We are sorry for the inconvenience.

While our project has made some headway- a new and improved venue coming soon!- there are a few impasses that have come to our attention.

Once we eradicate the hurt feelings, loneliness, and confusion from our work site, rest assured our progress shall continue.

We are sorry for the inconvenience.

My little game of  Chess
That I played, with you
Making subtle moves
Hinting all too softly
Allowing impasses
Offering a pawn
Renouncing knights
Denouncing  a  bishop
Even giving up my Queen
That trying game of  Chess
It appears, has come to a stale
Without one word spoken, without
An idea or intellect having being shared
My dear, I have not tried hard enough, and
I shall never be the wiser for not having made a move

Impasses from existentiality
tend to note a lack of traction
that stem from the over-indulgence of reality
and leave no room for satisfaction.

Impervious to legality,
a man’s thoughts bear no restrictions
and they retain their vitality
in the hallows of his diction.

For the undeniable veracity
of a man’s veiled civilization
can be shadowed by the farcicality
of his pursuit of ostentation.

------------------------------------------

However­, in all actuality,
the ever-looming devastation
that’s caused by man's functionality
is paint on a canvas.

Bonny your history is beautiful
Flow through impasses of any barriers to my breast.
Urgency sirens.  
Failing to keep the gates barred, promises underwent submission in the palms of our fate.
Supply my heart substance
Open my channels wide and distort perspective.
Paradise plus bonny personifies perfect bliss
Placing black sand bountifully and preciously beneath our pods.
My prowess only detects your soul in a crowd of millions-----In the midst of a troubling storm
I stand firm in front of you committed to the history.
The discrete freckles appear after humility spoke a carefree moment when I knew you loved more.
We hope
I will not depart.
Keys to completeness, if I default on a real attempt
Accept my apology

pin points
joined like Siamese
dots, exclusion
of the hyphen for
the use of pause.

it's one of those early nights having an introspective
moment... trying to give dimensions to my oeuvre:
all those heartbreaks of spaghetti fingers typing
and then trying to ctrl + c / ctrl + p / ctrl + a
but missing the keys... hey presto! a magic act:
a poem lost not even saved by automaated drafts...

yes... i do feel like i need to buy Red Hot Chilli Pepper's
Unlimited Love on vinyl...
it's funny how artists, even in the mainstream disappear...
i have no account of the existence
of the band from... circa 2007... until 2022 when
they toured and i was working the London Stadium:
poet of the coliseum...
John Frusciante came back: i never thought he went
anywhere... but even major artists disappear...

unlike those days being a greedy and eager youth
trying to impress girls with an array of influences
finding out: no return to jazz no return to classical music
to figure out finding my own voice (i wish,
there was a rhyme, vice... ice...) - parrot?
    imitating echo? if parrots could imitate echoes...

it's a gruelling evening...
   there's absolutely nothing to write about...
i'mm rereading some of Al Purdy and Walt Whitman
and i feel: feelz... detachment from any stated,
historical achievements...
          wars lost wars won or whatever
that might be between the flesh and the fingernails
when the fingernails grow too long...
an interlude from working shifts... dealing with people
is a ******: a flat tire...
   37 is no age to start thinking about a road
already undertaken:
children? no?! marriage? now?!
     flipping pancakes and idealising love furthest from
love's truth...
   murky waters and swamp-things...
      deceits, subtractions and additions of lies...
headaches, toothaches...

            shares happiness of coupling and shared
demises...
but from what i've learned:
there is no happiness greater than a one arrived
at by oneself: that spontaneity of laughing
for no reason or laughing at oneself
having thought a certain thought...
and no sweeter misery that no one can share
with you... a nostalgic grey morose murmur of...
some self- prefix fixation of this automated
monkey-bot turned 180 degree standing upright...

the last days of autumn... rotten leaves
in the park that are as "dangerous" as ice...
and a winter that only takes a sneak-peek
at where it once was: magnificently as an AGE of ice
parallels of trunks and trombones and
imagining hairy elephants...
   just imagining.... not really paying attention
to the fact that: yes... how long would it take
for an elephant to grow fur and would it have migrated
with man... all furry in sunny Africa...
kind of inverting the point of the elephant in Siberia
with man shedding fur for... bare-goose-bump skin...

this plughole, this constipation of history through
the lens of Darwinism is... like...
standing above a grave of a dearly loved one
yawning, or chewing gum...
               something like an Icarus-Phoenix
burning in the mind that dead yet dead not forgotten...
fickle creature memory and what
i don't want to remember:
with what i do remember -
   like that repetitive loop of memory-erosion
beginning with the philosophy of pedagogy...
raise hopes and teach pointless arts...
but dear, dear... don't teach them how to combat
the drudgery of work and menial toils...
i'm pretty sure that most physical labours
that require a technicality of an array of skills
will never be menial...
it's the shelf-stacking jobs that could be
made easier... in theory... with an entertaining mind...
a wandering here one minute gone the next...
a disappearing ego...  reappearing ego...
a bucket and pulled from a bucket a top hat...
and from a top hat? pulling out an old person's
chattering dentures instead of a white bunny...

