Is it possible for a land to dream
Of Harakiri.
Gouts of screams and tears abound
Self-destruction is such a sweet sound
Particularly when told from afar
By those so clearly in the know.
But is that the truth, what we are told?
Does this land dream of a death all of its own?
Or perhaps tales of its expiry are greatly exaggerated
For profit and shock.
Could this be true, that they are lying to you?
Or does Peckham wish to fall on its sword?

Perhaps once, in the span of three days
Did this land wish to see itself burn,
To see itself consumed in the fires of greed,
Of hatred,
Of ignorance.
Tell me, is that all that this land has to offer?
Will it willingly trudge to such a dishonourable demise?
Or will it rise
And show those in the know
That in truth Peckham dreams of a fate more honourable than Harakiri.

.remember this youtube channel: harakiri diat...

i think this genre of music has a name: brutalism...
last night i watched 50 book recommendations
by the cosmicsceptic...
beside his oxford specific titles relating
to his philosophy and theology degree...
came the fictional books...
i presumed that i didn't read anything going
into this video...

i can be forgiven for not reading a christopher
hitchens when i've read some knausgård...
perhaps i presume to have not read anything...
because... i do quiet enjoy the act of reading...
so much so that... only scraps remain for me that
are: useful...

i can't imagine finding any use from a book
if it's not already in it...
apparently i'm not so under-read as i led myself
to believe...
but this is not about literature...
i was looking for a genre to encompass...
say... vomito *****...
the klinik...
the soft moon...
but i couldn't come to anything of worth...
not until i foraged for the more obscure...
the raw pulp...
primitive knot - ******* of brutalism...
again... the channel harakiri diat
has the music covered...
zeit und geist... i am the fire...
let's keep it clean...
i would go as far as to include
bohren & der club of gore: midnight radio
into this whole mix...

as much as i'd love to push for die krupps...
no can do... their stuff is polished goods...
vomito ***** is polished goods...
but there's still something raw about them...
once upon a time there was this "thing"
about doom metal... electric wizard... etc.,
but i can say... this new brutalism is...
by far... better than a gavin mcinnes diet
of punk... i never liked punk...
i never liked punk as i never liked rap...
hip hop yes and all that jazzmatazz fussion...
some solid grit...

after all... Romford, Essex...
probably the last bastion of the music shop...
a his-master's-voice with a vinyl section...
my idea of a tennis-court,
a cafe, a swimming-pool, a park,
a church even... because you can never really
own too many records...

and between me and you:
what's the difference between me and my neighbor?
he plays his music, mostly rap...
on the speakers... and sings along to the songs...
he finishes the day with some r'n'b and stops
singing... i take over...

headphones in, 6ft2 posture hunched in a chair
scribbling with chicken-pecking precision
some long lost "hierogylphic"...
and of course: in between some, literature...
but it was only about the music...
youtubers ruined youtube as much as
the "legacy media"... or the next will smith...
"vlogger"...

once upon a time youtube was a haven for people
like me: who only used it to find new music...
somehow the glitches started and the music video
recommendations died: youtube thesaurus algorithm
became corrupt or something...

would i ever sing-along to a song?
not if it's as raw as a stake-tartar and the dish
needs to be served with merely thinking to compliment it...
i'll repeat what i've already said:
gentlemen! the jukebox is ******!
- and i was the type to listen and then buy
a physical copy... even though i didn't have to...
i could go back and listen to the same stuff again...
out of principle...

no car = no car insurance no road tax...
no mobile phone = no... bill...
in terms of primitive knot, though?
would you rather go blind or deaf?
that's a tough one...

listening to primitive knot or watching
a latex lucy b.d.s.m. short *****-flick...
i know: it's the obvious synonym overlap...
but at the same time it isn't...
gimp suits or all those other unicorns of the bedroom...
but no... the most forbidden act i ever managed
to fathom in a brothel was a kiss...
one time i pulled out a ***** from a drawer
when she went with the money to the madame
of the parlour and coming back asked me:

do you want to use it?
*** to me is like rye bread...
it's not a ******* croissant...
toasting alone will do the trick...
language is already complicated by necessity...
of crosswords and the boredom
that most mono-lingual people feed not having
learned a crossword of bilingualism...
why would i inhibit this fact of voyeurism?
apparently there's something immoral watching
someone get pleasured...
perhaps i should find some rare footage of
a peter anthony allen hanging...
or Leroy Hall, Jr. at the Riverbend (Nashville, Tennessee)?
perhaps i should start jerking off on
a whim, from time to time...
over execution footage?

perhaps it's that sort of conundrum...
you see someone eating ice-cream and enjoying it...
you therefore? buy yourself a cone?
god almighty... but the added responsibility
of also owning the fridge and freezer
when that spontaneous whim passes...
after all... there's always that diet of...
the girls jerking off into the camera...
which is probably the least guilt-riddled form
of ******* on the planet...

hey! if she's doing it... and you sat down
on the throne of thrones to do the no. 1 and the no. 2...
let's call it no. 3 and taking a baptism later (no. 4)...
esp. if you haven't been circumcised...
at this point: i feel sorry for the circumcised men...
that do not live within the rigours of a hasidic orthodoxy:
the circumcised man: the subservient woman...
the circumcised man: the woman in a niqab...
i guess that's how it works, no?
imagine the problems...
if the man were circumcised... but the woman...
was not supposed to pay any sort
of "penalty"...

then again: one would expect to find the best
***** under the crucifix...
stigmata pin-head and all those dittos...
and heads... but i am a connoisseur... 1970s...
1980s... but it must be Italian...
no... not German... and certainly not English...
chances are: yes, French... but more or less
Italian... and it's always on a whim...
connoisseur... well there are videos where
you can find a pregnant woman parading her bump...
and squeezing her *******...
and that's about it...

i want to imagine what those 9 months
of pregnancy must feel like...
for better or for worse... the oral demands...
perhaps i haven't written about this sort of stuff
for a long enough period...

now an interlude where i smoke a cigarette
is bound to be... exquisite...

it sure as hell is the safest way to arrive
at some sort of *** that's purely plesurable:
a gradation of *** without consequences...
but is this a celebration?
a woman ******* on camera with
her toys is a celebration...
me my ******* and the phantom hand...
there's no theatre in it...
the utility of taking a ****, taking a ****...
doing "it"... then having a shower...
and then "repressing" it...
not having "repressed" it to begin with...

i did a month once...
i came to the conclusion... that i'm more impulse
prone, i was planning my next brothel
visit... after a month i was still planning it...
then i relieved myself and...
would you believe it? the impetus dissolved!
i don't know what these right-wing
europa-identitarians are coming up with...
so much attention on:
i enjoy reading as much as i enjoy taking
a ****... notably the constipated kind
but esp. more of the diarrhoea nature...
hello mr. **** hello mrs. geiser!

perhaps that's why i wouldn't ever be a fan
of ******... i enjoy taking a **** too much...
or perhaps i'm just too old fashioned...
but this began as something orientating oneself
around a music genre...
how did it come down to pornogrpahy?

jean genet: the thief's journal...
i was really hoping for something marquis de sade
-esque... there was still too much:

solo girl does her bit...
so well in fact... that... buying a *** doll
must only remain a h'american thing...
*** is already shamed when marriage comes
along in anglo-saxon societies...
notably the inflateable sheep or doll
on those normie stag parties...
*** and children and the joke is:
you can only have good ***...
if you're ******* for procreative reasons...
bypassing the ****** for the sake
of the children...

otherwise... well no ******* doesn't help...
if... there's no wife in a niqab in public...
or some kosher wifey either...

i still have mine and i will keep that...
as... almost... a security policy...
a prenup...

pauk-mumije (1982 bosnian post punk)...
perhaps brutalism is just post-punk?

i remember it quiet clearly...
i still can't fall asleep without listening to music...
as i couldn't back then...

otchim - james dean...
the bass and no guitar riffs until the chorus
comes... and... ha ha... it's in fwench!
just like i could **** her without listening
to really... atmospheric music...
by 2007 standards that was equal to:
the dandy warhols...
but that was 2007...

these days... hardly candles and
black sun dreamer - post-traumatic stress disorder...
back then it was candles
and type o negative...
the candles and... catching a mouse...
no trap... a labyrinth of obstacles
and she sitting on the bed giggling while
i played being a maine ****...
and i did catch the mouse...
held it by the tail... let it lose on the stairwell...
and then watch its traumatised body try to
find a hole... scuttle and then fall...
to a depth of a greater serenity of
a... vermin's suicide: with no monkey sing-along
of... this mouse has done the cheese...

and it was sad when i was naive and
i accidently killed my hamster in a similar
fashion... but some ***** Abel...
but at least the mouse allowed me to
circumstance a Pontius Pilate relief...
and she asked me: what did you do with the mouse?

oh... it committed suicide.

chicago research compilation... tape CRO15...
perhaps listening to the cure
or depeche mode was once a "thing"...
no... burtalism is not post-punk...
pisse - kohlrubenwinter...
red zebra - i can't live in a livingroom...

my one personal joke...
in england i started calling the livingroom...
the civilroom...
pokój cywilny - if it must stress the St. Cyril...
so it must: комната гражданский..
brutalism is not post-punk...

stiff little fingers... are punk's creamy pie...
oto - bats...
bodychoke - cruelty
       "            - red dog
       "            - the red sea
legendary divorce - age with us...

somehow more of my ****** valnetine...
and less sonic youth...

i do remember pretending to date...
at high school...
the first question was always a nervous
build-up to the question:
'what music are you into?'

weird party - acne puncture...

well would you believe it...
some of us are still after something that
finds no sort of aleviation
in the alternative that's an aydin paladin
video...

POPEiUM - papacidal coronation...
Münn - II. in defeat...
a john peel: a no john peel...
the sort of piano that makes
a debussy or a satie blush...
AMORT - die hexes...

the current standard of... the stoogers...
or stooges... and... air no concern...
the limbo artifact of ***...
formerly known as the... limbo pickling...
of the undead...
and all those that come with an eczema and
the scabs of leprosy...
and vampires: those syphilitic zombies...

susumu yokota, and all those stupid,
solipsictically assured cats, grinning...
menace of the grin!
full cheese impromptu with a display
of teeth!
a night promenade into the forest
listening to: demdike stare's tryptych...

i haven't tried... but from 1pm through to 5pm...
i could phone classic.fm and ask
for... a song to be played in my name...
perhaps i'll phone in...
if i catch the right "once upon a time"...
and find it... as i found...
christopher young's: something to think
about...

**** and music... many interludes...
perhaps some little borat-britain references...
and then: none...
per 1K there's a cult...
per 10K there's a counter-culture...
come the 918 apostles... of jonestown...
there's no leftover for no...
alternative...

the restless mind starts its exercise
in petty squabbling....
why weren't i the respected,
vatican proof for a plumber!
why wasn't i to become,
the undertaker!

i too feel: the claustrophobia
of the ensue of the paragraph...
what is primitive knot contra U2...
mainstream? sod it: knot it a blood
and a sundail!
blood dries... the mercurial mythology
dries a solidity of
something becoming more an echo...
and less a sodden-print of the foot...
which the tide will,
nonetheless relate itself as...
worthy of being erased...

the violin concerto...
the piano nocturnes...
and the symphonies...
and the operas...
later the ballet...
beside... a chopin would write a nocturne...
a debussy would write one also...
but...
debussy writes a nocturne...
satie writes a nocture...
but a schumann?! a schubert?!
they write a concerto!
none of their work could have been written
in solide with a solipsistic monologue
escapade...

perhaps i can only appreciate chopin via
his nocturnes...
otherwise i am not convinced...
the greats wrote.... symphonies...
operas... never accompany pieces
to make their instrument an oak...
a tree... and not something resdual
to later make a mahoganny piano / table
of...

pianists! you only hear of their prowess!
Liszt! Chopin! Debussy! Satie...
exclaim as if to: suprise the "audience"
with either knowledge or...
adoration?
can a violinist make the same sort
of statements?
a pianist will play... with an accompaniment...
he will never become the maestro
predisposition
of the polyphony...

a chopin only heard the piano...
a debussy only heard a piano: solo...
a beethoven or a mozart...
what violin solo? what of a violin concerto?!
is that a trick question?
old father bach...
no instrument: well...
shubert loved allowing a piano ****
a bunch of harem violins in a harem crescendo
of a concerto...

but a nocturne? the polyphony of...
the "polyphony" of...
two pianos playing side-by-side...

