Afghanistan needs hellopoetry
Albania needs hellopoetry
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Andorra needs hellopoetry
Angola needs hellopoetry
Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry
Argentina needs hellopoetry
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Australia needs hellopoetry
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The Bahamas needs hellopoetry
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Bolivia needs hellopoetry
Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry
Botswana needs hellopoetry
Brazil needs hellopoetry
Brunei needs hellopoetry
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Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry
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Cameroon needs hellopoetry
Canada needs hellopoetry
Central African Republic needs hellopoetry
Chad needs hellopoetry
Chile needs hellopoetry
China needs hellopoetry
Colombia needs hellopoetry
Comoros needs hellopoetry
Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry
Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry  
Costa Rica needs hellopoetry
Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry
Croatia needs hellopoetry
Cuba needs hellopoetry
Cyprus needs hellopoetry
Czech Republic needs hellopoetry

Denmark needs hellopoetry  
Djibouti needs hellopoetry
Dominica needs hellopoetry
Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry

East Timor (Timor-Leste) needs hellopoetry
Ecuador needs hellopoetry
Egypt needs hellopoetry  
El Salvador needs hellopoetry
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Fiji needs hellopoetry
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Georgia needs hellopoetry
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Hungary needs hellopoetry

Iceland needs hellopoetry
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Korea, North needs hellopoetry
Korea, South needs hellopoetry
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Laos needs hellopoetry
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Madagascar needs hellopoetry
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Mexico needs hellopoetry
Micronesia, Federated States is in need of hellopoetry
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Romania needs hellopoetry
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Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry
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Samoa needs hellopoetry
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Yemen needs hellopoetry

Zambia needs hellopoetry
Zimbabwe needs hellopoetry

it's largely based on the introduction, drunk poetry of Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde, or Dave Bowie's heathen albums that can be treated as fully-loaded novels with missing charting song, you can champ the narratives akin to nearing ancient symphonies making Nietzsche more of a German Chopin than an idea formation, excusing himself with too maxims; yep, Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde given Nick Hornby's care for the music in what's a fluke of care for piquant fidelity, country and blues, bought at a supermarket; or avoid both and head straight for Ticlah's si hecho palante.

for some strange reason i woke up early,
usually i miss the morning staying up
till 5 or 6 a.m., like a vampire scared of sunrise,
winter is my most productive period,
summer my least productive,
spring and autumn are seasons when
magic happens, just today the oak tree was
brushing away its flowery bloom
before the fat yoke of chestnuts would fall
a few months later, the spring bloom
of pink or white was already tailored for
the excess greenery of summer, over a period
of two days the flowers withered and
the green leaves appeared.
she once complimented on my cooking skills
and my taste of music, notably *tool,
i first met her when we got together in the
student flats and two girls were *******-up
frying pancakes... the dough stuck to the
frying-pan... so i said 'you need to put some
oil into the mixture!' hey presto a Michelin star
on my attire rather than Victoria's crux
of a soldier... that's how it goes with philosophy
nothing pompous i promise you,
Plato misquoted Socrates talking about
looking funny at men who sought brothel comforts
(the norm in Amsterdam, no guilt, no tabloid spice,
o.k. o.k. Leo Getz style, 'it's like going to the gym,
she was South American, plump, she had a little nergo
boy fetch beers for her clients, she kept the window
open so passersbys could hear her moan after laughing
at my addressing her genitalia with may i taste the fleshy
floral patterns? ah ****, didn't work, you get to write
about *** and it just ends up a string of cliché
like philosophy and the maxim - prostitutes and the
Gemini lips, try kissing both at the same time);
i'd be funny-looking at the other route of philosophers,
mainly through the army, i'm all lazy eye cross-eyed with
those *******... (i do "pending" interludes since
with drunk finger playing the keyboard i tend to
delete by accident about 1 poem for each 10, heartbreaking
experience) - lost the drift, i must be in Birmingham:
no river... no flow. standard model always included
rivers for people congregating, in the countryside
a church would be enough, but for urbanity a river...
this phenomenon of canal cities like Venice is
truly staggering, call it the Maldives of the west,
the Maldives of Europe, 100 years from now
it will probably be more than a Glastonbury fashion
statement of donning farmer John's galoshes.
i've lost the plot... fun-*******-tastic!
oh yeah, the pancakes... well after falling in love
with organic experiments i learnt to love cuisine,
well d'uh cooking, my flatmate just cooked risotto
after risotto until i started pulling rice grains from my nose...
esters and perfumes, the smelly ****, like pickled cabbage,
the grand joke of british asians...
yeah sauerkraut and chicken escalopes are the grand
joke, although try shoving asian spices under your
armpits and you'll be walking the catwalk of Versace for
sure (hey man, stick has two ends!)...
it's an escalope and that's hardly the profanity of
a chicken Kiev, also called a schnitzel... but not schabowy...
you know there's this great aesthetic joke concerning
polish graffiti about the orthography of ****** / phallus
in poland? yep, the variations: huj, hój, chuj, chój...
technically they all sound the same,
they're found next to the anarchists' A and swastikas
on communist apartments.
she wanted so so much, i was at the end of the third year,
and there she is, moving out of her student accommodation
to live with me in my private flat (rented)...
i mean, great... but i'm about to sit my final exams
to get a piece of paper telling others i'm qualified...
what a ******* mess: i know a 3rd of examinable material
i was studying i'll fail, physical chemistry is not my
strong point, organic i can ace, inorganic i can do well on...
but she's there, full-on intense teen... it's a juggling
act that requires a clown, rather than a man,
i'm not saying i'm perfect, but there's too much idealism
in her that requires a hefty stash of pecunia bratus
(money trees)... ah i wish, but had i wished it
i would be writing such uninhibited poems...
up-to-speed... on today's menu!
that's the culinary abhorrence of poetry, remembering
ingredients in recipes rather than rhymes,
for example Thai green curry, and the ***** curry,
the former with spoonful of green Thai sauce to replace
the use of lemongrass, and lime leaves,
actually the limes we replaced with lemons,
the Thai sauce was added, the garlic & ginger paste used,
onions, mangetout added last to add a crispness on the bite,
new potatoes avoided, half a jar of Thai green curry paste,
Thai fish sauce, not salty enough soya sauce was added
(both light and dark), coconut milk of course, caster sugar,
chicken (well, d'uh), basil... yes... basil! lemon zest
and rice, chilli powder!
the second curry involved: cumin seeds, fennel seeds,
a cinnamon stick, garam masala, chilli powder,
turmeric, chopped tomatoes, sugar, chicken stock,
chopped coriander... all in all this is a culinary attack
of poetry, it's not clearly an ancient revenge,
but when i was younger i was instructed to memorise
a poem, aged circa 7... the poem in question was
school bell, i didn't get why we had to memorise it,
it wasn't anything spectacular, i protested,
gave an oath in swear words against my classmates,
got told off... culinary principles invoke the need
to memorise recipes rather than poems,
curbing the influence of fast-food outlets...
i rather remember the ingredient lists of dishes than poems...
indeed i did make these dishes today,
but only because i switched the radio off
and inserted bought art into the device:
Tom Petty's and the Heartbreaker's greatest hits
and !!!'s (chk chk chk's) myth takes album.

oh right, she's the *** "slave" that gets kissed on the lips after being given oral ***, getting paid £110 AN HOUR... i'm i'm just a free-radical floating about on an income of £120 A WEEK waiting for charity of food and roof? well then... i hope that translates when i speak with a *******'s tongue stolen while having licked all the former ***** out of her **** and said: only i was in there... oh for ****'s sake! take the ****** out, i can feel the mouse tail on the tip of it! so who's the ***** now? the only oil i apply to my brain to ease the pressure after going 30 odd hours sober without sleep is alcohol, i imitate a axe action on my neck feeling my third tonsil turning into a throbbing muscle.

the split apart grapheme in greek!
θ                      and                        φ!
the lost grapheme!
thermometer                                           the
                                                             ­     v'eh or d'eh?
imagine saying     θarmacology
and imagine saying φermometer! imagine!
the english empire... shushed in a second in Dublin,
god knows why Yeats was read by
Clint Eastwood, and to my surprise,
a toothache or a broken nose readjusted is
more painful than what i managed to spot
in the greatest boxing movie: million dollar baby...
some pains are greater, the pains of the past
the past not rekindled are greater than
those of the present, the present can be overcome,
the indestructible element, what with
fire, water, earth, air, electricity, the seventh being
soul - all the others are preserved in continuum,
why can't the soul be kindred of the others,
is it to forever remain a ******* from the *****
bank of Louis XIV, huh?! the soul is equally elemental,
all modern science can tell me a that it's
worth walking in a library rather than a forest,
that all trees will eventually be treated as
toothpicks, matchsticks or pencils,
but i am not bound to exist in the mind
of another person, i am not to be the host eternal,
for all the science, we've become less
individualistic and more prone to parasites
of theory... personally i'd prefer the membrane
of phobias to keep me safe rather than
transcend these little millimetre irrationality
segments to be captured by a frigate of the grand
theorists...

please tell me it's just a horror case of aesthetics,
please! but no, you won't...
i know the overbearing particularity of English
due to missing diacritic,
i know the significance of significant syllable
cutting-up due to diacritical application -
the Greeks had a premature ******* starting
to use them... they shouldn't have...
THE ENTIRE WORLD WAS WAITING
FOR THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE TO BEGIN USING
DIACRITICAL MARKS! why did the Greeks
jump too early into the whirlpool? look at English
culture, they're gagging, rather than laughing,
we were all waiting for them to catch-up to the aesthetic,
they didn't, the Greeks made a falsetto on the 100m sprint,
they should have waited, and waited, until
the English applied diacritical distinction to the print,
in order that they might deal with programming,
encoding, computer language, no wonder
English once so eloquent disintegrated into emoticons
and acronyms! look at it! there's no point feeling
a nostalgia for only one man, there's no point
keeping Shakespeare when there's an entire
century to decipher, Marlowe et al. (i preferred
his Faust to Goethe's - one breath reading session
in Dover) - with nostalgia come the many merry men
of Southampton, not one, you can't do nostalgia
primum uno, you need a species, can we find the
required shrapnel in the Caribbean or in the
Venice of the Indian ocean, namely the Maldives?
you can't do nostalgia like that,
you need at least one other, otherwise future literature
extravagance will be as short-lived as
the Counter-Reformation given Martin Luther,
he isn't god, never was, but imagine the feeling
of disgrace that even poor Charles Dickens couldn't
match up to!

indeed the Greek created the consonant grapheme,
and many other twins separated at birth,
to fuel an orthographic aesthetic -
a bypass necessity of the opposites and lacking
colour - false stance of defeat written on white,
but geometrically written in the *******-out of colour,
therefore mutating, deliberate encoding due to
how to write like an Impressionist or how to write
like a Surrealist...

but as i remember, the riff to Black Sabbath's
black sabbath* written in tabulation:

e ||                                                  (boo tome)
b ||
g ||
d ||
a ||
E ||                                                   (top um)

opening riff sounds like this:

d ||                    3
a ||                                      2
E ||    1    

                 for the trembling effect, quickly
                 interchange with

a ||                                      2             /            3.

the crest of love, is neither
a bed, or a knowing;
love? love is always
a lacklustre:
a loss of attempting,
the last refrain of song;
my sweetest,
you being the remnant,
the "lost" remnant-song,
you, by kindest remark,
the remaining piano key
being played,
and lost in death,
to be remaining in
death's: pardon;
since i have my song,
i too have my word you
might utter in reply,
  and, once more,
make a weeping man:
the worthwhile creature,
with you, the trustworth
combination:
you have become,
the saddle upon the horse of death,
the ego driven life / or that of thought -
  the last & lasting -
        ever more -
        culprit of welcome
or unwelcome time -
of men tied to the tear,
as those who by crying
dare compare, or preserve...
              the remnants of man....
i keep my abode,
   as the cherished mould,
schizoid mad,
repeated countless times till the year
90 year proud....
         i have you,
and only you,
     and the acorn tree...
    my last remaining truce:
having a prison of "offence" -
my last last: loss of luck / fate;
i have you, in the least:
compared to!

death moulds the living,
more than the living past,
have assuring sentiments
to "guide with"...
  the dead are more prone to
life, than the living are more
prone to death...
and what an oddity it is,
to have become...
   but still the life with the
pristine abode, is a life
worth ascribing to,
  perhaps the last resort...
but at least a resort: nonetheless...
last man standing:
             is the first child alive;
i call it, quite simply:
                       project maldives.

w sztuce musi trwać rzeka, bo kto chce sztuke, ten jeden raz, jakby brzeg morza z falami na re- re- re- repeat?*

i love arguing with my father and mother,
i get to give them a quick lecture concerning art
after i drank a quarter of their whiskey
and asked things softly before being prompted to anger
and the now famous quote i have concerning western society:
but you know i shouldn’t have been prescribed anti-psychotic
medication, that **** is prescribed in prisons
where prisoners smash their ******* against the walls...
you have a toothache? go see a psychiatrist!
you have knee pains? go see a psychiatrist!
you’re ******* with some blood? go see a psychiatrist!
so i says to them... i may look like a *****
but my art will not become a *****,
look at what happened to led zeppelin,
four great albums in a space of 3 / 4 years and then nothing...
crap...
that’s what happens when you write great stuff and then
take the stage to entertain... you loose the plot of creativity...
oh yeah you get an audience, but you forget the little genius (
wingless angels, ugly *******)
that crafted living loving maid (she’s just a woman)...
‘but you’re a puff pastry with your drinking, you’re drunk 24 / 7.’
‘i sleep, that’s hardly 24 / 7, plus i couldn’t find
a better sedative than alcohol, it’s not like i drink to party.’
well, the argument ends with: i forgot palm trees grow on the maldives...
i heard the maldives have bigger ambitions than venice;
well no, it ends with my father giving me a can of wd-40
to oil up the squeaky chair i'm sitting on.

Children of Louisiana,
Swept away and drowned,
In the river’s flood
And the ocean surge.
Never have recovered
Fully from the rain falling down,
And of a city that was purged.
Ignored by the government
And its fellow man,
Follow in a long line of sufferers
Since the melting, ice age glaciers
And even a tsunami in the North Sea
That wiped out Doggerland.
Dark Ages got darker as people ran
And Britain’s white cliffs were sheared.
Times got better and then got worse,
But the people carried on.
Now, the floods are a weekly thing,
A blip on a newscast,
As lost as the victims in a mess
Of other disasters,
Of wildfires, droughts and don’t
Even mention the quaking earth
Or volcanoes! We can’t take credit
For causing those!
Rich men in their castles,
Feasting and clapping each other
On their fatty backs,
Rolling in the spoils and spills
Of oil, on the flaming water of
The American plains.
Sheikhs in old Mesopotamia
Whine about oil pipelines,
Promised to them by President Cheney,
While the people starve.
Bloated oligarchs spread destruction
All over the world, from
The Congo to Chernobyl,
Melting icecaps and raising the sea,
Sinking islands where they don’t live,
Vacationing in the Maldives,
On special rates before those go under.
They won’t fix Miami, but let it sink,
But not before they plunder
The empty towers built on foolish dreams.
Of course, they’ll be the last to go,
Crammed into mansions up in the Alps,
Fighting with the European nobles
Over who gets a crumbling palace
Now sitting on the last ice floe.
A few American cousins round each other up
To catch the Dixie Flyer down to New Orleans,
Trying to hide from the polar vortex,
A dazzling case of ignorance and greed,
Only to find the tracks buried in the sea…
Down in the mud of the deep, brown sea.