a beautiful life focusing on little things,
finding spontaneous wisdom anecdotes and not defending
such roles as guru or saviour or leader...
like... going to bed before 12am and
like today... nonchalantly in concord with:
i'd like to have a lesbian girlfriend...
while sneaking away to the brothel...
but even no, given the wintry months:
having a relief from spring's and insect' libido....
sure... jerking off but not really thinking about
it, which is aided by sitting on the throne
of throne and giving birth to a meteor of
plucked brown-stuff and almost rising ot *******
heights of that one gateway not being
violated by ******* passions....

tired of experimenting of breaking society's
boundaries and leftover taboos...
just ****** tired... as if wanting something
wholesome like a slice of rye bread
or porridge in the morning...
    perfectly boring perfectly sighed over...
and a world that's only as big as my eyes can see...
sure... a mountain in the distance...
or a sky-scraper... this grand plateau of London...
no car, no need... just a bicycle and a pair
of legs... a lost commitment from having
a grandmother... made all the more easier
by the fact that: i will die without an image
of my father's mother...
               making it easier for me to digest
the ongoing process of being estranged from
my mother's mother...
               i have the perfect excuse these days:
i'm working... obviously not the work
of aligning with plastic surgeons of bus drivers...
work the liberator and excuse from...
i used to love seeing my mother's parents...
i'd visit them for stretches of months...
sit with the old people and soak up:
fermenting and almost sad that my youth was
wasted on old age... but the books i read
and the training i received from "missing out"
made me a rigid-stone...
from the youthful energy of disappointment
to the slowly growing old dynamic of
oriental thinking...
even now if i will ever put a foot in Poland
i will only be doing so
on a whim of: i need to purchase cheap duty-free
cigarettes... i'll fly over and spend
a day in Cracow... try to look local...
******* back to the airport, buy three cartons...
spend £30 there and back and spend a total
of £90 on 600 cigarettes...
which will still come cheaper than if i bought
cigarettes here legally, stupid...
or under the counter from some Romanians...

i was supposed to go to the gym with Francesca
today... honestly... i was busy... busy being
busy about not being busy...
spent the night chatting to a friend from Hawaii...
she texted me that she was going on a date...
that's what i mean:
i'd like a lesbian girlfriend... someone i could go
ice-skating with... talk macho ******* with...
go to an art-gallery...
but: keeping up with Platonic traditions...
if in need of **** find it elsewhere...
with the likes of Mona...
who, apparently disgraced, was shunned by fellow
prostitutes for becoming pregnant with
a customer... that's the thing...
i hope it wasn't me... but chances are...
cross-eyed at the zenith of her ******...
lips touches lips and all the wonderful stuff that's
like sunlight having descended and
enveloped a field of wheat in August...

i don't mind... carefree mitigation of rumours
and the frenzies of atomic vibrations...
invisible yet existent parodies of impasses
of: how Hannibal solved the issue of the Alps...
how Lawrence created the endless number of clocks
from the sands of Arabia...
how the sea was a puddle for the first to not thirst...
such evenings when language is loose...
gooey... mindless bragging and jargon...
something person spotted from time to time...

with my mother's brother, my uncle:
i once adored him... i used to go to concerts with him...
that one afternoon he cleaned and worked on
his Porsche... we listened to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
Californication... an interlude of going
to the chicken shop and getting some chips
and hot wings...
his personal life of sleeping with prostitutes...
multiple girlfriends... i admired that i wanted
that for myself rather than the odd... mutant...
rigour of my father's monogamy...
i tried it once: twice...

i'm so thankful for the women in my life,
i won't event pretend to not give them their names:
Isabella, she dumped me...
Promis... she dumped me...
Ilona... she too dumped me...
dumped Humpty-Dumpty...
which gives me the focus of Pontius Pilate...
each time i wash my hands i wash imaginary
hands of Pontius Pilate...
   it's so much easier than to fall in the category
of the sort of man that has the luxury of clinging women
he then dumps...
much easier to be dumped...
it reveals avenues of... perhaps Mona, that *******,
really did have the best *** in her life
and wanted my genes to be preserved...
no one knows expect for her
and the insinuations other prostitutes in the brothel
have dropped...
but i won't be revisiting that place for some time...
my libido is stale-bread and...
eh... a ******* for an hour telling someone:
slow down... slow down...
                      just a little tenderness...
i don't need to be circumcised twice!

             unlike the ***** where you can ferociously
gorge on the uncircumcised bits...
or when interacting with piston against the backdrop
of the floral patterns: we're talking an act
with possible teeth involved...
my love made all the more easier:
so easier to move on... being the one being dumped...

western dogma: wisdom as an over-complication
with eastern dogma: wisdom as an over-simplification...
traps and mazes of the latter...
dogs chasing their own tails...
perhaps? reimagining the once legal
aesthetic of improving the Dobbermann dog breed
by snipping the nails and clipping the ears
so they might be pointy?