- the joint"laura's"1967 kk proto prog freak phych -
no, that's not it...
- and no... it's not omega - gyöngyhajú lány...
- well **** on me...
locomotiv moscow is not a band...
but an f.c.... beg your pardon...

as i do hope that i am wrong about
a minor "technicality"...
somehow classical, essential...
and nothing worth or being able to: hum...
or sing-along-to...
always serious and finding outlets
of a necessity in being: thought of...
perhaps there's this grand:

technicality of not finding oneself sighing
or crying for that matter...
vaughan williams is more required...
for the expanse of a cowboy movie
horizon...
or that technical term...
the: deconstruction of the dutch angle
in the perspective shot...

but we don't talk about *** as much
as we don't engage in it...
and we certainly don't talk about music...
the absolute brutal needs to be found...
a butterfly a lotus a kiss in a brothel...
all else is... the slaughterhouse....

this has been a...
no Friday night in Soho can match-up...
i've spent better nights in
Amsterdam...
and no... the red light district was
never going to be a cannabis cafe for me...
or some Vermont-esque quest for a better
pint of ale...
*** was on sale...
there was not real point of making
any money from it in the medium of fiction...
it was always going to be
ugly, frictive... below par of expectation...
but it was always going to
be fathomable... fathomable in a sense
of it being respected...
as a hierarchical undermining...

oh what since was, truly was concrete...
but the verbiage came along
and fiddled with the fog and the end-result
deems itself abstract...
there's the concrete of drought...
and the abstract of locust.
there's the concrete of a mountain...
and the abstract of a pyramid;
there's the concrete of death...
and the abstract of a mosileum;
after all... a grave is a coping mechanism
of someone who...
never began the inquiry... of mortality...
joking as a child might...
pretending to handshake his own shadow.

as i have found the antithesis of narcissus...
the man who fell in love with his shadow.

The people have endured hardships for a while now. They have prayed and fasted for a better day but none has come. Prophesy has been given but has not been fulfilled. There have been moaning and groaning in every heart, in every home and in all the streets. Tyranny and misrule have become the trademark of the Mugabe rule. Finally our hope is at an end and our patience faded. It is time for a new Zimbabwean renaissance!
Zimbabwe does not belong to a few, it is not an aristocratic organisation. No one inherited the birth right to the white house. No one person is entitled to the presidency alone. It is the people who make Zimbabwe and it is they who rule. The president is nothing but a glorified civil servant. He or she works for the people and not against them. The people are the masses and they have the ultimate power. The Police and Army are mandated to serve and protect the interests of the people and not to fight them. The government should be for the people. Governments are nothing without the people!
Mugabe is the most shameful of African leaders. He was a beacon of light that turned into an apocalyptic darkness. He was the colourful and joyous son of Africa now turned into a ruthless dictator. The unlikely and even undeserving candidate who now imposes himself to be the king for life. The incorruptible one who has now become the father and a haven for the **** of corruption. Mugabe is a man disillusioned by his own grandiose imaginations that have been brewed by his over-prolonged stay on the seat of power. He has become the educated man who turned into the most foolish amongst us. Lost all sense of morality and cannot distinguish between what is right and wrong. This icon of a man has ****** on his own legacy. He has torn down his own statues. No longer shall he be remembered as a great revolutionary, he shall forever be vilified for the political villain that he is. The angel sent by God to redeem us has become the devil to us.
Mugabe is a testament that education and wisdom can be parallel. Maybe he has succumbed to the vices of old age and lost his original senses. Or maybe he is now just a stooge and stage puppet controlled by others behind the scenes. It could be that he suffers from dementia or some form of schizophrenic condition. He has a deranged personality void of all manner of reason and decency. Maybe he has become blinded and cannot see the reality of the Zimbabwean condition.
I am neither Zanu PF nor MDC or any other sham. I am red, white, black, green and yellow. I am a Zimbabwean. I cannot believe how I supported this madman and his cronies blindly for a time. I was once deluded and believed in the sovereignty dogma and the right for Zimbabwe to influence its own politics. All the time the country was deteriorating as the Zanu PF cancer was spreading across all corners of this beautiful nation. Those in power were busy abusing it and looting wealth for themselves. They looted farms, properties, companies, gold, platinum and diamonds. Everything they touched was stained with failure.
Some of the most educated people in Africa have now become nomads and sojourners in this world. The beauty and grace that distinguished Zimbabwe from the rest has been greatly compromised and diminished.  Zimbabwe has become nothing to write home about. Our previously less prominent neighbours have outgrown us.
The people go hungry, the banks have no money, industry has lost its footing, unemployment at its highest, crime and discord rampant, nothing but lawlessness and disorder. No electricity everywhere and  water supply is erratic. The roads are in dire condition. The industries of Bulawayo have suffocated to death. White collar workers have been reduced to vending. We are now a nation of scavengers and families grow hungry. Exports are a thing of the past and the Zimbabwean dollar is nowhere to be seen. The whole economy is in a constant state of illness and misery. The health sector has been hit hard. Zimbabwean youth have become jobless and confused. The working class goes on without receiving wages and salaries. In the meantime the police has become more corrupt and draconian, ZIMRA keeps squeezing the little money the poor have and there is mass censorship everywhere. The man who was tasked to manage this country has failed and must step down. These are more than enough reasons for change.
Mugabe and his government have turned the reputation of Zimbabweans to nothing. Zimbabweans are now seen as weak and destitute people all across the world. In certain places they have become pariahs who survive by hustling, robbing and conning. We are scattered all over and it is not by choice.
The pride and dignity of the Zimbabwean flag has been tainted by this man. As heinous and evil was the Ian Smith regime and his supremacist government, Mugabe is worse. We will never wish to go back to white rule but we wish for a black competent government that is effective. We just want things to work in Zimbabwe. We want to restore the beauty of our glorious nation. We want Zimbabwe to be better than it was ever before. One thing is clear, Mugabe has done his part and has run out of ideas. His time is done! We need fresh thinkers in the white house. We need real change in Zimbabwe. A new dispensation with none of the failed old guard. They have served their role and it is time to resign and retire.
Mugabe is not a uniting force anymore. He has become a symbol for division pretty much like Adolf ******. He is just an old man hiding behind a suit and his hordes of security men and puppeteers. Even the great Fidel Castro relinquished power! South Africa has seen more democracy than Zimbabwe. Change has swept across most of Africa and it is now knocking on the door in Harare.
We the Zimbabweans across the globe unite and in one great voice we shout, “Enough is enough, No more Mugabe and his regime, No more suffering, we want a new and better Zimbabwe! We want a government for the people! We want jobs! We want local industries! We want agricultural growth! We want a country that works!”
My recommendation to Mr. Mugabe is that he researches about the Seppuku ("stomach- or abdomen-cutting") or harakiri (“cutting the belly") and practises it. This is a form of Japanese ritual suicide by disembowelment. It was originally reserved for samurai. Part of the samurai bushido honour code, seppuku was used either voluntarily by samurai to die with honour rather than fall into the hands of their enemies (and likely suffer torture) or as a form of capital punishment for samurai who had committed serious offenses, or performed because they had brought shame to themselves.
Change is coming to Zimbabwe whether the old guard want it or not. The police black boots will not able able to intimidate this away. No oration or rhetoric will sweep this change under the carpet. This is different from the attempted changed introduced by the MDC a few years back. This change is not sponsored by the British or Americans. This change is motivated by the gross incompetence of the sitting government and it is empowered by the resolve of every true Zimbabwean to see a better and healthier Zimbabwe that offers a lucrative future for our children. This change is 100% Zimbabwean and is not about colour, creed or background.

Where there's water I'll drown
Where there's fire I'll burn
Where there's heights I'll fall
Where there's shelter I'll hide
Where there's comfort I'll cry
Where there's love I'll hurt

Thinking of him
She asks
What she should do?
I ask the gods
Ganesha, buddah, G-d and Allah
I think of him and she’s angry at me and it’s my fault
I don’t know if its something I can afford
Now I don’t know what to do
I saw myself cross out the graffiti in every city
Should I figure it out and decide
This other guy tells me something red so I play along and he gets mad and it’s my fault
Unfair and cruel
He just tells me to look at the moon
I take back every wink it stole
I see the beauty before my feet
I’m testing the bounds of reality
Are you angry or man?
I’ll be allright
I’ll be safe and yet I’ll go along with the lights

Sometimes I over drink.
Oops I mean overthink.
Ah **** it, it's the same **** thing.

I over pour my glass leaving no room for coke.
The voice repeating in my head of the last words you spoke.
You ask why I'm self destructive but the truth is I dont know.

I'm starting to think that the devil is a lie.
The only evil we see is what we bury inside.
I'm going to lose to myself, it's only a matter of time.

I'm starting to get lazy and just copy and paste,
All the words that went nowhere so they don't go to waste.
Maybe i'm just over this **** and need a change of pace.

I have a lot to say but a lot remains unspoken.
My creativity is asleep and dares not be woken.
I write what I feel but my pencil needs sharpened.

This used to keep my demons from making a revival.
Now when I write it's like I dont even try at all.
I dont know how to escape this so I live in denial.

What's left to say that I haven't already said?
The devil lives inside of me it's inside my head.
I'm thinking it's time to introduce my brain to some ******* lead.

Walls are caving in;
struggling for another breath.
I want to let go.

Sky is a taut, grey net spread,
at its  best in creating panic,
relentless day a brutish marauder,
drained of color of every kind, bleak,
even thought of you distant, my nectar
plays hide and seek, I am plunging
in a hallucinatory spin, down, down.

From inside a furnace closed
with a tight lid under which heat
in it's fiery glory permeates
like never before, a full- throated roar,
without any sound it travels around,
in waves after waves after waves,
to scorch every single thing under
the blood thirsty sun, on a hurried
march for revenge,green turbaned
trees and scarf adorned branches
changed all those embellishments
gone bone dry,now stand apologetic
like kids that made bed wet and caught
red handed, shrunk in shame and pain.

Narcolepsy reigns, drowsiness
day and night, like marijuana haze
follows.
            This summer makes its name stick
in bad books,making T.S.Eliot look
shame faced for calling one past tame April,
uncharitably the cruelest of it all.
But this, this is an unbridled wild horse
none can in no way do anything to stop.

When even the last drop of water from
the pond evaporates,sunburn peels the skin,
sun stroke down people, who are unaware,
cruelty of April, becomes monumental.

Perhaps in few days time May could barter
that bad name from April,I'd easily guess.

Buildings , in rows and rows lie, til horizon,
like blood drained corpses all though the day,
the  appetite for life, they evidently has lost.
Song birds on flowered trees, have gone mute,
doves scamper, dart in to the air, with hope
to get few drops of water  from somewhere

Kindhearted few fill water and feed on containers
for stray birds,taking cue from the practices of forefathers.
Change in climate is an ogre, that could with bare hands
smash pompous attitudes  and other human constructs!

Will there ever be a limit, to the red eyed monster,
avarice, we all pamper, within our inner courtyards,
that forces human beings to to do "Harakiri"
like a proud Samurai does with his own sword.

Your final sight
the floor and myself

it is over with as quickly as
you expected

   with your jewelry spilled
   graciously on
    the floor
      your final sight
      
relieved of pain
   your expression mirrors confusion
   and a sort of gladness
  
     it is over quickly
    
     i retreat back into life
  
   your final sight is life
   spread clean with your death

This is the time in which I'll aspire
Set down the bottle
That's what'll make my dad retire
We killed his best friend
A sign I had hoped would strike
This epiphany
I was on the road
I promised I'd never walk so long ago
He used Harakiri to break the cycle
A means for me to defeat my demons
A push to inspire
Even after I struck his final coffin nail
And the snake still eats its tail
The sunlight through the trees
He sent his message between the leaves
what a dead man did for me

I failed the failure's exam
With honors.
Give me a scoop of harakiri.
Ectoplasmic gastric acid ****.
I'm a cauldron soul.
I jump the sword often,
With a pen mighty foolish.
Guns Almighty Love ****..
Gaping, blistered, gangrened LOVE.
Black dog eat dog.
Black cat luck.
Barely-there black jaguar spots.
White paled pink hope dies (dyes).
Funnel your ethics,
Fumigate your reason.
Lazy leopard
Scratch my face off.
Eat it.
Enjoy it.
Hate it.
Dispose.
Withdraw.
Calculate.
Repeat.

