i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?

.    like cardinal Leto remarked, having received news from Versailles... why is it always the ******* French?

perhaps in a less crude manner,
drinking wine,
while eating raw fruits -

  always a bad combination...
no *****, no meat?
   bad idea... wine, and raw fruit
akin to strawberries?
    irritable bowel movements...

- and that's because Einstein
didn't discover the concept of
gravity, in the format of: sideways?
in the form of orbits?
   expansive waves...
   that allowed for the elliptical interpretation?
like the old
              argument:
      (heliocentric) oval...
             contra the (geocentric) circular
"concern" for...
   whatever is up / down
            sideways in
      the Copernican terminology...
because there was ever a "shape"
concerning the universe,
  and not a medium,
            an extraction for the metaphor
for water,
   gas, liquid, solid...
              and the fourth aspect
of ancient elements:
   its existence in a vacuous "space"?

- but i can't fathom the French at this point...
once upon a time...
one Frenchman equated the motivation
for a "summa summarum"
    to be bound with a thinking,
and a curiosity...

            the current fashion of Latin
abbreviations...
   this... cogito ergo sum?
   it's nonsense...
    speak it long enough...
   and you'll find yourself inclined
to suppose that cogitans per se:
is a motivation, an impetus to exist...
yet... so much of thought it "wasted"
or, rather, to craft an impetus to
"doubt", within the confines of fiction...
but the motivation has lost its
origin within the confines of doubt,
and has been replaced by
the Freudian unconscious,
   a serialized phobia fest... notably
including a, clown...

originally, thought (per se) was
a secondary motivational outlet
that precipitated into being...
    first came... doubt...
   but... these days?
               doubt is a conspiracy theory,
no longer an emotional thrill
to prop-up thinking...
   and we have the French existentialists
to thank for this...
for they subverted their own
idea...

             negation has replaced doubt
as the origin, and motivation
for thinking...
        yet... this sort of "thinking",
has made, its materialization, so, so...
obscene...
    i can hardly find it surprising while
i took to propping two worthwhile
economic outlets...
   prostitution (since they will spend
the money i give them...
on things... i wouldn't even care
for propping up)...

    and... alcohol (scotch whiskey,
russian standard *****...
    shveedish cider...
                     german beer)...

but how can you even claim an existence,
if...
       there is no thrill...
of what is the secular expression of faith:
i.e. doubt?
  how can you replace doubt -
a motivation for thinking, materialized
into being... with negation?
  jean-paul Sartre attempted this inversion -

doubt has been replaced with negation
in his system...
             it's like that cliche of an English
1960s ***-joke / ***-like...
       this... frivolity over a blatant lie...
a lie so... bogus...
    so ineffectual in translating a hidden truth
that... you allow it...
   to care for the cheap comic aspect
of the execution...

but how can the French suddenly
feign to disbelieve their secularism -
   resorting to the antithesis,
namely:

  original

  doubt motivates thinking,
  which subsequently motivates
   being within the confines of reason,
or rather, reasonableness...

20th century existentialists

negation "motifs" thinking,
   which subsequently motifs
"being" within the freedom of non-reason,
or rather, unreasonableness...

   and by negation,
   i don't mean the atomic conceived softening
blow...
   akin to: dis-ease...
    i.e. (as i explained it to one old man
in a park, walking his dog):
  a negation, or ease... a denial of...

how can the Cartesian model work,
when the 20th century French existentialists
began with the presupposition:

   i deny, i think, therefore i exist?
where is the original thrill of
the secular aspect of faith, within the boundaries
of doubt?
              gone... vanished!
****! a **** on the London tube,
during the rush hour,
  during the heatwave
                of the past month!

                   perhaps this only comes
as a method of assimilating an increased population,
within the confines of the Taoist maxim:
the best way to aid the world,
is to forget the world, and let the world
forget about you...

             perhaps... the Andy Warhol 15 minutes
analogy...
      that in order to encompass the individual,
the world, and the individual within it...
   the approach had to change
from the original, exciting, exploration
genesis of thought, bound to the genesis
of doubt...
             having to be replaced by
a genesis of denial...
      the second tier of a secular society...
    the zeitgeist of Herr Censor...
to filter through what we see so often,
faces, bodies...
  but would be much more comfortable
having been bound to Plato's cave,
         of complete shadow theater...

perhaps... but the original tier of
secular societies' alternative to church prescribed
articles of faith...
                     to have replaced
the thrill of doubt...
      with this... Byzantine pillar of denial
as motivational groundwork for
thinking impetus
   that becomes an article of being?
am i the only one to see the frustration,
how, people abhor their being,
being founded upon an act of denial,
rather than an act of doubt?

     the once thrilling maybe (gnostic):
   has become the stale, "i don't know"
    (agnostic) - as if... people can't tell you
whether zebras have stripes!
   where there was once an article
of secular faith (doubt) -
   now?
                        there's not even that!

p.s.
  there has to be a much needed new mantra,
all publicity: is bad publicity -
unless of course you're riding that
fame juggernaut and are paying
for your all-inclusive status akin
   to madonna: since fame dies off
and you, none-the-less invest in the momentum...

one day where i drink a bottle of wine,
half a liter of whiskey,
   and i'm apparently not "screaming" in
my sleep from the heat,
the whole, "apparently", as i retorted:
at 5:15am? i was alseep! i was asleep!
how can i stop screaming in my sleep
like a banshee:
the sleeper and the blind man both see
eye to eye regarding the future to come...

one day without engaging in internet
content: of my own accord,
next day? this... this... lethargy builds
up in me... i end up thinking:
i can't do this any more,
this insomnia culture globalism of
24h news reels is tirying me,
i pick up the sunday newspaper
which i found to be respecteable...
the sunday times,
  i peer into the magazines...
toxic masculinity,
    desire: what three women want...
i'm bored...
well more tired than bored,
bored-tired...
                 what women want:
what an exhausting question...
**** fantasy, beta-male provideer...
yada-yada-yada...
                    
    the only relaxing aspect of the day
(apart from the shade) is watching
england beat india in the cricket...
i always loved cricket sport terminology:
50 overs... innings...
wickets... 6 throws of the ball in an over...
the rest? i'm no atlas...
i don't like the world crashing in on
me with all its problems...
not because i don't have the right
advice to give,
but i remember the most modern secular
motto about giving advice borrowed
from Athos of the creation of alexandre dumas:

the best advice? to not give advice...
you cannot be held accountable
for giving bad advice: and people complaining,
or good advice and leaving
people in your sphere of influence...
asking for more - non verbatim... of course...

second categorical imperative?
tao...
              the best way you can help
the world: is to forget the world,
and let the world forget you...

                        you only need two absolute
maxim vectors to orientate yourself
in this world,
a third is nice, but: it can be kept loose...
at least two on a tight leash...

but one night spent drinking,
not writing anything:
and i am... spent!

                            the boogieman of england's
persistent complaints...
the muslims are not integrating,
the english: we should give them more
ground...
           o.k., o.k.... joe peshi in the role
leo getz in lethal weapon II...
            i too had to integrate!
i said: like **** if you think i'll give up
my native tongue when spoken in private...
you're not getting it...
i'll spreschen ihre zunge, no problem,
i'll even write you pwetty free verses to boot!
but, guess what?
  i will not force you to eat my
sauerkraut, my schnitzels,
                           my smoked sausages,
my raw herrings etc.,
                      integration does not work
within the confines of: pampering to a people
expected to meet you half-way...
what happened when the polonaise attempted
to meet the english half-way?
brexit...
oh come on guv'... is there a ******* tram
echoing its way out of my eye
when you peer into it while i attach
an index finger to the bottom lid to give
you a clearer picture?
           25 years in england: no englush girlfriend:
i guess all the english girls just love, just love love
being ***** by 9 pakistanis
daubed in gasoline...
                   hey: they **** thrill...

i'm tired of the weakness of the english,
the humpty-dumpty nature they are imposing,
self-cencorship,
    appeasing, like neville chamberlain...
bringing back the munich agreement...
not on a piece of paper,
instead... waving a scrap of a toilet roll...
so the english could wipe their own *****
on the promises of the germans...
if this really hurts the northern monkies...
guess how much it hurts the sourthern fairies...
(well... fairy, is a designated region surrounding
devon, bristol, hardly a ******* fairy in essex)...

   why am i foreigner and i share
the same nausea of the natives,
                     exhausted by the narratives?
i guess the english didn't like the polonaise:
but the polonaise are to blame...
came here with a list of benefits they could claim:
without having even lived 5 years among
the natives... housing benefits, child benefits...
believe me: the polonaise are the only
people in the world that hate each other...
to the extent of citing bitter criticisms...
whenever i pass through warsaw to see my grandparents
i am gripped with a sickness:
this homogeneity is too much for me...
shove me back into the east end of London...
too much of the same genetic material...
and that's when the language i am keeping
(seemingly for vanity reasons) fizzles out
into your basic encounter and that basic reminder
that circa 40 million speak it too,
better or worse, but they speak it...

of all the festivals? download...
                                   i wish...
    glastonbury?       not my thing...
kylie? i'll concede: slow? live, with instruments,
rather than the studio original...
wasn't that a cover of
   bowie's fashion?
                  sure as hell sounded similar...
but i heard the cure were playing...
so while writing my father's invoice
i made myself a paperclip bracelet...
   i figured... "let's just pretend to be there"...
and no, the 1980s weren't that bad when
it comes to music,
not now, by comparison...
the cure's kiss me, kiss me, kiss me (1987)
release?
one of those rare albums you can
listen to akin to reading a book...

                       but there's still that persisting
exhaustion... i came from under communism,
from under the iron curtain,
but at least there was the economic aspect
of communism involved...

   only today i watched the story
of the terrible inversion of english jursprudence,
i.e.: guilty until proven innocent...
the 1975 case of the silesian vampire...
an innocent man was hanged...
the original vampire?
    smashed his wive's head in,
then his childrens', then he set himself
on fire...
              then again: the tragedy of those
rare cases of being presumed guilty
rather than innocent...
then the reverse: presumed innocent rather
than guilty and getting away with it,
through the parody of death
and the non existent god...

   there could not be anything more exhausting
than communism without a communist
economic model...
this current state of affairs in the west:
cultural marxism and the yet to be discovered
antithesis of cultural darwinism...

i'll use the cartesian chirality for a moment:
sum ergo cogito...
i don't like using political terms...
but... liberal (classical) - i don't even know
what sort of thinking goes into the label -
in the east? the liberals are exhausted
by a resurgent nationalism within
   the newly acquired capitalist system...
in the west? the liberals are exhausted
by an insurgent communism within
an ageing capitalist system...

         on a side: seriously, why even bother
engaging in any sort of "public intellectual"
debates when the public are only
discussing two books: 1984 and brave new world...
**** it, might as well talk to a camel jockey
who only own and rides the waves of
time in this world only using one...
muhammad...
   whom Khadija **** Khuwaylid
would probably whip into his young
respectable shape...

                  and this is how Ezra Pound comes
into rememberance:
usura... at least the muslims do not
play into the game of usury:
of interest... borrow a quid,
pay back £2.33...
            that's the only way you can
gain respect of the muslims:
if they truly were the money lenders
of this world: which they aren't...
unless a newly blessed...

   among the philistines and the proselytes...
england is such a tiresome project,
even on the outskirts of London...
i'm being dragged down by this intervention
of marxism: on a whim,
on a whimsical projection...
of "adding" values...
            
           communism would have worked...
in exceptional circumstances...
poland... circa 1945 - 1990...
syria: the current year...
  to whatever year is demanded...
exceptional as in: war torn...
where was the marshall plan
   for poland, when there was one
for sweden (neutral) and switzerland
(also neutral)?!
        black youths bothered about
the summer holidays,
having to live in council flats,
  concrete goliaths...
           want to know what it feels like
when entire cities are like council
estates,
with only pockets of remaining
   free-standing houses among
overshadowing council flats?
                                    nee bother...
sure... in a country where:
the house is the castle and there's a labyrinth
of castles constituting outer suburbia...
balconies... that's what the soviet
models had... balconies...
where women could grow flowers...
concrete staccato gardens in the sky...
the blocks of flats in england
didn't have balconies (sky gardens,
          esp. the early ones, massive fault)...
i spent one summer reading
bertnard russell's history of western philosophy...
lying in my grandparent's balcony,
in the shade...
watching passerbys among
          the barking dogs of the neighbours...

one day, one ******* day!
   and i'm already exhausted from the castrato
english narrative...
pandering to the people you expected
to integrate...
  no! you're not changing your standards...
your standards are perfectly reasonable!
i'm tired of the english pandering
to the sort of people who, will, not,
integrate!
               i integrated in a way
of respecting both the english culture,
as well as hiding / preserving my own...
why don't i just do the following:
   pisać po polsku?
                      like some czesław miłosz?

ah... good point... at what point
is the standard of integration appreciated?
when nothing is preserved?
surely integration is supposed to
accommodate some variation
of preservation?
     i might add: that's a fine line...
preserve all? no integration...
preserve some? integration...
                    preserve none? no integration...
food is a cheap target to example
with...
                   it's a low hanging fruit...
given that even i find indian cuisine
   the most superior in the world...
food is a cheap target concerning integration...
but the niqab?
  when the local english authorities
are employing face-recognition
technology and when testing it...
are forcing people to uncover their faces,
subsequently arresting them out of protest...
but not the women wearing the niqab...
out of? out of what?
   a secular society shouldn't be allowed
to discriminate against any religion...
it should discriminate against: all religions!

                isn't that what the secular ideology
is all about? the... softcore version
of soviet atheism?
        secularism of the west (miltary-industrial
complex)...
"vs." soviet atheism of the east
  (scientific-industrial complex)...
           i'm still so ******* tired
               of this bogus trap of "necessary"
                       commentary.

.i have come to realiße that... it's not so much what you write about... but the mere fact of writing... i can't imagine myself being subjected to something, like a narrative, or furthering a character study... i can be the object of whatever is whimsical enough to come into my head of its own accord - i want to forget forcing something to come into this puncture, this dam, this incision that i am coordinating... and it's not that i'm objecting to something, but i am not going to subject myself to - no more than a whim, of its own desires... with no attached: i think so too... it's not about what i write anymore: it's the fact that i write... if i'll be able to spew 3 thousand words tonight... i'll be content... because... i know that i have crossed the threshold of not being left "satisfied": nonetheless constipated by an instagram haiku... mind you... that's a very troubling hindsight note you have in there... wouldn't an object the size of the earth... in a vacuum of space... create its own winds to imitate movement? there is no wind on the moon... yes... and we're talking hindsight from 420BC... the moon landing happened in the 20th century... let's give it some times before that becomes an obvious hindsight too... do you feel movement - rotating - did the turkish dervishes help at all?

the fine line between: competition and corporation,
otherwise known as a: very, very, naive poo'em...

by a definition alone:
it's not so much concerning whether this
would ever become a capitalism vs.
a communism "debate"...

after all - i'm ref. walking a tight-rope...

of the latter, verbatim:
'an association of individuals,
created by law or under authority of law,
having a continuous existence independent
of the existences of its members
and powers and liabilities distinct from
those of its members'...

can i just point out, foremost,
in an environment of competition laws can be bent...
to add to: the spectacle...
the athletics doping scandals:
it's within a spirit of competition...
the sprinters are not corporating for give
a spectacle... they are competing...
for the the spectacle...
ask me again the difference between...
what used to be a competitive event
done during leisure hours...
and what was a leisure event akin
to reading...
and ask me again: the difference between
taking part in the event of competing...
and watching a competition -
and what had to be involved to give
the spectacle its architecture...
i don't think it was so much competition
as it was corporation... never mind for now...

after all... how many times have laws
been bent when watching a football match?
the passing of law is hardly an objective
crux that so many "rational" and logic-"riddled"
people stress - can be made by one man...
sure... laws in vivo - science and what not...
these objective safety-nets...
that can lead to endless to-and-fro...
but i hardly think... man is capable of passing
objective laws: in vitro... notably in -
           in unum: omni...
unless that's a schizophrenic metaphor...
which is already a metaphor when
tested on a bilingual brain...

how many people did it take...
to pass: the earth rotates around the sun?

the heliocentric model...
genesis in the west from philolaus,
heraclides ponticus,
pythagoras (hindsight...
wouldn't an object moving in
a vacuum of space... create winds of
its own?)
aristarchus of samos,
then onto philolaus of croton -
anaxagoras; whoever was
debunked by ptolemy... then so many years...
until enough time passed...
before people could take the plunge and
be certain: for old time's sake with
copernicus - well the people have been sleeping
for long enough...
enough time has passed and we can pass...
this objective truth... that the heliocentric
model is true and that the pharaohs held
no authority as the sons of the sun
in the static geocentric model...
likes Xerxes ordering the sea to the be whipped
to calm down... and become a lake...
some pharaoh must have had a wild
idea telling a sand dune to stop moving
or seeing some mt. sinai said: shrink!
so instead be said: let's build us a... perfect pyramid...
a mountain that looks... geometric from
both afar and near!

or at least that's what Homer would have
said when visiting Giza: Δ'uh!

so a single man is somehow justified
in passing an objective truth?
unless the mob encores...
but what about the jury - a trial without a jury
is any trial at all...
murky ground if you ask me...
i don't expect man to pass...
judgement for a universal equilibrium...
but what i do expect is that:
he doesn't think he's capable of this: grandiosity!
clearly he's not... the objective reality
of falling... the subjective: i'm right as
allocated the status judge: therefore i'm standing still.

competition in a medical environment...
only in the realm of psychiatry...
and the mine-field of misdiagnosed misfortunes...
but i hardly think... competition is a catalyst
for getting surgery done...
corporation, yes...
among farmers? a rare treat....
a hobby pursuit for a selected fraction of
the crop... the dear-to-my-heart "g.m." tomato...
but all the other tomatoes... need to be harvested...
but this my pet-tomato... which needs to be:
THIS BIG! another matter...

sport and competition...
but work... and competition?
no wonder work and competition,
rather than corporation gives end results as...
who's wearing the most trendy sneakers?
who's social media account requires...
the most editing? who's child is the one with
the smartphone? etc. etc.

the bait of the poo'em is that it's naive:
but i think it is - so there's that to begin with...

i still can't fathom that "capitalism" was solely
promulgated on competition -
i'm still having to address the "model" as...
having to retain a "socialist" aspect akin to corporation
to get away with... what later became:
an all out economic "war" of competition...

naive utopian of me to somehow huddle
at the fireplace of corporation...
work - if so many people hate their work...
what would be the only gratifying
alleviation? and i'm pretty sure some places of work
are less about competition: and more about
corporation - as i write this...
the british national health service...
some people will compete by cutting corners...
competition will lead to doping scandals...
competition is... an Elisium for the few
and... a crab-bucket for the some...
call them the 10% cliff-hangers...

i've noticed it in poetry... slam poetics...
what not... this affair is already riddled with too many
****-up ****-wit window-lickers:
of which i am primo...
but i don't think it necessary to compete...
this was never about competition...
not every work is required to be
tinged with competition...
sometimes... it's just better to corporate...
do... undertakers compete?
do... postmen compete?
last time i heard: each is allocated his volume
of letters... it doesn't matter whether
he finishes his chores before the other postmen...
no postman is stupid enough
to take up someone else's allocated letters...
the first finishes his chores sooner...
the latter works overtime without pay...
it's a corporation of endeavours...
all the same... but there is no need to give these
postmen running orders when
they can walk the ******* mile...

competition within the realm of sport is one
thing... i guess a long time ago...
some people engaged in competition: sports...
to escape the general lagging begin plateau
of corporation... Rome wasn't build in
a single day... others dedicated themselves to
slouch and sloth of expanding the cranium
by reading a book...

the naive is still the bait...
is conscripting in an army...
about competition... or following orders and hierarchy
and therefore: not solely about corporation?
hierarchy you ask...
well... wouldn't that be something borrowed from
plutocracy / nepotism?
competition in an army environment...
what if you're in the royal guard
competing at what... shooting more blanks
into the sky expecting to shoot down the moon
at a wrestling-match fake
of staging of a state funeral?!
the cannons sounded... and that's all these
ever did... they were shooting with
empty wallnut shells! the wallnuts were
eaten by gunpowder gremlins long ago...
before the pomp & circumstance was shot
with: aenemic *****...

this is not a capitalism vs. a communism
debate... communism was riddled with nepotism...
come to think of it...
capitalism is not there yet...
but it's already there...
from what i've heard...
capitalism as this utopia ideal is not a meritocracy:
exceptions are made...
cicero was an exception of the roman empire
under nero...
exceptions and genetic freaks...
is this still a naive poem?

