When you don't want to say it in words, let your actions do the talking. And we're talking about celebrities' relationships here. It seems that the words 'we are just good friends' is also passe. Nowadays, even a selfie with your lovely other half says it all. So, while the media can hound the actors everywhere they go for that one quote to admit to their relationship, the B-Town folks choose to do it in their own style. Most commonly, they walk hand-firmly-in-hand to events, parties and premieres — pretty much confirming their 'couple' status. Recently, Salman Khanmade a grand entry at Preity Zinta-Gene Goodenough's wedding party with Romanian model/actress Iulia Vantur and everyone went into a frenzy. They didn't walk in hand-in-hand, but well, that day doesn't seem too far away. Though at a recent event, when asked about his marriage plans, Salman siad, "It's between me and my fans." Iulia too shared on her phto-sharing profile that she's "in no hurry to wear her wedding dress." Here is taking a look at other celebrities who walked the red carpet together, and soon after walked down the aisle.

Despite the strong buzz about a relationship brewing between Bipasha Basu and Karan Singh Grover during the shoot of 'Alone', both actors kept mum about the reports. It was only when Karan was promoting his second film that he conceded that Bipasha 'is special and very dear' to him. Every time the media questioned them, the two actors consistently kept quiet about their relationship. At the same time, they never shied away from posting pictures of them, while going on their holidays.

Even when reports of their wedding plans made news, the couple at first denied them but soon confessed that April 29 was indeed the day on which they were tying the knot.

Yuvraj Singh and Hazel Keech

Indian cricketer Yuvraj Singh annouced at teammate Harbhajan Singh's wedding with Geeta Basra last October that Hazel Keech was the woman he'll spend the rest of his life with. A month later, when they went holidaying in Bali, he popped the question with a ring and she accepted. The two are said to be tying the knot later this year.

Kareena Kapoor Khan and Saif Ali Khan

While the public may not remember 'Tashan' best known for Kareena Kapoor Khan's size zero figure, she and Saif Ali Khan would never like to forget this film. It was during the Greece schedule of this film that the two fell in love. Though reports of their affair made news, they remained non-committal to the media. Until they walked the ramp together for her friend designer Manish Malhotra at a fashion event in 2007. That was the first time Saif told the media that they were a couple. Later, he even got her name inked on his left arm. The tied-the-knot on October 16, 2012.

Maanayata and Sanjay Dutt

Married twice before, Sanjay Dutt made known that Maanayata was the woman of his life when he walked in with her at an awards function in January 2007. A few days later, on January 11, 2007, he told a tabloid that he and Maanayata had a secret wedding at his house on November 19, 2006. However, after the news spread like wildfire, he went in denial mode. Their registered marriage in Goa on February 7 a year later became the subject of controversy, as they weren't residents of the state. A couple of days later, they solemnised their marriage vows as per Hindu rites.

Virat Kohli and Anushka Sharma

When the reports of Anushka Sharma and Indian cricketer Virat Kohli being a couple appeared, the two went in overdrive denying the news through their spokespersons. It was Virat who first revealed the relationship when he tweeted after watching her film, "Just watched #NH10 and I am blown away. What a brilliant film and specially an outstanding performance by my love @AnushkaSharma. SO PROUD:)" Even as they continued going steady, they didn't concede their relationship to the media until they walked in haathon-mein-haath at a fashion event July 2015.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane

YELLOW TAIL MOUSE TALE  
From the 9th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.  
 
This week, I had the best surprise present since Christmas Day, when I received my new grouse pet mouse named, Smooch. But the surprise didn't come from my parents, Archie or Flo, for it didn't even come from my little brother Lemmy's mouth. It wasn't from the mouths of my two much older identical twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, either.  
 
Believe it or not, it came from the mouth of my mouse, named Smoochy. Yes that's right, he does speak and he told me about his remarkable life story, since birth.  
 
It began when, I was feeding him some of my Mum's delicious afternoon treat. Do you remember the one that I named, 'a colourful fruit-blast'? Smoochy said, 'wow!, I love your Mum's food, it reminds me of my Mums magical dessert creations, she used to make for me, before I came to live with the you and your family'.  
 
I was gob smacked, when I heard Smoochy, actually having a conversation with me. I now knew 100%, that I wasn't dreaming or hallucinating, when I thought, Smoochy spoke to me. Just like the time on the seashore with the whale, and the fairy floss at the seaside resort named, Slipslopslap Bay. Also the time during the circus, while we were holidaying at the big top park circus, named Rolling River Retreat.  
 
Smoochy, told me about his parents, who's names are, Slippy and Sloppy. He also said, 'that his birth name is actually, Poppy, but he didn't mind being called,Smoochy. His name I had given him last Christmas. He said, 'it's grouse for a mouse to have a cool nickname, in the world of humans'.  
 
He also added, that in the animal world most creatures, don't even speak. Except for some mice, a parrot, and he was also led to believe, maybe even the odd Dolphin, swimming around the ocean.  
 
Smoochy, told me, 'how he and his parents Slippy and Sloppy, ended up at the local pet shop, in my local village named, Shimmerdimmerlee, when he was only about 2 years old'.  
Smoochy' said, 'that his parents, used to travel around the globe, with the very colourful and world famous circus troop name, 'Mr. Kazoontite's and his Marvellous, Magical, Mysterious and Musically Minded Misfits'.  
 
They both used to appear in an act, with the circus's ventriloquist, who's stage name was, 'Mumbling Murray the Mouth of the South'.They would pop their heads out of his top, left and right hand side pockets, of his jacket, and pretend to speak in English.They could also speak, a bit of his native language called, 'Ogbogolo'.  
 
When Mumbling Murray, opened his mouth and spoke, they would only be grinding their teeth together, to get the cheese out of the gaps of their teeth. But, the crowd thought it was funny, so they just kept doing it, for every act, over several years.  
 
Then one day, my Mum was having a baby, it was me. So, I was born in a big top circus and was looked after, ever so well by my parents and all of the other circus workers. Then one day, Mumbling Murray had to go back to his home country, to look after his sick sister.  
 
Mumbling Murray, had just finished the circus tour, near our village and decided he should take my parents and I to the local pet store. He thought, 'maybe they can be cared for, by a new loving family'.  
 
While living in the pet store, we noticed, with utter amazement, a very colourful parrot, talking in English. So Smoochy's Dad, answered him back, and the parrot almost fell off his perch. He spun around, about 3 times in a row. He then yelled back to my Dad, 'did you say that'? Yes, I did indeed, replied my dad, with a very proud smile on his face. Wow, said the parrot, 'I thought I was the only non human, who could speak'.  
 
Smoochy's Dad told the parrot, who's name was Polly, by the way, 'that he and his wife Sloppy, had learnt to speak English, from the ventriloquist acts performing with Mumbling Murray, the Mouth of the South, and the world famous circus troop named, 'Mr. Kazoontite's, Marvellous, Magical, Mysterious and Musically Minded Misfits'. They, in turn, taught their only son, Smoochy, mouse language. during the day and English at night, before he went to sleep.  
 
As for my Mum Sloppy and her magical dessert creations she used to make for the family. It was the best mixtures of sweet and colourful ingredients anyone could ever imagine. She used to go looking for snacks that were left on the floor under the seating area after the end of each nights circus performance. She would find things like salted popcorn with a touch of butter, a variety of different coloured chocolate, Neapolitan ice cream, orange Jaffa's and an assortment of lollies. It was so fun eating it all in a large dessert bowl after our main meal.  
 
Gee I miss those days and miss my mum and dad so much, Smoochy (Poppy) told me. So the next day I mentioned to my parents that I really need to go to the loc pet shop to get something really important for Smoochy. They said what do you need? Dad said I have built you a new pet mouse house for your grouse new pet mouse Smoochy and I even hand painted it with such colourful flair using my artistic nous.  
 
What else does Smoochy need, asked my mum. I said it is something that everyone needs in life and can never be replaced. So my parents said ok, tomorrow morning we will go down to the village pet shop and try and find what is so important for you and your grouse pet mouse Smoochy.  
 
Here we are Smoochy, at the pet shop that took you and your parents in a few years ago. Let's go and have a look for you mum and dad together. We saw slimy snakes, sticky spiders, floating frogs, flirting fish, droopy ducks and even timid turtles. Then all of a sudden we spotted several mouse houses.  
 
Smoochy was quietly saying, "Hello mum and dad are you here", even I was yelling out, Slippy, Sloppy, are you here. Then Smoochy spotted his parents in a mouse house which was stacked up on the top of a shelf full of books, towards the back of the pet shop.  
 
Hello son, how have you been and how did you and your new friend know we were living here? Smoochy told them that his new friend Stewy, knows that he can talk and I told him of my early years of life and what had happened to us all.  
 
I then yelled out to my parents, "I've found what Smoochy needs, we have found his real parents right here in Shimmerdimmerlee's village pet shop. Mum and dad said ok, you can have the two much older mice, so Smoochy has a mum and dad like everyone should have in their lives, even though they aren't his real parents.  
 
So back home we went and welcomed Smoochy's mum and dad, Slippy and Sloppy to their new grouse pet mouse house and even showed them dads unusually built and outrageously painted outback backyard shed.  
 
It was a hot afternoon, so we also slid down the "Terrific Triple Tumbling Tremendously Turning Travelling Tubes" to the village pond and introduced Buck the Duck to Smoochy's mum and dad.  
 
Smoochy and I have decided to keep his families secret to ourselves for now. It's ok that my mum and dad don't believe what I say on some occasions, because at least I know what the meaning of family means deep down inside, for myself but also for my friend and grouse pet Smoochy and his loving mum and dad.

