no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

it's called: whenether you dare to call it infantile, that you start imagining people being serious about selling shoe-laces; or Korans.

even those, who you left to "live"
unto the age of 70 and past,
are asking, are asking themselves
whehter it has worth it...
            your arguments don't
scare me, they threaten me,
        and when someone
feels threatened:
             they react in
a natural tribunal of effort...
  when the arguments threaten
you fear confiscates
   the dire need of death
being an alpine promise...
      and the such...
you rob me of fear,
you instill a pragmatic of death,
like the Jew paid his alimony
  what the suffered under the **** crimes...
of course,
the numbers matter....
the Marshall plan in neutral Sweden...
              or what the Poles
    got with Communism...
Jew... barricades... barricades!
messerschmitt teuton krähe schwarzkreuze,
   love your neighbour as yourself:
that too died on the cross...
   and i was but a peasant in Warsaw,
and Warasaw was but a village...
                     something worth ******* on...
and it was the ****'s worth of geography
for merely being there.
       it's there... something akin to be odd...
               i have, oddly enough, no allegiance...
i'm bound to being dreamy...
          so called lazy...
   the next best thing...
                 right now the Jews matter,
i took no deutsche marks from the swabian schweine...
             the jews did...
               jews... they did...
                     blondas *kurva trop!
happy retirement and Hannukah...
you crass-case of albino...
                  alias neo-deutsche!
                          austrjak jebany palmą!
w głowe, jebudiet!
   Wengier! hu ha dusza, i świntosiek
                  duch, i iskra, i łamana
                          świca...
         serce mi da tą ziemie:
   i ja tą ziemie dam w cheć na
pogoń, zwane zając!

nie dla narodu, z kochanej, e, u, ro, py...
pierdole ten cyrk!
ja, niby, polok...
o to ten huj, iskra huja w pizdzie i pizde mi
na kilo jabłek potem wgryść, rozdać i sie
tylko śmiać... Jarkowski, jebany,
       Kowalski, zapomniany...
           Jazurelski: troche i coś odtąd nie tak...
czyli, ricochet, echom czy apropos?
         bo to cynic: prawde mę, to samo co prawde mlą.
hej stop to warto obgadać jako: gnój!
          i szmira, i obowiązek... niby...
   ale skupowisko nie-urzytków, tzn. słów...
rodzinka sie wkurwi na widow mnie!
    no, po prostu wkurwi!
              oj, hyba że ja ponowny Szo'pę,
i kres mego serca na łałel... via W unto V
or: Vienna.
                      as cheap as the joke can be made,
or as plastic and extending as it allows itself
to be...
             taaak, bluźnie:
        bo mi na pacierz nie wypada...
kler: zegnam sie, panie sługo... zegnam sie...
paciorek i tymianek... gówno wśród nas!
to wszystko przez
           braku ari de verci....    
  albo quo vadis -
              ryj!                 i gleba.

oh hell, every time i write some embarrassing a day prior, i turn into honour killing from Pakistan enveloped by shame... 'what the hell did i write last night? i can't remember, but i know for sure that i didn't roll down the stairs or **** in a phonebox'. well, i could sit here romanticising like Marcel Schwob, or just dig into like Marquis the Sade... honestly and oddly enough the latter did give me an *******, and he was half-the-pervert that everyone deemed him to be, flashing his buttocks from the Bastille... his uncle abbé de Sadé (i love to put that accent in on purpose - sounds better to me, less boorish) - and yes, Creedence Clearwater Revival does more justice to the harmonica on graveyard train than Bob Dylan and **** Jagger put together... it's just there, and it ain't it's because it's there that makes it... ha ha... groovy - maybe that's why they spared him from the guillotine, in that he wrote more of his exploits as wished to be done, and of the actual exploits too many were hidden in his blabbering prose undone; ****** is by far his greatest work.

i told you the black and red Oranjeboom is a trip, they used to sell it at 8.5%, now they dropped it to 7.5... that beer can get you crazy in nanoseconds, quicker than a formula 1 crown jewel of a Mercedes-Benz, i'm serious, the ****'s lethal - you drink with me you'll be talking l.s.d., you'll end up a Mongol somewhere in Siberia, stark naked in minus forty saying the words: 'where's my umbrella? where's my umbrella?', indeed on repeat... 'and that yak? i was riding a yak... where's the yak?' we have European bisons to await you colonel... 'about time, i was waiting for a bison... isn't that the place where storks migrate to to make butter over the summer? and the Jews hid when the Black Plague was sweeping across Europe leaving them immune in the vicinity of Cracow?' yes it was, Herr Mascherschtic-Messerschmitt -
'who's on the oboe? and the soloist violinist?' we don't know, working it out, 'you better, because i don't really long for a drum-beat of knocking two stones together to spark anything but fire, rather, a conversation; 40 days in the desert with Jesus trying to relocate the Jews to Goa worked out so splendid that they moved North, started speaking riddle Hebrew that's Yiddish and followed suit with ****** being gassed, but instead of trenches, death chambers - people tend to forget he was himself gassed and dated Eva a Jewess... no far right assimilation, i spoke with a grandpa that asked for sweets from an SS-man and a great-grandmother who fed her daughter opiates to hush her on the eastern front so she wouldn't cry - sometimes stating a self-consciousness detached from thinking (the inhibitor of existence) is as random as a lottery - because it's just that, thought is an inhibitor of existence, being is an exhibitor of the (sic) stated - oh please don't read me if you're into ******, i'm with the bookworms and freaks, premature ejaculators and whatnot, go eat a ******* macaroon in Morocco or something - of all the admirable circumstances worthy a stage thinking isn't really allowed, it's not exactly glorified, in two sentences:
- *i thought about it             (how two pronouns
                                               interact without Freud,
                                               or meet, or are the proton i
                                               neutrons thought about
                                               and the electrons it)...
it's a permanent duality of expressing something and anything,
we need the first person, the eyes give it away,
but in the end we're either touching an axe to chop
down a tree or attaching ourselves to a detachment of
chopping the tree down for the Freudian third it -
it's no longer a game of 'you're it!' tagging of
the kindergarten game but a work of fiction, transitions
like that must be painful - third person narratives are
generally conceived from being lazy in the first person,
how many people do you actually need to **** the poet off?
film credits: and it's a long list, mind you.
oh yeah, that word: dzwiękać - it's about making 0.1% of
a Mozart symphony with two stones smacked against
each other for what the feet used to do, a drumbeat,
it's not exactly an act of Prometheus' Odyssey into
the first glimpses of chemistry -
alternatively?
- i am it / or some alternative to something even more alternative,
  in the French school of thought dubbed deconstructionism
  that's also a blah blah reduction,
  Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinclair, a slum-dunk
  by the Lakers - it's still supposed to mean that i intended
  the phonetic encryption, i visualised nothing for
  you to follow-up on, sounds, poetry isn't cartoon,
  the harsh reality of having to read the Mandala of
  mouth expressions without, eye, eyebrows or cheeks
  or chin - ends up being dentistry when you want to
  say a but end up adding a            h     while
  the dentist inserts a blunt object into your mouth for
  an ah (be my guest, macron or umlaut depending
  on the volume of your lungs added to the a for reasons
  of reality's prolonging the seance of rotten teeth).
what i meant was the notion that thought is a different
type of being, or expression of out of every instance -
thinking too much won't grant you access to
people who say: 'are bored with their *** life. especially
gay men, who 'see *** as something you have to do
while on drugs'. so once **** no reassurance with
forever ****? **** it! could have given it a one-over
back when i didn't have a monkish demur.
well i can admit i'm jealous, but i just remember *******
before puberty and feeling the muscle sensation and
seeing no *****, aged 8 - the ******* help, and incubator
for all that raging monotheistic operatic harem wanton -
it's still a balancing act writing a sentence,
you are basically juggling two words, both are pronouns -
you throw a boomerang, you throw it as yourself
and expect it to come back as yourself,
pristine, juvenile, ******, intact with a pride of being
a person not influenced by others... the origin of
Columbus... it doesn't work like that,
the boomerang ends up like a windscreen with
several bugs attacked to it, bugs like Kant, like Heidegger,
whoever... whatever, free-love **** *** is overrated for me,
the ******* build-up and the flashing lights and whatnot,
i approach *** like a lumberjack a tree,
axe, tree, chop chop, tree falls... i'm out after an
hour having paid £110 for the pleasure... so you can take
your little feminism into the annals for these free-love
festivals (burning man in Nevada, killing kittens
in the hamptons etc.), preach there, leave me and my loser
****** high libido crew in the shadow of the crucifix -
judgemental ******* - i never expected so much stigma for
giving an ****** that i paid for to give, it's like an
Albert Camus novel, or worse, his life,
paid for a train ticket but decided to travel to the desired
destination by car, dead in a car-wreck - Irony with an ism.

