now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

I sit upon a park bench
mentally piecing together
a utopia

You steal along silently
to sit upon my throne
of wooden slats and cement

I quickly turn and look at you
and say inwardly,
"your tree is not my tree
with squirrels that scamper about,
but a table top or a chopping block
even tooth picks lined in a row."

I bend to feed the pigeons;
a saintly feeling fills my soul,
to be abruptly taken from me,
by your sudden pounding feet;
a turbulence of wings
that nearly touch my eye

I finally begin to rest
in reverie,
a peaceful rest
of blue and white

You even steal this rest
and talk about muggers in parks

I hide my ears between my hands
to stop your thieving voice
I suddenly SHOUT at you
but you leave suddenly as you came
FOR YOU STEEL AWAY YOURSELF FROM ME
              to take from you
                               YOUR STEALING BLAME!!!

The reason there aren't so many vampyres
around these days is they don't like TV hype
and the intrusions of TV news crews. It transpires
that vampyres prefer late hours and like low light levels
because they're egregarious and don't like to be seen inebrious
in the middle of their heinous, intravenous revels.
Also, unfavorable reviews about transfusions
and the confusion caused by AIDS, at this juncture,
has definitely reduced the appeal of being seduced
by some crazed and gurgling Transylvanian
bloodsucker lusting to puncture the jugular,
or any other available vein again,
especially when you don't know if they've disinfected their fangs
or only licked them after draining their last victim.

After all, vampyres were brought up in castles
when there weren't antiseptics for gargles
and they haven't been taught prophylactic criteria
against such apocalyptic viral bacteria.
And if you've ever seen vampyres with condoms
on their teeth, you'll know what I mean.  
It's a scream. Everyone finds them hilarious. It'd be easier
to die laughing than to go down with anemia.
Also, like everyone else, vampyres hate ridicule.
No-one likes being seen as the fool.
  
And the other reason vampyres are scarce now
is that there are so many genuine muggers, hoods, crims,
druggies, financial leeches, homicidal maniacs,
psychopathic liars and genocidal tendencies to conjure up real fears
out there, that there's not much room left for quaint old-fashioned vampyres, poor dears.  

But do you know something? Even though they were naughty,
I miss their occasional ****. I know it was gory,
but those kisses, oh boy. We got into the femoral artery inside the thigh. It was *****. But when AIDs came along,
that was it.  Definitely bye-bye. Nobody wanted to die.  
These are the facts.  
So these vampyres were starving and they reverted to bats.  
Did a midnight flit,
and that's the end of my story.

rain illuminates
the pathway
by virtue of street lights
iridescent
in the vapour
past the drug dealers house
to the dark shadows
of conifers
whose outline hides
the shape of potential
muggers lying in wait
I watch through the arrow slit
of the bathroom transom window
of my fortress home
cleaning my teeth
while my ring doorbell's
paranoid cyclops eye
keeps vigil

Crime and other violent thoughts are at an all time low,
What exactly happen the evening of December

I was brushed upon,
I was sought after,
There were muggers and muggles,
And I saw my life flash

Déjà vu but still a feeling foreign,
Those eyes were distant
Weapons-- uncommon
I've seen those eyes before,

They are eyes I've longed for
My protector, those are eyes of my Prophet
My savior
guardian and princess of the Serengeti

Cling to uncertainty and name you Visual

Don’t be afraid of what you don’t know,
You are too strong to know everything
Too strong,
Can you hear me, too strong,

Do not be afraid of the crowds,
They are too small for you,
Petty muggers,
Hear. how they make noises like  starved  mosquitoes,

Do not be intimidated by knives, when
Your eyes are like gillet match 3,
Listen to your own steps cutting their own steps
Cutting. the dead. Dead. Corners. of the streets.

Your best day can be in bad times
Your worst in times of plenty
Who knew that Wall Street would go south
In the "Roaring Twenties"?

A "teacup" will bite you
You could pet a mangy cur
A house cat leaves a vicious scratch
A tiger has a purr.

An angelic blue eyed boy
Can lie and cheat and steal
A big, delicious-looking peach
Can be a bite of meal.

I'm quite sure that muggers
Have altruistic days...
And a godly man gets furious
Right after he prays!



SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/9/2016

They built us towns,
a place for cannibals and clowns,
for chuggers,muggers and tree huggers,
junkies,flunkies and we became
performing monkeys.

