The body that I am incarnated in was born in the middle of the very rainy summer of 1939.
My vehicle for life.
All seeing-all smelling --all tasting--all touching--all speaking--all hearing --all sensing --perambulating -singing-dancing-cooking--drinking --painting--******* etc etc vehicle.
Born a few months before the Second World War,with all its nonsensical religiously patriotic and democratically oligarchic and liberally fascistic evil nonsense, started.
Makes me a Rider of the Storm eh?.
Eat yer heart out Jim Morrison!.
Slid out of my mothers womb in the upper room of a brand new house.
Situated on a new street somewhere on a new development on the edge of a 3000 years old walled city in 'gods' own country'--that's what they called it.
Yorkshire!.
First smell I remember,clearly,was rain soaked Lilac and Earth mixed together.
Their scent coming hrough the open bedroom window.
AAAAH rain soaked Lilac.
Second smell was Tobacco from downstairs where my father was anxiously chain smoking.
Then came my first taste.
He,my father,dipped the tip of his little finger into his glass of celebratory Whiskey and poked it into my mouth as I lay there,wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Irresponsibility!!.
Second taste was her warm rich creamy breast milk.
And so my days and nights started.
They told me the name that I was to answer to--as if it was the whole of me.
They told me my beliefs and attitudes and desires and limitations and skills etc etc.
They told me that what I have come to know was my conditioned identity was the real me---but it isn't!..
The lied to me --in innocent ignorance.
My sister taught me to read and write by the time I was 3 years old.
I grew up knowing,deep down, that I was something else.
Not the 'Something Else' that Ornette Coleman played,on his magnificent disc,either.
War raged elsewhere throughout my childhood--mainly across the seas far away.
I watched flight after flight of four engine bombers roar overhead every day ,on their way to drop bombs on children I would never meet.
There was a busy air base 2 miles away from the house I was born in.
Once an injured bomber,coming back from a raid,crashed in flames on two houses at the top of the street I lived in.
I found war to be a hellish and frightening experience.
And along the way I discovered that I couldnt explain to 'myself' who I was, exactly,either.
That my parenters gift of identity was misleading.
I asked 'myself' who or rather what was I?.
By the time I was 3 years I was a ******* from 'Osteomylitis'--or so they told me.
I couldn't walk with massive  left hip joint pain I suffered.
I spent the years from 3 to 6 in a traction bed in a couple of hospitals.
Gobbling down Cod liver oil and Malt for the vitamins--and it worked!!!.
At 6 I learned to walk--YES!!!.
All that pain was left behind.
Thank you Gautama.
My life was suffering but as you supposedly said.
Suffering can be overcome.
And I overcame it.
And I ran and jumped across streams and climbed trees and walked for miles and miles and danced the dance of life.
I foraged for blackberries and wild mushrooms and crabapples and horseradish roots and rosehips and other fruits of nature.
I fell in love with the song of the Yellowbeak--Blackbird to you.
Became enraptured by the smell of wild Roses in the hedgerows.
And I sang and sang and sang and danced and danced and danced.
And all the while I just knew that I wasn't the body that I was incarnated in.
Even though my parenters kept on insisting that I was that body.
And I knew that I wasn't who they had told me I was either.
I knew that I wasn't the conditioned identity of the body that they insisted I was..
At 9 years I passed an exam and won a free scholarship place at a fee paying 'public' school.
My education started in earnest.
Lain and French andAlgebra and Geometry and  expectations of University.
I fell in love for my very first time at around 12 years old.
Raymond was his name.
He taught me how bisexual I was.
I swallowed litres of his body fluids.
Oh how I loved him.
Then after 2 ecstatic years he rejected me because I was a different class to him.
AAAAARGH!.
Then around 14 years the monthly seizures started.
A regular dark descent into unconsciousness.
I experienced the small death of Julius Ceasar and Leonardo Da Vinci.
Back to waking consciousness after an hours out of the body trip into the Astral realms.
Waking with total total amnesia.
With no mind or conditioned identity but both came back within one hour of waking and took over again.
Along with a helluva headache.
But I woke as me--who or whatever that was.
I wasn't who they said I was.
I was me!.
Whatever that was.
Where did I come from?
My purpose in life became to find out what I was and what the source of my existence was.
Teenage life as a rock n roller started beckoned and I embraced party life.
I won cups of silver for dancing very energetically to Bill Haley and Chuck Berry.
I discovered the other half of my bisexuality.
I found girls.
Oh girls how I love you.
and love you and love you.
I started to play trombone at 18 years.
Then trumpet and drums then into my life walked MISS SAXOPHONE and I melted!!!!.
Alto alto wobbly lines of sound poured out from the bell of my alto sax.
I was 23 and toying with buddhism and social alcoholism and playing saxophone jazz(probably badly).
26 and I got married for the first time.
I was playing Free Jazz rather amateurishly by now.
In 1967 I moved to London--became a longhaired hippy--started my own band called BrainBloodVolume--took many doses(literally 1000s) of pure LSD and Mescaline and Psyllocybin and DMT--embraced diet reform--became ordained as a buddhist monk in 1966--played with Jimi Hendrix and John Lennon and the pink Floyd--went to live in the Balearic Islands--Mallorca,Ibiza,Formentera--started to do oil paintings--had a Master Class in Concert Flute playing from Roland Kirk in the dressing room at Ronnie Scotts Jazz Club in London.Became addicted to Macrobiotic Food and Spring Water and puffing Waccy Baccy(always through a Water Pipe..



Its been seventy seven years in this incarnation that I have been wandering the face of this big ball in space seeking the answer to the eternal questions of life.

What am I and where do I come from and what is my purpose?.

And here  is the answer--!!.

I am an individual isness formed solely from a small but equal independent and autonomous portion of the isness of the universe.

Each individual isness is an eternal, small but equal, independent, autonomous,nameless, formless,genderless,classless,casteless,non physical and unconditionally  loving portion of the isness of the universe.

The isness of the universe is the whole of the nature of reality and is the sole source of all existence and is eternal,nameless,formless, genderless,beingless and autonomous and unconditionally loving and is not a 'god' or a 'goddess' or any kind of being.

I live in the joyousness of shared unconditionally loving union with the isness of the universe.

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel?         Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to **** children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!

i can't stop feeling this pounce of melancholy,
and i mean: it's like a lynx pouncing on my chest,
i can't even claim a clinical dimension to it,
it's a sadness that comes on two fronts...
   it's a sadness that i left Poland when i was 8,
and the greater part of my life was spent
using the English language...
         and i find the Anglophone world so devoid
of consistency... all this post-truth
          labelling...
       this throwing of the cartesian maxim the other
way around, the "i am" really does
   predated the "i think" scenario on the hopes
of asking for a genesis, a (0, 0) / (ο, ω) coordinate
beginning... yes, i know more of a dougnut
   and less the orbit of a planet in the latter case...
     i can't believe i'm getting this technical -
but it sometimes happens, you know?
i don't really like it... i'd love to write about less
claustrophobic matters, less constrictive intellectual
matters... and before you shoot me down
by denouncing the crass lack of motivation -
                i am frail in undertaking another "poem",
and i mean that as a way of saying:
              terse narration and no claim to technique,
or at least that's what i know is modern...
           i watch the following list of videos
as a sort of freak-natured lullaby while drinking
Obey the Walrus         I FEEL FANTASTIC
Agamemnon Counterpart       Username 666
Cursed Kleenex Commercial      There is nothing
Performance Olivier de Sagazan 2008  
     The Wyoming Incident        My Dead Great
Grandma’s Coffin in My Own backyard!
K-Fee Car Commercial       Pretty Woman
Fatal Diving Accident        Girl Goes ****** During
Makeup Tutorial       Paris Catacombs Lost Footage
Shaye Saint John – Hand Thing (yes, copy & paste
given the uppercase lettering, i can be lazy
once in a while) -
                          so i do see a lot of potential in
these clips... if you can't dazzle them: might as well
scare them...
                      but i watch them and then write
a native-language poem while listening to
    music accompanying a zbigniew herbert poem
by tadeusz woźniak - and i get all nitty gritty
when using a language i should have forgotten
aged 8... and i type one out and i am brought
to tears with it... and then it vanishes from the html
blank...
             and then a deeper horror sets in,
which Ezra Pound would have liked
and it merely means: ten quotes by Horace,
a video, with only 230 views on youtube...
                    no one would dare say carpe diem
like a cliche after seeing this video...
             but still the sadness persists...
and i can't make it systematic, not systematic in
the sense that it might appeal to the zeitgeist of:
the January blues, or... i need the pharmacological
rainbow...
        i have a miniature vineyard... enough for
35 litres of wine... and i make the wine myself...
i pick the grapes...
i crush them, i buy the yeast, i melt the sugar until
i get runny sugar-thick water,
   and you know? out of the 5 litre holders for it...
i get about 10 pristine bottles of wine,
roughly in the range of 15% a pop...
                   from 35 litres i get about 10 pristine bottles
of wine... quality-wise: the stuff you'd expect to
buy in a shopping market...
       and that's the sad part...
it bothers me that i've waited for long for the wine,
i might have mentioned it a few months back that
i do actually make my own wine... but given the addiction
it's a product that could only last for something
worth celebrating...
                     these days people speak of a marathon's
worth of abstinance from the stuff for a month...
    which is a bit sad, given that if people ventured
into producing their own alcohol, they'd have
a Dionysian month of binging on it... and then having
11 months being sober... until the natural cycle comes
back, like the rare event of a comet...
    i'm sad i lost a few poems on the way...
but i'm also sad that the drinking should begin by spring
and that i'm ****** already...
                  that i'm still buying whiskey,
and when i do actually drink that one bottle of clouded
wine today, i'll feel a sense of the most minute accomplishment...
   i can't stop facing this industrialisation of
everything... whether it's alcohol, or art...
   or intellectual debate...
   sure, i'll listen to Breitbart for a bit...
then i'll listen in on how we've began mutilating
language... then i'll think of god, and recount
kant's concept: imagine the pangs of despair i felt
reading through the second volume of the critique -
if you do: you'd be surprised by what's involved
in transcendental methodology...
    what could possibly obstruct you in the existence
of: said word... not enlarged in religious practices?
   i am comforted by the fact that kant deals with
god on a non-religious basis...
    religious i mean: worthy of a reciting only one
book a thousand ******* times and building churches...
if god is merely lodged in your mind and allows
for a narrative, who is sane enough to take that
narrative initiative from you, considering the fact
that you're not bound to kneel and read only one
book a thousand times as if that one book held
the sole capacity for your vocab exfoliation and learning
of the alphabet?
     how can you ever be bound to a cognitive detestation
of god? that really must be painful...
considering that thought is so ****** whimsical, frail,
   picky, panicky... give it all you want...
you can't establish a cognitive detestation of god
  on the simple ground that thought is being bombarded
by a 5:1 ratio of the senses versus 1 non-sense -
    which god evidently is: given the numbers of
the good-church going folks... kneeling lunatics i call them...
but the simple fact that you want to do a lobotomy on
yourself with atheism, is a bit like saying
you'll censor the mathematical statement 1 + 1 = 2...
      at least the concept of god is: language exists...
and can i add to that? if a being as such exists:
he wouldn't consist of games... the verbal colliseum
of anagrams and crosswords... language you seize
to be entertaining... it would spell out a clear
format: a x, y, z      vector precision:
    starting from point (0, 0) moving to (1, 1),
  (2, 2)        to ( 5, 5) etc. you'd get a y = x graph...
   not a ******* parabola of nuance and political
chess... or nuanced ***...
                    and is that a.i.?
           well: the french question about man inventing
god because it would be useful is much better said
these days since we we have the capacity to create ourselves...
and given how it looks: i'm going to be a caveman
trapped in a two-dimensional world of the collective
consciousness by the time the true avant-garde in this
medium starts... creating a god became boring...
so many had to recreate himself in the robotic form...
    man is currently needing this exploration...
forget the space project... it's a case of definition...
but i'm still melancholic about the wine...
     i've been waiting to sniff it and feel the sharpness
of the alcohol for a good 3 months...
       and i really wish i could write in my native tongue
so easily as i do in my acquired tongue...
     i'm sad because i'm drinking the whiskey
prior, rather than getting completely sloshed on
what alcoholism looked prior:
    it's that curse of town insomnia and how we don't
celebrate enough of what comes with natural
cycles...
              which means that ontology is dead...
given we've managed to tame the seasons...
  means that any ontological question, based on
the cycle of wine-making, brings us to a more dreary
position than with nietzsche's god is dead...
look here: at least you have something tangible...
   you can't erase god from thinking...
it's the primost a priori essence of every, single man,
it's not an a posteriori fact,
god is there, in that a priori medium like space
and time...
                              and why do people never claim
that god can contain a dualism, primarily because
the herd is encapsulated by a monotheism?
              if god could ever be an a posteriori you'd
be forced to experience some sort of revelation,
and later encounter the evil contained within the concept's
dualism, so in actual sense: be considered mad:
for not making certain choices in life and wishing to
reach for the pulpit... mind you: i had such an experience...
and my life didn't become better for it...
     evidently i should have pressed harder for
the ontological argument of: marrying the girl...
but then the same ontological argument came back
to me when i started making wine...
                      meaning i could produce alcohol
on an industrial level... and forget any ritualism involved
in consuming it prior... since i would only be
left with an addictive socio-pathological use of the
once celebrated, collective engagement by waiting for
autumn to ferment and keep me warm through
the winter... which i suppose is when all the Greeks
were kept together... drinking and ******* rather
than bother to exploit natural resources like gas and oil...
but hey! that's just me...
         but there's a sadness behind this...
start making your own wine and you'll see it...
which is to say: i don't know whether i'd have lived
a happy life with my russian fiance...
             i have only a quantum idealism to mind
expressed by fanciying myself counter to the history
i'm writing right now...
    so why is god as a priori bound as time and space?
well... why would you otherwise get so many eager
atheist gobs to reach for an argument?
                  i find that the most authentic atheists are
murderers... why? they have transcended
    the cognitive debility of an atheistic argument...
      i'll prove god does not exist by "thinking" about it...
my my: what a lovely congregation you have there!
      i'm not even trying to be clever here...
  well... there's an antidote to this scenario...
               so he's permanently lodged in our a priori
  "consciousness" (might as well do away with psychiatry
******* about with its three-layer cake of
con- subcon- and uncon-) -
                   and he's not lodged in our a posteriori
"consciousness" - i hate becoming the fiddler on the roof -
because what then? experiencing the omniniscence
and the omnipotency and whatever other trait that ******
thing does, would translate as what?
     at best a monotheism... or a place where people concentrate
in numbers... not necessarily worths of being beyond
the estimates concerning their congregation...
            it's dangerous to claim a god in the a posteriori
realm...
                that's why the safest place to keep him is in
the a priori realm... where all the big things happen,
or don't happen, depending whether you're from New York
or Hiroshima...
                    and following from kant's distinction
in transcendental methodology concerning time and space...
and god...
                 it dawned on me that he did see a distinction
between mathematical language and the lingua of
  doodling and anagrams and all those poetic jives that
give no precision...
    if time... then space...
                    if god...            then nothing...
and how are dual in the a priori realm...
       only that with regards to time and space
i'm more likely to throw a 1, or a 2 into conceptualising
these things, than i am to throw an a, or a b into it...
    algebra is secondary in talking about these two mediums...
why? because i'll get a definite rationalisation of
time and space... if i tell you the fastest man on earth
can run 100m in under 10secs...
                       if i throw in x y z into this: i might as well
end this whole narrative with: oi! Zeno! give us
that Achilles joke!
                when i mean god i mean: medium of
communication... that's not necessarily a democratic
omni-versed plateau of sponging everything every human
has to say...
       but i primarily throw 1, 2, 3... 4, 5... 8, 9 and 0
into the a priori conceptualisation of time and space...
  but if i do the same when i throw in the other symbols
into the a priori conceptualisation of god and nothing -
sure, mathematical symbols can be phonetic encoding,
as one, two, three, four... five, six...
          but apply them as one two three four to time and space
and there's no way to rationalise time and space,
because time and space is met with a nonsense
in dealing with a phonetic encoding of 1 (as one) -
due to the vacuum of space... and the timelessness of
    time as a ref. point fixated upon... let's just leave
it with the vacuum of space... 2 overpowers two (because
of to and too), 3 overpowers three (because of free)...
4 overpowers four (because of for)... not only that:
but they're more about photographic memory
and visual conceptualisation ease - no one really bothers
   a - z to be anything more than: what they actually
are as phonetically: awaiting pronunciation.
sure... letter can become mystical in a sense of:
   y looks like a tree (other than pine),
           H is a rugby goal...
                               w is a cosine graph...
                    y is a serpent's tongue...
              but that's mysticism and that's also: fair enough!
what bugs me is the opposite of the a priori
magnetism... as opposed to space and time...
god and nothing...
     well... if i throw 1 and 0 into a priori thinking
about working time and space...
  i'll get, say: 365 days in a calendar year...
               or that the acceleration of earth if 9.8 metres
per seconds squared... (cubic gravity evidently
becomes a bit pointless -
                                        imagine it:
   9.8m/s(superscript)3...   or 9.8m(superscript)2/s...
or whatever variation...
no wonder the chemists got the ****-end of the stick
when they were told they weren't allowed into
the heaven of superscript... but sent to the subscript hell
of writing dwom oxygen... ah shame: Faust! i'm coming!)...
yes... but throw 1 - 0 into the a priori
"conceptualisation" opposite of time and space,
i.e. god and nothing... the best answer you can get
is matthew chapter 1 verse 8... or SIX SIX SIX!  boogie man!
well... not... you throw in the symbols α - ω
into the a priori "conceptualisation" of god & nothing
and you get, e.g.: δατυμ -
which basically means: it can't be meaningless -
       otherwise we'd be stuck with animalistic intuition
and intelligence, overloaded with sensual intelligence
and not marred by the murk of thought...
  how this devolution happened is beyond me...
  no amount of wit makes up for the sensual sharpness of
a monkey shouting at a congregation: spy! snake!
and all with the bare minumum of phonetic distinction...
    thus α - ω are slightly meaningless when it comes
to time and space, i know these symbols to enter
this a priori venture, but we're still primarily talking
about using 1 - 0 symbols to get at the knitting-work...
just like in verse, i say of a crossword
    sound of Valhalla (4),
                 and you say: 1 across... horn!
                              and then we get the pretty picture.
3a.m.
       and the wine ritual is about to begin...
      