i can understand where competition works -
notably in what jobs it might work...
but most jobs require a stable work ethic
of corporation...
perhaps all self-employed entrepreneurs...
"perhaps" have no corporation in mind...
to a greater degree of orientating themselves...
in that corporation is: outside the bracket...
if everyone was suddenly...
self-employed... there would be no fear of...
the robotic onslought to come...
at least then... the microcosm would open...
and there would no longer be any employees...
just self-employed facets of...
"corporations in name only"...
which they already are...
corporations in name only...
given that... the corporations are no longer
competing with each other...
they have consolidated on a monopoly...
and since they are no longer competing with each
other... they have designated their former...
inter-competition into a hierarchal intra-competition
of "employees"...

can a bus driver, or a tube train operator compete?
by law... you can only drive a bus for 8 hours...
to operate a tube train... you can do X number of hours...
and these include breaks... necessary breaks...
can you find competition in these:
ultra-corporative environments? no!
capitalism might think it is necessary to scare everyone
into: the robots are coming! time to be self-employed
and compete! compete!
but some jobs are still: primed to corporation!

could i ever see undertakers competing?
in times of a spiked demand - during a plague...
what is healthy in sport -
is not necessarily healthy in a workplace -
after all... most people detest earning money -
it's a chore - mind you: do i enjoy writing poo'etry?
am i being paid for writing it?
no... i am "volunteering"... for the love of
the art... for ****'s sake... nothing more!
nothing less!

is this still a naive poo'em: yes... sorry...
i forgot to be caustic and there's no rhyme... my bad...
but this is not a capitalism vs. communism
tirade... from the yoke of the soviet union...
i learned from my mother that...
flues weren't really that prominent...
not until the 1970s...
by then it was a common theme...
biological warfare... while the crown-virus has
yet to claim a life outside of the mandarin
genetics: in the age of propaganda journalism:
you hear a "truth" one day...
three days later you're singing along to your
own "biased" / solipstic narrative...
after a while you have to adopt the "autism"
of solipsism: the world can only bite so much
out of you... you have to turn to standards of delusion
to match to their: from the many, one...

in sport, competition is the "zeitgeist":
it's not a metaphor, it's a misnomer...
but given the " " ditto brackets - i'm tired of looking
for the: "required" word... sometimes...

by the 5th definition of competition...
it's not as direct as corporation, competition
needs to borrow from an -ology...
again, verbatim: 'rivalry between two or more
persons or groups for an object desired in common,
usually resulting in a victor and
a loser but not necessarily involving
the destruction of the latter' -

what is untrue about this is that...
the destruction of the latter is paramount...
at least these days...
am i to believe that capitalism was not,
not ever, tinged with a belief in corporation...
that it was always, somehow, only about
competition?
what was communism born from?
when did the abolishment of serfdom happen
in russia? 1861...
the abolishment of slavery happened
in england in 1865... 4 years after...
but... but!
in russia? the slaves were thought of as...
people from within russia...
in england? the slaves? en route a trade from
one foreign place to another...
wow!
all slavery: either foreign, or domestic...
and to think that communism was a "failure"...
hard to imagine... truly hard to imagine...
given that... communism was born...
4 years prior to slavery in general was abolished...
of foreign to become "nationals"...
what does english he-he-history tell us about
native slaves? four years prior to the slaves
moved from africa to the cotton candy fields...
there were slaves that were not: ***** out of africa...

reperations who's who?!
why didn't capitalism bloom in russia...
why will it never bloom - oligarchs and...
currency of modern western capitalism:
nepotism...
who is jared kushner?
mr. cushions mr. cushtie...
mr. minted in: network baron...
slavery was abolished on the international scale
in england in 1865... four years after...
internal slavery was abolished in russia... 1861...
isn't that the sort of wow you were expecting?!
so when was slavery-slavery abolished
in england?
again... if internal slavery was abolished in russia...
4 years after slavery on an international
stage was abolished...
communism was a failure because: per se...
or... was communism supposed to be...
a short-cut attempt to catch up to capitalism?
was it a failure in catching up to capitalism?
in the 2008 financial clash...
where was Poland? recession free...
again... communism was a failure per se...
but... was it a failure in terms of catching up
to capitalism?
to me... it's still catching up...
when again... we're talking... freeing people...
only 4 years prior to people who would
otherwise still be... rummaging the romances
of Kenya and seeing no albino tourists sipping
brandy on their shores...
perhaps better for the whole load of us...

i ask, again, in my naive way...
that's the difference between competition and corporation?
not much...
a football team needs to compete with other football teams,
but it needs a corporative methodology behind it...
you can sometimes spot a maverick who wants
to be the solipsist in the team and become
nothing more than the top goal-scorcer -
then again: a kevin de bruyne and the number of assists...

if there was to be a level playing field...
everyone was to be self-employed...
what fear from robots?
competition on a ford's:
each man is a cog in the assembly line...
you can't compete... were you supposed to?
i thought that the only reason sport
was fun was to be compete and corporate...
it wasn't solely about competing:
not even in tennis are you ever competing...
unless you're serving a ****-ace...
competing but also corporating:
for the spectacle: with 19shot rallies...

to reiterate: this is a really naive poo'em...
is has to be!
- again... before capitalism became this hell-scape
spiral of: fear of robotics / a.i.:
let's just see if we get enough self-employed
people on board...
oh sure: the self-employed undertaker...
the self-employed bus-driver...
i'm sure there was, what's not called:
a "healthy spirit of competition" in work related
niches of existence...

i'm an alcoholic living among workaholics...
not a pretty sight... believe me...

i'm sure that capitalism... must have began
with: a "healthy spirit of corporation"...
that one henry ford would benefit more than
all the assembly line workers: fine...
the brains is allowed the conscious efforts
to move the eyes, close them,
use the jaw... bite... do magic with the tongue...
the liver has no knowledge of alcohol...
the heart isn't exactly aware of either veins
or arteries... fine... a henry ford cigar can get
away with thinking he's not adding
a chimney to the whole affair...
or a rhine-valley load of chimneys...
the stomach doesn't know what taste is...
sure as **** the small intestine knows
what it feels like to be a woman:
should it find itself unfortunate to have
a hitchhiker tapeworm attached to it... etc. etc.

but i imagine the capitalism had a sense of
corporation before...
it worked too many psychopathic sport analogies
into itself... precursor to the fear
or a.i. robbing people of their jobs?
testing people in a self-employed job market...
again: oh sure... the self-employed undertaker...
the self-employed busdriver!
perhaps a self-employed cabbie...
a self-employed surgeon?
how would that work?

        what's that? the cult leader... would not find
a job status match... in a corporate market of ideas?
then a ******* maverick he is...
esp. with such dates as: the brian jonestown
massacre hovering over his head!

perhaps i am naive is reiterating:
work implies corporation rather than competition,
in that work implies chores...
i've seen this in my father -
he doesn't underand household chores
on the basis on corporation -
he understands them on the basis of competition...
and he's to somehow... take pleasure
in the "free bread and circus"...
when the circus is not what it used to be?
once upon a time: the circus involved
men... who were footballers...
but they also did part-time metallurgy work...
they would clock in at a certain hour...
then be let off work to play a football match...
they weren't paid: professional:
disappropriate wages...
because their "work"... was over-inflated
by the gambling syndicate dicta...

there was a utopia in Poland...
it lasted for... roughly 30 years... from 1945
through to 1975... after that the herrings
didn't want to be pickled...
the baltic sea started to boil and the fish
strarted to froth at the mouth...
it's not a nostalgia segment: i was born in 1986...
this is mythology: curating the temporal
standards of modern journalism...
history: what time ago?
50 years? elvis was abducted by aliens...
n'esst ce pas?!

slam poetry competition with fellow:
poo'em eaters...
can i jut take the armchair with Horace?
i don't feel like competing...
what am i competing for?
volume... a new YA novel?
i will not ***** language...
even if it is a language i acquired:
and it's not a tattoo native first come first served
expression...
this is not a capitalism vs. communism
affair...

all the: towel in champions of capitalism
have made it clear:
start a traditional family, start a farm...
milk some goats...
pluck some eggs... living the dream:
brown fingers and all...
                       way way out from competition
in the workplace...
so... no need to corporate...
solo does it...
                                and if i'll be needing some
milk... i'll likewise claim: an autistic
pension and enough barren land to feed
goats organic glue and toilet paper that
magically morph into... a propaganda poster...

olim truncus eram ficulnus, inutile lignum:
once i was a stump of fig,
a wood without use... this is my best Horace:
thank you, goodnight...

what is to be competed for?
rather: what it to be retained, kept, status quo
enclosed... this pride for corporation?
competition in the workplace can only go as far...
not all professions can allow competition...
some will forever retain their base:
corporation...
to compete outside the realm of sport...
sport... those with enough awareness
of the body would pursue it...
those with a bit more brain in tow...
wouldn't... the ghost limb terms:
there's nothing of note
when it comes to competing with i.q. in
mind... or corporating...
there's this ancient feat of "solipsism" and
self-bettering... rather than running
the "expected" mile...
was capitalism always this:
chicken-shack-shackled into... wishing to squeeze
out drinking water... from pig ****?

again... this is not as easy give-away
that it's a capitalism versus communism base scrutiny...
all the eastern european laid-deeds have made it into
their chandelier filled land-allotement sights of
better ****** that gynocentrism...
i don't mind...
      yes... because among the bulgarian strip-party
i'm the ottoman janissary turned
well spoken sheikh... when morocco is given...
a fictional name... and i'm the Ali
that rubs Muhammad's lamp and
averts the... most ****** schism...
oh sure... Islam would be a pure religion...
and they would be allowed to complain about
porky-pies...
but... you see... how long did it take
for a schism to emerge between the orthodox grees
and tha catholic italians?
how long did the islamic schism take
to grovel and dig trenches?
not that much...
after all... Shia... Persians... Ali Woke-oh-Haram...
and the ****'ite... the ***** muslims...
the Saudi bin-Ladens...
well... that schism... didn't take that long...
some whisper about a schism in the monotheism
of the hebrews...
ha ha! i write ha ha... but even i have to laugh
out loud... a monotheism an inbreeding
of something more than genes...
fix the idea... and continue!

by now even i know that christianity has reached
a status of polytheism...
it's the same jesus... sure sure...
via no other than the orthodox,
the catholic, the protestant (calvinist, lutheran)
standards... or the baptists... or the jay-***-***-V-and-G
standards...
next thing you know: the vegans are
the gnostic monks!
because it has to be a joke at this point...
if christianity is a monotheism...
i'm mother theresa and that albanian
that stole george w. bush' mickey mouse's watch
on a state visit...
so to complete the holy trinity...
i'll be... alastair campbell... always for the giggles...

an alcoholic among workaholics...
who always had the satan's postbox concerning
the niqab... the same ones who were to be always
quoted: the beast from the east...
jesus is coming! look busy!

i mean... no need to look busy...
when the high a tide is making a comeback...
would you believe it?
if you saw the words... united kingdom...
england, scotland, wales... ireland...
that this was not moldova?
this is a language these are letters so arranged...
by an island-dwelling folk?
if you're the first, driver...
shotgun! who are we smuggling in the passenger
seats behind us?

imagine my surprise at the rereading,
with the typo: a missing (s) in letter()
and a missing (d) in arrange(d)...
i call them... the lost key of solomon...
or my own personal, hybrid,
hard-on...
oh god kept me with a phallus...
while giving all the angels a proper chopper
of the ol' wood... **** to stump...
i'm the one that wasn't circumcised!

and all i now have to sing about... is...
a forest of pines! a forest of pines!
pines pines pines! yippy caye!

daj, do wynagrodzenia: reszty.
daj: to niby: siebie;
a... dam... dam...
ale pierw: powiem:             to!
(ich) nicht werden
                  geben (ihr) das nacht!
first... i'll punch myself
hard enough to give myself
a plum-eye: ******* pacifists...
and then?
    then i'll strap a trouser belt
to protect my knuckles...
and then... then...
                    then: we'll "talk":
who might find a translator
ready...
   god...
i'm gagging for a
knuckle exchange...
        almost... itching!
like i might await
a shaving... from a Turkish
barber... in Essex...
of all Danish palaces;
and why would i want to allow
consort with these women?
considering the fact that
the russian ones believe in trans-national
grievance taxation:
of someone... who hasn't...
actually died...
              you know what?
*******...
suffer...
       watch me wipe my ***
with a satanic smile
ennobled
by a coulrophobia...
excesses of vogue
                      atypical models...
how is it... that...
coulrophobia doesn't translate
in reverse?
  and what's up
with the black privilege of
jass music, akin to white mozart...
as...  
  sure as ****, the drum would be
the first, and only thing,
prior to the people learning
the ******* clarinet!

oh drop me your ****** ***
holocaust dead bomb
on a polish ***...
     i triple, quadruple dare you!
you *******... ivory coast
   centipede!
               i'm *******...
as watts: wild-eyed...
       unstrap me from this
"unreality" of conversation...
then undo the internet banking...
and the rest of it...

             not adam watts!
    glitter & doom....
who?      tom waits...
oh **** me... blue valentine?
if that's not a **** with me
album... what is?
                 live circus?
        
do i look like a ******* ****-
(see the hyphen?
it's a prefix... the english are
lazy sometimes: couldn't,
i.e. could not,
remnants of shakespearean
english...

       i'll always cite macbeth...

  time, thou anticipat'st my dread
exploits: the flighty purpose never
is o'eertook, unless the deed go with it.
from this moment, the very firstlings
of my heart shall be
  the very firstlings of my heart.
   and even now, to crown my thoughts
with acts, be it thought and done.

it's hardly a racial slur, ergo...
why so ******* sensitive akin to a french
footballer or a ballerina?
   ****- (hyphen! hyphen!) ergo a prefix...
as already mention:
no, no...
   it's not: no iraqi ever called me a pa-ki
      (pákí)... yeah...
and you never called an afghanistani an
afghan, ever, no?
   pure camaraderie in that part of
the world... all the way... yeah yeah... yeah...
-stani (suffix) is sometimes missing
because... the english like to shorten words...
e.g. why is daniel: dan,
why is matthew: matt?
  why is muhammad: mo (farrah)?
                                    ******* pansies...
police your circumcised penises fiddling
english teenager girl, first,
come after my vocab. justifications: after;
savvy?

or a gypsy?
   by now...
     i'm looking like any
traveler...
and the world...
       forever resembled
a world,
  in the confines of
      a claustrophobia...

but... if there's a bigger concern for
a world...
  and a freedom...
i want a bare knuckle fight...
a black eye...
namely...
you bring  BOXING GLOVE...
and i'll bring...
     a LEATHER BELT...
wrapped around my knuckles,
and the wrist...
    like i might care to give
a second attempt to smile...

ah... the men... who care
about minding, if not in the least,
keeping women...
      bye bye, bye bye...
       and i've allowed myself
to know my grandfather...
as i did the slap in the face...
and...
the key question:
in the unfathomability of counting
the 32 / 4 ratio...
alas... one fist... one smile...

and countless... dentistry encounters...
because?
   because the rest?
the cultural artifacts of a today?
  lost to h'americana...
            as i might have wished...
for my prior genes
to make an autobiography
in **** germany...
  
   what?
  
      well... obviously: the oops.

no, for the crescendo...
you know...
           i'm getting this funny vibe...
gott ist tot... it's not really spectacular...
nietzsche really believed in eternity,
to the point where he pointed:
what does science offer, only old age...
what does religion provide? eternity...
oh nietzsche was big on eternity...
   gott ist tot is as unspectular as:
is it: how to do you pronounce x,
or is it: how do you pronunciate y?
debate:
              everyone says around here
the former... since no one wants to be a *****...
pro-nun-ci-ate (pro-nun-cíate)...
   might as well replenish the vocab. bank
and replace the word with:
how do you elocute z? / recite)....

gott ist tot / gott ist tod...
    "same ****, different cover"...
you know why i believe in god?
    not the christian reference points...
salvation blah blah, saviour and hide & seek blah blah...
n'ah... where would i derive all my vocab.
hunger if not from him?
   some men derive their vocab. from
women or gambling...
            i am not in the position of their
luxury... so god it is...

            primarily though?
               god is metaphysics...
             ergo? his judgement is not clouded
by metaphysical questioning...
it's impossible to receive a metaphysical
answer from a metaphysical question
when engaging with a metaphysical
ontological paraphrase of one's own search
for meaning in this mortal frame...

oh sure sure, my belief in god is as juvenille
as anyone else's belief in humanity's
clarity when it comes to jurisprudence
and its application...
    i've experience "jurisprudence" once...
drive-by phone theft...
me and three fwends...
   i catch the number plate...
i tell one of my fwends to note it down,
police station, report, culprit found,
a sit in at a barkingside police station
looking at mug images,
spot the ****** (it was dark when the mugging
took place, photographic memory, **** happens)...
a court session, australia is playing england
at the ashes (****, i missed it)...
in court the defence lawyer shows me
another picture of the culprit...
back then photogrpahs had dates
attached to them...
the photograph? over 4 years old...
i tell him: but this photograph is 4 years old!
how can i identify if this is the same
person: i, myself, will probably
don a beard in four years time!
      a simple slip-up...
        now that i have a beard:
it's so much more fun than growing your
hair long... i hated the nickname
chewbacca back in high school when i was
growing mine for a french braid...
i walk out of the court,
come to terms with the detective...
and i see the same hunger in him as i see in me...
will justice be served?
highly unlikely... since the victim
didn't recognize the *** in the mug-shots...
justice was probably not served...

   and this is how god plays into all of this,
hell or heaven, blah blah...
man created the figure of domina Iustitia
as blind... god created death to be blind...
justice was never supposed to be blind,
death was: the unfortunate deaths
of teenagers in car accidents,
among all the other freak accidents...

clouded with so many metaphysical questions
i don't appreciate man's ability to adhere
to jurisprudence without being
subjectively contaminated...
i have more belief in an "imaginary"
god than belief that strains me to belief
in man's sense of justice...
          the nuremberg trials are a rare exception...
but only when the culprits are
unabashed and fathomable by a collective
sense of pride... a blidness...
i believe in god, because i'd love to experience
the judgement of a post scriptum of
metaphysics...
  personally? i have been wronged...
heavily...
            i will not name names....
i know when and how i was wronged,
and by whom...
                2007... Canterbury...
      i won't name names: i'm not a rat...
man is too clouded with metaphysical questions
to begin with, god isn't,
he's a metaphysical ontology "bias"...
which is why, he is primarily a jurisprudent
answer...
   i'd love to experience divine jurisprudence,
hell or heaven are not of my concern...
and i don't imply divine jurisprudence
associated with the polytheistic take of
jurisprudence via a solipsistic mechanism
of a minor god and the person in question
without the hurt party...
in monotheism the god is solipsism personified...
these days: also the personna non grata...
so no... gott ist nicht tot...
            he's a personna non grata...
i just don't appreciate the human *******
of law, law governance...
   come on, in england you can receive
an a.s.b.o.s. for your cockerel being too loud
in the morning, your dog barking...
           would you trust man with
jurisprudence?
  a woman was cleared of the ******
of her husband
       when she hammered his head into a pancake:
over an abusive relationship...
police, weren't, "there"?!
sure sure... the hammer will do...
i believe in god without a sense of reward...
i just don't think man is capable of
passing justifiable laws...
no man could ever pass the eternal laws,
gravity... 100°C for the boiling of water...
i need a being  who has groundwork
in eternal laws, in unshakeable laws...
the ten commandments aren't:
you shall not...
   more... maybe, you shouldn't...
they are the most pristine jurisprudent
laws available... the: maybe you shouldn't,
eh, chappy?

       i just don't like playing the thesaurus game
on the more tight-knit game
of "passing" the wink-wink of Solomon's
judgement...
please, **** me please,
i'll eat 20 raw herrings in a cream sauce,
slurp 30 oysters,
eat 40 strawberries on a hangpverl
eat out about 50 harem virgins
like a castrato if you ask me, nicely,
**** camel cockey:
lucly i landed on a black gold slurp
with plenty of bangladeshi slaves:
******* of riyadh...
     what did muhammed tell you?
you camel jockeys / sand *******
have clearly forgotten...
******* arabs: short attention span...
you need to remind
the retards...
the dajjal would come from the east...
a palace of gardens...
well obviously the prophet wasn't
thinking about genghis khan...
            
  hmm barbarians...
vikings, arabs: yet so inclined to like poetics...
funny, that...
the civilized peoples banished
the poets...
            the ruling class and their cushioned
people: sacrosanct sycophants...
wankers, basically.

    the hajr? muhammad spoke of the dajjal
coming from the east,
and the east being a city of gardens...
where isn't riyadh and where is mecca?
isn't riyadh east of mecca?
was the dajjal to come from the outside
of islam, or from wtihin?
      last time i checked...
sh'ite islam isn't friendly to sunni islam...
if islam was the one true religion...
would have a shcism have occurred?
i don't think so...
   a persian would never bow before
an arab... that much os true...

oh i believe in god...
given how man practices jurisprudence...
is it some sort of, a, thesaurus game
i wasn't told about?
to me the human quest for jusctice is
a thesaurus game...
man is incapable to pass but one,
eternal, law...
he's great at nuanced laws...
laws allocated to sports...
i mean, **** me, cricket?
the best vocab. you'll ever pick up...

even god isn't as pertinent
in making the sort of music associated
with the limited alpha-to-beta
of A, B, C, D, E, F, and G...
wow! seven... seven?!
how many heads does the beast
of revelation have? oh... 7!

i'll stop tolerating islam, and start respecting it,
when it, acknowledges its presence
as a character study in the book of revelations...
then i'll just move on,
having made my point...

until that time comes...
    it's 600 years shy of becoming what
degenerate christianity has become,
oh and it's ripe...
it's gagging to implode!
600 years and wait for it to become
the next secular vasal conglomorate...

the warning muhammad gave
about "the best from the east"
was in point of question:
   a reference ti gneghis khan...
more like ibn saud:
  thst fat diabetic one eyed ogre...
and the legacy of decadence he left
behind...

saudi men with slavuc girlfriends,
buying up pink cushions and *******
chihuahuas...
**** after ****...
  you know the three slavic proverbs?
1. better a sparrow in your
hand, than a dove on your rooftop?
explanation?
better the small joys at-hand,
than impossible possibilities out of reach....
2. a drunk can spot east,
past mecca, whenever honing
the safety of his own bed... even at night...
not much of a proverb...
3. i don't care to rememeber...

once toleration comes into play,
i will, respect... just a waiting game...
i'm pretty sure no iranian will
bow down to a sunni camel jockey...
i like proud *******,
it implies: there are absolutes,
un-moveable goal posts...

                      if you are ever to bind yourself
in supporting a "side" outside a sports' dynamic,
always the outsider...
always the outsider... in this case?
the ****'ite islam brigade...
       the persians...
the sunnis can shove it...
   *****, bones, whatever....