Along the red brick,
between the Kellogs cornflakes,
on council house estates, where dreams are
killed at birth and the milk of humankind is soured and hard to find,
the thick end,dog end,dead end day begins,
spliff smoke curls into malevolence and grins,  the
sugar brown goes down a treat as bags are sought and
bought behind the houses on dirt street.

Wake each day to find another way to waste it all
the clock invents a time and we in time will fall,have fell,
have scrambled up and found it was much better down below and
so we go back down,spliffs and brown below the scratchings
of the town above.

What I love the most is when the Mayor of this shitville hosts a party for some fat slob,who comes from down along some south coast town,who hasn't got a clue as to who we are,
and he rattles on and on until I think someone should drop a bomb on him.
Chances here are very slim
the people thin
hope is thinner still.
I wonder if and when or will it change and could it be much worse,I wonder which witch placed a curse on us and why.

When we die from overdose, being underdone and done out of any hint of fun,the sun will still shine in the sky
the estate continuing to grate upon the nerves
the monkeys still performing getting ****** upon the morning,laughing 'til there is no more,
the empty box of Kellogs by
the open door.

Intelligence, innovation smothered by their fears.
Finally condemning the molesting of children
After thousands of years.
Why is no one saying "to take that long is not okay"?
Confirming what the grounded already know is wrong.
Common sense they shouldn't have to say.
But if rubbing your junk on children 
Was accepted at the start, how can they stop it today?
His favored church abandoning it's earliest practices?
My eyes swell with tears, what would Jesus say?
Child *** muggers must keep going to heaven
What was accepted then, must still be okay.
You can't change God's ways.
But I myself have no desire to share heaven with that.
Hell no. Hell I'm on my way.
May the fires of damnation burn away their filth
Because I'd rather be gay.

Segments of my heart,
Segregation of my soul,
Deprived of love,
My past, oh so cold,

The darkness in my spirit,
Black dots and holes,
Covering the edges,
Dosed by cigarette,

Roughness and constriction,
Devastated and delirious,
Progression no more,
Poignancy affirmed,

Tackling with the challenges,
Tyranny and atrocity,
Spreads in the city,
Gold diggers and muggers on the street,

Under flyers the poor sleep,
The walking dead everywhere seen,
Beggars and thieves,
Murders scare me,

It's not just me,
Its the whole earthians,
Male or female,
You will all feel the pain, indeed.

The muggers,
The rapists,
The murderers,
The paedophiles,
The confidence tricksters -
Pray for them.

The weak,
The naïve,
The young,
The old,
The inadequate mixers -
Prey … for them.

.i only wrote this to write... it's never about drinking for drinking per se, or to entertain "thinking"... for the first time in 4 months i took my usual night-time walk... i wanted to precursor spring... to fill the air with perfumes - so i washed myself - applied the deodrant... the almond cream, i trimmed my ***** hairs... i oiled my beard... i applied coconut cream to my face - a mango infused balm to the hands - deodrant to the feet - i left the house imitating a magnolia bush... or all that *** i get up to come the nights of yesteryear when spring finally comes and all the trumpets are alight with the wind rustling them and ushering our the scents...

at some point in my drinking:
i feel the puppet strings loosen -
and i arrive at a kuru dance spectacular -
it's hardly a dance:
it's more akin to a gimmick -
more: akin to sharpening a misnomer
on the stone-grinding-the-never-to-be-used-blade
of a synonym: blockage...
****... always with the blockage -
i can't really be making excuses:

does this even resemble a paragraph?!
once upon a time; perhaps -
but even now, without rhyme without
sparrow without a horizon
of the climbing sun -
above a horizon of mountains
of Macedonia in the cleft of a valley -
just pristine rising -
on the plateau of: where
sea fiddles with the sky and vice versa...

of a language best leftover to
a hangover of: much better use of it...
should i be bound to being sober,
being the better attired man...
when i would break the tide along
with Xerxes whipping the sea
into submission -
better well attired: purposively tailored...

a crackling sound from a snippet
interlude of how a bow-tie was born
simultaneously with the sparrow -
how man was so borrow the donning
of the tie with a crane's elongated neck -

but again: how is "one" to not tire -
gender neutrality of pronoun usage -
began with the royals - ends with the royals:
the crown is not even upon by head
and yet: this expectation's toll...

one "thing" to call it a poetic metaphor...
another to call it...
a psychiatric: hush hush: invite the broom!
it's oh so tiresome...
tiresome to have to want of this world...
nothing more than a transitional
escapade...
this life that needs a mortgage...
however taxed or not taxed...
with insurance fail-safe investments...