It smells like summer on the island
Like laundry and leaves
Like late-afternoon lakewater
And pollen-filled breeze
I remember my summers on the island
The bunkbeds and bonfires
Beaches, bikinis
And dirt roads under dark tires
Birch trees and blackberries
Blue birds and sour cherries
Two hours on the ferry
Summer on the island
Lawn chairs and lemonade
Hammock-hanging, holidaying
Laying in the lazy shade
Hiking high into the bright blue sky
Deep inhale and satisfied sigh
We had been waiting for this
Our summer on the island
Cold tides and closed eyes
Penny candy and pecan pie
Crop-tops, flip-flops, tree-forts and drop-offs
Crayfish, crayons
And breakfast on the dock at dawn
This was summer on our island
Millions of mosquitoes, minnows and movies till midnight
Eating smores in the smoky firelight
Running through the trailer park in the rain after dark
Our summer on this island
Everything was my favourite part
I loved it all
The grass
The trees
The foamy waterfall
Sun, seagulls and sand dunes
Either services or sleeping in till noon
Sweet island summer, over too soon
Summer on the island
Was a lifetime ago
The island was my summer
But I’m letting go.

at the Turkish shop, the owner bellows: MATEUS! oh hi hi sir. ten quid and 3 pence in my wallet... packet of tobacco and three strong orange-tree beers to buy... £10.03 i give him, he gives me £1.50 back... small change, your everyday practice of arithmetic... someone money evolved to be a separate language, neither i, nor 1, or b of 8 can identify the trans-valuation of quality symbols attached to mathematical symbols directly (the price of a pineapple is £1.00) or indirectly: a poem is priceless... no one can master the three para-linguistic languages... even though they know each other: the mathematician will never become an economist or a rich man, likewise in reverse, the two stated examples will never create a mathematician... likewise with words: put a prince on Dante's divine comedy... but it'll just end up a subjectivity (quality) v. objectivity (quantity) debate - all we have is Judas talking about the monetary algorithm, the pentagram, 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, 50(p)... and all the digits missing.... later: 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, 50(£)... how could a mathematician survive in this sort of environment? this language makes the other two languages nonsensical, pointless, let's just sum it up: ridiculous. is this a forgotten Europe, or is it simply the Europe not conquered by Rome? then i guess it's true that we are licensed to be feral, and rightly so, as sowed, or given to us, by post-Colonial nations... meaning the Visegrad group: the new Austro-Hungary - will not experience terrorist attacks... because it wasn't two faced, one face showing another lacking... **** me... just be honest... what's the harm in that? oh right, your Egyptian suntan having lapsed into turning you into an Essex orange.*

bypassing history, and entering archaeology,
you'd find the Poles to be the ones
responsible for the Holocaust,
talk about German humour -
like you'd find similarities toward the  excesses of
St. Thomas' Gospel and how the *******
movement came about: a mob of Chinese
factory workers could care less about
western indecision about "keeping the faith":
first they tell you that all those demonic
and angelic fables are metaphors,
then they use the same sly counter negation
tactic of hiding things using metaphors
when a man decides to chop his **** off
to enter "the kingdom of heaven" -
what a saviour he ended up to be,
the Greeks look half smug half pauper,
and some hidden half Byzantine bewildered -
which is what archaeology provides,
and the historian Josephus kindly adds,
false prophet, mount of Olives' insurrection,
Egypt... the Nag Hammadi?
the Jews made two mistakes, both of them
surfaced, one concerning Isiah
and one concerning Jesus... the Jesus unravelling
took off, speedy, blind faithful:
**** heterosexual affairs, there's billions
of us (never mind the fact that 2 billion
are either Chinese or Indian, never mind that),
we can manage deviations:
we're scientifically equipped to elevate
prostitution toward surrogacy.
and so it was.
we've already established enough freedoms
for neither the polygamy of monotheism,
or the monogamy of monotheism can counter
the freedoms we've given out..
                   i'd like to see the polygamy
in its truest form: that arising from polytheism,
but i'd also like to see monogamy in polytheism,
or atheism.... the two are quiet similar:
either there are many gods, or there aren't any,
hence the coliseum and the jackals and the emperors...
or some power-ridden-prose of another
gifted maniac riddling the frustrations of
mothers in western society, saying: aha, ooh, eh?
but given the Poles are facing the mass product,
they're being countered by archaeology rather
than history, it looks like that,
an optical illusion... people travel to Poland
to see Auschwitz, they travel to Berlin to see the Wall...
clue of: who did it? the Poles!
if you took away all common sense of history,
and were left with the measure of times via archaeology,
it would certainly bespeak the correction:
the Poles invoked the Holocaust, the Germans
just built Mercedes-Benz - that's how it will look like
when the dust settles, and people turn to holidaying -
like they already have with the monetary funds
division, the twelve "disciples" arithmetic:
1p, 2p, 5p, 10p, 20p, 50p, £1, £2, £5, £10, £20, £50...
mathematics is a purity from this
impurity, hence the reason that mathematicians
are ****** arithmeticians - they've never been told
to govern the fluctuations of the worth of such
commas in encoding - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6... fair enough...
1p, 2p, 3p, 4p, 5p, 6p, 7£, 8£, 9£, 10£, 11£, 12£...
so said Judas: for the Arthur gimmick,
round the table they sat - and said:
                 count 6 of centimetres - and count
        6 for metres -                  then deviate from that
cutting process -                      as 6 on the micro siding,
   then 6 on the macro siding -
          the third sixth                 assurance is
the theoretical assumption                        that pure
mathematics provides, meaning no mathematician would
ever become an economist;
        or as some already said: 6 days of work,
                      followed by a Sabbath interlude.

The weathervane slept high above with a lolling head.
Clouds were holidaying excessively in Spain.
Sun was lost in a haze after chain smoking cooling towers.
A lethargic wind, moseying low with cat-like whiskers,
I hear it complain “I’m tired” in child-like whispers.

My hands are sweat-sore with callouses
And salty enough to summon the call of gulls in numbers;
I find shade, imagining myself as a cartoon Huck Finn.
When I put dry grass between cracked lips and think of dustbowls
In a zoetrope of sun-stroke, I vanish through my buttonholes.

This is now where one would rise, wake or come to.
Nothing I recognise, else the world is enveloped in storms.
I strain my sight, blink repeatedly to force myself awake,
The angels are listening, I hear wheezing, see fingers in my dreams
Gripping tightly to milk thistle stars, bursting at the seams.

Amongst the angels, whispering too! Did the stars imprison you?
Free-spirit like mother, but I slept our childhood through
Sustained by knowledge gleaned from canteen floors—
My eyes feel somehow sharp, heavy, like spears more than eyes;
I thought I saw the weathervane spinning madly, unraveling the skies!

Nobody talks about the weather.
There is a good chance of wrought nerves.
This is a time of stillness and dwelling on doorsteps,
In doorways where death sits among us, resting his eyes,
An end to the ration that was harmless reminiscence
As memories go up in the heat like celluloid;
Now the stars are a steely prison
Heaven’s lustre is lost, missing.
Through the angels I have seen that this is a time of living -
Through our dreams I have seen that this is a time of living -
Outside the confinement of the Holocene.




*—I have dreamt of drowning...often. I always seem to wake up out and breath and feel I can taste the salt in my mouth but fear does not play any part in these dreams.

i can't remember the last time i was satisfied with
only drinking one cider and 35cl of whiskey,
i honestly can't... then again i plucked two of my
favourite aphrodisiacs that night...
i beat up the whittle 'ichard before
(aphrodisiac no. 1 - exercise, exertion) cycled
to the brothel... then bought myself a bottle
of cider (aphrodisiac no. 2 - no other alcohol
works that sort of magic, no wine, no whiskey,
certainly not beer: cider...
and for that matter a very specific cider...
merry down cider, with a fox playing a violin
on the etiquette... the label... served in a 75cl
portion... 7.5%... medium dry...
so no...  not Thatcher's... or a Hertfordshire Weston's...
it has to be the Merry Down... probably
because of the portion) and did the victory
lap around the park and the brothel around
Goodmayes station...
obviously i bought 35cl of whiskey before walking
in... inside after we ******... hmm...
******* sets me off so quick... i don't know:
seeing a woman on her knees... from behind...
a bit like watching women in churches on
their knees before certain deeds are done...
i think i'm going to go back to a catholic church
one Sunday and draw out fetishes in my head...
kneeling before a cross... maybe Jesus the ******
would have loved to be nailed to some X cross
and then get ****** off by some Magdalene?
maybe he was into sadomasochism...
    who knows... but ******* sets me off on
an easy path of ******...
at least in the ******* it feels more
like exercise as i'm using the upper part of my body
to arch over a woman... from time to time
lowering myself to kiss her when she shows her tongue
licking her lips: i guess that implies: kiss me...
so i do... or lowering my body to brush noses
with her... press my forehead against hers
or just bite her chin...

is it just me or did the band Priest use certain accents
of Lana Del Rey's Summertime Sadness
in their song Phantom Pain? have a listen...
i think they did... never mind...
aphrodisiac no. 3: music... just listening to some
music you'd like to listen to when *******
fills the mind prior to the act with the act:
Trevor Something: into your heart...

work has transformed me, working with people,
dealing with drunk football fans...
i walked into the brothel: three beauties sitting there...
i never thought i had a thing for plump girls
or girls wearing glasses...
but this third one... the blonde... that lied
about being from Romania when in fact i know
from Michaela that she's Poland looked like:
a frightened doe... her eyes almost teary... her lips
moving as if trying to tell me something...
obviously i picked Michaela: she's going back
to Romania for a month to visit her family...
she worked so hard that she managed to have
a 12 room house with 3 bathrooms...
she's thinking about retiring in a year's time...
setting up a restaurant... i told her i make ****
good mint and chocolate chip ice-cream and i love
looking... who knows... i heard that Romania
is beautiful... and she's from Bucharest...
so... easy access to Ottoman heritage... and Dracula...
who knows... life is sometimes a house
of windows that are opportunities...
the same blonde that:

Khadija... Khadira... Khedra blocked me on WhatsApp
just before she ****** off back to Turkey
for a holiday... yeah... Khedra sent me
a photograph of herself with this girl...
now look at her... a frightened doe...
why did she block me? i don't care...
she was there last night... i asked for her...
but she was bringing back £60 for an extra half
an hour with a man she was already busy with...
we said hello: i kissed her cheek as a greeting...
me and my hardly jealous heart...
but Michaela can do i don't think even Khedra
could... after all... with Michaela it was
first time quick... second time longer...
third time quick... 4th time much longer...
first time? i blame it on the fact that she forgot
to pull back the *******... what sort of uncircumcised man
wants to **** without a circumcision imitation?
i know women prefer the aesthetic of a circumcised
man... but at the same time:
in the old ways... a man would be circumcised...
but the woman would have to pay some compensation...
just look at Islam and Judaism...
not the current American raw deal of circumcised
men... that's not how it works...
circumcise a man and his sometimes need to
pleasure himself makes no sense with no *******...

hardly a joke... it's called the acronym FGM (female
genital mutilation, but it's not called MGM male
genital mutilation?! oh right... all those eunuchs
in harems who were walking ******... because: hardly...
Solomon couldn't **** all his harem...
it would probably take him a whole year
to make the rounds and **** all his concubines)...
so unless he didn't have eunuchs to please his concubines
he had the concubines turn to lesbian acts...
even great kings of old didn't mind other men
******* their women... as long as they didn't impregnate
them...
i'm a modern man... i really don't care who she has
been ******* prior...

me? with Khedra... i know why she blocked me...
but it's only on WhatsApp... i still have her number...
i just have to use the conventional routes...
but she must have received advice from fellow prostitutes...
you're sending him pictures of yourself?
you said you'd gladly have a night with him
in a hotel room for free?! are you a ******* or his
girlfriend?!
mind you: Michaela asked me for extra money
for unprotected ***... Khedra simply gave it up without
any extra cost... to be honest... i don't mind either...
****** off: obviously...
****** on? honey... do you have two spare latex suits
we can wear? oh sure... and a tub of butter
we can both jump into and smear each other
and pretend we're snails... ha... ah ha... terrible joke...

but ever since starting work again: i feel more and more
alive... my confidence has shot through
the roof... two prostitutes sitting opposite me
don't really intimidate me...
one tries to be a smart-***... the other is gearing up
because she knows i'll choose her and the third
looks scared...
hmm... i know that Michaela would ask me to pay
extra to perform oral *** on her...
Khedra? she gave it up for free...
i love seeing a woman who shows her hot-shivers
or ******... not ******* are so ******* oratory
as might be portrayed... hot-shivers of ******...
and, to be honest? ****** vaginas are very...
not tasteless... i've had one once... they sort of stink...
there are not enough lubrication juices...
and i mean from multiple men...
it really doesn't bother me...

