.all this is suggesting is: i'll meet you half-way; given that "this" question was always going to hover over "us", given that there's a disparity between English: a people, and English: a language... evidently the natives cannot begin to envision themselves as a lingua franca peoples... no wonder, their language has been "hijacked".... the "xenophobia", but like kevin spacey said: well, i'm here, am i suddenly supposed to, *******? playing the ******* *****-eyed poodle is not on the cards, but at the same time, it's hard to envision this language, as a people... given all the infringing demands of the anglo-saxon economic model into areas, where displacement is rife, subsequently... i can understand the concern of the natives, given that i didn't transgress the base principle: don't **** their women. see what a mild spaghetti-custard blip of history we're getting into? i am expected to integrate, but i'm not expected to integrate. i am somehow expected to be told to do what others want, but at the same time, i'm expected to protect my individual rights... no "parallel" anlogy akin to a catherine perry song? no kitty-*******, just around the corner? i can see islam... you know its prime sense of failure? that arabic would and never will, become given the same lingua franca status of english... you're complaining, or is it me stating the facts? evidently is a language reaches a lingua franca potentiality and subsequent expression, the natives will suffer... i'm not a native, but i can only imagine... what the consequences are... being ram-packed with excesses in ***** purchases... so much for a protected status of international economic ventures... like: i am waiting for the intra-national economic counters... can't see them coming, or i can see them, in a Casandra conundrum variation. there's still the topic of the natives... rarely can the English be allowed an outsider perspective without a sediment of their language being used, by a foreign entity... now, or never, why? you have somewhere important to be at as of: tomorrow? can you blame the natives, given that their language is a lingua franca, and not just, relegation to a national idiosyncracy "pH scale" differentiation? as a foreign entity, you know what i've learned from living on the most outer aspects of London? sure as **** it's not Cheltenham... i speak the tongue, i'm no genius, it's only English after all, it's hardly anything near Mandarin... what i feel sorry for, are the jihadi buggers who were born here, and were never taught their native sprechen... whatever the hell happened to English, and what Islam is jealous of, it came about naturally... arabic was never supposed
to become the standard bearer, the lingua franca of commerce and disinhibiting individuals entrenched... which, implies? i can look at the natives, with a more piercing dedication: excuses... excuses could be had, if, your, language, wasn't as "******" as it currently is... seems like i've reached a status of post-integration... now, i'm asking the language, the sort of application usage cruxes, that a native, simply wouldn't.

                         there's just so much
                           baggage,
that madmen
can carry,
for the "sane" standard
bearers of civilization,
of civility...
    at least some
of these outliers have
the *****
to not cower behind
an insanity plea...
     most of the madmen?
imagine
a tiger in a cage...
after a while...
          the tiger becomes
tamed by
zoological structuring
of its day-to-day...
and everyone's happy...
but that doesn't make
the tiger into a *******
bonsai, a feline "companion"...
beside the point...
  it's when some medical
conditions are slandered,
exposed to metaphor,
misnomer,
             that the madmen
receive the package
of social constraints
"levitating" just above
the state of being dormant...
but in this scenario:
well... that settles it...
now we know what
a level-playing-field looks like...
intellect,
and the debacle concerning
trust...
               well...
i've learned of trust
the upside-down way...
    relationships,
notably with a russian
specimen...
              me, ******,
why was i thinking i wouldn't
be ****** over?
   oh... right...
i can claim all
the responsibility with
what i "did" with a *******...
but when it comes
to the "affair" of a woman:
of free disposition,
i'm suddenly the culprit...
psychic trenches,
there "we" are,
entrenched in some plateau
of what seems to be
Belgium,
   and there "they" are,
entrenched in the same
plateau...
            sigh sigh, one more
for the party...
point being,
   people have not unearthed
the + + + + +
aspect of this debacle...
it's now a level playing field...
everyone is suspect,
everyone is limited...
a true: forensic quest for
democracy...
  all the other incidents
came and went,
always, as if: in passing...
  so this incident can also
come, and go, in passing...
solidarity to what?
to whom?
or rather: with?
            i can deal with this
sort of indigestion
surrounding my day to day,
but before long:
what other sop-story is
supposed to grab my attention?
clarity of intent,
   unlike someone experiencing
a psychotic break-down
of the psychic labyrinth...
a transcendence of
the categorical incentive...
somehow:
  the categorical imperative
was never supposed to mean:
what it meant to begin with...
the categorical imperative
has somehow lost the whole:
living by the standard
of a maxim...
               given that all maxims
are true...
  much harder to "test the waters"
with aphorisms...
            sure,
observable facts,
    then...
               disinhibited fictions...
glorification?
  today i had a problem
killing an ant...
   i was taking a ****
and had a problem killing
a moth that decided to freak
out the inanimate objects
of the bathroom...
       yeah: oh sure, sure,
i'm all for Herod's "conundrum"...
point being:
   we now know what
both sides feels...
         we now know...
       that there are outliers
on either side of the "debate"...
one: i am suspect,
but two: so is the counter-suspect...
no sacred cows...
   no: i think i'll just milk
a muslim in new dehli
for the jyst and thrill of a per se...
- at least now:
s.j.      w?
                or the conservative
mediator crowd of:
      there for the sake
of outrage only on the behalf
of outrage-in-itself?
past the phenomenon,
i can only return to the anti-phenomenon
of the noumenon (per se)...
which is not disappointing,
seeing how the whole "feel"
of it is begs the crux
fathomability of the individual...
just another skim read /
listen to the modern day
                          pharisee...
heavy sighs,
   blinded eyes...
frivolous waggling tongues...
but deep down,
most of the people are
content with having to experience
a revision...
  the revision being:
a level playing field...
   behring just attacked
the elites...
this?
    this dog ***** pile of
media attention?
         good...
        now everyone's uncertain...
i'm not afraid to think it,
and put it into writing...
    after a while:
   you just tire...
   you get tired of hearing
just one side of the story...

      what could leave someone
extreme: glee "riddled"
just leaves me exhausted...
     but at least the schizophrenics
are off the hook...
at least there's still some
belief in personal restraints...
even with a debilitating condition...
at least these people
are not facing the collateral
stereotyping of someone
with: the clarity of intent...

         there's just me, at this point,
thinking to myself:
and why did "they" drug me
to the point of:
making "them" feel uncomfortable...
clearly my mental faculties
have not been
                 car-crash dimished...

welcome the new hybrid...
soul mongrel...
           what is it about the polacks
that has made them so...
immune?
     i guess only recently
Poland has celebrated
the centenary of independence...
i wouldn't know,
i'm strapped to England
in metaphorical strait-jacket
  (what is metaphor
compared to metaphysics?),
   sober, drunk,
drunk, sober, etc.
               i was given a crash-course
in multiculturalism,
i guess i assimilated...
   back in school there was
the popular irish gang...
and there was "my" group...
of all the outliers...
   we used to spend lunch breaks
playing cards...
but when i heard news that
i would only be fully integrated,
once i gave up my native tongue
which i used to speak in
private?
    that broke the camel's back...
the centenary of independence
of Poland...
i wouldn't know...
i'm in "exile"...
   which is: economic "war"
came to where i come from
after the fall of the soviet pact...
and...
                every time i go back
to visit my grandparents...
i am only associated
with that country by speaking
the language...
and boy, it's not so ******* rosy
on the inside, compared to what
is being pushed to the outside...
Poland is like a: death-zone...
**** me, even the Hungarians
know how to ***** themselves
when it comes to tourism...

    i am, in "exile"...
            come to think of it,
most of the Muslims in the west
have it worse,
but i blame their parents...
i had one Pakistani friend
in high-school...
   now that i succumb to
reminiscence... yep...
he spoke perfect Urdu;
    but all these outliers?
   what their parents did...
****** themselves into
an integration mechanism...
not retaining their mother tongue?
like all these,
western jihadi prospects...
speak about 10 words of arabic,
and they are "attempting"
to compensate...
   i somehow feel for them,
a complete mine-field
of a mind-****...
       like being impreganted
by a virus,
a cancer...
     the linguistic dysphoria...
so yeah: if everyone would please
like to make heavy scrutiny
of the blatantly obvious,
regarding the genital region,
and forget a sobering note of
worthwhile problems,
namely the language dysphoria
of muslims, in England,
feel free to keep looking
at the genital "problem"...
            
clearly there's a dysphoria horizon,
i would know,
given that i have retained
my mother tongue...
but they haven't...
               and all they want is probably
so little...
   i remember that my father
once called me
the bellybutton of the world...
referencing me as
   an english child...
  that's how the Polacks view
the English: the bellybuttons
of the world, center of attention,
yada yada...
                 gender "dysphoria"...
you have to be *******
kidding me...
              what about the language
dysphoria of Muslims
                    in the (v)vest?

jak to się mówi:
            tym co się od razu, ma?

i can understand the language
dysphoria, well,
being a 1st generation immigrant...
i can't imagine being
born to 1st generation immigrants,
not retaining my native
tongue,
   knowing only the tongue
of integration,
   it would feel alien...
   like i was impregnated
by a foreign body,
   retaining nothing of my "******"
natural resources...
so... the problem we've arrived at
is very real...
  more real than gender dysphoria...

hopefully i'm less "schizoid"
at the end of this marathon,
and more: relieved to be merely
bilingual...
entrenched bilingual -
            so no, not a polymath...
or rather: not a polyglot;
my maternal great-grandfather
apparently was,
spoke 7 languages,
disappeared somewhere near
Niagara Falls...

   the plan was: England, stop-over...
via Argentina
   and toward the U.S.,
****... seems i was side-tracked
into remaining,
being shackled to these isles.

now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

i love women, don't get me wrong, i finally succumbed
to watching the female world cup,
since the lionesses reached the semi-finals
against u.s.a., but the man in me just kept thinking:
yeah yeah, great footie, but those beauties...
where's martin keown, i need to look at
a mugshot of a brute, i can't concentrate
on the skill without a girl that looks like
martin keown... oh god... alex morgan...
              julie ertz... steph houghton...
   don't get me started on the swedish team...
    wimbledon has also started...
                    i do enjoy female tennis more than
the male variation of serve-**** tactic...
or the terminator that's serena williams...
     cori "coco" gauff... wow...
                i wish she would win the championship
and replicate martina hingis wimblendon 1996...
problem... she's under 16...
so she's only allowed to play 5 matches
in the tournament... and what if she wins
the 5th? that's the quarter-finals...
7 to win the tournament... the rules should be bent,
she should be able to continue...
end of an era... the dinosaurs are being chased
by the younglings...
prof. green (roger federer) still has it in him...
but... well he is a professor of tennis...
his style? his backhand? immaculate "conception"...
who played as well as he does?
roger sampras... the list is very short...
but i don't have a problem watching woman's
tennis, it's so much better than the brute strength
of the serve akin to the game played
by: ivanišević, rusedski, roddick, čilić (chy-lea-'c -
piquant, that acute c)...
   n'ah... in terms of tennis?
i think the males are over-rated,
                except for the prof. of grass court...
i do love women... apart from the nostalgia
for primary school playground banter with
the girls: when we still had an asexual
sense of it... before all the **** jokes,
before the greatest schism in ether of existence:
beyond the religious and in the biological realm...
o.k.: i tease... which is something a prepubescent
girl would understand:
   if i was also a prepubescent boy...
times, have, changed...
i'm with ms. amber and ginger ale,
cigarettes and a decent soundtrack...
               i still don't want to understand incels...
i listen to them, but then i reach a limit...
thank god i didn't lose my virginity to a *******...
but... if you have to?
         isabella of grenoble...
               a fine fine catch...
          mind you... have you ever been
to an 18 year old's birthday party,
   and it was not what you were used to,
i.e.: bal samców / cockfest?
   this 18 year old's birthday party?
  my friend ian tagged along for about an hour
or two... then he suddenly bailed on me...
i was the only male... among... um....
20 or so girls...
              why, the, ****, are, muslims,
blowing themselves, up,
for a reward of 72, virgins?! eh?! can anyone
please please tell me?!

no brainer question(s)
   (as dictated by h'american girls in venise):
the beatles or the rolling stones -
to be honest? neither.

   top three songs with the bass guitar
setting the rhytm:
   1. tool - forty six & two
  2. the offspring - bad habit
3. róże europy - kości czerwone, kości czarne...

roy orbison or elvis? m'hahaha... royo...

  a lot has happened since i attended that
18 year old's birthday party...
why are muslim men so eager to entertain
eternity with 72 virgins?
      will they be keeping them virgins
or what? that would be the best way
to not move past kissing and oral ***...
once 3rd base is entered: the third eye
of transgender shiva opens up...
    
              why did solomon give up his harem
for the monotheistic monogamy associated
with the queen of Sheba?
   beyond one, what good is a harem?
if you've never been around 25 or so virgins...
you really don't know what you're talking...
or getting yourself into...
                    herrdildomaschinekopf...
look, i just changed the background to show
you i'm not lying:
  that evening i came home: ex-haus-ted...
did i spend the past few hours in
the company of teenage girls or was i being
ripped apart by a pack of wolves / hyennas...
and you know how drunk teenage girls
behave... you're shreds... they're competing
like it's both the 100m sprint and the marathon
cooked up into one!

i really could have chosen a different path:
***** ***** all year round...
   well, why didn't i, why did i become
voluntarily "celibate"?
            as much as might want the company
of the opposite ***: picking up a thai surprise
bisexual in the park one day...
******* her in the garden...
   walking her home while she drowned
in my jacket... she telling me i should stop
drinking... now... drinking...
i was taught to listen to rules under the arch
of pedagogy... now? i'll be as stubborn as
i am expected to be...
i don't like being told what to do,
thank you for telling me to do for the first
21 years of my life...
  now? welcome to the plateau!
even the best advice is the worst advice
after a certain period of time...
do i look like a ******* puppett that will
listen to such things: oh, but if you don't
do x, you'll become homeless...
   i've met some happy homeless people...
one even told me why he became homeless:
'my mother told me to never lie'...

i don't even think these jihadis know what
they're getting into,
wishing up 72 celestial virgins...
i'll take to the count of "72" valkyrie serving
me drinks than expecting me to **** them,
and the eternal library of text and music...
don't get me wrong...
receiving attention from women:
esp. those younger than you,
while they're intoxicated: it is fun...
but when it comes to the sort of
intimacy of a relationship with a women,
when she starts to read you the cosmopolitan
magazine's questionnaire as to whether
she's the perfect girlfriend /
you're the perfect boyfriend /
   you're a perfect couple?
i love women outside the realm of a molten
heart... i don't like finding myself
vulnerable...

              am i missing out on something?
oh i know i am...
but it's like owning a car:
great! you own a car!
             "mobility"...
  but you also own car insurance...
the m.o.t. payments and spare parts...
and washing the car on the weekend...
oh i'm so jealous!

  what's that famous saying?
women... can't live with them,
  can't live without them...
       well... more like: can live without them,
but much harder to live without them
and stop wanting them...
whatever glimpses i've had of past
relationships: i sober up even if i'm drunk...
she didn't want to split the restaurant bill...
this "modern thing": feminism,
my "toxic masculinity"...
  whatever, whatever...
                   i guess i'll have to end
on a note superstitious of a teenage girl's whim...
i'm bored, the end.