ich wollen ein iranischherz herauf Nörden.

or simply Njørden - often the j is a softening pronunciation -
i want an Iranian heart up north -
that's what is says - imagine why he lashed out
with the words *sheisse ausländer -
miniature form of Dostoyevsky -
at 18 he was confused - his father probably
heard the words... hearing that he lashed out...
this is the proof of the power of commandments -
take one to extreme, and all the others seems
permitted - honour your parents -
he didn't shout out allah'u akbar - he did
a little maxim veto - as said unto me one,
may these bullets turn into revisited tongues -
the west has no concern for poetry -
i wouldn't make Iran an enemy,
after all... they're the ones that appreciate poetry...
mm ha ha! so given Iran's flavour for poetics
i can only applaud at their sensibility -
i too was once duped into thinking that watching
a movie i might lie to a girl and ****** her -
poetry is dead in the west... i don't write
for the west, i write from the west, which doesn't
mean i respect the west -
thanks to feminism we're cruising into
an affair of what feminists don't anticipate:
the impracticality of old age creeping, creeping,
creeping... with large families there are at least
chances of a benevolent child who might care for
his parents - in the west with surrogate foetal-things
it's hardly a bouquet of flowers sitting pretty on
a table - the problem are already waiting...
thank **** if you're rich... if you're poor?
well... hmm what a Disneyland awaits you -
**** stained and **** smeared dying for your idea
like any Communist might; well, i'm not going to
help you... ask Oxfam while the money you donated
ensured that only a penny reached the poor poor
Africans and why 99 pence reached the bureaucracy
of keeping a charity afloat - i know where
i can find fresh water... you have to cross a barbwire
fence, feed 10 horses 20 sugar cubes and you're
at a little stream of clarity... then you do the vegan
diet and sorta'h waiting for a heart-attack...
or you take a Russian Empire banknote with Tsar
Nicholas II to Switzerland and buy yourself out
with euthanasia... either way, win win.
every ****** time i go back home there's the Krähewolke -
i'm starting to imagine myself as the boy instructed by
Barbarossa to watch for the crows and a second life -
it's a small town, used to be industrious,
life here, there, everywhere, now a town of pensioners -
a European squabbling with a European but ignoring
the massive signs MADE IN CHINA, MADE IN CHINA...
MADE IN CHINA... why you blaming me for what's
going to happen to you too? you think this is the steam-engine
days of industrial revolution? do you have an Instagram
account? no. well... if you aren't going to be a third party
advert unit you're worth jackshit -
but still that Krähewolke of summer, thousands of them
swarm the sky - i'm not saying because i'm there,
i'm saying i'm there dwarfed by such a sight...
krähe die messerschmitt - so poetry is written by
*****-whipped English teachers, or it's the medium of
the weak, it has many voices but it doesn't have a voice,
it needs to be pretty, it needs to be neat, it needs to
have a prosthetic metaphor stashed in a pile of **** flare -
some say it even has to be as coherent as an Ikea
manual for putting a table together, people all of a sudden
trash the calculator and attempt mental arithmetic in
terms of reading... what... a... load... of... crock-****...
hyphen... mm... the Germans knew the immigrant Saxons
would speak less and less German and even of lesser
quality than the Turks... the Germans invented chemistry -
the Anglo-Saxons invented hyphenation... but it's so
******* weird that the Englandish outlandish will
hyphenate a word like overt-usage but never include the
hyphen in chemical nouns, like: Hydrochloric acid...
dihydrogen monoxide (yes, the d'uh hoax),
phosphorus pentachloride - what remains of Vater Schwaben
in English is bound to chemistry's language,
where the standard use of hyphen is disallowed -
the German original took on a different optometrist -
the English revision took on yet another (different) optometrist -
the eyes of the English starring at a German word
began to dizzy-up-whirl looking through a kaleidoscope -
the Germans just saw: schieße schrapnell!
achtung! achtung! die wort ist die fondant...
mm... gobble gobble gobble - pristine smile of sharpened
teeth in a smile! klebrigzähne sprechen sehr kleine-eine-miner.
well... if you're going to write a Monty Pi Ten you might
as well desecrate a foreign language with the grammar of
the one acquired - very much interested in how grammar
is reflected by Arabic left-to-right, English right-to-left
German right-to-left,but Latin left-to-right - all the genus
names - **** sapiens: rational man - or the up-kept
(******* ***** -φρεν - alt.  hi-yo in Beijing) desire for:
the instilled continuance of the rationalising man...
rationalise this! knuckle dusters down the East End -
gotta be a **** before you can be a Cockney Wiseguy -
say ooh la la say soo - bud weiss err - say ooh la la say soo -
amphetamine George says: ethanol Scottish Gaelic means:
twins sedative and un-inhibitor - talk of Enzymes -
south and shoo, north and nothing, east and extra territory,
west and **** / Vancouver - van coup verily ******
voulez-vous volleyball aha! write poetry like a dictionary
entry - spandex, annex, fly-flex - it can really become
a tennis match after a while:
   roses are   red
                   violets are blue
             i'm so in love with everything that's dead
    that i decided to call the past the necessary glue.
an article by Bryan Applied concerning poetry -
and why all poetic hearts are bound for Iran -
karaoke the current trend in the west for one -
living at a time when cooking books sell,
and plagiarism is celebrated more than any awkward
originality, but everyone still owns microwaves
and opts for ready-meals -
the rewards of old age aren't there because families
have become atomic based on individuals -
oh right? the article, it's long, ****** me off -
"we turn to poetry in times of need, but can it really
help? and why doesn't it sell more copies?"
ah the selling questions, i forgot a capitalist thinks
of poems like hamburgers...
i'll put in a bracketed word pending in the title and give
you a brief overview of the article...

*** and whiskey interlude

i don't write poetry... what i do do is **** poetry;
why do fellow artists hate poetry?
poetry in the hands of the old and young
thinks itself ******-like, the one art form that
says no to violence, no to intolerance,
no to drastic actions of revision -
keeping the Shakespearean sonnet won't do the art
any favours, it's the art too easily accessible,
because anyone can apparently write it
as long as they get a clue than a rhyme is necessary -
alternating rhymes are not that important,
i asked for a steak tartar, instead i got
plated a shepherds' pie - i asked for raw,
all i got for nanny picked and donning diapers -
poetry is best suited for that dynamo of reaction
known to internet trolls - trolls should overpower
writing poetry, they're intelligent enough, and
democratic too - cold-stone-heartless *******
should pick up these floral arrangements and
do an iron maiden make-over with them...
poems should be torture instruments,
they should never be treated as floral arrangements...
i don't like weakness, neither does nature -
when i walk into the museum of poetry
i don't want to see avant-garde art, i want to see torture,
they really did underestimate the vis poetica -
when i read poetry i want torture, i don't need
safety pins, straitjackets and other torturous
instruments of conformity - but from what i'm seeing
that's all i'm getting - ask any man why the construction
industry is ******* - women on site, women in the
army - feminism has infiltrated sacred sites of
manly brotherhood... you don't see a man stroll into
the fashion industry... well... unless he's a ****** -
a Grimm Brother's tale: once upon a time...
you could listen to a radio on a building site...
then women came in... we only heard symphonies of
hammer and drill... that alone made us deaf...
sure... we worked dangerously, we died more often...
BUT THE THRILL! **** *** bye bye... go on, wave at it...
it's like Titanic's maiden voyage... it's not coming back!
feminism's ugly head should have shoved itself once
more under a horse's galloping hoofs - a few times -
it played with the brotherhood of man - we're no longer
men, we're insurance policies, safety nets,
no wonder the Jihadis are fighting for our libidos -
cos i honestly think they are... they want us to feel the Mojo
once more from the frivolous spirit of the 1960s liberation
that only became slavery of the fake sinner -
**** it... applause gentlemen! applause! thank **** for
me donning *******, i'd be a real loser if i had to hand it
to myself without it... these days it's called the ******* -
the monk's sheaf of chastity - reduce a man to a *****
and you reduce a father to alimony cheques.
what?! ain't that true? i told you, **** poetry, don't
bother writing it, **** that pacified ***** into obedience -
you own it... without you you'd still be crying about
what shame it is that a nation that produced Shakespeare
undermines poets while keeping this old **** ticking
all the boxes of worthwhile inspection... i wish i was
the 20th century example of when poetry had some respect...
at any other time more so in the 20th century -
but we missed that train... shame for us to have inherited
such a past and the internet - so if not so keen on poetry
why Shakespeare the celebratory idol? twilight Sir
****-a-lot is coming - or so i hope.
so this article, citations:
a. Wordsworth 'thoughts that do often lie too deep for
     tears',
b. poetry is the language of crisis,
c. poetry as peak experience constructed from
    the shabby, battered bricks of verbiage
    (otherwise known as talk with a mouthful
      of spaghetti),
d. TS Eliot: 'purifying the dialect of the tribe'
     (too many dialects to make up a tribe, to be honest),
e. funerals in particular are what's called
    poetic crashing the scene, every subject,
    every opportunity, you'd never call a poet a
    polymath,
f. the healing power of poetry... the healing power?
    i never signed up to take a Hippocratic oath!
g. a permanent record of failure... or the allure of a permanent
     record of ridicule by others, so the minor success was
     there too - as in a boy buys a kettle
     is a success story, but a boy writes a poem is a failure -
     is that vocabulary as commodity without
     a handkerchief?
h.
              a sense of abandonment looms...
              the obnoxiousness of this article is all too apparent,
      i rather be headbanging to some ***** M: Ra Ra Rhas Putin -
(even surds deserve a bit of love) -
i might finish the citation of the article... but then again
i might as well cut it short - inc. in the Culture Section
of the Sunday Times, Bryan Appleyard -
people resent poetry for stealing what comes naturally -
really? so i'm a thief? a lot of people don't invest in
vocabulary - they convene to invest in flimsy investments
of slang - after graduation from being teenagers the investment
in **** suddenly disappears - grown-up vocabulary takes
over, comprehensive English, not slang English...
people don't acquire naturally (i.e. easily without discomfort),
if i were to complain to the people for treating me
as a thief rather than a poet i'd ask them to teach me to
do crosswords... a pain-in-the-***... i can't do them!
so i guess that if you're able to do crosswords you can't
write poetry, or give poetry a freedom away from all those
dusty technicalities / identifiers as such -
for poetry doesn't make anything happen
(WH Auden), it probably doesn't, but if you choose a boring
life, a lot happens... 11/15 is the feminist ratio of poetry's
Forward prizes in the genre - k k, a fraction - 11:15 -
new testament? or the old's citation? yeah... why do they
cite the bible like making bets at the bookies?
Gospel of St. Luke 15 to 1? they're betting on the 4 Henchmen
of the Apocalypse - gambling even in the testaments.
performance poetry seldom stands up on the page -
yeah, wheelchair bound, or in pop culture lyricism -
that competition between R.E.M.'s man on the moon
(yeah yeah yeah yeah), and Nirvana's smells like teen spirit,
hello hello hello 'ola! (later the yeah yeah hitchhiker's story);
did i tell you i got barred from a pub in Collier Row for
speaking poetically? a ****-hole of a pub anyway,
walked in with a pair of dolphin flippers and a shark
fin, spoke some words, made a few friends over grapefruit
ale - then a few days later got barred, because i apparently
"threw a pint glass across the room"; that's me booked
for the Cheltenham Book festival for sure... right next to
the cookbook aisle where people will be expecting to make
humble pie and cider squint tarts.