i almost forgot to mention the one prerequisite of modern love,
they caught the ****** in Scandinavia -
the punter, got punished - not the *******,
the punter - for crossing over the signpost
obstruction: illegal to cross, legally there, illegal to cross -
if you want an antidote to British xenophobia
watch two Brits having *** - esp. those who are
dumb enough to invite omnipresent, omniscient,
omnipotent Onan - Buddha's third and experience
how much they talk during ******* -
and why do you think most people experience
a fall of libido? professionals in ***?
sure, you can just hear behind that professionals
in carpentry - nail it! nail it! you can just hear it,
Chelsea accent and a swear word -
this is Darwinism as much as i care about a panda
bear having 36 hours to be impregnated per annum,
i watch **** out of curiosity - it's a bigger omen
factory than Halley's comet - in every one of us
a Richard Attenborough - well, trans-categorical
monism, **** sticks together - but listen to the Brits
while *******, i say *** ought to be meaningless
and onomatopoeia fuelled - she moans he plays golf,
he ******* she goes on a shopping spree -
wordless, learning a new alphabet -
but hearing xenophobic tongue on the streets of little England
and then watching British ****, you just tend to
'ave a laugh as to why you have to talk so much
when the primeval cuckoo call is already said -
******* is a curiosity for me, having professional
actors in this area was bound to undermine us
and question our libidos as mere friendships -
sooner or later men will pick up on this and will be
like **** prenups, **** marriage, **** female friendships,
embrace solipsism - Paraclete Union -
but it's just weird that modern love needs a prerequisite,
a ******, even if it's acted out, elsewhere translated as
stage-fright - the fear of someone watching -
20th century complaints of serial killers - impotence -
well, we know where this impotence came from, David
Attenborough in the background in hush tone
as if to not disturb - the female mantis teases her Saudi
billionaire into her **** nest to impregnate and then cut
his **** and assets off like a harakiri execution -
as a humanist and not a naturalist my playing field is
bound to be via a third eye, the attributes of the Almighty
reduced to filth of Onan (third eye omnipresent,
omniscient) - but it's modern kosher - Zapruder -
the first to ******* - there ain't no black
in the Union Jack - there ain't enough white
in the Stars and Stripes - one song lost among Prince
copyrights from you-tube - Manic Street Preachers'
ifwhiteamericantoldthetruthforonedayit'sworldwouldfall­apart,
they deleted it - Prince never got radio on the internet;
album? anthem anorexia - the holy bible / went missing
in Shanghai, lived the rest of his life away from the
spotlight, curating fields of rice into origins of geometry.

no other - a windowsill and an open window -
sitting on a folded leg and slouched
like a crow - i would be begging for it to rain -
no other music can capture rain -
safety net of all that sporadic improv. -
                      other other music - except jazz...
whether it be rain nibbling on the countryside
or the full-on cosmopolitan havoc of grey,
dust, grease, cement and rats and glass...
                 never mind: because i never thought
i'd say this...
                of the moderns... closely ruling out
wojciech kilar - for no particular reason other than
he's probably more known -
christopher young - since his hellraiser stint...
what's new - the revamped pet cemetary?
well... if christopher young was primo...
      soon to follow him... graham... plowman...
work on h. p. lovecraft adaptations...
                     horror as a genre...
                                the music wins me over...
however spectacular the visuals are...
                               if the music isn't bone grinding -
unsettling the nerves -
well... that's like pop music when it's raining...
i guess: oh i guess jazz can capture more feelz
when it comes: when it's raining...
when it's lazily sun-dazzling with the impression
of an "underneath" sizzling sensation -
or melting butter - or for that matter melting chocolate...
or adding splashes of cornflour made in water
to a sauce and watching it thicken...
this recipe i will remember by heart...
i will have to at someone point...
but this dhal was quite sublime...

   scrap book recipe...
          a man in a kitchen...
               and in hell... the devil's mastery...
almost like a chemistry experiment...

       half and half: masoor and mung dal... lentils...
kabuli chana (chickpeas)...
    a bay leaf...
              3 cloves...
  a tsp of cumin coriander turmeric
                     chilly powder and another of kashmiri
   chilly powder
                chopped tomatoes
  coconut milk...
            onion ginger garlic
                spinach
      gochugaru flakes coriander for garnish...
veg and chicken stock...
                          ghee...
butternut squash...
                    cayenne pepper (1 tsp)...
    i was looking for a pinch of asafoetida...
i knew it was in the kitchen...
    alas... also know as a substitute for those
vegan cults that don't include eating onions
and garlic... or perhaps just onions...
    cinnamon stick? no...
but three decent pinches of a homemade
garam masala...
  and yes...

   https://ministryofcurry.com/moms-garam-masala/
is the only spice blend...
   the russians can have their nukes...
the americans can have their nukes...
i have an arsenal of the following spices and...
i'm feeling... like i just had a manicure done...
the only garam masala:
asafetida, bay leaves, black peppercorns,
black cardamom, cardamom, cumin seeds,
(sorry, no black cumin seeds),
      cinnamon, cloves, cordiander seeds,
dried chillies, fennel seeds, fenugreek seeds,
(mace? no mace)...
         nutmeg, poppy seeds, star anise...
turmeric...
          again: no stone flower...
well... that's almost covered it...
                it's not the recipe asks for black
mustard seeds... those i do have...

                   cult recipe and it says: who needs...
meat?! even i'm convinced...
god i do love a good steak tartar...
    anything ****** and oozing wriggly bits
of life - as tender and gelatin grizzly as a...
even the names: bleu... ooh... saignant...
  haha... medium: demi-anglais... what else?

the butchers rolling in their graves
when someone orders a steak: fini-bien...
                          or some other frankenstein of the kitchen...

coleman hawkins - the high and mighty hawk...
some guys were putting up a fence
for me and my neighbour - it only took 15 years
but who's counting - they were told to
cut out all the bushes and foliage in my garden...
so that they could get a straight line
and so the fence would be put up...
unlucky for my rosemary bush...

r.i.p. my rosemary bush...
        today i started to salvage the poor thing...
the newer shoots i placed in water for
a drink and hopefully 2 weeks from today
i might think about planting them back in
the ground... for the rest of the bush?
i had to freeze the rosemary...
all afternoon my fingers were scented with rosemary...
which is fine... when you're working
with a raw piece of lamb...
but i'm no walking and breathing and aching
lamb of god about to be hanging
on the cross...
                even through the soap...
an afternoon of my hands being heavily scented
with rosemary...

vivaldi can have spring and the other three
faces of "god"...
holst can have his mars and the other circle of hell...
but thank the high-flying-****
that jazz can capture a rainy day better
than that song: i'm only happy when it rains
by garbage...
            
  guess i'm not letting go...
         an active rebellion against classical music...
one jazz record after another and i can gravitate
to...ward... the entire e.p. being played...
none of that new wave harakiri diat l.p. scene -
much appreciated... but i always need to move
beyond the half-an-hour mark...

         then again: i can't see how jazz could
compensate for snow - snow on the exit format -
jazz doesn't - then again...
no, categorically...
                           if there's only a sly insert of drum...
no horns - the piano and some guitar -
  
   otherwise you can't go wrong with
joshua redman - back east...
         a modern classic - notably with zarafah...

speed-conversations - none clinging
to a cameo of a date...
                 fickle minded - always changing
the course of events that... nonetheless remain
intact on binding themselves to a blind will -
        
music and all these interpretations are my own -
too bad to see and have to work with
a cipher - what's behind this image -
what's behind that image -
at least music stands stark and shivering naked...
less chances to abide by some propaganda...

unless of course mathematics is to be given
the crown - i hardly think: one shouldn't really
think about music -
                one can never really fathom
the constraints and the escapees from these
constraints... these constant revisionary scribbling
over and skimming the orthodox:
brick-on-brick intricacies of: immoveable objects
being: nonetheless moved...

- i too am waiting for my libido to die off -
anytime soon... like right now...
no harem therefore "jazz hands" and the algebra
of "magic fingers"...
idle man and all that *** that could have been...
until that magnetism is steered off a cliff
of: not another tomorrow -
                    at least no ***** or *** doll upon
the horizon -
            no point getting intimate or personal...
only a few days back i found a weakness in
this exoskeleton -
standing in a shower... pouring running water
onto the back of my head...
i almost knelt and said my prayers from
the exhaustion of succumbing to this multiple-******
of nuance...
       right on the spot where
a higher evolution of a more, protruding occipital
bone: as i've heard it once before: being noted...
i'm waiting for my libido to **** itself off...
in the meantime no harem...
imagine my luck when it comes to
the wisdom served up by men like king solomon...
even by then:
this most exhausted man had
to settle for a swan's dignity in monogamy
with the queen of Sheba...

                 but it's hard to translate wisdom
when you have all the basic forebodings
already at your disposal... the harem will discover
***-toys and you will be...
the limp **** in the whole affair...

                 such hard-on feats of fear when it comes
to... two cakes too many
when all you've been asking for is, merely a slice...
jazz... i can't find
a clint eastwood in alcatraz...
or steve mcqueen in sagan...
               or witold pilecki in auschwitz...      
but i can find myself in jazz...
hummingbird or some, other, champagne flute
and that bothersome fly...
nothing against flies: everything against
mosquitos... i would **** those buggers with
the same joy of donning wool having
just sheered a sheep or two...

jazz and: the wriggling fish...
jazz and all the fish out of water...
i'd call them constipated ***** and lobsters
but... jazz and the wriggling fish...
jazz and smoking a cigarette to appreciate
the deaf centre point of night's culminations...
living close by to central london...
"walking in" and not feeling like
anybody important: or a tourist...

       if i wasn't a billy joel: i would most certainly
not want to be a bob dylan -
hard to be living the obscure with a cross
made up of iconography...

the applauded and the: billy joels' piano man meets
neil young's old man...
they shake hands and subsequently depart
where the crossroads begin, and end...

believe me when: i'm the last to be believed...
usher in a dozen penguins attired
to be... fizzy kosher dosh...
in all their napkins and bowtie-neck strangle 'em
into a hush of a bamboozle...

such the life the music the mathematics
of living in shackles - wriggly ol' ****** with
those improv. would-be-turns and...

how many words will it take for it to be clear...
i have nothing but rejoice at clinging
to my obscurity... primo amigo:
alea iacta est: too bad for me...
or too bad for my shadow...
                       faking being a gemini
in the horoscopes of fate and superstition...
shadow: mime out of the confines...

      these is my second chance at retaining
the crown of obscurity? is it?! is it?!

   to have to burden oneself with love...
akin to... well... if i were about to spoon her...
but no... i wanted to catch the 8 hour kipper....
but every time i would fall
to sleep... i'd fall asleep with a tarantula bite...
numb all over to one side...
because i was oh too willing to fall asleep
when clinging to her...
like a bracket fungus to trunk and core...
one side of me complete in numb...
which had a rubric of recitations
should all else not be true...

but *****! that slap in the face...
                             come to think of it...
i'd like something to eat...
less **** with... that could pinch me...
i'm starting to think that
being ganged up by a group of hyennas
is not such a bad way to go...
perhaps being mistaken for a tuna
when a shark attack is being
noted...
            hard to imagine
sharks or bears or lions as having
sadistic undercurrents to their day-in-day-out
beats...
  even sharks nibble but never gorge
and feast on... this cranium solid first and only
hope when it comes to god
not making mistakes when gambling...
the ******* roulette or a black jacks' "choice"
of cards...

i can't exactly "think" this out to appease
a gravitating en masse...
                       pour me another shot and
debackle! all in the faith and hope
of un-thinking thinking...
trying out this suction tenticle of the void...
replacing descartes' res cogitans with
res vanus... what is due: is due...

no more wisdom from me aged 34
as me aged 73... there's only rain and jazz...
i'm buying time...
concerning whether it would be even
remotely likely to appreciate jazz
when it's snowing... unlikely...
very much hell-bent unlikely...

      - who would have thought that peering
into an aquarium would have to,
become more entertaining that zombie-clad
watching a t.v....
what ever happened to the watching
a klepsydra... or the tick-toe-tightening
of seconds into minutes into hours...
dying from the skeleton diet of time
whenever catching-up: unaware with
the clock in the confines of:
old people not really...
no, not really, listening to coleman hawkins'
much of anything...

                     because this doesn't tease
the affections of the young...
like a trainspotting revamp might....
because there's, clearly no new dracula...
and there's no new: new....
                     i wait patiently like a salamander....
no easy picking no low hanging fruit...
no fatty boy'oh to matter...
         no leeching off the three-quarters
of                               the better part of the engineering
cohort that were behind
the manhattan bridge... or Malbork Castle...
and hands on hands: do touch...
the event horizon of a dead star...
                    in that: pulling fabric...
basic genesis... talking fire "misanthrope": "god"...
bushes outgrowing fungus when
it came to 1970s ***** flicks:
notably in fwench and italian...
                   prune the perm hair...
                             keep that afro on a leash!

these days ***** is half of the cure's nostalgia
and more...
onomatopoeia and...
    refining the contorts with painting...
and keeping the act on a hush...
               the lazy hands speaking
dozen **** cracks being discovered but
none being experienced...
bone the hand...
it's called a ****** just because
of oysters... it's called a ******
because of the clams and of the irises...
and because the tongue:
god... ever time i wanted it to exfoliate...
it's forever that timid tulip!

         what came of a ****** became a hand
and the cusp... and what would never
become a San Francisco needle hinge epidemic...

was anyone praying that
one direction would become the next rolling stones...
cougar: meow...
that **** jagger was going to be
the "reincarnated" harry styles?

           knock-knock... who's there?
a premonition... i.e. touch-wood...
base: i will require the wood to be touched
by bone - notably a crunch of the knuckle in how
the fist is formed / fathomed...

        otherwise known as the lap-lapping-dance-off
with a tongue wriggling in imitation
closure of a worm...
or a fighter for a boxing champ. contender...
belt-up... knot and noose down....
the new news is no: good skit...
i **** myself to fickle my shadow
whenever i see a hoopla or a trance inducing
recoil of the swinging dancing spare
of a: rope that's not leftover for
the dangling first come first served...