Let’s come
And have a fun
With numbers
To strengthen your balance sheet!

Let’s count.......
‘How many Kilogram of Oxygen you inhale per day?’
‘How many litres of water and energy required
for the food you consume per day?
How much ..................? .......................

Let’s calculate....
“Multiply the already estimated amount
By the total days you already spend on this planet.”
How much .........? ..............................  

Let’s assess the cost..........
“Multiply the amount of Oxygen, Water and Energy
with their respective present market price.”
How much.........? ..............................  

Let’s incorporate everything in your balance sheet,
Repay it to nature and
get the tax clearance from the Planet .......

She married off to a village chief at age of 14,
But only after being chopped of a ******* in a Maasai
Ritual of FGM, chlitoridectomy or you name it,
For the African elders strictly marry circumcised virgins,
What a ritual so pernicious that my nerves panic with fire.
She gets into a marriage now, Male sided marriage,
Where women and distaff are seen, but not heard whatsoever,
It is her well rounded buttocks, sharply ***** *****
Tight thighs and sweet sensuous moans to be made in bed
That matters most, but not her thoughts not even human feelings.
She starts of her day by morning glory; early morning *** at 5.30,
Then she jumps of her bed, whether sexually satisfied or not,
She goes straight for her broom then begins sweeping,
And scrapping her house, the main house then the kitchen,
No brassiere under her blouse or lingerie under her skirt,
For you never can tell when the chief’s cloud will accumulate,
Into thunderous rain, ready for planting and planting,
She then prepares porridge from millet and sorghum
Or Soya beans, ground nuts and simsim for the children
To take before they leave to school, both her children,
And those sired through out-growing by her husband,
Then she goes at the cow shed to milk her native cows,
Which she milks by dodging ceaseless kicks from the angst ridden cow,
She sings and whistles hymns for the cow to calm and stand balmy,
But coincidentally her last-born baby, three months old boy,
Named after the paternal grandfather wakes up,
Starts crying and croaning for attention, suckling,
She shelves milking aside, and rushes to pick the baby up
Not because of anything but lest its crying may disturb her husband
From sweet morning sleep, it is so bad and punishable.
She picks back the baby, using a shawl as a cot,
Then comes back to the milking shed, to resume her work,
Only to come to a surprise; the calf un-knoosed itself
And has suckled its mother’s udder dry, foam frothing
At the mandibles; she picks two litres of milk to her house
To the kitchen, starts cooking for her husband, two calabashes
Of tea, over spiced with milk and Kericho tea leaves,
As the husband is called to a treat of mellifluous tea,
She jumps at washing her husband’s clothes;
Unmarried brother-in-law passes by, and runs back to his cottage,
Scoops and brings his grimed Jeans Levis Straus trouser,
Also to be washed by his in-law, as the woman belongs
To the clan, to the entire community but not singly to the man
Or the husband who married her, she washes it minus qualm,
Lunch hour knocks, she rushes to the kitchen and cooks,
For the children are about to come from school, they must eat
Eat on time, if not declare this woman a public disgrace
Who can not cook for the community, forget of the children,
Evening comes; she cooks again, her baby still on the back,
The husband complains of the food being not delicious,
Salt was not enough, she did not put in pepper; a stupid woman!
She accepts her mistake and apologizes effusively, or else fire!
She goes to mend the bed for the husband to rest, plus the baby,
She goes out behind the hut to take a bath,
The husband has not yet constructed a bathroom,
For fear that evil neighbours can plant there voodoo
It can **** the husband to forego his wives and cows,
She comes back to her bedroom, when drying herself up,
The husband goes up in libido; he forcefully shoves her to the bed
As the giggles desperately, he jumps on her bust, minus foreplay,
No single kissing, pinching, nor fondling of the breast or even kissing her
On the stunted *******, he penetrates her mechanically, like a block of stone
He introduces himself deep and deeper into her,
Then he releases warm ***** into her, before even she is aroused
He falls asleep like a log of wood, leaving her wide awake on a flame
Flaming ****** desire, burning and torturing her like an abyss.
This rhythm repeats like a circa, on a pattern of regular basis,
She endured and finishes one year without getting pregnant,
The husband gets self-suspicious and irritated, very irked,
As per why the woman on whom his cows were wasted is not receiving
His very powerful seeds, to become pregnant, to carry his son,
He beats her up, ruthless flogging and kicking, kicking her buttocks,
Insulting and lambasting in heavyweight measure, down to ash pit
She apologizes and promises to be pregnant in a fortnight,
To which the man accedes; but…but…but let it be
That you miss to be pregnant, I will chase you away,
I will repossess my cows, I squandered on you
In payment of your pride price; dowry
To marry a reproductively better wife.

But that's not his name.
He really doesn't have a name.
For starters no name could even hint at what he means to me.
No name could get anywhere near his sheer visceral naked beauty.
No name could delineate the slim ripple of his muscles.
His beautiful stiff ****--oh so suckable and lickable.
No name could hint at the smell of the dried **** on his *****.
No name could begin to describe the taste of his warm fresh ***.
No name would fit the feel of the shaft of his perfect stiff **** in my fingers.
No name could describe the shade of lavender of his exposed **** head.
The way his **** head fits in my mouth.
The feeling on my tongue as I slide it along the full length of the shaft of his stiff ****.
I call him Ben.
Weve travelled the world together for nigh on 29 years now.
Ive ****** his **** in ,my imagination on most continents,as ive laid in the same room tossing myself off imagining being ****** by him every night and during every day..
Ive licked his *** filled ***** in Bangkok and Delhi and London and Amsterdam and Barcelona and Deia and Kathmandu and Bodh Gaya and York and Paris and Dharamsala and Amravati and oh so many other places.
Ive swallowed litres of his warm fresh ***.
Ive rained typhoons of kisses on his upturned face.
Ive tossed him off to ******* too many times to count.
Ive loved him endlessly.
I call him Ben .
His diamond sharp intellect.
His smirky smile that lights up his face.
His oh so tasty tongue flickering in and out of my mouth.
Licking my lips--wrestling my tongue to a standstill.
The taste of his saliva --like the sharpest sweetest nectar.
His arms that wrap themselves around my nakedness.
His hands that never fail to connect to my *****
no matter how dark the room.
His fingers that tease and ****** my throbbing testicles.
My lovely boyman--my lovely lover.
I call him Ben.
His fingers wrapped around the shaft of my stiff ****
like ivy on an ancient wall.
they seem to grasp my ***** member so deeply
its as if they live below my skin.
I call him Ben.
When I kneel in submission to him and lick his *** filled *****
I am elevated into the land of adjectives and superlatives.
When I cringe servilely at his feet licking the full length
of the shaft of his oh so stiff and perfectly shaped *****
I become just a tongue tasting his dried ****.
I call him Ben.
Oh I so love and adore the taste of his dried ****
coating the lavender helmet of his bell end.
When I slide the whole of the head of his hard *****
between my lips filling my mouth completely
I am turned into a human shaped jelly quivering
with the anticipation of swallowing the cream of his pre ***
flowing out of that divine slit.
I call him Ben
When his naked hips ****** his stiff **** down my throat
I feel divinely graced with unconditional love
and I realise he owns me.
I am his ****.
I am his Slave.
I await the whip.
I long for the sharp sting of the lash.
I need the tender chastisement that only Ben can give me.
I call him Ben and he is  my Master.
He tells me stand with my hands on my head
and I immediately comply with his order for I am his Slave.
His very own *******.
There to give him the pleasure he gets from whipping me.
There to offer all parts of my nakedness to the whip in his hand.
Why is Sado-Masochistic love with Ben so lovely?
Why is the pain of his whipping so soft and gentle and tender and stinging?
Why do I stand with stiff **** jutting out and ***** dangling
begging him--beseeching him to take advantage and whip it as he does?
Each stroke of his whip making my **** **** and bounce and sway
turning it red and so mildly painfull?.
I call him Ben and I love him.
Ive loved him for 29 years.
But alas he does not love me unconditionally..
When we are together he humiliates me and I love him more--for his weakness in being the Slave of the Mind and Conditioned Identity.
I love feeling inadequate when I am near to him.
I want him to humiliate me.
To be humiliated is to be humble.
I do not care what people say.
I love him.
I call him Ben.
But oh how I wish wish wish that he were like me.
Mindless and Conditioned Identityless.
He could be such a nice guy if he weren't such an *******.

Here comes that grey creatures
to my pool, my demi ocean
I plead to him, please no more
I'm finished with kindness and devotions

The water people are on my case
because of the consumption of his race
and when he brings his family
I am in total dismay

Each one a giant
and each one thirsty
each one a tanker
of a hundred litres a day

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

not much of a story...
             it's only half past 10, and it's a saturday...
but i have two litres of dark *** with me,
and a bottle of hoisin sauce...
                       ****'s gonna get dangerous
   down in the kitchen...
                some pork is going to get slaughtered...
and if i get my hands on some
                                booker t. and the mg's?
       and then fry some rice, and add some eggs?
you're going to be talking to marlon brando...
without the cotton-***** stuffed into his cheeks
to speak, like he spoke, when filming
        the godfather...
                            could have smoked 20 packets
of marlboros... and you'd still get the huskies...
and the sledge... and a holiday in alaska...
                                                       ­  never mind.
hoisin sauce though? that's the dog's *******!
it goes down well with duck... chicken?
to bland...    but i'm guessing will pork will go
down well with the sauce.
         otherwise? z.z. top me...
                              i only learned yesterday,
what a boilermaker was...
                            apparently a shot of whiskey
followed by a beer...
         nothing quiete like al pacino in
                   the 1971 film, the panic in needle park...
this is going to be a feast... i can feel it...
            what do michelin star chefs eat when they get home?
some simple grub... probably egg on toast...
         i hardly think they're spectacular in their
choice of edibles to replicate their restaurant outputs...
      for them it's probably like:
            if it ain't done in 15 minutes... i'm not eating it.
hoisin? yep, that's to replace the sweet chili sauce.
           then there's the 2 litres of ***...
   well... i'm pretty sure one of the litres is for tomorrow.