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

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

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

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

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

elsewhere in a grammar lesson:

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

Trinidad and Tobagonians
Haitians
Egyptians

Mexicans
English
Liechtensteins
T­urkish
Italians
Norwegians
Germans

Portuguese
Omanians
Tromelin Islanders

Orcas Islanders
French

African-Americans
Maldives
Ecuadorians
Romanian­s
Ice Landers
Chinese
Argentinas

If I was a king of Asia I would give you all the gold there is
But I'm not even prince of Persia, all I have is love and dreams
Let me show you land of legends, land of honeymoon and rising sun
I am not as rich as Ali Baba, but I promise we'll be having fun

I'll take you to Bali the gem of Java Sea
Then we'll go on to safari a little south of Abu Dhabi
I'll take you to Maldives to swim in coral reefs
We'll enjoy the sweet papaya on the islands of Pattaya

I'll show you lake Baikal, Tibet and Taj Mahal
We'll see Macao, Yokohama, Hanoi, Jeddah, Jaipur, Jakarta
I'll take you to Dubai, Dushanbe and Mumbai
We'll spend some starry nights in yurts near the city of Yakutsk

I’ll take you to Tashkent where melons got their scent
We will taste all sorts of apples in the city of Almaty
I’ll take you to Beirut we'll go nuts on dried fruits
And the coffee with vanilla we can try it in Manilla

I'll take you to Kashgar to shop at old bazaar
Then we'll fly a magic carpet to the markets of Qatar
We'll see ruins of Karakorum the old capital of Moguls
Then we'll go to Kathmandu and then Karachi and Kabul

We'll discover caves with treasures, make three wishes all at once
All at once will turn to a fairy tale, like in one and thousand nights
Let me show you feast of colors, take you cross the dunes in caravans
Even if I don't look like Alladin, I sure know a thing about romance

I'll take you to Taipei to see its lovely bay
We will sip on Coca Cola on the silky sands of Goa
I'll take you to Shanghai where towers touch the sky
And the best of architecture we will see in precious Petra

We'll go to Ashgabat, Bishkek, Busan, Baghdad
We will see Great Wall of China and Cambodian Angkor Wat
We'll see the Everest, mount Fuji, Gobi Desert
And it's certainly my pleasure to take you all around Asia!

i've noticed that, upon ushering words from the depth
of nothing, or as an interlude in Knausgaard's day-to-day
musing in vol. 6 after inviting Geir over:
this "i" or that "i" or for that matter "my" i...
however you want to frame it...
    i noticed that if i allow myself an evening of not writing...
esp. on an electric screen for someone else to see...
if for example i lay down to go to sleep...
not exactly asleep: dart out of bed and scribble something
on a piece of paper for only me to see...
i will still dream...
but if i sit down and face the electric screen:
pixels like the eyes of a fly... for someone else to see?
i don't dream...
   otherwise... having scribbled down the following
on a piece of paper:

   exploring Heidegger's dasein in another language...
my native, which i will translate into English,
basically prepositional coordination of(f) being
off not necessarily implying non-being -
perhaps merely: being-in-itself or rather the other...

tu-być : be-here
              to-bycie : this-being
ten-byt :                      ditto
although: nuance... there is a distinction...

i also scribbled down something i heard a long
time ago about how Russia, India and China are
re-orientating themselves with the slacking of the western
influence on: whatever it was that the west had
for the past three decades beside
proxy wars, collateral damages and "culture"...

i heard the term: post-ethnic-nationalism
post-ethno-state post-nation-state...
ergo: multiculturalism... which, oddly enough:
i can't come to grips with trying if not trying to
pretend to be a native of these isles -
perhaps it might be a shock for someone outside
of London - but in London it's almost
second nature to... be surrounded by people
from all around the world...
needless to say: the natives are not so disgruntled
once they're sitting all pretty-cherry on top
of some hierarchy: esp. in the journalistic
opinion sections of the Saturday / Sunday magazine...
then it's an open bonanza against
the "lower class racists" and what not...
i can't be an anti-racist: after all...
                                     anti-racists once produced
a schematic for us to learn from in primary school...
which shower the size of brains of...
a white person, a black person and a racist...
and some other brains...
the racist's brain was under-developed:
smaller...                                      ­ really?!

anyway... so Russia, India and China have opted for
what has come to be known as the:
civilization-state...
                                     given the ongoing zeitgeist
******* blowing up in the Anglophone world from
H'america... the culture-war(?!) -
i would bet fairly and say that pretty much all
former nation-states of western Europe
and beyond are currently in a state of morphing
into: buzz buzzword: being - culture-states...

but whereas a civilization-state seems an abrupt
optimal to counter and disagreement with regards
to continuity: civilisations don't merely come and go...
whereas cultures do...
   culture is somehow a totality of the little things
in life... fashion, the arts, politics, faux pas innuendos,
trends, diet...
that's culture and some...
but civilisation? to me that's like saying...
the foundation of Rome was the creation
of the aqueducts...
                  civilisation to me is like saying:
the British Empire and the steam-engine...
civilisation to me, London, exclusively is... the tube...
the underground network...

seriously... i don't need to go to a West End Play
i don't need to go and see Ed Sheeran play
to a sold out Wembley stadium of 100,000+ people
(although, i did, even though i did because
i worked a shift there doing security,
so, technically i didn't, but did)
            i don't need culture... as such...

all i need to do is first, do a shift at Craven Cottage...
hope that the Elizabeth Line won't be working
travel on the Central Line from Newbury Park all
the way to Holborn... and then blah blah...
instead of trying to look at the tired faces opposite
me admire the map of the Central Line
(it's a toss-up between the Central Line map,
or the District, Northern or Piccadilly)
and then, on some sunny day... get my bicycle
out... and bicycle for most of the route... notably...
skewing... merging at Fairlop working my way
through Barkingside, coming to Gants Hill
then less of the tube route (mind you...
between Leyton and Stratford it's pretty
much over-ground) -
   and then from Stratford - through to Mile End...
from Mile End via Whitechapel... to Aldgate...
from Aldgate to St. Paul's... Chancery Lane...
Holborn... rat beneath the ground:
like a rat needs a bicycle -
   well this rat is no hamster: hence the bicycle
and not a hamster-wheel...

what culture? movies?! i tried watching something
relevant to the 1980s today... ***** Dancing...
great soundtrack but... cringe!
that's even before Malcolm X and how inter-racial
inter-****** relations had to be the new norm:
i mean: ******* fair play...
    building the new Brazil -
    but i still think there's an under-representation
(and isn't everyone supposed to get a fair share
of representation) of white boy Romanian girl
(Roma, gypsy) or white boy Turkish girl...
   or white boy half-white half-Indian girl...

i know i will not dream tonight because someone
will see this...
my little itchy thoughts, my freed from the reins
"i" that doesn't really have these words clogging
up its mind - only until the itching of the fingers starts
and i have a blessed day...
like today...

why is it that a Saturday evening can feel like
a Sunday evening?
oh, right... i made steak for dinner tonight...
potato wedges (skins on, first boiled until
the the water started boiling, turned off, soaking
for 5 min, drained, olive oil, cajun pepper sprinkle,
into the oven)
    and some baked vegetables:
leeks, carrots, parsley root, red onions,
celeriac, swede... balsamic vinegar,
    sambal, cumin, coriander, salt, pepper,
sugar (i stopped using honey,
   it sticks to the baking tray plus the vegetables
lose their crunch, and vegetables need their crunch)...
2 steaks (456g total) shared between three people...
seasoned with sea salt and grain black pepper
(i prefer pepper grains than pepper powder,
i.e. pockets of explosion of that spice)
    3 min each side... a perfect medium-rare blush...

however the Indians might sell their spices...
chillies etc. there's still something wholesome
when it comes to eating certain types of food...
given that... i wouldn't be eating beef in India:
i wouldn't be seasoning beef with chillies!
that's why pepper is important...
that's why horseradish is important...
i let most of the Indians slip up: oooh! the Europeans
didn't have any spices...
apart from thyme, rosemary, sage, lavender,
mint... pepper, horseradish, i#m sure we
were also familiar with cumin seeds -
as well as that anise-seed that' not the star
(i forgot the name of it, it looks like
a cumin seed, but fatter, and split down
the middle - green) oh and of course:
plenty of salt...
what's all the spices in the world in the culinary world...
IF, YOU, AIN'T, GOT - SALT?!
   (if you don't have... i know i know...)

it's rather bewildering talking to certain Asians...
although, saying that...
most of Eastern Europe had plenty of interaction
with Asians, namely the Mongols
and the Turks - which the western Europeans
sort of... "forgot"... after Darwinism they
skipped over Asia and went straight back
to Africa... personally? i feel more akin to Asians
(esp. the oriental folk) than i do with anyone
from Africa... however Christianity was born...
after all: what's the definition of a white man?
Caucasian? and where's the Caucus?
Asia... Europe was always going to be
a funnel - a bottle-neck continent -
a port... a departing point...
       perhaps we shouldn't be so clingy to it...
unless of course:
   oh the parody of Jesus never came out of
Europe: "we" had to wait for it coming from
North America, but by then it was no longer
a parody of Jesus but a parody of North American
Christianity... a North American parody of Jesus
is... oddly enough... a European parody
of North American Christianity: via Jesus...

which brings me to another thing... only upon
doing a shift at Craven Cottage did i first hear
the parakeets... never before...
     i'm not going to bloat my ego this much but...
since then i've seen an article on Wikipedia that
i never saw before, the article just appeared out of
nowhere: feral parakeets of England...
subsequently... only a day ago:
you're only here for the parrots, fans chant
as birds swarm Leyton Orient pitch (Evening Standard
4 hours ago)
and bare conker trees overrun by bright green
parakeets make them seem vibrant despite leafless
branches (Daily Mail, 3 days ago, somewhere
in south London)...

today i was given the chance to walk back into my old
haunt... as much as i love cycling...
it's sometimes refreshing to walk...
the slowing of pace, the horizon almost intact...
more so... if walking into a forest...
Bower Wood... i know it is a curated wood...
it's not as feral as the pine woods of Eastern Europe...
but: if life gives you X... you make XY...
x = lemons, y = juice ergo xy = lemon juice...

i'm pretty sure i was familiar with this wood...
i was out hunting for souvenirs for my mother to dress
the table / fake deer antennas for candles to sit in...
holy, some other greenery with black berries...
i was hunting for ferns, almost near impossible
given this time of year... found some! bright blush
of childish envy... oh... and birches...
some oak barks fallen off... just me alone in the forest...
i was so thankful by myself...
but usually i heard crows, magpies and woodland
pigeons... but now?! parakeets?!
here?! now?! parrots in winter in these parts?!

i swear the world is standing-up-side-down...
it's hard not to miss an under-current of a serious
pagan revival weaving and slithering its way through
Europe: if only you care to listen...
i switched off from whatever is available in culture
these days... i know that what i'm listening to
will not gain popular traction...
i can walk into the forest and... there's the forest...
i go back home... cook dinner...
go into my bedroom, open a bottle of cider
thinking: no champagne will beat this...
put on a record akin to...
Heilung's TENET and... hey presto!

                       i was in company of a good friend:
someone already dead who...
i don't know how someone can lose themselves
in the forest... pareidolia...
   you can sometimes see paths already trodden...
unseen but somehow: you can see a "ghost"
of a foot here and there...
    you know: you just KNOW where a human foot
prior to yours once treaded...
there are patterns... better sticking with pareidolia than
the iconoclasm of celebrity...
i always thought that was better...
i like to think i'm in the company of strange
creatures: phantoms of my mind...
but hardly! how can these be phantoms of my mind?!
i didn't spontaneously conjure a face in a tree
when the ******* tree is older than me!
the tree was here before me!
what?! some sin?! some psychological sin
of non-conformity?! i don't adhere to star-gazing
in the filth of commodities and entertainment?!

i know why this feels like a Sunday evening even
though it's a Saturday night...
i was planning on going to the brothel tonight...
but... oh hey mother, hello father...
i'm going out... where? you don't have any friends...
blah blah... yeah... well... i'm kind of happy
because of that: no social-constraints of expectations...
as the conversation usually ran with the last
remaining friend i had from high-school...
- so, what have you been up to?
- nothing...
     and he knew that i was scribbling like mad...
what's there to talk about when it comes to writing?!
last time i heard: you read what is written...
you don't talk about it...
hopefully the reading of something written goes
back into thinking and is not spoken of:
since the conventionality of everyday
formality of social-speech crushes anything delicate
that is born from i-ought-not-but-regardless-i-must!
it's a compulsion!

i went to the shop about 3 hours ago to buy an extra
bottle of cider because i knew: having read a little more than
usual i had to keep the Libra of conscience in place,
"conscience": never write more than you read...
and never read less than you write - so so...
          wow... FORK in the "ROAD"...
                        this is me replaying the opening of the song
TENET - the sound of the horn...
well... i didn't have a horn in the forest...
but i had my pagan statue... a dead white tree...
i left this little stick next to it... i used to walk this wood
more times than i can remember...
sometimes i walked into it bare-chested...
blind from the darkness, but somehow illuminated
by the moon... sat on a stump of wood...
silence... then a breaking of a branch...
not the sort of breaking of a branch still attached
to a tree... something stepped on it...
i wasn't alone... i froze but then ushered in my voice
to compliment a shared bewildered amazement:
that is not a foot of a man stepping on a branch...

in the same wood i saw my first GARMR...
would i really have to go with the flow
of a Christopher J. MacCandless?!
                                       if hell is going to send its hounds
out to meet me, it doesn't matter where that might
be... i don't need to visit the northern most parts
of Norway to find what i'm seeking...
and what i'm seeking i found: since i'm dragging what
needed to be found around...
it's not surprising that at Bower Wood i was
alleviating a traffic problem when
two does and about 5 fawns were causing havoc...
"havoc" in the night implies 3 cars pulling over...
me coming down from the hill running up to
the village of Havering-atte-Bower spotting one...
not caring if there was a stag nearby running
with the fawn which subsequently ensured
the two does and the rest of the fawns
started to gallop and disappeared into the Wood...

i wish i could make this stuff up...
but then again: i'm not jealous of people
who have seen the Galapagos Islands or the Maldives
or... ah... just recently...
i took that rat-above-rat-below trip on my bicycle
into central London... i said to myself:
circle round St. Paul's cathedral... nope...
not good enough... around the Old Bailey then...
o.k. - and i "prayed": please! not another flat tire!
hey presto! on my way back... a flat tire at Aldgate!
great! well... i walked this distance before...
i can walk it again... walking back...
passed the East London Mosque and then...
Allahu Akbar! a bicycle repair shop!

walked up - leaned the bicycle against the wall,
the Chinese guy said: just 10 minutes
(while he was fixing this Deliveroo rider's
electric bicycle) - no problem -
i took some times to each some gelatin sweets
and drink some water, looking at people,
i felt like i was in some exclusive club,
only cyclists allowed - it felt like a very urban
sensation that most punks must have felt,
or goths, standing out...
i paid too much compliments to those guys
in Cycle King bicycle shop in Chadwell Heath...
i knew the front tire was worn down,
but i thought: get the professional's opinion...
they would be more than willing to change
the inner-tube for the Nth time before telling me:
oh... you need to change the actual tyre...
how many times did i change the inner tube?
**** knows! milking it... ******* were milking it!
but this Chinese guy said outright plainly...
it's ****... i'll change it for you...
inner tube, tyre and labour... £55...
done!
               he changed it to a tyre that...
well... let's face it... 2nd gear front
and 4th, 5th 6th and 7th gears in the back...
i was whizzing past home... he said:
less width... more grip... for the grit...
   but at least he was ******* honest...
that's what i mean about a European's relationship
with the Asians... i'm honest, they're honest...
they're not some SCAM MERCHANT KNIGS
of NIGERIA: CNUT-MBAPPE typos...

oh... and it's not like anyone didn't notice
that Indian girls think they're the bomb?!
oh yeah... oh no, not the Muslim girls... those girls
are whipped into always staring down...
like white girls are whipped into peering into
their smart-phone screens and envisioning:
anything outside of inter-racial relationships is:
pederasty (loose term)... whatever it might me...
bulimic antics: not done properly, mind you...
not in the Roman style of training the oesophagus
to just spew on a whim: i.e. i ate too much...
apologies... i need to... ugh! ugh! ugh!
                      get ready the trampoline!
we're going to launch half-digested fish-heads!

now i'm happy... my Trek Merlin 5 is compatible...
fun... looking at that *** trying to chase me down
working my way down toward the Old Bailey...
Asian ceramic raven haired
no helmet... and never, never... ride a bicycle
in an urban environment minding
the sticker on the inside of a large vehicle:
BLIND SPOT... well... d'uh... so use the large
vehicle like a battering ram against all the gnats
of smaller vehicles... ride on the outside of the large
vehicle... always on the outside...
what are you, cyclist... a Hebrew forced by
the **** brown-shirts to walk in the gutter rather
than on the pavement?! what am i?
just because i'm a cyclist i'm no less a hazard
to a motorcyclist?! momentum, self-generated!
i like my legs... let me know when you're dealing
wheelies and whizzes on a ******* wheelchair...
until i have my legs... i'll be skimming through
traffic... Norman Davis might have called
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth God's Playground...
i think i'll call London my playground...
there's plenty to play with around here...

                 but for once i listened to my ego...
for some reason i didn't require a depth of the
Freudian secular trinity of the addition of superego
and id... i was just about to think about going to the brothel
but then my ego said: you're not feeling it...
and i wasn't... i still had to clean the kitchen up,
take the garbage out... i was oiling myself up...
"oiling": checking if i still had a 30 year old's hard-on
i stopped using the fake diet of ******* of
actors: disposable, unattainable...
i switched to: ROMANIAN AMATEUR ****...
well... it's what i'm going to get...
but i checked my hard-on too many times today...
checked, i.e. checked without climaxing...
checked about 4 times... the 5th time i checked
i was thinking about going to the brothel...
but then my ego (not my ego) checked me...
you're not going anywhere:

THE FICKLE MIND AND THE FIRM TRUTH
OF THE BODY...
the mind lies more times than the body cares to admit...
until, of course... the reality of body steps in
and the mind has to retreat... just as happened with
my excess drinking... i went to buy that extra bottle
of cider and waiting in the queue while a mother
with three daughters "****'s sake" the mother retorted
while the girls were undecided what else
to add to the basked i looked at the shelves
with all the spirits... no! no! no more whiskey!
no more *****! no more!
i checked my supposed "impotence" too many times
today... "impotence": more like being
insulted by the madam: beached-whale...
she just flicked it when it went limp because
i found her physically abhorrent...
flicked it... like it was a worm...
like she was 6 years old and i was 5 years old
and she was still playing with Barbie dolls
and unlike she was...
because she knew what a key was and what a keyhole
was... but she had no idea what
physical attraction was...

