the most effective music to write to? it's not music you like, you'd be surprised what writing emerges from listening to what you'd usually discriminate against to form relationships - for me? that's pop music, mostly boy-band music: sweet lies - and trance / dance music... dance music is the quintessential dichotomy of classical music - the excess of drums - it's a contained version of the inexplicable St. Vitus' dance - it's a controlled virus, but it also works with writing: as does popped version of all the major genres - primarily because you can be offered the chance to be a backstage observer - the crowd is pleased, it's jumping up and down, and you're in the shadows ******* a poem out, for all intended purposes.

even if something profound happens to you,
you experience something inexplicable -
you have to return to the little joys of life -
that everyday people comprehend only slightly:
to be honest, the little joys of life are more profound
than hearing a burning bush talk -
the reservation is primed upon the: personal
and private - farting in a crowded train
just diminished the theory of solipsism -
after all: everyone compares their farts to
the scent of strawberry fields - evidently farting
on a crowded train destroys the theory, outright.
even if you did hear a burning bush talk
and never heard of a Brazilian wax ice rink -
you got to keep up with the basics of life,
if i was mad enough, and didn't enjoy music
as much, i'd be a raving shaman in
the Amazon rain-forest: half of proposed hyphen
compounds to attain a Germanic *bubblingblahbog
will not pass the Oxford censor - the optics
are already too much scattered in English from
original Saxon - thus comes the certainty of
yesterday's night: shaving.
i've been growing this mogwai for some time
(also a scottish indie band) -
                 but yesterday i decided to shave -
a month if not two or three passed -
i just missed the feel of razor-metal against the skin -
first the scissors, to cut most of it off...
then the foam applied to the stubble -
then the razor... ooh... ooh... most ****** hair
hits full crop yield in your late twenties -
          beside the fact... i can't tell you the experience...
after a while the mogwai just gets pulled a lot,
twisted and curled by the fingers,
a bit like passing time smoking cigarettes -
you fingers need to do something -
          but the feel of the razor metal against the skin,
the sound of unforced itching when the sliding
scoop travels against the skin -
                          without comparison -
it just feel right... obviously the goat had to remain
to hide the double-chin - all the perks of having
a diet primarily fuelled by a suggestion:
and what if there was no water on this planet,
what if this planet had lakes, fresh water sources,
but instead of salty seas, we had alcoholic seas?
well: first of all we wouldn't get the point
of how Na-H2O defies gravity, travels up into
the fluffy kidneys (clouds) and falls back to earth
pure - i'm suggesting something akin to:
   clouds and salt - the prime component of clouds
has to be salt, based on a simple suggestion of
magnetism - i mean, the seas aren't boiling,
there's no volcano kettle making sea water into
sea steam - i'd love to nibble at a clouds and say:
stash that into a bag of chips with some vinegar.
still: the pleasure of shaving... and drunk...
not a bad job... a goat did emerge last night.

it's true, what the current psychologists
say about watching current
*******,
i'll never get a chance
to "****" the current pornographic stars..
but i feel less disinhibited
about thinking of
some kim novak...
   i'm just stick to
pretending foster the people
and how, all of the 1980s was "bad"...
or the part where i confess to
the whole, ******* "debacle"...
you know why i won't be able
ton **** all these actresses?
most of them starred in 1970s
italian ***** cinema,
with french dubbing...
           i'm still fond
of a fictional biopic
of liberace...
                         modern psychologists
are right...
  the reason why i wouldn't be able,
is... 1970s ******* seems
so orthodox, organic, real,
you can almost understand why
it would take an italian production,
and french dubbing,
and why ******* would be
considered the ideal "****":
who would ask for a hole,
+ a tongue in it?
    mind you:
walk with a cat on your shoulder,
into a trukish off-lice,
pass a teenage ******* your way
in, expect nervous giggling...
what the **** am i,
a teacher?
     no, the modern day psychologists
are right, although they're not
psychiatirsts,
they do not have
big pharma support...
   1970s *******,
italian, with dubbing...
      monica roccaforte...
      dated a girl who's mouth
resembled her's,
  now, i'm happy to say,
she's married,
with 4 bambinos,
          all of them girls...
travis: walking down the hill,
12 memories,
that part of me that thinks:
thank god it's not anything by
mogwai...
too bad i still own a part
of me that is *******...
    well yeah...
i wouldn't want to **** the current
pornographers..
i'd prefer to sit out a silent
gesture of an hour's worth
with a cat...
      all the pornographers i'd like
to ****, are grannies at this point,
organic ***,
from the 1970s...
what is left, these sloppy-leftovers?
avenue of the three party tier
ambitions... + some rare sort
of revising golf...

