You and Judith
sang in the choir
at the Major’s

daughter’s wedding
and after
you walked along

to the house and gardens
where the reception
was being held

where there were marquees
for food of various kinds
and a huge beer tent

where there was champagne
and beer and wine
and soft drinks and lemonade

and she said
I will never have
a wedding like this

and she glanced around
at the marquees
and the people

in their fine clothes
and large hats
and waitresses walking

with trays of drink
maybe not
you said

taking two glasses
of champagne  
from the tray

of a passing waitress
not with the money
my dad gets

from farm work
she added
taking the glass

you offered her
and sipping
and you watched her lips

and how they worked
the crystal glass
and her fingers

holding the stem
as if it were a gold gem
worth more

than her father earned
in a lifetime
but I can always pretend

she said
and placed her arm
under yours

and walked you forward
over the grass
we can always pretend

it’s our wedding day
and these are our guests
and over the way

in the entrance
of one of the marquees
Hill stood with his

schoolgirl girlfriend Shirley
both supping the bubbly
him in his Sunday best

and she in a pink
and white dress
and her blonde hair

and stockings
and white shoes
and you said

would we invite Hill
and his girlfriend
or Tidy and his thick

caterpillar eyebrows?
she looked over at Hill
and pretty Shirley

and said
we have to be generous
when in love

and it’s our wedding day
and she lay her head
on your shoulder

and you watched
the bride and groom
over by the main marquee

kissing and embracing
and the people
around them

were cheering
and as you both
moved on

she said
where shall we go
for our honeymoon?

the south of France
you said
somewhere warm

and glancing at the sky
it carried a promise
of a coming storm.

.****... who came first... ol' Jim or ol' Jack? well i know that Jim began his stature of being the marquees de bourbon in 1795... but Jacky boy? personally i can't tell the difference between two... it's not like i'm drinking whiskey... the differences are so much more subtle... and every time i crack open a bottle... brothel perfumery comes to mind... that's what bourbon feels like: if you've ever visited a brothel... the scent in the air is filled with sweet sweet bourbon and soap and tender skins: no latex, no leather.

the day began with me having a cigarette,
and admiring rain drops hanging off
the washing line...
    oh... like that flock of birds...
that sit on a roof in rows...
it might have been the European starlings,
but, my guess is just as good as yours...
so let's say... a row of ~starlings...

now for the sentence...
no... wait...
a side-note addition postscriptum
of working from
a sample of a cultural exhange
program from Cold War II,
                  circa? now.

synthetic a priori is
actually synthetic a- priori,
there's no knowledge involved...
   hence the a- hyphen being
     added to denote: without...
only chance, a curiosity,
a haphazard...
   a genius invention,
a "mistake"...
   take champagne
or L.S.D., these are examples
of a case of synthetic a- priori,
i.e. they they take a concept
of synthesis, and apply it to:
with a prior to, said example...
a discovery!

now for trying to write that sentence
using 7 variant dialects...
mind you...
i think i figured out the circumflex
over the omicron
in the Kashubian word for boy:
knôp...
             see... the linguistic explanation
is a tongue tied /uo/
doesn't work for me...
i found a better depiction...
      of ô:
i.e. kno'op - the apostrophe better
explains the circumflex hanging over
the omicron...
   it's... such an outdated linguistic
system...
to explain a diacritical mark in a word
with merely more letters,
i.e. ô (circumflex,
   which will not appear
in commaful's html) = /uo/
   i prefer the new method i conjured...
use the whole word
so? the ô in the word knôp = kno'op...
or at least... look here,
there's a U in there, oddly enough,
using the apostrophe you can
create a U shape with this "x-ray":

                kno   op
                       U
                                     but saying:
knuop?
                  well, my taste is different...
oh... and... today i watched a scary video...
people were giving out their D.N.A.
details out for free..
saliva swabs...
                     that bothers me...
so... you think these ancestry companies...
will not pass the data
to crime prevention agencies?
   you don't think they're creating
a database... not that you might commit
a crime... but if you were to...
isn't this... minority report?

anyway... looking at these dialects...
oh... look...
     an overring... which is typical
for Scandinavian languages...
  notably in the chemical constant
of the å (ångström)...
     well... that **** wasn't invented
by the Masovians...
  it had to come with the Vikings,
passing down the Vistula to found
Kiev...

