this table in the
shade
these commune hippies
in the river
I wrote a poem
in my sleep
I looked at the mountains
and thought
rain
staccato
metronome
irrigation
and caps
melting
but enough of this
nature
let’s go back
to the concrete
mouth
where we walk
through the city
full of cake
bloated like
balloons
but rolling
because
cake doesn’t make
you float
no
cake only makes you
fat
the conversation turns
to the stench
there’s something dying
in the air
we leave
and roll joints
spot magnums
on tree branches
and think
only monkeys ****
in trees
and we would never
want to see
monkey ***
and ******?
no
we’d never try it
and the homeless man next to us
puts his spoon
away
but god
why do we sleep
when we just wake up?
why do we sleep
to dream
such ******-up
things
where celebrities
feed us salami in
back alleyways
and we see our mother
pooping on
world maps?
time rips of
lyrical grass
conductive smile
soap bubbles
these beautiful
dreamtime mornings
spent thinking of you
in playhouse mountains
like a child
you smile
like a friend
I offer you my hand
and we walk
to the white
together
bill withers is there
he is singing
in his yellow
turtleneck

First things first I gotta paved the hearse
I'm digging an early grave hopin' my soul be saved
Father tell.me why? You forbid us no one to trust
Real friends turn to bustas jealousy keeps me strapped with my four five its only way to survive
Will.I stay alive?? And make Heaven or stay in Hell
Resurrected in Satan's cell tell me am.I wrong
For hangin' with homies on the block
Drinkin' Old E to Hennessey slangin' that rocks
Stashin' loot in my socks
I had no choice to options minimal what else can I do?
Since the system is crooked I'm.crooked black
Why every crime is related to Blacks
When the biggest culprit is America I'm tellin' ya
Stay loadin' the magnums put in the air self made billionaire we ballin' climbed our way to top no fallin',
Its survival of the fittest from city to city
**** nation touchin' the hearts of newborn
Leavin' wicked souls torn I was born
For this ludicrous I'm crazy the world don't phase me
I'm trying to stack gs and grow my imagery
In a major way **** what a hater gotta say
I'm feelin' like Marley blazin' the blunts gettin' deadly
Aim my trigger steady
Crack open hearts of the Capitol hill Romanian Babylon you know the deal??
So many buried without tears so many livin' in fear
I'm.coming back harder than Malcolm X **** stardom
And if I die tonight no one will give a ****
Until they cremate me throw my ashes in the sea
Publish me and make a buck muthaphuck
My enemies that try to keep grips on me
I'm worm my free the Prince is back strategize my every move
No rules to follow just more slugs to borrow
Killin' the systems as moves I got **** to prove
Settin' all.my demons trapped in me free
Can't help it its the **** n Me

Oh Venus you man trapping ****, good looking, with
legs legs up to warm part I want - not feeling love for you.
Glad I wont be dad and your fetus went to heaven.
Poking holes in condoms - not good and so not good.
Making man dad who don't wannabe - not good news.
Keep stock of magnums for reason - not getting diseased,
big laugh on your *** got my groove master Johnson fixed.  
Groove master loves having late night lady part visits.
Your lady part - Johnson loves it but I got no love for you.

This was last Saturday night. We were at a rooftop party in downtown New Haven thrown by ‘DocHouse.’ Doc-House is kind of a frat-house, owned by Dr. Melon, where he and seven doctoral students live. My BF Peter lived there once - before he graduated and took a job in Geneva - that’s how I met Dr. Melon. I think Peter asked Melon to ‘keep an eye’ on me - because he texts me an invitation every week and people with multiple doctorates and doctoral students don’t usually hang with lowly undergraduates.

The invitation said ‘rooftop’ but we’re mostly on the third floor - not on the actual roof - because it’s about 39°f and windy out there tonight. The floor space was about seventy by a hundred feet, there were pillars but no walls. The space was lit by a million strings of white Christmas lights.

The party was packed and loud - so loud I was wearing ear plugs. Beach chairs and card tables were the furniture. There were foosball, pool and two ping-pong tables (one of those being used for "Beer Pong"). A karaoke machine patched into two Marshall amps and speakers acted as a DJ.

