Performing on Saturn

Hi dudes and dudettes
Welcome to Saturn club rings and today we are playing poems and songs that will make you feel really cool
The first song is the west coast eagles victory song
We are the eagles
The west coast eagles
We are the ones who won that game
You see we have the power
To win the big game
Go the eagles who are one win away
You see with the eagles
The west coast eagles
Yes we are powerful
End tonight we will be in the club
To sink down a few cleansing ales

Yes that was a cool song and now here is our second song which is called hey dude what are you on about
You see when I was a partying
In the cold of this city
I see people trying to get me in
To their little gang oh yeah
I told them I didn’t wanna be in their gang but they said you are joining us oh yeah
I tried to wriggle out of it
It isn’t what I am into, no
Because I am into partying in a different way
Then these thugs came up to me
And said these little words
Hey dude, what are you on about
Then I went to the football club
To watch the very important match yes that makes me feel so divine
And my dad said yes your majesty when I told him what to do is was as if I didn’t know what to do
You see back then when I was a hooligan a ***** rotten hooligan
I found it hard to think what the **** was going on
Then these dudes said to me
Hey dude what is going on
Partying in the club is cool
And they really break no flaming rule you see god isn’t up there anymore because the bible was absolute ******* when they tell you everything that is in it
Hey dude what is going on

Thank you and that was a great song and our next song is yes your majesty
You see when I was young I told my family to say what I wanted them to say
Like you say heavy metal is cool
You say Martin Luther king had a dream
You say who is going to win the footy
You say you say you say
Dad goes yes your majesty in a very posh way
Yes your majesty after I say you say
Yes it is cool in many ways
Dad goes yes your majesty
Every fucken day
After I say you say
I told him, no I am not the queen
And I am no king either
I just want you to say
That I am the best
Just say west coast are the best well, dad just said yes your majesty yes you flaming majesty after I say you say
Yes your majesty every single day

That was a good song and now it is time to party with me
We drink taquila and bourbon yeah
We drink beer and wine for you
We get high on mariguana as well as *******
Yes it is time to party oh yeah we say
You say party time is here
Yes your majesty
You say get down and boogie
Yes your majesty
You see you can see me in my party clothes
Yes and my nanna is having a doze
Drinking beer to past time
I say fun you say cool
Yes your majesty I say what I want
I am a tool and a ****
Who loved life every day
Party party party mate
Party with a how’s it going mate
Get down with a bit of methane
Yeah mate yeah time to play

What a song and now here is winning the final

It is mighty hard to win a final
Especially when both teams want to be there
And the crowd yell out forever
Yeah mate yeah
When I get up this morning.
I will watch the Canberra afl grand final
Who the ******* will win
Well it will be close and it will be fun
How many people will turn up
It will be hard for both teams
Cause winning this grand final
Is what each team wants to do
Gets out there to score a goal
Goal goal a pretty good goal
And west coast are one win away of a grand final after coming back on Collingwood
With the McGuire family cheering on the pies but when west coast won yippee I ay
It was a shame that the swans are no more this year but Sydney still has a representative
There let’s hope they win
Go the demons beat the hawks
Don’t move don’t you dare squawk it will be hard oh hard to win that match so just get your ticket yes mate, clear the pickets welcome to Australia Britain or France going to this party in just my underpants
And you feel pretty cool as your favourite team wins the all important final oh yeah

Goodbye, time to go must get up to watch the Canberra afl
Go ainslie

the reason behind some of my poetry: i do appreciate the fact that some of them are sloppy, and aim at crafting an expansion of the vocabulary i already have, but as i drink i relax it happens automatically, but i know i can return to the sober reality of increased volume - all i know is that when i do this unwinding into what i can only call abstraction, it's because i'm entering the joycean domain of finnegans wake, which isn't exactly brothers grimm or disney territory, given that the book is dedicated to his struggle with his daughter's diagnosis of schizophrenia. one example comes with words like the prefix nou(n)- and the suffix -verb, which i borrowed from the kantian transformation of the word phenomenon (that which can be clearly understood due to the no. of similar analogues, and their seemingly constant re-, i.e. repetition, recurrence, re-emergence), hence the meaning i derived from the new word is: the activity behind a noun, e.g.: wheel... wheels rotate on a flat surface, and due to gravity roll down hills; another e.g.? bird - birds sing in varying degrees of diversity and they fly, and share a common origin with reptiles, since they hatch from eggs. i think that's enough examples behind the meaning nouverb... perhaps i might change it to nouneverb, because if translated into french, the french might make connotations with noué vogue, and i don't want this word to mean simply new verb, but the activity behind the noun.*

poets are known to use technical terms of poetry,
to invoke a knowledge of the topic,
perhaps even to condense matter, nonetheless
they use technical terms for balance, and orientation
in what they're saying, the key indicators as it were;
but i find it strange that in every philosophy
book i read, there are no prime technical terms:
of course you will find logic compounds,
like phenomenology, ontology, metaphysics,
but you find that such balancing acts require
a constant reminder of these words, and when
inserted into very long expression, there is no
prime balance with the words that i have not seen
expressed in any philosophy book i read,
whether it be heidegger, kant, kierkegaard,
sartre, nietzsche, tatarkiewicz, whoever -
none of them use grammatical words, nor have
produced an account of the dynamic when
deviating from standard lessons in grammar
which can be longwinded - and an absolute
dross; my english teacher didn't like to teach it,
in my two years under him we have less
than a dozen lessons, most concerned with
writing formal letters, and whether to end
the letter signing under either yours sincerely
or yours faithfully... the expectation was to
speak it fluently and mould the written language
from that - if it's comprehensible with the tongue,
it will be comprehensible with the quill.
but enough of that, i'm still adamant to stress
my censorship of dreaming, perhaps because
i just loathe freud and find jung quirky enough
with his religiosity and that book of his
about hallucinations and telekinesis like in that
film interstellar where the books fall from the shelf,
but it's primarily because there is a more important
subplot: today i woke up and remembered something
from 20 years ago, primary school, year 5 (aged 9),
our teacher called in sick and we were left to our
own devices, we were assigned the task of doing
long-division mathematics, and long-multiplication,
the whole class was in furore, but i just did the
****** task (fresh off the boat, you know, vito corleone
ambition and what not) - teacher's name ms. mcguire -
the teacher came back, scolded the whole class
excluding me - then she gave instructions to do the
assignment i did the previous day, and she told me
i could do whatever i wanted... just like the whole
class the previous day... so i read a book.
oh hell, if we're going that far back... pst... a secret,
on the gants hill roundabout there used to stand
a magnolia coloured cinema, the odeon...
i remember seeing armageddon there even though
a few hours prior i fell into a pseudo-epileptic fit
(a weird sensation in the head, crawling into the jaws,
i clenched my jaws, and then a spasm that travelled
into my stomach and started the convulsions and
the pain increased... i've had about three of these
in my life... for days on end after the last one,
i kept falling to sleep in fear... a fear of clenching my
teeth) - oh and the mummy, the little princess
(even though i bought a ticket for jumanji),
gladiator, lord of the rings fellowship of the ring
(about 3 times if not more), mission impossible,
the three kings when i broke one of the seats and
fell on my ***... but back then cinema tickets were
bearably affordable... not anymore... and it took
ages for the film to be available on vhs (when
blockbuster was still around - actually, there is one
left near the loughton central line station - a bit
back to the future for me; yeah, and valentines park
nearby where you could play 18 hole short-distance
golf, but that's also gone - now all you have is a block
of flats... just a massive vitro phallus.