i see a sun... i call it...
the Switz take on euthanasia...
and i'm very much a fan of this:
when one, simply, becomes, tired...
and one can tire very easily...

i sometimes read the poetryfoundation.org
editorial spew...
at least they forget custard and
never, oh never never:
start the show off with fudge packing...
the ballerina breaks a leg...
a crescendo of sound makes it into
an orchestra of a waterfall -
the echo shouted into a cave...
learns of the vampiric inability to see
a mirror reflection...
the echo begins to learn to become silent...
the image is no longer seen,
the echo will never be heard...

the ice-sharpnel in the eye -
the cave has learned to glutton the would be echo...
gobble gobble it down it must....
it will not regurgitate any fleeting sound back...
and a day will come when
a man will start to philia - not love...
more: befriend his own shadow...
because it's not that beauty fades...
by that (circumstance)
there was always that interlude
of tampered with inflated beauty...
otherwise no delusion:
it was "fate" that it would happen...

and that will not stand
on anything but stilts riddled
with foundations made of sand...

an old woman's skin like creases
of forever folding paper -
but never quiet an art of origami -
more like creases - scrunches -
how an inflated ballon filled with
a dead body feels like
in dio and carbon dance -
then dipped into liquid nitrogen
will eventually look like -

like an onion dipped in the same liquid -
later picked up and smashed lazily...

what am i supposed to see...
something akin to Postnik Yakovlev's
or Ivan Barma's eyes were not gauged
out by Tsar Ivan:
dropping dogs from high-buildings
was a "thing"... st. basil's was also the last
sight of beauty before the moon allowed
her full blossom of *****...
or before the light scortched the eyes
into a fizzling out fiddle of
not lasting expectation: as ever...
this epitaph anticipation...

casual language: non-narrative...
no character study....
pork chops and a date with the halal
butcher... since the kosher one
"sort of"... "forgot"...
catching the tide of the "white flight" from
London...

absolutely no appreciation for
greek orthodox cenobite chants...
perhaps it's now wonder...
yugoslavia... how it didn't dissolve
peacefuly akin to the gorbachev plan...
because the serbs went sword for sword
with the muslims of the balkans...
and what not...

no... this is not poetryfoundation.org
type of poetry...
white is allocated to... what?
english? french?
i see the root of the argument...
in russia... it looks very much
termite infested: próchno!
which one would call: it's not driftwood...
it's spongewood... sinkwood...

but i have to thank the russians...
i need it!
it will not simply be: pleaSure...
it would be as simple if the anglo-ßaß
interchange were to happen...
but even then!
ж = ž = ż = rz...

you have these signs in your language:
but it's almost... like you can't...
rather than don't want to use them!
i need the russians' 'elping 'and...

с = s = ç

(х) - lo(ch) - i call it the drill -
oh is no och, faye dunn!
what's new?

no...

   ц (cy - niet ka ka)
c'erp...

ч contra х...
č / ч 'asem...

ж                         ш

                 щ

                 šč (,) that's added to the š'
is also a szczekam: i bark...

either these are the leftovers -
or these be the crumbs...

ж = ż = rz...
and therefore? depending which language...
caron r (ř) or caron z (ž) = ж...

it's very much unlike hiding a vowel...
as the hebrews do...

but i can only thank the russian encoding
of allowing me to stress
the difference between C and K in english...
greek is dead to ditto...

not quiet a с - or... cedilla attached - i.e. s...
certainly not a к...
i'm pretty sure the greeks have their:
phi and theta - psi and chi...

pivot letters from russian:

ц: plaцki - cakes -
ч: płaч - crying...
    velsh: pwaach...
х: хolera - cholera - c'olera -
otherwise: not latch but loch nessie...
ж: pleaßure...
   or... żart... but that does depend on
the caron... žart...
and half of the caron?
       źrenica - pupilla... pupil...

back toward:

ш + ч = щ...
i too was waiting for the following equation:

ш + ц = щ...
but no...

let's not discuss the variations
of й, у, ъ, ь, ю or я...

am i not entertaining a language i will not learn
to a level of conversation?
most assuredly!

зъ in roman would almost look like
ж - well... ż or the caron eventuality...
these are hardly shortcuts...

cheap - pointers...
shameless office-hours... nothing but b & w
printing - and making coffee for
the muggers of hours -

a break from solving a sudoku...
back into looking at russian -
oh... just the language... no painting needs
to be summoned...
although...

at the royal academy of arts...
when i was skipping lectures at U.C.L.
i spotted this eye-pleasure
in flesh and blood and oil and brush strokes...
and how it towered over me...

