Stop telling me that I'm not fat

I stepped on the scale this morning knowing full well I gained weight

I was not expecting to make it up to 140 though

I was wrong

I thought I could keep off the weight I fought so hard to lose

But no, looks like this is going to be a lifelong struggle for me

I'll always have to think about what I eat

Always

I've gained 8lbs

It doesn't matter what's muscle or how much my ***** weigh

Even if they're legit, I'm going to quit making excuses

I have to starve myself again

I hated that the most

More than going to the gym

More than never eating anything good

The hunger

500 kcal a day, or I was never going to see any results

And it was true

I can't eat 1500 kcal without gaining something

My metabolism is non-existent

Regardless

The thing that has really been killing me is everyone else

That false hope

“You're not fat.”

I don't even know why I ever agreed or let them get to me

Even after losing 20lbs I was still fat at 132, I still had 20 or so lbs to go

But maybe my clothes were too flattering, or they were too nice

I don't care if you are 500lbs

Don't tell me I'm not fat

Don't tell me I'm not allowed to feel fat

I'm not skinny-passing and I never have been

I'm not some skinny girl looking for attention or reassurance

I don't care if that's your honest opinion

I don't care if you'd rather be at my weight or would be happy at my weight

I hate my naked body

I could never pull off a bikini

I'm living in reality

I know what other people would honestly think

Fat is fat

I could weigh so much more, but it doesn't matter

I've already passed the threshold of what is considered fat

From a health standpoint I might be better off

I might not be that hard to look at naked but I'm still fat

Quit telling me I'm not allowed to feel fat because I don't meet your requirements

This is something I struggle with just as much as someone at 200 or 300 or 400

I feel ugly, unwanted, disgusting

I know it has a hand in my love life

I need exercise equipment at home

I'm too self-conscious to go out running or jogging

I don't want anyone to see me

This ends now

I give up

I'm ready to trade it all for a body I love and am proud of

my my, ain't it June?! Juno, why have you given these poor people snowballs?! it's June and my central heating is on, it's close to 10 degrees Celsius, Bavaria is flooded, people embraced Einstein's relativity of the collapse of the = sign using a parabola, forgetting the basic Newtonian: cause & effect - the moment i coupled Socratic abhorrence of moral relativism, i took to dislike relativism kindred of: claustrophobia and agoraphobia... at some point Einstein's relativity equates space as time, rather than what Newton would suggest trans linear: algebraic squared, Newton still resides in cause & effect, space = ~space, given: 1 = millimetre, kilometre, and any other division... likewise with time... 20th century fashion being the perfect crop of quantum plagiarism, although in the 21st century the dance loop jumping between decades, back in the 20th century a linear expression, an evolution; quantum physics doesn't deal with linear excavations necessarily repeated, it's just repeats what is unnecessary. global warming and the mini ice age, June's here, Einstein too, Newton too, relatively speaking we're aether imprints... speaking via causality we're leaving a carbon footprint - well, **** me, two plus two... it's still scientific negativism, dietary requirements of modern man overshadowed all the scientific progresses in the field... never mind the cure for cancer! never mind that! as long as we can dress a diabetic in Lycra for bariatric surgery - never had i had i heard of such gastronomy, should it have been a pork chop smoked using zyklon B.*

we are living in the age of scientific negativism,
atheism a third limb
and our existential concerns reduced to
hamsters, calories and treadmills:
the basis of all modern inquisitiveness /
Aristotelian awe reduced to rubrics of dieticians
rather than theologians: at least with the latter
we could see the simple mind, hunched
in prayer... with the former we are experiencing
robots repeating the daily 2000 Kcal intake requirement
for a flat stomach... honestly, i prefer the praying
type, than the type regurgitating facts concerning
their diet - at least the former state of affairs
kept them shut up and mumbling, gesticulating
a type of shadow boxing while befriending
Jacob wrestling with an angel - at least that!

i sporadically entertain my uncle's ex-girlfriend
at the house from time to time:
don't ask me why...
    she dated him when i was...
8 through to 11...
                       donkey's years ago...
days when the st. valentine's park in ilford,
essex... was like: alice in wonderland...
it had tennis courts, it had a mini golf course,
it had an open air swimming pool...
   it had exotic bird cages...
                                it had row boats
on the pond...
                 i mean: if my ex-girlfriend was
still visiting me...
                  i don't know: rather... i don't want
to know... my uncle is rather estranged and
that's that... i saw her a year ago:
i made her a curry...
                         i saw her today: in between
the odd house job: flinging concrete etc.
i made...
         she could practically be a stranger...
but that's... exactly the point...
here's to extracting water from a stone...
   i'll write this and it will not really tickle my
fancy...
    once, perhaps, not so long ago -
                    i'm just fudge-packing myself
into a lullaby of lolz... from the "narrative"
prescribed to me, you, "us" by the...
ahem... philanthropists...
                    hell: better with the misanthropes...
at least they are not scheming
philanthropists...
        indeed a "polyphony" of tastes...
which is a curry...
                    nowhere in europe except in england
this demand for the blues and the Raj...
the compliment:
   'this tastes like a restaurant dish...'
  and she wasn't kidding... she did bring a bottle
of wine and a bottle of gin...
i did used about 6 chicken *******...
i hoped that with the coconut rice
and the naan breads i'd have enough for
4 people today and for 3 people tomorrow...
    em... yeah...
                i watched her like i might have
been a woman and cooked for a coal miner
in a 20th century Silesia...
              the sri lankan curry with apple cider
vinegar and the coconut milk blah blah...
but... hell... apparently i can save myself
for a night (once in a while) from
self-deprecating humour and take a word
of a stranger as: rigid dogma...
      that i can cook better than i can write...
            i felt sorry for... having read enough
of Knausgaard and know: fish-fingers...
   scandinavian food?
   oh, you mean like two days ago when
i figured: rödbetsallad - sure... if you have
the right meat... but it doesn't **** to know that...
raw beets with carrots an onion
   chilly and some greens with a....
balsamic vinegar, orange juice, olive oil
and dijon mustard is a **** good dressing...
i mean: hide the japanese sushi..
give me raw herrings in a creamy / tangy sauce...
baltic "sushi": suit you, sir... oooh...
fastest eaten dish in town...
    tow the town across the atlantic -
settle the score on the coast of maine...
or nova scotia: scou-shia...
         nova orbis...
                 i cook good food... that's so much
more comforting that scribble these little details...
after all... i pride myself on the arsenal of spices
i own... whoever has their nukes can keep 'em!
i drop one black cardamom grenade and we're
in for a proper party!
the kolhapuri masala - which is poetry -
a "polyphony" of sorts:

10 dried red chillies
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
6 cloves
1 tbsp black mustard seeds
50 g unsweetened desiccated coconut
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp red chilli powder

i surprised star anise is not invoked -
surprise me less: i am not - no black cardamom?
it must have been a different masala -
obviously a textbook use of ginger / garlic pulp
and turmeric... and onions...
and tomatoes...
and how is it that the "west indies" survived
so intact: was it purely on the argument from
sanskrit - perhaps...
who am i... little ****** from a place
where haggis might have originated...
but most certainly a type of broth that
uses... cow intestines: honeycomb tripe...
well... that's just ******* spectacular!
we're also the people that will eat
a chicken heart goulash / chicken stomachs...
nothing is wasted but...
hell... to have the oil fields of arabia
or the spice garden of india?
              tough question!

what was or is leftover?
   the parsley revolution?
        the basil    "
                            coriander?
     what was haggis... is still haggis...
and neeps and tatties?!
        allspice - nutmeg and paprika...
bland (apple imports from "kazakhstan")
europe of old...
blushing spanish oranges...
        whale fat from the north...
chimichurri: give me curry for an oak
of beef: a stump of it... argentinian -
give me spices for a steam engine...
                   trade offs...
                 and that buddha soft-patch of
inquisitive philosophy spin-offs in
the western canon: feng shui pseudo-zen
or tao...
     unlike selling protestantism
when none arrived with the spanish toward
the west or the port-of-geese in hai!nippon!

followed up by listening to some iron maiden:
after all: they did release brave new world
at a time when their x-factor etc. days were
over so they could delve into hiring a new
army of listeners: they weren't going to
sit on their laurels like led zeppelin et al.,

- only prior i watched two woodland pigeons
battle on a pergola i erected and weaved
a wisteria into it... the female was perched looking
on... i never imagined woodland pigeons
to hold such ferocity in their slender guise -
they would jump on top of each other
in an imitation of mating and with their
feet as fangs rip into the manes of each other...
throats throbbing with a short-of-breath pulse...

i broke the battle by having to pass
under the pergola with bags of sand and cement...
as man and with dealings in imitating
nature:
    well... a history as an etymological affair of sorts:
hardly...
   pigeon: gołąb (******),
              holub (czech),
                         golub (croat),
               golob (slovenian),
                     porumbel (romanian),
        balandis (lithuanian),
               galamb (hungarian)...

   looks like... the closest etymological
cousins of a ******'s pigeon is:
the croat and the *** pigeon...
               but... uncle auntie here...
pidge-on: pij-off:
      the german           taube...
the french pigeonne...
               picciona (italian)...
                                paloma (spanish)...
   "hence" the romanian porumbel...
but not the alt-saxon taube...
     or the norwegian    due...
or the swedish: duva...
           estonian tuvi finnish kyyhkynen...

do i dare see what...
not to bother dear mater mortuus...
greek!  περιστέρι (well... sure looks like...
a future of pigeon... em...)
turkish!                   güvercin...

almost like the story of Islam is a story
that ended with Muhammad
and began with Ishmael ibin
     Hagar the housemaid for Abraham's
wife Sarah...
     almost that: "same ****, different cover"
scenario...
but with words...
   and words alone:  after all...
is there any relevant history outside of
etymology - given that... napoleon invade
russia ****** invaded russia:
i.e. that shamelessness of repetition?

it's so apparent: to be hung-up on the trifles
of "love":
more like... the barrage of youth and hormonal
cocktails of agonies that must end in defeat
and monasticism at best...
"defeat" is rather an open word...
becoming tamed with: retreat and introspection...
she asked me to get her shawl
as the sun was setting and
while bringing it to her i had a sniff of it...
no perfumes... just the scent of skin
and a woman in her 50s...
   the smell of: an old maid... not a ******...
an old maid...
but how refreshing: tame make-up...
nothing too protagonist or shock-circus!

second slurps from an uncle's engagement
of ***** in pigtails?
well... it's just nice to hear a stranger
compliment your food...
esp. since this wasn't some formal setting
for a restaurant...
if i could earn on the basis of peanuts
and compliments and...
               how michelangelo was...
           no not constipated...
no not conscripted...
        not contained...
                        pope julius II...
michelangelo was... COMMISSIONED...
   well... what a noble begotten proof of...
the truth of labour...
            so much for the derelict promise:
the ugly work - although still towing
a grand scheme of aesthetic with it:
akin to plumbing or electrical scrutiny -
or waterproofing -
   but as i have learned:
   the work less scene does gravitate toward
repaying a man with a sense
of ingratitude -
for the work itself -
   after all: there's no work of art to slobber over...
to guise oneself in a fetish for
sending postcards...
the work itself harbours an ingratitude
to the person who performs it...
that "minor detail" of something working
without fail...
hardly a bureaucratic competition:
grizi-piórek (a slang term for a bureaucrat)
literally: feather-nibbler...