Nacarat swastikas drawn on eggshell blue washed paper
some half chewed crayons.

At least the box says that they're non-toxic
she watched the history channel all weekend long and like most kids her interest peaked then waned, spiraling and spiraling like a Messerschmitt BF- 109, it's tail spewing smoke

Adolf and Eva no longer held her attention and no longer romanticized her vision, then, she took off her rose tinted heart shaped glasses and ran outside to the sunshine

O for Orange
They were just kids flying their Vickers Wellington bomber
Out from England to bomb The ***
That dastardly enemy who started this war
O for Orange coded machine crewed by our boys
Flying at first in daylight on recon and carrying leaflets
Then bombing **** warships as their civilians are innocent
Just like ours are and the Poles and others
Our Wellingtons being caught out over the water
They fought back well but lost at Heliogoland Bight
Licked into submission by lethal little Messerschmitt 109s
And their destroyer brother Messerschmitt 110s
Their cannons smashing our bombers into the water
And damaging many more which had no armour or protection
Other than rifle calibre machine guns which were close range killers
Just ask the few **** fighters that fell that day
The battle of Heligoland Bight ended the myth once and for all
The bomber will not always get thru by day
Ask the brave crew of O for Orange
Their Wellington bomber lies on the seabed
Along with their remains and legacy
Their loss was the first of many
Which brought along the total unconditional surrender
Of **** Germany ending the Thousand Year *****

in all honesty, i've become a supermarket ghost, one shelf stacker inquired whether the cheap ***** i'm buying is any good, well the beer Amstel is decent, but the whiskey i mix anyway - a wake-up call to stay away from writing ancient greek style epics, a shelf stacker at a supermarket, that's all it took, bye bye chaos of the north, or northern chaos, or whatever i tried to romanticise / or make a fetish of.*

concerning ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ,
in an analogical form, very much akin
to mozart and joseph ii of austria
(the famous yawn - Amadeus quote
'too many notes!'),
people need nibbles!
nibbles! i tell ye nibbles!
like the opposite of cinema,
as bird-man states at the end of
the film: people want action!
explosions! alien invasions!
they don't want existential angst
screened, they're so sadistic in
this department that they want
the solo eventuality - they want
to experience existentialism solo -
existential: out of every exit of example,
themselves. bird-man got it spot on,
but revise cinematography using
poetry, and what do you get?
the destruction of western and even
middle-eastern narratives with
the haiku - the haiku ****** up
prosaic poetry like karaoke ******
up innovative ballet of the tongue -
translated bird-man's investigation
of cinema, put it against poetry,
yep, pair them up,
when cinema craves for action
and adventure,
poetry craves for nibbles,
no one is going to burden Homer
for the next 1000 years, or Dante
should it matter, they'll want
nibbles, haiku upon haiku,
short and sweet... fellas' bring in the
insecticide! we're going to smoke
those cockroaches out with one
smooth toxic cloud! puff! and they're gone!
poetry can be a cinema,
i mean, if cinema appeases the public
with extrovert activity without
the necessary identity of the protagonist
all the better... i dare you
to create a protagonist's introversion
as some point... Mr. Gorgonzola!
you're up next... messerschmitt nose dive
into a parabola... kneeee-uh -
you can just hear the propeller like
a shark fin cutting air;
if poetry is anything like cinema is
that less is more -
it's people we're talking about, after all,
cattle, you can join the cattle throng
any time you want, i know i do,
no point being optimistic about
your individuality or the individuality
process you devise,
you have to be pessimistic,
the wildebeests are optimistic when together,
the tiger is... well, a tiger, alone -
predatory antics are scaled against
herding, with stampede the only recognisable
antic - but me, between predator and herd,
in a vulture group (committee) / vulture feeding
(wake), etc. add hyenas to that
and we're above parasites -
pocket-proof of a group of foxes never existed -
solitary musings i say, theirs' the wanderings -
but with examples like ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ, epic attempts,
you slowly begin to realise the un-importance
of your daily routine, the mundane reality
of it all, the lost excitement,
before you could **** out all the essence
of a little encounter, but when embarking
like Columbus to find only Jamaica you
end up finding three-continents and shrapnel
from the eastern face... well you miss
your spontaneity, your little consistency -
no due to atheism - it didn't **** off theology,
that remained constant, a fudge berg
in your imagination, it just killed off history -
we have pre-history and stones,
iron and brass in between, and then
we have 24 hour newsreels - who's going
to make up the time? we're taught
of being insignificant before we even decided
to become the next Audrey Hepburn -
****** shoo shoo they call us - ushers
of shoe-shine smiles - see what i mean
about trying to write epics in the 21st century?
enforced evolution, chicken nugget poetry,
not even a whole chicken, chicken ******* nuggets,
and yes, coarse words act as conjunction
lubricant, no offence, but they do -
so with bird-man telling us explosions are
the case for applauds and throwing
free bread around - poetry is all about
scavenger nibbles - haiku can almost be ranked
as a poetic technique equal to pun or metaphor -
we lost the narrative,
the narrative isn't coming back to
rejuvenate poetry - it's... gone!
or as they say where champagne is cheap...
chimp champs of the innuendo
wrote many more rocking-a-cradle poems
and never bounced a tennis ball
against the same wall
with the signature of the game stressed as
        i sat on a chair
        and cut my hair,
        without a mirror:
        kdump (linux) error, error.
how a little holiday into excess narration
proved the point of the everyday emphasis
once again spotted.

i hate exclusive writing websites, it feels more about eyeing a clock of readers and favourites and keep safes than anything to do with progress; also the stuff that gets the worthwhile attention for a digestive system inquiring about an alt. diet is, in fact: well, some write for waitresses and bartenders, those who like language just as it is... obediently, instruction manual of a narrative, the: "it will never happen to me so i can feel cosy;" but some hate the way language is crafted for reason as mentioned prior: and bypass the waitresses and bartenders for a nitrogen meal with a whiskey sour.

