The words she scribbled
were not about her
but still
they concealed a part of her soul
because
they were her horcrux !!
For all her life
she waited for someone
who'd read all
of her writings
to find her pieces
and put them together
to make her whole
but no one ever tried
so she lived
entrapped in her
horcruxes
as a prisoner of immortality !!

Rest in peace to all the brave gryffindors
The courageous ones with hearts that soar
Rest in peace to all the smart ravenclaws
You left this generation in intelligent awe
Rest in peace to all the clever slytherin
without you, many of us wouldn't grin
Rest in peace to all the kind hufflepuff
I know our journey was tough

Avada kedavra to the other sort
Crucio on voldermort
imperious on the non deluxe
Destroy all of the horcrux

Shortlived were the cohorts
That tried to defeat hogwarts

we thank you

When you know you've lived
the exact present you're living now before,
doesn't it make sense to think of it as though...
there is another part of you in another universe,
going through the same thing?

I believe in the multiverse theory,
for I cannot prove that we are not alone.
I believe there is a reason why
I feel the skies talk to me every night.

I believe someone's message is reaching me
through the beams of the moon every night.
My skin seeps it in
like a flower knows to bloom.

Ever think of a time difference
between one universe and the other?
What if we are born here on Earth and after we die,
our soul travels to another universe
and relives the same story?

What if...
we are a horcrux of our own soul
which is split up and placed
in different universes?

Within the fires are the spirits
The gong upon our anvil
As such arms can only be made in Heaven.

Of various persons each known to his part
Distinct are the Poet and the Dreamer
And so I was Gods ape,
Piety so chaste
I hold it half a sin
Entering the cold broken world
Thus Adam lamented to himself aloud.

"No coward soul is mine
What will come at last too soon
For honour bit-wize travels
Unwinking on this fair ship 'Life'".

But there was resistance involved
The swift blazing flag of regiment
As bare as a birds tail
To make a clean breast
The iron entered my soul.

I pray you
The earthly bribble-brabble
A veil for the glory of Angels
Lest evil tidings to utter
To turn and face them
And see ones self
Not to be lost but by the makers hand.




ELEETE J MUIR

Your belongings (be)long to/for the materialist of Earth.
Your memories belong in the cradle of the hands of time.
Your talents belong in the rucksack of circumstance.
Your friends and family are shadows on the pavement
of the path you travelled.
Your lover belongs in the warmth of your heart.
Your bones belong with the typhoon of dust.
Your soul belongs in God's horcrux.
Your moments.
That's all that's ever yours.
Moments.

I visited that site today,
where all our memories are laid
I don't know why but I miss it somehow
I guess I just can't forget
I guess you never taught me how
Sometimes I wish we never met
But all is well now, I suppose
All is good for me and you
We have adapted to all our losses
I hope you have beautiful days, too
I am okay, if you really care
That was how you left me
Those were your last words
You said your soul is torn
You said I was a horcrux of yours
You told me you hated that you still think of me,
You still cry for your forever
You keep all my letters,
all the stuffed toys and little things
It smells like me
You remember my touch,
and all of it still lingers
It reminds you of innocence
and all the bad days
It reminds you of me,
your longest fling.
You used to remember my lips when you kissed hers
I pitied her at some point
She didn't deserve a love like that
But who am I to care about you two
You didn't even care when you inflicted pain on me
I guess our doors are closed
You say we are in good terms like we had a negotiation
It was nice until it lasted
Lately I found out that
God made another one of you
to love me better than you ever will

All is well now, I suppose
All too well, I guarantee.

My mother was a patch of smudged ink on
his arm, skin yet to close after being lasered

by the dermatologist. What were you thinking?
she had said to him before, and he answered

I love you, and as she touched herself
prodding her comical mouth with a finger

her shadows tenderly seeping into his pores
making her more vivid. Each time I’d see

my father pointing a knife at her, at her
smile wanting to tear it off. And I was his

death eater, quick to sew my mother shut
and burn her before she causes too much

damage. Then father would touch my
face as if he’s now seeing clearly through

the tears that clog his serpent eyes. How
in this chamber of secrets we dance

in a ballroom tiled with his pain. And I
was wearing ice slippers, his frozen tears

leaving a wet trail that clouds this rib vault
where our steps are quiet, where father I am

Yours,

your horcrux.

of the two places this world has to offer... i find a totality in only two enclosures... the forest... Bower Wood... or the Havering County Park... and any cemetery... it has to be a contest between, either trees... or graves...

