for all its worth, ad inviduum matters,
as any stress imposed
to, "break away from the herd"...
the ever becoming need for
flamboyance and bombast
to not be: the drowning man
in a sea of corpses in the inevitable
inferno...
      as much as the saying goes
about vanity projects,
   hair make-up, or rather:
less extravagence and more on
the lines of: you can walk in *****
and torn clothes...
       but at least you've taken a shower
prior...
             yet there still remains
a stressor on individualism...
    in that...
            as long as individualism
is accepted by a herd of "individuals"...
i remember that outside of school
i knew one black guy,
as the black joke goes: he was a drug
dealer, and a single father...
what the white boy knows a black guy
joke doesn't follow up is that
he was ostricized... a fellow *****...
because they really tell you
about the Bangladeshi workers
    dead beneath the burn khalifa...
even individualism has limits,
with the motto:
   as long as it doesn't mingle with
eccentricity,
    as long as individualism doesn't
mingle with eccentricity...
   because in the latter sense?
that's the individualistic norm shattered...
everyone gets to over-hit the mark...
which shows the cracks in
the so-called notion of individualism...
notably in the west:
        cogitans est cassus primo
                    gratia rideo...
      logos incognito.
                     as such, individualism
as spare, auxiliary / collateral change...
trend setters,
    if famous for 15 minutes,
   pack leaders for 15 seconds,
and then back to the frivolous intrigues
of peacocks on a catwalk...
by individual, i think of the:
                 hersch...
                      a dangerous line between
setting a vogue and a minor
sentiment for the vanguard...
and becoming ostricized as a *****,
humouresly being attached
the term: eccentric...
     or just plain weird in the harsh
tongue of the children's blunt...
phraseology...
                             the world comes
to the boundaries of a small town
exactly 1.5 days later,
  give or take the algorithm
via prior searches...
                                   perhaps how i
understand individualism is
how Narcissus might understand
the vampirism of his brother
     Solipssus...
                  a kind of people who
behave as if without a body,
a type of people who, like vampires,
can't see their reflections...
not that they can't in a literal sense...
      as everything small begs
a curiosity,
   as everything large astounds
with awe...
             paradoxical thus,
the content of a church,
                 and the church itself...
        after all...
     the legionnaires did soak
a sponge with wine and offered it to him
on the end of a spear... which he refused...
   a pale comparison
as blueprint, to what subsequently
came to pass...
              well...
it is pale... considering you'll
never actually know, upon giving
himself up so freely...
  that there wasn't anything,
remotely comparative
with the infamous example
of Albert Fish:
              self-embedded needles
lodged in his pelvis and perineum...
just as the other case in point:
marquis de sade seems more like
a scapegoat than the sadist
his imagination and only his imagination
allowed him to be...
because what,  screaming from
the window of the Bastille, or locked
in an asylum, he could really
compete with the power of the clergy
in the form of his uncle,
the abbé de sade...
                       how can it not be
a fiction, when the power of fiction itself
has become slowly obliterated
wriggling in a cul de sac?
     how could I ever write a work
of fiction, when what was deemed
as truth, credo, is facing up to
non-mainstream footnote reading
and the 1945 archeological findings
that match up to the 2000 or so years
of heretical speculation?
riht now, he can be brown olive
tanned mulatto or whatever Dalton
hue of orange...
              if white is ivory if it is
a scalped cranium a pharmacological
soup woth of brain...
             if white is white and even amrican
south: h'white...
        clingy *******
to the feet of the Urals...
    pardonable warm *****,
only Sveedish, and only at 25ml a pop...
talking to two old people
half-awake, half-asleep...
      buddha-eyed sleepwalking almost...
as i came in contact with
the dark chapter of medicine,
not even past the 1950s America...
                 the infamous tactic
of regression: also known as
    false memory implants...
                    two old people trying
to fall asleep,
   a bottle of *****,
       shy drinking, 10 years of celibacy...
with the odd purely physical encounter
like a rag and a hand and a ***** sink...
my grandfather bemoans that
he never had a chance to say: father...
i could bemoan not having said:
i love you...
                ascribed her an endearing
nick'...
                it seems this world
hides higher pleasures bound
to a rigour so few make eruditions of.

