anything that's young and small is usually fun to have,
fun to care for, tend to... whether a dog...
a flower... or a child... esp. a child...

i'm not into typifying anything racially...
although... with enough experience cycling...
you come across racial stereotypes...
it's unavoidable...
i don't mind black drivers... i don't mind
white drivers: hell...
the stereotype of the white van man:
who's usually white is a blessing on the road...
these guys are a blessing to cyclists...
they care enough to pass you by with the minimum
amount of space required...
but they're not nervy... jerky...
they don't stalk you for a ******* minute
before making a move to overtake you...
but if i see a ******* "ninja" behind the wheel...
or some pompous Asian who blasts his
horn at me... i'm giving him the finger
that'll elaborate into the index-middle-and-ring
and shout at him: *******! read between
the lines!
i can't help myself:
the guy is usually driving a ******* VW polo
and he think's he's driving a ******* TANK...
i can squeeze past... no problem...
i've come across two instances where my
thigh glanced the surface of the exterior of a car...
i once had a collision with one of those
Ronin with an L placard attached to their rear...
******* mileage... doing 30mph... tears in their eyes
from the wind... blah blah...
i never thought i'd say this but...
Heidegger... dasein... where else if not when cycling?!
- a Sunday newspaper...
oh yeah... i'm a "boomer" in that sort of way...
i love the printed press... esp. on a Sunday...
Sunday newspapers are the best...
they have the magazines... they do a News Review...
it's almost as if... the culmination of all things
relevant arrives on a Sunday...
Monday newspapers are pointless...
i believe there should be a media sabbath...
and it would be a Monday since...
the newspapers are most slim on a Monday
and... no one does anything important on
a Monday anyway...
but the following article really did catch my eye...
'Machete gangs on the hunt for flashy Mamils'
(the sunday times, page 15,
october 10, 2021... nicholas hellen, transport editor)
so that's 'x' not "x" since it's a direct quote
and not a metaphor, misnomer or airy-*******-fairy
ambiguity...
the jyst... jist... whatever: the zest of the story
is... a cyclist was rammed and had his £15,000
road-bicycle stolen from him in daylight...
in an affluent part of Loon-dun... Richmond Park...
MAMIL? it's an acronym...
i hate acronyms... it's a H'american "thing"...
middle-aged-men-in-Lycra...
like i said: i too cycle... i'm a nut for cycling...
and i too wear Lycra shorts...
but i cover those Lycra long-shorts with something
breezy... other than that... no helmet...
no Lycra top...
   but it's the closest a man can get to what
women wear underneath...
if Lycra is not equivalent to the finest sort of lingerie
(phonetically... that... lan-jar-ray... not quite...
almost)
a woman can wear... then...
my ******* are not currently tingling
to a point of me thinking i have a ******...
290,000 is the number of bicycles stolen each
year in England & Wales...
funny that... i don't spot so many cyclists
to not have this number properly scrutinised...
i'm guess... scrap metal? scrap rubber?
- it's Lycra it could as well be something sexed-up
like lace... but... it has to be covered with
some sensible material...
i'd sooner be dead than don a ******* helmet...
cycling gloves and that pseudo-yoga-pants look
that women are pulling off...
sure... your *** looks fine woman...
thanks for that libido insomnia i've been having
with a Marquis de Sade hard-on for the past:
20 years!
started ******* aged 8... or 7...
even managed to teach another boy how to *******...
what's the ******* for?
not that? solo projects with ref. to...
no... never... i was never fond of the Egyptian gods...
but this one... so i asked this girl what deity she'd prefer
to... hardly pray to... at least keep in mind:
well... her counterpart... Atum... who spawned
his... offspring through self-*******...
so... hardly a taboo...
of course if i were a woman and had my
decapitated ******* toys and a web-cam...
i'd be milking it...
oh hello plumber... hello... electrician...
it's hardly something to do before a camera & broadcast
it... it's someone one does
on the throne of thrones...
once you do the no. 1 & 2...
that's no. 3 and there's no. 4 that comes up
while baptising yourself in the shower... a proper wash down...
but never in a scented candles spread on the bed
sort of way...
well: if you have to milk it:
i guess you have to milk it...
the sort of erotica associated with pregnant women...
- i never liked Talking Heads...
but this song... qu'est ce que? f'ah f'ah f'ah...
i was sold when watching Bloodshot with van Petrol...
that dance...
i'm shimmy... simmering... hell:
brought right up to the boil...
- so yeah... i can racially profile certain traffic
behaviours...
"ninjas" are not that bad...
but Asian... sorry... not Orientals:
i'll call red red, o.k.?
           Hindus... although i like this slur...
CIAPATY...
          borrowed from japatti...
in my native spreschen it denotes...
eating with your mouth open...
the MLASK... the audible sound of food being
chewed...
but i'll still "secretly" envision a world
where... we ate something French for breakfast...
or just poultry abortions...
something omni- for lunch
and a curry for dinner...
           i can't get over the superiority
of the blue Indian cuisine...
    lucky them: lucky for some to have
stockpiles of salt... but lucky for them to have had
cardamom... green or black... cumin, coriander...
chilly for all this time!
- but when it comes to reincarnation...
sure... i remarked that time sort of stopped being tinged
with a metaphysically: linear and
adorned a cyclic nature...
but... reincarnation implies:
only a fixed number of souls... while the rest of us
are zombies... empty vessels...
i'm not saying it's wrong... but ******* scary...
imagine... it's like the Catholic ELECT...
the Jewish CHOSEN few...
                            it doesn't breed much...
sympathy for your fellow man...
i like sympathy...
a symbiosis of pathology...
i once could quote myself as saying:
apathy breeds no pathology...
a quote staged when someone remarked:
there's nothing worse than apathy...
          dis-ease: a negation of ease... one more scrutiny
with etymological tinges... or hue...

always the two necessary lubricants when
writing... since i never feel like talking:
breathing is fine... but talking?!
refocus of a subject matter: Kandinsky...
talking-head... news anchor...
or merely a ditto-head...
i.e. one half of the "air-quote" i.e.
                                                      " id est... as above...

****... there's some dehydrating washing
in the attic... i need to get that ironed...
there's a decent chicken broth slowly cooking:
i'll need to boil some vermicelli for it
as a starch accompaniment...

i too hate the masochists running riot in...
m'ah race... i hate them...
i don't mind this whole world that has congregated
in Loon'dun...
i feel queasy in a monochromatic society
to begin with...
Poland & Cheltenham are like-for-like...
it's that i've grown among so many hues that...
it's impossible to otherwise an "otherwise"...
but... for a people that espouse so much Darwinism...
but at the same time... trickle down
English... "pragmatic" sensibilities?
sorry... something is going to awake in me
something primordial... something most associated
with the evil genius of the Russians...

you simply can't sell me Darwinism and
behave like ******* dodos!

my Salinger year... my new york year...
whichever name...
a very accomplished movie...
quirky... very quirky...
it's almost like watching...
Bell, Book & Candle starring
Kim Novak & James Stewart...
tamed existentialism: nothing remotely connected
to Robert Eggers' the lighthouse...
a movie on par with Ingmar Bergman's
the seventh seal... or Samuel Beckett's Watt...

i still haven't finished watching the movie...
the night i started watching it
i ended up drinking myself to a silly state
of lying on the floor...
then... attacking my cat with caresses while
crawling without using my legs...
like that cenobite in Hellrasiser: Inferno...
i was head, torso... arms...
a waking nightmare of what watching serious
movies & drinking does to you:
the waking grip of: delirium!

oh i know... a little... w.h. auden famously remarked
that all the Hitlers of the world wrote at night...
the above i wrote during the day:
having forgotten to put on the washing
of bathroom towels...
as you do... gearing up to cooking
the most pristine beef steak...
some french fries... a mushroom sauce...
leftover coleslaw...
you really can't butcher the beef meat twice...
you need to cook it for its final purpose:
tender medium rare...
i'd east blue... i'd eat rare...
but doubly butchering it to a well done?
i guess only the English have this
horrid palette...
they'll make chalk out
of chicken *******! a bit like my grandmother!
no... exactly like my grandmother!

come to think of it... a narrative is a cascade...
a river... a waterfall... something that lends
itself to Heraclitus...
then the cut-up "technique" came
beginning with the Dada movement
and later... fro Tristan Tzara
through to William Burroughs and his
"comrade"... Gregory Corso...
i'm more into juxtapositions...
let's call it...
          Kandinsky's anarchy with the subtlety
of either Satie or Debussy...
i sometimes walk into the forest
drunk... come a special place in my heart...
the highest autumn... the genesis of winter...
with a naked torso: because
i have to take all the clothes of my upper body
and sit... scouting for the moon
on some throne of bark...
peering from behind the branches...
listening to: as a branch is broken...
and something nears...
            
i need this night... it's such an annual event...
a seasonal ****...
like the period it takes me to make my own wine...
i need the trees as skeletons...
it's hard: when... you don't have any colour
to work with...
some might say i write a "word salad":
which is a derogatory term in psychiatry for
those who are familiar with it...
i'm speaking nonsense or...
i'm trying something new...
post-post-modernism...

      does it even matter, right now?
           i don't know my neighbours...
the ones i supposedly knew managed to invent
a tall tale concerning my Arctic hued Maine ****...
kidney failure... sorry... you what?
i was visiting my grandparents while being
traumatized by an advent of future events...
i begged and begged to return home...
if these Asiatic people love themselves so much:
and their community...
how much they might abhor tending
to westerners' pets...
say it... don't fake it...
"neighbours"...

well... that sheikh party... sorry... Punjab?
why do i require all these unnecessary
explanations... why do i need to be schooled?
that party of Sikhs went down well...
i spotted a few of them looking at me sitting
on the windowsill... waiting for an insomniac crow
to crow in the nacht...
  the party was going fine for a few hours...
until 1am hit and... i could hear the aruing through
my headphones...
in the morning a car was parked by
the garden fence that read: DOCTOR
on the front...
so... someone overdid it?

listen, friend... if you don't know how to drink!
don't drink!
i drink because i'm bored...
and i like to... dribble a little scribble...
i am: a harrowing...

     i'm sorry: these aren't my neighbours...
i can tell you why they're not my neighbours...
those Nigerians that moved next door...
where once an English woman... post-wall...
and her pseudo-Lithuanian bulldog of a bf moved in...
the one who told me i needed to ask
his permission when making a bbq...
because he had his washing drying in the garden
and he didn't want a smoked salmon fest...
or the woman that lived two doors down...
with her autistic boy...
i don't know how many men went
in and out after the boy's father left...

i'm not saying i'm better than...
but i like... what is it that i like?
a sensible... polite society...
a society where i can drink a Franziskaner beer
on a park bench, in the shade... and not bark
obscenities...
i like politeness... i like... this most pristine of social
contracts...
i still believe there are...
unwritten... social contracts...
like today... a woman was walking with her
two daughters riding bicycles...
i finished my beer and smoked my cigarette...
i was on my way
riding the bicycle without
holding the handlebars...

LOOK! LOOK! the man is not holding them!
well... i should come up with
some soppy story about being 35 and not having
children...
chances are... society would only allow me
to breed female prostitutes...
and male suicides...
i'm doing the next best "thing"...
nodding my head like a pigeon walking...
pretend dancing while perched on a windowsill...
listening to Talking Heads' ****** killer...

i'm out... the chimp in me checked out...
oh it must be so great to have little girls
and boys...
the ones that spot a man with a beard
and exclaim: LOOK! LOOK! he's not holding
the handle-bars...
he's almost riding a unicycle!
look at the clown in disguise of...
not having any ****** paint!

i'm also jealous... i can make a corner without
holding the handle-bars of a bicycle...
it's like... gravity 2.0: two-point-oh...
but the stuff the English colts in Essex get up to...
gearing up... doing wheelies...
i'm jealous... all i can do is...
turn corners without holding the handlebars....
whey hay! presto!
it's like... gravity can be used outside the realm
of planetary orbit...
it can have its own micro-cosmos! wow!

at this point i ought to be like:
i want to raise young girls...
teach them how to ride a bicycle without
them needing to use the handlebars...
only for acute turns...
i'm sorry... the chimpanzee in me
is sleeping...
i'm Harold... can i help you?

               i'm ******* grooving to Talking Heads'
****** killer bass line...
like a pigeon... strutting... instead
lodged with a leg folded sitting on it
on a windwosill...
              believe me... the world's great!
it's almost as if i never left it:
it's almost as if i arrived to watch its sunrise!

the drink is hear... the absence of any decent narrative too...
talking heads' psychology killer vs.
fleetwood mac's: the chain...
to hell with African-esque...
the European-solo projects...
if it's not about the bass... it's not about anything...

imagine a pigeon strutting...
and my giggling... imitating dancing while rooted...
those two girls on bicycles...
LOOK! LOOK! a man is riding a bicycle
without holding the handlebars!
as much as that might have: ought to...
bring me sorrow...
the sun was shining...
i wish i could... tap into that sort of
research material...
hello dead end... hello project dodo...
for all the right reasons...
for ****'s sake...
my mother loved her father...
but my grandfather "sold" her... the worst of the worst
of genes...
i'm also invested in them...
i'm evolved in that:
i know... when it's desirable to stop...
i want to stop...
i don't want a future i dispose of to
come back to me with... ******* complaints...

i adore the children of strangers...
LOOK! LOOK! the man!
ha ha... the first time i was scrutinised as
a man... i... never remembered being a boy...
LOOK! he's riding his bicycle without using
the handlebars!
it's the little that makes the most...
like... catering to your feline companions...
making them teased... but now abhorring you
up to the point of:
how, the, ****... do, you... arrive... at...
"lost" cats?! dogs i can understand...
i saw this one instance where a guy...
roped a dog to a bench... then ****** off...
for some... strange ******* reason...
the same dog was... running around with
another stray... ******* magic...
a stray dog a "lost" dog i can understand...
but... what sort of a *******... what sort of *****
do you have to be / become...
to conjure up a... ******* stray cat?!
seriously?!

believe me: i've lived a little: to know... a little...
it's not that i know nothing:
which is... that infamous Socratic negation positive
statement....
you can't just... conjure up...
"lost" cats... what terrible people they must be...
dogs i can understand...
leashed...
cats... i imagine cats ******* off on their own...
then i start thinking about
the milk-toast...
the... overcooked beef...
beef that's not... medium-rare... or blue /
i.e. doubly butchered...

the bicycle isn't simply "owned"
by =a: pataphyscian: alfred jarry....
               a cyclist is somehow...
sometimes... a buffer....

hello... the end.

