Prometheus ignites to spark this
Molotov to make his Marxist
On swine Fuhrer's Faux News tweet
Hashtag it #GorbachevWallStreet
'Cuz Putin's puppet Pinochet's
Whipped Creme de Kremlin's CIA  
From JFK to Allende
Like Russian roulette ricochet
I'll Trotsky through McCarthy's brains
Leave slain these ****** sugar Keynes   
Discred' the Fed’s six-figureheads
With strikes at dawn more red than Debs  
Still breakin' breads with Mulan Bouges
Makin' men of Khmer Stooges
Seein’ Rouge when Al Spans Greens
Potemkin loan wolf ponzi schemes
Who count the sheep like Philippines
Then Black Pearl Harbor GRANMA’s dreams...

Of Marilyn Monroes in store
Just off-shore ****** who **** the poor
A Glass of Steagall's broken trust
Half emptier than bowls of dust
In rust beltways still spewin’ fumes
As factories become Khartoums
No carbon footprint tax the hint
Of Amazon decays in Flint
Just pop the caps and drown in debt
Like Kent State drinkin' to forget
That cuttin’ class engenders race
Leaves glory, gold and God's disgrace
To slaughter Moor than Reconquista  
From Marti to Sandinista     
With Zapata sharin’ crops  
Till my Mexica heartbeat stops

I'm Pancho infiltratin’ villas
The Magilla of guerillas
In the midst of Congolese  
Same colonies, just different thieves
To me, my breed’s of landless deeds
So how you like ‘dem Appleseeds?
FReeducatin’ caves of youth
Fed Citizen’s United Fruit
‘Cuz now my open eye of Horus
Battle cries Grito de Lares
Che is centered in these veins
So my Ashoka takes the reigns
These Iron paci-Fists pack hits
Like Jimi on some Malcolm ****
Still Hajj mirages I barrage
The Raj with sheer Cong camouflage

Deployin' Sepoys on viceroys
And pol desPots’ in the employs
Of Tweedledums who run the slums
With country clubs of loaded guns
These Betsy Deez bear arms to school
Till no kids fly kites in Kabul
So gas-mask your Sharia flaw
I'll Genghis Khan Sheikoun it raw  
'Cuz refugees are rising
And we're anti-socializing
Subsidizing private party plans
Who take commands from ***** hands
These grand old klans coup klux control
Your diamond minds with mines of coal
An oil Standardized existence
Solar powers my resistance

******* sun of Liberty  
My fear itself is history  
Rewriting wrongs of Leo’s creed
In culture’s blood and vulture’s greed
An alt-right/all-white cockpile   
Stockpilin' human capital
In tricklin’ contests over spoils
Of the cotton-ceded soils
Jingos chained to Cruci-fictions
Swallowin' good Christian dictions
I spit Spanish Inquisition
Trippin' Socrates sedition
Droppin' Oppen's fission quest
For "now I am become death"
'Cuz G-bay pigs in-Fidel's sites
Flew U-2's into my last rights

These Saddamites, I smite Assad
Then spread 'em like Islamabad
Convert for-profit prison tsars
From Escobars to Bolivars 
Like currency in Venezuela
Current police-state favela
Where 9/10th's of your possession's
Worth less than your Great Depression’s
Upscale bail ‘em outs of jail
With Dodd-Frank banks too big to fail
Your FDA-approved psychosis
From Campos’ daily dose of
More defense? Here’s my two cents
These slave wages ain’t excrements
So just say no to Reaganomics    
Got us hooked, but not on phonics

Just that Noriega strain
Of Contras stackin' crack contain
Like MAD dogs who trade weapons-grades  
For Ayatollah hate tirades
On “don’t ask, don’t tell” plague ebonics
Drug crusAID Jim Crow narcotics     
Warsaw rats injected, tested,
Quarantined, and then arrested
Guess the J. Arbenz' lens
Still Tet offends their ethnic cleanse
Still Wounding Knees of Standing Sioux
Till Crazy Horses stampede you   
For Mother Nature’s common ground
My Martin Luther’s gather ‘round
Is hellbound sounds of Nero’s crown  
Let's burn this Third World Reichstag down

Vox populyin’ to remove ‘ya
Like Lumumba then Nkrumah
So some Pumbaa kleptocrat
Declares himself the next Sadat
To hide supply-side Apartheid
Increase demand for genocide
So check your factions in Uganda  
Tune into Hotel Rwanda
Come play pirates with Somalis
Then desert ‘em like Benghazis
Thirst for blood so French Algiers  
It boils mine in Trails of Tears  
My destiny unManifest-
Oppressive Adam-Smitten West
So pay your overdues to Mao
I’ll Mussolini Chairman Dow

Then flood this 9th ward Watergate
With killing fields of glyphosate
I'll redistribute IMF’s
With Left so deft you’d think it’s theft
I’ll My Lai massacre these lines
With sweet Satsuma samurhymes
I'll make these Madoff Hitlers squeal
With that Bastille New Deal cold steel
Now feel that Shining Pathos wrath
Drop Nagasaki aftermath
On Nanjing kings and dragon’s Diems
With ****** bodhisattva zens
To show you how I pledge allegiance
With razed flags still rapt in Jesus  
Laosy liars pogrom psalms
Can’t Uncle Phnom my Penh’s truth bombs

On heroes shootin' ******
My fix is un-American
Tiananmen democracies
To Syngman Rhee hypocrisies  
Theocracies drive me Hussein
With Bush league’s mass destruction claim
So I dig laissez pharaohs graves
With pyramids of Abu Ghraibs
Then nail their coffers closed like Vlad
I AM THE GHOST OF STALINGRAD
My hammer forged in winters past
My sickle reaps the shadows caste
By pantheons of penta-cons
Whose Exxons lead to autobahns
When liberal Arts of War and Peace in
Free speech teach my voice of treason

At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'

Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.

Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.

Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.

In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.

Ahha!

Goodbye dictatorships, you're no good for anyone now, no more hitlers, no more chairman maos.

Goodbye dictatorships, no more killing, no more ruining lives, no more wars, no more fights.

Goodbye dictatorships, we don't want you anymore, you make people racist, you make people poor.

Goodbye dictatorships, you're time has passed, no more censorship, no more heads of states stealing all the cash.

Goodbye dictatorships, it is time for you to go, no more feeding propoganda, no more controlling what people know.

Goodbye dictatorships, and let freedom rule. Goodbye dictatorships, we don't want you. Goodbye dictatorships, let people break their chains, Goodbye dictatorships, and let anarchy reign!

Goodbye dictatorships, let people break their chains, Goodbye dictatorships, and let anarchy reign!

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

(- This is originally a spoken word poem. Read aloud for maximum exposure.
-Asterisks indicate the necessity to pop your cheek with your thumb.
-Answer the two questions correctly and I will give you a hug.)

He fell asleep while traveling time
where a true name
becomes everything else.
So please give me a minute to explain myself
through the doorways
that I see champagne on a windowsill
walking across the room with blue
and fine china feet
saying again and again
drink me.
Until somehow
the words become a song
singing and swinging the bottle like a dinner bell for thirst.
A kind that we've settled to quench
with television
and somebody else's dream.
So don't pour my drink.
I'm trying to uncork it with my thumbs.

POP

It's flat
and I still have a tongue
so I will use it and I
I will dream of a time
where ******
becomes a baby.
Dr. King becomes a baby.
Until the left and the right and every dead genius in between
becomes
a baby.


Tiny feet trying not to crush the wet salad of the lawn
because it is green,
like my heart
that has learned
how to break fine china.
From experience,
let me tell you
it's a lot more tiresome than a blue dream
but he fell asleep on a boxcar crossing Germany
where mustard gas
drowns you in your own lungs
and he tries to breath between the joints in the track

the

click
...                         
click
...
    clack

as years
hurtle by.

Asking again and again,

"Who killed me?"
           &
"Who am I?",

until dinner was served without grace.
Until my head becomes stiff and bubble shaped
having been conditioned by
their
piles
&
piles
&      mounds

of
obfuscation.


So we should tell all the baby Hitlers,
that become children
that become us,
that a lie
is what you become
when abusing language to distort a reality.

And when you make a fist
you are handing worlds out at random on a silver tongue.
But I still have one
and I still have thumbs
so sorry to burst your bubble but,

POP.

Child,
I don't mean to put
barbed wire
between us.  
I know it hurts
to have something so precious as the world
taken away.
But walls hurt worse
and through them only muffled sounds are ever heard
until your world is made of mute prisoners
that have forgotten what silver
really sounds like.

Blessed be
for I also have ears
so give me second place
and I will throw the medal against your walls.
Ringing out,
the universe doesn't look like an ebony tub,
with knobs we can't ever see,
full of infinite shining marbles to everybody.
Your mind
is a library
so free will isn't a book written in just English.
And tourists,
those know nothing infants trying to travel,
belong
where
           ever they
are
                             going.

Belonging like this medal bouncing trying to sing
off your wall
and
falls

into


your world.

Where again it will ring,

we've all been runner up

and somehow
we still can become disappointments to ourselves
when another doesn't enter our library
instead of loving the stories on our shelves.


So,
let me say grace.
Let me set l o n g tables
with the gruel that's been given
served on b  r                     n.
                         o
                           k  
                                        e          
china,
spooned
with sterling silver.

.'ere's a new 'un... hi'yah Oreo... hi'yah chockie; how's that?! any better? any more new ninja for the niq'b? no good? you're worse than ******... apparently there's no way to appease these people! they're all little Hitlers to begin with!

i drink, i fall down the stairs,
i flip a ******* pancake...
big deal...
   there's always the outlasting
expectation of a tomorrow...
drinking... hmm...
what if i'm not bashing
a woman about...
instead commenting
on the curry i just cooked
for my mother, like was Ed Gein
wannabe?
         funny...
it "suddenly" became silly to be
of natural birth parameters...
suddenly being naturally born
became a disability...
free ride amputee if you haven't
been born via a womb...
yeah... well done...you *******
gonna go against everything decent
in our lives?
yes? no?
yes no? yes no? no yes? no yes?
yes no yes no no no yes no yes?!
make your, ******* mind up!
black panther *****...
i want to be Spawn rather than
Batman...
****-a-doodle-do?!
the ****'s this ****...
howlin' wolf?!
(but Batman has the better jokes...
what's your super-power?
i'm rich... ha ha...
can''t beat that crap-oh-oh...
turn Morse into Braille...
i dare y'ah; giggles... abrupt).
yeah...
so the Gen Z are the flashy new
cwowd?
really?
   so the Millennial pundits
are still milking that cwowd?
the ones who... have...
no... knowledge... of the... workforce?
those cool kids?!
really?!
             wait... giggles a'coming...
ah ha ha ha ha ha ha!
it's U2... hold me, thrill me,
kiss me, **** me...
gen Z?
         as served up by millennial
commentators...
you're kidding, right?!
money who money what?!
   the punchline comes with....
me? aging to the prune ripe age of 70
like my communist party member
grandfather with a retirement
security?
  what?
    i don't want to make it past
50!
****... **** hitting 40!
i want the African subscript of life...
give me the life expectancy of some random
African...
reduce me to an obstacle...
and let's get it over and done wtith...
i'm done...
            i'm engaged in the dodo project...
i'm through with what's currently happening,
what Nietzsche called:
imagine, speaking for the entire human race...
*******!
               i'll drink my beer,
live my life, die by death...
and...
   well... it's your ***** donation
to the infertility bank, isn't it?
so why should i care?!

- i'm pretty sure that backdoor man,
originally sung by howlin' wolf,
covered by the doors..
was about **** ***....
then again... who gives a ****
whether i'm right or wrong...
i'm pretty sure that i don't -

rizzle kicks -
  mama do the **** -

funny...
where are all the progressive
leftists, etc. and more etc.
going to get their counter
arguments...
  when the standards,
the right-wing woks,
the whites
are bred out?
cannibal cannibal cannibal
that ******* down?!
let's see how Samuel Jackson
feels about his pretty dough
feels about dating
            the next Lebanese
liberal cousin...
please... breed the stereotype out...
the o' whitey...
  breed us out...
find the next fertile ground
for the next shock offense
   harvest of turnip-heads...

**** me... i'm digging this sort
of crap...
   i'll do the dodo dance...
you do the:
coming from the semi-caste
new brigade of offense central...
******, come, come;
i wanna see the new rainbow
juice... and...
whatever their dependency is
to don the straitjacket,

Streets filled with bodies
Dead or alive
Nobody knows
Blood runs through the streets
Like floodwater
Innocent blood
Flows like runoff
Through concrete veins
But only because we let it happen
Because of judgement
Because of ignorance
Because of prejudice
Prejudice that we carry over
From our predecessors
The violence and hatred of our ancestors
Continues on through us
But only because we let it happen
Because our naïveté lets us see the world
As monochrome
Everyone belongs in one solid genome
Straight white cis
So they lock us up in a cage of exile
Invalidate the opinions that don't sit well
On a stomach full of lies
So we stand in solid lines
Hands locked together
Silently screaming
NO!
With the ******* hidden in their claims
It hurts but the pain isn't enough to break our chains
At least until the weakest link caves
And the flood gates open up
Our nerves sting with rubber bullets and tear gas
Police brutality and 'controversial' crowd control tactics
Resulting in the blood of innocents.

The truth comes out
Oppression
Recession
We deliver new life
Spoon feeding democracy
Cookie cutter
Build your own government kits
Follow the instructions with a gun held to your head
Puppet government
Corporations pulling strings
Calling the shots with a mouthful of greed
Blaming tragedy on street rats with golden teeth
Hiding behind business suits and briefcases
Pay no attention to the man behind the curtains
Take part in the rat race
Get distracted by the fast pace
Pay attention to your own **** problems
And forget to see the big picture.

Another ride on the metro
Catcalls and wolf whistles
To the wrist to the neck to the ankle
I'm breaking the dress code
The double standards are air tight and unbreakable
I'm stuck in the choke hold of the patriarchy
Kicking and screaming
Perverts jacking off to the sight of me
Objectified, and only fourteen
Take precautions stay safe
Because we have reason to be afraid of the dark
When we have to assume that everyone is a ******
The world is out to get us
Plaguing the younger generation with pop music and photoshop
Shellshocked by the devastation of self confidence
Short hair means you're a ****
Long hair means you're property
The American dream is four walls a roof and a wife to call your own
To own
****** assault is normality
I'm appalled at the way my peers think I owe them something
My virginity
My body
I'm not a carcass to be picked clean by vultures:
The beasts who sit next to me
Who view me as a threat because I'm intelligent
A ***** because I'm intolerant to their ignorance and oppression
The gender roles and discrimination
Objectification
A one woman war
That every woman faces.

Hopelessness stands at the alter
Spouting discrimination
Dug from the depths of the bible
New age bigotry
Picket signs versus pride parades
Spot the queer in the crowd
Wipe them out
We are not a virus of humanity
Your hateful words aren't the only thing that cuts me
When coming out equates to ear splitting arguments
"Get out of my house"
"you are not my son"
LGBT blood on the streets
****** of trans teens
Pop culture is enemy to androgyny
*** education skips over me
And change is met with board meetings
Conservative parents complaining
Claiming they know better than the mouths they feed
Age is not a crown of wisdom
The 21st century witch hunt
Discrimination spills from the mouths
Of little Hitlers
Screaming "God hates ****" before they know what the words mean
Wrap my coffin in a rainbow flag
When they find my mangled body on the street
The product of a hate crime
The product of the war I'm fighting
Brittle bones riddled with stab wounds
Every one carries weight with the words they were paired with
Queer
***
******
I don't have invisible amour
The words pierce me in a way that can't be seen
My blood leaks silently and joins the masses.


We are a generation so full of hatred
Promised so much that wasn't delivered
And so we raise our hands and salute the mother ******* rebellion
Our sweet saving grace
America isn't free and neither are we
We are slaves to misogyny and bigotry
Police brutality
Crafty government puppetry
Patriarchy
The enemies that we face aren't the ones we see
Well **** society
We can create our own
Carry in the revolution on our shoulders
On our knees
Plastered across our twitter feeds
We fight with words
With fists
Whatever it takes
Speak out across our dashboards timelines and comments
Word of mouth
Engrave them into your skin
What was started needs to be finished
We have a price to pay



It's time for a revolution *****.

title: vox
body: hybrids
    a 502 bad gateway bypass

any man can "appreciate" genuine weakness...
men are fair: not fair creatures of beauty
but: FAIR... we know that something might upset
an equilibrium, we wouldn't be the ones
originally choked up in our ivory towers
of alchemical curiosity...
       yes... life is unfair... god is cruel...
but out of this cruelty came everything...
   i can somehow start to begin to understand
the anguish of nothing: nothing being a god's pronoun:
ego... if it might be called that...
i try meditating on the idea of nothing...
but nothing is a pronoun... i'm actually incapable
of conjuring up a substitute noun for this pronoun...
"ingenious" man actually categorised
the word: nothing as a pronoun and not a noun...
nothingness... i would think of it as a quality-ascription...
id est: an adjective...
i forgot to take a shower yesterday...
mein gott: how i must have stank...
first thing today... a trickle... ****... i was almost
going to write dribble... watched too much football...
a trickle of whiskey... took a shower...
washed my ****... it felt like a baptism all over...
now i'm smelling good... the whole world feels good...
now i'm going to mow the lawn... vacuum the house...
wash the floors... blah blah...
i can understand authentic powerlessness...
it comes off as endearing: for the person to reciprocate...
i like the tenderness of powerlessness...
i see it... fear i can sniff out...
but authentic powerlessness i can see...
they cling to me... like i cling to a double-decker bus
making a traffic interruption... i cling to a larger
body... like a barnacle to a whale...
i use a bus to squeeze through...
   a traffic symbiosis... a cyclist and a double-decker
bus... always on the right side of the bus...
so the bus driver can see me in his rearview mirror
(it's England... we drive logically...
******* clockwise! clockwise on the roundabout!
the rest of the world makes no sense
riding on the right side of the road!
leftie! oi oi! leftie!)
    i can understand genuine weakness...
it's endearing in that... sure... i can take care of it...
comfort it... i don't mind...
BUT... hmm...
         there's another weakness...
a disguised kind...
                    it's a weakness within a weakness...
if that makes sense...
it's a shady sort of weakness... it's... trivial weakness...
it's not a physical or a mental disability...
it's... ahem... mediocre... mediocracy...
          it consists of weak people...
   being placed into a hierarchy... exercising:
too much authority... without actually having any...
not in the real sense... not if i were to walk out
from the illusion-allure that man has created
to combat nature... not if she's mouthing me off...
being... what? 5ft2 and weighing 60kg...
while i'm 6ft2 and weighing 100kg...
   (i'm a hybrid... imperial units and those French
000 are ingrained in me, just like i'm
bilingual)... see... i... i despise that...
                 i could head-**** her dead...
                  i could flay her... or him... i don't like
people abusing power... but this is not even "power"...
but certain WEAK people have this ingrained
authority complex... built in... they "think" they
can boss others about... genuine weakness i understand:
i will protect... well... because i'm not a ****...
as much as i'd love to follow the principles
of nature... c'est la vie... let the suffering continue...
you never know: something good might come of it...
the living, or the suffering?!
good question... perhaps even both...
all it takes is finding a new tune... i mean: song...
the world dramatically changes...
for my part... it does...
             but WEAK people who start... busy-bodying
themselves at some pointless level of
authority... that bothers me...
i get glitches in my head... unconsciously i start
to twitch... twitch... glitch... twitch... glitch...
i start to hear these senseless authoritative voices
of: absolutely no authority...
                 ego-tripping weaklings...
                       genuine weakness i'll defend...
but... this sort of... mollusk-ego strong-arm pretend?
no... i can't sniff it out... it doesn't have a scent
unlike fear... fear has a scent... and wide eyes...
but this sort of weakness doesn't give off a scent...
it's purely optical... it truly ****** me off...
when: given a little bit of a taste of power...
certain people turn into these... little Hitlers...
they are... little Hitlers...
               ******* busy-bodies... and how they counter
it? they try to be ultra-friendly...
workaholic banter... no... i will not be breaking
bread with you... any time soon...
that's my respectable criteria...
if i eat food with you: implies: i respect you...
in the meantime? i'm much happier eating alone...
Wendy's... the only burger place where you
can feel... "not alone" when eating alone...
there's a genius at work when it comes to spatial
dynamics in that parlour... i swear to god...
i get off my shift... i feel like eating a burger...
i go to a Wendy's... wow... i have transparency...
i eat alone... two African women next to me
talking about village life... in... Nigeria?
they're less "tanned" than what i'd expect
from two Kenyan ladies... life's good...
life's what it is... a bit of everything...
there are the highs... there are the lows...
obviously the whiskey doesn't stop flowing...
or the flow of narrative... that **** just keeps on coming...
you just better be awake when the flow comes...
again... i hate this weaklings who take up positions of
authority... without any clear-cut weakness
other than: them being mediocre... human... beings...
it's not like they're in a wheelchair
evil genius types... no... they're just grey matter...
****** little people who don't have the capacity
to find passion in the simple do and don'ts of
life... what are they? regurgitated all-sorts?
what are they? busy-bodies...
the sort they are? they need to over-complicate
matters when no matter is in need of
(it) being over-complicated...
                                       i stroke my beard...
pretending that i'm about to play the violin...
genuine weakness i can understand...
i'll defend it... why wouldn't you?
but... this sort of... weakness... when allowed
to effortlessly ensue "power" through a structure
of a power hierarchy... no...
   i'll wait... what i've learned... i'm good at waiting...
Jeminah is the perfect example...
charm offensive... blah blah...
         flowers on Valentine's Day...
if she's not gig... i'm not gig...
          i'll wait... i can become a manipulative
little ******* if i want to become one...
   i just keep a reel of New Order's: Blue Monday
in the back of my head...
well... if i'm supposed to feel like this....
now... you feel: what i feel....
                oddly enough: so far?
i have managed to get a few people on my side...
it's, doesn't, matter... whether you're a woman
or not... the woman card is NOT, a joker card...
see where throwing slander about gets you...
you never get to accuse the accuser...
                             little people... little things...
very little that might make a dent into matters that...
might matter.

