i could tell you how certain stations on the London underground
smell, but i can't capture you this smell...
a bit like in that film Perfume: scents are lost over time,
with regards to places -
                            unlike the eternal pine forest...
or the zest of lemon...
                                         those are universal scents...
one could and humanity has: created a synthetic answer
and copied these scents... made synthetic tastes
a whole chemistry of a posteriori scents and tastes...
Kant and chemistry are a perfect combination...
given the classical schematic:

analytical                         analytical
a priori                             a posteriori
apples grow on               tomatoes:
trees and                          categorised as fruits          
carrots grow                    yet used as vegetables
in the earth                      the analysis being
since apples                     even though they grow
are a fruit                         on something: trees,
while carrots                    bushes, vines...
are a root vegetable,       analysis has found that
ergo?                                 they are better treated
all vegetables                   as vegetables rather than
grow in the earth            fruits, since one rarely cooks
while all fruits                 savoury meals with fruit
grow on trees                  yet the tomato is used
or shrubs                         plentifully in savoury cooking


synthetic                          synthetic
a priori                           a posteriori
■, ▲                                   in light of the given examples
(geometry)                        in the realm of the analytical
and the propositions       a priori: that fruits grow on
that come with                 trees or bushes
them:                                  there's the pineapple
e.g. c² = a² + b²                   anomaly:
or physics:                         pineapples grow on the ground
e = mc²                                (in the ground) like cabbage-heads
                                            grow in much the same fashion...

i always struggle with the a posteriori conceptualization...
in the original i wrote as can be seen above...
are tomatoes the byproduct of
analytical a posteriori knowledge?
i.e. they are fruits that are used as vegetables (used,
hell, even treated as such)... because you will not find
a tomato desert as such...
the classification of a tomato as a fruit:
given how it grows... would also invoke the cucumber
to be treated as a vegetable:
vegetables are not as juicy as fruits...
the flesh of the fruit is usually softer and certainly
more juicy... while the flesh of the vegetable
is more bulky and requires cooking and salt
to extract the juices oh a higher carbohydrate
concentrate of the fibrous nature...

pineapples... a fruit that grows like a vegetable
in the earth...
i like this "confusion" in my head...
i'm not going to clarify it...
            i leave this curiosity in my writing on purpose...
analytical a posteriori facts:
well... first having categorised the tomato as a fruit:
upon analysis... true: the tomato behaves like
a fruit... but upon analysis: after the fact:
it is better used as a vegetable...

         and the synthetic a posteriori truth about
the pineapple? then again: i know where i might be going wrong...
isn't synthetic a posteriori knowledge possible?
it's not as simple as the pineapple example
based on: fruits grow on trees while vegetables grow in
the earth... i can only find questions
on the possibility of synthetic a priori knowledge...
ergo? of course synthetic a posteriori knowledge
is possible...
    it's ingrained in chemistry...
what does synthetic a posteriori knowledge look like?

a chemist tastes a lemon... and he tries to replicate
the taste of lemon using chemicals...
he breaks down the chemistry of the lemon...
and? with due course... replicates the taste of lemon
without actually using a lemon!
he breaks the lemon to the basic components
of citric acids and whatever else is needed to replicate
the taste of lemon and grind it into a powder:
chemistry is synthetic a posteriori knowledge...
isn't it?

the examples i cited with the pineapples:
it doesn't matter that the pineapple behaves like
a vegetable when it grows...
apart from that sick idea of a Hawaiian pizza toppings...
pineapple? ham?! you what?!
that's not synthetic a posteriori knowledge:
that's just a ******* whim of bad-taste...
there's no actual synthesis of the pineapple growing
as a vegetable and the "ingenuity" of treating
it like a bad idea for a pizza topping...
the tomato: however... is a pristine example
of analytical a posteriori knowledge:
sure... it's categorised as a vegetable...
because of the way it grows... compared to actual vegetables:
but? you wouldn't allow the tomato
to be bitten into like an apple... you wouldn't bake
a tomato cake as you might bake a banana cake...
the analysis concludes: our knowledge of fruits is this...
and we have this vegetable: the tomato
that's a fruit... but it would be better suited
in being used like a vegetable...

synthetic a posteriori does exist... it just doesn't apply
to pineapples for the simply reason that they
grow like vegetables... they're still going to be fruits...
synthetic a posteriori knowledge is chemistry...
it has to exist because a pineapple is
not a synthetic a priori "idea" of TASTE let alone
virtue or however Kant framed it...

ugh... my first day back at Craven Cottage...
little ****** steward: i hate these hierarchies...
it's a petty army of high-viz. jackets...
   i wasn't the supervisor but i had some colts under
my "supervision"... i tried to smooth things over:
i did... in the end i wanted to see Fulham play
Liverpool... i spread the word around:
this is *******... they should have put us inside
the stadium...
   but... the weather was the loveliest and the Thames
was tide-out... two seagulls arguing...
in the shade: this part of London is truly mesmerising...
i love the smell of the Thames with the tide out...
in the shade under these mammoth-esque splendours
of foliage...
hell... i even managed to spot my first KONIK
(little horse)... that's slang for... those ******* that buy
tickets at the regular price... then hang around the stadium
and try to push the tickets at a hyper-inflated price...
the ****** was selling the tickets for £250 for two!
and this was after the first half finished!
i told one of the guys with a radio:
call this in...
                          i had to repeat myself about 3 times
before the management agreed to my concern...
they sent two spare police officers to the person in question...
he almost sold those ******* tickets...
one minute i see him pretend to tie his shoelaces
(he wasn't pretending) - his black cap
disappearing under the bushes... next minute:
wh'ah where?! ****** did a runner...
so he wasn't tying his shoelaces "on a whim":
he was about to do a runner...

                  that's ******* exploitation...
that's like: stealing... capitalism at its worst...
the ingenuity of crime: oh... but it's innocent crime...
it's i buy something for £30 but...
i'll sell it for you for £250...
                             now... it's not antiques! it's not a *******
van Gogh painting that has been lying around
for quite some time... gaining a repertoire and a reputation
as something good, worthwhile:
it's a ******* football match ticket!
hyper-inflation like under the Weimar Republic...
money good as "gold": "gold" as in winter fuel,
timber the new platinum!

after all: there was no real synthetic a priori knowledge:
chemistry is hardly a question of appearance,
water is clear, but so is hydrochloric acid...
what else is clear? sodium hydroxide...
                 chemistry was born from synthetic a posteriori
knowledge...
how many chemical experiments came as a surprise
a sort of anti-Eureka of synthetic a priori knowledge?
champagne springs to mind... lysergic acid comes
to mind: no one was actually trying to find these things...
e.g. they did not come about through analytical
a posteriori knowledge: they arose from
a dimension of the synthetic a posteriori knowledge:
by chance: by accident...

sure... i might be doing a ******-low-skill job right
now: and it is... i'll admit...
it's super **** sometimes:
most of the time my coworkers are either
over-bearing ego-maniacs fixated on hierarchy,
or they're lazy Somali youths...
or just plain-sighted Nimrods...
i sometimes leave my mind to wander...
that when i get the jerks in the feet like
i'm about to fall over... like for bearskin hatted
soldiers on parade...
but i leave my mind to wander:
it's not an insult if it's true...
                  no: when i was a roofer and fiddling
with inanimate things there was more focus
on the work to be done... dealing with people
is a crass differentiation from perfecting how an inanimate
ought to behave under your hands...
to turn a roll of felt into a water-insulated roof
with a roll of fleece and enough tar...
people are different: i'm sort of studying people...
gearing myself to hover in on children in schools...

if Leibniz preferred the profession of librarian
and a private intellectual life of par excellence...
i wouldn't think twice about becoming a primary school
teacher than being a secondary school
teacher of chemistry...
**** me: if drag queen hour is about to be imported
from America: i best (better) step in...
i just imagine: well... unlike a barren woman...
who has no children...
who goes into a profession akin to primary school
teaching... but then i'd arrive...
i know the obvious stereotype to battle:
PEDOHPILE! ha ha...
           Ava Lauren: just my type... plump...
full-bodied... probably the age of my mum by now...
that's my type...
i need something rounded of:
a 5.9 = a 6... just an example...
                
             but i let my mind wander... when roofing
you couldn't leave your mind to wonder...
i could... tell you of the specific scents in certain
underground stations... Baker Street? is that the one
with the Victorian arches, a station under the bridge?
i don't remember...
Putney Bridge is a beautiful station...
but today i took the route:
Romford via train... got off at Stratford... waited for a minute
for the central line...
(i love meditating on the topic of tubes maps...
there are only two important lines
in London... why? based on how many times
they intersect... the Central Line and the Piccadilly
Line... they only intersect at Holborn)...
travelled to Holborn... not sitting...
at each carriage there are these half-seats...
you're leaning back... standing-sitting...
i felt so relaxed... i gave way to the momentum
of the tube...
i was moving backwards and forwards...
head nodding... shoulders doing the mr. plastic-fantastic...
i almost tried to remember the remaining
tension in my body... the grip i had on a bottle
of water and a packet of tortilla wraps...
the rest of me was: freed...

when it comes to scents... that's one thing:
everyone knows it's a stupid idea to change tube
lines at Bank... why? well... Bank it connected
to Monument...
it's a city within a city: a London 2.0... oh oh:
yes it ******* is... never change at Bank...
anyway... as i was relaxing having closed my eyes...
i can tell you where the best sounds of
machinery exist in London?
between Liverpool St. - Bank - and Chancery Lane...
mind you... i cycle the route from time to time...
what's above? is not, what's above...
compared to cycling... this route is like:
watching the original Dune movie...
i'm strapped to a ******* earthworm...
or: being digested by one while listening to
the clag glug and clamour iron biting iron...
i sometimes do the "twirl" of the tube above
ground... just after Aldgate...
i head towards Brick Lane... toward Liverpool St.
prior to reaching Bank St.:

all the Piccadilly Stations between Holborn and
Earl's Court have this sickly sweet stench
about them... it's sickly sweet... it's: sickly sweet...

i remember back in St. Augustine's we had one
female primary school teacher...
some ****** proverb speaks the words:
woe unto you for having to care for the children
of others...
while i'm thinking: that would be a worthwhile challenge...
i don't want any of my own:
the fear of ******* them up more than
i was ****** up wears me down...
at least with the genes of strangers
i can send in an auxiliary covert party of my psyche...
who would i send in? the usual suspects...
Kant, Heidegger, Newton, Ezra Pound...
oh... the list is pretty long...

most probably Rumi hanging around with
Zhuangzi... Ovid and Horace...
ooh... terrible idea to start drinking whiskey
after binge-eating a watermelon...
the burps i'm getting back:
******* postcards from Uan Muhuggiag (Libya)...
i'm seeing camels double the number of their humps!
not good... absolutely no good

burp... ooh... this watermelon will not go down
so good... while i worry about *******
myself come tomorrow morning...
unlike the Red Hot Chilly Peppers singing
the fames of California:
what do i have? i have the countryside of Essex
and the incursions in the concrete staccato
of London... i can mediate this...

              burp: well... at least it's whiskey mingling
with the juices of a watermelon...
i much prefer that to the half-digested acidic
meat of any sort...
                 that's healthy burping and healthy farting
for your...
hmm... investing in children... that's an idea...
i once remarked to a boy in a supermarket:
you know... how a while i thought animals
were incapable of seeing 3D objects
in a 2D canvas: i.e. why wouldn't animals
watch television with men?
today i had a "Fred" pester me for a bite
of my tortilla roll...
i would have given it to him freely:
i wasn't that hungry...
   so i asked his owner: so... what's his diet like?
oh... Fred has had pretty stomach upsets...
he spent the past three days eating mulberries
from a tree...
ooh! i love mulberries: who couldn't be more upset?
the dog or the mulberries?
ugh: these kind of people:
that have their dogs on a ******* vegan diet...
hey! Fred! bite into this tortilla wrap!
i have learned that the food man eats
if also eaten by a dog tastes better:
after it was eaten by man!

o.k., fair enough Fred... you have an owner that
deserves having you: but no children...
i'd put you in the same category as a child...
children, dogs, cats...
things that might stir in man the unusual:
certainly not Darwinistic / genetic investment
that might reduce a man's hormonal balance...
mate... you look at me that dumb-***** eyed way
one more time... let me pat you on the head
like i have... you're coming with me to the land
of eternal tortillas wrapping around chicken
and bacon: there's no "yes" as there's no "no"...

but that's London for you...
            and that's also Essex for you...
i spent an entire day in London?
where did i find those cheap-*** beauties of womanhood?
i didn't find them in London:
i had to travel back to Romford to find...
i sat down to eat a snack bucket in a chicken shop:
three spicy wings, some chips...
mayonnaise and some chilly sauce...
a 7up... £3.50... i enjoyed the meal
and thought about: nothing...
nothing is usually hard to "think" about...
you get into geometry: to prolong your time at pretending
to look "cool"... when eating alone...

i hopped on the bus... watched two hunchbacks
of an elderly couple "manage" their way own:
what cruel fate... the extension of mortality
via science... may i never see myself
that old... reduced to being the child of Atlas...
no... i don't care for the sensibility of secularism
and science...
old age transcends both of these:
it's the reality of old age...
prolonged old age is best renowned
and celebrated by lizards: turtles most in fact...
mammals look weird...
mammals look weird when their life is prolonged:
unnaturally: via the basis of science!

start giving out re-prescriptions to people
with a a faith in science but no hope in hope...
start selling them hopes of eternity...
this materialistic "eternal life": is drawing us closer
to no closure...
there comes a life: there coms a death of said life...
it's not fair to pretend that the inevitiable
is "not" going to happen: it will...
the tyranny of old age...
                  by the standards of the Benelux:
i'm more than willing to bow out...

who knows! i am not willing to simply live
for the awkward presence of strangers
on a basis of anomalies and non-intrusions
of some freaked-up formalities...
to hell with that: i have no evolutionary-existential
plight of  "conscience" that might make me suppose:
on racial grounds: that the human "effort"
will disappear: outright: completely:
sure... chances are... humanity will be governed
by more people willing to ***** cities of death via
the pyramid... people engage in the magic carpet
flights of Islam and pseudo-Islam from regions
akin to Somalia and Bangladesh:
my problem? i can't live forever! can i?

et scriptum est...
i like being toyed around as being the idiot...
it helps me grow...
and it was so written...
                ergo? ut necesse sit!
(and so it must be)
  ha ha! ah ha ha h ha ha!
vulnus ferrum:
                  sanguis respiratio
scratch of iron:
breathing blood!
            
mortuus est mori: the dead must die!
vivos debet mori /
vivos non sunt exceptio!

i work among people that make my intellect:
CLOWN!
   i entertain them... i must...
but their intellect is about as much:
grappling as... i don't know what!
i'm out of metaphors and aphorisms...

                        intelligence is discouraged when it comes
to a working environment...
           i'm like Leibniz... i'm unlike Newton...
my ambitions a "cowering" in a personal enterprise...
i like the individualism of m own enterprise:
i don't hope to solve or save the problems of
a common man... nope!
                
last time i heard? the train has arrived:
i also heard: the train is leaving...
well... i'm i geared up:
what do i care for the famines in Ethiopia?!
i don't care for claiming responsibilities for
people who don't take responsibilities for
themselves!
starve?! **** it... why not?"
oh right... one of the Somali types?!
pretend it's work by hiding behind the bushes?!
ergo? behind the bushes i pretend to shower you
with free bread and pork? don't like pork?
eat dirt instead!

i'm done: free-loaders: i'm done with them...
i'm so ******* with these Somalis that you can't even begin to comprehend!

i've noticed that, upon ushering words from the depth
of nothing, or as an interlude in Knausgaard's day-to-day
musing in vol. 6 after inviting Geir over:
this "i" or that "i" or for that matter "my" i...
however you want to frame it...
    i noticed that if i allow myself an evening of not writing...
esp. on an electric screen for someone else to see...
if for example i lay down to go to sleep...
not exactly asleep: dart out of bed and scribble something
on a piece of paper for only me to see...
i will still dream...
but if i sit down and face the electric screen:
pixels like the eyes of a fly... for someone else to see?
i don't dream...
   otherwise... having scribbled down the following
on a piece of paper:

   exploring Heidegger's dasein in another language...
my native, which i will translate into English,
basically prepositional coordination of(f) being
off not necessarily implying non-being -
perhaps merely: being-in-itself or rather the other...

tu-być : be-here
              to-bycie : this-being
ten-byt :                      ditto
although: nuance... there is a distinction...

i also scribbled down something i heard a long
time ago about how Russia, India and China are
re-orientating themselves with the slacking of the western
influence on: whatever it was that the west had
for the past three decades beside
proxy wars, collateral damages and "culture"...

i heard the term: post-ethnic-nationalism
post-ethno-state post-nation-state...
ergo: multiculturalism... which, oddly enough:
i can't come to grips with trying if not trying to
pretend to be a native of these isles -
perhaps it might be a shock for someone outside
of London - but in London it's almost
second nature to... be surrounded by people
from all around the world...
needless to say: the natives are not so disgruntled
once they're sitting all pretty-cherry on top
of some hierarchy: esp. in the journalistic
opinion sections of the Saturday / Sunday magazine...
then it's an open bonanza against
the "lower class racists" and what not...
i can't be an anti-racist: after all...
                                     anti-racists once produced
a schematic for us to learn from in primary school...
which shower the size of brains of...
a white person, a black person and a racist...
and some other brains...
the racist's brain was under-developed:
smaller...                                      ­ really?!

anyway... so Russia, India and China have opted for
what has come to be known as the:
civilization-state...
                                     given the ongoing zeitgeist
******* blowing up in the Anglophone world from
H'america... the culture-war(?!) -
i would bet fairly and say that pretty much all
former nation-states of western Europe
and beyond are currently in a state of morphing
into: buzz buzzword: being - culture-states...

but whereas a civilization-state seems an abrupt
optimal to counter and disagreement with regards
to continuity: civilisations don't merely come and go...
whereas cultures do...
   culture is somehow a totality of the little things
in life... fashion, the arts, politics, faux pas innuendos,
trends, diet...
that's culture and some...
but civilisation? to me that's like saying...
the foundation of Rome was the creation
of the aqueducts...
                  civilisation to me is like saying:
the British Empire and the steam-engine...
civilisation to me, London, exclusively is... the tube...
the underground network...

seriously... i don't need to go to a West End Play
i don't need to go and see Ed Sheeran play
to a sold out Wembley stadium of 100,000+ people
(although, i did, even though i did because
i worked a shift there doing security,
so, technically i didn't, but did)
            i don't need culture... as such...

all i need to do is first, do a shift at Craven Cottage...
hope that the Elizabeth Line won't be working
travel on the Central Line from Newbury Park all
the way to Holborn... and then blah blah...
instead of trying to look at the tired faces opposite
me admire the map of the Central Line
(it's a toss-up between the Central Line map,
or the District, Northern or Piccadilly)
and then, on some sunny day... get my bicycle
out... and bicycle for most of the route... notably...
skewing... merging at Fairlop working my way
through Barkingside, coming to Gants Hill
then less of the tube route (mind you...
between Leyton and Stratford it's pretty
much over-ground) -
   and then from Stratford - through to Mile End...
from Mile End via Whitechapel... to Aldgate...
from Aldgate to St. Paul's... Chancery Lane...
Holborn... rat beneath the ground:
like a rat needs a bicycle -
   well this rat is no hamster: hence the bicycle
and not a hamster-wheel...

what culture? movies?! i tried watching something
relevant to the 1980s today... ***** Dancing...
great soundtrack but... cringe!
that's even before Malcolm X and how inter-racial
inter-****** relations had to be the new norm:
i mean: ******* fair play...
    building the new Brazil -
    but i still think there's an under-representation
(and isn't everyone supposed to get a fair share
of representation) of white boy Romanian girl
(Roma, gypsy) or white boy Turkish girl...
   or white boy half-white half-Indian girl...

i know i will not dream tonight because someone
will see this...
my little itchy thoughts, my freed from the reins
"i" that doesn't really have these words clogging
up its mind - only until the itching of the fingers starts
and i have a blessed day...
like today...

why is it that a Saturday evening can feel like
a Sunday evening?
oh, right... i made steak for dinner tonight...
potato wedges (skins on, first boiled until
the the water started boiling, turned off, soaking
for 5 min, drained, olive oil, cajun pepper sprinkle,
into the oven)
    and some baked vegetables:
leeks, carrots, parsley root, red onions,
celeriac, swede... balsamic vinegar,
    sambal, cumin, coriander, salt, pepper,
sugar (i stopped using honey,
   it sticks to the baking tray plus the vegetables
lose their crunch, and vegetables need their crunch)...
2 steaks (456g total) shared between three people...
seasoned with sea salt and grain black pepper
(i prefer pepper grains than pepper powder,
i.e. pockets of explosion of that spice)
    3 min each side... a perfect medium-rare blush...

however the Indians might sell their spices...
chillies etc. there's still something wholesome
when it comes to eating certain types of food...
given that... i wouldn't be eating beef in India:
i wouldn't be seasoning beef with chillies!
that's why pepper is important...
that's why horseradish is important...
i let most of the Indians slip up: oooh! the Europeans
didn't have any spices...
apart from thyme, rosemary, sage, lavender,
mint... pepper, horseradish, i#m sure we
were also familiar with cumin seeds -
as well as that anise-seed that' not the star
(i forgot the name of it, it looks like
a cumin seed, but fatter, and split down
the middle - green) oh and of course:
plenty of salt...
what's all the spices in the world in the culinary world...
IF, YOU, AIN'T, GOT - SALT?!
   (if you don't have... i know i know...)

it's rather bewildering talking to certain Asians...
although, saying that...
most of Eastern Europe had plenty of interaction
with Asians, namely the Mongols
and the Turks - which the western Europeans
sort of... "forgot"... after Darwinism they
skipped over Asia and went straight back
to Africa... personally? i feel more akin to Asians
(esp. the oriental folk) than i do with anyone
from Africa... however Christianity was born...
after all: what's the definition of a white man?
Caucasian? and where's the Caucus?
Asia... Europe was always going to be
a funnel - a bottle-neck continent -
a port... a departing point...
       perhaps we shouldn't be so clingy to it...
unless of course:
   oh the parody of Jesus never came out of
Europe: "we" had to wait for it coming from
North America, but by then it was no longer
a parody of Jesus but a parody of North American
Christianity... a North American parody of Jesus
is... oddly enough... a European parody
of North American Christianity: via Jesus...