A six heures trente- neuf ce matin le grand sourire et un peu trop de blush sur la joue gauche
J'ai senti qu'entre nous deux un léger décalage dans les pratiques professionnelles il y avait
Je n'ai pas su déterminer quel nombre exact de cuillères à café je devais mettre pour l'équivalent d'une cafetière pleine
J'en ai mis six
Il n'en fallait que deux
A midi moins deux minutes nous n'avions toujours pas fini nos toilettes
Il ne restait plus une goutte d'eau, juste des amas de mousse anti-cancer qui s'entassaient là à même le sol, noyés par des milliards de fourmis portant sur leurs dos trop courts des litres de caillots de sang
Le pire c'est le cancer de la vessie, on dirait de la porcelaine, j'osais à peine vous toucher, vous m'excusez?
En attendant le prochain voyage pour la planète cancer j'ai tartiné mon pain de confiture de groseilles, ou était-ce de la prune ?
Peu importe, je ne me sentais pas très bien et je voulais boire le sang de ma propre mère en prenant soin de m'étouffer avec ses quelques caillots restants, en hommage à ses quelques non-dits d'une vie plus que passée et depuis longtemps oubliée
Comme dans la cour d'école, vous ne m'avez pas choisi et j'ai senti que mes jambes me lâchaient
NE FAIRE QUE COMME VOUS ET ÉLIRE DOMICILE DANS VOTRE CAGE D'ESCALIER
J'ai dit "encombré", vous m'avez corrigée et ouvrez les guillemets, je cite: "Pas encombré, mais dyspnéique, cela s'appelle de la dyspnée"
CONN-ASSE
Je me suis appuyée contre le mur, vous ai simplement souri et tout n'allait pas trop bien avec mon blush en surdosage
Les mots étaient là coincés au travers de ma glotte, impossibles à sortir, je ne vous trouvais plus, vous ai simplement servi un café dans une petite tasse en ayant au préalable pensé y cracher toute ma morve dedans
CONNASSE, ON DIT PEUT ETRE DYSPNEIQUE ET PAS ENCOMBRE MAIS QUI DIT QUE TEL PATIENT EST P-SSSY A TOUT BOUT DE CHAMP CA VEUT DIRE QUOI D'AILLEURS ETRE P-SSSY SURTOUT QUAND ON VA CREVER?
Putain, j'ai rien pu dire du tout jusqu'au yaourt aux fruits rouges
Mes seules paroles formulées ne furent pas prises au sérieux et mon salaire ne fut plus qu’une avalanche de vers de terre en pente descendante
Comme un tel visage dépoussiéré et quelques centimètres d'un seul poumon à la surface de vos quatre-vingt trois printemps
Mais que nous reste-t-il donc à vivre ?
La tumeur est là bien visible et vous empêche de parler, presque, de respirer
Vous perdez la tête
Nous perdons la tête
Mais qu'avez-vous donc fait pour mériter telle souffrance?
Chaque nuit le même rêve d'un père que je tue de mes propres mains bouffées par la vermine
De là je l'entends geindre et ses draps sont tachés de sang mais je continue de courir
Je cours encore
Je cours toujours
Je ne sais faire que ça, courir
Je vais m'évanouir
Bon Dieu que je déteste les gens.

Mes cheveux me démangeaient alors dès la sortie des classes je suis allée m'acheter de la compote à la cerise et sur le chemin du retour mes cheveux continuaient à me démanger je les ai donc déposés bien délicatement au fond du caniveau de la rue Edgar Quinet
Je suis nulle, je suis nouille et je travaille à Convention
Et à Convention, vous faites quoi?
Dans le théâtre, je travaille dans le théâtre
Il s'appelle Boris et en fait c'est pas ça du tout
Il n'y avait pas de chauffage chez moi et la femme n'était pas enceinte
Je n'ai jamais rien compris au fonctionnement propre d'un miroir et j'ai mes derniers textes qui attendent d'être classés ainsi que la syntaxe à rafraîchir
Appelez-moi comme vous voulez et arrachez moi toutes mes dents, peu m’importe
J'ai le poste de télévision qui dérive sur la droite
Laissez-moi finir mon chapitre et surtout ne dites à personne ce que je vous ai dit
Oubliez l’écrivaine qui écrit comme elle respire
Je ne fais que torcher des culs comme on emballe des endives, le monde tourne à l'envers, le bateau coule, c'est la crise, non l'escroquerie pardon, te souviens-tu du jour où tu as rêvé...
Prendre un paquebot à l'amiante et t'envoler pour la planète Néant
N'oubliez jamais que peut-être demain matin de votre lit vous ne pourrez plus parler car durant une nuit sans fin votre tête rongée par la culpabilité aura été tranchée
Je sens je pisse encore du sang et ma vie n'est plus qu'un cargo à la dérive
Baissez donc le rideau et laissez-moi, vous m'avez assez emmerdé pour aujourd'hui.

.../...

Je l'ai vraiment tué ?

.../...

Je ne sais plus
Alors j'ai avalé les derniers débris de glace
Il respirait encore quand je suis partie
J'ai chié dans mon jean troué aux deux genoux et j'ai simplement continué de courir.

Yeah! - we win!
We Aussies win
the CoreData 2011 award:
each household will spend
an average of more than $1000
on gifts, food and deco for Xmas
Yeah! - we win!
China? $400 only
The French? $600 only
The Kiwis? $631 only
America? $644 only
The British? $815 only
Britain beats France - but
Yeah! - we Aussies beat 'em all!
Yeah! - we win!


We Aussies also win
the IBISWorld 2011 award:
Australia will spend $1.2 billion
on ***** just in December
Yeah, we win! And throughout 2011!
the UK? they drink only 10.58 litres
average year round
the USA? a paltry 8.42 liters average
And Down Under? - 10.61 litres this year
Yeah! - we win! we win! we win!

there's always that trailing off i get when i write,
oh god, whiskey is a ******...
    it drags you like a mermaid to the depths,
i start to feel an anchor in my mind
even though my heart is steady-numb...
   and i evidently become slightly dyslexic...
  but hey! what can you do:
     either drink and be miserable,
  or drink and unfold with terrible spelling at
the end of a session... and feel shame the next
day, having seen the outpouring
from the previous night...
      better still... i could recommend tending to
a small vine-patch...
and like me: taking a break from whiskey once
a year and drinking your own produce...
    unless of course you have a local turkish shop
nearby that sells out-dated beer
  at half the price... let me tell you:
that's ****** marvelous... nothing like
out-dated beer... it's right up there with the rollercoaster
and the kick! my my! it's so sudden...
      but it hits the spot,
all the disorientative effects of mushrooms:
without excess Dali lodged in your eyes...
so yeah, out-dated beer... double the trip...
but today is different, i have about 30 litres of
home-made wine just ready to be drunk,
   i've downed one bottle and i'm running
errands with the next... but i'm not miserable
in that i'm washing away my sorrows...
the funny thing about making your own wine
is that once you drink it: you celebrate...
you start to think about all the effort you put
into making it... how you picked the grapes from
the vine, how you squashed the grapes,
how you stood bedazzled by melting sugar
        in a little bit of water over the stove
(and how it started looking very much like
heavy water, or mercury, but see-through) -
and how you sniffed the stench of yeast,
and then waited for a month or so for the ****** thing
to take up strength...
   and now you're drinking it...
                    oh yes... wine in essex is very much
agreeable... and my my: i am really celebrating this
endeavour... it's not as fake as going to the shop
and buying a bottle of wine... i am drinking
my own work... i am celebrating, there's no god
or omen in the world that can tell me otherwise...
    i waited a year for this, well: two...
i don't know what happened last year, i mistimed...
the grapes froze, there was a sudden surge of frost
and i was really upset because of it, 2 years ago
i was drunk like a skunk for several days
and wrote some poems in between,
      and put my own wine on the christmas table,
but since i was ****** for so long, i could only
showcase one bottle...
      well they do say there are spirits out there,
and i must say: wine, esp. your own really is
the veritas, as the saying goes: in vino veritas...
    bring it back to whiskey, or Ms. Amber as i like
to call her... she's not sour, and she's pulverising,
so she's no friend of the tongue... in case you're wondering
i'd like to call herr goebbels right now...
         but can you feel a shame of having misspelled a word
drunk, because your hands started to feel
   a bit like a daddy longlegs with one or two legs missing?
in terms of the keyboard...
what are the prime digits?
right hand: ******* - ****! now my hands feel conscious
of me talking about them...
middle and thumb (for the spacebar) -
   index finger for the opening bracket (  
pinky finger for the enter button -
                 to make room for the next line -
which makes me wonder about my left hand,
it would appear that i'm left handed when before
the keyboard -
   the main provocators are the index
middle and... surprise surprise! the ring finger!
the left hand thumb sometimes does
                       use the space bar also...
the the right hand ring finger is hardly used...
i remember watching my doctor type at a keyboard once...
a bit like a crow pecking... it went like this:
index (right) index (left)
    index (right) index (left)
               index (right) index (left) - it was agony...
it was a bit like standing at a supermarket cashier with
an old lady in front of you, buying butter and milk
and talking for an hour while counting her change...
   ageism? no! just your typical life-bound comedy of
how the stats stack... we spend this many years in traffic...
and my, the hand thing...
       yep, next thing you'll - aha! there is the ring-finger
utility in the right hand after all - it comes with words
that come shortened, i.e. you'll... the ' mark,
and also the backspace button...
                  i was going to say: (the shift button?
pinky owns it) - as the great kabbalists have this fetish
of looking at your hands, it's worthwhile to note down
this geography of the keyboard...
   they'd just point at the indententions of the hand
and spew words out like: girdle of venus...
     malkhut (silent h) -
                 which brings to mind:
   we already know the name is silent,
  since you might be served an indian dish called
dhal... and in fact you would be served such a dish,
but you'd only say you ate daal... or dāl...
then again that's also true with the pedant puritan
who'd note it as: dhāl... which is funny that this isn't
merely coincidental... a language that doesn't
use diacritical marks, and has a third arm sticking out
of it in terms of what letters remain silent (but are
inserted into words nonetheless), and a concentration
of the same rubik's "cube" akin to y and w...
      y and i are so close! you can almost feel them pushing
together, or giving birth to something!
  why?! why?!
                         (insert snigger)... drunk humour:
it gets the better of me sometimes...
   so yes, that thing about kabbalists and the hand thing,
other words could be included, like: keter,
               bina(h),             gevura(h),  
strangely enough Hod...   tiferet (what a beautiful word),
    yesod....     chok(h)ma(h)...   chesed...
netzach! hey! surfing u.s.a., i think i'll bring my banjo
to sniff out whether i'm part of the scene:
dangle dangle plop plop... ah poo...
                   p pi po'h...           and last weekend
we had snow... it scared the bejesus out of people
for a while, but things returned to normal nonetheless...

- interlude -

the tyranny of being conscious...
long recognised by eastern philosophy and the practice
of meditation...
  to be away from me...
        and they do so, splendid,
and then all toward vanity, given you're forced
into dreaming... so even when you're not even
conscious... i.e. unconscious...
   you're being fed a dream...
  and however disroted that you in the dream
is... there's still you...
oddly enough: if i make thinking = dreaming
   i can honestly say: i wish i dreamed more
than i thought... me not a mighty oratory gob
after all...
            evidently doing hallucinogenics
   was to excavate the dream into the waking hour...
and that's how i'll leave this interlude,
   i just imagine andy warhol testifying about fame
at the opera...
   or that's me bound to watching:
   alain de botton... or what does need diacritical
marks: alain dé bóttą...
                        dé bóttą... the art of travel,
                    on the QE2...    
      dé bóttą! oh the marvel, French of all languages
is nasal and glottal! when speaking Polish you
might as well be talking in razors...
                  Greek and lisp, English and Cockney rhyme...
and the lost trill of the R... R hollowed out...
                and once again to modern times:
the imperial march (darth vader's theme) vs.
     beethoven's 9th symphony...
                                                             tra la la -
both as universally acknowledged as the sound of
a ****... and perhaps a pigeon's coo-woo
                                                                                       -

