On World Hijab Day, which was on February 1, you didn’t have to be a Muslim to wear one. The designated day was first announced in 2013. Founded by activist Nazma Khan, the story behind World Hijab Day is an emotional one which speaks of the bullying, prejudice, physical and racial abuse Khan endured as a young child who migrated to the US from Bangladesh. These unkind imputations were all because she wore a hijab.

Since launching an online store in 2010 to sell hijabs, Khan has received an outpouring of support from hijab-wearing women across the globe who have shared with her their own terrifying stories because of their headscarves.

Today, World Hijab Day is celebrated in 116 countries around the world. Although the declaration received negative criticisms from some who saw it as a “well-financed effort by conservative Muslims to dominate modern Muslim societies,” others respect the day. One such person was New York Assemblyman David Weprin, who in his feature address on World Hijab Day, said: “As the prime Assembly sponsor of the Religious Garb bill in New York State, A2049, I stand with all Americans of faith, regardless of their choice, to wear a hijab, kippah, turban, or cross. All Americans of all faiths should be allowed to freely exercise and display their religious choice without the fear of violence and bigotry.”

Here at home, women’s rights activist and model Naballah Chi has not been quiet about her love and honour for the true meaning of the hijab. In an interview with the T&T; Guardian, Chi explained the meaning of the hijab and why it’s worn.

“The literal meaning of hijab is to veil, to cover, or to screen. Islam is known as a religion concerned with community cohesion and moral boundaries, and therefore the hijab is a way of ensuring that the moral boundaries between unrelated men and women are respected,” said Chi.

She added, “In this sense, the term hijab encompasses more than a scarf and more than a dress code. It is a term that denotes modest dressing and modest behaviour. Wearing the hijab is a commandment from Allah. The majority of Muslim women wear hijab to obey God, and to be known as respectable women.

“The basic requirement of the hijab is that a Muslim woman should cover her head and ***** (chest) and her body. So in the last 30 years, hijab has emerged as a sign of Islamic consciousness and women’s assertion to obey their lord. A woman wearing hijab becomes a very visible sign of Islam.

“The aura of privacy created by hijab is indicative of the great value Islam places upon women. Therefore, hijab is not a symbol of oppression. The hijab does not prevent a woman from acquiring knowledge or from contributing to the betterment of human society. While those who seek to ban hijab refer to it as a symbol of gender-based repression, the women who choose to don a scarf, or to wear hijab, in the broadest sense of the word, view it as a right and not a burden,” she explained.

She said wearing the hijab has given her the freedom from constant attention to her physical self.

“My appearance is not subjected to scrutiny, my beauty, or perhaps lack of. Instead it has been removed from the realm of what can legitimately be discussed,” she said.

Chi comes from a world of beauty pageants where she once felt pressured to put down her hijab in exchange for a crown.

After understanding the true meaning behind the hijab, and why she wore a hijab as a Muslim woman, she decided to design a fashionable collection called Classic Woman—not the conventional headscarf, but rather, beautifully coloured pieces which bear intricate artwork. They can range from embroidery to sequins or even tie-dye. The sky is the limit when she puts her fashionable sense into motion.

Chi said the collection was inspired by both The Great Gatsby and the Renaissance eras of power dressing.

“My collection features designs showcasing the powerful but elegant and well-tailored woman.

Chi Collection’s trademark fabrics are soft, beautiful silks, chiffon, sequins, embroidery and bridal laces. Distinctive attributes are the colours scarlet red, white and black, in keeping with the classic fashion palette and to pay homage to my country as a Trinbagonian designer,” said Chi.