    the bewildered youth of man and that
which comes of him in the later posit of life
as aging - for not enough has been
cited concerning old maids -
the crippling opportunism of girls
that turns us into comic atlasas with
only poses to a name -

     i have to hide my admiration for old men:
esp. those that write their little
jokes: praying on existential shot-hand
and their unshakeable rationale -

a brief interlude into a concept of a new
life: my uncle's ex-girlfriend:
i've been to the brothel:
the "joys" of flesh *** flesh are such
unwelcome avenues that i know
how desperately i ******* to smother
the solipsist in me but at the same time
nullify the ****** out of
respect for a caricature of conversation:

that the stars were mentioned and that
venus or mars was among them...
by the geographic posit of edinburgh:
and the firth of forth i held with a certainty
a more than concept of n.e.w.s.:
north east west and south...
but north east london: that gargantua is no
edinburgh...

only today i posited myself on mashisters' hill
and the mouth of the thames...
and where the dartford bridge is
and where canary wharf is...
it doesn't help much to travel into
central london and stand before Thames...
to finally flip out a compass...
this odd river that has no flow
but a tide...
a river with no mountains...
no Vistula no Danube...
this cruel passable detail:
  a river without mountains with
a tide but now flow...

decipher for me this grey murk of eels
wriggling hollow...
she asked me: is it difficult to go back
"home"...
burden by the tired toiling among
so many monolinguals:
can i tell apart the accents on these isles?
that i can tell a scot from an eire-fiction
that the welsh still: hope for god grant
them their same old future tongue...

veneti...
                  veneti...
                                         veneti:
it is that it has become more and more
difficult to leave "home" than arrive
at it... but from populist english so
thoroughly breeding into a stiffening sire
and clamour of pict sacrilege -
grand echoes of unused words...

old maid who graces the same existential
pangs as me: aimless hollow head spermatoid...
after all the hormonal whirlwinds pass
and there comes a second nakedness...
before trust and a spontaneous jumping
to conclusions that never arrive at anything
more than the generic cul de sac...

to have to disbelieve mothers...
             it is necessary to have to disbelieve mothers...
for no greater grandiosity incumbent...
a brief interlude and how i can:
simply peacock-strut... exfoliate like
i might... have forever succumbed to
the latin variation of bulimia and that old
variant of ****...
willingly running ****-naked into
a riddling throb of nettles...
with disembodiment and an aspect
of freely arrived at nerve extensions
clinging to an ancient eucharist of
tentacles that the tongue would only counter
having to bite and nibble and suckle
on a mint leaf: with the body's proposal
of immersion in nettles...

to make rous of numbing ****** details:
no ****** from taking  a ****...
no litany of broken words:
clinging to consonant prone onomatopoeias...
crude ascertaining archaic:
purity of vowels: mongrel heart and soul
whilst towing... a mongol or two...
pictures of fortress crimea... the grand sicz...

only because she was not a woman
in her prime: a new orientation that doesn't begin
with me in middle age having amounted
enough poison apples and **** frenzies
and all those lies spoken during ***...
at best: even in the brothel...
for the love of god i dared not speak...
so much for anything
when *** has to invoke words...
not the silence not the pulsating vowel
throttle...

                    i linger for the last linear concept
of unnerving details...
that last came with these words
and will last revel in them alone...
for the greater audience i...
i have no scheme to usurp the pop from
the better hidden...
that some things have to:

let "them" have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother over mothers:
when death finally tallies my shadow
as her ******-on from fear loitering
of shrapnel!
let the people have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother of all mothers:
- but given the inbetween leave
me to my cenobite affairs of a bedroom
i keep for a nursery of moths...
to ward off the spiders with my drunken
breath...
give me clarity in the depths of
a bottle's end met...
            
  - so this is what it feels like to arm-wrestle
with a hand strapped to the bone crushing
revelation of hanging on a crucifix -
so this is what nodding with approval
feels like when competing to the end scenario
when lying erratic and scared
on the tablature of the falling guillotine...

it must do! i feel a need to concern myself
with feeling than with thinking:
i despise this celebration of numbing
objectivity: as someone once said:
subjectivity is the only truth...
after all: i am subjected to...
i am firstly subjected to...
only later i object: i objectify:
i give me spatial pardons and awareness...

as a subject under the protection
of a queen i am: first come first served...
not last... in this secular objectification
policy of "what if" futures...
i answer to the queen:
i am subject of the queen:
i am subjected by the queen...
such a ****** party to attend with no
god and this object cranium per crown...
that it has to become so impersonal
that the h'american free verse poets:
that elizabeth II has so much more
than mere grandma edifice...

i am subjected to something prior:
only later can i object to it...
some variation of a "double negation":
a talk over more gin and tonic...
or bourbon...
how could subjectivity become
so defamed... like it was forever a lesser
variation of the res extensa /
thought attache...
that subjectivity is lesser has to come
from people who only regurgitate
a once fabled scientific positivism of
a new and glorious age of Eiffel...

objectively "speaking"...
the regurgitated "facts": it's not like
science is even the incessant harangue!
from voice and a well:
an echo and a re-:
                             by now: there are "concerns"
as to why the echo fades and is
not gravitating toward perpetual
momentum...

               by now to revel in tired bones,
sinew... in the perfumes of burning fat:
vegan protests... vegan wishy-washy...
that somehow in a future 2 years from now...
the cows will have the eyes
akin to petted critters like that of:
fortune of future:
demands of cats and dogs...
i stated today: big cats' eye do not
hollow out... there is no serpent-esque
"myopia" of the eyes...
cats are spies for the serpent kingdom...
disguised as fur-*****...
but intact the blistering choke
of the slither... eyes that ****...
eyes that could feed the most blue-bodied
extract from the speark-head
of mammalian hierarchy...

   what little dough for slaughter eyes me
in the fashioned cow..
i leave all honesty for the dogs:
among the tying with bones...
but never these bonsai tigers...
heavy shields of hipolites...