            so much for visiting the ******
of amsterdam,
legally...
like: who the hell visits amsterdam
to smoke ****,
these days, of all the days
made available?

last time i heard:
psychologists are not psychiatrists
in that,
they can't prescribe you
******-active medication...
but it's true...
i ******* to unattainable examples
of ***...
all my ambitions are relegated
toward ambitions
surrounding 1970s italian
*******,
and subsequent french dubbing...

modern **** is crass...
some men would even allow themselves
the statement:
as long as there's a story,
behind the self-evident
nurturing of the inevitable act...

    modern pork / ****
is all that it will ever be:
namely...
     a lost libido for a lack
              of existing taboos.

nothing is going to replace
sensual *******
of 1970s italian *******...
**** this modern
gagging,
this... attempt at snorkeling
without any experience of water.

For the first time
in a long time
I'm so scared
to be alone.
I'm scared you'll roll out,
and leave me on my own.
And what do you do
when you're
pushing thirty,
and life's left you thirsty
for love and stability?
And how do you tell that
to a handsome hillbilly?
If it was corn,
beans or guns,
action movies or trucks,
it'd be easy to discuss.
I'd have no problem
bashing welfare,
or the system **** suckers.
I'll happily sit
for hours and *****
about world affairs,
or gossip about others,
but how do we talk,
about us
as a couple?
And where is this going?
And should I be showing
any glimmer of hoping
that I'm not just
warming
your bed
for another brunette?
How come
You don't stay hard,
If I still stay wet?
Am I overreacting?
Like a stupid girl, lashing
at her own insecurities?
Or is there a shadow
of boredom I see.
I'll say this much,
at least;
If you really do love me
I'm like a mogwai;
there are careful instructions
that'll keep me
from destruction.
You've got to reassure me
that I'm not only
your only,
but that you'll always
wanna hold me.
That despite a gold ring,
and all those permanent things
I'd never ask for,
I've got to know
that It's me
you love
and adore.
That you're happy.
Not complacent.
That you're satisfied.
Not satiated.
That I still turn you on,
that you won't do me wrong,
that you think about me,
find yourself
missing me.
That you still want to kiss me.
That I've had an impact
on your steely, stone heart,
and that your big arms
are grateful
wrapped around me
in the dark.
Because from my side,
I'm sold;
not initially,
no,
but you grew on me,
sneakily,
like damp wood
grows mold.
And to be frank with you, sir,
I'm still a bit leery
of your seeming ability
to take me
or leave me,
and your closed-lip approach
on making it known
that you'll always love me
is troubling.
And, so,
If you won't..

1.
How to begin? ...
"We are Here!" - we all say this with absolute certainty, and it is without doubt the Truth...

When we begin to speak to one another without any certainty, going to fabricating "truths" with hisstory, lacking any real knowledge or irrefutable facts, imagination run amok, it begins to look like the wrong foot...
       And it sounds like Rabble Raucous Riots
Mumbling Music to all ears, those who hear what all there is to
Around here

Inside four walls and a low ceiling.
Under a short roof, the Chaos bounces quickly back from over our victories, it seems like we've gotten water on the mogwai.