Of course, there was a bar. Everyone was supposed to bring something. We brought two bags of ice, two magnums of Gordon's gin, two fifths of Cinzano vermouth, a jar of large green olives and a box of toothpicks, because there’s always room for the proper anesthetic. Martinis aren’t a shiny, new hobby with me - they’re a lifelong passion that I only indulge in on weekends and in psychologically safe environments.

There were 7 in our party - Sunny, Lisa, Leong (three of my suitemates), Lisa’s BF David (a Wall Street M&A man), Andy (a carrot-topped chain-smoking divinity-school undergraduate friend of Sunny’s), Charles (our escort, and driver) and me.

We’d been there about 30 minutes when Jordie, a guy I’ve been sort of crushing on for several months, showed up - alone. Lisa turned to me and yelled, “Uuu, lookie lookie,” when she saw him - I barely heard her - but I read her lips. I’d never really talked to Jordie, but when I looked at him, through the warm, martini mist, my tummy felt like Jello-excitement.

As the night wore on, Jordie and I started hanging out. We lost at foosball, 8-ball and ping-pong before we went up on the roof to get some air. The silvery ½-moon crescent was obscured, off and on by clouds, like a shell game where the moon was a jewel on blue velvet. You could almost hear the operator’s smooth, practiced patter, “now you see it, now you don’t, place your bets.”

It was quiet up there, so we actually talked. Somehow, the vast night seemed intimate. As we talked, the conversation was delicate and careful, like the words were made of crystal.

A while later, Jordie and I were back downstairs dancing. The entire floor was coated with that gray-speckled covering - so you could dance anywhere - but a rectangle of police tape in that flooring defined the official ‘dance floor’.

Two hours later, we were watching Sunny sing karaoke while holding a fuchsia martini (just add raspberry liqueur) in one hand. When Sunny goes, she totes commits and belting out an angry, screamo version of ‘Ain’t it fun’ by Paramore, she tried for a Beyonce-like head-spin (don’t try this at home), and slung half of her drink on the crowd - but it didn’t slow her, or them, down. After finishing, to huge applause, she took several bows and coming back to our table, she asked Andy, “How was I?”
Andy held out his hand and lampooned her by waffling it, in a so-so gesture.
As Lisa handed Sunny a replacement cocktail, she told Andy “You don’t get it - it’s supposed to be awful.”
“Then it’s the best version of the song I’ve ever heard.” he replied, holding up his hands like she had a gun.

Jodie and I danced some more and after a while, someone played a slow song. As we moved close together, his subtle, boy musk was torturous and intoxicating. How come guys smell better when they’re all sweaty and I smell like a horse? Eight weeks of lonely boredom and three martinis (4?) were almost enough to churn the sweat of desire into the intoxicating liquor of consent. In my secret heart I wanted him. Badly. I wanted to take him home and smash against him for hours. Alas, I have a (missing) boyfriend and I don’t believe in oopsies.

At that very moment I saw Charles, standing silhouetted in one of the dance floor lights - he had our coats in hand. I swear, that man can read my mind. I glanced at my watch, 2:30am. I stopped close dancing with Jordie and stepped back. “I gotta go,” I told him.
“It was fun,” he said, shrugging and smiling.
“It WAS fun,” I agreed, taking my coat from Charles who’d come over. “(I’ll) See you next week,” I added, as everyone in our little caravan started to move.

before you attempt to date me
i want you to know
that though i may be beautiful
and though i may smile at the right moments,
i am nothing but
someone addicted to love.
and that i can put on a show
that will be given nothing but 10/10
but please remember that that's all it is:
a show.
because there has already been someone
where you want to go
there has been someone
(who is a stranger to you)
who has kissed my scars
and told me he would marry me.
he has made me ***
four times in forty seconds,
but i promise i won't compare.
even if he did wear magnums
and go down on me
every time i asked
(no, i promise i won't compare)
but anyway,
the reason i bring this up
is that nothing you do will be new to me
and you can think you're good
and you can try and change my mind
but you won't.
and i can honestly say that i don't think you'll try all that hard
because i am a sad girl
and boys get tired of those
faster than they'll admit.
(god, do i know)
they would rather date someone
who will give them what they need
and be nice and sweet and lovely
than be with someone like me
who craves love
the way addicts crave
their next pick me up
someone like me
who cuts her skin for fun
just to see the blood
run down my arm
and feel something other than
him.
inside my head
my heart
every part of me
pushing whatever is left of me out
letting him just take over,
****** every thought.
i simply cannot forget
the love that we had
so if you want to date me
go ahead.
but i just want you to know
that it will never just be you and me
no matter what you do
there will always be three.