Her collection was launched in November 2015 at the Red Runway Fashion Gala held in Port-of-Spain. The collection will be available for purchase via Chi’s upcoming website.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015

The snow drifts were
       quite high, piling up into the
northern sky, burying
      towns and trees and the poor souls who
    had fallen asleep on the grass
and had awoken with shivers as snowflakes
left little kisses on their eyelids.
    Except that, it was never grass. There was never any grass to begin with. There was no grass
      or spring
             or sun
                  or summer
                            or birds.
There was only winter and snow.
And the blinding, white terrain had become both a place of         desolation and
        s a n c t u a r y.
The Aroura Borealis danced like a beautiful blue fire across the night sky. Stars blinked in and out of existence.
And somehow, the halls always remained.
The blue halls.  
             Imagine, if you will, the Colosseum cut into halves and shaped like an elbow macaroni.  Drop it out in the middle of an arctic wasteland and wash it in the blue glow of the northern, night sky.
A bright yellow light poured out of the windows and onto the snow, but no one was ever inside.
Some say it's the doorway to heaven.
Others say it's the gates of hell.
And then there are the strangers. Strangers who wear their lavender, silk headscarves and avoid the rumors of such an exquisite and eclectic piece of architecture.
Others like myself.
"If there is no one inside, then where is the music coming from?" He asked me, his blue eyes shining as blue as the heavenly hues against the midnight clouds.
" The halls will hum if the wind passes through them just so."
We listened to them once more. A low and ancient hum emanated from the structure. It was an old sound that resonated within me-unnerved me.
The mysterious blue halls were not a simple door to some glorious silver city or the passageway to a fiery lake.
      
The halls were the most beautiful and interesting instrument the universe has even known.
"It's the harmonica of the gods!"
Perhaps one of them
dropped it.
Perhaps it was a flaw in design.
Perhaps it was meant to be silent and with one teensy miscalculation, an entire orchestra of notes were born by the wind.
Perhaps it is telling me to tell you that you should look not towards all that makes you perfect, but the imperfections because that is where true beauty rests.
And you are so beautiful.  The kind of beauty that doesn't know it's own beauty. Like when you are sleeping, and the moon washes over your face. I like when you are sleeping, for you are so beautiful, yet so unaware.

Once upon a time, in a world that looks like yours      
there was a girl with
golden hair
that hung like a banner across her back in a
a sea of sandy metal
that whispered across the air
all the untold secrets of the water and the flowers
and their petals


and when she blinked, her eyes were blue
and if you leaned too close you'd
drown in them
like the hags who tumbled down the wells
and shrieked for help
that no one cared about
because they didn't hear their voice
or see their
ebony locks trailing like abandoned sea **** after them
because they didn't fit into the space the puzzle maker had carved
and couldn't conquer the tedium of difference


and the girl was tugged by hand to go to Church
and her prayers were secret treasures
that trickled from her lips
and tasted like righteousness
each word more crystal than the last
soaked in honey at the tip
and smothered in wonder and glory
and the days as they passed


and they never mentioned the girls she teased
who wore headscarves
or bindis
that she'd printed with the colours of endless torment
in hues of cheerless and agony
and the girls never told her that
if they took them off
like she begged them to
laughter sprinkled in and stirred
they'd have to show her how much more pain
her jeering caused them


and the girl made mockeries of the unconventional
but that was okay because
everyone did
their eyes creasing up into slits of derision
in universal agreement
skidding past the true
whims of their heart and growing to
resent them


and the eccentric pressed themselves carefully
into the mould of society's
baking tray
their souls thrashing out in pain and hatred
as they compressed their emotions
and intelligence
and the beauty they found in the strangest of things
into the shell that had been vacated for them
when its previous owner had shrivelled up
and given in
and died


and all the way through life, the girl was beautiful
but she still  blew char
over her eyelashes
and stained her lips the post-box red that's found in
first kisses and
poetry and
scrawled crayoned hearts and
fading wishes


and she made fun of the red that pulsed
in the form of acne on
her classmates' faces
growing their hair out long to cover their pain
until no one could see their shame
and pouring their money into
the collection tins of mass chain stores
of cream and gloop and products
until their faces were marred by make-up
until their mothers didn't recognise them anymore
and they cried


and the girl was thinner and happier than anyone
but because it amused her
her wrists were slit
so her peers doled out their sympathy
and held battles over
who could make her smile first
and she fasted to become thinner
and she collected
four leaf clovers


and her classmates ignored the tender puckered skin
of the children that hacked at
their flesh and
tried to hide it alongside their hurt
and she cackled at the ribs
that seemed to try and burst from their flesh
like hungry mouths were trying to eat
them from the inside out
and they collected things because they feared
what would happen if they didn't
because that was OCD


and when the girl grew up, she married a boy
and he was tall and
his hair was night
and he was handsome in the conventional way that was accepted
perfect match
the paradisiacal sight of
dainty damsel clutching the arm of the
kind of man she'd read about in books
she'd been infatuated with him before they'd met


and the boys who fell in love with each other were outcast and spat on
their hearts torn into tatters and shredded in machines
by the people who thought they could decide for them
that if they didn't love girls then they'd love no one at all
because in the fairy tales they'd read as young children
they learnt that
prince = princess
and the prince never runs away with the woodcutter
because where would the princess be then?