which brings me to another thing... only upon
doing a shift at Craven Cottage did i first hear
the parakeets... never before...
     i'm not going to bloat my ego this much but...
since then i've seen an article on Wikipedia that
i never saw before, the article just appeared out of
nowhere: feral parakeets of England...
subsequently... only a day ago:
you're only here for the parrots, fans chant
as birds swarm Leyton Orient pitch (Evening Standard
4 hours ago)
and bare conker trees overrun by bright green
parakeets make them seem vibrant despite leafless
branches (Daily Mail, 3 days ago, somewhere
in south London)...

today i was given the chance to walk back into my old
haunt... as much as i love cycling...
it's sometimes refreshing to walk...
the slowing of pace, the horizon almost intact...
more so... if walking into a forest...
Bower Wood... i know it is a curated wood...
it's not as feral as the pine woods of Eastern Europe...
but: if life gives you X... you make XY...
x = lemons, y = juice ergo xy = lemon juice...

i'm pretty sure i was familiar with this wood...
i was out hunting for souvenirs for my mother to dress
the table / fake deer antennas for candles to sit in...
holy, some other greenery with black berries...
i was hunting for ferns, almost near impossible
given this time of year... found some! bright blush
of childish envy... oh... and birches...
some oak barks fallen off... just me alone in the forest...
i was so thankful by myself...
but usually i heard crows, magpies and woodland
pigeons... but now?! parakeets?!
here?! now?! parrots in winter in these parts?!

i swear the world is standing-up-side-down...
it's hard not to miss an under-current of a serious
pagan revival weaving and slithering its way through
Europe: if only you care to listen...
i switched off from whatever is available in culture
these days... i know that what i'm listening to
will not gain popular traction...
i can walk into the forest and... there's the forest...
i go back home... cook dinner...
go into my bedroom, open a bottle of cider
thinking: no champagne will beat this...
put on a record akin to...
Heilung's TENET and... hey presto!

                       i was in company of a good friend:
someone already dead who...
i don't know how someone can lose themselves
in the forest... pareidolia...
   you can sometimes see paths already trodden...
unseen but somehow: you can see a "ghost"
of a foot here and there...
    you know: you just KNOW where a human foot
prior to yours once treaded...
there are patterns... better sticking with pareidolia than
the iconoclasm of celebrity...
i always thought that was better...
i like to think i'm in the company of strange
creatures: phantoms of my mind...
but hardly! how can these be phantoms of my mind?!
i didn't spontaneously conjure a face in a tree
when the ******* tree is older than me!
the tree was here before me!
what?! some sin?! some psychological sin
of non-conformity?! i don't adhere to star-gazing
in the filth of commodities and entertainment?!

i know why this feels like a Sunday evening even
though it's a Saturday night...
i was planning on going to the brothel tonight...
but... oh hey mother, hello father...
i'm going out... where? you don't have any friends...
blah blah... yeah... well... i'm kind of happy
because of that: no social-constraints of expectations...
as the conversation usually ran with the last
remaining friend i had from high-school...
- so, what have you been up to?
- nothing...
     and he knew that i was scribbling like mad...
what's there to talk about when it comes to writing?!
last time i heard: you read what is written...
you don't talk about it...
hopefully the reading of something written goes
back into thinking and is not spoken of:
since the conventionality of everyday
formality of social-speech crushes anything delicate
that is born from i-ought-not-but-regardless-i-must!
it's a compulsion!

i went to the shop about 3 hours ago to buy an extra
bottle of cider because i knew: having read a little more than
usual i had to keep the Libra of conscience in place,
"conscience": never write more than you read...
and never read less than you write - so so...
          wow... FORK in the "ROAD"...
                        this is me replaying the opening of the song
TENET - the sound of the horn...
well... i didn't have a horn in the forest...
but i had my pagan statue... a dead white tree...
i left this little stick next to it... i used to walk this wood
more times than i can remember...
sometimes i walked into it bare-chested...
blind from the darkness, but somehow illuminated
by the moon... sat on a stump of wood...
silence... then a breaking of a branch...
not the sort of breaking of a branch still attached
to a tree... something stepped on it...
i wasn't alone... i froze but then ushered in my voice
to compliment a shared bewildered amazement:
that is not a foot of a man stepping on a branch...

in the same wood i saw my first GARMR...
would i really have to go with the flow
of a Christopher J. MacCandless?!
                                       if hell is going to send its hounds
out to meet me, it doesn't matter where that might
be... i don't need to visit the northern most parts
of Norway to find what i'm seeking...
and what i'm seeking i found: since i'm dragging what
needed to be found around...
it's not surprising that at Bower Wood i was
alleviating a traffic problem when
two does and about 5 fawns were causing havoc...
"havoc" in the night implies 3 cars pulling over...
me coming down from the hill running up to
the village of Havering-atte-Bower spotting one...
not caring if there was a stag nearby running
with the fawn which subsequently ensured
the two does and the rest of the fawns
started to gallop and disappeared into the Wood...

i wish i could make this stuff up...
but then again: i'm not jealous of people
who have seen the Galapagos Islands or the Maldives
or... ah... just recently...
i took that rat-above-rat-below trip on my bicycle
into central London... i said to myself:
circle round St. Paul's cathedral... nope...
not good enough... around the Old Bailey then...
o.k. - and i "prayed": please! not another flat tire!
hey presto! on my way back... a flat tire at Aldgate!
great! well... i walked this distance before...
i can walk it again... walking back...
passed the East London Mosque and then...
Allahu Akbar! a bicycle repair shop!

walked up - leaned the bicycle against the wall,
the Chinese guy said: just 10 minutes
(while he was fixing this Deliveroo rider's
electric bicycle) - no problem -
i took some times to each some gelatin sweets
and drink some water, looking at people,
i felt like i was in some exclusive club,
only cyclists allowed - it felt like a very urban
sensation that most punks must have felt,
or goths, standing out...
i paid too much compliments to those guys
in Cycle King bicycle shop in Chadwell Heath...
i knew the front tire was worn down,
but i thought: get the professional's opinion...
they would be more than willing to change
the inner-tube for the Nth time before telling me:
oh... you need to change the actual tyre...
how many times did i change the inner tube?
**** knows! milking it... ******* were milking it!
but this Chinese guy said outright plainly...
it's ****... i'll change it for you...
inner tube, tyre and labour... £55...
done!
               he changed it to a tyre that...
well... let's face it... 2nd gear front
and 4th, 5th 6th and 7th gears in the back...
i was whizzing past home... he said:
less width... more grip... for the grit...
   but at least he was ******* honest...
that's what i mean about a European's relationship
with the Asians... i'm honest, they're honest...
they're not some SCAM MERCHANT KNIGS
of NIGERIA: CNUT-MBAPPE typos...

oh... and it's not like anyone didn't notice
that Indian girls think they're the bomb?!
oh yeah... oh no, not the Muslim girls... those girls
are whipped into always staring down...
like white girls are whipped into peering into
their smart-phone screens and envisioning:
anything outside of inter-racial relationships is:
pederasty (loose term)... whatever it might me...
bulimic antics: not done properly, mind you...
not in the Roman style of training the oesophagus
to just spew on a whim: i.e. i ate too much...
apologies... i need to... ugh! ugh! ugh!
                      get ready the trampoline!
we're going to launch half-digested fish-heads!

now i'm happy... my Trek Merlin 5 is compatible...
fun... looking at that *** trying to chase me down
working my way down toward the Old Bailey...
Asian ceramic raven haired
no helmet... and never, never... ride a bicycle
in an urban environment minding
the sticker on the inside of a large vehicle:
BLIND SPOT... well... d'uh... so use the large
vehicle like a battering ram against all the gnats
of smaller vehicles... ride on the outside of the large
vehicle... always on the outside...
what are you, cyclist... a Hebrew forced by
the **** brown-shirts to walk in the gutter rather
than on the pavement?! what am i?
just because i'm a cyclist i'm no less a hazard
to a motorcyclist?! momentum, self-generated!
i like my legs... let me know when you're dealing
wheelies and whizzes on a ******* wheelchair...
until i have my legs... i'll be skimming through
traffic... Norman Davis might have called
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth God's Playground...
i think i'll call London my playground...
there's plenty to play with around here...

                 but for once i listened to my ego...
for some reason i didn't require a depth of the
Freudian secular trinity of the addition of superego
and id... i was just about to think about going to the brothel
but then my ego said: you're not feeling it...
and i wasn't... i still had to clean the kitchen up,
take the garbage out... i was oiling myself up...
"oiling": checking if i still had a 30 year old's hard-on
i stopped using the fake diet of ******* of
actors: disposable, unattainable...
i switched to: ROMANIAN AMATEUR ****...
well... it's what i'm going to get...
but i checked my hard-on too many times today...
checked, i.e. checked without climaxing...
checked about 4 times... the 5th time i checked
i was thinking about going to the brothel...
but then my ego (not my ego) checked me...
you're not going anywhere:

THE FICKLE MIND AND THE FIRM TRUTH
OF THE BODY...
the mind lies more times than the body cares to admit...
until, of course... the reality of body steps in
and the mind has to retreat... just as happened with
my excess drinking... i went to buy that extra bottle
of cider and waiting in the queue while a mother
with three daughters "****'s sake" the mother retorted
while the girls were undecided what else
to add to the basked i looked at the shelves
with all the spirits... no! no! no more whiskey!
no more *****! no more!
i checked my supposed "impotence" too many times
today... "impotence": more like being
insulted by the madam: beached-whale...
she just flicked it when it went limp because
i found her physically abhorrent...
flicked it... like it was a worm...
like she was 6 years old and i was 5 years old
and she was still playing with Barbie dolls
and unlike she was...
because she knew what a key was and what a keyhole
was... but she had no idea what
physical attraction was...

                        reciprocated...

well ****... it's working... guess it's not working with you...
a bit like the horse that Christopher Reeve rode
when it dropped him and recalculated Superman:
without a spine...
plus i had no excuse to leave the house...
i had plenty of excuses to read some more of Knausgaard
and write this...
tomorrow i'll have the excuse of "working late"...
going to a brothel is not like saying:
oh yeah... i'm going on a date with a girl
we're going to the cinema blah blah...
       no... dearest ******* Madam...
she's the one that chased away both Mona and Khadra...
what the **** happened?!

what am i? a Duracell bunny?! there's an ON and OFF
switch with regards to my phallus?!
if that's the case... what's the dynamic of ****?!
is ****... no... it can't be... **** is a man *******
a turned-off woman? i once had an experience
of a woman who... let's put it mildly:
her **** was as dry as the adequate metaphor
of sensation one might regret to feel from rubbing one's
hands on sandpaper!
hands... finger tips... rough skin...
ergo the ability to play guitar or rock climb...
we're talking tender skin...
so... technically: hardly a pleasure for a ****** to feel
pleasure from an unaroused ****!
ergo?! that was an aroused **** and it's all psychological:
not physical... the shame of giving it so freely
and unwillingly... whereas playing games with
those one might want to give it up to...
i can hardly **** with a LIMPY -
   but i certainly wouldn't want to **** a timber-mill worth
of toothpicks, match-sticks and left-overs...
**** is psychological it would seem...
                the shame of it... all those labyrinths of playing
games suddenly disappearing from the case of
"spontaneity"...
   you should ask her: South African... Sancha...
worked in a private school... teaching boys Mathematics...
maybe she was a *******... by now who knows?!
i do know that i wasn't terrible aroused by her
the first time we tried...
i got a limp... like i got a limp with Ilona:
a forewarning... but she was adamant and whispered
into my ear: you will not deny me...
second time i was in her teacher accommodation
i brought a copy of the Machinist with me on DVD...
she must have spiked my drink because then the horror
of cocoon *** ensued and that's when
she climbed on top of me and gave me the sawdust
sandpaper **** treatment in the dark...

it kind of follows through to the casual mode of
argumentation people have concerning the schizoid condition:
it's all in your mind...
right... so the schizoid condition is simply: so...
your i-think detaches itself from thought
and forms a i-hallucinate complex as if: spring follows winters?
well then... it's all in your mind...
**** is probably in most of women's minds...
it doesn't actually exist in reality:
in the physiology... **** is a mental construct...
it must be... since i don't recall any ******
talking about: oh ****... i had to pull out...
her **** turned into a mantis or the mouth
of a worm from the planet Dune... i just couldn't
continue!

the next day she drove me to the station and i never saw
her again...
ergo? i have a strange relationship with a limp ****...
it's not impotence: per se,
it's more a judge of character concerning a ******
partner: however brief, however informal...
it's like a wild animal freezing still...
     deer in the headlights...
                                      i should have known better
with Ilona... but she pressured to the point where it
finally started "working": i wish "he" didn't...
it would have saved me so much pointless drama...
if i were a man with a child i would tell him just as much:
it's not working for a reason...
that ***** is a mantis... you're not a robot...
this isn't a *****... you're not an extension of a *****...
it's not working for a reason...
go and check... watch the most realistic "*******":
switch to amateur stuff...
                                that's all you're going to get...
and can you, get it up? well then...
it's not you...
                                     once all the glamour is gone
and you're left with a butcher's cut of antics...
                              well... if you're aroused by that sort of stuff
in private... why can't the partner reciprocate?
maybe that's just me finalising some logistics for
tomorrow...
shift at the Ice Rink tomorrow...
me... two girls...
   one butch lesbian... she keeps rubbing off on my arms
every time the home side scores
and she's celebrating...
      one rub by chance i can understand... two rubs
and i'm thinking: this isn't homosexual conversion therapy,
is it?
the other? got me the job to begin with...
started taking dieting pills because she feels depressed
because she thinks she's fat and this is what
working with women looks like if you're not
in the business of being a plumber: in the realm of
customer service...
    
                 that's how this new girl i fancied at work
got fired... about 4 other girls ganged up on her
and she was literally bullied out of work because...
            
it's coming up to 1am... i need to get up early tomorrow...
do a cycling shift...
trim my mustache, my beard, my ***** region, my arm-pits...
finish one more bottle of cider for good luck:
or no luck...
           listen to some more pagan music...
think about Bower Wood and how i wish that if i weren't
working tomorrow
i'd buy myself a bottle of whiskey and walk
into it, right now... to howl and wake up the crows.

p.s. oh, right, that dream i had last night when
i didn't scribble any words for anyone else to see?
two night ago i was swimming with
pseudo-jelly fish on the edge of the universe
transmitting vibrations of light...
last night i was watching while some colts
were gleefully celebrating their ability to drink
shots of absinthe... until i walked up to the bar
and showed them how to drink absinthe
properly...
i took out a spoon, dipped the spoon in some
sugar... poured some absinthe onto the spoon...
lit the spoon and the sugar alight...
watched the caramel form...
then poured some water into the glass
to clue them in into the secret of drinking absinthe:
you don't drink absinthe like *****...
you need for the green-milk of wormwood
to emerge!
    sie müssen für die grünmilsch von wermut
zu auftauchen!

Jumping into the deep end,
let them find me now shattering all illusions and intruding on the why and how and where am I? but here still thinking deep.
In sleep there is a limitless draft to fill this cup and oftentimes I overflow into another dreaming, if another dream can thus protrude from this my dreaming overload and if all roads lead to one, which one and where?
I care to take a coffee, cake and break this fast, this endless task, this is a time to sit and make new plans.
This man's no friend to man not beast nor forest tree and in his singularity, uniquely and this one and only never lonely in his own company
is me.

There's a woodpecker pecking in my head at night,
peck
pecking away,
I think he pecks
to peck away
the remnants of my
every yesterday.

No Values
just statues of accountants who could never learn to count
and mounted on the spikes,where business is displayed and laid out for the world to see in naked abject poverty
are chief executives and heads of lesser known departments who never meant to cook the books
but fell for fortune and her looks and took that chance to spread their wings
and now the wind that whistles sings
and passes through their empty eyes ,and flapping flesh drips off dry bones of arms that never meant to harm.

No charmed lives left in Holborn or in Chancery lane,where solicitors were in on the game of taking risks
and risks they took
another spike and one more hook for the fallen wig,who still seems regal but not as big as what he thought legal.

They bought but never owned the sky or stole it from the smaller fry who swam around the edges and the shadows in society
and we,
the ripped off,stripped off,sing dirges to their loss but me,I couldn't give a toss
let them burn and turn slowly on the spit
we'll roast and toast them,
let them boast then of fancy women,fancy cars and fancy meals in fancy bars.
These czars have gone the way of old
where bold men.bad men always fold in two
and the wind blew tears that fell to splash on piles of once extorted cash and though accountants cannot count
judges learn to mount the steps and put their heads in hangman's ropes and any hopes they entertain of clemency go down the drain along with
any gains they ever made.

Those who laid beside the wide boys of this world and opened eyes into another where they couldn't even bother to see just who they hurt
have lost their shirts,ripped off their backs,attacked by those that they attacked and now the axe is on the other foot where once a boot was kicked into my ****.

so good luck you *****
I hope your bodies fall to bits
and you end up burning in the pits
alongside the others that have sinned
in the end
no one wins
the voodoo dolls of life are stuck with pins
and the devil grins and hums his tune.

and then just when it starts to bother me
it rises to hover above me and some voice that I hear deep inside of me says leave it and move far away.
There's a clarity in pearls of wisdom seldom heard in the trappings of stardom, but the message comes through loud and clearly when I hear the voice that sounds near by me.
If a thought that is nothing to mention grabs me and holds my attention
I am nothing I've got
I am nothing If not but a dreamer that's trapped by convention.

You know where you've been when there's nowhere to go because you've been there before,
in the doorway of no way there's no way to go and you know it,so you
sit in the shadow that's cast by your long face and that's the shadow you know very well.

Very well,
counting your blessings will not buy you a beer,it's not enough for some 'gear' and the good Lord does not always provide
but it's warm here inside,out of the wind and the cold makes you old and being brave is just a 'pup you were sold when you used to believe.
You can't believe anymore,
there's no room for faith when you're outside in a doorway and so God goes his own way and you go on yours,
it's always about doors,the opening and closing,the what if,suppose if I chose another place to sleep,just another sheep that's bleating it seems like I'm meeting the train wreck head on.
I know where I've been,what I've done,where I've run to and from and when I've hit life and,
gone now the roar of the crowd,no one can feel proud in the night,out of sight,in the doorway you just shrink and
eventually
go away.

Eye Shadow

Central line,
Standing, clinging on, shaking.
There, sitting oblivious to all,
A face in the crowded carriage.
Liverpool Street
Black eyeliner is painted neatly,
Bank,
A pale grey shade softens the right lid,
St Paul’s,
The left eye shaded,
Chancery Lane,
A darkened shade deftly applied,
Holborn,
A flick of mascara.
Perfect.
The doors open
And the world floods out.
The perfect mask remains.

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.


Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known  even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only  made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust
  
& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.

there might have been perhaps two other New Year's Eve
to match this years,
of these only one was actually magically youthful,
between 2004 coming to 2005 or perhaps it
was 2005 coming to the year 2006...
i was still studying at Edinburgh (Promis, Alicia),
that's when Promis lost her virginity
to me after Hogmanay, becoming irresistible...
seeing Fiona slobber me...
at the same time "drink me, eat me"...
**** drink to puncture her virginity while
Alicia was left cold, Lebanese reading that book:
The Hours... leftover in the communal room...

i didn't have any fun with these girls that time round...
what i had fun with was... my flatmate...

with Tristan from Bristol,
running around the streets breaking car side-mirrors
reenacting scenes fro Fight Club...
Bruce decided to become this middle-aged
man aged 18...
he bought a "bucket" of golf clubs...
one night we took them out...
we took out some golf clubs...
a few golf *****... and a few glasses...
we stood in the middle of the street...
pretending to... AIM... at... ha ha.. AIM...
we missed all the golf *****...
but! we managed to hit all the glasses!
it was... spectacular...
we were golfing in the proper Scottish sense
of the origin of golf...
       we had golf-clubs... we had golf-*****...
but we weren't hitting golf-***** with golf-clubs...
we were using golf-clubs... to... aim at imaginary
pint-glasses... sitting on top of...
shot-glasses... or... perhaps the reverse...

then that one terrible one circa 2003 or 2002...
going back to Poland, back then trying to romance
Katie (Kasie) - being invited to a house party...
being surrounded by teenagers hornier than me...
small-town mentality of getting hitched-early
and i was having trouble to breathe and find out
anything about whether i was already
the foreigner that still spoke his native tongue,
smoke, ****** music,
   the past part of the house party was helping with
the preparations with the host i only met that
evening...

this other New Year's Eve i was sitting alone
in my grandparent's house... alone in the kitchen...
both of my grandparents decided to go to bed early...
i watched the fireworks alone and felt
a solid stone of melancholy: a reflective sadness that
is not some reflex-depress or deflect-impress...

before today i promised myself change my habits,
how i would change everything,
quit smoking or at least cut down: i would most certainly
not smoke in the morning and on an empty stomach,
i would cut down on the heavy bourbon or whiskey
*****... why?
  heavy ***** has ****** up my digestive system a little...
irritable bowel movements and...
sometimes the inability to take a **** in one go...
rather... having in splintered...
   in sections... well... easily prone to sometimes vomiting
or rather: needing to ***** to feel at easy...
that was three days ago...

      i just wanted to stop feeling the also hightened
blood pressure...
             these "headaches" that weren't headaches but sort
of pulsations... as if my brain was dehydrated,
spinning, almost feeling death-tickling...
squeezing of the throat...
i told myself that i would stop drinking the heavy
duty liquids even if that meant i would have more sleepless
nights... well... new year's resolutions begin
two days before a new year's eve...
but the old ways have to come around for just one
last time on new year's eve and then:
with the intended plans...

    prior to the 30th... on the 29th i said to myself:
promise me this you-i, you will follow-through...
so i drank four ciders, took some generic painkillers
to ease me sleep and hey presto...
perhaps not a healthy 8 hour lapse into the Land
of Nod - but at least i woke up relaxed at 10am...
i had 5 hours spare until the shift would start
at the London Stadium...
                       i ate enough food smoked a cigarette
starting puking... right... you're not taking an cigarettes
to the shift... on my way there these
high-pressure "headaches" kicked in...
again i thought i was constipated but i had already
taken a shift before leaving...
no... these were not high-pressure "headaches"
anymore... excitement was kicking...
    i was again promoted to a supervisor: **** it...
here's me taking care of the east-wing with 15 stewards
under me...
i was excited... why? West Ham fans have the worst
reputation of all the clubs in the Premier League...
27 arrests in the season 2021/22...
i was excited... i was expecting something to happen...
i had 4 stewards on their ****** shifts...

in the middle of the match where West Ham was losing
to Brentford 2 - nil, Martin on gate 141 started gesticulating
with his hands in the middle of the second half...
i walk over... he tells me something is going on...
i look up... oh ****... about 12 guys, some of these guys
were fathers who brought their little boys along...
haggling with punches and grabbing and ferocious
tongues, children crying... a woman in the audience
starts glaring at me with hysteria and screaming
at me: do something! do something!
        calmly i turn on the radio and communicate
to Head Control: Control, this is Papa 2.3 -
i need a response team to be at gate 141 immediately!
the woman is still screaming,
the situation is escalating.... the children are even more
distraught, the blokes are more ferocious
(and the funny thing is, it's West Ham fans
fighting West Ham fans and not Brentford fans...
because the team is close to relegation
and i guess one fan knows better than another
fan about how to turn the situation can be
overturned) -
                           so as the pitch-side manager
Joe once said about contacting Head Control:
'i try getting through to them, they ignore me...'
well... i go at the radio again...
    'Control! this is Papa 2.3 - i need a response team
at gate 141 of the Billy Bonds stand! turn your cameras
onto what's happening! the situation is escalating!'
hey presto... persistence paid off...
    in about 20 seconds about 10 bouncers (SIA licensed)
rush in and break up the crowd... take some guys out,
comfort the children... i'm just happy the hysterical
woman is not looking at me eyes of scorn as if i'm
some impotent radio-holder...

the shift finishes at around 10:30pm...
   i still manage to catch the tube to Gants Hill and the 66 bus
to Romford, the petrol station near the police station
is still open so i buy three ciders...
    get home just after 12am, drink two ciders smoke two
cigarettes, take some painkillers and try to sleep...
oh ****... oh right... no chance of that happening...
i'm already sweating from alcohol withdraw...
cider can't replace bourbon or whiskey...
                   but excitement turns into post-panic control:
the situation was contained...
but that's not why i couldn't fall asleep...
i tried to... maybe i did for about 30 minutes in between
listening to Heilung's album Futha...
   i must have snoozed off for about 20 to 30 minutes
maybe less... turning side to side...
                                       but i knew that there wouldn't
be any point given i finished drinking the cider at
around 1:10am and i had to get up at 6am...
               to eat some porridge, shower, get dressed...
which i did... weird... ever see a fly casually flying
in a kitchen during December? heat makes flies crazy
during flight... in the "cold" of December (13 degrees Celsius
is cold for December... i experienced about
a week of promising,, authentic cold and snow
a week or two ago) - now this stinking damp and mediocre
cold... ate the porridge standing up contemplating
the lazy flight of the fly... so big... so juicy...
thank god it was one of those black ones and not
those green-belly that **** out dormant larva so quickly
the larva that turn to maggots so quickly...
black flies don't have that capacity...
because black flies... well... you associate black flies
with pestering cows... ergo? they feed off ****...
the blue-belly flies feed off dead meat... cat food...

6am wake up, wash, get dressed, and *******
to Putney Bridge for a 9am shift starts at Cavern Cottage:
Fulham vs. Southampton... New Year's Eve...
i have done a shift on Boxing Day last year...
double pay... but doing a Boxing Day shift is not the same
as... doing a New Year's Eve shift...
      it's like that W. H. Auden quote about
New Year's Eve:

the only way to spend New Year's Eve is
either quietly with friends or in a brothel.
otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off,
someone is bound to be left in tears.

ha! i have a third option!
    
so on my way to Putney Bridge, since the Elizabeth
Line is on strike until the 2nd of January...
****... this complicates my travel in London a little...
i can't take the simple option of taking the 103
bus to Romford Station and head to Paddington
and then a short walk from one Paddington (train)
station to the Paddington (tube) station and
like... 6 stations from Paddington to Putney Bridge
(Stamford Bridge, if you're interested?
that's at Fulham Common, or Broadway,
one of the two) - i could have complicated matters
by taking a longer walk from Hammersmith...
but i like walking through Bishop's Park...
as i was once reminded by one co-worker...
that's where Gregory Peck meets the priests
who gets killed in the film Omen...
it's a beautiful park: it's right next to the Thames...
so the route changes... i have to get the 103
bus to the A12 and then get on the 66 bus to
Newbury Park... then the central line to
Holborn, then the Piccadilly Line to Earl's
Court and then the District Line to Putney Bridge...
i truly tried all the alternatives...
e.g. central line to Oxford Circus -
Victoria line to Victoria and the district line
to Putney B.
     or... central line to Notting Hill Gate and
district line to ditto B....
     but i found that... there's too much walking
involved...
          the shortest route is the one i found out...
sure... it's a bit long changing at Holborn...
but changing at Earl's Court is the shortest...
plus Earl's Court is the interchange
between Edgware Rd, Richmond, Wimbledon,
Upminster and Ealing Broadway...
and the station is almost open air... so sickly sweet
underwear drying in the underground
during the Blitz sort of sensation association
with waiting...

                          ah... well... i managed to get in
to the sign in area for the shift early, i was probably the first,
said hello to the owner of the company,
who's name i always forget... an imposing figure...
former-military... but i still forget his name...
Scott... Scott... hello hello... i didn't shake his hand
this time round because i'm not left-handed
and i noticed he was holding a cigarette in his right...
signed in...
   ooh... the grand comedy of being early...
some perks come with that...
between Putney Green and Putney Bridge i realised
that my halting my drinking and elevation
of insomnia left me without any of those
high-blood pressure headaches... no excitement...
not this time round...
               i was cool as a cucumber...
i didn't feel any constipation... but then after signing
in... ooh... that porridge really helped...
as did that ****** chicken, sweetcorn mayo and
salad sandwich and Monster watermelon drink
did too... sign in at 9am... shift starts at 10am...
irritable bowel-movements...
    the staff toilets sub-standards... i tell someone:
if anyone asks... i'm going to the public toilets
in Bishop's Park... but there are toilets for staff?
you see the cubicles mate? cubicles without doors...
i'm not here to ****... i'm here to take a dump!

fidgety i'm walking back to Bishop's Park...
i enter the toilets... i enter the toilets... then the cubicle...
i peer in... wow! no animals were (yet) here!
the toilet seat is clean! it's left down!
there's toilet paper! there's a coat hanger!
wow! wow! am i just about to "******" as if seeing my
favourite ****-star from when i was 15?!
i take my coat off and all the elements of accreditation,
high-viz. and stadium passport...
undo my shirt a little at the collar and sleeves...
undo my zipper and clip pull down my trousers
down sit down and: PHOO! i **** out both
a gold nugget of firm shirt and a subsequent
waterfall of the looser stuff... my god...
i know that i'm supposed to find some sort of relief
in *******... this... this is better than *******...
ejaculations happen in private...
this is inverted *******: taking a **** in a public
toilet is more of a relief than ******* in private...
after all... it's pretty much the same, isn't?
i might not be looking someone in the eyes...
my member might not be in someone else's body...
but... Bishop's Park was organising their annual
run around the park for jogging enthusiasts...
i was already done when this one jogger ran
into a cubicle next to the one i was sitting in
finishing off my "taking a ****" counting time
solving a Mahjong... when i start to hear him puking...
i just took the most glorious Hiroshima ****
and here's next to me separated by a flimsy screen
that can't sort of discriminate the existence of sounds...

we waited for the shift to start for so long...
Stephanie pulled out... i saw her at West Ham and she asked me
whether i'd be with her in the Bishop's Park...
she turned in sick... so... i was back with Toni...
on the Hammersmith end of the stadium...
well... Thames-side and Hammersmith end...
i just implored her for a favour... i'm tired Toni...
can you put me on the outermost position...
last time i curated this position the weather was beautiful...
i spotted the bridge after Putney Bridge and
i thought: oh... the Kew Bridge...
what a glorious sight... but no...
the bridge that comes after Putney Bridge is
the Hammersmith Bridge... but that's when the weather
was good...
i just didn't want to work with Mark...
    citation needed: 'with my 12 years of experience
as a steward...'                      the ****-joke of the profession...
it was barely a year since i worked this job
and i was already supervising and yet he...
yeah...                               i can understand flies...
more than these busy-bodies of deluded semi-half A.I.
projects of hurt humans...
Francis Bacon paintings are grotesquely beautiful...
but this? this is reality-par-excellence...
interacting with it is: this incomplete human sort
of a joke... that can become a sly group-think of
being comfortable with a specified discomfort...

so i asked her... stand me there... next to ol' Father Thames
and let me admire that bridge i'm not sure about...
so she did...
     what i wasn't actually expecting was the weather...
i took the ******* position...
but as i soon learned... the best position...
the wind came with the rain and the rain came with
the wind...
                      there was this dog-walker with 4 dogs
with one being a terrier ADHD prone spaniel...
running rampage as if having seeing the godhead
of Anubis...
                      
          i was directing Southampton fans to the Putney
stand to avoid the Hammersmith stand...
just talking... hello, how are you, good afternoon...
smile... more smile... choke on a ******* biscuit
and a peppermint...
                   old men telling you: you're not getting paid
enough... lovely weather, oh... not as lovely as if...
it might be staged in the dark...

more about Mark with Lyndon and Toni...
pestering three women Chill (that middle-aged Turkish
woman... oh names... apples: Melanie... Nile? pears?
verbs?!) talk gets lost... on details...
joking about jumping the tide-out Thames...
i was just looking at how crows scared the seagulls...
one swan swimming alone...
metal-pickers in the mud...
                         i'm not myopic or the antagonism
of myopia... L.S. Lowry's stick-paintings...
                                 sure as **** metal-pickers...
in the mud i noticed what i first thought was a treasure
chest... turns out it was an old computer disk...
what was that even called if it wasn't a monitor?

oh and the weather truly broke me...
the rain came at an angle...
i smarted myself up by asking for a second... water resilient
jacket to put... i wasn't going to put on a flimsy potato-starch
pancho...
but that didn't stop my trousers getting soaked...
then once the rain stopped and the wind resumed:
getting dry... then once the rain came back getting soaked again...
but my socks were already soaked beyond getting dry...
walking the pavement in wet socks in leather shoes
is like... skinning an alive pig...

soaked feet.... although my upper body was kept warm...
talking with Toni about the proper attire for
winter... waterproof overalls... from Sports Direct...
and combat shoes: Magnums, used by police officers
and the army and all manner of security forces...
she asked for a cigarette, i gave her one,
she wasn't expecting a Camel... we walked...
looking each other in the eyes and subsequently
at each other's shoes...
in that instance she told me about her life...
she was living with her father and her stepmother...
how he biological mother kicked her out...
i just forgot which of her "mothers" was
the bipolar one... oh, right... her stepmother...
so i inquired about her stepmother's bipolar disorder...
so is that like manic depression?
no? split personality disorder? what's that like?
are all her personalities integrated or are they,
each to their own, loose canons?!

but there were these other two girls... Naomi...
who looked like a more pristine version of Will Smith's
wife... Jada Smith... i was... looking at Jada Smith...
with more hair... a nose piercing and a piercing
like a freckle where my moustache would cover it:
to the side... two kids... living in Richmond...
totally irresistible... this is how i always wanted
to spend my New Year's Eve... stoically...
at first in a gradation of pain...
pain from feat turning into the flayed beast
revealing nothing but bone, prone to accepting
the elements...

           this other girl... nice... cannibal looking teeth...
bound to braces... plump in the face... wearing a beany hat...
also mingling with Mark, the negate,
she touching him teasingly... once ***** was mentioned
i gave her some advice... oh... but you do know that
the only way to drink ***** is to drink it frozen, right?
so it resemble a sickly sick syrup... no ice, no mixer...
at best a chaser... she peered at me as if i belonged to
an ethnicity of a people that knew how to drink the ****
stuff... quizzical eyes... i forgot to tell her about
spending some time with the Russians:
being myself of a Slavic origin: ABSOLUT VANILLA...

i already knew it was the sort of New Year's Eve i was waiting
for when the shift was coming to a closure...
i was back in position admiring the Thames...
admiring the fading dark Green of Hammersmith Bridge
when the supporters were walking out...
one recognised me saying: so, you're been here,
all along? pretty much...
more passed and i just started spewing the casual:
have a good night, safe journey home,
and then the seemingly comical:
happy new year!

                 happy new year echo!
happy new year! happy new year!
            this precautionary tale of when Gandalf inquired of
poor Frodo: will it be?!
what? a happy new year?!
am i wishing a happy new year to you in advance
hoping, or perhaps wishing, or perhaps knowing:
that it might be... a happy new year?!
the phrase itself is about as meaningful or... meaningless
as licking a post-stamp and sticking it to
a postcard... wishing or not wishing: a "you"
to be "here"... no?!

                                   how about... happy new year
could be replaced with: MAYBE NEXT YEAR...
i.e. when i and you, are still alive...
we'll see each other again... i think that just might be
the summit of what happiness entices mortal creatures
such as ourselves to, from time to time: actually: believe!

the shift ended, i was soaked from feet down...
the trip back from Putney Bridge back to Romford was
sort of... giving CPR to octopi and walking on borrowed
legs... and less than sleepy eyes...
i got off at Gants Hill... ordered a spicy chicken burger
and three hot wings... gulped them down...
went into a Tesco Express... bought myself
a 70cl bottle of Jim Beam, a bottle of Pepsi...
3 cider bottles...
                     got home... said hello to my parents...
sorry... i'm ******* off... climbed into bed...
pretended to sleep, or rather, relaxed with naked feet
under the bed-sheets from them not being soaked...
"woke up" after about 2 fours... hours...
greeted them... sorry... i'm not into St. Sylvester's
celebration...
but i sat down with them...
as i have done for the past two or three years...

Jools Holland's Hootenanny has become sort of:
10pm ITV news in the household come this time of year...
what wouldn't i do without it...
Cat Burn's song Go... i never heard of it until then...
i ate some traditional tripe broth...
to warm the stomach up...
i hanged the bottle of Jim Beam and the bottles of cider
on the garden fence before coming home...
i was going to pick them up later...
to drink... well... at least half...
but it was so worthwhile to be so physically exhausted...
wow! these notes i wrote about that month
last year where i spent almost spent £1000 of prostitutes
and in the meantime lost two of my greatest
lovers... of 30 minutes' worth...
i.e. Khadra and Mona... who... the Madame of the brothel
told me would never return...

we watched the ******* spectacle of the fireworks...
wow! great! crowd!
i just retorted... if i were the people between
Westminster Bridge and the Embankment Bridge...
seeing the fireworks... i'd save up on t.v. memory...
i'd record the collective spectacle...
but got before the massive wheel
and stand there and stare... oh... but look...
who what or when Londoners? Chinese tourism...
the inescapable flu: chick or flex pork chop infections
but no rats and flies are the wholesome friends?!
standing there... with technology spread-out *******
third-eye non-experience...
the technology saw it first...
                                ugly humans non-humans
robots seem lovelier...
                    
                     that's how i learned about Cat Burn's song Go
thinking: didn't Ed Sheeran write this?!
doesn't matter...
once this supposedly spectacular night ended
when i heated up my feet and regained some flesh
in them...
                  i started drinking with my usual standard
of toxicity... looking through old notes...
ooh! an unfinished joint! wow! i had a premonition!
i will not want to go to a brothel i will not want
to go to a depressing house-party...
i will want to go inward...
into myself and starve anything already established...
i think i must have met about 3 girlfriends
tonight... possible...

now i'll finish a bottle of 70cl of bourbon by myself
while writing and smoke that joint...
finally! a new diet of music!

and the odl rekindling of an alliance....
perhaps placing conkers might put off spiders
from aligning a household with a disapproval for housing
spiders... but flies... that's a different matter;
i'm going to smoke this joint
and dream my hazardous of this years first and last
breaths.

where is that ******* fly...
i hope it's still alive while i'm alive... if i swallow it in
the night... i'll pretend to be a Pontus Pilate...

no other New Year's Eve has been so benevolent to me...
i was fudge packed between commuters not trying to
entertain the fireworks on the Thames...
me? go home...
       tired old young man....
                         why are there suspicions of me:
by simply being punctual as having any sort of association
with any nation's army?!
i like sunsets... i like sunrises... i adore the aloofness
of the aloneness that's: otherwise missing
in the claustrophobia of interaction with the other...
WOJSKO...
                        
            this has certainly been the best New Year's Eve
to meet all others...
before me stand's King Lear and Lot's Wife...
i wonder... who is... the Pillar of Sugar?!
Sugar = Salt + Water... no?!
so who is... the pillar of Sugar?!

   ah... ha: hermeneutics contra etymology!
          there's only one history for me...
   that being etymology: the origin of words from words:
to use words is not to use anything beyond words themselves...
which excludes my original assumptions that
letters or geometric shapes akin to letters or vice versa
could ever be utilised...
verba ex verba - non verba ex figura, numerus vel littera:
verba ex et enim verba!
meaning for meaning...
not meaning borrowed from either the associated
or dissociation...
or dissociation and a(n) association...

   well... it just so happens that i have... something of a...
half-wit... canvas of artificial-intelligence
to work with... it's basic intelligence...
                           just what i need.

i know that just by drinking i will not feel good
with myself, i need to write something:
drinking alone never made much sense...
drinking when partying and socialising...
drinking when going to night-clubs almost:
almost always failing to pick up girls...
**** me... at my lowest i still managed to flirt
with a girl, kiss her dance with her...
   i even walked her to the bus-stop...
before she asked me what i did:
i said i was unemployed... i sort of forgot to say
that i was a poet in the making...
perhaps that's why i don't think i'm an alcoholic:
although... in a week's worth?
    i probably drink... how many units is a bottle
of whiskey?! 40... 4 x 7 =... ****... 3 x 7 = 21...
add a 7... that's 28... then add a zero...
i drink close to about 300 units of alcohol per week...
ha ha... and on the bottles?
   it reads: chief medical examiner for England
suggests that adults do not exceed drinking no more
than 14 units per week...
ha ha ha...                             ah ha...
i have a worried mind... i already said to myself:
like Prometheus... i'll sacrifice my liver to salvage
my mind...

and i'm willing to sacrifice years of my life into
my mortality's "winter" for the current ride...
i know the risks... i'm just really worried about being
constipated... and... eternity... eternity is a dawn
with a night before a day...
it's scaring me... should all of it be true...
well... the thought started scary... eternity?!
while all these insects live only days...
with infanticide and the neunormen

new-norms and old-taboos...
and then back to new-taboos and old-norms...
some people think time is linear... given history...
some people think time is cyclic...
we read history with a grain of salt and hindsight
and repeat our mistakes...
i? i think time is a sea-saw...
we're like a tide... a tide comes in...
a tide goes out... sometimes we appear
spectacular... like at the height of the Roman Empire
of the zenith of Greek intellectual curiosity...
then we fall back... allow for barbarian invasions...
what was spectacular about Ancient Greece
became Byzantine: i.e. bureaucratic...
muddled... the only great aspect of Byzantine
culture was the chants...
oh sure... the Greco-Judeo pact did undermine
the Latin influence...
the New Testament is a testament of the Greco-Judeo
pact: to undermine the Roman Empire...
no?

     it isn't? oh... come on... the myths because over time
myths: given time...
go along the pyramid "scheme" of:
mythology "<" history "<" journalism "<"...
          aha! now poetry comes to the fore...
which way are we going to go? "<" or ">"?
  what a wonky looking L... or Γ (gamma)...
then again... maybe it's one of those weird
"Copernican" Vs....
   right... how now: write the plural of vvvvvv...
without the apostrophe that's also
suggestive of v's... i.e. V owns a lawnmower?
right... move the apostrophe along... Vs'...
because... it's not versus: hence no vs. <---
  the full stop...

to reiterate: i learned to constrain my frustrations
on Samuel Beckett's Watt...
i remember one sunny afternoon
lying in a park and laughing from frustration
at the complications of the language...
laughing out loud: getting a wave hello from a small
boy walking back from school with his mother...
i wasn't laughing at anything particular
or for that matter universal, just the per se...

how else? vs' or vees or vvvvvvv etc.?
plenty of v v v v v v v
                 < < < < < < < <
                > > > > > > > > > ?

we haven't moved that much from the ancient
world... where letters had a duality of being used
as phonetic encoding symbols and mathematical
constants after all...
VI + IX = XV
    6 (b) + 9 (P) = 15 (IS)

now i would to being an alcoholic is i simply
drank to drink...
but i'm writing... i need creative juices...
if i'm not jerking off to pictures of mature
women... Ava Lauren... come on...
it's a Porsche of a body...
i don't need to watch anything... just the photograph
and i leave the rest to the imagination:
although compared to the cinema of memory:
the cinema of my imagination lasts at outbursts...
sure... if i were simply drinking...
to "cope": drinking before a mirror
and falling asleep with a hand placed in a bucket
of water to wet my bed...
yeah... then i'd join some A.A.... ahem...
midday "group therapy session"...

but i'm busy... well into the morning hours...
scribbling like "mad" like... the monk who wrote
the Codex Gigas...
       me? devil or my own ego? i like my garden...
only today before my expedition i offered
two plums to my neighbour and my mother...
i brought these kind fallings in my hand outstretched
in my palm... washed... obviously...
but i didn't usher in any confusion:
no conflation of knowledge
regarding: what's good (universal)
   with what's evil (particular)... hello!
                       Greco-Judeo conspiracy...

wow! Δ delta... that's not the "letter"
Pythagoras worked with... is it?
   he was working out why either L or Γ
have either \ or / missing respectively, no?
          but delta? Δ? that's an isoscoles...
now... i dare to wonder: akin to Heidegger:
  question-worthiness arises from a spontaneity...
questions asks themselves...
people just need to find them...
this is but one example...

you know when you're sitting in a garden...
and you hear a shoom echo in the sky...
but can't see anything...
right... there's a jumbo-jet flying over your
garden... you hear it first...
seconds later you see you...
**** the chicken and the egg dynamic for normal
people saluting the mantra of passive
curiosity...

what came first?
Δ or the triangle?! that's a big question:
a question that Wittgenstein could only appreciate...
since he wrote so sparingly:
but i have to admit... his stance on tautology:
the thesaurus... mine: on thesaurus rex...
and the dictionary omnibus...
                          i want to repay Samuel Beckett
with the same frustrations he poured onto me...
this is my revenge... i want to fry brains and then:
freeze them...
            
what came first? Δ (the letter) the sound...
Da da da or the triangle?
my guess is: ****... i've already answered it...
with what?! the use of ******* pyramids...
but how Δ morphed into D and how did the pyramids
become abstract "all of a sudden"?
ah... the glory days of Greek intellectual curiosity...
its genesis... oh too suddenly ***** by:

the myth of the origins of Rome...
the Aeneid: a Trojan holiday in Tuscany after the fall
of Troy...
    
but no... i couldn't simply drink and pretend
to look into a mirror...
i wish i could have been a painter:
then again: no...
i can't leave "****" to abstracts: to some "suppose so...."
"suppose" he "thought" this blah blah blah-*******...
ever get "*****" by a South African
with ****-friction that was so bad
you thought you were getting circumcised
of putting your phallus inside an enlarged earthworm's
mouth-gut?
    i have... it's not a pleasant experience...
knock-knock on wood... ****... not wood:
knock-knock on bone: i.e. my forehead...
               what a terrible **** that was...
and she was raised in society... a teacher at some
boarding school... all boys...
******* cocoon ***... in the dark...
under the bed-sheets... never... ever! again!
but at least i now know what a slightly timid
beached whale of a ****-blonde stereotype looks
like...
           dry ***** are the worst...
seriously: it felt like ****...
on to occasions i had problems with getting a hard
on with prostitutes...
this one time: fair enough...
it was my first time having a *******...
obviously i was nervous...
but when i was... ahem #metoo "*****"...
i was as hard as a fiddle...
   what the **** did she spike the food with?!

well.. what's done is done... Johnny Depp was believed:
a fully documented affair...
ah... this conflation on the basis of the word AND...
it's not like "he" said: and you will know
the difference between either good or evil...
that "we" will know the difference between
good AND evil... knowing our ontology:
we'd be prone to entertain good as evil...
and evil as good... in the latter instance:
the more lasting, entertaining prospect...
               aligned with our hoarding sentimentalities...

