when i woke up: are you ******* me?! or are you trying to tell a joke pretending to be Billy Crystal?

the word censored will hardly precipitate to
be a ****** of images,
you can censor as many words as you like,
to create this neurotically psychotic society,
enough warfare exposed to the populace of
civilians and you end up with civilians
internalising war, with not actual war taking
place, skirmishes, yes, but war on a
Napoleonic scale? no. you have to attack civilians
to such an extent that they internalise what would
have been otherwise cannon by the name of Howitzer,
or a Автомат Калашникова (awtomat kalaschnikowa);
attacking civilians rather than waging smooth transitions
between two elite armies created artificial peace,
a bit like the holy grail of seeking artificial intelligence
in inorganic chemistry, rather than seeking to
bank on intelligence in organic bodies... silicone v.
carbon... all the way! if you wage war by violating
the orthodoxy of warfare with the heresy of
attacking civilians, you'll get peace for sure,
externally all will appear peaceful, but internally
you'll be creating civilian berserkers, perfectly suited
to the cut-throat dynamics of capitalism,
"selfish" gene and all, they're as good apologists
as the *allahu akbar brigade, but instead of using
a whole ruler to smack you over the head with,
they just use a centimetre of it...
this peace we're seeing in our current times is due
to the unorthodoxy, the heresy of warfare,
you attack an unarmed civilian you will subsequently
usurp traditional fields of war, you will internalise
conflict, you will create renegades without army
or comrade or general, all against all, and eventually
culminating in a schizoid i against i...
the psychiatrist Laing was wrong to subscribe to reasons
of a post-colonial nature, he was already the *******
and self-defeating: only i'd would like to think more
of a Scot, but he's an example of a union that worked...
the Welsh were never kindred of the Scots in wanting
rebellion... no William Wallace among them...
it's this broken rule of warfare that exposed the public
to internalise it... but what were you expecting...
there we have guerilla warfare, random, chaotic free
and then we have the straight lines of regiments,
sitting turkeys firing 30 metres apart from each other...
how warfare became so idiotic the soldiers decided
it was necessary to shove war into civilians,
we have actually become impregnated without
really bothering to notice the impregnation disguised
in masquerade of what capitalism offers us:
the many distractions and chances to spend money
with even billionaires succumbing to philanthropy
given their 20 toilet to number mansions...
so if you find certain words offensive i'm asking you:
why did i build up a verbum account of a rich
vocabulary... when i see you readied to censor me
and then sit there, watching police violence
like a ******* touchdown in a football match?
well... if it ain't dementia, then it must be dyslexia.

i know of Knausgård -  sure, and i share this concerns for
the art of taking to lumber and chopping,
  as novelists tend to do, write with an axe,
philosophise with a hammer...
          metaphor turned into imagery
counter-turned into literalism...
   i once imagined him not being there -
i once wrote ich kampf, stressing
that it was an indefinite expression
of expression, primarily due to the content
of the pronoun... and i was referring also
to the definite expression (much obliged,
atheism, a- without, and the- with,
or indefinite and definite articulation) -
the English eye sees one stance as definite,
and another as indefinite, and juxtaposes
the two interacting...
                          they duly interchange...
i can say ich kampf and say i internalise
verbs: a movement of the hand,
   a strutting or a waltzing circumstance
of owning a body... that's what it's indefinite...
that's why Sartre slithered in counter to
his expanse in philosophy: because i really loved
his novels...
                          but in terms of a mein or
a mit (including me) struggle i find not
ease... no one dares to devalue ****** as a human,
not talking about the past history in purely human
terms urges the postscript of a dictator,
it actually elevates him to a godly status...
           not realising the human is to make flaws
of what the en masse does: raises him to a godly status...
     Zeus had a beard... not a Charlie Chaplin moustache...
right now he's laughing in his grave...
                      old Aldous ******...
   and aren't dictators born because people find their
surnames a little bit funny? it starts so
innocently...          and then it morphs...
   and it becomes an unstoppable morphing...
    yes... i know of a certain number of fellow
      contemporaries... because i want to? no,
because i have to. like rewatching the 2015 film
android - some films you have to rewatch...
   what's being debated? autism and artificial intelligence...
   hyperactive autism, i grant you that...
        it dawned on me... at autistic person could
fake a normal human response treating it as
      artificial... artificial also means mimicked -
  it means that "smart" guy at a bar reciting poetry
he hasn't written... artificial intelligence or the study of it
or even creating it has nothing original about it...
it's not groundbreaking in the same sense that
discovering champagne or penicillin is...
or l.s.d., because these examples have the magic of
being discovered by chance... humanity has been
artificially simulating intelligence since time
immemorial... it's that natural consequence of not being
endowed with a peacock's array of feathers
   to create a soothing, and sickly gentle wind of a woman
resting in a hammock under the shade of a palm tree...
artificial intelligence was inherent in us...
       it's the unravelling of the historical noumenon of man,
the per se that has only crept up on us,
   and before the reality of such a foundation being
established... the humanities create the "prophetic"
citations of it being true: in the "near" / impeding future.
    if god is a noumenon, then man cannot be a
phenomenon... but he is and paradoxically the two
of mutually compatible on a basis of exclusive rather than
an inclusive naturalisation...
               we are talking nature:
  we are talking god naturalised by the medium
suggesting: for i am bound to create obstacles and test
the body, rather than the mind of man...
    as so is man, also naturalised by the medium
of the elements, saying: for i am bound by a body,
   and have to utilise the body first, to overcome the wind
and the snow and the furthermore, until i reach
the labyrinth of the mind...
  and man has done just that, he has bypassed the struggles
of the body, and created entertainment using
the body that once struggled against the elements...
   for he has created the god Minotaur: and the psychic
labyrinthe... as with the Titans whom the gods
usurped, so too comes the twilight of the gods...
but being usurped by demigods...
       Minotaur was a demigod... who usurped the gods
of the trinity that were Zeus, Poseidon and Hades...
        for only the Greeks could create a Judaic bewilderment
as to why a sign was given unto an infant...
           but that's getting technical...
the film, android (2015)? it supports the misconception,
the anguish of a highly functioning autism...
      whereby showing a woman's carelessness in the realm
of adaptability with what some would claim to be
the beginning point of: overcoming the elements...
sure the odd tsunami and earthquake...
   but there's also the tiger, and winter, and parasite,
   and diseases of so many variations...
              man has not been endowed with complete
control over his surrounding... but in becoming partially
overlord of the ones tamed, he has created a mental
labyrinth... a world of such complexity that will
inevitably produce instances of autistic genius...
                 artificial intelligence is already imbedded in us,
just as cloning and Islam has already existed
(Christianity is too schismatic to be considered a cloning
definition... and Judaism as a monotheistic principle
has a heresy embedded in its orthodoxy that it simply
ignores: reincarnation... the Malachi heresy...
  that a second Elijah comes... and god becomes a half)...
   we see artificial intelligence everywhere...
        if the myth goes that woman fed man the original
lie of Eden... then man has nothing else to do than
attempt to polymer that one single lie...
       and repeat it... a reverse intrusion to what "could"
have been an utopian splendour.
      we all see artificial intelligence rummaging about
in the choices people make... it's called lying
   to gain access to a ****** gratification...
  or as i like to call it: a way to compensate our falling short
of the norm, a norm that focuses upon creating
   the most complex startup a Silicon Valley genius
can't comprehend... a family.
    these times prescribe such a bewilderment...
              families are artefacts of what some believe
precipitated into barbarity so close to us: the 20th century...
        and all those arguments you hear that might
discourage the opposite ***, as in damning your parents
for a piece of seashore **** fest of the *****?
   probably came from a person born from a surrogate
mother... well... an incubator, a very expensive *****...
   homsexuality created the evolution of prostitution,
once bound to the genitals... now bound to the womb...
     i.v.f. kids calling natural kids ******...
   i never liked the matrix movies in all honest...
but we're seeing the reversal of the original idea...
                 in the matrix of knowledge... hearts become
piñata: chockies sweet, sensations abundant,
  the spectrum is yours.
                but this poem isn't really about that...
i can sip a whiskey and actually find these things when
i start to utilise these symbols... it sometimes happens
that they fall through... all i was really thinking about
is the "theoretical" score of 147...
                      i'll call them billiards rather than *****
to excuse a "he-he" Michael Jackson laugh at a chance
of "nuance"...
       yellow (2), green (3), brown (4), blue (5), pink (6), black (7)...
and plenty of red (1)... points in bracket respectively...
                  of course from childhood memory i sided with
ronnie... also from Romford... an obscure town in Essex
that oversees the shard and canary wharf from
a distance...                    but watching snooker as a child...
          not too bad at pub-snooker: i.e. pool...
and that game show when snooker was hot back in
the 1990s... big break, with jim davidson as host...
    and of course: john virgo as the rejuvenated
                         ghost of alex higgins... this whiskey
swiggly is on me al.
                 but this final... ****! at one point it was
a century after a century...
                     chess with mathematics, trigonometry
and Pythagoras in motion...
                                    the gods playing with saturn
and jupiter neptune planetary arrangements...
            i can't word it properly... but it'll definitely sound
better than a concussion after too much rugby and
the rough-stuff of "manhood" strutting with bulging
muscle tensions... rather than this Japanese warrior-monk
in a waistcoat and bow-tie swirling a stick in the air...
           i just thought of one thing...
15 wildebeests on an African savannah...
       out comes one lioness...
    and she nibbles at the pack... and she picks off
the weakest of the 15 wildebeests...
              she nibbles the pack before the pack breaks away...
         she looks left (red) and then looks right (yellow,
green, brown, blue, pink, black) -
                      and she picks at the pack, one by one
they fall... but there are two games going on...
   there's the no-man's land snooker where the game is
about entrenchment, and snookering the opponent
for a foul... and then there's the tsunami snooker...
which kinda looks like one person playing chess...
     with no opponent other than a chance mistake...
misjudgement on the case of instinct and how they ******
well know what angle to fudge the white lioness
                onto the billards... and with what force...
      tsunami snooker, or cascade snooker is basically
a monologue...
                             after seeing 3 centuries in a row
you get to crave classical snook -
                                       the mind games of safety shots...
   and teasing, and tempting, and teasing, and tempting,
before the Rubic cube unravels itself,
   and you find that light at the end of the tunnel...
                        and the black pops into...
i'll be honest, i haven't watched snooker for a long time...
        maybe that's why i feel so enthusiastic about it...
       it's sometimes good to be fed this mundane diet
of sport-fanaticism that football is in accordance with
religious dogma... it's a good thing...
             then you end up watching a game of snooker
and all these things start firing up your brain...
   and you end up saying:
      the Taj Mahal can be there for all i care...
the Grand Canyon can be there for all i care...
                    such things don't really require a photograph
with my gimp-face trying to make other people jealous
by actually being there: only to take a photograph,
rather than feed into the air and the thrill of being there...
        as they say... it's a small world after all...
better get used to it being much bigger inside your head.

me and my drinking? no... in the next sandpit with christ saving all the retards so heath ledger can **** himself, because the best defence people have against their ****** escapades are a bunch of retards limbless, a crucifix, and the modern trend of premature depression with nothing accomplished and the torture of the immobile christ only trying to provide moloch babies ****** herders: while the rich worry about lip-gloss and gucci spectacles of torn shirts that cost a mammon's tonne but were lighter than an autumnal leaf: yeah, blame the retards on sane people's *** mistakes for saint ******. your choices obstruct my will: fated loathing is my compromise; and by god i hate to be a moraliser.*

i drink to excess when a populist
wants to speak,
and poetry becomes just
another art of the privileged
and i become simply ***,
god give me a life where i don't want
to write, a night without national socialism
and global capitalism:
where's the next competition, mars?!
i used to like playing silverchair's shade
with my guitar, my guitar became an acoustic
5 string rhythm which was hardly a bass...
so i stopped playing...
it's talk about moral darwinism when
a tsunami or a tornado has no darwinism involved:
force of nature, some theories had to fail.
i'm more accepting a retired drunk footballer in me
or an alex hurricane higgins in me that
i wish to delve into poetics:
when the next informal figure of speech
to buy an iron or a jumper? when? oh, never...
never?! ****.
***** acting killed off *** of the usual people,
i knew on the basis of numbering fake *******
that switched sides....
they call objectivity superior to subjectivity...
but in relation subjectivity comes from having
a talk about it, not automatons disposing it...
have talk about ******* and all you can think
of in your little nerd brain is the foreseeable pay-rise
of garbage men... hence?
subjectivity comes from overbearing certain objects
for rhetorical purposes...
and leaving other objects automatically based
like sewage...
objectivity says: this many objects exist
but i don't talk about most of them...
subjectivity says: this many subjects exist
but i dare not see most of them as related to
a specified object for argument that's nonetheless there:
acronym tangle of being relevant, otherwise not...
politics... in rhetorical terms there's a superiority of
one against the other...
i see a fern... can i explore it subjectively? no.
can i explore the fern objectively? yes....
there's a tree next to it...
how does that make feel? it makes me feel like:
i exist, i think, therefore i philosophise by faked doubting
like a woman faking ******... mind that:
men are more nautically optical when it comes to pleasure,
women close their eyes when *******,
they internalise what's otherwise exposed masculine
genitalia forced like a beauty hernia -
male eroticism is optic, female eroticism zeniths are
internalised for the bred fact of being both vaginal
and womb, so scary the eroticism dies when
the foetus replaces the post-virginity fancy of the phallus;
but still the ****** actresses that destroy marriages,
but none can destroy the joke:
lips got the treatment of balloon augmentation
and clitoral lips got islam: the former puffed up
and the latter got the snip-factor for less oral ***.
now will you please play me the arabic trombone?!

.oh, i've seen a muslim woman unveil herself from under a niqab in a street in hackney... it's the moment you see what the band cradle of filth call a: persian nightmare.

it's almostly the most perfected contrast of divergence,
how there is great criticism of the muslim attire,
and a complete lack of by the appropriation
of the sunglasses...
can i mind you that cenobite butterball?
   i find people wearing sunglasses to be
autistic, or at least people a knack at being
terrible at eye-contact...
           i know that the niqab is satan's postbox,
but the sunglasses are the answer,
      of the autistic carousel of eye-wanderings
of autistic children...
are they looking at me, or pretending
to look at copernicus, to argue:
you really don't need a flat earth
to read a map, because you really need
a 3 dimensional something or other....
    niqabs are about as welcome as sunglasses...
either it hides a saudi "princess"
   or an autistic child,
             and both are pretty much alike,
although one above the other,
admonishes a "knowledge" of a, papa.
    which is also called a waving goodbye in
slavic.
           come on though: meeting the niqab
and sunglasses in butterball?!
   that's ******* desperate...

and yes, although i can't believe i've had a note
making session, which, i did call la la land
impromptu...
yes, they are excerpts of: i wish i was gay
& also a jew, slightly more the jew emerging
from a cosmopolitan culture of constantinople,
even though the turks loved that bit
of ****... elif shafak? do i really need any
more words?! can we at least call it:
an orangutan playing the banjo?!
     do i really need more words than
elif shafak?
            who am i to pay the compliment,
than the compliment itself?
          