                             - is there a need to drink
and write... while marrying yourself
to the barrage of unnecessary bricks
that align themselves to the cuddle-cradles
of kcal-atoms?
     i thought that drinking was
synonymous with exfoliation...
hell begot peacock-strutting...
              old maid didn't have me leeching
for ****-practice tendencies to posit
proofs...
             at some point i am going
to have to leave people without a comfort
of a diatribe...
i'll extend my over-arching scrutiny and
tell you:
on this basic base prize...
i leave no selling of satellite...

come 2am and i'm still awake and drinking:
it doesn't matter...
what matters is...
being invested in a repetition
and the glorified emblem for all that's
the worth of tomorrow:
the conjunction barricade of english:
my queen's last ordeal...
well **** me... it has to be my queen's
last ordeal before i **** up to the h'arab
sheikhs...
n'est ce-pas?

oh... wait... like the french didn't look
glum and whatnot...
like the past wasn't a pass at rebirth...
like venice didn't pirate away details of
constantinople...
i am tired of guilt...
you... italian fuccofinickyfuckers
bless venice... now! now! have complaints
concerning the hagia sophia...
because who isn't to abandon the greeks:
because of greek pride...
which is all that little: pride...
designated to books:
greek schoolchildren... will not read...
some ancient anthem of
northern barbarians: perhaps the bulgars...
most certainly not the... island-bound
mongrel...

            the english will not be reminded:
yes... that much is true:
but they can be executed for a lineage
of inconsistency...
that poland can somehow be associated
with polar bears...
hell... "we" are associated with
bisons... and storks...
          no need to educate the new
or keeping an ordeal of the old...
let's call my mediocre
the no-mans'-land rupture...
it's not exactly dervish planned territory:
citing india as borrowing extension
with afghanistan, pakistan,
bangladesh, sri lanka...
            who am i buddha tow: juggle...
jumble wisconsin proto: or a collective:
pan-european...
mingling justices... arms told to be torn
off...
   romance from 18th century europe:
kissing the feet of Kiev...
while in the western: what if...
the sea affords us... no need teasing
a wait for a tide...
      this little scare and...
      my little future of cain that...
arrived at a blinding prospect of
nationhood that has to retain a presence
akin to Siberia...

belly-tow flipside an agony of
this fissure of gill and borrowed depths of
searching for the dolphin aided dive...
i have no befriending lefts...
had i the rights i'd make them
pronounced: enough to champion
diacritical scrutinies...
but no but now...

- how is that:
   -rhetoric          has reached a fever;
and a pitch to make
a ***** into a jerusalem
as a prefix towing exemplar...
before a noun
and a yankie akin to
pre-
          variation of pro-
               not withering into the anti-
cyst and some future be told...
                      chimes from haven:
and the pennies from ginger-root borrow
of lobotomy...
        
   gutting a pig: glorifying a monkey...
chanting: freed red sox...
                a somewhat: hives
of Boston... while we all have to retort
to a question...
not because we woz all hebrewz...
but coz whizz or: or else...
worst hinterland:
an estonia: that there's
more of new york than there's
of this.... hinterland...
of... convincing: this is not "asiatic"...
this is still DOS europa...
bulging to bug the bothersome
chastised bullock off a bull
and the silent churn tow charge...

some variation of a pre-
and a self- prefix:
          to compound this custard
nostalgia sweet-tooth jesus h'americana...
same old variation of how
estonia is about the sizing up
of new york: and...
              
                     my own sowing tow-tie
this little increment this little
wave this loiter masquerade...
   such privy to make a choice!
from the slaves toward a slam-dunk..
otherwise making rummanations
to towing a sanctity of old pauper
Warsaw...
                 my little little first and last idle
concern that's a Cairo agitated.

what with the everyday? spoiled brats locked up in their bedrooms where they think their individuality would matter in China... like **** it would... up comes the atheistic harvester and you get 1 billion obedient citizens, not in the west, with it counter-constructive anarchism that butterfly-punches the status quo, and in the words of Freddy Mercury - the show and the show offs march on.

and how many truthful poets will you find here?
or elsewhere?
every look at them as idle idealists? ever think
why they write about the essentials like they might
later write about kettles? love and love-hungry
heartaches are like a shopping spree in a supermarket
for them... they hide in shadows wearing masks -
they hide in shadows wearing masks -
i repeated myself because that's how prose fiction
is usually quoted by critics: finding a needle
in a haystack and nothing else, talk of fried eggs
on toast as one Sudanese rebel said to
a marine in Black Hawk Down: you live long and
boring lives; you reach old age not as a celebratory
march into the grave... but as a march into
the Hostel chambers of sadism... nothing to celebrate,
unless you've got all that science to later lie
in your excrement and gangrene... whoop whoop!
tug that steam-engine klaxon of Thomas for castrato's
release of opera with the steam.
back to the unit of family, you know why these poets
fake love as they might fake a statue from the Renaissance?
it's not about gym membership and:
god is dead, born the dietitian -
i'm not that much of a boorish bore to mention kcal
of a glass of milk of a tomato -
(self-conscious moment, listening to the radio,
piquant sadism, ****! i can't change the song or
even replay it... pain... pain... pain) -
my father sometimes argues with my mother aiming
his argument at me... third person party,
a child's involvement in family life:
the reason why they ****** and gave birth to you...
hiding behind Oedipus won't help,
the more you give yourself to memory,
the less you imagine (in the pop realm)
or theorise (in the education realm, the ****'s pretty much
the same, theory is like imagination,
it's just that the latter gets a bigger following) -
my mother is visiting her mother, gone for 3 months solid
if not more... being a woman (which is a crucial point),
she used to have a regime of cleaning the house
every day... i'm in charge of domestic chores and cooking...
i clean the house once a week... 2 cats.. after a week
the house looks like it has been lived in...
with her cleaning regime it just looks like a hotel...
my father's line: this isn't a hotel.
now i get it... he wasn't scolding me, he was scolding his
life-partner... i don't get reprimands for not cleaning
the house every day... i brush my teeth with a pea-sized
amount of toothpaste *once a day, this mouth
ain't a ***** toilet... no nicotine staining for 3 years...
get used to it. i'm not going to make a dentist happy -
buckle on teeth of a horse smiling exposing the gums...
knee high! so you see... honouring your parents isn't
exactly having a million on your bank-account
so that you can pay for their stay at the home for the elderly...
it sometime's just investing a little introspection into
the unit that you're part of... no point locking yourself
up with Chinese society against you and you with only
a begging chance at becoming a karaoke fest with only
one original song written by someone that ain't you.
i clean the house once a week,
i'm not a woman... i live in a house, not a hotel...
remember what i told you about the un-diagnosed o.c.d.?
2 cats, so the fur (obviously).
but my father plays ping-pong argument with my mother
through me... we've been alone for a few months...
and i hear no complaints about the household *******...
just the odd tale from the construction industry in England,
Romanians that gladly sleep on sites and work 7 days a week,
how Poles rebel against the golfers / "managers" visiting
sites under their responsibility once a month for 15 minutes...
the daily depression you won't find on youtube...
so you ask me why i retort with words like leprechaun
fascists? from those stories... don't worry, western society
idealises too much, they think they suddenly sprouted angelic
wings... you think these poets are being honest?
i think they're idealising, blind-dating their way into the choir
of pristine white virginity of having no absolute effect
on the world, that they've already changed.

