.perhaps in my company we wouldn't be... opening a bottle of red wine... to let it breathe... or pouring it into a bowl to give it more air to breathe with: otherwise on life-support machine through the bottle-neck... right here, right now, we have... a glass bottle of beer (13, guinness hop lager) and 4 cans of stella artois (the wife beater's lager, so they say)... yes... beer in cans... for all intesive purposes - a good way to transport beer... in aluminium cans... but we're not bums... we don't drink beer straight from cans... we pour our beer into a tall glass and wait... so the beer can exfoliate like aladdin's jinn in the glass... away from the confines of the can... we don't drink beer from a can... we can drink it straight from a bottle... but if it comes in a can... we pour it into a tall glass... just so... so there's some head on top... we're not english in that respect either... of cutting the head (of foam) off the beer... which is probably why i always order a stout in a pub... you can't pull one without the creme de la creme on top... a head on a beer is what makes it look less like carbonated **** or concentrated lemonade... we're not bums... we drink beer from glasses... never directly from cans - the metal gets in the way... a beer like a wine needs to breathe too.

i found that there are only two types of music styles
that are suitable for drinking -
that's... drinking and not going out -
playing a cat with an imaginary fireplace...
the less imaginary fireplace being:
a stare confined to... watching a pillow...
and the general schematic of a bed...
and sitting hunched in imitation: all crow because
no crow doesn't get you far
on golgotha of daydreams: if only i...
humble servant of dusty feet - the tourist,
the pilgrim - would set off...
         on an amphetamine riddled skew into
a messiah complex adventure...

                     but not me...
                once upon a time the only music
worth drinking to was the blues...
            a long, long time ago...
                hell: once upon a time any music
would do if we all decided to go dancing...
or at least waited for the dance to come of its own
volition and not mine: i.e. the me in i would
just be dragged under the teasing waves
and slurped out to sea...

                   a thousand waves are all but the single
tongue of some swindling kraken...
drinking and random shamanic interludes in
the youth of the night-club...
when there wasn't a tally for score or...
the ones shot down by manfred...
good thing he was called manfred...
   and not some swabian helmut! oi oi!
                                             von Richthofen!
and that was when...
           until came the five beers and on
the 4th it became apparent...
                                  the red garland quintet...
soul junction...

   and it's not... a gerry mulligan's night lights...
piano sentimentality and the ode
to all things urban, cosmopolitan...
                        yes... it's not grenadine in that
sulk of yours... it's cranberry juice...
the city and... the sewers and...
                                 jazz for the urban scenes
of: anywhere but the park...
the graveyard... a choo-choo slowing into
a station... and billy joel come:
mid-life crisis and a new york state of mind...
while over 'ere we have...
     teasing the woods: where concrete ends
and mud begins... thus we can have our Adam...
and...

only today i was walking past his bride...
doing my odd citizen duty of recycling glass...
and buying the amber sedatives (carbonated)
for an evening with some cannonball adderley
or some donnie byrd... or a horace silver...
that's the beauty of jazz...
the music is all there is... the names come and go...
sonny rollins and the story behind
the bridge... and how he would pretend to
but not pretend to... retire and go off and practice
on the bridge so as to not disturb his neighbours...
all the details are there: on the vinyl sleeve
from 1963...

now that's jazz... i don't even want to mind
how pretentious this might sound...
but... it doesn't in that: jazz is jazz in that there
might come some great improv. -
after all: it's all somewhat improv. -
   but you can't really make such basic
generalißations...
        speedy-shoom-of-a-choo-choo whizzing past...
schematic!
   classical music is all a priori...
                              jazz... it's all a posteriori...
how? when people phone in between
1pm and 5pm to classic.fm and they make requests...
they sometimes ask for something specific...
but usually... they vaguely allude to... a feeling...
something "uplifting" - play something "uplifting"...
ergo... there's this... a priori "item"(?)
in the music that's... an expectation...

          i do know what jazz sounds like
a quintent: drums, bass, piano, trumpet, sax...
yes... the guitar... asking the algorithm:
a quintet is five - what is six?
        sixtet - d'uh... sextet... well that's the basic
"i know what jazz sounds like"...
but with jazz there's always this lag...
it's this lagging behind:
    i don't exactly know what i'll feel until
only after i've heard it and in the meantime too...
jazz is all a posteriori -

while classical music for me is all a priori...
given that... it's not exactly improvised:
there's the orchestra, the movie, the script...
   and it's such a music that doesn't worship
itchy fingers of improv. - the stale or rather:
the head-about-to-explode of scoring the music like
a dissected **** of beef...
the cuts for the violins the cuts for the woodwinds...
more so: the almost shy drumming...
the wet-drumming... like rain playing
rattle fingers on tin (roofs)... or what rain would
sound like... if it was made from sand...
either way... jazz is a baggage...

hardly any sort of envisioning a journey from
(a) priori through to (b) posteriori -
and at least with jazz... you never have to really
cite who's playing... in a passing gesture
for all necessary bookmark purposes
of: where i am in the library of jazz...
unlike in classical music... where...
it's either Mozart, Beethoven or then again...
some obscure composer... perhaps ola glejlo...
but it's less about the music per se:
it's about the music of THE composer...
bonus marks for keeping to a rigid diet of one
and completing the herculean task of digesting
his entire oeuvre...

-       so i was walking past the most usual scene...
a car stopped... and she got out...
she must have been no more than 16 pushing 18...
the heavy make-up hid her otherwise boyish
contorts... a short black dress...
and as she got out of the cab...
she had her high-heel shoes in her hands...
   she was walking the cement barefoot...
i peered into her eyes... the lights were out...
perhaps her soul was screaming - perhaps this was
her first disappointment - and it was only... what...
not even 10pm on a saturday night...
my nights of youthful regret usually came after 3am
having to wrestle a berserker...
or how a dog looks like when it takes
to beer with a fond heart and only three legs...
god forbid but "they" would also cut my tail off
to further throw me off balance...
the walked passed and i looked into the cab...
a very, very nervous asian was looking at me
and then her... this didn't exactly look like...
she was ***** or was fighting to escape...
           aren't those scenarios usually stage in and around
woods - without any pedestrians walking past?
call it a trainwreck a carwreck...
                      or just running mascara...
that bad, eh?
at this point... society is a cruise ship...
and i'm stuck with ottis and none of that sentimentality
of the dock: running away with a bag of
chips wrapped in newspaper away from
seagulls... who... are apparently prone
to kleptoparasitism - a real thing... i swear to god...
the animals that want to eat in the realm
of trans-species... dogs have had their
kleptoparasistism repressed: crumbs from the table...
the chicken bones with hopes for
cartilege and someone who... is bad at
cleaning the flesh off the bone: pucker up...
move aside leech... watch this slurp...
ol' hank mobley and wayne shorter...
        one cascade after another...
5th beer in and...

yeah... so that's what a carwreck looks like...
for a girl in her late teens...
the cute black dress...
   getting out of the cab holding her high heels...
walking home barefoot...
she wasn't crying just yet...
but i could see puffy tender demon baron
of the soft cheeks readying to turn into
medussa's stare-grip... but not there yet...
this must have been her first time at "life"
and the night life and saturday...
         the cab driver looked scared shitless...
as if frozen in time... about to have his photograph
taken by a more sensible shadow of his...
i did think she just escaped a bad
session of prostitution...
but not even prostitutes look so ******* gloomy
as she did...

the ******* ***** it up -
the pundit ***** it up - the show goes on...
stage or no stage... an audience or no audience...
those eyes though... not yet crying...
but they felt... like wheeping oysters nonetheless...
you know when eyes are like that...
teasing bulging out... they appear dimmed
at first... but that's a dimming before
the sparkle of tears...
it's the 29th of febuary - yes...
mr. zodiac wasn't kind to those who still believe
in the horoscope but never tried
gambling on a winning team or horse...
it's still winter and those poor feet of hers...
she must have told the cab driver to stop...
hell... half a mile before she would get home...
a 6ft2 115kg sore thumb up with a beard
up ahead: stop! let me walk past him...
that's why i gave an inquisitive stare at the cab driver...
the cab driver was looking at me...
aren't the **** victims the ones jumping
out of the cab as it speeds off or whatnot?
so this was... staged?
              i read the "situation" wrong...
well no... i didn't find a lancelot in me...
there was no door to be held open...
           not tonight...
                                           i was in a mood for
beer and jazz... and luckily for me...
marvel of all marvels...
     haig club (1627) was sold at a bargain...
                        down from 25 quid to 16 quid...
goodbye excessive drinking the cheap *****...
hello: clubman haig... is it whiskey...
is it ms. amber... or is it chanel no. 5 -
                   is it whiskey or is it a perfume?
a snapper of a dinner standing-up...
   the scent of the last bite still on my moustache
even though i had washed my teeth...
the beer bottle opened - a drizzle on the hand
and then the hand smearing the liquid all over
the stinking hairs from an unwelcome scent...
i don't mind stinking like hops...
                  but hops is better than smelly food...

- regrets? ah yes... the "what if" universe at large...
that "whaf if" this and "what if" not...
"what if" yes and... when a man takes to walk
the street at night... he's only looking for empty
streets and... the hope of not seeing his reflection:
which is never about abruptly stopping
a cab and taking your shoes off
and walking in a tight-knit black dress
having met the world and...
                     was it heartbreak or just...
disappointment that... there are no unicorns
and she isn't daddy's precious?

any of the rudy van gelder editions...
                      "what if" i had more than just these
words... a barren wasteland of a flat
with no furnishings, not a book to call it a genesis
of a private library... not a single record
to play... no bed no curtains...
and she was the: honey-catch and snare and...
what if i were still in my late teens and
didn't have these invisible tattoos of historical
dates and the tattoos that riddle bones
that are... "habits of hygiene"...
      by hygiene i imply: ontological fixtures...
immoveable objects of accumulating my mortal
years for this formal circumstance of
the worst magic trick of all...
                   transient and... packaged elsewhere...
apparently going nowhere...

if this was a truly urban scenario...
but we're talking essex...
the outskirts of greater london...
if i bothered myself tonight i might go
to a place where i'd sit on a throne of a stump
of oak and listen to owls...
spot a rabbit, spot a badger... the foxes would
come of their own accord...
and perhaps even a deer or two... or three...
there's no glit of a picaddily circus romance:
when a girl decides to get out of a cab early
and put her porcelain toes on the wintry cement...
as if: supposing she be enticing me...
as i was thinking about the scared-shitless
cab driver...        

to have once upon a time believe in love:
the sort of love you'd see in movies...
but that's of course...
before you'd get a chance to see love...
in opera...
blue pill red pill... spiderweb of fiction...
blah blah...
watch the sort of love in movies...
then go and see an opera...
most notably verdi's la traviata...
  the movies fizzle out and you don't really
need to read this to begin with...
        i was in love once...
it was a love that was in love with itself...
          a mirage a carrot on a stick...
probably something akin to this sort of impromptu...
rescuing a girl walking barefoot home...
oh sure... happens almost every other saturday...

