Look at all those monkeys
Jumping in their cage.
Why don't they all go out to work
And earn a decent wage?

    How can you say such silly things,
    And you a son of mine?
    Imagine monkeys travelling on
    The Morden-Edgware line!

But what about the Pekinese!
They have an allocation.
'Don't travel during Peke hour',
It says on every station.

    My Gosh, you're right, my clever boy,
    I never thought of that!
    And so they left the monkey house,
    While an elephant raised his hat.

first of all i unblock the reading block.
then i unblock the writers block,
that i feel heavy in my chest
the rest is the monk in me exposed
to write dailies on all sorts of matters.

this aspiration i am declaring
will be re-written by monks hand
i can feel flow of the monk,
like Geoffry  Chaucer reincarnated
modern day Canterbury Tales, i will write
on my poetry pilgrimage  .

i am an aspiring poetry monk
i foresee a poetry monk,
who will invent and reinvent words
for poetic stories to be told infinitely
like numbers.

megacreative poetry crew personified by poetic devices (we the best exploring poetry industry) Words that doesn't sound strange to any ear, words that can be called one poem heals all.
Listen to these words made from punchlines and their cousins figure of speeches immaturity fall.
Blessed are the ones listening to the poem written by the hands that got the touch of the situation.
Megacreative Poetry Crew (Personified by poetic devices) Rocking back n fourth whining side to side into the bigger picture of literature as big as the important use of rhymes in a poem brews and cooks magic.
The magic that is the ear bud to your ears.
The magic that is infused with words that are born from soothing figure of speeches that's their mothers.
We heal with metaphors.
When the pain comes again it won't be like before.
The wise doesn't just spit but before that you got to be sure.
It's sad how they don't want to learn wisdom but when you do you are labelled as the biggest flop.
One's life is not like an influenza, you can't always have chest pains and cough.
As it will move you it doesn't hurt to dream of being on a cover page of Forbes.
Ofcourse, morden men doesn't shove wives with chores.
With words, the mind and soul resasitation.
Holding the mic to melt the written punchlines on the blessed pages, you got to love such situation.
Wisdom shows up just as we throw words on the white surface with red lines like a sangoma throwing bones on a mat created through tradition.
For us write words that unlocks wisdom to your mind that's as entertaining as theatre.
Poetry is alive in us.
Water it, ignoring such soothing words into your soul it will be as peace destroying as a witch.
Just as we play around the pages with a pen its the first stage to one's life changing, but as we spit words Personified by poetic devices Rocking back n fourth , whining side to side one is healed. Megacreative Poetry Crew  (personified by poetic devices)

I want my body to be post-morden art
I want my actions to be guerilla theatre
I want all my words to be poerty
I want my reality to be surreal

I want my mouth to be a ampilfer for my heart.
I want to be a teacher
I want the world to know every part of me
I want you to know how i feel.

most nations are divided by
either the south vs. the north,
or the east vs. the west,
well... some, not all,
there's no clear indication that
there's a true indicator -

in the case of england though?
well... you
have the emergence of
a "demographic" slang,
and apology for a lack of a better
word,
but i already indicated
this to be a misnomer,
meaning?
               third-parties,
i was never into coining a phrase,
so i took the lazy route,
and unquoted ("     "   vs. '        ' -
hence the inverted commas)
what would sediment into a fluid
pretense for rhetoric...
sure, the picts know
that glasgow is poor, while edinburgh
is rich...
   but that's an anomaly
of the rules...
       most of the underground
services are bound to the earth-worms
of north london...
  south london barely touches
on the convenience of underground
services...
               the underground
stretch of influence goes as far
as brixton (victoria line) -
   and morden / mordor (northern line) -
   **** me! on the north end, we're going back
as far as epping! farmland!
croydon? croydon?! talk about
                heathrow for ****'s sake!
   what the **** happens in west ruslip?
so kilburn is not a mini-havana / kingston
a jamie-jammin-chicken-****-fetish?
marble arch through to edgware
not a niqab "cat walk"?
             i knew i'd loose my compass
when strutting in london...
              homerton, hackney whick,
stratford...
           oh **** me, you go beyond
   hainault....
can you believe they still have
a video rental shop (blockbusters) just
outside of woodford station?!
               cities within a city,
like all modern micro-states of
frowned upon nation-states are:
   london? a city-state...
                           it's not a nation-state,
that 19th century: uh-hum...
                       ya ya...
                          i'm living within
an ancient-greek tickle of a city-state...
i'm living on the membrane,
i'm at the gates
  of the barrier between
   a city-state, and a nation-state...