(you know you're writing something
difficult to read...
when even you experience... tedium)...
you just know it...

now, the sentence...
utilizing (in no particular order):
Kurpian, Kashubian, Silesian,
Gaelic, Pict Gaelic, Cymru and Cornish...
oh ****... revising the Book of Revelation's
seven headed beast...
i.e. "revising"... I, V, X, L, C, D, M...

now for some more brothel
perfume... to think of a decent sentence...

( cicha woda, brzegi rwie
   - the silent water tears away
     at the edges -
so much for the freedom of speech,
so much said, and yet,
silence... eats away the fringes
of society, while the majority,
are fathomed, to be subdued
by a lullaby...

  a liar does not walk
on stilts - i.e. a liar is no
             longshank (edvard) -

       yr łgårz a 'dèanamh nynj
          ar hir giry
      
- a łżélc je chan eil
                   hir-aranau -

certainly not:
Eideard Fadacasan.
bheith acu:
             déanta úsáid roinnt
   Gaelach,
however much broken.
                                                         ­          )

p.s. if you're not in some way intoxicated,
or in a "schizoid" state of mind,
invoking ciphers and metaphors...
how the hell do you know you're
writing poetry?
is reading the book a revelation
something to be taken...
literally, or with a grain of cipher?
who the hell writes poetry
like its some reply to a company memo?
who makes poetic language
authoritarian,
giving out commands,
or worse still: advice?
     who makes the art of poetry
less than a hallucination of language,
of phonetic encoding that
transcends, phonetic encoding?!
poetry is bound to an inherent
incoherency, because it does not
translate into rhetoric...
it is a fascination with the elevation
of autism into the realm
of the demigod Solipssus...
it can't be coherent,
it cannot be found to not be teasing
the para-schizoid dimension
of the reality of language...
listen...
  i'm not giving you sentences,
i'm not spewing the lawyer gerbil
language of... god prevent us
using the dictionary,
and direct meaning...
we all know that lawyers
have not knowledge of the existence
of the dictionary...
they skipped that part...
and went straight for the thesaurus...
******* weasels...
poetry is the ultimate authority
of language...
if it's confusing,
it's supposed to be confusing...
how can you expect to say:
a square is a square is a square...
how can a poet be poet...
when he hasn't experienced
an auditory hallucination...
you trip on psychoactive substances...
you become a painter...
but people are afraid of what they
might "hear" compared to
something they might, "see"...
the eye is an enthralling palace...
but the ear?
     ah... the scary place...
how would i ever write poetry,
to the coherency standards of
sane people literature?!
   can anyone even comprehend
the mundane reality of
writing sane people literature?!
of course they can...
most of that literature is adopted
into movies...
or, whatever translates the x-ray
into muscles, body, flesh...
you can't be expected to write sane poetry...
you're already dealing
with the metaphysical...
   which implies:
that, which translates
the transcendence of the physical
into the meta- realm...
   of language...
  the, literally is the one poison
arrow that kills the art of poetry...
poetry is, by far,
the best translation of philosophy...
whereas the far *******,
sorry, darker aspect of poetry,
is the, "translation" of sophistry...
but that aspect of "poetry" is
a lesser form of sophistry...
esp. within the realm of populist
poetics...
it's called: latching onto the bandwagon
of what was already said,
and emphasizing a partisan
language of appeasement...
no, philosophy is not a pretentious
genre in literature...
it's just ******* difficult...
plain and simple...
   for a philosophy book,
to be translated into a poem...
5 years, and the greatest aspect of
this scenario?
   it'... inexhaustible...
who the hell expected for poetry
to be a sanity bastion for those
who do not have enough *******
in them to write fictional narrations,
and character plots of expansion?!
        
to end? my fetish for the deutschezung:
   ein steinherz,
                ein leeren verstand:
         ein eisenwerden -
              und die vergessene welt:
wohnte im durch eisen sein.

