I broke up with McDonalds
On Valentine's day
People said she was no good for me
I had to get away

So I told her, It's not you,
It's just a phase I'm going through
But as we all know -
Dumping fast food is not a pleasant thing to do.

So I broke up with McDonalds, didn't see her for a while
Was doing pretty well - there was the occasional drunk-dial
When I walked up to the window
And I slipped into the queue -
But then I came back to my senses
And realised the thing to do...

Was to keep on walking
Keep on walking
Right past her
Ignore the temptation
To suckle
On those golden arches
Ignore those bed-like burgers
And those oh-so-easy fries
Divide our shared world up
And sever all ties!

Yes! I broke up with McDonalds and my life is better for it
When my girlfriend serves up rabbit food I simply adore it
I was scared of life alone with no kebab to walk me home
But...
      What I once spent on burgers...
                                                     I now spend on...
                                                           ­                      Haribo!

Oh Haribo! Haribo!  
You are a fruit tree in a sack
And although it feels wrong to see you
Behind my girlfriend's back
She can not be hurt by wrongs she does not know!
No - the new love of my life is Haribo, oh Haribo!

But then one evening after work
My girfriend came home early.
Caught me curled up on the couch  
Soaking up her girly  
DVDs
In front of me
A bowl of
Not nuts, nor seeds...
But fizzy, yes fizzy,
Cola bottles  
That were  
FIZZY!

How could you do this?
My girlfriend screamed at me.
Cannot you see the damage that they do-eth to your teeth?
(She'd been reading Shakespeare)
No, my eyes are on my face, I can't see in my mouth.
Right, she said, If you think I'm joking then I'm going to kick you out.

So she kicked me out the flat and that was that she said.
Not quite...
I grabbed my stash of Haribo from underneath the bed.
I told her all the things about her that I really hated

And the moral is:

Relationships with things that you can't eat are over-rated.

.so there's this scene in the B.B.C. drama series, bodyguard, when the home secretary, with the help of the intelligence services, uncovers several cover-up stories, which include ****** assault and addiction to substances, namely? alcohol... the report reads: 50 units per week... hmm... ****... what's mine? 2 Heineken pints... that's 3.3 units x 2... oh... and that liter of whiskey... 40 units... but that's in a single day... what's that by week? (well... sometimes it's not 2 Heineken pints...) so we're talking ~326 units per week... and i haven't been to rehab... and however much i am, drunk like a skunk... i still have the literary decency to spell correctly... even though at that point, i'm sometimes seeing double, or find myself doing cross-eyed to even out the carousel; go figure.

ah the centenary, of sorts... all sorts...
in the west...
  the mourning, sombre sobering
about the pointless war... sorry...
the "great" / "war to end all wars" world war uno...
basically just a family feud...
between Queen Vic's grandson
and son...
               bravo! b'good day ol' sport...
*******... the whole lot of it...
on the world stage, very similar
to Vietnam...
         so i'm eating my Haribo
tang-tastic (yes yes, spastic fantastic,
ha ha)
             jellies while perusing
today's newspaper...
    i almost choke...
Poland made it into the western press...
extremist try to hijack polish parade...
the far right threatened...
oh for, ****'s, sake!
   in these post-colonial countries
everything right of *****-up-your-***
and a gag-ball-in-your-mouth
is "far" right...
you get you little poppy appeal...
your little Ypres moment...
      give these people their celebration
of something meaningful...
not everyone who goes to a metal
concert engages in a mosh-pit...
savvy?
(insert snigger):
        bet those wankers in H'america
with their tiki torches are scratching
their heads, right about now...
           wankers...
                FLARES! FLARES!
                              the red serpent...
200,000 majority...
             ****... i almost want to...
                  **** it... i wish i was there;
to celebrate what?
             the end of empire(s)...
       why is nationalism so bad all of a sudden...
the British had theirs,
uninterrupted for... how long?
  if the British waited with their media
coverage...
and figured out how it could possibly
be that they were enslaved by a foreign
power...
                    hmm...
how's that consolidation compensation
working out, with the mothers of Manchester?

p.s. well... if you watched more soccer
than the ******* interlude between
halves filled with cheerleaders,
you wouldn't have that ****** tiki torches
fiasco, would you now?
you'd have the 13th warrior wendol
fire-worm...
                       but then again i guess
you need all that padding...
to throw a miniature sized rugby ball...
hence the audacity...
the best defense is an attack...
   and i am part of the hive...
export...
            singled out...
          i'm exerting what is
the required pressure...
  so how's it going with compensating
the mothers of Manchester?
good? good good.

.you might ask: why isn't third-party "issues": 34% in bold?! simple... depends who you do it with... AND believe me... we must be living in the golden age of prostitution... god they care about protection, one even said to me: i get checked for S.T.D.'s on a regular basis... and i'm pretty sure AIDS doesn't travel from the oral consumption of ****... stomach acids and whatnot... see... transparency... even if it was "****"... when she's crying like that... would i walk into a shop a buy / steal a leg of lamb with or without the usage of a transaction meta-object? hell... i'm interested in the metaphysics of money, sue me... but you never invest a person into the formula of ******* with a *******... there's absolutely zilch, in terms of investing with something beside your body... your character and what not... pure Newtonian physics... two ****-naked bodies colliding... and since it's a legal transaction... ****... what lie is there, breach of conduct? if you don't pay... the **** gets his way: adding fist to the face, first, and then a fist up your ***: and you can scream ****! ****! ****! all you want by then... the English can't accomplish the perfected art of an affair akin to the French... it's not in their Huguenots' nature... so why the elaborate lie? **** it... an hour at a brothel... and let me tell you... a ******* will ask you questions like a priest: questions like: do you have a girlfriend? affair over what? an hour, an impersonal hour with what allures a soul, a thought, but is fundamentally the reciprocal posit of your own body... sure as **** beats the ******* / stripper profession ****-tease... god... they're so ******* ethical these days, actually caring, telling you whether or not they check themselves regularly for STDs... mind you... one of them told me a story about a ****** in a Spanish brothel, by some pundit.

let's be honest, for once...
there's no point parading the matter,
orchestrated by some
distant pompous sentiment
for: whatever life was
supposed to be, for all of us,
but never became -
an alignment of thought and
being...
              