newcastle, liverpool, manchester are
not actually considered to be
city-states...
           they're national-disconcertives...
   birmingham? ha ha!
           is it either? is it not the lahore
of the north-west?

mind you, me drinking an ale from
newcastle, walking in essex,
the "demographic" slang springs to mind...

i'm a southern fairy... drinking a
northern monkey's brew...
         ain't that a cause for rhyme?
i'm ******* sure it it:
what thrill in crafting art,
   within the confines of a mind
that knows no ill,
               for what of art,
if there be no ill of mind -
         to craft the thrills of true art?
is not art the craft that
          encourages control
over a decomposition, into the vigour
of ferment,
  like wine, like cheese,
                    so too...
   a florentine gallery...
    god: by a tarantula's bite, immobilißed
in the uffizi: mouth agape, pretending
to yawn.

ah yes... a reminder:
with a northern ale in the southern lands
of england...
   ******* southern fairies...
      bollocking northern monkeys.

megacreative poetry crew personified by poetic devices (we the best exploring poetry industry) Words that doesn't sound strange to any ear, words that can be called one poem heals all.
Listen to these words made from punchlines and their cousins figure of speeches immaturity fall.
Blessed are the ones listening to the poem written by the hands that got the touch of the situation.
Megacreative Poetry Crew (Personified by poetic devices) Rocking back n fourth whining side to side into the bigger picture of literature as big as the important use of rhymes in a poem brews and cooks magic.
The magic that is the ear bud to your ears.
The magic that is infused with words that are born from soothing figure of speeches that's their mothers.
We heal with metaphors.
When the pain comes again it won't be like before.
The wise doesn't just spit but before that you got to be sure.
It's sad how they don't want to learn wisdom but when you do you are labelled as the biggest flop.
One's life is not like an influenza, you can't always have chest pains and cough.
As it will move you it doesn't hurt to dream of being on a cover page of Forbes.
Ofcourse, morden men doesn't shove wives with chores.
With words, the mind and soul resasitation.
Holding the mic to melt the written punchlines on the blessed pages, you got to love such situation.
Wisdom shows up just as we throw words on the white surface with red lines like a sangoma throwing bones on a mat created through tradition.
For us write words that unlocks wisdom to your mind that's as entertaining as theatre.
Poetry is alive in us.
Water it, ignoring such soothing words into your soul it will be as peace destroying as a witch.
Just as we play around the pages with a pen its the first stage to one's life changing, but as we spit words Personified by poetic devices Rocking back n fourth , whining side to side one is healed. Megacreative Poetry Crew  (personified by poetic devices)

Let me cry
So I can feel human
Let me cry let me scream let me get angry
What a lie

9 to 9 like I got no soul
Call it work
But you're nothing but a foolish ****
9 am to 12 am  like I got no soul
They tell you keep it professional
How can I when its 24/7
Are you God and my work is taking me to heaven ?

Cause I don't do that much for God himself
You expect me to do it for living in constant hell ?

Have I lost all meaning if I dont "work hard"
Work till my bones scar
With all the natural toxic outcomes that I've been shoving inside
To keep it professional
24/7
Tell me are you the one taking me to heaven

Work hard to make it
Make it till more people know you while you fake it

Shove down this so called human
Emotions, true connections
Are you delusional ?

Make you more money while I take the 0.00000000000000000000000001%
To stay alive and work harder to make it
Make it till I take the 100%
And pay it on the few minutes I am free
Pay it on therapy
On all the scars it has caused to me

Imposed on me since birth
To be more this or that

I cant even finish this poem cause Im sleepy
Exhaused to the bone its getting creepy
9 to 9, am I alive ?
Cause its seems Im only that when Im crying for what I should strive

I have no words to express no more
Theyve been exhaused on being your money *****
Make it work
Make them the money
Make it work
Stop acting funny
For 1 min
For 2 mins
But you need to work till you finish
Your life
Is not yours for living.
Morden time slavery.