and the girl still lives on today, in a world that looks like yours
her words a deadly poison
reaping and bleeding
crushing her prey between *******
and showing songs to the ears of the impressionable,  young or old
sowing seeds in their brains
that blossom in their hearts
and she is beautiful
and she is terrible
and she is nameless but for the title of
Society’s own child
and she is blameless
for it is the parent
at fault.

walking through the big flea market

off of highway 19 north of Tampa

looking for whatever and something

curious and kitsch or campy



merchants selling in the parking lot

used blenders and old cameras

burnt out or faulty devices

DVD cases and game cartridges



old rednecks shout out opinions

in a cacophony of drawled signifiers

representing visions of despotic rulers

reigning a tyranny of taxes and decline



old glass containers and windshields shine

scattering high afternoon sunlight in the Sunday sky

sitting and resting used and content waiting

waiting for the wear and reduction of time



the market continues into indoor aisles

criss-crossing within a ramshackle structure

plywood walls supporting sheet metal roofing

an aroma of every greasy food wafting into one



people wrapped in worn fashions

whites in Ts and denim

muslim women in headscarves

a black deputy strapped down in uniform



the deputy enforces commerce laws

around the alternative marketplace

a variety of commodities are still available

bongs and e-cigs and incense and **** ****



parakeets cry out down one aisle

a stack of blue aquariums drone a bubbling hum

the stench of cedar and rat **** and hamsters

reptiles basking in the arid glow of heat lamps



all is right in America’s America

the flea market is the floorboard of that promise

an opportunity for anyone to begin

or start again and over and over



a liberal conservatism can be guarded well

with rifles or tazers at bargain rates

a conservative liberalism is applied openly

in the atmosphere of everyone for anything and everything



the dream of the flea market

a black market and a carnival

all of America’s cheap art on display

its people swirled into one



equal in their struggles and desires

reaching for resources and derivatives

buying low and selling higher

stealing and selling short



walking through the big flea market

on a hot and cloudless Sunday afternoon

looking for whatever or something

it’s a fun thing to do


**originally posted to my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com on 4/27/2014

Airwaves awash in the new gospel barrage:
calling forth the neighbourhood hack,
Abe Lincoln toon in towering hat,  
the corporation is coming -
will you not
collaborate my friend?

Everything good that you ever dreamed of is here:
Marbonite floored flats with self-terraced roofs;
The swankiest of cars, in imported hues;
Your arm candy drools,
now, brands, bigger brands!

All in your grasp, now, in community gates
shut safe as society decays.

Skies spitting frogs? Pestilences amass?
Listen to the Gospel according to Bane:
in the desert, smell octane. Hallelujah,
everything we make, from watches
to headscarves - your underwear is cheaper
sourced from the next so-lala-land.

Forget your sources tiny of incomes varying:
Bakers, cobblers, tinkerers, we also have
a uniform for you. Oh you rustic
tradition-bound bandy bumpkins!
Abandon your alleyways, and
welcome to the ghettos...where

What you eat, to where to retreat:
we cure everything from heartache to panache.

Wash away your sins in wonder medicines;
Waters can part, yes, see how the Pharoah
is disarmed; Big city dreams, dream
global manna beams. All that is needed for
salvation, is a little bit of classification. Are you
left-wing or right? Center-left or center-right?

The powerdrill tearing down edifices
resonating through noon. A crane arm's shadow
hovering high by the moon. Tablets from skies
now proclaim the new gospel for the land,
the airwaves are awash
of the miracle of Witwatersrand.

The corporation is coming, to a store near you:
Amen! Will you not, then, collaborate, my friend?