  what the **** has someone
done with my fox?! well... "my" fox...
he hasn't been seen
for two nights and i'm getting
worried!

i am a drunk -
        my maternal grandfather
was a drunk,
my paternal grandfather was
a drunk, my uncle is a drunk...
only my father with his
father complex is the odd one out...
genes took over...
if i didn't drink,
as i once did...
   bah... a fairy tale...
           why bother lying?

point being: i'm far from a drunk fiend...
a fiend nonetheless -
benevolent at times -
like... ah... **** it... whatever:
i'm not going to gloat about
my antics...

but at least i own my predisposition,
and thank **** that i'm
not looking for a partner -
as my grandmother used to
say about her son (my uncle):
it be better he stays alone
that brings misery to any woman...

hey, i have a drunk's perfect
stash of interests!
   i'm not going to repent either...
do "you" even think it would
be possible to
read a single book of philosophy
when paired to a woman?
i don't think so...

            and the hours i spend at
night, headphones on,
listening to **** like 90s sub-grunge
akin to mad season (song,
i'm alone)?
   **** no!

                i'd have philosophy in
body, looking across from me...
    i'm starting to contemplate
that man has internalized
the perfect woman...
while woman?
  has internalized the most imperfect
man...

           i'm starting to think
that, the whole physical reality,
puritanical materialism -
hell - going as far as undermining
the theory with transgenderism...
can i say that men are more patient
than women, when it should
be the opposite?
   well... then again, "should"...

i am what any woman would
consider - broken goods...
good... i like that...
       it means i can be left the **** alone...
drink as much as i want,
read as much of what middle-aged
women call: drivel (philosophy)
and spend my time listening
to a back-catalog of bands from
the 90s... or the prior century...

what... with the current statistics
from the Sunday Times Style
magazine?
      53% contra 32% of women
and men (respectively)
          are happier post-divorce...
61% contra 47% are happy staying single
post-divorce...
happy new singletons:
aged 55...
                 42% of marriages
are affected by divorce...
                86% cited not being ashamed
of divorce...
      ill harbor imbedded in
a former spouse men (17%) - women (8%)...
argument for divorce:
my spouse "changed" (49%) -
now... this is interesting -
i remember seeing this same *******
over a wide span of time...
the second time i saw her -
she said to me: but you haven't changed -
and subsequently starting crying
while drunk during ***...
so i know where "change" argument comes
from...
    ***** i aged... finito!
males more likely to date within
the first 6 months...
     66% had children of ex-spouses...
    90% agreed that staying in an unhappy
marriage is worse than divorce...
   i bet 99% would find life more rosy
than being dead: what with being wed
to life... sure as ****: i've seen my grandparents
at it... my parents... life outside of
marital constraints is so ******* rosy!
food stamps and no central heating...
rosy as ****!
          third-party "issues": 34%...
lack of communication: 29%
    incompatibility: 23%
          abuse: 22%...
           different "life goals": 20%...
***-related problems: 11%...
                  in-laws: 7%,
  parenting problems: 5%...
          financial issues: 14%...
well... well well...
isn't life just peachy!
           those percentages in bold?
they're in bold for a ******* reason...
the only reasons that would
make a divorce definitely prudish...
    the rest?
fickle people... little fickle people...
it's like eating a bowl of Haribo sweets!
the choices!

stats? Style report -
     1,060 of women and men surveyed
Fleur Britten...
     Style Magazine 23 Sept 2018...

well... i'm out, always was out...
no woman wants a drink,
and i have Sophia to think about...
       and what a spectacular failure
i am in this department...
the longest "relationship" i was in
didn't even pass the half year mark...
and that's even before i started
my career in drinking with Jack -
(by the way, he sends his warmest
regards) -

            bitter? no... not really...
i can't share a bed with a ******* cat,
let alone something much larger
and not furry...
             my bitterness dies within
the confines of an hour with
some Bulgarian girl
   who cries when she notices
my heart is an unwavering rock...

            hell... when she started crying
like that during ***,
talking about her daughter...
    what are you supposed to do
if not stop, cuddle,
and kiss her tears?

Handbag~ 1994
exam timetable
£5 from my Mum
shiny key for the front door
fresh-mint chewing gum

Handbag~ 1998
keys for work
keys for home
£20 and a bit of change
photo of my best mate
and a bloke that's twice my age
lipstick~ lacy knickers
condoms~ ID card
ticket for a bus to town
UV sparkly stars

Handbag~ 1999
keys for work
keys for home
spare key for his flat
condoms~ contraceptive pills
No.7 powder-ivory/matt
VISA/Delta debit card
paper
gel ink pens
number of a bloke
who says our love
will never end

Handbag~ 2000
keys for work
keys for home
key for the gas meter
Teletubbies picture book
list of baby-sitters
new mobile phone
herbal teething gel
lipstick~ Anadin
vanilla impulse body spray
children's Nurofen
photo of my baby boy
really tiny socks
under-eye concealer
secret stash of chocs

Handbag~ 2002
keys for work
keys for home
pull-back-and-go car
baby wipes
mobile phone
estate agents' cards
picture of my little boy
list of things to do
Boots own brand pregnancy test
both windows coloured blue

Handbag~ 2005
keys for home
card from work
tissue full of tears
photo of my boy in school
that shows his gappy teeth
photo of my baby girl
and one of both of them
a ring that used to be my Mum's
Pro-Plus~ Diazepam

Handbag~ 2009
keys for work
keys for home
one SLIM~FAST bar
one Cadbury's wrapper
Haribo~ Calpol~ tissues
assorted Disney plasters
treasured stones~ special shells
sand and bits of twig
money to buy ice creams
photos of my kids

I lost cuntrol when I was nine years old.
Mother took my hand off my crotch yet left my brother to the confinement of his ****;
Girls good, boys bad, and oh no sweetheart your beauty is your only power.
And I’d blush; not in the way she’d hoped through the sweep of a brush but rather when my teacher left her hand lingering on my back as she bent over to tick the formula of the female form and cross out what the chimes of the church commanded.
I looked at the curve of the x she used to mark the spot and sighed.

