between a bottle, and a woman... i'd always take to the bottle quicker than might suggest a care for a wife, and had i the mind to mind, i'd think quicker: but then again thinking was never a "mind-game" worth of sprinting to a horizon of known oblivion.

a response to intelligent response:
seems hard then the audience are forced
to laugh...
   how hard to bully an audience into
laughter, how staggeringly similar and
the thrown into the argument:
you're as imperfect as all all of us!
       perhaps:
    but not as ******-up as you'd like
me to be, akin to you.
           i still hold unto the stronghold of
a two parent family: you?!
     a disregard in the convention of
the bootsales of divorce: hope you're well:
in that magic act of making your
grandparents your parents,
  and leave me in custard foam
to attest the mud... of a fool's fair share
of cradling the auschwitz innocents.
the auschwitz survivors seem not to matter,
only those who make the image:
the ones mingling the friction of reality:
with the smothering of fiction...
           the unsaid being said,
the said being unsaid...
       i am the perfect forged from the thought
of being perfect...
      the response to "intelligent" comedy
in response = a nervous laugh...
              the result of a nervous laugh:
truancy of authentic laughter -
              comedy is unto laughter what
tragedy is unto crying...
             true comedy comes
with uninhibited laughter: it doesn't
come with canned laughter...
that's cheap... that's really cheap,
and sad... sad beyond wanting to cry...
          the comedy you speak of
is that of inhibited laughter:
  a one of a doubled-up nervousness -
smart comedies and intricacies of
drama spell out the same conclusive
columbo diagnostic;
oh **** me, have the *****,
i have as much attachment to it like
i have to acknowledging
a tissue...
           take this ******* near me and
i'll tell of your "motherhood"...
                 no, i don't acknowledge
an "intelligent" comedy...
drag me back into the rabble...
    the mob rule, the theocratic dream of"
man has no law above the quake,
no law above the wave, no law
above airy twirl dance, no law above
the forest fire, man is included to state
his sensual distaste, but with
the elemental per se: cower my dear,
into a pill shaped box...
                        the response of
intelligent comedy = a nervous laugh...
the laugh of the inhibited -
   never the laugh of the free-fall uninhibited...
and such a shame...
that it should be excused as comic -
to riffle nerves and somehow "laugh"
is no laughter at all...
  a man ought to laugh uncontrollably -
but to make joke into nuance
so that he might laugh controllably -
what's the point of telling the joke,
in the first place?!
    i want to laugh uncontrollably -
than nervously -
   because even though there's a "joke",
i'm half as serious about the "joke"
being a joke, as i am in attesting:
this is worth more a nervousness
in choking on a laugh,
with attempt, than
the uncontrollable lack of effort
that leaves me in paralysis...
        i'm not supposed to excuse myself
at this point, but i am apparently
having to muster up an apology
for comedy, and the comic strip of
of *lee evans doing the goose strutting...
it's still comedy, but not really,
monty python was clarity in
pig-head ******* cameron phelatio
in eton: outside?
can't be smart: you're not an insider:
it's an insider's joke:
they're not funny, they're eton.
     next time i find them funny
i'll be making the most perfect:
poached egg.
             americans take the **** out
of ***,
the english take the **** out of ***:
the subject matters of:
either - we have enough of the former
and lack of the latter,
or we, have enough of the latter
and lack of the former...
        to say that english humour is
funny is to also say that shakespeare didn't
exist, like jesus!
                     who knows,
give it enough time, enough
*****-akin historiological define-
     (definitive moment) -
   and that being?
is history a convict in the prison of space -
or is time a convict in the same space?
by comparison, is history a medium of
artefacts, with history the one owning a fingerprint,
and time, without one?
      it's silly to talk of an afterlife,
given that we live our lives with the same
impetus of *****: a tsunami barrage of
constant refraction and reflection -
        man in a microcosmos is the totality
of man,
                  man exists in a microcosmos -
what man is in the macrocosmos is what
we deal in terms of the misnomer attache akin
to god...
         it's good to have forgotten
one's original point, having written
such dribble...
        time is only linear in history -
but what are the truer dimensions of time?
if space has its 3...
    then as einstein suggested:
time be squared -
                        i only wanted the first
few words...
  nervous laughter is the response to
"intelligent" comedy...
      but saying that:
        i'd prefer "dumb" comedy
and allow myself uninhibited laughter
than "smart" comedy,
   and only allow myself *inhibited" laughter;
as i'd prefer imagining ***** flicks
than imagining myself welsh,
counting sheep:
   does arithmetic really beat insomnia,
**** me, too bad for the efforts of
the chemists:
  so we did all these experiments
to craft the pills, for general practitioners
to reach for the tarot cards of
       astrological readings?!
              **** it, sign me up for a cave.

