i'm not a gambler, you won't receive a gambler's 100%, the heart sways toward what is best represented as what the last man would have said, being the first man of tomorrow; i am neither, away from civilisation, i wish to remain the rest of my days, whether real on unreal, on the Føroyar Øer - my body might be tied to your gimmick... i am extinguished from such life on this plateau.

so much necessitates human innovation in technology,
and so little in poetry, among other
queues, well, because it doesn't sell,
and what's the point of that?!
America knows why,
it means affairs in AFGHANISTAN
as elsewhere to be... MONOCHROMATIC...
KENTUCKY... if that ain't the truth
then i'm moving to Mongolia and telling
you... no, wait... that's me being the past
9 years, and i've heard more from
Humpty-Dumpty than i heard from all
the "Robin Hood" tech giants releasing dough
to the poor... where's Ivan?! where's Putin!
i need those Igor Tsars to catch me a bear to eat!
i don't care whether Britain exits of remains
in the Euro Union, firstly the sterling
like the Swedish Krona, or the Polish ZŁOTY!
gram of gold... oh keep my women as ******,
i'll keep your spices as jokes from Paris worth of
perfumes, don't Matt me then... Hawaii Auschwitz,
greyish sunset boulevard, *i'm German! i'm German!
**** woudn't know, neither could he between
Kashmir, Bangladesh or India with shopping malls
in Mecca... big ben of the middle east, abraj al-bait -
**** bing ****... your sister had a beard,
send in the Americans to complete the joke...
oh we'll get along, like we always did -
we'll be just fine, delicatessens versus curry parlours,
ready PakiDonalds (PcDonalds) versus make-your-own stink...
oh right, Europe will survive, former British Empire
conquests conquering Europe with Syrians?
you sad *****, who wouldn't if only they did?
there's me hoping for a family,
there's me seeing *****-wipe presses of plum
and hiccups - the waving version of
sunglasses, and then i say: thank ****
i wasn't programmed to reproduce,
given the benefit of 8 billion, thinking of Solomon
reducing his harem to a thought of ants,
regretting praying for wisdom yet possessing
so much luxury that lead him to default his
prayer and only lead him to vote in democratic
affairs as queen Sheba warned.

The Bath-House
When I was twelve years old I discovered
a bath-house near the docks we didn't have a bathroom
at home only a toilet for four families.
In I went- I had my intrepid moment- cubicles were you
Could undress in peace get a piece of soap, a towel which
was  a novelty.
My first shower, god how I loved it warm water and soap
I might have, no, I don't think so that came later.
I had a shower as often as I could the bath-house was shut
on Saturdays and holidays.
It was incredibly  cheap but for a boy 1 Krona was much
I had to ask my aunt for money to buy sweets and shamelessly
used them for my secret vice.
Well, the bath-house has gone a block of expensive flats with
a view of the harbour. Everything changes but not always
for the better

It was born small,
A drop of water in a tub of oil,
But the inevitable happened:
It grew,
It engulfed me,
Like an infinite sclera.

A distorted mirror,
Some part of me
Knew it was false,
But the tendrils of transformation
Restrained me, It hurt,
But it was also pure ecstasy.

Now I cannot reject its pleasure,
I now know who I am,
The tendrils guided me,
At a small cost of ignorant bliss,
I now know who I am,
I am Chelsea Krona.

or rather, the unnecessariness of a "brexit":
we're leaving, but we're
strapped to a ******* island...

   oh... wait...

      the hunagrian forint,
   the polish   złoty,
the shveedish     krona,
                the czech    koruna,

   and of course!

           the english          pudding...
or pounding, or whatever
you want to call it...

the english were already free
from the constraints of the U.S.E...

because if you still retain
a monetary autonomy:

    the bureaucratic ramblings
near Ypres, are like listening to
a cow farting inside a tornado.

some peoples, yes, some volk
were cautious about
     joining a unilateralistic currency...