...the interlude actually contains what ignited me to
write... drinking aside, but drinking too...
   in all too a great happiness that somehow i live
a life that asks for narrative minimalism,
               i can say: and in between i did **** all,
i thought profanity was necessary,
            and how i'd wish i'd have written a epic
like don quixote... but then i thought: keep it real,
keep it real... av a laugh...
                           i'll probably taste the sour from the wine
sometime soon, once the narrative becomes a Gobi
and i get worked about the eventual loss of
   a carpe diem quickie...
                           but it's still there, for the moment...
        and having realised that: it's gone.
               and i did say:
    by the personnae principle, in line with not writing out
a Tolstoy, i have to admit that i never know
who i encounter in my exploits...
            and there is a personnae principle at work here,
it's not Shakespeare, that much i know,
   it's the practice of personnae incorporation that
does away with: and Titus said:
                                      veni! vidi! vendredi!
(oi oi, enough of the French static, ya ponce!)
          so that's that, poetry has come to resemble
   modern art... given the personnae principle
we have done away with all the intricacies of
        writing a Shakespearean play...
Titus - lo!
   Anthony - a plum tree!
                          as a person competent with narratives
i ask for all people to leave the building...
   a pit of tongues i might also add...
      populo in singuli!       ah freckles and ash...
it has to be: pertaining to the vulgate...
   nothing better than speaking illiterate latin ol' boy...
  a bit like richard brautigan
writing the pill versus the springhill mine disaster -
there the buds of the concept personnae (without clear
indication that we are dealing with a crowd,
so no memorable quote or character, the narrator
is trying to keep his **** together, pardons for the laziness
and lack of indicative marks that there are actually
more people in the room than could be expected...
me and drunk me make up a thousand crude-essentials
as to what is intended to imply: having a good time) -
    sometimes poetry is just that: a quickened code for
acting, albeit without any character-study,
        or diet, or paparazzi...  and it's so quick... you've
watched a movie like a mosquito lived its life and you're
writing the credits...
       like richard brautigan wrote that poem -
      when you take your pill
           it's like a mine disaster.
       i think of all the people
      lost inside of you.
richard brautigan! richard brautigan!
this is the mine disaster company, over!
         yes, we number 34 souls in total.
       and there's your thesis! it must be hard to
write "poetry" and never, not once: experience
the Styx in your travels, the pit of tongues,
         or the personnae principle...
              always bound to rigid narrative constructs,
alway having an aliby with a 'he said it!'
          it must get horrid sometimes,
   living that life of a puppeteer / narrator -
     never really drunk with pesky humour -
       never once enjoing a wicked thought -
        a meddle on the omnius frivolity of life...
but personally? i find it almost bewildering that
of all the ancient Greek gods... Hades was homeless...
that's before Hades was a noun designating a place,
a realm... i just find it hard
to believe that of all the gods, Hades didn't have a temple...
    the only god from ancient greece that didn't
have a temple... sure, they had a statue of him,
  but there was no temple to see to benediction...
now i really think i've over-stepped it...
                     the wine is imploring me to end this
polyphonic nonsense, and think of a monophonic
sound of a woodpecker... relax... think of the sound
when wood is chopped...
      relax... forget this circus of what could be
described as a theoretical exploration of a schizophrenic
symptom... think of a monty python sketch...
        calm



                                                                                 .

.the better part of a Friday night

grim.. times... what better way to pass a drinking session than to translate some Horace... i see no other worthy time-consuming scoop of any events to follow, this:

humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam iungere si velit et varitas
inducere plumas undique conlatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne,
spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici?
credite, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum persimilem,
cuius, velut aegri somnia, vanae fingentur species,
ut nec pes nec caput uni reddatur formae.
scimus, et hanc veniam
petimusque damusque vicissim;
sed non ut placidis coeant inmitia, non ut serpentes
avibus geminentur, tigribus agni.

some first reading... sounds like chasing a chimera...

with a human head on a horses' neck: should a painter
tie the two together on a whim, and other limbs
collected from everywhere: puff up duck feathers into
a pillow or a bed cover - from "nothing"... hey presto!
that a beautiful woman from the torso up with a
fish's black tail below to boot...
on exhibition: would you, friends,
not burst burst out with laughter? believe: Paisans!
similar to this image will be the book:
in which as in an ill man's dream, in delirium,
the head and the feet belong to different
forms
i use this law and i recommend others to use it too,
but not to equate gentleness with a wildness:
with a bird a serpent, a lamb with a tiger...

angels and mermaids... what is no less or... no more:
improbable? perhaps neither...
but in the guise of monotheism... everything is still
somehow sensible...
where there was: half and half...
what angel of monotheism is a half and half
when contending for existence among unicorns...
mermaids or centaurs?
a chimera and a cyclops... **** with a minotaur...
but... such events of monotheistic grandeour are...
supposedly the better respected...
for all the respect i gave unto Knausgård -
because it comes from monotheism:
an angel is to be seen as more than a mermaid...
perhaps... if the angel is of my form...
has the wings... but for its mouth?
a pecker mask... a 50:50 share ratio of...
what a racial "mongrel" would otherwise burden his
shadows with...
a pecker mask akin to those masks
worn at the Venice carnival:
doctor doctor black plague masks...
with a muffed-up speech... as if shouting into
cotton puffed up...
esp. cotton candy...

and this is a sort of friday where i'd much prefer
translating latin... god... where did all these modern
prepositions and conjunctions from from:
into the fore?! there's only one song of worthy summary...
the specials - ghost town.

- Autorank Total 10 ( higher is reduced to 10 ), professional similarity 10 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.7 (of 1) -

poetry and order... yes...
yes... very much akin to rhymes...
and very formal language...
but this is hardly a "micro-aggression",
on my part...

it's funny that i never paid any attention to this detail...

hoc erat in votis

i was never into brian jonestown massacre, more of a dandy warhols' fan, but then brian jonestown released the album aufheben and pawns of the palette started picking up not only seminal citric acids and kashmir's spices, but sharp grooves of some distant geography, which of course, all in all: to my liking.

there's nothing like listening to the opening
track of the aufheben album (panic
in babylon, instrumental) and reciting a
bit of horace; should i be accused of sounding
pompous, here's horace himself

    hoc erat in votis: modus agri non ita magnus,
    hortus ubi et tecto vicinus iugis aquae fons
    et paulum silvae super his foret. auctius atque
    di melius fecere. bene est. nil amplius oro,
    maia nate, nisi ut propria haec mihi munera faxis.

    it was the aim of my wishes: a snippet of arable land,
    a garden, in the vicinity of my house a source of
    fresh water and a grove upon a ***** of a hilly eminence.
    the gods beyond their intentions bestowed upon me
    the loot of my thus lived fate. i have enough!
    i do not implore for more either in this heart of mine
    or among incense or blood of sacrificed bulls at the altar
    where worship is prescribed unto them, but only give me,
    son of May, the chance to use these bestowals.

(translated from polish, and, as would be expected of me,
involved in translation, adding something of my own,
as you can see, the latin prepositions and conjunctions
are reflective of the number apparent in the english language,
but it's hardly a concern with other words,
awaiting a unanimous - not necessarily an N between
two vowels, or because of H, as is exampled by
a great alphabetical distancing of the vowels,
or simply because of the latin tongue-twisters of
the grapheme æ and œ - awaiting a unanimous
decision of the compound words stalled by the hyphen
form, e.g. light-bulb / lightbulb (underlined as a spelling
mistake) by the oxford dictionary committee...
but let's not get as crazy as german spelling
glue... it would make james joyce pale even by finnegans
wake standards of the 100 letter word... i know... english
is a language spelled like shotgun shrapnel, and german is spelled
like a wedding cake or scottish fudge, thick and bulging;
what was i going to say? i took a step into the heraclitean
river and the river took me elsewhere, the ice cubes
in my whiskey citric barley are melting, and i dream
of venice being the modern atlantis along with the maldives).

elsewhere in a grammar lesson:

people think the pinnacle of poetry is coupling
adjectives with nouns, but of course,
given adjective & verb coupling is commonplace:
and when they say poetic v. practical,
they then say the hidden practicality of poetry
via, e.g. 'nicely said;' but of course!
we need a sombre musicality of the tongue
with so much dead machinery around us!
the elders complain about headphone "zombies,"
marching like urban myth lemmings on zebras
toward death... but have you actually listened
to those mechanical sounds on concrete?
horrid! when was the last time you heard an owl's
call in the dead of night in a forest? me!
about a year ago: three by my count.

- Autorank Total 9.9, professional similarity 10 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.1 (of 1), cliches -2 (of -3) -

the Cyber Pavlov Experiment

and my favorite "poem" in this ranking system,
which, i guess is an a.i. calculator...
i'm most interested in the professional similarity,
i can understand the concrete vs abstract ranking...
but the noun/verb/etc order?
in poetry? again... this is not a "micro-aggression"...

so, i'm on this page, and i meet my ****** pusher,
sure as hell he's pushing ******,
although it's digital, the site / street corner?
allpoetry.com i get to publish 2 poems,
but can't publish more, i have to comment,
and comment positively,
'allo comrade Stalin! then comment on
2 poems, and get this message:
Congratulations, you've achieved level 2,
and are now an "emerald cat"!
To reach the next level you need:
7 x comments, 1 x enter a contest, 1 x favorites,
1 x edit an item. • What are levels?
i am not playing candy-crush saga!
i'm not! i'm not even kidding you,
what is this ****?!
we've been ****** by paedophiles
anonymous?!
                      please get me off
this ****** grid of the Cyber Pavlov Experiment...
likes and comments and saliva and cookies...
    or premeditated minority reports -
  akin to Orwell's thought crime gestapo -
    god it sounds **** when said: g'eh'sh'tap'oh.
                    or how to use the internet
akin to deciphering and censoring established
media outlets...
                              obviously social media
can't replicate socialism, it's a media outlet,
                  but it can for sure ******* with
all the little capitalistic mind games that lead
to nothing but the Pavlov experiment -
            and that was with dogs...
try that with a ******* Gorilla and i'll watch you
cradle prosthetic limbs while
he rips your original limbs off like he's playing
                a harp:
            then you can rhyme: twinkle twinkle little thumb,
    how i wished you were attached to my hand to my arm
to my torso...
                        that's the same story
we had recently concerning a Mr. Kumbuka...
  who escaped enclosure, and proved the a.d.h.d.
        complex correlation with exposure to
sugar... ****** drank 5 litres of concentrated blackcurrant
squash replying: i'm mad at the keepers for keeping
me on a diet! i do king kong and you do the frenzied
blonde maiden.
              it's still a concern for me that they herded the poets
into an area worthy of zoological inspection,
                meaning that they base their worth on
    deplorable points system: like they're immigrants
waiting for visas to Canada -
                          comment, like, blag and blabber your
way into that new country, known to all of us present
              as Si S / Silicon State... by my count that's
the 51st, or the secular version of the Vatican.

- Autorank Total 2.3, professional similarity 1 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.7 (of 1) -

but now... i'll just post the most "pop" poem from
here-on-in there... for that hard-on autorank...

clues as precursor:
- Strong words: army, audience, beef, box, brick, canvas, cubes, eating, fan, fares, football, lines, match, minced, outside, people, poem, poets, river, scrabble, scroll, short, slab, song, steak, striking, stripes, tartar, tomatoes, wave, writing  
-Weak words: albeit, always, answer, any, bad, be, become, bothered, circa, coherency, could, critic, deliberate, effect, eh, elsewhere, enough, escape, event, form, gather, get, had, happen, hardly, impact, intent, international, invent, long, merely, mind, modest, national, never, nice, nothing, perhaps, personally, presume, question, rarely, reason, recluse, repeating, repetition, somehow, sometimes, started, subconscious, subsequently, succumb, tender, thinking, translation, treat, understand, version, very, want, was, well, what, will, worth, would
- Cliches: to be a, i want

****... too early for an autorank...
so here's a pre-scriptum i wrote for...
what i wanted to feed the autoranking system...

this poem has circa 11 thousand views, "elsewhere"...
and i just... would like... to see the score for it...
the very and repeating: twist on the rotten tomatoes' score
"leverage" between audience and "critic" scores...
i gather that the autorank on this canvas is not...
somehow "deliberate"... i presume i have this slab
of minced beef... and when i put it through...
i'll get... a nice cubism version of a ripe steak: medium rare...

then again: i was always a fan of rare...
mind you... it's never raw, it's not tartar cubes...
it's rare... like the person eating... a rarified recluse example:
like a recluse of a rarified worth of all examples given...
this noun/verb/etc. "coherency" score...
perhaps this a.i. scrutiny hasn't bothered to answer
to no asked question... people can still "un-scramble"
or... un-scrabble bad grammar and understand it...
nothing ever has to be: brick on brick like a long
winding river...
it sometimes can arrive at us...
"lost in translation"... some people speak some
languages with no ill-intent...
they just can't escape the pedagogy rubrics of
subconscious grammar layer upon layer upon layer...
is this... a reason to subsequently rhyme?
personally? i treat rhyme as a phenomenon...
a phenomenon that has to happen rarely...
and when it does: it has to be a striking "pose"...
but enough of the pre-scriptum...
i want to see how this poem fares in the autorank filter...
albeit, this given: this pre-scriptum will have had
an impact on the score...

line repetition, eh? the lines are too long or too short?
what was that poem... when you could somehow
invent: "thinking outside the box" of any form,
or when tender poets started to succumb to the cascade
effect of writing - to merely fill-up scroll speed and space?
it's hardly an event like the mexican wave at
a football match... or how...
the white stripes' song: seven nation army
has become the international... well... that's modest...
the national (english) football clubs' anthem...
when a goal is scored... or whatever you like, otherwise...

or cliches... really?!
how about... oh... i remember this one most fondly...
visual poetry...
fallen... by... jörg piringer...
and unlike any modern painting...
this one really does require a description,
as cited on poetryfoundation.com:

/jörg piringer works in many forms, including visual, digital, and sound poetry, as well as music. In "fallen," piringer combines a visual sensibility with computer programming skills to tumble text from the English translation of The Communist Manifesto into a pile at the bottom of the page. The result is a mass of letters stripped of their original meaning and representing the failure of an idea./ Geof Huth

and no, by no kind reprint...
perhaps modern painting is what it is...
because... there's an alternative, like fallen?
if you can "paint" with words in adverts...
and paint i imply: stress the psychological impact
of coca-cola written in circa: formal scripts -
(why no italics? you can't... just can't,
write a colon and in italics after...
the colon represents emphasis,
as does the italics... tautology or something -esque)
derived from 17th century handwriting...
or... say... volkswagen... written in blackletter &
lombardic scripts... esp. circa 1935...
while all the propaganda posters were on
display...

given all of this? well... do i have to somehow:
bemoan how terrible modern art is?
cubism is not cricitißed - but dada is -
or let's call it... the most bloated
menu of culture citationand)
Barnett Newman painted this masterpiece,
‘Onement VI’, in 1953.
it sold for close to US$44 million...