to "buy" the trill of an R...
roll a stone...
to hide a sparrow song...
to verge upon a molten crack
of stead... and a heave of stone...
to purr unlike the comforts
of a cat, wheeling a chair...
this: "summons"...
purr this sparrow this
gladly come advent spring:
swallow by uno servitude
a quench an april...

       purr the riddle of
a suppose we...
via geisha... ****... around
and juggle...
it was never a "b.l.m."
Senegal 4ever... *******
afro wand... sort of...
i'll sooner **** a mongolian
squint
than some afro-*******-webel
queen esque
plateau suffice...

          harvest...
me dying...
       i have no *******
replacements to bother
history with!

- - - - - a moses...
a don juan...
                 a ben

to fall in love with a woman
is to somehow:
but not "somehow"
completely disappear...

it's to change your ego
for a foetus -
or: a "mouth" for an "****"...
then the trajectory
of dilution come
the "greater" numbers:
or the purpose of digit
and numbing...

that's a "now" and by "now"
there's only a posit for
cipher...
to love a woman
and not to love love...
how i once was too...
lodged in some a priori
juicing up...
some Cinderella...
              
               never again:
write and drink...
after all...
what is 500ml of jack daniels?
apparently it's, circa:
1000+kcal...
that's like what?
a milkshake of
half a cow or a dozen
lamb shanks?

so sober me, marathon / +a half of
it and the whole
worth of a day...
and that's sober moi...

"my" ego and all this bundle
of foetal-esque metaphorical
coagulation...
verbiage is gloat is goo is glue...
isn't...
a parody of a sunday's
schematic of hours...

         i'll just hope for enough
of off of anything
to find purpose and
some linear trajectory / alias
vector...

but never to hope as i once
hoped: drinking will spurn me on
and i'll wriggle in and out
some spaghetti masterpiece...
sober's only
and at best sober safely does
the sorrow's least...

then i'll walk and take grudges
against the rubric of toes
and a pair of knees that
somehow refuse to kneel...

that there ought to be thought:
to base a genesis with / for...
the 1980s of what's supposing a this
and a supposing a that...

             that there's as much
of a frankentein's monster
that might (without a who)
rebelling not against a birth: de facto
v. per se,

but a death:
since there's a rebellion against
birth
and not death...

so insufferable this life
without enough time to spare
yourself over
the full growth of a sequoia
or a century's width of oak...

i'll throw a stone or suppose
that i cling to cringing at
climbing a mountain:
or... the moon the scythe...
what isn't...
               the brick & scythe
is not... hammer, orb...
live-along live the least & most...

bravado and some variant
of Croat... Silesian is like new
Swiss jargon & cheese...
my brick for a hammer,
my scythe for a sickle...
my vierte ***** swab:
               dull void V of a i.r. "us"

those anglo-swabians...
who, what or rather,
when are dough?

there is meaning behind:
variation(s)
though and though(t)...
              a cat making a summary
of its **** with a slick
lick pop and tying it altogether
sort of a custard & ****...

i have a leash on, studded,
just for pretend purposes...
there's the latex, the cherry...
the fuse... and the gimp clad
sacred and divine da vinci
chicken scribble of

there's the suppose me orc,
suppose there's africa,
and there's suppose sahara isn't...
but there's the mongol
and the siberian tundra...
1000+kcal of bourbon that's
like, what?

count the highest stake in...
knee-caps?
my ego my foetus my **** whole
w'ah w'ah peddling fascistic
fictions...

Sven der SŁASTIKTIK:
   vs. herr Šven:
                 itches of "anti" cool...

how: isch and ich...
         and how there was always
an implosion of sounds...
how juggernaut:
these letters had nothing:
first concerning vowels,
second concerning consonants...
then somehow the *****
of syllables...

  herr hirsch... mr mr...
l'inglese... non franca...
best version of jar and salem /
Sue of                                 "
the jiggling squat lot of
the humming of
the anglo-
prefix spectrum of...
the "ditto-of-things"...

secular anglo,
ßĀß...
              save me, i'm drowning:
throw me a blister!
throw me razor!
lead me to catch onto the edge!
the concern for...
the mythological blonde...
i.e. yes, woman...
a female yellow hair
thrice removed ****...
come together, house party...

yes... my most "evil" deed...
putting my index
into a mouth of a cat, yawning...
to pretend: the least...
of catching some variation
of rye... no... "unawares"...

the anglo-saxon blonde...
a myth in the hands of tired
history...
my mouth is my *******
is also the gate of jerusalem
is... if the african are such
pristine jew-esque hoarding
news...
then... i'm  in *******
limbo... i.e PDND...