1.complete th bridge to the moon started by
Jules Verne and raise the Nautilus..

2.Rebuild the colossus of Rhodes to spec.

3.Take a trip to John Gotti's summer home and split a bottle of Boones
Farm apple wine with him and Emelia.

4. Pull a small sample of bone marrow from Hitlers shriveled corpse for a
Little cloning project that I have been working on.

5.get a head count on all the politicians in the capital who don't consider
Their position a life long free ride with no accountability to the masses..

6. Resurect the cold fusion argument.

7. Run a sub 2 minute mile.

8.kick Tysons but with my right hand tied.

9.mix the perfect martini

10. Start all over again.

She was stripped and ***** before millions,
       but she made herself believe it was not us but few aliens;
why else do you think she stands ***** gathering all her resilience,
       to provide us food, oxygen and shelter throughout the four seasons.

Every night, she wonders about her fate at dawn,
       Would she be able to greet the sun with that lazy yawn;
Her mates are dead in a battle they had forgone,
       Now, she awaits her turn, death is pleasing than being forlorn.

Consumed with fear, the leaves once fresh, now greyed and withered,
       She is too pained to decide whether to fight or stay a coward;
Before the first cut of axe, she asks “what have I erred?”,
       But we have long since lost our sensitive hearts, her cries are left unheard.

What goes around comes around, do we realize that?
       Every tree lost makes the world less amiable to adapt,
having brutally sinned, are we ready to face the impact?
       Our acts let them bleed; now let’s get ready to don their hat.

We can’t give birth to a battalion to fight the nature’s army,
       Coz our Hitlers and Napoleons are no match for their blazing heat or tsunami.
These are conflicts, which cannot be resolved by a bishop or an attorney,
       we are adhered to doom when the nature says “the war is between you and ME”.

The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago; the second best time
is now – a Chinese proverb

at what point wasn't it a way to bypass
the editorial scrutiny...
to directly engage with a reading
public...
why did i think this might be: any good?
i guess i only thought:
i need this out and i can't stash it
like a corpse...
into some damp cellar... like a morally
relativistic monstrosity of a sociopaths'
analogy of: "feels"...
   well, no **** Sherlock!
how i made the following reply...
is beyond me:

- believe me... i had more to write but i felt a sense of restraint... i'd like to see what a terse reply would make you focus on... so i'm scrapping the concept of handicap: heads up... now it all depends what you'll be choosey about... or not... because there's plenty in you reply i could quip about... well... then again: is being witty synonymous with being satirical? i'm not for intelligent / condescending humour on my part... personally i love the dryness of sarcasm... but then again: what's to like about the bluntness of nail-heads? just my take on... what exactly not to like about schadenfreude (what's not to like about schadenfreude)... i'd much prefer a humiliation of a leather gimp suit... so it seems: honesty is the best joke in play... there are too many stereotypes in England too... the best one i heard was by my Glaswegian english teacher in school... ahem... how was copper wire invented? two Scots arguing over a penny... like the stereotypical arsenal of deciphering the Jewry run wild in the realm of the gentiles... with the Scots... being our prized asset of: reverse stereotyping... i guess because knowledge of poor Hebrews is either a mystery or taboo... worse still... a mythology... and here i promised myself restraint... yet i'm experiencing something of a writing block and i... most probably found the most surprising alternative outlet... the eroteme lady - ms. query... so there must be nothing concrete about you... well... i too remember being a teenager prior to 2000 on those hotmail chatrooms where the acronym ASL could get you... all hot & bothered... don't take this the wrong way but i've heard that most writers, poet (i'm a chicken scratching doodler at best) reverted to the medium of correspodence... lucky you, "lucky" that i'm testing the waters on you... but don't worry... i've tested the medium with other people and wondered about their stamina... you are starting to gravitate toward psychiatrist status...  it's so strange though... not writing on abstract... blank... rather: inform sender... it's to them... all that *******, romantic or not... about writing for that one person... sure... **** it... write 'em a letter... don't mind about that trippy-*** poem of yours... you know? apologies if you come across as something of a punching bag for sounds... i hope no typos... well typos can be excused... ah these ****** articles about... wait wait... momentary lucidity... i was going to use some of this in my way of combating my writing block... the troubles in the english language... spelling... "approximation" drop the vowels realise: that's how the Hebrews wrote all along... treating their vowels like diacritical markers... the ****?! i feel like i'm being robbed in plain sight... because Copernicus didn't ******* realise jack-****... they pile it up with their Pope and the execution of ******* Galileo...  ugh... it takes some ******* nerve for these days to allow for this ****-centred kindergarten of events in man's... non-evolving history to continue like some: no ******* dodo exctinction ever took place... (agreed... the following are all faux pas... "invigorations") honey? babe? ms. anonymous gender fluid pronoun neutral... what's the informal, best? ms. avatar ms. harleyquinn the world's stupid? what are american stereotypes of europeans? come to think of it... that cookies is too big to take a bite from... you can't exactly base stereotypes having only seen tourists... since a tourist is a stereotype per se... i'd have to go to california... to get a californian stereotype... to georgia for the georgian stereotype...  wait a minute... Costa Rica... "hint hint"? Latino? that wasn't exactly... it was a fork in the road... the Sephardi... you're working from an avatar canvas... you're making allusions to... what i look like and it's like i'm a mesmerising doppelganger of al pacino... is there a chicago accent? i heard a lot of the ****** diaspora was lodged in that *******... i was terrible at accents... almost always a chamaleon... people still ask me where i'm from... so like this one-stand-up comedian in Edinburgh said... when he was quizzed about the geography of his accent... 'you might recognise my accent... it's... educated'... now that's that... isn't it? i could fake you an indian accent if i wanted to... perhaps a german accent too... but i could fake it... by the way... in these parts... biligualism can be treated as schizophrenia... just saying... somehow integration is not fully deserving the status that: not integrating decides... because... not integrating is... "safety first"... the dodo project alliance...  least of all... i've been dying to by a baseball cap with the Cleveland Indians old logo with chief wahoo... so stereotyping americans... it's beyond hard... it's like stereotyping Russian that are not in the vicinity of Moscow... some are probably Mongol remnants... their own idiosyncratic solipsists to their own... i'll take up my bicycle tomorrow and this drunken tirade will most probably fizzle out... i truly couldn't make up giving a toss about what's internalized americana stereotyping... not that i don't care... i just don't know... the currency of the nation sends me years and years of Ed Gein reinterpretations... what am i supposed to "say"? tomorrow i'll be up early and bothered about my bicycle as if it were a horse... but i'll still want to retain gravity with leaving you with this frankness of a reply... lobster-red probably implies if not simply implores: ginger and freckles... i like to think of suntans as serpents shedding skin... i suntan i'm a copperneck... i like the german sound on this... plus... it's readily available as compounded: kupfernacken... what's better? auburn-tease? kastanienbraunecken? i like the joy you feel with what you already prescribed me with.. that i know so little about you... that while i'm prodding you withhold giving me concreteness.... concreteness would allow me... disadvantage me to focus on "things" that are absolutely not necessary... so: i can focus on whether i'm not being pedantic enough and: misspelling...so... what's the stereotype surrounding Alaskan gurls?!

- thanks for being ascribed in getting my "mojo" back...for now...

- What do you mean? I'm surprised this is the shortest message you've sent. I was getting used to your drunk musings. [I say this with a smile but I know you don't like emojis or silly acronyms, and writing out "laugh out loud" sounds ridiculous... after all, you know how important sounds are to me].

- you just asked one of those questions that... is aligned with asking... 'what are you thinking'? the moral 'ought compass waved me a goodbye and if i haven't broken any laws to pursue the sort of freedom of though i currently enjoy... bypassing the need so stress a "freedom" of speech... writing is an extension of thought: not a prompt / invitation to speak... i'm surprised that you scrutinise the length of my replies... and were we to begin with? in the "easily offended" pile-up? well i'm still getting drunk... you're still an avatar mystery... but at least i'm waging a war on prosaic sobriety to boot... i guess i had to come clean at some point... i never write sober... i don't see the point of being: disengaged from the genuine (a longer version of a one word would have sufficed... but i'm lazy about the spelling... while at the same time... there's this critical theory approach done in some of the newspapers about english spelling... let's see if i get it right... dis-in-genius... for starters... disengenous.. horrid... aaah so terrible... dis-less-advantageous... disadvantageous... oh **** me... i wriggled into that one: all sound and proper...why ask me: what do i "mean"? - it's not that i don't like emojis (well, i don't) but... what the hell... there are better hieroglyphs to focus on than chiseled into pyramid stone: own... happy face... the Chinese were doing ******* x-ray gizmo **** at almost the same time... it's a focus loss... don't even get me started that *** = a Parisian hello with tendering the cheeks with... a labyrinth of smooches... my lips are my pouches blah blah blah... you seem to be enjoying my rants... i gather? i don't even know why to bother with an ask (question doesn't even do justice to how i'm framing this)...  you want to write as little as possible to properly excavate me... well no surprise... if light can't bend around corners... i'll have a look: none-the-less... emphasis on the hyphens... this poor down-trodden word could be helped with some "breathing space"; no? i "mean": 霜... shoo-aang... frost... i have dancing skeletons throwing toothpicks at chopsticks pilled up in an area of pine wood... look at this sort of *******... and here we are... cradling one of the old languages with "holes in letters"... to peer through... O now i see... B: otherwise: ha, ha ha ha... what's **** in Chinese? the Greek prized π... but what P & I look like for a farting, mandarin? hey presto: "@"... not even a western concern for "patriarchy" could have complicated: what's already too complicated... a billion people... a wall... that didn't keep out the Mongols from invading... yet a phonetic encoding system that... would topple each and every pyramid... from Giza to the cleaving of South America from Africa that can be staged at some Aztec "miracle"... i am writing (to) you like a bewildered person... because: why wouldn't i otherwise not be? so what do i mean? hmm... what's that holy trinity of statistical terms... mean... meridian... mode? i think i remember correctly... thank god i'm not going to apologise for being drunk... i've heard the stereotypes of drunkards with no future for thirst... the other thirst... the thirst for something beside their own handicap... i'd also duly convert to Islam too... i was cycling past a mosque and heard the most impossible sound of praise that will never escape me... but by the bottle i did: closer to the Jewry i am... contradictory how that is... don't want to stop drinking... uncircumcised... it's a really magical juggling act that's littered with self-deprecating humour interludes... aligned with norse mythologies... grr... **** me... now i'm attempting to "sell" you a makeshift tinder profile sketch... don't know... never will... never used: don't ask...  but i forgive you... for asking me: what does "it" all mean? it means we're for the thrill of it... it makes sense if we're still gagging for it... and we're not exposed to old-age closure cinematic scripts of solo cinema of memory... i like typing because i have itchy fingers... you'd probably like to hear me speak... no? it's exactly 20 minutes past midnight and i have a date with a bagel at 9am tomorrow morning... i still want another injection of truth in me before i do the  lady nox some justice and sleeping with her fiendish daughters... i mean... who does that... wake you up with a hard-on? never mind... i don't even know how to end this "convo": it can't be with a farewell... or an adieu... or a サヨナラ... oh wait... that's "goodbye, forever"... how does one end a half-way between a musing and a real person on the replying end of "things"... i guess like this: NARA... ナラ... short for narazie...  translated from my mutterzunge as: perhaps loosely... for the time being... for now... how else... to end my tirade?!

- So let me get this a bit straight (as straight as a stray arrow, that is): you only write when you're drunk (I'm the luckiest one to be at the listener - or reader in this case - end of your tirades as you call them... I call them musings); you have a fixation with words, even the ones that you don't know how to spell correctly (except maybe in a language I don't know so I can't really tell), you didn't answer why I'm ascribed to getting your mojo back (where did it go?), and you wake up with a hard-on. Got it!

- i've been lodged into a backlog: ******-town sort of: stalling... give me a few hours... although: ever wonder what: giggles sounds like... in the deafness of the night? i do... i want to reply you like so... like now... like this... maybe i will... maybe i will not... i'm gaging to buy one of those cleveland chiefs baseball caps...the grinning siouxsie chieftan....perhaps i want to relearn "how to": take the GRIN... a little bit more... seriously... no? **** it... i'm drinking as it is... i want to reply you in full throttle... straight arrows... and the welsh V of the longbow-men too to boot... chopsticks straighter... "straighter"... i tend to only write when i'm drunk... i abhor sober prosaic intimidation and... all the lies, subsequently...sober people don't get "drunk" on moral relativism of white lies? and i'm born yesterday, no? you openly venture into... a quest of question within the regards... of being... this only.... i almost wanted you to feel this sort of... an alienating increment... of... how i might pile on more detail... they are musings... i don't take them seriously... about as much relax as is a required: necessary.... i have a fixation with words... jurisprudence to me is merely a game of thesaurus ploy-tow... i spell i don't spell... i'm overtly pedantic... i also felt queasy when testing my eyes at an authentic testimony of the "law"  being "exaggerated"... "tested"... "proved"..i must have: lying eyes... no other eyes do see... no? i have a fixation with "things" beside the usage of ***** and strobe lighting...

you have my attention... don't you? you know... the last time i attempted having a conversation... i was too naive...too young... everything "everything" applied itself to being too predictable... i want to love again: but being in love is almost a weakness... i don't feel like being weak... i guess this is where the rekindling of my "mojo" ends... hello cul de sac...

new paragraph... ever hear(d) of the alpha and the omega "man"? i'm pretty sure you heardf of mr. beta... for all the worth of a totality of... man... i'm last... i'd forever be... last... i don't want to be first... i also don't want to be 2bd sniffing **** and crab-meat-... either...

give me the totality... i'll be satisfied with a "question" of
last... hence the expression: omega man...
didn't hey-zeus say?
i'm the alpha and the omega?

i don't write sober, i'n afraid i might lie...
you're not lucky,..
but you're also not... godzilla....

i "somehow" haven't ascribed you with the sort of details of: explanation that would allow you... to satiate yourself with answers... as to how... why... yllu managed to "mojo" probe me back to life? you.. the Faroe Islands to begin with? you know... they have this gimmick... on the Faroe Isles... it's not a gimmick... it's called// i don't know what's it called... skúvoy? but i'm happy to tease when the whales are slaughtered... the the blood comes a running: the lions also... apparently tease with a yawn... look at this word, though: grindadráp....

ever catch the giggle im der nacht? nein? too italian... no? ******* borrowed pollack: the self-depreciating... loan... not load... of bollocking...

don't believe yourself as being the sole recepient of a reply...

you're not lucky... you're just... available...

terribly botherome... isn't, it?

- i thought i'd make this a two tier reply... it would be a shame to reread what i wrote on one of my "escapades"... perhaps this... hanging-over... ha'h... more like hung, drawn & quartered some time to time... but believably sane, pleasantly morose - at evens with masochism... so reclining into a moral trip-up... i probably mentioned grindadráp - since i still have the window open on the phrase i'm familiar with... Sámal Joensen-Mikines... i most probably ended up giggling in the night... god... i'm just skim reading what i wrote... well good to know that i can only the best thing and sober up: simultaneously returning to a more rigid, conventional... formal use of language: that i might suppose i'm in a confessional booth... a welcome mirage for the time being... while i decide to wither away watching the old firm (a derby soccer match between celtic & rangers)... of note... i had this argument with the natives so time ago... the... Celts... but it's the Boston / Glasgow Çeltics... no? you're a girl that likes sounds... i've been following this current discussion that has reached the heights of printed newspapers... citation, sian griffths (gwif-if-if-ififs) education editor: new spelling ROOLS to make english more predictable for pupils... "we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the feelds..." see... i really admired Charlie Bukowski for a while... until he came out as a lazy slob who would require an editor to correct his spelling... there's dyslexia and there's just plain: hash-browns... for all my worth of idiosyncrasy that i wriggle in as i go along, most of which will not find common ground and a cosmopolitan outlet of users... for me, as someone who acquired this tong'u: i've grown fond of how aesthetically messy this toong can become and how readily available this messiness is... even London can become a ****-joke: Loon'dune... in my mutterzunge sounds are more distinct... apart from the graphemes sz, ch, cz, rz (ż) - i'd have to borrow from a Czech a caron to hide a letter or two: š (sz / the equivalent SHarp in english) and č (cz / CHatter respectively)... all these unique sounds... ą, ę, ć, ń, ó, ś, ź - Wombat ł... anyway... i just thought, sobering up... that you'd like to have a certain bulging volume of fudge to return to... before i take another dive into ms. amber and pass another night as w. h. auden wrote: only the hitlers of this world write at night... sure... herr auden... because the day is for watching football and / or cycling.