i can't say such painting is "good" or "bad"...
after a while you just have to call a spoon a spoon...
a knife a knife, a table a table...
onement vi? blue canvas with a straight line
down the middle; form? rectangular...
and that's when thinking can take place...
i gather than modern art is trying to depict:
primodial man acquiring geometry...
after all... only recently i cound the difference
between the western man and slavs...
how the afro-european now lives in germany
and the west... including italy...
and how the indo-european lives east of germany
in some parts of scandinavia and greece...
a totally new discovery...

but... but... i can compensate for modern art...
with what is visual poetry...
if jorgen schmoorgen can do an abstract of a communist
manifesto... here's my take on...
John Constable... because... frankly...
i have yet to properly deal with this particular piece
of writing - as it's fresh... to subsequently aspire
for... a j. m. w. turner... not yet... not yet...
as ascribed to Juba...

the poem itself is... good grief...
always the same with me...
i go to kenya and i'd want to **** all the ivory
beauties...
a mother is in hospital and all the nurses
are black and i'm like...
what a clean and sterile environment this
is... unlike my today which began
finding an acne dot on my little richard...
(i get the joke... spotty ****)...
having to defrost a fridge freezer in
the shed because:
'z przybytku głowa nie boli'
oh yes it does...
not when what someone deems to be
"enough" do you have to count the trivial...
unnecessary things...
which is not a shame regarding my ***
winning a pulitzer price for... never mind...
i claim lack of sun...
black privelege... impeccable skin...
and... ivory beauties...
n'est ce pas?
alternative i have found an outlet to...
it's become brutally boring...
*******...
i found it... in... japanese gravure...
i had to... esp. when 1970s italian *****
classic died... and everyone is doing
this act older than beer and the giza
pyramids... phellatio and you're like:
so when did the ice-cream dream go away...
the peeling the banana...
and all this ******* gagging begin like
there's everyone with their third tonsils
removed... where mouth is no different
from *** or **** to be RAMMED!
lucky for me i still have my third tonsil...
which means i can drink cold beer in winter
and not get a soar throat...
- lucky for me i still have my *******...
god... if i didn't... i don't think i'd have
the "moral compass" to "get away with it"...
unless i was a woman with a web-cam...
in which: it almost becomes akin to reading
a book... it's like: it's there for the sole use of
pleasuring yourself or... as i like to call it on
throne of thrones (the toilet)...
first you do the no. 1, then the no. 2...
then you start doing the no. 3 to see...
whether you've done no. 2 completely...
it sometimes happens that having an *******
dilates the **** to the point where:
there's a shady **** loitering in the "back"
somewhere... which would explain ****-erotica...
in reverse to the act of ****-erotica of being
penetrated... i.e. in this scenario...
finishing doing a no. 2...
after that? downhill a quick side-step for
a no. 4 in the shower - baptism...
but... yeah... the men that shame men with
regards to *******?
they must be circumcised men...
shaming other circumcised men...
i think to think how a circumcised man
could shame an uncircumcised man for this act...
that's like... circumcised women...
shaming uncircumised women...
for jerking off with a web-cam...
uncircumcised women and...
explosive libido... whatever the stereotypes
are... circumcised men...
uncircumcised men...
there has to be a: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar joke around here somewhere...
i'm trying to find it...
but i have found that: circumcised men
shame other circumcised men over *******...
while the uncircumcised men are like...
if only i were a woman and had a webcam...
if society had a niche consumer base for that...
"sort of thing"...
i'd be making money from one
genocide of a fraction of myself ever so often...
i.e. it's killing when the ***** is owned
by a woman (sensible... sensible...
i don't mean the former chinese 1 child
state policy of: statistics at all costs...
even at 8 months old)...
but if that's the case...
then a session of hanky-panky...
sterile... washing under the ******* etc.,
i'm practically doing erotica-genocide
slim film no. 3890... ever since it started aged
8... when i discovered Onan...
way before the white nation army came out
from the hades of the *******...
how the ******* of ***** has nothing
to do with the ******...
the muscles and nerves are wired so to the brain...
that i'm pretty sure a castrato feels
the same...
**** chicken shaming...
it must be circumcised men against
circumcised men: ******* missing olympics...
no wonder... you peel a ******* potato...
you have to throw it in some water
to prevent it from darkening...
that's of course: prior to cooking...
so you have to find the ****** cushion
brigade from time to time...
a "sword" without a "sheath"...
rust or egomania or: motivational talk talks...
because Kant was never going to be my:
bachelor of the year for the 215th time in a row...
kierkegaard famously didn't marry...
erectile "dysfunction":
not a real problem in my own company
or in the company of prostitutes...
but a serious ******* problem among
the "free women" of western europe...
it's like one of those vague "superpowers"...
women speak of turn-ons and turn-offs...
yeah: i too have my limp switch too...
somehow... this "thing" is not automated...
it's not like spam-mail... it doesn't always:
"rise to the occassion"...
the mood swings of my *****...
i'm starting to think that perhaps neurology will
explain more about my brain
than my suma summarum will ever tell me
about this excess of the 21st digit (which
of course includes the 10 precursor toes)...

as i haven't read marquis de sade in a long while...
and i'm not touching any modern erotica,
and ******* bores me
and how japenese gravure is the next best
all-spice of brain fever...
and how: if this little harlot went to sudan
for her nitty-picking a tartan lover,
or if she decided for rwanda...
i have to guess the fiction and fantasy...
for me, at least... has to rely on...
a bull in a porcelain shop...
or as the kama sutra says:
a rabbit **** is hardly going to ****
an elephant ****... lengths and depths...
all round!
which makes you wonder...
genghis khan must have been...
or has to be... the ***** envy shitlord
of a whole lot of people with the surname
Khan in pakistan.

symphony arrangement for poetry - personae distinctions of hidden violins and woodwinds, somewhere along the way brass - leaving Cabaret Voltaire (Zurich), moving to the Beat Hotel (9 Rue Gît-le-Cœur, Paris), ending up on the Cowgate (Edinburgh).

when you read newspapers you realise that dinosaurs roam
the land, the fortress of printing press, unlike the printing press
(which was taken seriously from the word go!)
the internet has been largely squandered; you read these
things in newspapers, the evolutionary reaction - ensuring that
among these dinosaurs are also opinion pieces, dinosaurs write accounts of what's happening, batrachotoxin amphibians write
opinions: i.e. what isn't happening: opinions go forward unchecked
and undisputed, added that there are many potions in the cauldron
it's hard to pick one out and dig deeper until both parties are in no position to hold such and such opinion, given the missing
muscle of implementing change or the skeleton to keep
the status quo - but this is a slight deviation from what i
was intending to convey - the old guard of printing is worried
sick that it might be usurped in the long run - it prints damaging
reports about the existence of the internet, looking at it as not
a niche environment, which it technically is - but cats, ****, cats,
****, apparently we all log on to meow and moan -
as a tool of entertainment it's the least thrilling source of
the desired "entertainment", the unscripted nature of this niche environment is what's actually good about it, in that a single
person can become both writer, editor and publisher -
but indeed, the internet has been squandered,
although it improved from what used to be a wholly anonymous
environment peppered with dangers of random encounters -
the infamous chat rooms changed even more to infamous
phone-books: you heard it, stories of cyber bullying - the internet
has been squandered, by all means, trying to save it is a bit like
trying to save the world, or as one Tao principle suggested to me
early on forged in me: the best way you can aid the world
is to forget the world, and let the world forget you.
a film director would say, well, i'm stuck in the house,
i'm thinking of shooting a biopic of Lawrence of Arabia...
i see a desert, a man riding a camel through it...
but you have to then start muling over the facts: you'll have to get funding, get the casting right,  but no one likes shooting in
the desert, you have to get  the catering sorted, you start shooting,
but the camera track ruins the desert, so you have to move
to another part of the desert that's pristine with wind parallel
ridges in the sand, then the studio calls you and says you're
spending too much money, then peter o'toole stumbles
out from the trailer hungover almost everyday; sure, you need inspiration and ideas, but that's only 1% or the whole,
99% is working with people - as a director you're not actually
playing god, you're helping other people, De Niro preferred
mumbling something prior to a scene, but Seymour Hoffman
went into a scene like a crocodile quickly snapping
to the shout of cut! and the clapperboard.
i suppose poetry could be like that too,
99% being the audience and the necessary oration,
that would work - unless of course you'd do the same with
painting - but whereas with painting you're invited to critical
thinking, see an artist next to his painting elaborating on
the themes and use of colours? i don't want to assert common sense
wisdom from one profession and apply the same wisdom
                                      to another with a trans-occupational
relativism: that red           is relative to               crimson -
              but we'll have to do away with lighting,
              darkening and what not, so yes,
red is relative to crimson insofar as we forget lighting
and Edward Hopper. anyone can appreciate the
lazy approach, but i took to some mammoths without the help
of audio books, a reasoning man, not a mob gob emotive conjurer worth a tonne of heckles and haggles - but i guess the dream
through this gamble would be the monetary reward...
you know... after so many years writing for peanuts i have lost
all appetite for spending money beyond what i consider
to be a workable cure for insomnia - i don't have to buy music
any more since i can stream it, i have more privacy without
a mobile phone, all i have is this little brick wall that's stationary
in this virtual jungle on which i scribble - with the radius from
this point being anything ranging from 1 to 6 sensible miles,
beyond 6 and we're talking blisters on feet; can you imagine what
our predecessors could endure in terms of walking? they had hoofs
instead of feet, while we have skin as smooth as a baby's buttock
cheeks on the soles of our feet. the strangeness of modernity:
1. a man drives a car with with a bicycle on the roof, just so he can    
    peddle down a scenic route...
2. the volume of skimmed milk bottle is the same as full fat milk,
    but if you bought full fat milk and added water to it the volume
    would triple (via semi, so yes, triple)...
3. healthy diets - 350% increase in vegan population
   in Britain over the past 10 years - the protein problem
   (once it was the fat problem, low fat yoghurt came about,
    turned everything into a sugar problem), i.e. women aged
    between 19 & 24 requiring to hit the 58 gram daily
    recommendation of protein would have to eat:

everyday foods
chicken breast (251g = 276Kcal)
eggs x4 (460g = 658Kcal)
salmon fillet (291g = 533Kcal)                                 v.

clean-eating foods
quinoa (1,318g = 1,582Kcal)
chia seeds (371g = 1,818Kcal)
                              goji berries (405g = 1,504Kcal)
                              kimchi (3,222g = 863Kcal)
                              tofu (707g = 70Kcal)
                              ******* (384g = 632Kcal)
                              coconut yoghurt (3,422g = 6,844Kcal)
almond milk (14,500ml = 3,625Kcal)
avocado (2,900g = 4,843Kcal)

  as healthy as stuffing turkeys for Thanksgiving, can you imagine
  drinking fourteen, fourteen litres of almond milk?! i don't even
  have to imagine drinking 700ml of whiskey to get the point
  and reach the threshold of the effectiveness of sleeping pills...
  no alcohol, no sleeping pills, better sit it out than take so near  
  ineffective buggers; although as a warning: you might end up
  sleeping for *12 hours - variations on the BMI and previous habits
  of drinking - socially? not so much, medically? primarily -
  not in favour of the anti-alcohol lobby being part of the "safety"  
  guidelines given to the public...
4. charities' costs eat up 78% of donations,
    another 21st century anomaly, effectively dismissed
    by the church's alms giving history depicted in Sistine opulence,
    so no wonder whether in cardinal robes or suited and booted for
    the near-invisible secular religiosity, such poverty of symbolism
    compared with the predecessors, at least back then you'd
    know who to send to the guillotine - and this is how Louis XIV
    treated his courtesans, he made a certain type of clothing
    mandatory, a Versailles school uniform as it were,
    most the the courtesans went bankrupt having to buy the
    clothes, some pieces would be equivalent of a sports car,
    they went bankrupt to remain in the club,
    so they borrowed monkey from Louis, and so Louis kept
    them in his pocket: poor rich people, or necessary
    leeches (as once used in medicine, Louis' absolutism
    being the sole malady, abuse of power necessitates
    paranoia); or to quote Lisolette about the royal *******
    'mouse droppings in pepper.' Philippe (Duc d'Orléans)
    was the transvestite who charged into battle
    and conquered the Dutch, much to his brother's
    shame at having only made conquests in the bed - well
money here, money there, shoving a piano into a concert hall accompanied by an orchestra, something Chopin would never
do not wishing to leave the comforts of salons - although
Metallica dared to.
                                                             ­           welcome to
the age of silica and chameleons (cha cha cha champ a camcorder anyone? well, imagine what scrutiny Narcissus would pay a photograph, imagine giving a photograph to Narcissus and
wonder would he change his behaviour), get fooled by
the adverts once, second time you'll eventually see needing to feed
a charity's bureaucracy rather than an African, hence the migrant
                                                                                                    crisis...
sometimes there are no surprises as to where certain things
originate, Marxism and England, zenith of the empire,
or as historians claim, the decadence of the Romans was their fascination with food prior to the end: ready-meals and
microwaves among cooking shows, currently the daily program
of channels, esp. that of 4 is culinary and horse racing,
all the interesting programs are broadcast when everyone
is about to fall asleep... Saville bankrupted the B.B.C.
posthumously: a game show, "jackpot" of one grand.
- advertisement didn't expect live T.V., the mute button,
the pause button and the fast forward button...
but in a 100 years time if not more they'll look back at us as
having finally exhausted Groundhog Day (starring Bill Murray) -
sure, the technological breakthroughs were great, magical,
but the content? 20th century most probably,
the ideal time of fluid and at ease plagiarism - obviously
exceptions were made, but this walking nightmare
of the exhausted second half of the 20th century caught up
in the 21st century - dialogue replaced by visuals,
clash of the titans (1981) v. clash of the titans (2010) -
the only good bit of the latter is the inclusion of Hades -
it's beautiful, i'm nostalgic to a history i was born in and
belonged to, i'm not a nostalgic Nietzsche or Hölderlin
bumming about singing praises of the Ancient Greeks -
you see, it's close-at-heart nostalgia because i belonged to it,
the infant of it - a peculiar circumstance to be in; or coming
to terms with the first signs of decay: cartoon network's
cow & chicken with i r baboon - have you seen the horrors
of modern cartoons compared with computer graphics?
readies them to  pick up gaming soon after,
given gaming graphics. in summary - some say sitting behind
a computer screen is a sign of a lack of self-assurance,
or confidence, self- anything you want to suffix with, well,
that could be true, but you have a photograph included,
and the days of the typewriter are over - but i could also say
the same about certain brands or shops, are they too lacking
self-confidence to stop their existence on  the high street?
the royal mail delivers junk, you might get 100 junk envelopes
and a christmas  card... o.k. make that 1000 to 10,000 envelopes
of junk and one letter directly addressing you that hasn't been
written using an analogue like

dear mr. / mrs. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

we would like to inform you that your insurance
claim has expired.            etc.

the infancy of this century is what's deceptive, the greatest
deception i can think of - the great health scares and subsequent
over-usage of antibiotics breeding super-bugs in hospitals
anything and everything under the sun - including
that damnable idea that the planet Mars employs people whom
it's attracting into its orbit - earthly geologists must be bewildered
that the only subject of learning from all of man's
capacity to send into space is geology: and on the return flight
home we realised that we'd only be bringing back some arenite
(sandstone); that quote about about painting being 50 years
ahead of writing, the same is true with science fiction and
actual science.