Listless.

the psychology of a social construct so easily broken down.

cracks so exposed and well worn wedges do pleasures deeds.

electromagnetic synapses delving into the degree of damage.

Prose for ill minds comes in droves and withholds no force.

fates memory holds in high regard the lasting forgotten.



drowned stone fire pits lost within reflections craters

Tis so easily tapped through wayward degrading honesty

neither gasp nor exclaim as treacherous glare busts horizons

Proclaim righteousness for the still air of true possibilities

crushing microcosmos with known unfounded pestilence



Flare and stone berate the cold states of spectrum reach

Reminders on the dust tails of impact praise residing

well woven whispers dilute the hollow hold resonating

but of course destruction impact anguish abides

but of course destruction. sculptors require fire.

If you look closely
at the ridges of your fingerprint
You can see mountain ranges
and lush valley forests
where rivers
nourish little people.

No fue jamás mejor aquello.
Esto de ahora es doloroso;
pero el dolor nos hace hombres
y ya ninguno estamos solos.
Alto fue el precio que pagamos:
miseria y llanto de los ojos,
nuestros mejores años verdes
y nuestros sueños más hermosos.

Porque nacimos bajo el signo
del cerebro. Pero ya todo
se vino a tierra una mañana.
Lo devastó un viento glorioso,
y somos ruinas o cimientos,
algo inconcreto, algo borroso:
tronco cortado a ras de tierra,
que nadie sabe que fue tronco.

Predestinados para sabios,
para teóricos,
nos enseñaron muchas cosas
conceptualmente. Y como a un pozo
de agua estancada y silenciosa,
fuimos echando piedras, lodo,
trozos inútiles de muerte,
mármoles rotos.
Ahora no vemos sobre el agua
El paisaje que se alza en torno.

Predestinados para sabios,
para teóricos,
conoceríamos la vida
sólo a través del microscopio,
y nuestro amigo, nuestro hermano,
serían entes, microcosmos,
nombres velados, sin sentido,
abstracciones…

Pero ya todo
se vino a tierra una mañana.
Lo devastó un viento glorioso.
Se desbordó un día la vida,
nos tornó locos,
y les pusimos a las cosas
nuevos nombres. Y el vino rojo
de la sangre, y el agua pálida
del llanto, el sol majestuoso
del mediodía de verano
fueron más que simples fenómenos,
abstracciones, malabarismos
de los teóricos.

Éramos hombres, y el de enfrente,
aquel que hablaba con nosotros,
de su tiempo, de nuestro tiempo,
no era un ente ni un microcosmos.
El que sufría, el que gritaba
o lloraba por estar solo;
el que durmió sobre la hierba
las noches húmedas de otoño
a nuestro lado, alma con alma,
hombro con hombro,
aquél, cegado por la tierra
que nos echaban a los ojos;
aquél que anduvo por los campos
solitario, pisando odios,
era un hombre de carne y hueso
como nosotros.

…

Es extraño. Noches y días
se suceden. Seguimos solos
como unos árboles raquíticos
en la cima de un monte. Pozos
semicegados. (Pero el agua,
invisible para los ojos,
como una remota esperanza
suena en el fondo.)

Es triste alzarse de uno mismo,
poner los ojos en el rostro
de los hombres que han de venir
tras de nosotros,
que no sabrán que entre los árboles,
sobre la hierba, en el mar hondo,
en las ciudades, en las cumbres,
hemos cantado, temblorosos
por la alegría de estar vivos.

