.you can never really write any poetry by not covering the "heartbreak" the loss of your own "printed" words: how much different is the internet, from "real" life? just asking... since: internet banking & internet shopping... to lose a poem / pre-scriptum is not exactly the same as losing a person to mind: father's day... i cooked the dinner, i took out the trash, i wrote an invoice... i guess that's much better than leaving a card of greetings... and, come to think of it? why are we the sort of people subjugated to nostalgia, with but also "without" a history? aren't we subjugated to nostalgia and a history as a "fiction"? the beginning of the 21st century, the end of the 20th century... the 19th century germans associated themselves with a nostalgia for ancient greece, we're the only people who have an inbuilt nostalgia "safety-mechanism"... the only people in time who are nostalgic about the life surrounding their own existence slot, which doesn't have a trans-temporal dynamic... i remember times when we would be teenagers... spitting on people from car-parks on imaginary tonsures, buying *****-magazines from indian cornershops, or belgian freebies of non-insinuations, white lightning cider while sleeping over at youth centers playing snooker throughout the night... even at school: attending a catholic school with the irish east enders... uniforms, sure... a chequered shirt: blue, red, white... tag? made in canada... and if only capitalism worked as it once did, made in canada? lifetime of a shirt? 20 years... now? made in china... not exactly real cotton, is it? 2 years... before ironing the shirt *****... once upon in gants hill, st. valentine's park, and the pub, recently closed, decent karaoke... in the park? golf, basketball, rowing boats in the large ponds... when the jews were there... gants hill roundabout... the hanukkah torches... jews scuttling wearing trainers come rosh hashanah: jews can't wear leather on rosh hashanah (judgement day)... shy like rats... when the jews were there (gants hill, ilford)... the park looked great... tennis courts... now, when neo-Bangladesh moved in? ****** place. what else do i remember from my original pre-scriptum that i lost? oh, that once time in gants hill... walking into a kosher bakery with ****** knuckles, having tested them on a canvas of a brick wall, buying some dough-fused-sweets? with the girl selling the sweets bewildered by fear? i like the look of fear in people when tested by uncertainty, and bleeding knuckles? later? climbing over the park fence, taking a **** while squatting in the darkened palace of the park, walking into a brothel, having my wallet stolen, not reacting in what would have been justified... high school... we wore uniforms... so no high school h'american culture trap / culture... school uniforms are the best idea, there's no chance to "shine" in telling apart the rich kids from the poor kids... there's only the standard... walking to a supermarket, past a thai surprise... sports bra, short hair... walking back... she's still there pretending to talk on her mobile to someone... you take her home with a few beers... play her some jazz... take her into the garden, the moon is a beauty... you **** her... hand in her underwear and you're still gambling... before the emergence of the nag hammadi library and the whole androgynous vogue, the thai were already readied with the lady-boys... when i reached in and found nothing but oyster... would i have stopped finding a wink-wink slouching worm? slap a trans in the face? no, not really... a thai surprise is, a thai surprise... i would have considered doing my first ****... "lucky" for me she was a she... a girl... ****** her in the garden under the moonlight... gave her my hoodie, which she drowned in... finally... the level of interaction where the female is not a mantis, i.e. a female larger than the male... she drowned into my hoodie as i walked her home... i like the familiarity with the mammalian, not resorting to insect superiority of females... these days... i find that males are strictly mammalian... while females? they are borrowing insect-esque ontologies... well, darwinism allowed the time-frame... males are mammals... females are insects, behaviour-wise... two time frame i do not appreciate the english for... darwinism is prime.... cultural-marxism my ***... what about cultural-darwinism?! no?! that doesn't exist?! cultural-darwinism is as real as cultural-marxism, and, in the former sense? it really does belong to the conservative right-wing politico spectrum! might i add? isn't psychology merely pop philosophy? i find psychology riddled with rubric cohesion, it's all oh so "self"-evident! i abhor psychologists... these gypsy philosophers... medicine-men with no pharmacological shadow of power... to prescribe drugs... arguments, persuasions, but no dialectics... psychology will forever be, for me, a philosophy primer, short-cut... pop philosophy... psychologists can treat people who have never read a philosophy book... r. d. laing... i remember this one instace... me and a fwend of mine travelled into central london, went into a bookshop shy of trafalgar sq., i spotted an edition of: the scarlet and the black by stendhal... i told him: i will trade you linkin park's debut album, if you buy me this... the transaction was made... the one book i read after seeing a film adaptation starring rachel (rakhel) weisz and ewan mcgregor... ra-kh-el: not ray-chel... we used to be humans once... at high school getting bullied back... putting pins on chairs once we got up, sitting on them... playing bulldog in primary school, slap-ball, tag, playing cards at lunchtime... 16 fatty boy... one summer in poland, comes back aged 17... the irish girls take an interest while eating a pomegranate... what was the success of your diet? don't go to the gym... excess skin, an aesthetic surgeon is not what you need... there are only two ways to lose weight... either via swimming or by cycling... cycling is the best... lose weight by also toning your body... gym is a bad idea... by going to the gym you are straining exclusive parts of your body, either the torso, your hands, etc., jogging? unless on soft ground, bad idea on concrete, arthritis... cycling or swimming... lose weight... tone at the same time, the skin is allowed the required time to adapt to shrink, and forget what propped it up in plump form with all that excess flab... ugh... i hated being attractive to the opposite ***, i never used it to my advantage! imagine... an irish lad comes up to me, on behalf of some girl while i'm donning a french braid: you look just like johnny depp in blow, impersonating george jung... 14 year old girls walk up to you asking what shampoo you're using... herbal essences... i never used my looks... *******... now i'm a heavy drinker... so much for looks... first girlfriend? a fwend had to call me telling me she called him that she felt butterflies when i dropped her at the train platform after a day's worth of dating: tate modern, edward hopper exhibitions, cinema: troy, starring rose byrne (briseis) - honestly, a man can go crazy over curly hair... and then a restaurant date... that **** just flew over my head... i wouldn't have noticed... honestly though... i missed the whole h'american cultural excavation genesis in high school... catholic... uniforms... jesuit army-esque formation... now, i'm ageing... i'm starting to find the company of cats to be: clingy... my shadow included... i once thought that dogs were needy... i'm starting to think that cats are worse, esp. the maine **** breed... "lonely" or "loneliness" doesn't really resonate with me, esp. when thinking something "feels" like a variation of claustrophobia: hence i write... without a dialectic in place, ever since plato wrote his dialogues... what is philosophy, primarily? isn't it an off-shoot of "claustrophobia"? we write because we are seeking escape from congested thinking, a variation of "claustrophobia"... now imagine a schizoid character... having to focus on an imaginary dialectic, actually... having dialectics enforced on him, with no clarifying exodus to posit a gensis with! now, a clingy dog i could understand, given the overpowering status of the leash... but a clingy cat, when there's no leash involved?! shoom! right over my head... gone, somewhere into the distance!