Knowing now we are
Our own storms we make here / our sphere / three demensional
This circle.
What goes 'round, must come 'round.
(What are we to each other?)

2.
Right should always be alright, all the time... There should be no suffering.

When once it was a perfect circle, knowing nothing about pain or Death
That fear made manifest
By nothing but a myopic view
Giving a word it's name,
And with each name - an existence.

So where to begin? Who is asking? Why then should it be?

Should we rather then "believe" like as though we were made
convinced,
should it not be? How then did this all
come To Be?

We begin then with Here, a healthy mind full of heart filled questions felt
Little flash bulbs of
Star light / sprinkling the blind dark void.

And those questions, that are intimately belonging to us, those questions deserve only the truth.

I expect the same as what I give... And I bow to divinity while
I raise her up to / the sky and universe.
I your fellow *living proof
In these briefest of vast moments shared alongside you.

Let's begin with Life - the fury of God.
And with the Truth, the word of ...

The One And only  - (All for You).

*Life must Live / Ours must prove

comes the love, that loves to hate: then comes the hate, and the camembert; just like they do korn's a.d.i.d.a.s. and bryan adam's summer of '69.

headphones elevsate the "idea"
of past girllfriends,
the exes, the *** ss, ss, sassy
*******...
  one?
   i just keep laughing and grinning
till me cheeks hurt like
someone completing the tour de france...
believe me, everyone seems
to hate phil collins -
but that song *sussido?
she's her...
     you really think i was going
to yong-yong twirll a yoyo
   when citing her name?
   all she said:
   you me, & my younger sister...
a desert island...
              **** me she didn't
throw her mum into the mix...
1980s twice over...
                   i couldn't be happier...
the mere idea shakes my bones
to a moondance...
i know phil collins
is some sort of target practice,
some sort of bulls-eyes
to reach toward the indie heights
of mogwai...
        or whatever you want to call:
keeping it just appropriate
lonesome...
                 and that means, what?
candy crush saga with prozzies?
ain't you the classy buck!
    never mind that,
every time the headphones
are equipped i know i'm
at the house where the party is at...
please forgive my phil collins
like...
          you only get ****** trans
music in brothels anyway...
   and that's only the bulgarians
transitioning to romanian babes...
but this one girl...
forget it... she's gone...
mother of three, and all the more
readied to be done aged 80...
i'm actually praying for the end
aged 45...
                come on...
given the 80s: sussudio?
               the only make-up i wear
is yesterday's hangover...
flanked by rugby puffs under the eyes...
so i am,
"technically" seeing doughnuts...
        and yes, the shrunk bladder...
why is it that no more adventure
comes from travelling to the land
of thai... than it is,
having found adventure in the land(s)
prescribed?
         but there are the giggles,
rather than the moans...
and there's her younger sister,
and thank **** not her mother...
that would be thrice as weird...
                  but there's the smile,
a lost, and ever forgetful claim to
a memory...
          lost in the tract of passing time,
and chasing ambitions,
of ******, through to girlfriend,
through to lover, settling in
companion / mother, the retired aged...
how gracious,
   to be fed lost ambitions
as a persistent narrative
  of any if not every lack of
                                         "thought".

those that savour the upkeep of spring
and the eternity of it,
stretching into both spring & autumn,
care to keep their hearts
as patrons of atlantis:
the ice-bergs:
        so little above the water,
                yet so much below, in the depths;

only those born as the sole inheritors
can claim an understanding of solipsistic
endeavours...
               that the kindred of the chinese i am
and by that: worth of a certain zeitgeist:
i am too...
                   how can solipsism be explained
by people who grew with brothers
or sisters?
         how can it be, and then degraded
into a psychiatric embrace?
      who are these freaks, these western
socio-political-pathogens?
                         these diseases?!
i don't like them...
                  i'd only think once
concerning exterminating them from
the temple of thought:
they just stink the ******* place out...
   i don't want them here...
they belong on the crucifix of rhetoric...
they really require their tongues
to be crucified, mutilated,
        chased, and extinguished!

