(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)
jeffrey-lebowski:

Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
jeffrey-lebowski:
Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
(via phatphilosophers)
“
These are the days that must happen to you.
Walt Whitman, from Leaves Of Grass (via violentwavesofemotion)
(via phatphilosophers)
18 HOURS AGO / LARMOYANTE
axiatonal:

Canola Flowers Field, China
axiatonal:
Canola Flowers Field, China
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)

whatisadvertising:
What would modern technology and social networks look like if they were vintage ads
This is a post gathered Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, Skype, iMac, Nintendo Wii and Sony Playstation as if they were vintage ads.
(via thebronxisburning)
aplacetofindlife:

Someone Should Start Laughing
I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: How are you?  I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: What is God? If you think that the Truth can be known From words, If you think that the Sun and the Ocean Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,
O someone should start laughing! Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!- Hafiz
aplacetofindlife:
Someone Should Start Laughing

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
How are you?

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
What is God?

If you think that the Truth can be known
From words,

If you think that the Sun and the Ocean
Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,

O someone should start laughing!
Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!

- Hafiz
(via cosmic-rebirth)

meditationsinwonderland:
Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche, We Should All Be Feminists
How could I not reblog this?
(Source: bakongo)
1 day ago – 234,004 notes

artismyempire:
gentledom:
A wonderful analogy.
What I shall do today.
(Source: boyqueen, via thebronxisburning)
1 day ago – 30,054 notes

(Source: maryhadalittleblunt, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 81 notes
beachsloth:

SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
beachsloth:
SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
(via bluishtigers)
1 week ago – 74 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
1 week ago – 78 notes
maymonsturr:

My mantra.
maymonsturr:
My mantra.
(via cosmic-rebirth)
1 week ago – 568 notes
foxxxynegrodamus:

***
foxxxynegrodamus:
***
(Source: lnpfeed, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 1,635 notes
cosmic-rebirth:

Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
cosmic-rebirth:
Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
(Source: cookiecarnival)
2 weeks ago – 22,305 notes
“The point is not to pay back kindness but to pass it on.”
– Julia Alvarez (via cosmic-rebirth)
(Source: amandaonwriting, via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 275 notes

(Source: diawf, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 2,799 notes
bl4ckhippie:

Fly.
bl4ckhippie:
Fly.
(Source: rootsrukkus, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 750 notes

(Source: lizzlizzcomics, via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 110,456 notes
meditationsinwonderland:

ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
meditationsinwonderland:
ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
(Source: vegan-hippie)
2 weeks ago – 139,177 notes

(Source: jrich103, via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 4,848 notes

pleoros:
Helminadia Ranford - Guilin,China
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 329 notes
designgather:

Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
designgather:
Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
(via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 286 notes
miguu:
don’t be afraid.
lean into your genius.
let your own brilliance support you.
you are something
we have all been waiting to know.
please.
(via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 339 notes

odditiesoflife:
Amazing Jabuticaba Tree
This is an incredible tree that bears its fruit directly on the main trunks and branches of the plant, lending a distinctive appearance to the fruiting tree. The jabuticaba (Plinia cauliflora) is a fruit-bearing tree native to Minas Gerais and São Paulo in southeastern Brazil. Otherwise known as the Brazilian Grape Tree, the jabuticaba is grown for its purplish-black, white-pulped fruits. They can be eaten raw or be used to make jellies and drinks, including juice and wine.
They are wonderful trees to have and are fairly adaptable to most environments but they grow extremely slow. Jabuticaba flowers are white and grow directly from its trunk, just like its fruit. The tree may flower and fruit only once or twice a year, but when continuously irrigated, it flowers frequently and fresh fruit can be available year round in tropical regions.
Common in Brazilian markets, jabuticabas are largely eaten fresh; their popularity has been likened to that of grapes in the US. Due to its extremely short shelf-life, fresh jabuticaba fruit is very rare in markets outside of areas of cultivation. So if you are ever in Brazil, be sure to try the incredibly tasty fruit called jabuticaba.
source 1, 2
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 1,462 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 118 notes

(Source: rorycwhatsyourthesis, via samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 130,113 notes
oecologia:

Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
oecologia:
Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
(via samsaranmusing)

burningveins:
multicolors:
benskid:
Know where you stand.
Wow
This is kinda creepy..
(via hungryforworld)
“
Do not think you will necessarily be aware of your own enlightenment.
Zen Master Dogen - (1200- 1253) AD (via samsaranmusing)
2 WEEKS AGO
101fuymemes:

COLLECTION OF awesome CLOUDS
101fuymemes:
COLLECTION OF awesome CLOUDS
(via roslynoberholtzerbddd)

itscolossal:
Planetary Structural Layer Cakes Designed by Cakecrumbs
“
Do not resist events that move you out of your comfort zone, especially when your comfort zone was not all that comfortable.
Alan Cohen (via raeraenjma)
(via awaveofbliss)
4 WEEKS AGO / THE-HEALING-NEST
so apt
so apt
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)
treewellie:

"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
treewellie:
"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
definitelydope:

BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
definitelydope:
BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
(via awaveofbliss)

Birth by Alex Grey
Birth by Alex Grey
(via receptive)

(via bluishtigers)

(via awaveofbliss)
“
There is a time and place for decaf coffee. Never and in the trash.
(via 17yr)
(via hungryforworld)
1 MONTH AGO / MIDWESTRAISEDMIDWESTLIVING
surreelust:

Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
surreelust:
Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
(via cosmic-rebirth)
“
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul,
of the soul.
Rumi, from Who Am I?   (via bluishtigers)
(via bluishtigers)
1 MONTH AGO / VIOLENTWAVESOFEMOTION
xpudding:

xpudding:
(via cosmic-rebirth)

(via thebronxisburning)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
treewellie:

La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance
treewellie:
La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance

itscolossal:
Mirror City: A Kaleidoscopic Timelapse of Chicago, San Francisco, San Diego, Vegas and L.A. [VIDEO]

(via cosmic-rebirth)

awkwardsituationist:
gmb akash documents the 350 kilometre journey from dhaka to sylhet, bangladesh made by those who, unable to afford the price of a ticket or find room to ride inside, risk death by traveling atop and between train cars
(via suntochukwu)
purpleaggregates:

White Tara The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune When I see the signs of untimely death, May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara; And, having destroyed the Lord of Death, May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body. OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
purpleaggregates:
White Tara
The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune

When I see the signs of untimely death,
May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara;
And, having destroyed the Lord of Death,
May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body.

OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA
OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
(via dancingdakini)

(via guerrillatech)
hungryforworld:

Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.
hungryforworld:
Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.

(via awaveofbliss)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
“
Internal and external are ultimately one. When you no longer perceive the world as hostile, there is no more fear, and when there is no more fear, you think, speak and act differently. Love and compassion arise, and they affect the world.
Eckhart Tolle (via samsaranmusing)
(via suntochukwu)
1 MONTH AGO / SAMSARANMUSING
malformalady:

The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
malformalady:
The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
(via deeperthansoul)
polaroidsf:

Welcome to Eden
polaroidsf:
Welcome to Eden

(via bouddra)
“
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of
meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for
your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me

.i left an excess of a B somewhere in here... within the confines of a word giblet... i probably thought: bigger... bouncier... gibblet looked better... and so very far removed from goblet... i'm not going to look for it.

i haven't done much today -
and i don't suppose i will finish this day of
with some grand poo'em...
but one can almost be proud
to have perfected a chicken breast roulade...
the rest of the chicken missing
the butterfly? well... bound to a very
decent soup... clear and not atypical
western cream-soup...
but the roulade! the roulade!
no... you don't beat the butterfly *******
like you might turn to: "sadistically"
for a schnitzel...
you do beat the meat,
but you more or less... press down the mallet
onto the meat, until you reach
the right equilibrium of pressure and
there's that squish-sound / feel of the *******
expanding...

if it was a whole roast chicken:
of course i'd stuff the space between
the skin and the ******* with some thyme
infused butter... to capture the richness...
but this is a roulade...
the stuffing? goats cheese... toasted almonds...
fesh dates... thyme...
i might have just over-balanced
the equation with the dates...
but as i explained to the fussy-eater:
what are you implying that we do not
serve poultry with a sweet attache?
cranberry sauce and turkey?
and as i've learned...

it's best buying potatoes from a turkish
outlet by the 25kg bulk...
from a warehouse where the buyers
walk with bundles of money and do not
use debit card "finger" prints...
the free passing of money is still retained
in some tiers of society...
but the idea, regarding the potatoes is
to poach them from a bath of cold water...
once they start boiling leave them for
five minutes, then turn the heat off
and wait for the bubbling water to stop...
drain them... then leave them on
the already turned-off stove to get rid
of any excess water...
drizzle some chilly infused olive oil
onto the baking tray, place each potato individually...
then drizzle some olive oil onto them...
shove them in the oven when the roulade
is finished...
my first most pristine roulade...
of course you have to pan-fry it to get some
colour... the filling is kept intact given that:
goats' cheese is no mozarella...

it doesn't melt and subsequently ooze out...
and the whole lot should be be done within
the hour... the roulade can be pressured
to go for 25 minutes...
depending on the colour of the tatties...
i still had to take it out and "glitter" it with
a 1:1 ratio of honey and lemon juice...
the remains of this juice i designated on al dente
cooked greens... there was no need
for a dressing...
left-over red cabbage coleslaw...
that helps... sweet chilli sauce with some mayo
and crem fraiche...
it even looks the prettier picture:
leftover but it still works...
***** of a ******* butterfly *******!
of course it was going to spit oil back at me,
i was frying the skin... the fat from the skin
was melting the skin was getting crisp
and mingling with the olive oil fat...
also... it's a myth that the temp. should
read: 165°F... that's really just a circa...
mine read 156°F... and given the time i let
it rest...