what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions hype...
and didn't?
and instead took to patience?
it's free...
   where once,
a game would cost you 20 quid,
and a month's worth
of narrative,
back then, when games
resembled books,
when the gaming industry
was heavily influenced
by literature...
and now?
   the game's free...
sure...
it's "unfair", it's biased...
when you don't engage
in imported gambling
of succumbing to what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions...
       and didn't have the chance...
microtransactions are like
the old school cheat hacks...
but not quiet, but somehow quasi-,
       a modern microtransactions,
would be a cheat magazine
thorough-through
a game like final fantasy VII...
you have homework,
but you still want to complete the game...
modern games...
modern games...
there's an "end gole"?
  what modern game is worth
"completing"?
    
   again: tron, ready player one,
back to the future...
star wars just became dead
to me...
   sick people will plague hard-working
people, with a quasi-gambling
addiction,
needing to make microtransactions...
and they will,
my father was plagued by
an impostor, claiming to be a
tax office official:
and what if, that person had
an authentic position at the tax office?!

when gaming was for gamers,
the games were bought...
there was a narrative...
but now... now games don't have a narrative...
why would they?!
   who the hell plays games for
the narrative these days?
i know that on the crapper,
i need a game that allows me
to experience live-stream
interaction with non-bots...

       and these old gamers,
who still invest their money
in literature-esque-games?
so i was the sad one,
investing in vinyl?
   aren't the classic ******* gamers
just as bad,
investing in prepackaged
narrative gaming
experiences?
             a game with a narrative...
yeah... me buying vinyl
is: b'ah b'ah bad...
       what sort of game is alive and well...
when there isn't a crowd pushback
for the currency of microtransaction?

the narrative is time,
   the longer you endure the inadequacy...
the more you realise:
you're basically playing
the same game,
but in your scenario:
it's free...
   in some other ******'s scenario:
it cost him 70 hundred quid...

personally?
   i love this microtransaction dynamic...
concerning the people who
do not engage with it...
it's the perfect antithesis
   of what ruined the music industry
with genesis: napster...

you really are, playing the ultimate
game,
time...
         the one sort of commodity
that games,
without a clear narrative construct,
"forgot" to mention in terms
of them being exploited...
to their full capacity
of the one "commodity"
they "forgot", or rather,
couldn't "sell"...

              a tenchu PS1 game could
have lasted me a month...
now? a free game,
like war robots...
with absolutely no NPC?
hell... i'll be 90 and still be playing it;

what else? applause!

