anywhere u go
its about what u do
who u know
what u have
take a piece
and one for the road
take and take
is all we do
judged like a book
every single day
in one glance
no second thoughts
hardcover hollywood
special editions
and just for dummies rule
those text book kings
and things of the past
replaced by
sefl-help gurus
with a thirst for power
history books burn
and dictionaries die
bibles and korans
wage war for deeds
written in oil
more precious than blood
lawbooks lie
with family trees
while notebooks fill
with pointless lives
but my story is written
with my sweat
and tears
filled with pages and pages
of love and fears
i dont need to be
hardcovered
reprinted
bound up
and edited
forget the colors
and the revamped image
no motion pictures
just a story
on my shelf
the last of them all
the Paperback Boy.

it's called: whenether you dare to call it infantile, that you start imagining people being serious about selling shoe-laces; or Korans.

even those, who you left to "live"
unto the age of 70 and past,
are asking, are asking themselves
whehter it has worth it...
            your arguments don't
scare me, they threaten me,
        and when someone
feels threatened:
             they react in
a natural tribunal of effort...
  when the arguments threaten
you fear confiscates
   the dire need of death
being an alpine promise...
      and the such...
you rob me of fear,
you instill a pragmatic of death,
like the Jew paid his alimony
  what the suffered under the **** crimes...
of course,
the numbers matter....
the Marshall plan in neutral Sweden...
              or what the Poles
    got with Communism...
Jew... barricades... barricades!
messerschmitt teuton krähe schwarzkreuze,
   love your neighbour as yourself:
that too died on the cross...
   and i was but a peasant in Warsaw,
and Warasaw was but a village...
                     something worth ******* on...
and it was the ****'s worth of geography
for merely being there.
       it's there... something akin to be odd...
               i have, oddly enough, no allegiance...
i'm bound to being dreamy...
          so called lazy...
   the next best thing...
                 right now the Jews matter,
i took no deutsche marks from the swabian schweine...
             the jews did...
               jews... they did...
                     blondas *kurva trop!
happy retirement and Hannukah...
you crass-case of albino...
                  alias neo-deutsche!
                          austrjak jebany palmą!
w głowe, jebudiet!
   Wengier! hu ha dusza, i świntosiek
                  duch, i iskra, i łamana
                          świca...
         serce mi da tą ziemie:
   i ja tą ziemie dam w cheć na
pogoń, zwane zając!

nie dla narodu, z kochanej, e, u, ro, py...
pierdole ten cyrk!
ja, niby, polok...
o to ten huj, iskra huja w pizdzie i pizde mi
na kilo jabłek potem wgryść, rozdać i sie
tylko śmiać... Jarkowski, jebany,
       Kowalski, zapomniany...
           Jazurelski: troche i coś odtąd nie tak...
czyli, ricochet, echom czy apropos?
         bo to cynic: prawde mę, to samo co prawde mlą.
hej stop to warto obgadać jako: gnój!
          i szmira, i obowiązek... niby...
   ale skupowisko nie-urzytków, tzn. słów...
rodzinka sie wkurwi na widow mnie!
    no, po prostu wkurwi!
              oj, hyba że ja ponowny Szo'pę,
i kres mego serca na łałel... via W unto V
or: Vienna.
                      as cheap as the joke can be made,
or as plastic and extending as it allows itself
to be...
             taaak, bluźnie:
        bo mi na pacierz nie wypada...
kler: zegnam sie, panie sługo... zegnam sie...
paciorek i tymianek... gówno wśród nas!
to wszystko przez
           braku ari de verci....    
  albo quo vadis -
              ryj!                 i gleba.