                   ****'ite islam i can
fathom, even respect,
sunni islam i just tolerate...
  as much as iran takes claims for the
big satan in ref. to h'america...
well... if h'america supports the infantile
saudi arabia, who's to blame them?

you know that polonaise joke about
about the pacifism of jews in
2nd world world war poland?
the joke ran along the words:
weren't the jews shooting the nazis
using crooked elbows (rifles)?
they always seemed to miss them,
taunted into walking into gas chambers,
the ******* hobbits...

          what? some bolshevik Brooklynian
jewish rada is to spare me
                 the pay-up diffrential
telling me, i was wrong?

  as i said before: the nazis lamented
when the warsaw uprising happened...
no, st. paul's doesn't stand proud
because, because...
   even with the blitz...
                 the luftwaffe were told:
you drop a bomb on st. paul's: firing squad...
and when notre-dame de paris -
last time i checked...
   the nazis didn't luftwaffe the **** out
of paris... did they?!

                  the nazis weren't mongols;
no people so well versed in chanel in terms
of their military being so well
   suited & booted could ever make such a
                              architectural sacrilege...

what?! people under the silicon curtain
are gagging, begging even: for nazis!
can i be the first?!
i just want to please the hungry!
if not punk then moving swiftly into ska...
am i the first?
   siliziumvorhang...
well, **** me... from under the eisenvorhang...
what's with these neo-communist pseudos?

and the hebrew god?
a jealous god... so a god with the knowledge
of the existence of other gods...
why wouldn't a jealous god have
no knowledge of other ("imagianry") gods?
to be jealous of only one's own existence?!

3 / 1: that's the ratio....
that's the only ratio... 3 times i experienced
love at first sight:

when i fell in love at first sight...
malina, samantha, janina,
priya....

equal measure: isabella of grenoble...

in reverse:
magda, promis, ilona, kot (i forget her name,
7 years old, first kiss, you can be forgiven
to forget, she had two twin sisters
and she was the senior,
her fasther drove a distribution truck,
milk, i think)...

****, i actually mismanaged
that ratio...

i believe in "a" god...
since i find too much of human jurisprudence
to be riddle with the thesaurus...
i don't think man can pass
law, he can "suppose so"...
but he will never pass the sort of law,
made forbidden,
or absolutely allowed....
i don't believe in a god akin
to the sort of a pontous pilate god
where i'll always find myself
outside of punk evolving into ska...

         mind you...
i'd hate to be trapped within
the confines of an atheistic exclusion zone
of intellect,
      to be trapped in nothing is one
thing, but to be trapped inside
the confines of an atheist's "nothing"
is quiet another....
i don't like being a hamster inside
a cognitive wheel of another...
   god is the jurisprudence spirit,
man the metaphysical spirit...
and i would very much like to stand
in the light of divine law being passed
to finally feel my shadow...

kult: brooklyńska rada żydów...
  not familiar?
  i forgot punk a long time ago...
esp. when californians came up with their
version, ergo? ska...

i'm currently taping a film
about the silesian vampire...
how strange, that the prussians came
back into the ***** of the polonaise...

growing a beard is so much fun!
fiddle after fiddle: and no violin!
atheists bore me
as much as the theistic hags
who's only ambition are
the thrill associated with Sunday
h'america and cinema...
               i can imagine only one
heaven...
where i am blind and given
               a large library of music.

We are all human beings
We all have our own lives
And different ways we live them
But each one of us is a writer
And this poem is for all of you

All of you who have virtues and use them in your writing
Those who use flashbacks and revisit mental photo albums

Beginning the story from the middle for that’s usually where you mind is at
Looking back then looking forward
Studying the past so you can be ready for what is to come

Recording catastrophes with a number two pencil

Tales and blurbs of tragedy
Caused by love or the lack there of

Rewards and punishment
Self-reliance and self-fulfillment

We are mere narrators
Humble, maybe unreliable
Equipped with numerous devices
Ironic Paradoxes
Red herrings
Fortuitous plot twists
Metaphors
Allegoric hyperboles
Analogies
Oxymorons and onomatopoeias

We sling Chekhov’s gun like bandits of literacy

We’re visionary revolutionaries
Revolution of the mind, body and soul

Changing ourselves and examining who and what we are
To become what we are destined to be
The best

Rejecting convention
Building our own paths
That lead to cliffhangers

Romantic lust
Comedic affairs
Dark massacres
Spiritual healing

Religious speculation
And the questioning of the way we, the people are being governed

We use the tools we are giving to sculpt new art that the world can stand in awe of

Personification
Symbolic imagery

Practicing pastiche with respect
Dionysian imitatio

Surreal reality
Defying mortality

Reiteration and retort

Using nature to express emotion and thought

Doubts and fear

Opposites
Morals and ethics

Satisfying curiosity

Parodying what we see
Embellishing just a little

We us word play to dive deep into the topic of conscious, subconscious and unconscious thought

Using satire to poke fun at the human condition,  its senses and perception of the universe to get readers thinking

Expressing our anger, our boundless joys
Desiring unknown pleasures

Seeing past the fallacies put before us

We write with great candor about war, personal conflicts, and self-abuse

With hinting undertones to give these ideas a second thought

We write of the supernatural, metaphysical mysteries
Outlandish, obscure mind boggling theories

As the clock ticks too fast for us and the characters we’ve created

Demolishing the fourth wall with a sledge hammer of defamiliarization

Epiphanies in a parking lot
Speaking in the 1st, 2nd or 3rd person

Using fun things like anagrams and palindromes
Candy for the lovers of such things

Spontaneity is an understatement
Nonsense is an insulting overstatement
Absurdity seems to fit just right

We are chameleons
We can write in various forms
Streams of gratifying consciousness
Brilliant prose
Beautiful poetry

And chose to use or merely acknowledge the ways to achieve these forms
Rhetoric, rhythm  and rhyme
Meter and mora
Conceit and consonance
Assonance
Intonation
Working with phonaesthetics  

And accenting aesthetics

A poem can or could not be organized as such
If we want to get technical about it

We have a poem
With a number of verses
And in those verses
Are lines
And those lines might rhyme
And have a meter or rhythm
Stressed or unstressed syllables

In contrast to that we may write
Without all of that and use emotion
Feeling and structure our work with what we feel is the best way
Line breaks
Pauses and puns
Silly similes
Ambiguous antonyms  
Intonation, linguistics
Fight against the fascists of grammar and conservative correctness

So, in the end we are writers of a rainbow kaleidoscope forms, devices, ways and ideas

But we alone are the ones who make the world think
Make it move
Revolt
Renew
Learn
Look back
Remember
Cry
Smile
Forget
Ease

Write my friends write until your mind explodes and your fingers bleed

Read, read and become inspired
Even if what you’re reading is bad cheese

Forget getting published it’s the writing that matters
Disregard the off-putting, critical chatter

And if you think no one reads
Than be the seed and sprout a tree of astounding artistry
And let’s begin a new movement composed of ideals that will hold true forever
I might be preaching to the choir but it must be said that poetry; literature isn’t dead

.i've come the one sober conclusion that concludes all other "necessary" conclusions, drunk. the consumption of alcohol and sunlight should never, ever, mingle; it's just plain silly, bad for the usual mood associated with drinking.

what do you get when you
"conflate"
   a post-existentialism movement
whereby, each, and, every, sentence,
looks, like, this,
   or invokes,
"something" akin to "this"?

      comma contra the ditto /
nuance?

          contra-points
meets buffolo bill
meets lily savage...
meets: whatever marylin mason
critique you have
in that head of yours...

and, yes, the platitude standards
of kant was a feminist,
plato was a feminist,
but now...
   i don't even know who
a feminist ist...

   (on purpose "added" T)...
pose...

       a sunday newspaper article,
reads...
    'sting at ******* lays bare
feminist split over *** work'...
i'm either ******* trans-confused
or just gender-huh?

hell, if we're going to ****
around with language,
numb-skull our experience with /
against it...
           good thing i learned
a few chemistry prefixes...

ortho- probably implies cis-,
trans- could imply meta-
when attached to ***,
but not the benzene ring...

    it's one thing transcending
the geography of Copernicus,
quiet another...
to "revise"...
using these vectors,
akin to the benzene ring,
ortho-, meta-,
oh, right... you forgot the para-,

nice thought,
use chemistry vector coordinates
for binding groups,
they're all here,
meta-, ortho-, para-,
      cis-, trans-,
       it's almost like a new
pantheon for the demigods...

the "metaphysics"
of transgender...
cis-,
  "on the side of",
side of what?
   a cupcake 1 +
     happy-birthday singalong,
or, what?

  well, given that biological
reality did the whole: bye bye
and a queen elizabeth II wave...

    the best part of me,
is not about to make sense of all of this...
i'll leave that to the journal-enlists...
       me, back in a *******
in athens,
unable to tell the difference
between a greek and a libyian...
because you know how
the mediterranean folk like:
smelly sheep herders
greasy, damaging good looks,
and an aura of that:
dangerous brunette...
not anything like us baltic folk...
downing raw herrings
in a piquant mingle of oil
and white vinegar...

      anyhoo...
       giggles exhaust me...
so i did get a chemistry degree
"for something", after all...
         classical chemistry
prefixes, required to draw
electron travel schematics...
mostly associated with
the benzene ring,
if ortho-, meta- and para-
positioning is "in question"...

cis or trans isomers...
**** me, i used to study this...
organic chemistry was
my soft-spot...
       a bit like what
cooking curries later became...
eh... brew some ester...
get a perfume out of it...

        but even at university
level they didn't teach me
how to extract polyethylene...
i guess it was polyethylene...

   like the whole oil rests
above water,
for the love of god i don't remember
what two liquids were involved,
one sat above the other,
and you'd pinch
the "event horizon"...
and pull threads of
the polyethylene from it...
strings of plastic...

          so, this current, philosophy
playing with a chemistry tool-kit
invoked into propaganda berlin /
weimar lone no loan woe?

                        sure, i'd buy it...
but up to a point...
    i'm sniffing around and have
come to the following conclusion...
someone...
is really in dire straits...
wishing that gwanp'ah soviet
came back
to settle the equilibirum...
        this current feeding of
a lost void is...
       not helpful...
       as i see it...
   it will take much more than
a ****** to nanny the riddled
males of the capitalistic
  "under-class"...
   queen bee, isn't going to "cut it"...
if she's no gargantuan
***** black 'ole... is "she"?

      and the whole gender neutral
pronoun, schtick?
   that's only worth so much...
sooner or later...
        "they'll" be gagging
for the guns of navarone...

the current mumbo-jumbo
is... alkenes
to me:  cis-2-butene
                     trans-2-butene...
background noise...
  
ugh... chemistry:
             algebra, for the truly wicked.
     but let's entertain
this kindergarten play talk
for a while longer;
no one wants to see a dangling
poopie suffocated by
a g-string,
                  do we?

.i lied in doubly toasted rye bread and some larry tesler epitaphs... toasted rye bread... better with baltic sushi... raw herrings in a creamy sauce... perhaps a creamy sauce with dill... more like apples and pickles... toasted rye bread with baltic sushi... herrings... smoked salmon is luxury... just the basics will do... a smoked salmon can have its bagel... as long as the toasted rye gets its herrings.

some thigs just have to wait for no apparent "rightness"
of time - a corvus corax album from 2009 only arrived
into my ears late sunday evening -
mille anni passi sunt - and no... i do not know what sort
of radio station would play this sort of music...
nor anything from 13th cent. "pleb" music of the countryside
or "heretic" monks that do not fit the criteria
of "classical"... i.e. "worthwhile"...

two sips of ms. amber / well a decent double with
pepsi max will jolt the memory:
or at least that's the hope -
yesterday two decent doubles allowed the coils
to unwind - alas - no pen and paper -
but a witness - a cat sleeping in a chair:
i'm pretty the sure the world won't mind if:
another of my diatribe spews heads into two
directions: infinity and nothingness -
                              perhaps tonight i will pick up
the scraps from what i "ought" to have written
down...                well... this is hardly
going to be words penned to paper to be later
required oratory material...

i can't exactly call them thought experiments...
if i believed in thought experiments...
i'd be... an oyster... or a clam...
  basically an mollusk - not quiet a stone...
but a shell - how did the oyster get his shell?
and why didn't the stone get...
a cell of celluloid / cellulite brain?
              the mountain has muhammad:
of that i am certain...  thought experiments...
not when you're about to do some manual labour...

i've been asking for my neighbour to put
up her garden fence for 15 years...
if not me then someone else...
she's put up a 5th of the garden's length...
the rest would remain covered by the foliage
in my garden... one storm... nothing...
two storms... nothing... then something...
the 5th of the garden length would topple...
until a new 5th of the garden's length would
be put up...
roots... ****** roots...
well... i felt lucky... this year we saw 3 or 4 storms
batter these islands consecutively...
the guys that were going to put up
the fence came... i gave them 250quid to cut
all the shrubbery in my garden...
after all: i do have tools... but a chainsaw i don't
have...
the fence is up... but the garden is in part
barren...
the shurbs and trees are gone:
i'm thinking of planting some dwarf apple / pear
trees... the plum tree took to the earth a few
years back... the cherry tree (morello cheery):
i'll give her another year:
she bloomed last year but only bore 2 fruits...
maybe she's shy...
well great... the shrubbery is gone...
but... roots... those ****** roots...
       we are talking london, we are talking:
a city built on clay...
it doesn't take long... not even half a meter
of digging before you reach this playdough
fudge layer of the soil...
     even if it is a dwarf tree or a shrub...
a holly... as i learned... even with a fork and mini
fork... a proper ***** and a mini *****...
a blunt axe and a heavy hammer...
digging up the roots'-head with some of
the roots intact can take somewhere between
2 to 4 hours...

                yesterday i managed 3...
which took me... roughly 6 hours... while i
uncovered a 4th...
   manual labour... better than going to the gym...
i really didn't know i had this muscle
in my body... or this sort of cartilage...
this tendon... i think i stood before a whole class
of students of medicine and gave them
an arithemetic of my lower thoraic and almost
all of my lumbar muscles...
but that's the beauty: i guess...
once you get on your knees and work with
earth, with roots, trees, once you unearth
the earthworms and cut them in half as you're
digging: well... they have an in-built clone
regrowth... the only music came from the birds
celebrating: renovation! food!
i wished for a radio... but then i uttered
a word or two and meditated on it -
perhaps it was a word - perhaps it was a phrase...
later that day i made east european dumplings...
a filling of last sunday's poacked chicken
meat (which is always a problem -
what do you do with poacked chicken meat
after you made a decent clear soup from it?),
mushrooms - sauerkraut - spices - blah blah...
but... first i sniffed my hands...
imbued with all the scents of the earth...
the dirst and the clay and the wood merging...
that... for the sensual contrast of later working
with flour and water for the dumplings' dough!

yesterday i lay in bed on this ******* carousel
wheel of "narrative"...
what if i forget it... i'll wake up and write it down...
7am... write this sort of ******* down?
i don't think so... lucky for me yesterday ended
with heavy rain... i almost wanted to fall asleep
to the sound of rain... it wasn't loud enough...
for a long time: it's either with earphones in...
or no... no other alternative...
      most relationships probably failed because:
"i wasn't there"... when trying to find the la la land
of nox...

               when writing: even feel a senstation
in your feet... as if you feet are standing
on the ceiling? the whole body translates into
a mild sensation of up-side-down...
ever write and while writing: feel the insane barrel
of laughter from a sensation that your feet
are attached to the ceiling?
   never mind...

   my eyes shouldn't be staring at this glaring screen
this late anyway... i should be listening
to radio.fama.pl with the screen blacked-out...
perhaps a candle in the room...
but mostly the light coming from the cigarette
being dragged... nothing more...
today is an exception: superstitious in that:
if i don't write this today:
tommorow would be cindarella of this...
no memor: there's already barely any cohesion...

today i was lucky: i only dug up one root-head...
2 hours... given that i had to do so...
while at the same time not disturbing the fern...
even thought the roots of the head were
weaving themselves around the fern...
had to tie up the fern so she wouldn't get in the way...
what a pretty man-bun of hair...
hail shiva!     or any other long-haired deity
that does... boquetes of hair for a living...
the fern was spared...

   back in the garden... a literal swamp...
that jasmine and her labyrinth of roots...
not to mention an ancient copper plated tube
with a cable that i dug up... and the old fence posts...
these biggo concrete dollops with metal...
literally a swamp... if this isn't what Ypres looked
like on a good day: then i'd be swimming
in cow-**** shambo on a bad day...
and this London clay... it...
you don't even dig up half a meter into the earth
and... you get a puddle of water...
work... in these conditions?
do i look like i'm going to mud-wrestle?

what sort of thought experiment can you take
into manual labour of this sort...
the sort that isn't going to the gym...
thought experiment = entertain a hypothetical
x, y and z? the "what if"?
i need to take a phrase with me...
i overheard it somewhere...

man is a human: doing...
woman is a human: being...
so i took that...

along came descartes and kant...
      along came the word ontological:
misnomer - oncology -
with oncology came: the cancer within botany...
mistletoe... if you've ever seen it grow
in the wild... go to Poland...
Warsaw will do... 10 miles in either direction...
after all... Poland isn't England...
there's no Royal Society for the preservation
of trees... mistletoe in the wild...
botanical cancer... now if i am to have
cancer... unlikely... i'm more prone to alcoholism
related deaths and dementia -
i just think of mistletoe... botanical cancer...
and it's in the tradition to: kiss under it...
anyways and who...

                    cogito ergo sum...
is that an a priori statement...
                     or an a posteriori statement...
it's hardly a maxim -
   a maxim according to which you'd be able
to extract an imperative of sorts -
caterogical or impartial - imperative and
and adjective of your choice -
                        yes... where i come from...
certain things are given SHE-pronouns...
most things botanical... except the oak...
an oak is a male in botany...
where i come from... the sun is female...
the moon is male... unlike in english...
where the words do not give pronoun impressions
designating "***"... that comes later...
with pictures... borrowed...
     comes with the turf... emoji hieroglyphs:
h'america first...
                         well and second...
                i don't hear news from France about
"misgendering" someone...
given how french grammar has explicit masculine and
feminine terms...
so... on your own...