now?
        brexit is a scam plan...
given that england had and has
their own currency...
       a true brexit would
come about, if england adopted
the euro...
            
               this is just political hot air,
something to talk about,
since the politicians had
to divert some pressing matters
of their land...

like...
          mental health
                 issues of their youth...
just to use the one and only,
and probably best example:
great avenue to divert actual
concerns of the country...

applause! applause! encore! encore!

p.s.
   yeah... and r. d. laing was also
a drinker - blasphemous pict! ha ha!

tunga täcken och dina andetag
bläcket i din hud och dina fina ord
jag glömmer nästan att sängen är dekorerad med mitt blod
fläckar som du låter finnas kvar

du känns som mitt paradis
för ibland vill du hålla om mig
men oftast vill du ha mer
dina händer är för ivriga och blåmärken är bevis
du ser ledsen ut men du fortsätter ändå
jag tror att det är okej för du vill ju ha mig

jag vill gråta
du vill romantisera
du säger ju att jag är fin när jag gråter
även när det är du som orsakat tårarna
gillar du det?
är du stolt?
för mina ögon brinner när dina bara är blå

jag är en saga och du är min prins
det finns ingen krona på ditt huvud
så du låter makten koras i dina händer istället
men det är
                      okej
vi är okej

du greppar hårt och blåser på såren
lämnar mig för ett bloss från cigaretten
jag känner lukten av rök på dina kläder
men jag vet att jag inte ska fråga
aldrig ifrågasätta
för då hade jag kanske sett
att dina ord var mjuka men din säng var hård
att dina löften vara stora men dina lögner var större
jag faller alltid för dig ändå

jag håller dig i handen och allt jag säger är fel
mina kläder är värdelösa
mina ord är ett evigt eko
du varnar och du säger
                                           f ö r l å t
men du vet aldrig vad du ber om ursäkt för

alkohol i vårt blod och mina tårar på din kudde
din själ som låtsas vara trasig
min själ som skriker ditt namn
aldrig någonsin hittar de till varandra igen
för illusionen är förstörd och till **** får jag syn
du är inget mästerverk och jag tycker synd om de andra
de som ser när dina ögon blir mörka
de som ser dina läppar runt en flaska

mörka väggar och du är borta
någon dag kommer du få höra
om natten jag spenderade hos din vän
eller telefonsamtalen från personen du träffade senast för en kvart sen
viskningar på stan och folk som ser igenom dig
du är en kliché
och inget känns okej längre

that the EU was over... i could have told you...
way back in 2004...
when the "project" expanded by a gravity
of 8...
             plain and simple...
                   thank you - dear west...
                      sprechen deutsch!
nein!
              sprrrrr-ECHEN deuTsch!
danke - liebe abend...
                                         liebe... abend...
the hounds and the workers from under
the curtain...
with iron teeth and bones and smiles...
  the hounds...
                   i composed a list...
                  almost all of them are the former
conscripts of the WarshauPakt...
                    the idea was... though...
to postpone their entry... to... strenghten
the common currency... the shared currency...
zu stärken die währung!
    too bad... well... the british would never
exchange fiat or gold... without Lizzy's face
donning the coinage or paperaeroplanes
of in-debted over spending...
           i do live on debit...
i'm trying to get a credit card...
since... i heard... all credit can be regained...
a credit is a safety-net -
   debit tenticles into your details and there's
very or little chance to argue against:
a zombie affair of debit -
an amazon 30-day free trial...
                it's not like they'd cut you off...
they'll keep on *******...
god forbid... vampirism... and the romance of...
a bit like a h.i.v. epidemic...
     illness of the blood...
   vampires are a romance...
      time to get on the bicycle and practice
a run through the village on a whim
of ****** hunger... about to be tested...
a single currency...
well... the germans always loved the idea
of a unified Europe...
              unlucky for them... they weren't
supposed to gain access to Charlemagne...
        but even Nietzsche cites this ambition...
too bad... there was no... scandinavian model
of teaching: an omni-present bilingualism...
or a switzerland model of at least three languages...
hardly... possible... when dealing on the outskirts
with: hissy-fit proponents of culture...
when the ottomans came, the mongols...
a list of the EU expansion:
the baltic states would cower and...
some if not all... do have the shared currency...
just out of the blue...
the tri-colour... why is the german football team
attired in teutonic knight colours?
oh i can just see it...
   a black shirt... red shorts... and yellow socks...
as emblematic as the fwench...
    unlike the Italians in blue...
oddly enough i don't associate rome with blue...
more... purple and red...
even the irish don't exactly show off their
terrible orange...
        schwarz und weiß:
                  arbeit macht frei... it's all a very german
"thing": this unification of europe...
why call it the EU at all...
   why not call it...       the vierte *****?!
         well... however long it lasted... it outlasted
the dream of Barbarossa invested in through
heat-leer...
                          i won't deny that i live
in england... but... it's sometimes worrying
too...
           never mind that... the currency...
well... i know of: the czechs with their koruna
the hungarians have their forint
  the polacks have their złoty
    and the invested amour of the germans...
for the swedes... the swedes still have
their krona... how many is, that? i count...
                               4...
                   the new... "european" enclave
into russia... whatever the **** and unnatural
was... the vicinity around Kaliningrad...
the same ****: different cover with...
estonia, latvia... lithuania all in the euro single
currency... the good old days of the teutonic
knights waging their northern crusades...