one thing most evident about england,
well...
not that many birch trees (my favourite),
or pines...
    birch treets as said to be the scounts,
they lay the ground for a forest,
    the best i can experience
around here are foxes, no wolves...
and even the foxes as shattered...
  a bit like the badgers...
   mind you, we can have as many objective
truths, and sorta feel proud...
    but i feel numb...
   numbers don't add up in the category
of feeling...
      i should really be standing
at some road juncation:
with excess applause...
          i don't think that's necessary...
    i can only state
a neo-gothic excavation began by
type o negative...
                     and the early death of
the lead singer....
   then there's that excess of attire...
lead, and Pb...
                 as some seach: also contained
within: a leash...
               me in a Turkish shop,
talking to the owner:
Papaturk... how i saved him money
when the local council
               inquired why he provided the caravan
umbrella...
    and hid the public bench...
   5 months i haven't seen him...
     we start speaking and it really is 5 months...
i talk about a month spent in Poland
and -18 temperatures...
  he just keeps referecing 5 months...
i'm only buying 4 cans of beer,
who gives a **** about a biography?
   i don't know if i half pretend or actually am
the one some might call: busy...
           my eyes are elsewhere...
i keep looking for them like i might
turn to finding either heart or Brian...
                one's a stone,
and the other a fat-sponge soaked in porridge...
    yep... type o negative... just
when the jerry spinger show was taking off...
took goth to a new dimension,
i remained clad in the most believable grey
attire... the boring type...
        and it's only that having experienced
a very rare traffic of soul-like expderiences...
did i become to realise
that such experiences are, well,
rather pointless...
   or at least undermining everything
surrounding them...
   god is a great concept, to motivate
the hazy fairies of the suggested approach...
             and when it actually happens,
say: hear angels singing while to rob
the altar of its white cloth and lie under the
altar... checking for sure whether you
are hearing what you're hearing...
             it thus becomes an existential
game, i.e. whether you "hear" or hear,
whether you "heard it" or heard it...
     and whatever experience you may have had,
it's a bit pointless to state that you're
of a cultish calibre...
               it just becomes a bit pointlesss...
you just see selling potatoes
   and Korans as more important...
     then it becomes a case of:
  well: why beging with anything at all?
why not call all the saints mental imbeciles?
   why not begin there?
i say that because, given the teaching,
as in: forgiving your enemies,
has not compass in western society,
western society, if isolated,
would be equivalent to a man / woman talking
to themselves in the streets of Beijing...
          i say i could have had an experience,
but the way i have been itemised, scrutinised,
i'd gladly believe in a crowd of people
nibbling at a mystery...
   actually experiencing a mystery gives you nothing!
i'm all for democracy, all for chaos...
            nothing happened, i didn't exist...
it's easier that way...
    that's why i feel no affinity with western
culture... it's just a load of ******* to me...
            i could have said:
i heard angels singing,
   but given the so called "sanity" membrane
of humanity, to create an omni-entity,
to later discard it...
     evidently there's no precise vector linking
(a) to (b)...
                   in england they call this
case a "mental" illness...
  i really wish my brain had the capacity
to create placebo experiences so pontent
that i'd sorta stop following in my father's
footsteps and becoming a roofer...
then again, he was sentenced to labour
in an industrial complex of steelworks,
look how that frail and senile pope
looked like clinging to his throne,
slobbering with his last speeches, "saintly"
john paul ii...
               i was very fond of pope emeritus,
all the grannies in poland said:
take, that, thing, from the throne...
    no easier way to overcome the saints
than have a pope-saint...
   who really wants the spotlight...
but should be killed by strobe-light and something
translating epilepsy into a stroke...
   as one bound to an exodus
i have no allegiance to the current folklore of
my original people...
    i don't know why i kept the tongue:
apparently such things are hard to erase,
   being first generation, i guess only with
an english wife i'd be able to shut up...
hence my english having a "subconscious"
undercurrent of polish...
             and i live in an anglican country...
    oh there are, there are differences
between a catholic nation and a protestant
nation...
   as there are differences between northen
catholic and southern protestant...
        no wonder i was given a "medical"
    noun  schizoid...
       encompass all of that, in a single generation?
you'd go cuckoo!
                 but then again i'm playing
tennis with a brick wall...
         i don't expect pity, i don't expect empathy,
in just expect nothing, no body...
              we're all bound to wear the shoes
we tire with against the pavement...
  but ridicule is the one thing that ****** me off...
   i'd prefer a comforting joke...
   ridicule is something devoid of what is required
for a passion, even a passion scrutinised and staged
by a stand-up comedian in sarcasm...
