.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?

one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..

these western leftist,
make us former commies...
look... really really
******* bad...

        my grandfather,
who was abandoned by his
father, spewed by the lies
of his father's brother,
found some stability
in the communist party...

sometimes did jury duty...
the communist party
gave him a house... etc. etc.,
but this, "thing" in the west?
the dissonance conundrum
of creating a collective hive?

it doesn't, and it will never work...
i already said this,
but i'll say it again...
communism does work...
but in only one instance...
post-war countries,
esp. given the plight of
Syria...
                
           it's a transitory period...
so the Syrian baker
can trust the ******* Syrian
taxi cab driver, once again...
communism is not a failure
in that it's applied as
a fail-safe concept,
a rebuilding mechanism,
  
like Poland... 1945...
through to circa 1990...
    it worked...
  **** it worked...
  eastern Europe didn't
receive funds from the American
Marshall Plan...

but Sweden and Switzerland
did...
   i thought they were neutral
countries in the conflict?

communism is a failure if its not
considered a recovery economy,
or rather:
    there's no or other at this point...

in post-war scenarios,
it's the only egalitarianism that works
in the short-end...
this is not English style of
egalitarian idealism...
   (a term i borrow from German
idealism of Kant)...
            no... the English don't know
that their egalitarian idealism
doesn't work...
it's too soft...
the war was harsh...
you're not going to rebuild
the same civic plateau with capitalism,
of a country that was either:
invaded by a foreign power,
or imploded into chaos via
a breach of ethnic-civility...

you can't rebuild Syria with
foreign intervention...
communism is far from a failure
of ideology...
   it was always supposed
to instigate a transitional
period, a post-scriptum...
   a communism can exist,
successfully, for... roughly 50 years...
once the tragedy passes...

and then the free markets can
take over, capitalism can have its
"stage fright", or rather its
wild west...
            but not before the circa 50
years are over...
  a Syrian baker,
   must begin a civil dialectic with
a Syrian taxi driver...
no amount of foreign intervention
will solve the problem...

it's not like you can reuse
the rubble to rebuild the same houses...
sure... the darkest hour
in Poland under communism was
when martial law (stan wojenny)
was implemented by
Wojciech Jaruzelski
(Roy Orbison, no, really,
Roy Orbison)...
food-stamps, long queues at supermarkets
rationing... only white vinegar on
the shelves of supermarkets...
the whole presupposition of war
against the Soviets,
  counter measures to
      avoid the instances of
the Hungarian / Czechoslovakian
occupation / suppression...
   the Parisian spirit of '68...
every time i look into your loving eyes,
one look, from you,
  i drift... away!
    i pray, that you, are here, to stay!
anything you want, you got it...
anything you need, you got it...
anything at all, you got it...
   bay.................................. be!

western Europe received pittance
pay-checks from H'america...
eastern Europe received the hard graft of
communism...
             and it worked...
because it was supposed to work
for the 50 or so years that it did work...
when it stopped working...
my home town lost roughly 20K
   metalwork jobs...
  the metalwork factory was scrapped,
cut up, sold to foreign investors...
Celsa? i believe that's a Spanish company...

some people grew old, retired,
some went on the dole,
some became homeless,
some migrated to other parts of the country,
otherwise took the bold route
and emigrated to other parts of
Europe and the world...
a town dies, the people disperse
if in a dispersing worthy age...

     but i turn on the tube...
and listen to all these leftist lunatics,
and i'm like...          what?!
communism works,
   it works, in exceptional circumstances,
and like i said, before an equal
footing competition market resurfaces,
you're getting ****...
             this is not to suggest that
communism is at odds with capitalism...
apparently... it never was!

         but... you can't rebuild
Syria with capitalism...
  first you have to return to a commonly
shared civility, a counter to what
already exists in the English egalitarian idealism...
best represented as:

a 200m race at the Olympics...
all the competitors walk an equal
pace for 100m...
        and the next 100m?
they do their sprint, they compete!
but not until communism creates
a basis for a mutual trust of civility
between a Syrian baker,
and a Syrian taxi driver...