I do for you, you do for me, not in the bad way, I am speaking positively.
Cain killed Abel and his curse lives on even now.
The brotherhood has been lost and doubtful that it may be ever found,
Today brothers don't understand their roles and their responsibilities,
So they become eye servants and forced waste commodities.
Some men call their brothers brother yet their friends and strangers receive brotherly love,
So forsake their own families and placed others above,
I was once like this but my heart have been opened wide,
Now I know my true brotherly responsibilities I chose to hide.
People need you when they want things and want you when they need help,
But as it don't benefit their interests they're gone.
Most are like snakes, I rather have a pet snake than trust the likes of men,
Because the snake has less understanding than the least of them.
I don't understand , I am helpful and heartly,
I love to share and I always give the best of my self.
In return selfishness and the "never have".
They tend not to do the same unfortunately they give unjust rewards instead.
Like a flame the combustion of my essence and feelings cause my soul to ignite,
But because of self absorbed humans began shutting the doors of my heart tight.
I live in a blood thirsty world where men feed only for themselves,
The are greedy and they beg and have many hiding for them on their shelves.
I realized that not everyone would stand by your side,
Some wont ride for you until you die.
This new generation of men are weak viperous one indeed,
Search high and low to plant their viperous seed.
Wickedness and evil intents are driven and preached,
Heavenly laws and commandments disobeyed and breached.
I asked myself a question, so weird and suddenly,
Question to myself is why do others try to subjugate me?

oculus per oculus - otherwise:
ear for a year...
a cherry pickled
and a cucumber sloppy
over an iceberg...
dicta: desired limbo...

otherwise: mollusks'
adventures in
the domain of sluggish:
via... no loitering
beside an echo
of: the loitering
around a figurative
sea...

         for an eye for an eye:
but give me van gogh's ears!
will there be...
    a burn agony of
deaf when cheese grating
and sizzling...

cut my ear off:
  the four horsemen of the apocalypse:
and that one
steadying a donkey's gallop...

cuts the ear off and sees
van gogh in a cubism of psychedelia...
the best greek / albanian will know...
spank a dozen morbid quasi
alt junction of:
reserving your place upon
the descent of a new kitchen...

granny grins... and granny sows
the grim architecture of an amiss...
  befriending shadows...
stating: toward the junctions
of reverse kleptomania:
the trench is not a grave...

            texan vector of blue-gushing
auxiliary vendors of...
that liquid breath...
                  by midnight i am no
cry of jurisprudence...
given a heart is a wheelchair
and the antihero is given...
a lollipop of Foucault...

blue suave within the confines
of the plethora of spices...
              because the miracle
of ginger and turmeric on the joints...

some variation of a time stopped...
a history is a corpse with
a breath of puffing ash...
and the suicides have to live
in Weimar Berlin...

           it's not that there's a fixation
on joke:
   discouraging...
a bureaucracy of capitalism like
that of socialism - one hand washes
the other...
two grand gestures of a narrative...
buttered side of the toast dropped
lands face-palm first...
                smothered bottoms up...
to this whirlwind cocktail
of events: my little world
of some variation of kafkaesque
personal:
                   it's hardly any argument:
genesis economics...
the litigation of processes that
end up being either scrapped or...
somehow borrowed from
obscurity:
                 a blockage of details
that heave no narrative except
a shrapnel guise...

