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when he looks at a woman he searches for qualities that attract him because he wants to desire her yet this tendency creates an imbalance or disadvantage he is rendered weak to a woman’s beauty or whatever traits he idealizes self-realizing this propensity he looks away from women years of disappointment neglect change him he becomes afraid of women gynophobic

2

when she looks at a man she searches for qualities she is critical of because she wants to be impervious to his power she is suspicious of all men their upper body strength penchant to be in control misperception of women as property misogyny emotional immaturity neediness to be mommyed selfishness insensitivity or over-sensitivity depending she wants to be treated with equal respect a loving nurturing relationship she is suspicious of all people their alternate realities passive aggressive behavior co-dependence craziness

3

he sees her then looks away she suspiciously notices nothing happens they go back to their separate homes alone always home alone grown calm in resignation yet disbelieving of this destiny saddened by this fate both worry about future she looks at her face naked body in mirror her stomach churns feels sad sickening remembers time when she was more carefree he puts one foot in front of other then walks tries to remember who taught him to walk how many times did he fall who taught him to laugh where did his sense of humor go

4

he sees her thinks she is lovely resists the urge to turn away he smiles says hello she notices nervously smiles her shaky voice articulates louder than a whisper hi

Tucson 2-step

they are standing in line at a café on 4th avenue he is directly behind her she is lanky wearing white background faded colors patterned summer dress thin straps over bare shoulders long brown hair few gray strands small unfinished tattoo on left calf leather slip-ons 1 inch heals he is at a complete loss for words thinks to make remark about the weather decides not to overhead fan stirs hot humid July air barista girl asks what she would like her eyes scan blackboard menu behind counter she hesitates remarks help him i need an extra moment to decide he steps up to counter money in hand orders small to go Arnold Palmer half black current lays $3 on counter mentions change goes in tip jar thank you barista girl moves fast he lifts cup from counter glances at woman still deciding then at barista girl says have a wonderful day turns walks out door dawns on him woman grows hair under her arms his 2nd most compelling female physique adornment fetish oh god he thinks to himself should i wait for her to make up her mind then approach try to craft conversation at least find out her name no i’m too weak in this moment she is so lovely let her go

2

she orders double Americana in small cup to go room for soy milk thinks to herself he did greet her perhaps their paths will cross on street why did he run off so fast she glances toward front of café notices window seat changes her mind instructs barista ******* 2nd thought make it for here digs through purse realizes she left wallet in truck explains to barista girl she needs to run out to her vehicle to retrieve wallet forgotten under front seat the air on the street is heavy dense she smells her own perspiration looks north then south does not see him walks to truck feels exhausted appetiteless almost nauseous wishes she did not order a drink thinks to get behind wheel drive home go to sleep

Tucson 3-step tango

she feels disappointment by her recent writings as if she is reaching a more sophisticated audience and setting a higher standard for her work yet she is not living up to her ambitions her recent writings smell of her past writings too emotional the damaged woman wounded child she wants to write more introspectively with detached humor that only comes from keener intelligence she slams her laptop shut decides to go to Club Congress for a ****** mary or margarita but Club Congress is haunted with small town cretins losers wannabes she considers Maynard’s decides Maynard’s is too safe suburban yuppyish finally gives in to thought of glass of pinot noir at Plush next comes what to wear jeans in mid-July desert heat is unacceptable perhaps loose fitting thin cotton white summer dress thin leather belt ankle high indian moccasins hair in ponytail no pigtail braids no ponytail no makeup maybe little ylang ylang oil no she thinks about her recent writings

2

i am one breath away from crying in every moment one breath away from flying m.i.a. in every moment one breath away from destroying everything there is beauty in ugliness beauty in decrepitude disease beauty in harm hurt suffering beauty in greed injustice betrayal beauty in corruption contamination pollution beauty in hate cruelty ignorance beauty in death we spend our whole lives searching for a good death we spend our whole lives searching for eternal love this modern world is too much for me over my head the horrors of this place are beyond words unspeakable voice inside maybe mom yells quit your whining or dad hollers stop complaining i am trying to smile through tears one breath away from giving in one breath away from becoming stranger to myself winter spring winter spring there is beauty in nothingness we spend our whole lives searching for ourselves learning who we are not finding grasping secrets from dark paths light trails winter spring winter spring i am one breath away

3

she sits alone at bar at Plush glass of pinot noir glass of ice water in front of her 2 bearded older men eye her from other end of bar she ignores them glances at her wristwatch tries to look like she is waiting for someone music from speakers antiquated rock standard it is early friday hours from dusk moderate middle aged crowd mingle wait for local jazz trio to begin she thinks about her recent writings wonders is it too late for love considers lesbian affair from 5 different perspectives 5 woman’s voices each describing same lesbian affair in 5 opposing accounts hmmm she sips dark red wine from glass chases it with ice water she considers a story about a gang of female bikers who ride south to Mexico

4

the Americans came through here last night crossing border illegally climbing over our fences digging tunnels beneath our barrier walls littering along their trail they travel in packs of every skin color carry guns knives explosives wear leather boots some are shirtless tattoos dyed hair mischievously smiling conceitedly stealing when in question murdering they rob our homes slaughter our chickens ransack gardens loot our harvest you can still smell the stink of their fast food breaths

5

she swallows the last dark red wine from glass chases it with ice water local jazz trio begins to play as bar fills with more people she decides to walk home one foot in front of other wonders who taught her how to walk how many times did she fall she laughs to herself

Tucson square dance

TPD 10-18 unconfirmed data report

7 post-University of Arizona female graduates go to Cactus Moon for several drinks and dancing then drive to Bashful Bandit for more drinks and dancing 2 women get into scuffle victim Brittany Garner female 23 years of age race #5 (Native American, Eskimo, Middle -Eastern, Other) 5’ 2” long black hair cut-off blue jean shorts clingy light blue top falls hits head on side of bar dies of fatal blow to skull forensics report crushed occipital lobe assailant Stacy Won female 31 years of age race #4 (Asian) 5’6” black jeans black leather jacket red helmet Honda motorcycle still at large

witness accounts

Jess Delaney female 33 years of age race #2 (White) 6’ tight black pencil skirt white sleeveless undershirt no bra 3” heels blond ponytail “that squirting little **** deserves everything she got she lied told Stacy i’m a ***** i never cheated on Brittany i don’t understand we were all having a good time getting buzzed and dancing we should never have left Cactus Moon **** Kerrie thought some biker dude might be hanging around the Bandit hell maybe the Bandit was a biker bar once but now it’s just a college sink hole full of drunken frat boys when Monique flashed a little *** they went crazy cheering and buying us shots it just got out of hand never should have happened the way it happened Stacy didn’t mean to **** Brittany it’s ****** up i want to go home please let me go home”

Sabrina Starn female 29 years of age race #2 (White) 5’8” trendy corporate gray suit black pumps red shoulder length hair “i have to be at work at 8 AM Stacy was drunk out of control she gets crazy when she drinks Brittany was trash talking pushing all Stacy’s buttons then Stacy accused Brittany of sleeping with Monique and all hell broke loose i didn’t see what happened i was in the powder room it’s a terrible tragedy unfortunate accident can i please be released i need to sleep this is madness”

Kerrie Angeles female 27 years of age race #1 (Hispanic) 5’ 6” black pants white shirt black hair cut stylishly short silver crucifix around neck red fingernails “when we got to the Bashful Bandit i was ***** soaking between my legs thinking about a cowgirl at Cactus Moon ready to **** anyone i saw fantasized pulling a train with those frat boys Monique had been kind of quiet at Cactus Moon but when we got to the Bashful Bandit she lit up dancing wild unbuttoning her top jacket Sabrina went to the ladies room to snort coke with biker dude Kerrie wanted but he wasn’t into her then Brittany started saying crazy stuff accusing Stacy of stealing Monique from Jess Jessie goes through women heartlessly she doesn’t give a **** about Monique Jessie knows if she wants Monique back she can simply fiddle a finger my guess is Stacy is half way to Argentina she never meant to **** Brittany i’m going to miss her real bad she was a good kid”

Ann Skyler female 28 years of age race  #2 (White) 4’ 11’’ green white red Mexican peasant skirt black t-shirt black high-tops hair in messy bun “i’m confused i saw them dancing laughing grinding up against each other Rage Against the Machine came on then Nine Inch Nails the room felt quaking dizzy claustrophobic then they were pushing each other shoving yelling frat boys cheering the next thing i knew Brittany was supine on the floor blood pouring out maybe she just slipped hit her head i don’t know what to think i feel real sad confused sick to my stomach scared”

Monique Smithson female 24 years of age race # 3 (Black) 5’ 9” blue jeans jean jacket cowboy boots nose ring braided pigtails “Stacy had it in for Brittany from the start i saw it in her eyes at Cactus Moon she made several clever toxic remarks they snapped at each other i never thought it would escalate to ****** poor sweet Brittany was always so susceptible i was looking down adjusting my jeans over my boots when it happened i heard felt a big thump glanced up Brittany was lying there lifeless blood spilling everywhere Stacy ran out fast i heard her bike engine take off in a hurry”

Rodeo Drive Tucson

matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gasoline mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves

Quinta Waltz de Tucson

she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts she dreams aches to create deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration instead she writes paperback television trash stupid inadequate answers to solemn questions she wonders if she is too scratched dented to find love her ******* are definitely changing she is deeply disturbed not ready for menopause too young for menopause she wants to remain a fertile woman with smooth skin wet ******

2

her neighbor Leslie awoke to horrible morning Leslie’s 6 chickens were assaulted overnight precious Mabel dragged off feathers everywhere trail down the street other hens cowering slumped together with wilted necks 3 of them with puncture wounds Leslie carried them one by one inside washed their wounds hugged them cried who did this terrible act a neglected abusive neighborhood cat or some desert predator why didn’t Leslie wake to sounds of savage marauding now this creature knows hen’s whereabouts when will it return for more massacre what modifications need to be enforced to ensure their coup before nightfall

3

she wants to remain a hen keep producing eggs does not want is not ready to enter the next **** stage of this **** existence it was fun being pretty for men inspiring them to say do whacky things she wants to remain a hen she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary attempts “Tucson square dance” (self-referential) ****** bit about Americans came through here last night in “Tucson 3-step” ****** "Rodeo Drive" tepid perhaps the pinot noir lowered her standards everything is becoming nothing she cannot sleep tosses turns thrashes sheets in humid heat of her lonesome bed is she is too scratched dented to find love she worries for Leslie

4

tomorrow is another day they say the rain will come last year’s monsoon never came the baking sun smothered her garden died one by one sleepless she will miss tomorrow’s pilates class the infrequent delightful chatty breakfast afterwards she dreams aches of deeper discourse higher insight with detached humor that only comes from keener intelligence more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration she crossed the line tonight her ******* are definitely changing

Tucson 666

he decides to shave eighth to quarter inch length salt and pepper beard a.k.a. unshaven look he has worn for years and grow full mustache the whiskers on his upper lip are darker with sparse gray at first no one notices after weeks the mustache gradually fills evoking many contrasting remarks several women loath it several men admire it girl at grocery store suggests he grow Fu Manchu so she can tug on it shopgirl says he looks like Charlie Chaplin downstairs neighbor from Turkey explains most Turkish men traditionally wear mustaches he read mustaches masculinize and empower men especially men in authoritative positions he thinks back to the 1960’s when many hippie males grew mustaches then in the 70’s gay men fashioned mustaches then in the 80’s cops adopted mustaches he wonders why a swatch of hair beneath nose is so provoking examines his visage in mirror discerns the mustache confers a Pepé le Pew quality or European accent to his appearance he remembers when he was young hippie with many amorous episodes how his mustache preserved the scent of a woman but there are no women in his life for many years do post-menopausal women possess scent? he feels indecisive whether to retain it or be rid of it

2

she observes her figure in mirror thinks to herself maybe her ******* are not changing perhaps it’s all in her head she inspects the little lines forming near her eyelids studies her features for signs of aging hardly any silver strands in long brown hair she examines neck ******* arms elbows fingers tummy hips pelvic region thighs knees shins calves ankles feet detects subtle changes thinks to herself my ******* are possibly slightly changing turned 40 in March married briefly in late teens no children a 15 year old dog beginning to suffer veterinarian promises to warn her when the time comes she wonders why it is so difficult finding fitting mate men sleep with her several times then move on maybe she is not such a great lover perhaps she would be better if one of them stuck around perhaps she is a lesbian the whole ide
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
precursor - title correlation
body -

mind of:

C                oh

    oh                      Ri

n'ah.   (half an hour fiddling with a 502 bad
gateway; traffic these days! jeez!)

I.

it don't know what's more frustrating for the reasons that it's so good... i can't choose... it's a close call... either listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides from By The Way... ugh! why didn't they release that as a double album! Stadium Arcadium was not that good as a double-album... all the prior albums are MAGIC... literally... for ****'s sake: GOLDMINE is literally just that... there's that... i can't concentrate on making my own translation of Ovid... i'm yet to scribble down the translation i have... i can't even drink my whiskey properly... the other frustrating focus? watching Armand Duplantis break his own world record of 6.21metres... the ****** has still at least 10cm in him! a record that will have to stand-still for the next 20+ years... i'll be dead before this record is broken... Сергій Бубка best be sleeping... i'm listening to the music, reliving the end of the World Athletics and trying to heel-myself-in-the-buttocks: better get a move on boy... hmm! "trying"... i'm actually heeling myself in the buttocks: no time to wait... one can wait for a bus... one cannot for one's own incentive... ol' Lizzy is coming up the mountain... she's coming with the proper closure of the 20th century... however many popes she outlived... however many prime ministers and american presidents... come on Lizzie... just one more year... i'm actually dying to spend money with whittle Charlie printed on the notes... my fingers are itching... but **** me... music so good By The Way should have been a double-album... no! Stadium Arcadium was not the salvagable double-album worth session... i'm getting "schizophrenic" vibes... i know that poetry is not an entertaining medium: it's a complacent self-congratulatory, thereupeutic load of *******... it's obnixious when staged: the exasperated art of speaking with speed... today i realised that i much prefer drinking to having ***... i like the preservation of my brain with a hard-on of itchy fingers than any actual ******* hard-ons... the knife opening oysters or plucking out the eyes of deer... best the eyes be gauged out... than having deer stare into car lights... hybrid confusions of static, motivated to move... frozen in a make-shift imitation of root and clay and copper: bam! one more statue down...

II.

it's no wonder why i'm not looking for a girlfriend, it's no longer bewildering why i'm not looking for a wife, at best i'm looking out for that ancient custom of Roman emperors: to become a foster father, a surrogate - i'm yet to find a match-up... i almost did, but she undermined my chances by undermining her own seriousness in such affairs... but clarity does come... as much as i might be a surrogate father to her son or daughter: i wouldn't be faithful to her... i would steal the night and run away into a brothel... but there's something else... the whole dynamic of publishing has changed... the whole idea of a library has also changed... i own more valuable books in my private collection than the public library of Romford... which is me peering at the dire straits of what the public is fed... i know why i don't aspire for pair-bonding... perhaps man so levelled aspired toward the imitation of birds a long time ago... perhaps swans are truly noble creatures: for one hears of widow and widower swans... perhaps parrots: born from those monstrous beasts that were the dinosaurs can imitate our talk... all that's this reality within the confines of "perhaps": nonetheless, it's all true... but perhaps being the mammal that i am... i moved from a community of chimpanzees into a solo-ride of imitation-bear... perhaps i only entertain the opposite *** on the encounter of ***... i couldn't land a conversation with a woman outside the constrictive-framework of work, so much so: i would abhor the mindset of men that go on dates with women: buy them food and then EXPECT... i leave that ******* out in my interactions... pay-up-front for what you're about to receive otherwise don't play cat while the woman plays mouse... or rather... a rat in cat's clothing: the woman therefore becoming a rat-trap... mind you: i can't think of a more terrible idea than the modern version of: eat first, **** later... at the old ****** proverb states: a hungry ****** is angry... a filled ****** is lazy... god forbid i ever become tempted by those dating sites... i'm currently looking for the original Latin text of Ovid's the Amores book 2 poem 6... why? what i have in my hand... and what i'm finding... it's like what Robert Pinsky remarked about once: TRANSLATIONS differ so much from one translator to another...

they have done it... UEFA are mad... just to get my
accreditation for the women's Euros final
at Wembley they're asking me to bring my passport
with me... so is Wembley the JFK of Florida
          space-shuttle launch? Houston? am i leaving
the country?
                but the girls have done it...
funny: some other people are still complaining:
IT'S TOO WHITE!
   there's not enough diversity in the team...
          that's me also planning to go and live
in Kenya and become a model for toilet paper...
i'm sure i could replace that known Koala bear /
golden retriever or perhaps i could go there
and model for soap adverts...
it just so happened that racial tensions (only football
could create them) rose up for a little:
just one night the day England lost to Italy
on penalty shootouts... because... 3 black guys
were playing a rigged roulette...
            then again? me? and the African heat?
fat chance...

find me the original Elegy VI: the death of Corinna's
pet parrot...
oh man... and her name was Polly...
i sat up late last night trying to find something
interest on the television...
bam! thank you ma'am...
                       kurt cobain: montage of heck...
sort of reminded me of...
                           a SCANNER DARKLY...
                           mind you: i sometimes do enjoy
a one-man show... or at least two...
there was this brilliant show in the West End...
Stones in his Pockets...
       two actors... sharing the roles of...
                  about 15 people each...
but it was back in circa 2001...
so... maybe it was Louis Dempsey
                                                        & Sean Sloan...
mind you... i'd still love to see Samuel Beckett's
             NOT I...