I had lunch with Randy, between classes today. It was a perfect day. The sky was an infinite, capri blue, the wind was stirring the environment, clouds were wispy and on high - in the fast lane where they could rush along - and birds cruised, gliding with no need to flap. New Haven can’t seem to decide if it’s spring or not, we’ll get a nice day only to have it snatched back, like we proved undeserving.

We sat on the tight, golf-course-like grass that covers science hill. I had to ponytail my hair because it was whipping in the twisting, physical wind and we had to keep an eye on everything - cups, wrappers and our books - because the invisible air was a mischievous thief.

Randy’s a divinity doctoral student. He was one of Peter’s (by bf) friends, originally, until I stole him for myself. They were roommates at Doc-House, a large, frat-like residence shared by doctoral students doomed to poverty by meager stipends. I like to hang with him when we can, he’s delightful and insightful, in a bitterly funny way.

He’s another chain smoker - what is it about divinity students and cigarettes? (They’re in a hurry for heaven?) He reminds me of Toby Mcguire, he’s 5’ 7” with an indoor, ashen complexion and dark brown hair that can’t seem to decide which way to point. He always wears a black mock-turtleneck shirt, jeans and sneakers. He never swears and side-eyes me when I do (which, admittedly, is too much). Usually, we hash-out the news of the day - or argue about practically anything, for fun. I think he should give up God and write comedy.

Randy was eating an over-mayonnaised chicken salad sandwich on French bread and chain-smoking - so I made him sit downwind of me. He was worried about a small, ‘filler’ seminar he took this year. He was flaming-out cause he really had no time for it - but it was the last credit he HAD to have to graduate.
“You need to grovel and pay homage,” I observed, with cold, machine logic.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Propitiation,” I said, naming it.

“Professor,” I started, in a gravely, whiny, simulated male voice, “I’ve had a hard time this semester.. because I’m working on my thesis..”
“That’ll get it done,” he chuckled, “can you leave him a voicemail for me?”
“and like,” I laughed, “I love your class and you’re such an amazing professor.. but things got.. complicated.”
“Oh, complicated.” Randy groaned, “You’re a good ****-up,” he’d said, as if that surprised him, “when do you get to practice?”
“I’ve watched people ****-up,” I’d said defensively, “you just go all girly and helpless.”
“I doubt that would work,” he’d noted dryly, lighting another cigarette.

“You DO go to class, right?” I asked, my voice rising at the end.
“Yeah,” he nodded.
“Then he knows you,” I assured him.
“I just didn’t do some of the assignments,” he’d confessed mildly.
“It’s a seminar,” I said dismissively, “I doubt he’s going to fail you.” “Hopefully,” he sighed.
“I mean, if he were going to fail you, he’d have sent you a message - an email or voicemail - right?” I reasoned, “A couple of weeks ago?”
“True,” he’d agreed, with a little twisty nod.

“You know Randy,” I began, giving voice to the hypothetical warning message Randy might have gotten, “You’re at risk of failing, we need to talk.”
“I check my voicemail,” he said, before I could ask.
“They don’t just ‘cap’ you out of the blue,” I said, using some mob lingo I learned from the Sopranos.
“Have you ever failed a class before?” I asked.
“No,” he assured me, the wind dispersing his fear pheromones.
“This is not a happy Sunday,” he’d admitted.

In the end he did ****-up and had to take a punishing, 2-hour, comprehensive (covering the entire year) test for extra credit, full of unit identities, dependency infrastructures and statistical projections.

He ended up with a “C” for the seminar. Now I suppose I’ll have to learn to call him ‘Dr.’ Randy.
.
.
songs for this:
Handbags & Gladrags by Rod Stewart
Melt by Nilüfer Yanya
Me & Mr. Jones by Amy Winehouse

The happiest feeling in the world would be to grow old with my wife and my brother, my sister and friends, my mom and dad and uncles and aunts, grandpa and grandma and Bradbury and Ali and Mark McGuire and Prefontaine. Bukowski and the family dog and the sun and the blood moon and the solar eclipse of 2002. The last one for 40,000 years.

Disney and Sony
They are *****
Yelling and screaming mostly at Sony
But yet it is all part of the plan
Got to keep the bedroom demands

Spider-Man ain’t going no where
Disney and Sony’s secret love affair
Sony already signed with Venoms behind
Disney slurping all the ***** and creamin

Tom Holland is drunk with Tom Collins
Exciting you see, frustrating as it seems
Sony and Disney laughing all just because
Everyone is starting all the crazy fuss

Re-releases golden showers final hours
*** is better in front of others we together
Can’t ****** if it’s at the end game
Insane is the main part of the fame

It’s already been signed you see
The most fun is watching in ecstasy
We don’t give a **** what you say
It will all be announced this Labor Day

Because we work hard and stay hard
Didn’t come this far
So start the fire
Because we already **** tony McGuire

Frantically Fiery recital
((The Big City Capitol))

Just lay low
The touch go
Catty
Calm---- cool--- and-- collected
don't scratch lower- lip got grilled
The light flick
She's the fur-upper-lip got beguiled
The singer (Tom Petty) guitar
Strings sweet jam Teacher's pet
sketch so petty
I won't back down

The Getty Family
Ringo The drummer boy
Oh, Lord! lowercase match

Mr. ****** as loud as
his Cello
The evermore not
the good fellow
They call her mellow yellow
Capitol suite pillow
She's the ((Rhino Cup)
of Cappuccino

Sweatpants and Robin Hoods
Lord of the Capitol (R) Ring

Shinning the Hotel tools
Lots of courage for fools
Ted  bears I hear a symphony
Boiling hot porridge reading
her last Urology

But at home, crack tile
Ripley believe
or not makes her smile (.
Going bonkers
Feeling jump street Bronx-Tale
Yonkers
Elves envelope
lickers

The emergency
City Slickers
He's cutting out
Shes sparkling pout
Those papercuts
without hearts

On the stretcher
target of darts
Prelude to a letter {C} but
The [P] precisely to be kissed
she's smart'[S] someone
is stupid
Titanic Leonardo so livid
and nobodies fool trip
He packed X-File suitcase
His trousers a bit low
Your feeling her flow
(Health)
Awareness__*

Right star or the wrong car
License plate all lower case
Disoriented losing you face
Like Alzheimer my Mom
but it wasn't her rainbow
And my heart stopped to glow
Loved Judy Garland
she saw her in concert
Waving high to the low current

We require Jerry McGuire
That's life the cruise
like a game
of lacrosse

So in these days
more outways
The whole outlook

Where are the good men
President Lincoln
In the Capitol, the statue
True virtue thinker

The violin nights white satin
Your own haven such velocity
The top-notch Galaxy
women of divinity
He's far away from his
land and
my land?
California here I come
The kelts in Scotland jingling phone
Your_  heart--  beats
Feeling lowdown at your feet

Being swept away
Cinderella
Capitol C
For the ((City girl))
C for Charming
C for Culture C for Creature

How she sways her body feature
rhythm walk he could forever
capture

Apples they don't compare
To (Oranges)
(Juicy Lover Jupiter)
Is my song
Julius Ceasar the pleaser
  Shakespearian
All Capitol L-O-V-E
The wishbone, Doves
Turkey days
Walking on sunshine,
not the pavement

Good eats my Cornbread
sausage stuffing with sage
Google remembering my Moms
noodle pudding hold her page*
So grumble let's be more humble

Has the most potential to be kissed
and uncivilized
Eyes of the tiger (Amazon) the prey
it's just another day
In the presidential suite the key
to the doorway

Your girly bubbles no rambling
Or stumbling
Remembering a time giggling
so bubbly
just blow

Bolan sings Dylan,
Dayan's on the Golan
the radio's howling
"Caroline"

Back in a time back to front
where the future we hunt
shoos us away.