There's a Poet who dreams of a Gateway to Heaven
Not some cold austere Gate bolted and closed in your face
As if to say "Clear off! You're not wanted here anymore"
But instead a lovely warm welcoming Gate  
A brightly colourful Gate with lots of bunting and ribbons on it
And a big banner over the top announcing
"Welcome Great Poet"

It'd be a bit...a bit like Noddy in Toyland
And there'd be all these pretty young girls with bowls in their hands
Spreading rose petals on the ground for me to walk upon
A beautiful path laid out before me, a carpet of sweet scenting loveliness
And there'd be other boys and girls there too strumming lutes and harps
Like beautiful critics... singing my praises
Inside the Gate it'd be like this wonderful Park
With lovely flowers and shrubs and trees
With marble fountains and statues and quiet flowing streams
With radiant kids and beautiful people and  lovely marquees like as if you were attending some wonderful party or banquet,

And then you'd hear a bustle in the hedgerow
But it's only a bunch of publishers vying with one another
Trying to get my signature on a multi million dollar contract
Suddenly ahead of me there'd be this wonderful magnificent throne
It'd be offered to me... offered to me as my true place... my true home
And then a man would come and he'd humbly bow and kneel before me
He'd be offering something to me....
Why! It's the Nobel Prize for Literature
I'd smile and say "Ah shucks guys sure I was only doin' a few rhymes... and a few stories".

Take me to a miracle
I asked of "no one in particular."

Give me a philharmonic in the sky
And a blazing talking bush.

Let me see a ******’s ghost
and a lame man dance a jig.

I’d like to catch the show just once
before I flee this vale of fears!

Then no one in particular chided me
called me “vanity’s clown.”

Still, I tried to call him out
in the realm where words are born.

I thought that if I could crack the code of
how a vision breaks the void.

or how a proud and callous tongue
can raise a sanguine humor

or how a toddler breaks the silence
with his first astounding word,

then I'd topple “no one in particular”
from his lofty station!

But alas I failed to own the source
of a solitary thought or word

or what it means to care or conjure
or why I came to seek a miracle.

A hidden voice from nowhere in particular
gently slaked my feeble pride,

“Surrender to each dawn and dusk;
they're all the miracles you need.”

*December, 2007

Going crazy in the normalest way
So jealous, so alone
The world doesn't open up to me
Because I press my face against glass doors
The windshields are fogging as I focus in on my disgusting and shameful acts of mutual *******
Waiting till life comes knocking at the window with a flashlight
Asking me to touch my nose,
Walk a straight line

You make me wanna **** myself
But I don't wanna die
I've just run out of ways to make you
Look into my eyes
I'm standing at a crossroads with nothing on all sides
No matter where I walk the future's always past the sunrise

I get up late each morning
Forget what I was dreaming
The memory of my eternal self
Floating through infinite kaleidoscopic
Worlds of pure imagination
Fades as easily as the lurid detail
Of the *** dreams I wake from in paranoid self-delusion

The church marquees say the skies open soon
But they lie
How could the answer to my woes be shining at me on the roadside
Between home and community college?
Everything is everywhere
But thus far NOTHING is here
There's an invisible dome over our heads
And none crane their necks to see beyond
The social order needs tending to
The community garden can wait
We'll always be able to survive on
Just-in-time produce deliveries
To our nearest grocery store
We have more important concerns
Like the meaningless jobs devised
By an unthinking static regime
To grow the economy and keep us from every questioning this way of life
The American way, the baby boomer's dream
Hidden within a shaded alcove
Of the barren wasteland we decided would suit the planet better
Than an unlimited, self-regulating biosphere
Powered by solar energy and God's will

We really did eat the fruit of the tree
But we didn't let it **** our egos
We didn't break on through
Adam and Eve didn't know the machine elves
And if they did the Vatican will have no mention of it
We must no longer be individuated consciousness
But we fail to see that we are ALREADY ONE
With each other
And everything
Even I cannot see it
When I spite my own flesh and blood
For a little bit of sensual grokking
Drinking in green eyes and pink lips

No jealousy!
I am you!
We are me!
Where does this jealousy come from?
The inability to SEE
OPEN YOUR EYES
OPEN MY EYES

I am wading out knee deep into the evening's drinks.
I let my eyeballs take a dip as my wallet plays the breaker.
You'd think the woman had tourettes the way she tries to wink.
She flirts no better than the sisters who oft walk god's acre.