- à propos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-L5iefl2QtA

- If you share music can I? I'm sorry that I didn't reply sooner. It's been a **** last week and this week isn't any better yet. I like reading your messages, drunk and sober. When I write in my native language I use the accent over the vowels to emphasize the second-to-last vowel of a word. I love speaking, reading and writing in my native language, though I'm sure that I know much less than you would about languages. Shall we continue talking about sounds? How about sounds in my language? Of course, you have to guess if you haven't already.

- mind you: i had second thoughts about writing this reply... perhaps you can judge for yourself... i'm just not into having double-mystery encounters with an "avatar"... plus i made an emphasis on the point... what music were you not going to share?

sure... but first share your music... i have this thirst for Nick Hornby's high fidelity and being a teenager again... a teenager in love, again...i was probably the most happy-go-anywhere sort of person when i found a vinyl copy of Wardruna's kvitravn in my local HMV... which is: sunrise records and entertainment ltd trading as hmv & fopp.... given i already have the other chapters on cd - copied into mp3... (runaljod - yggdrasil & gap var ginnnunga)...  and given it's so rare to fnd a vinyl of this calibre... that some vinyls comes with an mp3 link... i thought: hell... i'll give this record the proper 3D aura treatment and not listen to it on headphones... or utilise it to "conquer" space... & just walking with it across a market sq. without a plastic bag to stash it in... i might as well have walked with a cat on my shoulder... because... who the hell still buys... well... invests in vinyl? now... coming to the language...second-to-last vowels of  word... you know... you can keep me interested without overplaying this "mystery" game... isn't the use of an avatar enough? i really can't comprehend a language that focuses on second to last vowels... without focusing on vowels: per se... just to reiterate... you didn't share a link to some music... you pitted yourself as American... i can continue being interest without having too many enigmas to sort... i have yet to find a language that only applies accents to, e.g. suppOsE... or maybe i'm just too ignorant to have come across a language that behaves in such a way: unless it's some idiosyncratic variation (of it)... you don't have to remain a complete mystery to me for me to keep engaging... there can be some sort of rooting in reality... otherwise i'll just return to my original purpose of writing: staging myself against a blank canvas and a barrage of sounds that i'll need to "un-spaghetti" into linear streaks.... i'm not going to guess: you'll either tell me or not... i'm currently listening to snake-pit poetry: einar selvik... any one can have a ****** week... for a while i was anticipating you testing whether or not i'd reply not getting a reply from you... and that, somehow, miraculously... i'd continue to creep-up to teasing you again... perhaps that's me dabbling in misnomers... no... you'll need to give me something concrete... i'm already starting to itch with a sensation that i better return to the canvas than keep this conversation... no offence... it's just draining me when something abstract could also be doing: likewise... but it wouldn't end up being a ****-tease... i could possibly create something out of it... not just so more: oh... oh? ** **: what's next?! i know when it becomes a brain-drain... a side project... it has to come with an excuse whereby you'll probably recoil with: but i had a ****** week... granted... but who hasn't...  you could have waited another week until participating in the timeframe of the passing of weeks started to feel good once more... if you only dropped a music suggestion... otherwise... thanks... but... no... this conversation is going nowhere... i think i'm just relocating my writing block elsewhere... all the best: in keeping an aura of mystery... within the realm of avatars and non-accountability... come to think of it... no... this is as fair as i could be.

this supposed "unique" specimen... not really...
i want to focus on what allows me to belong:
beside the unfathomable landmarks
of trees and mountains:
roaming stars that even my demented
grandfather corrected himself on...
satellites... no... roaming stars?!
well... i didn't conjure this **** out of my own
*** for pleasure, either...

back towards... falling asleep while listening
to the Hellraiser soundtrack:
hellbound...
because eerie is how:
i how how: "things"...
i'm so alone at times that it's beyond making
sense: it's about infringing on a god-stature...
status... this omniscient
contradiction that some Elijah bundled up
into... two crows croaked...
the tower of London can entertain 6:
so the king's ******* and the queen's
jewels are left intact...
for the successor to worry about...

we have these conversations but too bad
the girl is playing timid...
and i'm... gargantuan...
the length of a tongue that turns into an eel...
hands like octopus extension...
i could wrap her up in... bubblewrap
and start the puncture pinch-pinch ceremony
of not seeing the bubble float: up-up...

i have a sense of ego like...
a bad l.s.d. trip?!
****-guage-abuse? gauge? sort the ones
for the snoozing zero-toasts
and you have yourself
a new jersey smart: bite-off... not bit... though...

i could never have children:
not because i could never be a good father:
but i'd be a terrible husband...
how do i "know"?
i would never allow myself
to earn the amount:
she'd want to spend...
via solo: i'll spend on ms. cojack amber
and some ******* liquorice vinyl...
and a bicycle...
rubber-teasing: ****-teet-****....
when using the brakes...
when minding my ******* "luck"
on a roundabout with a massive twuck...

plus i'd love to **** more...
i'd love to **** as much more as
the thought-"taboos" discourage me
from doing... so it's a nice adventure: thinking
the next: moral antagonist, antithesis
of "could i"?
central theme? Lo-li-t'ah...
and i'm the second from third removed
uncle of the marquis de sade...
you want... you need... you have to orientate
yourself around the last taboo...
the one that's not associated with...
crispy clean antics of those *******
in their savvy leather gimp suits etc.

"power to the people": *******...
power to who owns what...
i'm starting to conjure up
profanities akin to:
but at least when they owned slaves...
they took care of their slaves...
they wouldn't want a slave to be rotten...
to be despondent...
trouble with freedom is...
my own, self-made... man...
if i were a slave...
i'd learn to bend the rules...
i'd entertain the fantasy of freedom...
while being constrained with...
all the benefactor securities...
i'd be owned but i'd also be:
obligated to a social contract of some sort...

so freely as to nothing be:
so averaging assumptions...
presumptions... so by nothing i unfree myself:
to... sort of quest to: "be"...
while the priestly class held back literacy...
within the timeframe of when
a new literacy emerged... of coding...
so double-up-on-surds... no?

herr gizmo l:)(}{
the realm of the three brackets... )}]...
one literacy replaced the old literacy
but in terms of retaining the old type...
the new type is... not exactly allowing
for movement of... hearts? is, it?
i still have to retain punctuation...
i still need need to perfect it...

but this is not conversational linguinie,
is it?
i stand firm in, stressing:
writing is an extension of thought...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's hardly an invitation to speak...
the past centuries haven't taught us
that literacy is a constraining beast of priests'
fancy?
let me... detail my limbs for you
in stressing this point further:
what good came from the project
of literacy en masse?
graffiti scribbling on brick walls?
out of what beside desperation?

such constraints were employed as
to: the person exercised in completely body:
usage... wouldn't feel like
a ******* hamster of a ******* ferris wheel
when push came to shove...
somehow everything physical became
lesser class: demeaning...
somehow we all turned into *******
fluorescent
      telepathic / telekinetic Chernobyll
monkey sorts...
and the fat "stigmata" is a what?
                  
  this world is gagging for something tragic...
this world is gagging for a world war III...
but... it probably will not...
"advise" itself to experience such a disatrous take
on prospect...
nuance in language can go **** itself...
application of misnomers for added fluidity can:
go **** itself...
you ever come across a choir...
and a great wind...
see a ******* shrink...

don't look at me for inspiration:
perhaps some jokes...
i've been more honest these past two minutes than
i ever was in the passing of a decade...

death the limbo of "sanity"...
esp. when someone memorable has taken off...
who am i left with? "perspectivelly accountable"?
grey-matter fiddle-through middle-man
*******... no?
i'm not sifting through that, murk?
perhaps i'm sieving... sifting... sieving...
sifting... sieving... get a dog! she says, mother, dear...
i tell her: it's legal in Belgium...
her father already cited his complaints...
i'm tired of the ******* optimism...
i'm tired of this "adventure" some cling to when
deciphering "life"...
an overrated statement of too many facts:
that's life...
it's not a ******* frank sinatra:
come as we are... would be: mea culpa...

troublesome sufferings of a tired brain...
too many pop ref. points worth of closure...
i bought a vinyl today...
i walked it down a market place
like it was a puppy...
in a rucksack...

that there's a hope... my mother is crying
this silent agony of truth...
i tell her: it's sensibly legal in the Benelux...
England is ****** by all accounts...
a dog will save me?
i'm becoming rigid... brick-esque...
tide-prone...
moon is the mother of my skies...
i might might what?
fall in love: to fall in love is to allow
oneself to be weak; to be... dependent on
someone: the concept of "other"... no?
recurrrency is pricing on how many times
that's... sensible to try out?
before it fails?

i fall asleep listening to horror movie music...
i'm best coupled to a ******* hyena than
i am to a woman...
to live under a false sense of hope
is a: welcome bypass to otherwisse living
under a truancy of truth...
as the life around me shrinks...
the abounding shadow of me grows...
and not as a patriarch...

oh ****... "i simply, somehow...
just so it happens... fowgot to... encapsulate this
offload whiff a wyme".

Never sleeping
no more dreaming
no more hope.

Dragging the souls of the old
whipped by demons
and constant screems in my head.

Flesh stripped from your body
dipped in oceans of salt
forced to eat your own brains
and drink acid water.

That's only if you were one of the good ones
the pure evil
the Hitlers of the world

Torn limb to limb
burned, drowned, hung
no food or drink
given a tiny bit of hope
but then taken away again

Eyes burned with blow torches
and left to dangle out of the socket
An itch that can not be scratched for eternity
you become a zombie
you never sleep
you never dream
you lose all hope

I found myself in a record shop
Which got me all to wondering
How these bands all got their names
And wouldn't it be summon

If I went through all the racks
And pulled them randomly
What it is that I would find
To solve this mystery

When this idea hit me
I was standing before the M's
So based upon that simple fact
Is where this journey begins

Mega Death-You must be kidding!
Are theses guys for real?
How big a death do you have to die
Before your still road ****

I decided to jump around
To get the full effect
Can not help but wonder
At what will pop up next

Oh, lookie here...**** Hole Suffers
I bet their momma's proud
When those guys hang ten
Are they surfing in or surfing out

I came across Badfinger
In an old 70's record bin
I'm telling you the honest truth
I don't care to know where that fingers been

Over yonder a band called The, The
The, The...What?!
Then there's Chumbawamba
Chumbawamba...Whoba?!
This may all sound a bit far fetched
But it's the honest to goodness truthba!

The H's are holding Hoobastank
The closest I can figure
Is that the guys in this band
Hang out with Badfinger

Albino Toilet Boys
Cottage Cheese From The Lips Of Death
My Dog Has Hitlers Brains
Norman Bates And The Shower Heads

Poultry In Motion
Brady Bunch Lawn Mower Massacre
Roid Rodgers And The Whirling **** Cherries
Are today's record shop de jour

As I'm leaving out the door
Arms piled high with newly purchased song
I grab the last copy of Yoko ****
For soothing dinner music later on

In the bain marie of life
The boiling,
evaporated
water underneath,
Scolds untrained fingers and hands.
Unscathed are the extremities of workers who serve:
Little Hitlers and Maos,
awaiting to have their egos inflated, and their endowments stroked.
All so they can perpetrate atrocities in a world craving for more, entertainment.
All so they can penetrate their
animosity
towards girls craving for more

containment.

Prepare ingredients in metal tray, made from
Futuristic technology. Erected steel, carved and shaved,
moulded to perfection.
Finesse in
Postmodern civilisation,
Allowing hungry
Delinquent to stuff
cake holes with garbage.
Gruel, bangers, tripe and trotters, spotted ****, black pudding, haggis, bulls testicles.

Plastic.
Gum, and wrapper.
Thrown,
in bin.
Mess and stink.
Perforating orifices and permeating nasal passageways.

Kitchen sink,
The end of day arrives
Sanitation process occurs.
The end of shift awaits.
She takes off sweat filled hair cap,
Takes off juice stained chef pants.
Kicks off steel capped boots.
Pulls out
Smelly,
Sock.

Rest in bed,
to awake for new day.
Gravity raises the sun.
Rinse and repeat
bain marie
reheat.

you shed your androgyny in front of me
like the leaking of a dead poets mouth
prized convinction your are the killer of these things
bitten by your sharp nails
our souls blood is splattered on the wall
like a child's mess

we held hands and ran through the streets of wynwood
both nervous at the thought of people watching the passion
strangers who like to be alone
woven together in a harmonious mesh

we came across faces
and stood in that one corner and looked at that murial
on the cement wall
screaming out its makers message
in a thousand different emotions that linked to our past

I would tug your curls and they would bounce
you watched me smoke my cigarette
put on your artist eyes and pictured a painting in your head
using my ghost skin for your next piece

you drank my skin like milk hungrily
and I felt when my insides dripped down the
corners of your mouth
I throw my hands up in the air
and ask what can break me more than this

I sat in your kitchen in all black
and watched you cook me that fish, a recipe you probably
called your mother to ask for
you opened a bottle of white wine
we carried our glasses and sat outside
while I lit a smoke
your yard seemed like it was a haven for
bohemian children trying to escape South Florida's
cement buildings

you put your arm around me
and I nestled my head into your chest
at that moment I told myself here is the line
standing in front of me thick and red
shouting its warnings like old tapes of Hitlers speeches
preparing his soldiers to **** innocent children
and there it was standing like every sensitive poem I have ever read
like every painting that had a heart beat
like every smile my mother has ever shed

that red streak was not a finish line
but the beginning of something that would have turned into happy
years perhaps or just many painful nights, where I find it hard to breathe
and I thought to myself I can fall in love right now
I layed there listening to your heart beat
you kissed my forehead

I raised my head to look into your eyes
and before  I brought myself to make a decision
before I started feel my heart loose
I was already walking away to the place I have known the most

Every night,
when the sun disappears
behind the tenements,
I sit on my balcony
to witness
the sinister congregation
pooled under
the lone
flickering
streetlamp.

Fueled on petrol,
they holler
explicit expletives
holding their palms
high in the air
Heiling Hitlers
as they middle-finger
the scooting passer-byers.

And I think to myself,
what ******* fools,
they'd be the first to go
if the **** ever went down,
carrying their inked swastikas
like totally clueless mad clowns.

I miss the way my name slipped through your lips the way water slips through finger tips
and i miss the way our finger tips were laced better than any shoe
i miss the way we'd lay with one another as though we could get lost in each other but i could never be more lost than when i looked into your eyes
i miss the way you calmed the storms in my heart,
the way your loving hands formed works of art, constructed the safest of landings right from the start.
and i miss the way you used to run your fingers through my hair, as you'd sit and stare with whispers in your breath and a tenderness in your movement saying "i care"
I miss the way you didn't look through me like most, you looked deep inside, picked up every flaw and regret and made a toast to the wonders that made me me.
i miss the way i knew in one swift glance, from the look of your stance, what the chance of forever was, and it was almost as promised hitlers suicide, and how you carefully entered the dark valleys of my heart, where others had shyed.
and i miss the way we slotted together better than the little counters in the game of connect four
and i miss the way you'd hold open the door to your soul
i miss the way we reminisced and promised to grow old
i miss the way i felt when you hung a sign on your heart saying sold
and i was elated because though it was belated i knew i was the lucky one to have such an important piece of you
and i miss the way we'd do all those things we did between the sheets, the way our eyes would meet, before we closed them together and embarked further into our romance,
As we'd partake in a dance, that only we knew.
i miss the way you planted butterflies in my stomach and fireflies in my eyes, the element of suprise when you came home with flowers
i miss the hours we spent just laying content
i miss reading and rereading those messages you sent, the beauty of your intent
i miss the taste of your lips
the way my hands felt around your hips
i miss the way those glasses framed the most beautiful masterpieces I've ever seen, the way you'd take something i had no understanding of, and show me what it means
i miss the way you filled the cavities of my heart, with hugs and i love yous which warmed me better than any cup of coffee ever could
The way you made me feel, so, so good
I miss the way you etched my initials into your the insides of your eyelids and i did the same with yours
I miss the way you calmed the shores
And i miss the way you'd sparkle and shine as you'd sit and remind me that its okay not to be okay and its okay that we're gay because we didn't have to fit into social formality, i miss the clarity, the calming of the raging wars in my mind, the directions when i had no idea where to start to find myself
i miss the way you couldn't have cared less about wealth because you said as long as we had happiness and health we were already millionaires.
I miss the way you took the fires in me that could have burnt down entire cities, and slowly but surely extinguished them,
I miss the way we tied ourselves to one another with double knots until we forgot to tell each other just how lucky we were, and until we started to stop showing each other how much we cared but instead the bruises we bared from the only person that had ever cared so much it hurt
until we lost touch, both physically and mentally until the insides of you and me began to unravel from each other internally
until happiness could only be found in setting free the one thing I've never wanted to hold onto most,
until the host that had kept my heart beating and my hopes alive buried them in the tears that fell from your eyes. And i despise the way
the only place id ever felt like i was home was now the only place id ever felt so alone.

I finally made it
To the end of the road
My life told
A good story

What can one do
When the inevitable occurs
Of course, you can fight
And act
As if your antics
Weren't worthless
In fact
You can work less
If you're aware
Of whats the worse
That can happen
The happening happens every minute
Which happens to be
The time
For a hundred tenants
To get evicted
Check the census
And since its
Seconds
That fullfill
Like fantasies
I'll write a fiction

A fraction
Of the factions
Would still
Be in action

Whose actions
Are
Half as cruel
as Hitlers?

Huiessen's
or Stalins?

20 million scream
"Joseph!"
But a child disagrees
And speaks the words
"Barely a third."