- the beer is for these musings, for the jazz
and for... cleaning the kidneys and a work-out
for the bladder... the shot-at-a-crescendo
will come with the haig club whiskey...
is 70cl really worth 25 quid?

- there's a difference between food with a USE BY date
and food with a BEST BEFORE date...
most notably goat's cheese...
once the best before date expires...
which is way way down the line from
the use by date... the cheese starts to taste
like... ash...

i should know since i know of the alternative
to doing shots of tequilla...
the salt is replaced with licking some cigarette
ash...
the tequilla is replaced with *****...
and the slice of lemon is replaced with
black peppercorns...

so i do know what ash tastes like...
piquant tastes: this omelette of an octopus and
of tongue...

- society is a cruise ship and i'm waving it goodbye...
welcoming a sunset of a sea as calm
as a mirror... telling my feet to take root
and stand... inaccessible...
otherwise... i am barren when it comes to having
some (h. p.) lovecraftian sensibilities from
maine... aloof and anemic... anemic with bloodshot
eyes...

- of course she isn't a mystery...
the narrative would run: the little match girl...
hans... hans! hans?! hans andersen is drilling
a hole into my head about... a woman walking
home barefoot...
yes... but she is walkig home...
unlike the little match girl...
and unlike the little match girl...
this girl was carrying a pair of shoes with her...
it's not my problem whether
i'm the sore thumb that "got in the way"...
a fork in the road: like any other fork...
like any other road...

do you have to reach being 34 to see these
teenage break-ups and regrets come and bump into
you after you've done...
that most spectacular feat of towing a backpack
full of glass for recycling?
where is one to recycle bones?!

- right not all the ***** in the world is...
something of an adhesive... a hitchhiker pollen...
a hard-on of: ****** yourself for a hard-on
just because even flapping a pancake will do right now...
to ease constipation whenever necessary...

- it's a torilla... but it's wrapped like a burrito...
well... it's a torilla... kultur shock -
sarajevo - the entry level shock-awe and
blitzkrieg of drinking from the fountain
of the Haig...

- second tier... to treat pornographic movies
like... early cinema... silent...
otherwise a return to the magazine form...
and the ripe imagination readied for:
improv... or... when was the last time
my left hand didn't feel like an oyster...
and an oyster didn't feel like a leash...
and a woman's ****** stopped being
an hour worth 120 quid? -

             - third tier... the haig club whiskey
is not worth 25 quid... it's over-rated...
you're basically paying for the bottle...
i'll stick to my guns...
only the irish know how to make whiskey
on these isles... bushmills: mellow, tame...
the picts have decided to lodge
a smoking salmon into their barrels to die...
i'm supposed to have an aftertaste of vanilla...
with all that smoke... i'd be happy to taste
hungary and smoked paprika! that would
be a bonus to boot! -

- i can appreciate the picts for trying...
but let's just leave brewing whiskey to the irish...
and let's keep the english away from hops...
they'll make an undrinkable ale from it...
never the lager...

   - armed with balkan rock... standing before
the h'american monolith of tongue and culture...
or... just before what's filtered for the export...

- no... of course i don't think h'americans are dumb...
i just think there's only a naive majority...
i'm going to find the vermin and huddle among
them...

- sooner or later we'll be calling the germans
come spring... for winter provisions...
"keeshond" or: hund... i much prefer the latter...
from under the iron curtain forged from
a broken jaw when biting the curb of:
under the silicon veil... nowhere else to go...
beside Ishrael...
                        
          remains of the ottoman - which is hardly
me put into an iron maiden of akimbo...
where's the geisha and the samurai?!

- is your beard long enough?
      like mine... i tease it... catch it with braille
cardinals: the thumb the index and middle fingers...
twirl it... wait for some thread to tie it together
into a hanging ******* of a bundle...
while at the same time:
          before you... a throng of vermin...
this beard... a magic flute!
the zenith of my thinking...
and ultimately: the nadir of any narrative
that might be inclined to escape and
not become 3D...

- i listen to songs in german...
i put on airs of pride - my chin starts to contort into
the moon's scythe and sickle...
even if the night is overcast with beard,
or cloud...

- then i put on a record that's 20 years old...
deftones' white pony...
and i remember being a teen...
hungry for hormonal diet...
a diet to stop the bones from aching
as they grew extra sprouts:
adverse to the skin and photosynthesis...
bones that were expected to grow
entombed... not in flesh...

- sketches from the gasoline additive when
it comes to a beer, starter...
otherwise: elite... gonna breed on top
of the general... pucker up the tremor for a vibrato
kiss and leech her lips off...
to expose her most pristine:
todlächeln -
                           not a chelsea grin...
the joker lapse... i mean... extending the shaving
lines and just, completely, forgetting there's
any botox involved to grow a peach
from a duck of the reinvention of
the deflating balloon...

   leave no selfie without it...
                   herr grinsen: die / das / die / das...
i keep forgetting the definite plural and
the definite singular... feelz... feels...
maximum impromptu: das bösartigwimmern...
anything in german at this point...
sounds better than...
wenigbruder englisch...
                       dies, mein krawatte beste...
alle schwarz alle weiß:
      say to me... nein pinguine willkommen...

anything to keep these mosquitos these
zeppelins away... alt vater großartig Schwab
from this... herd of minor dicta
of the children of the house of ßaß...
translated nomad from the high pressure
***** basin of:
later, trajectory... later... the yawn and canyon...
and the sky above...

- beer first... whiskey after...
shrapnel... and gasoline... no car... no speeding...
fast but otherwise still walking...

            - a hurrah and the cohort of a hum...
to match the echo of the centipede...
         the silence and otherwise the simplified
complications of a conversation...
the bed torn between *** and sleep...
between saturday sunday and monday through
to friday...
   and the need to drink with someone else...
"the need"...
          
the skulls breaks at the sight of sea-riddled-and-*****
cliffs... daggers persuaded to be forever sharpened...
the fiddly parts of ***** as accountants when
it came to the pennies, copper, and granules
of sand... seized: the rivers of time...
constipated shock value elevated...
                            
                                am i to find a lover when
the orchestra tells me...
these words will never find a dear sir / madam
or circle round for a yours sincerely...
                godzilla... the theme i remember from
the days when the japanese still had control over the beast...
otherwise... an overweight t-rex with...
arm extensions... the lotus feet of the chinese...
which also includes...
the savory diet of... tendering dog meat...
i.e. beating the dog to a plum softening...
which is: then again... not curing the already dead
curated meat...
life aware needs to be involved...
brick by brick brick on brick...
the status quo: made in china...

         cheap whiskey... although in an expensive bottle...
that is the haig club whiskey...
        so much for ezra pound admiring
the ******* ideograms...
what's to admire... when...
it ends up being a crude...
current latin emoji-infiltrated grafitti
equivalent to: CUL8R...
               chow-chuckle-mein-hong-shui-chew?
all that intricacy into the ideogram...
and all that remains is...
bat soup... and an advantage at playing
poker... omnivores...
you'd think that Islam would be...
more geared to break ranks among the omnivores...
like all the fickle gods... a good joke...
they abhor / are told to herd sheep
because: what sort of pig would survive the desert
and not become crispy bacon...
camels are fine too... as are their testicles...
never mind the pork leather shoes and pork
leather belts...
but the chinese omnivores are fine by
Allah: Muhammad & Co....

                               khadijah **** khuwaylid..
wrote the first surahs of the quran...
she was the literate:
the stephen vizinczey epitome:
                          in praise of older women...
last time i heard... muhammad was illiterate...
pray! that i've exhausted sympathy on
him being an orphan...
but not a ******* oliver twist thrown into
an orphanage! b'ooh h'oo...

                     the end... the whiskey isn't going
to drink itself;
as i have exhausted the patience of my bladder...
while there's the remaining concern
for a bewildering and a simultaneously
bewildered peacock... on the hunt for coy;
which is not exactly the darwinian daydream
of the short-hand greek alphabet...
the α-β male thermodynamic...
          the Σ-Δ female harem...
salmon swimming up-stream to spawn...
                             and... Ω-man / unicorn...
                     sha! schtil!

Ye evar 'eard oda' masta' inna swamps?
   E'a man hund wid 'is hands. . .take down a gator inna fide?
Yeah ah-boy, he a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.

Issue you'a hundin' widout a ricel? You's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.

Ain't nah trapping, nor'a line, no kedjewel, or time,
  -jussa' body inna swamp you's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.        

Swimmin' inna ***-eh got skin made-o' armah,
  -inna mud, inna grasses, eh-no teachin' it in classes,
strike wid juss a knife inna hand he's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.

Issue you'a hundin' widout a ricel? You's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.

No ricel, no Glock, no light out innna night,
  -jussa' body inna swamp you's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.

If you's can **** widout a ricel you's a Bone Alligator,
Bone Alligator
Bone Alligator.

Fingerprints and fibers,
Accumulated talk,
Whispers in the corners,
Bodies demarcated in chalk
On the marble courtroom stairs.
His misery became a pall.
With mourning signs in splattered pairs,
Red flowers on the wall.

All that he had left behind was grief
And powerless rage,
A Tansu chest in high relief,
A coiled brass clock fatigued with age.

Retreating to a white house in Simrishamn,
He’d walk his dog along the shore,
Find sterile clues amongst the sands,
And travel a ferry between two lands.

And now: An experiment! Blame Google Translate for this weird (?) Swedish translation: Please tell me if this is a bad translation!

Fingeravtryck och fibrer,
Ackumulerat samtal,
Viskar i hörnen,
Kroppar avgränsad i krita
På marmor rättssal trappor.
Hans elände blev en pall.
Med sorgsignaler i splatterade par,
Röda blommor på väggen.

Allt som han hade lämnat var sorg
Och maktlös raseri,
En Tansu bröst i hög lättnad,
En spolad mässingsklocka utmanad med åldern.

