, but with a hint
of violet - i.e. akin phosphorescence:
but in the daytime...

and who said you need to
ingest hallucinogenics -
    and enter the labyrinth of a short,
short, history,
    of the chipmunk caveman?

i'm just drunk, you're probably
sober...
    but those guys doing
a timothy leary sermon?
   they're...
     gone.......................... gone -
     they hit the tangens curve.

there's always that trailing off i get when i write,
oh god, whiskey is a ******...
    it drags you like a mermaid to the depths,
i start to feel an anchor in my mind
even though my heart is steady-numb...
   and i evidently become slightly dyslexic...
  but hey! what can you do:
     either drink and be miserable,
  or drink and unfold with terrible spelling at
the end of a session... and feel shame the next
day, having seen the outpouring
from the previous night...
      better still... i could recommend tending to
a small vine-patch...
and like me: taking a break from whiskey once
a year and drinking your own produce...
    unless of course you have a local turkish shop
nearby that sells out-dated beer
  at half the price... let me tell you:
that's ****** marvelous... nothing like
out-dated beer... it's right up there with the rollercoaster
and the kick! my my! it's so sudden...
      but it hits the spot,
all the disorientative effects of mushrooms:
without excess Dali lodged in your eyes...
so yeah, out-dated beer... double the trip...
but today is different, i have about 30 litres of
home-made wine just ready to be drunk,
   i've downed one bottle and i'm running
errands with the next... but i'm not miserable
in that i'm washing away my sorrows...
the funny thing about making your own wine
is that once you drink it: you celebrate...
you start to think about all the effort you put
into making it... how you picked the grapes from
the vine, how you squashed the grapes,
how you stood bedazzled by melting sugar
        in a little bit of water over the stove
(and how it started looking very much like
heavy water, or mercury, but see-through) -
and how you sniffed the stench of yeast,
and then waited for a month or so for the ****** thing
to take up strength...
   and now you're drinking it...
                    oh yes... wine in essex is very much
agreeable... and my my: i am really celebrating this
endeavour... it's not as fake as going to the shop
and buying a bottle of wine... i am drinking
my own work... i am celebrating, there's no god
or omen in the world that can tell me otherwise...
    i waited a year for this, well: two...
i don't know what happened last year, i mistimed...
the grapes froze, there was a sudden surge of frost
and i was really upset because of it, 2 years ago
i was drunk like a skunk for several days
and wrote some poems in between,
      and put my own wine on the christmas table,
but since i was ****** for so long, i could only
showcase one bottle...
      well they do say there are spirits out there,
and i must say: wine, esp. your own really is
the veritas, as the saying goes: in vino veritas...
    bring it back to whiskey, or Ms. Amber as i like
to call her... she's not sour, and she's pulverising,
so she's no friend of the tongue... in case you're wondering
i'd like to call herr goebbels right now...
         but can you feel a shame of having misspelled a word
drunk, because your hands started to feel
   a bit like a daddy longlegs with one or two legs missing?
in terms of the keyboard...
what are the prime digits?
right hand: ******* - ****! now my hands feel conscious
of me talking about them...
middle and thumb (for the spacebar) -
   index finger for the opening bracket (  
pinky finger for the enter button -
                 to make room for the next line -
which makes me wonder about my left hand,
it would appear that i'm left handed when before
the keyboard -
   the main provocators are the index
middle and... surprise surprise! the ring finger!
the left hand thumb sometimes does
                       use the space bar also...
the the right hand ring finger is hardly used...
i remember watching my doctor type at a keyboard once...
a bit like a crow pecking... it went like this:
index (right) index (left)
    index (right) index (left)
               index (right) index (left) - it was agony...
it was a bit like standing at a supermarket cashier with
an old lady in front of you, buying butter and milk
and talking for an hour while counting her change...
   ageism? no! just your typical life-bound comedy of
how the stats stack... we spend this many years in traffic...
and my, the hand thing...
       yep, next thing you'll - aha! there is the ring-finger
utility in the right hand after all - it comes with words
that come shortened, i.e. you'll... the ' mark,
and also the backspace button...
                  i was going to say: (the shift button?
pinky owns it) - as the great kabbalists have this fetish
of looking at your hands, it's worthwhile to note down
this geography of the keyboard...
   they'd just point at the indententions of the hand
and spew words out like: girdle of venus...
     malkhut (silent h) -
                 which brings to mind:
   we already know the name is silent,
  since you might be served an indian dish called
dhal... and in fact you would be served such a dish,
but you'd only say you ate daal... or dāl...
then again that's also true with the pedant puritan
who'd note it as: dhāl... which is funny that this isn't
merely coincidental... a language that doesn't
use diacritical marks, and has a third arm sticking out
of it in terms of what letters remain silent (but are
inserted into words nonetheless), and a concentration
of the same rubik's "cube" akin to y and w...
      y and i are so close! you can almost feel them pushing
together, or giving birth to something!
  why?! why?!
                         (insert snigger)... drunk humour:
it gets the better of me sometimes...
   so yes, that thing about kabbalists and the hand thing,
other words could be included, like: keter,
               bina(h),             gevura(h),  
strangely enough Hod...   tiferet (what a beautiful word),
    yesod....     chok(h)ma(h)...   chesed...
netzach! hey! surfing u.s.a., i think i'll bring my banjo
to sniff out whether i'm part of the scene:
dangle dangle plop plop... ah poo...
                   p pi po'h...           and last weekend
we had snow... it scared the bejesus out of people
for a while, but things returned to normal nonetheless...

- interlude -

the tyranny of being conscious...
long recognised by eastern philosophy and the practice
of meditation...
  to be away from me...
        and they do so, splendid,
and then all toward vanity, given you're forced
into dreaming... so even when you're not even
conscious... i.e. unconscious...
   you're being fed a dream...
  and however disroted that you in the dream
is... there's still you...
oddly enough: if i make thinking = dreaming
   i can honestly say: i wish i dreamed more
than i thought... me not a mighty oratory gob
after all...
            evidently doing hallucinogenics
   was to excavate the dream into the waking hour...
and that's how i'll leave this interlude,
   i just imagine andy warhol testifying about fame
at the opera...
   or that's me bound to watching:
   alain de botton... or what does need diacritical
marks: alain dé bóttą...
                        dé bóttą... the art of travel,
                    on the QE2...    
      dé bóttą! oh the marvel, French of all languages
is nasal and glottal! when speaking Polish you
might as well be talking in razors...
                  Greek and lisp, English and Cockney rhyme...
and the lost trill of the R... R hollowed out...
                and once again to modern times:
the imperial march (darth vader's theme) vs.
     beethoven's 9th symphony...
                                                             tra la la -
both as universally acknowledged as the sound of
a ****... and perhaps a pigeon's coo-woo
                                                                                       -

...the interlude actually contains what ignited me to
write... drinking aside, but drinking too...
   in all too a great happiness that somehow i live
a life that asks for narrative minimalism,
               i can say: and in between i did **** all,
i thought profanity was necessary,
            and how i'd wish i'd have written a epic
like don quixote... but then i thought: keep it real,
keep it real... av a laugh...
                           i'll probably taste the sour from the wine
sometime soon, once the narrative becomes a Gobi
and i get worked about the eventual loss of
   a carpe diem quickie...
                           but it's still there, for the moment...
        and having realised that: it's gone.
               and i did say:
    by the personnae principle, in line with not writing out
a Tolstoy, i have to admit that i never know
who i encounter in my exploits...
            and there is a personnae principle at work here,
it's not Shakespeare, that much i know,
   it's the practice of personnae incorporation that
does away with: and Titus said:
                                      veni! vidi! vendredi!
(oi oi, enough of the French static, ya ponce!)
          so that's that, poetry has come to resemble
   modern art... given the personnae principle
we have done away with all the intricacies of
        writing a Shakespearean play...
Titus - lo!
   Anthony - a plum tree!
                          as a person competent with narratives
i ask for all people to leave the building...
   a pit of tongues i might also add...
      populo in singuli!       ah freckles and ash...
it has to be: pertaining to the vulgate...
   nothing better than speaking illiterate latin ol' boy...
  a bit like richard brautigan
writing the pill versus the springhill mine disaster -
there the buds of the concept personnae (without clear
indication that we are dealing with a crowd,
so no memorable quote or character, the narrator
is trying to keep his **** together, pardons for the laziness
and lack of indicative marks that there are actually
more people in the room than could be expected...
me and drunk me make up a thousand crude-essentials
as to what is intended to imply: having a good time) -
    sometimes poetry is just that: a quickened code for
acting, albeit without any character-study,
        or diet, or paparazzi...  and it's so quick... you've
watched a movie like a mosquito lived its life and you're
writing the credits...
       like richard brautigan wrote that poem -
      when you take your pill
           it's like a mine disaster.
       i think of all the people
      lost inside of you.
richard brautigan! richard brautigan!
this is the mine disaster company, over!
         yes, we number 34 souls in total.
       and there's your thesis! it must be hard to
write "poetry" and never, not once: experience
the Styx in your travels, the pit of tongues,
         or the personnae principle...
              always bound to rigid narrative constructs,
alway having an aliby with a 'he said it!'
          it must get horrid sometimes,
   living that life of a puppeteer / narrator -
     never really drunk with pesky humour -
       never once enjoing a wicked thought -
        a meddle on the omnius frivolity of life...
but personally? i find it almost bewildering that
of all the ancient Greek gods... Hades was homeless...
that's before Hades was a noun designating a place,
a realm... i just find it hard
to believe that of all the gods, Hades didn't have a temple...
    the only god from ancient greece that didn't
have a temple... sure, they had a statue of him,
  but there was no temple to see to benediction...
now i really think i've over-stepped it...
                     the wine is imploring me to end this
polyphonic nonsense, and think of a monophonic
sound of a woodpecker... relax... think of the sound
when wood is chopped...
      relax... forget this circus of what could be
described as a theoretical exploration of a schizophrenic
symptom... think of a monty python sketch...
        calm



                                                                                 .

i staying this hostel in amsterdam,
less glorifying than ginsberg
to be a czech fool king wording
self-praise about spinoza,
two germans (who decided to take
mushrooms watching american dad:
i tell you, hallucinogenics
and television - plato's cave -
equate to plato's deepest caverns),
i spent the first day with the germans,
i didn't smoke ****, i just drank,
second day i spent the day
with the egyptian (architect student,
nice scrapbook of doodles), who was cradling
a bottle of the potato elixir known as *****,
in one of the cafes he gave me a blunt,
then gave me his hearing-aids from which
music blasts, he chose to play me
le trio joubran's masar (https://goo.gl/4vcBE1),
there and then i opened my mouth and
in oh oh oh surds imitated a woman's ******,
all ******-active drugs are a release from
thinking, ******-active drugs don't like thought,
indeed i was thoughtless, and in ecstasy bold
enough to attract a dutch girl's curiosity
at my mouth turned in O and my eyes closed
being fed the agarwood trembles of horsehairs
tied either end for a song,
it felt... it felt like a unison resound of
solomon's harem... i turned marijuana into
a ****** because of the music...
these ******-active drugs don't like thinking,
they disperse thought into a semi non-existence,
less carousel more dodo (extinction),
active ingredients of such a nature restrict thought
and reveal an intoxicated self, or self without thought:
a "true" / "undiscovered" self.
and now looking into something resembling
a library, but actually a graveyard...
you tend to do that, keep company with the dead
scribblers, given your position of demised
appreciation numbered less than expected
filling a quarter of the imagined auditorium,
you turn to the dead ones...
among the tombstone crucifixes a few are still alive:
will alexander (poet), fady joudah (poet & physician),
jim bradbury (historian specialising in accounts of
philip augustus), norman davis (historian,
author of god's playground, competitor
with paweł jasienica about the history of poland),
there's also an addition by will self and irvine welsh,
but that's about it... the rest of the ******* are dead:
and this makes me feel nearer to what's intended:
a brick, on a shelf, a brick in the heart layering
of first 20 years, and subsequent life after till
promised anno mortum 60 with the world's age
of civilisation aged 2052 (e.g.);
hence too the exhausted day filled with sleep
awaiting its completion,
but that memory stitches me up into a whole of
the puffy duck-feather teddy bear's abdomen content,
as i parted the egyptian with laughter
once a single drag of the blunt started to wear off.