back to "dearest" uncle... he's back living in Poland
with his mother nearing her 85th year...
apparently going back... friends with investment
potentials... 3 weeks there and all he's doing
is sitting in the living room in his boxer shorts...
watching t.v., trying to play the role of manager
of a non-existent company...
having sold his one greatest asset of a paid-off
mortgage of a house...
his dream: retiring in his mid-50s like the norm
in Greece... a man still in his prime
having lost it...
                         hardly me cooking and improving
the life of grandparents by painting shelves...
changing the linoleum flooring in the kitchen...
changing a light-bulb...
it's like that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
the decadent police officer being dragged back
into his childhood bedroom...
this Hell of the Western World's Mentality...
living with your parents like it's a wheelchair hindering...
what?! and paying 12 months upfront
to rent a box in London is somehow better
than the allowances of homelessness?!
hardly... **** me... hardly!

sure... when he was living in England
and had the advantage of bilingualism...
how his "friends" dragged him into a ****-show:
circus without the clowns storming
a FIAT 126P by the 20 load of cramming...
now my horror-suspicion can be shared....
but at least i had escapism within the confines
of books... and no, seriously no ambitions
to stand on a stage and dance...
poetry and mediating mediocre saved me...
i allowed myself: i was allowed
sieving through observing people:
pedestrian talk: no talk...
            
     loads of money: he did save up a load of money:
compared to the usual dynamic he's
hardly a millionaire...
but compared to me... i count my riches
by the time i spent reading a book...
reading Heidegger's Being & Time...
hell... i paid... no... i didn't... my grandfather
paid 20? let's be realistic... he paid 30zł for each book...
in a subscription "race":
one book per 30zł... 20 books in total...
anyway... i was a vagabond in Heidegger's head
for 30zł that spanned for almost 3 years...
a difficult book...

                          i'd spend less time in Sartre's antithesis
of Time: id est esse nihil                                    -ness
does it really matter? the number on the receiving
end... is the calculated progress of judgement
of what constitutes "progress"...
Welsh is always a second clue concerning Britain...
given: you will hardly hear or learn
how the Scots "forgot" their origin in tongue
so smoothly lost that it would require a James
to bend the knee and crack his knees
like walnuts to arrive at these isles unity... ****-wit...
it's a pointless sort of defeat...
but adamant Welshmen and their prosthetic hard-on
for myths of: origins of the dragon folk...
hardly passable: most impressionable...

right now, though! i figured out something!
i don't want to write something original!
i don't!
you: "you": you... you know what i want
to achieve?! i want too write something
that... that can't be plagiarised!
which is a take on originality as
anti-originality-original

suppose these "poems" leave indentations in the fabric
of time (solely, they already have,
in the room i'm currently sitting in,
listening to R.E.M.'s automatic for the people
for the Nth time, nothing has changed)...
wow... my ego-tripping pays off...
but what tripping with no ego? just a silence
of the mind? the only reason why i'm writing
it because i can't return to my prior to psychosis
state of the thought-narrative bliss of
semi-solipsism semi-object-thinking...
one LEGO project after another...

i'm sitting here hunched before QWERTY looking
at the screen not looking at the keyboard
because: mastering QWERTY is oh so much different
to ice-skating...
life this self-suggesting, doubly-affirming:
believe me you be...
          are... conjugating the perfected grammar-math...
perhaps the wrongly assembled: you're be...
makes no more sense than
a chicken clucking trying to imitate
the screech of a diving hawk...

a lion growling a cat meowing...
             green met yellow and how blue was spawned...
if the blues was all blue
then i guess jazz was: having the purples...
classical music was the savvy pinpoint
between silver - gold - platinum...
but i still preferred folk songs...
the sort of songs without genius and more
the spontaneity of drunkards...

we heave an unbearable load of nostalgia:
nostalgia being a fakery of memory
and memory being no better than imagining
a present and future... with the downfall:
a memory reimagining the present and past...
if thinking is stability: if!
posit if within the confines of "if"!
then imagination is pyrotechnics...
the same can be said of memory...
fickle creatures... self-appropriating
self-gratifying no-self-involved students of
a circus...

i conjure up a memory: i'm re-imagining
what ought to be re-remembered...
no can do... i think of something outside
the prism-prison of geometry of a square:
that becomes the Disney Mouse...
wow!
     imagination and memory conflate
and thought: knows all the best distractions...
existence per se and for no knowledge
of the usual vectors of demand: how, when, who, why,
north? how...
east? when...
south? who...
west? why...
                         this is my globe of words making sense:
by sense i imply: words i own: i can manifest
within the confines of constructing a loss-of-self-self...

some spineless messages from Vietnam like
i'm speaking, writing, English, ergo i'm American...
it might only take a few Pakistanis selling Qurans
to conflates ****** with a German...
doesn't matter to me...
does it? did it? will it? ha ha...
     well... a ****** in England not pretending...
tangy-****-****... drool of accent of America...
talking to someone from Vietnam trying to start
up a brothel with girls to "sell"... shady corners of the world...
a bit like not trying to be Russian and talking to
someone from Afghanistan...