i hear the debate... but... i don't even have
a two cent's worth of an argument...
              the iron curtain is down...
i'm in england and i'm looking at the silicone veil
and i'm saying: there's no me on the moon...
and if i'd really want to escape...
antarctica or... afghanistan... among the pashtun
women...
problem with both... i don't play the ***-tar
so good as to remember all the radio i'd miss...
i once heard the most beautiful adhan and cried...
then again: what if the mu'azzin
sounds like a goat grabbed by the testicles about
to be castrated?! and not the mu'azzin
i heard recorded?
i once cried hearing...
                         vaughan williams - fantasia on
a theme by thomas tallis...
once again when hearing ola gjeilo's...
either o magnum mysterium or northern lights...
beauty is transcendental: a priori -
          true beauty is transcendental: a priori -
because these pieces of music i heard for the first
time... and rejoiced with tears...
crying and laughter - not antonyms...
                                           implicitly i.e.:
when you're crying you're laughing vice versa etc.,
it's hard to laugh at music...
one can laugh at one's ****** response
to the body... but not when the body has found
serenity... or anguish...
             of a burden of the heart...
the ears to listen with... and that the eyes would
be far better off... without sight...
as two agape holes of a cave through
which a stream flows and arrives as a cascade point
for a waterfall...

i won't "solve" cogito ergo sum:
whether it's a priori or a posteriori...
what did cogito spawn though?
res cogitans - res extensa -
                     we're talking manual labour...
thank god heidegger didn't come along
with his hammer and suggest that someone
intent of working manually would...
somehow talk about philosophical matters on
the side...
                       that's the "hammer"... "apparently"...
no... it came down to:
man is a human: doing...
  woman is a human: being... i had to exclaim
out-loud trying to not interrupt the birds...

it's just convenient... to call man a human doing
and woman a human being...
do                                     b-ING-o!
be                                 b-ING-o!
               try another language...
                i'm sure it sounds better than just that...
человеческое дело...

          just as i thought...

                     ludzkie dzieło - ludzki czyn...
but i think i concentrated on the latter:
ludzki czyn...
                         after all: ludzki byt -
doesn't really translated into: ludzkie bycie -
with bycie - being -
                            isn't being: interchangeable
with existence - as in onto per se, for being
to be grasped from omni ex: out of this and every
other instance?
    
who would take a thought experiment when
undertaking some decent manual labour?
thought experiments are for sitting in a leather chair
and farting into it - basking in the glory
of theoretical solipsism - later translated
into a crowded tube train...
imagining oneself farting scented candle
magic fairy dust of dried strawberries!

             i don't have time for thought experiments...
i'll give up my hands to the earth
and to the trees the earthworms and the roots...
my bob the builder's ***-crack to the winds...
or... my akbir to the birds...
               my al-qiyyam to the work before me...
my ruku to the morning...
                  my sujud to the setting sun...
         and that last bit... counting the number
of new parts of my body i've used...
but no... no thought experiments...
three words in latin... yes...
                              five words... sven the seventh...
perhaps... but certainl a bilingual crossword
puzzle... and definitely meditating
on cyrillic letters... and greek...
        i'm yet to escape the grip of runes...
and of braille... and of hebrew...
                              and return to the old father...
   who still seems rather unreal...
to think that "my" people had a pre-existing latin
text... and that it somehow is not tied
to the runes... nor to the greek (as such)
nor arabic... not sanskirt...
                  a revived interest...
                          on the british isles anything
can be a revived interest...
         if marx came up with communism in
england... i can up with...
a tatto parlour where people don't make
a mistake of having chinese ideograms
tattooed onto themselves...
                                           ⰁⰉⰅⰎ
    ⰝⰅⰓⰐⰑ                       -
                           in decline because?
                               shared patterns...
even with the runes... R and not ᚱ
                        ᚠ and not F?
                                     ᛒ and not B?
                                              agreed upon...
           but i guess just because we share this...
latin text without any latin being so much
spoken outside of maxim / proverb / the crown...
no latin slang...
                            whatever this was...
i had to write it... a second time it would have
suffocated me and given me amnesia upon
waking.

.bacon doesn't exist in Polish cooking... podgarle... the under-neck meat of a pig... or just plain lard... rather than olive oil... 1 onion per 1 scrambled egg... paprika and lots of garlic... and definitely some cayenne pepper... certainly more onions than eggs, scrambled... and definitely using animal fat... to fry it on... hell... if vegetable fats are so healthy... why is there a term for the vegetative state of immobility of an otherwise animate being?

****! not against Norwegians...
what the **** am i saying?!
spotted one vegan girl...

              pork head terrine...
slavic version of
the Scotch haggis -
      
                 omnivore -

        you eat what?
i eat anything that, once upon
a time, moved...

                i've actually fallen in love
with a fetish that i circumcise into
a lobster...

  i want to eat a lobster...
chicken bone marrow isn't enough...
i want a lobster...

              i want to taste the foods
that could cure me of
ever wanting the 72 virgins
promised by Islam...

    instead? i want the feast
of Belshazzar...
to begin with...

i don't like bacon...
i prefer prosciutto...
   i haste bacon... it's too crude...
too anglo-saxon...

i hate the stink of frying it...
******* hate it like
a Muslim....
    prosciutto? different story...

and i hate ***. sushi...
smoked salmon,
and raw herrings in cream dill
sauce?
   or with pickled cucumbers
in a cream sauce?

thumbs up...
i'll only eat sushi,
if i take a knife in public...
and eat it with a cut up lemon...

raw lemon and sushi?
i can do that...
                  but i need a bench,
in a public space...
and a knife...
                      i can stomach that
sort of sushi,...
but? scotch smoked salmon,
of the Baltic king,
namely the herring
in a creamy sauce...

you come near me with
that ******* about calorie
intake?!
  i'll tell you to stomach
a ******* rhino!

               not here, not now...
    i don't like the sort of impoliteness
of people who do not eat
the other person's food...
****** me off...
eat the food, **** the turban!
i said! eat the food, forget
donning the turban journalistic
opportunity!

****-wits!

               the food! the food!
eat the food!
you don't eat the food?
you might as well be donning
a donkey's **** on your heard,
thinking it a Sikh turban
on, your 'ed...
you, *******! ****!

eat the food...
   is it me, or having watched
channel 4, in England,
finding the English people
overtly picky about
the food they eat?!
you figure that one out?
they're picky... don't you think?
picky as if half of them are
allergic to nuts!

             ah...
but the English want to both
entertain the food, & the clothes...
       goodie ol luck!
      
the "thing" you've had,
prior to 1945?
you're not getting it back, forget it!
i too remember Tony Blaire
ensuring
Hong Kong was a
revival of the ancient Greek
city-states...
        
                 love the diet...
            too bad i eat the rare,
most decent architectural pieces
of pork...
     like the head,
meat + cartilage + fat + sclera...
   in a terrine...
   yummy... ******* yummy...
      
      what else?
chicken hearts broth,
chicken stomach broth...
    cow intestines broth...
   pig liver sauce...
         czernina...
   duck blood soup...

                   the Semites
and the Arabs can have
their Kosher and Halal rites...

we? the people of the north?
we have the economics
of the purity of a slaughtered
animal...

unlike the Semites?
we use all the bits,
best for frying or worst for the broth...

which segregates us from
Golgotha and last supper poetics,
Semitic poetics,
of invigorating a stance
for the...
     transmutation of human
flesh, subsequently the
        refusal of pork,
but somehow normalizing cannibalism;
Rabbi?
  how about? NO!
NO!
   i rather eat pork, curated
to Italian standards of smoking...
i will not eat the filth of the *******
catholic Eucharist!
   no chance in hell!
the Semitic critique of pork
is my critique of the... "bread"...
you eat it!
    i'm not eating it...
now? sheave the silence,
   and the lamb...
      oh yeah... i'm anti-semitic -
against one Jew... hey-zeus christos!

oh i didn't write something to change the boundaries,
i wanted to capture the digital narrative,
or how the hope of destroying all forms of theology
with our a.i. gravitas, we started to
apply the digital anaesthetic -
and cradle the numbing effects of:
                 us, in experiment,
or: us, in a medium of synthetic material...
             either way pushing us apart friom actually
inhabiting organic matter...
           the many of us these these are merely pawn
in the game...
                  we're pawns in a construction site
of all thing theretical... meaning it's truly 2D by comparison
to the 3D structures we see...
       the element that will truly give a.i. it's ego?
wait wait... why with latin dead and me not speak it
but i have this theoretical baggage of ego?
            ego is only short of en egg should i decide to
write it... arbeit macht frei must come from
counter-conceptualisation of the remains of the roman
empire with self- (hyphen included), to remind people
that it's all about work, and how we will either loose
or free ourselves from the re in the setting sun to echo aeons...
that might be the case...
            but find me a modern day writer who has
to use this medium of people talking over one another...
find me a writer who''s lodged in the internet like
a cherry atop a cake...
          who can't be gagging for a log cabin in some obscure
place, who has to be in the thick of it...
       i'm not writing to change the world,
i'm writing to describe the status quo...
            qua norm, or should i say "norm"...
from status quo comes the question: qua status?
     when i write i think about throwing a pebble into
a lake, compared to throwing a pebble into a river...
compared to throwing a pebble into a sea...
to be honest? throwing a pebble into a sea is
the most involving...
                  and there is poetic subconscious in this,
which i will unearth: the pebble is supposed to mean this:
the three forms of water are supposed to represent
another this:
                                 the pebble is supposed to represent
a soul, a concentration of my my, my sigma (total),
and the three tiers of water are supposed to represent this...
that said, i watched
    an internet video... by angry mgtow...
an answer to white women are rejecting beta males now /
blonde in the belly of the beast...
   first thing: why are men using the internet
deemed more "creepy" than women?
    we've already embarked on this a.i. project for the sole
reason as to overcome theological argument and
religion... we are living in a Frankenstein experiment,
but the "problem" is that we're only working on
the software package of the beast...
         the hardware can wait... we're not going to replace
our fondness for busdrivers and cleaners any time soon...
  we love our manual labourers...
                  american woman! stay away from me!
american woman! mama let me be!
   (it's daily, over and over in my head, that line and
many more kindred sing-alongs)
   we've already been drafted into creating the software
of the a.i. beast, it doesn't matter that the
hardware is already there but that we've stalled its
potential... the software is harder to be bound to
the logistics a limb might be drafted to exhibit basic
tongue of movement...
          all compliments to women:
they're the irrationality that will give the a.i. the spark!
           meaning autonomy...
  and how could i not even sound like an atypical man?
don't date the opposite ***?
              tease urban living with what life's like in
the middle-zone of outer-urbanity, i.e. the case of
a ******* bungalow? ha ha.
                              but this video got me like i might
catch a herring, and i do love pickled herrings...
raw pickled herrings...  it just got me
when i said: i'd like to move to the Faroe Islands...
no please, spare me the misery...
                         it's hard not to be
sexually antagonistic (sexist) - esp. when you're
not a sheikh with a motorboat and a fluffy moustache
that might brush-up against the ******* like
a vibrating ***** while you taste the pastries of flesh
with a saintly glee...
             every time i performed oral ***
on her i felt i left that hot-spot having slobbered
a tonne of lard... smeared a tonne of ****** cream and
that my face became phosphorescent, or an anglerfish:
which is the first sign before you don't even
bother to care to launch a space mission apollo 13
into the depths containing stars... or ask
      ridley scott...
                          i think he's the one dubbed:
coping mechanism... unlike philip k **** this guy's
a coping mechanism, a rare spectacle:
science fiction obstructs actual science...
                     i'm glad he's around and i pray that
we truly explore the depths of seas before going up
there: where the sun don't shine.
                  but this video got to me...
                i can't relate to it, either with the masculine
theory or the feminine experience...
i don't know: it almost feels like i live in a time
capsule at the best part of the 20th century when
i could still buy compact discs in a music shop
on a high-street... when there was no over-arching
agarophobia and claustrophobia telling us
when it was worthwhile to leave the house...
   and when it wasn't...
                         i opened another bottle of wine
that i made myself, and i don't know...
                  we started by ridding ourselves of god
to later replenish that end with a death of us,
it's almost as if we're staging parameters of being human
in this 2D construction site, on the basics:
merely exchanging opinions...
                                         i have, coming naturally:
this curiosity with the internet...
   i remember times of hotmail.com chatrooms...
      it's not as old as some people will claim the burden
to be, but the times when the ****** medium was
being sold to us... before facebook and subsequently otherwise
people were still very much comfortable before the television
set... but then people became less interested in
music and decided music could only exist in software
and not hardware, and i started to forage the berry shrubs of
youtube for music...
  i hope i don't precipitate any thought toward
nostalgia... bearing in mind i did establish myself
on the memory of having been to the cinema
to watch the films blow and austin powers 2:
the spy who shagged me - and in the latter case
i laughed at the shadow-scene like i might at
a laurel and hardy... and in the former case i loved
the music... and that's before comedy became too
"intelligent": too canned laughter...
revisionist existentialist, when dittoing can no longer
mean borrowing, or passing on a meaning,
                     or d.n.a. competition, when the end result
is but ~ (approximate) / ambiguity...
    the too intelliget: canned laughter...
                   the last time i really laughed at the movies
i was watching austin powers 2: the spy who shagged me...
the tent scene... it was the epitome of comedy,
a laurel and hardy slap stick incantation of a viewer...
   i guess it only comes with a sense of an individual
finding something so simple funny, that when
the same individual is dropped like a paratrooper into
a cinema audience: his laughter will become akin to
a virus, and thus become infectious and the individual
in mind because the cursor for canned laughter
later stored, to witness a televised episode of Friends
or Fraiser... which... would you believe it: aren't funny at all.
what was i going on about in the first place?
      ha ha... dunno... which makes Nick Harper a comic
genius... every time i see him
i laugh like a tickled ******* dangling off a bull horn
and two words ring a bell: mein shawl! and yes: it's
dramatically flinged, like i might be found
******* against the wind...
   quick question! five easy pieces rebel or cool hand
luke rebel?!

i've never cooked crocodile flesh before...
but i've seen what happens when
you buy raw herrings...
you're not going to cook the herrings...
after all: herrings are the Baltic sushi...
but you can't just eat them raw...
you need to curate them to some brine...
i.e. soaking them in salty water...
phenomenal... a fish swims all this time
in salty waters... as a whole...
but when you turn it into a schematic of
edibility...
you have to... ha ha... pluck all that's liver
all that heart... intestines...
to get to the flesh: edible flesh... proper...
you have to throw it back into salty water:
it's obvious that the flesh of the fish
never experienced... what could make
it edible...
apparently crocodile meat is the same:
it's lean... although... herring flesh
is also high in fat...
to brine something involves the thing
sitting in its own juices:
for the "other" thing: the protein about
to be eaten is left curated:
salt... in terms of what's edible and what's
not... weighs as much as gold...
if not more...
          but you can bypass this whole
chemical experiment with mushrooms!
you don't need fish: which have to be brined...
or with meats which have to be cured...
with mushrooms it's much more simple...
you start off frying a batch in some unsalted butter...
they fry... and fry... getting all golden...
you start choking them with a lid above
the frying pan... that sort of helps...
but... doesn't... it's only until you sprinkle some salt...
and: but especially in terms of fungus...
salt: the great drawer of water...
you put the lid back on... or whatever...
to get the mushroom: you need to cook it with
some salt...
it's like... the most organic magnet...
salt is a magnet... for water...
salt is what allowed such great bodies
of water as the Atlantic and the Pacific to stay
intact... even when the rivers and the lakes
dry up... the seas will never dry up:
salt is a magnet... for water...
water, water everywhere: but not a drop
to drink... that line stands eternal:
from the rime of the ancient mariner...
esp. with fungus...
you sprinkle from salt on them while frying
them off in butter... and hey presto!
you tempt the water encompassed
in the mushrooms come flooding out...
you end up cooking them in their own juices...
the texture of the mushroom is arrived at...
but there's also the essences of the taste of
mushroom...
salt: magnet... sieve!
- but that's not brining... unless it's...
brining done... exponentially quick... which it is...
meat takes time... fungus is neither
meat nor... salad...
but salt! salt is light!
        how it draw out the remaining water
from a thing... and allows the thing
to be cooked in its own storage of water...
which it wasn't expecting to be cooked in...
you might add some more water:
depending how much you're cooking...
some excess of fat also helps...
but i've never cooked crocodile meat...
watched how someone failed to cook it on
Australian MasterChef...
          if crocodile behaves like a herring...
even though one is a lizard get-go...
while the other is... fritz...
           i expect a crocodile tartar steak of sort
could have aided the contestant...
because i can't actually imagine
eating a cooked herring...
later soaked in some spirit vinegar with
onions... a lay leaf... all-spice... mustard seeds
crescent moons of garlic... onions...
and oil...
but cooking a herring seems as much a bad
idea as cooking a salmon: rather than
not smoking it...
still: quickened brining process...
no water involved... since we're dealing with
mushrooms... fungus...
you start cooking they're browning beautifully
like it's some post-racial but still nationalistic
Brazilian utopia (since they have
a ******* football team that tells others...
you're not us... blah blah)
   but it's only when you add the salt
that the mushrooms give in...
to the "torture" of being:
less the telepathic busy-bodies attached
to the moon-key-brain they latched themselves
onto... i wish they were hallucinogenic prone
types... sometimes:
but then... all these supposed colours
and no clarity in writing in b & w...
i couldn't stomach it...
with herrings about to be turned into pickled
flesh i expected the slow-brining process
is expected: fish is not fungus...
all that excess water storage in the flesh
is what gives man a brain...
i hope... then again: i hope not...
that's why i drink: to be borderline dehydrated...
quickened brining: frying off some mushrooms
in butter then sprinkling some salt on
the frying process... immediately a mushroom
stock arrives "out of nowhere" on the canvas
on the frying pan...
the mushroom is to be then: essentially eaten...
the flesh of the mushroom: isn't mush...
it resembles something from the annals of
seafood... but the juice is... earthy...
beguiling the humanoid to harvest these
forest pleasures...
       salt is ought to be: ought have to been
more treasured than gold...
there should have been salt coins...
how there should be painting of one army
riding horses... another... riding bulls...
salmon ought first to be smoked
then... decided upon: cooking salmon ought
to be considered: haram: forbidden...
i don't want to see that orange flesh of the waters
turned into an anaemic pink...
dried out: not once... not ever!
it's one "thing" to butcher an animal once...
it's another "THing" to butcher
the animal twice upon the altar of cooking it
poorly!

i'll pretend hunchback posing as a crow:
the crow will disagree:
i'm standing up-right! you're the one who's
hunched! hitchhiker: boring son
of a dozen: that's came from elsewhere...
elsewhere... "elsewhere":
even in the now apparently arrived at now:
i see no familiar face...
i see... too many rivers...
of people... that hardly make up
a sea to froth... to boil up...

people are dying in their minds...
this rot is yet to be made popularly promiscuously:
tempting... enticing... but i fear it already is that...
people are dying in their minds
while their bodies... if agitated...
if alive... are spewing nothing but
fictions! pick-me-ups!

i'm hopeful... this period will pass...
there will be a time of fathoming a relief from this
intermission...
how all empires crumble...
but how "things" have changed...
we're all pretty much educated to recognise
phonetic encoding "biases"...
even if some of us scribble on
walls in giraffe graffiti... so be it...
TAGS...
            let people have what's immediately
available to their imagination's content...
don't let them suffer the constraints of
some ruling... ha! who's ruling in 100 years
from now?!
who's most envy prone to dictate
the peacocking workaround for social:
hierarchical-stratification?
all will pass: in a blink of an eye!
even if no eye is looking:
or to be looked at...

        i've become accustomed to cherish
this onslaught of pulverising subjectivity:
i seem to not have had a welcome escape...
pickling brain: Brian syndrome does that
to one... the sensation of being subjected
to so much... yet objecting to so little...
oh but i'm objecting to as much as i'm being
subjected to...

            i am subjected to gravity:
but i object to it... as a falling "thing" from
the top of a building...
how's that?

          i need language to somehow comes
across a... "2 + 2 = 4"...
       no?i need a sensation of: arable:
with a trill of the R: that's so... desperately
missing in the -ing-leash zunge...
i'm about to call Kaiser Wilhelm and implore
him: more zeppelins! more zeppelins!

tread past the thought that was originally cast:
lay the thread bare...
come as you were... come: less arrived at...
all this will sooner or later be:
gobbled up by the certainty of time...
which competes over space...
minding our progress...
if time is the tongue...
then space is mouth what
yawns at as: welcoming... eager for more sacrifices
at the altar...

curry is great! at a meal...
as a meal one has for... supposing it's 5pm
in Lahore...
but at 9am in France...
where there are no eggs...
poached? scrambled? fried?
  what's on offer?!
*******... CARRY... CURRY...
CRY-WE..
i can't make my stomach churn out appreciation
for a ******* broth in the morning...

it's scented ****-***: overt-**** ***
insatiability in the morning requiring English
pubescent northern girls:
sorry... they "are"...
        "my"... girls?!
i speak the language... last time i heard...
there was a lacking in brick-work...
the people most associated
with keeping food production in line...
the truckers... all gone...
well.. if the Englishman want's
an Empire implosion...
save all the Pakis... he'll get all the ******* Uber
he desires...
"my" people will just leave...
for whatever the brain-drain that arrived...
that will stay...
but the rest of it...

who needs England... when England
is all the more better off for X-factor: people need
to be entertained!
no?!
by even the more ******* sort of...
entertainment!
i'm entertained by the moon...
by a brick wall...
"my" people... came to these shores...
and were quickly told to... *******...
thank you!
let all the Pakis take over!
*******... Ing-Leash... brats!

i have an inherent animosity with these people
that has not schematic to a past
so formidable as to have a past worth
questioning: here lies...
the atomised man...

