was ist es nur, dass es tut
dass ich nicht mehr bin ich selbst
unter tausend, selbst bei dir
Sonnenstrahlen fallen gut

lassen glitzern
lassen fallen
setzen sie in Ironie
lassen los
und trocknen leise
was ich nannte Melancholie

was ist es nur, dass es tut
dass ich weine, nicht mehr rede
selbst bei dir, du der meine
du sagst es ist vier Uhr vier

lassen sagen
ohne Worte
was ich nicht zu fühlen vermag
halten fest
verlieren sich
verlieren mich
verlier ich dich

sie flüstern leise
du bist so stolz

Stomped earth with broad feet
Fastening fresh saplings into
Whole forests
Eight feet by eight feet, the grid
Through winter month's
To early spring
Line of tree planters, twenty
Sometimes less, sometimes more
On Shasta, on Lassen, on Trinity Alps
Douglas Firs and Ponderosa Pines
In Mendocino, in Eureka
Planting baby giants, Redwoods
Sequoias in Sequoia National and Klamath
Young men with ***-dads
Knew some old ones too
Women as well, though few
If you could bear the snow, the rain
If you could bear back-breaking pain
The glory is yours
As was once mine
Reforestation
Go plant your line
To be eternally in
Mother Nature's good graces
And kinship known by campfire

If you climb to the top
 Mt. Lassen at nite
You can see right straight
 To heaven so bright
I can see forever,
 without a sound
A piece of heaven,
 a treasure found
Alone on this mountain
 God's work of art
He reached out to me,
 touching my heart
So i ask God, please
  How can this be
So close to heaven
 Can I really see
In this mountain
  the Secrets in me
One of his gifts
  A mystery
I close my eyes
  Feel the touch
God’s little finger
  Loving me so much
A tear starts to fall
  Upon my face
Touching my eyes
  looking into space
I ask again
 Why am I
So much emotion
 whenever I cry
My eyes now open
  I see it fast
A star that glows
  shoots by so fast
Viewing the stars
 Now fading away
As this mountain of love
 Begins a new day
My greatest gift
 this new sunrise
Over this mountain
  & In your eyes
I was lonely and cold
 continued to write
As the sun comes up
 So sweet and bright
The night soon ends
 I now safely find
This mountain of love
 Is all on my mind
Its time to leave
 Home to bed
Don’t ever forget
 To me God said
Treasure these secrets
 You learned up here
And this mountain of love
 Will always be near

i never write "anything"...
i'm claustrophobic when its comes to
exploring cognizance...

'wow! what a fancy word!'

i hardly beg to differ...
i hear of people fathoming the novel...
and...
i'm a monolith monstrosity...
some bourbon, some german:

ich bin gut zu gehen: ja!

spucke bourbon au zu mein gesicht!

i will never write a novel,
i deal with butchering an animal
for: ein stück von fleisch...

"a novel" und barockarchitektur:
sounds similar?

oh but it's a freel available tattoo
in the anglophonic frame of ref....
Hastings, 1066...
hard to come by when the tattoo reads...
ahem...

Tannenberg, 1410...
Vienna, 1683...

clear-cut... almost safe-net catch-em
while you can...
the Hastings folk were pagans...
don't you know?
don't you know that only white
people can be racist?

pst... ask the russians "about that"...
see what you come back with...
i will have to...
S'****** at the reply...
no... honestly: "because" it's forbidden for
us former iron curtain "roma" folk...
**** dastardly's dog: muttley... S'*******...
giggles in...
we former folk from the eisenvorhang...
coming across the californian:
siliziumvorhang?!
where are we... polacks...
hunagarians... czechs... estonians...
lithuanians... ukranians...
yugolz... at?!
we don't fit the narrative... do we?

it's the 27th of december...
and i'm "thinking"... it's mighty fine...
to celebrate something with the aestigermani!

the children of ***** sought a father...
the children of gomorrah were akin...
i do not know whether i am
a father figure or whether:
there's that pointless safety question
to mind: did i wear a ******?
i was assured! i was assured there were
contraceptive pills involved!

i'm tired on the usual steaming-heap
pile of warm ******* and ****
to give a psychoanalyst his rhetoric
elevated status of disinhibition...

cocktail! madonna's papa don't preach...
dusty springfield: son of a preacher man...
and any other formidable calypso
study of salsa... should this sugar baby
this sugar baby be my baby
and if i would never become a sugar daddy...

and because i was only ever looking
for the six oops-stones of womanhood...
infinity: eh... bag 'em one weekend...
forget 'em the next...

god... let me this one type of racist...
Jefferson keeping "green things" akin
to Zoe Saldana in some variation
of a "basement"...
i'm good with green...
use enough cumin, coriander or
cinnamon powder in your cooking...
you'll ask: what's wrong with green?
i'd **** green! i'd **** green sitting down
i'd **** green of the sort sleeping!
i'd peacock myself in many variations
of drunk to stage:
that one sober sort of **** with her
and... it's no samantha 38g and...
classics come to mind...
homer, horace... and plump models
of: extra cushions!

ha ha... i make myself laugh:
i make myself laugh because:
there's about zeo chance of me...
conjuring up a novel ambition...
me and a novel...
a "supposed" schizoid and a novel...
ha ha! Noel! Noel!

there was a time where i grew a beard for a reason:
i.e. exercise less..
grow a beard, hide the pride of a walrus
minus the harem...
double chin and the...
Zoe Saldana in green skin...
octopus fucky-fucky or what?

- never mind -

grow a beard... hide the shar pei...
i figured over time...
my beard became a giza pyramid
focus of my eyes...
it took some persuasion...
namely 4 years and my grandmother
finally pointing out:
oh look how thick it is...
she wanted to play g.i. joe with...
prior to: my hair...
like some thor meets barbier universe
dolls extravaganza...
a hard-on waiting...
with an ava lauren limp twist...

"oops".

now the beard is all about...
being 34 years old... while donning
the *** leftover skivvy look
inflating the organic body for a media
frenzy to "compenstate" it to be aged:
49!
ha ha...
i keep forgetting why i'm in such a good mood!
today is today! and i'm...
and i'm not allowing myself to succumb
to an anglophonic seriousness
of staging an elvis costello seriousness
of: everyday writing the novel...

pst: sounds better than that obvious...
"nook 'n' cranny"...

my alternatives!
minnesang - neidhart:
meie din liechter schin!

weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt:
lassen uns singen!
lassen uns geben loben!
lassen uns männer verlassen
der mutterleib!

ensemble für frühe musik augsburg -
mayenzeit one neidt...

jetzt kommen der lieder:
zu gesungen! für alle das jahr!

i guess i grew a beard to hide a shar pei...
then again:
perhaps i grew a beard to pretend to
fiddle with a throng of violins?
perhaps i found growing my hair long...
i had to compensate!
i had to exfoliate in the downward
spiral and exchange...
oi! baldy! baldy!
i can juggle! i can juggle!
i can grow long hair and a beard!

but never the two at the same time!
germany and the nazis...
i just can't stiop thinking about
the lucky... those frivolous drunks
of the holy roman empire...
esp. when peering via their folk songs...
i call it: having to succumb to
english prune and pristine pressures...
even these days...
being wholy saxon is to be:
most unwholesome when it comes
to the german federation...

it's called cheating:
eatin saxon white soy
and not... riddling oneself
with Bavarian rye!

i'm drunk! it's the 27th of december!
the little ******* is born!
now i can celebrate!
chevalier, mult estes guariz!
on the 27th of december i can sing
german, and french crusader songs!

on the 27th of december i can celebrate!
nothing has to be left so innocent
and passive! so coddled!
and if they weren't singing byzantine
chants... prior to this day?!
let them sing no more!
i have found my happiness! once more!

Ö dies freude!
jetzt ich können: singen!
einst die kinder und engel...
ar legen zu bett!

if i am to be the integrated kind...
now i rejoice!
for i have all the reasons to rejoice!
i do no have to pander
to a babe!
i do not have to force myself
into elevated expectations with
a pre- litany of the omni- suitor...

now i can champion the romance
of the crusade...
i am... freed from the utopia...
that only one heart is allowed
to feel... and its feeling is to be contested...
solely by the sacrifice of a crucifixion...
not by iron maiden outlets "etc."...

now muttererde...
ihr liebhaber: wind - seine unterschrift!
weihnachten ist erledigt!
weihnachten ist erledigt!

it's the 27th of december and i can finally
celebrate with songs...
that... celebrate the sort of christianity
i am accustomed to...
french crusader songs...
german folk...
that i can stomach...
not this... pandering...
expecting the nuns to not...
somehow, not, become...
the ****** of the christ-harem!
a nun is a nun is a nun is a nun...
is a nun...
but i very much like...
being considered...
for... the better part of the feminine whim,
outside the realm of:
the usual rejection tactics of:
the aborted... i like my exercise of yielding:
DAS WORTE... ooh... chisel that
with a base goosebump strut to be worth
being added!

em... it's almost like that...
time-travel question of:
why not travel back in time...
and **** the baby adolf ******...
dunno... no point doing that with a jesus...
since... m'eh... his cross is our
genuflexion... yes: kind sir...
yes mr. greek and mrs. hebrew...
esp. in this script...
esp. when its alive and "we" debate...
the pronunciation of:

nil admirari prope res est una, Numici,
solaque, quae possit facere et servare beatum...
hunc solem et stellas et decedentia certis
tempora momentis sunt qui formidine nulla
inbuti spectent: quid censes munera terrae,
quid maris extremos arabas ditantis et indos
ludicra, quid plausus et amici dona quiritis,
quo spectanda modo, quo sensu credis et ore?

there's nothing to be surprised by, Numicious,
in this life's mainstay, peace of soul and happiness;
others, onto the sun, the stars, azure bodies...
on the round year of orbital changes, look with
a calm... and you would, upon the gifts of earth,
pearls of the sea, what of the distant Arabs,
Indians beyond the Arabs,
on the Kwiritow (googlewhack...)
Quiritus' honours, questionable plaudit: peer
raptured in awe without measure?

a very ******* bad a very ******* terrible
translation... as you do...
as you do... sinking into bourbon...
thinking about... maritza mendez...
sylvia loret... samantha 38G...
and all those lost plump classics of *****...

i would have sunk the Potemkin!
drunk... i wouldn't even require
a sober catch / scrutiny of "character"...
because now i am yet to translate
some latin, use this... ahem...
pseudo-cuneiform text:
"LATINE QUOD MORTUS EST"

perhaps that's mis-translated as:
qua: i.e. "as being"...
perhaps MIT... some runic...
or glagolitic... we AWAIT: the revival!
of the grand h'american protestant church
of apocalyptic wonder!
maybe, perhaps... "then"!

but it's the 27th of december...
the... "messiah" is born!
now we can reroute and go back to our...
current year... ***** and gomorrah type
of *******...
the cosmopolitan whoop-t'd'ah is 'ere!
come easter, come spring....
come the crucifixion! come the resurrection!

Tat Deutschland hat ihren Tag
tat wahre Krieger bekommen Gerechtigkeit
lassen Sie mich in einem u Boot sterben
mit meinen gefallenen Rittern

Senden Sie es an den Boden
vergessen zu werden
Ich bedauere so das
Kein Schuss Die vier angestarrte Scheide

Im Kopf das Bumsen

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Werden meine Gedanken klarer
Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Zerplatzt ein neuer Traum
Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Zerbricht mein Herz in neue Stücke

Dein Anruf hat mein Herz zum Rasen gebracht
Ich konnte nicht aufhören zu lächeln
Die Zukunft war eine Traumwelt
Du und ich und unsere Träume in ihr vereint
Gedanken an dich haben meine Tage verschönert
Gedanken an deine Stimme
Gedanken an deine Augen
Gedanken an deine Umarmungen
Gedanken die mich lächeln ließen
Und mir jetzt das Blut in den Adern gefrieren lassen

Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Werden meine Gedanken klarer
Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Zerplatzt ein neuer Traum
Mit jeder Träne die fällt
Zerbricht mein Herz in neue Stücke

'Take care' waren meine letzten Worte an dich
Die Antwort von dir - nur ein Lächeln
Dein letztes Lächeln für mich
Ist im Nachhinein auch mein letztes Lächeln gewesen
Nun flüstere ich jeden Abend mit dem Mond
Doch mein 'I miss you' wird dich nicht erreichen
Denn dein Mond ist jetzt ein anderer
Du hättest dieses eine Mal auf mich hören sollen!

qiss kiss ts'kammen
ordeal of the dyslexics.

****** innuendos aplenty:

i cycled with a rucksack full of empty cider bottles
and one tiny 35cl where whiskey would
otherwise be found... i have a fetish for recycling,
a fetish for recycling, not owning a car but rather
two bicycles, long walks in the forest alone,
scratching my head and pretending to braid parts
of my beard: rather, pinching it and twisting the pinched
part so it might appear that i have saber-teeth either side
of my chin...
                   little pleasures...
i would otherwise be known as a: KLOSZER...
KLOSZ... lampshade... kloszer is a derogatory term
for someone in Eastern Europe who collects empty bottles
from skips to later bring back to a shop
to get his WACŁO (VATSWO) - i guess i imagined this word:
in the olden days of the early 1990s...
us boys used to play during the summer running mayhem,
on our breaks we'd go to the shop and buy
TURBO gum, chew chew chew...
and have a little prized paper of a car,
and we used to buy lemonade, later pepsi...
if we bought a lemonade (always in a glass bottle)
and drank it on the spot, returned the bottle to the shop...
we weren't charged extra for the drink...
but if we decided to buy a glass-bottled drink and not
return the bottle on the spot? we'd get charged extra:
glass was precious under communism...
KLOSZER? the person who would scout the urban
environment and pick up leftover glass bottles
for a drink of *****... but i'm recycling and i feel mightily
proud of... "proud"... of this Achilles heel...
baron of crashing chandeliers...
                     but it wasn't raining when i performed this task...
when i cycled to the VAPE shop on North St.
inquiring... i was giving this ASPIRE Typhon 100 as
a present... but the more my lips and breath snuggle on
this **** no smoke comes out... and the smoke is harsh...
coils?! coils?! over-used coils?
i walked in to the shop with the sort of would-be
girlfriend with piercings and tattoos
   and all that jingle at the counter... some random guy
sticking around for too long, i broke his train of thought...
i was trying to break past the smoke pretending
there was a dead carcass in the room and instead of smoke
there were flies... **** me... i'm looking for a new coil...
new coil she says... she starts rummaging...
it started raining by then...
           she picked up a £15 packet of five filters... coils...
PnP-VM6... like this sort of detail actually matters...
i ask her... so how do you change them?
she replies: you just pull it out...
so i pull it out... oops...
                     *** scene worded...
my flask is full of blueberry oily liquid... it spills...
all while there's this: now turning into a creepy guy
in the background obviously not buying just
trying to work his game with this woman behind
the counter... the liquid spills...
playful innuendo conversation: oh... i'm not intimidated...
i have underperformed in my life...
not exactly premature *******... it's just when
she's the madam of the "parlour" and i have no energy
and i need to chop my **** off and replace it with a *****
the fluid spills my hands are greasy
she tells me that she'll get the tissue...
oops... once more... obviously it was a super-charged
***-metaphor...
i can't remember the last time i was called HONEY
and the whole affair was brushed off so easily with
***: in my mind, guiltily displaced...
   i bought the filters and pushed when the sign on
the door indicated PULL...
as confused as anyone might be...
when, where? apart from a VAPE shop will you get to pull
out an intricate part of a tool...
spill juices and have a woman retort with: let me get you
some tissues... i mean... that's super-charged Freudian
forbid might have any choking-jokes aside beyond
the already made via innuendo...

i'm richer than the rich having none of their worries
or the follies,
i do own what the rich own: and for that i am
rich in not having to worry about owning
things that might cause me to worry -
                   if it might be only for a minute or two:
this moulded heap of cow dung
    and mud - and milk and water -
   leave behind all the chains of gravity and marry
air: marry air and rise higher to the highest
point - touch the membrane where air disappears
and what is left is the vacuum where stars dictate
what is and what isn't...

or to better translate...

    reading one poem: Zbigniew Herbert's
   Former Masters while listening to Faun's
Sonnenreigen

and as if by magic my knowledge of English
disappears in my mind to a silence...
eaten up twice, ejected thrice!

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

dawni mistrzowie
obywali się bez imion

        (in der goldnen morgenstund
     ziehen wir aus des tales grund)

   ich sygnaturą były
białe palce Madonny  (und wir tanzen
                                               froh hinein
      in den frühen sonnenschein)

albo różowe wieże
   di città sul mare    (hoch hinauf auf bergeshöhen -
                      
  a także sceny z życia
   della Beata Umiltà      / -  um ins auge lughs zu
                                               sehen)

   roztapiali się   (lasst uns feiern
   w sogno              (             diese zeit
miracolo                  ( die der sommer
     crocifissione              ( hält bereit...)

    znajdowali schronienie
pod powieką aniołów        
                                                (du lässt deine raben ziehen
                                               in die felder golden stehen
                                                und das helle lichte rad
                                                dreht sich über lughnasad)

   za pagórkami obłoków
w gęstej trawie raju
                                                (muzik gemisch nach chor)
   toneli bez reszty                                      "
w złotych nieboskłonach                          "
  bez krzyku pzerażenia                            "
bez wołania o pamieć                                "
                         ­                                             "
   powierzchnie ich obrazów                    "
są gładkie jak lustro                 (es war nun ein
                                                             ganzes jahr)

nie są to lustra dla nas      (seit ich dich beim tanze sah
   są to lustra wybranych      (allzu oft in langer nacht)
                                                 habe ich an dich gedacht)
....

     sprawcie niech spadnie ze mnie
wężowa łuska pychy           (könig sommer führt den tanz
                                               dem ich folg im blütenkranz
                                               und so dreht sich unser kreis
                                               in der alltbekannten weis')

  niechaj zostane głuchy
   na pokuszenie sławy    (du lässt deine baben ziehn
                                           in die felder golden stehen
                                              und das helle lichte rad
                                              dreht sich über lughnasad)

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

ehemalige meister
sie lebten mich selber
    ohne namen

       (w porannej godzinie, złotej)
    pull us from the grand valleys...
oh ****... incursion of the English:
the red-coats are coming!

       ciągnąć nas z wielkich dolin...

   ihr unterschrift war
weiß finger Madonna  (i my tańczyli
                                               radośni zu-hausen, W
                                 wwww to:
schdat:  frühen-para-freeze: fruit:
early... sonnenschein - sun-lighting
oblivion... sun-glee: shine...)

oder rosa türme
   di citta sul mare    (wysokie
                 ÚP z  
wyżyny górskie -
                      
  und auch sZenen mit leben
   della Beata Umilta      / -  um ins auge lughs zu
                                               sehen)

geschmolzen sich   (liście nas świętować  
in sogno              (             ten czas
miracolo                  ( there the summer, to i too
                                           that: there, the: to i too:
                                        ta jedyna stokroć:
                                         zerk chłodem oka: powieka...
                                   okno na świat... rano:
                                              i modłem: terz:
                                          anatomia bosa noga...
                                    dzicz: bosa noga boga...
rap rap... all that rap might bring to suffice:
the polyglot presence of an African incursion
into Europe... mumble mumbo jam: tát tát... jum-b'oh!

a thought experiment one awry: trying to exclude
English from my psyche for a little while
proved insufferable, even if listening to a song
on Deutsche and reading a Polieren script...
sneaky ******* has a way to return...
i wanted to keep a perfect translation
of: reading a script in Polieren while listening
to a song in Deutsche...
subsequently translating the read Polieren
into Deutsche and reimagining hearing Deutsche
al Polieren... not in the right interest of
the English philosophy ("esoteric aesthetic")
of queuing... ****** just butter in: elbows held high!