.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.

i write for an injection of a venom, for a sense of disorientation, poetry shouldn't be about the skill of narration, a clear Renaissance painting of some school, it should invoke a ******* random macabre, a sense of disorientation, there's no real technique to practice with poetry invoking a tarantula's venomous bite... poetry the art of disorientation and a fulfilling disillusionment, nothing else, nothing more... to prescribe disorientation... upon charging into a blank page... the brute of squalor and slashing of grime, marbles and marrow!*

as quoted by Bonaparte (oddly enough
a psychology student and former
girlfriend of mine who i lost my virginity
to, while she got drunk and slid into my
bed at a party, and asked dreamily for condoms
scolding me about the three pictures adorning
my student room: marquis de sade, Bonaparte
and Plato) - quicker the goat in the frying
pan than on the steep cliff face - mooch kiss
you Isabella i would a second time,
you remind me of Annie from Masterchef -
the way the stiff upper-lip is missing: signature of
french girls, the curling and cuddles -
ooh mooch chuckles and mushy peas -
p p p - belinda carlisle melted cheese goo in my heart;
stony ******* i ain't, but my drinking habits
are not boyfriend material, sorry... try next door:
se vie se la - the french know their eccentricities,
and therefore exploit them in the grey -
the english stiffen up and exploit the same
but to a too obvious exploit: bowler hats and umbrellas,
nothing will make this London gloom repent
even if you're donning St. Petersburg's architectural
multi-colour... did i mention Bonaparte the patron
saint of the Duchy of Warsaw?
over here there's Adolf with a heretics hat
never bothering to read history twice,
history you read in a blurry haze of being drunk:
reminiscence is hardly nostalgia, but sure as ****
history save Moscow from the French and the Germans
but not the Poles and Mongolians...
the Russians know this and hush thing over,
sweeping stories under the carpets using
a babushka as an excuse for the prime propaganda
technique - go on babushka ride the Ferrari
on the stairway! canapé mit crayon caviar?
yes, Isabella, if i weren't a ****** i'd move to
Grenoble - sheriff's honour.
                                                  you weren't
the first, you weren't the last,
i need bragging rights - and a hot colt to shoot with...
then the lacrosse initiation ceremony -
Lycra tights, drank a whole bottle of whiskey
of Glaswegian whiskey, stumbled into
Isabella to my shame parade of whatever that was
lad banter etc etc. - pleaded on my knees, my knees...
apologies for the inexperience,
she was seriously into Japanese cartoons,
studio Ghibli;
                          so she scolded me over Bonaparte,
and i said: it's not exactly Piłsudski - in my town of
birth they praised him, raised statues,
later with communism desecrated them, then later
raised new statues - but what's bothersome is that
she didn't mind the Marquis... a psychology student
after all... she wanted native speakers for a little
psychology experiment, that got me,
learning from scratch aged 8,
pitch-perfect elocution and she didn't bother to use me
in the experiment... that ****** with me...
hey! i'm hardly a cockney! coached croquet pears
ready for a beating... what's the rhyme, ah yes:
apples and pears = stairs... seriously, musically
cheese sometimes works, they had a Monday cheese
night at the union - all the usual buggery of
a mid-life crisis...
yeps, that Annie from the current Master Chef reminds me
of Isabella - dracul - RA!
a bit of high culture (Ezra's cantos) and a bit of low
culture (marco bailey's Enter the Dragon)...
while sitting on the throne of thrones (a toilet)...
it's like my dream... although better... Ibiza two-point-oh.

she smells (nameless and shameless)


a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless

morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded

the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are mostly gender identifiable

my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters

the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast
amazingly invisible on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things (popcorn pieces)
is just a scratchiest fragrance too far,
needing a sheet wiped clean slate

even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration:

she smells, I man-ually stink, each,
each glower shower nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut,
to exhume and then send away
this odor now christened,

nameless and shameless


11:47 28/4/19

a few songs can capture the modern sense of urbanity, and the
apocalyptic 5 a.m. of London - but i've become estranged from
that sort of neon addiction - there's no syringe involved,
no amateur photographers on the ready, either -
yes, a man of great love, but also of great contempt:
and that goes hand in hand.
the favourite memory of my first year at Edinburgh?
eating haggis neeps and tatties at the ***** ****'s
pub on the royal mile - followed by shots of whiskey -
in my student accommodation,
placing the amp on the windowsill, the window open,
and just jamming out far removed Nirvana solos
with a few spectators: modern day equivalent:
of mad max flamethrower guitar freak -
losing my virginity to Isabella: psychology 3rd year
exchange student - from Grenoble - France,
yep, not the ******* Himalayas - the Alps...
the lacrosse initiation ceremony in lycra shorts:
back then i'd be a stumbling buffoon after a bottle
of whiskey... these days? well, usually a closing
poem at 5 a.m. - minding the cats to come home
after spending it out in the cool on a sultry night -
i wasn't serious about the lacrosse -
jeez: the meat in this place is stuffing me -
get out before they tell you to buy your own gear:
team or group mentality? never got it -
soloist pronto - pronto andante - chirpier that way,
getting the whiff of the bubbly without stand-up:
imagine a sit-down comedian... hard to imagine.
the gym... oh **** me the gym...
you know, i knew a guy in first year that only managed
to cook up plain pasta, with salt... plain pasta
with salt... another guy ate spaghetti with
tomato sauce all year round... in the last week he
added meat to the mix... not trying to brag:
i'm even going to mention what i cooked -
                    i was living with horror seeing these
boys adapt to: mommy not here, mommy out to lunch...
daddy not here, daddy out to crunch out the income...
well... apart from the rich puppies who chose
catering accommodation, turning university
into a school with a pristine canteen - canned teens -
just as much - so if i wrote cantine you'd say:
canned thyme? how the hell does that work:
i abuse language, language doesn't abuse me -
i don't need cushions surround words like
()()()()()****()()()()() - better? much better -
hush the angry words out! use the sterilisers -
maybe that's why i never experienced anything bad
using the internet - honesty and bluntness -
maybe i shouldn't have said that. or that's just lucky.
princess and the pea and the 100 mattresses
and a fickle *** - ah itchy! it's pinching! it's pinching!
100 mattresses and still the ****** pea.
then again, staying up all night, then deciding to
climb Arthur's Seat at dawn, getting there, then
climbing down and going to Tesco at 7 a.m. to buy
cornflakes and full fat milk... that was something;
but you know what i'm really thinking about?
it's no longer a maxim, it's a cliche -
               but i'm thinking about it in mathematical
terms -                                from the verb
                           on one side, to the posit or inertia
on the other - there's no grammatical version of what
really becomes a pentagon with five attachment points
primarily - a cul de sac of facts -
                                                            but­ mingling with
grammatical categorisation nonetheless -
          but what i'm thinking about it how to make it
simpler, to use mathematical notation:
i.e.
               i think is an expression
                                       worthy of about 1 centimetre,
  given that thought is a marathon -
                   but i'll just say: could it be anything but
  so differentiated increment divisibility to
              thus provide a sigma? although the expression
is hardly an ad continuum - at some point you
stop thinking, hence to differentiate i think is assuredly
a way to say: well, not constantly - meaning thought
   is not a continuum - and can be talked about in the
same was as talk of god: that's where i place the prime
of ethical action - it's not god... i don't ascribe ethical
action in that direction: just too easy, whatnot with hell
and heaven and goody two shoes waiting for the
big spark of magic or applause and the heckler: well done!
god, dry humour is the best - sarcasm is dry humour -
satire is wet humour... and other than that?
               slapstick, nothing too witty, i hate witty comedy,
they always need canned laughter:
at least slapstick humour makes the effort for you too
make an effort... and it sometimes hurts, so it's real,
when you start flexing that abdomen and get a six smiley
faces on the torso.                anyway,
              looking at my **** it really dawned on me:
  (by the way, Descartes wasn't really out to prove he existed,
   someone thought he did, he was trying to work out a
proof for something that someone else would pick up
   and elaborate)             i think is but a centimetre
                              compared to the marathon of thought -
(sizes in this scenario is perfectly compatible) -
          meaning that               i am          (italics?
emphasis on these to expressions being unitary) is but
                 another centimetre compared to the marathon
   of being                                    or the Antarctic expedition
                      of non-being: i.e. not necessarily
   assembling: what if i wasn't here... but more like:
              what if i did something differently -
again, flea market questions -                        why bother?
    come to think of it: the former unit is more simpler
to encompass - although i agree that the former translates
into the latter: thinking proves i exist,
                            because ex omni instances
         (out of all), there's an equal compatible expression
of mutual exclusiveness: thinking - the two together are
juxtaposed to be allowed a kind relativism -
      but whereas the latter (i am) unit is not only plagued
by the nearest pentagonal absorption via the senses,
but also a definite article / articulation of so many posits
of expression: multiplex verb -
                  the former (i think) unit isn't:
a. plagued by the pentagonal... blah blah blah...
             but rather by a mandala of faculties:
   imagining things, remembering things, dreaming things,
               maybe i shouldn't have said that?
   who knows -
                             the basic thought was
about:           i think is but a centimetre compared
                               to a marathon of thought - a minor fact -
   i am is but a centimetre compared to a marathon of being -
     and to be honest: very few people would take
courage in understanding this glib in the sigma of all things -
imagine football hooligans equipped with this potential...
i can't: i was watching the Everton v. Sunderland today,
and all i could hear was the chant: YANNICK BOLAISE!
            YANNICK BOLAISE! YANNICK BOLAISE!
yes, this kind of writing is a paper mâché -
or a vegetarian starter - but, you know, if you don't
try something new, you'll definitely win a Pulitzer Prize...
  if you don't like it? chop chop, on you go.
i know Descartes wasn't wrong, and i know that
cogito ergo sum wasn't intended to prove anything -
but it did prove a founding block for existentialism,
that's where all existentialists take a **** - Descartes
is the dump where Sartre wrote his being & nothingness,
and Heidegger his being & time...
                        well, key ingredient in someone writing
a sophisticated aversion to time: space, would probably
write something about sitting next to someone on a tube
and writing about sardines and livestock -
                           humanity as a virus, etc. etc.,
   compared with someone writing and thinking out
a statement of: well, isn't this marvellous - so far apart
and clean, and solitary and chuckles.
    i just wanted to use the mathematical comparison,
deviating from the pivot                   therefore     -
   away from each of the unit's verbs and adjective attachments -
  i just wanted to stress that each respective facts,
  are but a centimetre of expression,
   compared with what each evolves into - a marathon
on either side - perhaps it's because that's a necessary building
block to something greater: i can't complain that being
aware of this fact is a hindering beginning -
       i'm not saying that being aware of this maxim is
somehow going to improve your contentment with life -
    geometrically it's not like
                                                      horizo­ntal left to right -
more like vertical left to left-up and right to right-up
             and never therefore - for a reason,
consequently... but rather in parallelism -
                   for no reason whatsoever -
                                              contra-sequential­ly;
unless you know a Queen of Sweden, i don't see how
thinking precipitates into being that might you
leave you satisfied - and let's not a put a ****** on it
either: how many thoughts about killing someone
end up being jokes with a friend late at night?

got so drunk at their little, ahem, initiation ceremony: drank a bottle of whiskey when i heard we were going clubbing wearing lycra shorts... the man with the biggest bulge and the biggest stick... never understood male group psychology... or any group psychology for that matter... it isn't exactly a throng of noblemen following Henry VIII.*

i joined the lacrosse university team
for a bit,
left it when the time came to buy the
equipment - i didn't think getting
smacked by the defenders' longer sticks
was worth it, to be a striker with the shortest
stick - too physical - i thought i'd seek
some other physicality,
got stuck-up on rock climbing, and mountaineering
for a while, nothing serious,
a bit of easy bouldering on the edinbrugh crag,
the one lining the skyline at holyrood park,
the salisbury crag, just west of arthur's seat -
i'm not going to lie about clinging off the
matterhorn or something -
but i did an expedition with the mountaineering
club near Ben Nevis once...
Glen Coe / Coire nan Lochan...
and i figured, with all this talk of light pollution,
well, "pollution", to think that a bunch of
street lamps can blind away the stars of what
former poets spoke of: about the illumination
of the heavens for the blind eye to see...
we camped outside one bothy (basic shelter)
set off fireworks, drank whiskey, played music,
burnt a fire in the bothy...
but to be honest... i was not amused by this whole
theory of light pollution...
i looked up at the sky, and the number of stars
was no greater than the number seen in a bright
lit city... i know they say all those telescopes
amplify the chance of peering into the heavens
at night and see more stars...
but why cite light pollution, when, in a remote
highland hideout the number of stars didn't
increase in number... i've heard a girl from
australia cite that, in the outback she said
more stars could be seen... even without a telescope...
so the scottish highlands are unlike the australian
outback? is it just me... or is it simply *******,
this whole light pollution argument?
it was dark out there like in an **** after black coffee
and charcoal tablets.