      capitalism and outright
competition will never solve the problem...
because outright competition
creates nothing more than
an dystopian: post-apocalyptic
mad max: fury road endless cycle of
recurring opportunists...

scavengers...
                      it works... in periods of
roughly 50 years...
what... and capitalism isn't prone
to its own timescales of economic crashes?!
see...
             even capitalism has hiccups...
but like i said:
    communism works...
for time periods, post-scriptum of
the damaging events...
                        under exceptional circumstances
of it being necessarily implemented...
like world war II... the Syrian civil war;
and only then!

****... my grandfather and all the other
school children, actually cried
when news hit the country about Stalin's death...
i have access to an actual ****** source,
what do you have?
  a target of ridicule,
        donning a che guevara t-shirt
who still hasn't rid himself of acne?

Twelve Olympians, to rule as they choose.
Twelve Olympians, we'll start with Zeus.
God of sky, thunder, lightning, law.
Ruled the Olympians with the justice he saw.
Commonly referred to as the Father.
Next is Poseidon, God of Water.
"A tamer of horses and a saviour of ships,"
Said in one of Homer's hymns.
Next is Hera, Queen of the Gods, and of women.
Giving mothers a carriage, and marriage to men.
Next is Demeter, Goddess of Harvest, giving fertility.
Hades captured her daughter, Persephone, and her virginity.
Then there's Athena, Goddess of Wisdom.
Lept out of Zeus' head, and earned her throne in the kingdom.
Apollo is next, God of Music, Poetry, Light.
Also capable of bringing plague and plight.
Artemis, Goddess of Moon and Hunt, and Apollo's twin.
Guided mothers through childbirth, a sacred ******.
Also, beloved Aphrodite, Goddess of Love.
Lover of Ares, who favored battles and blood.
Only Hephaestus and Aphrodite were wed.
Fire, metalwork, art of sculpture he led.
Also, there's Hermes, a god bringing word.
Among other things, guide to the Underworld.
Finally, there's Hesta, Goddess of the Hearth.
Feeding families and serving the home with warmth.
Twelve Olympians, to rule the sky.
Twelve Olympians, give your memory a try.

.i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i wont bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ...


i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   *wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

Two eyes appeared from under a broadrimmed hat.
They looked around with astonishment.

In a schoolroom, far off in the distance, a boy was
Busy making a wooden bowl.
The teacher unaccustomed to such slowness
Requested a completion date.
“I am not slow thought the boy, just working
Away until I get it right.”
He met the teacher’s gaze with an expression
Of opacity and a sense of bewilderment.

On another day, at a later date, this same boy
Was found in his metalwork class applying
Cylinders of gases to his small creation, quietly,
Hoping for a connection before he was blown
To smithereans. Two blue eyes concentrated as
The jets of flames hissed into space.
Too long the gases flowed.
The master rose, the boy shook and his eyes
Widened.

In a playground, sometime earlier,
A small boy could be seen playing without a coat.
Gossiping women spoke of this unnatural act,
This exception to the fold. The boy stared back
Hearing their words with his eyes.

Decades later when his hair had turned from
Brown to grey but his eyes were still blue
And wide apart, he painted a little ***
Sitting on a pale surface, gazing into nothingness.
This painting took him a long time.
He had to get it right, the tones , the lines,
The connections.

After he finished ‘Little ***’, he sat down
And stared into the two blue blobs set wide
Apart on its surface and he thought, “this is
Me, the boy, the man, the painter, of wide
Apart, unnameable moments.”

The Beginning.

