it’s like that the beatles v. stones
or the *** pistols v. the ramones question,
i know that hendrix was pure at 27
(joining the haloed crowd fronted by
the quasi back in black femme fatale),
but he was simply a virtuoso,
what i got was melody from kravitz:
the piano and the drums,
got me tapping, air pianist that i am
for the drums on my collar bone,
and it was all pristine blue one sunday afternoon,
i stopped dreaming, ushered into a pauper artist definition,
and felt more love than i could have wishbone’d,
or fortune cookie’d for that matter,
because i knew, there and then:
the world can end with someone crucified
forcing the atom bomb explosion on a postcard from 34 a.d.,
but only because there’s ******* and worship involved,
the last man to bend the knees of others readied himself for torture
admiring the pyramids hoping for a revival,
and he got it, the near extinction of ourselves,
tortured and crucified, instigator of celebrity culture,
the posing duck-faced messiah with hands spreading
and soaring across the entire diameter we call the equator.
you can surely end the world, listening
to the dirges of the egyptians with sympathy
about how a thousand miles of living love built a monument of death,
and then invert in the vortex of ***** love
love that’s tortured the additive of missing jealousy -
three thousand phalluses entered and one more -
but still the greengrocer felt no metal on the finger readied;
because who would be jealous of a *****’s love
when so many noble women debased themselves to *******
and false prophesying of men?
let’s end it with: lenny’s my love
stands shoulders above in height above any hendrix output,
it is above whatever lottery wish in tremor
of finger aching crossed could ever burn to with
a guitarist doing crescendos in a#, or toothing the horse’s mane;
‘cos kravitz is a lyricist and not a virtuoso -
as his piano signatures prove - genteel;
hendrix give me your best signature rhythmic rubric!
oh wait, you can’t, ‘cos so so much solo!

The Batman Movie (a review). The clues part was cool, but the end of it got boring. I liked that Batman kept a journal - I like the idea of men keeping journals, because, do men have many thoughts they share? Men’s thinking seems so ephemeral.

In this Batman resurrection, Pattinson’s Bruce Wayne & Batman are Kurt-Cobain-like emo and that seemed to work. Didn’t you just want to take your hand and get his hair out of his eyes? I think guys should have hair - I like hair on guys, not buzz cuts. I liked the muscle-car Batmobile.

I liked Zoey Kravitz, she was girl power, but not in a hot girl way, she had her own motivations, she wasn’t just in danger and served up to fuel Batman.

The movie is too long though. They need to bring back movie intermissions - I’d vote for that. As usual, I drank my giant slurpee and ate ½ my popcorn before the twenty minutes of previews were finished.

It’s a three hour movie. I had to *** so bad by the time the movie was ¾ over that I was grinding on my popcorn bucket to keep it in. I finally had to make a dash for the bathroom - I was afraid I’d miss the KISS scene. Argh!

Let’s talk about Robert Pattinson, the actor, and his arch from Twilight to Batman. Of course, doesn’t every vampire turn into a bat? (joke) but it’s always Pattinson being moody, being hot, figuring himself out and the introspective man - the broody man.

Are broody men ****? I don’t like broody men in real life - I feel that only one of us gets to be moody in a relationship - and it’s going to be me. Pattinson seems almost zany and cheeky in RL so the brood is his method act. I Like that Pattinson didn’t buff-up for the role - I think the buffed-up muscle-man as superhero perfection somehow relates to capitalism. Pattinson’s American accent was good.

What was missing from the movie was horniness. Batman didn’t seem HOT for Cat-girl - he just stood there for her to kiss. What’s boy-girl attraction if it’s not horniness? Where has the horniness gone in movies? Sexiness is missing from ALL the superhero movies - I guess the age demo is too young.

I give it three out of five stars

is it me or does Led Zeppelin's all my love of the burnout feel akin to The Doors' hello, i love you feel similar bigger than Spirit's taurus, i think it does, the sparkle-clad-show lost. after being born in the 20th century i feel no nostalgia, nor regret, why is nostalgia the bridal maid of history? if threes are a Poseidon's tridents - history, nostalgia, memory then correspondingly: how it is, what if, how it was - respectively. i'm also prone to the nuance of Jamaica in D'yer Mak'er... or Lenny Kravitz's my love (the twang, not the message - necessarily tiresomely true, not Kula Shaker's govinda) - but this is still early 21st century, we're well ahead of ourselves, Miloshevich (a.k.a. Geert Wilders) vs. Blaire at the Nürnberger Prozesse - bachelors and barristers and lawyers have this thing about defending democracy and the spread of justice wearing Mickey Mouse's gloves spreading colour, and to boot: as if **** didn't affect them...