THE LADY OF ALOT

Estatic when she's shopping,
The boughten things she's got;
Right proud of all her purty stuff,
She's The Lady Of Alot.
Alot of costly Chinese stuff
Imported hear by Walmart stores.
She useta shop at I Magnums but
She don't like them ones no more.

Irregardless, she believes she
Ain't not no ordnary ****.
If she'd of got haffa chance
She'd of voted twice for Trump
And the strait Republican ticket
So The Donald can fix are country
Like he exhaled in his own companies,
Making lots of good clean money.

In her sweatshop-made clothing
She shouts allowed she can't wate
For the Grand Old Party and Trump
To agin make Murrkuh grate!
She feel she's happy in her ivory tower
With all the treasures she has got.
She sees nothing wrong with this country
The dense, nearsighted, Lady Of Alot.

Krash!
Shards of glass shower the squeaky clean tile floor
A well-muscled arm swing violently
Veins pulsing with raging blood

Ding!
A metal chair leg
Shaped like a U
Hangs limp from the seat of the chair

Thud!
The impeccably carved muscular mass
Hits the floor
Breathing in, out in short bursts like the crack-bang of multiple Magnums going off at once

"You'll never have me!"
The coppers chain the hands behind the back
Give the head a nice shove into the tiles
"You can't stop it! Not even I can stop it."

Today was a sad day
Nothing special happened
Except something very ordinary didn’t happen
Something was missing
Someone was missing

Today was a sad day
It was like buying a magnum ice cream  
And discovering it didn’t have the chocolate
And seeing everyone else enjoy their chocolate covered magnums
It was ok
It was fine
It was just missing the best part

Today was a sad day
I saw daughters with their mums
And mums with their daughters
And how lovely is that
But not for me
She should have been there
She should have joined me
We would have gone shopping together
And it would have been just like a normal day
But covered in chocolate

there might have been perhaps two other New Year's Eve
to match this years,
of these only one was actually magically youthful,
between 2004 coming to 2005 or perhaps it
was 2005 coming to the year 2006...
i was still studying at Edinburgh (Promis, Alicia),
that's when Promis lost her virginity
to me after Hogmanay, becoming irresistible...
seeing Fiona slobber me...
at the same time "drink me, eat me"...
**** drink to puncture her virginity while
Alicia was left cold, Lebanese reading that book:
The Hours... leftover in the communal room...

i didn't have any fun with these girls that time round...
what i had fun with was... my flatmate...

with Tristan from Bristol,
running around the streets breaking car side-mirrors
reenacting scenes fro Fight Club...
Bruce decided to become this middle-aged
man aged 18...
he bought a "bucket" of golf clubs...
one night we took them out...
we took out some golf clubs...
a few golf *****... and a few glasses...
we stood in the middle of the street...
pretending to... AIM... at... ha ha.. AIM...
we missed all the golf *****...
but! we managed to hit all the glasses!
it was... spectacular...
we were golfing in the proper Scottish sense
of the origin of golf...
       we had golf-clubs... we had golf-*****...
but we weren't hitting golf-***** with golf-clubs...
we were using golf-clubs... to... aim at imaginary
pint-glasses... sitting on top of...
shot-glasses... or... perhaps the reverse...

then that one terrible one circa 2003 or 2002...
going back to Poland, back then trying to romance
Katie (Kasie) - being invited to a house party...
being surrounded by teenagers hornier than me...
small-town mentality of getting hitched-early
and i was having trouble to breathe and find out
anything about whether i was already
the foreigner that still spoke his native tongue,
smoke, ****** music,
   the past part of the house party was helping with
the preparations with the host i only met that
evening...