                        reciprocated...

well ****... it's working... guess it's not working with you...
a bit like the horse that Christopher Reeve rode
when it dropped him and recalculated Superman:
without a spine...
plus i had no excuse to leave the house...
i had plenty of excuses to read some more of Knausgaard
and write this...
tomorrow i'll have the excuse of "working late"...
going to a brothel is not like saying:
oh yeah... i'm going on a date with a girl
we're going to the cinema blah blah...
       no... dearest ******* Madam...
she's the one that chased away both Mona and Khadra...
what the **** happened?!

what am i? a Duracell bunny?! there's an ON and OFF
switch with regards to my phallus?!
if that's the case... what's the dynamic of ****?!
is ****... no... it can't be... **** is a man *******
a turned-off woman? i once had an experience
of a woman who... let's put it mildly:
her **** was as dry as the adequate metaphor
of sensation one might regret to feel from rubbing one's
hands on sandpaper!
hands... finger tips... rough skin...
ergo the ability to play guitar or rock climb...
we're talking tender skin...
so... technically: hardly a pleasure for a ****** to feel
pleasure from an unaroused ****!
ergo?! that was an aroused **** and it's all psychological:
not physical... the shame of giving it so freely
and unwillingly... whereas playing games with
those one might want to give it up to...
i can hardly **** with a LIMPY -
   but i certainly wouldn't want to **** a timber-mill worth
of toothpicks, match-sticks and left-overs...
**** is psychological it would seem...
                the shame of it... all those labyrinths of playing
games suddenly disappearing from the case of
"spontaneity"...
   you should ask her: South African... Sancha...
worked in a private school... teaching boys Mathematics...
maybe she was a *******... by now who knows?!
i do know that i wasn't terrible aroused by her
the first time we tried...
i got a limp... like i got a limp with Ilona:
a forewarning... but she was adamant and whispered
into my ear: you will not deny me...
second time i was in her teacher accommodation
i brought a copy of the Machinist with me on DVD...
she must have spiked my drink because then the horror
of cocoon *** ensued and that's when
she climbed on top of me and gave me the sawdust
sandpaper **** treatment in the dark...

it kind of follows through to the casual mode of
argumentation people have concerning the schizoid condition:
it's all in your mind...
right... so the schizoid condition is simply: so...
your i-think detaches itself from thought
and forms a i-hallucinate complex as if: spring follows winters?
well then... it's all in your mind...
**** is probably in most of women's minds...
it doesn't actually exist in reality:
in the physiology... **** is a mental construct...
it must be... since i don't recall any ******
talking about: oh ****... i had to pull out...
her **** turned into a mantis or the mouth
of a worm from the planet Dune... i just couldn't
continue!

the next day she drove me to the station and i never saw
her again...
ergo? i have a strange relationship with a limp ****...
it's not impotence: per se,
it's more a judge of character concerning a ******
partner: however brief, however informal...
it's like a wild animal freezing still...
     deer in the headlights...
                                      i should have known better
with Ilona... but she pressured to the point where it
finally started "working": i wish "he" didn't...
it would have saved me so much pointless drama...
if i were a man with a child i would tell him just as much:
it's not working for a reason...
that ***** is a mantis... you're not a robot...
this isn't a *****... you're not an extension of a *****...
it's not working for a reason...
go and check... watch the most realistic "*******":
switch to amateur stuff...
                                that's all you're going to get...
and can you, get it up? well then...
it's not you...
                                     once all the glamour is gone
and you're left with a butcher's cut of antics...
                              well... if you're aroused by that sort of stuff
in private... why can't the partner reciprocate?
maybe that's just me finalising some logistics for
tomorrow...
shift at the Ice Rink tomorrow...
me... two girls...
   one butch lesbian... she keeps rubbing off on my arms
every time the home side scores
and she's celebrating...
      one rub by chance i can understand... two rubs
and i'm thinking: this isn't homosexual conversion therapy,
is it?
the other? got me the job to begin with...
started taking dieting pills because she feels depressed
because she thinks she's fat and this is what
working with women looks like if you're not
in the business of being a plumber: in the realm of
customer service...
    
                 that's how this new girl i fancied at work
got fired... about 4 other girls ganged up on her
and she was literally bullied out of work because...
            
it's coming up to 1am... i need to get up early tomorrow...
do a cycling shift...
trim my mustache, my beard, my ***** region, my arm-pits...
finish one more bottle of cider for good luck:
or no luck...
           listen to some more pagan music...
think about Bower Wood and how i wish that if i weren't
working tomorrow
i'd buy myself a bottle of whiskey and walk
into it, right now... to howl and wake up the crows.

p.s. oh, right, that dream i had last night when
i didn't scribble any words for anyone else to see?
two night ago i was swimming with
pseudo-jelly fish on the edge of the universe
transmitting vibrations of light...
last night i was watching while some colts
were gleefully celebrating their ability to drink
shots of absinthe... until i walked up to the bar
and showed them how to drink absinthe
properly...
i took out a spoon, dipped the spoon in some
sugar... poured some absinthe onto the spoon...
lit the spoon and the sugar alight...
watched the caramel form...
then poured some water into the glass
to clue them in into the secret of drinking absinthe:
you don't drink absinthe like *****...
you need for the green-milk of wormwood
to emerge!
    sie müssen für die grünmilsch von wermut
zu auftauchen!

she asked him: why did you leave Edinburgh? and he didn't reply, but upon thinking out his reply to a deaf ear: because i didn't come here for you; 'lona 'lona, whisper sometimes, and i'll give you a cat's whisker.*

i was in venice,
yes,
i drank absinthe the wrong
way
on a beach,
spent three nights in a hostel
with a bunch of girls,
took a hebrew girl
for a taste of tourism,
listened to the shofar
before i entered a synagogue
outlet extension reading
the 613 commandments
on a computer screen...
venice's pavement traffic and eating
pistachio gelato,
nothing much,
i still preferred the Gothic distancing
of Edinburgh's nights
where i could be with cold-hands
and warm heart inviting;
basically i don't like tourist basins,
or tourist wombs for that matter...
am i looking at something predictable?
yes, i am, a billion other sperms
will see the same thing
and perhaps write about it to insinuate
poetic ambitions - too clogged up
your thinking is to redeem yourself
in poetry - you're hardly dislodged
for the art - get a guitar and couplet it
for a star-riddled pop music hit,
go on, on your way, elbow push through
the queue... go on, on your way...
oh wait, you need clapping to spur
you on?
              here's my clapping onomatopoeia:
blah blah, blah blah, blah blah;
yes, i was in venice,
didn't really care to write much about it -
i actually didn't, just now,
a sobering memory,
not the type of memory that gets
you drunk...
well it's there, a bit like the Maldives,
and it drives the delusion
that global warming isn't creeping
about the place like Nosferatu.

.the better part of a Friday night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hoc erat in votis

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

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

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

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

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

elsewhere in a grammar lesson:

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

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

the Cyber Pavlov Experiment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i pity the man who was unable to
shed a tear on the basis of
being animal, hiding behind reason
and whatever other "tool" came
his way...
                 a man unable to see a wild
in a petting: in the unfathomed
with a nature...
                 with which i reply for
a castrated pedigree: that's ******* cruel!
but no, it was always going
to be the shortlived extract from / by
an account of Judas...
      it would actually speak the words:
more harm done to a castrated male:
than a castrated female...
    call that to claim a male or a female,
the practice still stands:
   the male genitals are more
protruding than a female's -
  and that involves: searching for a loss
rather than owning it...
why does poetry have to become
this claim for idealism,
   this: "ideal love of mine":
waiting "unexplored"?
         what does the term cultural
relativism actually mean -
when we live in the abhorrent times
of moral relativism -
since we know that America is worth
citing, in cultural absolutism:
ZEE VEST IST ZEE BESTE!
   ZEE VEST IST ZEE BESTE!
   the **** is culturally "relative"
  about that statement?
         you can't spot a ******* quasi-Adolf
sniffing in your backdoor to call
in the hind of relativism?
cultural what?!
           America is known for
cultural absolutism, there's nothing
"relative" about it...
the only relativism is equivalent to
a Mongolian playing
a harmonica grass-reed -
           because: why would you
compete with either expression?
       the hamburger is the perfect sandwich
while a prosciutto ciabatta is
dog meat...
                  well... either one came from
the devil's ****: or neither did...
   when i was in Russia i could
eat crêpe avec caviar...
            but that's apparent so bad i need
to appreciate: a regurgitation of
meat...
               but the oh so benevolent
     media enterprises of personna need to tell
how to: buckle down, shut up,
   and keep it: globalisation veering into
claustrophobia...
            but no... the best only knows
champagne und schwarz kaviar...
   no, not the common people orange: kaviar...
but it knows beef dog meat and
pompous meat-head muscle flexing:
it knows that!
         hey, come by some time we'll
**** each other off wondering whether
there actually exists a cultural "relativism"
and if it's hard for the "common" folk to
integrate an absolutism with their
culture-nation... which already exhists
as counter the academic:
            nation-state...
      America is a culture-nation...
        it's not a nation-state...
              why the hell would i need so
much America without having a chance to:
taste their guacamole?
  but you can nonetheless eat a
                         crêpe avec caviar
in chez Russie...
sure, they play ****** muzak of
classical greats at a fountain ceremony...
but i bet you my *** had i
the parental guidance: i'd be at home
in Siberia like a sushi herring in salty water...
it's just an itchiness that bothers me...
     dog meat over caviar...
western chauvinism of the man-child...
      i can't compete with a 2nd tier of
playground...
                it was fun the first time around:
2nd time around?
    can't be bothered:
  i rather be this alcoholic loser than play
this idiotic game of:
  the toys we managed to get without
having our parents to have to get them...
well i managed to collect a library while
my parents went on holiday to the Maldives...
****, am i looking at a hippopotamus
or an elephant?!
          i don't buy cultural relativism
in the same way that the ancient greeks
didn't buy into a moral relativism:
    after all: there's either good, or evil -
absolutely -
       ha ha... so in culturally "relative"
terms france is also ascribed a global stage
to compete with america?!
                           no it isn't...
america is: culturally absolutist -
  in that there is no nation-state ascribed to it...
for what remains of america is
the currently declining: culture-nation.
      **** it: i still had my crêpe avec caviar
in St. Petersburg...
        so i really have to celebrate
that dog meat's worth of a hamburger?
you have a dog i can borrow?

i would never ask
and you may never tell,
but do you ever see that
dream of us in Mexico?
it's okay. it's okay. it's ok.
you don't have to answer.
just hush now and say
something sweet to me
inside of your head.
Tell me dear tell me
do you still see us
at the Louvre, in the rain?
is it me standing there
or is it someone else?
how do his hands feel?
how does his voice peal?
does his fragrance waft
away from his skin and
tickle the ***** minora?
does he wash his sheets
every four or five weeks
to keep the lonely facade in tact?
does he live on a staple of
beer and roast beast,
an occasional moonshine
when the mood strikes him just?
does he torture himself senselessly,
incessantly, bridging the neurons
to find he's forgotten it all?
... does he love Cherry Coke?
no.
he isn't there with you is he?
it's somebody else. somebody
with yellow hair to his shoulders
and bright shining blue eyes:
the kind of eyes that tend to
outshine you, and all the
things you convinced us
you've got going for you.
the kind of eyes that seep charity.
oh, is he there with you when
you're snorkeling in the Maldives
and you realize that you've gone
just a bit too far underwater...
you're very deep when you
well know you shouldn't be.
then tell me: what happens?
you are found and swept,
carried and rescued until
BOOM! You breach the veneer
and there are all your friends
looking down at you, thinking:
"thank the Lord our Savior for
Titus Arnold Masters McMajor."

but love please love oh love,
tell me who you really see.
touch your lips and swear to me
that it isn't the mediocre man
who doesn't spring to your mind.
both of you without a stitch,
floating abreast and prone:

skeletons in the Dead Sea.

Turn on

I
This is the BBC news at 1 o'clock.
A rambling diatribe,
lost boys, a lost war.
The falling cost of stamps.
'What do you think of the deficit,
Graham from Newquay?'

II
Some bald man
holds a cadaverous gaze.
'She don't want me no more Pauline.'
The ware and tear
of Albert Square
immortalised
in one ***** stare.

III
Ella looked into the eyes of
the African children with bloated
stomachs, scooping up brown water
she wouldn't even dip her toe in.
For a moment, they were face to face.

VI
Margret! Margret!

Look what they're...

Check the cupboard,
have we still got...

uh...

tinned peaches and caster sugar.

V
Our hands, in every listless waft,
wander through an electric soup,
thick as frog-spawn.
Spermatozoa of information.
A gentle fuzz of creation,
our atmosphere is
pregnant with
separate universes that
embed themselves
inside our own.
We broadcast
our noisy planet
to the skies.

VI
'I've seen what's going on,
you don't have to tell me!
I know what they're doing.'
The walls are closing in,
as each breath from her
dusting lungs is getting tighter.
'Besides, my eyes won't let me, or
my knees these days, It's all i'm
good for'  
She wheezes.
'I can see all I need from here.'

VII
Click
I swear 400
*******
channels
And there's nothing on

VIII
As I approach the blue glare
of the living room, I know
she's in there. Not even
watching,
she's on her
iPad. We don't talk.
We went to the
Maldives
once,
after the wedding.
she couldn't keep her eyes off me.

IX
Dead square.
Silent pixels.
Nothings watching.

X
We crept down in the morning - my sister
and me, before anyone else was up and squabbled
what loud cartoon violence would take our attention.
Nightie, pyjama cotton siblings, sewn in to the 7 to 9 o'clock schedule,
we were as vital to each other as sleeping bags and cereal.
Our building blocks stood in a castle,
we were unaware that one day,
they would be strewn across the floor
as we grew up.

XI
We're not going out tonight.
I just want to slip my hands down your
pants and touch you while
we watch game of thrones...
Deal?

XII
Smoke rises behind the mosque
in an arabesque twirl.
The blinding sunlight behind the minaret
crashes on the lens, like a flash bang.

The call to prayer is empty bodies, iconographic art,
cars hollowed, alien tongues, history, a melting *** culture,
cockroach romances, squalid graves, body hewn tunnels, little cuts on
trigger fingers, trained monkeys, orphans, marble carvings,
the stench of petrol, jobless drug habits, brickwork, wiring,
forbidden love, lust, teenagers, plastic explosive, god, work,
prayer, tears, life and death    

and briefly the box is the world in our homes.
We must see who's behind it.

i was in a pub once, talking to a friend, among other things,
the european union came up, i said: i can understand an economic union,
so that economic migrants are no more, i rather like talking polish after all,
but a political union, with so many contrasts?!
that'll never work. then i hear the news,
and the heavy burden of saying things before they happen;
and unlike the insinuations between philosophy
and conversation, with that one mundane origin
of philosophy known as dialectics,
i find writing necessary in prophesying,
indispensable you might add -
when governing to say: the old roman said to the
new roman: the old member boarders want inclusion,
they want the slavs gone, the dream to unfold by their
terms from carthage! i want carthage gone, erased,
gone from the dream of unification, but there's
carthage dictating to the old frail rome known as the vatican!
no! carthago delenda est!
but no, they are replicating a deletion of the past -
russia predates them in propaganda as necessarily
nibbling and knitting so that, as i might add -
old bulgars and roma will testify in fright to the yugoslav -
why such northern expansions?! the whole revelatory book said
concisely enough to market a roman revival as was first insured by
pestering russia with that famous abnormal foetus collection
of peter the great, who was the sole saint in petersburg -
saint built a city! saint built a city! how can francis assisi ever compete
to sainthood by merely talking to sparrows and squirrels
when peter the great built a city?!
well, carthage moved to raqqa - that's how!
or spot me distancing myself from the bookworm moth
philosophies of the library with shush rather than: two for 'un yer bananas!
i am that i am said: it is what it is, a god speaking of the creation,
but then the interaction within it is what it is -
the predation of all ideas and associations, a single noun, moses.
so i am that i am said inside it is what it is to
a noun who had no cartesian relevant past  in terms of
refraining from swish buckle cat's in high-heels and tutu - ***** up! you
break a spine introducing me, forget the family and the child,
you me, we encounter the world changed -
what i said prior: it is what it is will become it is what it's not really.
hence enter the philosophical lexicon: reality... perception...
bulls buckling against *******... enter moses the grand oration
of this famous dusty lexicon bettered. bettered? no really,
just us the same monkey flashback drunk with barbers and better beards -
maldives under the armpits!
i tell you, there are two kinds of world spirit like that quote
about hegel on foot and napoleon on hoof -
one spirit of the world is shrouded with, is cloaked in philosophies,
in thoughts, in the oughts and the morals of DON'T DO!
the other spirit of the world - filled with musketeers and other
pawn shrapnel - expendable creatures to conform to the dictatorial ditto:
napoleon said: marshal ames said: general maccabee said:
lieutenant general nadim said: major general eban said:
major general saburo said: brigadier taavi said: colonel yakov said:
the rest were man of cadet worth with fancy pink ribbons to sport
the wide mouthed bartender of shell-shock and etc.
those are the two spirits, while in the second realm
we have the false prophets governing - with the residing "god" as devil,
but imagine fooling a false prophet from this realm, e.g. jesus to
descend, what would the devil think?! oh ****, 2d!
so a third realm reveals itself - the pseudo edenic ****** ciphered
in the koran disappear, and we salvage ourselves by not imagining
eternal sundays, eternal idleness in such with such a realm: ***** ***** frisk frisk, lubricant;
what, a ****, eternity, as dictated by the kingdom and the koranic gardens;
peasants' eternal fill, no lion, the witch and the wardrobe in sight -
no valhalla! boring! (insert family fortunes' buzzer of x).
i want to be as worthy as a tree to rejuvenate each day after slaughtering
hel's and loci's spawn!