There aren’t many people who would have stuck with me like you did
There aren’t many people who would have never given up
But you knew that I was worth it, you knew that giving up was not an option
All of  the yelling, the fighting, the cursing, and what we thought was hate
They where all worth it, they where all a part of us

No one said parenting was easy
But no one kid should make parenting that hard
It has been twenty years since we have met
And I cannot imagine having a better dad
I cannot think of anyone who I would rather have learned how to live life from
You are truly the foundation for which I make my decisions
And the moral compass you have blessed me with is something many lack

But more than a father you are a jack of many trades
Teaching me every day that the limits you set on yourself will equal the goals that you reach
Not enough children have a father like you someone who does more than just care
You push me and love me you challenge me and aren’t afraid to break me
You truly inspire me to be the best Hersch Rothmel I can be in every facet
Someone who makes a real positive impact on this world
Someone who would have never been who they are without their dad

i must be in one of those... "moods"...
    i must be in such circumstances follow an almost
ritual: the beauty of life...
coupled with the "fairness" of it...
notably when sharing it with people:
of a more... "south of the border"...
a more sour invitation to it...

                  my "free will": my... what little is it...
when someone else might: rest assured...
express his or her... "alternative"...
                      this a choice...

the wine has ran! down into the gob that
sometimes forgets to thirst...
and when not thirsting... does the unpardonable...
shelters itself in the abodes of ruining
patterns of shadow devoid of bodies...

drinks! listens to scandinavian pagan songs...
tiresome... tiresome those byzantine chants...
for all their worth: but enough is enough...
it would be the most precious time...
to translate some Horace...
   such be my need for solace -
but translation itself is hardly a comfort...

                       the cut-off reads...
   at *** tonantis annus hibernus Iovis
        imbris nivisque (conparat)...
       tonantis - thunderer
     hibernus - wintry
               annus - annum - year...
        imbris - growth...
        nivisque - snow... the cut-off is already:
as always crude...
                                    the whiskey is here!
and the romance of powder...
cheeks and roses! but we might as well
begin: from a beginning...

  beatus ille qui procul negotiis, ut prisca gens
mortalium, paterna rura bobus exercet suis
solutus omni faenore
    neque excitatur classico miles truci
  neque horret iratum mare
                       forumque vitat et superba civium
potentiorum limina.
   ergo aut adulta vitium propagine
altas maritat populos at in reducta valle
     mugientum prospectat errantis greges
inutilisque falce ramon amputans feliciores
insertit aut pressa puris mella condit amphoris
aut tondet infirmass ovis.
              vel *** decorum mitibus pomis caput
autumnus agris extulit,
         ut gaudet insitiva decerpens pita
certantem et uvam purpurae,
    qua muneretur te, Priape, et te, pater Silvane,
tutor finium.
           libet iacere modo sub antiqua ilice,
modo in tenaci gramine:
labuntur altis interim ripis aquae,
           queruntur in silvis aves fontesque
lymphis obstrepunt manantibus,
                             somnos quod invitet levis.

thus listening to some of what the british
patriots have to offer...
i'd call them the demeaning "natives"...
but then i have on offer...
scottish nationalism
and welsh nationalism...
not to mention the irish: but i'll mention them...
english nationalism...
      hmm...

solution: repatriation... of the "invaders"
of Brimingham...
i know what deportation looks like...
on the weekend that Dianna was
"repatriated": her coffin was towed...
the home office came knocking...
    father doing a runner...
         visiting grandfather broke up his affair
with sober -
'nice com-pew-ter' said the home office
grey...
i was left in tears and punching
the wall...
       so much for integration...
          did my best lizzy... the paperwork...
"got in the way"...
            doesn't matter: the kosovans came
in 1999 circa etc.
     the canines are out...
                  where is my, mosque?
                          where is my kebab stash?
beside the 2004 tsunami...
          