   ridule is a bit like science,
already lost to the schism of its counterpart of
falsification...
                    so many truths! so many truths!
          i guess that's what philosophy is about,
apart from being a mediator of science with / vs.
humanism, it's the membrane segregating the two...
      you can clearly cheat with science,
you can ascribe fake statistics with science,
  tell them 1 in 5 women were *****
as part of the **** culture phenomenon,
  when someone else states: more like 1 in 165...
but you can't exactly find a person who
lied about reading Tolstoy's war and peace....
only because a person who has read that
   piece of work: isn't exactly keen to talk about it;
from experience:
   i've read don quixote... and i'm not that keen
on giving a proof of having read it...
that's my own c.c.t.v., not yours.
   you can find that a lot, one a person
reads the equivalent of 5 Islamic columns / elements...
   say.... rather than completing the Hajj...
reading the Brothers Karamazov...
        you really don't get that much
conversation...
  reading a book as the established order
of the 19th century, read in the 21st century...
you start to look at your contempories
a bit suspiciously... like they really are devoid
of acknowledging a worthwhile experience with you...
i started to look at most people, my contemporaries,
at bit like walking into a bathroom showroom...
    i guess i thought about brushing my teeth
and talking to them so they could pick up a scent
of wild strawberries oozing from my mouth...
   i read the **** books, i don't need to compete
for being able to talk about them...
given the books... it's very hard to talk about them...
      you don't really get to talk about
these columns...
          well, unless it's the Koran,
then you really get to talk... you get to shout, even,
and shoot a throng of pigeons while you're at it...
  apologies, no apologies... yada...
or as one puts it (talking queeny beeny) -
   to the great artistic mafia of Poles...
              somehow connected...
   the whole: blood thicker than water...
            oh i'm about to dump this
  mongrel soul and treat it as:
            a Mickiewicz might:
of the tongue, of the body, toward the soul
   cleansing...
               i probably will not like the end
results... but that's better than what i have now...
        i don't like to have a mongrel soul
trapped inside a mono-ethnic body...
              i tried the whole utopian masquerade of
living the dream, i.e. "living the dream",
it didn't exactly work out as western politicians
liked to have hoped it might...
             and that's the really sad part,
i really wished it could have worked...
   now, whenever i think about *******
  someone of my ethnic compendium
whether by body represented, or by soul encouraged...
i just think it's ******...
                 it's like the culture i express
has encouraged that i move to
south africa and **** someone so far removed
from my experiences...
          it really does feel like ******...
        what a sick sick world to be gravity prone to too..
but hey! we have the numbers...
     try to be cosmopolitan for a bit,
whether that's in London, or Edinburgh...
      it soon emerges that the Greek city-states of
modern capitals are surrounded by
****** prone cannibals...
   and more importantly: philistines.
                     sure, for a second you can almost
be persuaded by atheistic arguments...
as those took hold the imagination of people
in the early 21st century...
     i just look at man and see god laughing...
and since the case is: the ugliness of a godless man...
      well...
                    the crucifix is hardly
the N on the compass...
  but since the crucifix aimed at the N of the compass...
the northen barbarians said a joke
that made the crucifix something worth
imitating in the Philipines for a worth of spectacle...
and elsewhere, skog av krux -
oh, it's a very short joke...
         blod ørn... ****** eagle...
   given that so many imitate being crucified...
  can only signify it being a complete and utter joke...
one hour in a järn-jungfru
would make up 2000 years worth of history;
or a scene from a Sioux scalping stone...
    we're ingenious like that...
and yes: blod ørn - blod o(h)-ern...
          i prefer the german blut adler...
   so many moustaches, and other periphenelia
of attire, such as a bow-tie...
  to translate the bewilderment
that a latin inherited grapheme can't
be the smallest unit of sound, given the vowel...
  or how the grapheme became translated
for the worth of diacritical marks...
  æ and œ created
    the basis for diacritical marks being applied...
as with the already stated example...
ørn is derived from œrn...
             tongue-tie twisting like a serpent around
its suffocated prey...
          spine bound to crunch, and defeatist chess...
    we can never say why it was applied
to the signifier: umlaut (ü) - best explanation
is a hidden arithmetic... and the compensation
of omicron-macron...
                       but that's just a guess...
    science is anything but holy...
given the fact that it's so easily manipulated...
                 and falsified, and cheated...
     the samde torturous instruments that defended
religion, are but replaced in the name of science...
          as a life bound to be a freedom,
with labour inside the mind that is relentless,
   and in dire need of change...
where  democracy, or autocracy, as nothing more than
slaves of the arch-cardinal, known as status quo.