Kierkegaard was onto something...
but he just didn't have the bilingual or the "autistic" /
"schizophrenic" focus to drill the baron of 90
into a corner and establish grandiose architecture...

it's one bad "thing" after another...
the fact that i might be drinking and not scribbling:
an opportunity wasted...
but the fact that i can't find the right sort of music
to listen to while i scribble...
hell... if i could write in silence...
but it usually takes one song...
a song passed down...
BRYGADA KRYZYS - to co czujesz, to wiesz:
Crisis Brigade - what you feel, is what you know...
sampled from an album from 1992...
Poland... i never imagined them being
so bilingual... how did i arrive at the song choice?
i was revisiting Edinburgh trying to get back together
with my ex-Russian lass...
  failure... she was already on a "different " path...

three nights in a hostel... left to a ****** couple...
i was only "scouted" when talking to some Slovak...
i got drunk and my English veneer drooped...
**** me... i had a wild night in Cracow
a day after...
i was fending myself from this waggling tongue
taxi driver who caught me
squeezing at my "major-phlegm" residue tool
trying to find an alley-way...
scary story... teenage girls not invited...

but i was in a hostel with this couple from Warsaw...
best name for a capital anywhere...
compare War-Saw with Bang-****...
ha ha... so she was this tall girl...
pristine like a ballerina...
played netball or whatever the hell tall girls play...
we were roaming Edinburgh and we
came across a charity shin-dig
and i exclaimed: oh.. what a nice acoustic (guitar)...
immediately... she retorted:
i hope you return to Warsaw and find
a nice girl for yourself...
i.e.                      not her?!

what a hyper-democratic reality we're all living in
right now...
   i'm not going to see her again...
i can see her like i can see my great-grandad...
a shadow... a figment of my imgation: almost...
"almost" being the fact that she recommended
this song for me: feeding me this idiotic self-worth-sence
delusion of comparative "literarture":
i'm John Peel...
  but my speciality is outside the realm of
the English speaking world...

wasn't today spectacular?
   it sort of began... "it sort of": began with me cringing
at an accident waiting to happen...
some white-van man was exiting a Tesco carpark...
too high... too high... jeeze!
sraped his ladder clean: proof off of this roof...
helped him out... became a 5 minute part-time
traffic warden... he ease back...
i picked up the pieces... you alright mate?
we had it sorted...

then on a whim... roughly... from Havering Road
to Edgware Road?
****... if i was going to cycle down Oxford St...
i would be cycling with a copy of Ovid to read in Hyde
Park.... instead? i cycled via Central London...
Chancery Lane: just before Holborn... and *******
Holborn Circus...
**** me... London looks weird without a tube-map...
it's 4-D geography...

if Donald Trump was playing 4D chess...
then i'm orientating myself around 4D geography...
on a bicycle... having formerly used
the buses and trains and the tube of London...
to hell with that load of trans-Atlantic *******...
sure sure...
you say one more ******* thing
along the lines of SLAV(e)... say it...
say it's "etymologically" sound...
say it... now that you have? ****** ****** ****** ******...
not the same?!
you have a problem? i don't have a problem...
i can tell the difference between a Somalian
a Nigerian and a Kenyan?
we're? having? spelling? issues?

English "public intellectuals"; them!
you add that ******* epsilon to the word Slav-
and? i'll just cut off the suffix -an
from the word GERMAN...
           ******* filth! GERMS!
    **** or ****** is not an isolated
instance... but then again: i trust the Russian
to use their bayonets more than i trust them
to use their tongues...
and that's wrong... since... they could readily
people the shadow-people of the shadows
of people...

    i've been ******* for quiet some time....
i'm ready to pounce... bite at something pulsating...
i ask the song i'm listening to on repeat:
what's my problem?
i can't say ******...
but some English ******* can add
an E to my ethnicity and equate me
to SLAVE... what etymological guarantee
does he: GERM...have?
                            i'm currently in the process
of eradicating a rat from my house...
GERMANIC PEOPLES ARE VERMIN...
THEIR WOMEN ARE EASY TARGET ****...
what?!

the "situation" is a lot different from what
it was under the deconstruction of the Soviet Empire...
now all i see... the deconstruction of
the Capitalistic hegemony...
hell... i bet that even Vietnam is on board!

Slav(e)?! NIGGERNIGGERNIGGERNIGGER...
what he **** are you going to, do?!
sure... you're not a racist..
you're just an etnicist! ETHNICIST!
inter-racial biases: Russophobia:
all Russians are "bad": when they say they are...
you...

   sie fickin rattekeimemesch.....

'__'
''     ''      Li - i.e. fire... as a trigram
'__'       ******* toaf-face "smile":
to suggest "fire"...

i completely abhor leaving poems began one evening
and not finished:
squatting thoughts enter this abandoned housed...
and i can't strain my desire to keep
with the concept of Ensо̄:
                                                  エンソー

a poem completed in one sitting: i'm not a novelist:
i'm a "poet"... i don't have the luxury to retain
days and days on a composition:
what i start i must finish... i can't allow myself
this luxury of a novelist...
hit the iron while its hot comes to mind...

mind you: what's the difference between a proverb
and a maxim?
    i think that... maxims are conjured up whims...
half-truths... statements without justifications
or if they are grounded in any justifications:
they are for French ballrooms
for Confucian strict MING obligations...

                        maxims are untested truths...
maxims are: to say the least: not proverbs in that
they are hardly mystifying...
like this Slavic proverb:
   better a sparrow in your hand than a dove
upon your roof...
      oh: i know what that means...
better your own happiness than the happiness
of your household: and not out of selfish reasons?
if you are content... the contenteness can seep out
of you... and into the household...
why? you have a ******* sparrow in your hand...
who cares about a dove on your roof?

problem... i forgot what i was writing about yesterday...
i made notes:

- Mashiter's Hill
- King Rat
- щ "vs.": -ść                       me?!
invent a letter?! ha?!

well... i was so close so close to finishing...
Godsmack is touring... i think i'm going to try to get a ticket
for one of their gigs...
they're currently my favourite rock band...

Mashiter's Hill... oh... this little hill with a park...
i can walk up it and i usually drink a beer on
one of the benches... from it...
i have a pristine panorama of London...
   me? i'm at the utmost north-eastern tip of Greater
London...
                  it's London and it's "London"...
anything outside of the A406 is hardly anything beside
the Home Counties...
i wish other English people would cut the Essex
folk some slack... esp. the women...
     to me they're nuns...
or... as i recently found out... i'm unapproachable by
women... unless they're really drunk...
i'm just recounting what i hear:
a ******* will tell me i'm beautiful
a drunken woman in her 40s will tell me i'm ****...
do i make any moves on that?
    hardly... i like su doku puzzles: not headaches
caused by women...

but only yesterday i did a 50+ mile journey there
and back to Edgware Road to... hmm...
drink a Thai beer...
                    there's no point having a cycling session
less than the length of a marathon...
i stopped off at Chadwell Heath and bought myself
some fish sticks (45% Surimi - Alaskan *******,
   Hake and some crab) - of the 16 in the packet
i gulped down 14... it's such a bad idea
to cycle that sort of distance without having eating
anything... toward Edgware Road i was cycling
in a trance... literally i was honing in on an abstract
black hole as an ink blotch just ahead of me...
   but coming back? the low sugar levels kicked in...
i lost concentration... ah... i'm burning fat resources...

well... i tried cycling drunk once... Francis Bacon
painting-esque sort of bruising... never again...
but that didn't stop me from cycling...
in heavy traffic...
    on top of Mashiter's Hill i admired the distance
i covered... oh look... cycled past the Docklands
and Canary Wharf... went past the Shard...
all the way up to Hyde Park...
tomorrow i'm going to repeat the journey...
maybe i'll get a chance to meet up with Dan
and he might sneak me in to watch some Pearl Jam...
i was sent a text today about a possible shift...

**** me... hierarchies... SIA licensing...
no stewards welcome...
              fair enough, no problem read my reply...
i'd love to see that band... but i'll cycle there anyway
and maybe get a whiff of the music...

king rat? yeah... that one...
    i'm currently working on getting rid of a rat in my kitchen...
had to removed all the foods from the cupcoards
near to the ground...
  smart *** *******... or fatherfucker...
either Oedipus or Electra... either way...
i have smart cats...
but i never thought i'd have a smart rat...
falling asleep feels sort of weird...
    it's not like having a parasite in your body...
i have a rodent in my house...
   the party starts circa 12am... it starts moving...
i tried cheddar in mouse traps...
i.e. why do i think this rat is smart?
         well... em...
                (s)he doesn't simply eat the cheese
and doesn't get caught...
   (s)he ***** off with the mousetraps!
             i had to buy / replace the mousetraps
with rat traps... basically guillotine equivalent machinery...
if that "thing" snapped at my fingers
i think i'd be left with a broken finger, or two...
but what sort of rat takes the cheese
and the mousetrap with it into the darkness
of his hiding Eden?!

            i'm reluctant to use rat poison...
i'm sort of hoping for a Robespierre's clean cut...
snap... i don't want to **** the poor ******
by snapping its snout... i want to **** it
by crushing its neck... i don't want it bleeding from
its snout: to dead...
            sure... i'd love the Disney adventure
of Mickey... but if it only ate the food... but chewing
on cables... i have a ******* washing machine
and a dishwasher... it starts chewing on that:
i'm ******... smartest rat i've ever encountered:
courtesy of my Nigerian neighbour performing some
voodoo rituals at night leaving food
in the garden thinking he was feeding pigeons...
even one of my cats brought me two dead younglings
after catching them...
i know a rat is a rat and a mouse is a mouse...
mice are timid... rats? the i.q. shoots up...
****'s sake... it's not enough to take the cheese
and not get caught... it also has to take the trap
with him... what? knowing rats...

even if its tail was caught... it'd chew it off...
   it would mane itself in order to scuttle into shadow
and dust into a future...
two songs come to mind:
Pearl Jam vs. Ghost: RATS...
                  of course i prefer the former...
but a rat's a rat... and a washing machine is a washing
machine... i feel bad about killing it...
please don't let me use poison pebbles...
but?

   **** me... last point... right... the English point
about "too many vowels" in the ****** lingo?
sure... well... if the Serbs could incorporate the Latin J...
i think i can make a bypass...

what's rat in ******? szczur...
exactly... what instances allows me to...
first of replace the Z with H and use it in Ing-leash?
CHeap... ****... but not together...
the idiosyncrancy of the tongue that belongs
to itself...

but there's an alternative... borrowed from Cyrillic...
personally? i don't mind using it...
spares me "details"...
i know that Hebrew hides letters:
notably vowels... like diacritical marks...
i know certain languages hide letters...
this is perfect...

   щur = szczur...
                  less consonants for you?! happy?!
there are plenty of words that couple
the SH+CH / SZ+CZ dynamic...
щotka: brush...
          ah... i can do away with SZCZ via (щ)...
but there's a doubled conundrum...
with a word like:

sincerity: szczerość....
          see... i can do away with the "excesses" of Z)
щero

but even Russian Cyrillic doesn't have
a compounding... diphthong...
****... we're not talking about diphthongs... are we?
diphthongs require two vowels...
we're not talking about vowel "transgenderism"...
we're talking about 3 consonants merging...
so...
   it's not a diphthong... not that i care to look
for the SHCH curiosity... but i haven't found
a name for it...
   but we're talking about letters without diacritical
markers... well... "technically":
you could...

                         šč-        
                                     but that doesn't appear in Czech...
only in ****** and Russian...

                     šč- = щ
          
           yes... the prefix hyphen is necessary...

because that's exactly my point:

   dość!                   enough!

where: šč- = щ does exist?
                 -ść = ?          yeah... there's not Cyrillic equivalent...
i would have to invent a letter!
and i don't have the capacity to just conjure such
a letter up...

i've mentioned this before: it's annoying me...
the etymological crux of falsehood...
among the Anglo-Saxons...
that the etymological root of Slav is written
with a missing "e" via "slave"...
sacred words? niggerniggernigger...
hard to giggle?! the extra G too much?!
i'm offended, too...
           let me relay this message to the Russians...
they might rough up some UPA Ukranians...
no matter... better warring among "ourselves"
than having foreign influencces...
Communism was only born out of Pan-Slavism...
we tried... we failed: good to know we failed...
now the western world is playing the fools' bargaining
chips... i'm just looking on and thinking:
it's just a matter of time... before there will come
a canyon, a crater from what would otherwise
dispel the dinosaur's and leave us with
nothing but crocodiles and serpents...

i'm looking for ingenuity in creating a letter...
akin to

šč- = щ
                                                                ­ -ść = ?          
                     i want
more wounds to lick... or rather:
i want a single mum's dog to lick m knuckles...
i want to listen to more Godsmack: pretend angry...
i want anger: i want furore:
i want energy... i want sweets...
i don't really think i need that much fibre...
that much fat... that many high-tier carbohydrates
to take more time to break down:
i think i need to look for a different brothel...

all the Chinese ideas... but written without ideograms...
without ******* traffic colours...
why is it green and not blue to imply: GO!
blue? water?!
           then again... makes sense...
"sense"... i feel autistic by now...
mix blue with yellow... what do you get? green?
two-birds with one stone motto...
              
i can't just create a letter... on the spot...
it will take years to counter the Cyrillic prefix
with a Pollack suffix...
   like my inability to paint the fence...
i just can't do it...
              i'm painting a fence... i'm not painting
a worth of canvas...
i can't: i'll blame it one the roses...
but the roses are not the problem...
the painting itself is the problem...
                    
       all the Chinese ideas...
but... without the ideograms...
written in Katakana... or best.. in Hanguel...
without the ideograms...
"emoticons"...
            death is not a respiting fellow;
death is a harrower of an inevitable harvest.

i just wrote a corruption of what i should
have believe in with
a contending contentment.

(20 minute poetry)


Hands turning blue
Ice running through
my veins.

no longer the season of goodwill
and it will not be again and until
the Summer runs in
In its bare feet.

ruggedly sluggish in leaving a trail
down on the tube every day
without fail

Generally,
in matters of colour
blue is my favourite
but
on days like this
when the cold makes me miss
the hot summer sun
I could go for a tangerine
an aquamarine
an orange or lemon,

must put my gloves on.

The draft through the door rushes in and pushes cold air in my face
oh God
I have to get out
leave no trace
can't face another day
living this way.

Mercury freezes if mercury can and if mercury can then so can this man,
they'll end up chipping me out of an ice block.

Old Holborn
for a smoke
but it's the station
I'm sat in
no smoking allowed.

This is for those blind drunk old factory workers,
staring at their burly-early days gone by.

With a twist and shift of sand dry Old Holborn smoke
dragging the last drip drop slither of moisture from their crinkly-cut
red river mouth, whisky worn noses.

Stood basking in the try-so-hard sunlight of a watery greasy fork scented morning,
lent,
one denim arm,
against the fake sandstone slant of yet another high rise, glass front pub-restrau-cafe,
a catastrophic glimpse at the character death of the Northern English inner city.

The sweat snort stagger home of the old factory worker,
working 'like a turk',
to breath,
see,
walk,
and remain continent all at once,
and at all times forever more.

Lukewarm and stale when both down and in,
and up and out.
99pence per pint, 99pees per day.
The terrific scream of a living liver,
drowning its decay in discount Lonsdale but-but-but-it's just one more bitter.

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known  even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only  made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust
  
& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye fu&*%ing Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.

buying a Trek Marlin 5 for around £500...
really has given me a new lease
on life...

prior to i was walking 6 to 7 hour marathons:
i walked to Epping...
i walked to Coldharbour to inspect the Thames...
i walked to St. Paul's...
then... on one of these walks...
i eased out a yawn: it was time to speed up...

i thought: perhaps a dog would help...
a girlfriend...
of the 3 Ps... priests, psychiatrists...
prostitutes: an hour with one, properly:
can fill years worth of... an absence of...
urges...

the body can do all the talking:
it's best when the body does all the talking...
i never bought into confessions:
alas... this is probably a confession...
or that psychiatric *******: C.B.T. or whatever
they call it: talk-therapy...

drinking less ms. amber having switched
to wine: well... the digestion is more fluid...
i've emptied myself three times today
to the point where my guts ache from...
having ******* out: what i can only assume
to be... 1 kilogram of ****... or a forearm's length
of it...

emptied to the point where it sort of aches...
thank god for the transparency with
prostitutes... last time i checked i was there
to pay for something beside conversation:
or lies...
               always the two extremes:
an honest ******* and a...
                  boasting thief: thieves always boast...
they're not timid murderers...
all that Robin Hood fancy gets them going...
i talked to this one in particular
on the day i buried my grandfather...
we talked about Paris...
poor fellow: he asked me if he could stand
on a step above me so he could
look me in the eye: well: i obliged...
i wasn't going to tower over him...

   all in all: a nice conversation...
the stories he had from prison...
what the Russians get up to in the 4 x 4
while punching walls... i injecting...
plastic? seems odd: into their knuckle region
to punch better...
i once took up some sort of martial art...
all i can remember is being trained to squat...
in a position akin to horse-riding...
the Sensei wasn't there one session
(Golders Green)
and his students took over...
we were instructed to march forward and
strike while making a lot of sound...
the student of the Sensei isolated me:
i said: i will not ooh! ah! i will not marry my
breath to an attack...

kick in the *****... me lying in a foetal position...
that's me and learning martial arts...
if i was going to learn martial arts by getting
kicked in the *******...
i was going to learn something: else...
accommodating people from all walks of life
with a conversation...
oddly enough: of the encounters i had in
the night when all the shady suspects should
be about...
one problem... this little ****** took advantage
of me willing to have a drink with him...
took me via an alley and grabbed
a phone from my hand...

oddly enough: i didn't fight him...
i shouted at him...
the seven heavens reigned down with fire
when i implored him to:
'LOOK AT YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL!
LOOK!'
  i shouted down the confrontation...
when scuttled off lamenting about...
down on my knees in the middle of Brick Lane
lamenting on / with the word: All-Ah...
Al-Lah...
                say what you may... certain gods have
names for certain moments...
his is a name when you just
grieve having to show yourself what anger can
be hiding in you...

but rather than fight: tenderness of the hands...
moving my hand against a brick wall
to later invest in a body...
all that mandible leather plush...
i still go crazy: not too often but when i go crazy
i... pretend to not be thinking about
foods that are eaten raw...
notably the Baltic sushi of herrings...
a steak Tartar... chunky...
with all the additions... raw onions...
kippers... gherkins... Worchester sauce...
pepper, salt... a raw egg yoke...
a dash of garlic...
    and a fat slice of sourdough...

but a bicycle is a new lease on life...
esp. at night: when the air is thinner...
and you can hear a church-bell ring from
almost a mile afar...
or... the sound of trains as if a stampede of horse
from: i'd imagine over 2 miles...

i could never own a car...
i once fancied myself owning a motorbike...
i'll stick to the object that allows me
to generate my own momentum...
what bonus?!
hell... no road-tax... no insurance...
i haven't even bothered with a safety-helmet
and most certainly not any lycra...

a bicycle allows you all the momentum
that a bus stuck in traffic might allow:
and more than a car... esp. since i've taken
a liking to cycling into central London...
several times now...
once upon a time it was this spectacular
gesture awe to take the bus and later
the tube and emerge at certain locations
in the city: Piccadilly Circus / Westminster
of note...