ever play shadow ching chang wollah?
you loose the paper stone and scissors,
and you end up
imagining you're on the long haul
of drugs doing a 12h acid ******,
not the mile high business class
of a 15minute ******* quickie,
you're next to the ****** teenagers
drinking away as the marathon man,
anyway, with this shadow ching chang wolah,
you loose the paper stone and scissors
on the jesse james draw;
what you get is a creepy spider,
a parkinson's flashlight dropped in a ghost
house reminiscent of a heartbeat,
a rabbit, that old classic,
and the laughed at crescendo of a crow
using two hands! messerschmitt the hands do!

or like i end every arguments with my father: father, you're a brilliant exponent of bad faith, brimming-full with negations, but i rather your bad faith than the anti-existentialist cartesian good faith with pascal's twinkle: brimming-full with contradictions due to the coupling of thought to doubt; and i'm old enough to read these old leather chair **** books for a wrinkles' worth of tear, otherwise why would we send these idiots en-route 180º from the sciences and productivity? it's interesting this, the post-cartesian experiment: but it makes people annoying, i deny, therefore i think, makes it great to boil an egg and not think of a better solipsism. but i laugh it off: i could have been a proper drug dealer for psychiatrists, but i ended up being a proper theory synthesiser. but you know that denial breeds no faith as doubt does, well it does, faith-in-itself, which makes the self a keener protagonist, which is not really beneficial to slump and ride two thousand kilometres at four miles per hour.

the seagull white against the english
earl grey skies (the white set against
the grey almost makes the grey blue),
scavenger congregation in a neighbour's
garden by the number
providing a calm call of comparison
with hyenas,
contrasted against the messerschmitt black
of crows in the waiting line
deliberating a smart move for the piercing
needle dive for queen and crown;
solemnly perched on roofs and television
aerials, devolving man to ant-like accord
with antennas pulverising upwards
in the style of modern-gothic, doubly blind
and doubly a worsened comparison
to the hiking buckle of sheep needing tender
herding.

****** dropped bombs on him
It was nothing personal
There was just a war on
He came under the heading of enemy
Blew the ****** front door in
His mum got shot at by a Messerschmitt
In the middle of the street
So he had to do the shopping after
Its dangerous out there send the kid

Served his country in the Royal Fusiliers
Made it to sergeant teaching squaddies
How to read and do their sums
Posted to Germany as army of occupation
Did his bit as the saying goes
Then back on civvy street worked in the city
Steam train took him every day
From the market town where I was born
To smoke and smog and daily grind

Now I am teaching him the iPhone 6
At eighty seven he’s doing great
From a socially acceptable distance
Of course so we can keep in touch
Face to face and he won’t miss us
Now by himself rattling around
The big old house where I grew up
How times have changed
Still he should be used to queuing up

309 Pilot
The Messerschmitt Me-309 was a stunning warplane
Originally it had seven guns but the pilot removed some
The 13mm heavy machine guns were lethal but not needed
He freed up four hundred pounds in weight
This left just three cannons and their ammo
Two 20mm and a single 30mm gun
The 20mms were in the wing roots and 30mm in the nose
It was enough to **** enemy bombers like B-17s and Lancasters
And the following B-29s and Lincolns which bombed Germany endlessly
He got ready for a mission and was confident of more kills
He was keen and aggressive and had the right tool for the job
A fast climbing high speed interceptor aircraft
Germany's finest piston engined fighter of the war
With a modified engine boosted for power
Nothing but an enemy jet was faster but very short ranged
With a smile he walked to his plane
Who would he **** today?

**** Heap
Round and round they go on a merry go round
Chasing one another in high performance warplanes
Trying to blow one another's ******* heads off
Madness over Belgium World War 2 style
**** Messerschmitt 109 and Yankee P-47 Thunderbolt
Armed to the ******* teeth read for war and battle
Just waiting for a shot shoot **** die death!
Here we ******* go guns guns guns!
But he missed and so the dance continues
German and American going round like Devils
Each as good as the other and both expendable
In the high tech no mercy duel where violence rules
Shortly one or both fighter planes will be wrecks
Burning fiercely on the frozen ground
January 1 1945 New Year’s Day battle style
Did you have a good New Year's Eve party?
Your hangover will be the death of you
Making you a second too slow
Then the **** will nail you and claim a new ****
Adding to his list of Allied and Soviet pilots
For he fights not for ****** or the Nazis
But to survive as two dozen of his comrades die
Killed by American guns while hitting their base
This is war where there's no glory just death

in all fairness, it was one of of those simple overcast,
English sort of days...
i love such days, the sun's lazily hiding
behind the clouds: no chance to implement green
energy via solar panels...
very English... very islander...
     hell, chances are these might just be the Faroe Isles...
it'll do...
weather like this makes me: miserably happy...
or, rather... happily miserable...
   you spot a crow paired up: why do crows in England
tend to fly in pairs?
over on the continent crows congregate...
they antagonise the sky with a presence equivalent
to a Messerschmitt raiding party... horde...
black crosses casting shadows from high up...
in England... the mythological kingdom of crows...
they pair up as if... Odin himself is peering on this land...
what's it like in Scandinavia?
i woke up with a thought, though,
i put it to the back of my head until the day's chores
were over...
what the hell happened to women?
where are the women a boy or man would put
up on the wall on a poster?
what the hell happened to...
women like Joan Jett...
Rachel Weisz (notably for playing a role in
a Stendhal adaptation with Ewan McGregor)
my hot... the archetypical blonde
for me was not Marilyn Monroe...
it was Cameron Diaz after seeing her in The Mask...
**** me, do i have to mention Morgan Weaver...
what's that other one
the really: fit as hell brunette...
oh... right... Alex Morgan...
                   Olga Smirnova... Diana Vishneva...
don't even get me started on
the tennis...
Eugenie Bouchard or... Garbiñe Muguruza
those Spanish "sad eyes" when
smiling... horiziontally:

   (
               )
   (

odd... isn't it... if you pair up two ( ( brackets like
that... and associate them with eyes...
while doing the opposite...

    )
                (
    )

) ) those down-cast eyes... but i guess it all comes
down to... a variation of rereading hieroglyphs...
hell... even further! it's archetypical...

who else is on my list... Paula Badosa...
Monica Puig...
i don't even know why i like the actress
that played the incel Christine Chubbuck...
point being: never shoot yourself in the head...
if you have to... stab yourself in the heart:
as Kafka prescribed... unless you have
a shot-gun available to get rid of the whole head...

i saw it in the movie... and... since i have eclectic tastes...
Christine Chubbuck shot herself in the head...
films make you want to think that she
died... instantly...
ever hear that urban myth about a decapitated
cockroach... it apparently died 2 weeks later...
no... not from missing head:
from a missing mouth... the cockroach's body
continued to live on, even though the head was...
ahem... "missing"...

i think i've touched upon this once already,
the infamous Ukrainian serial killer:
Andrei Chikatilo... it's very much that quote
from Batman... Resurrected... the one with Tom Hardy
playing Bane...
the quote, verbatim:
perhaps he's wondering why someone would
shoot a man! before throwing him out of a plane!
from the film about Christine Chubbuck's attempted
suicide on air: agony of an incel...
she didn't die, immediately... from the head injury...
she died later down the line:
on life support machines...

so i'll re-quote, concerning the execution of
Andrei Chikatilo...
why would he be marched into an empty prison
cell and be shot in the back of the head...
oh... now it makes senses...
he didn't die immediately...
he was brain-damaged...
he didn't bleed out from this head wound...
it must have taken him about... 2 weeks to die...
from either dehydration or from lack of food...
but the movies will never tell you that...
some do, thought...

why would you take a serial killer into an empty
prison cell and shoot him in the back
of the head: if you weren't expecting him
to pretend to be dead for... a little while, longer?
would the Ukrainian prison guards subsequently
**** him with arrogantly looking
objects?
******* ****** and what not?
i expect they might have...
i like entertaining myself with such scenarios...

but like Kafka said: aim at the heart...
you're not going to die from a head-injury...
your might not be aware of it...
it would be otherwise pointless to make a film
surrounding poor, un-****** Christine...
leeching off support-machinery...
kept alive...
ergo? ol' Andrei was shot in the back
of the head, in an empty cell...
left to partially rot away...
probably getting ****** on, ******* on...
well... did he deserve any better?!

yet i woke up thinking...
why do all the pretty girls... become prostitutes?
the most beautiful ones i ever caressed:
prior to scratching my fingertips on some pavement /
brick before touching their bodies were always
the prettiest of the whole lot of them...
but in general... with the advent of post-brothel
simping... paying for nudes directly
rather than ascribing oneself to:
i'm *****... i'll take the 3rd person ****-show...
fair enough...
but i'm not paying directly for: directly nothing...