it all makes sense after a beer and a whiskey, honestly, as honest as is this statement, i'm only a misogynist with regards to white girls, who i find so, so adequate for feministic fickleness that they could never produce 1 billion blue indians or 1 billion chinese.

i tell you how it started, i was at university,
first year i met this french psychology exchange
student, she was older than me,
she got drunk at one party and crawled into my bed,
when i climbed and felt frisky,
she just told me to put a ****** on,
prior to she was stiff watching some cartoon
by studio ghibli, man i was young and frisky
about loose the white of virginity and enter
the blackness of personal psychologies
passing via the rainbow of the visible world,
it didn't work out with isabel, we climbed
arthur's seat and took a picture
while she scolded me for napoleon
and the duchy of warsaw as the re-emergence
of poland but missed marquis de sade's picture
hanging on the wall... who's sick then,
the one who pleases the many or the one who
displeases a few?
plato's picture also hanged on the wall...
she was oblivious to the fact that an 8 year old
child can be categorised as a native speaker,
because that's when i started my anglo oral examination
to speak it.
later i spotted her after my first session with a bottle
of whiskey in lycra, going to the initiation ceremony
for the lacrosse team... i never joined... i just puked
into a bucket.
you never realise that when people label themselves:
i'm an atheist... i'm a christian... i'm a muslim...
i'm agnostic... you see the labels... you see how
they rememeber of themselves in terms of nanometres?
they kept their memory very cancerous...
the proto-socratic maxim in modern times
stands as: remember yourself, knowing nothing
is worth the existence of an encyclopedia -
feel and make the facts absentee...
just remember yourself as some point in your life
to re- re- repeat yourself so i can known you
as i can know myself, just so we can interact
like in a school playground... if you don't...
forget it... stay with your ***** **** stiches of a partner
and tell me whether your children got an a at a-level.
so he told me about her eagerness for *** with
strangers... she was apparently abducted...
so he told me he ****** her... believing him...
not getting enough... i went to a brothel in my second year,
and i didn't really understand the emotions of
someone who's ~******* outside a brothel,
well she really did let that one rip among one of the
major proofs of solispsism: someone farted in a crowded
space and appreciated by himself alone,
all the perfume companies who even hired
the best chemists could produce the scent of solipsism,
therefore the proof of solipsism: we appreciate our own
but loath the ****-burp of others; hey, i just took
all the theories of existentialism into hades via ****.
but that's the thing - back when darwinism was
active, active enough to build pyramids, motto active:
strength multiplied by ****... back then...
chaos known as god entered and said this that
and the other... we can now say democracy is safe...
demo tapes everywhere, half complete scripts...
but the limit of democracy comes when
you start to disagree with yourself... that's the limit...
obviously a high proportion of people
succumbed to the democratic weakness
and started to disagree with themselves or
the ontological starting point and ventured into
ethical questions to give birth to conscience...
first year was magical, second year had a highlight
where me and this guy played golf on the street
with glasses, smashing them next to a graveyard...
about a dozen jewish couples got married
when we took over stomping the glass with golf sticks...
so it's like this, make memory as selective as nature is,
as bizarre as the colour of magpies and parrots...
plus... you wouldn't get existentialism
if you changed the cartesian expression that
thought precipitates into existence...
sarte's explanation that existence comes prior to essence
is true, he stresses the essence: i think,
but existence doesn't really precipitate into thought,
because then we're all analogue: god doesn't exist
because of such and such parasite...
this world is beautiful but harsh, but with harshness
comes adventure and with beauty laziness...
what's crucial is to curb the precipitation of thought
into existence... unless you innovate and materialise
a telescope or paracetamol... for the majority of us
the one thing guiding us is not res cogitans,
but res vanus... not the thinking thing, but the empty thing,
and the empty thing is primarily filled
with the first linear association, thought, and later
being - which is why most of us think about being millionaires
but never are... and therefore create the lottery,
then we put our thinking into to being millionaires
as a mere chance, luck... which is really emotionally debilitating.
i agree... an unjust world of freedom with a just god
who's whimsical existence has freedom like ours...
rather than a just world of slavery with an unjust
god who plays us like puppets;
go on, complain... but that's hardly a logic i wish i could
understand like 1 + 1.

There's sweetness in the crisp of morning
There's promise at the start of day,
Bird song in the trees about me
Heralds life and all's OK !
Howling down the hill on cycle
Feel the blast of wind on face
Give a yell of joy for living
Age on bike and bike at pace!
Sunshine falls upon the meadow
Flowers bobbing in the breeze,
Pukekos with tails a-bouncing
Sheep graze on with studied ease.
Spraying gravel in my corners
Pedals pump as fast as can,
Huffing, puffing, loving morning
"Hello" to a jogging man.
Wheel the bike around the corner
Grind these pedals up the hills
Winding down to see the shore birds
Flock to land with squarking bills.
Young girls laughing, dark eyes dancing
Striding down the foreshore track,
Fresh loveliness in lycra shorts,
They laugh and wave, I wave right back.
Happiness in brilliant morning
Cycling to a sweaty stop,
Relaxing under shady awning
Love my favourite coffee shop.

Marshalg
@the estuary
Mangere Bridge
13 February 2010

Perfect with gravity
fuji-like mountain
above which hangs heaven
star full and bursting

beside which she sits with a mouth full of flattery
quipping alacrities with ease
'you’re a man with a very smooth shirt’, she says
‘thank you’, he replies almost inaudibly

The breeze brushes an inner thigh with its lycra tongue
she shimmers
like a clear-lake breeze kissed

He grows to become a campfire on her shores
she laps at his embers
reflecting and flickering

He encompasses the perimeter with stealth
Sniffs the wind for fear and for warning

none comes

they bathe naked, ever watchful, for
a shift in the rushes, for the
fish in their sleep,
for the shadows
in the deep
not yet awakened.

MChallis © 2015

Kaiser's hiccups
/are/
   and \were\
   legendary
and probably
  |will be|

having a little break cleaning the house, after having taken out the garbage, the dustmen always come later than the postman, around 2am, i'm guessing my street is their last point of call... which suits me just fine... the house was almost entirely cleaned, vacuumed, floors wiped with detergent... ugh... **** it... lazy fingers... i opened up my guitar case, the PIECYK (amp) is ******, i still have my first ever acoustic guitar but i'm missing three strings, my electric still has all 6 strings... i'll get some jam out... i haven't practiced in years... i figured: if i can't find a drummer... if i can't find a bass player... try the mandolin outside a girls window once, give up the dream, put a poster of a rock band on my wall... do some art when i'm completely "out of it": drunk... poetry: not a most spectacular art... well: it would be spectacular without all the ******* puritans of form, rhyme and: meter? they call it a meter but not a metre? that's a bit like telling someone you weigh... that's mass in kg multiplied by "X" is... 999.6N... ah... i know... science shoved it's pickled brain into casual talk: the distinction between weight and mass... mass came after weight... weight is still commonly expressed foundation akin to height... but it was a welcome break with my seemingly dead electric guitar... dangled a few jangles and jingles of remembering when i used to play... Silverchair's Shade, Red Hot Chilli Pepper's Under the Bridge... Eric Clapton's Layla... Link Wray's Rumble... Grieg's in the House of the Mountain King...

only today i realised that people are truly lonely...
odd... when i was in my utter depths of despair:
no one came... but who did come? me!
i picked myself up, no one was willing...
but then... coming across a descending /
an ascending choir of song in an empty church
then hearing a great wind disperse the singing:
i did have my technological asset with me...
the hallucination, the, "hallucination" was so potent
that... regardless of putting in my headphones
or not... the singing continued...
it was only when i scuttled and hid beneath
the altar and took the altar cloth off the altar
and covered myself momentarily with it
then starting running around the church like
a headless chicken... i know! i know! i know with
a BURNING I KNOW... if i uttered a word
i would hear the wrong reply!
either a god descending or a devil ascending...
after all... either side has a singing choir...

people are truly lonely...
i'm alone... loneliness is something that
attracts people to me...
i can't stomach loneliness...
for me that's like... the cul de sac of former
extroverts having an orange with no
orange juice to trickle down into a glass:
half full? regardless the optical misnomer of
calling the same glass: same... half empty...
i am more than willing to do this security
job because i get to do some decent work...
like being a chemistry teacher...
it's a great narrative canvas...
i write over what was already talked (over)...
that's how you get to paint by writing...
you're not some Tolstoy's...
no... not some Pavlov's dog trying to wet his appetite
but also sweat... via drooling saliva...
before my shift i had that random conversation
with mother...
she was watching the t.v. adaptation
of Leo Tolstoy's War & Peace and i said to her:
i don't recall having ever read Tolstoy...
he's not like Dostoyevsky, is he?

so we compared: Tolstoy is the writer
of the macro-cosmos... of events that shake nations
and the individuals: "individuals" are sort of:
chess-pieces...
it's the sort of literature of the salon...
Dostoyevsky is a psychologist...
a world war II might be taking place...
but... but... some Heinrich *******is getting dealt
a terrible hand of both luck and fortune...
like i said to my ailing mother:
she half-jokes aligned with giving birth to me
being her crucifixion...
i joke back: maybe if i wasn't born
i would have both my hinds...
i was once called a: hunchback angel by a guy
advocating the advent of the DUB-STEP musical
genre... way before DUB-STEP became bust
and only associated with SKRILLEX
"drop the button buster, beat, blah blah"...

reimagine drunk conversations in a pub...
in a PLOOB... Scouse? i don't know... maybe somehow
someday, maybe...
    ich sehen rot.. ergo: ich aufladung,
i.e. go! i.e. gehen!

people are so lonely, not having read anything of
philosophy...
if i were to learn anything from the sage-father
that my father isn't....
read philosophy when i'm old and clinging ton sanity
with a chance: oops...
*******... death end clue...
what?                        before you're dead...
please leave your nappies alongside the rest
of the remains of you...

i was having a: drinking session with
newly married couple... Irish traveller...
i downed his, my, his, my: whichever pint
long before the closing hours were done...
Frankie... Francesca...
**** me... Matthew Conrad "m.d."

it's called: tunneling!
me what?! a **** was asking me to g back
to her flat to sniff some *******...
smoke some ****....
i'd love to...
        but i need to make my mother
a coffee come 9am...

i never realised people could become so lonely
and when drinking enough become so blatantly obvious
about it...
it took me one night trip to find a fox's corpse
by the side of the street
to subsequently find a skip and some black bin bags
wrap the road-****... walk with it for almost five miles,
stopping off at the house to weigh myself
then me and the carcass...
amassed to about 7kg... a big, healthy *******
of a fox...
when i was picking him up from the pavement
at 5am a man and a woman were eying me up
like: no... not a ******... a shaman...
they should i might be pretending to chop the fox up...
i just didn't want such a beautiful creature,
beautifully dead, serene, lying on the side of the street...
the only burial i gave him was throwing him
into some thorny bushes by a stream...
another time i was playing i-see-you-but-you-don't-see-me
with another fox... sat on a curve and just eyed it...
until a woman passed the fox and me sitting across
the street drinking a beer... WE'RE MEDITATING!
did the fox flinch? nope... the woman walked about a metre
from the fox... ****** didn't flinch...
i was working up to the TOTEM...
it took one afternoon of the door being opened to
my kitchen and me cooking up two curries...
hey presto: BRODY...
that ****** came for leftovers from meals for over a month...
until, he stopped coming...
i'm guessing he was hit by a car...
but... i'm guessing my care for one fox being
somewhat properly buried and another fox coming
to inquire about: what smells so good
is the reason why i have captured such great photographs
of a fox in my garden...

- hmm... date? or after work coworker drinks?
i know that i scribbled in my little notepad
when she went on her Nth visit to the toilet...
my guess is that males have weaker bladder
of the sexes... a SPRINKLE OF SOME MARIJUANA..
i'm waiting for VOLTAGE...
i'm about to hallucinate in ink... burgundy mixing itself
with Bishop Purple...
those first 30 minutes after a sunset...
cycling down the A12 with heavy traffic... reaching the Green
Belt between Romford and Mark's Gate...
breathing through the nose...
Spring is teasing... Spring is teasing with her
oncoming stealth of scents...
the earth is yet again starting to breathe...
first comes the botanical kingdom,
soon after will come the kingdom of the insects...
wait! i have not heard of an angel or a demon
associated with botany! in charge of, say... roses...
too good of a mark for a Saint George with...
or was that St. Stephen...

write like an imitation of ice-skating...
pretend to fall... gain momentum...
think out a thinking of shadow, curb,
night and walking Ninja hey-presto! feline...
think a loudness: think the loudness...
the ***** of a 4 x 4 pedestrian cross
section of Tokyo...
leave your cycling attire on the bed, stinking of you...
watch a female cuddle and curl up to your Lycra
long-shanks for the specific reason: been cycling...
acid on a bicycle... the 1st and the only ever tRIP...

i always wanted to travel to India...
and walk back to England...
i always wanted to do that...
second: if? aha... QUESTION "question" questing onion
quest of an onion... ANSWER:
i swear, i: as it were... as it is... i: as it were:
i of i, i off i, i vs. no-i...
not i vs. not-i: schizoid broo... Brrrrr... BWOOM(B)
***** a-plenty with witches...

fly fly away my little star...
fly fly away my little st'ah... st'ah...
Stachurski! da da da... ditch Z-Detusche:
na minute, na chwile! na jedno
i drugie dingo dingo!

