after that i'll let you wear my kneecaps for
prayer after that pagan harlot of a wife told me
it didn't rain because i wasn't a good enough ventriloquist
to her schizophrenia. i mean: **** just never stops!
(i actually like this line, apologies for vain-thought).*

"68% of Canadians respondent said that minorities
should be doing more to fit into mainstream society
instead of keeping to their own customs and languages..."

53% of American dittoed likewise...*

              a failure of multiculturalism is a failure
because: it didn't celebrate bilingualism -
i call that the Gaelic effect in Scotland just so
you know it was spoken in over-shadowed Gaelic
within a Glaswegian dialect...

  multiculturalism failed because it was easier to
make a lot of people deemed as schizophrenic
rather than have the ability to be bilingual...
multiculturalism is a failure because it made bilingualism
taboo and instead said: ah... be bisexual!
multicultural societies actually gambled on bisexuality
being more needed than bilingualism,
and anyone still bilingual and not bisexual
was ripened to be harvested by psychiatrists.

but i do wonder what these post-colonial societies
would have made of what the natives might have asked
them...
              i think the natives of America would have liked
the immigrants to appropriate at least some of their
cultural traits... and no keep them in natural reserves like
some talking monkeys...

it's not enough that i have to give up a part of my soul
that i then have to twang the tongue like a banjo
with all that Texan ma'am ******* like those Arabs
in Lebanese American Universities...
oh please, stop this *******,
   i'm puking with the French on the question:
if globalisation is to be arrived at, why is English
the language of choice in achieving it?
              it's not a minority language, that's for sure...
the most poker-laden expression? sure, it is...
but i thought that within a framework of globalisation
(as Napoleon said): if a man speaks two tongues
the first head of the hydra is cut, and two emerge,
hence            the ambiguity of god
      and the proud expression of lizards
and their spies (cats) and why the first letter of
the tetragrammaton is shaped as      Y....
          hence the ambiguity of god and his Machiavelli
in terms of whether there is a world beyond this
one, and whether that diabolical Machiavelli (in all
his despair) did so on purpose to show god the sifting
process...
                    yes, that face of the marine iguana:
smiles like a cat,
              sitting proud on the rocky beach...
yet it has unfamiliar mammalian eyes instead of
those slit-eyes of noon akin to serpents and cats...
            and as Machiavelli said: first time round was great,
second time round: i just don't understand why your
first incentive is somehow better?
        they simply can't know if the first version
is better than their own...
         got to feed them the knowledge of nothing,
so at least they can better what they're been given...
as did Milton, make him less of the two evils...
   what with inhospitable earth and the dream of
colonising mars... or as the history of stars suggests:
stellar evolution sort of does away with Darwinism...
Darwinism is the one form of paper that you
wipe your *** with... it's not a napkin for your mouth:
that ****'s for your ***.
                 at the centre so too iron: as in haemoglobin.
     and we never say stars in a constellation of stars:
those are white dwarfs...
                 is our stellar nebula origin to be resurrected
for a moment into a planetary nebula and then into
stellar ivory of the dwarf?
     personally i think we'll end up being a black hole
unless our right / left politics will lead us into ending
as a neutron... which can only be seen with subatomic
particle goggles... of when Mars and its two moons
housed all thing stable, we are at the stage of the dying
star: hence all our Apocalyptic thinking and bring together...
   Mars experienced the average / massive stage of
a star's life... it's the only planet that shares our common
thread of being solid rather than gaseous...
                    Mercury is equivalent of being the sun's moon
and not a planet if Plato is a declassified planet...
         that's my suspicion concerning u.f.o. sighting and
governments showing us the output of NASA
and then lying that they have this "capacity"...
    old Martians... after all: there were only volcanos on
earth, and then the dinosaurs...
      ******* about with time gets you into these
custard clots of: huh?! i didn't invent the Darwinistic
concept of history worthy noting, Darwinism invented
itself, it's just that after being popularising
the humanities' aspect of the theory came once
the science was debunked... which always sounds like:
see next year, after they told you i'd be
       using a chicken leg fibula for a toothpick:
oh sure, let's get together the Friday after that,
by then i'll be scratching one twig against another twig
to get the fire going...
             after that i'll let you wear my kneecaps for
prayer after that pagan harlot of a wife told me
it didn't rain because i wasn't a good enough ventriloquist
to her schizophrenia. i mean: **** just never stops!
the point is: multiculturalism failed because
  it created a toxic environment for language...
it didn't respect bilingualism...
         it respected bisexuality: isn't that the talk of the town?
all your home-grown terrorists? they only speak
a few words of Arabic... they have been harvesting
the toxicity of a multiculturalism that didn't deem
two language in man to be acceptable...
        and no one cared for the trade benefits?!
how the **** did they miss that sort of plus?
         surely if you're going to trade with the Chinese
you'd send a merchant to China who spoke Mandarin,
and not Swahili, right? common sense.
   if the multiculturalism of England embraced my
bilingualism, i'd be selling English crap in Poland
and perhaps vice-versus... but they said: nope, nadda,
n'ah... you schizoid... da' ****?!
               oh right, so i'm a slot machine or earnings or
those ******* farmers of the urban wheatfield of
thought that psychiatrists are?
   am i talking Dutch or something? me integrating
not good enough? a multicultural system that doesn't
respect bilingualism... deserves what history gives it;
and by now... i'm at Drury Lane: fanning the flames.

i.

i really want to write this like a poet, but i'll probably
ramble on, i want to create this poetic haiku
or what one might call a punchline
in a joke, i will, obviously,
           i will (obviously) provide
how the alternatives would look like,
but sometimes i think that the poet
is enraged by the idea of the narrator:
or the consolidator of personae -
defeatist poets write from a personae
perspective, as if each poem is
a new and nuanced character -
a nuance of the narrator,
   yes: not novels, a plateau of literature
that poetry is...
           the setting is unknown,
but these people simply congregate
and say something, akin to the burning man
festival, and then return to their
day jobs...
          i don't know why poetry is less and less
resonating with music: maybe because
the old critique of poetry being faced off
with philosophy doesn't make sense
given that there's this rainbow of musical
tastes and the general diversity?
looking at the classical circumstance of
poetry vs. philosophy makes no sense
when the *logos is removed and the phonos
is inserted in its place...
   bad grammar, bad spelling... why look for
meaning in words in the almighty sphere
of all things holy, when in the trenches
   people are shooting bullets not at targets
but at empty space?
    that's why i love the notion that writing
can become something akin to a will to power:
the power over not of those illiterate -
urbanism has dissolved such a concept...
  we became literate in order to read adverts:
or the iconoclasm of the alphabet:
pretty coca cola nearing arabic for all
those magpies out there...
           the myth goes that the magpie spotted
the shimmer of a silver spoon and stole it
and as the debate of the fates go:
i was to marry a rich woman and leverage
myself into a calm suspense... but it wasn't
to be. such is the case: when writing
can become as difficult as arithmetic of numbers,
and certain blemishes on the fountain head
of humanism that's literature can provide
the right arithmetic complexity...
   given that, what could possibly be the sum
total of this "poem"?
  the irony of the cartesian 1 + 1 = 2...
                in terms of meaning? in a polyverse
   of the what if? universe?
        a cinema better than the Hollywood industry...
that could fit into my concept of man enduring
for eternity, even with the vain hope of challenging
his mortal frailty... have a historiological cinema
of the what ifs... i'd sit in there and be like: wow!
Adolf graduated from the Vienna Art School
and world war two didn't happen?
    the treaty of Versailles wasn't a version of
colonial powers against expansionist politics
concerning a European nation? wow!
they basically didn't join the club of colonial power,
and they were punishing the colonial powers of
the time... or that's how i see it:
i don't see myself needing to ascribe myself
to pronoun pluralism in any shape or form:
it just breeds some overt concept of paranoia;
and obviously this has nothing to do with the title,
because it i shunned the narrator, i'd be a poet,
and if i wrote a cutiepie version of this
i'd feel hungry for not having played the piano
long enough while tipping a glass of whiskey
into my mouth... just is the curse of
enjoying typing: hurrah for our loss of handwriting
and that beautiful circumstance of writing
words with connectivity - by modern standards
undecipherable as if Hebrew or acronyms
and emoticons: puncture after puncture and nothing
concerning waves or serpentines of encoded talk...
beautiful... absolutely beautiful.
  the new form italics? syllable-ism, to stress,
punctuation marks in words: beau-ti-ful!
there, goes a weeping pair, that's Ludovico Arrighi
& Aldus Manutius...
    and what i do understand, and it's pivotal,
take the concept of a narrator out of the prosaic mosaic
and take away the concept of personae out of
poetry, and mould the two together...
you get an implosion worthy of a Hiroshima...
a bit like what the Beatles conceded too after
releasing their revolved album... they stopped
live touring... they had an implosive moment
and said: as any artists in the background,
we are the invisible hands of the plumbers
who connected toilets to the pipes: hey presto!
the Beckton ****-stink on the A406...
poetry can become this...
        it can also become something akin to:
etymology is a version of archeology,
although there's no physical space to engage with it,
   and i know why Heidegger turned the word
being into beyng... it's not a mutilation
of the word, he was practising a version of
archeology (not etymological) in that he was
excavating (as archeologists do) an archaic word
from the modern equivalent... Sherlock Holmes
of the black forest... found an amber tear
                      wedged in a tree...
i never know why they called it the Baltic sea...
i'd change it... i'll start calling it the Amber Sea...
given so much amber can be found on the shorelines
of it...
             and yes, this prompted the additional bits
in the title: considering the idea that it's twice as important
as what i will eventually write with dues for
the lightning bolt's worth of a title...
    language has to be mandible, language has to
be plasticine... it can't be dittohead bound -
strict, regulated, ivory encased in a museum hush...
   esp. if it doesn't need something controversial to
be spoken... exactly at that point...
          what was i originally intending?
            language as form archeology? perhaps...
no! no no no... the pro-life vs. the pro-life debate...
    a destitute woman, perhaps a *******, perhaps
a woman who was *****...
                         as the laws in Poland currently stand:
she has to give birth...
      i never said i agreed with the stranglehold of
my "brethren", i simply said
           bilingualism as a rhinosaur (dino remnants?)
        stampede against multiculturalism...
what is the perspective? i respect the culture that
assimilated me, only through having the capacity
to speak the language of the culture i was born in...
    multiculturalism has no respect for its
host culture, the multicultural argument goes:
if i speak good enough English, i'll still be able
to wear Pakistani pyjamas in public...
it's the hijab wearing English-pristine girl who
knows ****-all arabic: but speaks good English,
so she's assimilated well enough...
       and there's me... when everyone is going
muddles berserk in their groin regions
     flirting with bisexuality... so few flirt with
bilingualism... well: how could all that fucky-sucky
go to waste, eh?   multiculturalism doesn't work
if the person attempting integration doesn't
have a moderation minder,
    if you don't respect your own original society
in the least, as in: ensuring you keep your
mother tongue and do the utmost to speak two
languages... multiculturalism of people who
don't do this are just plain lazy...
   lazy!           is that an excuse if you were born
in a host country? only if your parents were
so worked up thinking that knowing two languages
was a disadvantage... and so the byproduct
of all things that aren't part of the multicultural
franchise... if you have no respect for your mother
tongue / culture when moving to a different
country... you don't have respect for your
country of birth... or in a more succinct way said
by Napoleon: a man who knows two languages
is worth two heads... etc.
       ah, the debauchery of narrating and not
orientating yourself around creating characters...
bliss... and also the main reason poets feel guilty
about writing poetry... the missing characters.
but onto the title and the main point i was going
to make...

ii.

over an egg.

iii.

can't we simply argue the point
between pro-life and pro-choice
over breakfast of scrambled eggs?
or poached eggs... or fried eggs...
or eggs boiled for 5 minutes
so the yoke is all runny?

iv.

and they said there's no purpose to
abortion...
         the most popular food of
choice for breakfast... is an abortion.

v.

i'd say... make sure those pro-life protesters
stop eating eggs...
           they're eating abortions...
but ****... can you imagine anything
                          more yummy than an egg?
don't worry, Darwinistic existentialism
of furthering the human question
   has already been answered by an abundance
of the Mandarin and the Sanskrit population.

.all this is suggesting is: i'll meet you half-way; given that "this" question was always going to hover over "us", given that there's a disparity between English: a people, and English: a language... evidently the natives cannot begin to envision themselves as a lingua franca peoples... no wonder, their language has been "hijacked".... the "xenophobia", but like kevin spacey said: well, i'm here, am i suddenly supposed to, *******? playing the ******* *****-eyed poodle is not on the cards, but at the same time, it's hard to envision this language, as a people... given all the infringing demands of the anglo-saxon economic model into areas, where displacement is rife, subsequently... i can understand the concern of the natives, given that i didn't transgress the base principle: don't **** their women. see what a mild spaghetti-custard blip of history we're getting into? i am expected to integrate, but i'm not expected to integrate. i am somehow expected to be told to do what others want, but at the same time, i'm expected to protect my individual rights... no "parallel" anlogy akin to a catherine perry song? no kitty-*******, just around the corner? i can see islam... you know its prime sense of failure? that arabic would and never will, become given the same lingua franca status of english... you're complaining, or is it me stating the facts? evidently is a language reaches a lingua franca potentiality and subsequent expression, the natives will suffer... i'm not a native, but i can only imagine... what the consequences are... being ram-packed with excesses in ***** purchases... so much for a protected status of international economic ventures... like: i am waiting for the intra-national economic counters... can't see them coming, or i can see them, in a Casandra conundrum variation. there's still the topic of the natives... rarely can the English be allowed an outsider perspective without a sediment of their language being used, by a foreign entity... now, or never, why? you have somewhere important to be at as of: tomorrow? can you blame the natives, given that their language is a lingua franca, and not just, relegation to a national idiosyncracy "pH scale" differentiation? as a foreign entity, you know what i've learned from living on the most outer aspects of London? sure as **** it's not Cheltenham... i speak the tongue, i'm no genius, it's only English after all, it's hardly anything near Mandarin... what i feel sorry for, are the jihadi buggers who were born here, and were never taught their native sprechen... whatever the hell happened to English, and what Islam is jealous of, it came about naturally... arabic was never supposed
to become the standard bearer, the lingua franca of commerce and disinhibiting individuals entrenched... which, implies? i can look at the natives, with a more piercing dedication: excuses... excuses could be had, if, your, language, wasn't as "******" as it currently is... seems like i've reached a status of post-integration... now, i'm asking the language, the sort of application usage cruxes, that a native, simply wouldn't.

                         there's just so much
                           baggage,
that madmen
can carry,
for the "sane" standard
bearers of civilization,
of civility...
    at least some
of these outliers have
the *****
to not cower behind
an insanity plea...
     most of the madmen?
imagine
a tiger in a cage...
after a while...
          the tiger becomes
tamed by
zoological structuring
of its day-to-day...
and everyone's happy...
but that doesn't make
the tiger into a *******
bonsai, a feline "companion"...
beside the point...
  it's when some medical
conditions are slandered,
exposed to metaphor,
misnomer,
             that the madmen
receive the package
of social constraints
"levitating" just above
the state of being dormant...
but in this scenario:
well... that settles it...
now we know what
a level-playing-field looks like...
intellect,
and the debacle concerning
trust...
               well...
i've learned of trust
the upside-down way...
    relationships,
notably with a russian
specimen...
              me, ******,
why was i thinking i wouldn't
be ****** over?
   oh... right...
i can claim all
the responsibility with
what i "did" with a *******...
but when it comes
to the "affair" of a woman:
of free disposition,
i'm suddenly the culprit...
psychic trenches,
there "we" are,
entrenched in some plateau
of what seems to be
Belgium,
   and there "they" are,
entrenched in the same
plateau...
            sigh sigh, one more
for the party...
point being,
   people have not unearthed
the + + + + +
aspect of this debacle...
it's now a level playing field...
everyone is suspect,
everyone is limited...
a true: forensic quest for
democracy...
  all the other incidents
came and went,
always, as if: in passing...
  so this incident can also
come, and go, in passing...
solidarity to what?
to whom?
or rather: with?
            i can deal with this
sort of indigestion
surrounding my day to day,
but before long:
what other sop-story is
supposed to grab my attention?
clarity of intent,
   unlike someone experiencing
a psychotic break-down
of the psychic labyrinth...
a transcendence of
the categorical incentive...
somehow:
  the categorical imperative
was never supposed to mean:
what it meant to begin with...
the categorical imperative
has somehow lost the whole:
living by the standard
of a maxim...
               given that all maxims
are true...
  much harder to "test the waters"
with aphorisms...
            sure,
observable facts,
    then...
               disinhibited fictions...
glorification?
  today i had a problem
killing an ant...
   i was taking a ****
and had a problem killing
a moth that decided to freak
out the inanimate objects
of the bathroom...
       yeah: oh sure, sure,
i'm all for Herod's "conundrum"...
point being:
   we now know what
both sides feels...
         we now know...
       that there are outliers
on either side of the "debate"...
one: i am suspect,
but two: so is the counter-suspect...
no sacred cows...
   no: i think i'll just milk
a muslim in new dehli
for the jyst and thrill of a per se...
- at least now:
s.j.      w?
                or the conservative
mediator crowd of:
      there for the sake
of outrage only on the behalf
of outrage-in-itself?
past the phenomenon,
i can only return to the anti-phenomenon
of the noumenon (per se)...
which is not disappointing,
seeing how the whole "feel"
of it is begs the crux
fathomability of the individual...
just another skim read /
listen to the modern day
                          pharisee...
heavy sighs,
   blinded eyes...
frivolous waggling tongues...
but deep down,
most of the people are
content with having to experience
a revision...
  the revision being:
a level playing field...
   behring just attacked
the elites...
this?
    this dog ***** pile of
media attention?
         good...
        now everyone's uncertain...
i'm not afraid to think it,
and put it into writing...
    after a while:
   you just tire...
   you get tired of hearing
just one side of the story...

      what could leave someone
extreme: glee "riddled"
just leaves me exhausted...
     but at least the schizophrenics
are off the hook...
at least there's still some
belief in personal restraints...
even with a debilitating condition...
at least these people
are not facing the collateral
stereotyping of someone
with: the clarity of intent...

         there's just me, at this point,
thinking to myself:
and why did "they" drug me
to the point of:
making "them" feel uncomfortable...
clearly my mental faculties
have not been
                 car-crash dimished...

welcome the new hybrid...
soul mongrel...
           what is it about the polacks
that has made them so...
immune?
     i guess only recently
Poland has celebrated
the centenary of independence...
i wouldn't know,
i'm strapped to England
in metaphorical strait-jacket
  (what is metaphor
compared to metaphysics?),
   sober, drunk,
drunk, sober, etc.
               i was given a crash-course
in multiculturalism,
i guess i assimilated...
   back in school there was
the popular irish gang...
and there was "my" group...
of all the outliers...
   we used to spend lunch breaks
playing cards...
but when i heard news that
i would only be fully integrated,
once i gave up my native tongue
which i used to speak in
private?
    that broke the camel's back...
the centenary of independence
of Poland...
i wouldn't know...
i'm in "exile"...
   which is: economic "war"
came to where i come from
after the fall of the soviet pact...
and...
                every time i go back
to visit my grandparents...
i am only associated
with that country by speaking
the language...
and boy, it's not so ******* rosy
on the inside, compared to what
is being pushed to the outside...
Poland is like a: death-zone...
**** me, even the Hungarians
know how to ***** themselves
when it comes to tourism...