Je n’y arriverai pas alors autant tout faire

…/…

Je t’emmerde ?

…/…

Je veux combattre des chattes puantes et dégoulinantes en me défonçant la
cervelle sous la rame d’un métro
Les poubelles ce soir débordaient de litres de sperme dégorgés pendant le week-end
Vous aviez dans le passé un bien joli cul
Mais je ne suce pas monsieur
Je rêve simplement

…/…

Je n’ai plus qu’à me faire kidnapper
Il ne me reste plus rien d’autre

…/…

Ceci est mon testament

…/…

Tu m’aimes ?
Parce que moi je n’aime que moi

…/…

Je ne suis que veines nécrosées, désabusées, vaine écrivaine immortelle, ivre de mots ensanglantés, qui mange des glaces dans la nuit noire en se faisant vomir de folie

…/…

Elle s’est réveillée un matin
Elle avait rêvé toute la nuit, elle se sentait plutôt bien
Elle ouvrit les yeux et se rendit compte que tout autour d’elle
lui était devenu étranger
Tout son monde, le meilleur comme le pire, avait disparu
Elle n’était plus que vide dans un corps qui ne bougeait plus.

There’s you,
coming up to breathe
for but a few heartbeats
before returning to the
deep, where there’s none
other than those who
belong.

Oh, what a marvelous space,
inverted space to be exact,
to live and float while
still retaining our right to
drift, kick and scream
to noone else but us.

At several leagues I
heard a sound that gave
my neck a chill, but not
the kind that makes one small,
instead the kind that feeds
gigantism in the icy north’s
hadal spheres.

From there, the rest seem lightyears off,
and closely similar in kind and way,
but as you rise at speeds that would
give a man the bends, those waves
will wash away the frightened guppy
until only the brave and strong remain.

It’s a long way down for sure, to
those who couldn’t sense or feel
that rush of bubbling need for fresh
and clean sky in the lungs,
so now theirs hold about a
half dozen wet litres each,
the poor fools.

But what a sight it was to see,
to watch the whitecap gleam
above a newly capsized crew,
and presently neath the sun and
moon and stars at same time;
to hear the truest form of life
that came from both high and low;
now that was worth a second look,
or a third.

And there was I,
wading with my
smallest green lure
and bishaded buoy,
and nothing else was.

Who made the Orange,
for Uncle Sam.
The 60,000,000* litres,
they dropped on Vietnam?

It wasn't made, in the
United States!
So where, pray tell,
this mystery grates??

A clue for you, no
suspense, I'll keep,
It's a country, with as
many, litres* as sheep!

It's where they love to tell
you, that it is clean and
green, but it is far from that,
I know, I've been.

They were last, in the
world, to ban DDT.
They are xenophobic,
Pacific POMS, with a Zea.

               <>

No © Please Plagiarise
this poem, spread it like
slurry on the streets.

Kiwi's have just banned
foreigners from buying
property in New Zealand.

They have no rights there,
it is Maori land, Maoris are
treated like 2nd class citizens.

Default African,
Yes I am,
And a disgrace for that matter,
Yet African with Katekism,  
I am supposed to be,
Come rain, sunshine or high waters,
I have betrayed you Africa,
I have 'back-stabbed' you in the face,
And spit rotten phlegm in the wound,
Giant mother,
With this badge of slavery I now proudly wear,
**** me.  

Never have I washed my father, Or mother,
Never have I washed my grandfather or grandmother,
Neither of these have I ever dared looking after,
Yet today,
I assume total custodianship and curator-ship,
I take care of some grandfather and grandmother,
Somebody's father,
Somebody's mother,
Somebody's grandfather,
Somebody's grandmother.  

Only yesterday I was told,
Your father and mother passed away last year,
And so did your brothers and sisters,
And they were all buried like dogs,
Their burials were the talk of town,
How could you let that happen,
How could you,
And I am these enermies' comfortable door mate.  

My grandfathers were colonised,
Because of our rich land,
And now I have been extensively colonised,
Because of their pound,
Because of wanting to be a Westerner – overseas,
Away from you,
Continent of respect and dignity,
Continent of dance and song,
A continent pregnant with untold tales.  

My sick mind has been colonised,
Graduating me into a nefarious modern commercial slave,
Just but an echo of an old tune,
A worse slave than my ancestor,
The Kunta Kintes,
I am a cheap voluntary slave,
Who has been gratuitously deserted by his values,
The African values.  

I stand accused before myself,
I am a cumbrous culpable default African,
An African who has lost his ebullient Africanness,
A charlatan ******* African on a detour,
A dismantled, shameless self destroyed pimple,
A nauseating counterfeit second hand African,
An extraneous stain on Africa's underwear,
I am of as much value to Africa,
As is an over- used ****** to a  filthy growth point *******,
Regrettably, that is the African I have become.  

How I wish I washed my father and mother,
How I wish I washed my grandparents,
How I wish I took care of them,
The wish is killing me badly,
I may as I have  run away from you Africa,
But never from Africanness,
Litres of your blood flows in body pipes,
I am because you are,
I am a default African.

at your first swimming lesson, they teach you to breathe through your nose and let air out through your mouth to avoid swallowing water and although i listened closely, i may have missed a step because i am sick to death of wishing myself six feet underground but my love, it's not an easy feat to breathe with litres of salt water flooding your lungs

I

Thirsty now; mouth dry like
A desert wanderer's,
Single man in solitude
Swiping right and

Not even caring
Too much.
Just looking for trouble;
Microwave-romance, softness;

A face that fits my hand.
Guitars gathering dust, begging
St. Gibson for inspiration
To shake their owner into

Lust fuelled
Songwriting; string breaking, pick
Melting, voice straining.
For now, the last of five litres of

Italian red is floating bellywards;
Bloodwards; headwards;
Heartwards, and the drinker writes
Text message poetry with drops of

Wine hiding in barley beard too
Full for an old mother's appreciation.
I owe her a grandchild.
She says poems don't count.

II

Thirsty now; heart dry like one
Not recalling love, not remembering
A woman's hungry hands on
The back of one's

Warm, wet head, pulling, nails
Digging,
Teeth biting beard.
Skin kissing skin.

Soul seeing soul and
Celebrating.
Sweet illusion of love.
I create a bed-sharer on canvas.

I compose a breakfast-eater at my table.
A listener to my songs,
Sunset-watcher, Netflix-snuggler,
Rainstorm-listener.

I owe for her to be flesh and blood, not merely
My neurons dancing. Ears to hear
My compliments. Hair to brush
Away from between

Our lips mid-kiss.
I finish my wine.
Could have made nearly painful
Love to her

For ages and
Aeons, but I
Create her temporarily;
Fleeting image of a speaking doll.

Hold me like tears on something
Golden. Hold me like an acid
Trip fading into reality.
She says poems don't count.

She says
Poems
Don't really
Count.

A lonesome threshold,
yesterday was light as confetti / from a wedding that
bled in thirty litres of martyred roses / How long are
three hundred steps from a church, to stucco walls
the colour of sorrow?

Soil, the tint of blood,
ichor of mountain Gods, deveined for lost embrace
of roots / Wind whistling away regrets in the dust of
liberated souls / Would it sing for her, embalmed
in the bowels of earth’s sanguine hum?

April heat, weighted with a dirge
of tears salted in ocean / rusting the trumpet
and violin strings / Who will tune the piano for mass,
now that those musical men sailed before her,
in paper boat memoirs?

The Goliath tree rooted in bones,
a giant on such sustenance / gatekeeper of souls
tethered to fleshy sinews in beds of solitude /
Will she be interred in fruit, as he suppers
on her animated putrefaction?

Suffering, twice a child,
once a lady, she didn’t stay long to be swaddled
in linens of pity, cottons of commiserations /
Where will I store the enameled chamber *** for
when I grow up to be her likeness?

Nightshades, funneling viscous memories,
trumpeting in a pastel wilderness, alkaloid racket
waiting to sound in the poisons of prayerful echoes /
When will they bloom, toxic with grief of a swelling past,
so I may sleep as soundly as her?

for i cannot tell a lie
i really do hate being alive

i hate knowing that there's a mere six litres of blood in our bodies
that's three two-litre bottles of soda
three two-litre bottles of soda
is all that keeps me here
and i hate it

i hate knowing that the leafcutter ant can hold up to fifty times its weight in its jaw
and i can't even hold myself up throughout the day
for there is no one weaker than i
no one who has struggled as much as i
and i hate it

i hate knowing
that the people i once knew
and opened myself up to
have blocked me out of their minds
but i can't seem to get them out of mine

i hate that so much

but i'm not filled with hate

i love the moon
the moon is all i have left in life to look up and look forward to

and on the nights where he hides
and i can only see him behind closed eyes
i hope he can still hear me
when i tell him i've been doing just fine

and i'm not lying
i really mean it, i swear
i mean
it's just so hard these days, you know?