this other New Year's Eve i was sitting alone
in my grandparent's house... alone in the kitchen...
both of my grandparents decided to go to bed early...
i watched the fireworks alone and felt
a solid stone of melancholy: a reflective sadness that
is not some reflex-depress or deflect-impress...

before today i promised myself change my habits,
how i would change everything,
quit smoking or at least cut down: i would most certainly
not smoke in the morning and on an empty stomach,
i would cut down on the heavy bourbon or whiskey
*****... why?
  heavy ***** has ****** up my digestive system a little...
irritable bowel movements and...
sometimes the inability to take a **** in one go...
rather... having in splintered...
   in sections... well... easily prone to sometimes vomiting
or rather: needing to ***** to feel at easy...
that was three days ago...

      i just wanted to stop feeling the also hightened
blood pressure...
             these "headaches" that weren't headaches but sort
of pulsations... as if my brain was dehydrated,
spinning, almost feeling death-tickling...
squeezing of the throat...
i told myself that i would stop drinking the heavy
duty liquids even if that meant i would have more sleepless
nights... well... new year's resolutions begin
two days before a new year's eve...
but the old ways have to come around for just one
last time on new year's eve and then:
with the intended plans...

    prior to the 30th... on the 29th i said to myself:
promise me this you-i, you will follow-through...
so i drank four ciders, took some generic painkillers
to ease me sleep and hey presto...
perhaps not a healthy 8 hour lapse into the Land
of Nod - but at least i woke up relaxed at 10am...
i had 5 hours spare until the shift would start
at the London Stadium...
                       i ate enough food smoked a cigarette
starting puking... right... you're not taking an cigarettes
to the shift... on my way there these
high-pressure "headaches" kicked in...
again i thought i was constipated but i had already
taken a shift before leaving...
no... these were not high-pressure "headaches"
anymore... excitement was kicking...
    i was again promoted to a supervisor: **** it...
here's me taking care of the east-wing with 15 stewards
under me...
i was excited... why? West Ham fans have the worst
reputation of all the clubs in the Premier League...
27 arrests in the season 2021/22...
i was excited... i was expecting something to happen...
i had 4 stewards on their ****** shifts...

in the middle of the match where West Ham was losing
to Brentford 2 - nil, Martin on gate 141 started gesticulating
with his hands in the middle of the second half...
i walk over... he tells me something is going on...
i look up... oh ****... about 12 guys, some of these guys
were fathers who brought their little boys along...
haggling with punches and grabbing and ferocious
tongues, children crying... a woman in the audience
starts glaring at me with hysteria and screaming
at me: do something! do something!
        calmly i turn on the radio and communicate
to Head Control: Control, this is Papa 2.3 -
i need a response team to be at gate 141 immediately!
the woman is still screaming,
the situation is escalating.... the children are even more
distraught, the blokes are more ferocious
(and the funny thing is, it's West Ham fans
fighting West Ham fans and not Brentford fans...
because the team is close to relegation
and i guess one fan knows better than another
fan about how to turn the situation can be
overturned) -
                           so as the pitch-side manager
Joe once said about contacting Head Control:
'i try getting through to them, they ignore me...'
well... i go at the radio again...
    'Control! this is Papa 2.3 - i need a response team
at gate 141 of the Billy Bonds stand! turn your cameras
onto what's happening! the situation is escalating!'
hey presto... persistence paid off...
    in about 20 seconds about 10 bouncers (SIA licensed)
rush in and break up the crowd... take some guys out,
comfort the children... i'm just happy the hysterical
woman is not looking at me eyes of scorn as if i'm
some impotent radio-holder...