but starting off from the outskirts... teasing
the M25... and cycling into the city...
via little Bangladesh of Ilford... Manor Park...
Forrest Gate... little Jamaica of Stratford...
through to the Mecca of Bow...
and whatever the hell it is come Mile End...
reaching the pearly gates of Bank
and further past St. Paul's into Holborn...
past Hyde Park onto Notting Hill Gate...
eh... it's not that... spectacular...
i would probably have to attire myself
in window-shopping clothes...
in pedestrian attire...
    perfume myself and work a chisel of
wax on my hair... probably carry a book
to keep me company during transit...
but on a bicycle:
it's not at all... spectacular...
buildings with no entry labels...
buildings like labyrinth walls...
                 that's about it...
oh... and the people...
                         i like to throng-spot from
time to time...

bicycle: no M.O.T.: no insurance...
no road tax...
the thrill of using a bullet of momentum while riding
behind an object that might **** you...
that's fun...

prostitutes? oddly enough: Isabella...
a third year exchange student from Grenoble...
the story behind my lost virginity...
but the current hook-up culture...
however freely them come and go...
you might be paying for dinner...
covert payments... you'll be arguing for something
else...
talk and more talk...
odd... well... not really:
i was never really truly on a date...
well... this one time a girl picked me up
from a nightclub...
we went to the park...
i drank a bottle of wine...
we talked about grey-matter of our
everyday...
we went into a pub...
i drank a pint of holy grail Guinness...
she escaped with a follow-up of some
previous engagement...
god... i was glad...

the transparency with prostitutes is:
paramount...
i don't like the current culture of ***...
only-fans... and once in a while you find this...
angry... mean... toxic female...
posting *******'s worth of arousal
stating outright: pay up simps...
she isn't even roleplaying a ******* suite either...
she's just plain Jane with a strap-on
of her forehead...

whatever this famous ****** revolution
was to bring to the table from the 1960s...
should it bother me that some percentage of men
are having all the...
   "fun"... personally i wouldn't want
the baggage, the lies...
the covert methods of "bagging" one...
payment upfront for the body to speak:
for the hands to wander...
sure: i once paid for *******:
i paid for a *****-magazine and the seller
saw my face...
the good old days where you had to ****
up on any worth of... ha ha... "pride"...

since i last encountered Khada(ia)
she was bothered by an excess of hairs on my shaft:
i too noticed it... i'm not exactly going
to shave my *****... i'll trim my *****...
sure... i've taken up a liking for...
***** hairs... an oasis of familiarity...
in the form of Ava Dalush...
hell: a completely shaven crop down below:
is a bit like looking at a skinhead...
just enough wheat-shafts to: furrow...
a bit like *******: it should be there...
i can pull it back during penetrative ***...
but... it's also there so i can *******...
oddly enough...
***** hair is designated on a woman:
since... imagine all the bearded ladies...
should the ****** hairs undermine the surprise
of what's down south...

hell: this *** culture *****...
i went among the prostitutes because:
i, simply... don't... want... to... play...
this... bogus... game! of herr Lancelot!
all men are liars are women are ******
and all dogs are ******* peddle-stools!
cats are insomniacs: if you gather my humour...
this current *** culture *****:
triple ***... triple the trembling donkey's
*******: life is not supposed to be fun:
at best: there's some pleasure in thinking...
once all the moral conundrum of ought-i:
ought-i-not have been laid to rest...

how glad to come across:
paid up-front... clearly a debit experience...
harsh to make a summary of:
someone else calling it a "livestock" affair...
i tend to think of leather...
i tend to forget my tongue...
the hands that belong to hands...
the lips that belong to lips...
the thighs that belong to thighs...
the eyes that belong to eyes...
i tend to explore the fingers and the jaw...
all that's mandible...
not wholly exhausted upon the requirements
of taking a ****...

not enough chances to love women:
then again: plenty...
but i will not grow old and boring
and stiff and stuffy and watch television with her...
waiting for the ******* inevitable!
Lothar! aye... call on Conrad! & Otto while
you're at it... we're planning an escape!
i've seen what old age does to men...
women might enjoy it...
hell: they live beyond the age of men...
i'm not going to bother...
i will not hear wisdom from the old croakers
either... smothered by dementia and what not...
when my time is on the table:
i'll do what i'm reserved to do...
old age suffocates...
not that people shouldn't aspire to having
reach it:
but it's hardly possible for most to still be
an inquisitive Socrates come his age...
childish comforts...
marry me unto death and let us part
in good spirits...

this current culture of *** *****...
i don't want to be part of it:
i'll debit my affairs / pay upfront...
for what i'm willing to pay for:
kosher ***... nothing boredom related:
no need for gimp latex suits...
threesomes... ******...
stilettos / strap-on ******...
just give me the kosher salt
and i'll rummage into otherwise hidden
subject matters for the better half of a decade...

how could i think of prostitutes as lesser creatures?
what am... that ******* Jack the Ripper
moralist?
i'm not Jack the Ripper the moralist...
i pay for the eyes to see
i pay for the hands to touch...
i'm not paying for *******:
i'm paying for a 1st person "seance":
yes... we'll be making contact with the dead
who are living... those untouched ******* harangues...
misnomer:  harangues...
i over-stepped the marker...

dilute the blood among the ol' raven hair women
of Turkic persuasion...
god help her: and her fairground of joys...
i don't want to be part of it...
i don't want to be there to pick up the crumbs,
either...
***** didn't give: now there's nothing to lap up...
beside... oh wait...
i don't own a car: i own a bicycle...
i don't want to be tempted into making as much
money as might be required to:
sustain her spending habits... and... whims...
that must make me... an almost: free man...

i guess i'll have to concentrate on...
limiting as much suffering as possible...
i'll have no chance concerning toothaches:
they'll always come and go...
but i suspect that... any...
attack on the soft organs is... rather: painless...
you never hear the truth of people with
terminal illnesses...
concerning the soft organs...
that have a limited nerve presence...
oh... but anything afflicting the bones:
i'll believe that to be ****** painful...

- ah... the interlude: a **** break and some
ice in the glass...
the joy of getting drunk slow: "drunk":
gearing up to a proper momentum of scribbles...
getting drunk slow: wine... beer...
it usually takes me 2 bottles of the former
to have some sort of: IN-SPI-RA-TION...
(impossible to rewrite our syllables
into katana... however much i like:
i draw blanks... still looks pretty...
i will have nothing to do with Ezra Pound's
fetish for Chinese ideograms...
they end up being primitive sounds
of vowel, consonant, vowel-consonant...
consonant-consonant-vowel structures anyway)...
of course there is... a slow way of getting drunk...
wine beer... and a fast way of getting drunk:
ms. amber... although i've become rather
immune to her flirting...
stone cold sober with her during the night:
stinking of dog **** the next morning...

refresh my mind...
Khada(ia) made a complaint last time she was
performing ******* on me...
hairs where there should be hairs:
on the shaft... i'm not going to shave my *******:
but i also don't expect her to **** them...
well... no other cure...
i'll need to get a *******...
i got a ******* and started to pluck out
the excess hair...
i was waiting for mr. limp to come along...
he came... and went...
and i was back to plucking out the excess hairs...

in the current climate?
the current culture... it's hardly reading marquis de sade
on the tube... although the one time i did
i had 4 teenage girls giggling
because the cover had a oil on canvas depiction
of a ****...
they giggled... while the words contained...
well... what is it that marquis de sade didn't write about?
to hell with marriage and with thirsting for
what the French cosmopolitans are accustomed
to with affairs...

this one chimpanzee laboured to prove
the existence of dragons...
dragons prior to the unearthing of dinosaur bones...
massive fire breathing lizards:
the great meteor cull...
this one chimpanzee with aspirations to find
something noble: like widowhood...
to escape the monkey harem / ****...
to find the widowhood and nobility among swans...
now... that's a thought...

upsetting confiscations of libido while
a certain number of would-be van Goghs do
one more.. d.n.a. genocide simulation into
a tissue... why wouldn't we somehow
abandon pop; and take a steer
at... say... something akin to:

         chevalier, mult estes guariz...
for tbe river of blood that is not supposed
to run through Yerushalem...
diviner of the old gods: Balaam!
  one word stands out though:
*****... in western Slavic...
"oddly" enough i can write it in katakana:

SU-KA...              スカ...
oh... look... no hyphen for the worth
of a compounded wording...
i can't find escape in Chinese hieroglyphs...
Japanese syllables can only stretch to far..
Korean? perhaps... i'll hardly inquire into
the Semitic scripts of either
Hebrews or Ar-Rabs...

this current *** culture is... bothersome:
i like to pay for reality: otherwise i go into
the forest and bend a deaf ear:
how eagerly i still watch how women
are pleasured...
it bothers me in the slightest:
during ***: 1st person...
you're never allowed the whole
3rd person pornographic availability of
experience... so you're missing the ***
resembling a Lamborghini... no?

but better with a ***** than these...
angry: newly invested in freedom
sort of broodings over...
these "livestock": oh sure...
the sort of freedom these "free" girls will allow...
no... i'm not buying into a farce...

because simply can't tell a journalist to
*******: secular priest: hand on... linger...
while the advertisers say all the things i want
to hear: since i don't have the money to spend:
i.e. a woman...
sad little affair this society has become....

SUKA! スカ!
dearest: Kinga...i seem to have picked up a case
of an... itchy nose...
i rub it again: and again:
between AGNI PARTHENE...
and what the Templars have on "choice"...

Salve Regina:
   consecrated upon the altar of womanhood...
this stiffening via the niqab:
versus al the freedoms that the setting sun
might also: allow...
bellowing rams...
                oh how i might love....
always the potential of me having "access"
to the disclosure...

         it's impossible to love a woman like
a saint... somehow possible to love one as...
but to love one as an ANGEL...
her own words...
                i couldn't get a *******:
she was living with 4 homosexuals..
we drink so that we might forget...
we forget in order that we might
attest to the puddle pretending it to be the sea..

waves.. waves... countless hybrids
of ice comes with cherry pulp....
i don't like the current *** culture...
i debit my encounters...
i pay upfront...
a day of the darkening of skies...

hier: ich bin!                    jetzt!
              jetzt! oder! nimmer!

   **** it... english party girls have it
covered... for the time being.

after two visits, once seeing Werther another time seeing Don Quixote, i realised that poetry is the perfect tool for the claustrophobic surroundings... Kant is too much custard and like all philosophy books, always reminds us of being anti-social and park benches... movement and philosophy don't mix, all they did is posture with two essentials so far removed from each other (time & space), that it's almost impossible to imagine the two colliding to create movement, which is why reading a philosophy on the tube is so ****** daunting - next time it's Ezra's kind optometry (as any other poetry) to make the journey quicker - from Hainault St. to Holborn and then Covent Garden? about an hour or so... via the murk of East London... into the glittering heights of the good life, where everything essential is turned into non-essential bling and peacock boast; a girl could walk past with a Gucci dress and i wouldn't even know or care... but she would.

i should have mentioned a third book on that
shortlist - but it's not really a book,
but a method - if it was in Greek
(and i am playing ping pong with the New
Testament using the prophetic methods
kept hidden by rabbis) it would
resemble something aesthetic, not noun related,
meaning it would probably look something
like σ                        ς      
                                ­        θ                 φ -
that's in ref. to the two haystacks in the tetragrammaton -
although these two variations do not
have the same meaningful connotations as yHwH,
because both sigmas and theta and phi are referring
to an aesthetic, not an actual name - but you
get the picture - two completely different
approaches as to why man decided to grant two variant
encodings the same pronunciations -
only aesthetic reasons, after all, art can be art
and be pretty pretty and all theoretically relevant
once the job is done, but writing is not exactly
a job for a calculator, we don't write for functions,
in essence we write for beauty, in essence that's
what writing always required, variations
of what some would call kinship to third person
or first narratives, 2 dimensional expressions
and 2 dimensional expression, i.e. theta and phi,
but only in Greek, that being *the point of it all -
Fe is in Mendeleev's speech denoting February -
yes, behind the iron curtain... god, you just have
to make it painfully obvious sometimes.
that said... Kant is really bad when commuting,
i've had two visits to the Royal Opera house recently
and i took Kant with me, the critique will be read
fully, i promise, i can spin 40 pages at a sitting
in a chair, but on the tube? can Marquis de Sade please
take the podium... it's horrid... this time i'll be
taking Ezra to see the Bolshoi le corsaire -
which will add to the spectator sport of one -
if you ever go, to that brick ****-house (last time it stank
of raw trout, but still the wankers sat at their restaurant
tables trying to invert the paparazzi epilepsy
of ogling them like tourists in a zoo of materialism -
i'm half of that would-be quarter-knitted-plonker -
it's mostly polyester and 1% Afghani cat-****-smear) -
or those looking "cultured" with champagne flutes,
of coffees, look all excited... Hazlitt, this one's on you...
and all you do it walk around with a book...
you're wearing cheap clothes that nonetheless
look presentable, and then you start shooting ducks...
thump... another one... puck... another one...
i'm sure you'll begin to notice that hate is a perfect
cure for egoism... your posture changes, your body is
there among the sardines but you turn into a shadow -
you end up watching lonely girls on their would be dates...
and it just hits you like a pharaoh's acid from a tomb...
you're strapped on hallucinogenics of some sort from
the mere topography of the surroundings...
but then the lights dim, the music comes on,
the sadistic dance begins... and you forget taking Kant with
you... and just enjoy the show.

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding

(20 minute poetry)


Hoodies oh goodie I'm in for a treat,
I shall pull up a chair and put up my feet
the show is about to begin.

In the red corner is *****, he looks a bit ropey, wouldn't trust him with a dog on a lead.
And in the blue corner weighing in at some tonnage from Sandwich in Kent,
is bald headed Bob who looks a bit of a **** with his pink leotard trying hard not to be the **** that he is.

Showbiz Sally's getting really rather pally with my right leg, she'd beg to differ, but something's getting s... Wait.. Ha, a comb in my pocket and I nearly broke it or 'Brock it' as they say up Lancashire way.

St. Paul's just a stop on the way to the bank and Bob's just told Frank of his love.

And the crew is cast out at Holborn, I doubted they'd stay,
for more entertainment one needs the circle line,
I'm on my way.

(20 minute poetry)


Barking!
mad?
No,
but I could be.

This is my journey
London East.
Into the West, an ending best left to the author.

I bought a ticket, wicked.
So I'm going back in time, travel for 1/9 ( that's in old money, real money when money weren't funny money)

Bethnal Green,
I've escaped from greener places,
tower blocks, take aways and sweet shops.

I lean towards Liverpool street where the ancient meet monuments which the City awaits.

Now to the bank, rank outsiders in the honesty stakes,
someone should put the brakes on them men.

Off to St Paul's a majesty of halls, Wren had some ***** putting a dome atop that.

Last stop before Holborn is Chancery lane, lawyers to blame and they're just criminals like all the rest.

Into the West,
an ending
best left
to
the author.

(20 minute poetry)

They're either sleeping or they're dead
no heads stuck in iPhones today
no make up being made up on the Central line, take up a collection, let's hear it for the deadpan men.

Even at Mile End they'll come to a bad end but the East End was always like that,

stopping at Bethnal which sounds just like Bedlam especially if you've got a cold, well
it's green and I've seen it so time to roll on.

Liverpool Street
hot dogs
old meat
dont buy one
don't try one
I don't want to die
none of that krap for me,

the Bank
be Frank
it's a cesspit
a tank full of sharks,

hark
to St. Paul's
what big bells
what big halls
(Did I write halls?)
never mind
the ***** fall down in
chancery lane,
who plays tennis anyway in
the royal courts
where only justice is
served?

Holborn is
old and smells of Catholics and
tobacco,
the next stop wil be my stop if I stop off and step off this train
but I could go round again if this was the circle line
but it's the Central Line

Wednesday disappoints so many.

whereas there might be some "other" day...
any bilingual might complicate the mutter-zunge
of the natives: perhaps "just so"...
but here i am...
          drinking a little - if not leonard cohen,
then some bee-bop big diddly dylan....
or what's left crispy... with a blue valentine
akin to... whoever sang about...
ancient egyptian pyramids...
loosening to team up
with Chinese hieroglyphs...
that they retain and precursor
x-ray vision.... that they do that they are
a skelettanzen...

these fortnight once in a blue moon
bulldozer events...
  i, completely, mesmerised...
some gravity toward constellations...
the ugly punch of lacking verbiage...
i said clouds: no... i didn't say clouds...
i "said" cutting into a clarity of night
and the leftover gleaming pebble
of Mauritania...

       fastened like something done up
with... a goo of glue...
says i'm comfy...
but in the grand architecture of
cauliflowers a "sputnik" of eyes that see me,,
that will leave me riddled
akin to the names
like: very much furniture -esque:

     Adam Smith....
          Jean Paul... and a Sartre...
placebo solipsists... i imagine...

yes, these cauliflower floaters of sky,
being obstructed... some hue of blue
in a lineage of... Monet's Marseille...
  
clouds my hyped-up cauliflowers...
what's the difference between
Dublin and Edinburgh...
well... everything that's what's Paris
or... Loon'dough.... of... donned... piercing...
scissor fighting like
metaphor for *****... scissors... *****...
it wasn't exactly "fighting"...
just... a quest for establishing disparity...

cauliflowers in the sky...
extending masks into contortions of smile-lee...
pour some red wine over my wait for
a grave...

poverty stricken metaphors: like like...
time just yawns...
when incremental details of space are allowed
to do what space does....
metaphor like, like this, like that...


wouldn't i ever, wouldn't i ever be one for
one of those
philanthropic romances
of detailing life by every face i would ever
see when cycling toward st. paul's...
and how gravity contorts
these faces... tell-tale signs of physiognomy...
that physiognomy is not, truant...
perhaps i should polish up my
punctuation...
        on some faces a signature: life-is-elsewhere...
perhaps some syntise onym of Heidegger's
dasein...
                my own investment in
hiersein left me with structure to see
how subjectivity will be undermined
because: some clerical baron of...
no, not stoicism... of some leech purr
negativity starts making stark demands
against uniqueness etc.
of all that's true in that...
heavily invested in subjectivity...
i can't see a balance of placing an order
on everything "shience" **** me:
alles großartig!
             no... but i don't need a parasite
of an ego of the other... concretely
the other within the confines
of an oozing membrane of authority
akin to journalism...
to think that melancholy does not have
viral essential, components - res extensa
manoeuvering dittos and other wriggly bits
of out-of-focus "thinking"...
more like labouring with a hammer
in a... forest of nails!

   always this bilingual "curse": something
older than this acquired Ęglish...
          a history as known only via etymological
study...
   notably a "concern" for nouns...
in my native zunge (not that anyone should,
care)...

       1: and when i count...
                      raz, dwa... trzy...
otherwise...
when i don't count and the number reaches
a pronoun status...
jeden... dwa...
              no innovations in grammar...
no ******* revolution...
just one obstruction after another...
or akin to, the metaphor of an iron
egg-shell... i.e. when you crack it
open for a fwyed (a velsh) fried egg...
the yoke tease puncture and spills
and you're left with nothing doing
the runny runny runner: woe...

alert the superiority complex(ed)
unlike those with delusion of grandiosity...
not teasing solipsism, although:
it could be alternatively written as...

mit ein hammer im ein nägelwald...
          who needs a vector, coordinate / preposition
akin to of - relateabl... although...
could be compounded... to... nailforest...
although... in english, english being english...
no diacritical markers... it plain *** rhombus ugly
to put nailforest together...
forest of nails...
        not who's the pwetty face 'ere on in?

"jedynka":
otherwise what's "missing" in the english
zunge?
the dimunitive suffixation...
and all the plethora of gender inclusive
nouns...
wholly complicated stuff...

dwójka, trójka... czwórka...
     piątka:
                   pięść....
    pięć... five-set...
                      six-set... fo-ur!
it's not like there's
a... a...                           (щь)
      dość...                 enough!
otherwise, yes...
  sh-ch...
                       szczerość - truthfulness...
in lingua franca...
an angry english skin-'ed
might shout a remark as
i... bicycle cycle wound and wound
looking for a trill in the R
in something / -where as remote
as Rales...

teasing katakana: no...
syllables weren't enough...
"they" went beseeching architecture... etc.
i came back with some punctures (lettering)...
my stomach shrunk...
my ego fizzled out...
my thought became my oughts

while the equation... if it can be called an equation
(at best)
is more of a question...

'how', or rather, 'why', is it...
that... ц
cz't...
           no...

    how does it go again?
hard sign soft sign etc.
i can tell you "how" i.e.:
             х

i am disgruntled by the sound encoding...
i guess i lean toward too many
tongues and ask for esque Barmitzvah...

bad internet connection:
somehow satellites are
governed by... earthen-work
of worms...
          
   ж(ъ) - *******' worth of a riddle...
here's to from havering-atte-bower
toward, lady in waiting...
my neu fwend... chalky why-ite-ite...
i.e. ж(ъ) should not exist...
unless... gli-mm-er...
is aesthetically proof of condescending
non-essential Lithuanian sprechs / spresch...
tighten the reigns on a hu-SH...
and don half a crown of a crown...
you'll get the acute

   it's already included...
   unless...
                   зъ = ж
         hard, signature...
more, sounds than a peacock's digress...
since                 зь does = ź
to hide diacritical markers
by way of creating "new" letters....
hardly letters more: digressing
graphemes... shortcuts...
apostrophes... supposed surds...
cult of compound hyphenation
in...

   noun contra noun contra:
etymology as: me toy... truancy...
and here: hey presto...
some snippet of history...