Maestro, another!

A black suit hammers ritzy tusks somewhere across the bar.
The waves upon the wires lap across my eardrum's shore.
My lonely, daydream doll is finally called off from afar.
I'm far too low and far too blitzed to enjoy another bore.

Maestro, another!

When I recall how we met, I transubstantiate my veins
with hopes to find a fertile mound to plough to rude degrees.
Too many furrows to recall, but still your name remains.
So, still I hunt for lonely moths who dance beneath marquees.

Maestro, another!

Why does every truth align with all the stars at night
only to scatter just as broken glass when morning breaks?
Every wholesome oath I swear to cherish all my life
melts with every dewdrop my lawn's unkept blades shake.

.i did write about rooney mara once, didn't i? porcelain beauty... eh... not mandible beauty, the sort of beauty parallel to the Mona Lisa... the sort of beauty that's not mandible like the beauty of a fat *******'s beauty of stretch marks and extra flab... ******* a beached whale... you know... a mechanic's type of fetish for a broken down car engine... rooney mara? ms. porcelain doll beauty? that **** you just paint, you don't **** it... thinking to yourself: if i **** it, will it break?!

                       is... is...
this guy known as
yungblud...
singing the song
california...
dyslexic or something?
no, wait, wait...
he's hiding a lisp?
**** it... i'll just do
the camp *******
of reading the sunday times
style supplement
magazine, interviewing
cheryl tweedy...
****!
who the hell put on
van morrison's
brown eyed girl on?!
   yum-yum-sloppy-seconds
thank-you-very much...
like... a face that allows
you decentralize your
phallus from orientating
it around cow Martian
testicles and...
those floral patterns
in a ******...
   kinda like... joey fisher...
see... i'm under the
polygraph of a liter of
ms. amber...
     who the ****... ha ha...
lies when drunk / drinking?
she's about a liter tall...
(insert snigger)...
and she has a Havana ***
girth...
all that's missing is
pickled onions...
and some raw cherry
tomatoes...
ah ha ha ha!
god... i love reading these
articles...
i love women in general...
not unlike those glory days
when women found
*** easy...
with the likes of...
oh **** me... there's a list,
which implies a colon:
tony curtis...
   shhhhh... it...
  i can only think of tony curtis...
charlton heston doesn't
really fill the bill...
ooh ooh!
  **** jagger!
**** it... let's leave it at two...
in the meantime,
the bite of reality:
        
*****... what you gonna do
when your favorite
sugar-grandpa is kicking
the bucket?
   fix it up with the types
of losers of my generation...
lament of the first world war...
the missing men...
or the Haj route to the Kaaba
of a Saudi Sheik's harem?
me?
   i'm a father every time i ****
off...
   daddy in a tissue...
both father... and genocidal
maniac... i killed more "people"
than ******...
hey...   appetites are appetites...
but it's not as bad as if i was
given the incentive of
a circumcision...
   now... you have your dress of genitals...
and i have my *******'s worth
of tux, white **** and bow-tie...
we're even...

and to even think...
when we were leaving high-school,
i wrote down my ambitions
in the leaving book my two prime
ambitions...
either living a bohemian lifestyle
of an artist in some European
capital (Paris... god, please, Paris),
or becoming a priest...
   well... i'm doing both...
a covert monk...
          there's the god's **** of beer,
there's ms. amber,
the marquees de bourbon...
               and...
                usually a newspaper and
a blank space in pixel paper...

poor boy gotta laugh...
poor girl gotta fish, tame or hunt...
rich boy gotta party...
rich girl gotta dream about
a fling -
some variant of an indie
romantic comedy.

I'm a tool pondering skyscapes.
Fondling a memory
Left behind
On sunset marquees.
It raced into the horizon like
A toad on the road.
A neon dream waving farewell.

Exploring mindsets:
An act in caressing
Bloodbath tesseracts.
A roundhouse rollercoaster,
Spinning at velocity of perfume
Hitting nasal perforations.