Anger creeping everywhere.
Sloth like shadows.
From windows emerged.
Carried on hurricanes.
Disturbing paths of aeroplanes.
Dirges and dogs.
Abrupt coating logs.
Kicked by tempers.
Voices of monsters, who lurk in the dark.
Wearing stifling headscarves, as they fight in the park.
Beer in.
Brains fell out.
Anger eruption without absolution.
No apologies.
Nor remarks.
Anger throws leaf mould, leaving no marks.
(C) LIVVI

Minarets stand tall and sleek and
proud, announcing prayers at
intervals at odds with the
hourly bells of the basilica
Red rooves jostle for space
amid bullet-ridden history and
rejuvenated, freshly painted
homes and tourist-inducing
restaurants and market shops selling
trinkets: silk scarves, bronze pots
wooden flutes and ubiquitious
paintings of Stari Most
Crowds fill the lane leading
to the revered bridge, like pilgrims
A heady mix of peaceful
nations, short skirts
passing by headscarves
trading surreptitious glances
snapping photos of the bridge or
themselves and the bridge or
loved ones and the bridge
Watching with a rooftop drink
a bold and daring young man
small and youthful from a distance
encourages support and jumps
into the cold Neretva river
vigorously proving life goes on

He swt declared our right 'to be covered' fard, SoubhanAllah. He declared our hijaab fard as a sign of His Mercy. Yet we fail to remember our names. We fail to remember what our beloved prophet Muhammad saws went through, and those who came before him. We forget about those who suffered and died for the sake of Allah swt. They went through so much pain, spreading and defending women's rights. Telling her that she is utmost valuable and that she should be cherished, protected, covered.

We fail to remember the blood that has been shed. We do so when we perfume our hijaab, and when we show off that little bit of hair. We do so when our headscarves don't match our skinny jeans and when our freshly painted faces don't add up to the beauty of haya. We do so when our hijaab is see-through, showing our beautiful curved bodies to a world that in the end will testify against us.

My dear sisters, you are so beautiful wearing His shield instead of the world's corruption.

Please, for the sake of Allah swt, protect yourselves.

am ende meines lebens angekommen, möchte (meschte) ich armer sünder auf diesem pergament zeugnis abgeben / having arrived at the end of my life, i want this poor sinner to surrender to the parchment-transcripts, handed over...

i haven't really listened to pop music in a long... while...
o.k.: i'm lying, there's a rubric of pop songs
i revisit habitually
like the religiosity implosion of church
from church-state (which, given the Vatican,
still exists) toward the church (one end)
state (the other end)... as with the disillusionment
of the concept of state... or is that nation, ethnicity
etc           etc            etc             ?      ?
                                                   ?      ? woo! a question sq.

i'm feeling very much **** clerical...
i'm a cleric of the Third *****...
times are great, given that someone had the *****
to put the unfair Treaty of Versailles
to some well-earned rest...
         rest assured: i will not be grieving the death
of letters, names, locations of birth
with some Auschwitz'ian sudoku...

nāmé (vornàmé)
  sur... name: nachnāmé... surname...

Grzegorz... Brzęczyszczykiewicz...

      (jak rozpętałem drugą wojnę światową -
how i unleashed world war II)
borrow from the film

verschließen! verschließen!
    
what is a V to a ******? Y has a name: igrek...
and V has a name: fał...

den mund halten? sort of confusing...
ver-shly-ss-en...
      my y oh why not not an i
when sometimes also an e...
ply-i
            Plymouth... Y done there right and proper...
say Plymouth one more time...
do you say: Plemouth or Plimouth...
you don't even utter mouth in the name
of an English city: plYmΩΘ

      the Y is a "hollowed out" iota or

ị: given that English, language, not the people
do not use diacritical markers
expect for i and j: aye, yes, affirmative and
jay... which is squeezing in jade... too...

Plymouth: my mouth is bleeding and i'm plucking out
teeth with my tongue...
i count 32 teeth... but only 26 letters in English...
i was getting assessed for an SIA license
today in Barking... the first Q that popped up
was: how many letters are there in the alphabet?

i should have written
a e i o u b c d f g h j k m n p q r s t

instead i wrote down:

a b c d e f g h i j k m n o p q r s t u v q w x y z...
yeah... with a Bachelor's degree in chemistry
you'd think i'd get that right....
apparently i have a blindspot for L...
jeez... i only had 25 letters...
had to check my phone...
twice... once for a missing letter Lil and El
and another time about what % and
the ugly baron of fraction (synonymous)
implied...

