oh winter sun, how benevolent you are,
how tenderly you peer into the realm
of what once had is now finally losing colour,
on the realm of hibernating insects
bound to hardened cocoons...
           of flowers that only remain root strong...
oh winter sun, how benevolent you are,
work slows down, people become bearable:
less arrogant in their attire...
finally these women can put on clothes that
scream: decorum!
finally my libido can rest...
finally no more inverted, imploded niqab for
the eyes... still the sunglasses but finally...
my libido can rest...
but of course, it happens... there will be some
idiotic ***** who will entertain a Saturday
night out by wearing miniskirts & exposing
their bare legs to the elements of December,
January... years later, most probably:
pokraki... i.e. legs mangled from exposure to
the cold, the wind...
it happened once that i sat outside a nightclub
fully attired... warm cotton trousers...
a t-shirt, a shirt, a hoodie & an flimsy army shirt...
                hood, beneath the hood
a wooly hat...
there they stood... the goosebumps worth
of geese... standing there: chattering a strange tongue
that only teeth understand via Morse code...
silly little imp-girls...
warm up on the parquet of the nightclub,
drop a few ***** shots, yes?
oh sure... that will warm you up...
         silly little imp-girls... who goes clubbing
in winter wearing nothing but a mini-skirt...
the whole lot of them... hugging themselves...
trying to jump up & down in stilettos:
but not actually jumping...
                    it was a beautiful sight...
a man supremely cuddled by the clothes he was
wearing, gloves & scarf too...
drinking a beer & smoking a cigarette...
sitting on a bench outside a nightclub...
as a line of geese that had their feathers plucked
while still breathing were gaining entry to,
probably... the worst *** they'd get in their lifetime...
drunk ***...
      a little bit of alcohol... but too much is:
too much...
- yes... finally my libido is at rest...
no more libido insomnia...
   for the most part they started to dress like grannies...
of course some pull off the classy granny look,
the: mah-tue-rrr look (trill the R, please,
i know the French hark theirs but that's no excuse
to: tarantula bit my tongue when it's an R
in syllables, stressed, sure... forget the trill in words...
no one wants to sound like count Dracula:
blah blah blah...)

O benevolent winter sun... how you grace my skin...
how much brighter you seem than in summer...
since there are so few hours of you throughout the day...
come 3pm when you begin your weary descent
how blinding you are...
yet how you also do not scorch the skin
to make the golden serpent wake...
   how in a month or so i will loose the copper-neck
& the copper-sleeves on my forearms...
back to my white, vampiric, anaemic...
Hyperborean look...
        
O winter sun, i thank you for your retreat,
i thank you for your retreat with
such gleeful bliss...
i thank winter itself too: for pushing you away
(my my, is that a heliocentric or a geocentric
formulation? does it matter...
to read a map, to get from A to B...
a round earth perspective doesn't do ****...
the earth need to be flat in order
to read a map, esp. when standing on the fore
of a group of unruly teenagers,
when... the team at the Glasbury House
for Outdoor Education Centre split the participants
into two groups...
the older boys doing their A-levels
with the younger girls doing their AS-levels...
the older girls doing their A-levels
with the colts doing their AS-levels...
being of the former group...
the latter group was dropped off closer to the return-to-point,
they only had to walk back directly...
perhaps there were some shortcuts...
but could any of the girls read a map?
or, rather... would any of the colts
unloosen their imaginary head that might be
their phallus from imagining potential
suitors... not a chance...
- now, i have to write about this,
i need to discard this memory... i need new
memories... this one cameo cinema is
fudging up my uptake of new memories:
the hope is... if i write it down...
         i'll be released from it...
i was in the group that was dropped off...
**** knows' where, but certainly further afield
than the first group...
someone gave me the map of the vicinity:
i don't know why they handed the map to me...
so... i just asked: where are we?
cheat? every single ******* map in any urban
information point has a map & an indicator
that states, quite (not quiet), quiet plainly:
YOU ARE HERE... a bit like sticking one of those
HELLO MY NAME IS "X" at a speed-dating
event (mein gott, i've been to one of those
when at university, horrible event,
i don't remember it)...
so i asked, where are we? again: cheating?!
what's a ******* point of a map when you don't
know where you're starting from?
sure... you have to find where you're going from
the map... but what's the point of not knowing
where you're starting from?
like... Christopher Columbus didn't know
where Lisbon was... when he set off to find...
the Americas... sure... but this was also an experiment...
i knew what place i was leaving: Glasbury House...
& i was being dropped into an unknown location...
well i need to know at least one thing,
i can't navigate with two unknowns...
that sort of scenario would invoke... being...
rafted... on the seas... a quote comes to mind...
Coleridge:
  water, water, everywhere
And all the boards did shrink;
water, water, everywhere,
   nor any drop to drink...
                         point being...
a phantasmagorical finger "levitated" over me
then... like... ugh... faux pas...
like like the depiction bound to those *******
*******: perhaps Adam ought to have made
a circle with his index and thumb?
when the depiction of God extended his
in that Michelangelo depiction...
mind you... look how weak, how feminine Adam's
hand "posture" is...
he should have been firm... "God's" finger is coming...
to hell with touching phalluses with
a nail's bite worth of scribble on flesh...
here! here's my index curled up with my thumb
slightly curled: O my ****'s worth of interactions
with you! that hand posture is feminine...
on Adam's behalf... God the protruding agent of
the index... Adam the: oh! ah! kiss my hand will you!
*******... ugh...
and look at the statue of David... anything... ahem...
"weird" about? it's disproportionate...
the head is too big for the body!
a massive ******* head on a body that would see
the head topple it like lumberjacking at some pristine
******* pines...
Titian's Paul III...
                  Perronneau's Madame de Sorquainville...
look at the smirk on her...
Mona Lisa can hide in shame...
or rather: her "smile"... is a... HANS! GOTTFRIED!
OTTO! CONRAD!
encore: ein wachslächeln (a wax smile)...
Rembrandt: a precursor to Turner...
almost the same Parkinson's disease...
but at least Turner conveyed landscapes... not portraits /
scenes...
something's blurry about Rembrandt...
like i already knew...
the people of the past weren't exactly
****** or deformed, or ugly...
****** artists, that's all...
well if someone like a Helen could: muster...
a 1000 ships...
she must have been a stunner!
a tenner for every penny saved...
         hmm... i'm still rummaging...Kenneth Clark's
Civilisation.... i'm looking for the antithesis of
Michelangelo' David...
oh i'll ******* find what i'm looking for...
even if i have to stay up to 5am to find it!
ah!   'ere we go!
    Riemenschneider's Adam...
          now that's an "Adam"... one i'd want to ****...
where was i...
oh ****... too many plotlines: ergo no plot...
it's like ***** Burroughs took at interest in
my writing from beyond the grave,
the whole Beat Hotel from Paris woke up &
brought back Tristan Tzara to decipher...
no cut-up methodology here...
i was just reading some Rousseau & thought
the language... eh... slightly "constipated"...
congested... on point... rigorous as one might expect
1 + 1 = 2 to be...
unless...
well no one ever said that a consonant must precede
a vowel... that there must be clear syllables...
that you can't allow two vowels or two consonants
to interact... on rare occasion you might end with
a specified consonant: an N...
or that vowels can exist alone... & that they can break
the rule of crafting syllables: & can meet...
ah... but they can't... i was wrong...
青 "=" アオ
               AO... blue...
but the meaning blue is an ideogram "concept"....
it's not a meaning that can be translated phonetically...
****'s sake... even in Japanese two vowels cannot meet,
nor two consonants...
although: they can... when as something
akin to a grapheme / a Chinese ideogram...
what would manner (NN) look like...
or... chatter (TT) should the Siamese Æ (sorry,
not grapheme, a grapheme would be the greek theta:
for th-ought) diphthong...
call an apple an apple... there are too many technical
terms ruining the narrative...
i'm bound to make one correct noun into
a disaster of a misnomer...

- thank you, winter sun, for receding to the point where
the moon can finally reclaim the night sky
and borrow something from the day,
no longer are the nights so ugly without him,
glaring in the sky, ever mindful cyclops
compared to the beauty of seeing very visibly
with almost two eyes, both the body & the shadow...
myopic moon... obstructed by clouds...

- back to the Glasbury event... we were dropped off
further down the road... i was given a map,
so i implored, were are we?
a finger descended onto the page & indicated:
YOU ARE HERE...
i took charge... mind you... it wasn't easy...
i had a popularity complex in high school...
it wasn't a "popularity" complex when it came
to entertaining the company of the "popular" kids...
the black boys were popular with the white girls,
the white boys were popular with, saic X...
i was leveraging the ******* nerds
playing video games, collecting Pokemon cards...
then again: with the ruffians...
spending Saturday afternoons in car parks...
trying lady luck by spitting down on them from
four stories up...

Peter Richardson... Kieran O'Mahoney...
endless Saturday afternoons...
cheap white lightning cider,
a youth club once existed in a church where
we played snooker where now,
most probably a mosque now stands...
blah blah...
we were once tricked by two girls...
before a wave of rowdy boys came up to
give us a beating... they oddly enough didn't
while Kieran lay on the ground crying...
semi-kicks & me imploring the bunch:
he has my walk-man! i need my music back!
Peter's younger brother was also there
but he did a runner... so, **** me...
3 against... 10, if not more?
those two ***** that enticed us...

well... we managed to escape the scene seemingly untouched...
ha ha...
Kieran did more damage to himself:
by himself when we overstayed out welcome in
South Park & had to climb over the fence...
me & Peter clamoured over... jumping onto our
feet as if we had four...
came the turn for Kieran...
standing on the top of the fence... jump! jump!
so he jumped... & managed to lodge his
underwear in one of the spikes...
for a millisecond we watched him dangle
quasi-impaled by his underwear...
laughter... well... i couldn't imagine it might have been
a particularly enjoyable ****... *******...
i came to my senses, Peter synonymous...
we lifted the poor ****** up & then down
from his predicament...

Glasbury... YOU ARE HERE... again... that's not cheating,
asking where you are, is it?
a benevolent finger descended on the map
and i was off... we took a shortcut through a road
that led into a little wood... we passed the wood
& emerged onto a pasture field...
some cows were grazing... the guys thought it might
be funny to push a cow over,
i advised them against it...

summa summarum: we ended up "beating" the other "team"...
clear as daylight...
i remember we were asked: since there was some spare
time... to exercise in the yard...
clear as daylight... we're exercising...
30 minutes if not more...
while the defeated team descends from around
the bend... all the girls, my peers with an expression
that could only be best read as: HUH?!
paint that... paint HUH?!
can anyone paint me: HUH?! on a woman's face,
can anyone?

i'm looking for a painting of woman, or several
women that reads the meaning of: HUH?!

oh **** me, i know i was spinning some other plate...
i hope i find it...

as usual Peter & Kieran got in the way...
perhaps Samuel might have joined the memory reel...
but Samuel is an altogether different matter...
almost a sacred memory...
that's for me to disclose when ready:
i'm not ready...

done, memory: begone!
fickle creature... of course it will remain...
but i hope it will be less prominent...
after all: i was almost 18 back then...
such memories are building blocks...
i managed to... read a map... guide a group of unruly peers
to success, "success"...
we just arrived early & our reward was some more
exercise... no... the reward was mine...
i managed to read the map & discovered shortcuts
in the make-up of the land...
to be told that you are at a disadvantage because
you are dropped off further away from group A:
while you're the disadvantaged group B...
well... placebo effect? i don't even know the correct naming
of this psychological experiment...

pair up older girls with younger boys
vs. pairing up older boys with younger girls...
only one year apart...
what the hell is pedagogy? eventually: at best...
a cocktail art... hey! let's see what happens!
esp. outside the classroom: in the outdoors!
as much as i'd love to dabble in the chemistry of
the inter & intra-man...
at a distance... i'd rather concern myself with
things that do not speak, pretend to listen,
pretend to see... pretend to feel:
or rather... i pretend for them... most certainly:
do not speak... zilch!

i couldn't possibly want the responsibility
surrounding the moulding of man
should "said" man not become... the ambition
worth of a statue in a public sq.
if i can't be an Aristotle shaping an Alexander...
i see a hammer: i see a nail...
oh... right... "of some use": no... pristine use...
the extant pivot!
beer is an extant pivot too, mind you...
what better way to "drown one's miseries"?
i was thinking of a make-up word...
exactant... EXACTANT...
                   out of: acting upon stasis: loosely...

i'm so almost content in stating:
whiskey first, the cider second that i can't finish a cigarette
having to subsequently write this...
not that there's much to write,
leave me: strain... i would very much so like
to watch some t.v., some movie...
some sport's & Sparta...
no... these toils with letters & memories...

Rousseau & the social contract...
even the name alone... Row-Sow...
look at it in Katakana: impossible...
snippets.... ロ
                             ウ        セ
                                             ウ...
or rather... Row-Sue!

i was wondering... what album did i hear, first?
Tool's aenima or tools lateralus?!

well me & Samuel would head over to
Romford... RM1 was a club... once upon a time...
where teenagers could enter & enjoy under-age drinking...
not that i was unfamiliar with the "practices"...
me & Samuel would walk back from Romford to
Ilford singing Backstreet Boys songs...
while the whole time we were 'ard-up punks /
metal heads... skateboards:
he stole his mother's credit card to pay for "my"
skateboard... he was later found out: fined...
i cowered like a leech when the pogrom on his ethics came...
what was her sisters' name...
Isa... Jessica! one of the Ursuline corpus!
oh i remember the Ursuline girls...
not that i had a hard-on for them:
i learned to ******* early... aged 8 i was doing the Onan
pledge... no... it was more about... RHO-MAN-Sssssss...
paid of like investing in... Sony's mini-disk "ingenuity"...
but every single morning...
those Ursuline girls on the bus...
beside the perfume of the morning... nothing worthwhile
mentioning... Samuels older sister Jessica
& Alex's older sister Samantha...
i remember one sleepover when
i purposively ****** on the toilet seat & one of them
noticed it... i was scolded (obviously)...
but the "matter" was quickly laid to rest...
on a bunch of nothing...

i scratched this CD so much: how?
from over playing it!
i wondered... when did i first hear of tool?
when i was a ****** 16 year old teenager...
how? Kerrang!
                                                my now estranged
uncle used to buy the magazine...
maybe...
(god, let me finish... i want to relax by
listening to some political "dialectic"...
opinion spewing... garbage... ditto-head echoes)...

i'm reading some Rousseau and listening to tool's
aenima...  i ought to hae a stipend for
makings "****" chronological...
in common parlance: **** = thing should a philosopher
ask... thing, nothing... blah blah...
lost appreciation for nouns...
or none to begin with...
i must have listened to aenima prior to lateralus...
i must have put down my homework
& be like: what the ****'s this?!
from stinkfist...
  i never heard anything like it!

it must have been aenima... i remember that summer
back in Poland when i started & finished reaading
the Three Musketeers... long before
Stendhal arrived on the scene with the Red & the Black...
one of those few adaptations on screen
(Ewan McGregor & Rachel Weisz)
of a book that might want you to read the book...
all of Sienkiewicz worked in reverse...
lucky me...

all ******* Celts though, Peter, Kieran, Samuel...
well... perhaps not Peter...
perhaps write an ode to... Alex... Martin:
the crooked teeth so crooked it felt uncomfortable
to bite a sandwich by him?
friendships... oh thank you professionalism...
i don't want to come too close...
friends once were:
now?
      oh forget about... to hell with "adoring" fans too...
someone's interested: fine...
they're not... to the pedestrian line with "you"!
i can allow myself the luxury...
it is a luxury... pass enough distance... animate
objects take on an inanimate object tinge...
hue... hue of... blurry... forgettable...
point of interest at a specified crux via transit...
but... otherwise... a celebratory forgetfulness surrounds
them... not out of spite... or my self-importance as
somehow superior to their: existence...
a shared value... they value their own freedoms
as i value mine...  it's strange: therefore...
how fame arrives at the fore... not posthumously:
yet when the said famous person is still alive...
fame as a reiteration of "fame"?
the hyper-reality of Baudrillard?
sounds like... the overhyped-hyper-reality of... "X"...