PHILIPP MALYAVIN
peasant woman dancing...
nothing exactly compares to seeing this
painting in real life -
hell - the mona lisa is...
a bit like a nail-clipping...
compared to growing your hair long
and then shaving it...

beauty or technicality...
if the royal academy of arts...
would showcase the bullfight by pyotr
konchalovsky -
what's this poem this poem this isn't
a poem this poo'em?

i lament the non-existence of diacritical
markers in the english lounging-attache -
the lazy tongue that thought...
i'm not willing to play with anagrams...
i am not a fan of anagrams -
every other language game to escape
learning a second language...
crossword puzzles -
to stick to the monolingual enterprise...

thankfully for some they were born
into english: sell that talking point in scandinavia
or belgium, or the netherlands...
somewhat germany, somewhat poland...
the tourists' lingo or...
where those movies come from...

why wouldn't i look at russian letters?
a fond break-away from any sudoku -
but only via russian can a distinction be made
when... some random english native
sees a suffix -cki...
-цки...

no: no amount of cyst or garcons or whatever
would ever prepare anyone for...
ч or... well (ch)atter... but not for the piquant...
dumać: to muse...

my mother tongue my affair it seems...
well... there's that...
or there's the netizen language -
or any portmanteau language in general -
but never to truly mind the hieroglyphics
of :) -

one lion roars - another lion yawns...
this most certainly sounds better in german...
eins löwe brüllt - ein anderes gähnt -
bad german is worse than no german;
at least bad german satisfies my basic fetish:
the per se.

Flowers bloom next to rusting Pepsi cans,
Watered by the spit of ******* dealers,
And the ***** and vaginal fluid,
Of hot lovers groping under blankets,
Under stars dimly blinking through thick smog.

Nightly haven for muggers, rapists, fiends,
Whose every breath profanes the species they,
So poorly represent, turning Plato’s,
Featherless bipeds, to dead plucked chickens,
Soul-less, pointless wastes of protoplasm.

Abomination-- not in itself but,
For the use it’s put to: a bone for dogs,
Who’ve never tasted steak, and are gleeful,
To feast upon the scraps of fetid meat,
Clinging to well-gnawed bones that they are fed.

Central Park, the bone we are to chew while,
Smiling complacently at skyscrapers,
Daily rising where wild flowers might have grown,
Our humanity proportionally,
Shrinking inversely to their daily rise.

If I seem narrow minded and unkind,
Or blind to the beauty of Central Park,
It is because I’ve stood on ****** ground,
In summer, fall, winter and early spring,
And cannot bring myself to love a *****.

Join us.
Walks amongst the killers.
The muggers, the criminals, the monsters.
Those with no fear,
Those with no conscience.
Walk amongst those who understand loss.
We take from the world,
Because it has taken from us.
Unfortunately, we feel pain.
And we become more rageful because of it.
We feel no love, though we crave to.
We feel no guilt.
I'm a ******, though not in the usual way.
My words force themselves through your eyelids.
Making you want to believe them,
To read more.
But that's a talent.
I use it, and I don't apologize.
-Mike

He sits there reading, happy enough now in his own company
what is it he reads -ah yes – a Tale of Two Cities
a favourite, but one which evokes an old memory
of long ago when was just a young man.

Of a time when war raged across Europe like a plague
when it was in the grip of a madman bent
on seizing power everywhere and not caring how
and men like him and many of his friends went.

But then there seemed a real purpose to it
and besides, he met Françoise and loved her so
and later with many of his friends now dead
it was over so he went back home with Françoise instead.

Now she also is no more, killed by muggers who were armed
and he sits all alone, no girls, no sons
wondering why his country’s leaders
can never see the futility of all the guns.

Once more the planet rages with war
once more there will be unnecessary deaths
he finds himself wishing the impossible thought
the non-invention of guns, and it leaves him short of breath.

Sadly men would have just found another way to **** each other
– and that is the real problem. It never goes away.



