11-6-14
I saw my name on your contacts list
and wondered how many times your finger hovered over the "call" button.
---
I hope you, or at least someone
thinks at least some things about me are cute
the way my hair sticks up and then flops over when I try to fix it
and, when pinned up,  the way it becomes gradually messier over the course of the day.
When I mouth the words to a song on the school bus,
scrunching my eyes and headbanging,
or when I spin around on my heels, and try to look graceful.
---
Frick, I shouldn't try to write about love, i'm just a thirteen-year-old girl
who grew up on the internet
and doesn't care about the ****** music she's listening to.

i still can't believe that i spent almost two
hour's worth of coverage of
rugby league's world cup final...
the **** was i watching?!
          i spent a few hours prior
the game between rugby union's
match-off between wales and
south africa...
           **** me, what a cliff-hanger,
after Leicester City won the premiership
and south africa were beaten
by japan, i starting thinking:
   ***** boys gonna to be beat like
spreading butter on warm toast...
              but then i noticed how
there were no ***-bellied hulks in
           the rugby league teams...
    clones vs. clones...
               and the scrum when compared
to 8 bulls?
         i started thinking about what
i was seeing in the rugby league and immediately
got a *******...
      had to **** it off...
                 rugby league is like this
hybrid of rugby and american football...
makes no sense to me, whatsoever...
             why can you only make one
pass in american football while
all the other players are sparring pretending
to run?
         i get baseball only because
the vocab to understand cricket is too ****
difficult to allow a bat, a ball and a wicket
to be anything but complicated...
                and when compared to
a rugby union scoreline of 24 - 22,
6 - nil...
         you can score 7 goals in football...
         sorry to **** on the whole parade,
but rugby league is a mongrel of
rugby mixed with american football...
where's the line out for the throw in?
       and why is it always 3 versus 1
and then a tap on the shoulder
                   with the ref telling them to
get off so another can engage in a 3 versus 1
tackle?
              rugby union i get,
the well informed ref is a *******
  python of knowledge...
              football's ballerinas i get too,
footballers were always prone to drama
once they earned too much...
       rugby league? makes as much sense
to as american football...
                        throwing marbles makes
more sense... as does tic-tac-toe...
                     children are the game makers...
what idiot thought up the:
one throw, touch down!
                          what's that bit in the middle,
skirmishing pretending to box?
         i literally wasted 2 hours of
my time watching a world cup final
where a proper rugby scrum looks
like premature *******...
                            *******, practice
premature with a hard shaft of pure bone...
once you hit the oyster flesh of
a woman's genitals,
  pulling back your *******,
she'll start thinking less of a quickie
and more of a sunday morning...
                        god,
there's nothing as gorgeous as a foulness of
language in exchange for a clear
thought of: objectifying woman
by the ******-sack of a cow...
                       hey...
can you imagine the pervert finding a wife
in the mother of his child
by asking to also drink her milk?
       my... what an idea...
                     trans-eroticism...
      the subtle fetish that gets no kink
or whip or latex...
                              did i say that i watched
two hours of rugby league and thought
it was *******?
                      i must have,
i just remembered watching the scrums...
     and people do this professionally...
i wouldn't play this sport for leisure or hobby...
        as i never deemed a need
to appreciated boxing...
                           boxing,
metal head headbanging -
               i always preferred that sort
of "boxing" -
                             for some reason
i always preferred a game of squash
    to a game of tennis -
                    was it the whole "thinking outside
the box" aspect of the game?
            some sports are within the constraints
of confines...
                         and then there are sports
within the confines of constraints...
    like not hitting below the belt...
       well, you know -
           Beavis said - h'eh h'eh, i am cornholio!
while ****-Head just told a bad *** joke and
ugh ugh perversely sighed.

whether we are playing the game wrong
or playing the wrong game
does it matter when the result is always the same?
whats that saying about outcomes always being the same?
being insane?
what would I know
there I go
talking to the wall again

as i said before, the real active ingredient in cigarettes is not nicotine, nicotine is the flavoursome bit, the real active ingredient is carbon monoxide, the thing that spins your head a little on the first cigarette of the day.

oh god my nicotine hangovers
are worse than my alcohol hangovers,
i get this cough when waking
that makes schnitzel from my lungs
on the cough up (you'd think
it was tuberculosis), but recedes
once enough active ingregient in
my addiction is inhaled...
but the odd thing is...
when by odd chance i do get the classical
hangover with a headache...
my nicotine hangover is not apparent,
i don't cough...
and i cure this hangover by not
trying to think, thinking and brain
pain don't work together...
so i lie in bed, sing some *rammstein
and later drink enough coffee
for the caffeine cure of increasing
blood pressure / blood flow;
or the classical hangover could be due
to the fact that i was headbanging to
sepultura's ratamahatta...
   any coin flip is just as good to explain
this scenario.

ich wollen ein iranischherz herauf Nörden.