    i am, in "exile"...
            come to think of it,
most of the Muslims in the west
have it worse,
but i blame their parents...
i had one Pakistani friend
in high-school...
   now that i succumb to
reminiscence... yep...
he spoke perfect Urdu;
    but all these outliers?
   what their parents did...
****** themselves into
an integration mechanism...
not retaining their mother tongue?
like all these,
western jihadi prospects...
speak about 10 words of arabic,
and they are "attempting"
to compensate...
   i somehow feel for them,
a complete mine-field
of a mind-****...
       like being impreganted
by a virus,
a cancer...
     the linguistic dysphoria...
so yeah: if everyone would please
like to make heavy scrutiny
of the blatantly obvious,
regarding the genital region,
and forget a sobering note of
worthwhile problems,
namely the language dysphoria
of muslims, in England,
feel free to keep looking
at the genital "problem"...
            
clearly there's a dysphoria horizon,
i would know,
given that i have retained
my mother tongue...
but they haven't...
               and all they want is probably
so little...
   i remember that my father
once called me
the bellybutton of the world...
referencing me as
   an english child...
  that's how the Polacks view
the English: the bellybuttons
of the world, center of attention,
yada yada...
                 gender "dysphoria"...
you have to be *******
kidding me...
              what about the language
dysphoria of Muslims
                    in the (v)vest?

jak to się mówi:
            tym co się od razu, ma?

i can understand the language
dysphoria, well,
being a 1st generation immigrant...
i can't imagine being
born to 1st generation immigrants,
not retaining my native
tongue,
   knowing only the tongue
of integration,
   it would feel alien...
   like i was impregnated
by a foreign body,
   retaining nothing of my "******"
natural resources...
so... the problem we've arrived at
is very real...
  more real than gender dysphoria...

hopefully i'm less "schizoid"
at the end of this marathon,
and more: relieved to be merely
bilingual...
entrenched bilingual -
            so no, not a polymath...
or rather: not a polyglot;
my maternal great-grandfather
apparently was,
spoke 7 languages,
disappeared somewhere near
Niagara Falls...

   the plan was: England, stop-over...
via Argentina
   and toward the U.S.,
****... seems i was side-tracked
into remaining,
being shackled to these isles.

islam is really buying into an ideological
warfare
       of creating a historiogical narrative
for former crusader nations...
           the history? it's way gone, past,
in the dust... but islam is probing
        this need to settle old qualms in a modern
narrative...
    i can't actually add to a history
           these days, but i can take up a banner
of historiology, or so i am told...
   and yes, certain words aren't exactly
the standard bearers of who easily you can
rap them...
            you really need to pause and catch
the nuance... or the naiveness in which they're use...
   when i use the word historiological
i think of the past as having necessarily happened,
and in need to happen again, on the basis
of someone else telling me: you have to
inherit this.
            it's no wonder that islam attacks former
crusader nations... france esp.,
          what with adhemar, bishop of le puy,
urban ii grand speech lauching the ***** into
a tight spot... tancred de hauteville...
                 bohemond...
        radulph of caen merely annotated the deeds done
and the words said...
      robert, duke of normandy, and his daughter
adela, quick to **** at Urban's tongue... the truth...
   Islam is really reassigning us with
a historiology, not a history we might be prone
to forget, or be ashamed by...
   it's not doing what the word histiorology is defined by,
not this unearthing of graves, and their deseceration...
you really want to wake up the Nazgûl?!
seriously?
   sure, i can be your necromancer... we can have
total obliteration... just speak enough ****** constriction
to germans, and then point them at the target,
and you'll get a crossbow shock of the event...
     Islam really is warming us up for something,
they're nibbling at us, they're trying to
  really give us the "spark", it's not a case whether i'm
correct in thinking this... it's only that i feel it...
i can taste it... i can stomach it...
     such lovely names, those old crusaders...
Tancred...
                     mind you: peter the hermit's child
crusade...
                       if they came from north of Persia
they'd be drafted as Mameluks...
       le throng! if only there were always
the french incission to state that...
   le throng! you just can't leave youth culture
settle into the urban environment,
you really seem to want that... get pockets
of culture coming from the youth...
     it can't ever be grime from east or south london...
    me? i'm trapped in a library, i actually
built of myself... apparent;y 1 in 10 people don't
own a single book in england...
         the brothers Godfrey, Eustace & Baldwin...
   oh lookie lookie... you're tickling the beast
so just, any minute now and it will awake once more...
    and be cited as having said:
   walking up to me knee in blood and
slaughtered corpse... Harod looks pale the minute
past...
               Tancred... dubbed te Panzer sulphur snout...
are there more gentlemen of my stature on
their way?
        that's me: don't know who's the possessor
of a ***** and who of a juiced up ****...
   but i can bet the niqab does wonders...
   so much anonymity, you don't even need
  internet pseudonym names, no jackx666
or rogerxtra... you just don the ninja and, ooh!
ooh! everything's so flimsy! so airy! flutters
of a butterfly!
               that ***** king in the kingdom of heaven
movie did have a name: baldwin iv...
   and he was a *****...
         you'd accidently sneeze into his face
and his nose would fall off...
   true story, or i'm drunk...
           but my: this wine i made, this homemade
wine? it does the trick!
                 baldwin iv died aged twenty four...
lucky sod, kurt cobain of the medieval ages...
    oi oi... wait wait... ZENGI!
  zengi the heavy drinker! buddy!
fully name? imad ed-din zengi. ah, zengi zengi,
zengi... what tales i have for you...
      i'd tell them, and you'd turn out to be in full
disclosure trying to fake sober...
                        ibn al-athir also wrote something,
does it deserve more a toast or mere chronicler?
the latter will know.
fatimids and sunni caliphs...
              Balak, the dream-inspiration for
Fulcher of Chartres...
Antioch, Tyre, Edessa...
  and that old feverish fox known as the lesser
Barbarossa: Reynald de Châtillon...
         don't know...
   as an ethnic bias, i am of the people that remained
bound to a home near the Baltic sea...
  we also fought crusaders...
the knights templar, die ritter von deutsche haus
beispiel sankte mariam in yerusalem...
       which makes my history a bit different
to the current history...
i have other myths... with
Jagiello... and grand-komtur Brzęczyszczykiewicz...
but you know... hmm... let's go crazy
and pop a pill or two... blues for the upper
and reds for the downer...
what a unique occasion! are you sure
we're not sailing on a gondola in the water-alleys
of Venice singing some obscure folk-song, hmm?!
by now i look like the stańczyk (grand court
jester) in one of jan matejko's paintings,
laughing my *** off as to denote: that i am,
quiet righly: the most amused. ha ha.
Sioux! sioux! pruss! pruss!
     and the crucifix really is a profanity of
the tetragrammaton, that came back,
morphed, as if touching a philosophers stone,
and turned out to be an acronym n.e.w.s.:
north, east, west... south...
   the minute the tetragrammaton touched
the ✝ it came back as n.e.w.s.
      and that really is the most dignifying
Balaam equal compliment i can give...
      but you know, just seeing how Islam is really
inviting former crusader nations to have a fight...
   and i'm spotting this, coming from a region
that also had crusades riddle it...
    but it's true... the crusades around the Baltic coast
never get any coverage these days...
  i guess you can't really make momentum
from a reigion where it's natural resource hidden
in the ground is salt... rather than oil...
    then again, lying about,
reading the book crusades by terry jones
& alan ereira... didn't really make me think much...
   when it comes to the two splinters off
res in: res cogitans,
  i can only think of re-       i.e. reflex
   and re-    i.e. reflection...
     and the tongue these days is so ******* saggy....
i'd take more pleasure eating a bagpipe of haggis
than listen to current rhetoric...
    it's a sickness though, this demand Islam
is making, that once Israel has been established
we forget our cosmopolitan cocktails and engage in
a holy war...
                  but it is the narrative, we're almost expected
to feed into a crusader culture...
      but once again, i'm using a tongue that once
did wield crusading pomp, and i have an
underlining perspective of being on the receiving end
of crusades of the baltic states...
     i really should be jumping for joy right now...
   but given the schooling system in england,
or i suppose the whole of western europe,
i'm part of the schattenvolk...
                how the Lithuanians were so and so...
how the Poles were so and so...
    how i could almost try to seek out the same
linguistic pride of modern Silesians in ancient yore
of Pruß, but come against nothing but the Kashubian
denote...
**** me! so it really was worthwhile keeping
my native tongue, and exploring my ethnicity
and history like a ****-pants 16 year old girl
on a trip in the guise of tourism?!
  oh applause! this is better than milking old ladies
like Liberache might for a fur coat
or a gold-plated toilet!
     ooh... you rascal you...
                 can i please not sound gay now?
i hate how the concept of personnae can creep into
your psyche and give you, the most obliterating
narrative techniques imaginable...
                        but if you ask me...
Islam will not wage war against nationas that did not
succumb to the rhetoric of pope Urban Deux...
        i mean... can you really imagine a terrorist
attack in Poland?
             given that Poland experienced it's own taste
of crusades?
                 well... if it does happen... that really will
wake up something... it certainly won't be multiculturalism....
perhaps this really is merely a **** into the wind...
         my, all this can come out sleep-walking by
simply lying in bed and reading a history book?
             it's a good thing i assimilated on the basis
of merely using the tongue, rather than tapping into
past history of the people, past grievances, past prides,
past symbolism... i just use the language...
    i don't expect to really revolve around being an
adamant west ham supporter...
i just know that i'm Polish in the english language...
   and Islam doesn't really attack
      those who've have the better share of grievances...
whether in the 20th century context,
of going way back, when Israel was about...
             and reading a history book...
   wriggling toward a status of fame is absurd...
     i like the idea of: gently passing by like foam on
top of a cup of cappuccino...
                      someone said froth:
i'm exfoliating with this that and the other guess work
of vocab...
               well... that's that...
        worth noting the many more easily impressionable
young men out there...
                that would rather chop a head
of a person of their assimilated culture, and subsequently
not retain their native tongue,
   and then not play: smack the ******!
    layering over what their ethnicity clearly speaks,
although with a borrowed tongue...
       which is why a slang variation of language
has to emerge...
                it's not a case of slang representing
prior footing, and current footing, but cleansing
prior footing, as current footing, with only
a melting *** to be sure of...
         on the objective basis that's the right thing
to do... you really want to eat a good curry
at the end of the day...
  but sometimes you need someone to say:
me a shallot prior a carrot in that melting *** of spice...
        the feeling is not mutual...
    would i ever eat sand to sharpen my teeth
for a cannibalistic grin?
                         i'm quiet content with merely
dabbling in poached lamb... but if another mein teil
scenario arises... it'll probably come west of the Odra
river.

JE ME SOUVIENS  (I REMEMBER) by Céline Leduc 12/2013

I REMEMBER is the motto of Quebec
I remember the English colonized me.
I forget I colonized First Nations.
I remember multiculturalism is bad.
I forget it allowed me to keep my culture.
I remember the Church is my downfall
I forget it was Louis XIV and Napoleon politics
I remember my language matters
I forget I imposed language on First Nations.
I remember my culture
I want others to forget their culture
Quebec’s  new motto should be
I FORGET -- J’OUBLIE

as we collect our stories and reclaim our names
we become aware of the possibility
that, in fact, we always live with our ancestors
as we collect our stories and reclaim our names
we start to contrive
the raw material
to obtain our fibers
as we collect our stories and reclaim our names
we start to cultivate the insights of how those fibers can be woven into strands
that when interlocked with other fibers
create a collective blanket, untold histories

No, not a patchwork-quilt, not a melting ***, not a salad bowl
not a room full of flags with countries we cant place on a map
and full of people WE can’t help but fetishize
no, No, NO
this is an interwoven stitch
this is a tattered rag
that has been used to wipe **** off of colonizer’s *******
that has been used to wipe the dripping *** off of Thomas Jefferson’s ****
as he finishes up with his Saartjie Baartman,
that has been used to hide the faces of the KKK as they drag uppity black boys down the street
and LYNCH them in carnival and spectacle
that has been soaked in Black and Brown blood on the streets of
Ferguson, Baltimore, New York, North Carolina, Milwaukee, and every other city and district in the US of KKK

This is not a handholding session with me
I am the oppressor and I must fear my own wrath
my fiber is white, my strand is white
and too many strands are white
and too many Black, Brown, Red, and Yellow strands have been bleached
or told “wait your turn to be included in the blanket"
or "be thankful we even include you in the stitching
give us a TOKEN of gratitude”
I take YOUR strands and use them to cloth MY babies while yours lie naked

The time is now
to take the clorox and gulp it down as it eviscerates our throats and consumes our souls
We don’t need anymore whitewashed histories
we dont need anymore white sheets
we don’t need to go to BED, BATH, and BEYOND
I cannot come to you with a bail full of cotton and ask you to join me in a knitting session
#IMNOTRACISTBUT…

this is not a time for diversity and multiculturalism
or the co-option of “social justice”

this is a time for Solidarity

this is a time for Liberation

this is a time for Abolition

this is a time for Insurrection

this is a time for Rebellion

this is a time for Revolution

I cannot be the leader
but I can contribute
I cannot be the voice
but I can sure has hell listen

and this is how we will transform the blanket
not with hollow words and moderate reforms
but with direct action and liberatory collaboration
by yelling the phrase “white supremacy is as American as apple pie” at the top of our lungs

not with corporate funding and 5,000 dollar a plate galas
but by dismantling the looms that have woven the threads of
Hate, ****, Land theft, and Genocide
that have woven the strands of
reservations, redlining, white flight, and gentrification
and by co-creating ones that speak to our destroyed histories
that refuse to use the bleach
even when the blanket gets *****

Send the immigrants back; unfortunately the referendum was based on that.
Misplaced Hate,
Created by power,
Forcing a debate of the darkest hour.
Hate towards immigration, but wait!
What if you need an operation?
The health service is crumbling, needs multiculturalism to keep the cogs turning.
So you want a debate on immigration?
Let’s talk about your integration.
What’s your heritage?  
Where is your blood line from?
I doubt it will be a solely British one!
Our kids walk the streets with knives and guns, yet our politicians talk with plums.
Claim to understand society, but driving flash cars is their priority.
Don’t give a **** about local business rather see corporations strip our economy.
Self-Serving politicians feed the fat cats ambition, Cameron or Corbyn? It’s us the people who are suffering!

When I was five Miss M sat the Chinese
new girl next to me and I made a face.
Miss gave a sharp look like: empathy please,
an ethnic discriminates against race?

Even as a child I squirmed at being
cast as Other. I wanted to be with
the anglo kids. The natural fleeting
first impression of a child who writhes

at injustice. I was conditioned to
socialise and be protector of those
who I didn't want anything to do
with. The brash Anglo kids I suppose

were oblivious and weren't burdoned by
ideas too mature for them. Ah equality.

.i like the night... it's the one time in the count of 24 hours, that i am free from owning a shadow.

a shadow it like an itch,
a spot of eczema -
     itchy ******* thing...
mind you,
i've become a person
equivalent of an anti-narcissus:
i felt in love with my shadow,
an image reflected
in a mirror,
has no potency,
    no, potential...

- danzig's 1000 devil's reign -

you could have played
the identity politics card,
you could have...
hmm...

          but then the identity politicians
played the grammatical
****-poor politics game...
sorry... how can i play
identity politics,
if i am a pedigree Pole?
   you want me to fake my
land of birth, and the language i was born
into, and speak it?
you want me to... what?!
unlearn it?!
      Jews unlearn Hebrew,
and speak Yiddish...
       to i have to be the one
who was baptized
to reteach then the Sefirot tree?
mind you... i also want to learn it...

feral ferocity for learning...
a Faustian complex...
   those three years at Edinburgh
university taught me one thing,
and one thing alone...
apart from the bogus
   organic chemistry
schematics of electron migrations...

so...
     ⠽⠁⠓
   oh it's there, in the Sefirot...
      chokhmah
   (wisdom)...

   there's even  (  el  )
                   ⠑⠇
chesed, i.e. love...

              next time i'll be writing
Hebrew, i'll be writing in Braille...
Braille is the new Hebrew for me...

and have you noticed?
given this pitiable Latin alphabet?
vowels, consonants,
consonants being the syllable
architects...
  but only one letter compounded
to a noun...
namely?
        'double u': W...

  and the greeks? omega,
omicron, alpha, beta, gamma...
      no wonder Greek pursues
its prevalence in the sciences...
no actual name given to a letter
in Latin...
no covert meaning...

way too ******* apparent, and weight gain
incubating...

but where is the meaning
of ⠺⠑⠓?!
if there is a ⠽⠁⠓ in the Sefirot,
and there's the over-simplified
   ⠑⠇?
   where the **** is ⠺⠑⠓?
    so the second syllable count
means nothing to ⠓⠁_ ⠎⠓⠑⠍?

greek actually have names
for some of their letters?
what do the Romans have?
castrato choir practice
of a sing-along?!

          so... i'll ask again...
truthfully?
  i'd love to be an interrogator...
i'd ask the questions,
then ask for the torture...
and then do the same torture
to the person being interrogated...
and then tell the interrogated person:
you don't receive third-party
privileges!            
      
i hate the fact that girls cut themselves...
not that i'm haemophobic...
girls leave such a mess...
i'm pretty sure heating up a pair of
scissors, and burning your flesh
can lead to a more, "productive"
excavation of the masochistic reasons
with a tangible genesis...

          cutting is such a barbaric
practice...
     burning?
       mm... you get a chance to sniff
out a perfume of burned flesh...
which is added brownie points...
            
           what a blind man's circle...
having found the yah...
but having to persist in looking
for the weh;
doesn't help that i don't speak
the nomadic tongue,
that hebrew is...

            it's almost like they
want to forget it...
     speaking it only among
orthodoxy,
   and religious practices -
but never in public...
   i'd loath to abandon my mother
tongue...
             for a whim of
multiculturalism,
having learned that...
someone in England, at some private
school, is embarking on
learning Russian or Mandarin...

to the assimilation police i simply add:
you want my mother tongue?
and don't respect my learning
of your tongue?
   come by, with a knife...
AND CUT IT OFF!
                
oh the joys, of originating in a non-colonial
peoples... living in.
a post-colonial people's hellhole.