i'm happy to conclude a revived jazz binge...
i lost patience when having listened to
john coltraine's a love supreme -
       when walking - i had to find a rhythm outside
of a music genre that has it -
but feels to be without it...
                yes... i had to learn to enjoy feeling -
not in this ivory tower of thought -
that the first moral lesson is: (th)ought i?
           i'm done with jazz - as much as i'd love
to stick around and listen to mundell lowe's
guitar moods...or harry edison's mr. swing...
the images popping into my head are all wrong...
all i see it cigarette smoke...
shady blues bars and all this... cosmopolitan
humbug... commotion or any other synonym...
i'm tired of the city music...
i need to find the roots again...
i would gladly eat a thumb's length of raw
root horseradish or ginger than have
these needles these jazz horns ringing in my ear...
i once felt this sensation when landing
in Kenya - thinking about it would do very little
for me: it needs to be destined for the domain of
lolz and feelz... and thinking is all too precious
and is not recycled? every thought is a birth of
a genius? geniuses - unlike angels and demons...
men: not gods... give birth to these creatures...
oh sure... they exist...
            "exist": always looking for an exit... that is...
but if the gods gave birth to angels and demons...
that's why i will never call any man
a genius - i'll call him: the man who gave birth
to a genius...
again... i'm still teasing the present-at-hand future
of listening to a mundell lowe record...
as much as i would to a kenny burrell e.p. -
                     because a guitar in jazz is...
like a horn in blues - a true oddity -
                             esp. on the part of solo -
i can't help to think that the guitar tames all the instruments...
hell... in the case of mundell lowe:
you might just fear a flute instead of a sax or horn...
but i'm done with this cosmopolitan choke-hold...
i could have sunk real low and become
crab feed for all i know...
       i need to go back to byzantine orthodox chants,
to german folk songs, to scandinavian music...
mogwai? let's not go that far... although:
who knows? if you said: sigur rós...
                well... björk: that's really stretching it...
more on the lines of garmarna...
       or... finnish: hedningarna... the scandinavian gnome
sing-along... no vikings up there...
just gnomes and lake people...
    or so i heard... "heard"...
back into the feelz... jazz made me think to much...
not that this "thinking" was about anything
related to things and extensions of things -
(res cogitans / res extensa)...
more like... res vanus and the inversion of things
(empty thing)...
  how would it feel like...
to be impregnated by that sly ***** that hide
behind this body in **** -
that became an ego - each time i'm impregnated
by thought i had to somehow sort it...
oh the daydream fabric is too much sometimes -
talk about the need to find a heart
and feel something more sincere, concrete...
immediate... even the negative emotions fair better
than all that nonsense that bogus custard
thickening the already bulging cranium soap
opera of: things not followed through...
the etc. basket of a car-boot sale...
after all - what's wrong with feeling -
what's wrong when you don't give your feelings
a tongue - but instead sacrifice / bind them
to the ears and the heart itself:
to feel... a stone at the centre - and a molten fire
surround it... that sensation of a pang:
a pecking beak inside a cage without a song...
beside this cipher - as any good cipher -
the eyes and itchy fingertips are invoked...
- thinking can be over-rated when it is shown a vanity
mirror - not all thinking becomes translated into
a wheel - at best: a good array of punctuation marks...
that's what thinking is: if it isn't a well established
narrative bordering on solipsism -
what is solipsism? a thought experiment that teases
the real world phenomenon of autism...
or i'm just juggling words like a thesaurus
maniac...
- one can only become democratic... pass... stop awhile...
move on...
     i know what being un-democratic looks like...
i almost became a william burroughs fanatic
reader... it's fun when it lasts...
   but then again: at some point the oeuvre does
dry-up...
       and there's only an old queen shooting paint
can with a rifle subscribed to scientology and
u.f.o. magazines...
the jazz binge had to dry up...
corvus corax had to made a return...
    away from all that commotion -
back among the fields, the shadow, the forest...
                        the breath and a silence of the mind...
back toward the heart:
the sinking stone in a turbulent body of the sea -
   back into tongues no longer spoken...
and symbols no longer in use...
          for the dead to see using braille...
adam...
              ⠁⠙ ⠁⠍
                i see...        ᚨ  ᛞ  ᚨ  ᛗ
            i see...                    Ⰰ  Ⰴ  Ⰰ  Ⰿ...
conrad...
               ­    ⠉ ⠕ ⠝ ⠗ ⠁⠙
i see...        ᚴ  ᛟ  ᚾ  ᚱ  ᚨ  ᛞ
           i see...  Ⰽ  Ⱁ  Ⱀ  Ⱃ  Ⰰ  Ⰴ...
    