i usually weep when i find something insufferably
beautiful... that it's usually music
is no surprise...
               i could argue with the Darwinism that
surrounds the argument that men are
visual creatures, primarily... to be honest?
i'm more prone to trust my ears with regards to...
what ought to be wept over...
i.e. if Ancient Greece is known for their cohort
of child-men... philosophers of this period were:
the epitome of the child-man...
there's no argument...
         never did so many individuals have so many
original thoughts as those, ******* did...
period...
but what is Byzantine Greece known for?
         for me? the psalms...
            Δευτε λαoι...
           now i could rewrite this using the proper
diacritical markers... or... i could use hyphens...
i.e. for the syllables being seen...
    deu-tE       lao-E...
             the capital letter indicates an acute accent
hovering about the letter... in the latter case...
an IOTA becomes EPSILON...
  it's still bewildering for me...
the difference between EPSILON and ETA...
but these letters have... names!
so much so that they can become mathematical
constants or scientific constants...
on point: it also seems it's not that the greek
gods died... but the letters abandoned the Greeks...
that the Ancient Greeks were the originators...
they didn't give us any follow-up scrutiny
of the world...
imagination takes its toil...
but at least the letters are also nouns...
unlike their Roman counterparts which are...
vowels and consonants: two categories...
only last night i was writing with someone
when... it started to rain that sort of impossibly
while i was perched on the windowsill sitting
on a folded right leg with the left leg dangling...
as it rained i outstretched my hand in an imitation
of a cup and... subsequently...
started to smear the rain onto my face
and into my hair...
it's coming up to the anniversary of my grandfather's
death and... one year later...
i abhor to borrow from pop culture:
esp. harry potter...
but... it had me thinking...
the horcrux...
             crux: pivot... cross... Golgotha..
but what's the etymology of the prefix hor-     ?
-ror?
        it implies what it implies...
splitting of the soul via killing someone...
through the absolute negation: the non-existent other...
it was only a splendid 1pm when i sat down
to drink some coffee...
on a side-note... after having stopped drinking
the typical way English people drink tea: with a dollop
of milk (they also drink tea this way in Siberia,
who came up with it?) green tea... thoroughly green...
i've emerged with a lactose intolerance...
i could drink raw milk by the pint...
now? i get the ******* ***** and stomach churns
like i'm about to eat a bag of beans!
i guess Pythagoras was right...
there must be the antonym of a horcrux in terms of...
the people we loved... were intimate with...
perhaps love is unlike killing...
esp. when the people you love are no longer
in your life...
it's not impossible to think that your soul (Σ...
that which is the all encompassing animation of
this, here... body) can't split... splinter...
oh it's so much easier with prostitutes...
one hour... half an hour...
i still remember them... how i touched them...
the grooves of their collar-bones...
their knees...
how their hands disappeared into mine...
the tenderness of so many parts of their body...
the tension in some...
            that's easy to sort out...
  but i'm always elsewhere...
  ah! it's so simple! what?! the etymology!
the prefix hor- is not associated with the root word
horror... it is... hor- for horizontal!
well then... if the thesis of a horcrux... is achieved
by killing someone...
then... the antithesis if a vercrux...
vertical / (transitive) to see...
                   oh i see... even having affection for
my grandfather (maternal): my paternal grandfather
can be dismissed...
don't ask... long story...
               strange... this transition...
when nature takes its course and a vercrux disappears:
you sort of... implode...
a piece of you returns to you...
since... a piece of you attached to a person
is no longer alive...
i still have plenty of vercruxes to find...
well... "find"...
for a year i tried to cry... i found it was easier
to break my head a little and bleed out one night
than cry... i finally did manage to mourn...
but i don't think i was mourning...
it was still beauty that brought me to tears:
el cant de la sibil.la catalunya
                       jordi savall...
hell... i still have pieces of me lost in people
somewhere...
it's not that i regret them not being in my life...
this one Russian beau...
beauty she wasn't... sort of troll-like...
bad tempered dreads... terrible accent... great ***...
terrible manners:
liar... she introduced me to her grandmother
and told me she was her mother...
while her mother... was "apparently" her sister...
well... you know... those Novosibirsk girls...
****'s on fire!
i rarely lie so when i hear someone try to persuade me
with their little fiction piece but
no ******* Anna Karenina... i tend to believe them...
it's not that they're purposively liars:
infusing lies with negation...
but that... they think their lives are boring...
mundane... bleached... eh...
there's this proverb: lies walk on short legs...
but i can't forgive myself the fact that i:
gave up a piece of myself for this girl!
i bemoan a part of my lost to her...
i don't bemoan her...
she ****** off like Jennie in Forrest Gump...
engaged to me, married some poor sucker...
then dated others...
she's... 34 and on her 2nd if not third husband...
the last time i saw her...
for some odd reason i need to visit Edinburgh...
again...
if there's any city i wish to haunt...
Paris is great when you're alive...
but i imagine Edinburgh is even better when
you're dead...
there she was... the same old her... girl...
playing video games...
with her hand slashed downward in parallel with
her veins...
i brought a copy of Joyce's Finnegans Wake...
i peered at what she was reading...
Ulysses and some Nietzsche...
                such a talkative creature... arrogant...
now... reduced by my presence to...
chewing on her tongue...
               she threw a party because i guess my presence
evoked a sense of claustrophobia:
esp. seeing her so vulnerable... slashed had
detailing the presence of her veins...
only then she seemed like a tender creature...
but then i started talking to this guy
and he said he ****** her...
while she was dating this other guy who
simply looked at me sitting on the sofa... sleeping
on the sofa for three days...
never being undressed...
bringing her a curry: mein gott... the amount
of coffee she was drinking while playing
video games...
she was draining her body of potassium: i thought...
my first girlfriend came up to Edinburgh
for me to play a lesbian game with her
while ******* her *******...
months later... maybe a year... she lost her virginity
to me... not a fun event...
******* a ******: i don't understand why you'd
need 72... i remember the sensation of
pulling back my *******
and the... flimsy sort skin protecting what
would later become...
a breeding machine... i commented on her
most recent birth... how sad she looked...
she excused me for being an artist...
i don't think she understood the meaning...
i was saying she was sad in the context of Henry VII...
5 children... all daughters...
and she came from a big household...
two brothers and a sister...
Priya... love at first sight...
     i remember the first time i saw her younger sister...
i must have been 18 while she was...
14? well... you read enough Marquis de Sade /
Nabokov... there's nothing terribly bad about
anything... if you orientate yourself properly...
****... i need more juice to write some more...
momentum!
i've never tasted amphetamines...
tobacco and more bourbon will have to supply
me with enough substitute...

forests and graveyards...
i'm at my wit's end trying to compare...
both... i can't tell the one from the other...
making a ****** lose her virginity is one thing...
but losing one's own?
from what i later found out in the brothel
where... unlike that Spanish girl: under the bed sheets?
seriously?! it's suffocating...
at least in the brothel we do things openly naked...
dimmed lights... sure... but not in ******* cocoons!