you see, i came to england when i was eight years old, and i still retain the primitive early structuring of being born in poland, e.g. i identify my father from the ages of 4 to 8 as a voice on a telephone and the odd package of gifts, my mother between the age of 6 to 8 as a mad doberman a parting gift... and the fact that i can't read philosophy books in english but in polish, whereby i translate what i read into english... the english language is terrible at expressing itself philosophically, too much shrapnel (i.e. too many little words in between graffiti like usage of the bigger words: conjunctions, prepositions, articles over-burden such catchphrases like zeitgeist, global capitalism etc.), i read poetry and fiction in english, but philosophy i read in polish; and i do speak four languages in that i can speak posh anti-essex-accent english, speak a polish accentuation of english, speak plain polish and speak pleb village-idiot polish; polish immigrants are overweight to soar like canadian geese introduced into england because of the trill of the r (mind you, introducing grey squirrels mirrored the seemingly perpetual overcast of the english weather) - indeed, the english use of the letter r is tongue-numbing-curl - instead of trilling the r the english curl it like an apprehensive turtle / hedgehog - and too the oddity of the h, hatch hay-puck-itch hey-a-haystack? two of the many more linguistic anomalies in the english tongue included.*

that's the problem i have integrating
into a post-colonial multicultural
society, i know i should celebrate
the english defence of poland should
a war with germany take place,
the short lived re-emergence of poland
quickly gulped up by the joint
expedition of **** german and soviet russia,
the exported government of poland
to london, the plight of polish and english
pilots over the skies of england in
the battle of britain, i should technically
be experiencing a great assimilation sensation,
but multiculturalism has really complicated
things, esp. when you turn on the radio
a first hear things about the emergence of
recorded sound, the gramophone,
the iconic jack terrier before the machine
and a very old acronym of music outlets:
h.m.v. (his master's voice),
or that in poland - knowing of the mass emigration
of poles to england the tabloid newspaper
the sun is cited with the highest credibility
(never mind the toned down **** on page 3
of that newspaper, which prompted *******
to do likewise) - currently i'm sifting through
the power broker pages of the newspaper
the times, i.e. the editorial pages, just
after the opinion pages... you see, the editorial
pages are almost anonymous, they're filled
with a major investment, high profile
people (usually professors and sirs and what not)
seeking attention of the editor, beginning with
something like: sir, at a time when european
challenges of security... and then indeed about
three articles of unchallenged dialectics by
the editor himself, e.g. (monday march 7 2016)
headlines: an autocrat in ankara; plan obsolescence;
cripes! (https://goo.gl/EzCbDO),
as i said, i find it overbearing to integrate into
english society, it's paradoxical actually,
so i have to integrate (tick), speak the tongue (tick),
become eloquent and gentlemanly (tick)...
but i can't acquire the history (a prime social
relation coordinate), and i certainly can't feel
pride... unlike those from the colonies integrating
and feeding this strange strange national pride
of identifying england as if by them originally
possessed; maybe three years in scotland fed
my alienation, i really did love mingling with
the scots, the only place on these islands where
the presence of the irish is limited by that
funny existential curiosity of a sikh speaking
a wee trill here, a wee trill there...
maybe that's it... because, you see, the oddity
comes after hearing the story of rash behari bose,
the one who was the shadow of peaceful gandhi...
who spoke like adolf ****** who actually
collaborated with ****** to no avail, who
then collaborated with the japanese -
how am i to assimilate into english society if english
society is a barren wasteland where newton
and michael faraday used to roam?
i'm just too bewildered in this sense of integrating
like a prerequisite of becoming a chameleon -
it's nauseating just to think of it - all this
psychological complexity to simply use a tongue
that's favoured for commerce and political
stagnation into the iron stage of a status quo
of russian and chinese oligarchs creating
a mortgage inflation from their power-source
that's london? this immediate sense of what used
to be mass propaganda has turned into
mass political correctness, same ****, different cover,
i really don't know how to integrate fully,
esp. with faked results that disallow falsification
because they're already false in that would-be
"science" of psychology which is just a crippled
humanism... how can you be a serious psychologist
when you focus on the interchange of the invading
barbarian word self and then become pompous
with so many theorisations of a single sound, ego?
after all we're, in the majority using the sound self
as an affirmative of 'i'm here, yes, check the utility
manual of my spine moving my fingers typing,
no descartes wasn't trying to prove he existed,
don't be stupid, what, because such a proof is
not compatible with you after his death proves
he was trying to prove himself a recipient? i too
buckle on the nonsense of some people, even my own
is worth a rusty door hinge and doorknob.'
and poetry will always remain the safeguard medium
of abstracting, poetry isn't a happy science as one
man suggested dying at the dawn of the 20th century...
poetry's eager spontaneity makes it an abstracting science,
there's no point arguing truth, in that abstraction is
required to cite a momentary pigmentation of
the everyday grey realism with a poem.

i've noticed that, upon ushering words from the depth
of nothing, or as an interlude in Knausgaard's day-to-day
musing in vol. 6 after inviting Geir over:
this "i" or that "i" or for that matter "my" i...
however you want to frame it...
    i noticed that if i allow myself an evening of not writing...
esp. on an electric screen for someone else to see...
if for example i lay down to go to sleep...
not exactly asleep: dart out of bed and scribble something
on a piece of paper for only me to see...
i will still dream...
but if i sit down and face the electric screen:
pixels like the eyes of a fly... for someone else to see?
i don't dream...
   otherwise... having scribbled down the following
on a piece of paper:

   exploring Heidegger's dasein in another language...
my native, which i will translate into English,
basically prepositional coordination of(f) being
off not necessarily implying non-being -
perhaps merely: being-in-itself or rather the other...

tu-być : be-here
              to-bycie : this-being
ten-byt :                      ditto
although: nuance... there is a distinction...

i also scribbled down something i heard a long
time ago about how Russia, India and China are
re-orientating themselves with the slacking of the western
influence on: whatever it was that the west had
for the past three decades beside
proxy wars, collateral damages and "culture"...

i heard the term: post-ethnic-nationalism
post-ethno-state post-nation-state...
ergo: multiculturalism... which, oddly enough:
i can't come to grips with trying if not trying to
pretend to be a native of these isles -
perhaps it might be a shock for someone outside
of London - but in London it's almost
second nature to... be surrounded by people
from all around the world...
needless to say: the natives are not so disgruntled
once they're sitting all pretty-cherry on top
of some hierarchy: esp. in the journalistic
opinion sections of the Saturday / Sunday magazine...
then it's an open bonanza against
the "lower class racists" and what not...
i can't be an anti-racist: after all...
                                     anti-racists once produced
a schematic for us to learn from in primary school...
which shower the size of brains of...
a white person, a black person and a racist...
and some other brains...
the racist's brain was under-developed:
smaller...                                      ­ really?!

anyway... so Russia, India and China have opted for
what has come to be known as the:
civilization-state...
                                     given the ongoing zeitgeist
******* blowing up in the Anglophone world from
H'america... the culture-war(?!) -
i would bet fairly and say that pretty much all
former nation-states of western Europe
and beyond are currently in a state of morphing
into: buzz buzzword: being - culture-states...

but whereas a civilization-state seems an abrupt
optimal to counter and disagreement with regards
to continuity: civilisations don't merely come and go...
whereas cultures do...
   culture is somehow a totality of the little things
in life... fashion, the arts, politics, faux pas innuendos,
trends, diet...
that's culture and some...
but civilisation? to me that's like saying...
the foundation of Rome was the creation
of the aqueducts...
                  civilisation to me is like saying:
the British Empire and the steam-engine...
civilisation to me, London, exclusively is... the tube...
the underground network...

seriously... i don't need to go to a West End Play
i don't need to go and see Ed Sheeran play
to a sold out Wembley stadium of 100,000+ people
(although, i did, even though i did because
i worked a shift there doing security,
so, technically i didn't, but did)
            i don't need culture... as such...

all i need to do is first, do a shift at Craven Cottage...
hope that the Elizabeth Line won't be working
travel on the Central Line from Newbury Park all
the way to Holborn... and then blah blah...
instead of trying to look at the tired faces opposite
me admire the map of the Central Line
(it's a toss-up between the Central Line map,
or the District, Northern or Piccadilly)
and then, on some sunny day... get my bicycle
out... and bicycle for most of the route... notably...
skewing... merging at Fairlop working my way
through Barkingside, coming to Gants Hill
then less of the tube route (mind you...
between Leyton and Stratford it's pretty
much over-ground) -
   and then from Stratford - through to Mile End...
from Mile End via Whitechapel... to Aldgate...
from Aldgate to St. Paul's... Chancery Lane...
Holborn... rat beneath the ground:
like a rat needs a bicycle -
   well this rat is no hamster: hence the bicycle
and not a hamster-wheel...

what culture? movies?! i tried watching something
relevant to the 1980s today... ***** Dancing...
great soundtrack but... cringe!
that's even before Malcolm X and how inter-racial
inter-****** relations had to be the new norm:
i mean: ******* fair play...
    building the new Brazil -
    but i still think there's an under-representation
(and isn't everyone supposed to get a fair share
of representation) of white boy Romanian girl
(Roma, gypsy) or white boy Turkish girl...
   or white boy half-white half-Indian girl...

i know i will not dream tonight because someone
will see this...
my little itchy thoughts, my freed from the reins
"i" that doesn't really have these words clogging
up its mind - only until the itching of the fingers starts
and i have a blessed day...
like today...

why is it that a Saturday evening can feel like
a Sunday evening?
oh, right... i made steak for dinner tonight...
potato wedges (skins on, first boiled until
the the water started boiling, turned off, soaking
for 5 min, drained, olive oil, cajun pepper sprinkle,
into the oven)
    and some baked vegetables:
leeks, carrots, parsley root, red onions,
celeriac, swede... balsamic vinegar,
    sambal, cumin, coriander, salt, pepper,
sugar (i stopped using honey,
   it sticks to the baking tray plus the vegetables
lose their crunch, and vegetables need their crunch)...
2 steaks (456g total) shared between three people...
seasoned with sea salt and grain black pepper
(i prefer pepper grains than pepper powder,
i.e. pockets of explosion of that spice)
    3 min each side... a perfect medium-rare blush...

however the Indians might sell their spices...
chillies etc. there's still something wholesome
when it comes to eating certain types of food...
given that... i wouldn't be eating beef in India:
i wouldn't be seasoning beef with chillies!
that's why pepper is important...
that's why horseradish is important...
i let most of the Indians slip up: oooh! the Europeans
didn't have any spices...
apart from thyme, rosemary, sage, lavender,
mint... pepper, horseradish, i#m sure we
were also familiar with cumin seeds -
as well as that anise-seed that' not the star
(i forgot the name of it, it looks like
a cumin seed, but fatter, and split down
the middle - green) oh and of course:
plenty of salt...
what's all the spices in the world in the culinary world...
IF, YOU, AIN'T, GOT - SALT?!
   (if you don't have... i know i know...)

it's rather bewildering talking to certain Asians...
although, saying that...
most of Eastern Europe had plenty of interaction
with Asians, namely the Mongols
and the Turks - which the western Europeans
sort of... "forgot"... after Darwinism they
skipped over Asia and went straight back
to Africa... personally? i feel more akin to Asians
(esp. the oriental folk) than i do with anyone
from Africa... however Christianity was born...
after all: what's the definition of a white man?
Caucasian? and where's the Caucus?
Asia... Europe was always going to be
a funnel - a bottle-neck continent -
a port... a departing point...
       perhaps we shouldn't be so clingy to it...
unless of course:
   oh the parody of Jesus never came out of
Europe: "we" had to wait for it coming from
North America, but by then it was no longer
a parody of Jesus but a parody of North American
Christianity... a North American parody of Jesus
is... oddly enough... a European parody
of North American Christianity: via Jesus...

which brings me to another thing... only upon
doing a shift at Craven Cottage did i first hear
the parakeets... never before...
     i'm not going to bloat my ego this much but...
since then i've seen an article on Wikipedia that
i never saw before, the article just appeared out of
nowhere: feral parakeets of England...
subsequently... only a day ago:
you're only here for the parrots, fans chant
as birds swarm Leyton Orient pitch (Evening Standard
4 hours ago)
and bare conker trees overrun by bright green
parakeets make them seem vibrant despite leafless
branches (Daily Mail, 3 days ago, somewhere
in south London)...

today i was given the chance to walk back into my old
haunt... as much as i love cycling...
it's sometimes refreshing to walk...
the slowing of pace, the horizon almost intact...
more so... if walking into a forest...
Bower Wood... i know it is a curated wood...
it's not as feral as the pine woods of Eastern Europe...
but: if life gives you X... you make XY...
x = lemons, y = juice ergo xy = lemon juice...

i'm pretty sure i was familiar with this wood...
i was out hunting for souvenirs for my mother to dress
the table / fake deer antennas for candles to sit in...
holy, some other greenery with black berries...
i was hunting for ferns, almost near impossible
given this time of year... found some! bright blush
of childish envy... oh... and birches...
some oak barks fallen off... just me alone in the forest...
i was so thankful by myself...
but usually i heard crows, magpies and woodland
pigeons... but now?! parakeets?!
here?! now?! parrots in winter in these parts?!

i swear the world is standing-up-side-down...
it's hard not to miss an under-current of a serious
pagan revival weaving and slithering its way through
Europe: if only you care to listen...
i switched off from whatever is available in culture
these days... i know that what i'm listening to
will not gain popular traction...
i can walk into the forest and... there's the forest...
i go back home... cook dinner...
go into my bedroom, open a bottle of cider
thinking: no champagne will beat this...
put on a record akin to...
Heilung's TENET and... hey presto!

                       i was in company of a good friend:
someone already dead who...
i don't know how someone can lose themselves
in the forest... pareidolia...
   you can sometimes see paths already trodden...
unseen but somehow: you can see a "ghost"
of a foot here and there...
    you know: you just KNOW where a human foot
prior to yours once treaded...
there are patterns... better sticking with pareidolia than
the iconoclasm of celebrity...
i always thought that was better...
i like to think i'm in the company of strange
creatures: phantoms of my mind...
but hardly! how can these be phantoms of my mind?!
i didn't spontaneously conjure a face in a tree
when the ******* tree is older than me!
the tree was here before me!
what?! some sin?! some psychological sin
of non-conformity?! i don't adhere to star-gazing
in the filth of commodities and entertainment?!

i know why this feels like a Sunday evening even
though it's a Saturday night...
i was planning on going to the brothel tonight...
but... oh hey mother, hello father...
i'm going out... where? you don't have any friends...
blah blah... yeah... well... i'm kind of happy
because of that: no social-constraints of expectations...
as the conversation usually ran with the last
remaining friend i had from high-school...
- so, what have you been up to?
- nothing...
     and he knew that i was scribbling like mad...
what's there to talk about when it comes to writing?!
last time i heard: you read what is written...
you don't talk about it...
hopefully the reading of something written goes
back into thinking and is not spoken of:
since the conventionality of everyday
formality of social-speech crushes anything delicate
that is born from i-ought-not-but-regardless-i-must!
it's a compulsion!

i went to the shop about 3 hours ago to buy an extra
bottle of cider because i knew: having read a little more than
usual i had to keep the Libra of conscience in place,
"conscience": never write more than you read...
and never read less than you write - so so...
          wow... FORK in the "ROAD"...
                        this is me replaying the opening of the song
TENET - the sound of the horn...
well... i didn't have a horn in the forest...
but i had my pagan statue... a dead white tree...
i left this little stick next to it... i used to walk this wood
more times than i can remember...
sometimes i walked into it bare-chested...
blind from the darkness, but somehow illuminated
by the moon... sat on a stump of wood...
silence... then a breaking of a branch...
not the sort of breaking of a branch still attached
to a tree... something stepped on it...
i wasn't alone... i froze but then ushered in my voice
to compliment a shared bewildered amazement:
that is not a foot of a man stepping on a branch...

in the same wood i saw my first GARMR...
would i really have to go with the flow
of a Christopher J. MacCandless?!
                                       if hell is going to send its hounds
out to meet me, it doesn't matter where that might
be... i don't need to visit the northern most parts
of Norway to find what i'm seeking...
and what i'm seeking i found: since i'm dragging what
needed to be found around...
it's not surprising that at Bower Wood i was
alleviating a traffic problem when
two does and about 5 fawns were causing havoc...
"havoc" in the night implies 3 cars pulling over...
me coming down from the hill running up to
the village of Havering-atte-Bower spotting one...
not caring if there was a stag nearby running
with the fawn which subsequently ensured
the two does and the rest of the fawns
started to gallop and disappeared into the Wood...

i wish i could make this stuff up...
but then again: i'm not jealous of people
who have seen the Galapagos Islands or the Maldives
or... ah... just recently...
i took that rat-above-rat-below trip on my bicycle
into central London... i said to myself:
circle round St. Paul's cathedral... nope...
not good enough... around the Old Bailey then...
o.k. - and i "prayed": please! not another flat tire!
hey presto! on my way back... a flat tire at Aldgate!
great! well... i walked this distance before...
i can walk it again... walking back...
passed the East London Mosque and then...
Allahu Akbar! a bicycle repair shop!

walked up - leaned the bicycle against the wall,
the Chinese guy said: just 10 minutes
(while he was fixing this Deliveroo rider's
electric bicycle) - no problem -
i took some times to each some gelatin sweets
and drink some water, looking at people,
i felt like i was in some exclusive club,
only cyclists allowed - it felt like a very urban
sensation that most punks must have felt,
or goths, standing out...
i paid too much compliments to those guys
in Cycle King bicycle shop in Chadwell Heath...
i knew the front tire was worn down,
but i thought: get the professional's opinion...
they would be more than willing to change
the inner-tube for the Nth time before telling me:
oh... you need to change the actual tyre...
how many times did i change the inner tube?
**** knows! milking it... ******* were milking it!
but this Chinese guy said outright plainly...
it's ****... i'll change it for you...
inner tube, tyre and labour... £55...
done!
               he changed it to a tyre that...
well... let's face it... 2nd gear front
and 4th, 5th 6th and 7th gears in the back...
i was whizzing past home... he said:
less width... more grip... for the grit...
   but at least he was ******* honest...
that's what i mean about a European's relationship
with the Asians... i'm honest, they're honest...
they're not some SCAM MERCHANT KNIGS
of NIGERIA: CNUT-MBAPPE typos...

oh... and it's not like anyone didn't notice
that Indian girls think they're the bomb?!
oh yeah... oh no, not the Muslim girls... those girls
are whipped into always staring down...
like white girls are whipped into peering into
their smart-phone screens and envisioning:
anything outside of inter-racial relationships is:
pederasty (loose term)... whatever it might me...
bulimic antics: not done properly, mind you...
not in the Roman style of training the oesophagus
to just spew on a whim: i.e. i ate too much...
apologies... i need to... ugh! ugh! ugh!
                      get ready the trampoline!
we're going to launch half-digested fish-heads!

now i'm happy... my Trek Merlin 5 is compatible...
fun... looking at that *** trying to chase me down
working my way down toward the Old Bailey...
Asian ceramic raven haired
no helmet... and never, never... ride a bicycle
in an urban environment minding
the sticker on the inside of a large vehicle:
BLIND SPOT... well... d'uh... so use the large
vehicle like a battering ram against all the gnats
of smaller vehicles... ride on the outside of the large
vehicle... always on the outside...
what are you, cyclist... a Hebrew forced by
the **** brown-shirts to walk in the gutter rather
than on the pavement?! what am i?
just because i'm a cyclist i'm no less a hazard
to a motorcyclist?! momentum, self-generated!
i like my legs... let me know when you're dealing
wheelies and whizzes on a ******* wheelchair...
until i have my legs... i'll be skimming through
traffic... Norman Davis might have called
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth God's Playground...
i think i'll call London my playground...
there's plenty to play with around here...

                 but for once i listened to my ego...
for some reason i didn't require a depth of the
Freudian secular trinity of the addition of superego
and id... i was just about to think about going to the brothel
but then my ego said: you're not feeling it...
and i wasn't... i still had to clean the kitchen up,
take the garbage out... i was oiling myself up...
"oiling": checking if i still had a 30 year old's hard-on
i stopped using the fake diet of ******* of
actors: disposable, unattainable...
i switched to: ROMANIAN AMATEUR ****...
well... it's what i'm going to get...
but i checked my hard-on too many times today...
checked, i.e. checked without climaxing...
checked about 4 times... the 5th time i checked
i was thinking about going to the brothel...
but then my ego (not my ego) checked me...
you're not going anywhere:

THE FICKLE MIND AND THE FIRM TRUTH
OF THE BODY...
the mind lies more times than the body cares to admit...
until, of course... the reality of body steps in
and the mind has to retreat... just as happened with
my excess drinking... i went to buy that extra bottle
of cider and waiting in the queue while a mother
with three daughters "****'s sake" the mother retorted
while the girls were undecided what else
to add to the basked i looked at the shelves
with all the spirits... no! no! no more whiskey!
no more *****! no more!
i checked my supposed "impotence" too many times
today... "impotence": more like being
insulted by the madam: beached-whale...
she just flicked it when it went limp because
i found her physically abhorrent...
flicked it... like it was a worm...
like she was 6 years old and i was 5 years old
and she was still playing with Barbie dolls
and unlike she was...
because she knew what a key was and what a keyhole
was... but she had no idea what
physical attraction was...