SMUTNA SUKNIA: OGIER: PEJCZ!
   co stonoga-noga-o-gołą: nogę...
widmo... język... mów a mowa...
                                     bzdeta: mów!
ogier: stonoga... wilko-kroć...
  step... mowa: noga... ogień: zór...
jęk: kleṅska: ogień: ozór...
                            język: ksieżyc...
ogień: rosputsta: i nadal mi brak słów!

     crocifissione              (trzyma gotowość...)

    sie fanden zuflucht
unter augenlid auf engel        
                                                (wypuszczasz swoje kruki
                                               by stanąć na złotych polach
                                                i koło jasnego światła
                                                zakręty samo-w-się nad
                                                lughnasad!) ­                                     

   hinter hügel wolken
in der dicke gras auf paradies
                                                (muzyka­: tylko muzyka,
                                                     bez, słów)
   sie ertranken ohne der rest                    "
im golden himmelneigung                       "
  ohne schrei auf grusel                             "
ohne anruf um erinnerung                       "
                                                               ­       "
   oberflächen ihr gemälde                        "
sind glatt wie spiegel                 (to był jeden dobry
                                                           ­  cały rok)

nien sind dies spiegel für uns
   sind sie diesser spiegel die ausgewählt

                                               (odkąd ja i ty na tańcu okiem wgląd
                                               także często w dłuższej nocy)
                                               miałem ja, myśl twoją)
....

     mach es möglich lassen werde fallen
    von mich
serpentin schale auf stolz  
                           (król lato prowadzi taniec
                           za którym podążam w wieńcu kwiatów
                           i tak obraca się nasz krąg
                           w znany sposób)

  lassen ich werde bleiben taub
   an verlockung von / auf
                       RUHM        (pozwalasz odejść swoim dzieciom
                                              stanąć na złotych polach
                                              i koło jasnego światła
                                              odwraca Lughnasad -
                                      
płuco - singular... plural?
   płuca... lungs....
    garden of breathing!
soul always escapes the noun...                       

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

just to double check, translating from ******
to German and German to English,
that how i would have otherwise arrived
on these shores if my only mode of transport
was the tongue:
if i had no legs and perhaps no eyes...
if i were an idea of English that could express
it as I, Ja, Ich...
        and, yes, theirs'...
       iota > whatever might come after...

ah! this is one of those thought experiments!
it has to be! i'm excited!
i'm truly awakened!
this muddle of memory, dream, imagination,
reality a sprinkle of words and hey presto!
starved from images having moved
from the Age of the Image
to the Age of the Music...
it's so simple...
once upon a time you could only hear
music if someone played it good
or you played it badly...

yet when someone wrote a word...
or when someone painted a painting...
it could be written once
yet preserved by time
by this ingenious overcoming of God
(no, not man)
and if god "wrote" mountain man "wrote"
Pyramid,
if god "wrote" river man "wrote":
boat bridge watermill...
if god "wrote" forest man "wrote":
pluck out these trees stop looking
for berries and mushrooms...
look for grass, edible grass! find me arable
land that's not a desert!
of once mountain ranges that passed
from time into non-history
    into keepers of time by the whims
of the fluted wind...
                  
by wind my breath...
by my breath the decay of creative rust...
     i can only create dead things...
with me the power of death-creativity...
i invented the stirrup with me gone
the horse might finally not graze so easily
after the work of civilization has been done...

only then might the four horsemen
come with me dead and the stirrup
   i can only create dead things...
i am the death-creativity...
with me there will not need for the fork
or the knife the spear and the rope
upon waking a new world
i will only know words like mountain
apple tree i will know the word cloud
i will know to say the sea and that sea
i will call the caspian sea: sea...
and the atlantic sea: sea...
    and i will call the Danube the Oder
and the Oder the Vistula
but i will not know what is Danube or Oder
i will be unable to say or dream or conjure
a fork without: the fork
i will be in Paradise...
i will not know the concept of ******
because there will be no word for ******
there will be no Madonna or pregnant woman
there will be no foetus there will be so many words
missing! so many words will be missing...
all the basic words of coordination
will be there: and the Highest Abstracts
will be there: will, hope, dream,
    there will be there: be, am and i,
             there will be: because, are you,
there will be giggle and there would be crying,
there would be sad and there would be happy...
there would be: because and after and by
and there would be...
there would be no knowledge nor anything
concerning grammar...
this revision of "vocabulary" would imply
there being no real vocabulary,
a dream-world vocabulary of:
if said thing goes not exist... there's no word for it...
there would be no word: hammer
because there would be no need for hammers
indeed: nails...
motion of hammering...
there might be a rock and a trick of a hardened shell...
there would be no word for distance:
mile... by looking upon the sun...
there would be the Eye of the Blue
and the Eye of the Navy-Glee... there would
be no Night no Nothing
    no Night in this Hanging Pyramid of Babel...

there would be no Moon or Sun
only the Eye of the Blue
and the Eye of the Navy-Glee...
Glee? SH.... what's SH in shIMMER?
what's IMMER?
(oops... a Socratic stumbling block)
   immer... ALWAYS...
      what's SH+H? shh? be quiet always?!
SH... sound, vibration is sound...
            shh! yes: i'm telling you: it's going to be
like that, always...
   promised you 72 virgins?
wouldn't you just want your mind un-muddled?!
what's un- and muddled?
un- is not... not of when coupled to a noun
that works like a verb... doing the muddling...
medley muddling mummifications: toilet... paper...

toilet? no... no knowledge of toilet in "heaven"...
no paper too...
     word... what's word?
God... what is God... no God...
word is the a priori already invested crown
of curtailing words to begin with...
not imitation sound: __S

ah... sobering up... i love this bouncing along of English
dynamic like everyone is invoked to be involved...

                                          Z__­___

that's how the West met the East in writing

Z_________S

my "god" will be the word ONOMATOPOEIA...
and his son will be MIMIC
and his wife will be NĀMÉ
                        alternative written by angels
as NAMEH... because by then only angels will have
knowledge of the clue, not God,
of YHWH... YHWH will become as comical
as the 21st graffiti spray-painted by some boy
in the outskirts of London...
this scribble should have been preserved by the angels,
but like Prometheus, the arch angel Samael
brought down this scribble...

they brought the mummies and their hieroglyphs
that turned out to be Emoticons...
the Egyptians had two brothers...
the brother Aztec who copied the eldest
brother, Egyptian in constructing the Pyramids
and brother of the Great O of the Orient
who squinted his eyes with avarice and lineage
and said: i'll write like you, i'll see through you...
you give me mummified bodies
i'll give you skeletons...
the Aztec was the youngest,
the Egyptian the Eldest...
  the Khan was in the middle...
and Khan was right... he employed a pre-digitalisation
of scripts... imagine throwing
the letter G into Egyptian hieroglyphs...
some ****** did that to Khan's great counter
of hieroglyphs full bodied...
to hieroglyphs pure skeleton...
prior to Latin: not even Greek was a skeleton-key?
what? letters marrying numbers?!
unheard of?

1111111... one... lllllll (little l)... IIIIIIII (big iota)

imagine dropping a latin letter into Egyptian
"script"...
look what happened when someone dropped
something foreign into
Chinese hieroglyphs and so was born
Katakana... Chinese hieroglyphs came first...
then came Katakana...
then came the elevated:
if the story is true... and the Austrians
think themselves better than the Germans...
someone gave birth to the scribbles...
Korean came last...

       that feeling you get when you're trying to look
for an actor's name:
he playss the role of Grand-Duke?
Emperor? of the Habsburg Dynasty...
the elder brother of Marie Antoinette...
beautiful actor...
                          lips like purses...
who threw that ******* bone against the Chinese
hieroglyphs that spawned Japanese minimalism
that translated: ha! translated Chinese through
Japanese to Korean... split the ******* in two...
towing two! towing two!
                          Zhin Chin ****... silly!
   i'm not joking...
           Žin vs. Żyn... Rzym! Rzym... Rome! Rome!
hmm...
           Źın...          Žiń...
  
ha ha... the Nazis smoked out the son of the devil
of the people who gave them abode for almost...
whenever Poland, converted (insert a snigger...
i have the noun-spelling for it...
but not the onomatopoeia, ha ha... laughter
and rugby)...

change of direction at work...
i'm feeling an aura of: DISTANCING...
people are feeding off the appetite of me: leaving...
and their lives being over...
of course they will not be over...
they'll be feet in not worn shoes
in shoes boxes on shelves in libraries
of fickleness of the female side of humanity...
only angels should have been given
the crack-head code of the 4 letter "signature" of
YHWH... i'll give Jesus credit...
well... Beelzebub...

HANGU:L! that ingenious king of Korea
that: seeing a stick being thrown
at a bunch of sticks assembled as a shelter
of the Chinese hieroglyphs witnessed as the Japanese
folded... worked on an argument
of introspection: kept it...
hmm... what are those weird ISLADERS
******* around it?
they have the BOLD katakana
and the ITALIC hiragana...
two ******* trenches...
just let some westerner know:
the Hiroshima (katakana)
and the Nagasaki (hiragana)...

   Chernobyl and Fukushima...
the pregnant women were advised to drink iodine...
boom! boom! boom!
ergo? no real, comparatively: "boom" as boom!
or  BOOM...

it's the second morning i'm woken up from briefly dreaming...
point about dreaming? the content doesn't matter...
i'm not a hyper-focused Freud...
dreams are dreams in
how fog is fog and a hurricane is  hurricane...
dreaming heavily:
you feel exhausted if you slept for 10 hours
or 5... dreamless...
you slept: you didn't dream...
but dreams creep up on you:
they play fakery with your body:
you weren't sleeping: you were dreaming...
unlike getting blind drunk
and... sleeping: not dreaming...
with the lesser baggage(d) people...
snails? no... elephants! no ivory tusks...
already no fur... no drunks...
edible cartilage of the ears...
flapping... hmm... i might have to invent
a rug... a place to take off one's shoes...
shoe?
shoe prior to sock? obviously...
shoe prior to sock...
sexed up legs... procreation by the chemical
demise of acting...
if not sold to actors:
a god-send...
i could **** each any every ugly *****
but... god almighty... the impossible feats...
with Xerxes on your back?
the second battalion ambush of Greece?!

currently as is "currently": and, ahem... "history":
a history of plug-hole psychology
of inescapable Darwinism: cuckoldry...
or Plato's ***** joke about the feminism
of Hindus and their tired, wasted concern for Hygiene...
they bathed with the dead...
so the dead came and ate up the living...

for the past days... of note... two...
upon waking i hear my name being called:
Mateusz!
not twice, thrice, just... once...
i rush down and ask my mother: have i overslept?!
did you call me?
the replies: no... i haven't called you...
why am i: Matthew?
                     i don't think i'm: Matthew Smith
or a Matthew Czopek or a Matthew Eschlert..
or a Matthew Matthews...
why was Jesus Christ not Jesus ben Josephus
ben Matthias?
                i wonder... not really: "wandering"...

it was but a little nugget of inspiration of marijuana
and i went off the tangent...
i would not replicate the original ******
poem into German
   and the German song into ******...
because... springboard og ingenuity
English woke up!
as if: spontaneously...
i can't appreciate poetry written by
mono-linguists or ****-up: kissy: tut-tut..
smooch kiss-up immigrant ****-wits
of: this is only a Lingua FRANCA...
"franca"... a tourist-tongue...
it's a ***** tongue...
people speak it, leave it, abandon it...
sometimes perhaps frame it...
it's a tongue of commerce and Babel
and... at the end of all the tongues coming
together to speak it...
a rather: unsatisfying tongue...
over-salted... over-pompously-self-solidifying
complicated-soliloquy... solipsism...
something this: that: self-
    +-evidently apparent that children ought to
be teaching this modus operandi... *******... ha ha!

letter will not be know since words will not be known,
we will, although know words, that will be sounds
not scribbled down, imagination will be
nullified and nothing will be born with sleep
and dreaming will be alien to us,
since we will not be myopic
*** will be friendship and: we will know not
the word for tool and the specifics of ingenuity
and genius...
there will be no word for man...
and there will be no word for woman
and there will be no diatribe of death and child...

my uncle is in hell and i can almost count
this auditory hallucination:
i will have no concept of auditory: because i heard...
within the non-existence of my bones
and body and blood and brain and heart
in the water and earth turning to air
with each breath...
i will not hear... how my uncle: calls for me...
and how did you live with your mother,
when she aged to a nearing rot...
i lived with them and not people i would exchange
for a properly working bicycle-lock...

for each ******* i would replace the glorious
half hours i had with them
the months i spent with my supposed "lovers"...
i'd take one half hour with a *****
to replace the courting with said woman: unsaid:
to procreate and teach "my" children:
children of the times... flawed lessons
of the march, ancient march of typology
and non-writing and Time as Dust...

am i to help you when i implored the non-existent
deity into my *****,
indirectly you might implore for me:
will i reply to the heaven sent:
what am i to do?!
do as i did: absolutely nothing and nothing too,
that's twice that's hardly not a scone
scuffed and chained to Baron Zung...

            speak two tongues and tease a third...
come the fourth... letters have to turn into images...
in this heaven of no sheltered virgins..
in my noun-basket i will not have words
like pen, or: boiler, roof, eyeliner,
i will not have:
          screen, cinema, actor,
           philosopher, poet, psychologist,
soul: i'll have my self-eating cannibalism of breath...
verbs will merge with nouns
and the only nouns worth existing thereby will
be: specified and "corrupt" by a localised
specialisation:

                 god will be ONOMATOPOEIA...
the son will be MIMIC
and there: within the confines of said time
MIMIC will battle Chimera...
MIMIC will look alike: Chimera
but Chimera alphabetically:

    CHIMERA = ACEHIMR

                   the dead are not so displeasing
when it comes to the living-as-if-dead...
and there are plenty of those
living such: body-and-soul-crushing...
no... i couldn't imagine myself marrying
a troll... just to somehow oddly fit it...
i'm not going to reply to a message:
me and Nicki... says Frankie... are over...
reply: to what? and did you hear
my side of the story? no? no?!
i don't have to hear your side, either!
oculus per oculus!
like for like:
dislike for dislike!

           i'll wait... i'm not actually waiting
for anything other than:
can you please leave me alone?
i'll reply you whenever i feel like it...
i don't feel like
wanting human connection for at least
two days...

there's a hell and a privacy one earns to have
earned it that one rarely wants to
have it made public...
albeit in the "public anonymous"...
all the more willingly... since no immediate
consequences are to  be met: face-to-no-face...
tired of replies...
walking lesbians into the night
is like pretending to not walk
cows into the slaughterhouse...
ego-***** replacing what once was?
Plato the Plumber and the blocked toilet
of reincarnation...
i'm done with pride... Herr Dapf...

             for the waiting to be dead,
falte der primast schattierung:
für das Warten tot zu sein:
ich möchte auch tot sein...

   a death with the hollows
of the hallowed wooded emptied bark....
suffer the sound of a thunder-stroke...
donnerschlaganfall:
all aligned with things living...
nearly: or waiting to be towed toward
A... death...

           morgen?
                          tòmāté...
*******: SPUD!
           morgen butter-kneaded? by the hollows
of said, suggested juices..
my knees are not enough:
meine knie sind nicht genug!

ich jage meinen gedanken hinterher,
und erkenne mich selbst manchmal nicht mehr.

es *******so, als würde sich alles um mich drehen,
irgendwie ist es so als würde ich die welt nicht mehr verstehen.

was ich mache *******falsch zu sein,
innerlich fange ich langsam an zu schreien.

weiß nicht was ich tue und liege im zimmer,
ich fühle mich so als wäre das ein gewitter.

alles *******so als würde es nicht vergehen,
ich bin in meinem kopf angelangt und merke ich bleibe stehen.

alles um mich verändert sich,
und alle anderen lassen mich plötzlich im stich.

drugi zór sie ma w gębie - prosty chłopie -
              a nie: w gwle!
   a ten pierw: w glebie...
          czeka czeka... gdzie ja?
         smród mi od: sau-sau-dzes -
       tymian?              
                   ni wim... albo:           bins!
              widze sikha! to chyba
anglia! ale tylko chyba?
        nie... naprawde: napewno!
oi ty! polaczek polaczek...
      patrz! na wygnaniu: ja!
bym osmrodził swy bogaty
                          naród układem, tym:
            leze... no to leze: i niet winikati!
od roku 1945, i jan pawlik drugi...
tu ani koran... ani ta jebana "ewangelia"
tzn. kłamstwo! pierdolony
da nogi nawet, by skubać tego hebrajskiego
huja!
                masaz? masaz? pyrhh!
                                              huja tobie!
i temu i tej golgocie, czyli... miejsce kości...
tzn. tym kościołom! jak marcin luter!
    ogłaszam bankructwo tym instytucją;
      ale tak naprawde?     jednym słowem?
                                 spier.... dalaj:
         sam se wsadź swój,        w swą dupe!
tanz! tanz! tanz dann...
                        dann tanz!
                                 lassen uns
                                       auferstehe die tot.