_______

.now i have a fox, without a leash, that i tend to feed everyday... keep feeding him, or her, lamb fat, cat food synthetics, and once in a while a frankfurter... and the Polacks you minded so much? only attacked ****** night0club owners... made plums and figs out of their faces... bulging and caress worthy... same ****, different cover, with the easy girls of Liverpool and Newcastle... back down in London? the story goes: she's an exchange student from New Hampshire... riddled by the madonna-***** complex... and i'm not really adamant adamant on stealing the cherry... if you've ever ****** aa ******? one, is enough...  i'd sooner become ****** up by a ******* tornado... and giggle... dying with a half breath... before plummeting face down onto the hearth; watching daisies, growing, roots up!

i've had one irish migrant educate me:
you know...
there are plenty of neo-nazis
in Poland...  
       and? am i one of them?
   liked him, a high school friend...
i'm sorry the friendship ended...
so i am?
   **** me... better i brush up on
reading some Heidegger!
         oh look 'ere i go...
        can't stop me now...
unless befriending Pakistanis
who have kept a null of Urdu...
              because you know...
   if there's a culture that's integrating,
and doesn't,
   have the honor, capacity,
to keep in line its origins?
no problem...  not worth it...
           people who do not retain their
skeleton -
their basics -
  their language -
   they, "magically" lose it...
half-castes... half-people...
   no pride in an origin,
   not upkeep with a language?
might as well call your mother a,
*******, *****!
      ****** by an antiques dealer!
******.
      no pride in origin,
  no subsequent pride in a "return"
on foreign soil...
   plethora of antagonizing Islam...
good look...
    i have mine,
but i hide it...
      ex-girlfriend -
almost took a ride on one of those
buses in the 7/7 bombings...
     what?!
               guess what...
i'm an ex-pat...
  i know that you wouldn't call
your similar genetics of
a "family" an ex-pat
and neither a migrant or an immigrant...
   (economics comes later,
doesn't it?) -
  but i'm sure the english
are loved up with Hindu grannies
and their grandchildren
taking them to the doctors to
translate symptoms...
   fine by me... you do the math...
   apparently i'm not speaking
English, but? ******* Urdu!
         no problem...
thank god i never allowed myself
a pledge of allegiance to the people,
rather, the language they spoke...
the language is all i pledge my
allegiance to... and for...
the queen... and her people?
        **** it... shooting albatrosses
off the shoreline of Cornwall...
attempting to spot
  porky Siamese twins...
        one does the eating,
the other does the oral ***...
             what?!
             i have not pledged any allegiance
to the english people...
  they love their **** curry
and their Afghan foot-soldiers...
   i'm doing the Pontius Pilate
washing of hands...
   which is a secondary theater of
a baptism...
                      no...
no allegiance to the people....
but the language?
   i'd give my life for it...
           the people are not exactly
the main ingredient in terms
of existential coordinates -
but the language is...
    on a per se basis mingling with
the appropriate focus.

.and what if the referendum was secured, by the single vote, if it was predicated on: only and only if, there's a 60% consensus... the current debate is taken place, because the consensus is, extremely marginal... we're talking about fringe politics, outlier political opinions... the the remain vote is argued with the same verocity as the leave vote... for the benefit of outlier opinions... if only there was a predicate: it will be passed... as long as there's a 10% difference between the votes... 51.9% for leave to 48.1% for remain, of the country having voted... if only the whole point of voting, was akin to the "ancient" enforced tactic of drafting men to serve in the army... 67.7% voting areas voting to leave... 32.3% voting to remain... yeah... the "obscure" parts of england... with scotland, clearly being an anomaly with regards to "obscure" rural regions... should the argument come: concentration of power, in urban babylons.

someone should, really, really try to remaster
that vague piece of work

                       that pristine rhythm
    section: notably on the song bite now bite
from the album
          eat your heart out -
                              by... a belgian band:
of all bands... it had to be, belgian...
  ******* choccies (KLINIK) -
   oh look, an intra-racial slur...
                                                     chocolatiers...
because what would be fun:
  if language was plain, safe,
                                                      in vitro:
and not the islam to the individual -
   whenever: i, am to submit,
                     to the language of the other?
well obviously malice is reserved
for something else, but not for breathing,
thinking or feeling,
   or for that matter:
     the "problem" of idle hands...
itchy hands...
               i guess some of the throng,
of the volk: chatter chatter chatter...
    bite... chew... but then forget to
swallow... (sow s-, s-, swo-, swo-...
'the **** an A charge in, eh?
                                     i guess, that's how).

but no one
likes to see
narrow
verse
likening it
to the Milan
fashion
show
catwalk

                               and all those poems
that look like this:

|begins here


               (no
      move-
                                 -ment
                 in
               between)


|ends here:

|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|­zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|can anyone please tell me...
   why zee / zed:
              is a conotation
                        depicting the process of sleep?

and all this nonsense:
                   england is spelled with
a capital: who says it's anywhere but london?
E this, E that,
    E sat on a wall
       and...
                    didn't fall accidently...
i know a rat when i see one...
   Nigel, Nigel (see... capital N,
implies emphasis, like italics or a colon
does)
       Nigel... can you please bring back
your fwend, Dawid?
                     just a few questions...
2 and a half 'ears lay'ter...
   and... no end in sight...
to those loitering... shuffling their feet...
how many votes do you actually need...
when there was only one
                     for die volk
- and i have to admit...
       it was close...
                roughly                      51 to 49...
i know why they voted leave...
           because of the people who poured
in, most, probably momentarily
back in 2004...
                              the people who were
taught two, of 20th century's prime lessons,
by foreign entities...
               arbeit macht frei
               und?
                        communism.

         so no laid-back work ethic coming
with the windrush, was there?
                    conflict of interests...
**** it, if i were strapped to a caribbean
island, i'd have a laid back work ethic:
                             ka-reeb-ib-ean.

yet still this whole blah blah debate...
          like... let's forget the good friday
agreement...
   but finally...
            we can have the old terrorists back...
so...
            maybe the IRA will
                  out-compete the jihadis?
or at least scare them?
  or... dunno...
                                            ol' Jack...
ol' Jackie boy'o will: simply...        unravel?
am i rooting for it to happen?
no...
                            but it would suggest
that i'm rooting for being part of
                a historical event,
                            like the treaty of versailles...
or the weimar rep.,
                            and i was the voice
on the bottom,
               sifting through
                     eclectic ambitions to find:
culture that will never become
mainstream...
                                           almost
forever destined for the: archaic archive,
now forever the footstuff
                            of the gargantuan a.i.:
alternatively known as a.i.p.:
                   artificial intelligence purgatory.

- hey, i can't compete,
    i'm just a kid that forgot to bring
his crayons, and instead brought
   some matchsticks and toothpicks.

if only: 2 years prior to the referendum
they had a plan...
   but they thought they could do
a joker trick,
         so there you have it: agent of chaos...
agent of chaos says:
  people, 1 vote, politicians?
         an infinite number of votes by
the looks of it...
                  voting is not reserved
for the people, de facto,
                       given:
we now have a strange despot on our
hands... der volk...
                    what a strange monster...
was i leave or remain?
   neither, considering that i ended up
drinking to stay somewhat sane
for the past... oh... 10 years...
    on debit...
                well... why would i even
consider drinking into the excesses of
phantasmagoria              on credit?
that would be stupid, as stupid didn't.

in summary: to minor points...
    i can understand why people don't like
poetry...
                                                 porcelain...
or the fact that their everyday language
is already peppered with poetic techniques...
figuratively speaking...
                   akin to:
   where does the technique of poetry
end, and the comedy begin?
                     yeah, that: "not literally" part?

who would mind:
   it's not an elitist "thing" to like or dislike
a medium...
                 i like the "breathing" space in
the optics... of... the never to be seen
                              literary paragraph...
i like cascades...
                         paragraphs are sometimes
a strain on the eyes...
like watching really fast cars
zoom past you on a very small race-track...
**** just gets dizzy...

.......................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­.......... (click) etc.

hence?
           well on the up-side...
once you've read some magnum opus...
say... the cantos...
    for some strange reason...
you can sit back, listen to some choccie
music from the underground...
open the book...
   and just stare at the poetry...
    without having to reread anything...
a bit like...
                  a painting...

                                    sure as **** you
can't do that with a novel,
      with its rigid, cluster-**** of a descriptive
paragraph: she said, he said,
then another descriptive paragraph:
he said, she said...

               as much as i love novels...
  give me a poetics of a framework of freedom,
or a philosophical monologue
    by some helmut
    (german) - oh look...
     another intra-racial slur...
    helmuty: germans...
                  derived from?
              helmut kohl -
                    german chancellor 1982 - 1998;

ah... what an enriching experience.

i'll raise a thousand jihadis
for a single european
joke i can understand
when the irish tell it...
i speak english and even i don't
understand english gaelic,
which makes me welsh and
the irish talking... something...
rough r rough e rough a c m b...
don't know... i drink and remain sober...
the irish were so dumb in joking
that the neo-nazis made shore in dover...
** ** dub orb line... made Lynn a saint
(halo missing)... then George came along...
and the dragon turned into a chameleon
to testify a pacifism for a rainbow;
made a hookah from a triangle,
then came glow-sticks oops oops goldfish ooh ah.

funny, "that",
no jihadi was ever supposedly
ever, associated
with, mental illness...
empathy is a bitter
fruit to taste...
   isn't it?
suddenly muslims become
a protected
class... and we,
the zookeepers...
  have to ensure...
they remain so...
upon the shoulders
of dwarfs of easy assumptions...
that's what the majority fear...
i'm listening to more
and more diatribe...
and all i'm hearing
is the shock & awe tactic,
left, right, center of
the "debate"...
      excuses come
second...
          whatever groundwork
being established for the right,
some outlier comes
out and does the horrific...
******* clowns-run-the-circus
type of pandemonium...
what's lacking?
oh... right...
   so this is what empathy feels
like, to reply to Manchester,
Rotherham, etc., etc., etc.,
so...
this isn't o.k.?
yeah, yeah! what sort of idiot
finds success in mawling down
49 innocents,
when 3 jihadis fail
to take down 10?!
  ******* idiot...
off his rockers...
      yeah, yeah...
    wrote in the kind of cipher
that only mercury rising
autistic children are able
to decipher...
   complete ******!
let's insult him some more...
a BIG no no
for anyone listening
to choir songs...
          who? templars...
akin to salve regina...
now it's bad...
it's all bad,
it was always bad,
it was supposed to be bad,
and... i...
somehow...
was expected to feel:
good about it.
                 now?
now the pendulum game of
waiting,
  for the reply...
it usually takes around a month,
for the geniuses of Raqqa
to come back at us with
a compliment...
  until then...
  no stupid low i.q. jihadi
warriors...
just some stupid,
psychiatric evaluation prone
examples of piglet-skinned
outliers...
               well yeah...
thanks for the congregation...
for congregating the orthodox
schizoids with
the authentic, world-stage
killers...
   nice...
     ******* pristine aesthetics!
******* protected class...
what?!
  they were imitating performing
**** with their god,
looking at the way they pray?
****... if i supplied myself
to a confirmation,
i'd be performing
              ******* on my knees...
how many jihadi "warriors"
have you heard of,
that also supplied the general
public / journalists
with a, manifesto?
             can't name one...
but now, that's a bad thing,
a big no no,
              you can't do that...
you can't provide a genesis
of a narrative...
obviously...
not one jihadi was suspect
of a psychiatric disorder...
but... all these white counter-terrorists?
the whole lot of them
are schizophrenics...
now... i can understand
the general public processing
the disease on ground of metaphor...
then again,
the supposed the ratio of example:
1 case every 100 people...
how many of those 1 per 100 people
are blamed?
easily confined in a category reserved
for psychopaths?

no problem...
deflect...
      but the standard is already
settled:
no jihadi is mentally ill...
but all counter-jihadis, are...
  shame isn't even on the table
when playing this poker-game...

didn't you know?
jihadis are perfectly normal...
they are expected
to behave thus,
as whatever thus is,
in later installments...
    but the terrorist within?
instead of the 72 virgins,
he gets 72 insults...
and a pseudo-medical
    statement...
no jihadi was ever considered
mentally ill...
but... every white
counter-terrorist:
is a mental nut-job...
         look! look! he wrote a manifesto!
****... he's not dyslexic...
he's a meme aggregate...

like i already said...
what he did?
   it would probably take 3 jihadis
to complete...
no... wait... 137 divided by 7...
around 19 per head...
   (paris, bataclan)...

        ha ha...
mass ****** and the i.q. of
the mass murderer...
   sort of, deviating from the i.q.
debate concerning blacks
and whites...
more like...
   lone wolf attacks and jihadi
attacks...
   what?! it's red nose day!
              you just, 'ave to laugh!

if they're going to place
mental illness and stupidity
on brenton tarrant...
   legally: isn't he allowed
the warrant of defence?
          so i'm the objective scrutiny
of retelling comparative
counter examples...
      
              as stupid as 49 dead per head...
a jihadi gets...
          around 20 dead per head...
i forgot to condemn,
and succumb to outrage...
like: it would give me a better
moral compass to navigate
through all the social outrage...
i, simply, forgot...

   but look on the bright side!
at least he managed
to spread a revised concensus
for the appreciation
of empathy...
at least now...
innocent muslims,
can appreciate what innocent
christians felt,
when they were attacked upon,
indiscriminately;
and with the same, "bias".

.lex lupus / fuchs zwischen wölfe: ******* Mowglí, somehow... death to the pirate, the one-eyed... Dajjal and the "concept" of money... Tom Petty died... Wayne Static died... the media? zero coverage... so... it's not like they care.. but when they do care, i care: in order to not care.

you do know
that if you keep pushing
the wrong buttons,
the lone wolf phenomenon,
will become a wolf pact,
a lex lupus...
  you know that, don't you?
it would take 3 ****** Jihadi
terrorists to take out 71 civilians...
it takes
   one lone wolf Norwegian
to take out 69 civilians...
   we. are, horde...
    **** your little get-together
wine parties...
i'd rather shove a shoe lodged
into a pineapple up my ***,
than listen to this sort of *******...
better dead,
than having to attempt a death
while. "trying"...
but wolves do not hunt in groups...
well...
some sorry ******* to howl
at the moon!
who did what?
is there any proof?
there isn't any proof?!
so... what's the argument?!
       none...
          so...
       batman lego movie
giggles all over again?
you irritated me,
just to say this much about
falling in love
with Val Kilmer!
       lone wolves...
          who's who...
Mr. Speaker / Chief Whip?!
it takes about 3 Jihadis...
to **** as many people
as a "lone wolf" Norwegian...
i was just about
to mind the I.Q. test...
    wolves don't hunt
outside a pact of a brigade...
wolves are the closest
associate of the velociraptor...
shove a fox among them?
52 people died from
3 Jihadi associates...
     Breivik killed 77 people...
see the ratio?
wolves are not solitary
animals...
       they have a pact...
foxes... foxes are solitary
creatures...
thought it was the plain said,
otherwise reiteration
of the "already" said obvious;
so no mention of Jihadi
retards?! no? nothing?!
3 Jihadists killed less people
than a single Norwegian...
oh my... oh my my...
    please keep these idiots
on the beach, in the desert,
herding sheep or what not...
         keep them busy engaged in
harems...
or whatever the **** they
get up to...
      please... keep them away from
what is becoming a sensation of:
a boiling kettle.