Core memories surface along spine cutlets,
No longer intrinsic
Doubt.
I'm settling for more.
A bathed blue baby is a moment
Too long to endure.

Hindsight is
A parson's lake passage;
A mad monster yet to be tamed;
A grain of salt to a fresh wound made;
Moments of grace from a fake great ape.

Blue morons slide
Into Mormon jovial footsteps.
Derided ice forestry into
King's cloaked ancestry.
Which makes family the
Opposite of attraction.

And yet here I am
Talking to you,
Eyelight through obelisks
In hotbox barricades.
Hiding behind
A past of newspapers.
Headline reads 'ONLY DEVINE'
'TRADE REIGN WARNS JEWELS'
'PRINCE THREATENS ECONOMY
... AND CROWN.'

Wipe the frown,
Draw the sword.
Don't be ignored anymore.

Pay phone change
48 hour flights
waiting up to hear your voice
monastery bells tolling at dusk
words that are crisp upon the air
war stories told many times over
the blur of life on the other side of the window
my cold hands
kohl rimmed eyes
light through blue stained glass
lazy lovers
nostalgic chord progressions
that dress that you never wore
watery footprints on the pavement
the abandoned shoes on the telephone wire
the marquees we'll never remember
rose-tipped clouds
the way he looked at her, as if it were the first time
silhouetted palm trees
and thoughts
too small to be voiced

connected by nothing
speaking to no one
time passing through itself
folding in on itself
Allowing oneself to breathe
Allowing oneself to let go
Allowing oneself to admit
that they will never fully no
the magazines that have been read
have been burning all this time
the drinks have been drunk
the drunks in their tanks
people asleep
are now awake
form is no friend
of
mine
i asked her out
she bought
expensive wine
whispers shivered naked across the cambridge lawn
i fell in love
with a damp and sullen log
connected
disconnected
in love
out of love
we are are different every minute
every second
thoughts that were once there
are there again
but in a different way
no mind has seen itself in the mirror
and it never will
as the bee buzzes
wings press themselves desperately, immaturely
forever in mourning
sour **** forlorn & burning
so you said I was crazy?
and then what did you do?
I cast a net into a white sea when no one was looking
and cried the rest of the day
because I knew to be understood
was to die all over again
only to be born again
in a world
where nonsense is the norm
and normal
is obscene & fat
and full of goose's wearing rose colored hats of hate
where broken bats blink blindly in deep caves
forgotten terraces where lover's broke themselves
in sand dune dixie cups illiterate unfortunates
whining wino's wish they were richer
and teacher's that fell in love
with knee capped teenage blisters
pencil pusher's punish themselves
for a lack of ill received love funds
Molly H. laughs like a fairy in a tale we all know
and we see coffee sprouts
while women cry in full pout
out of control
our world and out of it
the glimmer of a women's eye
is a man's only true prize
dazed in a haze of lack luster filibuster
a man released
is a man soon to be in death's seat
for the moon is nothing but a sliver of white light
when you sit alone on a dark black beach
with lapping waves, mind in full craze
and a conversation and corruption of love's maze
could it be?
could I see?
what it feels like to believe in life's magic tragicness
where fashion is to be naked
and nakedness is to die and be replaced by the computer
our own demise
was the mind's first ideal prize
dead from the beginning
solitude and a prize for 1st but never winning
tell grandma in spanish that I loved her
i see her face smiling, tired, and dead
i wish i could have seen her wed
but i wasn't there
i was gone
somewhere else saying i don't belong here
i don't see the sky
i don't see the waves
i don't believe in a truth seer's eyes
im not believing in me, I'm not believing in anyone
i see the sun, i see the fun, i see a fat ladies buns
but then i know i ain't around for the after party
or the after after party
i just see the rhythm in the earth
faster then i can see someone else pouring their milk
and the smile a woman you never met
but you know you've seen her before
the flick of a lip ring
the sing of a sing song ping
where the pong is fast then the ping
yeah you know about the last thing?
but wait
we've been waiting for so long for you baby
and i tell'er that were almost there
the sky ain't the limit and the limit ain't the ticket
where the neighbor says theirs trouble
but then when i think about it
i can't quickly say
but i know i'll leave and i don't know if I'll love again
or be jealous again
or hate again
or laugh again
but i tread through the hate, the seeds of black dust
the orange blossoms that come every day, every month
i carry on for the word not for myself
i ain't a martyr, i was never a good starter
for the milk man does his work
and the writer writes his words
and the roads are paved
and the teacher's teach the little one's
how to behave
but me
i didn't get much schooling
i was too busy fooling
with the back road marquees of a movie theatre
that was never meant to be
and i watched throughout the night
wonderin' to myself
how i got into this mess and who's fault was it
but it wasn't anyone's fault
just a miss hap, a hoax
so take no naps till day break
why can't some people take a joke?