or simply Njørden - often the j is a softening pronunciation -
i want an Iranian heart up north -
that's what is says - imagine why he lashed out
with the words *sheisse ausländer -
miniature form of Dostoyevsky -
at 18 he was confused - his father probably
heard the words... hearing that he lashed out...
this is the proof of the power of commandments -
take one to extreme, and all the others seems
permitted - honour your parents -
he didn't shout out allah'u akbar - he did
a little maxim veto - as said unto me one,
may these bullets turn into revisited tongues -
the west has no concern for poetry -
i wouldn't make Iran an enemy,
after all... they're the ones that appreciate poetry...
mm ha ha! so given Iran's flavour for poetics
i can only applaud at their sensibility -
i too was once duped into thinking that watching
a movie i might lie to a girl and ****** her -
poetry is dead in the west... i don't write
for the west, i write from the west, which doesn't
mean i respect the west -
thanks to feminism we're cruising into
an affair of what feminists don't anticipate:
the impracticality of old age creeping, creeping,
creeping... with large families there are at least
chances of a benevolent child who might care for
his parents - in the west with surrogate foetal-things
it's hardly a bouquet of flowers sitting pretty on
a table - the problem are already waiting...
thank **** if you're rich... if you're poor?
well... hmm what a Disneyland awaits you -
**** stained and **** smeared dying for your idea
like any Communist might; well, i'm not going to
help you... ask Oxfam while the money you donated
ensured that only a penny reached the poor poor
Africans and why 99 pence reached the bureaucracy
of keeping a charity afloat - i know where
i can find fresh water... you have to cross a barbwire
fence, feed 10 horses 20 sugar cubes and you're
at a little stream of clarity... then you do the vegan
diet and sorta'h waiting for a heart-attack...
or you take a Russian Empire banknote with Tsar
Nicholas II to Switzerland and buy yourself out
with euthanasia... either way, win win.
every ****** time i go back home there's the Krähewolke -
i'm starting to imagine myself as the boy instructed by
Barbarossa to watch for the crows and a second life -
it's a small town, used to be industrious,
life here, there, everywhere, now a town of pensioners -
a European squabbling with a European but ignoring
the massive signs MADE IN CHINA, MADE IN CHINA...
MADE IN CHINA... why you blaming me for what's
going to happen to you too? you think this is the steam-engine
days of industrial revolution? do you have an Instagram
account? no. well... if you aren't going to be a third party
advert unit you're worth jackshit -
but still that Krähewolke of summer, thousands of them
swarm the sky - i'm not saying because i'm there,
i'm saying i'm there dwarfed by such a sight...
krähe die messerschmitt - so poetry is written by
*****-whipped English teachers, or it's the medium of
the weak, it has many voices but it doesn't have a voice,
it needs to be pretty, it needs to be neat, it needs to
have a prosthetic metaphor stashed in a pile of **** flare -
some say it even has to be as coherent as an Ikea
manual for putting a table together, people all of a sudden
trash the calculator and attempt mental arithmetic in
terms of reading... what... a... load... of... crock-****...
hyphen... mm... the Germans knew the immigrant Saxons
would speak less and less German and even of lesser
quality than the Turks... the Germans invented chemistry -
the Anglo-Saxons invented hyphenation... but it's so
******* weird that the Englandish outlandish will
hyphenate a word like overt-usage but never include the
hyphen in chemical nouns, like: Hydrochloric acid...
dihydrogen monoxide (yes, the d'uh hoax),
phosphorus pentachloride - what remains of Vater Schwaben
in English is bound to chemistry's language,
where the standard use of hyphen is disallowed -
the German original took on a different optometrist -
the English revision took on yet another (different) optometrist -
the eyes of the English starring at a German word
began to dizzy-up-whirl looking through a kaleidoscope -
the Germans just saw: schieße schrapnell!
achtung! achtung! die wort ist die fondant...
mm... gobble gobble gobble - pristine smile of sharpened
teeth in a smile! klebrigzähne sprechen sehr kleine-eine-miner.
well... if you're going to write a Monty Pi Ten you might
as well desecrate a foreign language with the grammar of
the one acquired - very much interested in how grammar
is reflected by Arabic left-to-right, English right-to-left
German right-to-left,but Latin left-to-right - all the genus
names - **** sapiens: rational man - or the up-kept
(******* ***** -φρεν - alt.  hi-yo in Beijing) desire for:
the instilled continuance of the rationalising man...
rationalise this! knuckle dusters down the East End -
gotta be a **** before you can be a Cockney Wiseguy -
say ooh la la say soo - bud weiss err - say ooh la la say soo -
amphetamine George says: ethanol Scottish Gaelic means:
twins sedative and un-inhibitor - talk of Enzymes -
south and shoo, north and nothing, east and extra territory,
west and **** / Vancouver - van coup verily ******
voulez-vous volleyball aha! write poetry like a dictionary
entry - spandex, annex, fly-flex - it can really become
a tennis match after a while:
   roses are   red
                   violets are blue
             i'm so in love with everything that's dead
    that i decided to call the past the necessary glue.
an article by Bryan Applied concerning poetry -
and why all poetic hearts are bound for Iran -
karaoke the current trend in the west for one -
living at a time when cooking books sell,
and plagiarism is celebrated more than any awkward
originality, but everyone still owns microwaves
and opts for ready-meals -
the rewards of old age aren't there because families
have become atomic based on individuals -
oh right? the article, it's long, ****** me off -
"we turn to poetry in times of need, but can it really
help? and why doesn't it sell more copies?"
ah the selling questions, i forgot a capitalist thinks
of poems like hamburgers...
i'll put in a bracketed word pending in the title and give
you a brief overview of the article...