the "mystery" of the transaction,
that's quiet legal in
Amsterdam...
      you can only actually subject
           a woman to "your" object...
if you're never made such
a transation...
            i guess you're left in the dark
with all the fungus-historians
that speak of the second "big-bang"
of an ape on hallucinogenics...
objectifying women...
            funny...
                           not even funny,
just odd...
              maybe the whole
    objectivity "vs." subjectivity is not
being allowed duality,
     that eventually becomes blurry...
and is instead
  this jargon quasi-intellectualism of
people afraid of Alzheimer's
disintegration of words from
words and words from ideas and
ideas from clarifying idea-neutral
narratives...
              perhaps it's an american
thing,
       since a stripper can't be made
        subject to the "objectifying" posit...  
make that's why there's really
only an objectification-of-object
and no, absolutely no
     subjectification-of-object-***-subject?
is objectification a reference
to genital "intrusion"?
      what if there is no genital "intrusion"?
******* crossword puzzles
that sometimes aim of exposing
working within the confines of
   the thesaurus...
                 a-subject made inconvenient
        by the-object?
     sure, given i was only the fifth
in line...
                        i actually don't know
what objectivism implies
with the confines
   of a woman who will not desire
to make me into a subjective
enterpire of, mothering,
wife...
                  and... what am i again?
object of an hour
    within the absolute lack of
subject on her behalf...
                 for some strange reason
she's more of a subject,
a canvas... than i might allow myself
to not be a stroke of a brush
and some, paint...
          but then public conversation
doesn't attach itself to
the intellectual murk of dualism:
                    it needs dichotomy...        
nice backdrop, a week ago:
   haven't seen a lightning storm like that
acting out parliament over
           london in a long time...
in the back of my mind:
      the subjectivism of women seems
inherently wrong...
   subjectifying could be deemed
more harroring for the idle minor-head
when turning blisters into
       golden flakes on the topic of
   ego                  body
           \           /           \
              mind                id
                                     cosine serpent...
given the sine serpent answer:
                id              mind
             /      \         /      
    body          "ego"
      i can only fathom a threshold of the point
of objectification...
        after the threshold
there's a breach of objects -
      unlike a guarantee of one
man, a hammer and a sack of nails...
       i'm just curious that
there is an actual legal non-debate taking
place...
                the sort of shrinking
**** sensation in english law:
    it's illegal to own brothels...
   but it's not illegal to procure
the act...
                       so what's the difference
between objectification
                    and necrophilia?
the former word isn't as fancy...
  it's not exactly equivalent to mana from
heaven for the Hibrealites...
    i can only undertand
authentic objectification
             as confined to necrophilia...
of what is necessary to express
the crude correlation of "fact" to act...
          since then the death-fore of
eating beef...
           but without actually *******
a cow...
                             so a dead end...
it's just a "problem" with too many
close-proximity words...
         namely the ob-        sub-
              prefix claustrophobia of attaching
a thought to explaining or:
   guaranteeing a decided congregation
on...
             2 years without
  having touched a human body in the way
that i'd like to be touched,
kissed, looked intently into the eyes...
   finding sparrows chirping
on gently toying with lips using
the bare minimum of tongue and teeth?
finding the gentle baron cartilege of
the nose also being gentle leeched...
                 and a giggle?
              just my luck to have synchronised
the two events...
   and written this a week later;
could never take to metaphorical *** antics
   in the known to me
               expressions of being *** starved;
i'm a butcher...
           not an Argentinian beef chef
                      or food critique combined.

It's nights like these
that make me wish my hands were bigger.
These life-lines aren't long enough
to recite all these lines of life
that'll be running through my mind
even after time stops.
There aren't enough trees to cut down
for all the pages I need to pen these
soliloquies and sonnets.
No, I didn't ride in
on Haley's Comet
but the plan is to still go out in a blaze of glory.
And why do my friends
seem to only hear "Blaze" in that?
Hallucinogenics and Narcotics
Psychedelics and Hydroponics
These are our four fathers.
Oh but by all means
"Try the tonic"
Watch the ***** infect your seeds'
Pipe dreams!!
And so they gleam
sipping moonshine
And whisper shadows of yesterday
Onto memories of tomorrow
While you try and find the rhyme.

/
zdrowie, na budowie (health, on a construction site, a modern polish proverb) - because? well the army allows it, any woman can be bossy in the army... but on a construction? perhaps the very rare example of a woman working side by side with bricklayers (and that does happen), but construction work is immune to all ideology focusing on the pop. narratives of feminism... women will not infiltrate the construction industry, they can infiltrate the army, but not the construction industry, unless of course, they're dinner ladies, or secretaries, but even then, the construction site canteen is dying, reduced to a kettle and a microwave... all i'm seeing, when my father goes to work is an army... or as the joke goes about the managerial staff, with tight jeans and pink car rims? well... you can take a boy out of essex, but you can't take essex out of a boy.

i can only assume that writing is spawned
from a weakening of a
   cognitive narrative -
             foremostly i have to "apologise"
for making such a compound term,
   but i remember an echo of what once was,
a firm grasp of narration,
                                  in thinking terms,
as such, thought per se, used to be a leisure,
or rather: a pleasure,
               but since then... scrabble...

                                         static dissonance...
a poignant blur: a bit like the impressionist
movement... hardly the fizzy water...
   naturally from impressionism,
to expressionism, and then: a smack into
dada and subsequently a return to geometry
via cubism...

                but there really is a correlation
between writing, and a weakening of
           a cognitive narrative -
                   i know: -ive -ive
                             but one's categorised
as an adjective, the other is a noun -
           even though they share the same
form of a suffix...
                             yes, i know this is merely
"poetry",
                   there is no sludge of fictive
architecture that might encompass a narrator,
props and character studies,
      no embodiment of cohesion that
makes it to the bestseller's list of:
                    same ****, different cover...

yes, it's scattered, yes it's primitive in
composition, but what it isn't, is
   akin to the protagonist of the film
          nothing's funny, or freak's day
   (nic śmiesznego)                (dzień świra),
i.e.: hard to put a thought to paper...
     the escape artist of this conundrum
comes out either: a happy manual labourer
content with rest at the end of his chores...
   of a sir-mouth-a-lot, talking, talking, talking,
much like any other example required
to show a: ditto-head;

see, my grandmother doesn't like poetry,
so i gave her a book my zbigniew herbert
(the whole mr. cogito sequence of poems
and all) and all i said was:
            doesn't poetry feel, breezy? airy?
on what occassion has a poet constrained
himself to the zoology of a paragraph?
                  airy, isn't it, doesn't strain the eyes
so much...

      well... if i didn't have the ****** luxury
of pixel paper, i too would be offended by
this waste of paper, but since this isn't paper...
a baboon just escaped its confinement and
it rummaging in the zoo's cafe, looking for
a caffeine fix; later he'll be found
      in the pharmacy, looking for some
cream to ease the bulging hemorrhoids

  (nice fact: algorithms are...
    apart from search engines...
               spell...               chequers...
  tongue says one thing, eyes see another).                  
no, if i wanted cohesion, i'd have invented glue,
huh? ah... adhesive... but there really isn't
a worthwhile mention of adhesion,
      unless of course:

                  you put a bumper sticker on
your tongue and say: speaking english is
the only form of patriotism i know:
  allegiance to the tongue, but not the crown;
why? i have my crown on a ten pound
note...                but it's not that i want
her dead, it would grand to see this english
monetary overhaul, seeing ol' charlie on
the notes...

                               you know, fun.
yet i do remember times when i could grasp
a strong cognitive narrative,
              and there was no point in writing,
anything...
                      esp. not something like this,
jeez...
   now, in painting a mess can be excused,
or rather: conceptualized, but in writing?
   ooh... caesar salad...
    you can't even conceptualize a reader's
short-attention span, or at least:
           how long does this straight line go?
                                                  no darting eyes?


where?
                                                  ­                    here!

for all the mumbo-jumbo of heidegger's
strict writing, he at least taught me spatial coordination.
as well as how nerves shatter, and then mend.
yes, there is no narrative cage,
  yes there is no caged animal,
instead of a:
             --
           |   |     there's an:       \  /
             --                                /    \
                                                           ­  an opening.

i can understand critique, but only if the critique
allows dialectics,
                       Kant imploded on this
realisation when he dedicated a section
of his work to a thesis and an antithesis...
why? because he doubted the already
embarked on synthesis...
                           every manner of critique is welcome,
as long as the critique can entertain
                                    a dialectical safety
mechanism... overwise: sure, be on your way.

of course it's going to be messy,
     why can painter get away with mess,
while writing has to be adhesive in nature,
           spare me the concentration that later involves
taking a book to bed, and falling asleep with it;
as i admire those people who fall asleep
easily during transit (bus, plane, train, whatever),
i have the same admiration for people
         who fall asleep reading a book...
and because of william burroughs...
                  far from taking hallucinogenics,
there's the sour bourbon (just some lemon juice
added) and there's the: ******* blank page
staring me in the face -
             or in gujarat english:
                         s'te'rrrrr'ing (gotta trill that R
like a rattle snake):
                     alternatively eton english:
starring                             bogus the penguin;
hit cue:                  as with the old movies -
came the credits first,
                      now?      just ask for a supermarket
cashier to read you the list...
  as if no one these days is bound to be
forgotten.

  to stare, or to be cast: that is not a question;
whoopsee.

  the subtle "orthography" in english -
        and **** me what a custard worth spaghetti
that it does to the memory bank:
                         i see we sailed the sea.
now, if that doesn't erode your memory,
notably when you take to writing
away from speaking and a manual job?
  i don't know, what will.

of man and the universe:
        like a cat endowed (armed) with only
a meow, exploring human speech,
varying it by many degrees,
            with grunts and purrs of labour,
while sometimes shrieking noises
             or, crafting a mimic of a hunchback
upright, ready to express grievances.

bore: the domino effect of narration,
or rather: when the art of narration becomes
predictable,
                   whoever strikes at a guess,
because the narrative is lost to the fact that
cinema exhausted it,
           in that modern narration is almost
always predictable;
    whoever thought that gambling on
a story was not unheard of, can hear this.

- when motherhood, or parenting in general
is equated with a "profession",
or rather the hyper-industrialisation,
reaching into the bowels (*****, borrows,
bowls?) - of a family unit...
     two things are happening:
on one side the shrapnel argument,
on the other side: the hyper-industrialisation
of the family unit:
             there really isn't much to
navigate with, no compass, no map,
merely chance, luck, happenstance...
     because when did motherhood become
a job?
              parenting became a job?

2nd. phase iconoclasm.

     (in a mock impression):
oh gee, when did barnie become barney,
he he (as in a mock of laughter):
      joe'bb, joe'b... job, yob,
                      lobby, jolly, jobe...
          ****, paraglider, spike...
      
         you can tell i'm **** as crosswords;
i hear too much,
          and my oyster is rummaging in
number puzzles, that translate into
   a strict rubric of adhering to spellin;
you can pacify the rest on me,
but this corner of interest has to stay:
firm.