the biblical commentary regarding homosexuals;
will homosexuals ever become dodos?
the biblical critique of homosexuality
always seems a bit awry...
    was the bible written in a time when
hetrosexuality was guaranteed a success?
why was homosexuality criticised,
given that hetrosexuality was pretty much
akin to gambling?
      i don't understand why people do not
understand the ancient critique of homosexuality,
with the uncertainty of hetrosexual activity...
mind you, i love ****-eroticism in art,
i find that hetero-eroticism has no part in
crafting an art...
  but i also do not understand why
the biblical critique of homosexuality is so
frowned upon, given that in the times
of the said text being written,
     there was a dodo counter-argument...
there was a real chance of a ******* metaphor,
most gays, akin to the greeks,
were salvaged from the upper-tier class
of aristocracy...
           what's so ****** wrong with
facing reality?
               i don't mind the *******
oddity, but you still require
hetrosexuality to provide you with
two *** lickers!
       i actually can understand the critique
of homosexuality, given the times that abortion
was half the way into conservative dogmatism
established as a:
    sort of luxury;
i can't believe the obnoxiousness of modern
people regarding the ancients...
  please, begin by desecrating graves!
ever wonder how uncircumcised penises look
very much like bloated octopi,
or like an octopus trying to internalise a laugh,
while attempting to **** into an empty whiskey
bottle, with the ******* pinched,
turning into a bladder pouch, expanding?
akin to:
fame -
             or that stamina mingled with the tenacity
to be able, to repeat yourself
(notably in the interview medium)
with the tenacity to appear straight-faced:
seemingly mummified?
   and once you actually do manage to ****
into an empty glass bottle, you start to
admire the bladder...
   it is anything but amazing,
  seeing how your bladder can expand to hold
a litre of *****, without you noticing
the internalised expansion...
and then watching a litre sized bottle of
one present whiskey, begin to fill with
                     the shy of amber liquid...
it's still bothersome,
  this critique of muslim attire,
           notably with the western answer that's
equally disturbing, the sunglasses,
     it's one and the same to me,
the same butterball cenobite quest -
who gives a toss about your ******
contortions,
    as the niqab, they reveal very little to me...
it's almost an autistic revision
of the supposedly empowered
women of islam...
                what i could get behind those
sunglasses, it a darting carousel of
eye-contact...
                chances are i'd probably get
more eye-contact with a gorilla,
while also getting more oral *** with
a ******* oyster behind that curtain.

title: the what
body: or? what?!

i always wondered how it is that people see
images when asleep... vast architectures of dreams...
even this phenomenon of the recurrent dream:
what an alien concept: people have recurrent dreams?
like what: they're school children...
sitting in a classroom having to learn on repeat
a lesson they haven't learned the first time round?
it must be like that... a cosmic "deity" is sending
them a... electric bill reminder: or something?
i dream so little... i once bemoaned this...
but if i hear a words being uttered in dream...
if i see a word... let's say... i'm content...
                but i sort of figured it out...
   in the distance... while perched on the windowsill...
i "accidently" squinted my left eye while having
closed my right eye... squinted it and peered
at a street lamp in the distance...
         wow... the light splintered... obviously
the source of light remains intact...
but by squinting my eye... a beam of light races to me...
but no... not directly into my eye...
the source of light is directly present in my eye...
this beam of light... it travels... to my forehead...
my brain? just above my eye... into me...
do i have a third eye? is it closed: implying that's
the reason i do not have visual dreams?
well... it's not that i'm wholly ignorant of certain
matters... i would be ignorant of certain matters
if i had recurrent dreams...
   no cosmic "deity" is sending me mail... via dreams...
it probably figured: no need to bother him...
he's quiet content with being awake:
he'll probably find that... by squinting his eye...
he'll see where light travels to...
  he'll probably find out that he has a third eye...
then he'll realise that... he's not getting my mail...
because it (the third eye is closed), which will tell him:
he's content with his life, with his being...
              no self-help guru is going to touch his
   auspicious disposition...
well... i guess that's about right...
                whatever the science is... the brain is a sponge
of electric currents... it short-circuits
when a person is asleep and the unconscious pretends
to be consciousness and... conjures up dreams...
because that's how the unconscious pretends to be
consciousness... i.e. conjuring dream architecture
for the sleeper... no... i'm not interested in an objective
language... i've heard too much objective language
when doing 3 years of a chemistry degree...

oh but the more poignant point...
     how many years was it... for a 21 year old boy...
boy... clearly not a man...
  to get over his first "love" (the first best **** of his
life... and being torn from it)...
  the years of a ****-less desert... or just timid "lovers"...
14... years... and finally...
ah... a new chapter... hmm... love is less hard-hitting
this time... my head doesn't come off...
my heart has a steady beat... sure... sometimes
the stomach and intestines give in to something
that's outside the realm of superficiality...
of idealism... but it's a different sort of "butterflies"...
some butterflies are actually moths...
they are warning cramps...
          the hot flusters are there... that's when the moths
come... the stomach cramps created by the moths
are a way of providing me with a warning:
this girl is a bad idea... even she's telling you that she's
a bad idea... the people in your vicinity say
she's a bad idea... she's nice to strangers... but it's a mask...
perhaps she was only nice to strangers because
she worked with you and noticed how you treated
everyone equally... and... what you actually saw?
a show... an act... because she was in your presence...
otherwise she wouldn't behave like she did...
double-cross... back-stabbing... political in the sense
of: puny-politics of in-group and out-group preferences...
oh... mind you: the retreat...
she knew she ****** up... but you nonetheless didn't
confront her about a rumour... against you...
you did the opposite... to ploughed forward with a charm
offensive... oh the sweetness of the retreat...
because... she just started looking ridiculous...
those are the moths... you get flustered... for a reason...
you learn to fall in love like a boy again...
if she's putting on an act... hmm... you put on act...
                 beautiful... this sieve... to separate the bull-*******
from the authentic people...
mind you... the butterflies do come...
but they're not the same as when you were younger...
you have to work on stamina of the... ahem...
"certain parts" of the anatomy that are essential
to copulate... the butterflies come... sort of in reverse...
you get butterflies from merely thinking about:
giving a good bedroom performance...
and the many tricks involved in doing just that...
fasting... but eating a heavy loaded diary meal in between
two extreme exercise sessions on a bicycle...
30 minutes each... drinking white wine...
taking your time to get to location... walk a bit...
buy a small sample of brandy... relax...
   get rid of any possible thought...
              eyes wide open... no need to invoke the heart...
keep it the size of a pebble...
and no... thinking about nothing will not suddenly
make your head to get chopped off with some
wild ideas that this encounter might go somewhere
like: a house, 2 children a dog... holidays together...
whatever...
               the butterflies are a preparation tool...
once... my first ever girlfriend...
          we went on a date... well... sort of... it wasn't a "date":
it was a DAY... a day-date...
art gallery... cinema... Troy just came out...
then to a sushi bar...
           it was an entire day...
                        it was a glorious 2004 summer...
we were so young... so innocently young...
                 i took her to the train station... hugged...
then a former "friend" of mine called me and said...
she said that when she hugged you...
she had the butterflies... blah blah...
so i called her up... started dating... thank god it was
at the end of high school...
i literally had no drama in high school...
then again... it was a Catholic school...
we were all in strict uniform all the time...
   that's always good... drama: esp. with women...
begins on the level of fashion...
                          send your children to a school with strict
school uniforms... point being...
the butterflies came after: for her...
now? butterflies come prior... anticipatory butterflies...
could i love... again?
what the hell is love? commitment? i tried that once...
no regrets... it's much better being the person being
rejected than doing the actual rejection...
i'm committed to keeping the cats fed, warm and healthy...
i'm committed to keeping the house tidy...
to ironing the shirts... to cooking meals...
i'm committed to taking care of people at football events
in stadiums... i'm committed to... looking very
******* presentable on the job... to the point where
i fixate on correcting my tie while someone in the audience
tells me i look sharp...
love? what the hell is that?
love is... when someone sticks around...
is that love? so love is not the little dramas...
the great ***?
the intimate:
eating-each-other's-eyes-with-each-other's-eyes?
love is not... eating each other's lips
with each other's lips?
love is not... what the tongues get up to
when the eyes are closed?
to be honest?
    if love is anything but the briefest encounter...
my god... what torture... or rather:
what boredom! perhaps i could love...
a deaf girl... i'm being serious... when i'm alone
in the house for a period of 2 weeks or longer...
i sometimes startle myself or rather:
the silence of the house... the house is startled
when i finally break down and speak with irritability...
why? because the cat is meowing too much...
who said that?!
                   well... when the neighbour comes round...
blah blah... but in general...
peace & love... peace & love... & solitude...

i can love: the smell of damp London in the Mile End
vicinity... i can love.... salted pork bagels
of Brick Lane... i can love... the emptiness
of Hyde Park... i can love the traffic from Romford
into Central London... cycling...
i can love a good curry... decent music...
i can love... feeling ***** throughout the whole
day being lazy and not washing myself until
the evening... which included my teeth...
taking a decent amount of ****... even diarrhoea...
a walk in the woods...
but... loving someone else? oh my god...
spare me... i'd like them to pass freely...
    that sort of love implies... also mourning them...
losing them... i don't want to love because
i don't want to mourn them...
       now... what this second encounter with great
*** has taught me... it's not love...
it's only a momentary attachment...
   no... this is "confusing"... to get dragged into "love"
with all the petty squabbles...
"planning"... whatever that might be...
sure... it would make life easier... if the bills are split...
someone does the cooking... someone does
the cleaning... blah-d-blah... but if i can do that
all by myself... love... for... what?
a ******* conversation? about what?
what is there to talk about... if you've been
a sort of monk from the age of 21... and still sort of are
aged 35... what... common language?
i could swear i'm en route to somewhere else...
en route: well... at least no one is going to mourn me...
that's a big relief...
    love... people throw this word around like
it has some mystical properties...
          my grandfather didn't understand it either...
he provided for his family and was treated like ****...
drove him to abuse alcohol...
he didn't drink prior to: something having happened...
oh... wait... i think i can pin-point it to:
my grandmother not wanting a third child
and getting an abortion instead...
         i'm just guessing... completely sober prior
to some event... whether it was that or not...
do i need that? i'd play along to... being the surrogate
father... much easier... mould the mind...
to hell with the body... again: what's love again?
abusing someone... because... now you get access
to their domestic routines and the diamonds galore
of meeting up and having *** is gone...
can't people do that: best... on their own?
          i don't remember being ever good at sharing
something with someone...
time... esp. time...
                              there's nothing better than walking
alone in the woods... or the fields in Essex...
never mind cycling alone... why... on earth...
would anyone require company... conversation:
to upset the gentle balance of the wind rustling
through the trees, ferns and bushes?
- need to reinforce my own ontology...
    by... god... i abhor the objective language of...
2nd? 3rd wave Darwinism?
maybe that's why i'm going down the existential
rabbit-hole of subjective-language...
the objective-language reality of 2nd? 3rd wave Darwinism
that now... merely focuses on the dating and mating
side of things... but has... absolutely no...
sense of wonder... about the natural world...
Darwinism in the mainstream no longer focuses
on... the external world... on sharks... on birds...
it's all internalised garbage ***** about who is:
and who isn't getting laid...
objective-language reality and all that fact spewing
*******... doesn't it become... sort of... tiresome?
it's sort of like the language of: astrology...
i'm hearing something... but... at the same time...
is this Mystic Meg from the tabloid The Sun shedding
light on... the prophecy for the zodiac sign: Taurus?
no good with a subjective-language reality?
life is a FACT... but not an EXPERIENCE?
wow...
              really? no one wants to hear the objective-language
of Darwinism: esp. in its current form...
reduced to the dating & mating flesh market...
after all... the original language of Darwinism...
it wasn't objective as such... it was a subjective-language
dynamic... it was a discovery: eureka!
i found something! look! look! as a theory:
it wasn't cold... it was... FRESH...
objectivity doesn't deal with excitement...
it's cool, calculated, repeated... firm... well established...
didn't Darwinism face backlash at first?
heated debates? ergo... it originated in a subjective-language
dynamic... no?
objective-language structures are what makes
pedagogy happen...
            but for something to be found to be original?
subjective-language structure is more becoming...
of how something is conveyed... expressed...
passed down... the modern take on Darwinism has
been hijacked by... popular psychology...
and... psychological adding up of data points...
the self-evident failures of the dating & mating
market monopoly by a... small percentage...
oh... the natural world is always the best excuse to use...
because... all those years of man trying to overcome
the natural world... ships to cross the seas...
aircraft to defy gravity... the invention of pencilin
to combat disease... pain-killers to block pain receptors...
yet... we're now... going back... way back...
men created certain ways to bypass...
natural discriminations... monogamy...
           once upon a time... Darwinism was once
a revival of the man-child ancient Greek philosopher
mentality: awe-struck... wow... look at this...
the original language was a subjective-language...
the use of objective-language came later... much later...
when the subjective truths / intuitions were to be later
tested... established... given to the rigour of...
something akin to mass-production...
   pedagogy... but the original language structure wasn't
objective... in the least...
hardly... now? Darwinism... "Darwinism" and the use it
has... in the modern world... it's all about ***...
no... no need to spare some thought-awe
for the Greenland shark...
   and his "funny" companion: the eye-parasite...
   Ommatokoita... yeah... the parasite attaches itself
to the shark's eyes... and slowly makes him go blind...
the shark lives for 120± years...
the shark itself? Somniosidae: sleeper shark...
                       in pop conversation... that's what?
Darwinism was supposed to be used to explain this...
not be weaponized for the dating & mating game...
i hate what Darwinism has become...
the natural world imploded... Darwinism "borrowed"
something from history: it wasn't supposed to borrow...
any new... spontaneous evolution?
we're in stasis... no new evolution in our lifetime...
i can guarantee that... well... unless you're going to talk
about single men... there's going to be lightning speed
re-adaptation methods in place:
the dodo project mentality...
   but Darwinism in its current format:
the objective-language reality... nothing's new...
spewing these psychology-mingling facts is a bit like...
reading yesterday's news for... about a week...
while at the same time... nothing is "supposed" to happen
a week from the day the news were being recited...
but the shark is sleeping in complete darkness anyway...
so... parasite? or is it rather... a symbiosis?
it doesn't matter whether he could see or not...
he couldn't see jack ****...
perhaps being blind allows the shark to live
much longer?

consequences? there's no returning to a subjective-language
Darwinism of... exploration...
the weight of the objective-language "Darwinism"
is... too annoying... because?
it has lost clues regarding... exploring the external world...
of focusing on nature...
it has been hijacked by en masse psychologism
of statistics...  herding... herding and... shackling
in... chicken cages...
            once upon a time Darwinism was like...
finding out about... navigation of the seas...
now? n'ah ah... Darwinism has become internalised...
weird that... internalised via an objective-language...
i can imagine something being internalised via
a subjective-language... but...
paradox: subjective-language externalises...
it doesn't internalise... objective-language internalises...
since... it's a drill-process...
why remember 1 + 1 = 2? not because it's a subjective "truth"...
it's an "objective" truth...
add a measure to the numbers... seconds... meters...
you get the picture...
that's why we think: i guess...
we internalise objective-language and why we externalise
subjective-language...
     or... to put it more simply...
            that's why we sometimes can't say certain things...
to externalise subjective-language?
sign-language... body language...
how we speak without speaking when using our
body... what's that? internalise objective-language...
surprise surprise when someone has
internalised subjective-language:
the casual expression is: they're speaking their mind...
no?
   my god... good thing i started reading
Sartre in English... that's what i'm here for...
to externalise objective-language?
that's how the current wave of Darwinism goes...
fact... or rather a BLITZKRIEG VON TATSACHE...
a lightning strike of fact!
   i won't use the plural... term for facts...
because? the singular implies a cascade, a: boom boom boom
rather than a tsunami of facts...
to externalise objective-language?
to regurgitate... to parrot... to read something and speak
it back to someone else...
never to think about it...
                how are the reins on the flow on this, Matthew?
i think i'm about to find closure...
people who don't read that much will
find this as a sort of a word-salad... i got that...
no need to think when reading:
or rather... perhaps thinking about something else...
when reading it... that's why i'm not going to make
any youtube videos... writing is a good sieve...
it keeps the idiots out... the ones that have
this irresistible need to speak to a camera:
but not a person...
  and what am i going to do? repeat my point(s)
again? like Sartre: "reinvent" the ******* circle?
i think i was pretty clear so far...
i'm going to take a selfie and send it to Khedra...
but unlike the normal selfie...
i'm going to take the whizz-kid selfie type of pointing
the camera at a canvas of glass... with my reflection
entombed in it... no... not inverted with the camera
looking at me... i'll be taking a photograph of the camera
looking with me... at something... well... me...
i'm not going to muddy the waters by the fabric of
reiteration: it will not prove my point any more...
job's done... i'm done...
i reached the zenith of my argument...
the modern interpretation of Darwinism *****:
***... big ***... elephant sized ***...
it is (an) internalised objective-language...
rubrics... pedagogy... the original was an externalised
subjective-language... where there was once awe,
suspense... now? nothing's new...
move on... nothing new to see...
******* menopause or...
myopia... or... a return to the geocentric reality
of the world... people still don't see it?
we've returned to a geocentric model of the world...
because of ****** frustrations...
and it's not like women are incapable of starting
wars... no... because Helen of Troy is just
a ******* myth... no no... just an innocent creature...
what caused the war was the hurt pride
of the brother of Agamemnon... Menelaus'...
yeah... that's what started the war...
not Helen's infidelity with a toy-boy fling of Troy...
thank god the matter was settled between
Hector and Achilles...