I had forgotten
the brilliance
of the country night,
it's firmament crystal bright,
given all those years
blinded by the city lights,
the screen crawling marquees,
the undulating neon,
the flashing photon peep parades,
the incessant gyre of emergency beacons,
the try too hard candle dinners,
better a distant star
that reminds us who we are
than the sun unmoved
in one's back yard.

Don't pray for me, in the back seats of interchangeable cars streaking interchangeable nights from here to the edge of manifest destiny, daydreams of sleeping cities on waking seas, whiskey shots in the crowded western fog, chain smoking deaths of mindfulness, of where it starts and where it ends, of friends pledging reverence to Halle Sellasie in wire framed lenses fogged by the afterthoughts of a failed drug test, by the curves of highways beckoning the sick to leave it all behind forever, while all the freaks in the freak kingdom watch Thompson's wave crash against the pier, waiting for the resurgence, the return of the feeling that shook the streets and forced the living to live, and the streets responded, hushed under the shadow of the marquees: This cannot happen on its own. The fight is not yet over and it never will be. Do not lay your arms to rest until they bury you in the rain. Embrace your human war. Leave your house. Make them hear you

She looked at me through the bottom of a glass
Crystal eyes and wet strawberry lips
I looked at her through the bottom of the bottle
Seashell dimples and wild dandelion hair


A scarlet chest in exchange for a day in her sands
Swing set smiles
Between blistering footsteps
And icy ocean kisses
Undressed and drowning at the bottom of her bed
Feeling like ****, feeling ******* high
Serpentine limbs beg me
“Stay”
Our own little mattress comedy
Cast across the plaster in pale light


They’re all so ******* domestic
She kicks the chair from under me
Abrupt masochistic compulsions
Baptized in her holy see
Smoldering marquees and lascivious repartee
Let’s drink every drop of this satanic chablis
Until the bottle’s empty
Until we’re back at the bottom
And you look for me
And I look for you

The whir of the engine
In the dark night
Marquees blur as the car drives by
Night lights flash and fade

High on music
Lights and sound
Feeling alone in a crowded room
Bodies all around
Alive and loud but without a sound

Booming beats
Spreading numb
Becoming someone I shouldn't become
Unraveling in revelry
The threads are undone

Next week royalty is coming to our Island
just up the road a stones throw to the military cemetery
men and lorry loads of seating and marquees
have trundled past the window these past weeks.
Everyone received an invitation I am told
I must have slung it in the bin
with all the other bin stuff that comes through the letterbox.
The royals will arrive by way of helicopter
everyone else will have to catch the ferry, make of that what you will.
It will be broadcast on BBC television on Tuesday, if I have got it right.
Of course the intrigue will get to me too much for me not to tune in.
Its all to do with the Battle Of Jutland, or more correctly all those that lost their lives there. I wonder what all those young men were thinking when they realised that they were about to die.

the three women in my life...
ms. amber
    Sophia Philos
and          
   marquees de bourbon -

ah...
  
    polyester is an absolutely
genius material...
just bought myself a new hoodie..

it's like... you walk out
on a cold night...
      and you can feel the cold...
but you're not actually cold...
you actually end up
coming home, *******,
and realizing that you're
sweating...

plus... when you wash it...
it literally comes out dry...
polyester is genius...
thank you w. h. caruthers...

plastic in clothing...
ha... who would have thought...
obviously there's also
35% cotton in the hoodie...
well... a hoodie that's 2 in one...
one side all polyester...
the other 35% to 65% (cotton).