Att återvända till ett vitt hus i Simrishamn,
Han skulle gå sin hund längs stranden,
Hitta sterila ledtrådar bland sandarna,

ale czysto w tej E - U - Ρ - Ω - Π - J - Η.

islam leiben historie, nicht Ottoman,
Ottoman pseudo Khan, islam leiben historie:
eins, zwei, drei und vierte maulkor'bzeugè'naussagé
(sausage marathon); they love their history
mind you ψι and τρι...  kaganiec u stóp w
krok stu odpowiedzi w jedną droge:
raz jeszcze, w las i w cienie iglą tej tętnicy wybryk chęć
na gre, by zadać zbyteczne  pytanie! na odpowiedź
oskarzyć czas z wiedzą zegara,
i tą ostateczną, wartą końca, namylsnością...
ponownie oskarzyć jako począt narodu -
tylko golasa, warte imie kroka ka ka kar Kasymir'ah!
wedle Tsara, czołem w tło wymagań na wyryte
zapomnieniem lat: oddech'u Uzbeku chafta
wspomnień wiatru i chorongiew latawcy
jak niby urojen konceptu narodu...
ja człek tylko w psiarni! i tak powiem, tak,
wiara, panem na zbyt wiele pamięci Janosika
i Radio Maria;
o tyle czerpie zgon, ponownie, ponownie,
by ocalić, niby swiętego, i pogrzebać swój naród...
ale wstyd! wstyd! by ocalić jednego niby
swiętego, lecz nadać obszar rodem Polak'a
ponad Polske i w ramach Irlandie; jaki to wstyd
nawet ten mnie wart, co nie nada snu!
co za wstyd - nie warto umierać wiele razy,
kiedy ten ostatecny oznacza raz jeszcze -
                      *quo vadis, qua lectio? -
ten raz jeszcze, i ten ostatni, o tyle wiele poradni
przed wieloma nocami snu.

such is the idea of spreschen...
   that drummer from
the corrs's?
             that drummer *****?
   just reminds me of the year 1998...
and had i the resources to allow
her to reciprocate my "ambitions"...
i'd **** her so hard as to silence
   the bell-tower of westminster;
dog talk... huh?! keeping a tidy and
clean vocab will not make people
behave in the way you might
      consider mirror-image of the
use of words (in counter, via some
morbid staging of etiquette standards
left "in expectation")...
                   i'll talk *****, you do *****;
everyone happy?
                good... come the next genocide;
then i'll be in the choir of castratos:
gloria!         glo-ria!        hosannah in the ebb!
you can't but be sarcastic with these
people.

"And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"
- W. B. Yeats:  The Second Coming

Dachshund

Bred to burrow after badgers,
what's he doing here?

Terrorizing the underwear
behind my couch.

Is he a true hund,
or just a pan-fried sausage
with a Bluto chest?

I wonder what they called him
back then, in the Black Forest,
when dogs were dogs.

Tracker? Hunter?
Try: Baron Von Putt-Putt Tootsie Roll.

I'm Scot myself.
My people once sacked York.

No, this isn't York.
It's Plano, Texas.

Don't think a Dachshund and a Scot
can't sack Dallas from here.

Until then, we play our little game:
What rough ****** slouches toward my underwear?

His rooms is horribly boreing,
Pyscho if you ask me,
But what if we shifted points,
Id take the highest ground,
If only I could girls.
He has a boy,
One of those tall,
Tattooed voodoo doll
of a man, I wish,
Oh I wish there comes a day,
What a day it would be.
What happens now,
I probably do something about it.
Id probably sing the blues,
All over again until
The hang over you gave me goes away.
Hover, stick around to know that I am not
your sweet cakes, im not no honey bun twinky
love sunshine palm tree,
******* if you wanted to know
what I knew.  His hund drew the window down,
The car smelt like a boat,
Could of been,
My name is mary tonite,
Hes henry, the worst possible name,
It had to be henry,
Henry jesus, henry,
Big foot henry.  
Kept a steady speed all nite,
He didnt try anything funny,
But he could of made a move.
The results,
Call the winner for her turkey shoot price.
He started getting drunk,
Wow really,
The only thing stopping me from leaping
Out drunk from my body,
Was the fact that he had a beard,
Bearded turkeys,
We arrived at the gas station,
Someone had a confession to make.
I dont feel like a girl anymore.
Its ok your an independent woman.
You decide we needed a bag of ****.
The oldest friend I have agreed,
We needed ****,
Im serious,
Swirly ice cream cones at dq,
I have some on my nose, you wife it off
With a sand paper napkin, it feels like
Im addicted to boys like you,
Military, im in love with one,
This time,
Im considering what I need to do.
My friend from band is having a crisis,
Frank died with the gunmen,
Low mobility god brought,
*******, do something more creative,
Cheap, your the cheapest ******* I know.

End of part 1

Fanwisdom gedachting a hearth-billow in my Herz
Ich hab' gedacht it fairer still to know
Than amongst dein Welt it predisposes is perplexed aloof
Extraños kann nicht go where I must go

And von und an die spinniest of Hund
In peril and with Angsty tougher Hands
Will not crepuscular desecration sofort ensue
Für nichts ist wichtiger nur ein Liebling mood

Versucht wir probs and totes adorbs
But still zu schieße tired and hasst to sein
Während wir sollen in the proper sense
Man oh yeah das Man sagt en vino absorb'd

Was wicked waste and After it schmeckt schleck
Über ist nicht was es ich verpassen now
Most mehr mit Menchen kommt wieso I ask?
Wenn wo I know it is so very untoward to cow

Kuh oder a coo cannot redeem from drain
Zeit and Mal scent rempeln us all or push
Klar we cannot stop the starkest Zug
Nor yodel holler up the lane for ****

And just wenn denkst du, dass eyes is mad
Know that for Worten the harshest Lebens macht
To get you just to see and versehe sum
Unwertens none of us will ever be ich gedacht

. i arrived from communism, and then came across the western stigmata of post-colonialism... i tried to think of something, then i began to, "forget" my tongue... migrant Pollacks: or at least the ones that i know... don't tend to congregate... but it broke the camel's back... a people moved, ingrained with a Germanic proverb that taught them both communism & arbeit macht frei... and the english just couldn't compete... i remember taking my grandmother to the hospital with my uncle: yeah, i know, having family relations is deemed ******, backward... and i met this one Pollack... worked a stint of five years in a recycling factory... guess how he made a living? he collected *** toys from the conveyor belt... washed them, packed them, and then resold them to the unsuspecting public "back home"... funny... me? i'm pretty conscious of my recycling... to recycle glass? i have to walk a decent worth of a kilometre... drop the bottles, remember my staple menu: whiskey, some pepsi... he called the anglos: over-sexed... me... slav... me vork... me do nut-in else... be good, yes? then something like ****** blut song comes out, and i start to feel... perfectly normal... too bad that my grandfather was a communist party member, indoctrinated to even involuntarily cry died... i've met one Greek at university who made it adamant that Istambul was to be called Constantinople... like i dated a Russian girl, a monarchist... who said: the evil that happened at the gates of Hermitage... and i'm supposed to congest, all of this, like a 5 year old's worth of a sponge for a mind? hmm... interesting! i'll do my best... so why is england filled with so many accents? psst... it has no diacritical markers... not clear syllables... the french did one better... they did a bigger ****-up of their language for a sense / purpose of syllable clarity, but they used diacritical marks... or at least... applied them, for no other reasons other than a pedantic aesthetic... buffer-zone extraordinaire... the pollack... in England "we" were the ethnic group that caused Brexit... oh... i know so... hard to compete with a people who were first subjected to the maxim arbeit macht frei and subsequently the communist project to put brick on brick and let Warsaw stand, re-erected... frankly? i go back to Poland, having to experienced my parent's self-imposed exile... and i feel... nausea... back in England i much succumbed to my isolation... a society like a prison... i just... kept... forgetting to succumb to clinging to a "mein besitz(en)"... so i left satellite status extension of the Soviet experiment, and i, come, zu dieses?! i forgot to cling to roots... i forgot there was a community of similis hund... i learned the language, perfecting it to the point, where, i awoke a desire to strangle myths into submitting, by licking the wounds of the deutsche zünge in the mass graves at Ypres... i've become a namesake akin to konrad I of masovia... or a sacrificial lamb... readied to experience both the land, the culture and the language of a post-colonial people, namely the English... and to, return, to die land und die volk... shrouded in anonymous robes... the integral part of the hive... and then shoved back into English society, citing my observations of the limitless curiosity of the paradox between the universal... and no longer the particular, but the individual... under psychiatric scrutiny... should anything normative allow me to settle with the rest of the people consumed by and involved in the stated times, the tide.


               to find air bubbles
in the general crust
of staring at
a blank piece of
                            "paper"
or as i like to call it:
peering into
           an eye of Belzeebub...
pixel fabric...
        listening to some
of the concerns of the natives...
awful east...
          when the Hebrews left
Egypt they didn't conquer
by simply subjecting
the bodies of the conquered...
the minds
and their high-esteem "geometric"
variants, pillars,
of the gods...
           came along with them...
thank you, dear ***...
for peering into phoneticism
of your sacred word...
the one word that i will not
utter, before i will utter
a racial slur...
      for no apparent reason,
me: not involved
in what could give me relief...
   bound to...
    believe me...
every time i go back
to "inspect" the homogenous
society
of Poland...
       i sense a bidding
to return to
             my beloved England,
reason?
   sure... the atomised man...
but the same man already
atomised out of a coherent
existence
and what could have been
his basic principles
for the motiff of freedom,
and will...
             de facto:
                            isolation
from a presupposed belief
in a superiority in not
congregating
    with my "kin"...
         in England...
adequately...
the pollacks hide...
            rat-like...
              i know i do...
but every time i make
a public stunt a congregation
of weirdos convulse
me to speak...
                   how else would
you mingle the music
of tasmin archer
   and... something akin
to wumpscut?
       you know...
once upon a time...
psychiatrists were called
alienists...
               in England...
bilingualism can be deemed
schizophrenic...
        i don't mind the mind-numbing
drugs to give me the:
nod nod, nod nod...
          i can find myself
content the next morning
having punched myself
   to sleep the previous night...
oh... slight plum brush-stroke
just beneath my eye...
   outrage of emotion...
   **** me...
   i tend to appreciate feeling
something, and keeping my mouth
shut about it...
         sedition...

pauper i...
                    a feeling of gravity
bound to a melancholic complex
of a claustrophobic heart...
a constriction...
        and pang...

             just like:
i'd love to appreciate the dream
medium: within the safety
confines of the unconscious
to counter having to think about
taking a psychadelic...        
to alleviate myself
from measures surrounding:
"the quick fix"...

              or as due to the now...
writing for a purpose
of toying with per se...
        for a completion
of uninhibition
            from the constraints
of language
     by those who...
               could not pass
through this sly narrative ploy
of concentrating
on the a priori ad priori ex nihil...