Lord of the Mushroom!
and mushy peas... and... dhal...
Lord... Bel
              פִּטרִיָה               (Be-EL)

i'm shocked that the gnostics didn't...
to be honest? what was missing in Hinduism?!
what was missing in Hinduism?!
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

oh yeah... that's a Satanic laugh that is...
a laugh that makes the existence of soul viable...
it is a glowing...
when one internalizes laughter with eureka
and mixes it up with stage-fright and a "hate"
for the sound of one's voice...
but then from time to time...
one is caught singing while doing chores and finds
one's voice appealing to be given song
rather than words to speak or write...

but not even in Egyptian mythology...
it was coming! it was ******* coming home!
the botanical godhead...
in the pantheon was missing!
was missing in the pantheon!
the

פ
P / PH / F (greek sidelined, referee: TH)eta
ט
T
ר
R(esh)
י
    YOD: first son of Yiddish: YON... by a boy named
YON...                  a

      e                                               i
                            Λ
                            Y                                  (LY)HH
    
                  o                       y

ה
hello friend: vowel catcher and laughter generator ...
ה not Π... that one connecting letter: ח

hmm: older than capitalism and communism,
but to simply the problem up:
capitalism is the lion
and everything English...
capitalism is the bear
and everything Russian...
vice versa for communism...
the English bred their mythos on the superiority
of a lion and... a unicorn... more a Celtic, Scottish... thing...
the Russians on... a union with the bear...
the bear and the two headed eagle: ergo:
another unicorn...
like the Srbs... serbs... two headed eagle?
the Soviet downfall with the two-headed eagles
of Chernobyl?
       ******: moi... i seriously sometimes forget
my own ethnicity i'm so caught up in English
metropolitan... cosmopolitanism...
      the Global City-Free-States... CITIES AS STATES...
very imaginable...

not City-States... rather... on the global connectivity
project?
what Dinosaur what meteor?
what super-volcano what Yellowstone
what man?
  it's a bit like Pompeii...
give the worlds greatest party and then the volcano
explodes...
better than a meteor: a volcano killed us...
Yella Big Yella...
            the greatest, supposedly no OB-EASE:
into obese...
          ah ah... tongue out... speak! the prolonged A
of neither ah not āh...
                      -
                        2

                                      ****... that's chemistry's notations...
                     2
                  -                                 (huh?!)

the macron over the A... for AAH...
i.e. not an:                                                      ah!

                        á!
                                               A
    
                                   H                        H

           á                                   'ey?!
                                ha ha: key?    hey?!

the burial ground of...
    hmm...
               BEE-EL...
      
PHTRYH: the godhead is that of a mushroom...
people partied to the music of: infected mushroom...
a god is making himself known...
like the false god of H. P. Lovecraft
horror-imago: Nyarlathotep...

precisely! what vowels!
PH or P or F?
   two H's emerged... a good sign that it's PH
for aesthetic reasons...
scribbling this down...
i feel like i'm actually left-handed...
a diametrical opposition to the stasis-enforced
gravity of nothing falling: everything sitting...

ph(aeiou)t(aioue)r(aouei)y(aueio)h(aeiou)

if insects can be allowed the dimension of godly
creatures: thousand blessings on the head!
the lion's head the eagle...
emblem of the Volk of the Volcano:
a Mushroom-Head...
                    
toilet... ah... welcome relief... the water is running...
running...
hmm... from a top... otherwise flowing...
if...
lake: mirror imitation, Lake Narcissus and
his brother Sea Samael: Death...
     like absinthe before adding water like it
was milk...
the water is in tide: with tide: use the FORCE...
tide...
   like water found the force... the force:
with force water found gravity via tide...
earth found gravity with the quake
fire found gravity with the sparkle of the stars...
fire... charcoal peered at night at the already
lighted... as he admired the lightning with fear...
no lightning ever warmed...
comforts of a distant home... fire found gravity
envying the stars... Prometheus who?
and the brothers of Gaia?
Fero...
                fire...
                              AQ... the water brother...
ah... forgot about the younger sister:
AIA...              air...

what a weird ******* date, coworker after shift drinking...
i've never been on a date with a lesbian...
i felt... TESTED... we watched almost the entire match
Chelsea women vs. Tottenham Women Hotbras...
coming close to the end of the shift she asked
if i wanted to go drinking...
sure... why not...

            hmm... it became a date... after she bought the two
rounds i paid for on our previous encounter
when we actually went ice-skating and i became
a local internet sensation for teaching seagulls how to fly:
wearing ice-skates, frozen lake: fly fly!

so we start... the pub is getting busy...
it feels worse than a strip-club...
at least in a strip-club most people are naked
and people get to wear imaginary masks...
in a pub? **** me...
people are dressed up and are made to wear
imaginary clothing! ha ha!
masks?! what masks... a LIE is 10 masks... one lie equals
10 masks... because a lie concerning
the body of soul... is accented with more than
a physical imprint...
LIE MASK AS IF PRETEND SUPPOSE SO
AS IF AS SO CALL IT QUITS
ACTING

it felt like a date... she was getting all nervy...
going to the toilet... checking her phone all the time...
i was patient, smart girl, while i was pretending to
opt out from her OCD... check the phone...
check the fridge-freezer... check your opt out
capacity for a TV license...

how do you go out on a date with a lesbian?
neither you nor her are advocating for woke talking points...
about pronouns or... Furry? listen...
she talks to me about getting FIFA '22...
i finished gaming off at PS1 and reliving the golden days
by re-watching the walkthroughs of
MGS2 (metal gear solid 2)...

because? movies are ****...
i don't want to want these women...
i want... a ******* canoe and a ******* paddle!
and a grizzly bear cub to cuddle and a birch tree to cuddle!

MUFFA!
YEROYI... AHMADI-DEM-BASHAI
YAMSH'EH GIBYT!
VAZOL: OCH TIBI IM PEO-OM-KATA
ES O I TOBOM.

no language suddenly praise with the rigidity of
continuation...
i'll be honest... what do i need a woman for?
to get old, get a haircut... buy food...
not watch the sunrise or the sunset...
instead watch the news on t.v. watch the t.v.
not watch the aquarium?
don't own an aquarium?

own a car but don't own a bicycle?!
in London...
it was 2: so nie to know you: snooze:
represented by letter Z or 2...
if 5 is S and 6 is b...

                     the marriage of letters
to numbers... numbers? meaningless...
absolutely... meaningless...
199 KILOGRAMS
200 CENIMETRES
X contra "x"...

        dead-weight marrying
      1 + 1 + 1 = 3
when marrying
o + n + e = one...
              ah! but 3 and one are different!
former? the forever unit...
latter? the splinter, E3...
forever question...

               turn 3 into omega...
when sharpen it up for a SH... hide the H...
wake up the Z... hide the Z
emerge with a v above an
                           S

call it crown....

     - so Francesca asked me to go drinking again:
again a date doesn't feel like a date...
am i supposed to know about the plethora of female
sexuality?
         **** McDonald one day...
   straight out of Orange is the New Black the next?
just for drinks... i thought we would equal out the tab
on who paid for what previously...
went into the pub at around 20:30 came out around
00:15... we watched the females' football league...
her team, Chelsea beat Tottenham at the Leyton Orient
ground: no plague of parakeets...
honestly: hand on my heart and one on my ear
standing naked before four mirrors:
i did not hear about wild parakeets... parakeets
in general since: only since i worked the Craven Cottage
shifts... Bishop's Park was full of them!
there were no wild parakeets in Essex... not that i know of...
i once listed down all the birds
i could see from my garden...
seagulls, kestrels, two hawks battling in the air,
woodland pigeons, urban pigeons,
crows, magpies, sparrows, swallows,
robins, blackbirds, Canadian geese (migrating),
mallard ducks (also migrating), swans (migrating ditto)...
but sure as **** no parakeets!

in that session i bought only 1 round...
she was hungry so she ordered food...
three plates of food...
fried wings with two sauces...
a bowl of cheesy fries with strips of bacon
and a bowl of popcorn chicken which
i first thought was: battered and deep-friend
mozzarella nuggets...
i had three things... showing off my eating skills...
my grandparents never used to eat
the cartilage and the best meaty bits
off of the chicken legs, drumsticks or wings...
i went a step further...
a bit like eating a whole apple... including the core...
aa magic trick of eating:
you begin with holding something in your hand...
then it disappears completely...
holding an apple, whole, and eating it whole...
subsequently is a bit like playing with a top hat
imagining red eyed albino bunnies, from Albania
(albino >< Albania).. clash of borrowed letters
but two completely different meanings...

etymologically: Albania: land of the Albinos:
Albanios? more like a he, noun...
a mountain, a he...
                 a lake: he and she... neither, always:
if reading English like a native
of the tongue...
                        Albatross from Albanions...
poetry borrowed from a dictionary, rigid function:
hiding the rhyme
exposing the etymological "rhyme".
Alba-
                                      white...
a dyslexic meets a Daltonist in Dover..
the dyslexic arguments are along the lines of:
Dawid Bovie... dead... pish-poor shapes to be be
before huddling out the grave
for a Madame Tussauds pose and a quick nap
and not asking for
a Doppelganger like Sisyphus without a stone
but the equivalent worth of the stone
in pebbles...

    i would be a fair god...
if i'm willing to give birth to an angel of the Botanical realm
since there's the Lord of the Flies... Beelzebub..
and there's the Lord of the Mosquitos: Jesus "sacred heart"
reincarnated by Jungian inspection
a literal: MOTHER... ******...
Chirst...
                      it's not enough to play the pig's blanket
and pretend a crucifix is a ***** and in dire need of being
used by a ******* according
to Marquis de Sade...
Phateroyah...
                     obviously the vowels will change...
with vowels like water and consonants like earth...
punctuation is like air... punctuation and a physical
representation of writing: nothing ethereal,
nothing metaphysical... writing with expression
on our faces... writing as something less and less
a claustrophobic or its implosion: to an effect...
writing less about an extension of thinking...
in the Cartesian dynamic:
res extensa: via writing, alternatively:
if one were to be prone to smoking enough marijuana:
auditory hallucinations... writing is
by definition the same variant of the EXTENDED classification
as a schizophrenic's auditory hallucination...
the former just forces it upon others...
the latter is unwarranted access to a corrupted ego...
a hurt ego...
an ego without the capacity to imagine,
to dream, to digress...

i showed her how to eat chicken proper...
i ate three wings, two chips avoiding the bacon and cheese,
and about three popcorn nuggets...
i forgot myself: once all the cartilage on the bones
was cleaned off... i went in to bite into the bones...
the ends are sort of soft and marshmallow-almost...
not in texture... in my reimagining:

reimagining - hmm... Kant...
         remembering...
a prior... remembering...
   a posteriori: reimagining...

if a crime happens we don't have an a priori remembering
tactic... ingesting the realm of a prior
with memory... remembering...
that's what we do...
what came before 5? S? or !!!!! five exclamation marks?
or? >>>>> five more-than signs?
did 5 come before five?
did words spawn numbers
or did numbers spawn words?
clearly they're not identical...
and they operate two different realms...

we have words for numbers...
as we have numbers that are also letters...
but numbers are not words...
even 3.14159....
                   is not a word, but a letter: Pi i.e. P...
it's not a word... it's at best a letter...
i'm thinking the gods are words and the angels
are letters...
  while the anti-gods are constants
and their "angels" are numbers...

constants?
                         3.14159..... is not a constant... it's a freak of O...
a circle... and a whole mythology of the Wheel...
O... ****** VENUS...
  phallus... the egg... Oh and 0ero         Z: zed extended
via snooze: zzzzz... harps and snoring... terrible music...
constants? in numbers as if creating a word?

6.02214076 × 10²³ mol⁻¹

                     Avogardo's: the equilibrium dynamic if
i remember correctly...
today i learned about...
     Jakob Fugger... back in his day worth around
400 billions "x"... who financed the construction
of St. Peter's in Rome...
i now wish i visited Rome instead of Venice...
          i would have had more fun in Rome...
  