bored citadels with barricaded Cinderellas
***** me a snake and wishing ****** dress: white...
promises... me and you and me not getting any
STDs?!
                vampires,  in literature... at the height
of the AIDS epidemic... epidemic: in through to out...
pandemic: out through to in...
     d'uh... you ******* brain-frozen buzzing itches
of intellect not worth salvaging...
i'm tired! i'm tired of mediocre and the excuses leftover
by western psychologists...
i wasn't handed the kind poker hand...
i had to struggle... i struggled...
considered mad i waited until the world
caught up to me supposed "madness":
the world turned out madder than my originally prescribed
madness...
who's celebrating now? no one...
i'm curious about the demands of the gods...
i'm in pivot: contemplating both the crucified
and the one to be impaled on a spike...
my god... could celebrating torture be so misunderstood?!
crucifying someone is half the torture...
but impaling someone... celebrating
an anti-homosexuality... mein gott!
that's the focus: in situ of gravity, glue,
moon, money, sun, honey... being crucified is rather tame
compared to being impaled with your hands
being tied behind your back!
tame... this... thingy-magic... torture emblem of
excuses... solipsistic nostalgia some mediocre people
had it well... **** them... trample them...
horses need to learn to own hoofs!
no point of learning without some crushing
of skulls-soulless;

bemoan what fact? i might... somehow... endear myself
and enrich my existence with / by listening
to these harrowing calming-pill narratives of:
and who isn't who without anything being lost?!
oh! the hierarchy of victim-culture:
blaming X for Y and Y for Z...
fat ***** best fatten herself up by grief growing like
mould: slow...
  
of course i'm readying myself for the death-hanging...
the death-looming... the death-apparent...
tick-tock... tick-tock...
it would be impossible to thoroughly move with
a life, a concern for it, "it":
having a blasé affair with: exactly, with what that's not "that"?
pin point a needle in a haystack...
see a camel a mile away from passing
through a needle's eye...

old teachings are like ancient ruins...
people are not willing... the ontological reality
outside of the realm of Darwinism is unavailable...
there is no Darwinism to explain why
there were furless elephants in Africa:
and still are...
while there were furry elephants of Siberia
and Northern Europe....
eh?! explains X x what?!
            the English tongue is poison with its
dramatic Darwinism make-over speed up: ****
history: does anyone care to remember yesterday?!
if poetry is such a ******* **** in the realm
of arts... what's journalism?
historically speaking: it's...  A *******
CONSTIPATION!

you "people" are constipated meta-profession
ortho-beings... paraphrasing: eh?! who?!
no lost of libido... if at least half of us turned
to the path of patchwork of Cain...
we might... get something done...

It is amazing
How real reality feels
Until something shatters it

I was looking through the stained glass window
When I bumped it with my hand
Fractures spiderwebbed across its surface
Yet I continued to gaze into the great beyond
I’d seal the cracks another day

It is amazing how real reality feels
Until something shatters it

I leaned up against the stained glass window
I hoped it would support my weight
It did, but the splinters grew
Yet I continued to lean inches from the great beyond
I’d fix the what was broken another day

It is amazing how real reality feels until
Something shatters it

I gazed out, far past the stained glass window
I was yearning for the great beyond
But then a glimmer caught my eye
The window
It was so intricate, so colorful, so close

I reached out to touch it

It is amazing how real reality feels until something
Shatters it

I reached out to touch the stained glass window
And the lacework I’d get around to fixing someday
Grew into fractures, valleys, impasses
Snaking across the face of the great beyond

I finally touched the stained glass window

It shattered.

And the great beyond was no longer so bright as I had hoped.