Isabella... what a ****** way to lose one's virginity...
third year exchange student from Grenoble...
Isabella...
            man in *** is like a diesel engine...
it takes time... it takes experience...
i've given up on how the reverse missionary:
rodeo? would look like... *******...
i've given up...
  30 minutes every half a decade is:
by my "understanding" plentiful...

first girlfriend... so we had a party...
blah blah... the rest of the night i remember tending to
her in a... sand-sack(?)... all shivering...
while her best fwend was downstairs
in some Shoreditch apartment doing coke....
i just remember the sensation of her shivering...
half away... came the morning: came the break-up...

it's so refreshing when you're a man
and... all the women in your life break up with you...
it's so refreshing not being a ****-boy...
i love it!

oh these grand biographies... once the life has been lived
people finally surrender to what
some people find: ongoing... it's never something to
be "found" once "enough" has been...
ahem... "accomplished":
i find it's best... found... at its most fractured...
yet "somehow" coming together...

TOMIKUNI... a name of this Japanese fwend i had
at university... watch me now:
i'll bemoan how Japanese... doesn't allow
its syllables to mangle with two consonants...
akin to -bl-
         which, looks deceptively Russian...
i.e. ы...            at best represented in Latin via: ý...
but in Japanese you can't mingle two consonants
together...
you can't have a... PRior...
               everything in this language
is cut to sushi proportions when vowels mingle
with consonants...
it's such a lovely... way to encode sounds
without process Chinese ideograms (skeletal
hieroglyphics)...

i'm still a splintered conjuring of man...
i left pieces of myself in others!
two parts of me have returned...
the death of my maternal great-grandmother
and my maternal grandfather...
mangled hip-replacement bona fide(s)!
perhaps if i lived among people that
happened to breed like rabbits...
it could make my stomach churn out less
spare cheese of curd....

a litre of diesel fuel of herr whiskers
& ms. amber will do to ein... one...
i've splintered my soul so much up...
then again: when i'm all alone and... ahem...
"surprised"... i'll find the world
at its zenith...
me not being in it to begin with...
what a comforting thought...
terribly blessing with all its agonies:
nonetheless... forthcoming in the grit of reality....

one litre of bourbon! **** me...
back to my "good old days"!
only recently i ws scribbling with some girl...
what is it.... Halloween season?
i need to be messaging four girls
simultaneously?!

i still think my beard makes a better violin:
should even the best of violins come
to the fore!

Once I start writing I can never stop.
It's like birth, once you start breathing,
You can never stop.
It's like drugs, once you start using,
You can never stop.
It's like love, once you start loving,
You can never stop.
It's like dying, once you start dying, you can never stop.
Writing is like birth, a new beginning, a blank page a fresh start.
Writing is like a drug, addticting, making me see alternate universes and strange creatures,
Writing is like love, there once was a Romeo and a Juliet. And they lived happily ever after.
Writing is like dying, with each  page that's bleeding ink, you seal a little but more of your soul onto the page. A different kind of horcrux,
One that cannot be broken.
It's written in blood, in ink, in thoughts and dreams.
In life and death

With every morning, a new hope does rise
Only to suffer the most untimely demise
Time flies by, getting closer to the days when all would be gone
And only memories would be extant to count upon
I sense a devastating tempest coming to haunt
A storm, wild enough, to exterminate the most entrenched roots
Only if the truth could have worked to alleviate the misery
But letting it out would only be a treachery
Absconding into dreams and leaving the reality behind is a part of the routine
The reality suffocating the very basis of my existence is the whole scene
When the wall of my patience does fall apart,
And melancholy fills the chasm to the brim in my heart
Like a horcrux, I'd break apart.

I was created by Him
and in turn will become a vessel for His creation
Half of you was born the same time I was
Grew up with me
Lived a whole life with me
Held on long enough
To the insides of my womaness
to one day look at me
And I love you for it
I have loved you before it

You will never need to earn this love
It is always here
never will you have to climb a mountain
or reduce your hurt
or love of life
It’s here for your taking
Your needing
Your feeding
Here for you even to throw away

The love I preserve for you
Does not live in my heart
Or in my being
Cause if it did
It will die the same time as I will
I will love you even after the fact

No matter the suns position
This love follows you closer than your shadow could ever hope to
Closer than the love you have for yourself
Almost as close as the one your Lord keeps for you
It exists always

On days that I do not like you
I love you
When you hurt me
I can’t help it than to
Remember I’d rather be hurt by you
than
If you weren’t able to hurt me at all

I have seen My Mother fall
Past sadness itself
And find residence
atop the brittle canopy of grief
Surrounded by an abandoned museum
Of bottles, blankets, bedding and expired milk

Finding her on some nights
Curled up in a ball of herself
After prayer
Giving thanks to Allah for the chance at another
And the health of her others

And then losing her again at Fajr
When the heaviness of her *******
Remind her
Return her inside another agonizing re-run

An itinerary of loss
Beginning, middle and end all blurred
Like someone slowly dragged their *****, unkind hand across a wet painting
Whose colors had not yet held firm
Whose picture had not yet formed
Who itself was not ready to be displayed

I bet she thought of all the care
she could not give
and wishes so fiercely that she had
And the surplus of love
That now goes unneeded
Feeds no one
Like an ocean of salt water
Near a people dying of thirst
This scares me the most

You are my protection from this sadness
And I love you for it
I have loved you before it

You too are a vessel that carries,
A horcrux
For all the love I hold for myself
I give to you
Even after you are no longer a clean slate
Even after you have sinned a thousand times over
Both villain and hero

You are my unborn best friend
Best decision yet to be made
Best part of me that I cannot wait to one day
Share this poem with

sometimes my ego overpowers my mind
therefore i muddle
with a mind-body duality
all i have it a ego-mind duality
but i find a distinction between mind and body
instead of a duality i find
a dichotomy:

i'm looking back on yesterday's
transcendental
and looking forward to the same deja vu transcendental
when the Boss will play his second
show:

he just shouted the following words
on repeat: DO YOU FEEL THE SPIRIT!
DO YOU FEEL THE SPIRIT!
DO YOU FEEL THE SPIRIT!
i was also amazed by my coworkers
talking a bout Biblical things:
like how Lilith was the first wife
of Adam
and Eva is just a cover story...