McGuire's in the evening
bleeding,
the Magic Dragon's on the run
Summer in the City is like
Summer in the Sun
only colder.

what now?
Telegram Sam with electronic spam?

Still busy reading the instructions
destruction's a hard thing
to master.
but I'll get to the burn out
worn out
and turn up in top hat
and tails.

.if you want the fresh impromptu, you might as well skip this unpublished draft, i'm even starting to think about leaking my hellopoetry.com password... but given my suspension... FOR 8 MONTHS because of some soccer mum not having encountered something akin to a harlequin novel... i'll leave it at that: •••••••••••••••••, here's to some depeche mode... last time i checked, even africans have the same inside of their hands "whitened"... there is no racial difference to be allowed to read into chiromancy... i met one ***-, tomikuni... he also inquired about reading my hands... we're all pale, governed by the thumb, when asked, or not asked, to hold "something".

and what is the only variant of classical
music, heard on a radio?

    well... there's the fama radio night
sessions - with not adverts
   radiofama.com.pl -

it might be your take on what the french
tell the english, i.e.: euro-trash...

but no adverts...

                          and there is no reason
to concede to reviving punk,
hippy music didn't see a revival,
why should punk?

   a variant of classical music radio,
akin to bbc 2, or classic fm...

       that "oddity" of a morphed bbc 4
internet coverage, akin to lionel nation...
and what i mean by that,
is not h. d. thompson's gonzo...

          the allure of the, un-scripted...
and all of this is raw, flesh,
language at a smithfield
                   or a billingsgate...

talk-radio as the logical conlusion
of exposing your child to classical music...
it's genius -
   reverting back to classical music
once you're older, and don't play
an instrument?
                      what's the point?

dr steve turley bashing out a medieval
mash-up on the guitar...
            and that's "not" even
inspiration for a rock star status...
i like his smugness -
    it's... zesty, lime-like:
             certainty of the twinkling
of the eye that consists of:
    a remaining - intact, i.e., sane.

bbc radio 4?
      what, with zee archers nonsense?
this radio novella
that keeps propping itself up
like a bad take on eastenders without
the kray brothers?
          
                  talk-radio is all about
a non-existent "script":
       the flamboyance of spontaneity...
with the crux, being?
                
                                     ensō -

the only aspect of ζεν, a ταoιστ might
respect.

      p.s.
                  do i believe in u.f.o.  s?
(****, acronyms and the plural article
attached to them, mind boggling)
     no... but i've seen one, so the belief impetus
is, kind'ah missing in me...
             i've transcended speculation,
a question-worthiness on the matter...
since the question no longer manifests
      itself in the narration impetus?
the impetus for narrative, is narration per se;
and how lovely, it is to see
a noumenon...
      when the world of phenomenons
reads like this:

  the times newspaper, saturday, july 21,
2018,
               OVER 70,000 CHILDREN
PUT ON PILLS FOR DEPRESSION...

great headline...
     alas, a chemistry degree (3rd)
from edinburgh uni.,
     am i chemo-phobic?
                 i should ask myself that
same question, when i next
brush my teeth, apply shampoo to
my cranium,
   or wash my hands.
__________
as any drunk might,
   now i know why my parents decided
to leave Poland...
   Chernobyll...
           when you hear the facts...
about a single gram of Uranium, U-236,
2.34 x 10 to the power of seven, years
being the "half-life" or...
****, i should have read over my
chemistry notes from Edinburgh...
before the particle fizzles out...

                 i was lucky...
i am to born again with the age bracket
of 33... which means i only received
a Cain tattoo on my right shoulder-blade...
birth-mark,
apparently i suffered greatly as a child,
hernia and all...
            i had the birth-mark removed,
i'm pretty sure i was a donor,
my flesh became donated to
   some scientific lab and studied...
here's my Shylock pound...

given what's currently happening in my
home city...
with the slow decay, the ever more increasing
number of cancer victims, middle-aged....
they're talking about the sort of cancer
that... moves, visibly, under your skin...
people are freaking out...

     it's not a joke,
   the soviets wanted to hush hush the whole
affair...
                   3.2 of whatever scale...
was hushed... but the reality was
aquivalent to 400 x-rays in a spell of a minute...
i was under the impression that i was
the child of economic migrants...
   eh eh...
               i don't think that's actually the whole
picture...
   come on! if people were hot and bothered
in Minsk... Belarus...
           this wasn't a ******* tornado...
tornados come and go... we're talking
500 years of after-effects...
               even my great-grandmother
remembers how the trees in the local park
were affected... streaks of autumn trees...
among streaks of actual spring green
phosphorescent trees illuminated
by street lamps...
          like the current phosphorescent green
oaks in england...

   they fled... and took me with them...
who gives a **** whether i came to england
without speaking the language...
hiding in toilets at my primary school...
but then... one day...
after self-teaching myself the language,
studious, labour of the mind,
books and books...
i was the teacher's pet...
             i remember this one time...
st. augustine's, near barkingside...
i was the only kid doing long arithmetic...
while the "natives" decided to
stage a: lord of the flies sort of coup
against the replacement teacher...
and what happened when our...
  ****... ms. mcguire! can't believe i still
remember her name...
  i wasn't happy that the children
were scolded,
  i did my work, they didn't,
and i managed to do whatever i wanted
while they had to catch-up
on what i already did...

         for whatever childhood i had,
i still remember it fondly...
    my father being unable to teach me how
to swim in the english channel,
me teaching myself to swim out of sheer
will and determination: competition...
i know people brag about:
how smart they were so early on:
                             yadda yadda bull... ****!

now i am here to take out my investment
in this language,
   to... peacock and strut...
        as i am also glad to not brag about
being a polyglot or a... eh... somewhat polymath...
either this... or a slump in depression
and suicide thinking:
   as always... i don't get out of bed
and think of one impossible thing,
   i get out of bed to overcome one suicidal thought...
not all suicidal thinking is the end game,
some of it relieves you in having
integrating a kick-up your **** to get out of bed!

so... the picture...
well like any past-time of any: happily to be drunk...
walking is one,
the other...
       i wanted to experience a hamsa...
     i was going to do the whole hand,
but i figured: spare some of that ink
for what you're going to write on your grandfather's
80th birthday card...
poor ******...
     he still remembers getting sweets from
two SS-men in black,
  sweets that would stick his hands together...
he still remembers how his uncle
laid in a patch of green, shot dead,
how the russian soldiers would rather prefer
to sleep in the barns with the goats
on hay rather than in beds,
how most of them were teenagers...
and how my grandmother's ultimate insult
to him was: that he was a skurwysyn:
  *******...
     well... he does have 3 other brothers...
half-brothers...
                         eh... clown needs to juggle?
however bad he was...
we did go fishing together...
    but now that he's demented...
and has a dementia routine...
                    it's hard to tell what it feels
in this, transition period of the perils of
us, the mortal men...
                  i could never associated mortality
with any sort of morality,
other than it being dictated by one's
own ambition: to keep as many people
from my private life as possible.
           so when my jewish neighbor
recently converted to islam drops by and
comments about my barber skills:
you and my son look like you've just been
released from auschwitz birkenau...
we laugh...
            and how it suits me... beard and all...
monk...
      cool cool...
   i'm still studying the qabbalah...
                    christianity became... too poverty
stricken for me, in terms of points of reference...
although not circumcised...
why would i be?
                          that extra bit of skin is
for me to not be ashamed of jerking off once
in a while...
   pije... pali... konia wali.

            and this is where the: right hand doesn't
know what the left hand is doing...
regarding chiromancy...