.softly speaking won't cut it luv...

lucky me,
for endearing myself some
comforting feelings
from a tragedy...

   but... but at least he left
a manifesto,
when was the last time
you heard,
of a jihadi leaving a manifesto?
the ****** hasn't
even dried,
   and 'ere we have Utrecht...

   now i'm expecting
a ******* giraffe in
zebra stripes...
   cuz... well...
because i just feel like it...
a window of missed
"opportunity"...
dead within a span of 2 / 3 days...
for a moment,
a period of relief,
and then: back to the usual
*******...
  oh i'll still go and see
my turkish barber...
   it will continue to be thrilling...
closing my eyes,
and relaxing,
while he does his work
with a straight-razor at the neck,
scissors on the head,
and what else?

   i'm tuning in,
l.s.d. ingestion would be a bad
move at this point...
glued-zombie-to-the-t.v.-screen,
that's me...
       sure as ****,
whatever was supposed to last,
didn't last,

       i thought: somehow we would
relieve ourselves in a period,
worth the breather...
  but no, no no no...
so... where is my sympathy supposed
to come from?
there's sympathy involved?
**** me...
             i thought that was just
a circus act...
    
        but it felt "great",
in that, i forgot to worry about
an aspect of life
that deserved no clarification,
or answer...
and then: the usual happened...
so...
back into the usual state
of affairs...
                
    **** me,
at least he wrote something,
worth the courtroom's
fiddling with evidence...
at least there is some sort
of invitation into the mind,
it's hard...
   when all the jihadis leave
is a manifesto...
   the quran... that's circa,
1400 years old...

i sometime, truly wish,
i could fathom the over-salted
herring
   of being disaffected with
life, bitter, cold...
   point being: i will only
ever succumb to telling a bad
"joke"...
              
   but i've never heard
a jihadi be called losers,
    or... inbreds...
by the masochistic white commentary
agora...
     evidently...
what he did...
would probably take
about 4 jihadis...
given the current Utrecht
incident...

    oh, really? really?!
only 3 and half a dozen injured?
retards *** toys'r'us,
n'est ce-pas
                  
    welcome, welcome
to the collateral canvas of events...
i'm drinking,
someone is seriously sober...
sacred cows still on parade...
ninja niqab: ha y'ah!
chopping McCurious...

about the years from 1998 -
through to 2007...
and then...
        cul de sac...
                how almost organic
the symbiosis became
that i associated to
my psychotic decline,
and what the world could allow
to offer...

                  grandiosity, sure,
egocentrism, double sure...
but then the paranoia:
the coincidental realism
of the parallel synonymity...
of staged events...
      
can i leave myself free to succumb
to some other event?
   from what the mainstream
discloses...
   jihad: to reclaim the lands
formerly occupied by muslims...
last time i head...
     the netherlands
were never occupied by
muslims...
      this is counter the concept
of jihad...
   even when playing
total war: medieval...
   you only get to simulate
jihad...
         as a defensive war...
to reclaim lands formerly owned...

this is jihad mingling
with the crescent-raids...
(crusades)...
                         this is no more
a holy war as an unholy war...
jihad implied:
                   reconquista...
once upon a time...
    
      if we're all going to be playing
*****,
       no agreed terms...
no predicates...
no pillars...
                   well...
    what sort of jihad
is, a jihad...
     when the jihad is non-reactionary?
these examples
of jihadis are as jihadi as
i'm Mickey Mouse...
and i have no knowledge
of                        Saladin...

        there is no jihad
concerning lands that you previously
didn't occupy...
i'm pretty sure that's how
jihad works...
   jihad is not a war riddled
with tactics of expansion,
rather, a war persuaded
to conserve the prior to
expansion...

         maybe that's why i find
the media abuse the term
so frequently...
   this is not jihad...
these are crescent-raids...
sure... if the original expansion
of the caliphate
included places like sweden,
or the netherlands...
               but it didn't...

these attacks have as much
to do with the concept
of jihad,
            as the crusades
against the baltic peoples:
doesn't.

you almost rally against
Muslims playing by their own rules,
but then...
Muslims are not playing
by their own rules...
   this is not jihad...
      come to think of it,
the modern Muslims...
are as bad as the medieval crusaders...

i should "know"...
   the Polacks had to struggle
with the Teutonic order for...
a very long time...

    it's not a holy war:
when the lands you're attacking,
are being attacked,
for reasons of reclaiming them...
that's what jihad implies:
reconquista...

   crescent-raid buggers...
look in the mirror:
   you're just as bad as the rest
of them...
    notably: the 4th crusade?
with the Venetians?
only made it as far as
Istambul...

   you grovel in filth,
and, just because you don't
eat pork, you expect
to be called, anything more than
pigs?
           wait... wait...
how could i even fathom
and begin, insulting pigs?
well: i was given the just answer.

ich wollen ein iranischherz herauf Nörden.

or simply Njørden - often the j is a softening pronunciation -
i want an Iranian heart up north -
that's what is says - imagine why he lashed out
with the words *sheisse ausländer -
miniature form of Dostoyevsky -
at 18 he was confused - his father probably
heard the words... hearing that he lashed out...
this is the proof of the power of commandments -
take one to extreme, and all the others seems
permitted - honour your parents -
he didn't shout out allah'u akbar - he did
a little maxim veto - as said unto me one,
may these bullets turn into revisited tongues -
the west has no concern for poetry -
i wouldn't make Iran an enemy,
after all... they're the ones that appreciate poetry...
mm ha ha! so given Iran's flavour for poetics
i can only applaud at their sensibility -
i too was once duped into thinking that watching
a movie i might lie to a girl and ****** her -
poetry is dead in the west... i don't write
for the west, i write from the west, which doesn't
mean i respect the west -
thanks to feminism we're cruising into
an affair of what feminists don't anticipate:
the impracticality of old age creeping, creeping,
creeping... with large families there are at least
chances of a benevolent child who might care for
his parents - in the west with surrogate foetal-things
it's hardly a bouquet of flowers sitting pretty on
a table - the problem are already waiting...
thank **** if you're rich... if you're poor?
well... hmm what a Disneyland awaits you -
**** stained and **** smeared dying for your idea
like any Communist might; well, i'm not going to
help you... ask Oxfam while the money you donated
ensured that only a penny reached the poor poor
Africans and why 99 pence reached the bureaucracy
of keeping a charity afloat - i know where
i can find fresh water... you have to cross a barbwire
fence, feed 10 horses 20 sugar cubes and you're
at a little stream of clarity... then you do the vegan
diet and sorta'h waiting for a heart-attack...
or you take a Russian Empire banknote with Tsar
Nicholas II to Switzerland and buy yourself out
with euthanasia... either way, win win.
every ****** time i go back home there's the Krähewolke -
i'm starting to imagine myself as the boy instructed by
Barbarossa to watch for the crows and a second life -
it's a small town, used to be industrious,
life here, there, everywhere, now a town of pensioners -
a European squabbling with a European but ignoring
the massive signs MADE IN CHINA, MADE IN CHINA...
MADE IN CHINA... why you blaming me for what's
going to happen to you too? you think this is the steam-engine
days of industrial revolution? do you have an Instagram
account? no. well... if you aren't going to be a third party
advert unit you're worth jackshit -
but still that Krähewolke of summer, thousands of them
swarm the sky - i'm not saying because i'm there,
i'm saying i'm there dwarfed by such a sight...
krähe die messerschmitt - so poetry is written by
*****-whipped English teachers, or it's the medium of
the weak, it has many voices but it doesn't have a voice,
it needs to be pretty, it needs to be neat, it needs to
have a prosthetic metaphor stashed in a pile of **** flare -
some say it even has to be as coherent as an Ikea
manual for putting a table together, people all of a sudden
trash the calculator and attempt mental arithmetic in
terms of reading... what... a... load... of... crock-****...
hyphen... mm... the Germans knew the immigrant Saxons
would speak less and less German and even of lesser
quality than the Turks... the Germans invented chemistry -
the Anglo-Saxons invented hyphenation... but it's so
******* weird that the Englandish outlandish will
hyphenate a word like overt-usage but never include the
hyphen in chemical nouns, like: Hydrochloric acid...
dihydrogen monoxide (yes, the d'uh hoax),
phosphorus pentachloride - what remains of Vater Schwaben
in English is bound to chemistry's language,
where the standard use of hyphen is disallowed -
the German original took on a different optometrist -
the English revision took on yet another (different) optometrist -
the eyes of the English starring at a German word
began to dizzy-up-whirl looking through a kaleidoscope -
the Germans just saw: schieße schrapnell!
achtung! achtung! die wort ist die fondant...
mm... gobble gobble gobble - pristine smile of sharpened
teeth in a smile! klebrigzähne sprechen sehr kleine-eine-miner.
well... if you're going to write a Monty Pi Ten you might
as well desecrate a foreign language with the grammar of
the one acquired - very much interested in how grammar
is reflected by Arabic left-to-right, English right-to-left
German right-to-left,but Latin left-to-right - all the genus
names - **** sapiens: rational man - or the up-kept
(******* ***** -φρεν - alt.  hi-yo in Beijing) desire for:
the instilled continuance of the rationalising man...
rationalise this! knuckle dusters down the East End -
gotta be a **** before you can be a Cockney Wiseguy -
say ooh la la say soo - bud weiss err - say ooh la la say soo -
amphetamine George says: ethanol Scottish Gaelic means:
twins sedative and un-inhibitor - talk of Enzymes -
south and shoo, north and nothing, east and extra territory,
west and **** / Vancouver - van coup verily ******
voulez-vous volleyball aha! write poetry like a dictionary
entry - spandex, annex, fly-flex - it can really become
a tennis match after a while:
   roses are   red
                   violets are blue
             i'm so in love with everything that's dead
    that i decided to call the past the necessary glue.
an article by Bryan Applied concerning poetry -
and why all poetic hearts are bound for Iran -
karaoke the current trend in the west for one -
living at a time when cooking books sell,
and plagiarism is celebrated more than any awkward
originality, but everyone still owns microwaves
and opts for ready-meals -
the rewards of old age aren't there because families
have become atomic based on individuals -
oh right? the article, it's long, ****** me off -
"we turn to poetry in times of need, but can it really
help? and why doesn't it sell more copies?"
ah the selling questions, i forgot a capitalist thinks
of poems like hamburgers...
i'll put in a bracketed word pending in the title and give
you a brief overview of the article...

*** and whiskey interlude

i don't write poetry... what i do do is **** poetry;
why do fellow artists hate poetry?
poetry in the hands of the old and young
thinks itself ******-like, the one art form that
says no to violence, no to intolerance,
no to drastic actions of revision -
keeping the Shakespearean sonnet won't do the art
any favours, it's the art too easily accessible,
because anyone can apparently write it
as long as they get a clue than a rhyme is necessary -
alternating rhymes are not that important,
i asked for a steak tartar, instead i got
plated a shepherds' pie - i asked for raw,
all i got for nanny picked and donning diapers -
poetry is best suited for that dynamo of reaction
known to internet trolls - trolls should overpower
writing poetry, they're intelligent enough, and
democratic too - cold-stone-heartless *******
should pick up these floral arrangements and
do an iron maiden make-over with them...
poems should be torture instruments,
they should never be treated as floral arrangements...
i don't like weakness, neither does nature -
when i walk into the museum of poetry
i don't want to see avant-garde art, i want to see torture,
they really did underestimate the vis poetica -
when i read poetry i want torture, i don't need
safety pins, straitjackets and other torturous
instruments of conformity - but from what i'm seeing
that's all i'm getting - ask any man why the construction
industry is ******* - women on site, women in the
army - feminism has infiltrated sacred sites of
manly brotherhood... you don't see a man stroll into
the fashion industry... well... unless he's a ****** -
a Grimm Brother's tale: once upon a time...
you could listen to a radio on a building site...
then women came in... we only heard symphonies of
hammer and drill... that alone made us deaf...
sure... we worked dangerously, we died more often...
BUT THE THRILL! **** *** bye bye... go on, wave at it...
it's like Titanic's maiden voyage... it's not coming back!
feminism's ugly head should have shoved itself once
more under a horse's galloping hoofs - a few times -
it played with the brotherhood of man - we're no longer
men, we're insurance policies, safety nets,
no wonder the Jihadis are fighting for our libidos -
cos i honestly think they are... they want us to feel the Mojo
once more from the frivolous spirit of the 1960s liberation
that only became slavery of the fake sinner -
**** it... applause gentlemen! applause! thank **** for
me donning *******, i'd be a real loser if i had to hand it
to myself without it... these days it's called the ******* -
the monk's sheaf of chastity - reduce a man to a *****
and you reduce a father to alimony cheques.
what?! ain't that true? i told you, **** poetry, don't
bother writing it, **** that pacified ***** into obedience -
you own it... without you you'd still be crying about
what shame it is that a nation that produced Shakespeare
undermines poets while keeping this old **** ticking
all the boxes of worthwhile inspection... i wish i was
the 20th century example of when poetry had some respect...
at any other time more so in the 20th century -
but we missed that train... shame for us to have inherited
such a past and the internet - so if not so keen on poetry
why Shakespeare the celebratory idol? twilight Sir
****-a-lot is coming - or so i hope.
so this article, citations:
a. Wordsworth 'thoughts that do often lie too deep for
     tears',
b. poetry is the language of crisis,
c. poetry as peak experience constructed from
    the shabby, battered bricks of verbiage
    (otherwise known as talk with a mouthful
      of spaghetti),
d. TS Eliot: 'purifying the dialect of the tribe'
     (too many dialects to make up a tribe, to be honest),
e. funerals in particular are what's called
    poetic crashing the scene, every subject,
    every opportunity, you'd never call a poet a
    polymath,
f. the healing power of poetry... the healing power?
    i never signed up to take a Hippocratic oath!
g. a permanent record of failure... or the allure of a permanent
     record of ridicule by others, so the minor success was
     there too - as in a boy buys a kettle
     is a success story, but a boy writes a poem is a failure -
     is that vocabulary as commodity without
     a handkerchief?
h.
              a sense of abandonment looms...
              the obnoxiousness of this article is all too apparent,
      i rather be headbanging to some ***** M: Ra Ra Rhas Putin -
(even surds deserve a bit of love) -
i might finish the citation of the article... but then again
i might as well cut it short - inc. in the Culture Section
of the Sunday Times, Bryan Appleyard -
people resent poetry for stealing what comes naturally -
really? so i'm a thief? a lot of people don't invest in
vocabulary - they convene to invest in flimsy investments
of slang - after graduation from being teenagers the investment
in **** suddenly disappears - grown-up vocabulary takes
over, comprehensive English, not slang English...
people don't acquire naturally (i.e. easily without discomfort),
if i were to complain to the people for treating me
as a thief rather than a poet i'd ask them to teach me to
do crosswords... a pain-in-the-***... i can't do them!
so i guess that if you're able to do crosswords you can't
write poetry, or give poetry a freedom away from all those
dusty technicalities / identifiers as such -
for poetry doesn't make anything happen
(WH Auden), it probably doesn't, but if you choose a boring
life, a lot happens... 11/15 is the feminist ratio of poetry's
Forward prizes in the genre - k k, a fraction - 11:15 -
new testament? or the old's citation? yeah... why do they
cite the bible like making bets at the bookies?
Gospel of St. Luke 15 to 1? they're betting on the 4 Henchmen
of the Apocalypse - gambling even in the testaments.
performance poetry seldom stands up on the page -
yeah, wheelchair bound, or in pop culture lyricism -
that competition between R.E.M.'s man on the moon
(yeah yeah yeah yeah), and Nirvana's smells like teen spirit,
hello hello hello 'ola! (later the yeah yeah hitchhiker's story);
did i tell you i got barred from a pub in Collier Row for
speaking poetically? a ****-hole of a pub anyway,
walked in with a pair of dolphin flippers and a shark
fin, spoke some words, made a few friends over grapefruit
ale - then a few days later got barred, because i apparently
"threw a pint glass across the room"; that's me booked
for the Cheltenham Book festival for sure... right next to
the cookbook aisle where people will be expecting to make
humble pie and cider squint tarts.