no sonic hangover headache after a gig
transcendental
i used to drink too much then smoke
now i drink a little and smoke a little
and finish the night of with writing
and a little bit more drinking
and i think i found equilibrium
and as i went to the brothel:
i massaged my girl into telling me about her
past:
where there big *****:
i know Jason, I know Jeff and i know Peter...
these are the three men in my life too
especially Jason:
the drug addict father of my Reyla
who died prematurely...
i think i went to the brothel to get some
spirit...
some taboo and some
i just want to write about my personal life
and have a friction-fiction: autobriography
is FRICTION-FICTION
like there is science-fiction:
there's the beggars belief at all that's been
announced by humanity:
it beggars belief with a little helix

                 of poem
                 like so
                 someone who she could just talk to...
someone who she could just talk to...
someone who she could just talk to...
someone who she could just talk to...
Bruce gave me the spirit:
which was her New Jersey American
borrowed from Poland and Puerto Rico
and sent to Polynesia...
and i'm supposed to go over there
and wake up a sleeping volcano
like all that cinematic spark of ***
the French looked so pale pale pale
pale with their idea of how to open
the Olympic games...
then again maybe some French speaking
people are reading me
and 100 years when the translations
of these words appear
and first Poland since that's where i have
my serpents tongue and the Tree
i perch on: YHYH: yahyah...
no more yahweh:
just yahyah:
to compliment Allah: YHYH...

i went to the brothel and ended up massaging
a ******* to sleep...
i went to the brothel and ended up massaging
a ******* to sleep...
i told her: i walked out with a LIMP BISCUIT
of a ****
a Sargent McVitties dipped in Afternoon Tea...
in'shalla biz-mc

                      so i massaged and it was like massaging
Reyla's body...
she was 20 years old and her body was
that of Reyla's:
Reyla's proportions:
i think i was making a Baptism
to avert your eyes
should you imagine me ******* your daughter:
all that pain i understand
but i really wanted to show you
the nightmare of me even thinking!
even thinking! that i could have *** with your
daughter: imagine!
i don't have to: i walked through the nightmare!
i went to the brothel
looking for a Reyla-body-type:
and ******* = priest
******* = priest:
i am Catholic! i'm never going to be a convert:
a PROSELYTE!
i was making confession!
this is how a Catholic performs confession!
not in the Church! not to a man!
i was confessing to a woman
about... oh: you know! another ******* woman!
i went to the brothel to:
the church is off limits for me!
the church is off limits for me!
i can't enter the church!
my church is the brothel!
find me there: confessing to women
with a limp **** because i found
one special one...
i went to find a Reyla-android de facto:
in situ: minds detached:
both: bodies in despair:
not necessarily one sided:
i didn't get my rocks off...

               i'm a man and she's not my body
type: she's not mother to become
matriarch
she's just a maiden
and i don't like Valkyries...
i'm not aroused by them...
Reyla is a Valkyrie and i need
a hot juicy momma:
i need an URSULA...
i want little girls and little boys to flourish:
i'm getting paranoid again:
i was not briefed at work!
i know how to talk to drunk people
i allow for personal space breaches:
this drunk and drunk me
we danced
we had body man body testing
other confessional booth:
the Coliseum:
my church is a no go zone
i repent in the brothel
and confess
then i pass on the information of what
i learned in the Coliseum...
that's how i operate:

the Paris Olympics opening ceremony:
i love that city
all my love belongs to romancing
Paris:
there: i want to be buried and begin
life again as Tree:
then a mutation transit: by-come-time:
to supervise allowances
in spirit the lifespans of insects
then squids and dull dug out
dumb faces of rocks personified with scratching
like petting cats:
all smiley...

             so i basically couldn't **** Reyla:
i have a **** lock on a teenage:
petite girl: weird body shape...
with prostitutes that sizes and shape i can massage:
with the girl i can bear wrestle:
maybe this girls playing sport is gay:
just gay:
maybe she just needs the scent of male hormones...
maybe grandma: move move!
let Matthew come over...
mum keeps her ostrich and blah blah
they talk and talk and talk...
talk: grandma! they're talking all the time!
maybe Reyla:
i see a gilded path in wheat fields:
later by humans grappling with sun turning
the semi-copper hue to tinge:

         Mary Harrington: funny laugh...
reminded me of Stephanie...
worked with her last night:
do i work many venues?
blah blah... then a twitch: i could tell she
was a *****
a federal...
           she acted funny in the elevator
with all the other black guys...
i didn't pick up the origin of the conversation:
but i think the black guys
were insinuating:
you're super intelligent:
you just met your super intelligence guy
and there was no immediate crush:
but it was there i was showing off my toy boy screen
of the compact smart phone
i really thought i might see Karl Ove Knausaard
in the crowd:
dancing in the dark: i seriously can't finish volume 6
i can't finish the Pickwick Papers
i just can't: i want to leave those books for
retirement...

yes, Edie, i ****** Reyla's body size: well: ******:
are we clear about that i find sexually
arousing? can grandma know:
i need for the matriarch to know
that i couldn't **** a Reyla type:
i had to massage a body type...
experience: wholesomeness:
the rustic belt of a woman is her personality
and volume:
and all that volume of hospice...

         can the matriarch just feel safe
by my limping around Reyla
and keeping her as a child
actually discovering myself as child
i have aged with all that's to be learned
but that last bicycle shop in Hornchurch broke me!
oh... we haven't ordered spokes since
the pandemic...
at a different shop: shh... Halfords:
the bicycle technician will be back in 2 weeks:
young kids behind the counter
actors of no-profession...
  
  gigging it out... each spoke replacement:
cheapest at $15... but the guy replaces the spoke
and moans
wants to be out of business:
because the inner tubing where you inflate:
the ******:
is not protruding
and he didn't put the ******* inflatable in correctly!
moans! but it's so easy to do!
yes... and today i invested in a tool
that's used in removing the cassette
so i can get past the guard
and replace the spoke...