- i could have respected darwinism,
  if only it remained in its, original biology
nieche,
        but since then, darwinism has become
a quasi-marxism,
   not that i'm slowing you down or anything,
but darwinism translated into
  a historical narrative is like a brick wall...
a cul de sac of any future events,
****... back to petting a monkey...
             if there is such a thing as common
sense...

               how did darwinism escape
    the zoo and enter into a study of history?
     and as such: become the testing ground
for all things to come?
        believe me when i say:
darwin only matters in the anglophone
sphere of talk, think, do...
                darwin is crass in terms of
currency of affairs designated to the times
of occupying a shell of limbs...
                    
not to mention that communism was first
tested on Mongolia...
                  yep, Mongolia was the host
of communism...
                          they tested it there for, i guess,
the same arguments that post-colonial
children who have inherited a past
     might be deemed easy target...
       or rather: because from Mongolia came
a certain khan...
                                 (surd H)
       as is the case with several familial ties
in pakitan, sharing that surname...
                  kan (otherwise crackle
and trying to await audience with phlegm
to spit with).

if it were not a Latin man answering for
the Greek for the short-hand version of
the old testament,
        it wouldn't be a study of the tetragrammaton,
first H is for laughter (vowel magnet),
the second H is for the allowance of surds
   (e.g. khan):
                          the greek tetragrammaton
consists of the following letters,
   based on an a "god", or rather the hidden
iota:
                                   ΨΘΞΦ
well... if we're all going to be literate monkeys...
might as well complicate things further,
based on the meritocracy of:
      you do your ****, i do mine,
                   i don't dig up your grave,
you don't dig up mine...
                  we meet in the middle,
   and stalk a fascination with 3 dimensional
space, akin to it being compressed
  into a: jesus mary and joseph,
              or a trímūrtí the hindus believe in).

- yet this constant reiteration,
this constant banging against the wall...
             in the anglophone world a seemingly
dead end, fudge-packaging of events,
mingling with a journalistic insomnia...
        journalism is in a state of
insomnia...
                    i can actually go through
the day not even bothering to remember
what day of the week it is,
        but i can tell you what day of
the week it is, watching the volume of
traffic...
                like some idaho monk smoking
a spliff...
                   it's not that it's wrong,
but akin to marx, darwin's ideology has
infiltrated areas that should have been left
to their own demands...

  for all i know, anglophone "orthography"
is so subtle, that all it takes is a spelling
mistake to reveal it...
        
                  which is why i don't
                               bother with metaphysics;
and what a grace bestowed upon me
by england, to be born a monster of
these lands, based simply, on minor clues
of usage.

along the well travelled road by the side of hwy 92
in Alabama , I took the long way getting here,
most mysterious days I spent on hallucinogenics
back in Michigan a long ways from here
many years ago spent liquor fueled nights
with all the Tourist girls in Ft. Walton Beach,
Andalusia is where I thought I had
settled down, with wife and kids.
gave Denver a whirl back in the
Disco days,
Then I found Clayhatchee, sort of a resting place,
for my Endorphin lacking mind to rest. Found there,
I did, a sort of calm, no shortages of drama.
Everyone knowing you, talking , I heard so much
of every other person living here, all their ***** laundry,
how could I not fit in?
As soon as I unpacked I was involved with everyone's ex,
at least in the rumors, had all the old hardlegs jealous.
Hell, I may move again, to New Mexico. Or just stay here,
and call them all loco as I dial my phone, for some
more endorphins.

i can walk in the street with canned beer
and appear to be ******,
because alcohol gives me buddha eyes.

alcohol is always looking for a righteous expression,
it's abused all the time,
it burdens the n.h.s. all the time,
it has too many idiots succumbing to it,
it requires someone to drink
and be an intellectual, simply to pardon
alcohol in the conglomerate
of ****-ups, hangovers, puking in toilets,
et cetera et cetera.
when used with sleeping pills and a paracetamol
tab it's the perfected sedative,
i sedate myself, i don't drink to party woo hoo!
encountering a bunch of marijuana idiots
giggling over a pickled cucumber pimples
ha ha... pickled cucumber acne... ha ha...
enough about my drinking...
loving it anyway: it's holiday within a jolly
good day... passed a young blonde and an old ****,
they were having a therapy session in
the park... second time i pass them i end up
whistling as they pass, the old **** is telling
the young **** to look the part and assert
some for of happiness, marriage and security
and the dead man's dole to keep her interests
in perfumes and clothing afloat...
i tell the ancient oak it's required to be brown,
while the colts miscarry brown with penicillin green,
marshmallow and fungi, both squidgy,
the octopuses of the forest,
mush watered-fevered-of-shape for an umbrella
invented, latest the 18th century, with an aeroplane.
other than that?
i accuse the beatniks of desecrating sacred grounds / tool,
they invoked the use of words, they recorded their
experience of ancient indian / aztec shamanism...
carlos castaneda* quoted the shaman don juan
as saying: the experience is for you alone...
the beatnik poets started to write about the experience,
werther's original (butter sweets) turned sour,
they invoked recording their hallucinations,
**** them, **** them **** them **** them!
the mystical experience has been eradicated,
any more talk of neil armstrong and walking on the moon
parallels the desecration of these hallucinogenics
with words, these american poets desecrated the one
single dimension that could not be written about:
they walked on the moon and wrote about it...
i know nostalgia and all that, but give us a break!
the only people taking peyote these days
are rich white girls who end up injecting the concentrated
version of the natural, the essence, into their arms...
god said analysis... man said: synthesis (and analysis)...
although i dare to add the fact that there are two
strands of poetry: one that looks like a morning hangover
haircut... and one that looks like the taj mahal
of rolling marbles...
for example: ezra pounds' and ginsberg's poetry
looks great, and i mean great, they write like
they telling you to use a microscope...
but they don't have the voice to orate...
whereas gregory corso's poetry doesn't look that great,
actually it looks like ****, too simple,
but when he orates it... HE ORATES IT!
maybe his life gave him the power,
i wish i could orate like him, in fact, i never had,
the most i orated was impromptu
and it was never noted down...
but the point is: those who orate perfectly
write a simple aversion to the other strand of
poetics that is relegated / more interested in optics:
rather than a stage, a crowd, a voice "in the wilderness;"
all in all, my affiliation with hades.

Listen to the motion of the waves
and be not afraid
of the oncoming torrent.
We’ll just grow larger lungs,
our fingers and toes will web,
we will develop a vernacular
of the likeness of whales, dolphins
and other mammals of the sea.

But do not worry, when the torrent does come,
we may be far away.
For now let us partake in hallucinogenics
in the tall forest at night,
and take long exposures of the stars
with our cameras,
and then after take long exposure of each other
with our eyes
and we will see movement.
We will see the frozen waves of the campfire
And our eyes will burn,
And it will make us feel alive
to be next to each other.

And we will travel together to that Great City
of monuments and people and concrete
where people wear their bones on the outside
Wearing rags or the highest end fashion
(lately the two are one in the same)
We can travel the city for miles on foot
eating at the strangest of places
and being able to feel art;
feel the art of the city of the movement
you will find it only aesthetically different from
the Ocean or Forest
it is one, part of this place.
and it is our place,
even if you have not
found it.

after two visits, once seeing Werther another time seeing Don Quixote, i realised that poetry is the perfect tool for the claustrophobic surroundings... Kant is too much custard and like all philosophy books, always reminds us of being anti-social and park benches... movement and philosophy don't mix, all they did is posture with two essentials so far removed from each other (time & space), that it's almost impossible to imagine the two colliding to create movement, which is why reading a philosophy on the tube is so ****** daunting - next time it's Ezra's kind optometry (as any other poetry) to make the journey quicker - from Hainault St. to Holborn and then Covent Garden? about an hour or so... via the murk of East London... into the glittering heights of the good life, where everything essential is turned into non-essential bling and peacock boast; a girl could walk past with a Gucci dress and i wouldn't even know or care... but she would.

i should have mentioned a third book on that
shortlist - but it's not really a book,
but a method - if it was in Greek
(and i am playing ping pong with the New
Testament using the prophetic methods
kept hidden by rabbis) it would
resemble something aesthetic, not noun related,
meaning it would probably look something
like σ                        ς      
                                ­        θ                 φ -
that's in ref. to the two haystacks in the tetragrammaton -
although these two variations do not
have the same meaningful connotations as yHwH,
because both sigmas and theta and phi are referring
to an aesthetic, not an actual name - but you
get the picture - two completely different
approaches as to why man decided to grant two variant
encodings the same pronunciations -
only aesthetic reasons, after all, art can be art
and be pretty pretty and all theoretically relevant
once the job is done, but writing is not exactly
a job for a calculator, we don't write for functions,
in essence we write for beauty, in essence that's
what writing always required, variations
of what some would call kinship to third person
or first narratives, 2 dimensional expressions
and 2 dimensional expression, i.e. theta and phi,
but only in Greek, that being *the point of it all -
Fe is in Mendeleev's speech denoting February -
yes, behind the iron curtain... god, you just have
to make it painfully obvious sometimes.
that said... Kant is really bad when commuting,
i've had two visits to the Royal Opera house recently
and i took Kant with me, the critique will be read
fully, i promise, i can spin 40 pages at a sitting
in a chair, but on the tube? can Marquis de Sade please
take the podium... it's horrid... this time i'll be
taking Ezra to see the Bolshoi le corsaire -
which will add to the spectator sport of one -
if you ever go, to that brick ****-house (last time it stank
of raw trout, but still the wankers sat at their restaurant
tables trying to invert the paparazzi epilepsy
of ogling them like tourists in a zoo of materialism -
i'm half of that would-be quarter-knitted-plonker -
it's mostly polyester and 1% Afghani cat-****-smear) -
or those looking "cultured" with champagne flutes,
of coffees, look all excited... Hazlitt, this one's on you...
and all you do it walk around with a book...
you're wearing cheap clothes that nonetheless
look presentable, and then you start shooting ducks...
thump... another one... puck... another one...
i'm sure you'll begin to notice that hate is a perfect
cure for egoism... your posture changes, your body is
there among the sardines but you turn into a shadow -
you end up watching lonely girls on their would be dates...
and it just hits you like a pharaoh's acid from a tomb...
you're strapped on hallucinogenics of some sort from
the mere topography of the surroundings...
but then the lights dim, the music comes on,
the sadistic dance begins... and you forget taking Kant with
you... and just enjoy the show.

How do you make sense of these waves of consciousness holding both madness and clarity?
Somehow my hands were never full but always empty when put up to the lives of others.
A mirror spun around so many times I can't tell you what face I have to offer!
When approaching identity is at the cost of this sound mind so nice and neat.
I didn't mean to cause this Avalanche,
I just didn't feel complete.
So I delve into myself and knocked on the door that said "do not enter" convinced myself a better part of me somehow lived in there.
Never conceiving truly the idea of what laid on the other side,
When the door locked I found a different way inside...
I tore apart at my soul with a new strategy in mind,
With acid and hallucinogenics I felt I could find the beauty inside of me...

"I'm sorry I didn't know.."
When I snuck in the window to see what I was hiding,
My jaw drops and my eyes swell immediately.
I try to turn back but what has been seen has burned it's way back into my memories.
I started to speak the forbidden words aloud,
I held my hands over my mouths trying to keep my big secret from pouring out but my attempts proved futile.
With this compulsive nature I could hardly say I have any control over what I say.
With realizations only seen when I say words out loud,
Because I just don't think inside this stupid head of mine,
No but I feel so deeply and make a home for dread,
Because I'm no wise man,
I'm just a fool whose been there and back again...