away with the byzantine *****: цyrylliцa!  
     no can do... i will retain the latin script...
it's not like the romans venture as far as the baltic
sea or the vistulla river!
i'm a new-comer to a history as ancient
as these british isles -
          but i won't be speaking any 18th century
english: no'er doth o'er what knot...

back into the mystery of language...
away from the loud, excessively loud commotion
of modernity of which jazz is a part of...
back into the forest: for me...

back to shaking hands with my shadow...
i'd ask the semite from jerusalem though...
what it your lament - your lamed -
your L (ל) doing in braille... disguised as N (⠝)?

- and why wouldn't i have a fixation
on the hebrews - the german yids -
when there's talk about the hebrews of:
the tzabar... and the yekke...

   look it up...
http://www.scriptdelivery.net/source/resources/screenplays/munich.pdf...

there's the tzabar and the... yekke...
jews born inside of the ***** of isreal...
and jews born on the wing of judah's hope for resurgence...
even the jews have slang terms for the sort
of jews that aren't: the new the old... yishuvs...

but yes... i have a fastination
with the hebrews... and the german yids...
i too would: but it's a vain hope...
for some of us to return to pre-roman or pre-greek
epochs of time...

better show the dead through braille
a postcard of modernity...

what names have survived?
  i am dignified with the names i was given...
oh wait... yekke putzes...
i always thought that the yids
called the skin of a circumcision a schmuck...
i must be onto something...

yews or yids... their internal politics is like
a godsend!
      or something better than any english
soap opera - or mexican, for that matter...

that this letters still remain, intact...
and this latin... it's hardly an alphabet where
letters have names...
the greeks certainly have names
for their letters: o(micron)...
             a(lpha)...       e(psilon)...

among the northern "barbarians"...
             Ⰴ(obro) - good...
    ᛗ("annaz") - man...
what names are there... for the latin letters?
A is aH... M is Em... R is Ar...
  the atomised man... B is bE...
what would a roman name a letter with?
a syllable?
                  he would behave like a hebrew?
he would hide the vowels...
i.e. SoMa... better lowercase them or push them
into the "niqab" of a diacritical status?
SM...                            this tongue these eyes...
and no totality distinct from the unconscious bargaining
man's luck for mortal exposure -
this body a vessel: not exactly chaining -
on a whim... gone! come death's eager scythe...
on a whim... in a blink of an eye...
there's no soul... no totality transcendent of me
not minding my heart - beating -
my stomach and intestines - digesting...
my liver and kidneys filtering poison...
if there is no soul - then i should really..,
mind thinking about my heart doing what's
expected of it... i should exhaust all the freedoms
of thought to motivate the heart to become:
prone to outlive flesh and become a monstrous
mountain: upon which an interlude of someone
being hoisted on a cross, dangling...
should be met!

