i'm wandering along a beach and i just killed the Arab
i'm waking up one day sophomore year and i'm deciding that it will be the last day of my entire life as i tie my shoes to go to school
i'm at my mother's wake and i'm trying to care but i just can't and i'm okay with it
i'm walking down the hallway and no one is making eye contact with me because they are afraid or disgusted or don't care or all of the above
i'm using some of my last breaths to yell at the priest and feeling no remorse
i'm making conversation with my last period teacher and smiling for the first time all day
i'm looking out at the crowd about to witness my death and feeling the gentle indifference of the world
i'm relating more to a sociopathic man in an absurdist novel than anyone i've ever met and i'm
not worried about it at all

The ***-bellied Mercedes squealed
As Meursault withdrew and
Marvelled at the flames
Licking
The air
Like marigolds on Ritilin.
'Raymond would have no reason not to admire this act.'
He stopped by a shimmering sea of Ubers.
The scrape and drawl of siren made no impression on him.
Leaking smoke reminded him of
Snow White’s Cottage
Where he had taken Marie when Lucie was born:
The place where he would go out at dawn to chop wood.
He liked the way her roses played
With the restlessness of children.
Then he thought: 'if only mother could see me now.'

what, you're going to suddenly get the *****, by gently kissing the knee?

i've heard this argument once, before, writing
an answer:
men are visually orientational creatures -
they're the dumb bucks in mating
season,
all the beta-male sycophancy of getting laid...
and how females have a tendency to
become artistic "radiologists"...
how women will always write better than
men, because: they are less of painters
than they are writers...
right... so women write better because
men paint better?
   are you sure it has nothing to do with
putting makeup on? i've watched about
a dozen makeup videos done by women,
and i'm thinking: a man would have done
about a dozen ****** sketches in
the same space of time it takes a woman
to do her makeup...
  want compliments? ask your ******
*** of a girlfriend, your golf course
rotary, your tennis "coach"...
   men are great at painting because
they're not stuck-in-a-rut of makeup hours...
3 quarters is less about intimidating
peacock antics, and more about:
*****-slapping the contenders for
the wallet sniffing akin to ravenous wolves...
there's a reason why women don't paint:
it's called make-up, alternatively
     known as *frida kahlo...
  what woman talks about shaving her
frown line outside the bikini dimension?
none...
      and how many women become success
stories about their fathers?
oh, i'll write about my mother
when she's dead, and i'll take to a twist
on the story akin to meursault's
"convenience": well, she's dead, isn't she,
what am i supposed to do?
it's out of my hands,
and i'm not the one to arm wrestle death
akin to a cinema of bergman...
so why are women so bad at painting?
maybe because their painting
is best referenced in putting on make-up?
and are they better at writing?
only in the category of alluding to
personal crap, that they can't tell their
secular priests (psychiatrists) directly...
i'm not actually going to fall for
the inversion of descartes' equation:
      i can be a: ****, misogynist, etc. -
   point being: i'll still think on my own terms,
i can have about twenty badges
if: hello, my name is - prudence...
     and the p.s. could read
arkansas...
                       and my ambition could
reside in hollywood...
              but women will never
be painters, because they're already
engrossed in cosmetics...
it's not because women are wording
creatures, and that men are
visual creatures...
       it's that men can turn into
the bearded ladies of the dwarven kingdom,
and put little or no cologne on
their shaved cheeks...
               it's so boring to event attempt
lying these days:
   since so many people are in denial,
the fun is a bit like being conservative,
monogamous, or simply telling the truth;
how can women ever compensate
for the great interlude of man,
    femina est in continuus -
   *** esse **** est in interludium -
id est: a woman is bound to a continuum,
with man being in interlude -
woman preserves, man perseveres...
              all great men are interludes,
while all great women are a continuum...
there was the interlude of newton,
there was the interlude of einstein...
           there was an interlude of every faraday,
there was the interlude of...
count them, in warhol's 15 minutes' worth
of worthy attention...
        women can't paint,
because women already can paint:
by putting on make-up...
               the rest is just *******.

/because you could really get a square, or any coherent mundane geometric narrative of re- re- re-... out of a *******... or tell someone with a size 11 shoe, that a size 9 will be, just as comfortable... and while the English language goes to ****, thank **** it has no mother and has no son in the guise of me... with the current lexi- of non-cis non-binary yadda yadda abracadabra... a return to stern, dog breeding terminology... pedigree, mongrel... hybrid... can't really as the semite for an authentic opinion, came from a people that sat on their ***** for long watching chickens walk down a village dirt road... anything to redefine, those half-***** screaming into a tin-can tied to a string... after all, Greenwich... outside of the English speaking world, we like to call the natives: Greenwich bellybuttons, or rather,  bellybuttons of the world: pępki świata... as a person of acquired tastes, it's turning into a heartache, seeing english so deformed... perhaps by both technology and youth... a Frankenstein to behold... and when in Paris, did I speak any french? not really, but I had the audacity to cling to an Italian girl who could, and a Russo-Canadian girl, who also could... but you still managed to meet people who understood that english,  not french, was and is the lingua franca of tourism... obviously not so much when it comes to commerce... and banking, is not exactly a commerce... neither is the media... e.g.? re.: Münster... on the first day 3 people (not including the attacker) were killed and 30 injured... on the second day 2 people were killed (including the killer) and 20 injured... who the hell still thinks that the media juggernaut is a trebuchet to fling a Meursault into the limelight? it's naive to think that such people are seeking fame... a ******* butter knife and a glass of beer will always be more "famous"... and the man who discovered beer, well... good luck reading Plato... comes the staring into the abyss, and the abyss not staring back, whispering a words: ad absurdum counter ad nauseam...