i've talked to arrogant thieves in the night...
one always stands out in particular...
bemoaning his fate as a short man
that he has a child with a woman and the woman
is playing double-jeopardy with her life
on his emotional violin...
she was this | | close to meeting her fate
of kissing death...
he told me about working in a Paris zoo...
we both loved Paris it seems...
i said i'd give my heart brains and at least
one ******* to be a painter in that city
come the turn of... the 19th century entering
the 20th...
i even asked him to stand a few steps above
me so we could speak as equals...
on the same day that i stood like marble
at my grandfather's funeral...
his own, my uncle... i drink... i drink irresponsibly...
but this spineless...
ah... forget it...
chewing gum while the coffin is lowered into...
too much detail...
me and ol' Joseph: the hyenas of the graveyard...
i don't know why we didn't bother walking
in parks...
we cycled together...
         went fishing...
we walked... talked... walked some more...
after all... while my actual father was elsewhere
for the labour-brain-drain in the Vest...
from the age of 4 through to 8...
there was this man...
the drunken... rationaliser of... metallurgy...
at a once... booming metallurgy plant
in a city in the satellite state of the soviet union...
at the end of it though...
crass poker on behalf of his son and his wife...
i felt the full brunt of it from his daughter...
my mother...
i'm almost thankful that my father is a...
quasi... no, wait... pseudo orphan...
he knew who his parents were...
they were still alive...
he was raised by his father's mother
and stepfather...
his mother... blah blah...
he doesn't go into details... i don't know them:
ergo i won't go in them either...
ol joseph though...
who remembered the SS-men stationed
in the city: who would run up to them and implore:
herr! bitte-bon-bon... on recount...
with his punctuation...
there really was a Herr Bittebonbon...
and the soviet soldiers who preferred to sleep
in barns with the animals...
don't ask me whether they also liked to ****
some hairy goat ****...
time will not tell...
came death: that impasse...
if i talked with thieves in the night...
outrageous as they are: thieves...
they tend to boast...
i suspect i've come across a murderer or two...
not that they would gloat in boasting about
their misdeeds...
after all... it's not that a thief is somehow stupid...
but a murderer has to be smart...
he can't just gloat about his deeds...
after all... "something": seriously, ******* "missing"...
no?
best with prostitutes...
if i had a wife and children...
and decided... eh... this one 20 year old will:
freshen me up...
i never use acronyms...               w.t.f.!
some agony aunt in the sunday times
column of the style magazine was replying
to... a "real life event" of a girl: god bless her...
only 20, 22, 24 springs into her gallop
and she's already...
doing this ******* swindling...
because you know that prostitutes have committed
all the impossibly: worst crimes of all...
most probably associated with...
short outbursts of loving someone...
making them feel... somehow... welcome...
unlike talking to a thief who needs
to stand two steps above to speak as equal...
of the 3Ps... priests, psychiatrists, prostitutes...
i'll second the last...
we can at least speak in body...
we can exchange the expected norm of
36.5°C...
             she will barely speak a word of English...
i'll barely speak a word of Romanian...
but... somehow... ochi and oczy match up...
to hell with dating... and the women of:
"expectation": and their decry of dried up attention...
of being... aargghh!
here you go... the barbarian: yawlp... or whatever word
is used in the dead poets society...
n'ah... that's not going to cut it...
O-DIN...
             it has to come from the realm of syllables...
it can't be a a single sound... aye for i...
GARAN-DU!
there must be a slingshot emphasis on some vowel
that might extend the breath!
DA-MI!
                         ergo is a terrible example...
added the fact that... well... katakana (which i will
use)... doesn't exactly use vowels as...
anchors... prefi-                 -xed...

(ha ha... said?)

ah mein gott:
                 what three years feels like without a woman...
not i'm thinking about cutting down
on my drinking and smoking just to give
that Turkish girl all her thrills...
in the company of 4 other prostitutes...
it's a lot easier to break a man down...
all the curves...
all... she had to tease with her *****, though...
although... she looked as much Turkish
as i look ******* Thai...
more... Indian subcontinent...
but to hell with it... anything that moves...
quisquam movet quad...

come to think of it... a "dysfunction of *******":
Sherlock! it was there for a minute...
then it passed... i wasn't in the mood...
i started to pretend to chop my head from
my torso imitating: i drank too much...
there was that: too much GOGA - *****:
in this case... too much ms. amber with whiskers...
or ms. amber nee bourbon...
because i was puking and *******
like mad being hijacked by... nervousness
of being naked and staging mime hands
reading braille of a body with someone
i wasn't intimate with...

   are men supposed to be these... *******...
duracell bunnies: ready on the word go?
all of a sudden... am i supposed to walk around
with a hard-on 24/7... i can... just... switch it on?
flick! hey presto! whittle richard sings his standard...
i checked... she wasn't exactly gooey
mozzarella in her department, either...
i was somewhat exhaust... she was clearly coming down
from a ******* binge...
a welcome break...
but why is it circumcision: fair...
but female genital mutilation...
i'll fold the sheath and...
i too was expecting a Trojan cohort to **** her brains
out...

but if she's not wet... salivated my middle and ring
finger while she attempted to coerce me to hard
for her to then sit on me wholly rodeo...
no... she wasn't in the mood either...
plus i drank too much...
enough excuses...

like the younger sister of an ex- i used to date
remarked: matthew... always dressed in
the colours of the earth...
to match up with the colours of my eyes...
give me the greens, the auburns... the ambers...
i'll walk around camouflaged
like the zebra hasn't seen anything
of man's writing ability...

that William Blake itching of a sketch that's probably
a painting of the ***** of Babylon
riding a torso with multiple splitting of the heads...
so much allure in metaphors...
who's who... nobody's due...

always with these women...
3 years sober from any major contact
and once it happens...
i'm ballistic prone to itch out...
i need more... i need...
to eat with my eyes and scrape with the tips of
my fingers... all these... seemingly...
inedible... body-parts...
thighs... that floral fleshy oysters of ****...
the grooves of collar-bone...
the piggish cartilage of the ears...
the lips like lying watermelons:
we're salty! we're salty!
eyes as labyrinths...

all that two bodies can becomes
in terms of metaphor akin to a bowl
of spaghetti...
**** me, double **** me i'm so "happy" i could
almost end it, right now...

if the yin is "somehow" the negative of what's:
essentially life...
while the yang is... also... "somehow" the positive of
what's: essentially life...
of the latter... the workers...
the farmers...
so much focus on...