Teach me. Teach me your ways so I can breathe in the sweet blossom of your hair as I rest in the bossom of your heart, its smells like lavender. Lavender.
Lavender sweet dreams honey and I will see you there tonight.

It was then I began my perpetual low earth orbit from dream to dream and departed from what mother said that day when I asked the question that makes mothers quake as they smooth out the creases in their dresses and tuck their unravelled hair behind bitten ears.
Making love. We made love only to make you, darling.
Mother smiled sweetly and turned her back on me as her mind traced back to that morning when she made mad passionate love with the milkman when daddy wasn’t looking. I am still waiting for my little sister.

If practice makes me perfect then meet man, mother.
I used his rocket to launch myself into space where I spelt her name out in the stars and jumped over the moon to Venus. I felt the warmth from her skin like the sun that keeps me alive. Alive. Alive.
Warm me, darling, just with the nestle in my vessel in my veins in my sugar coated spaceship.
We found sticks and made smores and we floated together, with my hand tracing your V in that three-dimensional galaxy between your legs we fell in love. No void existed between our celestial bodies as gravity pulled me into your arms.

He came as I came back from space thinking of nothing but the soft shape of her hips and the trail of her spine that led me back to earth.
There’s man with his grey socks still on his feet, dark matter on the sheets and a wrapper on the floor.
******* I thought, but in the sky…
That night my mother asked me why I am smiling.
I said I have become an astronaut in orbit with a woman who I love in space.
She cried shes lost it.
I smiled, nodded yes, I've lost it to her.

I lost cuntrol when the earth, heavens and waters fell in love and sailed and soured as we danced on the tree tops of your garden, with waves crashing beneath us leaving salt shimmering particles like diamonds on your feet.
You were my alphabet soup that filled me with too many words, the thrill of the prize at the bottom of the cereal packet and the noble intentions of stopping the Titanic from sinking with the touch of button.
We had love at first sight like David and Jonathen, Ruth and Naomi who boarded the ark as my back arched in passionate throws below deck, as Noa held Emzaras hand smiling.
Adding a letter to her name on Transgender Tuesdays was just an afterthought.
Opening her drawers to pack up her boxers and bind her ******* Noa smiled as the clock cocked Tuesday.
She entered her escapism; what the Bible calls a natural disaster, I just call natural.

I lost cuntrol when I re-arranged the stars like pick and mix, so I could always find my way back to you. When you said I love you I wondered whether I’d had too many dolly mixtures and where jelly babies came from.
Sugar rimmed your lips like salt on a martini and left me drunk with desire as I licked around your edges. You slipped a haribo ring on my finger and I gave you my loveheart.

I lost cuntrol one day when my lover Alice said eat me. She showed me Dinah who hide beneath her skirt and I followed curiously.
I didn’t ask her to say please but that’s another story.

After her lesson I was told the Sputnik satellite was man-made and I laughed.
Oh no, women have been launching rockets with complete cuntrol between their legs for years, leaving the earths atmosphere and dreaming of everything else but ***** ****’s ****.
During countdown they think of shopping lists, whether they’ve burnt off enough calories for wine with their girlfriends, and sometimes, sometimes, of her.
Do good girls go gay?
In space, my mother said, in space.

Nobody understands children
Or plays their games properly.
Nobody looks them in the eye
As equals
Or tells them a secret
In return for one of theirs
A real one.
No one cares what they think,
Just how they are, and what people think of them.
They do not exist.
Their opinion is not there.

It’s sad because
In many ways
They’re good at life
And in many ways
We’re not -
We take on too much,
Live unsustainably
And end up
Disappointing all round.

Oh well.

Julia exercised her power
Over the happy family’s
Holiday photo shoot at dinner.

To cage the moment
The adults sent a camera to either flank of
Her and her father.
She was suddenly reticent, shy, they thought.
Her face dancing away from the camera
While she monkey hugged her father
(For some more haribo).
But he would not give in, because he did not have them,
And everyone wanted a picture of them together,
The spotlight was on them now,
He was sweating in the glare of the media circus,
The pressure was mounting, no retreating now.

So when daddy said,
"Come on Julia, smile for the camera!"
She narrowed her eyes
And clung harder to his neck,
An all-encompassing embrace -
Not so much of love, but of
The only power she had –
To hide her
Face.

"What's up Julia?" Asked Dad.

"I'll smile for you if you want,
But I'm not smiling for the camera." She said.

.a very prominent interlude of bitterness - something that needs to be drank as an antidote of the aftertaste of a brothel... bourbon - sickly-sweet bourbon of a brothel... otherwise the best beer on these isles: the original stout: st. guinness - second, 13... hop house lager by the same culprit... i don't know about you but a regular IPA doesn't float my boat... stale pale ale of 3 day old sputnik ***** excavation of bio-matter living off of iron shrapnel and termite ****... let's not go over-board with the bitterness of fenugreek seeds added to a curry... but... a hop lager is not an indian pale ale... because? well: because of the excited circumstance of extra bubbles! once upon a time that horrid absinthe period... last time i checked i became the st. peter of the drug details... ***** tells you too many truths come the moral-hangover the next day... but ms. amber in her guise of adele bloch-bauer by klimt: take her for a whiskey, take her for a bourbon... a chanel no. 5... or a brandy or a cognac... please excuse me from drinking the ales... goldwasser: athens, sparta, venice... dan dan Danzig... i'd call the genesis of world war II to be... that envy of the city-state... the little cosmopolitan high-heavens of a concentrated locum... of affairs of both tourism and the subsequent merchant class... that Danzig didn't belong to anyone: not really... does it even matter now? the current city-state model is... don't bother filtering the excesses... it has to become diluted... you'll find pockets of concentration near them... yes... homogenous... therefore solaced by that fact alone... only teasing incorporating outside influences... it's not going to be a replica venice or danzig... for that you'd need a window... st. peter designated the window into europe as a capital with an access to the sea... not land locked... even though i'm pretty sure that moscow has a river running through it... jump-start the window: a capital by the sea... hey presto! a window: the baltic sea into europe... words that become apparent: microcongestion of undigested souls... a schrödinger's cat... one foot in limbo... another foot in reicarnation... lob it or nutmeg the footie: it's a particle when observed and a wave when not observed... an orbit for the schematic... but a cloud when getting into the nitty-gritty details: specifics oblong... misnomer... if my ******* into a tissue, subsequently flushed... then a baptism of a shower... is not a genocide? then... bullseye... the ***** that made it into the ****... it's an abortion mid-week... i'd count that ****** come a certain count of months... otherwise... well... there's that cat of his... one foot in limbo and one foot in reincarnation... wasn't it the western exhausted theological mind: from that god of the omni- litany looking toward the budding-ha-ha? abortion... prized ***** makes it to the egg... ah... ****** from the argument of effort... me and the basic schematics of genocide... otherwise: schrödinger's cat... one foot in limbo... one foot in reicarnation... better still... Farinelli! drop the ******* don a niqab! the muslims and an eye-fetish... mind you... i do have a hand-fetish... "fetish"... i can count five of hers and only four of mine... fingers! unless she is a proper Arab bride with roots of synonyms in the Ukraine... and she has butcher's hands... hot-dog fingers... and a kardashian thick-*** that is just readied for a 12" dung-digger of ******... while at the same time... breaking the floral patterns of a porcelain geisha's... "missing tongue O"...