there is absolutely no hippocratic jurisdiction in psychiatry, i sometimes walked into the psychiatric offices, poked fun at psychiatrists for being callous sadistic *******, as one suggested: thinking out-loud in reverse: oh, he must have been abused as a child... psychiatry has strayed away from making a hippocratic oath... it actually doesn't have an oath to make: it has persisted with more harm than good, clinging to the notion that there is no summa totalis of the body, and medical psychiatry is to blame for this persistent infiltration of psychiatric lingo... you can't even begin to imagine how much it pissess of people who live in a secular society, to be strapped under an umbrella of "mental illness", while the jihadis are celebrated as completely "sane", psychiatry is the one branch of medicine that's persistently being undermined by the general public, for me, psychiatric materials are too readily available, is psychiatrists are the new priests of the secular age, i demand! i demand that psychiatry does what the church did once before, return to it being solely written in latin! too many ******* retards are abusing this branch of medicine, suddenly everyone is a ******* psychologists amateur, the jack-of-all-trades know how! ******* know ****! i'm this close | | to boiling point with respect to the degradation of psychiatry... reverse everything! start writing psychiatric works, solely in latin! give psychiatry some hippocratic credibility, sure, it's a hit & miss with the pharma side of things, but come on, give these people some ******* empathy, do what the churches undid, and write all psychiatric material in latin! the public doesn't have to know the complexities of this branch of medicine, because, clearly... it doesn't!

we live in an age where dialecticas is
not engaged with,
not even to the point where you can self-realize:
oh, right, i know absolutely nothing!
you can't do that these days,
you can't have that self-realisation -
that "demand" for a "consciousness" -
100 years ago people spoke of a *soul -
that summa totalis of ****** mechanisations,
that eating some food and then
falling to sleep, and yet the organs working
their magic digesting the food...
yet people have replaced the soul
with a reinvented concept of
"consciousness"... the **** does that
even mean? a second awakening within
the first wake?
the brain is the only ***** that can't
truly experience itself unconsciously...
even when it is "unconscious" it still
poses the threat of dream theatre...
   i find that the summa totalis is
bordering on an a "soul" within this
membrane, in that:
  at least one aspect of our body can't
exactly become part of the summa totalis,
and become enclaved akin to
the heart during sleep...
or the stomach prior to falling asleep
while still managing to digest,
the brain can't be deemed completely
unconscious, otherwise how else would
you mind to state why light is trapped
and then projected, and we dream?
           dreaming, that "consciousness"
of the unconscious brain, and somehow
pulverised by the truth-bidding inflection
of the pentagram...
       god, i hate these sorts of poems,
i read a bit of heidegger and suddenly spiral
into this jargon...
  i abhor it...
           literally, it's about as enlightening
as turning on a lightbulb, minus the stereotypical
imagery surrounding an einstein moment...
more like that loony tunes moment when
the head turns into a donkey's head,
   or we see the dunce's hat appear...
elsewhere the capirotes march...
                     but then i think of mental illness
and the stories of the young,
and i'm genuinely worried -
   i was one of the first kids to own a nintendo
NES...
  yes, from the ages of 4 to 8,
my father was just a voice on the phone,
and the odd package of gifts from her majesty's
fair green land, notably the nintendo NES...
but being one of the kids, we still preferred
warm summer nights, hide & seek,
playing with marbles, walks into the woods,
picking strawberries coloured pale yellow
before being ripe, throwing potatoes into
fires, eating gooseberries, eating whole plates
of sunflower seeds,
                  i remember days when we had
neighbours, neighbourly women playing cards,
sitting till 11 talking outside the communist
concrete blocks...
that transition period, i.e. my childhood
has a knack of almost always reappearing...
   so i must be "mentally ill" for reading heidegger,
not many people do,
maybe i suggest something?
  learn biology / chemistry or physics to a degree
level before reading books like that...
it softens the blow of reading puritanical
humanism of, say, a novel...
        or poetry...
             and some people take holidays
to the caribbean, or take a cruise around
the norwegian fjords...
   or walk the great wall of ching ching...
   or ride a horse on the mongolian steppes into
the sunset, or ride the trans-siberian railway...
me? i take a "slingshot" back "home"...
get immersed in the native tongue,
  and finally! oh finally! manage to read a book
in the native tongue...
  i found that i'm a slow reader if i have
a book in polish, but can still hear english
on the television...
   back "home"? what a surprise it was for
my grandfather: he just threw bolesław prus'
book lalka into my lap one summer and said:
lap it up.
      and i lapped it up...
  point being, all these sights and sounds,
scents and exciting stories people have from abroad...
well... when i was in kenya,
i lounged, drank enough to fall asleep in
a hammock overnight and was not stolen by
the somali pirates, but someone did steal
my glass of cognac when i woke up the next morning,
then drank some more, and stayed in the shade,
played some ping-pong with a german,
chatted up these gorgeous ivory beauties of
the night, and chilled with macaque monkeys
on the balcony giving them nuts and sachets of
sugar, again, in the shade...
   i took one dip in the indian ocean and became
bored from the beach vendors pushing
****, drank some more, wrote a short story
for my grandfather about an elephant
           dunking its trunk into a bottle of whiskey...
drank some more, lazed in the shade,
read c. g. jung's western man in search
of a soul - dedicated it, and gave it to one
of the german beauties, drank some more,
         laughed at a baboon with hemorrhoids
trying to sit on a roof once it raided the kitchen...
point being: what sightseeing i have when
i go back "home" is the language -
sometimes i read it, sometimes i might write,
but i definitely speak it,
  but reading it is like the tower of pisa
for me...
           this complete re-immersion of the 8 year
old kid that left kicks in...
        ooh, ant that -18ºC temp. of winters in poland...
to be honest, i never know why people
decide to go to tropical places on earth,
sunniest and what, in the middle of the winter
months, why?
      coming back must be a double ******...
why not go to somewhere where the winter
months are worse than from where you came from?

i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-****, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour.*

westerners define western slav as cleaner material,
if not simply the plumbers and  electricians,
got a blocked toilet? get a pole
to unblock it. but you see... the thing is...
the slavs see the spaniards as
euro-trash... cheap-****-cancerous-suntan...
spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs...
western european nations (excluding
the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth
that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating
without colonising... when the western
powers migrated and colonised,
never really preparing themselves for jihadis,
st. john the decapitating tyrant  spoke to st. george's
dragon with a cockney accent:
oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth
of 20 quid!
so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican
rather than deutsche swiss keep time and
penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain ****?
the slavs mock the same tier with a choice
of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan...
because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs...
oiled up cheap-**** material for even cheaper literature
of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled)
stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden
might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.

i knew i wasn't going to give the experience enough justice
by writing about it: immediately after having just...
experienced it.. i was already tired from the shift
and i only managed to come home around 2am,
but i wrote something preliminary to keep the "bank
account" of memory intact, below an overdraft
of forgetfulness - i had to write something telegraphically...
i woke up today around 11am after staying up
until 4am... i truly didn't do the event enough justice...

after all... it's not everyday that a man gets to write
about having a *******...
   i passed the Rubicon (as it were)...
                  i needed to quench all my jealousies...
this one was a big one...
   massive...
                    that's how you quench jealousies...
this one friend of mine started: fwend...
bragging that he was in a ******* once...
i believed him... my downfall... i became jealous...
i know him: sickly sprout of a guy...
  did he? didn't he? it didn't matter by then... or now...
that's the thing with the spirit of man:
whether true or not...
i had to find a way to compete with
                        the claim...

so i was coming back from a shift... slightly tired...
but not too tired...
   i was actually going after just one girl...
i took about enough money for an hour...
     circled round the brothel in my usual way...
since i quit smoking i was only drinking brandy
and pepsi... thinking about the Firth of Forth
geographic bearings and how it's impossible
to reach the same distinct: east is east...
west is west... north... south in London...
even if you're standing before the Thames...
don't know... Edinburgh is that much different
to London: probably because of the Firth of Forth
or perhaps that's a southerner talking about
living in the north... that's what i really loved
about living in Edinburgh... i knew where east was...
i knew where the north was...

London is confusing: geographically...
   it's a ******* Behemoth of a city...
           i find that... i have this Bermuda Triangle
compass in my head when i'm in London...
the world seems to implode...
   i'm standing in the 9th circle of Hell and everything's
spinning out of control...
because there's so much momentum concerning
London: the whole world is here...
no wonder i don't know where east is...
      at least in Edinburgh you have pointers...
the Firth of Forth... Glasgow to your "left"
when walking toward Prince's Street...
          so many bridges: but no river...
   i.e. bridges because during the black plague
the ingenious architects built on top of the infested
quarters... so the city rose up... hence the bridges...

of course i became jealous...
   there's no better remedy for jealousy other than to...
imitate... let's see... what the hell this "badge of honour"
is all about...
i.e. to sleep with two women at the same time...
i wasn't planning... walking around the brothel
i was actually thinking: will i be too tired to get
a hard-on? i'm not taking any ******* pills...
i knew a guy from high-school once...
troubled... but lovely... Ryan... he could have been
the next big footballer...
  but he succumbed to ingesting ****** early on...
all that teenage lust from the girls got to him...
last time i saw him: he had that aura of being
hyped up about nothing...
   precursor of being: left-over... disused...
dropping ****** pills... probably doing some other
drugs because... outside of the school environment...
he wasn't pulling his weight along...
the environment became open and there
was no access to freely available pedestrian looking
girls in school uniforms...
i'm not doing that ****: i thought...
            no... *** is an act of reciprocation...
i don't have a ***** for a *****...
   this doesn't work on automatic foundations
of... see a naked body: get aroused...
no! if i had a switch, say: squeeze my testicles hard enough
and i get an *******...
**** me... women talk about moods...
i have moods too... i'm either aroused or i'm not...
depends on the totality of a woman...

if it were as simple as seeing a naked body...
in the flesh... well... it's different when you're doing a solo
project to ease a **** out of your ****
on the throne of thrones...
but in real life interaction... you can't just expect
a naked body... coupled with Picasso's cubism et al.
brigade to give you a runner...
plus... i needed to take a ****...

  some Asians were playing supermarket car park
cricket late into the night...
how happy they must have been...
while i was... prowling... gearing up...

i knew that if i had a ****-issues... i'd be having
******* issue... ****! little Richard:
where on god's almighty earth did you leave
your hard-on batteries?!
why can't you be more: switch-on / switch-off?
why will you not succumb to
the easy-pathway of ingesting some chemicals:
fear of repercussions for "under-performing"?
to hell with that...

it works both ways... i might be in the mood...
the moon is almost full...
i feel a werewolf sitting on my shoulder...
nibbling it... i was expecting a crow biting my ear...
but i need to be in a "mood"...
  i can't do: it's raining therefore i'm thinking
of the many hues of blue mingling with
purple and green...

    i didn't ask for a *******...
     there were two prostitutes sitting gauging
their eyes out... i chose one...
but this other one... this party girl was gearing up...
and she was like: he said to me twice now...
thrice i can't take... i only chose one...
but she was not having any of it...
can i just have this one?
    apparently no... i had to take both of them...
because the one that was pretending to
be this bleached blonde wanted to be in on
the "action"...

            i thought about the jihadis...
yeah... you and those 72 virgins...
how about 72 prostitutes...
               boyo... you have another thing
coming...
                  it's hard... i'm not saying it's easy...
******* two women at once...
it's confusing... getting a blow-job while
at the same time ******* on some *******...
you try your hardest to keep a hard-on...
******* on *******... pretending to be a toddler...
while... all the while... you're getting ****** off...
it makes no sense...
   why? well... when you're getting ****** off
you want to communicate eye-contact...
but... you're disengaged from it by *******
a 2nd girl's *******...
so it's like...   x = z but y ≠ z...
    
       that's why i hate *******...
                what society sells...
my best resolve concerning a *******?
it's not what people who have perfected it
have imagined... reality is a tender little *****...
what's best about a *******?

you snuggle up to one girl, the one you like...
she performs a hand-job on you...
you kiss her face, her neck...
you sometimes interlude her with eye-contact...
she knows you're digging her...
she's pretty... tameable...
        
she's jerking your off... while the other girl?
she's cameo... she was the one instigating this
interaction... she's the party girl...
she's the one tickling your *******...
she's the one you're about to use her cleavage
for imitation of ****..
   she's the one about to take a shower
after you ******* full sprout...
******* duck-lips... botox etc.,

                 she's the one who initiated the *******...
i was only after the one i fancied...
how do i know? after we finished...
the one i ******* onto...
and myself... she took a shower...
i also took a shower... she sprayed me with her
perfumes...
i took a shower... dressed up...
the one i fancied... while i was dressing...
she
stood behind me... like a vampire...
body-size-difference...
she started massaging my back and shoulders...

two girls... self-evident competition...
the one i liked gave me the most ingenious
hand-job... i smoke a cigarette and managed
a hard-on...
             i liked her eyes... her eyes told me everything...
i was the supposed good-mad-man...
party girl wanted a piece...
duck-lips unattractive...

i was put off by their song choices...
i was thinking:
kid loco - rattlesnake rattle (she's my lover)
wax tailor - ungodly fruit
boozoo bajau - keep going...

    if i had a harem of women i'd first have to
educate them in what music is best
ingested when having ***..

   of the two? the part girl that suggested
we have a *******? competing interests...
again: wrong choice of music...
after *** she started rummaging through my rucksack...
like a teenager...
   she found... a few things... most notably
Ovid's ****** Poems...
she asked me... oh, **** me... not this again:
are you German?!