i'm not going to be ****** and reiterate...
i made my point...
if it's not clarified already... then i think you...
probably can't be my contemporary...
i'll need some necromancy readers...
people who might understand me when i'm dead...
i never expected to be understood by people who...
just so it happens... are alive... while i'm alive...
fat chance of that happening...
i sometimes try to give directions to people
and they are insistent on not waiting...
while i try to conjure up a map of my locality...
an before i can give them directions they
assume: oh... you're not a local...
drive off... *******... wait wait...
i'm walking these streets with a can of beer...
what's the ******* hurry?!
can i have a minute or two?
i'm not a local... even though... i perfectly know
the timing on some of the traffic lights...
at junctions... o.k.: whatever...
people in a hurry... are usually people with
nowhere to go...
yeah, sure... be free... whatever...
you're apparently as much needed elsewhere as
the place you just left: asking for directions...

god... bring me more of these sort of people...
the type of people i can tell to ******* without telling
them to *******...
i'm starting to love it.

i'll be honest, i lost the second volume  of Kant's critique
in the house, i lost the rhythm of reading the first volume,
but then i found the second volume
like a breadcrumb, where i left off:
the thesis v. antithesis section,
accurately
                 antimonia of pure reasoning
(the fourth conflict between
                   transcendental ideas)
cf. the only dualism allowed is a bilingualism,
no mono-lingual dualism is verifiable,
it's too abstract and therefore non-practical /
non-practisible - missing adjective
            i.e. without having an allowance
    to be practised, indeed almost every single
word cannot transverse all grammatical classification,
a zebra cannot be a noun, a verb, an adjective,
an adverb etc., hence what i tried to experiment
with was whether a mono-linguistic system
could practice dualism purely, no, it couldn't,
mono-linguistic systems abstracted dualism
without a useful process within them,
the whole good and evil, chaos and order dichotomy,
such dichotomy that never approached a dialectics,
hence mono-linguistic systems could not convene
dualism, because they were mono-linguistic and
not bilingual...
in reference to translating
                                            the fourth conflict between
                   transcendental ideas,
i.e. czwarty konflikt miedzy ideami transcendentalnymi,
English stress of articles / vectors, meaning
a point be made, or the point can be made,
one is wishy-washy wave of the hand (dispersion),
the other is definite, microscopic, vector
from co-ordinates (0, 0) leading to (23, 12) of the (x, y)
graph; i went among the Celts and learned to write
drunk and be happy;
                                      ironic though as to why
Darwinism gained such popularity given the English
use of indefinite and definite articles: a-      -the    
end up with some sort of ism.
there's a warning about the fourth antimony, and there's
also this poem, indeed i was bemused by the antimony
i'm not surprised that he didn't understand the narrative too,
narrating philosophically is a hard craft,
you can't really engage with dialectics, cartwheels sure,
ouroboros (snake eating itself) sure,
it's hard to reach the Pre-Socratics, but almost every
philosopher after Socrates is doing just that...
to internalise dialectics (i'd rather criticise the lack
of diacritical marks in English), and that's why
philosophy compared to standard literature of fiction
and novel can be termed pure, narration.
it is pure narration, the practice of -
hence off character study, hence hardly memorable,
but an antidote to what the present system of education
prescribes the young: dates (1066 a.d., 1945, 1914),
or Pythagoras... qwen the queen was born (on purpose, and
why? exactly, q / queue, why / i, etc.)... it's like they're
taking a test on becoming Britain's residential candidates
with questionnaires that no one talks about in pubs
over pints. i mean the warning against the fourth antimony
in the antithesis ends up stating poetically:
both proposals were sound. depending on how one
peeled the vantage point, from which want came to
observe the lunar motion.

i was watching batman (1989) and batman returns (1992)
today, and i couldn't stop layering over birdman (2015)
over both films, it was such a comedy, you knew
that it wasn't a serious engagement
in the role, i just kept picturing
the internal monologue -
the action scenes were already
a gimmick when in the birdman
the explosions start with the critique
of what people actually like to see -
and that critique that the joker
is no more a weird'o than batman
dressed in black leather / spandex -
i just wish heath ledger took a break
from acting, and they did the same
sort of film about the actor behind
the joker, but how would they internalise
the essence of the role: the laughter...
internalising a husky voice can be easily
done when the actor in a different role
can talk easily and speedily without that
haunting husky role of the original part...
but the laughter? it would never work,
which is why jack warned heath
about playing the role... 'son, beware
the laughter.' still, what an enjoyable re-watch,
putting over the birdman nostalgia
over the seriousness of the acting in the
originals, you can actually imagine him
going for a coffee break and taking a ****
when the original screening took place,
the whole: back to reality - it really amplified
the films in a quirky way;
and i still think the joker is the only
doppelgänger that can't be tamed: i'm guessing
because of coulrophobia -
and i could still see remnants of this mythical
doppelgänger on heath in the imaginarium
of dr. parnassus... the clowns are onto you,
you can't steal one of them from
the jammed mini or volkswagen beetle with 20 of them in it,
plus the crying clown, everyone's heard of that
one, they mime laughter, this vocalised doppelgänger
of a clown is cursed -
because unlike actual mimes they don't surd
bewilderment being stuck in a box, or touching
a brick wall obstacle... they surd laughter,
and they share it among themselves in a circus,
vocalising that surd is a curse,
since vocalising an actual mime leaves you
without the actual abstractions,
and from what i heard, brick walls are silent
like graves, unless of course you punch one
or smash a car into one.

Once I as young and very impressionable
Ii became part of the hip and happening movement
Loving revered to as youth
What a sham, no-one has the resolve to speak the truth
Being youthful and energetic is tough
Too much responsibility rest on my meagre shoulders
Eyes and mind demand change by my soft un-scaved hands
Half the time I don’t know what I am doing how are my soft hands to bring change
Feelings of betrayal and anger from unrighteous treatment
Grow in my veins toward the elders
They followed their own corrupt greedy souls
They dare to blame my dramatic future on their ambition
No one asked what I wanted they just shipped me off to school
As an adult i inherited a land ripe for a new sun
To be achieved with ******* young people
Who soak their sins in strong alcohol and smoke their ideas away
It’s easier to muffle the pain and internalise the screams
South Africa is democratic but no freedom is lived
Yes no one can disappear without a trace
Yes you can no longer just be beaten without recourse
But the soul is tied down with inhumane heavy chains
No moral fibre left to hold on to
No moral light to follow
The head of state is leading example for all
I end with words of wisdom
Evil triumphs when good men do nothing

on this page i write pain, and the html censor revises it with flower... need for a positive vocabulary feedback of life in general?! what is this hippy ****, what's the point of writing the raw when you're revised as well done, missing the Tartar alt.?!

variations on E.C.T. as catalogued by
Sylvia Plath in the Bell Jar -
Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest -
mute Indian the winner in that one -
Hubert Selby Jr's Requiem for a Dream -
or perhaps from?
never mind - the mild electric chair
for therapeutic purposes, gamer crew and
the virtual reality mask - so many profess
to needing one - IQ enhancing stereotypes -
but there's me with a bottle of whiskey
and some spare time -
the professionals speak of an undoubted
pain threshold -
so instead of outright killing each other
we masked it behind outright necessity of
turning **** sapiens into guinea pigs -
clap... clap... clap... clap... and that clap
already resounds prior to this marking and forth
toward another century of the desert of
Darwinism - ever hear that joke?
a chemist, and physicist and a Darwinist
enter a bar - a chemist orders Hapsburg 98% proof
absinthe, a physicist order a shandy,
while the theoretical biologist (Darwinist)
orders a gene atlas and pseudo **** safety pins to mark
his route should he be drunk, and should be,
but isn't, he's on a rampage of walkie-talkie steroids
befitting only the tongue - raps and raps
without rhymes - 'buddy, drink something!'
'i'll drink a smoothie of aborted fetuses,
in that Christian calendar: the feast day of a would
be Mozart', oh hell, a would-be ****** too...
you have to much capacity and the claustrophobic
area of expression, believe me, they won't let
you fill your full potential -
take to rank, take to surgical instructions -
the man in charge at Oxford says:
please don't use frightening words electroshock therapeutics -
but i swear that's what it was?
treating momentary lapses in apathy - angry,
jealous, psychopathy - i.e. people uncomfortable
with the idea of Σ (totality, given neurology and
the brain myth, found elsewhere, or in / as total) / soul -
leave them be, we need psychopaths to give us
consumer gratification for the and in with the existence
of corporate sister nationhood -
well, unless you want a start-up in the sense of
a French Revolution - that one's booked:
only in America - elsewhere we're just Palestinians,
throwing rocks and paper-drones at metal -
testing out Newton and not the Einstein's parabola -
algebraic notation *x (time) hyphenation y (space) -
which means given algebra there's a third missing,
from Kantian standpoint of 0 - a z... god?
or, wait, refrain from Darwinism's anti-social collective
of a personal will - oh i don't know, improvise!
but what critique came to Communism (post-theoretical
socialism) came to the project of a multiculturalism -
this time round it wasn't the Pope that undermined it -
still, people confuse an attack on Communism
with an attack on Martial Law - the actual critique
came against Martial Law years December 13, 1981 to July 22, 1983,
we feared the Soviet invasion - why do you think
my communist party member grandfather lives
without complaint? of course the first to complain
are the farmers - before them the nobles drank,
got bored, cured boredom with borderline paedophilia -
the bemoaning - the king ****** me last at Versailles -
i lost my virginity and i subsequently lost my
ideal, i defined reality with a symptom.
so once we warred and killed each other -
but since we're a bit more pacified these days -
we decided to internalise warring with each other,
and instead of killing each other we decided to
experiment on each other - the reinterpretation of
E.S.T. into E.C.T.; prices start at £89.00 for the basic
kit to imitate death row simulation... you the funny
thing is... once you've experienced a brain haemorrhage
you became a slight sadist - you want the pain to come
to finish you off - some say the soul is bound to bones -
animation, pure and simple - that the non-existence of
soul is proved by the remain of bones - but that's
whiffed away with the Hindu practice of cremation -
and that's dark comedy given the Nazis -
it's almost like the Nazis wanted to end the debate,
the already Gothic practise of burial and bone-keeping -
as if invoking the geometry the soul would pick up first,
the abstracts of mechanisation, the canvas readied for
ether muscles and juice - ****** ended up
Hinduism on amphetamines; ****, i think i lost a bracket (
somewhere... oh well, i guess i must end with ).

All pretentious bores,
Read and internalise
As much as possible
With all your dull brain.
You may have all the
Time in this world to
Sit and Google me,
Stalk my friends and
Assume my life, get a life!

You are inappropriate
To be associated with,
Oh heavens! I’m glad
You totally hate me.
Poke your nose on
Your own ****** ***,
Wash your wits and
Take healthy naps,
Drink cold water, it helps!  

I’ve tried to be candid
As possible, if your ego
Cannot digest, get help.
Listen, read, talk and eat-
Good, you probably will
Start to think good.
Peace be with your
Dignity and respect you
Desperately cry for! Amen!

Dating with anxiety
Is always over thinking.
The messages never replied to lead to the thoughts swirling through your head.
Every detail gets scrutinized.
Every moment replayed over and over until you can't think.
The little things that no one looks at become huge and the reason anything went wrong.
You try to be normal and not let it show because if they really know they will run away.
Being crazy isn't easy. The normal ones don't understand.
They don't get what your brain demands.
The need to be reassured and affirmed, to know that they haven't changed their minds.
But how do you say it? How do you let them into your hell? How would somone stick around after they understand the interworkings of the cells that create the mass that is you.
You spend the nights laying awake thinking. Wanting to just let it all spill out like a glass of milk knocked off the table but instead you walk on egg shells and pretend you're not internally freaking out. That you haven't spent all day looking at a message then closing the phone. Only to open it again and begin to reply ....but wait if you reply now you're clingy. But how do you gracefully walk the line between crazy and cute?

The answer.
You don't. You just silently go insane and internalise it all for the sake of saving face. To appear like the person they want. Because if you can be that then everything will be fine.

But what happens when the glass pane shatters when the mirror image you projected crumbles? What happens when the monster you've been shutting down for weeks on end to seem normal starts to seep through the cracks? What then? Will he still be there? Will he be able to handle it?

You go on a date and the conversation leads to "oh I have anxiety" he looks at you and just kinda shruggs. You glaze over the subject and move on. Like I had just said god bless you after a sneeze no second thoughts. No further questions. The cat is out of the bag but does he realize that by cat I mean lion? Huge, ferocious, dominant, lurking in the background ready to strike? No. Because I am a good pretender. I am good at making the facade up to par. What you don't see is the circus dancing around the erupting volcano inside. Every cell vibrating trying not to implode.

They don't see the girl who can't breathe because she is so far down the black hole that swallows her whole lost in the inner workings of her mind. Screaming to be seen and accepted. Begging to be allowed out. Needing to show herself.

But no. That's not allowed. Once it's out there it can't be put away. You cant just say haha just kidding. Because the damage is done. You've either found one who will take the shattered girl or everything you've thought would happen does and you're alone again.

when she got all the righteous requirements of expressing liberty and i looked at her expression i was like? so i've been duped into being fed the oedipus complex for 100 years while she wrote as if looking for her father in a theme park? right... gear up the revs of that feminism of yours... keep them writing, by god keep them writing, let us learn all the secrets that were so attractive once when she pampered herself with corsets and bangles and rings and earrings and perfumes! come on feminism, drag them out into the bright open blank canvas of the page like dragging witches to the stake!

in my library i only have books by women
in the range of sylvia plath and anna kavan...
believe me, feminism gave women
second thoughts about
joining the ranks of men
writing, she's having second
thoughts because she doesn't
want to reveal her secrets,
she doesn't want to internalise
life, she wants it to remain
a volumptous (voluptuous,
which sounds sexier? the former
implies volume, the latter a monkish stress
of orthographic orthodoxy) affection
to keep fingertips sensitive to skin
smooth like soap and coarse like
pavement - touchy touchy - feely feely,
she's scared that by outlining
all the secrets she'll be no longer
able to wear a corset and as theory states:
bigger the earrings of loops, the eagerer she's
to be bedded, it's a shame i don't own
more books by women who'd write like
men, and i dig the part where books
written by women are so tightly bound
by social formalities of longing for love
in long-winding sagas of the harlequin
publishing house -
feminism seems like a faulty bomb
when it comes to women writing,
i mean, a girl starts writing she looses her
predatory allure and instinct,
she starts writing she becomes vulnerable,
exposed, when *he does it he
gets depth and confidence he can't use
in ****** interaction... historically speaking
women used to walk without leaving
footprints, men used to walk moving mountains,
she was the countless secrets and secrecies,
feminism kinda duped her,
she started making footprints via writing,
and sadly all the former allure faded -
we became apes and peasants
slightly bewildered by an atom bomb explosion
like a falling autumnal leaf;
where is that crafty ***** with a library of intrigues?