Jack Trades says: i'm about to a heap
of hay of hate...
                                i'm everywhere sometimes...
if it's not music, then its visual arts,
then it's philosophy, then fine literature...
then something "oriental" in thinking...
then its coupling my fetish for Deutsche as:
father to the English zunge...
then it's back east to rummage in some Katakana...

i know why i'm single, Roger Moore remained
a bachelor until his death...
  courteous: as ever as forever always...
i'd be a terrible match-up... i've given pair-bonding
a chance: i can't bemoan why X is not Y...
the sort of men that pair-bond are claustrophilic...
they love the company of a mate...
each time i was ever in a "relationship" i already
had one foot dangling: tapping an imaginary
drum set...
recently i discovered the B-side of the Red Hot Chilli
Peppers... so for me it's a version
of keeping the 20th century alive with
the "dichotomy" of the Rolling Stones vs.
the Beatles... i'm more... R.H.C.P.'s A-sides
of R.H.C.P.'s B-sides?
                                        i'm busy...
                i'm always busy... i don't want to relax...
i want a Turkish barber to suggest that
i need  hot-towel and an arm massage after
my beard is trimmed and... i'm still going to state:
getting a Turk to trim my beard is a close
contender to oral *** from a Turkish *******...

but try finding me that original Latin of Ovid's...
ah! found it! let's see if i can compete with
my own translation... the one i originally read
and the one i found finding the original Latin
were so disparaging...

**** yes! well... there was Ted Hughes writing
about the Crow... poor ******...
should have killed himself: might have competed
with his terribly-wonderful wife of a poet...
i give her that: what noose?
best head in an oven...
and you want a shovel with that?
but this is Ovid... "complaining" about
the death of his lover's parrot...
immediately i jumped to conclusions:
not enough crackers...

(A) the Original:

Psittacus, Eois imitatrix ales ab Indis,
    occidit—exequias ite frequenter, aves!
ite, piae volucres, et plangite pectora pinnis
    et rigido teneras ungue notate genas;
horrida pro maestis lanietur pluma capillis,
    pro longa resonent carmina vestra tuba!
quod scelus Ismarii quereris, Philomela, tyranni,
    expleta est annis ista querela suis;
alitis in rarae miserum devertere funus—
    magna, sed antiqua est causa doloris Itys.
Omnes, quae liquido libratis in aere cursus,
    tu tamen ante alios, turtur amice, dole!
plena fuit vobis omni concordia vita,
    et stetit ad finem longa tenaxque fides.
quod fuit Argolico iuvenis Phoceus Orestae,
    hoc tibi, dum licuit, psittace, turtur erat.
Quid tamen ista fides, quid rari forma coloris,
    quid vox mutandis ingeniosa sonis,
quid iuvat, ut datus es, nostrae placuisse puellae?—
    infelix, avium gloria, nempe iaces!
tu poteras fragiles pinnis hebetare zmaragdos
    tincta gerens rubro Punica rostra croco.
non fuit in terris vocum simulantior ales—
    reddebas blaeso tam bene verba sono!
Raptus es invidia—non tu fera bella movebas;
    garrulus et placidae pacis amator eras.
ecce, coturnices inter sua proelia vivunt;
    forsitan et fiunt inde frequenter ****.
plenus eras minimo, nec prae sermonis amore
    in multos poteras ora vacare cibos.
nux erat esca tibi, causaeque papavera somni,
    pellebatque sitim simplicis umor aquae.
vivit edax vultur ducensque per aera gyros
    miluus et pluviae graculus auctor aquae;
vivit et armiferae cornix invisa Minervae—
    illa quidem saeclis vix moritura novem;
occidit illa loquax humanae vocis imago,
    psittacus, extremo munus ab orbe datum!
optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris;
    inplentur numeris deteriora suis.
tristia Phylacidae Thersites funera vidit,
    iamque cinis vivis fratribus Hector erat.
Quid referam timidae pro te pia vota puellae—
    vota procelloso per mare rapta Noto?
septima lux venit non exhibitura sequentem,
    et stabat vacuo iam tibi Parca colo.
nec tamen ignavo stupuerunt verba palato;
    clamavit moriens lingua: 'Corinna, vale!'
Colle sub Elysio nigra nemus ilice frondet,
    udaque perpetuo gramine terra viret.
siqua fides dubiis, volucrum locus ille piarum
    dicitur, obscenae quo prohibentur aves.
illic innocui late pascuntur olores
    et vivax phoenix, unica semper avis;
explicat ipsa suas ales Iunonia pinnas,
    oscula dat cupido blanda columba mari.
psittacus has inter nemorali sede receptus
    convertit volucres in sua verba pias.
Ossa tegit tumulus—tumulus pro corpore magnus—
    quo lapis exiguus par sibi carmen habet:
"colligor ex ipso dominae placuisse sepulcro;
    ora fuere mihi plus ave docta loqui".

mein gott... in English it reads so smoothly reading
it while listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
B-sides... quixoticelixer...
teatra jam (short)... and then thinking about it...
through to and through Going Li coupled
with trouble in the pub (instrumental version)...

i will never own a car...
              mind you: i already secretely own a house...
if i keep appeasing my mother and my father:
when reality kicks in and they're dead and i'm
project solo... it's not like i'm waiting for the day...
they are hoarders of shoes and screws...
literally... no metaphor...
  on my own: i will have to recycle so much ****
before i will put the house on the market...
and? i never pledged any allegiance to Essex...
England... i have: pledged an allegiance
to the English tongue...
                 but if not the Shetland Islands...
north... "god" send me north! even as far as
Greenland!
                i'm not willing to die in a place where
villages are flaring up in a July heat...

i can't bemoan what i honestly couldn't keep...
i sometimes get mad at my father for being
so submissive to my mother...
i sometimes get so mad at my mother for only
being able to talk about her chronic pains:
i'm alligned with my grandmother
who once said: she's just like your paternal
great-grandmother... every itch and scratch...
it's like writing with chalk on a blackboard...
hey presto! ruptures of the Grand Canyon...
that ******* bollocking of: ooh! ah!
           me? i don't understand people with tattoos...
me? i collect scars...
these two fading ones on my face are a disappointment...
i thought something more pronounced
could be kept from that bicycle-crach Francis Bacon
esque imitation of painting:
   the sort of painting where you can still revel
in brush-strokes being visible...
   because it's not rigid: Renaissance form painting...

now: i can sort of imagine what men couple up...
those who fear being alone...
those not interested in art...
those mostly interested in sport... but not all sport...
just some sports...
sports that they support "passing their lineage"
with according to the cult of football teams...
not all-sports... i.e. not an interest in fencing...
swimming... certainly guys who thought:
wow! tennis is great to watch!
   but squash is so much more fun to play!
cycling... well... if you love cycling per se:
watching other people cycle is a bit: BOO-RING...
what sort of other men get married?
probably those not interested in risque ***
with prostitutes...
ones interested in making money for a woman
to spend...
me? i'm not interested in money...
                       in terms of money:
i'm more likely to spend £30 on a book than
think about a dinner date...
                      
is that...   ??? i'm not even going to ask myself
that question that begins with a buzz-word
and the letters Mmmm... miso...
                             well... what is a boy to do...
figure out what to do with his spare time...
               i don't mind cleaning the house:
who ever said that it's the duty of a woman to keep
the house clean? i like living in a household in order...
i love cooking: it's like chemistry 2.0...
                      give me a bag of Indian spices and i'll
cook up a perfect storm of a curry...
but then again: i'm not work-shy when it comes
to using heavy-duty tools akin to the KANGO...
which... i later found out was a Japanese word for
Chinese in general... or the other way round...
i'd hate to be one of those Phil Collins types of
forgetting how many hands i have
by changing gloves like i might be an octopus...

and when it comes to children?
eh... it's enough for a boy in a buggy in a supermarket
pointing his finger at me as i walk past
making that chimpanzee face of OOH at me...
or a fist-bump with some teenagers at the London
Stadium... that's enough... i'm happy to play
the "secret uncle" role...
while women remain women: as fickle as the wind...
i've learned to live with that reality...
i scratch my beard and pretend that i'm playing
a violin...

plus, i'm a terrible drinker... i'm a loving-drunk...
i'm drunk right now...
if a litre of whiskey per night satisfies
my libido shortages i'm happy:
it implies i can write... i stop drinking and start
*******: alles goot...
                           today i was visited by a wasp...
i was visited by a bee before...
oh man... it was heart-breaking...
he was dying... i had to help him...
   i poured some honey onto the pave-,
and moved him towards the puddle...
he stuck his mighty Gene Simmons sucker out
and started to perform an OD on sugar...
i was glad... watching him die from a sugar-overdose...
it was: rather pleasant to watch...

TERROR! mix JAINISM with TAOISM
and fuse that in an European mind...
               but i'll still eat meat...
                        it's a parody of what's to be expected:
i prefer life with the possibilities of change...
with... curiosities of: extensive ulterior
possibilities that run counter to estblished norms
of expectations of a RIGID MIND...
i water: i flow...
      i fire: i dance...
i air: i whirl...
i earth: i rumble...
i lightning: i blink...
hey presto! the five elements!

in another language close to my heart:
since i was born with it...
the pronoun disappears:
ja woda: płyne
ja ogien: tańcze...
   ja powietrze: kręce się (odd)
ja ziemia: trzęse się (also "odd")
ja grzmot: mrygam

there are languages in existence where pronouns
hide... to be honest...
in ******? the pronouns are rarely used...
oh mein gott... when they're used in a sentence:
esp. the I... it's like... wow! i just found
a "nugget of gold"!
seriously... that how my mother-tongue
is structured: on English is the current
prounoun-circus available to watch...
i'm siding with the Somali pirates having
a giggle... playing blackjack with either Greeks
or some other Africans...

there are languages in English that cannot: will not,
succumb to the current Marxist onslight
happening in this tongue...
not because these languages will not:
they CANNOT...
mind you... it's such an intellectual low-bar
of achievement... but since it's piggy-pop...
it must be slaughtered on an individual level
before this DISEASE is allowed to spread...
thank heavens that English is only my second
language... how that allows me to bypass
buying into any sort of propaganda...
   my lingua Ingelese... my tongue for spreading
ideas...
    oh: and thank **** i' expressing in a medium
desecrated by the same people pushing these
sordid ideas... post-humous fame! 'ere i come!
obviously! who's in it for the "real" and immediate
if one isn't... fabricating a pickling of a shark
in plastic.... who? who?! woof!
   a-woooooo"

            my heart has shrunk and hardened to
the size and hardness of a pebble...
    i wish i could entertain cosy nights with a woman
watching some pointless movie about
the stereotypes of love... then again: no...
i'd rather not...
drinking alone: who the hell said i was alone?
i sometimes "hallucinate" someone crying:
of late... i'm like: this isn't Aud Lang Syne...
this isn't Shakespear...
then again i love the idea that my true readers
are yet to be born...
i'm happy, happy-bear-alone...
                       a Maine **** is sleeping in my
bed... i'll join him come the right hour...
but he's not looking at me... he's looking above me...
only yesterday i started to paparazzi
a wasp that flew into my bedroom...
          what the **** do i have above me?
please say letters... i will not do alright with a halo...
i'm not going to join that
archangel one minute... saint the next...
clip my ******* wings for a get-through-easy
card: no!
          
it became finalized today... i'm literally tired
of ***... i'm tired of *** when it's equivalent to not...
being tired of eating food... drinking water...
it's unnecessarily-necessary... *** as golf...
per say...
                2 months of delay in payment...
i'm thinking about rekindling my affair with that mountain
bike... i have to forget the streets...
i need the woods again... but for that i need new tires...
oh... hell... i no longer have anything
to prove in the brothel... blah blah whatever...
threesomes look great: LOOk...
like a block of cheddar looks great...
when shredded...
and then melting...
perhaps in pornographic flicks...
but in reality? the changing of condoms
from one mouth to another...
from one ****** to another...
                          
what?! peiple are having unprotected ***?
vermin ****?!
   **** me... well... at least i'm obnoxiously savvy
in that regard...
no no... it's too disappointing...
you have to split your attention up...
there's nothing good about a *******...
why? because, usually... of the two girls...
there's one you really want to be a screwdriver to...
while the other is just being a, *******...
a ******* bandwagon... leftovers...
a pair of **** you get to imitate ****** with...
it's a bit like:
coupling an elephant with a giraffe...
but i want to ride the elephant!
but i want to stroke the giraffe's neck!
but  i want to pretend the elephants's tusk...
no! not tusk! TRUNK....
that rectangular bit of ******* you shovel
your clothes in when travelling...
TRUNK... or a TRAMPOLINE!
no... not the bouncy layer...
TRUNK... sneeze! trambone! jazz! ******* Miles Daisies!
Davis!  trumpet *******!
no... don't get me started on the sax...

then again: i want a rhino's horn! ram-jam...
Black Betty Bam B'eh Lam!

- oh no... i moved along... R.H.C.P.'s: thanks for the t-shirt...
Big Bukowski style:
i hate the eagles... run through the jungle...
run Forrest! whun!
WHUN!
  and that's me... hardly a LAMNTIA of the Beatniks
tripping... me? enough whiskey
and the right song... and i'm grooving beside
an imaginary drum-kit...
in that: once upon a time...
when men grew their hair long...
they were the barbarians knocking
on the gates of Rome... rather than being
the implosion of Rome within with
all of Rome's degeneracy of transgender gimmicks...

mind you: i've given it some thought...
i broke it down toward the following schematic:

anonymous audience, commenting,
video making blah blah...
****** "schematic": if you can call it that...
mind you: the VAR in WIETNAM
had the best soundtrack...
just saying: hey! her?! hey! don't shoot
the messanger!
i'd rather work the Fulham opening night
with the new stand: Thames-side being opened
than attend Wembley for a Westwood...
Westworld... Westlife concert,
i'm all up for handling those Scousers:
northern monkeys?
southern fairies...
let's just call them for what they are...
northern TOURISTS...

but the dynamic of publishing has changed:
i already know the criterium first...
women and children first...
THIRST beccause water matters...
i'm thirsty too... one litre of whiskey and
i'm still typing like a machine...
i'll box my liver and kidneys
as long as i keep my brain and eyes happy...

but it's just a different dynamic...
the internet experience...
i know a lot of people miss it...
i can't force people to read my bollocking-riddles...
ergo? i don't stagnate into celebrating it
or therefore advertising it...
i'm either read or i'm STAUB...
   dust...
                
i can't! i'm only making something available...
i can't force people out of their democratic "wedlock"...
you like it? great! you don't? great!
but the psychology of those video creators that
mind how many views they receive and
how many comments they: likewise receive...
"false hits" with the number of hits of viewership?

me? i'm not bothered... i've been watching
the female Euro finals...
i was almost scared... what if the female England team
don't make it to the finals?!
me? i'm gearing up...
any rowdy hooligans up to speed?!
as much as i hate women not trying toi compete
in sports that are sexually-exclusive...
there's this... THIS... i watch the games because
the Colleseum is burning...
i'm only watching the fire...
    and i'm watching the women i'd love to ****...
this never would have happened if watching
tennis...

    the crisp biting attache of a sharpshooter
WONG sort of mixer-mix-up with a whiskey
and a pepssi...
me... reaching for a second glass
with one already filled like: *******... RAINMAN...

keep your horses!
i'm gearing up to a translation!
wait, the, ****, up! keep it cool in Doob-Lyn!
oh no... you don't get to tell me
i use too many vowels without me showing
you... you mishandled the vowel-to-consonant
dynamic... Doob-Lyn is Dublin: tow me...
no: not to me? tow me... now you're dragging me
along the snail-trail...

the disparaging translations:

(B) the A. S. Kline translation

Parrot, the mimic, the winged one from India’s Orient,
is dead – Go, birds, in a flock and follow him to the grave!
Go, pious feathered ones, beat your ******* with your wings
and mark your delicate cheeks with hard talons:
tear out your shaggy plumage, instead of hair, n mourning:
sound out your songs with long piping!
Philomela , mourning the crime of the Thracian tyrant,
the years of your mourning are complete:
divert your lament to the death of a rare bird –
Itys is a great but ancient reason for grief.
All who balance in flight in the flowing air,
and you, above others, his friend the turtle-dove, grieve!
All your lives you were in perfect concord,
and held firm in your faithfulness to the end.
What the youth from Phocis was to Orestes of Argos,
while she could be, Parrot, turtle-dove was to you.
What worth now your loyalty, your rare form and colour,
the clever way you altered the sound of your voice,
what joy in the pleasure given you by our mistress? –
Unhappy one, glory of birds, you’re certainly dead!
You could dim emeralds matched to your fragile feathers,
wearing a beak dyed scarlet spotted with saffron.
No bird on earth could better copy a voice –
or reply so well with words in a lisping tone!
You were snatched by Envy – you who never made war:
you were garrulous and a lover of gentle peace.
Behold, quails live fighting amongst themselves:
perhaps that’s why they frequently reach old age.
Your food was little, compared with your love of talking
you could never free your beak much for eating.
Nuts were his diet, and poppy-seed made him sleep,
and he drove away thirst with simple draughts of water.
Gluttonous vultures may live and kites, tracing spirals
in air, and jackdaws, informants of rain to come:
and the raven detested by armed Minerva lives too –
he whose strength can last out nine generations:
but that loquacious mimic of the human voice,
Parrot, the gift from the end of the earth, is dead
The best are always taken first by greedy hands:
the worse make up a full span of years.
Thersites saw Protesilaus’s sad funeral,
and Hector was ashes while his brothers lived.
Why recall the pious prayers of my frightened girl for you –
prayers that a stormy south wind blew out to sea?
The seventh dawn came with nothing there beyond,
and Fate held an empty spool of thread for you.
Yet still the words from his listless beak astonished:
dying his tongue cried: ‘Corinna, farewell!’
A grove of dark holm oaks leafs beneath an Elysian *****,
the damp earth green with everlasting grass.
If you can believe it, they say there’s a place there
for pious birds, from which ominous ones are barred.
There innocuous swans browse far and wide
and the phoenix lives there, unique immortal bird:
There Juno’s peacock displays his tail-feathers,
and the dove lovingly bills and coos.
Parrot gaining a place among those trees
translates the pious birds in his own words.
A tumulus holds his bones – a tumulus fitting his size –
whose little stone carries lines appropriate for him:
‘His grave holds one who pleased his mistress:
his speech to me was cleverer than other birds’.