                          this... thespian autocracy
over the arts...
we're all expected to write for free...
or... because it's free:
everyone is expected to do so!
no matter...
            i can hope to find
as much of the same procrastination
and anathema in my own
self-loathing i.q. quotas
of diminished replica responsibility...

            the british did save
the eastern indians...
    hell: the pyramids were kept...
because of their cuisine...
            a grand architectural people
came across a ***** of an eden
of spices...
not exactly scurrying for fruits...
forbidden or not...
the death of poetry came with:
a "nuance": sentence! poetic justice!
karma-rhymes?!

the blatant use of black cardamom...
cumin seeds...
"give me curry" in south america...
i.e. chimichurri!
advent of worship to the people
of a past that return to these isles...
like... a silk road camel caravan...
implosion of the seas!
clearly!
             no other year 0...
                    out of circumstances
that history allows...
nostalgia for the 1960s in england...
or 1950s h'america...

            nostalgia and the concept
of butterflies: dressed otherwise:
some variation of adjective to not
loiter around a noun like: concept...
something to expose a tautology
of misnomers in the riddle of a person
not accustomed to rhetoric:

            lay me to bed: body farthest...
mind agitated... come the agony
of being sentenced with a midnight
in an armchair; lay me to bed...
you have no honour: for you have no
reputation...
believe me: this is the least
of what ambition might desire...
consider... an arbeit macht frei work
ethos... a continual stream of 5am wake...
and those demands of
honest work: not the sort of work
of loitering...
         loitering like excesses
of libido: by office alone
of insignia procrastination...
       e.g. in a supermarket...
               could the security guard...
"take me"?
              i don't think so...
i would care if it was the end of the 19th
century and it was somewhere
like Colorado...

let to live...
   the dead have already fathomed
blisters of imprint with oysters
to tease a crab bucket 's worth of
a mounting pressure from
faking mountain with pyramid...

my what a...
******* of 11pm that any other day
would not give up...
me... exfoliating...
with: ambitions concerning Proust...
one up from a tease of Flaubert...
the darling the darling...
you will never mind a continental
writer cite Dickens...
   such an anglophonic extreme of...
   credible: furtherance?
no... not across the tadpole stream...
perhaps across the pond...

          not much to think about:
had i been born... 40 years ago...
                  i'm just sifting through the dust
and limp little richards
and ****** pillz-me-ups...
        and... i guess...
watching a stripper is a bit like
making epitomes of homosexuality
disguised in a well-off attire...
or... making concerns for attention
to detail... at the local butcher's...
however splendid the meat:
the "meat"...
geisha slender itchy tip-toeing quasi ballet...
yeah... one of those...
left-over crumb-fests
that's both Queen and U2
in the anthem criterium
of songs...

                    nothing personal UB40 paddy
go shackle: the urn to a *******
guillotine of harp...
                     such that living
on the isles the welsh, that the scots (as potential)...
certainly... are almost invisible people
should the demographic of Birmingham
be "stressed"...
                         but i have
lived in Scotland and it's unlike
this...       historical England...
this ahistorical London - even on
the northern outskirts in the home counties -
or nearest the trough of the south -
at some figment of my imagination
Brixton -
       how far do the earworms burrow beneath
the clay south of the river?
not very far... Morden?!
is that it?

     Lady Upminster and all that district...
this is not a time for either
rebellion or celebration...
             it's hardly a timekeep of
mourning...
                    it's an ahistorical event:
right now!
      some vagary of a future...
some bricks of a past...
a horrid interpretation of compass:
the crucifix: as driftwood toward north...
and a late cubism...
exfoliation of african ****** details...

             slender hue: my porky pie
pink amber come moonlight...
or some necessary stressor of skins...
                    prior to the door...
a leather doormat...
   onto which i made sacrifices
of my buckle and teeth... and...
                                                lepus dei.

Dindle, dindle
Moffy harat--
Sopol washay kivy Karrem...

Haloolay, binsweepbmigoo!
Dashal lats a hamy dreamdrop.

Ash laren ta wa hoofy morden,
Anwal op tot gooris mork

Hing, sweech, dench, boon:
Ommay carse a see-tee korbin.

Ommay narch a long bingboon.

Ommay larse a leech, leechy bimbat a sa tarray en flelnflap.