                        reciprocated...

well ****... it's working... guess it's not working with you...
a bit like the horse that Christopher Reeve rode
when it dropped him and recalculated Superman:
without a spine...
plus i had no excuse to leave the house...
i had plenty of excuses to read some more of Knausgaard
and write this...
tomorrow i'll have the excuse of "working late"...
going to a brothel is not like saying:
oh yeah... i'm going on a date with a girl
we're going to the cinema blah blah...
       no... dearest ******* Madam...
she's the one that chased away both Mona and Khadra...
what the **** happened?!

what am i? a Duracell bunny?! there's an ON and OFF
switch with regards to my phallus?!
if that's the case... what's the dynamic of ****?!
is ****... no... it can't be... **** is a man *******
a turned-off woman? i once had an experience
of a woman who... let's put it mildly:
her **** was as dry as the adequate metaphor
of sensation one might regret to feel from rubbing one's
hands on sandpaper!
hands... finger tips... rough skin...
ergo the ability to play guitar or rock climb...
we're talking tender skin...
so... technically: hardly a pleasure for a ****** to feel
pleasure from an unaroused ****!
ergo?! that was an aroused **** and it's all psychological:
not physical... the shame of giving it so freely
and unwillingly... whereas playing games with
those one might want to give it up to...
i can hardly **** with a LIMPY -
   but i certainly wouldn't want to **** a timber-mill worth
of toothpicks, match-sticks and left-overs...
**** is psychological it would seem...
                the shame of it... all those labyrinths of playing
games suddenly disappearing from the case of
"spontaneity"...
   you should ask her: South African... Sancha...
worked in a private school... teaching boys Mathematics...
maybe she was a *******... by now who knows?!
i do know that i wasn't terrible aroused by her
the first time we tried...
i got a limp... like i got a limp with Ilona:
a forewarning... but she was adamant and whispered
into my ear: you will not deny me...
second time i was in her teacher accommodation
i brought a copy of the Machinist with me on DVD...
she must have spiked my drink because then the horror
of cocoon *** ensued and that's when
she climbed on top of me and gave me the sawdust
sandpaper **** treatment in the dark...

it kind of follows through to the casual mode of
argumentation people have concerning the schizoid condition:
it's all in your mind...
right... so the schizoid condition is simply: so...
your i-think detaches itself from thought
and forms a i-hallucinate complex as if: spring follows winters?
well then... it's all in your mind...
**** is probably in most of women's minds...
it doesn't actually exist in reality:
in the physiology... **** is a mental construct...
it must be... since i don't recall any ******
talking about: oh ****... i had to pull out...
her **** turned into a mantis or the mouth
of a worm from the planet Dune... i just couldn't
continue!

the next day she drove me to the station and i never saw
her again...
ergo? i have a strange relationship with a limp ****...
it's not impotence: per se,
it's more a judge of character concerning a ******
partner: however brief, however informal...
it's like a wild animal freezing still...
     deer in the headlights...
                                      i should have known better
with Ilona... but she pressured to the point where it
finally started "working": i wish "he" didn't...
it would have saved me so much pointless drama...
if i were a man with a child i would tell him just as much:
it's not working for a reason...
that ***** is a mantis... you're not a robot...
this isn't a *****... you're not an extension of a *****...
it's not working for a reason...
go and check... watch the most realistic "*******":
switch to amateur stuff...
                                that's all you're going to get...
and can you, get it up? well then...
it's not you...
                                     once all the glamour is gone
and you're left with a butcher's cut of antics...
                              well... if you're aroused by that sort of stuff
in private... why can't the partner reciprocate?
maybe that's just me finalising some logistics for
tomorrow...
shift at the Ice Rink tomorrow...
me... two girls...
   one butch lesbian... she keeps rubbing off on my arms
every time the home side scores
and she's celebrating...
      one rub by chance i can understand... two rubs
and i'm thinking: this isn't homosexual conversion therapy,
is it?
the other? got me the job to begin with...
started taking dieting pills because she feels depressed
because she thinks she's fat and this is what
working with women looks like if you're not
in the business of being a plumber: in the realm of
customer service...
    
                 that's how this new girl i fancied at work
got fired... about 4 other girls ganged up on her
and she was literally bullied out of work because...
            
it's coming up to 1am... i need to get up early tomorrow...
do a cycling shift...
trim my mustache, my beard, my ***** region, my arm-pits...
finish one more bottle of cider for good luck:
or no luck...
           listen to some more pagan music...
think about Bower Wood and how i wish that if i weren't
working tomorrow
i'd buy myself a bottle of whiskey and walk
into it, right now... to howl and wake up the crows.

p.s. oh, right, that dream i had last night when
i didn't scribble any words for anyone else to see?
two night ago i was swimming with
pseudo-jelly fish on the edge of the universe
transmitting vibrations of light...
last night i was watching while some colts
were gleefully celebrating their ability to drink
shots of absinthe... until i walked up to the bar
and showed them how to drink absinthe
properly...
i took out a spoon, dipped the spoon in some
sugar... poured some absinthe onto the spoon...
lit the spoon and the sugar alight...
watched the caramel form...
then poured some water into the glass
to clue them in into the secret of drinking absinthe:
you don't drink absinthe like *****...
you need for the green-milk of wormwood
to emerge!
    sie müssen für die grünmilsch von wermut
zu auftauchen!

am i the only one to spot that the former holy roman empire,
shifted a little bit to the east? the Visegrad alliance -
a new holy roman empire - well - as Billy Joel sang
of Belgians in the Congo - perpetually the Germans
attacked the colonial trinity: England, France... Spain...
which is why it all feels, well: a bit weird....
mind you, i like the poly-chromatic culture:
i get to cook curry - for each tsp of garlic and ginger
i shove in a tbsp -
                         because i'm nice -
but that doesn't mean i'll get
to bang a Hindu princess -
then again, a monochromatic society
gives me nausea - listen,
being 1st generation, you'd think i wouldn't
adapt to what former colonial powers said:
be nice... oh sure... i'm the sort of European
that never left the ******* continent...
nice is second nature when it comes
to pockets of Indian and Pakistani
while feeling superior with a cuisine of
bangers and mash... that's right up my street!
or be nice because you're all being
hypocrites or be nice for the sake of being nice
as in: socially acceptable manners?
this gets a bit confusing with America
******* into reliving the 1960s...
i mean...  just a bit *******...
but in reality? wholly window-licking.
with that d'uh of phrasing:
picked up a moth... d'uh... oh d'uh...
that's the point where i say: at least the
Iowa villagers aren't hypocrites -
all these New York scam morality brokers
and faking the charm of living out
a life of: moral ambivalence.
but sure as **** the holy roman empire
has shifted east by 1 degree...
of all the established powers of Europe,
the ones least hypocritical are the
non-colonial powers...
                    spain france and england will
continue receiving terrorist mail...
this is how i invested in a new sainthood -
we didn't leave the continent, they did...
we're not being hypocrites in the sense
of accepting migrants...
                 how about saudi arabia?
oh wait... no... too busy ******* out oil
and spending money...
                     true... what about Morocco?
n'ah... we're too much alike.
                  well... aren't the former colonial
rulers a bit thick? they thought the Irish
were a bit thick... i guess the Poles are doubly
thick... and if only i was born in England
and didn't retain an inkling into roots...
well... at least they aren't hypocrites:
i.e. said too much, but did too little.
                    sure, they'll attack the colonialists -
and the colonialists will wonder:
       but we've been so nice the past
50 years!
                          and my name is
Joseph Manage-Bottom, heir to
the entitlement of the 3rd estate of Sussex
known as: Candle-Lickwood -
                    because everyone said:
it's a bargain...                   i just don't understand
the whole notion of surprise -
    just because of the Rolling Stones
and the Beatles the fermenting crimes are to be
simply forgotten?
                                 Jesus!
              and i thought i had the naive perspective on life!
later the propaganda read: journalists reveal
the MI5 and MI6's curriculum vitae seances of
gearing up for employment the few that might
                                      do a Michael Jackson trick
with bleach.
yes, Poland has a monochromatic society -
and i'd feel weird cooking up Bengali perfumes -
i feel nausea whenever i enter it...
                 but, to be honest?
multiculturalism is a failure... in the sense
that as tradition states... i can't **** an Indian girl...
even though i'd be able to cook her
a meal her mummy also could - according to Caesar:
no one wins, ergo etc.

sometimes the title would just do,
                                                                      in the days
when fame doesn't echo throughout
the ages, where to find
   a Hector or an Achilles?
             only in times when life was
precious that it was doubly precious
by being audacious and teasing death -
where are the death-teasers among
us? who among us is a death-teaser?
no one... the myth of Sisyphus isn't
exactly a myth... what was a myth
in the 20th century is the plateau reality
of the 21st century -
                             there's a great joke
concerning Norway...
    a book sold half a million copies
          in a country populated by 5 million people...
so it's basically a village mentality "nation"...
i already said you should teach evolution
on the canvas of vikings rather than working
from neanderthals...
            berserker turned cultural clique -
the joke about the british decision to leave the e.u.?
hmm... multiculturalism? taking the genes
     to the cleaners in fear of hereditary weak genes?
isolated muslim communities who think that
britain is a country that's 75% muslim?
           it's, the, *******, irony... the brits can be
as well gifted in rude humour or smug with their wit,
but they've hardly explored their gaft of irony,
well, that's a miscomprehend use of a word,
for the mere phonos of the word: i had to use it...
   like gaffer is the chargehand on a building site.
what i mean is that the brits put so much energy
into a monty python sketch that they can't see
the irony they're implementing...
         can england ever become clique?
              did the british empire ever exist is a similar
question: yes, the british empire imploded,
we have three generations of the Raj living in
Islington, three Saudi generations living
in Marble Arch on Edgware Road...
                           we have hobnobs Harrods
lit up like sitting on a marble toilet with gold plated
toilet seats... tacky... that **** is tacky...
          and when people get rich, they just have
   a new way of saying they're poor... no taste.
me? i feel like having a patron... the pope, for example...
for all the god willing reasons i should have been
the poet along with the Renaissance masturbators
of the ******* in clay.... boy... Donatello really rubbed
that impression right into a David post *******...
look 'ere, placid like a gluttonous mosquito...
n'ah... fame these days is too much of a corpus -
it attracts hyenas and vultures once the lions
got bored...
   fame these days is too much c.c.t.v. -
             the omni eye looks at what colour my ****
was (and what consistency) from last Wednesday.
plus modern dialectical discourse has either become
too much solipsistic / autistic... or it's a wanking
marathon... which makes assurances to unsafe
*** between partners, and ultra safe *** between
pundit and *******, with the *******'s
reassurance: i get regular health checks...
        i mean, when she's so hot that after zenith
you jump into the bath and pour cold water
over yourself and she remains in bed *******
herself looking at you? genuine scenes there...
i have a ****** imagination... experience is so
much better... i'd rather slit my wrists than
work for Disney.
no, wait... wait! there's a point coming, referring
to the title... yep...
   a culinary rebellion against modern art backed by
Cézanne... you seen the recent Turner prize?
         i used to see a Turner prize every time i went
to the recycling centre near Upminster...
or a car-boot sale down Walthamstow...
i also used to go and see the dog-races down that route...
E17... when you used to have yella-double-decca
buses 123 and 179 travel the route...
        alright... look at a Cézanne still life...
(i call it instilled life) - now... can you imagine any
artist attempting to depict a modern culinary
experiment? can you, imagine a heston blumenthal
on a canvas in oil or watercolour?
      no, because you can't!
                                  the china or porcelain is the canvas
and there you have: a painting.
             this is a culinary rebellion against modern
art... the chefs decided to work from scratch,
or what you might call: working from Cézanne,
just because we returned to the Lascaux caves
  with huge open space art galleries and a toothpick
   that is cited: abstract of a pine...
                           and it takes 20 cubic metres to
be admired...                     (ever tried nagging?
  it's a steam-release, or like watching an entertaining
homosexual, same ****, different cover);
    and if you have a thumb's worth of a litre bottle
of whiskey? well... hail west!
             no sane artist would re-apply the modem of still
life into depicting modern cuisine...
  i know, i know... some dynamism went into
             turning a pear into a poached pear...
the hand of god...          but that transfiguration cannot
escape the stillness... it's not moving...
                 it's prefiguring a diner (not a place, a pundit
in a restaurant) doing a minor Pavlov experiment
when the plate is before him... at this point,
unless he's not a starving refugee, i think appetite is abstract.
          you know what was in the background
while i was writing this? ambiance...
  feng shui... refrigerator ambivalence...
     in a world when a chinese cobbler gets paid 2 squid
a day... and a poet in england gets paid zilch or close to
10 quid in a decade.

on this page i write pain, and the html censor revises it with flower... need for a positive vocabulary feedback of life in general?! what is this hippy ****, what's the point of writing the raw when you're revised as well done, missing the Tartar alt.?!

variations on E.C.T. as catalogued by
Sylvia Plath in the Bell Jar -
Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest -
mute Indian the winner in that one -
Hubert Selby Jr's Requiem for a Dream -
or perhaps from?
never mind - the mild electric chair
for therapeutic purposes, gamer crew and
the virtual reality mask - so many profess
to needing one - IQ enhancing stereotypes -
but there's me with a bottle of whiskey
and some spare time -
the professionals speak of an undoubted
pain threshold -
so instead of outright killing each other
we masked it behind outright necessity of
turning **** sapiens into guinea pigs -
clap... clap... clap... clap... and that clap
already resounds prior to this marking and forth
toward another century of the desert of
Darwinism - ever hear that joke?
a chemist, and physicist and a Darwinist
enter a bar - a chemist orders Hapsburg 98% proof
absinthe, a physicist order a shandy,
while the theoretical biologist (Darwinist)
orders a gene atlas and pseudo **** safety pins to mark
his route should he be drunk, and should be,
but isn't, he's on a rampage of walkie-talkie steroids
befitting only the tongue - raps and raps
without rhymes - 'buddy, drink something!'
'i'll drink a smoothie of aborted fetuses,
in that Christian calendar: the feast day of a would
be Mozart', oh hell, a would-be ****** too...
you have to much capacity and the claustrophobic
area of expression, believe me, they won't let
you fill your full potential -
take to rank, take to surgical instructions -
the man in charge at Oxford says:
please don't use frightening words electroshock therapeutics -
but i swear that's what it was?
treating momentary lapses in apathy - angry,
jealous, psychopathy - i.e. people uncomfortable
with the idea of Σ (totality, given neurology and
the brain myth, found elsewhere, or in / as total) / soul -
leave them be, we need psychopaths to give us
consumer gratification for the and in with the existence
of corporate sister nationhood -
well, unless you want a start-up in the sense of
a French Revolution - that one's booked:
only in America - elsewhere we're just Palestinians,
throwing rocks and paper-drones at metal -
testing out Newton and not the Einstein's parabola -
algebraic notation *x (time) hyphenation y (space) -
which means given algebra there's a third missing,
from Kantian standpoint of 0 - a z... god?
or, wait, refrain from Darwinism's anti-social collective
of a personal will - oh i don't know, improvise!
but what critique came to Communism (post-theoretical
socialism) came to the project of a multiculturalism -
this time round it wasn't the Pope that undermined it -
still, people confuse an attack on Communism
with an attack on Martial Law - the actual critique
came against Martial Law years December 13, 1981 to July 22, 1983,
we feared the Soviet invasion - why do you think
my communist party member grandfather lives
without complaint? of course the first to complain
are the farmers - before them the nobles drank,
got bored, cured boredom with borderline paedophilia -
the bemoaning - the king ****** me last at Versailles -
i lost my virginity and i subsequently lost my
ideal, i defined reality with a symptom.
so once we warred and killed each other -
but since we're a bit more pacified these days -
we decided to internalise warring with each other,
and instead of killing each other we decided to
experiment on each other - the reinterpretation of
E.S.T. into E.C.T.; prices start at £89.00 for the basic
kit to imitate death row simulation... you the funny
thing is... once you've experienced a brain haemorrhage
you became a slight sadist - you want the pain to come
to finish you off - some say the soul is bound to bones -
animation, pure and simple - that the non-existence of
soul is proved by the remain of bones - but that's
whiffed away with the Hindu practice of cremation -
and that's dark comedy given the Nazis -
it's almost like the Nazis wanted to end the debate,
the already Gothic practise of burial and bone-keeping -
as if invoking the geometry the soul would pick up first,
the abstracts of mechanisation, the canvas readied for
ether muscles and juice - ****** ended up
Hinduism on amphetamines; ****, i think i lost a bracket (
somewhere... oh well, i guess i must end with ).

not that i'm paranoid, but, my jewish neighbour,
who recently converted
to islam... has...
     god almighty...
   the biggest dumps of information on
         my other neighbours...
in england, you can be employed,
and still be homeless...
so...
           why should i be ashamed
living with my parents?
when i add to the cooking,
the cleaning...
  and the invoice writing
for a self-employment
              partnership?
the "elders" call her a reuter:
yes, the meaning is
there: but in phonetic spelling?
rojter...
    no, not rodge-ter...
  roy-ter...
             me?
   i have her a nickname for her...
mossad...
   in conversation i slip it in:
so what's mossad saying?
   ha ha... and this is a jewish woman,
in her late 50s...
  and she knows more
about my neighbours than i do...
   and all i know is that
her younger son: joseph hates
the heat as much as i do...
and that her elder son...
         ****... can't remember his name...
works for the police...
  and won't tell her what
he does...
  about the conversion... ha ha!
i'm pretty sure as **** she didn't
"switch" sides for the prayer manual...
or the pomp of 5-a-day (not a fruit)
typo for ceremony...
ha ha... she has a name...
   Hilary...
                   god knows what her last
name is...
        but it's an old relationship...
the kind, that amon leopold göth
mentioned...
about king casimir III welcoming
             the jews...
that's how being neighbours works...
you, don't, get, in, each, other's, way...
you, crack, a, joke,
and, get, on, with, it...
you compromise...
   these english natives no nothing
of compromise:
   they know about dictating rules
over properties they don't own...
but to be on equal standing with
neighbours? not a ******* clue...
    i actually hope some Hindu family
moves next to us...
     then we can seriously start
      sharing curry recipe secrets...
yes... multiculturalism,
does work... but only between
                    immigrants...
as long as we can expect to share
the lingua franca...
             but speak native in privy?
ah...
              it's funny...
    there was but one english native
in the catholic school i went to...
i tend to forget that i was educated,
among... primarily the irish,
    with a scottish english teacher...
england... england... england where?!
is that even on the map?
oh... but i went to the Cheltenham
book festival, and experienced
the "heartland"...
     i left feeling -
                sooner i'll land on my ***
in a fist fight with someone here,
now, than allow my foot to step
on this land...
   thankfully i have adapted
and disguised my accent -
or thereof lack of one,
  other than - which bemuses
the local essex folk, as being:
     at worst slurry,
               at best cosmopolitan...
some arab... who went to an american
university of cairo type of scenario...
but how does Hilary (mossad)
know so much about my other neighbours,
i don't know...
   i hear she goes to the local
laundromat...
            perhaps...
                      that's where she gets
all the info.
            - oh, the jewish neighbours?
they're not rich...
         not all jews ever were,
or actually are;
but she's has her weight's worth in gold
for giving up the giggles.

but i'm a true reflection of a ****** up world, it's hard to push the button repeatedly using only one example... after a while it just becomes a case of eccentricity... but what's scaring you, is that this eccentricity doesn't really speak - no flamboyance to rest and feel comfortable on, like a sofa... well, indeed, an iron maiden, to my gusto.

as one neurologist said to me,
'if someone says you're
mentally ill, then *they are mentally ill.'
or as i say, sometimes you
wouldn't believe what's happening
in england, all that boasting
and jesting concerning the
magna carta: oldest democracy,
free world... a load of decapitated
cockroaches with leeches *******
on the wound - psychiatric
darwinism, you name it, a *******
**** hole of failed multiculturalism,
a bunch of former colonial subjects
assimilated and integrated,
tongues forgotten, mothers of
linguistic d.n.a. strapped to the caterpillars
of tanks, ground into bony shrapnel;
oh yeah, and asian jokes about cabbages -
tell that to the turk making his kebab,
while i tell him... how about adding
sauerkraut instead? because, i mean,
you're using pickled chillies already.