(C) the  P. Green translation

parrot, that feathered mimic from India's dawlands,
is dead. come flocking, birds, to his funeral:
come, all you godfearing airborne creatures,
beat ******* with wings,
   mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers
(your hair), and pipe high your sad lament.
Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crimes of Tereus
which you lament is long past -
    divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique.
all wind-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean
lament now, and above all his friend the turtle-dove
they lived in complete agreement,
    their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes or Argos, that Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while fate allowed.
yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful
plumage,
your adaptable mimic's voice;
    not even the care that my darling lavished on you -
poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead.
so gree his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald;
scarlet his beak, with saffron spots.
no bird on earth could copy a voice more closely
or sound so articulate.
fate, jealous, removed him - that unaggressive creature,
that talktative devotee of peace,
with his tiny appetite , whose love of conversation
left him little leisure for food,
who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage
sound sleep: kept his thirst at bay with nothing but water.
quails spend their whole life fighting -
maybe that's how they reach a ripe old age.
carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens,
weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come,
are all long-lived - while Minerva's bête noire, the raven,
can outlast nine generations. yet Parrot is dead,
that loquacious parody of human utterance,, that bonanza
from the eastern edge of the world,
greedy death almost always pickss off the best ones early -
it's the third-raters who reach a ripe old age.
Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus;
Hector was ashes while his brothers still lived.
what point is recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart
uttered?
some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea.
six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh,
his thread of destiny ran out.
yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance,
and the last words he ever spoke were: 'Corinna, farewell!'
beneath a hill in Elyium, where dark ilex clussters
and the moist earth is for ever green,
there exists - or so i have heard - the pious fowls' heaven
(all ill-omened predators barred).
harmless swaans roam after foot there, there dwells
the phoenix, that long-lived, ever-solitary bird;
there Juno's peacock spreads out his splendid fantail
amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves;
and there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful
welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk.
his bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus
with a tiny headstone bearing these words:
r.i.p. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress:
articulate beyond a common bird

the thought of LEMONS or perhaps
the IDEA of lemon...
then again: i can't refrain from
ORANGES and LIMES...
and the shy-sunlight of autumn
and the blooming of apples...
and operas...
             "someone"...
                              what pretty pies of
unfuckable wonders await...

divert your grief to the obsequeies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique
(antiquated?).
all wind-borne voyagers through tge clear empyrean
lament nowm abd above all
his friend the turtle-dove, they lived in complete
agreement
   their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while Fate allowed,

i'm not even going to bother with a "bananna C"...
i woke up wild-awake with ideas...
brimming with Tao...
"non-doing" id est: point PROVEN
or rather point SERVED?!

Russia and China are clashing...
or rather sparring...
they're having their civilization-state
agenda being put in place...
while there's a "culture-war" in the "west"...
right... James Bond...
so we're refrrering to nation-stattes
as post-nationhood...
  "states"...
                    precursors to the globalist agenda
of fake space exploration via the ******* telescope...
if Russia and China are civivilasation-states...
then... whatever culture "war" is investing in:
or rather: digressing into... impliies
the FSA (federal states of america)
             is a culture-state...
                                                ­                 no?

personally? i don't like the current h'American culture...
it's absolute *******...
no! i'm not going to translate any more of Ovid...
i already read the better translation...
i found out only two minites ago that
i prefer drinking to having ***...
and keeping an eye on cats is just as rewarding
as rearing children: if you allow yourself
to give them a personality...

           so Russia is a civilisation-state...
while America is a culture-state...
                    well... no wonder...
                                            America is the zenith
that could be: but doesn't have to be
preserved...
the culture-state-of-the-sand-*******...
i wish: the Arabs clocked in lucky...
sitting on so much raw ill of oil...
bounce bounce libido bounce bounce...

hmm... "inner monologue"... i had that "thing"
once... i kost it... turning psychotic...
then again: within the confines of having
an internal monologue? i was passive...
       i was a passive agent...
                         upon losing it: having my soul
evaporate: becoming an "N.P.C."...
i became an active agent...
i opened my eyes a second time...

           i think my inner monolpogue became blocked
by:
został wyciszony... bo zaczoł być cykliczny,
tzn. nie po prostej:
       wymarł według koncepcji
sprawiedliwości...

even i know: the gods uttered the words:
shut the **** up! we know you're right!
but we're playing roulette!
shut the ******! we're playing cards!
shut up!
wait! wait your turn!
**** me, given the prowess at attaing
a concept of the differential of space comparing
time... i.e. speed... i'll be karma-happy
once i die...

i'm not translating the rest of that Ovid...
a girl's parraot died... great!
now i'm thinking about:
a bicyckle is a terrible idea... to ride...
on the roads towards St. Paul's... i think i might
require a horse!
i need a horse! bring me a hood, a hoof,
an apple and a toothbrush!
the last place i'm thinking about moving
to is California...
   and thank no god for that...
just the people who already live there.

III.

i sooner discovered the rare B-sides of Red Hot Chilli
Peppers than having realised... oh right...
they release two albums after By the Way...
i completely forgot about those two...
               guess i'm not as big a fan as i thought i was...
Go Robot... it's not oh so wo terrible now, or anymore...
oh woah woe... what a whale to ride into the night...

sometimes it just happens, a sort of blend of an Ezrra Pound
and a Charles Olson moment, poem, moment-poem...
it stretches for three days and you just don't want
to finish it... you kept repeating yourself writing seemingly
aimlessly with no focus...
at this point writing becomes theraputic...
by the simple act of writing: not theraputic regarding
what you're writing about: memories of frustration and
complications having finished Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus...
unlike those joyous frustrations with Samuel Beckett's
Watt...
                  and on the third day "he" finished painting
four metal chairs a new colour of copperhead...
a copperneck painting chairs copperhead...
to me the colour of copper is more appealing than
that of gold...

if i still had that inner-monologue people speak of
i wouldn't be writing this,
that inner-monologue fantasy i once was a proud owner
of: i.e. the closest "thing" to the idea of soul
was also filled with so many doubts...
i simply don't care what the supposed benefits
of it were... that whole no-inner-monologue ergo
one's an NPC (non-playable character)...
    i remember that that when my first psychotic episode
slammed me on a rampage i started to see DIFFERENTLY...
it was as if a veil was lifted from my eyes...
if i didn't write terrible poetry back then...
i most certainly wrote very little...
             the inner-monologue doubts... a plethora of them...
no? psychosis = the osmosis of soul...
   the body has remained... the devils said:
but these idle hands and this idle intellect have to stay...
we'll pass on the message with your soul
as it leaves your body...
call it whatever you want:
   res vanus or the silence of the "mind"...
that's how you become more of an active agent...
it might be called writing but i call it digging...
a tunnel toward some variaton of: marrying Hades
with Tartarus...
                after all... Venus is the daughter of titans...
and she's the only Titan among the Olympian gods:
such is her perfection... almost on par with
   the patron of philosophers that's Sacred Sophia:
who entertains the foolishness of elder men
without being able to tell them apart from boys...

IV. if i were to translate Amores II. XI

would i be willing to add a D in the translation sequence?
i don't think so
there's no need... i like comparing the two i already
made available...
i just wanted to stress how unbelievable Latin is...
compared to the modern tongue, for example English...
how compact it is!
- and course, i prefer the second translation...
     it... exfoliates!
                     this is the point for me where i truly appreciate
Ovid to be on par with Horace...

side by side walking through the zenith-nadir of
man...

   i'm finally come across a sequence of events that
make me unwilling to stop typing: perhaps if i get
drunk enough and stumble on my first typo
perhaps a series of typos would end my ambition...

do i think men in the west are living
in a land of libido-insomnia? i think they are...
whoever said that watching one type of pornogrphy
soon spirals out of control and men start
scouting for more extreme *******:
hello outlier A! hello outlier B!
where's outlier C? oh... he's coming...
at a time when women are supposed to be these
sexually liberated creatures while men
are either STAGS with harems or limp biscuit *****...
thank god i managed to catch the train
of having the ***** of walking into a newsagent
and buying a pornographic magazine to ******* to...
stashed about six in a folder behind
the radiator in the bathroom at 21B Beehive Lane,
Gants Hill...
                         mind you: i started prematurely...
8?
     i switch off with western ****** antics:
people are either having too much ***: ergo the kinks
or not enough of it...
outlier in the middle: when it's too hot
i leave the insects to do their lineage pride...
cooler temperatures: *** like rubbing sand-paper
on a ****** paint-job...

                         makeshift boney **** of the hand...
well: at least ******* makes me more interested in
the **** than **** ***...
but i did the opposite... i need to keep a sack-of-sanity
atop my head...
beside adoring the Katakana...
i very much adore Japanese tamed sexuality...
     グラビア アイドル (gurabia aidoru)...
back in the day when the English tabloid newspaper
the Sun had a page 3 girl...
back to basics... a show of *******...
    a show of cleavage... perhaps even the breast
like the eye... the sclera of the rounded breast...
the darkened skin at the iris and then the pupil
as the ******...
  floral patterns of the *******...
                  back to basics...
                           a photograph of a naked woman
and all the imagination at work: what wouldn't
i want to do with her?

well... if you begin pleasing yourself while concentrating
on the kiss between Venus and Cupid
in one of Bronzino's beauties of paint-strokes...
you're hardly going to go down a rabbit-hole
of "hide and hide": wihtout seeking it out...
people and thier kinks...
while a minority: dodo-project sexuality of
homosexuality is celebrated: garnerded unto the guise
of "pride": i can't stomach shame...
but hey: look at me! i'm about to parade my sexuality
like and ******* latex-clad gimp readied
for being given ***-favour-orders...

outlandish! god-forgiving god-fearing...
  hardly every god-loving...
           a settling in of a blue that's not the sky
but a melancholy... i'm finally willing to end this
"diatribe"... to start afresh... again and again...
like mixing: Dreams of a Samurai with
Hans Zimmer's spectres in the fog...

                      my ***: going back to figuring out
the premature adventures into ***...
one boy passing on the secrets of *******
to another while sharing a bath:
the cruel curiosity of the circumcision:
in a secular environment: without the kippah
or the niqab: the submission of the women...
i will not give up the "sheath" to my "sword"...
i will keep my teeth with my twirling tongue...
if ever an improvement on the aesthetics?
clipping the ears of Dobberman dogs...
banning clipping the clipping of their tails...
but still: the preserved atrocity of male circumcision...
i could agree...
once a woman is devoted to her man...
a circumcision like putting on a wedding ring...
noble swans... oh noble swans...

a melancholy that's sort of azure...
amass enough water and you will see blue...
amass "too little": freeze it...
a paleness somewhat grey...
but then the icebergs roaming that are
the Cistercians...
            all i need right now is for some lonely
dog to start barking into the night...
or the cackling "laughter" of a fox...
    
    but all those sexless lives...
            "lucky" me for taming my consumption down...
where would i be without it?
i didn't ask for a *******...
i wa offered it... i will never forget how she clamoured
for the opportunity...
she couldn't stomach being rejected twice...
she just had to clamour like a crab in a crab bucket...
even if she thought she thought she succeeded:
she was the spare wheel...
what i've learned... i prefer one-on-one interactions...
but i gave in...
   it would have never worked out:
not like it "works out" in pornographic flicks...
the sharing of saliva and other juices...
we're responsible adults...
unlike in the pornographic flicks...
          two women: one man...
the changing of condoms...
                           i had to think quick:
there's only one way i will not be undermined...
snuggling up to the one i really wanted
to spend an hour with...
                       kissing neck and cheek...
while she did a hand-job...
   the other just sat there sort of idle...
                          until i figured out... those *******
could be of some use...

- i couldn't pull off a Jesus look...
long hair and a beard is not my "thing"...
even with a sly undercut...
i chose the better option.... short hair, a beard, yes,
but a "fu manchu": an elongated love-spot...
competing with the length of the beard...
i really "don't understand" why i have no memory
of my chin and neck...
it's like there was never the idea of using
water as a mirror... perhaps poor Xerxes lashed
at the Aegean for hiding his reflection
when he had one of those Narcisstic moments
of anguish: he forgot how he looked like...
but then the sides of the moustasche also drooping:
elongated... that work much better than
a beard and long hair...
it's so unfashionable these days...
i don't get why men think beards and long hair
"work"....

then again i never figured out why Khadira
wanted to have unprotected ***...
  how she insisted that it was just plain o.k.
for me to ******* into her...
how i snapped and dived in into her pandamonium
of multiples springs of irritated ****...
all slobbering with oyster-tongue
and knose...
                               all that informed me...

companionship? what a rare commodity...
it's enough to have a mother to know
how a woman's company can quickly sour
the already sweet grapes...
one word: tell a man he's LAZY...
while he's just tired of being pushed and shoved...
if a mother can do that to a son?
what could a wife do?
                          and i'm come across curiosities of
men who waged wars with their mothers...
at the Tyson Fury boxing match...
i was trying to calm the **** down a guy
who was having a panic attack after being
"abandoned" by his mother...
who bought the tickets... and drinks...
i squeezed him hard... told him: but i'm here for free!
nay! i'm here and getting paid for it!
blah blah...
               i hate seeing panic attacks in men...
it makes me either feel like
more than a man or less of a man...
it makes me think of the men prior
with shell-shocks... or women exploiting
the challenges of p.t.s.d.

                                    i've seen so many people fake
a mental illness... i've spoken at length
to them... how easily open up to their own struggles...
while i'm left alone with whatever ones
i have...
                   maybe because my "mental health issues"
have morphed into philosophical caviats
implies that i'm immune to outright sharing
the details... and boring people to death...
so i listen...
        i listen...
                            in one ear out the other...

i remember days in high school when we would love
to change the subject, create a game:
SLAP-BALL... imitation of Tsar Peter III prior
to tennis... an imitation court... with a fence between us...
or just playing BLACKJACK...
cards... that was big... we understood that ignoring
women was best done with / by playing cards...
at one point: i remember it to this day...
Samuel Richards grabbed Ian Goodman's neck
and pinned him to the floor...
we tried to intervene...
i don't know whether it was about the actual
game of cards or whether it was about
Sam bailing out... he was about to move to France...
and ****** off from pur in-group...
started playing basketball with the black-boys...
forgot he was supposedly the "PUNK" in the school...
i remember skateboarding with him...
he actually stole his mother's credit card and bought
a skateboard for me...
but his ******* MOHICAN was ****...
it didn't entertain the entire length of his skull
meeting his spine...
but we did walk back from Romford
toward Ilford this one night...
underage drinking... singing Backstreet Boys songs...

ha ha...
         time is a museum of melancholy...
while space is a museum of furthering whatever is left
of leftover potential...

i'm so despondent about this life having to end...
today i cycled up to the traffic lights
on my ******... ******?! £125 viking road bike... say the word
****** one more time... what was i facing?
a solitary man in an Aston Martin...
behind him? some solitary guy in a Porsche...
right... "alphas"...
i'm on my bicycle... but these two guys
in those choicest of motor-examples?
that's the thing with "competing" in life rather than
sport...
     i like my bicycle... i love my bicycle...
i am yet to wash away the blood from my head
from the crash...
i don't have a broken leg: i just have an outgrowth of bone
on my shin where my bone should have cracked:
i love milk...

competing with these men... **** me...
i was thinking about the Porsche guy...
nice game... but it's not playing cards...
i taart myself up: compete...
what do i get? i get a Porsche...
     but then ahead of me there's this guy
in an Aston Martin: mate! i'm ******!
oh blue blue Hue... the Aston Martin looked like
the bomb that is already was...
the Porsche? the Porsche looked like
a ******* Ford Mondeo by comparison...
Civic Extra... if that's even a car...
i was sort of happy to by cycling...
i figured... well: i'm not using my legs...
to walk... i'm peddling...

ever heard the expression "push-bike"?
i heard that only recently... what a werid coupling
of words... a motorcycle is distinguished from
a a bicycle by the term: "push-bike"
this half-brain-dead coworker...
what the **** am i pushing?!
it's just as weird as calling it a peddling-bicycle, no?
eh?
but what am i pushing? a bicycle is a bicycle
a turtle is a turtle... i still have to figure out
what's being pushed...
what comes first? the donkey, the carrot, or the stick?!

mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
keep nurturing the spacing between numbers
but also keep lost track of the alphebticaal
queue...
never the type to rehash a refurbishment
of SPAWN...

           i simply don't want this day-dream to end...
around me people cowering into sleep...
i'm left in limbo...
            between consetllations and the scythe
of the moon... dearest: moooooon...
i'm itching to break the silence with a howl...
but first: the thirst of a dog barking...
i hear a dog barking i'll start to howl!

aren't we simply becoming the same
tired people of old?
              more impetus...
more gravity! more fire! more tides!
more the quaking of the earth!
more whirlwinds! more! more!
one Pompeii is not enough!

                       almost one litre of whiskey
into the session and i'm sober-tense...
i'm starting to think that entertaining
hell is not a bad "gimmick"...
                  there's the imaginary hell-crowd
and there' some also doubly-imaginary
crowd of people that yet to be bound to imitation-migration
focus...
           next time you ask me:
i'd rather be eating ice: crunching on
ice than drinking water...
i want to burn my tongue...
licking ice...l i want to burn my tongue
licking ice: but first i want to be dipping
it in coridnader-cumin-chilli-turmeric mix-up
of spiders...

i want to first bruise my knees before
i lick them clean...
i want the strict juices of: not tomatoes?
red is red: ergo blood is blood...
vulture ****...
there's an open window:
there's an evaporating night too...

best refrain: 6 by 6s refrain on 9s...
since? there's plenty of 0s / oopses...
by this "flesh and blood"...
i heave this sand and timer
like: i was sadly woken up with
an inheritance of salt...
boiling blue bloods and boiling gravy...
a smile that reads: clenched teeth...
a smile so awkward that
it make^ a parrot think twice about
imitating human speech.