hunter (a) - see a silver-back politician scurrying past like a rat?
hunter (b) - was it scurrying with a ten-tonne white elephant?
hunter (a) - might have been, very much would be.
hunter (b) - what was his name? i have a fail on face recognition.
hunter (a) - we nicknamed him Hannibal.
hunter (b) - yeah, he was here, went grey-haired
                     like a hare on steroids the minute we mentioned
                     the Arabs weren't sponsoring any foreign
                     investment in the internal combustion engine
                     as having no future via the investment sector
                     of conscience via the law-courts having lost.
hunter (a) - that's him!
hunter (b) - a mile ahead, a Kali icon with the skulls
                     of twenty Saddam Husseins around its neck!
hunter (a) - if i were a pensioner i'd shout bingo right now...
                     ah, **** it... BINGO!
hunter (b) - you're very much welcome.

there exists no democratic essence in history, history isn't democratic because it's theocratic in the examples of who's remembered, if democracy would reign over the practice of historical investigation, no one would be remembered, it would be democratically just to forget the stupendous and the un- of so stated consideration, history is investigated by theocratic resolve - no one actually voted to remember Saladin or Genghis Khan, democracy played no part in these figures being remembered - why hasn't democracy involved scientific scrutiny in its argument to persist? by scientific i don't mean chemistry, biology etc., segregated from the humanist studies, by scientific i mean omni-, the all embracing - after all, history invokes a memory of absolute anti-democratic examples of ruling, given present concepts of democracy none of these figures should be remembered if democracy is to experience a pinch of **** ideology of being a pure idea without deviation into ideology that might hijack it - but it's just that - the purity of the idea, always persistent, coupled with the mongrel tactics of it being exercised.

Black velveteen
Simple and clean
Oh what a bad machine
Black velveteen
Supple and plain
The 21st century dream
Ready to please
Free from disease
She's waiting on her knees
It's not a sin
Titanium skin
Just take her for a spin
Black velveteen
Simple and clean
Oh what a bad machine
Black velveteen
Supple and plain
The 21st century dream
Nice piece of kit
Electronic ****
Just sit down for a fit
Ready to trip
A guarantee hit
She's all you ever wished
Black velveteen don't give a **** she'll do dishes
Black velveteen knows all the night spots in France
Black velveteen's cat smells like strawberry kittens
Black velveteen always is ready to dance
She's ready to
Black velveteen
Simple and clean
Oh what a bad machine
Black velveteen
Supple and plain
The 21st century dream

i was a chubby kid, sure...
                                      when i moved to england,
i was guzzling down cans of coca-cola
                                  like mad...
                                            back in poland?
climbing trees,
        playing hide & seek,
   going to bonfires where we
threw potatoes into the fire
and later ate them, smoked,
        covered in ash.
     and ****, i did work out from
the age of 18 to the age of 21...
gym, squash, cyciling in a frenzy
on the narrow country-roads
of essex...
   i might have had a six-pack...
at the zenith i weighed in at under
80kg...
                     i managed to
dig out the sort of underwear
i used to wear a few days ago...
   and started thinking: is this a
handerchief, or a napkin?
       do i put this on my hand,
or on my head?
         at 115kg...
    the exercise i get up to today?
  no, nope, no treadmill, now rowing machine...
no gym in general...
      a litre of *** every night...
i can't and even won't begin
to apologiße... can't be bothered...
    what i will apologiße about is:
on the odd day, i might prefer
    monster magnet's version of donovan's
song three king fishers...
          just for the oomph of guitars!
              oh ****, the sitar is still there.
i remember talking about this
with my drug dealer over a joint once...
****... what was his name?
              massive afro, a lenny kravitz
look-alike...
                 great smoking session,
obviously i was not on a parallel with him,
given the snorting sound...
   what? *******...
       amphetamines are for poor kids,
or luftwaffe... or isis...
                 the drug is an all army...
    i once talked to an ex-convict,
       turned dub-step d.j.,
          his main complaint from being addicted
to amphetamine? insomnia...
     well... d'uh... that's what the luftwaffe
had to experience, to give rise of
the london blitz: being wide-awake,
         setting off from an airport in berlin.
the thing is... i don't remember having
a body being under 80 kilograms,
    or something resembling a six-pack...
    i have no idea as to why that's the case,
it's like i was drunk for 3 years, and
drank too much, and on a chance
of "nostalgia"... i can only remember clipping
my toenails.
             i'm more orientated these days...
i either have a goatee, or a beard,
   or a double-chin...
              **** me, exercise is great...
a litre of *** per night?
                     it's not exactly a six-pack...
but something of a balloon parameter...
     a sheep-stomach...
              to be honest, with regard to this
being a very narcissitic piece?
                i find creating fictional characters
too difficult...
      i don't like creating shields for myself...
i'm stressing the genesis story
  of stripping all my clothes & masks off;
well, if poetry doesn't tread or raise itself
to the dizzy heights of biblical "metaphor" -
then obviously the biblical,
   could never become contemporary,
the translation is temporal...
   in poetic "anti-scientific" terms: it too evolves;
how can there not be an evolutionary
undercurrent of a book, that has established
institutions like the vatican, the church?
              john milton knew it was
an evolutionary text, like the darwinists stated
that the ape body was also an evolutionary canvas...
    for some reason, coming from the east,
i feel implored to avoid the cliché standard
of working on the book of genesis...
                 i feel a need to be immersed in
the book of exodus... once the jews began
congregating in israel,
           the poles started dispersing -
               *dzięki leszek, leszek **** wojensa...
                     no, i oraz: król zefa-wółtyłka.