              tzayach's...
i tattooed over chokhmah,
                chesed and netzach....
for the love of god...
there's no     girdle of venus on either
of my hands...
  either hand looks like there's
a letter imprinted on them: M...
                i had a "fwend" in high school
once... god, what is it with the muslims...
either they want to **** you,
or convert you!
    started his own muslim chiromancy...
talked **** about how there's
the number 72 on my hands...
the number of names of the goat-blood
                               allah god...

no... i'm pretty ******* sure that's an M...
anyway...

p.s.
and then you look up those words ref.
chiromancy...
                 as ever, better to bewilder yourself
with what's in front of you,
in your posession than to *******
yourself around the zodiac brothel of
          ... well... even the zodiac killer
is more fascinating than all this: "constellations
talk"... yeah, and a paragraph of
marquis de sade's writing is more
of a hard-on than some harlequin novel!

i tattooed over the words:
    chokhmah...     in the sefirot tree:
wisdom... yah...
            chesed...        ditto:
    love... el...
               netzach...             ditto:
victory... adonoy tzevaot...
   2, 4, 7... those are the allocated numbers
to the sefirot tree...
   whether or not gematria is your thing...
because i'm the type of, "guy",
that likes the maxim: i'll meet you half-way,
now you meet me, half-way...

how could any muslim,
think i could convert,
  to the brat ******* son of christianity,
who keeps nagging,
and nagging, and punching and screaming...
if, that is, monotheism is a noble cause...
why would i look toward
the evolutionary direction...
no past, only forward,
how much of darwinism is about:
forward...
   all our ancestors were idiots...
ah... but what will those,
who will inherit what we... floundered think,
of us?
         not much, by the looks of things...
what have i done?
   to love wisdom,
is to find victory...
   the will, will come from itself,
and the power, vested in it,
i don't need to look for the "logos"
via the christian deity...
   i merely look at the genesis of the idea...
Heraclitus...
            and that's it...
and why do i do "stupid" things when drinking...
like pretending to tattoo my hand?
i do not possess the luxury of dreaming...
rarely... i do, but mostly:
it's the abyss that entertains me...
so i have to do something stupid
within the framework of a "today",
that i might sharpen my memory for
a "tomorrow"...

       i have nothing to learn from
the christians...
                  i might as well turn to paganism
if, and only if,
my... deposed fascination with
judaism diminishes...
                    i don't even care whether
i'm a jew or not, a yew: paraphrasing
the prefix from yiddish...
those people, were citizens of Paul-on-a-leash...
land...
                this is the best i can offer...
i'm not... **** like the ******* caduceus
of protruding veins wrapping
the ******* intact?

****... here's a chimera for you:
**** of a Hermes, heart of a...
     head of a...
                  feet of a...
and a tail of a dobberman-albino-monkey:
when it was still aesthetically pleasing
to trim the ears and cut off the tail
of that particular dog breed!
   and... i'm still drinking...
                      what have you...
bitter, inconsistent, whatever you like...
i'll just trap this in the internet index,
open a newspaper from sunday,
that big one, format,
                   the old school way of reading
an english newspaper:
   having once tried folding a page
on the tube (underground)...
              never mind, thank god i still have
my *******...
i don't look like a ******* loser
all of the time jerking off
without having one...
         yeah: i'm pretty sure the kippah
has something to do with:
the imitation game, of medieval monk's
donning the tonsure haircut.

p.p.s. em... revision, it was actually U-235...
and the core of a nuclear power-plant...
being exposed...
   like 40 ******* Hiroshima explosions
in one hour, non-verbatim...
but Chernobyl was a ghost town
without the sort of tourism manifesto
of Zionists...
who would have to revisit
the grave of their ancestry...
                  no "big" deal though...
m'eh, just a little glitch...
no children in Frankfurt being told
to not play outdoors...
just a glitch...
                the holocaust is forever
the major no. 1 human disaster...
pre-planned...

     say... why study jurisprudence,
when not having studied the thesaurus
helps, i mean:
isn't all of the jursprudent concept
based upon access to a thesaurus,
aren't all nouns: "suspect",
readied for the synonym spaghetti
counsil? no? my bad?

  oh, oh... good to know! really great,
great to know: who the ****
is peddling this sort of *******!
weasels.
even your own shadows will
not forgive you...
mark my word...
whether angels, demons,
your own shadows will not forgive
you...
you'll be dancing the *******
1518 dancing plague:
whether you like it or not!

      let's take a summary:
what looks worse,
Chernobyl or, Auschwitz?
how many tourists visit Auschwitz,
how many tourists visit Chernobyl?
hmm...
    tough number to crack open
for comparison...
          this is the one time i will
craft a crux for / of moral relativism...
who was gagging for it,
and... who wasn't... when it happened:
"out of the blue"?
        let's just say:
Chernobyl wasn't premeditated...
Auschwitz, was...
           now i did start learning
about the qabbalah for a reason:
the holocaust wasn't the worst horror
of the 20th century,
the 20th century prime tattoo of historical
events: wasn't Auschwitz...
       and i will, continue,
to learn qabbalah, denoucning my "christianity",
for this, sole, reason...
the yews, jews, yids,
aren't the only people alive in this world,
i'm not going to buy into this
solipsistic narrative complex...
esp. when i will, forthrightly:
denounce who was crucified...
      i'm done... with the unearthing of
the nag hammadi library in 1945,
complimented by the josephus ben matthias
historian...
             how jesus, "son of god"
played chinese whispers in the gosepl of
st. thomas...
   n'ah... n'ah mate... i'm done...
            find yourself a ******* imam
or a rabbi: my mind is made up!
ich will tanz diese tango...
              egal du wie es, oder nicht!
sorry... whether deutsche or not,
west saxon grammar translates itself:
*** essex bound.

.i'd hate to write out a claustrophobia; there was a second who dreamed of Crimea; and who doesn't abhor infatalism; living with parents ensures a lesson in patience... lets regress! the concept of a nation is an infantile game... history stressed is only worth an immigrant's answer... how sadistic the child craves becoming cult.

it would seem that
modern poets never
left an abode
          of the *****
Virgil, free -
  how medium -
paralysed in and to
a strut -
  merely Dante -
                    recompasse -
loitering
             cry enigma
for the peeling
               onion dome
unravelled:
             lacrima dico miror.
moskiev -
  czyn -  łbędzie modno -
o czym: nagi,
             ***'on ******>dni na pal tsym a,
                    rogi snem!
******-da...
        rojter!
              gra o...
   kat w kata prosze -
na sylab a ni słowo -
krew krajna - ukiem cięta!
sfat gila i gnór
ni słowem ni litem A -
szkla rozbitit 'gnem o
   cior...
                   o szkic i
           garb w tonnym
cie... cieniem!
          ku Kjovi,
lwem na Ów..
                     orszak taki -
że nie taii zgób.