Así pasamos, como un soplo
de brisa azul sobre la piedra.
Sin dejar rastro, como el oro
de las hojas, cuando coronan
la frente grave del otoño…

Porque no queda ni una sola
rosa plantada por nosotros.

A composer
of the stars,
& astronaut
of dreams,
the unsung
swan of the
night, who
draws the
paintings
of her
thoughts,
the clouds
of dandelions
fields forever
in reverie,
her sigh settles
the seas of
lilac dreams,
as music
plays, she
enjoys the
indigo hues
of a bohemian
way of life,
and every
person
on this
earth is,
in their own
way, an
eccentric
of their
own hue,
upon the
painting of
life in the
microcosmos
to the lights
beyond, one
possesses
the traveler
in the chest,
a seeker of
the secret,
unrevealed
revelations,
a hidden
lover of
truth,
a flower
always
in perpetual
rebirth,  
the secret
dancer
of the
night,
musing
upon the
wisdom
of how
every
human
holds the
aubade
within the
intricacy
of their
silver
scales,
in the
deeper
tides
of eyes
meeting
to become
one in the
balladry
of being
within each
other’s gaze,
for eyes reveal
the drifters,
who sail in
the ocean
of words
and catch
her star-dew,
where she
hears the
hidden,
secluded
symphonies,
they reveal
the lights
of their
own as
time, the
mysterious
one, flows
her fabric
and they
grow closer
to one, she
watches
upon them
unfolding,
as she
opens
her wings,
they close
their eyes,
when two
had once
seeked
to be other
than the
truth of self,
from their
chests are
opening
butterflies,
they awaken
in their
cocoon,
awaiting
the voyage
to the
moon,
the poet
sits by his
window,
and softly
sung “all of
what the
eyes see
in bloom
is poetry”

macbeth: it was (once) the owl that shrieked,
  the fatal bellman.

aye, and i too would ask the urban folk
concerning family and congregation
for any event apart from the most cherished:
for i love only those with whom i eat,
and abhor those with whom i drink:
for i deem them sour company.