thank god none of them ever asked for me to perform
****... pop pornographic culture with all that
**** fixation is ill to me... i can understand
if two Russian soldiers on the front feel like
gagging each other's anuses... but with women?

that was Khedra... freebies... i would otherwise have
to pay for with Michaela...
but Khedra is a slim nymphomaniac...
Michaela is a business minded woman...
and being plump: that's an added asset...
Khedra has her eyes open throughout *******
while Michaela has her eyes closed...
hello: a welcome return to the Unbearable Lightness
of Being by Milan Kundera...
i have to see: everything... i gorge with my eyes...
i'm eating: but i'm not eating...

but i know why i only drank one Merry Down cider
and 35cl of whiskey last night, wrote 'Biggie"
and went to bed...
huh! i have a nickname? that's so endearing...
that's so much better than a girl calling you by your name...
English doesn't really have a diminutive
aspect of language: esp. nouns...
in ****** speech you can create diminutive "concepts"
of words: to make them more endearing...
Matthew, i.e. Mateusz can become Mateuszek...
duck, i.e. kaczka can become kaczuszka
dog, i.e. pies can become piesek
woman, i.e. kobieta can become kobietka...
what's the equivalent in English?
it's "diminutive": but it's not an endearing-diminutive...
it's belittling-diminutive, that's the distinction
between the two languages i own...
little women... you can't actually morph the word
woman to imply woman a "tiny", or, "small"
in an endearing way... only in a belittling way...
thank god i know two languages...
fluently: bilingually...
perhaps a third would be useful if i wished
to travel and start a business... most certainly a knowledge
of Spanish would open a world of opportunities...
obviously i'd settle for German... large enough
territory... but? as a personal psychology basis?
being monolingual would be claustrophobia for me...
or equivalent: therefore...

oh man... it would have been such a mistake if
i just settled for my high-school sweetheart, Promis...
when dating her i went to a friend's birthday
party and was presented with a chance to cheat...
she was much younger than me and eager:
i declined her even though she was already all
over me... it wouldn't have worked...
my father: i'm not my father... mentioned only
two women in his life...
one girl who tried to trick him into becoming
a surrogate father... i.e. not raising his own genes...
and... my mother... but i'm not my father:
i think my parents are freaks... seriously...
it's like monogamy and the swan song was all
about them...
my estranged uncle was a serial polygamist...
he tried a monogamy once: FAIL...
she ended up being a journalistic-wannabe
with an abortion as a notch on her belt...
i learned from my maternal grandfather too...
he was married at the age of 18? 19? but cheated
on my grandmother... he mentioned 3 women
in his life... me? i didn't lose count on purpose...
i lost count on the basis of: and how many different
selves of myself have i found along the way?
i can can't at least 5...

but unlike Khedra with her hot-shivers when i was
performing... eating-oysters on her ****...
there was Michaela who said last night:
look! you're making me dance! and she looked
the happiest girl... she was dancing... lying back...
it wasn't a dance: dance... it wasn't a samba...
she was dancing by wriggling happy on her back
after all that missionary ***...
plus?! i now have a nickname: i'm: Biggie...
and... fair enough: i have more beard envy than
***** envy... even though i've been approached
by guys at work with a similar envy... beards...
apparently i have a perfect beard...

i'm Biggie... now... a few years back i was
KAKASHKA for Ilona: little ****...
it could have worked with Ilona: if i wasn't a ******
and she wasn't a Russian...
Russian pride against Polacks was already
stated by Dostoyevsky demeaning us...
even though i'd be the first to celebrate Russian
isolationistic culture upkeep...

i don't think i could love one woman...
that would be selfish... after all... all the most beautiful
women are either prostitutes or...
actresses in the pornographic industry...
strange how beauty works: it works perfect in nature:
nature wants to showcase itself for the greatest
number of people...
that's a bit like beautiful women...
that's why beautiful women in Islam are an
antithesis of nature's parody...
i heard one Pakistani once tried to teach me
the "mystery" of Islam...
if you owned a jewellery shop... and you had this one
massive sapphire in your shop...
would you want to keep it in the front window
so that anyone could look at it...
huh? he continued: no... you'd keep it hidden
in the back...
                       rrrright... huh?!
he actually didn't mention: so people would ask about?
how could anyone know that you have
a massive ******* sapphire in the back
of your jewellery shop?
point being... why have a jewellery shop
if you're going to be so selfish about what's beautiful?!
you're a ******* jewel merchant or some stingy
****?!
then again: the allure surrounding women is the same
in the west as it is in Islam...
make-up and the NIQAB...
in the west make-up does what a NIQAB does in Islam...
it's the same-****: just a different cover...
i look at a woman in a NIQAB: i'm curious...
i watch a woman heavily overdone with make-up...
i can sometimes say:
there's less paint on a masterpiece than there is
chemical junk on her face to hide her imperfections
that: i might find appealing...
sure... with a NIQAB i can only see the eyes...
but with western standards: i see eyes... exfoliating
in feline fakery... and the rest of her is doubly faked-up...

thank god i'm man... i just need to wash myself
on a regular basis... trim my beard... shave my *****
region and my arm-pits... no chance of me shaving
the hair on my pirate chest and my stomach...
apparently Michaela likes flowing her fingers through
my body hair and teasing my *******...
tonight: i need more whiskey...
not because i'm miserable: i'm happy...
that's why i continue to drink and not get drunk:
i'll feel drunkness when i stop writing and relax...
until then my memory is working overload...
and this is only memory from yesterday...

maybe that's why i don't dream so much...
i don't dream because i'm not seeking escapism
some people seek via imagination...
since their memory faculty has either been eroded
by pedagogy... or? as Bukowski once noted:
some people never go mad: what horrible lives
they must least... a recurrent spontaneity of
"amnesia": or simply looking down on people?
not treating them fairly, lovingly?

life's not difficult: other people make life difficult,
their games of hierarchies...
life's not difficult... other people make life difficult...
and? i could never understand men
who associate cats with lonely modern women...
celebrating dogs...
oh **** me! cats are the best: esp. Maine *****...
then again... maybe i have a spezial cat...
why dogs and men why women and cats
why blue and men why pink and woman?!
who said?
   and who didn't say: cats of Ancient Egypt?
the Pharaohs probably owned cats...
what about Muhammad's favourite cat? Muezza?
who the **** said that cats are efaminating creatures?!
these Bonsai tigers are just as much fun
as dogs... if not more! why? you can have time off
from petting them: when they be themselves
and... no leashes! no muzzle! fickle sleeping and feeding
patterns...
but i agree... there's one negative of cats
that i remember was a great positive having petted
Bella... my Alsatian... well... two...

cat's can't pull a sleigh... with you on it as a toddler...
you can't ride a cat as toddler...
but you can a dog... like a Shetland pony...
you can't be a toddler and put your hand inside
the beast's gob and pull out an imaginary tongue...
and... this is my biggest envy of dog owners...
Sundays at my grandparent's house...
chicken broth... basically an entire poached chicken
in a soup of... choice of vegetable to create
a chicken and vegetable stock?
carrots... root parsley, fresh parsley... celeriac...
baby celery... leek... garlic... burned onions...
the usual seasoning... vermicelli pasta...
but that's the biggest difference between cats and dogs...
i don't know why cats stopped drinking milk...
classically they drank milk...
as a child i remember glowing with glee that i owned
an animal that would eat the leftovers of the food i just
finished... dog are special in that way...
some of the soup wasn't finished...
Bella the Alsatian was whimpering after the leftovers...
she got a bowl... a bountiful bowl...
she loved her chicken broth...
   with the vermicelli... with the vegetables...
and added to the mix? the chicken bones...
my grandfather always bemoaned the fact that me
and my father ate our chicken to the point of biting
off the cartilage off the bones... i went further...
i bit off the heads to get to the juicy-dry marrow...

a different season for a different animal:
i loved dogs for the simple pleasure that they would
eat what you couldn't finish for dinner...
but i love cats for the fact that they behave like
ferns... sorry... houseplants...
you can ignore them from time to time...
they only come up to you when they feel like approaching
you...
the rest of the time you can just ignore them...
but when they love you: it's unlike a dog
waiting for you to equip yourself with a leash...
when they love you: or rather: you're ******* more interesting
than any human prior... they rarely scout for more room...
you've already enlarged their perspective on existence...

perhaps i could be your neurotypical man by
any standards: in the Old Testament style
of breaking away from my father and mother
and chose a wife: i tried it with Promis...
i hated the experience... i have to abandon my mother
and father... in order... to marry you... woman...
and... abandon my mother and father...
in order... to give a **** more about: YOUR... mother
and father?! seriously?! that's a raw ******* deal...
i haven't been raised by my mother from the age
of 6 through to 8...
and by my father from the age of 4 through to 8...
collapse of the Soviet Union:
if it wasn't the brain drain (that came later)
it was a labour shortage in the early 90s...
i don't think i'm clingy... sure... if my parents raised
me throughout those LEGO-years...
i'd be out of the house already: or? no... the cost
of living... what? at least i have intellectual comparisons
with me...
times are changing... i was lucky to be out of
the cosmopolitan game of dating ever since i went
mad aged 21... my whole 20s are a fog...
i woke up mid-30s sort of happy to be simply
alive... i'm happy for that "conundrum"...
i missed so much that was required of me to miss...
i can go to the brothel with a clean conscience
of being able to satisfy prostitutes...

at least we know something personal about Muhammad
that's more than however many wives he had...
a man of his times of his region...
i can't be a judge of that...
but at least he had his favourite cat: and we know
his name: Mu'izza...
like i had a favourite cat of mine:
Darshan... who my Sikh neighbour killed
by poising him because: she offered to take care of...
but couldn't be bothered to clean up his ****
or give him food... easier to **** the poor creature:
make him suffer kidney failure...
i was visiting my grandparents
while my mother and father were holidaying
in the Maldives... two days before they were
supposed to come back... i woke up with a stinking
fear... i phoned them up, i need to go back home!
i'm worried about Darshan...
a silver beast of a Maine ****...
dead... "kidney failure"... i was so stricken
with morbid emotions... after he was cremated
i found a Croquet buggy...
took all the pieces off... strapped a belt
to the handle... walked into a World War I
memorial graveyard...
had a hammer and a chisel with me...
started carving off a piece of grave...
put it on the buggy... dragged it home...
picked up the ashes... started digging a shallow
grave in the garden... buried the poor sod...
then placed the hacked off gravestone above him...
i'm still not speaking to my neighbours...
they're scammers anyway...
that's how Sikhs and other Asians get to flaut
their money on rich weddings and Rolls Royce
limousines... sure sure... i hear you...
they own corner shops and get rich by selling 1p
gummy bear gelatin sweets by the million!
like, ****!
oddly enough... i'm sometimes perched on my windowsill
throughout the night till 4am...
4 break-ins... "break-ins"... and some during mid-day...
******* insurance scammers! SCAMMERS!
i saw jack-****!
no one broke in into their home...
that's how Asians get rich: that's how anyone rich
gets rich... they're not playing by the rules...
thank god i'm willing to make sacrifices...
i don't want to get rich: i don't want scammers
or gold-diggers in my life: i want to build up a natural
filter when it comes to resources!

if there won't be enough women in my life:
i can always test my "fertility" with cognitive ambivalence...
i can always think about more things than most
people are not willing to think about...