the shift finishes at around 10:30pm...
   i still manage to catch the tube to Gants Hill and the 66 bus
to Romford, the petrol station near the police station
is still open so i buy three ciders...
    get home just after 12am, drink two ciders smoke two
cigarettes, take some painkillers and try to sleep...
oh ****... oh right... no chance of that happening...
i'm already sweating from alcohol withdraw...
cider can't replace bourbon or whiskey...
                   but excitement turns into post-panic control:
the situation was contained...
but that's not why i couldn't fall asleep...
i tried to... maybe i did for about 30 minutes in between
listening to Heilung's album Futha...
   i must have snoozed off for about 20 to 30 minutes
maybe less... turning side to side...
                                       but i knew that there wouldn't
be any point given i finished drinking the cider at
around 1:10am and i had to get up at 6am...
               to eat some porridge, shower, get dressed...
which i did... weird... ever see a fly casually flying
in a kitchen during December? heat makes flies crazy
during flight... in the "cold" of December (13 degrees Celsius
is cold for December... i experienced about
a week of promising,, authentic cold and snow
a week or two ago) - now this stinking damp and mediocre
cold... ate the porridge standing up contemplating
the lazy flight of the fly... so big... so juicy...
thank god it was one of those black ones and not
those green-belly that **** out dormant larva so quickly
the larva that turn to maggots so quickly...
black flies don't have that capacity...
because black flies... well... you associate black flies
with pestering cows... ergo? they feed off ****...
the blue-belly flies feed off dead meat... cat food...

6am wake up, wash, get dressed, and *******
to Putney Bridge for a 9am shift starts at Cavern Cottage:
Fulham vs. Southampton... New Year's Eve...
i have done a shift on Boxing Day last year...
double pay... but doing a Boxing Day shift is not the same
as... doing a New Year's Eve shift...
      it's like that W. H. Auden quote about
New Year's Eve:

the only way to spend New Year's Eve is
either quietly with friends or in a brothel.
otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off,
someone is bound to be left in tears.

ha! i have a third option!
    
so on my way to Putney Bridge, since the Elizabeth
Line is on strike until the 2nd of January...
****... this complicates my travel in London a little...
i can't take the simple option of taking the 103
bus to Romford Station and head to Paddington
and then a short walk from one Paddington (train)
station to the Paddington (tube) station and
like... 6 stations from Paddington to Putney Bridge
(Stamford Bridge, if you're interested?
that's at Fulham Common, or Broadway,
one of the two) - i could have complicated matters
by taking a longer walk from Hammersmith...
but i like walking through Bishop's Park...
as i was once reminded by one co-worker...
that's where Gregory Peck meets the priests
who gets killed in the film Omen...
it's a beautiful park: it's right next to the Thames...
so the route changes... i have to get the 103
bus to the A12 and then get on the 66 bus to
Newbury Park... then the central line to
Holborn, then the Piccadilly Line to Earl's
Court and then the District Line to Putney Bridge...
i truly tried all the alternatives...
e.g. central line to Oxford Circus -
Victoria line to Victoria and the district line
to Putney B.
     or... central line to Notting Hill Gate and
district line to ditto B....
     but i found that... there's too much walking
involved...
          the shortest route is the one i found out...
sure... it's a bit long changing at Holborn...
but changing at Earl's Court is the shortest...
plus Earl's Court is the interchange
between Edgware Rd, Richmond, Wimbledon,
Upminster and Ealing Broadway...
and the station is almost open air... so sickly sweet
underwear drying in the underground
during the Blitz sort of sensation association
with waiting...

                          ah... well... i managed to get in
to the sign in area for the shift early, i was probably the first,
said hello to the owner of the company,
who's name i always forget... an imposing figure...
former-military... but i still forget his name...
Scott... Scott... hello hello... i didn't shake his hand
this time round because i'm not left-handed
and i noticed he was holding a cigarette in his right...
signed in...
   ooh... the grand comedy of being early...
some perks come with that...
between Putney Green and Putney Bridge i realised
that my halting my drinking and elevation
of insomnia left me without any of those
high-blood pressure headaches... no excitement...
not this time round...
               i was cool as a cucumber...
i didn't feel any constipation... but then after signing
in... ooh... that porridge really helped...
as did that ****** chicken, sweetcorn mayo and
salad sandwich and Monster watermelon drink
did too... sign in at 9am... shift starts at 10am...
irritable bowel-movements...
    the staff toilets sub-standards... i tell someone:
if anyone asks... i'm going to the public toilets
in Bishop's Park... but there are toilets for staff?
you see the cubicles mate? cubicles without doors...
i'm not here to ****... i'm here to take a dump!