*** and whiskey interlude

i don't write poetry... what i do do is **** poetry;
why do fellow artists hate poetry?
poetry in the hands of the old and young
thinks itself ******-like, the one art form that
says no to violence, no to intolerance,
no to drastic actions of revision -
keeping the Shakespearean sonnet won't do the art
any favours, it's the art too easily accessible,
because anyone can apparently write it
as long as they get a clue than a rhyme is necessary -
alternating rhymes are not that important,
i asked for a steak tartar, instead i got
plated a shepherds' pie - i asked for raw,
all i got for nanny picked and donning diapers -
poetry is best suited for that dynamo of reaction
known to internet trolls - trolls should overpower
writing poetry, they're intelligent enough, and
democratic too - cold-stone-heartless *******
should pick up these floral arrangements and
do an iron maiden make-over with them...
poems should be torture instruments,
they should never be treated as floral arrangements...
i don't like weakness, neither does nature -
when i walk into the museum of poetry
i don't want to see avant-garde art, i want to see torture,
they really did underestimate the vis poetica -
when i read poetry i want torture, i don't need
safety pins, straitjackets and other torturous
instruments of conformity - but from what i'm seeing
that's all i'm getting - ask any man why the construction
industry is ******* - women on site, women in the
army - feminism has infiltrated sacred sites of
manly brotherhood... you don't see a man stroll into
the fashion industry... well... unless he's a ****** -
a Grimm Brother's tale: once upon a time...
you could listen to a radio on a building site...
then women came in... we only heard symphonies of
hammer and drill... that alone made us deaf...
sure... we worked dangerously, we died more often...
BUT THE THRILL! **** *** bye bye... go on, wave at it...
it's like Titanic's maiden voyage... it's not coming back!
feminism's ugly head should have shoved itself once
more under a horse's galloping hoofs - a few times -
it played with the brotherhood of man - we're no longer
men, we're insurance policies, safety nets,
no wonder the Jihadis are fighting for our libidos -
cos i honestly think they are... they want us to feel the Mojo
once more from the frivolous spirit of the 1960s liberation
that only became slavery of the fake sinner -
**** it... applause gentlemen! applause! thank **** for
me donning *******, i'd be a real loser if i had to hand it
to myself without it... these days it's called the ******* -
the monk's sheaf of chastity - reduce a man to a *****
and you reduce a father to alimony cheques.
what?! ain't that true? i told you, **** poetry, don't
bother writing it, **** that pacified ***** into obedience -
you own it... without you you'd still be crying about
what shame it is that a nation that produced Shakespeare
undermines poets while keeping this old **** ticking
all the boxes of worthwhile inspection... i wish i was
the 20th century example of when poetry had some respect...
at any other time more so in the 20th century -
but we missed that train... shame for us to have inherited
such a past and the internet - so if not so keen on poetry
why Shakespeare the celebratory idol? twilight Sir
****-a-lot is coming - or so i hope.
so this article, citations:
a. Wordsworth 'thoughts that do often lie too deep for
     tears',
b. poetry is the language of crisis,
c. poetry as peak experience constructed from
    the shabby, battered bricks of verbiage
    (otherwise known as talk with a mouthful
      of spaghetti),
d. TS Eliot: 'purifying the dialect of the tribe'
     (too many dialects to make up a tribe, to be honest),
e. funerals in particular are what's called
    poetic crashing the scene, every subject,
    every opportunity, you'd never call a poet a
    polymath,
f. the healing power of poetry... the healing power?
    i never signed up to take a Hippocratic oath!
g. a permanent record of failure... or the allure of a permanent
     record of ridicule by others, so the minor success was
     there too - as in a boy buys a kettle
     is a success story, but a boy writes a poem is a failure -
     is that vocabulary as commodity without
     a handkerchief?
h.
              a sense of abandonment looms...
              the obnoxiousness of this article is all too apparent,
      i rather be headbanging to some ***** M: Ra Ra Rhas Putin -
(even surds deserve a bit of love) -
i might finish the citation of the article... but then again
i might as well cut it short - inc. in the Culture Section
of the Sunday Times, Bryan Appleyard -
people resent poetry for stealing what comes naturally -
really? so i'm a thief? a lot of people don't invest in
vocabulary - they convene to invest in flimsy investments
of slang - after graduation from being teenagers the investment
in **** suddenly disappears - grown-up vocabulary takes
over, comprehensive English, not slang English...
people don't acquire naturally (i.e. easily without discomfort),
if i were to complain to the people for treating me
as a thief rather than a poet i'd ask them to teach me to
do crosswords... a pain-in-the-***... i can't do them!
so i guess that if you're able to do crosswords you can't
write poetry, or give poetry a freedom away from all those
dusty technicalities / identifiers as such -
for poetry doesn't make anything happen
(WH Auden), it probably doesn't, but if you choose a boring
life, a lot happens... 11/15 is the feminist ratio of poetry's
Forward prizes in the genre - k k, a fraction - 11:15 -
new testament? or the old's citation? yeah... why do they
cite the bible like making bets at the bookies?
Gospel of St. Luke 15 to 1? they're betting on the 4 Henchmen
of the Apocalypse - gambling even in the testaments.
performance poetry seldom stands up on the page -
yeah, wheelchair bound, or in pop culture lyricism -
that competition between R.E.M.'s man on the moon
(yeah yeah yeah yeah), and Nirvana's smells like teen spirit,
hello hello hello 'ola! (later the yeah yeah hitchhiker's story);
did i tell you i got barred from a pub in Collier Row for
speaking poetically? a ****-hole of a pub anyway,
walked in with a pair of dolphin flippers and a shark
fin, spoke some words, made a few friends over grapefruit
ale - then a few days later got barred, because i apparently
"threw a pint glass across the room"; that's me booked
for the Cheltenham Book festival for sure... right next to
the cookbook aisle where people will be expecting to make
humble pie and cider squint tarts.

i know what the problem with poetry is...
it’s like nick harper tuning the piano
or tenacious d playing the one note song...
it’s almost like
had i the grace (#d)
to fathom the craze (#d)
of each acknowledging stare (#a)
we shared: i guess i’d fare (#a)
much closer to the stardom (#b)
of what i can fathom (#b)...
lead
-ed
red
well fed...
ya ya yawn.
apart from the humanities subjecting an art via mutilating
the one original craft of spontaneity
with such excess of scalpel and anaesthetic
as “discovered” theory...
no expression of language has as many “grammatical”
words to define its learning / interpretation as poetry...
whatever verb has against pronouns to make us anonymous
by excluding a personal stance of nouns...
so has poet against verbs to make us anonymous
by excluding a metaphor personalised given the nouns.
well one note does sound “serene” giving the rhyme couplet
when in music just the same old repeat of the so called rhythm: of a church at 11pm, i.e.
poetry is ruined by rhyme... rhyme kills rhythm
of spontaneity... and i'd hate to make poetry
the ***** of predictability of £110 an hour £10 extra
for oral *** performed on her... enter the realm of rhyme
and you enter a cul de sac:
i was headbanging, unsure whether it was the music
that got me started or the echo of my head autographing
a brick wall as a way to find teeth in a woodpecker's beak.

sun rising fast

orange light gives  public transportation a peculiar  look

pink sky is my favorite

my short skirt

and black lipstick

his long unkept hair

and Iron Maiden tee

its nice to see another misfit on the bus

mr. metal flashes me a smile

I pretend to be occupied  with my cell phone

I got a boyfriend

besides

i'm not used to flattery

mr. metal is silly

he's drumming the seats with his fingers

I pinch a  black smile

don't laugh, be sensible

putting on my librarian face

glasses on the edge of my nose

sweep back stray hairs against my sensible bun

mr. metal is staring holes into me

he is amused

now I'm sulky

go back into Gatsby and Daisy

this is a bit coincidental

we are way too funny

breaks

bells

next stop

mr.metal clashes into my world

books fly

headphones  are yanked

automatic door

next thing I know

i'm flailing off a bus

wonderful.