what is it with people having this skewed
physiognomy of entertaining me as
a ******* Deutsche?!
i don't mind... i find it kind of beneficial...
but... if there's this superstition about whites
being unable to tell the difference
between Somalis and Kenyans...
like **** we can't... imbeciles... like **** we can't!

in an interlude between ******* on *******
and getting a a *******... sorry...
threesomes might be a zenith...
but... there are no third person involvement...
i can't accommodate two women at once...
if i'm getting ****** off i'd like
a blinding eye-contact...

   i smoked a cigarette and got an immediate
hard-on on... readied for a hand-job
and a tickling of the *******...
however threesomes go...
i found the best "position"...
no... it's not about what ******* sells...
first time... find yourself best served...
one of the women is more willing than the other...
best scenario?
you cuddle up to the girl giving you a hand-job...
you kiss her *******... you kiss her cheeks...
her neck...
while the other girl looks on... as you hide your
face into the face of the girl doing the deed...
you get to implode voyeurism...
one's doing X...
the other is looking at you:

          O)

                    or )O...

   because you're cuddling up to the one
that's jerking you off... half of your face is "missing"...
but you're looking at her...
while she's tickling your *****...
half of your face lost in the girl you like...
you wanted to be alone... pristine *******...
but she was the one who wanted a party and a *******...

you wait before asking her to provide her *******
for a makeshift ******...
the girl jerking you off is still her most
tender self... eyes of doe...
the ******?
              i wasn't asking for a *******...
good... that i spend my hard earned money
on this... to hell with spending it on material:
immaterial byproducts of hush... oops...

a ******* only makes sense when
one of the girls is jerking you off while the second
girl is watching you being ****** off...
teasing your *****... then come the ****** providing
her ***** as a substitute ******...
eye-contact... i don't believe one can have
a persuasive ******* being
occupied by... a duality of oral ***...
receiving oral *** while giving oral ***...

it's so much better to find a balance of...
voyeurism...
one girl is jerking you off while the other is watching you...
eyes eat eyes...

oculus edo oculus - eye eat eye...
that's how eroticism works... at least...
that's what i've fathomed from finding Ovid...

mind you: ******* oversells certain theatrics...
no... it's not true... reality is a different game
to what's practised in this kind of theatre...
i've already mentioned it...
sometimes i want to please others...
but sometimes i want to please myself...
it's "fluid"...
                  to hell with the precursor needs of
outliers that homosexuals are...
                        if they are to be proud and i'm
to be shamed, no wonder my sometimes stretching
the hard-on "problem"...
but... no little wonder: how a little bit of cognac
and a drag of a cigarette can make due resolves...

threesomes... best scenario?
the one that you liked... the one you wanted to ****
solo... is giving you a hand-job...
while you're snuggling up to her
like some Norman Bates...
****'s freaky anyway... since there are three in a room...
and the one that instigated the *******
is peering into your eyes
like Aetos Kaukasios... the eagle eating Prometheus'
liver... she's the one rummaging through
your rucksack looking for...
sure as **** she wasn't looking for a book
by Ovid... she's the teenage girl that's unable
to find meaningful eye-contact during ***...
she has the fun-girl-sour look in her face...
   she can't be serious during ***... she has done too much
botox implants into her already duck-duck lips...

the one i wanted already knew that the one
who instigated this profanity just wanted...
she was the one so desperate to get ******...
i mean: becoming intimate is one thing...
couldn't we just have fooled around?
rather than stressing a belt and notches?!

i sometimes feel like a woman when i'm *******...
i just want to ease into oozing
with... when a spider ****** an octopus...

if that could happen to you, or me...
nothing was ever left as a reminder to be unlike
any prior man...
all we have are reminder of how it is: to be a man...
are we not to inherit what
it is, that all that is: is to allow ousrelves
to be human?

i tease... i watch these men coupled within
their subordinate selves...
shackled... oh too trying...
  rings on their ringers...
               tiresome, tired-breeds...
men who have never managed to range
into a reach of galloping on a horses' hind!
my god... men who have never had a *******...
it's a bit like relocating a voyeurism...
one jerks you off while another looks on...
and what is she good for?
tickling your *****...
   using her cleavage as a makeshift ******...
she's not welcome...

because the one you want to be with is
already: gauging your eyes out...
Solomon's harem: Autumn...
          the envy of Muhammad...
                                
prior: disorientating getting a blow-job
while ******* on *******...

Jonathan.

We muslims
Are people too
We muslims have the same anatomy
The same emotions
The same desires
The same needs
And the potential for heartbreak
It hurts me to
Think
You thinks of us as all the same
Terrorists
Jihadis
And literate ******* and *******
When really we are the same as you










نحن المسلمين
هم الناس أيضا
نحن المسلمين لدينا نفس التشريح
نفس المشاعر
نفس الرغبات
نفس الاحتياجات
وإمكانية حدوث حسرة
يؤلمني
يفكر
أنت تعتقد أننا جميعا نفس الشيء
إرهابيون
جهاديون
والكلاب والأوغاد المتعلمين
عندما نكون حقاً مثلك

you can count yourself out of the picture
once you've visited a brothel...
   oddly enough: never came an easy girl,
i remember at university
we sat and watched a soft core belly dance
with a few girls
   (with some Sheikhs jerking off in
the background)...
     so one invited me back to her flat,
we smoked **** for a while and then
I started to kiss her...
     borderline necrophilia (metaphor)
given her reply: do you think I'm that
easy?!
    so I replied: can I at least sleep
in your bed? my feet feel like lead.
and so I did... went home during a fresh
morning, had a shower,
                ate some cornflakes and
never met the girl again...
    I thouht that teasing foreplay
while high want about poking
the course 18 times...
                  no big deal,
   it's not that I can suddenly be in
the mood either...
                         too much blood
to the head, very little to the private...
until I stumbled into a brothel
and bypassed the madonna-*****
complex with my genitals and
thought about...
    anything other than emotional
gambling en route to scented candles,
flower petals, a warm bubbly bath
and a cinema date...
   the cow was dragged into
the slaughterhouse,
               the butcher was waiting...
because "they" think that by
infiltrating the university,
they can subsequently infiltrate
   the brothel...
     I agree, tuition fees are an extortion!
can't exactly find **** CULTURE
in a brothel...
                    and always with a good
intention, every time I walked
in I had to check whether I was a *******
or even Quasimodo himself!
       talk about looking behind your
face in a mirror... some sort of
autistic-narcissism...
    just before the mentally ill leave
their childish games of seeking attention
(as, according to a Hindu yogi)...
sure... anti-depressants?
   on my prescription is says:
FOR INSOMNIA...
         apparently not all pills fit one
size...
                 and then back into
radio music, and POP music infatuation...
mmm... LOLLIPOPS!
    candy-floss... and pink unicorns...
before we get on the topic of
clowns... ha ha... imagine
   a fear... of DRAG-QUEENS!
               yes, before the pop pushin'
a last resort of the unsure insane
abusing a metaphor...
   like any politician might...
                             I can almost feel
solidarity with women in their early
30s... I too am going through
an existential crisis...
    spaghetti in the head of a Mintour...
who, once upon the time,
had a map of the labyrinth
in his mind...
    what biological clock?
      I almost hate democracy in the form
of the lessons attributed to
the autocracy of nature...
     and when the people raised their voices...
see... once it might have been much
more intuitive,
    now there's this nagging narrative
behind the whole affair...
    we already know the Beatnik
poets of America desecrated
temple of mescaline by "inviting"
god, of symbols, into what should have
been left, undisturbed, unwritten about,
no need for the tourist in these
parts... one poem on mescaline =
1 hectare of chopped Amazonian trees...
***** is a cheap *****...
all the time in the world to bash
her about, having inherited
such notable predecessors of the art...
just today I spotted a genuine
drunk, red as a beetroot
   dancing a shadow tango with
***** Dionysius... hardly happy
on wine...
                        and no pen in sight...
a drowning man: clinging to
a razor...
               me? on my birthday I have
a moth for company....
      happy birthday me...
                     and me, escape artist in
a brothel, escape from this almost
pointless courting game:
    profiles on dating websites like
disembowled hangmen...
     short-cuts to where?
                       might as well be the one
who always asks the anaesthetian
before an operarion: quo vadis?
       the moth will spend the night
on a curtain, tomorrow i'll **** a lemon
and forget to wash my teeth
scratch my *** and wave at the sun
telling it I'm far from squinting...
           and and and...
     whatever happened to
the punctuation protocol?
       the eyes must have about
six pair of lungs...
                   no... England is a nunnery
and...
      it wasn't exactly giving 110 quid
for an hour of subjectifying a woman
(objectifying a woman during
*******?
what?! with a phobia of a limp dice?!
you have to be kidding,
*** isn't objectification akin
to a pole dance! ribbit...
    kisses a ****** that becomes
the cheapest imagery of a floral
pattern of rose flesh)...
       and if only english language
graduates wrote books or poetry...
we'd all have to be **** by their
standards of having written
essays for the dead...
   but we'd recycle... burn the libraries
which would dwarf the fate
of the library of Baghdad under
the 'ogols, or... whatever the hell
happened to the library of Alexandria...
come to think of it...
    the old testament is such
an unremarkable text....
     but that's expected,
  given the spectacular undercurrent of
events...
       the Koran? a spectacular text...
but the life behind it so generic
that Muhammad looks like
a gimp in latex compared to Genghis...
just another camel jockey / *******...
not to mention the *** note of
the repetitive rhyme during
the salat...
        sheep
     jeep, keep...
      not exactly a bunch of bookworms
with these jihadis?
what do you expect:
    a pyramid like a library consists
of more than one brick / book...
     ******* better start
scribblings something on the Kaaba
and praying for another meteor...
   unlike a woman in her early 30s...
god forbid I have an analogue
budging unconscious motive...
            to leave this joke...
               yes,  and irrelevant 100 years
from now and then...
could have been a skateboarder,
a chess master,
    a footballer or a cobbler...
           or a butcher or a tree herder...
       i'm suspect to a cognitive clock
running dry on me when I hit 35...
after which nonchalance will probably
kick in...
              the spaghetti will become
a sheath of lasagne...
    flat and boorish as far as the eye can see...
never having infested in
the monopoly of fame akin
to Madonna being desperate having missed:
better die young, than to fade away    
       train...
        Rasputin genes me...
     can't, as some people in my life
already said: ****** just won't die...
                             for 5 years have been trying
and yet the locomotive keeps ploughing
on...
              imagine the other glorious heart
akin to Caesar's ideal of sudden...
    ethereal, from a broken heart....
             and I'm sue you won't find people
jealous of those who's necrologue reads:
died, peacefully in his sleep...
   no one is jealous of those who die
in their sleep...
                 refrigerator noise / ambient
music worth of life...
                shallow graves...
                   perhaps the people
who have died in the sleep are the mentally
ill in the afterlife, having lost
touch with the reality of death...
   returning as moguls of ***** bedsheets?

.whatever happened to candance owens... is what happened to j. d. salinger and the whole: beam up scotty with david berkowitz (son of sam)?

writing is an extension of thinking:
   where the waggling
metaphysical tongue of the cracked
head translates itself into
sounds: crescendos of soloists...
   but that doesn't imply:
   waggling the actual serpent vortex
from behind the ivory gates...
   in the "aftermath"...
             i slept like a baby...
i guess for about 10 hours...
                deciding to lay this body
to a well-earned rest...
               "free" speech is only the extension
of reading,
           again: one of those pontius pilate
moments...
   unlike the passive ingestion
of a video: theft of attention,
that could otherwise concentrate on
these idle hands,
                     and some music...
come to think of it:
   i'd **** for a vinyl copy of roxette's
album joyride...
       the zenith of a pop genre LP...
truly...
                       but once the news broke...
i wasn't happy,
   i wasn't sad,
    i simply found an irritating sense
of relief,
  sooner or later, the irritation would pass...
and i would return to a numbing
sense of contentment:
  without due reasons...
           merely concerning myself:
one of the laws of newton -
         an equal and opposite reaction...
i think we're all past the stage
of succumbing to some utopian naivety...
from beneath the iron-curtain
   i have come to spread my legs
over the traffic of events being churned
beneath me...
     as with this event...
          i can only say:
   thank you, very much,
    for sharing the feeling of empathy,
for being riddled with cold-cut paranoia
to being able to source some
sort of relief...
            the one-sided narrative
of people being used as punching-bags...
for once, i suppose:
   the other side is able to feel
the same emotions as the side that has
had to entertain criticism with
much more than a waggling tongue...
well... i did hear,
   that the jihadis in the Bataclan incided
would cut-off the testicles of
the dead and ingest them...
        no longer the scared cows
of western secularism it would seem...
maybe i found relief,
   becauase i was finally able to see
a level playing field,
   where - everyone is
                                  equally affected;
there's no real discussion
     of the event itself -
                            it's what comes after...
   so much for the protected minority
status...
   polacks are a minority in England...
oddly enough:
   i would never dream about
  fastening myself to a minority,
    or wanting to claim a "protected status"...
i've integrated too well into
my surrogate culture...
       this: my now surrogate tongue...
but unlike any child and its mother,
   or its father...
              i hope i'm not expected to
somehow... give up my own take on things,
i want be the happy poodle,
                there are limits
                      to the integration process...
i still retain,
    what i inherited from being born
      in a country that was formerly
                         under the soviet dictum.

ha ha! among the english, even if something is written on pixel paper, in the public domain, it's deemed "spoken"... ha ha! how infuriating this notion of "freedom of speech"... how about you respect my freedom to think, and put thought to paper?! mob dictatorial stasi *****! seems to be, that this supposed "freedom" of speech has extended its stalinist hand into the freedom to think, and "abuse" digital, pixel paper! you *******, wanks! paper, free, defeatists' commodity! pamphlets! hello! they are really trying to make writing = speaking, because? it's on the internet, in a public space! you're just as bad as north korea, no, wait: you're worse! you're what defines the minority report prophecy! and, by the way? the minority report vision... that's twice as bad as 1984.