The 9.6 million followers who tune in to watch Miranda Kerr having her hair done on Instagram — for this is how models spend most of their time — were treated to a rather more interesting sight last Thursday: a black and white photograph of a whacking great diamond ring.

Across it was the caption “Marry me!” and a twee animation of the tech mogul Evan Spiegel on bended knee. Underneath Kerr had typed “I said yes!!!” and an explosion of heart emojis.

A spokesman for Spiegel, founder of the Snapchat mobile app, who is 26 to Kerr’s 33 and worth $US 2.1 billion to her $US 42.5 million , revealed “they are very happy”.

At first, the marriage seems an unlikely combination: a man so bright he founded Snapchat while still at Stanford University, becoming one of the world’s youngest self-made billionaires by 22, and a Victoria’s Secret model who was previously married to the Pirates of the Caribbean star Orlando Bloom (she allegedly had a fling with pop brat Justin Bieber, leading Bloom to punch Beebs in a posh Ibiza restaurant).

Perhaps the union indicates that there is more to Kerr than we thought. More likely, it reveals something about Spiegel — and the way the social status of “geeks” has changed.

Since Steve Jobs made computers cool and Millennials started living online, nerds are king. Even coding is **** enough for the model Karlie Kloss, singer will.i.am and actor Ashton Kutcher to learn it. Silicon Valley has become the new Hollywood, as moguls and social media barons take over from film stars and sportsmen not just on rich lists, but as alpha men.

Being a co-founder of a company is this decade’s equivalent to being a rock star or a chef. And, if their attractiveness to models and actresses proves anything, then being a Twag — tech wife or girlfriend — is a “thing”. Sources tell me Twags are also known as “founder-hounders” because they like to date the creators of start-up companies.

Actress Talulah Riley was an early adopter. She started dating the PayPal founder Elon Musk in 2008. Riley, then fresh from starring in the St Trinian’s film, met Musk in London’s Whisky Mist nightclub after he had delivered a lecture at the Royal Aeronautical Society. I interviewed her shortly afterwards and she told me they had spent the evening talking about “quantum physics”. A month later they were engaged. Their on-again-off-again marriage lasted six years before she filed for divorce again in March. Currently Musk, worth an estimated $US 12.7 billion and focused on Tesla cars, is said to be “spending a lot of time” with Johnny Depp’s estranged wife, Amber Heard.

Model Lily Cole dated the Twitter founder Jack Dorsey in 2013. Later she had a son with Kwame Ferreira, founder of the digital innovation agency Kwamecorp. Actress Emma Watson is going out with William Knight, an “adventurer” who has an incredibly boringly sounding job as a senior manager at Medallia, a software company. Allison Williams, Marnie in the HBO television show Girls, is married to Ricky Van Veen, co-founder of College Humor website.

Could it be that these women are onto something? Dating a bro certainly has its appeal. They are innovative: how else would they invent apps that deliver cheese toasties or match singles based on their haircuts? They are risk-takers who must be charismatic enough to inspire investors and attract crowd-funding. They may not be gym-fit, but they are mathletes who can do your tax bill. They are animal lovers: every start-up is dog friendly. And they are fun: who would not want to date somebody with a ball pool in their office?

There is a saying about dating in Silicon Valley: the odds are good but the goods are odd. Nerds are notorious for peculiar chat-up lines and normcore clothes. Still, if geeks can be awkward, that is part of their charm. Keira Knightley, complaining that Silicon Valley was all men in hoodies and Crocs, described how one gave her his card, saying she should get in touch if she wanted to see a spaceship.

One Vogue writer recalled a Silicon Valley man messaging her via a dating app, in which he noted: “In 50 per cent of your photos you’re holding an iPhone. It may interest you to find out that I invented the iPhone. More accurately I was an engineer on the original iPhone . . .”

Most promisingly, some guys are astoundingly rich. It is suggested Kerr’s engagement ring is a 2.5-carat diamond worth around dollars 55,000. She has already moved into Spiegel’s dollars 12m LA pad. Between his money and her Victoria’s Secrets bridesmaids, no wonder sources claim they are planning an “extravagant wedding”.

It might rival even the Napster founder Sean Parker’s $US10m performance-art bash. He married songwriter Alexandra Lenas in a canopy among Big Sur’s redwoods decorated to look like an enchanted forest. Some 350 guests wore Tolkienesque costumes created by The Lord of the Rings costume designer Ngila Dickson. They sat on white fur rugs and were given bunnies to pet. Presumably rabbit babysitters were on hand when the disco started.

If such fantasies inspire you to become a Twag, the great news is you do not have to be a supermodel to be in with a chance. Such is the dearth of single women in Silicon Valley that one dating site, Dating Ring, crowdfunded a plane to fly single women to Palo Alto from New York.