but i finally solved the "debacle"... did i listen
to tool's aenima or tool's lateralus first?
aenima... i'm listening to it right now...
i'm getting flashbacks... of the one club we used to go to,
when i still lived in Gants Hill & Romford was
this sacred place... for underage drinking...
**** me... the club didn't have a hard floor...
sickly sweet carpet underlying...
some other club...
     the DJ played STINKFIST...
     ooh... i'm gonna: stinkenfaust!
  i lost my head... i danced like a berserker...
what?
  on the same night i had my second kiss...
what could that kiss taste like: should memory be judged
the proper authority before the court?!
numb-cherry / ox--sweat...
  
that tool's aenima is an eulogy to bill hicks...
bill hicks... a very painful introspective on...
the stereotype of H'americans...
stereotyping themselves...

for me the greatest bill hicks moment came,
not telling a ****** joke...
undermining the concept of metaphor
with the reality of time...
sure... the bible didn't mention dinosaurs...
but sure as **** we were drawing fire breathing
lizards before the discovery of dinosaur bones...
lizards like makeshift "skyscrapers"...
undermine the metaphors of Moses...
such a finite little... loot...
new, "new" poetry "borrowed" from the old....
never undermine what Moses ought not or ought...

no, his greatest moment didn't come
from telling a joke,
it's his look of concern when...
he was asked to share the same interviewee
posit with, a very much drunken
Oliver Reed... no one could have played
Athos... like Oliver Reed did!
no one!
there was Bill Hicks... comedy extraordinaire
reduced to... perhaps tears...
laughing at a drunk... like that...
oh god... it hit: him: hard...
Oliver Reed: Athos! dinosaurs not in the bible:
ha ha... so what's up with humanity conjuring up
dragons?! ***** of fire... who said where
that... astronaut hit earth while the moon was
yawning: the what if: the moon was on its guard...
& the astronaut hit the moon...
earth with a ring of shrapnel like Saturn?!

perhaps i could remember the names of
the women i once loved... Promis... Priya...
Isabella... Ilona... n'ah.... what love i already gave
has now probably become an elephant's graveyard...
it's better to have memory of friendships in one's
progressive years...
i better retain Peter, Kieran, Samuel, Martin, Alex...
ought, within the confines of these times: be deemed
worthy to explore: the unknown...

tool's aenima: a priori...
tool's lateralus: a posteriori...

such sweetened acidity governing this cider...
i want to drink liters of it,
this gods' **** juice!
mehr! mehr! mehr!

proto-german then...
   mer! mer! mer!

proto-german, i.e. not Finnish...
lisää! o.k. that's ****** up...
doubled-up on the umlaut...
so whst's that? lisaaaa?!
                               my ******* arithmetic "wrong"?
is there a transvestite raeding this?
i can stomach a transvestite...
i was once, one, drunk...
trans- "****": the world of
popularity contests can stomach that....
digest it... just as wel: i want to forget about it...
the world can *******: with these "regards"...

i must have missed something...
yes, me & some ivory beautifies,
living it up in the safeguards of Kenya...
my god... some of these Kenyan girls...
past burnt mahogany...
past auburn... past autumn's flares...
i somehow almost forgot about my...
oriental fetish... of petite "things"...
geishas... what not...

             if i'm not being scrutinised...
i'm worried... i scrutize others:
eh... not so worried.

The less-than-tepid air stirred as Kieran walked the streets of his town, passing familiar shops and people all the while. He felt as though nothing held the ability to surprise him anymore. Each day seemed the same: he awoke with a heavy and slow start, went about his errands and studies, finished his tasks and went to the coffee shop on the corner of Adelaide and First Street, where he would take his usual seat by the window.
Today seemed to be no different. He entered the Red Brick Café, moving through the stiff door. He ordered his usual black coffee and placed his things on the table nearest to the window.
His load was slightly heavier today, large textbooks and journals weighing him down. Though he was only sixteen, he had already begun showing interest in studies far surpassing the average teenage parameters of notice. Before him lay the studies of Nietzsche and Marx, as well as several sheets of paper with his own scrawled handwriting, denoting his findings.  Kieran had surpassed the term “average” years ago, even if his father had failed to notice it.
       “Maybe if you would stop asking so many questions and started doing the crap they asked you to in school, you would pass your **** classes” he could recall his father saying to him after the last term.
Even still, he had not been the type to feel the need to please others. Kieran had always been focused on satisfying himself, his questions and his hunger for knowledge. He stopped at nothing to satisfy these basic needs.
        “Medium Black?” the woman had called after preparing his coffee. He retrieved the cup, mismatched and morphed, as they all were in this store. It was part of what he had liked most about it – the mugs served in late summer with the Christmas patterns, the coarse orange glasses that stood on the same shelf. None of the dish wear matched, and he thought this was exactly what gave the shop its character.
         He walked to the single leather couch pulled in front of the table overlooking the window. Through said window laid a perfect view of the people walking past on Adelaide Street. Often times, he had sat in this spot for hours simply watching people milling through the lives they wish they did not live, wondering all along whether they would decide to change.
He opened his new copy of The Introduction to Karl Marx, the crisp cover yielding to his rough hands. The smell wafted from the fresh paper – he had only bought this book a few days ago down the street at the bookstore. Kieran always enjoyed the smell of fresh parchment.
         His coffee had grown cold by the time his wandering eyes had bothered to look up from the page.          Outside the window, the street had grown quite dark, dark enough for the street lamps to have turned on. In the light below the nearest lamp, it had become evident that the first snow had begun to fall softly, slowly, and silently outside of his attention.
Then he saw her. Her auburn hair had been victim to the winter winds and lay on her shoulders unevenly, glistening with new snow. Her tall boots fell above her knees, her jacket cinched just below her waist line. She smiled and looked at the lantern overhead, laughing, admiring. The lines around her eyes creased as she playfully pouted and straightened her scarf, slanted in the cold. She pointed to the door of the café as she approached with her friends.
        She entered and he continued to watch as she striped her gloved fingers, exposing each finger with remarkable delicacy. The light did her a terrible favour and made her already notable features more prominent. Her previously dainty expression held a note of subtle seduction that Kieran doubted that she knew she possessed.
        She stood in front of the counter waiting to order.  “Grab me a seat?” she asked her friend as they slipped into the back room. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled pleadingly at the others.
        “But of course, my lady Briardale”, the other replied mockingly with an equal smile.
         Kieran caught himself before she turned her head further, before she could catch him eyeing her. He quickly flipped the page of his book to look occupied, and she shifted her glance. He raised his eyes, peeking through his lashes at her once more.
         *Briardale.

Kieran is really awesome beacuse he is cool and andrew is not because and andrew is a loner

an entire day of abstaining from "syringe",
whoever said it was:
the perfect dis-satisfaction -
supposedly it passes as quick as someone
puffing on crack...
                well...
                      the first cigarette...
when "quitting"... after years of 20 a day...
and this quitting: because no cheap
ciagarettes on the horizon from moldova...
or bulgaria...

    the first hit... feels like electricity...
i can feel it from my head...
right down to my toes...
          in my heels...
the tingling at first... then it all subsides...
into a sensation of a thrown stone
into the stomach:
like a nun jumping a bungee...
i feel like a teenager... who first sipped
alcohol...
the carousel of intoxication -
yet: so contained...
        there's the thrill and an
insurmountable number of adjectives
to the sensation:
face like a sponge head like blitzkrieg
theatre...
         i'm "quitting"...
well... 10 years exposed to the numbing...
perfect the ritual:
i guess i must...
    how long will it last... long enough:
to base the drinking on what becomes
the cigarette: on the peripheries:
and closure...

must i take any more revelation drugs...
apart from what's taxed and legal...
a solipsistic cigarette and some
gomme syrope: putting ms. amber
into the refrigerator...
              
i can feel the horde the tsunami from
a fat head through
a whirlwind dropped into my stomach...
and then the magic toes: tingling...
of course: i'm "quitting"...
quitting as much as...
mellow lou reed contra iggy pop
when bowie was with him in berlin...

"quitting"... the initial hit is over...
the first impressions...
the formality is thrilling...
then comes the diffusion:
the informality of fractions and percentages...
from the brain... the nerves...
perhaps the heart...
and the last place to look into:
the liver...

         and other... soft-tissue glue parts...
and the ritual:
a packet of benson & hedges...
wrapped up with about 10 rubber bands...
it has been waiting for me
for the entire day...
and now that the night is here...
a day when an apple tree was planted
along with a cherry tree...

the garden is looking more and more
presentable for sale...
but before the sale: it must be enjoyed...
i never thought that...
a cigarette: after... this short prospect
of abstinance...
is almost like the first...
but when coupled with the whiskey...
hell... i can't remember the last
time i drank and it felt like...
i was a teenager: under-age drinking
in one of those ****** clubs that
high-school girls go to find boys
with cars... out of school without
a-levels...
and boys go... to find... ms. ambers...
and jazzy gits of mr. fuzzy mr. funny...
the bavarian brothers: the weisers...

please! please! more...
these days of "quitting"...
             because what could be fun
about an absolute cold-turkey...
when you have a stash of...
  600 cigarettes... and... if the math is
about right...
and since the free movement of
people is a rapunzel dream off-the-cuff...

600 cigarettes... if i get it right...
move from 2 per ritual of going to bed...
into 1... that's... either a year
with missing 56 days somewhere...
no rolling tobacco though...
look m'ah! no bongs no syringes!
look p'ah! no snorting bleeding nose...
no... plum bruises from...

as long as there's an inhibition period...
a period of: i wish i could send
a postcard from... Basildon, Essex...
to... someone obliterated by a craze-maze
of lights... like... whatever...

i just heard stories...
                  about the effects of other drugs...
but... it's not like they come back...
with straitjackets to rekindle old flames
of "crossing the threshold" within
the confines of tobacco and alcohol...
moderately: well: not to quote the ideal
units consumed...
     i'm pretty sure i read some pickwick papers
today and... dickens "forgot" some...
conjunction words...
unless of course: his style...
                    -open            
                          to question-
                        esp. adjectives that...
or is it... nouns that act like this that and the other:
as if verbs...
            
    roughly half an hour... the full extent of
a cigarette...
the very first is probably the same
as the "very first" when you're "quitting"...
from circa 20 per day...
to 2-a-day...
                      "quitting" and first getting
hooked...
           the whiskers and fire fathers
                                   of the apache
              are a balancing act that follows...
oh sure... i'll quit smoking...
when the ritual is over...
i have left the casual smoker behind...
somewhere... over coffee...
over the tradition of that cigarette after
a meal: the digestifs smoke-up...
i left these smokers behind...
the nervous smokers...
the waiting at a bus-stop smokers...
the after *** smokers...

          the day is coming to an end...
i'm going to enjoy some music...
drink a little... i'll start calling this smoking
cigarette pattern... what? what else?!
my tobacco ramadam!
chances are... i'll still be unable
to appreciate roxy music...
   and the english dandy...
                       the music is here...
the little bit of *****... and the "pipe"!
here comes my face...
here comes the zoo...
            
             but i'm quitting... "quitting"...
the wolf of wall st. -
                      drug addict... that all depends
on how you treat tobacco...
the cigarette... abstaining for a day...
after a "hiatus" from healthy breathing...
viruses and car zinc and lead exhausts...
cow farts...
                  
    a terrible way to treat tobacco...
i find... is the casual... informal way...
a bit like... internet access...
whoever grew up with it being stationary...
like... a telephone... or a phonebox...
it was never carried:
always a returned to:
like a swizz safety-deposit box
in a bank... that could...
bypass tax regulations and subpoenas...

the good old days...
saturdays the park... the high street...
the car park... climbing to the top
and spitting phlegm bombs at people...
peter ******* richardson...
and kieran o'mahoney...
samuel richards...
         a ****** among the irish...
in england...
then again: richardson...
eh...
                                   ascot?
      i.e. a shcoot?!
                    the break between my first
ritual cigarette...
         and my closing affair for the night...
whether i drink less or not...
in the middle of the night
i wake up on the floor...
         i sleep on the floor for about
an hour... two demons want to ****
in my bed... then i'm thrown back into
the bed of cushions and mattress...
  only yesterday i killed someone in my dream...
and i was... like the zodiac killer...
anonymous...
i heard hook & sinker teases of:
the crime scene read like a crime thriller...
to appease the ego...

two days running thrown out of bed...
this is a terribly composed...
it is... "quarantine" poetics...
i'm "quitting" smoking...
                   i'm making tobacco...
i'm giving tobacco ritual rites...
                   no lazy tobacco smoking...
end of the day... ms. amber in hand...
maxing out on 2!
the next two? the next day...
              the same packet of cigarettes...
2 inside with a lighter...
wrapped up using about 10 rubber bands...
a like-for-like replica of
pin-heads "tattoo geography"...

       yes... because... someone's nearing
the snorting olympics?!
           if all you were given...
was tobacco and alcohol...
             the first one... oh! mein! gott!
it feels like being a teenager... once more...
and experiencing the alcohol carousel
for the very first time...
tobacco? that came later...
after the alcohol... after the ****...
the **** came in age 21...
the tobacco came in... age 21.09...
whatever that implies...

                      it's nice... though...
absitance... you wait for the entire day...
by the of it... some variant of... tourette's kicks
in... it's all very nice asking for
cupcakes and bagels...
scones and daffodils:
or... suicide by: lily-of-the-valley...
i.e. room filled with them...
and no ventilation...
talk about... no hanging... projects...
of Seneca cutting wrists in a bath...
just... getting drunk...
and being allowed to fall asleep
in a vacuous room filled with
lily-of-the-valley bouquets...

             we can talk about suicide... no?
when... it's... beautiful? no? ha!
how was the hemlock... prescribed?
as a drink?
             i... it's almost irritating that...
i will not write anything more sensible
after i take the 2 cigarette to the grave of sleep...
no matter...
i wasn't hoping to invest in much:
today gave me enough.

It's you. Just you. Only you*

It's been you for the past couple of years.
Ever since the moment you said, "Hi!"
It's you even while I toss and turn or
I lie awake at 3 in the morning
Or even when I open my eyes at half-past 11

It's you when I eat, sleep,
and drink cheap bottles of *****.

You are everywhere I go.
You are always on my mind
That no matter how far apart we are - your existence is in contiguity of my being

So you have asked me a question.
Who do you love?

R H E T O R I C*

It's you. Just you. Only you.

I love, I love , I love you
There is not one single day I do not think, love, lust, dream of you
I lost you a while ago yet I still hear the gentle stroke of you
I dream someday we'll be reunited then nightmare that you've forgotten me
I may not rhyme, this may not be the time, but I love you
pure and true
I love you
XOXOXOX

With you, I feel.
Without you, my pen would not move.
                          - S. Mia
                        June 30, 2015

we did it in the bath, we did it before a mirror... i guess we only didn't do it outdoors - only because... a swan at Loch Lomond turned us off...

that these have to be little autobiographical
sketches: for starters...

a life of no real consequence:
if i were magically thrown back in time
and allowed to bring
with me a book of plagiarisms
i.e. - so that i might be ascribed
the penmanship of a Descartes... etc.

i think i'd still only (bring): avec et seul moi...
i sometimes wish i bothered
to learn Fwench...
since Italian and Spanish were
never too much appealing to begin
with... only the deutschezunge could
have harrowed me more for
an impetus to learn...

acquisition of English was what it was...
thrown into the deep end...
learn the language, ******... or sink...
some prior knowledge via
cartoon network...
but not enough to have to remember...
the "joke" on my way
to the local swimming pool...
how puma: wasn't 'poo-mah'
but somehow 'pew-mah'...
****'s sake... if i wrote down phonetically
how i said something "wrong"...
the it would look like: pjuma...

i can't escape some escapades of life
so daft that i do remember me,
Peter Richardson, Kieran O'Mahoney
and what Ilford & South Park were like
come Saturday's afternoons...
like... having to hold your breath
when walking in between
the "batty man's legs"...
a road sign with two stilts...

most people don't have the energy to
write about such trivial matters...
i'm holding back a few details with
regards to Peter and Kieran...
as you do: for the cinema of memory
has served me well and enough: truly...
the time South Park closed and we were
rummaging in it after hours
like dwarfs of sort
and had to climb over the fence...
Kieran being overweight...
me and Peter managed as i remember
my youth was spent climbing trees...
but Kieran of course had to
mistime jumping over the fence
and managed to almost impale himself
on the fence... lucky for him it was by his
underwear...

truly life is too sweet to write about
such things...
best reserved for memory:
the cinema -esqueness of the project...
  