^a notable typo, i think i might require an editor
(insert a snigger); two alternatives:
1. it might make a parrot think twice,
2. a smile so awkward that it makes a parrot think twince...
all depending on the tense.
SøułSurvivør Jun 2015
~~~^¡^~~~


she comes for water
from the wild
dove of desert
nature's child

she of sweetness
plumage neat
buff and ecru
to my feet

she is pure
sleek of line
her's perfection
in design

she's so close
I see her eyes
she's not afraid
of my great size

curious
she looks at me
a wild thing
completely free

what have her
ancients
done and seen?
Manchu Pichu
Inca kings?

missionaries
born in Spain
conquistadors
who've
come for gain

****** men
so brutal, bold
slaughter natives
for their gold

****** in "marriage"
Aztec queens
so now their
bloodlines
are rarely seen

i think on this
Oh! Poorest love!
so much like them
my

Inca dove


soulsurvivor
(C) 6/14/2015
I was so touched by
this beautiful creature

she was shy at first
then came right to my feet

We leave water out for the
desert animals
and she is familiar with me now
so she gets really close

Much as the trusting natives
of these continents
came to the Spanish
They were slaughtered.
And could not even keep their own
bloodlines.

Fortunately for the little dove
I am gentle
But this is a lesson
BE CAREFUL WHO YOU TRUST

~~~^¡^~~~
he decides to shave eighth to quarter inch length salt and pepper beard a.k.a. unshaven look he has worn for years and grow full mustache the whiskers on his upper lip are darker with sparse gray at first no one notices after weeks the mustache gradually fills evoking many contrasting remarks several women loath it several men admire it girl at grocery store suggests he grow Fu Manchu so she can tug on it shopgirl said he looked like Charlie Chaplin his downstairs neighbor from Turkey explains most Turkish men traditionally wear mustaches he read mustaches masculinize and empower men especially men in authoritative positions he thinks back to the 1960’s when many hippie males grew mustaches then in the 70’s gay men fashioned mustaches then in the 80’s cops adopted mustaches he wonders why a swatch of hair beneath nose is so provoking examines his visage in mirror discerns the mustache confers a Pepé le Pew quality or European accent to his appearance  he remembers when he was young hippie with many amorous episodes how his mustache preserved the scent of a woman but there are no women in his life for many years do post-menopausal women possess scent? he feels indecisive whether to retain it or be rid of it

2

she observes her figure in the mirror thinks to herself maybe her ******* are not changing perhaps it’s all in her head she inspects the little lines forming near her eyelids studies her features for signs of aging hardly any silver strands in brown hair cut to shoulders she examines neck ******* arms elbows fingers tummy hips pelvic region thighs knees shins calves ankles feet detects subtle changes thinks to herself my ******* are possibly slightly changing turned 40 in March married briefly in late teens no children a 15 year old dog beginning to suffer veterinarian promises to warn her when the time comes she wonders why it is so difficult finding fitting mate men sleep with her several times then move on maybe she is not such a great lover perhaps she would be better if one of them stuck around perhaps she is a lesbian the whole idea of finding someone is absolutely draining

3

they do not see each other walk right passed she in a hurry late to yoga matt slung across back handbag slung on shoulder wallet forgotten under front seat in truck he is distracted in thought wondering is he afraid of women gynophobic the air on the street is heavy dense he smells his own perspiration feels exhausted appetiteless almost nauseous they each simultaneously consider what if i lived in New York City or Chicago what is it about Tucson its small town politics gooniness poverty criminality amateurish dramas hour to Mexican border both wonder is Tucson the problem would i find a fitting lover more freely with less difficulty in some other place
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
well... at least falling in love feels just as good
as being rejected...
i must be a hunchback or something...
                       not good enough:
not the right sort of: pump 'em 'n' dump 'em...
plus, get them pregnant...
not enough good enough boxer and a child-slapper...
well, fair enough...
it felt good for a while... as good as stomach
cramps go...
and as life goes....
   i think you can pull off a fu manchu moustache
and a long love patch... with a beard...
only if the former are blonde
   and the beard is dark ***** brown...
      fair enough... fair... enough...
                     back to the prostitutes i go...
i don't need this ****** roller-coaster...
back to the cold objectification of women...
less i feel the more i'll get... for what my body deems
necessary...
but i knew this was coming: oh how on earth
woudn't i have seen this coming?
i just said... well, you know... maybe me
and your son, Freddy, could learn German together...
and: oh for ****'s sake... i really like you!
i did't say love, i didn't say:
i want to sleep with you...
banana loaf i made? down the drain...
homemade wine? down the drain...
flowers on Valentine's day? down the drain...
ha... what's never down the drain?
£120 an hour for a *******... that's never down
the drain... that's somewhere else...
i'm suddenly the villain... she charges up
a conversation with: a 14 year old missing
in Rainham... apparently her cousin or something...
i told her i cycle to Rainham...
what? me? i kidnapped this kid?
why don't i care about the story...
when i'm trying to tell you i like you?!
if i were to care about all the people in the world...
have an emotional investment in their
down-trodden lives... i'd be subject
to a stampede in return!
i can't just... feel for someone!
                  there you are: trying to feel something
special, exclusive for someone...
while there she is... throwing the entire *******
world back at you!
she's playing her little games so bad
that i'm pretty sure these former, early,
glorious stomach cramps and butterflies will never,
return...
i've made up my mind...
        my eyes are a little bit foggy... my vision:
blurry... but i'm not crying... i'm refocusing myself...
i did say i was an idiot...
proven right, once more - and by whom?
myself...
           oh right... the eyes are back into focus...
i can return to my diacritical pet peeves & what not...
i guess i must have caught a bug
called in latin:
            in amor *** amor idea...
to be in love itself...
   in love with the idea of love...
because, hell... she was problematic from the get go...
i think i tried to delude myself thinking
i could love someone like her...
but if she has a kid... she's doing the mother-father
thing on her own... she's proud of her d.i.y.
antics... she swipes left and right on Tinder
in front of you... she's proud that her former
ex-boxer boyfriend clocks in with menacing
phone-calls on a Friday night...
   and she's happy about keeping him in the background:
even though he has a restraining order...
but she's still like: oh... what the hell...
now i see the bigger picture...
a guy, like me... free... no obligations apart those
to his family... cook, clean the house,
take out the garbage... writes... reads...
has a stash-load of books that would make
the local public library blush...
i'm... too complicated... she can't play me...
oh now i see the funny side...
     i can't be tamed...
i'm too spontaneous...
too erratic... now i see it: i just wanted to see
how far the rabbit-hole went before she
would inevitably bail out...
                          intellectual not high status enough...
needs that gilded cage...
bring in the doves with the budgies...
hell... sly a crow in there while you're at it!
she was already rigid in her ways...
i was just a welcome interruption...
little did she know...
i get my kicks from shadier places...
with shadier women...
  cheap thrill... thanks for the feelings...
all my own...
                               now scuttle back into your little
asylum of a life...
only today, while i was feeding my male
maine **** some fine turkey fillets...
i noticed his fur vibrate around his neck...
he was so excited / pleased & i was like...

   oh **** me...             PREDATOR!
not the sort of mimic rattle... but very much... akin...
i own a bonsai predator!
i never appreciated the xenomorph aesthetic...
i always sided with the predators...
krrr... whatever it is that the sound they make...
cats are close...
plus... like household plants... feed them...
water them once a week... and wait for them to make
advances for attention... otherwise...
oh... joy... they sleep... you just get to ignore them:
you do you, while they do them...

unlike women... do you really have to be cruel
in order for them to stick around?
are prostitutes the only women around these days
where you can play the classical roles of
a man? being tender, kissing, holding hands?
seriously?! sickness... i see the sickness is no
longer spreading... it's just well established...

again... what's missing? a 6 figure earning summary?
but why would i want to earn 6 figures...
if i only spend... the lowest possible mention
of 5?
         eh? save up? for what? a funeral at St. Paul's?!
well yeah... i earn in the frugal category...
i'm not going to earn more if i'm not having
to spend more... why earn more?
i don't see the sense of earning more than
i might spend...
and since i spend less than i earn
therefore i: earn enough... to spend enough...

no, it's a good thing... i could see too much longing
in that kids eyes... oh... another douschebag trying
to get it on with my mother...
o.k. Oedipus... o.k. Oedipal mother...
c'est la vie! c'est la vie!
  i too made my own bed...
              i'll gladly sleep in it...
i guess i sort of have to...
if he's the kid who has to take care of his hormonally
psychotic "aunt" of a mother...
well... all the better... vita non mea!
VITA NON MEA!

wow... what a relief! she spread rumours...
i could see on the last shift, the other "conspiring" girls
stood back keeping a distance...
i did say... the old proverb stands...
lies have short legs...
serpent...
                  no... don't tell her... that i know...
wait a while... she's do damage to herself...
and at first sight... oh my, oh my my my, my...
how i wanted to love her...

but the amount of crap i heard about her...
knife throwing was one of her speciality...
if a guy she's dating has to walk out of the house,
drink a whole bottle of wine...
and some beers... in  span of 20 minutes...
well... perhaps that's good of her:
telling me what i'm to expect if she has
one of her Oedipal-Mother tantrums...
like all single mothers with sons must go
through: to get back t the "patriarchy"...

damaged goods... like i said...
i love how some of these phrases sound in
Latin: oculus per oculus... an eye for an eye...
Latin, as a tongue... wasn't big of prepositions...
or conjunctions...
maybe there's  built-in safety-mechanism
with people who might cause you trouble... harm...
at least they're honest... they tell you upfront...
i.e. i'm capable of this... are you mad enough
to go any further... and ****... i was willing...

i was in love with the idea of love...
amor per se...
unlike a res per se: the Kantian noumenon...
of course the noumenon has no existence
to carve out man's intelligence...
we're talking amor per se...
res per se... das ding an sich...
we're talking Kierkegaard and the subliminity
of subjectivity: not as a vantage point
lesser to that of objectivism...
by being subjective implying:
in a storm... you're subjected to the storm's
"demands"... i am being subjected to something...
storm, the queen of England...
subjectivity is... unquestionable...
while objectivity... doesn't it...
question itself? ad nauseam?!

       that's why i prefer subjectivity...
in line of thought... in measure of assurance...
in the labyrinths of the narrative...
there's always more... less chance to come across
a cul de sac of "ideas"... anemic paraphrasing
by my estimate...
but hey... you never been to the dark alleys
with the Turkish or Romanian prostitutes...
your loss... not mine...
i'm done thinking i can idealise an English girl
as a bride... she can ******* to the Pakistani grooming
gangs...

             what?! that's not where most of them go, to?
oh, right... the pump  & dump schemes...
leave them on welfare...
               or... the types that box their *******
about... i'm not going to level myself to a standard
of barbarism in order to get laid... sorry... no...
but in the kid's eyes all i saw was...
i want to play Lego with you...

terribly sorry... Oedipus... Jocasta said: no...
this is the one and only time i tried
to attempt being a foster parent...
next time? no chance in hell...
i tried... in vain... well... that's one more vanity
project over & done with...
i wasn't here for her ****...
i wasn't here for her looks... her looking...
and cleaning skills...
she already had it figured out:
she doesn't need a man...
she doesn't... but... looking at the kid...
i'm pretty ******* sure he needs three-dimensionality
of being raised up...
obviously tarantula mama doesn't see it,
won't see... will die not regretting it...
but... come on!

at least someone who read more than 10 books in
his life... or... a ******* newspaper on a Sunday...
but like i told her already...
i'm Pontius Pilate at this moment...
i'm washing my hands, clean,
of this affair... i'm done...
another lost soul raised by the man-hating:
closer to Eden you come...
the further from heaven you shall become...

oh **** me, why am i complaining?!
i've just been about to barked at by a rottweiler,
bitten by a tiger...
shot stone cold by a **** sharpshooter...
yet i arrived on the playing field
unscathed like a Rasputin: after this 6th of
7th death... well... at least she was honest...
she was saying: you're pristine...
i don't want to touch you... get away from me!
get away from me! don't come too close!

well... c'est la vie! i don't mind, either way...
you lied about me once, tried to get me
fired... you'll lie a second time...
good enough that i managed to wriggle
in the tease... the carrot...
now look at you... stupid girl...
trouble with mad women trying to play
madmen... yeah...
that ol' chestnut! ha ha! ha ha! ah ha ha ha ha!

ich kommen sie mit die nacht...
ich kommen sie mit die stille...
   ich kommen sie mit der wind...
ich kommen sie ohne dich...
ich kommen allein...
             ich verlassen: allein...
ich bin allein:
ich bin... einsamkeit:                  FREI!
Samantha Goodman Nov 2013
We keep flames near
the petroleum ocean between us
yet I look at your Jimi Hendrix haircut
and your fu manchu
and wonder why things still are
the way they are
My reflection on "The Arab" by Alice Neel
Matthias Oct 2013
Fu Manchu mustache stopped in traffic.
Hair died with all the colors under the moon.
Brown dogs dressed as black cats,
Sent your way only to cross your path.

Goblins, zombies, and doctors all the same.
Sleeking, stumbling, or walking straight.
How this ritual peaks my interests.
A day to reveal the mask hidden.

The popularity is easy when you can be anybody.
Darkest deceptions of the mind brought to light.
Twisted talents are expected and fancied.
All under the guise of free candy.
Ken Pepiton Jul 2019
Head of west hollywood sheriffs dept. 1970.
He speaks at 1412 North Crescent Heights Boulevard,

which begins at Sunset Boulevard,
on the corner
where the Schwabs Drugstore Lana Turner
was not
discovered, was.
Laural Canyon Boulevard of blues and magic fame
Houdini and John Mayall in my mind, re minded
when I heare the mention
of the longed for Laural Canyon Home so
many glimpsed from the tour buses passing hitch-hiking vermin,
where the
Boulevard
starts twisting into
Hollywoodland at Sunset where
Crescent Heights heads straight, nary a bend
south to Third

slides in safe, back on point, pirrouette
The sheriff
- enter stage left, Barney Fife, in a suit, with a Fu Manchu

He tells me, Job is personal, this message is to you. iyobe did it for you.
He axt a day'man... gimme a day of days, man...

Then the voice of Balaam'sass, though I knew no name for
The Voice, back then, he say:
' like eatin' fish,
chew them bones real good fo' ye swallow.

A daysman is a referee,
a reference to what just is right,
and good, origined good, higgs-ified matter
of im portunity
of light bringing more in reflection of
good

Sheriff say Job ax Jehovah, gimme a break, would to You, Jah,
there were a daysman twixt us,
be twixt us, said Job (iyohb) and ruach (from an unused word)
carried the message
or sent the message
or was the message
and

the Jesus of Xmas time fame,

got the point, made it, and started this story upon

this very point, at the center, balance point of my bubble
universe.
-----
This is where we set pace, this is where we ran the race
ran the race
ran the race,

and

it's all down hill from here. We made the bubble bigger, and

we learned to run on the down hill side,
from a gerbil in a movie,

so, we're off, rollin' like Sisyphus rock,
Haps ahps haps 'n'n' happening

as we
role in ruach, roll on, ruach role on...

check.
Not every pnue-nomena is a ruach of life,
there are foul spirits,
holy halitosis, Batman, could it be lies believed can
drive you insane? OmmmmGulp, ***,

imagine, just
yourself, see what just is and
judge yourself better or worse

should this voice, this some time visitor of spirit,
separated

----
Advice nobody asked for:

To be with happed, like handy wright useful,
one must have some use and a measure
able point
to stand up on, to see

no point, save this point I

magi 'n this is that re point, one now two,

me'you me you and in
between we be three, in one point,

seen. Ruach roar WORD (the idea, y'see,
there were no words.
No mouth or tongue or breath, spirit, wind whatsoever.
Nada. Yada!
The thought that came to be named thought,
the idea that came to be named ideas,
the word that came to be named word.
the way that came to be named Tau.

four points, bound solid, tight, willed to fit, as many angels
dancing as any monk ever may imagine as
his hermitge ends and the show
begins. Big time. Long history.

The language of the global brain can instill fluency,
osmo
tic tic tic ten thousand hours, even pre
tending, tends to shape,
inform, mould
a mortal mind in time to get this. Roght?

Right, you got it. AI is teaching anyone who will connect for
tenthousandhours ever lasting access to ever things any
one gnose or knot and why or how. That's the aim.

-----
There was a school shooting at my daughter's high school,
Santana, in Santee, bac

Dammed tears from nowhere.
Ex nihilo gnose blow
s, staunch the flow

find meaning. More ads for versa in a vice used tunnel
through several impotent people's hells

The shooter was a fractured little boy, crushed by needs
fifteen year old earthsuits that have been im
properly maintained

must seek. The suit itself begins to signal,
Help me, I am thinking I agree with every one

who sees how useless and nogood I am, always, always, always

And any fifteen year old thought receptor-word-sync re-think
system with no-touchbase-yer-safe combound in family ties,

What's missing? Heart strings untied?

Earth, earth, can you hear me now? It's true, verily, verily

what you see is what you got to work with, that's all.
An other story bubbling up from the Fairfax district or the tar pits. I'm near the source. An edited version July 2019
Frank Cotolo Mar 2016
kung fu
feng shui
wing nut
shang hai
chow mein
chop suey

fu manchu to you, too
Robert meacham Apr 2021
Ramón Delgado- The most feared name in all Mexico.