By: Cedric McClester

Excuse me as I do my ablution
After I wipe my *** on your Constitution
Which you don’t believe in anyway
At least not the parts that expressly say
There’s freedom of religion as well as speech
Those are the things that I’m told you teach
The same things that you want to now take away
As you dictate to me where I can or can’t pray

I need ablution
To wash myself clean
Of the things that you say
But clearly don’t mean
Your attitude
Borders on the obscene
So I need ablution
To wash myself clean

What’s happened to the American ideal
The one that was sold that had such appeal
And is all but forgotten nowadays
Which is apparent in so many ways
Where’s the principles on which you stand
Have they been abandoned throughout this land
If your core values are becoming suspect
Is there anything left for you to protect

I need ablution
To wash myself clean
Of the things that you say
But clearly don’t mean
Your attitude
Borders on the obscene
So I need ablution
To wash myself clean

Your attitude has me so confused
Cos the right to free speech
Is so often abused
And you know you’re guilty
As you’ve been accused
When burning Korans
Is all over the news

I need ablution
To wash myself clean
Of the things that you say
But clearly don’t mean
Your attitude
Borders on the obscene
So I need ablution
To wash myself clean

Excuse me as I do my ablution
After I wipe my *** on your Constitution
Which you don’t believe in anyway
At least not the parts that expressly say
There’s freedom of religion as well as speech
Those are the things that I’m told you teach
The same things that you want to now take away
As you dictate to me where I can or can’t pray



(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

By: Cedric McClester

Excuse me as I do my ablution
After I wipe my *** on the Constitution
Which you don’t believe in anyway
At least not the parts that expressly say
There’s freedom of religion as well as speech
Those are the things that I’m told you teach
The same things that you want to now take away
As you dictate to me where I can or cannot pray

I need ablution
To wash myself clean
Of the things that you say
But clearly don’t mean
Your attitude
Borders on the obscene
So I need ablution
To wash myself clean

What’s happened to the American ideal
The one that was sold that had such appeal
And is all but forgotten nowadays
Which is apparent in so many ways
Where’s the principles on which you stand
Have they been abandoned throughout this land
If your core values are becoming suspect
Is there anything left for you to protect

I need ablution
To wash myself clean
Of the things that you say
But clearly don’t mean
Your attitude
Borders on the obscene
So I need ablution
To wash myself clean

Your attitude has me so confused
Cos the right to free speech
Is so often abused
And you know you’re guilty
As you’ve been accused
When burning Korans
Is all over the news

I need ablution
To wash myself clean
Of the things that you say
But clearly don’t mean
Your attitude
Borders on the obscene
So I need ablution
To wash myself clean

Excuse me as I do my ablution
After I wipe my *** on the Constitution
Which you don’t believe in anyway
At least not the parts that expressly say
There’s freedom of religion as well as speech
Those are the things that I’m told you teach
The same things that you want to now take away
As you dictate to me where I can or cannot pray

Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016.  All rights reserved.

Parfois, je me sens pris d'horreur pour cette terre ;
Mon vers semble la bouche ouverte d'un cratère ;
J'ai le farouche émoi
Que donne l'ouragan monstrueux au grand arbre ;
Mon cœur prend feu ; je sens tout ce que j'ai de marbre
Devenir lave en moi ;

Quoi ! rien de vrai ! le scribe a pour appui le reître ;
Toutes les robes, juge et vierge, femme et prêtre,
Mentent ou mentiront ;
Le dogme boit du sang, l'autel bénit le crime ;
Toutes les vérités, groupe triste et sublime,
Ont la rougeur au front ;

La sinistre lueur des rois est sur nos têtes ;
Le temple est plein d'enfer ; la clarté de nos fêtes
Obscurcit le ciel bleu ;
L'âme a le penchement d'un navire qui sombre ;
Et les religions, à tâtons, ont dans l'ombre
Pris le démon pour Dieu !

Oh ! qui me donnera des paroles terribles ?
Oh ! je déchirerai ces chartes et ces bibles,
Ces codes, ces korans !
Je pousserai le cri profond des catastrophes ;
Et je vous saisirai, sophistes, dans mes strophes,
Dans mes ongles, tyrans.

Ainsi, frémissant, pâle, indigné, je bouillonne ;
On ne sait quel essaim d'aigles noirs tourbillonne
Dans mon ciel embrasé ;
Deuil ! guerre ! une euménide en mon âme est éclose !
Quoi ! le mal est partout ! Je regarde une rose
Et je suis apaisé.

what? you seriously gonna row ρ row your boat, gently down the stream? well, aren't you the cherub to my apple's worth of hopes in being my ferryman, replacing charon, when crossing the styx!