manícorona: peanut-crown!

               in between the hype and...
in between the trough...
and the happy pigglets of prop
and grandour...

little charlie little dervish of
a dar: gift...
                        win-win scenario...
i'm worried about...
constipation...
           terribly bothered...
                    
         but there's also the fact that
i haven't seen a dentist for...
a donkey can count a decade:
at least that's my hope...

my tooth filling has become lose...
having finished with yesterday's
etc. i tried to fall to sleep...

the pain came as a blunt object
in need of sharpening...
it wasn't a sharp object per se:
to begin with...

the radio was off...
the dream of falling asleep to the sound
of rain like it might be
a song off the cure's disintegration
album: lost...

                 i concluded:
it must be a dream...
how else explain this trivial pain
of a tooth when all the bones lay
intact in a body in an impeding grave?

to have been lullabied by a trivial
pain of a loose filling...
                   i'll give it until monday
to check a dental clinic...
i'll wait... because:
god only knows i am bound
to learn something new from
this crazed - infuriating pain -

          but at least that has
constipation covered...
    fear not: ****** **** of the golem heights!
no chelsea smile up your alley:
any time soon...

        the crown virus...
sooner or later: yes my liege...
yes my sire...
i'm sure the africans will... jump the queue...
we've been raising money for
a malaria vaccine...
i'm sure they'll be quick-on-the-mark
to raise money for the crown-virus
epicenter! europe!

oh... come come... komme komme, meine liebe!
it's true!
the europeans will be fundraising
money for malaria...
while the africans will be fundraising
money for the peanut-crown virus...

or... i like that one quote i heard,
"somewhere"...
   a stewardess asks a mother whether
or not her son would like some peanuts...
the mother says... he's allergic to peanuts...
he's allergic to maize... air...
glutten... ******* haribo gelatin and all...
he's allergic to hiccups...

                           there's a winking match
involving imitation chess between
the very sick psychiatrists
and the mildly sick schizophrenics...
a bilingual comes along into their foray...
and asks: who's multiplying
and who's in charge of division?
all a splendid metaphor... wouldn't you agree?
there... metaphor...
already the focus is gone... splinters...
some go to metaphysics,
some go to metaphors...
some go to orthography...
some go to: telepathy...
        some go down the para-
hello, my name is Norman...

         it's natural then... darwinism in action...
hold a peanut to a crowd of
people allergic to peanuts...
the joy of cashews...
the joys of pecans...
   cashews, pecans, brazilians...
macademians... hazels and waldorff's...

no other feeling...
like a ripe hop lager in between
a bourbon's drip drip drip...
      
                   horrid breaking up an already
comfortable ideology... isn't it?
when something like this speaks for itself
and the "lamm von gott" is brought before
the altar...
                           darwinism sings!
sings! like the brian jonestown massacre...
this is my body... my peanut...
brought to a cult of peanut-allergy-riddled
anemics and haemophiliacs...
        
the darwinian ideology fizzles out...
when it's not longer looking up through
the telescope of a primate's ***...
but looking through the form most primodial...
i've been gardening for the past week...
i've watched an earthworm here...
an earthworm there...
        life without eyes without ears
without music... but this idiotic god-given
impetus, imperative, "will": "freedom"...
virus... crown virus...

sooner or later we'll all be kings and queens,
sneezing and waiting for the entire
small intestine to come out of our noses
like glue: glut and gelatin pieces
wobbling where once bones stood
to be later broken...

a beer in between these slugs of bourbon
will do just that...
all good when it concerns
of apes and men...
           the similarity greatly helps...
but of course we'll borrow from other
skeletons...
                  no one ever heard of a headache
from having "too much"...
i.e. od przybytku: głowa nie boli...
o ale boli boli boli...

      constipation...
            the peanut crown virus...
and a loose tooth filling...
                ***** blondes and "how many"
light-bulb jokes it would take
for a tsunami of bleached ***** hairs to turn
into a happy cousin itsy-bitsy:
a spider cravat... what else?

otherwise history...
   either a wet-dream or a castration...
              or the bull wrestled by the horns...
or a dog wrestled by either kicking it in
the ******* or wrestling with its mandible jaw...
echoes of warriors...
warriors and pirates... the lesser muscles
of a farmer? a blacksmith?
              either a wet-dream or a castration...
lost avenues of "heroes":
all leading to: up my ***... otherwise known
as my original churchill's V...
the welsh longbow men: ditto the fwench...

such a shame that so much of history
is to be filtered when the children learn of it...
and whenever returning to it...
it's as stale as an antique's roadshow...
or it's: skimmed over...
whatever natural selection gave...
i don't know whether it's natural
to witness this historiological selection...

some would say:
too much of a congested toilet: n'est-ce pas?
too many of the dead are still haunting us...
natural selection contra:
historiological selection...
                             the ape versus the virus...
it is over-inflated...
where are the boils, the blisters...
the glutton spew of ****?
                              