Wut macht sich in mir breit,
bin gewappnet, mach mich für den Kampf bereit
hab alles getan um uns zu schützen,
hab gemerkt das alles würde nichts nützen
Versteht nicht mal was ich fühle,
was für Gedanken ich mir mach und wie sehr ich mich bemühe

Stattdessen sitz ich hier,
wünschte einfach Flo wär bei mir,
den ihr hättet kennenlernen sollen,
doch es gibt wichtigeres, ihr *******das gar nicht richtig zu wollen
Hatte nach Mittwoch neue Hoffnung gefunden,
spielt keine Rolle, ihr seid frei und ungebunden
ich werde mich nicht weiter um Verständnis bemühen,
kein weiteres Gift versprühen,
werde mich einfach zurück ziehen und euch machen lassen,
versteh nicht wie ihr mich könnt hassen
hab doch alles für euch gegeben,
wollte noch so viel mit euch zusammen erleben


Weis nicht wie das weiter gehen soll,
spüre nur in mir steigt der Groll
vielleicht tut uns Abstand gut,
vielleicht geht dann auch die Wut

Kann nicht bleiben wie es ist,
denn bin dann nur noch mehr angepisst
tu alles damit es klappt,
aber egal was ich sag, ihr seid eingeschnappt

Hoffe wir werden mit der Zeit einen Weg finden,
die Zeit der Krise ohne weitere Schäden überwinden


Wollte morgen so viele Freuden mit euch teilen,
gemeinsam all unsere Wunden heilen
hab meine 100 Mauer endlich durchbrochen,
doch fühlt sich an als Brecht ihr mir jeden Knochen
hab meiner Familie von Flo erzählt,
wollte auch das ihr ihn auswählt
hatte mich tierisch auf morgen gefreut,
tief in mir gerade alles schreit und diese Entscheidung bereut

Ihr stellt eine Frage,
die ist für euch schon eine Aussage
hattet alles für euch schön geplant,
doch in mir drin bereits etwas mich warnt.....

chances are... i've probably forgotten something... A
as it happens: per usual...
when you have a lightning storm in your head...
you wait and wait for the thunder, i.e. the words...
but since you're having a blitzkrieg moment
(just like when Stuttgart did a blitzkrieg
against West Ham in the first 2 minutes of a game):
it's sort of: disorientating...

i think i might call this:
sammeln einsen denken...
   i even have a pseudo equation for this:

english "<" german
    while... german "<" Norse...
        hell... cousin *******... but more:
branching off...
   etymologically speaking...
    it's hard to grapple with the nouns
let alone conjunctions...
but at least nouns refer to concrete things...

colours... shapes... "details"...
contortions...
then again: **** Germany did invade Norway...
while glorifying the neutrality of Sweden...
who was it that called the Swedes
the Polyphemus' of culture?
   oh... right... Knausgaard...
     i like i hate him i like him i still have
volumes 5 & 6 to read through...
and spring and summer and winter...

hmm... gather my thoughts... and idle hands do
the rest... i just watch the cascade of scribbling...
i pretend to play a violin while
stroking my beard...
i just need to find the right song to ensure
i have a rhythm-stamina
i'm pretty sure one cat of mine will break it
with a: "can i come in and lie in your bed"?

yep... just happened... the window is open
and i direct him onto my bed
and as he nudges / nuggets his head into my
pillow i'll continue...

****... i have to wake up at 7am tomorrow morning...
chances are... the skip will come between
7:30am and 9:30am... there's plenty to clear our
from the garden... all that concrete pieces
i broke down with that rented kango... etc. etc. blah
blah...
oh: i'm not work shy...
i even know why i'm doing this current work...

upon checking tickets... directing people to their
right seat... on the sly i noted the price tag...
it's "work" and it isn't work...
i just need one song to focus on to write...
i don't do: listen to a whole ****** album...
i need a concentrated dosage of something...
esp. sound... on repeat... on repeat...
i'll restart it countless times before finishing
my doodle and relaxing...
but until that time... it's one song on repeat...
on repeat... on ******* repeat...

i've have too many lightning strikes in my head
to let go of them: but i need some buoyancy...

think of *** think of *** think of *** think of
thighs think of collar bones think of elbow
think of knees think of foreheads think of hair
thing of lips think of: every, single, ****** time...
i walk into a brothel...
what do i sniff? bourbon and skin cream...
not ****** type of scents... just like:

i remember the very old memes of the internet...
one wasn't even a picture,
it was more of a question...
can two straight guys share an umbrella?
the other one was an inversion
of the myth of a mermaid...
i.e. a picture of a mermaid...
d'uh... oral ***... and counter to it...
the legs of a 6ft leg model with her torso
replaced by a fish's upper body...

           that is truly debatable...
but then again: it's not...

why do i do this job? currently? i could be earning
more if i a stuck to construction...
but that's the thing about working with family:
when it's great: it's ******* great...
but when it's ****: it's rancid...
family members can take so many liberties when employing
you...
          i liked the work though...
30kg rolls of felt... here and there...
tar doughnuts dropped tenderly like ****
into the boiler... i didn't mind...
but i'm writing poo'etry... i need to assure myself...
i need to build up some skills of dealing
with the crowds...
obviously i'm planning to perform some
of my scribbles...
              
but i find an impasse...
the rhyming ping-pong... crass...
advertisement crass poor-aesthetics of the words
being ushered it...
unlike: Aud Lang Syne: which?!
no Shakespeare can beat...

i find no comparison with any modern poet...
i even tried it with Ezra Pound...
i'm left with the tradition of Horace and Ovid...
these two ******* have my mind boiling...
there's no rhyme:
there's that unbroken lineage of consciousness
that can be as both subtle as it can be overtly
dynamic...

****... i knew this would happen...
i'd start writing and forget some minor points
i wanted to add...
oh... right... what's the...
ha ha... of the square root of a schizophrenic squared?!

now that's borrowing from Alfred Jarry's pataphysics...

i.e. √schizophrenic²?
        it's a joke... practically: what's √4² = 4...
which is equivalent to scribbling...
hmm...                            š = sh... no?
so? what's? √schizophrenic² equal to?

i'll tell you:

    √schizophrenic² = bilingual (-ist)
well, the joke follows further... just because you're
white you're presumed to be one of those
native, white lost boys...
who don't perform at school...
        i'm still waiting... not for an apology...
**** the apology... i want the dumb-founded
glum look on these "medical" sadists...
these pharmacological Mengele disciples...
i'm just waiting: i'm good at waiting...

was that it? i put on over 20kg from their supposed
"cure" medication...
and... what? anyone hang themselves like Judas
for wrong-doing...
Satan managed it right... confuse them...
tell them: AND... somewhere in between
KNOWLEDGE of GOOD / EVIL...
because man conflates the too...
   man's concept of law... of jurisprudence is exactly that...
Moses' poetic genius or...
"god": there are three ranks of superior creatures
the mind extends towards...
angels... demons... geniuses...
i count geniuses a rank above...
    stressing: if people used to imagine a cyclops...
a minotaur... a Cerberus... fairies...
i think geniuses are the most manifest
when translating the extension of the mind
toward them: since through them
they manifest in body... Newton!
                         geniuses are creatures most self-evident
from past examples of their pact with man:
a pact made prior with Prometheus:
who... not being a god... could spawn this crafty
cohort of... equivalence? dwarfs?!

i vape and i suddenly turn into a scientist in the eyes
of my cat: the smoke the smoke mesmerizes them...
unusual if i'm smoking a "chip" of a cigarette..
wild eyed, they are...

but it has been a good autobiography so far...
reading a mingling of Stendhal with Marquis de Sade
in my teens... returning to Ovid in my mid-30s...
it's a good sexuality to have...

esp. that time in the brothel completely obliterated
by those 12 prostitutes... a tube's equivalent of
a carriage of legs...
can-can... they could have danced a can-can
folding right leg onto the left leg: folding...
and vice versus...
i also loved the rejections... future rejections
now seem... contained...
i deal with them like i deal with being soaked
by rain: no sugar here...
          i make a slight grimace... i idle my frown...

i have more in common with Ovid and Horace
than i have with these complaining poet-activists
that are "fishing" with a rod and line and sinker
worth's of rhyme: and yes... Wayne Static of
Static-X is dead... join, the, ******* queue...

i know the current job could be classified as...
low "quality"... low "status"...
there's no reason to believe i can maintain
a drunken crowd... absolutely none...
the world is harsh... get used to it...
i can be nice in person:
but when i allow myself to scribble something:

eh... i sometimes alleviated myself
with the comparison to Wolverine...
esp. from that cover by Johnny Cash
of a Nine Inch Nail's song: hurt...
but... i was always more of a Juggernaut sort
of guy... a Magneto sort of guy...
i can't remember the last time i played
a computer game... crosswords bore me...
su doku: fair enough...
i write: i cascade: i spew...
     crosswords are a thesaurus for me...
i don't like sphinxes... or sphinx's riddles...

when i'm open to a narrative... i'm keeping my
"guns"... well... wooden swords...
i'm pretty **** sure the people i'm working
with don't know anything about me...
i'm only doing this job to get some...
experience in maintaining a crowd...
i'm thinking: perhaps it's time to become
less a creator and more an entertainer?

i sometimes walk the streets at night...
i peer in...
some old lady is usually watching the t.v.:
so... where's the fireplace?!
where are the grandchildren listening to stories
of old?! where is the passage of time?!
sure as ****... it isn't "there"...
the t.v. replaced the fireplace...
i'm having insomnia libido...
personally... i want to **** and if i wanted it so much
i should follow suite... instead?!
drinking is better...

that's the glory of the internet...
some of "us" just adapted to it...
we didn't waste time to adapting to it...
it was never about anything practical...
in terms of using it for internet banking or internet shopping...
some of "us" required an open flow of
information...

i start listening to Hawkwind's
                      hassan-i-sabah...
i know the allure of Islam...
                     i know it all too well...
  Christianity over-complicated itself...
it's a "monotheism" but given the number of schisms
it might as well be categorised as a polytheistic religion...
given the number of versions of "christ":
that cosmopolitan messiah...
who moved people from Nazareth to Jerusalem and then:
undermined the existence of the Hebrews owning any land...

a Greco-Judeo conspiracy against the Roman empire...
why? the Roman plagiarism of the Greek theology /
mythology... i.e. how Zeus became Jupiter...
how Hades became Neptune...
proud Greeks... even prouder Hebrews...
oops... Roman script was not Persian cuneiform...
it didn't... simply "die"...
now... emboldened with access to technological
"improvements": how is it? how is it, going
to simply die off?!

i find Christianity complicated...
no wonder i wasn't confirmed...
while that famous atheist Richard Dawkins was...
you just need to find the right sort of Islam
to secure your mind in this whirlwind of
Christianity imploding... for however nth time...

you start listening to Hawkwind's
Hassan-i-Sabbah...
the Elder of the Mountain...
you peer into the Sh...
   that running joke from the 13th warrior...
so... what's your name?!
Muhammad ibin Ali ibin Rasheed... ibin...

    Ibin... son of... Ibin... a bit like Iblis...

see... that's the thing about the shisha pipe and
the "mobile phone" equivalence of it via
the vape pipes...
same ****... different cover...
i just counter my addiction to nicotine with
the amount of pearls of smoke
i egest... exhale with this pristine white
cauliflower smoke...
there's no high: biologically:
by now eyes are not biological extensions...
spiritual measures... add a mirror and we're talking:

and the devil came with smoke and mirrors...
rather than with fire and sulphur...
because?! gods come with the latter...
but i still need a "high" to write something...

the first time i tried ******* was with Khedra
in the brothel... i was 35 and prior to that...
no bother... i tried dating single mums who used
to date single boyos who were coke-heads
who... whatever...
i can become a plumber if i need to...
a roofer... a chef... bicycle fixer...
but i'm not a "bad boy": i know single mums
with attitude... i don't know how
this attraction works in reverse...
i tried... failed... moved on...
obviously i still write about it...
because?! it's a bit like discovering gravity...
or... the heliocentric model!

for someone who has been diagnosed as "mad"...
would you want to understand women?
by understanding women implies:
you stop loving women...
i'm still a Romanticist...
i want to love women: i don't want to understand
women... i want to remain feral...
i can't imagine myself being tamed...
i want to love women and not understand them...
ergo?

     i avoid women and i'm all the better for it...
i just see how they age...
fair enough... men aging is not exactly spectacular...
either...
but at least... there's the Benelux resolve...
some marijuana prior... some magic mushrooms
to alleviate the onslaught of dementia...
in a van Gogh horizon and then:

AUS MIT IHR KÖPFE!

no sentiments for the monotheistic-sadism of
homelessness...
a warm bath... the veins slit...
let life be life!
  and let death be death!

lassen leben sein leben!
und lassen tod sein tod!

don't grieve for the fractured stone:
to replace the shape of a mountain!
for a worthlessness of a: tomb!

     feed grief! via memory!
bind your love to those you remember!
and lessen the burden you try to forget
by ritual: with the exacting memorabilia
you'd want to confiscate out of existence!
of what?! of the grave!
burn them!

we can't ascribe ourselves to any one element...
we are the waters of libido and thirst...
we are the earth of staging frights of resurrected
empires...
we are the air that all breathe
and none do in the realms of the Trident(s)...
we are the fire of thought and feeling
by war and idiotic courage are borne...
we are the fifth element of:
stage-fright... of... caution of thought...
of... when Thor came to a Camden Town Pub...
with... seizures... with sparks...

i can't find a defence for Christianity...
i can find a defence for Islam...
i can find a defence for Judaism...
Rumi... the Qabbalah...
last time i heard... the Gnostics were shunned...
fair enough...

the roof, the roof... the roof is on fire... (x4)
we don't need no water let the ******* burn...
burn *******: burn!

you can't stress it more obvious: obviously...
obliviously so...
   splendid little world and my apathetic self...
since: last time i heard?
there's nothing worse than apathy....
   exactly! nothing worse than atheism when
it comes to the art of making narratives...
but?! apparently the prefix a-
implies: without: pathologies...
   insanely numb...
  insanely numb...
    and let's just pretend: like it sort of
might sort of: oh... oh... oh?!

I listen to my friends,
I listen to my enemies
and hear a whole lot of things.
When people are talking,
I listen to the words they are speaking,
to the tone in their voice,
to the speed of their talking,
to the kind of words they are using,
to their breathing, laughter and crying,
hear when they talk, talk, talk
because they fear to be
asked questions.
I listen with both ears and my gut feelings,
and with my sense of smelling –
I notice the changes in their body languages’ scents.
But if you feel I do not listen,
because you think I do not listen to you
then you know now, that this is a lie.
because when I listen and sense and
I listen with my heart and think with my brains
but follow my own  path,
then it isn’t because
I didn’t listen to you!

Sussi Lassen

i kept but one name-given namesake -
finally!
now it has become clear:
the german definite article -
die: implies definite article plural -
der: implies definite article singular -

i've become prone to german songs -
more than i'd like -
but i'd sooner die than have to recount
'hej hej sokoły' -
as the only folk song my ear was lent to...

an hour well spent:
a sudoku puzzle and some workhorse
germanic folk -
or listening the pearls and wisdom
of shane macgowan:
point being: the words come from
the tooth -
but only the french and the irish girls
can pull off... wearing short hair like
she'd be a boy...
perhaps those physiognomy details
of shy and porcelain:
faces that were only ever kissed
by the moon - the hair was was only
ever combed by the wind -
and she can come among the brothers
as a amber nectar gem ruffian in disguise...

sinead o'connor, alizée jacotey -
how the hell does tuba büyüküstün come
into the mix? ever so slyly...

bbc4 : 'when it was unpolular and unfashionable
to be irish in england'...
"unfashionable"? the drunken paddy -
the respectable ireland and its own...

conrad - conrad of masovia -
perhaps i just liked the names given unto me
that i chose not to be confirmed
at the brentwood diocees -
all whole lot of it: with a bishop clad in thistle -
the surname was always insignificant:
paperwork -
but at least the names allow you derive
meaning -

poor you alexander -
no minor roles to attach yourself to -
beside the glaring obvious...
st. levi: my former...