©Joe Wilson – …it will never stop…2014

Hi I am a Buddhist
I believe in reincarnation
I believe if we really used our brains over what we learnt as a kid we will discover who we were dating back to 5-000-000
Years ago and I guarantee you will discover there was life before dinosaurs
In fact dinosaurs and people were on earth together in different parts of the world
You see I was Cronus around the times where Christians claimed the world started but
I was chased by dinosaurs and taken by muggers to the arctic circle so Christians can own this world but to me, as a Buddhist I was determined to continue to help the people of this world by supplying presents for the people of the arctic because before Athena sent a snowstorm there were people living on the arctic
And I went on trip through the island delivering gifts and yeah
I was the start of Santa Claus
And also I lived in the 100 years war as Isabella of France but I try not to tell people because to say you're someone famous like that sounds really weird but I have a story about her on hello poetry as Johnny Georgy brown
You see as a Buddhist I want to calm the minds of my fellow humans but that isn't as easy as it seems and as I get pains from different parts of my body I relax and let Athena heal me so I can feel good about myself
You see I prefer the idea of knowing that we walk on earth
Rather than go off to some enchanted land the Christians call heaven and with me being on earth makes me feel more at ease because if you think about it heaven is in a unrecognisable
Land nobody knows where it is
Earth is with us and no matter where your lives are it sounds and is more realistic than heaven but as a Buddhist I respect people on what they believe because with all the problems in the world it is hard to show you love earth but you just relax and take it easy you can like me be one of the helpers on earth
You do art and craft and writing
Help in a homeless shelter
Go to Christian centres to help people and despite me having a belief in reincarnation I still would like to help In churches
And also I believe I was Blackbeard the pirate and mate
I was a evil pirate but I use that belief as a reforming the pirate
In me, I also believe I was Henry the 8th another very evil man but I try and wash that evil out of my soul and I feel itchy on the feet and when I get itchy parts on my body I feel it is the demons of the cosmos coming after me but sometime it could be just simple things like worms or diabetes from eating too much sugar but Buddhism can control the pains you get from that by grabbing each demon by the head and swing it around your body till it starts to feel miles better, and the way you feel better is you take your medication and that could put you in touch with Athens to heal your previous life pain which is in this life as mental illness
Like if your grandfather died and entered his next life as a girl and the girl had Down syndrome and she came into your life as your girlfriend and she turned on you by saying
She ain't interested in a relationship with you and that means her niceness is the fact that her previous life was your grandfather but you keep that information doesn't get out in the open because it might have dire circumstances which if you breathe any word that your her grandson you won't get the atmosphere you want out of it
You see people who just believe in science should look at the science of being reincarnated into another body, like a happy loving life individual suddenly turning into a crying baby but through time that baby learns what really makes him happy and eventually gets his loving life back and every day their new parents take them out showing them this fantastic world and my dad wanted to stay an Australian and became the granddaughter of Jimmy Barnes and daughter of David and Lisa Campbell twin with brother Billy and dads new name is Betty and I was having kidnapping thoughts and my family never got those thoughts
So I discovered that I was kidnapped as Graeme Thorne and grant Beaumont and I have s fear of dogs which is from my life in 1946 being attacked by dogs in the Bronx and my last positive life was Albert Waldron who was a footy player from Adelaide and I love footy and Adelaide and I was a clown in the Adelaide circus as Albert
Waldron and before then I was a doctor for the Swedish army
And my name was John hawker English and I saved a few people from certain death and
Buddha gave me a house in hawker to remind me of the good I was doing in that life

[To hear my reading of this poem, you can visit https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=757IZDfihJU&t=9s]

Flowers bloom next to rusting Pepsi cans,
Watered by the spit of ******* dealers,
And the ***** and vaginal fluid,
Of hot lovers groping under blankets,
Under stars faintly glowing through acrid smog.

After dark haven for muggers, rapists, other fiends,
Whose breath profanes the very species
They so poorly represent,
Degenerating Platonic men and women,
Into dead, plucked chickens.

Abomination. Horrid not in itself, but for the use it’s put to:
A bone thrown to dogs who’ve never tasted steak,
And are only too pleased to feast,
Upon the remnants of fetid meat,
Clinging to well-gnawed bones.

Central Park, the bone we are to chew,
While smiling complacently at skyscrapers,
Daily rising where flowers might have grown,
Our humanity sinking in proportion,
To the heights they reach.

If I seem narrow minded and unkind,
Or blind to the brighter side of Central Park,
It is because I’ve stood on ****** ground,
In summer, winter, fall and early spring,
And cannot bring myself to love a *****.