oh right... this is not a food blog...
perhaps the moon is just too beautiful tonight
to have to attach words to it?
perhaps my love is better left alone and unused
and it doesn't demand sleeper idealism
for it to be celebrated?
it's cooking food... it's not a hip-replacement
surgery...
when cooking was married to chemistry:
i sometimes miss the laboratory
and the cooking up of esters...
my new found calling is in cooking...
and something i... wouldn't exactly want to earn
money for...

and what is surgery if not elevated butcher's ******>antics? oh no, it's needed...
but the meat is supposed to be raw
from beginning to end...
and if i was only given the chance to recycle
a recipe for a stake tartar...
or sushi... well... it wouldn't be much...
esp. when i come into my own
and cook an indian **** of spices...
but then again... the indians butcher their meat
in their curries...
i've come to some serious realisation...
the indians butcher the meat with their curry sauce...
it comes down to baking the meat...
in order for the meat to still retain its
original juices...
i quiet enjoy that little detail of cook...
in that: i don't remember the last time i was
in a restaurant...

i can't imagine eating while having to talk...
conversation over food is no better
than sitting in field of grazing cows
and their leech clouds of flies all bothersome...
with regards to the quality of the meat....
there is always some excess of meat from
the butterfly ******* before you start moulding
them into a shape that will satisfy it being
rolled...
it's a supreme joy working with a whole
chicken... i sometimes wish i was also the man
who could see the whole procedure of:
and be involved in the slaughterhouse...

oh god... the brute village beheading is
rather uncompromising... one chicken is caught
and beheaded on a stump of wood...
the head still moves with its last remaining
short-circuit tongue extending out of the beak
and the eyes roll... and then all the other chickens
congregate and perform a Kuru ritual of pecking
the blood... sipping it...
that's how killing a chicken in a village
looks like... i can't imagine an industrial scale
precision... but i would't mind...

every time i hear of veganism: the ethical argument
i start conjuring up an antithesis of
cannibalism... which is not exactly edgy given
my catholic background (i haven't been
confirmed, personal choice):
this is my body, this is my blood...
i hear a vegan talk i make a fetish of
imagining cannibalism...
believe me... these limbs look akward...
to begin with... where can you find a *******
drumstick of poultry on it?!
nowhere!

only a few days shy off today i made a most
delightful broth of chicken hearts...
i can't explain how the sight of washing...
oh... around 30 pultry hearts feels like...
given that they're hearts and not the entire chicken...
but as ever... the internal organs are a delight...
pork or poultry liver...
poultry hearts...
poultry stomachs...
cow intestines...

come to think of it... you never really cook meat...
you... curate it... it become a fine art specialist...
for those who turn to veganism or the vegetarian
"alternative": perhaps they never curated meat,
perhaps they simply butchered it?
the chicken roulade of butterfly poultry *******
always came out dry-*****?

after all, wasn't ol' Adoolph the one to say:
'hello mr. carrot, hellooo jew no. 1269230 of
auschwitz'... that's the puberty of my distrust
for vegans... they were never able to
cook meat properly... they probably ate
a decent piece of it served in a restaurant...
but when it came to cooking it themselves...
they would have probably butchered
a pasta and never reached the quality: al dente...
either...
and i'm worried that they can't cook
vegetables al dente either...
so it's back to the gulag of roots overcooked
and turned into mush...

oh i believe that meat is butchered...
but it's from the actual butchery...
it's from a lack of respect in how it's finally
"cooked"... well... curated...
are vegans the sort of people that never
ate a stake tartar... or found the most
arisotractic flavours in the giblet?
oh my god... if you can eat a drumstick
of chicken clean to the bone...
and, like me... sometimes bite off
the budding pulp of the bone for the marrow
gnash?
perhaps that's why i own cats...
delicate courtesans of the table...
a dog would go hungry at this table...
sharpnel of bones and some lurking marrow
in the "shins"... and that's about it...

you can never truly be a vegan...
not unless you repudiate the fact you've only
tasted muscle tissue...
what about the giblets and the cartilege?

every time i would perform oral ***
on a woman i could only conjure up one distate...
this is not a steak done rare...
this is not an oyster...
this is not a steak tartar...
there are "things" pulverising this meat...
there's an unexpected pocket of heat
in this... "thing"...
this is a sensation that lends itself
to the pastry section of my diet...
a warm apple pie... a custard drizzle
over some chocolate sponge...
oh qui qui... the marvels of a bilingual mouth...

if the meat is of good quality....
as the chicken roulade i made today...
and there were leftover snippets...
which i fed to the cats...
and the meat was eaten... in totality...
i was eating good chicken...
cats regarding meat are like...
those ancient jobs equivalent to...
Halotus...
god! give me a chance to own a cat!
i'll name him: Halotus!
he'll be my meat taster...
he'll tell me if i'm eating bad meat...
i'm not a Claudius but...
this cat could very well be the next Halotus!
dogs eat leftovers...

beside this one instance of catching
a female mosquito by the leg
and feeding it to a cat...
the most pleasure i ever received was
when i was preparing a rainbow trout
for grilling...
the head couldn't be used since:
i wasn't planning to cook a base fish stock...
so i plucked those pearly eyes from the head...
and my... what a delight they were...
not me... the cat...
i'm guessing that's the equivalent
of me gulping down an oyster...

female maine **** fascination with dairy
products...
any cream will do... even cheap-oh cheese...
dairylee spreadable...
but all manner of cream whipped...
i've heard of cats being fond of red wine...
i once owned one that was fond
of... olive brine...

again: what's with this need for people to cook
your food? what sort of decency of conversation
can one have when presented with food?
i don't like restaurants simply because:
well i can't exactly cook roadkill...
and shooting at birds is not my kind of thing...
so if i can't catch it and **** it...
i can at least: cook it...
i distrust what i eat that i haven't prepared
myself... notably the hygiene dilemma...

it really is on my head whether i'll catch
salmonella when i sometimes drink a coffee
with a guilty pleasure of mine:
whisked egg-yoke and sugar... on top of the coffee...
that's my problem...
but eating is never a synonym with conversation...
and it's never necessary to loiter and wait
for someone to shove pretenses above
the food in the first instance of: the waiting staff...

i blame the rise in veganism surrounding
the people who never allowed themselves to appreciate
the animal: in total...
there's no fun just sticking to ingesting muscle
protein... first you have to cook it properly...
this chicken roulade didn't have to reach
the internal temp. of 165°F - that's a circa proposition...
at 156°F and allowed to rest is just as good...
because it's an art-form to cook meat...
then again: what's cooking and what's about
to be curated?

the people who turn to veganism are also the people
who never bothered with gibblets...
the liver, the heart, the stomach,
in some cases the intestines...
hence my critique of Islams critique of ol' porky Bella...
this most unique animal...
which you can eat in total...
tenga deep fried pigs ears...
again: the cartilege...
ethics my *** if all you know about a pig is a bore
chop or a **** or... you never get into
the knitty-gritty details of the interior of
an animal... lamb is a stinking meat...
it's hell-rot when the male is slaughtered...

oh right! right! how could i forget the star
pinnacle... poached giblet supreme...
the neck... if you know how to eat a drumstick
down to the bone...
poached poultry neck...
the teeth and tongue wandering around
the crevices of this elongated spine...
i can imagine monkey's extended coccyx
tastes as tender... but only among
the macaques...
otherwise: when what's about to be eaten...
can be elevated to a status of ****** fetishes...
gimps in leather...
when rummaging among so many
boyscouts & aenemic vegans...

i'm yet to taste this, one specific, delicacy...
flaki (flački) is not new to me...
i need to marry a girl from ******* Masovia...
somewhere in the vicinity of Płock...
for i can eat some černina...
duck blood and clear broth soup...
as long as most of the animal is used...
the dogs can have the rest
and so can the vegan ethics society...

but of course this is no an anathema...
or some curated vendetta...
all the roots in the vicinity...
even the fungus... can vegans eat fungus?
are you sure?
what about those "thinking" magic mushrooms
that... if you looked into 1960s:
quick-n-easy philosophy courses...
the fungus is the botanical hitchhiker
that strapped itself to the humanoid brain
and... broadened our horizons and what not...
can you eat the godhead 'shroom?
it might just very well be...
that i'm picking a half-brain half-mushroom
entity in some alcohol to allow myself
to ease a tongue out from
its standard formality of the mollusk...
and waggle waggle waggle brute...

but yes... one is most certainly butchering
a piece of meat when one cooks
a broth... or a curry... unless its a gibblet
of sorts...
to "curate" muscular meat in a broth of a curry...
poaching it to death and worse than death:
dry...
it's about allowing the meat to retain its
natural juices...
how else to enjoy a poultry butterfly breast
roulade - with the natural juices still intact?