Love Mary ***

Were you given a star at school for good work?
a smiley face, very good or well done was a perk
I took all of these smiley faces into my soul
guaranteed for life to sustain my future role

Remember how art caught you out - I made a mess
and yet disaster was suddenly made good - more or less
now, woodwork led me to a great cutting edge
being allowed to take home my work was a privilege

metalwork taught me that flux was softer than butter
the words that arose within me - if only I could utter
mathematics made me figure things out - nothing I would lack
but when the master saw my red socks - he said: 'Get to the back.'

Then there was English - the best language to swear in,
such great enlightenment and depth will never come again

Her name’s Jane I think
said Jupp

standing beside you
in the school hall

as the ******* the school bus
went by with a slow walk

carrying a bag
over her shoulder

and her dark hair
flowing down her back

anyway he added
how are you getting on

with that maths work
chisel face gave us?

You watched
until she disappeared

into a crowd of other
girls and boys

like watching
the sun go down

on a fine summer’s day
and entering

a dull night
huh? Said Jupp

how you coping
with the **** maths?

All Greek to me
you said

carrying the image
of the girl off with you

as Jupp and you
made your way

along the corridor
to double metalwork

and this metalwork
Jupp moaned

it really ****** me off
what do I care

about making
a frigging tea caddy spoon?

And passing by
a print on the wall

of some Manet dame
you thought

how you’d love
to have a print

of the girl
to carry about

or have pinned
to your bedroom wall

at home
huh? Said Jupp

what’s with spoons?
I’ve no idea

you said
all part

of the brainwash
I guess

and did the girl
move you?

you asked inside
oh yes

oh yes
oh yes.

I awoke into
A graveyard of bronze horses
The metalwork entwined with dead roots
Upon their backs were words I could not read
About lonely hands
And a plaque was set into the stone
That I could not remove
With dry leaves blown round my feet
I wondered how I'd returned

We followed the road for six hundred miles, there were no turnings off except one in all that length . The South Australian desert seemed endless.
We eventually landed at Maralinga on a newly constructed runway with new buildings and workshops, we were impressed to see it all, but we were not allowed to hang about, a peppery little sergeant directed us  to a waiting vehicle, and we were driven to the camp, there were quite a few buildings, offices and stores mostly. But there were three messes, an officers mess, a seargeants mess and an airmans mess, all of the buildings were temporary- corrugated iron roofs and walls, which could get hot enough to burn any unprotected skin. We reported for duty and were allocated a small two man tent each. My tent was located at the end of a long row, there were about three hundred tents I believe, Gordon's tent was located at the opposite side to mine, he was required to work in the decontamination unit, I was to work in the cookhouse- a humble cook's assistant. I grew to love cooking and still do! At that time all national sevice men were only allotted assistant trades, that was ok by me, I loved to eat as well as the next man! Working in the mess was unbearably hot during the day, but pleasant enough at night. The Australian food was excellent, and there was plenty of it. One thing that surprised me was the size of the potatoes, you only got about thirty to a hundred weight, and they were often hollow, caused by the rapid growing season and the sudden start of the dry season. I had the tent to myself. Almost! During the night, a large Iguana-which lived under the duckboards in my tent- would come out of his hole and climb up the side of my tent, between the actual tent and the fly sheet, then it would slide down the other side. this was repeated half a dozen times every night! Some times I used to drop pieces of meat down for it. Then I discovered that there were other less welcome guests! So I stopped feeding them. The first night that I slept there I was puzzled to see a great pile of blankets on the bed, thirteen in all, I thought that must be for two beds. That night when I lay down  to sleep, I only used one blanket, the night was reasonably warm at that time, I woke up later feeling cold, and added another blanket.  This process continued until I had all of the blankets on my bed. The night time temperature plummetted almost to freezing!  One morning when we were off duty after working all night, I and my friends climbed the one hundred foot high water tower to sunbathe. Big mistake, the silver painted tank grew hotter until by ten 'oclock it was too hot to touch, fortunately we had a blanket each, but decending a one hundred foot tower when all the metalwork, including the steel ladder is too hot to touch is a tricky and dangerous pastime!  More anon.