i'm a mongrel of a contained
animation...
   thank god that death is an
excuisite
       subjective experience
waiting for me...
   and nothing but the dry
objective fact
         of...
                       the trodden body,
the vague sense of reality
within the confines
of stating the animated body...

diatribe... sure...
if poetry was to be a burden
on the cohesion of
grey everyday language,
i would have
begun with a

dear sir / madam

...........................
...........................
..­....................................
............................­.........
...................................

and ended with

   yours sincerely,
                              then it would
have made sense...
      i do know how to
make the tongue formal,
  but, for the matter at hand...
******* Kandinsky et al.

tattoo the word Holocaust
onto the palm
   of every African-American....
and wait...
  Apache!
           hood crux pixie...
        ****** addicts in Westplate....
        and wait for a century...
give it 100 years in Auschwitz...
               or give it ***** hope for
a pear....
                           and then i'd too
coagulate into custard phlegm...
             auf wiedersehen lenin...
   contort hippie named contra...
               armed boa:
and that handshake...
                        hoarce Horace!
                  shatayin bigger, bottom-blob
bound into eminem....
                          and it was always
to be dirtied by luck...
                fetish...
   dodged and the dog and cameod
the crucifix...
                                       igloos in egypt:
senf (mustard) gaz (gas): khaki
                  diarhhea.  
                        gravitas in the grün...
mein iris... regen bonne hund!
                                    volphren kind...
                   prunes of y in iota said: dried out
kynd...
and pirates toward a je - taime calculator:
taming the berserk stierhund...
                                 bison-knirschen:
hans klaus -
                              myth-gate ᛋᛋ...
              bolt and Zeus...
                                 i am: heritage +.
              Croatian nazis....
                                  nicht, nic, die volk.
annehmen steuern... katakombe denken...
                          ᚠᚨᚱᛟᛖ ᛁᛋᛚᛖᛋ...
told: by a hobbit... or originating from Dublin:
****'s sake!

i truly must have had one of those, very, very memorable nights, that i somehow also want to forget, so implant myself with false memories, oh, i've seen this done in a clinical environment, in psychiatry: it's called regression - a psychiatrist will call you up, he or she might have a handy student overseeing the "interview"... then he / she might insert a sort of: on the whim / "by the way" a speaking out-loud, referring to you in third person... e.g. oh... he was abused as a child... again.. to reiterate, today i woke up thinking i was screaming into the deafness of the night, not screaming via de profundis... more like... vitriol energy screaming: you ******* idiots! but i have proof... a nice, plum of an eye-sore... no mascara could do it justice... so it must've been a decent drinking session... my father just asked me... who gave you that LIMO... slang in ****** for a black-eye... LI-MO... thrill! i can find that in katakana: look at me go! ****... on L in Japanese... no trilling of the R either... WONG, WONG WONG.... let's see...  ha ha... oh but there is... you just have to be a rat, scuttle around the "palace" for a while... リ゜
                       モ
so when asked: who gave you the black-eye? i replied...
i was having issues with my shadow, who else?
i was punching myself in the head so hard, hey presto!
plum! ha ha...i always blame the shadow, we're always wrestling, no drinking session without a proper, fighting antagonism, the day  my shadow stops punching me, i, imagine, is the day some woman will come round and: ha ha... "kiss it all better"... for the time being... i like punching myself, i like... putting out cigarettes on my knuckles... masochistic little art of pseudo-algebra: X here, XXXX in total... it's always a good drinking session when i loose control, it usually happens when something is infuse... some minor biopic concerning Ted Bundy will do it... the erotica: YA-WN... i'm still trying to get paid... capitalism: sure... for some... i'm waiting... if they only pay me, properly... self-employed or PAYE (pay as you earn)... no one has bothered to clarify this with me... capitalism for some... i'll work, **** it... but the idea of bungee-jumping from some high building... no... not too alien... i can stomach the gravity, the thrill... i know that upon impact i'll meet sigma... alias of soul... my body's rent to begin with... no worries... i think i punched myself in the face since tomorrow i'm doing a stewarding shift up in Oxford... **** know's who's playing... i just want the supervisors to see my face... my whittle plum sore... if asked obviously i won't be telling them: i had an argument with my shadow... got in a fight, in a pub, self-defence... blah blah... oh no no... this metaphysical paradise belongs to me, to me: alone!
i almost feel terrible drinking this litre of bourbon,
you can't get better bourbon than ol' Jacky-boy'oh...
every time i open a bottle of bourbon
i'm reminded of the sort of perfumery you'd
most associate with a brothel -
bourbon scents = brothel scents...
bourbon is most certainly better than whiskey...
wait... no it's not...
bourbon is sweet whiskey...
i'm not much of a Laphroaig sort of guy...
come to think of it: on the spot...
i'd prefer a smoky whiskey... a Scotch whiskey
than this... sickly sweet bourbon...
perhaps i shouldn't have done
the no. 1, 2 & 3 (****, ****, *******)
& the no. 4 (the "baptism") prior...
sometimes you start drinking & absolutely nothing
feels right... i think my socks are stinking...
pregnant woman sensitivity to scents,
to tastes? do i really want to eat some cappers
or some gherkins to reach a counter balance
to this... sweetness...
i still haven't checked my newly set up bank
account regarding whether i've been paid
for my stewarding at stadiums...
o.k., o.k., think about going to the brothel...
let me just hope
i can sooth my disgruntled little self
with some decent d.i.y. music choices...
               or... if i get enough in... it really will
not matter what i'll be drinking by the end
of it...
Laphroaig... well... it's a bit like Marmite...
you either love it, or hate it...
i'm undecided... like i'm undecided about
bourbon... any other day i'd be loving it...
today... i'm undecided...
  perhaps i'm just used to drinking cheap whiskey,
cheap generic stuff...
i elevate the drinking experience by romancing
it: fraulein bernstein (ms. amber)
& mr. whiskers... etc.

- it really just takes a cigarette break & looking up
at the night sky... oi! baldy! where's that
old ******! never mind, but a night sky without
the moon is always an ugly night...
now i know what's up...

why did i watch no man of god today?
i had company when watching this movie...
but... how many more, how many more *******
movies about Ted Bundy? sure...
the movie was more about the FBI profiler
Bill Hagmaier... but still...
do we really need yet another movie about
Ted Bundy?! o.k. i know a little...
his mother had him out of wedlock,
he was raised on a lie: his mother was his "sister"
while his grandmother was his "mother"...
i dated a Russian girl for a while...
when i met the goons, sorry, her family...
way back in 2007... in St. Petersburg...
i was given the Ted Bundy introduction...
her mother was her sister...
her grandmother was her mother...
         what a freak of a woman: great ****...
tattoos and piercings...
she did this one number on me...
all scabs on her lips...
imitating the singer from hed(pe)...
wait... i'll look him up... jared gnome-head...
no offense: jared gomes...
all scabby... i implored her... take them out...
i implored her... cut those ******* dreads...
she complied to the point of...
proposing to me... she even chose
the ******* engagement ring...
she wanted me to get a tattoo... i refused...
even though she was this upstart tattoo artist
in the making...
she wanted me to get dreadlocks:
again... i refused...
thank **** that i disappeared from Edinburgh
and headed back down to London...
Ilona: thank you for introducing me to
BULGAKOV... i really enjoyed that book...
esp. reading parts of if
on my wait from St. Petersburg through
to London with a stay at Warsaw...
eh... as much as i love Dostoyevsky...
how he belittles Polacks every time he gets...
not to my taste...

2007... a pivotal year...
to cite Jung from the Answer to Job...
perhaps there are some female readers
in my audience, perhaps the Zodiac is to be minded...
this quote...
Luciferi vires accendit Aquarius acres -
Aquarius sets aflame Lucifer's harsh forces...

a lot has happened since... 2007... don't you think?
oh, look-look... she was an Aquarius,
i am still a Taurus... but that break-up...
my god... what a harsh trip...
i remember walking up to her apartment armed
with a guitar... about to play her a serenade...
REJECTED: ha ha...
pushed back by her ex-boyfriend she was
******* and her ex-boyfriend's friend...
a Russian... ha ha... oddly enough:
called: GERMAN...

it's so almost yesterday... i can sigh a sort of relief
from this memory...
it's good to remember...
i never sought out that quality of forgetfulness...
i want to remember... i cherish memory
above thought... it's theatre...
i want to... remember... select...
what... i want to remember...
so that it can have a recurrent presence in my mind
like... that drill "sergeant" of
pedagogy that instilled 2 + 2 = 4 into me...
the ******* alphabet...

now i know why i have this bad taste
in my mouth from drinking bourbon...
it's not that i'm drinking bourbon...
i love bourbon...
when the Scots took the smoky route...
the Irish took the mellow route...
arriving at bourbon years later:
and on a different continent...
                                     do, i, look, bothered?!
i hope i do: i (might) also hope that you might
"think" i do... but... you're not, you don't
(seem to be)...
so? back to sq. 1: 'ere we go...

mighty fun playing the ******* or are least
pretending to be one...
akin to... pseudo Jack Nicholson
in that cameo role of his as
enrolled by: actor playing actor playing
an actor: Keith Allen...
Bodies... Dr. Tony Whitman...

me, you...Joseph Roth &
the doppelgänger, right & "who" else?!

now i know... that cigarette break really helped...
the bad taste in my mouth...
of course! i must be drinking h'american liquor...
i knew something was up...
couple h'american liquor with watching
no man of god i.e.
not another Ted Bundy flick... o.k.
women are attracted to psychopaths...
wannabe cannibals... fair, *******: enough...

black culture is superior to white culture...
sure... white people are ******* gagging
to incorporate it...
inter-sectionality always existed within
the confines of religion: religion was
always post-modernist... given the current trend
of "thinking": it always... incorporated
outside influences to create a cohesive:
snowball effect... what's ******* new?
discovering the continent of America in a tin
of ******* sardines?!

there's no tree, there's no dog barking...
you're just asking for a a wrong type of a mental
gymnast to make some, weirdly allocated,
point, of ref....
i'm not doing it... god help anyone...
no... not even the ******* devil would get into
this much... anti-fascinating sort of "juice"...
i wouldn't...

o.k. now i know...
i was drinking this most, bountiful of a fully-bodied
red wine yesterday...
a south african 2020 shiraz...
by the name of arabella (name sounds familiar...
an arctic monkey's song?!)
origin: western cape...

i think i must have mentioned
smoky whiskey vs. bourbon...
well... this glass of red was so good...
i had to breathe some nicotine smoke
into the glass... let's go... full out theatrical
on this: "blood"...

to reiterate... why so many movies about Ted Bundy?!
modern ******* is so...
******* ugly... even in the brothel i would never
want to **** women like the women ******
in *******... ****?! come on...
******* with the addition of choking?!

as a child i had a categorical dislike for liver,
pork liver... semi-goulash
with onions... with the addition of mash
& gherkins... or pickled beetroots...
this sort of material, this sort of ***...
puts me off...
i scratch my head and think:
Abel... because H'america was built on
the CULT of CAIN... their fascination
their celebration of serial killers...

prior to mentioned...
America is a CULT OF CAIN...
i'm with the Iranians on this...
     three names congregate...
Kurt Cobain... shot himself in the head using
a shotgun... sure... that's one way to go...
but... shooting yourself in the head...
doesn't simply "solve" the matter...
recall...
   Chrstine Chubbuck *** Adndrei Chikatilo...
bullet to the head...
for both...
a quote from Bane... a Batman fictional character:
perhaps he's wondering:
why someone might throw a man...
out of a plane... before shooting him in the head?!
why would you shoot someone
in the head... in an empty prison cell?!
if you were not expecting them to rot?!
best explored with the added tenderness added
to the attempted suicide attempt of the incel
that Ms. Chubbuck became?

why not make more movies about
the Zodiac killer... anyone?!
oh, sure... here's me readied to ******* to little
Wisconsin... or... **** knows where!

i was having some d.i.y. d.j. issues...
thought experiments... undogmatic & kernfeld...
"issues": yeah, i couldn't remember the song's name...
no, wait, the artists...

last came... the origins of the niqab hebrew
vowels...
the: hmm...
come to think of it... there's more...
such is the nature of hidden things...