fidgety i'm walking back to Bishop's Park...
i enter the toilets... i enter the toilets... then the cubicle...
i peer in... wow! no animals were (yet) here!
the toilet seat is clean! it's left down!
there's toilet paper! there's a coat hanger!
wow! wow! am i just about to "******" as if seeing my
favourite ****-star from when i was 15?!
i take my coat off and all the elements of accreditation,
high-viz. and stadium passport...
undo my shirt a little at the collar and sleeves...
undo my zipper and clip pull down my trousers
down sit down and: PHOO! i **** out both
a gold nugget of firm shirt and a subsequent
waterfall of the looser stuff... my god...
i know that i'm supposed to find some sort of relief
in *******... this... this is better than *******...
ejaculations happen in private...
this is inverted *******: taking a **** in a public
toilet is more of a relief than ******* in private...
after all... it's pretty much the same, isn't?
i might not be looking someone in the eyes...
my member might not be in someone else's body...
but... Bishop's Park was organising their annual
run around the park for jogging enthusiasts...
i was already done when this one jogger ran
into a cubicle next to the one i was sitting in
finishing off my "taking a ****" counting time
solving a Mahjong... when i start to hear him puking...
i just took the most glorious Hiroshima ****
and here's next to me separated by a flimsy screen
that can't sort of discriminate the existence of sounds...

we waited for the shift to start for so long...
Stephanie pulled out... i saw her at West Ham and she asked me
whether i'd be with her in the Bishop's Park...
she turned in sick... so... i was back with Toni...
on the Hammersmith end of the stadium...
well... Thames-side and Hammersmith end...
i just implored her for a favour... i'm tired Toni...
can you put me on the outermost position...
last time i curated this position the weather was beautiful...
i spotted the bridge after Putney Bridge and
i thought: oh... the Kew Bridge...
what a glorious sight... but no...
the bridge that comes after Putney Bridge is
the Hammersmith Bridge... but that's when the weather
was good...
i just didn't want to work with Mark...
    citation needed: 'with my 12 years of experience
as a steward...'                      the ****-joke of the profession...
it was barely a year since i worked this job
and i was already supervising and yet he...
yeah...                               i can understand flies...
more than these busy-bodies of deluded semi-half A.I.
projects of hurt humans...
Francis Bacon paintings are grotesquely beautiful...
but this? this is reality-par-excellence...
interacting with it is: this incomplete human sort
of a joke... that can become a sly group-think of
being comfortable with a specified discomfort...

so i asked her... stand me there... next to ol' Father Thames
and let me admire that bridge i'm not sure about...
so she did...
     what i wasn't actually expecting was the weather...
i took the ******* position...
but as i soon learned... the best position...
the wind came with the rain and the rain came with
the wind...
                      there was this dog-walker with 4 dogs
with one being a terrier ADHD prone spaniel...
running rampage as if having seeing the godhead
of Anubis...
                      
          i was directing Southampton fans to the Putney
stand to avoid the Hammersmith stand...
just talking... hello, how are you, good afternoon...
smile... more smile... choke on a ******* biscuit
and a peppermint...
                   old men telling you: you're not getting paid
enough... lovely weather, oh... not as lovely as if...
it might be staged in the dark...

more about Mark with Lyndon and Toni...
pestering three women Chill (that middle-aged Turkish
woman... oh names... apples: Melanie... Nile? pears?
verbs?!) talk gets lost... on details...
joking about jumping the tide-out Thames...
i was just looking at how crows scared the seagulls...
one swan swimming alone...
metal-pickers in the mud...
                         i'm not myopic or the antagonism
of myopia... L.S. Lowry's stick-paintings...
                                 sure as **** metal-pickers...
in the mud i noticed what i first thought was a treasure
chest... turns out it was an old computer disk...
what was that even called if it wasn't a monitor?

oh and the weather truly broke me...
the rain came at an angle...
i smarted myself up by asking for a second... water resilient
jacket to put... i wasn't going to put on a flimsy potato-starch
pancho...
but that didn't stop my trousers getting soaked...
then once the rain stopped and the wind resumed:
getting dry... then once the rain came back getting soaked again...
but my socks were already soaked beyond getting dry...
walking the pavement in wet socks in leather shoes
is like... skinning an alive pig...