My internal clock is set at Manhattan
I face the world with a jaded point of view
Manhattanites are chauvinistic, snobbish, opinionated
And relentlessly focused

Manhattan energy drives our universe
Like the taxies forge the streets
In a frontal assault

Art, history and multiculturalism
Remain the melting *** of stew
Brewed from micro to macro
But always after the brass ring

Always reaching upward
Like the skyscrapers of today and yore
Clamoring to be the tallest in the world
Yet knowing that we already are
Simply because we’re Manhattanites

Faith in our own destiny
We’re Manhattanites after all
And being a Manhattanite
Is all that needs to be said

We hear Donald Trump might become president,
And we thought we had it bad when we voted for Justin Trudeau.

When the U.S. Bought Alaska we were happy we didn't have to be the biggest country in the world.

If Donald Trump wins we have tons of room, and ****.

You guys legalized gay marriage, you  guys are great at simon says.

We are surprised still no one has tried to throw a nuclear missile yet at you, since you do stick yours up everybody else's ***.

If Donald Trump wins he should visit Canada and find out what multiculturalism is, if that's not to big of a word for his mind.

O and let's not forget multi religious, free health care, (and not just for the middle class)
Big *** guns that can **** people are illegal, and our gun regulations actually work.
We actually invest in things other than our military.
That have their ***** in other people's country that the U.S. Just "legally" gets and begins to dictate stuff. They "own" 3/4 of the earth.
So that's why the United States Of America is $34 trillion in glorious debt.

environmentalism/nauturism/animism, latitudinarianism, cancerism, corporatism/corporativism, bureaucratism, governmentalism, devilism/satanism/diabolism/demonism, nudism, feudalism/serfism, universalism, conceptualism, defeatism, filibusterism, groupism, globalism, collectivism, centralism, communalism, internationalism, mercantilism/Americanism, utopianism, Illuminism, Fabianism, totalitarianism, mobbism/gangsterism, militaryism/militarism/ warlordism, imperialism, liberalism, statism/ stateism, fascism, authoritarianism, hucksterism, botulism, priapism, polydactylism, Mormonism, evolutionism/Darwinism/Lamarckism, dereism, ******/Naziism, Marxism, Bolshevism, Owenism, maturism, czarism/tsarism, eugenism, tokenism, albinism, pauperism, subversivism, battarism, Caesarism, Hitlerism, Rooseveltism, Leninism, Slavophilism/Slavism, Sovietism, Stalinism, Trotskyism, Titoism, Malthusianism/Neo-Malthusianism, mysticism, monarchism, regicidism, sciolism, socialism, Maoism, communism, absolutism, poplarism, Cahenlyism, Pollyannaism/Pollyannism, pedestrianism, homosexualism/lesbianism/sapphism, voyeurism, cultism/occultism, sectionalism, unicism, cronyism, mentalism, elitism, Hegelism/Hegelianism, fatalism, humanism/humanitarianism/existentialism, popeism, transvestism, Occamism/Ockhamism/nominalism, nihilism, neoterism, nephalism, Negroism, Neptunism, scientism, euphemerism, minimalism, alarmism, favoritism, rheumatism, infantilism, miserabilism, hoydenism, physicism, toadyism, rowdyism, aristocratism, loyalism, rightism/leftism, Mongolism, sadism/ masochism, plebeianism/plebianism, polyphalangism, simplism, quixotism, recidivism, selfism, alcoholism, synorchism/synorchidism, esoterism/esotericism, revisionism, hedonism, plagiarism, sophism, Indianism, Parkinsonism, timonism/Aristotelianism, barbarism, mercurialism, deism, narcissism, fetishism/fetichism, hypocorticalism, mitralism, bossism, ethnocentrism, multiculturalism, hierarchism, polygenism, mutacism/mytacism, narcotism/narcoticism, hermaphrodism/hermaphroditism, hylopathism, hyperadrenalism, catadicrotism, entorganism, invalidism, vampirism, ergotism, prostatism, hepatism & nepotism.

it's exactly 2 weeks from my hiatus in
a homogeneous society -
   away from an internet connection -
alcohol free -
           and i've come to realise one
thing above all others:
       multiculturalism is...
   ******* exhausting.
                       i can play the "******"
whitey yo-yo all i can among fellow
***** morphed into fully grown
     beings -
                     problem is,
     i don't know if i'm more an outsider
among fellow men, or among the populace
of this, fair country -
     mind you, the only reason that the english
seem to have "tact" in disputes concerning
the fate of europe...
    englishmen are fakers...
              great at acting i must admit -
what was always going to help keeping
a serene face and mindful language?
   la manche - ärmelkanal -
                  english society is an exhaustion -
too much vibrancy is always a lodged
fudge blob in my head...
                for all the celebratory days -
i admit to keeping at least one day of
mourning, me, usually coming back
from the sedative of a homogeneous society...
    my complete immersion in but one
tongue...
not seeing a sikh turban, a black skin,
skimming on the flavours of chine -
     just plain old sauerkraut (apparently
cabbage is a funny word in urdu -
but i still mind asking the turk to add
some sourness to the sheer of lamb in
a kebab) -
                  and, my god,
pickled herrings, raw,
that famous alternative that is,
                 baltic "sushi".
                            - but i'm afraid that
the english would be double their usual
awkwardness in a homogeneous society,
so bland, so un-tropical,
              so... familial?
             in a country where you can pretty
much say what the ******* want,
even with the already ridiculous
religiosity and overt testament of:
   on sunday we don't work...
    not much different to france or germany
mind you...
    only the english run out basic ingredients
akin to milk or flour on a sunday...
mind you, whenever i walk into a supermarket
there are these zombies walking about...
i go in and know what i'm after...
   after... surrounded by these *******
   friendly, zombiefied, tourists...
           that isn't to say i frequent the english
society as such,
         my experience began and ended
with the catholic irish in school,
  and then some disorientated farmers
at university...
       Derby? a complete *******.
                    'hey matt', one of the few people
that uses my name is a supermarket cashier...
it's not that i mind skins, colours,
fashions,
what gets under my skin is the way in which
linguistics has become a sort
of zoology -
                 caged words in limbo of f&%£!
            does not really equate to anything
in the study of etiquette or is it simply,
   a statement that has aesthetic appeal?
                           at least the word
kurva (i made sure the W was missing so
you could veer into the sharpening)
   is treated as a conjunction rather than
            blushing guise of cameo in a language;
language ought to be a river -
      not when sea meats shoreline -
flow... flow... flow...
                   if everyone started to not muck
about with respecting the rules of
congeniality, if everyone just had that blank
canvas space to vent out but more importantly
inhibit frustrations...
                 for all the cares for a freedom of
speech: some things are better left unsaid.
                why?
         well... in all honesty, this fervent defence
of the defence of free speech,
  has made all thinking into a gluttonous bowl
of **** mixed with custard!
              whatever happened to the ultimate
freedom of all? the freedom to think?
               thought it dying a painful death
of necessitating keeping a freedom that's
   beneath it, in stature, or status...
      thinking has morphed into the most
inappropriate fear:
                                  claustrophobia,
or as some like to prefer, in calling it
by the nick of: cognitive constipation...
just to compliment the already vacant term:
intellectual ******* -
           better being a jerking off than
     scared of occupying your own, frickin' 'ed.
- but like i said, english society is breathtakingly
exhausting...
           i sleep like a baby in a bed
where my great-grandmother died...
   overlooking a graveyard...
               - and i replace writing with
puritanical deep-sea diving into books...
      actually, that's the only time when i really
read something...
                and the grand effort always
pays off...
                   no book is ever abandoned,
however tedious -
                          i care to arrive at the conclusion
of: perhaps "hangover" in the reading -
but raucously "drunk" upon completion -
even after a year -
          no book is worth being stranded
in the purgatory of lost fancies and aspirations...
movies are different...
         there's always the toilet or cigarette
break to get off easy on making excuses;
           how could anyone finish watching
gone with the wind is beyond me...
  i'd accept the stretch of film akin to
   ben-hur or cleopatra,
  in the latter case the Octavian monologue:
lord anthony is dead!
                the soup is hot, the soup is cold,
is that how one says it?
         lord anthony lives, lord anthony is dead...
shame on you for saying such words
lightly!
               his name has an echo chamber
in the urn of eternity!
               yeah...
   life in english is exhausting simply because
you find yourself with a **** & custard's
worth of thinking left in your while
walking on egg shells...
           pretending to defend a freedom of
  the waggling tenner -
penny for your thought,
                tenner for your talking;
     which is not worth the bother these days,
perhaps the mad had always dreamed of
castles in the clouds...
    but unlike the mad:
  i'm thinking of making my mind a labyrinth.

unique: in that the great cancan o'
h'americana spandex english...
          is littered with acronyms...
             a minor observational point...

also... that there's a europe
as confined to scandinavia...
there's most certainly western europe...

a southern europe...
             although... clogging up the "detail"
with spain... reconquista
   and not the shame...
               a barricade of goths...
                            leftover in the bizarre
gesticulation of a history...
and at: a history...

                 that the italians
                                    cannot be the heritage
of ancient rome: given
the cappuccino is a "nuance"...
  otherwise the greeks are bankrupt...
their history worth of envy is
being exhausted...

                  there's a western europe...
there's a... southern europe...
               but of an eastern europe...
such a piquant vogue of vocab that has
to cherry-pick into existence
an estonia and the latvians...

               central, europe?
                      all that is germany...
beside the fact that prussian-germany...
and the prussians could be bundled
up with the other baltic states...

little o' czech republic...
      a minor ally poland...
                    some alleviated circumstance
of an oriental allure within
the confines of russia...

             it breaks my heart
to see england unfathomable...
               currently without a near
perfect engagement strategy...
      coming to the fore with a headache
of diamond-studded gills...
        that there are
bipartisan "rats" and the ship is
sinking...
    otherwise the provincial aspect
of weeding out...
detestable aspects of cosmopolitanism...

that London could be treated as:
London-London... rather than London-England...
because of the great yawn
of the heliocentric adventure of sci-fi fun...
i.e. what is the copernican west?
what is the copernican east?

       perhaps a return to some sort of
language formality...
to escape with a poetry is hardly
a reconstitution of the soul
to a modern letter: dear sir... yours faithfully...
or a very modern hello! kind regards!

europe as a claustrophobia...
             it's such a limiting delight of...
that there somehow was...
a premeditation...
    to **** with premeditation allows the status:
******...
but to **** by accident is a "mere":
homicide...

              such grave consequences...
the culprit and the tool: but also the thought
involved...

but is there something self-deprecating
about english humour?
a pride of borrowed history...
unlike the interlude of non-existence
bound to Poland...
        this... castrated figment of my old
imagination...
                rule britannia referring
to a period prior to the empire and a ref.
to an english-spanish exchange...

then again...
   how did the spanish: then not the spanish...
create... a post-racial south america...
the tinged copper and auburn
lure of the delight...
there must be "something" sobering
bout an anglo-saxon realism...

that there's a tinge of taming the viking
horde... there's no share
in "grief" should the west arrive
at being licked by a mongolian
extract of prose...

           but always the very
formidable tow of the culprit cog
and:  **** in machina...
              easier to posit a god-phantom
ex-, as that gravity in extension orbit
linear of Pluto...

              postcards from Saturn... anyone?
otherwise, this... simply...
the english have exhausted the concept
of world... of geocentrism...
            
but then the forever soap-opera demand
of the local affairs...
how heliocentrism abides by a breath...
side by side with geocentrism
of the soap opera...
              to have to heave
a concern for the stars and the moon cycles...
this finite basis of a rooting...

        that the forerunner of / for the h'american
presidential candidacy
looks simply bored.... or rather...
unexpecting... while the first lady
is so glued to reciting the autocue
like a evil...
wild-eyed and pure ergonomic...
  a jeffrey dahmer seems to
have a more sedated glee of the eyes...

the first lady is... poison of the soul...
her eyes are cobweb knitting fatamorgana...
bringing to the table of
the arrogance of multiculturalism...
it's hardly a heritage incorporated...
there's the breaking of bones
in how to move forward...
at least the food served by the indians
or the turks has made it
as a pop staple on the high street...
it's very common to want to learn
a disguise of... the incoming horde...
the reception party will be glad
at being fed...
                               chimichurri:
give me curry... a loose translation...
                  
what am i to offer these isles when...
what all these others...
arrivals make such...
  pronounced additions to a life worth living...
turkish barbers... indian takeaways...
such prominence...

a work ethos in the shadows...
a shadow for a body...
a reconciliation with the body-work
of father...
i am forever to test the hobby market...
these formidable words like:
pineapple... like mango...
       some variation of "foreign" inventions...
never the placid anglo- prefix
titillating the paranoia: non-bilingual schizoid...

a dozen europes and a historical agony
surrounding the base narrative "primordial":
of...  i dare say... byzantine-&-darwinistic...
that the byzantines reworked a more
fashionable period before... settling for the laurel
before the shock & awe of the ottoman conquest...
or that darwinism is as much
a lesson in history as it is a lesson in biology...
that... the latter... is...
such a stereotypical predominance
of expected behaviour...

that the former is a... overt over-simplification
of a desire for work, wheat and time...
or a designation of space...
it's not that darwin is not a dickens...
but at least... the world is still inaccurate
with a dickensian take on:
with this here england...
arriving at the 20th century...
cricket players being dubbed...
fancifully: the tourists...
shouldn't all english people have
that affix?

                      there's that...
as there's also...
                  the copernican revolution
has been made impossible by someone as far removed
as william burroughs...
who insist... the ancient egyptians knew
of the heliocentric demands...
that the geocentric model was backward
thinking... that the ancient greeks
were the only people to ever think:
and we have only moral plagiarism to mind...
and a plagiarism of eureka!
or that thinking can escape
the narrative and riddle the heights
with spontaneity...

    this prolonged... western european...
admiration for a people that are currently...
made into an economic scrutiny *******-riddling...
imagine my disconcerting: hier und jetzt!

the wooden stairs are creaking...
there's a strain most unfathomable...
like that associated with a cavern...
and a man's eye having to invest in making
a bridge a reality...
that history is a reflective tool...
nothing sinister or military in nature...
a beer could be considered warm ****...
a bucket-load of camel spit...
should i guise it as such?

           to heave a beginning...
somehow i can't find... a work-around
of a western europe...
spain is still catholic...
             ireland... well... whatever...
the same self-depreciating humour
is to be expected...
          anything serious...
forward moveable and come along
has to be littered with that...
fable of the protestant work ethic...

it's impossible to have a father
who's an underpaid technician in the field...
whereas... mongrel romanians
are elevated to the status of
manager...
           pitch-perfect: ethno-central...
on the continent where
there are: "some differences"...
   zu liben unter deutsche wie deutsch'...
well... to live among the english
is to have to forever retain an otherness...
a foreign attitude of...
down the line... the capacity to...
integrate with a cousin or two being
towed...
if you knew a thing or two about
immigrant poles...
they're not very... forthcoming...
they are so hard riddled on the integration
project...
there is no in-group preference
other people a priori stress...

so... fallacy and fake number 1...
       so much for reading a milan kundera
essay...
in the context: that newspapers are
to be read!
   it's impossible to concern oneself
with the concept of a newspaper as
aligned with: not being read...
force-fed turkey glut and baron fat...

         help the pope to sing!
                        it's not like...
there wasn't a shortening reaction
phase to re-orientate the dynamism of: future "lore"...
europe is such a little place...
made even oh so much more tiny...
provincial... solipsistic...
by these island-dwelling folk that
the english tourists care to concern themselves
as being...

that the english language
is thoroughly recognised as the lingua franca
of old...
to tease learning some arabic or mandarin
is a question of aesthetic...
old fool and bigger than the lost "little"
of a worship...
such gravity... concerning the names...
Angevin...
                Merovingian... Capulet...
           Stuart... Windsor...
    my own sorrow: this common name...
           well...
                        all crippling demands...
big or small...
                   hell... there are bigger onces...
there's no known house of David or or Solomon...
such a borrowed gesticulated at...
the shadow drawn...
                   i forfeit!
from the ant people that abide...
to the swollen eye sore of blindness i tow:
a recreational soviet pact of: me's stealing Siberia!
borys!

They throw in Drummer Lee-Rigby,
To bleed.
Un-defended, just as culled.

His landmark a rain washed gutter,
Which flushes the detritus of human living into a divisive Thames. 
The cities true testament to multiculturalism.

Young Lee-Rigby never knew fresh from his red rose home,
That the pride of his life would out live that day, and be left to his boyhood alone.

And why up-rose to nightly unrest,
White boys with hate unleashed in their breast.

Yet portion of that well-trod street
Will Lee-Rigby forever be,
From blooded tarmac to fiery melee.
From hate filled night,
To grief filled day.

The death of a forgotten land,
And a scarlet line drawn in their sand.

yo! "homie"! you speak the tongue that you attribute your roots to? thought not, a hollowed out shell of a body with no tongue to wriggle out of it... i guess back home you couldn't play that ethnicity card, when unable to speak Swahili, right? immediate castration, ****, can't play the ethnic card here, since i don't know how to converse with my native pride... i'd call that **** parenting skills, that your parents overdid the integrating part to the point where we're talking Michael ******* Jackson... in inherent evil of bilingualism... i never allowed an englishman to step into my abode and force me to forget my mutterzunge, why didn't your parents teach you theirs? ah... could play the race card with respect to origin, you'd be treated inferior being black, among blacks... then again, if you taught me a word or two of Swahili, you'd earn my respect... instead i'm getting a hip hop "poetry" rant that's just annoying.*

i don't why the alt-right is deemed
so controversial...
         i only have to utter two words
to set the record straight:

          MARCUS        GARVEY

and that's it, self-explanatory -
    the call of an ethnic state has roots
in what marcus garvey stood for,
what did he stand for?

  for the blacks to return to the mother -
for the black americans to return
to africa...

         funny, how there's a similarity
only that in the latter instance:
      there's no where to move back to...

and i do wonder: do africans look down
upon afro-saxons or jay-z?
        if you ask me, from what i've seen,
the major charities,
the white chicks doing their bit
on aid trips to africa: but no black!

i'm starting to suspect that post-african
settlers in europe or america
would most probably feel inferior
     among the natives who remained,
they would probably be like:
you ancestors allowed us to be sold!

  come on, do you think it would be
easy to catch an NFL player or Goliath
of the NBA?
                   i can attest to something,
some people dream of
                a homogeneous society...
    but few actually manage to visit one
once a year to "celebrate" christmas...
let me just say:
                     it's nauseating...
           it's not that it's anything but
what i'm not used to...
  chancing upon two black guys
         in the centre of Warsaw is like
watching a very much, rare event...

        while in Ilford, Essex,
just tickling the North Circular
i'm back where i am with what i am used
to: little Islamabad...
         and i can sort of see both sides
of the coin, in that i think about this
multiculturalism nonchalantly,
               i shrug my shoulders and think:
****** time to be english proper -
born & bred...