Adam Kadmon [tetragrammaton(s)] apex...
Atzilut (nearness)
Beriyah (creation)
Yetzirah (formation)
Asiyah (making)...

vowels like diacritical markers...
caron, tail... umlaut...
well... for the Hebrews...
   A - kametz...
    E - tzere -
    I - chirek
   O - cholem
   U - Kibbutz... some others... i will miss...

the study of vowels, though...
since they are hidden...
the entire concepts of vowels in Hebrew...
the niqqud...
i ask... looking down at the chiromancy...
of, my... right, hand...
did not the vowels arrive in "our" consciousness
via the Sefirot root / branch of...
the Malkhut?!

    Adonoy... you know... when the current people
perform *** & it's so ******* off-putting:
primarily because... they talk...
during *******...
&... i don't want to be talking during ***:
why invoke / invite "god"?!
they can't... Niqqut / Malkhut the deed...
o.k.... not that i'm ******...
just... mildly annoyed...

      you don't need to **** & speak at the same
******* ****'s sake time!

Europe... some weird ******* funnel for
the world to congregate around...
white women... white women and their *******
sado-masochism...
the cult of cain in america...
white women and their afro-****-boys...
cry wolf while i go around arming myself
with Thai surprises& Turkish delights...

i oust my shadow from my presence
with a few drop-dead plums in search for "light"...
imagine me punching a woman silly to
later reason wth me...
oh... but no one is going to say anything about
me punching myself silly "SOY"..
been my: bean my baby?!

      now' the time i hark, now's the time i bark...
now's the time i fill the night with a stomach's
worth of...              GRUNT..
indigestion...

       die stücke, bewegen sich!
schach, ja?! nein?
                       was ist die alternative?!
hund?! leine?!

The hard voices from soft people.
The soft rumble from hard vehicles.
Watered down by the rain.

Ruffled leaves, the dead remnant out of the horizontal, sticking.
The wind bends the barren tall trees out of vertical, time is ticking.
By.

Curled like a baby safe from harm,
He carry's his shoes up in his arms,

yet his short cropped hair and uncovered head
are soaked by the rain and he stops to give a shake,

after he points his finger and speaks to the apparition,
as drugs drift through his blood, and find his nerve
endings.

But his soaking socks wet from the sidewalk awash slap
in the the rain, are what attract the eye from across
the boulevard, one hund-
red one feet or more

away

it is plain,
he is having a bad day, which seems normal for him, for even the
telephone pole talks back, some insane day beginning.

To another long night.

Aj pre wedding c meri
Ik ik pal tu hi c samne
Menu ta usde wich bi tu hi dikh rahi c
Dil wi dhadak reha c
Te jaan bi nikal rahi c
Miss bi ena kr reha c
Har har pal tenu soch reha c
Ki agar apna viah hunda ta ewe hunda
Ewe hunda, uwe hund
Fee jado sham
Nu ghar chlea c patiala to
Sachi bada roea me car wich
Uchi uchi gaane laga ke
Mang reha c maafi
Pata nai kisto mang reha c
Mafi
Dua wi mang reha c marn di
Ki accident ** jawe mera raste wich

Looking Up
A  Beautuful Ring  Of Mystery
Dark Cloudy Smoke with a
Blossoming  Interior

Calmly enjoying the Look
Startled.. Suddenly
Fire!!
High  Above the Ground
Nuclear Explosion
Except It Wasn't
Just  Below on the Hillside
Wall of Uncontrolable Fire
Moving  Quickly
I heard Myself Speaking on the Phone
Asking. Throwing the phone down, Running..
The Road Now Cut off
Car  Driving Quickly Quickly
Over  rocks and Sandy Sage
Uphill SideWays  Desperate
No Road. .. Running
Seeing
Like It was Frim A Chopper
First an Antelope, a Deer,  a Hund
Running
Looking
Running

They Saw Me
From Above
Shared On Facebook
LOST.....IT said

But They Found Me
Corralled  
Marked on a Map
A World Population Map:

Skills
Capabilities
Where Aboutd
Demeanor

Suddenly
I wondered
Are We Going To get Hit By An Asteroid?
Or Is THIS
A Giant Prison Camp
The Gulag
Of The  Next Tyranny

What Veil?
Hidden In A Consciousness
Already Known

Mapped  As An Animal
Protected As A Child
None An Accurate Portrayl
Or Was It
Just a Different Point of View

Vetted
For Extermination
On A Dying Planet
FOOD ORDER

We MET YOU LONG BACK
we came on the same grounds
Looking for a flair
That glassed my ice cake
******* surprise, keep the cherries in the cherubs
bush takes
Away  the difference
We came for hoes to just line silver

En kant er blød når den vil det
Og huden kaotisk som et verdenskort
Se de tegnende børn i toget
De ser verden så meget mere
Gennem lange spørgende og eftertænksomme blikke
Farvelægger de venskaber
Med kyshånd synger de en venlig tone
For de tanker voksne glemmer at tænke
Se dog vandet hvorfor falder det fra himlen
Hvorfor kan man ikke få luft når man holder vejret
Se min navle den er en knap
Tryk på den så danser jeg til jeg falder om til du ikke længere kan besvare
Hvorfor vi ikke falder om når jordkloden drejer sig
Og falder i søvn
Og hvordan ved man at en hund ikke siger som en ko
Når de er lige gode om at være tavse

Det var länge sen, vi såg varandra
En dag som jag aldrig kommer glömma
Vi satt på soffan hos mig, det var lugnt då
Två själar i ett ***, verkligen lyckliga och fria
Åtminstone, jag minns att det kändes så
Vi tittade på en film, vars titel jag inte kommer nämna
För att det är för svårt att komma ihåg detta
Så svårt att fokusera
När det finns en sån tjej som sitter så nära
Ett ansikte, en kropp, en sinnesstämning, idealiska
Jag kunde inte sluta begrunda
Jag håller på att ordna och skriva
Allt som virvlar just nu i min hjärna
”Jag har tur!”, kan jag väl påstå
För sen, vi gick till sovrummet och fick komma
Så nära som natur kan tillåta
Under en natt som blev den tredje och sista
Innan du bestämde dig att flytta tillbaka
Nu, känns det konstigt för att du är borta
Är det ett riktigt minne eller drömde jag?  
Livet är som en berg- och dalbana
Som man inte riktigt har kontroll på
Fast, det finns en sak som du kan göra
Varje dag, ta ett steg baklänges bara
Utan att titta över axlarna
Titta hellre upp på himlen, du kan gärna stirra
Kanske ser du åter en hund som rider en sköldpadda
Tänka på mig och börja skratta
Tills du är tvungen att sluta gå
För det finns nån som står i vägen
Nån som kanske gjort detsamma
Med ögonen fast på molnen
Om jag skulle vara helt ärlig, måste jag avslöja
Att i hemlighet, hoppas jag det blir jag
Det låter självisk förstås, det vet jag
Men det är väl min dikt så jag får bestämma
Resten av historien kommer jag inte berätta
Det är bara att tänka sig
”Den som lever får se”.

la isla bonita
&
material girl

                  
    FIN

caam sigh....

say

      letto....

                    ISRK FINN!

LOP LA LOOPS

                        LETTO!

AYE FIN!

                                         ISRK FINN!


DE                      HUND

no..., fervor, you're
not welcome,
       nein! nein!             nein!

nicht ich lüge für sie!

       gemacht durch haufen!

hello!
           'allo!
doppelt-deutsch(e)....

   kommen alle sie:
                       alle sie
                   deutsch(e).

die letztebefreier:

   was kann
          kommen
   kann gehen....

   oh, oh what?!