after all: Muhammad had a favorite cat... Mu'izza...
since Darshan passed away at the hands of a sadistic
*****... i now have Quarus...
i'm not going to be easily relieved of him:
easily divorced from him...
he has more nicknames than the times i actually utter
his name...
what was the name of the donkey that
brought Jesus to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday?!
no one knows because he had no name...
i'd call him Quizy... Quizy... no... don... key...
REGALO TECLA... or? DON TECLA...
but Jesus didn't give a name to the donkey...
psychopathic, if you ask me:
animals you ride, or pet, to be: nameless...

just maybe: there might be some sympathy for me:
it almost feels like i was there...
when Mel Gibson released that movie of
his: the Passion of the Christ... i cried when i first
heard Aramaic being spoken on screen...
i think i cried throughout the entire movie...
i was so moved that... some other guy in the audience
started crying with me...
maybe it was the music all along...
i'm a sucker for a decent music...

but i just couldn't stomach the raw deal of wedding
a woman: a man is to abandon his own mother
and father... esp. one who wasn't raised by his
mother from the age of 6 through to 8
or by his father through the ages of 4 to 8...
who spent his early developmental years
in a house filled with 20 other immigrant
labour-drain men... for about a two years...
the fact that my father was abandoned by his own
parents: through divorce... i was raieed
by a ***** of a grandmother and an alcoholic
grandfather: i loved them...
but she was such a ***** to the point
oh him pushing her through a glass door
and breaking her hand...
i blocked all of that out... maybe by way of blocking
out several personal memories i have been
given access to access certain historical details...
i question them: unflinchingly...
why didn't Jesus' donkey have a name?
while Muhammad had a favourite cat with a name
like Mu'izzi: i know it's Mu'izza... i prefer Mu'izzi...

my Quarus? a clever cat... i bemoan the fact that
he won't eat my scraps... from dinner...
that's the only great aspect of what Bella the Alsatian
and Axl (the Dobberman) used to be capable of...
they'd eat what man leftover...
i'd call cats vegetarians if i could...

i know that the definite article in Hebrew is HA...
i.e. ha-satan: the-Stanley... the Stanislav...
i forgot to remember what the indefinite article
is in Hebrew... oh... right... there isn't one...
to define someone: definitely is to suppose:
laughing at it in English...

the whiskey flows slow and cold...
my heart it growing slower and colder...
i like it, that way...
Biggie... oh **** me... then again: Michaela does stand
about 5ft2 beside of me... while i'm towering
6ft2 above her... no wonder she picked a nickname:
Biggie for me...
the smaller she is: the plumper she is...
the more endearing she becomes...
you just want to cuddle her...
the more tender her forehead feels and tastes like...
she mentioned: i haven't washed my hair...
i tell her while sniffing it:
it doesn't matter... i washed myself prior to seeing
you... you think i'm going to wash myself
after seeing you? i want your scent to fill my bedroom
with your ****** perfume...
i want to dream of orchids! i want to dream
of lavender! i want to dream...
of a desert and your being the oasis in it!

i love women... but some women are too proud...
too stuck up...
they miss out on a lot of fun *** can be...
can't we just have fun without taking to
the serious business of paying gas bills?!
are we simply things before the altar of the eternals?
can't we spontaneously break the rules
for the eternals to be envious of us?
have we, seriously become so shallow:
so boring, that the gods abandoned us due to the fact
that we became imitating immortal:
their own boringness, manifest, that we stopped
being mortals?!

if i a were an immortal deity, and had to overlook
the modern man? i'd die too!
i'd die from boredom!
i'd die from predictability...
i'd die from looking at mortal men and thinking:
we're the luck?! where's the gamble?!
where's the unpredictability?!
where on earth is the stupidity on earth,
that might make these men take enough chances
to later allow them status of sage?!
everything is being to closely manifested in keeping
a "slave" stock of workers...
no one wants to dare... and if they do want to dare:
it's all for the wrong reasons:
no for reasons akin to: i! i am Spartacus!

people say awful things about slavery...
i wonder... what slave was ever homeless?
what slave was ever left without food, without shelter?!
well **** me: if you're not a self-developed
business man... chances are: sure... you're not a slave...
just someone who earn a wage...
but someone who earns a wage is not someone
who's someone's responsibility
to demand the person bestowing said responsibility
to keep the slave: alive, fed, sheltered...
by simply earning a wage does not imply
my status is better than that of a slave...
is it? IS, IT?!
i just earn a wage... i have to provide food and shelter
for myself... as a slave: and not a wage-earner:
i had to have food and shelter provided for me:
for my services...
i didn't care about money because i was already
given what money would otherwise provide:
or rather, in the ancient realm: wouldn't...
since shelter was inherited by the manor
and food too... from owning farmyards...

i don't think slavery was bad... wage-employment
is far worse... esp. those zero-hour contracts...
no one can tell me that's beneficial to anyone...
zero-hour contracts is worse than slavery...
at least as a slave you had intrinsic value...
obviously disposable...
but as a wager... SLAVE CONTRA WAGER...
you have no instrinsic value:
you only have extrinsic value:
you're doubly disposable...

           like the concern for INFLATION:
the end-product is inflated...
but the manufacturing mechanism isn't...
then there's the deflation aspect of
football clubs increasing the payouts of their
football players... but not decreasing
the price of their tickets to attend a match
or their merchandise: t-shirts etc.!
fair enough: pay the players more...
but at least have the decency to cut down the ticket
prices to see a football match...
or the price of the merchandise...
but no... these clubs either keep it at the same price
or inflate the ticket prices...
but if the players are earning more?
why should the people pay more?!
surely they should be paying less!

SLAVERY wasn't a bad thing... not in my eyes...
i think slavery was a good thing...
you had protection... a SLAVE had more protection
against the peril of a "free" society than a WAGER
will ever have...

what are the chances of me retiring at my grandfather
did? getting a proper state pension,
passing it down my wife after my life,
allowing her last 10 years of life to be lived
in a luxury that only old age might hinder?
ZILCH!
of the people that applied for job i'm currently at....
i seem to be the only "slave": i.e. employee...
the rest are self-employees...
i do my job well because i don't have to:
invoice my presence... i get invoices by someone
else...i trust my "handlers"...
i look at dogs, i look at cats...

who was Proximo to Maximus in the fillm
Gladiator? a mere slave-owner?
really? Maximus was merely a WAGER?
Proximo didn't care about Maximus was more than
a WAGER and more a, commodity?
i'd love to feel like a commodity again...
i'd hate to be treated as a WAGER: as an EARNER...
i think slaves, "slaves" had more monetary rights
than people of our current age...
owning slaves came with responsibilities...
a bit like owning pets these days...
you had to be rich enough...
for one...
you had to clothe them... you had to feed them...
you had to put a roof above their heads...
to be considered a nobleman:
you had to treat them fairly...
these days? none of these rules need to apply...

the system of slavery worked on a decentralised
"bias"...
not on this, current, centralised bias of
the universal WAGE concept....
you're worse than a SLAVE... you're a WAGER...
communism tried to figure this out...
it never came close...
well, it did, for a short period of time...
the sort of period of time where:
drinking whiskey tasted like drinking regurgitated
garlic *****!

it's not working now...
not everyone can be some moon-blessed
entrepreneur... some people are truly allowed
the joy of being allocated the status of PAWN...
rather than BISHOP...
there are people that are like that...

if it was working NOW: it would be working WOW...
people exist for others to be looked up to!
you can't scribble some Darwinistic mantra
and expect people to stick to it!
it's either Darwinism or Christianity...
you can't have both!
there's one alternative... but you're not going
to like Islam...
i don't like Islam... i don't like circumcision...
that's why i'm expecting a 2nd schism
in this grand religion... spear-headed
by the Turks with a bunch of uncircumcised men...

i want whiskey to drip from my beard
while i drink it... and rub it into my chin...
and recall the number of tattoos i ought to have
from rekindling my mind to the past....

no one knows the name of the donkey that took
Jesus to Jerusalem as the fifth: "horseman" of
the Apocalypse toward that fateful Palm Sunday...
but... Muhammad's favourite cat's name is known...
the birth of the Korean script is known via
King Sejong... no one can rob me of this historical presence:
nothing is mythological too...
just easily forgotten...

me? i'm just clearing the path... for something...
more... expedient... more... clarifying...
let's share cats.

Adoringly applauding
Arrogant acrobatic aristocratic,
Bourgeois bad-boys.
Braving boredom and bills,
Caught controlling criminal
Circles like a circus.
Daring to do, and to deceive
Desperate damsels in distress,
Each accepting enemies.
Everyone explaining elements
From the final fights
Frought with frustration.

Getting groovy- grown old
Garnering glittering gold.
Holidaying in Getafé,
Holding onto hands of harlots,
Implying impotence and insolence,
Ignorant in their ilk.
Jovially joking,
Jesting about juvenile jealousies;
"I kissed Katie Kurtis"
Knowingly comments one kid.

Left to love and lose,
Like Caesar and his laurels,
Making music and malice,
Manifesting manic malpractices.
Natalie narrates,
"Not now, not ever".
Obvious obstacles avoided,
Objectifying objects that are obsolete.
Praying, pondering over pros,
False prophets photographed as they pose.

Qualifying quangos,
Quantitative quelling of queries,
Raising riots and runctions,
Realising regal and royal remedies,
Celebrating summer solstice,
Solitude is bliss.
Try tampering telephones
To transcribe threat of treason,
Unreal unilateral promises
Unwound by underlying urchins.
Vowing to voice very real values,
Vox pop video views.
Wearing water coloured wellingtons,
Wondering over wax cuneiform works.

Xylophone playing exemplary,
Xavier exists in the imaginary.
Yearly yearning for you,
You're yoked as Gonne with Yeats
(unequally)
Zeroing in on Ritz and Rubble,
Rubble the Zealots want to reign.

you know,
you can imitate walking like a crow,
hunchbacked with a probing
index of a hand's pentagon
akin to the yellow pages being
itemised - walking like a crow
in the middle of night -
primarily because we started dicing a song
into rhythm deviating from rhyme:
it got boring after a while...
until it's an export, it ain't an import -
so ridicule the seance of hillbillies
in Soouthend for caricature of holidaying;
you can walk like a crow
in the night, hunchbacked, glistening variety of
into the void by black sabbath as accomplice -
crouched the solemn bird agile on foot -
crow walk hunchbacked:
why is the raven like a writing desk?
it's a hunchback on foot or with pen in hand
readied to scribble footprints onto
the slouched backbone of forgotten flight;
hunchback crow walk in the night,
a reverse of a Victorian street lamp lighter -
shadow eater, shadow fathoming form.