I never saw you today
in the playground
through the playground fence
you said as you boarded

the school bus
I was at the other end
Jane said with other girls
playing skip rope

o I wondered
where you were
you said
she sat

by the window
and you sat
next to her
well they asked me

to play and I didn't
want to say no
she said
who were you with?

West mostly
he came back  
from lunch early
and we played cards

by the metalwork rooms
not betting were you?
she asked
no

you said
if we had been
I'd have lost
as it was

I only lost cards
not money
o I see
she said

there was a fine quality
to her voice
and her words
were like a kind of music

you noticed her hands
in her lap
one laying on top
of the other

the fingernails
cut neat and pink
you wanted to hold them
but didn't want

the other kids
in the bus
to see
so you just looked

at the hands and fingers
as she talked
of some butterfly
she'd seen

in her garden
and her father
had told her
what it was

and how beautiful
it was
the colours
and the way it flew

and how it was all
a part of God's plan
and creation
but you were only

half listening
you noticed
gazing at her profile
how fine her lips were

when she spoke
how they moved
how her tongue
moved like some dancer

how her eyes
opened wide
at certain words
as if some inner explosion

had brought them to life
and they blazed
like a new world
being born

and you lost
the meaning
of her words
they were as music playing

in another sphere
you sitting there
gazing like a soul
lost at sea

at a far off ship
going a different way
and any S.O.S
you may send

was lost
in the air of the day.

I HATE IT.
I HATE THIS.
I HATE HIM WHOM I HAVE TO MOURN FOR.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THE WAY IN WHICH WICKED IS BAD.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE PREFORMATIVITY.
I HATE MOST THAT I WRITE THIS.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THAT MY ICONS ARE DEAD.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THAT I’M BEGGING FOR MORE.
I HATE IT.  I HATE THIS.
I HATE THAT I HAVE TO CHOOSE.
I HATE, FOR WHAT I WAS DESTINED IS TAINTED.
I HATE IT. I HARE THIS.
I HATE THEM WHOM I HAVE TO MOURN FOR.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THAT I CAN’T GO BACK. BACK TO THE ZYGOTE, TO THE GRECIAN AGE, TO A LAND WITHOUT EARS.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE HER WHOM I HAVE TO MOURN FOR.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I DON’T WANT TO BE WICKED.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE XIR WHO I HAVE TO MOURN FOR.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THAT STEEPED IN PAIN I AM SUPPOSED TO TRANSFORM.
TO SHINE BRIGHT. TO DROWN AND SURVIVE.
I rise in wrath, sadness, regret. Balletic and vile, dipped in warmth. Lifeless, like milk teeth. Tar, sits vast beneath my feet.

I am all. All the ways that it hurts plus the beauty. Padded shoulders, green and purple.

I will never be complete.
Dancing beings underneath the evening stars, stretched out ionosphere, elastic, ecstatic. Paused yet stillmoving.

I am black, pointed. Free, stillinchains. A dripping matriarch. A reflection transcendent, moss-filled and fed up. Afraid.  

Stylish metalwork, animation and formlessness.Wilted and strong. Lilac, xir name.  

Protect these ribs from that strain.
The thoughts unexplained.
Protect the clothes never worn. And the freedom forgotten.
Protect me.
For I still hope to be forgotten.

'We apologise for any inconvenience caused'

the day paused.

my train wasn't coming on time this time
but it never came on time last time either and they never apologised then.

They treat me as livestock
ram me into old rolling stock
and my head's on the block
every day.

Intelligence?
it's artificial and we're
prawns for the picking
or pawns being kicked
into castles.

an inconvenience caused
angry times I have paused
but
my conscience would not allow me
to
****.

We've all felt like doing it
with a Saturday night special
or with the zip gun we made
In the metalwork class.