...the fewer that die: the more the chance to chirp-and-borrow... sparrows' crown... a grand avenue of image... some detail of narrative... no boarded-up thomas mann solipsism-esque: if i too had... a bedroom cork-lined... i'd post a request: in deviating from time, predictably "lost"... and keeping with a tradition of: space, less frequented - thereby not exactly harrowed with ownership... passed from one sentiment (ladder) to the next gluttonous serpent... as much as there was a "search" and a... "lost time"... missing the train... in search of that missed-timing and open spacing... a sober nuance... a drunk's circus... time regained: all that, which encompassed not reading the book - working from bribes... that narrative so compact... it would have to shame and shun an otherwise ideally eternal: stack of brick.

at a time when so few are dying in conflicts
of known iraq...
and... will this be one of those:
grandiosity statements that leaves
everyone exasperated?
yes... people seem to find their dog's tail
their tongue waggle so freely now:
when so much seems to have gone
so terribly wrong -
            compliance to: "the good of the people"...
when iraq was...
and what it was was also something
similar to libya -
           but i hardly think i need to
pepper my words with over-politicised
statements... i'd much prefer the use
of italics - if anything...
       yes... i am reading some horace i am
reading some ovid and i'm looking
for a memorable line - even a couplet
that's... d'uh... a couplet because it rhymes...
something akin to...
the basic categories of food:
sweet, sour, salty, bitter...
              umami...
                      i need some garnish...
i guess there might be: fudgy / doughy...
why dairy is not invoked?
  i hope to never know...
       i want to forget the point where
i find myself writing and not
eating -
i know i am missing a certain category -

i was in a park today... trying to walk off
a strained plantar fascia -
bench cigarette swedish cider...
a glory to the perfumes of autumn:
finally i can test my nose
on this fine fine palette...

       an old woman approached me
as i was gesticulating with my leg outstretched...
'i was almost assured to find you
being the owner of the dog
that ran across my path...
later the field... but then again: it was
a fox... i think...'
it wasn't a memorable conversation:
except for my reply...
'oh no... i wasn't the owner of this
said dog...
i have a shadow for a dog...'
and how politely she bid me farewell...

again: it's not bungee jumping...
it's this forever unspectacular everyday...
i like this unspectacular everyday
when one can exercise language
beyond mere formality / courtesy...

i have yet to crown myself with
relish with conversation -
that i always will staging an impromptu
that leaves the conversed with
either form of tornado or
butterfly -

            it's not a familiarity it's not
unlike a face that will be lost
under the random nature of memory
being too the erasure...
flaming 2 + 2 = 4 or some other
less mathematical and more
pronounced use of letters coming
to the fore: prominent...

my past time would be summed up
with looking approachable and
dwelling in the riddle of old age...
i know it will somehow catch up with me...
but not yet...
it's this sensibly non-oratory:
plagues of verbiage: how else
to fashion congesting the experiencce:
extracting the most of the essence
allowed...

                   like so... 'mein schatten
ist meine hund' -
   no evil cat ladies 'ere...
    no piquant scenting of feline ****...
i do admire the convenience
of having no purpose for
a leash or a muzzle...
                if i could pet a crow....
i wish i could...
but what good is (a) petting
of a crow: what good is a cage
or wings: for that matter?

       i have to return to a quasi-meditation:
to endear death with a personification:
even a consciousness where
i a *****: where i a foetus -
after all: mother dear...
       i will be born into a magic
act of mortality: i will cease to make
myself "relevant"...
perhaps that's how i musst see
death: come this faking of autumn drap...
autumn is probably...
no... nay... no... autumn is when
i arrive at: believably alife -
                                          livid: concern
with variation to the letter,
i leathered - worn and torn and
a *** life among bodies that
are amiable and dough-esque
and nothing of this tyranny of porcelain
beauty...
touched would: "someday"
decide upon... shattering into
a thousand little pieces...

        i like this testimony for
the marriage to the mediocre...
my little interlude on a bench
with a sore tendon... somehow has
to find graces among so much
abundance only a sniff's distance away...
i wish i invented the burning
colours of decay: i'd want
to bask in the colours of a dying light...
i'd want: to stand statue-esque
among the trees when
they start to imitate
forest vermin...
and begin their great adventure of
foraging....
                 such pristine economics
of nature such as these here presented:
i languish for a delight in summer...
the air is gushing with
  a thickness of indistinguishable allures:
most certainly the readily concerned
with footprints on a beach:
amnesia counter memory
counter all that pedagogy acid...

                 i open a can of synthetic
imitations of blackcurrant, raspberry...
it's swedish it's not...
accustomed to... an idea that...
synthetics' must! a pairing of apple
and mint... could be turned into a cider...
less a juggling act of two bold
statements of fully-bodied extracts...

well free lunch on me:
i can actually be somewhat poo-antic friendly
should drinking be invoked...
for the world to be this instilled -
i'd require... moi: imitation
araignée...
   the bench and its vicinity the web...
comfortably old passersby my
flies... out of no ill will:
dogs and the elders approach me:
i am yet to find myself having
said something formidable...
      
                but... if it isn't that...
i have to settle on creating something...
passable - pardonable - quirky to the point
of allowing the opposite party
no counter inclination:
there is no need to stipend an
obviousness / revoke-...

             i don't want to use a language
of either impetus or... categorical narratives...
oh look... shelter me from having
spent 3 years digesting... ah'ant(K)...
well... impetus or imperative...
jurisprudence is plagued / peppered
with synonym usage: through and thorough...

i'm still thinking: well... there's no colour
to this meagre body...
there is no shape for rummage among
dough of stone sorrow settled
for the eternity of rain: and rhyming...
a borrowed journalism of sort:
an extract at best... and that's what i must
settle for...

    it can't have accent of a certainty:
arrived at... it can't be a: denotation clarity:
hey! my name's a'bob!
no... but hardly a tactic to
exfoliate in pretentiousness -
i do have to stress that:
i somehow do... drift into this variant
of impromptu -
   i allow language its own ills
that are not befitting to a linear-ality of
topic...

                to think: this world so complex
would allow an individual to...
somehow not match it...
make synchronicity with it...
        that language has to borrow:
sharpened flints and all those base
equipment leverages to...
merely appease...
  it can't! it simply can't! be this...
celebration of: a language peacocked with
when thrown into the glorification
of tongue-tied of mediocracy...

    oddity... i am starting to grow fond
of... kæ tempest -
                  "europe is lost"...
                   unless looking for lithuania
unless looking for kosovo..
unless looking for poland ukraine
unless looking for moldova...
unless looking for: work ennobles...
work is the bone the drudgery...
unless looking for post-colonialism
unless having to make
******* tongue: poet the atlas...
the nugget treat of looking
through a microscope at society...
            unless you haven't...
woken up in a little ol' england
when having to settle for flee...
              
polar bears in poland? do these people
have access to sea?
the youth of england
come 1998 when i toyed with
the cheapest of cheap jokes...
but... there weren't any jokes:
just choking...
              i came here this tongue
is... i am arrival... an... arrival at...
bigger desires for
yet another picburger...
               пицбургэр
fake-burger... no not nothing-burger...
but most certainly not:
my tongue this: mine...
this will not belong to a zeitgeist...
this will not be scratched or later
sheltered with for:
a tongue that was used as shovel
to unearth the dead from:
the already sediment membrane
riddled clay o dough...
           custard blues no smart talking
from south london...
no need to shuffle to lay on
prompt...
              
to be this pulverised by word and image....
instilled in noir and summaging
whitey -
there's the same sterile prone to
state brick: beside those that crease
plumbing gifts and grit...
the in between us people that want
to itch with words and have
insomniac thinking -

          that i haven't stolen anything:
but acquired this tongue...
from no beside this little nostalgia for
an agony aunt...
      no... recantation from a hill-top
and a grave...
   i am not prone to speak an exhaustion
from a borrowed atlas pose...
  i have this little tongue o' me...
this little cravat sort of a pedantic
  detail...
                 i want to own the echo
and the footsteps...
              politicians have been saving
society with oratory-:
            at best: kept distance...
a byproduct of niche...
             a very local sort of extraction
process that hitched a ride on
the blues...
   and left the originators in a
stateless limbo-la-la-land...
               the thieves came and...
           by a vain-glory joke accumulation...
the readied smouldering
slab of pork... was left... untouched...
i beg to wonder:
         what was the intent
and the hunger...
                                it was oh so familiar
once upon a time.

the pre anglo-saxon england:
this arthurian myths of:
   some celtic bride and some leftover
legionnaire regaining status:
or gaining status -

pre anglo-saxon england:
oh god... that cocktail of celts and
the welsh...
well: it's anglo-saxon england
that entertained the vikings...
and later the vikings that settled
in northern france...

the monstrous export of
the anglo-saxon republican export
from the h'american colonies...
a strict work ethic...
work hard...
em... how hard can you work
in an environment of
window-dressing...
of being a cat-walk exemplar...
work hard...
stacking supermarket shelves?
can you turn bulging machine
having:
the capacity for unforgiveable
spontaneity:
i figured: a poem a day
keeps the psychiatrist away:

the apples are rotting...
the bears are getting drunk on them...
staggering around senseless seem-like
in a cider tango...

a work ethic... where... mostly...
the ethic of work is: dasein -
a mere being there...
a presence of something that
doesn't discount the rubric of:
the long-stretch of time...
mannequins at work...
staging a cul de sac coup d'etat -
work ethic...
after a while competing
with machinery:
in a thespian despotism
and a d.j. roulette is not enough
for: me to spew rhyme after rhyme...

i would hardly want to disgrace
anyone at work...
lucky for me a dream i had
only yesterday:
i was chased by a faceless throng
of people who wanted
me to stand on a stage...
and persuade the "less initiated"
with new testament jargon:
i was invited to become
the last conventional:
the confidence man: an orator...

not a politician... as such -
not a rhetorician... not lying for
a purpose: more... lying for lying per se...
i rarely dream where i can bring
back images of the dream...

i honestly don't know what
the "whiteness" argument is with these
critical-race theorists...
these neo-marxists...
i latched / i eavesdropped on a conversation
and i'm: precisely here:
nowhere...

      work efficiency: baking too much
bread... what is... "work"...
it's certainly not something as
crystal clear as...
sitting through a le mans' episode
of 24h within the confines
of the marathons of a football match...

snooker nears the concern for
the spectator -
          
  but i'm just eavesdropping -
   i can't buy the new left from the west...
      there's just too much idiosynchronicity
that pulling it apart:
i want the ride on the roulette -
rotondo - ferris-wheel -
i just can't buy western socialism:
it's pretend hive for a season
mentality...
      a whim a vogue:
                 a fly rattling the purpose
of space abstracted to its erracting
flight confined to a cube...

i'm hardly: well... how doesn't it feel
being mistook for a german or a swede
in england...
then again only copper-skins
on edgware road selling quran pamphlets
asked me whether i was german...

i must say: i didn't mind that...
if they suppose i was russian...
i might have minded that...
               i am always this little boring
mr. incognito a retail
of non grata -
          my poverty of history:
i'll ***** myself around the world
never making it to grand h'america...
in england i'll...
honest to god:
gladly scoff the battered cod
and the chips come a friday...

          i don't need to see the sea:
ha: on the continent people had
to plan for summer and for trains
and transit... to... "get 'em away from
the mountains": no camping freaks
among them... lazing on the beaches
until the sun might turn into
crab-mouths nibbling on them...

come on though...
oysters?! that semi-solid sponge of
goo and glue managed to earn...
itself a rolling-pin's worth
of a shell...
well... the human brain is no better:
considering that it was hijacked
by a mushroom... come
the post-aquatic process
of redefining standing-up straight...

perhaps i own my bedroom:
this little guise for the world to understand:
but then one cat if attempting
to sleep in my bed
and the other in the armchair:
while i'm sitting reading
the pickwick papers
sitting against a cold radiator -

she doesn't like me teasing her hind
near: what is her tail:
my imaginary coccyx and her
cranium 69 psalm...
she harks at me...
she butchers me with boxing gloves:
i am expecting
******* sized up to mosquito replicas...
she draws blood from the index...
i smear the drawing of
blood onto her furry nose...