- i have only met one woman who ever
wanted to fiddle with my beard -
does it matter that she's my grandmother?
itchy fingers reach in and
pluck out a quartet of violins...

lie eines tambours:
die toten, die toten des regiments
(the dead, the dead of the regiment)

der tod in flandern:
der tod reit't auf einen kohlschwarzen rappe
(death rides on a coalblack horse)
in flandern reitet der tod
(in flanders death rides)
der tod reit't auf einem lichten schimmel
(death rides a pale horse)

teutonic marching party hum:
no wagner! murmurs and mumbling of disgruntled
baritone:
rataplan don diri don!
back from the east and there was
no cleavage to the british ways...
there was always the old one,
the alles vater of germanic roots and rot...
even in multicultural Loon'don...

but now know of the definite article distinction
in german:
der tod: definite singular...
die tod: definite plural... ja! jetzt isch sehen!

fa'lalala... fa'lalala... tamtaradej! tamtaradej!
niemec norweg duńczyk szwed!

a television - a phone no one rings -
all the blessings of the age -
better still - ghost in a skeleton suckling off
flesh - or staging: no soul welcome...
congested and freed from the loitering of
labour -

i would hardly imitate the irish as the dogs
of the british - sinking teeth into gaelic -
i would -
but since i do not have to...
i'd lend my ear toward speaking:
father german - of what this british brat
is worth...
father... alt-vater ßaß!
tease him, or tickle him...
give him a peacock as a gift for the missing
eye...
watch the crow zeppelins come knowing
how to knock...

i very much believe in a linguistic integrity
of a people - a language is beside the waving of
the flag - perhaps i am inclined
to skin of the supposed irish that do not
speak a word of gaelic: more so...
if they have tatoos on their skin?

the welsh have been given a strict overlord -
even though the english claim they
are the one *****-slap shy of donning
a gimp suit...
loud mouths from scotland...
but nothing in their native spreschen!
exfoliating "orthography" glaswegian...

oh but i would be willing to succumb to
this leprechaun sing-alongs...
i'm a workhorse of folk -
i need the drums and the vocals will do the rest -
no need for bagpipes -
or fiddling or dread the banjo...
old continent yawns...

who is the father of the english?
when the english start to... become too over-confident...
arrogant and atypical islander mentality that
doesn't borrow anything from the isolationism
of the Faroe Island people?
the forbidden fruit of the same language
being spoken "across the pond"...
unlike island dwelling people...
who want to be left alone...
strange... that so much media attention must
be given to a people:
that clearly do not want to be left alone!
who said the british didn't just generate
4 years of journalistic pay-cheques for
newspapers and other outlets?
stalling tactics... feeding tactics...
feed the propaganda hogs who will
gobble down anything and regurgitate with
an alistair cambell at the fore...

i was expecting to read some keneth koch,
listening to something beside german folk songs...
solving a sudoku...
and finally deciding... it would be worthwhile
to invest almost 30 quid in a complete works
of this poet...
one thing i've noticed...
the price of books has gone up dractically!
i once thought: paying 30 quid for heidegger's
ponderings VII - XI and II - VI is a bit steep...
but not all the poetry books i want to buy
cost just as much!

30 quid... em... that's almost a carton
of cigarettes...
and i've been hoping to save up to visit a brothel
and forget something:
of no immediate concern...
but poetry books were never this dear to buy...
i was rather spontaneous when
making a recommendation: kenneth koch...
perhaps i should read some more
before i buy this kilogram's worth
of compressed forest of a book...

but that's all the way into a tomorrow's
sitting before: this will never become
a Balzac 14 coffee work-ethic output...
writing: making sure the reader
has no chance to reflect -
nothing to introspect with or for...
then again:
what's any of this supposed to do
with: beside the reflexive?

man's transcendental love will never compensate
for the pragmatic love of a woman
in need for a, kettle...

shady lots of the unforgiving blue-snippet
of jazz and all the better:
that could happen that didn't originate
with british punk...
1960s screaming girls -
1970s and the boys could come around...

yeah, i've been to Ypres - where as pseudo-children
we played hide-and-seek trade-offs
in the trenches...
where the anglo-spreschen graveyards
have signatures: names -
and individual graves...
the german graves? the german graves
of 1st world war?
wilhelm! are you listening?!
apparently the jews were also
trafficed into the slaughter camps...

i have stood in the graveyards
of the germans - the en masse graves sites -
i have witnessed the silence of these graves...
camaraderie of the dead...
nothing of which the english
would ever learn...
in the graveyards
of a "communal"...

the mass graves of the fallen german
"hitlerjunge"... alles im schwarz...
keiner im khaki: senf hinter abendessen!

i stood in the graveyard of the world war
german en masse graveyards...
no sparrow will sing: when the dead sing among
each other...
i will not visit the slaughterhouse
of auschwitz... the cow-towing...
i will not bow before those that were naive...
but i will nonetheless...
succumb to the idiots...

and the Helmut: die eisenhelmkopf: knock-knock...
echo? echo?
among the english...
one is supposed to reach toward
loving the german
(then again one isn't);
feeling indifferent to this lot...
not being quiet the h'american expatriates
they could have been...
old father sax...

the world can heave: settle for the concentration
camps...
i must savor the bounty found in
german en masse graveyards from
the first world world war
if any slaughterhouse is willing to open
its gates to an esque auschwitz...
so be it... but the graveyard
to the youth of germany, wilhelm youth...
camaraderie: freundschaft-im-tod

mutter-tod!
i need not see the concentration camps,
i've seen the graveyards of germany from
the first world war...
if you've seen one sardaine crammed closure
ground...
and the silence...
what does it matter, regarding the people
so naive?

vier! 4th! alternatively: fear!
the mass graves of the youth under Wilhelm
in the vicinity of Ypres...
that acidic silence...
piquant...
and i am supposed to visit the concentration
camp the slaughterhouse?
what will always die
with being naive... trust... and love...
and disinhibition and...
lingua franca ergonomics of
selling stale wood in the form
of antiques...

i know one way of failing to integrate
into english society...
look down... learn some german...
learn what the old father spoke when
he started to brew these unforgiving children
of the chandelier maze...

i'll be singing these germanic folk songs...
x-ray flag of cornwall -
teutonic - black cross upon the white flag...
muslims nearing jerusalem -
old pagans of lithuania
remnants of the golden horde having settled
in ukraine's crimea -

best felt: of what it feels to be alive,
in england...
tinging the old ****** with a dalmation specker
full blodied worth of:
zee ols: germanicus inhibutus -
because there's not need for *****...
as far as the british go...
in... ***** first: welcome! the conquering
par'tayh!

******* soft-ball dodgers and ****-*******
pinzetteblödsinnausweichmanöver:
ease a coming... you *******
weiser herr misers!
lovecraftian video vermont
aenemic *****-liquor...

poetryfoundation.org poet:
is he / she dead?!
they're dead? they're dead?!
oh thank god there's a dead...
and body worthwhile to **** with...
because safety... safety...
and no bit of h. h. holmes
will ever grace the pish-poor pasrty...
party... oops...
******* yankies...

horror is a fetish...
poor croat poor yugoslav...
unless you mention
the serbs and the balkan "muslims"...
high-brow expectation -
until i am willing to meet
not meat...
my fore-bride... death...
honk honk!
i am more than willing top die
via the swizz affair than all this,
******* fawty towers agony...
pristine and puritanical...
the living better excused to live...
enough to buy them life insurance...
and, otherwise... the remains of
dead willing to pop the cork...

the sane always have their: two pence shave
worth of flip: they know-it-how...
the sane will alway know what to write
about insanity...
problem? when the insane write about sanity...
and the mole-hills and whatever it left
becomes the windowlicker down-dyndrome
chop-suey "oops"?
retro-****: or simply: re-...
the sane have authority over the insane...
what happens when the insane have a crab-bite
on the concept of "sanity"...
people elsewhere also die... no?

sanity that requires grey-matter peep-show
peoples to run miles for:
the dying auntie and her cancerous loved-up
"french"...
the sane speak of the insane
i almost forget: the insane would never
speak about the sane... because...
it's nostalgia: papa roach:
between angels and insects...
as dostoyevsky said:
for angels... the sight of god's throne...
for insects... something associated with
succumbing to soap opera and itchy ***
disinhibitions...

why would i visit these concentration camps?
living in western europe first world war
was more important than the 2nd world war...
i've visited a german world war I mass grave...
why would i subsequently visit
the remains of a concentration camp?
a site near Ypres where no sparrow
will cling to branch or to song...

for no reason: don't tease... stop teasing...
if you life is all mud and mediocre and
soap opera... stop teasing!
i will not visit a concentration camp...
appeasing the hebrew...
only when... the graveyard of the en masse
dead of german youth is visited from
the 1st world war...
where... bullet, mud...
fingerprints not welcome...
citizens non-anon...
auschwitz and death the addressee...

the sane and their stipends concerning insanity!
but then one diagnosis falls foul...
and the straitjacket jack starts speaking...
oh! oh then!
the usual story...
the usual *******-become-bells-and-church-uvulas...
and the rest is just a cry, a sigh,
a boring reminder of the british raj...

learn some german...
the peasants will retain theirs with some velsh...
and that's how you
react to be... "leisured with a caption
of being measured via
the focus of having a father"...

liebe: zu nicht lassen gehen...
liebe: das alles ich können behalten!

i rather speak some german on these isles...
this is not ******* h'america...
this is the old continent..
england serves for *******'s worth of nothing
when it is excused to speak german...
while english is relegated for chinese tourists...
and... the faroe island farmers of sheeps' **** and wool...

it's not like you'd expect to become welcome
these days, or any other days...
as a tourist or as a ******* trader...
of "goods"...
made in chine is the broker's deal to begin with...
on the broken bone signature...

i too thought the english were prized on
giving stipends on how:
how to best keep things cordial...
champagne, oysters... the eton mess...
a good round of polo and ******* wacking...
no?

i do admire the early exits of the suicide prone...
i would too...
but i do crave... for the platic 20 quid banknote...
and what would become of charles III
should he chose a different name...
and i really wish that lizzie lives her most...
but then... her current grin is already
tombstone... and she...
well... she's bothersome in that she's pradictable...
and that's boring and bongo-bongo boorish...

****'s sake: two popes teamed up to try
and topple her off the throne and play snooker
into a dead-8 with her crown...
better speak some german: for jokes...
among... the british... that did live through
the 60s of the 20th century...
but... will never relive the same cushioning
of history to somehow "compensate"
the rolling stones dinosaur of the:
most welcome pensioner rock & zimmer framers...
roll with that sort of shaky stephens
park-on-eire-n-son?

just drop the delayed nuke...
we're all done and b.b.q. readied
recounting what's interpreted as "trauma"...
superiority / the messiah complex
of the english...
but you speak a word of german...
you think a word of german and...

do these people care, to, remember,
their, natural, neighbourly...
competitive streaks with the fwench?
it's just like "us"... the polacks with the russians...
with the germans...
i too thought that the ukranians were
better represented by competing with
leftover mongols of crimea.

Es ist dunkel
Es ist Nacht
In aller Stille
Es ist vollbracht

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Tanzende Lichter
Tanzende Menschen
Dolche im Schimmer
Nur so glänzen

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Sanftes Wiegen
Sanftes Singen
Lassen das Wimmern
Nun überklingen

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Nasse Gräser
Nasse Hände
Mit warmen Blut
Durchtränktes Gelände

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Reibende Verse
Reibende Körper
Eine Menge
Alles Mörder

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Roter Mond
Roter Leib
Liegt am Boden
Das tote Weib

Hört es fließt
Hört es tropft
Verzerrter Mund
Wurde gestopft

Es wird Tag
Es wird hell
Schau Sie flüchten
Nun sehr schnell

Nichts mehr fließt
Nichts mehr tropft
Sowie das Herz
Nicht mehr klopft

autobahn limbo:
lima bravo 5 5 5...
Harvard ha 6...

i woke up in a benevolent mood...
i rarely give money to paupers... only yesterday...
or the day before that: yesterday
i arrived at Romford at 12am from Putney
Bridge... sort of exhausted from dealing
with coworkers: i still don't understand
the tactic Emma is employing giving me
the ***** looks... then again flirting
with me... some... ******* underlying mental
health issues...
what is it with these women
my own age? i'm supposed to be the one
that's ****** up... but i look around...
**** me: what a bleak horizon...
almost as flat and boring as:
"adventure" in Belgium...
          ******* Swedish pop songs...
exported into the anglophone "hemisphere"...
maybe it was worthwhile that i was
a hermit throughout my 20s...
   coming back out, to meet people aged 35....
i'm of the "constipation": you what?!
o.k., o.k. i've had my fun in the brothels
but this is just getting silly...
#metoo...
                 you what?!
               i must have been living in an alternative
ulterior dimension...
   it's called the English articles procession...
i don't think i'm THE devil... just A devil...
one of many....
        so i i woke up in a benevolent mood...
two paupers... i cycled hangover feeling feverish
and like a **** thrown out onto a beach
to sun-bathe...
             you what?!
          yeah... felt like just that:
i don't need no hallucinogenic drugs...
when i get dementia... when i get dementia..
and there she was... a Roma-esque beauty...
i asked her... you want anything?
oh... just a Dr. Pepper... walked in... got my whiskey
and Pepsi... right... Dr. Pepper...
but it costs me £1.75... is she vegetarian?
why did i ask myself? well...
there's a meal deal... £3 for a drink... a "meal"
and a snack... for i bought a chicken bacon Caesar wrap...
Maltesers...
     as i walked out... in my mind: swerving...
ice-skating... asked her... are you vegetarian?
she said no... well then... here you go...
and all it cost me £3... for a god-bless-you...
good feeling... Charlie Dickens style good feeling...
honestly... if i had more... i'd freely give it up...
i just don't need it...
   i own enough... to be honest... i actually own
too much...
    but i can't be collective in the case of ownership...
selective...
what's that biblical quote:
ask... and it will be given?!
   no?
           minutes later i was buying a bottle
of cider and getting some cash-back...
another pauper... professional... faking it?
whatever... i wish i had children that i could
be defensive about... then again: no...
want anything? oh yeah... just some chocolate...
only yesterday the Royle family were munching on
some Crunchy chocolate bars...
so i bought him that... and told him while
giving it to him: the best choc-ah-bloc you'll
ever eat...
                     days like this... who needs to compete
with other men for status or women...
i feel like... skidding... feel like a diarrhoea...
but at the same time... hell... i just fed someone...
and she has one of those plump... Roma...
squish... smiles... you just want to bite them...
tease them a little... she reminds me of Priy'ah..
         that's how i love ***... it's the longing...
it's the forgetfulness that sometimes sprouts...
you remember all the tender parts of the body...
the soft parts surrounding the collar-bone...
   the funny parts of elbows and knees...
          the altar of a woman's thighs and...
       oh... oh... all that's in the inner crevices of her
works...
                      no... don't mention her hands...
i've tried... i can pick up a basketball with one hand...
obviously my phallus looks tiny in my own
hands:
funny... all those guys... taking ****-picks
just after having *******... oh no... they're not
taking them prior...
      women's hands are the most ******...
technically... to get some "whereabouts"
i'd have to... cut off my pinky...
i'd be left with 4 fingers...
            such cute little geisha blooms of bone...
i look: i want to eat... those hands up...
esp. if the woman in "question" isn't white...
   copper-neck... camel-jockey...
             ivory: Kenyan... plump buttered up
silver in the moonlight...
              right... i'm gearing up...
                     need to manifest an increase of stamina...
if my ******* "girlfriend" is texting me...
the time's right...
i've earned enough money in the past month...
time to revisit her...
         no more high 3 on the throne of thrones...
****... ****... *******: sure...
but no *******...
            better prep up... after all... if i'm going to
spend £120 for an hour's worth...

so she sends me a message asking whether i'm
alright: more like: have you forgotten about me?
of course i haven't...
but let's be honest: i don't *** to becoming boring...
something married people get bored of...
mind you: i don't want to have too much of it:
just in case i have to turn to role-play...
kinks... latex... glory-holes fetishes...
can we keep it kosher: the sort of ******* that
translates as: i really missed you?!
oh my god... she looks even better in daylight without
any make-up... what a gorgeous Turkish cougar
of a woman...

                         i'm pretty sure the women i work with
don't know anything about my brothel antics...
which is good... because... why would i want
them to know?
  
the German: Hessen... fans from Frankfurt didn't
disappoint... they came like all German people
come: like a horde...
  their fanaticism is more admirable than that
of the English football supporters...
i walked past them... they gave me the eye...
the sort of: giving me the eye of: oh look!
ein von uns...
                     one of us!
              
   funny that... in German 1 is also A...
a indefinite article... but also... an anzahl...
       number...

sure... obviously i was giving breaks to Muslims
breaking their fast... but with the Germans 'ere...
it felt like the good old times...
when Lyon fans visited... eh... zee Fwech...
it's not the same... but when the Germans come...
from the federation that isn't Saxony...
from the Hessen land... or elsewhere...
ever heard of the Anglo-Bavarians?! me neither...

i feel... at home... in Europe...
even today i was working with this guy... nervous as hell...
Finland? it really was a one word question...
no, no... close though... he replied...
Lithuania... i'll let him know some other shift we'll
do together...

czołem bracie!
            čołem bratku!
kaktos brolis!
          i.e. hey brother...
   kaktos: using the forehead to greet someone...

even in this poly-ethnic England that's
more London than England...
i felt... finally! pagaliau! schließlich!
at home in the right sort of cold...
i just needed the Germans to come to England
and behave like Icelanders...
hoo! hoo! clapping in unison...

why would i hate the Germans?!
           all the other ethnicities that are not associate
with Europe suddenly fizzled out of my
"concern"... Ramadam my ***...
                      i started talking to his... oh... this is a coy
one... ginger... beauty... has a flimsy blonde mustache...
freckles... light ginger hair...
i seriously don't mind...
she was really ******* reserved about me...
i could see it in her eyes...
finally i pulled her off... we started chatting...
her kids are studying Spanish...
they want to give it up... but i tell her: don't let them!
if they learn it, acquire it...
that's all the South American potential...
or tell them to learn German... after all:
English and German are cousins... the grammar is
pretty much the same... how you order words
in a sentence...

i just picked up... alles güt?!
ar du haben eine güt цeit?!

      i just wanted this woman know... a little bit of something
about myself... like...
i do have interests in foreign languages...
if she wanted to ******* with me to Poland...
i could speak for her... very "fluently":
well... natively...
         but what sort of woman would ever follow
Roxette day-dream?!
   i think i must have chewed that chewing gum
until my jaw felt sore...

remind me... why am i here? per se?!
if i'm not here for the fame... i must be here...
trying to make a conquest within the confiens of mythology...
i must be spelling it out... one person at a time...
to one person at a time...
  i'm not here for fame... i see it now...
fame associated with mortality... with the living..
no... no... i'm here for something more rarer...
i'm looking for acknowledgement after i am dead...
i want that: very much so...
i want to become famous... posthumously...

           it's a long project... es ist ein weit projekt...
fair enough: in English:
a pair... an antenna...
that N... which is shoved between vowels...
but... in Deutsche...
ein... eine...         that added vowel...
how does that work? i'm yet to speak
to someone who might erzählen (zu mich)...
i see a load of Germans... ooh! ooh!
fancy that!
         they're congregating...
no Zeppelins then?!
    
   wohl! nein Spaß wenn Deutsche
    do nicht kommen mit irgendein Zeppelins...

kommen! kommen!
lassen mich sehen du!  

but i can't really explain how it feels when seeing
these continental folk congregate:

   was inbrunst! was... lebengewalt!
i was truly standing there: pitch-side...
gobsmacked... ich war verblüfft...
         i sort of wanted to join them... i was itching
to go among them and chant their Frankfurters'
chants...
    well... because in England: diversity is our
strenght...
                    vielfalt ist unser stärke...

i was sort of reminded of the time when Europe
entertained those Nomads that spoke some
Hebrew... later mingled Hebrew with Deutsche
and out popped a ******* child that was Yiddish...

everyone comes here... this great continental funnel...
this bottle neck... they come... mingle...
and then they later leave...
   while those that remain and have always remained
are stuck by being struck with the sentence:
what the **** just happened?!

maybe that's my "problem": i see ethnicity before
i see race... like with this Lithuanian guy...
i seriously thought he was Finnish...
he sort of reminded me of looking like the lead
singer from the band HIM... Ville Valo

i did mention it to a coworker... oh look...
        der große schwarm!
maybe i should put more effort into this tongue...
no disrespect to the English language
but... German sounds softer...
English harsher...
   a bit like the inverse of: Russian sounds soft
while ****** sounds harsh...
it just sounds like... home...
          
       ein herц... ein wirbeln von luft...
              mund von der wald...

it's these conjunctions, the German definite articles...
hypothetically there's that for der
there's the for die
   there's that for das...
          i mean: there's der for that
there's die for the
   there's das for that...
    