- i stopped paying attention to these *******
moralists...
if you have ever figured your way around
cutting off the butterfly of ******* for a roulade...
and you know what it feels like
when you stuff the space between
the meat and the skin of them
with some butter and fresh thyme...
and you're still not circumcised...
well... that's what skin feels like...

how else to reiterate? Ava Lauren is probably
the best example of a brothel beauty...
mandible beauty... something that contorts
and appeals to a perspective of cubism...
wretched beauty of the squashed square
into a pseudo-rhombus contort...
at least doing it from time to time leaves me
without a single buoyancy of thought regarding:
am i having enough, am i not having enough:
and if i'm not having enough -
what are the chances of me contracting some
s.t.d.?

bad beef...
again... juxtaposing a reiteration...
there's something worse than visit a brothel...
there's the... visiting a resturant..
i can't stop thinking about alien,
unwashed hands, preparing my food...
it's already one kick-in-the-***** not having
hunted the food... but to be left ******-over
twice by not having cooked it?!

at least if you know what flesh feels like
between the two crucibles of
death's kiss and man's tongue tease...
you will know when...
you will at least know when...
death comes with its kiss...
and its breath... the meat will turn all
yucky... as if a mollusk decided to prance
upon it in an imitation zigzag...

hence? i have no respect for islam because
islam has no respect for Miss Porky Bella!
seeing how most of the lamb -
except for the kidney in a steak pie
is not wasted...
the pig could feed two african villages...
if done properly...
while a lamb would only serve a pittance
for a poor man of yemen harem...

again: the pig is the enemy...
while not making crab meat a haram is not?
vulture meat... scavenger meat...
that's a: o.k. but the sophisticated nature
of the pig: sophisticated in that:
almost all of it can be eaten...
that so much of it can be you would probably
burp out an oink...
done properly...
the giblets in tow...
pity that such a desert god would never
appreciate the pig becoming a dog on
its truffle hog days...

beside all the arguments...
imagine how the "one true god" goes down
on a platter of those ignorant Beijing folk...
Warsaw testing! Warsaw testing!

pristine my *** when all they ever do
is eat the muscles and never appreciate the detials...
no wonder they become aenemic vegans!
at least butchering a vegetable is less of a concern...
you can almost get away with butchering a root...
it is... oh most certainly it is a shame...
when you can't cook meat properly...

but at least i never feel ever as bad going to a brothel
seeing the sort of people who venture into
restaurants...
i don't like being cooked for, i don't like being
"waited" for...
i don't like this modern orthodoxy affair
of a restaurant... i wish these people
learned something about how meat is: never cooked...
and how... it's always most certainly most necessarily:
curated...

pedantic? perhaps... you should have seen
me in that athenian strip-club with two-clingy *******
either side of me... starwberries in their *****
and we are all fine and giggling...
stealing kisses from prostitutes is: truffle hog
"learning" parabolla...

a date and a "promise" of *** is always
a limp **** affair...
i always want to know whether what i'll be eating
still entertain the existence of salt...
or whether i'll have to find alternatives
of: extracting the juices and finding the right
bites...
because love is long over-due and i'm not going
to butcher it further with whimsical hopes...
my love is a dead love is no ideal...
my love is donning a ball and chain of memory:
i have left the better parts of myself
in the wrong sort of people...
they're hardly coming back...
the people or the pieces of me...

but at least i can attest that:
oral *** and the cool crisp gulp of an oyster
passing the Charon of my tongue...
oysters are only fascinating to eat...
because you always want to concentrate
on the fact that: you're eating something that's still
alive... not even a steak tartar or a sushi slice
gives you that hope and thrill...
unless... you're hoping for some tapeworm
embryo being lodged in the flesh...
which how man can almost arrive
at the conception of foetus and womanhood...
i can't be impregnated: exclusively...
i can't be... pregnant: exclusively...
but i can allow a parasitical tapeworm
to become my new-born-*******-out-abortion...

inclusively... how else?!
i'm also tired of being left immoral by the act
of *******...
not unless you know what not being circumcised
feels like... and what chicken skin feels like...
the people at the restaurants...
a palette disgruntled by minor changes of heat...
and... there's always a very precise detail
when it comes to the temp. of a piece of meat
being cooked... and when it's allowed to epilogue
when resting to ****** with all its juices
left intact...

over-sexed society, are we?
at least doing the one-eyed-bandit's favor
doesn't allow me to ferment...
to pickle such repressive thinking...
itself pitched against: in itself...
and these this Radeztsky March forward...
over-sexed also can imply:
not exactly culinarily-savvy...
these are always twins walking side by side...
and they are always siamese problems...
over-sexed implies...
not cuninarily-savvy...
the better part of this critique is already wide open...
why all these cooking channels,
all these cooking programs?
and all this ****?

can't **** can't cook? broomstick! and to sabbath
with you!
i can't no better comparison...
over-sexed and also: terrible at *******...
******* is terrible to begin with...
you can't exactly quip yourself with
having done some lessons in tango or salsa...
the chances are that the *** turns out to
be a laughable take on tango and
you're going to step on a day-dreaming
dancing partner...
it's exactly what's it's supposed to be:
a gamble at best...
but when you throw in bad cooking?
recipe for disaster... bad dates that begin
in a restaurant and arrive at a black-out
bedroom with cockoon *** under
the bedsheets with you gasping for air!

'god let me out! let me out!'

cimen altinda gecen 225 gunden sonra benden daha *** sey biliyor olmalisin.
kanini emip bitireli epey oldu, artik bir sepetteki kuru bir cubuksun.
bu isler boyle mi oluyor?
bu odada hala ask saatlerinin golgeleri var.
birakip gittiginde asagi yukari herseyi alip gittin.
geceleri beni ben olmaya koymayan kaplanlarin onunde diz cokuyorum.
senin sen olman asla bir daha olmayacak.
kaplanlar beni buldular ama artik umurumda bile degil.
translated by somebody

Motions croak in crimped t-shirts
Peace hurts the leg of 3 wheelers
Spit in a book, carefully holding hands over healers
Frosted articulation of bricks hitting off buildings
The doctor resumes surgery on the filming
Actress gummy mouthed backpacker sharing rooms with a jet-lagger galvanizing goo
If I phone myself, I’ll phone you too
Ad-hoc hop around dentures holding saxophones, laziness is the common king around here
Match the sketch with the deliriant fear free freedom and sneer
Shut the promo drunk and dolo
Potions of pogos bouncing so low
Both bones focal, keeping in a smile from an eye perched over the edge spitting on the populous
Attacking formulas with cruel gruel from the oesophagus
Wilting oxalis wooded in obelisks
Mortal coil in amphetamine greed for the sleep
Positioned slightly awkward and barely out of reach
Been seen being dreams piercing holes in the purple of the seeds
Peace is deemed green, free me from the iron between the sheets
Coins flipped in a river and an etude rings out with a profound sense of urgency
Won't wake up faces blindly painted deranged by a 5 sided box that gave fame to what was contained
Warp the wattage, walk in nervous
Hold cosmic stardust in one hand
Another a phone to call the best man
To marry the two hands and I’m sure the priest will understand
Hairs on the ceiling float through the window and provide an outspoken account of how they are feeling
Canisters of friendship huffed in the backs of vans till passing point seizures explain themselves
9mm film reel candy bars and ring modulation skeletal structure cat gut harps
Never finish a walk to work without beginning the start
Trolleys of Dolly Parton facelifts
Knife cutter butterfly anaesthesia makeshift
Hollow bellies of pardoned mop heads becoming a commodity
I can't say sorry if I begin to speak so oddly
I’d say probably yes if you lit a fire beyond the fence where the old man gambles drop-***** with 50 pence
Bite down on copper, synchronise the action
Winter comes and goes like conversation going out of fashion
Morbid, terra-fin switches waterbeds
Hints home at spit-roasting ostrich heads
Cost and effect, cause and intellect
The castle puts his foot down only to find a horses neck
Zipped up in honey, the combs hive mind should reconsider its self lucky
Unorthodox autodidact naturally diffracting compound eye composes paranoia and lies
The patronage of the savant is murderous and contrived
Its better out than in
The constant metaphor for unluckiness
Is where we begin
Radiance in a hot water semi permeable membrane crescent
Strokes the backs of frogs in the desert, stars iridescent and sun bears a weapon
Hammocks, ****, sweat on the brow, split lips on cornerstones of the solstice in the dead of now
Space-age ape on the country road lets out a cough
Caution to the hissing hills ****** in hidden zygotic havens
Actors have no time to cut themselves shaving
Austro-Bavarian chemical burns Molotov cocktail sewers
Crayons let me draw this face on, paint the day on and on, it gets newer
Its the context at which you and I notice the separation, that cues canned humour

/   adverts say: living with your parents... BAD... FIRE... BAD... NOT IVF CHILD... but what would you make of a man, in his 50+... who applies for a neighbour complaint, about a man he's complaining about, while making a complaint, to the mother, of the man he's complaining about? surely it can't be the old fashioned unfathomability of fear... if he can't approach me... why does he boast a complaint on a canvas of my mother? hmm... might have to look into this... /

and i thought i was living next to an englishman....

but wait...
  what i thought, turned out
to a misnomer...

i was living next to...
a ******* ****!

  (bronson style approach
in giving the gift of
the gab):

so he comes over that i'm
smoking outside my window,
and that the smoke
is somehow, "magically"
flowing through the window
into a room where his
new-born sleeps...

ha ha!
   "new-born"... the ****** is
50+ and his bride is 40+...

there are two alternatives
to a psychiatric waiting room...
a brothel, where the body speaks,
and a dark forest: where you
can scream insults, rather than
mutter them under your breath...

with this **** of a man,
this castrato wannabe cossack
of an, "englishman"...
   i thought i'd go one further...

beginning with...
so he complained to my mother,
but didn't complain to me?
does he believe in property rights?
there's a "his" air that
   otherwise gives us a parallel
expression of life?
      the **** high or sumthin'?
well i know he's not punjabi...
**** reeks of black pudding
and microwave dinners...