soaked feet.... although my upper body was kept warm...
talking with Toni about the proper attire for
winter... waterproof overalls... from Sports Direct...
and combat shoes: Magnums, used by police officers
and the army and all manner of security forces...
she asked for a cigarette, i gave her one,
she wasn't expecting a Camel... we walked...
looking each other in the eyes and subsequently
at each other's shoes...
in that instance she told me about her life...
she was living with her father and her stepmother...
how he biological mother kicked her out...
i just forgot which of her "mothers" was
the bipolar one... oh, right... her stepmother...
so i inquired about her stepmother's bipolar disorder...
so is that like manic depression?
no? split personality disorder? what's that like?
are all her personalities integrated or are they,
each to their own, loose canons?!

but there were these other two girls... Naomi...
who looked like a more pristine version of Will Smith's
wife... Jada Smith... i was... looking at Jada Smith...
with more hair... a nose piercing and a piercing
like a freckle where my moustache would cover it:
to the side... two kids... living in Richmond...
totally irresistible... this is how i always wanted
to spend my New Year's Eve... stoically...
at first in a gradation of pain...
pain from feat turning into the flayed beast
revealing nothing but bone, prone to accepting
the elements...

           this other girl... nice... cannibal looking teeth...
bound to braces... plump in the face... wearing a beany hat...
also mingling with Mark, the negate,
she touching him teasingly... once ***** was mentioned
i gave her some advice... oh... but you do know that
the only way to drink ***** is to drink it frozen, right?
so it resemble a sickly sick syrup... no ice, no mixer...
at best a chaser... she peered at me as if i belonged to
an ethnicity of a people that knew how to drink the ****
stuff... quizzical eyes... i forgot to tell her about
spending some time with the Russians:
being myself of a Slavic origin: ABSOLUT VANILLA...

i already knew it was the sort of New Year's Eve i was waiting
for when the shift was coming to a closure...
i was back in position admiring the Thames...
admiring the fading dark Green of Hammersmith Bridge
when the supporters were walking out...
one recognised me saying: so, you're been here,
all along? pretty much...
more passed and i just started spewing the casual:
have a good night, safe journey home,
and then the seemingly comical:
happy new year!

                 happy new year echo!
happy new year! happy new year!
            this precautionary tale of when Gandalf inquired of
poor Frodo: will it be?!
what? a happy new year?!
am i wishing a happy new year to you in advance
hoping, or perhaps wishing, or perhaps knowing:
that it might be... a happy new year?!
the phrase itself is about as meaningful or... meaningless
as licking a post-stamp and sticking it to
a postcard... wishing or not wishing: a "you"
to be "here"... no?!

                                   how about... happy new year
could be replaced with: MAYBE NEXT YEAR...
i.e. when i and you, are still alive...
we'll see each other again... i think that just might be
the summit of what happiness entices mortal creatures
such as ourselves to, from time to time: actually: believe!

the shift ended, i was soaked from feet down...
the trip back from Putney Bridge back to Romford was
sort of... giving CPR to octopi and walking on borrowed
legs... and less than sleepy eyes...
i got off at Gants Hill... ordered a spicy chicken burger
and three hot wings... gulped them down...
went into a Tesco Express... bought myself
a 70cl bottle of Jim Beam, a bottle of Pepsi...
3 cider bottles...
                     got home... said hello to my parents...
sorry... i'm ******* off... climbed into bed...
pretended to sleep, or rather, relaxed with naked feet
under the bed-sheets from them not being soaked...
"woke up" after about 2 fours... hours...
greeted them... sorry... i'm not into St. Sylvester's
celebration...
but i sat down with them...
as i have done for the past two or three years...