_

   well, that was, the draft,
turns out, i can unearth plenty of drafts
i never published,
given the suspension...
such petty narratives are left
for people who almost always
desire a "freedom" to speak,
rather than a freedom to think...

only yesterday, an argument in the garden,
next to a cherry tree i planted...
people your age travel!
they go to places!
they live!
          a constant reminder:
you need to be honest about
your alcoholism...
   sure... i'll be honest,
they other become honest,
   and i don't have to play into
this solipsistic mea culpa *******
as if: i'm not taking responsibility,
as if i am always to blame,
like... my translation of childhood
naivety is not a curse...
because: if i wouldn't trust people,
and make friends,
well, then,
would i just be your atypical psychopath?!
what were the choices:
either wrong, or not good...
wow!
      a grand assumption:
to be governed by laws that only
favor the rich, but slander
the poor...
            victim-who-whom-hood?
did i name, anyone?
am i rat?
       that's what it boiled down to,
that i behaved like a rat,
i said: more like a fox...
no, more like a rat...
   because i like to walk at night,
when i see women
faking conversation
         over their mobile phones...
to feel, secure?
i stalk the predatory mind-set...
    a woman pretends, or doesn't pretend,
to talk over the phone,
while walking home, alone,
at night, as a deterrent...
        i know how this works...
she'll scream into the phone her location...
i'm not interested,
i passed a woman once,
who just, had to, make it,
adamant, i was not to "****" with her...
ever see a running geisha?
i have...
        i mean: a horse needs a whip,
stirrups, reins,
  a woman like that?
who forces you to react,
to give her a reaction against
the canvas of intimidation?
laugh...
       then you'll see a spriting geisha.

and as i write this?
     in the middle of three candles...
my power-saving bulb went out,
i had to resort to igniting three candles
and sit in the middle of the nocturnal
                    Δ(ηλτα)
        or             Δ(ελτα) of "occult" illumination?
i never know which is which...
sure as **** (c)at
                 is nowhere near to (k)aleidoscope
but, hey, it's greek...
         you have eta (η) and epsilon (ε),
you have omega (ω) and omicron (o)
         you have Φought,
                       and you have ΘilosoΦy...
the stories they tell,
  about languages, that do not employ
diacritical markers,
     but insteal have to balance an orthography...
based upon the "quadratic" system,
for the aesthetic to appease "the gods"...
                EE, OO, FF, foe?
unless you spreschen ***-
           -dish, or high hebrew...
          but still... even there...
               א (alef) and ע (ayin)...
          eh, but the hebrews get away with
the fact that they hide their vowels,
in imaginary niqabs...
                akin to diacritical markers...
the hebrews treat their vowels,
like a people, who would apply diacritical
marks to either vowels or consonants:
plainly in the open.
        so some people have gone places,
Egypt, Thailand...
  i've also been to places...
kant's critique of pure reason,
heidegger's being and time...
russell's history of western philosophy...
i've been to place,
   this world cannot offer me,
a source for solace, or for envy,
    i've transcended the globalist
frenzy of people moving aimlessly...
     i went back, to the beginning of the 20th
century, nay, even further...
sure, let people travel,
       i don't mind:
  but as long as they don't come between
me (fox) and the chicken-shack (books),
we'll be just fine...

      mind you, this question opened my
narrative...
   who makes a better ms. amber (whiskey)?
the scottish, or the irish?
i can tell you, even if it's in a ginger ale
mixer...
         jameson and...
    what am i drinking right now?
                 tullamore dew...
   i mean mainstream whiskey...
              these two specimens?
  competing with, what?
          whyte & mackay... as i'm pretty sure
they can...
   but... bell's? the famous grouse?
the whiskeys that are like laphroaig
and smoked salmon?
         the irish are definitely better
at their brewing than the McDoogles...
ol' paddy McGuire figured it out,
amber, looks like diluted honey...
so it must appeal to the sweet-tooth palette!
well... if beer is the gods' ****...
then whiskey... is the gods' blood...
    have i ****** my life away?
sure... i have...
                  but i've also acquired
a capacity to see more in my mind,
than others have seen with their eyes...

as it happens,
   i sometimes return to my native womb
of zunge...
faster than it would take me,
to retreat physically,
   a drive to Stanstead airport,
loitering,
   a 2 and a half hour flight,
moving around Warsaw,
   before taking a 3+h coach trip
   to an obscure location
     and spending a month or so,
loitering with my grandparents,
in between reading a ****** classic,
akin to Prus, or Sienkiewicz.

curious coincidence
solid point guard play

Al McGuire a wordsmith
Marquette goes all the way

I asked near the Book of Kells
he seemed unsurprised I must say

Quinlin now works with pottery
I wait, watch, wander, wonder - pray.

My father
Mr Barry Allan is now
Betty Campbell

My friend Mark jones is now
Leo Campbell

My grandmother ivy gimbert is now
Annie Leblanc

My nanna Jean Allan is now
John Robert rimel

My uncle ray Pocock is now
Rhett Leroy

Stan Niemec is now
Jackson mecham

Barry Loughton is now
Mitch Ryan

My Aunty Pam Scalley is now
Willow columbo

My friend Scott MacDonald was my cat lucky and now is
Daxton butler

My friend Steve volks is now
Brock butler

My grandfather Alexander gimbert is
Now
Kathryn Rodwell

My grandfather Clarence Allan is now
Ryan Clark

Slim dusty is now
Darci lynne

Murray Flynn is now
David from family fun pack

Ronald Regean is now
Ryan Donnelly

Dean Martin is now
Jack vidgen

Frank Sinatra is now
Ky Baldwin

Bobby Pickett is now
Zack from family fun pack

Don Bradman is now
Xander McGuire

John f Kennedy is now
Stephen Gallagher

Bill woodful is now
My brother Chris Allan

Andy Williams is now
Micheal from family fun pack

Graeme Thorne is now
Me, Brian Allan also I was Albert Waldron John hawker English Blackbeard the pirate Leonardo da Vinci and many more

Elvis Presley is now
Shaycarl butler

My friend Paul berenyi is now
My niece Caitlin Allan

Ruth cracknell is now
Gavin butler

Elizabeth Montgomery is now
My niece Susan Allan

Agnes moorehead is now
Melissa Joan hart

Sue Sanderson is now
Baby Olivia from yes they are all ours

Martin Luther king is
George Floyd

My uncle Stan is now
Isaiah from fathering autism

My cat muscles is now
Abbie from fathering autism

it would appear, that i can keep my mouth shut,
for a prolonged period of time,
as i can forget to write;
frame of reference:
   23rd November (departure) -
hiatus interlude (that is, today,
  27th December) -
9th January (arrival /
            end of hiatus) -
   also known as...
only yesterday i was watching t.v.
and an advert for I.P.A.
                        came on...
   a hallucination in the mouth ensued
with a burp...
              god... what wouldn't i do
for a bottle of ice cold Indian Pale Ale...
what has it been,
  5 weeks in this self-imposed
"rehab"?
                     sure all hell,
it wasn't a Gehenna -
               albeit the first two nights...
3 or so hours sleep between the two,
cold & hot sweats...
                         and then into
reading the second vol. of Sienkiewicz's
trilogy... potop (the deluge)...
   and so the past weeks...
mornings spent drinking strong coffee
with 32% cream and sugar,
smoking cigarettes,
solving crossword puzzles with my
grandmother...
- but you: prior to this:
  three "poems" entitled
boxing day I, II, III...
       but in each no conversational
overtones or, telegram scatter -
so?                        well...
                  me and sober,
me and sober and a blank page...
me and sober and a blank page
and a "poem"?
                        it's not going to happen...
unless...
  a moment of reflection:

(a) and there i was thinking that
the youtube jukebox was broken...
but... apparently you can "fix"...
you can change your location
to the United States,
and turn OFF the restricted mode...
so all the old new suggestions
pop up

(b) boxing day...
was basically a list of all the new
music that i began to forage...
thinking, having succumbed
to listening to the local
95.2 / 100.9FM in Poland...
- had a thought...
   am i really that far behind in
new music?
am i out of touch?
a list of bands with viewing
in the range of x,000, **,000, ***,000...
give or take...