- i like the clarity presented after
the most timid resort to exercise...
making a journey that would otherwise
take 30 minutes +
via walking for a bottle of whiskey
in a peacock's tail sort of... enterprise
of running, walking fast...
gurgling excess phlegm... spitting it out...
harking aback... almost barking...

i abhor running... a pointless task...
no wonder i started to yawn
from walking... the initial project
dealt with... from circa 120kg down to 104kg
in under circa 3 months...
no more weight loss...
something more was required to push
the weight down to under 100kg...
so i could... remember how it felt
to walk down the road and
have eyes of the opposite ***
insinuate: fuckable...
i wouldn't really demand the 3-dimensional
version of the other traits
that come, necessarily with the load:

a life that's nothing more than
time loaned...
  once i spent ~£400 in a brothel...
     over 3 hours having asked a bank manager
for an increase in my overdraft limit...
faking a funeral... extra expenses: no one died...
so much so that at one point
i was asked whether or not i'd like
a ******* because i already exhausted
three... and maybe ******* twice:
but you never know when
you pull back your *******
and the "helmet" is purple-gleeful
like a bishops' parade blah blah
because that's all that love isn't
which is no bees, no butterflies...
just oysters, flowers... bourbon... octopus /
Hindu deities...
- and to think... the day my libido dies
and the day it dies and it wasn't...
mummified in something monogamous...
it wasn't trialled...
best of all... jazz hands...
executed by an imitation 'gina
       ever since one side: that did all the *******
would bellow: oh no... the women don't...
deer in headlights...
well if it is all "there" but there's no...
outlet...

- 3 to 7 working days for the delivery
of a...
    Trek Marlin 5 hardtail...
       and i guess i don't want to sleep because...
exciting thoughts...
a clarity of placing the body
on the rack of exertion...
or rather a change in perspective...
the distance covered via walking...
a marathon in under 7 hours...
from somewhere in the vicinity of
the greater london outstretch nibbling at Essex...
toward St. Paul's cathedral... and back...
but done... from the perspective of a bicycle...
or from said starter coordinates
toward Epping...

no point keeping this imagination timid...
a thought concerning...
Canvey Island... apparently anything on
a bicycle is... doable...
most certainly... yes... doubly doable...
the image strikes me
from the perspective of walking...
the great involvement of the dimension
of speed... which... in all honesty...
doesn't exist within the confines
of walking... unless of course days turn
into weeks and weeks into months
but man, not this man...
has that many allowances for leisure
of that sort...

some impeding "doom": or rather...
a trial of the wait per se...
even though: no clue as to why i'd wait
for the otherwise inevitable...

conversations in the night:
protection via the sphinxes...
toothless head turned into bull horns
chisel, ram, chisel...
that bonsai tigers have pupils
that have serpentine qualities...

oh to own a bicycle...
is almost like having authority of wind...
and all the flutes of the world...
my self-propelled mechanisation
of horse...
i sometimes wonder whether or not
horses are as friendly as people say they
are... after all...
a cat's bite or scratch is mostly self-invoked...
and thoroughly mea culpa proof...
but being thrown off
a horse's hind into a wheelchair...

paraplegic or whatever...
how friendly, how anything...
more care bound to befriending acorns...
clots of cloud... vinyl mistaken for
liquorice...
the whole shindig bedazzle frothing
at the mouth coup...

but a bicycle is remedy...
i can fathom it more than i'd ever want
to find use for a car...
perhaps a motorbike and all the zest of Zen...
but then from: wriggle worm
into a galloping gazelle
i'm a man that apparently walked...
will now have a second spine...
a variable of prosthetic extension
with no ghost limbs to mind...

well ******* on a whim wasn't readily available...
however much i tried not being
this: son of a mother
but in the grand scheme of things...
a detail of what's otherwise an abortion...
roulette femme...
by chance, by thieving...
by ******, alone...
by a butting in by some marker of solipsism...
by not appreciating anything
from orators akin to Seneca or Cicero...

one glorious **** and then i was out...
like a colt armed (with a) sharpshooter...
circa the months when i was 21...
****... now i'm coming to 35
and life... is still a stampede away
from Pompeii...
wasted or rather stalled...
i'm reaching into the depth
of shadow to find both dog and leash...
and all the other ***** toys...

****** and bicycles...
now it becomes self-evident... only now...
wish upon a star of lefty liberalism:
how does that comatose
spew of strict linear vocab-ulary go...
how everything is authentic... clarity prone...
locally sourced: teeming with
angel dust but never, at any posit of
required introspection... burdened by leeches
or mosquitos of the Christ metaphor
of slurping a bloodied loaf of: bwa...
of bread...

o.k. for now... marriage of oops
and bootlicking flukes...
dirt cradle and a hinterland of a hinterland...
hope for not having fake a day:
i.e. earned that deserving pause
of sleep: no dreams please... no dreams...
too many faces prop themselves up in
the juxtaposition of clouds
come the serenities of the night
that dreams... once cryptic...
by some standards of those who claim
to have found a new-architecture within them...

best without them...
        i would abhor waking up riddled...
i'll find something greying in obsolete come 4pm...
just after the children have made their route
sublime for an ease of breath...
from the school
of a posteriori and into the labyrinth
of a priori of home...
of inheritance "tax"...
              
yes... then and a somewhat stressed "now".

audio me in... tell the b.t. off standards
to change the connection to lie to get to syria...
i wanted to become a butcher too...
not butchering people though...
onomatopeias of resonance of blah... blah...
you know... woollen trill...
i want the target bacon, i want to target bacon
on that ****... head-banging with a pony
while blowing a sheen into a rodin marble
for the glisten of a haircut mare...
dark ivory like purple of a grenade of indigo
blotched with blood...
and spanked / spiked by kandinsky...
i told you i woz a barking gimmick, a barking cult-piece of mafia...
you’ve been warned dear bouncer allotment and semi-detached...
hey kieran - had his kidneys transplanted aged 15...
took to having a ****** aged 16 on the south park fence
when two ******* eyed us and the boys came to make cake...
oi boys r’ us you mention st. petersburg anywhere south of the thames?
i thought so...
make that spelling spaghetti for a kebab of dead meat
appealing:
it’s making headlines, people are fed fat but sugar headlines...
when fat headlines... people will be fed sugar...
salt will never compromise the use of steroids for balloon pop protein
for a mere attire of the bow tie undone with laze.

“I can’t,” she breathed.
“Can’t what?”
“I can’t do this.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, disbelieving. He moved to take her free hand that lay at her side. She drew it away.
“You’re not listening; I can’t do this anymore, any of it. I don’t want to continue on pretending that everything is okay when it isn’t, pretending that you’re okay and that we’re okay when we aren’t,” she said, beginning to sob. “I can’t pretend that things are going to get better when I don’t know that.”
“I am getting better,” he replied, “I’m trying.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I know you do, so why act this way? Why leave when I’m beginning to change? Why go when I am doing this for you, does none of it matter to you?” Kieran cried, “Is there nothing more that I can do to make me what it is that you want?”
“It is exhausting, waiting for you to get back to who you were, to see you struggle the way you do. I can’t watch you try and fail over and over again,” said Briar. “I can’t watch you decay and raise from the ashes only to see that you are what you are born from – that you have not changed at all.”
“Well what then, do you expect me to do it alone?”
“You’ll have to”, she said between tears as she stood. She turned lucidly and walked past the chair where he sat; leaving the television they had been watching to entertain itself. The door creaked as she heaved, and all too quickly, she was gone.

last time i heard: memory is worth more than gold...
well... that's how it seemed
when my dementia riddle grandfather
spoke nothing of memories...
sometimes shifting to current events...
to events of yesterday: family grievances: kept...
like tidy Lego projects...
memory is worth more than gold...
the memory i have of him during the summer
holidays i spent with him
and the last years of his life...
chalk & cheese...
he was a finicky character to begin with...
as you might be:
heard shouting: herr! bite bon-bon with memories
of world war II... and actually running up
to two black-clad SS-men manning
some anti-aircraft thump! pump up lead...
being given sweets and
having to go back home... putting your hands:
glued together... under the tap...
ah... memories... more solid than gold...
quick... no... wait...
german for gold is: geld...
back into latin:
               grammatically it changes...
aurumvelox...
     gold-quick...
           they are: here was a drowning man
gripping to a razor's edge...
what did he have as armour?
memories...
not... don quixotic delusions...
he had... a cinema of memory...
what stalled his final demise....
it wasn't solving a ******* su doku puzzle...
the irony of "mental brain power":
associations with purple throbbing muscles...
oddly enough:
killer proteins **** the fat that's the ******* brain...
oddly enough...
i write: i was never good with crosswords...

i will never be good with crosswords...
but listening to come in with a reel of memories:
i always thought that memories
were exclusively personal: but as an old man might:
share...
his bothered brain skimmed and repeated
itself... at times i think i was talking to someone
frothing at the posit of: in third person...
even though he never consciously ventured
to stress third person pronouns...

interlude: i'm a sucker for pop...
an absolutely sucker...
girls aloud - the show...
it's not a guilty pleasure...
it's just an unadulterated pleasure: period...
i'm not going to turn into a Bukowski
and cite you, you, mythical "you": reader
with a higher taste akin to citing

eh... dogs might be immediately suspicious of
you drinking...
cats are late on the mark...
after all... they ******* for most of the day
into the realm of nacht... nox (noch)
and that doesn't seem t bother anyone...
solipsistic cre-ah-tures...
the hyphens are utilised so that diacritical
markers can be omitted...
i'd love to own a dog...
but... also owning a leash and a muzzle...
walking them in public to take a public ****
and ****...
i sometimes forget i'm not a dog: too...
i like the balancing act i have gathered myself
to perform when ******* at the end
of the garden... five finger chess "groping"
a tree for balance...
sure... the imagination lifts the release
of a waterfall of **** like
i might be getting a circumcision via
some *******... but who cares...
i still have the "excess" skin so i can
do my solo bit... then have to intuitively
pull it back to "perform"...

memory then...
   prior to: Charles Olson... Lamantia, Phillip, no?
i'm starting to think we're misunderstood creatures...
men are... hunters... in the domain of ***?
oh i'll give you "that" women conquer and control
by having more experience...
some beta-provider cuck...
maybe... maybe that's why i prefer
women who tell me to keep my hands off my
phallus when she's enjoying giving me *******...
the experienced woman: i'm hardly a ******:

wait wait... one... memorable ****** encouner
in what became a tease of "abstinence" spanning:
half a decade? of course i'm going to milk it!
it's the ******* equivalent of a:

i'm savouring a "plan": take hallucinogenic
mushrooms when old age finally arrives...
but i'm not willing it to come...
the ******* of what happens under the Hippocratic
arch... there's a...

where was i? apparently "here"...
where's "here"?
i once had an "argument" with a guy in Camden...
well... he prompted me...
i bought him a pint he thought i was hitting on
him...
- you look familiar... everyone's looking at you...
- oh, you know... i just have one of memorable
faces...
the best music producer...
he cited Timberland...
i started thinking of hiking shoes...
i retorted with: Rick Rubin...
the magic he did surrounding johnny cash...
the johnny cash revival...

give the old some new tricks...
of course the cover is better than the nine inch nail
original!
if London is haunting me...
wait till i start haunting it...
all the way from Loughton through
to Stratford... speed-demon on a bicycle...
the juice of momentum straight out of
Beijing... no... believe me: no Mongol army...
we giggle... we leave things hanging: not dragged...

i beg to differ: the authenticity of advertisement
when you don't have the money
to spend... contra: journalistic adventures when
you sponge-of-a-brain-of-prematurely-impressionable
isn't-off-the-cuf­f-"simply"-*******-on...
is that an... "oops" moment...
oh i still have some momentum left in me...

advertising slogans: maxims in vivo!
i trust that more than anything curated by journalism...
stale oh god... the stale rusty propaganda
machinery... i chuckle: i buckle...
here's a keeper of knitted onion ring
being excavated with a copper sheen...

Glasbury...
me, Peter Richardson... Kieran O'Mahoney signed
up for the trip...
oddly enough... not odd at all:
the meningitis curse came...
so did the mad cow disease...
this was prior to us taking our GCSE exams...
they left school while i took up my A-levels...
Kieran became a bouncer at a nightclub:
last time i saw him... last time i saw him
i was walking into an alley to take a ****...
i was handcuffed and was shouted at by some eager
polizei-mensch...
i talked to him calmly why some female police
officer took notes... i was... un-cuffed
and walked home scot-free...
that's the last i remember of Kieran...
Peter though... he was dating this bombshell...
he had some teeth missing... more tattoos than skin...
if wanting the sort of women
that might turn me into "that"?
no... no thank you...

we were supposed to travel to a little village
in Wales (Glasbury)
and experience... i stuck around the education
"prison":... canoeing...
caving... horse-riding (timidly... there was no gallop
invoked)...

i can tell you what book i was reading while
the white boys started to imitate black
boy bulk of urbanity: while sniffing sherbert
playing ping-pong against the walls:
marquid de sade's: ******...
i was first introduced to the jeff buckley
rendition of leonard cohen's hallelujah then...

(sherbert: i don't even, mildly begin
to invoke: sorbet... sherbert... the powdered
dummy gimmick... they sniffed it right before
my eyes... while i read marquis de sade's ******)...

is it just me or... if you've drank enough...
red wine and pepsi: kalimotxo.. aztec revival:
long enough... all the homemade
hard-pressed juice... starts to taste a bit like:
you're drinking... for ****'s sake...
Balsamic vinegar?

- and so we were splint into two groups...
we were only a year apart...
the older girls were dropped off at a location
much earlier to where we were supposed
to find our way back from...
i was in the category of older boys
dropped off with a bunch of younger girls
dropped off much later...

we were given the option:
walk back en route you were dropped off at...
or... read the map...
upon being dropped off
i asked: where are we?
i don't think i was cheating:
all the maps in the city
always reveal a: you are, here!
so i asked and i was given an answer...
i span the: the world-isn't-flat map in real life
and also in my head:
i found a short-cut...
it would involve storming a field filled
with cows... pushing some to sleep
via also invoking a a thunderstorm...

we beat the other team...
this memory is fire in my eyes already
left for dead in my mind...
the girls were exercising in the yard
while the defeated team were walking down
the hill... somewhat mesmerised...
there was no sensation of: i won...
no... there was only: i came first...