And you belong to me too
You make my life complete
You make me feel so sweet.

©Lenny Kravitz

when i met that russian worth of a hag
she made fun of my late bloom
into the rolling "scene"...
  i hear that lenny kravitz has
   a roller-guy,
    someone to roll his blunts, skints,
or whatever you want to call a joint...
****, if i made a video...
            orge fingers like surgical scalpel
incissions, while drinking...
creating this "origami"...
obviously you start off with
   red rizla rolling papers,
and a slim, not an extra slim filter...
          much later, the roach...
swan filters...
             yeah yeah, much later the longer
rolling papers,
    but even my dementia suffering
grandfather noticed my skill,
and hence came the subsequent
compliment...
               but then you have to remember
to torch the fresh rollie...
notable with golden virginia
tobacco... which is fresh,
i.e. slightly wet, so you can feel it being
able to pass through a ****'s
worth of a breath...
once rolled, you heat it up...
     once i met a guy at a glasgow
bus station,
   who was "visiting" the city,
                  for the occassion of seeing his
brother released from jail,
what crime? dunno...
he started to talk about playing guitar...
right hand served as
            the neck,
   left hand was left to simulate
the chords on his... right arm...
            well, yeah...
numbed left-hand fingertips...
          something akin to that 7even
tactic of dipping your fingers into bleach
and then scrubbing with sandpaper
to hide the markers...
                      sunday...
more like: windsday...
          flush after flush of impromptu
   zephyrs...
              so one roll, after another...
and... i just became glued to
a point of interest that compromised of
a magpie monogamy...
     always with the tail, the magpie tail,
twitching...
         yet always so slick...
and this little teunonic ****** is doing
his best, the female strolls,
somewhere on the roof,
somewhere in my neighbour's garden
on the ground...
   and this wee ****** flies from one
tree to another,
   a tree half in spring envy of bloom,
half readied for a summer diet of sun
and very little rain...
   and like some meme of a t-rex
folding a bed...
            pinching off branches
         with great effort, and then flying
off to that newly-wed home tree,
knitting out a nest...
                   i guess you'd call that fun,
but i'd call it:
   thank god i don't have a "duty"
to spend my saturday nights drinking
with fwends, in a nightclub like i used to...
and that's in between
  listening to tim pool
               talk about marvel comic books
turned movie: "theories"...
   later i plan to take out the garbage,
peel some potatoes,
   and **** into a chair...
                   for that: "ripple effect"
                in the vicinity of ****-cheeks...
not exactly what you might
call: a day in the life of odysseus...
hell... it's still a day...
          and just getting out of bed,
without having to resort to a motivational
prompt of throwing myself
under a train in a 20x reel repeat...
         any social stigma,
  associated with drinking by myself
this early in the afternoon...
fizzles out...
                  replaced with the memory
of 6am...
    that haunting brightness slack
of morn - sly born impromptu of
                the awaiting zenith of day...
         well... i guess that's that.

It's three a.m. at the neighbor's.
Someone's always fighting over there.
This time it's only two squad cars
And no bus--that's what they call
The ambulances, at least on the TV dramas,
But I'm drawn away from the TV.
Perhaps if I had on clothes I'd step outside.
They don't stay long this time,
Just talk out in the yard
And if anyone's taken away I've missed it.
I'm Gladys Kravitz these nights,
Watching the witching next door
Because three months ago it was a friend of mine,
Recovering from surgery or not
With a port direct to her stomach.
Crushed pills in ***** aren't real food.
Didn't know she was dying there--
Who the ambulance was for.
I don't sleep well these nights,
Don't know anyone who does.
The world has turned into a dream,
And the moon reflects mortality.