i still feel that people are under-engrossed
in the simple statement they took to mean
rubric, and i took as me own, i.e.:
    just... because... i sorta feel like it...
          i really decided that
hollywood was a bit *******
and shallow, a bit dandy,
i mean: just a bit sad...
if you but a pistol against my
temple, i probably might feel something....
but hey! there comes a saving
repirsal...
i call them the alt-left
i.e. those who said: thanks for displacing
our great barrier reef
   bound by eastern europe....
a billion chinese....
    you chong that cha cha and later
spreak qua chi?
       i evidently didn't want to be an exile,
i didn't want to be a patron saint
of exile... rotting in england...
  that fertile ground of what's to come
in america...
   all you get is my laughter:
when homosexuality just spelled
out: a right of opinion,
when homosexual forgot being artists
and instead started to gear i.v.f. children,
when all the waste came back
without an Eddy Gein to talk
giving the leather-face abstract...
   very few of us could scale
such heights, yet the majority of us
became castrated by supposing we had to
do as the anti-analogue suggested:
oh sorry, too many words?
better me than the taxman checking
your bank-account...
how low can you go, seriously:
  the i.v.f. / test-tube argument was spawned
by children living in mono-*** households....
i'm just watching the clock when they
start to fall off into the proclamation of rights:
America is funny, and i am prone to
laugh...
      it's the argument you'll hear from
the science abuse of: those who can't reproduce,
and therefore raise no children...
not with a mannequin scientist telling
them: yes, you, can!
well, apparently they can...
      two protons make a neutron akin
to an electron dynamic...
     i can't help but see the fault with
the brain being the source of thinking...
i can't help thinking about it...
i could care to make the brain
the source of thought, and the delusions:
soul, god... had i found out that the brain
is as degenerate as a heart...
what, can you convince me with Alheimer's?
   it's really there, was it ever only there?
i find claim to find the origin of thought
as solely brain-orientated...
and there you go off with your neuroscience
*******...
          at least yoga teaches that
a person exists: meaning the whole body
is involved... not some itemisation part-counter-part...
i can't believe fat thinks,
and how the brain degenerates
by the verse of acne via protein equivalent
attacking it, when brain does what people
suggested: does the brain power,
compares the function of the brain to gym...
i.e. you can ever do
crosswords, and other "enigmas"
      and easily escape the moral question....
yes, i've been to prostitutes...
but it's what i did with them that matters,
not that you suddenly think to be superior levitating
above me having gone through
3 marriages... feel superior now?
probably not...
               i am really thinking
about piercing your gob and tugging it
into the pig-trough... so i can see you say
the words manure with oats....
        boring, as ever...
snowflakes that never reach the construct of
a snowman...
                  where the donkey, and the carrot?
it's certainly not a carrot-donkey story
where one's imaginary and the other
is motivated...
        i could have claimed homosexuals once,
even championed them...
about the same time
that art became boring, and they
   decided to do the standard heterosexual
thing of starting families...
    i got bored when one really became
the man, and the other really became a woman...
and there were kinds involved...
and there was no **** coercing the androgyny -
about the time when androgyny died...
when it became less and less confusing
and more cohort...
  that's when i did the one best thing
i could ever do with res vanus -
i turned cogito = mars...
   and yes, the concept of thought incorporated
into a deity from the ancient yore of
a polytheism emerged as: no gods really do...
because once you take to ennabling
a single god from the pantheon to thought
rather than being... you **** all the gods...
and each of the pantheon as alike in
thinking... huh?
     we introduced no more than omni-
to the gods of the greeks...
we did the averse-Prometheus...
upon stealing fire from Olympus,
we dragged thought into Olympus...
  prior to this: the concept of a thinking god
made no sense to be human...
    it's only with a thinking god
  or what's to be called, the basis of omni-
        that we became, slightly dislodged...
        a thinking god is the basis for a god
circumstanced out of the omni- prefix...
that's... that'sthe power of thought...
     thus with a god capable of thought
i can be but an empty thinkg (res vanus) -
and whathever violence comes my way...
with whatever violence i'd like to translate
as arm, stone, throw... i'll keep contained
as merely violent thought...
   nearing the telepathic adamancy...
but that means: a god... not a republic
of gods... which means a thinking god...
   which means that i can't think if
there's an omni- suggestion of being...
  meaning there's no evil genius or akin
given the cartesian res cogitans -
     and how the brain as an ***** is prone
to be degenerate akin to kidney...
    meaning that cogito ergo sum
isn't the right fact, just that res cogitans is...
i am empty, a thing of emptiness,
a res vanus, and i am impregnated by thought,
or by a pseudo-dasein... a being there:
that translates as rioting...
                     and all because
of the concept of a thinking god, and the prefix omni-.
man gave way to the prompt of
the gods not becoming non-existent,
but toward a prompt of merely thinking...
  and now man questions why he is how he is,
and why he behaves as he behaves,
and why there's even a case to question
being as an antidote to non-being, yet nonetheless
seeing the thus: of abhorred content and
a much greater take on what's to be abhorred.
    the omni- prefix concept only came
about when we decided that gods ought to think
after having acted like a pillaging Mongolian
horde akin to Zeus morphing into swans
to ******* **** a few demigods along the way...
the fact that there is a "god" with the given
omni- prefix standards...
  wait a minute... i lost the plot!
  over-stating the points included in this
statement over-and-over again won't work...
           i already said what i wanted to say...
trying to clarify the points as simply as
1 + 1 = 2 will not really help...
       i can't achieve a clarity of 1 + 1 = 2
no more than Kant could in his critique of pure reason...
it's language... you're writing a book...
   if it was staged to a mathematical simplicity
as 5 + 7 = 12... then i'd simply write the zenith
as a + p + p + l + e = apple...
hiding behind a mathematical zenith
while writing out the Hades using directly
confrontational optics to sound symbols
              rather than optics to thought symbols
will not help...
          the next tier of language is exploration
beyond 1 - 9, i.e. Δ -
       that's really the Pythagorean genesis...
they are bound to say delta...
       and beyond a - z...
   well: nothing you can exactly internalise...
fist, foot... stone... stuff of protests,
and farming a field of potatoes... donning
Lenin's goatee, while pretending to
play the violin, akin to fiddling with it
as a Rasputin might.

when was the last time i went ice skating?
at the old Romford ice rink,
it was one of my high school friend's birthday
party... i was perhaps... 13...
today was my second time on ice...
well... this time round i managed to walk
upright on the skates...
the skates didn't fold in on me
                        like i might be a *******
walking with the aftermath of polio...
i.e. my feet didn't buckle, and the skates didn't
push into my ankle bones...
giving my excruciating pain...

ice-skating is unlike the other gravity found
in either cycling or swimming...
one can look the complete fool when ice skating...
it's so simple: it's so simple the more adept
skaters say... i asked for clarification:
so which part of the legs does most of the work?

the top part... for a 2nd timer i advanced pretty fast
upon doing a second round, round the ice rink...
self-taught magic... fear of letting go
of the railing...
but that's not the point...
i was on a "date": or rather i "think" i was...
it wasn't a date...
          it was... gelling together of coworkers...
i've worked with some of these people for almost
a year...
it took a year for something remotely socially
related to be "established": i know:
calculative, frigid tongue of formality is my
go-to release, jargon: i know...

        outside of the realm of the brothel
where we are immediately imitate and touching
each other to this almost grotesque spectacle
of timid, lonely people, playing "chess" over pints
of beer, talking,
i'm more used to: nakedness and *** comes
a priori, all the other nuances of talk and mingling
come a posteriori... hell...
the world of interaction was standing on its head...
i had to remember:

as a man i'm not to talk about myself,
i have to ask the girl all the questions...
i can't revel in any details of me:
even though she might be a "cage-fighter" looking
woman... that she might be a lesbian
i still have to keep some contorts of manhood
in this interaction: i wasn't even overthinking
anything, there were no awkward pauses just
details of awaiting prompt...

first she asked me whether she put her right foot
into the equivalent right of the skate...
i told her: i see an aligning curvature...
she had them on the right way... took them off...
ridiculous: they were right of right the whole time!
so i told her: and you asked me to go ice skating
a second time in my life while you can't
even put on your skates on the right feet!
ugh...

walking on skates was fine... until i stepped
onto the ice... ugh oh... like i told her...
i'm going to make a fool of myself...
i'll be like that Harry Potter scene in the Prisoner
of Azkaban... were Wesley imagines
that cupboard demon Ridiculous emerging as a spider
made pointlessly scary by having
skates attached to its legs...

that was me...
    1h on ice... three or four more sessions and i'll
get a hang of it...
but there's an authenticity on ice...
unlike when swimming or cycling...
self-taught... well: i don't expect a grown man
to be endeared by getting skating sessions...
can't imagine that... it's not out of pride...
it's out of: i taught myself how to swim:
even for all the dearest of things in the world
my father wanted to teach me...
peer pressure got the better of me...
i'm guessing peer pressure is going to kick in once
more...

but she filmed me pretending to fly on ice...
sent the video to a few people... from 8 people...
400+ views... now she wants me facebook details...
i don't think it's such a good idea...
i internalise my experiences and i...
i don't mind talking to strangers... in a pub...
even today after the ice-skating she wanted
to go for a pint... we had three...
she noticed a Fred who works in the metal-scrap
industry near Rainham: has to wake up
at 6am get to Walthamstow for 8am... pick up
a tonne of copper... drive back... blah blah...
works an imaginary 80h week...
even train drivers... hell... surgeons can't work
the legal hourly limit of 60h per week:
fatigue... you can't work tired:
might as well allow work to be done by drunkards...

no... it wasn't a date... i was 14 and she was 13...
we went ice skating...
**** me: might as well have been a cinema "date":
but it wasn't reading each other's CVs
over food i'd end up paying for...
in the pub i realised i was going to be 37 in May...
i noticed all the young girls...
they spotted me with my "date": it wasn't a date...
she's a lesbian and i'm a brothel frequenter...
from one end of the pub.... we sat beside
Fred the scrap-metal-mogul and disappeared from
view... what happened?
three of them with one beta-buckle-buck sat near us...
suddenly an older lady... with artistic inclinations
of dress started hovering near the bar...
walking past her to the toilet she sort of excused
herself for being in my line of sight...
i'm just here to go to the bathroom...

        being human, like so, is weird to me...
i'm not used to it...
  i'm used to being alone,
not in a solipsistic / autistic sort of way...
  it's just weird that i can pretend to be a clown
without putting on any clown make-up...
i'd rather put on some clown-make-up
and disappear into: a film best not made...

has it really been that long? it had to be a lesbian
to (do i need to stress the fact that she is?
most people these days stress their little somethings
of identity politics, for example...
clinically "schizophrenic": in a Lingua Inglese world
of commerce... bilingualism is a quadratic /
a "clear" disability... two tongues too many!)
ask me to go ice skating and then have a pint of beer
with her? no... able bodied, no able minded female
had the stomach or the courage to ask for
something pretty and simple as, this?!

let's go ice skating! let's go cycling!
let's have a picnic in Hyde Park!

i came home, said sorry for being late... i was only expecting
to go ice skating...
gave revelations of my lateness...
spoke to mother (dear)... waited for my father
to finish watching Match of the Day 2...
saddled myself in the chair before a computer
and started writing out my father's invoice...
tomorrow i'll be working on his VAT and sending it off
to a new accountant...
my mother started sobbing...
why? i'm already the freak i was supposed to have
become...
    base: closeness with others?!
is that, even, remotely, possible?
if all the world is a stage... i'm playing the role of actor
pretty **** well...
i'm not going to allow myself the frivolity
and the escapade of not entering the arena of intra-personal
relationships with... former, youthful... hopes...
naive feelings off of: FUZZY-THRILLS...
what once was mammalian has become
lizard... cool, cold, calculative...
that's how you adapt to the environment presented
for you to digest...
everyone is playing some sort of game...
the Thespian intrusion into all expressions
of art... hell! beyond mere art...
this... Thespian Dictatorial Reign makes all other
expressions of art obsolete...
no wonder painting suffers the most...
why has painting suffered the most under the Thespian
Dictatorship of appealing to the masses
while poetry is... a hiding demon in a dank, drab...
petty 3 x 3 x 3 cubic expression of cut-out yet still waggling
like a decapitated head of a chicken sort of:
magic act?!

no amount of Paul Celan
in the mouth of a Norwegian super-star of literature
could ever fathom-dim
this fabrication of close-relation-ship? ahoy!
ah... **** it...
                      tiles and count the loaded bullets...

this ordeal of the everyday lived:
from the tumultuous ordeal of the body:
thus, summoned to give presence-count
of the "grieving" grave...
my own told woe being unaware...
of the woes of others...
such the price: of a life short-lived...

prior to the said engagement...
rereading some snippets of Spinoza's
Theological-Political Treaties...
because... i own a copy of the Ethics...
but not in English...
i like to imagine myself gloating
on what's readily read contra what' readily
available: and not...
      
i'm not dating material.. trying to imagine, thinking
might have curated me better...
she gives me ice skating...
i want to give her... a Walter Sickert exhibition...
we're not going to match...
over a pint i tell her: i was never
into these DATNG APP matching...
these window-dressing exhibitions:
and how many have you met, face to face?
2?!

i didn't tell her but i was sort of going to:
there's me and this gall from Hawaii...
she sent me honey and dried pineapple...
i didn't... we're mismatched...
she's lesbian and i'm a brothel frequenter...
life since my idea of teenager dating has
become, serious, ugly...
i don't want to have anything to do with it...
for almost half an hour i felt like...
a lion bound to a cage...
impossible to conjure up a lion
without a cage... classifying it as: pet-worthy...
something to make people pretend....
a wound for a heartbeat...
this beast better perform...
  prior to the details of boys
sending girl their ****-pictures:
oh no, no prior to the hard-on...
some variation of a p.s.:
when the blood runs dry...

                  they send their ****-pics after having
*******, when the blood is "drying up"...
not prior, shrivel, limp, lacklustre, prawn-curl whittle 'ichard...

apparently nothing is impossible these days... if nebuchadnezzar were to be alive, and open the newspaper (the times) on this day, march the 21st 2017, and turned to page 4, he would have seen his dream realised, he'd have cried, seeing the hanging garden of Cotehele, on the banks of Tamar in Cornwall

no one really notices it, but they state it quiet
blatantly...
     this isn't the case to remember
               the *scopes' trial / monkey trial...
the original beauty of the theory has been
hijacked with ideological motifs...
                  on that ground, i can't accept it
any more, not as a former student of chemistry;
it has simply exhausted itself
          and yes, the transition from monkey
to man is dead... what i call the resuscitation
of god...
         and even i find abhorrent the two primes
in terms of idea from the christian doctrine:
  forgiving one's enemies (it's hardly
      a forgiveness, but more or less
a machiavellian tactic for scheming)...
                     but too true the chant: mea culpa.
to take responsibility for one's own actions
is the sensible prime... but it really depends
on how you deal with it.
            - i mention cultural darwinism for a reason,
biology is truly pointless if the orthodoxy of
medicine isn't stated first...
                 cultural darwinism doesn't originate
in medicine, it's not there... biology has become
too humanistic, in the sense that economists
don't address the objective arguments
but rather stress a subjectivity...
to me, economy is a humanism, it's not a science...
if it was a science, it would embody the rigour
of science... but it doesn't... it feeds off emotional
content... the adrenaline junkies of wall st.?
    they're there, and they will always be there...
it's that the popularisation of darwinism has created
a polar-opposite reaction...
                  i'm just tired of hearing all these
evolutionary vocab., it bores me...
               i could say that it frightens me,
but what it really does... is what the quran does
to jews... it breeds infantilism:
  at least cultural marxism exposes what
capitalism has become, akin to soviet architecture
in terms of cultural productivity and output...
it's ******* ugly these days... repetitive...
           a thorn in my backside...
                               cultural darwinism = infantilism...
i can't reach back to a history that i am
allowed to reach back into...
      for example: the emotional exaltations of
the deutschordensstaat... the monkish order
of the teutonic order of knights (baltic state)...
           cultural darwinism will state that i'm being
a child... that i have no serious point to make...
but then: when was the last time you heard anyone
speak about the sexuality of clemency?
            how you can internalise ****** energy
and self-propagate to a pleasurable state of being
using the genitals, and not thinking of anything
pleasurable?
                when was the last time you heard that?
music? highly regarded in my concerns,
     i'd say the most necessary entity...
                 but cultural darwinism doesn't allow people
to reach for the past to represent the future
     and in doing what requires to be done now...
i inherited the practices of the teutonic order...
  i've never been to malbork castle...
but i look at it as: well... the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth didn't destroy it, but kept it,
     which means i respect the culture inherent in it,
i can appropriate it... ordensburg marienburg:
                        unlike what the germans did
                     to warsaw in 1944... i.e. completely
destroyed it...
         and so jagiełło... with two naked swords...
but of course, the argument is stated again:
i'm being "infantile"...
                     a child reading into history and extracting
an identity for myself that is not applicable to
the "modern" world...
                   but in a hundred years: future generations
will state the same as we have passed
judgement on preceding generations:
        barbarians... stupids...
                             i can already say the current
zeitgeist is idiotic; how about that, hmm?
                    i don't understand why cultural darwinism
wasn't spotted in the west, given that
     marxism devolved from an economic model
into a cultural model... and even if the architecture
of the west is superior to the yore architecture of communism...
the cultural output of western society has come
to represent the architecture of communism...
fact being: there was no time to build fancy places
of accommodation after the second world war in the east...
fast fast... cascade cascade... efficiency!
                    quick! before the next genghis khan
arrives!        
                      but cultural darwinism is as real
as cultural marxism...
                                         what counters the argument
is the difference between hogs and boars...
   boars in the east didn't receive a marshall plan
strategy... but the hogs in the west did...
again and again and again: sveeden was neutral
in the war... but it still received bribes after
the war ended... or is that shveeden?
                              so much of the narrative i'm
providing has no voice in the anglophone world
that it almost deserves me giving it one...
               at least for the "horde" of slavs that
became anglo-slavs to have something to balance on,
in the future.