.i haven't been told by my cohabitants to put the music... that's so ****** embarrassing, esp. if the music is trans-generational, like the album welcome to wherever you are by INXS... why is it embarrassing? you're caught up in enjoying something, and the opposite side of the "argument" is not that it's ****** music, but it's a bit too loud... but what you're going to do, i need some time experiencing a different medium, while a device's battery is charged.

my, my my my, what an interesting article
in today's saturday times magazine
supplement...
                 for all the alt. media criticism
of the legacy... i still gravitate toward
a decent newspaper article now and again...
to balance the ingestion a little...

the article?
    what men are really thinking
  (and why they'll tell a chatbot and
not a human)...
wow...
   what a plethora of worries...
commons themes?
not going to the gym,
going to the gym too much,
not enough ***,
not being tall enough,
not having perfect teeth,
existential dread,
Instagram,
   general ******* in
the current year,
          financial demands,
living back at home with
the parents,
   wealth & appearances,
female expectations
about sharing chores,
women not being eager
to cook,
     **** as subsuming
lack of *** / #metoo movement,
arguing over political issues,
females thinking
  male problems are "problems"
i.e. jokes,
     not feeling wanted,
worries of ending up alone,
not planned pregnancy,
not earning enough for retirement,
saving money for a house:
but not living a life of meaning
beside the bricks & mortar,
divorce,
     cheating girlfriends
  (and not having a problem with it),
a bigger ***** and bigger hands,
growing bald,
    death of mothers, of fathers,
women watching too much t.v.,
having stretch marks
and loose skin after weight-loss...

wow... what an array of problems...
well, for the last one?
you can only achieve weight-loss
without these side-effects
in two ways...
     a decent amount of time...
6 weeks...
         a good diet, notably?
fruit for the evening meal...
   and... NO GYM...
bicycle... or swimming...
   i chose cycling, and the odd pop
to the pool...
why? those are calorie evener(s)...
toning...
                when you swim
you use your entire body...
when you cycle?
           we are talking about your legs...
what major organs are
in your legs?
   muscle skin and bone...
you can't get stretch marks on your legs!
and what is primarily
about the gym? upper-body...
major organs... hence excesses of skin...

what keeps up at night?
some decent music...
  and one of my "girlfriends"
   (yes, that' a metaphor):
either ms. amber (whiskey),
marquees de bourbon (Jackie boy)
and there was a third...
i keep forget her...
but there is a fourth...
  oh god, she's an absolute *****!
i go drunk nuts with her...
we throw racial slurs are each other,
because she's Russian, you see...
and i'm just a dumb Polak...
  who is she? ***** Natasha...
or Nikita...
                   i rarely remember her
real name...
   and she's a stealthy *****...
i need just an excess of her to feel
the pinch of her teeth on my tongue...
*****!
               me and Nikita don't work...
(INXS - back on line)...
sure... i worry...
    i have large hands... i'm tall...
so... bigger *****?
   what for? i'd look for a girl with small
hands...
   but then again...
why look?
    if philosophy taught me anything
is that...
               well... philosophy can provide
the perfect delusion...
that there is a woman out-there...
and she's the ideal woman...
           an ideal, a Sophie, a Sophia...
and you love her deeply...
       that was my thinking before i started
reading philosophy,
while i was loosing weight as
a teenager...
    now? my body returned to its
former bear shape and posture...
slightly overweight for my height...
but, "overweight" like those guys
     at the Olympics in the heavyweight
division of classical wrestling...
if you have a body image issue:
just watch the Olympics,
you actually need different height
to weight ratios to perform certain sports...
you don't have to look like
a football ballerina - and sensitive
like a French footballer (that's
an insider saying, if you watch football)...

oh yeah, losing weight worked,
i received the attention of girls for
about 3 years...
   and for the most part?
it brought me nothing but trouble...
notably with one...
big ******* trouble...
so i decided to drink my way out of it...
out on alcohol related weight...
problem solved...
  if all that work to get a woman's
attention brought with it so much
*******...
               might as well go back
to feeling comfortable in my own body...
don't women do that anyway?