(algebra is the reply, letters imitating
numbers... should the inclusion of MOL be a problem)...

i bit off the chicken legs marrow...
she was in the toilet about fifty ******* times, each time,
ordering more drinks...
we came in at 20:30 and left at around 00:30
at one point she was in the toilet and
i just remembered something...
they have this "thing" in Japan... where you pay a stranger
to pretend to be your friend...
i'm not pretending... but conversation is dry...
i try to ask questions: i ask questions,
i hear replies... but i don't hear reciprocating
questions... Mr. Familiar has or had no problems?
people confide in me and yet
whenever i try to confide in them
i'm told to shut up...
oh... i get it... i do...
before i knew it i was this heaven-sent ideal...
i was the strength and they were the weakness...
i see it now more than even...
she can tell me about her abusive past...
her drunk father who kissed her mother with knuckles
instead of lips... how she's a lesbian but also
a butch ******* **** with hands almost as large as mine
and how her daughter was put into care
because "X"...
but my shizophrenia is a "schizophrenia" is...
i wasted my 20s on anti-psychotic drugs and psychiatrists
that i bundled up and threw into a hornets' nest of
******* *****, threesomes (just the one, but one is
the threshold)... prostitutes: you talk more with your
eyes and your hands and your other endings
and your nose than you care to ******* lasso a string
of coherent words together...

my problem? what problems?! exactly...
there's nothing wrong with me: i have no regrets...
i don't need to speak to someone with an endearing
sake of self definition... i can just scribble notes down
and leave them for some yet to be born
****** of petty things...
i can do just that... no wonder i can't open up...
talk about... "me"? that's still packaged goods...
i'm waiting for the morbid call of a biography
postmortem...

it's strange going on a date with a lesbian...
it's not a date it's me going for after-work drinks
with a colleague...
it's me and her eyeing up the same behind the counter:
tight ***, fake eyelashes she can pull off...
her unwashed pink-fading dyed fair:
feminist... it's me telling her a little about my past:
i had long hair before,
i couldn't pull off a Jesus...
i would only grow a beard if i cut my hair...
short...
she's still trying to find me on social media...
god: i love keeping a girl in suspense whether or not
i have any social media presence...
best try it out with a lesbian first...
we talk about dating apps:
i have a knowledge of their existence...
but hardly a knowledge that might demand
the pressures of: USAGE...

i end up drinking the night away with a revelation...
i was eyeing these two pairs of love birds for some time...

when i was at the Ol' "John's" taking
a whizz... this Greek version of Freak... o.k. o.k.,
ETHAN ROARK type... balding on the top
of the cranium, allows his hair to grow long...
didn't you know...
Garry Glitter was released... he's already
been harangued by the ******* "police"....

what like Batman did a "forever"?
          
   i get paedophiles doing a second jester runner
with meeting up with underage:
sorry... not boring enough?
it's like pretending to be a mandible,
aerobic classed agility with
a prosthetic... that's what ******* a teenage girl
might feel like:
i rather run with deer....
or charm a fox into becoming my totem...
should i be reincarnated what might i come back as?
i'm not banking: i'm saying: fuchs!
fox! LIS!
if i were to freely roam the prance-lands of Essex
as a fox... that's me, done and dusted...

but i wouldn't inhibit a man willing to repent...
after all: if no forgiveness?
the Muslims were right: no crucifixion took place...
did it?
a 78 year old can be given a heave's sake....
life's fruition and that's done...
sorry for the hurt parties... living their:
adamantly purposive lives
with the weight of: Abel not dead...
sorry... the story goes... Cain murders you....
you're still live yet:
you're supposed to be dead...

i'm only making excuses for Gary Glitter...
i wouldn't be for...
Ralph Heimans...
                                 it's music and i can't stop
listening to Rock & Roll parts I & II...

**** me: i ended up the night...
she hated ***** accents.. Liverpool-day-john-ion...
part Eirish: skirmish: scoot!
a Swabian swap... an "oops": Ludwig... or was
that Lufthansa...
this girl, a ***** bridge,,. i'd love to add hired
bride...
                  but instead?

Traveller Irish... i was talking to a bridge...
bride...
you want a drinking race?
ejecting the two pairs...
i snuggled down my pint: his pint...
in 3x glugs... i saw a phantom of an opera...
what?she told me she never used social
media before marrying?
why do i need to Afghanistan to find
datable brides? i squeak and wriggle myself
into the CAMPER VAN culture...
Irish travellers... so? i'll drink with them...
i'd drink with a repentant ******* asking:
was it anything like Nabokov prescribed?!

£30 for 3.5grams of ****...
time excavated? 30+ hours...
£120 + £10 for entry for an hour with a *******...
well... i'd love to prove my masculinity
with having a competing:
hopeless: always alive sort of battery life:
kept up: *******...
but even i think *** is primarily a dosage of
insect desires...
mammals like us sometimes
tend to play games to escape the pressures
of ***...
requested: what? getting my beard trimmed
or getting my underwear "lost" or my ******* "trimmed"?

i get it... ******* are people who are not afforded
a chance to compensate...
relieve themselves through the shared
antics of (shared) grief...
just like Jesus Christ once crucified can't be
resurrected! n'est ce pas?!
what if... the ******* can be left alone...
in his freedom and a freedom-sickly-cage...
what if?!

a bit like saying:
but i can't be anti-racist...
i can be a non-racist...
but i can't be: anti-racist...
                    there are humans either side of
the "argument"...

one mighty argument of goo after another...
inverting the whole dynamic of dates...
seen your face for over a year...
now i heard your voice: your soul...
you heard me laughter...

a naked table, a naked chair...
a dressed table, a dressed chair,
a lightbulb with a cloche...
rigid Slavic KLOSZ...
walls: brick or slab...
naked... wallpaper slapped on...

   how did that "date" end up?
i was speaking to Irish Travellers...
the ****** types... caravan dwellers...
with the girl... snogging before
ordering a pint....
how she was Lady Margaret all pristine
didn't drink or use social media
before getting married...
i was chasing pints...
race: 3x glugs down...
  i out-chased him...

the pub was closing, we wanted the people out...
strange so, talking to this Irish Traveller Lassie,
most settled people with mortgages or
council houses, flats... avoid speaking to Irish Travellers...
but the revelations she uttered...
i might as well been talking to a Muslim girl...
by her account...
she didn't start drinking before she was married...
she didn't use social media,
she said that in the travellers' community having
a social media account is a bit like *******...
hell: i think it's much worse...
fair play to the capitalistic system...
but social media is what it is...
         it has marketed our private-lives...
not written as a complaint...
                        i allowed for that to happen...
willingly...
now i can't simply walk away from the gallery...
i still don't know what to do with it
instead of making if a reference point akin to:
the red and the amber and the green
of traffic lights...
the "system" wasn't going to capitalise on the market
of my dating preferences and ****** encounters...
sure... i don't mind a public "dear diary"...
a place to store links to music videos when i forget
to add them to my browser's bookmarks:
because i've probably added the same song twice...

but Kant has been bothering me...
ever since i wrote:
a priori remembering
    and a posteriori reimagining...
why do i think that it's impossible
to a priori reimagine?
              
i need to go back to the rubric
and try to burn it into my head like the alphabet
was burned into my mind once...
one of the following four
is impossible:
    with the simplest expression for each:

(analytical) a priori                             (analytical) a posteriori
1 + 1 =2                                                   not every man is a ******
wrong!                                                   some men are
that's synthetic a priori!
+, /, £

(synthetic) a priori                               (synthetic) a posteriori
1 + 1 = 2                                                   £: money makes monkey
i synthesised these                                either that shaman
numbers...                                              mushroom on an ant's
analysed what prior?                            buttocks or:
the increasing number                          the botanical "anomaly"
the added, subtracted,                        money is: asexuality it's
multiplied,                                              what if Adam gave Eve
by god sq. rooted?!                              her first un-earned banknote...
1, 2, 3, 4...                                              spend freely! not having
                                                                earned it!
                                                               what if Eden and the apple
                                                                are wholly outdated
                                                                metaphors?

hmm...

the first £10 she got? was that money earned or money freely
given? was she handed down an allowance or
her first earnings? the trickling down idea follows suit:
if her father gave her money for free... for completing "chores"...
if he gave her an allowance: worse still...
without chores...
why wouldn't expect the sane fir passable:
future partners: daddy day-care "hoes"...
                           my daddy this, my daddy that...
HUBBY no. 2... give give...
i drink less... i smoke some marijuana
and i remember that i read some philosophy...
no new grounding since Wittgenstein
gobbled down Spinoza in a ferocious
of homosexual madness of jealousy...
misunderstood by at least 4 parties...

*** and women unplugged...
some of us boys are playing a game of Alchemy...
solid silver, liquid silver...
i guess plastics are gassy silver...
***... can i please assume there might be
two mouths breathing?

I ate your breath before you ate the apple...
i ate your breath while you gauged
my eyes and saw milk in your *******...

in the labyrinth of: i sigh...
i'm to your bidding bound, sire...
i ate your breath long before you might have ate...
that fruit of autumn, fallen, rotten...
fermenting.... this rotten fruit...
no, not plucked from three... ripe and sweet...
rather picked up attired in autumn's clothes:
auburn, over-ripe cinnaamon-brown,
orange and yellow...

you gave me a drunkard's bear or ilk!
male deer! you gave me a drunkard's apple!
i might be stumbling:
but i'm still chiming with the blues!
what Mosad Mandarin faction of
the intelligence community?

   ching-fang-*******-wall'ah-CHANG
wrote a similar (liar) armistice peace-war:
if we can't use this military equipment...
let's, make... ******* movies!
woo yee HA!

Baron astronaut, ergonomic... a house ought
to have two doors: H... a house
ought to have rooms focused upon the dynamic
of Y...
oh **** your woo! woo! glue my ***
of the Tetragrammaton:
i heard it once before:
the Arabs got their pearly and Kentucky bound
Timothy....
while the Hebrews got the paranoia...
windmills in Chelsea, London,
not Kansas... New Lit Bits of Jersey....

i was left aghast... um... i laughed...
i couldn't say the words ****... pairing it up with her voice...

well... according to sources all knowledge a piori
is ANYLYTICAL... but what was i "analysing"
when i was conjuring the letter R or the number Z?
i borrowed the circle from the sun
and the house from the cave?
i must have done so...
i probably conjured the game of rugby from
the sea's tides and yoyo from an egg of a dodo...
and the goal posts from the letter H...
ripples in the water ZigZag and M and W...
cosine as the refined W
and sine as the refined M...

   a parabola confined in a W...
D in do and devil...
God with Dog and: all?! ah!

    i'm not dumb: i just want to extract more from Kant
than people, ever had, toyed with a jihad of had the Hadiths
in a puddle of paper: equaling the refined weight:
of the organic worth of bark? timber: temples of stone
have turned the gods all cold:
about 5 kilograms for a stash of a week's worth of newspapers...

please please don't let me understand myself:
please oh please don't let me understand myself:
when i'm sober and especially when i'm slightly drink...
drunk... drunk... and smoking a bit of ****...
and...

grass is green: after having established that
not everything is grass
and not everything that's grass is green
wheat? grows like grass...
but it's not green...
and it grows taller than grass
and cows and horses don't eat it...

i could watch a thousand movie and listen to a million
songs... i could even manage to love a woman
and her tell me in the cravat adorning mammal skin
caravans... but i'd still go to bed with Kant...


   it's not that difficult but i need to ask myself to burn
this rubric into my mind...
under each the easiest expression: an abstract...
i just can't word it differently:
a priori remembering...
true...
a posteriori reimagining...
also true:
after the fact of seeing a tree...
can i see a tree prior?
ergo? i can't be capable of a priori reimagining...
first i have to see a tree...
but upon seeing the tree i can't reimagine it...
therefore i can only reimagine what comes after seeing it...
how do i practice a priori remembering?
on the most practical level...
i remember 1 + 1 = 2...
history and memory...
sure... but what of history as epistemology?
as a child i'm not really taught that 1 + 1 = 2...
knowledge and 1 + 1 = 11... not "somehow" just by
"coincidence" of the missed meaning of the cipher +,

epistemology and etymology are the only
two branches that should be given access to the study
of history...

reimagining a tree is impossible in that it's a realm
of geometric abstractions that borrow from
geometric orthodoxy and render them useful:
a tree is a home, i can, reimagine a tree...
if i reimagine myself as a bird or a monkey
perched in a tree... reimagining the roof...
via the sky... but that's hardly likely,
mountain and cave dwelling: home...
a prior reimagining is in its own right something...
but reimagining resulted in the dimension
of a posteriori...
i reimagine a tree and make it: a talking tree...
i apply pareidolia...
or like with clouds... those favourites...
why would i reimagine clouds a priori?
i can... but then that would imply reimagining
cauliflowers... or rather: clouds remind me of
cauliflowers: but that's not reimagining either
clouds or cauliflowers: it's remembering what each
looks like and why, subjectively i remember:
that i think they're alike...

hmm... proof: no pudding....
clearest blue...
          or solid green... the Jade from China...
XINY X= CH
we can apply the letter X in our tongue...
that's what marijuana morphs:
the perception of time... 10 minutes already
feel like an hour....
xolera... cholera H! hhhh...
                 xorwat - croat...
                   xemia - chemistry....
chmiel: xmiel:
                              toad breath!
the stuff i sniff up before going to bed!
you ******* DYSLEXIC...

choroba: xoroba...
sickness...

  DYSLEHIC...
                   i'm asking for upgrades...
i hope my upgrades are not too: demanding...
i'm asking... i'm asking...
i'm getting **** all...
well then... best not become a priest
and conjure up what i might need...
i may need this that and the other...
Hebrew...
i'll need the vowel hiding prerogative
to be minded... i'll need Kant..
punctuation marks and numbers....
most certainly letters...
plus akin to comma....

                                 if still alive: i'll lso require death...

chwila: xwila: a fleeting moment...
lapsed timing...
           c H-A
arecz: samo-H-ah...
                  nie na xixota.... śpiew
raptem: tak! ha! ha! aha!

daj znać gdy ty i ja,
tak nagle żyją... i nie... o tak!
i mihght have a Frenchman's heart
to want: Romance after news of
a hereafter..
the moon is blue
the sun is bronze...
the air is milky in the morning...
the water is traffic and there's no
traffic... i'd like death before the explaining mantra:
what's worth a life: squid parody on... ******* skates?!

the love of the gods is doubly insulating...
first they try to demolish you: one ******* fatal claim after another...
the they employ women... they too... *******.. fail...
what are you rounding up against, you?!
sails without winds and no boats to sail with,
the supposed... great artefacts of claiming
the winds!

i once sat alone in a park... hair growing freely....
i had no addition of a face with the addition of hair...
i had no beard, not stubble...
the wind was and my long hair was
and there was, no war, no famine...
there was only dancing and twice reading
into a Charles Dickens...

twice: a rereading a text not available
for journalistic imprints of:
that satisficed mantra of derailing:
expectations of the meddling-ground....

oh well: oh nothing...
oh riddle me some more: nothing...
life is cheap: buy it bought!
sell it sold!
       earn it not living (it); earning it!
ergo: "living"... and (existentialism)...

   a king's frown is a beggar's stomach...
money makes money:
onions grow on trees!

giving birth to the son of Mammon
was... not... hard?
seriously?!
                          thank god i'm twisted in my own
sort of superstitious way...
when there's talk of a birth of an angel...
my ****** demands become joke...
i forget something, and within the confines
of something: almost: everything...

save180:

p'oh tay t'oh
but not
toe-may-toe
that's not
t'oh may t'oh
but...
t'oh m'ah t'oh

         if only it was a p'oh t'ah toe t'oh.