home is where: i have a sparrow's worth
of fear: and perhaps a heart...
when i land in warsaw and try to escape it...
i land in warsaw: i'm a native of these parts:
am i "at home"...
i'll walk you down route 25 bus
past all the babylon and i'll tell you:
nothing like it!
dodo among the peacocks...
humpty-dumpty and sacred cows brigade...
that's not quiet me... but...
         touch 'em with a two metre long
****** if you must!
      
   my affairs with england...
was supposed to be a stop-over...
further argentina... h'america...
     the bleach baptism: ha! ha! h'america!
in search of a great-grandfather...
   guess this is "home"...
sure as ****... warsaw isn't!
      
                   and these concerns...
i will not sing the: god save the queen...
i'd rather whistle to: the british grenadiers fife
& drum... on a scale of: a *****... a nilly...

italy is being "invaded"
germany is being "invaded"
denmark is being "invaded"....
england and france are being "invaded"...
no guns, no tanks... no blitzkrieg?
"invasion"? or just slacking and slurrping
a neo-liberal old liberal pompous brat affair?
sleep more sleep a more dire sleep...
wake up when it's all over...
in the hands of the other...

   an invasion: an "invasion"... no tanks...
just the stories of sorrow from knife-crime
statistics... collateral and human shields...
such concerns...
if it's not the invaders it's the romanians
picking lettuce or the polacks
on construction sites...
but i am as much an exile as anywhere...
and i don't really have a high degree of concern
for my "tribe": either...

   the slow warfare of economic ruin concerning
a town that was sizing up a status of city...
with two metallurgy theatres of operation...
gone: gruzy... heaps of rubble...
           hersch! herr hersch!
     how iz zis evens pozziblah?
               i don't mind the invaders...
marry one: then i might...
   have a little calipso moment and count:
the number of shades of cinnamon,
copper, bronze and cherokee...

                      whiplash... i must be daft...
not to have learned a thing or two from
the **** and the ******... to have to learn
a new: "thing or two" from the... liberals
with their: no tanks, no planes, no microwaves,
no l.s.d. "freedom's freedom" policy!

england big... big O england...
big o: O and exclaimation mark: O! england...
i am not wed to your daughters...
nor the father or grand fairy pater to
them either...
               i didn't bring a mosque!
i didn't bring a flag!
i didn't bring a suntan that retains its
glue in winter!
i didn't bring anything...
beside... there's this idea of a nation...
and there's that...
of a diaspora... which of course...
you had... but didn't...
when... the "proselytes" decided that:
an english diaspora is not:
in our vision... what would become
the invested: hope and character to build
as a grand, u. s. of a.....
so much for the "motherland and the fathertongue"...
or the "fatherland and the mothertongue"...
whittle ol' england...
whittle ol' bargain: and more!

i brought sauerkraut and a poppy-seed cake...
the german might as well have brought
the former... but it's hardly an argument:
the "invaders" from the east brought their own food...
shame... seeing you gobbling down a curry
and a kebab...
who am i to complain?
i eat them too! i have an arsenal of spices
that would most likely compete with
the nuke arsenal of russia!

                      i didn't "integrate" you didn't
"integrate"... i have your tongue as a dearest: polly...
who doesn't want a *******?
that h.p. sauce is genius?
              well... and cricket? but i'll eat your
gob-*****... you will not eat mine...
so you have your bangladeshi "invaders"...
your friday night: chinese take-away and soho...
ahem... "soho"... chinatown...

who's to be complaining?!
exotica! ex-o-tica!
                     shrimp **** and watermelon *****:
requiring... ***** extensions to **** around
with: **** jamai... can oh she cancan but not
in the parisian "sense"...
          
        well... given that this was supposed
to be a translation of Horace...
here's my ****** translation of latin...
it's not a curry... it's not a mosque...
it's not a burning flag it's not a turban...
it's not a roman catholic on a pike...
dying a death more formidable than
a crucifixion...
i'm guessing a viking settling in york:
with something of a believable
scandal when sense of humour is concerned...

i can't promise stale: hardly any poetry...