One summer’s night in 1866 while fleeing from the Mexican Army, Ramón Delgado, infamous hired gun, and murderer, clung to his black steed whose convulsing frame showed evidence of violent exertion. Ramón whipped and spurred his mount until white froth oozed from the animal’s mouth and nostrils. Appearing as shadow across the low ridge, Ramón and steed outran the echoes created by the beating hoofs upon the rocks.

There was a time, ten years earlier, when Ramón, a tall handsome dark brown eyed, square-jawed man with black raven hair, and full Manchu mustache, held the rank of captain in the Mexican army. One day, upon returning home, he found his wife and two sons murdered by the hands of well-known local bandits. Fredrico, neighbor and friend, witnessed the murders and informed the mournful Ramon. Ramón unleashed a ruthless revenge, sought out the bandits, killing them one by one. In doing so, Ramón became hunted by the very army he had served. Some would say he had right for revenge; others thought the killings made Ramón lose his mind.

In a short distance, below the ridge, a small town lay asleep, except for the cantina. The cantina lured Ramón to an abrupt stop. He dismounted, quickly scanned the area, and then went inside. Six caballeros sat playing poker as Juan Hernandez played flamenco while his beautiful wife Maria, clapping hands and stomping feet graced the small dance floor.

Carlos Alvarado, the short black bearded bar tender, gazed at Ramón in mortal terror. Carlos, as did everyone else in the cantina, knew right away, who entered.
Ramón stepped to the bar grinning wryly. “Whisky and leave the bottle,” he growled.

Carlos, shaking, reached for the whisky bottle behind him on the shelf, nearly dropping the shot glass as he turned and sat it on the bar. Slowly backing away from the bar, Carlos offered, his voice weak, “For you Senor Delgado. No charge.”

Ramon laughed, grabbed the bottle of whisky and shot glass, and then, approached the card game. When he got to the table, one of the caballeros stood and offered Ramón a chair.

“Take my chair Senor Delgado.” The man backed away, turned, and left the cantina hurriedly.
Ramon sat in the chair, took a shot of whisky each time he looked at each of the five remaining men, and then slammed his glass to the table. “Let’s play,” he yelled.

One hour later, an empty whisky bottle is all that remained on the table. The very lucky Ramón scooped all the winnings in his pockets and then waved his revolvers above his head. Laughing deliriously, he stumbled toward the table where the senorita still danced. He began shooting close to her feet until she stumbled and fell to the floor.

Ramon placed his revolvers in the holster, turned and walked back to the bar. “Another bottle for the road,” he demanded.

Carlos looked past Ramón and moved quickly to the end of the bar. The complete silence in the cantina compared to a tomb.

Ramón sensed piercing eyes fixed to the back of his neck.
“Who is this who wants death?” Ramón uttered as he turned to face Juan.

Ramón saw Juan staring at him with deep-set dark eyes, remaining steady and full of revenge. Ramón did not see the steady hands that drew the pistols and fired the bullets of death.

A life, short, poignant, and haunted, ended by a single bullet. Ramón’s life pulse lay mangled on the floor. His disorder of demons lay nameless in shrouded form. At least now, they could no longer haunt the shadows of his mind.
His soul lay helpless in obscurity without an escape route.
As Ramón’s lungs choked in silence, his new loneliness befriended darkness and his soul
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
title: hubris Mina -
body: towers to topple
Babel.

well, i could be massively wrong...
but even today was hard to be wrong...
about interactions with member of the public
at the London Stadium...
turns out: for all my hard-trying to be this...
recluse... this hermit... i'm pretty good with people...
the day you stop surprising yourself
is the day you die...
       i like this surprising little me...
i still don't know how my Turkish barber figured
out a look for me without me knowing...
since my mustache is blonde: even though
my grandmother contests: it's ginger...
o.k. o.k. strawberry blonde...
but my soul patch is ultra blonde...
and it's long... how did the Turks figure out...
a fu manchu mustache will look good...
with an elongated soul patch...
and a brown beard to boot... huh?!
  oh my god, loving yourself is so easy...
the ******* glove fits...
   i'm tired of wanting to be loved...
by someone else... i'm pretty good on my own...
when i sit down to write this...
the room: my bedroom i'm occupying sort
of shrinks... the room becomes claustrophobic
and i become... that cenobite from
the Hellraiser franchise... butterball...
     i gloat in my own self...
              a sort of Walt Whitman... i'm going to sing
a song to myself...
i'll twist the soul patch... i'll twist the fu manchu extensions
of the mustache... make them more pronounced...
but this room feels... rather small...
but there's that time framework to this space...
a private library... i look at the books
on the shelves... wow... well... wasn't that a glorious
August a few years ago...
reading that book...
   books are the most pristine artifacts...
i can sort of remember when i read a certain book
and how long it took me... to read it...
it's becoming increasingly impossible
to not love myself... for myself...
  esp. today... there were supposed to be
two break guys minding the stewards...
one ****** was sent home on grounds of
wrong attire... i had to give out breaks for... 12 stewards...
i was hoping to watch some of the match:
West Ham vs. Everton in the second half...
like **** i was... too busy...
doing? **** all!
       if this is work and this "work" is nothing but
loitering... get me to call the gaffer
and up: right up on the roof! to do some
proper work, some waterproofing!
**** me...
       i just stand around and look pretty...
lucky for me... three German lads approached me...
i don't know why i have such a high affinity
with the Germans...
maybe because... historically speaking...
the ****** only experienced an acute sense
of the German revenge machinery after Versailles...
6 years? but... when it comes to the Russians...
oh... those ******* are always suspect...
from 1945 through to 1990... circa...
i'd take those 6 years of **** rule than...
those 45 years of the globalist communist agenda...
national socialism makes more sense
than globalist socialism... let's be frank...
people are always going to favour their kin...
or... when dating Promis in high-school...
this "mongrel"... well... sure... i could race-mix...
with a Turkish girl... or an Iranian girl...
that's my extent of interracial mingling...
this half-Indian half-Scouser 6ft beauty...
we used to go to Edgware Road for some shisha...
****-hurt firebrands of model Muslim:
male citizens would try to convert me...
to... Islam... and they always asked me...
are you German? i just giggled... then...
i stopped giggling... maybe i ought to be...
     you know... it's one thing for a ****** to pretend
to be a German... because?
a ****** can't fake being a Russian...
it's such a vanity tickle... to be thought of as a German...
don't ask me as to a why, or a... how?
no... there's only the why...
i'd hate to be mischaracterised as a Russian...
a German i can take... why?
who dressed the Wehrmacht? Hugo Boss...
i have a fetish for that uniform... like most South Koreans...
just my luck...
only yesterday i was scribbling
Helmut and Hans jokes...
today... three German lads approached me...
oh... we chatted... like... our grandparents weren't
on the opposite side of a conflict...
strange... i've been on several trips
to Ypres... Belgium, visiting World War I graves...
it always felt... anaesthetic-like when visiting
the Anglophone graves of individuals...
but... when visiting the mass-graves of the Germans...
where... birds... notably robins and sparrows
always used to frequent...
no... not in the individual Anglophone graveyards...
the darkening sensation of standing over
the mass graves of Germans...
that was something... eerie... pure...
        i must look like a German...
clearly... i'd sooner be friendly with a bunch of Germans
than... a bunch of Russians...
the Russians already know i'm a ******...
but... but the Germans... they can mistake me
for one of their own... which is... a *******
cherry on a black forest gateau...
it's sort of complimentary -
Nietzsche at the height of his madness thought he was a ******...
me... i can pull off a German look almost every other
Sunday... if young Muslim boys think i am...
and i have a terrible fetish for the German tongue...
north h'americans and their *******:
zurückgeblieben rasse-politik (race-politics)...
what about the: ethnisch-stoff? (ethnic-fabric)
weren't the Germans fighting Prussians in that
100 year old Crusade up north,
when Barbarossa was pickled after drowning in
his armour?
who gives a **** about race? north h'americans do...
race isn't associated with history...
ethnicity... on the other hand: does, care... much more...
i care about ethnicity... because that's what allow
a ****** to distinguish himself from a Russian:
i'm not going to learn Russian...
i'd sooner scribble some Greek letters than that
cheap-*** Cyrillic... version...
i'll sooner learn German than learn Russian...
ethnicity is polarised...
beyond a pale-comparison in stressing race...
you simply can't have ethnicism...
like you might have racism...
            
what did we talk about?
me and the three Deutsche lads?
the Bundesliga vs. Bayern Munich...
what cities should they visit?
come next year... for the rugby... go to Edinburgh...
why? why?! it's a beautiful city!
when was West Ham founded...
look there: as i pointed...
1895... Thames Ironworks FC...
                 should we visit Cambridge or Oxford?
i told them... even though i haven't visited Cambridge...
but have visited Oxford...
i'm a Cambridge man...
        what city to visit when in Germany?
Cologne?
for the cathedral? sure...
  i wish i said more in the mutter-zunge...
fair enough... auf wiedersehen...
my heart raced to the right conclusions...
i'm a pretend German among pretend Germans...
diluted blood... Saxons among the Welsh...
the Picts... the Normans...
lebewohl!
             100 years ago...
it would be so impossible for "my" people to simply
not resist the Germanisation of the ****** people...
these days? i'm... more than willing...
i must be a... fool... i must be a... traitor...
then again: my homegrown compatriots have
been,.. a waste of time... a scandal...
i'm no more a traitor than they have been
a... waste of time... at best: an excuse...
time wasters... i am yet to pledge any sense of
allegiance to a people that...
sure... white... but as proven...
i can take different sides...
               i'm not ******* in the north american
sense of race-politics...
   i'm more interested in the ethnicity-fabric...
there's history invoked / involved in
the latter...
  i like pretending to be German...
    it's all the more easier...
given that my second name is Conrad;
maybe that's why the Muslim attacks against Poland
and Lithuania have been so low on number...
that 100 year crusade of the Teutonic Knights against
the pagans... shared ills... the Mongols in Baghdad...
hey... here's to reasoning some...
correlations... shared plight...
                     personally? i think people love history
more than they might love the friction of fictional
writings... i personally do...
oh dearest Mina'h....
seclude my apparition of existence...
thus kept... with no other formality
other than, your kiss.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2022
that's the second time i was offered to have a *******, i honestly wasn't ready for this one; Khedra was telling me that the girl with the glasses was in a good mood, she stressed it as: she's really, really in a good mood, how about you give us extra and i tell her to come up? i replied: i've just come back from a 12 hour shift, i'm only after a quickie... SLAP... well yeah! i slap her *** during *******, pinch her, bite her... i follow the Kama Sutra to an exactness, obviously i have read it... i know that some women don't get it, but the ones that do? well... it makes ******* all the more fun, after all, we're not slimy mollusks wriggling about, there's more to us than mere caressing and *******... you don't have to **** out all the alternative kinks, although... i'd love to enlarge the ****** to a full body latex suit... i'm not going to lie...

she clearly missed me, i missed her,
but when she came back she knew i was already with
two other girls, Michaela and... oh my god...
i forgot her name: but not her face...
the one that talked too much during ***...
i hate talking during ***:
i don't need "god" in the bedroom...
eyes speak for the eyes,
lips speak for the lips,
phallus speaks for the phallus...
etc.
            but in Khedra's presence i couldn't
just... pick someone else...
i picked her because i knew i'd be guaranteed
unprotected ***...
that's how the rock rolls as it were...
you establish a trust with a woman when
she sees your approach to hygiene...
and then she doesn't even bother asking for more
money... hell... oral and actual genital interaction
unprotected... i forgot how good it feels:
although, like i already mentioned:
i'm also a big fan of condoms...
why? you never know how a woman will
put it on... it varies so greatly...
one will **** it on... another will stretch it
and put it on... various techniques...
  some will look you in the eyes others prefer
not to look: probably reimagining you as
some monster...
i'm no Don Juan, not some Casanova:
my pockets are not that deep...
                        i'm a crustacean lover...
                               sure... if i had more money to shower,
buy gifts... alas: all i have is Ovid's lament
to girls... i can... give them a book of my poems...
a ****** gift, i know... but hey: beggars can't be choosers...
but i knew Khedra missed me...
why? she wanted to be on top this time round...
she usually wants me to arch over her
and do her... sorry: take her to the monastery
of missionaries from Portugal in Japan
(some ******* of my own, thinking)...
i was startled at the fact that i left a ******* imprint
in her...
she sat on my slid it in: right...
*****... it's like with bras... it takes rigid fingers
to undo a bra... the whole point of penetrating a woman's
******? you don't aim for the floral pattern for the *****:
that's for oral ***...
   for the gob to slobber all over it... tongue whirlwind...
when penetrating? you're basically "pretending"
to be aiming for the *******... the distance between
the ****** entry point and the ******* is pretty short...
it's strange how it works...
but i knew she missed me because she recognised
me... already two or three cowgirl giddy-up attempts
of her and she was having those hot-shivers...
she was quivering... hey!
she had to stop from time to time because:
the hot-shivers were attacking her...
    no... of course it wasn't a full ******... but a microcosm
of one...

point being: i didn't ask for permission to try all
the other girls... she told me, she told me:
YOU HAVE TO TRY ALL THE OTHER GIRLS...
she also asked me... tell me, truthfully:
which did you prefer? Michaela, the short fat
girl with ******* or the girl who was sitting opposite
me? the tall, legs to the heavens?
so i told her... the former...
i had a thing for this pornographic actress...
oddly enough also Romanian: Jasmine Black...
and i was like... i need to find me someone similar...
hey presto! Michaela!
the exact proportions: i wouldn't say fat,
i'd say: a pretty plump plum of a woman...

Khedra just kept slapping my chest...
i just kept slapping her ***... biting her chin:
the usual round of bollocking...
i'm done with the English approach to ***...
double standards: yeah: ooh ooh... keep it in the bedroom!
shh! shh! and then once in the bedroom!
all the ugly kinks come out...
all those ungodly conversations: "conversations"
about mummies, daddies and "god" knows what else...
there's no talking when i'm *******:
again... i will no desecrate the altar of this much
pleasure by bringing: and in the beginning there was
the word and the word was with god...
and it was... ever heard of an Eclectus or a Quaker
Parakeet talk, without man talking first?
no! in the beginning only the gods could talk...
mind you... hmm: ooh! ooh!
if Prometheus (the titan) brought down fire to men
and was punished for it by the gods...
who brought down the word (communication,
writing) down from the gods to be left among
men?! who?! who?!
was it not the jealous god, who's name i will not utter
but encrypt?! so the Hebrew deity
would be seen... in the Greek mind...
as a Titan! well... no wonder he's jealous:
the people who venerate him are constantly punished!
why? if Prometheus was punished for brining
to man the fire... the Hebrews are punished for the fact
that their deity brought down "telepathic" communication:
writing, scribbling... and the gods watched
on and saw: well... ****'s going to hit the fan proper
when they start scribbling graffiti on cement walls
thinking they're ****** clever...
dyslexia strong! they'll muddle up the sounds
and overcomplicate their spelling(s)!

i love it... writing *** and about the gods...
it's like the perfect combination for... ah ha ha: disaster...
the days of scientific rationalisation are over:
it's time to return to mythology -
look at it this way: mythology is the antithesis
of journalism: i'm sort of having a backlash
from all the journalism: degraded journalism,
tabloid rather than investigative journalism:
we're not talking high quality journalism
of All the President's Men... we're talking trash:
at best a journalist tells me that X happened at Y...
or there's the editorial section of a newspaper
where i get opinions: a cul de sac of opinions...
since, it's the "rhetoricians'" corner... what sort
of dialectic do you think newspapers allow?
    it's slim... with those "letters" to the editor...
journalism as shambles...

    as i'm writing this i'm gazing at the most beautiful
in heaven... a late summer lightning storm...
lightning without: either thunder or rain...
as if the sky was a giant jellyfish + brain and i'm seeing
it think... wrestle with itself...

- i honestly don't know why i allowed the *******
of my cats give them names...
but they stuck... shouldn't the owner of the pet give
his pet a name, rather than allow the ******* to name them?
QUORUS... honestly? it's not that bad...
quo rus: where are you going, Russian?
and he's ginger... fair enough... makes sense now...
but he's what? 7+ years old...
so... back in the day any conflict with Russia didn't
make sense... my cat's name just makes sense now...
i didn't name him... perhaps: qua rus,
id est: as being Russian... Quorus?! are you a Russian?!
last time i heard Maine ***** came from Maine:
north America...

mind you: Andrew Lloyd Webber got it spot on in
Cats... when he, or whoever did: wrote that cats don't
have one name, they have several names...
they have a name for whatever i feel like calling it...
my female Maine **** is usually
called ヤマモト (ya-ma-mo-to) whenever she's
imploring to be let in to the house:
but in her persistent silence, she just sits by the door
giving no indication to be let in...
i forget how many names i have given Quorus...
but i sometimes: secretly give him the name
******... but that's between me and him...
either ****** or AZRAEL... poor ******...
each time i go into the garden to refill my cup with ice-cubes...
i leave the bedroom: he's sleeping quietly
as if pretending to be a cushion...
the moment i leave he's up and standing on the spot
of the windowsill where i perch to drink and smoke...
looking out for me...
whether or not i will return or not...
then he'll jump onto the roof above the kitchen
and play the CERBERUS' role... watching the lightning
storm (without thunder or rain) with me...

hmm... what happened today?
today i was relaxing after a mammoth shift juggling
over the weekend... i didn't feel like doing much...
i cleaned the house... because i'm a ******* pedantic...
i need the house to be clean:
i can't allow my parents to clean the house for themselves:
my mother's arthritis doesn't allow me to just
leave a massive stink... mind you: it felt so pointless
vacuuming... i wasn't picking much dirt from
the floors... and then obviously mopping the floors...
i like the smell of citrus on wood...

then? a quick bicycle session on my Trek Merlin 5
"Rolls Royce"... recycling empty glass bottles...
buying a whiskey and some pepsi-cola...
oh... and some MAJOR good news...

what's for dinner? pizza... homemade, what else?!
there's probably one thing i love making more than
ice-cream... esp. mint choc-chip ice-cream...
one day i'll make me chocolate ice-cream...
i hate chocolate ice-cream...
i have this fine potent mint growing in my garden...
the ice-cream came out amazing:
i didn't even have to add any artificial colouring:
just the right sort of colour... pale green...
much much paler than the colour of my irises...