So many
Executions
Jesus Christ!
What would you do
The only man
To die
And come back to life

The truth comes to light
But lies lurk in shadows
How shady
Maybe
In May
We can see it all
And to my dismay
This just may be
Already fall

3 weeks in Poland, and i'm naturally depressed...
this place really has that feel about it...
don't know, living England
feels worse than living in Alaska,
Scandinavia... or god forbid...
Siber.
      i swear i could hear a sober
me talk in Siberia at some point...
then look at a meteor
falling to a full-smitherings' load
of *******...
i did say 3 weeks in Poland
and i did say: not in any major city
as noted by weather forecaster,
didn't i?
       i see english society,
not so much: looking up its a-hole...
but more akin to looking at bugs
and their ontology.... their way of being
remotely too near but best described
as human... i don't get this
need to glorify d.n.a. and monkeys...
i simply don't get this *******,
given i spent 3 weeks in a country
that doesn't seem to care much
about such "discoveries"...
   i can seem old fashioned
but half the Tudor...
          maybe i'm just a senile
example of man... maybe it's just that...
i'm drinking and i have half the wit
of an intelligent person giving
a snarky reprimand... while the other
half of me is just saying: huh?
why are books supposed to
be akin to movies in the west?
what's the west, really?
       i'm with the chinese,
complately bedazzled by these futurists,
these positivists, these:
   i'm god-clad eternal aged 20...
wait for a video when i'm 60!
       i'm originally Polish
so i can speak to the subconscious of a nation
alien to me... well... why...
because the consciousness of a nation
is given the pinata whack on its testicles...
   i don't speak for super stars...
  there's Joe, and there's Alfred...
i'm so apathetic with my life
(counter claim: given the a-
meaning without: i'm brimming with pathologies
that can't be counted, or be worth
   a medical student... **** the doctors:
i need someone moved from  a McDonald's
drive-thru moved into a Michellin
restaurant, and geared up to be "ready").
with a mass influx of man, there comes
a person, once in a while: who has
the "delusion" of necessarily feeling
       lost, but more or less about to *****...
it comes when civilisation arrives...
   this pendulum... this
                   whatever it is that makes
people so **** adamant in being
constantly vehement on being solely
momentum prone...
    and yes, the meta- prefix
really does show you alternatives...
  it might as well be called counter-
physics... but it's still a case of pressure,
being pressed against a brick wall...
my neighbour is having a baby,
he's circa 55 and she's 44...
i admit, i was a bit of a rascal
writing poetry and laughing,
sometimes imitating a fox's howl
(dry laughter)... but i became motivasted
to live next door, and sorta stopped my
antics... now i'm not smiling:
i'm frowning...
                    the peacock is about:
he's just less demanding to showcase
his feathers... but at least the t.v. works...
      but that's english society for you,
i should know... spending 22 years in it
has left me... sick... alias Christian...
the fern in a flower-***, a negating-ease (dis)
animal...
           and i really do feel only capable
of writing ******* after ******* to make
the day make any sense...
         i really have no competence
to deal with the metaphysics of pebbles
to make up a mountain:
   coins to make a bank...
            it's too amphetamine for me...
      but coming from a "failed" culture
               with its Marx this that and the other...
i have come as a zoological curiosity:
in that i simply, don't know, how to compete...
   it's one thing championing
democracy against an autocracy...
       but another when the democracy
is a thousand ******* Hitlers...
                and all their proxy wars...
  i don't see the point of wars anymore,
all of them are proxy... like the 2003 war
in Iraq... it was proxy! proxy by was to
revise the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait...
          you sorta lose the will to live
anything true akin to: blood sweat and tears,
9 to 5... a pension... life insurance...
each day the point of these "truth"
constructs clings to you like an asbestos...
and you start peeling like a *****...
itchy... just itchy...
     you give up, not because it's the easiest
thing to do... but the hardest.
      giving up is hard...
       people going about like horses in a race
that people gamble on
  becomes easy to watch...
          and not engaging in these
examples becomes hard...
it becomes hard to give up,
          to not give a toss...
     such as England, a hopelass land
of what i best remember having come
here 22 years prior: grey skies
       and red double-decker buses...
it's hard to not guess why Scandinavian
made this place...
        i can't see a ******* candle
of hope in rising above this grit...
for miles...
         and then the media states:
oh *******...      22 years though, mate,
and i'm not exactly feeling a Disneyland
vibe... or that i'm peering into
King Solomon's mine of opportunity...
            it's bad to be exiled...
but it's doubly harrowing to write in a foreign
tongue...
                        because if i wrote in
my native tongue: i'd probably buy a gun
and shoot and shoot into a cave
to hear a very profound echo...
                writing down the meaning of sounds
and then overpowered by incorporating
the tactic of onomatopoeia, rather than
just leaving a dog barking alone...
reducing language to strain a barking dog
to a woof! then going a step
further with a wolf and a howl and awoooo!
that's the tip of a baboon's pear-pink buttocks...
   oh sure: flamingo-step next to the goose-strutters
why don't you...
           England is naturally depressing,
i must be a ******* living here...
but at the same time i can only say:
it's so refreshing to hear a non-global tongue...
a niche verbal...
                      at least it's not as insomniac
as the four coordinates:
   new zealand / australia, south africa,
                                  england, u.s.a. / canada...
where do people get so much energy from?
Miłosz? lazy **** wrote in his native tongue
till the end...
   i have an accent and it's not helping...
i have a knowledge of the tongue... and it's not helping...
    and what is it with
literature-movie-making hyphen akin to parabola dip?
if i write a hyphen orientated word,
i really can't see a =, however much i try...
readings books is a bit like
doing arithmetic, although the difference is:
you are less rigorously puzzled...
    you're not suddenly gauging your eyes
out to find out what's underneath: 1 + 2 + 5 + 8 - 1 + 9 = ?
and the result? probably a chance to set out
to handshake mr. dictionary when the answer
comes back as taciturnity...
   how can you live an interesting life
and then end up writing a book?
what compels somone like Don Juan
to write a memoir... what makes someone like
Alex Ferguson write an "autobiography"...
  you hear of pillage and **** in history...
      it's a standard unit of the complete
capitalistic individual...
                ghost writers... ****!
   capitalism is less venture and discovery
and more Las Vegas...
           it's less colonialism... and doubly Las Vegas...
well i do get the original principle...
but what i'm seeing now?
  it has no principle...
               it really is starting to look
a bit like Germany post world war i...
   what with the deutsche mark spiraling out
of control...
       no matter how many 000000 you put onto
a banknote beginning with 1... wouldn't
make you do anything with it: other than burn it
in a stove to keep warm...
    the same with the concept of a book in
western society...
      it's dead...
     i don't even know why people bother to write
books or print them...
             care to tell the Uber team where
the last taxi is stationed?
                      can you imagine this coming
from someone aged 30? i should be writing this
and be aged 70... but even i can't keep up...
        perhaps its darwinism and its gaping hole
for a mouth telling me to look to imitating
insects and reptiles and discarding mammalism
(ha... minimalism)...
     you go to Poland and there's absolutely
no fascination with the big bang, there's no mention
of a black hole... and there's seriously no
darwinism... what you get instead is:
news... current affairs... all the motives for
a carpe diem shabang...  
         which means i have to be a *******
of some sort and give a care to live in a language
that has: so many important answers to
give unto humanity...
                             white boy to white boy:
man... why do you even bother?
i'm exhausted just listening to it all...
never mind next Tuesday!
            well... you can't get any more raw than this...
it's a misery speaking in a foreign tongue
incubated in an alternative ethnicity...
i'm starting to wonder why african-americans
adapted so well...
               looking at the native americans
who commit suicide in their youth,
and given they live on "nature" reserves with
yogi bear...         african-americans are a perplexing
sort... maybe that's because i'm 1st generation...
            i guess it sorta passes you by
after the years and allows you to make a living
from playing basketball, and talking really fast (rapping).
well, saying that: 1st generation and last...
    god forbid i would have to *******
into a *****, wait for a cake for 9 months
   and give it social securities... too much darwinism
and the impetus to survive, reproduce
   and keep the d.n.a. diesel running... sorta dies;
oh sure, god comes into it...
he's the only constant in it... the constant that
    gives... but only nurtures via a crucifix.
i just heard it too often and i'm yawning -
too much history in between
and too much biology and physics theory
at the start.

Many
Shall I repeat?
Many
Shall I repeat?
Many
Shall I repeat?
Many
Would you please not be consistent?
Would you please not be so loud?
Would you please not be so disturbing?
You're irritating us
Don't bring Godly attention our way
Don't remind us of our responsibility
Stand up
Sit down again if you're going to put your hands up and pray
while OUR GOD is playing
OUR GOD is playing, Mahmoud, don't you hear HER?
Aren't you a slave like us?
You're more of a slave than us
You're paid better than us
You're paid big money
like the rest of your proball player colleagues
You're making us feel uneasy
We feel jittering
We're uncomfortable right now
Now, we're upset
STOP.
STOP right now
or Get out. Go.
GO.
We want you to leave
We don't like you anymore
LEAVE
Hang up your jersey
and toss away your basketball
Do whatever you want with them
Sale them, Give them to charity, Put them on display in a museum or at an exhibit somewhere
We don't want to see them anymore
We don't want to see you anymore
We don't like that you make us feel like cowards
We don't like that you remind us that we haven't any reason to have pride
in our nation
in a stolen land
WHAT?!
You're making us think
We didn't come to watch a NBA basketball game to think
We didn't come to leave a NBA basketball game thinking
WHAT?!

Don't you know anything about America separating church and state?
You're American, right?
Though your name is different
If you were an immigrant
you might have had to learn this
to take a test to get your citizenship

Yes, yes, I know
that a basketball court is not a state
and that you don't believe in the church
And you've said
that the making of a prayer's never confined to any particular institution or place of worship
You said
At the doctor's office,
I pray
In the car before I pull off,
I pray
In the restaurant before I eat and after I eat,
I pray
At the start of a game,
I pray

All this unnecessary buzz
All this unnecessary hype
around me refusing to pledge allegiance to the American flag
and instead pledge allegiance to God
and pray during the anthem
Even more than 25 years later, a 1/2 of a century later,
we're talking about it
But this time
I get to speak my story
to whoever is interested
I get to speak to the world
through a number of ways
so that the truth can be heard

As for the NBA
compensate me in a way that can never repay me for what you did
for what I've gone through and others
for all of the suffering
compensate me as justly as possible
compensate me appropriately
Do what you would want to be done to you
in a fellow human's shoes
if you were in my Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf basketball player's shoes

It's your choice
Either way
My light has shined
GOD has told us that
Joslyn Rose Lyons
said this, too
and with her production
"STAND"  
a documentary film
about me and my truth,
it will continue to shine

Anything done for GOD will always be zoomed in on
Will always be talked about
Will always STAND out
Because with as many Hitlers as there are
As many Netanyahus as there are
As many corrupt Saudi Kings as there are
No matter how few,
there'll always be
Mahmouds
There'll always be
El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazzs or Malcolm Xs
and
Imam Khomeinis
There'll always be
Imam Asis

You see
Mahmoud's See
"Once you see something,
you can't unsee it"
is POWER
Mahmoud's See
is INFLUENCE
Mahmoud's See
is like that of the SEA
with a beautiful, eye-catching tide
that keeps coming back
and keeps making waves
and keeps giving us reason to notice

Mahmoud
You said what you did and what Kaepernick did
By the way  
I bought 10 copies of your autobiography (audio CD)
"In The Blink Of An Eye"
produced by Kaepernick Publishing
allowed you both to speak your conscience
to do what is right
to speak against injustice
but it doesn't translate into POWER
because as you said
in so many words,
there are still many injustices
happening in America and around the world
and crimes against humanity still taking place

What you, Kaepernick,  
and the other professional athletes to whom this applies did
doesn't translate into power
because there aren't enough like you  
taking a STAND
asserting their human rights
speaking truth to power
More are emergently needed
Insha Allah, as those who take a STAND
become the norm and
they become a sizeable number,
POWER will be the result

Nonetheless,
your STAND beckons more to STAND
It's a rare match to start a flame
  
Injustice will always have its See
And justice will always be seen
even if and when it's seems to be at a distance
even when it appears out of reach

Like Mahmoud,
myself, and others,
we are forever changed by
an NBA star's See,
a human who chose to STAND's See
With it,
there is no turning back

By: Najwa Kareem

only when corporations
become more effective (
exploiting an "identity crisis",
or the simply stated
new, and "profound"
pronoun usage )
  only when corporations
do this....
         will the nation-state
model disintegrate....
    nations will disppear,
become similis abstracta -
nations will disappear
in favour of companies...
a 1000 little Hitlers reigning
with a power command
much higher in vision
than the Holocaust demand...
so we will sleep-walk
into it.. assired that with
the abolishion of lunatic asylums
via the:
we are suddenly led to believe,
we can believe in romance
         on the movie-screen...
darwinism can't incubate
the natural diversity of
trans-categorical mammal
repitle and insect, among many
others in the yin.,..
       nations are abstract
given the corporations...
                 but the yang....
    blister-becoming white light...
given the rise of corporations
there are no nations to speak of...
   we can speak of
    nation-like cities...
        mass collectives...
                   we can't speak of nations
because corporations obscruct nations,
since corporations they build cities...
they are not nation-builders...
                 they aren't nation-upholders...
they are not keepers of genetic historicism...
i can appreciate the flux:
the mode of change,
but in statistical terms: the mean is
the need for a competent loss...
                   while the median parties...
  jealousy?!
who needs go among chandeliers
and champagne flutes clicked?
              you start to wonder why
corporations are so effective against nations...
you begin to wonder why the english
of the **** proto...
                            well... prompt...
and all that hollywood endeavour...
power requires the most effective art-form,
once upon a time it was painting,
e.g. the Sistine chapel...
   but that was too immortal...
acting had to become the prized art form
to keep a superpower afloat like an
iceberg... art had to become transient....
mortal...
                  acting is the medium of all
artistic expression in our times...
             there is no other...
other artistic expressions are secondary...
anti-industrial...
           "lazy"...
                that's what is dicated...
corporations hold sway over more allegiances
than nations...
            nations are very literally abstract...
perhaps once every 4 years at the olympics...
but in the day-to-day?
            knda *******...
  corporations are more real than nations...
   this is a sample of language
akin to the 600 or so years after the crucifixion...
a language sampled at a time of awaiting
the 600 year countdown of the end of
the epoch of the merchant of mecca...
           the tiresome example of globalisation...
and no more celestial motive to
  grace the dirt on Mars with a footprint...
       corporations reign man's ethnic origin
with a Copernican grip to absolve the n.e.w.s.
with a single identifiable world-view of
originating from a globe...
                            and thanks to democracy,
western democracy, an Adolf ****** can
pass from one 4-year sequence to the next...
           the overpowering of the id,
how the id overpowered the ego:
given that so many of us were "ego tripping"...
   i saw the marches of 2003 in London...
and saw how ineffective democracy was...
at least in autocracy there's a Caesar...
someone with the gall bladder and testicles
                to rule, but also be ready to be held
accountable... democracy produces nothing
of the sort... it's shadow politics...
politics en masse...
                       there's no beacon, no need to
point and blame and pray unto a crucifix...
                          gesticulation forehead,
chest, left arm right arm: amen...
              personally democracy means less
than pigeon ****... or as 1 BILLION chinese
will testify: thanks for giving us all the jobs....
              see you in coding hell.
which is why any attempt at claiming an
ethnic identity, and then throwing it
into a melting-*** beyond white, i.e. German...
seems the befitting joke of identifying
with the left... and mass histeria...
     but this is nothing other than the drive
to the secular narrative...
   seperation of the church-state
      narrative has lead us into the snares
of church-media         and no-state...
                globalisation and the governing
thumb of corporations.

oh, but of course,       middle class sensibility,
         in this pseudo feminist society
some words are sacred...
        you write the word
**** and immediately the protest
slogan: how dare you!
   somehow over the past ten years
censorship got out of hand,
but what if i say: i'm healing
when i used to listen to my
great-grandmother talk of war
and frightened, feeding my grandmother
opiates to hush, while her brothers
were slaughtered?
         no on cares to mention my
intentions... because no one cares to think:
oh poo poo the Blitz blah blah blah...
       those people abhorred by my
statements don't have first person accounts
to deal with... so i'm guessing i
have in my hand the sieve... and in my
other hand a whip...
                       i guess i'm really a thistle in
the ***-crack of neo-Nazis...
         or the shy ones, at least...
because i have the first person account
  tattooed into me,
they think i'm an idealistic,
tucked away in an outer-suburban house:
a frustrated white boy,
         ah ****, no colonial past,
frustrated by women's freedoms,
      **** me! this Irish Jack is trying to teach
me a thing or two about women,
in a pub he tells lies about me
she comes up to me and says: i want to help
people...
                 first they imagine heaven,
but then don't know how to interact
with each other in a frame of ten minutes...
i kiss her forehead and the eyelids,
the Irish **** still can't believe it...
                    cos his mamma and papa
divorced while he was saying that family
is valued: tucked away with his video games...
   you tasted you mother's over-cooked
pasta, you little dip-****?
              i have... no wonder your father
preferred take-away.
                        if you can't cook the basics
you can't cook ****... or maybe it was
slugs instead of pasta... i'll never know...
me? i'm the agitator,
             i'm waiting for someone to **** me,
i don't mind...
                          i'll kiss the person
who wants to and say: inherit my nightmare
for just a while...
                                    i don't actually
see how the English matter in the Germanic
world...
                let alone the Norse world...
                      i turned on the t.v. and listened
in on 1950s English...
                          they actually cared about
poetry those days... the Empire was still
there... these days? grime, East London blasphemy
and a: ooh, you better behave
                    teacher! leave our kids alone!
         sure, i'm a delayed journalist,
i have **** of people they didn't even think i had:
tough luck playing the idiot,
           but you get to see people in their
full bollocking's worth of attire...
          play the saintly part for just long
enough and people come out like
   those village homosexuals...
                   well, given the science,
and social norms, no wonder the heterosexual
is a thing of the past,
     give the perverts enough freedoms and justice
and the original model is an ancient relic...
         but that's just me...
i didn't force you to read this...
            i just find it odd that, somehow,
****** wasn't a saving grace for Zionism,
        imagine Zionism without a catalyst...
      even the Sheikh of Saudi Arabia said:
we don't have alcoholics here,
               only diabetics...
               why not give them a chop of
Bavaria and keep them sprechen Yiddish?
   that's what ibn Saud said to F.D.R.,
and i'm thinking... you cosy little *****...
you keeping these words holy, aren't you?
                  i can't use them?
i can't engage with them?
                          i did love the great nostalgia
dripping from the film a bridge of spies -
      i look at my grandfather and think...
are they for real? he's on a comfortable
                          pension...
            he retired early... what with the western
view of: gambling on retirement...
             men my age can only be saved by a war...
     the nostalgia concerning:
           oh yes, we are the good part.
the Soviet spy is treated nicely...
                        always nicely over there...
the American spy is given insomnia torture...
   never so nicely...
                                     Soviet B & W
                 as ever... the adamant Americans
always the serenity saints...
                          but i still manage to write
the stuff that bothers me from a first-person
perspective, suddenly the world is bigger
and colder than some teenager's bedroom
manifesto...
                        they said it was intended to be
a phone book... instead it was an autobiography...
   because Jill was gang ***** so many times
the word ****** was like a cactus shoved up her ***
   siusiu-majtki - she even found
                            ethnic languages offensive
because the google-translate didn't work:
   suddenly something became covered and she
wasn't informed... as i was informed
by today's article: FEMINISTS
BLOCK FREE SPEECH, SAYS BLACKWELL...
Blackwell is a feminist... or a former one...
          but as the new cohort marches in,
her concern (aged 83) puts her in the "dementia"
pile of *******...
                                       i agree:
diaper intellectuals...                             soft-cushions
                      once a Dada... now a Daddy! Daddy!
he offended me!
                                            well, i too would
have loved to walk through life and
only experience self-love and apathy...
                     and this is in a democratic society!
no wonder the export value dropped
dramatically after the child abuse scandals...
     a despot? at least he owns a harem
and isn't ashamed of owning one...
     seems democracy is purpose bound
to kiddy-fiddle and the obscure chance to
pet a dog...
              so even though i own a heritage
if it's not from a mouth of a lazy bourgeoisie
girl or boy: i'm branded compatriot of some
obscure first in the air cause...
                            we don't live in happy times...
  we live in times of tyrannical youth...
                     i'm just 30 and i can walk down
the street and spot you 30 little Hitlers in
uniform...                    
                                           and they haven't
even failed at anything, and already
they're screaming: DOWN WITH
                ESTABLISHING OLD AGE TO
BE ACCEPTED AS THE WISHED FOR ASCENDANCY!
               i know people who've seen
  black-clad SS-men, SS-men who were asked
         herr! bite bonbon! would give
  sweets to children so sweet that their fingers were
stuck together...
                               what do you have?
except history books and propaganda?
                           apparently it's called a "conscience",
   or how language is experiencing the most
abhorred version of censorship,
                                     not what is said:
the full extent meaning,
               but bullying certain words out of existence,
and that ******* smiley...
                                    it's perfect then!
   round of applause!
                                           the thing about
inheritors of a colonial past... they're never grounded...
    they're never realistic...
                 from colonising America the powers
at be decided it was turn to walk on the moon...
                           now it's Mars...
               usually the ones who are considered mad
are actually the ones who the collective feel
uncomfortable with...
                   because how could an individual
state common sense... when it's suggested that
that common sense is stated by the collective...
           well... apparently not...
common sense isn't a universal alignment of shared
interest in reasoning... an individual
possessing common senses comes into scrutiny
from the darker recess of "social bonding" -
            he's seeing the collective sense -
      which is not common sense -
                                common sense isn't common...
              everyone wishes that ordinary Joe Gray
could say something common,
          but Joe Gray only says something
omni-prevalent -
                               an automated version of
persuading: i.e. the past-reference of persuasion:
i.e. already persuaded -
                                           the bland c.v. repertoire
on game shows on t.v.: job and spare time hobbies...
                           the point of c.v. is to make
people ****** boring...
                                            that gimmick of:
and my life was flashing before my eyes...
           &nbsp

If this was part of Hitlers game,
Why then do we make the claim,
That it helps women and Jews the same,
But Its really just another name,
For Evil.