                     this is... it?
panic riddled neurotics?
   so... so... twiddle-thumb-twiddle-toe...
where are all the psychotic:
airing of the soul examples?
smoke and mirrors...
   if i see a *****?
   i'll let you know!
          we'll huddle and watch
tom hanks win an oscar for
Philadeplhia...
                          show me a *****
******* a zombie...
         this, this grand disguise as flu...
it's almost a precursor
to a greater joke...
       of... phantom limbs that
had grenades worth of champagne
bottles being uncorked as
the origin of the demise of...
if only they named the ship Prometheus...
Titanic is so general...
     Atlas... Hyperion...
                  Oceanus...
                                   you can't expect
to keep an adjective as a noun: afloat...
or could have... could you?

but about time you listen to all the darwinists...
when the seas are: a'rough...
ask them about not looking up from
that telescope via a monkey's ****...
about the darwinism of a...
very original... very basic: a first...
first in line end result...
that might have been us...

                 tough luck bringing
no wine and no bread...
to the congregation...
nut-allergy riddled whisperers and soon-enough
to be drop-off counts of: the sieve...
the peanut! crown - and:
if only it was as simple as a reconquista
of what the goths left behind having
stalled spain's worth
and having died off in north africa...

now's the time to stop looking through
a darwinistic: famous detail of:
the peeled banana on the inner-sleeve...
the root or yellow...
teasing you unpeeled for all that was
the velvet, the velvet and the underground...
a very pushy bladder...
i mean: fickle bladder little gremlin
with a yappy-yappy for a mouth...
and it's not the sort of mouth that echoes:
hungry! hungry!
the sort of mouth, though...
give it the plumber...
                          
        how very pedestrian of me.

I don’t like Marmite.
I’m going up on deck.
Don’t look. Don't Look. That’s why I said don’t look.
WAIT! Somebody! I have to go inside.
To find my glasses. My swimming glasses.
In the wonderful world of haribo.
Do you smoke? I don’t want you to die. Why? But why?
The purple ones are so sweet, did you know that?
A giant one came out! A giant one – two eggs!
In the game his eggs are like – that – big! He made two.
Is that friendliness?
I’m going crazy.
But dadDy!
My feet used to be – THIS - big.
I told you you had to use this.
Hey you! Come back with my slippers.
Put a glass with only ice, I want to make very very very cold water. ..

Forty yards from Haribo Heaven,
They took flight,
Mocking the clouds of traffic:
Faster and faster,
Faster and looser,  
Faster and freer.

But then the Saxon ground
Came out in revolt,
Saying
Their covenant with gravity had been violated.

All sound was muted.

Heads struck at thirty-three yards;
Backs cracked the soil at thirty.
In his heart,
It was her finger that he felt,
Arching over the G string of her violin,
Like the neck of a flamingo.  

He mused:
After the sound came back,
Would she play a gigue or a dirge
To accompany
This ignominious moment?

When her sullied, muddied, mossy eyes looked away from him,
To her, had he become a lesser man?

Faster and faster
Faster and looser.

Had she now glimpsed a father’s struggle
To piece together what he thought he knew?

all that's audible is a bumping into:
  **** me... i hope that isn't a giraffe
or a london singleton, female: "looking"
but a chair...
       and the rest of my narrative became
sorta blurry...
i hope i bumped into a chair rather than a
giraffe...
funny thing, this would be model
started chirpsing (scottish term for flirting)
with me... allowing me the role of santa claus
sitting on my legs in a bar...
a day before this south african ***** "*****"
me without **** juices...
        like cedric the saxon conquering
the isles...
- thing is... i can understand the scots...
the other gaelic tribes... the irish?
i can't tell a doberman from a rottweiler;
i don't like them, and i'm not even english.
the **** are they on?
                  well, tango in the dark...
is it a chair? is it a giraffe?!
                      i thank god for the fact that
i can experience this sort of joke
   and not bother raising a family, in accordance
with the sage of Königsberg...
            really "strange" things happens when you
enjoy drinking, up to the point where
   you're laughing over robbie williams' videos
in the afternoon, and say: ******* day!
and try, i mean, torture yourself, utilise
the iron maiden to get laughs out of women...
ellen degeneres (e.g.) - i tried, i really, really tried
laughing at the jokes...
                                    robbie's dead and i'm
consecrating a prayer on his grave, like people
congregating in cultish fashion over the grave of
jim morrison in paris... hell! i'm trying!
don't put my ******* in the monkey-wrench!
            i need to feed the ego-go-go!
              what ******* ****** you looking at?
your cousin?
                            i know my cousins are retarted:
like i already said: they tried to **** me so many
times due to my Chernobyll tattoo i starting to ask:
this really is a foetus contra.
                             or what you teach your colt...
unless she calls you up and says: i think i'm pregnant...
oi! descartes! i think therefore i doubt...
doubt being the emotional content precipitating
into             i am, therefore... wha?!
            maybe it's just like they said: women aren't
*****...
                           i really really tried to laugh
at ellen degeneres jokes...
       hmm...                     i realised i wasn't constipated
having eaten almost nothing on the day...
i fancied a hoi sin fajita (fa-he-tah... not a fa-jee-tah)
         wrap of duck from the supermarket...
         but i really though i was constipated...
sat on the throne of thrones expecting a ****...
       all i "plopped" out was alkaline lemonade...
          but **** me can the chinese butcher the duck
properly...
                             the sort of atheists i believe in:
a. they'll eat anything                   and
    b. they don't believe any other species exists apart
            from them.
c.? the ******* bit that adds to an advantage?
                    men take joy from work, women take
joy from ***... it's not that ******* difficult...
                            the chinese can really butcher a duck...
hoi sin duck... it's like bbq sauce...
                                      eating cat treats instead of
haribo... i want to keep my teeth like
those skeletal excavations from the iron age
          in the alps...
                                but ****! i really want to laugh
at a joke a women tells... whether on the concrete savannah
of the urban environment... or stand-up on stage!
i really want to!
                            i really can't! is that sad?
a women telling a joke is like a woman in her
late teens asking a man in his early twenties about
how to fry a pancake!
               and it's happened to me! i had to tell these
teen women how to fry a pancake...
               they tried frying about five, and all of them
ended up being burned... and i just said:
    you have to add oil to the goo-dough... and then
add oil to the frying pan...
           what has fat-free yogurt done to these women?!
you can't find yourself your body expecting
pseudo-sugars all the time! you need fat!
                           oh this is in privy...
                   ever ****** off a pregnant woman showcasing
her ****? pinching her *******... ENLARGED...
                and: if i were married, i'd ask my woman:
can i suckle on that too? i don't want the baby to
get in the way with our love life...
             it's like this cult of the north north
in the antonio banderas the 13th warrior...
                        cult of the pregnant woman? something
the neo-pagans carve into stone, rather than
the classical pagans with phallus etched into wood...
       i really did watch a pregnant woman tease...
   i just felt like rubbing the ******* ("luxury")
                         and looking at her teasing me
with her extra-large *******...
                biology would state: imagine the foetus!
imagine the foetus! look at her enlarge "stomach"!
i thought we were pro-feminism?!
                     a pregnant woman doesn't get you
bullish ready for a torero?
                                i'm single and i'm about to
fiddle with a pregnant woman!
                                   and she's all the more ready
given she's posting videos on the internet
with her head decapitated from view...
                 i mean: a pregnant woman is not
the high-tide of *******, among other things?!
              i hate being an eroto-maniac, but given i
am drinking and walked in the dark and
                           though i bumped into a giraffe,
that was actually a chair...
                        what else? trying to find a woman
stand-up comedian funny?
         a pregnant woman playing with her *******
and imagining ******* at her ******* when the milk
comes to rekindle the *** prior child...
   it's easier to get a hard-on from that:
than a laugh from a woman doing stand-up comedy.