3 days said; shared spared "******"....
what's my...racial slirring
at the bottom of the vex / wax mobile...
impromptu: forward thinking...
a H without an F....

   racial slurr...
chalky white... someone i used to...
the demonic king of *****....
toying for tongue over
the already broken egg shells...
next time we meet...
sure as **** there will be, meat...

cucked...gloryhole... "avant garde"...
           as if i were the father...
as if fathering implied ownership...
let the ****** nad tha trapazees get
away with: oh much more than...
this...

concerning the coercive structure
of peer... pressures...
peer pressure...
without any fundamental...
yes the walking abortions...
    unbelievable "pun-and-play-truant"
   punctuation marks....

mea... culpa...
mea culpa... tu-ah...
                    this tired bone
of the same new bite of youth...
          nothing cleaving... toward...
moon heading toward closures...
of... reversing mirrors...
        
i'd sooner turn to ****-******
literature than
study: ****-wit...
Belgravia manual...
******* load of expectation...

      no, clearly i'm Copenghagen "safe":
children are nice...
at leasgg when not
having to invest in them...
from some darwinistic predominant...
squat.... sire...
most cleaving to the crown...

horrible tides of ashen...
the tails of non-existent streets of Holborn...
b'wing heave  nuanced h'american....
boyish... boy-told...
same round of *******...

i say crease a ****** for a, paul-lack....
i hear you say...
i own \ tiresome...
i say crease a ****** to crisp up
a ******... i say... mine ******* bounty
that's hardly passing Irish... you...
******* mummified thumb and
a... m.o.p.e.

          most offended people ever?
i guess i must be tired of lying down,
being pressed down,
estimating that... squat?!
is best what red hot chilli peppers were
circa 1999... and a garage an uncle
and a porsche... was... what Ilford was...

here's my handicap score... scrooge...
what, the, ****?
here's looking up for "better"...
seeing how the natives perform a better: less
than the ingested scrutiny of:
welcome...
here's me living in Kenya...
here's me... past for past's worth
currency: displaced...
hier ist mich!

           X X - like the Spaniards version
of ****... jack... jilly... i.e. Ha... Ha...
imagine how bleak, paradoxically auburn
and albino i must have appeared to appear
WWI shell-shocked... entrenched....
in some aum-of-mud...

these... walking abortions of a kindred of
mine... men... somehow...
laxing in contemplating devoid(s)...

        here's a letter or two, towing,
tied:
make a gimmick... pillow fighting...
moth-mouth (mottemund)...
elder english i.e. german -
some byway of etymological:
von ost...

           kommen sie (der) sonnenaufgang...
cauliflowers in the sky...
eyes that... ripple...
clued in death summarise....

i might ask...
  i probably will wilt sooner...
here's a spoon
and here is:

         зъ = ж (ż)
soft-sign... acute...
      źrenica (pupil)...
it's female... it's tow-tied...
it's leash prone... too...

             зь = ź

wouldn't i ever, wouldn't i ever be one for
one of those
philanthropic romances
of detailing life by every face i would ever
see when cycling toward st. paul's...
and how gravity contorts
these faces... tell-tale signs of physiognomy...
that physiognomy is not, truant...
perhaps i should polish up my
punctuation...
        on some faces a signature: life-is-elsewhere...
perhaps some synonym of Heidegger's
dasein...
                my own investment in
hiersein left me with structure to see
how subjectivity will be undermined
because: some clerical baron of...
no, not stoicism... of some leech purr
negativity starts making stark demands
against uniqueness etc.
of all that's true in that...
heavily invested in subjectivity...
i can't see a balance of placing an order
on everything "shience" **** me:
alles großartig!
             no... but i don't need a parasite
of an ego of the other... concretely
the other within the confines
of an oozing membrane of authority
akin to journalism...
to think that melancholy does not have
viral essential, components - res extensa
manoeuvering dittos and other wriggly bits
of out-of-focus "thinking"...
more like labouring with a hammer
in a... forest of nails!

   always this bilingual "curse": something
older than this acquired Ęglish...
          a history as known only via etymological
study...
   notably a "concern" for nouns...
in my native zunge (not that anyone should,
care)...

       1: and when i count...
                      raz, dwa... trzy...
otherwise...
when i don't count and the number reaches
a pronoun status...
jeden... dwa...
              no innovations in grammar...
no ******* revolution...
just one obstruction after another...
or akin to, the metaphor of an iron
egg-shell... i.e. when you crack it
open for a fwyed (a velsh) fried egg...
the yoke tease puncture and spills
and you're left with nothing doing
the runny runny runner: woe...

alert the superiority complex(ed)
unlike those with delusion of grandiosity...
not teasing solipsism, although:
it could be alternatively written as...

mit ein hammer im ein nägelwald...
          who needs a vector, coordinate / preposition
akin to of - relateabl... although...
could be compounded... to... nailforest...
although... in english, english being english...
no diacritical markers... it plain *** rhombus ugly
to put nailforest together...
forest of nails...
        not who's the pwetty face 'ere on in?

"jedynka":
otherwise what's "missing" in the english
zunge?
the dimunitive suffixation...
and all the plethora of gender inclusive
nouns...
wholly complicated stuff...

dwójka, trójka... czwórka...
     piątka:
                   pięść....
    pięć... five-set...
                      six-set... fo-ur!
it's not like there's
a... a...                           (щь)
      dość...                 enough!
otherwise, yes...
  sh-ch...
                       szczerość - truthfulness...
in lingua franca...
an angry english skin-'ed
might shout a remark as
i... bicycle cycle wound and wound
looking for a trill in the R
in something / -where as remote
as Rales...

teasing katakana: no...
syllables weren't enough...
"they" went beseeching architecture... etc.
i came back with some punctures (lettering)...
my stomach shrunk...
my ego fizzled out...
my thought became my oughts

while the equation... if it can be called an equation
(at best)
is more of a question...

'how', or rather, 'why', is it...
that... ц
cz't...
           no...

    how does it go again?
hard sign soft sign etc.
i can tell you "how" i.e.:
             х

i am disgruntled by the sound encoding...
i guess i lean toward too many
tongues and ask for esque Barmitzvah...

bad internet connection:
somehow satellites are
governed by... earthen-work
of worms...
          
   ж(ъ) - *******' worth of a riddle...
here's to from havering-atte-bower
toward, lady in waiting...
my neu fwend... chalky why-ite-ite...
i.e. ж(ъ) should not exist...
unless... gli-mm-er...
is aesthetically proof of condescending
non-essential Lithuanian sprechs / spresch...
tighten the reigns on a hu-SH...
and don half a crown of a crown...
you'll get the acute

   it's already included...
   unless...
                   зъ = ж
         hard, signature...
more, sounds than a peacock's digress...
since                 зь does = ź
to hide diacritical markers
by way of creating "new" letters....
hardly letters more: digressing
graphemes... shortcuts...
apostrophes... supposed surds...
cult of compound hyphenation
in...

   noun contra noun contra:
etymology as: me toy... truancy...
and here: hey presto...
some snippet of history...

3 days said; shared spared "******"....
what's my...racial slirring
at the bottom of the vex / wax mobile...
impromptu: forward thinking...
a H without an F....

   racial slurr...
chalky white... someone i used to...
the demonic king of *****....
toying for tongue over
the already broken egg shells...
next time we meet...
sure as **** there will be, meat...

cucked...gloryhole... "avant garde"...
           as if i were the father...
as if fathering implied ownership...
let the ****** nad tha trapazees get
away with: oh much more than...
this...

concerning the coercive structure
of peer... pressures...
peer pressure...
without any fundamental...
yes the walking abortions...
    unbelievable "pun-and-play-truant"
   punctuation marks....

mea... culpa...
mea culpa... tu-ah...
                    this tired bone
of the same new bite of youth...
          nothing cleaving... toward...
moon heading toward closures...
of... reversing mirrors...
        
i'd sooner turn to ****-******
literature than
study: ****-wit...
Belgravia manual...
******* load of expectation...

      no, clearly i'm Copenghagen "safe":
children are nice...
at leasgg when not
having to invest in them...
from some darwinistic predominant...
squat.... sire...
most cleaving to the crown...

horrible tides of ashen...
the tails of non-existent streets of Holborn...
b'wing heave  nuanced h'american....
boyish... boy-told...
same round of *******...

i say crease a ****** for a, paul-lack....
i hear you say...
i own \ tiresome...
i say crease a ****** to crisp up
a ******... i say... mine fuckibng bounty
that's hardly passing Irish... you...
******* mummified thumb and
a... m.o.p.e.

leftover wonders:
   dream of the Faroe Islands...
my cat-**** snippet of a "reconquista"
and some, boring h'arab of barking & kin...
did his pakistani trick-easy...
a malcolm x mythological blonde
summary...
the spider suckles the fly...
life gravitates toward a
membrane of juggling **** and a...
pyramidic persitance of: give a ****...
less that i do...

while the red wine flows... and flows....
crab bucket destructor...

such are the joys of white liberal...
****...
magic carpet... what not...
here's a walking abortion...
here's monkey lingo-linguo
                  Otto the next Urban... once
Islam was to be agitated...
forever: *******!

my... unwinding under the scrutiny of
reading into... spine.

I see them sleeping in the street,
down Holborn almost
everyone I meet
has a sleeping bag
inside another bag upon their back.

Knights who travel on the road and
Damsels in distress.

We stack them neatly and we tag,
the moment that the sleeping bag
is laid upon the ground and the bag
upon their back is another thing that
we attack.

Peace,
release and let them be,
they don't bother me if I don't
bother them
but it's time that we as men
should help and then
perhaps,
it won't bother me.

The charity survivor drinks a Hari Krishna coffee at the back of Holborn station where the windows of museums stare blankly out on Lincoln's inn fields and the carpenter who watches from the corner by the taxi rank judges no one by their clothing or the way they hold their plastic cups,

the survivors only see themselves in passing car rear windows and in the blinking lights of Chubb security alarms on blackened doorways,

to survive in the impossible is not to look too closely at the person standing next to you or anyone who's scratching and survival is the key to going on and getting somewhere and it doesn't matter anywhere's a good place to move on to

and you drink your Hari Krishna dunking Garibaldi in the coffee donated rather grandly by the ladies from the institute.

Closing time, a clip from time is posted on your forehead and the sandwich in your pocket will have to keep until much later, but anywhere's a good place if you're hungry to be grateful.

Fade into the figments lining your imagination and disappear into the gathering of your day.

But do I really see them when I'm traveling on the central line?
do I really take the time to take a look?

The window cleaner logo man
reads a book and jammed up next to him is a lady looking very grim,
she's watching me watching him and he's unaware,
but probably in that zone cleaning windows and feeling right at home.

Lots of buns as well
Victorians must have
saved a fortune on hair gel.

Pearl earrings is not a singer
it's what young girl is
wearing
and not an oyster in sight.

People
there's such a large variety
and I only see what I
want to see
if only I could look a
little deeper.

Jarndyce gets off at
Chancery lane
his case comes up after
the crown
versus Abel or is it Cain?

I'm wandering in the inns
but it's time to get out.

Morning Holbein
or it might be
Holborn
I'm just
mooving on.

(20 minute poetry)

Eats a baguette for breakfast and gets crumbs all over her dress,
this underground journey impresses me less the more that I take it.

He's on a major journey through a mini iPad
which is more than I had at his age

there's a bald man turning the page of the Times, it must be the early edition, a bit late though because the  ticket inspectors get on at Bethnal Green and he's taken off

and the old girl with the persistent cough spluttering, spluttering, I gave up complaining at Liverpool street leaving the others to mutter under their breath about pine boxes and death.

Some will change here for the DLR which is an acronym, it's also a light railway but I couldn't bear the weight  of it, had to rest and sit a bit, getting on in years see.

It will **** me in the end and in the end we all go underground I'm just practising,
news just in
due to a fire alert at Holborn Station
London will be closed for today
hurrah
I think that's what the announcer said or maybe just wishful thinking going on in my head.

Nearly there
glad I had chance to share with you the tube with no view except for what you see which are
crumbs all over the floor.

(20 minute poetry)


They tell me 'do or die',
but I think if it do it or try I will die so I'm staying away from the mind control men and then I can take things as things ought to be taken
with ice, slowly stirred and definitely not shaken.

This is the rule of thumb for the *** that I am and believe it or not, I find it easy being me, the slowly stirred kind of man.

Shaken is taking it too far, I don't need that kind of shaking and making this spin out is bringing me out in a rash.

Can you spare me some spare cash,
Can you tell me the time?
Is it Holborn we're at yet and does it all rhyme for you?

I do my best, but sometimes I find bends where there should be straights.
Sometimes the fates are kind and sometimes by using me they're amusing one another.

'Pull t'other one', the old man tells me 'it's got bells on'
Well, it's Christmas so I suppose that is right .

Q vs. Q.

half Q:
is that: queue
or quiet (shh) or
quint... essential:
or quaint:
q: to a degree of
similarity:
as if: like:
quiet vs. quaint
and this word
in between: not quint...
KITE: Q-WHITE like...
"x"... ah!
in a small dosage:
quiet vs. quite!
cwy-yet vs. cwy't!
that's Velsh for
woe-yew-you-
woo!

she really should be throwing these empty promises during *******, this is the 2nd time she had this WILD idea when we were *******: she just comes out with it: ooh! i'm not working on this or that day: why don't we meet up?! first time round i tried to compromise by telling her: let's spend the day together, go to an art gallery, have dinner and i'll arrange a hotel room somewhere... that backfired... some excuse... this time round she said: can you come to mine for the night? it was supposed to be today, a new excuse: not enough girls are working in the brothel... i'm not even disappointed, not hung-up... how can i be? it's paradoxical for a ******* to somehow give up her earnings when you visit her... the second time she had this WILD (personally? stupid) idea she mentioned me going to her house: i broke it down to her... why suggest something like this, if you can't promise anything and: why wouldn't you be apprehensive, i would know where you live, i might be the sort of guy who'd enter a state of jealous frenzy, there are countless other possibilities, i could turn into a stalker, mind you: i'm paying to have *** with you in the brothel, but the default of you turning around and telling me that i could have it for free and for the whole night? of course i'd ******* like a Trojan cohort, all night long... but it doesn't make sense for you to devalue your position and giving it up like that... i would have to bring gifts instead of money, because outside of a brothel setting i wouldn't be paying you: i'd have to lavish you with something you yourself couldn't have the power to exchange... i just don't want to understand why she's having these wavering moments: either i'm that good in bed or she's... she's already talking to me about her perspective on life: she showed me her project back in Turkey: a 5 bedroom villa... if i could? sure... i'd probably move to Turkey... i don't think her past would interest me even then: mind you... as a single mother it would be a lot easier to foster a child given that child is a female: i have enough of an imagination having read Marquis de Sade's ****** to know that... it's best to stay away from a mother and her son... a single mother and her son... it's different with a single mother and her daughter... but i do hope she could finally make her mind up... stop fantasising... i know i have stopped being disappointed: it's just that i was ready to make plans for tonight and now my plans are shattered: no matter... i have a bottle of whiskey that i need to control my irritable bowels after yesterday's shitless day being strapped to a 12h shift... with no time to take a ****: i arrived home and only managed to squeeze out two little KAKASHKAS (little **** in Russian)... today the **** heavens opened and i was making up lost time that would have been spent on the throne of thrones... but i remember playing this game before... if it isn't with Khedra now: it was with Jemminah some other time (the girl who dried to spread rumours about me drinking on the job) - i saw her eyes initially glare up with glitter upon seeing me for the first time, then she sabotaged any prospects... but that's beside the point: she also invited me over to her house, i already knew where she was living, she invited me over, i pampered myself, decided to bring a bottle of wine of my own making for her to taste; well, if it's homemade it's going to be somewhat cloudy, i don't have industrial scale filtering machinery, so in order for to not think that she was drinking poison i brought with me a bottle of Franziskaner Weissbier with me: also cloudy... point being, she invited me... thankfully i turned my phone off (per usual) when travelling, i don't like being disturbed, i walked to her house and there she stood: surprised... apparently she sent me a text just after i left whereby she informed me about "being unwell"... like hell she was... the moment she started drinking my wine she was doing little dances and singing along to her favorite Dua Lipa songs... so i know the "game": but it's less a game and more the ontology of a woman... that wavering double-doubtful standard that women have: oh sure! they're so ****** confident initially! but when it comes to following up on her spontaneity she can't do it! i don't know if a woman needs an advocate to follow-up on her pursuits and wants... but like with Jemminah and like with Khedra i feel tired at all this wishy-washy talk of doing something and then backing out of actually doing it... how many times have i been apprehensive when thrown into the deep end of any given situation, having to overcome the initial nerves, adapting to the situation: meeting on the ***** of gradations and: sure as ****... whether walking up that ***** or walking down it... adapting with whatever comfort is allowed to muster! this game of female promises requires looking for appropriate music... DELTA KOMPLEX - darkside... never heard it before... but i'm just tired... i'll just have to distance myself from Khedra... i have some spare €90 that i will exchange and go back to the brothel and ignore Khedra... she already said it's alright that i go with some other girl when she's there... i guess i have to now, this little sadness: because i have to call it a little sadness is not some grand complex of depression... mind you: i'm already tired from a shift that truly pushed me, so it's a mixture of little sadness and exhaustion... i just don't want to be promised anything in the future...

a backlog in my writing habit... it has become very messy,
but the spontaneous occasion called for it...
ever since Thursday the 8th of September i haven't
been able to stick to my predictable habit...
anyone with a hyper-focus for habits will tell you
that breaking a certain, no, that breaking
a workaholic-alcoholic's habits is terribly lethargic:
a person like that: like me loses momentum...
becomes sloppy... boring; prosaic...
    like now: i don't know at what point i will rekindle
myself to my self-poetic... when i will i will feel
a sense of pleasure in my writing, until then i am merely
ploughing along: digging a trench...
but in order to find something spectacular (again)
i will have to write this mundane garbage
  of overt self-awareness...

Thursday 8th September 2022

she died on the dot just when we thought we would
be able to cancel the match between West Ham
and Steaua București... but the general admission doors
opened at 18:30... she died on the mark...
so it was too late... the whole shift felt surreal...

after the shift i headed to the brothel,
met an Afghan "Jamie" who gave me the best **** outside
of Amsterdam...
who did i **** that time round?
it wasn't Khedra? it was that blonde girl who didn't
want to have penetrative *** and instead
spent half an hour hyper-focused on *******...
but since the 8th i must have been at the brothel
another time... no... it was in the ante-chamber
where all the prostitutes sit like judges
rather than you as the person choosing which one
to take with you Marie's name-day birthday
(it used to happen in eastern Europe)
IMIENINY...
                          Khedra jumps up with a protest!
but it's my birthday on Saturday, i'll be 17 (again)!
o.k. i'll come on Saturday...
no! i did see her between the 8th and the 17th
at some point... i remember promising her that i would...
whichever day it was...

Wednesday 14th September 2022

a terrible shift at Charing Cross Station:
literally a ****-show...
a plan B in terms of organising crowd traffic...
so many rude people...
when she was moved from Buckingham Palace
to Westminster Hall...
the access to Charing Cross Station was
blocked at the top of Villiers St...
i was placed there... we had one jumper
over the fences... which was good...
but people were so ******* that they had
to walk the extra 500 or so metres to Adam St
and back onto Villiers St...
                        why were so many people buzzing
with that angry disorientation?
hell... 12 hours... i think that's when i saw Khedra
and promised her to come on Saturday...
it must have been: i wanted to relax by *******...

Friday 16th of September 2022

i took the Thursday, but promises being promises
i took the whole day to think about:
what will i give her? i can't give her a book...
or a music album... flowers?! eh... nah...
jewelry? Matthew: get stuffed: think! think!
it's "too early" for jewelry... it's not even "early" or
for that matter "late": it's just a simple NO...
she's a *******... i do take making "love" to her
seriously... but let's not go there...
she'll put a ring on her finger and admire it
she'll put a necklace around her neck and admire it
in a way that will make her feel like she has
dominion over me...
what else is there? something that i can benefit from?
d'uh! what did she sent you last time
you finished *** and were just talking?
a picture of herself in **** lingerie...
standing on tip-toes exposing her magnificent ****
of an ***!
well then! it's settled! you'll go and buy her lingerie...
mind you: it's not like you're stupid enough
to pay for the entire hour like you used to:
£120 is too much: those £60 half and hour sessions
are much better... because you can go more
frequently... mind you... if you went back
to those hour sessions... she would waste your time
for the second part of the hour...
or the first... however it works with them...
since then, i.e. figuring out the dynamics of the brothel:
i think i can afford to give her a lingerie piece
worth £50... and that's what i did...
i went into Ann Summers and leeched off the female
whims and fancies of the nerdy girl behind the counter...
i had to correct her when she chose a pink three piece...
she chose the most terrible shade of pink...
it was glaring almost fluorescent pink... shocking pink
i'd call it... i said i preferred the rose pink:
the toned down pink... oh... and the tights?
they have to be white... no... black would go terribly
with her Turkish complexion... they need to be white...
Khedra gave me her size... just bra size... 36B...
seeing how a bra looked on her after ***
i told the nerdy girl: she's exaggerating...
she's much smaller... more like 36A or 34B...
if that... 34A...
the nerdy girl asked how tall she was...
i eyed her up and down then took out a "measuring tape"
of comparisons and my four horsemen of the apocalypse
i.e. the index, middle, ring and pinky extended
and abstracting height to the height of Khedra
when we part and i kiss her on the forehead...
she's smaller than you... that's when she picked out
the *******...
**** it: it's a gift both of us will benefit from...
she'll feel **** and i'll be one step closer to buying
her a latex suit... or some **** like that...
it will be a feast for my eyes while she'll feel ****...
i saved up enough on going the 30minute routes
rather than the 1hour routes...