A Cerulean precipice grows  
wrinkles. Blouses scatter into oblivion.
Rusty chain, in the room with no time.
Tea-kettles antagonize moonlit lovers.
Shotglasses chase, through ghastly cornstalks.
Cascading lights speak incantation.
Flash dance to late night serenades.
Phoenix plumes in Sunday hats.
Laying poolside, argyle splashes.
A magnetic lioness creeps.
Daring glances spread gossamer lies.
Alabaster halls consume infant minds, while
Dusty caps unlock elusive touches.
Black widows drink white wine.
Anise waters drown lycra mermaids.

it was brutal past these two days,
pedantry and what not,
first came the lacklustre observation
that needed changing given the perfectionism of coining the phrase:
machina non ex ego,
then came the familiar “god” barricaded with
what proper pronoun usage there is
in the omnipresent and omnitempus rubric will allow,
what’s the first person present acquisitive collective of i in latin?
it’s clearly stated that it’s poached egg...
so me and my totem the fox tonight, the streets empty,
november rain warming the air...
guns ‘n’ roses could be playing in the background
and a wedding of trendowata / trędowata
(helen mniszków) / ***** / i.e. ń where the bride dies on the honeymoon...
once in a honeymoon the blue moon makes a joke...
been here, done that, let’s mash up the tango with the foxtrot
while genuine genesis gets the ****-off-factor thumbs up...
peter gabriel never made it to the pop section of critics...
he remained hidden in the realm of late-composition
of mahler and whoever decided slapping lycra pants on
frying pans was definitely music.
hey, my sarcastic humour is back... which means i’m
sitting in an easy chair, drinking whiskey, listening to music...
no, actually my lower back is aching while i type
on a dinner table chair...
so the pedantic masochism that got me hot & bothered
for the past two days was changing: machina ex non-ego
to machina non ex ego
(it wasn't me... shaggy... who thought up
the need for traffic wardens... penalties for parking
on double yellow... or the one who
required michelin-star dining...
or the one who kicked a sphere into a rectangle...
i'm not the one who can claim
such social engineering... i'm not the one
behind the tomahawk...
or calling the mayan diety of wind and rain
hurakan like the polish aversion of something
behind storms an alt. spelling via huragan)...
god almighty... did you see the weather forecasts for december?
horrific!
nietzsche famously ignored america...
joseph roth didn’t...
now i’m at the stage of stealing shadows, given the theory
of actors stealing other people’s shadows, recipients
of life or not...
the only way to steal shadows from actors is in the cognitive approach...
make complete dumb-arses smart, turn the quote inside out
and forget existential ambiguity of single word meanings...
forget the spoken interpretation of the linear tetramarca (“ “)
ditto with theapprox. markings as solved, due to the explanation:
i think i said... not i think i doubted that meaning originally...
let me just change the spelling of what’s intended...
ah hell with it: “i” is worse than ~i.
this bombing of daesh is going to hurt the west...
i know why... the russians know why...
they’re doing the puppeteer tactic of war...
get a weak ruler on the throne... heat the throne up...
see the wax of the puppet melt...
see... russia sided with the assad regime...
the west didn’t side with anyone...
i can see a moral angle in favour of russia...
it bombs because it knows assad, bashar allah sad...
it wants the old honours back for the kingpin jim yong ping pong uno
(a.k.a. deep-blue-pong solo with a brick wall),
the west is playing english roulette...
it’s still the same wheel of fortune...
but the ***** are bigger... perhaps smaller...
throw a single grain of pepper / salt in for the gamble...
that’s the west for me... ****** **** ignoramus,
the ****** third cousin of the motivational coach of **** bred kim carmageddon:
oi guv! spare us a tickle!
but you know what i really really love... memories:
the time i read of kierkegaard’s faustian theory of dominion,
when a man can turn a bright spark of femininity
into a juvenille gamer too nervous to stop playing a game
and engage in conversation...
god that girl was something... but then she turned into a little
mouse who could pipsqueak the whole truth
under “supposed” interrogation...
you know that abraham came from the city called Ur
which is modern iraq?
no, you see, kierkegaard’s theory of faust, or faustian sexuality
in the book either / or is perfectly matched up
with don juan’s misogynistic polygamy - the village bicycle analogy -
he eventually becomes a conquered piece of meat
once thought to be the hand under the shawl of saint teresa...
the beatles v. the rolling stones?
bob dylan v. dylan thomas?
that quote from the devil’s advocat by al cappuccino:
‘i’m the ultimate humanist,
i’m the hand under mona lisa’s skirt!’
i vow my entry... you can have mona lisa...
my hand went right up under saint teresa’s shawl.
then i get an answer from ol’ pizza pound...
cantos xliii & xliv are undecipherable... until the usura sequence...
but then again...
he does mention a hill in canto xlii...
which could be a metaphor for the salmon swimming upstream
in the river known as writer’s block.

the air is crisp
as i sit on the front
verandah, snuggled up
in wooly hoodie, flannel
pyjamas and ugg boots
hands wrapped around
a large mug of steaming
coffee
watching those with more
enthusiasim, than nouse
riding up the hill in bright
lycra body suits.
the weekend pelaton rides
on to  wherever.

I could think of many swear words to express my
profound distress at the need to work again
Such a normal thing to have to do and yet
I turn against me
I'd rather be doing other things,
Wouldn't we all?
Your words still wound me and I'm supposed to forget them
What a tough time this is
All my flaws suddenly turn technicolor
They're all I see, all my mother would see
You have taken her place and I want you to love me
What a joke. Really when I can walk on water she will love me.
And so will you.  But those moments that filled me with rapture
I had your positive attention, and I was was floating.
It was an illusion.  I was the one forgiving my flaws
I was the one suddenly appreciating me
I was the one feeling useful and worthy
You were just standing there, giving me a flash
of your time and no more because you are basically stingy
So today, I felt like such a loser but I asked a cute swim coach
about the Master's work-outs and I could join
Me who only swims because of a lifetime of bad knees
But there are men of all ages thrashing about in the pool
Walking out for the world to see in the Speedos
And I look up for a breath of a breastroke and I see what lies underneath the lycra
So, honestly, it would be a social, healthy, motivating kind of thing
If I am worthy of it, if I can forgive my out of shapeness and lack of technique
The men, bare chested, some with hair, some not, all nearly naked
swimming back and forth and then chattering about their man lives
One more piece of motivation

a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless

morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-on tasting for the summer coming,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded

the first of the season red stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are gender identifiable

my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt of the basement

the burnt crumbs of illegal brioche toast
hidden on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed,
is yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things is just a fragrance too far

even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
make a vice presidential declaration:

she smells, I manually stink, each, glower shower, nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass,
exhume and send away this odor now christened,

nameless and shameless


11:47 28/4/19

my my, ain't it June?! Juno, why have you given these poor people snowballs?! it's June and my central heating is on, it's close to 10 degrees Celsius, Bavaria is flooded, people embraced Einstein's relativity of the collapse of the = sign using a parabola, forgetting the basic Newtonian: cause & effect - the moment i coupled Socratic abhorrence of moral relativism, i took to dislike relativism kindred of: claustrophobia and agoraphobia... at some point Einstein's relativity equates space as time, rather than what Newton would suggest trans linear: algebraic squared, Newton still resides in cause & effect, space = ~space, given: 1 = millimetre, kilometre, and any other division... likewise with time... 20th century fashion being the perfect crop of quantum plagiarism, although in the 21st century the dance loop jumping between decades, back in the 20th century a linear expression, an evolution; quantum physics doesn't deal with linear excavations necessarily repeated, it's just repeats what is unnecessary. global warming and the mini ice age, June's here, Einstein too, Newton too, relatively speaking we're aether imprints... speaking via causality we're leaving a carbon footprint - well, **** me, two plus two... it's still scientific negativism, dietary requirements of modern man overshadowed all the scientific progresses in the field... never mind the cure for cancer! never mind that! as long as we can dress a diabetic in Lycra for bariatric surgery - never had i had i heard of such gastronomy, should it have been a pork chop smoked using zyklon B.*

we are living in the age of scientific negativism,
atheism a third limb
and our existential concerns reduced to
hamsters, calories and treadmills:
the basis of all modern inquisitiveness /
Aristotelian awe reduced to rubrics of dieticians
rather than theologians: at least with the latter
we could see the simple mind, hunched
in prayer... with the former we are experiencing
robots repeating the daily 2000 Kcal intake requirement
for a flat stomach... honestly, i prefer the praying
type, than the type regurgitating facts concerning
their diet - at least the former state of affairs
kept them shut up and mumbling, gesticulating
a type of shadow boxing while befriending
Jacob wrestling with an angel - at least that!

first the bench where someone left a good pair
of shoes under the bench: mountaineering shoes,
bulging tricep in lycra types... i waited as a few people
passed, some on foot some in cars, drinking a beer,
wondering if they'd spot casper the friendly ghost...
then it was this cow-patch-work
of a cat, one eyed, started playing with
me, started off while we stood still
in the middle of the street
and i kneeled... then i boxed him
down with cuddles and strokes,
exposed his weakness, so he bit me gently,
i thought of women and the way
they behave like cats... then i thought
of men and myself: ah ****, dogs...
i don't want to wear a leash - i'll walk
my own random route thank you...
when i get drunk ezra's experimentation
with the personae comes out in me,
it's me talking, with a twist of lemon zest...
so she's the one who puts a ring on the
ring-finger and a leash around the neck?
ah crap... you wouldn't believe it...
buck bukowski made an entrance in
season 6 of that television series my family,
although as a self-help guru...
god the oddities - quantum physics as
particular energy content of particular things...
which is hardly a stance to take
with universal energy of a questionably universal thing...
given that there's only one... the universe,
and in it - so many particularness s s s (solipsisms)...
in between i opened a bottle of sant miguel
with the jailed archimedes with a cigarette lighter,
sant miguel bottles are the best...
if i carried an actual bottle opener in my back
pocket i wouldn't have made the same impact
of a girl getting out of her car with cabbage and broccoli luggage,
i took a firm grip... thomp / pop...
then the shriek... she got a fright...
the executioner just scalped the bottle like a red indian,
don't worry, charles 1st is still talking to the parliamentarians,
although with a weird haircut of bleeding scalp...
so as i said, the joke...
use a cigarette lighter to open a bottle and get the pop...
open it with a bottle opener you get a tss...
so pop thomp v. tss... now i'm going to buy a drum-kit
for the joke...
she semi-detached would be her pinnacle and life-ordeal
if not simply life's ambition, i agree...
middle-class queen turned *****...
i get it... it's what makes me tick tock... tick tock...
life's too perfect to imitate your mother and marry
a dentist, have to get that teenage pregnancy out
of the way... like they say: it's downhill after that...
or up the hill with a horse climbing the hill backwards
to ease the threat of sweat and exhaustion...
so as i said... a cigarette lighter opening a beer bottle
clean with the kapsel remaining flat (
just so you could technically pour some water into
the bottle, put the cap back on and sell it as beer)
will never give you the bottle opening dent on the cap;
magic.

the walker, bends,
her lycra-clad hips,
to check her addidas laces.

she has walked,
many, many miles
in this life.
all, in the pursuit,
of the, body beautiful.

and now, has the
musculsture,
of an aged chicken.
all string and rope,
under sagging skin.

she breathes deeply,
sips, from a metalic bottle
and begins,
the downward journey,
into the unenviable,
inevitablity of ageing.

she smiles and
gives me a cheery wave,
as she passes on by.