Glasbury... in the mess-hall...
all the Celts congregated and excluded me...
i ended up spending each morning
at a table with a bunch of black dudes...
i was the only white in the "confirmation":
who were they?
Ivory Coast, can't tell a Nigerian
from a Kenyan apart?
race was always second... the spaghetti of
ethnicity comes first: like a thirst...
i can be mishandled as a German
or an Englishman by a Pakistani or a Turk...
for a while...
but trip me up supposing i'm Russian...
oh... that's no go...
i will, not, begin with you supposing me
being a ******* *****!

well... wow! aren't we all supposedly: merely:
white?
one whitey sitting at a breakfast table
lined with blacks...
give me that spread of butter:
women tend to ruin things associated
with men associating themselves to men...
only now: while i remember it...
give me a war! not this ******* pharmacological
adventures of the sedated thirst for life!

i've been down this avenue of secrets...
i know where it leads...
"secrets"...
i'm to be most sedated: most crucified...
all metaphors... all metaphors...
if i wait long enough the women will start
to dish out white feathers...
seeing me as some impostor of:
where masculine / machismo ought to lie:
dead...
what's the phrase, turned colloquial?
oh... wait... i knot it...
   "it's...               complicated..."

perhaps i'll refrain from phrasing:
no... i won't...
i'm... supposed to... somehow...
feel... emasculated... for wanting... to live...
in a clean... abode... owning cats:
but being free from feline "perfumery"?!
i'm... somehow... to feed...
emasculation? i want to live in a scent-free environment?
this is the right time: appropriate
of imitating that m.t.v. video of the queen song:
i want to break free?
      
sure: dogs and men and all that:
i don't like owning a leash:
i don't like the idea of taking a dog to take a ****
in public...
i have cat-litter... but on the odd occassion
the cats will take a **** in secret: revenge
against the neighbours...
look at me... walking around the shadow
of a dog's ****: jazz hand clapping
picking up leftovers of a chop suey... mulled:
into a tired worm of an ****: last reserved:
wriggle (put) out...

here's a banknote: piglet smear worth of
"brains" all-over-it...
bend one knee: bend two... hell!
chop my legs off while you're at it!
i always thought myself as being non-racist...
but i can hardly find a least exhaustive route
debating the natives as king:
to find... the anti-racist conundrum...
chop the legs and arms off!
throw the torso into the pool
and watch the para-olympians take turns!

i can be non-racist: african-american though...
when did the Arabs absolve the slave trade?
the 1970s?
last time i heard...
eh... whatever...
                      but i can't be anti-racist...
it's impossible for the Hindus to not feed into
feeling some sort of superiority...
after all... they freely joked when the hilly-billy-benders
of the joke-brigade of...
the Vishnu-halfwits... whatever you want
to call them: decided: Utopia daydream...

hippies! yeah... the squares were all: trouble when
Kerouac made his...
reading...
   i fear fame more than i fear death...
i always have three posits to make a puncture...
you can't read a pulse at the pivot of the wrist!
you have to search for it lower down...
pulse... puncture...
just above the collar bone on the right side...
and under the the right arm-pit...

i fear fame more than i fear death:
i can stomach posthumous fame...
like Christ born on a crucifix...

oh Emma... Emma Emma Emma Emma...
i asked for your picture: you gave it to me:
how badly i wanted to sketch you...
i did...
what a glorious rag of a ***** you later
became...
beautiful... here's me drinking to a lost
ambition of: not being a plumber with you
by my side: ha ha!
just moments are only worth scribbling
into the depth of night...
they honestly are...
what compensational comparative?
spotting a sparrow...
at the en masse graves
of the Germans... fallen during world war I...

siusiumajtki: 16 year old girls:
****-pants...
i don't like inexperienced girls...
i prefer prostitutes...
it's ******* tongue-numbing to have to encounter
these prospects...
it's no fun...i'll leave it to the pornographers
to agitate...
the east... the south... the mongols... the russians...
the Chinese...
whoever... the Pak-stubs...
conquer all you want... i believe i can attest
with: there's nothing worth to preserve:
or defend...

   first you want to defend all the **** erectile joystick
ups... and then... you... somehow...
"forget"... to defend... where all your...
deviances come from... from the carnal farm
of hetrosexuality?
but... what if... some of us... don't want t breed?
where are you going to breed the argument from?
a curriculum of surrogate mothers?
you *******... **** qwanks?!
don't worry... i know my kamikaze pinpoints...
i'll gladly *******...
but don't you require breeders...
don't you require breeders with a consistency
of conservative antithesis arguments
to compete / combat (against)?

well... if no! dodo project worked...
look at me... i'm ******* happy...
mission accomplished!
crystal clear... whatever the hell that "thing"
was... iron maiden clad... the renovation
of thought as soul as salvation prone...
blah blah... blah.

How to write ones final words? How find the will to carry on?
When I know this ship and all - all of this - will soon be gone.
Yet perhaps, if not my bones, at least my memories will be found
Amid the wreckage of a land where none but swaying palms abound.
So may the finder of this bottle bring these words I duly pen
To the family of the sailor - Kieran Dacey Boylan -
Though my body lies in rest beneath the roiling of the sea -
Know my soul forever soars above the verdant Irish lea.

sure, i still live with my parents, can you even begin to comprehend the renting cost of living within the M25? near impossible to attain, i've seen how young people live in shared accommodation, this one Spanish girl who wanted to get a one-night stand with me, she tried to fool the taxi driver by screaming ****, subsequently jumping out of the taxi... the taxi driver hollered at her, i comforted him: i'll pay, don't worry... she lived with... 3 homosexuals... she was so drunk that night... she wanted that cocoon ***, under the bed-sheets... not for me... she was too drunk to begin with... at least in the brothel we do it under dimmed lights... but fully exposed... she called me an angel... later that day she tried to do it again with me, first pretending to relax me by taking a bath with me, we went to the Notting Hill carnival... she must have been talking to her homosexual gurus about my, ahem "impotence"... funny, that, i never seem to be "impotent" in the presence of prostitutes... perhaps she just put me off by jumping out of the taxi & not paying the ******* fare... Tamara... yeah... oh i remember Tamara like it's me drinking coffee yesterday... peer cohabitation... even if you're a drug dealer... it's... *******... squalor: or nearing it... i don't mind people thinking i'm a loser for living with my parents... but... round here... i do the house chores... i do the cooking... my mother has arthritis so she can't do certain tasks... i write my father's invoices... i... get along... am i missing out on casual ***... if i'm not paying for it... i'm not having ***, i'm having a hard time... we met, casually, sure... but the rest of it... out of the window... gone... one redeeming aspect of meeting Tamara, ****-head Tamara... a morning coffee & a robin visiting me in her garden... pretty little bird... cocoon ***... no, thank you... let me just sleep this night... second night still no ***... i was put off! immediately! what sort of woman jumps out of a moving taxi screams **** so as to avoid paying for the: ******* fare?! **** that? exactly... **** that! well, what's the alternative, sure, i could pitch up a tent in Bower Wood... live off acorns... sometimes there's only compromise to be met, maybe that's why i really enjoy talking to old people on park benches, smoking cigarettes drinking a beer, asking them, are you o.k. with me doing this? it always is, since the conversation "goes somewhere"... i know that cohabitating with your parents makes you come off like some Oedipal implosion, but then again: i'm more attached to my father than my mother... if i were living with my peers, i'd be living in a semi-squalor... living with my parents makes me a custodian of the property, living in rented accommodation, ensuring the toilet was clean, the kitchen was clean... **** imploring them to ******* from playing video games while i'd do the cleaning... would, technically make me their slave, their *****... i'll write poetry & the pseudo-science of this art for free... why? i feel like it... it feelz... right... i'm here for the long-run... i'm not looking for short-term investments... i'm looking to yawn for 100 years at least... rough up my knuckles... buckle my tongue Horace! we're going to have a proper party... we'll make it... Pompeii! ******* slags & nunces of the WASP scene... what other living / shelter arrangements are there, left?! the homeless shelter... it's a social stigma to have parentage, to be still living with them? last time i checked, they're mortal... i'll be the one who inherits this house, this garden... plus... i have two libraries of books & c.d.'s & vinyls to mind... i can't, just, move, these! i drink a lot... yet still living in the confines of a... ah... ha ha... an "authoritarian regime"... guess i must be a: good boy after all... but i'm not going to fill the pockets of Saudi or Pakistani landlords... even if that might get be away from the WASP social stigma of living with your parents... like... by 35 i'm not doing all the household chores... i'm not cooking the food... sure... i should be stigmatised... but if i'm involved in giving household involvement... what's the problem? if  living among peers would imply living in a semi-squalor... just so that... hey... i just might land a one-night-stand... with a Spanish broad that decides... it's easier to jump out of a... ******* moving taxi rather than pay the fare... who shares a house with 3 homosexuals... even i think my life's ****** up... but then i went down the psychosis spiral aged 21... not many people do... my language skills: elevated...  like... the English really think they have rightfully inherited the Latin transcript, rightfully? without doing what other European peoples have done, employing diacritical markers?! sometimes i think that i'm walking around, ******* Neanderthals when interacting with these people...

oh... i've seen how it happens... it's not about
entertaining my delusions...
it more about the medical profession taking account
of when: regression is performed...
lucky me: for not dreaming much...
i don't think i can be implanted with false
memories... i was abused as a child:
as a child... being in a peer group:
you're bound to be... period...
outlier involve... walking down a street,
being asked by your elder peer
to open your mouth... snapping it closed...
getting spit in the face...
hello! ******... fellow... whatever...
ROT!
English is my home... England...
does it have to be?!
VER-ROTTEN!
      time flies when... you've been
subjected to pills that make you **** your
bed... you come off them...
you see the whole world are sort of...
the retardation of backwards...
it's fun to watch...
but the "fun" soon ends...
and you simply watch...
lost souls...
you get to build up an empathy...

even with the song:
WUMPSCUT: MADMAN SZPITAL
(SKON REMIX)...
the entrance lyrics read:
nie, przyjęty do szpitala...
not admitted to (a) hospital...

     oh i was diagnoses as psychotic...
schizoid... blah blah...
but... was i ever in a mental health unit?
no... no, last time i checked...
once one psychiatrist tried to play the regression
game on me, i was simply told to:
roam free...
so much has happened since my,
"initiation" circa 2007...
the world has become unrecognisable...

imagine that: diagnosed as mad...
but not admitted to an asylum...
hello "new" asylum... hello "new",
"society"...
it almost feels like... the psychiatrists
tested me for identifying regression testing...
if this "one" gets out...
let's just see... what havoc he might wreck...
to reiterate... i was diagnosed as
mad... but... they didn't care me...
i'm still waiting for my reprimand...
i had sessions witch psychiatrists who
had to invite... medical students... to overlook
the "interview"...

if my barber took pictures of me
before & after...
if my steward supervisor took pictures
of the back of my head with a high-viz.
reading: steward on a high-viz. vest
then... i must be a highly relieved high-agony
animal about to be released into the wilderness
of society... about to...
madden them up!
trivial pointers to look forward to!

but, i wasn't, kept, in an, asylum...
psychiatry supposed me to be more useful...
out, in the, open!
personally? it's no longer entertaining...
it has become a yawn...
hier ist: hier jetzt...

    as it turns out youtube is still the same old
jukebox like it used to be...
for years i've been looking for it...
each passing year i felt disappointed...
what has changed?
the algorithm is pretty much the same...
but it has been given a category "glitch"...
i don't know how for so many years
the bar just below the one or two adverts
just below a music video went-amiss...
oh, it's there: the old algorithm where it automated
a thesaurus sort of search & end results
fed you... similar content...
2021 was the year i wasted so much time
trying to find new music but instead enlarging
my head to watermelon proportions watching
****** opinion videos, ****** political videos...
why did i miss the bar just below the adverts
that sometimes reads:
SIMILAR, DARK WAVE, POST PUNK: ****'s sake:
MUSIC!

it's only 2 hours into 2022 and i'm navigating
youtube much better...
you will not find me watching commentary videos,
not since i've found this: filtering process...
that YOU, yes, YOU have to do...
nothing's wrong with youtube... it's still the same
place it was back in 2016...
the algorithm just became more fiddly...
you're simply not given automated suggestions...

to prove my point... i was in Poland once
& the algorithm had a "glitch"... for about 2 hours
i sat down & clicked on suggested videos,
which turned out to be a rabbit hole of similar content,
i actually made a rubric on a piece of cardboard,
i still have these two pieces of cardboard...
new bands, new music...

it is only circa 2hours into 2022 & i'm finally navigating
the site like i ought to...
the Jules Holland Hootenanny finished at
half past 1am... eh... everything these days has to
be overtly black... sorry...
but that's how it is: i don't even know whether
i want to feel anything about it...
of course i was in good company...
parents... sure... if it was simply my mother i,
i would say: sure as **** is creepy...
but the triangle was there... the food was great...
we talked about... how so few cultures might
ever appreciate a tripe stew...
the guts are from calves, the meat that's added
is from the older stock...

i wasn't going out... i know what an absolutely
disappointment going out is...
the next time i'll be going out is when i get
my S.I.A. badge as i follow in the footsteps of
a school friend of mine... Kieran... Kieran O'Mahoney...
i don't mind... chemistry degree in the bag...
nepotism in the air: my local pharmacy was once
oh so good... before the employees were
****** off by a father & daughter combo...
dad... in a professional environment?!
anyway... i can do this work...
    after all... it's on a PAYE basis & not on a self-employed
basis, which means... oh, the last time i was
employed i was self-employed...
doing your own tax returns can be a bit of a *****...
now the company will deduce the taxes themselves,
which implies: they'll do the tax returns for me also...

i was never going to be a surgeon,
i might have been a butcher,
i was never going to be a lawyer / politician:
i might have been a philosopher,
i was never going to be a professional footballer,
i am most certainly an avid cyclist,
the list is endless...
i tried to be a musician... i'm no maestro akin
to Ed Sheeran... i played the guitar...
once i managed to find a bass player...
we recorded a tape...
once i met a drummer... jammed with him...
but nothing really clicked... so i gave it up...
the guitar playing... plus... my heart broke
when my "supposed" future father-in-law
****** with Cindy... a brand new
Martin & Co. LXK2... i just got it on debit...
if i broke her heart because i was having one of
those... wild... psychotic trips from London
to Edinburgh & back again...
o.k., that really ****** me up...
i played the poker game of DUMB ******
when he told me the guitar... oopsy... "simply"
cracked... **** him, **** her...
i still haven't had paid for the ******* guitar...
yet now i had to cough up debit installments for
a broken guitar...
                              sign me some *******
kumbaya... some auld lang syne... on this night...
of all nights... sure... let me just get you the bill...
there's no forgiveness in this world
as long as memory is attached to many
& man wants to preserve himself without
turning into an Alzheimer's pickle...

for all the talent of ol' Ed... but at least i'm not
a ginger... i don't think i could handle that
sort of a masterclass in how
the geniuses distribute gifts...
after all, there are: angels, there are demons...
but there are also geniuses...
a shady category of beings...
let's pretend they sort of like...
a flimsy take on children...
ingenious little *******...
evil not by evil's intent...
evil by the intent of innocence...

oh, no, not out of spite... some things just remain:
as FACTS... if something happened...
forgiveness implies what?