          **** says something?
says what?
                 oink?
  **** it... let's eat everything
on him... apart from the snout...
might get a lurking kuru
infection...

so an absolute ****, with and without
a ******* sack: one could
attempt to call "it" an
example of an englishman...

anti-psychiatric treatment:
1. a brothel for the body,
2. a darkened place on
the outskirts of urban society
to give out a: shout out to bronson!
kant! you ******* chewing-gum
aspect of phlegm!
  you ***-crack of a dodo alzheimer's
with a cocktail of down syndrome!

so i'd ask...
   if your "child", or should i say
herr pinguin, you're so over-protective over...
why don't i see a baby buggy?
or why doesn't the baby ever see sunlight,
or ever leave the ******* house:
O mighty landlord of loft essex!
don't be afraid to show us the ******...
we don't mind retards...
but it's not you're complaining
about me smoking, outside my own
window, inside my own bedroom,
like you might be harbouring
the next usain "ya man" bolt!

imagine an england when the next
english native... thinks the white, immigrant,
is treated, as if the native is:
king pompous philip zee dritte!
   or whatever charlie will become -
hope he does...
  but when, every, ahem,
  englishman thinks i'll wipe his
***, in my own home,
  while he'll appear stupendous
gorging on curry and kebabs?!

       i'm about this close        | |
              to ****** this ****... with my thumb;
and this is my neighbour we're
talking about.

i.e. he owns the dictate of personal
property rights?
   because he gave birth to a *******
pokraka?
        yeah: blame the hunchback
for breeding upright children...

  and they say the mood in america
is bad...
      mood in england,
with these sort of "englishmen":
    i'm starting to think of
a liver + kidney pâté: of the rare sort...

     because the ****** doesn't own
our shared air!
      i rather smoke a cigarette out my
window than in my room!
his room... is non-inclusive in the matter!

but then again... they say venezuelan
living arrangements are congested...
sure... in england?
   it's just constipated.

i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th

that's almost sandinavian in origin,
the missing grapheme of d ******* j
for a d'yeah...
  what do you call someone, drinking,
propped up on the windowsill?
io? oh right yu... ю      you...
yew? you yew you you?
                  ?
                     tree-hugging.
personally? i found that poetry (beside
the 20the century) are horrid, in that
they are rigid,
a bit like braking a shin good...
         who the **** what's a broken ankle?
limbo heaven darling:
  the ankle and wrist is already borken,
we're talking about those elongated bits...
     funny you should, i said quo vadis?
to my anaesthetist when i had "wisdom"
teeth removed...
once upon a time a muslim friend of mine
corrected me about the difference
between physicist and physician...
phy phy my ***... we thought that by eating
pork i contracted kuru...
i mean: what are the odds?
               i ate too much salt-meat which means
i ate human flesh... maybe kuru comes
from the notion that human flesh doesn't
require seasoning for the added fetish effect?
it's never bread and wine,
given there's no salt, pepper or butter.
          **** me aren't the greeks funky cool with
their ******* about a crimminal (of jewish origin)?
it's like: foundation layer a. we will have..
foundation layer b. we will not have...
foundation layer c. evangelicals hurrah!
   i was really onto asserting what the correct word
was for that weird **** they do in the ukraine...
apparenly is has a name in many variations;
there the noun [ɦoˈpɑk]: a language so abrupt
in ' it being used / in terms os usage... that no one
really does... linguistic *******...
   but the curiosity is concerning greek
translates into cyrillic... it's the gamma (Г)...
it's called a hopak for a reason... chłopak... boy...
it does denote the concept that only boys dance
this dance... i've ate
russian orange caviar and the ulranian borsh
of beetroots... me full...
        but who the **** writes this *******
more serious than the journalistic infirmary?
                exactly when did Г ≠ G,
but instead "E" / eta Hη?
                              what's the part i missed?
some historical fact about Columbus?
                      some muslim who's nostalgia is *******
me off trying to revive the crusades?
that part?!
              if you reread the encoding the word i
entitled to be the title reads as: gopak...
   but if you revise it and spell it as it "ought"
to be spelled, it reads as: hopak... or chłopak...
which just means boy...
what?! you going to teach me how to read
                  czech republic you ****?
caron c (č)                          eh... h the stressor, not
a variant of eta...
                               čeh,
                 due to the caron the other c is missing,
and the h is marked to imply a hark...
and hry sound (y is a hollowed out version
of i... like a cave)
                          which means that (c with caron)
is the equivalent of
                                  č = cz = ch.
             i was originally a chemist, seems to me i'm
starting to get really ******* by english
on the internet, that ******* of returning to
the obelisk and writing              :)
on it...                 do i even look like i'm smiling?
given the minor problem that this is...
and given that i'm writing about it in youth
(30 ain't old)...
                  i'm starting to think it to be perfectly agreeable.

Beautiful flower poem in japanese:

Utsukushi hana:

Utsukushi hana no yona
Sore wa chimei-tekina kakusa reta toge o motte iru
Utsu no o matte iru
Umareta bakarita jinsei o shuryo suru
Hayai, sore o haishutsu suru
Sore ga kanso suu tame ni
Jinsei o mite kare
Fuyu wa kono michi o kuru toki,-suki
Katsute atatakakatta subete no seimei o korosu
Sore wa taikutsu ***** ita toyuu riyu dakede
Sono utsukushii hana
Sore no tame ni jinsei
Meiwakuna hachi no yona monodesu

.the new contraception, via the current spectacle of technological advancements... it's not here? this, new, contraception? existential, which implies: not fostered by an inhibition of the senses, but by the slowing down of will? me, ha ha, again, talking out of my own ***: because there was always going to be a fifth... came the four on horses, and a fifth, akin to the parallels of comparison joining jesus to balaam, riding... a... ha ha... riding a ******* donkey.

having to attack
grammar...

    what sort of
    deconstruction
is to be still
                  implied?

low hanging fruit
for my liking,
        because...
         i get the layer
of myth
          that
subordinates people...

listen: i was
happy working as a roofer,
until one Egyptian fwend
"thought":
well, ****, roofs aren't
necessary...

i once, upon a time,
cared;
now?
   i'm free-falling...
Diogenes
was always going
to free-fall...
but in english
society...
that's just Norman...
a
brain haemorrhage
aged 21...
  that's just Norman,
it's Norman
every single
month of the year...

   cover-up...
Norman,
it's all just one
get-lucky big-*******
Norman...

a little bit of Norman
'ere,
   a little bit of Norman
over d'err...
Norman is Norman,
and...
we pretend to be
courteous to each other
in...
from what i heard?
alcoholics anonymous
seems pretty friendly...
anonymity
anonymous
of the internet?
   oh, look...
          ballet
on egg-shells
with only cats
in the audience...
            ninja kaput...

but it's not funny
when, cancer...
   but it's not funny
when...
          heart attack...
it's funny when
a brain haemorrhage
is made unnecessarily
into schizophrenia...
that's funny...

      oh look...
grammar is being attacked...
funny...
     native identities
are being sacked...
funny...
      a little bit of funny
'ere,
   a little but of funny
over d'ere...
funny funny funny...
it's so ******* funny
these days,
that...
   i just forget to laugh...

honest to god,
it rattled me,
when i didn't hear
any canned laughter
in a comedy sketch
akin to the office...
i started thinking:
where're the lazy bits?

but it's funny,
you're funny,
i'm funny,
  everything is just,
  funny...
revision:
  please tell me
at what point i'm
supposed to laugh?
there's any laughter
involved, universally,
or is it,
that the joke,
is an in-group
               point
of opening, & closure?

when a comedian
performs on stage,
there is no cue?
        so, that laughter is genuine,
it's not canned?
wow!

               wow!
well... if everything in
the anglophone world standard
is, the standard base
for expression...
let's all laugh!

oh... right...
some people are not allowed
to laugh...
  they have to squirm,
or pretend a pigeon flight...

never in niche,
always in a zombie total...
what do they call
a zombie total? ah... horde...
thingy-mig-jig...
  
but it's all funny...
like... reading the oeuvre
of alexandre dumas...
and then...
keeping up with
   the tabloid reading
public...
  like that wasn't
a recipe for disaster...

but's it's, funny...
   it's all just a bit
of the giggles...
  kuru / pseudobulbar affect...
well...
for a people to experience
cannibalism,
look no further than:
this is my body,
this is my blood...
          like...
       metaphor became literal...
but in all the "funny"
so people are bound
to be found to laugh...
literally...
  it's funny,
but it's funny with venom,
it's
   ridicule,
the lowest form of wit...
it's schadenfreude...

     it really becomes funny
when brain haemorrhage
morphs, magically,
like... having touched
a mushroom, or a unicorn...
into schizophrenia...
oh, then the giggles are on...

and the same dumb IQ specimen
says:
you know...
   samuel beckett's watt
is... base...
   nope, beats anything
                    by joyce...
   but that's also not funny...

going to the opera?
that's also funny...
not going to the opera?
that's ******* twice as funny...
it's always funny
    with the Ęgleash...

it's only funny,
when the,
  Germans were never funny...
thank god i'm not
even remotely alligned
to anglo-saxon...

    it's always funny though...
ethics is not sought
and etiquette is
      limping...
  hence: but it's still funny!

the mob authoritarian
mentality of:
you need to laugh!
we say:
  YOU NEED TO LAUGH!
so... we're laughing...
as said by the people,
for the people...

    i was told i needed
to laugh...
  by the trolls...
so...
         i guess i laughed.

p.s.
   that time when
people said:
ooh, feelings...
  we don't care
what you feel...
right...
  which implies:
and i have to care
what you think?

         what?!
i've been told to laugh
at something
that i found
to be, not funny...