the Boss: i can fix my own bicycle
i could get Ross' ******* bearings fixed
if i was given enough time with you and Reyla
and feel like a father
than feeling this horrid prolonged awakening
of being a son!
do you understand me!

do you hear me?!
i don 't think so:
i think i have to interrupt you sometimes:
you need to hear me!
i don't think you sometimes hear me!
you didn't hear me
when i said why i went to the brothel
and looked for a Reyla
and said: this ******* had bruises
on her ***:
she wasn't just working the brothel
she was making grotesque movies on the side:
unless she just like: clearly no:
she collapsed under her own body:
but i couldn't possibly...

and then transcendental happens around me:
the phenomenon of the monism Chapel...
if i can't enter the church:
**** me: i need to find myself a Chapel
of the phenomenon of monism...
given that monism needs a partner:
to compensate there being not dualism:
the ego and i think
ha ha: that's how ancient Latin becomes
translated into modern English:
the ego i think
therefore?
the ego therefore an ego
to contradict Descartes...
definitely in one's mind: so horridly so:
or? indefinitely in one's mind...
best...
since also definitely in this world as a temporal
impasse of perfect timing:
but also so indefinitely in this world since
about to die...
but none of such joy among gods:
gods are non-transcendental creatures
who sometimes become mortals at their perils:
but they can't seem to help themselves:
mortality is a jealousy of the creation
while the creative immortalize jealousy
and so jealousy creates the immortals...
and blah blah...

                                 me and Boss Bruce...
my American girlfriend:
i never thought i'd get one:
had an Australian one a Russian one a French one...
oh i can make her jealous too of the creviv
mega shlong...
but talk? no talk?! talk... no talk?!
it's like having ***:
i detested bilingualism in the bedroom:
it was like having an ****:
it would be nice for the children:
3 tongues perhaps 4 to share...
but in the bedroom?
Hell!

i speak 2 she speaks 1 isn't that enough?
it could have worked with Promis
but then i wasn't really, honestly:
excited about her:
Samuel did tell me what i was already
thinking: Tweety Bird...
seriously! that was just that:
she was the fresh blood from Australia
and i was the lurch the sneer
the Ugly Duckling with the girls
in high school then i grew my hair long
and blah blah
but she did: does: look like a caricature:
Tweety Bird...
and she was tall: 6ft... i was the only available
6ft3 in the vicinity:
we only dated because of reality
and how compatible we were: in the dimension
of Darwinism... of youth...
youth, madness, learning:
and the basics of preservation:
trans-humanism: very much so...
i couldn't find a sparring partner of a good conversation:
Promis wasn't certainly enough for me...
and someone like that:
who you don't talk to more easily or just about
right when having ***:
will have babies and then deplete the curiosity for
vivo per se...
i saved Promis from making a bad mistake...

Ilona made the bad mistake
while Isabella was like a daughter...
my first and my vampire of testimony for
fighting for an IDEAL
to be later replaced with IDEALISM...
if the IDeal was Isabella
then EDie is the idealism...

                hard to conflate me with cheating
investing
the VERCRUX: need i remind?
i was never a fan of HArry Potter:
but i'm a fan of some ideas in the story:
notably the HORCRUX:
which is?

        the horcrux is your soul: hidden:
of the people you have killed...

a vercrux: verily: verily: the soul
you have hidden in people you have loved!
which they turn into horcruxes
with the items they still possess that
once you owned.

i have several: both of Edie and Reyla:
Reyla hid a proper horcrux:
a golden bracelet with an R hanging off it:
she played a game beyond chess
and i too found it fascinating how she behaved
in a way i behave with a computer
model
when playing AI of chess:
AI of chess is different to the current AI...
post-office of the internet of the algorithm
that's what current AI is...

the death of the encyclopedia is AI
nothing more...
just as the algorithm was the death of the encyclopedia:
even bots have their chores...

Ghostfaced overkiller/
I put the sin in sincerity/
Cast the last million stones/
Let's rock like ***** & GOMORRAH/
Birdman, on the windowsill/
Launch a nuclear war/
Head on fire - NEVER LOOK BACK/
Running with scissorhands, blunted/
Wet paperbag gloves/
Chasing serpent tail forever/
So caught up in yourself, that/
You didn't notice the climate change/
Sweating ice in a feverdream/
Friends & family are gone/
You're all alone... THIS IS MANIA/
Shattered nerve clusterbomb/
My primary emotion is sadness/
Disguised as anger; explosive synapses/
Living in an elephant graveyard/
I snap like Thanos, and don't marvel/
Verse as horcrux/
TATTERED SOUL JOURNALIST/
Stitching together a forked tongue/
Forcing my demons to talk "normal"/
It just sounds so unnatural/
And the voices are NOT HAPPY/
I didn't listen for one month/
But prepared an epic mudbath/
Purification is a holiday/
Get out of rehab/
Go straight to the crackhouse.../

I'M NOT GONNA FAKE IT/
JUST TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER/
I'M NOT GONNA FAKE IT/
JUST TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER/
I'M NOT GONNA FAKE IT/
JUST TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER/

I'm a failure; thanks for asking/
Keeping it real is mad expensive/
And I'm broke./

Months and weeks consume us as our feet drag in the slowest of shuffles. I've worried for years about my personality and if that's what gets me in the trouble I'm in. Thankfully I have nothing left to worry about, as my thoughts have been more than confirmed. I've infected and emotionally crippled the people I've come into contact with and abandoned, and I'm shocked? I've felt like a horcrux every individual day of my life. And what have I done to change? What can I? How does it take 21 years for a person to develop the ability to recognize their actions and yet still not their face? I feel uneducated about anything to do with myself after over a year of carving myself out until now, I'm more than hollow. I am non-existent, waiting for someone to pick up my crumbling existence and blow it away like dandelion fluff.