daydreaming zeppelins...
the day the elevated english man will fall...
and bring down the bowler hat with him...
touch the philosopher's stone and turn
that attache of good taste into an umbrella...
the same day i stop daydreaming
about zepplins...
will see me think of the anglo-saxon
as whittle brother... the younger Swabian...
and all part of the infuriated minor
Germany that found inkling to behave
like the nomad Yids...
and move... and move... and...
never the sort of people to conceive of a ship...
without also being receptive of carrying
an anchor!

then again...
                   monkey man albino and...
forever the one to follow the white rabbit back home.

before i begin, a pre-scriptum...
         in my hand, this minute?
                   what a rare delight...
the Beauties of Sterne:
                                with some account of his life...
printed for J. Walker,
published by J. Walker, Paternoster Row &
   J. Harris, St. Paul's Church Yard...
London... 1811!
    and being a big "fan boy" of the fiction
that a bibliophile might have an adventure:
Roman Polanski's the Ninth Gate...
   now, for a book that's... 208 years old?!
it's not in bad shape... sure...
the hardcover is missing by a half...
but all the text is intact...
              obviously colouring of the pages...
but hey... i'm not a museum...
             the book is still fiddled with...
ha ha, the opening page with a picture
reads as follows:
   there are worse occupations in this world,
than feeling a woman's pulse...
perhaps a quote about... insensibility?
   it reads as follows:
       it is the fate of mankind, too often,
to insensible of what they may enjoy at
the easiest rate (sermon XLII)...
   besides, lucky for me youtube continues
to glitch from time to time...
    now looking more in line with channels
than individual artists...
   notably? Harakiri Diat (channel)...
eh... :wumpscut, the soft machine,
demdike stare, vomito *****, feindflug
weren't enough...
          turns out... there's more...
beyond penta, matutero and GloOMy
PhAntOM... well, please, allow me:
   filmmaker - the love market,
              la ***** bianca - demian...
hell... if you want to venture into the past?
i know one band that freaked out
my ex-girlfriend... gong - flying teapot...
or that song by greenskeepers, lotion...
               i thought i'd never see someone
become freaked out about music...
curios and also highly curious, yes...
but freaked out?
                 primitive knot - puritan...
demolition group - you better...
          1986 Yugoslav minimal electro...
Bruce Roach - Gut...
              and as it turns out...
    i look from this corner of the internet and find
absolutely no need to delve into
the dark web... install Tor...
           if you really want to...
  you'll find all you need... but you need
to sift through a bibliography of a book prior
to... it's all here... this sort of material
has an inbuilt filter... it filters out
             mainstream consumers of content...
i should know...
    3 websites that banned me,
1 suspended me...
                   i crossed the threshold...
    normie poetic: outcast *****...
           yet i still sometimes happened to chance
upon a will...
           lao che - soundtrack (the whole album
is decent) -
              


.i once heard it was based upon the following maxims: bogatemu wszystko wolno (the rich are allowed anything), siła razy gwałt (force multiplied by ****)... well... over the years, that much was true... but then i conjured a reply: nie wszystko wolno bogatemu (not everything is given an allowance to be expressed by the rich) and wola odiąć gwałt (will, having substracted ****): otherwise it's still wola razy gwałt (will, multiplied by ****).

****, i only just "woke" up from
this game,
you know that game...
oh i'm pretty sure you know it...
it's called
   pass the jew along...
   rudolf höss
      cited, among the list:
ibrahim ibn yaqub,
         radhanites (there's a surd
H in there, rad-'anites)
    casimir III...
esp. the latter...
           so.. give the current h'americans,
we're still playing the globalist
nomad game of: juggling the jews,
yes, no, maybe?
so my mother tended to
two old jewish women,
because, just "because"
their sons were active in
the "economics" of passing law
and techno-literacy?
oh... right... i "see"...
                            i... "see"...
in defence, of the "neglected" ones...
makes perfect sense,
de facto 51,
                  area 51 was always
a propaganda convert term
for Israel, rather than some area
bound to Nevada, wansn't it?
wasn't it?
                      ask me again
one year from now,
did we live peacefully among the jews?
they'll tell you the joke...
didn't the jews shoot,
with riffles,
   with bent barrels / sights
aiming at themselves rather
than the nazis?
       no, no soap jokes when
it comes to yews...
the yids...
      everyone in poland just
wondered: why so pacified?
        so blatant in walking into
an inferno?
                      you know...
it took Poland longer to surrender,
while being attacked by both
the Germans and the Russians,
than it took for the Fwench
to be attacked by the sole effort
of the Germans?
    funny... that...
                               i truly admire
some nazis, for their ingenuity...
notably? erwin rommel...
   lothar von arnauld de la periè(re)...
(subtle, i give you that one,
per-y'eh...
                 'old 'ack 'old 'ck
   h-b-h-b,
                                    rein in...
otherwise perié... ergo without
                                           the -re)...
michael wittmann...
and i'm a ******...
      **** me...
they didn't bomb paris,
might as well state:
they also didn't bomb
  marienburg or most of danzig...
Warsaw? taken down,
levelled, brick by brick,
        until no brick stood on brick...
              what?!
i thought the western capitalist-ico
communist insurgents
wanted target practice?
          i thought these people
wanted nazis, no?
          i'll admit... tiki torches?
you must have never looked
at european football hooligans...
tiki torches?!
you having a bbq?
            never heard of flares?        
- mind you...
you know what's worse beside
beind ridiculed?
having your intelligence
insulted...
i.e. do i look like someone
who managed to ****
your mother with a *******
harmonica,
or, am i, bound to the responsibility,
of your parents playing
the irresponsibility card,
attempting to convey a child
into existence aged circa 50
circa 45,
and what comes out is
an autistic cucumber?!
    **** me...
try giving ****** lessons
to circa 50 year olds;
and now the paradox...
   "i'm" the "schizophrenic"...
cool cool, coolio...
     i'll just hide in that "harem's"
worth of a brothel with
the prostitutes who tell
me they get s.t.d. checks on
a regular basis, o.k.?
_____

what am i to add to this?
not much, is there...
was the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald
ever great?!
  how satisfying it is to be unable
to please the crowd....
words, after all, are not bread...
how one wishes
for an anathema rather than
a martyr's embrace...
            one begins to imagine...
then one loses interest...
then...
                    peering through
the eye of a needle
watching a camel walk through...
one spots something outside
the realm of the metaphorical miracle...
do i have to?
      what if i remain to this side
of the eye of the needle?
what riches do i have that i cling to...
books & music...
does that make me rich?
what are the sort of riches where either
people plunder readily (music),
or do not engage with to begin
with?
who are ready to read...
i can claim to be a book thief...
i stole two books from my high school
library... the quran and the scarlet &
the black by stendhal...
            "stole"... i extended their
licance of being borrowed...
how am i rich: if my riches are the riches
no one would want to steal?!
i am rich... though...
               but i am rich in a both
materialistic / non-materialistic paradox
frame...
                what i own no one wants to
steal! why steal a first cheap edition
of a dickens' novel if you're not going
to read it!
              
       **** **** ****.... if they were such
philistines... when blitzing London,
why did st. paul's remain intact?
   "coinicidence"? i don't think so...
and why did they steal all those
art-works? again, "coincidence"?

                    they were people:
i find it uncomfortable to suit them up
in transcendence,
to be: epitome evil...
  to be the übermensch...
                   they loved art as much
as they loved being the antithesis
of the golden horde: gucci, dolce & gabbana
zz top: well dressed men...

     nazis loved art and fashion,
by far the best dressed army in the world
and history...

   ol' herman and otto came back
from the eastern front to a scared wife and mother...
people! they weren't mythical creatures...
the nazis can hardly become
chimeras as they become in the minds
of pseudo-communists of the western lands...

they are hardly the epitome of evil,
i know the 21st century narrative
deems them: "the perfect example"...
come on... they're not evil embodied
with not subsequent examples to be given
to... historical capitalism of evil:
there's always someone waiting,
some group of people to stage
a competition libra... and they will...
overcome the nazis...
it's only a question of ingenuity /
imagination...
           gas chambers was only industrial...
it will become personal in the years to come...
methodologically trained cultured
barbarians woken from a slumber...

the nazis were not: philistines...
   in no defence: didn't they speed up the creation
of the state of israel?
   didn't they? **** uncle:
   lavrentiy pavlovich Beria is going to state
the matters differently?
like hell he is...

        my family also suffered in that war...
sure, not in a concentration camp:
but on the front...
             there's even a joke that my
grandfather remembers:
the jews were shooting with bent nozzles
of riffles...
   as he also remembers two ss-men
who he asked for sweets,
and they would give them to him,
he'd as them: herr! bitte bon-bon!
   sweets so sweet that he would have
to rinse his hands under water
to unglue them from the sickly in-between...
how all the insurgent soviet soldiers
were teenagers and preferred to
sleep in pigstys and among the goats
in the hay...

how did the nazis become mythological
i will never understand,
at uni i had a **** history teacher,
canadian, she really liked my essay
on napoleon... how he was a great
strategist...
akin to?  

   erwin rommel wasn't a ****...
erwin rommel was, erwin rommel...
a great strategist...
        am i supposed to thrive in this
current year of polarized *******?
it's the current topic,
i can't escape it,
  sure, i'd love to have a Wordsworth
moment, lurking in me,
or an anna akhmatova breakthough...
instead?! i'm given this sort of *******
on a platter,
  and all that's missing are the wedges
of lemon and the eager oysters to
be gulped down... lucky me!

no, i don't like how the nazis are misrepresented
as both the übermenschen:
these mythological epitomes of evil
(no greater evil is to come? really?!)
and at the same time
as philistines: they stole art,
they ensured that critically cultural
documents of architecture were left
undisturbed... st. paul's cathedral...

         it's not like some otto or moritz
didn't come back home to a wife
and children... no...
he came back to the shadow cult
of the ******* hanging over him...

you know what the most haunting experience
i have ever experienced was?
Ypres... world war I site...
visiting a german cemetary...
compared to the allies cemetary?
**** me, what a meagre sight!
           the allies were burried with marked
graves, each man to his own cross...
the german burial ground?!
  mass graves....
eh: one marker: 200 bodies in one pit...
                 and here's the 21st century with
games about shooting: zee nat'zees...

   just visit the world war I cemetaries...
the ally cemetaries? square miles...
each man with his white cross...
german cemetaries? as mass graves go...
one marker per 200+ troops...
so... not that much space required...
less: bombast!
               pride & prejudice /
   pomp & circumstance...
   which the english speaking world is...
of the latter convenience to suit the narrative.

to reiterate...
   as a ******... the whole german fetish
isn't my kind of gig...
what with my grandmother being born
on the front... given opiates at an early
age so she would not cry and allow
the soldiers to locate her and my gread-grandparents...
but...
   they were the best dressed army in
the history of warfare...
they were not philistines and they certainly
weren't the mongolian golden horde...
i.e. they stole art, notably jewish artwork...
and if a luftwaffe squadron were to drop
a bomb on st. paul's? they'd probably
be shot...
  after all... Posen wasn't destroyed,
Breslau wasn't destroyed...
        Danzig wasn't destroyed...
Cracow wasn't destroyed...
             o.k., half of Warsaw was,
but we know why that happened
(or at least i do... idealist students who
thought they could fight the enemy
with slingshots and air-pistols)...
why? the Germans were simply thinking:
oh... we'll just be moving back...
i once explained it to myself...
they weren't exactly some mythological
grand evil template...
so i started thinking about them as:
Hans von Seeckt...
  or Otto Hertz...
              or some other german random
soldier...
      well... you should travel to Ypres,
Belgium... and visit a German cemetary
from war world I... then visit
the allies graveyard...
       each soldier, individually buried...
with his pwetty pwetty weißkreuz -
mostly named...
                 now visit a german cemetary...
mass.... graves...
                they just dumped them,
heaped them...
                        to me they were people...
you can't exactly reason with a mythological
evil - an archeological evil,
   an archetypical evil...
          for an archetypical evil?
try the nuclear family...
                         ******... that sort of thing...
child abuse... too many actors
were involved in this story,
too many mistakes, too many naive blunders...
evil on this scale is easily diluted...
which is why it's taught as history,
in schools...
   no one will teach children about...
oh... say... the Wiener Blut scenario...
   Josef Fritzl...
                    i'm pretty sure this will not be
taught in a history class...
                or... the H. H. Holmes Hotel story...
but it might become a jack the ripper
tourist-fetish... might it not? well, it already is.

buried alive; (in) sane; or harakiri?

a trifecta of horror
cuts through the lush foliage while i
writhe in a nest of
eldritch entrails

anxiety
rises up like an ophidian
coils shedding every quarter of a noon
ready to strike -
i lose movement
and falter through the streets
the meeting rooms,
and the endless conversations that end in stalemates;

my anxiety
an ouroboros of volcanic self-effacement
spills into posh mental facilities (lies)
and shoddy hospitals that turn the sick into the living dead

humiliation
burns bright red (magenta)
and brands my delicate skin with age-old glyphs
they mark the end of a civilization

the birth of a metropolis
with twin suns and dark monoliths
where the mob guillotines the visionaries
and the artist dies a dog's death.