e.g.: beehover, nord skin,
black elephant, swamp sessions, 1000mods,
ruby the hatchet, greenleaf, the silver seas,
sleep, spaceslug, witch, elder,
red scalp, castle, broken bells,
place of skulls, naxatras, UNV nation,
the heavy minds, RAMA,
fabricantes, savanah, dune pilot,
freedom hawk, king buffalo, kurse,
the machine, astrodome, sleeping widow,
colour haze, magic pie, kalamata,
witchhelm, ingrina, sandrider,
fuzzcrafter, black tremor, wolve,
promethean misery, mother engine,
monocle stache, lee van cleef,
welcome the howling tones,
somali yacht club, silent monolith,
the blue sunshine family band,
REZN, the devil & the almighty blues,
kitchen witch, 88 mile trip,
****** praxis, electric zoo,
the sixth chamber, mythic sunship,
whoopie cat, dog days the horned god,
IAH, kosmodrom, deaf radio,
camel driver, mystic sons, weird owl,
sun of man, elbrus, stonehenge,
mudfinger, gin lady, hey satan,
dd blood, bees made honey in the vein tree,
sonora ritual, gnome, godsleep,
ordos, mountainwolf, buffalo fuzz,
black dust, may the fuzz be with you,
transpanda, RHUS, breath after coma,
electric octopus... the white flies...

but that's not the end of it...
basically... a year's worth of... material...
democracy in the arts...
well... if we're all going to attempt
to be pretentious...
i can't digest all of this, either...

(c) listening to socio-political
commentators... the whole Patreon
this, censorship that...
decent weeks sober...
   and... why did i listen to these people
while drinking?
  legacy media this, legacy media that...
interlude, 5 weeks break...
no wonder i'm moving on...

mind you... two words have been
encircling my head for
the past 3...
               if this neo-right is throwing
about terms like
cultural marxism...
what with Zizek, the Frankfurt school...
the whole nine yards...

  not that this could be anything
new...

  whatever happened to
the critique of the predominant
culture of the neo-right?
surely there is an immediate answer
to what is cultural marxism...
there has to be...

  what else?
what else if not cultural darwinism?
i was wondering for a long time now,
why is it that Darwinism is
so predominant in the anglophonic
world? it seeps into every nook
and cranny of "life"...
     it has become so entrenched,
so dogmatic...
that it just had to argue with
the low hanging fruit of biblical
study... we already know that
poetry died prior to any death
of god with that book...
_________
  
   well, that was, the draft,
turns out, i can unearth plenty of drafts
i never published,
given the suspension...
such petty narratives are left
for people who almost always
desire a "freedom" to speak,
rather than a freedom to think...

only yesterday, an argument in the garden,
next to a cherry tree i planted...
people your age travel!
they go to places!
they live!
          a constant reminder:
you need to be honest about
your alcoholism...
   sure... i'll be honest,
they other become honest,
   and i don't have to play into
this solipsistic mea culpa *******
as if: i'm not taking responsibility,
as if i am always to blame,
like... my translation of childhood
naivety is not a curse...
because: if i wouldn't trust people,
and make friends,
well, then,
would i just be your atypical psychopath?!
what were the choices:
either wrong, or not good...
wow!
      a grand assumption:
to be governed by laws that only
favor the rich, but slander
the poor...
            victim-who-whom-hood?
did i name, anyone?
am i rat?
       that's what it boiled down to,
that i behaved like a rat,
i said: more like a fox...
no, more like a rat...
   because i like to walk at night,
when i see women
faking conversation
         over their mobile phones...
to feel, secure?
i stalk the predatory mind-set...
    a woman pretends, or doesn't pretend,
to talk over the phone,
while walking home, alone,
at night, as a deterrent...
        i know how this works...
she'll scream into the phone her location...
i'm not interested,
i passed a woman once,
who just, had to, make it,
adamant, i was not to "****" with her...
ever see a running geisha?
i have...
        i mean: a horse needs a whip,
stirrups, reins,
  a woman like that?
who forces you to react,
to give her a reaction against
the canvas of intimidation?
laugh...
       then you'll see a spriting geisha.

and as i write this?
     in the middle of three candles...
my power-saving bulb went out,
i had to resort to igniting three candles
and sit in the middle of the nocturnal
                    Δ(ηλτα)
        or             Δ(ελτα) of "occult" illumination?
i never know which is which...
sure as **** (c)at
                 is nowhere near to (k)aleidoscope
but, hey, it's greek...
         you have eta (η) and epsilon (ε),
you have omega (ω) and omicron (o)
         you have Φought,
                       and you have ΘilosoΦy...
the stories they tell,
  about languages, that do not employ
diacritical markers,
     but insteal have to balance an orthography...
based upon the "quadratic" system,
for the aesthetic to appease "the gods"...
                EE, OO, FF, foe?
unless you spreschen ***-
           -dish, or high hebrew...
          but still... even there...
               א (alef) and ע (ayin)...
          eh, but the hebrews get away with
the fact that they hide their vowels,
in imaginary niqabs...
                akin to diacritical markers...
the hebrews treat their vowels,
like a people, who would apply diacritical
marks to either vowels or consonants:
plainly in the open.
        so some people have gone places,
Egypt, Thailand...
  i've also been to places...
kant's critique of pure reason,
heidegger's being and time...
russell's history of western philosophy...
i've been to place,
   this world cannot offer me,
a source for solace, or for envy,
    i've transcended the globalist
frenzy of people moving aimlessly...
     i went back, to the beginning of the 20th
century, nay, even further...
sure, let people travel,
       i don't mind:
  but as long as they don't come between
me (fox) and the chicken-shack (books),
we'll be just fine...

      mind you, this question opened my
narrative...
   who makes a better ms. amber (whiskey)?
the scottish, or the irish?
i can tell you, even if it's in a ginger ale
mixer...
         jameson and...
    what am i drinking right now?
                 tullamore dew...
   i mean mainstream whiskey...
              these two specimens?
  competing with, what?
          whyte & mackay... as i'm pretty sure
they can...
   but... bell's? the famous grouse?
the whiskeys that are like laphroaig
and smoked salmon?
         the irish are definitely better
at their brewing than the McDoogles...
ol' paddy McGuire figured it out,
amber, looks like diluted honey...
so it must appeal to the sweet-tooth palette!
well... if beer is the gods' ****...
then whiskey... is the gods' blood...
    have i ****** my life away?
sure... i have...
                  but i've also acquired
a capacity to see more in my mind,
than others have seen with their eyes...

where did i meet her?
where did i...       meet her?!
i wonder:
as i find christ the historical
not the mythical being
the individual too
and i wonder
upon the death of the Pope in England
like the birth of the Queen in the Vatican
i guess we are tanking
engines and minds
and i was once a child among nomads
of the world
and i am not a citizen
of the world
like a Cosmopolitan Greek said
so some Ancient Greek Philosopher
i am the Nomad of this World
Citizenry comes at a Price...
i can't remember his name
but i was called in the dead
of night
how did i meet her
reading the Dune Saga
watching youtube Polish cinema
trying to fall asleep
i think i meet and met her there
no wait:
i still sell it
as i met her on a poetry
website
but here the lowest low
the Firs Supper
Table
and what upon it?
one candle
and one glass of wine
white
and i was at the last supper when
i tried to talk St Juda(s)
out of it
i was the singular-plural possessive
and the the plural article
there is a third article in English
A- -THE- -S

             the last time i had straight
gin was yesterday and
she loves talking to me
and Martin Luther King Jr
is a train hurdling black hbistory
forgotten
the drown trodden the conspired democracy
of the ordeal gave us
the work-outcasts...
and there is great ordeal in the Lung of London
but this circus of the individual plight
i met her elsewhere
and i knew
who wrote what
i said christianity had to employ the devil
at the table....
whether before the ordeal
or after:
come the Resurrection
the devil was invited
to Lay Judgement upon the Death of Juda(s)
for so many years
that in English my Polish
and my Polish my English...
Glass Glee
Gloss Toss McGuire Irish Pope
we need an Irish Pope
we had a Polish Pope
we had countless Italian Popes
how about from Puerto Picco
aims fat *** at the throne
and says:
i'm an apostle: so i heard
MAtthew the Apostate Apostole...
who wrote the book of the illiterate
or perhaps grafitti artz... fartz...