Barking Surrealism... i'm in England and yet
i'm being checked for language proficiency...
but i'm bilingual... don't talk to me about
schizophrenia and "losing touch with reality":
England has lost touch with reality:
outright...
my math wasn't so bad although...
i did get one question wong like wok desperado
because i answered the Q with
the better deal... not the worst deal
for a mobile phone contract...

now if i was an INDIGENOUS English fellow:
yeah... that would be intimidating...
but since i'm an immigrant myself...
well... (insert snigger): this is a bit of a topsy-turvy
tickle... isn't it?
i'm not ambitious enough for a middle-class
sitting at an office table gherkin festering...
but can you imagine...
being asked by an Asian or an African
if you speak the adequate English... in England?
which makes me think about the genius of
Russian hackers... do they speak proficient
Nigerian in Russia?! really?!

i was thinking about becoming a soap model
for adverts in Ghana half a year ago...
the pale complexion might give me a booster...
this is... absolutely, utterly:
Barking Surreal:
East End Surrealism...
i'm being assessed about my comprehension
of the English language... in England...
the **** do "people" speak in Antarctica?
penguin?! or do they speak chicken cluck cluck?!
and strut like geese? goose is the singular:
geese is the.... ha ha ha: mein *****!

this invention of a para-neo-**** cult of ideas
was bound to happen...
this is: a para-neo-**** cult of ideas:
it's a sort of bewildering scenario of: huh?!
it did happen, it has happened: it's happening, now?

personally i'm rather thankful that Europe has been
"invaded" by hordes from Asia and Africa:
i have a fetish for Indian and Latino girls...
i tried a black girl once...
she aimed at giving me a plum bruise on my
pelvis... she rammed down rammed down so hard
i almost forgot i ****** her in the dark...
it was pretty clear then that i was: no... she was...
aiming at circumcising me with her *******...
but i'm not a Heb' so no circumcision: thank you:
i have that excess skin for when i don't have
a ****** partner so there's no room for me to
make ******* a fetish...

but this was weird: i get the mathematical conundrum
but the language conundrum?
there are 32 teeth in the mouth of man...
as there are 32 letters in the Polish alphabet...
see! the wrong "aryans" lost the war...
Polacks from the 16th century onward
felt inclined to cite the migration of an Aryan
tribe toward the Vistula... the Sarmatians...
fake Aryans conquering truer Aryans...
drop the Q because that's like a faking C and K...
and drop the V...
and you get ą, ę, ć, ś... ó... ł, ż... ź...
technically you could also have š and č...
but then then Czech educator... theologian...
Yan (not Jane) Huß comes into play with Czech
and ž... and š and č...

to hide the Z in ****** or the H in English:
but then... no point hiding the H in English for too long
since: memories of Viking raids and the Norman invasion
you have enough free time to conjure up games
akin to football, cricket, rugby: goal oval ball H...
imitation of water-man and earth-man...
pass ball backwards but move forwards...

so much for meta-relationships:
i'm stuck in London, it's raining, therefore dreary therefore
i'm on reflective mode and melancholically adrift on
a memory-cinema of staying a month on
Kauai... funny how she says: Lay-che-ster...
Leicester... that's... Lester...
why not Lay-K'eh'ster? why does and who
advocates the C to become a K
and when did someone make his penny
on turning the C into a Σ?

   since that is the case, no?
ς = ç (transliteration-plagiarism):
there is no W or V sound in Greek...
R from P and P in Π - Greek to Latin transliteration
wasn't a complete plagiarism
that turned Zeus into Jupiter...
to this say Greek is reminiscent of Spanish whenever
employed in speech, or: zu sprechen...
sometimes even zu spreschen...

another quill... for my ugly peacock: -sch- / ś

grössenwahn - feindflug

a great motivational song to do bureaucratic
wordings of: filter the men who speak das zunge
from men who don't speak: dass / das das zunge...