the slovakians were duped too...
               the romanians still have their leu...
the bulgarians still have their lev...
            oh mein gott! what of the projected...
sleeping beuaty entry... of the former yugoslavia
territory? was that... planned for...
2004... 2007... what the hell happened in... 2010?!
what happened in 2010 that didn't connect
Greece to... Italy via a shortcut across the Adriatic?!

but they enlarged... the... cartoon post-"soviets"
came out flinging **** and rusty spare parts...
some would catch a nail some a *****...
to pick vegetables, do the roofing... the plumbing for...
very important and riddled western:
"chauvinists" and... "neanderthal" journos of the great
snooze...

can it really be... deemed... "journalism" as
it mere partakes in... the chihuahua and lackeys
of the editorial? of the opinion pieces?
are they the ones to soften the blow of a harsh...
editorial... ahem... re-a(h)-lee-tea?

what was all this hype and envy for attention
when Brexit happened...
relentless... one trough of dog **** and canines
and minced maggot flesh for the lap dogs
to slurp... another baron of: for those idle hands...
work! the crown... or in terms of terms...
kabbalah: the keter... ehyeh asher ehyeh...

today i asked myself...
what does make h. p. lovecraft original...
in the ocotpus riddled godhead...
i asked myself that question when looking
at very finely sculpted from tree figures
of elephants... and...
an octopus godhead...
            well... and there's... Ganesha...
  which... is a bit like the russian name: Nikita...
you have one Nikita in that video of Elton
John... but then... you know it's not the Nikita
of teenage boy wetdreams...
but some Khrushchev...

      anything from the seas... perhaps...
except for seeing a whale... a fish that... needs
to snorkel... and it's BoB or bOb with gills
plucking out Os from bubbles...
                        in that: -xygen...
                             what can be so... possibly...
horrid and original within the confines
of h. p. lovecraft's imagination beside...
the descriptive allure...
                        as man i couldn't conjure up...
nothing as spectacular,
imaginative and yet... somehow... sensible...
as an elephant's head...
                     i bring the hindu head of an elephant
to compete with the anglo-saxon priest
of the depths of existential angst...
     i bring my elephants head before the octopus
attached to a body...
                 i can imagine much worse...
              but i'll use the fear of the octopus
and the leftover ink...
                             the EU was dead in 2004...
perhaps these isles wouldn't be throwing such
a hissy fit of self-congratulatory gluttony
of gloating over the defeated...
       it wouldn't have happened if there was:
currency of one's own...
               the rest will happen... naturally...
of the countries that still have their currency...
they still have their sovreignity...
i'm not into bull-crap stipends of talking
politico and sharpening pencils and folding
pieces of paper...
                       it was dead when...
                              the labour market opened...
and "our" best postcards... "our" best people decided
to leave the nest...
             2004 was a siesmic shift...
back in 1994 i was a token slav...
       hell... back in 2002 i was a token slav...
                 after 2004... i was no longer a token slav...
and because, after all... the british people
are omni-good... glutten-free eating
dickens reading cricket lovers...
        there is absolutely nothing criminal to be
associated with...
                     well... imagine a st. peter of mongolia!