Jools Holland's Hootenanny has become sort of:
10pm ITV news in the household come this time of year...
what wouldn't i do without it...
Cat Burn's song Go... i never heard of it until then...
i ate some traditional tripe broth...
to warm the stomach up...
i hanged the bottle of Jim Beam and the bottles of cider
on the garden fence before coming home...
i was going to pick them up later...
to drink... well... at least half...
but it was so worthwhile to be so physically exhausted...
wow! these notes i wrote about that month
last year where i spent almost spent £1000 of prostitutes
and in the meantime lost two of my greatest
lovers... of 30 minutes' worth...
i.e. Khadra and Mona... who... the Madame of the brothel
told me would never return...

we watched the ******* spectacle of the fireworks...
wow! great! crowd!
i just retorted... if i were the people between
Westminster Bridge and the Embankment Bridge...
seeing the fireworks... i'd save up on t.v. memory...
i'd record the collective spectacle...
but got before the massive wheel
and stand there and stare... oh... but look...
who what or when Londoners? Chinese tourism...
the inescapable flu: chick or flex pork chop infections
but no rats and flies are the wholesome friends?!
standing there... with technology spread-out *******
third-eye non-experience...
the technology saw it first...
                                ugly humans non-humans
robots seem lovelier...
                    
                     that's how i learned about Cat Burn's song Go
thinking: didn't Ed Sheeran write this?!
doesn't matter...
once this supposedly spectacular night ended
when i heated up my feet and regained some flesh
in them...
                  i started drinking with my usual standard
of toxicity... looking through old notes...
ooh! an unfinished joint! wow! i had a premonition!
i will not want to go to a brothel i will not want
to go to a depressing house-party...
i will want to go inward...
into myself and starve anything already established...
i think i must have met about 3 girlfriends
tonight... possible...

now i'll finish a bottle of 70cl of bourbon by myself
while writing and smoke that joint...
finally! a new diet of music!

and the odl rekindling of an alliance....
perhaps placing conkers might put off spiders
from aligning a household with a disapproval for housing
spiders... but flies... that's a different matter;
i'm going to smoke this joint
and dream my hazardous of this years first and last
breaths.

where is that ******* fly...
i hope it's still alive while i'm alive... if i swallow it in
the night... i'll pretend to be a Pontus Pilate...

no other New Year's Eve has been so benevolent to me...
i was fudge packed between commuters not trying to
entertain the fireworks on the Thames...
me? go home...
       tired old young man....
                         why are there suspicions of me:
by simply being punctual as having any sort of association
with any nation's army?!
i like sunsets... i like sunrises... i adore the aloofness
of the aloneness that's: otherwise missing
in the claustrophobia of interaction with the other...
WOJSKO...
                        
            this has certainly been the best New Year's Eve
to meet all others...
before me stand's King Lear and Lot's Wife...
i wonder... who is... the Pillar of Sugar?!
Sugar = Salt + Water... no?!
so who is... the pillar of Sugar?!

   ah... ha: hermeneutics contra etymology!
          there's only one history for me...
   that being etymology: the origin of words from words:
to use words is not to use anything beyond words themselves...
which excludes my original assumptions that
letters or geometric shapes akin to letters or vice versa
could ever be utilised...
verba ex verba - non verba ex figura, numerus vel littera:
verba ex et enim verba!
meaning for meaning...
not meaning borrowed from either the associated
or dissociation...
or dissociation and a(n) association...

   well... it just so happens that i have... something of a...
half-wit... canvas of artificial-intelligence
to work with... it's basic intelligence...
                           just what i need.

This week I want to be a rapper
so enjoy me repeating what everyone else says
as I resume my desperate journey for clout:
I come from the place I was born in
it made me tougher due to being a violent environment
stemming from socioeconomic conditions that continue to be neglected
but even though people born in these conditions usually end up poor
I did not because I'm a special individual
who admittedly sold drugs in the past
but now I have legitimate revenue streams
and thus no longer have to sell drugs
and can still buy plenty of expensive commodities
like cars and shoes and jewelry
so of course the combination
of my new worth and the public's awareness of me
leads to a plethora of opportunities for ****** *******
which is a lot of fun
like the drugs I do if I so choose
because my insulated social circle
condones and supports such activities
but there are people who don't appreciate my modality
you may or may not be one of them
but I don't care what you think (as long as you're listening)
because I believe your opinion is affected
by your jealousy of my material possessions and lifestyle
which I don't think is fair because you aren't aware
of the totality of my experience
or how my financial success is equivalent
to the amount of labor I produced
therefore I choose to disregard your negative opinion henceforward
because I'm compelled to follow my own determination
for what's suitable for me
which is rapping about hopping out the 'rari
and how you can't play me like Atari
over trap drums and magnums
you can't hear me say I'm sorry.