All this time I thought I was numb,
doomed to never feel but when the drugs sink in to my soil *** of a head.
The appeal is so drawing and I just want to look at it.
I'm magnificent, I thought as I gazed into my soul.
I deluded myself with delusions to perceive this beautiful garden,
But when I tried tending to the garden myself,
to see if I could somehow make it any more beautiful,
I realized it was only a illusion.
The flowers were never even there..
Horrified I looked down at my hands and asked what could have caused this?
Raising the question what do I have to hide?
I felt there was something deep underneath this soil *** front,
so wretched and putrid!
What was I keeping from myself?
I've always been the honest and outspoken type so what was it?
Come on, What did I have to hide?!
Curiosity drove me to do it but a tab too many forced me into it!
I slipped into myself and down the rabbit hole I went,
"Hay man are you okay?"
"Yeah man I just had a bad trip"
I saw the truest part of my soul and cried on arrival,
The first thought that came to mind I spoke aloud,
"Well this is going to be hard to accept"
I said absolutely emotionless...

To tell you the truth,
My decent into madness was like waiting for a train,
You could see the tracks shaking and knew that it was coming soon.
You take out a photo of your beloved mother,
But The photograph of her you that kept in your chest pocket was no longer yours,
The ground had ate her but on the back of the photograph reads,
"Be back sooner than you think, I love you but Vegas makes me feel more complete"
This was the first lie I ever told myself,
It was a good imitation of her hand writing but only wishful thinking at best,
But what I didn't know was that a simple thought could throw me into madness,
As I deluded the truth and didn't accept what was in front of my face,
A horrific reality had such a cruel embrace!
And I was not ready for the taste of the concrete that paved rock bottom,
So I let go of the string that kept my mind close by.
I was always the artistic and creative type,
My friends all described me as poetic.
So I wanted to stay by their side ya know?
So I started to think in a factual manner even though it was killing me,
and all the lessons I had learned were derived from my past mistakes,
So I went out looking trying to find if I had skipped over any lessons,
But what I didn't realize I blacked out parts of my memory to protect the image of self in mind until I partook into this journey.
I saw myself screaming "when is mother getting back from Vegas, I hate you all and I just want her to come back!"
In my mind Vegas was not heaven but a location,
In my mind I didn't break down crying in front of a funeral,
Not able to accept how cruel and sudden reality could be.
In my mind she didn't sink into the depths of my forgetful memory,
She was still very much alive but away at the same time.
I couldn't bare the thought of decay taking plague on her vessel.
I realized with a mind like mine you have a tendency to scribble out and rewrite without even noticing.
Her death was ten years ago and if I'm being horribly honest.. I don't even remember her at all...

See I lose people inside my dysfunctional head so I grip onto the ones I have left in the present,
But life is ripping us apart so fast as I tear into my soul to keep hold of them.
The memories I treasure they all fade,
Even the memories that **** me are erased.
See nothing was safe inside my head except for me,
I guess I treasured identity and the ground I keep.
For it's like a room that you tidy up compulsively,
Anything unflattering gets thrown away and is never to be seen.
I guess that's why I talk about my accident so much,
When a madman came and struck me with his truck,
I even saved someone's life but let's not talk about that,
He went on and did some horrible and inhuman things and that's all I can say,
I don't speak aloud what I don't want to recall,
And I wait for my mind to come and sweep the walls.
So I can rid of this attachment that connects me to you,
So I can be pure and free from this up bringing!
But I was good and I did the right thing,
I slam my fist into my head at the thought of the stain!
For there is damage done but I don't want to forget what actually happened,
so I pry my minds eye wide open and all I see is pain and torture,
The skew of life,
Tainted and mutilated,
The twisted curve of fate...
Really I can deal with my own heart break but what good was my own happiness if I couldn't truthfully share it with others?
I needed others to be happy in such a selfish way,
So I rejected happiness and let go of the restraints I placed upon myself.


I gazed into my soul long and hard,
I guess I saw the potential in the black coal,
and even thought I could make a diamond,
I began to write a book and told everyone about it,
"A comma madman period"
I had picked out the name before I even began to write it.
I think it was my ****** up way of telling the truth to myself,
That somehow I knew but my conscious mind was overlooking it.
Youth filled experience,
The breath taking fulfillment,
I described it as a coming of age,
But it was more like being sentenced to life when the voices started going off in my head again,
The steal bars or my mind closing in,
And I suddenly in terror I remembered every time they went off before,
Every single memory I tried to erase...

How do you make sense of these waves of consciousness holding both madness and clarity?
I wanted to be wise honestly,
But I was no wise man,
I was a fool who had been there and back again.
If there is at all a lesson that I can pick apart from this madness,
It is to never break in when the door in your mind says "do not enter"
You'll find yourself at a train station separate from reality,
A real cold desolate place as the tracks begin to shake,
And you're shown your entire life in full as the train passes and you look in on the windows.
The silver winds grab you and **** you dry of experience and passion,
Because when you see your life in full  how can you pretend to be excited again?

While My former instructor
Yuan
And I  asked if I could
Play with one of katanas
I then went and licked the blade
Trying not to cute my tounge
Slowly while he watched
He complained
That the sword should be him
I then did the same to him
All over him
But slower and more affectionate
I pleasured him
And loved him.
Soon love poems
Started to come up
When I slept in
When realized Yuan was
With his crime family
I kept writing love poems
And hide them all over the appartment
We were together
Until
I felt the need to go home
Matsumoto promised that we
Would stay in touch
When I got to upper Manhattan
To live with a friend
And mother my children
I took the time to sand him steamy
Love letters.
Which we responded with more steaminess
After a while I wrote back
And never heard from him
Until one of his associates
Wrote back saying that
Oyabun Yuan Matsumoto
Died in peace.
Then I learned that you killed your self
Too much hallucinogenics
I died cherish you as you
Deserved
But instead fell for my karate instructor
Yet again.

rarely do you spend a night stumbling
around a town
       drunk, figuring out a fortune of
a face, a luck of a smile,
          decisievely:
                          never much cared
for language other than for thinking with
it, lucky some, who actually use
it like they might use a hammer...
      what then, came first?
                               the hammer, or the nail?
god, i had to escape the chicken-shack...
and... looks like i almost did.
            if ever: the exhausted language,
and then there's the hidden
linguist, somewhere, probably in
          Posen... lumbering away at
a second language, that is apparently a tier
just shy of: making competent
users.
        - and i did forgot drinking
with a mirror...
                        instead took photographs,
of a snail... a snail...
         point being:
    i don't even remember how i brought
it home...
                                         bribe?
unlike hallucinogenics...
           drinking... yeah...
                                   yesterday is vague...
i drank less, walked more,
and brought home a snail...
   a ******* snail...
         once i brought back a hedgehog...
once i brought back a frog...
      next day?
          that has to be some sort of
hallucinogenic drug teasing me to remember...
i don't know who that person
is in the photograph,
   he claimed that breathing alcohol
filled breath on a snail
                   was appealing to the snail...
he even claimed that the snail
had dermatological properties of
healing: slight, discomforts...
             hardly a wart, just a skin hardening,
so this guy placed the snail on
the skin hardening and started to
feel the cosmis ****** of feeling
        the snail eat up the "concern" with
its under-belly...
            my first girlfriend told me
of the time, as a kid, when she used to pour
salt on snails...
   i remember seeing two boys
play with frogs...
            ******* used to smear lipstick
on the poor prince charming
                         and then set it alight...
YOU, CAN'T, THINK THIS **** UP...
i too wish for such a depraved imagination...
come to think of it,
   on a completely different topic...
public intellectualism is only a western
concept...
               a bit like religion...
good in private,
                        but out in the public, open?
the public intellectual who has given up
his private intellect:
      god... the scrutiny that comes with it...
there is such a thing as a privacy
of intellect?
                     just asking:
      because even poetry isn't an open
and closed scenario of a seagull
regurgitating in order to feed the chicks...
and yes, chickens are natural
cannibals... if you've ever seen a chicken
on a stump of wood right and just after
the axe-chop...
                  you'd see the remaining
nervous system after death...
                 and how other chickens will
jump on the stump... and drink the blood
of the Antoinette...
   with Antoinette's head still, partially moving...
unless of course you're thinking
about Hollywood and...
   christine chubbuck:
                 and that one shot to the head
that Hollywood couldn't make: instantaneous...
   like Kafka, i'd go for the stab at
              the dark, namely the heart...
because why would you even
think it was a mild execution...
             with andrei chikatilo:
          back of the head, left in a prison cell...
god, i can't stop to imagine the marvels
of this cockroach urban myth of surviving
               in a limbo of succumbing to a diet...
say all you want,
  but i'm pretty sure there's enough
reason to contemplate the inverted niqab
of hollywood...
             groove the shades, though...
can't **** for a hundred metres though...
              the Veil of Thespian...
oh hell, it's real...
              not as ****** obvious as
a ninja trying to look slim in a desert
wearing a velvet bin-bag...
         but i'm pretty sure there is a Veil
of Thespian...
             Louis XIV even said it:
                            the seemingly holds
the sway of power, before the jury,
           to appear...
                     rather than be...
        qua (as being) in antonym form
must give birth to: quiff (as if)...
        frivolity and cotton candy smiles...
people are beginning to make
   the assumption that poetry will save
         them from the tyranny of acting...
besides the point,
  given the example...
          if only there was an instantaneous
death like depicted with:
heavy editing, and no thespian involvement...
i can't help but see a movie
and not see a piece of paper
                    and a pair of scissors...
odd... because i wouldn't make
the same connection
               with a pear and a magnet...
               moth and macaroons?
appears i wasn't even "forced"
       to wear this veil...
                    acting should have really
been left to neglect in
   a theatre...
                      on behalf of
    democracy... why not speak of
                           the thespian tyranny?  
all the other forms of art are
starving...
                 why even bother wondering
why moden "art" (painting)
                is a bit off, trying to escape
                             plagiarising geometry?    
it's not healthy...
                       modern painting is
starved for the benefit of one medium...
that can't even fathom itself
           as member of the same family...    
yeah...
                    well, i guess i could
throw in the minstrels...
        but then i passed a busker on
                                  the street last night...  
poetry in public?
                  unless you're competing
                   with a mad christian preacher...    
but acting is both mainstream and
subversive...
                               (it) doesn't necessarily
require a stage: to find an actor...
           but if i'm not living
under a thespian tyranny...
             then i'm no more a poet than
one: requiring to write in orthodox rhyme.

Cassandra
Cursed prophetess
The Debbie Downer
of antiquity.

A beautiful anathema
Embracing life
With the gaiety
Of a dirge.

And all her visions
Dire imprecations
That rouse most to anger
And others to label her
A liar and
A madwoman.

Poor pretty
She’s not miserable
She’s a mathematician
A causal cleric
Formulaic
But people don’t need answers
They need hallucinogenics.

It’s much nicer living in a haze
Where nothing is clear
And you don’t know where
Your mess ends
And some one else's mess begins.

No one's responsible
And everyone gets to live
In a big pile of ****
Together
As one positive family
Attracting abundance.