fortunate he, who from the city's uproar from afar,
free like people of older date,
    with oxen ploughs the fief of hereditary role,
oblivious to either profit or toll,
he doesn't know, what is the **** of a battle horn,
he doesn't tremble, when the sea grieves a vengence,
shuns away from the forum's uproar,
        he doesn't, like customers - who -
                 protrude under the doubling of the wealthy.
he prefers the lush shrubs of grapevines -
with shoots wed to the stump of a poplar tree,
overseeing, leading herds of roaring cows
into and among pastures on the slopes
of mountainous valleys...
             hunt boars... interlock with beef...
                  so as to have a noble variety of fruit,
from pressed plasters: honey sieved into amphorae
or clipper woolly sheep of the herd.
                - and when golden autumn above
the fields - donning a wreath of harvested wheat:
raises its head -
with what kind of ecstasy / delight...
tears the sight of grafted pears...
                   and bunches in clusters of purple -
should for Priapus and Silvanus,
     watchman's bordering copper, bring forth:
the first gifts.
     how pleasant to rest upon cushioning grass
or under a an old and shady oak:
where fluvial trends in precipitious stance
of banks errodes...
                     where the birds' graceful nagging...
foliage murmurs, streams of water incessant:
thus a dream make... unexpectedly.

estrada: tempus...
                            auditores? lemures!
stage: time...
            the audience? ghosts!
that's bound to happen... binding oneself
to a Horace...
       with what's already available...
the stage: the audience....
and beside: the audience: time...
        well... i rather enjoy entertaining...
a stage of time: and the audience of ghosts...
than have to resort / retort to
the latter "debacle"...

             i, didn't... bring an "invaders"...
detail... lucky for me...
of the german the zeppelin and the ******...
you didn't even have to taste
anything by the leftover mongol...
that crimea became the capital of
the diaspora... that the mongol became known
as the tartar...
                                      chebureki...

endear me! have you humpty-dumpties!
your sacred cows!
your mosques! your chinatown!
your frizzy and your froth!
your angst your liberals and your
huguenots!
your passive-aggresive secular "christianity"
tingling with **** atheism...
"your"... Birmingham!
"your"... Loon'don...
                            
             clywed y çymraeg!
                                    éist clann gàidhli!

seobheith!
           no heidegger: no "there"...
                        anois!
              
        YMA!
                                     YMABODAU!
i leave Wstminster to the porky-pies...
who with and with: "who":
where else?!

i've just been exercising, cycling like a demon for almost two hours, passed the Gallows Corner roundabout twice, heavy traffic, i just can't keep away from the thrill of being lodged between moving objects that might **** me... the closer i am to death, the closer i am to life, which is sort of paradoxical; sort of: a memory best kept alive, by mortality per se...

if this be "capitalism" then i must be a *******
****** - sorry - what's that etymological
fallacy i hear concerning the word: Slav?
oh, right... a missing epsilon / eta...
i never know the difference between the two...
perhaps the clue is in the word: between
itself... epsilon is a long E while
eta is a short E...
******* get over it... ****** this ***** that...
i must be a ******* whigger by now...
the etymological origin of the word Slav
was derived from Slave? really...
perhaps you're referring to my distant cousins
that settled in the Balkans...
sure, the Yugoslavs might have been
enslaved by the Turks...
but if i remember correctly and i do know my
history, since i'm sort of tattooed with it...
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth fought
back against the Ottoman onslaught...
apparently we managed to salvage Vienna...
such etymological laziness...
but what's to be expected...
in English ****- is insulting, oh sure sure...
esp. for the police force in ******* Rotherham...
sensitive little *****!
no... way better: KOONTZ!
a bit like a bite off: it could be ****... but no:
it's SH'ITE! here... fly my ******* kite!
the etymological of anything: ask the people who
refer to themselves as Slavs...
i.e. słowianin... root? słowo - word...
we are wordsmiths... how many Slavs have
actually been acknowledged by those northern
cultural Cyclops(es) that the Swedes are
(not my words, ref. to the Norwegian
Knausgaard)...
suede - suedes - persuasion sort of bollocking...
yeah... sure, thanks for the Deluge...
thanks for the harangue of Częstochowa...
(często? frequently chowa? hides...
je? them - feminine plural - chowa -
that ******* monstrosity that became the noun
Jehovah... he who hides women)
so yeah, how many Slavs have won the Nobel
prize for literature, compared to...
a German... an Englishman... hmm...
i'm not keeping score, but i know of a few...
if the English expect to take up etymology on their
on ground, using their own language...
ha ha, ******* still think they are the extension
of the Roman Empire...
all over European people have applied their
own diacritical distinctions to the alphabet...
whether that's the German umlaut or the French cedilla...
the Czech caron... blah blah etc.
but not the English... here's where i tell the Gaels
to start speaking their own, ******* tongue...
(god bless the persistence of the Welsh)
let's leave English with ol' Yankee
and rich Chinese tourists...
                    no... i've just been cycling... did 100 push-ups
lifted some weights...
and now? my mind is refreshed...
let's start the new year with the following
resolution...
   so i cycle up to a supermarket... oh, good...
they still have the Saturday edition of The Times...
i'm a subscriber so i have a discount
ergo i have a coupon...
   so i walk up to the cashier... she scans the newspaper,
then scans the coupon... no good...
she asks me for my Tesco club-card...
no good...
  - it's not coming through... something's wrong...
- today's the 1st of Jan, isn't it?
the coupon reads the 1st of Jan, no?
- yes...
- well then, that's not my problem,
your company can take up the argument
with The Times: whether or not they're printing
false coupons... but... i'm taking this newspaper...
whether you like it, or not...
- but, but...
-  NO.