the romans didn't have names for their letters...
the greeks, evidently did...
no wonder so many of their letters became
scientific constants...
even μ₀ - the vacuum permeability -
is a name... a bit like Li Po - in the forbidden city...

the romans didn't have names for their letters...
but they did construct a colliseum
using IV / XL         fractions and measurements...
not an easy feat...
                in all honesty -
a bit like reading braille...
                ⠼⠉ and ⠉ - remember... no colon allowed...
stick to itallics (colon substitute)...
or just the uppercase...
             3c...                   ⠼⠊ and ⠊... 9i...
otherwise C = 3... and c = c... I = 9 and i = i...
unless... we're talking roman numerals...
why would you need... oh right...
    you don't actually have uppercase or lowercase
in braille... unless you're trying to differentiate
between ⠃⠊ ⠛ and... ⠼ ⠃⠊ ⠛ (397)...
      
          am i... somehow... "now"? supposed to
feel... "think", content, when translating
some 'orace?
       i... don't think so...
little good looking back on the roman empire
and being the ancient world's afghanistan
did for the brits... in the past history...
in the past...           not esp. now...

           clinging to the latin text like it was
deus verbatim...
the french invoked a signature with their
cedilla C to sound snake...
                      even the germans with their umlauts!
the english ne'er nearer 17th 18th century *******
language...
call them the consonant or vowel eaters...
but not spotted out of spite...
repose...

          a chance to stop listening to jazz
and return to the couldron of continental folk...
oh sure... if we were still having a fetish
for 1990s pop music...
i'm a ***** i'm a mother... with my one hand in my pocket...
c'est la vie!
                            c'est la mort...
                   c'est l'amour...

i agree... the etymology becomes mutated... grossly...
Ⱍ / ч - cherv... worm... glizda...
             i do have: чerwieц -
   the prefix - чerw-
                       which helps me... this much: |   |
given that       чerwieц means: the month of June...

   how "we" came about knowing
the runic ᚾ (n) and turned it into ł (łagodzić) -
to soothe -
well... there was king Cnut and
the north sea empire...
                and where do you think haggis or
black pudding comes from?
we have the same "dish": czarna kiszka...
        black intestine...
        which is literally what it is...
it's not disguised as haggis or black pudding...
it's literally a black intestine...

                              чarna kiшka...
since if vikings founded the city Kiev...
they couldn't have founded Kiev...
without passing via the Vistulla river...
                                      
                                    before me this old continent...
to look toward h'america and her myths...
before me this altar of time -
before me all things left intact...
undistrubed... with museums of other
people's tongues and craniums...
and gangrene hearts readied for extraction
and re-awakening by the toll of fire...

as some might add: his "heritage"...
                          heritage of an anglo-slav?
    well... less local to be welsh or anglo-saxon...
if the girls of Rotherham won't give it up
unless it's some ****- (oops... prefix...
the suffix is pending -stani)...
then at least i'll have a carousel when it comes
to what sort of idiots think in this language...
including me - the anchor...
and ahoy! the sinking ship!

               well... this is hardly written out of
ignorance... perhaps... when malice puts on a poker
face and wants to do a harlequin dance
of countering pride & prejudice: inbreeding...
and hierarchal breeding and...
pomp & circumstance dance-off...
                      if everyone is so attired...
why don't i put on my true guise?!
        i don't see the point of merely arriving
in a coffin to mind the matters at hand!
                    
                              feed: mille anni passi sunt.
or... la i mbealtaine...
           what's angry beetroot in welsh?
   dicllon betys!      well... because what prime
colour... would be better to describe
my current, jolly, disposition?
burgundy? plums done sly to a saute methodology?
dicllon betys! angry beetroot! yn ddig... iawn yn ddig:
betys... serch hynny...
(i guess that's serх and not serч hynny)...

no better cardinal or bishop doing each other
in holy matrimony of: anals of ****: first!

spawn of the constipated *******!
                                        hiroshima, ivanhoe!