Captured in the psych ward part 20


You see Robert stone has been driving the whole HDU crazy with his noise, he is cursing little jingles like
Let me out now let me our now
Let me out ya fucken *****
I wanna ***** my wife and kids
You see the screws have got me hey have got me they have got me all wrong you see I am going to pretend to behave so I can do that again and
While that was going on, Ron was at home reading up all the juicy details about Robert Stone on the Internet and what he found out was not good
You see the information that Robert gave him besides his name was false
You apparently Robert Stone was a prison escapee from goulburn gaol
And he was in there for 20 years serving a 26 year sentence for killing his two sons right in the head to make his wife suffer for having an affair and for Ron? This looks very interesting he said and then Ron picked up the phone and rang goulburn gaol and then said as the prison governor answers the phone and Ron said, do you have a prison escapee by the name of Robert stone who is in there for murdeting his boys, my name is Ron cooper the psychologist of the royal Melbourne and I think I have your prisoner in our HDU, and the governor said, well yeah we did have that patient but we thought he had died, so we called off the search, and Ron said, well I am sure this is The Robert stone you are looking for
Mainly because he was threatening the kids in the children's ward and then he said he was Robert stone. I know sometimes the mentally I'll pretend to be people their not but
It's weird that that he does look like this guy, would you like to come and ID the man? Cause I have got a 16 year old here and the others might have problems with him, cause we can't keep him in solitary forever and the governor said, I will send an officer right away to bring him back, but it does sound like our man cause
He wasn't mentally ill and Ron told him he had schotzpgrenia but the officer said it is a load of crap, he is just saying that so he can be let off the hook but by law, before we get there you give him a mental health assessment but I am sure he will be
Passed as negative and then they said goodbye and Ron went for his usual at fran and dan's cafe and said, you know that man that went to the HDU yesterday well he could be a very dangerous psychopath who served a 26 year sentence at goulburn gaol and dan said well well well, aren't you the busy bee, and fran said to Ron you notice that Barry isn't here. Appsrentky he went over to New York apparently Barry Allan was a stock broker in New York
And was holidaying here in Melbourne and he gave you this card thanking you for being a terrific friend to him while he was here and Ron had his breakfast and then went to the hospital and as soon as he arrived there the nurses said you got a call from the Goilburn gaol.  Saying
They are sending a police car for Robert stone and Ron said thanks, yeah, apparently he is a prison escapee from there and no matter how much help I can give him, it still is hard to fight the law and then Ron
Went into the HDU and said to Bill, just get your things and I will be there in a minute and then went in and bought Robert his breakfast and he opened the door and Robert asked Ron Are you trying to help today, I have written down some things that I want to do and how I can rebuild my life, and Ron gave Robert his breakfast and said, no mate keep that for your probation officer in goulburn gaol, I know about you now, and it ain't pretty nice it ain't pretty at all Robert stone
Child killer and this made Robert stone yell out ****, I thought you see my way. No I don't see the way of someone who kills kids to make women suffer mate, sorry, and then Ron locked his door and then took Bill to TAFE and then went fran and dans to have a milkshake and vanilla ice and he said today I told Robert stone that he had been found out
By us and the police car is on the way and then a man named Patrick Enright is sitting in the back slurping his drink saying this drink is wonderful and then Ron said I think that so many dangerous criminals are falling through the cracks and people like is are ssving them and then we know only what fhey tell us and Patrick said, no, really we should not worry about that, in General speaking people should be given a fair go, the prison system in Australia is stupid and everyone in there is wanting to escape, yeah you saved the street from him but for how long and what about all those mentally ill people they have at the HDU, where are they going to go and dan says Ron is the doctor there
And Patrick said of sorry, and Ron said I am going and went back to the TAFE to pick up bill and take him back to the HDU and then 1 hour after they got back the police have Arrived to take Robert away back goulburn gaol and Ron brought around the nightly medications and then clocked off and then bought fish and and chips and a two litre bottle of coke and as he went into his apartment he saw Patrick and he said what are you doing here, and Patrick said I am the new maintenance guy here and I am better than bob from Becker and then Ron went inside and fell asleep in front  of the television for the next day


Sent from my iPhone

I am away
with me...
holidaying--
tightly-scripted
mid a defunct
play.
Incurred props
grow Daniel
Johnston-esque
wings.

every day -
hustling and bustling
eating and sleeping
ever week -
Monday to Friday
nine to five
every year -
working and holidaying
waiting and longing
to be free.

The robbers who kidnapped Brian Allan


Brian Allan went around the town thinking no one wanted to do harm to him till, once when he was walking around the car yards and there was a few oddballs hanging around, and Brian Allan was being a brat, who tested the patience of these robbers, when basically all the robbers wanted to do is do the job, but Brian Allan got in their way, trying to ask for directions, and eventually, the rough bearded one put his hand around Brian Allan's mouth and brought him close to the car and got the rope from his boot and tied Brian Allan up and through him in the boot, yes the robbers went about to pull off this job, but Brian Allan didn't know that these robbers were thinking of demanding a ransom as a replacement for Brian, Brian was saying through his gag, don't get me, I ain't like these family people, I want to be with you, and of course the robbers didn't hear that.
The car drove off down the road after the robbers did the job and as they were leaving a kid who was Brian's age which was 15 was taking his time crossing the road, and the robbers got out of the car, and they put their hands across hs mouth and said who are you, and are you a friend of Brian Allan and he said I am Peter Buchanan and yes I do know him, and straight away the robbers thought, it would be cool to keep Peter and Brian ******* in the boot untill they finish the jobs they have to do, and Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan were trying to scream but the gags were on their mouths too tightly, and both boys thought they were going to die, both were thinking that they are too young to die and despite them not being heard, one robber said that you 2 boys are helping us rob places, you see they won't shoot us knowing we have teenage boys in the boot, so we will be long gone before you 2 will escape, and I don't want you 2 to be vonerable, because you 2 aren't, you see both Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan are like us, man, yes you 2 aren't like the rest, so while all the other kids, much with all the happy families, you 2 will be trapped in your rooms, and yes, I will have someone watch both of you, do don't try any funny stuff, teenagers.
The last job was pulled and despite the robbers promising to let Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan go, they just didn't trust then so he tied them to a pole and then said, if anyone comes to rescue you, and ask you anything, just say, nothing, and that man over there, he is part of our gang, and of you kids try anything like reporting or charging us, we will have both you teenagers killed in 4 weeks from the day you do it.
Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan were rescued and they kept their word, but they told that the attackers moved so quickly, and they put a bag over our faces when they grabbed us, and Brian Allan said, that he was feeling to dizzy to notice who did this, and both of them were sent back to their houses, and the poiice never bothered them while their kidnappers ended up going on a trip around the world and now that Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan were 40, the robbers were holidaying over in England, where they needed more money and wanted to abduct prince Harry, but he was too much protected, and it might not have been as easy as pulling one over on Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan, and now that they are old, no one would believe them anyway, and this case went unsliced and Brian Allan and Peter Buchanan were the only adults who didn't get robbed, all because they kept the robbers secret, but they still feel like they've been kidnapped by demons, and the robbers are teasing them over and over again, for that.

As cold as another age, wracked with solitude,
A slow start to another beginning,
Unreliable cloud coats the sky
And the sea repetitiously roars in,
Cuffing cliffs,
Pounding rocks
With calamitous roars
Playing endless riffs across the sand.

We walked together down the beach
Troubled by the surf
Chewing on cigarette stubs, sullied by the wind
New ghosts in the half-light
Bearing years like backpacks.

Grown old in the gathering twilight
We chattered together, our footsteps picking
Wounds.  Barbed words
Like greetings, cheerfulness like an accusation.
******* a shared and interesting memory,
We cuddled together in the scouring wind
Enjoying each other’s casual warmth.

It was a time for reflection,
When love is a scab on evolving friendship,
Heartlessness the price of redemption.
The contrived book of your beauty,
The gilded ceramic of expertly rendered features
The undulating film of your gestures, coded and decoded
Through time.

Beauty is finite, crumbling to fleshless reminiscence
Fixed to canvas and celluloid
With tireless labour. In the end, signifying another thing-
Of little interest.
An artist’s casual thought, a director’s cut.
They barely remember your name,
Your laughter and wildness gone, missed by the
Senile artist’s transitory brush,
Clotted with hundred-year-old varnish.

A small house by the sea
Surrounded by flowerbeds sparkling with summer colour
Self-absorbed children, with whom we exchanged affection
And parted from, holidaying in Bangkok
With lovers of all sorts.
As the sea rolled towards us
And evening gave way to night.

I traveled almost everywhere, growing up. It took years. The landscapes, flora and fauna, the art, music, cuisines and curse words all seem to blend together in my mind.

Mount Fuji, the Rhine, the Himalayas, the Chattahoochee, Shenzhen, Washington DC, the Alps, and Appalachians, Moscow, Beijing, Dublin, Portland, Paris, Atlanta, London, St. Petersburg, Tokyo, Rome, Wuhan, Berlin, the Yangtze, the Mississippi, Saint-Tropez and LA - are all jumbled up in my brain, like old, wrinkled maps in a glove compartment.

My mom has total recall - she can remember every day of her life since her mama handed her a faded yellow and blue rattle when she was 6 months old - God gave me the glove compartment.

Still, some things are unforgettable, like an electrical storm breaking around Mt Everest, the lights of New York City, at night, from a helicopter, glittering on the horizon like a queen’s crown. The Danube, from a riverboat under a too-bright moon and the elegant poverty of Italy.

In some ways, I grew up like an exile because we moved every couple of years and I’d have to start my social life all over again - usually in a different language. Every place we left seemed a lost paradise, and each new place seemed cold and harsh.

Speaking of home to harsh transitions, November recess is over and we’re back in New Haven - with two weeks before final exams. Welcome to exhaustion week (weeks).

This morning I started going through my syllabuses, and after a week of holidaying - they seemed like indecipherable relics from a different world, a world of papers, tests and stingy-fun. I’ve so many things to wrap-up, my brain can’t seem to contain them all, I’m a gadget that’s out of memory.

I used to take my books on vacation, to remain in the ‘game’ mentally and stay ahead of the grind. Not this time. Hey, growing up, I’ve had my moments of ‘developmentally appropriate’ rebellion - in this case - I wanted memories to hoard, like inoculations against the coming work and loneliness cycles.

the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distilkery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
dancing...
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
excavation...
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzie,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
                     ryj...
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
snogs...
          a dog kisses oral...
self-oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
script...
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
mid-April...
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's grinning cat
album...
     albeit the missing Scorpio
constellation, bound to the British Isles:

                  ●
              
                           ●
      
                                    ●

                  
                    ●
                 ●



●                                  
                      ­             ●

no algorithm no search engine
no dictionary... will equal
asking a grandmother for botanical nouns...
namely, the blooming forthynsia tree,
****** yellow almost neon
against pale kiwi green of April spring wake...

and the electric pale green,
or woken from slumber
blooming baby leaves of
a wierzba...
    a willow...
     electric in that,  almost
quicksilver drooling over
platinum in th spring night
              with a missing moon...

casually, a talk with woman,
and the technical nouns
of botanical expedience...
no algorithm to boot...

always the anticipated digression,
from the most mundane posit of
unraveling pidgin...
I compensate for my father not
speaking pristine english...
but certainly doing a chore
of industrial roofing,
than most, spaghetti finger
pancake arm coming of age bistro
*******...
        the more they aspire to sing,
the more we can hope
to be cured by karaoke on
a Saturday night...
  
    and always the anglophone perspective
of... bellybutton, Greenwich
syndrome... said the English,
so must say th rest of the world...

his shortcomings are my...
what he might as well have said...
tak your toys,
and take a warm dump in their sandpit...
then move into the next sandpit,
and **** in it...

personally I don't unerstand
the attack on grammar...
this antithesis of etymology,
this quasi slang... or rather slang
in a straitjacket...
of... well, at least the orthodox
communists had an economic model...
it was going to fail
because it was going to fail...
        but how lonely...
it must be... being unable to compete
with an external counter,
and merely, implode...
          must be lonely in the current
economic asylum...
imploding all the time,
having to compete with 600 years
after golgotha, and rí'bāh...
      