i'm reaching my own very secondary hell...
this reach into... something of a nieche,
something of an echo chamber...
something of a jettison approach with regards
to almost everything...
the voice in my throat is no longer
necessary... some variation of:
this ethics and this "philosophy" is a bypass:
it's not a bypass...
i might just as well be "saying":
i haven't read a single book in my life...
which implies: i haven't read the required reading
either...
but i have read several books and...
among the contemporaries alongside
the shared breath... i have a library that's pretty
much a graveyard...
i'm hardly mastering some: in vogue...
old ideas come crashing down while
all the others are kept intact...
perhaps as honest as one can be...
i have... read... books... by... dead... people...
will alexander... a california poet is still
alive... i seem to have...
stuck to the living in the medium of cinema...
and music...
yet i still managed to balance it out
with a nostalgia for old cinema...
and old music, german, folk...
but i'm shy when it comes to:
darwinism explains everything right, and "wrong"...
i'm just practically tired
of being the turkey being shoved
darwinistic idea-stuffing down my throat...
i'm tired of darwinism...
long ago... a "philosopher" would be someone
who... overcame past mistakes...
or whatever...
one of my prime past mistakes?
taking a ****** relationship with frivolity...
if i wasn't using a ******:
she implored: don't use it...
god knows how she missed the *******
impediment to begin with...
i'll take contraceptive pills...
impregnation... phone-call...
i'm pregnant... well... you should get an abortion...
what were the chances that she moved
from novosibirsk to st. petersburg...
to edinburgh... that she would: settled for
moving to the outskirts of London and live...
with the parents of her would be:
father of the child...
and the supposed father being "merely" a roofer...
oh i've learned my lessons since being aged: 21...
the only honest **** these days
is with prostitutes... who are oh so careful about
contraception...
we would even talk about it...
since 21 and i'm nearing 34?
how many relationships apart from...
casually picking up a thai-surprise in a park etc.
how many? to be ensnared by:
a lasp in judgement with regards:
the ****** doesn't bother me...
the ******* does... but i can't be rid of it...
how many relationships?
0... i was given the moral scare from that
one... ahem... "relaxed" relationship...
pro-life implying: there's no guarantee...
this is already: a dollop of mustard on a spoon
as dessert if you please...
since 21 though?
it was always going to be a safe bet...
prostitutes...
hardly "*** slaves" as...
the women i know would not wish upon
themselves... a lottery of impregnation...
there could have been so many ways she could
have ensnared me...
pristine John i ain't...
but this period of time... nearing 13 ******* years...
wow...
wow... it tells you something...
because this pro-life contra pro-choice "debate"...
via: so while i *******... that's perfectly alright
in terms of: imagining a genocide with you?
because it's only life...
when coupled to a woman's body...
i don't like this pro-life argument...
not when there's "sensibility" concerning:
how far along?
contraception, yes...
but there has to be some time-reference
with regards... both parties can admit "oops"...
i don't see a point of:
i ******* there's no pro-life argument...
because i should be ******* "on a whim"...
since i... oh! this is the male argument...
i ******* into you... therefore you have something
of me... therefore you must have it...
oh... i see...
because i honestly don't get it...
if we made an honest mistake...
and you want to ******* into frivolity...
by all means... i'm no chain no baron and you're
no serf... matter of fact... this same girl is on
her third marriage... if i was her first and
we were engaged and she was 19 and i was 21
and, honestly... if you lived a life back in 2007...
it was ripe with magic...

but since then... that phonecall and: i'm pregnant...
and we were already beside being engaged prior...
and i was like: what?
it's not you're going to move down to London
from Edinburgh just for my looks...
she didn't say: i'll get it aborted...
i said: you should get an abortion...
a pro-choice man... at 21 and this litany of
excuses: mind one more?
to not have had ***... i proved that...
me and about 9 prostitutes proved that...
when there's a clarity of transaction...
there's no worry about contraception...
those precuations are prime...
the heart is a feeble liar when the *** is free...
imagine...
due for ***... but there's no...
"gifts"... there's no liar of the heart to mind
when... i have no excuses?
this happened 13 years ago!
i should have hoped to be freed from this...
"conundrum"...

scatological... william f. buckley jr. interviewing
allen ginsberg... and this word crops up...
it's somehow the covert expression fundamental
marker...
scatological... there's this avant garde of
poetics and how...
when poetry ascribes less images and...
teases philosophy...
that's no fair game...
but when philosophy employs short-cuts
with metaphor or imagery...
then words are no longer skeletons
and juiceless prunes... or whatever is demanded...

but that's the problem:
i only managed to love once...
or... rather... **** to the zenith of my efforts...
and bypass the goldberger skin-leash too...
because it was never about being satisfied...
but about seeing: satifaction...
and this old chestnut will haunt me
to the point where i will no longer be a chanced
ghost solo... but a ghost in a story...
and i don't mind the future...
i already know that i'm standing
a plateau plough moment of... resurrection...

for my time is no more linear than
the experience of gravity...
but... since i'm not falling...
and i'm either standing, walking, or sitting?
then time is not so much linear...
as it is circular...
after all: i am bound to a ******* carousel, aren't i
or aren't we all?
i was expecting circular time long
before people conjured up:
a pioneering linear "ontology" of time...
time moves "forward" without
the confines of history and within
the confines of technology!

after all: who to better the spoon!
the improved staff! a crutch!
the improved horse... a talking donkey!
but again and again:
why should my life be so precious
as to stand outside the circular nature
of time... to stand, alone...
in the prized linear...
from beginning middle and end...
why so?

of course the baggage and: if anyone, notably,
myself, should engage in any further
intimacy - beside the brothels' delights...
no... the money the clarity of transaction...
there are no flowers... no anniversaries...
i can't remember the last time i bothered
to celebrate my own birthday...
i tried that once...

what's pro-choice again, in terms of man
and responsibility or simply not *******?
13 years and that same cautionary tale...
i knew i wasn't going to make the same mistake
and relax myself into love...
because i don't think a woman should
be left barren with a pro-choice conundrum...
it's as if: you have to force the choice upon her...
otherwise it's called a golden ring...
and there's this whole flamboyant procession
in a church and two otherwise estranged families
come together and there's all this and that and
the other and afterwards the *****-licking
starts and blue and pink and a baby several months
later...

oh right... the argument it's a blessing
and that irish luck of a spontaneity should you...
when all the other couples are left
limping because of one wooden leg
among the four that should stand ***** and:
oh gaw on gaw on gaw on gaw on mrs doyle -esque?

imagine telling a woman: you should get an abortion...
because those contraceptive pills didn't
exactly do the magic...
and a ******* is already a discomfort when
you decided to learn from the Donatelos of
the boogie nights movie set that
peeling it back... for the aesthetics of a circumcision...
a ****** was the last of my worries...
well that's better than allowing a woman
to make that choice herself...
honest to god and st. patrick the gnostic gnat...

obviously i'm paying the moral consequences
of these words...
was it true is it true... it was a telephone call
and i was already busy trying to...
have to bother not... a chemistry degree is
worth as much as a humanities and this
bilingual status is not really anything
if it's not arabic or... otherwise...

why wouldn't i have made precautions in those
years?
if going to a brothel is a way to escape
the impregnation conundrum?
if for the sake of recreational ***...
*** without consequences... tennis ping-pong ***...
if that's what's being sold...
and not the monogomy quack-**** with
a boquet of moral verbiage...
yes... i made that mistake...
but why would i have a moral authority
over a woman's choice... she ghost jerks-me-off...
we perform genocide of ***** into
tissue... flush down the toilet with
crocodiles and we later baptise ourselves
as dove resurrected coming from the shower
having down the no. 1 no. 2 and no. 3
on the throne of thrones?

did i ask for my phallus to make
it into the ***** shortlist?!
i wouldn't think so either...
i'm no model with either a face or a little richard
for that matter...
perhaps men call it heart-break...
while women should call it...
fried-eggs...

a poultry abortion a day...
keeps the ****-of-cuckoldry away...
at least among professionals there's
never that: oh i like like likey...
let's have ourselves impregnated and then
kumbaya ourselves with: shtrong...

'cause if you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it...

oh... i would have...
but... how does this contraceptive contract work?
'cause if you like it, then you shoulda
sly impregnate yourself or what the hell
am i talking about?!

ce-no-bite...
go figure...
because no ******* is some day-dream victim
of the feminist movement...
the ones that are killed, probably are...
if you had enough time to talk to any of them
without priest of psychiatrist nagging you...
lying naked... talking about a 15 minute quickie...
talk, lips, kisses of the eyelids...
inversion of sculpting a crude block of clay...
god's plagiarism etc. etc.,
is this even a celebration: oh yes it's a celebration
when two parties know the perils
and have contraception as their prime
concern...
not some loved-up happenstance
teenagers...
because wisdom is what supposedly happens
when you make a mistake aged 16 and
later, live to be 69 and utter some
*******-wanking's worth of a maxim!

and by god everyone who hasn't read
a philosophy book... thinks that philosophy
happens in old age... that philosophy is not
fashionable for the young... or the middle-aged...
how, old age, philosophy...
dementia... "wisdom"... it's also called
the optical illusion... or the detriment of youth...
since? at least a portion of the lessons
of life must be learned...
beside the technical relax of technical details...
the old lessons of life persist...
and these are always archetypical...
the archetype never dies...
that's its most demanding access...
to: if i currently had a 13 year old son
named... Isidore...

what? there was a Peaches Geldoff...
Isidore is an old name...

because what's the difference between
a pro-life man and a pro-choice man?
the pro-choice man sentences himself
for sisyphus with the claim of baggage...
i did not have the required
resources to claim a moral responsibility
for what would eventually become
an onomatopoeia of me talking to it...
that would transcend a more sorry
state that a new-born lamb...
that would learn to wipe its own ***...
that would not choke on peanuts...
that would learn to not be gullible...
not entertain friendship with good faith...
that would... at best...
become this shadow of solitude of its
father's own demise...
but i rather rob a woman of this choice...
that allow her to bask in it...
as it would be her, responsibility to undertake
such a choice...
again: if this irish reasoning stands...
this ****** reasoning stands...
me, tissue, toilet, flush + ******* = genocide!
but a woman oh a woman can
stream it! video it! she's shooting blanks!
so... a lapse... not until...
not until... is a ***-shot pregnancy readied?
how much can i own beside
these stones that i stack to fathom
a shadow and not a morality,
nor an architectural feat to overshadow
mountains using pyramids?!
well... among sand dunes you, you just might
figure out this wild dream,
this wild ambition!

i will still persist in lamenting that:
i own a private library that mostly constitutes
of death-ringers...
it's slyly called a necromancy...
they arrive in my lap as former living:
now ascribed to dead on paper...
and the dead that they are...
recoil from the ashes into the skeletons
of words: and they walk among
the living inside the horde that i am...

and as they roll in their ***** graves
to a dance most stupendous...
their eyes burning and their ears pricked
to attention over a raindrop
bound to savour the disgruntled sea...
in both the magnanimous effort
that pouring a liter of water overshadows
the raindrop... or pouring hot oil
and pork scratchings with onions
into a soup...
balloons perhaps pop! but that well-known
sizzle!

a body with the demand of
two shadows' worth of remark...
whether true, or fictional...
better my choice over her "choice"...
and the consequences?
both the realisation of responsibility
as the nagging curse of shying
away from them...
focused on? the lack of material
conventionality for:
the up-coming, better life...

hmm... learning from the past generation?
they managed to work hard
and sight the Maldives...
i? if i didn't travel solo?
would i have seen Paris?
Stockholm... Moscow and St. Petersburg
are not a given...
but perhaps this one last time:
before i go... to the Faroe Islands, one
day i might... i just might...

what gambit assurance?
the moral high-ground of pro-life...
for a child... that would live...
a life worse off than his father or mother?
the life-in-itself "argument"...
as far as i am concerned...
this verbiage should come to its own
conclusion any minute now...

it's almost strange to have to recount
something that's 13 years old...
lucky me, lucky year...
i'm still not convinced as to why
darwinism can be allowed to explain almost
everything in life these days,
esp. when mingling with sociological "issues"
and how everyone should be readied
for rubric testing their bible knowledge
as their knowledge of either Orwell or Huxley...

"philosophy" once the "love" of "wisdom"...
how does trivia come into all of this?
to have to amass an encyclopedic know-of...
i am, also, a trivia focused spew-recycle-machinery...
darwinism around every corner...
there's no scientific fact the public are exposed
to that doesn't have darwinism at its center...
nothing of scientific popularisation
is ever not about darwinism...

not even Einstein... once upon a time...
it has become so overtly: universally applicable...
in psychology... in...
yawn... if it doesn't have a darwinism patent...
it's either part of the dodo project or
an existentialist cul de sac...
and my god, this momentum...
oh it's certainly not wrong...
but it's always so right: so many times...

come to think of it...
i probably haven't read any books to begin with...
i shouldn't have...
all the ones that i have read...
are never going to be in vogue...
they were in vogue... 50 years ago...
60 years ago...
they're not in vogue now...
they might as well start yelling at me:
pretentious literary ***!
should have abandoned us in high-school!

oh right... there's till the living Knausård...
come to think of it...
who the hell discovered Stendhal in high-school
if it wasn't me?
come to think of it...
i took that ****** bus no. 86 every morning...
and i can only remember seeing myself
read...
back of the bus and that Montgomery boycot?
didn't really help...
the loudest always went to the back
of the bus... took some neo-**** blonde scalps
with them for ***** and screetching licks...
and... just ahead... a silence of reading
Taoist maxims...

nice to know... that i'm still able to write
such explosive spew...
counter inhibited and "thinking"...
this like any other...
mildly exagerrated with a whiskey stew;
rummaging and rummaging
over a brain-pickling!

cogito qua sum*

because i thought the original cartesian model
was too stuffy,
had too many scientific models
and was riddled with moths,
plus it sounds better:
thought in the capacity of being -
plus there is absolutely no sequencing,
no sequencing of events and then doubting
that they happened, or denying they happened...
(in relation to thinking about them)
with the above stated you can have spatial awareness...
for example?
someone hammering nails has only a certain
capacity for thinking certain things...
someone watching the television has only
a certain capacity for thinking certain things...
as contradictory in strict cartesian terms
as daydreaming: like sitting in a classroom
learning about english grammar and thinking /
imagining (the same thing, both cognitive faculties)
you're on a beach in the maldives sipping a mojito
or that you're riding a roller coaster:
ergo et cetera... id est, multi vacuum prefix
absens locus in metaphora... ego noto ******.

well, **** changed quick,
once it was like: i’ll change to take a differnet pic,
now it’s all about: i’ll change the pic to
keep the status quo...
then i’ll tackle global warming turning into a vegan...
root out the problems of carrots and leeks
taking rooting like silly dentistry in the poet’s corner
of a birmingham canal
(full credentials of a bled out cranium via a mowler)...
that will spank those **** capitalists
to ensure las vegas doesn’t exist... yep...
it will sort them out... bangladesh came before the maldives
for the five o’clock shadow and sideburns...
i scuttled like a rat off a ship into a pop song crescendo
of a ship sinking...
i said something about the expanding sockets that gave more
than a missed shaved plot allotment of 5pm and
gave way to insomnia am.
please god... 50... no more! no more! 50!
i want to be gone before einstein’s war of sticks and stones comes!
i want to be gone by then! god... einstein, prior to that
we fanbase an intellectual debate that never arose
from the logic of writing the next pop song,
i’ll be mermesrised by the pass and the passerby of the next dream
sincere from the class that gave us the denial of synchronisation
and a quote from marxism that evolved into chaos
with the oink-looter capitalism; anorexia got the dress...
man got the coat-hanger oak leaf for genitalia
that never mattered with trans-gender movement -
we were always exposed... and 2 x 2 of the clover assured
the pigmented futures of repeat...
well if i don't want to repeat... do you?
i hardly think so seeing you taking revenge
against homosexuality taking pleasure from ****...
like now... i will not lipgloss to toss my heart aside and
mascara the skies as dark lit ready to be kidney full for
a torrent of the breaking of the one muscle involved
in wetting the bed... colouring in strange, clepsydra indigo
identifiers as dittoing these words
with a single word: mothered;
indeed mothered... because unloved - pity the cosmopolitan
girl in you... you read the girlie magazines while
i read the books of soul-searches... you disposed of
to ready the column of the horrific repeat
for the heads or tails questions;
neither matters with you... since it should be asked of you:
horns or tail?
i guess that's a question with an answer
without the devil but the humanity:
the dentistry of vanity - like the god behind the wind
and the snowflake -
indeed psychopathy is like atheism...
with the former the soul doesn't exist...
with the latter god doesn't exist...
we're grounded for an eternity of dialectics.

It was just the two of us against all of the sky’s tears that night. Behind askew glasses and matted hair I watched you seep into the chilly wet darkness and pouring noise, how the iridescent urban glows blurred and blinked through your body, like fairy lights on black satin. You gripped my hollowness by the wrist and I came to respect the force of block falls on touch as you threw my world back on its two feet, not before a brief eternity of giddiness and disbelief. The supposedly accursed head of mine took in the images of shock through raindrop-filled lenses as my body changed direction against my will and gravity. My world was a kaleidoscope of lights and blaring horns, and with your hand around mine it was nothing but a distasteful harmony of passion and discord and it made me smile. You were yelling at me and I looked at you and I laughed. You asked me what I wanted and I begged and chortled and pleaded and giggled for the thousandth time, for you to hurry up and tell me that you don’t need me because I had somewhere else I need to go and even after all of that your grip only got tighter, sinking me into the eye of your storm. But that was just you, wasn’t it? Always ready to swallow me straight into your depths in times of uncertainty. I clutched the sides of your dripping face and I peered into your swimmy eyes to admire the reflection of my own and realized I could not find myself because all I saw was the apex of skyscrapers straight pass through your transparency as pure as the waters of the Maldives Islands on a sunny summer day quite unlike this one, but quite like the summers we spent in school for years walking down hate-filled corridors, fingers entwined and then suddenly I was afraid to touch you. I kicked and I screamed and tore ripples through your skin, begging you once more to pour me out of your hands so they are free to start scrubbing the belittling words off our locker doors, or the spay-painted ****** dripping red on the top of your locker like a store brand, hitting you on the head again and again the fact that not all rain yield desirable crops and yet you still pelted raindrop kisses on every inch of my puffy red cheeks till it was enough to smoothen my dry storm down to a drizzle. It was then I realized I was so, so cold. I looked tiredly down below and I was the Emperor of the gazillion city veins below, the King of the critter cars heading nowhere. I was God, and with that power I summoned it and looked back to earnestly, sahara-driedly request you to forget me once and for all because we are in the end sinners in the eyes of common sense, because you were too stubborn to flow out of the box to realize that I am the mercury leak to your springs, slowly diffusing into you when you spread yourself into every crevice of my body when we cuddle at night, a limitless barrel of radioactivity poured down your throat and all over your shirt in the shadows. You came into my life uninvited, flooded my earths with your torrents and left my world in a waste pool of yellow, but also a warm bed enough to nurse a young forest. I hate the way you swept me off since day one just as much as I love drinking in every last drop of your presence. Your arms wafted around my waist like petrichor and lured me back to safety. The rain on the 74th rooftop was ready to stop, but I was.  At least I wasn't sure.