too much love poetry, too much love
poetry that isn't risqué,
plain mundane out of fear...
a fear of being found dead 2 weeks
later...
not mundane to say the leat,
just: a zoological observation
of a lion, rather than stark naked
on th savannah...
or thereabouts...
                but to have to exhaust
poetry for love? this sort of love?
i prefer the memory of candyfloss
sitting on a stump of wood...
        maybe that's why i find the current
movies exhausting,
           bankrupt writing,
or rather,  current movies an modern
art, minimalism, minimalism,
large open spaces replaced by
   strobe c.g.i.
point being, when did the fallacy
of subjectivity come into
contact with dialectics?
   just asking,  because i somehow
cannot conceive an objectivity of one,
in that,  not having to cite
a bibliography, third part sources...
can't a subjective opinion
be just as true as an objective
herd nod?
    mesmerising that
     subjectivity should be deemed
as sub-dialectics,
           bellow engagement...
somehow contaminated...
are pronouns in that respect
subjective? silly question...
chess pro noun: or solving crosswords...
pro nouns, meaning:
in favour of remembering
  names of objects...
            and further into the exposed
muddle of atomised grammar...
objectivity is when you stress
   pre nouns...
   otherwise, someone is to be found
vehemently stressing a pivot
word, and that gives him or her away?
all of a sudden objectivity is
regarded with more respect,
      objectively, perhaps talking
about things with a blank canvas,
orientating oneself where
you're not allowed to use nouns...
the closest you can get to asking
a co-worker for a hammer on
a construction site is to hum a hmm...
is that objectivity?
        hence the classically mundane
narrative...
   because i just wanted to say
that a richness of one's own memory
creates a cinematic void...
i can't estimate how many hours
I've sat drinking, more entertained
by my memories, than any recent film...
just like today, having refreshed
a pale nectarine kitchen with
lemon peel... i already started thinking
about the corridor...
                  but before that, during
the day...
    why is spring in England,
why is summer in England...
  so... ******?! i wish there was
a better word for it...
     god i've missed continental spring...
i haven't experienced, continental
spring for... 22 years...
                  deep continental spring,
past Germany,  above the Balkans
below the Baltic...
      22 years of 22 springs,
spent on that bog of a sinking ship
known as England...
rain... rain... more rain...
     dampness and 21 Beehive Ln.
Gants Hill just across the synagogue
above the estate agent...
    dampness and those *******
   woodlice...
          22 years having spent each mid
April to late May under
earl Grey the ******* ponce...
                     no one I sleep better
in this part of the world,
the body has synchronised itself
with the fauna and a heritage past
and the mind seems revived...
to the scents of waking trees,
   to the sight on national news
of bears waking from their wintry
hibernation in the Tatra mountains...
ecologists testing mosquito repellents,
anti-rabies snacks dropped into forests
for foxes to eat...
         and only the one direction
traffic of English... comes a headache
having to listen to it, comes easier writing
about it...
              hence the old woman decided
to take my case of the presidium...
tomorrow i'll have my photo taken,
take my British passport,
declare myself as myself before
a bureaucratic piece of paper
with a signature, wait less than two weeks
and get my Polish citizen identification card...
plan B...
       just in case...
          just in case it becomes normal
for spring and seeing so many
children playing outside the 2nd level
balcony overlooking a graveyard...
boys as old as 6 / 7 playing with
wooden swords...
     teenagers sitting on benches
in the cool night till 10:30 pm...
                               and everything else
worth living for, lived in a small town...
far away from the London rats...
     far away from a country that understands
bilingualism as schizophrenia...
              maybe i am mad,
but the ones who think I am, are no more
sane...
                than me...
                                first thing's first...
with a snap of the fingers,
i can retain my dual-nationality,
and perhaps, after a while,
after I stop finding the study of psychiatry
by studying psychiatric blunders
a bit boring...
            and say auf wiedersehen to
ol' ***** 'n' Charlie Ambrose...
                                                 honestly,
england's worth of its very misery...
    its hardball when attached to the mainland,
a nation of thespians,
     hard this, soft that,
                   nuns instead of frisky youth...
or at least: for the joy of life
at first, prior to the sentiments of
adulthood, and shackles,
as was once done in a spring field
or on top of a hay stack;
              which... makes it doubly
uncomprehensive...
     ad to why someone's father might
force himself to forget his mother tongue. ..
with his son not being able to speak it,
suddenly reaching for
         a bomb making kit, a knife,
a car or an assault rifle...
            that sort of grievance?
as the old testament ends with a hope...
not till the heart of the son
turns to the father, and likewise
reciprocated...
                       shame for the collateral
damage... truly, shameful...
but you'd think that a son could
realise his beef,  is with his immigrant father
and not the host nation...
            because a return to the past
or, the body to the land,
the land to the mind, and mind to
the tongue, and the tongue to the breath,
and the breath to the soul,
   and the soul to the forefathers...
          kinda amrican, wouldn't you say so,
Herr Jefferson?