sometimes I long to know the meaning of life
to know if I must choose my meaning or if it's inevitability will somehow manifest in meaningful ways
sometimes I wonder if God is part artist and part practical accountant
frustrated and creative and stifled by I don't know what
or content to crunch the digits and let the sequence unfold to a beautiful resolution

generally the church tells us our maturity can only be developed in community
but Jesus always retreated to be alone, to talk to God, to talk to himself
what does it tell us, that he died for his creation out of some kind of unconditional love
but that he also needed to connect to his higher power to make that sacrifice
that while asking for the prayers of his friends, he wanted to be alone with the part of himself that knew the plan
I wonder if my spiritual self knows the plan that my body does not want to follow out

and that while he already knew the plan he would ask himself to not have to do it
for there to be any other way without suffering
isn't that what we all ask God
if there's a better way, one without having to suffer and self-sacrifice
and even God had to lead by example, by sacrificing a part of himself to be mortal

it feels like a horcrux perhaps, having a child
a part of you that you cut out of yourself and that exists vulnerable to external forces
a part you can be separated from by governments and space and death and miscommunication
like separating our spirit from our flesh

I long to create and yet cannot be satisfied
I suppose that's why to love our creations we must learn to love ourselves
even if our artwork doesn't look like we want it to
even if it kills and lies and steals and is corrupted by some flaw
if it can choose not to love us

it's all too complex to lay out like a map
why create beings to love you and share in your life
why have disciples when you are three in one

to understand why we sleep
if it is an illustration of some kind of awakening
to prepare us to wake after death which is so similar

I can't describe how meaty and empty it is when someone is no longer home
when they've moved away
and their body is solid and cold and yet still looks a lot like them

I don't believe the point is to proselytize
As in go about trying to change everyone to believe the exact same thing
I think Cubism is helpful as ugly and distorted as it appears
That it carries some truth that we all have validity in our different experiences
In the different ways we've colored our memories with feelings and interpretations
I wouldn't want to steal that from anyone
Or try to invalidate it

I don't think any of us have the truth except perhaps someone who is everywhere and everywhen
and maybe like the elephant or unitarianists it will all come into picture

"each must be fully convinced in their own mind"

in that way, perhaps my meaning both matters and is overruled by some larger meaning
perhaps it is a colorful piece of glass in a larger mosaic
perhaps our broken experiences will be made better than before

I never thought of myself as much of an optimist
I've actually been told I'm quite dark

but I suppose I do have faith
faith that there is an artist who will call things into account
that we won't be abandoned half baked
that those who seek will be rewarded

title: no baguette
body:
chilly banquet:
pigeons chuckle
and... no coo.                  bad gateway bypass, again.

less of a Nietzsche in me than an Alfred Jarry...
although i'm not that short...
and i wouldn't be close to fishing on the Seine...
although: Paris would be lovely...
managed to get a slot for 3pm with Nicky...
this... bombshell of a woman:
fluctuating bloom of a body...
   how women become irresistible at a certain
age... when they're fully matured...
a bit like... the infatuation i have with autumn's
decay perfumery...
i guess that coy glance her assistant gave me
when she booked me... poor little thing...
probably in her teens... eh... i'll pass..
but this full bodied oomph! my god...
sends a man crazy...
               so booked in for 3pm...
   cycled back to the library and picked up
a bundle of orange recycling bags...
walked into a supermarket and stocked up on
whiskey and pepsi...
in the background... hmm...
          i know this song...
          the 1990's age of new innocence...
  Shanice Wilson - i love your smile...
          oh my my... music used to be so much fun...
back when... fun was around...
        when capitalism was capitalism
and communism was: well... not Chinese capitalism...
fun times... fun time to be born...
the internet wasn't even liquidating minds
into hives and taboo and pseudo-tribes...
  whatever... fun times... you still had grounded
telephones... dial: dial...
           you could ******* into the world and
be sort of... em... "uninterrupted"?
mobile... i.e. that's called a bicycle... not a smartphone...
but there was a precursor to all the nostalgia
i can associate with that song...
men... women...
is masculinity introspective...
   while femininity is retrospective?
                just juggling an idea...
sure... i have the capacity for memory...
                 i think back... but... i never learn from
past mistakes...
   i learn from... shutting down... withdrawing...
that's: introspection...
no... no... it's not that clear-cut...
   i think it's a "dichotomy" a compound... complex...
of introspection-retrospection...
but i never know which is which when
looking at old people...
     old men seem rather conflated with introspection...
while old women...
well... they seem to be bewildered by...
something from the past...
    their youth? their predicament of being...
well... classical depictions of philosophers...
old men... bearded... fading but with enough bite in
them to make you chuckle at their prescriptions...
old women? fiddler on the ******* roof:
match-makers? agony-aunts?!
      i'm lucky in that respect... at least men try to
give genuine advice...
        well... it's more: give genuine narratives
of experience...
    i don't even focus on the men that tally up their
count of women slept with...
sure... that would be great... but... ugh...
the idea of the... the antonym of the horcrux...
splitting one's soul by... no... not killing someone...
loving someone... that too can split your soul...
if it wasn't with the prefix hor-...
   meta-, tetra-, ortho-... para-...
                       ah.. right... hor- for horizontal...
ergo... the opposite "magic" is...
    ver-: vertical... the vercrux...
            what's my vercrux count? oh... i'd say...
in the decent count of 10...
                     but... hmm... Isabella...
Priya... Promis... Ilona... Tamara...
               Milena... Samantha... another Samantha...
Gemma... another Gemma... Janina...
Fiona...
               ah... and i'm with neither...
               what a relief...
i see my father and think: to harrow all the while
in order for a woman to keep the economy
afloat... shoes... this... that and something other:
beside food, alcohol, vinyl... barber shops...
bicycle shops...
                  i'm such a primitive creature...
brothels...
           cigarettes...
                     life can be so pleasant when its
simplicity is cherished...
                   gust of wind... taking a ****...
holding onto *******... waiting for a dark alley
to do the deed... or a cubicle...
        ooze... ooze...
             furry stuff... like shaking off some sweat...
brr... that's the best estimate of what i'm thinking of...
or thinking about etymology like a "counter-argument"
against the rigid Darwinism of: history died...
because... the ape has become an impasse in
the mind of man...
               predictable whittle man...
   rigid psychologism...
                               that the expectations of predictability
are rife... well... no wonder history is sort
of... on a whim: a whimsical: maybe(?)
   what with the journalistic insomnia...
with no Sabbath... Monday... Monday...
nothing ever happens on a Monday - in newspapers...
the slimmest editions...
   - and it is a sunny day... and it is windy...
perfecto! now to the barber shop  to the Turk
for a trim of the beard & moustache...
   & more whiskey...
measured drinking tonight...
     but... tomorrow: tomorrow... after i finish at 1am
and probably get some around 4am...
an **** of drinking...
             last time i heard only the central and victoria
lines were striking their nightshifts...
so i'll be good to go using the jubilee to get back to
Stratford and buckle into snooze
on the N86 back to Romford...
          buzzing... priming myself for a knockout...
life: has oddly become, once more...
quintessentially bearable... i feel rejuvenated like
a child; looking at other people in the public square...
i think that's rare.