Closing my eyes, I opted to drown.

it's...
listening to metric - clone (2012)...
sipping a whiskey...
pretending to smoke a cigarette
with an unlit cigarette in hand...
the feel and the texture...
the scent of unlit tobacco,...

and then it's... contemplating...
british and "british"...
              and the caves... and... speaking
a language lacerated...
loan words...
   music of corvus corax... katrinka...
i would never...
listening to such music...
attire myself as: bwitish...
technicalities...
              the prefix will do...
                 anglo-slav...
                         like... those anglo-saxons...
but less specific...
because: you'd have to also call them:
   anglo-pseudo-germans...
          or quasi...
                        i'm not being
specific either... an anglo-slav i am...
a patchwork of guesses...
         serb? croat? slovenian?
       the yugoslav? ukranian?
           russian? czech? slovak?
                    i've just been listening to
some videos of nostalgia...
from the natives circa 1978 and...
nik nak paddy... old man... something...

to associated with the british...
to be british...
  do you suppose... there's a turk these days...
that would associate himself
as... an ottoman?
         i wonder...
         maybe the concept of empire being...
domino... connected by land...
and not scattered like the greek diaspora /
empire...

           the empire of roman?
weird... isn't it? to be surrounding a massive
salt pond...
            while the constant chance of having
your back turned...
seemingly protecting this salt pond...
yes... sea...

- i found the stare of love at first today:
but i was numb to it...
deer eyes of an indian girl -
darkened / riddled by the equator...
while i was... picking three kings of chillies...
some fresh coriander...
cumin powder... kashmiri powder...
and black cumin seeds...

    - i saw eyes and i also saw two
nuggets of charcaol...
   my knees left nothing of the sort of iritation
fo drop everything and swim
against the current like a salmon...

- come mid-thirties and...
   i'm starting to feel comfortable...
with the solo-project... the dodo-project...
looking for signs of: waking up
to what could have been an abortion...
or a genocide into a tissue, flushed down
the toilet: the horror of being circumcised...
without jewish or muslim...
social structures...
         it could be much worse... i could have
been circumcised...
i could have been born with
both a ****** and a strap-on *****:
seeking the ****** st. of tic-tac-toe and
a skipping rope of:
  that i have kissed a man...
that i have gorged on a *******'s
****** like a wrath and love of god...
that suckling to the **** didn't
pose a problem: got choc tinged teeth
and bitter-corn in between...
oh i'm pretty sure she wasn't in love
with me:
             a wry smile while i didn't
speak the "proper" native...

mongrel soul retaining a weird question
about who's who and who's a token
postcard on loan from...
lost from former forged empires...

on my way back home...
   i was... once upon a time...
that sort of guy... loitering... waiting...
making waiting... a ritual...
worth smoking a cigarette...
patience is a religion that's not invested
in peace to all: for all...
     first comes first...

nearing the magic number 35...
it's very sensible of me to state:
it's quiet impossible for me to share a bed...
with anything or anyone except
my shadow...
considering how when i expose
my shadow to sunlight...
mindless shadow pretends to have
eyes... when it crawls into my head
at night: when i sleep...
and tells the alternative story of
the day...

    to be wedded and with children...
one would most certainly need to be coupled
with prospects in one's early 20s...
after the mid-20s... well...
the boat's about to sail...
the solo- / dodo-project is...
  a bit like... with writing being concerned...
one's hope for a career in...
    a chemistry lab...
or the selfless-acts of hippocrates' students...

all very well to love children...
but... ******* them up...
never really becoming that...
nobel prize winning psychologists
with a break-through...
when the whittle cherbus... gremlins...
kritters arrive...
an over-zealous cat meowing / moaning
about curfew is one of those spin-offs
of madness...
talk to me about a babe crying...

- and yes... some people shouldn't drink...
their genetic disposition: ah ah...
their individual metabolism...
they never conjure up the amphetamine
(metaphor) ***** from the lullaby
zombied-out death-cult of sedation...
- and these same people shouldn't pick
up smoking a ritual tobacco stick...
even i venture to call it:
a bullet to the head...

  how is it... to become... selfless?
when... one... has become...
self-realized... past the groan of:
the facts... aged 25 and your brain
should stop... window-shopping
function suffixes... no?

i had an idea for a glove...
with a rubber-band...
to... restrict... the natural laziness
of the hand when walking...
but because i drink and only jargon
poor poetics...
in rage i ripped the rubberband
off my arm... lost to history:
lost to the void...
oh i know how that it feels...
would it have been of use...
i guess not...
     a bright idea in a bucket
of maggots and maggot ****...
is... about as much worth as...
a screwdriver is to a forest of nails...
chisel... n'est ce pas...
i was... asking: grit teeth...
soul... clenching... bizarre objects
of gradations of sharpening...
the obvious square-headed axe...
pulp...
      a whole rainbow of objects...
perhaps a scalpel is the last resort...

i smile because: i've turned angry into
funny...
who doesn't have the monopoly on violence:
well... i also do not have the monopoly
on c.c.t.v. -
   little help from coming from
under the iron curtain...
the local seem to be... all ah...
oh so detached... missing las vegas cousins
and...
if i could only allow you...
to allow myself... to fathom...
the maldives of my mind...
a drag of a cigarette... a bottle of whiskey
35cl... you start the bets...
who's about to...
      find prison in solipsism...
solipsism as a mental illness...
as an altruism: as a atheism as a...
genius maddy: spezial neds: youz callz
'em... quivering folk?
what'z that phra-phra-puccino?
    autist-spec:   ah yes! those rare breeds!
spazz-taculars!
i was one misunderstood for one of them...
i took the insult to the grave...
well... i took it to her grave...
by the god of the hebrews and by the mythology
of cain... from siberia came the huns...
the turks... the slavs and the mongols...
only germans ever came from
       afri-*******-ah-hahaha!
they skipped the toll of sanskrit:
the birth of writing...
why? it became complicated...
when beijing was founded...
but sure... a replica tux of skeleton came out
out... fringe kenya and landed in: old delhi...
as many consonants if not more:
down to the core: with the spices...
the unfortunate indians of north
america...
the somewhat fortunate indians
of: south america...
brazil: post-racial mecca...
argentinian beef and...
                             myths of nazis
living to old age...
                 no... oh no... i will not die...
first comes ol' lizzie then comes
my sodden sorry ***...
envelope of a missing postage stamp
of a world: we've been to the moon...
via new york and the leviathan london...
where's afghanistan cave fighting...
the pashtun women of... glorifying
copper and cinnamon / cumin and coriander
ash... and beauty...
how doesn't it sound:
the day the music died:
we sang dirges in the dark...
                 bye bye: may-pole luck with
christ: the advent of...
the crucifix is hanging... ornament piece...
but the... iron maiden isn't...
           it's enough to identify a god...
it's quiet another matter...
to torture him... and... sorry...
but if i were to be crucified...
   sooner me and the comfort of hands...
outstretched... than... hands-tied...
pushed onto a pole: to impale...
lost advent of etymology: slav...
and the lost "e" of paul...
to remind... the crucifix... well...
            to impale...
                       looks like...
the crucifix is missing limbs... it would take...
days... the arms that would be
flapping... agitating an imitation
of a swan breaking into flight...
the two lungs... imitating drowning...
while hanging... extended...
     to crucify... hardly: the affair of...
being... impaled...
perhaps joking: slav(e) gave the clue...
germans: whether orthodox
anglo-ßaß - celtic mingling...
    germs... who's eating what... "leftover"
etymological clues...
we can play this game... forever...
it's hardly the hebrew the original:
indu- prefix of... roaming... or not...
                      
guise them up as the exodus as the fomer
lands of Jagiełło...
the battle of Hastings: blip...
             who am i... but at least in england...
i can speak the language
like some conrad of masovia:
readied to sell the "lesser creatures"
for the... encouraged...
integration to the *****: kneel...
of the baltic pruß...
who weren't... coddled...
the welsh weren't coddled...
they were "told" to... brighten their
day to day... expand...
fathom the easily accessed seas:
expand...
who owned the monopoly of
the baltic sea: as if it were
the bosphorus...
beside... the danes?
expansion of: ****** come together
with a ******: breathing
h. p. lovecraftian h'america...
loot maine and call it... start:
bittersweet apartheid...
not me: i'm still half of Vilno...
and the most remote aspect of L'viv...
no... crusader songs... no crusades: per se!

i used to play video games...
i became... more fascinated
with the romance of: a lost year...
that the school re(a)d... it wasn't in any
fathom of an iota of red:
or a synonym in burgundy:
for the worth of the burgundians:
leftovers of the angevins...
that richard the lionheart
found a love for england...
the island... an abhorring testimony
of youth and no solance...
that old age never found him:
akin to: the needle never found
the mystery of the haystack...

i am not! lithuanian!
common practice of exodus polacks...
paul-lacking:
slav and "e" dribbling...
      like the germanic peoples:
who aren't lingua franca revisions...

    ⰏⰑⰣ     ⰔⰑⰂⰑ...

lingering "blame"... darwinism via
the default...
the monkey skeleton left africa...
arrived in india.. left a schism...
some went to хины
             some went to:         чeнa..

   anglican via: the great mother siberia...
is a mother...
beside the zenith advent of: mother...
muffer: af-af-rye-c'ah'cah!
******* twins to mind the rhodes!

the skeleton left africa...
yes...
   but... the hindu morphed the genesis...
a second time... into writing...
what... phonetic encoding...
beside... the primodial...
   hieroglyphics... from africa... would have...
ever... arrived at our...
emoji internet advent... door-step of
extending democracy / demographics...
central?

the wheel and the square also
left africa with the skeleton:
the arithmetic of bones and muhammad...
but the triangle settled in greece
and became pythagoras...
and the letter: Δ....

    the inter-racial violence of north
h'america... is not... beside the wery bwitish
advent of ****-stan... as... imaginary
loitering of a border: coming to survive
with Belfast-Kashmir...
           that's making priority of...
the written word...
over the skeleton jump-start...
       bypass...
              and the emoji... and... grafitti...
clue out of africa...
never met... the sub-continent of india...
or... the chinese ideograms...
or sanskrit...
but... ******... *** and bounty...
the mongols never made...
crimea... their capital...
hastings was forever a washington's
survival guide...
       that theatre gave the birth
of lincoln and... whitman was...
everything any other poet: including
homer and dante always dreamed of...
that europeans invited themselves
toward: finding h'america in a can
of sardines...
and that the h'americans believed
they found europe... in kent or essex...
or... in books...
or... in loitering... or being...
allowed to be obnoxiously loud...

            like that **** would still stink:
100 years from now...
but yes... the libido of a genghis khan...
i trace my libido to:
how i imitate the people who
check their blood pressure when i *******...
i... genocide my... fractions into
the moloch couldron that's:
beside... the prayers of a...
        tele-evalngelical church of praises!
h'america is nothing new...
it's just better: regarding...
what remains... a solid old.

i can't remember the last time i was satisfied with
only drinking one cider and 35cl of whiskey,
i honestly can't... then again i plucked two of my
favourite aphrodisiacs that night...
i beat up the whittle 'ichard before
(aphrodisiac no. 1 - exercise, exertion) cycled
to the brothel... then bought myself a bottle
of cider (aphrodisiac no. 2 - no other alcohol
works that sort of magic, no wine, no whiskey,
certainly not beer: cider...
and for that matter a very specific cider...
merry down cider, with a fox playing a violin
on the etiquette... the label... served in a 75cl
portion... 7.5%... medium dry...
so no...  not Thatcher's... or a Hertfordshire Weston's...
it has to be the Merry Down... probably
because of the portion) and did the victory
lap around the park and the brothel around
Goodmayes station...
obviously i bought 35cl of whiskey before walking
in... inside after we ******... hmm...
******* sets me off so quick... i don't know:
seeing a woman on her knees... from behind...
a bit like watching women in churches on
their knees before certain deeds are done...
i think i'm going to go back to a catholic church
one Sunday and draw out fetishes in my head...
kneeling before a cross... maybe Jesus the ******
would have loved to be nailed to some X cross
and then get ****** off by some Magdalene?
maybe he was into sadomasochism...
    who knows... but ******* sets me off on
an easy path of ******...
at least in the ******* it feels more
like exercise as i'm using the upper part of my body
to arch over a woman... from time to time
lowering myself to kiss her when she shows her tongue
licking her lips: i guess that implies: kiss me...
so i do... or lowering my body to brush noses
with her... press my forehead against hers
or just bite her chin...

is it just me or did the band Priest use certain accents
of Lana Del Rey's Summertime Sadness
in their song Phantom Pain? have a listen...
i think they did... never mind...
aphrodisiac no. 3: music... just listening to some
music you'd like to listen to when *******
fills the mind prior to the act with the act:
Trevor Something: into your heart...

work has transformed me, working with people,
dealing with drunk football fans...
i walked into the brothel: three beauties sitting there...
i never thought i had a thing for plump girls
or girls wearing glasses...
but this third one... the blonde... that lied
about being from Romania when in fact i know
from Michaela that she's Poland looked like:
a frightened doe... her eyes almost teary... her lips
moving as if trying to tell me something...
obviously i picked Michaela: she's going back
to Romania for a month to visit her family...
she worked so hard that she managed to have
a 12 room house with 3 bathrooms...
she's thinking about retiring in a year's time...
setting up a restaurant... i told her i make ****
good mint and chocolate chip ice-cream and i love
looking... who knows... i heard that Romania
is beautiful... and she's from Bucharest...
so... easy access to Ottoman heritage... and Dracula...
who knows... life is sometimes a house
of windows that are opportunities...
the same blonde that:

Khadija... Khadira... Khedra blocked me on WhatsApp
just before she ****** off back to Turkey
for a holiday... yeah... Khedra sent me
a photograph of herself with this girl...
now look at her... a frightened doe...
why did she block me? i don't care...
she was there last night... i asked for her...
but she was bringing back £60 for an extra half
an hour with a man she was already busy with...
we said hello: i kissed her cheek as a greeting...
me and my hardly jealous heart...
but Michaela can do i don't think even Khedra
could... after all... with Michaela it was
first time quick... second time longer...
third time quick... 4th time much longer...
first time? i blame it on the fact that she forgot
to pull back the *******... what sort of uncircumcised man
wants to **** without a circumcision imitation?
i know women prefer the aesthetic of a circumcised
man... but at the same time:
in the old ways... a man would be circumcised...
but the woman would have to pay some compensation...
just look at Islam and Judaism...
not the current American raw deal of circumcised
men... that's not how it works...
circumcise a man and his sometimes need to
pleasure himself makes no sense with no *******...

hardly a joke... it's called the acronym FGM (female
genital mutilation, but it's not called MGM male
genital mutilation?! oh right... all those eunuchs
in harems who were walking ******... because: hardly...
Solomon couldn't **** all his harem...
it would probably take him a whole year
to make the rounds and **** all his concubines)...
so unless he didn't have eunuchs to please his concubines
he had the concubines turn to lesbian acts...
even great kings of old didn't mind other men
******* their women... as long as they didn't impregnate
them...
i'm a modern man... i really don't care who she has
been ******* prior...

me? with Khedra... i know why she blocked me...
but it's only on WhatsApp... i still have her number...
i just have to use the conventional routes...
but she must have received advice from fellow prostitutes...
you're sending him pictures of yourself?
you said you'd gladly have a night with him
in a hotel room for free?! are you a ******* or his
girlfriend?!
mind you: Michaela asked me for extra money
for unprotected ***... Khedra simply gave it up without
any extra cost... to be honest... i don't mind either...
****** off: obviously...
****** on? honey... do you have two spare latex suits
we can wear? oh sure... and a tub of butter
we can both jump into and smear each other
and pretend we're snails... ha... ah ha... terrible joke...

but ever since starting work again: i feel more and more
alive... my confidence has shot through
the roof... two prostitutes sitting opposite me
don't really intimidate me...
one tries to be a smart-***... the other is gearing up
because she knows i'll choose her and the third
looks scared...
hmm... i know that Michaela would ask me to pay
extra to perform oral *** on her...
Khedra? she gave it up for free...
i love seeing a woman who shows her hot-shivers
or ******... not ******* are so ******* oratory
as might be portrayed... hot-shivers of ******...
and, to be honest? ****** vaginas are very...
not tasteless... i've had one once... they sort of stink...
there are not enough lubrication juices...
and i mean from multiple men...
it really doesn't bother me...

thank god none of them ever asked for me to perform
****... pop pornographic culture with all that
**** fixation is ill to me... i can understand
if two Russian soldiers on the front feel like
gagging each other's anuses... but with women?

that was Khedra... freebies... i would otherwise have
to pay for with Michaela...
but Khedra is a slim nymphomaniac...
Michaela is a business minded woman...
and being plump: that's an added asset...
Khedra has her eyes open throughout *******
while Michaela has her eyes closed...
hello: a welcome return to the Unbearable Lightness
of Being by Milan Kundera...
i have to see: everything... i gorge with my eyes...
i'm eating: but i'm not eating...