- but while speaking this... zunge...
i reach out to an elder...
i am seeking compensation:
for the tiredness i'm forever to experience...
in English i have no...
certainty: i have only an objectification
of history: not being subjected to it...
i live in a country with a past:
but not history...
anaemic hybrid...
     i'm the barbarian knocking
on the door... with a message:
let me out! let me out!
              
whoever read too much of "journalism"
but not enough of Horace...
                  
      the sanctity of salt:
                      sal de sanctitas....
backwards to forwards...
how time disembowels grammar.

some might say raw herrings
on crumpets is a bit barbaric,
but i find it the ideal meal
while feeding a cat a goodnight;
raw... rrrrrrroar flesh gives
the digestive system a one-over
twice the difficulty to feed me sleep.

a bit like listening to
enya's take on the lord of the rings
soundtrack...
who, the ****, wouldn't
wish to drown, listening
to these Celtic mermaids?
i know i would...

the lunch?
salad....
  cherry tomatoes, fresh pepper,
fresh chillies...
      guacamole with chillies...
god, infused with lime...
greek goat's cheese...
           crunch iceberg lettuce...
and?
****... must have missed somethng...
well...
there was also prosciutto...
like i once said:
i hate bacon...
    prosciutto?
             give me a bucket-load
and i'll play the chipmunk...

   god i hate bacon...
ugh...
     it's lile eating gorilla turds
with a comparison
to what tuna steaks will never be,
and what smoked
salmon slices share with
prosciutto...

the bits that make a whiskey...
smoked salmon...
           if the Japanese will not
entertain salt in their sushi?
**** it...
we'll smoke the ******* out...

what a glorious statement of
attaching oneself to hubris...
  and the Celtic mermaids?
one question:
can i drown, right here and now?!
i want to drown!
i want to turn into a merman!
i want to cry!
oh god... for all eternity!
i want to cry!
i want to cry when
beauty is expressed so piquantly!

i want to be acknowledged
my by second mother, art,
who would never dare
to engage in the ancient greek
ritual of placing two coins
over my eyes to pay
Charon...

             oh sweet Celtic mermaids
from a missing Odyssey!
I.R.A.: punch the grieving
paw of the Anglican lion
surrendering
with a take on dentistry!

i want to drown...
   you songs turn the salty
seas into sugary fountains!
   i want to drown!
embraced by your voices
in the choir or the echoing
chambers of oyster shells!

   i never liked sushi to begin
with...
either the north sea smoked salmon
slices...
or the Baltic Sea raw herrings...

                 the English?
leave them...
   congregating on the money...
surmounting there sphere of influence,
the Atlantic Ocean that becomes
a pond...
   leave them... bestow a leverage of
stalling them...
         keep them comfortable...
keep them exclusionary...
  keep them: 50+ years too late...
that will buy us time...

           keep them sifting through rat ****...
we need them disorientated,
looking at a cul de sac,
rather than a road with, other, road
genesis injunctions
of what life, twist and burden turn
we have to share...

         now... i don't cry because
i'm sad...
      i cry... when beauty is made
sacrificial...
             and since so few cry at beauty?
i have to cry...
because?
  whatever is being regurgitated
mainstream?
   does not gravitate me
to the necessary emotional stratum...

all i can think of is...
  
               Celtic mermaids of Ireland...
and drinking buddies of Scottish
trans-gender kilt highlanders,
Welsh longbow men spies
   of Swansea...
   and the English?
guess it's just a case of talking:
"right across the... 'pond'"...
     like ******* are...
pond people my ******* god...

          i would have feigned the delusion
of... a shared tongue = a shared
cultural reference!
but in sudoku?!

   linear + sq. ≠ diagonal -

England and the U.S. and Australia?!
a dog barking up the wrong tree...
it always was, it always will be...

          i'll rephrase my concept
of England and America...
   being "specially" connected...
what? like retards?!

                        Pontius Pilate:
i'm washing my hands clean of the affair...

ask a Swiss... what he might have felt
about **** Germany!
no?
                           no what?!

      this country already constituted
a perfected allowance to deem my
ethnicity equivalent to vermin,
rats.... foxes...

     well... better this commentary
stays underground...
i wouldn't want some, ******,
reading this sort of wording;

mind you, he, it, she, they,
might forget it 10 minutes later.      

god, i hate bacon...
   but prosciutto?
                            as long as it's combined
in a salad...
  with fresh veg., and greek
goat's cheese...
    no, *******, problem!

SPRING ONIONS!

I grant you
three overused words
can never do justice
to the way my heart depends
on the continued beating of yours

But why, **** you
could you not have gone hunting for rarer birds
taken a risk with words
Netted a guillemot. A tern, a crane
even a toucan
Written a second rate poem
if I can you can
Conjured forth that secure base
with a bedtime story
for your empress of penguins
your queen of hippopotamuses
your borrower girl

One day, even soon
that flock will have lifted
not to fly south, not to return
and there'll be no more lifting and swooping, no joy
in the swerve of a turn mid-air
no undertones, no attempts to colonise
no smiling eyes

I'll be standing alone under an empty sky
there'll be nothing to look at in wonder or borrow
or any asking why

Doing justice is what murmurations are for
how you've done them and more
You showed us the world and the joy of flying - and look
here I am trying to do it too
but three little starlings will do
A starling for each of your little darlings
Three overused words in a league of their own
I know it's beneath you but see I am
beneath you
I'm down here, just here, I'm no longer hiding
and red herrings are cheaper.

Red herrings are still only
two a'penny

etymology... darwinism on a comprehensive time-scale... past the psychologism of rationalising the onomatopoeia of uh... ah... of a, ******* monkey to a man speaking... and which one to begin with as worthy an origin? chimpanzee? gorilla? lemur? where did bio-diversity disappear to, to state, man, uno? i'd prefer the story of the origin of eskimos... than of africans... i honestly can't be bothered in placing my heart into africa... i want the eskimo story; i'm just tired of the narrative in the current zeitgeist... it's just tiring.*

the etymological basis of the science is prefix-based, or suffix-based, considering origin? i.e. do you begin the origins with -on, or na-? na-tive, or informati-on? past the pentagram variation of vowels (+h, to catch)? it's a genuine question; does tha study of etymology begin with a prefix, or a suffix? tail to a monkey, coccyx to man? head to either as prologue?

oh we're dead, oh we're *the dead;
hello!
     fish sappings worth of a tails'
    waggling?
you "alive" people are,
******* & boring me with your
"aliveness"
  when i'm dressed to mention
the existene of newspapers...
stop being boorish with my eyes,
i'm scratching them too much!
the european version of the ***
associate... i just opened a can of
                                        sardines...
oh, fair enoguh... you just had
raw salamon, wrapped
                       in mini-rice-"breads";
to be honest?
   i really prefer the ethno-centric
     collapse of cuisine...
     the herrings! the herrings!
the baltic "sushi" of pickled herrings!
        sometimes i can't say squash
without squirming, adding to the act
the word, lemon: and chin chin... china;
a humphrey bogart ask, of:
      kiss me, dear.
you're about done,
either you're faking it...
or you're staging a **** of other cultures,
which means they're justifying, attacking your
    "culture", with due precedence;
what's that like, expressed, justifiably? ha ha
let's just say, the ******* can
start screaming,
i'll still prefer baltic pickle herrings over
sushi. i'm no western european ***-wipe.

Red herrings tend to be trustworthy,
But lead us astray.
Orange orangutans are trustworthy:
If it looks menacing, it is;
If it grunts, it's meaningful;
If it moves, it's unpredictable.
In captivity they're studied
As evolutionary wonders,
But it's still an orange orangutan,
Pounding his chest.

For Grace Bulmer Bowers


From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,

where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats'
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;

down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.

Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts.  The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.

Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens' feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;

the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.

One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.

A pale flickering.  Gone.
The Tantramar marshes
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn't give way.

On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.

A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night.  Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston."
She regards us amicably.

Moonlight as we enter
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb's wool
on bushes in a pasture.

The passengers lie back.
Snores.  Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .

In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
--not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents' voices

uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.

He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.

"Yes . . ." that peculiar
affirmative.  "Yes . . ."
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means "Life's like that.
We know it (also death)."

Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.

Now, it's all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
--Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.

A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus's hot hood.

Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man's voice assures us
"Perfectly harmless. . . ."

Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
"Sure are big creatures."
"It's awful plain."
"Look! It's a she!"

Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?

"Curious creatures,"
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r's.
"Look at that, would you."
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,

by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there's a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.

doubly toasted rye bread...
anything on it...
of course i'm not going to treat it
as a bagel: although i should...
some smoked salmon...
the mayo and cucumber and dill...
come to think of it...
toasted rye bread would work
better than a bagel...

        we're not having some brick lane
salted beef, and bagel...
salted beef... good that you asked...
what makes it so... cosmopolitan, i.e. pink?
himalayan salt... i was thinking of
prague salt... don't ask me why...
how? i heard it down the line...

again: larry tesler died a few weeks ago...
well "weeks"... 20th of feb of this year he
passed away... as reported...
larry tesler... it's not an everyday
name... but under the umbrella of darwin that
becomes darwinism:
a group-fire, a get-together, a come-together...
larry tesler is a bit like
a michael faraday...  

           somewhat of a "mystery"...
like... never... i was daring to confess:
those revisions of the cursor...
the phantom hand... of a 2D object in a 3D
object... those 2D ferns in the original
tom raider... moving rapidly when approached...

i can hear the bemoaning...
no new scientific "theory" has resounded true
in the past decade...
unless it's that Higgs': hiccup or... boson...
that only happened a few years ago...

don't... agitate... the... beehive!
i've finished one whiskey and ms. coca
ms. venezuela - ms. novella...
             but i'm still pretending to drink from
an empty glass -
perhaps agitating the whiffs of scotch
perfumes to come...

       how often do i use the larry tesler
method?
well... if i want some... braille...
some glagolitic... some runes...
pretty much all the time...

        toasted rye bread... i'm thinking of eating
some roasted rye bread...
the english being bewildered...
and that's because the former raj
brought with them the cinnamon the cardamom...
ever eaten a curry that listed
rosemary or thyme as a prime ingredient?
can i please just eat this
dogshit, then?

    sourdough bread... not pop enough...
  beside the zeppelins... rye bread galore...
pumpernickel bread... a german thing...
   the name changes... but...
there's only so much toasted white and brown
bread you can eat... before having
an ancient hunger become arise in you...
the baltic cuisine of piquant herrings...
plenty of dill... and rye bread...

- i asked the swabian about this windsor affair
concerning the saxon: the ants-in-his-pants
little brother saxon...
the german who needed to go outside of saxony...
burgundy wouldn't suffice....
had to see the world: become a semite...
a wandering "plague"...
the postman... the dove of "repose"...

this is still about larry tesler by the way...
               ⠓⠑⠗⠑ - larry tesler...
     ⰕⰖⰕⰀⰣ:             "       "
              ᚺᛖᚱ:              "       "        (ditto, as above)...

woman: a human female being -
          because she's not: woo man...
and she is not: woe, man...

               she's a human female being -
that's what everyone might had said...
when being stripped...
to the basics of grammar:
i, pronoun - definite article: the -
noun of nouns -
                        the in between cardinal nouns...
table, fox, wool...
in between cardinal nouns...
box, moon, whiskey and (conjunction)...
the royal pronoun: one would expect...
the other royal pronoun: we would agree to such
claim... given our entourage...
louis XIV very much liked such
pronouns...
             they are the disembodied courting
presence of ghost: where we should be...
to posit...
and what if i want to be known as: there?
can't a they become a there -
i know that's asking too much...
after all... there is an adverb -
perhaps i feel like... being an: ad- -verb
rather than a pro- -noun...

                          there said: it's a cul de sac
and the peoples are gagging for
lessons in grammar... this is still about larry tesler!
well... it's become more of a toasted
rye bread "analogy"...

to be less denoted by noun -
more associated with verbs -
               does that even matter what pronoun?
what if i want to be an adverb: base?
there is an adverb... here is an adverb...
why is BEING a noun...
and not an adverb?
               become is a verb...
   becoming an adjective: although it could
be stressed as a noun: could...
           i think of being... on the lines
of a "here" and a "there"...
nothing is a pronoun...
                          while nowhere is an adverb...
being is a noun but in all fairness it could
be treated as an adverb...
                                   being alone...
           if only it was as simple as...
turning on a lightbulb while at the same time
expenting falling pirouettes of snow...

all this words deserved to be archived
in trash...
     i'm not a betting man and none of these
grammatical arguments really probe me...
i have invested in them a pet-peeve...
and they're nothing more...
but whenever i hear about them being
stressed... i wonder why the counter
argumentation doesn't fall for talking about
this logic on a purely grammatical level...

to update the tabernacle of holiest of the holy
"pronoun" with...
something akin to... by adverb standards...
etc. -
          this is still about larry tesler, though...
and about toasting some rye bread...
nonetheless -
i'm not that old but i'm already tired...
i imagine eating custard as being...
somewhat alleviating...

                but not actually eating any custard...
just imagining eating it
and pretending to drown - gurgling it...
once more: this is still concerning larry tesler...
mind you... larry tesler doesn't exist
on wattpad...

            but all these other would be publishers...
allow larry tesler to exist...
along with that little gremlin that doesn't work...
i.e. ©... not even new york times has
obstructed larry tesler ctrp + c / ctrl + p...
© - yeah.... "copyright"... my ****** ***...
wattpad has actually made actual © "progress"...
you can't use a larry tesler "heimlich" on:
those most scared of texts...
poems by 16 year olds!

              just saying...
you don't need a bagel to enjoy smoked salmon
with a dollop of mayo some cucumber
and dill... rye bread works just as well...
**** i'm hungry!

- again... what (a pronoun) - sorty of © "copyright"
logo is that... when you can larry tesler that
with... export it via highlight and ctrl c / ctrl p?
wattpad doesn't allow you to ctrl c / ctrl p...
at its height it was publishing that
goldmine of one direction fan fiction by
14 year old cherries...
    
                       i guess you can larry tesler
wikileaks: back in the day...

                        so if not larry tesler... who was behind
ctrl a? does it matter - if there's no toasted
rye bread in my gob... just these words
congesting and subsequently constipating my head?
good thing i have earned myself
a bad back - the golgotha "wisening" /
humbling... of digging up roots in the garden
where trees and shrubs once stood...

these words are... hardly a compensation's
worth of balm... but before i gorge on some toasted
rye... they just have to do.

As a maze is to the eye, I am to all. Winding and wearing, my walls impossibly tall. Here, turns are the
Words
and dead ends the Actions. Spirals are the days, and red herrings, my                                                                  ­                                                 Attractions.                                                                  ­                                                                 ­                      With each
                                                            ­                                                         Who dare
                                                            ­                                                  Enter,
        ­                                                                 ­                   Two Paths
                                                           ­                  They All
                                                             ­   Choose.
                                       One abandons
                       All Hope
   The Other,
Nothing
To Lose.
But none have made the journey,
                                     none to the
                                            core.
              For all who enter,
                                           leave and say
           "no more! no more!"
                     Here I have planted this garden that others accuse a maze.
                                                                ­                                                  A beautiful           creation covered by haze. But all that is seen is monstrous,
                                                          a trick of the daze.
Months and years at the center have been all of my stays.
Here I will watch and wait for the One who makes it, and is amazed.
                                                                ­                                              By all I have built, all I have dreamed and every aspiration and desperation has seemed
                                    to build this
                                                             wonderful,
                                                              wandering
                                                                ­  place.
                                                  You who hear my case,
                                              I invite you to take that space.
              Be the One who makes it, leave all others to be commonplace.

i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th

When he opens the door it is almost exactly how I have imagined it: the room and the person.

Without a word he takes me to the window directly, and there it is. He smiles and says ‘Am I not the most fortunate of Fellows?’ And, of course, he is. Who else could have taken rooms that look out on the great Oriental Plane of Emmanuel College:

A lado de las agues esta, como leyenda
En sui jardin murando e silencio
El arbo bello dos veches centenario
Las pondrosas ramas estendidas
Cerco de tanta hierba, extrellazando hojas
Dosel donde una sombre endenice subsiste.

(By the side of the waters stands like a legend
In its walled and silent garden, the beautiful tree
Surrounded by grass, interweaving its leaves,
A canopy where Eden still exists!)

He doesn’t provide the English translation of Luis Cenarda’s poem, but he probably knows it and can recite all eleven stanzas. If you had that view you’d learn it too.

‘I gather you’re a Cambridge man.’  he says. ’76 to 88 – I know Robin of course. He has new rooms since you were about, but says do look in.’

Yes, I’m a Cambridge man, but this was never my territory, never such gracious rooms, the floor to ceiling walls of books, the maps, the pictures, so many photographs, a traveller’s room. Indeed, on my journey here I found myself imagining this location and the man himself. I am not disappointed. He is my height, just under six foot, cropped hair, a slight beard, large eyes that rarely seem to blink; they take all of you in and hold your gaze. His clothes are unassuming – a blue sweater, proper trousers, Church’s brogues highly polished.

Thus, I am being examined like those landscapes he describes so well. He studies my personal topography. No pleasantries. ‘Lunch in the Common Room at 1.30. Let’s talk now.’ A glass of sherry appears. He perches on the edge of a desk, one of four in the room. A small table by the window is quite empty except for a small note book and framed photograph of his friend Roger. His muse perhaps? I know he swims too, and imagine him on a morning in early Spring heading for the Cam at dawn like Richard Hanney taking a plunge in his Oxfordshire lake.

‘Music isn’t really my thing,’ he says tentatively, ‘I love the chapel stuff, but I don’t do the background thing. I’m not like Attenborough who can’t take a step without being plugged into Bach. When I travel I like to hear the sounds around me. I think they are as important as the smell of a place.’

‘There’s this tradition of English composers painting landscapes in music. Egdon Heath, the Fen Country and so on. I looked at your recent essay on your Heartstone, how you’ve taken the fractal nature of the chalk landscape down towards Audley End as your canvas. It is beautiful there, seductive. I occasionally take the train to Saffron Walden and cycle the lanes.’

We talk about whether words in a musical performance need to be heard by the listener. ‘I can never hear them.  Do composers think people should hear them, or are they just a lattice on which to hang musical sounds? I wonder. Do you want those kind of words? Starting points for your imagination? No. Oh . . .’

I tell him I have to have clarity. I see music as a kind of additional commentary underpinning a text. As a composer I give it rhythmic space, a further and extra dimension. I place it in a field of time.  

He goes to a bookshelf and picks out The Peregrine by J.A. Baker. ‘You know this of course.’ I know this I nod. ‘A book which sets the imagination aloft, and keeps it there for months and years afterwards.’ I proudly quote (his introduction to the new edition). ‘Gosh,’ he says, ‘Nobody has ever quoted me before’. And smiles very broadly. ‘I think you’ve deserved your lunch’.

And so we go, past the Oriental Plane, across the Fellows’ Garden to the Fellows’ Common Room. In the December gloom we have rich Scots Broth, herrings with a course mustard dressing and salad, a glass of claret and cheese. We talk of China: his year in Beijing with expeditions to the northern Tai Mountains, the territory of my work in progress. ‘They are just like the Pyrenees only more so. Exquisite limestone forms, and in Autumn they are simply poems of mist and water. You are going to go there I hope before the tourists take over completely? The scenic mountain road is a travesty.’

It is time to leave: he to an afternoon of end of term tutorials – I to look in on Robin, who sees us at lunch and makes appropriate signs across the Common Room. ‘I enjoyed your letter’, He says ruefully, ‘You have very gracious handwriting, so unusual these days and a delight to leave lying on the desk. You know I insist that my students write their essays in their own hand. You should see the scrawls I get. But they learn. I gave one young woman one of those copy-books that Charlotte Bronte writes about giving her pupils. I got my act together when I first corresponded with Roger. His letters were astonishingly beautiful and one of these days they’ll be published in facsimile. Lui Xie says a well-written letter is the ‘presentation of the sound of the heart.’ What a pity you no longer write your scores by hand.’