Acatosteh.

sleep harmonious sleep such great medicine
but sleep sometimes so pointless
when one does not dream much
so sleep can be stretched to a different cycle:
the length of a day on the moon
is like... 567hours... last time i heard:
oh: the first colony must be the moon
i wonder:
because those 1960s photographs
from the moon were pretty ****...
so people asked: is there a night on the moon?
well! yeah! but there's also a day!
the light side of the moon is as sunny
as on earth!
and it doesn't last for a fraction of the 24 hours...
it last for like two weeks...
according to the muslim and hebrew calendar!
i mean: **** me...
but as i tell my partner:
see those clouds in the sky...
those lowest are water clouds:
absorb and defract colour...
but those other clouds: high high up...
those are ice clouds...
they look like god's doodles from where
derived language of the higher esteem
beyond the hieroglyphs...
ice clouds: always white:
pristine... god this god the painter with light
and composer of sounds...
but those highest of clouds
never turn light into colour...
doodle in the sky remnants of god
scribbling...
             well... the Light Side of the Moon
is like a joke about Alaska
and how sunny it is insomnia over there
during summer... spring...
like everyday life in London:
insomniac neon blue and... alabaster...
gubernatioral... love the sound of words
from time to time...

so Mark Nathan finally caught up with my plan!
mate: i want to be more important than
constructionw workers when it comes to shuffling
through the hours of the day...
i want to be a poet: i want to make my
morning commute like i was the first one...
i was the archtiect of language...

if my last check call comes in at 5:45am and
Mark is there because he wasn't slept since 2:30am
and that's because he likes to go to bed early...
so i can get there for 5:45pm...
we started from sheering off half an hour
before the actual clock-off of 7pm...
that became 6:30am/pm, 6:15...
and then a massive flip to: half an hour...
5:45am/pm...

                           sure, minimum wage....
what isn't, these days?
harrowing hours, never see the chance to socialize
on the weekend...
drinking culture...
beer and all the jovial spirits...
but no hard ***** drinking and hard conversations
and hard scribbling and hard thinking?
just jovials spirits of wine and beer and cider...
no real culture of pushing the limits
on such spirits as *****...
i tried whiskey but i am not a rock star
so can't summon the bourbon spirit...
***** is for slavic intellectuals... i'm afraid to say:
that's what ruined my uncle Martin:
he tried to be so so English
he didn't realise that England was changing
and so he fled back to Poland...
but in his genes there was the bedrock
of hard intellectualistion:
like ***** is water
like there's hard water and there's soft water...

i know: i did say...
40cl per session: but you smoke a joint first...
why? because you want to get off
drinking a litre of *****:
sleep-deprivation:
the active ingredient is marijuana with
your intellect:
oddly enough after seeing Dekalog 7, 8....
a while while back...
i decided to go back to my roots...
Polish culture... Polish language...
sorry... nothing personal: i'm not English...
i just have this tongue...
Dekalog 1...                  watch it watch it!

also, before i forget...
also...
ahem! ladies and gentlemen! i bring you!

🍼             and                😬

pacifier 1.0            and pacifier 2.0
pacifier of the ****** = no teeth....

pacifier 2.0 of the nibble
of a **** = plenty of teeth!
                 but once i tasted the ****:
i need a night guard pacifier:
because my tongue is so insatiable
and i could never bite on your lips
ooh yes yes!

better than circumcision!
make sure young males have the ******
pacifier then
find a woman to prescribe him
a night buard... from ****** to *****
pacifier...
/how's my low tone Taylow Swift
never ever getting back together on feminism?!/

what of the scientific method:
wasn't it always true that in order to draw
a straight line: you needed to know two points?
so this one almost fake because it was
despair to conquer a riddled ideology...

your guys landed on the moon at night!
we don't actually know what landing
on the moon during the moon's daylight
hours is like!
we have not yet experienced landing
on the moon during the daytime...

catalogue Dekalog 1 for me...
the genius and his genius child prodigy
that ends up only thinking about skating
on ice
but there were no ice rinks back then
so there was a need to gamble
of scientifically improve on studying
ice density...
but the kid drowned and AI was born...
to no god a tool that is technology
this iconoclasm of complexity:
give me the basic details! son, and show me father!

i got home early then decided to help mother
put out the washing to dry...
if i see this one ******* the northern line
coming from Morden
via Elephant and Castle...
jeans... shy with a baseball cap...
exposing her collar bones...
fury and scent i want! i want! meat-canyon that
youtube cartoon artist...
like i want to see Wimbledon with you
sort of vibe of a girl...