The Godfather
Story of a Gangster
Family ties explored
Wisdom in every word



One flew over the cuckoo's nest
Non conformist hero
Confronts a by the book nurse
Greatest acting seen on screen follows

The French Connection
Drug smuggling the foundation
Greatest car chase filmed
Best Actor Oscar deservely earned



DeathWish audience wish
Cleaning the Streets of NY
Muggers and thugs killed
Not a revenge story provex its skill

Smokey and the Bandit
In a time frame to transit
Beer from Texas Sheriff on trail
Pontiac Transam sets screen ablaze

***** Harry cop in fury
Inspired by a true story
Serial killer on the loose
Mystery Suspense Thriller together looped

Diamonds are Forever
Style and class to endure
Smuggling just a cover
Blofeld tries to seize power

Live and Let die
Drug trafficking to spy
Action scenes never outdone
Suave Cool Class and Style undone




Get Carter Gritty thriller
in search of brother
Against gangsters in Manchester
Revenge film of the first order

Bonnie and Clyde
dead bodies in the wayside
Robbing banks for fun
Classic film remains fun

The Cincinnati kid
On the poker table he'll fit
Compulsive gambler
Pushing the limit his nature

Westworld science fiction told
Set in a theme park
Robots coming to life
Inspiration for Science fiction

The Graduate
Young and old mate
Fights against fate
Great music yet to date

Brubaker prison warden
Reform his only mission
Against the establishment
Futility of his actions

Cool Hand Luke
Prison film a classic
Escape from jail
Cought in the trail

In the Heat of the Night
Redneck Sheriff and FBI agent
Racist backdrop never shown better
Join together to solve a ******

The Samurai
Ruthless killer for hire
Best in the genre
Actors lived the characters

Fear over the city
A killer with no pity
Cop got on his trail
Stunts will stun even today

Investigation of a citizen above suspicion
****** mystery to solve
Cat and mouse game played
Special film takes the viewer on a journey

Patton war hero
Complex Character deeply explored
Every scene close to reality
Slice of World War History

Sholay greatest Indian film ever made
Crooks hired to catch a dacoit
Male bonding comes beyond the screen
All genres in one s lesson in filmmaking

Enter the Dragon
Drugs and Women trafficking in an island
Action scenes never before seen
Philosophy another dimension woven in every scene

Point Blank Deserted by his wife
left for dead
Revenge on his mind
Paranoia film the best of its kind

A new fad! Greetings, papa
I'm a family man with big intentions for identifying your discipline
a carnivore with laughing gas
feast yourself into vague sentiment
we stand like we matter
proud of what we barely conceptualize
do it because it's been done before
be it because we like our relished hot dog
melt the cheese onto that rotting bagel
again and again

speak like a willow tree groaning
ugly and underdeveloped
think before you end up in soil
rot before you know what your career choice is
it's important! to...

delve into subconscious matricide
creaking doorway is no longer an option
smash through paintings of feverish ventilation systems
architecture is not your best bet
neither is lentil soup!

Cauldrons of vehement muggers
ready to profit off your predetermined mistakes
funny thing is
you didn't need to eat that baking soda
but wow
all of you did

so what is the time constraint?
Where is the fabulous conclusion?
Meeting of the mind and body and spirit?
where we all come together, how precious
a little cramped and too sweaty on my bus
better make room for stencils and chalkboards
hey, at least they can teach!

I don't much enjoy the bass
I don't find it particularly heartwarming
brings a gleaming stick into my fossil fuels
trying to dig and bury at once
worked last time with a bow and arrow, cupid
shot him right through himself
heh...

Now its all clichéd
a pastiche of a pastiche
of another pastiche begging visions
much as the overstayer at a colourful carnival
now watching drunkards in grotesque smeared make-ups
those sincillating dazzling costumes afore in ritzy glow
now tacky ridiculous misrepresentation of coutures ill made

The drip drip drip
onerous magical thinkings
in cahoots with guised networking
yet as apparent as a charging steam locomotive
is now the infantile bullying of the spoilt nasty brat
chasing away all guests at the birthday party cause the presents given
were not all the magnificent things craved or not expensive enough

Moreso those original miscreants
had trumpeted loud and clear their intentions
to, by foul intents induce cerebrum damage and ruination
spite, vengeance boiling on envy laced in malice aforethought
they sang of haze, confusion, of mud lies and numbers counting
in dastardly flair they laid out maps and plotted the route to failure
to rack and ruin, the road to Wigan pier as dictated by thieving mobs

Magnanimity unheard in spiritless spooks
innocence, truth, bravery, courage are anomalies detested
finesse et measured equity is a language unspoken in toy town
it's all become a silly affair by naked clowns, now posing agape
what good victory when the enemy carries arms alongside you
wears your livery  and is one of you with  kings shilling in hand
do not over stay tour time at the carnival least you are mistaken for muggers
Contempt is not a glorifying word but can express feelings succinctly atimes