                          you seriously cannot not be envious
when you see Germans en masse... spirited
with a commonality: for a bienenstockgeist
(hive-mind)...
                            i was struck with: neid... envy...
i wish i could belong like that...
within an in-group...
                       scheiße!  aber suchen bei mich!
i'm stuck with the ******* circus of the world...
alles zungen kam zu Loon'dune...

          seeing them like that... i find the hyped-stress
on individualism in the Anglo-Sphere slightly...
putting it mildly... debilitating...
all i wanted to do was go among the Hessen
and start chanting alles mit uns!
or alles von uns!

                i mean: how can i belong in a society that's
fixated on a global agenda... that eternal project
of monotheism... it's... seltsam... weird...
after the fiasco of the Turm von Babel... you'd think...
the opposite ought to be true...
the evil urges of the demiurge point in the other
direction...

                  but once more we've come together
as a "species" and once more we're trying to work
together... obviously the writings of Moses are
primarily metaphorischindikatoren:
you can't read them literally... anyone who reads
them literally has no poetic-sensibility...
no imagination... just like the flood did happen...
well... given the ice age and the melting of the ice...
sure... it did... mind you: we were drawing dragons
before we discovered dinosaur bones...
giant fire breathing lizards... fire being the representation
of what happened to these giant lizards...
supposedly a meteor struck the earth...
boom... imagine if that meteor struck the moon
and destroyed it... no tides... no water... blah blah...

i.e. i was never a big fan of Bill Hicks' humour...
or H'american humour in general,
unless it's by a black guy... i'm all into all that race
baiting... but me? something along the lines
of Eddie Izzard... Lee Evans...
                           maybe i'm just exhausting this sitting
that i've spread over two days...
     it has become such a collage and i'm starting to
smell a little like cologne... rye cologne...
or is that wheat? the main ingredient in whiskey?

well... that happens... at first reading
Human all too Human didn't present itself as spectacular...
but on second reading... wow!
probably his best work! it all makes sense now...
esp. since i'm reading it in English rather than ******...
too much of the teenage rebelliousness
goes into reaching for Nietzsche...
    i guess the best gateway to understanding him
is by reading some Heidegger...

ich bin einfach: begeistert mit Deutschedenken!
i am simply: enthralled with German thinking...
you couldn't: you wouldn't say as much
about about English thought...
          i just can't stomach it... it's too pragmatic...
it's too easily bound to problem solving...
it's hardly inquisitive...
it's a shepherd's mentality...
   keep everything organised... categorically proof...
phonetically, though? a ******* minefield...
loopholes of spaghetti everywhere...
   back "home" you never hear of the condition
that's dyslexia... you did hear of...
literate or illiterate... but there was no middle
ground... of dyslexia... i.e. / e.g. dyslexic:
good with numbers... **** with letters...
           katakana? or Chinese ideograms?!

(ich) sehen,
               hören,
                      wittern,
                           schmecken,
                                         fühlen...

aber! aber! da ist ein sechste! "sinn"...
   the totality of which translates itself into written
language... gedanke!
     or rather: denken! thinking!
strange... i can think about my liver...
but my liver doesn't think about me...
i can think about my brain... but my brain doesn't
think about me...

it's... deshalb a sense!
you think i'll learn Deutsche proper if i smuggle
in some German wörter:
from time zu zeit?! well... i'll have to remember:
bring in the Cyrillic TSA: ц -
  because i'm pretty sure i've just spotted an
exception on pronunciation...
it's not цoo... but it's most certainly цeit...
it's "actually" zoo... i'm itching to put an umlaut
on that U of ZU...

      i'm ageing... chances of me learning a third
language proper are impossible...
i can only dream about it...
         i'm already entrenched with the language
i was born with and the language i'm writing in...

but i simply can't stop admiring the Germans...
unlike the English... i too have had my share of grief
"borrowed" from these people...
but seeing them congregate like that...
easily swayed... you can't simply stop... mouth agape:
ehrfurcht!

                ich wunsch ich war ein unter du... alles von du!
i was clearly born in the wrong tribe...
i clearly was moved to the wrong tribe...

loch in der borden!
     wolken in der himmel!
                    bäume in der wald!

you could really arm these fellas up... and march them
into suicide missions and they'd be like:
fair enough...
          i guess that's what Leningrad must have
been like...
              
i can't exactly love my native tongue...
the noblemen of my camp sort of became lazy...
disrespectful to themselves...
and their people...
                              **** them: it's that easy...
i pledge no allegiance to either England or Poland...
i'm a three thinker...
as long as the Latin script is employed...
i tried the Greek i tried the Katakana and the Cyrillic...
i became cross-eyed...

well... not with the Greek...
    Cyrillic was always... paupers' Greek for me...
how Greeks destroyed the Glagoliic script...
it was so beautiful... almost... no... it was almost!
no... it wasn't Arabic... it was Glagolitic...
it was itself in how it was crafted...
nothing is going to come across as practical as
Latin: though: that's already known...
since Latin was the only language employed in
creating the internet... no?!

i do feel sorry for the natives though...
    for me... i'm "going elsewhere"... i'm always going elsewhere...
i'm not going back "home"...
Haiti?! Kenya with the ivory beauties...
Turkey... i'm definitely going to Turkey
to pick up Khedra that ol' raven haired witch...
the best **** in all of... whatever...
    i'm not staying in England: at least my mind
isn't... and my body is not returning to Poland...
i'm ******* off... i want to entertain a Turkish harem
of thirsty women...
   i want to "return" to the Mamluks of Egypt...
i want to be in the ranks of the Janissaries...
                          you know... in cultures where masculinity
is celebrated: not simply shunned...
in my mind i'm already there...
to hell with dating single mums...
raising someone else's children...
if i were a prospect for a Cesar... being a foster parent...
perhaps... otherwise? too expensive...
    
i'm clearly not doing this ****...
culture's all awry...
             it's such a cryng shane though....
       how un-available women have become...
                well... people have lived through worse...
and still managed to: tragen an!
                              
geringste von ihr kümmernis      

                            leben kurz: leben liebend!
das ist alles!
                        live short: live loving.

Die Stadt ist kalte Masse.
In diesen Straßen lebt nichts, hier regt sich nichts, kein Herzschlag.  
Ich höre sie reden,
höre ihre Motoren aufheulen,
ihre Autotüren zuschlagen.
Lärm, fremder, ferner Lärm.

Ich will raus, will ausreißen. Ich will ins Land ziehen.

Wochen will ich laufen, nichts als die unbekannte Weite sehen.
Ich will nachts frieren und am Tag den Wind in den Haaren spüren, liebkost von der Seeluft, die mir durch die wirren Haare streicht.
Ich will die Wälder der Welt durchstreifen,
mich mit Moos unter den Füßen von der Wildnis verschlucken lassen.
Ich will mich in ihrem großen, grausamen Schlund verlieren.

mein gott!
trinken im der nacht: im der kalt, kalt
fingerbetäubung winter nacht:
was freude! was genuss!

hier mit mein: liebe der lieben!
Fräulein Bernstein -
       mich, ihr Herr Schnurrhaare...

that's the thing about choosing the right
of suitor... i went out looking for
Athena... i went out looking for Sophia...

all of sudden... they jump from one body
to the next... it's not reincarnation
and it's not incarnation...
it's an archetype modality that i put forth
onto each woman...
what is my return? perhaps the odd old
lady that's curious to me...
wisdom, from an older woman?
i would be a stranger, she wouldn't give it to me,
i trust old men to do that...

Athena and Sophia teach... from a woman's youth...
now... if i were looking for Odin...
if i were looking for Hades...
i'd be looking toward old men...

all of course just an amusement park for my
thinking & looking at an entire stand
of people in a football stadium...
i shopped for "souls" in those eyes & faces
transfixed by something so trivial
that it could only be:
22 ballerinas kicking a ball about...

a game of tennis usually employs a football
team of judges... if you were to add
the ball boys / girls...
a game of 7 rectangles...
no wonder it's not a popular game for
the public to engage with...

oh, the old gods of the fabled Europe...
did they suffer the same fate as
the Semitic gods that the Hebrew deity...
quiet simply ate? like the fate
of Beelzebub, poor sod...
no, i think they just went out of fashion...
as if Odin sent his son Thor (you sure it wasn't
Loki... playing that trick of turning
water into wine, resurrecting poor Lazarus...
send me back! send me back! he screamed)
to conquer the European gods...

i think they just went out of "fashion":
before there was even a concept of: fashion...
before donning animal furs etc.
of the old gods: sure... the Scandinavian
& the Greek ones survived: miraculously...

i have no qualms with the Hebrew god...
it's genius! it has no form... it's purely a god
of the script... a bit like... Thoth...
hmm... theta omicron theta or... FOF...
i could spice it up a little...
given: (ph)ilosophy-O-(th)ought...

Thoph or Photh?
                                 i'm liking this....
it's ideally compatible: the Hebrew deity with
language itself... what with the Hebrews
hiding their vowels like some Europeans
employ diacritical marks...
a caron "hovering" over an S can hide either
a H or a Zed... "magic"!

the suffering sun, tortured on the cross...
what a great banner to march up north!
subdue the pagans... but... no... don't invite them...
scare away their old gods
keep the people at the distance...
howling, chattering obsenities,
gnashing their teeth... when the narrative was
swallowed...
sooner or later everyone looses track of
a narrative of any kind... myth becomes fiction
while... people are bonding over...
journalistic crowd control mechanisms...
fear, scare mongering... miss-information...

let's begin afresh...
for me, the New Testament very much resembles
the book of Genesis...
a Judeo-Greco conspiracy manifesto against
the Roman Empire...
i guess the Greeks despised the Romans
for plagiarising their gods &... since they lost
their vigour, their vitality:
they couldn't believe that reinventing the old
gods could bring such refreshing mana
to a people with no prior knowledge...

what the Romans accomplished by turning
Zeus into Jupiter...
the New Testament is equivalent to the book of Genesis
(insert debate) -
the garden of Gethsemane...
Mt. Golgotha... a book... riddled... with...
metaphor, imagery...
no... oh no... you're not getting off that likely:
you're not cutting corners...
i'm not even going to bother myself
with the Book of Revelation as the Exodus part
of this story...
if you really think i'm going to settle for
the sort of Exodus "you're" talking about...
we ******* via genocide & what not?
you have to remember...
we're talking... circa 2000 years of a Hebrew
exodus from Palestine to... so far north
as to mingle with the deutschemensch &
subsequently conjure up: yiddish!

managing to undermine the Roman empire was
one thing... but thinking that the northern
barbarians could be accommodating...
sure... some were... the Polacks were benevolent...
king Casimir welcomed the Hebs who would
later become Yids to Poland...
prior to world war II kicking off...
the Juices used to brag (as recalled by my
grandfather): wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
your streets... our tenement buildings...
basically insinuating:
you can be homeless if you'd like...

i like the idea of the Hebrew god... why?
Juices are masochists...
they feel a need to be punished by their deity...
hell... the Holocaust happened...
at least they know when they're doing
something wrong...
the Holocaust happened & what?!
no divine intervention?!

i also like the idea of...
a... ahem:

      wohlwollendschutzstaffelmann...

a benevolent SS-man, basically...
i drink, i'll start speaking German, why not?
i'll drink, get drunk, start speaking German
& even if it kills me... will be listening to some
Roy Orbison! Roy! you're the man!
all the plebs can have their Elvis... you're the man Roy'oh!

why... wohlwollendschutzstaffelmann?
well... borrowed from my "late" grandfather...
memories from world war two...
the Russians? colts... fresh from Siberia
or what other *******...
slept in barns with the animals...
rugged smelly... Russians, you know...
but... the Nazis, stationed in my hometown...
home... town-of-birth...
London is my home...

from someone's who dead memory:
i still love how he said the following with
very poor punctuation,
he said it like a German might... compounded
i.e. herrbittebonbon:
herr! bitte bon-bon!
       & the schwarzbekleidet SS-mann would give
him sweets, bon-bon... he would run back home
& put his hands that were stuck together
by the sweets under  running tap of water:
to unglue them... ergo?

die wohlwollendschutzstaffelmann...
i think i look the part...
if i look the part: that' enough... optics is king...
just look the part, no matter whether you fill
the specified role... lucky for me, as a steward
i get to do a little bit extra & engage with
the public...
i have to, i, simply have to:
meditate on a frightening excitment..
how, i put that into practice is... my private
******* deal, savvy?

- guess what, i'm happy people taking up
the classics, it almost feels like the good
old days when...
books like...
were printed in 1967 for people studying
for their O-levels (ordinary level)
of the G.S.E. before... G.C.S.E. *******
came in and standards were dropped...
so... basically people circa 16 years old learning...
Cicero... in Latin... no... not in English...
in mother-******* Latin...
books like? the alpha classics...
the thought of Cicero...
selection edited by S. J. Wilson
(G. Bell & Sons)...
general editor? a Mr. R. C. Carrington, M. A.,
D. Phil., headmaster of St. Olave's School...

sample (why not?)
wait wait, imagine my delight... back then...
an S. J. Wilson would rather put
the title B. A. after this name...
than a Mr. at the front... trans-****** "issues"?!
almost subscript: senior classical master,
Methodist College, Belfast...
sure... sure... have to be doubly sure whether
or not the ******* Irish are literate...
let's check if they still speak Gaelic
like the Welsh speak Velsh...
no? oh... then like the Scots...
capitulated to the English and just retained
their ****** accents...
Scot's a sing-along-because-it's-a-****-up-Friday
and Hibernian are playing Harts...
or some other load of *******...

some people seem to WANT to become extinct...
& the English... the people who conjured
up Darwin and Darwinism...
i'm thinking... these people... espouse...
half-wit ****** Darwinism...
the Dodo project people...
Christian "compassion" (suicide) sort of got in
the way of... the cruel, sane, objectivity
of the origins of Darwinism...
well... is that a sort of... "oops", moment?!
if Darwinism was discovered under
the cloak of Islam... ha... ah: ha ha ha ha ha!
brown people breaking the backs of brown
people...
camel jockeys taking charge of Bangladeshi bodies...
but... no... i will not feed the narrative as
as a reactionary...

sample: unlike Cicero's Roman Gentleman...
shunning physical labour... me? i adore it...
arbeit macht frei... even if it's merely standing...
minding the crowd... sure... i'd rather cycle for 40 miles
than stand in one place for 4 hours
looking out for some elder perhaps having a stroke
or a heart-attack... my feet are killing me...
after a long period of exercise i feel, sort of, relaxed...
oddly enough: doing something for which you
are being paid: drags you down into Mammon's pit
of suffering... compare that to cycling out of
your own volition... wow... 40 miles is like a breeze...
you feel it, you don't feel it, you feel it...
you don't feel it...

iam de artificiis et quaestibus, qui liberales habendi,
qui sordidi sint, haec fere accepimus.
beginning with... ending with:
omnium autem rerum, ex quibus aliquid acquiritur,
nihil est agri cultura melius, nihil dulcius,
nihil uberius, nihil homine libero dignius...

that last line... i think i can conjure a translation
on a *****-nilly... nothing human dignifying liberty...
loosely...
if Cicero were to be reborn...
comparing the supposed slavery of physical
labour...
to... non-physical labour... whereby there are
two options... getting fat... or...
having to get on the ol' hamster wheel at the gym?
who the ****'s loosing out, &, more precisely,
on what?!

personally... i'd rather be tired from physical labour
& enjoy my free time... than...
do "work" that's all pickled-brain & juice
"inspiring" extension... to then have to...
"enjoy"... exercise! ha ha! the conundrum!
shouldn't those treadmills & exercise bikes be...
producing electricity, rather than, wasting it?
shouldn't people exercising generate energy?
they're not doing anything useful to begin with...
shouldn't they jump on the queue and generate
battery life? wait... what?!
physical labour is frowned upon...
from the time of Cicero...
get fat?! you need a crane-"lift", mate... ahem...
beached whale beauties!