but i know why i only drank one Merry Down cider
and 35cl of whiskey last night, wrote 'Biggie"
and went to bed...
huh! i have a nickname? that's so endearing...
that's so much better than a girl calling you by your name...
English doesn't really have a diminutive
aspect of language: esp. nouns...
in ****** speech you can create diminutive "concepts"
of words: to make them more endearing...
Matthew, i.e. Mateusz can become Mateuszek...
duck, i.e. kaczka can become kaczuszka
dog, i.e. pies can become piesek
woman, i.e. kobieta can become kobietka...
what's the equivalent in English?
it's "diminutive": but it's not an endearing-diminutive...
it's belittling-diminutive, that's the distinction
between the two languages i own...
little women... you can't actually morph the word
woman to imply woman a "tiny", or, "small"
in an endearing way... only in a belittling way...
thank god i know two languages...
fluently: bilingually...
perhaps a third would be useful if i wished
to travel and start a business... most certainly a knowledge
of Spanish would open a world of opportunities...
obviously i'd settle for German... large enough
territory... but? as a personal psychology basis?
being monolingual would be claustrophobia for me...
or equivalent: therefore...

oh man... it would have been such a mistake if
i just settled for my high-school sweetheart, Promis...
when dating her i went to a friend's birthday
party and was presented with a chance to cheat...
she was much younger than me and eager:
i declined her even though she was already all
over me... it wouldn't have worked...
my father: i'm not my father... mentioned only
two women in his life...
one girl who tried to trick him into becoming
a surrogate father... i.e. not raising his own genes...
and... my mother... but i'm not my father:
i think my parents are freaks... seriously...
it's like monogamy and the swan song was all
about them...
my estranged uncle was a serial polygamist...
he tried a monogamy once: FAIL...
she ended up being a journalistic-wannabe
with an abortion as a notch on her belt...
i learned from my maternal grandfather too...
he was married at the age of 18? 19? but cheated
on my grandmother... he mentioned 3 women
in his life... me? i didn't lose count on purpose...
i lost count on the basis of: and how many different
selves of myself have i found along the way?
i can can't at least 5...

but unlike Khedra with her hot-shivers when i was
performing... eating-oysters on her ****...
there was Michaela who said last night:
look! you're making me dance! and she looked
the happiest girl... she was dancing... lying back...
it wasn't a dance: dance... it wasn't a samba...
she was dancing by wriggling happy on her back
after all that missionary ***...
plus?! i now have a nickname: i'm: Biggie...
and... fair enough: i have more beard envy than
***** envy... even though i've been approached
by guys at work with a similar envy... beards...
apparently i have a perfect beard...

i'm Biggie... now... a few years back i was
KAKASHKA for Ilona: little ****...
it could have worked with Ilona: if i wasn't a ******
and she wasn't a Russian...
Russian pride against Polacks was already
stated by Dostoyevsky demeaning us...
even though i'd be the first to celebrate Russian
isolationistic culture upkeep...

i don't think i could love one woman...
that would be selfish... after all... all the most beautiful
women are either prostitutes or...
actresses in the pornographic industry...
strange how beauty works: it works perfect in nature:
nature wants to showcase itself for the greatest
number of people...
that's a bit like beautiful women...
that's why beautiful women in Islam are an
antithesis of nature's parody...
i heard one Pakistani once tried to teach me
the "mystery" of Islam...
if you owned a jewellery shop... and you had this one
massive sapphire in your shop...
would you want to keep it in the front window
so that anyone could look at it...
huh? he continued: no... you'd keep it hidden
in the back...
                       rrrright... huh?!
he actually didn't mention: so people would ask about?
how could anyone know that you have
a massive ******* sapphire in the back
of your jewellery shop?
point being... why have a jewellery shop
if you're going to be so selfish about what's beautiful?!
you're a ******* jewel merchant or some stingy
****?!
then again: the allure surrounding women is the same
in the west as it is in Islam...
make-up and the NIQAB...
in the west make-up does what a NIQAB does in Islam...
it's the same-****: just a different cover...
i look at a woman in a NIQAB: i'm curious...
i watch a woman heavily overdone with make-up...
i can sometimes say:
there's less paint on a masterpiece than there is
chemical junk on her face to hide her imperfections
that: i might find appealing...
sure... with a NIQAB i can only see the eyes...
but with western standards: i see eyes... exfoliating
in feline fakery... and the rest of her is doubly faked-up...

thank god i'm man... i just need to wash myself
on a regular basis... trim my beard... shave my *****
region and my arm-pits... no chance of me shaving
the hair on my pirate chest and my stomach...
apparently Michaela likes flowing her fingers through
my body hair and teasing my *******...
tonight: i need more whiskey...
not because i'm miserable: i'm happy...
that's why i continue to drink and not get drunk:
i'll feel drunkness when i stop writing and relax...
until then my memory is working overload...
and this is only memory from yesterday...

maybe that's why i don't dream so much...
i don't dream because i'm not seeking escapism
some people seek via imagination...
since their memory faculty has either been eroded
by pedagogy... or? as Bukowski once noted:
some people never go mad: what horrible lives
they must least... a recurrent spontaneity of
"amnesia": or simply looking down on people?
not treating them fairly, lovingly?

life's not difficult: other people make life difficult,
their games of hierarchies...
life's not difficult... other people make life difficult...
and? i could never understand men
who associate cats with lonely modern women...
celebrating dogs...
oh **** me! cats are the best: esp. Maine *****...
then again... maybe i have a spezial cat...
why dogs and men why women and cats
why blue and men why pink and woman?!
who said?
   and who didn't say: cats of Ancient Egypt?
the Pharaohs probably owned cats...
what about Muhammad's favourite cat? Muezza?
who the **** said that cats are efaminating creatures?!
these Bonsai tigers are just as much fun
as dogs... if not more! why? you can have time off
from petting them: when they be themselves
and... no leashes! no muzzle! fickle sleeping and feeding
patterns...
but i agree... there's one negative of cats
that i remember was a great positive having petted
Bella... my Alsatian... well... two...

cat's can't pull a sleigh... with you on it as a toddler...
you can't ride a cat as toddler...
but you can a dog... like a Shetland pony...
you can't be a toddler and put your hand inside
the beast's gob and pull out an imaginary tongue...
and... this is my biggest envy of dog owners...
Sundays at my grandparent's house...
chicken broth... basically an entire poached chicken
in a soup of... choice of vegetable to create
a chicken and vegetable stock?
carrots... root parsley, fresh parsley... celeriac...
baby celery... leek... garlic... burned onions...
the usual seasoning... vermicelli pasta...
but that's the biggest difference between cats and dogs...
i don't know why cats stopped drinking milk...
classically they drank milk...
as a child i remember glowing with glee that i owned
an animal that would eat the leftovers of the food i just
finished... dog are special in that way...
some of the soup wasn't finished...
Bella the Alsatian was whimpering after the leftovers...
she got a bowl... a bountiful bowl...
she loved her chicken broth...
   with the vermicelli... with the vegetables...
and added to the mix? the chicken bones...
my grandfather always bemoaned the fact that me
and my father ate our chicken to the point of biting
off the cartilage off the bones... i went further...
i bit off the heads to get to the juicy-dry marrow...

a different season for a different animal:
i loved dogs for the simple pleasure that they would
eat what you couldn't finish for dinner...
but i love cats for the fact that they behave like
ferns... sorry... houseplants...
you can ignore them from time to time...
they only come up to you when they feel like approaching
you...
the rest of the time you can just ignore them...
but when they love you: it's unlike a dog
waiting for you to equip yourself with a leash...
when they love you: or rather: you're ******* more interesting
than any human prior... they rarely scout for more room...
you've already enlarged their perspective on existence...

perhaps i could be your neurotypical man by
any standards: in the Old Testament style
of breaking away from my father and mother
and chose a wife: i tried it with Promis...
i hated the experience... i have to abandon my mother
and father... in order... to marry you... woman...
and... abandon my mother and father...
in order... to give a **** more about: YOUR... mother
and father?! seriously?! that's a raw ******* deal...
i haven't been raised by my mother from the age
of 6 through to 8...
and by my father from the age of 4 through to 8...
collapse of the Soviet Union:
if it wasn't the brain drain (that came later)
it was a labour shortage in the early 90s...
i don't think i'm clingy... sure... if my parents raised
me throughout those LEGO-years...
i'd be out of the house already: or? no... the cost
of living... what? at least i have intellectual comparisons
with me...
times are changing... i was lucky to be out of
the cosmopolitan game of dating ever since i went
mad aged 21... my whole 20s are a fog...
i woke up mid-30s sort of happy to be simply
alive... i'm happy for that "conundrum"...
i missed so much that was required of me to miss...
i can go to the brothel with a clean conscience
of being able to satisfy prostitutes...

at least we know something personal about Muhammad
that's more than however many wives he had...
a man of his times of his region...
i can't be a judge of that...
but at least he had his favourite cat: and we know
his name: Mu'izza...
like i had a favourite cat of mine:
Darshan... who my Sikh neighbour killed
by poising him because: she offered to take care of...
but couldn't be bothered to clean up his ****
or give him food... easier to **** the poor creature:
make him suffer kidney failure...
i was visiting my grandparents
while my mother and father were holidaying
in the Maldives... two days before they were
supposed to come back... i woke up with a stinking
fear... i phoned them up, i need to go back home!
i'm worried about Darshan...
a silver beast of a Maine ****...
dead... "kidney failure"... i was so stricken
with morbid emotions... after he was cremated
i found a Croquet buggy...
took all the pieces off... strapped a belt
to the handle... walked into a World War I
memorial graveyard...
had a hammer and a chisel with me...
started carving off a piece of grave...
put it on the buggy... dragged it home...
picked up the ashes... started digging a shallow
grave in the garden... buried the poor sod...
then placed the hacked off gravestone above him...
i'm still not speaking to my neighbours...
they're scammers anyway...
that's how Sikhs and other Asians get to flaut
their money on rich weddings and Rolls Royce
limousines... sure sure... i hear you...
they own corner shops and get rich by selling 1p
gummy bear gelatin sweets by the million!
like, ****!
oddly enough... i'm sometimes perched on my windowsill
throughout the night till 4am...
4 break-ins... "break-ins"... and some during mid-day...
******* insurance scammers! SCAMMERS!
i saw jack-****!
no one broke in into their home...
that's how Asians get rich: that's how anyone rich
gets rich... they're not playing by the rules...
thank god i'm willing to make sacrifices...
i don't want to get rich: i don't want scammers
or gold-diggers in my life: i want to build up a natural
filter when it comes to resources!

if there won't be enough women in my life:
i can always test my "fertility" with cognitive ambivalence...
i can always think about more things than most
people are not willing to think about...

after all: Muhammad had a favorite cat... Mu'izza...
since Darshan passed away at the hands of a sadistic
*****... i now have Quarus...
i'm not going to be easily relieved of him:
easily divorced from him...
he has more nicknames than the times i actually utter
his name...
what was the name of the donkey that
brought Jesus to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday?!
no one knows because he had no name...
i'd call him Quizy... Quizy... no... don... key...
REGALO TECLA... or? DON TECLA...
but Jesus didn't give a name to the donkey...
psychopathic, if you ask me:
animals you ride, or pet, to be: nameless...

just maybe: there might be some sympathy for me:
it almost feels like i was there...
when Mel Gibson released that movie of
his: the Passion of the Christ... i cried when i first
heard Aramaic being spoken on screen...
i think i cried throughout the entire movie...
i was so moved that... some other guy in the audience
started crying with me...
maybe it was the music all along...
i'm a sucker for a decent music...

but i just couldn't stomach the raw deal of wedding
a woman: a man is to abandon his own mother
and father... esp. one who wasn't raised by his
mother from the age of 6 through to 8
or by his father through the ages of 4 to 8...
who spent his early developmental years
in a house filled with 20 other immigrant
labour-drain men... for about a two years...
the fact that my father was abandoned by his own
parents: through divorce... i was raieed
by a ***** of a grandmother and an alcoholic
grandfather: i loved them...
but she was such a ***** to the point
oh him pushing her through a glass door
and breaking her hand...
i blocked all of that out... maybe by way of blocking
out several personal memories i have been
given access to access certain historical details...
i question them: unflinchingly...
why didn't Jesus' donkey have a name?
while Muhammad had a favourite cat with a name
like Mu'izzi: i know it's Mu'izza... i prefer Mu'izzi...

my Quarus? a clever cat... i bemoan the fact that
he won't eat my scraps... from dinner...
that's the only great aspect of what Bella the Alsatian
and Axl (the Dobberman) used to be capable of...
they'd eat what man leftover...
i'd call cats vegetarians if i could...

i know that the definite article in Hebrew is HA...
i.e. ha-satan: the-Stanley... the Stanislav...
i forgot to remember what the indefinite article
is in Hebrew... oh... right... there isn't one...
to define someone: definitely is to suppose:
laughing at it in English...

the whiskey flows slow and cold...
my heart it growing slower and colder...
i like it, that way...
Biggie... oh **** me... then again: Michaela does stand
about 5ft2 beside of me... while i'm towering
6ft2 above her... no wonder she picked a nickname:
Biggie for me...
the smaller she is: the plumper she is...
the more endearing she becomes...
you just want to cuddle her...
the more tender her forehead feels and tastes like...
she mentioned: i haven't washed my hair...
i tell her while sniffing it:
it doesn't matter... i washed myself prior to seeing
you... you think i'm going to wash myself
after seeing you? i want your scent to fill my bedroom
with your ****** perfume...
i want to dream of orchids! i want to dream
of lavender! i want to dream...
of a desert and your being the oasis in it!

i love women... but some women are too proud...
too stuck up...
they miss out on a lot of fun *** can be...
can't we just have fun without taking to
the serious business of paying gas bills?!
are we simply things before the altar of the eternals?
can't we spontaneously break the rules
for the eternals to be envious of us?
have we, seriously become so shallow:
so boring, that the gods abandoned us due to the fact
that we became imitating immortal:
their own boringness, manifest, that we stopped
being mortals?!

if i a were an immortal deity, and had to overlook
the modern man? i'd die too!
i'd die from boredom!
i'd die from predictability...
i'd die from looking at mortal men and thinking:
we're the luck?! where's the gamble?!
where's the unpredictability?!
where on earth is the stupidity on earth,
that might make these men take enough chances
to later allow them status of sage?!
everything is being to closely manifested in keeping
a "slave" stock of workers...
no one wants to dare... and if they do want to dare:
it's all for the wrong reasons:
no for reasons akin to: i! i am Spartacus!

people say awful things about slavery...
i wonder... what slave was ever homeless?
what slave was ever left without food, without shelter?!
well **** me: if you're not a self-developed
business man... chances are: sure... you're not a slave...
just someone who earn a wage...
but someone who earns a wage is not someone
who's someone's responsibility
to demand the person bestowing said responsibility
to keep the slave: alive, fed, sheltered...
by simply earning a wage does not imply
my status is better than that of a slave...
is it? IS, IT?!
i just earn a wage... i have to provide food and shelter
for myself... as a slave: and not a wage-earner:
i had to have food and shelter provided for me:
for my services...
i didn't care about money because i was already
given what money would otherwise provide:
or rather, in the ancient realm: wouldn't...
since shelter was inherited by the manor
and food too... from owning farmyards...

i don't think slavery was bad... wage-employment
is far worse... esp. those zero-hour contracts...
no one can tell me that's beneficial to anyone...
zero-hour contracts is worse than slavery...
at least as a slave you had intrinsic value...
obviously disposable...
but as a wager... SLAVE CONTRA WAGER...
you have no instrinsic value:
you only have extrinsic value:
you're doubly disposable...

           like the concern for INFLATION:
the end-product is inflated...
but the manufacturing mechanism isn't...
then there's the deflation aspect of
football clubs increasing the payouts of their
football players... but not decreasing
the price of their tickets to attend a match
or their merchandise: t-shirts etc.!
fair enough: pay the players more...
but at least have the decency to cut down the ticket
prices to see a football match...
or the price of the merchandise...
but no... these clubs either keep it at the same price
or inflate the ticket prices...
but if the players are earning more?
why should the people pay more?!
surely they should be paying less!

SLAVERY wasn't a bad thing... not in my eyes...
i think slavery was a good thing...
you had protection... a SLAVE had more protection
against the peril of a "free" society than a WAGER
will ever have...

what are the chances of me retiring at my grandfather
did? getting a proper state pension,
passing it down my wife after my life,
allowing her last 10 years of life to be lived
in a luxury that only old age might hinder?
ZILCH!
of the people that applied for job i'm currently at....
i seem to be the only "slave": i.e. employee...
the rest are self-employees...
i do my job well because i don't have to:
invoice my presence... i get invoices by someone
else...i trust my "handlers"...
i look at dogs, i look at cats...

who was Proximo to Maximus in the fillm
Gladiator? a mere slave-owner?
really? Maximus was merely a WAGER?
Proximo didn't care about Maximus was more than
a WAGER and more a, commodity?
i'd love to feel like a commodity again...
i'd hate to be treated as a WAGER: as an EARNER...
i think slaves, "slaves" had more monetary rights
than people of our current age...
owning slaves came with responsibilities...
a bit like owning pets these days...
you had to be rich enough...
for one...
you had to clothe them... you had to feed them...
you had to put a roof above their heads...
to be considered a nobleman:
you had to treat them fairly...
these days? none of these rules need to apply...

the system of slavery worked on a decentralised
"bias"...
not on this, current, centralised bias of
the universal WAGE concept....
you're worse than a SLAVE... you're a WAGER...
communism tried to figure this out...
it never came close...
well, it did, for a short period of time...
the sort of period of time where:
drinking whiskey tasted like drinking regurgitated
garlic *****!

it's not working now...
not everyone can be some moon-blessed
entrepreneur... some people are truly allowed
the joy of being allocated the status of PAWN...
rather than BISHOP...
there are people that are like that...

if it was working NOW: it would be working WOW...
people exist for others to be looked up to!
you can't scribble some Darwinistic mantra
and expect people to stick to it!
it's either Darwinism or Christianity...
you can't have both!
there's one alternative... but you're not going
to like Islam...
i don't like Islam... i don't like circumcision...
that's why i'm expecting a 2nd schism
in this grand religion... spear-headed
by the Turks with a bunch of uncircumcised men...

i want whiskey to drip from my beard
while i drink it... and rub it into my chin...
and recall the number of tattoos i ought to have
from rekindling my mind to the past....

no one knows the name of the donkey that took
Jesus to Jerusalem as the fifth: "horseman" of
the Apocalypse toward that fateful Palm Sunday...
but... Muhammad's favourite cat's name is known...
the birth of the Korean script is known via
King Sejong... no one can rob me of this historical presence:
nothing is mythological too...
just easily forgotten...

me? i'm just clearing the path... for something...
more... expedient... more... clarifying...
let's share cats.