title: copepod
body:
blister-whale:
somewhat: 2. 502 bad gateway give-away

i have to admit, i took a hiatus from listening to
Marilyn Manson... by chance i came across
a review of... either Born Villain or the Pale Emperor...
clearly: i wasn't paying attention...
ever since i missed the chance to go to a concert
when he was touring the Holywood album...
that same year Mudvayne were touring with L.D. 50...
i switched off after their debut...
i switched off from the music of my youth in general...
went down several rabbit holes...
notably medieval music - blues - jazz -
                      some extra-curriculum classical....
but the artist ages... well... so does his audience...
i don't even remember when i started writing:
let alone posting dotty-doodles on this platform:
i had only one focus... for all the ills that the internet
enhanced... revealed when it comes to the interaction
of people: sure... the older generations found it
convenient to shop... to do banking... to book plane
tickets... but for us younger folk... the ones born
into the years prior to the inception of the internet...
this was our time to build up an underground
of communication... for me? what better way to bypass
the gatekeepers, the publishers...
having amassed some readership... 44 thousand on just
one poem? hmm... let me spell it out: 44,000...
if i were to write it out in matchsticks, i.e. |||||||||| = 10...
what is 44,000 of those pretty stacks of arithmetic?
let me see what 100 looks like...
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what about a thousand?
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                                                  = 1000...
now... i know what 44 thousand looks like... roughly...
how many spectators were there at Wembley...
for the woman's F.A. cup final?
                                        let's say... 41K...
now multiply that space of matchsticks by... 44...
but this is only one poem... i have... thousands of poems...
some are still stashed on my facebook page:
or rather lost on my timeline...
           mind you: i haven't performed any of them...
why? they don't rhyme: for starters...
i like listening to people sing Aud Lang Syne
on new year's eve... and even Shakespeare can't
beat that... Shakespeare's words were never put
to music... and they won't be...
sure... great meter blah blah... but you can't sing
Shakespeare... so there goes the baby...
with the bathtub and the water out of yer
******* window...
                            i'm more a composer than a performer...
i'm more a composer than a performer
therefore not an entertainer...
i gave myself this: jinx... the moment i start
performing... is the moment i stop composing...
i'll just be regurgitating the very few poems
that might be left in my repertoire like...
Ginsberg... having to recite Howl ad nauseam...
me? i'm sort of in the mindset: plough along...
let's not beat around the bush...
   for all the ills of the internet... there's one good...
the possibility to bypass gatekeepers...
publishers... no one would touch my ****...
and yet: they are printing tabloid spew...
           sorry... tabloid *****...
                they are printing propaganda left right
and centre... my work would be... obscure...
revealed: ha ha... perhaps after my death...
let the people judge for themselves...
                     i'm not saying it's Shakespeare...
god forbid writing that stuffy ****...
                             it's contemporary... i don't even think
i'd allow myself to belong to a movement
akin to post-modernism...
   hell: if **** comes naturally... it comes...
if it doesn't... well... i usually need to do something...
ha ha: "cope"... do some cooking, do some cleaning,
do some gardening... so some ironing of the shirts...
go to my part-time job... wait a year until i'll ask
for references and then apply for a job as a teacher...
or take the current route and become a security guard...
which route would allow me to write, more?
probably the latter... then again... experience
as a security guard... could come in handy...
on a curriculum vitae... when it comes to crowd control...
in a classroom of kids...
    but i really don't want to teach chemistry...
i'd love to teach English...
                   - but don't get me wrong.... some artists /
bands got the mix right... they understood
that there needed to be a prominence of the BASS guitar...
Metallica sure as **** didn't catch up...
pretty much all those kinds of bands didn't...
barely audible... well... with the exception of
the intro on Devil's Dance... but then the bass disappears
into inaudibility...
it's like a post-jazz hybrid... in rock music...
the rhythm guitar and all that is considered "melody"
can sort of *******... let's just leave in the screetching
accents of the guitar... keep the vocals...
but... but... let the bass guitar exfoliate...
   and... let the drums compliment it...
    no no... the drums are no longer the building block...
the bass guitar comes first...
  it's a bit like borrowing from opera...
    bass is the baritone... rhythm / solo guitar the soprano...
yada-yada-blah-blah some minutes later...
songs like the Gardener from Born Villain and
Third Day of a Seven Day Binge from the Pale Emperor...
if you listen to them... you can truly... truly: groove...
you can't stop nodding, can't stop swaying...
you start thinking: how is it that pigeons don't
get headaches? i guess they must be listening to cosmic
music only pigeons can hear... like those dog whistle
scenarios... humans can't hear it...
but since... all birds descended from dinosaurs...
they strut... nodding... head-banging... some ancient
music of the cosmos: ergo? no head-ache...
hmm... and this writing coming from a guy who
drinks like a pirate... and is waiting to do psychedelic
drugs if... he might enter the confines of dementia...
oh yeah: i'm keeping that option open...
should i start to slip up... on my pedantic spelling
and punctuation... i'm ******* off to Amsterdam
to a brothel and some magic mushrooms... ****...
i'll need to get a bus out of Amsterdam and find some
forest... something scenic... mind you:
the Netherlands are not that scenic... flat... upon flat...
upon flat... although... that's the jist of things you see
from the motorway when going through...
i'm sure i could find some beautiful spots to trip...
  should the worst come...
but the artists i was fond of listening to in my youth
have finally caught up with what i was thinking:
where, the ****, is, the BASS?
       ****** music jerking off the solo guitar...
