undated

Autumnal leaf air,
with the historical cut of princetonian guile
I walk toward the dull exonerated street
she looks heavenward; asks for a cigarillo
   tahiti bean
we never questioned our being,
        we just floated and
the capsicum katana slicing our
      corneas into julienne,
I tell her I can't, I quit,
never knowing quite what to do
smoking in june outside a wedding with the boys
she cuts me off, fast it's back to
thinking of  melting flower pots and broiled
   confectioner's sugar in my tiptoe mind-
   my toes are flat on the ground I walk with a gait,
          lifting my heels as if i myself seemed an aristocratic soul
                                                             I look up
                                                                  she has walked away
                                                                                              toward the
                                                                                                          candy store
to buy licorice

.within these words is the simple question... i'm a misogynist? i'm a misogynist? i'm such curious as to how i could get away with all of this if i, truly were a woman, but as being a man, i am prescribed the sentient double-knocker of: a ******* mea culpa!

so i spent the afternoon making
two curries...
   by now... cultural appropriatio:
whatever the hell that means
having an arsenal of indian
spices that would scare both
the russians and the h'americans
with their nukes...
but like i said:
i concede:
                 the blue indian cuisine,
i.e. from the Bengal
or the Punjab?
superior to my bland salt &
paper...
although...
when it came to the chicken chettinad?
i'm not here competing
for the white-boy-eat-a-lot-of-chillies
olympics...
one standard red chilli,
four kashimiri dry chillies,
and yes... some standard chilly
powder...
       if i want to burn my tongue:
i'll drink near-to-boiling
water... thanks...
don't know... i sometimes make
so much curry in one afternoon
i'm happy to forget doing
the stereotypical male thing of...
watching the 6 nations rugby,
or the skii jumping competition
from Letho (Finland)...
   it's like... i'm transported back
to Edinburgh,
  doing 12 hours of lab. training
once more...
              hell... no lab. work for me:
but i guess... blue indian cuisine
is the closest thing to a chemistry
experiment, notably an organic
chemistry experiment...
mind you:
   have you ever wondered why
you tend to eat a little bit more
of the sauce...
   if you don't dice the chicken,
move away from dicing chicken
*******, and instead fry (which will
come later)
       whole chicken thighs?
or... marinate them prior to...
          curating them via
                   the method of poaching
them in the sauce?
diced chicken: so bland...
         esp. from the breast....
but the meat... cooked whole...
esp. as a thigh (the best bit of
the chicken, and with the bone
intact? oh god!)...
my few favorite curry though?
the one i made later...
    a... sali murgi...
   (yes, the H is always a surd...
   moor-ghee...
    butter of the moors)...
      with those beautiful sali
crispets...
          on top...
   also... who would have thought:
dried, apricots... in a curry?
oh i don't mind this...
   "cultural appropriation"...
me cooking curry is...
so much more than someone
donning dreads...
and... by the looks of it...
          i might even, slyly,
cook better than some natives...
well i already know that
i can speak a more orthodox english
than some of the natives,
i knew that back in high-school...
  started in class 2B...
moved a year later to class 1B...
(class... tier, same thing)...
a year later i was in class 1A...
and it went like so:
    1A, 1B, 2A, 2B,
              1C... 3A, 3B,
                      1D, 2C...
and no... there was no 4A or 4B...
(it skipped every two numbers
and every two letters)...
so... me worried that i might
not cook better than some
Indian's grandmother?
   not in the least...
              a, woman, cooking?
please... give me a break...
             what's that story:
if she overuses salt...
she's thinking about something...
if she underuses salt
she's fostering ill-will...
she over-cooks the pasta
she wants a divorce...
she under-cooks it...
she wants you to start recreationally
running because you have
a "beer-belly-flab"...
yeah... i'll say it...
WOMEN DO NOT BELONG
IN THE KITCHEN...
        mind you...
i was helped by a standard-bearer
to the antithesis of saying so...
mother dear...
   mother ed gein mother dear
(this better freak some people out)...
ah...
but you know what?
frying the potato sali...
last time i used a *** and a standard
cheese grater for the potato...
ingenius...
however many chemistry
experiments i ever did...
no cliche american high-school
"faux pas"...
          but then...
like men are supposedly unable
to tell the difference
between
burgundy and cordovan...
         the **** is a...
               julienne peeler?
yes... mother dear...
or... grandma dear...
                 any other woman in
"my life"...
   no really... but i always like
to keep the ed gein joker card