A sunset on the blue waters of Maldives, the Colosseum, a field of Sunflower, the graceful saunter of a Lion in the Serengeti, an evening at the Eiffel tower and a long walk along the great Wall of China. I want you to see these places, so that you can have a hint of how beautiful your presence has painted my soul. I want to show you the world, so that you understand what I'd give up for you. I want to love you as long as I can, to reach places in you you never thought existed. I want to curve a landmark of passion on your heart, I want to swim with you through storms and hold your sails so that you never drown just as you've held mine. You should never feel lost for no matter where you go, my affection will always shine your way, I want to hold your hand through all scotch and walk by your side till sunset. I want to listen to the rhythm of the night in the euphony of your heartbeat, I want to build a monument of you in the centre of the earth so that all generations will tell of one who found a seed in piles of **** and watered it with kindness till it bloomed into a beautiful wild flower. I want to tattoo your name on my mind so that I can never forget the magic you make me feel. I want to give you a kind of peace the world only dreams about. I want you to be the poetry I never stop writing, the story for the very last page. I want to count the sands on beaches of the world and when we're done, the Stars, I want to share with you the search for the lost fairy of forever but most of all, I want to make you the happiest person in the universe because you've drugged me out of the deepest hole I was ever thrown. I just want to spend the rest of this life repaying you, albeit I know it'll never be enough.

hey, i’m not the one getting my morality faked by tourism, or faking being polish because i found the location of the maldives to be east of las vegas... but i guess the roulette does care for the choir you’ll echo when the echo is necessary, and the bagel will suddenl say through it’s fake bun-button: those holocaut jews were really in ownership of british passports... we are representative of their martyrdom... i guess one could claim a denial of poland some other way... denying poland  the holocaust because the jews suddenly became mr. polanksi jr. could be accepted... but then i democratically veto a disrespect of the bagel... end of! well dough dough, aren’t we all wooed into sinking england by due course affiliating a secure future.*

no wonder in the ***** of death and you in paradise hinge on taking  me back to take a g.c.s.e. lesson in history! evens oddly the odds. how  about we revise geography? no? ah.. oh well... we can learn something  new of a palestianian polity in your agenda in a year or two; oh don’t worry... no new mozart will convert you or give you trouble to say the least; please please... we can hibernate the russians into death in order to make the americans fully aware... we can do that... and roll one of those grand cigars for the 51st star we’ve all been waiting for, ha ha. oh ****... you’re right... freedom of speech... securing the nazis retired in argentina was a falkland right that got england engaged.*

oh but you didn’t provide me with a safety
of being ethically proud, or being nationally proud...
instead you told me to be globally proud...
and what’s that? the laughter surrounding copernicus?!
no one laughed at the mongols...
but everyone could laugh and execute galilieo...
where does that leave me... in a society of *****?!
if it doesn’t... do i look like a ****? oh but i do look like a ****...
you laugh at ******... i guess i am a ******* **** after all:
totenkopf zu die ende;
but you pride it so much... it’s called teen mom tv...
even though it broadcasts on a channel that should have music on it!

the day my cat was about to die
i was in poland, visiting my grand-parents,
then i became psychotically nervous
and asked my parents to be flown back
to england, i had all goosebumps eeriness
on me, they didn't allow me,
my sikh neighbour was taking care of
the cat, a sadistic ***** who on any given
opportunity would whip her husband,
the cat's name was Oscar, a grey maine ****,
days later my parents returned from their
holiday in the maldives, the cat was dead,
died of kidney failure, he had a heart condition,
but cats that have kidney problems
live for years to come, they **** very slowly
as if they have prostate cancer than narrows the
****** oesophagus ;
the cat used to be cared for by my hebrew neighbours
and was fine, but then this sikh ***** took care
and in my post-mortem analysis killed my companion:
take away the descriptive elements of a person,
whether religion, ethnicity and you're racist to be honest,
you bleach people, leave me and my vocabulary intact
before you turn into a **** english teacher:
leave people intact for descriptive language, o.k.?
but you know what i did afterwards?
the cat was toast turned into ash,
sat on a shelf in a cardboard urn for a long time.
but you know what i did after?
i marched into a world war i memorial ground,
where a graveyard was once,
now like a hebrew graveyard with the gravestones stacked
back-to-back... i took a croquet trolley,
a hammer, and a chisel.. and there in the graveyard
hammered each grave to wake the dead,
until i hammered at one long enough to hack
off a piece of it with writing, wrapped it in
a black bin bag, put it on the croquet trolley
and wheeled it off... and then in the moonlit night
with shovel dug a shallow grave,
in the garden, opened the cardboard urn of remains,
scattered some into the dirge hole,
closed the urn's lid, and put it in,
covered the remains with dug-up earth,
and then placed the gravestone on the dug-up site.
mother inquired what i'd done with the ashes,
i told her... walk to the back of the garden
and see the gravestone.
once too in the same memorial grounds
i took a rock cross and put it on my shoulder,
walked with it, and put it at the foot
of the memorial where enforced memorisation
of the 1914 genesis took to a public spectacle
of where poppy wreaths are laid,
and i put the stone gravestone crux over
a poppy wreath - it must have weighed about 40kg
if not more: a roll of roofing felt weighs about as much.
but i buried my cat, and that's that.

Crazy Horse Waits For Neil Young

Working their way through the Harvard Classics
half-moon reading glasses perched precariously
on their noses, dozing off from time to time
myoclonic twitches jolting hands and feet
that pine to plug in and mark time, dreaming

of that bait shop in the Maldives with a cooler
full of Bud where a man could do some combing
on the beach and wait for the sea to rise
or the pending call that sends them up the attic
stairs on a frantic search for their carry on

luggage and the worn out Converse and that  
lucky tee shirt from Rust Never Sleeps.  Never
a doubt, not one; well maybe a few but
the changes and chords will come wandering back
and the chorus to ******’ Up practically

sings itself, but in the meantime the checkbook
needs attention and a grandson’s home from Helmand
and isn’t the Lipitor running low?  
Two chapters left in Moby ****, they eye the
phone convinced again tonight’s the night.

.seems like the asian dub foundation lyrics came true: the lunatics will lead the blind... counter-metaphor, like i don't know how the mainstream doesn't exploit ascribing metaphors akin to psychotic or schizoid to slander their fellow "sanity" hives... and then, there comes a snippet, a mini-apocalypse of a one-man "army"... conflating a genuine Hippocratic observation, with your usual casual slander in all things politico: including journalism... i guess that calling someone dumb / plain outright scheming is not enough... oh but the genuine examples scare people... for all the criticism of Muhammad... ha... ha ha? he was awfully fond of lunatics, maybe i misread this, but i'm pretty sure sort of content is ascribed to the hadith... my allegiance? to the language, this is true, on other matters... hit or miss... cherry picking... the usual... in terms of England? what's there to subvert, when everything has already been, subverted? ****, bad grammar... maybe that's what can be subverted, that last bastion, oh, wait, that's also gone with the whole pronoun debacle... about time to play the Pontius Pilate role... but instead of a maddened crowd of hebrews, there's that small matter, of an enraged crowd of grammar-fetish-nazis... rigid, rigid as ****, you couldn't find a dried out piece of horseshit as rigid as this... and i'm not even a native... going out to nightclubs on either a friday or saturday used to be fun, until, this culmination of events... yawn... no, no... this is where i get to punctuate my sentences in an excess of erraticism; well: any counter to the overtly eroticißed currency / culture... if anyone told me to fixate my attention of linguistics, i'd be like: give me a break... gone are the days when a homosexual could scribble something as curiosity-worthy as a william burroughs... well: if we reached a fundamental plateau point of inertia... it would take someone from... Gomorrah... to talk about all that slobbering over sea food juice, from the flowery pattern of a *******'s *****; and that would be me.

don't ask me, how, or why,
maybe i should get in touch with
some of the airline pilots,
maybe they'd believe me,
or perhaps to anyone in close
geographical proximity,

   let's say i'm sitting on the porch,
smoking a cigarette,
mentally lacerating myself
over an outburst of unfathomable
anger requiring me to do something,
which i nonetheless do,
but the whole fiasco of a tirade
wasn't necessary...
         and... with my rigid
ontology, i repent,
    i go a step further,
            i think up all the standard
negative thinking,
  
   to a point where
the word banal,
         mingles with the word
benign...
       at this point
           these words are being
drilled into my psyche,
   they become static,
   and obstruct any decency
of a cognitive narrative...
           benign becomes a negative
word,
      somewhat closely alligned
in spelling to banal -
   well...
                        as close as B
goes...
                   strange...
how thought has to process
feeling,
      and how feeling:
    rarely processes thought...
just your standard cartesian
"quadratic paradox":
yes, perhaps a misnomer,
but err:          into air quote,
there's always a nuance
to be minded,
   and a misnomer cipher
usage...
                              i.e. metaphor...

so i'm doing all of that,
   and then...
            you'd have to be in
my vicinity to see this,
    and a night sky...
   so the stars are there,
fixed points in their constellations,
or some outliers...
then you spot one appear
in the sky, and move
in a straight line,
         a slightly dim star...
copernicus:
     but i thought stars
weren't supposed to do that?

and then? a star so brightly lit,
also moving in a straight line,
so, so bright,
   and as it moves into the distance,
it starts to wane,
fade...
    a plane flies in its direction,
i'm strapped to the earth,
but i'm hopeful
    that the airline pilots
have also spotted it...

                this is not supposed
to happen...
   i don't know if i'm freaked
out, or just used to it,
years prior, i did my occasional
star-gazing...
   somehow detached
from the usual curiosity of men,
i knew that i hard to return
to the hierarchy of metres,
miles and centimetres etc.,

          someone else did,
whatever they did,
   to orientate themselves with /
around, the current capacity
of communication,
    but no one could say:
the guy who created the piano,
     could play like a Schumann -

my predicament comes
with this language,
      acquired, self-taught,
   perfected,
                i remember the day
i was thrown into a class
   at primary school,
   mute...
          cartoon network wasn't
exactly a teacher back
in post-communist Poland
in the early 1990s...
  
          i was... without a play
on words: thrown into the deep end,
told: ******, now tread water.
  i still sometimes help my parents
with legal paperwork,
  but i'm content that they
managed to... **** me...
    me, holiday, to the Maldives?
hard work, i almost enjoyed
doing roofing on an industrial
scale sized roofs...

             now, i drink,
and if i didn't...
   i'd writing with a sense of
urgency that's more erratic than
imbued with a sense of urgency
of, imminent death,
  and i'd be running paranoid,
7 trips back and forth
between London and Edinburgh
and Glasgow in a short period
of time,

        then to Athens,
           brief interludes of calm
like a trip to Venice...
   mind you: if the diagnosis
is correct, i.e. psychosis,
and for all that time,
  i didn't behave like your
tragedy psychotic,
               well...
               is that... responsibility?
the knowledge of a condition,
tamed,
    rather than walked into blindly...

apart from the usual
historical literature,
                       what could possibly
top philosophy as a genre
of literature?
          d'uh... theoretical psychiatry...
notably from the 1960s...
precisely because:
    prior to that time reference?
psychiastric conditions
were, grotesquely enough -
                      luxury ailments or...
the other kind,
         the ones were they throw
you into the asylum
      and... god knows what...
now?
            they drug you...
  pacify you...
                        but what if there's
still something hidden
within you,
                               to counter?

i probably the only smarter
thing available...
                      if i didn't turn to
philosophy...
        or psychiatric literature...
yes, it would take you a decent
3 years to read the two volumes
of Kant's critique of pure reason,
to be able to move forward
your own narrative,
   without having to: read it,
only in order to regurgitate /
teach it...

                   no one is going to talk
Kant to you,
    you will, most likely,
be talked Kant to you / taught,
yes, more like taught rather than
talked (down)...

                 for all the sins of alcohol
consumption,
   well: what other sedative
is there within the same price-range?
i'll always be unrepentent
about the drinking,
           how much of a *******
******* would i have to be,
     to repent for something
that, somehow, clarifies my head
and allows me to
spew out, something akin
to this?

            no, stars aren't supposed
to do, what they did,
and keep on doing,
        in my presence...
   only one person has shared
this spectacle with me,
my grandfather...
   'for the stars to be moving?!'
just my luck,
   that he suffers from
a mild dementia...
           cul de sac of convincing
someone...
    so back to the secular
game of juggling negation,
and lying -

     at least doubt can mingle
with belief,
   at least doubt
       is, akin to belief,
   a plethora of emotions;
i never understood the criticism
of emotion,
   esp. in the secular west,
i just can't turn into
   some emotionless
apathy-zombie,
    or some,  brain
and a spinal cord in
a ******* pickle jar,
semi-autistic:
but that still implies
   channeling your emotions,
rather than giving into
outright, shallow and not
premeditated calculation.

i'm starting to really see it as the next Kenya,
the Maldives or some obscure care
for a seashell...
   exotica of an exile... funny how
there's no book entitled: the exile...
      oh the misery of the jew,
double afront with israel being met -
that there's the book of exodus,
   but there's no book of exile -
  czerwone korale!
   czerwone niczym wino!
korale z polnej jarzębiny!
i łzy dziewczyny wielkie łzy! -
i cite those words, to quote the unconscious,
to cite the primodal drive to
   a feeding to relocate to a
   shared ethnicity, nothing
to concern the spave voyage...
to craft global economy, and
cite Neil Armstrong...
   to be level headed, and to be of the earth
bound, and unto earth returned...
    best be readied to accept
morality, than dream-up immortality...
but i am a marriage...
i am but a marriage...
      i dance to a polonais, and i dance to
a viennese waltz! and i shout hey!
and i shout tango! too...
                 such that the song be folk,
and be the song of rowan...
          and given global affairs:
it's nothing but cheap, a care to huddle,
a care to hide...
   a care to ask for a tortoise shell
and equal worth of year upon year
to match up to the most deserved
  wise-men talk of immortality:
the żółw and the dąb:
   Mietek! pats na ten żółwidąb!
do tańca Mietek! do tańca!
na tron oko sokoła! nic po nas z tą
flegmą reszty, co o cycek
           świni maca pocałunek, i ssa dobytek!
pierdolone kuci kuci, hyda... mlask
takiej miłości! obfity w usta zamoczone
   w piździe i oleju. ach nie to!
dawaj panie! niech tym dodać
co nie jeden tchu hyd!
                 jak złodziej Tuwim...
  ja też pragne wtargać sie w tło Ęngliszczyzny;
ach nie tak...
            ratój panie Bank! ratój panie dynamo!
ratój panie swój ostatni włos!
a patem panie bij go panie,
         ten jedyny włos... o kłos!
a wtedy z takiego poczynania: wydób księge!

An insatiable wanderlust I wish to be,
Beyond the horizon I ought to see.
The land, the sea and many places,
To meet and greet those beautiful faces.

I wish to visit the spectacular Angkor Wat in Cambodia,
Or tripping on a bumpy Leh-Ladakh Road ride in India.
To swim among the tropical fishes in the Maldives,
Or sitting at the edge of the Kalaupapa Peninsular Cliffs

I wish to meditate at the peak of the Himalaya,
Or adore the fascinating Great Wall of China.
To romance at the Oia- Santorini in Greece,
Or party at the Belearic Islands till the day ceased.

I wish to watch the sunset illuminates the Pyramid of Giza,
Or a calm sunbathe in the magical islands of Bora Bora.
To get awed by the grandeur beauty of the Amazon,
Or simply a Gandola ride in Venice like a Vagabond.

I wish to sip the finest Bordeaux Wine in France,
Or get drown in the madness of “Tomorrow land”.
To visit the isolated Chile Easter Island,
Or brave the arduous climb to the top of Fuji mountain.

I wish to embark on a panoramic train ride to Machu Picchu,
Or immersed on remnants of the mythical history of Peru.
To witness the Aurora Borealis in Norway,
Or the divine old city of Jerusalem is a must visit someday.

I will travel through the land and the ocean,
Could be a random plan without a direction.
But I will travel far and I will travel near,
And I will keep my feet rolling every where.

It is not you who I miss, it is us.

At 2 when we were woke.
Talking about the future and things;
How you wanted to be a magnate,
and I'd be your #1 supporting system;
How we'd build a nice home on top of the mountain;
How we'd travel to Turkey,
riding air balloon, kissing near the sky;
And how we'd make love at Maldives, enjoying every scenes.

It is not you who I miss, it is us.

At 3 we were still woke.
Telling you how my day was.
I complained a lot of things.
I cried, not knowing how to control.
You were there, you put me up.
"Sweetcheeks, it is going to be fine."
I believe I am going to be fine,
until you're slowly fading away,
and now us.


n.e

in paris, you loved me, life was amorous
in the maldives, you desired me more than you ever had before, i don't think the bed every stayed tidy
in rome, you told me I was a masterpiece greater than any of Da Vinci's
in new york, you screamed, even the sound of the taxi cabs couldn't drown out the sound of you saying you hated me
in london, you left me stranded, broke my heart and bolted,
back to paris when this mess of a romance started, where you said you loved me.