mr. metal is sorry

I dont know I'm laughing

til my sides start to hurt

grouchy morning bystanders are looking with interest

and the bus driver is surpressing a deep belly laugh

I remind him of his clumsy wife, sister, girlfriend, or daughter.

mr. metal is headbanging to my black sabbath

and picking up my books

suddenly I know

he has a very tired understanding mother

he helps me up

we're both wearing black nail polish

dont ask me why this is so hilarious


i'm stood up, brushed off, and looked at

he looks at me like an ex

he smells good

I blush far too easily

thanks are muttered

and we turn around to walk off

like a graceful plot

of some movie I've never seen

I get a text from baby

he takes such good care of me.

mr. metal will meet a cute girl he can pit with

at some heavy concert

and maybe when she's cold

he'll give her that leather jacket

and he'll ride the bus with her

all night long

thats what i'd like to think

either way

life is good.

(Words were given to me by classmates:
A  Vivid
B  Incredible
C  Rapid
D  Blank
E  Indubitably
F  Over)

The sight so vivid,
the feeling is incredible.
Thumping, thrashing, moshing; rapid.
All adrenaline, minds are blank.
All will have stories to tell, indubitably.
Time stops; never ending, never over.

Guitarist flicks his pick over
our heads; strobe lights so vivid.
People injure for that pick, indubitably.
Though to catch it would be incredible.
Chaos for a piece of plastic that's blank.
The crowd's desperation; movements are rapid.

Heavy metal; headbanging rapid.
Vortex as they swing their heads over.
Some are dizzy; expressions blank.
Light reflects of swishing hair; movements are vivid.
How the band maintains the rhythm is incredible.
Long night for everyone, indubitably.

The chaos will never end, indubitably.
People still moshing, everything is rapid.
Being in the center; scary and incredible.
I hope this will never be over.
Lights flashing, making everything vivid.
Flashing and thrashing; nothing is blank.

Begin a new song, backdrop is blank.
Something awesome, indubitably.
New song starts, loud and vivid.
Musicians play more rapid.
No one wants it to be over.
Lyrics speak, it's incredible.

This night is incredible!
No thoughts form, my mind is blank.
But dreadfully, it is over.
Traffic out is awful, indubitably.
My heart is still beating so rapid.
The memories are oh, so vivid.

I wish it wasn't over, the lights were so vivid!
My energy is blank, but my mind is still rapid.
The show was incredible; I'll go again, indubitably.

****... the sunglasses...

double ****!

        dinner... making my father lunch...

triple hush hush ****** third....

  i might be a drunk...
   (burp)          
              but i have my obligations;

the day doesn't begin
with or without a dosage
of sleep...

         i tango with a sputnik...

what?!
you know just your random ****...
sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet home
Idaho!

              Ghana?
****... i misspelled Missishippi....
             no,
not exactly Family Guy funny,
but you know,
you spend a night with two Germans
tripping on mushrooms,
watching American dad...
with an Egyptian drinking *****,
all quest-west in Amsterdam...
and you're not seeking the company
of a Puerto Rican hubbly-n-bubbly...
touch of flesh...

   the night must be pretty entertaining...

so that's what you call exfoliating
when given into excess...
...      .... .... (the excess pause)...
and then shhhhhhhhhhhhhh
in a makeshift metaphysical library...
literary... yes... (burp)... literate...
the sunglasses are working
just fine...

                   the sun isn't...

why do i always sit through the vanilla
sky of a sunset, why?!

hush darling...
          Shakie Shtevens is going
to tell you  all about what gives him
the Shakes...
   shakes? if you drink... hot sweats...
one minor posit of a subverted
hangover...

                  a slap, a punch, a slap
once more, oh look, i'm found and bound
to sober;
getting drunk,
and then returning to the leash:
well...
    covert for: a pristine afternoon.

p.s.

quasi-headbanging to a meat-head
tune...
  yeah.... Slipknot... what?!
no....   MC Hammer!
  i'm touching jack-****...
       look at me...
   touching... clapping using jazz hands.

because why would you want to write something, that might make people do things? why bother writing coherent instruction manuals for televisions? why not write "incoherent" Kandinsky moments? why not go along to the Cabaret Voltaire? why not say that the only twists in the plot of philosophy books is based upon contradictory statements of the narrator? why even bother requiring that Apollonian sensibility of making things ultra-geometric rather than hyper-geometric? if there's an opposite argument, i would recommend reinventing the ******* wheel.