in play...
   for breathing space...
             all the other women in my
life were...
    for two worthy exceptions...
the nurse in the hospital
where i was born...
                     birth-mark scared...
thought it was better to
shove suckle of a feeding bottle
into my mouth so hard
that i would suffocate,
and almost die from
a premature heart-attack...
ended up with an.. "enlarged" heart...
last girlfriend...
  now... i don't even want to begin
with that story...
in full agatha christey
alias poirot paranoid-mode...
****** her for 7 hours one night
prior to leaving St. Petersburg...
****** her in the batch while she was
on her period and it was
the first time she told me to put
on a ******,
after she first told me to take it off...
so yeah... the curry was great...
we lated sat together
like jesus mary & st. joseph
watching the t.v.
   ah... China's one child-policy...
back in Europe
i'm a dormant serial killer
and my mother is actually my sister...
and my father is a *******
Anglican priest...
or myth, or ghost,
  counter... "god"...
of me turning to the public stage...
BUMPER STICKER
RETRACTION FROM H'AMERICA...
if he died for "our", "sins"...
why is the mantra still:
  the mea culpa of...
"allowing" him to die on the cross?
so we watched a movie...
book club...
staring...
   jane fonda...
  that guy from miami vice...
that woman from ms. congeniality,
that woman from back to the future
vol. 3,
          that woman from
        father of the bride...
                       and DREYFUS!
fifty shade of grey...
   cameo by e. l. james, walking
the dog?
                         yep...
        anyway... watched that...
prior to, dressed up real fine...
was asked where i was going...
to buy some beer...
   walked to the local for some cider...
had to endure a interlude
with a drunk west ham supporter
talking to the colt cashier about
working in outer east london
but being an arsenal supporter...
the movie though...
book clup...
          so it ends on a:
and they lived happily ever after,
didn't it?
            yeah... it did...
but as i was walking about...
the demographic...
   my "neighbour"...
a single mother who still has her
son living with her -
who should look like he's ageing
but... to me he's still
a stunted cabbage-patch
                       of a 13 year old...
a daughter who sometimes
crashes...
      walking home with
a... "catch"...
                           a man...
                 who i would seriously
make ******* antagonisms of...
elsewhere? in the... vicinity?
similar stories...
                      around here
i'm the jesus, the messiah's
mother and my father,
                 the ghost of st. joseph...
last time i wanted to play roulette...
my mother was visiting
     her parents,
both of them slept at my uncle's
house,
i hosted a birthday party...
                and...
  ended up ******* a black girl
in my room on a chocolate couch...
how's that?
      don't even ask me how
i managed to persuade a thai
    bisexual with cheap polish beer
and jazz...
        done brutally / i.e. realistically
in the garden...
with a my own persistent zenith
of surprise...
the thai surprise...
           of reaching into her *****...
really... sport's bra...
and you just picked her up
   from a park bench lamenting
into the phone drinking beer
at the same time, + the short hair?
really? no... moment of "suspence"
           of... the thai surprise?
there were always the odds:
3:1 - she's a woman...
        or 4:2 - she's... he's she's
                               she's he's a man...
oi! shem?! what's up?
which is it?
(3? mouth, the floral pattern,
and the ***...
                1? choice...
  well... if you've already started
courting?
              there isn't one...
4? how many points of entry
between two men? 4...
   but how many choices?
the... teasing *******
literature and wanting to experiment
or...
   the "homophobe"...
which only applies to...
   ****** taqiyya...
                        or the thai surprise...
oh i'm pretty sure i've met
a few homosexuals in my life,
but all of them had
the courtesy to... dismiss homophobia...
what was "homophobia"
and became "trans-phobia"
was forever some borrowed
from Islam... ****** taqiyya)...                
    
                 oh but reality is brutal
on this level...
                         no... not rosey ****
friends, best buddy psychotic
                  lingering ex-girlfriends...

so i drank one cider,
watched match of the day
for all the premiership highlights...
drank two more ciders...
in between taking
a king's salute of one's
most worthy subject:
    a 10cm length of fudge-like
****...
forgot to *******...
and found myself thinking...
'what if the opening
for david bowie's song
from the man who sold the world,
the width of a circle...
could ever become something
-esque shape of things to come
by audioslave...
that subtle rhythm section...
what if all rhythm sections
of songs could have more
a more subtle air about them,
so that the rhythm section
doesn't have to compete with
the vocals...
   harmony...
                very much unlike
the rhythm guitar of Metallica...
what then?