Saturday 17th September 2022

brought my gift to her... oh how she loved it...
while she was putting it on
she exclaimed: how did you! how did you
get the right size for me!
i always walk into a shop and never get the right
size lingerie!
i said nothing... i was just looking at her
looking at herself in the mirror...
she became so excited that she pulled out these
massive black stilettos and started prancing about
like a flamingo...
she took a few pictures and sent them to me...
legs crossed: legs uncrossed...
pink?! like for a girl... well: do you see any other
girl in my life, right now?
oh she loved it... i loved it too...
obviously we didn't have enough time for me
to ******... she gave me a line of *******...
i sniffed it... felt nothing...
i came too late to the party... give me coffee
and a cigarette and i'm happy:
then again... i quit caffeine...
since last time where i was doing all the work
arching over her in a *******...
thankfully this time round she wanted to be on
top: in the former instance she was biting me...
like my cats usually bite me when i purposively
**** them off... at my arteries...
this time round i was biting her...
and no: i am yet to see a pornographic flick
where the actors bite-tease... sure... ***-slapping...
mind you: when she slapped my face it wasn't
like the slap i received from Ilona when i visited
her in St. Petersburg: that slap of an "unfaithful" hello...
unfaithful with who? my ******* grandmother?!
i'm so happy i was only engaged to that witch
and she broke it off...
i like the idea of giving women the choice...
all the women in my life have always broken
off the relationship... i'm glad... it makes me feel like
the better person...
but that slap by Ilona, compared to the slap
on the face by Khedra... call the former Mt. Fuji
and the latter Mashiters Hill...
it was a slap and a cusp all at the same time...
the former: if it could be possible would have
spun my head right round...
fair *** my ***... women are cruel:
once the gateway to Darwinism became open:
it's a monkey-mantis we're dealing with...
hence? my grandfather's advice was appropriate:
keep your heart small... watch big things happen
while people remain small... as small as your heart...
that's the day she promised me:
i'll be off from the brothel on Tuesday...
during ******* she implored me to come and see
her in her house... stay for the night...
this is getting silly: my heart was somewhat sinking
into this promise but i knew she would pull out...
why? i already spelled it out for her:
but what if i turn into this stalking ****?
what if i become jealous blah blah...
how could i? i'm already sharing her with other men
it's not like i could seriously think about
keeping her: when she doesn't want to be kept
by a single man...
is it just me or is it that the more beautiful women
are like the beauties of nature?
they are selfless in how each and every man
is allowed to appreciate the beauty of nature?
i'm scratching my head thinking...
if these sort of women love ******* so much:
why refuse them that right?
and the women who are wedded and are child-rearing:
i'm sorry... but... having a ****** thought about
these women is near-almost-impossible...
i can't not because i don't want to: i simply can't...
me?! i'm a ******* Gargoyle...
i know my complexion is awry...
the best thing going for me is a full crop of hair...
a somewhat beard and a physique that
i actually worked for to attain...
i suppose my intellect: but then again i haven't
matched up with anyone on the sort of intellectual
i'd enjoy to reciprocate...
it's a beautiful world: but a daftly boring world...
there's no grand darkened poetic scheming against
the everyday language...
but she dressed up... rode me... i bit her this time round...
sure... great... i'm still tired from my Monday 19th Sept.
shift...
promises promises... no good to me this time round...

Sunday 18th Sept. 2022

i shouldn't be writing this right now,
my day started as early as 2:30am and i'm sitting here
trying to find some energy:
the three bottles of cider are sort of helping...
the extra nicotine is too: i've giving up caffeine:
i wouldn't say altogether but at least
in the coffee form... i don't think Pepsi is...
whatever it is... i went to bed at around 10pm yesterday
having come from a shift at the Romford ice-rink...
where the Raiders were thrashed by the Leeds' Knights
2 - 6...
i was so ****** nervous going into the shift...
why? i was going to be working with Emmy...
gorgeous girl: a gorgeous big girl: not fat: big...
a girl ideal for someone who's 6ft2...
all the decent postcards of what a woman ought
to be: thighs... *******...
i worked with her before at Basildon's Show Me Love
Garage festival: when i first spotted her:
ah! that classical English: Dagenham beauty...
i worked with her father: she bore no resemblance
to his ugly visage...
during the shift i asked her: so do you look like your
mother? can i see a picture, i'm just curious...
well... nope... she didn't even resemble
her mother... but i swear to god... i had to have a 330ml
can of indie ale before starting the shift... why?
my stomach was getting squeezed:
i needed to drink some alcohol in order
to puke some of it out before seeing her:
i felt like a teenager again...
she looked like the sort of English girl anyone might
want... a simple beauty:
just the right size for me... i'm guessing 5ft10...
but well rounded... probably taken...
but why i puked on the way to the shift i will never know...
i think i just built up this naturally Ancient Roman
need to regurgitate something
without having to put the index-middle tool down
my throat to agitate the throat to subsequently
agitate the oesophagus... it just comes naturally to me...
i start to crunch my stomach and torso muscles
and puke comes up... what relief...

Monday 19th September 2022

what was a Sunday...
today? Monday? i had to get up at 2:30am
to catch the N15 bus from Romford all the way
to Trafalgar Sq. for the Queen's Funeral...
i left the house around 3:10am... walked to the bus stop
and caught the most magical bus (trip) into central
London... sightseeing the whole of the East End...
from Dagenham... Barking... Upton Park...
Tower Hamlets... the bus didn't travel up to Trafalgar
Sq. because of the road closures for the occasion:
it stopped at a Thameslink interchange about 600m
beyond St. Paul's at Ludgate Circus...
the rest of the way i had to walk: about 20 minutes
to Charing Cross St. where the shift started...
again: supervising...

i must admit, i was planning a different route:
N86 then then N25...
from Romford to somewhere just after the A406
so the N86 could combine with a smooth
cross-over onto the N25... get to the vicinity
of Holborn and walk down to Charing Cross:
i never thought the N15 started off from Romford
and went all the way to Trafalgar Sq.
last minute changes: but i still had to wake up
at 2:30am to get in for a 5:30 start...
HERR GROG doesn't even summarise
what i was feeling... but thankfully it wasn't
a football match... to hell with getting up for
that sort of *******...
Wednesday the 14th taught us a lot...
this time round the crowd was better managed...
i didn't have to close off the Villiers St. entrance...
the crowd was flowing without any chance of
stampede or crushing... the two teams down the circle
route in fear of over-crowding were left:
pointless! i was supervising the entire flow into
Charing Cross underground station
and the Embankment station with the greatest
of ease: having only about 8 people "under" me...
at the debriefing the manager shook my hand first...
oh sure sure: "teacher's pet" *******:
no! it... just... ******* worked...
we were better arranged this time round...
no complaints... nothing... we had a river of
people and we didn't have to resort to PLAN B
because PLAN B was already tested on Wednesday
and "management" realised that it didn't work...
i must have robbed about 40+ people of
any consequence to work...
i too was a pawn... but they were super pawns...
unmoveable pawns... all the traffic came through
my position...
but **** me: compared to roofing? this is a ****-poor
job: sure... people's skills... you get a grumpy steward
from time to time: you talk them into comfort:
hey presto! this one Mark was giving me beef at first...
but i had enough sympathy to reel him in...
and? he reeled in...

at one point i attired myself in the clothing
of persuasion: i persuaded these two Sainsbury's
managers whether or not they had any free food
that was "just about" going out of date?
hey presto! of the 16 supervisors...
and 140+ staff... i was the only one walking around
with a Sainsbury's manager giving out
free sandwiches to the staff...
i did that once already: at Wembley...
i walked up to a burger kiosk and asked the seller:
so... these burgers... when the public stops buying them:
what do you do?
we throw them away... ooh! that's a shame...
you mind giving them out for free to my stewards?!
that's how the army works...
you know how you get compliant troops?!
you feed them: you clothe them...
those are the two sole prerequisites of
compliance... *** is too personal...
you feed them: you clothe them...
that's it...
    we did a round with the Sainsbury's managers
to all the positions and gave out free lunches...
hugs... fist-bumps... blah blah...
the manager didn't do that... i did that...
i kept everyone happy... well fed...
hmm... i try to imagine myself being in the army
sometimes... i think i could pull that KINK off...
i think i could... i have a third eye that's not about
some Hindu Shiva third eye of the mind:
i'm thinking: third eye CCTV crow...
third-person look-around...
i'm not even ego-tripping: i'm tripping on
the sort of authority that allows people to congregate
and loosen themselves onto and into the world...
hmm... this might just work...
unlike a busy-body female boss-***** supervisor
control freak... i decided to be male:
as males decide to be... hands-off approach...
an approach akin to: let's see what works and what doesn't...

she's send me photography of her face
like she's some "version" of the Greenwich Meat Time,
meridian: i always thought the Greenwich Time 0
was more important than the ******* "horizon"
of the EQUATOR... time... more than space...
is more important... ugh...
i'm willing to send her pictures of my hand
pointing at something, or the cat sleeping in my bed
with a wooden SHASHKA hanged upon my wall,
a branch of oak that looks like a sword...

o.k. fair enough: this death surprised me...
i'll only be content when i finally see Charles' visage
with a tenner i'll spend...
i'm ******* off to the brothel tomorrow...
today was a day of recovery... i'll need my usual diet
of whiskey and ****...
last time round: i tried performing a 69 position:
1. she didn't like the fact that
i "wasn't looking"... i was... but my sight was
obstructed...
she wanted to show me how **** the lingerie
looked almost tattooed onto her...
2. i blamed the *******...
it wasn't the *******...
we started going the 69er position:
i start tasting these nasty chemical:
snort a line of paracetamol...
  it's not *******... she said...
it's my anti-contraceptive pills...
i flush my nostrils... i gag at the mouth...
but lucky for me she explained...
well... if she offers to take me back home
for a nioght of ******* and then she's not willing?
i'll just take another girl! simple! no?!

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye f**king Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.

The bus driver is only doing his job-



he says i am out of my zone



come on mate- take a look at the rain-



i just want to get home



never mind- its not too far to walk



as this sudden shower comes steaming down



London Bus lookin all shiny red new in the rain.



so i take cover and hudde on the pavement



and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt



,washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter-



search and return to the gushing thames



in drab doorway i see pregnant mother



with dripped make-up and cigarette-



a bloke runs past into the Tote-



theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol



The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop-



pumpin out da reggae sound all round



an chillin there inside snug



an outside da rain drippin down.



headless wooden mannequins in windows



indifferent and dead to the scene



model outdated displays



of yesteryears east end Fashion



The screech -grind -halt-



of braking trucks and cars



taxis and buses



and halt heave hum, go off and on



phrases like jazz



emitted from the traffic hissing



on the wet steam road



passing the plain low gates



and walls of modest eastend brick



Little pockets of Istanbul-



vending exotic skewered tastes



empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-



sickly sweet old vegetable odours



curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes



- halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit,



Karla, Kassava and Jamaican mangoes



Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple p'taters



an mumble she grumble onward, homeward



past the asian butcher selling cows feet



fifty nine pence for two



sad looking cadavers of chickens



comically -hung by their feet



boney alien headless n sad



and blood spurted and smeared



and dried on a cardboard box-



so rich an odour of spice and death-



what words to use



yams and hams and potted jams



shelves stacked with imported cans



grinding horror of the butchers blade



splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box.



brown Black plantain bananas-



fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-



kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-



Illegible torn bills and posters on posts



walls and naked wooden doors



of cracked paint peeling in the rain



Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins



scattered uprooted far travelled communities



stirred in the stew of this eclectic london Crucible



shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-



an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing



twins to the child support centre-



wishin she'd married a bloke with money



north africans in bright kaftans



saunter surreally in the full cool, attitude of summer



somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters



seem more misplaced in this scene-



people with gaunt girocheque expressions



huddled in Pub over pints



awaiting the Worlds End



To my left number plates while you wait



keys cut school of motoring special rates



then a right into finsbury station out f te rain



and the scene fades.

The bus driver is only doing his job-
he says i am out of my zone
come on mate- take a look at the rain-
i just want to get home

never mind- its not too far to walk
as this sudden shower comes steaming down
London Bus lookin' all shiny red n' new in the rain.
so i take cover and hudde on the pavement
and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt
, washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter-
search and return gushing to the Thames

in drab doorway i see pregnant mother
with dripped make-up and cigarette-
a bloke runs past into the Tote-
theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol

The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop-
pumpin out da reggae sound all round
an chillin' der inside an'snug
an outside da rain drippin down.

headless wooden mannequins in windows
indifferent and dead to the scene
model outdated displays
of yesteryears east end Fashion

The screech -grind -halt-
of braking trucks and cars
taxis and buses
and halt heave hum, go off and on

phrases like jazz
emitted from the traffic hissing
on the wet steam road
passing the plain low gates
and walls of modest east-end brick

Little pockets of Istanbul
vending exotic skewered tastes
empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-

sickly sweet old vegetable odours
curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes
- halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit,
karla, kassava and Jamaican mangoes

Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple Taters
an mumble she grumble onward, homeward
past the Asian butcher selling cows' feet
fifty nine pence for two

sad looking cadavers of chickens
comically -hung by their feet
boney, alien headless n sad
and blood spurted and smeared
and dried on broken ****** cardboard box-

so rich an odour of spice and death-
what words to use?
yams and hams and potted jams
shelves stacked with imported cans
grinding horror of the butchers blade
splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box

brown black plantain bananas-
fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-
kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-

Illegible torn bills and posters on posts
walls and naked wooden doors
of cracked paint peeling in the rain

Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins
scattered uprooted far-travelled communities
stirred in the stew of this eclectic London Crucible
shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-

an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing
twins in double pram and wishing-
she had married a bloke with money

Africans in bright kaftans
Saunter surreally in the cool, attitude of summer
somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters
seem more misplaced in this scene-

people with gaunt girocheque expressions
huddled in Pub over pints
awaiting the Worlds End
To my left number plates while you wait
keys cut school of motoring, special rates
then a right into Finsbury station out of the rain
and the scene fades.

Mark Hurlin Shelton   London 1987.

i just can't get rid of the moths...
5 for one bedroom
and... it's hardly an enterprise
in cubisms' revisionism...
daddy larva -
should i leave some
cotton for these poor
delights...
                  am i riddled with
a western "world" exhausted...
like... the pops of no new
genius?
  like polyphony was never
at play:
   when the rigour of man
made it: less of an affair that might
suggest green tea
and the superfluous
fling of a pancake at
a constellation of: nowhere...
  a crucial time for messiahs
and for caricatures...
magicians and iranian baklava bite-sized
retreats...
  not necessarily iranian:
could be lebanese!
       it's not like this grand past,
this grand history...
this inheritance tax on the mind
was to be ever borrowed from
a concentration on the trade
routes surrounding the baltic sea...
i... inherited... nada! nothing!
i acquired english when i should
have given inclination
to tsarina cyrillic and minor hector
mandarin...
       it's so unsurprising, though...
to catch up on the bbc radio 3 adventure...
to reach a platitude of i.q.:
i finally! finally!
fathomed the point of an english
soap opera... eastenders...
i didn't find an i.q. focus to mind...
a continuum perhaps...
but it has and always has been
just... ever so tiresome...
to compensate i.q. -
or to overstate it...
             it's not that i found soap opera
dumb... but after waking up
to bbc radio 3... i knew i was missing
a narrative: an assurance...
a soap opera is an assurance...
however banal the pursuit of harlequin
is...
it's there: a persistent brick upon brick:
wall!
      well... it's one compliment to hear:
that children "like" you...
that dogs or cats like you...
but... for god's sake... moths?!
i am not quiet assured a status in alignment
with a buffalo bill...

so much for nabokov
and the whole ****** and the entomologist /
etymologist...
catch them with what?
my bright oozing bulb of a phosphorescent
appreciation for the punchy cliche
goldberg variations?

to be honestly endeared by a dog...
to be made forthcoming
by a quizzical attention span of cats toying
with poker...
      but to make endearing
inquiries in the realm of insects...
who... fathomed... the flies...
a mythological man with an authentic
given name that came to be
the realisation of the myth of Beelzebub...

well... so much for sharing...
on the crux of a noun... like any other...
be it a moth... motte... ćma...
or a butterfly... schmetterling... MOTYL...
globalisation and...
well... no real etymological sensibility....

not even in sharpnel wording:
    in: w,
               im...
                        z: with, mit
o: about, um...
                      od: from, von...
so much for a shared purpose a sharing
of tattoos and ******* blisters...
like old age is a crease...
and youth an argument...
best invested in pickles...

                the ordeal of the night sky...
while having to grind a gripping
reality of something profoundly
stupid that it cannot be anything beside
stupid...
         a concept of a solitary pine...
when a pine as solitary is
impossible to fathom:
or a birch thus solo...

        an oak: while the adventures
of birches have come to their
natural advent of regrets...
           and this solo coffin shadow come
noon stans procrastinating a
show of shadows borrowed from
an overflow of the Styx...

Thames: a river... with... no authentic
tide: from mountains toward
the sea...
no... the Thames is an inauthentic river...
if it's a river to begin with...
a sea knows a concern for tide...
but a river?
a river should know no mirror
bogus "now" of a tide...
the Thames is like the Bermuda Delta...
an irrational high-rise ****...
enough to pluck one's eyes
out for...
   or don a sheikh hanky panky teasing
that 19th century morbid whitey
of celestial: wool! my eyes! needs! woolz!

some banal Clarice chasing a hunchback
Circe with a Charon towing...
impossible gravity of walking a stupendous
walk of arrogance:
this two-feet-tow...
my bucktooth and arithmetic:
theatre von der nacht:
lepper zeppelin -
   authentically lisping minor details:
an accent "here" or... "dasein"...

teatr nocy...
               ćma i jej obcy:
a moth and her other...
              like some proto-digestion
of custard and borrowed glue...
me left to my own: deus "ex" machina /
**** in machina device-works...
a concept of switzerland came
with both the tickling time-keeper
of a form of clock and some lesser
known 20th century protagonist
by the name of Young...

                  persuasions please!
i can leave my i.q. on the diatribe for
the persistent allowance
of the desired... "englishness" of:
queue...
            bread the brittle futurism of
a sanctity of bread:
beside this "thing" dubbed irish...
and gnats and breadcrumbs...
itches furthest from the last
encompassing loiter...
of a truth salvaged via
a tartare steak...
a kogiel-mogiel...

                  a bread-owned soaking
up of a spilling yoke:
like it's a french... "thing"...
teasing an affair of a wig...
best: warsaw will forever be...
an interlude of:
the concept question from
london toward tokyo...
i.e.: why can't we have nice things...
answer?
we... ahem... never had them...
we tried... vaginal ****-wit
from Brandenburg or that ****-****-wit
from lady muscovite...

here's to samson-frankenstein's monster...
the furore surrounding
the faroe islands...
the 20 thousand(s) composition
of the shetland:
united schkootland repose:
'aggis neeps 'n' tatties!

enough salz undz pfeffer
und we have haz ours...
hinderburg-esque hogmanay!
of the british:
not lived among the vilsh...
or the scuttling furore of the:
'igh 'anders...
          
cutie pie pork chop
worth a *******'s towing:
that last vanguard of / if:
              "too few"...

no... no good lending an ear
to listen to "shared": charred...
etymology of greek or russian...
London's desperate plight:
*** ordeal that never has to happen...

there have to be concerns
for calling it a new 9am...
just because it just so happens
in Edinburgh...
  there's the chopping of wood...
there's the ordeal of castratos
attired in niqabs...
the harems of the ottomans are
still a fetish for imagery best
sourced in Vienna...

            to worship the night:
is to find enough of day...
as sacrificial:
as banal... as enough...
to think with an exhaustion
of compensation:
     it's not that i dare not: dream...
but it's not enough to dream
to begin with...
i will harvest this eternal night...
to eat away at the day's
mediocre...
              mirror mirror...
             your wish for status lake...
i see no question-worthiness
in either sea or river...
how is it that i write
to fathomable formal linguo?
                  mirror in the shadow...
mirror in the lake...
murky time of river
and the hiding grey of the sea(s)...
come tide come swelling of
hinterland ambitions...
this little norse retreat of my
last perspective...
            perhaps i just want
to die a death pronounced by
having to don an agitating
pair of shoes: that demand...
towing a scenic incredulity of
a miser's mile?!

         how's that? roundabout
faroe isles! an itch of spreading butter
on... toasted bread:
notably a sourdough crusted:
new holborn sort of "adventure"...
no.. nothing new...
here's to drinking some more
while making it simultaneously
well-reserved ast having
the same inviting prospect of...
looking for:
a loot of a shakespeare and a full-stop.

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding

it must be a clear misunderstanding when someone utters the words: 'you hurt my feelings'... taking offense etc. last time i checked... doubt is outright discredited... yet in doubt: such a plethora of emotions... bundles of emotions... emotions that i can't bestow a narrative onto... it's not like the lack of emotions matched with denial... doubt's plethora: it's a pale version of love... in all but certain times... a pinch of uncertainty is always welcome... as is being offended... it's a loose-paradox (paradox: probably a misnomer in the context) of... an imploding objectivity... all those who claim objectivity also claim: being cognitive pure... not being dragged: muddled by emotions... why are emotions so undeserving to be felt... i'm tired of the silence of the heart for almost forever... when people say they have "****-hurt feelings"... or that they might be "offended"... it's not that... i see it as: implanting emotions... somehow it's easier to digest thoughts: since... "somehow" thoughts can exist in both an: in vivo as in an in vitro staging... you will probably never take thoughts seriously... but emotions... that raw slice of cured beef? well... it's not that i "hurt" your "feelings"... it's only that i gave you... feelings you never prior experienced... no one has hurt feelings: never... people only have bothersome feelings they cannot digest... no one is hurting... there are only a few with indigestion qualms... but since it's not the stomach but the heart... no one their pigeon brain starts to coo coo: cook up nonsense...

in light of recent events, in England...
a proselyte: of a former Islamic persuasion...
gets stabbed, slashed... whatever...
for wearing a Charlie Hebdo t-shirt
at speakers' corner in Hyde Park...
does it matter she's a woman:
does it matter whether or not she
was actually talking or merely wearing the t-shirt?
a proselyte...
i'm sort of one: teasing at the adventure...
i'll write the word ****** because...
well: giggle... bundle...
i will not censor my thoughts...
but because i will not utter the word:
i will not: it's not for the debility
and some "sacred past"..
but i will not scream it: choke my thoughts
with it... i'll reach the platitude...
urban slur that it has become:
you... don't... "own" the word...
i don't need this black hole punctuation
marker...
                      the "N-word":
god grease this "taboo": i have better pork
to ****...