lost the plot / scenario of that
acronym: shelved in
the chasm of what became:
telescope... 20th century...
the 1960s gwand... cultural...
"event"... thingy...
that word that's...
international off jew...
the yew the state...

no more anti-semitism...
we're not killing jews now...
there's the... iraqi... the iranian...
the syrian and the israeli...
who the **** requires...
prefix contention for...
jew?
                    killing pale miscreants...
no?
      barber highest tash...
who is going to call this
heave of rock holiest...
this parting of the Baltic
this source of the Dnieper
some alternative Kiev...

who?!
my god of stone-dodging
impotent mountain heaves...
these supposedly lifeless
letters... these only hebrew solves
the quest sort of primo
antics?!
western, anglo-saxon...
liberal "sensibilities":

if only they came as
anglo-swabians...
there was no mythological
sexed-up blonde to rot with...
beside the geisha bride...
the mongolian horde leftover...
because...
do i have to?
**** a picasso's head and triumph sort
of gaze as an insomniac version
of a hard-on...
do i need to be ****-friendly
with the smear of
cinnamon towing copper tinged
with: the discovery
of coco makes no sense
without the discovery of sugar...

coco is coffee...
pointless... gold is...
Caribbean sugar... no less...
the supposed english
as the best tourists...
****'s sake all this
toe nibbling **** licking
parody of:
the racist and skimming a depth...
arriving at a parody
of essentials...
the athletic jews
counter the intellectual
africans of the coliseum stage...
the mythological blonde...
or some germanic alias, root...

      - something "non-essential":
that non-posit of the realm
of a variation anglo-sax:
contra bass                          (E):
mythological brown-gesture
& beater and clown -

wasaby swabian...
    brown-nosing
  fudge for glitter goo...
              i'll be dead & more deader
than a harrowing Sue...
because...
  loiter at best of a quest...

throw a cut-off branch...
at a forest...
there's this...
    "mythology of ethos"...
there's this dream without
a diatribe of piquancy...
                there's this polka-dot
alignment pastiche,
brown-nosing
the otherwise "riddle"....
there's this grey this fudge...
this skull filled with
amber and filled with herring...
there's a mythological Baltic..
there isn't a Volga...
which is... a river...

i quench to fathom: the summons...
best this mythological blonde...
this posit of excavation:
i will not be either "here" or "there"...
there's the genesis
africa but not the siberian
tundra...
           because the sound
do "verb" do hinterland... do...
*******: walloping...
                  
                come fudgefudgefudge...
custardpiecustardpie...
ottoman ****** cuts... ich vs. isch
fervour of ******* "last".

für poesie
seinen widerlichen
lebenszweck:
seine autobiographie /

    for poetry
      his disgusting
      purpose in life:
      his autobiography

    (to borrow from
ernst jandl)

lazily: a thought
experiment -
    the front drive:
more like a patio...

deweeding
trimming the shrubs
and most certainly
armed with a hook
working at
the miniature canyons
in between the
brick-o-slabs...

chaos at first...
before i actually managed
to relieve myself
of a self-conscious body
and the prospect
of the other making
inquiry: which did happen
at the beginning of
the task...

   an old man with a grandson
passed me...
inquiring with delight:
you'd get this chore done
with a iron bristle brush:
what joy emanated
from his face as if i had
a promethean rather than
a mediocre attempt
at: boulder upon a hill...

in all honesty i was chaotic...
i could have attempted
at a systematic:
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓

i did get there in the end,
but at first it was more
like

↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔ ↔ ↘ ↔ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓       ↓ ↓ ↓ ↙ ↓ ↓ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓      ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↙ ↓ ↙
↓ ↓ ↓       ↓ ↓ ↗ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↗ ↓ ↘ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔    ↓ ↓ ↓ ↘ ↕

i wish it was a thought
experiment -
                 but...
before reaching a ******
of automation and a variation
of pristine methodology concerning
such a base posit of: use...
no... not talent...
              if i were a bricklayer...
hell! if i were a surgeon!
not today: not this life...

    but once the hedge trimmer was
out and hanzel und gretyl
was blasting in my earphones...
well... a running theme as
if borrowed from: texas chainsaw
massacre:
        just the odd chore outside
the house in full view of
a public in transit turned
into a would be horror flick...
but not really:
i tamed the self-conscious
body with a borrowed mind
and some sponges and
some electric fishy-things
of the oceans -
    
               by god: so much easier
to borrow snippets of life
for life from these
"mediocre" underachievers...
i agree: one might appreciate
focusing on a pillar or two
from the yawning aeons
of literature:
   but oh god: the crushing
ambition to go against
more than a status quo...
      
                       just a life where
i can live with myself:
that's enough...
   just a life where thinking can
relapse into the old truth
of narration for the limbs
to move with... synchronise
themselves with:
   i hardly think about literary
ambition: once a hard-on
now a burn-out...
   thinking of those days:
a litre of whiskey a night...

now a strict diet of circa 500kcal
of whiskey...
and what is a litre in kcal?
    2000 kcal... one can almost be
envious for ******* models
and champagne socialists...

    anything to let me
live with myself:
                   perhaps a way
to imitate some 20th century
dictator and how they
managed that incredulous feat...
because in my little
world of mediocre and
only being above average
with my 6ft2 posture...
    which is still pretty average...
no lungs to be a olympic swimmer...
no springboard
ambitions for a basketball player...

at best: self-deprecating
humour to sanitize me with
a blameless insanity...
                
   because i can tow long
a funny tickle of a day when
i reach a ******:
cut down on the whiskey
to only compensate cutting
down with three cigarettes -
and... some talking heads on
the headphones...
           is it safe? is it copping out?
burning with a fade...
well: simmering then...
the chemistry of metaphors
when fame is in play...
    it's such a terrible rouse...
unlike a fame of a plumber:
practical fame...
                    implying:
by reputation by the intricacies
of perfecting a trade...
by recommendation:
by excellence...