i was too young to have fallen
for such a love of ***
that would never translate
itself into a "love" that could
have us: find each other...
pairing and piling up with
a glad tiding of responsibilities...
i still remember
this "other" one as she took
me to a party just before
bloc party arrived
and a girl might inquire me
as to why i wore
a eisen-kreuz t-shirt...

               it must be self-explanatory:
i have yet to live the unforget-
-able life...
this colt this Abel this leisure of activity:
when pitiable Cain has to wade
through the tsunami of...
the roman gentleman:
forever out of context:
      there's some "inevitable" and there's
some "traditionalism"
       and there's PREJUDICE
against occupations requiring manual
labour: these befitting slaves...
mind you: retail trades have
come through the aeon as...
devoid of criticism or allowing
a self-awareness...
      
concerning now i am no high-brow
thinker:
i am ashamed to "think" to put
this fudge-packing to paper...
wow! no paper!
pixel digits of beelzebub's voyeurism...
i find my agony in
that: physical labour needs
to find its detail:
i can't find escape in the per
se of poetry from long ago...

i need to rise up i need to rise
with aa riddle: to riddle the princesses
with my own lost joy, joke & rhyme...
butchers' pressures for
*******...
the detailed art of the inconvenient
**** stressed with:
ghosts macabre:
if the niqab was addressed
by some variation of: Coco Chanel:
the long white 'un...

i'd love to see a niqab paraded
in white...
               i was the con-stipated...
i was the con-findance artist being
chased by a face clot of bass riddling base?
who's o.k. who's not this new:
pristine vogue of perfect?
my shattered little blessed purpose
insignia of g'aah g'aah:
better: blah?
no reiteration within the confines
of nervousness -
i will not seek any variation
of new york...
i will not make conquest
of coastline h'america...
give me my mundane suppose
euorpa and
some ******* mediocre "supposed"
teasing anti-adventure fly-over...
grey-the-grit-grey-first-born...

i the summoned echo of Abel...
while Cain has his pop-tarts
in the h'american
celebration of serial killers...
and: mother siberia welcomes!
oh god... who needs them shackled
up... let's just drop them...
into a geography that might
expand their minds!
wouldn't it be... fair?
no new africa this new Sib?!

it would account for the moon-goal:
ha! mongrel / 'ongol...
very funny: as english always is...
when it can be tested
with phoneticism...
and a dickensian sam weller's: gadanie:
spreschen...
best kept patriotic: nervous angle...
no new blue: all old blanche... ha ha...
nervous ******* twinkle...
borrowed bliss... no north 19th century...
ha ha...

  but it's still a chapter or two where:
the dickensian narrative sort of:
left me: as it left him...
just pass the time...
as every novel does:
line the lineage...
mould - just enough dough
or words for the readers
to: ahem... "mishap"
a tumbleweed moment...

execution of the antithesis of
"buddhist" posturing:
not finding a cushion to not think...
read a book in an iron maiden
fixation:
play the freely available russian...
i will never come across
the intricacies of h'america from
a postcard...
i will never make it to iowa:
iowa per se...
outside of the federal export
narrative of a myth of a
nation-project...

   i want to see the sort of
h'america the rest of the coastline
decided to **** on...
but i've already seen st. petersburg
from the perspective of:
great *** and no one ever wanted
to listen to bob dylan...
there was a necessary stipend
of reading a bulgakov...
         which i did...
          while moscow and metallica was...
let's just forget it:
i find the most pristine ideal
of a day...
come my little solo rummaging
of the woods come the raj spices
of autumn...
come these ancient woods
that will never borrow acorns...

i went back a side-step back
toward the ***** of abraham marx -
and i came back:
trojan projects:
mass graves of Ypres:
deserved by the germans...
have these mass graves...
but a solitary statue of...
at least the achilles heel of "st." michael...
will you not dare to claim
the laughter of Ares?
then succumb to a "saint" and michael...

**** your incongruity -
i tend to make an event of walking out
from this house
with an apple in tow...
and like some philosopher...
leaving enough flesh prior to the core...
before ackowledging
the possibility of the magic
trick being towed...

i can eat the whole apple and
there's no cider coming from the seeds...
write the metaphor of the bible
anew:
apples are not new to the riddled east...

ah! ah! ah ha ha ha ha ha!
the riddled east!
give 'em the nocturnal flesh
of a phlegm compact fig...
  give them the dates...
the oranges... the lemons...
         who was moses to give them
the apple?
last time i heard apples originated
in kazakh territory:
which was picked up
with the mongol migration...
along with the beijing plethora
of dumplings...
  
england is still far far away...
ready to make it's surf exploration first...
thirst for moon in north h'america...
first come first served:
last time i heard:
iceland didn't beat them...
because... ha!              ah ha ha ha!

first i played a recorder...
cheap plastic...
no... there was no mention of a flute...
i was english i was i never never...
but it's not like...
i had the vantage point...
of the english...
since no one really wanted
to live on iceland...
england prior to the anglo-saxons...
yes... these:
leftover peoples: troll...

ich muss "troll"...
      shwemme-affe-contra-hund:
scheissegrubestapelregalneu!
   ich: ja... westen bankrottberliner:
mein ebenfalls: kaiserbrötchen!

one might simply tire of pandering
to the germans...
one simply can...
as one might excuse oneself to teasing
the mongols: via the russians...
so... it's a no man's land...
through and through...

   i.e. where's what middle with
the middle of the east
that's also: "york" and the yacht and
the islamic mystics: rumi from afghanistan from
the 13th century or otherwise...
the senior draft?
no... solipsism adventure: primo!
the bangladeshi are slaves
when cicero had to speak: proper...
necromancy for the believe-ability
of the existence of arabs...
camel jockeys...
            the nobel routine handlers...
shadow rubric oopses -

there is not need for a coupling for
communism with Jainism -
when the doggy-mom does her bit
and the thief from Camden Town
does his: leash to lynch...
empires the metaphors:
the peoples the jack 'o' cracks:
pancakes... and the littering
to street with...
all thoe romanian / bulgarian
****** you didn't ****...
because ****'s son slashed the broker
on the northern duaghter
you...   hindered...
  stroked bloke & towed
fiddled barrels...
   like some "ilford"...
          
the "solution" is...
all tongues but no spanners...
the "solution" is...
all tongues but hammers...
              my best inclined: fugitive
of a body... this fetish toad-ape
a colour figurative
of imitating traffic heed...

my best blotched narcoleptic
blond-Fe....
ironing suitor...
    ape gesticulating
supposed applause...
for the audience to cwy away
an about: a'goo...

               cicero minded: might have...
"slaves" take up the deeds of
aesops in the deeds of the row-men...
or the same-ethno-minded:
belittled brain-custrd-fudgings...
A                           A                       A
my exploited nuo lambda...

i wriggle with a rare
rage most impossible...
i tinge these letters:
the spice list for a karma sutra
of
outdates the necessities
of the new testament as:
any new sort of investment:

didn't you know?
the serenity of a composition...
bach will never ride
a donkey:
among the four horsemen...
there was one with death: implicit...
towing a donkey... riding: slow...
and it's not that i might make
bach pop: or propping up...
i have no romance with
some borrowing of
"amore" of italy:
               pizza pardons?!
i quite like the tenderness
of the "in-between-bits" of
liver... stendhal!
the rubric details:
                         i oppose a suggestion
that something could be claimed
to make monstrosity
of sketching forward this...
ahem... modern...
man...

"we": i found it very much necessary
for the modern man to talk
this borrowing from nuance...
this bowing-down
burrowing:
thorough.. through...
my long lost asp and bulgar...
the sort of exotica that
the british never tasted:
it was Bulgaria that was not...
not ever... Haiti...
and because of... what?
white's what?

       middle of "my" jerusalem?
i can't fathom a... "middle yeast"...
from a region that doesn't
need beer...
ergo and "ergo"...
the riddled east...
troll the overt-simplification...
that let's me toll up stupid
and there's no necessary
i.q. quest -
yes.... the pay-back for
toying with both tourist
and the cricket teams / themes...

my last middle...
it's an yeast! a brain-borrow:
born bread-winner"
riddled "eat"!
oh ****...       tiny tony
and that major SHA-SHA!

Von Unpässlichkeiten zum Dasein als Haustier gezwungen

werden Freigeister domestiziert
und Leidende von Gebrechen gebrochen

bis die unabdingbare Zähmungskraft
Hund und Herrchen in die prinzipienlose Anpassung presst

well Bukowski and the drudgery of work
and Mathias Eshlert
and the arbeit macht frei of
work about
to cook chicken wings
    and make a potato salad with spring
greens
and radishes
and i remember a line from a movie
form the 1950s
how radishes were the supposed cause
of going mad
or rather not marrying a girl
because a witch cast her eyes
on the to-be-wed
i mean:

          at the Leeds vs Southampton
match a manager with no high viz
then you know you're dealing
with someone senior
(not important, senior, there's a distinction
at work,
there is no hierarchy as such
only tenure,
there needs to be a philosophy of work
and there really isn't a philosophy
of work
there are no philosophical works
concerning the philosophy of work
but you can mention
Heidegger's analogy of the hammer
in that there are these supposed
laborers who are working
and while working they talk about
philosophy

well currently the hot topic in the workforce
and we are talking a predominantly
male working environment there is talk
about history and esp post-colonial history
of the English
a talk of the English before the union
with the Welsh and the Scots
it's as if these former colonial subjects
think it is easy to find an English identity
from all the quashed qualms with
the Scots
and to be honest

i've seen father bring back construction
schematics
and read them

i finished writing the poem Alz Heinz
and decided to go and buy a bicycle
waited like a **** / a stump
at the bus stop for eternity and realised
with the fresh air hitting me...

yesterday this manager approached me
and gave me a bundle of A3 pages
crowd control schematics
which is a dynamic schematic
of colored dots
on construction schematics
and we're talking dynamics
given i was only in charge
of 3 guys to cordon bag restriction measures
and we weren't even drawn onto the schematic
there were the soft ticket checkers and their
two supervisors, roughly 30 of them
and there were the two response teams
and their supervisors but
there was no... SSE? that's code for EES
we weren't on the schematic
but i was given the schematic drawings
it's a dynamic affair
exposing the left hemisphere to such drawings
so with my right hemisphere
i turned the drawing into a dynamic
could call it spurring on a hallucination
or rather
i just heard of this theory of the brain
and its asymmetry only today
getting the blues from a day off
lying in bed
no i will not listen to the audible book

in the end father picked me up
and we sped to the shop
to flash cash
but instead got turned down
because only used bicycle can be ridden out
of shop not display bicycles
i truly felt like a ******
or perhaps this time is precious
and i shouldn't feel embarrassed to have
family perhaps there's this familial stigma
burn in the air of modern society
that you sometimes experience
the CRAB BUCKET...