Until the Trojans arrive
And pull the blind folds off
And then she gets to say
- I told you so
But nobody likes
Smugness.
Poor *****
She’s the **** Jagger
Of the Agora
She can’t get no
Satisfaction.

i never thought that you could cook a curry without using either powdered cumin or coriander... it could be universally accepted that a curry base involves the use of cumin, coriander... onion, ginger... garlic... but not this Bengali Rezala... of course there's turmeric... chilli... five green cardamom pods... two black cardamom grenades... acacia tree bark which can replace cinnamon... a little grating of nutmeg... black peppercorns... 3 to 4 cloves... cashews & poppy seeds soaked in water: mushed... no tomatoes... i cannot stress the superiority of the Indian subcontinent cuisine... i don't remember the last time i craved for something European... what? a toad-in-a-hole? a shepherds' pie? a *******... schnitzel?! Europeans can do breakfast... but a dinner is so sad... simple: but grotesque food... all lineage has been cut... literally... "we" are "us" and... "they" are "them"... self... other... cultural exclusivity... contra cultural inclusivity... i find that... it's only adding and substituting the ancient Greek conundrum of consolidating the particular with the universal... subjectivity is paradoxical event: i want to be inclusive but at the same time i want to be exclusive... for the solo project... i sometimes want to feel what others feel: at sporting events... but then... those prized nuggets of: only me, me alone... i stopped liking philosophising a long time ago... what would the quadratic of objectivity look like? objective inclusivity is so rare... it's a... whisper... a whimper! it's pedestrian: strain... which is why objectivity is the exclusivity of things being: "not-being" things... a stone can't argue against being a stone... but... rarely... i can argue for the acacia bark to be synonymous with barks of cinnamon... turmeric can negate my claim that it's a cheaper: yet richer... variation of saffron... blah... i used to elevate language like this... but i've forgotten to do so with some searching purpose... of late... of seemingly never before: or after...

in third person: watch the schematics of man under
the scrutiny of being cut-up...
yet this body still intact...
what a petty little creature... perhaps not so petty:
perhaps just feral...
ego in the zoo of thought:
is it a peacock... a lion... a monkey?
i sometimes wonder...
when i sit down and write i can hush it...
i can escape it... when i sit down to write
and see: letters, letters that become words
and words that become sentences...
i can escape the idle musings of this
little feral creature... my totem: a fox...
         yet how to understand the old trinity
with the new trinity...
how is man to understand so many cogs and
how much of the ÷
              (obelus... return to the altar of ouroboros)
it can be enough to merely fear
so crippling that: once mere thinking was
potential... an adventure...
now i'm shattering...
   a breath of the cognitive faculty is like
a scratch at a mountain: a mountain i will never lift:
let alone climb...
yet all around me... mirages of people
who have been deployed with the certainty
of shadows bound to trees...
if the sea could cast a shadow...
          - last night i sat drinking and peered
into an eucalyptus tree in my garden...
of its three most protruding stems
there glistened a pantheon of ancient germanic
faces...
in an eucalyptus...
how ancient: bearded they appeared:
glistening in the rain covered leaves...
constantly changing their expressions...
i must have seen... a legion of them...
they morphed in an out: yet somehow returned
to their original composition...
by day... the magic was gone...
but i was only drinking:
i imagine what could have happened if
i taken some hallucinogenics...
maybe when on the cusp of dementia i'll find
some to revive a tired mind...
- it seems to me... that i don't have to believe
in "something" these days...
i merely need to be apprehensive of
being left suspect... subjected to:
being the object of a voyeurism that goes
beyond... mere ****** fetishes:
as if to say... the gods have erred...
the ancient ones have erred and are...
now... somehow...
looking back toward the cauldron of
inspiration from the mortal leftovers of men...
- i will not write a measured
geometric representation with poo'em...
i'm not cooking my ancestors would be
accustomed: what was once salt, pepper...
all-spice... the bay leaf...
horseradish... pepper powder...
              i can truly appreciate a good curry...
but to stage it as: primum exemplum...
          it's great... but it's not the only source
of sustenance...
    what about that one: the Imam fainted?
while eating a stuffed aubergines...
                              imam bayıldı...
fi...  Saturn bites off the head of
his son...
                       fi...
                                like a fiddle...
i have not left anything for my father to
be envious of...
i missed the whole unsatisfactory dating
process of my 20s and 30s...
for i... supposedly went mad...
in my 21st year... so... i left the planet
that's so preoccupied with sunrise...
sunset and gravity...

- but i couldn't serve up someone a full bodied stew
for breakfast...
let me tame them with some milder...
like well buttered bread...
some eggs... to begin the day...
i couldn't overpower the lack of ingenuity
of the subcontinent of India need: Ned:
a sauce out...
there must be some culmination pointers...
to begin with...
  akin to: it's better to drink when the sun sets...

ha ha! some bad take of off: on a hurried sexuality...
while as many women have explored theirs
i've been in the trenches picking / pecking
at the scrap-heap of... amateurs...
the glorified ****** revolution only
happened to one ***...
from the 1960s... it has only made
the women advantageous to their....
explorative... plight...

  cult of the statue born from salt...
bone & stone...
i'm starting to think it might have
been my mother...
then again... her mother implored her
mother to be dead... and the mother
had no recognition of the selfie...

            ex nihil: ut nihil...
dum tela orbis...
                            accidit...
                  mea ist...

                     do i look like some youthful Christian
pastor of old?
am i being... somehow... conscripted
into a... Mormons' effort?
it's a beer... it's one beer, two beers: think...
will someone buy me
airline tickets to fly into Iowa
to speak about: the antithesis of Jim?
   i'm scared: i'm scarred... the world is big...
i really don't need it to become any
bigger... i have a laughing maggot in
my *** that stages the ****-show:
you best be placed... right here...

learning to sip warm
                           ***** like a brute...
      nothing much: much of anything...
"social distancing"... in the graveyard of "new"...

a pick from my closet...
my forgotten drawer...
                if i'm not: if i haven't been
in a "prison" for the past
             better half of a decade...
then i guess i haven't been
anywhere...
      that's why... nothing is pretty much
new...
    i know my medicine...
     looking at others taste it is...
an understatement of forever...
                    the they in "they" couldn't really
stomach a heaven of a solipsistic god...
or a heaven as a labyrinth and a library...
and all the time... forever and all the miles
of no no no no...

so much for pretty faces with
pretty words...
  so much for thurston moore's
'we rearrange strange the rubble
to let a forest through'...

we strangely rearrange the rubble:
or...
we rearrange, strange, the rubble...
to let a forest through...
here's to the die-hard grammar
nazis and nothing nativist...

               everything i had to learn...
about anything...
i subsequently had to negate...
     integration:
   where are you: where i was from?
all that... unless it was
and forever will be the lesson:
1 + 1 = 2...

           a precedes b...
but not unless it's backed up...
  too many rules in grammar to produce
a simple 1 + 1 = 2 arithmetic...

past-participle... will the hyphen die?
and everything will turn to the remains
of this being the child of saxony
in the remnants of chemistry nouns?
you could insert a hyphen... into:

hydroxychloroquinesulfate    
like so, nurse! the scalpel...
hydroxy-chloro-quine-sulfate...
          if language and letters were
as simple as 1 + 1 = 2...

                  i was going to say:
     i be saying...
         am saying...
                          be not say much...
pigeons don't cuckoo-call...
         stressors when strolling
with an addition of break a neck
when the mammal higher-up is
head-banging or raving...

              goose-stepping never died
whenever the mandarins decided
to march... looks like they are not getting
any marching orders...

modern warfare requires... civilians...
target practice...
the mandarins are too peaceful a people
to do a genghis khan stampede across
the world...

              but if they can slide a sly bullet
that can procreate itself and
bring the shackles: for all the gold pillars,
blunder and slacking jockeys
of the four horses... to see the sand foundation
all this freedom was built on...

hey: spin me another one...
i'm still just drilling myself to ease
one of those: sober justification for...
what came of the bread and the circuses?

between a tweedle dee and a tweedle dum...
yes, hello, please join us...
a soar... thumb...
a plum mascara from a clenched fist:
over... pretty much nothing...
or as was the case: something frivolous...
obscure... a tryfle...
                              yes: that's Y(es)
   and not tree'knee'tee...

life as imitation of all manner of inorganic
"life"... the mountain that's eased by
the wind to take on a different theme
of the pivot toward the pinch of a sky
that could collapse...

          puffy clouds that want to be
marshmallows... marshmallows that would
love to be less... oozed when staging
a fire-rite of being sacrificed to the bite and
chew...

such an unspectacular end of the world
scenario... scared people...
because: there's none of that certainty
of an asteroid inevitable "hunch"...
which makes it a very ****** end of
the world scenario...
          nothing from ancient greece
**** galore...
                 nothing from the annals
of caligula's reign: for each and every man...

or wrestling to the death with
all those hallucinogenics and rushes
of sweat and testosterone...

         the current humanity: a death
of vermin... quiet: the angel of death is passing...
quiet...
it's not exactly about not taking
the prescription of the government's:
under full-proof guidance "precautions"...

but if all were dropped on a heads-or-tails
whim?
    like that... like so...
    so much for anything:
ahead of the other idiot in the race...
deconstructed hierarchies of man...
pyramids fizzying out into a sand-storm...

such an unspectacular event...
the fame of a madonna or a don mclean...
because there's no chance in heaven
or hell concerning the man who
discovered that fermenting grapes would
ever give us wine...
or that part of not making bread
and instead making beer...

      so... un-spec-ta-cu-lar...
       but of course i'm certain this is only a mild,
minor, scare, one of those precursors
that acts like a sieve...
hardly a siesmic event to give us dinosaur
grandeour... overstating any prior
to (it) egoism of a banker's *******-fuelled
***-riddle-and-rampage...

the guys with the biggest hard ons seem
to be suffering from a mollusk limp-on-drag...
i can't remember the last time i was touched
for a love of intimacy...
forever the basic darwin of:
"****"...

                      as any misnomer...
it's hardly the sort of *** you'd forgive if
she was still wearing socks...
or wanted to do it under the bed-sheets...
if a person was going to overcook
pasta prior... they will hardly learn to cook
it al dente "tomorrow"...

too many a posteriori: language evolves
to give a proper, a priori statement...
too many undisclosed parallels and "what ifs"...
not in language...
bad grammar aside...
    aside from: that's not a soft boiled egg!

besides: the vietnam war had the best soundtrack...
and fb's portal: look at you...
best keep together, no?
the best songs and the most ****** reasons
beside: proper meat for the butcher's market!
shouts the cockney slang improv for
one of those rare occassions of a: drama-
period piece...         -tized?

what in the capacity of words' axioms can
be synonymous with 1 + 1 = 2?
i can't find anything...
i'm... probably not speaking the language
of a universal incursion...
there aren't any beaches of normady
when infiltrating the third ***** abstract!

should have stuck to painting daffodils...
or something... or prescribing myself
to limit my "artistic endeavours"
to sending postcards and licking envelopes...

some shapes "conjured" remained
intact and became letters... the greek delta (Δ)...
      called it: down-right governing
a cascade or the vector: down without
a direct impetus to do so...

said A to 1... said B to 2... C to 3...
D to 4... E to 5... F to 6... G to 7... H to 8...
I to 9... J... i'm hanging on to...
   the deeds and the subsequent
extinction of cuneiform...
                           until... VI "+" IV "=" X....
the "+" and "=" had to be surds...
when using the abacus... some ancient roman
humming: singing in a shower analogy...
when you had... letters as used as
both letters... and numbers...
a bit like looking at braille...

if there's a number indicator (⠼)...
why is it presupposed that everything else
is a letter?
                 ⠼⠉                 3...
                               and then there's just ⠉...
which is that umlaut part of U that's
supposed to be C...

before anything intricate concerning the subject
could be uttered...
there was plenty of chess pieces
and spatial and temporal awarenss...

the consistency of retaining the primitive
nature: how this inexhausted stupor of numbers
just gives on giving...
before anyone might have suggest:
chisel a mountain... before building a pyramid!
well... no word to "describe" it...
or rather... infuriate any other alternative...
cull the forest... otherwise write:
  
111111111111111111111111111
    1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
1111111111111111111111111111
   1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
11111111111111111111111111111
   1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
  1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
11111111111111111111111111
1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
    1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1  1 1 1
1111111111111111111111111
                  1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

a forest of pines... it doesn't matter
how much you peer into it...
no light will pass... just a segment of
a canvas that's either all brown...
or eyes closed... a juggling clown
worth of: would be entertainment...

i've been putting off seeing a dentist
for years...
i'm still putting it off...
i quiet like the pain...
the pain being... a consciousness
of a single tooth...
not part of the whole coronation
of either jaw or the skull's lining
of bite...
   i like the pain as much as i like
this pain of a loose filling
being my signature...

