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.

it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.

it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.
   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
dialectics
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
"plagiarised",
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
reverse.
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
    zeitgeist.
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.

- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
a

I hated you...
Your smile,
Your laugh,
Your cheerfulness,
It all makes me sick.
And yet we've became friends....

Slowly...
You coax me,
Into caring for you,
We've became friends...
But soon,
That all changed...

I saw a good you...
One who was nice,
One who cared,
One who was always there,
But then you left...
Where were you when I needed you the most?

I cried,
And cried.
My tears unseen.
I cry,
My cries.
Never to be heard.

I protected you,
I cared for you,
But your naiveness
Always take away your reason....

You get hurt,
But I pick you back up....
Why would I pick you back up?
I thought I hated you...

I was deceived...
You get broken,
I pick up the broken pieces,
Again and again.

You take the pieces back,
And still...broken...
And still like a fool
I pick them up,
Trying to fix them.

I cared too much...
I *hated you and yet I was there....
And so I left...

Tired of picking you up
Tired of fixing your broken you
Just to be broken again and again by your naiveness
Tired of being jealous of you
Tired of hating you
Tired of caring for you
Tired of being a fool
And most of all...
Tired of being a bad friend....

philosopher says when he sees v: aha! a future parabola theory given that the romans chiseled v when they meant u!
poet says when he sees v: veer from w into saggy "missing the horizon attachment origin" with a u, could have been a ***** of B... we're here to make sounds... we're not here to make words into poster boys girlies french braiding their hair into ideas and lipgloss.*

but you had to face the 110m hurdles,
i had to become a don quixote, fencing with shadows,
shadow boxing as if simply training,
you could run from dyslexia and the abuse hurled at you,
you had to face an external battle,
i’m facing an internal battle... phantoms and imagery...
you had the external ahead of you, with a wife to be listened to,
i have... no body!
myself and only myself,
of course i am like an elevation of rat... i’m a carnivore
that trips to the supermarket for a 70cl of whiskey
every night, hunting my way to a state of sedatives used,
i know no other drug with or without a prescription...
**** saturday night... it can go to hell...
yes i will get a council flat ahead of the scamming ******
that are like ant queens on the reproductive conveyor belt
(believe me... write like a homosexual to get the g-spots!
have homosexual misogyny in your underwear!)
that’s a muslim donning niqab curtains seller 1.7 (seven being the children),
curse of the economy! get them politicised, angry self-believers
only self-believing by faked passports and fake health-wise ills
from the natural contenders to wear the boxing gloves...
who said things like trevor mc lure: you might remember me
from such existential paradoxes as:
punch my cancer into a liver, punch my cancer up,
liver me up paddy, scots ahoy... ah... what a tagline trendy,
i could almost become an adidas’ stripes of america or malaysia...
so there’s me buying my usual buddy... ‘no coke today?’
‘no, spare coke left, i’ll have this pint of bach to share with the bottle
of whiskey... mind your inquisitive whiskers of the tongue...’
she pretended suicidal tendencies all along...
started cutting veins en route arteries for a fake sing-along cry-along...
made no sense, i slept with my clothes on...
women are crafty bishops... they don’t do communion
but get to craft a second birth certificate of confirmation,
the womb that turned into a cross... we were all squeezed out from
that geometric that said oh oh zero o hay ‘oo;
first spot the letter u... then w... then h... the third letter i’m not familiar with...
too many papyrus scripts burning... can’t spot the latinised version,
i think i’ll need to brew and thus ferment a pint of whiskey to get this one...
just to get 1, 2, 3, 4 up in scales, should have been written as
1cm and exasperation(noun).
i had something originally... but then i decided to digress...
it was like a full house poker sequence... but without cards
and more humans than could be required for believability...
it’s almost... it’s almost like i was jealous feeding the sight
of a man in mid-life looping the thought of cool with the thought
of being cool when adorned with childish ambition to have it
as a child having only bought it as a semi-wrinkled naiveness
that worked its solipsistic magic of: gone are the days
of ***** magnet... come the days of a badger ******* it;
give way... here comes oral *** mummified - mum’s the word
filing is the action... testosterone does not equate itself as ****** *****...
down below australia did a roulette action and decided to
geographically spread its legs for the sire of cocksure ***** india...
enter... the mongolian harmonica trick of the index and lip motorboat:
baba hamza baba hamza ali ali contra v.!
so? i sharpened my u into a v... are you sure you
don't understand the question: vat iz veh vay?

he's not my favourite writer as such,
in terms of his poetry, no finer antagonist
for his two virtues: honesty and poignant
vulgarity, and as a "drinking buddy,"
i treat him as an antagonist, you'll see why
when i write the following:

he came to america aged 2,
so obviously, knowing how immigration
works, and how adult migrants
are politely told to integrate, which
includes forgetting the mother tongue,
i came to england aged 8.
aged 4 my father emigrated to england
because the once budding steelworks
in my humble town of birth shut down,
over 10,000 out of work,
then other trades buckled under
the weight of enemy propaganda:
levis, coca cola, john paul ii, you name it.
a vague memory of my father was
impressed into me, the 1994 world cup
is my best guess on t.v.
my mother left when i was 6,
she left me a present, a dobermann pinscher
i named axel (after axl rose from guns 'n' roses),
mad *******, bit everyone
and almost took my eye out after i whipped
him for attacking my grandparent's dog,
an alsatian. so technically the earliest
cognitive developments were done
with my grandparents as my surrogates:
grandfather was high-up in society,
was a manager of one of the steelwork
conveyor belt warehouses that produced
train springs and produced the steel columns
for the 1998 world cup in france (stade de france),
but he drank, came with the job,
broke my grandmothers hand,
when i was five i marched him drunk
from his mother's birthday party through
the entire city - but i guess things happen
in your childhood that you can't alter:
his father left for america (spoke 7 languages,
so obviously not a serf), and when he wanted
to make contact his brothers lied about my
grandfather being a rascal of sorts: thief,
hooligan, so so they could get their grubby
hands on the family estate, which, rumour
was it, was rather large; and maybe seeing
the red army invade (boys who slept in barns
in hay with goats), and the ss-man in black
uniform giving him sweets (herr, bite bonbon,
although he says it like the man's name was,
yep, herr bitebonbon - child's word association,
mr. who-gives-sweets), then seeing the ss-men
in rags fleeing from the hammer and sickle dragon;
not to mention his stepfather beating him,
being a miner in the newly integrated lands of
silesia, and many more details i guess.
so anyway, they were my surrogates for some time,
i came to england aged 8 without any knowledge
of the language, learnt it pretty quick, self-taught
mostly, brain still a sponge.
father laid the foundations of dockland's light railway
at the time, but then had a chance to become a roofer.
poland was not in the european union at the time
i had to depart when i started high school,
figure out the reasons sherlock:
spent an autistic year in poland, split by not having
learned the language to a satisfactory point
and forced back to relearn a tongue i was slowly forgetting.
after a year came back to england, plan was to go
to argentina and then america the first time - alas...
but i came with a resolve to never part with my roots,
TO NEVER, EVER, FORGET MY MOTHER TONGUE.
took to studying under grandfather's motto:
matematyka, fizyka i sport / ucz sie, ucz sie, ucz sie.
so i did, went to university to study the sciences,
i could have gone to the russell group bristol or
warwick, but for the budding in me romance to have
started writing ****** poetry, i chose edinburgh.
stayed 3 years, failed french in first year after a brief
losing-my-virginity relationship with a french exchange
student of psychology, failed chemistry 2nd year,
retook exam, no summer fun, 3rd year failed chemistry,
summer in st. petersburg, retook exam and got the ******
degree: immigrants pride and pinnacle i guess.
some horrific **** after, got reduced to working in lidl
for a day, got the job, came in drunk, shoved a bunch
of pickle jars on the shop floor, cut my hand open and
left (politicians are now saying - graduate jobs for graduates,
well, evidently not). but in my 3rd year i met my love,
philosophy - took to it like fish to water, i can't lie,
this is where my antagonist comes handy - he's
being pompous and rightly so at being critical of the
poetry scene, of people studying literature to only
create more literature - i get that, but that's hardly an
attack on learning, or the sheer love of it;
and based on reading an academic work on him,
i gather he has sympathisers behind the enemy lines -
but i too don't like poetry to convey naiveness and
innocence to the world, a dreamworld where everything
comes true because of the way you think of it
a priori, since i guess when the world proves otherwise,
there is no original output of idealism, no cute puppies,
but lynched dancing bears and overworked horses
and the fear soaked eyes of cows in slaughter houses,
this *a posteriori situation leaves most former poets
crushed... crrrrrushed... they either stop writing,
continue writing lies to children, or wise-up,
become as cruel as the world, although a hermit's
cruelty - 'world, on my terms, and with whom and when
you will know that i am still here.'
but it's like that - one invents, the other gets all the credit
and the most famous one of the three doesn't know
the first one when talked about by critics and admirers,
e.g.? tristan tzara, cabaret voltaire, dada anti-war movement
of 1914, invention? cut-up. w. burroughs "perfected"
the method, and thirdly bowie used it too -
critic on television while dirges and epitaphs came:
burroughs' burroughs' burroughs'.
this world has become horrid - all those wars on paper,
all the et tu brute et tu brute et tu brutus?!
all that fame - but ask any banker about infinitesimal
calculus and he will be like... huh what?! what for?!
investments in wars, rocket projections, that kind of thing.
and about that - the horrid nature of the argument:
what came first, leibniz or newton? chicken and egg debate.
both at the same time i guess.
and it's this pervasive first in line, i want to be first in line
incomprehensibility in me -
which means there are only a few famous people
everyone's agreed on, and they're anonymous -
the man who discovered the fermentation process,
and the shaman with ***** who sifted through amazonian
poisons to find a hallucinogenic,
to name but a few of the truly famous ancients.
in conclusion - had bukowski been taught german,
or had been old enough to remember some german,
his writing might have looked something like this;
i too with acne, chernobyl birthmark,
heart condition, and a forcefully induced
****** scheme sophistication brain haemorrhage,
resulting in wrong diagnosis of schizophrenia,
fuelling my subsequent splashing money on
psychiatry books and beating about 5 psychiatrists
at their own game: given my stature of 6ft2
and 253pounds... they were worried i might do
something grotesque - hard to get a discharge,
but got one after 7 years of wrong treatment;
that's like prison, worse, you are living in a society
that tries to pacify you, seeing all the pleasures
of society with people enjoying them, dangling like
a treat, and you're told you're "sick."
i'd rather have spent 7 years with those deservedly
locked up: at least a feeling of solidarity for god's sake:
so as you can imagine, my investment in an internet
presence or the internet's appreciation of it
is about as important to me as yesteryear's snowfall.