the difference between a pretentious ***, and a pretentious ***
that has any venture into a self-reliant awareness
of the thespian act,
  can summarise it by using the pronoun
scalpel -
        i wouldn't go on youtube and talk...
luckily i know how the pendulum of
power wrecks havoc -
never feed them regurgitated passive crap,
get them flexing the mental straits -
get them to the gym!
       for the love of doodling -
              and all the reliefs from thought
being dubbed *agony, and subsequently
institutionalised and given the jacket
in which you can't scratch your head, or nose.
just like today: i know that i don't
have a novel in me... schizophrenics on
the other hand are walking examples of a novel...
     just look at them like an atomist might
and you'll see the electron smog
         making them finicky between engaging
in pro and neutro.
                    they have decoded language to
the point of language being rejected as sacrosanct,
iconoclastic, muscular verbiage...
i like them... they're my culinary patriots of
the same (dis) negation of ease...
         and was it not said that to classify poetry
you have to rhyme, as it was later termed:
to classify philosophy you need to ask a question?
why?
        can i just call philosophy a need to encode
something? i'm making parallels with modern sprechen,
   i'm liberating myself while in the background
people are writing code and deforesting the Amazon
patch of land.
             and i never bothered to write in the pixel
market-place: ta' 'un fo' un' banana!
i never left a single comment in the comment section
on any website...
   websites... funny concept...
   they're like a library with only blank books in them....
  you enter and scribble on as many books as
you can... you never really have the audacity to
hear someone else talk...
you're always gagging to write something on
a blank page... like a graffiti artist...
   or a giraffe... but the bricks are approx.
   the segments of Beelzebub's eyes in pixel...
but i could have used the article scalpel -
which is a proto-Socratic variation of the debate
concerning particulars (the) and universals (a)...
   or... i'm pointing as something clearly defined,
or i'm a magician conjuring up something
that hasn't been clearly defined...
   and the 20th century summit of philosophy,
the pronoun scalpel said i (self) and you (other) -
subjectivity objectivity tumbleweed and a whistling in
the background...
     man and his extracted canvas...
hardware and software...
                        the barons of software cannot
understand the importance of hardware,
hardware is always the lesser thing of interest...
butchers and surgeons...
     while the software brokers known as
psychologists tell you to paint a pretty picture...
let it be known that Freud created the psychoanalytical
scalpel, he coined is as the id -
vector, pointer, incisor, that... later morphed into
verb-neuter: it.
             is my writing perplexing?
  isn't the world perplexing? we get exposed to so much
variation of what function we are supposed to
   perform, that we aren't being taught the grit & grime
approach of telling people: money has absolved us
from thinking of any nation, of any tribe,
of any ethnicity, money can't rekindle tribalism
of "primitive" societies... why then fool people
into having these intense convictions of "belonging"
and "solidarity", when the world still stands
on a cliff of (a) takes out the garbage, (b) sells you
underwear, (c) fixes your car, (d) speaks for
you before a judge with some authority... etc.
  and i'll write ******... why?
i thought you might be more offended by
a dyslexic variation of certain words...
but then i have this book - the ****** factory
by gil scott-heron... the revolution will not
be televised, that guy... mjumbe is Swahili
for messenger... i feel itchy...  i feel this
orthographic urge pinching me... primarily because
english as a language anywhere and everywhere
doesn't even convene over the concept
of orthography, because it doesn't have a concept
of utilising diacritical syllabification of words -
   when i look at english i'm watching ***** amsterdam
hoes doing the hokey-pokey, ***** ******* me
       to replace my eyes with a pair of *******...
    m̄-júm̄-bé... there, now that looks like a proper
cane, cravat and bowler hat gent, walking
   into a 20pence per use toilet at Liverpool St. station...
    because it was never about writing
an instruction manual for a "do it yourself" selling
price of an Ikea table...
                    that's why i said m̄-ài or (ma'ai) -
mmá ài          - well, there was no point in elevating
the competence of literature by forging a forgetfulness
   when reapplying a second level of configurative
complexity with the little additions,
otherwise known as trying to imitate the semitic practices
of words and women, hidden.
                 it was never going to work...
    but that's what we're left with...
     a gigantic mess...              every single one of
us to our idiosyncrasy - or collectively bound by idiom,
   which is the opposite side of a piglet-skinned european.
       it's still bewildering how chinese ideography
survived... maybe because it was always abstract
    skeletal, and not hieroglyphic definitive owl,
snake, or pyramid...
                  all dues to them: invest in complication
prior, move away from sing-along a-to-z simplicity
and save money on the health service when
people get erosion of the brain while watching too
many voids, encapsulated by q, r, o, p, a, d, b...
        we have as many ailments as there are
easily accessible routes into speaking this ****** language...
and the reason behind why so many accents
exist of it being spoken: because there are no
diacritical regulations to talk chav or cockney in
the first place... or why people would
make this eloquence of abstracting sound with
            modern acronyms akin to c u l8er.
the fact that i'm writing this partially intoxicated
makes it all the more pleasurable, relaxing even,
        would i write something sober sometime?
once in a blue moon, when i'm feeling constipated
and get a headache... it's sign language from
here on in, like this mobile phone advert:
   phones (index + thumb extend, other fingers folded
to imitate a telephone)
    for (4, folded thumb, four protruding fingers:
  index, middle, ring and the pinky) -
you (u, the bullish horns of rock and roll,
   headbanging and a few dead brain cells, \m/,
i.e. protruding index and pinky, thumb folding
a clenched marriage of middle and ring fingers)...
  as it goes... when i read a message by other people
i usually bypass the emotional content,
   and sent them packing to Alcatraz with a bunch
of chinese chess masters.

Punk kids, instead of having choreography or jumping up and down with hands in the air,
Punk kids knock, bounce and rattle against each other like broken glass in a bag or pin ***** in the most complicated machine,
I hate loud noise but I love loud music as long as I have my headphones
Back and forth, headbanging until the noise from our heads comes out those ringing ears
Nervous tics to music
Stress made into a party
Rocking out, rocking ourselves forward and back
Just like I do when I'm overwhelmed
Catching or reaching a hand to anyone who knocks themself down
Loose limbs and heads slack
Hands and feet across the crowd are literally twitching,
It's a monster mash looking, skeleton disco.
Some kids look possessed but they're okay with that
No one's worst demons can get in because the venue's at full capacity,
The window-watchers chase any evil spirits into the snow,
Fear and worry leave for one set because they can't stand the racket,
The rest of the day got lost in all the cables and pedals,
I bounce against kids in chains and band t shirts,
Hardly need to use my eyes,
My shoes are covered in Doc Marten footprints and people shove me and I shove them right back and I don't need to say anything in the huge mess that is the mosh pit
The room is full of people moving like zombies on a sugar high whose brains are being eaten by the music,
For a while, we let that happen.
When the final set ends
My neck and feet are sore like the speakers and amps were a workout you can buy from Guitar Center,
Headbanging is my favorite kind of cardio,
And moshing is my favorite catharsis.
The silence is everywhere as the punks exit the Scene.
I hardly know any of these people by name.
But we just performed one strange, scene kid dance
For the night to watch
When I go to bed my legs spasm
I think because
they are still dancing