Pointed sticks that face the sun,
Stolen homicidal guns,
Evil men that stand there stunned,
Even though they wanna run,
Its futile.

Guns that fire, guns that stun,
Apparently are fit for none,
Believing them seems pretty dumb,
They've shown how they are human ****,
They're insane.

In my pocket, digging around,
Looking for every last dollar and pound,
When your not happy with what you've found,
Its time for you to send the hound,
You thieves!

But those who say "power to you",
Are accused of the things they would never do,
Attacked and burned for every break through,
Punched for wanting a better view,
You are the problem.

Protested for wanting to free you all,
Beat up for wanting a freedom call,
They say freedom is a right to all,
But the others they make their stories tall,
And I say that's not fascism, its Tuesday.

the european concern, these days, is to utilise words: without an allahu akbar conviction... how certain is this: hollowing-out of language... before a meaning of life is attested, it's the truancy of meaning in language that's worth being investigated... how pulverising is this: hollowing out of words... and whichever word might denote ethnic antagonism: i utilise as shallow ventures, drowning face-down in a puddle... that's not me: about to start a ku klux manifesto... these days it's really about excuses... how best to excuse oneself from the fact that: we think we're living in a village (given the internet), but in fact: this metropolis, gargantuan, is choking us... on the daily basis of being congested, constipated: in a commute. me? sometimes itchy for a verbal-diarrhoea.*

it was an experimental procedure....
            in south wales, Glasbury,
i was the sole white boy
   sitting with the Cadbury crew...
subsequent reasoning follows:
        what are the boundaries of language,
and what's the standard etiquette?
   a reaction, i guess:
   people at s.o.a.s. saying you shouldn't
read Kant.
            and if language can't cushion
violence...
if language can't cushion violence...
  and if language is subjected to the many
internet little hitlers and snowflakes...
             i might just be sued for
copyright infringements when i use any
word of my liking...
sooner or later it'll all look a bit like:
  the A to Z... with © before every word.
               language is supposed to cushion violence...
        if this motto is disavowed...
             alt-right neo-con
                  and when my ethnicity was
compared to rats...
                                i'd like to hear jazz from
auschwitz... or the blues...
                     or rap, for that matter...
  are cruel as it sounds, there was no extermination
     procedure with the blacks in america...
someone evidently spoke of basketball
breakdance  and all that african cool...
                       now we can say: african-american,
             shame we can't say mohawk the same way...
culinary problems...
        the reds didn't use enough spices
         and craft the taj mahal broth...
                   and if my ancestors were a bunch of
*******...
                 no wonder news outlets speak of
  premature depression among the post-colonial
     children of this hue.

can you conceive of an in-built: a priori "gender" gratification "ontologies": i.e. the male ontology, the pre-deconstructive focus of a willing change? well... what's the canvas like these days in academia? i still hold a door open for a woman, among, the, "plebs"... i'm a pleb too... woo hoo! so now i have to conceive of the gentle trickle of an ex-built: a posteriori "gender" counter-justification "ontologies": i.e. the... she-man ontology, the post-/ pro-deconstructive focus of unwilling change to the reminiscent continuum of circumstances... oh... you know me, academics just love, love verbiage... this is just one exempli gratia... it does mean something per se... but, hush... on the privy? it can mean, whatever you want it to mean... once upon a time: a man used to find gratification in gender "stereotypes"... there really was a gratification process subconsciously working its way into moulding a man... now? eh... the sort of tom waits' elongated eh from glitter & dust live: live circus... that one... this is a great kandinsky-esque verbiage collage... academics will probably focus on the isolated meanings of words, mumbo-jumbo them back together in a pale replica of voodoo brainstorming and: ici, voilà, alors... à savoir, voilà, c'est-à-dire... which makes heidegger's pedantic schemes... well... da-sein counter... there is such an indefinite article... reducing words to conjunctions borrowed from AND... then applying the article category... da-sein: there-being... there's being... that's really an indefinite article of... sein: being, very ******* ambigious... i have to curse... i'm writing an oath... if "offended" you probably say worse things in satan's synagogue of ****** *******... where you should be speaking vowels and syllables and onomatopoeias rather than full sentences... no one is a saint... here! i'm giving you something on a platter... i'm not using hiedegger's temporal mentality of: across the seven seas, the seven mountains the seven rivers motto for hope... here we are... here, now: hier, jetzt... you figure it out... so am i! oh sure, now we know there's (an) existence to be had, lived, experienced, closed... it's almost a cosmic joke that finds its genesis in: voilà! while the exodus is much more painful... since we're not exactly looking at a magician, or a gymnast... we're looking at... a science school-teacher... we're looking at... a clerk, a street-cleaner, a bus driver... oh sure, sure... voilà! the insurgent immediacy of the awe-insirping rush... then again... perhaps Heidegger implies... the sort of validation of voilà! via da-sein of... the sercret affair of: mundane job, but a kick-*** hobby? hier has no potential beside the collective awe-numbing: oops"?", while da-? there? well there is a vector, a linear framework of ABC (0, 0, 0) confined to an end of: (1, 1, 1)... da-sein is a look into a future, it's not the hier- voilà! -sein fatalist approach of inspection... it's a look into the future... i'll always read philosophy in polish, look at german words, and reply in english... that's how my bilingualism works... two firm pillars... and several loose cannons... i hear one academic speak, i tune into bbc radio 4... i swap my tongue for 9 itchy fingers... mostly index, middle, ring of either arm... sometimes the pinky, sometimes the thumb... ballet of the fingers... and always regarding imitation amphetamines... how can you keep a tornado in your head, without your ego spewing out shrapnel... cohesive sentence structures, narratives? that's long gone... it comes, it goes: just as the whiskey flows... for all its worth: i can vow a true statement with reiteration... once upon a time there did exist a stereotypical a gender-defining ontological-gratification, and exclusivity stratum - of the only two tiers in existence... most men probably miss this gender-defining gratification of... pseudo-malaise... it felt comfortable performing banal res-extensa-theatre tidbits... the simplest of things (acts, etc.) always brought out the most selfless joys... the grand replacement of the Muses and the Furies... ex-pec-ta-tions... morose social norms... and we as men complied... now? how about a song... matta... chaos reigns... how's that? if i was in this game: which i am not a part of... who wouldn't be tired?! to have courted the general splendour of the ramped-up polar opposite ballett via mediocre instances of ****** differences... now? this... fiend... this figment of everyone's seemingly sleeping faculty of imagination... of recurring dreams... of nights without dreams... i am a foreigner and having made the utmost utility of this language... i cannot speak for it, with the sort of biological stigmata of an english caste system...  very much apparent come the Royal Ascot... as i also not a foster parent, or some ultimate-******* example of a surrogate mother... oh believe me... i bring redemption for prostitutes... i've paid a tenner extra for 110quid an hour to show you the hydra in my gob... redemption is all prostitutes deserve... there's a tier above them... surrogate mothers... a bit different, ******* a harem of a single ******... quiet another to be a surrogate mother for two homosexuals... that's another level! prostituting your ****** for an hour? em... prostituting your womb for nine months?! there is no "relatively" speaking here, it's not a rhetorical question... this comes when the women disgrace prostitutes, calling all pundits: slavers... girl likes to ****, and she ***** in the most face-to-face fashion... but i'm pretty sure, that same girl, doesn't rent out her womb for nine months so Jim & Joe can have a ****-up of a toddler's worth of a leather napkin... to wipe off the otherwise apparent ***** from them gobbing down a perfect baked alaskan lolly! but you'd have to visit Amsterdam for that sort of perspective... away from England and that perverse Carry On! *** humour that states: we're all nuns! under the omnipresent scrutiny... and then... 1960s shameless ****... that's what i learned about the English... two-faced nymphomaniacs... or whatever decree... why didn't Henry VIII decide on a harem... or polygamy? i don't like the way the English concern themselves with ***... using terms like: joke, naughty... all things crass... infantile... i hate it... it actually creates a brimming spectacle of boiling water in my head and heart... pretending to be this puritanical could only take a hypocrite to craft a performance act... seems the english have only one form of escapism... ***... which would explain why they need to dress it with as much innocence as possible... which in turn translates into unfathomable depravity... perhaps not in the en masse sense... but at least a few thousand seances... akin to those *** acts... that would require a ******, a dajjal... to be looking... for the man to get an *******... or the woman to be aroused... the third party principle... otherwise? within the confines of the "so-called" privacy? dry cookie crumble - meet limp ****.

.bitter.. or simply... determined?

that's why i like prostitutes,
            it leaves me with
a blank canvas' worth of a narrative...
no cuddly bits-and-bomps...
   just straight talk:
- i get regular STD checks...
- good to know, really good to know.

unlike that age-old scenario
that my father warned me about:
- a girlfriend of mine
tried to trojan horse
   a baby into my lap,
and it was never my own...

   funny that...
i had that happen to me once...
mind you,
i do come from a horrid background...
both the mother of my father
and the father of my father
shoved him into the arms
of their parents...

                 salty... ouch...
*******...
   and i'm his breed...
                       oh, and that interlude
"picnic" of 30 minutes...
when you have just entertained
20cl of ms. amber,
and there's still a bottle's worth
of a sinking ship?
that half-drunk / half-sober
interlude...
                    yeah... those are nice...

ideally in love...
it's night-time,
people are asleep...
    i have to caution myself
from bursting out with laughter
reading some of these poetic...
ahem... group therapy sessions...
i know i loved,
and what i loved,
and i am certain i know
what i ******...
                    because:
it being ******,
replied with the adequate
reciprocation answer...

             the more i listen to incels
the more i'm like...
   this... this is the only "problem",
dating?
              i once took to a speed
dating event at edinburgh
university...
              it went...
as it was supposed to go...
    big L on the forehead,
started digging cognitive
trenches...
      
               the ultimate sign of respect
you have for someone?
eating food with them...
that's my starting line of inquiry...
everything else is just
pretending to tame
******* politics...

                      tell that to
latex lucy... for once in my life
i became an old man in
a young man's body...
               heart started speeding...
the unattainable became all
the more: real...
                  
      thank god that i'm not much
to look life,
so i went among the sort
of women where
upon giving them an ******,
there would be an expression
of anguish, and surprise...

         kanalrattebeißen...
but at least not an english politician's
take on the wriggly **** pit
of a maggot...
          when "god" played
bonsai with rats,
as man played bonsai with trees
and tigers to create cats...
came along the mice...

           latex lucy: everything that's
wrong but somehow right
with this world...
                i stopped myself from
****-**** when i "feigned"
    breeze-'ed...
             oh i'm pretty sure
she's the sort,
the mandible sort of beauty...
     but, clearly...
   i was expecting the typical
******* chub and good humour
akin to that puerto rican in
amsterdam...

              born half a monster,
died... eh... somewhere between:
the polacks never receiving either
german reparations...
  (which the jews received)...
or soviet reparations for
Chernobyll...
       the women were told to drink
iodine, if pregnant...
lovely year, that year 1986
when i was a month shy from
birth...

                but now...
                       if they shut me up on
wattpad... back in 2015...
over a comment which ended:
o.k., great, have a great life;

             well?
     surprises surprises...
leaving one ***** colony,
then finding another ***** colony.
trust? nil.
           hope? nil.
                    faith? nil.
         the chance to encounter
plenty of kleindiktatoren?
   what, whittle hitlers?
          all the time:
all, in, the, name, of, "democracy".
god...
if i'm not going to ****
a latex demigod deity...
i might as well write something
in deutsche:

    as the proverb suggests:
if you don't have what you'd like,
well... like what's readily given.

atheistic scissors:
    the definite article (the)
   & the indefinite article (a)

           so as consciousness
begins within the context
of a- (loss) of ego,
            it's  still a persistent
   direct article (the)...

   thus the unconscious
   begins within the context
of no a- (loss) of ego to begin
   with; meaning:
   there was never any ego
to begin with...
       i.e. an invoking
          of an indirect article;
the randomness of dreams,
   and our lack of control
thereof...

       i still persist in thinking
that the subconscious
      if fake, the medium easily
abused by sophistry
              or therefore a lack of...
i.e. in proper disguise,
        guiding the most effective
subversion of
               the righteous vectors...

          nonetheless,
to me there are still only two incissors
into an anti-freudian compass
of directing a marathon's course,
   no trinity, no three tier
encompass of an "identity"...
   no **** sapiens either...
      the split (schizoi) man...
           beginning with the scissors
that are united within
    the grammatical
category of articles,
    such that we always seem to be
reduced toward legal terms
of the american constitution
   and their amendments:
   revisions that
     become reiterations...
   and what original?
                 what original?!
there was never any original
  by current-affairs' standards!

id and the unconscious,
   superego and the subconscious,
ego and consciousness -
hence the quasi-noun status of
index finger's
            pressure "pointing"
at something,
           that's a quality focus,
that descriptive mechanism
              conjuring noun-foci,
that are nothing
            but tarantula bites
of injecting the venom
                   of frau zensieren,
and yes, the practice is
            feminine,
     in the continental sense
   moving outside the safety of
approving gender to
                    inanimate objects....
   that are also noun-pools
   of quicker-stepping in a tango
of spreschen...
            some verbs can be
elevated to the nonsense
in the anglophone zeitgeist of
now... gender neutrality
  cannot exist in the pronoun
category...
                    go to quebec,
  and order a gender neutral
   noun's worth of a coffee &
a bagel...
            while sitting on a homosexual
chair, resting your elbows
on a hermaphrodite table...
   looking at a "cis-gender" wall,
   while talking lesbian
   about animal rights...
  you know that cain was a vegetarian?
these days russia
    looks so much less menacing that
mainstream media deems it to be
so...
     in this war, which is cold war II...
u.s.a. is the enemy...
                 sorry...
  but when every citizen turns into
a babushka ******?
      **** it, i'm out, i'm bankrupt...
     i can appreciate a ****** in a position
of power within a government...
  but when ordinary people
turn into hitlers?!
       **** it... i'm out...
         i'm playing poker with a joker card.

I.

i promised myself yesterday night to write
what needed to be written and just leave it,
not bother bypassing the 502 Bad Gateway Error message,
to simply not publish... i promised myself
this for several reasons: i knew that Malvina
(the toddler, the one year old) was coming
with her mommy who was going
to do my mother's nails and toenails,

i wanted to be fresh for babysitting duties...
alas... i woke up at about half past 5am and lay
in bed listening to music...
waited until 8am to call my doctor's surgery
to book an appointment...
i almost lost it: these little Hitlers of receptionists
did my head in... first it was impossible to phone in...

then i was 12th in the queue...
i started doodling to calm down...
i finally managed to get through:
i'd like to book an appointment... what for?
oh... a follow-up appointment...
the receptionist replied: we don't do follow-up appointments,
you have to come in for that... what?!
i called in yesterday and i was told
i can't come in and have to phone in! no...
you... listen... listen... i need to book an appointment!

you're not gatekeepers to the medical professionals,
i know that general practitioners are merely bureucrats...
but it has been 2 years since i've seen a doctor's face!
i had enough at this point...
i played a little game with her...
she was going to listen to me...
what are your symptoms? she asked...
listen... i'm: PSYCHOTIC...
for a while i was considered a schizophrenic,
but i bewildered one psychiatrists when i told her
that i experienced auditory hallucinations in two languages:

obviously i didn't: i only experienced auditory hallucinations
in English... that's how i overcame schizophrenic symptoms
in my 20s using two languages...
oddly enough these symptoms diminished...
disappeared... you can't hallucinate in two languages:
the English aspect of my ontology is both the more
creative and at the same time the most sick...
then again: creative?

my ****** side is more creative... i use English as a veneer...  
i told her straight out-right: i'm psychotic...
what followed was a quick arrangement for me
to see a doctor this very day... 4:20pm...
i had all the time in the world...
but i was waiting for Malvina...
by 9am my mother received a message that the manicurist /
pedicurist couldn't make it today...

she wasn't feeling well... could she come tomorrow?
i was planning for something like this...
**** two birds with one stone... well...
i was hoping to **** three with one today...
guess i would have to **** two today and two tomorrow...

well... three tomorrow... the day started with me
shuffling about the house: putting on the washing...
i have to admit: i rarely drink in the morning:
i have this ancient motto: gentlemen do not drink
in the morning... but i knew i needed something extra
to deal with receptionists...

i drank two Sols with lime and waited for a good
mood to come... a good mood came...
now i can talk... i started sipping the remaining
whiskey from the previous night:
i need to gear up for this sort of "conversation":
i'm pretty sure that if i mention i'm psychotic
i'll get what i really want, what i really want...
a ******* appointment!

these poems? they're "state sponsored": i'm currently
receiving Employment and Support Allowance...
which is... £120 weekly...
i pour that money into a translation of a diet
of helping my parents with food...
with buying whiskey, with buying cigarettes...
that goes into one account...
i set up a separate account for the money i earn...
i am legally obliged to not work more than
16 hours a week if i'm to still retain the state benefits...
and the money i earn?
it goes to the usual expenses... travel money,
lunch money, work clothes,
the Turkish barber, the female hairdresser...
PROSTITUTES...
that's why i wanted to earn money to begin with:
to calm my libido: i'm only earning money
to spend them on prostitutes: they can do all the pointless
spending in my place...

so the day started well enough: i was tipsy-happy
waiting for babysitting duties: tomorrow, tomorrow...
but while dearest mother looked at her Norman Bates
baiting a reciptionist with his final straw:
i'm psychotic... we talked about several important
things... me and my father's trip to Poland for
All Saints' Day to pay respect to the dead...
esp. grandfather...
come afternoon, finally! tickets booked!
we're flying into Cracow and flying out of Cracow!
finally! back to Cracow!
i never believed Warsaw to be the capital of Poland...
i'm old school... Cracow is still the same old capital
of old... i'm a feral creature in Warsaw...
but in Cracow i'm calm... ancient... grounded...

just like any Hebrew might say:
Tel Aviv is not the capital of Israel... Israel: he who struggles
with God... Jerusalem is the capital of something
more essential than Eva Braun and Adolf's project
of Israel... of moving so many Hebrews back into
the Levant...

i put on the first washing... mother was leaving for a session
in the gym...
i already booked my appointment with the doctor...
what to do? what to do?
last time i ****** Khedra she complained that
my moustache and beard were untidy: unfriendly...
i couldn't agree more...
you need the lips to be naked when kissing...
so? i cycled to my favourite Turkish barber...
i cycled up to the shop on my Rolls Royce of a Merlin 5
TREK... just about to chain it up to the fence...
the barber hollered at me... hey! bring it in!

i bring it into the shop: listen... i need to get something
from Tesco, do you mind? no no...
so i walk out of the backdoor reserved for
employees... walk in... pick up sustenance of whiskey
and Pepsi... only yesterday i drew out £200 from my
work bank-account... today i drew out £200 more....
finally! my debt to my mother is about to be paid
(i slapped the last £200 into her hand when we
got home)

i'm still left with enough work-money to spend
on prostitutes....
i went back to the barber shop and told my man:
trim it... keep it long: but if it's really thin after a while?
trim the hell away... i might as well have a shorter
but a bushier beard...
hey presto! i closed my eyes and... per usual:
a beard trim felt just as good as a *******...
if not better...
the owner just implored me: just don't fall asleep...

back home started hanging the washing...
put on the second washing-machine's worth of clothes...
put on PMQs: Wednesday? no? might as well figure out
the new prime minister: Lizz Truss... or is it Trust?
don't know... i fell asleep for a power-nap...
woke up while she was staged...
fell asleep on the cold hard wooden floor...
woke up dazed, but not confused...
hmm! Lizzie! you're not as bad as i thought you might
be!
you're a Thatcher-itch-*****-trooper!
i like you! no... Rishi Rushi Rushu Sumac couldn't have
performed as you just did...
so calm, so... stern: so in-control...
i think she'll do... she just might do...

i just started hanging the second load of washing
on the washing line when mother "dearest" called me up:
how about lunch in the Beefeater pub?
sure... i'll just finish hanging the washing,
how long do i have? half an hour...
half an hour later: bicycles and London:
**** me! i'm... MOBILE!
a nice lunch... two lasagnes...
mine with salad and flat breads
her's with chips and flat breads...
i was drinking Pepsi she was drinking beer...
it's a date... she was paying: after all:
i was just about to cough up the remains
of my debt of £400...