I recall the rustic leaves,
and the sound they made when crushed
under skateboard wheels,
as they settled around the half-pipe
and the worn rails of Peter Pan Park.

Youngsters,
with their colorful helmets and their
better-safe-than-sorry knee pads,
kicked and pushed their way across the pavement
and pumped their fists in the air
as their boards reached the other side.  
In this Neverland, the kids wanted adventure first -
the tea could wait at home for a little longer.

But, as dusk settles,
the pirates emerge upon the asphalt shores
in fleets of tinted windows and loud exhausts.
These pirates, still adolescent in their own age,
bicker and fight until a hook pierces skin,
blood spills upon the crisp leaves,
and a boy - with naiveness still glistening in his eyes -
becomes another boy who would not grow up
in the Never Never of Peter Pan Park.

Bonjour Mon Cher,
As the stars rise and the moon lights, I meld you deeply. The time we spent together is so fruitful, with explorations of nature and a friendly company.  You whisk my motivation , the very nature of warmth and strength.  There has been times when my willpower to be strong has been crushed and trampled; muddled in the muddiness of the overflowing pond.

As the duck glides on the rippled calm water, I picture your essence. As it strolls on the waters, deep in thoughts yet conscious and aware of its existence; there you are in the calmness, the stillness of the wavelet. As the duck sets to rise, it flutters. I sensed your edginess and the indecisiveness you have burdened all your life. Indeed, your life has been a challenge. Breath in,feel free and submerge in the depths of the ponds. Then rise again and explore the skies above, for brief moments escape in the dense freshness. Set your being  in the briefness of ecstasy, the succinctness of forever. For your essence is ambient and radiant.

My being is filled with warmth and a reminiscence of the great days. The times when the chariots with it’s magnificent horses would flow in the saccharine grounds. The time frame when the yellowish hue of the daffodils bloomed and shone their beauty to the world. The touch cascading the shivers from one neurone to the next in sequenced loops. The ever-condensed electric magnetism. My mind explodes with the synchronicity of the beauty sacrificed by yours. My soul has woken from it’s hibernation, its departing the doorway of the cave. The cave laid with layers of secrets, mystery and mystic existence.

The nip of the earlobe tip is a pleasure I pass. A chance to trace the resonance of my whispers. More so, a declaration of my naiveness. The statue poising on the plinth of the Romany windows in declaration that she does not understand many things. It’s in the whisper her beauty, my representation. The words that she wants to transpire but as such there is never enough time. Neither is there an eternity, but snippets of memories and moments.

Let me deep inside, to see every thought, to hear every dream to touch the breath of every sound. The existence of everyday living is absent and helpless. However, to love one is to embrace all. Someday, I wonder how we exist in such a dichotomy of life. I would like to hold you and touch you. To feel your oneness coursing in my blood and mind. I try and try to see above this existence. To touch and dream of the beauty, to collapse in the core of the humanness. My drug is ingested in the craziness of realness, an authenticity of the façade that we don day in and out.

Yet as the wind we fade in and out. When our insides are hollow and empty, drenching in lonely paths. But we stand un-fainted and feint. In the chaos of uncovering the curiosity and the depths awaiting to be exploded as the volcano boils. I want you to know that I am alive in your presence, I am real, I am me. This is one of the very rare connections I have had and I respect it. Hope not to whelm with my ambiguousness or eccentricity. I have no expectations and I am not wanting to be owned or own. Tis’ you giving the hungry eyes and Tis’ me who hope you can see beyond my interior.

In retrospection and introversion, welcome to the pleasures and treasures.

Be you,
SassyJ

there's that, or the nimble skeleton of a feline
bonsai... and what they do to
   add to the already apparent roughage
they intake by grooming themselves...
luckily... i could never claim to have had such
a nimble spine, or a tail...
   but then all of darwinism is a bit like:
news flash! it happened yesterday...
   and that's really a party pooper...
               i have to chase a universe like a crap
does perpendicular tango...
        it's correct, sure thing, but having this
"awe" response summoned for your to appreciate
either human history, or theories about
the universe...
                   it just gets annoying after a while:
all the terrorists do it... skip to god as a constant
and it all begins to feel realistic...

because what the vogue is in the west
    and it's "we're gods", but then run mile-marathons
for cancer charities, doesn't really work out
to keep up our iron armour...
   people really do shut up when they hit
the gag of weakness... it'stops being a case of
alice and fairies and some wonderland...
very quickly they turn their once idealistic blah
into mute buttons...
   there is an example coming: but like *michel de montaigne
noted... was it him, was it someone else?
    call it the all-encompassing negativity
(alias list does include depression): well...
it has all the jokes... meaning there's
two type of humour...
   depression (a) lethargic depression...
            no energy... major trait includes sarcasm...
and that's mainly english...
   and depression (b) manic depression...
meaning you have all the energy,
and all the cheap chokes, akin to Wobin Williams...
  oh please, there's enough zoology within
psychiatry to last you for a year given
the array of nouns... i'm not a professional
so i tend to use psychiatric terms as
    a matryoshka doll... well: a metaphor-in-itself...
there's always something hiding in
psychiatric terms...
       very little in philosophical terms, most
add up, or claim to know the way to infinity,
or ad deus... or something like that...
why be positive? and what's merely vacant?
       negativity is the source of humour...
luckily it's a shop of curiosities that has only metal
and rope in it... no porcelain...
but it's only because i've been watching this
sweet shop analogy of my own construct...
    as you do, but can't really do with a television
watching several football matches at once...
    so what would make the perfect backdrop?
obviously tourniquet by m. m. (solve the acronym,
it's a bit obvious)...
  and that's in between watching
                         dottiejames videos
and hannah witton...
              as you do... well... first thing's first...
can anyone spot a doppelgänger in there somewhere?
     well, apart from the obvious:
    he said nice things, agitated the educated jewish
class of scribes... and the greek were bewildered
by a suspension of physical laws, and had to
paint a pretty picture, so that their philosophers could
investigate and explain the reason
    melchior, caspar and balthazar came too, curious...
how did the greek summon the need for a pretty picture?
well... that's one sure way to rob a people of a religion
and translate the old stuff as: NEW! NEW!
   but that isn't the doppelgänger i'm wondering
about... what the hell is keira knightley doing in Brighton?
  well, d'uh... if dottiejames ins't
   keira knightley then i don't know who keira is...
and such a quirk... it's great seeing
   long periods of acting, without a theatrical stage
or a Spilberg with a camera lens...
   no no, i like it, but let's go back to points d. (a) and d. (b) -
the ancients called it black bile...
     i get drunk and experience the goods in it -
lethargic type = sarcasm... let's say: blackadder goes forth...
i ain't the manic clown type having a host
of impressions bound up like a yarn ball played
with the cat-like-ego... teasing and at the same
time exhausting...
      hannah witton gets through to the point though...
it's about ******* ***...
   nothing new to me... happened back in 2007
in a St. Petersburg bathroom... a ***** Pollack
   had a russian girlfriend who was going through
a ******* cycle... and he was pleading her to
allow ***... and begging... this is way before the internet
took off... what with the hannah witton video...
now i feel like ****, because, apparently: everyone does it!
but they're just not talking about it.
     so forget being the Columbus these days...
   there's no first, unless you have a Nobel prize...
and there ain't no last, unless you are lying
beneath an epitaph...
       there's just a... plateau (that word should sound
hollow... and it really does...
             pla-toe)
                                      but it happened to me
back in 2007... three days and nights ***-starved
she finally gave... but only in the bathroom...
sure... and only with a ******... no problem...
no watch the science... apparently it eases the cramps...
   me get foolish about blood and corn-flakes?
well... i remember lying on a post-operating
table getting stitches done to my right shoulder-blade...
how old was i when i went under the scalpel
to get that Chernobyl tattoo removed?
    wait... let me count... 1997 or 1998?
    1986... either 11 or 12... a hosptial in Cieszyn am Olza...
2 weeks spent in that place... great fun
with some of the peeps (ha ha, peeps) my age...
the smell of hospitals is worse than the scent in
graveyards... even in autumn... it's green...
      it's so hostile to the nostrils....
hospitals just have that smell about them...
the sooner to go to one for surgery, say, like me,
aged 11 or 12... it's worse than frying a human leg
on the bbq... not that i have: but the hospital
imprint is just so...
        so i was lying on getting my stitches done,
and out pops a bit of flesh into the corner of my eye...
deep red or purple but certainly not anything
in the extreme of lilac... and while the stiches get done
it's just lying there: a menacing little ****...
     the body of christ... well: i wouldn't eat that:
i don't care what metaphor you could use to eat either
with delight other than the delight birds eat bread:
to stuff themselves for much longer than their
usual diet allows...
   so a phallus coming out of a less than appetising ****?
well: it isn't exactly oral ***...
   and she says: most men wouldn't do this...
well: it's not like i knew that was i did would actually
be helpfull... it's a bit like my "naiveness"
  given that i don't know how i could ever contract
h.i.v., no one told me... and thankfully: i don't need
to know that.
the fact is: upon hearing that: so many people do
it but don't talk about it: that's not exactly a solidarity
statement... i didn't need to hear that...
numbers and all quotes relating to the "objective"
reality **** me off... it's a bit like drinking diluted whiskey
after first drinking the real stuff...
   well that's great! but don't bring the whole opera
with you! or maybe that's because i'm writing about
these things and she's feeding an easy pick of the experience
that ****** me off?
           i gave you enough details...
these videos aren't that hard to find... given it's you-tube...
  so that me... with no access to the deep / dark web
******* around with the canvas... trying to
salvage something that might have once looked like Soho...
   well... for a "Soho" experience... god bless
the Dutch... you can walk into a history of
something resembling 18th and 19th century...
   just for a while... a Puerto Rican *****
  and a black kid that does errands for her, brining
her customers beer...
     what's that vogue phrase: hello?! hello! red pill! red pill!