what became apparent after 2004...
returning to those friendships prior... in school...
i somehow had a reputation of a patriarch...
the mood suddenly changed...
i was... the good exponent...
then the bad exponent... then all the bad exponents...
compared the beatles': i am the walrus
with... killing joke's: i am the virus...
as a side-note...

                  there wouldn't be a Brexit...
without the pound...
                       the pound predetermined the success
of the referendum...
it's almost as easy as frying pancakes...
not... if Britain was buying toothpaste
or shoelaces in euros...
for me it's still the most obvious... cheap victory...

the call for self-determination and
sovreignity... well that's all nice and Pickwican...
but the money already had the loudest
voice... and it was in the minoty of
a single pound...

it still feels like a cheap victory...
              a load of bureaucratic papers -
hardly a signature of **** on should they be worth
that of toilet paper and a wipe:
no nation's sovreignity is ever questioned:
when its currency is the ultimate authority -
unshaken...
and in europe? there are still a few left...
with the same integrity of currency...
4...

      whatever happened to the spaniards'
colonial past? where did the money go to?
               doesn't matter...
the satellite hounds of the former soviet empire:
having to integrate into the german-lands...
was always going to be a bad idea...
a sore denial of leaving a dozen plums
"wandering" from chin to cheek and elsewhere...
it's hard to imagine...
that a people would somehow come from
under one handlers...
and readily agree to new handlers...
and a "capital"... in Brussels?!
of all places... Brussels?!

        geographically speaking... where
is the centre of Europe? at best Dresden...
Toruń... Prague... at worst... Brussels... Dublin...

or coming from a town that once could
boast about... a cohort 30,000 metallurgy workers
in its metallurgy plants...
diminished... to... 3,000...
what's 30,000 roughly multiplied by:
a wife and two children? 100,000 circa...
move to elsewhere in Poland...
or move elsewhere in general...
ah... the love of obstacles... a language to acquire...
well... here's the prior-mentioned
acquisition...

       looks like i haven't been such a bad
host... after all...
clearly it - the host and "parasite" can
relate to a song in quasi-finnish:
täppmarschen!
                
          of the people "supposed" to be...
none and all were not... supposed to be...
even with the dreams of german
19th century recluses akin to nietzsche...
who... if being put under the scrutiny of
Mr. Dickens...
would be found as being bound
to the style of stenography of a... mr. alfred jingle...

nothing more! nothing more of this
already questionable affair of sods
and sorts!
               didn't... just a little bit... couldn't
nietzsche be... put on trial for
writing in stenography? high-brow and
brows indeed raised: should any more
sycoiphancy relating to the style...
be found upon this "trial of errs and errors"...
the englishman... if not the most...
trialed by witness...
    the most... sympathy sodden sobrerity...
as with requiring him to be drunk...
he starts to play the rascal
with a ******* slingshot... and never:
the poached egg in a barrel of whiskey...
never that... pensive: brood quote...

i only wished that i had lived
about / among the pobl Gymraeg...
well... who can wish otherwise...
                   Cymry... when there's me
attempting to sharpen the chisel of my oyster's
worth of tongue in speech and none
of it reserved to the dog oyster's worth
of performing the suitable, otherwise...
personages of oral found in the gutter
or in the ***** of Venus... should her floral
womb open for: vaccanies:
only onomatopoeias and vowel catching
brothers H and H of the tetragrammaton
allowed in!