          nothing's ever excellent
about starting at poetry
afresh...
           it's not like:
         don quixote was a lightbulb
in that if don quixote was:
not-expected -
                         some would
argue... the lightbulb was
intrinsically seeking status of:
awaited-ness...

one "thing" led to another...
and that... the argument follows...
if it wasn't Edison...
then someone else would have
conjured up a lightbulb...
like that first and last eureka!
i guess:
no one went looking for
don quixote...
                or leopold bloom...
or mr. pickwick for that matter...

   poetry and gems...
of note of late?
       well... if it wasn't that i chored
over finnegans wake:
then...
      i would spare myself
with something
like fliegen eintag polyglott
              (oskar pastior)...
which pretty much reminds me
of having cross the european
continent only a month prior...
passing france, belgium,
holland, germany and ending
up somewhere
that teases Ukraine...
       wow! english is spoken
by the english!
not everyone speaks english!
it was obvious that
the french speak french...
less so concerning
the belgians and the dutch...
but that... germans are not
bilingual?! imagine my shock...

well... it's not really a shock...
it was a fake superstition
of tourism: which i never really
held... i just wanted to stand-on-pretend...
notably in germany...
i would think this lie and find
myself awe-struck: not all germans
speak english...
like the 20th century never happened...
i hardly think it was naive:
it was an evil joke for
the entertainment of one -
notably when we were stopped
at the Germany-Poland border
by the guards...
and asked in german and broken
polish (but not english)
whether we were smuggling
guns or drugs...
   or foreign currency...

     aghast... the german border
guards thinking it was necessary
to even search my wallet
to see how much spare change i had...
true story...
   it just so happens after enough
time has passed and someone
might ask: formally or informally...
'so, what have you been up to?'
my atypical reply is always
the same: 'nothing' / 'nothing much'...

perhaps i am writing a book...
but i hardly think i am...
    i am riddling a concept of bed...
i'm getting ready to lick
a stamp with this worded
doodle before i send a postcard
from the life of the believably living
to the filing cabinet of either
the Land of Nod or Nox:
wherever grand-grand-grand-grand-etc.-
father Cain has become
the reformed archetype of -
   returning to keeping buggies and
other parrots... something:
that sort of -esque.

i can't exactly call myself a recovering alcoholic,
that would be too obvious,
too: well boxed...

                                 a recovery...
an alcoholism, what would that be?
would it look like something from
the movie la mécanique de l'ombre?

it could look like something of the sort,
at least: the less spicy parts of
the plot...

       what is missing is the pangs of
conscience, what remains?
       silly thinking: and apparently...
too many hours in a day.

a recovery...
              i've encountered these periods
of "recovery"
  before...
                   spending a month caring
for old people (family, sure,
but sometimes strangers would be
better)...

                      i'm still scattered brained
when it comes to writing
dialogue:
     short-attention span on my behalf?
count me as a monk
in a monestary of a novel if
you get a chance:

    i fooled myself in thinking that
i'd be able to appreciate a Dickensian
novel...

                - becauase there is always
something to add
- a persistent juxtaposition
of the narrative...

    - hence this; imitation of
telegraphic bro - k - en
      li- / -ne- / -s... <dash dash>...

the 13th rule for life:
to counter the 12th -
pet a cat when you encounter
one on the street...

ha!
             and does the doctor
think that's that easy?
     not all cats will want to be petted...
yes... it's possible...
but not all cats want to be petted...
unless the cat is very naive...
paradox:
    those posters on lamp-posts...
now: a missing dog?
  i can understand a missing
dog...
    but what cat can ever become:
"lost"?

             13th rule for life:
wear pajamas...
    to bed...

                          revolutionary....
for over 3 years i slept
****-naked...
   i woke up and...
i always missed the lazy-slot...
the lounge existentialist
hour or so...
with a coffee and a cigarette...

13th rule for life...
    wear pajamas to bed...

(i don't know... some people might
think to wear pajamas to
the shop...
          a very prominent pasttime
for english women
jumping to the shops
wearing onesies...)

that is: you can wake up
and take a snooze session from
bed and make it stand-up...
sleeping ****-naked?
you have to dress in day clothes...
and that's...
simply shocking...

          a recovering alcoholic...
it's not like going to an a.a.
meeting would do me any good...
group therapy is not for me:
taming my farcical ego
   requires me: working against
some third person puppeteering...

spot what?
   if i'll start drinking i'll be back
to base one, something equivalent
to today...
   i don't remember drinking
and throwing tantrums...
    i do remember being under
the delusion of:
   the general grandiosity of
writing anything under an influence...
which probably began
with reading some of
Bukowski's manuscripts...
  the pedant in me opened up:

  immaculate writing -
  typographic...
               i.e. very few typos:
if any...
  but sure...
                 i'll use the term: "recovering"...
what scares me now is:
there are so many hours in
a day, and there are so many times
you must turn in bed,
scratch yourself,
   get up and drink some water...
wrestle with yourself...
when it came to going to sleep
it came as easy as throwing
a sack of potatoes off
   a roof, or asking to sparr with
a prof. boxer:
                       one-hit knock-outs...

- mind you: the scent of the room
in the morning is less brewery and more...
warm...
   it's less choking...

now... about the weight-gain...
****... that's going to be a problem...
even i have to admit:
   2 meals during the day
can't exactly be 2000 calories...
but... having looked at the empty bottle
of whiskey...

   55kcal in 25ml of whiskey...
     so that's...
    55 x 4 = 200kcal x 10 = 2000kcal
per night, per bottle,
for roughly 3 years... **** me!

and what sort of kcal are we talking
about? well... sure as ****
it's not protein, it's not fat...
    carbohydrates?
   how do you burn off 2000kcal
                  of alcohol? buy a diesel hybrid?

group think in alcoholics anonymous:
concentrated with feelings
of shame...
                       i don't know,
         i'm guessing that's the scenario...

sure: sobering up
and i'll have to the reality of:
'you really did write some
mundane verses...
   no, they weren't that great...
   any drunk could think they were
great...
remember those pangs of
       fear when you woke up
the next afternoon after an all-night
session?
   yeah... that's called:
  a moral hangover: stemming from
a delusion of grandiosity...'

i don't do shame:
         self-critique is much better...
nonetheless:

there are so, so, so many hours in a day!
there are too many!
   what do people do with all
these hours?!
      i'm going to grow crazy just thinking:
was that hour wasted,
wasn't it?