                               yet the argument still
stands...
                    the africans in either europe
or america would feel intimidated,
nauseated by returning to a homogeneous
society...
                   it still stands that marcus
garvey would be considered alt-right these days...
and while once upon a time
the jamaicans sang about their homeland
Ethiopia, they smoked a joint and then said:
ah... let's do it tomorrow...
and on the next day they sang some more
rolled and smoked another joint and said:
ah... let's do it tomorrow.

Take me back to the days
Where the feel of texture and distinguishing colors among Africans didn't matter
Where the only word was black, and not pale or darker
Where the only weapon was loyalty upto royalty actually smarter
Where mother tongue superiority excelled the rest was after.
Where rituals and ceremonies were significant in culture
Where oral traditions activities was a preservation of history.
Where inclusivity wasn't done based on tribe, status or age
Where inspiration and education was passed from generation to generation through storytelling.
Where people performed rather than spoke
Where the media was the speaker's tone, volume, and cadence

Take me back to the days
Where people did not blame nationality, ethnicity,
culture, economics and education
Where there was no colonial *******
Where there was no concept of slavery, racism or discrimination.
Where Africa was rich in culture and not the fallacy of primitive and a backward jungle
Where Africa was peaceful and not a race with guns and violent.
Where shouting am black and proud wasn't important because color didn't matter.
Where respect for elders remained an unbroken cornerstone in african culture
Where birth, marriage and burial rites was honored.

Welcome to today's Africa
Where exporting and importing of cultures have become the trend
Where cultures travel through deserts, cross trade routes and through immigration borders
Where exchange disregards our notions of geography and race.
Where virtues such as hospitality, empathy, courtesy and respect is long gone
Where the only thing left are byproducts of culture.
Where multiculturalism has faded and everone hails on becoming one
The richness is not in Africa looking like Europe
What makes the world beautiful is in the diverse contributions

Welcome to today's Africa
Where culture is paraded on an image of drum beating
Where media's notion is dancing naked or eating bush meat
Where in the midst of it all culture lost its definition
Where there is no importance in defending a territory with no boundaries.
Where technology dominated our land and mind
The struggle lies in reclaiming what is rightfully ours
I refuse to fall and cramble because I'm for the idea of sameness.
In the mind is where it all starts
I put no blame on culture, not my affliction.

draft enclosed below... prior to?

    whiskey, always with the whiskey...
                         there was, some, "pressing" matter,
to give me over to grief...
     a grief that was never going
to be a grief...
                  more, a, bewildering in situ...
something unavoidable...
                        like finding respectable
homosexuals akin to douglas murray...
             ah! that's what it was...
watching the premier of rammstein's song
ausländer? thoughts?
                 "teaching" colonialißation in reverse?
truly... france, england,
   perhaps even spain...
                              teaching...
good teachers...
                   they were always going
to be good teachers...
                     the only colonialißm
the germans ever ventured to address was
of their neighbours...
       ****** choice...
                   oh but i'm pretty sure
you would come back from Warsaw
with a homogeneity nausea sickness...
   i know i do...
         every single time,
   the homogeneous ethno-representation
is nauseating...
       even though, i'm stepping back
into a throng, of, "my own" people...
   i lived on the outskirts of loon'don for far
to long, i don't see an ivory beauty,
the pearls of Ghana,
      or some ***** and blue indian,
i start to "worry"...
                              i once traveled to
Cheltenham... and it, felt,
     like i was walking through Warsaw...
i don't even know whether i was surprised,
or whether i was experiencing the same
homogeneity nausea sickness...
                    each step of passing through
the city, i wanted to puke...
                         well not out an aversion
to being white among whites...
                        i guess i'm just the remains
of the globalist narration of so many
different people living in close proximity...
hub...
             as if revising a city akin to Rome...
when once in a year, gladiator slaves would
come for a month of festivity,
and the whole world was revelead
  with all its faces and hues...
                    but the germans know this...
inverted colonialißm -
         of being "colonialißed"...
                         i'm pretty sure the folk
in Warsaw are less understanding
     to the chocolatiers of Brussels...
                          because, as far as i am concerned...
Brexit, really, really came...
        when... the privileged status
of former British Empire citizens put to
question, a sudden surge in the floodgates
being opened for the former iron curtain countries,
you could have told these Pakistanis,
these Indians...
         don't worry... these people have come...
but... don't think they'll stay...
some will...
                   but most of them come
from an environment of homogeneity...
perfect example...
              a flight from Warsaw to Stansted...
talk about "racism",
     talk about "multiculturalism"...
i said jack ****, i just listened to the debate
behind me between a "racist" man
and a youg, impressionable young woman,
who cited the book why i don't talk
to white people about racism...
            i came here aged 8...
            and as a first generation expatriate...
oh yes, i can use the term...
which is weird...
since if i really didn't sink into this tongue
i'd call myself an immigrant...
just like the english immigrants
to h'america or australia call themselves,
the alternative: expatriate...
               the "racist" cited an evolutionary
predisposition as to why same attracts same,
a contradiction of magnets,
but, then again, we're not talking magnets,
but people...
               i'm dissociated with my "fellow"
ethno-centered peoples...
       sure... memories of childhood friends,
digging holes and playing a game
of throwing marbles into them...
hide & seek at night...
   kicking each other in the ***...
                     my memory bank reaches
as far back as being aged 4...
so... yeah... i have a lot to work with...
   again... i woke about how else to describe
that supermarket cashier from yesterday,
how she wanted to become a paramedic...
how her perfect skin,
   without a bout of hay fever looked
radiant...
                            the words:
       like a lake of milk,
                                       illuminated by
a full moon in a night of frozen constellations
of stars, or perhaps only her love spots
   of moles.

    well... that's that... now i'm ready to cite
and translate some Horace...     

sunt quibus in satura videar nimis acer et
  ultra legem tendere opus; sine nervis altera
quidquid conpusui pars esse putat similsque
    meorum, mille die versus deduci posse.
Trebati, quid faciam? praescribe.
              <quiescas>
       <ne faciam, inquis, omnino versus?>
<aio.>
              <peream male, si non optimum
erat; verum nequeo dormire.>
    <ter uncti transnanto Tiberim,
            somno quibus est opus alto,
                   inriguumque mero sub noctem
corpus habento. aut si tantus amor
                             scribendi te rapit,
          aude Caesaris invicti res dicere,
multa laborum praemia laturus.>
   <cupidium, pater optime, vires
deficiunt; neque quivis horrentia pilis
agmina nec fracta pereuntis cupside Gallos
aut labentis equo describit volnera Parthi.>
<attamem et iustum poteras et scribere
fortem, Scipiadam ut sapiens Lucillius.>
      <haud mihi dero, *** res ipsa feret:
nisi dextro tempore Flacci verba per
attentam non ibunt Caesaris aurem:
      cui male si palpere, recalcitrat undique
tutus.>
<quanto recitus hoc quam tristi laedere
versus *** sibi quisque timet,
                           quamquam est intactus
        ed odit.>
                  <quid faciam?      

i guess this would be the perfect time
to write a translation before disclosing the draft...
well... it's Horace...
          who did Dante take to walk him
through hell?           wasn't it Virgil?
only a naive-****-show of a man would
take with him a Greek poet akin to Homer,
or Sappho...
       well... not exactly...
not if poetry attracts poetry...
     James Joyce decided upon Homer,
but i'm not a James Joyce...
if Dante desired to take Virgil as his guide...
i've decided upon Horace...
  and here's the translation:

some say, that in the art of satire i am too acute,
that i go beyond established confines (of the art),
the others, that i write without talent and that
the poems i write in a simialr vein,
can be written into their thousands, every day.
Trebati (a serbian name, etymological
meaning: to need;
point of conjecture... well... if the medieval
world is to be made concise...
and the etymology of slav, implying slave...
it... only appears to hold true for the southern
slavs... the balkan region...
  as far as i am concerned,
the northern slavs... didn't exactly
make it to slave status,
the southern slavs might have been
of the roman empire...)
       Trebati: what do you counsel?
say something!
     stop writing!
            therefore throw my poems
into a corner?
           yes!
         to the executioner, that might be best,
  but then what do during the night,
when it's impossible to fall to sleep?
   rub your body with oil,
thrice swim the length of the Tiber,
in the evening drink some wine -
          you'll thus banish insomnia;
and if still, you have an irresistible desire
to write, then write for the sake of passing
  the victorious deeds of Caesar for posterity;
a generous reward you will receive.
   willingly, but my strengths are modest,
for me to sing about the death of the Gaul
javelin throwers with their broken spears,
or the wounded Parthian,
                      when he's dragged by a horse.
celebrate then, because of this,
   his bravery, his sense of justice, his wisdom,
just like...

  ****! another googlewhack!

                 lucyliusz w scypiadzie
       https://tinyurl.com/y5u7uelu

       just like... Lucius in Scythia.
           maybe i will not tempt, when the right
time comes. the time isn't right, Caesar's ear will
not succumb to the compliments whispered
by Flacci...
           do not stroke the steed in time,
    which will with its hoof kick.
better that than by reproach via a poem
      of these mediocrities,
     like the clown Pantolabus or the grandson
of Nomentano -
        who without blame, and even as
being untouched, hates.
                               and what of it?
        
hell: now the draft...

when all seems bleak upon the blank
plateau and the calm seas of
thought being voided -
    i tend to find scraps of language worth
keeping,
  odd bits of letters no written,
      interrupted narratives -
conversations never had - or pivoting
upon an alternative choice of words,
never mind...
    i acquired english and made myself
its father -
              audacious, i agree -
but psychopathic? i hardly think so.
              to out-speak a native means:
doubling down - standing ground -
digging trenches...
                 i have made english into
the equivalent of an armchair,
    sitting pretty, sitting cosy,
   in some shady part of an east london
pub: peering into the stage, attempting
to differentiate the actors from the props
and the props from an: authenticity.
trick is... well, i can't read in my native tongue
when in england...
  which is why i am extremely anticipating
the december hiatus impeding...
immersed in an environment filled with
the nativspreschen - notably from
devices such as the radio and the t.v. -
   i can digest a book in my nativspreschen
with as much ease as:
  spreading butter on a slice of bread...
        but that's because when in england:
i'm wholly dedicated to the language,
   perhaps not the culture which i mimic -
but i have allegiance to that ******* comfy
armchair that's the english language.
- i remember this one incident of being
thrown out from a local pub on the grounds
that i "launched a glass pint in rage across
the pub floor" - xenophobia tickle -
                 i spoke too much like oliver reed
to one schizophrenic and some other lost soul...
a few days later i tap the shoulder
    of one of the bar mistresses and ask her
if she's feeling o.k., if you want
a depiction of constipation, you should have
seen her, she has harbouring a hedgehog in
her *** by that point...
          a complete ******* of a pub anyway...
you see, even with an acquired accent,
if the question is asked: where you from,
and you say: not from around here,
   even if you've lived here pretty much
all of your life: you're not puritanical enough...
mind you... i'm the pedigree breed,
surrounded by mongrels...
                 i am, but a mongrel of the soul
nurturing an adopted tongue, while
   "trying" my hardest to forget my native tongue...
*******, i'm not going to turn into
a terrorist, which, by the way,
english society has bred...
                  polish is not omnipresent -
it's not the king-quack-**** sitting on
the throne of hippo-******* that's
the meridian - you have you dream,
taken from the spanish -
       die ***** von sonnezunge
ständig suchen  für die mond:
       die schlaflosigkeitreich -
the empire of (the) sun-tongue -
perpetually looking for the moon -
  insomniac empire.
      hell, have it, maybe by having it
you can have your, little elaborations
of the dream fabric...
             point being:
my native tongue is an equivalent of
the iron maiden by comparison...
       the merovingian was wrong:
you truly wipe your *** with silk
by speaking english...
                notably by introducing the
amputee R's worth of trill to sound old-school
and a knowledge of latin always helps...
but nothing quiet comes across
as speaking the native tongue better than
the natives...
        i think that's called ambition...
      or a heckling of some sort -
a heckling where no one is staged or is
telling a joke...
                   a bit like being generous
to the turk and his predicament...
  he owns a store, the local council comes
to him, he literally has a caravan outside the store...
and he's worrying about employing
lawyers to solve the matter, he doesn't
know what the problem is...
two bottles of wine and some coca cola
and i peer outside: ah!
         so i tell him: you're obstructing
an item of public property...
  the simple answer is that you have to
revise your makeshift caravan shanty and
expose that bench...
did i get a thank you, or a free bottle of
whiskey... turks... what do you expect,
  he thanked me by increasing the price of beer...
if people older than me have no
standards of etiquette - why even expect
any study of ethics? you first learn aesthetic,
then you learn etiquette,
    and then comes ethics...
         you think i bought anything from
him ever again? loser.
     - became a corporate ***** -
but then again at 16 quid a litre of ms. amber scot,
i can't complain.
                  - but come one,
you've been given free legal advice and
you can't even repay a debt of being given
advice... ah... i see...
it would have made the proprietor look
                     stupid, i.e.: d'uh! a bench!
funny you should ask (without even asking):
whenever i go back to poland i feel grounded...
nay, cushioned - after all i am not there
to visit my countrymen as such,
   more or less imbued with a sense of
proximity to my neighbours,
  the germans, the czechs, the white russians,
lithuanians and the ukrainians....
               and to read a book...
but mostly about feeling the vicinity of
the neighbours...
                      and inhale a breath of
authenticity, in historical terms...
                     because back in england -
  well i have a patriotism for the language:
but not the people -
                    the language i can cherish -
the people mean diddly-squat to me...
  after being barred from a pub on false accusation,
well... expect any different?
                if only i were black,
i could call that racism...
                        alas, i have the ****** luck
of the irish...
                 then again...
                                       none of this even matters
beyond a squabbling defaced impression
of a memory...
                              it still stands:
i'm comfortable writing, since i deem
english to be an armchair -
               but the nativspreschen i find
as an iron maiden...
            although when wholly immersed
in an environment when the only words
in english you hear are: weekend, etc. -
                     there's this aura of oddity that
surrounds me:
         either i'm a ghost among the living -
or i'm alive, immersed in ghost town...
i can never tell...
                           all in all:
continental air is so refreshing having spent
an entire year on an island...
   the almost complete lack of moisture,
the crispness of dry cool,
           the crackling of the foot on snow
in imitation of walking on egg shells -
  and the mere snow - notably falling crisply
during the night...
            islanders are a very strange people...
whether the british, the icelanders,
the maltese, the cypriots, the irish,
                        you name them...
                      islanders have this knack at
believing themselves to be superior
to kontinentalvolk -
       notably when it comes to the basic
etiquette of tourism...
                  in was in paris, twice...
each time i had the luck of a fellow tourist
who spoke french...
                                     once it was this
italian girl, another a canadian girl with
russian roots: a pole's luck, i guess.

the english speak of multi-cultural
integration
like they are sellers of
ice-cream cones...
they're selling barbwire -
      and they're selling the *******
with smiles...
          i'm done...
   let's be honest..
back in Poland,
in a homogenous capital,
i feel less nostalgic and more
        nauseated by a slight prominence
of multiculturalism -
   not in a negative sense,
i'm missing the Sikh turbans and
and the African skins...
                       i get sick from
all the monochromatic
nausea...
           bu then again i was raised
in a "polyglot" society...
               i have no pledge or
ownership of a post-colonial nation...
and i have the authority
of whom?
   your own people attacked
grammar,
i will not make a grammatical
attack legitimate...
you can have the nouns...
but when you attack the grammatical
structure of a language?!
no...
nein! nein! niet! nie! NO!
you've pushed me...
     i way integrating into your language...
speaking it,
ensuring a chameleon stature
to encompass it...
  you change the *******
categories?
  no...   no...                NIE!
read your ******* harry potter elsewhere...
freedom, my godforsaken ***,
saved from not having encountered
homosexual *******...
******* ***-monkeys...
no!
                          no!
you could have been allowed
a monopoly on the nouns...
      i would have bleached myself...
become the de-organic ******
embodied in the English tongue...
but did you have to attack
the English grammar?!
  really?!

             no... you speak your crooked
English... if it is just that...
       time to take the reins
of the language into my own grip...
because... clearly...
the natives are lost and incompetent in
using it...
                      i can't exploit
the conundrum like an Afghan
or a Pakistani...
                
  whatever might be deemed necessary...
whatever is necessary...
     no... you can attack the usage
of nouns and noun ascription
to become equivalent of labeling...
but don't attack grammar...

            shouldn't a native impose
this curiosity observation?!
  shouldn't a native make this
observation?
   no?!
   guess i'm more patriotic
about a language,
and always LESS, about a PEOPLE...
than some smirk-fusion
of a teenager with a proud look

no... you don't touch grammar...
2 x 2 = 5 exists in the entertainment
of meta-mathematics
of a Radiohead song...
  
      you can have your noun
contra "misnomer" ergonomics -
you leave the grammar alone...
and if i don't implore you...

       i'll warn you...
come to Russia... come to Poland...
i guess mere tongue
is not the same as a knuckle count;
but i want these people
to learn arithmetic!
  i want them to!
         ****... forget the Polish
******* galls running just fine
with their Saudi lovers,
fathers... jealousy priests...
  
hardly the mandible jaws...
  bring me your peasants...
         perhaps the odd dozen in Warsaw...
come nearer to Auschwitz...
Krakow -
                   less, and less...

don't come after grammar -
"correct" pronoun usage -
drunk's goggles?
there's a she but she's a "they"?
am i really that drunk
that i can't even see double
but see multiple?!
**** me...

                 guess the Platonic debate
concerning universals
and particulars has, somehow,
been solved...
           as it turns out...
it began with singularity and pluralism...
there are more than
two genders,
and two sexes...
but only a singular act of ***...
or there are more...

so *** is...
         more than two sexes?
     *******?!
        enlighten me!

           i am always more than willing
to receive a lesson in grammar!