just because it's Cornwall...
doesn't imply i will not come with...
                                                      Çymru!
no point a base in Loon'don if York is left
intact and with only two left hands
to govern it...
     even now...
                lepiej dmuchać na zimne:
better safe than sorry...
eh... pity that proverb...
since there's no connotation
of the joke... it is better to blow on the cold...
tea...

      and what of my time among
the Picts... well... that truly is a sort of...
muslim man mentality toward a woman
wearing a niqab...
            it's one of those: for your eyes only...
shady strings... perhaps the lute is involved...
t-shirt madmen...
in the middle of February...
on... the north bridge... and just below:
waverley station...

                     only last night i had a dream
of inspecting sketches of me...
with a 6-pack... long hair...
and the hands that scratched my love-handles
when they had their torso pinned
to a trojan thumping in a *******...
she's still a ghost of mine...
every time i want to forget her...
she resurfaces...
  it's like... kissing a frog...
                       i am the ******* frog...
and she is... the sitting, poised...
always less alarmed than usual: Akhmatova...
one of those women that i could:
actually... i still do... **** of on a regular basis...
she was my Aria Giovanni...
she became my Eve Angel...
                in between she's a compliment
of cubism is (you read that right...
of cubism is and not of cubism in)...
   her bagel of a nose... and she is myopic and
she's a troll short...
                she'd find a kippah on her head
under my chin... then again...
when she had short hair she was the only
tom-boy in edinburgh to steal...
              looks like the hopes for a... an engagement
afresh... well... she morphed into
the grant Tsarina and i am...
the next *******-master of a Потёмкин...
                               i am also delusional about:
my currency of metaphors...
god... mother... nation...
                      what are these...
when you have made it... and are a citizen of...
Monte ******* Carlo?!
when i think of father... eh...
well there could be an outlet of metaphors...
but then... there's that quote that mentions
Elijah... and i'm all knees and pearly gates please...
primo et pronto!

point proven... i can't exactly love another
woman... i can **** anything that moves...
etc.,
        but it's not exactly love to begin with...
it's that genius of reciprocated nihilim...
i began to live for the promise of:
and i will spend a tenner with charles III
***** on a banknote...
before the next pope does a kicker in one
of death's lamborghinis: feet first out
of the church congregation of:
              i didn't come here to praise caesar...

         but here a coffin... and an abudance
of toothpicks! sometimes... it would seem...
one doesn't have the necessary wealth...
as there simply can't be "too many" teeth
when the economy and ergonomics of toothpick
application is concerned...

oh that victorian laissez-faire of applied
language... it's not short... it's Pickwican...
it's... insinuating an extension of the bracket of
inclusion of informality...
a commonality of staging a cordiality
with a dwarf... strapped to... a song...
no less... rotes harr... i can see these devilish
imps chained to a carousel of this infernal
dance... and there is no greek-god
of the german-romance myth in sight...
for that... sort of sell-by-date nostalgia...
a rotten apple... a a Helga for a lover...
and a Helmut for a luvvy-dubby-shy-bud
of a limp whittle 'ichard!

- she's like a burning splinter in my mind...
of a body... that's all but cemented into
the hands of a sculptor that only works
with copper, brass, marble or... custard for brains...
and this burning...
again to Sophia with all the baggage of
a priori...
or Medussa with all that comes with shadows
of... frozen suitors to fashion
****** from...
her entourage of suitors... three coronations
of engagements down...
however many lovers...
me and my brothel sand-pitting to the best
kept secret of:
a leverage of two bodies embracing
for minor pundit approval...
the man of supposed lies...
the deceiving harrower...
                      
god and this leeching telepathic embrace...
"god", this telepathic embrace...
and the subsequent telekinesis of me
writing these words...
last time i had this murmur...
i came to aid as she was cutting her hands
down the Nile...
and... not exactly at the crux of...
the Hoover Dam... shame... a great shame really...

so be it... as it has always been...
whispers and grains of sand
passed toward the post-office of the wind.