St. John, the Evangelist, wrote the book of revelations,
the Latin world immediately thought
it was aimed at the Hebrew,
but the masochistic lacerations of the Jews
left intact, hardly slave-worthy, hardly imaginative
to build a Coliseum, instead worthy of
the hanging garden of Iran and the pyramids..
skyscrapers of Manhattan with only one room in
it, and some ***** trap passages to reach the riches,
like at Giza, when one hoped that one
sand people left the Koran for another sand people,
an it was all Brothers Grimm fairy ending: happily
ever after... the book of revelation
chapter 13 verse 3... how did i survive a brain
haemorrhage and revive a fully functioning
skeleton so quick? ask Rasputin,
no, i'm pretty sure Rasputin would care to mention
the poisoned *****... level the bastion square of
former William conquering, the Bastille echoed in
history like a footprint of a peasant standing ground
to what became downfall, and subsequent harvest...
an Austrian woman undermined a shy man
by giving out metaphors of cake...
she understood less when lionel logue was
worth that banknote of cinematic endeavour...
Stephen "shaky" Parkinson ploughed the lot...
saints like rats i close numbering,
one atheist attacked the woman of Calcutta,
another atheist attacked the man of Wadowice...
i would like to think that prior nationalism of
my forefathers meant something, in the least
ensuring i stay in the lands of potato and *****...
i was given the chasm of childhood's decision
having not clear basis for rationality,
as necessarily escaping what i wished eternity to be:
a bike ride of 60 kilometres in summer,
and hardly anyone wishing to diffuse my balances...
poetry is a cryptology, once it encounters symbolism
of sedated phonetics it comes across philosophy pausing
at Egyptology... the triage, tri, angle, primed 90
heading toward the crown or a rebirth of not acknowledging
the prime leisure of caesarian and reinserting the head
to wobble into the longest Nile of cluing divisions
as based on lost imagination: science has simply evaporated
chances of imagination - scientific imagination is reduced
to schematics - concrete arithmetic procedures
and paying attention to nothing while playing games
hardly resembling the japanese square and the karaoke culture
readying only teens to buy the crap...
imagine being an adult easily paying rent,
having a marriage, a dual life as a homosexual e.g.,
having left school, and mastered life with fancies
to be later equivalent of a G.C.S.E. grade in your personal life...
the book of revelation does not address the Hebrews:
written by Greeks, it was written for Byzantium,
that the Arabs clarified Aristotle sooner than Byzantium
is this obsession with bureaucracy - st. john
was also a mr. smithy joe-joe... the greeks lost the plot,
the book of revelation addresses greek naiveness,
it doesn't address Hebrew stubbornness,
given that: every greek would nod to avoid being
member of the Holocaust, while every Hebrew would
nod to engage being member of the Holocaust...
but still the Polish question... who were given neither
reparations by Germans, nor were included in the
Marshall Plan... but were given a "de facto" system
of economics that was "bound to fail", you'd need
one Pole to be a pope, to be later a saint for this to be real,
for the great dispersion... ever see a Polish girl get spat
on her face by her "master" dutch boyfriend when
speaking civilised tongue about her ambitions?
GERMANY WELCOMES SYRIA... that's Poland's
care for receiving reparations from Nazis, point no. 1.
point no. 2, Israel is mentioned in Eurovision
and in the European football championship...
oh come on... get comfy in your promised land!
the irony is that Australia is contesting a voice from too!
a torn apart revival? it's hardly a revival if the
lettering didn't disappear and wasn't replaced by arabic,
thank us for your allowance of earning money,
digitalising us, toward a perpetual analysis without
care to synthesise anything unusual that wasn't already
unusually analysed to this needle-point of
a unit of tsunami synthesis - comparably a year denied,
zeroed, convergence of the algebraic trinity with
all three unknowns: x, y, z - the book of revelation addresses
the foolery of the greeks, so much wisdom prior,
and yet so much foolery and laziness kindred to
the holy text of the hebrews under the prophet's name
Malachi... Muhammad has the leverage, being
a prophet-merchant, rather than a prophet-pauper -
bogatemu wszystko wolno.

i once said: you can't be an artist and raise a family, and as proven by many who've attempted both feats to make one or the other lacking, if perhaps both - the best example of such a scenario is the much tragic case of james joyce's finnegans wake, his daughter, and the duration of the writing process... paris 1922 - 1939.*

i've never been into love poetry, well, once i too wrote
watermelon mush about heart and longing,
the darkened rooms of my adolescent self,
ugly blue of the wallpaper later covered entirely
with glossy posters of the ones i adored
on the music scene (honestly,
not even a niqab slit of blue to
be seen) - and then i experienced
love, maybe infatuation,
or the rite of passage into carnal
opulence of the woman's shape
untouched by the coarse treatment
of cubism and picasso -
but then the hydra popped her second
head from the torso -
this head and neck started wrapping
itself around the first head, the first
being that of naiveness and inexperience,
the second head of boa, of experience that
knew of jealousy, of feminism sexism
chauvinism, the second head knew all
about the dark ebbing waters of spite
and revenge, and yes of *** too -
and soon enough the hydra's first head
breathed no more, it flopped and
dangled under the torso of the conquering second
soon decayin and falling into an abyss
of heavy shuffling foot-stomps;
but the question is, will a third head
rise and do likewise with the second head,
the head that spells out genuine companionship,
that's mature, even more hardened as to
avenge the naive head of wonder-lust sought and
the paradoxical thirst for the taste of something
it had no place on the tongue palette for
speak about with history's resignation and experience?
but i doubt it, i've seen that head, and it's a head
with many problems and is self-defeatist
in terms of idealising love once more,
it has obligations, chores, children, mortgages,
car insurances and life insurances, fears
from the television at 7pm news blasts on
about jobs, markets, the migrant crisis;
the second head would simply let this third
head look at it in a much quizzical way;
don't get me wrong, i'm all for the third head
of this hydra, but it's too weak for
the first of idealism to re-emerge, with all those
very basic and demanded thrills,
i'm not condemning it, but i'm also not embracing
it - selective promiscuity, a methodological
promiscuity set aside all such hopes -
but let's say less promiscuity, and more chance
opportunism - no, not the adventure seeking
casanova type.

As free as a bird...in a cage
She trapped herself,
Into that flamboyant frame,
Trying to veil
Those dewy eyes.

She trapped herself,
Within that tailored smile
she was accustomed to
Her milieu was accustomed to,
Trying to conceal that usual heartache.

She trapped herself,
Inside that veil of sophistication,
Smothering that naiveness,
That unconsciously shoved her lips to expand into that charming curve,
Even at trivial affairs.

She trapped herself,
Defeated by that burden of expectations,
And unwillingly
Blocked that flame that always ignited her.

She trapped herself,
Deserted her reason for living...
Not just existing,
And existed, lost.

But,

Even that mere existence refused to welcome that defeat.

Her individuality dissuaded her from that suffocation,
And promptly removed that veil.

She was a fighter,
A militia fighting her demons
Gallantly.
Annihilating those fears,
Those self doubts
That hindered her conquests
To establish her purely sovereign empire.

She accepted gracefully
Her naiveness.
She embraced elegantly
Her gawkiness.

The lill flame ignited,
Metamorphosed into inferno.
She wore that invisible Crown,
All by herself.
She vehemently chased those dreams,
Those dreams, which once got her trembling,
Were now waiting,
To be seized by the Queen.

She emancipated that bird, from her lill cage,
And allowed her to measure the sky,
Unleasheing her rage.