i think i met her on night shifts
while going on a date with her
in...
Vatican City and Surf the Tides
of the Thames:
***** thoughts of the water...
i implore you:
there is champagne in this water
and some wine
but i think i met her there
on a date to the cinema
i imagine that
if all the Nations under the Banner POPE
and that under banner PRESIDENT
TSAR=PRESIDENT
and DRAGON-ONE-PRESIDENTE!
Al DENTE!
1L Ll 11 ll 1l l1
7 carrots: two gems...

           the :idea: a "form"
came upon a high of conversation
but we need an Irish Pope
and if no Irish Pope will Arrive
we will have to forget history
and the arrival of the Polish Pope
so clingy to his throne
i'm shaking until i will be done...
the first Pope in Retirement
then the Pope DEath-Crusader
south American
and imagine looking at the fueds
of the King of Kings against
their respected kingdoms...
and crowns i still see:
in the gob of the gargoyel govlket
gobldet
goblet
       fire etc. tutti frutti!

                        we need an Irish Pope next
i said to the Irish girl Yvone
and i was like?
you want to poison out the false priesthood
of the false prophet
then take christianity
and think it ANTI...
take the same items and spin the world
against them...
christianity is historical
therefore it is open to universal narration
therefore if i... rock the ******* boat...
i am catching more fish!
imagine the illiteracy of the writers
of the gospels:
no: they were written for them
like the Quran is the best religious text
of Femaleness : familiarness:
death sentences Us from I's...

in the orbit of IOUs... in orbit:
what has been resolved
you
and
me

you and me
what has been resolved
that death took a mirror
and labyrinths were spawned:
but you can take christianity
at your peril
there are still so adamant of the truth
behind it:
i said: it was HAwaii...
so not really America:
more like... Polynesia... i want to live there..,

the mere thought of ***** would
have torn us:
that rash you think might be everyone blushing
i spun the wheel
and came the Catholic Politics
of a Pope that's Queen King and President:
if you think about hierarchies
and the modern world
and you think about Tibet
you think about the Vatican
when you start thinking
about the West, culturally, verbally...
      society's elder...
when Journalism throws you societal scary norms
and in the same newspaper
echochambers
you allow newspapers enough date
and people employed in PRINT
like Whitman journeyman printer
i wonder for blood my ink inked tool?
just think yourself the Anti-Monaco
mind residential of the the Vatican City of the
Celestial Ground Workers Uniform
something or other:
you find yourself in the Vatican democracy:
the Pope just died....
are we having elections?
are we looking for the... BUDDHA...
not that i am competing:
but from the Man-Child antics...
and to which count (0,0)
of (0) negating-negation
the res per se... oculus pro oculus...
the octopus:
i wonder how this theocracy is unlike
the monotheisms of the orient
of the people
you don't know how
Cambridge was founded?
in Ocford
over some bad wine at the tavern
and the murderers of Oxford:
intellectual Luciferean triumphant...
i say that's how Bologne Rolls...
maybe a car... twice a donkey...
there must be
an Irish Pope
just to give this last breath
this last gear
a dying thread...
it needs a last goodbye
it needs a death "our father"
and it needs it political...
like how the President of the United States
St Peter blindly listened...
so maybe some old ***** died
and Charlie was less playdough and more
playwee...
    but all this clarity bust:
and dog just falling asleep counting chickens
clucking
and how many dentists would mind
to change the arithmetic
the Pope is dead and i was almost dreaming
it and when
he ventured into prison, overcrowded...
on a wheelchair
you know the myth of the old elephant
when walking from the herd
and dying alone
and nailed into one...
just the Irish Pope would do after the South American
i think Europe needs an Irish Pope...
it had the Irish American KKK JFKKK
so we now need an Irish Pope
who will be ASSASSINATED
like the POLE ALMOST WAS
when he undermined nCommunism
and i think gave Capitalism a PArasite PRism...
the dark state of the people
living in England as ghosts
the Welsh, the Scots, the Irish...
and what the Hell was
first the Romans
then the Anglo-Saxons
then the Vikings
then the Normans
and then whoever we thought defitting
and perhaps there were some of us
alligned
away from the ruling class
and their paupers and their underclass
and there's me thinking
about living in England
and especially London by demographic
i'm thinking
that i'm living among the Welsh,
the Scots and the Irish
and that Englishness is a playdough
doll of thought
when you have people who cite
their origins with Alrfred's and Rocks in Sword...
because i must be living
on an Island
that's stricking a role Alphabet:
Afghanistan:
i allow the res extensa:
in the mundus-extensio
and the world happens and i enter a stage
of the world-happening
world-happening: dasein imploded...
wiederkehrendereignis...
zufall-passieren
happenstanc­e-happen
and there was talk of the French Pope
whoever is elected Pope
will have to confide with the Anti-Pope
who in my sight of history
and i believe in history
i believe in tomorrow
history dictates so
that the next Pope will have to be
of either IRissh or French Ancestry...
i believe so...
i was ast a football match but
all throughout i was thinking about it
and my wife believes in the belief of christianity
yet i believe in the historical world and time impetus
christianity is:
as something that transcends religion
in that it can be a lived experience
therefore:
the gospels were written by the devil
who asked Thomas to doubt
the devil was still alive licking Thomas' ear
asking for van Gogh St Peter
and what happened to Juda(s)
when the Empires crumbled and dust of a thousand
became a fleck and diadem of sand
in the unit of one...
i was still the tongue
in the ear of Thomas
when you sat at the table
with my glass of wine filled
and a candle
and how stagic a deliberate magical act
did with reality in images
resonance disruptive
like i called them:
the devil's dozen
and if there was a man, 13th:
how could humanity sound so shallow
but if illiterate Muhammad
and unlike Socrates the illiterate
from low society
image Christ not being a friend of the low people
but a friend of the high people
and the trouble was with Translating Socrates
into Christianity:
because that's how it happened
the metaphors of the rich bleed
now that the rich are so numerous and over nothing
because that's how time will
become Auschwitz-Golgotha...
but imagine if in those days
the exceptional people were illiterte fishermen:
literally: and no sophists...
who would not convince people:
oh my day and night so literal now!
imagine...
literally but christianity's images
of sophistry for mortal gains does not
give guidance to thinking
beyond that brief ordeal:
because it can't be translated
how much i want to chew on ****** and bite some ***...
but i protest
reality is less of a hell without
*******
reality is less of a hell without
*******
reality is less of a hell without
*******.