i know reality,
i know that things thrown up
will necessarily fall down...
and i ask you, do you know
reality? if by textbook psychiatry
you're knowledgeable
the whole of Disney would be
in psychiatric wards...
because "they lost touch with reality",
yes, i know where Switzerland is,
inherit what i can and that's where
i'm heading... because i wasn't
brought up as a samurai to perform
harakiri - there was no law of pride
instilled in me - so you know,
no volcano ready to jump into -
i know reality, no dreamer in me
to fake a way out with old age...
oh yeah, and that's an accomplishment...
*wybryki młodości raczej nie z wiekiem,
i z wyrokiem - mru mru - no wiesz,
wyrokiem śmierci - w grób glizdo
jak i w biblje i proch!

call it culture... call it: kul-toor... something "cool"...
i've just drank a bottle of wine and
i'm far from... feeling an armchair moment
of enjoying: whatever it is i'm supposed to enjoy...

millenial woes...
        h3h3... the whole list... it's really your standard
packet of pork chops...
i would be much prouder if i were...
adamantly watching an english soap-opera...
at least that sort of "consumering" makes
it to a pub quiz status... the trivia the knowledge:
the machine gun and blank stares:
who's who?

      but i have comes across the concept
of ASMR...
                       insomnia dalmation barking
in swiss...
i was... once upon a time:
  told to listen to some Max Richter...
      i still much prefer christopher young's
hellraiser II: hellbound soundtrack...
i've been buthering that soundtrack for almost
forever... and the "problem of counting sheep":
i imagine myself making a chicken...
into a soup from the torso - intricate bones
of the spines...
   perhaps the wings... then leaving
the ******* for a roullade: or schnitzels...
and the quarters (thighs and legs)... well...
that's just another dinner... probably roasted...

counting sheep: can it be called:
shooting ducks?
              ASMR... cringe videos of whispering...
who pays...
when there's that full package available
with the bulgarian women... the dimmed lights...
once a year... perhaps once every two or three...
but of course... i check on myself daily:
whether all this drinking and all that smoking
is true: that it might lead one to a limb-****
bashing... day in day out like someone checking
their blood sugar or their blood pressure...
i check mine...
                        
        culture: ketchup...
           a clean and easy throne of thrones affair...
the no. 1, 2 and 3... and then a baptism in
the shower...
                most of the time i pretend:
having wiped my ***...
            if "culture" / ketchup is this bad...
the next best thing? ******:
                  becoming a **** flinging monkey!

busy as busy comes...
when was the last time it rained in england?
april was when i witnessed the spike of oddities...
it was sunny: so much so that you could
turn sunlight into a liquid and drink it:
like a schnapps...
     the bewildering concept of the english garden...
when... the garden is rarely used...
to b.b.q. like an australian:
   etc.
                 but the neighbour put up a fence
after 15 years of "politics" and now
i am working on putting apart the old shed
and putting up the new one...
          
ASMR... that kite is flying and i just want
to cut its umbilical chord...
and send a message in a bottle... thrown...
into something as static as a big chemical-puddle...
in a mini "bottle"... the message being written
in braille and itching on nail's head...
like a Gustav Dore etching...

                              something: spectacular...
        this that or the other... something spectacular...
like a phoneline... all calls from india
and from a call-centre...
                     thank god this canvas is "meine sprechen"...
spectacular" unwinding in how pedagogy
is a memory acid... someone comes along:
we, write - alt. "grammar"...
           no need - or need...
                      rules like gravity: never mind!
rules like: how to tie a tie: never mind!
      we make up as we go along...
***** spirit: yo'go!
               astounding my disbelief...
                 such rules when asked:
  could, extend... toward... the schizoid cipher?
        nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
bad grammar is one thing: speaking in metaphors
and crosswords: only the zodiac could:
with that splinter of ego and a hacking:
of brain as woo woo wood woody chen.

                to have went to school for the sole reason
that: one weren't born in the victorian
era and being a chimney-sweep!
   better have dumbed down and taught
to stack supermarket shelves:
while also being taught that...
   and... wanting to read in your spare time...

to see... a cohort of peacocks strutting like
geeese... tails folded.
                
    for lack of a better choice of words:
hit & miss... hit & run...
             if this was as easy as getting:
what walt whitman got...
             or didn't get...
                   bad grammar is good grammar:
a bit like arithmetic: 3 + 15 = 19!
or... the science of: guess...

                scratch of the head:
perhaps i'm an apostate catholic...
a proselyte veering toward... digging under
judaism is a pitiable reading of the qabbalah...
the good catholic boy'oh with his credo,
his litany of ave marias and unser vater...
     in conversation with hey'zeus: ihre vater...

                  noster pater: pater noster...
                    vester pater: pater vester...

to be so: "shielded"... a belief matching up
to prayer beads...
to actual prayer... and all that... cognitive free-space
to boot!
i'm a bad atheist: at inception...
or is that the "un" conversion?
to gravitate filling nothing with a self,
a mirror and smoking a cigarette infront of it...
it's not enough...
that i do not pray: doesn't excuse the fact
that... i'm squeezed by an octopus in a straitjacket...
to think of god: existent or non-,
            it's hardly concerning myself with:
objective reality objective truth or objective
morality...
               pass as a ghost in this life...
a tomb of body in the waiting: to admire sparrows
is to also pay very little due for
opera... the timing is crucial... or not...

   concern oneself with comparisons...
to truly appreciate a sparrow singing...
is to stand stark naked in a garden...
to truly appreciate an opera...
is to don the tux... and play the vanity game
and the game of voyeurism...
same old same old:
same book: different cover...

                     new atheism: no god...
yes... but still that funnel argument of: no god...
if a funnel is the hearing-aid of Pascal...
i bet it is...
                  bad grammar was one thing...
but the proof of solipsism?
farting in a crowded place...
and being the only person who wouldn't
mind the mild: overstated "nuance"
of exploring perfumes that...
better suit... the decomposition of
strawberries and apples...

cezanne... had he painted still life...
yes... at that moment of "death"...
recycling vector (0, 0, 0) when the fruits
in still life have reached the nadir...
but the form is still intact... etc.

                      to be a catholic or...
but to be an atheist: and have one's prayers
"stolen" and replaced with...
at best: the prefix omni- and a geometry...
to have one's prayers "liberated"
by the thought-glutton of existence or non-,

chowhound: chew-fiend...
best of all... no teeth, not tongue...
no tapeworm of oesophagus inverted:
umbilical chord "gizmo" replica...
no stomach no **** bishop "pomp & circumstance"
and the **** the crown...

so much for praying: praying could be recovered
from...
but to have one's thinking occupied so?
it's beside the psalm of the Pascal wager...
to think:
             ut cogito... the act, itself...
so much for: ego cogito...
                    
                         to think: no therefore...
is... to...             what?               be?
how many times i have found thinking to be
a **** manual... thinking at times frees...
but most of the time: reality-checks...
contrains... and obliterates prospects...
then again: that wouldn't be concise enough
to be given either noun or verb status concerning:
the...                zone rouge...

to think: is and isn't:
     otherwise... a statement... of exasperation...
that has no compensation
in a translation of: thought = being...
i think is hardly a cornerstone...
it's a stone... a stone among rubble...
a good... revisionist: again!
   this... "i" and this "think"...
                      
and overstated fact guarded by:
a pronoun invocation...
          but: to think...    what's that?
to think is... what?
           to conjure up a soul...
and all the hallucinations to boot?
to think is to... what?
in the future: the lost participle of present...
and the past tense being:
nothing more than a mongrel
of journalism... history and... perhaps...
poo'etry?

             no... there's absolute no need to make
of h'americans for their secular shortcomings...
but there's just the Salem...
and those stickers... parental... guidance...
necessary...
                        oath words like: i... **** i swear...
the church the tele-evangelical:
spit *** sooner pit of...
                    if i had my way with
the mid-west... sooner i: deer-hunter...

so much for the catholic boy: prayer, duty...
and so much for the atheisst "i":
who eats all my thought: the θ(ought)
conundrum... perhaps it's a moral question
too... perhaps...

   to think: thought: ought i?
lucky for me...
my body is a shadow and my shadow is thought...
and i forget what's a crowd-pleaser and
what will allow me to sentence to grief: less and less...
and less...
ah! to think: ought i? ergo:
qua: non-qua
                             vel: non-qua: qua...

i waited for rain... i waited for rain...
i finally found joy in rain...
i also found a lisp of scotland...
many a mile before edinburgh was reached...

up and along the swing...
to swing so high... but to also sulk so low...
at least the catholics and those other
pseudo-italians are just: god-****! predictable!
backwards... introspective:
that the orc started to trend on twitter...
where is Mordor? east...
i usually conjure up the russians and
the slavs: well... given that russia is mostly
conjured up into breath by
mongol mongrels - anything of russian
envy east of moscow?

kazakhstan?!

         i'm no freer from "god" as either
atheist or catholic...
sure... i don't have to pay duty for and excuses
mumling credo under my
"knowledge" of soul: the breath...
but something is still eating my thought:
it doesn't exactly care whether it exists
or whether it doesn't...
the best argument i'll have to borrow...

si dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait l'inventer...
if god did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him;
i too wish it would be done: the easiest -
to simply not think of him...

a cul de sac of arguments for my liking:
it's a plughole...
a bathtub full of water...
and the waterline is diminishing...
that will still not make me more
"believable" should i succumb to pray...
the worst aspect of h'america is
not the gluttony...
it's the evengelical zeal... then again:
i'm also wondering how this
is to escape me...
dilute itself into the readily available air...
fizzle out...
like a bottle of caronated water...
left open... till the carbon mingling within
a ******* of oxygen twins...
goes-bye-bye:

  when the first h'americans took to tourism
via pulp fiction: about le bib mac...
and fries served up with a dollop of mayo -
alt. - to home run: score...
zoid ist tod! zoid ist tod!

                 the prayer manual worth of god...
gone... dusted... the moths are settling...
and the spiders too...
              but the thinking loose skin...
"   " and what was missed bound to
a "malapropism" -
             hyper-inflated dyslexia...
       because learning grammar sentences you:
to that ode for the dickensian
chimney-sweeper!
  
                the misnomer... and the malapropism...
a debate: no... it's not a pun...
the peacock is loitering...
bad gwammar doth not:
fizzle out to faze him...
            
                yep... one of those internet ketchup
        moments...
to be "commited": pride and dignity...
performing a karaoke of harakiri...
                high-brow ambitions...
that: pride... and dignity... revenge... say what?!

salt is salty: no... salt is salt...
sugar is sweet: true... because:
you can't exactly....
              sugar is: sweet...
but sugary? unlike salt: there's no salty...
    sugar... sugary...
           salt: salty...
                    sugar is sweet...
but: sweety? an endearment?
sugary: taste the difference?
granuled... powder... syrop prone?
salt is salty: no... salt is salt...
sugar is sugary: no... sugar is sugar...

                                             blah blah...
and thank god no one has the time
and... concern for a capacity of minding...
such details... of obscurity...
better equipped:
a plumber with a blockage of a pipe...
than me... teasing at etymology...

life is: the bore of the precursor of time:
eternal time...
           forever is hardly a wait...
no amount of solipsism could ever solve...
the stage the sycophancy:
i ask: the solipsist and the sycophant
the same question:
what's the answer... when no question
is being aksed?

Those restless nights.
Lay in bed, brain lit abright.
Mind off wondering late into the night.

Drifting off in theory, fantasy, and psychological harakiri.
Mind aimlessly adrift, throughout the cosmic rift.
The trivialities of unseen realities.
The complacent within societies debasement.
General hipocrisy of rampant misology.
Apostasy!

Before you know it, the dawning light.
Yet another sleepless, restless night.

When you want to see
through a mirrored fake, lie becomes
truth in broad daylight.

There will be a collective
death after suicidal harakiri Can we
rewrite history? I will ask for milestones.

In the Lilac season. I want
you to walk with me in the dark
to share the stigma of the moon.