no wonder Alien and Predator arrived
and the fear...
where the trinity of Cluastrophobia
Islamophobia and Arachnophobia merged...
with massive spider of the Quran...
because the Palestainians
in the Arabic world are like... what?
what the Jews were to Europeans...
but also weren't because Jews are Jews
and Palestinians are what in the Great Ummah?
****'a foddler?

           i see a correlation of races...
the Europeans (Russians, mongrels)
and the Orientals combined....
the Eastern Indians and the Aztecs and other Indians...
which leaves Africa... black supremacy?
really? so the Europeans with their ties
to Europe were one product of time
the Africans had no ties with the Arabs?
so now we're all couple... Finns, Eskimos and Penguins...
seriously?!
2 + 2 = 1

  don't understand the logic of passing a numbers
via 2 x 2 = 5...
but then i'm working the dynamic of + and not x
addition: not multiplication...
by addition i imagine a continuity, history....
by multiplication i envision the spontaneity of
phenomenons
like some audacities of biology getting a brain
and thinking something for a while:
then disappearing like an idiocacy: because of
the mechanisations of both evolution
and automation...

i do like going home before all the construction
workers start their shifts...
i'm going home when they're going to work
and i don't even have to meet their scrutiny
as the first arrived morning ***** of adherents
to the day...
mate! we only, supposedly, landed on the moon:
once... and it was during the night!
hence why picture of earth are like pictures
of the moon on earth....
we didn't ******* land on the moon
during the moon's daytime hours!
Bogus ******* compass: hey... "Columbus":
no Copernicus on the ship that Newton ******
a gay sailor on!

the ancients Soviets will have the right to dream
with assurance this observstion...
so you landed on the moon
while we were first into space...
but you have given us so much insignificance terror
for having navigated so: spectacular without
a proper subjective gravity and grammar:
she he she they thou it nothing
you don't even know how to make do
with those pictures...
so much psychadelic poison:
imagine the fluke of a chance
of landing on a day on the moon:
you'd forget going further into Mars...
just revise landing on the Moon during the Moon's
daytime hours
and take pictures... it's science:
you need to compare! compare! stop being Sodomites
start being scientists!

a numerical revision to
my original proposition:

IVX:LC:DM / O:IZEGS:b:Γ:BP

there was and is only one glaring
mistake: concerning the genesis of
4 via G:
and how could i be so blind
but i guess i did that on purpose
because at least that makes sense
if mistakes are made on purpose
for the secondary purpose
of being able to make the correction:

H: or perhaps how one scribbles
the number depending on the handwritten
form rather than the universal
digital:  

    ||
       |
                  which is h in a "Copernican"
concern for direction where
is this supposed north or south or west
in outerspace?
                
perhaps even /|
                         |

                 so one leg short
and the arm askew... or just h from H
and even that is ingenius how
the uppercase letters are different to
lowercase letters
and perhaps there's something primitive
in Cyrillic when some letters
are the same upper- as lowercase

         Вв
                 Гг     Дд
     Жж         Ии
             well... pretty much all the letters...
and how much of Cyrillic is Latin lazy
in mainting the rigid upper- to lowercase transition
unless it is Greek: in its original aesthetic...
where you will not find the uppercase to be like
the lowercase lettering...

ah but there are exceptions:
     Ι ι, Κ κ
                   almost with Ι ι
   if it weren't for the near invisible littlest of tails
on the lowercase iota: that the Latin men made
more pronunciated with the dot hovering above...
but there are also

   Ο ο: but the omicron is perfect like that
and not much can be done about that...
       then there are the twins:

    Τ τ : Ι ι
                 subtle variations: notably the lick of
a slick tail...
                         T is t but τ is a question of
the Latin cross and Anthony's cross:
    also the Russian orthodox cross and how W
when was worn borne
when paths of G the gamma crossed paths
with Lucifer and Wah became Łajba:
    why'bah...