                         so we ate... talked... next to us...
two beached whales of... i think they were women...
i might have been wrong...
my mother even asked me: if you weren't living at home
and i allowed myself to become that size,
would you step in and tell me: no no no, no no?!
of course i would! being that sort of size
is a health hazard! it's dangerous!
all manner of complications come with being
so obese! i wouldn't care what you think of my aesthetic
concerns: i like plump plum girls to begin with:
but with that?! we're talking a beached whale...

**** me... i explained to my mother...
the aesthetic of eating in public... you need to leave...
you need to leave at least one mouthful on your plate...
you can't! you can't empty your entire plate
in public! you need to leave a bite-ful on the plate...
you can't send a plate back to the chef: completely emtpy...
but these two women?! it's not enough that they complained
to the waitress about their food...
they ate all of it: a dog would leave a dirtier plate
that these two...
you can't do that! a man wouldn't eat as much!
i'm serious!
   a whole rack of ribs... something else something else!
some extra sausage... and then more complaints!
the sausage left a bad taste in her mouth...
so the one beached whale to the other beached whale:
might as well **** the bad taste in your mouth
with some ice-cream... oh for ****'s sake!
feed this ***** an entire starving village of Africa!
yes: cannibalism!

maybe it was watching these two women eat:
thank god i never watched them ****...
or maybe it was my second glass of Diet Coke...
my stomach... i excused myself...
walked into the bathroom... took a little ****...
wiped my ***... turned around and...
started to puke...
  in that ancient Roman rite of bulimia...
no... no ******* down my throat...
i perfected the art of bulimia...
it's a "nervous" reaction... either i drank too much
fizzy drink(s)... or i ate too much...
perhaps both... or i watched with horror two female
gluttons... one **** followed by puking...
i couldn't... keep so much in my body...
by now it's automated: it's like farting...
or *******... i can keep it in for enough of time...
but sooner or later i exercise the Exorcist fantasy...
i start puking like seagulls or birds in general
perform regurgitation when feeding their young...
i think the momentum shifted from the original
straining of the esophagus into training the diaphragm...

the throat has little to do with the "nervous": the disgust
reaction... whenever i see people over-eat...
esp. women: i summon the puke-god of... puke and the *****!
i can't help it: it's unconscious...
i never know which is better:
******* *******, *******, diarrhoea streak of ****...
or... puking... i think puking is on par taking a ****:
it's like taking a **** through your mouth...
******* and *******? well: you need a *******
for that... *******? you need ******* for the passing
of yellow water... like a woman ******* under
the shower... and ******* *******?
you need a ******* for that too...
the ******* constraints the head of the phallus:
turning it baron purple... a choke-hold of an *******...

if Nero couldn't understand the Hebrew concept of fire...
i can't understand the concept of circumcision...
seems rather pointless to rob men of the pleasure
of ******* with the sheath:
and the "unknown" pleasures of *** when unsheathed...
of the *******...

hmm... there's nothing quiet like the feel of touching,
rummaging through: thinking about on "orchestra"
of a newly trimmed beard: a beard trimmed by
a Turk... no... wait... there is... it's kin-for-kin
aligned to touching up a woman's: ****!
is that rose petals i'm fiddling with?
i wonder: then again: i have absolutely no imagination
sometimes, pretty much all the time...
i'm concerned with the notion of "seeing is believing"...

so we ate our lunch.... mother and me...
talked about All Saints' day and my and her estranged
uncle / brother... about him moving back to Poland
with a sack of gold but no cultural referential hooks
of relate-ability... me?! back in Poland?
and... talking about what?
the only "news" that reached the shores of England
were about the Smolensk disaster...
that's it! i don't know the music scene...
i don't know any universal or partoicular
x, y & z... all my childhood friends were either
in some English prison or living in Southampton...
if i'll ever go back i'll go and visit graves: revive memories:
buy cheap cigarettes...

Poland is a myth to me... like for the diaspora of Hebrews
still unwilling to move back to Israel...
i like this beard-trimmed me...
i'm ready to go to sleep, early: i can't wait for
babysitting duties tomorrow...
like i can't wait for a London Stadium Shift come
4pm... working until 22:30pm...
and then ******* off to the brothel for some:
proper food...

once upon a time i thought myself subject
to exfoliating in the werewolf totem...
then i found a wasp, then a fly...
then a hedgehog... then a fox...
then i found a crow... then an eagle of sorts...
hmm...
    then i found myself: started to pander myself...
groomed myself...
are al these "supposed" vampire so well shaven,
so well, groomed?!

sooner me touching a tarantula than me touching,
that SLIMEY... itch of... ugh!
my neighbour said: it's just a frog...
frog?! what frog?!
that's a ******* toad!
leave him be!
leave him be?!
that's a ******* toad! it's gross... it's slimy...
it's green hidden in darkness!
i don't mind touching the insects...
the locust food-stuff!

Hebrews are not renowned for being a clean
people...
so much for the Hebrew deity gobbling
the deities of Moloch and Beelzebub...
of the other Semites of the region...
they're not the most cleanliness-prone people...
toads, as... pets?!
what ever happened to the Gentile way
of fur: attracts fur?!
my reaction? i jumped back
and started to pretend to wash myself...
my hands turned into about a thousand toothpicks...
my sense of disgust was so strong it turned out
to be a reflexive-action... rather than something
encompassing time... i.e. a reflective "inaction"...

i'm aligned with the German in that sense...
perhaps this supposed "Islamic invasion"
of Europe is not that bad...
who is the mother of Islam?
who, is the mother of Islam?!
isn't she... Abraham's concubine?!
wasn't Islam born from the ***** of Abraham?
sure... it's bad because you don't get
the high-born intellectual crowd...
you get the: same-****-different-cover of any sort
of people... but perhaps... just perhaps...

you get little Pakistani men
thinking what little Pakistani men think about
when "thinking" about the collapse of the British Empire...
sure, collateral: what war is without collateral?
collateral? i'm not sure if i date a British girl, ever!
my... condolences?! my... nuisance
of a respect?! i didn't teach these girls' parents
the bogus nature of anti-racism...
i was taught: other, lessons!
oh: the lessons i was taught! i kept them on a leash:
i reimagined them as dogs and me the dog-walker...

the afternoon finished off amiciably enough...
i finished off my Korean-style slow-cooked pulled pork...
with some sticky rice and an all green salad...
the green salad? lettuce, spring onions...
green chilly, green pepper, cucumber,
fresh coriander, lime zest... lime juice...
and an avocado dressing... perfection...

the Korean-style pulled pork? secrets are secrets...
me and "mother" already had our share...
our neighbour came in: a proselyte Hebrew to the faith
of Ishmael... (i.e. Islam)
from a terrible holiday... she talked: i complained:
that's no frog! that's a toad! blah blah...
while serving my father his dinner he was eating alone...
i thickened the sauce with some corn-starch...

oh: all these Albanian banana-boat men...
me and England...
me... and England... what a spastic-mr-fantastic:
special relationship i have with her...
it's so: special... it's ultimately special:
the double standards she has employed with her
anti-racist thesis...
me? i'm taking the side of the Russians...
why? like the Russians... being European:
i would abhor to be constantly demonised!

of course i'll be siding with the people that do not:

spielen ein spiel von schlechtgrammatik
      (play a game of bad-grammar)
at least the Russians respect language!
mindestens die Russen hinsicht sprache!
not this, English-inborn cosmopolitan growth
of: pilzintellekt (fungus-intellect):
*******... pilzüberschuss: kamelbuckel...
auswuchs von ein affen arschloch!

     fungus excess: camel ****...
outgrowth from a monkey's *******!

English men and their: stupendous "observations":
must have accomplished most of them
not being invaded: over... cricket...
wait a minute: wait a minute:
why am i siding with the Zeppelin brigade
of insomniacs?
there must be a, reason...

perhaps i'm seeing the English language like i'm
seeing the toad for the first time?
i'm itchy... i don't want to touch the **** thing...
i want to **** the Romanian prostitutes because?
the English girls favoured the Pakistani men...

these people don't even know what being
conquered equates to...
they are a people so lazy the best they equate
conquest to is: conquest by being sub-dued...
i can't help you there...

of point of interest... what's the combatitive position
of looting a train for its worth of time...
when commuting?
hmm...
Satan "vs." Catiline ...

the Dirt-bag - John Milton - the Toast -
  how are the arms positioned?
almost... identical...
    
II.

i'm sometimes fond of being reminded that i'm not English,
i get lost in the fact that i predominantly write in English,
why? if i had an easier access to the diacritical marks
in my mother's tongue i think i'd write more in my mother's
(well, and father's, well... in my own) tongue...
after all... i'm unlike like all these Asian "English"...
these African "English"...
i'm my own version of English... i'm my own English...
i'm not going to allow the natives to dictate what
being English is all about... i'm going to show what
the "new" English is: without a curry house, without a mosque...
without wearing pajamas in public...
i have three tattoos in my psyche: nope... it's not
about the Battle of Hastings:
i'm an Anglo-Slav...
i have my dates too...

i'm a first generation immigrant: i don't have to
boast or bemoan any fact that my parents didn't retain
the native tongue when i was growing up...
i've learned a few tricks in an unwritten book
of migration... me? i remember the death of Princess
Diana really clearly... the Home Office officers
were knocking on our door on Coventry Street in Ilford
that pretty morning when news filtered through
that Diana was dead...
the night before i was rolling ***** into holes
winning my mother a giant cuddly red dog toy...
i was in a mood to win ****... i was beating adults...
rolling those ***** into holes and roles
while the adults couldn't keep up with my "camel"
above on the bypass... i won that **** thing:
went on some magical ride that started off horizontally
spinning then turned into a vertical spinning demon...
next day was amazing though...
the Home Office officers knocked on our door
with a few police officers... Osama bin Laden lives here?!

my father did a runner through the gardens...
i remember them... handcuffing him and my mother...
two of the Home Office officers checked up on me
while i was holding my cat and facing the wall...
i had a personal computer in the corner of my bedroom...
i just started high school...
he walked in and said: that's a nice computer...
i never gave anyone a DEATH-STARE before...
but i gave him one that day...
my grandfather ****** off to drink his miseries
looking for my now estranged uncle...
me? i was back home... "home": pounding the walls
with my fists until i must have grown a fifth knuckle...
crying...

it's so ******* easy these days! isn't it?!
banana boat men from Albania smuggling
Syrian children... it's so ******* easy these days...
you get a free pass in England these days because
you're olive skinned...
let's skin 'em... let's see we're all flesh and ******
underneath...
we were nicely asked to be deported back
to our homeland...
thank god this happened: if it didn't...
i don't think i could find the proper sort of cushion
of my current state of bilingualism...
i would have forgotten my ****** sprechen...
i would be doubly bitter...
             i would be the only person in the family
with an English, sort of, accent... while my parents would
be the immigrants: but i'm the immigrant too!
i wasn't born here! from what i've seen:
i'm ******* happy i wasn't!

    i see it as a welcome break... i retained my native tongue...
it allowed me to have a relationship with my grandfather
my memory will forever cherish:
i'm currently planning a journey back to Poland
to consecrate the holiness of his death by me standing
sombre above his grave for All Saints' Day:
it won't be a spectacular as that event in Mexico:
but enough candles is: enough candles...

but i can sort of understand where Jihadi John
and the Syrian Beatles came from...
despising their parents as much as their host culture...
i would to... if my parents thought:
two tongues = claustrophobia... what?!
i'd hate my parents more than my host culture...
you can't fake it... some things you can't fake...
apparently you need to be fluent in Arabic
to read the Koran proper...
it's not enough to have some tattoo in Arabic
itched onto your skin to make you: not put in
the effort...
but now? it's so easy... ooh! walking on egg-shells!
will they send these banana-boat people back
like they sent me back?

weak! WEAK!
***** ***-starry-eyed-onlookers!
if you could do that with me: why can't you do the same
with them?!
don't bother answering...
i needed the stick more than the carrot...
you're just weaklings to me: mollusks...
your former shade of what was English is...
something i **** on...
i'm always ******* on what's currently, supposedly,
"English": i just hate this capitulation and
groveling at the altar of identity politics...
sorry mate: me? now? i'm just passing through...

ah... those three dates:

1. i won't mention the battle of Liegnitz...
      but i'll mention the battle of GRUNWALD
   (15 July 1410)... no wonder i might generate alliances
in the Islamic world: the Crusades didn't just take place
in the Levant... they also happened up north...
2. 12 September 1683 - the battle for Vienna,
  when the Polacks averted the tide of the Ottomans
  against Europe
3. Miracle on the Vistula (August 12–25, 1920) -
   the first defeat of the Soviet army...
  i.e. when the Russian Soviets were unable to join
up with revolutionist Communist Germany...
because some Polacks were like: n'ah ah...

when in Russian i was schooled... who won the war?
i replied politely, drinking beer and eating dry fish...
the Russians did...
i'm still gagging to ask a question of this little dearest
punk to the liking of my heart...
and who were the only two people in the world
to have ever managed to sack Moscow?
don't know? the Polacks and Lithuanians
between 1610 and 1612 and the Mongols...
well... seriously? is history even equivalent to modern
people being preoccupied with journalism and
tabloid and fame culture of "celebrity"?
i'd rather dig into history...
   my god: i come from this stock!
no wonder "my" people didn't leave too many traces
of the written word... and unlike the English they didn't
have the leisurely time to conjure up football or cricket
or rugby... they were warring all the time...
so much for the idleness of islanders...
now? they're crippled by their idolatry of idleness and
former delusion of power and strength!

i have this theory... girls with those large ring earrings?
what do they translate as? easy flings...
plus... i've recently noticed that the men who women
choose to be mates and fathers have one necessary
aspect to them: they need to have at least one arm
in a tattoo-sleeve...
                 oh yeah... they need at least one arm in a tattoo-sleeve...
one tattoo won't save you: you need a *******
theme of tattoos all over your entire arm
to become attractive to women:
no wonder i'm joyously bitter...
like **** i'm getting my skin inked...
i have other tattoos... my brain is one giant
******* tattoo of the past!
                                            
i have seen these: POKRAKI (not disabled, morphed)
children, second generation immigrant children,
i would implore their parents to retain their mother tongue:
they didn't... these children are the ones that not only
despise the culture their parents assimilated into:
but also despise their parents...
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

i found an alternative to history and mythology...
although i still place them above journalism...
there's another history that does not delve into
the speedy Gonzales history "catch-up" methodology
of Darwinism... it's called etymology and it's a history
of words: of word origins...
unlike Darwinism, which is a history of forms:
even ancient people could have told you that monkey
was: **** SIMILIS... something similar to man...
but they didn't take the arguments too seriously
even then... if they did: then all the banners of nations
would be filled with ******* macaques or gorillas...
instead? eagles, crows... lions... bears...
something to look up to...
not look down on: we're currently looking down...
we're looking at our origins and thinking aloud:
wow! we've figured it out!
like **** we have... dressed up in science and pseudo-science
and statistics: it's not that we've become
predictable: we've just become predictably boring...
self-evidential...
we have this scientific safety-net because there's this
"NORM"... this "MEAN & MEDIAN"...
the story of averages... the narrative of:
well if X is so... then i can be x in X's shadow...

before the shift started at Wembley where i would be
working level 5 for the Hawking's tribute concert:
lucky me... usually if a band does a tour there
are loads of dates... people from all over Europe travelled
to London to see this gig...
i couldn't stop smiling and giggling
when Brian Johnson came on and sand Back in Black...
i'm not too big on Paul McCartney...
so Helter Skelter would have been grand if
Charles Manson was there too...
oh sure, sure... i'm a massive fan of both (insert snigger)...

but before the shift i was asked: do you have vertigo?
me? didn't i tell you guys that i used to be a roofer
once? Wembley is peanuts' worth of height for me...
i've worked taller buildings before...
and? it's not vertigo... i have something else...
it's much worse... the feeling came back to me...
from time to time i get it when i get bored...
i have to grip something, a railing... why?
why?! ah h ha... when i'm at a certain height...
and something like a yawning gap of space
appears before me... akin to the Wembley stadium...
and i'm on high... i just have this impossible urge
to subdue of... simply running off the ledge
and jumping head first to my death...

i can't stop it... i have to play chess with my legs:
stand stiff: stand rooted you *******!
no! no! at that concert i had to check myself about
five or six times: i really wanted to jump...
i thought: wouldn't it be glorious to just free-fall
to a certain song? if they're staging a tribute concert...
after all: i am aiming for fame post-mortem...
wouldn't that be something...

hmm... my neighbour is currently on holiday....
she asked me: can you feed my cat?
yes, i can...
can you feed my water tutle?
sure... i blazed a light against the aquarium...
oh... pretty little thing... what are you eating?
dried shrimp leftovers?
no problem... swim up... catch them... as they float
on the event horizon of the water... soak up enough
water and sink to your level of "expertease"...
she then asked me: can you feed my frog,
live locusts?!
sure thing...
i shone the light into the aquarium...
jumped back! trying to brush off imaginary dust from
my body... scratching, itching...
THAT'S NOT A ******* FROG!
THAT'S A ******* TOAD!