**** me, at least i managed to walk off / cycle off
20kg, down from 120kg to... fluctuations
of 96kg through to 98kg...

haven't the people picked up the classics, though?
last time i heard there was some:
DO
to perform... a virus spoke & people started to
enlarge their... spoof presence to:
DELTA-OMICRON!
oh look... people are relearning the Greek alphabet,
guess William Wallace's uncle is back...
if we're really lucky... we'll get an Omega
"variant"...

coming back to the Hebrew... deity...
what's Y? a DEL implosion...
what's DEL? the up-side-down delta... nabla...
so why is it, "omicron" when the delta variant
could be be called nabla?
oh... right... not many people know about...
said "X"...
what's that? (ch)AOS or (ch)eat or... lo(ch)?

that's what i love about the Hebrew deity...
it's a soul-eater... minor deity eater...
poor Beelzebub... from a minor god of the Canaanites...
to a demon...
a bit like...
the archangel Michael... reduced to...
St. Michael... so much for the suffering at
Golgotha... Jesus / Loki...
oh pity me, pity me...
in the background... Santa Clause was waiting for
someone to inact the: Satan's Claus...

look at it, the tetragrammaton:
Y... the imploded ∇ (del), what happens
when ∇ (del) intertwines with delta?
you get... the star of David...
see... it works perfectly inthe Latin script...
H... one is a surd...
the other... a source for laughter...
what would the mensch do...
without... the Hebrews' definite article?
probably not laugh... i.e. why HA HA
and not... MA MA? or GA GA?!
well... rugby works on goal posts being
H shaped, anyway... so: we're good to go...

ah... W... W is a ref. to trigonometry...
cosine starts from 1 down to 0... through to -1
and then wave? no?
M... starts (sine) starts at zero... up to 1...
back to zero then to -1... wave...
we're talking about a Hebrew god...
it's not like Odin became... the ha-shem's *****...
he sort of... fell out of vogue...

ha ha... Loki oh, hey! hey "Zeus"! ******* ******...
at least i had enough of a ***** bank in me
to not play the narrative of a ******:
and actually **** a *****!
ooh... not comfy... is that supposed to be:
my sort of variation of a, "problem"?
i'mt not even going to bother myself with
the hard-core h'american believers...
that ship, that ship has ******* sailed...
wave, bye-bye... pretend it's the ******* Titanic...
o.k.?

circa 2000 years later, there should be a book...
allowing for the congestion of history
of the Hebrew people moving north...
trusting the barbarians...
it was an exodus 2.0... take it, or leave it...
culminating...
yeah... i "forgot" to tell you...
these people wouldn't be constructing a pyramid...
actually laburing for the construct of
someone's vanity...
there would be a brick... this brick... you'd move to
some random place... place it there... pick it up...
then move it back to its place of origin...
a sadistically ingenious joke... if you ask me...
but no, not building of pyramids...
necrophilia: directly...
nothing... metaphorical...

what other, nuance of the words, among the English?
terms like, orthography,
without an application
of diacritical markers?! what, are,
your, *******, islander, intellectuals, are, on?
Dickensian prose?!
*****... don't be coming from Devonshire...
or anywhere Bristol, slandering Essex...
******* westernlandfotzen!

in the meantime:
let the dolls play with their toys...
lassen die puppen spielen mit ihr spielzeuge!

i have enough time to wait...
fingers like spiders...
space...
       like cobwebs.....

i owca syta: a więć i wilk też...
   (and the lamb satiated: therefore the wolf too

i like this new dynamic:
i have "simply": quiet simply forgotten all
about ms. amber...
or mr. let me make you see clearly
of *****...

beer takes too much time...
at the same time you can't mix it...
and drinking beer with ice-cubes:
can be done... but it doesn't exactly look sassy...
warm beer is dogs' ****...

wine wine: more wine!
the first bottle is to impromptu me:
what sort of life can there be
without having a chance to reflect upon it?
day to day: day-in... day-out?
what sort of life is that?
investing in old age when it:
"perhaps": ha ha... that might of all "might"
happen?

the first bottle is for reflection...
sitting at the end of the garden
with a snail squiggling from one
end to another of a shed...
do snails have ears?
the first bottle and the clepsydra
of the grand travel annals of snails...
i gave him my left shoulder...
behind my head through to my right
shoulder: the time: about an hour
to "suddenly" disappear...

the first bottle of wine is for reflection...
the second bottle: i haven't started it:
is for lubrication...
nothing to speak of...
but enough to break my fingers on...
on this... canvas:
why am i not a painter:
i'd abhor being constipated with...
colours... forms...
it would be a pain to draw a face...
since i'm prone to the phenomenon
of pareidolia...

ever since having my bicycle undermined
by some ****** humour of
loosening the clamp on my front wheel...
if only the wheel came off
on the Gallows Corner Roundabout...
that would have been funny...
i had enough: ever since i have systematically
undermined all the knobs and bolts
throughout the frame...
the whole thing was going to fall apart:

psychological warfare...
there was ever going to be one cure for this...
a sharpshooter...
i didn't care what it might taste like...
half of gin... a quarter of whiskey...
a quarter of tequila... some pepsi...
it didn't taste that bad...
2 litres of water...
and a most pristine route...

up to B1459.... through to lower Bedfords Rd
onto Noak Hill Rd
Chequers Rd... Coxtie Green Rd...
through Pilgrims Hatch... onto Ongar Rd
into Brentwood...
past the Brentwood Catholic Cathedral...
or... Bishopric... ugly pseudo-Baroque "thing"...
all the way on the A128 via Ingrave
turning into Bulphan...
  and then... on the flatlands of Thurrock...
toward Upminster later Hornchurch...
eh... a marathon in terms of distance...

i can still listen to Kasabian's West Snyder Asylum
album if the mood is right...
like the time... my own time...

i took a sharpshooter on this bicycle ride...
a bit like the British drunkards
vs. the amphetamine charged Luftwaffe pilots...
or Isis state fighters...
who were also on amphetamines...
i wasn't going to disbelieve my bicycle
because one silly ****** thought it would
be funny to loosen my front wheel...

come night and thoughts about ***...
prior to... you are bound to cycle past...
a man... of similar age as yourself...
walking a little gremlin of an offspring with him...
look on his face?
it's hardly content... it's engaged...
most certainly...
such authority... such conviction...
hell... no... such responsibility...
but such a distance at the same time...
after all... if a woman were to ask me:
you don't want to have children:
you don't want more meaning in your life?

it didn't take me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... i own a 2 vol. copy...
i read the first vol. and subsequently, "subsequently":
"lost" the 2nd volume...
have children...
Kierkegaard's either / or...
in the environment when my dementia-riddle
grandfather was still alive...
a blessed month... i managed to squeeze in
Maldoror to boot...

have children... or read philosophy books...
oh that the days can be filled with:
whatever is already left available...
it doesn't have to come down to waning in the vicinity
of movies...
i'm stiff going to punch myself
in the face for not having acknowledged Rousseau sooner...
i once did that: punched myself in
the face until i woke up with a black
eye...
i once counted how many knuckles
i had by putting out a cigarette on
each of them...
i think i came short...
the scar on my ring finger knuckle is
more pronounced than on the other knuckles...

muddles: i had something in my mind
prior to all this:
i'm not going to compete with Bukowski
over achieving old age...
he only started scribbling his poetic doodles...
right about when i'm at now...
that i can't escape admiring him:

an itchy memory:
in an Our Price record store
in an almost ancient Victoria Station...
when my uncle was still relevant
as was his knowledge of music...
he suggested i buy
the Prodigy's music for the jilted generation:
i said no...
i wanted the Molasses of En Vogue
to sing me: don't let go as a single...

i think of love i drink wine: this is... supposed
to be... blood... i think of love
i start conjuring up vampires and
werewolves... i can be so unforgiving...
but it only took one ******* to attest that:
i'm a good man that i forgot to date...
or inspect the matter further
in the sandpit of dating games...
just give me the clarity of transaction...
i'll be back for more...

the next hour: the only hour with this
Turkish nymphomaniac...
Khada... just this next hour...
i'll promise myself the next half worth's of
a decade to pass me by sexless...
she already finally cured me of
the memory of Ilona of Siberia...
of St. Petersburg...

never before had i experienced a woman
who would tell me
to keep my hands of my phallus
when her hands... and mouth were
performing: "miracles"...
finally! i wasn't a pawn of expectations...
for the first time i was on
the receiving end of whatever it is that's
***'s about...
a bit like... i had to find a doppelganger...
TEANNA TRUMP...
Caribbean Mulatto *****-Queue-of-a-Queen...
and it's not even like she's hiding
her prowess as sending men:
dumb on their ways...
but she's hardly going to compete with
the songs of Solomon...
even with his count she's not going
to bother itching with some proverb:
she'll just advertise so more...
until...

but she's good at what she does...
why take it way from her?
i've been prone to have wasted
£120 on an hour's worth on a timid *******
when i should have only dripped up
£60 for half an hour's worth of:
limp ****, kisses & cuddles...
that's why i need to spend an hour with Khada...
because the last time i only spent £60 on her
for half an hour's worth and...
perhaps i'll sign my self-published poo'etry
in katakana...

never a a sort of ******* that might make
you want to finally forget a past
relationship?
**** me... if it only cost me £60 per half an hour...
that it might cost me... £120 per hour...
and she'll be so ******* base about...
timid ******* is something for quasi-paedophiles...
i don't like my libido undermined
by games of: you're in a brothel
and she's a ******* stiff...
you end up teasing at necrophilia...
what has suddenly immobilised her...
you later turn up and she's donning pigtails...

i could have had children:
i didn't want to...
not in the current climate...
   the current climate... have daughters...
let them... stress that... anti-racist anti-patriarchal
narrative... a N / // / //' PLAYGROUND...
by the boat-load...
i'm tired of wanting to excavate this:
mythological blonde from the depths of
her...
give me the Turkic ol' raven haired
witch...
                         but there still are:
mythological blondes... most probably
jogging around the flatlands of Thurrock...

supposedly "good" people never, really:
do anything good...
well... the only "good" they ever achieve is...
stressing the golden rule of Confucius
to the point where they become
solipsists... they never do any good as
the supposed good of:
avoiding people deemed to be a metaphor
of typhus...
the good of avoiding the ***** colony...
a lot of good that is...

to do supposedly enough good but end up:
decrepit - old - a solipsist?
how many prostitutes would it take
for me to kiss before:
the fire... the judgment inflames my blood
to give earth a stomach a mouth
a hunger... before the disgruntling sound
of "hunger" might be satiated:

are we the moral fathers and mothers
of the free will of these automatons?!
less the vote: these autocrats in democracy?
how much freedom is not enough
freedom for: not having children:
i'd abhor the need to put on a leash...
while at the same time watching myself
put on a muzzle...
bring into the fore a cage!

the bicycle and the *******...
for that sort of ***...
i am awarded a spell of amnesia from a relationship:
finally freed after coming close to a decade...
she has already been married: twice since
i last saw her...
bandaged right arm... stupid *****
decided to slice it up along her vein routes...
she was still playing video games...
ever since she prescribed me
Bulgakov i was already reading Kundera...

20kg slimmer... no stretch marks on the stomach:
i took my time...
concentrated on the cardiovascular domain:
all beef: no jerky...
i'm not here for the abs...
i still find it quirky seeing
a beefed up pancake with all that upper-body
poised for looks...
a body that couldn't do 100 press-ups...
strutting... on chicken-thin stilts...
they're not legs...

******* moralists...
1st bottle of wine i reflect with...
in the damp end and all that's night
of a garden's worth...
2nd bottle i lubricate...
eyes, fingers... the unspoken tongue...

next time i fool myself to cycle into
central London...
for all the grit... the **** and scratches
of particles...
do i really need to see so many faces?
content with discontentment:
discontent with contentment...
do i really need to see how important
these people are?
or will i again relive the nerve...
to cycle into the countryside...
explore Essex some more...
and peer into trees and the bushes
and pretend to be looking for a mirror
or some... demonic voyeurism?

if the western women are not worth defending:
there's hardly a continuity clause:
hey! presto! playground!
fly solo my dear! fly... solo!
i won't be choking on... how Turkic women
elevate their harem...

what *******! what...
i have no freedoms to cherish: no love to give:
they have become:
fizzled out... ashen... slob and slither...
my kingdom of ash...
come to think of it:
there's nothing worth keeping:
all of it needs to be revised...

i'll start the fire: i'll just pretend you have
the water...
let freedom(s) become fully exhausted:
it is required spectacle "knowledge"...
let freedoms come,
let freedoms go...
if you won't be dipping you silly ***** into
some wet oyster pouch (punch)...
so be it... take some time to do...
at least with prostitutes you will be
standing on bricks rather than on
sand... lies... masquerading... face-offs...

we're not here to start families...
we here to hope that...
we grow old enough; senile enough...
so that our libido dies...
content with t.v., cricket...
su doku or crossword puzzles...
a teenage girl exposing herself:
my insomniac libido: my forever present
hard-on?
oh sure: as long as she still thinks it's just
a "tease"...

i'm waiting for my libido to die off...
then i'll concentrate on my liver
and kidneys... but by then i too hope
it might be a classic case of
"too late"...

       last time i heard: it's now... jetzt!
hier!
                i don't need a lie...
i don't need an unforgiving English maiden
to tell me what's god from good...
or do-evil from evil from devil...
               i have:
this here land...
and the exploration of upstaging
the momentum first arrived at via
walking...

  these are not... my... women!
     i've wasted their credibility of motherhood
on the shoreline of prostitution!
i'm not willing to have to be forced into
an argument of: what's to be kept!
the whole forest needs to be ploughed:
it needs to be burned down...

in England over 20 years and they're still only
giving it to blacks and abusive Pakistanis...
where did they think i'd go to for:
"compensation": among the Turkic ol' raven haired
types....
lassen: hölle: regel: selbst!

last time i went looking for this pub,
i ended walking into
the most glorious thunderstorm...
subsequently ending up in a brothel...
having forgotten to trim
my *****..." ****** "a *******
into kissing me...
   you know.... lips of a woman,
that sell much more than kisses?
begs for ****, kid, and
  the whizkid.... and your average
butcher...

         fear factory?
linchpin... great mosh-pit song...
         i marked that territory out,
so well.,..
   **** all...
herr fuchs
die kühnfuchs!

                      lost tht pub
in a electrical super surge
of a storm... esp. dangling above London?

i said thank you...
     i'd otherwise receive *******...
but my ***** were't
sought after by some
English gardener, weren't rimmed,
lost etiquette...
                     i like the 69 quasi
position to be, on the receiving end.
left without a mustache...
   of cream, pots, and candy...
    vanilla frisk to boot...
**** me...

                     i went looking for trouble...
  i came back with Jerry.
which implied doubling up,
and digging a second tier of trench
warfare...
   to encompass the Versailles treaty
to undermine the Wiemar Republic...

i came first...
now you come, second...
          
                       lassen uns spielen:
und spielen sein alle!

where was is that i heard, 20% of people do 50% of the work,
or perhaps i overheard the ratio incorrectly,
20% of people do 80% of the work...
i left the house at 5:30am...
i don't think i slept a wink...
    got to Liverpool St. at around 6:40am... no trains
to Wembley Park... i.e. no Metropolitan Line from
Aldgate...
the Hammersmith & City line opened at around
ten past seven a.m.
  jumped on it to Baker St.
   then a five minute wait for the metropolitan
line... two stops to Wembley Park...
picked up a coffee at McDonald's, black... five
or six sugars... those sachets are never teaspoon
equivalent...
perhaps late by half an hour... but not really...
a massive queue of stewards at the signing-in...
people coming later than me...
waiting for about 3 hours outside the stadium
until we were finally let it and allocated our
positions...
hardly any briefing...
the national anthem was tested about five times...
as was the pyrotechnics...
sweep of the entire north stand of level 5...
checking for all the seats being in a working
condition... then allocated our spots...
no chance in hell was i going to stick to the plan...
someone approached me gagging for a smoke,
no can do, cameras everywhere,
took my hand, i told him: i'm a smoker too...
i haven't been smoking since 8am...
just imagine what that cigarette will feel like
when you get out... stay strong...
a co-worker was babbling to some customers
about the events at the Euros
when the stadium was stormed by hooligans
without tickets... he remembered that
he was instructed not to speak about it...
for an hour or two i was reassuring him
that he wouldn't get into trouble,
paranoid... the people he was talking to
had their telephone out...
he was on the frontline of the stampede:
he thought he was going to be dox(x)ed...
but you're a wearing a face-mask, aren't you?
and your voice never sounds the same in real
life as it might sound on a recording, no?
don't worry...
telling people in the glass room on level 5
to finish their drinks... kick off in 10 minutes...
two hands extended: ten digits showing...
thank you mate... blah blah...
at half time: 5 minutes to kick off...
one hand extended five digits showing... more thank you mate...
the incident with a first aid...
a man and his two daughter...
i should have asked for his ticket, just in case...
i will next time...
one first aid room closed,
we walked to a second first aid room: also closed...
i left the three in the company of fellow stewards:
keep them entertained, talking...
only a bruised knee, or a cut knee...
his, or one of his girls? i couldn't remember,
talked to a supervisor, both the first aid rooms
are closed, where are the first aiders?
message to control room, hawk-eye on...
they should be at base 503... went to base 503...
they're not there... they apparently were located
in one of the first aid rooms: now open...
escorted them to the man and his two daughters...
but obviously half time was over
and they ****** off to sit down...
clearly the incident wasn't so important...
but i persisted...
walked up and down each base up the stairs
scanning the crowd, hoping to find them...
almost reaching an epileptic fit from scanning
so many faces... until another supervisor approached
me: what are you doing?
looking for them... they might have gone to a lower level,
should i stop? yeah...
then this guy who wanted to go from level 5 to
level 1... but his ticket read: you're supposed
to be on level 5... he tried to wriggle his way out...
but my younger brother is there,
and i have food for him...
the supervisor asked: but your under 18 companion
is in company of an 18+ minder?
if everyone wanted to go down to the lower
levels for a better view...
it wouldn't be fair...
then not-minded children running across the aisles
at the top of the stadium...
one fellow steward asked me to intervene,
a mother herself... happened three or four times...
first two times a supervisor just passively walked around
the "incident" without music influence...
by the time i got there one of the kids was
falling on the chairs... thankfully i scribbled to them
a sentence with a hand facing down:
moving my index and middle fingers slowly
with an imitation of: walk... don't run...
go back to your parents... lucky mummy also picked
up the scent of danger...
problem sorted...
then this solitary kid high up in the stands...
what team do you support, you're enjoying yourself,
you're up here alone? where are you parents /
who are you with? grandfather, father and sister?
you're up here to get a better view...
all the while kneeling beside him...
oh, cool, just remember to return to them
before the end of the match...
at the end of the match he was still up there all alone...
sort of mumbling to himself...
or just excited as any child might be
when sitting on the highest reaches of the Wembley
crater...
i escorted him to his grandfather before the final
whistle... problem sorted in advance:
it might have been a missing child... when the crowds
started to disperse...
then this escalation steward came to one of the bases:
one steward at the door... the other
at the bottom of the rows... at the end of the stairs
for level 5...
so people don't unhinge themselves and sway into
the barrier and possibly fall off...
he noticed one missing to the left...
i walked down to the one where i was at
and looked to the right...
how many missing in your position...
thumb, index, ******* posited with question,
three missing? he affirmed...
and i was off... a fellow steward: no supervisor,
imploring one of each of the three pairs to break up,
one to stand at the door the other to go down
to the bottom of the stairs...
they complied...
the women's Chelsea team beat the women's Arsenal
team 3 nil... Chelsea had only managed to win the FA
cup twice prior to today's win...
the Arsenal team have won it 15 times...
today's stadium capacity reached circa 42K...
not bad for a female football match... i reckon...
the clientele... a mixed bunch...
you'd think there would be more women...
n'ah... hmm... most certainly more children than per usual
football match... children are most certainly gender neutral...
well... gender "neutral"... whatever the hell that means...
it probably means:
i was a boy once too... i'd play video games,
but i'd also play with dolls with girls...
we'd congregate with girls playing hide-and-seek...
tic-tac-toe... no ******* way...
no boys there... or jumping over skipping ropes...
no chance... climbing trees? sure...
such a different clientele to what's expected
to a Fulham match...
£4.80 for a steak & ale pie... burgers at £6.00 not worth
the money... you can never get a bad pie
at a football match...