it's one of those *edgware road scenarios,
you're walking down it,
popping into a restaurant for a shisha pipe...
and then street preachers prop up...
your girlfriend is half irish, half indian,
and they ask you: you german? you german?
no... wait... am i?
                  i guess there's a physiognomy
aspect in the way i look to others...
        am i german?
                   i ask my girlfriend at the time,
do i look german?
                 i don't know the ****** language...
should i learn the language?
               so these muslim street propagandists
keep egging me on...
       look at the jews... blah blah...
            and i'm thinking...
             my native tongue is polish,
and i'm trying to settle myself in english...
     what's this german bit?
even at school, i hate reciting this, but a history
teacher talking about the second world war
singled me out from the rest of the class...
                "blonde" hair... she didn't spot
i had green, rather than blue eyes...
             this is freaky deeky deep ****,
unconscious forces working against me...
                               the **** did i do?
turn into michael fassbender?
    fast-bartender, or simply futurama's ******?
shoe on head is not enough, when
you're asked to don a stilleto as an earing
dangling on your ear... not the same ****,
and certainly not the same cover...
       my paternal great-grandfather?
spoke 7 languages, was in the MP (military police),
moved to america,
      my mother tried to get in touch...
      i think my family owned portions of the steel
factory that would have allowed my city of
birth to grow into a county-like-capital...
that failed...
                       if i did a gene test
i'd be least surprised to have some german
or mongol, or swede in me...
                                         read the history;
it's just the idea that muslim preachers at
edgware road (where's the edge, and the wear?)
         giving out free korans decided to
consider me german?
    they didn't call my girlfriend at the time
an australian, even though she was raised there...
i was suddenly german...
   i ****** well hope this is not some form of narcissism
that requires: being written about...
         well then... i must be then!
still, what bothers me more is edge-wear rho-
             -and the missing -ad.
                                       ro-                -ad?
    i swear people just establish there is no oa
        or an ao grapheme borrowed from latin...
               they just say: row'd;
     as in the past tense of: i was rowing in a boat,
down the thames.
          clearly you need to gulp down an oyster
to make clarifications to the slight differences
in spelling, to make grand strides in what you mean.
     it's also edge-ware... as in... the edges are
being worn... ware & tear ring any bells
                                          via st. mary-le-bow's?
a bit like saying: quacks? or quakers?
that's the same doctor?
     no, you ******* ponce... it's a play.
on what?
                                                         words!
i really, really either need to start learning
braille, or sign language; people are exhausting
with all their functioning senses,
       and i don't feel like subjecting my tongue
to the treadmill of conversation;
       ****... there's no chance of talking the earth
out of orbit!

They are shoved into the silence,
the one that speeds down the road,
bumps and rattles disguising muffled horrors,
handkerchiefs in mouths, gloved palms
over squeezed lips tight as a kiss.
These are the ones soldiers are told to ignore,
to turn their backs on- civilians, friends,
family- just listen to the chain of command,
follow through on their one and only duty.
There is only them and the next green man
in front, and the next, and the next, next..
forming one long unbroken wall
to stem the disease in front of them.
The doctors and nurses are dead,
and now they must wear the masks,
glove, gowns the hazmat suits,
spray the disinfectant like Agent Orange
on everything that moves, eats, drinks, dreams.
The trucks in back are filled with those
surging to cross the border in front of them.
It could be Canada or Mexico, or just those
wanting to escape the land for the sea,
the ocean, to swim, sail in hopes of
finding their private island to populate.
The rich have bought their own countries,
separated themselves with a technological
continental drift that they do not share.
The middle class have marooned themselves
on the Great Pacific Garbage Patch
fighting for sustenance with gulls, *****, sharks.
Only the poor are left— and them—
the green men who pledged loyalty
to the Constitution and now know
just the orange beast who tore it up
and rendered it to ashes, the Congress
inhabited with lawmakers with
hands over their eyes, fingers in ears,
and palms over their mouths, that
know the knowledge and meals
the beast provides only to them.  
Freedom they know is not free.
it comes with the ****** of those
who disagree, those disloyal to the beast.
The green men are fed on K-rations, MREs.
Their Bibles, Korans, Torahs, all
their sacred knowledge, has been burned
and doused with ****. They know they and
the poor are the **** of this deaf republic.  
The green men hear the screams
in front and inside them.  They remember
when they fought for freedom and liberty,
or at least when it had meaning.  They dream
of the past, when America before the beast
was great again.  Their present eyes see only
themselves and the poor.  Those who sleep
in torn open air tents and live in cages
because the prisons overflow. They
close their eyes and they dream as
the poor surge forward to the border.  
They are too tired to stop them.  Nor do
they want to. They only just want to rest
and wait for the call of the next American Revolution.