to live the most ordinary life and internalise
  supra-human potential,  this is what is intended in terms
  of acquiring striving - to turn the tetragrammaton from
  a noun into a verb - given the four parts,
  we can excuse the rat maze of thought adding to 6
  as a sense pseudo... it takes a loss of one sense
  to identify and study the Tetra...
  for me it was not feeling a woman touch my skin
  for intimate suggestions -
  but it takes a loss of one sense
  to read into the tetragrammaton -
  and this isn't some linguistic lesson -
  you can have all the shrapnel you want,
  utilising grammatical categorisation
  to obstruct narratives into reaching for ideas
  rather than nouns - for me the tetragrammaton
  experience convinced me it was more a verb
  than a noun - a way to do things - rather than
  a way to be kept caged in an enclosure of nouns,
  you said the tetragrammaton like you said pineapple,
  nothing gratifying in that... 4 x 10 -
  when modernised -

and i still have the postcard, opening reads
dear Matt, (if any1 is reading this the ur just sad).
it is almost 1 a.m..... my greatest fear (one of them)
is to pass a 'once upon a time good friend' on
the road and have 1 of those superficial conversations
u know?? take care - A. x x -
dated 2007, addressee Matt E.
                                        11/2 new arthur's place
                                        edinburgh
         ­                               EH8 9TH...

you probably will... we either age to be superficial
or superstitious - it's a nice combo -
i still keep this postcard in hermann heße's steppenwolf,
i write this, methodological with my drinking
and typing away - i can walk into town and hear
the words: 'that's the devil',
i spotted your mother at the market a few months back,
she looked happy, well, simplified happiness:
contentment - i felt no inclination to talk,
just a fancied breeze of ****** recognition -
i'll thank you more for the handwriting than what you
wanted to say, handwriting suggested i could read
how you would read my body in Braille -
but of course the content matters -
i never replied, unless my memory is faking it,
but given the cognitive prompt on the canvas of memory,
i think meaning i doubt i replied to that postcard -
what i am certain of are those M.S.N. conversations after
homework - the time i wanted to take you to cinema
and you freaked out... i put so much effort
into reading Stendhal as a teenager i exchanged Linkin
Park's debut for the book at a tongue-tie in Trafalgar Sq.,
to no avail... i think i idealised women too much,
i left them without any practicality - left them impractical -
a bit like those prior-feminists left them to mind the house
sending them off to the front-line and football -
idealism makes choice'd isolation units impractical -
the ******* peddle-stool hierarchy -
my thinking made women impractical, which is a shame
to experience the rosy buds of the mundane everyday -
i wish i didn't make such ideals from women, blame my
childish mind at developing ******* by the comparison
of Don Juan - and what a perfect joke that is -
a working format: to idealise women leading to an idealisation
of life - well, whatever, i'm junk now - this ain't a
depressive adjective - what, from 70 odd kilograms to
over a hundred and ten? **** a mongoose -
i'm hellbent on simply writing, money or not money -
and if my human integrity is finally breached
and i have no passion left in me... i'll do a Zeno of Citium...
and hold my breath.

the problem with most psychiatrists, is that they treat their patients like paediatricians - a terrible flaw, actually: psychiatry is a very subtle form of paediatrics: among the few that i saw, i found one uttering aloud the phrase: he was abused as a child - which i inverted and boxed him in, meaning he was thinking aloud about himself; well, he was Asian after all, and we all know the deal with tiger moms instilling sadistic ambitions into their children, just so they can look the part, right? indeed, psychiatry is an elementary form of medicine, they can shout their theories on the brain's chemical imbalances all they want, deaf ears here from London to Aberdeen... politics is crass... yes, i said alcoholism is a variant of metabolism, a prime sedative, i could be a killer, instead i'm cool, it's raining and above me the Icelandic smog of grey skies, i love it: please post those "wish you were here" postcards from Bahamas to Santa Claus who desires an: unwanted gifts policy. i like this ****-hole, akinned (should be a word, variant of likened, i.e. rather than akin to, akinned) with - ah, godly be: we insert the ****** и               in the indefinite article if a word subscribes to start with a vowel, tongue tornado tie off the Latin - basic unit of sound (æ) - you can become an atomic linguist within a blink of an eye, always the humanists' rebellion given the grand scientific oratory belittling us - but we never write then                when the index vector points at an ear... or a nose; the ear, the oat meal sufficiency to size up to the ordeal of the day ahead, starters, fibrous delayed energy. poets? rhyme has been stolen by pocket pop and grizzly rock, poets want to imitate rappers... just do what the r.e.m. lyrics of man on the moon did to the nirvana yeah yeah yeah... quick rhyming... debased, anything but the whitey expression is far from the supposed "cool"; i don't know slang is fashion, or a revision of the 20th century: the futurists haven't really given us anything but extra flare of the 70s donned on the shoulders. still, i think that psychiatry is a form of paediatrics - it demeans people, they haven't realised the extra limbs, offshoots from the abstract version of the brain: the mind - the fear of the lost narrator, when thinking becomes automated and with recurrent themes, the Narcissus frozen in the mirror... and that's scarier than a vampire without a reflection... the automation of thinking rather than a narrative, that's the fear, and indeed few people can still attract a cognitive narrative in later years, given the clogs and cogs of our daily activity, jobs so trivial, jobs so pointless... but this is the world were we have limited elemental invasions of safety, tamed the earth, tamed the seas, tamed the waters, and suddenly we have no room to breathe. from a world of Coliseum antics and survival thrills, we're being squashed by our own improvements... thinking has rarely involved an escape from Alcatraz, but thinking is a variation of being, when thinking becomes a medium of escapism, not necessarily righting the world with fiction; enter philosophy and grit. when thinking can also include in its many other facets a variation of entertainment, and memory becomes cinema, and imagination is squashed by the overpowering tendency to concentrate. retiring after a prolonged strain of repetition will make a few if not a growing minority succumb to the ill management of possessing money and living in a civilisation, rather than not possessing money and living in a tribalism; i always admired the bums, i figured: Diogenes of Sinope...  Rasputin...              i'll miss the music i collected paying due dues to artists, and my library of eccentric reading... that's what i'll miss... and with death: a thrill, a look ahead... from the 1990s and into the present date, so many changes: the shrinking of televisions and mobile phones... the internet becoming mobile... we've never had it so good... and that constant plea in our minds: god give us back the strife and the necessary physical exertion, for we have truly created the comforts of heaven for ourselves, but never thought that boredom would be the byproduct asset we tried to conquer with logical games, logical games that preceded the logical argument of philosophy: crosswords before Aristotle, or Kant... fickle things these games... i leave you with the notion: logical games can be prescribed by mathematical encoding, the Japanese su doku - but leave the encoding of sounds with the narrative, don't even bother pledging your time to crosswords: learn to internalise a storytelling that was once apparent among tribes by the campfire.

when they're together,
a girl always seems to try and remember
and recount her past loves,
a boy always seem to try and forget
to recount his past loves;
one always tries to love,
one always tries to make the other jealous,
it's hard to love something
that tries to make you jealous
of the past you were not part of
and asks to be awarded a leash
of safekeeping, to not venture outside
the zoo of feeling;
why do girls always wish to recount
their past loves to incite feelings of
jealousy and further jealousy into
impotence? oh right,
so men can slave away, and the household
can be abundant in triviality of possessions
they cannot internalise;
in terms of matriarchal politics,
if i'm not one of her own, i'm disposable...
not even an extension of being in glorification
later as disposable... if i'm not one of her own,
i'm nothing... if fathering mankind
gave us the history we know so far...
i wonder what mothering mankind will
give us, as years come to date,
and be dated in the reliquary of cannibalising saints
for the artefact of the self-serving entitlement of mr. or dr.

Nothing beats a heartbreak
clenched fists and sweaty palms
gasping for air
on the bedroom floor
we cling to caricatures drawn with shaky hands
but who expects an honest portrait
laughing and yelling
under those conditions, you internalise them
no one said you had to be a superhero
when as you gaze out that train window
just remember
it’s the reflection that’s blurry
and not you.

.                      great!
   the spelling
of an "offensive"
word is
more distressing
to you
than a sexualisation
of a naked body...
   page 3
of the sun comes
nowhere the censor
of the word f%%%;
good boy, good girl,
   make sure language
is *****, and that actual
***** is considered
casual-kojak -
    for
the paedo-ring-leaders;
you try
speaking the truth,
i'll deny it...
        first you apply
the decipher in writing
language...
   and attempt to treat
your invented disease
that's dyslexia....
housewife quacks
wishing for a hard-on;
start talking to nuns
and baking cakes...
or do a downer!
   go transgender!
  the nag hammadi "library"
will surely guide you
down the "righetous" path;
the pronouns belong
to me...
   if "she" can make
me believe "she's" a woman,
i will call "him" a she;
d'uh, coming from a mouth
that once said:
  i'd **** anything
                       that moves,
if a "she" can fool a man...
what's the problem?
   are people forgetting that,
to clarify pronouns,
you sometimes have to grate
some article usage?
    there's a indefinite "pronoun"
that fools hetero....
   but there's also the
definite "pronoun" the hetero
man identifies with, and owns
twice-over....
                if a hetero man doesn't
think about ******* you,
sorry... you're like a frankenstein's
monster experiment gone wrong...
or more like igor's monster...
            the rich can have it all...
     the best you can do is internalise
the dysphoria, and wish
   for a lucky lottery ticket,
  or rich grandparents to perfect
the transition,
   that i might sexually consider you
as a woman...
  otherwise?
              let's just say,
that when western society closed
its mental asylums, it created
  its societies in asylums,
   where everyone could
             be considered mentally
ill.

I can see weapons in your eyes
You wish to cut so many ties
I must tell you so many times
To stop with all of your white lies
That you tend to internalise
Take a moment to realise
That this isn't change but surprise
And yet you still reach for the knives

Kaiser Clown

borrowed shoe:
stolen foot.

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

auf die frei zungen ich kennt -
   (of the three tongues i know) -
ich kennt zwei
    und kennen eine:
    (i know two and know of one):

auf die frei: ich lieben dieser
                        äußerst
(of the three: i love this utmost)...
                      
    in my youth i spent a good deal of time
watching Disney's Robin "fox" Hood
cartoon in German, somehow it rubbed off
on me...

      i was never born with anything even remotely
resembling the love of the English language...
can there be a love akin to the Anglophile
that excludes the love of the language?
i love everything English except for the language...

each day i'm slowly planning my escape
into womb of the mother of the isles that
was first spoken in Saxony...
         tired Bavarians? tired Pomeranians?
but the Saxons were a landlocked people
who gave them the courage and adventurous
spirits to claim the seas with more than
oars and steer the winds with
sails?

      English didn't come to me as some
poor Romanian kid listening to current pop music
or back then, early 1990s... movies from Hollywood...
i didn't want to speak gimmicks...
i was ****** into the deep-end of speaking this
tongue by starting off a mute...
even with the influences of cartoon network
none left a too great impression on my ears
as the German version of the Disney cartoon
of Robin Hood...

   even after watching the English version many years
later... i can still hear the German dubbing
and i can't escape it...

auf die frei zungen ich spre(s)chen es
mit ein konkurs auf substantive...
(of the three tongues i speak it
with a bankruptcy of nouns)...

        at least i have made progress with predispositions
and conjunctions:
i am better coordinated...
but how... how can one be an Anglophile
without a love of the language?
i can adore the way the English care for
the countryside... how traffic is managed...
how taxes are collected how foreign cultures
can slowly integrate and everyone can feel
somehow, seemingly at home:
even if the natives do not for a while...
but without a love for the language
i cannot be a true Anglophile...

                the beauty of Shakespeare disintegrates
when a simple German neo-folk is played to me...

   in der zwölften stund (sage vom untersberg)

- in der zwölften stunde -
at the twelfth hour
- wenn die raben fliegen um den berg -
when the ravens fly around the mountain
- tun sie lautstark kunde -
they loudly proclaim
- von des kaiser macht und tagewerk -
the emperor's power and legacy
- solang der kaiser schlafet -
as long as the emperor sleeps
- tief drunt' im dunklen bergensschloß -
deep down there in the dark mountain *****
- solang fliegen auch die raben -
the ravens will fly
- hoch über seinem marmelschloss -
high above this castle of marble...

   no words in English, and their meaning make much
for... however simple they might be in German:
the simple fact that... they're spoken in German!
das: sie sind gesprochen im Alt...
    
it is only natural that i sought out the origins of
the English tongue in German,
as much as i am not interested in the etymology
of designated word:
i could never be this youth exposed to too much
English culture wishing to sing pop songs
or utter single line pin-pointers from
films: ehrilch mein schatz,
   ich tun nicht ein pflege
   (frankly my dear,
    i don't give a **** / care)
    or... ich wille wieder (i will be back)...

so the indentations of learning English in a later
developmental stage of language acquisiton
didn't rub off on me: as it does on people
with accents of their mother tongue
who never lose it... and merely culturally appropriate
English as a spoken tongue of culture
and not a "cultured" tongue...
native tongue: a shape-shifting accent
of an educated "class"...
    even today! West Ham was playing Everton,
Toffees... ******* Scousers... Liverpool dwelling folk...
two younglings asked me to speak to one
of the managers who took their banner away
expressing disgruntlement with
how the football club was being managed...
huh?! am i still in England...
i have an easier time understanding Scots
than i have understanding anyone from
Manchester or Liverpool!
i can't understand them!
maybe that's why the Scots are like the Irish:
they come from a proud literary history...
oh... i spoke to an Irishman today at
the football game... woke up at 3am to come
to the game... i understood him perfectly...
i can understand a Scot and an Irishman...
i wouldn't be able to tell you an Irishman
from a North Irishman...
but i could tell you decipherable English
of the Scot and the Irishman from
an undecipherable, local, "polyglot"
mishandling of the English language with
such local accents and idioms as that of
Liverpool or Manchester...
can't understand the *******: even if i tried...

obviously i can't relate to a love of Russian...
as they might say in Poland:
better 6 years of **** rule: by fire...
than the subsequent how many decades it was
under the rule of the Soviet rule: by ice...
a slow burn of war is more demoralising
than a quick stretch of spandex and all hell
and all fury and all hearts united
than this scuttling of rats and shadow-bullets
shot from shadow-pistols!

of course i would naturally side with the Germanic
side of my upbringing:
i have no itch for rekindling any Russian brainwashing!
and i know that the Germanic side of "things"
has become a breeding ground for feral creature-oids
that resemble as best cuckoldry and at worst
the shadiest parts of the ***-scenes in Amsterdam...
but... bone-headed Russians and their
pride... that Russian pride... it's one of those intoxication
liquid i want to drink any of!

hmm...
   perhaps because i know English as a utility,
there's nothing romantic in it for me:
i buy bread with it, i ask: i used to ask for directions
in it, i ask someone in that conventional
formal way how they are and hope for the less *******
that most Americans reply with: how all is dandy
and it's all Texan blue above and not
the grey of the island skyline...