Sang Barry McGuire

i felt like going over the mark
of the two ciders tonight
i had a taste for *****
and writing
and i know the Pope is dead
but all i had in my head
where:

ground control to major tom
ground control to major tom
take your protein pills
and put your helmet on

and i know how the English
make you think other people don't
exist how somehow you are
apparently universal blank man
but this is only my res cogitans
interacting with the res extensa
and the world is so magically
telepathic i wonder
i wonder will the Norsemen return to cAtholicism
and be fearful of the Christianity
of Russia
because i am afraid of the Christianity of
the Orthodox
and half way between Protestantism
is a little Billion Island of Catholicism
but the intellectual catholicism
outside the concept of nation
there is a clear distinction
between an Irish catholic
and a Polish catholic
and certainly the Spaniard
and the Italian:
the Pope died
no Icon
no Queen
something weird happens because i don't
know a place beyond the family
i allow to grow
and i don't live in a family
associating with figureheads of the public
realm:
perhaps as a last resort
and that's not where Edie is with the Pope
i am with the Pope right now
but am i to belong to a people
like the Polynesian display of tribalism
lost intellect
bot the symbolism of the tribal war
against the waves of the surf
of the Pacific:
among the heights of the tallet mountains
of mountains that take root in the sea
and peak from the Pacific bed
like a lazy teenager girl
and i'm away and playing video games
like she is playing ROBLOX
constantly but aware
like she has these eyes that speak
and they speak a language first learned
by intuation
she implores me
don't make me lose it
this language:
R baby: you will not lose this language
but it's up to you how you continue
to work with it...
you have to work with this language
of the... eye is an *****
the complexity of the eye
on equal footing with liver and brain
and heart
then by seeing alone
the other senses are confiscate to appreciate
the "religion" of the Pentagram...
i said i'm keeping vigil with the Pope
we are waiting for Charon
until Saturday morning...
the bus driver got drunk
or something
or was a spare time poet who didn't get paid
for writing poetry and didn't care
to be paid:
was paid by heaven upfront:
working on comission...
if only i keep my focus on the clock
and go to bed by 12am
midnight
i will have done much than drinking
the bus driver
to sleep and joyriding with the bus
because i feel like
i need to overcome the space of lost
spatial awareness:
boxed man
man...
i'm used to bicycles and horses...
i'm not used to getting used to using
a *******: TANK...
Islamic State Tank Brigade into a Crowd
and Pillow:
a weak thankfully: the numbers start adding up
and then "someone" dies...
i know his role was diluted by the presence
of what extends beyond the mind
the squire and the hive
of the family
and all sacredness is lost
on politics
and not a thing of brothers and prostitutes
and mothers:
finally wives...
but how i have been cleansed from the realm
of *******
it was like playing video games
and nihilism with a tinge of solipsism
at least Nietzsche talked of nihilism
from the perspective of the res cogitans extending
into the res extensa
and then coming back from the COGITO
after the death: post-mortem...
that's when the COGITO replies
the COGITO = I THINK + GOD THINKS
i think we forgot to reply
with: beyond all traits
and unfathomable currencies of will
that there is a god
and he cherishes the same freedom
we cherish most:
that he thinks and he doubts
and we keep forgetting that by ascribing
the omni- litany of aspects and
thus: non-existence when compared
to the inertia of the res cogitans with
an animanite thing...
therefore the Sysiphus is spawned:
to think beyond the menial task...
escape the crowd...
then comes focus and abruption from this
deep desire implies this thread
of thinking will preserve itself until
tomorrow night? i don't think so:
the spike... in what felt like
what could have been a writing desk
and a different spine
instead of the position
of the laptop being on the bed
and me kneeling before the bed
almost half dog:
yes: the Sphynx position of Writing
when one writes from the edge of the bed....
the Sphynx position of Writing
the Human Head on the body of an Animal
is where Anubis comes forward
and tells all the animal godheads
to come down an answer from individualism
borrowed from petting
by anima primo: man...

but when the queen died
i was somewhat dismayed
but the new currency came with the visage
and i just felt a slight
chill from the wind
of wonders and whispers
as it came and carried me away...

Nathanel... i hear the word:
who knows what it means...
by now 20min feels like 4 hours when
the conversation is alive
and no one is dead left kicking
to open up the coffin
and turn this world into a catacomb
of how grey and mobile zombie wording
it has to become painting
i think perhaps leave some
direct language
i just think of the ***** eye
like kidney
but since there are two eyes
there are two lungs and two kidneys
and i much prefer that
lyricism of the schematic
away from the brain the heart and the *****
i much prefer
the schematic of the eyes the lungs
and the kidneys
i don't like the pseudo buddhist LSD myfriends
type of gargoyle crayon
drawing of energy
from the mind the heart and the *****
in a yogi pose
pretending to meditate
whatever that means:
mediate yes: understanding...
for that i need
the three twins
the eyes
the lungs and the kidneys...
i need those three and

just her driving at night
and listening to
Bread - Guitar Man...
and i think in her sleeping queen sort
of dynamic but probably
not
we were listening to something chilling
and she was worried i wasn't friendly
and i just wanted for us to stay apart
at a concert
i think we went as a couple i think
we talked about music
and that night you gave me the best *******
because it was a 16 year old's show of affection
coming home from a concert
yet not magnifying the trust
into coercing each other
but the reality breaks into full scheme of the steam ahead:
aww...
     so maybe cooking breakfast
for a sleepover blonde Slipknot
queen and a dad *** with a chequered shirt
but my bad is kind of a bookworm
and he likes relaxing
by sometimes stressing about making
a perfect meal
and i
now and all that sentimental breath
because if i were paid for something else
and perhaps if i wrote without heart
if not being paid
then at least investing an honest spare change
of thought to let someone
find themselves and my little gnome of gnosis
i wonder perhaps
but of course that story only works if
we say goodbye to the riddle of the countryside
and the question of cosmopolitanism...
and we have to question
that in the confines of London
about New York...
we can all ask the New York Question
when we live in Paris,
London, Berlin, Warsaw...
we can ask that psy q
having lived here for over 10 years
and perhaps these restrictions:
but the envy of the hope
is the fear is respects...

   but the envy of the hope
is the fear it respects...
because it leaves us solidified in the conflict
of water and earth
and the water fighting for us to return
to air...
because we were not born of the earth
and to earth will will not return
we were born in the air
from thought from a whim
we all share with the gods of whims...

how the eyes are burried in the realms
of organs
yet try to escape with thought
on the two pairs of ears
like wings
imagine us Men as Angels with Ear Wings
imagine us the **** Tier with Demons
as Dogs and Cats
and Horses and Pigs
we Eat we love petting Animals
we Eat more than we love petting Animals we don't
eat...
we love petting animals we eat
more than  the animals we pet and don't eat
and that's all VEGAN PROPAGANDA
i trust the news when men write
tiny columns...
i trust the news when only men write
tiny columns on
the first 10 pages of a newspaper...
the rest is cannibalism...
and vanity fair...

Catholics less minded than Muslims
in England
imagine...
Islam is catered to England
more than Catholicism...
but that seems organic and almost
a bit: didn't i say so?
i think the Jews are rightfully excused
from the conversation
but in England
imagine a catholic reconquista and you'd rather
imagine
Islamic multiculturalism
outside the realm of Mecca
and later the Emirates
and i wonder the buffer zone is equivalent
to givin that place the biggest G of O'clock...
like Mike Mike Mike Mahoney
and McGuire...
and all the other Macintyres...

            because in the last resort i wonder
how much of ethnicity is rumbling
when the nation-state goes away
and little pockets of the tribal man
once in the wild now
the tribal man in cages
and i believe in only one truth: god thinks...
therefore i don't need many gods
i only need one god
and one truth: god thinks!
**** all your omni- litany
and lack of free will!
people like that... even if atheists!
are imbeciles!
they argue from the perspective
of there being no free will
when they have so sparingly exercised it!
ugh... conversational pay child
i do wonder...
but for all the gods
i'd like only one god
and one truth: god thinks
and that instead of
so complex the simple details...
i think
              i don't say i thinks
in pigeon...
     but god is a pronoun
and nothing is a pronoun
and by now you can say
god thinks
and nothing thinks
because you can't really say
god think
or nothing thing... there's than plural continuum
sorry you're not special
but you are special
as you make yourself
however tender you want to stay
in a harsh world and cushion
satiate away...