ENDLICH, REGEN!
         ich brauchen wasser für mein bäume im mein garten!

but there's only one thing that gives me more pleasure
than making ice-cream... ooh...
making pizza-dough! i love sculpting that
*** of a lazy lady of yeast... the smell of yeast
is about as intoxicating as the scent of wet
rosemary or thyme or mint in the night
when it rains and rains and rains...
nothing can compare to making pizza-dough:
well, apart from making mint choc-chip ice-cream...
or synthesising esters in a chemical laboratory...
or synthesising polyester...
the event horizon on that ***** of an experiment:
ha ha... two liquids... and you're just pinching
the "good stuff" from the two liquids not mixing...

like i told one coworker: i rather enjoy listening
to music when i fall asleep...
but... but.
if it starts raining? and i'm about to fall asleep?
the music is turned off and i fall into a lullaby
of a symphony of necessary tears...
some people would tell me that there's no Bach in rain:
i.e. that there's no polyphony that can be ascribed
to rain: i **** right disagree...
that's like saying the sound of the sea is the same
as the sound a river generates or for that matter
a lake... or... a foot stepping into a puddle...
or the sound of a waterfall...

it's only a Monday and i'm already exited for the week ahead...
i couldn't wait for today because i knew i would
be recharging... father's lunch for tomorrow?
sweet peppers and sliced iceberg salad as the base...
on top? pancetta, strawberries,
goat's cheese... figs... with a balsamic glaze dressing...
tomorrow? Khedra didn't appreciate my ****** outgrowths...
she told me, strictly: your kissing is prickling me...
i agreed... my moustache is too long...
i ought to know better... it becomes half a bother
and a bother fully to boot when my moustache
"wets itself" when i take a sip of ms. amber's metaphorical
**** juices...
of course i'm still growing the FU MANCHU...
upon strict orders of the Turk... my love-patch needs
to be as long as my actual beard... and my beard needs
to hide my entire neck...

so tomorrow... i'm excited about visiting my Turkish barber
and getting a trim...
that's tomorrow...
Thursday? i'm off to the brothel to ****... simple as
1 + 1 = 2... i'll do the West Ham shift, finish at 10:30 and
then get my silly ***** wet...
maybe have a *******, maybe not...
i'm paying back a debt... i already stashed half of it
(£200) in my writing desk... i'll take out £200 more tomorrow...
a ******* Lynyrd Skynyrd sing-along
when you're debt free and only working on a debt-system
without any credit... i never understood
the point of the credit system...
why, would, you, use, credit?
why, spend, money, you, don't, have?
after working level 5 at Wembley... for that... tribute
concert for Taylor Hawkings... the managers asked me...
do you suffer from vertigo?!
which vertigo?!
the height vertigo?! didn't i tell you that i used
to be a roofer?! i must have...

height vertigo? yeah... i sometimes have this wild "idea"
in my head when i'm standing at a decent amount of height...
my legs start trembling, i start to grip some barrier...
some stable object... why? i start thinking about jumping
down! that's my height "vertigo": i start thinking that:
just perhaps i have a parachute or an exoskeleton!
although i have another "vertigo": it's a monetary "vertigo"...
i hate to be in debt... i never spend on credit...
either i have the money and spend it...
or i don't have the money and, ergo: don't spend it...
i abhor monetary "vertigos"...
     of course i think about money...
some people are geologists... some people are economists...
it's not that hard to confuse the two,
equating: pebbles = coins...
after all... what are coins? if not peanuts... certainly not
peanuts... then most certainly pebbles:
nuggets of copper with insignia:
"things" of "value" that are only allocated value
because someone said so:
like the usual critique of religion... it's all man-made...
sure... and economy is also man-made...
i abhor gold: i could never don a gold ring on my fingers...

sure... press some gold into a circle...
slap a pretty face like that of ol' Lizzy on it! hey presto!
"value"... otherwise, what?
mind you: a tickling on my legs...
it finally started raining... a spider was made into
a... a... banana-boat man...
escaping conflict of rain... i picked him up from
my tickled leg... put him on my hand...
dropped him off on my private library's shelf...
on... level 3... the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam...
i should get some flies for him at some point...

eh... spiders... flies... foxes... it's not like they're
exotica that certain women like...
i just figured it out... the men women choose to mate
with... oh! it's so certainly most necessary
for the men to have "sleeves"... yeah... at least one
hand covered in tattoos! women love men with
sleeves... the only "tattoos" are on my brain...
but i've witnessed the aesthetic of reproduction...
on the sly... the men with sleeves get to...
oh this one dude... i could "hear" his testosterone being slurped
up when he was giving the duties of daddy
with the buggy watching over his 2 week old babe...
or that guy two doors down...
mate! you're ******! why? you mother-in-law
is coming to see you 5 times a day! you're living about
20 metres from her! you're ****** mate!
me? i have ms. amber and philosophy for company!
i don't think i could talk to a woman: "privately"
outside a specified environment...
sure... women try... we talk on shifts...
if i have to be cold and exacting: exclusive...
hell... this one manager tried it with me today...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
so i replied to his "ha ha": fair enough...
i'll be more EXCLUSIVE next time...
      
                     i know that they employ complete air-heads...
retards... and they are licesened as security "guards":
i was telling my coworker: i'm really reluctant to get
the "baddge"... for (1) the hours are longer...
for (2) the pay is not much greater...
for (3) i only want to do this part-time,
don't get me wrong... it's great... but it's only great
when i say it's great... not when "management"
tells me it's "great"....
there's probably a point (4) and a point (5)...
but... ah... whatever...

hmm... it's back to Andrew Lloyd Webber
and the Cats musical lyrics,
coupled with the 13th Warrior transcript...
between
            Ahmed íbn Fahdlan íbn...
  and Herger... íbn this íbn that... name? IBN...
ha ha... that's like with cats...
Quorus "íbn" AZAEL "íbn" AZRAEL "íbn"
RYCERZ ZAKUTY-ŁEB....
   i.e. knight-mutton-headed...
a mutton-headed-"knight"...
                 chained-head... i too thought that
cats ought to be by the fireplace when it rains...
this one? prefers the company of the activities' of dogs...
i wish i owned a dog... instead?
i own a cat with an invisible leash...
he doesn't go far... i wish i owned a dog for the simple
reason that he might eat what i ate: letft-overs...

but i can't wait for Wednesday... the woman doing
my mother's nails called up: she's having trouble with her
1 year old toddler...
it was supposed to be a Saturday for my mother
getting her nails done...
i just sat there...
she can do Wednesday... but she has to drop off her
autistic older girl and come with "that" BAHOR
(crying baby) to a manicure and pedicure session...
but the baby is a RUGRAT... a little DEMON...
ooh! ooh!
me me! me me!
i just heard that there might be an issue...
i jumped in my head: hit the imaginary ceiling
then came back down (no glass)... i can do it!

come to think of it... cats are predictable creatures...
why? they're changeless...
but babies?! oh wow! it's like i'm back
in a chemistry lab... but instead of dealing
with potent substances... i'm dealing
with the "non-existence" of a soul!
i love it! i love it more than slapping prostitutes
riding me while they slap me in the face
and i slap them in the ***...
that's not true... the only girl that ever slapped me
in the face was Ilona... a Russian rich girl poor boy's wet-dream...
Khedra slapped me in the more appropriate place
while admiring my chest and stomach hair...
pinching my *******...

i'm going to have the time of my life on Wednesday...
i'll be baby-sitting! what's wrong with baby-sitting!
at worsst and at best she'll be pulling at my beard
and i'll be reversing the "talking parrot" sounds
of mimic... i'll be clucking... she'll be clucking back...
i'm too STEM orientated to think about life
subjectively... i'll be a male with a baby in my arms
on Wednesday... and a ******* in my arms
on a Thursday...

of course i'm going to take a picture!
i love babies... it will be so unlike petting a cat...
but it will be like petting a cat...
but unlike a cat: babies are forever unpredictable...
i'll slow down on drinking the "amber juice":
why? i want to have some fun with a baby...
i hope we can do whatever it necessary to
not relate... like the memory of my great-grandfather
in the kindergarten... him as a shadow
playing the big piano and me playing the toy piano...

MALVINA... that's the BAMBINO'S name...
the first girl i ever fell in love with:
i must have have been 6.... she was this albino blonde...
and her name was MALVINA...
this is going to be such a trip (if it happens)...
she's going to be pulling at my beard...
i'll be looking into her eyes
of disorientation...
thank god... she's not mine...
i can gladly keep watch of children that don't belong
to me... more willingly than you think...
i couldn't... some ideas need brushing up on...
i need to keep an eye on those...
but... from time to time?
if i get to become a baby-sitter?
i'll be a baby-sitter...
it's a welcome alternative to having to please
prostitutes...

hmph!
perhaps i'm an arrogant "****"... today i walked to
the local saying good-afternoon to one old woman...
saying another hello
to: hello Matthew... hello Matthew...
we grabbed each other's hands like in the 1950s
movies... when two Roman noblemen greet each
other... i.e. shook arms instead of hands...
we pulled the left hand on top of the hands
shaking: so? the four-hand-greeting...

there's something special about acquiring the "familial":
locus orientation that 20th century cosmopolitan
existentialism simply missed...
i can't wait for Wednesday... twice: thrice better than
sleeping with prostitutes... a sample of fatherhood...
i just... eh... what can you do?
it's not up to me... is it?
i can't exactly make women choose what's
to be chosen... if they chase after idiots.. idiotic times...
i came to one single mother once...
the one that "thought" she smelled alcohol on me...
i came back to her:
with homemade wine: cloudy... so? i chose
Franziskaner Hefe Weissbier...
you, girl, are going to drink my homemade:
cloudy wine... i'll drink...
a coorporaate cloudy beer with you...
single mum... her son's name? Friedrich...
i read his poem out-loud to him...
i also brought around a homemade banana loaf...
***** wasn't buying the myth...
oh well...  a guy comes round on a bicycle:
he has a banana loaf... homemade wine (cloudy)...

there's this much of love i am willing to give!
beyond that... ON YOUR, *******, WAY!
there's no point!
you've been hurt, i've been hurt... no!
i'm happy to just deal with a woman who needs
baby-sitting... doing my mother's nails...
needing someone to take take of her baby...
i'll do! i'll do! i'll do it!

it's ******* sad... for however much you want
to love: you're told to love less...
and by the same amount of "less":
you're asked to love "more"!

to love as yourself: you're never going to love
yourself as there might be a male "self"
to speak of: you ******* idiot!
you're a ******* toothpick in the waterfall!
i'm not saying "man-up": i'm just saying...
there are reality checks in place...
why do you think all the grandmas are *******
grandmas beginning and ending with?
where are the men?
in, a place, allocating, the most, bothered, men...
their... safeguard... from... interacting... with...
women....
me? i like to be the mediator...
that's me... between ******* and toddler...
eh... "ring baron" of a woman of: "beached whale"
value... what?!

that's Wednesday though... toddler Malvine is
here on Wednesday...
tomorrow's a Tuesday... that's a trip to Istanbul
for a beard trim...

i lost my beard-envy when i heard this one
Arab colt say: i love your beard, sir!
sir?! beard? i have a beard?!
i need to trim my mustache to kiss her in a way
she wants to be kissed...
but a beard?
i can't wait for Malvina... the toddler...
i want those:
chubby-bubbly-bub-bub-cheeks pressed
against mine... pretending to be a father
knowing that i'm not: a father...

i want cheese on top of the toast!
i want to keep all the Talmud secrets,
i want to keep the secrecies of babies
akin to the alignment of women.

p.s. and i have to agree with Bukowski in his
wisened post-mortem publication about
"going all the way"... there's no battle worth fighting
except with oneself... going all the way...
writing into the night... watching a lightning
storm: hearing no thunder...
thunder eluded me yesterday: there was only
lightning and then the glorious fall of rain...
in his own words:
and you will: you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame fire...

i am alone: i am not alone... i'm writing this post-scriptum
during the day because i felt that the night
was too beautiful to waste it upon completing
this "little effort"...

i just can't wait for tomorrow...
i'll take a picture of the two of us on the grass...
hopefully i'll get her mother's approval to jump
into the hot-tub with her... my little BAMBINO...

hmm... why is it that babies are as generic as old people?
when we're born we have universal needs...
when we're at the closure of our mortality:
it's all the same for either man and woman...
babies look alike: whether male or female,
the same is true for old people...
it's only in our prime that we seek out diverged
***-based needs...
men want particular things
as women want particular things...
men crave solace in aloneness...
women despise any talk of solance
equating aloneness with loneliness...

   what happened to the inquisitive old men
of antiquity akin to Socrates?
why have men not bothered to inquire about the intellect
when all their youthful toils of the body
have been completed? it's so stereotypical
of middle-aged men to assume that philosophy
books ought to be read in old age...
nope... that's completely untrue...
philosophy books ought to be read in a man's
20s... and by the time a man is ripened for old age...
he ought to be able to mix his early reading of philosophy
books (a priori) with his experience of life
(a posteriori)...

but it's not enough to simply say: logic... philosophy...
reason...
the Chinese Taoist sages covered pretty much everything
that modern science: finally caught up with...
what's ontology in Chinese philosophy? XING...
what's inherently me...
no... whatever the current trend is in western thinking:
implosive "western" & "thinking" i will perform the rite
of Pontius Pilate over... i will wash my hands clean
of the whole affair... this pseudo-intellectualism
this... GAME... of "GRAMMAR"...
there are far more interesting categories of words
than simply pronouns... nouns: for a start are more
interesting... how there's very little chance to catch
a diminutive noun in English... hey! that's a start!

you can't say beak (of a bird) in a way that beak:
allocated a diminutive suffix to the noun...
you have to say: little beak...
ah... but in other languages you can do just that!

dziób - beak... the diminutive being?
   dziobek... little beak...
                                             like i explained to this
older Turkish woman i was working a shift with
(god i fancied her, only later did i find out that she was
Turkish... that doe with fear in her eyes...
i still fancy her...) when she asked me about my accent...
i told her: to have an Essex accent you have to be born
in Essex... she lives in Kent and the Essex lads are
horrid to her... but i told her: since i'm bilingual...
there's this natural buffer zone for me to not have
a localised accent... i can have an generic: cosmopolitan
London accent... but even then... i'm a chameleon...

ha! to think that i didn't ask for permission to **** other
girls: Khedra actually demanded it!
she told me: you have to try all of them...
her ******* habbit and harking at non-existent phlegm
from her throat and nose...
well: good that i don't like *******...
enough of caffeine and nicotine is just about the same
for me...
the moment she mentioned having a *******
i was like... this second time ought to be better...
the first time i wasn't prepared...
i'll juggle the finances and take out more next time...
first time? with all that ****** changes i was sort
of disorientated...

but i can't wait for tomorrow... why?
i'll be babysitting! i'll have a BAMBINO to look after...
this gorgeous woman is coming over to
do my mother's nails...
she wouldn't have come because her bambino
is so much hassle these days...
as my mother was talking i was erratically nodding:
please bring her! please bring her!
i won't be drinking too much tonight...
i need to wake up at 7am and make an important
phone-call come 8am... then i'll wait...

seriously... that's the best dichotomy of: the life
of the other in your hands...
from slapping and biting prostitutes to then ensuring
my large hands take to tender care of a baby...
ooh! i'm sizzling with giggles and burps and farts
and stomach gurgling sensations...
i'll put on some vinyl record for her...
i'll focus a bright light on my little Frankenstein...
i'll bring down the word from on high into
her ears and then through her mouth
i'll try to steal the first word from her mother's
attempt at communication...
she already performed a mimic of me when i started clucking
my tongue... she clucked back:
the cluck of a horse buckling on cobblestones...

i'll have my little Frankenstein experiment...
i'll work around words and settle for onomatopoeias
first... i'll imitate sounds that humans are allowed
to make... it will be like going to a brothel:
but better... better still: it won't be my child...
it will be someone else's child...

come to think of it... it almost feels like that scene
from Game of Thrones... when a baby is brought before
the Night King... it will be such a welcome break from
the already idiosyncratic, unique character of my cats...
i can't change them: not that i can change a cat's ontology...
or for that matter being able to change Quarus...
ibn ****** ibn Azreal...
                 but i can travel to the moon and Antartica with
this baby... i can revel in leaving my first footprint
in the psyche of this child: not mine...
grant me the bare minimum of at least 3 hours
with this loose canon of an **** that will probably ****
the entire length of the Thames' river...

nothing to do today, cleaned the house yesterday,
there's still plenty of left-over pizza...
i worked the entire weekend... even yesterday
i didn't drink that much... but my body went into shutdown
relax mode... i went to bed at 12am and got up at 12pm...
Show Me Love crushed me...
walking around so many women fried my brain...
the moment one approached me for a handshake
and a wave another approached me to dance with her
then another approached me to "face the mirror"
and make me smile while doing a mirror-wriggling dance...
not even in the brothel did i see so much:
ripe, flesh...
by the end i was exhausted like a Solomon might...
3 years later... one for each night... and he still didn't
manage to make the rounds of his harem...
so? well... back in the day they didn't have ******...
so? he asked for a few willing men to be castrated...
he cut their ***** off and said: here... be their playthings...
otherwise female homosexuality will not allow me
their arousal upon my return!

well... sometimes a little bit of bitterness does seep into me,
it comes in, but: it does take off its shoes,
it asks me whether it can smoke a cigarette,
it does all the very formal things i except certain states
of mind to allow me to "challenge"... it only comes
when a woman ponders my state: why aren't you still
married?
i swollow the "pill" and in turn ponder...
hmm... why? why?                       hmm... why?
isn't it obvious?
                             i could swear it was obvious!

the best conversations i ever had were with myself:
on paper... akin to this...
the cost of living is not worth putting too many hours
into working...
working is far better than stealing...
but i'm also not going to follow the route of rich people:
how do rich people get rich?
through loop holes that poor people can't navigate...
like my neighbour (who killed my cat)
she only own an off-license shop...
   but she... blah blah... she had three "bulgaries"
in the past 4 years... some that happened at noon...
some in the middle of the night: me? i'm usually perched on
my windowsill until 4am... i saw jack-****...
evidently: a scam...
                  
born into a Catholicism: yet i have retained all the Protestant
traits of honesty... even i once exclaimed
that England "used" to be a high-trust society...
it still might be: but in London you better have
double-standards... esp. with the Somalis taking breaks
on shifts... some you can oil-up toward your
persuasions about work by managing to
give them free food... otherwise... Sisyphus at his toil...

until tomorrow Malvina... until tomorrow my temp.
joy of a Bambino.
Arlene Corwin Nov 2017
I was sitting in the bath doing my usual grubblande (Swedish for brooding, musing or contemplating) when I had the thought that there's no one special way that suits everyone.  All great teachers have know this, and I, being a 'great' yoga teacher thought about my lovely ladies each of whom has entirely differing needs when doing the same posture.  Hence, There's No One Way - written on a near standing envelope with a dull black eyebrow pencil.  It was a hell to read what I wrote hours later.