i'll speak my mea culpa...
but i'll also imagine myself
nailing him to the cross...
and then dry *******
the erected crucifix
                         with him on it...
yes...
    and he might have died,
but i somehow managed to live,
in order to understand,
rather than forget the omni-****
banality for...
    the spec-attache-of-the-wrongly-
reattached-to-the-omni-****
as-stand­ard-the...
                            particular man.

inclined to be on a, "jonestown massacre"
style... motiff?
         please...
                  i'd need to dumb
my language down to a level of
understanding that
could no longer be riddled
with idiosyncracies,
          and, subsequently
become: peppered with rhetoric...

who doesn't,
made of flesh,
borrow a segment from
     idolatory,
of these, of all of all
of the possible days...
                oh.... subtle translation
of the german reality
at the peak of the 19th century...
what was the twilight,
or rather... who were the idols
of that frame of history?
wherever i look now...
i cannot see what twilight
there's is to speak of,
other than via my own
post-mortem...
    and by then...
             i only seem to want to convey:
but i am only making
a snippet of what an status
would perform
otherwise:
full swing wholly engrossed
in idolatry do...

        nibbling...
to better explain metaphysics...
id est:
       as simply as possible...
with a...
                 underlying principle
of metaphor...
   and subsequently:
   a literalism that only dabbles
with ridicule of,
what centers around...
self-worth,
    and self-worth-attainment,
best mitigated by
   a self-deprecating comedy...
         that... is provoked
as a modus operandi...
                by an undermining,
tragico-comic...
         of a... noumenon,
self-excluded:
              deprecating comedy per se.

thus:
   the self, returns to the "self",
returns to "the box"...
               which ends up being...
something almost bearable
to have to endure,
esp. when stacking shelves
in a supermarket.

Your eyes are deep fried julienne
Potatoes upon which I rend
A plop of ketchup
Then I tend
To eat them one by one
With bliss
A crispy full tongued throaty kiss.

I've hollovved out a hallovv realm;
vvhere only boneships sail,
vvielding verbs of vengeance;
My vvords float on flesh.
Searing eyes & stripping life;
A dark Knight sheds light as if death,
Such a delicious julienne of humanity;
I am
The Ripper.

I sleep like I'm living on Elm St,
Changed my last name from Maroni to Myers
Now Michael is looking to **** me.
Ended up running from Leatherface
Put to a ****** Doo kind of chase,
No matter how hard I tried,
He wouldn't stop until he tanned my hide.

I sold a prop from Twilight Zone,
To a Hannibal, hungry clone
Who was looking to "serve man"
He learned julienne clipper cuts
From a guy with scissors for hands.
Then cooked the flesh in a pastry dish
Into the oven each person would slide
"Come and try Mrs. Lovett's meat pies!"
The business would rise as they all got in line.

I sat down for tea with Pamela,
She said her son Jason's a mess
That was Thursday, the twelfth,
I haven't heard from her since.
But if I was that parent,
I would teach my child to swim.
I took some forget-me-knots
Mixed them together with frog's breath,
Said the word "hopscotch"
And returned to the dead.

Sometimes I look up
And the sky is not there
I try to breathe
But there is no air
They’ve taken it away
Everything I have
Dimensional and Complex
Now shallow and flat
Deflated and lost

Hurt and confused
I put all of this
Trust in you
Why do you do this
Why do I try?
You never tell the truth
But you never really lie
So I can’t be mad
But I am not happy
Who would’ve known
I’d react this badly?