   5 ****** minutes picking out
a ***** for a Saturday night solo...
went for the shaft of wheat,
akin to a lodged locust corpse
in an absinthe bottle bought
in Amsterdam...

               apparently, there is a difference,
but most notably...
only when, drinking alone...
   the talk of sober people
bores me, how they can hide their
apathy behind so much gesticulation
and **** fakery...
    silent as a grave...
drunk people talking
is..
    perhaps outside the party mentality...
and th sudden spurring of
amnesia, a moral hangover,
a loose tongue comes across
darting eyes...

                   hardly a conneisour of
beer, or *****...
      more, on the lines of...
a conneisour of the knockout
falling asleep method...
      and... not allowing myself
be impregnated with dreams...
strange thus... how people
allow unknown forces to impregnate
them with dreams...
               **** them with dreams...
I deem a sleep impregnated
with dreams to be far from rest...
either sleep and the night
of today, with a morning of later on
today... or nothing...

                    perhaps the safety of the sleep
environment,
of the naturalally produced
hallucinogens that are called dreams...
surely the brain must secrete
a hallucinogen when in th state
of sleep...
              as far as I am concerned,
there is no need to interpret dreams...
coincidentally, this implies...
the counter to the stigma surrounding
lucid intoxication...
     because aren't dreams,
the byproduct, of the brain secreting
hallucinogenic compounds,
      when in a hypo-conscious
state of sleep?
   medically induced coma...
naturally invoked
psychedelic carousel...
             which might explain why...
people wanted to tap into this
chemistry dynamic via the 1960s...
of waking into a dream...
        but there must be some sort of
chemical, secreted by the brain
during sleep...
        that allows for the conjured phantasma...
symbiotic to the state of safety...
the brain, not attached to
spacio-temporal coordination...

   and some would argue that all drinkers
at noon, are dancing sloppy tango
with their shadows.

As cold as another age, wracked with solitude,
A slow start to another beginning,
Unreliable cloud coats the sky
And the sea repetitiously roars in,
Cuffing cliffs,
Pounding rocks
With calamitous roars
Playing endless riffs across the sand.

We walked together down the beach
Troubled by the surf
Chewing on cigarette stubs, sullied by the wind
New ghosts in the half-light
Bearing years like backpacks.

Grown old in the gathering twilight
We chattered together, our footsteps picking
Wounds.  Barbed words
Like greetings, cheerfulness like an accusation.
******* a shared and interesting memory,
We cuddled together in the scouring wind
Enjoying each other’s casual warmth.

It was a time for reflection,
When love is a scab on evolving friendship,
Heartlessness the price of redemption.
The contrived book of your beauty,
The gilded ceramic of expertly rendered features
The undulating film of your gestures, coded and decoded
Through time.

Beauty is finite, crumbling to fleshless reminiscence
Fixed to canvas and celluloid
With tireless labour. In the end, signifying another thing-
Of little interest.
An artist’s casual thought, a director’s cut.
They barely remember your name,
Your laughter and wildness gone, missed by the
Senile artist’s transitory brush,
Clotted with hundred-year-old varnish.

A small house by the sea
Surrounded by flowerbeds sparkling with summer colour
Self-absorbed children, with whom we exchanged affection
And parted from, holidaying in Bangkok
With lovers of all sorts.
As the sea rolled towards us
And evening gave way to night.

There are films, and then there are films that are directed by Luca Guadagnino, set in Italy, starring Tilda Swinton, and featuring wardrobe by Raf Simons during his time at Dior. Released earlier this year, A Bigger Splashmarked Swinton, Guadagnino, and Simons' second film collaboration (the first was I Am Love) — and it made everyone want to go on holiday looking fabulous.

Basically: Swinton plays Marianne Lane, a world-famous rock star holidaying in the sleepy Italian town of Pantelleria. (Right? We know.) Though her character is recovering from throat surgery, which renders her speechless for the entire two hours of film, leave it to Swinton to remain as captivating as ever. Oh, and she's joined by a rather sweaty Matthias Schoenaerts, a wickedly pompous Ralph Fiennes, and a brooding, *******-clad Dakota Johnson.

If you're unfamiliar with Guadagnino's style, it's filled with long, lingering shots of nature, close-ups of food, silences (and lots of them), sumptuous sceneries, grandiose architecture, and breathtaking styling.

Simons worked with Guadagnino's friend, costume designer Giulia Piersanti, on the wardrobe. She told i-D about the inspiration for Marianne's clothes:

We specifically wanted Marianne Lane, Tilda's character, to be a bit more elegant than her surroundings. It was important for her to have a wardrobe that was a bit over-the-top. In the end it was also important in the acting and portrayal of the character for her to be nonchalant about it and very effortless. She's a star, and she doesn't hide it. Even when she goes out into the piazza, she's a bit overly dressed, like an old movie star would be. She needed to keep that glamour in her wardrobe.

Despite the striking simplicity of Marianne's style (billowing jumpsuits, shirt-dresses, and thong sandals), it's the details that make this film one of the finest examples we've seen of dressing well in the heat. For your viewing pleasure (but still — watch the film), we've selected the most memorable fashion moments. Warning: You will want to do away with all your hot pants, crop your hair, and buy some silver shades, pronto.See more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane

As I might have told you
My dad died and came back
To life as Betty
And I live in Canberra
And this weeks betty’s dad
Took Betty and his other two
To Canberra for a visit
Yesterday Betty and her family
Went to cockington green and the dinosaur museum and the national museum
And today Betty went to the national gallery
You see bettys dad David who is into
The arts wanted to show Betty what her previous life Barry Allan was like
Barry was my dad
And he liked arts but more on art history
And he was into other aspects of art
Like music and performing arts
And he liked when I went to
Art shows in the community
And dad wanted David to take them
To Canberra so dad can give his son
Some enjoyment with Betty being in his city
I wonder where David will take his family to tomorrow and the other days
Of their vacation
You see I miss dad
Because some of the things I did with dad
I don’t get now
But I will be doing a show on Christmas and nye on Facebook
I will do a Santa dash on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day where I as Santa
Will show Santa leaving for his present dash and when he gets home
It will be fun
And on nye I will do a poem reading to see out the tragic 2020 year and hope 2021 will be good
I will do it after the big bash or at 10-30 whatever comes first
And it will be on my Facebook page
My Facebook name is Brian Allan
My dad who now is Betty inspired me as well as a lot of other singers like Travis Collins and Elise Courtney etc
Watch me, you will be entertained
And my dad is watching over us while his new family is holidaying in Canberra

they've got no flavour
they've got no soul
they got no oumf-
they whimper on in a magicless fashion
like it's all been laid before
again and again, word after word
made of magic, every one of them they say
i don't buy much of anything they say
they can throw words like water cascading down rocks in waterfalls
and play on me until i'm red and raw,
but i don't see the magic in it
like a crawling on the skin
they all reek of arrogance with their 'finesse'
and they're dancing, like tongues around the dinner table
slapping away at happy faces, ******* without touching
crying without tears, asking without caring

i'm used to it by now, as sad as it seems
the proverbial ******* that we get everyday
although no actual ******* has been had
lawyers and school teachers alike
they all get theirs,
they slowly push in their throbbing manhood
with their, "how have you been?"
which of course - is just a form of foreplay
after that is when the real ******* begins
"me and Jerry have been holidaying in Peru"
which each word getting closer and closer to the ******
and when it's over and done they discard you
like some cheap emotional ******,

i avoid them now, in bars and cars
and shops and homes, at parties and at all places
whenever i see a good ******* i know what it is
i smile and watch.

even i'm surprised at my palette...
i shouldn't be enjoying this...
this being a Bohemian absinthe liquor...
some strange pellets at the bottom
of the bottle... coming in at 60% proof
(read, past participle, i.e. "red":
not, reed, to)
my guess was... coriander seeds...
but no...
        it tastes like absinthe does:
few things put me off... easting or drinking-wise...
szechuan pepper: certainly turns me off...
the spice with the added tongue numbing...
evil food ingredient in the wrong hands...
but... aniseed? **** me... even i'm bewildered...
why do i appreciate this flavour?
well... it's absinthe...
it's a long way away from herr whiskers
and ms. amber of the whiskey...
or sweeter, finer than silk:
the greatest thing to come out of
the u.s. of A... bourbon...
this Bohemian absinthe "liquor" has all
the aniseed: Annie... not ANY: seed...
but an added twist...
the bitterness of an IPA: indian pale ale...
bitterness... that's another dimension
i appreciate...
mr. Joshua was defeated by a Crimean
Cossack... a balance of racial-baiting
has been achieved...
long distant cousin... actually:
no cousin at all...
   one's a Slav the "other" (me) a Slav...
lost the supposed attached E...
Germs & Germans in Berlin...
in London... once upon a time...
i much prefer etymology to Darwinism...
i like the history of words...
"like"... faux pas...
        ooh! ooh!
touchy-feely...
           my ooh to your: ouch...
lick some ice...
        it's an implosion of the burning
sensation...
humanitarian aid for
lobsters... it's apparently humane
to freeze them... first...
rather than boil them: outright...
and such are the concerns of English politicians
these days...
if i were asked... relatively speaking:
freezing something: alive...
is... more time spent on the same sort
of agony jested with boiling them
outright...
the usual Hapsburg absinthe: 90+% proof
tended to be sweeter...
i even allowed myself the whole
ritual of soaking up a cube of sugar
with the "stuff" and setting it alight...
i'd roam in havoc while displaying this
burning sugar-cube to
inanimate things in the kitchen:
catching a 2nd tier better shift at
proofing myself for bones & tendons:
and... ****** expressions that
i could turn into cold lamb poker...
etymology rather Darwinism...
Darwinism is big in the Anglophone sphere
of the world...
it's like... Copernicus in Poland...
a... an... ahem: a "national treasure":
a bit like Judie Dench...
but outside? history killer theory...
like: living in stasis: living with static...
from the ape to the current man:
the same old boorish ******* excuse:
but it's the 21st century...
                                                    and?!
everything was to be solved in...
the, 21st century?
everything was to become apparent...
clearer... rainbow lights flickers: "better"?
the excuse of all excuses:
but it's the 21st century...
it's a century not distinguished from
all the others that have passed...
well... there are some additions i wasn't
expected... electric bicycles...
moi... i like the idea of generating my own
momentum... it's not enough
to just press a foot on the peddle
of a oil drinking dachshund / horse...
i'm Pontius Pilate when i'm on a bicycle...
i've washed my feet clean on the matter
of having a carbon footprint...
count one of my awkward farts
as loosening up constipation:
not one with the cow brigade...
holidaying?
Havering County Park...
trees... forests & ****...
deer... foxes... horses...
the one time i visited Kenya i lounged...
and fed greedy macaques bags of sugar
and tea... and we lounged on the balcony
while security guards on site aimed
at them with slingshots...
- hardly think that the piano (only)
rendition of Wagner's:
Valhalla: the gods' entrance into...
is somehow anaemic...
then again... if Chopin or Debussy
or Satie were to be orchestrated...
just this once piece...
it's not anaemic... it's profound:
as ever a piano is... crashing down
in metaphors... it's not Ysaÿe
with his violin... you'd need a Westminster Bridge
for that, mate...
and a stray cat to keep you company...
you can reduce a Wagnerian
symphony to a mere: ahem...
ridicule on the piano...
but you can hardly make a Chopin out
of a Schopenhauer (shopping hour,
joke... like there's no joke: ha ha,
to begin with)
- my my... what happened
to these native folk... who told black comedy
jokes... it's like... they have been
stripped bare-back backwards....
and can't tell a saucy... acid proof joke
these days!
ah: i guess the imagination also dies...
a certain death: not the sort of death
associated with memory:
that fickle creature to begin with...
i guess it comes with the grounds to
make one's effort in...
the dodo undermining project of
the most schematised of men...
i guess i'm trying to posit a +1 scenario...
in a way that... Bukowski was chased for not
gearing up to the suicide squad while
Edward Hopper spent his days...
******* joyfully in Mexico...
- one of my pet peeves is...
how the English shorten names...
Edith becomes Edie...
Abigail becomes... Abs...
Matisyahu... Matthew becomes... door...
Matt...
Peter becomes Pete...
Thomas becomes Tom...
Jacob... well i like this one...
Jakub in ****** becomes Kuba...
you could even write this in katakana...
i abhor how the English shorten: "pet"
the most crucial nouns associated with a person...
i like the fullest of the full of the noun...
like... an apple is... not an app...
start off with yeast: end up with the Zeppelin:
ist...
for ****'s sake!
i'm chasing Zeppelins in my mind...
all the psychopaths are already leash-free...
i'm the schizoid... "problematic": üns...