   MEMORIA NEGATIO?!
funny how the order of words changed... although
the ****** tongue is very much as the French
when it comes to the order of wording...
from memory negated...
  the modern counter would be...
   the negation of memory... but that's a really trivial
point, don't you think?

i too have seen a stroke of lightning:
but heard no thunder...
imagine the eeriness of seeing a strike of lightning
but not hearing the thunder!

it's going to be a good year... i've already managed
to unearth new music i once thought would
be impossible... here's my shortlist:

Flor Concreta - Possessao (2021) from the Netherlands...
Euroshima - Gala (1987)
Flue - one & a half (1981) - post punk, dark wave,
sad lovers & giants - lost in a moment,
reds - reds (1989) from Poland
Twin Tribes - Fantasmas
Exq's - Ris'x (1982) - from Belgium...
the Klinik came from Belgium,
great place to start... the more eclectic tastes
bulging from listen to too much the cure or depeche
mode or joy division...
or... 65daysofstatic...
Torn Memory - Untitled...
Always the Sun - Always the Sun EP...
Brandenburg - Part two (2011)
every new dead ghost - a new world (1990)

oh man, the list had become endless...
if the music shop survived...
i'd be a ******* wizard in it!
believe me, i don't mind shepherding people
into packed stadium expecting to watch a football
match... i once did a teaser...
me, alone, in the park...
drinking a beer... watching a Sunday League match...
headphones in... this one woman was screetching
at this older woman... lip-reading
i deciphered: YOU HAVE NOTHING TO TALK
TO HIM ABOUT... **** could have turned ugly...
minding my own business has, become,
problematic?!

the problem with women who have tamed a man
& the untamed man & the women who "think"
they can tame every, single, man!
*******... i'm having a beer... watching a football match!
these days... i much prefer watch the crowd...

loser, living with his parents...
well.. i'm not giving any money to a Pakistani landlord,
am i? &, last time i checked...
oh ****! i guess i own the house i'm living in!
i'll be playing this service role for some time...
i'll be playing servant to my parents...
clean the house, cook the food...
when the neighbour put up a new fence...
cleared the bushes...
who was the person who dug up the *******
roots, added extra cement to the fence?
me! moi! mich!                            ja!

the best alternative is living with my peers in *******
gaming squalor...
i live with these grandchildren-less adults:
who don't want grandchildren to begin with...
well... how, best, to encapsulate the "situation"...
a pedicure / manicure professional comes
round the house once... oh... a month...
she brings her babe along, sometimes she doesn't...
not even a year old...
i ask... "dearest" mother...
if she coming round, is she bringing the "toy"?!

like i said... i might have been a good father,
then again, not so good...
a baby would be a toy...
a linguistic experiment...
a bit like... what Frederick II tried to envision...
raising new born babes in a nunnery
without a single word being said:
trying to find out what language was
uttered first... obviously the experiment
ended with: mute was "said" first...

inherently? really?
dogs inherently bark...
cats inherently meow?
rather than... ****'s sake... bonsai tigers that they
are... not growl?!
so if dogs inherently bark...
why don't they inherently howl like
wolves?!

yeah, most of the nights: the FREAKS were not
appealed to, put differently
even to me, the DJ wasn't appealing to me...

ha... GAMING... the "point of question"
when i put down my "gloves" my itchy thumbs
given then the PS1...
these days, i love the internet evolution
of gaming,
no, i haven't "gamed" / "passively narrated"
myself into make-shift allowances
of late...
my best comparison... Madame Bovary vs.
Final Fantasy VII...
that's it, the end, *******...

either read Madame Bovary,
play Final Fantasy VII on PS1... or...
this is the best part...
night-cycle...
listening to halcyon+on+on...
who? ******* orbital...
like i'm john peel and supposed to know...

aber, mein gott! what advancements!
in gaming! exactly! in gaming!
internet gaming dynamic has...
wow!
           i missed the best part of silent hill...
oh... **** me... i remember tenchu vol. 1
and metal gear solid vol. 2...
boys remember those games like any
idiot associates chess...
to something...

i hate living with my parents...
i'm their *******, slave...
but i'm also not paying rent,
so it's a Chinese hitch-e-hi... ******* "surprise":
just waiting... for the irch kids to get
their face-lifts... wait a minute...
wait... perhaps like a tsunmi:
they'll arrive... unsuspected...
quasi-surprise...
whatever... they're there... ignorant
right sort of bollocking... humour me dear
he! heeee! long smile: remember that:
that long schmile! heeee! lovely E...
it's a ******* smile! o.k.?!
you're pandering you ****! ergo?!
pander!
you want your skull to be part
of the great wall of XINA?! go ahead
you ******* numbskull... talll... massive...
ergo bully? the Chinese emperors were like
the Egyptian Pharoahs...
******* karakans... midgits...
sort of people... people of power... sure...
but sort of... underwhelmed...
oh look! "'hing pops up in deutsche!"
hing, wong, hang, 'ing...
these days, what does it matter?!
zwergemensch!
   lilly-put... i don't need not German for
this... the little people!
the ******* bash-abouts...
thanks, my grandfather's death...
was... so so... you know sort of.. choke
the ******* dragon and the billionth of your kind
sort of happy! for me!

****, you! eat ****... die a diabolical death!
******* squinty eyed no-mother-*****!
squid eating ***** of a fake tan...
no... Arab camel jockey ******* no goody-goody...
too gooey-gooey?!
WAW what ******* RAW?!
oh but i'm ready...
give me the opportunity and i will be...
the best...
schutz-staffel-mann... the world... has ever seen...
i'll even wave "them" a bye bye...
when they enter the chom... chim... chum... cham...
chem... hmm...
zee! ah! ha ha! zee schornstein!
- and there i was thinking...
why is my surname so funny...
******-Stalin / -esaue...
people add... are you alert?!
i always forget... no... it's German...
Elert is missing E-S-C-H-L-E-R-T...
it's... Eślert... oh... right... you're ING-LEASH...
sort of backwards... the Welsh might...
not your kind... i was never for interracial
breeding of people... dilutes the blood...
most certainly disorientates the ingestion
of language... sorry, what?!

to reiterate: i'm no gamer, i'd rather read a book
thana play a narrtive-charged game...
i'm more into the evolution of the game per se,
something with the alias of chess...
the internet interaction of group-"think"...
i like teaming-up with people...
a clarity of objectives... beacons...

capturing them...
you know how that helps? working in a real
life environment...
via STATS...
WAR ROBOTS was great... prior to...
the Kazakhs, the Russians, the Chinese buying into
the game...
i don't gamble, you think i might invest
money into a game?! huh?! huh?!
yeah, like maybe next year...
WAR ROBOTS was great, before the pay-up
glitches started...
MECH ARENA... now we're talking...

wins / battle ratio...
272 / 508... so that's... 53%... decent...
mech catalogue...
there's always a method to the madness...
killshot - to capture the beacons...
& wreck havoc...
panther - to ****** out the competition...
paragon - armed with the seeker
missile javelins...
close combat, though...
guardian + pulse canon 9
ares + plasma canon 6...

                            i'm not a gamer...
i'm just relearning partnering-up... team work...
sorry, if it might come across as too crude...
TWIST THE KNIFE -
****** DEATH.. hello! sunshine!

yeah... i still live with my parents...
but... they have paid off their mortgage...
i sort of helped them in that...
am i cunting myself
to some Pakistani landlord?!
high-priest of Rotherham?!
buzz word for 2022... NO!

oh i remember it well,
                        since it was the last one i had,
at university
     this judo black-belt started
teasing me: wanna fight, wanna fight?
huh?
            you have a black-belt
in judo, and i have only the experience
of casual brawling? you think
   i'm stupid or somethin'?
anyway, this last fight i was in happened
outside a classroom,
    year 8, meaning both of us were
aged 11 / 12...
         ever see a guy get killed right
before your eye from a single punch
to the head?
                    and you're standing, like...
5 metres away from the incident?
    no?       you should check it out...
i remember seeing it, a crowd gathered,
and all i said when walking away:
       that guy isn't going to see another sunshine's
worth of day, he's going to be sniffing
        pansies from the root up...
anyway, this last fight...
       outside a classroom...
          i even remember the guy i was fighting...
kieran o'ma-ma-ma-**-**-née...
   but at that age, we knew our limits...
body punches, i distinctly remember
  punching him in the kidney area of his back...
the teacher seperated us,
     then he started crying in class...
i just told him to shut up...
and mr. morrison's grimace just stole the whole
show... what class was it?
  c.t.d.             ******* with wood, metal
hammers and whatever tools...
         what's up with kieran these days?
he's a bouncer... standing outside nightclubs;
so who the **** can say, that wasn't
the best lesson he ever learned at school?
but come on... barefist, in the face?
you don't do that! that's not cool!
        body-hits...
                     make it go on for a while...
but if you're going to hit the face...
do what boxers do... wear gloves... for ****'s sake!
            it's just not cool,
esp. if it's a scenario of walking outside
a romford nightclub, arguing about a girl...
****** lay there on the pavement...
          and he just had that sort of "body language"
of resembling a coffin...
that's all i could conjure... like in loony toons...
     where a character turns into a *******;
****** ain't moving... ******'s dead;
but i guess watching a suicide happen will
be more traumatißing.

/                           that make-shift idea for a boxing
glove with
a missing buckle...
          application?

                          forgot st. andrew...

huh?

on the knuckles!
the knuckles!
you need to
strap the belt into
an X, over the knuckles:

to ease the stress...
    basic arithmetic:

   4 X 3

      four knuckles,
three gaps between them...
    X covers the "soft spots":

plus a belt isn't exactly
a boxing glove...
   but it can be...

   when you learn to unlearn
rolling a rizla sponsored cigarette...

oi woi wocky: woo!

   ******* hulligan...

              i was so fed up with
the "peaceful" nature of the people
around me...
  that, i... simply had to start
punching myself in the face;

shame, to be honest:
         i almost could have loved
having shared "syringes"
of a bloodied nose...

   but it was always like:
hmm... brush-over...

                  kieran o'mahoney
though?
                now that was a treat,
punched the ****** right at
the kidney's genesis of
outer flesh...
                     cried like a *****...
turned out to be a night club gorilla...

nice irish, plenty of freckles...

not as bad as i turned out:
"poet" -
        certainly without a rhyme...
and certainly no paragraph
grasp...
    but a 3rd chemistry degree from
edinburgh...

       chubby *******
i'd love to sink my knuckles in...
who?
     kieran...      (kee-         -ran)...

with someone like
                jacob rees-mogg?
can't exactly fight them...
   but... you almost want to **** on them;

******* doesn't even know
how to boil an egg, with the 'ay 'e speaks!
can't be daft and be: astute with
a "coowect" english...
    maharaj... r'ah r'ah:
                      jolly... *******!

i'm starting to think about
his adam's apple...
      a bit like i'd think about an oyster.

first you want to rob me of a mother tongue,
then you want an uncle tom's worth
of an english person?
   what's next, chimps with rucksacks?
you're pushing the line, kind anglo!
you're really pushing the ******* barrier!
you think i'll treat my next-door neighbour
like a king? you ******* kidding me?
the **** deserves his: "compliments":
what are these people think they are?
sacred hindu cows?
**** em, a pleb is a pleb, doesn't matter
what country of origin...
do i see your face on a banknote, or nodding
with a crowd? no... well then...
plebs till the field, ****!
why? i know all too well why
monster magnet covered three kingfisher
by donovan...
           so? go **** yourself...
     i didn't want capitalism in my land,
you didn't want capitalistically competitive
economic workers...
  shame on you! you taught your sons nothing!
if i wanted to teach leeches, i'd teach them:
we attune to the hunger.
i don't feel jealous with my neighbour,
i'd just like to beat, the ****, out of him...
   if he owned a bulldog, i'd punch the dog
first, before starting an aim at him...
but that's how it goes: gotta punch
the slobber...
   honest to god i don't remember being
in the last fight since i was 12...
i miss the fighting... i feel: rusty...
  no amount of ******* celibacy
does the trick...
            i just haven't been in fights...
i scratched my head more times than laid
a plum pouch...
          in the years i can remember...
i'd love a ruffle with a fellow man
just as i'd love to have intimate *** with a woman
outside the appeal for prostitutes...
sometimes it comes along, that dog
on a leash: loss of object-object riding
the donkey pleasurable: goof ball and
side-tracking the end result...
       "relationships"...
first i watch the ***** of candidmommy,
and then comparative "literature"
of donovan's vs. monster magnet's
three kingfisher...
            beat ****, esp. if:
by bloodhound gang -
ain't nostriptease if the stripper is crying...
and my neighbour?
   he doesn't own a crown,
he doesn't own an amnesty international
immunity,
         ****, i'm starting to think that
missing fighting is worse than missing ***...
so i started punching myself in the face,
and while wearing sunglasses,
seeing them fall off my visage after a lazy punch...
i know that men can really get worked up
over not having enough ***,
but that's sadistic, playing this game of
****** endeavour with them...
i'm starting to realise that,
   what i really miss?
  it's almost homophilic, in that:
    i miss punching someone...
       i miss being punched,
  i miss punching someone, but not it a sport
affair of competition,
i mean: the rough & tough impromptu...
i miss that more than ***...
i'd love to have a fight with my neighbour...
naked, and the ultimate fetish of such a scenario?
smeared in olive oil, or smeared in
butter...
     like some gag's worth of a gay pride brigade
march parade... the charlie salvador
reenactment type...
oil up ***: foul mouth 'as to speak...
beauty punch that lad into a botox pair
of puckers...
           i swear to god,
i miss having a fight more than i miss having
*** with a woman...
   last kidney pie i ever made was with
kieran o'mahoney...
               in school, before a c.t.d. lesson...
thank **** he's a nightclub bouncer
these days... too the skin-head to
the butcher of scalps: and made a decent
living, looking fat, and ugly... miracle!
        yeah, i know, i have a chili's worth
of tongue waggling...
   i can't say i'm a decent fight,
       let's just say: i'm rusty...
        so i beef up, punching myself in the face
a few times, every few days...
sometimes i manage the lazy grit
with a plum hue on my knuckle...
          sensibility of talking the proof,
after having engraved yourself as a tattoo
on a *****'s ****...
         and: well: the pleasantries
of western woman's freedoms,
and their subsequent harems...
oh believe me: i still have dream-contents
akin to a child...
    i'd still prefer to have a proper fight,
than ******* my favourite **** star;
i'm building up a compendium...
         don't worry, i'm not squirm-ish;
all i have to hide, is an afro's worth of *****,
which i would invite a gardener to sort out,
had i, a regular partner to engage with.

it's amazing that i once had the idealistic fancy of loving, rather than owning a woman... not that i realise there is no point if let's say chance of loving a woman, because only owning a woman is guaranteed... i find it much easier, owning a dog, or a cat, or enough ****** hair to put off enough women guarding a bikini line.

for some strange and ****** odd reason,
i love punching myself in the face,
reason being: i can't remember the last
time i punched a paddy silly
in the kidney region, as i did,
back in high school -
name? a kieran o'mahoney;
kissed that paddy's kidneys
with my knuckles right a proper
readied poach of the frigit fist:
he ought to know, he was dangling
off a south park fence by his
underwear, screaming like
a homer simpson: who invented
the ****** carousel!
       he had to lift the ****** off
his impaler commune of vlad's
choke joke with citation needed:
never seen an irishman on one
of these,
   i can't but laugh in oink.
             i miss those days, i remember
chasing this slavish blonde *******
while kicking him in the **** with his
big brother having to intervene...
but i kept punching as if it was a screening
of *fight club or
the viking raids, but never rapes...
       i actually fall asleep thinking
of ******* an english girl without ******
her...
     i never get to **** her,
so she's oh so pristine...
            she prefers the elder gents it
would seem...
so i keep punching myself
for mere amusement -
        and while i turn my tired
knuckles into plum from ivory beneath
a pink membrane of agitated skin,
   i think somewhat of what begins
with shamrock, and ends up a purple
thistle...
                 then i think of georgie
and wales...
        and then i think of nothing
much to be added...
       the closest i came to a princess
margaret was an australian lass...
      i thankfully stopped wishing for
an english lay...
   i just found those pakistani gangs
****** english girls,
  that tad bit more: entertaining:
phew! jealousy just flew out da window!
after all, she was the one with
the "surprise" -
    i was expected to be salvaged
as the perfection of fatherhood -
       with an un-awaited pregnancy -
next time make sure to remind me
to put on three pairs of condoms,
and a rubber glove, and a wellington boot...
just to make sure...
      i'd sooner **** a monkey
by this sort of "bargaining" tactic
than a women in her prime,
or better still:
       bargain with a grandma's worth
of debate about the post-office...
how i wish i'd been able to love women,
but how impossible
  loving women was made impossible,
by women themselves,
   i once craved to love the opposite -
how i once craved to love women,
then came the reality of the opposite
suggestion:
     matt, become a farmer,
cows and pigs and dogs, mice and cats,
and figs will love you more,
than that "thing" you so desire -
sooner a tongue in an oyster shell
will feel more pleasure,
than that **** of yours, in an imitation
of a mollusk;
              oops: matt, please,
give it to the arab...
                   he's already been pussified -
there's no way you can harm
that camel-jockey;
and that is, a very sad realisation formulated
to verse,
          i once had juliet on the tip
of my tongue...
        now my tongue is but a vaginal
flap of juliet's genitals,
and my ideal is as close in romance,
as me, romancing my mother,
which means: so your orangutan cousin,
twice removed, is looking for a partner?
i might as well punch myself in the face
once more, grow a plum on *******
knuckle... and reimagine
not being gay, while at the same time
talking to plato: ah, the woman, that ideal
dream...
  that comes, and suddenly goes -
like an insurance policy;
well, it was worth the dream,
     dreams are nice...
   at least they continue to be re-lived as
the perpetually unlived, unreal; ideal;
which actually allows observing real women
all the more disgusting,
which makes all women akin to one's
own mother...
     and that's in a non-oedipal sense of
constipated intellectualism -
from a **** i came, unto observing
the **** i go.