comes a bit late,  given the 20th century
continental output... well, what is it?
     a cat video?! a cat video with a piglet,
a cat video with a piglet with
a cat licking the piglet...
                                             great!
     can i have my pork chops
right now, or do i have to wait
for a vegetarian protest prior
to the bon appétit?
    might as well call it
by its proper name:
q = ?
         while Q = ?!
e.g. you what(q), vs.
you what(Q)
                    can't deal with
laze-round english...
  ******* will not learn
one iota's worth of a smacker...
i don't mind:
it's called being kind:
you have to be...
you have to ignore the laziness
of others to be kind...
leave being cruel to the english
and the middle-eastern
scoffs;
they seem to have handled the idea
pretty well..
and? *włodzimierz lubański:
thanks to the english - they broke
his legs...
     in terms of the english?
i love to hate them,
rather than hate to love them...
hardly a **** in me...
         esp. because of
    włodzimierz lubański,
top goalscorer for the national team...
even though, i must admit,
the country of my birth?
  seems mythical at times,
just as much as england to me:
feels more like a lunatic asylum than
an actual country...
strange, i speak the language,
but i have no tattoos of the natives,
other than those spoken to me
by my father...
       i wish i had less of these psychic
tattoos...
     then again, i can't seem to organise
myself around english,
  in terms of the upper-tier of
worth of utilising this tongue,
pretty much like any, if not all
of the al-britanni jihadis...
      i can't find myself surprised...
don't know why...
   but i just can't find the globalist nomad jew
in me...
    never could... never will...
and never will the al-britanni muslims
either...
           i couldn't join the caliphate
either: i love music too much,
plus, the adhan is sung...
it's not a catholic murmur of the "creed"...
no music? no go.
        but that's what anglophone
existentialism has become:
ridden with comic strips
          rather than sentences...
cat videos rather than paragraphs...
   it's a bit late to panic...
  might as well shove the panic under
       the carpet, and pretend it's aladdin's;
it's too late to write books on existentially
orientated englishness
(they ask too much about "britishness"
en masse too much, and also too frequently),
     and, as all english people know,
      all too well: in times of panic? speak!
this unpreparedness of inhibition of thought,
and exhibition of talk, is the most rife
characteristic of the english "ambition"...
    suffice to say: people care more
for the freedom to speak (in the english domain):
than the freedom to think...
it really does pain the english to think,
thinking to the english is worth as much
as the need to gulp down a paracetamol;
akin to the "debate" between citizens:
and, does that give you, power over me?
don't like social criticism?
   australia is: wide open;
so is spain, but you'll need to get off your
lingua franca ***, and put an effort into it!
chop chop!
           i'm like kierkegaard in mind
of: the pleasures of thought,
and this, nagging realm of the anglophones
attempting to find their speech as
"compelling", if not the least irritating
as the song of sparrows, or that of canaries...
these "defenders of free speech",
sound more irritable than the sunrise choir
of bird song,
for all their championing of existential
darwinism, they sound more, more
irritating than the laughter of hyenas...
did these people ever put this observation
into their "right" of a freedom of "speech"?
to be honest, i sometimes find
the buzzing of refrigerators more interesting,
the white noise of ambience,
coupled to a music genre of some comparable
electric hive;
    i find the "freedom" of speech
as irritating as anything to be made spoken -
at least the birds sing uninhibited,
thoughtless,
       but man was gifted with the decency
to think...
     evidently americana teaches us:
there is no decency of thought!
there's only the decency to speak!
well then... i wish you sounded as beautiful
as birds during a sunrise...
sadly... you're not going to speak at me
a worthy compensation,
for you have transcended the dasein of
a springtime sunrise, and the waking of
the birds' libido...
         your "freedom" to speak:
is like a stalemate at a pensioners' house:
not enough deaths to fit the yawning budget.

once a week i get a chance to sit alone,
sometimes in the company of a cat,
drink in hand,
   and i get to fiddle with the gramaphone...
on todays, menu?
wishbone ash's
     1973 wishbone four...
   what with its rock n roll widow...
which i suppose is a song about
          the assassination of john lennon...
but only with a vinyl record,
with the words in print on it:
made in great britain...
   made it feel like a time warp...
then? 1980 super trouper by abba...
   i almost forgot that the album
begins with a "eurotrash" hit,
  and ends, with a "eurotrash" hit...
then... into the modern era...
i love how wooden shjips
came into their stride with the album V...
it was certainly worth the vinyl...
i switched on the news
a few hours prior...
       hmm... sky news...
what's with all this emphasis on:
white, white, white, white...
        oh... right...
   far-right....
      i know some of those dates
on the evidence... vienna 1683...
     which is kinda of funny...
since i go to a turkish barber...
  and i do not trust anyone:
apart from a turk, to cut my hair,
or trim my beard...
       but it's the same *******
*******, over and over again...
   the guy left a manifesto...
he: rambled on and on...
       lucky on the count that
they just couldn't move the blame
on a mental illness...
   of sorts...
i might as well write this,
   i know people are thinking it anyway...
this is beyond good & evil,
this is beyond condemning the act,
or celebrating it...
   but i'm pretty sure...
that when the Manchester bombing
happened...
   no victims were so quickly
   given audience,
to recount the whole fiasco...
     and, as far as i remember...
   this has been the only prominent
act of retaliation...
     behring... well...
   that was something else,
       the ruling elite was targeted...
and all of this:
   a day prior to
the red nose day...
     it's like: well, now we have to laugh,
laugh to cover it all up...
i have a joke for the sore wounds...
well...
    lone wolf...
   it would have probably taken
about 3 jihadis to pull off a stunt like
that...
   but as i sat there,
watching the vinyl spin...
i felt... an eerie sense of relief...
   a relief in summary akin
to the words:
        so... so now the other half
knows what it feels like...
being attacked...
              point being:
   am i waiting for retaliation...
or just... happily numb...
   but they never insult jihadis
on the news...
                         they never call the language
of a jihadi a vague rambling,
a word salad...
             a low i.q. testimony...
or... critique their taste in music...
what's wrong with
march of the british grenadiers...
**** me...
i could have whistled
the ******* la marseillaise
     and that would be... "in bad taste"...

it was hanging in the air...
it's also a form of white supremacy
to cite certain dates...
  i guess the "elites" would
prefer the other variant of
tattooing yourself...
with actual ink,
on your piglet skin...
  but to remember certains dates...
heresy.

- that's what i find wrong,
being fed some mythical
variant of a heroic masculinity...
   hell...
   take to a boxing ring...
rugby...
   or a semi-automatic
   on a friday at a mosque...
because...
  you're just not that ignorant
about a religion,
knowing the focal point
and time of the selected group's
congregational habits.

- yet the relief was there,
as if i accomplished something...
   the adverse feeling
associated
          with all the terrorist
attacks...
  with the muslims walking about:
*****-nilly...
with some sort of immunity
badge...
like cows in India...
  and the whites being thought
of as these... cuddled...
harmless, passive spectators...
before i turned the news on,
i said to my mother:
   the reasons will not be spectacular...
they'll be pretty *******
shallow, and just idiotically
obvious...
   primordial, ancient...
they always are,
if the results are their most effective...
i mean:
any ****** can whistle
  la marseillaise
or march of the british grenadiers...
last time i heard...
the Edinburgh Tattoo is quiet
popular...
   pomp & circumstance,
pomp & circumstance...
        
   because who isn't an escape artist
at this point,
  attempting to find relief
in a past,
    rather than this...
sordid present....
   that's the whole point of
heidegger's dasein...
  there: is not so much a place,
but a time,
   and a time, that acts as
the bite of the teeth into a fabric,
and pulling it along.

  - see that's why i've learned
to much prefer "petting" cats...
god almighty, i love dogs...
but...
            waste of time,
you can never individuated
yourself around a dog,
can't exactly ignore a dog,
and this whole affair
with a leash?
             no... i still love dogs...
the larger the dog i pass
in public, the more i wish
i could wrestle with it...
and give it the kiss of hades,
by bumping my teeth against
its canines...
    point being:
   a cat can entertain itself,
do, whatever the hell it wants...
and on the odd occassion
when it wants attention,
you give it,
sparingly...
  before returning to yourself,
and it, returning to itself.

           - so now we sorted the original
"problem" out:
  we now know that the other side
knows, what it feels like...
which is good news...
       it's good to share the love,
and the empathy,
more about sharing the empathy,
that's always good...
    at least now,
   we have some sort of a level:
   playing field, should any further
jihadi attacks occur.

i have no contemporaries... i live among no contemporaries... i live among the contempt zombies: some dead here thrown... to suckle at the grinding of flesh: some... peter sinfield wrote... i have no contemporaries... i have this vacant breath: thank god i didn't invest in "family"... less a funeral... more a disappearing act! repeat the tides of spring... repeat the glimmer of ancient winter... remind me... Europe: funnel of the deaf earth... beside our Turkic past... before the Ottoman altar at the grinding: whip... lash... of the pride that once was Constantinople... tide: the currency of time: us nuanced: new... new Brazilian... all mixed up and holy Babel: come the crashing urn: my "utopia" of... my... fading suntan...  kupfernacken... i scribble itching: pretending them to be letters: born from Greenwich... ghostly freelance... such a tidy little place i can ghost... align myself to past: to pass trivial concerns... women marry... men dissolve into a figment of their imagination... the best doggy... the walking abortions that they were already sentenced with... i have no contemporaries... all my compatriots of now are... still in high-school... i have no contemporaries... befitting... all i have ever read was by those already dead: necromancer: reads.... conjure up the devil without fire... with smoke and mirrors he comes... or came... with a cat screaming: cite Bulgakov! i do the *****... rather: i do the ***... he play more the backgammon because... chess is... ******* boring... given the adventure allowed by FFVII... for example... we were teenage boys once... we still are... come to think of it... i don't want to learn of the universe of women and... at least with prostitutes... i have a heart that's the size of a pebble... and a tear the size of a lake... yes... that's plenty.


either the day begins like: pouring some milk into
a glass of water...
or the day ends like: pouring some water
into a glass of milk...

the day, sober... began with:

cussons' imperial leather:
cotton clouds & white cashmere...
a shower fragrance like
no other...
    well... if a shower gel reminds
you of a mythological
sweet / pastry you had
aged circa 4... on a train...
going from Danzig back home...
i guess that's probably right...

but if i'm wrong about that
i'm certainly right about:
a splash of ***... or whiskey...
in a black coffee...
why did i ever bother with cream?!

then defrosting two refrigerators
got in the day...
house chores: cleaning the "stanzas":
the square...
one remorseful hour with
the road on my bicycle...
no thought: just spatial coordination:
unconscious arithmetic...

linger until midnight...
past midnight pretend to sleep for
an hour... then get up and "hunt" for
a glass of milk...

eclipse heritage: mount gay Barbados ***...
a fine fine ***...
finer than any mr. whiskers or ms. amber
has to offer...

why has it not dawned upon the western:
liberal man that...
he's somehow... not... the... universal man?
translated in Afghanistan?
who the hell is going to bemoan
the rise-up of Taliban "two-point-oh"?!
i'm celebrating...
like the partisan h'americans are still trying
to celebrate the Hebrews having their
land back!

i'm happy for the Afghan people!
why wouldn't you be?
well thank you: mr. universal man...
thank you for the railroads...
thank you for your chemistry...
thank you for so much...
but... don't you have an incel "problem":
trying to shove it under a bright orange
carpet of psychiatry...
it's going to be much harder to bribe
these monks...
than it would take to bribe the Jihadis
with 72 virgins...
after all: ever heard of a jihadi that
performed an act of Jihad by killing
his mother, first?

it's like that joke akin to: a priest,
a rabbi and an imam walk into a bar...
an incel, a jihadi and a...
walk into... a nunnery...

mr. universal man... thank god you're
finally leaving Afghanistan...
are the Hebrews the only sacred
cows in your Hindu zodiac?
i believe firmly: leave the people to their
own fate... or demise...
last time i heard... Afghan women
were waterfalls of poetry with their
Landays...

                     mr. universal man has attracted
a multi-cultural palette...
even the Armenian bread like lavash was
some story...
sorry... when was the last time you
heard the ******* backstory of
a croissant?!
only the "noble savages" have stories...
we have turkey-t.v.:
we have no stories... no heritage...
nothing at all concerning
the French fries... we didn't invent
anything: culinary...
never used mint... rosemary... thyme...
we just ******* nuked nuked nuked...

the flat-chested flat-bread paupers
who were beaten by a pancake
and never hunted down: yeast! yeast!
rise! miracle of flour!
rise! like the sun!

cheap-****-sushi...
let them be... let them shove a stick
and a rubber shoe into the mountain
to draw some water to nourish their
goats...

mr. universal man...
why are westerners so concerned with
what might happen to Afghanistan?
probably something less terrible than
what already took place:
i'm of the maxim:
the terrible has already happened...
Viet-Now...

mr. universal man has problems re-abstracting
what is concrete to others...
since... mr. universal man
hasn't lived long enough to have lost
what others are vying for...

he invented all such splendorous games
and amusements befitting a cosmopolitan
echo chamber that he forgot what
a tree or a rock might imply...

he's so blind to churn out an introspection:
a new breed of terrorist he hides
under a blanket of psychiatry...
thinking: this one more time... this time again:
the sun will rise...

these need breeds start with killing
their mother! or end with killing their mother!
jihadis aim for collateral fog...
they're aiming for 72 virgins...
what have you to bribe these "monks"?

eh... there's a romance to be had with
Afghanistan and the Taliban...
it's not unlike
the amphetamine fuelled antics
of the Syrian pseudo-caliphate...
an Afghani is not ****
in the eyes of the Hindu...
he's a less sensitive breed: almost alien...
somewhat teasing the Iranian...
but then again... what do i know?

reminiscence of a time when a troll
of a girl chased me in high-school...
i was cycling up to the top of Bower Hill
when i stopped to change the music...
a woman was jogging against
the tide of traffic i was encompassing...
she too decided to stop "jogging"
to change her soundtrack...
she must have been admiring my Turkish
take on ****** hair... if i had a mirror
i too would be... in between itching
to squeeze the last maggot of phlegm
and acne from my face:
because Beelzebub took a **** on my face!
if he was a she i'd imagine it
would run along the lines of:
she sat with her fully fattened *****
onto my face and told me to slurp!
whizz-kid concerning oysters...
n'est c'est pas?

i feel inclined to dream about joining
the Tally-*** band of brothers...
i'm bored with the music...
last time i heard they were into listening to:
pretending to listen to: listening to:
silence...
next comes a Hegel or a Kant...
attacked by bouts of schizophrenia:

loose term... i much prefer the older
noun... dementia praecox...
premature dementia...
it's less a metaphor...
after all: what is the experience of consciousness:
the science of: drugging up the experiencer?
to dull the experience?
what senses are we inviting when
the schizoid is hardly: half-of-hearing?

ha ha!
of those philosophers' ivory towers that are books:
some followed-through: some unchallenged:
some unread...
like Kjartan on Heidegger in Knausgaard's
vol. 4...
apparently living in London:
well... it's not like you can be ever bored
of London... south of the Thames:
esp. circa the central projects of attracting
postcards... is all the same...
but south of London... isn't it... Kent... Sussex?
that's most certainly not...
the grand underground wheelie of...
Hainault is Greater London...
but Chigwell is Essex... proper...
south London is a different country...
it might as well be Northumbria!