  how could anyone
tell anyone else,
to prescribe him
funny?

then reducing it to
an i.q. argument?
  funny ha ha or
funny: i'll think about it
and ha ha with
a delay button?

but you see...
            it's funny!

you want funny?
you know
what i ascribe my personal
library to?
that quote
from batman (1989),
that scene...
  when the joker
is rising from
  the chair in
an alleyway surgeon's
office...
   'but you see,
what crude instruments
i have to work with...'
  
   it's not bombastic
to drop a name of some
german philosopher:

oh... but it is,
it's reduced to verbiage,
word-salad,
as long as Darwin
is pop and in play...

so... it's all... funny...
hey,
i'm not anglo-saxon...
let's preserve ourselves
in peering into
current culture...

it's funny!
   we'll all be a throng
of rolling barrels,
of laughs,
coming from this
'ill-top!

there's actually a laughing gas
epidemic in this little
corner of england...
    it might have died out, but...
there was a time when you
could have picked up these
enigmatic "******" bullet-sized
metal "containers"...
           they were lining the streets,
thrown out of cars,
or whatever...
            i had to ask this drunkard
schizosphernic what they were
when i presented the example to him...
all he said was:
            'laughing gas.'
        apparently there are places
in the world where syringes and ******
are the problem...
  where i'm from... the solution is apparently
laughing gas...
     i am the most loud-mouthed laughing
person around here, so i figured:
   am i really that inspirational?
      i'm still the only person found laughing
around here...
        but i could have told them that:
i once inhaled a balloon containing
   "laughing gas" in a club in edinburgh...
   for some reason i didn't exactly laugh...
                it was placebo...
fake, ******* gave me fake...
                               i was expecting the old
testimony of patients in dentistry...
  like that myth of tying a string around
the tooth that gave you aching pain
and then tying the other end of the string to
a door... and then opening the door
and the tooth being pulled out...
           ****... why not? hades? zeus?
the minotaur?! hercules?!
                o.k., we have achilles and we have
homer... and we also have hesiod, ovid and horace.
   but around here... it's not glasgow,
it's not ****** and syringes that's the problem...
it's these ****** rifle bullet sized canisters of
people inhaling laughing gas...
                 let's just say that history
of what was and isn't, but what really was can
be translated to literally applicable via
   metaphor...  -osis...
                             it was 2016 and these ******-rifle
sized "bullets" were really found on the streets...
like i "said", it's not glasgow...
             then again laughing gas in edinburgh
was placebo... and i too thought that the middle-class
******* from england would prescribe me
something efficient during a night-out;
                         evidently they didn't.
they diluted that **** like they diluted absinthe
to the point that you don't really hallucinate from
the wormwood that's missing in the 21st century
translation...
                            ****... who was it? ginsberg!
yeah, he was on laughing gas once... took it
for recreational purposes...
                        absinthe these days is just shrek *****...
double the strength and not much else...
             drank it a few times... ok... envy sambuca
given the liquid rice... liquorice / lee-co reesh.
                   it's true though, a year apart from
when i'm writing this "article", these streets
were peppered by these ******-rifle-bullet-imitation
canisters...
      and as my sources claimed... laughing gas
canisters...
                     imagine a laughing gas epidemic...
what the hell do you do with it?
            how do you begin treating laughter as
a disease?
             is it like sydenham's chorea?
       or is it some sort of symptom of engaging in
kuru? and then the jack sparrow comic entrance?
  it was, don't know if it is: but i certainly
know it was laughing gas that caused this uproar
in the english county of essex.

a book just fell off my shelf after i read some female poetry online... coincidentality... the safety net of superstition; or at least a prompt... an unloved woman can reach tartarus... given souls only reach hades' lava lamp of flux; believe me, this **** stays... women take too many inspirations from the natural world... which means men take to creating a metaphysical world they can escape to... she acts the mantis... i act the talking *****.

thankfully i trained my cats so they rudely
wake me up,
  the last dream i had about running
on this pythagorean hypotenuse *****
trying to catch sheep that were chased
by demonic figures decapitating them...
i sleep better these days,
    i think that's a reason for owning cats,
you mature with them,
         but i'd suggest owning dogs
in your childhood, children love dogs,
cats don't love children... but then that's a flimsy
argument to even have a dialectic about...
   people love to have opinions,
and i agree, they should, so that they can subsequently
have emotions; by now socrates is
a surgeon of emotions, have them? not have them?
but then you read some poetry by a woman
who's shrouded in the guise of an online
anthill... and a subsequently a book flies
off your bookshelf onto the floor...
oddly enough a book bought by your first love...
yesterday, to-day and forever,
by *edward henry bickersteth d. d.
           figure that acronym out you modern
pundits! or should i add: late bishop of exeter...
do i believe in ghosts? no, but
a subjectivity counts if i'm not writing about facts
and this need to constantly make things
object-object related... nothing in real life
deems object-object relations to be the real concern
for talking, or what's the current theme via
political-correctness... that's why we have
antique dealers, or why we have
                      a picasso at sotheby's rather than
tate modern... the object-subject relation,
worth, or the appreciation of,
               some even go as far as mad and write
zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance
         rambling on about quality,
or **** ex uno unto uno - and yes i used
that english conjunction because i'm not about to
ponce off the latin italic phraseology
for "rhetorical" purposes...
              since it only means man from one unto
one thing considered... say, that's self-explanatory
given men have passions... what we end up as,
carpenters, roofers, weathermen... poets?
          man out of one unto one...
                   it gets a bit fuzzy prior monkey
and how we came about... but thankfully we
have homosexuals allowed as to peer into the pre-darwin
reality of being a self-****** organism...
          at least we can understand being pre-monkey
something or other, because that's exactly were:
something or other...
                     since we reach a point between
monkey and the big bang where:
   language simply seizes to exist and the thing in question
that exactly express it... it's lost... ****!
  now comes the white rabbit pulled from a top hat.
that's why i don't exactly understand darwinism,
frankly monkeys are perfectly adaptable and
there's no need for them to adapt further...
   they're still here, aren't they?
         well... i'm just wondering when i'm going
to stumble and sound too insensible, or when the logic
of constructing words will fail me and i'll slop into
some kinda of dementia...
                
canvas: the most sinister psychiatric experiments
on men in england...
                      now i'm really laughing...
it's almost like i'm going via the route of
  kuru and dancing the hākā before the altar
of kālī (or as i say: that's better than attempting
a blow-job pose before the crucifix)...
                cultural ap prop what?!
                i don't want to have anything to do with
this "thing" that western society symbolises...
  i just see one massive asylum: lunar rex -
yes, where the moon reigns, or at least the most
necessary resource: oil, middle east;
                  ******* mad max fork in the road.

and the greatest thing about "poetry"?
you forget what you wanted to originally write,
best motivation for keeping a hard-on of narrative,
in audio sprechen though?
    don't know, i have to talk to this waiter,
doctor, politician and so many other people
before we can commune on having a personal life
a bit like trying to squeeze past
jim morrison to get to the other person...
   almost impossible, unless having been at
the parisian shrine of bolo bolo bolo...
          knock on door... get over it.

i know that i picked up a book on kabbalah by
aryeh kamplan prior and cited gematria -
and the book that fell off the bookshelf was probably
next to it and it was gently dislodged...
but that doesn't claim scientific details with what
i was thinking at the time... if i really wanted
to ensure i was scientifically accurate with my
cognitive narration, and call it gravity,
i'd be the one standing on the bridge contemplating
to jump off it...

            plus i mentioned gematria...
also called the assyrian / babylonian / greek bollocking...
which evidently doesn't mention the roman,
or what's otherwise the genius of I V X L C D M -
              but even that wasn't genius when it was
conquered... or what's the 7 heads in the book
of revelation / the cardinal sins...
         myth contra myth... that ends with no myth:
but the blatantly obvious staring right back at you...
which truly exposes the end of res cogitans
and the reign of res vanus... because
   the truth was so obvious that you can't even begin
to complicate it by giving a thought for it,
but like the devil said: idle hands? i have spares!

but i'm thankful that these two pair of cats talked
to my unconscious mind (whatever that means) -
   once i got out of bed and opened the door
to the garden i realised: ooooooooooh...
                 desperate to do your toilet business?
then it became self-evident what
the inability to dream can conjure in the waking
world... a pair of cats need to go to the toilet...
      seems my head isn't that far lodged into my ****
since i have absolutely no capacity to have a dream
other than two desperate cats needing the garden
to relief themselves... that's americanism, isn't it?
i'd probably add ease... or oompf on its own...
       probably why i never took to *** ****
having too much pleasure from easing a **** out -
or why latin names were kept: reasoning man / **** sapiens...
     given the proximity of the stated italics.

Hiç bir yer kalmaz kuru,
Yaş olur topraklar,
Düşer Nisan yağmuru,
Düşer sarı yapraklar.
Döner yine bu Gülşen,
Hatırlatır zarafet,
Ve hayran kalırım ben,
Göklerden gelir rahmet.
Açılır sümbül ve gül,
Mevsimler yavaş geçer,
Lakin istemez gönül,
Bırakmamayı seçer.
  Gitti Hazan mevsimi,
  Gitti Nisan mevsimi.