ah... what a day! what a day! i've been through so much
******* in my 20s i once thought about hanging myself
from a branch... i tried it... lucky for me the branch
broke...

of course the gods turn those who they want to destroy
mad... look at what happened to Hercules...
they drove the poor chap mad... he never recovered...
me? one of the gods sent unto me a choir of singing
beings in a church: i never figured out
whether it was a god descending...
or the devil ascending...
after all: i imagine all the fallen angels were once
part of the choir...
that's why i kept my mouth shut during the experience
and as the great wind dispersed the choir
into silence i phoned my then girlfriend having ran
out of the church imploring her:
i'm at the Camden post office depot...
i've been walking around London smoking
marijuana and meditating on hunger:
i asked her to: i implored her to come and save me:
to bring me water and bread...

she didn't come... *****... that was back in 2007...
very funny events have happened since 2007...
the 2008 crash... the civil war in Syria...
the great migrant crisis of 2016: i see those "banana boaat"
guys lately... speaking ancient African and H'arabic...
they're now the deliveroo guys on scooters...
i could, never, ask, someone, to, bring me, something:
i'd cycle to the shop for myself...
what lazy ***** am i living among?
anyways... that was then... since 2007 i feel
i'm driving in a car that's supposed to have 4 wheels:
we're making it on 3: we? sorry... i am making it on two...
but... it's like that quote from the poem
by w. b. yeats: the centre cannot hold...
i fear that once i die all hell will be let loose!

because i don't know whether it was the devil
ascending for a confrontation with god:
hey! stop treating me like a mushroom! humanity's
brain fungus... they already discovered lysergic acid...
sure... i sometimes think...
jellyfish and mushrooms... you cant exactly ingest
a jellyfish... but you can eat a magic mushrooms...
mushrooms clouds over Hiroshima and Nagasaki:
the big mushroom counterfeit:
we've been hiding in your brains: ha ha...
no look... mushrooms driving the mammalian species
of the highest kind: and... eh...
some of us received genes from the people who
first invested magic mushrooms...
the rest? what humanity would look like:
incrementally backwards... bitter... sane... normal...
easily manipulated but also easily loved...

now i'm sitting having this celebratory
whiskey-pepsi sharpshooter self-congratulatory drink:
on my own: i learned that drinking alone does
me more good than drinking with people...
i used to drink with "friends": until they started
to bore me... i find myself my own company...
and i keep it...
              well: it must have been some special marijuana
to have conjured up such a potent AUDITORY
"hallucination"... which is good:
all the Beatniks never found any auditory hallucinations
on marijuana: they just talked bad poetry
over mediocre jazz... and felt: goo good...
then they started tripping on acid and: fan + **** =
****** fan... don't (i know, it's supposed be doesn't)
spin...

a whiskey / pepsi sharpshooter? the proportions
are inverted... if a normal mixer is 3 to 1 pepsi to whiskey...
then a sharpshooter is a 1 to 3 pepsi to whiskey...
but i'm having one...

why? i'm self-congratulating myself...
on a whim i was made a supervisor today...
i badly wanted to land this one...
eh... supervisor at Wembley: also on a whim is one thing...
but the London Stadium? West Ham?
that's different... as a steward and a breaker
i already built up a rapport with the crowd...
i get the per usual hug from about five people
i befriended for? sitting in the rain and smiling...
sitting in the ******* rain: soaked: and simply smiling...

i must have a devilish smile, ergo...
but i'm done with hating myself or being unsure with
myself...
point being... there's this guy in the company...
mein gott! zero... ZERO self-awareness!
he lives by some weird script...
even the guy with cerebral palsy has more respect:
i actually like Martin... he walks like he's drunk
but at least he's aware that he has cerebral palsy...
he knows he has it... he knows it inhibits his full
potential... he knows it... he's self-aware...
and that's why no one minds it...
everyone overlooks his disability with an air of
conscience and dignity: since?
he can make self-deprecating humour...
and overcome his disability...
but this guy? the one who i am about to mention?

he's ****** up as well... but ****** up physically
with an added twist on the mental side...
people already started quoting him because he
quotes himself...
  1. in my twelve year's experience as a steward...
2. in my career as a steward...
one manager throws a box of new bibs
on the floor and tells him to open it...
   calling him all sorts of things while he struggle
to open the ****** box...
looks at me and: with a face that hides a smile...
big boy... bigger than me bearded: like me...
it's such a baby face... i just give off the most genuine giggle
because there's no punch-line there are
only insinuations of a joke...

i like Daniel: whenever he's trying to make a point...
in England there's this ugly practice of shortening names:
Matthew becomes Matt
Anthony becomes Tony
Daniels becomes Dan
Alexander becomes Alex... i hate it...
i once called Dan Daniel and overheard someone
call a Matt Matthew and both reacted in the same
way... my mother calls my Daniel, my mother calls me Matthew...
ha ha... this sharpshooter is really working...

not even Bukowski had this much fun writing
about the "drudgery of work":
spend your 20s outside of the workplace mingling
with people: spend at least 10 years in solitude:
**** those 7 years in Tibet alongside Heinrich Harrer...
just spend 10+ years in England...
isolated... schizoid-probed... medicated for
imaginary conditions: become fat from
anti-psychotic medication... then! ah! like a phoenix!
spend those years in England:
i guarantee you... they will break you...
then? relieve you... release you...
i remember the last words i told my 4th or 5th
psychiatrists when she asked me
what book i was reading:
   i was more into talking to her as to why i was
drinking more as to why my mother was undergoing
spinal surgery: KANT! critique of pure reason!
and when i get out of here: i don't know what i'm going
to do!

to hell with being misdiagnosed as a schizophrenic
when you've had my experiences...
i already told one psychiatrist after another:
i cured my "schizophrenia" by bilingual...
i hardly think schizophrenia is a smart-disease:
it's a contradiction of symptoms...
to be able to hallucinate in two languages
i've "tested" it: no! i've proven it!
you can't hallucinate in two languages!
which side of me hallucinated? the acquired English
part of me? the ****** born with it side?
nope... i'm still to get a postcard from Tartarus...

it's so much fun being love by people...
this supervisor came down from the upper levels
to say hello to me, shook my hand and we hugged:
i was his breaker at the Red Hot Chilli Pepper gigs...
but the simple words he uttered:
i just had to say hello...

               it makes all the difference some people like
Bukowski sociopaths aspire to in terms of milking fame...
those words: i want to become famous regardless
of the people in my vicinity:
i want to died with a: rest in peace...
to hell with mortal fame: sure...
fame postmortem? i'm fine with that...
but when i'm dead... not when i'm alive...

this girl Harini who i disclosed to: the third eye
of Shiva? yeah, i know about it... i used to smoke marijuana
and practice: res vanus, i.e. nothing thinking
in the park: i wanted my internal monologue
to die... i wanted the "audibility" of my thinking:
my internal monologue to die...
and? hell... it died... but she was so giddy about:
Matthew is my supervisor!

but this guy... let's call him Mark Leg-It...
bro... issues...
12 years of experience as a steward and he can't
stomach the idea that someone who started
this "career": it's a ******* job... once i'm one year in
and i'm rewriting my curriculum vitae and
moving into teaching: this job: not a career is
only rewarding once you advance...
staying put is a bit like sitting in a car pretending
you're driving... **** that...
i need more intellectual stimulation:
i don't think i need to teach chemistry per se...
to teenagers... i think i need to teach
the generalisations of ontology to primary school
children: find my Abraham's ***** vortex...
drop my heart that's the size of a pebble
into a lake of feelings of dawning hearts of children...

i like shaking hands... perhaps that's my approach...
but this guy is so bitter...
he has this nervous tick of swinging his head
back to the side: Dan remarked once:
he probably wishes he had long hair
and could flick it...
but the guy with cerebral palsy is likeable:
because he's self-aware... this guy?
he takes himself too serious!
people in "the company" scold him... i just play
it best... ignore him... let him cool
off his pickling heart...

there's always one...
i had 13 stewards under me and 3 breakers...
man... we worked like magic... everyone had a break...
i used more body language than language itself...
constant reminders to the younglings:
take care of the crowd: keep looking up...
i envisioned a tongue of finger pointing
and hand rotating whenever they were paying more
attention to the game (west ham vs. manchester united)
than the crowd:
personally? Jack Grealish is still the ******* son
of David Beckham... sorry... he just is...

people of little or no authority: when given any?
behave like tyrants...
i tried the approach of: there's a stick
and there are three carrots...
body language translations stimulate more than
verbal "reprimands... it's also always good
to giggle... this once instance i told a guy:
up up up! indicating my pinky ring middle index...
as i was walking back into position
i saw him standing up... ha ha... ha ha...
i walked back to him...
i didn't mean get up! i meant: look up!
so he sat down...

mein gott! even with Gerry: i became an advocate...
she told me she was a heavy drinker...
she told me: i had an "AURA"...
that i was likeable... i had a way with language...
i told her: i came to England when
i was 8... no prior knowledge of the language...
i used to spend afternoons crying in the toilets
of a primary school:
the exact words: thrown into the deep end:
no?! ******! swim!
that's how i learned English...
then one day... i was "born" with it...
she's Irish i'm ****** we compared the good
relations before the altar of hip-joined Catholics...
how ****** girls marry Irish boys...
each time she sees me she just hugs me...

i hate authoritarians principles...
sure... i was given some authority... but, did i abuse it?
ha ha... petty power for petty people...
it's the perfect cauldron of events that shouldn't take place...
danke gott...
the milk of the son was squirting all over us
today...
poor Gerry's concerns came to fruition...
an old woman was looking queasy to say the least:
turned out she was having a heart aneurysm...
for the first time i called in CONTROL with
a confidant voice... PAPA 2.3 - i need medical support...
lucky for the woman she was taking into
the shade of the stadium and was given treatment:
all the extra water i brought her didn't help...

then in alley of the stadium some guy hollered up
to me? we're baking up here!
water fountains all around the fountain...
but it's an East London mentality?
what did i do? throw a bottle up to him...
lucky throw: lucky catch...
i remember this one instance in the school playground:
i hated this guy for how puny he was...
me, Peter Richardson, Samuel Richards...
we used to watch WWF... drink cider under-age...
Kieran O'Mahoney... run into car parks
and spit on people from the roofs...
i was the only one who managed to land
a proper pigeon's **** of phlegm on one guy...
when Ilford was primarily Irish laden...
i men and throwing...
this bottle throw sort of reminded me of this
one instance in the playground...
as boys do in school: they huddle in groups...
i said to the guys: watch this...

oh man! i lobbed this tangerine straight at the head
of the guy i didn't like... it was: PIN-POINT...
it was a needle "metaphor"...
Peter just cracked up breaking his stomach...
i then ran up to the guy hit by a tangerine
in the head and told him outright: you report this...
we're "talking" after school...
i got into more trouble trying to push
pictures of Pamela Anderson in primary school...
jumping onto rail track in secondary school
and also selling dangerously explosive petards
in secondary school... ha ha...                doo n00b...

but that throw of the water bottle felt like
throwing that tangerine at that guy i didn't like at school....
Dave... oh **** me... i can't remember his surname...
he's still recovering on social media
trying to compensate his... "life"?
with pictures of the car he owns...
and the insurance he owns on his car...
and whatever the hell is implied by owning
a car and living in the vicinity of London...
i own a bicycle and a pair of strong legs:
i'm happy... that's the thing...

i'm finding myself more and more in this state...
it's hard to describe: it's... it's: happy-sad...
there's melancholic intellectualism very much akin
to Michel de Montaigne...
but there's also a happy-sadness that's...
it's infatuating: it's the sort of happy-sad that makes
you enjoy the company of prostitutes beyond
belief... it's... it's... the equivalent of
the hyper-inflation that happened in Weimar Germany?

what has truly helped? apart from listen
to some relevant modern music: Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
i don't understand the "flavour" surrounding
the constant celebration of the Beatles or the Rolling Stones...
why Beethoven is "being" unruly over
the glamour of Handel... i don't have a "favourite"
music... there's either music: or there's no music...
there's just... the wind...
or there's metal grinding metal grinding
metal between Liverpool St. and Bank of the winding
Dune worm of London of the tube...

i like seeing people happy...
i like when the shift ends and some random girl
walks up to you:
her prior supervisor:
a mega-super-***-boss-*****-little-******-in-disguise
has issues:
i tell the same girl: just work with me...
i can't promise you eating lotus fruits or
ambrosia... but just work with me:
as she does... and at the end of the shift
i hear the words: it has been a pleasure:
working with you... JOB DONE...

treat animals: at least the ones you pet:
i don't animals readied for slaughter
as a tier above yourself: then translate
that dynamic onto other human beings...
what spatious geometries without
geometric constraints you can create...
the 16 of us worked like clockwork...
mind you... the English traffic system?
perhaps illogical to the rest of the world...
but? when you come to a roundabout?
what's clockwise? driving on the left side
of the road, or driving on the right side
of the road?
the LEFT! the LEFT!
how do the hands of the clock move?
from "left" to "right"... no?
the rest of the world makes no sense...
i have such spiritual kinship with
the anglo-saxons that's hard to believe i have
any to begin with:

you come to the roundabout
"thinking" about a clock... how do the hands move?
"right" to "left", or "left" to "right"?
obviously the latter!
even as a cyclist i know that the route
of traffic: the impetus for GIVE WAY comes from
the right...
what saved me? neo-folk neo-pagan Scandinavian
and Germanic songs...
i don't listen to modern pop music...
i'm sort of deaf to it...
                if Frank Zappa liked Bulgarian tunes...
i'm honing onto a listening project myself..

i love working... there's a detrimental to
not working... or, rather: not making oneself available...
how much is worth learning from
the Protestant work ethos...
                  i wouldn't want to work the work
of investment banking:
as much as i learned from the work associated
with: working by paid work by work done...
by the Xlnm of tarring and carpeting the "skies"
(roofs) with felt from roofing...
as much as paid productivity allowed:
i like the longer hours...