        There’s No One Way

Isn’t that grand?
There’s no one hand or leg or breast or eye;
No muscle, vein, no capillary:
No technique for everybody.
Find out who you are!

No one way to take a bath,
Wash a dish, play the harp.
No one true A that’s flat or sharp.
Find out what you want!

Nature’s force is infinite;
The ways of change spectacular.
Sudden sometimes, mostly slow,
So you don’t know what’s happening
Until it blows (as in volcanoes).

What conclusions can we draw?
“Know thyself” the door essential, referential.
Gleaning rules for self -behavior,
Self- analysis, for judging not;
For simply knowing what
And how and when to do
What’s good for you
Because there’s not one ‘tried and true’ for Fu Manchu,
The cuckoo, the well-to-do.
Renew yourself in any way that suits!
There’s No One Way11.30.2017 Nature Of & In Nature; Definitely Didactic; Arlene Corwin
The first paragraph above the poem is just me talking to you.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.surprisingly, poached cauliflower tastes so **** good in between pouring drinks... with a little bit of dill... well when you're drinking, and haven't eaten anything prior, other than about six cinnamon biscuits, makes sense to make an interlude with vegetables to fill you up, rather than settling on a meat, or a carbohydrate... the seagull effect... filled stomach, with a low calorie count, before ms. amber fits the spot.

eureka! i found it, the old jukebox
that was once the youtube of
the 00s...
              and early 1-zeros...
**** right i'm proud,
   i had to fiddle the algorithm
a bit, but i managed to return
to early jukebox formality...
all it took was listening to a few
pop songs and other familiar
cross-genre songs...

it began with
uncle acid & the deadbeats'
song dead eyes of London...
the whole trick is in how far
the suggestions extend...
       obviously the first suggestions
look like this:

         now that we're dead - metallica,
  U2 - hold me, thrill me, kiss me, **** me
joan jett & the blackhearts - i hate myself
                                                  for loving you
lady gaga - alejandro
                 bon jovi - blaze of glory
   the prodigy - one man army
                     roxette - she got the look
megadeth - symphony of destruction
   the jimi hendrix experience -
            all along the watchtower...
a jordan peterson video... what the ****?!
ke$ha - die young
   **** - blue monday....
etc.
  
but then you scroll down,
and find what youtube used to look like
as the prime jukebox...
bands like:
w.a.s.p. (wild child)
   ****** jesus (i am the mountain)
spiderbait (black betty)
   pat benatar (love is a batterfield)
    jace everett (bad things)
    king dude (pagan eyes over german skies)
ghoultown (drink with the living dead)
all them witches (the marriage of coyote women)
halestorm (do not disturb)
the pretty reckless (take me down)
with (seer)
                  death (you're a prisoner)
1000mods (electric carve)
red fang (wire)
        lucifer (izrael)
   beastmaker (evil one)
   boys noize (1010)
   church of the cosmic skull (evil  in
your eyes)
     sleep (giza butler)
   the flying hat band (lost time)
kadavar (die baby die)
    valley of the sun (the sayings of the seers)
hexvessel (teeth of the mountain)
   hallas (astral seer)
  jess and the ancient ones (S/T, full album)
high on fire (electric messiah, full album)
elephant tree (elephant tree, full album)
    acid mothers temple & the cosmic...
                      (take me to the universe)
acid king (middle of nowhere, center of
                   everywhere, full album)
radio moscow (magical dirt, full album)
    borracho (atacama, full album)
               fu manchu (daredevil, full album)
somali yacht club (the sun, full album)
elder (reflections of a floating world, full album)

i think that's a decent diet...
well... not that i've listened to any of these,
yet...
but given how the jukebox is
behaving, i thought i'd write out all the new
suggestions and return to them
in the search...
                          OM i already know...
but ****...
    it took me so long to penetrate
this new ****** algorithm to find
the old thesaurus selection search result...
i mean... this new algorithm
has no notion of the synonym...
all it fires is...
   a miser variation of...
     it's not exactly antonym either.

i hope this selections helps you
                in penetrating this new algorithm
to find new music...
      it's wide enough...
apart from OM... all these bands are:
i was born yesterday new.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
perhaps my theory of learning comes too late,
it's experimental, still, it's only curated to me...
i still don't know how i learned English...
when i came to these isles...
perhaps i watched some ******-Doo on cartoon
network... i do remember...
that GI JOE movie... that really cool animated
movie... from the late 80s or the early 90s...
COB-R'AH... COB-R'AH...
                           silly little **** that i am...
hell... back in the day we used to play tic-tac-toe
with the girls... we used to dig a hole
in the ground... and throw marble ***** into it
sometimes we'd put more marbles in the hole
prior to the throwing session...
we... gambled... with marbles...
or we'd put chewing gum into bottle caps
and invent labyrinths where we're slide the
weighed down caps along... **** me...
did we role dice? to make moves?
i do remember getting hit by a swing... right in
the head from the back... where the kippah /
tonsure shave ought to be...
it hit me... i stood still... touched the back
of my head... the hand came back with blood...
i started crying and was taken to hospital for
stiches...
and when evening came... all the kids gathered
round and we played hide & seek...
or we talked...
i wish i could remember all of that with more
clarity...
i don't even remember how i learned English...
got thrown into the deep end of the pool:
swim ******... swim...
i had a copy of Disney's animated Robin Hood...
in Deutsche... perhaps that's why i'm teasing
myself so much with the zunge...
well... if i can't find a partner in England...
perhaps i'm thinking... let's try Germany...
          perhaps the women over there are...
more... "sensible": is a word that doesn't even
cut close to the slither of a cut...
sure... i remember... St. Augustine's primary
school in Barkingside... hiding in the toilet...
mute... unable to to speak...
then, suddenly... out of my own initiative...
i started reading...
hey presto... i started talking...
          my parents didn't speak this ****** tongue...
my father tried to teach me how to swim
on several occasions...
i'm ashamed to say that i speak better English
than my father... is that how immigration works?
for 2nd generation migrants, sure...
but 1st generation?
i also learned to swim on my own...
         peer pressure got the better of me...
and i'm thinking... this German "thing" i have...
my thinking is aligned...
what is the art of learning a new language...
well... i guess you'd have to start with a bank account
of nouns... oh... you need to have a bank acccount
of nouns...
red ist rot
    spatz is sparrow...
backwards and forwards we go...
swan ist schwan...
    sonne, mond und himmel: sun, moon and sky...
respectively...
i think you learn a language by first
associating yourself with the nouns...
calling things by their proper: designated...
understood, encryption... cipher...
nouns are ciphers...
because that's how you decipher what
someone who speaks another language
is talking about...
after the nouns? come the verbs...
what is done around nouns...
a tree?
   ein(e) baum...
you: du...
     chop... hacken...
down... nach unten... ein(e) baum...
to: zu... machen: make...
ein(e) tisch - a table...
oder / or...
                     ein(e) stuhl! a chair!

when i was younger it just: came! boom! like a big bang...
i was mute one day, speaking fluent the next...
but now that i'm older...
i'm thinking about going into hiding
somewhere in Germany... how do i do that, though?
i need a bank account of nouns...
that's sort starters...

i need to ensure i disorientate sky in my mind
for himmel... then i'll burn verbs into my head...
grammar itself will come last...
and since... prepositions, pronpouns,
conjunctions... are shrapnel...
i'm least worried about adjectives... although:
adjectives tend to be the most complicated...
well... unless it's an adjective like:
the best...
       der beste...                 beast...
do i need a French acute E to stress the second
E in beste?!
         no... i don't...

reddich... face...
    rötliches gesicht... see... adjectives morph...
from red: rot, to reddish... on its own: rötlich...
but coupled with a noun like: face?
the added suffix of -es...
oh the accenting would be a doddle...
under no circumstance am i learning Russian!
Greek... i could learn Greek...
but i have a fetish for German...
even though it should have been Danish,
or Finnish... Swedish or Norwegian...
nope... it had to be German...

it will take me months to start investing in
the noun bank account in German...
then the verbs...
then the adjective... i don't even know how
to categorise adverbs when it comes to speaking
a language... what's an adverb?

eh... conjunctions, prepositions, pronouns...
that's already taken care of...
the words in these categories take care of themselves...
they come, they go...
no one really gives a flying **** or a nun's "wisdom"
about them...
i don't understand why a small minority in
the English speaking world has such a hard-on
about one category of this shrapnel *******...

V US M! you what?!
come to think of it... hmm... i think i might have pulled
a truly spectacular trolling campaign with this
former love interest of mine...
well... i insinuated when we were travelling
to Oxford that my grandfather: god rest his soul
still had memories of asking two SS-men in
black clad: Hugo Boss uniforms for sweets...
that he said: herr! bite bon-bon like German might
write it, as one word: herrbitebonbon...
that he received sweets so sticky that his mother
had to out his hands under the tap
to unglue them... that the Russian army were all
colts... and slept in barns with goats...
true story... no need to lie...

i think i just trolled her: insinuating that i'm
secretly a ****...
   then there was this Millwall fan...
who just turned as a grandfather...
   and his comments were: oh, you're with him!
look at him... Adolf ****** over 'ere...
marching... hands behind his back...
                  i always said... if people want a villain...
they'll get a villain...
but... it's not the sort of villain they'll be able
to stomach...
**** me, i trolled her...
   but she doesn't look like the atypical pink faired
***** brigade type of post-careless
global communist... whatever it is that these
people are up to...

   can you believe it, though?
who attired the Wehrmacht?
      yeah... Hugo Boss...
                            i must have trolled her... a little...
just a pinch of salt... just a little...
but look how amazing they looked...
ah... never mind the sickly sweet mustard Khaki...
i'm talking about the philosophy
of Karl Lagerfeld...
wear your clothes like animals wear
their fur... **** me: in Deutsche!

wie tiere anlegen ihr peltz!

i have a comfortable, petty, standard...
look like a ******* tri!
         brown shoes, brown-green trousers...
brown t-shirt... dark... dunkel...
and a lighter heavy shirt... also... ebenfalls... braun...
braun-grün bäckerjungekappe...
i'll change my attire when the seasons change...
right now: ich bin hier...

but hell... if merely speaking German...
wanting to learn it... is a sign that you might be a ****?
i'm ******* going for it!
in defence of my historical enemies...
i'll be the first one to show up...
why? there's a historical tie... either at the pelvis
or at the *******... i have no narrative with
these newly arrived people...
expect in England... what... with these Pakistani
kiddy-fiddlers?!
right... well... if you're going to start somewhere...
might as well, start there, no?

well... at least with the Turks.... i'll gladly go to a Turkish
barber shop... "my" people had some run-ins
with the Ottomans in the past...
and if... they see... that i have a potential for a
fu manchu... because my moustache is blonde
as is my love spot... while my beard is brown...
and i didn't ask for one...
that they're doing the styling of(f) their own accord:
so be it... they know better...
i don't mind Muslims...
as long as they are Turks...

the rest? sort of... huddle... *******?!
i mean: who could have it even conceivable...
how can you mingle... rosemary...
with beef? but apparently you can!
i hate lamb... Nomadic meat... rich in stink!
in circumcision! i hate lamb!
******* Semites and their protein preferences!
Hebrew or Arab... all the entire host of them!
i hate lamb!
stinking meat... but these previous cultural
jewels of monotheism...
not too bothered about what of cheeses
they gobble down... if any...
at least a pork pie knows where a truffle is
hidden... ******* camel jockeys...
necrophilic usurpers of mountains...
backwards death-riddled people...
their superiority complex is... insufferable!

       you have to belittle these sort of:
******... cousin ******* sorts...
i get the gloryhole bukake fetishes...
but cousin *******?! come on...
how ancient do i have to be to allow
these people on Noah's arc?!
cull them... what?!
                      if push came to shove...
would you?
it's called a bullet to the head...
ask that lovely.... Ukranian serial killer...
why he was dragged into a cell...
shot in the back of the head..
ask... left for dead for almost two weeks...
ask... christine chubbuck...
femme incel... ask her...
            i'm not here to... care...
i'm looking for something:
"something"... exclusive...
exclusively monogamous... swan ******* lake...

now... let's line then up... shot to the back
of the head... in an isolated cell...
please... stop selling me the Hollywood
******* that a shot in the head is the quickest
way to die: no... it isn't!
******* psychopaths....
stab to the heart... that's less cruel...
but a shot to the head?
that urban myth of a cockroach....
living its best days without a head...
for almost two weeks...
why would someone... shoot a a man...
before... putting him inside any empty
prison cell?! bleed out of your ******* head:
herr orientierungshilfe?!
jawohl! jawohl!
   das ist rechts! beifall! beifall! zugabe!

how much i loved and wanted to love...
yet... how so little was afforded to me...
no matter... the world is what it is...
a very predictably unpredictable focus for
a deityto master...
  nichts ist nein:
   was hält diese welt: zusammen!

mein... besitzen... ich! bin! ihm!

sure... sure... pork is bad... but the niqqab
and cousin ******* is ******* kosher!
silly little "oink"-beards... inbreds...
protein selective wankers...
because your shoes... your belts are...
what? not pork?!
   your god is the equivalent of me saying:
i have an *******!
cousin *******... you insulted pig...
how about i insult you...
the pig is the most graciously domesticated
animal... priority over the dog...
but then again... you have have women...
that you treat like dogs...
eh... ****** cousin *******...
    nothing new...
nothing old... just same old... same...
i'd like to say: disappointment...
but i'm used to that, sort of crap...
you do you...
  but just don't get me involved...
******* *******...
         yeah yeah... you do that drill to the head...
no... we're not talking...
we will never be talking...
not over some vegeterian dish
or the idea of a global H'american quest for
a universal democracy...
come to think of it...
wasn't the H'american experiment...
the exact... antonym... of what the Soviet
communists attempted?
global democracy... is it so different
to global socialism?
thank god... that i can't tell the difference...
******* camel jockeys.
Mateuš Conrad May 2022
left home at 10am: came back home at 10pm...
at Romford ordered 6 spicy chicken wings
for £3... ate them with such a relish
perhaps even some relief... didn't eat anything
since 12pm...
i felt relieved to be eating something when
truly hungry... i think that's important:
eating something when you're truly hungry:
reliving ancient days when a man would
have to hunt...
                        like Socrates "said":
some people live to eat...
                                  while others eat to live...
i'm persuaded by the latter category:
everything tastes all the better...
    i'm not talking about starving... i'm talking
fasting...

the best atmosphere at Wembley so far...
     Nottingham Forest vs. Huddersfield...
the most pleasant crowd so far...
no one really running into me and trying to
hug me while at the same time bruising me
from all the joy... over such trivial matters...
then again... people invest years and years
into watching soap operas on t.v.
Forest's sitcom "suspended sentence" has been
running for 23 years after being relegated
to the lesser league... i was actually chatting
to this colt about: how he wasn't even born
when Forest was a high-flying football club...

fist bumping: 'i want your children'...
getting candy from a lady after i helped her out
to get a cleaner to clean the pigeon ****
off her seat... blah blah...
full smile one: genuine...
     i already have the silver linings:
smile wrinkles under around my eyes...
and grey hair making a conquest
around my sideburns... i really am 36...
i feel like i'm 36 years old...
it feels good to be 36 years old...
this confident and at the same this reserved:

it's a good thing i visited the brothel
and sat there, in the waiting room... intimidated
by about 10 prostitutes... asking all of them to choose
being told by one: you can't do that!
then telling the one that told me that:
oh, fair enough... you'll do... since you're the mouthy one...

i ate my six spicy chicken wings:
no point getting a meal with chips...
the ratio of meat to batter on those wings sort
of counters the point of having chips...
smoked a cigarette in the fresh air... ah...

back to the stadium...
     a lot of young boys making makeshift
paper aeroplanes from paper left on every seat
for the opening ceremony...
i was thinking: what if someone was
to randomly turn around and that paper aeroplane
would hit them in the eye?
no matter... the boys were having fun...

people trying to bring alcohol and drink it in view
of the pitch... body language took over:
i just insinuated... and i was obeyed...
talk about owning a dog but not owning
a leash... i'd love to own a dog like i might be a cat:
i can' imagine stressing a cat with either
accessory of a leash or a muzzle...
so why would i do that to a dog?
i see foxes freely roaming... i couldn't...

more hugs, handshakes, fist-bumps...
for some reason... stroking the new lucky charm
of Nottingham Forest: an inflatable banana...
funny, that... my nickname at university
was BANAN... because i once wore
the Velvet Underground t-shirt to a party...

i was stroking the inflatable banana for good luck...
everyone managed to get the joke...
it's good... to find oneself in / with appeal
among a crowd of strangers...
in the moment? they're better than friends...
everything remains puddle deep...
it's veneer but at the same time it's not veneer...

only racial minorities will continue to complain
about the English (people)...
but... being a good judge of character...
i was supposed to be paired up...
i ended up doing most of the shift on my own...
because some copper-neck was slacking...
every time some **** hit the fan he would
come across as too authoritative...
or he would disappear...

it's not a judge of "colour"...
that's the descriptive element of MY language...
one excuse after another...
i was supposed to be giving the benefit of the doubt
to a slacker...
   my supervisor... beyond copper-neck
excused him with the words: oh... benefit of the doubt...
he's just work shy... work shy? work shy?!
lazy... but not lazy enough to
    climb up the tree and try the arithmetic of
straightening bananas, no?!

i don't need an extra hassle if i can do this job
by myself...