.i only wrote this to write... it's never about drinking for drinking per se, or to entertain "thinking"... for the first time in 4 months i took my usual night-time walk... i wanted to precursor spring... to fill the air with perfumes - so i washed myself - applied the deodrant... the almond cream, i trimmed my ***** hairs... i oiled my beard... i applied coconut cream to my face - a mango infused balm to the hands - deodrant to the feet - i left the house imitating a magnolia bush... or all that *** i get up to come the nights of yesteryear when spring finally comes and all the trumpets are alight with the wind rustling them and ushering our the scents...

at some point in my drinking:
i feel the puppet strings loosen -
and i arrive at a kuru dance spectacular -
it's hardly a dance:
it's more akin to a gimmick -
more: akin to sharpening a misnomer
on the stone-grinding-the-never-to-be-used-blade
of a synonym: blockage...
****... always with the blockage -
i can't really be making excuses:

does this even resemble a paragraph?!
once upon a time; perhaps -
but even now, without rhyme without
sparrow without a horizon
of the climbing sun -
above a horizon of mountains
of Macedonia in the cleft of a valley -
just pristine rising -
on the plateau of: where
sea fiddles with the sky and vice versa...

of a language best leftover to
a hangover of: much better use of it...
should i be bound to being sober,
being the better attired man...
when i would break the tide along
with Xerxes whipping the sea
into submission -
better well attired: purposively tailored...

a crackling sound from a snippet
interlude of how a bow-tie was born
simultaneously with the sparrow -
how man was so borrow the donning
of the tie with a crane's elongated neck -

but again: how is "one" to not tire -
gender neutrality of pronoun usage -
began with the royals - ends with the royals:
the crown is not even upon by head
and yet: this expectation's toll...

one "thing" to call it a poetic metaphor...
another to call it...
a psychiatric: hush hush: invite the broom!
it's oh so tiresome...
tiresome to have to want of this world...
nothing more than a transitional
escapade...
this life that needs a mortgage...
however taxed or not taxed...
with insurance fail-safe investments...

i see a sun... i call it...
the Switz take on euthanasia...
and i'm very much a fan of this:
when one, simply, becomes, tired...
and one can tire very easily...

i sometimes read the poetryfoundation.org
editorial spew...
at least they forget custard and
never, oh never never:
start the show off with fudge packing...
the ballerina breaks a leg...
a crescendo of sound makes it into
an orchestra of a waterfall -
the echo shouted into a cave...
learns of the vampiric inability to see
a mirror reflection...
the echo begins to learn to become silent...
the image is no longer seen,
the echo will never be heard...

the ice-sharpnel in the eye -
the cave has learned to glutton the would be echo...
gobble gobble it down it must....
it will not regurgitate any fleeting sound back...
and a day will come when
a man will start to philia - not love...
more: befriend his own shadow...
because it's not that beauty fades...
by that (circumstance)
there was always that interlude
of tampered with inflated beauty...
otherwise no delusion:
it was "fate" that it would happen...

and that will not stand
on anything but stilts riddled
with foundations made of sand...

an old woman's skin like creases
of forever folding paper -
but never quiet an art of origami -
more like creases - scrunches -
how an inflated ballon filled with
a dead body feels like
in dio and carbon dance -
then dipped into liquid nitrogen
will eventually look like -

like an onion dipped in the same liquid -
later picked up and smashed lazily...

what am i supposed to see...
something akin to Postnik Yakovlev's
or Ivan Barma's eyes were not gauged
out by Tsar Ivan:
dropping dogs from high-buildings
was a "thing"... st. basil's was also the last
sight of beauty before the moon allowed
her full blossom of *****...
or before the light scortched the eyes
into a fizzling out fiddle of
not lasting expectation: as ever...
this epitaph anticipation...

casual language: non-narrative...
no character study....
pork chops and a date with the halal
butcher... since the kosher one
"sort of"... "forgot"...
catching the tide of the "white flight" from
London...

absolutely no appreciation for
greek orthodox cenobite chants...
perhaps it's now wonder...
yugoslavia... how it didn't dissolve
peacefuly akin to the gorbachev plan...
because the serbs went sword for sword
with the muslims of the balkans...
and what not...

no... this is not poetryfoundation.org
type of poetry...
white is allocated to... what?
english? french?
i see the root of the argument...
in russia... it looks very much
termite infested: próchno!
which one would call: it's not driftwood...
it's spongewood... sinkwood...

but i have to thank the russians...
i need it!
it will not simply be: pleaSure...
it would be as simple if the anglo-ßaß
interchange were to happen...
but even then!
ж = ž = ż = rz...

you have these signs in your language:
but it's almost... like you can't...
rather than don't want to use them!
i need the russians' 'elping 'and...

с = s = ç

(х) - lo(ch) - i call it the drill -
oh is no och, faye dunn!
what's new?

no...

   ц (cy - niet ka ka)
c'erp...

ч contra х...
č / ч 'asem...

ж                         ш

                 щ

                 šč (,) that's added to the š'
is also a szczekam: i bark...

either these are the leftovers -
or these be the crumbs...

ж = ż = rz...
and therefore? depending which language...
caron r (ř) or caron z (ž) = ж...

it's very much unlike hiding a vowel...
as the hebrews do...

but i can only thank the russian encoding
of allowing me to stress
the difference between C and K in english...
greek is dead to ditto...

not quiet a с - or... cedilla attached - i.e. s...
certainly not a к...
i'm pretty sure the greeks have their:
phi and theta - psi and chi...

pivot letters from russian:

ц: plaцki - cakes -
ч: płaч - crying...
    velsh: pwaach...
х: хolera - cholera - c'olera -
otherwise: not latch but loch nessie...
ж: pleaßure...
   or... żart... but that does depend on
the caron... žart...
and half of the caron?
       źrenica - pupilla... pupil...

back toward:

ш + ч = щ...
i too was waiting for the following equation:

ш + ц = щ...
but no...

let's not discuss the variations
of й, у, ъ, ь, ю or я...

am i not entertaining a language i will not learn
to a level of conversation?
most assuredly!

зъ in roman would almost look like
ж - well... ż or the caron eventuality...
these are hardly shortcuts...

cheap - pointers...
shameless office-hours... nothing but b & w
printing - and making coffee for
the muggers of hours -

a break from solving a sudoku...
back into looking at russian -
oh... just the language... no painting needs
to be summoned...
although...

at the royal academy of arts...
when i was skipping lectures at U.C.L.
i spotted this eye-pleasure
in flesh and blood and oil and brush strokes...
and how it towered over me...

PHILIPP MALYAVIN
peasant woman dancing...
nothing exactly compares to seeing this
painting in real life -
hell - the mona lisa is...
a bit like a nail-clipping...
compared to growing your hair long
and then shaving it...

beauty or technicality...
if the royal academy of arts...
would showcase the bullfight by pyotr
konchalovsky -
what's this poem this poem this isn't
a poem this poo'em?

i lament the non-existence of diacritical
markers in the english lounging-attache -
the lazy tongue that thought...
i'm not willing to play with anagrams...
i am not a fan of anagrams -
every other language game to escape
learning a second language...
crossword puzzles -
to stick to the monolingual enterprise...

thankfully for some they were born
into english: sell that talking point in scandinavia
or belgium, or the netherlands...
somewhat germany, somewhat poland...
the tourists' lingo or...
where those movies come from...

why wouldn't i look at russian letters?
a fond break-away from any sudoku -
but only via russian can a distinction be made
when... some random english native
sees a suffix -cki...
-цки...

no: no amount of cyst or garcons or whatever
would ever prepare anyone for...
ч or... well (ch)atter... but not for the piquant...
dumać: to muse...

my mother tongue my affair it seems...
well... there's that...
or there's the netizen language -
or any portmanteau language in general -
but never to truly mind the hieroglyphics
of :) -

one lion roars - another lion yawns...
this most certainly sounds better in german...
eins löwe brüllt - ein anderes gähnt -
bad german is worse than no german;
at least bad german satisfies my basic fetish:
the per se.

sokaklar
İrma değil gittin gideli
ne tuhaf
dün gibi
hoş çakallı zaman
halbuki
hoş bir çakalmış selfy
baktıkça pişmanlığı ısıran

yapışsaydım koluna
gitme kal diye keşke
kalır mıydı muamma

colour
colour
bakışır mıydık
sen yeşil, ben mavi
biliyorum uygunsuz
huzursuzluktan bu espri
ne tuhaf
hiç gülemedim şu an
tebessüm bile çoktu bize
hatta medikal sanrı
ne gam ki
her şeyi biliyordu tanrı

içten bir dua bekledi
kim bilir
bilemedik son tahlilde
bağlandı dilimiz
kuru dudaktan
musonlu geceye
ve...
saklandı en şatafatlı arzuhal
elma dersem çık
armut dersem yerine

filvaki
psikoloji yalnız bir tay
past time'lı cümleleri
yelesinden savuran
ve ben
sadece seyredebiliyorum
mecalsizlikten
şaha kalkacak biliyorum
heveslense kalem
kıracak bu anlamsız soğuğu
ve koşacak steplerimde
kalp yılkısı
dudaktan kalbe doğru

.subtitled: soliloqui looking for a pretty ******...