HOW... the ying provides all the HOW...
you can be sure to know...
& "know"...
how to grow vegetables... how to...
maintain livestock...
how to construct buildings...
but for all that scary vacuous space in between
the constellation of stars...
the YIN and WHY...
most probably... cognitive-fudge-packaging...
or... dipping sardines in... fudge-packaging antics...

for all the HOW and most certainly
all the sense it makes...
that bollocking riddle of the YIN
and why... there's stalling and there's bureaucracy
and... i'm in the middle of it...

if only everything was Buddha-calls...
the shallowness of the WHY though...
why: a study in the meaning of life...
the meaning of life? live...
let's see what comes just before death
and that question of: after...

       democratically one will never really focus
on "reality"...
only snippets of: v.i.p. / solipsistic screening...
and that's always a long-shot:
someone else is always, always going to
come around with a... re-****-al...
phonetically, "properly":
       oh... look... i spelled it corrected...
to hell with the hyphens... rebuttal...

oculus per oculus...
               as much as i'd like to be a father...
mutter tod...
tender her embrace...
with her daughters...
she might have wrinkled her eye...
twitched... i was about to show her why
i'm the only son without ties
to the Chinese one-child state policy...
Cherry.. Cherry... noble... cherry nobly...
Chernobyl...
          
był: i was... (masculine)...
była: i was... (feminine)...

      and... these people who want a grammatical
revolution in this: dear language...
are facing...Trojan wall impasses?
english nouns do not encapsulate ***...
you can stretch it with: moon being an implication
of feline... feminine...
the sun being masculine...

for all the need of HOW...
stumbling on the shallow ground of WHY:
eat more cauliflower...
why... more of these... brusselsprouts?
how? after a while it has become automated...
complicated at first...
but once the complications are other...
the momentum of replication takes over...
there's still the how: our how, our why...
to compete with nature's
slumber come autumn, frolicking come spring...
****-festivity in summer...
a near-death like experience surrendering
under winter...
the tetragrammaton has only 4 letters...

a god of the hebrews... my allegiance is riddled
with biases...
because the Palestinians gave my mind
nothing to think of...
the 'ebrews most assuredly did...
have...

           if Spinoza was alive...
and knew about the existence of the state of Israel...
if i came across... that donkey-jockey that
was... Ba'laam...
diviner no diviner... blah-lah or: all? ah!
emirate money spun the monkey wheel to
no end... arabs entertained mythological blondes
while i took to raven haired bulgarian / romanian /
turkic  lasses...
because it suited me best...
if i were ever a father a figure in the making
on the basis of my own father:
no...

a a... punctuaction pause:
"so-called" diacritical markers...
"so-called" imitation latin pompousness
of having: none of them!
when i smile:
i like my teeth to... breathe!
happy? savvy?
to hell with all these high status...
"unfathoamble"...
"unattainable"... "holy grail":
if a mongol horde came between your
ego and your tight
(tightening of thighs)...
you wouldn't be singing this...
sweet... dirge... would you?

give me some Turkic ***...
some Bulgarian asset...
        
i will never pander to the most pandered
slot of crux counter remidee...
to show my teeth against the wind:
"against"...
    forward...
******* by reiteration ******...
in the pop culture of h'america...
no....
**** on this sort of ****... ******...
*******... whittle h'american niqab...

hell with you: Italiano: miss scab!
i waited and i waited...
now come those ******* tattoos of
good will hunting...
i: of the we: a people...
never allowed ourselves to congregate...
to solve: to dissolve "issues" via...
mafia...

******* spaghetti fiddlers...
Greek "tacos"...
Mediterranean...
one's superiority complex
thrice undermined...
gives me...
puncture wounds established...
piglet farm... rats...

o.k... bacon sizzled...
but you're still... Borgia *** antics:
disinhibited...
pope no pope... savvy?
my tongue is more liberal than that of Luther...
but you think you can...
trade ideas in these Hyperborean lands...
fricko? gratis?

perhaps the English don't mind:
then again: who doesn't mind
the English classical liberal... "mind"...
beside... an ***-**** of... the folding empire...
champion atheist...
champion darwinist...
       great Ben been locked...
for hours on end... since Edward:
it would seem...

don't **** with me when i'm hard-on
on defence: markers!...
i'm not suppose to: but i will...
although my fetish for deutsche-spreschen is overpowering...
King Sas...

the end... good night.

a demonic silence and calm preserves this place
i call home:
today i was recovering from working
at the AC/DC gig at Wembley: henchman man:
wager man... wagey...
such pivotal hierarchies in the high viz
community outside of the construction industry:
human chess
it would seem: is the end result
of this working dynamic...

                   i'd call it my dream period but it's
more or less my nostalgic impromptu
retrospection thinking of myself writing in my mid-20s
but i really can't see:
in the classical period music was innovative:
it inspired philosophers such as Nietzsche
but these days i can't say: much about music...
it became an art form relegated to the piles
of dung of Beelzebub's ****** archiving of important
matters:
a total messy ******* he is...