in summary... i think i was built for this role...
over £10 an hour... but it's not about the money...
i don't want money...
i have an apprehension of money...
firstly: i don't really know what i'd spend it on
if i had too much of it, if there was enough for rent,
for food... i just don't like spending money...
i like drinking whiskey...
i prefer cooking my own food than imploring
others to cook it for me...
i feel silly in a restaurant... almost like a mannequin
with a grimace, or for that matter movement...
all those restaurants in central London...
glass panes... oh look... the mannequins are eating...
window shopping escalated...
they're also advertising clothing!
cooking for yourself though... it reminds me of...
those days in the organic chemistry laboratories
of the Joseph Black building up in Edinburgh...
air filled with whiffs of sulphur and ethanol...
and machinery...

i fear money, as much as i fear god...
what's the point of loving either Mammon or Ha-Shem
when you become ignorant to both,
who might, suddenly... on a whim... change their mind
regarding your fate?
plus... extra money: while you might not be spending it...
someone might latch up onto you and leech your wallet...
why would anyone ever want that?
that's why i don't want to earn beyond
my capacity...
let savings be like a trickle...
in that fabled torture of Loki... Loki's punishment...
with the serpent's venom dripping onto his head
drop by drop... "riddling" a hole in his skull...
but this life is all a credit... best work around the medium
of debit...
i don't remember the last time i worked with
credit... spend less than you earn...
simple, no? never "fake it, until you make it"...
if it has to be summarised as... well... stretching it:
it's not an ascetic reason...
it's a Spartan reason: there are no religious reasons...
there are only... self-imposed reasons...
come to think of it...
once the ascetic reasons are established...
aesthetic reasons come on their own...
it's beautifully! ha ha! simple!

it becomes... luckily one of the supervisors dropped
me off at Newbury Park with two fellow
co-workers... he was heading up to Basildon...
put the heating up... one co-worker was nodding in
approval to the met sleep...
me? i took a power-nap after having some food back home,
from 8:30pm to 9:30pm, before writing my father's invoice,
making him lunch & taking out the garbage...

but he kept on switching the music
and texting while driving...
what?! what is this, short-attention span when it comes to music?

alll i herd was rap, some drum & bass,
something equivalent to pendulum,
before the song was half-way through,
he would change it... start working early in life...
low attention span, how many thought were pulverising
his head when he took it upon himself
a self-assertiveness of an "alpha-male":
sure... Dan is about 2 inches taller than me,
fatty boy, walks about like a falling oak...
has 4 children... yet.. his mind was distracted
by my silence...

i could have said: listen, mate, i'm knackered...
it might be probable that i only dreamt up
sleeping these three hours...
treating women like second class citizenry:
but.... THE WOMEN LOVE IT...
the grumpy male...
they love it!
i'm not your uber driver etc.
well, i'm not having any of it... i just focused
on his restless mind...
if i were driving the car...
you'd be listening to

die eisenfaust am lanzenschaft...
through & through...

die aeisenfaust am lanzenschft
die zügel in der linken,
so sprengt des reiches ritterschaft
und ihre schwerter blinken

hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
und ihre schwerter blinken.
hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
und ihre schwerter blinken.

das balkenkreuz, das schwarze fleigt
voran auf weißen grunde,
verloren zwar doch umbesiegt
so klingt uns seine kunde,

hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
so klingt uns seine kunde.
hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
so klingt uns seine kunde.

at worst, you'd have me playing Prokofiev's
schlacht auf das eis...
(battle on the ice, some Nevsky)...
if only the Polacks wrote a musical score
for... schlacht bei Tannenberg...
sadly... only  painting...

that's history... what a scatter brain...
we rode all the way from Wembley toward
the straight A12 towards Essex Basildon...
i don't think i heard a whole song in full...
playing the role of "alpha male" leaves most men
scatter brained...
he already has the physical superiority,
but his mind is a mollusk...

my fellow coworker tried to establish something,
i already disclosed to her that i studied
chemistry, that i write... ahem... poo-etry...
my name, my ******* name...
i break it down to her:

M'ah-T'eh...   ΩŠ...
the it's written as mateusz...
but the slavic S+Z is equivalent to the English S+H...
which is equivalent to hiding either Z or H
within the S as a caron: Š...
ma-te (again, hide the H's of the vowel catcher
tetragrammaton)...
the upsilon is prolonged, therefore becomes
a doubled omicron, like in pOOl...
ergo... an omega... omega being sort of a "double-u"...
W... V... a double V... when is softened from vent...
wet is the softened version of vet...

it's not a double "U"... is it... that's an omega...
it's a double V... that W = 2xV, no?

come to think of it, telepathy?
if you read enough Julian Jaynes, about the phenomenon
of the bicemeral mind...
prior to to the event: as if the 8 winds spoke one
word simultaneously, was someone calling me?
i heard the word: MA-TE-USZ...
as clearly as i felt the cold,
heard the rain, saw the sun...

if my name could be elevated....
from merely: geschenk von gott
to: das licht von zorn...
   (gift of god that becomes:
the light of wrath)...
i'd hear about it, prior to seeing anything...
that the day begun with a hallucination,
and ended with someone asking
me for the syllables corrected...

clearly this is a job for me, i'm very fond on
ensuring crowds are safe, secured, serviced...
i like this simple mantra:
keep them contained within a crowd status....
keep them herderded...
i might wish for sheep, people is the closest i'll ever come
to being someone herding sheep not uprooted
from his roots in Iran, being turned into
an Just-Eat driver on a ******* moped...

i'm loving these little snippets of authority,
it can't allow me to turn into a megalomaniac,
i feel... a genuine concern for people,
esp. children....
i don't need my own... the children of strangers are
plenty...

but it's so bewildering, a guy pretends to be this alpha...
rude to females... mein gott: how women love
being slapped metaphorically!
mein hertz, ist nicht im des recht platz...
singen freude! singen frei!
lassen alles einfach: singen!

i lapse into etymological English, i.e. German
whenever something is... odd... curious...
a hmm proposition...

plenty... jetzt kommt, der große: schlaf(en).

Es sind immer die Semikolons,
die uns paralysieren
und unsere Türen leise atmen lassen

die buckligengel sagte so:

what is most appealing
about outer-suburban
landscapes of england?
perched on a windowsill -
with only one eye open,
the other closed,
         listening to germanic,
or scandinavian folk songs.
das ist dat, alter?
                   das ist alle.
lassen die schlange
        zu spirale, zu rassel;
  so ich macht haben mein
           andere auge zurück.
a will built upon a hunch?
aye! we heard of these
gamblers!
         thrill seekers, shackle
stormers...
                  for if i had a fortune
of my own,
i'd be the ****** one,
but in terms of poker politics:
i fold.

Die Straßen ziehen vorbei
Licht an Licht wie fallende Sternschnuppen vorm Fenster.
Bei Tageslicht, Abenddämmerung, Sonnenaufgang
ein neuer Tag.
Bäume, Häuser, Felder,
Wälder

Die Materie meines Landes wiegt mich in die Schläfrigkeit,
geborgen
Das Buch in meiner Hand fällt in meinen Schoß
Immer noch dieselbe Seite,
bin immer noch nicht weiter.
Der Inhalt unverändert unbegreiflich
Mein Atem geht zum Rhythmus der Schienen unter uns.
Wir fliegen zusammen und doch bleibe ich allein.

Augen zu, Augen auf
du hast geblinzelt.
Ankunft, Abfahrt
du hast geblinzelt.
Auf ins Neue, ins Unbekannte
oder doch zurück zu alten Gegenden?
Durch die Entfernung wieder neu erlebt.

Kommst du jetzt wieder zurück?
Hast du genug bekommen,
Antworten gefunden auf die Fragen die du nicht fandest?
Die du nicht zu stellen wagtest?
Die dich trotzdem quälten?

Du warst zu lange fort,
deine Heimat ist noch hier,
aber Hier ist nicht mehr dein Hier,
längst ein anderer Ort.

Du wolltest alles hinter dir lassen,
gingest
trotz der Angst dann zu viel zu verpassen,
Hauptsache weg, weg von hier
dachtest du hättest nicht viel zu verlieren.
Allem entfliehen, Pause, Neuanfang
Ohne genau zu wissen was dieses Alles überhaupt war.

Hast du es nicht ausgehalten letztendlich
so ohne sie, die Anderen?
Im Nichts, im Nirgendwo auf eigenen Wegen zu wandern?
Einsam im Herzen hast du dich wieder verrannt
Im Herzen stumpf, die Seele verbrannt.

Nun kommst du wieder,
zurück,
um zu sehen was  noch übrig ist
Zurück zum Alten, Vertrauten, Selben
Wir sind aber nicht mehr die Selben
Du ja auch nicht.

Alles wieder etwas anders, verschoben
Wieder ein bisschen auseinander gelebt,
voneinander entfernt,
weitergemacht, natürlich, nur halt ohne dich.
Schade eigentlich.

Doch nun schließ die Augen, schlaf
Gestern war auch ein neuer Tag,
verronnen,
Morgen wird noch kommen.
Wer nie ankommt der reist für immer,
umher.

Naja, wenigstens auf Schienen,
und noch nicht entgleist.

I.

i sometimes sit down and wish a poem could write itself...
i've recently inspected the output of a.i. writing
systems...
    there were three examples...
                           i must say: i felt unimpressed...
                               i hardly think that computer can substitute
the careless ingenuity of man in the realm of writing:
careless? i hardly take myself seriously...
                                  i would sooner be found dead than
rewriting anything i write....
                    i've become so good at it that: even when drunk...
i make very little spelling mistakes: if any? on purpose...
as a joke... and typos are never apparent...
but i sometimes sit down and wish a poem could write itself...
i'm just too comfortable: strapped to the memory-cinema
i'm watching in my head...
   like that one movie where i was a supervisor at an Ed Sheeran
concert... had 16 stewards under me:
had a "problem" with only one...
               how i fed them free burgers and because i fed
them they managed to follow my rules: which i didn't even
have to dictate... because i was constantly vigilant of them...
constantly walking my stretch of the stadium
and peeping in... no one was on their phones...
no one... no one was out of position... no one...
                thank you grandpa Joseph for teaching me
how to be human with humans and not to allow
authority and power to go and start ego-tripping...
because: at the end of the day? as a supervisor?
                you're beneath the stewards... you need to...
keep them in check by following a humbled demeanor...
they're supposed to be in positions...
toilet breaks: don't be silly... this is not prison...
you don't ask for one: you just go...
     but... you want water? you want coffee?
sure... let me know... and i'll bring it for you...
obviously i can't go to the toilet for you...

     ever the eternal anti-****: ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
if that slogan was not scribbled as a sign before
the entrance to Auschwitz... but since it was...
                             i'm sticking to it... **** it... i'm stealing it...
says someone who was out of work /
in and out of work... but constantly writing for 10 years
dealing with psychiatrists... it's... refreshing...
i'm perhaps the most sane individual out there:
and i've come across a few crazies and oddities of man
as example and woman as example:
the neurotic types are easily spotted:
guys like me? diagnosed as having a psychotic complex:
we're harder to spot...
Polacks are like the Irish and what Freud said
about the Irish: almost impossible to psychoanalyse...
the psychiatrists i was working with:
about three at one time... and several medical
students too... gave up on me when i started
telling them: i'm arming myself with reading Kant,
Heidegger and Kierkegaard...
        and Jung and R. D. Laing...
                        what can you offer me?
             back in circa 2016 they let me out into
society... free as a bird... to... perhaps wreck havoc...

mind you... if a former supervisor worked with
some unruly girls... these unruly girls?
working with me? became subservient...
perhaps girls don't like other girls telling them what
to do... perhaps it takes a male approach...
oh sure... the unruly girls were attractive...
i almost think they fancied me too...
this one Somali plump blessing with extended
eyelashes just smiled her idiotically sweet smile
at me whenever i approached her and asked
her if she was happy...
    
she was annoyed by this other girl
  who kept criticising her for taking toilet breaks...
blah blah... in the end i asked her:
do you want to be moved?
yes... so i moved her... switched her around...
check-mate move... since moving her
coupling her with a very astute young gent
ambitious... i had management come up to me
and tell me that the two of them were
doing a great job getting people to pitch-side...

now... i find this to be mediocre writing...
i appreciate the fact that this is mediocre writing...
there's no fictional escapism...
all these words like supervisor... steward...
crowd safety... but as i once suggested:
we're trying to prevent another Manchester Arena
Bombing... aren't we?
     writing this i'm trying to stress...
some of us have to be vigilant... it's not a terribly
technical job... dealing with people: with crowds...
i think it's a joke-job... compared to roofing
or compared to landscaping... working on the aesthetics
of the garden... i treat it as a joke-job...

sure... i stole once... or twice... the most memorable theft
was... a Queens of the Stone Age c.d. from
W. H. Smiths... Songs for the Deaf...
i just took out the c.d. casually... i wanted the thrill...
i just took out the c.d. out of the case
and stashed it in a book i was then reading...
walked out... burned it... oddly enough returned
it at some other W. H. Smiths outlet
at Liverpool St.

do i think of myself as a good person?
   oh no, no no... i rather start with: i'm vile...
then work my way up...
                  i like the idea that i'm short-tempered
and that i need to keep that in check...
i might be 6ft2... but my temper is a midge-***
i let ride my shoulders coming in at 4ft1...
it's almost like... i age... but having a memory of myself
as a child... i'm dragging the me as a child
to the grave with me...
i'm only 36 now... at the zenith...
it's going to become ugly from now...

hence the memory-cinema i'm re-watching...
perhaps my life has become more interesting for any need
for movies... movies have started to bore me...
music is being stretched...
it's still my "protein"... but...
the search results are coming back blank...
i.e. i've heard this song before...

i tried to stop myself going crazy over this one
mixed-race girl... pristine... pale tinged by brown
skin... but... CURLY... CURLES of hair like
waves of an ocean of twists and turns of a river...
doe: pale brown eyes...
            young... oh... much younger than me...
again: once fed... very much content...
                                              which made my life all
the more easier...

II.

there are moments like this, they're hard to find...
but they're there...
i sometimes abhor man's pretenses for hoarding
past artifacts... but... sometimes i have to praise them...
what? the artifacts or the tactic of being so mortally
dead that one requires elements from the past
to be shoved into the immortal future?!
probably both...

an amalgamation of poem 10 from Ovid's book I
of the ****** poems... smoking... drinking...
while listening to KORTEZ's stare drzewa
   (old trees)...
                           some people have children and create
families and have beautiful moments...
as families...
  some people...
i thought about it... perhaps India is the Mecca
of cooking... with all her spices...
but... what are the pillars of the culinary endeavour?

fire...
            water...
                        ­      salt...
                                           hmm...
                                                          time..­.
yeast?! no really...
   you can make flat breads...

fire: water: salt: time: there must be something else
that's essential to cook food...
i need a refill... i'll take a 10 minute break and think
about it...

sooner than that!
   i just walked down the stairs to refill my cup with
ice-cubes... blitzkrieg!
breaking away from English looking for
a word in my mother's tongue:

tɫuszcz!  tɫuщ!   fat!
        tɫo! (canvas)

what are the culinary pillars?!
fire, water, salt, time & fat!

ogień, woda, sól, czas i tɫuszcz

doesn't it take 5 minutes to boil an egg for a soft-boil?!
you need water... to boil it... ergo... you need fire...
to boil it...
you want to fry an egg? you need fire...
and fat... to fry it in... since... you can't fry an egg
in water...
and with salt? osmosis... you want excess water
to be drawn out of foods that have no sweet juices
to be drawn out for a concentrate of taste
to be leftover... you don't put salt on fruits...
because... they are juicy...
but you put salt on vegetables because...
they are without juice...
but adding salt to them tenders their flesh...
so that they... become sweeter...
               i'm not a scientist... i was born yesterday...
i don't need arithmetically correct explanations
when i'm digging for awe...

but these are the five pillars of the art of cooking:
water, fire, salt, time & fat...