how bewildering, to be able to **** out two bottles
of wine,  but unable to do the same
with a bottle of whiskey. or was that me just saying:
post-existentialism has to tread the path away from
the father of existentialism: which is phenomenology...
and back into Kant's noumenon?
i'm probably the only drunk in this area to be bothered by
such problems... alternatively seek out
the 20th century poet boasting about listening to
classical music... but if existentialism came from
phenomenology... then post-existentialism has to come
from the Kantian concept of the noumenon...
       and given existentialism,
attempting a noumenonology would
be a bit, pointless... i mean, should i be bothered
by such bow-tie concerns?
       i don't even look the part, first i say:
  i can **** out two bottles of wine, but can't for the help
of god **** out a bottle of whiskey...
then i might add: i'm quiet content in my misery,
all that's missing is a dancing monkey
donning a fez, and an accordion and a street corner...
but as honesty goes: i'd prefer a dancing monkey with
an afro and a pharaoh's fake beard...
   i might play you something on the accordion
like a romanian pauper, and the street corner is easily
cloned and disposable, and therefore merely
the grey area... easily replicated to counter your attempt
in imagining it otherwise...
             and to think i wrote
this with an unlit cigarette lodged in my mouth...
i'll never know... it could also mean: chances of a meteorite
shower to boot... because: who said it was about
trying to be funny? i'm funny because i'm tragic...
tragedy is the real comedy, it's what western society calls:
reverse psychology...
                i don't know what comedy is,
simply because comedy started to employ the ghost,
canned laughter... i don't understand comedy...
    tragedy i get, because i'm making it,
and i'm laughing at my failings like any mortal might...
          what with the world giving me
no new pieces of worthwhile info, i read the news
i get depressed, at least what i write in my delirium i
take to choking at it with laughter....
  it's the tragedy i am able to stomach...
canned laughter killed off comedy...
     tragedy is comic, but only for a piquant
palette, say: you like
televised Scandinavian drama, but don't
like a pickled herring in white vinegar?
don't say Cnut... shh... the Danes might
just have a rethink and come once more...
     but then again: who the **** wants
to come to these isles, given their over-exaggeration
of the ten commandments?!
         well the Danes, sure, but not
in times when you could be fooled by Hamlet!
      i actually wish there was a profound
cultural exchange program operating Europe,
weaving it together into a worthwhile tapestry...
but then again it's not happening...
      ask anyone about sienkiewicz's quo vadis
and you're most likely to meet an
anaesthetist... or say: physicist vs. physician...
    because you weren't prescribed enough
atoms...
             the mere idea of globalisation
is pulling europe apart....
take the narrative into a small town and watch how
little you really need to know about
what's happening in Tokyo...
                    still...
i'll **** out two bottles of wine and talk as
crass as i can, because i can...
               and whatever hope i might have
had about making a indentation in this world
will become like: a **** in the wind...
               well aimed, badly received...
    because isn't the sole proof of solipsism, bound
to farting in a crowded public space.
   **** in a crowded carriage of the tube,
immediately you're the sole
appreciator of your own stink, and subsequently
a genocide happens, **** in a crowded train
and you're the sole person in existence...
  everyone else marches with distaste to
a mass grave... farts prove solipsism...
      there's no need to think about
an argument, there's no need for a narrative...
just **** in a crowded space... and you really
do become proof of being the sole recipient
     of life...
        we really have become so detached from
each other that such feats really are,
the alternative to serious argument...
a **** in a crowded space can replace the idea
of solipsism... men forget that women also
burp...
     well... if you live in an igloo...
   it's no surprise that you get bemused by
an aquarium.
    Eskimos really do exist... every time i go to sleep
i actually think about Eskimos...
    and how the world looks like without televisions
or the internet... i really look at this world in hope
of cradling an anesthetic, that cares very little
about selling the Parisian aesthetic... and i think about
toothache too...
         and i think about not sending postcards...
    and i think about Bukowski placed within the 21st
century, and how he wouldn't be able to write
the post office, and how all the letters he'd walk with would
be pointless... what with e-mail...
                    and how quickly the world is changing
and how i try to recognise myself in it...
  and yes... those aliens, the last tribe of the Amazonian
jungle... coming out the blue to eat a Mars bar
and see us in lycra...
                     and then again, yes, those Eskimos...
a bit like contemplating mermaids...
    stuff of myth... it really is.

before the day the night retires
black tucked in by dawn's pale fingers
lifting a cover of sun
across damp sands
evaporating patterns withdraw to shore.
needle arms salute the clouds
trails of lycra ants
empty heads
from reds and whites
the week's download & lick of salt
night blanket gone
new slate to paint
scene of beacons & vessels floating
seawall haven
man on a board paddles the current
drifting a distance
in reach of shore

Small triangles of lycra
cover heaven
in this tanned landscape
of flesh

basking like beached seals
under the god sun
worshipped for its power
through the protection of lotions
and creams, keeping
cancerous skin at bay

grains of sand
smashed from rock
innocently hide nature's power
all around

bodies dipped into an ocean
already polluted
by greed and the impurity
of this impossible dream

the tide plays with them
like a cat with a mouse
knowing full well with one pounce
all would perish

the earth tolerates our blindness for now
but before you dip a toe in the water
know this
you will be washed away like the
castles you make, pretending
you have dominion
over this sleeping monster.

In dreams, I live thinking of you as I leave my deep sleep, wonderful REM sleep, nearly awake,
Deep as  glory chasm, pleasure filled and sumptuous, wonderful image of lovely,lush candy coloured clouds,
Aw shucks,
Oooh, put away those rose-tinted specs again, just phantoms at play,
Stupid ****** woman, she's one hell of a woman ,are or at least, so I was told !
Witches and *******, woman all on the take, make of that sad suggestion, whatever you like,
Those flamin' heart strings are elastic, as lycra  spring loaded, ****** drastic,
Oh here we go, up and down, roller coaster of love's essence captured me again!
Bang, deck hit, oh s**t!
In dreams I'm laying curled up as vulnerable, miniscule, lost innocent, sweet soul at rest,
Convincing you that belonging is supreme in being rather than being lost in diversionary excuses of self inflicted
solitude!
Virtual madness, in fantasy!
Tortured by long gone spirits morose, whose purpose is torture, sad souls, destroying the world of belief in life,
is for the living,
In dreams, what will you find,  perchance, me haunting recesses deep in your head,
Guess, that's the only way I can share your bed!
Copyright Livvi 07/04/2013.

I have invented a sport called Yogates,
What, indeed, is this, if you please?
Why, for you, it is inertia, you see,
You lie under a blanket, only breathe,
You wear what you like in Yogates,
A steady state of not doing,
No, you are not doing Yoga or jogging,
In cute couture like shorties,
You are not swimming in pool or sea,
No chlorination fever for thee or me,
No lycra or spandex triathletes,
No marathons for fluoro funnies,
So, this is multi age or gender, see,
Yes, all you do is lie there and breathe,
Now you can opt to do Yogates,
Or not, it is not compulsory!

poetry and philosophy can only teach ethics with systematisation, with systemising itself as itself and nothing off itself requiring replicas of art: of acting to suit the scientific concern for cloning or computerisation of analysis with being artificial in the quotient of intelligence expressed via the infinite synthesises of care, miscarriage and history; both subjects care for ethics - both care for linear allegiance to the ancient greek flux to permit infinite multiplication of change and changes, along with the additions and the desertions... obelisk adds to the addition, the algebraic multi- adds to the hyphenating minus compounding, paradoxically. well, carelessly the testimonies gave windows the narcissus effect... and the mirrors the antidote of thinned air vampirism of h. g. wells' plot.*

1st. hello is about a blind girl
sculpting a head with a charlie chap' moustache...
2nd. hello is about a deaf girl
versing the telephone into violin vibrations;
both are fun-****-as-hell
given i'm the one in lycra-spandex and botox
friendly mode on stage, as
the exploiting artist.

The dim glow illuminates my face
as I search for the perfect playsuit, perfect dress

or something. Something beautiful.
And everything is. Colours and elastane,

polyester, nylon, lycra.
Peplum, bodycon, strapless.

But the models are all size six,
and you must be pretty to wear a pretty dress.

I'm going to spend a week's wages
on this ******* wedding outfit,

and if you're not impressed
I'm going to ram a slice of cake down your throat

and smile, and catch the **** bouquet.
Will you look at me? Look at me!

I'm a sad, pathetic wreck.
I want to mark my territory. Your neck

will speak for itself.
Will say that I've been there before.

This perfect dress I'm searching for
to be left crumpled on your bedroom floor.

As we walk the blazing black asphalt,
manicured and graded for modern passage,
we can scarcely imagine these same footsteps,
trod by General McClellan and traversed
by the very fugitives that he fought to free.

The civil peace was broken when the machinery came,
ripping railroad ties and spikes from her gut,
erasing and smothering the Confederate footsteps,
gentrifying the mud for our convenience,
replaced by the smooth tar of unification.

This new Mason-Dixon did not divide peoples;
it conected communities.

Now on our bikes we don our spandex and lycra in Alexandria -
no shoveling of coal for this engine -
with a sip of our energy elixir,
whizzing over the Sycolin bridge and past Tuscarora Creek,
quickly turning around in Purcellville for the return trip.

buying a Trek Marlin 5 for around £500...
really has given me a new lease
on life...

prior to i was walking 6 to 7 hour marathons:
i walked to Epping...
i walked to Coldharbour to inspect the Thames...
i walked to St. Paul's...
then... on one of these walks...
i eased out a yawn: it was time to speed up...

i thought: perhaps a dog would help...
a girlfriend...
of the 3 Ps... priests, psychiatrists...
prostitutes: an hour with one, properly:
can fill years worth of... an absence of...
urges...

the body can do all the talking:
it's best when the body does all the talking...
i never bought into confessions:
alas... this is probably a confession...
or that psychiatric *******: C.B.T. or whatever
they call it: talk-therapy...

drinking less ms. amber having switched
to wine: well... the digestion is more fluid...
i've emptied myself three times today
to the point where my guts ache from...
having ******* out: what i can only assume
to be... 1 kilogram of ****... or a forearm's length
of it...

emptied to the point where it sort of aches...
thank god for the transparency with
prostitutes... last time i checked i was there
to pay for something beside conversation:
or lies...
               always the two extremes:
an honest ******* and a...
                  boasting thief: thieves always boast...
they're not timid murderers...
all that Robin Hood fancy gets them going...
i talked to this one in particular
on the day i buried my grandfather...
we talked about Paris...
poor fellow: he asked me if he could stand
on a step above me so he could
look me in the eye: well: i obliged...
i wasn't going to tower over him...

   all in all: a nice conversation...
the stories he had from prison...
what the Russians get up to in the 4 x 4
while punching walls... i injecting...
plastic? seems odd: into their knuckle region
to punch better...
i once took up some sort of martial art...
all i can remember is being trained to squat...
in a position akin to horse-riding...
the Sensei wasn't there one session
(Golders Green)
and his students took over...
we were instructed to march forward and
strike while making a lot of sound...
the student of the Sensei isolated me:
i said: i will not ooh! ah! i will not marry my
breath to an attack...

kick in the *****... me lying in a foetal position...
that's me and learning martial arts...
if i was going to learn martial arts by getting
kicked in the *******...
i was going to learn something: else...
accommodating people from all walks of life
with a conversation...
oddly enough: of the encounters i had in
the night when all the shady suspects should
be about...
one problem... this little ****** took advantage
of me willing to have a drink with him...
took me via an alley and grabbed
a phone from my hand...

oddly enough: i didn't fight him...
i shouted at him...
the seven heavens reigned down with fire
when i implored him to:
'LOOK AT YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL!
LOOK!'
  i shouted down the confrontation...
when scuttled off lamenting about...
down on my knees in the middle of Brick Lane
lamenting on / with the word: All-Ah...
Al-Lah...
                say what you may... certain gods have
names for certain moments...
his is a name when you just
grieve having to show yourself what anger can
be hiding in you...

but rather than fight: tenderness of the hands...
moving my hand against a brick wall
to later invest in a body...
all that mandible leather plush...
i still go crazy: not too often but when i go crazy
i... pretend to not be thinking about
foods that are eaten raw...
notably the Baltic sushi of herrings...
a steak Tartar... chunky...
with all the additions... raw onions...
kippers... gherkins... Worchester sauce...
pepper, salt... a raw egg yoke...
a dash of garlic...
    and a fat slice of sourdough...

but a bicycle is a new lease on life...
esp. at night: when the air is thinner...
and you can hear a church-bell ring from
almost a mile afar...
or... the sound of trains as if a stampede of horse
from: i'd imagine over 2 miles...

i could never own a car...
i once fancied myself owning a motorbike...
i'll stick to the object that allows me
to generate my own momentum...
what bonus?!
hell... no road-tax... no insurance...
i haven't even bothered with a safety-helmet
and most certainly not any lycra...

a bicycle allows you all the momentum
that a bus stuck in traffic might allow:
and more than a car... esp. since i've taken
a liking to cycling into central London...
several times now...
once upon a time it was this spectacular
gesture awe to take the bus and later
the tube and emerge at certain locations
in the city: Piccadilly Circus / Westminster
of note...

but starting off from the outskirts... teasing
the M25... and cycling into the city...
via little Bangladesh of Ilford... Manor Park...
Forrest Gate... little Jamaica of Stratford...
through to the Mecca of Bow...
and whatever the hell it is come Mile End...
reaching the pearly gates of Bank
and further past St. Paul's into Holborn...
past Hyde Park onto Notting Hill Gate...
eh... it's not that... spectacular...
i would probably have to attire myself
in window-shopping clothes...
in pedestrian attire...
    perfume myself and work a chisel of
wax on my hair... probably carry a book
to keep me company during transit...
but on a bicycle:
it's not at all... spectacular...
buildings with no entry labels...
buildings like labyrinth walls...
                 that's about it...
oh... and the people...
                         i like to throng-spot from
time to time...

bicycle: no M.O.T.: no insurance...
no road tax...
the thrill of using a bullet of momentum while riding
behind an object that might **** you...
that's fun...

prostitutes? oddly enough: Isabella...
a third year exchange student from Grenoble...
the story behind my lost virginity...
but the current hook-up culture...
however freely them come and go...
you might be paying for dinner...
covert payments... you'll be arguing for something
else...
talk and more talk...
odd... well... not really:
i was never really truly on a date...
well... this one time a girl picked me up
from a nightclub...
we went to the park...
i drank a bottle of wine...
we talked about grey-matter of our
everyday...
we went into a pub...
i drank a pint of holy grail Guinness...
she escaped with a follow-up of some
previous engagement...
god... i was glad...

the transparency with prostitutes is:
paramount...
i don't like the current culture of ***...
only-fans... and once in a while you find this...
angry... mean... toxic female...
posting *******'s worth of arousal
stating outright: pay up simps...
she isn't even roleplaying a ******* suite either...
she's just plain Jane with a strap-on
of her forehead...