they could have been football players,
nurses, ballerinas, actresses...
they turned to ***...
sure... of the 3 or 4 Ps...
poets, priests, psychiatrists or prostitutes...
they're in line...
perhaps it's for the best...
every, single, time...
of the times i visited a psychiatrist,
psychologist... after all: a psychologist has no
power to prescribe you the required pharmacology...
i have my own reading list...
so...
to hell with a priest...
i can't be a god-fearing man when i am supposed
to churn out a regurgitation of a:
benevolent all loving god... not in my part
of the woods...
so, prostitutes!
less talk, more touchy-feely...

yet so many women have decided to take up
this route... hardly professionally...
only via the easy way out...
it's not like most of these girls are capable to touch my
own body... i go to the source...
Turkish... plain in sight... Romanian...
i'm not paying for a ******* video of her
*******, body on body contact...
better assurance to what a date might provoke...

but it's not like they're aiming to be ballerinas,
the minority always will...
sure: and i'm also not a car mechanic...
****** poet, events steward...
a few clues to a upper IQ also missing...
not right up there with the opera singers... either...
i like the middle ground, though...

like today... i was walking to Collier Row to buy some
spiced ***, some orange peel,
some currants, for a Christmas cake...
beard's all bushy... the moustache has taken charge...
i have a date on Monday...
one sip of coffee and i pick up extra foam...
this ****** jungle needs to be trimmed...
so i went to the Turk...
now... if i really love a piece of clothing...
i'll repeatedly wear it...
a Fat Face brown shirt... thick enough for winter
to only wear a dark brown t-shirt underneath...
crock-coloured material trousers...
cotton? brown leather shoes... ankle high...
and... a new addition... a brown-green...
baker-boy cap...
maybe the bushy beard readied for a trim...
or the baker-boy cap...
a green & grey shawl...
one female, two female, three females down...
smiling, giggly... the: oh i love the pretend
curiosity / nervousness... excitement...
best i love myself: the last loved-up curiosity
left me... with too much nostalgia...
in as quickly & out as quickly as a ******* allows...
i'm out...

KORA: the lead-singer from this ******
band Manam... where are these women gone to,
all went to *******?
impossible... given can compete... compliment
men's addition to civilisation
they reduce themselves to the meat-market?
seems like a waste...
while they could aspire to sing,
to dance ballet... fair enough...
a ******* does the work of a psychiatrist...
yeah, sure, watch me complain...
but i'm not going to pay for frivolous expenses...
i need the touch: i'll get the touch...
no ******* free-rides...
people that talk during ***...
people that aren't mute or onomatopoeia prone...
can't understand them: i don't wnat to
understand them...

a more complex schematic i had in mind...
on the 14th of December my mother booked in
this pedicurist...
i hope she comes with her 1 year old daughter...
it was most fun the last time she came,
my little Frankenstein...

last time i clucked, she clucked back...
she implored me with the knowledge
that she was hungry, she also had cold feet...
i took her up in my arms and cuddle her...
i was being scrutinised...
this pedicurist had a friend in tow...
apparently i had all the advantages of a Scandinavian
physiognomy...
a darkened beard, a darkened brow...
yet illuminating moustache / soul patch:
blonde...
   the leftover of my childhood colour of hair...
i wish she brings this little... critter back into my arms...

it's not mine: less heartache from a perspective of
ownership... this little babe... i own bonsai tigers...
coming into staged ownership of a baby girl...
not my own... how fun it becomes...
i out on some vinyl record for her...
she tries to memorise me...
she puts a finger into my mouth...
she tugs at my beard...
i wink, she winks...
             i give her an onomatopoeia...
she gives me one back...

little Frankenstein...
that's why i should have children, they'd be too experimental...
following the schematic:
i'd ask the little critter:

  e  i
a  M o
    u        (y)

English alone... Y... why... alias of "iota"...
            
Y: to... także samogłoska, nie?
i guess there are more vowels in ******
than in Anglo-Saxon...

  ą   e  ę
a  M  o
   i y u/ó

in anglo-saxon Y is not considered a vowel,
it's considered  a consonant:
a... spółgłoski...

i lent this pedicurist some albums:
pablopavo - telefon
wooden shjips - west
vomito nergo - fall of an empire
hanzel und gretyl - uber alles
biran jonestown massacre - aufheben
dead skeletons - dead magic
electric wizard - dopethrone
spirit - 12 dreams
ryan adams - s.t.
u.n.c.le. - war stories
om - adviatic songs
trentemoller - lost
the soft moon - s.t.
allah-las - s.t.
uncle acid & the deadbeats ,
naam,
chromatic - will for love
in extremo - verehrt und...
tame impala - innerspeaker...

just bring me your little Frankenstein!

tending to a babe, via keeping a makeshift...
listening stream of...
Masquerade, oh beloved little kitty:
of a would be Frankentsein...
speak me some assurance!

iskra (title): par (the body to bypass the 502 bad gateway)

O these tender winter nights,
when the moon graces the skies at night,
i missed him....
in my native tongue he's known as ol'
baldy... he's not known by the name Luna...
just like the sun is a she...
& not Helios...
i missed him... how i missed him when
the nights were short...
when the biting air mingling with
frost didn't nibble at the hands
and explore x-rays...
bone-father... pristine eye:
he who discards unnecessary dreams...
will never allow recurrent dreams
to fester your mind...
   i look at this migrant crisis & think...
why are these people looking for
an elder of the north?
am i the elder?
    another question: could i be as welcoming
with a ***** attested to Abraham...
- once upon a time
i was taking a train from Romford
to Liverpool St...
a single mum with her child...
the child approached me
with a book & started reciting  the words...
in deutsche... i tried to hide weeping...
oh course i shed a tear...
a child was reading to me
about... operating trucks...
constructing scaffolds...
             doing the "magic" that diggers do...

ULVER - KVELDSSANGER:
you can just skip to the song: Utreise...

i imagine that if i were united with a woman,
the role of father would drastically undermine
my relations with the woman...
pointless talk...

i'm currently undertaking a
nvq level 2 stewarding course... so a preliminary test
of your English & Mathematics skills...
i almost completed the English skills test today,
i'll do the Maths tomorrow:
i always preferred a su doku to a game
of scrabble / a crossword...

overall score... 56%...
passable... grade C...
now the stats...
comprehension at 80%
text comparisons... eh... 50%
implicit meaning 33%...
  
    you're getting the drift?
poets should never be NVQ tested on their language
skills... you start reading e. e. cummings
or william burroughs?! FAIL... outright fail...
too much freedom you see...
you have to have a return policy...
a return framework...
you need to learn English parrot...

language features... at 75%...
using glossaries (67%)
organisational features (ditto)
bias (a big ******* fat 0... it ought to be O%)
bias... maybe i just misread something
or... never mind...
NVQ level testing: it's not like getting a BSc in
chemistry... oh **** no...
it's a mind spaghetti pressed...
you need to be double sure... i.e. wrong at least once...
****'s sake...

fact & opinion (50%),
writing style (75%),
written communication (60%)
writing (33%)... seriously? seriously?!
format & structure (40%),
organisational markers (60%),
persuasive language (33%),
complex sentences (50%),
GRAMMAR (80%),
verbs (75%),
     punctuation (36%),
   spelling (78%)...

   but bias at O%? you ******* kidding me?
i can't tell the difference between reading
propaganda in newspaper & reading directions
to get from A to B?

NVQ jokers... you must be stupid...
let us help you...
******* left high school with some A-levels
now they think they can rough up a BSc
owner... you know... i did this one ****** module
at university, some sociology course...
they told us to write an essay...
that we couldn't plagiarise...
what the **** did i do?
i plagiarised... we were supposed to be monitored
some some giant precursor of an A.I. Brian...
brain... that was supposed to pick up plagiarism...
sure... but if you know the "magic" of rewording
& have a ******* thesaurus handy?
i had to listen to some music,
my focus was elsewhere...
i plagiarised the essay: through & through...
managed to get a 1st for it...
did the, "system" catch me ought?
of course it didn't... so much more computers
& rules & what became my totem...
no wolves on these isles... the foxes will suffice...