My heart is the book,
My conscience is the author,
My childhood is the prologue,
My growing phase is the pages with the most lessons,
My ideas are the metaphoric words,
My successes are the exciting paragraphs,
My challenges are the hair-rising lines,
My teenage life of naiveness is all the questions of the story,
And my adulthood answers it all, maybe some.
The last chapter defines what is right and wrong in my life,
The time before my passing is the page that holds you from continuing -to finish, to accept that it wont last.

And it ends,
And you flip the last blank page,

Thereafter, only God knows what happens to the story, to me.

we pamper the old as if they were children,
we pamper the children due to their inexperience,
yet we pamper the old due to their experience,
and naiveness at allowing them an extended
childhood, which goes well beyond childhood's
allowance, of so many counted years;
the old are children in disguise, children are
the old in disguise... whatever the balance...
we pay undue respect for either, and leave
ourselves with very little, other than a clumsy cotton
feeling of tending to both.

there was once a national health service
for sure, all the current pensioners
are using it to brimful excess,
respect the aged due to frailty,
**** the youth,
make them so embittered they'll pop up
middle aged torturing pensioners,
by the looks of it...
i can't even get my citizen allowance
of what being a citizen of *such a glorious
beacon of light of western civilization
as england claims to be,
i'll sooner find the cure to my ailments
talking to a coffin that i would chance talking
to a doctor around here, for a pitiful number
(58) of sleeping pills... sleeping pills! for ****'s sake!
maybe genuflecting with a dog-collar
would keep me on the social sonar,
or maybe i'm just a stranded ***** whale
ready for a selfie... whichever...
'if you're expecting a belief in eternity from me,
forget it! i wouldn't want to be stranded with
a bunch of 72 secretaries on a desert island
for 5 minutes let alone eternity.'
now i'll have to down 7 paracetamol tabs
to create a sleeping pill effect...
wait 48 hours for a written form to be filed,
an then hope, hope... to speak to a doctor...
if they're going to privatise the national health service,
they could have done it with a little bit more
decency than the take of: in-your-face... **** 'em.
survival of the fittest? great theory...
survival of the greediest... gluttons galore,
and the rest of it.
i never thought a disease such as a drug addiction
would play the monopoly card on us all,
leaving us stranded in insomniac limbo
for an eerie feeling of wanting and waiting
but never receiving aid - not even allowed
self-medication strategies... just told:
2000 calories is your medicine dosage,
air, water... and a television set...
listen to the pipe piston-maker...
listen to the rat tat tat rapper...
keen eared, ogle eyed... blunt on the scent:
and disinfected on the touch
with the bone-**** of the hand imitating
love and war... apathy and peace and everyone
on the dole - in a society where sickness is
punishable with a slow death rather than recovery,
in a society where self-employment eradicated
social security of a governable state as state worthy
in recognition to the patriotism of cheap football chants
and hymns of splendour,
in a state that eats its people in order that foreign
investment can blossom and in turn
retract to allow such a state to take a warring stance
in investors' vicinity... a puppet state
of disorientated people... where the strong are told
to sit it out... while the mediocre meddle
in organising the strong with the weak to no
distinguishing recognition being allowed...
the people are hardly identifiable with mankind;
i've seen democracy fail a countless times,
and the more it fails, the more its adherents
orate its perfection... only a system that's bound
to fail and in failing be equipped with such
a strategic defence mechanism of astronomical
proportions: esp. among the doomed fate
of non-reproductive organisms as the homosexual
coupling suggests: trample the heterosexuals...
demand slavery of all men, the freedom of women
emancipated from a theocratic patriarchy...
wed them, provide them with children,
and then a divorce... keep the idiots dreaming...
make them wage-worthy and alimony providing.

there's a man with no life in his eyes,
                                  there's a man with no life in his eyes.

it had been a long time since i wrote mediocre poems,
without a sedative, overtly sensitive  and too self-conscious
for my liking, unlike all others: under the influence of
a more potent Bacchus elixir, as is due further
north, building up on some sort of ethnic
mythology - it's just that i know it's not actually
self-consciousness, but precautionary measures,
in the sense: i can't be ridiculous - i remember
reading the poetry foundation and knew it was
poetry straight from the coffee houses and tea parties:
no ridiculousness and certainly more sensitivity;
i haven't been down this alley for a long long time;
and it's bothersome, just a little, just a little
too much for me: a poet with a repertoire of 6 accessible
poems to browse over, a poet in residence at some
university, but only a repertoire of 6 accessible poems
to browse over - so much love on the page, so much
nature, so many relationships, religiosity, living,
hobbies, art...
                        i can only refer to my porcelain doll eyes,
i remember when that one word was whispered
into my ear, i was at a party in Edinburgh, promise
of a lively affair, psychotically shopped in a clothes
shop buying all the cotton glitters of fine prints...
but at the party i ended up a potato sack like hood
made from hemp - the minute that word was whispered
into my ear, an electricity ran through me entirely,
my eyes rolled back and a mini-epileptic shiver shook
me yet enabling me to still stand - the mini seizure
stopped and the porcelain eyes were revealed for me
to peer from behind - i seemed to have lost the depth of those
prior eyes masqueraded youth, naiveness, hope,
a bearable kind of expression of love and solidarity,
ambition, jubilation at physical exertion: the basic tenets
for a thirst for life... but everything changed in a flash of
lightning... i rushed out from the party in rage...
walking from the door of the party (an apartment, below
which were shops) i smashed the window to a hairdressing
shop... run into an alley, and threw everything from my
pockets on the floor: coins and a polish citizen card...
after all i wasn't exactly in favour of holding a dual-
citizenship... then certain things revealed and certain
hidden, audacity over scholarly dogmatism, comparison:

surah al-baqarah
ألف      لام      ميم
a         l        m
l         ā         ī
i        m       m
f                                                  seen this sort of code
                                                    in a preceding book...
                                                    hmm, where did i see it?

                                         ah!
                                                 Χ          ξ         ς
                                                 c           x         s
                                                 h           i          i
                                                 i                     (g
                                                              ­          m
                                                     ­                    a)...
"         "        "
but then there's another
                           صاد
                             s'
                             ā
                             d
                                           as there is also
"          "       راء
                     r
                     ā                    and however many variations,

but the principle is the same as the encryption in
the greek book... oh man, i wish i could write cool stuff,
about nature and all that stuff about being macho on
Machu Picchu with a boyscout survival guide...
i just can't rub of my initial indoctrination to a certain
degree with a religion, up to the age of sixteen we
used to prayer in the morning, the *our father drilled
into us - hence i justify my interest in these matters
because of that - just spotting one thing following through
to another with a similarity - you can hardy deny
the Quran is not following from what was established prior,
although that's where my interest ends...
just looks like another jigsaw puzzle... i just haven't
seen any literature on the topic... and i'm not going to
transliterate hebrew, for that numbers game whereby
the original Gematria meaning i already described about
the geometry of letters, and how they all fit through
O... the open mouth... M can fit through the mouth
and also turn into a bee caught between the lips,
and can also be lodged in the larynx when you hearing
mumbling with the mouth closed.

Naiveness does not plague me.*

You are nothing more
than one too many drinks,

nothing more
than sweat-stained sheets.

She

Introversion,
No self esteem,
Betrayal.
She
The beating drums of life have ceased
Tattered and destroyed by naiveness
The spirit inside dwindling
Slowly drained by the man who
Isn’t.
Silence rips her inner thoughts to shreds
He saw it all along
He knew her pain
Though she hides it with laughter
Smiling.
Her river of pain is dry as a summer drought
All of its sorrow disappeared with truth
Why can’t there be rain?
The deep desire for liberation can’t be restrained
Anymore.
Hatred escapes her inner being
Writhing in her every move
Everyone can see for certain
Negative energy emanating towards him
Only.
Screaming from her soul to her throat
But no one can hear her desolate plea
Panic, anxiety, nothing will ease her
She feels his oblivion and cowering
Only anger.

listen, i did my christianity bit,
i went to a catholic school,
that's about it, i'm not going to be paying
any more dues, and yes it is scary leaving
the theological ***** where you're expected
to **** yourself should something awful were to happen,
my Cartesian model is a bit different though,
instead of cogito ergo sum (ego inclusive),
it's a- deus ergo ego cogito...
i don't know where to put the affix hyphen to balance
the equation, whether -ego or -cogito to create
the + of ergo, the 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 + 7 + 8 + 9
sequencing as the offshoot of thinking and being,
which, however, is not as easily represented
by mathematics - cogito ergo sum
is not a straight forward + + +, it's the tetrasignum
of +, -, x and ÷, the interaction between thinking
and being is no straightforward sequence of events,
not a simple adding up... it varies, the four variables
have to coexist in the ergo that bridges thinking
and being... i mean one event in your life can
either add to the experience, subtract, multiply
or divide you an your thinking in terms of how
you'll later be... imagine a burglary,
indeed the tetrasignum is at work (basic! basic!
forget the anti-matter and subatomic particulars
that mathematics possesses with its logic,
e.g. √ and other meddles, basic is +, -, x and ÷
like a, b, c, the other mathematical functions
are like adding diacritical marks to letters,
so in algebra an x squared is like the e in olé!)
it will divide you, subtract from you, add up naiveness,
and you'll perceive the multiplicity of other people
also having experienced the distress. i could
complicate the explanation further, but i'll just
abandon the whole thing, because i have this
on my mind:

you write about religious matters you end up
desecrating things, religion and that damnable
materialistic symbolism, how those people
cling to crosses so much that they tattoo the symbols
into their skin - such mental straitjacket imprints -
there is a different version of Milton's paradise lost
(i don't like Blake because he attacked from
Milton and Newton) -
it's called *yesterday, today and for ever,
and was written by edward henry bickersteth, d.d.
(late bishop of Exeter), published
by Longmans, Green & Co. 39 Paternoster Row,
London (also fourth avenue & 30th street new york
& Bombay, Calcutta & Madras) 1915 (height of
British imperialism before the ski-***** descent),
in twelve books, preface dating september 1866
(so i'm guessing the bishop was dead by 1915),
contents of the twelve books:
i. the seer's death, and descent to hades
ii. the paradise of the blessed dead
iii. the prison of the lost
iv. the creation of angels and men
v. the fall of angels and men
vi. the empire of darkness
vii. redemption
viii. the church militant
ix. the bridal of the lamb
x. the millennial sabbath (shābat)
xi. the last judgement
xii. the many mansions
                                                    (i know, i know, the
twelve disciples what not);
citation chapter ix page 247
   disguise was not: the dust instead of water drank in blood;
and fiery persecution in all lands
          lit up the lurid flames of hell.
  the whole creation in birth-pangs travail'd and groan'd;
while Satan inly tortured, with a fiend's dark
jealousy contemplating the power of Baalim
and envious Ashtaroth, though himself advanced,
as yet sub-served their banded *******.
Antichrist, as hollow subterfuges cast aside,
usurp'd the throne of Christ.