and if in haste? from Canterbury seek New York,
there you'll learn a thing or two about
gnarling from a yew tree strained against
the ranks and rags of French nobility...
there, dear sir, will you learn the Welsh Churchill
acronym, by the index and middle i say:
pointing toward the sky as if to navigate
a seagull pooping fresh manna
onto a desert plain for an *oasis of sustenance.
clearly the U was never chiseled into bone or
marble, instead a V... which always confuses
my expertise (2014 GSCE gimmick,
expert-... ease? titillation? prioritising?
no wonder they send spies to south korea to
feed off jealousy of the porcelain skinned
and squinty eyed crap of Zen... because Tao
was the practice of not dipping your head in
a honey jar and running up to a beehive for
a Frenchy) / in Grecian (yes,
poets have abhorring punctuation,
they're donning a take on rasta roots: dreadlocks
  inserted between the talk of personal hygiene
   and vanity performances of family life solidification
to seem the ideal citizen).
      poetry really is an obscurity of prose,
      it's that ****** cousin you hide in the attic,
when you stage poetry against prose
you never, really, get a snooze button fault
while taking a microcosmos of thought to bed
  and "forget" reading something....
   a true testament to poetry? something Mussolini
might say... i am a fascist fetishist: in that
i am also a schadenfreude: a shadowy frau...
   i like to see fascism in others...
          well, you know, Hollywood got sickly sweet
over the years, there's no enough Bruce Lee films
to satiate the palette of middle aged crimbo men...
  don't expect a ****** to know the cartwheel mechanics
readying a girl into ballet...
       cos no attitude brings no Bolshoi, girlfriend.
oh god, how can this age and my contemporaries provide
so many stereotypes?! they're all gay...
         there's me with my pouting but really alcoholic-bloated
face, rummaging in pop culture under the exacting maxim
of: the idiots have all the confidence, the smart uns
      have all things Cartesian...
             you swarm over reactionary talk?
i guess modern people really want to engage in dialectics,
but the current sophistry, the current rhetoric,
     is only based (in bias) against any Cartesian intervention...
the "i think" doesn't precipitate into "i am"...
for example? even wittle Adoolf thought he was good,
but then world war ii and therefore kicked in,
    there was nothing good to be said, apart from
a historical endeavour as to why: the New Year's Eve
Ball of Vienna faked a smile to solidify a permanent
audience...
                      this fire-yawning rhetoric is part of
the zeitgeist (holy ghost) of our times...
                                it's enough that i'm reading the
news review contained in a sunday newspaper on a tuesday,
but another that i'm rereading lawrence lipton's
the holy barbarians at the same time... yep:
the father of the guy that interviews actors on that
show the actors' studio... where we learn all things
sentimental... just before Robbie Williams tightens
the noose and everyone's bloated...
which is odd: it was a promising afternoon...
           i know that society really wants to engage with
dialectics, i've been watching lemon-*******-sessions'
worth of cringe concerning Milo Yiannopoulos -
papa-dough-pu-louse (Greeks have surnames like
dinosaur names: word and verbiage in one go...
a bit like decapitating Anne Boleyn,
executioner on tiptoe) -
                 it would be far more easier to stage
a place by Shakespeare that it would be to stage a
conversation by Socrates... that's how difficult
practising dialectics is... so much so that people invented
diacritical indicators to syllable dissections of words
and then forgot to use them... buttnaked Adam of Essex.
but one thing caught my eye...
  not in a rude way... well... Bruce Willis in mercury rising...
      isn't the Greek a tad bit autistic?
those darting eyes, and whenever a confrontation emerges
the sunglasses are invoked? isn't the confrontationalist
an autistic phenomenon? isn't this autism?
   aren't people rebelling against the spaz?
   the cover-up is obviously homosexual, because there's this
underlying subplot... high functioning autism,
i might momentarily get an eye-contact...
       but anglophone psychiatrists have only two notations
to curate the spectrum of "mental" problems:
1. biting your nails...
          and 2. eye contact.
                  if psychiatry is philosophy without thinking,
then philosophy is psychiatry without being...
              catchphrase? i hope to god no.
               god... well: that's when you say:
i do have limitations in my vocabulary... hence the invocation
to a ulterior being, other than my self
                 (yes, the reflective version of the reflexive myself).
      sure as hell there needs to be a dualism
rather than a monism concerning the 1 + 1 = 2 humanism
of cogito ergo sum, can you imagine a consolidation?
how, in the 21st century (which wasn't that spectacular
even though the evangelicalists stressed was the zenith
and a basis for: no future) the two would never meet?
    if anyone Descartes poked fun at it too:
i'm pink, therefore i'm spam.
                                       can you imagine why some people
were diagnosed with schism that later referred to a mind?
            uncomfortable people for social cohesion are ill...
it's because the healthy people are whipped into
constructing society.
                               adding to the fact that if mental
and physical converged and were made equally obstructive
in hindering people, a fewer number of jobs / specialisations
would exist to counter such grievances...
      you term mental illness i term lethargy and
thinking turned into the equivalent of what the heart is:
de-automated heart turned into poetic muse...
                but otherwise? an automaton pump.
and when thinking becomes automaton prone...
       and when thinking becomes too conscious of perceiving
the body as caged, doubly in a world and earnestly
in the cycle of eat sleep **** repeat... when too much
theory pours into an abstracting pronoun of forgotten Latin
and resurgent Latin with a summary of ego...
   when that becomes a Shiva-likened extra limb...
               when thought becomes automated
  but the body isn't... when thought diverges from any
moral construct to be made intrinsic in the complement
of choice as its sole outlet,
                 all variations of thought necessarily translated
into a narrative die out... because, as it turns out,
              not all narratives are pharmaceutical escapisms
to the equivalent of medicating seriously...
            even though the sky is blue in winter
and all decaying flush of colour of autumn is long gone...
i feel no bolder to stampede against the earth's
tides insurrecting a name and month of birth
                                      as sanctimonious:
other than what the polity deems worthy for me to
inherit, that, which will be my epitaph
is all am worthy of, given such contortions: as already
evident.
    