the freeing voice - any voice for that matter -
something has been completed -
a year's worth of credit...
   / invested in bone churning...
crrrrr'ah'imes of crunch...
              point for point...
       "they" tell you... you're a loser still
living with your parents...
lucky for me i've been feeling wanted
for the past three months...
working on the garden...
there's a new shed... there's a fence...
all the bothersome roots have been dug...
"loser" and - a man is supposed to
hate his parents... at some point...
well me the forest and the slump...
tourist attraction... flatmates: sitcom coming...
a tent in trafalgar sq. -
pigeon **** for luck: luckier if i had
a bowler hat and an irritating suit of formality...
but, what, other, options?
to abhor one's mother and father:
chances are: sometimes to be wedded
to the in-laws...
                     and i was thinking that coming
from under the iron curtain:
from behind the berlin wall...
    from a former satellite state....
    i wouldn't be hearing this postmodern spin on
communism...
     it works: it works i'm promised!
it works... but there's no spine of a metallurgical
industry... no sweaters knitted in ireland...
no shavers manufactured in holland...
   the germans "lost" the war...
     somehow they still managed to pay
the reperations to the hebs...
             the germans "lost" the war...
but they still make the cars...
                   the germans "lost" the war...
but kaiser came up with...
the new currency... and there were some:
slightly distrustful of eew-oh-rrrrrras...
          there's so much conversation
above the drowning line of the invisible...
haven't dated since aged 21...
                 since 2007...
              the chance brothel entry...
the chance "one night stand" -
   confused thai surprise from a park bench
****** in the garden and walked home -
totem for proof...
         easily interrupted music:
or rather - music with punctuation...
like almost punk... but: not really...
             what a mighty project: brexit with
the pound in the wallets...
can you imagine a brexit with buying and selling
in euros? ha... 3 years...
ol' lizzie on the guillotine of currency...
bland currency...
              3 years of brexit followed up by
a year and 3 months of corona carano
        cuckoo-ra curune curini kuru kuru
chicken: cuban - coup d'état - corono - corone -
core: and... the bread is 'ere...
the circuses are gone... and so is the jihad...
- whatever happened to rival schools:
united by fate - nothing of what never happened...
to the chime of bell and the vibrating
uvula gong -
        
in summa inanitate versatur:
perhaps... perhaps i should have stressed:
looking for the geometry of a paragraph:
not a square... a rhombus...
          / here devolves........................
any and all.........................................
the draft of - and for.........................
all manner.................... of..................
"pressing"............... impetus: via......
impetus.... salvaged... via some.......
variant of darwinism........................
a history... on the basis of only.........
frequenting.... etymology.................
for... "sources" - sourced materials...
citations! ..............................................
by all means: anything......................
written... for the medium of.............
journalism.......................................­....
is not a dickens - an armchair..........
a sunny... afternooon.........................
............... more.....................................
a commuter's hour on the tube........
tum.... tum autem..............................
..... tum./
                           at one time... at yet
another...

    idem idem etc. etc. (again) -
major major - drifter from catnip 23...

the leisure of writing... once upon a time
a brothers grimm' invested themselves in:
the leisure of reading...
no oration is a leisure too...
tongue does the work of feet... and hands...
imitation octopus: solid ink out
of a fear...
     lack of friction: therefore...
arachnaphobia and: scuttle! scuttle!
and all those limbs you could almost break...
but not hear the sound...

    yes... writing can be... this blank canvas
is... my hands and fingers extended...
i admit no clenched fist...
no knuckle ditto heads...
                      a yes... and a no... a maybe...
a kiss that sounds like
slurping spaghetti...
                  coming from the 19th century...

yes: the next time i feel bad about
doing a no. 1, 2 and 3... the 3 being the genocide
into the whrilpool just below the throne of
thrones... i'll remember...
in the 19th century?
   ******* was as much taboo as jerking off:
big ******* hands:
no wonder there's "some" ***** envy...
and those camera angles...
a hand the size of being able to hold a basketball
all on its own...

which is a shame... what hands can...
and can't: guillotine the phallus and bowl...
with a talking head from the grave...
the torso and limbs too:
holding the spectacle of eyes rolled back...
bertrand de born...
                gilles de rais... not included...
come to think of it...

     eos eventus, qui acciderunt...
if that can be said: of what happened...
and it is hardly believable...
any time between the orthodoxy of darwinism:
ahem... "history" and geology...
and the ping-pong of the stars...
         yes... but what of the mythology:
come 100 years from now:
no one will believe what: apparently...
never took place...
                  or that it did...
                 the currency of inflation:
over-inflation of details...
a drowning man will grap the edges
of a razor... perhaps now: science...
and facts... is the necessary razor edge
for the docile and: the adventure of drowning...

- mind you: it's worth confusing...
albrecht dürer with gustav doré...
   even if these two men didn't pass on children
and grandchildren - genetics -
they did pass... something...
seeing how evolved - almost indistinguishable
the two are... i.e. if the former had the technological
access of the latter...
well...

no... i'm pretty sure...
i couldn't have had this sort of conversation with
anyone... solo project:
and yes... impromptu...
              a painting it is not...
some minor details: better kept as omissions...
soliloqui looking for a pretty ******...
     now that is raising the stakes;
yawn... the end.

chukkie choke:

baha / ars
replica - res cog.
pap.                                502 error message bypass, now for
                            the actual content:

in my years as a hermit i could really appreciate
any and all interactions on the internet,
esp. those ones that were exchanged in a written
medium...
at school we never managed to get a programme
going: of having pen-palls in either Germany
or France...
i guess it would have been sort of: nice...
                since emerging from my hermit state
going back among people, into the workforce...
i'm finding... conversations over the internet:
unnerving... seriously unnerving:
all this walking on eggshells from time to time...
you never know who'll end up talking to...
in my training as a steward at football matches...
a scenario:
i'm paired up with someone pitch-side...
for an hour the hypothetical person in a hypothetical
scenario is going-on-about
how the team i support are ****...
London rivalry between the east and the north...
the east and the west...
i'd love to see a time when West Ham meet up
with Millwall: if i were totally honest...
but the training states...
talk to the person that's ******* you off...
first... before seeking help from your supervisor...
on the internet there's that easy button
to press: the block button...
not even at school was i able to be liked by
everyone... so... no surprises...
i much preferred being: reasonable than being
liked... nice lesson to learn in your
formative years...
that's the hypothetical scenario...
in real life?
me and Danny stood pitch-side about two weeks
ago at Craven cottage...
he supports Arsenal, i told him: i "support" West Ham...
the old West Ham when they could play
really good football against the high tier
teams... while at the same time
underestimating the teams below them...
he was ashamed of Arsenal, or rather: didn't care...
i told him... it's not like i could ever be
a fanatical supporter... have the team's scarf...
have the team's jersey, know the chants...
i just like watching the game... the per se closure
and opening...
local patriotism, for me... is a borderline between
London & Essex...
both get beef from the rest of England...
esp. Devonshire... western *******...
always the pompous ones...
but it's never a local patriotism that could
be translated to a support for a football team...
what an alien concept.... no... not even the need
for the people to have it: it's more effective than
religion... it's for the rich, it's for the poor...
the intelligent and perhaps the less so...
not my place to discuss the need for people to support
football teams: if they're happy...
i'm also very happy on the job
when i hear them chanting, being so engaged...
considering that i attended Catholic Mass when i was younger:
i had to... to attend a Catholic primary school
i needed to attend mass... have my first communion...
pretend to go to a confession: where i lied...
i had to think up of something...
by a Catholic high school...
i "forgot" to get confirmed... all the other peers
were confirmed in at Brentwood...
i was reading up on the Gnostic Heresies...
my mind was made up then and there...
so seeing the lack of energy of the crowd in a church
as mass... comparing that to... the energy at a football
match?! wow... people need to feel something:
however trivial it might be...
better it be as trivial as a football match...
year in, year out...
it's good to know people can simulate a passion
for something...
they splinter up into their local patriotism...
yet at the same time: if they're called up...
they rally up together...
my second shift at Fulham i was actually smiling at
their passion...
impossible to fault it...
right...
               in my hermit years i would really cherish
exchanges on the internet...
then i was banned, excluded, banned somewhere
else... probed...
i knew the gig was up...
someone who had beef with me didn't resort to
allowing me elaborate, so that we could establish
a discussion... the first mistake of sorting out
a hostile situation...
currently?! A SOCIETY OF ******* SOCIOPATHS
AND LITTLE DESPOTS! CRY-BABIES!
with Danny we ended up talking about
his interests and passions... mostly crypto-currency...
he asked me for mine: music, mainly...
and cycling... he too was an avid cyclist once
before crashing into a tree...
but mainly talk of crypto-currency...
oddly enough we remained in-earnest throughout...
taking out time as a hermit allowed me
to become extroverted when otherwise
i wouldn't be...
i still like periods of introversion but i never
managed to have too much capacity for small-talk...
i guess spending time alone for over a decade
has allowed me to learn this skill...
time alone can teach you all manner of things...
your observational skills, esp...
a heightened sense of alertness...
although i have to say... initial small-talk is still
as painful as ever... the nicety of greeting people...
o.k. o.k. let's get it sorted...
we're not here for coffee... let's get into our roles...
then it's a breeze...
oddly enough i love the cushion of hierarchy...
why?! ha ha...
i can easily cover my back... do the Pontius Pilate
like... it's a ritual of pouring myself a glass
of milk... i am responsible for so little it would seem...
passing down the message to a supervisor is
a silent giggle in tow...
i grant myself all the benefits of returning to people:
it's so impossible to live without people:
esp. in a professional environment,
in undertaking a role...
in giving a cigarette one minute,
then asking the same person if they can bring you
a free bottle of water, which they willingly bring...
it's impossible to live alone...
i'm not implying having friendships,
i'm more prone to the allegiance to a professional
relationship with people: in stating boundaries:
in keeping them...
i was supposed to go on a date with this fellow
worker tomorrow, she texted me that she's not
up for it, a bout of flu: or is it flute?
no problem, get well, blah blah etc.
maybe some other time...
also a learning curve... first experience solipsism:
a thought experiment of an actual
condition that plagues autistic boys & girls...
then return to interaction... refreshed...
yet what i've experienced on some platoforms:
no one should experience...
people are unable to talk, "all of a sudden"?
they need to be supervised?
how about the block button? if that's ultimately
necessary?
society doesn't have to become this: rigid authority
seeking...
sometimes when writing... hell...
writing is primarily nuances / nuanced...
it seriously can't be taken literally...
a poetry platform: em... metaphor?!
listening to Bach's Goldberg Variations (BMV 988)
on my part a statement:
I'M THINKING ABOUT EATING YOU...
what harm?
said recipient only identified that statement
as referring to cannibalism...
sure... i was thinking of... the eloquence of
Hannibal Lecter... i might have been thinking
of cannibalism for the fun of...
the unknowable comparison:
closer to beef, or closer to chicken,
closer to mince beef or steak meat?
prawn?
             a texture that combines... almonds with
butternut squash?
do i look like a cannibal?
i heard that cannibals have really small teeth...
milk-teeth... and if the cannibal
is of an African disposition: their teeth are
not the ebony-envy... but that they're yellow...
like the teeth of a piglet aunt up north...
well... there's also the Kuru disease of New Guinea...
killer protein... killer proteins are also mentioned
in cases of Alzheimer...
Alzheimer being therefore something akin to...
an acne resurrection attack (acne, being dead
white blood cells) of brain cells... last time i heard
the brain was mostly fat... so... protein eating up fat...
or...
hours later... i was ******* to photographs
of Alexis Texas' *** being eaten... literally...
this one guy had his entire face... enclosed in between
her ****-cheeks, almost like a face-hugger
scene from the film alien...
well... i filter out ******* when i'm tense...
the sound is ever hardly on...
mostly photographs...
   is it so terrible to ******* to pictures of women
getting pleasured?
on the rare occasion that i manage to find
a pregnant girl *******...
i'll put the sound on... or...
hardly a need for scented candles & a comfortable
chair...
more like... take a ****, take a ****... *******...
take a shower... a Lester Burnham in reverse...
at the end of the time... today's closed chapter...
i sometimes try a morning routine
but i limp off since it feels like...
the sort of **** that might be associated with
having your beer spiked with a ******...
- i used to love internet interactions...
now... it's like an agreed observation i shared
with my grandfather... i'd love to chat...
but... over the phone?
i need to see your face, i need to see your hands...
i need to be invited by your idiosyncratic
gesticulations! over the phone it always felt like:
oh, you have a voice? well done...
there's clearly a scale of escalation...
one user does not agree with another user...
options available?
1. block them...
2. talk to them... clarify the problem...