             Χ χ, Ψ ψ can be excluded...

                 the subtleties of the digital handwritten
imprint are obvious to see... if you can be myopic
enough...
so the correction will stand and i will borrow
from Greek:

IVX:LC:DM / O:IZE:μ:S:b:Γ:BP
  
   depending on how you see letters morph
into numbers and don't tell me that
God of the Semites didn't play the role of
both Olympian and the Titan by descending
to this world with word: letters:
to make hieroglyphs more tangible and
gave them the X-ray skeletal treatment
but imagine if the Chinese were the basis
and focus of the history of the plight of the Hebrews
imagine
what use the Hebrew god would be
when facing the unshakeable tenents
of the matchstick men who con conjured up

      树: tree: also called affrirmation: sh'u...
what good would Hebrew be against that form
of encoding?
well the Hebrews can boast
their script against the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs
but at the same time the Chinese were burrowing
with more skeletons than could emerge
when combining Greek, Latin, Hebrew or the Runes...

   and something natural happened
in the Orient when the Japanese decided
to create an alphabet that was not so heavily riddled
with memorising meanings
instead focusing on sounds...
how the Kanji was abandoned and two: not one!
two writing systems emerged!
the Katakana and the Hiragana!

             now it feels impossible to know
which would suit the:
%: that's a concept of a philosopher's stone...
i might add:
touch a 10 with a 0.1 and somehow arrive at 100...
but there were 9 digits
in the Roman numerals
I V X
C M D L:
why did i count 9 to begin with:
so basically 2... 3... letters or numbers short
but that wasn't some impossible strcuture
or care to bypass..
          
           the map of the London underground is still
still flaring me up...
i don't know why i might lay its claims on
me... but it does:
if i were to measure the distance from
Covent Garden to Leicester Sq
envision the sq mile then
go to the stretches of Morden,
Epping, Hainualt
hell: Ruslip doesn't ring a bell: never been there:
it's like i am the ego situated in London
and London is the mother-womb
and outside not having a driving license is
equivalent to being either decapitated
hung and quartered or being
an imbecile or lift off of wit
and some other jargon... like you might
be both: retarted and a half-capacity
the Igor that was Frankenstein's first proper experiment
and the monster: the Igor Towing?

but the map of London: that of the underground
is just that:
it's microscopic cone shaped:
the stations of most interest are mostly
enlarged in terms of distance apart:
noted by the Circle Line...
then as London: as the London expanse...
does expand...
the topographic detail is looser...
since the distance between stations is greater
but for the guarantee of navigation
the inner circle of "hell" retains its
microscopic elementality
you are basically peering at a detail being
blown up then being allowed
to retain its insignificance of the detail:
if i were to draw the map...

oh jeez: Gunther von Hagens looks gluttonous
and almost a Bond villain...
but i'm not here making cheap jokes
i wish i had the stomach to go and see his
exposition of dead body mantras of
muscle bone and sinew...

how did i bestow myself with a dis-conount
of the numerals:
i was sure almpost two hours: what felt like hours:
in a field of thought
the ego-mines...
these abrupt stations of electric
pognant reminders
in a field of the eternity of thoought
the hellish escapade of ego
and it's not like Nietzsche the failed pianist
turned angry philosopher set aside
all difference and heard the world war II cresdcendo...
i thought i counted 9 roman numerals:
instead i have the beast of the earth with 7 heads
like the numbers or the count of Hills
in Rome...
i would never believe this man
could be domesticated
so Reyla would say 40 years later
with Marquis de Sade as Dumas' D'Artangnegnome...
dyslexic in French
would never learn it
will never learn it
**** the French
Arab conquest justified!
vowel to soda poodles!
you ******* French!