.in a land, where, ahem, "supposedly"... the one eyed man leads the blind? that oeuvre proclaimation? hard to... give the one-eyed the mastering of the people, who can see, no? as the one eye-man said, son of Odin... the two eyed are as blind as the no-eyed, in that they cross their eyes, and imagine themselves drowning... i see a serpent... without eyelids... perpetuated spine of lizard, cranium of cold, venom... the hebrew didn't exact... "justice" by ensuring the lizard to be left, wriggling, spine-esque, without attachment of limbs... no... the real torture? the torture that Moses didn't speak of? why, why oh why, did he leave the serpent without eye-lids?! i ask, because a mammal, a bonsai tiger is playing the role of a bassett hound, he's a maine ****... and he, for some, reason, enjoys my company... the fact that the "devil" lost his limbs... i'm not here for that... i'm here for the fact that serpents... spine and cranium remnants of dinosaurs... have, "apparently"... "lost" their eye-lids... imagine the agony... of falling asleep with your eyes open! sympathy for the devil? well... is there really any sympathy for a god or the gods? beside the point... ever since i was born... for all the creativity of the h'american people, their primitive christianity was perpetually sentenced to be abhorrent for me... i could never stomach it... that being said: so what their atheism. i could never stomach either side of the argument... at least with the russians you were told to settle for the kazakhs, those pseudo-Mongols... then, those, intermediate mouth-offs of the english... it's like a dog dies, but you can never get the fleas off of a dead dog! they keep on biting, trying to "revive" *******, akin to 20th century's 1960s zenith, "property allowance of dictum". let me just say... how god cursed Satan... to be left without limbs... is how he cursed... the fact... that dinosaurs, "once upon a time", ruled this orb... limbless sidewinding spines and brains? that's not the real... "pardon", for the emergence of man... do snakes have eyelids? i'm pretty ******* sure they don't. big tigers... tigers and lions... what about the domesticated bonsai tigers? last time i checked... big cats... tigers... lions... they had eyes... that resembled mammals... their pupils dilated, or contracted... cats? the bonsai? why do their pupils resemble lizards? ******* spies! leather in furrs! what's that old christian metaphor of wolves in sheep clothing? that's it, isn't it? well... here's a ******* update: lizard leather in bonsai ***** furrs! i keep having these blinking matches... with my maine *****... yes... the basset hounds of the feline kingdom... blinking matches, wavering: staring contests... the poverty of the metaphor poetics of Moses is finally revealed... you trust your cat? sure as **** your cat's eyes do not dilate or contract like a tiger's or a lion's might... there's a ******* lizard spy in that cranium of their, "cute"-ness... i'm pretty sure the eyes of a tiger, or a lion, become O from o... regarding the pupil... and not O from ()... slit. again... the biggest curse of the "devil" (dinosaurs) was... to craft a slithering pickle jar of a lizard's worth of a weaving spine and a brain cell? or, the fact, that, serpents do not have eyelids?! that they have to black out to craft a pair of eyelids? that they have to binge... and the reason why they ingest a whole body, is so that they can digest a whole body in order to fall asleep, with their eyes, open? i have just left, whatever was the worth of the poetics, associated with Moses' genesis... some **** ***** can play around with a serpent for all i care... i just need to hear a sssssssss sound in my head... find a cat sleeping in my bed... and say: those eyes are not big cat's eyes... they change from mammalian through to lizard... cats are dinosaurs' spies; and no, the curse of leaving a serpent without limbs... which explains the ******* crocodile... the komodo dragon... i'm worried that "god" took a snippet of the eyelids of the serpents... the "retrospective" lab. specimen of the remains of the dino. inquiry into the past of this, orb.

o.k., so i integrated, now what?
can the anglophone world
put away its ******* of giving
everyone a fair chance when that
supposed "fair" chance is
a neurotic take on not being "racist"?
what, a, load, of, *******:
  and pastoral ****-heaps of oops -
i should have migrated in my
teenage years and kept my
diacritical exfoliation,
       the distinction by accent if not
by colour... but i'm sure you're
well aware that the oliwki -
i just call the ******* olives -
              have a joker card of the obviousness:
i.e. like ******* are descendent
of an eskimo...
                 today is the first night
of night frost...
     metal is hit first,
the cement paparazzis are not yet
economised -
                        and i find it a waste of a day
in winter if i see sunlight...
    so i go back to bed:
the plan was always:
go to sleep in the night,
wake up when it's night.
           i'm not buying it...
              but i should have really
misguided by efforts in learning this,
god-forsaken tongue,
imperfected it, rather than perfected it,
retained the: free meal ticket of
the ******* accent and then scream
when the opportunity came: racism!
racism!
                  easier if i were olive
skinned...
                free rides like that don't come
so often...
         the english have become
neurotic beyond compensation!
      i'm not nervous about being called
a racist or a ****... call me that enough
times and then a lightbulb moment
will, happen... problem is:
i'll embrace that stereotype with as much
gentlemanly airs and "concern" that
will only be made for the opposite
party to not distinguish politeness from,
ridicule...
              no no,
these people will not be riddles -
they'll be ridiculed, a massive difference.
i sometimes regret learning the english
language to establish myself by the native
standard of talk,
  because once you've attained that:
then what?
     you already have a meritocracy that's
build upon: what's best representative
of your multiculturalism -
apparently the whites don't distinguish
other whites...
                    as it is clearly seen:
christianity taught the nebulous blood-thirty
barbarians a culture of masochism...
            it's actually painful to hear
a german speak, less painful speaking
german yourself...
       herr... wachsen einige hoden, bitte!
danke.
           it just looks like watching a boxer
in match wearing a ******* tutu.

    willkommen! zu aufpassen:
                    die zeit zu kommen sie!
*****-brute-deutsche...
    hündin-brachial-ßaß!
           ­      ich: jawohl!
                                  
   you want to punch: you better want
to punch high, on the head...
for the... ******* concussion
    (die gehirnerschütterung...
guess what... no trenches for you...
chemical nouns!
  ficken feen paddy kobolde -
    glücklich?!)

there has never come a time,
similar to this,
when a ******, a polen...
would, love, the deutzsche-zunge
as much, as he might love it now...
weird... seltsam...
                gott, mit uns!

memories of my grandfather's plea:
herr! bitte bon-bon!
         before the soviets came
and decided to sleep with the goats...
kommen auf ein metallurgiefamilieanfänge
(carbohydrate enough for you,
mrs. khan?!)
          what is it with me and the allure
toward the german tongue,
away from zee Ęnglisch?!

       i have an idea, or, two...
so many pakistanis with khan
as their surname...
it almost makes you, "wonder"...
islam blah blah this,
islam blah blah that...
       a lot of pakistanis with
mongolian surnames...
       time to find the wound...
time to find the salt..
  don't you think?
     oh: nicht bitter...
                       wirklichkeit... prüfen,
eh?
                i can't, or rather,
i don't have the energy to hate,
or remind the saxons,
their misdeeds...
              ich bin müde!
                i am, tired...
    see? no diacritical marks,
i have to make up the "loss" with
punctuation markers...
                            kennt ihre nachbar!
liebe? liebe?!
                   kennt ihre nachbar
            wie dich selbst!
liebe?! ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
sagte die eifersüchtig gott...
liebe?
                how about: know your neighbour
as yourself...
      the command, love your neighbour
as yourself... can we leave that sort of *******
to petting cats and pigeons?!
i rather know my neighbour as i
might know myself...
        love is never a part of the golden rule
of universal application...
  love is a futility of diminished
senses...
       i rather know my neighbour,
than love him,
as much as as i rather know myself,
than love myself.

so when's the next *******' worth
of riddles going to come from?
   palestine...
  look, i've already exhausted the "jewish q.",
i'm tired of jewish wisdom...
what's next: the arab pandora's box?
great!
    mind you... it's so nice to see
the yews the yids, the 'ebrews
making fwends with the arabs again...
hell: goat herder met another goat
herder...
       which leaves the argentinian
neo-nazis with the beef!
            and some of us:
with leather shoes, belts...
                 jackets... and... bacon!

god bless... this wonderful world!

Verse 1:
Strictly speaking with these IV stickens,
I’m not a fan of incisions,
For in the past it was a means for sterilization,
So, I can understand why so many are iffy with vaccinations,
After all, why should we believe that it doesn’t cause autism?
After all, my people were lied to before, which lead to devastation.
Growing up in a system intent on extermination,
Growing up in a environment filled with racism,
Growing up in a nation that sees my people as an infestation,
As an inconvenience that deserves damnation,
With people telling me to go back to my reservation,
Like, I can’t even go shopping without being seen as a villain,
Getting followed or patted down for investigation,
What did I do to deserve being put into this prism?
It’s like a prison,
Trapped in a country torn apart because of colonialism.
And if I succeed is it because of my hard work or is it based off of tokenism?
Just a pat on the back for corporations,
To showcase that they are indeed all about “multiculturalism.”

Hook:
They tell me to inject the needle,
The same ones whose ancestors slaughtered my people,
They tell me to inject the needle,
The same ones who continue to oppress my people.
They tell me to inject the needle,
The same ones who don’t give a **** about my people.

Verse 2:
Yeah, the same ones putting pipelines through indigenous land without permission.
The same ones that stand against Wet’suwet’en.
When the Supreme Court has already found in favour of Wet’suwet’en.
So, why is Canada still using RCMP as a means of attrition?
So, much for reconciliation.
Getting told to check our privilege from an ******* who is a heteronormative Christian Caucasian.
Making over $100,000 dollars and using $900 tax dollars towards subsidization.
So, dear Jason Kenny how about you check your ******* privilege!
The fact that people voted a idiot like you in is depressive.
Especially when the NDP was way more progressive.
Reducing the conservatives selfish expenses.
Like private jets and golf courses,
And putting some of that money towards social services.
Instead of lining their own pockets like the conservatives.
Yet the right wing media biased and undermined these great changes.
And now that they are in power they are cutting social services.
Now that they are in power minorities and natives are again facing persecution.
Now that they are in power the world once again favours heteronormative Christian Caucasians.

Hook:  
They tell me to inject the needle,
The same ones whose ancestors slaughtered my people,
They tell me to inject the needle,
The same ones who continue to oppress my people.
They tell me to inject the needle,
The same ones who don’t give a **** about my people.

three days pass,
   the world cup is near the end
                            of sorting out the quarter finals...

a mute of three days
stumbles down the stairs
   and sits across from his father

to watch the england colombia
match...
            it's 1 - nil to england...
and the father explains
    how at the construction
site they teased him about poland
going out in group
stages...

        and he's rooting for colombia
like mad, or rather like a child
  in that likeable: devilish way...
and you root with him...
           even though you're thinking:

god, imagine the day,
  the people, the lost monarchy and
a celebration of a people
         by a people in the streets...

first time i came to england
as an 8 year old
          i was smuggled -
                                  e-legal...
the home office came to the rented
flat...
  cuffed my parents
   while my grandfather (on a visa)
remained with me:
   and watched as i cried and
                                punched a wall...

(hence i learned the rule
  of the literate hand...
           when it comes to punching?
you need to punch something
harder than flesh...
       to even out the knuckles,
to make the 4th knuckle protruding
and ready...

my right hand juggernaut
          of flesh covering silicone bone)...

my second arrival in england?
   well: i have the british passport,
  don't i?
          
   england wings it, winning on penalties
and i'm more than happy
  (given colombia beat poland
  3 - nil in the group stages)...

         yet i can almost understand
  not rooting for england,
   but i figured: they didn't take the football
pensioners on tour this time -
youth, perhaps youth will mend it...

shveeden isn't exactly belgium
     in football prowess...

                    yet there was a conversation
prior to all this post-scriptum musing
of a past event
   that made the former 3 day mute
       start to shake with what
   the answer to a question was:
                    do you think i'm lying?!

- kto ci dał to limo?
- ja, sam sobie.

             and then we watched the football...

i didn't tell him about
trying to understand women you
****** real good who returned
the favour by slapping you in the face
like it's some: high-end hollywood
movie from the 50s machoism...

        mmm... stanley kowalski
                   *****-slapping the "next big thing"...
i stood my ground on the slap,
and realised:
           why not wrestle like a titan:
      with myself?

20 punches later, a black eye...
                        hence the inquiry:

- who gave you that black eye?
- i(s)ch, selbst sich.

and then we watched the match together
as prior stated.

         my father doesn't speek the english
i speak...
     so in writing:
                    my reply will always
be german...
          since both of us had
the conversation
                                   in the one thing...
   i will not comply with to mirror
           multicultrual indian psyche-mongrels!
no!
           the tongue you do not shed,
if perhaps you do, only slightly,
             for the convenience of the natives -
ja: umre - mowiac to,
                           co to, mi mowi!
słowo!               (v+)       (-india+)
                              -wia-           -nin
indo-european...
                                    wordsmith ex-asiatic
neighbouring germs -
                       if the original "consideration"
   is to be asserted with slav(e)...
                so... em...
                           germ descendents?

i have no respect for people who forget
their native tongue...
               even if there is no other native
to speak it to...
             multiculturalism of england
would be more respectable...
  if people integrating into these parts:
still retained their mothertongue...
    
         because then it starts to **** me
off that a pakistani has more gall
to say what british is: than an actual englishman...
or a scot!
                         can't buy placebo mate...
gotta work the black & white
                         cringe *******.

people are still getting the existential-ist 'air quotes' wrong: i'm pretty sure they are supposed as metaphors or... quick-misnomer takes on: but you can't just air quote "ingredients" when... involved in a culinary competition... can you? i thought that INGREDIENTS were... power brokering: the sigma; no?

quick! ****** out wilfred zaha...
wait, it's not Wilfred?
it's: wil-fried: i will have fried?
chips?!
anyway... ****** 'im...
down... at the knee-cap: whichever
leg... i think he's a right-footer...
so take the left kneecap out...
make him "take the knee"
like the rest of them doing
in imitation of Derek Chauvin:
the jury heard that a man with a knee
on his throat could shout
21+ times: i can't breath...
i tried it... without a knee on my neck...
i would possibly stretch it to
two shy off a dozen...

so much for "taking the knee":
Derek! take the knee!
take two! chow down: shoving through 'em...
quick quick! take as many knees as it takes
for the jury to fake:
being able to utter that phrase...

it's clearly a ****-take on the capacity
of man's endeavour into breath...
oddly... to take a knee like Derek Chauvin
took the knee... there's not critique of
anything... just a laugh:
on how... irony can be capitalised...
how: you will know the difference between
good &, &... evil...

point blank range: oh, you'll know...
you'll sniff it sushi raw...
but you'll still rather conflate the two
as: dichotomy "biased"...
it's the ultimate dual!
it's the only dual!
should you arrive at the monism of inanimate
things... good for you!
good, for, you!

- and i too came to a trans-
conclusion...
it couldn't be a mistake that my parents
gave me a Hebrew's first name
and a German second name...
it wasn't like they gave me
the name: Stanisław
or Bolesław...
   of my two given names: none are
Slavic in origin...
     i'd settle for Nikita Lothar
if i were to be honest...
if i were to be honest i'd name my
son that... Nikita Lothar...

sounds formidable: he could even
write one of his names in katakana
like a would-be samurai:
サムライ
      ニキタ -
      a name so perfect it would require three...
clear... syllables...
as you get with Japanese
in general: the vowels & N...
but the consonants are muddled up
it's hardly an AM for a マ:
since there isn't one... ergo? cage...
as much as i admire the katakana:
Hangul is "superior"...

oh sure... good luck writing Lothar
in katakana:
good luck finding the letter L...
and the free-standing R...
at least in the latin script i can dotty:
ditto... capsicum typo... capsizing...
****: that didn't even come out
as a... ah ha ha: a typo!
my bad...

  oh hello: ******....................

Conrad:
just shy off Lothar... and most certainly
way off from: Otto...
because like all the bad men of history...
Stalin... ******... i too have a terrible
surname... i changed my twice:
or, rather... had it changed for me...
good to know i will not be
curating lineage ambitions...

- in the stillness of the night i leech
onto the wall dividing me
and my Nigerian neighbours...
the candle is burning the cats are either
sleeping or pretending to sleep...
and i listen in on the shouts...
they had a party not so long ago...
funny... those people who want
others to be with them:
but when alone: as unit of "family"
they're at each others' throats:
no wonder the need other people...

give me the night...
give me the wind gently brushing
the eucalyptus tree...

the Nigerian men agree that their women
are crazy: i'd just push the envelope a little
bit further: i love cats:
i love cats in my capacity to not
give them attention:
but of course... a woman being a woman:
would pander a ******* tapeworm
should that relieve her of her anorexia
when she's not...
prescribing herself... bulging out...
i.e. modern anorexics: i find...
don't eat... to later... "regurgitate":
whatever the term is:
to alleviate the metaphorical representation of
a Caesar's ****... mixed food:

PURGE! lying in a muddle, puddle...
muddle... puddle... it would take *******
down the throat
to imitate choking...
but... that's all done outside
any of the modern pornographic antics:
yuck...
i get turned off by modern *******...
i sometimes try and do get away with
a shy... happy monkey slap
but in general?
i'd rather be downing shots of *****
with frostbite particles... iron trimmings...
whatever: in Syb-eerie: ah...

the next time i hear that the ethnic noun:
Slav is etymologically rooted in Slave...
i'll denote the same roots for German:
a germ of a man... "my" people were more...
forthcoming... to denote the German
as less a germ and more a: deaf-dumb-mingles
into: not speaking out zunge...

when "we" first heard ICH:
i said: their ownership...
while when they first heard JA:
they agreed... the Spaniard laughed...

project pronoun denotation:
this... little game these pseudo-linguists are
having in the English language:
of course i'm not included!
but the game is for mortals!
i'm certain my writing is immortal!
i sacrificed too much to think it might
be otherwise! ha!

petty mortals... not the sort of mortals
you might want to respect...
itchy... *****-whipped types...
believe me...
i have my eternity already planned out:
i'll drop into the brothel from time to time
to sample the ol' Turkic raven hair
tongue like octopus' tentacles occupied...
slobbering...

i was 18 she was 14...
my name was...
her name was Pri-
                                   -ya...
but... she only the third: love at thirst of sight...
there's the first: Kotówna...
surname alone: no name...
there's no need...
then there was Samantha...

i fell in love twice: that's twice...
before i learned to swim...
it would seem...

i'm growing old... vampire-esque:
i.e. vampiric...
i don't think i will ever find a love at first: blink...
like i have found...

oh... wait... wasn't multiculturalism
part of the experiment?
no... for Nigerian neighbours? no?!
moi... as... neighbour?
do i have to live among these:
can he: won't he: will he:
maybe... yes: no... sort of... scared
deer pretend *******?!
i'd sooner pretend sane with...
birches...
the last dream i encountered was...
plucking out a piece of flesh from my face
that wasn't "quiet" a maggot...
but was... in that it wasn't a wriggling
maggot... it was a dead maggot...
acne... excess white blood cells...

how do these 40+ newspaper columnists find
stamina to lie to themselves
on the crux of: leaving nothing for further generations
to... latch onto!
there's no future in journalism
from the currently surrendered to...

oh but there is... spewing opinions some of us
have not diacritical access to...
like: when... fine... & dining...
why do you... obliterate the existence of...
carbohydrates?!
the "stealth" materials...
        fine: dining: my *** is fine dining: ha ha...
said any... precursor to a premature death
sentence of a pornographic galore that:
would never make it to the cougar shelf
of antics...