Search your soul, linger till you grow
Old in fields of gold, rain comes so does the hope
Hostile buildings flying around the head, like buzzing bees
Criminalizing every last convict
Coining every last name in the prison register
Treason and trainwrecks have conviction in common
Break the tough chains, with tough breaks
Tinkering like thirty-years
Breeding and birth is a part of the fleeting memory, of high and dry
Try and you can quench the thirst of a couple of people at the end of the road and the rotation of crowds
Brimming with satisfaction, I can't find the child that's always dissatisfied
A bridge on time of carnage would be better than burning the commodores
****** mysteries and bebop, tell you can light your own enigma
Lady luck is fickle, she got razor-sharp claws and got 'em all
Too bad she tears up the fateful roads that are meant to cross-point like the stars on Moonlight drive
Fear in the darkness and in the loathing of Las Vegas
Leers and glances of the beatnik and bookish boys, gracing every with their masculine advances
Being bums and being contended
Pardon me, c'est la vie, cinema mon amour
The shards of saviors slashing samurai swords and serried sands
Lands, composed the Magna Carta of the time and sending off
The harakiri killed the suicide solution, the feudal times with Japan in the cherry blossom
Trees falling transient photos, stills on the artist within, touch the sword
Can't get the arrows and bows, quip, fly the mistakes by the taste of killing stakes
Bleeding soldiers, in the thousand men in gracious faceless
Read-write the scrolls that stand the test, emptiness is just a reflection of the blind
Eye to eye, blinking can't avert an artist's eyes
This is the hummingbird that hides, the cusp of time and cutting vernacular
The chirping and belonging of the terse stories of the counts and countesses of the summer loathing
Heralding the sun, and it's God in the sands of time and talk of tides
Working like the winds and winding solar clocks, and lunar dials
Tellin' and reelin' in the direction of the red skies, see where they make their mirages

i was never a fan of acronyms... it must be an w.a.s.p. "thing"
to have fallen in love with acronyms:
white... anglo-saxon... protestant...
i just imagine...
what it the Swabians or the Pomeranians...
were the chosen tourists...
nomads without a lament score...
oh god someone is oppressing the Saxons...
get to it: sort it out!
of all the Germanic peoples that came to these isles
after the fall of Rome...
my my... how the Saxons hijacked
the Welsh and the Scots for a prize of sending postcards
from the Raj... some remote Pacific Islands...
i live among these people...
morphed by some added French...
i don't like acronyms: i don't like acronym speech...
it's like... the alphabet twice-over...
organised to suit some secret society...
yawn...
so when i was living out my: soul-osmosis:
psychosis of my 20s...
mid-way through my 30s i stopped taking
the pills i was prescribed:
what waited was a hunger so cycling...
and ingesting electrolytes...
and vitamin B12 supplements...
which translated into 2 cycling sessions a day...
i was going to ask my mother and my father
concerning being irritated
about some...minor bureaucratic doodle
of a vaccine passport...
i could have been riddled with radioactive
juice from 1986... oh yes... the effects of Chernobyl
came around... some of the trees turned
autumnal in the middle of spring:
with streaks of radioactive death...
19 days... pass enough time just emerging as a foetus:
those just might be aeons...
scribble some radioactive juice...
well... a pretty picture...
i'm giggling though... inside and out...
i hate acronym language...
long before the "movement"...
"lifestyle choice"...
i only heard about it then youtube stopped
suggesting me new music to listen to...
apart from the channel harakiri diiat...
i came across videos of political commentary...
later... the... ahem...
    MIG-TOW... MIG-TAO...
Mikoyan... towing...
       or the Mikoyan Tao...
it's a pseudo-take of the fighter jet...
a Russo-Chinese hybrid project...
it's not a fighter-jet...
unless... fighter-jets have a Taoist sensibility
built in them... ha...
it's this "movement" via the acronym MGTOW...
i don't like acronyms...
point being... you don't really need
classical socialism... or their current
pseudo-arguments of inclusivity... blah blah...
best represented blah blah...
you have these... men... in a society...
where... harem quotas are no met...

daseine: da (there) + seine (being) = concern...
dast seine: da- (there) + i-st (is) + seine (being) = potential...
all on conjured up via a blitzkrieg
on a bicycle... mediating heavy traffic...
happens... all the ******* time...
i curse the nerve-wrecks that drive cars...
a woman in mini-cooper: sized so: ||
will require... this much space: |          |
to overtake you...

but a man in a HGV... or a bus... sized so: |          |
will require... this much space: ||
to overtake you...
as an aggressive cyclist...
i can't exactly indicate cycling up a *******
hill...
it's sometimes too late coming to a roundabout...
but then again: some indicators of direction
are already painted onto the tarmac...
traffic is not a game for solipsists...
when the former happens
i curse: it would have taken you...
20 more bypassing rounds around
me... doubling down:
when i see a Nissan Micra / a mini cooper
overtake me... while it was taking its time:

WHERE'S... THE... *******... PANZER!

- i'll just draw the sketch in writing...
fiddle with some phonetic cul de sacs..
you draw the bigger picture: the Kandinsky moment...
i don't need socialism to argue my point...
as much as abhor the acronym...
what could possibly undermine capitalism:
not that i want it undermined...
men not coupling with women...
men are not the spenders...

i can attest... one visit in a brothel once every half
a decade will not solve the demand for...
her... make-up chemo-therapy....
i mean... i can swap a good enough amount
of *** for... she's charging me £2 per minute...
perhaps dentists own as much...
perhaps... i spend my money on
essentials...
bicycle oil... whiskey... ******* flour...
to thicken a curry sauce...

                  capitalism works when...
men are willing to give up their money
for other men to make money from
the women who will spend it...
what if i'm not willing to couple up
with a woman who will spend it on...
*******-tides-&-screws...
the argument is a softened teddy: bear
of a pork **** hammered flat into a schnitzel...
why is my grandmother becoming more
estranged from...
she kept my grandfather's deterioration
a secret... come death: the end...
hardly any argument willing: to be satiated with
any pleasure for the juice of: life...

who needs socialism... to undermine capitalism?
when you can simply have men
detached... divorced... from the spending spree prowess
of women?!
maybe capitalism is just choking everyone into:
abundantly: more! more!
but what if there's no more to spend?
i don't need socialism...
socialism is for Syria... like it was for Poland
when World War II ended...
it's funny... did "my"... "my" people: ever
relish the concern for democracy...
will Poland become the new Vietnam?
sure... send in the black-*****-black-out
with eager future: single-moms...

do i look like someone willing to earn less
than i might spend more on?
the Teutonic Knights had a brothel
in their citadel of Marienburg...
i visit the brothel... once every half a decade...
i imagine she'll be ready to buy
buttons: a bear cub nibbled off my cardigan
at a Danzig zoo...

oh i can see how capitalism can be
undermined... it's already undermined...
the two tiers of spending...
i am prone to advertisement as a joke...
since i don't trust journalism..
but then i'm immune to advertisement
because...
i don't want to spend money...
i'd need a woman for that...
while a woman would eagerly spend:
spend... even if she doesn't have the money...

this one... softness for Islamic economics
hits true: all the time...
to abhor... the become tantamount in abhorring:
usury... this is the only redeeming
quality of Islam..
to hell with their theology...

if i were to... be loaned a pile of rubble...
why should i have to repay you...
a ******* mountain (of rubble)?

not being attached to a spending prowess of
a woman...
stale society: a walking abortion case...
must be designated a psychiatric diagnosis
to function: debilitated...
so much for those freed up lovers
of questionable purpose...
an hour with a ***** will "save" your economy...

the **** of the Sabine women...
too far fetched... for the quake of kings
resurrected for the hindsight of world war I...
the solo project: as each man be his...
tomb...

dasein(e) morphed -
a bit like with the clinger of Bastille...
marquis de sadé... no... women love to ****...
da (there) ist (is): sein (being)....
lightning stroked me...
sensible...

i like to "think" of pedestrians when cycling...
as.. pockets iof potential:
this "****" philosophical project
of "concern" is beside me....

dasein units of "potential concern":
versus... dastsein: units of "concerning potential"...
sharoened:
dasein: concern...
   dastsein: potential...
there is... being...
not that: there...not beng...
some germanic oops!

da-st'-sein...
DAST-SEIN...
  
it will not take socialism to undermine
the current schema of capitalism...
it will require the men themselves...
men uncoupled from the spending habits of
of... women....

bad cocktail... bad bad cocktail...
b'ah... the forest needs to breahe...
lend it some fire...
by way of:
i'll suffocate the whole economy with
replicas of moi...
she needs to spend:
but if i'm not coupled to a she:
who'll willing to sped...

who's spending who's tax-for-*******...
free?!

after a long shift at Fulham (Craven Cottage): well... obviously
it was going to be a longer shift than usual...
we were readying ourselves for a pitch-invasion...
since... if Fulham won... they would become secured
promotion to the Premier League...
i asked to be moved inside: third time...
   all the prior shifts in Bishop's Park were: one big
joke / yawn... nothing to do...
                                    absolutely nothing... nada -
            ei mitään
at least inside the stadium i could do something useful...
first on the turnstiles... then on the seg-line...
then... moved to the front... facing the crowd...
obviously i was picked to move around a bit because
i can sometimes look intimidating if i want...
not that i really want to... but Fulham has a different
atmosphere to West Ham...
mind you... whatever the stereotypes... western Londoners
are slobs... they have no fashion sense...
honest to god... eastern Londoners have so much
more dress sense! esp. the men...
   i won't mention the women either side of the fence...
but... east London men: well... the ones that come
to football matches are... proper ******* lads...
    prim...
                       back to the turnstiles: paired up with
this Muslim kid... for a while he thought i was Muslim
too... like those Muslim propagandists on Edgware Road
trying to make me into a proselyte thought
i was German... backwards and forwards...
so what time do you break fast...
   you still break the fast in the classical way with water
and dates? he looked bemused since
in the turnstiles opposite us... the "ummah" breaks
fast with an entire ******* meal... my guess... Somalis...
he even asked me for a favour:
can i pray in this turnstile shack... you know where
east is?
           i don't mind but... we're opening in like 5 minutes:
and i'm pretty sure your prayer is not as quick
and pointless as our father... which only good children
get up to before going to bed... in Catholic circles...
at least: until they become... well apostates...
so he asked: you're fasting to? it was the beard...
the full beard and moustache... ergo i must be a Muslim...
and not an urban hipster... well: no long hair done up
in a Shiva "jatadhara" - but not dreaded / matted...
oh no... i fast for a non-religious reason...
   i like fasting: it makes you more concentrated...
you learn that by fasting you can train yourself to hunger
something that transcends a hunger for food...
me... when i fast... i hunger for the eyes of women
to look at me... literally: hungry like a wolf...
          i hunger for human interaction: but Fulham is
not a friendly crowd... high-brow... depends...
            - and i truly don't know how Charles Bukowski
wrote about the drudgery of work...
           i must have spent too much time in my ivory tower
in my twenties... raving mad...
to now find myself... happily working... after all:
only a day prior i was doing some hardening...
right now... i count... 9 trees that i planted in my garden...
so far: the first... a plum tree... towers over me...
and each year she doesn't disappoint with her yield...
the others are just infants, but hopefully...
two years down the line... some apricots...
cherries.... morello cherries... apples... pears...
   i might not have walked in Eden... but... eh... so so...
plus the rosemary the thyme and the wild garlic that...
in the summer months... come night time after having
watered it... it smells like... marijuana...
    plus that massive eucalyptus tree at the end of it:
shame... no pandas...
               but i understand like... i don't want to say it...
but... it's sort of like.... ahem: ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
long shift today... pitch-invasion...
   some roughing up at first... then enough people took
up audacity and it was like: just let them past...
yesterday dismantling a vegetable patch...
   shifting about a tonne of soil... shovel: shove shove...
into bags and dumped into another part of the garden...
then... digging three holes for three gorgeous trees...
there... i did my green bit...
    - but not since the health of the youtube algorithm
have i been so frustrated at my once favourite
pastime of foraging for new music like a John Peel...
i once had the best-set up for finding new music i might like...
once you could appreciate youtube...
when... ahem... it was a "manosphere": or rather...
a site primarily used by men...
               before all the cat videos... before all the make-up
tutorials... it was a glorious time to find music!
now? now we're talking about looking at ***** colony
of patches of... i just don't have the words...
but... sometimes... i still get lucky...
   i got lucky today...
        there's nothing like coming back all the way from
Putney Bridge to Romford... hands shaking...
strong pain in the chest: no... it's not a heart attack...
hands shaking... if i were diabetic?
                   i haven't eaten anything all day...
   i managed to hold about 20cl of **** through all the trip...
oh god... the chicken shop is still open...
hot box... 6 spicy chicken wings... chips... five (s)quid...
eat half while waiting for the bus... hands still shaking...
eat the other half on the bus... get off the bus...
go into an alley... ****... go to a patch of grass
and wipe my hands to finish off what the tissue couldn't
accomplish... take out a cigarette and... ah...
surgeon's hands...                 blood sugar levels alright
one more... and in my memory... that one girl
in yoga pants that kept playing with her hair...
pulling her pants up... exposing her massive:
and i mean... hmm... peaches can't be as plum...
giving me the stare... she kept me going until
the shift finished...
             so i got home... and when i come home
tired: i'm *****... so... took the "holy trinity" to the throne
of thrones... took a ****: you're going to automatically
**** while your **** relaxes... and then...
the usual story... at least i'm not making an Only-Fans
account and filming myself for others...
it's there one minute... and then once the deed is
done: creative juices can start flowing...
sit down with a whiskey... or two... or three...
and try to figure out what to do with the sick algorithm...
foraging for more music...
and there is a massive underground movement of folk...
i've known about Hedningarna for some time...
best songs? tappmarschen... vargtimmen... raven...
Suomi... which... is a strange sort of what's classically
associated with Scandinavia... since the Finns are...
well... particular... Inuit... mythological in a sense
of being almost Eskimo...
        was i going to get lucky tonight?
sure as **** i was... the current algorithm is a bit like
a slot machine... you have to be patient with it...
subscribe to at least two good channels...
i can recommend: HARAKIRI DIAT
   and IN DEPTH MUSIC... those two channels have changed
the way i had to improve the use of the site
for my benefit...
we're still staying in Finland...
           but we're moving away from folk music:
going back in time to the 1980s...
with what was happening post-punk in England...
two music genres i abhor... punk... and rap...
i can't stomach them... stiff little fingers.... fair enough...
i'd sooner find myself on the "wrong end" of a stick
for liking Phil Collins like... that Bateman guy...
or U2... but... no... i can't stomach punk or rap...
it's not right for my digestion...
      but? post-punk? gothic rock? deathrock?
   sign me up... it's almost like the extension of The Cure
and Depeche Mode and Joy Division i've always been hungering
for...
   found it today...
the following rubric is the artist and a song(s)
with a translation of the song titles...