Why don’t you love me?
Why don’t you care?
I pull myself to pieces
I always compare
Myself to these girls
That you lust for and seek
I change myself countless times
So you will notice me

And when I pull back
You never understand
You want to make it better
But you’re the reason it got out of hand

And I want to hug you back
But I want to break you down
And I want to accept this for what it is
But I want to push you to the ground

I hate you
But I hate me more
I hate everything around me
But I can’t disappoint you like before

I have to stay happy
And kind and sweet
Even though these things you do
Stab and sting
And take all the will
And the patience I saved
For this avoided but imminent
Rainy day
I brought my umbrella
But the wind took it away with a gust
I want be honest
But don’t want to break trust
And I need for someone to love me
To fill up this hole
In my heart, In my purpose for living,
In my spirit and soul
I need someone to tell me
That I’m not ******* insane
Someone that sees things like me
Who gets the choices I make
And the ones that I don’t

I’m stuck in my mind
Let me out, PLEASE
Nothing heals better than time

Until it doesn’t
And it is useless
I am ******* stupid
I can’t do this

I’m a liar
You don’t know me
I’m a liar
But I am lonely
So please please please
Just hold me, hold me
So please, pretty please,
Just hold me closely
I’m cold and afraid
But you are so cozy
Ow STOP
It’s burning, It’s burning
You’re hurting me, STOP
Why do you hurt me
Why do lie
Why are you turning
Into a monster
The tables are turning

Let me go
I don’t have to
let you do this
But I am stupid
I can not do this
I hold you closely
As you julienne my spine
Pulling the knives
out every time you leave
Just a canvas of
scars developed over time

But you don’t care
Or maybe you do
I’m lonely and scarred
I’m confused
Cause you do these things
That show you care
Then pull back or you lie
And our bond disappears
Then I can’t actually talk to you
And say what I mean
My stepmom is in the other room
So I’m holding back, but I just want to scream
I want to cry
And make you feel this way
Want to shake the sense into you
Make you understand this pain

Of being so close
Yet being held back so far
Of thinking you know who someone is
Just to find out who they really are

Why don’t you love me?
Why am I not enough?
I’ve given all I can
And I don’t think I’ll ever experience love

I can’t even touch another person
Without feeling disgusted
But I’m too nice or too in denial
To discuss it

But when touch finally meant something good
I learned it wasn’t special
While I might mean something to you
I am part of the several

I’m not unique
I am only another
Person in line
Why even bother
To entertain me
And my wishful thoughts
Unless you are evil
And my tears get you off

You are so stupid
Do you see what you’ve done?
What you said you would be
Versus what you’ve become
I keep trying to tell you
But the words get stuck
In the back of my throat
So silence will have to be enough
But you want substance so I pour out my heart
And you act like you comprehend
You wouldn’t just accept me because I am me
If you were my friend

I am so empty
I can’t imagine myself
In a place of acceptance
Can’t remember hoping for anything else

Stuck in a cycle of loathing you
And needing your company
I keep pushing you away
But I need you to love me

Love me
Love
Me
Tell me you love
Me
I need to hear
How much you want
Me
First priority
Second to
Nobody
Push and pull
Till you see you’ve undone
Me
Too afraid to accept what you’ve
done
So you don’t confront me
You lie, You pretend
Try to act like its
Funny

You made me fall, and now I’m crashing
And you just want to hug me?
You made me walk through fire
Just so you could put it bluntly
You let me burn all of those bridges
Even though you knew you weren’t running
You should’ve just killed me then
I hate when your lies punch me
And bruise me, And you stories hurt me,
and your  change of heart stuns me
I should’ve known better
That is why they judge me

You say they don’t matter
But you steady stay on their side
You always give them
A chance to prove they’re right
Listen to their reasons
And then throw the fight
Always putting me last
To make sure she doesn’t cry
Throwing me under the bus
Countless times
Acting like I did you wrong
Because I pointed out your lies
I can’t stand this anymore
So I’m sitting down and letting out a sigh
And taking all these hits
To keep you in my life
But would you go through this for me?
Am I even worthy in your eyes?
I must be nothing to you
Because you never see how you make me flat line

do you not see?
do you ever notice me?
can you tell when i can’t breathe
do you even understand
the capacity
of your actions and the way they control the world around me?
are you blind
or are you dense
common sense
intelligence
practicality
experience
i don’t understand
don’t comprehend
are you blind?
must i remind
you of all the times
i gave what i didn’t have
just to hear you call yourself mine
and then in the end
you take it all back
like i was the one who surprised
you with all this love ****
i waited to say it back
cause i didn’t want it to be a lie
your cloying lips just let it fall
into my hands
when “i love you” meant nothing at the time

so don’t hate me
i will try to do the same
but i can’t make any promises
i am in pain
i don’t want to hurt
but i want to see you cry as well
after all the tears i’ve wasted
and how much you’ve made me hate myself
please don’t hate me
i will never really mean this
without the thought of you to soothe me
my lonesome nights are dreamless