she described it a a frog... i don't mind frogs...
i don't mind spider either...
but something that's enlarged...
i jump back...
                     i start pretending to be  a cat...
i need to wash myself...  have no soap... i have no water:
i still need to wash myself...
she said: feed my frog... it's not a frog!
it's a toad! **** you, witch!

i didn't mind the grasshoppers / locust...
i just minded that big slimy bulge of green!
yeah yeah, sure "thing": a misunderstood creature...
what the **** is wrong with a mammalian lineage?!
i thought that i had an irrational aversion toward
spiders... i don't mind spiders no bigger than any of my
fingernails... she said FROG...
what i witnessed in the shadows was a *******
TOAD:

ŻABA contra RHO-POO-HA (ropucha)
i can hold a frog in my hand...
but a toad? i'm fearful of their skin... permeating
a transit fungus onto my skin!
i don't mind feeding the **** thing
live locust insects... i'm just worried about
it's own green slimy ***!

i know i'm not English... i enjoy a: KISSEL...
it's... lukewarm jelly...
known in the eastern parts of Europe...
and as far north as Finland...
KISSEL... it's a warm jelly...
there's less concern for it being set...
it's drinkable jelly...
there's no talk of gelatin...
cornstarch... yes... cornstarch and arrowroot...
liquid jelly...
known from Finland and thoroughly in the Baltic
States... down through the Dnieper River...
of Ukraine...
the best mix-up i've ever tasted?!
banana and lemon...

i can't wait until tomorrow's visit by the BOBAS:
the BAMBINOS' visit by Malvina...
i'm already gearing up to going to sleep early...
it's almost akin to planning a visit to a brothel:
but i'm going to entertain a young child tomorrow:
that's different! i can't wait...
i need to feed this baby some leeches of having
drained some of my testosterone...
perhaps no blood: but something...

i need to make any important call tomorrow
come 8am... i need to be the baby-sitter...
i'll need to visit the Turkish barber...
wait until Thursday and then ******* to the brothel...
then... whatever.

anything that's young and small is usually fun to have,
fun to care for, tend to... whether a dog...
a flower... or a child... esp. a child...

i'm not into typifying anything racially...
although... with enough experience cycling...
you come across racial stereotypes...
it's unavoidable...
i don't mind black drivers... i don't mind
white drivers: hell...
the stereotype of the white van man:
who's usually white is a blessing on the road...
these guys are a blessing to cyclists...
they care enough to pass you by with the minimum
amount of space required...
but they're not nervy... jerky...
they don't stalk you for a ******* minute
before making a move to overtake you...
but if i see a ******* "ninja" behind the wheel...
or some pompous Asian who blasts his
horn at me... i'm giving him the finger
that'll elaborate into the index-middle-and-ring
and shout at him: *******! read between
the lines!
i can't help myself:
the guy is usually driving a ******* VW polo
and he think's he's driving a ******* TANK...
i can squeeze past... no problem...
i've come across two instances where my
thigh glanced the surface of the exterior of a car...
i once had a collision with one of those
Ronin with an L placard attached to their rear...
******* mileage... doing 30mph... tears in their eyes
from the wind... blah blah...
i never thought i'd say this but...
Heidegger... dasein... where else if not when cycling?!
- a Sunday newspaper...
oh yeah... i'm a "boomer" in that sort of way...
i love the printed press... esp. on a Sunday...
Sunday newspapers are the best...
they have the magazines... they do a News Review...
it's almost as if... the culmination of all things
relevant arrives on a Sunday...
Monday newspapers are pointless...
i believe there should be a media sabbath...
and it would be a Monday since...
the newspapers are most slim on a Monday
and... no one does anything important on
a Monday anyway...
but the following article really did catch my eye...
'Machete gangs on the hunt for flashy Mamils'
(the sunday times, page 15,
october 10, 2021... nicholas hellen, transport editor)
so that's 'x' not "x" since it's a direct quote
and not a metaphor, misnomer or airy-*******-fairy
ambiguity...
the jyst... jist... whatever: the zest of the story
is... a cyclist was rammed and had his £15,000
road-bicycle stolen from him in daylight...
in an affluent part of Loon-dun... Richmond Park...
MAMIL? it's an acronym...
i hate acronyms... it's a H'american "thing"...
middle-aged-men-in-Lycra...
like i said: i too cycle... i'm a nut for cycling...
and i too wear Lycra shorts...
but i cover those Lycra long-shorts with something
breezy... other than that... no helmet...
no Lycra top...
   but it's the closest a man can get to what
women wear underneath...
if Lycra is not equivalent to the finest sort of lingerie
(phonetically... that... lan-jar-ray... not quite...
almost)
a woman can wear... then...
my ******* are not currently tingling
to a point of me thinking i have a ******...
290,000 is the number of bicycles stolen each
year in England & Wales...
funny that... i don't spot so many cyclists
to not have this number properly scrutinised...
i'm guess... scrap metal? scrap rubber?
- it's Lycra it could as well be something sexed-up
like lace... but... it has to be covered with
some sensible material...
i'd sooner be dead than don a ******* helmet...
cycling gloves and that pseudo-yoga-pants look
that women are pulling off...
sure... your *** looks fine woman...
thanks for that libido insomnia i've been having
with a Marquis de Sade hard-on for the past:
20 years!
started ******* aged 8... or 7...
even managed to teach another boy how to *******...
what's the ******* for?
not that? solo projects with ref. to...
no... never... i was never fond of the Egyptian gods...
but this one... so i asked this girl what deity she'd prefer
to... hardly pray to... at least keep in mind:
well... her counterpart... Atum... who spawned
his... offspring through self-*******...
so... hardly a taboo...
of course if i were a woman and had my
decapitated ******* toys and a web-cam...
i'd be milking it...
oh hello plumber... hello... electrician...
it's hardly something to do before a camera & broadcast
it... it's someone one does
on the throne of thrones...
once you do the no. 1 & 2...
that's no. 3 and there's no. 4 that comes up
while baptising yourself in the shower... a proper wash down...
but never in a scented candles spread on the bed
sort of way...
well: if you have to milk it:
i guess you have to milk it...
the sort of erotica associated with pregnant women...
- i never liked Talking Heads...
but this song... qu'est ce que? f'ah f'ah f'ah...
i was sold when watching Bloodshot with van Petrol...
that dance...
i'm shimmy... simmering... hell:
brought right up to the boil...
- so yeah... i can racially profile certain traffic
behaviours...
"ninjas" are not that bad...
but Asian... sorry... not Orientals:
i'll call red red, o.k.?
           Hindus... although i like this slur...
CIAPATY...
          borrowed from japatti...
in my native spreschen it denotes...
eating with your mouth open...
the MLASK... the audible sound of food being
chewed...
but i'll still "secretly" envision a world
where... we ate something French for breakfast...
or just poultry abortions...
something omni- for lunch
and a curry for dinner...
           i can't get over the superiority
of the blue Indian cuisine...
    lucky them: lucky for some to have
stockpiles of salt... but lucky for them to have had
cardamom... green or black... cumin, coriander...
chilly for all this time!
- but when it comes to reincarnation...
sure... i remarked that time sort of stopped being tinged
with a metaphysically: linear and
adorned a cyclic nature...
but... reincarnation implies:
only a fixed number of souls... while the rest of us
are zombies... empty vessels...
i'm not saying it's wrong... but ******* scary...
imagine... it's like the Catholic ELECT...
the Jewish CHOSEN few...
                            it doesn't breed much...
sympathy for your fellow man...
i like sympathy...
a symbiosis of pathology...
i once could quote myself as saying:
apathy breeds no pathology...
a quote staged when someone remarked:
there's nothing worse than apathy...
          dis-ease: a negation of ease... one more scrutiny
with etymological tinges... or hue...

always the two necessary lubricants when
writing... since i never feel like talking:
breathing is fine... but talking?!
refocus of a subject matter: Kandinsky...
talking-head... news anchor...
or merely a ditto-head...
i.e. one half of the "air-quote" i.e.
                                                      " id est... as above...

****... there's some dehydrating washing
in the attic... i need to get that ironed...
there's a decent chicken broth slowly cooking:
i'll need to boil some vermicelli for it
as a starch accompaniment...

i too hate the masochists running riot in...
m'ah race... i hate them...
i don't mind this whole world that has congregated
in Loon'dun...
i feel queasy in a monochromatic society
to begin with...
Poland & Cheltenham are like-for-like...
it's that i've grown among so many hues that...
it's impossible to otherwise an "otherwise"...
but... for a people that espouse so much Darwinism...
but at the same time... trickle down
English... "pragmatic" sensibilities?
sorry... something is going to awake in me
something primordial... something most associated
with the evil genius of the Russians...

you simply can't sell me Darwinism and
behave like ******* dodos!

my Salinger year... my new york year...
whichever name...
a very accomplished movie...
quirky... very quirky...
it's almost like watching...
Bell, Book & Candle starring
Kim Novak & James Stewart...
tamed existentialism: nothing remotely connected
to Robert Eggers' the lighthouse...
a movie on par with Ingmar Bergman's
the seventh seal... or Samuel Beckett's Watt...

i still haven't finished watching the movie...
the night i started watching it
i ended up drinking myself to a silly state
of lying on the floor...
then... attacking my cat with caresses while
crawling without using my legs...
like that cenobite in Hellrasiser: Inferno...
i was head, torso... arms...
a waking nightmare of what watching serious
movies & drinking does to you:
the waking grip of: delirium!

oh i know... a little... w.h. auden famously remarked
that all the Hitlers of the world wrote at night...
the above i wrote during the day:
having forgotten to put on the washing
of bathroom towels...
as you do... gearing up to cooking
the most pristine beef steak...
some french fries... a mushroom sauce...
leftover coleslaw...
you really can't butcher the beef meat twice...
you need to cook it for its final purpose:
tender medium rare...
i'd east blue... i'd eat rare...
but doubly butchering it to a well done?
i guess only the English have this
horrid palette...
they'll make chalk out
of chicken *******! a bit like my grandmother!
no... exactly like my grandmother!

come to think of it... a narrative is a cascade...
a river... a waterfall... something that lends
itself to Heraclitus...
then the cut-up "technique" came
beginning with the Dada movement
and later... fro Tristan Tzara
through to William Burroughs and his
"comrade"... Gregory Corso...
i'm more into juxtapositions...
let's call it...
          Kandinsky's anarchy with the subtlety
of either Satie or Debussy...
i sometimes walk into the forest
drunk... come a special place in my heart...
the highest autumn... the genesis of winter...
with a naked torso: because
i have to take all the clothes of my upper body
and sit... scouting for the moon
on some throne of bark...
peering from behind the branches...
listening to: as a branch is broken...
and something nears...
            
i need this night... it's such an annual event...
a seasonal ****...
like the period it takes me to make my own wine...
i need the trees as skeletons...
it's hard: when... you don't have any colour
to work with...
some might say i write a "word salad":
which is a derogatory term in psychiatry for
those who are familiar with it...
i'm speaking nonsense or...
i'm trying something new...
post-post-modernism...

      does it even matter, right now?
           i don't know my neighbours...
the ones i supposedly knew managed to invent
a tall tale concerning my Arctic hued Maine ****...
kidney failure... sorry... you what?
i was visiting my grandparents while being
traumatized by an advent of future events...
i begged and begged to return home...
if these Asiatic people love themselves so much:
and their community...
how much they might abhor tending
to westerners' pets...
say it... don't fake it...
"neighbours"...

well... that sheikh party... sorry... Punjab?
why do i require all these unnecessary
explanations... why do i need to be schooled?
that party of Sikhs went down well...
i spotted a few of them looking at me sitting
on the windowsill... waiting for an insomniac crow
to crow in the nacht...
  the party was going fine for a few hours...
until 1am hit and... i could hear the aruing through
my headphones...
in the morning a car was parked by
the garden fence that read: DOCTOR
on the front...
so... someone overdid it?

listen, friend... if you don't know how to drink!
don't drink!
i drink because i'm bored...
and i like to... dribble a little scribble...
i am: a harrowing...

     i'm sorry: these aren't my neighbours...
i can tell you why they're not my neighbours...
those Nigerians that moved next door...
where once an English woman... post-wall...
and her pseudo-Lithuanian bulldog of a bf moved in...
the one who told me i needed to ask
his permission when making a bbq...
because he had his washing drying in the garden
and he didn't want a smoked salmon fest...
or the woman that lived two doors down...
with her autistic boy...
i don't know how many men went
in and out after the boy's father left...

i'm not saying i'm better than...
but i like... what is it that i like?
a sensible... polite society...
a society where i can drink a Franziskaner beer
on a park bench, in the shade... and not bark
obscenities...
i like politeness... i like... this most pristine of social
contracts...
i still believe there are...
unwritten... social contracts...
like today... a woman was walking with her
two daughters riding bicycles...
i finished my beer and smoked my cigarette...
i was on my way
riding the bicycle without
holding the handlebars...

LOOK! LOOK! the man is not holding them!
well... i should come up with
some soppy story about being 35 and not having
children...
chances are... society would only allow me
to breed female prostitutes...
and male suicides...
i'm doing the next best "thing"...
nodding my head like a pigeon walking...
pretend dancing while perched on a windowsill...
listening to Talking Heads' ****** killer...

i'm out... the chimp in me checked out...
oh it must be so great to have little girls
and boys...
the ones that spot a man with a beard
and exclaim: LOOK! LOOK! he's not holding
the handle-bars...
he's almost riding a unicycle!
look at the clown in disguise of...
not having any ****** paint!

i'm also jealous... i can make a corner without
holding the handle-bars of a bicycle...
it's like... gravity 2.0: two-point-oh...
but the stuff the English colts in Essex get up to...
gearing up... doing wheelies...
i'm jealous... all i can do is...
turn corners without holding the handlebars....
whey hay! presto!
it's like... gravity can be used outside the realm
of planetary orbit...
it can have its own micro-cosmos! wow!

at this point i ought to be like:
i want to raise young girls...
teach them how to ride a bicycle without
them needing to use the handlebars...
only for acute turns...
i'm sorry... the chimpanzee in me
is sleeping...
i'm Harold... can i help you?

               i'm ******* grooving to Talking Heads'
****** killer bass line...
like a pigeon... strutting... instead
lodged with a leg folded sitting on it
on a windwosill...
              believe me... the world's great!
it's almost as if i never left it:
it's almost as if i arrived to watch its sunrise!

the drink is hear... the absence of any decent narrative too...
talking heads' psychology killer vs.
fleetwood mac's: the chain...
to hell with African-esque...
the European-solo projects...
if it's not about the bass... it's not about anything...

imagine a pigeon strutting...
and my giggling... imitating dancing while rooted...
those two girls on bicycles...
LOOK! LOOK! a man is riding a bicycle
without holding the handlebars!
as much as that might have: ought to...
bring me sorrow...
the sun was shining...
i wish i could... tap into that sort of
research material...
hello dead end... hello project dodo...
for all the right reasons...
for ****'s sake...
my mother loved her father...
but my grandfather "sold" her... the worst of the worst
of genes...
i'm also invested in them...
i'm evolved in that:
i know... when it's desirable to stop...
i want to stop...
i don't want a future i dispose of to
come back to me with... ******* complaints...

i adore the children of strangers...
LOOK! LOOK! the man!
ha ha... the first time i was scrutinised as
a man... i... never remembered being a boy...
LOOK! he's riding his bicycle without using
the handlebars!
it's the little that makes the most...
like... catering to your feline companions...
making them teased... but now abhorring you
up to the point of:
how, the, ****... do, you... arrive... at...
"lost" cats?! dogs i can understand...
i saw this one instance where a guy...
roped a dog to a bench... then ****** off...
for some... strange ******* reason...
the same dog was... running around with
another stray... ******* magic...
a stray dog a "lost" dog i can understand...
but... what sort of a *******... what sort of *****
do you have to be / become...
to conjure up a... ******* stray cat?!
seriously?!

believe me: i've lived a little: to know... a little...
it's not that i know nothing:
which is... that infamous Socratic negation positive
statement....
you can't just... conjure up...
"lost" cats... what terrible people they must be...
dogs i can understand...
leashed...
cats... i imagine cats ******* off on their own...
then i start thinking about
the milk-toast...
the... overcooked beef...
beef that's not... medium-rare... or blue /
i.e. doubly butchered...

the bicycle isn't simply "owned"
by =a: pataphyscian: alfred jarry....
               a cyclist is somehow...
sometimes... a buffer....

hello... the end.

This Poe flows Colder
Than the Winter Soldier’s
Poppy Rocky Mountains
Got these Madoff Hitlers frontin’
Like they cut from different fountains
In the ‘palm of Vietnam
We lit that Hendrix living Dead
Since True man’s ‘zilla psybeam bomb
Where I still pose Socratic **** ed
As the real clown prince of prom
Like how American’t these Laosy liars
Just say Uncle Psalm?
The most Unholy Roman culture
I have ever Lucid Sky Dove on
A liberal artist sculptor
Commonwealth fair sharin’ Guam
To sharpen tigress Lady Ganga’s
For the Partition pogrom
Where my extremist gets its fix
On next-door neighboring Islam
Though not to sink with thinning ranks
But think in ink instead of tanks
‘Cuz I ran-Contras gunnin’ nuns
I’ve chased the dragon’s rising suns
And now I’m building an empyre
For the dreamers I come from

honest to god or no god... this was supposed to be merely about a comparison of two bicycles... a road-bike viking... bought for £125 years ago... the chain was all rusty... the wheels were deflated... and a trek marlin 5... bought for £495... which... comes to think of it... only just now... seems like a waste of money... tired rubber... 3 punctures of the wheels... and it only took me 3 months of testing it... for the tyres to be: worth jack-****... double-sure on the condoms should the Irish come knocking

perhaps w. h. auden was right when saying that:
all the Hitlers of the world write at night...
i like writing at night... i like the fascination
with being up while in the vicinity everyone's
is off to the land of Nod...
perhaps w. h. auden was right:
perhaps all the dejected pederasts write
while basking in the sun... cowering into
shadows... i know a little about w. h. auden...
it only took me the time to read
harold norse's memoir: " of a ******* angel...
a dejected old queen...
oh... but between w. h. auden... pretty rhymes...
i still don't know what's keeping
walt whitman afloat...
well... since so few women write books
worth reading: perhaps they write the most
honest poems...
it's not out of some misogyny that i don't read
literature by women...
i'm a massive fan of Pashtun poetry:
Afghan women and their landays:
their little horror debacle...
but no woman is going to write herself into:
naked... revealing... child-like...
she has too much mystique to sacrifice:
to give up...
she's not going to write from anywhere
other than the posit of the ideal:
whether it's the ideal of who she thinks she is:
or the ideal she's looking for...
two made it... Bukowski made the money...
i know... he wasn't a woman...
and Sylvia Plath... perhaps that Sexton Lady...
it's not even cute: it's exasperating...
it's a drowning man searching for a razor blade's
edge to save himself from drowning...
even i: given enough time...
am... bothersome... meeting up with...
the Titans translated into:
pillars or... hardly salt... just the pedagogic
blockade... it would be easier to revise
perspectives with a Copernican:
he moved the earth while stopping the sun...
that would be easier... than to shift: Shake-a-Pear
into a heap of recyclables..
- i hate myself when i start borrowing
either katakana or Hangul...
how i admire these writing systems...
vowels disappear... integrated into consonants
that have no leg to stand on... beside the N...
how two consonants: lost in phonetics...
but necessarily distinguished in writing
are so hard to find...
B'AH C'AH... vowel catcher hatch: indicator for:
B'AH: not Bay...
              self-evident truth from where i'm
originally from... no! b'ah!
irksome throughout the day:
a second time i'm quitting smoking...
i'm not going to quit it...
a cigarette at the end of the day...
some wine...
i wish i could still play video-games...
no... wait... i don't...
the solitary bat flying around my eucalyptus tree
chasing moths and other lesser creatures...
me strapped to the moment
watching the win caress the eucalyptus tree:
it's almost as if someone let me off my leash
from a monastery...
like acid poured into my ears:
flaky high-follower count debates...
i don't think the sort of people clued into reading
a book... detached from a comment section:
sure... well-read... well-read people...
eclectic minds... regurgitating journalistic endeavours...
since journalists are paid
and poets aren't: you don't rhyme... ******!
don't expect payment when not boxed: with rhyme...
last time i heard... Horace didn't bother either:
authentically: if i'm not going to have a conversation...
poetic soliloquy...

my soliloquy... someone else's voyeurism...
dad rock... budka suflera - noc...
robert plant - morning dew... darkness darkness....

well of course i will read ****-****** literature:
i'm not a big fan of nuns...
women and their curtain dressing...
i want to love them as much as i don't
want to understand... keep me as target of my
own demise in a man orientated world...