take your heart to Scotland my good friar,
and then from on-high,
   as if between Edinburgh and St. Andrew's,
take the kingly route back south...
                    and learn to educate those who's
tongue was never kindred to cliche and barbarism,
were it not talk of puritanism and
    a hidden dialect: for no cockney would have ever
heard the seven bells,
                   and definitely shied away, spoilt,
from the meddling cuckoo;
and oh how small this world will seem,
       once you've been woven the greatest attire
of all you command to peacock,
   that operatic Monday through to Friday
that'll always be more than Gucci or an Armani belt...
    routine!

concerning an article in the sunday times, titled baited, 13 - 16 year old girls, a mix of cyberbullying, revenge **** & creepshots... ah... here comes lady burqa, to set the standard of civilised behaviour... now... i can't agree that islamophobia exists... but sure-**** i can testify to a burqa-phobia... hell! i can even attest to a niqab-phobia, and to be honest... that, that is a reasonable phobia... let's use the proper terms, please! anyway... regarding this baiting... oh man, these ***** ought to have known better, as those taking the selfies... why? because i'm starting to think that people take more photographs, than actually blink with their eyes... whatever happened to the mirror?

some people strive for ambitious lives,
   head over heels types,
    the ones in microcosmos of
their own ***...
    me? i, just, want, my, life,
to represent, the lazy consistency
of a sunday...
          for my life to be as busy as...
                                      sunday traffic;
it's not a self-doubt that's plaguing me,
i'm not an automaton yet,
             but with that i wonder:
   if they have all the hormones and
chemical compounds excavated
to represent *love, which ones are
         the ones to represent doubt?
doubt? oh, those minor "panic-attacks",
the fun bits of being alive
   living inside the dynamism
                                  of uncertainity...
i was ambitious once - now?
        well, i know i stop enjoying
   fiendish sudoku puzzles, and rest
my case on the difficult tier...
                there's no point striving:
if you don't enjoy it -
    as harsh as it might sound -
         poetry will always speak to me in
the tongue of impromptu -
    with eyes of lightning flashes -
as long as it remains in this state -
  i'll be content -
   i can't imagine a novel,
the tedium of it, the constipation -
the rewriting, the 2 to 3 years -
with the only merit attached to a novel
is solely based on how long
it took to be written...
               constipated / frustrated
novelists, i can image...
                    on the other hand...
it's quiet easy to imagine ******
snowflake poets too.

i'm pretty **** sure you'd gobble this like i did, wolfish;
it's a reinvention of the original: sweet & sour...
but this is                            sweet & salty.
  mmm...
                          rice noodles! rice nnn! that almost see-through
squids of tangles...
                       not egg noodles! not egg noodles!
rice! rice noodles!
          and then we fry some bacon,
                              add a bit of mushrooms...
                                          a few pinches of paprika...
         and then the magic happens...
                                honey....
                                 followed up by some soy sauce...
mmm, keep frying...
                            some pepper...
                                       then nicely cut cherry tomatoes
to break apart the sweet from the salty with some
                                                                                 acidity,
and then some parsley to garnish.
                                                                    woof!
went down like a storm, it probably took me less time to
down the bowl of noodles than i took to cook it...
           but what an ingenious concept, rather than the classic
sweet & sour...             sweet & salty...
                                     comrade mao would have approved:
just think how simple it sounds...
                 it's not exactly, hoisin sauce,
        honey
                                soy sauce
                                                             cherry tomatoes:
oh **** me... you need a buffer zone...
                       some sort of acidity...
                          if you were going to bottle it i'm sure citric salt
would do the job... but in real time? when you're actually
conjuring such a recipe?     cherry tomatoes...
          and no... egg noodles won't do... they're too heavy,
they won't soak up the juices...           so you need the squid-like
tentacles of rice noodles...          and yes, fry the concoction
        in some chili infused olive oil.
a microcosmos in under 15 minutes...
              the universe disappears... and the idea of a polyverse
                is but a ****; and a burp half an hour later.