- when enough drink is in me
i'll be writing under the influence:
but i won't be cycling... i tried that once...
i collapsed on the side of the road
clenched my bicycle
like a woman might clench a ****-buddy
and just... lay there... i was aiming
for the moon... it was a moonless night...
i started aiming for the constellations:
it was cloudy... i just lay there on
the pavement...
it felt... very village-esque...
as if the Red Army just passed through
having seen the well-dressed SS-men
running for their life in scuffles
and... torn limbs... in rags...
thank god the Bolsheviks were not
those ****-smeared Mongols...
who ate nothing but rancid horse-meat
and drank nothing but horse blood...
but it figures...
can i please talk to some of the sensible
Muslims: the ****'ites?
the old world Persians... even they're ******:
how come a bunch of camel jockeys
started to dictate to the Persians
a new thinking parameter?
the youngest of the monotheistic brat-dom....
so easily offended...
my greatest "fear":
the jihadi with an acute sensitivity
most associated with: French footballers...
why are these Muslims as sensitive as
French footballers...
Islam was once so gracious:
i was almost willing to "revert"...
i was implored by some Muslims to do so...
that's the thing with associating yourself
with Muslims in the west:
a feeling of conversation soon turns into
a feeling of conversion...
i asked one ****-
            -stani who approached me in a park
while i was sipping a beer...
why are you single? he implored...
a man of your stature...
shouldn't be single...
i didn't ask him whether this was England or
whether it was Lahore..
i just asked him what:
Alif-Lãm-Mĩm
meant at the beginning of a surah...
he brushed it somehow "aside" with a:
'only god knows'...
sorry... but that's not good enough...
i have to be the worst type of
a convert prospect...
although the best should an architecture
student... come along with a joint...
me with two beers... him with Le Trio Joubran:
that is happened in Amsterdam:
of course it had to happen in Amsterdam!

Alif-Lãm-Mĩm: is that sort of quiz
akin to turning letters into numbers
and "seeing" patterns... there's that Hebrew term
for this practice... it's not chiromancy...
it's not the concern for the Zodiac...
it only takes three letters...

"666": ΧΞϚ

last time i checked: "they" were breeding black
athleticism over Hebrew intellectualism...
Hebrew intellect fell short &, sour...
with what came out of Marxism
and... Freud still chokes:
but it's hardly a ******* celebration
when translated into skyscrapers...
when there's also that alias of the ****
with the football stadium... no?

but the "******" can be celebrated for his
physical prowess...
there are more holier words in this language
than a slur i hope to confess has become
more of an urban doodle: prepositional-punctuation
marker....

at least i'm not screaming the "N-word" in the back
of my head like some stuttering numb-nuts...
it's there... plain to see...
if i were to write: Niggerian instead of Nigh-Gear-Ian...
it would imply... what?
the same sort of hyper-sensitivity associated
with Jihadi Johnsons alias:
macabre: Russian ballerinas are more cut-throat
than these French footballers...

there are more sacred words than require
black-holes of: translated into "thinking"...
the name of the Hebrew god...
hidden within a "name for a name":
ha-shem...
there... i'll go as far as that...
i will not utter this word...
but sure as hell i'll make a great dough
of it: seeing how it might rise...

**** a black girl: colonial superpower, i...
the English are the tourists of Europe...
i don't think the Polacks ever felt comfortable
in their backyard... ever...
the argument goes: since the English went
all over the world... the world now has
to come knocking...
for all this ****** weather: you're more than
welcome...
Japan is an island... it has much
better weather: go figure...

another example... a former ISIS bride has returned
to England...
she's living in a £500,000 house
and has been giving treatment for
a prosthetic extension
of a lost arm: "lost" in a drone strike...
**** me... should have fought for ISIS...
pumped myself up with all those
amphetamines all those warriors were
ingesting because:
drink is... b'a'a'a'h bad (stutter?) i bet
you want...

hypersensitivity:
great at running...
but... no good at swimming
or for that matter: rock climbing...
from a tree unto the rock...

no matter... i was watching the Australian masterchef
contest and spotted a stand-out...
her grandmother was of a south-east-asian
"persuasion"...
pure as chalk...
well... "good news": ol' sandpaper man
comes in... 2nd generation
of interracial breeding...
well... two generations short...
what's that like in dog years?
the first encounter... done...
2nd... by the 3rd turn product pops out...
all is bleached...
worked with sandpaper... of white: piglet skin...

what a pretty fine explanation...
this connect: nuanced: "us":
greedily waiting the next: new...
conversion...
how do born & bred Muslims treat
proselytes...
converts... "reverts":
if not black h'american Malcolm X
stints...
all white... Mamluk / Janissary types-typos...
second class: ha! "citizens":
i don't trust these anaemic-**** smears
from the sand-pits of wannabe Congo
any more than...
no... great curry...

how it came about that a western man
had to become: educated by
some... retrograde... concerning words:
he would never ******* use!
even in a bilingual sequence of "events"...
mind you... the niqab would come about
as sort of... useful...
concerning the mythological blonde and
her ******* tirade of cough-ups!

get the **** real: ******:
the blacks just want to be...
blacks... the whites just want to be:
white...
you... play-up your jazz
while i drown my ******* Prokofiev...
you be black... i be white...
women always: some great heritge
of brotherhood making a comeback?
must be a Vancuever sort-of
a shin-dig...
investment in lady... qualities...

just about right: how h'Arabs treat those
Bangladeshi whips...
you have to whip those h'Arabs into
owning some ******* whiskers...
brown-beat doesn't even cover it:
with the copper-necks...

- just don't get me started on the Turks...
Turks... supposedly Muslim...
but their alphabet originated with the Mongol
geography...
seeing how the Turks licked at Vienna...
spent so much time just below
the Carpathian mountains: in Europe...
the best barbers and the best
prostitutes known to man...
oh and the ****'ite Persians who still love their
iconography...
Charlie Hebdo was wrong in that respect:
i bet Muhammad was a handsome *******...
a camel jockey / goat herder...
an illiterate par excellence...

it's not like he was immediately liked in his
local Mecca...
i have my "theory": in praise of older women...
i'm pretty sure she was the elder
the literate... the business mind-set illuminated...
she must have been the person who
wrote down the first Surahs...
who? Khadija: Muhammad's first wife...

eh... and they really do think they're the dog's *******...
Eddie Izzard's explanation is still tip-toe for moi...
my francophobia will not go away:
i can't speak French and not retain a French accent...
that will not pass...
therefore? i will not learn French...
i'm not going to speak French like a foreigner...

clearly i wanted to convert to Islam once...
"clearly"? hmm...
i once listened to this spectacular adhan and cried
like a Janissary...
what put me off Islam?
****-
    -stani Islam...
                 Saudi Islam...
     i'm still teased by the Turks... well... Turkish prostitutes...
once upon a time i also
heard vaughan william's fantasia
on the theme of thomas tallis... and also cried...
i cry at beauty... that's what i do...

my ****** lot... because the Hebrew's devil is older
than my devil...
imagine... coming from a people
that still defended the last paganism
of the Lithuanians: the last paganism in Europe...
the year: 1410... a battle between the pagans...
the Tatars (remains of the Mongol Horde)
the Polacks: lack-land lack-land...
and the Teutonic Order...

perhaps i could have convinced myself
to convert to Islam...
but then... what the hell do i do with
the *******... ms. amber and all that bourbon
that... always reminds me of a brothel?

the Hebrew god...
well... it begins with the implosion and all that's
clockwork with the Greek Δ -
that became the Y or... the serpent's split tongue...
funny story...
i was chatted with a Greek on a train to central
Warsaw from the Modlin Airport...
my god... how similar Greek sounds to Spanish!

look here: γΥ!
                           eh? eh? it's a sound structure that
requires an umlaut when transcribed into
Latin:                     gÜ...
one parabola... two parabola: a pair of wheels:
goo!          of the ghoul!

i do believe the story of of Carmenta (the Cimmerian Sibyl)
because... why shouldn't
it not be mythological that the genius
of Sejong who invented Hangul...
enough time passes...
journalism becomes history and history becomes
myth... or... there abouts...

all for the best... now that we're all seemingly
literate...
under too much weight of history:
it seems that i have inherited too much...
and i have inherited too much:
there's a plateau of a horizon...
so much history for a single man to digest:
ingest... that we have hoarded so much
of it... enter filter... enter skim-reading...
but it happens  ever so often that a Quran arrives...
a fire... but then... all the restrictions
that come with it... so much with keeping
too much from the past...

if only Islam could have cured me
of my drinking solution
to the boredom associated with
the soberness of the everyday: platitudes...
perhaps enough: just enough of *** could
curate me towards a better path...
such are the times:
there's plenty of drink: available...
but never enough ***...
unless you're a performance artist...

i feel most sane on a bicycle... feel safest
when being overtaken by a juggernaut of
a truck's volume...
a critique of traffic...
i feel... completely bewildered when
a mini-cooper: this sized: ||
takes... this much: |       | of space
to overtake you...
while... a man driving a van...
or a truck sized: |       |
takes... || to pass you...

Gallows Corner roundabout...
the last thrill of a cyclist taking to orientating
traffic... in the newspaper...
another solipsistic cyclist was mowed down
by a truck turning left at some junction
of Holborn...
me and my unconscious spatial coordination
arithmetic: not some ******... although:
a ****** would probably wave hello
this was a paediatrician cycling to her job...
i don't pity her... let the earth be light
upon claiming her body...

most cyclists that die on the streets of London
deserve to die...
how nonchalantly they ignore...
how... no... nonchalant is a timid word:
how... blasé they seem...
every time i pass one of these solipsistic
bulges geared up for: target practice
i forget to laugh...

i feel human... i bought 70cl of bourbon...
gorgon... bourbon: watch me turn to stone...
**** it... i'll sober up tomorrow morning
on the dual carriage way...
why not take the risk?
i'm most sane when drinking and scribbling
or when cycling...
i was expecting to see some lovelies in
Upminster... but...
since i was riding a road bike with 23cm wide tires
i was looking down for... ***-holes...
more than looking up for cleavage...

but this glorious spot... just outside of Upminster...
beyond Cranham... easing into
Bird Ln... through to Tomkyns Ln.
while walking across the A127 Arterial...
the organic beauty of England is starting
to grow on me... i love what the Saxons did with
the place...
perhaps the Welsh and the Scots: the origins story
Britons that the Romans met would have
done just as much...
nice... tended to garden...
i once felt nostalgic for the land most associated
with Polacks occupying it
but a land the Swedes wanted... the Mongols...
the Russians... Turks and Germans...
i imagine i'd be as much involved with
a love for the organic north America
while missing the love for the...
culture that lay on top of the organic spectacle...

i much adore this topography...
of course i can hardly appreciate the natives
having too play the game of capitulation
of former colonial herd "animals"...
hurt feelings? or feelings aroused?
you felt them: your problem...

how the English capitulated to their former subjects...
it almost hurts... almost: no... it hurts...
i love this land...
i'm hardly going to agree with the people...
nicety... politeness:
you give them a ******* mosque in the middle
of... i've was invited to the Reagent Park mosque
as a prospectus convert...
what is it with having Muslim "friends":
you're only "friends"... "proper":
if you convert?!
what's that recipe you have for the Lavash?
who would have thought that rosemary
works just as well with beef as it does with lamb...
oh right... that was it?
fair enough... *******!

see... that's what put me off Islam...
****-
  -stani: Rotherman...
bad taste man... it just left a bad taste in
my mouth... i ended up without a mouth...
pretending to eat via the hole i **** from...
i'd scoff out some diarhoea digestive juices on
my meal and then... vacuum it up with my ****...
i remember the concept of teeth...
though... teeth were nice...
so was the tongue...

****-
  -stanis ruined my vision of converting to Islam...
i'll settled for this... makeshift of Christianity...
gnostic.. because... well:
in my position: you're not teasing at Hebrew
superstitions... you must be...

oh this land... this most glorious: serene land...
how breath-taking "concept" of Scotland...
all the finicky irks of the rolling hills of
what's mostly England...
on a bicycle: best...
do i mind the locals?
well... do the local mind their former colonial
subjects?
what's that saying: thanks for the recipe?

you see me in Bangkok... you see a *******
chimpanzee die from dehydration:
sweated out from his... salty... nut-sack!
i'm not going... to hell with south-east Asian
humidity...
it's a cancer... i'll best survive with "the idea"
of keeping up a hard-on / narrative on...
prospectus ghost horizons...
the Faroe Isles... *******: GREEN-LAND...

that's where Frankenstein's monster would
have went... i'd go there too...
the agony of summer...
everything decomposes too quickly...
the flies... the maggot **** the flies!

oh for the love of these isles... perhaps not the people:
then again... i rather drift in & out with
the anglo-saxons than be jumbled up with
"my" people...
you start to appreciate despising the
******* diaspora after a while...
i guess the Polacks are the most willing to
integrate...
whoever showcased the dynamics of the
congregation project of Chicago...
somehow forgot...
i'll drink drink this 70cl of bourbon:
don't worry... i won't clog up the arteries of
the NHS with my antics...

you what? i love this land... perhaps the wolves
have been culled...
but the foxes are still running rampant...
well: if life throw you foxes:
you're not going to exactly: ah-woooo!
bark? for the love of life: i will never
bark or take to the leash...
i own two maine *****...
i exhausted them while grooming them...

they ended up spending the afternooon
sleeping in my bed...
i'm hopefully going to retire to it:
with a horror movie soundtrack somehow:
soon...
spontaneity of narrative... closure:
more impromptu... less of that...
masquerade formality...
this god blessed land...
if only the Spanish armada...
like the Mongolian ships...
should the conquest of Yappon could have
been envisioned...

anyone still reading this still bothered about...
GG?
the consensus of... a neGlected...
     Giant...
i think... this former soy boys catching
their Goliaths... catch 'em cold... sober..
or... simply exchange them?
to perform so well in slam-dunk prowess...
reinvent classical music via jazz through
towards blues... rock... etc.?

somehow the weight on my shoulders shifts...
a Nigerian ****** turns out to be an urban slur that
doesn't invoke a Nigerian...
a soy boy vegan: perhaps...
i implore the use with coercion tactic...
for those offended: yeah... i'll just implant some
emotions into your heart...
it's very much offensive for my to intrude with
proper spelling...

let's be honest: anyone who has been:
honest... is by now... tired of walking on eggshells...
**** a black girl... what, you?! colonial beast!
yes... confuse the ****** with the Croat...
the Russian too... hell... throw some Ukrainian bias
while you're at it...
anti-racist western girls are...
eh... m'eh... if i can get what i want for
half a decade's worth with some Turkish raven
hair... beaus...
do i... have to mind... pronouns... prospectus quotes etc?

like i said... wait for the bleach..
or... the sandpaper...
i've seen the complete works...
i was ****** with... love... affairs...
girls that dated me...
sure... but they had younger sisters...
and their younger sisters were more...
most attractive...
terrible combination:
dating a girl while her younger sister
is more attractive...

for all the choices and Heidegger...
lucky loser...
no... thank you...
to be one of these super-sensitive Islam propagators...
me? convert?! *******: no!
best keep that ***** in the niqab...
if it were a bone tomahawk..
it would be a female... declined limbs...
blinded...
a torso readied for *******...
imagine that... a replica machinery...

oh i'm sure... Muhammad... was a handsome beast...
but i'm thankful...
that the first... last... true religion...
met a schism so early...
Muhammad was so easily undermined
not keeping a nepotistic promise for
a cousin Ali...
early schism: no truer than:
truth is somehow sold?!

i fiddle with my beard:
whoever says otherwise... no... i'm still playing a violin!
i'll sober up solo... cycling against the gusts of wind...
Eloise...
Eloise!
England... oh this well deserved and welcome land...

my land....
in deutsche:: mein(e) erde...
i watch the locals: capitulate....
   what are you?! slugging *****-best-please
sumac? i... i am to surround  suspicion?

this glorious land....
                   this.... glorious land...
this: ING-LAND...
best forget the wolves..
given the foxes are prunes...

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known  even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only  made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust
  
& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye fu&*%ing Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding

DCLXVI
so if i were to... introduce a writing system:
that the Hebrews use
in terms of hiding vowels
as if they would be later exposed as
diacritical indicators
i could, technically: conjure up a noun
for something or someone...
conjuring whatever vowel at my whim
in between these: "consonants"
i could technically scribble
something akin to:
D(aeiou)
   C (eioua)
L (iouae)
   X (ouaei)
      V (uaeio)
            and by I i'm out of combinations
because the locksmith called in sick
and there's this... dyslexic understudy:
some poor schmuck who thinks he might become
an actor etc. etc.
but who said: or: who is to say:
that the vowels are in correct order:
see religion gave us so much
rigid authenticity to abstract and then correlate
that abstract into a feast of objects willing
to be maniable under our omnipotent thumb
of pressured justices...

i sometimes like to have these bouts of
playing the starving artist:
i fast while still drinking for a day or two
and then the hunger becomes like the most potent
juice of hallucinogenics
intoxicating me: giving me focus...
and then i just allow "god's" spirit:
to revel in it...
if...

         if it weren't from my inability to be circumcised:
i tried explaining this phenomenon to
an American girl who had nothing but
circumcised ****...
because along with the Hebs and Harabs and
the H'Americaña: y supposedly also why...
but the glaring fact that "god" is no longer obvious
but some evil strategy of letters people tend to
avoid... blink out blind out on...

my best bet is... Moses wasn't circumcised...
and that's how far back the story goes:
so circumcising males is o.k.
but circumcising females is frowned upon?
how unoriginal is this "original" sin?
as "original" as the current cultural calamity
of communism not being in the hands of
either the Slavic or Chinese people?
these pink-haired bureucrat feminists?
these i don't need a man
but at least three ******?

tell me if i'm wrong: and i can't be circumcised
because i have two protruding veins
in and around my ******* so that
would imply bleeding dead to dry or dry to dead:
but if circumcision was somehow turned
into a rite of passage...
say... you circumcise a man...
like you might do all the other rituals concerning
a woman... upon her sacrificial poise and
hypocrisy...
****** and death both adorn white...
then yeah: it makes sense:
to circumcise a man in a prenupital agreement...
Moses couldn't allow these people
to shake of their practice: nor could Jesus...
shake off... shake off...

         Taylor: ooh shake it off shake it off ooh ooh:
traffic police: beep beep!

oh but i heard worse stories not told
by the en masse history society approval:
like the Holocaust was one thing
pretending to work as a sadistic ploy was one thing
but then the Polacks who actually worked
and there was no sadistic choke joke invoked
like they actually were needed to work
digging tunnels:
it wasn't just slave labour:
it was a constructive genocide...

but imagine if circumcision was a rite of passage:
like the nomads the Polynesians became
by only this rite of passage will you get
****** tattoos... etc.
imagine if Moses was able to rid these people
of that ancient scribble of aesthetic
and forgive them for their aesthetic is ascetic...
well: if not Moses
then certainly not Jesus
could bring these people to dissolve
their spontaneous inbreed justification
for circumcicing males but frowning upon
the Egyptian circumcicion of females...

as i explained to my better half:
see... the problem with a circumcised ****...
it's blind to aim...
plus when all the women worship
******* in the shower
and circumcicised men focus on said
women choosing ******* parterns:
because you make man devoid of deriving pleasure
the natural pleasure from *******:
and where: do you think that was derived from?
******* is natural...
circumcision: ******* isn't! you get that?!
how about i chew off my thumb
how about i chew off my lips and my nose and my ears?!
if Moses couldn't do it:
Jesus was punished for it:
i'm not going to repeat it a third ******* time:
circumcising males is the "original" sin...
for whatever aesthetic reasons:
******* is natural
and the ******* allows for channeling ***
without ***... maybe that's why ******* was
born:
like a carrot and stick on those poor donkey-kong-*****
just needing to ****...

plus it's a concern for hygiene:
i do have an allowance
to peel the ******* back and enjoy ***
with a choke mode turning my hands
and head all bishop purple...
but when you start ******* without *******
it's almost like having needles shoved
up your shaft...
at least ******* with *******
you can aim
while most of these half baked Arab *****
end up ******* on the ******* toilet seat!
and what am i supposed to do?
sit in their ****?!        n'ah mate: n'ah n'ah...
my only "beef" ant "anti-semitism" is
with circumcision...
i can't be circumcised i wish i could be
but only as a rite of passage of from boy to man
and thus belonging to a woman:
then: only then: will i be able to don
a wedding ring:
she can fry that ******* prompt like
she might an onion ring: i don't care:
but not when you have men who didn't
ask to be circumcised being circumcised
and then you wonder:
so paedophilia is not o.k.:
but transgender
gender re-assingment surgery is... ******* o.k.?!

i was actually going to write about
the genius of Harry Beck and the London tube map
and how it represents a cone to me...
how myopic it is:
because London per se: is so small...
you have the inner detail of the circle line...
and what's the distance on the Piccadily Line
between Holborn
Covent Garden and Leicester Sq
and what is the Essex loop like?
so the map begins big: even thought the distances are
small... then the distances get big
but the drawings of the distances becomes smaller and smaller
because there's no significance invoked...

i'm sorry Jew: the Mongol and the Turkmen
and the Russians will agree with me:
your practice of circumcision
i don't care how much you gesticulate with your
teff and yaff
and all the monstrosity of the genitals of
pederasts:
                          i will make sure i will defend my people
even though i have a fetish for German
and perhaps the people certainly the music
i don't care...
you made these crazy rich Ahabs and Arabs and
Canada this most civilian authority of
the measure of speech...
i just don't want to live among circumcised males
who have bad aim at a toilet seat
became they have been mained...
  
   pull out my toenails and then ask me
for a ballerinas' dance... how's that?
Jesus wasn't a Jew: at best he was an Assyrian
or at worst given the artrifacts of
archeology an Egyptian...
              why blame the Jews for asking for
a non-Jew to be killed?!

demons are summoned:
         Decalxuv...
                           but that's the genius of
the London Underground map...
the focus is on the centre:
all exterior arenas of station diminish...
  the Star of David emerges:
like otherwise:
            Δ                and             ∇
delta and nabla:
and their mother: sigma:  Σ
                    σ (δ serpent) ς (ą)
there were actually more vowels than English allowed...

if you could measure where Liverpool St starts
and where: some other station ends...
i'd love to measure the sq mile
then the outer regions of the network...

original sin:
i can't be blame(d) for ****
for the Egyptian Moses
and the Assyrian Jesus
and third time lucky:
stop circumcicing your males
and giving females all these
unfair allowances...