To the tree that rest on its history
Will have its blood wasted
No good can happen to things with their horcrux not visible to perceive
She the young that could only give me gains and symphony of life I believe
But it was a boring woman, unbearable but a goblet of my mysteries
No wonder I saw the goblet burning with flames and no word but sounds of injustice she screamed
I saw the tree black and wounded so thought I of the lady
I asked the dying soul"what happens to your shed once blacked out"

She with no feeling to despair said"you shall be obsessed with the
idea for a fornite but no justice will we receive"

my my, i hope to have replied sooner, in all honesty i wrote a most generous reply yesterday, but by "miracle" or fault i accidently deleted when copying a link and inserting it; now i have to promise myself to write the name of the band / song in CAPITALS, since... well since there's no other jukebox like youtube and the songs are easy to find...

what do i consider beautiful... hmm... i don't think i have much choice in what i can deem beautiful, i'm more prone to succumb to auditory beauty than physical beauty, i don't really see much outside the realm of a sunset or a sunrise, or the sight of the sea at night, in terms of physiognomy, hardly anyone is ever ugly: worn down... a curiosity, but it's never an off-putting sight like a dozen maggot in trash juices...

again: i never understood the argument that men are primarily orientated around sight: sure... when orientating myself in traffic on a bicycle, i am pretty much all eyes, since some music is blasting into my ears from the headphones... aside: *******... i tend to turn off the sound because i know that i'm not attaching myself to a quickie, for the actual act i'd require the sounds... anyways...

DIE SONNE SATAN - DISMAL CHANT...

mmm... i think my song choice can be the perfect antonym for your first song choice, the relic of Novgorod... men being primarily creatures absorbed by the eyes... hardly... what about the story of Odysseus and the mermaids, how his fellow sailors had to have their ears blocked with wax to stop them going mad? i lost over 20kg since my grandfather's death: walking at first, then cycling... yet like a vampire: i hardly recognise this loss on my body... i see my face in the mirror but hardly my body... i only see what the loss looks like in public... you'd guess correctly by a regaining of appeal from the opposite ***... plus... my heart feels like... a sixth of me fizzled out... so no need to take high-blood pressure tablets...


my god: my original was reply was somewhat poetic... this is so blandly prosaic...

my grandparents weren't happy... i'll not go into the details... but no, they weren't happy... they stayed together out of necessity, or, rather... my grandmother stayed with my grandfather because, as the law in Poland dictates... the woman inherits the man's retirement funds... there was nothing luvvy-dubby about their relationship, she was insult him, everything he ever did was wrong, all the improvements in the house were always done wrong... blah blah... on top she was just a rude ***** to him: a part of me is glad he's dead: he's freed from hearing all the venomous nagging, even he once remarked to me: older people shouldn't treat each other like this... months prior i could see in his eyes a consolidation of life itself: a resignation that was teasing at the transcendental... death became a relief for him...

can a man be neglected? erm... i think what's worse for our *** is when we neglect doing something we were passionate about prior... i think that's our biggest worry... for example... i neglected cycling for over 10 years... i put on a lot of weight... now that i've rekindled my obsession with cycling... i'm no longer just someone who cycles... i became enthralled with an art of keeping a bicycle in tip-top condition... change a tire, fix the breaks... one ***** loose here, another loose there... subsequently tightened... oh look: i just came to the same conclusion: a man will tend to focus on things that provide him with some end of a deadlock... i've been a bachelor for... well since my last, ahem "serious" relationship ended when i was 21... she proposed to me... she chose an engagement ring... then broke it off... since 21... now i'm 35... even my mother thought i was bemoaning losing her... i clarified to her that: i was bemoaning losing a part of myself... like the idea of a horcrux... but when you lose a part of yourself to someone who you once loved (rather than killed)... the vercrux... i miss the naive 20 year old... the colt that could buy into romantic flicks... the boy who believed in the cult of Adonis: that women care about a man's looks: and all else would fall into place, come the later years... careers would blossom blah blah...

i hope i'm not being over-dramatic or... however else to put it... i never appreciated country music... it must be an American thing: through & through... i'd go as far as blues... JOHN LEE ****** - IT SERVES ME RIGHT TO SUFFER (1969)... oh my, my my... i had a blue's phase in my late 20s... it's still great to listen to the blues when drinking... SKIP JAMES - HARD TIME KILLIN' FLOOR BLUES... but i have found some country music up my sleeve... HEAVY HANDS - WHERE THE WATER TASTES LIKE WINE...