i did think for a moment: i should haven taken a step
further and attached myself to Swedish...
or Norwegian...
but then that's what a German would do...
as an Anglo-Slav it was only natural for me to succumb
to the allure of German...
the natural dynamo...
i fall on German and the German falls on Swedish...
or Danish...
**** knows who the Scandinavians fall on for
inspiration... the Finns?!
after all: the Finns are somewhat Scandinavian:
more Inuit people than...
        
one is a tongue one learned: or, was rather thrown
into learning...
but it's unlike a learning from it being passed on...
no one passed English down to me...
i'm a first generation immigrant...
i learned the tongue in the same time
as my parents learned it...
unlike all those 2nd generation immigrants
who were born in this land
and learned this tongue outside the dynamic
of their parents learning the language:
the only difference being...
i kept the mother tongue, the native, intact...
by refusing my parents' claim that:
if i only spoke English at home,
the English i acquired from being schooled
in the English educational system...
if i forwent me speaking my native tongue
to them: their English would somehow improve...
that they would, somehow, miraculously not have
a foreign accent!
as a child i picked up three majors things...
Catholicism wouldn't take me... i might have been
baptised without my consent...
but i had all the necessary obligations to
give or not give my consent when it came to confirmation:
i haven't been confirmed... i head too many
Gnostic Heresy texts as a teenager...
their idea that somehow i would mistreat my native tongue
in order for them to gain something for it...
like most Pakistani 2nd generation children...
perhaps, maybe... a few slip through the netting...
who still pride themselves on knowing Urdu...
most? with their loss of the mother tongue pick up
their own idiosyncratic accents within the confines
of English: they are literally children robbed
of bilingualism by their parents...

i mastered it and by mastering it found it with
shortcomings that only the tongue i was born
with could expose...

today this alpha looking male sat next to me on the train
and spread his legs... smiling... listening to music...
**** me mate... how much spreading do you need to do?
what i found:
poetry, best read when commuting...
i'm building up a complimentary package for a friend
of mine... she sent me macadamia nut shells
and dried pineapple and honey and...
a feather... i said to her: i will not send you anything
before i compliment a feather you sent me with a feather
of my own... i went cycling two days prior
and: imagine my luck! some magpie... ELSTER...
was either shedding her feathers or was in a fight...
i picked up about half a dozen ELSTERGEFIEDER...
magpie feathers...
on the train... you're better off reading a book
of poems than a newspaper...
the optics are much more clarifying...
none of the claustrophobia and oczopląs
               of a tightly-knitted (printed) column or opinion
paragraph... spread out text...
  poetry books as an alternative to reading newspapers
in transit... that's how i imagine "it"...
once upon a time newspapers were tightly knitted
beyond the scope of the printed paragraph:
it would require the solitudes of Sundays
to sit in calm and quiet and read them...
these days: that tabloid press with headers
and exploding wordings for the newly acquired
people of literacy: the addition of pictures...

nothing new, therefore nothing old...
mein herzenskummer ist was giBt
                   der Sonnenaufgang seine
      rinnsal auf schüchtern farben...
und! unt!
        der Sonnenuntergang seine
    busen-auf-verkörperung:
                auf: das nie vergeht!

                   how easily the displaced spiders...
turn to new architecture of the spider web
should their former and no sooner
than sooner: distraught with the havoc
of a man's quill of fingers having to differentiate
walking into a spider-web confusing it
with: are my eye-lashes camel's now?!

some shifts at work are terrible,
esp. when working with two females...
everything is wrong...
even telling after-work jokes is wrong...
talk of fish fingers... loads of ketchup...
that's wrong too...
top it all of this one is joking about the other
and the other is lesbian
and she has a new girlfriend
and fish-fingers: well... i am a man and i never
equated the smell of ****** with fish...
i know that tadpoles and ****...
but never fish... fish fingers... *******...
ketchup? i joked: that time of the month?
no laughter... no laughter...
if women are joking about their horrid ****
i better not be asked to, ******* joke!

better working with mute men on zombie mode...
i'm already a year behind having my social medial
stalked... sure... they can stalk me when they
figure out my middle name and some Slovak
diacritical markers... not until then...
just because i look silly when ice-skating
and everyone has seen the video doesn't
mean i'll give up my internet presence so easily: so...
i have a project aligning myself to German
so close to my heart i can find it forgiving...
to desire in the heart-of-hearts
to: **** this tongue enough to speak it when drinking!
because i find that Wilhelm was sort of right...
about how Germany was no empire
expect something on the continent
that gobbled up a part of
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
because the Germans were an established people
and there was no sailing spirit in them...
after all: one might be inclined to think they
wanted to upkeep the romantic, familial orientation
of Christianity...
but the powers, the colonial powers at be...
whether the French the English or the Spanish...
who does, Christianity belong to, these days?
one might have asked the same question
before Christianity spread to the Nord Lands...
prior to its prior occupation with the Syrians
and North Africans and the Greeks...
Romans as a side joke?
who are the current mass of Christianity if not
the former colonies of the English
the Spanish and the French?
i know of Christians in South America from
the cross being dumped by the Spaniards with
vain hope... vain hope of the French in Africa...
and the English in Africa... and North America...

at least the Germans didn't... spread this...
Christianity might be allocated to about 12 individuals
within the confines of a single generation...
beyond that? money-grabbing money-laundering:
a religion with only the sole focus on LOGOS
while reading up on Zhuangzi you have several
other, dutiful terms to meditate on...
i might have been smitten by Hindu thinking before
being doubly smitten by Taoist dialogues...
one still remains a categorical imperative...
outside the realm of dialogue:
the best way you can help the world is
to help the world forget you and you in turn forget
the world...
obviously i'm doing X and counter-X...
i'm writing... by extension of writing i "want"...
or is that: "i" want to be remembered...
but thinking is no telekinesis nor is speaking
any telepathy...
             i speak... like today... i get this oddity of looks...
first she asks me: oh what should i reply
to my friend... just been to a Hen-do...
strippers? oh sure... there were strippers...
first time married? no... second... so what's the ******* point
of a hen-do? cluck x2 laid eggs x4?!
  
so her friend sends me a photograph of her newly bought
dress... laces... or whatever the ******* call
a would-be reimagined-curtain...
i tell her: she could pull it off... if she was a size 0...
the lace could really add dimension and curves to
a thin body...
to hide the skeleton...
but you know what would work for her?
a meringue dress...
you know the type? a one piece...
cut just above the ***** line...
simple: smoothed over... no patterns...
all the way from the cleavage to the feet...
so then she shows me her wedding dress...
it cost her £130 while her friend paid over £2000...
exactly what i was describing...
she just sent an AWW and tried to deflate the question,
or simply avoid it...
yeah... she looks like a flayed torso...
because... SHE's fat...

           eat all you want and as much (perhaps)
but at least burn it off...
if there's no work in the fields:
then there's no work in the fields...
but there's enough rubber burning on the bicycle
to escape the monotone drudgery of
urban living... as i found today,
upon Hook Lane cycling up to Chigwell Row...
there's no need to eat excessively...
no comfort in all that fat without
a leather chair or enough warm clothing...

treating people as these existential morons:
conceptualizing the non-existence of free-will is one thing,
another: to debrief them: life is without agency...
a choice-less Darwinism where
jelly-fish are somehow automated: sprouts:
well... no other life could or would ever be!
people without free-will is one thing:
the shackles of the dynamic of choice...
one choice sets you free, subsequent choice shackles
and inescapable binary of freedom-no-freedom...
science governing the flip of a coin...
but... people, robbed of any sort of agency?!
of self-authority over themselves:
so, so easily mangled and mishandled leaving
their fate unto... no fate: double sure...
unto others?!
i watched a few horror movies in my lifetime...
none seem as horrifying as this +mundaneness
of the horrible leftover: forgotten...

i must have a Germanic attitude toward these matters...
i was born into the living spirit of the ****** tongue,
the membrane in situ staging the conflict
of Rome vs. Greece...
or Germany vs. Russia...
i see no end to it...
i was born from the Germans trying to burn out
the Jews from "my" lands
while the Russians trying to subdue the flames
all the while...
i was still borne from a history that required
a solitary antagonist...
less so an protagonist of solitude...
either way: i was going to slither my way through...
like water like serpents...
wie wasser wie schlangen...

mein herz bricht aus hungrig flammen
als ich stürzen blind Samson's
already toppled temple
            
i know i that i will not write the sort of beauty
that's poetry that's everything that's
Zbigniew Herbert's
Godly Claudius
the Game of Mr. Cogito
Mr. Cogito observes his face in the Mirror
the Seventh Angel
   (my favourite of the angels listed?
Dedrael - the apologist and cabalist)
   to name but a few of the poems...

it brings such relief that i can't bring such
beauty into this world: perhaps if my mind was
not muddled by the utility of English
and my romance with German -
perhaps but only perhaps:
i don't even know why i started to write poetry:
maybe it was my lowest ebb
psychotic running on steam and pretend
legs between Edinburgh, Glasgow,
London, Dover, Athens, Belgrade,
Katowice...
                    walking into a bookshop buying
a copy of Rumi's verses...
buying Dostoyevsky's the Brothers Karamazov
and, just by chance... Bukowski...
what was so supposedly special and hiding
within the poetry of this man?
absolutely nothing: i was mad enough
to try it then and to keep at it:
not really knowing why...
  
compared to Zbigniew Herbert i write trash:
perhaps i read too much fiction,
even autobiographical prose: prose in general:
i don't know how to shut up the ten mouths
on the tips of my fingers but
i know how i can seem menacing
on a shift at work... hood pulled over my head
leather gloves squeezing each knuckle
asked by the atypical extroverted woman
whether something is wrong...
pulling my hood up, smiling, yet still being
compared to the grim reaper...
jokes aside: someone is counting the time...

a welcome break from Knausgaard...
this little safe-haven of poetry read in transit...
finally! something that's not mine
and not in English!

that's the terrible difference between men and women...
going to the Fulham shift i was sitting
behind three women... i'm guessing two were
newly arrived brides of war from Ukraine
who also picked up a Thai-surprise bride...
birds sound chirpier and more pleasant to talk
to... sitting behind them reading my little poetry
book... with a magpie's feather for a bookmark...
the women talked... about?
photographs... filters... instagram models...
plastic surgeries of people wanting to look
like their photographs...
impossible dreams! dreams of women...
and some womanized-men...
on my way back... same book same bookmark
and a young man sat down next to me...
put on some decent music i could
make out through the headphones...
angled his horizon to look over my shoulder
as to why i was reading a book with so much
open space and so little words...
not any fiction, not some constipated prose
of imaginary conversations...
and i could feel his leg pressing against mine...

perhaps i am not gay but i can't imagine
being friends with a woman...
i truly can't... there's either *** for me: with women...
or there is friendship with men...
with each man i meet i can achieve this
transcendent: otherwise unpackaged will
of subduing and seduction that only a woman
can provide me... but a conversation with a woman
is painful: at least for the majority of times:
there might be a special place for a woman
who might not necessarily:
but is probably older than me and shares
the same sentiments as me...
probably lives far away and thinks that hand-writing
is like exposing herself all naked...
will go out of her way to send me a feather of a bird
from over 3000miles away...

while i will send her a necklace with a single amber
stone on it... or i will send her a crab's pincer with a hole
drilled in it and ask her to buy some leather-string
to have herself a second necklace...

at work Stephanie the supervisor had to make it adamant
for me alone to know that i would be her Alpha...
whatever the hell that meant...
Alpha... well yeah... because i do try to ensure that
everyone is treated fairly...
the Asians boys of Bangladesh and Pakistan caved it...
this work or this cold of England
finally bit them...
     it's an unrewarding work if you don't have
an escape plan, like i do...
i'm always flying to other pursuits outside of this
work... customer service... being polite to people
that might not be polite to you or simply ignore you...
but even my standards i thought they were
taking it too far...
but i made a pact with them...
they took out a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured
out shots... if there's going to be a snitch among
us... it will be the man who does drink...
so when asked if i'd like a shot i replied: why not!
the weather calls for it... whiskey to warm up!
mixer? oh no no... straight!
plus... you can't mix Jack Daniels with Fanta, can you?
a few new colts were bullied into peer pressure
of silence, asked if they wanted a drink: said no...
me? i had a drink... i'm not snitching...
well i did when Stephanie was coming round
when i just said: nothing about the drinking...
but if there are 7 of us standing in one place...
but i'm the only one giving any customer service
by giving directions and good-evenings while
they're just standing talking to each other,
having a good time? apparently some people still
can't internalise being drunk for their own
self-amusement, drinking is somehow: getting together...
clearly these boys haven't been alone
and drank a litre of whiskey each and every single
night for months on end...

what really bugged me is when they took out a spliff
and smoked it between the four of them...
even as the customers were coming to see
Tottenham beat Fulham 1 - nil...
oh for ****'s sake... it's one thing having a cheeky sip of
whiskey on a cold day to warm up...
but to also smoke marijuana on a shift?
in full view and easily scented air of winter
before customers?
these guys don't want this ****** job...
thank god none of them are either bus drivers
or train drivers or plumbers for that matter!
maybe doctors who forgot to take out a pair of
scissors from a patient's body when
the patient is getting stitched up?

the worst i ever did was drink the night before
and sobered up on my way to work...
ah... not to mention that one time this
girl tried to scout her paranoia from prior relationships
with abusive alcoholic boyfriends onto me:
a man she just met... pampered with an array
of chemicals whether that be a cologne or this alcohol
containing face spray...
who i later tried to sooth by bringing her my homemade
weisserwein... cloudy... like any weisserbier...
chirpsin'... 3 way conversation conspiracies...
until the lie stood on dwarf's legs rather than stilts...
and to think: no i wasn't thinking seriously about
getting into a relationship with her...
she tried to get me fired for "apparently" drinking
on the job! a person she just me...
neurotic ******* *****... it's good that i showed her
what she would never, ever... get...

the difference between men and women...
the shift finished... prior to finishing we already knew
that there was some major ****-up on the tube...
the signals went down...
no Circle line, no Hammersmith & city services...
no services on the District line
from East Ham to Earls Court...
ergo? you'd think there might be a northbound
service to Edgware Rd. from Putney Bridge...
nope... Earls Court is a 4 x 4 junction...
sure... there was the southbound service
from Putney Bridge to Wimbledon...
and whatever service that's a station after
Earls court toward Richmond and Ealing Broadway...
as i'm guessing from Upminster to East Ham
and from one station after Earls Court
to Edgware Rd....
this girl was supposed to come with me
to Stepney Bridge from either Romford or Chadwell
Heath for the shift...
i was 15 minutes late because i felt like getting some
tea and an almond croissant...
she was? an hour late...
by the end of the shift when the transport invonvenience
was building up we went for our debrief
and she was all irritated in the eyes
when she wanted to get an Uber to Hammersmith
or whether it was she thought about going
without telling me: where that would cost her £50+
quid...
                  so when i told her...
i'm not going down the Putney High Street rail connection
because: (a) look at the ******* congestion
of the crowd and (b) i don't need to go to *******
Waterloo because that's ******* south of the river...

mmm hmm mmm... what, should we do?
i told you... i'm either walking or getting the bus 220
to Hammersmith...
debriefing over: she stayed behind for banter
and all the things that hinder an extrovert,
esp. a female extrovert... un-decisive, fatalist,
everything just ******* happens by some whisper
from astrology...
    Aquarius said to Libra that the waters were
about to spill... i ****** off from the stadium
like a hart... shook hands with the managers
thank you goodnight... as i was walking out
toward Hammersmith some young stewards were
shuffling really quickly it all looked very much like
they might be scratching vinyl...
i asked... you heading to Hammersmith?
yes yes... see! that's i like to see!
male to male camaraderie...
we have this unconscious motif of: from *****
you came to ***** you shall return...
it's a bit senseless to go to war these days...
less senseless when you're trying to get from
point A to point B...
there was about 40 of us running for the bus...
amongst us? 1 woman...
***** AHOY!
   obviously i left this girl behind...
her other option was asking one of the managers
to giver her a lift... ******* free-loader...
by the time the manager would have clocked out
all the other parties i would have wasted an hour...
just to get a lift... and then what?
stranded with her? even though we weren't going
to the same point B?
   i left with the *****-mentality... happy too:
because i could read my poetry book in the prized
possession of solitude... and no solitude...
because given the hour... something freakish was
bound to happen on the train or tube...
and it did... some proper English boys talking about
not wanting to take a nightcap in Romford heading
all the way to Shenfield joked when this guy started running
down the train carriage...
and those SKANKS so drunk who were blocking
the doors: subsequently delaying us
subsequently not catching their train blah blah...