30 minutes... from Havering Road to Barking Market...
compliments of owning a bicycle:
and using the Elizabeth line...
even by car alone the travel given
Bangladeshi traffic mantras would take me
close to 2h...
**** that...
every time i cycle in these "no go zones"
filled with Asians but no Ching Chong Wa's...
i'm worried about traffic accidents...
reminiscent of: niqabs are tunnel vision and goggles
and sometimes like crow-eyed
you see the first dinosaurs proper in chickens
before flight took off and chickens became
pigeons and it's scary to not find it funny
seeing how: i can't see! i can't see!
in the corner of my eyes those women
donning niqabs...

but i can get away with it
when i also see the "other Asians":
Sikhs... who... some even become proselytes when
it comes to the turban... shave their hair
and don western clothing because it's classy...
obviously the Muslims are an ****** hostile group
that need to feel comforted by
suicide bombings and shalwars and pajamas...
and those Palestinian headscarves:
but please... give me those guys
and not my ethnicity-shared-zombie-plot-holders
who came out of the Harry Potter transgender
apocalypse into the fore of political antagonism
a cause of causes...

basically ginger-bred foot ugly foo jimmy carr
typos... like typo is best defence for spelling
******* correctly?

i did listen to Edie though... every time i go
cycling, what do i eat should i feel peckish?
i eat 160g of chicken breast...
sometimes hot and spicy, sometimes bbq...
sometimes chinese chá-wah...
   but no carbohydrates... just the meat...
and oddly enough: i'm full for most of the day...
apparently i have a problem
because i sleep-eat... i also sleep-talk...
i truly miss being intimate with a bulb...
a woman... i don't understand *******...
to me... there's nothing better than an older...
voluptuous woman...
like my grandfather, Joseph, used to say:

a woman of full trim...
*******... ***... thighs...
and she is just that...
thanks to her i've forgotten what ******* is...

so we started talking about technology
how i use chatGPT to be able to write so freely here
for a canvas and an audience of 2
while also having to do the dreary prosaic...
and she sends me these filtered pictures
from tictoc and... given my access to AI...
seeing these "improvements":
but no no... she has the tenacity and the intelligence
to also send me the grotesque shots of herself...
in one...
she's the spitting image of: Schlitzie...
the pinhead circus freak!
and that's what's so fascinating!

the reality is: she's somewhere in the middle...
she's not some model
but she's also not some pinhead circus frrrrrr...
frrrr... (her daughter can't trill the R...
do the rattlesnake, ha ha)...

Edie: i beg to differ... there is no V in Greek...
ergo? Matthew...
last time i heard TH = Θ = F...
TH = PH:
phonetically... obviously these two letters
exist... identical phonetically
but when written down to exfoliate
in a change of meaning...

but now we have to be borrowing from Norse...
i.e. þought...
       and ðe: the thought...
how many times: it's not M'ah-view:
it's Math: mathematics...
how is mathematics different from Matthew...
the added T?
ma-th-ematics
ma-th-ew...
                  how on earth is that even phonetically
conceivable, that, i'm getting in "wong wonky"?

alðough ≠ alþough... clearly... all-foe?!
because given whatever Nordic letter:
although is said:
ål-v'oh... there is no T no H no G no H...
but that's how English is:
sort of French: two languages in one...
the phonetic said... and the counter-phonetic
written: of meaning off what is said...

å: owl - aul... even... or... that's plenty...
owl: ah! áwl! á = !
but punctuation dictate... surprise?

Maþew or Maðew? my view or my few?
thank god i don't like the sound of my own voice...
but this is good... this is good:
being brought down back to basics,
asked by Asians in England whether
i speak English in England...
this is good...
but like i choke-joked with her:
would a second language help?
people in these clerical positions are not exactly ready
for outliers like me who find this whole
schizophrenic-society funny...

i was once allocated the stigma of a unit
of schizophrenia i plagiarised and let go onto my environment
with stunning results:
well with bilingualism: am i not schizoid by
default?
oh right right... the intelligence typo:
must be... i somewhat wish i was born in a time
when people like Ezra Pound were committed to
institutions where no crimes were committed beside
wonk-fink...