III.

and do think... the Roman equivalent of 3 (III)
is oh so similar to the Cyrillic Ш
either an "W" or a lying, lazy E....
while the shch (szcz) Щ is only a -sh-
  with an addition of a comma...
as a diacritical detail Щ = Ш + ,
   (makeshift Hebrew Yod)...
pause or interruption?!
                                 but "my" people don't say
SHA... they just utter -SH-...
               i wish i could ask St. Cyril and St. Methodius
about the "other" Щ -
the common excavated -ść
via examples like: dość (enough!)
świt: sunrise...
                    words escape me...
          in my mind:
they're escaping my mind like birds:
like sparrows in their highest flight...

     kość - bone...

hmm... there was something here i was
supposed to excavate... not this... this is but a side-note...
let me unravel my "thinking"...
this spaghetti entanglement...
ah! now i know... i need to keep it fresh
in my mind... sometimes it happens...
a poems lies dormant for centuries...
then a reader happens to read the poem while
listening to some piece of music...
and his life... coincides with the poem...
and the music gives up its double emphasis...
hey presto! a perfect storm...

what am i talking about?
poem X from Ovid's book I of the ****** poems...
mixed with KORTEZ; stare drzewa... old trees...
i will not recite the entire poem...
i don't want to...
as i'm drinking i'm not even bound
to an anchor of wallowing...
some people have these beautiful moments
having had children...
i too have "children"... moments like these...

but i'm seemingly unburdened by having any
"responsibility"...
just these artistic details to mind...
the song is playing... while i'm rereading...
you'll hardly hear anything verbatim...
just what i will ease my heart to pick and choose...

i too have my biases...
having broken the chains of love with
the simplicity on the altar of prostitution...

let's recite...

     i had all the parallels for you...
                 the cause of war...
                      i got nervous at bulls and eagles...
your profile leaves me cold...
because you keep nagging for presents...
that's what turns me off...
                 at first your were guileless...
  but now now this inner's flaw's eclipsed your looks...
neither mother nor son are military experts...
soldiers' pay: is not for unwarlike gods..
            
tonight's not the night to finish this musing
off of on some "briefly"... "some other night"...
this life is too spectacular to begin with...
     hungry-man thinks nothing else
beside thinking about food...
                         there's this cheese on toast...
and some marmite...
what am i thinking?!
          
it's being asked i detest...
                    quit wanting: and i'll give...
            close encounters...
what's supposed and what's inhibited...
these third encounters of a morally reprehensible:
nudge... some of the details of "thought"...
counter to... thought is no wedding with
nakedness.... you can't...
attire yourself with thoughts...

with the death of the governing body:
i subject myself: subdue with a wilt... the hiding
of a garden or roses...
and rosemary.. thyme...
          and all the celestial scents
so bothersome...
   to make monks arrogant...
                        i clasp my hands together:
whisper for sparrows...
and the morning sun for song...
and wait...
               for someone to speak
Deutsche...
                                    me: sooner...
                               you: the latter source...
jetzt! lassen uns tanz!
            tanz! tanz! mutterfucker!
tanz!
                     sie besser tanz: ficker...
tanz: vor ich trimmen ihre
     waffen und beine aus...
                                            von dein karosserie!
under Lex Cincia...
              
III.

oh man oh boy oh god oh perhaps woman...
how i'm trying to find yesterday:
in relation to not having finished the poem -
by "chapter" three i'm walking through an abandoned
house... my self has split into multiple selves
as squat-ers...

    i'm trying to relive that special moment in time
when i read 1.10 from Ovid's ****** poems
(book one. poem ten)
   and found a suitable song to go along with it...
KORTEZ's stare drzewa... old trees...
but the moment is gone...
         i wish i had finished and fallen asleep happily...

today i was painting the fence with obstructions
from within myself... because watching the tennis
became more important...
          
i'm trying to get back into some sort of mood...
switching between Natalie Merchant... song?
Carnival from the album Tigerlily...
                i'm mixing that with Tales under the Oak -
the Toad King...
          Dungeon Synth?! seriously?! well... only from
Germany... that must be said...

after my bicycle accident i took to the road once more...
i have to admit... i felt shaky...
a headache came back... i could feel all the once
apparent wounds not almost fully healed
re-bruise my body... but i cycled on...
i was never going to give up my first love...
i sometimes wish swimming was my first love...

but no...
cycling is my first love...
    walking my second
  and swimming my third...
   i never cared much for running: because it was usually
running for a bus or a train...
and i will never own a driving license...
never... i like buses... i don't like cars...
the best i could do is own a motorcycle...
and given my bicycle accident...
swerve: pothole... get nudged by a car...
oh man... that falling across my handlebars
must have looked impressive...
like when Walter Sickert influenced Francis Bacon...
my face scraping the tarmac...
i was slightly tipsy... though...
so... first lesson: is usually the last lesson...
never attempt to cycle tipsy...

   2nd lesson: overcome fear by cycling tipsy...
as i was today... a few beers in...
but i thought: wow... not this bicycle is truly mine...
it's truly mine because i just had an accident on it...
i own this bicycle... we're entwined...
i even left several signatures of blood on it...
but... i'll wash the off tomorrow:
i need to finish painting the fence...
the artificial grass is almost done...
the slabbing completed...
   i need to change the handlebar tape and change
the breaks... i seriously managed to erode so much
rubber that no wonder i feel the need to squeeze
harder... eh... London traffic, what do you expect?!

also? a rat infestation... because?
my new Nigerian neighbours... well... just the old guy...
thought it was a good idea to leave
bread and trimmings in the garden
for his "beloved" pigeons... ******* beloved pigeons...
no rats in Africa?!
the kitchen is a mess... but i have one...
scuttling... rats are not mice...
                they're ingenious buggers...
the cheese is gone... the mouse-trap snapped...
i hate those things... i once had a mice problem
in the attic... bad timing... the poor thing died
from a broken jaw... it bled out like...
that Ukrainian butcher of Rostov...
                                       through the a shot in the head...
it must have taken about two weeks
for him to die when he was dragged into a cell
and shot in the back of the head...
same with this mouse... death by a broken jaw...
horrible stuff...

i mean: i had a mouse problem once when in Ediniburgh,
if you could get hold of Ilona...
she would tell you... the pretty defenceless thing
hid in my wardrobe...
i created this maze... with a trap at the end...
caught it... trapped it... held it up by its tail...
Ilona was all giggly...
       i went out with it to the tenement landing...
let it loose onto the stairs...
memories of childhood...
   what memories? i once had a hamster...
took it outside... this sadistic boy encouraged me
to drop my hamster down the stairs:
saying: it would survive the fall...
so i dropped my hamster...
it fell and its nose starting bleeding...
i took it home crying...
  parachute! there was supposed to be a parachute!
right... but with this mouse?
full circle... i atoned for my naiveness...
i placed the mouse on the landing...
the mouse jumped one stair down... and then?!
a... a... *******: LEAP OF FAITH...

well... that was much easier...
i walked back into the bedroom and Ilona asked:
what did you do with the mouse?!
oh... it committed suicide...
that's revenge for that ******* who said my hamster
would survive the fall...
children should not own critters...
animals smaller than them...
dogs?! cats?! fine... but hamsters... rabbits?!
no no no...definitely not hamsters!
some ******* Jeffrey Dahmer types might just be
spawning... i remember that kid...
thick glasses... freckles...
i'd love to castrate him: right now...
curly hair... hell... forget castrating him...
i'd love to head-**** him and break his nose...
in such a way that he might lose his sense of smell...

that's when i realised... when that mouse i wanted
to let go decided to jump off...
i was atoning... i made a full circle
with a past grief... that's when i became a father
unto myself... of course i still had a father
to dictate rules to me concerning a work ethic
and ambition... but that was the moment
i became a father to the child of memory i once was...
no silly idiot was whispering in my ear
about how a hamster could survive a fall...
from the time i "purposively" dropped it...
i just let the mouse go... and it decided....
suicide was the better option: the only option...

i only feel relief from both memories...
15 years down the line...
how? i'm not going to use the standard mouse-trap
procedure... not after seeing this one
mouse i found in the attic bleeding
to death from a broken jaw...
       it broke my heart...
               and... hardly being in love...
         there's no other option: i wouldn't mind
if a cat killed it... at least there would be a hierarchy...
of consequences...
i wouldn't mind if the rat was simply nibbling
on dry lasagne sheets...
but when it comes to biting into plastic...
and cables... i don't want to replace my dishwasher
or my washing machine...
the next best option? poison... like sugar for humans...
i don't need to see another rodent dead
from crushed teeth... it's snout mutilated...
give me a clean ****...

i think Ilona sensed something was changing
in me... when i casually said: oh, it committed, suicide...
it was casual then:
but given enough time: there was nothing
casual about it...

IV.

i believe it's not patois if i insert some Cyrillic into
the Latin script of the Western Slavic zunge of
******:
              щur!       too many consonants, no?
i.e. szczur... i.e. rat?! ergo? щur!
we're still communication on an even level playing
field...
what was i listening to and what was i reading
that made me feel so... "nostalgic"?
i need to sample some snippets of Ovid...

1. because you keep nagging for presents...
2. that's what turns me off...
3. what's 3?

    i can't over-quote him... people need to forrage
themselves... i'm not going to be either lasso
or gatekeeper...
          
some "questioning" about the pocketing
of bribes...
    so "here", or "there"... or "other"...
                toward the "Arctic" one in spun
in some petty defiance...
this sinking ship of this last thought...
this one last gasp of air
before the final tombstone riddle of
a breath that drons the lungs
with salty waters..

             i will not cite any more Ovid:
i'll keep him to myself...
not as a gatekeeper... more akin to:
if you were to love him as much as i do...
you'd follow your sorry-*** to engage
with his outpourings than simply sit
idle assed: not asked: never asked!

V.

the moon started blinking through his crescent
spetacle...
i almost felt to be in love in love..
****... i can't be any longer...
burn the ribbons, the tiers....
the ribbons and the kites...
             burn all things hybrid into the fuckinng
ground;
yes... this is enough.

i was once told: children & animals like you, a sign of being a good person - but here i am, going around with the axiom that can be found at the opening of Dostoevsky's the Karamazov Brothers lent from Faust: who are you? i am of that power that forever will evil & eternally works good... my modus operandi... i can't think of myself as benevolent: for benevolence i implore myself to find it spontaneously, on a whim... i adore the frivolity of chance & the 8 winds... in this realm of orbs in orbit: that imploded... when the stars explode... another favorite quote of mine... to angels - vision of god's throne... to insects: sensual lust...

from time to time my mother gets a visit from
a manicurist / pedicurist...
i was informed prior that she was coming
round with a friend of hers...
Ilona... i never have luck with women's names...
that she's breaking up with her husband,
living in England she built up a taste for some
exotica: if he wasn't black he must have have been
Indian... one child already: so i asked -
back to the orthodoxy of a schnitzel,
some beta-buck deluxe...
thank god i'm not making much money,
thank god i don't like having too much money
to spend, thank god i rather walk into Bower Wood
or Havering County Park... leaving Havering-atte-Bower
& emerging somewhere near Hainault or Chigwell Row...
i was to be scrutinised...
so i was... apparently she fancied a Scandinavian
physiognomy... do i have a Scandinavian physiognomy?
well... accents of leftover blonde...
moustache / what trim of hair below the lower lip...
soul patch...
i put on some vinyl...
wooden shjips 5... then some miles davis: kind of blue...
then maanam's night patrol...
standout tracks: love is like *****
& Krakowski spleen...
but i wasn't expecting to be a ******* nanny...
lucky me for being as cool as a cucumber
in the presence of 4 women...
sitting in front of about 7 prostitutes in a brothel...
well... gives you ***** like watermelons...
we talked about our adoration for Scots...
come new years eve these isles are awash
with lyrics of a Scot: aud lang syne...
i bemoaned that the Scots don't really speak
their language... oh sure... on the islands...
but they care much for the trilled-R rummaging
in accent than actual: language...
do the Scots have a concept of etymology?
even though the Welsh are ***-licking or rather:
licking the end of a stick with their union
with the English: they have this blind obedience
of keeping their language... why did the Scots
just focus on how differently they speak English?
great... what an accent! highlanders: singing...

4 women... the running joke started:
maybe you should start a nanny service...
since one was only 11 months old...
pulling faces... peering into those soulless eyes...
regrets? oh hell no...
i pushed the narrative: what's really different
between tending to children "vs." petting cats...
less fur... but as much unpredictability:
perhaps more with infants than cats...
one extreme: cats...
in the middle infants... somewhere a muzzle,
a leash: the dog...
we're not talking about rearing cows or
jiggling around cannibalistic chickens...

could i be a father? all toddlers look "androgynous":
just like all old people look the same...
well, "not the same": but there is a common thread...
it takes much time, much patience,
a lot of time spent not being coupled to a unit
that's beside the individual,
pulling faces... sticking out the tongue,
rummaging with raised eyebrows...
rereading Morse + Braille...
perhaps i have a regret...
not being able to see a little Frankenstein passed down...
accents of my features mingled with a mother...

ocean of free time (maanam) -
the children of strangers...
sitting in my lap...
intuitively she asked me for food: when she was hungry...
jesc... i'm pretty sure she said that word...
and how gloriously she expressed when she
started to feel tired... but couldn't fathom
the automation of impeding sleep...
she rebelled against sleep for a while...
she wanted to be awake... sleep finally conquered her...

Nietzsche: the tender hands of a cyclops....
black Madonna, black angel...
***** after *****: the head in smoke...
alcohol is flowing...
czarna Madonna, czarna aniol...

like the ancients Roman Caesars...
who were very willing to raise children not
of their own seed...
i can imagine myself being a stepfather...
i can... having frequented a brothel one can
fathom the promiscuity of women & allow it
to happen on the sly...
i just want enough silence & freedom
to read a ******* newspaper...
spend an hour typing... listen to music
utilizing headphones...
****-off into the night, watch the constellations...

obviously the finger she used for searching for
teeth in her own mouth ended up on my lips...
the beard finally arrived at the proper right
of fascination as she started to tug & pull at it...

lion...
          patriarch... but we're talking about
the relations between complete strangers...
my mother was getting a manicure & a pedicure...
i was a nanny for a 11 month babe... bambino...
then the thought: oh ****...
but what happens when they become
individuals... they learn to speak...
when you can't influence them?
when freedom overpowers freedom?
when you're no longer left with the sort of stagnation
impasse of petting animals?
what happens when thought arrives
& orientates counter to your original investment?

other peoples' children are fun:
for the spare hour, for the afternoon...
because there's the toddler...
or the clouds... or imaginary backgammon or chess
peering into a brick wall...
i don't know why animals & children like me...
come to think of it...
all the Medusa ugliness of sensuality...
great... sure... fun...
but i also have to...
   having a ******* in my arms...
having a toddler on my lap...
having my beard pulled....
            like only an uncoordinated shell of a future
being that's receptive...
receptive to the one dimensionality of
meaning,
the two dimensionality of exchange
& the three dimensionality of nuance...
metaphors, metaphysics... puns...

she started to mimic me clucking...
making onomatopoeias while fidgeting in my lap...
before i gave her a bottle of milk,
covered her with cushions
all prior to her hour's worth of snooze...
it would be so painful to have a bambino of my own...
i'd sooner gauge out my own eyes
than see the immediacy of the accents of
my genes being passed down...
i'd abhor seeing her or, him, make worse mistakes
than i have made...
fun when they're still blank slates...
cat-esque...
but not when they begin their adventure into
the realm of autonomy...

eh... not so bad with cats:
some ref. to a "stagnation" or...
how Kierkegaard posited: the changelessness of god...
itchy fingers though... this awkward little ****** body
the softness of her hair
so little of it... caressed to ease falling asleep...
the frown arrived at from tiredness....
i know, honey-bear... that you're tired...

what a Frankenstein i could possibly spawn,
the architecture of what's to become the supposed
holy grail of the sovereign individual...
best kept to bambinos of strangers...
not my own:
to think that i might **** up someone with my own
idiosyncrasies...
there's a freedom associated with tending to
responsibilities...
but there's also enough freedom available
when tending to having a Pontius Pilate approach...
i wash my hand clean of the tumult of impeding
affairs...

reading Rousseau for the first time: for the flirt...
somehow... it was impeding...
hanging like Damocles' sword...
or Ockham's razor...

i still don't recognise Warsaw as the capital of
Poland... maybe i should...
there's only Cracow:
i "think" that i come from "somewhere":
arguments... etymological faux pas antics...
Slavic derives the word Slave...
last time i heard: Slowo: word...
to be a wordsmith... but i can forgive
the Anglo-Saxons... because i can...
they still shy away from someone deriving
an ethnicity akin to... an Anglo-Slav...
irritating little addition of E?

γράφω σε Ελληνικά?
any better?
of all the languages that Latin loaned...
"loaned"... arrived at...
English... the only tongue without
orthographic distinctions...
the French have their acute E...
the Ninyo of the Spaniard's N...
lazy ******* *****... but i love them for their:
laziness...

there's this quote concerning
Charles Dickens' the Pickwick Papers...
the tragedy comes having read it...
great! i'll make sure to never finish reading it!
i'll read some books "on the side"...
Charles, though: makes this point about
orthography... surely to mention orthography
you need to employ diacritical markers...
you don't employ them...
orthography becomes a ****-show meaning
of what's otherwise excused with:
oh... he's dyslexic...
it's just a spelling mistake...
not that you might require an "extra" tau in words
like: fatter... better... but... it just looks
geometrically adequate...
"excess" consonant... Germanic tongues concerning
a Slavic tongue...
too many ******* vowels...
you Latin lend-overs...i raed: i red... i reed...
come on... savvy up...

there's no discussion... pop, mainstream is going one
way... but the under-currency of argument
is finding... the sea... the tidal wave...
the many veins of rivers...
nein!    nein!             nein mohr!
genug!                               mohr!

verlassen lassen mich sein!
   und nein! ich: ja!

come to "think" of it...
my mother would make a...
terrible grandmother...
my mother would make a *******
terrible grandmother...
thank god i don't...
i didn't allow my genes a pass...
i couldn't...
allow my genes to pass....
it hurt my heart...
when i learned that...
women were the only ones
who acknowledged a past...
she could keep her mother,
her father...
while the man had to erase his
past...
o.k. *******...
*******!
          
no.... butter i... *****-load...
pretty woman... pretty guess...
i'm not buying into the "idea":
sorry, *******...
my mother, is somehow...
less... than... a mother-in-law?
******* woman... **** this supposed
guise of existence...
now i have the power:
dodo power... i get to:
keep up with the blisters....
man-up... man-****-off!
i#'ll eat your whittle white nights.