We might as well shove that gun up our ***,
it's pointless
we're impotent
the train's in this moment and
we
do not have the controls


My head hurts
it aches with the
winds blowing in
my skin turns to parchment
and I become part of that
moment
until I have gone
and who will
apologise
then?

i lied... well... to be more exact:
stalled a forthcoming reality...
  when i'm due to visit my grandparents...
my demented grandfather
who still recognizes me:
climbing trees and putting my toddler's
hand into the Alsatian's snout
as a toddler -
   oh Bela Bela Bela...
          a ******* dog...
and god she hated uniformed men,
esp. police officers...
   like the ******* plague...
i like my dementia suffering grandfather,
i love nit-picking at his
memory...
which is grand...
watching an old man sit through
a cameo of existence,
with his own cinema where he's
the central actor...
   it's false what they say:
when you die, you die with an instance,
a timelessness occupying a
space...
           for the whole
"my life flashed before my eyes":
you need to be diagnosed with
dementia...
            i guess: "oops" is in order?
they didn't tell you that,
did they?
      don't worry,
i too thought that good grades at school
could land me an equivalent
of an A+ at the curriculum
activity of obedience...
   didn't ******* work...
that's as much as i know...
         i guess listening to a dementia
sufferer can become tedious,
but you learn to spark up his presence
outside the membrane of
"nostalgia"...
    but it's an old man...
he's bound to become impassioned by a past...
   i know i would...
it's the most ontologically sound
mortality mechanism known to man...
"dementia": no...
not dementia...
  big difference between Alzheimer's
and dementia...
  big, Big, BIG ******* difference...
Alzheimer's is psychotic dementia...
   dementia / nostalgia is quiet
different...
it's an overload of memory...
it's a form of solipsism...
  an automated meditation,
well... "meditation"...
    the man needs an outlet for
his memories...
he can't lock them up in a dungeon...
the tedium comes from
the outlet of the original content
of "natural" selection...
  as "natural" as a woman
   within the confines of the concept
of hypergamy...
   which, evidently,
is the good twin of the evil twin
polygamy...
           the tedium comes around
when you realize precisely
the bewildering nature of
memoria-selectio...
   there's nothing natural about
"natural" selection...
           there are pre-emptive conditioning
within the confines of
ontology - which is still
a framework of study -
not a popularized spew of
biological dogma...
god... can you even imagine how
selective we are with our
experience, back-cataloged with
recounting memories?
  you wouldn't believe the ****...
it's twice as "random"
as a blonde seeking a rich Arab
for a husband so they can
"parent" their pet poodle...
if you're lucky... sure...
prior to death...
you life will flash before your eyes...
apparently we can't select
memories...
   and you'll be lying back,
all afternoon,
watching the cinema of your mind's
content...
demented... by clinical
practitioners...
     sometimes... as in the case
of my grandfather...
dementia likes to couple itself
to either:
   hypochondria...
   or melancholy...
         or sometimes both...
hence my fascination with the phenomenon
of premature melancholy
in the english speaking youth...
how can you actually be depressed
about something,
if the depression doesn't stem from
a post-scriptum?
        i can understand melancholy
in an old man...
but in someone young?
      i'm buying the alternative
argument:
   a guilt from feeling jealousy...
i'm not buying premature depression,
what i am buying is:
   a guilt festering within
the origins of jealousy...
but like with my grandfather:
you have to **** the memory bank,
catching him off-guard,
so he can tell a relative memory
within the same time-frame...
   which rarely happens...
yet as i pointed out...
   i've been covertly studying him...
dementia attracts
hypochondria and depression...
i'll sit and listen to the list
of ailments between
   his memory-cinema -
              or... i'll distract him by
reading a book,
while he sits on the balcony or snoozes
off into the afternoon...
   cook him breakfast:
scrambled eggs with onions -
while he reminds me:
i always eat dairy products,
never meat, for breakfast,
and it has been so for 30 odd years...
   as a former alcoholic
he slipped into
a drug-dependency of
prescription and non-prescription
drugs to combat insomnia...
naturally...
he over-sleeps most of the time...
but...
what do you expect?
   a career in the metalwork factory...
going to bed at 10pm,
waking up at 4am for over 30 years?
dementia is the basis for
an ontological study of:
qua pre qua fro...
                why do people freak out
about dementia "sufferers"?!
   not enough oil in the *******
engine to watch the spectacle of
mortality?!
            they're less disorientated
then middle-aged "concerned" children...
they can solve crosswords...
the problem being:
   you scare them... they'll scare you...
**** me! what a waste of decent reasoning!