i imagine heaven, as seeing copernicus balancing himself, while riding a bicycle for the first time, seeing how he theorised the imbalance of the geocentric model... mind you: the heliocentric model for writing history... kinda ******, isn't it? not much to go around, landing on the moon, probes to saturn, lovely pictures... to me? we're still living in a geocentric world, since most of history happens in the geocentric model, rather than the heliocentric model of: dwarfing man... plus, readings maps doesn't really help even if you know that the earth isn't flat... o.k. smart ***, you navigate a car across europe, from england to a remote city in eastern poland!

memory is such a fickle faculty of the mind,
made twice as fickle (some for of "natural"
selection) - most assuredly an ontological
anomaly - but i remember this one particular
morning, where i had to take a photograph
of the vanilla / raspberry / rose hue clouds,
while pumping myself for the day ahead
at 7a.m., listening to *jethro tull's
my god - ah, the flute man, i sometimes
imitate it, puffing out clouds of biblical
verse citing: the fire ahead, and the smoke
behind, will guard your path upon
the woken ask for: an exodus out egypt.
after all, i'm all for free speech,
but when a freedom is lacking,
and an insidiousness overcomes a first
comment of a site like you-tube...
       debating bands, "trying" to broaden
the young minds:
   i actually was introduced to king crimson
when i was circa 10 / 11...
      hell, depends who your father was...
people abused by trolls forget one major
point... the adrenaline rush you get
when being slighted...
      you know the effect of adrenaline in
this loser microcosmos?
  you know how powerful it can be?
you have to learn english a second time
even if you already speak it as an american,
or an australian...
              you have to pick out the best
bits: on the continent there's no such thing
as english humour, there's only
the macabre humour, or... dark humour...
prime ingredient?
oh don't be silly, it's not turmeric
(the poor man's saffron) - although that
could 'elp...
   it's? sar-casm!
     the english are renowned for it...
by the way, i once mentioned "chiromancy"
and i.q., i.e. how you hold a pen
or a fork / knife, or how you type without
ever glancing at the keyboard...
better add chop-sticks to the affair...
i prefer to call them pinch-sticks -
since you're most likely pinching your
food, rather than forking it...
and that: they're not exactly drum sticks
either...
            i wonder why high i.q. correlates
to culinary equipment...
        i fiddle with my beard,
scratch my head and state: no idea!
but... have you ever wondered why
thai curries are so much fresh than indian
or bengali? the indians use the base
of onion ginger and garlic,
and very few greens...
                 they're heavy on the stomach too,
but thai curries?
        so easy to digress on,
sorry, digest...
                   and these pinch-stick antics?
bewildering...
    i can't remember the last time i used
them,
but it's always the same cliche:
once you've learned how to ride a bike,
once you've learned how to swim,
once you've learned how to use chopsticks,
you can't forget how to,
even with a ridiculous amount of hiatus.
odd, isn't it?
   well, i find it odd...
see, when you come across a youtube troll
in the comments section,
be sure to turn a reply into a sarcastic snigger -
the english humour type,
recognise the adrenaline rush,
mention a small weener,
i know it's not exactly bungee jumping,
just recognise the adrenaline...
  and **** me it's there, esp. (like me) you've
had a few drinks "too many"...
it's easy prey... you can turn into
the most obnoxious antithesis of a troll
that a troll begins to cower...
   i'm not for safe spaces or curbing a freedom
of speech, but, come one:
you mention a few bands that are the neo-alt.
from the 1970s in the prog rock movement,
why settle on citing a want for kids reading
to led zeppelin... or black sabbath...
no one mentioned deep purple either...
guess what ****** of guitar store workers more:
deep purple's smoke on the water,
or led zeppelin's stairway to heaven?
  oddly enough? the latter.
i just hate hearing the news of teenagers being
"sold" suicide after being abused online -
esp. girls...
        come on, if you're being trolled,
turn into an englishman, become sarcastic,
watch some fawlty towers, some monty python,
and then spin it with things like:
i'm getting a hard-on, or: my ****'s getting wet...
pick 'n' mix...
          the only way to effectively disperse these
"saints" of free speech is to become
a bigger troll than they are...
  and how does one overcome a troll?
one becomes an orc.