so i just walked out with the newspaper,
she had the coupon,
outside i was taking off my bicycle-lock while
she was knocking on the window...
did i look up?
i just figured... now... catch me if you can....
subsequently ****** off towards Rainham
then Hornchurch then home...

that's my New Year's Resolution...
telling people: NO
period, the end, no thank you, *******,
bye bye.
            
why? i was supposed to be paid for 5 shifts on
the 31st of December, so, yesterday,
i even received a confirmation text to comfort me
that i'd be paid: i wanted to pay off my mother
for past dues...
it's a ritual: pay off your debts in the year about
to close rather than drag them into the new year...
so? ahem: "capitalism"?
for the few & the crooks...
you want to work, in earnest...
i'm not even going to listen to the ******* excuse:
ooh... "grammatical" error... filing error...
paperwork: fiddly...

too many ******* paperclips, eh?!
i'm so teasing the thought of attempting to **** someone...
no, not **** someone...
just walk up to someone in a street
with a knife, bear-hug them, sit them down
with the blade at their throat...
then ask a witness to call the police...
why, Matthew, why would you do something
like that?
you think not getting paid, being taken for
a ******* whigger is, nice?! the "right" thing
to be taken for?

  get over the extra G... you can say Niger...
you can say Nigerian... but what, giggle?!
that's too far?
               people pushed too many of the right
sort of buttons in the past late...
i'm going to gatecrash this year...
riddle? that's a double-D... bundle of what?!
in writing i can be anything i want to be...
like i can be caged with a Nigerian at the Oxford
stadium turnstiles and he'll come out
with a joke: ha ha... almost like a Nigerian prison...
and i'd joke back: yeah... sleep standing up
strapped to the ceiling...

it's always these 3rd party "aggravated"
the people that are not part of the conversation,
the busy-bodies that want to be at the centre
of almost everything!
the types that say: oh, me and my black friends...
what black friends?!
i had black schoolmates, i had a Jamaican marijuana
dealer who pushed me his rap record
while i listened to his mad ranting about
the Illuminati and seeing the face of Jesus in
a cloud at night, who wanted me to teach
his girl to play the guitar...
and now this Nigerian coworker...
                         am i supposed to be ******* friends
with people on a racial quota?!
do i ******* look like an interracial advert cuck?!

i've just been exercising... mein gott!
how refreshing... i need to get more of this stuff!
my mind is doing miracles on my well-being!

this is the year: i start say NO
to people, this is the year i apply the lesson i learned
from having met Dan...
my "supervisor"... for how long?
depends on whether i get paid...
2022... time to become a proper **** in real life;
i'll be nice... but only when i feel like it;
ooh... FEELZ., i like that very much.

p.s. 502 bad gateway bypass,
title: pardon pardon
body: meister meister: hersch.