New years eve, could be ******



You see I wanted to go to a new years eve party
Back in the year 1995, I wanted to celebrate the good old year
Where Carlton won the flag, I booked in to go to the Wests Rugby Club party
And, I was looking forward to it, yeah I was a real smartie
I started the night having dinner with my folks, and after dinner
When the doors opened, I went into the room
Where they had the new years party with the cool band who was called Electro
And we all danced to songs like Rubber Ball, Leroy Brown, Teddy Bear and the Bohemian Rhapsody, yes we all had so much fun
They played so many other songs, and yeah I was certainly getting down, yeah
Then they played some AC/DC tunes like highway to hell, you shook me all night long and TNT, those songs were cool and I practiced my headbanging to those songs, yes it was totally cool, dudes, and after about 1 hour he started playing party music
Like Ice ice baby and achy Breaky heart, I want you back and a Cold Chisel song, Flane trees, yes I loved them, and after that,yes there were songs like
Runaround sue and when midnight hit we played prince's 1999, but we said 1995, yes we had fun that night, you know partying to every song
And chatting up every chick, and also really letting our hair down low
And after it was over some people got worried that I was alone o. New years eve
And then I won a bottle of champagne and one man wanted to **** me
Yes, I know what he was saying, I ain't a mallakka, I have to lay low
For a while, and only go out to fun events, for families
And yes, I am still happy, cause I had a cool night

We’re out front of my house,
In the front seat of your car,
It kind of stinks in here but it smells like you
So, I don’t mind
You turn on some music
And we laugh because it’s the dodgiest track

The radio screams
My heart flutters
Heavy metal bought my love
We don’t have long hair but we’re headbanging anyway
I’m giddy from my toes to the tip of my nose

People say you’re bit of an *******
****, I’m one of them who says that
But I don’t care
My friend don’t like you
My parents adore you
Marry the boy, you marry his family

I can’t help but think it’s love
When the thought of you
Comforts me even when my best friend ain’t there
And she hasn’t been there for yonks
But what we’ve got is hard as rocks

Cloudy afternoon in a rural little street
Should’ve told you then
Better a rejection than a what-if
But I didn’t speak my mind
Only let you tease me
I wonder what could’ve happened
If I had had the courage
To take my word upon my tongue
And press it onto your mouth

death metal screeches in the background,
heart pounding,
headbanging ,
but your face is what I see.
your soul layed upon me.

daydreaming over what came to pass
and what shall be.
what shall become of you and I
endless memories flying by

truth be told, without "we" there is no me
no me to feel happy
no me to be free
your face is all I see.

so many things to be glad for
none of these compare to thee

your shining soul
belongs to me

He said, "if the girlies don't work out"
To come back here

And get **** faced

And maybe watch some bad movies
Like Predator 2

Past security, ticket given without a second glance
It could've been any old white piece of paper

But he didn't check.
Why wouldn't he check?

Inside are the real predators
The real commodifiers

Who stalk prey called women
Look at the way they look at you

Do you notice the way they look at you?
Or is it like breathing air, or a fish in water

And do you buy into the predator's worldview?
What do you really see when you look at the self?

Only what others see, perhaps?
I understand that

In the car, on the ride here
He said, "I'm looking for something special"

"I don't **** and get out"
But definitely don't stop calling them *******

The culture says who they are,
Rather, the culture says what they are

You are complicit in the culture
Just like me

A stoic face toward oppressors
Is still complacent

A face that prides itself on not objectifying women
Yet lays silent in their objectification,

Isn't he just the problem?
Aren't I that problem?

And the songs that are as unspecial as the ***
You purport to not want

Boom louder than your heartbeat
That you can't tell if it's the bass or the blood

Pulsing through your veins

How do you know what you want isn't real?
Are you oblivious to the remake, the unoriginality?

Like the songs stolen without rights,
You adopt your predecessors' predatory propensities

It's all *******.
That's what our glasses are full with.

The Irish drink to connect
We drink to waste away

The same way we do when we sit
And become one with our couch

At the heart of the Ire-land
Is a history of conflict

And inability to have conflict,
Also known as: war

So they sit and they drink
And they talk and they fight

And they all have bad livers
But their hearts aren't clogged.

But back in the club, there's a one size fits all video
Playing over the one size fits all songs

Catered to the one size fits all people
And our one size fits all pallets

In the blur of the headbanging and the deafening
We lose our precious individuality

But maybe I'm acting too pious to judge as I do
But, if you were in my shoes, wouldn't you?

.when sounds replicate strobe-light effects of a discotheque; ending up looking -esque: till ledemann.

madman:

    every time i listen to
some static-x,

i turn into a complete
meat-head,

headbanging after
******* into the throne
of thrones...

eh?
   marvel universe,
and the current
movies?

i left the whole party
with the x-men
movies...

   apocalypse
was always my
ultimate
villian
anti-thanos...

   the whole
nordic theology
inclusion...
n'ah...
  left that *******
with logan
and...
       that antithesis
of Elvis
cover
of a nine inch nails'
song.

a bit like walking to a shop
for a bottle of whiskey,
while simultaneously paying
attention to the undertakers
and their coffin limousines
and a hapless old man
  peering into the notion of a selfie
strapped into a car seat
with a wish for a crash-mannequin
helmet...
  thinking: ****! the ***** that's
death has finally found me!
       i've realised that losing
the plot means so much more than
acquiring one,
given that the essential plot
is a Houdini act of mortality...
i like toying with the unrest
of eternity, i joke with it rather than
allow it to comfort me...
   and how was god disproved?
not by words alone,
20 dead bodies in mass shooting...
******* can say ****.
       there's always subtle tier of
drinking hiding beneath a layer
of chill and: something or other...
the best comedy, i've learned,
is derived from agitating apathy,
english (of course) -
ridicule!
                only the english have
attained the sort of numbness that
respect cordiality of the formality
beyond ****** relations -
            the sort of exemplified
"rationalisation" of individualism as
a continuum worth: jack ****!
blah blah bl'eh bl'eh blow
up the 100th ******* balloon!
   i can go on for days,
i'm that good at playing the ridiculous
englishman sensing...
  ****, the 60s and the 70s
nibbling onto the 80s have just ended,
minding the 19th conundrum of
what i'd rather call:
ever get dry ****** by a perverted dog?
   that protruding elongation
of the tender pink of a dog's phallus?
little ****** could make a great elf,
considering the fact that he
wrapped his paws around my leg so
tight that i started thinking about tripod
abominations...
          i'd ******* that crucifix
any day of the week...
mind you, he's the only jew i'm allowed
to hate...
                      if the jews hated him...
what's the logical conclusive remark?
  kneel and **** him off?
     muslims are already doing ****,
while the jews are left headbanging by
the al-buraq... burak?
  burak is slavic for beetroot...
    well, slam your forehead that many
times against a brick wall and you're bound
to get a visible tattoo of an expanded
bindi...
           or that thing called a: hárū -
see? diacritical markers ease up the fluidity
of syllable incisions.
     i still think a mere thought
would suffice to pay homage,
  than this **** of acceptable gesticulation...
religion, nothing short of sleepwalking
or an attempt at reading braille,
  drunk beyond hope,
                  maybe it's a magic trick
they're trying to pull off...
             hocus pocus andromeda focus...
got to give it to them,
   the logic of woman is the logic
of a god, hence theology -
which is never a love of,
                    no wonder philosophy
is underrepresented by women...
giving the culminating plateau-zenith
that's feminism...
                           women best
adhere to a god for they already possess
the circus of: being within being -
        pregnancy...
                  man, that barren creature,
can only hope for an imitation comparative,
when infested by a, tapeworm.
oh yeah, and that added: oops.