and if i reach the point in time
when i'll loose the roof over my head?
**** it, kamikaze.

it only requires about two drinks to get
through the internet alt. media
commentators...
after that... my head starts to feel like
a balloon... which pops...
           and then i'm like:
       **** it... i'm not wasting ol' Jack
on this...
                evidently i'm being force fed
some sort of agenda...
and i can't waste a good bottle
of the marquees de bourbon on these
videos... total screen time?
   roughly 30 minutes...
        then i crank the volume up...
put on a decent playlist and start doing
my rhythmic nodding to a song...
sometimes turning my body into
a drumming machine...
   and...
        look out the window...
mesmerized by the horizon...
the line of trees of the forest i sometimes
go into at night...
       not exactly bothered by
the distance... but looking at something
far away helps me to think,
well... "think": more like my mind
turning in a mouth that feeds on an abyss...
then onto the nearby brick walls
for... whatever reason i think is
needed to justify paying for art...
  hell... you don't want to look at a painting,
pay for it? here's a brick wall...
          again: the genius of polyester...
  how... it repels rain...
   walked out with a dry t-shirt....
   came back with a dry t-shirt...
   took a break at the bus-stop to smoke
a cigarette and finish my beer...
was honked by a white van passing by..
evidently a man did the...
            thumb pressing on the ring and
middle fingers curled,
with the index and pinky finger extended...
i was once mistook for a Richard...
      guess i must have done something
right...
   and when the music comes on?
screen time? 5 minutes over a span of
5 hours...
  to mobile phone...
no presence on any dating app.
               facebook... yeah...
but it was a university thing in the beginning...
you needed a university based
email account...
               i was...
    s0458467@sms.ed.ac.uk
    student no. 458,467...
this is how you originally could log into
facebook, set up an account...
you needed a university email...
               before the firm expanded...
how the hell was i supposed to know
that people would feel like they do,
now... about the firm's expansion,
extending to +13 age restrictions...
   at the time, 11 years ago when the website
arrived by word of mouth to
these isles... everyone was in on it...
i have to say...
                      it was a good decision
to delete my past...
         clingy... thistle...
           i'll cling to the past i chose to cling
to... and that's still about 10 really
important memories for me to keep...
the internet...
a great place to bypass editors and
publishers...
                        making videos was never
on the cards...
       the whole passive ingestion...
whereby you can do two things at once...
point being...
   you can't exactly listen to a video
commentary and listen to music...
so i chose writing...
     because you can then listen to music...
and that's far better than
making videos...
      since... i gather: music out-competes
this video commentators...
and how all the more non-intrusive
a piece of writing is...
                   plus... you don't hear my voice:
you hear your own;
and as someone once accused me of,
in terms of: liking the sound of my own voice...
not at all...
                 i'm hardly the rhetorician,
the Ciceroesque orator...
   i'm no Churchill...
                           and god forbid that i become
one... ah... ancient Rome...
                 philosophy only emerged
with Marcus Aurelius, the stoic...
   otherwise ancient Rome has no known
philosophers, only sophists,
akin to Seneca and Cicero...
   i honestly can't think of any Roman
philosopher... not one.

The Holiday tree and Rockerfeller Center
Eating chestnuts while walking and looking at the Fifth avenue December windows
Seeing a Broadway a show in person and walking to the Theater marquees
Hugging and seeing friends
Attending Television tapings and enjoying restaurants while sitting indoors with no fear or consequences
Many truths are becoming evident and we must move forward and get out of the past befote it destroys us further

Shopping at Farmers markets outdoors
My sweetheart's birthday is paused like our great city but we will celebrate him as best we can
We have great photographs and memories of trips to enjoy but looking forward to more of these and gathering with those we love

C@rainbowchaser2020

Lights, marquees,
  3.5 million people
unpleasant smog, glass buildings
twinkle like night stars.

Cigarette smoke
  gin on the rocks
a lone over aged woman sings in the night
dry exhausted lips, underpaid dress

what is there to love
   when you let yourself go
      and now sit alone. . .