wish you were here

even the queen doesn't wear as many pompous garments
throughout the year, as she does  upon coronation,
or the annual opening of the parliament -
high almighty she sits, in the chamber
of the house of lords, before the
"commoners" / middle-class pimps
lords of the manor of Cambridgeshire
are later summoned by black rod -
all the knock knock jokes stem from there:
black rod - knock knock.
the commons' - who's there?
black rod - black rod!
the commons' - black rod who?
black rod - black rod you wouldn't even care,
                    the pigs' trough is waiting.
but even the queen doesn't wear
all the garments she's entitled to upon
this occasions - i mean the full garment...
so is the commoner's approach to
vocabulary... on a printed page of a book
a poem looks: so much more menacing!
it's as if i actually have stamped
each poem, and they're not r.t.s. (return
to sender) example of bypassing
and destroying the the royal mail
with a magician's snap of the fingers...
but as honesty goes, the internet made
one magic trick, snap of the fingers,
and a thousand centipedes of postmen
disappeared in a second... gone... flushed
down the social-cohesive toilet...
it's called: improvement... the Chinese
are like: bring them over, we have
a billion and we need the leg work,
done and dusted, the last meaningful
letter i ever received was... i don't remember:
safe to say: never.
i am actually comparing something,
opened a beer, sat on a windowsill,
and thought to myself: after i digest
Stephen King's media outlet with his
many ghost writers, i'll smoke a cigarette
and read that ghastly thing that has my
name and picture printed on it...
it's ****** hard to read your own thoughts
back: given elephant narcissus in the room
and the bay leaf sensation in your mouth
rereading the ******* -
oh, by the way, in my culinary arsenal,
on today's menu: pork tikka masala -
i know, a heresy, tikka masala paste extra,
but to infuriate the palette:
not ground cumin and coriander, seeds,
a bay leaf... cloves (not necessary),
and cardamon pods -
                                freshly chopped tomatoes,
creme freche instead of double cream and
yogurt - garam masala, Kashmiri chilly powder,
paprika, turmeric... anti-dementia exercise:
what the **** did i put in?
50% youth unemployment in Greece,
45% and 40% in Spain and Italy respectively,
well, if you're going to have an existential
crisis, i.e. you're not in denial about old age
and how the Dutch and the Swiss and the Belgians
are the great humanitarians of our time...
might as well have one now.
funny enough, most people will not be saving up
for a pension... they'll be saving up for
euthanasia... honest to god, the lemmings are coming!
the lemmings are coming! in human terms:
that's not a myth.
****... what a digression... even the queen doesn't
wear the many garments presiding over her
role as being understood upon the annual
opening of parliament: in layman's terms,
i mean that to be synonymous with vocabulary...
a.i. says one as an abstract version
of all the other pronouns...
   the royal says we: because there's always
an entourage of lackeys and servants -
all the commoners get stashed in i, the over-exemplified i:
egoism, you, he, she, and the paranoid collective
of the royal's we, i.e. they...
it came to me rereading the Frederick II
Hohenstaufen Linguistic Experiment -
i realised, because of certain words having
a near ~synonymous status:
mainly because they're so closely bound,
and like triplets, you can't have three different
wombs to get the bunch out
(oh, i have fried twins on toast,
once or twice, twin yokes in one egg,
i wonder: would they ever... er...
become Siamese? division gone awry,
or God teaching angels mathematics,
someone's bound to slip up... oh come on...
give room for some ****** simplicity!) -
what i want to reiterate is: even the queen doesn't
wear all the required authoritarian garments
throughout the year: look at her taste in
frocks... a puppet without a puppeteer -
now that's authority, wink-wink-oi-oi
nudge of the elbow, 'ello 'ello 'ello 'ello;
the same goes for me, you and every other
Jack and Jill... three words...
all statistical... mode... median... mean...
now, i haven't the foggiest how to differentiate
you a meaning for each... thus
looking at the poem i mentioned:
ontological modes - i.e. certain words can't
provide ontological modes -
attacking the verbiage, you honestly haven't
read continental thought, roll a spliff,
****** off... anyway...
it's like the queen's story... let's say her
garments are necessary analogy: she doesn't
wear all the pompous cloth and pearl
every day, unless it's everyday in a painting...
that's the same with vocabulary...
plus mode, median and mean are congested into
an alphabetical coercion -
let's say zoological and anthropoid -
so far apart you can almost keep them freshly
imprinted to a satisfying differential immediacy -
i.e. you can give me a meaning of the two words...
but mean (1) is soon followed by median (2)
                later comes the meaning of mode (3 -
in alphabetical order... even though
the alphabet has only a quantum chronology -
  compact a, first, then b - stranger that it
wasn't supposed to be necessarily e) -
which is why we seem to unhinge from specific
vocabularies - in education we are strained
at times to learn specific vocabularies,
but later discard them, we're actually repelled by
categorised vocabularies: niche vocabularies -
from the moment of hinging unto certain
words, we immediate unhinge from them...
leave school, learn to earn money...
as with the queen: we don't wear all the garments
of the vocabularies we were exposed to...
the difference being: she gets reminded...
the majority of us never get reminders
about using certain words: even in pub trivia
general knowledge quizzing, or that's the last
resort... for the most part, that's
what the dictionary is for:
                            it's prime utility has an
   a posteriori ontology -
                whereas the thesaurus (rex) has an
a priori ontology: which is why writers look up
words on the synonymous scale to create an exotic
jungle, which would otherwise look like the meadows
of Hyde Park... plus the dictionary states a word's
etymology - which doubles the proof that
a dictionary has an a posteriori ontology / nature
    of being used -
                                 in abstract, yes, ontology:
                 nature of being per se - box of chocolates
and Forrest Gump's wisdom on: you never know
what the kaleidoscope will show off and what you'll
get: mint?! yuck!
                             but as i already stated:
even the queen doesn't wear all the garments
required for the annual opening of parliament
every day... as with us and our lesser jewels:
words - not all words are there to be kept on
close surveillance through the year -
                     it's worthwhile remembering that
each of our faculties has a weakness...
and not all words are permanently loyal to us,
primarily through environmental fluctuations
governing their use, outside of a chemists?
would you necessarily hear nouns used in a chemist
outside a chemist? probably not...
so that's how i do mental crosswords -
well, i have absolutely no clues -
you have a bank balance an average Chinese
might have of 3000 ideograms -
    find me the tetraideogrammaton!
    earth wind & fire... & water...
                       but that's how i known i'm doing
crosswords in my head... a long forgotten word...
revisited... and instead of creating clues and guess
work: i have a narrative, anew -
a word once used in an examination paper,
later discarded, now revisited for my pleasure -
but we never have a complete account balance
of our vocabulary, that's always fluctuating like
stock-market share prices -
                we're like the queen without her
authoritarian garments most of the time -
                              we have (on purpose) set up
various bank accounts for specialised topics /
obscure knowledge - i really don't know if this
was a good idea - crosswords and obscure knowledge
trivia - again, like at school, this is a way
to misplace the greatest outlet of memory:
the optic foundation - the photographic something or other...
which, by way of consent has the power to
show us the dark room being opened -
      the Black Dot Eraser - happens all the time:
the Black Dot Eraser is like a concentrated form of
something, prone to insane gravity of pulling everything
into a nano-metre dot... a blind censor -
                      who says: i haven't seen anything prior,
and even with your words attempting to illuminate
the sense that hasn't graciously been bestowed upon me:
i will not see anything after.
                       unappealing the quest for
a unifying sense datum... of the five variations,
      given the five senses, how can we every reach
a simple i i i i i                 rather than a variable
                                      i i I I i?
      it's a basic schematic - a variation of?
some words (datum in exclusiveness) have variations
   in being ascribed sense - given there are give senses,
not every word (datum as exclusive of 4, but inclusive
   of at least 1) can be ascribed a placebo uniformity:
   i i i i i -                           since the nature of a datum is
   to show us fluctuation:
                                      e.g. i i I I i...
   given that different people, react to a word differently
in each sensual medium: the fluctuation of
   being given a piece of information inscribed in a word
when ingested by hearing, seeing, speaking, etc.
well... that's that: 200 camels came by the oasis
and drank 200 litres of water each (that is their
actual capacity after crossing a desert) -
                                                            and that's that:
testimony to the superiority of the oryx.

Lighthouse


Even though I'm blind
I hope that y'all can see
that you all are very hard to reach
even though we have hearts
and old-time wounds that bleed
we breathe the same smog
thinking that it ain't affecting me
but our minds are clouded
so no matter what you think
you all ain't fooling me

tap water, swallow 2 litres of sorrow everyday
work hard, pay bills, no time to work on my guilt today
Looking at my boss his expectations in the mirror every morning
looking at myself, swallow the bitter pill because I'm still not mourning
the void withing me is an excellent place
to fill with tears and fears
inhale poisonous smoke
ignore my blackening heart
I should clean out my closet
but I'm afraid of the dark

See what I mean?
I see you jump in an ocean of sorrow and guilt
drown yourself in bitter envy filled pills
I'm still standing on the side
where it's dry
hoping you're looking back when you've said goodbye
truth is
I just wanna go with my people
I just wanna go with my people
but I don't
and hope I never will

Gluttonous gapes and jibes jape and gibe
at a fine summer drinking wine
in solemn derisive disposition.
For 'tis summer!
and no wine tastes sweeter
than a glass of mockery, fear and dread
helped with honey-sweet spices and lead
'til the bitter wait
past the flooding litres and the sodding litter
into a halting cringing demeanour:
hatred incarnate, deathly pale and slaver wet:
the season's ending hangover get!

The  Rhino's last  stand?
my eye's still baulk .
For 15 litres used, Fina  offered collectable  cards
and this free coaster.
I  can only  think of forecourt  charges now
and blinding energy shortages,
needling the near skint.
Surely  we  had  failed  the insurmountable  test.
Eco Care conditional on my father not being disparagingly  cross promitionally  conscious?

This moment in time, about twelve
Years ago; a memory that keeps
Resurfacing these days.
I tell it over beers -not at all to brag-
To new friends and old
Aquaintances.
Self-employed, young and working
My hands to shreds to get by.
I had not eaten for days.

I'd drink litres of water
And bite my proud tongue every
Time I thought to ask my parents.
Again.
Already losing friends over debt,
I had exhausted all channels.
I'd keep my eyes on the street
Dreaming of coins.
Monday, nauseous with nothing
But myself to throw up.
In the barracks. Not a soul.
Fridge. I open it.
Boxes with lunches for thirty
Honest men. Wifemade leftovers.
Smell of homes.
I shut the fridge door.
On a shelf to my right,
A bag of buns long forgotten.
The mould only superficial.
Heaven underneath.

My eyes welled up as I ate.
I take no pride in managing to
Become that hungry
In a rich country during rich times.
But I will always remember
That I never touched
The boys' lunchboxes.

the more i stick to a routine
that might leave a few people in a mental
asylum,
    who would not welcome
frustration, doing the same thing,
over and over again,
   i.e. going to a supermarket and buying
whiskey and coke, becoming "too" friendly
with one of the shop assistants,
    knowing her name,
that's she's diabetic:
i'm only in here for the whiskey luv...
it's not that i mind,
  it's about as close i'll ever become
bewildered at life, in general...
      **** Jupiter and a moon-landing,
this bothers me more,
   i don't get the puppy-eyed look
of people embarking on a philosophical
odyssey -
i don't know why i should be prescribed
the Aristotelian: beginning with awe
  type of management of the subject,
or what Nietzsche predicted,
   and is currently known:
the narrative in the west,
alias: talking for the entire human species...
   that ****** uber-schnurrbart
really did see something...
   now i'm experiencing it,
  it's called 2 billions worth of China and India...
i'm actually, sometimes found,
listening to pointless youtube videos...
  i get it: it can get a little bit *****,
my bachelor status isn't exactly orientated
around diapers, although,
as Borat might have said:
that would be nice...
         you know they filmed that movie
in Romania, and not Kazakhstan?
              it's almost a bid sad to be around
poverty, and tribalism,
     can't make a joke out it,
couldn't make a mid-western gothic out
of it either... what with t.v. in your own company....
and yes, oddly enough...
   i have a bed, and i turn on the radio,
i never fall asleep watching the t.v.,
must be a western thing... you dig?
    1950s slang, more comprehensible than
anything i could ever hear from the slang
quarter of language these days...
   the latin quarter? busy...
literally... greece and italy backrupt...
    so, hey man, what's it like not able
to *** around the country doing factotum jobs?
    what's with that over-arching
castration concept of living with your parents?
ah, you know man,
   ****'s on the stove, and i hit a ****** note
with my saxophone...
sound very much like a wet ****...
you know, the **** you **** that almost feels
like ingesting carbonated water through your ****,
what's the word: trembling, frizzy?
    you know: do the motorboat with your lips...
i woke up today and didn't feel like living,
but the noose wasn't exactly an option...
my grandparent's neighbour?
hanged himself on a door-****,
i was visiting them when it happened...
****'s sake! on a door-****?
                      that's really desperate...
    i mean: i wish i was that guy...
but at least in the case of capital punishment:
when it was still active...
   you got the scaffold... and you dropped...
and your neck broke, and it was death in an instant...
   he had a gimp for an executioner...
   so yeah, life's cool,
i drank that wine i made in less than a week,
35 litres of it...
         i woke up today, thought:
give me the downhill... right now!
i thought i'd delay *******...
          built a quasi lego piece of the Eiffel tower,
then decided... i need to brush my teeth...
had a shower...
              then i cooked dinner...
  well... dinner two days in advance...
one sauce was a spaghetti bolognaise...
another a sauce for cottage (i.e. using beef,
not lamb) pie...
made some funky cool poh-ta-toes...
               for yesterday's roast beef,
left uncarved the previous day by being
left to get the thrill man gets
   ******* and jumping out of an ice bath...
so the juices condense, and you can almost
make out the pink flesh on the second day...
and some ménage à trois.... oh sorry...
too much Dell Boy Trotter in me at the moment:
gosh... the memories of watching that twichy
character on screen... mangetout...
and in between i took off the washing from
the washing lines in the garden...
             faked smoking sitting in the february
cold for a while...
   that's 2 meals in advance that is...
      and this really belongs to a creed that states:
if you can read... it's better to read about
something that doesn't have cars blowing up,
or avalanches... or dams bursting in northen
california... well: it's not exactly
   tolstoy's war and peace... but it's something
that allows for sensationalism of the news
and the odd chance of seeing a good movie...
    or i guess: the antidote to a good poem,
is the worst imaginable poem, actually...
saying that: people call poems bad when
they are rigid in using technique...
poetic technique... i prefer a stance on
spare of the moment / spontaneity than something
that might require a hammer of metaphor
and a nail of a pun...
           some call it innovation,
others can't say much because they're myopic...
and lo! yonder the savannah and the buckling
gazelle! right on the chin...
hoofs, no shoelaces, back legs made front legs
into spaghetti... and there... a plum on the chin...
boom... down onto the green...
          another consideration would be
a man in clown make-up crying,
    and a fat-cat billionaire laughing...
    or was that ever, not the case?
  it has to be idiosyncratic, this english "thing"
of calling laughter crying and crying laughter...
     it actually is a very english "thing",
when you get too much psychology,
about how keeping the word ego can complicate
merely saying i...
  and there's no other latin word in sight,
and you then get egoism, and egocentrism...
    i mean: what's up with that basis for a theory,
    evidently it's a case of the word becoming
too uncomfortable, since no one actually says
  ego cogito ergo ego sum... it suddenly drops off
and people who say the above end up only saying
cogito ergo sum... and is that why people
you can actually ascribe so much theory to the ****** word
that might rob people from having a narrative?
    rob the people of a narrative and you return them
into a state of being pulverised by 5 vectors,
the pentagon of the senses,
    and evidently they're unable to narrate their
day-to-day, because they're herded like wild
hysterical animals... even though they are
given the membrane of civilisation...
      it really is a case of somehow not embarking
into keeping the latin and the north barbarian
words... how can you keep up
with ego, i, self? how long will this italian
**** of bulimia and gluttony last?
     you want to keep spewing that *******
for another 100 years?
evidently there is no theory concerning i,
there's merely an ipod...
              sure sure, you could only derive a
theory if you said the unit wasn't i
(because that would be too personal to construct
a narrative) - but had to be
   the reflective ego, and the reflexive self...
i.e. that string of pronoun compounds known
as myself, itself, himself...
   and when given the scalpel... my self
   (which becomes a reflective stance on meditating
the words, rather than a reflexive pronoun
in its original... no huh? but thump!
on yer bike! go!).
   i call them for what they are...
        yes, and my parents are great,
cooked them dinner...
   just about now, when in the 1970s and 1980s...
when the first cold war was happening,
the americans / the west merely wanted
to feed stories into the soviet union,
if every spying was a c.v. joke, it happened
when ian flemming wrote his series...
   what ever happened to a campfire and telling
stories, or when we told horror stories to each other?
  spying: can you just imagine
what the job description would look like?
pst... it's a secret.
       but you know, the americans had this thing
of telling stories to the "enemy",
     false news...
                it's so obvious now, since everyone
seems to be onto it...
     well... it's happening in england, right now,
but it's not exactly an attack scenario...
it's self-mutilation, yes, a masochism...
  you reach a real dead-end when you tell lies
to yourself... and that's what england is sitting
on: an implosion of well... the n.h.s. in crisis...
the housing crisis...
                 you name it...
  i guess there were many people out there,
willing to sacrifice their sanity, by appropriating
the excesses of c.c.t.v. voyeurism,
mingled with the excesses of ***** that paved
the way to this massive delusion of the next
jain boond to swing on a rope into a gorilla
enclosure and beat the **** out of a 300kg gorilla,
Klitschko style! bang! bang boom!
    silverback gorilla on a torture rack!
job done.
       no, i get it... a girl got to kick-box and a girl
got to play footie... cos girl can...
     wait till she don't get a: fragile heart...
like mine, writing odes about
walking past a church when the church bells ring
eleven times, and there's the moon...
  it will become very very pointless writing
about hearts of porcelain in the future,
      but just as nietzsche pointed out:
imagine talking for the entire human race...
yes, i can, or should i say could? because i don't
have to...
   the western narrative is so up it's own
*** talking about species, while the Moldovians
are talking about Ukranians,
the Poles are talking about Germans,
   the Italians... they talk all the time,
so who cares?
                but it's this globalisation vocabulary
that's halting, and making me think:
the Genghis Khan tribe isn't exacrtly in
the news? they must have neighbours!
they must actually know the people living near them...
well...
   on my street... 6 houses in a row of
identical architecture, i.e. built in the 1940s...
   first house, sikhs...
    parents went to the daughter's wedding,
woman brought over some curry,
   i ended up making even better curry...
my cat is left in their care while i'm away
visiting my grandparents,
   i get this panic attack premonition
  that i need to be back home when i'm away...
   i come back home, the cat is dead...
   we rarely speak these days...
  he was on aspirins, and yes, cats take a ******
long time to die from kidney failure...
ever watch a cat ****? cats take a shorter amount
of time to take a **** than ****...
   watching a cat **** into the toilet it like
watching a person drinking a melchizedek sized
wine bottle...
   a cat could be a man
   as a man taking a **** as in the cat taking a ****
and reading a newspaper...
     seems we're parallel creatures,
  i exfoliate and massage my **** muscles
by taking extra time with them stretched open
once the bombs away passes...
    and i'm just sitting there:
  to vank?! or not to vank? or what i call:
the 3 in 1.
        well, you can't exactly think about
lighting scented candles and doing it in bed,
can you?
      you'd have to be a woman to do that,
and invest in a good ***** replica
of a man that would only tell her:
honey... tree bears.
    do i sometimes think about putting it into
a moist couch-like environment?
   yeah... but i guess ******* is a bit like
doing ****... **** the bone and those muscles man!
   ****? yeah... never did it...
biblical regulations...
              about the same time when
heterosexuals take over from the once famed
taboo provocateurs in the homosexual department...
haven't seen a worthwhile Oscar Wilde come from
that scene for years... maybe i wasn't looking,
ah yes, they're too busy being "normal" and starting
families... funs over... and so is the art.
no wait, all i wanted to say is that
what nietzsche said in the 19th century,
  the anglophone world is trapped in it's own
end product of globalisation, and this whole:
speaking for the entirety of humanity doesn't have
and local thrill to it, no local accent,
      it's scary, to be the only language willing
to speak for the entire human race,
  and, when travelling to other places in the world
realising that you were pretty much:
not thinking, and merely talking to your self...
    i have that taste for foreign cultures...
   you can hardly hear an existential argument
in the same vein as you might hear in england...
     basically... i just think that english is
over-streched...
     in the case of russian, it's stretched:
but contained with interlocking tribes of people...
if i want to hear english sprechen in the pacific
it's a 12 hour flight to australia...
               i can't imagine talking for
the entire human race... and given this
seemingly ancient german, i'm imagining it
as the counter-argument of the current narrative,
because i can't even state that i'm in awe of it,
but more or less apprehensive about it...
given the numbers... the total anglophone world
doesn't even number that of China...
and you know, infiltrating that place with
the complexity of the encoded sounds that are
later echoed back as Xin Ping...
    who lived in Beijing...
            you really have to address either silent,
or talking about something so complicated,
that it would equal the Chinese encoding system...
  otherwise it's falling through the holes...
oh look... q r o p a d b g...
  the best we can do is make silence complicated,
since what i'm hearing: isn't exactly complicated...
on youtube most noteworthy...
   oh right, almost forgot...
the other neighbours on my 6 house line
are a Jewish family... well... sorta...
   just a literal mad-house... we get on fine...
and after that: 3 houses, natives, so yeah, english...
all of them broken families...
   the neighbours next to mine are:
woman in her late 40s... man in his early 50s...
about to have a child...
       after that it's single mother and son,
and after that divorcee and... like... dunno...
     they thought the indians were savages
moving across the pond...
              i'm sitting here having a right old laugh...
and it's a malicious laugh for the laugh in itself...
        last time i remembered
  taking a mouse from the mouth of my cat
after he caught it, and then releasing the mouse
  into my neighbour's garden...
   or a fly... crawling over my forehead
     while i took a selfie to exfoliate my face
like that of an acne riddled moon.