NVQ *******... just regurgitate:
it's not even remotely related to learning... its a parrot
parody... but... after the initial test...
let me tell you...
i never learned so much grammar as i did now...
not under the GCSE model, for sure...
if only the English punctuated like the rest of
Europe apply diacritical marks...
but i write: outside the realm of giving a flying-****
& a gingerbread to consider what's
formal what's informal... it's... arrr... art!
you bring me down to a level of proficiency in
understanding: oi! black: to the right...
white's: down...
to the centre...
                        it's somewhat debilitating when
having to make distinctions...
what is from what's... because somehow
the practice of... congesting? concentrating...
compounding words is... informal?
if the apostrophe is so hideous when it comes
to don't vs. do not... **** away with it
when it comes to the possessive article!
don't use it... so how does: it's Sams bicycle look
like now?!
pretty ******... people make up these rules
only to give themselves gatekeeping stature...
gatekeeping hierarchical procedures...
o.k. o.k. i get it...
but i'm writing this only as a retaliation:
don't think some of us don't know what's
happening...

i'm ******* gagging for the mathematical questions,
i hope a su doku comes up...
it probably won't...

i never had so much encounters with grammar,
people who don't write poetry have ****
for brains...
there are so many formalities...
... is not even a recognised punctuation:
"strategy"... you can't allow yourself
the " " markers... whoever wrote the NVQ exam
obviously didn't read any Heidegger...

i forget that the 'obvious' intention is...
i generally appreciate 'said' as a quote...
"x" indicates toying with metaphors, misnomers &
insinuations... but no... oh no...

studying history doesn't give you the luxury of
studying grammar...
seems like grammar is fine... 80%...
bias at a big fat 0 of O%... come on?
first they test you, then they double-sure...
language so rigid is bound to be:
a non-language...
                      
        soulless "thing"... but fair enough...
after the last, failed, terrorist attack... i'll plough through...
i like tending to the flock...
i like the look on...  faces... that seem to recognise me...
as if they know me from a dream...
and there i am... in the flesh...

my Indian companion... i fixed her clip-on tie
for her, i took the knee doing up her borrowed
steward jacket... blah blah...
she told me she was diabetic, complained about
how for a week her other companion told her
to watch her sugar intake: i will have nothing to
do with reminding you of anything...
she was freaked out by autumn leaves
piled up in the park, how she was afraid about
not knowing what might be lurking
beneath / in the pile...
i told her about my apprehension
with regards to swimming in the sea...
how i much adored swimming
in waters where i could see the depth:

swimming in glass...
how she was afraid of cycling after falling over...
how her mother made the analogy:
cycling is like flying...
only today, with my hood up...
yeah... it really is... your view is so unobstructed...
if you don't look down and spot
the tip of the handlebars...
you can almost forget your legs are peddling...
she finally managed to fathom enough
strength to kick a pile of leaves:
to no surprise... nothing but leaves beneath
the leaves...

a walk in the park... i like the idea that a woman
must be comforted...
i like women with suspicions of reality...
one little phobia here...
another little phobia over there...
i like pocket-sized minds & hearts...
its fits "in" nicely: to whatever grand event is
happening, otherwise...

the match "might" have been taking place...
but the park was so gloriously available to wander
in alone, at peace...
it made more sense playing the authority figure
with a walky-talky...
asking people to drink up their beers before
getting to the venue...
such a... simple role... not a plumber or carpenter
in sight... if this is work... then i don't know
what loitering is... all it took was a change of attire
to turn: this load of ******* into work...
from what otherwise would be considered...
loitering by the load of *******...
simple!

O but the moon is high in the sky & winter is finally
playing the ******* accordion like
it might be slapping a heron against a rock
to death... love it... no other month is so magical as this
one... while all the people slip into a pseudo-hibernation
faze... i find myself rejuvenated: realigned...
the cold serves me abundance that no fruit
can ever bring...

gone are the bothersome insects, esp. the flies...
while the cats self-impose their own curfews...

why is it, that in Poland you see hordes... of crows &
kafkas... hordes of them: like clouds...
but in England... solitary wind-bits...
at most... in Huginn & Muninn pairing...
as if the ravens in England adopted the nobility
of swans... in Eastern Europe them come as...
messerschmitt: schwarzkreuzwolken...

         furchtbar!
see... when the English speaking world starts
playing funny... political, social, whatever...
grammatical... i tend to "forget" i speak English:
oh how i adore this tongue...
it's an armchair, compared to all the other tongues...
with one exception: the elder English,
which has to be.... most probably...
if not the modern variant, then any other variant of...
what was spoken in Saxony was also
probably spoken in Thuringia,
Swabia... Pomerania... etc.

    like the guy who delivers some of the packages
to my door... der glücklichenmann...
for a long time i couldn't place him,
his "accent" was no accent at all...
several scenarios later did he disclose his origins...
Deutsche... ein glücklichendeutschemann!
ich muss sein in güt: gesellschaft!

eh... perhaps the German grammar structure
when translated into English was
***** a little by French grammar which:
who borrows from who:
western Slavic grammar is so similar to French
grammar... if i were only this,
before... i was taught by a self-righteous monolingual,
later a Spanish woman teaching French:
perhaps i could be speaking French right now!
im diesem augenblick!

but the guy leaving packages... only today i picked
it up... he does have an accent... he has a German
accent!
he hid it so well prior... before he freely disclosed
his national identity... i wouldn't have known...
now he accents his speech like a German might...
prior to: undistinguishable...
amazing... i could the same with my ******
mother tongue... but i'm schizoid...
i can make clarifying distinction between the two tongues...

only today... for once he sounded so German
when speaking English, he almost had me fooled thinking him
a Schwiezer!
das "Himalayamann"...
    mein gott: so ich gedanke(n)...

but English can only become insufferable once,
of twice, three times i strike gold...
i end up drinking and teasing some German....
it's not like the zeppelins are coming,
are they?!

let me know... i must know... the part where i'm to be
educated about a minority status,
by a minority that is becoming: less & less...
minder und minder ein minderheit...
i'll cook my own ******* curry:
this that & the other...
too bad you will not "make east" of my peoples' food...
how much, do you ******* want?

it seems:

genug ist nicht genug!

i turn to German to make a "sacrifice":
i turn to it for: TROST...
English is too cosmopolitan... at times...
in London: all the ****** time...
i looked at Derby supporters when
they played Fulham like animals...
not in a bad "sense": someone ought
to herd these ******* home
to a warm pillow...

i don't like being reeducated concerning
statures of anti-racism... that's ******* *******-wanking
reemphasis...
i can't be... anti-racist...
i can be: counter-...
i can... not-,
           but anti-racist is a belief in the inhumanity
of those that express their, little, piquant...
tastes... i can't be anti-racist...

if i want to **** a chocolate ice-cream cone...
mein gott: weltpolitik!
nein! nein! nein!
          zu hölle: mit diese scheiße!

it only takes one ******* would-be Jihadi to
identify you as a German
before the 2nd concludes...
hey... why don't i try pretending to be: German?!
women of my own ethnicity can't tell the difference...
let us, do German!

such sights to see... solche ist winter!
ausgedehntnächte...
der mond...  neugier ohne frage(n)...

i don't know... at the onset: ooh... scary...
but once the propaganda kicked in...
sure... the 390,000 Ukrainian refugees
crossing the Polish border...
credible, however many to be suited
in tents in Slovakia, Moldova...
Hungary... i'm actually flying into Poland
on the 5th for a 3 day stay...
visit my grandfather's grave...
he's dead, i'm alive... so it's me primarily
stocking up on cigarettes...
    i'm sort of worried but i'm also more
worried: ****, i better not spill any of this
Jack Daniel's....
so i went walking into Bower Wood and
the Havering county park today...
it rained... i bemoaned to the trees:
why did Jeminah **** it up?
   o.k., fair enough... i got the loved-up
stomach cramps... not out of love...
but out of: get out of there!
and i thought i was bad...
i thought i'd be the one telling her about my
Russian ex-girlfriends...
turns out... my presence in Russian
is still unnoticeable...
but she was the one telling me about
her exes... while on the job
i spotted her swiping left on...
whatever App allows you to swipe LEFT on...
i so wanted to love her...
learn German with her boy...
           to be a surrogate father...
oh well... the stomach came first... back to the prostitutes!
i went into the forest... almost blinded
by the Twilight...
     twilight? is that just after the sunset?
or just before the sunrise?
it was just after the sunset...
     the forest stank of its usual
wintry goods of... later than the already late
decay...
         there's this one particular tree
in Bower Wood.. and i have particular stick
to knock on it... it's pale white... dead...
hollow... but with this stick of mine...
i might as well be playing the violin...
i make my presence known...
like a crow in flight...

i know on this pillar and make my presence
known to the other trees... to the air...
i make myself: be myself: apparent...
forever outside the realm of voyeurism...
of...  profiling...
                     it's such a sham of a gesture...
but at least i am the only person behind the sham:
and no one else.... or for that matter...
no one except for the birds...
and me... hears wood knock on wood...

    how strange... i used to remind myself:
you only amounted to seeing two crows in England...
in flight... Huginn or Muninn...
when you'd see one... it was always
the former: Huginn: i.e. will...
but today...  a messerschmitt schwarz-kreuze herde
of them!
    wow! how benevolent to be proven
wrong!
   the scent of decay in the leaves, retracted...
sorry... no no... not worm-food... chocolate...
wow!
so truly alone, so truly alive...
   oh Jeminah... why did you faux pas...
that wine, that banana loaf... those flowers on
Valentines day... i really wanted to bring a liquorice
record with me and listen it with you...
i spotted that vinyl player... girl... what a faux pas!