     "he" would have said: 100...
miles... before later suggesting:
by foot...      no... prior to the wheel
and whittle princes jumping onto
the bandwagon...
          100 as a concept of travel
came prior to: by foot...

                      0 - the original: multiplied by...
and the original: divided by...
at times when "x" and "÷" were surds of
the abacus... way prior to merely "+" and "-"...
before that ***** decided:
hyphen glue for words i are!
before all that...

                          we might as well not have:
mentioned a french man and the squeezed
omicron mirror...
or ∞... which is very much a surd...
an apostrophe...
   or a lazy 8...
                          a reclining venus...

we had numbers before we had letters...
well... before we had numbers...
we had to have had a nibble of inclination
regarding the O - the wheel -
and from that... 360°... which is 5 "°" short
of coming into the full perspective
of commencing and ending... a year...

4 "°" if you were to count the leap...
inter anno per quattuor...

      all of it, though...
                                     serious matters
need "readjusting" to...
                                most certainly... ice-cubes!
   i've heard and seen worse
scares in my time...
the mad cow disease...
                and in all this time:
wishing for death...
           is hardly going to be that much of
an easy affair...
                             you'll be bound to
gagging for it... like air...
existentially exhausted from that crux:
life... if so easy, or so hard...
could somehow mediate a transcendence
of the yawn...

    unlikely...
                                     i'm more likely
to keep my toothache... than be in want of relief...
for the sake of a tooth individuating
itself and ascribing to me
its individuated status as ailing...
from the firm grip concensus of the jaw...
and the congregation of all the other, teeth...
after all... a loose filling never did a Columbus...

it's hardly me and...
a ghost limb for a veteran's amputated arm...
scenario...
            if it were only an asteroid...
but it's not...
   it's a sneeze... a cough... a woozy day...
it's hardly the end of a creature
that made the colliseum spectacular...
or what was spectated therein...

           what it is... is...
                        a lapse in islamic terrorism...
i think that's a welcome break...
i'm tired of wondering about: not all muslims...
and the trucks of peace
ploughing through a street in
Nice... it's a welcome break...
         univeresally adequate...
         congesting the advent of...
                         and relationship between
landowner and the serf: not for long, though...

               too bad that it isn't an archetypical
fear to coincide with the classical
narrative of darwinism: a tiger... a snake...
a spider...
          it's quiet a modern ape story...
which does require us to have a notion
of a microscope...
   which makes it... m'eh... less seductive
in any attempts for: fire! huddle round!
tell stories!

                         the modern "ape" and
his... cough venom and predator lurking in:
a horror story told at noon!
again... boring the living daylights out of me!

She said I'm looking like a bad man, smooth criminal
She said my spirit doesn't move like it did before
She said that I don't look like me no more, no more
I said I'm just tired
She said: you're just high

Lover come hold me
Heads on the fritz
Gaudy intoxicated feelings comfortably mixed
Lover come hold me, could you forget

Sweating all your sins out
Putting all your thoughts back together
Oh, we just don't blend now
All of my attempts seem to weather
Oh, I make you cringe now
Don't I make you cringe?

Pushing past the limits,
tripping on hallucinogenics,
I just couldn’t open up
I’m always shifting
I crawled back to the life
I said I wouldn’t live in,
Through and through
I’ve come undone

these days, the cold welcomes
only three faces, known as allies:
tobacco,
alcohol... but most importantly,
the godhead:
            literacy...
                                had i but
the convinctions of a polyglot....
i'd tell you the world's your oyster...
i hate lies...
      as much as uttering
literacy during ******
*******, however
                           worth Moloch...
because history tells us:
they sacrificed children,
   or rather: deformed children...
oh... sorry...
     i thought you had the stomach
for darwin?!
                no?!
                        but i am sure you are
happy with impostors,
  and premature melancholia:
child - what have you accomplished
to feed the yet awaiting old man or woman?!
child - what have you done to
lacerate yourself writing excuses?
to take this siamese chimp as your own
bred?
            and to think they thought
the Aztecs held the same
                          beliefs as the Egyptians,
if ever: the spectacle of
the guillotine...
                              sites of COURT....
Sahara, the once great mountain range!
TAKE YOUR MONKEY AND SHOVE
IT UP THE TIGHT *** OF YOUR
HOMOSEXUAL ZOO!
******* *******... they're everywhere!
penguin ****,
             koala bear ****...
                   children trans-,
                             zombie ****...
               aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
howling echo and as i once said:
vowel capture arm...
             hew-broid,
   yew-brood...
                          canaines unsheafed....
       grit...
            sharpening metal with no versus
with flesh,
           but metal against bone?
is that the same as diamond onto skin
with neither metal or bone, dear one?
           to have thought the past
ignorant... that if they made
all their sacrifices of all babies...
   healthy, or twisted limbed equal...
no wonder then,
that we have the concept of
  a dichotomy of health...
                         ontological suppression;
charming...
                     unless you've
been to a *******,
   you'll never known the political
ambitions of the common man, or woman...
but then the christian woman,
aged nearing 80, and her
down syndrome offspring aged:
god knows...
              40? 50? down syndrome
examples never seem to age,
perhaps looking into anti-ageing
creams should be worthwhile looking into
their immunity to wrinkles...
                     yet so much mechanisation...
3 drugs deviant from
your typical european adventures
via hallucinogenics:
tobacco, alcohol, literacy...
                     under the umbrella of cold...
or as some could like to make a tool of:
still-life ****...
                   because the conversation,
doesn't really matter, outside
of moving objects...
    hardly to get a ******* from
fine art, and not move it into the realm
of extremes...
   but come back,
      to a woman *******
on a video medium...
                            puritans anywhere?
a monopoly on genitals?
        ah...
              passing on the same,
******* mistakes onto their offspring...
because: the english can really,
really, embrace taboo...
                     taboo = voodoo...
                           welcome:
                              my anaesthetic.

in the memory bank of a jellyfish:
that little microcosm of life
per se

this undisturbed avenue in evolution
kindness
electric pulse
in aqua

light travelling in no stretch
of posit
an origin E = MC (speed of light cubed,
speed of light cubed
speed of light cubed
as static, posit,
speed of light cubed,
evidently this implies
the other two letters being changed
but if there's an equation with
the speed of light squared
then there must be an equation
with the speed of light cubed...
if there isn't: or there never will be
an equation with a:    "E=M"C³

        regardless of ENERGY and MASS
but there has to be an equation
with a C³... the speed of light cubed...
if there isn't one
i'll call it yet another Dead End of Darwinism:
then clearly our intellect has
no evolved to compete
with the Insect Lady and her Talking Mushroom
Lamp...
or the Dinosaur grandiosity
brought down to lizard and bird continuity
it's as if there was no meteorite
just the ******* madness of the moo! moo!
moooooooon and seas and tides!

lost the plot of emoji and "forgot"
to place it on canvas:

thinking aloud painting
that's what poetry is
i need those symbols

like the Star of David and the *******
those drool assigns
i have

             tick tock... tick tock:
  
    卍 (tilt: // to the side: clock! clock! twist!)
because i need a reference for:
     Schläfli symbol...
                   a hexagram is not the star of david
a hexagram is not the star of david
tilt the star of david and i'll show you
a hexagram:
an opened book
and reading on a square of camel hind
in a desert
wish there were stones in a desert
and mountains
but poor me thought the deserts
were missing hills so raised mountains
blindly following love
and all purpose throughout meaning
of this shared earth: hearth...

                    at least one H in the equation
if seriously:
all these Jews want to remain post-genocidal
insecure about what's no longer
mysterious then we can flood
Europe with as much post-colonial hangovers:

but i swear: the downer comes
with: but i am stronger and of more prided
intellect than others
and for no fault of my own
am i to tell my father: hey! you!
yes! you! colonialist!
*******! **** the right: off!

         obviously the war in Ukraine
is not of the English persuasion of concern
those lax dods and sods of the "intellectual"
class not kings
not the privy council the lazy liberal ****-whats
i mean those newspaper folk
those scribblers and cobbler-wannabes
i mean those bunch of people
how mammalian flesh alight in the heat of
an argument...

smoked a joint that's marijuana
and tobacco
drank a shy whiskey sharpshooter
that's 2:1
of whiskey to coca coca
cola the ancient Indians of Paraguay
are talking
about La Bambino Bamba

in an "alternative" reality there is a journalistic
script that says:
the Euros 2024 did happen
and i saw a populism in motion
in nothing like an echo chamber
can't make the Coliseum into an Internet
Meme Echo Chamber
have to be real bro: shitz hyphen and *****
twitch at the ***** erotica of
a volcano

in an age where homosexuality is
as the supposed degeneracy of cis fibric
frombosis: phrombosis: thrombosis:

F: Fulvark: hawk: bee: buddha:
fly...
the German police were imploring
the English fans to smoke a joint
rather than drink too much beer
hey! mate! license or no t.v.
your superstars only won
a sly / shy

victory over the moon and the mood
of the Serbs:
like the victors France against
the AXIS power of the Eastern *****
and i believe
that Nietzsche a German
was adamant about what the Germans
did to the Prussians
and what the "elsewhere" didn't do
about the Estonians and the Finns
and the Lithuanians

just saying: France superstar also won
a minor victory just
a one nil
against the Eastern *****:
the Austrians are the only people
known to the Slavic people west of the Oder
and i implore you to not justify
that Darwinism has dead ends
if this supposed fixation on evolution
and then the geniuses that brought
down Pluto
i can't contest intellectual prowess to keep
feeling less and less amazed
less and less and less in awe
i just think about bread
oh and dough
and yeast
and i think: i think that i think, i think...
my soul is shattered
i have no internal breath of a coherent narrative
the German police implored the English
football fans to not altricate: articulate
the budding Serb hunger for violence
this amazing South *****
of Yugoslavia
and big boy language: i have a hairy chest...

POWER IS BLACK
POWER IS THEN GRAVITY OF NOTHING
yes, not the: that's not a misspelling
but a continuation in CApital:
power is that a drawing nearness of death
prior: impediment

in the memory bank of jellyfish:
bells of eternity - a dream of a song
of actually enjoying music
like some telekinetic hypothesis of an itchy brain
whereby a Mushroom donning a Venetian
Carnival Mask
is playing me primitive... "tunes"...
the jellyfish and perhaps our organic history
stretches into the dinosaur realm
of existence
that felt because HAD endoskeletons
but the dinosaurs didn't die
but evolved into miniatures of birds
and great hawks
and our mammal father the WHALE

but as i was smoking and drinking
an unlikely companion:
i never thought flies to be nocturnal insects
but there's always one
super-freak Beelzebub Bob and my pierced
ego my pride like a flickering light
a honing of an idea to another idea

but even if this earth once entertained
giant insects
and talking mushrooms
mammals and reptiles are pretty good
for extending our consciousness
i'm talking pre Bible imagination
much further
from Dinosaurs
that became birds
Holiest of All the Crows of Odin
and the Swans of Athena...

there was a time of giant insects
and giant insect brains
or rather the microcosm organic history
a history of body
not of stone

then i wandered outside the garden of Eden
into the Land of Ende (no, not Ened)
there's already the Den of Ned the Flander
in some Simpson
O what dark day i imagined
myself with a child watching Sunday afternoon
t.v. not able to trip out
with a scribble with a doodle not hallucinogenics
please
this ardent father

so i wish to become

so in a time of fervent homosexual pride
me loving a single mum of 55
no better *** than menopausal love
no seriously just watched how people
ugh: flake under the puppet skeleton
some flesh of 16 year old ******* proofs of
*** that are girls:

with enough perspective of time
i can speak concerning being:
there are just too many dead ends in the theory
of evolution!
you can't see the evolution of a spider
into a over-spider of an ant...
i must have brought in at least five this week
walking through the garden
they hitchhiked on my ears
into a death surface reality of moon
walking on a toothbrush and a sink
not Schindler's bread and butter emanel:
Immanuel Immanaeul:
You'll...             You'll...        and You'll Do This...