compared to the circumcised
i'm a docile creature...
so many circumcised jihadis,
i almost forget there's
a snippet of them missing...
     the bit where you *******
without complaint
         and the part where
third parties, sort of:
       do away with mirroring
scalping...
   so much for Jesus'
                     stomping on
gentile hands prior to
                     marketing the sign
of the cross...
       this little piggy arithmetic
among lepers...
     and a loose tooth smile...
plop...
          the sound made with
gangrene gums into
the porcelain basin of a chinese
toilet, affair...
    my my, the punctuation
dynamism, further explored,
as if: synonym of stuttering...
     why is it though,
rolling sweet tobacco,
   i have the scent of freahly
scratched cucumbers on
my tips and between
fingernail trenches?
        late spring and rolling
tobacco infuriates me with
a perfume of cucumbers...
what's missing is
white vinegar, a pinch of
sugar, salt, pepper,
Charlotte's odour,
           and sour cream...
         2 months in a city worth
60,000 souls...
           reentering the behemoth
of London and what's
"london" within the M25 criterium
and...
         ****! gone...
                  a drop in the water...
fame and the unflinching
status quo of the numbers...
      fame as: a necessary invested
in P.R. motif...
      and the french, generally eat
letters,
    rigid slavic syllables blocked
my learning of the ***** ******...
  bouquet...
    bucket...
        or, rather: boo-kay...
                    french cannibalise
and no ******* omelette will
serve me an alternative op.
      to not, masquarade the said
acronym to a shift...
               and to mind:
americans and their acronym
exclusions...
     stemming from u.s.a.,
        off a missing of...
   elsewhere the "acronyms"
or, more pignant the resorting
to "chance"
                 p.s. ref.
    points, acronymised:
             (cognitive crossword,
imitating free reign search:
  all algorithm is ronin,
bouncy maxim, just shy
of aphorism...)
                   a memorable nostalgia...
shy of joy...
          not antidote... no...
not the antithesis of...
    ah!
                anecdote!
    what was i thinking of prior?
        tailing off into a cul de sac
and harvesting
the impermament scoff
that is time... given the source
of: hardly a subjective
     "deviation" of a timeless
normative...
                mortality...
sacrificial lamb adrift on
the altar of morality...
                 now i know why i write
poetry...
           i can hardly settle
for solving crosswords...
              cucumber perfume
having rolled tobacco?
            imitating alzheimer's
     in telegraphic broken-
            language?
         lost the patience
to paint... took a photograph?
    and so:
    because the fundamental
antithesis of painting,
that is photography,
                is to make foundation,
in verbiose presentation...
    the opportune moment
was itself-revealing,
           somehow,
accommodating a "self"
          make a frozen puncture of...
photography per se, yes...
  but with all the verbiose
attachments to be: excused...
         hardly necessary...
           because what came from
the frustration of
painters, anti-photography...
if not: splashing paint on
a canvas?
   jackson ******* was
a photographer...
                     not a painter...
albeit,
    in a more lower reminder
of form of the observable
spectrum...
          a photograph worth
a painting but worth
more a thought,
   than what the crude eye
would deem digestably
orthodox, with
comparison.

pride what? have honour in what? in what?! i'm not sympathetic to these jihadis, but then again, why am i not surprised? what, hmm? what hmm? communism was bad... take a look at 0 hour contracts and modern slavery, in your idol capitalism... ****, off! 0 hour contracts are worse than communism? really? the west is the best! yes?! really? evidently a blank pixel page is no longer a canvas for peace, for art, rather: evidence for making war... i hope someone invents a black canvas, just to **** around with M.I.5.... or whatever retards they employ; god, i love being drunk, and having the capacity of "driving" a "car", while unable to claim the "plea" of "insanity": plenty of drunk brits where i come from, want to stand them up straight? yeah, you won't be able even if you wanted to... i claim? diminished responsibility on the basis of intoxication... sure, i steered a sentence into dangerous territory... oops... you going to charge me for drinking, and writing drunk ******* on a flag coloured the colour of surrender? last time i checked, even the vatican was white & yella... so you libyan police, all green on the forefront of the debate concerning what's permitted, and what could have been, within the framework of the otherwise present? me asking that question suggests: i know no better joke.

sometimes i walk around the house
wearing my sunglasses,
thinking up more spectacular
events: oh right, i didn't turn off
the computer...
  for some reason the sunglasses
always come 2nd place of interest,
1st?
      it's usually during the night,
so i start gesticulating:
he went that way (left) - when
he actually went right..
   **** me, i'm either myopic,
blind, or cross-eyed...
    clue me in on mr. bean's acting
skills, having evolved from the black adder
franchise... you have
any clues other than *love actually?
pastor bean, or is that pastor adder?
just asking, love a quote
rather that minding your time
with a leeches' worth of signature hopefuls
at the antique annual event (minus spain),
by the way, nice ferrari you smashed...
  shmile... can i take a selfie?
poetry quickens the dialogue dynamic,
sorry,
say ola for me, for the next
recyclable diatribe of narration...
mostly scandinavian, i know,
lonely women, no pakistani plumbers
handy, to endear the 15 year old girls
in the "prudence" of the "game";
lucky you... blackpool!
i wishy-washy 'ope,
you don't getcha a speck of sand...
in ya slippa'h... my tweed-pie fakery
of a name, like germaine...
   flu-tipped all over germany
with
iraqi hmm... yummy... name that rebounds
with ghaahee;
best oil that **** up;
your fathers already speak to these
i.q. ***** via the same way they
speak to your mothers...
          i've become
pontius pilate o.c.d. when it comes
to being absorbed with mind
as possibly crafting a change,
believe me...
change is a force biased upon
reciprocation: to vow is to disavow -
there was no "natural" argument for
britain leaving the e.u.,
for there always was the barrier of a sea,
against a land...
           the english really do talk
pretty...
    but in reality?
  they're just as *******-bashed
in terms of ethnic etiquette as the germans...
talking pretty gets you only so far...
******* saks and schwabs:
                two-faced no-gooders:
schmile, one more ******* time;
   i haven't been in a fight since primary school,
i'm just wondering if i am still capable
of punching someone's *** to the ground.

life, currently... shouldn't be about...
a problem with the internet connection...
or how:
there's no satellite conncetion to the t.v. -
because of "snow"... and "hurricanes"...
but under the prescription of
the government...
  where is... where is indeed:
the replacement fireplace and a druid storyteller?
to keep up with the mr. and mrs. smith
enclosed in:
a quarantine zoo where only the virus
gets... to window-shop: concerning
what next to "wear"?

      trivial details: is anything but so grand
as to gain poetic traction from...
trans-gender activists and those teen
with premature depression antics of:
haiku... not yet a haiku etc.

but my post-soviet laptop works just fine...
it's all these delta korean "smart" whizz-kid
analogies of tablet that are...
feeding the bug of: forgot the cables...

last time i heard that the t.v. box needed
to be connected to the "dial-up" box-of-boxes...
the modem... sprinting to "evolve":
zee hub...
              smart as: the old soviet
manifesto concerning technology...
  if it ain't broke: don't even think about
spaghetti fixing it... sunshine...
and what happened? they went along
and "fixed" it...

                   like they went about fixing
the original... thesaurus rex algorithm of
youtube: that once great platitude of all other
jukeboxes...
   no chance in hell seeing these john peel
suggestion "crop up"...

i had the "audacity" to scribble them down...
once upon a time...

       band / album

beehoover / heavy zoo
        nord skin / secrets of the words
black elephant / cosmic blues
     swamp sessions / a lifesize swamp
1000mods / super van vacation
           ruby the hatchet / aurum
                  greenleaf / trails & passes
  the silver seas / catch yer own train
        sleep / leagues beneath
          spaceslug / lemanis
witch / s.t. (self-titled)
          elder / dead roots stirring
red scalp / rituals
                   castle / welcome to the graveyard
broken bells / s.t.
                        place of skulls / with vision
naxatras / (ep s.t.)
                       UNV nation / s.t.
                 the heavy minds / treasure coast
roma / s.t.
                   fabricantes / la selva incrustada...
savannah / deep shades...
mystic sons / s.t.
          sun of man / s.t.
  weird owl / nuclear psychology
       elbrus / s.t.
                   stonehenge / bunch of bisons
gin lady / electric earth
hey satan / s.t.
                   d d  blood / s.t.
               sonora ritual / dust moment
gnome / father of time
                                       godsleep / coming of age
ordos / house of the dead
mountainwolf / the silk road
               buffalo fuzz / s.t.
                                 black dust / s.t.
                may the fuzz be with you / vol. I
transpanda / goats against humanity
earthless / black heaven
           gorilla pulp / heavy lips
    black willows / samsara
   stone age mammoth / earth born... etc....

what a bullet bite... two short of ******-do'h shucks
when you come back home...
drunk and sober at the same time screaming:
some little ****** of a squinting eye...
****** up the jukebox: now i can't sing...
now i can't dance!

my t.v. needs to be smashed...
and my internet connection is tone deaf
and stone-age to boot...
i'm no trucker and i'm no christian
evangelist minder... for the "ummah"...
or whatever it's called...
i don't bet, yes ma'am...
i pay my dues to the tele-evangelical
god's son: the preacher ma'am...
yis i' 'ere owe...
  the scrutiny of a stamp-collector's
lick a slick and shove it up
the queue into heaven's ear...

         my most mediocre complaints...
a girl sent me a poem and a sketch...
and i'm just... hanging onto sanity's blockers...
steroids... and all those other
goof-*****... and i still want
to make it listening to the La's because...
the Beatles never made it to...
London Calling...
by... the stain... no... wait...
i don't know of a band known as the stain...
perhaps i should...

bad internet access and bad t.v.:
because winnie the p'ooh shot down a satellite
thinking it was: an asteroid heading
to hit Beijing...
the two: must be given a space-trap
of confusing intelligence officer:
blah-blah traps...

       i guess my mother should be dying...
my neighbour should be...
doing something...
dinosaur jr.., should be seeing
a revival... and a wish to dislodged nirvana
in the grundge charts... along with sonic youth...

but my post-warsaw pact...
this heap of "junk"... this soviety spy of a laptop...
if i wanted... i could probably synonym it
with a ******* microwave oven!
all this proto-plastic toys of...
   better heave: *******'s worth of the edit...
in capitalism: plastic is the new iron!
and all the more clueless...
call-center jihadis who will have you believe...
cables are involved...
connecting the view box for the t.v. to
the modem... the hub...
the "dial-up"...

because... the old octopus of walking about...
with syringes and makeshift veins
and arteries... to the great big brain
of "Omnia"...
                    omni-potent...
    omni-present...
omni-... yes... that litany of the prefixes...
culminating in: Islam Inc. and the female
deity of Omnia...

   wouldn't want to pluck those diamonds
out from their sockets: would we know...
then again... i'd rather see the mouth...
those niqab bound eyes are too filthy...

they pretend to cry i too pretend to see a waterfall...
and then the crocodile comes snappy
right at me...
and... i have to...
pretend he's a pig and a sort of leather belt
that can goes well with any choicest choice
of fine linen: and that not so fine kind...
you can hide pork in leather...
the belt, the shoes...
eh... crocodile crocks are too...
too **** obvious... for "hiding"...

stay inside they said...
  but the t.v. is the new fireplace...
                 and if there's not t.v...
   can life take toward... or rather... can poetry become
this surrogate for petty concerns being
answered in a democratic manner?
what's being love or not being loved...
guarded by a disparity of age:
does it matter whether you're 34 or 74?

i just want to know...
   why i'd pay circa 20 quid a week...
for a t.v. with a license...
and... nothing to watch...
     ol' lore of love is gone...
   very pressing... or hardly... practical
devaluations of that once...
formidable willing-pull-&-tug for impetus
sensation are long gone...
the crass economics of...
              heaven... i will forbid myself
to staging a cart-boot sale...
practical i: who still doesn't have a car...
and never will:
horses auctioned: yes...
            
   i had a dream that i was a motorbike...
i had the life of: roulette roundabouts of "chance"...
and that paid off...
   but what didn't pay off:
the peddling... easy-grip and whiff of
a tensed up wrist to accelerate...
would have been... the better option...

horses: tighten the reins...
imprint a heel in the torso... turn left "he says",
is say: tighten the reins to the left...
dig a heel in the right canvas bracket of torso...

i would most certainly consider
the matter closed...
    if i was getting such a ****** detail of a provider
for free or for a bare minimum...
love... hate...
these can hitchhike to their own demise
and slouching shadows to escape with
metaphors or stockholm syndrome detainees...

this 1.4 liter of ms. amber was supposed to
last me for three days...
good luck... i want to drink a little...
and become angry at those call-center mouse-traps
of pseudo-peoples...
who will cite: cables not included!
i want to become angry with...
the paycheck brigade...
   who hardly solve anything but...
digress and cut you off...
and are most likely to... over-toast
those hot-cross buns...

                       love... hate... miasmas... both... alike!
"ranting ******* and turnovers"...
and sober... does it? yes?
       what did the sober man ever conjure up...
beside... the glue of bureaucracy?
i must beg: what of the minotaur...
the menacing... hardly a bull's head
on a man's torso...
the marching of the hammers...
the marching of the quills...
i have heard that one country has asked
for finger-prints just so they can issue
a passport...
      
         my signature is not enough...
nor is my hand-writing...
         but love can wait...
       there's no need to give it a status of wine...

drinking warm whiskey isn't so bad...
you just close your eyes...
swirl the glass and pretend it's cognac...
god forbid the sanitation pipes should
malfunction...

    i have no real time for love...
love can happen in a metaphysical dress of something:
that allows... as many pockets
as there are things to hide in them...
practical peacocks of attention...

turns out: i can't fathom any ability to doodle out
a rook...
there seems to be no archetypal architect
to mind it...
there is one for an elephant...
a kamikaze giraffe that's most probably
a Nessy spin-off of a leopard: print for
a leather chair...

        is it a hybrid stork?
           best bet is: return to sender...
at least she will have an address on the readily
available... but at least i'm not hustling back
bathwater... or... i could have been...
sending her a packet of oats...

hour 'promptu...
       i'll sober up will i never...
talking to these whizz-kids about...
the internet connection and "missing satellites"...
because love should be by... "ripe old
prime concern"...
whether i am 34 or... 70 year ol' ++++...
   i can't draw a crow...
i can draw an elephant in doodle-sketch
stenography...
but i shouldn't... "technically"...
the crow is more... is more...
blatant...

show me crow: with letters!
         no... i don't imply: ᚴᚱᚨᚴᛖ....
  i mean... show me a crow...
all i see is a litany base...
of: ᚠᚨᚴᛚᛉ... this is what a crow looks like
to me...
                      "faklz"...
         you can't change my mind concerning
this...
nor can you: what sisyphus looks
like: RO...
               who needs to insert the pitch-fork
stopper of a H in the... omicron and...
what implies rolling: or rather... trilling
the R... for the rattlesnake exerpt?

   what's a snake?                           ᛊ...
it's not... ᛋ-ᛚᚨᚾᚷᛖ...
                            but for me...
a crow is... ᚠᚨᚴᛚᛉ: faklz...
                        