I tell him I’ll write his score by hand if he’ll compose the words I seek.

‘We’ll see’, he says, and with a brisk handshake, he rises from the table, smiles and leaves.

COME round me, little childer;
There, don't fling stones at me
Because I mutter as I go;
But pity Moll Magee.
My man was a poor fisher
With shore lines in the say;
My work was saltin' herrings
The whole of the long day.
And sometimes from the Saltin' shed
I scarce could drag my feet,
Under the blessed moonlight,
Along thc pebbly street.
I'd always been but weakly,
And my baby was just born;
A neighbour minded her by day,
I minded her till morn.
I lay upon my baby;
Ye little childer dear,
I looked on my cold baby
When the morn grew frosty and clear.
A weary woman sleeps so hard!
My man grew red and pale,
And gave me money, and bade me go
To my own place, Kinsale.
He drove me out and shut the door.
And gave his curse to me;
I went away in silence,
No neighbour could I see.
The windows and the doors were shut,
One star shone faint and green,
The little straws were turnin round
Across the bare boreen.
I went away in silence:
Beyond old Martin's byre
I saw a kindly neighbour
Blowin' her mornin' fire.
She drew from me my story --
My money's all used up,
And still, with pityin', scornin' eye,
She gives me bite and sup.
She says my man will surely come
And fetch me home agin;
But always, as I'm movin' round,
Without doors or within,
Pilin' the wood or pilin' the turf,
Or goin' to the well,
I'm thinkin' of my baby
And keenin' to mysel'.
And Sometimes I am sure she knows
When, openin' wide His door,
God lights the stats, His candles,
And looks upon the poor.
So now, ye little childer,
Ye won't fling stones at me;
But gather with your shinin' looks
And pity Moll Magee.

it's a common theme, a pastoral even... a sing-along with the words: when i was in Rotherham... i was never in England... when i was a Rotherham i was never going to imagine myself eating falafel. yes, it's that ****** ugly, which is why i'm hardly a premature ejaculator into assembling myself as bulldog Brit - use the language: well, obviously... but assemble the other bits and bobs? can't happen... it's like asking: tell a Jew to not be a Jew by sitting in one place for a long period of time... the nomad in him will evidently counter that proposal and say: **** it! see you on Mars! and to think that i could have actually invested my life into a diameter that's Poland... people still find it a bit odd: oh, wait, are they back on the map? that's us, Jews of the north... can't believe we're being blamed for the failure of the treaty of Rome: all because the English stopped flirting with the idea of Turkey being in the union: even though they dabble in a lamb kebab after binging on *****... but hey, no one want to be a hypocrite these days... that's of course provisional given your Jose Mourinho relationship: is as special as you suppose with the lady and the trump; someone tell Disney to stop writing those ****** scripts! how thoughtful of a prophet-merchant (merchant of Mecca, Shakespeare should have written that one) to have encouraged the sigma-bleaching-project: one world, one book, one something or other: either the telescope or the microscope answers: otherwise evolving into ****-naked baboons and elsewhere furry Gucci to strut the feline ****; it's not like i want to go back to the past, but i certainly don't want to experience a Monday in the year 2086 either.

i wouldn't have been one of them, their services required
a nobility, which i can partially claim,
but partially discredit as:
a family squabble, where the Eden
project would have flourished -
because of the lies -
         but you know, no biggie,
or the notorious -
one part of my family actually did
settle in america with my seven
tongued great-grandfather *sprechen güt
it's necessarily applied here:
hence it's not gút: miracles!
                     who would have thought
that trigonometry bit into the *****
of those pixy, foxy whatever clot in the
English department....
that's the thing with immigration and
integration and ethnic cleansing:
when i write,
    the desk is as rickety as a bed when
i **** a *******
and she tells me i'm a decent chap -
and says a variant of awe because i paid
£10 extra to pucker her floral arrangement
and she feels ashamed at having had
an ******: and all the feminists are
out there, in the cold, with their banter
     slogans that reach Zeno via
turtle, as snail, to compete with Achilles:
yeah, that hurt, because you enjoyed it
on the hobnob you call a job.
******* pretty enough for you now?
   well: two ***** and a smoking ****** later:
it better be!
               people think that you can just
"integrate" into a foreign land...
they coerce a foretfulfulnes that you
sometimes practice etymology -
        and find yourself a bit like a Jew
but more of a Slav, feeling at most romantic about
the land that is cleft to your ***** in terms
of language patriotism still leech-like,
because you can't forget the asking
that's already there: from the Baltic Sea
toward the Black Sea: our commonwealth was,
and could have been!
          globalisation is so Emi ******* M -
you bleach throughout, and so suddenly,
people get bothered -
         like a Cluedo but unlike who did it?
who's who?
             i write this on a rickety table,
like i might **** an Amsterdam dame of the credo
in all that's left: red -
       baby, that brickwork with your chub
layers does it for me: always a Puerto Rican to
have a laugh with...
20+ years in England and the roses are still
roses, but nettles in some obscure Greece island
designated for offshore debauchery -
hey, no one is a saint: but give a little -
   have at least the remote humanity in you
to breed the ******* Beatles rather than an antiquated
variation of Breivik.
                obviously not to be.
i payed because i wasn't getting any:
hands up, sycamore! so scythe so more -
i just feel uprooted and Jew -
  dispositioned like i have to have an inferiority
complex tattooed on my **** designated for
halal butchers -
           there's a problem though...
i have patriotism with regards to the tongue:
but to the people? a true Conrad (minus the Joseph)
would sell you out, like you already
have: to the highest Saudi bidder -
           ethnicity reemerges - strangely enough:
even after all that ethnic cleansing that's politely
called globalisation: because English cultural
emphasis is plain said: ****!
                      a bunch of fairies say i can't feel
a certain way because it will hardly become economised
and benefit an inbreeding:
so i outsourced you there,
   Dover Monsieur without his Turk and Mongol
invaders -
                   you could call it romantic:
but i'm not writing from an ivory tower within
framework of the land that needs tilling by
a familiar hand,
                 the last time i spoke to a Pollack -
it was in a shady alley at night, debating the clues
to making a living on Ebay -
                  so much for the romantics -
fair game in learning the tongue, but to attack
ethnicity? you have to be ******* me...
they call it the exotica in England:
all that coconut milk went to their heads -
   Baltic coconuts? sure... once you start eating
the pickled herrings like us: quasi-Scandi devils.
     so ******* twinned with Israel:
they said Amsterdam was the Venice of the north
they said Edinburgh was the Athens of the north
they might as well call it Tel Aviv Warsaw
and Jerusalem Krakow - too little to be said
otherwise.
             you could say Moscow and St. Petersburg:
oh sure, seen a bit of the world: ought to be
a *******...           really?
       does the world need another Golgotha
congregation? i just don't see why i require
to give more than linguistic acumen -
i'd never sing god save the queen
because i'd probably sing queen save the taxman...
and it really is a shame i can't engage in
any sort of nationalism - whether over there
or over here, it's a true shame...
           well i do have a grand history to aspire to,
variously interpreted with what gets my heart
thumping:
          ogniem i mieczem - hussaria ginie
(with fire and with sword - winged hussars die) /
          krzesimir dębski:
which i also translate in feeling within
the framework of Górecki's (3rd symphony?
fun-*******-tastic reassembling jazz's double
base, or bees, or other variations of humming
drones: anti-thesis of the crescendo)
three olden pieces, no. ii -
and yes: without cinema classical music would
be dead... the only classical music these days
is cinematic transcript -
                 the complexity of a Liszt or a Chopin
is frowned at, what has remained and endured
is a Satie yawn - a brushing of a piano like
a dustmaid: a sort of accenting the silence -
nothing with a technical claustrophobia of
smug finger litanies of the abacus:
that swamp women's feelings with eerie ahs
and yesses in would be marriage proposals.
   i wish i could be a lazy Welshman
or a Scot that forgot Celtic in order to glorify
a Glaswegian idiosyncratic-syllabalisation
    of wee, as in small: high off my rockers
on the Afghani thought train that's *****.
  i wish i were that ****** lazy...
  as to simply let go of where i was and where
i wasn't...
       as someone in Cardiff once said:
never been to London -
or as someone in Glasgow once said:
           a banch of ****** all with the Edinburgh
Judases.
              i don't think i could ever
have enough lost self-respect to not play the ethnic
joker card without a romantic agitation -
but it's still the piano that truly survives in
the modern world of pop **** trance i-wish-i-were-shot,
any other name from american beauty -
once again: the minimalism is self-explanatory.
no, i don't think i could ever fully integrate:
and happy are those who have their
lives filled with the existentially trivial:
never moved home, never descended a class below
or rise a class above their parent's status -
what a grand scheme of lotto!
                    i love these squamish pixies -
i love them so much that i experience nausea when
hearing about their lot in life...
  after which i turn to a lullaby, handpicked,
christopher young's - something to think about
from the hellraiser franchise, or as i like to call it:
i like these sort of tracks, these life infuriating
   chattering:
              like throwing yourself into either
nouns or onomatopoeias:
                           and yes, art is difficult:
because it's supposedly lazy -
                   oh the plumber in me that never was,
oh the roofer of industrial sized roofs in me that
somehow was, but then wasn't...
            the part of me that writes like Joseph Conrad
but actually wants to scream:
                       zzé skury odrzeć! (variant: ob-      +
-drzec)    to strip the skin.
                 a z tym: nadać ducha gniew alter solo
wbrew temu co mówi, czyli: razem;
                    nawet katedra św. piotra nie jest
                   minimalizm zwany: Golgota.
              (and with this: give the ghost's anger
alter solo, against that, which says,
namely: together; even st. peter's cathedral
                 isn't the minimalism of Golgotha).

a polish pork head terrine?
my ******* god...
how can the jews and the muslims
take to culinary criticism of
their own, respective gods?
ever watch the t.v. show
billions? where they're having
breadcrumbs fried pork
ears?
   last time i heard...
   the best pork is encapsulated
within the pig cranium....
all that excess cartilage?
   yummy finger licking good...
seems funny though...
it's not exactly discussing bone marrow...
it's pork head...
   all that excess cartilage...
    and mingled with sweet & sour
gherkins...
just my idea of Anastasia...
a porky's head...
chicken hearts / chicken livers....
      raw Baltic herrings?
who the, ****, needs to glorify
american hamburgers...
   if not some jerking-off
megalomaniac?
                     you eat, what is given,
you don't ask for nuances,
you don't make excuses...
you eat what is on the plate..
you **** the omnivore "gimmick"...
    pork head flesh,
meat mixed with cartilage?
              tasty as ****...
          so why would islam
or the partial strand of judaism
   be so critical concerning the most
economic carnivore animal being
      farmed, herded, industrialised?

the monotheistic celebration of god...
within the confines of a criticism,
so trivial would make a god laugh...

it would appear the dogma was written as a joke...
earthquake and hurricane
are o.k., but pork?
the ******* bubonic plague!
     i love how "god" is celebrated,
but at the same time,
kept under a critical acclaim
of having one of his creations,
namely pork...
   given a punching bag status of criticism...

since, what is so ******* pristine,
and spectacular, about chicken, lamb
or beef meat?
   according to islam... mad cow disease
never happened.

If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.

Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.

Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the ****
Nor the outspoken grave.

If I were tickled by the lovers' rub
That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the ***** and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts' toes.

This world is half the devil's and my own,
Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.

And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his ***
From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.

And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.

and maybe after clarifying homosexuality
with all the political graces,
you suggested an education:
     well, not all women are strong-men *******
who like to excel in ****...
but you didn't bother,
                 you didn't say: homosexual fancies
of men needing **** translated into
the heterosexual practices, guess what,
not many women are born pederasts,
and not many would wish for attache permanent-******
rather than strap-on guises to switch sexes...
because your political correctness
bred both dictators and mob rule:
we need another world war to
               curb these retards talking,
walking and elsewhere playing the Urban II...
               that's how i seem them,
impotent, child-molesting lefties and Conservatives...
******* waste of time, and better still
easier coming a waste of space...
maybe that's my asthma cause and solution
in one... i once talked to an asthmatic girl:
start smoking... why? learn to make your
breathing rhythmic... i was shoved into
the goodbye pile: what an idiot that said he
forgot who he shoved in a playground
with not nostalgia: i always thought you
inherited the one type of teachers,
never to inherit being taught by your contemporaries....
they always do... the failures of their parents
you inherit... when you tell them:
err... you were also part of the family which
you forgot to engage with...
                                        you are rightfully
entitled to a nomadic status... go on... *******
a second time to Australia...
           let's see you coming back with equally
congenial smiles after you left the colonial places
equally stating: Hong Kong divided the nations,
                   and King Kong rattled
the hairy chest of Grecian example:
city state!                 and so it was, doubly true when
Iraq was invaded. learn to be a contemporary
in historical matters... without history books...
or do what i do: wait for the statistics...
oral *** is like trilling the tongue on
                             the non-rolling r -
you're hatching an east end venture?
         too sure...
                            like saying 'ater -
            depending on silent w or h -
      and the missing t to a mad one...
they made homosexuality legal... but 70%
of women said **** was nice..
counter-argument... well, they're born with
clever loss of ****-restrictions...
                  she said it hurts...
i said: i fold my ******* rather than conscript
to Abraham's *****... so i enjoy life more than
you are expected to enjoy ***...
                 but no one listened...
no one ever does...
                                 hence the god-****-right
applause...
                            you force a pregnancy unto me
i force the world onto you...
                                         then the lies,
and more lies,                   and more lies...
Angus Mary or the Argentinean way of saying hello...
              hence the liars and womanising ones...
clearly out without a beard or a mane
                                  because a lie is much better
to bed a woman than a rose or a bouquet of
   daffodils...
                       it's so, and forever remain so...
but i just don't get how they managed to
   liberate homosexuality (yes, it's odd feeling
pleasure from **** ***, esp. if you're a woman 70% don't)
but entombed womanhood in what became
textile industry of ******* and leather shoes...
                  migraine cure?
                                 lilies...
     with enough number to suffocate the easy sleeper
into a cult-like endeavour - the sloth of the last breath:
and enough talk in the obituary; just enough
             for a ***** notice next to the half-prize
           packets of salted herrings.
                 we are we are: youth of the nation...
   we are we are: youth of the nation...
               yeah... it's a shame we encouraged
the politics of accepting homosexuality
           when homosexuality speaks no truthful ****...
given the years it struggled with, no surprises...
         but at least it could end its
  misogynistic target and said: not all women will
fall in love with what we do...
                                 well... no chance of that...
sooner Goofy on screen than Pluto and the slobber...
      than the slurp and the goof-ball stutter...
              but they didn't, they took revenge...
now we're all **** minded wishing we weren't
or wishing we were...
                   and there's me, with bewildered prostitutes...
paying an extra £10 on each hour spent with them
and the entry fee for the madame at £120...
                      ******* at her mega-****** *******...
well... let's just say:
                                          a little bit illuminating -
enough for a moaning harmonica and a jealous
gag intended for pedestrians
from a brothel window in Amsterdam by Puerto Rico's
chubby lovely: or as the black guys said in school:
                           more cushion for the pushin'; oh gee...
too true.

.had i not come across the tironian ⁊... my my... what is a 7? did tiro invent a counter to VII? it was not all borrowed numbers from the sankskirt wielding hindus?! tironian... now that's someone you don't hear of much these days, it's all aesop and spartacus... if even that... tiro formerly a footnote in the life of cicero... for a B and a III - stenography's 3... Q and R or IX - stenography's 9... yes, we europeans didn't invent the current numbers... but just imagine... the details of +, - x, ÷ hidden within the jazz hands and counting with your fingers and the abacus... and how you will not find roman algebra... or that the discovery of calculus took both: numbers, and letters... etc. etc., but that we didn't invent numbers... as the slave Tiro... and his stenography of letters... i ascribe stenography as the original proposal for modern numbers... perhaps they would have "thought": II (+) III (=) V... or... oh i forget the cliche of Rome and the seven hills... i see: I, V, X: L, C, D, M... seven hills or what? who needs 10 digits when you can do just fine with... 7? the seven headed beast of revelation... i call that bait... but they built a... ******* coliseum working with: a year is bound to "spelling" rather than counting... CCCLXV... then again... with letters as numbers perhaps all of mathematics was once upon a time only practical, practical architecture... beautiful architecture and what not... glass shards would fizzle out: because of their proportions... imagine geometric-algebra with: letters and letters rather than superscript numbers: yet to arrive from the Raj of india... or otherwise found in ol' Tiro's stenography of letters... tender waiting buds of welcomed may... because we really borrowed numbers from: what was not already in letters, bound, waiting for a steographer to revise the matter of "counting"... all of ancient mathematics was without a hypothetical... without an algebra.... concrete evidence suggests that: a mathmetician was someone who had enough spacial awareness... numbers drafted for taxes and building coliseums... beauty marked by IX + XI = **! quiet odd... i see the 7 headed beast, the roman numerals beside the seven hills of the ancient resting place of papal bones: I, V, X: L, C, D, M... that numbers came to us from the Raj, from Persia? we had a 7 in the form of the greek gamma Γ... all that was required was codifying a looking into a mirror... might i stress the importance of narcissus in this affair? the unconscious of narcissus: Γ | ⁊... aren't i the lucky one... with a leash on the baron of the talk of shattering of mirror: never sounds like the shattering of glass!

as ever, opening a bottle of ms. amber and sitting down
to a sudoku...
to ensure this sponge of a brain slurps up
some wet concrete...

//
   \\
                      __   (⁜)      "oop" □ here
                      ⁁  †               ‗
"oop" □ over
here...   focus points...
the kaleidoscopic eyes...

words to abstract words are not enough...
anagrams are: "abstracts" of words using words...
i'm too tired to play games of this
nature... i want to return to...
VI + IV = X... somewhat daringly... return to...


a box over here: ◰ (yes, like so...
with the isolated number missing,
e.g.
or an ◲...

                     a line of 9: ――――――― here and
now "there" |
                      |
                      |
               ­       |
                      |
                      |
        ­              |    in vertical
                      |
                      |

i've seen how people lock their smart-phones...
•   •   •
•   •   • and whatever ✭ pentagram "zigzag"
•   •   •

   opens it up... a sudoku puzzle, can very much
be a bunch of stacked pentagrams:
                            ✭
                       ­  ✭✭✭
                      ✭✭✭✭✭
                   ✭✭✭✭✭✭✭
the eyes will always wander to-and-fro...
again... what sort of i.q. does the darting eyes?
i'm not that good with crosswords...
as a bilingual i already have a crossword
in my head...
i don't play games of anagrams...

you want to write a cascade poo'em... write this...
otherwise peer into...
this will never make a study of geometry...
this is a 9² "problem"... more like a canvas to
relax in... sudoku says the hiroshima pundit...
i say... it's a 9²: niner squared...
in the UN approved phonetic alpha-beta...
why isn't it the alpha-omega...
choicest of wordings...
i guess an alphabet implies a cascade that...
cascades?

          A                  B                ­  C
   x     x     1     x     x     x     x     9     1
1 x     x     x     6     9     x     3     x     4
   x     x     3     x     x     x     5     1     7
   9     x     x     x     1     7     6     x     x
2 3     5     x     x     x     x     x     x     x
   7     x     x     x     5     4     8     x     x
   x     x     7     x     x     x     2     9     8
3 8     x     x     8     2     x     4     x     6
   x     x     2     x     x     x     x     x     x

but what if the following narrative...
took place... with the numbers being replaced
by letters... better still, something more simpler...
what it A1(1) - the bracket implying
the number placed in the square A1:
which consists of 9 numbers...
0 is never part of a puzzle... nor should it be...
0 is a number that acts as more a function
of (x) and of (÷)...
you can deem 0 to be involved in addition
and subtrtaction...
but... not really...
0 acts as a prime multiplier and divider...
it's so clearly omitted in addition and subtraction...
that... ancient romans... said 1 = I...
3 = III... while 10 = X....
while 9 = IX and 11 = XI...
and 20 = **...

but what is a 9² (sudoku) puzzle was to replace
numbers with greek letters?
why not greek letters?

however much i put into these scribbles...
maximum effort... minimum return rate... so i will not
do as i anticipated myself in doing:
reaching into a dimension of ambition...
i'd only say... it was much easier calling it a...
A1(1) rather than a Aa(1) narrative...
don't ask me why... perhaps the whiskey has...
"muddled" me...

but...