.........................
...............................
intermission, akin to the Offspring's
Ixnay on the Hombre
................................
  ..............................­..............

i was once called a, philosopher by some
infatuated teen...
   **** me... that's not a compliment,
or blessing, but a curse!
   imagine going to a birthday party
of an 18 year old...
   you get flocked by seagulls,
of hyenas...
you smile and exhausted smile...
      can this, whatever this is,
please be over?
       the garden and a clingy cat,
companion like a pain in the ***...
of some estranged dog in the forest
as night...
   anything but these thirty or so
***** teen virgins,
sitting in my lap...
pulling at my beard...
          there's ***** with intent...
but then there's ***** without
consent...
talking about consent:
you're better off prostitutes...
what can they dare "claim":
you ***** them?
    the best they can do is claim
is that you didn't PAY THEM...
but as all prostitutes know:
you pay up-front...
so? so pretend your index index
is a tapeworm crawling into one
of your nostrils,
and then pretend to sneeze...

   my arachnophobia reaches
the proportion of spiders that are,
equivalent to the size of
my thumb's nail...
spotted erratically...
by surprise...
  i'm not exactly irrationally
apprehensive,
   whenever i spot a Muslim girl
wearing a headscarf...
   hence the "illogical" apprehension
of a term...

   i lied... why did i lie?
whenever i visit my grandparents
i intend to read
   françois rabelais'
   GARGANTUA & PANTAGRUEL...
ibn **** in your mouth my ***...
i just solved a sudoku puzzle,
and i have a excavated a narrative
to compensate...

quote:
    evil is the work and idle the activity,
   wanting to cleanly wipe one's own
***, with a piece of paper...

like i already mentioned:
#metoo?
   go to prostitutes...
you can't exactly be accused of anything
other than a non-payment...
but then you don't get
accused, you get beaten into a plum...
so? the Pontius Pilate motto:
you wash your hands...
  there's no shame in
what otherwise becomes shame
of being accused...

      you wipe your hands cleans,
and your *** too...
god forbid some teenage girl calls you
a philosopher, in that odd, most odd way...
you're standing right in front of her,
and she summons a ghost,
of someone, saying:
   'talk to this, philosopher'...

see... i need a toothpick for this sort
of crap...
     something is lodged between my teeth...
European languages have a pronouns
concept of nouns...
      a table can be a she,
a chair can be a he...
   english is a grammatically barren tongue...
hence? gender neutrality of
pronouns and identity politics...
    come to think of it...
quiet a ****** language to speak
in cosmopolitan areas -
or rather: a-rears...
        *** for a foocking foot...
and tongue to boot...

           so i'm a "philosopher" to some teenage
girl... in third person...
the girl was talking to a ******* ghost,
i was addressed in third person as
such... sure... my girlfriend's name
is Sophia... but whether it's love,
or not... is a BIG question to mark a genesis
with!

      **** it, whatever...
if you really want to invite the genre of philosophy
into your YA diet of fiction,
there's only one book your need to read...
Russell's - history of western philosophy...
please don't meddle in the headache
of the specific books...

let's begin with a syllogism
(two or more propositions,
combined, to give a third,
identical to the proposed two)...
a Kantian revision of Aristotelian
   barbara:

all men are mortal (major premiss)
socrates is a man (minor premiss)
therefore: socrates is mortal (conclusion).
or?
all men are mortal
all greeks are men
   therefore: all greeks are mortal...

p.s. and some are women.

i propose a variant of this logic...
Kantian...
  a logic of meaning replacing
words with mathematical
symbols,
akin to:
  
   ergo is +, -, x, ÷ or √ etc.
given that est is solidified
by a "mirror" of translation, =.

under the layer of "logic":

1, carrots,
   1, orange,
   2, all carrots are orange...