                                       the snake and it's...
spine... and the brain in the pickling-jar...
the winding details of signatures in
desert sands... the left-over dinosaur branch
of: by now... aeons have passed...
let alone but one... of those...
heavily culprit... tabloid newspapers...

i should have my "missing eye"
deemed the noun worthy of: faklz...
    tribulations by the:
-klz                   dolls scenting:
skip "the middle ground"...
all the latex in the world... and none
of the ******...

where is the love: it's most certainly no here...
it's with the engineers...
and not: with the call centers...

satellites and google earth and i'm still
bound to: fire! awe!
stick... friction! stones! hay fever!
ooh! aah!
   bronze age man: necklace!
harem in the waiting!
     verb + noun! elevator!
      did two nouns give birth to:
worth keeping...
i.e. pro-noun? and then that
turned into decomposition of...
chair... via... minus ch-a-r into i!?
                  no... of course not...

       of a "thing" too alive to be yet called
dead...
   just ploughing the field...
just... one of those infinitely biased
circumstance of this particular instance...
and: there's no need to peacock with
any answer: esp. if it's the "right" one...
no autodidactic when...
of a lineage... the offspring were...
supposed to be taught by people of personage...
and... scribble scribble mcdonald does doodled...
because: hey... "bruce"!
how's that york of ours: the rime
of... jack! how's that?!

    no need for tallent... no need for...
in the ethereal: of particulars...
monkey does what monkey ought...
and ought not...
with as much trouble as plasying smart...
as playing double...
and no smart or ever double...
plays out into the luck of the dumb...
you'd almost wish to be a cattle related
work of glut from a ******* & herd
perspective...
        i have to conclude...
this world for all this... beauty...
no... not when the half-imbeciles are involved
in... ruining the worth of copper...
the worth of crown...
and the worth of intellect...
for the sake of...

                a pinch of a bitter pint of a tad
bit of banter...
                   for me...
death... is a postman...
and i am... most certainly...
having to assure myself...
with a delayed send-off date...
this life and the world within in...
can or rather... would never allow me...
to feel inclined to be:
somehow... resting: even then moving...
on the bargain argument of:
being assured...
pretty much... yes...
a bargain... a bargain when asleep even...
most assured... a falling sensation...
or an ice-cream cone of licked...
morals and conscience...

and if not dabbled in?
        well... if not... dabbled in.

These Crimson tears
I begin to shed
Are not the result of
A virus
Or bacteria but from
Being plagued and haunted
By my horrific past
The first two years of my life
Tortured by islamic jihadis
The adoptive mother could give
A **** less
Being bullied for my
Past and
Blood
Broken relationships
These Crimson tears
Are the result of
Years of torture

when will people stop ascribing
poetical techniques
   to mental disorders
       in their casual, informal,
ascription sequences?
     psychosis does not translate
into psychopathy...
just because the two words share
the same prefix,
   doesn't imply that -
   "somehow" they're one and the same...
melancholy:
lethargy, and a lost sense of cognitive
"will"... automated thinking...
how many times during
the day do i imagine throwing
myself under a train?
   for the hard-on about 20 times
before i get out of bed...
   which is 20 times less than
when i stood on a roof,
    on an industrially sized complex,
notably the scottish widows hq
near st. paul's and thought
about jumping...
     and pancakes...
    and the thrill of the fall...
and then the initial shock
of impact, followed by a pause...
and then the sigma of pain rushing
into my body...
     schizophrenia is a different
version of lethargy,
   most mental conditions are
lethargy inducing,
                     or quasi-paralyzing...
one psychosis can last a year,
or years, another, can last a week...
but when your thought patterns,
are subverted by auditory hallucinations,
psychosis: the trip for champions,
l.s.d. trip will not do justice
to a psychosis "trip",
         alcohol helps as both
a sedative... & a pentothal derivative...
it's: disinhibiting...
          but not to the point
where i send someone a ******* ****-pic...
what sicko would do such a thing?
a psychopath would...
    psychopaths do not have
enough emotional "intelligence" /
gradation to encounter an ego-dissociation,
last time i heard:
instead of a healthy dosage of
serotonin,
      they have a pathological dosage
of dopamine: or some ****,
equivalent to that...
      if i were an expert on this matter,
i'd be paid...
     and since i'm not,
i'm simply concentrating my attention
of the general public vernacular,
namely:
      why are psychiatric conditions,
spoken of,
   in such poetic terms,
heavily reliant
             on the technique of metaphor?
we already have the phenomenon
of premature depression,
which seems to coincide with
the 19th century phenomenon
of premature dementia (schizophrenia)...
psychiatric literature is my thing,
when i went to a psychiatrist
i was told: 'you have good insight
into your condition'...
i just nodded, kept my mouth shut,
when i went to the *******,
i was told: 'you're nice'...
"forgot" my genitals and smooched
for an hour,
   i just forgot the fun part of kissing,
got bored of looking down on *******
and the gymnastics of genital
interaction...
   when i was supposed to go
to the priest... i...
             funny story...
   i walked into an empty church...
   paranoid as ****,
smoked a joint, walked around central
London, cowered into a church
near Camden Town
(opposite the postal service
hangar - near to the King's Cross
Station) -
              went to the side altar,
took a white sheet from the altar,
lay under the altar,
   and heard... a descending choir...
got up... started running around
the empty church...
   without saying a word...
     then a great wind...
   a breath that imbued me with a fear
much greater than what i was
experiencing on my psychotic "trip"
on the street...
        i thought, yeah "thought"
of one word:              SATAN...
    and the 40 days and nights spent
fasting in the desert,
    i called my ex-girlfriend
when i got out of the church:
while some Spaniard was walking in,
sat on the curb, phoned her,
and said: 'can you come over to
X location, and bring me some bread
and water?'
       whatever they say about
the sort of marijuana extra-strong
chemically enchanced skunk
of England? you can... become psychotic...
if you smoke, and walk in public,
and put nothing into your gob.
conversion? what?
   just plain honesty...
      no wonder i kept my mouth
and didn't want to convince people,
i still don't... **** happens...
             this was, when?
   oh... back in 2007... when i was 21...
now it's 2019...
   i rarely recount this event,
it's too much of an existential shell-shock...
i'd compare it to a suicide bomber
detonating his vest on the bus...
and you're, literally just taken a sip
of coffee while walking down a street...
do i believe "god" exists?
i don't have to...
          do i have to convince other
people that "god" exists?
   no... not really...
                  i'm glad i kept that event
to myself for so long...
          but it just gets on my nerves
when people mingle an outlier,
like me,
    with psychopathic individuals...
if you've never experienced a psychotic
"trip"...
   you know jack-****...
           take some l.s.d. and...
look at the bright colours and the sparkling
neon lights...
the end...
            given that i know of no drug
that allows you experience
auditory hallucinations...
   funny... isn't it... given how auditory
hallucinations are...
   by my estimation...
                 the sort of "pain"
                      that would leave some
wishing for a ******* toothache;
it's the sort of "claustrophobia"
     with the only "room" is your own head...
and your ego is being flushed
down the toilet of a shy hive of "spectators"...
as i've aged: **** me... 12 years...
yeah... i can tell when it's stable,
and when it's not...
        once i walked from Romford...
to the Dartford Crossing,
           then toward Barking...
   somehow managed to catch a bus...
left the house at 12am,
came home at 11pm...
   blisters on my feet...
     just because i had a vivid dream
of sleeping on a couch downstairs,
and an ominous shadow figure standing
outside the window...
    i was kicked into this trance-paranoia
state where i had to walk it off...
i had to translate this mental pain
         into a physical pain...
that's how i began knowing that
physical pain can alleviate the symptoms
of mental "pain"...
        which probably explains
why the pwetty pwetty teenage girls
choose to self-harm...
   just saying: it's not right,
    but now i can sort of understand
the justification...
         an old man is able to justify
melancholy...
   his life is at its end,
   the house has been built...
               but this current phenomenon
of premature depression?
              speculation after speculation,
after some more speculation...
    but to just blatantly borrow from
a psychiatric lexicon,
   to justify explaining one's general
abhorrence to any given event?
   a psychopath as also being psychotic?
**** on me...
  what a poor choice of words...
bad analogy,
   and even ******* description tactics...
but i guess there's still some use
for poetry in the collective parlance
of a vulture journalism class of people...
at no point encountering a psychotic
episode implies
losing i.q. points...
            in my scenario:
                    the faculty for learning
rigid chemistry rubrics...
was replaced by an unihibited thirst
for language, and its conveyance.
i still don't get it:
   "journalism" as reading journalistic
articles...
   i'm not convinced...
           that sort of, "journalism"
belongs to a sunday edition of a newspaper,
in the news review section,
or... something akin to
that section: letters to the editor...
but ++,
             poetry is still in use...
       psychiatric terminology used
as the crux of adjective and subsequent
metaphor...
              psychosis has so little
with psychopathy that...
             i just don't know where to begin...
again, there are outliers...
        a axe wielding psychotic
who managed to ****...
                             1 person...
   before experiencing a shattering
sense of guilt and a continued sense
of disorientation
                      from auditory hallucinations...
how i tamed mine?
   fear of god...
                       yeah... that "guy"
on the *****-nilly side of the petulant opposite
of the happy-to-pray-folk...
        but a psychopath?
  cool, collected... enough brain-numbing
dopamine in his head, or lack of...
   like: a part of his brain is just
"dead"?
      well... 49 is not a bad number...
it would usually take about 7 jihadis
to ramp that number up to over a 100.

By: Cedric McClester

Keep his *** in Super Max
With little time for him to relax
The Boston bombings
Were attacks and those are just
The salient facts
What he did landed him in there
Whether or not the trial was fair
As a matter of fact we don’t even care

Why you ask, do I vilify him?
Aren’t you also a Mu -sa-lim?
Maybe so, but I’m not with him
What he acted on was a whim
Find for me, if you can
Where torture’s sanctioned in the Qu’ran
When killing the innocent is clearly banned
Which so few jihadis seem to understand

I understand how he must feel,
It’s hard inside, thus his appeal
But four people died, so let’s keep it real
Like I hope he does when he begins to kneel
Dzhokar Tsarnaev has been named
The killer of four, others he maimed
But even still he’s not ashamed
Because now he’s trying to shift the blame

Radical Islam is a poor excuse
For the kind of carnage and abuse
For which Dzhokar and his brother were accused
In the name of Islam, Allah is not amused
So the appeal, that he’s now demanding
Only illustrates his poor understanding
Of the religion that he professes
When what he did Allah never blesses!











Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

O what a welcome happy hangover:
could be drawn, hung and quartered
and i believe anything as durable as this
hangover could make
this world a pretty place and petty too:
like a whisper in my head:
well i clearly couldn't give a **** even
if: but i'm simultaneously constipated
and wondering:
how will i get my scent into this Taylor
Swift t-shirt before sending it
to Edie on Kauai -

             how sudden to reflect-reflexively
the mirage of ***
and wants and needs of so many people:
bumping between cliches and
sometimes: in language: nothing spectacular
happens and i can't be
just another with a Shakespearean hard-on /
crutch...
        to have to cite Homer too would
be: a hollow cause for envy...

hollow: caustic...

took to two cups of coffee and almost
four with a cigarette head-spin:
literally: my eyes popped out of my head
while the guillotine smiled
and my head rolled into lust and clouds...
headache without a head
too little i thought
with just enough: i am...

         names popping up with the vengence
of weeds...
Roger McGough:
           i too was influenced by the Beatniks
for a while: but then i grew out and up
toward heavier influences...
         some stand alone sod ***:
should i show symptoms of dementia
(as this is my genetic curse
borrowing from my maternal side)...
i'll be the one ingesting magic mushrooms
to spike my nervous system with
flare acid hyper-color...
       until then: sobering up antics in everything
non-rhythmic...

Ian Gillan and dog biscuits
only yesterday AC/DC
and i looked like a smart *** using my phone
to write a message to a hyper unruly
teenager grown *** man
dancing on the stairs:

so as part of a response team you get to
coordinate 4 henchmen:
although i wasn't given 4 henchmen...
i was the henchman and i had
four shy, sly, wouldn't even call them foxes:
i was the fox and the wolf
laughing at *****...
i had a ******* Muslim ****** to work
with: for ****'s sake...
we were reminded that it was
the anniversary of the 7/7 bombings
where my then girlfriend:
just missed the bus that was torn open
and i thought to myself:
do Jihadis celebrate Christmas?
just saying: wouldn't they want a new
anniversary for us to worry
about instead of celebrating the same date
years later?
polygamy and these young Muslims boys
still virgins
perhaps so desperate perhaps not
but like i told both of them:
           you'll still end up with one good
quality woman
and the rest will be quantifiable jargon
of your own whims and competitive
streaks but
there won't be any real love and fashion
or pickled fingers in all that
brine and liquor of **** juices and Oms
of harmony in the O aghast chasms of More...

come to think of it:
you wouldn't discover anything about
women even if a woman
told you: in the capacity of being educated
as a psychotherapist...
you'd be better off reading
Madame Bovary by Flaubert...
men learn nothing about women
when women educate men about women:
men learn everything about women
from other men... period...

             ditto ditto ditto...

another article in the culture magazine
i picked up was
all about....
    now that movie: the Zone of Interest
truly captivated me:
more than the soppy story of Schindler's
List:
because i had to re-watch that latter movie
realizing:
oh... so the whole "action" sequence:
that didn't happen in Auschwitz: did it?

most were Polish Jews
regardless i think whether they were Jews...
what's stressed is their Jewishness:
                  dunno: bit of a ***** topic if you
care to concern yourself
with what my grandfather used to say
the Jews used to say in Poland
to the natives:

our tenements, your streets...

       proudly: openly...

              OUR TENEMENTS, YOUR STREETS...

nasze kamienice: wasze ulice...

   basically you should be happy to be homeless
while we strip you to the bare knuckle
of rent!

             so yeah, i have mixed emotions
with regards to: "x"... kiss kiss: meu meu... meow...
hasty: hatching a plan...

herrbittebonbon!            from memory:
but i best punctuate it
to structure the affair of being a child and running
up to SS-mensch and asking for
sweets:   herr! bitte bonbon!
and getting those sweets and then
running back to the house
with my hands glued together and having
my mother wash the sweets off my hands:

knowing my luck: apart form my father,
no one in my family had any luck with women...
my grandfather's mother was a flirt
conceived him out of wedlock
and had 5 other: some *******...
then my father's mother abandoned him
blah blah...
            
  oh jeez: women... what a headache...
i don't even know if the Islamic approach is any
better:
the cruelty of women and the reality
of nature and you're just a ***** donor
lucky if you're that angler that Dutch perverter
of DNA who donated over 1000 cases
and imagine in a world so small that
the two people collide and turn out
being cousins...
                  
                             then comes all the blatant
DNA revisionism and how the Chinese
just added about a foot to their height
but apparently really tall Chinese are somehow
normal somewhere over there
but at this moment i'm hardly going to protest
freaks us all: freakazoids...

            but just outright shock! aghast! no no...
or simply outright evil:
less the people and more the ideology
because to think that people couldn't
change their mind but merely obliterated
themselves as consorts of the obligated
shakes and stirs me... consorts of the obliging:
obliterated like that:
brain virus nervous system dead...

             but what's the difference between
**** ideology, communism, Christianity or Islam:
from man unto man unto:
          crazy radical and nothingness to reboot...
and then years later:
some procrastination with a rebellious streak of:
well: at least we know that Christianity
waged a war against words for the longest
known time:

Christianity is a religion of images:
it's not a religion of words...
hence why certain words have become images:
Trademarking...
                              why Islam emerged with
its strict ordeals to curb the use of images:
like for like...
        if you're going to get a tornado:
might as well think a butterfly started it...