i feel ugly going back to prostitutes...
but... well... since last time...
my hands sort of feel... glue-e...
moisture-riddled... "clumsy"...
odd... does unprotected *** with a *******
do that to you?
in her own words... live dangerously...
well... if she's a *******...
but she's... i'm supposing when showcasing
my personal hygiene... like a Muslim about to pray...
she... not me... she decides to hafe
unprotected *** with me...
no one else is having: unprotected *** with her...
here's to me performing oral ***
on her... oh my god... my mouth has longed
for home... to tease at the head of little Lucy...
being born...
    i am dying to east a flower of flesh...
while watching her mouth contort toward
an onomatopoeia... of... dark theatre...

oh Jeminah... flaming red hair... it was going so well...
until you ******* buckled...
self-sabotaged the whole affair...
i went into Bower Wood and Havering County Park
with a wish...
do i drop flowers round her house for mothers' day?
i seriously thought about it...
what about if i just scissor off a few branches
of spring blossom? the pink and white petals?
oh... right... but she's my mother...
she already has an Oedipus in her realm...
         you want your life to be too complicated?!
no... i don't...
   so?!                don't you, *******, dare!

it was already dark when i found it...
   the most exquisite branch...
              having crossed from Bower Wood
to Havering County Park...
   looked at the horses... wished i had an apple...
or a dozen sugar cubes...
hey presto! a branch... i brought it home...
in the shape of a sword...
no... not exactly a BOKKEN...
                but... hell... had a backpack on me...
placed it as a... affirming presence of a spine...
a spine reemphasis...
i'm going to treat this piece of wood with great care...
i'm going to curate it...
sharpen it... paint it... treat it politely...
treat it decently...
    but... it felt nice... walking with it...
making a reemphasis to balance my spine...
i walked quicker... smoother... i didn't slouch...
but i'll make a sword from this branch...
finally... alone...
with the trees... with the crows...
with the horses... the rabbits... the shadows...
so alone yet so happy...
         my blessings come few and far between...
but when they come...
how savoury all these moments are:
i always pretended to like something sweet...
it's just a shame...
i was banking on Jeminah to wise-up,
stop walking about her ex-boyfriends...
stop swiping left on a dating app in front of me...
but it was all over when i asked her to sit down
next to me... when she suddenly got up abruptly,
sort of scared...
and sat... at a great distance...
well... at least her dog liked me...
licked my knuckle wounds...

**** me, what a... "predicament"... i'm applying myself to, eh... "cultural relevance": whatever the hell that means, even if enclosed in "misnomer" bracketing... but... of late, hell, more recently than "of late"... i am applying myself to a culture, a people, that's, simply put, a dodo-project... i'm not going to mind my contemporaries, i have three structural dynamics, all three are negations, i.e., since my grandfather died i have: NO peers, NO contemporaries... NO elders... i do have a graveyard of necromancy to deal with, i.e. my own private library, of actual, physical, stinking books... minimalist man and his ******* shortcuts, 'links in the disclaimer' blah blah blah... to write this worth of *******... while surrounded by a culture that, clearly, is hell-bent on... at best: shooting itself in the foot, at worst: committing suicide... because? oh.... universal suffrage... women... the instigators of downfall... women... whatever man built... has to topple, on the whims of a woman... it's not longer: woe to man... woman! it's... woman?! run! hide! save yourself... hunt a, ******* mammoth while you're at it! what the **** happened to romance? that ******, flimsy, whatever it was that was sold to us when growing up nearing the year 2000? gone... ****! in a flash... a droplet of water in a frying pan with a puddle of hot oil... in the meantime the ol' lovely jukebox that was once youtube was hijacked, circa... whatever year prior to 2020. I'm here, sort of waiting for death, death: by that i implore: release... as i also invoke the question: why do crows fly in pairs over England, while  on the continent they flock? huginn! muninn! truly, crows congregate in flocks on the continent... clouds of them... messerschmitt clouds or black, iron, crosses: looming shadows... yet over England... happy to see one sit it out, croaking, some the sunset, bound to find a crow paired... not paired up with a hooded crow, ever see a raven mingle with a magpie?! me neither... ever see crows display ****** attraction in a way that's atypical to pigeons, i.e. the whole routine of courting & subsequent failure? no... i guess crows do their "****" at night, in the forest, donning, for ****'s sake... leather S&M suits, gimp gagging *****, etc., no? no... i'm not writing this because it's pleasant, it's funny as hell (though)... but i'm sort of part of a culture that's dying... it's a dodo-project... this might be seen, if i am allowed, the same status as a mummy can... there was a man alive at the turn of the 21st century and he wrote, this... well... i'm all for hope... slowing down on the intake of alcohol too... i switched from whiskey to cider... her presto! i find myself animated... like cider was mixed up wit amphetamines, or caffeine... i raise my emptied bottle of cider like it might be a horn awaiting / celebrating a procession of a god through an avenue of spectators... i can't possibly here to "save" a culture, that, inevitably (however that might be phrased otherwise) is not willing, is making too many "anschluss" decisions... **** it... let it rot... let Pakistani men run rampant in Rotherham...  i'm just weirdly here, while it happens... Pontius Pilate once didn't say, while washing hi hands: i'll have nothing to do with this... let the dice roll... there's nothing to upkeep, there's nothing to conserve... questions, question: all that ought to be addressed by some supposed variation of an Elder... no elders though, just Alzheimer buggers... unto the youth, strain their shoulders.. perform the Atlas pose... ****'s sake... no! i will not defend this culture, i'll fake being part of it, sure... who wouldn't... thank god i didn't invest in carving replicas of DNA into this schematic... i'm happy not having children... oh i love the children of strangers, esp. toddlers... i can "talk" to them in onomatopoeias... that's fun... i can't disagree... no... beside this... no ******* chance in hell... hell first... my engagement in this world, second... i'm out... convince someone, otherwise, to take a spin, on your current variation of a carousel... what once there was, is no longer more, or for that matter is... sure... i will die childless, but also freed from the looming responsibility of the world in which, i left only words, but not a dire imprint of physicality having mated with someone, producing offspring... oh how glad i have to be! what relief! what release! if the structure of the argument follows its logical conclusion, one less of me, or a Russian.... then the Tutsi, Twa & the Hutu weren't slaughtered by Rwandian militias? my my, almost like the Yugoslav debacle, remnants of the Ottoman Empire... after all... it's not like the macaques staged a war against the baboons... come to "think" of it... i only visited Kenya to, "make-sure"... that the macaques were as boring, as easily spotted, as easily available as... pigeons... not a lot of birds in Africa... plenty of primates... falling asleep outside while those little rascals ravaged the possibilities of existence in the trees... perhaps the croaking of crows at night during winter is, some sort of "compensation"... but, not really...

my next door neighbour "thinks" it's necessary
to start rapping in the dark,
rap, or rhyme, whatever,
what a waste of breath...

there's a passage in Plato's Theaetetus
where Socrates
arrives at something
resembling a Japanese unit of language...
a unit of syllabary...
i.e. consonant + vowel...
why oh why does Japanese
allow for the stand-off with
the five vowels and one consonant (N)...

ΣO... something about knowledge,
so what?

don't ask: i'm grooving to...
Alphaville's Big in Japan...
to be a teenager in the 1980's...
going to the cinema with a sweetheart,
going to the cinema to watch
a horror movie...
hell... what a time to be alive!
Duran Duran, A-Ha... Roxette...
the Cure, Depeche Mode...

we don't have any cultural ref. markers...
Tool? seriously, o.k.,
i can give you that one...
i'm not even going to mention
the Comic Book film adaptations...
Unbreakable... that film consolidates
all the rest of them...
the soundtrack is tantamount too,
more a bonus than anything...