i really had to get on m'ah... ******* bicycle
to know my way around London...
working out a pseudo-touristy vein of
"sigh-seeing" armed with only
a pair of legs and a tube map...
no... not really...
from the nearing outskirts of greater
London - teasing the M25 by something
like 7 miles...
and cycling in past the A406
through little Bengali-land of what used
to be a somewhat of a 'ebrew stronghold
of Ilford... Gants Hill... Barkingside...
what happens before a "white flight"?
the tribe flees...
i do remember Ilford when it entertained
some Kosovo-Albanians...
they'd huddle in coffee shops and
dream-up the fate of their nation...
what's that cycling route SC2... S2C?
from all the way that's Romford...
through to Stratford...
and into the sq. mile territory...
then across the river...
over some bridge... toward Clapham...
teasing Brixton...
you know... i greatly admire the concept
of res vanus when i'm bi-cycling...
i also greatly adore the fickle nature
of two wheels... teasing 30mph downhill...
balancing on a bicycle...
well... it's not exactly a juggling act... is it?
but i very much adore O: i very much adore
the freedom from thought:
by-cycling allows this much...
i never liked the need for
the cartesian: res cogitans...
            so much "thinking": the bluntness
of all this fudge-packaging narrative...
as a res cogitans construct you must
be "thinking": narrating... no?
blunted senses...
people walking into your cycling lane
at the bus stop... you exclaiming:
******' 'ell... since the bicycle isn't a worry:
the worry comes from you causing harm (etc.)
so much vanguard emptiness
to heave, sow, experience... like being
injected with a gust of wind disguised
as a wet, ****...
to-ast!
  a minor route today...
via Barking... some Irish immigrant who
started working as a bouncer in
a nightclub... who i remember being
unable to jump over a south park
fence left dangling on a " stirrup"
of his wedgy...
how he didn't lose his ****
virginity to a park fence pike:
i will never know...
well, i will... i was there...
and who other than peter richardson
helped me lift ol' chubby from his
"debate", ever, so... swiftly...

kieran o'mahoney...
we were lined up for a lesson in
practical works...
we ended up boxing...
i massaged his kidneys
and there was a thrill to be alive...

suppose these places could become
these: whittle buddha-kingdoms of sort...
suppose i didn't wake up in the middle
of the night: completely upside-down...
in my bed... after watching too many...
too many... wandering stars...
like the moth that i am:

via Ilford through to Barking...
well... i heard horror stories about Barking...
how it became "infested"...
i feel uncomfortable when in Warsaw:
among my "kindred"...
among the same ol' ****** wandering: bligth
i don't feel comfortable among fellow Polacks...
trust me in giving no favours to
Germans or Russians either...
apparently Barking is this *******...
Dagenham?! probably...

i'd sooner sift through... sink. drown...
through a sham'b'oh of a tonne of curry
than pretend to care to have to elevate
the spectacle of an English roast...
it's not like the French weren't already quizzical
about the the doubly-butchered beef
of the English...
in the time of Dickens the poor were fed
oysters...
sooner me in a tonne of curry
than lining to a bow of: fake... fake!
fake! integration!

i'll retain my tongue: mother: for my concern
for an intact soul...
it's not like a Volatire could be given this
dilemma and the status of Fwench...
no?
the Hindu and his ******* Sanskrit...
feeble creatures on the outskirts of
where Rome breathed...
only unique via accenting certain letters
while English: lingua al fresco...
is... well... devoid of such umlauts
and carons and...

short story be told with much less
editorial focus...
well... d'uh...
if not now... then when?
Barking was this supposed shitshow
of other people's lives...
Canning Town extension...
having cycled through the through...
well i agree...
there is a chance to spot a mythological
blonde specimen walking freely
in the vicinity of some major obstacle
of sky...
it's like... the niqab does extend
into keeping this canaries
in the coalmine of not being seen:
except when paraded in **** flicks...
beside the point...

that stretch of land from Barking toward
Becontree...
well.. anywhere is a nowhere without a sun
glistening the rough edges...
of trimmings of... detail...
but when the sun shines...
and it does shine...
even... Dagenham... even Barking...
for ****'s sake...
appears appealing through all that filth of
excessing into concrete, labours...

Huns invented the stirrup...
i won't bother chasing the correct answer:
who the **** invented the peddles?
can you ride a bicycle without employing
that detail of: pedals?
then why the **** did people ride horses...
without.. stirrups?!
i imagine riding bulls...
revise those paintings of battles
that employed horses...
replace them with bull-charges...

anywhere can be a ******* when the sun
isn't shining...
honest to god and no god:
but the cliff edges of the Faroe Isles
look best when: the sun isn't poking
it pretty face through the clot of cloud...
but places like Dagenham... Barking?
shine a little light on this: creak in concern for
thrill...
on the crackling like pork on a pike
sort of concrete adventurism...

strip the big back toward
a belt and shoe...
some other purpose of
a roundabout....
no, i too... "see" no... "other"....

it's not peoples' pleasures
and there's a marble arch...
it's that there's an arching
of supposed marble...
there's the truant tourist: touristy...

               i fake to go fully blog.

title: \scrap\
body:
/methods/
|in|
/to/
|and| \back\ - a 502 bad gateway bypass

well, you drink, get up, you drink some more,
you vacuum the house,
you correct the tomato soup your father has
started, blitz it up, sieve it,
add more Kashmiri chilly powder, sugar,
two chicken stock cubes: the sour cream will
be served individually... you'll cook the vermicelli
later on...
maybe it's just me: my parents instilled in me
a sense of dis-belonging to my fatherland...
since i left Poland when i was 8 years old...
they instilled in me the "argument":
what has Poland ever done for you?!
well... when the regime changed...
and my father married up... my mother's father:
my grandfather, was a known Communist Party
member, that's why he rose in rank
to become a foreman: brigadier in the metallurgy
industry... so after the regime change:
stigma... obviously...
what did Poland ever give me? erm... ah ha...
a childhood... my memory bank goes as far back
as being 4 years old... that's the expanse
of my consciousness... 4 years old... standing in
a darkened room... watching a football match...
Lothar Matthäus was my hero...
Germany was my favourite team...
          maybe because his surname sounded like
my name... maybe i'm just a reincarnated German...
even though: i don't believe in reincarnation...
an abhorring idea... i.e. there's only a fixed number
of souls... migrating from one zombie body to
another... but i'm thinking... Poland has always been
human traffic junction...
name them: Mongols, Huns, Goths, Vandals,
Russians, Swedes... there was even an elected Saxon
king... Scots... perhaps an ancient past has woken
up in me... "my" people once spanned the lands
between the Baltic Sea and the Black Sea...
"we" used to own Kiev...
        so my father left me when i was 4... he in turn
was abandoned by his parents: raised by his grandmother
and her second husband... so not really his grandfather...
first grey hairs at 18 taking care of him...
an alcoholic father who was a diligent worker
but who tended to sleep on park benches completely
out of it: my father would get the grunt and jokes
about his father: who abandoned him... blah blah...
oh, my father's a ****** when it comes to drinking...
a complete teetotaler... i haven't been so "lucky":
i just enjoy it too much... esp. when cooking or doing
household chores, gardening or... ahem: this...
doodling...
my mother left me when i was 6... we were all reunited
all the way in England when i was 8...
allegiance? well... perhaps if we weren't deported
when i was... starting year 7 at Canon Palmer R.C. School...
i had to lie that my grandmother died...
i just remember punching the wall... crying...
giving the Home Officers a death-stare when
he commented on me having a nice p.c. -
watching my father and mother get hand-cuffed...
we left two weeks later and i spent a year back in
Poland watching the 1998 world cup,
reading Umberto Eco, the Little Prince...
     was home-schooled... focused on the math...
again... thrown back among people who
didn't speak English... a bit like being thrown among
people who didn't speak any Polish...
ping-pong! even my grandmother remarked
that i was losing my capacity to speak my mother tongue...
all in all? i reckon it was a good thing...
since i doubled down in my "schizoid" bilingualism...
i wouldn't speak English in private... i still don't...
no chance am i going to play the atypical immigrant
plotline ranging from India to somewhere
in Africa where first generation immigrants
don't teach their 2nd generation immigrant children
their mother tongue: to fit in... to "integrate":
while those kids rebel against the whole establishment
and blow themselves up: why? out of spite for
their parents... unconsciously... they might think it's
against their host country... but it's unconsciously
against their parents... for not leaving them an open
avenue with a chance to return: should they wish...
to speak their mother tongue...
  but now i wake up... hmm... what did Poland ever
do for me? i remember being spat in the face...
by fellow countrymen as a young boy...
my grandfather's reputation as a Communist Party
member spread? who knows...
children are cruel... the change of guard was certainly
the pivotal reason why my parents immigrated...
fun facts from world war II...
it took **** Germany and Soviet Russia longer
to subdue Poland...
than it took **** Germany to subdue France...
i mean... France... Napoleon... a colonial superpower...
but that's how it goes... i'm sniffing gunpowder
on the doorstep... what does Poland owe me?
what do i owe, though? splendid first 8 years of my
life... childhood was more fun in Poland
than it was in England, there was a sense of community,
of belonging... all that shattered: disappeared in
England... even though... those weekends spent
with Peter Richardson and Kieran O'Mahoney...
yeah... no complaints there... we used to run round
5 storey car parks and play a game of spitting
down on people walking in...
   this one time i managed the impossible... my phlegm
landed on a guy's head... oh the joy we shared...
a security guard caught up with us: but we blagged
our way out of it...
whatever my feelings concerning Ukraine: historically...
the UPA genocides of Galicia...
and in general... but at least... we're taking in refugees...
women, children... unlike Western countries with
their superiority complex... we're better... because we've
been taking in... cultural enrichment gangs
of fighting age men... where was that?
                           Cologne? hmm... my my...
                      ref-u-gee?! i'm gleeful at the irony in all
of this... but i'm waking up thinking... **** me...
explosions as far west as L'viv... hmm... that's what?
2 hours from the border from the fatherland?
should i be thinking about conscripting?
      well... if i still didn't have a job... by now...
                         i'd be thinking about nothing else...
but it's on the cards...
       hard to imagine... but that there's a real chance
of me conscripting to go to war...
like: i would never celebrate war in poo'etry...
      venerate the warrior... i'm far too an existentialist
to give into the myths of war...
it's just new... there was never a prospect akin to this
ever... for me at least... but now it's on the cards...
would i pledge my allegiance to England
as more important than pledging my allegiance
to Poland? should the most horrible happen?
      being a dual-national... i have all the paperwork...
i have the tongue... the prospect of me settling
down with an English girl fizzled out completely with
Jeminah and that trio of storms that raged over
England days prior to the Russian invasion...
i translate that as a butterfly effect...
a broken heart in England and elsewhere... Russian troops
stomping their boots...
   and believe me: there are more deluded people out
there... western leftoids who are just a headache when
it comes to this subject matter...
for me... even contemplating conscripting in the ******
army feels... rather... surreal?
    but if one has to level a few КAЦAП heads
so be it...              whatever needs to be done...
etymologically, i think this intra-racial slur lent itself
from the word: KAPTUR... meaning hood...
   since... it would almost take forever for England
to be threatened and i still hold a little grudge
against England for being deported when i was a child...
2nd time: oh... all manner of legality...
but seeing how England started treating ethnic minorities
(even though i am, technically an ethnic minority,
ethnicity comes prior to race)
sort of ****** me off, a little, an itsy-bitsy bit...
esp. how these ethnic minorities started gloating
and boasting, blowing themselves up...
   eh... just an itsy-bitsy bit of me tells me:
i might just have to pledge allegiance to a country
i only spent 8 years in... and the summers with my
grandfather from the ages of 13 to... 21...
even though i'm not equipped with those people's
mentality... i don't know... i really don't...
but pandering to racial minorities: that are no longer
******* racial minorities...
whenever race comes to the fore and ethnicity is
ignored... it's a bit like telling a Welshman he's English...
just because they're both white...
****** me off... big time...
  you go to Africa and learn: the Kenyans are
importing timber from Ghana... well...
because a Kenyan is a Kenyan and a Ghanaian
is a Ghanaian... who gives a **** whether they part
of the same race... a Kenyan is not a Ghanaian
and vice versa... that's how you spot the real racists...
on the western front... child-speak...
roses are red, violets are blue...
                                   all felines... all canines are...
Alsatian shepherds... it's almost like an inability
to see a three-dimensional object in two-dimensions...
ha! that's exactly it! these people can't see
a cube on a piece of paper!
i'm still trying to figure out who subverted these people
to this level of nonsense...
the old Soviets?! the proper left, all those years ago?
you think?
i don't know... i'll let the ideas ferment a little...
see if there will be any Russian teasing with lead
on the Polish Ukrainian border...
                           but it's going to be hard...
i don't really have a tongue to defend...
          that fear of being made extinct by either Russian
or German in the years prior to independence of 1918
is long gone... given the ****** diaspora across
the world being as prominent as it were of the Hebrews...
i clearly don't have a ******'s mentality...
the only person of importance for me back there
is my grandmother... and that's about it...
fight for... a memory of a place from when i was 4 through
to 8? is it really worth fighting for?
i'm not going to move back there...
                            fickle... fickle little me...
i would have more concern to fight for England
than i would for Poland...
just like in the old days...
England states that it will make war against
Germany for having invaded...
yet no English soldier fought on that land...
while ****** soldiers were involved on English soil
in the air-force...
                     such are the days...
                          then again: i can't imagine fighting
for anything as obnoxious as LGBT+ rights either...
for the grand dodo project... no offence... sure... be gay...
have your kinks... but... fight for these rights?
as a man who has been stripped of the possibility
of starting a family based on the fickleness of women...
i'm more of a free agent of any idea i wish to will...
and will it to my advantage...
                oh it's a bit different, right? when it's on
your doorstep...
    can't exactly hoodwink it... can't put it to the back
of your mind... it's staring you right in the eyes
and you're not expected to blink...
                well... the cards are on the table...
                 thank god Ilona got engaged with me and later
broke the engagement off...
like i said at work... 2 weeks ago...
having a Russian girlfriend, right now... would be sort
of problematic...
yes, yes: NOT ALL RUSSIANS...
                         but... yeah... whatever.

i'm putting in a shift at Oxford F.C. tomorrow, get to Romford centre at 9:45am... wake up at half to 8am, shower, have a coffee, two cigarettes, maybe eat something, get into the town centre, have a second coffee, another cigarette, then wait for Daniel and Melanie and head up to Oxford... give Daniel the 5 quid for the petrol, no problem... but now? i need to drink a little... i need to think about katakana and Hanguel... i'm nervously-excited... drink... think about language... do that ****-fest of a Covid test... blah blah... all good...

私: watashi...
alternatively, via the phonetic syllable encoding system
of the katakana...
ワタシ (wa-ta-****)
while in the west... "gender neutral" pronouns...
now, i can understand the metaphysics of the transgender
movement, sure... like Plato once wrote:
if you're a bad man...
you're going to be reincarnated as a woman...
dated... but...
what's happening now?
a backlog of reincarnations that didn't happen?!
you go after language... that's the end...
i'll eagerly stomach a Thai surprise...
how the **** did the Thai people invent:
"invent"(?) this transgender phenomenon...
sure... but at least their proponents
do the chop and get on with silicon implants
and all that's "supposedly" glorious about
buggery...
no one's complaining...
the usual tourists arrive... mostly middle-class
English men who feel disfranchised by
the concept of marriage... and... hey presto!
a Thai surprise banquet... lady boys on the menu...
well... at least the Thai have managed to
keep this taboo under wraps of: leaving it the ****
alone... the moment language is invoked...
someone like me is going to hear about it and...
erm... "rebel"?