advancing in alcoholism: when it happens, alcohol for a long while doesn't hit you in the head for a carousel, alcohol exfoliates with the fact that 50ml of whiskey make up 50kcal; the alcohol goes to the body, rather than that abstraction of the brain known as the mind - it's sedative properties become more pronounced, there's no dancing on tabletops for miles, there's no care for binging a day in a week, there are no drinking games, drinking dares - that slogan 'enjoy responsibly,' it applies more to those who drink alcohol and decide upon drinking games, that alcoholics who drink it for alcohol's medicinal purposes; i seriously don't know any better sedative - and if alcohol was such a poison, why was it first used by arab surgeons to disinfect surgical equipment? i'll tell you why... if alcohol was originally used to disinfect surgical equipment, it's used by those who drink it to cut into the realm of psychology, and calmly pull out the intestines.

with a short hangover i sat and mused
over the content of everyday value coca cola
(17p for 2 litres, you get the picture,
it really can be everyday,
forget the logo lego in the mind
that fools you that you're drinking something
better),
BARLEY.... sodium citrate (lemon salt),
i have the secret formula, citric barley,
a lemon infusion of barley, plus the sweeteners.
other than that? i'm perched on the windowsill
hunched, bewildered at seeing a bee
fly up to my window, and it's december,
but the koranic reference is of being -
just be... and all this thinking about my trips
to the brothel, and my genteel approach
to prostitutes drunk, even the one that stole
my debit card and denied it - i called my father
and told him i lost it taking a dump in valentines
park, i climbed over the fence, fell off it once
when i punched through a window of a church
near barkingside (st. augustines) then bought
some sweet cakes from the jewish bakers
with a ****** hand... other times i just climbed
over and roamed in the thick of it of unused
purple ivory of the night - yes, at night
certain things glisten with a sort of milky way aerosol
pollen of dead stars.
again: but other than that? i can recognise about
ten bird species around me - apart from foxes, deer,
badgers and hedgehogs only a step away from me
in the area i occupy which is about 4 square miles:
seagulls (oddly, it's very inland here), crows,
magpies, sparrows, canadian geese, swans, kestrels,
blackbirds, wood pigeons (much larger than
their urban counterparts, which have a more
rhapsodic coo-curl; in polish *synogarlica)
and of course mallards: where the males are so well
distinguished from the brown-freckled females
that they aren't like most androgynous animals where
you can't really distinguish the two apart...
but there are also a few white doves...
some roost on the roof of the church
of the good shepherd on the b174 road...
but you can also spot them on a woody path in
raphael's park... close encounters of the migrating kind.
crap... i'm starting to see myself as a hybrid of
bukowski mingling with wordsworth.

You tell yourself 'I am so special'
But you are not
Let me make this clear to you;

Stars and rocks collides
There is snow on mountains
Birds die in aircraft engines  
Feelings are a function in the brain

Do you understand now?

You tell yourself 'I am so special'
But you are not
Let me make this clear to you;

Sartre knew about anxiety
****** killed millions of people (without touching them)
I once knew a cat who killed a bird (by touching it)
The sun makes life on earth possible.

Do you understand now?

You tell yourself 'I am so special'
But you are not
Let me make this clear to you;

A human contains 5 litres of blood
Fire is a chemical process
388.000 people drowns each year (more or less)
I loved a boy who didn't love me

Do you understand now

I swim in jealousy.
Up to the brim of my teeth,
floats litres of envy and greed.
I don't need you but, oh, I want you,
so I can discard you at your opening sentence
as an idiot or a hypocrite.
I want to want to love you,
for you to "love you too"

I want to reach out in the morning
and touch your soft speckled back
browned by the sun
to roll into your armpit
and smell your tobacco smoke.
Murmur my love for you,
kiss my hair
tell me you'll want me forever.

Why can't I just want a boy
who wants me back.
Or better yet, want a boy I actually want
instead of these fictional imaginings,
these stories I play out in my head
these lackadaisical dreams.
As if I would ever allow myself
to be happy!

I have scratched out my journey across a mountain of pages and each and every time I’ve filed away a book, I’ve mourned the trees, compassion is not something I lack.

I have been thankful that they took each and every step with me and as each notebook closes I retreat to my back yard to plant another seed.
I’m happy to give back.

The million litres of ink that have been bleed beneath my fingers and have spread to stain my hands as my life raced across the pages has not been spilled in vain if one day the moldy old box is opened and the dust is blown from the covers and a futuristic version of me delights in the find, and hears beyond the echo of the scratching of tortuous proportions to see a life that was fun filled pain.

So much chatter, most of it doesn’t matter, little tidbits float along on a swollen creek that has never actually seen much rain.

Tiny little letters run across a barren land and accidentally collide into one another because they have no coherency while all the Big words sit in their gilded towers and watch, and wait, drinking the finest Port they can find while mocking the chaos below with ridicule and disdain.

Little bits and pieces have been scattered to the wind...
Thrown into the air, as an offering of peace, to the ancient scourge that is the birds.

I guess this would probably make much more sense if I could only just find the right words….

Jan 9 (two thousand and something)

The streets were not as mean as history
said they would be,
especially after a night out
at the bier haus,
where we filled our grosse steins
with litres of hops
& barley
& natural carbonation.
It really wasn't a nation full of crazies,
but rather
one full of serious frunken fun
& frolicking amoungst the bauchnabels
with liebe.

November first, all saints
Celebrated canonised or not.
Recognition left as beauty
In the eye of the beholder.

For sinners accomplishing
Something worthy of holiness,
Something worthy of humanity,
Its nature, the Universe.

Compassion, aidance, honesty.
Truthfulness, chastity intended
In its purest sense. November first,
Olive picking day for me.

Harvesting season's yield
After the longest drought as I feel,
The warmth of an obstinate sun
Pierce skin through bones

To my very core. The same,
Beams granting abundance
Of golden juice to the gently
Reaped pearls of black and green.

From fingertips runs
An inundating sense
Of blessing, intrinsic unity
Of substance shared.

Only anticipating taste,
Fluidity slithering on tongue,
An exquisite elixir caressing
Palate as globules fall like rain

From branches onto
Sheets meticulously laid.
An event unknowing solitude
For it demands collective efforts,

While the distant village band
Plays hymns to the dead I praise
The living and their worth,
Waiting to imagine hundred

Kilograms render seventeen
Precious litres of ******
Olive oil. Chastity unfolding
In its purest form.

puddles in parquet
litres and litres of substance
over substance

the pail in the corner of my bedroom
collecting
collector
ask it what it keeps

it keeps the warm hope coming
in through the holes in the roof

it keeps it like rainwater

and i always dream of hope
filling the bucket so heavily
it overflows off the sides

oh **** me...
                                        this black girl
in the supermarket today?
nice tiny ***,
ready for a white ****...
mmm hmm...
the kama sutra does address
the question of disparity...
it calls it rabbits and elephants...
**** me, what a fine tight
black ***;
obviously i didn't say it...
just watching it stroll made me
silent;
      **** me, i'm salivating like
a warewolf at the mere memory of
it doing its strut;
jiggle.... ooh... jiggle... ah...
  can objectifying women be "normal"
again? so that man can have some sort
of respectable subjectivity to balance on?
**** me, what an afro hottie.
oh sure, i banged a black girl once...
same tiny ***...
               mmm... what a lovely
memory... it must have been the cocktails
i was making, or playing some jazz...
   ***** took to it, like a toothpick to a fire.

the last thing I remember:
I shatter a bottle of whiskey on the sidewalk with a spring in my step-
in my peace, I hum.

moments later,
a **** begins to surface on my shin,
but the inebriation keeps my head from noticing the litres of blood on the gravel below,
dripping,
pooling,
draining into the street sewers.

a nearly audible voice counts down from 30.
30...29...28...27...

street lights, flashing turn signals, yet I stand in the middle of it all, taking it in.

I’ve missed what it feels like to feel alive.
...26...25...24...23...

there is a club nearby that has seen better days. the manager has taken to spending time outside rather than inside, and he stands under a streetlamp, looking for something.
...22...21...20...19...

it’s not until I splash through the crimson ponds like rain boots in May puddles that I notice anything slightly amiss.
...18...17...16...15...

shortly afterwards, the scent
and the distillation
of bourbon and bloodstains clogs my ****** orifices,
a liquid mask freezing solid onto my face, eyes, and mouth.
...14...13...12...11...

I collapse in my own filth and doings.
what is happening?

demonic chanting has joined the excitement surrounding me.
...10...9...8...7...

grasping for aid like a child for her mother--
gasping
...6...
car brakes screech to a halt nearby.
...5...
can this—
...4...
help?—
...3...2...

you step out of the car,
grab my hand,
but upon seeing your torn face,
instinct overcomes impulse:

I grab a shard of glass
and pierce it----------------
into my own flesh—

......1...