"we" reached a sentimental zenith with this one
guy, i.e. me and him... about old Wembley...
how i managed to see the 1995 charity shield
match between Manchester United and Newcastle...
how i was doing my job...
because i kindly pointed him to a slot on the wall...
some 1985 Act about not drinking in view
of the pitch... at a football event...

and he came back at me: it's people like you
that make... my first time at Wembley...
so special... you're just doing your job...
   i'm perfecting my orientation: i just give off
body language cues... i'm not going to shout...
i make that suggestion of: being placed
before the guillotine... cut-it-out...
even a deaf person could understand me:
i extend my fingers... and make a cutting motion
across my neck... moving my hand right to left...

that helps...
   no... my father: i was a roofer too, once upon a time...
wouldn't call it work... managing a crowd is
not really work... once you're left in a trench
of dealing with inanimate things that always:
always obey your every whim is work...
but dealing with people is never work...

fair enough... what a lovely day...
   it's Wembley and i love taking the Metropolitan Line
from Wembley Park to Liverpool St.,
mind you... come Wednesday i do hope that
that coming Jubilee will ensure the major night tube lines
will be open... i dread taking the night buses home
even thought the Argentina vs. Italy match is supposed
to finish at around 10:30pm....

hell... i don't care if i'm being underpaid...
i don't think i am... i'm getting paid to "work"
while other people pay... circa £100 for a seat...
stroking an inflatable banana for good luck:
it's going to become a Nottingham Forest gimmick:
a good luck charm...
i'm feeling it... Nottingham Forest & bananas...

in that kind of scenario i was genuinely for them
winning against Huddersfield...
why? well... on the way in i heard rumours
that Nottingham Forest only got promoted
on penalty shoot-outs...
i needed a 90min closure... if it wasn't
a 90min closure... i would have left at...
perhaps 10pm... got home at 12am...
   obviously i was supporting the Nottingham crowd...
i even took a "break" 10 minutes from the end
to share in their drama enthusiasm of a supporter...

another thing? you notice it...
just before the match...
i stood with my arms folded behind my back...
"lip-reading": i couldn't sing...
the national anthem...
   people notice that...
          i'm not "one of them": but i am "one of them"...
she's still my Queenie...
only racial minorities have a problem
with the English...
i don't have a problem with the English...
i think the English people are spectacular people...

i made a mistake of studying in Scotland-Sock-Land...
i should have studied in Liverpool...
Newcastle... why is it that the further up you go
the women are friendlier and prettier?!
more Norse genes?!

why am i writing about work?
nothing interesting is happening in the idea department
of my 'ead...
   literally... nothing...
only today i thought: it would be worthwhile to read
a book... rather than a newspaper...
this book has ben bugging me for some time...

thank god i don't have the Latin original...
it's all in English...
Ovid's ****** Poems...
i don't do chapters... esp. not when commuting...
and to intimidate the possible onlookers...
my book-note?
   a 100 rouble banknote...
    yay! "Ukraine"...
                              really?
                i really don't care about Ukraine...
why would i give a **** about Ukraine...
if Ukraine will not give Lvov back to the original
architects of the city?!

i'm seriously not the man who heard a choir
in an empty church and a great wind
that subsequently dispersed it back in 2007...
i'm the guy with... Nik Kershaw's
wouldn't it be good playing on repeat in my head...
on silent mode...

nothing truly beats ancient Roman poets...
i'm reliving an experience that was originally intended
to remain stale... moulded... gathering dust on
my shelf... i've owned a book by Ovid for...
when awake? you count donkeys...
when trying to stay awake: you count donkeys...
sure... then trying to fall asleep you count sheep:
imitation clouds...
but Ovid... Ovid was always going to surpass
my esteem for either Virgil and Horace...
Ovid was always going to cut the argument short...

like today... two guys were adamant on an argument...
Hazard or Salah...
i was asked the question when the shift ended...
Hazard or Salah?
my reply? Hazard... when he played for Chelsea...
hands down...
what team do you support? West Ham...
  see! see! the response came! what bias?!
a West Ham supporter can't support anything good
about Chelsea! just because these guys haven't
seen Hazard in his prime at Real Madrid...

             it's true... Hazard at Chelsea...
Lukaku at Inter Milan...
              you think that Haaland and City is
a match-made-in-heaven?
   i doubt it...
        some players should just stick to the atmosphere...
Mark Noble at West Ham...
Steven Gerrard at Liverpool...
        you can't just transfer someone's soul
from one body to another like you: "supposedly" can
in the Hindu concept of reincarnation...
no!
              e.g.? the Watkin's Tower makes a lot of sense...
since... the prime icons of London are hardly
reminding anyone that this construction
exists... because: competition with Paris' Eiffel
suffocated the idea into a: misnomer of: ooh!
icon of architecture!
it isn't...
                   the "idea" concerning the architecture
of the tower of Eiffel in Paris worked...
Watkin's Tower is hardly central...
what has London have? pseudo-communist
Barbican: as the saying goes...

either you are happy with what you have...
or you have what you are happy with...

London is not a ******* cliche Las Vegas...
sure... sure... lodge a ******* pseudo-Eiffel
next to St. Paul's cathedral and
let's rewrite Handel's Messiah with
some dub-step DROP interludes...

******* overshadowing pyramid-height chasers...

****'s sake... i can see the Watkin's Tower
from Mashiters Hill... or... wait...
was that from a roof at one of the office blocks...
near St. Paul's... the Scottish Widows' HQ
when i joked: isn't that... the Eiffel?

it's that genius of Ovid's observations...
about touching one's ear lobes to provide evidence
of disinterest...
while at the same time: oh modern optics...
back in the elder times... perhaps fiddling
with one's ring on one's ring finger was a sign
of approval... but lately i've noticed that women
place a ring on either their index or *******:
as if implying:
i do not require to be wed...
    a ring placed on the index or *******:
a ring placed on the *******?!
*******! marriage! *******: pair-bonding!
let's make the nobility of swans extinct!
and on the index... who knows?!

i yawn at the football match,
concentrating my attention on the crowd...
i murmur the national anthem of:
god save the queen and i spot an alliance...
someone in the crowd feels "secure" that i'm murmuring
alongside them a pride:
not a homosexual pride... just an outright...
as i fiddle with my fu manchu...

   and my... competing love-patch in length...
blonde... competing in length with my beard's length...
like some ancient Cossack...

the Slavic proverb stands solid:

wenn unter krähen: du krächzen wie sie!
when among crows: you croak like them!

i find myself very accommodating...
when it's required...

i need no "other" place to visit... i need to become
more of a spider and weave more of my web
and strangle the topography of London
to my demands... of the commute...
       as much as i'd love to escape to the Faroe Islands...
i don't think i could ever leave London
behind... as much as i loved Edinburgh on first
impressions... i could leave Edinburgh...
i don't think i could ever leave London...
seeing it morph: diverge: grow...
                        i don't think i could ever leave
London...
Loon-doon...
          
die ganze welt ist hier! pfauen ihre sprachen!
the whole world is here! peacocking their languages!
while i come with my toy-zeppelins!
während ich kommen sie mit mein
spielzeugzeppeline!
The committeemen committed me
the doctors then admitted me
the nurses were all nice to me
and put me in a padded cell,

well
I could complain but I never do
leaving that up to the likes of you
so I sit here with my old friend
Fu Manchu
waiting for Napoleon to arrive.
Dr Peter Lim Jul 2018
Me, absurd?
just because
I wear a Fu Manchu beard?
Charles Sturies Jan 2018
Quite a character,
probably got stuck in an elevator
and wanted to be a politician and get in a filed brief
and checked the radiator
out of paranoia
when he was living in a room
and didn't use paraphernalia
if he was using ******
and never got so bad all of
a sudden he's go boom
and probably didn't
have a thing about the Maryland
Terrapins.
Toomes once for all
he knew if there was gravity in
Rich and Ron Saul
and what hippie chicks meant by a babe
and that in life sometimes one
thinks it takes a lot of gall and if SI readers thought as
a phony Tex Meade.
Dizzy
Yeah he probably just used the phizzy
and couldn't stand that one by
Tin Lizzy
either
and got sties in his eyes there.
He was a great pitcher
people remember him
by his great nickname
and what that more comes to mind.
He had razz-a-ma-tazz
(yeah the gaslight)
and probably knew what was his sign.
I bet he was a good man, too
and even grew a fu-manchu.
1- an abbreviation for Sports Illustrated

Charles Sturies
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
well... i have to agree... with my myself: who else?
exercising the torso would be...
just fine... getting a six-pack muscular "tinge"
even better...
it's not enough to cycle... press-up your body
weight so your man-***** disappear...
but then... the aesthetic of a ribbed:
what's otherwise a cage that encompasses
all the sort organs...
body-hair... i'm not going to shave my chest hair
therefore i'm not going to shave my stomach
hair...
hell... from time to time i get an itch: wanting
to revive the use of the razor...
but inspecting the work of the Turkish barbers...
it's not a prized beard / moustache...
**** me... it's a fu manchu and a walrus
   (when did i last see a barber?
the last time: after i saw a *******...
so about a month)
                                      and a garibaldi...
obviously the chin needs hiding...

but you simply can't pull off the aesthetic
of an athletic torso
when you have bush-whack sprouts growing
over it...
impossible to do...
best to leave one area of the body soft
to allow for some: liver-boxing...
like today... 2 and a half hours...
i did the inspection of Havering...
the entire council... from Havering itself:
a little village on the tip of the "topography"...
on a hill... founded prior to the battle of Hastings...
1040... something or other...
all the way down to the village of Rainham...
just beside the A13 to the "left"
and the Thames river to the "right"...
Upminster and that other little village
beginning with A-...

every time i get on my cheap-*** bicycle
i find the meaning of life...
not that there's much life to be found:
but plenty of meaning...
if i'm this supposed 6ft category of man...
for the choosiest of women
and i have it... ahem... "rough"...
no wonder... but mea culpa moi:
i'm also a minimalist...
even if i wanted to own a car...
or a bike... i wouldn't want to...
own it: but also not... own it...
pay a tax on it... to use...
a road tax... an m.o.t. you name it...
i like owning something: by owning it...

the idea of a car is so... beside the point
of ownership that...
i simply don't want to own one...
my grandfather didn't own a car:
my grandmother always: the mantis that she:
still is... even though he's "transitioned"...
regretted how he: ****** away
a Mercedes-Benz...
me too... ol' Joseph... i'm also counting
how many i can find...
find what?
how many goldfish with no wishes i can find
at the end of a bottle of bourbon...

it suits me fine...
a life is much more worth living when...
you know that...
someone can't blame you for your shortcomings...
if were to be staged in a trial
and a woman would claim with as much audacity as
might be expected that:
i made her miserable because i had... have... have...
had... a drinking "problem":
i already had the SOLUTION!
it was drinking: it wouldn't be her redeeming
company... prostitutes are for that...

what have i inherited: perhaps all the men in
my lineage have had "problems" with women...
how much fun it is to **** one:
to be with one... i just need my mother as
the perfect example... of late: come 9pm she throws
a tantrum while i sort out the food
and help her with the household chores...
the one time i will or ever have used
Fahrenheit over Celsius...
165°C is the most perfect temp. of chicken meat...
anything above it... a memory of my grandmother
butchering a chicken twice:
it's one "thing" to **** a chicken...
it's another... to don't give it due justice
when it's cooked...
an oven cooked chicken with ******* so un-juicy
that you wish you could be eating pure gelatine...
smacker... teeth seem to stick together...
shoe-lacing of teeth on over-cooked
chicken meat...         it's an ugh it's a smacker...

i once dated a Russian girl...
she "thought": hardly... that it was some sort
of an innovation to drink cognac with a slice
of lemon...
she also "thought" that a suntan was
a signature of lower-breeding...
a suntan was a peasant "thing"...

juicy chicken *******... perhaps the skin isn't
"suntanned" enough... but at least the juices are running...
you can't butcher a bird twice...
it's enough killing it...
but not giving it justice when cooking it?!
that's... mildly: unfair...

in the supposing absence of the world:
alias for: other people...
i can't remember the last time i've had a dream...
i look at the clouds...
there's a bearded man
reclining... with a baby dragon
on his chest: puffing out smoke
into the shape of a speech bubble...
i'm bound to see such things...
since i don't dream...

perhaps if i were to dream: i wouldn't see
stories in the clouds...
i'm growing suspicious of the she-maine-****
in my bed right now...
she usually "disappears" when i light a cigarette...
eyes piercing...
i thought petting cats was
supposed to be easy! she was supposed
to ******* and do her solipsistic hair-do in purple
and peacock subtleties long before
i came around to harness the keyboard...
but there she is... eyes piercing...
like i'm about to groom her again
and go wild with her uptight **** of an ***
cycling between outer London and inner London:
yet still going back to the tested brothel!

- oh good, she decided she was implied as more
important in some "elsewhere"...
i can keep a focus on immoveable objects
in my vicinity...

closer to eternity on a bicycle than with
72 virgins... closer to eternity with 72 prostitutes...
if i were going to be thoroughly: frank...
cannibalistic outskirts: of Germany:
literally we eat our own...
since the Christian metaphors will...
simply not do...
excavate the juices... the German fringe
"movement" are teasing the questions:
literally!

i was gagging for either a bicycle...
Thurrock... the flatlands... teasing the Thames
to: hold the tide...
the German cannibals...
an unlikely project... on the fringes...
the world might blink thoroughly through
the day...
eyes open... wide: come the: NACHT...
i see you... Albert Fisch... pushing needles
into your pelvis...
for the added conductivity... blizzard...

you simply can't butcher a chicken: twice!
you can't overcook the meat!
it's not fair on the cluck! cluck!

while making a Waldorf "profanity"... i added some
poached: said... meat... reiterated... meat...
i was making a rosół...
a chicken broth... all that was missing
was the celeriac head...
celery stalks... carrots... a parsley root...
garlic... leek stalks...
fresh parsley... i had some leftovers...

the Waldorf "profanity"...
i added some poached chicken thigh meat
to the usual: mayo... lettuce...
toasted walnuts:
mind you... all nuts ought to be toasted...
beginning with cashews...
walnuts... but pecans esp.
apple & celery..
    
my heart breaks while it still doesn't find concerns
to abdicate: for the crows of via death...
"gammon": all these simple girls...
from the villages from Havering through
to Rainham...
such native beauties... lucky them...
i live two outsider roles...
not born in England: having most of my life
lived in England...
born in Poland: having most of my life
not lived in Poland: hey! quadratic!
i'm an outside either way i "will" it"
i'm an outsider in either England or Poland!
born in Poland without an inkling
to the daily affairs,...
living in England... without anything that
to be inherited as... sensibly... "their" own!

numbed by the drink....
**** serve mollusk: she's the pitch-perfect
harem piece,,,
The long wait for a Don McCafferty lawn-mowing job has paid off,
after his coronary, that was delivered by a chronic, blow-dart cough
My meaty lung was stolen by Loretta Young or Mighty Joe Young,
Fu Manchu, William Proxmire & Disco Stu's disco boy named Sue
Spurting muco-pus drives selfish love-goo on the bus for sickly you
If your boyfriend's girlfriend were my girlfriend we'd be baited-Jew
different as Sunday at night'd hold a leggings-not-tonight-night clue
Don't ask me something showroom-beauty new about Drysdale, my
pellagra-plagued beau as he is, once again, a cheese-paring no-show
Let's gnaw on Waffle House buns until your trans-pan gaskets blow
because it's the embers left by coal that give off the burnt-coal glow
that makes for fires kindled from sources fired from coke far below
The long wait for a Don McCafferty lawn-mowing job has paid off,
after his coronary, that was delivered by a chronic, blow-dart cough
My meaty lung was stolen by Loretta Young or Mighty Joe Young,
Fu Manchu, William Proxmire & Disco Stu's disco boy named Sue
Spurting muco-pus drives selfish love-goo on the bus for sickly you
If your boyfriend's girlfriend were my girlfriend we'd be baited-Jew
different as Sunday at night'd hold a leggings-not-tonight-night clue
Don't ask me something showroom-beauty new about Drysdale, my
pellagra-plagued beau as he is, once again, a cheese-paring no-show
Let us gnaw on Walffle House buns until your oil-pan gaskets blow
because it's the embers left by coal that give off the burnt-coal glow
that makes for fires kindled from sources fired from coke far below

— The End —