                                           what?!
once more... no one is shocked...
it's just me: either mad or just dandy / stupid...
from now on... when i tell you:
*******... the world is going to burn
i want you to agree and clap and watch:
as the world... will burn...
why?!
oh... for the fun of it...
how?
via neglect...
          
i'm pretend drunk when debating the TRANS...
you... who? he's... she's... no! they! they can't be
******* serious!
the post-Soviets and the prior-pseudo-Prussians
are on my back: if i have one..
i'm a ****** that dated a Russian ******
that... likes to listen to Teutonic crusader songs...
i'm... TRANS-!
i still like to use hammer...
corkscrew... argument for "individualism"...
oi! *****! chase the Samaritan!
calm the ****: back down... Mr. Messiah...
who's who?! i actually wasn't pointing at anyone:
beside... myself...

i like the faces of children...
they remind me of... the faces of animals...
ooh... wait... now i have a problem:
some... pseudo-Buffalo pseudo-impromptu...
now? come to think of it...
some people deserve to suffer...
they have the stress membrane intactness to
flow: "through": idiot squirming...

      i just gave you the name(s) of a son
i will never: ever... have...
i sort of squirm... i sort of assure myself...
i also take pointers...
there's no submarine at the helm...
just the flimsy vocabulary... no?

well: here i am... don't expect me to
**** the crazed-up cat ladies:
i'll leave that to the **** quacks...
and... whatever magic is to be associated.

i sometimes smoke a cigarette and: chances are...
i might be drinking some red wine...
strange how the palette works...
sometimes the odd aftertaste of strawberries...
tonight of all nights: spring onions...

i don't like to be right about so trivial
matters as the result of a football match...
minor prophetic jargon...
but once the game finished i wanted
to celebrate being right: neutrally...
i just couldn't stomach the euphoria...
i rode for two bottles of the cheapest
red wine into town...
in the heaviest of rain...
i felt baptised...

         a second time: gladly not confirmed
the first time... for that matter:
there was no second time coming...
schtill nacht...
im diese schtill nacht...
it's almost like surfing...
the sensation you get: having made
a prediction... logically...
with all the required scrutiny...
you stand back: you surf...
or you ride a bicycle in the thickness
of night while it's raining frog spit...
the chains have come off...

i couldn't stomach a collective euphoria
of something associated with
a football match...
back "we" go... to our own personal
reality chequers: and checks...
it's nice to see how easily reality bites back
when we're no longer protected
by a collective cul de sac belief mantra:
hope is the envy of lesser creatures...
esp. when magnified into some...
common purpose...

there's a wasp sting in my tongue at the joy
of... seeing so many people resort to having
to comfort themselves...
to... perhaps tease introspection...
i don't think i could stomach a shared
euphoria...
i probably would: but...
collectively i wouldn't be able to pick
out... the solo reasons why someone
might be happy: because a football match was
won...

but because a football match
was lost... i could almost tell why a sadness couldn't
be shared - apologies for making
a Holocaust metaphorical-analogy...
each to his own sadness...
but over such a trivial: peg... of... pride...

it's like those people who complain about...
"having an existence... but not having a life"...
well... money troubles...
they have existence assured...
they don't have "life"... a lifestyle...
spending habits...
that might elevate a simple fact that
was too problematic for Frankenstein
to begin with...
i find myself glad...
to not have the sort of money that might
elevate this most precious fact
into a spending spree amnesia...
amnesia? memento mori amnesia...

the people who can be cited as wanting "life"
outside the stated fact of existence...
i made "life" from my prediction:
over a stupid game of football:
it's not exactly ballet...
i hanged onto the prediction...
i didn't gamble on it... there was no money
involved: i just wanted to be right
from the very beginning of seeing
Italy vs. Turkey... this was the team...
what would "life" offer me...
beside enough money to spend
to have a seat at Wembley...
become deluded by a collective wave of farces...
sing-along songs...
that would be life: life would only disappoint
me...
this "life" that's supposedly a tier above
being given a FACT that's: i: ex-instance:
i out of every instance...
preserve my will to match that of
the tenacity of weeds... or hyper-sexualised
insects...

have a life? hell... be a leaf:
waver with each passing wind...
to doubt is to enjoy as many crushing emotions
as that plethora of them that's love...

i can pledge alliance, otherwise: mostly to the tongue:
that i rather use this acquired tongue:
defend it from this... current... onslaught
of pseudo-communist
pronoun-shimmy-shimmy...
but i can't: just... grow to support a football
team: i can't translate this archaic tribalism
into what i require to be more...
sophisticated: that might tie me to this land:
these people...

ha... to convene yourself:
i don't want to exist... i want a life...
the old saying goes:
which translates into:
i want enough spending options
to have a lifestyle...
that's all there is... well sorry if i'm just...
content with what Frankenstein's monster
found so bothersome:
no airs... not an itch of sense & sensibility:
pomp & circumstance...
i would sooner return to the shadowy
enclaves of naked thought:
away from the Freudian schematic scrutiny
of man's secular trinity
of consciousness: sub- + un-...
unlike Frankenstein's monster...

i should most certainly not have the sort
of money that might allow me to
leverage choices that would
necessarily break me into becoming a silly
colt: reinvented...

patriotism: for the language...
why do i write in English and not in ******?
well... the fiddly bits...
i'm not going to ctrl + c / ctrl + p every time
i need to make an "inquiry": make use
of all the necessary diacritical letters...
i need fluidity... if sometimes i buckle:
i'll buckle on something more than
mere diacritical markers:
i'll buckle on some katakana / hangul...

mm-hmm... i think only Brazil has made it
to conquer the concept of a post-racial
society... it dawned on me...
how about all the african-h'americans
are paid their reparations with...
being given their proper ETHNIC identity back?
by now black is too obvious:
how about they get a chance to tell each
other apart: this "one" is of ivory coast descent...
this one is Nigerian... no?
so it's back to just being... "bleak"?
that's it... now i see it...
racism doesn't originate from ethno-centrism...
or ethno-clarification... does it?

ethnicity is so much more custard
when race is all but water...
after all: a southern fairy is not a northern monkey...
a Yorkshire lad is not a Cockney
give-me-up...

i pledge my allegiance: otherwise...
it won't be through a simulated football match:
it will be purely through the tongue...
expect more: i'll be a fake...
sooner becoming a home-grown Jihadi...
oh... i'm the failure of the supposed
quest for the integrated foreigner...
point taken: point... proved:
not in favour of the native populace...
if i wanted to be spewing automaton
integration bits & bobs like
some winded-up harmonica monkey:
should have asked for a Sikhs' turabn:
stating the ****** obvious: what success!

all the Scots were jumping joy galore
seeing Italy beat England...
i'm pretty sure they were...
mind you... why can you have an British & Irish Lions
Rugby team...
you can have Cardiff City & Swansea
play in the premier league...
with all the English teams...
but you can't have Rangers or Celtic...
competing?
it's team GB at the Olympics:
it's all UK in that chapter of sports...
but when it comes to football...
the united: not so much united...
sport effort...

you can have Welsh teams competing
with the English teams in the same
league...
but you can't have Hibernian being given
a stab at it?
i lived among the Scots for about
3 years...
come to think of it...
i came across more natives "up" there
than i ever came across natives
"down" here...

why do i think England is faking
a multiculturalism... it always faked it...
it begins with an Anglo-Saxon mentality:
we can't allow European foreigners to dilute
the blood of our ******* daughters
with these supposed ******...
feed them black aubergine **** first:
perhaps she''ll become tired of
all that fun... fun... fun...

look at me... i've given up on your future
mother... i went into the avenue of Turkic women...
Romanian women...
i'm not going to die on a hill of her
entitlement...
i'm not even going to **** on it...

i will not join this ******* jump-up piston-whip
galore...
all the allegiance to the tongue:
none to the petty spectacles of
the collectivised: rest in peace...
if Cardiff city be incorporated...
if Swansea can be incorporated into
the premier league...
why can't Rangers or Celtic compete?

i will persist in the Welsh being pacified
by the English: even though
the Welsh have a rarefied version of linguistic pride
that allowed them to retain their Cymru...
while the Scots dropped their Gaelic
in favour of writing: with their accent pronounced...
in ****** graffiti English...

i'm still leveraging my attention for the Welsh
with suspicion... leeches...
two-faced leeches...
those awaiting a nationalistic spontaneity:
they have retained their tongue:
the Scots haven't...
ah... the Scots... it's important to still trill the R...
hark: sing-along in English:
it's hardly important to speak a drop of
Gaelic... hell... even the Irish have forgotten
their lust for their tongue!
poker-faced Welsh... curious *******...
the most famous Welsh people not being
Welsh: Judas Brutus...

the rev. r. s. Thomas...
it's not Welsh is a makeshift of ****** that's
Silesian that heavily borrows on ******
since it doesn't have a hard nut of
Hans Sprech to stand on...
under what: union... Jack?

           comes with the Anglo-Slav territory...
sorry... the sort-of-Saxons
have been left licking their wounds
while their women have been
diluting their "sacred" blood..
**** happens: join the circus:
become a clown: live with with...
it's hardly a welcome resort that
might encompass the post-racism of Brazil...
but "we're" getting "there"...

i'm a racist overlord if i **** a black
girl:
likewise if i don't...
because i think of her skin as:
sandpaper....
conundrum after conundrum...
finally... living on these isles...
there are remnants of the Celts:
if you are readied: will prop their ugly
ginger bearded **** hairs up!
i'd sooner speak some German
than allow myself pacifying then *******
Russian Bolsheviks...
my own: biased scrutiny...

the wooden leg:
dropkick murphys...
if Boston is Irish...
then Chicago is ******...
              because you don't know what:
being... deported feels like...
because you don't know what
being termed "illegal" feels like:
but sure... allow what you currently
allow: because you're all for:
the grand awakening...
self-laceration tryst in the jargon train
of pardon:
now you recede into your...
"grief"...

                    when it's not about being right:
it's not... not right now:
it's about being self-assured...
it's about being: less glassy-eyed and more:
peppering the futures of man made simple
with: guided expectations!
i.e. the peacock verbiage synonym of:
the experience of failure...

of... FAIL...
so many lights became aligned;
i almost forgot to take a snooze with a better
worth of a blink.

no... you're good...

for some reason i cycled those circa 20+ miles from
Havering-atte-Bower
toward Marble Arch... bought myself a Heineken
found the laziest spot in Hyde Park
collapsed... drank it... smoked a cigarette...
then lay on my back like the good serpent
and read... oh... about 20 pages from vol. 4
of the Norwegian mein kampf...
mein kopf... wo ist es?!
trouble with headphones... the Bow roundabout
flyover... trouble with: this beautiful
mash-up that's London..
it's pretty boring from Ilford through
to Stratford... boring... by that i mean:
not much eye-candy...
one niqab over there... another niqab other
there...
how bewildering... the day is spent...
i'm drinking some fine fine *** in a tea cup...
the air is fresh... the air is scented with
rosemary... thyme... garlic...
if i could only squeeze out a lime...
i still don't understand the beef surrounding
the appreciation of Phil Collins...
cycling music... i'm refreshing a fandom of
U2...
it's popular it's: does everything have to
be about Wagner or Mahler...
does it have to be about foraging...
does it require a niche appreciation...
sometimes its music to block out the sound
of traffic...
reminding myself that bigger things have
blind spots...
paying respect to larger creatures of the road...
i never heard... T-Rex's cosmic dancer...
a song for the dead... it must be...
now i understand why i invested so much
time in the cardiovascular pressures...
one ******... two ******... three...
it might be a myth... but three huddle take out
their phone... one raises her hand
to make you pay attention...
what application is not sleeping?
the one where you swipe left on the profile picture
of someone in your vicinity?
good... i'm off the grid...
surreal... headphones out...
reading a book with a spider running along
the pages
before creating a makeshift parachute
and "*******" off on the wind...
being almost statue-esque...
focal point for children...
                  life is neither good, nor bad...
but thank god i left all my baggage in
the brothel...
elsewhere i can have a labyrinth of thought
without any: moral 'ought (i)...
the sun was shining...
i was warming my belly thinking about...
the impossibility of gaining a spare
set of limbs... no good... no use!
esp. in an urban setting:
i always thought that people all geared up
for a traffic collision riding their
road bicycles were pretentious when they
spotted someone riding a commuter /
mountain bicycle on the streets...
well... 23cm wheels... a pebbles is a pierced tire...
yeah... they are pretentious *******-whacking
sorts...
oh, wait... i was an eager tadpole once upon
a time...
not that i remember...
would a cat put that much effort into falling
asleep?
sometimes i think they do...
- because i have to be a tourist going down
Oxford Street... you know the type...
she's stunner made from a tenner rolled up...
eh... ******* has left sour notes...
i don't like watching ******* anymore...
i have ******* to the canyon of the *****
or the buttocks...
something impossibly immoveable like
a photograph of a naked body...
believe me: no scented candles...
but at 35 years old... my libido isn't going
to somehow: "suddenly" die off...
i'll put an X on the day of the calendar when
it happens and i'll complete my life's assurances
as a shade as an old man...
i bemoan some who sing the praises
of Warsaw...
i wish i could sing the same: about London...
this fractured happy-****-up-get-together...
when ol' Joseph: Marian, Bátuk
was still alive: half of Poland was alive for me...
to trudge... like a wild animal through
commuter Warsaw...
this one time a Greek tourist...
how similar Greek is to Spanish...
maybe just me... sweet lisp...
you could write it with an apostrophe...
Ba'TUK...
  i bemoan the lack of diacritical pointers...
intra-verbum punctuation marks...
hiding letters while exfoliating in the sounds:
say... hide the surd H...
when coupled with S or C...
cheap ****: čeap šit... but that's Czex...
Czech... in western Slavic the coupling with
Z is like the Saxon coupling with H...
i'm on loan...
but i will never want to return to the Polacks
of my contemporary blood-****-of-a-pulse...
English is not German:
pronounced with... shrapnel and
over... hyphenated compounding...
but i: rather live among these people
than among my own...
i'm a by-product of multiculturalism...
i get a whiff of curry: i run...
toward the sauce...
i don't need to be lectured about the
etymology of the word curry...
can't i just appreciate it: why so high-and-proud...
never... truly... never... mind...
it's a pleasant place...
when the whole world has come together...
it's an experience...
the queen of England is gagging for...
but i have it.. gratis...
- i see a darkness more visible than...
what light is allowed to consume...
with the thrill of youth surrounding
a female...
i see the eye... with the pupil...
marrying itself to overpower
both the iris and the sclera...
    i see a gluttonous darkness... shades
of greenish envy become
gangrene and blotches of:
off the game, chance...
    now i figure... i don't want someone to:
second butcher... tool...
i *****-driver: you... *****... something's loose...
as i wave goodbye... i salute:
submission...
but this canvas is the best... the only...
conversation i will ever have: have achieved...
i like my solitude...
that i also like to leave 3rd person trails
of budding voyeurs...
a grammatical shake-up... "revisionism"...
of the zunge?
suppose i'm a man now:
not a boy yoyo...
the odd grey hair...
                                i imitate a quake
with elbows and knee jerks
like they might be spaghetti tied...
there's that parachuting ant...
there's king Solomon: who never forgave his father
for writing the psalms: defeating Goliath with
a slingshot... come to think of it...
David... Odysseus...
Goliath... Polyphemus...
   maybe just: moi... irregular...
tranversing the width of Germany i was
"surprised": why aren't these people speaking
English... oh..
right... only tourists speak English... lingering: leash:
-ing..
            so much for that ******* wisdom
that came from the harem...
anyone can be deemed wise...
if he has a storage of ***** riddled
****-buddies...
wisdom.... wish i'd whisk up a dom-ination
of... save purpose... or some... other...
"word-salad" verbiage...
unconventional use of language...
psychiatry is bothered...
forgot to mention the loss of soul...
after all... who might require the sigma
of the animation of man?
better keep him... it.. in fractions...
buttoned up with bagels as buttons.

the 502 bad gateway hacks are down below; my my... today was a surprising struggle...

and i'm drinking this wine... seeing faces in clouds,
demoniac courtesy,
peep show at best...
         i'm done with sensibilities, esp. English
sensibility,
     it must have been fun in the 20th century,
in the late 19th century to be this English,
this sensible, this egalitarian...
              these days? not, so, much...
                     i'm here for the pandemonium...
i'm here for the circus,
i'll be the crying crown: like i told my Valentine...
Vaughan Williams...
Templar Chants... i cry at beauty...
i don't cry because i'm sad...
               i'm done with the literal and the objectively
sensible... it's time... it's time to double down
and re-explore the subjectivism of the foundations
of existentialism, from Kierkegaard upwards...
sure, Russia might be tickling Ukraine into a war...
but what does a ****** care for Ukraine
after the Khmelnytsky Uprising?
      coincidentally there was that Swedish Deluge...
the Ottomans were tickling...
see... i gather... the English are a people that
were last invaded by the Normans some 1000 years ago...
sure... they were plagued by Danish enclaves
of ransom paid with violence...
    but for the most part? as all island living folk are...
solipsistic... far removed from
continental plights...
"my" people didn't live in such harmony
as to have the luxury to think up the steam-train...
panacea... oh right...
Lex Fleming and penicillin...
     oh sure... we had Copernicus... but then he was
stolen by the Germans...******* mutes...
overshadowed by Galileo...
but if you're fighting all the ****** time...
you're not going to have the luxury to invent cricket...
or football for that matter...
the English have had so much free time on
their hands... now that multiculturalism has
turned a corner and people are showing up:
"fresh off the boat"... Africans with translators...
i was an "illegal" in 1997... i was deported...
my life was churned up-side down...
i remember watching the 1998 world cup final
with my great-grandmother in a dark room...
i remember watching the opening ceremony:
two eyes akin to two pebbles of coal
on fire...
i came back in 1998... well... i felt real sore
with rejection... look what i brought with me...
the entire world...
now, what? you're doubling down your
standards?!
they can... but... back then... i couldn't?!
you ever spend your childhood in a house with
20+ migrant men...
do you think i was *****?
are we talking about Pakistanis or Slavs?
exactly...
               harsh... but precise...
oh my my... this wine is fine... most graciously...
you can never go wrong with an Argentinian red...
"beautiful view"... yeah...
it's not cheap... but... i'll still do what
the Catalonians do...
having mingled with the Aztecs / Mayans...
i'm going to drink a KALI-MOTXO...
X = CH...
                     i'm going to **** into the wine...
then i'll drip drip some coca into it...
cola... Jacob...

               two bottles of wine: i'd call that a safeguard
of the night...how illuminat8ng...
the moonlight turning up unexpected
like quicksilver, like a constellation of stars...
imagining oneself naked when being
startled by one's shadow....

ah... liebste kalt, am meisten nacht...
  ich trinken zu sie!

     und ohne zeppelins!
           sich verbeugen...  Fräulein Albion!

why must have i fallen in love this late in
life...
   how terrible... how terrible i feel being
in love... with all that must pass...
over my head & down the drain...
   i'd much prefer appreciating torture...
being allowed access to bone...
to muscle to sinew strain...
              to an excess...
not this heart *******... this salt sprinkled on
a mollusk... this petty heart...
that i wished to remain a pebble...
a heart that could be summarised by
skidding from a throw across the lake...
imitating "drowning"...

i don't want to love...
i hate loving someone... it makes me weak...
it drains my parameters and focuses
them on a claustrophobia...
i don't want to love...
i'd much prefer a toothache than
a love-affair...
that's how much i despise love...
because i always give more than is offered
in return...

****... i think i'm going to comb my beard
pretending that i'm playing a violin...

maybe.. i'll just brush my teeth, look in the mirror,
pretend to see myself...
then again... perhaps i'll just want to see
a reflection of my hand...
perhaps i'll just want... to see my shadow...
when i fall in love: i fall bad....

when i ought to be in a brothel...
i'm dropping a bouquet of flowers round her
house.... in the middle of the night,
getting thrown off my bicycle on
the last turn... like i told her:
some people never go mad...
  what horrible lives they must lead...
no... not LED: LEED... even i don't know why
there's an A invoked...
but that's what happens...
trying to be the Afghanistan of Ancient Rome...
you don't apply diacritical distinctions...
you get a  while bunch of dyslexics...

i abhor being in love...
it drains me... physically... mentally...
i was quiet alright minding my own business...
but like they say... a female drought...
periodical... 10 years or so...
then... all of a sudden... 20 ******* appear!
wow... i have a choice?!
and the one i choose is throwing
knives right left and centre....
other women in her vicinity are trying to
discourage me from making further attempts
with her... well... d'uh... i love a challenge...
but how does that work...
we're doing a shift and there she is...
swiping left to right right to left
on TINDER... sorry... what's a dating app?

i love ****-ups... you know.... there's that
megalomania of saviour in me that's insomniac...
oh... but **** me...
when this desire comes crashing down...
it'll be like Kevin Spacey being accused
of "cis-normative" ****** practices...
   i'm really, really going adore myself then...

right now... i'm a teenager stupid...
i don't know whether up is up or whether up is down...
i'm literally at my wits' end...
i might as well be deaf, blind... dumb...
no... sorry... what are you saying?!
you're actually saying something?!

the pupil of my eye has extended into the night...
if an eye can be allowed to yawn,
rather than blink... i've ate a star or two...
while my green iris sacrificed the girth of
this planet... for the seas to emerge...
shuffle the continents...

    this is going to be one terrible mistake
after another... i don't think i can allow this love
to become lame, domesticated,
sterile... i want the wildness of this mistake
to remain... retake me...
yes... i don't want to domesticate these feelings...
even if i don't bag her by sleeping
with her... i want to feel for her what i feel
for all the prostitutes i slept with...
an impossible weight i impossibly managed
to nonetheless lift...

title: butterfly seller
body:
some pseudonym,
Nabokov: FF;

title: seismic
body:
sort of shift;
tragedy down
the supplied
borrowing of
itch.
fear of TH through to PH;
esp. Hellenic.