/
              and in terms of finding
a "proper" job other than pursuing
   this... "hobby" of having scribbled for
the past 3 years...
  
   well... i like walking...
oh... right... the profession of being
a postman is about to fizzle out...
street-cleaner?
    they don't exactly advertise that
job for the "respectable" people:
not in a job-search-engine-website...
    i the odd occassion,
sure, i looked at these websites... /

 /     yeah: as many options out there
as there are hairs on my head...
hell... some people just stream themselves
playing video games...
what's a "proper" job what
isn't a "proper" job...
   just prior to the great technological
update...
             but i'm jumping ahead
of myself... /

  /                                    laboratory work...
well... that's a start...
sober thinking and no...
   crippling desperation and:
                        thinking oneself limbless... /

/ so i had to go and suss things out:
    the whole job market
on a level of the street...

      last time i heard: poetry is not exactly
an endeavor worthy of a competitive
streak of: employee of the month...

   and, mind you: always the spare parts,
missing nuts and bolts,
screws and sharpened hammers...

mantras like: self-worth and...
   a profession makes a man...
   yes: if he's good at it:
   no one exactly needs a ****** plumber
inspecting a burst pipe...
   unless: he be looking for
             a loch ness sized puddle... /

and no, it's not from a demaning
perspective:
   when i was a child i wanted to be
a bus driver at first...
                     so... something against
an administrator of a medical building
at the reception?
    no... nothing against that...

    a street-cleaner?
                     why would i have a problem
with that?
   so... why the hell is poetry such
                  a baggage of: inadequacies?
i'm no dog:
but i feel it like a collar
   with inverted spikes around my neck...

- but yes: some people do over-compensate
their job with an over-bearing balance
of self-worth...
                              didn't i sometime ago
(in this verse), not mentioned my own
claims of over-bloated grandeour?

          can't win...
                      either the egoistic route or...
the depressed: crushed by the mass
route...
                            or: some vague middle... /

my... any more of these sober afternoons
and i actually might do something
spectacular...
                           at the moment...
          one month, sober...
                a hiccup interlude...
a complete brain-drain of a day or two
returning to the same pattern of
                         getting ****-faced at night...
and then, now:                                            /

very much akin to no. 9
from cinema calendar of the abstract
heart (tristan tzara)...

              i.e. 'but the dance of round
tables shuts in the shock
                of the marble shudder

   new sober'.
                                                                     /

i wasn't going to make use of these
idle fingers, while returning to the old ways:
and the old ways are...
hardly a maturing tenure of:
never in my previous engagements
a worthwhile sober observation...
   but: as of today:

a sober observation -
i never thought i'd say this,
but on a double decker bus...
  listening to queen's of the stone age
album rated r...
         this sober "thing"?
it's not too bad...

                                           it's...
refreshing...
                           it's... well: there i was
thinking it would be mind-numbing...
                                                                             /

walked up to the bank machine
to check the balance...
                     well... isn't that something?
who would have thought...

   if having bought a gramaphone
and kind of blue vinyl is to "save me"...
might as well promise myself:
    hell, here's to my variety of AA...
using vinyls...
                        i need some sort of outlet...
conversations wouldn't have
solved the problem...

                               wooden shjips: V... /

well... better think i write unspectacular
verse: sober...
than think i write spectacular
verse: drunk...

                           there's nothing else to it...
- but there's something else to mind...
- Dickens...

            Dickens didn't write anything
spectacular: hear me out...
                       i mean like Beckett "spectacular"?
yes, like pretentious,
    difficult literature: to read...
                   but he did write with
a relish for a reader's sense of comfort...
   maybe that's possibly worth
                     imitating?

                                                                  /

/a view ascance: side notes of -
          how efficiency is lost
within the confines of prescribing a
burdensome effectiveness;
            like:
                being constapitated
in an elevator:
               and being claustrophobic.../

/alternatively: a hypothetical conveyor
belt...
                 archaic notice
  in the form of: arbeit macht frei...
                                    althought with
less sadistic irony of the SS
   completed upon finishing
harold norse's
  a memoir of a ******* angel:

seems that what one deems one's
own "poetry" is exactly that: "poetry"...
   and what becomes poetry
is equivalent to: giving a generous
portion of one's **** to a publisher:
in the literal sense...
    
                             but hell...
if Dada can see print...
                         oh... out of the blue:
for no other purpose other than
                a count of syllables,
                     from the count of words,
from the count of sentences,
from the count of punctuation marks
   (inter-syllables),
    and then back into:
   the count of vowels through
to the count of consonants...

                 to arrive at some meaningful:
v:c ratio... /

                             by god:
new sober is indeed spewing your mind
like placing imaginary accounts
of the number of matchsticks per tree:
in the rough estimate,
                             akin to:

brain damaged:
                       Σ: the involuntary compact
for the understudy of man...
      less: anima / soul
           and more: vox / voice -
  as ever: partially brain damanged...
yet still perusing the body and,
yes, the total (sum) -
                       where thought originates
and: with the duly departed /

                         x/σ (the algebra fraction of
a sore thumb of the sum of man)
                                                                         /
   y/σ (the algebra fraction
of a missing finger of the sum of man) / / / / /

it appears i can do much
more havoc being sober, than being drunk...
from this:
     what was once blanc is
    but an acne riddled crease in the fabric of:
till the next blanc becomes
more than such a creased indentation:
and more...
                 akin to the fields surrounding
Ypre - at that certain moment in whatever
time...

                           just let me absolve myself
from citing stereotypes.