6,000 islands in greece
17,508 islands in indonesia
200 islands in the maldives
yet you choose to inhabit yourself in
the chaotic paradise of
my mind

why..

in that there's an insufferable
immediacy of the heart...
whereby: a mind...
   and some "unbearable lightness"
      of ontology
is of little of no concern...
or that there's poetry like
there's carpentry...
         that there's the chinese
school...
              and people in the west:
who like fudge-packaging
narratives... the drama brigade...
etc.
  therefore no revision
therefore no "re-working"...
just what's writing:
not what's being written...
beside the heart having
nuances and labyrinths
for blind people...
       or the 5:1 ratio with an elephant...

it's so imperfect: but in that...
there's no reason to return to...
what's otherwise something akin
to ******* against the wind....

for a loss in enthusiasm...
for there to be no: and noah
praying for the whittle bits
of "excess" rain...

                 all the walls with
enough braile to catch cue
of the forgotten nose tip
with the two boggled tow
"oopsies" brigade...

                 there's a scenario
where an umbrella is to be used...
it either rains...
or it shines pwetty nostalgic...
and that's the end of
any proto-
                    "desires"...

          there's always then
that grand cispher in lingo...
that's like some smart-*** h'america
making comparison to
a mcdonald's on a dead-end
"concept" of a sunday evening
like he or she is
gesticulating with
bloom authority with and ottoman
               vizier...

it's just not that impossible...
if english: beside the people...
and if there was...
a "diaspora"...
   i see diaspora as pockets...
quantum and eventualities...

      but the conundrum
of entire continents?!
  
   my mother says: i'm still surprised
you haven't emigrated from
england...
i.e. to... where?
the fridge, the moon...
the loitering broom and "windy"?

england is somehow the old worst
where h'america is the best new?
or australia?
    even if... to seek...
the economic... furthered...
futility...
   "it can only get better"...
             that truly depends on...
what's the expectation surrounding...
a... "betterment"...

i see a vision!
         a cul de sac with an extensive
-esque dealings with Horace...
       i also see... a lawn of envy...
i see a tree...
it doesn't matter that tree i see...
but a wundersehen...
   i see a shadow...
         a tilt of frowning...
  somewhere where i can become:
inconveniently my best: disposed...

where i can find... english arrogance...
that's too lazy to become militant...
chameleon myself into a tidy
nugget of a mathematical puzzle
within how: shoelaces are...
bilingually mingling...

             a borrowed echo for a footstep
toward the ambition
of a mangling endeavour...
effortless words...

                perhaps "english" and perhaps
"arrogance"... but always the best...
in that... i will never visit
the maldives...
  nor will i have myself fitted to
a tailoring on savile row...
          second skin: tattoos...
maldives...
                  it's becoming too exhausting
to breathe with expectations...
there's no nuance there's
this old borrowed "saying"...
             stereo-typical... attempts...
focus bleeding.

the toothache conquered the lion...
the unicorn...
    the unicorn...
                   me and the youth
of elsewhere...
                      in the continental share
of the anglo-"diaspora"...
       best i weave myself with
some spanish...
   and end the expectations
of my mother's whims
on the crease that denotes
a geography akin to:                 Peru...

as i... will... beside the invested ambitions...
otherwise tow to tilt
the clepsydra of: peruse:
the odd braille... and the...
looking for vowels in 'ebrew.

finally! that time of the year has come
when i'll be taking a 2 week hiatus to the "old country":
perched on a windowsill drinking
some Napoleon brandy
donning a baseball cap donned in
reverse: cool as a cucumber...
oddly enough: if baseball caps are anything
to go by: i could get used to a kippah...
sure as **** not to a monk's tonsure...
ah... the night... a time of solace...
ah... die nacht... ein zeit auf trost...
the "old country", monochromatic, among
"my fellow" countrymen:
none of this Loon'don Babylon of the world
congregating... a little ****** town that
once had ambitions to compete with
the metallurgical industry of Cracow...
collapsed... sold off...
from a population nearing 100,000...
reduced to... perhaps 40,000...
since everyone left once the economy collapsed:
how Europe exported its
metallurgical industry... it's production
to Asia... some "disappeared" else in this
native land... some left for Canada... England...
i love going back: even though my
dementia riddled grandfather isn't alive...
i'll still get to read some books...
on the to-do list...
finishing Knausgaard's vol. 4... taking a break
by: finally! reading some
Rousseau... letter to M. D'Alembert on spectacles
& the social contract...
lucky me i own a copy that has paired these
two books together...
i have reached a point of tedium
reading the genre of autobiography...
esp. autobiography that borrows so much
from memory...
of course i'll finish volumes 5 & 6...
but i need a break...
i need to get away from internet access...
i need to walk into a pine forest...
i need to sniff the air in Eastern Europe...
funny... i was in Russia for a month once:
never watched the t.v.:
we ******... she played video games...
i was either reading
a book of her choice: the Master & Margarita
or studying chemistry to resit
a failed exam...
i need to immerse myself in propaganda...
see what's happening in politics...
i'm way behind the culture...
i tried to keep up... last time i heard
bands like Lao Che & Żywiołak are not in
the mainstream... every time i turn on the radio:
no chance in hell...
it's like that conundrum of Iron Maiden's
Bring your Daughter to the Slaughter reaching
no. 1 in the charts... but... "for some reason"
BBC Radio 1 not giving it any play...

we used to walk around the graveyard and
talk about life and how:
death is the only true democracy...
among other things...
i dubbed us: the hyenas of the graveyard...
now i'm going to stand over his grave
and probably pull a smirk onto my face...
a sort of gleeful: i'm coming...
you shouldn't have had that tirade
of yours over your brother-in-law's early
death: how you boasted that
you were still living while he was already dead...
i think you were teasing death then
but i can accept the fact that you wanted
to be finally rid of that woman...
how you said:
old people should live more cordially
with each other: not this stereotypical
Hemingway: men without women array of
short stories...

do i still regret breaking up with that Siberian lass?
of course i do...
but if for your happiness me giving you
grandchildren: but being slapped in the face
for no reason other than her paranoia
while she was still in close contact with her ex?

that's the difference between
Catholic and Protestant nations...
while the protestants have their little Halloween
****** Doo thrills of dressing up...
some Catholic nations celebrate the day after
the 31st of October...
the feast day of All Saints...
a big ******* deal in Paul-and...
the people light candles at the graves...
whole graveyards start looking like
starry constellations: hell... more...
when spotted on the Maldives...

i like this approach more than the insurrection
of monsters... fake or real:
mostly fake... life's this one grand party...
i hardly think so...
if i'd be content with life i wouldn't
be inquisitive of it... or off it...
the necropolis beckons...
names etched into marble...
important dates...
oh not the dates of a person's birth
or a person's death:
all those important dates not written onto a grave
those in-between... written into the riddled flesh
of the living...
tattoos akin to... 2001... 2019...
  
but oh so welcome... this impeding break...
from... whatever this is...
a return to: this little ******-town that once
grew & grew & could have been something...
sold off...
sleepy little town... it would be rather
impossible to put Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski
on the map...
mind you: the mindset of the western folk is:
to put hardly anything on the map:
except for their bellybutton...
i don't mind: "we" sort of don't exist...
so far far away: further even than India...
further than the Americas... further than Spain...
or Italy... as a sort of wilderness "non-existent"
before you arrive in Russia...

watching two matches today: super Sunday, what?
even though West Ham only beat Tottenham Hotspurs
a meagre 1 - nil...
it was just as entertaining as watching
Liverpool thrash Manchester United 5 - nil...
sport is fun when you don't take sides...
when you're in it for the mere spectacle...
it's like automated chess... football...
please: don't get me wrong...
no... get me wrong... but American football
is a load of crap...
so many ******* interludes...
it's unlike rugby where there are clear rules...
the oval needs to be passed back...
the charge is forward...
what is it with H'american football...
you throw the oval forward...
you run off the field: STOP... let's realign...
the oval touches the ground: STOP... let's realign...
what a **** sport...
only two sports came out of north america:
hockey &... eh... but cricket is better
than baseball... period...
American "football" is ****...
it's the ******* sport imaginable...
too many interludes...
there's no fluidity! the game doesn't: FLOW...
**** ****, double ****... thrice ****... **** ****, ****...
how can you play a game
when it's only about a throw forward
and the game has to be restarted: reset
when some ****** runs off the field or drops the oval?
with all these interludes...
you could probably have about 2 cricket tea-breaks
for tea...
American sports: with the exception of basketball
& ice hockey: ***** MAJOR ***...
***** ***** MIDGIT ***...

but this kind of football is like: chess playing by itself...
i've come to appreciate good sport...
unlike the Olympics... although...
give me an hour watching some classic Greco-Turkish
wrestling & i'll tell you:
there's no need for boxing...
was boxing even remotely related to rhetoric?
was it? was it?

but sport per se is so much more fun when
you're not taking sides...
you're there for the spectacle:
i never understood these little pockets of tribalism...
how many football teams are playing
in the premier league: all from London?
7?
Chelsea, Arsenal, Crystal Palace, Watford...
West Ham... Tottenham...
Brentford! and how many are in the Championship?
Millwall... QPR... however many...
little nations within nations...
i was always from elsewhere and from elswhere
when i first came to England i supported
Manchester United... because of the moniker:
the red devils...
& because Eric Cantona was playing for them...
****** view from behind the goalposts
at the old Wembley when Manchester United
played Newcastle United at the 199- charity shield
match... ****** view at the old Wembley...

a welcome break from everything "western":
from the bellybutton crew:
from: if it happens in western europe
it: by default ought to happen everywhere else...
a break from the anglophonic claustrophobia
and sort-of solipsism...
a return to the Slavic barbarians:
imbeciles... etc. etc.
well... one man put the name of the town
on the map: a Witold Gombrowicz...
but then again... he was born into an aristocratic
family in a village shy of the "urban centre"
of this little ****-hole of a town...

thank god it's not exactly Warsaw...
or Cracow... or Danzig... it's a nowhere with
as much of everything to offer
as a "here" town...
on the map: distinguished...
a town of: ghosts & retired people...
2 weeks of splendour...
rustic scoops...
       2 weeks of this...
         rest my mind... read some Rousseau...
i don't think it would require
me to take a cruise...
give me the pines, the clouds, the night...
the scent of the graveyard...
the superstitious folk...
                 not that i'd want to feel superior:
just doubly distant from
the already narrowed-down distance
i feel when cycling through London.

ginger ale and whiskey,
isn't that much of an innovation,
but i'll have to admit,
it's not exactly ms. amber
and pepsi...

            two weeks ago i found
out that genetic heritage
finally caught up with...
    high blood pressure...
runs in the family,
  and, apparently,
once you're on high-blood
pressure tablets?
that ****'s for life...

  plus i already knew that
some form of alcohol abuse was in
the background,
if it passed my father,
   because: sure as ****, he doesn't
know how to drink,
   he can't channel it
   to any productive end,
then i inherited it from
          both my maternal
grandfather, and, my paternal
grandfather...
     drunk like cobblers...
                  and worked their *****
off to but...
    the only shame?
            i do knitting...
                          of words...
                  no hammer & sickle...
but at least not blabbering out
    confused words...

      'so living with my parents
suddenly makes me
some sort of ed gein?!'

'funny you should say that,
given that ed gein was
the prime instigator of
h'american culture...
   ******, alfred hitchhock,
  the texas chainsaw massacre,
  mudvayne,
   slayer...
rob zombie... am i missing
anyone?'

  'silence of the lambs!'

'****, i knew i forgot something...'

'well d'uh, buffalo bill's
tailoring of skins?
   all ed gein.'

mother with arthritis,
drops basic items of a kitchen,
some sort of spinal
problem, had an operation
on it,
   nerve entanglement,
walks with a walk stick,
can't exactly bend over,
   reliant on potent pain-killers...

and sometimes when
i don't take drinking "too far"
into the night,
i wake up, bright as a *******
sparrow,
  chirppy, chirp-chirp...
help her bake cookies...
and then make tomorrow's
dinner...

   cottage pie,
     she just has to put the ****
together if i don't wake up
on time...

           and i am the sick
sadistic ****?
           "once upon a time"
we entrusted our faith
in our neighbour to look
after a cat,
    they ****** off to the maldives,
i went to my grandparents,
2 weeks later,
   the cat was dead...

    in between...
   i talked to them and told them
i needed to go back home,
a senseless paranoia gripped me,
something bad was about
to happen...

             you know, the general
complaint of the asiatic people,
they don't really enjoy petting
animals...
they're more into breeding,
and in-breeding...

   got a phone-call with
dear dear mother crying into
the phone: oscar darshan
was dead...

                            great cat,
i too cried when my childhood
"sister", an alsatian shepherd
died...
                  with a cat's death?
i thought i'd do something special...

the cremation was done,
idly sitting in a box in the study...
i took out a croquet
which i found, left,
     outside someone's home
ripe for the taking...
   took the sticks and ***** off of it...
attached a belt to it,
a backpack,
   a hammer and a chisel...

and i went into a world war I
cemetery...
     started hacking at one of
the graves...
left it intact,
having managed to find
an already hacked off piece
of a tomb...

              wrapped it up in
a black bin bag...
             put it on the croquet
trolly...
wheeled it home,
   took the cremated remains
of the cat...
    took to a shovel...
   dug a hole, placed the remains
in the ground...
and then put that slab of tomb
above it...

            all... in the blissful
serenity of the night...

when you grow up,
without any attachment to siblings,
but are exposed
  to dogs, or cats...
        you... tend to do things like
this...
     sure... it doesn't speak
your language,
    but you just judge them
by the language of their eyes...

pepsi: it has caffeine in it,
doesn't it?
           i was offered coffee in
the evening,
with the cookies i helped
to bake...
   n'ah... glass of milk,
the cookie (apple and walnut...
oat based... yummy as ****)...

when a genetic heritage catches
up with you...
    ah.... nearing 33 years...
it was a fun run...
           all those nights spent
drinking whiskey & pepsi -
no, i don't think whiskey
is exactly akin from the holy grail
cup, straight, no ice...
ooosh...
                        feels great saying
that...
         n'ah... mash it up with
some ginger ale and ice,
you're good to go...

                      and the next morning,
unsure whether constipated...
i'd sit, and this is what sly
high-blood pressure does...
your teeth numb,
as does your jaw...
           you get a sense of fear
from biting down on your teeth...
and you sit, stunned from time
to time by a sensation of
swallowing your tongue!

        after all: it is ms. amber...
she ***** readied at the gulp
    like a 40 year old *******
turned ******...
            cream on the hapless died out,
puts on a ******
using her mouth...
               and i'm done "worrying"
about *** and the incel culture
for... give or take:
                a year, 2 years...
                 3?
    thing is... why would i be bothered...
if i passed the test of:
reading a book "with one hand"?
marquis de sade...
   uninhibited language...
rambling, but fathomable...

          a somewhat "over-flowing"
*******, a slightly "over-flowing"
me... but at least not done
under the covers, with the lights
turned off...
     it was always funny to me...
how she would take my money,
go off to the madam,
   i'd get undressed,
take a shower,
she'd come back,
   and then i'd watch her undress...

shame?
   n'ah...
             cheating?
what, the current political narrative?
hell yeah, who wouldn't?
     but i hardly think
that a strip-club would do that much,
at least the one i went to
in athens,
   the strippers wanted to be
touched...
                   or maybe...
i'm just that sort of a satyr...
                   ugly like a socrates...
   but eager as a n00b or a hilly-billy.

They see me wearing skirts and stilettos
living my life in falsetto
which they claim a false meadow
and all call out hell no.

They call me godless
when I crossdress
in this frost mess
of lost guests.

They call me a queen
just to be mean
I am what they deem
what they instantly gleam.

Some don’t like what’s different
so the townspeople pick up their pitchforks
they want to diminish my imprint
I guess that’s what they call me a ***** for.

They despise the flamboyant game
coming from my derelict frame
they ask if I feel no shame
I ask them the same.

Every time I’m on the verge
of a dirge
they swerve
from my verve.

While I walk on the air
they watch and they stare
envy ensnared
jealousy scared.

I see myself as ethereal
and try to be pure
they see a disease venereal
in need of a cure.

They say men mustn’t be feminine
even if it is genuine
and there’s a place they’ll send you in
to die with the men who sin.

They order me to mask my grin
and act masculine
but I never asked to win
so I bask in sin.

I search for connection
turning in the direction
of those interested in my *******
not my introspection.

They’re so ******
they’re so catty
they’re just wishing
for a daddy.

The lo-fi
don’t know why
I go cry
and don’t pry.

Excruciating wonders
tear me asunder
until all of my plunder
is a magnanimous blunder.

My throat gets a mite coarse
from the blight force
of their high horse
on my white porch.

My tonsil gets scratchy sore
once they freeze my core
and I sing no more
exiting the door.

I can’t speak
let alone sing
my body is weak
and so are my wings.

They want me in their baritone
narrow home
where sparrows go
to carol no.

I see the slinking bass
ruining this stinking place
engendering a sinking face
whenever I get a thinking taste.

There’s a sharp staccato
in the places I will not go
where the race of evil taught notes
lower than my shipwrecked boat.

I go underwater like the Maldives
silently we all scream
living in our small dreams
rooting for our ball teams.

Once they see I’ve drowned
they hand me back my crown
and tell me not to look so down
after I’ve been gagged and bound.

I respond to their monotony
noddingly
plotting the
same odyssey.

I adopt the stature
of Margaret Thatcher
I’m the student’s master
like a brimstone pastor.

Now I sing as low as I can go
and my flow is extra slow
because I could never grow
living my life in falsetto.