          like the fetish for fascism is a...
in vivo depth-charge energy drive while
democracy is a cuckoldry in vitro sloppy seconds
of off "something"...

oh poor Amber... at the last Fulham shift...
she got a lesson in stoicism...
poor thing... maybe 17... came to the shift
without eating breakfast...
i sided with her: neither have i...
give it 30 minutes... she'll crack...
and she did... at first she was drawing doodles
in her notepad... then she approached me
about feeling ill and vomiting in the toilet:
wait there... i'll get someone...
found some safeguarding stewards:
apparently a grandma of sorts
who came round with a chocolate bar and an apple...
poor thing felt better... immediately...
girl: you don't go to work fasting
if you don't tease at the joys of
Stoic-Ramadan...
i like to feel the pain from hunger the the light-headedness
of not enough calorie intake...

obviously she went home: in tears...
but at least i found the help to pull her through:
this difficult task of mismanaging ****** fluids...
only recently i discovered i have bouts
of IBS: irritable bowel syndrome...

it's kind of funny: irritably so:
being of this branch of immigration that molded itself
into English society just at the right time
of seeing English Conservatism deplete itself
of any conservative credibility...
likewise seeing English liberalism turn into
a freakish illiberalism...
i too can become hyper-focused on grammar
and prune-those-nouns to "shape"!
i too: can become a grammar-****...
and with glee... not that i might mind to correct:

who doesn't like the odd schadenfreude of someone
buckling on a spelling of onomatopoeia?
because riddle me this: C U DER...
there is no seeing no you nor there, n'est ce pas?

nicht verloren: ein rückkehr:
schtill friedhöfe von Flandern:
             were once old foes of Europe fought for
bread and silk and the best societal ideal
to amass these billions of souls...
to be later scolded for... von ihre: fehler besitzen:
noch! würde nicht besitzen zu!

then again: the Hindu conceptualisation via reincarnation
is what? a pseudo-Vatican of the chosen / elected souls
migration through a zombie-land of flesh...
if it isn't then i don't know what 1 + 1 indicates
with = 2... reincarnation is a cognitive-caste symbiosis
for stereotyping the internal prejudices of the Indians:
lighter toned in the north:
oh don't you mind those Bangladeshi munchkin monkeys...

to think that only white people can be racist
is absurd... how did it come that i'm finishing this poo'em
on racism: page politics...
write two encouraging comments to get your poem
posted: another zombie sob story
white white white supremacy
patriarchy... kind of handy that feminism managed
to create a feminist platonism without actually
providing a female plato...
or a feminist german idealism without providing
a female kant...
because, you know: **** digs deeper than ****:
cognitively: some "bias"... must be the purple hair dye...

i blame white girls who haven't had a proper
**** but have only been exposed to ******* for this...
and "they" blame men and exposure to *******
as if: pedophiles are exclusively male...
and never, ever... female...
like it's all hush hush about female exposure to
******* that they spew these tangled *****
diatribes about white-fetish and father-double-fetish?!
missing... probably with some action: necro?
you'd hope...

can't get the decent **** so turns to political activism!
turns to narcissistic delusional licking of wounds...
can't use an AI chat bot because too busy
throwing on AI filters to save up on make-up when
catfishing...

One more trapdoor to drop through,
you can call it a day, but you know what I mean.
(the gurgles you make when your back starts to break)

Wednesday is not a day to smile about,
it's a criminal heist and the police should smoke it out,
talk about the **** day, it's a run and take a jump day.

The Jubilee jaunt.

Prophets haunt this line
and
spout off religion,

I'm thinking it's time
to put
my headphones on.

Lots of headscarves today
looks like a Hilda Ogden
get-together
or something from a Joe Orton
play.

She's using Maybelline
another scene?
cheeks now rosy
nose still shiny,
he looks on
as
lady gets on
with a shipping trunk
she must be lost
or looking for
inspiration
gets off at the
next station
( London Bridge )
probably drunk
Waterloo
might have been better.

I need a holiday
a hideaway
even a takeaway,
Chinese
preferably.

They all wore headscarves
with curlers underneath
and cleaned their teeth with
Brillo Pads,

we Northern lads
had it rough
and were never as tough
as the lasses.