no, please... and all that rhythm guitar...
   challenge the drum & bass crowd...
that sputnik crowd of... turning African drumming
into... a stampede of hyenas on amphetamines...
    boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...
mind-blowing load of headache....
the bass guitar can do two things...
it can set the rhythm... it can set the beat...
but it can also can create an undercurrent of a melody...
oh ****... that's three things...
   early Marilyn Manson did respect the bass playing
of Twiggy Ramirez... but... there was still the guitar-maker
melody overload...
the mature artist... given songs like: the Gardener
and Third Day of a Seven Day Binge...
respects the bass guitar... it comes so gloriously to the fore...
something a band like Metallica can never
accomplish... or Led Zeppelin... all those 1970s greats...
those bands had the bass guitar pop up...
in a segment of a song... NIB? by black sabbath?
and then... disappear... don't undermine the Leviathan...
this rock fusion with post-jazz...
oh of course... there's no section in this music...
whereby each instrument takes a chance to solo...
there's no need... everything is just ******* dandy
as it stands...
             - and where would i be... the internet is evil!
ooh: boogie-woogie! sure... people are acting
like ****-storm brainiac... brainiack... brainiak...
   brainiaq...      just four of the possible aesthetic questions
regarding the spelling of: Otto Binder...
not that i'm a massive comic book fan...
well... if you get a chance to meet Declan Tan...
Declan... yeah... for my birthday he gave me a copy
of... Batman vs. Alien... no wait... it was Batman/Aliens...
published in 1997... i think Declan liked me...
i sort of think i liked Declan...
                      the first time i tasted chicken soup that
wasn't Slavic born... with sweetcorn...
(ISBN 1-56971-305-7)...
sure... it's evil... people ghosting each other...
dark-web ******* inner circles etc., the silk road...
hmm... ghosting... poor Jeminah...
how many times did i play roulette... cycling down
Mawney Road in the past... 3 weeks?
not that often... i tried at least once a week...
not that i'm stalking... but it's a decent route...
it's all downhill... and chances of cycling onto sharpnel
is limited... mind you... never... ever...
cycle into the London borrough of Barking & Dagenham...
chances of getting a flat tire... esp. if you're cycling
on 23cm wide tires of a road bicycle?
no brainer...
   before pulling into Mawney Road... i was...
blinded by a sunset... idiot me forgot to wear his sunglasses...
but i stared at the ***** with eyes wide open
waiting for white phosphorus to start pouring
from under my eyelids...
   oh... i'll be looking at you... until the point
where i see you for what you really are:
but you're never really that when you're at sunset...
or sunrise... it's only at your zenith when...
staring long enough at you... exposes you as this
pulverising... vibrating mirror of fluorescence...
sort of silver... sort of white... but not when you're
coming down from your zenith... you're still blinding...
  - only a day prior i thought i saw Frankie...
Friendrich... her son... getting on the bus...
from a 5-a-side football centre off Eastern Avenue...
turned out it wasn't him:
no, it couldn't be him... over-protective mother
would never allow her son to take the bus on his own...
plus... the kid is supposed to be an actor...
she's milking him... "apparently"... he's into bedroom fun
on a games console... you couldn't find him
climbing trees or playing sports... a *****... basically...
the only sport he might have heard of...
is... boxing... to defend him mother from abusive
boyfriends... where: he'd always lose...
- i was waiting for this moment...
the sun blinded me gloriously...
   as i cycled down Mawney Road...
that's the thing about meeting Jeminah... her dog...
i had these self--inflicted knuckle wounds
from putting out cigarette butts on them...
her dog... oh man... her dog loved me...
he really quickened the healing process...
he licked and licked and licked... and licked...
the scabs off... to the point where i started bleeding again...
looking at my knuckles...
nothing prettier in the world... no tattoo could
compensate them...
so as i was cycling down Mawney Road...
who do i see? the over-existed dog... barking... chewing air...
i see the dog first... the dog sees me first...
i later make out that... glorious colour of her hair...
that darkened ginger that's mingling with oak-cask
auburn... i put on my most impressive frown...
i don't look her in the face... mind you:
everything's ******* fluorescent before me
having been blinded by the sun just minutes prior...
i'm not stalking... she was the one that invited me
back to her home twice... yeah... i know where she lives...
that's when i had that mad moment
of leaving her flowers on the porch...
and a Valentine's card through her letter-box...
o.k.: fair enough... that's borderline creepy...
what isn't... with modern woman and feminism?
          a simple boy can't offer up simple love...
i learned from my supervisor...
the daughter of my neighbour that she's no longer
working for the company...
SLANDER... in H'america you can go to court
for that sort of ****... false-accusation, no?
that's what happens...
when a devil tries to outsmart a devil...
the latter devil pushes on... with gifts... with niceties...
the former devil has no option but to retreat...
to its own, former: hellhole... bog...
imagining someone i wanted to love...
stomach pains... mistaking them for butterflies...
single mum, dating much younger men...
or dating men who were big on *******...
former ex-boyfriend women beaters who ran her
into bad credit rating... with... debt...
i know of the mistakes i've made...
   two... in my early twenties... that's why the rest of
my twenties are a blur... that's why only now
i've reemerged as this extroverted silent type...
in my mid-30s... having plans...
   i wouldn't call it: ******* away my youth...
i'd call it... sorry... what? no, sorry... i was sort of absent...
probably alone in the forest... probably at night...
problem being... she can block me on whatsapp...
she block me on the internet...
       hmm... small world... a very small world...
she'll have to move... or commando the minutes she takes
her dog for a walk... the ******* dog licked my scabs / wounds
clean... he has my blood in his veins...
if he sees me... he's going to bark in my direction...
ghost me, *****? in the good old days...
the claustrophobia of a little city where i was born...