            coughed up whiskey into my nose
which was a sobering experience
like a Pakistani girl
telling out in full claustrophobic no personal
space antic of taking a lift
imploring me to stand in front of her
imploring me to smell my skin and my ***
and my love to block out
someone else's bad personal hygiene...
and then i said: well: like nicotine
like caffeine: a whiff of ammonia: a chemical salt
or acid
          someone's poor personal hygiene can
become a stimulant: especially if you add to that
the torrential rain:

but my dry period?
i was young and not boring enough:
so i'd pick up a book and take out a snippet
and work with that:
i suppose i could rehash that youthful distress
by picking up
Ulysses - i don't remember any of it:






                                                      / /

nothing: nothing comes to mind...
         so when music used to be innovative in the infancy
now hardly irrelevant
but AC/DC are not an innovative band
if say: Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin were...
or god forbid someone take up the Q of Pink "barber" Floyd
because that's not Nirvana relevant?

i guess music of the 20th century
might require someone listening to classical and reflecting:

weird antics for the closure of a day
and it's impeding reopening after a nap
circa 8pm through to 12am
in the day made perfect timing to
send off a Taylor Swift t-shirt:
medium... almost a large:
regardless: she wanted to have it scented with me
so i rubbed the early stink from lying
in bed first...
then walked around in it...
then took a shower:
didn't use deodorant (but squeezed some in
when i finished packing the package
to get the plastic smell out...
the air around the item)
i rubbed myself cleaner than mirror versus
the glass
in i guess: if i can remember:
was a honeycomb and macadamia nuts
soap...
          then i washed my hair with Argan oil
infusion...
and beard too: ah: maybe the shampoo was
the macadamia nuts infusion
and the soap was just the honeycomb infusion...

but no deodorant on the body:
just into the back...

friendship bands
and me playing with my mother's makeup drawer
while writing her a letter
some little nothing something perhaps sweet
and to think i'm suited to a Christian girl
and i'm supposedly this Catholic
which is supposedly a novelty in America
like J.F.K was a novel Catholic
in the land of Protests and hyper-inflated individualism
that's so fake it beggars-belief...

Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose
thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up
all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on
tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.

J. J. Ulysses page 217 reprinted Penguin classic 2000

as i said: innovative: music once was
no longer so and
it's a shame that those who wrote music are
more alive than some people
who are alive and haven't been gifted with
much: but as in that Dead Can Dance song
about great men:
Solomon, Caesar, Socrates... and there is a third:
how fortunate the man with none...
how fortunate that no one should remember

but even then what's that to life: expected...
if anything: a kind surprise to an otherwise unwarranted
***** of the hope...
some higher demand the everyday expectation
to the materialistic grit (spoken like a true
teenager)...
but just so: my riches are in books and in music
records:
at least one painting of my own:
a sitter in Grey
by Candlelight...
a sword from the forest i called my Cossack
SHASHKA...
              
           just a breaking of a night within night
to tip over the scales of time from day x
to day y
                      by nocturnal musings:
    having signed the Last Will of my parents
i am now the inheritor de facto
of this house and garden:
it's almost comical when
Joe stood before me at cordon 6
wearing a Quadrant Supervisor bib and
almost gesticulating at:
well: why haven't you been promoted?
well: who gives a ****
it's a wash-a-hand-hand-washing-hand
not nepotism but quasi-nepotism
of the family breakdown and making new friends
in the playground
so children are growing up my lord
but the elementary
and the pedagogy remains the same:
perhaps if with children you can pretend
to be an adult with responsibilities
when when in psychiatry you pretend to be a god
because that's not me saying:
Prometheus my Guide:
but at least you have to pretend to be a god
since god is so abstract
and that's what people required other people to
become: in just the verb and noun orientation
of this delicate ballet...
not by any stretch of imagining grandiosity
not in any way profound
there's the nearing of the bad grammar god
and his fetish is pronouns
and being a Dyslexic his favorite demonic ****
is at the pulpit of a pseudo-Protestant
i.e. Protestantism against itself:
dying off without a Catholic antagonist since that
path deviated and found root
in the life now enjoyed by the Spanish, French,
Italians, Pollacks...

                         i could mention the Irish but is there
a point of mentioning the Irish as Catholics
and not simply as the Irish:
the sublime masochists... which the Pollacks can't be
but what's horrible about us is
a Catholic Work Ethos that we don't share
with anyone: beside the Irish: in that span of rubric:

Spanish
French
Italians
Porto-Geese (easier, i'm not going to spell it correctly)...

ah... jeez: what a Chopin's nocturnes sort of
night:
it's blessedly raining outside and it feels like
the proper July:
did i forget to mention that there's a lesson
in geography to be had, right about now?

it bothered me: the English mentality
concerning Eastern Europe:
Poland is Central Europe with Germany
you ******* PLEB...
deafness and more deafness: no intellectual music
no conversation:
just innocent bystanders: collateral ditto virus...
geography bothered me in the lexicon:
is that common speech of man? hmm:
gonna get myself a Jane Austen tattoo...
not on my skin: but on the silk
bothered by the wind
itching inside my mind like no other caged ego
to thought or being:
just ego-nothing
beside what is already available
with i-think and i'm-not: i-am...