your language is all tatters... tartan...
churns & chores...
if i were a closest neighbour:
geographically or / and historically...
a Spaniard... a German...
a Fwench-man...
ha ha... English being so unanimous in the lingua
franca domain could be obliterate
on the focus of nuance...

you can: rather: you could have had all the pride
that comes with the implosion of Empire...
but...
no luck... no here: not right now...
how the cards folded how...
so little of England actually remains at its
epicentre... das kapital...
frivolous women who... can... will...
cats have it all...
i like these bonsai specimens...
a dog is a creature most associated with men:
i don't like leashes...
cats allow me the leisure of:
no walking the **** out...
no leash... why would i want a substitute for...
ahem... "company"?

Edith should not be Edie...
write me that one... phonetically...
E-D... ****'s sake Edith!
Abigail becoming: Abs... is it... "cute"?!
i like the name: Abigail...
why a shortening "comparison"
with a six pack of Fosters?!
not matched up to a 6 footer of prospect
dating material of a man in the torso region?
- i abhor this sentiment in English...
shortening names...
one wouldn't shorten the noun:
trousers... trou?
pet names me not like...
apes are for us!
       Darwinism didn't simply bother a vanity
of man, according to Freud...
while Marx based his ideology on...
Hegel's lecture notes.. it's not like
he read the phenomenology of spirit...
                          Darwinism for me kills the concept...
nay! more the concern for history!
Darwinism doesn't **** off a human vanity:
what does Darwinism present:
everything has a purpose..
nature abhors vacuums..
physics, satellites... Newtonian projectiles
might like them so much...
in nature everything has a purpose...
there is no "room"... cube worth of "thought"...
how romance biased to suppose:
Devonshire had anything original to
posit... Darwinism in a nut-shell:
nature abhors vacuums
all is used to use...

what's allowed in the Anglo-sphere Empire
implosion: dicta...
curry curry curry...
we're all supposed to taste the food of
a superiority complex... prior to what happened
when Genghis Khan reached...
Crimea?!
squint eye:: BAL-WA-RUK...

i have here... a list of ingredients of the absinthe
i'm drinking


my foremost mistake was...
associating females within the confines
of deities..
i sketched them...
one: young... peering into a mirror
seeing herself old...
some others... i didn't have a **** of envy
for i sketched them...
too bad..

like the mythological drive for the will
of the Nazis...
sourcing their fakery in Scandinavia...
me?! Aryan... Samaritans...
pleb as whole...people most grieved...
start to chant in katakana...
in a makeshift of...

no... purely...  consonants...
the vowels extend the breath...
the consonants give base...
CHANT CHANT CHANT...
  
the list of ingredients of "that" Bohemian absinthe...
i'm aiming for the coriander pellets...
no chance: ****'s sake:
i'm not reading Czech... no ******
with a second name like
Conrad....
   how about Lothar....ever... would?
yew...

              awry: you: this... yew... yes?! no?!
whichever... right about... now!

THE WISEST OF LINES - HARMONY SQUARED.

( for Brian Ings )

D-503
kisses I-330.

The kiss is
perfect as an integer.

They are holidaying in
"the capital of the 19th Century"

"Paree
Ahm mais...qui!"

"My...My..My!"
We say...seeing them.

"Nous Autres......n'est-ce pas."

"We never thought we'd live
to see the day!"

1-330 says.

D-503 dog ears Orwell's
1984.

Takes her on his knee.
It's like living a poem.

She kisses D-503
on the tip of his nose

which makes him go
cross-eyed.

She mimics him.
Both burst out laughing.

"Now, it's..."
getting back to the discussion

before the kiss
popped up.

I-330
somehow escaping

The Bell Jar.

"It's like Plath put it
so succinctly...distinctly.

"Poetry is a tyrannical
discipline..."

She too a Sylvia...
throwing off her numbered name.

"Don't you agree
Yevgeny?"

"Mmmmm...!" he mmmmms.

"You've got to go
so far, so fast

in such
a small space."

"True...he says "True!"

"...you got to burn away
all the peripherals!"

And so we leave
Sylvia and Yevgeny

to themselves.

My friend missed his plane
Whilst holidaying in Rome
Stuck in a beautiful sun drenched city
But he just wanted to get home
Back to his job as a barman
Instead of walking the historic streets
Longing for the drone of an engine
And a kid kicking his seat
Maybe it’s because he wasn’t Italian
The language was too fast to understand
Or had he just got bored of pasta
Eat some pizza it fits in your hand
He gets another flight
And sits near the departure gate
I suppose one thing he’s learned though
Is he’s a fool who’s always late

now i just look at words:

          i sometimes want:
to describe what the tongue doesn't
need to prompt or cue -

mostly thanks for e. e. cummings...

it's so necessary to find this
metaphysical tongue
in my brain -
how it's a mundane thought:
nothing at all worth
morally questioning -

loitering in a status quo...
or -
        beginning a sentence
with a conjunction:
rather focusing on conjunctions
bilingually...

an hour prior i would really
focus on etymology and
nouns in bilingualism -

something prophetic had to
be excavated from argentina...
it's not like i don't like new
music... it's that there's so much
of it: listening alone
to it is unlike sharing it...

         notably IAH - III...

to: this
tamto: that
tam: there
           w - in
o - about
            even if english allows
i - ja
              or a - the indefinite article...
z - with...
          
what am i with my born
with tongue that...
unlike those who arrived
on these shores as *****...
in the loving embrace...
that they were born
in england...

              some made-up
propensity to teach
others from a native foundation:
because... the bilingual
is somehow less?

spew me canon fire of words...
mesmerize me!
no: clear vantage point for
exploitation...

a long winding crescendo...
a labour under the gravity of using
wings...
a completed dialectical question...
which never allows
a rhetorical answer...
as plato noted:
a mere yes or no...
for the inquirer is asking
a question to further his rhetorical
pursuit of inquiry...

classics... i should read up on
some Aeschylus...
i can't imagine south america
as an extension of spain...
i guess the conquistadors
really did **** with
the aztec and the mayan women...
i find south america as
unique...
devoid of spain's influence...
language alone is not enough...
spanish was never going
to be an undermined language...
it was never to be subverted
by either german or russian...

but this english litany:
how the new continent is still
having to mind inheritance...
how the inheritance "tax" is so...
suffocating and strait-jacket esque...
i can clearly see
argentina for argentina...
is hardly a whole lot to do with
spain being dragged into europe...
into the funnel...

    celt and prior
romans and prior...
  oh no... this is not a history lesson...
then the germans
then the slavs
then the huns the mongols the turks
the... turkmen etc.
this little crevice of land...
this sort of in between
of continental pride:
a place to build a ship and...
******* to new a greater pasture...
to adventure...
to a small island in the pacific...

i never have to think of brazil
as an extension
of portugal...
   even though their language is
so: base... same...
or mingle with argentina a spain...
but in the anglophonic realm...
tightly-knit community
of: 'just across the pond'...
pond: d'uh... the atlantic...

       you can't call it an english
or a spanish diaspora -
                  hardly...
                 i try to think back
and relate to my fellow language
proficiency exemplars...
what chains bind me:
that i am prior to self-first selfish...
my own owning my ownership...
before i am cannibalised
by a national identity...

            it must seem rather strange
to explore these avenues in this tongue...
cry! schizoid! tremors!
blah blah...
                 that i do find immovable
"pawns" in england...
people who will not... dare thread
crossing barriers with exception
to holidaying on some greek island
or... spain... of all places...
they are so intrinsically adamant
in not splitting their mind
with kneading the dough-for-a-tongue
of a second language...
well... i call them immovable "pawns"
rather than n.p.cs...
        
perhaps i would write in my native
zunge - perhaps i'd tease at some germanic:
alt vater albion to boot...
or scribble some cyrillic -
but then: who has that sort of keyboard
and this narrative is begging
for a fluency of time shortened...

         english has no diacritical marks
that i know... which allows speeding
up the process...
if i were to fiddle and playdough with
diacritical markers:
which venture in their idiosyncratic meaning:
stand-alone...
i would...
the english must have thought
they were the afghans of the ancient
world... that they would somehow
inherit latin without...

a german esses und zeds...
    or a french cedilla...
                        or an iberian ninyo...
                             ~ on top of an n...
they had to determine themselves as...
the failure of previous empires
was... their landlocked ergonomic of
spreading...
lend us the greek concept
of free-city-states!
let us use the seas!
the sun will never set!
insomnia barons and pauper maddened
toy kings...

it's  not like the intricacies
of two towing tonnes os tongue is
in anyway unbearble:

w tym - in this
  
but i find it's unnecessary to merely
focus on the disparagement of nouns...
i find red a bogus...
immediately constructed
into plural / masculine / the feminine...
it's never red alone...

czerń is black...
it's almost a verb when being presented
with red...
na czerwono: on red...
czerwony - red (masculine)
czerwona - red (feminine)...
czerwone  - red (feminine plural)
czerwoni - red (masculine plural)...

chechen renegades of post thunk -
the armenians reading into
an ottoman less lightly...

   look here: my prosthetic limb

red is an impasse in my native tongue...
it's like this anglophone
focus on "gender neutral" pronouns...
i can't seem to find...
a red is red...

or what's: back into english...
i read (once upon a time)
coupled with: i read (currently doing)...
there's... red and there's a reed...

what czerń allows is:
czarna, czarny... czarni, czarne...

czerwienić się: to blush...
but the colour red doesn't stand alone
to stress itself without
a "dismabigutation"
when loan grammatical tools
come to the fore...
and implore the "loss od detail"...