- personally... i'm disgusted with modern
*******...
i always tend to do one sly
while on the throne of thrones
while also securing taking a **** & a ****...
then taking a shower...
hetero-"erotica" has gone downhill...
i should know... i started *******
when i was 8.... or 7...
i even managed to teach another boy
how to ******* when we were having
a bath together...
weird scenario... immigrant...
his parents were like a hiring agency...
we used to spend time watching power-rangers
while living under the same roof
as... oh... i'd say... 20 or so labourers...
Perth Road... Gants Hill...
that's when i first played my first Sonic
game on セガ (mega-drive)...
i guess i'm one of the few last ones...
who managed to either buy really cheap white lightning
cider (underage) with Peter & Kieran
while spending a weekend in a youth centre
playing pool... and a ***** mag...
**** **** **** & bushy groin regions...
fabulous looking women...
not as classy as Carrie-Anne Moss...
turns out all the pretty girls don't end up
trading in the world with their bodies...
some, become actresses... good for them...

n'ah... modern ******* ***** ***...
major ***...
but... recently i came across this little gem...
CAMERON CANADA mit MIA MALKOVA...
i'm generally into lesbian *******:
give me the classical Italian stuff...
that stuff in between authentic acting
and not this grey area of amateur cringe...

watching them... each and every time:
i want to **** a woman like a woman would want
to **** a woman...
i don't think i went much further beside them
kissing... oh, my, god... how they kissed...
i was seeing two women kiss...
but subconsciously...
i was watching a classic from ancient Rome...
of regurgitation, that sort of bulimia associated
with an **** of feasting upon too much...
come to think of it...
i was also watching a snail slobber itself all over
a wet leaf of cabbage...
i was watching an oyster attempt to eat a pear...

ugh... all this man on woman sort of crap...
i shy away from it...
i rather ******* to a classical painting...
my favourite being...
  Bronzino: allegory of Venus, Cupid, Folly & Time...
why? the tenderness of the tongues
coming into contact with the lips...
all children seem to be androgynous...
let's leave it at that...
people talk some much in this horrid take of
***... that's why i was so drawn into this lesbian
antic.. who were they?

Cameron Canada & Mia Malkova... right... them two...
they hardly spoke...
i think it's bad taste to speak any decipherable word
during *******... for me... it's... cringe...
i'll let it pass, but... talking during ***...
what are those favourites?
oh **** me,
**** me daddy...
you're so big...
yes yes yes...
no... when i **** and since i **** so rarely...
all of that **** is on mute...
onomatopoeias...
vowels, consonants, perhaps...
otherwise: no words, in, the, bedroom...
i don't want the Hebrew deity being inquisitive of
my antics...
it's already impossible living with a "predilection"
that... my thinking is "audible": it resonates...
i am, after all... a res cogitans as much as much as
a res extensa... while "his" omnipresence couples up
with my "paranoia" like:
peaches coupling with cream...
or cumin with coriander...

now i'm sitting down with a whiskey...
calming myself... listening to...
spectres in the fog... Hans Zimmer...
beside Latin - and the offshoots?
do i think ****** is superior to English?
why wouldn't i...
English seems to be more accessible to people
than my own language could ever be...
"mother"...
mind you... does English employ any
orthographic techniques?
last time i checked... no... no really...
Charles Dickens left a memorable mention...
falsely...
orthography... you can talk about it...
when and where... you, employ... diacritical
distinctions...

example?

sharp.... i started writing this yesterday,
i already wrote something about today,
the rejoice in exchanging handshakes....
with a fellow steward putting a hand on your shoulder...

i'm thinking: when does Japanese stop utilising
pseudo-emoji in their Chinese aspired
ideograms and returns to something
a(n) Europen might understnad,
like something from the handy-book
of Haguel...
it's almost funny that i can comprehend
being talked about: rather than to:
in third person,
i simply asked whether, Danny, the supervisor,
who was giving us a lift from Wembley
to... the outskirts of Greater London,
Essex... whether Romford or Newbury Park
required some petrol money...
i asked... two parties also involved...
didn't...
i stopped being the apparent ****...

i keep my mouth shut during the whole trip...
why bother talking when he's clearly having
problems listening to one song in total...
perhaps he's listening to the wrong sort of genre?
Prokofiev? no, that'll not pass on the sly...

i'm a man... women have started to acknowledge that...
they tell their children: obey this man,
listen to this man...
why am i oh why am i so *******, surprised?!
i end the day's shift with a doubled-up handshake...
some Francis, a Nigerian...
i'm not English: but i forgot to tell him that fact,
even though i could pass off as a native...

i can't replica writing these ideograms on this
website...
on some other... with some expansive Hangul...
sure... but not here...
heat of noon...
   netsu ノ hiru (ヒル)

it's so elaborate at first, at first... to thirst... then...
some... discrepancies...
two consonants twinned: within the confines
of TRY... or within the confines of GLOAT...
then, only then, does Japanese fall short on
what's to be expressed:
HATAI:  ハタイ

      almost like Morse Code:
coding with syllable break-ins / break-ups...
but hardly any GL-
to later eat OATS...

i will not enter the realm of Hangul...
as much as i want to...
lost the A... lost the Bot...
lost myself to drinking...
i will not even enter the realm of translation
the modern emoji / emoticon with...
the skeletal confines of the Asiatic ideogram...
so some elaborate to counter the Egyptian
hieroglyphs...

anyone bother to mind, orientate themselves...
around a newly arrived "enzyme" or
year zero?!
   just recent points to consider...
no, i don't think of it much...
"the boss" might be driving a Bentley...
got £1.5M from the Covid scheme of
not enough earning...
bought something else...
a proper "boss": i.e.: a proper ****...
arrogant alpha-lab *****...
post-military...
want me to play the beta-role...
sure... i'll play it...
  
   but... i don't want to earn the sort of money
that will make women wanting to be depended on me...
i don't want to earn the sort of women
that women will use in order to spend my earned dough...
i'd much prefer spending the money on art...
on gallery access...
i'm not going to spend my money on ******* handbags...
coat-hangers?! sure... i'll consider that one...
but... all that other crap?
i'll spend my money on prostitutes...
just enough to get by...
i'm not going to earn the sort of money
that leaves me... shackled, caged... subservient...
******* hopeless..

pretty limited... whast? katakana...
is begins with... consonants + vowel coupling...
it's not like you can reverse that:
vowel + consonant coupling... can you?

there's that tree...
there's that clot of thunderous cloud...
here's an umbrella...
and a... heterosexual predicament of...
can two straight guys...
pretend an umbrella is like a mushroom
they foraged for, found, "somehow"
simultaneously, or, something?!

alt. the meme:
would you rather date a woman that's an antithesis
of a mermaid...
or would you rather date, a mermaid?
****'s worth or... what's the alternatively avaible?
endless *******
in comparison to: an ****** that
reads a sort of Braille of: hello, my name if BOB
in blowing out bubbles...
a ******* no brainer if you ask me...
an anti-meme.

to the days when you wake up: mentally exhausted...
everyone else is having their mental breakdown
conundrums:
you had yours aged 21... you aged with...
that ******* choir and the great wind that dispersed it:
no, oh no... no instructions from the great almighty...
just a wind of a voice that dispersed a choir
of: invisibilities... i kept quiet... ran around the church...
lay under the altar... dragged the cloak from it and
covered myself: shivered... switched my iPod on...
then off... stiff the ******* singing...
i had no one to talk to... i still don't...
               oh well... lucky for me this happened back
in 2007... and after 2007? theatre! circus!
but while people are gradually gearing up to their...
ahem: group-therapy session overloads...
i've passed mine... no help: except for the time when
i visited a psychiatrists and: because he presumed
i was white British: i should be given the post-colonial
treatment of: REGRESSION...
false memory implants...
      the insinuation being: i was abused as a child...
sure... yeah yeah... by whom?
me? obviously me... i was ******* by the age of 8...
self-taught... don't know... it must have made sense
since... i wasn't: aren't: circumcised...
a "sword" has a "sheath": no?
               but fair enough to the circumcised crowd...
if their women are... religiously obligated
for a man to loose his ******* "detail"...
the niqab usually helps... blah blah...
           but then i imagine the instances when
a man is circumcised and... boom!
all the frustrations overflow from being snipped...
it's ******* degrading...
i don't need a sack of ******* the size of watermelons...
no... on the throne of thrones...
****... ****... *******... to some...
      venus, cupid, folly & time Bronz(z)ino...
i don't need much... my libido is a hamster and all
i need is a hamster's wheel worth of cleavage focus...
that's it...
    every time i go and visit a ******* i focus
my libido on... two aphrodisiacs...
spells of concentrated exercise: heavily cardio orientated...
and... white wine...
well... and jerking off without having to ******...
so i know where the blood is flowing to...
oh... right... that part...
but glory to be to such days...
mother is busying herself cleaning the house...
while i play the actor of idle...
    i have my bedroom... i have my private
library... only two volumes... only two volumes
of Knausgaard's Mein Kampf left to read...
and no... i will not finish Dickens' the Pickwick Papers:
on principle: from a review...
not that i would ever reread any book i've already
read...
        but... while people around me are having
their apple-pie crumble... i'm riding... slow: high...
slow: though... just... sifting... sieving through the air...
thankfully my difficulties came early:
god, great wind... i don't know...
did the choir descend from on high...
or did it boil from rummaging in the depths of
Hades?! like i said: i wasn't given any: instructions...
hear a great wind... what?! **** against it?!
         *******: become petrified... run around...
ugh... eh?! huh?!
                   i wasn't going to become one of those:
Hyde Park Speakers' Corner nut-jobs...
first: the world would have to reveal... what it was supposd
to reveal... and still i wouldn't do anything...
not after: why do i feel so mentally exhausted
waking up?
oh... right... now i remember...
well... if you go to sleep via: punching yourself in
the head... head's a bit of a mess...
knuckles ache... why am i so disorientated:
lacking motivation... was i fighting someone, last night?
oh, ****... me... or my shadow...
i prefer the idea of my shadow punching me...
or me punching it: but i always miss...
it's all about the thinness of him... i'm too solid...
he's already talking to the Madame of the brothel
of death... silly picture...
so i wake up and start thinking: pretend to start
thinking: i'm already here... so...
thinking is more of an: afterthought...
obviously i didn't just: magically appear:
but i don't have to make that Cartesian effort
of justifying consciousness: to begin with...
thinking is an afterthought...
i didn't exactly think i was going to be born...
did i?
           brain-damage... creative brain damage...
spontaneous: from punching yourself
in the head... giving you a prized plum hue
under the eye... sore knuckles... nice... nice...
i guess... coupled with heavy drinking:
beats any choice for psychadelics:
that ******* mushroom hijacked my monkey
brain! mushroom! mushroom!
mushrooms parasites controlling us!

                  let's be hyperbolic for a little: on a whim...
in all seriousness...
the glory of feeling so **** but at the same time:
so... goo... goo... ahem: good...
well... such days are as follows...
who can say that they "self-harm" by fighting their
own shadow? wrestle with it...
silently scream at it... go! explore the night!
mould with it! i don't need you! fiend!
     well... however the drinking boyo's stereotype
goes... next day... oh man: my forehead
and my cheeks hurt... i must have seriously done
some damage...
        because so much of man in society is
pacified... what?! violence... only as a spectacle:
during boxing? that's it...
and no healthy show of masculinity via the rough
and tumble? well... that's not fun...
     not fun at all... i'd love some back-alley rough
up after a few too many drinks with a sparring partner...
fat chance of that happening...
we'd be immediately caught on c.c.t.v. and the police
would come in and break us apart...
oh the sweetness of a good fight...
     me and Kieran O'Mahoney... just before class...
wrapping my hands round that lard-ball...
punching him in the kidneys...
then he crying about it: he started...
to the teacher and me retorting: shut the **** up:
stop crying...
              because i couldn't just: do what so many
have done... guns... knives...
no no... not mortal combat... just a play around with
fists... teeth... knees...
           *** can't be the only outlet for man's
"frustrations": sure... and i'd love to try painting...
if i had the assets to buy paint, for ****'s sake...

drinking works: up to a point...
but after a while... i need some: grr! some oomph!
some sucker punching bag...
well... at least no one can say jack **** if i'm
beating myself up... ha ha...
ah... ha...
                  
   oddly enough: not oddly enough...
it feels like listening to that :wumpscut song -
madman szpital (skon remix)
and the lyrics... which... this is a Bavarian electronic
project... backwards and forwards
"us" western Slavs and the Germans...

     nie przyjęty do szpitala...
    
       not admitted to a hospital...

             nicht zugelassen zu ein krankenhaus...

ergo... moi...
            the 3Ps extending to...
poets... priests... prostitutes... psychiatrists...
madmen...
   who envision themselves as...
inheritors of the lineage from the Greek Titans...
wrestling with themselves... fighting themselves...
in order to: seek out: vitality...
a life-affirming "gravity": abundance of...
curiosity...
                       ***'s a tease... it's soft...
it's mollusk ******* oyster type of scenario...
it rarely reveals the proper sensation of bone...
sure... sometimes... the coccyx...
the pelvis roughed up... that's not enough...

perhaps all those myths of an Aztec or a Spartan
society were true, or therefore are...
i feel enclosed: entombed: fermenting in my physical
prowess, dignity: even...
just some rough and tumble... some:
a society that gathers on a Sunday and doesn't kneel
to **** off a corpse on a crucifix...
pain one can endure... if one can possess a reality
of also being capable to inflict it...
hell... i'm free-falling in thinking:
but... if i could strain my body parts in a showcase
of violence: rather than the mundaneness of
cardiovascular exercise...
    i'd be twice the man i'm currently half of...
well... more as one: if i'm punching myself in the head...

****... sore forehead... how did i? oh... right...
that's why i feel sore... sore cheekbones... sore jaw...
it's not fair that some men get to exercise their violence
via boxing, or rugby... while i slouch over
a keyboard and bash some thoughts squash-style...
i'm getting in on the action...
     you simply can't just: "translate" everything that's
masculine into an art-form...
you need knuckle-arithmetic: from time to time...

sanity and the boredom that life throws at you
with its decrepit longevity...
best time to start reading philosophy books?
probably in your early 20s... i was... called to the "cause"
by listening to some lectures on Hume, David...
that black swan... induction... falsification... blah blah...
i was hooked... a sort of thought-spotter...
if there is such a "thing": beside the thing most associated
with spotting: i.e. trains... no... no trains here...

the rest is history... beep beep bleep... beep beep...
oh man... just some outlet for violence...
it would be greatly appreciated...
            to feel more sensations than a mollusk's
comforts of: fragility and... pickling itches when
getting a suntan...
            something more than mere ***...
i want to feel... that i don't have an exoskeleton!
i want bruises! life's so ******* boring without...
the fun fright of a fight!
it's stale sourdough bread... it's a ******* crouton!

everything: schematised, systematic,
predictable... orientated... gynocentric...
predominantly centred around: ensuring the safety
of women, children and old people...
well then! can't the boys have their violence?!
no no... not clinical violence...
within the confines of boxing... or whatever other
martial art...
i mean: violent play... just: hmm...
         i can't explain it to a person who hasn't
punched themselves: not myself: my shadow punched
me...
   i just can't...
because it's not the sort of masochism
associated with ******-shaming associated with
ol' Leo von Sacher-Masoch...
                it's... drawing from something Aztec...
Spartan... i don't need no limp **** scenario of
leather, boots, feathers, or latex...
             i just need to fight someone...
as much as i need to **** someone...
my perfect day would include:
a medium-rare steak... loads of pepper...
Himalayan pink salt...
   the meat: no carbohydrates, no salad...
or raw herrings in a creamy pickle sauce...
and then... fighting someone...
and then... ******* someone... then again:
those last two points could be done in reverse...
whichever...

i miss violence... the sort of violence where
you might later have a beer with your opponent...
eh... life's ****... for this particular reason...
pacified... un-gloriously tamed... hibernating:
zoological... therefore: caged...
systematically broken by psychological schematics...
fractions of once whole men.

Recumbent in my brown

velour reclining chair I

dream of Ireland.  Never

having been there at all.


My path through the green

hills of my father's family

county winds to the shingle

and thatch pub.  I meet

Kieran where there is

dancing and beer-o. 

Bagpipes and kilts.


In my reverie, 

I top off warm Guinness,

and tumble to the blarney. 

of the sweet, moving, man who

slides toward me with

Irish blue eyes. 


I cry out

the sounds

of a lost, lonely, song.


I wake in my chair,

a long way 


from home.



Caroline Shank