a serpent uncurled from around
the tree of knowledge
and having given birth to the fruit
in an insomnia of winding
and travelling from start to star
wriggled forward in time
ate Sisyphus
and started to clutter with a Hieroglyphs and
Chisel:

but those talking mushrooms
and giant insects would leave no traces
except for the moisture in the air
not like dinosaurs and pressed hard
black olive oil of locomotion
but instead
from such a harsh environment
with salt for water in the seas
these creatures left us
breathable air!
Nitrogen in abundance
but only enough sanity for 20% of air...

pre-dinosaur times...
   if we're going as far back as beginning
the universe...
religion can't compete, unless:
it get's a psychedelic booster JAB...
a language usage imprint
of said USER working with AI...

but if we are really going that far back:
i can look away from
belittling humanity as the currency
of NOW:
there is a currency of NOW: realistic interaction
there's the currency of ONCE:
there's the currency of IF
and the currency of...

       evidently too much Joyce... just thinking:
maybe aloud...
but certainly tripping on alcohol and marijuna
and before i die
and i'm at the stage of two hydro-cells on the brain
like Martin's like two watery
eyes
then i will create an advent of mushroom
tripping
and open my other 2 and 4
of seeing
since the eyes are an *****
unthinkable before kidney failure
or to think of eyes
are nostrils because there are 2
to think of the mouth as eyes: sensationally...
preposterous...

     ugh... but before the Dinosaurs
there were the talking mushroom overlords
and insect people
who left no skeleton proof
because they had mush inside and strength
outside
         so just the moisture in the eye
and time capsules messages
they left us hallucinogenic mushrooms
to travel back in time
past the eons of admiring those unlucky sods
the reptiles that weren't given slack
like Satan
because from dinosaurs to birds
couldn't devolve from short T-Rex hands
big mumma FI thyes thyme black girl running
so the bible is a word
from the reptiles via the mammals to
the insects and talking mushrooms
we got hit by a meteor!

           those ape mummies are toiletry
such idiots
chaos ensues no natural set order
this will not continue i'm sure of it
how warm the intellect
but what if lizard people had a chance
to boil water in a kettle... too!
but we are just their locomotive juice
to ******* UBER their groceries
from 100 meters away!

there are dead ends in Darwinism
just to clarify
thanks for collecting all the species
but let's put the Lament Configuration
back together:
these are: dead ends... don't you think?
will an ant evolve into a super ant?
will man evolve into a superman?
will humanity ever congregate at a major
sporting event as a count
of individuals or as a disintegration
of rigid formula that might disqualify
an ethnocentric identification process:
of evolutionary scrutiny
of not seeing the details in bedtime stories
something to scare the children with?

dead ends: static: evolution is not exactly
dynamic:
it's a Dead Science...
biology is as much a study of stones
in the miasma of mountain
but still minerals in the blood
and the pulling and pushing apart: toward
a together...

happiest so: alone...
regressing: so my love is bad but two
men and a third by himself
crossdressing to X his mother
and that's mammalian grip is
insufferable
but if history begins with volcanoes
and Dinosaurs
maybe i don't want to think about
a shortcut via the Sumerians
because: apart from the Egyptian
phonetic encoding
sharing Europe with Africans
is like: calling the Neighbors of the Continent:
Slavs the stupid Inquisitors of Communism
of Yiddish Intellect
not Hebrew not Israeli
maybe the Bilingual Monstrosities of the Yids
had to be stamped out
for the raising of Israel...
maybe? don't you think?

well it would certainly help some
countries to get on the Bilingual Ladder
like it would be great
for America to become a Bilingual Nation
a grander Switzerland
a bigger Canada
a marriage of Spanish and English
would only cement a superpower
while we could have a marriage
of the Slavs with the Germans
since the French and Especially the English
have outright rejected the Germans
at least the Austrians could soften the blow
and i could too...

my my how i love using such big words
relating to people
but mind you i was hypervigilant
on the point of paranoia
at the Champions League Final
talking to German Secret Police
at Wembley...

and that's a true story
i was also outside the one talking to youths
when the cordon on Spanish Steps
was put on by the bettered
coordination of Police with Security
Staff...
the soft police can you imagine
a police officer writing a poem,
would anyone read it?
perhaps thinking about the Club of Fetishes -
some time to relax
but i just want vanilla and juicy
and plump of plumb...

that's my girl: right there...
and like a ******* at a gay pride parade
let me do my:
Uncle Paradiso:
          Sam Smith'oh Unholy:
in the vinyl store i just heard: BAHBYHLON:

mommy don't know...
yeah: i was at the "£ body shop £"
paid £130 for giving a 20 year old
Romanian ******* a massage
after she was spanked to a glitter of blueberry
on the *** with rough love rough love
lion love i am the crab: pick up
soft spoons soft metal

happy to ******* a priest...
happy to ******* a priest...
happy to make a priest a Hashem: Kosher: Halal...
happy to make a priest a kosher
ooze: then some SALT!

salz salz! and the piper of pepper!
salz salz! and the piper of pepper!

I remember dropping acid,
While lying on my back
On an angel-kissed pebble beach,
On a lost Greek island
At dawn.

Acid isn't always pleasant.
But rarely fatal.


First life intensified.
All of it.
Colours brightened,
Shades multiplied,
Patterns spoke.
The wing, the feather, the claw, the beak,
Precision.

How correct things were,
How decisive evolution was,
How ******* huge our balloon had become.

And yet,
Somehow,
The universe,
All of it,
Fit comfortably inside
My small cathedral head.

Smells recreated whole episodes from my past,
The spaghetti dinner my aunt made me eat.
I threw it up in the backyard minutes later,
Because the noodles looked like worms,
Mashed potatoes and gravy,
Cotton Candy, the music of a carnival
The twenty seven hours of stalled birth as my mother's legs
Were strapped together until a doctor could be found.

I time traveled, memories appeared in 3-D,

Taste was ****** and social,
*** was irrelevant,
Hate impossible,
Death humbled and genuflect

Hallucinogenics.

Is this how we learn to be kind.

20th through to the 23rd of June
LS (London Stadium, Foo Foo Fudge
Packers)
then 21st headed to Wembley: wound
in the womb: a fetus
(can't understand why that's underlined
in red when foetus): the disappearance
of œ and øzɔfaʒ

/n̪͡mt̪͡p/ (Yele: Papa New Guinea:
mmm't         or mount: mt.)
Niveneh: no: Nineveh...
                  like Jericho but without chatter:
cauldron in the cold

      the other Siamese Twin of how language
originated in vowels
to later establish itself in consonants...

the digraph of Æ: almost Katakana and Hi:

K(appa) missing the additional 'i (<p)

i.e.                    カ-
                                らがな (HI! ragana:
regina regatta - smooth sailing, averse winds)

could compact the punctuation / insinuation,
hide the exclamation marker
attiring the iota with more than just a dot:
like so:

                 HÍ instead of HI!
also: HÍ = HI!

               as i pondered travelling on the train
sitting backwards from Romford
to Stratford
a quickie: 7 - 10min commute:

the perfections of language and the language
impasse
with the same language (as it were)
we build the pyramids
and the Coliseum
and conjured up the microchip and satellites
but still the ******* graffiti on
the walls like a sad testimony of:
not literate enough?

                   enough Swifties to me have
to exclaim to my ginger nut
i never worked in a response team
on basis / bias of positive discrimination
the industry has been flooded with
Asians (and i don't mean the artisan
Oriental cobblers, sturdy workers
i mean the Raj sleuths and sloths)

   so there i was working with "Brighton"...
4 English guys...
the ginger nut was going through
a breakup with a girl he was with for 3 years
bought Taylor Swift tickets
broke up: patchwork Adams i figured
am i a psychiatrist now?

no: a historian a psychiatrist a poet
a philosopher: all under ONE BANNER:
a HUMANIST...
i am a humanist: never worked with
someone with ADHD:
first time:
could feed off his scatter brain i knew he
was trying to win the girl back

that's the thing with women:
you see enough of them and enter their
personal space
you: realistically enter a harem
so there's no need to blow yourself up
for Islam and (a) Promise... of...
a harem:
me and my "ball and chain":

well... if she's 56 and i'm 38
and there's than new film about about
Anne Hathaway and the IDea of yOU

i promised myself not to have
a ******* and i didn't
but just across from me on the Metropolitan Line
two classical Sappho types:
the type of lesbians that make out
across from you on the train
because you have nothing for an ego
and there's no narrative in your head
you're just this emptiness gravity
sitting down looking
at these two lesbians making out
and they're trying to be lesbians
really hard
but at the same time they start touching
each other
so... you start touching yourself
like: massaging your legs and your neck
and then the so-so lesbians
look like: oh ****! we need a *****!
a living breathing *****!
not the deconstruction of man of: just
a phallus: **** me! get a cucumber
but the sort of lesbians that are not butch
nor twisted rainbow nor political
just purely ******: they need a friend
type of *****: lezbo:
and that's all fine and dandy
but i figured: if this open gay sexuality
can happen: transcendental
then let's not be ableist or ageist about
who we are biochemically drawn to:

i admit in 20 years when Edie's ****
and clothes with smell of grey and moths
maybe then i will shove
fern leaves up my nose:
exchange the warm tingling kiss of chilly
juice for the sting of nettles
and call it cotton: but until then...

there are three language settings in Japanese
and yes: twice at the Fudge Packers
concert and twice at Taylor Swift:
like: i can't imagine this devilish Elvis
(who had a ****** life, seriously)
having any *** at all: Taylor Madonna...
i managed to chirp at least 10 friendship
bands
the last one i exchanged with a 6 year old
groupie who
mesmerized me with my grief over other
exchanges of friendship bands
so she gave me one with
a cocktail of watermelons, kiwis, oranges,
strawberries, lemons and that made my day
because another 20 year old groupie took
my prized possession of a band with metalic
swifts: yes... actual birds...

but like me and Matt were saying:
two years ago... two years?
Red Hot Chili Peppers at the London stadium:
day one opened with
All Around the World...
day two?
opened with
Can't Stop.... or the other way round:
either way! either way...
as a citizen going to a concert having
no experience of multiple bookings
of an artist at a venue
you don't really THINK about the SET LIST...
clearly...
Taylor Swift is an ARTIST...
just like Lloyd Webber is an artist
and there's the Phantom of the Opera production
and that's also Kierkegaard
and the Changelessness of God

but like Anthony Kiedis said
of John Frusciante: the psychotic -
these guys are no longer ARTISTS: they are:
MUSICIANS!
Taylor Swift isn't a musician: she's an artist:
and like any artist: she's not endowed with
some crazy creative demon
of uncontrollable energy to have to lose
and recycle material or just become
insatiable and confrontational like
a brick wall or the sea or gravity...

meh... MERCH! merchandise!
        ugh: honing in: i too bought a t-shirt...
well... two... i caved in...
the silly idiot moi so-so...