ΔO? do i?
well... ***!
ΔO is more: ΔΩ:

to doo... otherwise, what's that?
DOUGH?
we're baking bread, now?
oh the dreaded return of the facemasks...
muzzles... how near are we to a gallop?
there's no silent H in Greek...
"silent", technically a surd...
no, there's no dow or dough invoked...

i've just spent an hour writing up
a writing assessment for an NVQ qualification,
i find relief in having abandoned
all that formal language...
in the first scenario i was writing
a newsletter for a local volunteer project
concerning a recent vandalism of the park...

in the second scenario i was writing an article
to reply to a nutritionist on campus who
spotted that only takeaway quality of foods /
fizzy foods were available,
so no salads etc.,
she also mentioned that the students
were not getting enough exercise...
i agreed with the hypothetical she on the grounds
of food... but i implored her,
as a nutritionist... to not meddle in affairs
of exercise, was she implying that she's a nutritionist
AND a personal trainer?
everything hypothetically staged, of course...

ugh... this dreary formal language when employed
to examinations...
does my head in... no knowledge of the three dots
as an authentic punctuation mark...
the hanging suspense.

how do the Greeks laugh? if H is the capital
ref. to eta... is eta less prolonged than epsilon?
oh i know that there are obvious similarities
between Omicron and OOmega...

do: pool, do i just pull?
omicron, omega, upsilon...
sounds almost the same,
how the meaning changes when written down...
excesses, "excesses" of the lambda...
pulverise... most certainly not pull-toward-the-averse...

come 2am... all is self-evident...
i can't possibly be an additional chapter in
this culture's self-expression...
it's the end... a culminating perspective of cul de sac....
bring me fire, bring me waves...
even those ethnic minority groups
who have established themselves
in the parameters of this languages
are... pretty much aware that...
they're not safe...
well... their status isn't...

            i might think of myself as an Anglo-Slav...
but... there are plenty that wouldn't ascribe those
words to themselves...
then again... most Polacks are staying put...
blah blah, one confusion after another...
here's to planning a ***** colony in
Botswana!
me, you... let's hire a dingy!
let's cross the Strait of Gibraltar!

we won't worry... we didn't invest in having
children... don't worry...
it's not like the culture we were leaving was
anything but fair to us...
it was willingly dying...
i stopped to bother about it,
when it stopped bothering about itself.

strange... of a people that most espouse this
whole Darwinism tirade...
all ******* theory: very little practice...
the English be ****** for their Darwinism!
seriously!
all their little explanations, their ergonomics,
their ******* sensibilities...
their cricket banalities...
yet when facing an immediate and obvious threat?!
where's the carpet? where's the dust?
the broom! the broom! quick! quick!
******* to Devonshire!
people ought to learn to be heartless...
then again... when was the last time the English
were asked to be heartless,
when was the last time they were subjugated
by a foreign entity, in a historically legal sense of
noting history?

so much for their pompous posturing within
the luxury of historically reading about the greatest
empire that could ever be envisioned...
i wasn't there for the partitioning
of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
i'm so sorry that i missed it...
but i'm here for "this"... and boy... do i have a hard-on
for what's to come next...
i'm just waiting for the Welsh & Scottish nationalists
to put in some more momentum!

after all... if you're going to deconstruct Warsaw...
you need to do it: brick by brick...
so that... no brick stands on another brick...
here we go... looking forward...
a future: that wonderful plateau!

Sic semper tyrannis ad mortem
("Thus always I bring death to tyrants").

Ever since early forerunners
of twenty first century
mankind (sprinted
across trackless expanse extant
upon planet Earth),
modern **** Sapiens essentially
won out as coterie precursors
sans predominant
present day team of rivals.

The zigzag line,
whence our arboreal ancestors
skedaddled their way
toward capital one delineation
of diehard deadheads
******* disaster, and acquiring
dubious distinction
decreeing domain of oblate spheroid
as prime real estate,
(when Prometheus fire privy to proto
humans), the imperceptible
figurative ink did not dry
before hairy hooligans
edged out other prehensile primates.

Enfant Terrible employed
as an analogy for punctuated
equilibrium witnessing
boom rang amidst feral creatures
unpredictably crowing
with nirvana seeking
foo fighting fecundity
(inadvertently in sync
with Feng Shui)
to launch scrappy
posse of measly mensch
kinsmen/women into the realm.

This phenomena countless
thousands of years since
inception of brutal, nasty
and short present day troglodytes.
With the aid
of an imaginary crystal ball,
the seeds of White Lily got borne
via Aery windy gusts jet setting
most “advanced” pygmy beasts
as animalistic bellwether
per future adventure,
whence many anthropological
opposable thumbed volumes
yet written till present
deadly crossroads
announced ruthless Reichstag.

Credos, codas, diktats
governing infantile Messerschmitt
Sol Invictus yet unnamed role
as most dangerous living
beings known to exist
unwittingly usurped grandiose
nom de plume as Master
predicating their survival on
brawn and brains
to public enemy number one
to all other life forms.

As the fittest (at least
when accident found tendency
to crowdsource),
the mob mentality already evident as
hyena cackles quickly garnered
rubric of might equals
right), thus grabbing
by force of strong arms (fingers
clutching deadly lances)
top prize as sovereign
dictators of the Proletariat).

Over the course of millennia,
they became de
facto dominant species.

The evolutionary descendents
metamorphosed into bipedal hominids
of recent mankind did not monkey
around when competing in the Human Race.

They elbowed, jostled,
and ousted competitors eventually
to ascend inexorably their way
to top tier of totalitarianism.

Great indomitable naked apes
of early simian evolution,
would not settle for any role
except top banana in
hierarchical schema
of biota extant throughout nascent
dawn of civilization.

Violence with whatever
material at hand vanquished any
threat to world wide webbed *******
sans existence at dawn of civilization.

Closer to late morning
and high noon tall tale ushered
vanity viz venal, vicious,
vocal Tarzans, 10,000 Maniacs,
and voodoo worshippers
blitzed like banshees.

Literal face saving
each manikin for himself
(gnome hatter
whether blood pact swore)
bludgeoned, hoodwinked,
and whipped warriors wary warlocks
fought tooth nail to death.

One instant found a bald
(ah that explains receding heir line)
bandied legged ******* macho tree
swinging sportsman
brazenly boasting bona fide.

Well guess what ma friend?

That sure-footed
geico hunter met ****** death
on an empty stomach
without the aid
of fast food restaurants.

His purported blood brothers abandoned him
(at dropped née hurled clump of offal)
as dependent and reliable brethren.

No such thing
as gentlemen’s agreement ruled ******
terra firmae.

Amidst warren of primates,
a promise quickly broached
instantaneously after pledging allegiance
to a pseudo fraternity.

very much akin to a song,
depeche mode's the policy of truth:
the 80s?
music-wise?
          not a bad decade,
if you look into it...

    mind you: there's a policy of truth,
which is why i never
understood the economics of lies...
all the backtracking,
the erosive nature of lies,
having to remember a lie,
and the narrative structure,
mind-boggling...
which brings me to a key observation:

ever watch a bird of prey?
i once spotted a kestrel sitting
on my fence, looking, "seemingly" idle...
but ever watch a bird of
prey (say, a kestrel)
in flight?

           when you do,
you won't see any birds flying,
other than the bird of prey...
and unlike other birds,
that seem to be going somewhere,
traversing the sky
like spitfires or messerschmitt
in a: from wherever to... wherever...
birds of prey,
akin to vultures...
circle...
               and encircle,
hone...
                  the only birds that do...
no other type of bird circles
around a target,
as if revving to build up
the plunge momentum...

still... the little dogs will out-bark
the bigger dogs...
while the bigger dogs?
just plunge into a bite...
  as ever...
      it's fascinating how wolves
can't bark, but howl.

-
    otherwise known as the technique
of checking the temp. of a beer bottle
left outside your window,
in the fine, fine, month of february
in england;
    and that's also the reason the prodigy
didn't write a song entitled:
                         messerschmitt.

             minus the shrapnel,
  and not exactly concerned
with fame,
                given the c.c.t.v.
presense...
          i'll punch myself 20 times
in the face,
   and then tell you:
that a slap from an ex-girlfriend
will always be more painful,
which i hope her 7 *******
in a row,
     were as much big of a lie
as she introducing her mother
to me, as her sister,
    and her grandmother
as her, mother...
   but **** me,
     granny can really cook
                  an ukranian borsch;
****, no mountain to climb,
no aeroplane to parachute off...
might as well punch myself
in the face, 20 times.
                                 and i will.
disco ******* polo...
                     falling asleep next
to a graveyard never made more
"hip" sense,
  other than sniffing up fallen
autumnal leaves in an imaginary
gutter...
       but then again the beer made
sense...
          and the shrinking jaw-line,
and a chicken corpse with
bite marks...
           calling it shark remains...
it's well timed though,
          me, as the one who ought
to stack supermarket shelves...
           last time i used the check-out
a 60+ woman tried talking to me
about extra layers and the concept
of ****...
          i replied:
                           it's snowing...
there's snow outside...
                nope...
        didn't translate...
                    she was asking for
what part of her was ****...
            the multi-layers of clothing?
hey! snow! outside!
             so i had to "insinuate"
speaking really slowly:
            and the part of me
                     that wasn't ******?
a study of law,
  or just plain dumb reading of
a thesaurus?
           sure, unearthing
             dinosaur bones
would also help...
      what a joke to mind
                                        criteria.
poetry?
      at best a revision of silent
movies, i.e. silent
                           comedy shows...
           puppeteering at its finest.