Jeroean van Veen...
imagine if Chopin or Liszt left such
explosive notebooks:
but dear you and me:
read Nietzsche:
but then listen to his music...
     heldenklage, NMW 2...
that's how you study philosophy
by reading Nietzsche first
thirst
then with air
breathe the rain in
and say Music is Music
and why did Thomas Mann reference
a mad pianist...
because how could Chopin or Liszt
write anything intellectually
ethno centric...
like the pan-Germanism of Nietzsche...
long before the collective
the individual soloist
with music forgotten
by words enlarged

                      Nietzsche the Pianist
not the philosopher of youth
but words from the heavenly abode of
the angelic choir like
a headache with God dispatched to earth
like Ulysses and the Sirens
and God there: with his rebellious Angels
on a boat
with me able to hear
alone
while they roared with each row row
row of the boat!
and i in heaven became the human kind ear
and the rebellious angels helped me to escape
the heavenly ordeal of castrated
**** and mouth suckling beings
like children and angels pristine...
get me out of heaven!
those voices shouldn't sing!
Satan: get me behind you a fifth oar!
Satan! yohore!
              
read Nietzsche then read Thomas Mann...
then Nietzsche in a second tongue:
be born or learn bilingualism...
like a skill compare philosophy cf. to mathematics
and then fuse the two via
linguistics
and forget the dogmas of religion
and psychiatry... forget the soft touch
of the harsh scematics
of the division of soul
like there's this autopsy equivalent to body in
vivo in vitro in esse...
that's where i think i am...

       then listen to some of Nietzsche's piano compositions
and how delicate he was
before the Wagner Oyster Cult...
measure of guilt and how does
man overcome music?
it's the Counter Reformation all over...
if one cannot overcome God
even with God is Dead: !
then with Death and God: ?

                       i ask... how can man overcome
music: when man overcame
the mop with a steamer
dishwasher
without hands
and soap...
and television with a fireplace
or a neon aquarium... flashing lights... blah blah...
vampire... i think she's 14 years old
and sinking into my psyche like a butter soaked
sponge all warm and oozy like you mid coitus...

and i can't believe i would ever allow
Nabokov out of his butterflies and ****** reminiscence
hyper-metaphor of Imperial Russia
where we us Pollacks
weren't 5th Generation Napoleon Romance
and Charlemagne...
because what Angevins didn't rule the most part
of France
from Norse Sagas
via Denmark and later Normandy
the fabble of Rolo and Lothar Ragnarouke...
and i'm supposed to imagine England:
as Enoch Powell might have envisioned
Brazil:
Brazil should be the envy of England
if multi-culturalism failed
under globalism
and emerged multi-racialism:
Colombian **** and Brazilian ghetto
****
is trans-racial:the future is copper necked
in the guise of whites bleaching out the blacks...
and whites bleaching out the dark Raj *******
and sort of keeping the Arab Spring
woke
enough for a Medittarranean Winter
in autumnal gold colours
and the future is post-racial
but Brazil is not post-national
Brazilians love Brazil
these feminist hybrid Communist:
i love being a ****
i love being a **** and the supposed
SLANDER LORD PEDOHPILE...
i love spying on these FAT PINK RATS
and oh my red is actually ORANGE:
i have a spy in the other realm
i have the fox
the crow
and magpie
and robin
and the earthworm
to spy on serpents...


hmm... a train of ******* stars...
best to look down
there's an alter gravity in play
and me thinks:
pidgeon...
pidgin...
             i said: if ego cogito ego sum is
to be reversed:
we must as the id...
           id est cogitans ergo est non id cogitans...
jeez! that was a barricade
of proper grammar juggle...
my brain froze a bit like
the brain of the ptotagonist of Mad Men
Season 1 Episode 1... a handsome man...
a former veteran...
purple heart veteran
now working the menial job
in an advert office...
kolt! i stangled krauts younger than you!
a learning of PTSD...
so just having two lives
is the best way to reconnect with life...
the war ahoy and the thrill the numbing conquest:
reconcile with the lonely wife\
and two kids...

                   i sometimes don't to get up:
but that's only because i have to sort
out my dreams:
when i dream of Martin
full and healthy
i am connected to him not being Brain Dead...
and i know...
Edie was so heartless
and not showing me any concern for my problems
she compared my problems to
a game of baseball...
i lost it upon the second pedohpile insinuation...
then i finally lost it
when she said: but you've been only working
a full time job for only 6 months:
i was working... part time because i didn't
the money: poets are not pub landlords...
what?!
bull finally saw red...
                red to be have!            *******!
*******! *******! stabbed your 100x times
more when i was saying: *******!

i love you: x0