for this only one man
has to know two tongues...
and for that i am metaphorically schizoid...
sK-oid... voiding further
the sofa-esque mentality of people:
how i admire those people
with a knowledge of only one tongue...
or two or polyglot with
not dare reminder of
intricacies:
how they arrived at language
proficiency where everything is
either leftover or works just fine:
it's all reflexive and nothing... is ever auld
or odd...

ah... but...
czerwień is an adjective - an allusion to red...
from the burdens of a synonym cloud -
what was once: a bold
introspection... has become an alluded to...
a loan... a gimmick
a burgundy is a hue of red...
a deviation... how it teases
purple...
                 it's a quality... "esque"...
this native tongue of mine...
well... it can't escape gendering certain
words...

white is gender inclusive...
          all the colours are!
                  one has to find onself
a gangrene riddled dog barking up
the wrong tree...
when the anglophone debate over
gender neutral pronouns comes
to the fore:
this here the tornado:
i here, the butterfly...

           biały... biała...
"concern" for things...
well... you wouldn't say: biały rzecz (white thing)
you'd say biała rzecz

i imagine the birth of the concept of:
NOTHING to imply...
i have exhausted a desire for
etymology, for nouns...
for calling things concretely like
some geologists or chemist...
i'm here, socrates... borrowed for
glue and chewing gum and
the leftovers of conversation...

i.e. "thing" is the precursor generic
noun... nothing = nonoun...
something new... pronoun aside...
nothing for me implores:
gesticulating at nonoun -
Kant almost saw this coming
with his noumenon...

to talk without having to implore oneself
the details of seeing a feline marker...
because: that's what we already
do! a cat is a cat is not necessarily
a maine ****... or a siamese!
a dog is a dog isn't necessaarily
a cocker spaniel of a german shepherd!

a tree is a tree isn't necessarily an oak
or an acorn!
this cognitive construct could
only have been invented by the faculty
of memory: how best to filter,
throw a cipher into a bowl of
borrowing deciphers...
memory this formerly grand
cameo cinema that had to become
a fickle ontology... destined for a per se...

yet how i strain myself to
keep it on a leash...
after the acid bath of pedagogy and...
drilling into me the arithmetic of 2 + 2 = 4...
how i "wake"...
that i spell these words with
such adamancy...
is because i want to: i desire for them
to be strictly bound...
i could sooner slash my wrists than
allow myself to turn all sloppy...
lazily prone to heave: third party
slobbering leftovers of ****-towing-curd...

i will not lend my eyes to spell out
either greek or "proto" greek via cyrillic:
it's enough to know the CZ and CH
and this loitering demiurge
phoneticism: riddle a people with
enough mammon worship:
and sooner or later the pennies just
drag: extensive as to how
copper write was invented:
two feeble scots arguing over a penny...

for the nuance of a solitary reader...
had i the fortitude of a single tongue:
a well arrived at presentation
of a universal man...
i didn't have this blockages of
bilingualism:
it's not that i "somehow" find myself
obstructed:
there's this intilled:
reflexive: pronoun compound:
as there's this reflective: my self...

the ancient 'uns speak of a selb
to masquerade an imitation throw...
i dangle my arm and
pretend there's a stone in it..
i have to gladly arrive
at this sorrow for an ongoing praise
of pursuit per se:
i can't imagine chasing ****
was ever much fun to begin with...

but when it mattered and it must have
mattered...
i weaved a loneliness to the prusuit
of staging aloofness:
which married itself to... some german...
and lately had to revised:

jetzt: now...
           hier: here...
this teutonic beer hall:
tam-da-ra-day...
       sing-along...
                          
               limbo wording when finding
awkward "squares":
the geocentric model and the loath
of patriarchy...
the heliocentric model and
the ****** crisp queen
of gynocentrism...

  today i tried to figure out
how a siamese twin could ever
overcome a sstatus symbol
of herr cain... serial killer....
i couldn't: but the image struck me as...
somewhat... belitteling and...
"sincere"...
           how impossible it was...
to ever find... a siamese killer...
beside the serial stressor...

chances are:
if i were not "culturally appropriating"
this english...
if i had questionable insight
into an antithesis of all is well:
western cosmopolitan...
french of service! please amore!

if this wasn't a shadow
of ol' *****: risky...
                risque?
  esque...
               russian: pax varshava...
              such that the sun never itches
to sleep....
aeschylus is to be mourned...
wait 2000+ years from now...
this will translate
into a paragraph of... less conjunctions
and more... punctuation markers...
i hope the diacritical marks still
retain their stature...

i speak two languages
yet it's a burden for 6 o 7...
i only speak two languages...
yet it's a "burden" that would gladly make
an affair of a dozen "creases"...
have... astounding pressure
being met with:
economical proficiency being...
exacted: as therefore stressed...

for the worth of a night arrived at...
i have to spare you...
endearing prospect of a reader..
my limit...
petting cats i fathomed inately...
for the better half of my exposed
self: churned into ***...
i was an amateaur at...

here's to me ******* a headless chicken:
trans-spaecian misinformed "..."
additionally curses never
to revise a 1950s h'american
nostalgia pillow credo...

  sleep tight sleep tired...
my most bothersome lacklustre additive
of spike and crescendo lobough'
tammy... and a led zeppelin's play
on hay-maker... with a jive of:
jai... tell me the difference...
between jai and jay...
i'm dying to know!
i'm so pristine raw and ignoble
to have to... concern myself
with these overshoots of...
why i didn't happenstance
a life... and the end result was always
to be... a riddle of walking...
employing
a pretend walking stick...
a ball and a hole...

i was blindly 'ere... scouting
for rabbits and deer
and grouse... i was 'ere limping for
a wolf to wrestle with:
i was 'ere for the gnashing of teeth!
i was never 'ere for a leisure...
a praying for comfort,
for happiness...
   i need this uncertainity pulpit:
zenith.. this long reserved crease...
like it might be: tied into a butterfly
or a "bow".

A miniaturized Panzer unit has just
terrorized my lawn
The Parrot has escaped
and the cat ominously reappears
I have introduced two holidaying friends together
I need a better day
"Off with the old, on with the new"
Should I actualize with a change
so I can tend my Mulberry Bush
I wink decidedly

Vacate    the  vacation
   of  inner   sense.



Outer  sense  let
  it  to  permit  
for  holidaying
in  sky.




Vacate  the
egos  and  eagerness   of
peace.

just discovered a really funny girl,
            itsdivya -
                 and in all honesty...
instagram poetry was looming,
  somewhere, in the back of the mind,
but unlike a haiku
by some Chinese ****-'ed...
   or that Li Bai "dross" (there is ever
a problem of drinking alone?
    i thought you could only really
drink when alone? drinking with others,
i tried it, but after the initial
jovial backwards and forwards,
laughter... "micro-agressions"...
                   that deep seeded sense
of regret at having started drinking
to begin with... drinking alone...
                is there really any other way
to drink?
     but beside that...
        a poem about "coloured women" / people...
and, mind you: this is only after
a cider having chopped 8 onions
    and having not found the crocodile tears...
and perhaps two ms. ambers nibbling
ginger...
               (mind you, drunks always
have affectionate nicknames for their...
ahem... what would a ****** addict
call ******? H... smack...
      leech... i don't know...
  i once tested positive for *****
    in a ****-test when i was
being monitored for relapse into
smoking dope, skunk, marijuana...
but that's prior to me having
eaten somepoppy-seed cake,
                 makowiec, so, go figure)...
yadda-yadda-yadda...
      "people of colour"...
what the **** am i then?
           bedsheets?
            porcelain?
     a ***- geisha with full make-up?!
   a ******* african albino sacrifice
    of tanzania?
     you should see me after a few ms. ambers...
well... there's either a piglet hue on me...
or when i start laughing,
    eh... pale crimson...
          and that's not red as in a: "red indian"...
certainly not as blue as a Hindu indian...
and when i get a chance to **** up
some vitamin D in summer...
     i look like someone from Bangkok,
a copper dragon emerges...
                  bū'bū'*******...
                  ­              i'm done...
                         i come from very stubborn people...
i'm not going to capitulate...
                   because, yeah:
                  even ol' whitey overe 'ere had
the "easy ride" throughout history...
             you can bash a native englishman...
sure... m'ah colonial past...
                       colonial past?
                             in the ukraine?
                              under the prussians,
the russians or the austro-hungarians?
                         then under the nazis,
   then under the russians again?
            that, "colonial past"?
                just because i speak this language...
doesn't mean i have to listen
    to what the englishman has to endure.
                
so now, i guess: the draft...

the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distillery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
dancing...
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
excavation...
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzia,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
                     ryj...
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
snogs...
          a dog kisses oral...
self-oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
script...
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
mid-April...
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's album
grinning cat -
                       which, if coupled
with London's outer-suburbia can
be a real motivational piece
of music to pretend to be lost
and have the persistent "ambition"
to keep on walk...
      until finally walking into
a forest, or climbing over a park
fence to drink a beer on a bench
admiring the skyline,
              on, say, mashiter's hill.

THE WISEST OF LINES - HARMONY SQUARED.

( for Brian Ings )

D-503
kisses I-330.

The kiss is
perfect as an integer.

They are holidaying in
"the capital of the 19th Century"

"Paree
Ahm mais...qui!"

"My...My..My!"
We say...seeing them.

"Nous Autres......n'est-ce pas."

"We never thought we'd live
to see the day!"

1-330 says.

D-503 dog ears Orwell's
1984.

Takes her on his knee.
It's like living a poem.

She kisses D-503
on the tip of his nose

which makes him go
cross-eyed.

She mimics him.
Both burst out laughing.

"Now, it's..."
getting back to the discussion

before the kiss
popped up.

I-330
somehow escaping

The Bell Jar.

"It's like Plath put it
so succinctly...distinctly.

"Poetry is a tyrannical
discipline..."

She too a Sylvia...
throwing off her numbered name.

"Don't you agree
Yevgeny?"

"Mmmmm...!" he mmmmms.

"You've got to go
so far, so fast

in such
a small space."

"True...he says "True!"

"...you got to burn away
all the peripherals!"

And so we leave
Sylvia and Yevgeny

to themselves.

When I work outside I look up
Making it hard to do the work
I want it to stop
Because working is making a difference
And that is what I like to do
I believe in reincarnation
But it isn’t my job
I have powers to bring people to their next lives
But I want to have an earth job
Where I can improve my mental wellbeing
I want to pick up glasses in a club
But with the clubs shut at the moment
I can’t do that yet
I want to clean in a hotel
I have experience but with nobody
Holidaying at the moment
It will be hard
And I don’t want to catch the coronavirus
I would like to do cleaning in a office
Like get picked up early
And clean the office
Before the workers arrive
But I don’t know if there is much work
Like that at the moment
I would like to learn how to work with horses, ya know get confident with animals but I worry about hurting myself hard
I can’t work in a hospital
Cause of my past
I would like to write for theatre or television
But it might be hard to do that kind of work
But I want to make a voice for the community
I would like to do paid work so I will have money for things
I would like to work at big football matches selling food
But I did that and I am sick of that
But overall I want this virus to be over
So I can have face to face meetings
With my advocate because
The phone interview isn’t working