to sketch but the rarest example,
  you might just require
a touch of Horace -

         bene est:
        hoc erat
                     in votis -

albeit akin to dj shadow
sampling, namely: in reverse -

    but i can't help to notice
that i turn into a kleptomaniac
on the rare occassion
   of walking around town,
drinking...

          to this day,
            with only a few days past
i still possess thorn
        incisions on my left
hand...
                
             i'll admit this most
joyous shame,
        and i rather not excuse
the drinking,
   rather reiterate:

           i'm a kleptomaniac
when it comes to flowers,
            i pluck them from
                         the front-gardens
of english suburbia...

    and imagine a woman in my bed,
or the comfort of a grave
        sealed with an epitaph
and a pecking crow...

       death: that eternal plateau -
at least the thought of
the immediacy of impact having
jumped off a roof,
      with such force,
   suddenly gaining consciousness
of the intricacies of
organs, without delirious
                      factoid fascism...

i agree, medieval art is hardly
a compliment to the paupers of epoch,
seemingly all stand ******,
       esp. when donning a crown,
              anemic yet plump beauties...

comes little wonder,
   why Dante's inferno is celebrate,
like the paradiso is such:
vague, attempt to market memory...

given that the per se has sole relish
in being: intact...
                  
  but on the odd occasion that i do
find myself bound to an up-right
spine and moving legs...
           drinking,
                   i will gain a sudden impulse
to craft a bouquet...

             throw it onto the roof just
outside my window,
   and allow the sun to...

             is it me, or, do only slavs mummify
flowers in books?
          
    that's the one Meursault aspect
i seem to have been born with,
       my mother loved poetry in her youth,
and she used to
             hide flowers in books...

come to think of it:
it's hard to think about her without
a dimension of grief...
     but the "problem" is:
                   i can't comprehend
a reflective mannerism for grief...
          
   sure, upon the served impetus,
i can show a reflex to feed the satire
of mortality...
        
              reincarnation: as in,
         only a limited number of people?
hard to choose, given that
i've slept uneasy for the past 10 years
as if i killed someone...
              butler...         or a butcher?

such a beautiful world exists,
outside the realm of man's ambitions.

Today I am fragments of a person
And not part of a whole
Shards of broken glass with faces
And a melancholy in unknowingness

Today I am deeply paranoid
Conducting the goings-on in pain
And there seems to be no border
Between the mental and physical

Today I am a rabbit, hunted
Always on the run, with nimble steps
And an overwhelming sense of dread
It is a unique experience to face doom

Today I am Meursault in spirit
Not because of the general indifference
But because of the lack of exit
And considerations of ****** or suicide

Today I am a Caravaggio painting
The deep darkness envelops everything
And seeps into the soul in secrecy
To consume that which is untainted

Today I am the notes of Cecil Taylor's piano
What more is there than disorder
And clusters of blinding angelic light
Which seem to ease these shackles for a time

Today I am in a Lynch film
For a sense of reality to that which is unreal
For moments of understanding shattered
For calm in shock and anxiety in stillness

Today I am asleep in the world, awake in the dream
Memories fly away from me
All that remains after a long day is a shell
An automaton stripped of its autonomy

Today... what happened today?
I cannot for the life of me recall, but it was unpleasant

Today? Today... I am the prisoner

to: The Decembrists, bricklayers, Arthur Meursault, Leonard Cohen & the Somerset West public library

    I
at the foot of my altar
a candle burns at both ends

running out of gas, a dying star
shines through the skylight
magnified
sparking a flame.
the veil catches ablaze
burning in half
top to bottom
revealing a million
scattered puzzle pieces
lying below a gold spray-painted calf.

in the pile of ash, that was my altar
lies a pool of melted wax.

    II
standing behind a pulpit
facing a mirror
at the base of table mountain.  
my sermon floats in a bubble
towards the summit
before bursting into a blind
hollow orbit.

    III
staring down the barrel of a dead rubber
the deck is loaded
and the dealer has my number.

absurdity is my only ally
while the chairs are packed
with strangers

my chips are all blank
while i sit chained to the board
in titanium shackles.

    IV
carrying the burden of empty bags
flying a kite dressed as a dusty white flag

this name is a weight
too heavy for my slight shoulders

my body is torn
hanging on all three crosses

denied thrice
of a seat on the throne
the roll of my dice
will eventually take me home

hineni
hineni
i'm ready my lord.