1 + 1 = 2...

if that makes any sense...
then again...
how many grammatical categories
of words are there,
and how many numbers?

noun, verb, adjective,
pronoun....
             conjunction....
definite / indefinite article...
adverb...
          prefix, suffix,
affix... abbreviation...

   and at this point, i lose count...

0    0    0    7    0    0    0    0    0
0    0    4  ­  5    8    0    0    6    2
5    0    0    6    0    0    0    9­    0
1    0    6    0    0    0    7    0    0
0    0    8    0 ­   0    0    9    0    0
0    0    7    0    0    0    2    0    ­4
0    2    0    0    0    3    0    0    8
4    8    0    0    9­    6    1    0    0
0    0    0    0    0    1    0    0    0

t­hus, the narrative
to compose
via the following
narrative:

9 2 1 6 8 8 8 6
9 7 1 1 1 3 3 7
9 4 2 2 3 3 6 9
6 6 7 7 7 7 5 2
4 5 2 3 4 4 5 3
5 5 2 5 8 8 1 3
3 1 4 9 9 4 5 ( )...

this

8    6    9    7    3    2    5    4    1
7    1    4­    5    8    9    3    6    2
5    3    2    6    1    4    8   ­ 9    7
1    4    6    9    2    8    7    3    5
2    5    8    ­3    4    7    9    1    6
3    9    7    1    6    5    2    8  ­  4
9    2    1    4    7    3    6    5    8
4    8    5    2   ­ 9    6    1    7    3
6    7    3    8    5    1    4    2    9.­..

and i once said i'd depict this sort
of "narrative"... sober...
      well **** me...
even i wished myself
          good-luck!

then again: even i know i over-stretched
the whole case to revise
Aristotelian logic...
   it's not that the "argument"
i made doesn't make sense,
it only means that i don't,
even vaguely, want to entrench it
into a solidified case for defense
that might span centuries...

            basically...
if all sentences begin and end with
the intermediating: ergo...
    can we bypass some things?
    i hate propositions,
maxim writings akin to Nietzsche,
because, simply because they are
propositions...
         they're not presuppositions...
and even if they are presuppositions...
which they are not...
        you can test any proposition
and ensure it's the truth,
by failing to comply with
a presupposition...

   i hate aphorisms...
precisely because...
wait...
           it's true because it has been
tested / experienced?
          it's proposed because
it can't be presupposed as
ontologically inherent?
    what is it?!
         so if it is an observation
a posteriori...
         what could possibly galvanize
these philosophies toward
orientation "supposing"
objective truths?
  
as far as i am concerned:
subjectivity is wholly a posteriori...
while objectivity is wholly
a priori...
    which confuses me...
          how can you write
an aphorism -
mind you, aphorisms are engrossed
in the biographical -
    and suppose it to be
an apriori, objective truth?
  
     no... i will not elaborate on
this observation...
                too busy... drinking.