whatever this famous ****** revolution
was to bring to the table from the 1960s...
should it bother me that some percentage of men
are having all the...
   "fun"... personally i wouldn't want
the baggage, the lies...
the covert methods of "bagging" one...
payment upfront for the body to speak:
for the hands to wander...
sure: i once paid for *******:
i paid for a *****-magazine and the seller
saw my face...
the good old days where you had to ****
up on any worth of... ha ha... "pride"...

since i last encountered Khada(ia)
she was bothered by an excess of hairs on my shaft:
i too noticed it... i'm not exactly going
to shave my *****... i'll trim my *****...
sure... i've taken up a liking for...
***** hairs... an oasis of familiarity...
in the form of Ava Dalush...
hell: a completely shaven crop down below:
is a bit like looking at a skinhead...
just enough wheat-shafts to: furrow...
a bit like *******: it should be there...
i can pull it back during penetrative ***...
but... it's also there so i can *******...
oddly enough...
***** hair is designated on a woman:
since... imagine all the bearded ladies...
should the ****** hairs undermine the surprise
of what's down south...

hell: this *** culture *****...
i went among the prostitutes because:
i, simply... don't... want... to... play...
this... bogus... game! of herr Lancelot!
all men are liars are women are ******
and all dogs are ******* peddle-stools!
cats are insomniacs: if you gather my humour...
this current *** culture *****:
triple ***... triple the trembling donkey's
*******: life is not supposed to be fun:
at best: there's some pleasure in thinking...
once all the moral conundrum of ought-i:
ought-i-not have been laid to rest...

how glad to come across:
paid up-front... clearly a debit experience...
harsh to make a summary of:
someone else calling it a "livestock" affair...
i tend to think of leather...
i tend to forget my tongue...
the hands that belong to hands...
the lips that belong to lips...
the thighs that belong to thighs...
the eyes that belong to eyes...
i tend to explore the fingers and the jaw...
all that's mandible...
not wholly exhausted upon the requirements
of taking a ****...

not enough chances to love women:
then again: plenty...
but i will not grow old and boring
and stiff and stuffy and watch television with her...
waiting for the ******* inevitable!
Lothar! aye... call on Conrad! & Otto while
you're at it... we're planning an escape!
i've seen what old age does to men...
women might enjoy it...
hell: they live beyond the age of men...
i'm not going to bother...
i will not hear wisdom from the old croakers
either... smothered by dementia and what not...
when my time is on the table:
i'll do what i'm reserved to do...
old age suffocates...
not that people shouldn't aspire to having
reach it:
but it's hardly possible for most to still be
an inquisitive Socrates come his age...
childish comforts...
marry me unto death and let us part
in good spirits...

this current culture of *** *****...
i don't want to be part of it:
i'll debit my affairs / pay upfront...
for what i'm willing to pay for:
kosher ***... nothing boredom related:
no need for gimp latex suits...
threesomes... ******...
stilettos / strap-on ******...
just give me the kosher salt
and i'll rummage into otherwise hidden
subject matters for the better half of a decade...

how could i think of prostitutes as lesser creatures?
what am... that ******* Jack the Ripper
moralist?
i'm not Jack the Ripper the moralist...
i pay for the eyes to see
i pay for the hands to touch...
i'm not paying for *******:
i'm paying for a 1st person "seance":
yes... we'll be making contact with the dead
who are living... those untouched ******* harangues...
misnomer:  harangues...
i over-stepped the marker...

dilute the blood among the ol' raven hair women
of Turkic persuasion...
god help her: and her fairground of joys...
i don't want to be part of it...
i don't want to be there to pick up the crumbs,
either...
***** didn't give: now there's nothing to lap up...
beside... oh wait...
i don't own a car: i own a bicycle...
i don't want to be tempted into making as much
money as might be required to:
sustain her spending habits... and... whims...
that must make me... an almost: free man...

i guess i'll have to concentrate on...
limiting as much suffering as possible...
i'll have no chance concerning toothaches:
they'll always come and go...
but i suspect that... any...
attack on the soft organs is... rather: painless...
you never hear the truth of people with
terminal illnesses...
concerning the soft organs...
that have a limited nerve presence...
oh... but anything afflicting the bones:
i'll believe that to be ****** painful...

- ah... the interlude: a **** break and some
ice in the glass...
the joy of getting drunk slow: "drunk":
gearing up to a proper momentum of scribbles...
getting drunk slow: wine... beer...
it usually takes me 2 bottles of the former
to have some sort of: IN-SPI-RA-TION...
(impossible to rewrite our syllables
into katana... however much i like:
i draw blanks... still looks pretty...
i will have nothing to do with Ezra Pound's
fetish for Chinese ideograms...
they end up being primitive sounds
of vowel, consonant, vowel-consonant...
consonant-consonant-vowel structures anyway)...
of course there is... a slow way of getting drunk...
wine beer... and a fast way of getting drunk:
ms. amber... although i've become rather
immune to her flirting...
stone cold sober with her during the night:
stinking of dog **** the next morning...

refresh my mind...
Khada(ia) made a complaint last time she was
performing ******* on me...
hairs where there should be hairs:
on the shaft... i'm not going to shave my *******:
but i also don't expect her to **** them...
well... no other cure...
i'll need to get a *******...
i got a ******* and started to pluck out
the excess hair...
i was waiting for mr. limp to come along...
he came... and went...
and i was back to plucking out the excess hairs...

in the current climate?
the current culture... it's hardly reading marquis de sade
on the tube... although the one time i did
i had 4 teenage girls giggling
because the cover had a oil on canvas depiction
of a ****...
they giggled... while the words contained...
well... what is it that marquis de sade didn't write about?
to hell with marriage and with thirsting for
what the French cosmopolitans are accustomed
to with affairs...

this one chimpanzee laboured to prove
the existence of dragons...
dragons prior to the unearthing of dinosaur bones...
massive fire breathing lizards:
the great meteor cull...
this one chimpanzee with aspirations to find
something noble: like widowhood...
to escape the monkey harem / ****...
to find the widowhood and nobility among swans...
now... that's a thought...

upsetting confiscations of libido while
a certain number of would-be van Goghs do
one more.. d.n.a. genocide simulation into
a tissue... why wouldn't we somehow
abandon pop; and take a steer
at... say... something akin to:

         chevalier, mult estes guariz...
for tbe river of blood that is not supposed
to run through Yerushalem...
diviner of the old gods: Balaam!
  one word stands out though:
*****... in western Slavic...
"oddly" enough i can write it in katakana:

SU-KA...              スカ...
oh... look... no hyphen for the worth
of a compounded wording...
i can't find escape in Chinese hieroglyphs...
Japanese syllables can only stretch to far..
Korean? perhaps... i'll hardly inquire into
the Semitic scripts of either
Hebrews or Ar-Rabs...

this current *** culture is... bothersome:
i like to pay for reality: otherwise i go into
the forest and bend a deaf ear:
how eagerly i still watch how women
are pleasured...
it bothers me in the slightest:
during ***: 1st person...
you're never allowed the whole
3rd person pornographic availability of
experience... so you're missing the ***
resembling a Lamborghini... no?

but better with a ***** than these...
angry: newly invested in freedom
sort of broodings over...
these "livestock": oh sure...
the sort of freedom these "free" girls will allow...
no... i'm not buying into a farce...

because simply can't tell a journalist to
*******: secular priest: hand on... linger...
while the advertisers say all the things i want
to hear: since i don't have the money to spend:
i.e. a woman...
sad little affair this society has become....

SUKA! スカ!
dearest: Kinga...i seem to have picked up a case
of an... itchy nose...
i rub it again: and again:
between AGNI PARTHENE...
and what the Templars have on "choice"...

Salve Regina:
   consecrated upon the altar of womanhood...
this stiffening via the niqab:
versus al the freedoms that the setting sun
might also: allow...
bellowing rams...
                oh how i might love....
always the potential of me having "access"
to the disclosure...

         it's impossible to love a woman like
a saint... somehow possible to love one as...
but to love one as an ANGEL...
her own words...
                i couldn't get a *******:
she was living with 4 homosexuals..
we drink so that we might forget...
we forget in order that we might
attest to the puddle pretending it to be the sea..

waves.. waves... countless hybrids
of ice comes with cherry pulp....
i don't like the current *** culture...
i debit my encounters...
i pay upfront...
a day of the darkening of skies...

hier: ich bin!                    jetzt!
              jetzt! oder! nimmer!

   **** it... english party girls have it
covered... for the time being.

she can never wear ****** white, she can never wear
that moral pregnancy - and i don't see why this
hasn't been established as a fetish
awaiting the nearest mongol...
            i don't know why it exists
in the first place...
     i skipped through R. Brautigan
and left him drinking and desperate,
ig  desperate when i see a bottle
of whiskey's shrinking girth
in the bottle... don't get me wrong,
i adore the poetry, but autobiographies
always led me to skim-read some
examples... i own a need for such
excuses because i feel i'll be one of them.
it's not a case of sadness being written down...
the sad part is writing an autobiography
as your life takes shape...
                     the sad part is
   an autobiography that's written parallel
to a "life", you wear a necktie and a
pair of moccasins and a silk robe...
                     fo' da' sho' -
    and never the shove or shovel to be the first
in line... because that matters: let the idiots
through, i don't mind lighthearted
entertainment before i board the bus...
             when you apply diacritical indicators
you get to worry about orthography...
when you don't apply them?
   you get quickstep spelling...
                   you get incorporating the digital
Amazon rainforest shrunk to a toothpick
or an A4 sized paper, later rolled into a cigar
by Castro.
                           but you know what really bothers me?
listening to bob marley and reading pashtun
poetry... it's Afghan and an antidote to Rumi...
no (so-called) "feminists" cite pashtun...
              don't get prickly proud on me having
     the ability to cite obscure cultural ref. points...
bob's bob, the end.
    what? damian or stephen or ziggy too?
                        well, the more the merrier.
                 but these so-called feminists are never overheard
citing pashtun women...
            women not citing women... tragic...
      i guess the two can't relate...
if you forgot what an Afghani woman looks like...
kinda like a Pakistani woman, before
the Mongol fiddled about with a ******* violin...
       pretty? sure... maybe John Smith Sargent Mj.
knew about
        it, when he ****** W into Afghanistan,
   protective of the truth about the "burning bush's"
original message aimed at Abraham:
circumcise him!
           Abraham... you what? **** him?
burning bush: circumcise him!
        well, **** me, what a desirable revision!
now we'll forever crave the need for ******* cushions!
  who said kangaroo pouch isn't soft enough?
      kangaroo in a boxing ring: bucktooth combo
punched out... and everyone huh?!.
               but feminists never cite these women...
i'm a quasi-exile, or at least my parents are,
i didn't exactly wish to live on these isles...
but then again jean-paul zee deux ******
everything before i even got the cameo role in
the film: history of the world.
               that's basically me ******* down
an alley named after him, every time i rekindle
originating in that ol' stockpile of garbage...
   but at least the e.u. will improve the roads...
               we might finally get an artery's worth
of autobahn concrete connecting Cracow
and Katowice... you never know... might be a case
of walking on water...
               but to be honest i don't mind
that she can't wear ****** white...
i don't mind she had 20 ****** partners before
she decided to milk me... it's the lying...
lying becomes much worse than the act itself...
     i'd prefer to know she was a ***** *****...
what i don't like is this faking of childhood,
this innocence-sprechen antics....
     it's like reacting to a flu - you get all
dizzy and juggernaut-sinking obnoxious...
    because the story goes: the truth liberates
you from being an enforced thespian...
                 no one wants to be an actor
forcefully... no one...
                         esp. if they're not getting paid
for pretence...
      the truth is at least a mobilising enforcement,
you know you've been given a faulty
refrigerator, but that means you're utilising
an awareness of possessing a faulty refrigerator...
     being lied to... you get utopic inhibitions
  thinking it's not half-of-the-story,
when it actually is.
             that's what's inherent in *** with prostitutes...
        no inhibitions... we're square,
proofread countless times, no secrets, just two naked bodies.
it's when people take to enforcing wearing
Gucci on their psyche... that **** is worse
than donning a strap-on in a lycra gimp-suit.
           but such is the force of the pashtun landlays...
you react to them like so...
            i choreograph them above the haiku,
even though they're twinned,
like some village in Lichenstein (liochestein,
a googlewhack) - Liechtenstein -
twinned to a village in scotland -
               obviously the there's no innuendo
because both originated in deemed obscurity...
       they did much injustice to Kafka given the small
print, and overdid the justice done with
    printing oversized Bukowski...
but then there's a Sunday newspaper to look forward to,
which will evidently make the Monday print
a bit... slim.
                     never mind... a great phrase from
the landays is little horror, or being a woman in her
20s being betrothed to a man-child aged prior to
kicking things off with puberty...
  and dear ol' me, why don't feminists even take a second
to look at the women talking in Afghanistan?
    sure, the veil puts them off immediately...
       women talk with their genitals and men talk ******...
as was always the case...
    i am, currently talking as if i were an ******...
and Alice over here has no tongue,
                except the one that replicates oyster salivation...
as some might crudely put it.
         and then there's Mallarmé.... ugh...
                     pisshead compatriot Poe... and Baudelaire...
honestly... we have just begun writing
       the most pristine of poker sessions...
i tell you and fake how literate i am, or illiterate,
or with an adequate or with an inadequate diet of literature,
and you poker me, and vice versa,
       because by the time a Tuesday newspaper comes along,
we'll both be brooding with angst, wishing we
could only possibly be bored.