Noctivozmusgo insomne
del yo más yo refluido a la gris ya desieta tan médano evidencia
gorgogoteando noes que plellagan el pienso
contra las siempre contras de la posnáusea obesa
tan plurinterroído por noctívagos yoes en rompiente ante la afauce angustia
con su soñar rodado de hueco sino dado de dado ya tan dado
y su yo solo oscuro de pozo lodo adentro y microcosmos tinto por la total gristenia

those dreaded moments from a previous night -

oh, they're there, right at the end of a drinking
session,
out comes the mother tongue -
  and then out comes a superficial interest
in religion -
                i take it for granted -
                   as you have to, have 70cl of
a decent bourbon...
                    and however many times i try to
avoid it: i'm ready for a "boxing" match with
topics i have no interest in, but somehow manage
to write something about them...
   unlike someone who goes out drinking -
and then "pretends" to forget something stupid
from the previous night, having this
moral hangover: by enforcing the rule of not
trying to remember... sadly...
   when you write... you remember...
                           sadly... sadly? well, not really:
you go off into the nether-region of interest -
but you always, always come back the next
day: to what's truly important -
                    in this case? let's just say,
under communism? marx jews etc.?
       you didn't get a two day weekend -
                      everyone worked on saturday;
hence the following ambitious step:

it was going to be a marathon, a ******
mountain to climb,
   but like i was once: america, russia et al.
can have their stock-pile of nukes
   and other military, equipment...
  me? just one example to make,
      arsenal of ingredients to make
                      chettinad chicken curry,
with peshwari naan bread
     + a different chicken curry:
                              seyal-sindhi style...
and there you have your saturday afternoon
made: four hours in the kitchen...
                      i think excluded marinating
the chicken diced and marinated in garlic+ginger
paste with turmeric... hmm...
but the chettinad took the fa-king ****...
    11+ ingredients... 11+! can you imagine
     a pizza with 11 toppings?! i don't think so.
it begins with dry roasting:

   peppercorns, dried red chilies, coriander seeds,
fennel seeds, cumin seeds, a bay leaf,
   curry leaves, poppy seeds, cardamon, cloves,
a cinnamon stick, a star of anise, grated coconut...

and that's just for the paste, which is blitzed
  with just enough water...

then of course the gravy... onions and
chopped tomatoes... onions being friend in...
ooh, ooh la la: coconut oil;
   mind you, you can also rub that oil on
your skin and into your hair when washing it...
so there you go... 2-in-1...
apparently it works better than a conditioner.

ah... but the pershwari...
   almonds, coconut, raisins, yoghurt
stuffed into a home-made naan bread...

there's this funny saying:
  about as entertaining as watching paint dry...
let me tell you something different though:
i've never seen anything more entertaining
than watching home-made dough grow -
in a bowl, in a sink filled with hot water,
  with some cling-film covering the bowl...
i could look at that blob for ages...
   how at first the cling-film is sunken -
and once the yeast do their bit: it seems to almost
want to pop!

    yet there's a conclusive remark to be made...
indian food?
    (sniffing sound of a dog) -
  your neighbours can smell you cooking
something...
                           it's that ****** potent -
takes me back to days spent in a chemistry lab...
how you can have this microcosmos of
change with, but: one dish...
                          that's why a student of
chemistry will rare discuss the pop-culture
adherents of either biological ref. or physics ref.:
we move on... sometimes we **** in
accidently, like stepping on someone's foot
  in a crowded place...
                    opinions entertained for an hour,
esp. when espressed drinking...
                this: this is the real thing going on -
a typical english august with glum skies
and a thunder-storm...
       and then in late afternoon: an indian evening
as if, it really was summer;
  but it ain't cos then it starts ******* once
again by 10p.m.

I've got sick religion,
A black week of your absence.
My guess is you'll plant something there
Where the soil is still good and fertile
But I swear I'm never going back.

College stairs is my blonde heroine
Frizzy hair was the angel I couldn't sleep next to,
I could lay in the November Rain til I died
Dressed nice but I never got my engine running
On fuel I bought myself.

Talent died before shooting from my fingers
I remember an episode of Journey to the Microcosmos
Watching this one little organism try so hard to hold it together....
and then it fell apart.

