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!

the sounds of the bagpipes
found their way through my window
I imagined them being played
as the Highlanders marched into battle

In that valley of death the Highlanders made their stand.
To live or die
but not retreat
in the Empire’s hour of need.
The British redoubts had been overrun by the Russians
in the desperate morning fight.
If not for the brave men of the Ninety third
The allies would be put to flight.
The Russian Calvary with sabers slashing
came at them from all points.
The highlanders were not dismayed
by the sound of the Lancers steel.
The thin red line wavered but held
then drove them from the field.
Their courageous stand has been sadly forgotten.
They were passed over by the Press.
For that same day the Light Brigade
were led to the slaughter next.

They said to buy local so I tried to buy Dave Cull’s lung.
But he wouldn’t sell it.
They said to buy local,
So I tried to buy Michael Woodhouse’ heart,
But it was out of stock.
The shop girl told me she would check out the back.
They said to buy local so I tried to buy Lee Vandervis’ hands,
He said he’d sell them to me but I tried them out and they had no grip.
The said to buy local so I tried to buy Harlene Haynes nose,
But it was already in something else.
(she told me it was malicious of me to ask and threatened me with defamation)
They said to buy local so I tried to buy the Highlanders cauliflower ears,
so I’d have enough florets for a salad,
But it turned out they weren’t organic, so I left it.
They said to buy local so I tried
They said to buy local so I tried
They said to buy local so I tried
And I tried
And I tried
And I tried

They said to buy local
-but between the dilapidated hospital and the drafty-damp flats there were no good organs to purchase.

Performing on Kepler social club

Hi everyone this is my song I will be performing today for you


If you want to party if you want to
Join the club
Party all day long and
I wanna knock on your door
Ring on your bell
Tap on your window too
You see Red Cross is coming
And they need a hand
Just knock and ring and tap
Untill you do
Hey the highlanders
It’s the game
Hey the highlanders
Be ****** brave
Hey the highlanders
Kick the opposition out
Welcome to the house of pain
Walking through a land
Where every living thing is beautiful
Why does it have to end

Thud Thud, The Boots of Warriors thunder onto the Boat.
Crash, Waves bang against the mighty longship.
Boom Boom, under the Jarls orders the drums of war sound.
Bang Bang, The mighty ships land on scottish shores.
***** *****, Viking Mail and shields clash with the Claymores of Highlanders
Bam, Bam, The chieftain and the Jarl do battle.
Bounce, the Jarl deflects the massive sword with his steel shield.
Whoosh, the Jarl has fallen to the ground, Will a sword clash with the Chieftains or does the Jarls Saga end in Valhalla.

i was once told: children & animals like you, a sign of being a good person - but here i am, going around with the axiom that can be found at the opening of Dostoevsky's the Karamazov Brothers lent from Faust: who are you? i am of that power that forever will evil & eternally works good... my modus operandi... i can't think of myself as benevolent: for benevolence i implore myself to find it spontaneously, on a whim... i adore the frivolity of chance & the 8 winds... in this realm of orbs in orbit: that imploded... when the stars explode... another favorite quote of mine... to angels - vision of god's throne... to insects: sensual lust...

from time to time my mother gets a visit from
a manicurist / pedicurist...
i was informed prior that she was coming
round with a friend of hers...
Ilona... i never have luck with women's names...
that she's breaking up with her husband,
living in England she built up a taste for some
exotica: if he wasn't black he must have have been
Indian... one child already: so i asked -
back to the orthodoxy of a schnitzel,
some beta-buck deluxe...
thank god i'm not making much money,
thank god i don't like having too much money
to spend, thank god i rather walk into Bower Wood
or Havering County Park... leaving Havering-atte-Bower
& emerging somewhere near Hainault or Chigwell Row...
i was to be scrutinised...
so i was... apparently she fancied a Scandinavian
physiognomy... do i have a Scandinavian physiognomy?
well... accents of leftover blonde...
moustache / what trim of hair below the lower lip...
soul patch...
i put on some vinyl...
wooden shjips 5... then some miles davis: kind of blue...
then maanam's night patrol...
standout tracks: love is like *****
& Krakowski spleen...
but i wasn't expecting to be a ******* nanny...
lucky me for being as cool as a cucumber
in the presence of 4 women...
sitting in front of about 7 prostitutes in a brothel...
well... gives you ***** like watermelons...
we talked about our adoration for Scots...
come new years eve these isles are awash
with lyrics of a Scot: aud lang syne...
i bemoaned that the Scots don't really speak
their language... oh sure... on the islands...
but they care much for the trilled-R rummaging
in accent than actual: language...
do the Scots have a concept of etymology?
even though the Welsh are ***-licking or rather:
licking the end of a stick with their union
with the English: they have this blind obedience
of keeping their language... why did the Scots
just focus on how differently they speak English?
great... what an accent! highlanders: singing...

4 women... the running joke started:
maybe you should start a nanny service...
since one was only 11 months old...
pulling faces... peering into those soulless eyes...
regrets? oh hell no...
i pushed the narrative: what's really different
between tending to children "vs." petting cats...
less fur... but as much unpredictability:
perhaps more with infants than cats...
one extreme: cats...
in the middle infants... somewhere a muzzle,
a leash: the dog...
we're not talking about rearing cows or
jiggling around cannibalistic chickens...

could i be a father? all toddlers look "androgynous":
just like all old people look the same...
well, "not the same": but there is a common thread...
it takes much time, much patience,
a lot of time spent not being coupled to a unit
that's beside the individual,
pulling faces... sticking out the tongue,
rummaging with raised eyebrows...
rereading Morse + Braille...
perhaps i have a regret...
not being able to see a little Frankenstein passed down...
accents of my features mingled with a mother...

ocean of free time (maanam) -
the children of strangers...
sitting in my lap...
intuitively she asked me for food: when she was hungry...
jesc... i'm pretty sure she said that word...
and how gloriously she expressed when she
started to feel tired... but couldn't fathom
the automation of impeding sleep...
she rebelled against sleep for a while...
she wanted to be awake... sleep finally conquered her...