having studied chemistry, i was already predisposed to write in the vein of philosophy, i could never manage to retain a pure humanism, of, say, a novel; how can one truly return to pure humanism of a novel once the shackles of science have been thrown onto a mind? at least philosophy allows a buffer zone between the sciences and the humanities; yet only in poetry is the most perfect depiction of man, in that poetry for all its woes, is but a pristine self-portrait of man: man, ex impromptu; and to add to this: lyricists are paupers in the poetry community, ever rigidity to write identifiable "poetry", as taught by english teachers, mindful of techniques and an arithmetic rigidity is a waste of time... a stake tartar is not a stake tartar if the meat has been cooked... the only poetry that is worth is seemingly mindless (madness, indeed, but there's method to it analogy), yet what it isn't is a rigid rubric; let us not be so predictable as to orientate our writing to be recited / studied in an english class, filled with 16 year olds.

it is strange to keep a memory of a thought,
but i have this most pristine bloom of
memory from a mere thought -
a question, what will be the last song i will
listen to, before i die?
  it was autumn, i just returned from
Ypres, and had just finished reading
dostoevsky's crime & punishment -
it was autumn, the fallen leaves were
scribbling themselves onto the pavement
with a rustic shuffle, while the wind played
the hand holding a quill -
          and that internalised question has
stuck with me, ever since,
i must have been in my teens.
          it must be noted, though,
he was right... art is degraded
                while science is overestimated -
which shows in pop culture -
           the popularisation of science is
abhorring, it's actually sickly -
a ******* gangrene on common sense...
        because these days,
no one will cite a milton, or an ezra pound,
what will be cited is
             a theory, without a name of
origin. i fear that the people who cite science
the most, who have to lean on
the crutch of science, are the least read
people in the world, i.e.
pompous barons of reading a blank page,
and now they want applause and
the word: encore! encore!
                  sure, they'll get an encore,
a baboon's **** and a camel spitting in their
faces.
           it would seem that when you
truly love, you only truly love:
               because you hate, with a passion.
- and a catholic apostate i am,
a catholic apostate i am, i am...
given the bureaucracy of the religion,
         i made my mind up,
confirmation? nope.
                      reading that book about
the gnostics (**** me i wish i stole that book
from the school library like i stole the quran)...
now we're into shrapnel talk, jiggy-jiggy,
        random noise, don't ask, don't know
where it came from...
           back in school we'd have trivia games,
who could name bands in rotation...
       then one day i was playing some music
and a friend asked: who's that?
   guess who.
               deep purple.
  no, guess who.
    creedence clearwater revival.
  no! guess who!
d'uh... american woman...
                 if there ever was a modern
movie i've fallen in with, it had to be
american beauty.
                       or take yesterday -
(by the way, i'm not in cabaret voltaire
pulling lines out of my *** and a white
rabbit from a top hat)
     all i said was:
well, at least he had a conscience -
unlike some sociopaths
         (cf. carl sargeant / weenershteen
an employer for former mossad spooks).
         - see, i don't like this idea,
the idea of a res cogitans,
it's too mathematical for me,
      it has a mathematician conceptualised
it, written all over it.
   to me: that's a ****** coordinate!
  - god? that's just a nudging to think...
i can't stress it enough,
praying feeds the vanity project of a god
in religion, his reply? probably a ****.
i rather think than pray,
less ornamental ******* and lying to yourself.
atheists? they prefer the talking version
of theism, whereby theism is the thinking
version of atheism.
   me? can't be bothered to talk,
talking means i have to engage in the outside
world, where, in the outside world
i'm met cold-shouldered by a res per se
(thing in itself) -
             or to put it technically in kantian
verbiage: noumenon.
               which is like a noun but it's non
   oscillating in M (sine)...
                            d'uh, W (cosine) -
                allah hell almighty -
                  one apostle two apostle three apostle
neunzig-neun luftballoooons...
                                hey, the fetish remains;
so soft, ooh, so soft, the german tongue
is silk, mmmm... i could almost wipe my ***
with it!
               (the degradation of art
and the over estimation of science?
   heidegger, he was right)
                so i propose an aversion of
the whole "thing" and "thought" -
i prefer the idea of movement, rather than
a cartesian fixation...
               after all *sum and cogito are
quantum aspects,
              one precipitates into an outside
world, the other is invited into an inside world -
     i still fail to see how there's a ergo "continuum",
rainfall,
        how one materialises from the nether regions
into a conversation about the weather
over coffee...
                   i simply can't see an ergo
connection, akin to a +, x -, ÷...
                   worded, that's what is implied...
ok, ok...  let's go all fancy dress,
sleepover pyjama party mad: √.
                                i prefer the notion of
a continuum rather than a fixed posit,
    a coordinate -
                    after all no man ever was
considering a genesis, original,
within an "unoriginal" continuum -
   hey, buddy, you were born on a carousel,
it was moving before you were born,
it's going to move, and it will continue to
move after you're... what's that... "dead"?
         talk to the gene therapist -
    don't worry: you're recyclable material.
                       unless you have a different fetish
for a cul de sac existence?
                i do mind the res cogitans approach,
of a graph representation with coordinates
(0, 0, 0) -
                yes, i mind it...
  it's a static point of reference -
                    it's a existentia in stasis -
        an immovable "object" this cartesian
observation...
                              trust a frenchman to conjure
up an existential dead end trap...
     banging my ******* head against the wall...
when i should be headbanging at a heavy
metal concert with all the other meat-heads!
  how can cogito ergo sum ever reach
   a stasis?
                    a static point where everything
is simply ergo?
                          ah... the merging point
of the triad continuum:
                   ergo = the world
cogito = -1
                            sum = +1
      can't think of anything else,
the -1? ~catatonia.
                                      +1?
                                         the boring
   necessity of the cordial affairs of
                               yap yap yap
        in a supermarket.