i couldn't tell you how it might feel for a woman to be neglected in a long term relationship where so many changes could take place that she might... i just don't have the experience, since 21 i've just had encounters with strangers or prostitutes... if any issues... well... i drank too much and couldn't get an *******... which i could correct by going the 2nd night sober... if the maternal side of my grandparents isn't all milk & cookies... my paternal side is... they divorced... if they were even married... and my father was raised by his grandparents... well... a foster-grandfather and a grandmother... a complete & utter mess... but then we're talking Poland circa 1939 through to 1960... and beyond... my parents are an emblem of what a marriage out to be: but then i'm not my father...

i squandered my chances through various rejections, but also embraced my bachelorhood reading philosophy & going to the brothel... i obviously had to sample the "misdeeds" in Amsterdam, phew... everything is so less hush-hush like it's in the anglo-speaking world, i wanted to experience a complete disinhibition from any sort of "misdeeds"...

i hope you see that i don't find anything socially "unacceptable": you are as free reading what i write as not reading it, we can stand on completely opposite plateaus but we can share some common arguments... recently i was listening to this guy talking about how social media is as toxic (if not more) to women as ******* might be to men... but i remember the days when we'd have a school trip to Ypres (Belgium), the WWI graves, the trenches... but we'd have 5 hours spare to buy chocolate & roam the streets... i'd buy a pornographic magazine... a woman would sell it... no fear of shame... out in the open... must be a continental mentality... point being... this guy was saying that social media for women is not like ******* for guys... all it takes is a no. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones and the rest of the day remains... there's no need to engage in comparisons...

mein gott: the original reply was so much better... i'm all spaghetti-cogito...

i blame it on the country music... no, come to think of it... brown bird - bilgwater... that's a blues-hybrid... there's just that identifiable sound of the accented voice... it's not John Lee ****** singing... i just see a lasso... jeans... a cowboy hat... i'll be converted if i listen to enough of it... HOT TUNA...

lately you don't feel pretty, over to you: tornado... in my realm a butterfly... i rekindled the realm of being desired by schoolgirls...i had a 10+ year hiatus... what island are you on? it can't possibly be the same isles i'm on, among the Welsh sheep-shaggers & Pict wannabes without an iota of Gaelic... as much as it might be a "man's world"... it's also has a gynocentric focus... i know where my lot is... i can be replaced... you, as a woman, have to be tended to, beside all other facts... my freedoms have been invested by social pressures... or, otherwise, my lack of "ambition" or zeal, or... that Darwinism impetus that ought to be prerequisite to further something of the past we supposedly lay a claim to...

but as a solo-dodo project: i am completely unburdened... nay... i am facing a fate that bestows upon me a blindsight... i'm finding myself: more & more content... since it would be impossible for the face of man to cower from its blinding furtherance of obedience to time: to further itself... no different to any other animal... to hell: bring in the post-racial sociey of Brazil of the mulattos... i don't mind: i won't be here... people will sort themselves while my grave pretends to snore for me...

if you can consider me... fiscally... no chance... poetry coughs up once ever 50 years... its not my time... Bukowski had the luck... i couldn't say whether the acumen... i'm entertining the prospect of taking up a job as a security guard at mass events: stadium filling... my ambition would bring me any money... i couldn't imagine toiling & toiling for... shoes... excess shoes... for... holidays on beaches that will, sooner or later... become abandoned by what the "great reset" implies...

you're in your... 40s? i'm in my 30s... i too have criteria... neither of us are teenagers... i wish we were... i could drop my life on a whim and head toward the unknowable: uncertain... laconic little me... i harvest my little entrapments of time spent in solitude... i shouldn't appreciate solitude... but then again i can't never return to a concept of a heart as weak as a mollusk...  i pity my hardened heart, i bemoan the entire politics of antagonism shared between women & men... children... so young as to yet grasp language are so... so... beautiful... even those not my own are so mesmerising!

i might not have children of my own, you said you have an 11 year old girl... it's impossible to pass a public space come 3:30pm in England and not watch schoolgirls...lately i''m dressing like autumn... a harsh brown shirt, heavy... olive trousers... a dark brown t-shirt... mahogany leather shoes... weird looks... side to side... as she exits the bus... one last look... words under her nose... lip-read... you're hot... i could be delusional... i could be... but when it's so ******* blatant...

recently a manicurist / pedicurist entertained my mother... she brought a friendf along... i was inspected... father figure? do i really need to raise someone else's offspring? beside the point... the manicurist brought with her her 11 year old month daughter... i played the nanny... it's a cat, it's a dog... its a child... it's innocence... i realised... being 35... this ought to be the time to concentrate my concept, concern for love to offspring... this isn't a time for... petty romance... petty cosmopolitan fickleness... best attired by well established newspaper talkingheads...

at 35 i ought to forget about my mating partner... i ought to have children by now, & modify my concern for love: gearing up to children... at 35 what was love: ought to diagnose itself as concern: dasein dass neuliebe! i couldn't possibly love a woman like a teenager might: with the thirst of first thirsts! with drunkneness... now, come the children... i might be childless, i might be a bachelor... but with even those offspring alien to me: i can appreciate "petting" and concerning myself over their kept tenderness: before the world: the grinding baron wheel crushes them...

i'm too old for rekindling romance of 20 year old ****-wit-****-anything-
that-moves...
i'd like to have authority over children...
i'd like to love a daughter,
i'd like to love a son...
    not very unlike petting a cat...
but the heartbreak...
of them leaving the "nest":
fully invested in their autonomy,
in their individualism...
what a sore, what an unbearable anchor for:
what's the future of the sails...
what little of the wind(s)...

as said... i can stomach an 11month year old...
i think i could stomach an 11year old...
it would be a freaky experiment...
i did study chemistry undergrad... so...
it would become a fetish...
of unpredictability...
    no... i can be a nanny to an 11month
old toddler...
i don't know whether i can be a substitute
of father to an 11year old child...
that's a key distinction...

i find men above 6ft2 slightly weird...
esp. if they're not built to bulge with their heights...
perhaps in sports... but in the shared experience
of "societal norms": ******* lanky...
spider-conundrums...
sorry... if there's the height...
but there's no mass invoked...
awkward looking: oopses...