I hope you’re not getting tired of my little inspired inserts.  I love them all (my small children) each one that shows up one after the other.  Sequences that surprise even me, the author, each one a little world, a little microcosmos.

The Houseguest You Never Want To Leave

my first memories of england: the dover cliffs, the red double decker bus, and mr. grey, yes, the earl of the perpetuated overcast skies.

i like the kantian compartmentalization concept,
i like the idea of boxes, and there is no finer
notion of a "box" than the *per se:
christianity gained popularity in the coliseum,
and it will lose (zzz, someone please
tap the snooze button with regards to
more anti-christian augmenting argumentation) -
but kant left a "linear" geometry -
the per se -
                     ant-man galore -
    throw enough of a sense either into
a microscope or a telescope -
  it doesn't matter... the same result ensues:
which is not a result at all,
  but a cul de sac of answers,
vis-à-vis a madman's monologue...
         nice zoo, god, shame about the fact that:
we're all living with exhibiting / inhibiting
constraints!
                       you know, i used to play
the sims game, the microcosmos of sim city...
and then i sat my sim at a computer...
     whoof! shoom!
         a buddha moment: i entered a wormhole...
i sought but didn't find, until i did find
a narcissus moment in gaming:
     der spiegel - i.e. the mirror...
   dei trägheit - i always find that things sound
better in german, given that quebec made
french a ***** 'arry donkey than a stallion,
and that french has lost the vogue...
   and that i like the old french with a trilled R
than a harking R...
      excuse moi... dell boy two miles shy of
the cockney manure of gift of the gab and
the bells, the bells, the bells of bow!
    i'm playing a game where the "avatar" is
playing a game, on a computer,
  and i'm on a computer, playing a game
with a character that's playing a game on a computer...
that's the point where i stopped playing
games "seriously" as a teen boy...
   now when i do, i do play them:
to prolong resting from the chain-train-beast
that's smoking... i still think it's better than
eating a ******* raw carrot...
but i dare say, i love the kantian warehouse;
if any revision of the english language,
****-naked without any diacritical marks,
well, i'd simply start deutsche -
       ß -
              after all, why can't i be a remnant
of the anglo-pomeranian - or anglo-swabian?
    sax boop blippy blippy boo (charles manson
could have said that interlude) -
             but when everything is stored in
a per se, you can at least know a chew po
from a chow pi -
                              it's one way of storing things -
it's consciously feeding the unconscious
storage room...
                  the per se is a tool, akin to a box,
of making the most effective storage space
in that fat sponge lodged in your cranium cage
of yours... tip of the tongue, back of the head
analogy...
                 the chinese don't spell, who told you
that lie? the chinese don't spell because they
don't deal in linguistic atomism -
                               they're a syllable riddle!
a chinese walks into a dentistry practice,
the dentist says: say ah -
             the chinese answer: ah choo...
  bless you the dentist replies.
          i don't know why i settled for kant as my
mentor (even though he's dead)...
  i guess, as the patron "saint" of bachelors,
it made sense.
                     christianity was born in the coliseum,
and it will die in the coliseum...
       why can't it, given that the failings of
marxism are almost akin, although parallel
in the secular guise of crisply ironed shirts
and grey suits, compared with the bishop's red
shoes: dorothy! oh dorothy! take me to heaven!
by criticism i mean: the religion is not monotheistic,
it's poly-schismatic -
           it's a schism-theism;
  i'd sooner pay attention to the deities of hinduism!
how can you tell a greek is telling
a lie? he can't keep up with telling it over and over
again...
   i can't believe i was born into this farce...
i just can't...
                and indeed, the sun, like excess sugar,
makes you mad...
  barbaric even...
   which is why i mention the enclave of
extended scandinavia as the british isles...
         sure, the grey skies...
the grey skies, the grey, skies...
             no one ever **** themselves from not
eating...
                    no one ever went mad from
a lack of sun...
                            point being, those two weeks
in kenya was torture, i don't know how
the colonials managed it...
        sure, send them up north, your sub-saharan
your baghdad possy (funny, tehran isn't
on the move, must be a case of persian pride) -
once they stop hyperventilating in their new
environment: i'm just gagging my laughter,
waiting for them to slouch and slump into depression.