/come to think of it, i'm starting to enjoy learning the second tier of using language, namely the mimic involved in others' punctuation; there's a piquant delight in loaning punctuation ergonomics - unlike slurping oysters... mind you: how the **** do these half-wit neither muscle nor a brain procreate?! i'd love to ******* to that one, with a SIR davie atten-borough-e commentary: and the shells?! such meakness: yet so stringent. punctuation? paul joseph watson: a.k.a. - do the pigeon strut: saved a many life of your atypical metal meathead headbanging.

brexit?

         that's still the same old
clingy toddler's word?

like a **** set against
an impeding whirlwind,

for all i know, "my" people
will not budge,
       or venture to hide in

a border "question":

    strapped to: a ******* island!

and i'm supposed to care...
because of...
       what?!

  the Chinks are taking over?
they're already all over...

why should i care?
am i investing in gene
propagation or something?

genes are like a fetus to me:
dead, until in my arms
and outside a woman's body...

nothing much in between...
well... a dichotomy
of argumentation...
and headbanging to
a megadeth song...

and the thought,
that some day,
my neighbor will cross
the line of private property,
and i''ll get to gut
him like...
what ends up pork trimmings...

thought: the last ******* theater,
given the potential...

why should i give a ****?
it's not like people gave a ****
about me to begin with...
        ****, i'm here for the bourbon...
am i jealous?
no... no... not really....
i should be, shouldn't i?
good luck.

no no... i'd love atheism...
if it wasn't for the coupling of
atheism with materialism,
why do atheists bang about this
gene argument?
  why are atheists primarily
materialistic thinkers?
never managed to figure that one
out...
  
all these atheists bang about are
materialistic arguments...
as long as there is no god,
or no soul...
    GENES... GENES 24/7...
      nothing else...
fear of death,
subservient to a gamble on
eternity with the passing on of
genes (according to Hitch-Itchy-Tongue)...

**** me...
      you want to know what scares me
that's outside the emphasis on
death?
old age...
death i can take:
please! the sooner the better!
old age scares me...
because it's not the sort of old
age that guaranteed the
antonymous youth
of ancient Greece, or Rome...

no...
when my parent's die...
i'm not waiting... **** it...
       can't be bothered...
that's why i'm waiting for my
grandparents to die,
so i can ingest the reactionary cycle...
i'm not waiting,
3 hours of pain is 3 years
of a disguised pain of "waiting"...
oh no no no...
   i'm not waiting for the *******
argument...
they're out... i'm out...
      
if only the atheistic arguments
didn't, needlessly, lead toward
a materialistic clinging...
    too much fake realism concentrated
on passing on the genes,
like... fingerprints or ****?
    
once again: good luck!
   you're not passing anything
unless you're not passing
a vagueness of a genesis for
an impersonal impetus -

the coordinates remain the same,
but the vector impetus changes...
genes are, well...
static.

          hence the atheistic argument
for ensuring they continue,
like some Hindu reincarnation tactic,
"levitating": unchanged...
           i'm correct on that one,
yes?
   genes are supposed to remain
static, yes?
   well then!
      atheists are *******
materialists...
        
last time i checked...
    i didn't know that air could be categorized
in the same way as a rock...
that... quasi-ancient
quaternary of the subject-object /
  object-subject "dichotomy"...
                
lying to behold, the prior to unseen
fascinations that might succumb
to the materialistic grip, of
so called reality...

                and if gravity is what
binds all the orbs into a glued motion...

what force, actually instigated
the motion, or...
             kept it perpetuated?

sure... you have the glue question
answered...
but what is the perpetuated motion
question?

no? really?
  no?! really?!
  oh....           let me guess:
you don't!

i'm not kneeling,
and i'm not gesticulating with a prayer
in mind...
                 but god occupies
the entirety of my thinking...
   i can't think without the concept,
which, needless to say...
is so much more,
than the fabrication of
19th / 20th century
psychology of allowing the ego
to replace god...

sorry,
but sometimes the most irrational feeling
can overpower the most rational thought...
why?
   feelings are rarely allowed,
allowed to be caged,
or allow, * being*, caged...
         and my "belief" in a god aligns
itself with Heidegger...
     more to the point:
            man, made justice blind...
   man has no bearing in executing
   the most sacred sense of
                traversing both space, and time...
as mutually exclusive,
rather than the physics of their
mutual inclusion of the space-time
"continuum"...
          i believe in a god,
because, i do not believe that man:
has the sense of law,
to either pass judgement, or justice -
as the Satanic law encrusted:
   within the confines of your
gullible innocence...
        you will make a quadratic equation
of the whole escapade -
your goodness will be the justice,
while your evilness will be the judgement,
or vice versus,
or versus,
   or versus vice...
  or either, or none, or maybe...
    maybe the other way round,
from the other way round... or... quiet simply...
whatever.

i really don't need
your head tipping
your acting cool
your air drums
your headbanging
your deceitful smile
your innocent tears
your closed doors

sometimes i don't need
your breathing.

the dusty old school rock cds on the cracked cubby top
brush it off, but some still remains
coughing a bit up before setting it down to reminisce
it all reminds me of
the way the Polaroid camera snapped the life outta me
how every word you said was so heavy that i started sinking
how we were headbanging for kicks and started becoming wild creatures
how the radio cringed and squealed and how we still sang every word to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”
how the guitar riffs are just pain coming out into art
bursting with meaning and passion

the dusty old school rock cds sit there, stationary on that same cracked cubby top
and we recall the past as if it was some life-changing yesterday