musta paraati - romanssi (romance), myrsky nousee (storm rises)
belaboris - kuolleet peilit (dead mirrors)
this one is going to be funny...
silmät - haudattu (burried)...
          but if you take the word apart?
   hau - woof... dattu - date... we start barking
on the 20th of April?!
syyskuu - susi (wolf)
        kuudes tunti - kuuntele ääniä (listen to the sounds)
kuolleet kukat - kasoittain tuhkaa (loads of ash)
hiljaa - kuume (fever)
               päät - rikoksen rytmi (crime rhythm)
liikkuvat lapset - sinut haluan (thee i want)...
                  well... i'm not a Finn...
                                 sinut halua (without the n)...
but... the basic jyst is already there: i want you...
whether that's sinut halua or sinut haluan...

i was lucky today... looking for new music...
i'm not so lucky... too many cat videos...
too many make-up tutorial videos fudging the original
thesaurus algorithm where:
music was just more accessible... but no surprises...
look at what happened to the high-street...
once upon a time men could go to a vinyl shop...
forage... find something interesting...
now? what's left?! shoe shops... clothes shops...
restaurants...
they burnt the secular church of man:
to the ground...
                i'm lucky... in Romford we still have
the last "face" of what's the HMV franchise...
it's not HMV though... there's also this one crazy
record shop in Upminster...
but... that's about it...
        you burned my ******* church to the ground...
replacing it with... **** i don't need...
that's just not cool...
            i mean come on: men are visual creatures?!
ah ha ha... yeah... when it comes to looking at women...
if there were no women involved...
to hell with painters... they're freaks...
paint over something i can blink at?! and give it up to my
memory bank?
visual creatures... men...
hmm... sure... Beethoven was such a ******* visual
creature that his love for music...
well... if it didn't drive him mad...
the gods were good to him: they just drove him deaf!
men are only visual creatures when
women are concerned... we're as ******* abstract
as you can get...
         you burned my church to the ground!
why couldn't a sacred space of men coming together
and sharing tastes and distastes still exist?
no one is going to have a conversation over buying
a ******* pair of shoes... well... who would?
but over a record album... talk talk... talk talk:
tears for fears... of **** this ****... i'm out... bailing...
even my mother mentioned this quack of a fact
joke: women just binge-watch t.v....
         i don't know how i managed to keep up
with the series Billions... probably for Chuck Rhodes...
women just ******* talk t.v. t.v. t.v.:
ask them about music? ask them... except for the popular
current crap? i count a woman interesting
if she has even the remote interest in music...
but... most women don't...
for them... listening to music: looking at inanimate
objects and imagining them vibrating is: alien...
what you could do... is... this little experiment...
tell a man to listen to some music... while looking at a rock...
hell.. a ******* mountain... but a rock is just grand...
but play him some music...
now... do the opposite... tell a woman to watch some
animate object... but... mute her hearing ability...
so... put the volume down low on something on t.v.:
and let the woman watch...
in turn... put some earphones on a man
and tell him: you're Sisyphus... watch the rock...
because: i never truly grapled with the myth...
even if a Camus tried to explain it to me...
mein gott... on my way back home...
******* spaghetti-eaters... H'americans...
apart from the accent... their bravado was just
overflowing... loud: girls more boisterous than
the boys... flesh everywhere... i could spot at least
two ******* about to show more than
the darkened flesh around the *******... the *******...
loud: drinking on public transport:
even though it's illegal: acting as if they own
the ******* place... women this **** have never
come across as... anything but appealing...
let's be honest: if i want to visit a *******:
i'll visit one... put my money on the table:
blah blah Dandy Warhol's an hour later...
but all this libido insomnia that men go through:
this overt-teasing... i'm like a horse with
eye-blinders... trot: the: ****: along...
        plus the accent is... bothersome...
       i pray that i never have to visit America...
i pray that i might, somehow get to see the glimpses
of the Kamchatka Peninsula...
            two girls quit work when i said that i dated
a Russian girl (from Novosybirsk) and that:
in the "current climate": it would be a bad idea to
date a Russian girl... that's before the Ukraine fiasco...
oh well... rumours... tremors... but still all handshakes
at the company's Reichstag...
bearded: heavy looking men... it's such a pretty
joke that all of us look tough but...
if we had to come across someone with a black belt
in judo: we'd be... ha ha... slippery pancakes!
but... but... they burned my church down...
long gone are the days best associated
with Nick Hornby's High Fidelity...
    that novel: made me...
           it's one of the few books where the film adapatation
made me want to read the book...
Stendhal's the Scarlet and the Black
was another... the Three Muskateers...

well... isn't it such a lovely comment anyone
could leave?

but the best itches, are the ones you can't scratch, no? what's that thought you haven't shared with me? - and, may i ask, are you willing to share it now? just as i''m waiting: are you bloodied and willing to... allow the leeches to drain the restraints from you? speak your mind... i feel no need to inhibit my thinking: that's how i respect the concept of free speech, if it follows the Cartesian model... res cogitans becomes res extensa: i sometimes like to revel in revealing what i think... therefore translating it as "speech": even... when entrusted with lettering... it's not speech... is it? freedom of speech is an extension of thought: no? painters can't talk for a worth of chalk or... rather: charcoal on canvas: i.e.: ****... epileptic blinking machines... eh... it's just a little distinction between how Y and I diverge... yet at the same time merge... dye... difference... i'm not even sure how to overcome this fiddly bit of the Anglo-Zunge... but there's no lisp involved...  but you're getting my grift... motive... whatever you want to call it... yeah... phi and theta... which... in English is basically: F = PH = TH... i already found this keyhole using the iota and omicron: key in: twist... hey presto... i.e. I + O = Φ / Θ = Ω i.e. the door opens... this was not borrowed from the Exploits & Opinions of Dr. Faustroll: Pataphysician by Alfred Jarry... please... don't restrain yourself... you think i could?

i only copied it for the equations... well... just this one:
I + O = Φ / Θ = Ω.

it truly is a rare find...
          no... not louis zukofsky's -A-...
juggling adorations for Bach's
polyphony...

       i need to sketch this...

i have two demands...
    a young man should only read
philosophy when he was
started to tease his 21st birthday...

by accident: and no accident...
Hume of all people...
            but i was young and i made
a faux pas:
i started to collect music... compact disks...
too early on...
i should have listened to the radio...
it's not like i will
return to... taproot...
i might return to: dry **** logic...
i will not return to korn
or slipknot...

although... when mojo was still
in print... and there was that prog rock
special... and i... bought up...
the top 50 prog rock albums...
some yes records...
gentle giant...
                        pink floyd doesn't count...
king crimson...
doesn't count either...

in all honesty:
   the only albums i bought that...
are not a "mistake" of...
youth...

             probably the oeuvre by tool...
but then... that's writing musing:
something one might enjoy in
the background... writting... doodling...
some music prevents you from
simply listening to it...

i can't remember the last time
i wanted to rhyme my words...
    i somehow had to... think rhyming
to be... something to be abhorred...

if sarcasm is the lowest form of wit...
then... rhyming is the lowest
form of escapism:
how one might pride oneself
claiming a rhyme...
                      
           i can't remember the last time
i took a tool album on a bus ride...
or read a book to it...
   i desired... metaphorical laying of bricks...
to be absolved by the music:
cushioning the background...

    a bit like... Proust lining his study
with cork...
  there was always a music to fall asleep to...
when i discovered...
christopher young's hellraiser soundtrack...
hammock's ketonic...
dead can dance - into the labyrinth...
            
    when i first heard ola gjeilo's northern
lights choral pieces...

combichrist - today we are all demons...
godspeed! you black emperor...
die krupps - machnists of joy
:wumpscut - bunkertor sieben...

                   an ex-girlfriend elevated
me from rammstein toward in extremo...
i elevated myself toward...
   garmarna...
wardruna... hedningarna...
    żywiołak...
                      danheim...
                                                heilung...

i also found some lao che...
                      notably the gusła album...

demdike stare - tryptych - £30 for a c.d.,
not a vinyl... and i did buy it...
   vomito nergo - fall of an empire...
hanzel und gretyl - uber alles... etc.

             wooden schjips - west...
            distance - repercussions...
   dead skeletons - dead magick...
       the besnard lakes - until in excess...
   uncle acid & the deadbeats - blood lust...
naam...
    the soft moon...
              allah-las...
    the chromatics...
         pablopabo & ludziki...
           black ox orkestar - nisht azoy...

last time i heard... music under the radar...
vex'd...                     burial - untrue...
          which probably translates best
in the north east of london...
from that... doom of the southern estates...

   rotting christ... a greek "dark metal" band...
kata ton daimiona...
    susumu yakota - grinning cat...
       beat bizarre - somersault industries...
younger brother - weird on a monday night...
bohren & der club of gore - mightnight radio...

   i listed all these examples for no
particular reason...
  apart from: i did buy physical copies
of these records...
   i don't trust the radio in...
either playing any of this material...
there's already that whole...
affair of    HARAKIRI DIAT -
  primitive knot - puritan...
                 ******* of brutalism...
                    years of denial - body map...
filmmaker...
          i'd love to own a physical copy...

it could be just so plane jane & basic
to know what you were looking for...
honestly: it doesn't work like that...
that "thing" you were "looking" for?
it has actually been looking for you...
  you are only sieving...

    irritated by a stressed rubber-band
song on replay... sick-poppy-uber-glue-pop
song like mabel's: don't call me up...
or... britney spear's criminal...

                  ****** ***** music taster...
or... refreshing a desire for iggy "z" pop(s)...
but sometimes an album just happens...

always big into the dandy warhols...
every time... she said...
you listen to... good morning...
think of me and how you ****** me...
ex-girlfriends...
and a brief mythology of smurfs... to boot!

one album stood out...
from all those listed...
     i was never a big fan... prior to...

                  aufheben...
                 by none other than...
the brian jonestown massacre...

           that's one album... and the other?
heavy moon's... fünfzehn (15)...
      it's not a case of itchy-thumbs...
but the drill srgt. of rhythm stole my index
and thumb on this one...

    music: it's hardly what i think of it...
it's what feeling it dictates me to write...
no... i could never be a needle-drop...
internet's busiest musical nerd...
i can't fathom music like a nerd...
a drunk? oh yeah... as a...
a music that i enjoy drinking to...
rather than writing...
   that's a breath of fresh air...
   like ******* for virginity...
  that same quote: yes... making war for peace...

then... on a second listening...
neue echos der erinnerung... what a blast...
too busy... fidgeting with my
constipated variation of solipsism...
echo-sputnik...
years down the line...
someone less... disinhibited...
took to warping time and gizmos
with a pen and a litany of typos...

     a rare moment... false praises...
in the moment though: the angels were singing...
then... memories...
too many memories of...
     tangerine dream... and... kraftwerk...
sensible... german music...
no... i was completely wrong...

i guess i was my usual self...
perched on a windowsill
sitting on my folded foot...
and i caught a "neighbour" looking
at me from afar...
   trying to escape the straitjacket
of glued-eyes to t.v. mantras...
and i decided: fun to catch a rhythm...
and **** clicked...
there was a lunar eclipse...
the sun-worshippers suffered a great deal...

i did buy the van **** parks album...
songs cycled... oh yeah!
big fan! i used it... to pass the time...
when... decorating the civil room...
                     pokój (room and peace)...
   ciwilny... i.e.: the living room...
        well... when i was painting the ****
"think outside the box"...
to watch the box... with my dear dear
muvva...
                   because...
you'd only listen to van **** parks...
when... painting a living room
with your mother... moving furniture...
that sort of: project of escapism...

     medieval music and orthodox byzantine chants...
medieval music and...
frank zappa... not the music... though...
the interviews...
             walther von der vogelweide...
                  chevalier, mult estes guariz...
       vox vulgaris - la suite meurtriere...
                    
some people should know...
their language is not... yet... supposed...
peer...

the concept of
the diminutive...
    mały-malutki-maciupki...
the diminutive as a form of endearing...
a size...
wielki-wielgochi...
                      diminutive:
concerning the same word...
a standard prefix... a suffix variation
of gradation...
because! yes! english is awash with
said: plenty!
                    the assured: sire
of the shat upon: shire... by queer
buckingham!
                
                  for any love...
this most loved... this debased...
and a loot of a frown....
          the furrowed brows...
to own a bed to fit two sleeping
in it... ******* in it...
yet more... is to presribed from
an "effort" of sleeping on the hardening...
beside it...
like a greed riddled *****
of a bed-fellow caving to... scrutiny...

furrow-of-brow-down-bidden...
because of a leisured frown...
this and what... to escape with a love...
made ideal...
less of a love and less of
the gymnast who might parade
with ******* statures
of: the well bent...
that of the AK-47... and WD-40...
well oiled... scripture...

                  the music enjoyed...
the music orb: tow: revised...
              
  fidgeting... fetching... fidgeting...
fetching... calls for nuance...
loop holes.... writing under the
policy of spoken truths...
BBC radio 4... depeche mode...
punk-esque and...
              and writing under
the... lost under-belly...
who who's of the cringe fest...
  litany... mollusks r us...
   and... the crab-fetish...
   gamer-no-gamer:
biggest hard-on...
                like... the insensitive...
parody of *******...