well... just as today happened: talking so freely to men,
boys, young men, first point of "concern" / conversation?
establishing "taboos" or habits...
you smoke? you drink? first time you got drunk...
when did you start smoking marijuana first?
and then a natural progression into...
so... what music do you like... just... so naturally?
with women? even with Francesca,
this butcher boy of a lesbian...
it's a cul de sac sort of conversation...
she only talks about herself,
even today i received a text from her...
i broke up with Natalie... broke up i.e. she met her
on Tinder... she stayed round her house
for three nights... Natalie made her lunch for
work one time... cooked dinner another time...
4 days and nights they dated... already broke up...
there you go... Tinder-dating-shoplifting hearts...
window-shopping romances...

free market capitalism? sure... but not when
capitalism overstretches its influence
and we're worse off than the despairing existentialist:
PHILOSOPHERS of the 19th... the precurosor
fabric... i'd say the 20th century existentialist
philosophers had it easier...
but anyone in the 21st century, thinking, even remotely:
would be hard pressed not to express something
of substance bugging all of us:
no great war, no great upheaval,
proxy wars, the Thespian dictatorship over all
the other arts (with the exception of pop music, perhaps)
and the journalistic juggernaut of the quickened
availability of almost anything and nothing...
the free market of capitalism having invested
in creating this... Frankenstein in pieces...
this IKEA ******* LEGO model of a Frankenstein:
but at least Frankenstein bothered to construct
the entire monster rather than creating this
shattered Pandora's box... left in pieces and in
some realisation of a Copernican West...
in a Copernican East... Copernican "west"?
there's a "west" without a setting sun?!
up in outer space?
                         capitalism all fine and dandy:
but not outside the realm of a couple worrying about
how many kettle and toasters sets they will
have to buy during the year or even the wardrobe
needs revisions, or whether it might be worthwile
to change the wallpaper in the living room,
or what movie to watch on a date night at the cinema...
all of that is gone when the free market made
us profile ourselves... with some of us being pushed
so far as to fake cubist like pictures of ourselves
and subsequently implement plastic surgery to
double-fake ourselves...

the shrapnel-shelving-of-self...
it's like people are a library with no alphabetical order:
free market on psychology, morphed beyond
any concern for dreams: if there were any
as the luxury of the Freudian rich...
this... what happened to historiology in the modern
sense as stressed by Heidegger?
a study of history of the people by the people
or at least by individuals... morphed into this grotesque
pop psychology: archeological mapping back
to the primordial Pharisee of Ape and Aping...
farce: Darwin's Curtain of History...
   will we ever remember the beauties and horrors
of centuries from the 16th to the 19th?
no... everything of said years is nil: null...
because the ape's origins quickly morphed into
the man hunched over a microwave adamant in his
belief that... the carbon footprint of producing
a kilogram of chicken meat somehow, somehow would
"save the planet" than producing a kilogram
of tomatoes... given that a kilogram of tomatoes would
only yield a fraction of the necessary calories
than a kilogram of meat... and still the growing
of one kilogram of chicken would cost the planet
less than growing a kilogram of tomatoes...
who needs tomatoes in winter?!
eat, your, ******* root vegetables! carrots boyo! carrots!
but chickens don't need solar energy, nor suntans,
nor greenhouses... chickens cluck just as much
in winter as in summer... and eggs are a year round
product... plus you only need a barn in winter
to keep chicken!
tomatoes rot... chickens? they grow old and die...
until they grow old they still produce eggs...
and when they die? you eat them...
you can't exactly call a chicken rotten if it isn't already
days X already dead, can you?
it might not be as fresh... but...
ugh... no wonder

Zbigniew Herbert: from mythology (of Rome) -

   in the end only the superstitious
neurasthenics carried in their pocket a little figurine
made from salt, resembling the god of irony;
since then there wasn't a greater god.

then the barbarians came, they too greatly prized
the idol of irony.
           they pounded it with their heels and sprinkled
it into their dishes.

no clay-monster of the Levant can intimidate
me now!
not armed with these words:
let us witness the great divorce of man from woman!
let us watch!
pray... let us be brothers and friends and
secretly wishing we were lovers:
in the thinning air... let us talk about the strange
glow above the Thames hanging over Kew Gardens
as if: as i said to him:
as if the sunset still claiming an eye
in the night...
      what woman? what woman could i share
this romantic conversation with?
my interaction with women is so blatant so cold
so forced to claim the male in me and the woman
in her that it's only ******...
oh sure... i was going to the brothel...
but i was coming home already late...
i had two pairs of socks on, drawers, trousers...
a tank-top a shirt gloves and a thick coat...
by the time i would get out of all those layers
and have a quick shower...
half an hour i would have paid for would have become
nothing more than 15 minutes...
not enough time to get a hard-on
of being in the mood...
i already had more than ***...
a conversation... and no woman has yet to actually
provide me with one...
perhaps we are not in the trenches...
but men have always managed without women...
for as long as time knows...

a shift prior... at West Ham... ******* guy with a bald
head and a face as endearing as a plump baby
we great with a handshake that turns into
a thumb against thumb contest and a hug
tells me that i should come and find him at Cavern Cottage
and he'll sort me out with some free food...
hey presto i go and find him
i get a free steak and ale pie...
i know it's a one off...
    we already get discounts for burgers from the burger
van... but it's nice to give a reminder when
being invited...

     we do our rounds in the park...
among the Pakistanis and the Bangladeshi who at first
thought i was British when asked:
oh no... i'm not British... an Anglo-Slav at best...
from that lineage of Anglo-Saxons...
the Saxons who came among post-Rome rule
Britain and mingled or not mingled
with the local Celtic and Welsh and Britton populace...
i'm the second wave that didn't make it
because the British Empire collapsed
and the eastern Europeans were not too dearly minded
in the history of the British Empire...
but they know that i'm from Poland
so when asked: where are you from? there...
and "there"... but i've been living here since i was
7 so there's no "born and bred" argumentation
with me and those in your ethnic stratum
concerning any anti-Pakistani villification
of those in the "upper-castes"... blah blah...
they know... while the three of us walked around
this 40 year old Yugoslav woman
who escaped the Yugoslavian collapse of
circa 1992... starts talking as i switch her around
so she can have a walk with us to warm up her legs
from standing stiff still...
where are you from? oh... here...
i'm not going to tell her what i told the boys...
not after she deflects my attraction to her
by paying more attention to the Pakistani boy
of 20... i'm closer to her age...
but... then she does this sick thing of asking
me to hold her empty cups of tea that
have an unused teabag in it and some dried milk...
oh... right? i'm going to be your waiting boy?

******* testing women... this woman is past her prime...
i know it she thinks she can "test" my patience
by me being her ******* pet-shop-boy?!
fine! fine...
the more and more i talk to women
the more i find them diametrically opposed
to any sort of psychologically asexual universalism of:
ecce ****...
                 women have: and will have to...
sexualize everything from Aristotle to Zeno...
there was once a maybe female version of Aristotle if
only the: give me the drill... i need a bigger hole to see through:
these eyes aren't large enough...
if only there wasn't an oppressive patriarchy...
the oppressive "patriarchy" of autistic geniuses?!
oh... that one... the sort of men cowering
from female sexuality?
  wow! how oppressive!
                    magnificently oppressive!
we all should be so magnificently oppressed by the man
who discovered the wheel by meditating
the O(micron) - what came first?
the wheel or the omega, or was it the sun?
if Prometheus brought down fire... by teaching man
that scratching flint against flint could illuminate
the cave and give man a second womb of poison-fire...
before the forests turned to ash...
before Pompeii's negative of a whiplash of history...

i tried loving women... i loved them for:
the many months i would rather not use
the fingers of both my hands for...
    absolutely un-relate-able creatures...
what *** beside that of female would whisper in
man's heart to leave their minds without
reason to stage the Trojan War
                        or bring architecture to kneel:
like Xerxes: but the madness of Xerxes was rather
beautiful wanting to lash the Aegean into submission
rather than that little Pharaoh ***** who might
have said: best to chisel down a rock face
and glue together sand with egg-whites and spit
into bricks and polish up a craggy mountain:
lest we forget: from a lineage of a people
that once said: let us "reinterpret" the mountains!
pyramids...
                at least the South American tribes invented
the pyramid as an altar... not a tomb...
but we're no smarter than they were dumber:
the myopic-vision strategy of the vantage point
of: what came prior... with hindsight...
but hindsight only works in reverse...
the unmistakeably irreversible past
within the confines of the motto: the terrible
has already happened!
  
                       and some variation of the historically
terrible isn't already happening,
on some microscopic level?
                           not if / not yet?!
                                             hardly...

poetry is air and not the prose of water...
i am stranded between wanting to breathe air
and at the same time more in need to drink water:
no wonder i cannot rest with merely breathing air...
if only i were to breathe air and leave my efforts
with so much nuance as to allow others to breathe
the same air... alas i am like that saying of Heraclitus...
i'll pour you a glass of water
i have prior to drank... leave it for you to drink a day
later: it will not be the same water that i have drank...
i wish i could write like these words might be air...
but it's... aqua post scriptum et plus aqua
post scriptum ad fluenta...

                    verschließen dein augen:
    sehen wieder... immer wieder:
                               bis: es gibt
                             nicht freude:
noch aufschub träumen...
                              kalt silber-rasierer
                                 schneiden auf
mondklären... nacht als auch wirklichkeitstoff.

with a month in absence of usage... it would take a man about a week to internalise a tongue foreign to him, acquired, esp. if he devolved to using a native tongue and spoke of community sentiment... while having to return to using an acquired tongue: on a pure cognitive basis... for what do i use english for? i have no ability to tell a neighbour from a foe, or a broken urn depicting a pregnant Aphrodite, rather than one ***** and abandoned... a month using the native spreschen will leave man question as to how he is to storm the "Bastille" once more: once more become the spider, and once more wait in a renewed spiderweb... for i am just that: what between me and the "casual" exchanges in a supermarket? it takes about a week of sloth to reanimate this acquired tongue to at least write it in this altar of space... for is it ever spoken outside the time i occupy this bound hands outside it? if it really has to appear casual... i don't see why i have to become a B-movie actor feeling omni-phobic about: a list of things that never constitute entertaining the analogy.

so my neighbour has this female Belle -
a tiny little creature - white
with heterochromia iridium -
and she hasn't been castrated...
      and the male that comes to her has
already consumed the grownd -
sown his seeds and whether not
having impregnated her:
      now makes diabolical sounds outside
my window:
           like a moaning pedohpile...
i am also curious about the goliath ginger
i own, castrated:
                looking for what a non-
castrated owns...
              darting between house and garden:
playing an invisible broom
to erase the *** of petting cats but not
infringing on their biology...
     but when i hear this cat that's courting
a teen-girl equivalent?
        the oddest of sounds a mammal
could make...
                 and then watch with
near despair at the castrato: simply because
he is a pedigree and whoever breeds
pedigree cats needs to ensure a monopoly
so that a subsequent owner doesn't
own a bull to make money off...
  poor thing, even though he is much larger
than a common dog...
           scuttling among the fallen leaves...
while this moaning ******* growls
and moans a jerking off...
                but then i am strangely clamed:
and what of the prior month:
when the foxes ravaged the outer-suburban
landscape?
      how calming the wild jarring and
grit tooth to imitate laughter?
        petted animals that have not been
castrated - and that occupy a suburban
environment as almost prompts...
  i can undertand an uncastrated feline
in the countryside...
          but here: the fox seems so much
more pristine in his calls...
         a howling wolf would also add to:
how man domesticated the wolf
  and taught him barking: by himself
barking - and if Prometheus stole
  the fire from the gods:
      what will the devils tell of the man
who stole the howling from their karbarah?
no fox, for it neither be cat nor dog
will ever forget its ancestor:
     *hyena...
             and i find much comfort in this...
that i rather watch the hyäne
   & the fuchs than mann & affe...
   it's just the sorrow for my goliath ingwer...
the epitome of a bull:
or what would have been boar taint...
  akin to the knur in a harem of hoags...
i rather peer into the hyäne
   & the fuchs...
   than watch man debate an origin in ape...
2 foxes in the night will always
sound more appealing than
a teen-bride, a non-castrated cat
groaning, moaning like some pervert...
and my ginger goliath:
            trying to insert his eyes
into the hormonal dynamic of a missing
pair of testicles...
        and if i can have no wolf to
claim a narrative of Luna -
      bride and bridge toward Hades...
     with the status of karbarah...
    in England throned:
                a ***** call to mark as more
in line with a comforted thought:
than an un-castrated petted ornament:
when watching the disorientated
shuffling of a castrated pedigree:
  ginger goliath...
           am i truly the man who
could weep for an animal's innocent
mute?
            seems i am a hindu in
a squiggly artefact of revealing babyl:
   2 foxes in the night will remain
more appealing to me than
      what: will eventually breed a litter -
like in my native land:
            of graveyard "children"...
   cats that are necrophyliacs -
   who live in the graveyard so they can
feast...
               as i have seen stray dogs
in Poland:
                 in England i see: dogs in Versailles...
i laid slabs on an extension roof
   of the Battersea Home,
   and i've walked the corridors of their
hotel glass kennels: all indoors...
        can someone please take pity on
my castrated cat?!
                      i can't watch him unable
to abstract having a pair of testicles missing!
for the sole reason that he would
break this ******* moaning neck of a cat
with one paw strike...
        what a ******* sad sight...
   no wonder i'd rather listen to foxes
in the night...
                          so much easier to listen
to a freedom...
     with the castration of breeds:
i find it a cruelty and nothing more...
   the mop's worth of the alleycat will
experience and confuse my angelic ******...
the missing wolves,
        the hyenas ancient: the foxes sly...
    and the bewildering sentiment as to
why people wear headphones when commuting...
because that ******* clamour
of metaphorical horse-hooves of a train
clamouring is: my prayer, my bowing
before the alter of progress?!
        3 cats and 2 foxes make all the difference;
- can't believe i can feel more for
an animal than i can feel for fellow man...
but then again:
            maybe it's easier,
    in that: it's worth gravitating on a mute:
and not having the poodle of wanting
a "meaningful" conversation...
  just as today: his excessive meowing
met my reply:
     you've ended up speaking more than
i have in the past week;
     keep it up: we'll ask the peacocks
to join the choir in our church we see before
us.

I internalise everything

If you don't know what that means

Why are you asking
Do you think I am faking
Do you think I am overreacting
Do you think I am weak


Do you know how it feels
to receive a bungee cord
as a present
and read it as
Hang yourself

I wish I didn't

I wish I could hear
I love you
Stay
and not see
You annoy me
Go away

I wish I could
feel your kisses
and not hear my thoughts
shout for your thoughts

Why am I here?!

I love you
I'm sorry
I love you

Is what I say
When I ask
a million times
Are you ok?