                          i'd still give an arm and a leg
to get to see Boris Brejcha...
i don't need to know his personal story:
but yes, he apparently escaped with burns
and bruises from an airshow where
a plane crashed and he discovered Mozart
in electronics / electronica...
so DJing is not so lazy after all?
funny: conjuring up melody with only ticks
and drums and rhythm
because there are no woodwinds
and certainly there's no frantic fried egg jazz
to be the antithesis of classical
which jazz was but
electronica is the antithesis of jazz
it's what i'd call RE-

BIG word: big WORD:
i can't even spell it i have custard for brain
my best estimate is
(even with the use of algorithm,
i'm yet to invest dyslexia into AI usage
via chatGPT so who knows)

COMPROMISING is close... super: cl>o<se...
but not there, yet... yeti yeti yet...
on shift when i repeat myself
over and over again i turn into a slur and slobber
monster i think my tongue is a gigantic worm
that's suffocating me... or at least gagging (me)

one more try: RE-
electronic music > jazz > classical
not necessarily > or <
but what other punctuation marker?
| ...            perhaps: i'm starting a mixology
of e. e. cummings and OLSON
so... let's see...

COMPARTMENT + RE-
spells out, what?
ANALYZING                       that's a pretty picture

i'm actually not, going to,
scribble the correct spelling
of the word that's burning up my brain!

and so much other **** in between
Big Mo was trying to steal my sunglasses
on at least 4 prior shifts...
i forgot my sandwich and coat last shift
managed to stash it: picked it up on cordon
DC3 on Olympic Way
fair enough fair enough...
o.k. have my sunglasses: until next shift
point being so much mush and ****
i'm having to have to build in a FILTER...
veil... membrane:
it's like reality is hyperventilating and
i'm not on any hallucinogenics but
i'm getting so many cues in terms of
what's being communicated
that hearing about Islamic Terrorist attacks
on Christian folk is one thing...
but then hearing about the crushing stampedes
on the Road of the Hajj
and at the place where they stone the devil
(Mina)
ha ha!                  ******* win-win scenario:
you know what i mean?

one thing to put pebble on a pebble
and call it a redemption of the continent of Africa
via the Egyptian "clairvoyance" of:
let's leave something behind for future
generations to remember us for...
and another to throw a ******* rock: at a rock!
magic!

yes: i am the devil: a humanist:
god? yeah: he's the theorist of humanity
nothing personal
but if you have ******* gaseous and liquid
equations like water can contain salt
and the cauliflower sponges of clouds
and blah blah blah
then god is the worst kind of humanist
he's an anti-humanist...
a calculator there's no personality
attached to god
god is not a person
however you think god in trinity might be:
**** me
some magical telepathic extended thing
of Descartes? well he did try obliterating God
almost all philosophers of the circa
8th - 19th centuries tried to obliterate god
until Nietzsche finally said: ASK the FINITE ***
for CARROT then the SCHTICK...

welll) d'uh this isn't readership friendly
but i didn't just read Finnegans Wake
and admired the struggles of Delmore Schwatrz
for no reason...
pressed too long on the L without shift...

in terms of women...
and i've been with prostitutes and i've interacted
with Swifties so i have
a plethora of experience
not to say i'm in any position: advantaged to
"abuse" or reap... or... m'eh...
*** is *** but kinda of pointless
if not procreative...
so *** ON and *** OFF...
there's a switch when not investing pro-creatively
but then i don't want the hassle of
my own bad seed
so tending to a foreign body that's not
my own is ego-soothing
because i have no emotional investment:
just an emotional commitment:
and that's different because
it allowed me to morph my original idealism
of women
into an alternative idealism of women

point being:
of women: well... you won't get any BETTER...
you'll... you'll just get: DIFFERENT...
no better: just different...
after all: women are generic creatures...
you get to see that when a 90,000 event
takes place and egress is summoned, naturally...
men are unruly...
it's sad... it's sad that the concept of
individuality disappears
when people congregate...
people become stupid and no longer
bothered about individuation or democracy
or whatever they do privately
but cattle i understand and
i have my Cerberus Team on hold:
it takes about 5 people
to organize a Slaughterhouse of 300...
it truly does take only 5 dedicated Hosts
to push 300 Parasites through the Coliseum Turnstiles:

methodological: i'm not a Methodist...
i'm being clear cut precise:
it would be stupid not to learn anything from
the Nazis...
seriously: when it comes to crowd management
at large events, concerts etc
you'd be a ******* ******
not to learn from the Nazis...
how... how?! seriously?
what? how they managed to dupe all those
people into walking so serenely to
their death? is there any depiction of people
walking into the gas chambers
kicking and screaming like
children being born?!

                       hmm... not that i can recall:
plus if you see the number 90,000 in an elevated
crater as if a meteor just fell...
i'm not scared of heights...
but even i get the fiasco of vertigo
   on level 5: the whirlpool of a man made
open space:
clearly a meteor should have landed here:
but no... just man's ingenuity to allow
people to congregate and find imitations of god
with idol(s)...

ah yes... Polish could be almost like Czech
in that it could be lazy, slurry... from time to time...
i honestly have to mind this
in terms of language usage: English is provisional
Lingua Bas Franca etc
but i could become more Czech
(i have genetic roots in Bohemia)
in that:

JUS      can easily replace JUSZ
because: eh...        FABRI GAS... not GAZ...
i'm lazy and Polish is too strict for my liking
****... already:

it's not even jusz but już...
      but instead i can just say: jus... like i'm an imbecile
but rather: that's how Polish children
speak: naturally: partially Czech softly
and there's no real Russian softness
just blue blue blah blah harasho...
either way i'm going to be put into some
sort of category of "origins"
as not even Jesus was this Messianic Universal
He-Man...
so... why stress that i'll just be the Polish Matt?

did i miss something?
ah right... filter... i need to filter through
the past 4 days
and think about the best time to have a ****;
not now: i want to read one chapter
of Dune and some Olson poems.

mmm hmm hmm hmm...
hmm hmm hmm mmm...

     but not exactly that:
that deep eerie music
came in that simple cascade
of turning up the volume...

_ / // ///

/// // /

/ // ///
/// // / _

                  maybe i'm missing a # and '
yod the apostate apostrophe
of the name of god:
where not christ suffering on the cross
but the apostrophe
apostate Yod: '

                           (י)

Gamma Minor
Gamma Major:        (γ)

the god who peers into the mirror of nothing:
nothing being a pronoun:
ergo i-nothing-am: i am am: and nothing-that-i-am

i-am-that-i-am...


my mother doesn't see that i see beauty
in this world:
this dark world of the elves darker
with ears elongated to hear better
to hear the dead
flesh in Orc...

            angels disobedient in the classroom
having their ears pulled...
to listen better:
but oh so many were not musically conditioned
to absorb the celestial bodies
eternal with music...
and the awe of god standing before
the Mirror Nothing:

Nichtszpiegel!

it began onthe 17th of September,
coming early to work
SE17,
Elephant and Castle...
12h shift...
came early for a walkabout and a briefing...
spectacular nights of classical music
and anti-buddhsim...
all christianity: meditations in the workplace
12h on a seating cross...
which has its own measures pivots
of torture:
a sitting cross: rather than a hanging cross...

the antichrist has spoken:
a sitting cross...

      der sitzungkreuzen!

                   we would first administer
a torture to make the feet imitate walking
along and having those sort of blisters
a child receives when he numbs
his fingertips to play a copper string guitar...

work in security only numbs the heart
and laughter a music of...
how the more curious angels
rebellious fell and started breeding
with monkeys
to create the gods in men of flesh!

there is no son of god
before we were admittedly concerned:
Satan as father said:
i will wait for one of us like Jesus
and David and Hercules be brought
back into your domain of truth
to us that became a trust-honour
a work ethic...
we were deaf and you caste us out
to learn vibrations
in the air
to experience wind
we were deaf and thus punished
for our deafness and tone deafness
unable to succumb to the bubble
of music in an orb of silence...
a planet onto itself...

so we fell and decided to experiment
we were the scientists:
the first originators of how the species
would operate:
a higher being must have bred
with a monkey to create the Netherlands
and the Never-Ending-Folk...
        there could be no monkey crossbreeding
higher to give us the evolved form...
monkey bred with interracial scrutiny...

                 what bred with monkey?
some posited the monkey ingesting
a hallucinogenic mushroom as the Spinning Jenny
effect on biological evolution?
just made the monkey more intelligent...
but not go beyond its form...

someone must have bred a creature...
with the monkey to give access to Neanderthals...
a Neanderthals and what excintion / evolution
of a race of monkey?
there is no evolution via the route of excintion!
nothing evolves and becomes excint at the same
*******... time! same ******* time!

how can you evolve but at the same time
become exinct?
well: sure... languages become extinct:
but the biological form has not changed:
just means your women are ugly...
or whatever...

            someone ****** the monkey...
seriously ****** the monkey
some creature that... what?
descended from lizards:
a humanoid-lizard
used to walk the earth...
i'm sure of it...
well: if there is so much remnant
certainty about the universe:
like that the sun is a He-He chemical
reaction...
that there was the tragedy of the Meteor...
conditioning the mammal
via enough food, pasture,
entertainment...
                     alcohol... drugs are irrelevant
given those who ingested them
had no lizard capacity to see...
the mammalian brain is limited in scope...
so the dinosaurs "disappeared"
and yet the crocodiles remained
and serpents
and jellyfish
and aren't the birds what used to be dinosaurs
and before the dinosaurs became
tiny birds... esp the scary ones...
the lizard elite humanoid ****** off
but kept a Mickey 17... i'm going to see that
movie in the cinema... oh boy i am:
like a better version of Moon...
Sam Rockwell 2009...

                  and how old are crocodiles?
if we're going to have a biblical seance...
then we might as well put some hallucinogenics
of understanding into history:
and not human history:

                               natürlichhistorie...
all this science
this awe with physics and astronomy
that mundane chemistry of utility
the Aeaegean of Biology...
if a second Jesus were to come...
                    he wouldn't judge people based
upon morality per se, or sexuality...
he would come and judge people
on their work ethic...
at least a German morbid creature would...
arbeit macht frei:

   prison planet: clamour of gold under
the scarab shell: like jews lining their furr coats
with precious memories...

the bible is in context but it doesn't
delve deeper into a past the modern man is made
privy to...
the great flood begat that ancient man
but the meteor and the dinosaur begat
the modern man...
and all we need to do is accept
that the people of the bible are the last remains
of how time will operate from now on...
0 hour contracts
minimum pay
enough time to imitate Leibniz
and forgot the world with Netwon
and that other ******* socialite... Candide...
Voltaire...
   intellect well attired on display...
and 12h night shifts...
followed by involuntary illegality:
the... Mystery of Lawlessness has
now been Revealed to Me!

what is the Mystery of Lawlessness?
it's something to learn by experience
rather than learn from mere words...
context...

invoice:

17th sept 2024 - 21st sept 2024...
four night shifts...
then between 20th sept 2024
and 21st sept 2024...
a night shift (12h)
followed by a day shift (13h)
from 10am to 1:15am...
yes: it wasn't that long because
Dubois put Joshua 4 times
to the floor for him to get up
to the 5th time KO:
a black man saying to a black:
stay, the **** down with your *******
idle tongue!

saw Hatton and some other boxer...
anyways...
that was illegal:
illegal in the reverse sense of illegality
that's why it's a Mystery of Lawlessness...
i wasn't told or asked
to work that shift pattern: illegally:
working in a 0 hour contract schematic:
i can work an illegal shift pattern:
a night shift followed by a day shift
on my way between shifts
i was too early for the 2nd one
so i took the Metropolitan out past
west London toward Watford
and Chesham...
             weird country... nothing remotely
resembling London...
not yet conquered territory...
then i took the train back to get 60min of otherwise
waiting...
i started the second shift bizzarely
with people who were on the know-in
knew i was in between shifts
looking at me like some Frankenstein
a blistering awe of an aura of fear...
i was willingly breaking the law by working
hours that no human is supposed to
be subjected to:
or maybe that was me just thinking about
that time when i overheard
the bad etymology of slav and slave...
even though only the Baltic slavs were
considered slaves by the Ottoman Turks...
you can't really say that about the northern slavs...