                              kippah looters...
******* statues...
old school cringe and toblerone lego...

maurice! oh maurice!
please entertain the advent of
whittle steward!
              
  yes... best to pretend to grieve.

as it happens, i didn't have a particular need to scribble any of this, part prose, part something best kept to a private journal, but since it's rather pointless to merely drink & not scribble words... there's this or there's... you, dear reader... reading some journalism that might make your blood boil, that might polarise you, that might you choking on opinions about society... well... call this self-indulgence... i think i'd rather call it a detour... the world can keep to itself.

i would wish such days upon everyone to have -
so simple yet so beyond simplicity,
the day beginning with a bountiful breakfast:
a selection of cheeses, hard-boiled eggs
(with a slightly runny yoke), mayonnaise,
green romaine salad, cherry tomatoes,
some duck liver pâté accompanied by freshly
baked ciabatta mini-breads...
     immediately serve with sweet black tea:
dilmah ceylon... all these years drinking tea
like the English drink... with milk... ugh...
the profanity! perhaps with very strong brews
like Yorkshire... but not when the tea is more
refined... like a dilmah ceylon...
    then doing some clothes washing... hanging them
on the line in the garden: in the pinching cold...
then off to get a haircut...
   Nicky... my hairdresser... ***-beast...
           probably coming to her 50s but i still would...
a a blonde-bombshell like no other...
sitting before the mirror in the salon with eyes closed
i was hoping for her ******* to accidently rub against
my shoulders...
well... no luck... but a finer trim i couldn't ask for:
for ten quid...
                      she asked whether i wanted my hair washed
i relied: i always was my hair prior to coming, does it make
any difference? none at all...
well... but you're touching my hair: why would i come
to you with oily hair?
i leave the trimming of the beard to the Turk...
then some grocery shopping: carrots, parsley root,
chicken for Sunday's broth... some ***** to purify
a subsequent cyst - antibiotic spray at home:
bad blood bulge on my ***...
back home: i'm left to my own devices...
take the washing off the line in the garden & transfer it
to a drying rack in the attic... clean the oven...
in secret go for 35cl of whiskey & 3 ciders &
some salt & vinegar Pringles... because?
England will be facing off South Africa at Twickenham...
what a match! there's nothing better than
a rugby match... all other team sports fall short...
what a match! 27 - 26... so close... but not really...
the second match in the afternoon:
Wales vs. Australia... now that was a match...
Australia playing with only 14 players...
since a foul tackle had one its players sent off:
arm around the neck / head-to-head contact...
then 10 minutes with 15 vs. 13 players...
29 - 28 the end result... i was convinced that Australia
had clinched a heroic victory... ah... the last 10 minutes...
which is not to say that the last match
today wasn't any worse... but Wales vs. Australia
was certainly most admirable...
France vs. New Zealand... a stunner for a different
reason... it probably came close to...
that famous match in the Brazil World Cup semi-final
between Brazil vs. Germany... 1 - 7...
my god... how thrilling the La Marseillaise sounds
outside the realm of the team lined up before
the start of the game... as it continues to resound...
no other anthem in the world can be returned
to... &... more thrilling than that...
it starts with music... but then the chorus of the people
takes over, everyone is so in tune that
there's no need for music... the anthem is subsequently
sang: a cappella...
unlike the Spanish anthem: which has all the music
but no lyrics...
France vs. New Zealand... 40 - 25...
but at one point it was only 27 - 25... 10 minutes to spare?
boom! out of "nowhere"... a completely obliteration...
football looks so anaemic by comparison...
even though: a decent football match is a decent football
match... it's still never going to be a rugby match...
just like boxing will never be...

  hmm... i'm not feeling this scribbling...
i haven't drunk enough... perhaps i'm just too content
i guess that's the problem...
i haven't drank enough, the day has given too much...

for dinner making spicy pork dumplings...
with a soy sauce, sriracha, mirin, rice vinegar,
sesame seeds, scallions dipping sauce...

      then some match of the day... & now: as i sit down
to write this terrible writing...
for two weeks i kept replaying & replaying
Maanam's Night Patrol from 1983...
not that i'm bored... just tired...
another album...
  Maanam's Mental Cut...
          oh god... from the opening song: simple story...
an interlude with mentalny kot...
onto lucciola... another interlude: Dobranoc Albert...
Przerwa na papierosa... Nowy Przewodnik...
   Kreon...
              i'm yet to finish the album... need to take
another swig at the whiskey:
songs to come:
     You & Me... Kowboje O.K.,
                               Lipstick on the Glass...
hmm... some pretty decent music existed from
under the Iron Curtain... how "strange"...
i'm not surprised: not one bit...
                i know i started looking at some obscure
outlets: highly recommended:
the Harakiri Diat channel on youtube...
primitive knot (puritan)...
           ШТАДТ - Мразь...
     years of denial - body map...
elsewhere :wumpscut....
   vomito *****...
    black soul - computer soul...
trevor something - into your heart...
   so much more so much so much...
            there's no time to listen to Mozart...
however it is worth...
Prokofiev... Schubert... what a mash-up...
then throw in some blues, some jazz...
               oh... i guess now i know:
i write for only those who want to read it...
no point turning into an ******* & wanting
for EVERYONE to read me...
   no... in the future... not that everyone will be famous
for 15 minutes...
******* & sociopaths will do battle for 15 minutes
of fame...
some of us will do battle for... 15 souls...
or... ha ha... not that i'm implying anything...
how many disciples did Jesus have?
12... like the number of hours on the clock's face...
too much too soon... no wonder fame is contrived
as a translation of the ultra-temporal now...
there's never any late... i'm growing old...
i just hope i'm not somehow becoming mediocre...
for such a perfect day...
come on... the luxury of watching three rugby matches
on t.v.: drinking a cider...
munching on some salt & vinegar Pringles...
making myself some Chinese dumplings...
finishing off the day with a classic album from
under the Iron Curtain?
              i love the night & for what the night brings...
obscurity...
the alpha & beta males can have their little
tug of war... i'll be the omega man...
after all... what's that famous saying?
i'm the alpha & the omega...
                       well... so i am... half-baked at being
bothered...
best advice anyone could ever give:
when you're cutting down...
drink the whiskey prior to the ciders...
never drink the ciders prior...
chances are: you'll still arrive at the... ahem...
"BUZZ"...
you'll probably also take out the garbage...
should this odd hour of 2am come...
sober people & their sober concerns....
their sensibilities... also sober...

that i am a drunk... well... if drinkers were gearing
up to the authority of being bus drivers...
that would be rather, problematic...
but in the realm of public opinion...
i'm tired... dating advice...
feminism... trans-activists....
pedohpile advocacy groups....
the mystery of lawlessness...
what else is on the table?
  how the journalism must be defended
while at the same time... waiting
for it to prop its ugly Hydra head
via the tabloid press & perform the dictions
of Brutus? that... shortbread cookie
of a "conundrum"?
    
     hmm.... just the right sort of time to invest in
a genetic lineage: in having children...
   good music, even greater sport spectacles...
best cider & even better whiskey...
a decent hairdresser: a plump pushing 50
blonde bombshell... a Turk at it with the ****** *****...
a Turkish *******...

           sure... there might be the times i bemoan
nothing having children...
but who's to bemoan the sadness & the worries
that children also bring: as they become...
individualistic... out of one's control out of one's
influence?!
            it only takes the years for them to reach
teenage years
            when peers take control:
& stupid decisions are made...
                      
such terrible writing... shrapnel at best... at worst...
no... there could possibly be nothing worse than:
i ought to be writing tabloids...
or Harlequin novels...
             give me from 3am through to 9am
to sleep a while...
            i want to wake into a reality where
i can forget the world...
where the world is not invited...

  what a grandiose day... yet at the same time...
thank god i drank the whiskey prior
to the cider....
now i've reached the zenith!

blondie - maria....
vs. the rolling stone's revival with...
anybody seen my baby...
from the said album...
eh... saint of me... would have been
the better choice for the comeback...
Hey-Zeus... this...
Hey-Zeus that...
        by the knee of the kneeling crowd
of a man entrapped in an iron maiden...
the whiskey comes first...
the cider comes second...

        i'm almost drunk with a headache...
or is that counting the required number
of high fibre beans
that so displeased Pythagoras?

          hmm... never mind... what's to be minded?
deer / bears struck by a lightning
of fakery of drinking?

                  yes, this day has been...
aplenty... there has been too much of night
with it also: invoked...
trailing off...
            to have let these tired limbs linger for
so much longer as to scribble...
these bogus words...
                        some... what's it called...
a "love" for women, wine & song...
LOVE?!
                        enough of "wine": and plenty of song...
can't make up the arithmetic with
regards to women: even though... i'd love to...
lucky me... clearly lucky: me...
i'd hate the idea of some simple pleasures
become: all serious... beta-projects and
all that's to be revelled in "redemption"
of the last callous bite...
probably also the first...
            
  let the Kyrenia ship... the Vasa sink...
but please... as is the case: keep it intact...
like a mummy... in a museum...
              let's party!

(alternately titled: eye temporarily
lost sight of reason.)

Yesterday - March (7th) madness overtook me
toward she, yours truly did marry,
I nearly subjected mine flesh to harakiri.

Yours truly (earnestly and frankly)
got royally zapped!

Last night (exhibiting frolicsome mien),
she hurled an orange at lightspeed,
I yowled and yapped,
cuz red hotted poker raging anger wrapped
tightly around me psyche
wherein dark shadows
(think... a long edge of night) got trapped

as the edge of night (psychologically)
violently overtook mine ordinarily
calm, cool and collected
triggered reaction, whereby I nearly snapped
ready to **** a mockingbird named A* Robin
otherwise (and ofttimes) referenced as missus.

Her countenance turned ghostly white
Count Dracula summoned forth – think twilight
less than twenty four hours ago
to rectify paralyzing pernicious plight,
I wanted to learn the wife a life lesson
courtesy her tarnished rusty knight,
who plays fair and square
on the metaphorical chessboard of life
savoring bloodlust did excite.

Within flash doggone mailer daemon
(inside me noggin) became docile as a whelp.

After sense and sensibility returned,
I felt mortified at such murderous zeal
dumbfoundedly blinked
after dialing down the terrorizing wheel,
ceasing (once and for all)
poetic antics of generic schlemiel
hearty victuals for tri county newsreel

finding yours truly locked
even sentenced to life in prison
deadly rupture (regarding
motherless grown daughters)
time could never heal
self made widower for justice,
he would not appeal.

Urgency arises to air
aforementioned shellshock with Renee Cardone
the Springford therapist my soul I bare
lest yours truly could (hypothetically)
strapped (ohm my dog) to electric chair
despite no premeditation to declare

insanity - nasty, short and brutish existence
not forgivable courtesy loosed beast
prompting rhetorical question pertaining
to trying circumstances human err
well I could (lamely) blame outburst
on prominent solar flare

nsync with mine jammed cognitive gear
linkedin with rational thinking
necessitating appropriate healthcare
til death do me part
cue wizened old man holed
in walled dank lair

feeble minded kept within
jail cell hermitage amazingly enough
sixty plus shades of gray matter
offers yours truly ample time
to experience and/or accept personal prayer
and meditation reading, and playing solitaire.

The rusty knives, bloodied by ancient time
Aren't enough to make you commit harakiri
Making it tough life as samurai
In any way you could be miserable and a wannabe
The dissembling never stops and hopping about never stops
While we find each other in the shadow of the bamboo forests
Welcome to the jungle, Champloo
A fight knocked you out
This sword will bring your last word
I'll have first blood
A total time you took to live
Was closer how much death loved ya
My pressured mind digresses
From the assassination
Of an excellent protege
I'll let you off the hook this time Murdoch
The last time I see you, space cowboy
You're gone for the time being
The galaxies light up in the divine comedy
The space rings of the ancient mines of meaning