Nietzsche: the tender hands of a cyclops....
black Madonna, black angel...
***** after *****: the head in smoke...
alcohol is flowing...
czarna Madonna, czarna aniol...

like the ancients Roman Caesars...
who were very willing to raise children not
of their own seed...
i can imagine myself being a stepfather...
i can... having frequented a brothel one can
fathom the promiscuity of women & allow it
to happen on the sly...
i just want enough silence & freedom
to read a ******* newspaper...
spend an hour typing... listen to music
utilizing headphones...
****-off into the night, watch the constellations...

obviously the finger she used for searching for
teeth in her own mouth ended up on my lips...
the beard finally arrived at the proper right
of fascination as she started to tug & pull at it...

lion...
          patriarch... but we're talking about
the relations between complete strangers...
my mother was getting a manicure & a pedicure...
i was a nanny for a 11 month babe... bambino...
then the thought: oh ****...
but what happens when they become
individuals... they learn to speak...
when you can't influence them?
when freedom overpowers freedom?
when you're no longer left with the sort of stagnation
impasse of petting animals?
what happens when thought arrives
& orientates counter to your original investment?

other peoples' children are fun:
for the spare hour, for the afternoon...
because there's the toddler...
or the clouds... or imaginary backgammon or chess
peering into a brick wall...
i don't know why animals & children like me...
come to think of it...
all the Medusa ugliness of sensuality...
great... sure... fun...
but i also have to...
   having a ******* in my arms...
having a toddler on my lap...
having my beard pulled....
            like only an uncoordinated shell of a future
being that's receptive...
receptive to the one dimensionality of
meaning,
the two dimensionality of exchange
& the three dimensionality of nuance...
metaphors, metaphysics... puns...

she started to mimic me clucking...
making onomatopoeias while fidgeting in my lap...
before i gave her a bottle of milk,
covered her with cushions
all prior to her hour's worth of snooze...
it would be so painful to have a bambino of my own...
i'd sooner gauge out my own eyes
than see the immediacy of the accents of
my genes being passed down...
i'd abhor seeing her or, him, make worse mistakes
than i have made...
fun when they're still blank slates...
cat-esque...
but not when they begin their adventure into
the realm of autonomy...

eh... not so bad with cats:
some ref. to a "stagnation" or...
how Kierkegaard posited: the changelessness of god...
itchy fingers though... this awkward little ****** body
the softness of her hair
so little of it... caressed to ease falling asleep...
the frown arrived at from tiredness....
i know, honey-bear... that you're tired...

what a Frankenstein i could possibly spawn,
the architecture of what's to become the supposed
holy grail of the sovereign individual...
best kept to bambinos of strangers...
not my own:
to think that i might **** up someone with my own
idiosyncrasies...
there's a freedom associated with tending to
responsibilities...
but there's also enough freedom available
when tending to having a Pontius Pilate approach...
i wash my hand clean of the tumult of impeding
affairs...

reading Rousseau for the first time: for the flirt...
somehow... it was impeding...
hanging like Damocles' sword...
or Ockham's razor...

i still don't recognise Warsaw as the capital of
Poland... maybe i should...
there's only Cracow:
i "think" that i come from "somewhere":
arguments... etymological faux pas antics...
Slavic derives the word Slave...
last time i heard: Slowo: word...
to be a wordsmith... but i can forgive
the Anglo-Saxons... because i can...
they still shy away from someone deriving
an ethnicity akin to... an Anglo-Slav...
irritating little addition of E?

γράφω σε Ελληνικά?
any better?
of all the languages that Latin loaned...
"loaned"... arrived at...
English... the only tongue without
orthographic distinctions...
the French have their acute E...
the Ninyo of the Spaniard's N...
lazy ******* *****... but i love them for their:
laziness...

there's this quote concerning
Charles Dickens' the Pickwick Papers...
the tragedy comes having read it...
great! i'll make sure to never finish reading it!
i'll read some books "on the side"...
Charles, though: makes this point about
orthography... surely to mention orthography
you need to employ diacritical markers...
you don't employ them...
orthography becomes a ****-show meaning
of what's otherwise excused with:
oh... he's dyslexic...
it's just a spelling mistake...
not that you might require an "extra" tau in words
like: fatter... better... but... it just looks
geometrically adequate...
"excess" consonant... Germanic tongues concerning
a Slavic tongue...
too many ******* vowels...
you Latin lend-overs...i raed: i red... i reed...
come on... savvy up...

there's no discussion... pop, mainstream is going one
way... but the under-currency of argument
is finding... the sea... the tidal wave...
the many veins of rivers...
nein!    nein!             nein mohr!
genug!                               mohr!

verlassen lassen mich sein!
   und nein! ich: ja!

come to "think" of it...
my mother would make a...
terrible grandmother...
my mother would make a *******
terrible grandmother...
thank god i don't...
i didn't allow my genes a pass...
i couldn't...
allow my genes to pass....
it hurt my heart...
when i learned that...
women were the only ones
who acknowledged a past...
she could keep her mother,
her father...
while the man had to erase his
past...
o.k. *******...
*******!
          
no.... butter i... *****-load...
pretty woman... pretty guess...
i'm not buying into the "idea":
sorry, *******...
my mother, is somehow...
less... than... a mother-in-law?
******* woman... **** this supposed
guise of existence...
now i have the power:
dodo power... i get to:
keep up with the blisters....
man-up... man-****-off!
i#'ll eat your whittle white nights.