this falls short of even attempting to write
an ode to mead,
after all we know that only
the ginger and ****-ugly vikings
were the founders of Kiev,
or as pretty english seem to state:
why are Ukrainian girls so pretty
while the Ukrainian men so ugly?
hey, not my words, theirs,
known from those cosmopolitan-esque
questionnaires...
         in this little city I can take
my 77 year old grandma shopping
after 10 am after we spend an hour
talking over coffee (she goes black,
I add some 30% cream)
    and we'll spot an ex-solidarity
partisan, ******* his nuts in the morning,
this kurwidołek, this civitas emeritus
I. E. city of pensioners...
                   even with all the acolohics
in the ruins of what became the project
genesis at the Katowice metalwork plant,
the city I now write from, dead to the grave,
where graves tend to speak more,
open air museum of flint statues,
my own private necro-sculpture haven...
even with these alcoholics,
  walking without hands,
   or what were once their former trades...
before the first metalworks factory died
and after the second died...
        old grandma and her aversion to alcohol
in a per se argument,
   but as I tease her while opening
a bottle of mead, and she serves herself
a glass of bailey's, almost apologetically,
no excuses granny, you deserve a nightcap...
you can walk through the day and not
drink a drop, but come night,
some of us have a desire for the sedative,
but some of us have no desire to return
to gossip, drama, and backstabbing intrigues...
after all, not all of us can entertain a king
at versailles...
     why? ever talk to a mother about her
daughter, and your mother about her mother?
****** my ******* god,
        Pilate! lend me your washing basin!
makes sense now, with my ex Russian girlfriend,
I had dinner with her mother and father,
who she introduced me to as her sister...
    and her grandmother was "apparently",
her mother...
            shorty thought she had short legs
and I thought: perfect leg to torso proportions...
who the hell wants a ******* giraffe on
stilts? she ws shortsighted and sometimes
wore glasses when reading...
          so I borrowed a pair from grandpa...
******* me... no wonder she thought she had
short legs... however much you asked
Spinoza to polish those lenses,
    the same illusion would emerge.

oh i'm not ashamed of
my living arrangements,
by the way...
did you know that Jews were
a huge minority in Poland,
and that the Roma still are?
yeah...
i hate how Brussels
discriminates against
Ukrainians...
   they practically own
the Warsaw underbelly of
commerce -
as do the Roma community
in little, ****-shows worth
the status of town in which
i was born...
see... if some schmuck
didn't sell the metalwork
factory in my hometown -
i probably wouldn't be
the son of economic migrants...
probably entrenched
in a job at the factory...
a migrant nonetheless -
whether inter-national or
intra-national,
still a ******* migrant...
   whenever i go back i am
vaguely home...
the weirdest part is passing
through Warsaw...
   it's as if these people,
in their hive, collective,
are an extension of me...
but it's a strange sensation looking
at people,
of the same ethnicity...
in a monolithic mesh -
in a monochromatic assembly
that's... after growing up
in London...
  oddly enough: nauseating...
no turban,
   no sub-Saharan?
**** me...
         i'm sinking into a sand-pint...
gets me every time,
only when i reach the small
hometown, that used
to be budding with life
can i relax... somehow...
i'm only visiting my grandparents
who are on their way out...
one has dementia,
is an ex-alcoholic...
the other is also popping pills
and sleepwalks
- sure as **** she talks in
a half-sleep state about
her low sugar levels of her blood...
fair enough...
yeah...
i still live with my parents...
i'm not going to lie about
having room-mates in order
to get laid...
        but then i drink a liter of
whiskey, or *****,
every single night,
and the only complaints i get
are from my ****-of-a-neighbor,
who presumes there are
no private property laws...
e.g. i'm supposed to ask
permission to cook a b.b.q.
because he's drying his washing
in the garden...
as i apparently can't
smoke a cigarette out of my window
on the sill...
because:
THE HEATWAVE WASN'T THE PROBLEM...
buy some ******* air conditioning,
the child is crying because
of the ******* heat!
my cigarette smoke is zilch...
   compared to the heat...
i moaned and groaned
in those weeks of July...
rolled off my bed,
then ran into the garden wearing
underwear and floored myself
on the cold grass in the shade...
what else am i or was supposed
to do?
    tells you a lot about
living arrangements in England...
with the alternative being?
homeless...
living in a forest...
  or paying excruciating rent
to a complete ******* stranger...
why would i pay for something
i won't ever own?!
i'm not proud because of this...
but certainly not ashamed.