my parents lived... let's say... 600 metres apart...
but it took... being jointly invited to a wedding of fellow friends
that brought them together...
Jeminah can't ghost me... like she could forget about
all those guys she flicked left on
when we worked together on a shift on Tinder...
you can't shake off locality...
i'm practically her neighbour... in terms of of how
globalism comes across... what? i'm not allowed to cycle
down this street? she's not even living on the street i'm cycling
down... she's living on the cul de sac...
but i'm not paying for... the debt her ex...
whatever he was racked up in retaliation...
what a pretty face... what pretty hair: hair that i'd give
up drinking whiskey for... it's almost the same colour...
just keeping to the foundation
of routine... i like that street... cycling down it...
if she has any complaints... she better take out
the scab tissue of my DNA from her dog's gob...
but dogs don't simply: forget who they endear...
with affection... the internet distance conundrum
is not going to work on me... the only way she's going
to ghost me... proper... is moving somewhere else...
small world... small town... in the vicinity of Collier Row...
obviously i'm not going to bother her...
god forbid... i have Khedra to mind...
the ******* that gets all the *** that no man
rarely does... and has to text me: come over...
i need you... yeah... that type...
i cycled past with a frown... i just spotted the dog...
ooh... right... well... i know who's behind that dog...
yep... a flicker of dark ginger: disguised brunette...
yeah... that's Jeminah...
but this is counter to how the internet works...
no? in a cosmopolitan setting?
she can't exactly ghost me...
  sure... she can block me... on whatsapp...
   from a ****-show she herself orchestrated... why?
because she didn't have the confidence to compliment
me, directly... she had to: slander me...
she became one of those... idiotic... sappers...
she self-sabotaged herself... notably? after i pushed forward...
with... wine, cake and flowers...
she became a self-saboteur...
   like i said to one of the other girls: lies don't walk on
stilts... lies have short legs...
just wait... see... i've been alone long enough to know...
certain little, ******... analogies?! behavioural patterns
of blah-b'ah black sheep...
             now... i'm waiting for the crescendo...
there's no denying it... i do drink...
   but... allowing women this "sixth sense" of sniffing out
alcohol on... a person you just met...
accusing them of drinking on the job?
i know the territory... my grandmother had the same
sixth sense... when she turned my grandfather into
an alcoholic... he finally broke down and threw her
through a glass door...
        me? ******* prostitutes?! i'm trying to escape that
headache... keeping it sorted behind a... paywall...
   first comes the payment...
i'm not landing on something that's... ahem... "free"...
- it is a big deal! you slander someone
and in H'america you can be taken to court!
i do drink, heavily... but when i'm working...
i half my intake if not third it...
      i wash, i pamper myself... i end up sober on the shift...
at the London Stadium people either take
selfies with me or give me sweets...
i'm a sucker for pop music and... gelatine infused sweets...
i can't refuse them... chocolate can simply not
exist... but... give me a bag of Haribo...
esp. those sour-sweet types... i can't help myself...
i just have to eat them...
- but, this is... a 2nd Jeminah Revelation...
she... she can't swipe left on me... on Tinder...
i'm not on Tinder: never have...
    i'm almost her neighbour if i take out the bicycle...
i can be round her house in a matter of minutes...
London, even Greater London... has... shrunk... for her...
she can block me on an APP-lication...
but she can't... block me... cycling down a road
she takes her dog for a walk...
               i wonder how this dynamic will work out...
on her mind... i was waiting for this moment...
you can't just... ghost me... when i'm living: locally...
sure... you can... "ghost" me... but... that implies:
you have to move... i'm not moving...
i'm rooted... i haven't been this rooted in a long time...
funny how that works...
whatever it is that works... bicycle breaks...
the wheels... the moon and the tides...
that sure as **** works...
the sun and photosynthesis... that also works...
but... the interaction between women
and men, these days?
sure as ****: it's not working...
  which is, rather... a crying shame...
do we really have to go into interracial territory
for it to work?
personally? i don't feel like it...
    no, not really...
                  whoever takes over...
oh... i'm pretty sure the current white overlords
are planning an ultra-coup-uprising of
being the chosen typos...
               whatever...
                i have lost interest in this world...
from about... 2 years ago?
yeah... the world is sort of automated for me...
i lost interest in it...
the whole matter of the "pandemic"... sort of desensitized
toward any sort of attitude toward Ukraine...
i sort... hmm... ahem... don't care...
Ukrainians celebrated the invasion of Poland
by the Nazis during World War II...
if i'm not directly involved: invoked...
i'm going to play the "solipsist" / pacifist card...
the Pontius Pilate poker...
               i'm out... i was already out...
i just don't want to be involved...
                         is that somehow a Buddhist monk
"sentimentality"?
             to hell with Buddhism...
                         1960s cultural appropriate import...
i'm yet to be rid of the **** Christianity that
turned European barbarism into European
secularism.

Love is the stupidest of things
Like crossing the road and beating the sound
Thinking its loose change but turns out to be pounds
Love is the daftest of things
When you sycronise in union on a song you both sing
To sharing sweets from the bag and pretending with a Haribo ring
Love is also a surprise at times
From trying a new curry after saying you would never change
Now its Katsu all the way as the taste is lovingly strange
Love is also a monopoly and can be sometimes testing
From that one lost sole you met one night on the bus
Now divorce papers all the way and wondering about the fuss
But love is what love is, be it starting with a but(t)
Measuring against the last and to see if your friends smile or tut
From going through the rounds to who makes the final cut
Love is what love is and not just some passing faze
Lets just hope you make the cut as we all have our funny ways

Love Is (Part II)

JJB