                           familialism: something
borrowed from Anti-Oedipus: i don't understand
the French intellect so well:
please can i gravitate towards German High Intellect
with some dabbing in Scandinavian:
everyday-ism?

   the French have a freakish morbid intellect
bent on destruction and painting with language:
i don't want to paint when i write...
i want to abstract: find solutions:
complications:
impasses...
              facts: i don't want to find bad grammar
and a chemistry lab
of boorish wordings overtly hyphenated into
compounds like di-hydroxy-carbonate blah blah...

who is the real psychotic?
i have no knowledge of a Spanish intellect...
Italian maybe with Machiavelli but
that's irrelevant:
Giuseppe Belli:     (o.k. **** me, shoot me
my youth was greatly invoked to age beyond
my peers because of Dante: *******
and yeah yeah ******* twice
because i had Horace and Ovid in my life)

inzomma, da la predica de jjeri,
ggira che tt'ariggira, in concrusione
venissimo a ccapi cche sso mmisteri...

      just look how Latin devolved...
to sign language and spitting
and eyes darting and foundations
like Rome and the Italians is an observational
view point of a mountain range
some weirdly anthropological
no people discovered or conquered
so aboriginal blah
i mean: just looking at the language
that's Italian: that used to be Latin:
it's a bit like looking at the Polynesians
originally from Taiwan:
perhaps they didn't gain height
rowing all that time no sight of horses
but they bulked up
and i can see something Oriental about
them with the exception of their tailoring
to a darker color of skin: complexion...

bad Latin to come:

in brevi, et ex sermon nos accepit
summa summarum,
                          idiom: say how it is... to:
            obtusis-lingua-acuere:
blunt tongue sharpening...
               videtur: mysterium est mysterium...

perhaps that's the non-authoritative
variation on Latin:
certainly not Italian: or what happened
when Germanic blood of the Lombard
achieved the fold to the Razor and Papacy:
the Pope a Drowning Man...

that lesson in geography:
well... whenever listening to a meteorological
dial-up
with a person in the luminary of a quasi-fire
that's the t.v. screen:
believe me in 100 years what will
the t.v. beside a fireplace
a radio and then what will internet access be

i'm listening to my favorite nocturne:
i've currently digested:
47 minutes:

nocturne in B♭minor op 9 no 1
     "         "   " minor op 9 no 2
and the list goes on and on
but i'm too lazy to type each song out...
but it would look pretty:
i gather there's that aesthetic concern
and if i wanted to spend years
on art
i'd become a grave sculptor...
not some celebrated Rodin bound
to the museum:
CENTAUR and the Urmahlullu...

in some there's this tease toward anticipating
Wagner's Das Reihngold: the entry
of the gods into Valhalla:

         like we all know the play on Les Mars

♯C
#****

       ah! subliminal! HELMHOLTZ! HELMHOLTZ!
just like
Les Marseillas... apparently a right wing
revival, non?
but instead a Fringe Red seeking majority?
i did say: Serenity Red:
not simply - but the left was becoming
constipated communicative-ly: all lively...

number: first: 1812:
ah yes: Tchaikovsky and the Polish Plumbers
Orchestra...
some Dostojnie: Igrzyska:
  
               geography!
England is part of Scandinavia!
England: Scotland:
Ireland:
this is not Western Europe!
this is Scandinavian Territory!
if Poland is Eastern Europe:
collectively...
blah Ukraine blah Czechia
blah Lithuania and not Russia
blah Romania
and blah some more maybe even Greek
and Turkish:
forget Serbia Croat

but England is Scandinavia:
it's not WESTERN EUROPE:
what is western Europe but an Atlantis
figment of the imagination
if Germany is Central Europe
and Poland too
have to look at the planet from sunrise
have to rotate the planet into
vertigo mode horizontal....
not some meteorological Chinese script
the westerners read weather
at X Greenwich
and Y equator: Kenya:
Z? the winds and casual tornadoes?

  England is Scandinavia
in temperament and feels:
                   it's not Western Europe:
there never was: beside
as the bad apple export to America...
Scandi to the north
while the also northern bunch
finding recliners and cheaper weather:
the Goths via the Spaniards
and the Berbers
toward Argentina...

               then again to a waltz:
still a nocturne waltz...

                       but that piece with
the reverbretating insinuation of the piano
working as a bass guitar...
not the waltz no 7 in c (sharp) minor
op 64,2

                absolved from the hierarchy of cultures:
that Germany transliterated
away from a superiority complex
of ethnocentrism of white via white versus:
such heightened exploration dynamic:
peace to mind: a piece of:
the langui: a **** in boots and a freakish:
i don't event want to remember
dreams...

         if no longer ethnocentric then cocktails
in Berlin with a hyper-inflation
of race mixing like
it couldn't be a sand story:
this new Dune
not a desert
but a "jungle" of Concrete:
this Nedu:
        planet of sand without wind
this concrete grey
this fudge packing:
this also glass and mirror and mannequin...
this planet we live on
i give a name:

           Nedu.
        formerly called Earth:
              Nē̆dû has spoken and spoke at its
crux of nadir: thus.