         KRABBEIMER
    MISTEIMER...

              i was handed down a holy grail
no, of no importance
my neighbor came round and they chit chat
with mother
no the day is still not spent
but just refreshing the memory:
kept the memory it jolted me in the fresh air
should have kept the schematic memorandum

in the end i was supervising  four supervisors
an ego-trip now
when written
but an ego-destruction in live time
yesterday
negotiating with Leeds fans
and i managed to persuade people to throw
away their rucksacks
unprecedented when on gate 3
working with the quadrant manager
Marc "zee Frenchie"
i.e. i was tested for quadrant stature
on the east stand with the two staircases
if i were to be given both staircases
and Altantik Way
but just saying the fact that i was given
the schematics
it almost felt like i advanced
away from construction
but construction made alive
by people using venues post-construction
and these are no houses
we're talking about
but the two arguments that make my life
easier when dealing with rowdy customers
(of experience)
is that: you don't walk with a drunken
hard-on to argue and fight in a supermarket
so please excuse our staff from
dampening your little euphoric excursion
to watch a concert or a football match
never mind
i always thought that supposedly appreciating
any sport while intoxicated
is the ultimate debauchery
of spirit and of heart and the **** of fog of mind
because when it comes to utilizing
alcohol and **** i need
music and the capacity of literacy
a literate agency
a stress of not being a surgeon
an architect a werewolf or pirate
in the sexed-up mixocology of feminine hormones
of studying attractiveness levels
ugh that 1 - 10 scaling
like it's so ******* vague but so vogue
so distraught am i
ugh...

         12h standing the commute sit-down
doesn't help
i need to kneel to relax the shins
i need to kneel and write
idle hand's ******* jesus
or satan
last time i heard the devil appreciated
more the idle pleasure of typing
typo itchy fingertips
or if no itchy fingertips then
people biting their fingernails
last time i heard
keratin does not taste of carrot
and there is not carrot taste to be found
in biting nails
or ******* hair
although i must agree that i love
a little bit of hair just above the ****
maybe i'm old fashioned
but that's my sexuality
and i have had Ilona aged 20
when she was all happily shaved
but then i think about:

puff pastry, candyfloss
and the burrowing of the nose
in both hair then oyster of the *****
and then i remind myself of, only recently,
scratching myself till i bled on
the stubble that appeared with chin
after a 10 year tenure of Robinson Crusoe
although i must say
with some Turkish tailoring in the barber
category of aesthetics
but i do like some fluff just above
the **** i'm about to eat
and if Jesus was a Woman
i would have given an oyster to eat
instead of bread

    and Eidie this is a religious experience
to counter your "chirst":
cosmopolitan joke
choke i swear to god the apycryp...

nassfotze!                nassfotze!

i'm done with spelling this one word got away
i will keep it live
and abrupt
seriously there is no need to oblige the editorial
process this is not getting printed
but then printing was cheap
back around 900ad in Baghadad
i don't understand the European fascination
with firsts
that printing press was hardly revolutionary
but made so by the second christians
of Alexandria i.e. the Mongols in Baghdad
set us back over 1000 years
what a trip
thank you: so many people in Pakistan
have the surname Khan
like that was the Mongolian ***** deposit
that precipitated with the surname
that was once a title

Genghis probably Great Magnitude of Charlie
Can do what the **** i can
not-transliterated as Khan with the surd H
to give an almost diacritical emphasis
given its inclusion but overall silence...
the eyes see what the tongue is ought not speak
the eyes see what the tongue ought not speak
                     the eyes see what the tongue is not to speak...
wow wow wow what a strange word
this ought...

             oh jeez and Louise and i'm getting
all tremor enamored
all tremor enamored
30 messages no reply
finally i replied after three days of 12h hour
shin breaking shin straining
like torture
before kneeling and writing into the night
high puff no ****! and somehow i'm gone
like there was no magic act

oh how i'd wish for this earth to swallow me
how i've grown
and maybe understand women
through that little tickle
and then downing myself with *******
today i managed to **** a *****
from a ****
honestly i just tweaked my fingers
on a semi limp ****
and i ******* lazily into my underwear
and the stuff of life soon clotted
and all fluid glue associations shrunk
and it felt like the botanical world
of talking trees didn't realise
anything about the existence of mushrooms
and that fungus is not exactly
a botanical leech
parasite i mean a turnip is not a fungus
is not a mistletoe
is what i missed when towing mist and le
and ole
and it just needs to feel like a conversation
of consolations
and it can't just be a babe screetching
on the other end of the telephone
and me trying to compliment and reward her
face because that's what she's primarily
concerned with: her face
as i was somewhat too
because of my double chin
or whatever
and me using a beard as a contortion feature
not a tool
since the face uses it and not the hands
it can't be called a tool
but a feature
since the face like hands does many things
and it's the work of hefty
crowd management techniques
that disparage me from the service provided
at retail shops
where things are sold
yet but this is premeditated
i'm going to have a good time mentality
of spending money in advance
this industry concerns itself with
CREDITORS
and not DEBTORS
we entertain creditors -
not by how they spent the money
but how they spent the money in advance
to be there:
dasein - which is so far removed from what
Heidegger might have implied
in the airs of the Black Forest in complete
dissociation from throngs
and the bellows of Behemoth
o the pangs of the hundebeiarbeiten -
the talk of police dogs you have to see it
the talk of police horses you have to see it
up close and personal
and you have to **** the ego and experience
of the body of id in all its glory
constipated, tired, hungry, wet, cold,
hot, angry, stupid, angry, stupid
you have to shut off all narrative
and so many people in this Wembley-Mecca
this trance like mantra of a h'um dl'um
ah'um dl'um -
indeed that apostrophe could be indeed judged
as the letter Y'od
             Yyod                  why-yod of the wide ought
and then hide the letters GH
and instead OH'T...
         like you write the letters but hide their sounds
in Gloucester
asked me this guy Andrews
who works with the Nigerian Sunday
(his name, Monday Monday,
literary scene had a Friday)
Andrews is Ghanaian
and he's fresh
i mean he's not what one could call
descended from slaves
honestly you get to pick up
the African original the african original
pride and love for life
not this stench of post-colonial dread
of: jeez still living with these former slave owners
and ooh come on why didn't
we go back to Africa
and why are the old Africans coming to Europe
to tease us or whatever
spiraling with stadium concerts calling for
Africa Unite blah blah semi Black ******
also comes with Black Jesus...
don't ask me how but honestly Black Jesus
comes with Black ******...

Abu Dribble i feel like escaping into naked
lunch rather not fascination with Arab historiology
from the 10th century
or a German thinker...
although i must know that if dog in german is hund
pies in ******
then horse in english a koń in polish
means horse in german is...herseh?
           no... the diacritical mark doesn't help
no room for transliteration like
in semitic languages
between 'rab and                                        Heb'

what is horse in german? d'uh!

pferdbeiarbeiten...

            not the sort of horses i swear are we the last
people to work as humans with animals
are we the last stronghold
we are not Bukowski genius to drink and read
sparingly the postman
i mean we are not farmers because farmers
no longer use animals
to work
instead
i mean: are we the last professions on this planet
to work with animals
i love working with animals
so much so that i'm petting one on the side
if i were to take a cat into the life cycle
of a dog or a horse
we breed these animals for a purpose

have you ever worked with horses
and dogs
in a crowd management environment
it's like double the high
of being high at a concert
when you come back from work and unwind
and have the side project to write
down everything bubbling to the boil in your
head your ego-death
and then the ego-resurrection
with a concentrated focus on narrative
that requires it to be written down
rather than aired / thought

and then release like a sling with no shot
just the snap of the sling
against the skin to wake up

KREISEL

  kreisel...

          spinning top is not even a word...
it's a worded ideogram...
without an actual ideogram
SPNNNGTP   looks better...
best to have that printed and framed
and advertised...

       Bączek...  well then... my neighbour
brought me one of those in a 50p
bag of goodies...
there was that and there was blowing
bubble machinery
i don't know does she think me *******
or happy or did i come to the fore
of children at large events and
i was authority and i was benevolence
and i'm still thinking of the jobs
that make humans interact with animals
and i know it's not in farming
as such especially when pig farming
i mean farming with plow and not plough
or maybe the two are not that far apart
because this is not the sort of euphoria
experienced at an event
this is a private euphoria
and not simply of just being there...
i.e. the opposite of Dasein
the opposite of Dasein is Seinda -
being there i.e. a place an event a polity
a necropolis is by far the best strain
flex and then thrown into this disarray
   of fates and omens and ills of people since now
even these people venture out
in the full abode of sky... wheelchairs and scissors
and schizoids...

i said i need to write this is not a novel
if anything this is also not Zukofsky's A
because by god that looks good
on paper but not in that voice
              since i'm thinking that's the last masquerade
but still the impetus to write
and why not record with Charlie but then
Charlie etc was also in the same circumstance
as me or then
sober does it: great parody of the formal
                    in whatever order of magnitude -
yes those wax eyes wore
off and then night came and i toked some more
and not to excess in drinking i obeyed
t.v. rules for half an hour
but then the show was so disastrous
that the only thing i was looking at was
laila rouass
   and thinking of my woman and yes he's 48
and she's 52
and i'm pretty sure Edie wants to make
it adamantly so
that there's that tease of *******
in that she's 55 and i'm 38 and she's still not sure
what
in what the hell would that mean
when the ages shrink
and then there's also the age disparity
between the other forbidden love of necrophilia
and that's not really as prominent
in society as *******
                                         well who knows
the statistics show...

                             but at least now: silence...
i have not given excuses but
pointers as to what i also do: alias no alias
persona non grata
                                should i fly above the aqua politik -
sieve through
this spectacular advent of man
this spectacular celebration
because honest to god and winter months apart
there is this air of celebration in man
with the obvious hags and anchors
and drags from the past but still the perserverence
is there to mindlessly go forward
without any static of but one universe
instead so many others to come
should this only be one experience
i doubt there might be more
with brain-deaths and heartaches
                          
                                      brain-labyrinths
and loud-libraries
                          or those pirates -
the pigeons at Baker Street...
some travel as far as Amersham
and Chesham on the Metropolitan Line
for their holidays from the city
you can see them on the trains anchored
coming into the carriages looking for
pecking orders...
and then as the train speeds on tracks
they fly about less
like bothersome flies
but as frightened animals: that they are...

                  and we are not?