I love you
don't leave yet
I love you

Is what I mean when I say
I internalise everything

i concede, if you really think
that i have to vote to make democracy
work, fine...
            you can have my right
to veto...
                 but god forbid you come
between me and taking out
recycling "waste" every sunday,
   esp. onion attired
   (t-shirt, t-shirt + a long sleeve
                                      shirt)
and a blue fruit of the loom jumper...
freezing both my imaginary
  **** and testicles off...
       the testicles are the real bit
of this "hermaphrodite" though...
           because what is this critique of
modern painting?
                 sheeeeee't,
                             a re-discovery of geometry?
we only achieved having rediscovered
the cube with picasso...
        sure, an over-quoted example,
       does that mean modern musicians
will re-dicover the orchestral triangle?!
hey, pots and pans with
a drum kit in the universe of
          a butterfly caused a tornado...
but please don't take away my fetish for
taking out recyclable goods,
   i know i wasn't born german,
but living among displaced germans
on an island (i.e. saxons):
    you get a lick as some sort of
compelling impetus to repeat and act...
        it's really bad to cling to rhyming
these days,
            once upon a time that's all
the poets did,
                   i ate
      a piece of pita, bread...
                     esp. in february, which is
arguably the coldest month,
   you can see the moon during the day,
and during the night...
                   it actually makes sense
to recycle...
                      the whole: "re-invention"
of a wheel...
                       sure, hardly a revolutionary
act, but, for some reason
a highly satisfactory "loss of limbs" act...
   because didn't "mediocre"
fester with the most potential for horror?
   though i wonder:
you ever attended a polish catholic mass,
when they recite the creed?
    satanic murmuring to me...
  had to down 200ml of cherry *****
to sit through it...
            because those who attend
the mass at Częstochowa are
gesticulating kneeling, praying, pitying
before the schwarzmadonna
               (ha ha, "irony"...
an etymological curiosity:
           (he) często, chowa...
                           often hides...
               that's the literal translation
for a name of a town...
               the pronoun is in there,
because that's how english functions,
shrapnel... pronouns need to be used
very often, polish?
           sometimes you can talk for
two hours and never use pronouns)...
point being: who are these people
praying to?
              must be the ****** artist
at some point...
            the person who actually drew
the icon...
                  because i find it beyond
contempt to have to
    internalise the subject matter contained
in the painting,
         or what's that objectively?
never ask a lunatic to explain the point
of a church with no one else
shackled to the church in there with him...
        spooks!
              yet as any german might,
i just love taking out the recyclable
materials in orange bin bags...
                     and you really can attest
to a moral compass via this simple feat...
        actually, most times two polacks
talk, you never actually use pronouns...
      hicky over there
   is still paranoid about other people
dropping the A-word,
               but he could sign of Hiroshima
and now he's riding a lazy eyed
donkey with a twitch in one its eyes...
jockeys, camel-jockeys, you name it...
                 i know you can hide a letter,
well, j, but no he(h)sus... zus... ave zeus!
   in that tilde on yer N...
                                but how would to
unravel the R-trill?
                rrrrrrrr-olling?
       in english the R has been numbed...
******* cobra bit the toff's tongue
and he's trying: not to slurr...
                                              r̃obot?
ha­ ha, ******* wavy line...
                     o.k.,
                                          we can do that...
i would have never have known that
R = sysiphus mechanism
    and O.... well, just that dumb piece
of sculpted brick...
                         can't believe it
though...
            so much pleasure from recycling
packaging.
summary...
    crotalus atrox,
    grzechotnik,
                          alternatively known
   as a one "man" band of
                    playing maracas -
    unless you can beat this trill-R on the tongue
representation worth of tilde:
                                        go for it!
   re-inventing the wheel is going to be,
real easy from here-on-in.

You told me not to cry,
so I never will again.

I internalise my tears until they nearly overflow,
until I'm fit to burst,
and the strain could **** anyone who comes too close.
And pressed deep inside my heart,
those tears will turn to ice
that creeps like frost through my frozen blood.

And you ask me why my hands are cold.

Now I wont say I have a frozen heart -
because I'm not devoid of feeling.
But my lungs are tipped with ice
and my veins are the blue of frost,
the whites of my eyes are as weepingly white
as freshly fallen snow.
I don't know if I'm cold because of the weight I've lost
or whether I've just lost all of my heat.

I'm scared you'll warm my heart,
because I know that if you do
I wont be able to stop the tears from flowing,
and they'll never stop.

My heart is aching
It has been for a while
Now
I try to keep on a smile
How
Can I keep doing this
Everyday
It doesn't feel fair
That some of us are so sad
When others are happy without trying
That some people hurt so bad
And others are just fine
And how come it's me
Why do I get this everyday
When the boy next to me in maths
Never thinks bout depression anyway
I never asked for this
Or did I ?
Mum tells me to internalise
And that's probably wise
I want to be happy
And I do try
But when I'm so tired
There's comfort in the dark
In the gloom
The heavy heart
The pain
Then the numbness
Grandma tells me not to give up hope
I say yeah but deep down I'm not sure I can cope
I tell me to be strong
That I'm not the worst off
And I usually try to keep my hurt on the inside
But now and again it hurts too bad to hide

it wasn't absinthe...
                                      just ***...
   but i was looking
                            at videos,
stretching my legs
                      in a crucifix pose...
tina "*******" turner...
                           i'm reclining in my
                                chair...
and then my feet
                                "move"...
      i love the illusion,
i'm staring at them citing
myself: what the ****?
i swear i'm supposed
to be aquarium / cross-eyed
at this point...
    down another pint,
and call it quits?
                                   **** me...
just stretching my feet
in a lower-body crucifix pose...
and they start to "move"?
         tina ******* turner!
is that as bad chris de burgh's
     a spaceman came travelling...
  that ****** bit of david bowie?
la la, ****, ha ha.
i'm still reclining,
     imposing with my legs crossed,
and i too am hallucinating
           them moving...
***?
             ***?! ******* pirate like?
yeah...
           pirate like....
        internalise burping...
or like me in a catholic school,
having internalißed amen...
       1 hour's worth of detention
after school, for having internalißed
a yawn, during prayer
               prior to a lesson...
                 ever internalißed a yawn,
i.e. without opening your mouth?
                    *******, jesus;
comes the time to mention
              walther von brauchitsch,
no reason, other than to just
**** you off,           dearest jew;
                            ******* paddies:
you gonna sing me some
******* westlife while you're at it?
please do...
    i'd hate to hear
             rod stewart's mandolin...
or anything by jeff or his father's
timothy buckley pieces;
   please... enlighten me...
   so i might squirm like
                the naturally squirming
       tibetan...
   when ******* a lemon; point
       two fifth's of a **** that you are?
fun hallucination though...
   nothing spectacular to be honest...
just your crucifix folded feet...
      and wearing household sandals,
against the dark... propped against
the windowsill...
    they almost always seemed to
move...
          believe me, i wish i had access
to some l.s.d.;
    and no, these days, the hallucinatory
element once contained in absinthe,
is completely missing; they just made
                            a 99% proof;
given that: you'll be drinking
that **** alone,
        or with a girl eating liquorice,
deciding to confront the idea of shoelaces
         with spaghetti.

One night whilst walking home alone.
A drunken man came into sight
His walking was loose hips and made for a fun sight.
At first I thought of turning and walking the other way.
Then the man started rolling and his hips began to sway.

I stayed on track best foot forward, just don't look him in the eyes.
If you keep walking right on past and as fast as you can go, I began to internalise, don't look back and don't walk too slow.
I felt as though I was worldly wise and not a young fool who had just left school.

Then the unthinkable happened.
We were level with each other, my heart began to race at such a heavy pace.
I raised my fists in self defence. He laughed and sang a song Waltzing Mail da was the name, then he wandered on.

I looked back as he passed me by, loosy hips swaying from side to side.
Not a care in the world, nothing to hide.
Just a happy drunk on his way who knows where.

I wish I was a happy drunk I'd like to have no cares but for now I wander aimlessly from Town to Town, looking over my shoulder at who may be around.
Waiting in the wings for the next Happy Drunk who sings, maybe the next one will fancy himself with me in the rings.

You have to sometimes close your eyes and internalise,
keep everything tucked in and out of sight,

but you know they'll send their spies in to catch a moment when you're verbalising some extraneous thought..

we've reached that sort of ripe old age of having
past relationship regrets:
personally? i love them... i keep them a secret...
well... to a "listening" audience i bare all:
swinging on the moon ****-naked
like a pig before the slaughter...
                 i still don't know why women at work
treat me like either a priest or an advocate:
the stories i heard: drinking problems, drug problems,
past-exes problems: dating boys who would
have drinking and drug problems who would
drain them of their money: blackmail them etc. etc.,
i'm sitting there and? no edge...
try telling your life story to a woman telling you hers...
ha ha... as if...
i don't know why the sudden: what would you call
it? availability? transparency?
   i have a rubber ear: it stretches... or as the fellow saying
goes: in one ear out the other...
just today i was bothered...
well it was either catching the 499 bus to Gallows' Corner
Halfords and getting the broken szprycha
spoke: of the front wheel... it snapped before i was
gearing up to a cycle routine... lucky me...
from the heat... so it was either me catching the 499 bus...
oh man... the wait... and no pubs along the way...
**** it... 103 to Romford and then the 86 to Chadwell Heath...
first to Halfords... sure... we can sort this out...
the problem is this that and the other...
but i only replaced pierced tyres... the mechanic will be
back at the end of August...
great for him: not so great for me...
this was bound to happen... auxiliary plan...
Cycle King... an independent bicycle store...
i walk in: see this problem? fixable? yep... give me your details...
it will be done by Friday... how much?
20 squid... brilliant... thank you ever so much...
then onto the Eva Hart pub
for a pint of Guinness... you seriously can only drink
Guinness in a pint sized glass from a keg...
no Guinness bottled no Guinness canned...
so i's sit down at a random table able...
have a random conversation... three guys breaking *****:
literally... joking about this,
talking seriously about that...
               ol' Ernest wrote this brilliant short-story
compilation: men without women...
and it's true! men reciprocate they talk backwards
and forwards...
men "talking" with women? it's a ******* cul de sac
one way street... women talk: men listen...
if it wasn't for the ******* i'd be, most probably,
interested in keeping pigeons or collecting stamps...
well no: i wouldn't go as far as creating toy train sets...
let's not get too excited...
we talked about the weather, work, working outside
in this current heat... the three women at a table next
to us... age restrictions on attractiveness... blah blah...
me looking like someone who ought to be in a band...
me telling him: well... i used to play guitar...
but i could never find a drummer...
(lie - there was Tobey from Switzerland at Edinburgh,
but he was already in a band,
lucky me for having a jam session with a drummer)
i found a bassist once... we recorded a demo tape...
just ******* around...
point being: i tried that scam of a website last night...
i was BLITZED out of my already numb-skull...
3 messages in and i knew i made a mistake...
after the 3 message?
                       PAY UP: THIRSTY BOY...
thank god i set up a fake john pickwick account
on aol.com...
                                  a nice pretty blonde little number...
the scam was quick to pick up...
oh ****... what am i doing here?
                    did someone spike my whiskey sharpshooter
with some acid?
i tell her: i'm going to have to delete this account...
why why why?!
listen... i've been to a few brothels in my time...
i'm not into A.I. anti-psychological ***...
                i'm not that thirsty: mind you, i am...
but i'm thirsty for some watermelon sorbet...
  i'd love a watermelon sorbet...
or some raspberry kefir...
                        oh girl: i'm dying for some raspberry kefir...
mind you this scam website promising a pool
of single mums and unfaithful wives is struggling...
why? the same girls on this website have shifted
to attention-******* on twitter...
i was sort of invested in the narrative for that website...
but? 180 characters? that's all?
sure... if you're writing in hieroglyphics...
or writing Mandarin - well: both are hieroglyphics...
anyway...
i seriously need to find a different brothel...
after that stunt my Khedija:
she promises you a date outside the brothel...
you start making plans... book a hotel...
go to the cinema... get some food... **** all night...
and then? she says... oh no no...
so? you go back to the same brothel and have
a ******* with her competition...
normal...
               she stops texting you on Wattsapp...
she probably blocked you blah blah...
hell: i gave up the best *** in my life for? a slap in the face...
she didn't: but she did: she didn't: but she did...
don't make promises you can't keep...
we'll see... i've already been paid and paid off my debt...
so i have spare squids...
she'll either entertain me or she won't my presence:
how far can you go on ******* around with
a ******* without a ******:
slurping on her and giving her the shivers of an ******?
apparently... this other one prior
said out-loud: ooh... this has only happened to me
once before...
so? must be hard to give a ******* an ******...
boasting?! boasting?!
   does anyone think slobbering on a ****...
knowing full well that just 10 minutes prior some Irish
nag was ******* the same **** is supposed
to give me ego-tripping megalomania?!
seriously?!
          this is the ******* crustaceans kingdom of ***...
believe me: it probably sounds nice...
but... this is crab-bucket type of ***...
it's a harem within a harem...
                     it's a revisit to the 1960s "liberation front"
of that great stink of culture...
someone seriously has to sink to his lowest
to revive any self-awareness for everyone else...
me? i think i'm doing just that...
            i don't have a jealous heart...
silly me: for not having a jealous heart...
women love jealous men...
women abhor selfless men...
women love jealous men...
ergo? that white elephant of the the demiurge
in the minds of Semites...
no wonder women adore the sadism they're implored
to succumb to:
while the sheikhs walk in pure white... breezy...
almost linen material: the women are shackled
to BLACK BLACK NIQABS...
fair enough... as long as you don't interfere with my
life: you do you... i'll do me...

it's funny though, how certain things (denoted by nouns) -
mind you: every thing is denoted by a noun:
you can hardly call a stone: stoneless
some made-up adjective...
although: there's the dark and there's darkness...
there's light and lightness...
****... stoney... something is stoney -
it has the credibility of being associated with stones
but isn't a stone...
two words: szprycha: a vamp of a woman...
laska - girl next door beauty...
        laska? walking-stick... but... in ****** ****...
it can refer to a woman...
szprycha, though? oh: that's another level of vamp...

why i don't approach women?
they're unapproachable...
i rather talk ******* with a few random guys:
we have more in common...
it's casual convo.
                 there are no pressures:
in scenarios that don't allow for pressures to exist:
over a pint...
there's no: my eggs are frozen,
i have household chores... my father has dementia...
i have no one to care for him...
i'm a single mum... i need someone to raise
my kiddy...
                    ******* endless lists of potential
headaches... i don't need that!
why? who am i? Atlas or something?!
it's a one way street with women:
they don't care about me...
why even bother entertaining their company?
i'm not even bitter: as much as i love *******:
eating out a prostitutes ******:
i'm not really interested in her not being
interested in my own toils...
i can entertain hers: but if she can't entertain mine?
i better internalise myself:
compartmentalise myself to suit a better: efficient me...
let people see what they want / are expected
to see... and hide what i alone want to see...

i'm not that thirsty...
              while i was riding the bus with my wonky wheel
i was listening to the agony of...
some degenerate byproduct...
YOU ******* WANT DARWINISM?!
YOU ******* WILL GET DARWINISM, PROPER!
what was i listening to?
some genetic byproduct of:
a ****** irresponsibility...
she was screaming in agony in her wheelchair...
i want food! i want food!
oh... such sweetness to that agony...
because it was so innocently mastered...

you're telling me, that Darwinism is actually true?
*******!
if Darwinism was true: ontologically:
then then Nazis would have won the second world war...
sorry... the spider kills the fly...
there's a hierarchy that only a humane aspect
of hell that was crucified disrupts...
i ought to be in charge of a harem...
with my physical dimensions i ought to:
but no... there's nature, there are the elements and there's
human intellect...
the smart nor the fittest reproduce...
the idiots do...
        the most vulnerable do...
                       such sweet song: born from
****** incompetence... a child of suffering...
                   i listened: and i listened deep...
                                    hmm... pain... very primitive...
agile in the mind of a ******...
         Pontius Pilate walked past hardly a ghost...
we shook hands and agreed...
                  of the noble man there remains only a history:
there's no present happening to contribute
to the eventuality of stating events...
me? i'm to be made responsible for the ****** malpractices of
people? that there's a time limit?
people! EASE OUR BURDENS!
but do they listen? of course not!
          
    i know i have passed my limits...
she chose to pet snakes and tarantulas and wed
herself to the next disposable male every Spring...
me? i chose to try to attract the attention
of foxes and wasps...
and keep myself wedded to her in memory...
we're at that ripe old age of having lost
our imagination and salvaging ourselves
in a unison toward the altar of memory...
i don't want to daydream:
i don't want to imagine what's already required
before my eyes...
i have no need to dream...

the night compared to day is already
a worthwhile "dream" that i can live in an expand
my senses on.