so that's an extract, but an e.g. of the notes of the
explanatory index:

st. paul's adoption of the word prophet to describe
the Cretan bard Epimenides (Titus i. xii)
appears to justify the use of seer in an equivalent sense;
compare i samuel. ix. ix.

line 78 "its true gauge"
'the measure by which we shall be measured, is the
faculty of love in the soul.'     Tauler, born 1290 a.d.

so there you have a sample of the lesser known Paradise
Lost... you probably won't find it in any shops,
it's a dated book, hard-cover... if you want it
i could send it to you, but you'd have to pay for
the postage duties.
ah crap, but that's not the point,
you've heard of the unholy trinity, well in it there's
this missing plurality, christian revisionists
(notably Slavoj Žižek) claim that the holy ghost
is not an individual but a community, a herd
(after all, it was a white dove descending at his
baptism, can't tell doves apart, so great, a community),
but working from there you have to accept
the other, counter: the false prophet of the opposite
hierarchy... it has to be plural... i.e. false prophets;
now i betcha ten quid that you wouldn't learn that
at sunday school.
title wise? i might change it...
                            i hate writing about religious things
because: a. it upsets people
                b. i don't like people getting upset
                c. some things just have to be said
                d. **** it, people are as adamant about
                     mobile phones as they are about
                     crucifix necklaces
                 e. i was schooled in catholicism although
                     not confirmed
                 f. i live in a protestant country, so, technically
                 g. i have to rebel and become an apostate,
                     meaning
                 h. the twelve apostates rather than the other 12.

I’ll be fine, I guess.
So would you.
How soon
depends
on how we broke.
In half? Rough and jagged at the ends
With you clinging angrily to your end and I to mine?
Angry, stubborn tears stinging
in your eyes or mine
That’d be a while
But you’d be fine. I’d be fine.
Or maybe
the courting of Death
Seductive caresses across my wrists and lips or
something sudden and final
In screeching brakes and the smell of rubber tires
denial
and hollow ringing
as I think for the first time in my life
God, I wish I wasn’t wearing black.
It doesn’t matter.
A fight
An illness
A drifting? eventual (we had nothing left in common)
You’d be fine.
You’d remember me in fleeting moments
Flicking past a space documentary on Netflix
or pausing over a box of creamsicles in the frozen aisle
And I would see you
In the golden yellow hair of a passerby
But it would pass every time
One of us might laugh at the thought once we said
you and me
to the bitter end
That a teenager knew what forever and always was
and chalk it up to youthful naiveness
And we would be fine.
But I don’t want to be fine
I want to be laughing so hard my stomach almost lacerates
Because you know exactly what to say
And I want to be pressing
Kisses to your cheek and passing you hot cocoa
Because today we’re staying in and watching Disney
(singing along to every song of course)
I want to introduce you to everyone
Have you met…?
And tell strangers in the grocery store
About the most wonderful thing you did
And watch them smile kindly
over me gushing about you
across the stacks of tomatoes.
And I want to tell you over the phone about that stranger
So you can say
ew, tomatoes.
I don’t want to be fine, I want to be the kind of ecstatic
That only comes from us
From discussing everything from lipsticks to physics to musicals to dying
From knowing that when I am so tired I can feel it in my soul
You will hold me and let me cry
From believing it will always be us against everything
From living happily ever after
Because what is fine
Compared to this?

I.
when i see your face it is almost
like i am staring through a
tinted car window
and whenever i think of you all
I see is a decaying brick wall
i was never able to pass through
and I have come to that breaking point
where I will never get
anywhere with you.
Forgive me for
completely abandoning you
pulling away
moving on
but understand you made me do it.

II.
You ****** me and expected me
not to fall in love.
When I told you I was falling,
you did not even bother to
say goodbye.
I have hated many people in my lifetime
for petty stupid reasons
I don't think  really hated them at all.
I have tried to mend our shortcomings
but I can not bring myself to respect
someone like you.
You threw me away
and left me at a concert
while holding my best friends hand.
Forgive me for
hating you
but understand you made me do it.

III.
The idea of you was enticing
I really thought I loved you,
but etched letters in trees
and sad songs were not
enough to make me stay.
i am sorry
I wish things were different
and I wish I was not
such a hypocrite.
Forgive me for hurting you
but understand that
you had nothing to do with this.

IV.
15 was too young to lose my innocence
Or to have it stolen from me
Justifying your actions
with my commitment
and total naiveness.
It has been so long since I was seen you
you're touch has faded
and voice is muddled.
I wonder
if you are the same
Forgive me for leaving you
But understand you made me do it.

a horror to behold... i rather not have a woman cook me food, i rather not have a woman clean my house... come to "think" of it... walking abortion as i am... one chain-clink short of *****-bank list of incestuous ancestry... but i am drinking bourbon... and... the cultural export of h'america from the 20th century aside... god i loved the Beatniks... two things stand out as... concerning to give focus to... bourbon... &... peanut butter... it truly is a horror to behold... i've opened a bottle of jack & jackie and i'm worried that i, just might... finish off the entire litre of this... gorgeous... gorgeous... ****-**** of a glug-glug-glug... metaphors obvious... why didn't i cite cinema? why didn't i cite music? sometimes a hour comes... an hour that completes a day... and if i'm not slobbering on some peanut butter... i'll be drinking a bourbon... i might be watching some b.b.c. police drama: line of duty instead of making a fetish sandwich of a moo-vee... while listening to... some Finnish folk-rock... i just find it sad that... men and women can't return to something akin to... james horner's for the love of a princess...  you know... when women were mystifying... celestial creatures that would be imagined by a frail mind of a colt as... seemingly unable to burp, ****... or take a ****... perhaps it's that same old testament of: in love with the idea of love... a woman as both an idea... and an ideal... interchangeable: idea through to ideal... it' not even i, willing to compete for what's readily available... since time immemorial, the ultimate freedom was to be found on a bicycle.. not even a horse... i will never mind not having a driving license... but a bicycle can overpower a horse... why? i like the refreshing injection of being able to: create my own momentum... that's what a bicycle is... esp. coming to a roundabout with... shy drivers... oh **** me... don't get me started on the problem i sometimes have when... a ford KA is about to overtake me... takes it about a mile... and a dual-carriageway to do so... but some ****** in a SUV or a van skims past me like... nothing... i actually want to be naive once more... naive enough to want to fall in love with a woman... i want to be naive about naiveness... n'ah-eve... i'm just seeing red markers underlining my words and... if it's a spelling mistake, proper? well then... if not... then back into phoneticism... English is readily available to cushion this sort of detouring... . so much for a romanticism surrounding a galloping horse... or a car.... to heave all this riddle of insurance... not worth it... skittle-brains: jelly on the side... i like the idea of generating my own momentum... this might translate as a grasp of... what ana ******* feels like... add a bit of spice... what a limp little richard ******* feels like before a nylon clad ******* feels like when you're about to be shamed for objective purposes... at the same time... a stiff-neck... it feels mightily gargantuan and with prospect of... non-revisionism to be ****** off: *****-nilly by some imitation of a housewife.... just saying... like i would gulp up a furry oyster once in a while... here's to licking metal in sub-zero temperatures... or reading into bark... seeing faces in trees... i own two maine **** cats and i like my house to be as freed from excess fur as possible... is that, somehow... emasculating: i want to bweak fwee kareoke take on what's demanded of... cleanliness?  last time i trusted a woman to cook for me she gave me some cognac with a slice of lemon... then... butchered a chicken twice-over with a dry-set of *******... i was looking at 165 degrees sort of juicy... i got... ******* chicken breast: chalk "tenderness"... i don't eat meat... of the poultry variety with a "feel" of chalk... like you could brush your teeth against it... i can grasp the consistency of eating liver... along with the tenderness of bean-bounce akin of the hearts... chicken stomachs in a gravy... but don't give me... chicken ******* that are like biting into chalk... whereby... the teeth imitate sticking together like i'm eating some injection of protein into... ******* fudge! i've seen how certain marriages expired... one undercooked potatoes... another overcooked pasta... yet another had a case for a "lost cat"... how the ****... how can you... "lose" a cat? i say a leash i say a bursting concept of cranberry... a lost dog is... i've seen it... the one you chain to a fence... and run off from? how the hell do you even begin... to... lose... a cat? point being: the cat ****** off... the cat decided: **** this... i'm out! i have to think it's impossible to lose a cat... but the cat might "think" otherwise... how do you lose a cat? you forgot to leash-it? what sort of a... what a terrible person you must be... to "lose" a cat... cats are never "lost"... some better elsewhere... i'll take my chances as a stray... only today i performed the impossible... i showed her furry-snout into my ear... for what? for giggles... obviously she didn't like it... but i got the giggles... most assuredly... well i lost a turtle... i accidently flushed it down a toilet... what lack of character... spine... to supposedly "lose" a cat... a bit like: **** me! i guess i might have... misplaced... a ******* pyramid! who says that?