the 3. option of making a complaint...
we're talking about platforms!
anyone can publish... that's the idea!
and they can publish anything they deem fit
within the platform's regulations...
i'm backing up my argument...

come to think of it... i trust people in real
life more than i do online...
it used to be the complete opposite...
people online how become hyper-sensitive:
authority riddling their own, ahem...
"safety"? oh... i see them...
later in life... the sort of Sarah Everard types...
frothing at the mouth... authoritarian:
getting other people's accounts suspended
online... invisibly "powerful"...
little despots, pseudo-sociopaths... mimics...
echo chamber half-wits...
yet in the great big world...
gullible little children...
it's that same joke...
a wannabe-sociopath meets a real-life sociopath...
their first date is always their last, date...
there's always a hierarchy...
there's always something in place
for whatever karma can be translate as:
in terms of... lessons to learn / to be learned...
it's always too late...
that microcosm of a build up...
people never go over the edge over things
of great importance...
it's always the little things that push them
over the edge... thereby? making
their lives all the more grandiose...

i could have been pushed over the edge
a few times...
we're talking about platforms...
not publishers... at the same time...
we not talking internet service providers...
we're not talking about
electrical companies, are we?
so if we're not talking publishers...
we're not talking internet service providers...
electrical companies...
this one where: he said, she said, behind closed
doors? **** it, publish everything!
i think this a way to implore these mediums
to take into account:
their absolute inauthenticity when caving
to one party's demands / concerns...
without fully exploring the other side of the story...

last time i checked... i checked out
as a minor presence on a platform... 3K views:
my highest grossing poo'em...
now?! in at 41K... i've recently been to
Wembley Stadium for the Women's FA cup final...
in attended... 43K... well... then...
i have perspective what circa 40K looks like in real life...
it doesn't matter what it reads on a screen...

tomorrow i'm going to paint my room,
refresh it... take all the books out... clean them...
take out the vinyls... the compact disks...
i just can't wait for the 14th of December...
i hope the woman who does my mother's
manicure / pedicure brings her one year old
daughter with her... and all the albums i lent her...
oh i don't care if her friend with a Scandinavian
physique / physiognomy comes along...
who's looking for dating...
i just care that she bring that little bundle
of joy with her...
planning ahead is never right...
you plan ahead: you're bound to come against
disappointments...

a flu, for example...

but i'd love to play with an onomatopoeia and
the basic foundations of speech with this
rugrat... (furgrat chimpy - a googlewhack...
oops)....
   obviously i wouldn't be thinking about
vowels and consonants...
i'd be thinking about syllables... about Katakana...
they say MA-MA first, no?
i'd love to explore her response to syllables,
syllables come first, as what's to be deciphered first...
sounds or gurgling are not exactly
qualification to make distinction of vowel or consonant...
man begins speaking / man becomes understandable
via the system of syllabary...
much later... the atomic vision of A... B'eh / beta...
for that matter... Na: that's sodium / natrium...
since my serious date bailed on me this coming
Monday... the 14th... that's Tuesday...
i'm really hoping for a date with this lady barely
a year old,
i'll put on some vinyl and we'll pretend to talk,
or... we'll end up talking a little.

every day i check the date of a programme,
right at the end of the credits it appears,
and even though i'm not so tough
when it comes to doing modern
mathematics using roman numerals
i spot the oddity, or the blazing truth
of it all...
                   what year are we in nearing
its closure? MMXVII - that's what i thought
two thousand seventeen...
   but i'm sitting in zombie mode watching
a main-stream show, beginning at
5pm and ending with an hour,
and the credits read MMXVI...
2016?! you have to be kidding me!
i'm watching bulimia of culture?
    regurgitated rerun crap?!
              why would you even be demanded
to pay a t.v. license,
when the shows you're watching are
provided by a corporation that's,
frankly... bankrupt?
   maybe it was once the correct
acronym b.b.c. (british broadcasting
corporation)... these days though?
  more like bankrupt broadcasting corporation...
so you get to keep the b.b. after all...
   t.v., a fascinating object these days,
i do enjoy the ketaminesque numbness
of with glued eyes to it...
     and i'll only trust you when you
say you don't watch t.v. if you have one
of two replacements...
a fireplace... or a ******* aquarium!
      i have to turn into a zombie for at least
an hour, or watch a football match to
get my bearings and not turn into
a flamboyant mix between Sid Vicious,
Herb Hancock, David Bowie, Marc Bolan
and a Charlie Chaplin cuckoo!
the b.b.c. is broke...
  it's bankrupt!
              the only money they do have
is bound to fuelling that farcical affair
of trying to revive dancing, not in a nightclub
but at some charity ball,
and not high on ecstasy... good, luck!
    *** died when people stopped dancing
like some imitation of kuru...
              and thanks to freud,
i can safely say... shove that blue pill right
up your **** and tell me if you start
to feel a ****** johnny jr. after a while...
the madonna-***** complex was always
going to be a problem...
i checked, seen about 5+ prostitutes
about it, and each time i see skyscrapers!
            and the strangest bouncing fever ever
ascribed to ****** parts that look
like two octopuses *******...
      so who needs the via, the via...
          gr'ah?
                         please show the gentlemen
to the prozzie and i'll show you
a dysfunctional woman...
               all that sweat talk in the bedroom
comes around like cough medicine...
    there really are female doctors in
this world, obviously unorthodox,
but as ancient as shamans...
        i pay for an hour,
i don't have to deliberate paying for a meal...
well... it is a meal technically...
but you know what i mean.
              is it slavery?
                             really?
i pay, where's the slave aspect of:
             not being paid?
   at one hundred & ten quid an hour?!
you'd get lucky earning more than a tenner
in your usual knuckle-grinding factory!
          besides the point...
the b.b.c. is bankrupt!
            and since when did journalists deviate
from the ethos as depicted by
hoffman & redford in
     all the president's men?
                     sure, there are still the bastion
keepers, but generally speaking,
journalism has become the equivalent
of ******* words...
                   i know i don't trust politicians
because: Simon says - Brutus said it first...
but a distrust of journalism?!
       once the noble, ambitious prospect...
now... ditto-heads and...
there's a big difference between being
offended and being annoyed...
   eastern european brood, "collective" -
politically it's deemed "east" when in fact
it's central -
                       you want east you head
as far back as the Ural Mountains...
then it's east...
                            and pathos of island
dwelling people...
                           they're all alike,
the mentality of: we can do it by ourselves!
and we'll be the ones singing at our own
funeral, too!
                   well... better start singing...
               it's not unique in that it is unique
concerning people living on islands...
                 they are predisposed to isolationism...
which is why the fiasco that is brexit is,
well... to put it mildly... unspectacular.
                 still,
i know i have to distrust a politician,
much harder to have to distrust a journalists,
but, so it seems,
                     i have to distrust journalists
more than politicians these these days...
                because at least i know what i'll
get with the latter... not so much with the former...
with one i'm the mob, with the other:
a dumb witted so-and-so...
    and that's much harder to orientate myself
into... shame, really...
     my distrust must have originated in
the milly dowler case -
                  tabloid still means toilet paper,
doesn't it?
                 and to think, toilet paper costs
more than a tabloid newspaper.