- the beauty of a machine that works well...
i'm still flabbergasted... i just saw a gingerbread
cookie of a man run into a cave,
shout... and leave no traces of an echo...
ooh! the sort of face most associated
with Kenyan macaques...
who... project a ****** expression of fear
onto that, which... gives them fear...

Kenya... i was there for the ivory beauties...
the adventure of finding shade...
the cheap brandy... and feeding the macaque
monkeys some sugar sachets...
while entertaining myself on the balcony
with: inanimate things...
twitchy eye: tree! i saw you move!

it's a bicycle it's not a road-taxed mechanisation:
i very much like things i can use
to their full potential: whereby i invest in
creating my own momentum...
slim: slimmer... slimmest...
now that i have a clenched chest
of pirate rage having done some press-ups
in awkward positions: more yoga
than... not as many stomach crunches...
i like the idea of a tender stomach...
all the limbs can be orchestrated to:
well oiled... best of the best juiced...
but the stomach... area...
i like it tender...
to imitate the whole of woman... sketched
in braille...
cat grooming... which originally prompted me
when she stuck up her *** into my face
and i started whizz-kid searching
for an outlet...
i promised myself i'd be back
on scout's honour: prompt...
looks like i haven't been so honest
with either her or myself...
my moustache has grown to the point
where my lips are hiding... tender: slim...
my neck has disappeared...
i've started to drink and become pensive
and therefore: started to imitated playing
a violin while fiddling with a beard...

but i did trim my ***** so they might appear...
like a laurel bush...
or a lemon tree...
maybe i'll get my libido spontaneity back
when i have to tend to grooming the cats...
it's the closest prospect of "translation"
i'll arrive at... since: with cats...
no muzzle... not leash... no kink...
no latex... come to "think" of it...
thank god i don't get enough of "it"...
give me a spectacle of one: done proper...
every half-a-decade...
i couldn't stomach it everyday...
it's enough that i have everyday for
the joys of... taking a ****... drinking some milk...
debating corn....

it's not corn is: or was... ever to be debated...
seriously... perhaps corn-meal:
not corn-flour that's readily available for
a thickening "enzyme"...
that **** the h'americans eat...
yellow-bread... Hans and Saucer...

strict regulations of language formality...
debatable speak...
wait... from began with Horace
and ends with giuseppe belli sonnets:

a le madre, se sa, li strilli e 'r piaggne
je pareno ronno dde tordinone.
le madre ar monno so ttutte compaggne...

       to mum, the gruntings of this ***-mad ******
surpass the sweet songs of a west end name...
the mothers of this world are all the same.

it's a dialectical approach concerning two bicycles...
one... a cheap road bicycle viking: vibrant green...
sturdy frame: no need for...
lost the word... rephrasing...
what's the word... not punctures...
giddy-giddy...up... down?
RESORY...

unlike a wide-girth of the mountain bike's
handlebars...
the road-cycle narrows around me exfoliating my
back muscles...
sure... the front brakes are a bit squeaky...
but... unlike the £495 pristine: sold for a....
the wider trim of wheels....
i have never ridden a better bicycle worth
only £125... this viking contra the trek marlin 5...

get used to the idea of THONG...
of the wheel...
the frame is much smaller... "slim"...
but i still encourage myself as riding faster...
bicycles and prostitutes...
i don't care much for...
paying too much...
last time i heard: there's not "cheaper"
as there's no "dearest"... when it comes to coughing up
for ***...
the supposedly cheapest will showcase
her tongue... she's motivate you...
provided you're sober...
giddy-up showcase girl...

after having skimmed some Rousseau...
i thought Kierkegaard was good:
indolent i...
there's no cat sleeping in my bed:
thank god... i'm not feeling having a bed-fellow...
to suckle me into: oyster-mush...
floral patterns...

also... thank god for the olympics:
the plethora of bodies...
the swimmers have the sexiest bodies...
not the sprinters...
lacerated lungs...
not the heavyweight lifters:
******* Turkish dwarfs from the nether kingdom
of the Caucasian: procrastinating
crustaceans....

        look at them!
see any ***-side-aside... keep up with
the Springboks? Aqua-****-with:
mensch... oh the "cardinal" is real...
the Isrealis should know..
not much room for intellect
when the body is concerned...
FAIL... double... FAIL: thrice...
there's not THRICE when filing is mentioned...

a £125 worth of a VIKING road-bike...
is worth more than a £495 Trek marlin 5 mountain bike...
how? the product wasn't made
at a time where... NOT MADE IN CHINA
was a thing...
perhaps the Chinese teamed up with project:
SLACK...

but there's this "debate":
i'd rather.... not listen to music...
hence... listen... to the bicycle not giving me grief...
streaking a palette of irksome sounds...
glitches... chasers...
creases in the otherwise well-oiled-up...
rubric of cogs and: generalised machinery...
i "forgot" to become a self-made d.j.
riding this glorious machinery...
why? it's so silent....
it works so well...
so much for advertising hell:

when a machine works so... pristinely...
that... you: can sacrifice listening to music...
as a way to digest the mundane...
passing of traffic...
so well oiled... of sure... the front breaks
squeak a little...
but you can refrain from auxiliary help
of the time: occupied by cycling:
because there's a solid frame....
and the classic handlebars allow your
hands the sort of "yoga" not associated
with the timidity of mountain-bike heirs: HIRSCH...

when you want to appreciate a well-crafted bicycle...
you want to listen to the traffic...
you can't hear your bicycle...
you're dying to **** a Turkish *******...

when journalism dies...
oh i'm pretty sure... no man alone...
the Phoenicians invented what the Canaanites
suggested: the humble patriarch Abraham...
Carmenta...
              St. Cyril...
SEJONG...
it wasn't sr. isaac pitman...
last time i heard it was... Marcus Tiro:
of the Cicero household...

*** & bicycles... it's one thing...
altogether another...
alpha + beta orbiters...
journalists get paid for being...
restaurant critics...
poets get paid for... load of *******:
and half the expected rhyme...
i like what i'm supposed to pay for...
Turkish prostitutes...
like Turkish barbers...
i get the best trim of ***** refocusing on my face...
i get the best blowback...

the English girls: all nuns!
all nuns! just prior to...
Pakistani paedophiles making them...
"available": no... rotten fruit at this point...
my life's complicated enough...
aim small: miss small...
heart's a pebble...

in the guise of: walking abortion:
walking around with a scrutiny of:
the eunuchs of king solomon's harem:
daddy: issues...
all those maxims... all those maxims::
but no foreseeable light of a
king david's psalms...

any man can claim wisdom:
when he has all the world is to arrive at....
no wonder that...
Solomon felt this sort of "grief"...
from David unto Solomon:
this tender prayer...

there's no need to avert the freedom
granted unto women:
i must allow myself
to love what i better not understand....
grow a beard: fiddle with it
pretending it to be a violin...
crease the concerns for traffic...
if it's not a horse: treat it as a bicycle...

i have a heart: enough of a heart:
to... drown a stone...
if not a stone then i'll suffocate
a mountain... however peacocking worded:
i'll drown a ******* mountain
in a puddle! then... i'll call it...
a lob-sided phenomenon of...
"ugly" tarmac!

'ere i r: "thieving" around with some base ęgliş -

it must be admired: this citizen
politicized majority:

that a people can fathom fudge packaging
tier upon tier:

and serve both a democracy of voices
and the necessary vote: illiterate X
"acronym" piece o' pie for a signature's
worth...

wow and doubly: wow... on a continent when
there's this status quo class strictures:

moths, cobwebs(,) and spare change...
this grand asymptomatic clue...
i hope to pretend
to steal a language from
a people... that have no diaspora poignancy -
because: there's this squatting "elsewhere"...

litany of secrecy that has to become:
blunt dumb and grating
cheddar: stoic-esque...
the blunting of the knife and
the sharpening of the tongue...

i will still find the sort of reggae i want...
culture's harder than the rest
(full album)...

picky moi: burning spear's
marcus garvey -
the black voice
that demanded of his
choccy people a repatriation
process:
how alien it must seem
to be african-american
going to a majority black
country...
how unwelcome
one must be...
to be black and thrown back
into kenya...
speaking no word of the native
breath...
what statues of agony
an IDI AMIN could...
and did... dying a slow death
in the ***** of arab racialism...
oh sure joys of sculpture...
unforgiving in how
legs dismembered would
be reattached to sockets where
arms ought to imitate bird flight
with flapping: and vice versus...
i suffer to have not this sort
of imagination!

but that is a song...
   i'm here attempting to steal
english from the english:
it's not "about to" happen
either...
i'm getting drunk on
the cocktail: before, of course...
i come across some
bureaucratic "sensibility":
some angry ***** mad
enough with the least
authority given...

         that people given
the least authority tend to abuse it
the most...

i had to look at europe "elsewhere"...
milan kundera pointed
out this quote
'quarrel in a far away country,
between people of whom we know nothing'
by neville chamberlain
when appeasing ******
concerning the merger of
extended bohemia
into the third *****...
                
  it would seem: it would always
be easier to treat the middle east
with enforced straight lines...
e.g. iraq / jordan never look
like naturally invoked
land masses -

no mountain range no river...
it's not that i have to blame
the english pauper for
a past history of colonialism...
but... to have little knowledge
of your neighbour's lot...
was there any similar ignorance
when: outstanding brits
matched napoleon's ambitions?

i test my own patience with this...
at what point will i finally state:
well... given the air of politics
weaving its way trickle down
into the publically paid bureaucracy...
em...
is it racism or is it...
an african fetish?
     like me... i'm all for porcelain girls
of the orient: no one wants
to **** exhausted gammon... do they:
in this mismatched kama sutra... do they don't they?

i'm sensing a fetish for... it's gone beside
a racism: i'm looking to the east
of what's still europe -
a zilant semblance written
in "old orthography" of the tatars...
   qazan - someone's knowing on my door...
the germanic peoples pushed...
then the slavic peoples pushed...
then the mongols and the turkmen pushed
this great funnel and sieve
of a: pseudo-continent that's probably
only an extended experiment
of great mother asia and uncle siberia...

after all: isn't australia an island?
who ever has to hear the same
soft-narrative: out-of africa...
except those pesky eskimos -
      frisky... but we left africa
with no thinking equipment -
no phonetic encoding...
    if we left with some arabic...
but we didn't...
if we left with some sanskrit...
but we didn't... some chinese ideograms...
but we didn't...
no wonder we left...
i don't endear myself to pursue
hieroglyphics as sensible enough:
to counter the modern emojis...

which they are...
pits and falls in the latin alpha-beta-coy...
then..
to "work" by loiter -
no wonder: grievances
when work is drudgery -
when one cannot perfect
a deed - but has to churn out
appeasement after appeasement:
slurp an oyster from
an ****...

i still must be thieving english
from... the english...
leftovers of the forever debased
schizoid - or the new lineage
bound to bilingualism:
a return to thematic crude-,

no... i can't digest this:
there's some sort of drama:
but there's no staging for it...
an open round-up of applause...
devoid of choice is a higher
tier condescending-
           for lacking will -

to write this very little...
but then to harness the prospect
of a sunrise: an 8am welcome!
welcome to no night
of finitudes... of conclusions...
my foot will never stand
in thailand: because
of the thai surprise...
easily a ****-along story
for a vanguard torry:

        i will have two Plantegenant
old housewives
when there's: the food
i need to curate for my palette:
a sad sad show-story...
when i... walk out from the house
and tug a dead-weight
of consumerism from my
mother's girdle...

          i call it... playing banjo
with toothpick... 'n' esse...
      the pristine curation of sharpening
teeth: to bite into a tide...
into a swelling heave of a wave...

i want to be able to be normal
sleeping with a foreign body
in my bed...
i was once able to sleep with a dog...
i am as finicky as the cat
that attempts
to sleep with me in the same
bed....
shadows clamour and therefore
clash...

  the british isles are too grand...
i want something smaller...
i want a life among the faroe islanders...
escape escape forever
this unforgiving narrative...

can you look at a people you're acquiring
to "ally"...
never marking your own horrors...
with your own black hitlers...
i can attest to the bleach...
but you can't somehow blank slate:
state a genesis without a dichotomy...

let's go! black history month!
now is the time! now i want to remember
IDI AMIN!
  black history month!
i want to remember IDI AMIN!
no... not marcus garvey:
proponent of repatriation...
i want to remember: IDI AMIN!
after all... the mongols have
their "abraham" their genghis khan...
and they have their pocket
of leftover in crimea with
that mongol-europeans: the tatars...

i have no love for history come
the tide of relating the Iberian peninsula...
south h'america... "mine"?
the north coast of africa...
fizzling out of in-breeding...
when the goth came across
the instigators of conquest of the "muzzies"...
cocktails on us! boyos!

i want to... ******* boil with teasing!
i want to fathom a spectacle of trolling!
i want to smear faces into ****!
i want the wholesome crescendo!
i want to itch with
******* out buckwheat digestion!
i want chocolate!
i want a swiss fountain of chocolate!
i want to see IDI AMIN
a proud addition to:
no blacks ever do or did:
any b'aah... b'aah ad ad...
            
i wish "my" people came to "origin"
with a post-colonial narrative...
poor shmucks the scots are...
but they were: "missing"...
you can't retrace a colonial past
to the present citizen of spain:
how well the post-"racialists" peoples
of the southern continent managed to:
you can hear talk
of an argentinian... but he's not spanish...
a brazilian: but he's not... portuguese!

this anglo-saxon "pond" livestock
of memory... do away with us...
i know it's terrible to have a genesis
story so short-lived that europe
is a *******-riddling reminder:
when there's an already political class
harvesting the least worth of fathom...
don't pretend to be historical tourists:
my dutch ancestry...
my german ancestry... my "ancestry":

you deserve the quiff and joking slander:
superior the world's a-hole all over...
who are your little people looking
for in our little funnel of
a constipated asia looking for?
currently?!
the greek aren't admired...
they aren't admired because
they gave a birth to the antagonist
in cyrillic...
and that's that!

or... the greeks aren't admired
because: the metaphor: byzantine -
a complexity of bureaucracy -
but the singing... deaf tone reading of plato...
forget aeschylus -
they were prone to heave
a turkman invasion of
the balkans... given...
the venetians sacking:
the supposed holy place of...
aan eucharist convo. with a pagan "pope"...

like... the 4th crusade was not
a hard-on... for anyone to not fathom...
the inheritance of a history
i must truly deserve...
otherwise: the history overtly given...
to subsequently filter...
how the capetian king philip
augustus is known to me
is: it's not a beyond noticeable
comparisons...
it's just stalemate...

i am furroging in asp and waspishness:
i need a language of antagonism...
i find my most pristine "saint"...
i could cling to a fetish for
interracial *** exploits...
but then i'm a bland white man
and i might require a dodgo lemon
squeeze of eyes...
when a ***** is not in use
and it's hardly a reserved reading
for: expansion... broadening one's mind
with: *******... that "sort" of phallus
size just wouldn't do...
it's no joke but then i prefer
jerking off to... something akin
to... bronzino's venus, cupid,
folly and time...

even then! then!
a woman directly descended from
the titans... aphrodite was...
beside the lineage... from hyperion...
astounded... passed into
the ***** of the olympians...
cherry picking my vavous ego-foetus
of mind into a progress and
future investment...
how the **** spoke...
and became apparently a parody
of parrot chokes...
given the farts would have
to commence at some, point, or "other"...

to demand "pushing boundaries"...
i have them here: ever present always
apparent...
i would sacrifice my whole for these...
as to never have to:
speak a language of appeasement...
as to never speak a language of
a gradual inclination...
or / of never rocking the boat...
i want to drown drunk!
i want to drown a drunkard!
i want to savour a relfish for...
autumn perfumes towing
accents of a variation of timbers...

now i want to stand naked!
i want to be awash with moonshine...
i want more of the night
i want more of the creases in
attaching bone to the formidable
tendon pressures...
i want the technicality of nouns
being lost... i want misnomers...
i want all this supposed word / techno-salad
to be all! furore!
i want to eat the native
with an imagination worth
of a tartar -
  
           i want my tongue to sliver into
the cheddar spronge of their borrowed
brains every time they test themselves
on eating a tartare: notably raw beffrey (b'ee'f)...

yes... this is my former european
status: having to cleave... from it...
because the liberal authorities of
vest-inwested western georgian:
gregorian: kiev is my own project
of last interests...
how isn't it...
ukraine might somehow
rely on article usage: notably:
the ukraine...
there's that "a" associated
with the polish-lithuanian commonwealth?

from sea to sea:
from the baltic sea
to the black sea...
oh look! i too can inherit something...
like a hebrew might inherit
the aesop the king solomon...
like aesop might inherit Tironian
notations...

i am drinking but my cat isn't agitated
by it: troll troll lullaby!
let's celebrate!
dancing monkeys dancing
truants!
it wouldn't: it couldn't possibly
be a black history month
without mentioning
IDI AMIN... dying peacefully
in the arms of sleep
among the saudi camel-jockey "racists"...

how they have been fleeing
the ****** status of harems...
how they were escaping polygamy...
how i wasn't racist how i was
merely ill-conceived over
a work-around of fetish...
i was already a walking abortion...
manic street preachers' debate:
i wasn't enough gay or
feng shui enough...
or brilliant neon purple enough...

hello brilliance! hello party! hello
gay...
ancient europe:
ai viast lo lop....
               creases in my forlorn...
i want: besst attired summation:
this  ****** bulgarian...
this european that's only aa figment
of imagination:

indignations of scythe:
that nothing is borrowed:
that all is: at limbo gested...
                      to heave a scythe
and stone...
i pretend to swallow a breath...
i am aching at the knee
and ankle...
             i am formidably
   nuanced amsterdam...

                  i have to tell
that yawn and "story" for some
variation of catholicism to trickle down...
this forever impossible
and: my-overtly-inflated
char of wording...

                harvest the pea and
dollop of hypersensitivity toward
hue best ascribed to "foliage";
or a burgundy that's neither
purple or red
or wine... or the papacy
of Avignon.