while juggling some politically terms...

can it be deemed so unfathomably "emasculating"
to want to live in a clean house,
rather: for the man to clean his abode?
cleanliness is somehow an inherent quality
of femininity?
                        some *** with an un-kept beard...
man dragged through the dirt...
what is it with gender roles or: what's in man
specified to be: man...
           not in the 20th century not since any time prior
has there been this "Copernican", ahem... "revolution"
in ontology...
one might almost gag for the resurrection
of the Soviet empire...
at least you could have something to push-back
on with airs of moral superiority: even if "doing the right
thing" might implore you to be deluded:
or that's how i see a period of history of western europe...
placebo solipsism - a genius of "autism"...
it's not like the mongol horde came knocking
or the ottoman turk...
            as a side note: it's that old urban myth trope...
can two straight men share an umbrella?
it would be terrible of me but truth be told...
a sentence from the handmaid's tale...
a woman contemplating the ****-availability of
a "low status" male...
first example on offer: Leibniz... the ******* librarian...
or rather: two isolated incidences of discovering
calculus - infinitesimals...
well... it would be hard to believe that...
the same thought could exist in two people...
two contemporaries...
              the argument in England stands with the right
of Newton...
a man left alone to his own devices...
deus ex machina: **** in machina...
a river of time on the otherwise head-spinning
carousel of: 35 springs, 35 summers i count to
invite: this autobiographical sketch...
it can hardly be unheard of...
a river's delta -
             but it's not like Copernicus was not
overshadowed by Galileo in western Europe...
the little pride in original thinking these
poor schmucks lodged between the Germans
and the Russians would ever have...
but is it... emasculating for a man to...
clean the toilet in the house... vacuum...
is it all: airy-fairy all of a sudden to keep up standards...
to wash your hands etc.
it's not like i wasn't supposed to write this:
give me any ******* novel...
and i'll take more pleasure from it than from
something written by a woman....
sylvia plath is an exception...
         clarice lispector... i tried...
                        virginia woolf...
             while a man will divulge his innermost workings...
i find it hard to imagine that a woman
would suddenly... give up her mystique
and over-complicated simplicity for...
   a what? a novel...
      while everyone can grasp a tease of misogyny in
this... god... for the love of ******...
how a brothel always reminds me of opening
a bottle of bourbon...
out of h'america... besides discovering the continent
in / with canned sardines:
what's does a gingerbread to do with a windmill?
since reading ******* literature one can at least
imagine oneself turning a tongue into a phallus...
i have never read a book by a woman
where i'd think about gorging on a mouthful
of... a floral-skin-mush... ripple...
        eating an oyster gives me a vague recollection
of eating ****...
although: of the latter... you're not exactly
eating anything... all in the foreplay before all that
brute piston work-out...
the tenderness of skin in the vicinity of the collar-bone...
since Sappho... because...
man had the monopoly on literacy?
  let's not cite who was probably responsible for
writing the first surahs of the quran then...
the illiterate-would-be-warlord / merchant...
or his... older... acumen-proved... wife (Khadija)?
is it... emasculating to clean one's home?
well... it sure as **** wasn't emasculating using a grinder
to cut a bmx out from a winding hug of a Wisteria...
even through the dust mask...
the smell of quartz cutting through steel...
it has to be a tier above that familiarity of cut grass...
a spinning disk of quartz making steel
feel like a tub of butter.

re.: a mini-psychotic detour -
it's off the stream! it's off the stream!
it's been catalogued in: latest!
it's off the stream! i'm aiming to reach
1million words and...
it's off the stream... so the word
count will not be incorporated...

oddly enough i still know how
to use a toaster - and a kettle -
i am also fabled with having to perform
week long chemistry experiments...
why i didn't look into the basics
of

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funny that... how ever many of years
in school, then at university...
i was teased with this language...
for half a semester at university...
the rest of the time school was...
a bit like being in prison...
making sure the prison guards had
a job, were paid...
same with school...
the teachers were paid...

did they teach us basic computer language?
no... i'm pretty sure they didn't...
were we all expected to go to the coalmine
first... before being told to...

which isn't so much lazy as...
i can still remember chalk and chalkboard
at school...
and the holy trinity of (
                                    {      [
how many crescent moons - and altering
a piece of: would be paper?

oh my god... e. e. cummings wasn't even
born...
can you imagine if e. e. cummings
was born 20 years ago...
and started smashing out his:

stand-
;still)

i was honestly being technologicaly
paranoid...
about to cite archive numbers
of "missing" / "shadow-banned"
poo'ems...

e.g. 3479319, 3482972, 3485309,
3484258, 3483083, 3480751,
3480555, 3478158 etc.

but how is that even an over-hyped
reaction - when you're only scratching
the bare minimum -
of what's nonetheless, to me:
a 2 dimensional canvas...

and the point of school was to ensure
that we could fathom our naiveness even more so...
nothing of importance...
just passing the time...
it's not like they could have taught
us to code -
school is not some preface for:
all the subsequent self-taught mechanisms
you will ever encounter:
further on life...

why did i go to school?
why is the cult of school and the nostalgia
culture associated with: popular kids,
nerdy kids, bowling for columbine...
the everyday leftover kids -
i don't even remember being
taught grammar: proper...
we were told... as long as you sound
coherent...
nature came - nurture ****** off somewhere...
but nature didn't come
with <basic> or not so </end of>
with this sort of <bracket>
and this sort of (bracket)
and this sort of {bracket}
and this sort of [bracket] -

"back in the day" you'd read some heidegger
and not "bother" to code -
" " implies /misnomer
/metaphor - solo....

as: burgundy < red
     red being the base marker...
     given that rose < red (is also)...
     since burgundy > red
     since: burgundy ≈ purple...

<approx>
     cardinal < crimson
                                           </approx>

a "debate", and another debate -
in a thesaurus entry...
red - cardinal, crimson, burgundy appear
<sim>
           cardinal < burgundy
                                             </sim>

that is... cardinal ~ burgundy
   ergo cardinal > crimson...
or do we call these the prefixes: quasi~
and pseudo≈?

cerise and all that's suddenly expected to turn
into fluorescence of some underwater Florence...
from carmine and maroon -
brown starts to creep in...

     bobby vinton - blue on blue and...
spaghetti westerns -
somehow i wish to be held in the hands
of a coroner -
i should really think about
donating my body to a medical school -
and bobby has another great track:
velvet blue...
sure... he's no sam cook...
all the way riddled with h'american
suburbia psychopathy:
a smile can hide a thousand
little lies...
a smile is something anti-stoic...
because... the shine of the ivory sheen...

and all i can think of...
not even beginning sentences -
esp. not ending them -
the narrative went with the baby
and the bathwater -
the canary had a coalmine -
the budgerigar had a cage...
the sparrow were tattooed
along with swallows onto convicts
bodies in some jean-genet
minor *****-porky-teen-flick...

tender-bits from some Olaf or Oleg...
or better still an Olga...
recitations would also require:
bumblebees and petula clark!

and that one song that surfed right
above my head and started towing
a hoarding of kippahs
and a... my my... all those
abrahamic beards turned into sabbath
bound brooms for the fwench
brides of boredom...

some might say it's:
strawberry alarm clock -
incense and peppermints...

      as Herman's Hermits aged much worse
than a Donovan...
no milk today and the three kingfishers...

welcome citations...
what's more apparent? someone is clogging
up the arteries of time...
the veins are... the veins that stretch as far
back as jazz from the 1920s...
through to the wock and woll of the 50s...
don't get me started on what's the leftover
of the 90s of the 20th century...

new beginnings they will cite...
here's one... if e. e. cummings was to be born...

swing low
sweet ca

rr
y on

(pass the freedoms pappy
or uncle shylock not interested

- notes on finland the elsewhere estonia,
latvia and li... i will not give lithuania up
that easily... the once grand duchy...
married to the crown -
and all my hitorical adventures -
the sensible today...
the modern sensibility the current man!
me and my historical... what did i call them?

no... they're not idiosyncracies...
they're... detours in infantalism...
but if e. e. cummings was born circa...
and he - he would mosty certainly
succumb to code logic poetics...

bracket (a) "bracket" <b> bracket {c} bracket [d]...
!red is blue -
outright negation...
!red isn't red - the "is" is therefore questionable...
for some reason: no, it doesn't have to be:
but it's blue... blue is !red

should a mr. buckling bucktooth still
be introduced?
well: we do need to indroduce a next to nothing
worth nothing new: cipher unit...

a faux pas needs to have an addressee -
namely me - and i need to wallow in infuriated
agony of a petty detail that no life will
require to cherish!