          A                  B                  C
­   x     x     1     x     x     x     x     9     1
1 x     x     x     6     9     x     3     x     4
   x     x     3     x     x     x     5     1     7
   9     x     x     x     1     7     6     x     x
2 3     5     x     x     x     x     x     x     x
   7     x     x     x     5     4     8     x     x
   x     x     7     x     x     x     2     9     8
3 8     x     x     8     2     x     4     x     6
   x     x     2     x     x     x     x     x     x

was more simple to solve than

          A                  B                  C
   x     x     1     x     x     x     x     9     1
a x     x     x     6     9     x     3     x     4
   x     x     3     x     x     x     5     1     7
   9     x     x     x     1     7     6     x     x
b 3     5     x     x     x     x     x     x     x
   7     x     x     x     5     4     8     x     x
   x     x     7     x     x     x     2     9     8
c 8     x     x     8     2     x     4     x     6
   x     x     2     x     x     x     x     x     x

  borrows from puzzle no. 11,337...
to solve and explain puzzle no. 11,341...

but in between... let's watch the optical
schematic: ▣, ▤ / ▥,
              ▦ / ▩ and ▨ / ▧...
while at the same time: squadron-✭
                       mein gott:
this over-inflated nihon squat and square...
as donal rumsfeld said: the known knowns,
the known unknowns and the unknown unknowns...
because he's not just like...
the bullet-point and the next target practice
of: **** bad... **** all good...
the war criminal Slobo Milošević from
Yugol you-go...
the english isles would know know...
as to why... a mongol invasion would never
set them back a century...
or as to how the ottoman turks teasing...
was only a romance in romania...
because... even if Finland is the quirky odd
kid in the whole bunch of the Scandinavian
sandwich of rar herrings and gherkins
and rye bread...
well sort me out oh please sort me out...
tell me that listening to
these debut albums... or near misses...
silverchair - frogstump...
everclear - sparkle and fade...
stone temple pilots - songs from the vatican gift shop...
it also made sense to be a pre-teen...
listening to these albums
with an uncle with a car... eating cheap
chicken wings while he washed the car
from some next-or-no-other *****-circus date...
after that... it didn't make a sense to own
a car... if there was the bus...
and a dream of riding a horse everywhere...

this little moi: this solo experience...
of the long hair of gods
and the long beards of men...
and the of the sikhs and the devils...
and how it didn't make sense to grow
both at the same time...
long hair in my youth...
while playing, slumpt in...
catch-up-baghdad...
i too thought it was going to be that
simple... a demigod grows long hair...
a demi-imbecile of the most basic
infernal hides the scythe moon
and the chin behind a turban of a beard...
the god with long hair...
the devil and his... beard and itch...
eden of ***** having migrated from
the cushion of underwear:
fully exposed to... not tended to...
or the scrub of stubble...
or what's not... the venus glory sheen...
smoothed or smothered skin
that still belongs to the buttocks of the newly
born...

yes... in between the songs strawberry and
heartspark dollarsign - from everclear's debut...
i too wish i took drugs...
fortunate as i am unfortunate: words and letters
are in x-ray black and white...
what good would licking some mushroom
do for me, or for you?
excesses of colours, among these dams and bridges?
among these sputniks of  precursor numbers?

even if the blanks, were to replaced with a 0
for the other algebra unknown...
tier above... hyperscript a 1 - 9...
i.e.

          A                  B                  C
   0     0     1     0     0     0     0     9     1
a 0     0     0     6     9     0     3     0     4
   0     0     3     0     0     0     5     1     7
   9     0     0     0     1     7     6     0     0
b 3     5     0     0     0     0     0     0     0
   7     0     0     0     5     4     8     0     0
   0     0     7     0     0     0     2     9     8
c 8     0     0     8     2     0     4     0     6
   0     0     2     0     0     0     0     0     0

mirror, mirror on the wall...
who isn't a charlize theron 0 = negation
of them all?
abigail mac is not a *****
doppelgänger of alicia vikander?

no better need to drink...
nonetheless the sun still shines on the question...
sudoku 9²: what it the cardinal numbers
were to be replaced with cardinal letters...
notably greek...
the alpha male the beta male the gamma and
the omega are all covered...
so is pi... given xi (11) is 0...

          A                  B                  C
   0     0     1     0     0     0     0     0     0
a 0     0     0     6     9     0     3     0     4
   0     0     3     0     0     0     5     1     7
   9     0     0     0     1     7     6     0     0
b 3     5     0     0     0     0     0     0     0
   7     0     0     0     5     4     8     0     0
   0     0     7     0     0     0     2     9     8
c 8     0     0     8     2     0     4     0     6
   0     0     2     0     0     0     0     0     0

thus? Iota = 1, A = 2, B = 4, Γ = 7, Δ = 3,
rho (Ρ) = 9, Π =...
B should equate itself to 8 in the stenographic
origin of numbers...
depending on which stenography you decide
upon...
Iota = 1, A = 2, B = 8, Γ = 7, Δ = 3, P = 9....
no lower-case, please...
intuitively: zeta: Ζ = 5...
what's missing? we have: 1, 2, 8, 7, 3, 9, 5...
4 and 6...
                     Η = 4 and Σ = 6...
rubric, please!
1 = I
2 = A
3 = Δ
4 = H
5 = Z
6 = Σ
7 = Γ
8 = B
9 = P...

and how would a sudoku look like... thus?

          A                  B                  C
   0     0     I     0     0     0     0     P     I
a 0     0     0     Σ     P     0     Δ     0     H
   0     0     Δ     0     0     0     Z     I     Γ
   9     0     0     0     I     Γ     Σ     0     0
b Δ     Z     0     0     0     0     0     0     0
   Γ     0     0     0     Z     H     B     0     0
   0     0     Γ     0     0     0     A     P     B
c B     0     0     B     A     0     H     0     Σ
   0     0     A     0     0     0     0     0     0

notably when the following narrative unfolds
and

          A                  B                  C
  ­ x     x     1     x     x     x     x     9     1
1 x     x     x     6     9     x     3     x     4
   x     x     3     x     x     x     5     1     7
   9     x     x     x     1     7     6     x     x
2 3     5     x     x     x     x     x     x     x
   7     x     x     x     5     4     8     x     x
   x     x     7     x     x     x     2     9     8
3 8     x     x     8     2     x     4     x     6
   x     x     2     x     x     x     x     x     x

becomes

          A                  B                  C
   4     8     1     5     7     3     9     6     2
1 2     7     5     6     9     1     3     8     4
   6     9     3     4     8     2     5     1     7
   9     2     8     3     1     7     6     4     5
2 3     5     4     P     Σ     8     7     2     1
   7     1     6     2     5     4     8     3     9
   5     4     7     1     3     6     2     9     8
3 1     3     9     8     2     5     4     7     6
   8     6     2     Γ     H     9     1     5     3

via B1(1) C1(6) C1(8) C1(2) C1(9) A1(9) A3(9) A1(5) A1(6) C3(7) C2(7) C3(1) A2(1) A3(1) B3(5) A3(3) A2(6) A2(2) A2(8) A2(4) C2(4) C2(5) B2(3) A3(5) B1(5) C3(5) C3(3) C2(1) C2(9) C2(3) C2(2) B2(2) B1(2) A1(2) A1(7) B1(8) B1(4) B1(7) B1(3) B2(8) B3(9) B3(6) A3(6) A3(8) A3(4) A1(4) A1(8)... post-script in greek numerals...
B2(Σ), B2(P), B3(H), B3(Γ)...

and if this is bingo... then bingo more... B2(x) and B2(y)...
and B3(y) and B3(x)...
my god... the fun time i'm missing when having
to raise children...
esp. among those superior intellects
of men... who... upon being married...
upon raising children...
return to the manosphere and talk to other
males without harems as if they were:
either constipated... circumcised...
or needing a father figure for that all encompassing
shorthand:
i didn't go to university to study chemistry...
i went... to the university of life!
a supermarket cashier clerk...
was the sort of cocktail shake-up required
for my bottled shampoo!

a ring a capturing a female is enough
qualifications to overlord the conversation
whether by topic or "feel"...
among ones... the la's nostalgia regret...
that would never arrive at blur or oasis
when it came to growing up in 1990s cool
britannia...

coming home to little town Poland...
is a carnival better than landing in Warsaw...
i can't say the same should i come,
and arrive in Loon'don's queue...
or the tubes under tarmac...

but of course drinking would get in the way...
to raising children...
perhaps drinking will allow...
a cameo father-figure role with a ******* child...
akin to: john wayne oscar winner for hard grit...
or: i'll **** my trousers because it's:
gonna be a rainman sort of day...
to start licking windows...
because: fear... prior to the mirror...
and the tongue that would no dare
to usurp the phallus in the serpent analogy...

yes... i noted "wrong"... i made a siamese blunder...
a siamese *** myopia...
two puzzle boxes... "the same" postal box...
the same university level education
of a non-high-school tier drop-out...
esp. because there's still no honda civic
worth a 33 year old to user the tinder app
to bother the wasp hive / harem... or some whatver
future of: this scenario never made it into blade runner...
or the inspiration for blade runner...
the one twin dead talking from the grave about
the future...
perhaps it was original for philip k. ****...
but perhaps... like any poet...
he's the host... and it was jane charlotte ****
speaking playing peek-a-boo from the grave?
there's no future in my writing...
i guess if this isn't "me"... then it's my
maternal great-grandfather and me talking about
shadows and dentists...
last time i had the foggiest...
i had a tootache...
so it's settled...
senior "chopin" and quasi "chopin"...
an internal joke...
how's the family?
family beside the atoms and the period table?
oh fine fine...
after all i heard the myth:
he didn't have any of his teeth pulled out...
but he also threw a tonne of coffe into the river
because certain people in europe even in
the 20th century didn't know what to do with coffee beans...

the spirit of adventure and exploration...
notably prolific in a landlocked
experience of the czech republic or moldova...
or... idaho... or...
i see water i want to see waterfalls...
i want to turn the anchor in a pumpkin carriage
and call the waves my horses!
to call an island a ship!
to call a continent a yawn and backward peoples...
and branch out... like a phototropism...
leaving all these continental europeans
living the nocturnal life of:
growth on **** sort of fungus of a past...

there's certainly a mistake in here...
but... unless you're just watched: shock & awe movie...
or still retain: the times weekly subscription...
what's a pedantry's "safe space" of automated
complications:
oh the joys of not having to cling to passing
a telegraph of genes and keeping it a minimum
of: two adults ******* better produce at least
two replicas... rather than that chinese
1 child per couple failure of ******-short-circuits...
oh the burden of reading some french thinking,
some german thinking...
nothing of a locke mea culpa as
the current phrase: pilate washing his hand
like a o.c.d. sufferer...

Tiro the new Aesop!
🙉 🙈 🙊
           monkey branch, busy cousin
of the follow-through deviation from gravity
in the upsillon - the parabola of a banana...
called the canary dip...
otherwise: my! what a treat!
what greater ambitions to write...
in order to write something
that would never become so quickly screened
like a stephen king novel...
obviously the contra comes from...
the loitering dean koontz...

it must be a curse of the surname...
i have a ****** surname...
well... unless you add... no...
adolf had a surname...
that germans must have found funny...
stalin had a surname...
that the russians must have found funny...
ghenghis simply could: in a present-participle
of: can...
and future present as a pop. surname
in pakistan: khan...
which sorts out the "problem" as to why
there's a stephen king and a dean koontz...
the answer is self-evident...
as i'm sure every smith and handy
becomes a plumber or the better part
of anyone day when he's struggling
with sightseeing and tourism...
of what might become...
the better part of a Thursday burrowing
from Hades into Tartarus.

My father was a philosopher, or liked to pretend as much.
He couldn’t look at the world for what it was, but rather what it represented.
“This tree isn’t just a tree,” he’d say,
“It’s a symbol of the wisdom of man,
growing until it’s cut away, stripped, and used for God knows what purposes.”
To me, it was just a wooden friend made for climbing.

There was a frozen lake near us he often gazed over while driving to the 7-11 for cigs.
He said it was a perfect image of impermanence:
a beautiful crystal sea with solid skin, soon to melt, and become a bathtub to wash the local compost clean.

My brother and I go sledding on our snow days.
If you don’t, well, it might as well be a weekend,
or a grading day,
or Flag Day.

We’d slide across that glassy plain on our bellies,
our hearts beating through the ice;
music for the fishes below.
It was in those days that I thought of my life as perfect,
and I realized all the possibilities that the fire of my youth could fuel.
Well, one day our hearts beat too fast,
or too strong,
or the fish wished to meet the musicians, or something happened for reasons which I still can’t come to terms with.
The glass… it shattered.
And my brother fell through the other side,
to dance with the herrings and sturgeons till he was all out of breath.
And he tired quickly of the dance.
And I wasn’t a strong enough partner to lead him off the dancefloor.

My father, when he heard the news of his son’s new hobby,
it was as though every book he ever read,
and every four-syllable word he ever knew,
and every overdrawn metaphor he ever spoke were all just a weird series of lies.
He swam into his bedroom, and through a blizzard of thrown pictures, sobs, and “*****” he calmed himself to stupor.


He went in the room my father, the intellectual, and came out as Roy, the sorrow-drunken spatter of roadside slush.
Whenever we pass the lake, he no longer comments on what it represents, but rather what it is:
“a ******-up graveyard for innocent little angels.”  
The world is no longer a set of symbols, but a tangible environment,  
though one he looks at through a lens of tears and amber bloodshots.  
My father is no longer a philosopher, but a poet, spitting out sonnets of regret and rage.  

And as for me, I haven’t really much to talk about.
I guess I’m sitting stagnant, frozen.  
I don’t want to be like my father, but I’m realizing it’s inevitable.
I haven’t felt anything genuine since his heart beat its last song.
Hell, I don’t even sled on snow days anymore.  
They might as well be a weekend,
or a grading day,
or Flag Day.

you want war, you have world war two spitfire pilots to serve your post-colonial migration; and yes, i'll twitch my eyes; ha ha cuisine scots using ginger.

there's a quintessential
fascination with cabbage
among the mutli-cultural
asians of england being picky
concerning scandinavians
and the slavs...
politico i could say as much
about indian spices.. but they're
granulated i admit,
so there's less stink in the armpits;
or there isn't, given chanel cardamom:
assimilated asians into british
society don’t use raw herrings and cabbage
to joke about other european ethnicities
while waving the st. george
of that great fake curry of suffolk.

i've been telling the turks about sauerkraut for years
to match up a purposive additive for the lamb kebab;
sours to cut through the lamb fat like the chillies
cutting through.

The ancestral diet of Stars, being Other Stars
has left no scars, save open black and yawning vast.
No retrograde Oblivion... only galactic swirls
and elastic Space between worlds. that never last.

and Eternity.

my modernity nips and pleats my yellow teeth
after long whitening by paste and bristle. i chew the gristle
of the dead sow
and club the weaning pups of Cerberus
with an eyelash and a long blink.
i tread the narrows, flatly -
and conquer the quizzical  conundrums
by simply asking.  
My Rocket Science... laughing
at your grecian urn
to paint the herrings red.

i'm out of my depth.

but yes means 'yes' and we ' no' it.

if Nothing else.

of the kind of person, in an Alcatraz
forbidding continental coagulation,
unlike the Icelandic model,
heaving an asthmatic moral superiority,
caught up in imperialism,
and all that crap of 5 p.m. talk
on an Empire... to then compare these
nationalists, who's nations have been
brushed under the carpet -
to tell them: whatever national pride
you have, we can't accept it,
because after solidifying our empire,
we paved the way for globalisation,
you can't have you pithy nationalism,
we accept Israel as a sovereign state,
but we can't accept you history
as quasi-Israeli - we can't have your
belittling nationalism, due course:
remembering the past -
because we have done away with
with given Darwinism: or as dodo do
as dodo did, as dodo will -
let's curb all human feelings into
designation via: kings and ******,
murderers and prostitutes -
or as said: Britannia rule the world:
or akin to the Chinese: but not this bit...
or akin to the Arabs: Lawrence said:
this bit neither... or as the Russian
said: Siberia off-limits!
or as the Mongol said:
you come here, you smoke ****,
you don't come here and say:
Beatnik! who, the, ****,
said, that, you're, welcome,
and, that's, synonymous, with, landays
and the little horror - and pashtun's
Kabul? as said: Kazakh Soviet,
as said: all Mongol, Soviet -
could you even squirm Alabama Soviet?
no.... you'd scream coco balm
cotton *******!   or ******* do what
                confederacy said you should do:
namely hang... as ****** do.
propagandist? me? sure!
i'll raise my hand in Saudi Arabia
pretending to have stolen something:
my hand for a peach... bargain!
             two peaches and one hand to spare!
i don't believe the west in undermining
continental nationhood,
only because they have mastered post-colonialism
by reducing empire building with
globalisation ergonomics -
              i'm actually apprehensive concerning their
phobias and congregating fears in paranoia
   by suggesting that what once attacked these notions
(they can't even call them nations, they're merely notions,
   and a 100 lawyers for each Francophile)
             was going to morph into geese -
always the superheroes, never the villains -
                  they are - pithy little perverts
****-a-doodle-do -
                                  they love their little
multicultural experiment,
   but they hate their pickled herrings
and their packaging of cucumber pickles -
                    they loath them...
they call them the Palestinian loafers -
shorthand: the Arab cheese strings for shoelaces.
    all because they had an Empire,
and that's alright because Victoria managed to
**** into a throne aged 80 -
                          do i get: well, resurrected
Israel is o.k., but resurrected Poland is
actually **** Germany...
                      **** me! this is going to get a little
bit more than just interesting!

We're bored like monks
in the margins
of ancient scripture.

We want to leave behind lazy hieroglyphs
and accidental red herrings
feigning illumination

rendered by the deviousness of time
in its enclave,
running a brush of flaky gold paint
over delicate decadence
and sprinkling dust like a fairy--

we are to believe it is all
some ancient treasure.

We prance in the ether of the material world
in junkyards where we sift through the wreckage
coddling memories like drying uteruses,
realizing our generation will not leave behind artifacts
worthy of nostalgia's ensconcing embrace.

With that realization we weep and

We continue to dig.

Seeing a vessel.
A catcher of fishes.
Espies another catcher of fishes.
These little fellows are destined for dishes.
Crew watching the crying ones.

The gulls as they rise.
Screaming wildly, they're on fire with excitement.
Gulls watch the Herrings, as they're breaching the foam.
Flapping and flipping, they're struggling to breathe.
The trawler man in the South westerly squall.
Struggling to cling to the slippery deck.
Tries hard not to fall.
He's used to it.
Another dollar.
Another day.
Only way to scoop his pay.
He's landing his fish.
Amid the squawking and bombing.
Keen and mean.

Tatty old trawler, chugs into the safe haven of harbour.
Today's catch thrown onto the dockside.
A different gull swoops.
A sly diving skydiver,
He's diving for dinner.
Never a loser.
Always a winner.
(C) Livvi

being insulted by someone
of a trans-
                     status quo
classification
                         will never be enough
to mind, had i the pairing
to a higher tier of socialite endeavour -
to be debased with a fragrance of
a misuse of language
on a level of comprehension will
always place me steadied with placards
of 'hello, my name is Samauel'
well hello Samuel..
boiled herrings pan-fried readied for
a star wars sequel akin to rocky 7,
boxing-catchup K.O. no.31 -
an here the champ gives way to a chimpanzees'
worth of gurgled laughter -
readied speed at a Bronson's uppercut -
and we're too the readied ones
annex to the molars that might be considered
the chewing apparatus should
we not have juiced with bites as if a load's
worth of hammering was taken place:
chewing as if hammering, imagine
the cranium gush extract - it would be
like porridge if reverse due to diarrhoea!
flaky ****-bits and anaconda's suntan to measure up to;
well, there was the leather chair to mind
in terms of approving leisure activity as coercing
a carefree fortitude of futuristic investment -
mind you the loss of the Celtic vocabulary,
I.R.A. and the instigation of Anglo-Saxon
vocabulary to suppress the populace
of renegade Catholics or the twin Belfast known
as Glasgow - indeed Edinburgh remained
as much conservative as St. Andrew's would allow,
an extension of England, even with parliament
it was a Basildon of northern Essex...
scots among the multitude of accents usurped from
pole-dancing with kilts! Tartan su doku!

to be in want of writing philosophy without
atypical philosophical words,
analogous of logic, or logos,
like phenomenology, archaeology, ontology,
metaphysics.... and instead dig into
grammatical categorisation of words,
and use grammatical denoting words
rather than philosophically exclusive words
as exampled thus stated.*

breakfast for champions...
that's 20cl of whiskey with coke,
and after
raw herring in sour cream sauce
witch apples and cucumber pickles,
that piquant pinch of it all,
a little bun...
and tomato juice salted & peppered,
eaten while standing up.
honestly raw herrings and tomato
juice drank was the biggest innovation
i've yet to claim in the culinary realm.

many we bleed from our mouths,
waterfalls of cherry vitality coating writing canvas,
sinking--melting--within twisted tongues,
and they're sure to ban us.

with graphite--with ink!--juicy wrists beg no mercy,
'gainst the natives with stash minds,
for our pain melts like water over leather,
yet sinks branding upon skeletons.

for we are blessed by God to bestow eulogies for one another,
as one tips from silver seat,
another awakens his place,
with picky gums and robins for teeth.

and how the ache and thirst must be great!
for the explorers must find all 10 fingers 'tween pages,
clad with strawberries and gauze,
and lips chewed off by ages.

and hollow words are gurgled by luscious syrup,
and packages droop 'neath vocabulary scholars,
O back, O bottom, O mind aches thee!
for only thousands to endure the shock collars.

for little Alice would fear to sit with our odor,
as gears and cogs steam--overheat--with vehemention,
and nights--pray tell--pray tell,
are long and arduous drinking lobes with the devil.

for four frays fancy flights!
'til grandfather croaks your retire,
and we blood-let and let leeches sink 'neath tender armor,
and shadows usurp darker.

as we are vampires--but crave the stone light,
and pour magma into our young's bellies,
so they may inherit our plight,
and ring off their tellies.

which noose may I bind?
which hand may I lock?
which tendon should twine?
which ink should I rock?

as we let, t'is nothing but medical,
as our teeth melt from mouths,
and our eyes dismiss with ridicule,
as our wrists are slaughtered,
and minds fluster through obstacles.

our hearts are obvious time bombs,
that rush to supply our cherry,
but when will the stunning twinkle cease to live on?
and be nothing but lemon balm?