- and that i am to be fond of tomorrow in that
the only promise that awaits me there is:
me baking a four tier cake - literally...

how terrible a faux pas becomes -
a bull so enraged by red that he becomes blinded
and no longer is able to hone onto
the originating crux -

even somehow "somewhere" with a dasein in
tow... intermitten years...
no... not without a T attached...
and even by now as by then:
that's a misnomer...

- apparently tautology is not a logical
fallacy... but something worth
a thesaurus rex and peacock's: "age of discovery"...
how we can all speak a language
of aphorisms and verb conjectures -
as ever: nouns retain their form as being
the most complete category of everyday
toils - a hammer will never become
an iron shrapnel hanging by a hook chin
off the clide edge of a nail's head...

set with time in mind - temporal thinking...
otherwise set with space in mind -
spatial thinking -
otherwise: when thinking was simply
thinking - exploring the moral architecture...
with that moral-theta of 'ought... and i:
probably not...

save me from linguo-savvy h'american
media pundits and their acronyms!
the boss, the bot the bot, the boss...
the bottom liner - the beatnik and the bolshevik
and... some other b- prefixed outlier...

- otherwise: it's pretty **** evil...
for movies to showcase the hygienic act of
washing ones teeth...
washing the teeth...
spitting out the remaining toothpaste
(oh jeez louis! why don't they simply,
swallow it?)...
and then... not rinsing their mouths?
at this point... rinsing the mouth...
after having just washed the teeth using
toothpaste... is probably as much good
as using mouthwash to begin with...
no one; no one rinses their mouths
after brushing their teeth on film?!

i've too many dreams about teeth
to know - i am actually the sole proprietor of
a memory of my great-grandfather...
and how... he would eat 20 sugar cubes
a day... smoke 40...
and have his first tooth pulled out...
aged 62...
myth, history... journalism?
i dream about teeth...
i would have clearly asked for:
and he dreamed about moths...
but then... oh Eden is still in my grasp...
i can see the next forbidden fruit
hanging...
her name is Layla... and she's...
borderline 16 years old...
i see my Eden already...
i see the forbidden fruit...
apparently i never left...
as i was never apparently Adam...

problem is: you already know what
the forbidden fruit is...
and it's bothering you that i know
what the forbidden fruit is, for me...
now comes the juggling act
of me entertaining not making my will
into a resolve... which is to not:
act upon it...
maybe the apple was too complicated...
maybe a Layla circa 16 is...
a more obvious deterrent...

i think it's also called:
the prosecutor's *****...
but... enough gob and enougn dosh...
you can be the new st. andrew of windsor...
even in the taxi driver the ****
is 0... negated...

my my... what sort of language could
even become so casual...
the burning bridges of informality...
strapped to the formal tool of
orientating one's spatial creed of:
for the exchange of goods and services...
long gone the per se
of a school and a playground...

or some do... want to find and rekindle
the brotherhood of childhood...
they'll join the army...
they'll commit themselves to crime...
some men... it's hardly the adventure riddle
first lady's history society of
rhode island's desperate housewife club...
but...
it's hardly a deviation from imagining
how fudge is packed,
or for that matter: sausages...

a major faux pas...
some e. e. cummings... and what would never
become a code(d) poo'em...
but... for what today had to offer:
and what i had to offer today;
it's enough... it's peaches and cream...
a well balanced butterfly of reciprocation...
it's a death... but a death with a promise
of returning: in situ...
although in situ is always a flexible
requirement when reincarnation is fiddled
with.

somewhere along the way i lost
my caution
i lost my panic
i lost my naiveness

i stopped wearing my seatbelt and saying please
i stopped deleting messages and looking twice before crossing the road
i stopped waiting for you to tell me youre sorry because i knew you wouldnt mean it and i knew i wouldnt believe it

i used to put my toes in the water then slowly wade in
but now everythings a cannonball and this pool of
hot frustrated tears and exasperated sweat is overflowing onto the cement and evaporating into the purple clouds faster than my heart when its jumping out of my throat when i slip out of my window under the blanket of stars
stepping over twigs and stealing
kisses in the pines

somewhere along the way i stopped believing in god and started to create my own purpose and found salvation under the suns rays
somewhere along the way i lost my walls and turned my hallow
bones into my home

A belief is a sweet dream.
An unconscious stream.  

It tucks the corners of your bed.
A place to put all your dread.

Covers you in white linen.
Keeps your naiveness winnen.

Casts you away into a sleepful estate.
No longer shall you await.

A sweet escape from the truth.
A kiss of ignorance coming through.

Gives you faith in something.
Even if it’s a hopeful nothing.

i have no name for this observation,
but it's there,
unique, like a prized marble bust
of some famous woodpecker...
pani (ms.), pan (mr.),
           pani (ms., is that yours?)
    panie (a number of mademoiselles),
pań (those umbrellas belong
to the mademoiselles) -
             but then there's also
this bilingual Ypres -
          trenches, miles and miles of
trenches...
              seemingly going nowhere...
a case of never being able to write
an onomatopoeia for touching
an atom... but there is:
Hiroshima... a history of a place,
like Chernobyl... and from the simple
bronze age artifact, poetically speaking,
into Heidegger's concept of dasein,
from a simple: knock knock...
into a unfathomable implosion
and never a knock knock...
but what's opposite of when we once met:
at the tower of babylon...
then from fear: we meet again
at Dubai, at the Shard, at Hanoi...
                    at Petronas...
a full circle... all a fake:
for we have congregated once again,
but not by architectural madness
to scale beyond Everest...
   within a grain of sand:
       at the abstract gain of sand:
at the atom... and from fear:
we reignited that ancient vanity...
to tobble trees with toothpicks...
as we have: tried: having toppled
mountains with buildings...
but still the new crux of our congregation,
the atom...
                    a new biblical
séance - these new endeavours are
not new, they are cloaks to hide the true
point of our congregation,
our new found "togetherness",
which is circumstanced as the evolved
version of Heidegger's "thereness"
(dasein).... and yes: apologies for
the ref., as such: either cite someone
and continue toward the artery,
or convene for Hamlet to gamble
over vine or vein...
                                     then toward
something beyond belittling:

mały (small)
      and subsequently: the worded
microscope, a process of endearing
something small, into something doubly
small, and perhaps even of chubby-cheek
physiogomy:

    malutki
                       maciupki
   maluteńki                    
                                  maleczki
                              (so where is the harshness
of synonyms? where is the stomping
        thesaurus rex now?),
                   maluszki (a kindergarten throng),
        the technical word is:
zdrobnienie -
      and if translated into English,
probably reveals more affection
toward the language than all the scientific
juggling away from atoms and into
sub-atomic                   quasi-atoms...
      has English really become
an anaesthetic? a desensitized medium
where the only nutrient is to tell a flimsy
joke as a role for invoking a comforting
suggestion? at least the Germans don't
feel awckward when telling a bad joke...
     the English feel ackward when telling
a good one!
                          nonetheless:
degrees... how small can a word become...
                 and by becoming even smaller
it becomes endearing,
          like a sparrow...
                          man could train
a hawk to sit on its arm and hunt...
but could man ever train a sparrow to sit:
in the palm of his hand?
           well: what a word, and a word
among so many: drobnica:
                              a tu Emeryk -
po roku, co rok, ziarnkiem maku drepta,
a raczej czolga: gniecie kolanem prawej
raz w roku, gniecie kolanem lewej
po raz drugi kolejnego rokue -
       asz po szczyt - jego małej: apokalipsy.

and 3 weeks among the natives will
do that for you...
             the tongue will tangle itself into
skorpion insomniac -
                          if only to rekindle
the labrador naiveness -
                               or from Golgotha
  without its eternal flame, to no other
Olympics...
               and who would have thought:
that there was no corner-stone
that would have been rejected from
the architecture...
        could anyone have predicted,
that two pieces of wood, nailed together
into an ornament of torture,
would shower-down upon this earth
the church, the cathedral, the altar and
the sanctified mastrubation of marble into
the cheek-bones of the ****** mary,
by some Italian drunkard, working on
the papist commision? mightly...
   one horseman be missing....
three horsemen, and one grand joke
riding a donkey...
                death yawns... and subsequently
eats up satan's laugh....
                                   from a crucifix:
st. peter's cathedral!
                   meanwhile in Japan...
origami.

brilliant bruises like diamonds
shine on my skin
with a child's naiveness
I trust you again

with a temper that is quick
and eyes gone black
I'm lying facedown on the bed
as your beating my back

I'd cry out in pain
but your ears are deaf
so I suffer in silence
self-hate beaten into my flesh

the belt buzzing
I pretend I'm not there
as the welts are rising
I'm choking for air

then all is quiet
behind the locked door
you tell me you love me
and beat me some more

I'm an angel trapped in a bubble, who is remarkably naïve.

What will happen to this angel when the bubble bleeds?

Will I fall into the depths of this horrid world or will I stand tall above the trees?

Honestly,

I think I will fall into the depths of my own naiveness, blind to what I see.

Home is a funny word, a funny feeling!

It's funny to the extent that I laugh at the naiveness of those who believe in it's façade of being permanent.

it used to be me, going out clubbing...
now?
  well... drinking *** and pepsi,
solving a sudoku -
            listening to music -
   and catching meaty-moths
   with my bare hands
          while the moths are in flight...

so you start listening to internet media,
and you listen good,
   there's a broad spectrum
to digest...
           and they can't be wrong,
solo-journalism,
               the only respectable
day for a newspaper to be published?
sunday... all the other days
are blank pages for me...

anyway, the recent acid attack
in london, where kids, kids!
  kids aged 15 & 16 rode around
east london
         wrecking havoc,
injuring 5 people...

    well... i listened to mainstream media
and all they said
is that these two numb-nuts were
only doing it to steal...
        thieving? really?
using acid?
             last time i checked acid attacks
were popular in pakistan...
some honour *******...
          
funny, in america they throw ***** on
you, in europe, they throw acid...

but the fact that mainstream media is
"trying" to be neutral...
   it's a load of *******...
          if you're going to steal
something you're not exactly going
to use acid...
               i'm guessing that compared
to knives, nitric / sulfuric acid are
more expensive...
  but a thief is a scardey-cat...
            i know,
  i was drinking with this guy
  on brick lane...
       we walk into an alley and he snatches
my phone from my hand
and says that it's "his"...
  
   what happened subsequently?
  i shouted him down...
    you should see the expression
on a theif's face when you shout at them
to give your possession back...
   no, not a punch...
  
i just shouted: 'look at your guardian
angel!'...

            ****** ran off,
     and i didn't even need to punch him.

this acid attack wasn't a "standard"
act of thievary...
            mainstream media doesn't have
the ***** to call it, yawn, yet another
terrorist attack... which it was...

am i jumping to conclusions?
               not if the media is lying...
after a while,
   while building up a thick-skin...
your naiveness shrinks to the size
of a cherry seed...

             who are they fooling thinking
      that their audience is pigeon-brained?

these outlets think that they can clam
the situation down,
            by engaging in misnomer poker...
misnomer? yeah, it is misnomer poker,
not applying the correct word
to the actual thing...

                  whether noun or verb -
this wasn't an event encompassed
by to steal... but it was encompassed
by to terroriße...
                these weren't thieves,
  last time i checked, they needed
a second scooter...
    that's all they stole...
  and the fact that it happened within 90 minutes
is because they went in different
directions, once they stole the scooter...

and i even had the audacity to find
the b.b.c. respectable...
              i.t.v.? that's beyond redemption...
channel 4 is still trying
   to pretend it's "edgy"...

call this yet another event a typical case
of stealing?
       you're not calming people by lying
to them...
    last time i heard: pakistan is famous
for acid attacks.

Start:
~~~
When a woman
answered
your home phone
your technique
for igniting in me
jealousy worked
just not as you
had expected it
your methods
were not
understood
but it hurt me
very deeply

naive lonely teen
left behind as I was
later on time machine
looped us up again
Single Mom struggling
your loot still buried
where you hid it aged
39 barely surviving
your joy and happiness
still my duty above
and beyond my own
happily ever after!

if you'd known what
war some fiery fields
of malice jealousy
and greed had
shaped inactions
to later be trapped
deceived almost
claiming my life n
my little children's

that jealousy further
had taken the life
of little loved ones
in my childhood years

if you'd only known
how jealousy malice
greed of bad people
had bled me
tormenting
my existence how
all that tinted my
ability to show
my innermost
feelings
you would've used
another method
less bizarre
to force me
exasperated
to disclose
my terrifying
deathly secrets
of torture and sadomy by
those who were supposed
to protect me but used me fir being naive alone looking rich
being broke robbed left and right.
avoiding
the sharing
of such pain
was loving you!

had I seen in my finger
your gold wedding
ring with your
name in it and or
a diamond
heart ring promised
with your heart
and my tears in it
instead of
just all written
i would've
understood
to show you
my innermost
caring loving
feelings timely love.

if you had
understood me
you wouldn't have
lost me
nailing me to that cross
digging knifes to see where
I squiled louder
and all you wanted to hear
was that I loved you to stop?
What kind if beast
dud you think I was?
And I called you home.
I would've grabbed
her greedy bone fish
hinny out!
our bedroom
window!
and beauty rest
cursed
in an eyeblink!

how foolish of you
to not perceive
I loved you
more then I
loved myself
enough to let you
go even to
another woman!

How sad not to
have perceived
that something
horrible had
happened to me
your twin
flame soul that
amnesia was an
involuntary
defence
mechanism
blocking
traumatic past
events
rooted from mis
communication
naiveness loneliness
and not by any lack
of heart or feelings
nor inability to feel
hurt and pain

I am born a pristine
feeling empathetic
deeply feeling
beautiful in-n-out
caring woman
so now you know.

what you wrote
long ago
what others
would be
to us both when
we married
living
"happily
ever after"

it hurts to be
dead calm
misunderstood
(PcRk)
and just a
"distant and
faint memory!!
End.
~~~~~
By: Karijimbba
All Rights reserved
revised 06/13/19

i remember watching you
it was weird the way
your skin started to turn a little blue
no more flush of that lively "life"
our human race has so desperately pursued
the same you looked, just a little dead
just a fraction of hope
flashing in my head
in sheer naiveness of you coming back again, i hear the life support's infamous
tune

i sometimes feel as if growing older
has done me more harm than good.

it killed my innocence
my naiveness
my purity
my ability to not think.

but mostly it killed the way my brain could make colours
and the way i saw love
and the way i saw life.

Generation X the final 47.8 years of humanity's existence. The War of the Masters Of Souls rages on. God and his Saints & Angels vs. The Devil his Angels & Nephelims. Taming the Tongue

3 Not many of you should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly. 2 We all stumble in many ways. Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect, able to keep their whole body in check.

3 When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal. 4 Or take ships as an example. Although they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go. 5 Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. 6 The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.

7 All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and sea creatures are being tamed and have been tamed by mankind, 8 but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.

9 With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness. 10 Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be. 11 Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? 12 My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water.

New King James Version "Holy Bible."

Laboring the liable and taking accountability for my actions is something I must work on...I must endure, adquire more resilience, more wisdom, more pureness, more humility (as if am not humble enough) more reliability more selflessness more vitality by God's reliable faithfulness guidance and miraculously adquire the mysteries of the Multi-Verse and God's Immortal Truth & Infinite Soul & Powers of the Holy Spirit. Solace and Righteous deeds but most of ALL GRACE from God his Son and his Holy Spirit will allow me to gain and fulfill my calling in this terrestrial plain I live in. Redemption is the final gift I will surely aquire to atone all the wrongdoings I have done, nevertheless, I feel comfortable at ease and happy and prosperous I count my blessings and throw away and rebuke the curses hexes and generational evil enchantments people and my family ties my bloodline and all my so called "coincidential, deja-vu's and dreams and visions and even every day ordinary mundane events that to people may seem like nothing but to me are vital pieces of an invisible monolithyc enormous spiritual yet carnal signs and signals to the Multi-Verse the language of God" for nothing ...that is nothing is mere luck or coincidence every thing pertains to something God speaks thru all circumstances, people, places, things, real or mind driven, fictional or true, art, music, language, animals, designs, intellect, naiveness, admiration of his benevolent power and miraculous deeds that happen daily all around us. Even drugs to aid heal the body and mind can be beneficial. Everything serves a purpose that I truly believe.

Phillipians: 2:10 "That at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of those in heaven, and of those on earth, and of those under the Earth"

New King James Version the "Holy Bible"

Sooner than we all will understand (Humanity as a Whole) who God is ...who he is and why he came to be with us to run this race and be part of this world. My Faithfulness is exponentially growing as I write this...is euphoric, spiritual, peaceful and compassionate such a deepening feeling...a bit exhilarating. A profound thought came to me to write about this...if I ain't a miracle child why would GOD himself put me here writing this at this moment? Yes am perplexed due to that answer completely baffled. Due to the fact am 1. Premature born in 6 months 2 weeks 14.78 min weighted about 2.4 lbs at 5 had my bouts of panic attacks and deep fear and paranoia the first time I encountered those feelings...then at 7 had my first hallucinations then at 10.5 yrs of age became a hyperactive child with night terrors looming around the corner at 23 became a full schizophrenic and to my friends knowledge I have bouts of multiple personality disorder and a rare dissociative disorder. Therefore, I have learn to cope with it all and still be breathing and living thanks first to GOD my Family, friends, acquaintences and the Angelic beings that watch after me.
I want to personally walk into heaven after all is said and done and stare at my Heavenly Father's Eyes and tell him "Thank You accompanied by a huge smile a great big hug and bow down before him kiss his feet and tell him how much I admire love and sincerely care for him being who he is

Happiness is blinding
So many things above me
Hope you love me
I live in an unrealistic world
Asking myself questions no one knows the answers to
I am dying
And I'm tired of pretending
I just want help
It's not too late for me
I'm not all the way gone
This isn't the point of no return
It still hurts
Imma let it burn
The fire is churning
I'm learning
Lessons to be forgotten
I'm dashing
They're all laughing
My naiveness
They love to deceive
Take advantage
Bystanders appease bullies
"Friends" leave
Life drains me
I'm in a strainer
So dehydrated
I tried to find the water that'd evaporated
My head raised to the sky
It's just a drought
They said rain would come but it's all a lie

Intercepting the random
poems, pick not
the holy water, in your palm.
I cannot lift the words.

Dark bellies, in moon's
autumn, will play with flutes.
You will swoon on the
sight of blood at the hands.

It was not the first time, a
lamb in the midair―
falls on the golden spear of
new theme, to bluff the naiveness.

Somebody takes a turn, to
find the bell, which will not send
any sound, on the death of
the poppies.