O the sea we cross is made of iron--rust--and steel,
and lusts for its named called out,
for if we delve within this eel.
it'll surely be leaving no room for elders to rout.

the drive for honeyed poison excites me,
and the ache of the chew grows more,
at the thought others will see,
spin innards at the drop of the lore.

for we are the ones that wished for nothing more,
but to be charmed by crimson, and keys, and herrings,
and we pray for the pricking ore,

so the world may finally wear the pain as our custom earrings.

working "backwards" from something already
started in: collateral and the chicken scratching exercise...

how can you not have a hard-on
for mel gibson's beard...
in... the professor and the madman -
detailing the... etymological events
surrounding something more dear to me...
than the pslams of king david
or the: wisdoms of king solomon...
the wisdom: thus derived...
after a man becomes: ostensibly...
bored with a harem...
that would become the blueprint
of envy for future men of the world...

alexander the great...
muhammad...
           it's not a bible... it's a...
dic-tio-nary... stop the press...
pluck all the feathers from all the magpies
in the land... tell Xerxes to stop
whistling at the sea and...
can we just stop with the b.d.s.m.
of the waves?

        head: rotondo! spin ****** spin!
anything in the "pejorative"...
god... this moloch of grammar of a deity...
we need to ensure there's a scrutiny
of each and every, yes: every word...
we need to sieve them through
the categories!

i put to mind:
     it's a comparison of catchphrases...
the war hogs cite it as:
collateral damage...
the civilian will rummage and pluck out:
the... "rhetorical question"...
can... you... put... rhetoric: to a question?
can a rhetorical question:
actually exist... like a unicorn can?
oh wait... kangaroo yes...
a platypus... oh a double yes...

can you... can you... "rhetorical question"?
what the hell is a rhetorical question:
if not, something akin to a fashion statement...
of the calibre: a short-black-'un...
a coco chanel mini-skirt...

what is... a rhetorical question?
a question is, i hope...
something that manages to endorse
the dialectic...
and anyone who engages with a dialectic
will / or should know:
there's no rhetorical question...
when being asked:
one doesn't... "somehow"...
find a magic plot of a forest with smurfs...
and goes off on a tangent speaking...
persuasively...
a rhetoric question isn't a question
at all...

        collateral damage among the war hogs
is a rhetorical question among the civilians...

the story of professor james murray
and dr. william minor...
and to think... the alienists (psychiatrists)
at the time thought that...
enforced regurgitation...
could animate the body to conjure up
an already exhausted soul...
what ancient romans did for masochistic pleasure:
bulimia in the rudiment of:
a fork of fingers agitating the throat
and subsequently the oesophagus
to: bring back... what was already in fractions...

some call it soul, some call it x... y...
that... indispensable will: for animation...
to perform the 80 year old (in total) magic trick
of being: immune...
to the ills and forgivings of others...
a standard praise of solipsism...
as a thought-experiment... nothing more...
from which one can...
come and go as freely as one can vote
in a democracy...

come when summoned... leave when...
not made into any greater necessity other than:
to make fair of the count...

truly: a hard-on for mel gibson's beard...
some can claim ***** envy...
i have beard envy...
like to-hat envy when someone is 5'11"
and i'm still the same old 6'2"...

rhetorical question... i always found questions
to be... of a... dialectical nature...
i can hardly think of a rhetorical question
or rhetorical answer...
a rhetorical question implies:
the questioner has more to say...
than the person intended to answer...
i can hardly anyone burn through oration
when being posed a question...
a question: per se... is not something one
can be certain about: esp. when giving a reply...

a rhetorical question is a k.f.c. mouse urban
myth... a bit like collateral damage:
did we destroy a bullet making factory?
no... but we killed some civilians...
or some sort of entreating variation of worshipping
the drugging and bullet dodging machinery
of: cold the bullet bit...

how can you pose a rhetorical question?
is someone about to make a rhetorical answer?
robots would behave within rhetorical confines
of being asked an absolute:
error message - replying with an absolute yes / no...

a rhetorical question would beg
for a ore rotundo: with a voice filled with assurance...
the question is imposed...
with a curiosity... at best: with doubt...
uncertainty... at worst: with a negation:
waiting for the wrong answer...
but no dialectic is ever to be established
working from a rhetorical question...
a socrates would be:
the dialectical surgeon...
the affair of the question doesn't go beyond...
whoever is questioning:

oh!           oh!
a rhetorical question is... not for someone
to address the question...
but a pursuit of the questioner to continue asking
question...
a rhetorical question is... to further the lineage
of questions... to be therefore "rhetorical"
is to inquire more... rather than reply with
a rhetorical certainty...
a rhetorical question isn't a question...
it's a cascade of questions...

******* and the myth of the gateway...
after **** i did the next best thing...
i rediscovered bourbon as ms. amber...
that once you watch just a little bit of it...
you will turn toward finding out more graphic
content...
so... me looking out for the most *******
music: combichrist... :wumpscut,
vomito *****...
                  *****... graphic... *******?
or... gloryhole ***** *******...
               or pregnant women: so *****...
       or japanese gravure models...
"problem" with japanese models...
              *** bots? aren't they here already...
with these porcelain mannequins?
touch a hand it breaks or fizzles into...
ash...
  as happens when you've been at "it"...
puritanical victorian von krafft-ebbing...
i sometimes know what the ******* is for...
i hardly think it necessary to listen to what's
"moral" from circumcised... gentile...
north-h'americans...
                    jerking off since aged 8...
brain rot started way back... in 1994...
which is before the internet...
   gateway... my ***...
         japanese gravure and Agnolo Bronzino...

who needs "more"... when you have a mel gibson
beard-envy!

the chair can remain a chair...
but there's a termite colony wriggling in it...
i don't need to see it...
i just need to hear it...
combichrist: like to thank my buddies,
    today i woke to the rain of blood...
                   all pain is gone...
       cheap thrill seeing heaven:
better tamed - attempting to listen to the litanies
escaping hell...
a written word in hell is like...
     because the hands are being crushed
in monkey-wrenches and there's Spinoza
cackling...

   who needs more ******* and ride-me-timmy
the horses' laugh when music can
compensate... and otherwise find the better
kind of: the feeding outlet...

a rhetorical question: is that for the answer to
be tinged with rhetorical gravitas?
no... then every question socrates every posed
what a rhetorical question:
and the concern for dialectics is a dummy...
which is probably true: reading what sort
of answers those put under the scrutiny give:
is response...

i must be wrong: a rhetorical question:
is not simply a question...
a rhetorical question could perhaps give
the person answering a spark of rhetoric...
a rhetorical question should:
by default... provide you with a rhetorical
answer... but all it does is...
further a second question...
and a third... a fourth...
    so more for the "famous" dialectic...
when all that seems to happen...
one only becomes a rhetorician: via question...
rather than merely: talking...

the rhetorical question is therefore
the basis of "dialectics": which is no basis for
dialectics per se...
it's the persuaded question-prone antagonist:
who is hardly the narrator...
and the answer is always the same:
shut up! i'm talking over you...
i'll just disguise this whole affair in a question
and minor answer cited: a perfectly well
equipped yes: or no... will suffice:
or a nod of approval worded...
                  socrates the bane of sophists
and rhetoricians...
a subtle project... you are not interrupted...
when to stress an invocation
of fake curiosity: by asking a question...
the sort of question...
a rhetorical question... that will not usurp
your original: intent monologue of sophistry...

an echo is all the rave when it comes
to a rhetorical question...
a rhetorical question feeds of: yes / no answers...
and there i was thinking that a rhetorical
question implies:
whoever answers... will break into
a rhetorical answer... verbatim the quran
akin to a hafiz! nope...
a rhetorical question is a punctuation mark:
one hopes... of what a rhetorician would usually do...
when having a voice in the congregation
of docile elders...

socrates: the elder... found an audience
among the athenian young... because?
        he stressed that rhetoric had to have overtones
of questioning: without really questioning...
what sort of "dialectic" is there to be had:
what: dialogue...
when... the dialogue leaves one side with
a narrator and protagonist semblance?
and the characters: ergo? are nothing but nail-heads
for the hammer to plough through?!

oddly enough... Plato ****** off Socrates so
hard... that Socrates became...
the first non-hasidi...
to be circumcised... by pursed lips...
yep... Plato ****** off Socrates' *******:
right off... thinking the phallus...
was in the no-man's land of comparsion
to a chicken drum-stick!
antagonism: of how favourable the "dialogues"
are cited...
i've had a similar experience...
i really don't know what this... "e-prostitution"
is about...
before the internet... i am probably one of
the last few who blushed when buying a magazine
at the newsagent with all them *******...
and: curated ***** hairs:
less of a chin and more...
the pelvic "hubris" / canvas...

                 brothel: tick...
strip-club: tick...
              what's given everyone a hot-cross bun
shivers...
          "never paid"... but otherwise paid:
for the insinuation...
and the insinuation was: a date...
look at it as... no ******* dysfunction...
and no money for a date...
straight back into the salt mines
and trench digging... no time for honey:
oh boobie and frankly my dear:
i don't drown herrings...

       a rhetorical question is also a compound-misnomer...
yep... the idea of a rhetorical-question
is a compound-misnomer:

take me on a chain to the goblet...
pay the extra to rid the matter:
seven tongues instead of one...
gorging on the inquiry of Gomorrah...
to better couplet to the banquet of *****!
that ***** treat us Gomorrah civically dutied:
as worse than rats and shadows...
and the plebs just entertain...
       what would ever come from
the mouth of ***** as:
       prized bulls of drag-queen story-hour...
shame those without foreskins...
comparison...
a o.k. to be gay...
                what's date-night?
is that... something -esque having coupled
a mahjong with a niqab?!
why don't all the muslim women take
the best route... join the surgeon mask-equipped
crowds... and no... simple forget the hijab...
donning the full niqab?!
why?!

who needs seeking more depraved *****
beside... Bronzino and japanese gravure models...
and all that elasticity of:
electricity passing through an iron maiden
via... combichrist: sent to destroy...
hardly "destroy": cultivate...
recycle... call the parasites into hubris *******
haitus...

also "in response" to: the kinks and the...
"celibate" priesthood...
        because: you know, the kinks and all that:
******* music and fine detaiks of:
when the butcher will be cited...
looking at a slab of meat...
and calling a harem of pigs...
that floral... pinky tidbit "in the middle":
avert your eyes:
how god's finger touched adam's...
and via what...

it doesn't come more ******* than...
drinking lukewarm whiskey...
that i can stand...
but if anyone's drinking ***** not suberged
into gomme syrop consistency...
there's: should we say...
a... "spot of bother"...

              i wouldn't mind...
that bourbon as a quiet distinct perfume
associated with brothels...
and it's just that...
          but... e-prostitution: for the "tease"?
the wrath of adam:
sort of ******* in between:
when the ****** brigade comes along
and stops at thge madonna-***** complex?
i'm scratching my head:
either i'm thinking of a ? or my i.q.
one internet sight should be in existance...
dedicated... to the unabashed puritanism
of dogs licking their genitals...
because: a priori: who would have "known"...

and also to chronicle the sights and wonders
of... KMFDM stand-out tracks...
but a sight levereging "*****" of...
dogs teasing testicles with "prudence"
of a... the fastest waggle in all of: "arizona"...
chant!
chant! F.S.A. - which makes it more and less:
"united"
   the federal states of h'america...
     number 1 subscriber...
albert razin...
    is this... is this... what "integration" looks like?
like hell i'll give up what's
festering knee-deep at the rim...
i'll talk english just fine with
the natives... but when the natives:
tell me that:
true integration is a complete whitewash
of your "former" identity: you
integrate by "forgetting" your mother tongue...
i have... this juggernaut... craze-fit in
my eyes...
   then, why, don't, you, send, me,
a, postcard, from france: IN FWENCH!
this global mantra of: english solves everything...
not unless you're of a Dutch or
Scandinavian origin...
you have already learned this...
"lingua franca": this l'inglese...
lucky for the WELSH! who are you...
you anglo-saxon globalist mongrel?!
where is your anglo- counterfeit bypasser...
UND... wohin ist ihr Sachsen?
and where is your saxony: saxon?
have i an axe to better grind?
           jude-nomade-mischling!
you're no better than your claim!
ficken-jude-sächsisch-anglo-anlage-gehenvolk...
all this: for the insomnia parade?!
24 / 7 news reels?!
         alles diese... für was?!

if they only spoke two languages...
perhaps... less retards spreading the "crown":
licking ice-cream tubs...
open / the end... closed: also the end...
verzögernzüchtung...
          ******-breeding...
        ­                i have to admit... it sounds as crisp as:
gin
                                   &                        tonic...
and lapses into epilepsy...
because the "hierarchy" says: such words...
such words: no no: with a BIG no-no
when used...

                here too, i... will ****...
on every prematurely demented kin of moi...
because... the hierarchy of termites and of ants...
dictates so... while the congregation of:
man and ape... isn't sure... what animal is worth
borrowing a metaphor from!
to... "progress"...
like little **** and please staging all that
copernican ******* ever did...
the surgical masks...
shot dead in the Philippines
for not wearing one... "stigma" and the niqab...
at least the cherries on these cream-pies...
could at least turn proper ortho-and-doxing...
with a niqab...
pwetty pwease...  

all the airs and graces...
some nut would have made it this far...
Kierkegaard as proof...
"you don't think before you speak":
i rather, i much rather entertain
the freedom to think... and extend this freedom
into writing...
before i have to eat my own *****
when having to place editorial pressures
on having made video content...
i much prefer the ignoble citation:
and the devil has had these hands busy-bodied...
and all the blessings to the devil for that...
because...
is there such a concept as:
an idle tongue?

               i don't know:
i would like to, though...
live a month's worth of living...
on a salary of a... h'american...
             preacher...
under communism:
no brain-drain...
not best of the best will ever rise...
but at the same time...
so too will not the mediocre...
i thought it could be cited at:
the meek shall inherit the earth...
   talk about a disparity between
the meek and the mediocre...

if only i was the "correct" pronoun
to want: but i do...
have the capacity and enough excuses...
to start donning...
corsets and... high-heel shoes...
then again: if i joined the army...
nothing stand-out...
not uniforms to stand out within
a caste system... uniforms for
the napoleonic era... and that noting me as...
quick-off-the-mark...
suregon of the needle... and quiffs...
until the wehrmacht period...

  ha! the poles on horseback: "once upon a time"
looked bewildering...
the charge of the Krojanty...
well... horses do not seem that bad...
the poles on horses...
when back west...
you had the Dutch... on bicycles...
oh sure... the horse was somehow the "joke"...
but the bicycle was...
   like the pope appeasing the fuhrer...
and "they" would wonder:
        who's who....
the bicycle is gone...
who's who on the left-over peddlestool?!
postman pat proof:
  i think i oops... forgot to detail
the whole idea and economy with...
licking something... beside...
   that quick-and-made-essential:
              amnesia rubric count... which was?

yep... the poles on horseback look
and will forever look more ridiculous...
than... the dutch defence...
on... ha ha! bicycles!

read my proof: am i... "integrated"
is my: english not a word salad:
the scrutiny will come from someone sobering
up from an irish heritage...
is there a niqab or a bindi or a turban on me?
is my language still a word salad?
am i, integrated... "enough"...
not enough i dare say...

       well... about time these natives
learn some postcard and tourisms' worth
of second lingo... italian would be just fine...
since... they are still... hung up on being
so pround of being the afghanistan of the roman
empire...
          and... where is afghanistan when is comes
to... the house of saud and arabia?
i'd grovel... for that kind of goat herders...
and... pashtun poetics!
   queen of the floral: no **** mind to spare...
and if only this wasn't...
rummaging in essex...
more for the cause! new york!
n'aaaaaah...
                
                        i speak for the devil i speak
in about 12... with variations of invocation...
but this is not god speaking...
i am... not a monolingual pre-nomad arab taste...
sitting on a coal-**** turning liquid into
oil: "all of a sudden"...

Thought you found the holy one
They take a little, she takes none
It's just a frontage after all
Oh how easy do they fall
One by one, and over again
They shed a little of their skin
First you mingle,
Then you dance
Pull it to a safe distance

It pours outside
You need a ride
Wish you hadn't gone inside
Fumble for the side hand door
You don't want to stay no more
The handles broke,
The light is low
Break too late and off it goes
Falling forward from the edge
Try to remember the words you read

Don't want to know
You tried too hard, they said
But you never wanna go
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh

And are your feet cold?
They spread your ashes all
And all across the snow
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh


All the lights are shining through
Hit you when you try to move
Know the ending
Know the start
Know the place where it falls apart
The red herrings not fooling you
Tricked you last time before you knew
Barreling towards the bitter end
The ****** comes
You lose a friend

Growing up and dressing down
Learn the truth to shut your mouth
It's not what all you'd thought it be
Cuts your heart so gradually
Sew it up and snip the thread
Dry the tears they made you shed
Hold the chair,
Slip the noose
Never forget who cut you loose

Don't want to know
You tried too hard, they said
But you never wanna go
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh

And are your feet cold?
They spread your ashes all
And all across the snow
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh

Confidence dies
A little every day
You lose your way, I lose it too
I wish I was back
Safe inside instead
But I'm at a funeral for a friend.

Don't want to know
You tried too hard, they said,
But you never wanna go
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh

And are your feet cold?
They sorta your ashes all
And all across the snow
Way oh way oh oh oh
Way oh oh oh
Way oh

I listened to promises from a drunk,
"Bourbon Talking," I should have thunk,
The day passed, the weeks concluded,
I tried to work out who was deluded,
Waiting for red herrings,
The months and years were ending,
Decades rolled by, one day,
I realised he should be at AA,
Not so comical,
The vocab. was lyrical,
Centuries passed, millennia concluded,
The world exploded, universe imploded,
Worked out who was deluded,
Now for tradies, through phone books, I go walking,
So, girls, never listen when it' s "bourbon talking!!!"

the internet is getting quirkier than expected,
lucky to be in the age brackets of 20 - 30
and single... it's like a *******
   freak-show out there!
hey, i dig midgets,
and the crass and the oompa loompas:
reservation for odd spelling and vocabulary
also welcome:
i'll wear a ****** on my head
and pretend to be wearing a balaclava
ready to outline a the end of a terrorist
plot if you tell me you're dyslexic backwards:
shrapnel and palette tourists of a broken
shell with the snail asking where ceramics came from?
i sent a postcard from there, i reserved the blank
space with words: i had three wishes, one of them
wasn't here (where's a jinni when you need one?
those scandinavians and gold herrings! /
slavs and gold ferns... well, play my trombone
will you?)

the unnatural
drunk of a random breeze
clings to the broken chimes in busted windows
and sings no yes among the grunge swollen -
dandelions, however the candor yodels
or the pools swoon bleakly
beneath our mutual
demise.

penalty has no flowers in the lips of the moon
like a matador. Only the bull grievance of a bout of ravens
and a blood red cape of herrings.
a juke and box and a square to circle...
and nothing so much as a peep
from a fog.