Be warned, though: guys are single because they are married to the job.

No wonder most meet their partners at college or work — the Facebook chief executive Mark Zuckerberg met his wife, Priscilla Chan, at Harvard.

The Instagram co-founder Kevin Systrom met girlfriend Nicole Schuetz at Stanford. Melinda met Bill Gates when, in 1987, they sat next to each other at an Expo trade-fair dinner. “He was funnier than I expected him to be,” she said.

Kerr began dating Spiegel in 2014 after meeting him at a Louis Vuitton dinner in New York. You can bet he was networking. Shortly after Louis Vuitton showcased their cruise collection in a Snapchat story. Last season Snapchat went on to become the biggest new name at NY fashion week.

If you want to meet tech guys, you might catch them at Silicon Valley parties, which is how the Uber chief executive Travis Kalanick met his partner, Gabi Holzwarth, a violinist hired to play. Or they might be schmoozing clients downtown in a swanky Noe Valley club in San Francisco or a boring Union Square hotel in New York. In London you find them around Old Street, aka Silicon Roundabout, in bars, at hackathons, or start-up meet-ups. In the day they are coding at Google Campus or practising their pitching in a co-working space.

Some tech boys date the old-fashioned way: on Tinder. Airbnb founder Brian Chesky met his girlfriend of three years, Elissa Patel, through the app. When I interviewed Instagram co-founder Systrom he admitted that when he had been single he had signed up.

Dating agency Linx — presumably a play on operating system Linux — is dedicated to making Silicon Valley matches. Amy Andersen set it up in 2003 after moving to Palo Alto and being “flabbergasted” by the number of eligible men. She claims her clients are “extremely dynamic and successful individuals’’: tech founders, tech chief executives, financier founding partners of large institutions and “tons of entrepreneurs”.

Andersen says tech guys make “fabulous partners”. Romantic and chivalrous, they write love letters, plan dates, “even proposing on Snapchat!” If you want to marry a tech billionaire, she says, “you need to bring your A game.” Her clients look “for women who are equally, if not more, dynamic and interesting than he is!”

There are drawbacks to dating tech guys. Before Google buys your amore’s business, he will be living on *** Noodles waiting for the next round of funding — and workaholics are dull.

Kerr says Spiegel is “25, but he acts like he’s 50. He’s not out partying. He goes to work in Venice [Beach], he comes home. We don’t go out. We’d rather be at home and have dinner, go to bed early.” Which might suit Kerr, but is not my idea of a fun.

You had also better be prepared to share your life. When Priscilla Chan miscarried three times, Mark Zuckerberg wrote about it on Facebook, while Chesky used a romantic trip with his girlfriend to promote Airbnb - uploading a picture of her in bed, with a note saying “f* hotels”. Besides all of which is the notorious issue of Silicon Valley sexism.

It has a chief exec-bro culture that puts pick-up artist/comedian Dapper Laughs to shame. Ninety per cent of women working in the Valley say they have witnessed sexist behaviour, 60 per cent have experienced unwanted ****** advances at work, two thirds of them from their boss. Whitney Wolfe, a co-founder of Tinder, took Justin Mateen to court for ****** harassment. Her lawsuit against the company alleged that Mateen, her former partner, sent text messages calling her a “*****”.

Spiegel has tech bro form. He apologised after emails from his days at Stanford emerged: missives about stripper poles, getting black-out drunk, shooting lasers at “fat chicks”, and promising to “roll a blunt for whoever sees the most **** tonight (Sunday)”. After one fraternity Hawaiian luau party, he signed off emails “f*bitchesgetleid”.

No wonder some women are not inspired to become Twags. Especially when you could be a tech billionaire yourself. Would you not rather be Sheryl Sandberg, chief operating officer of Facebook, than married to the boss?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

the proust edition of la recherche i had, which i gave away to a charity shop; if you could stitch or strap the edition to my hands clenched into a fist (it was, after all a cheap 2 vol. edition), i could have knocked you out. no, i didn't read it, which is why many people never bother to use the dictionary, because it's always a one volume edition.

it became so haunting to have sang with david
with the lyre the lyrics:

             i'm happy, hope you're happy too...
             ashes to ashes, funk to funky
             we know major tom's a *****
             strung out in heaven's high
             hitting an all time low

it was so eerie i felt goose bump hoofs on my
cheeks adding for extra five o'clock shadow
that i never knew i had.

that's the thing about having european editors,
the ****** day, the whole theatrical approach,
it's just a ****** book of poetry,
it's not exactly an atom bomb,
but they sent the draft which i'm hoping to add
to with my *hoc erat in votis to armenia,
Armenia, yes, once an incorporation of
the soviet rather than tsar's empire:
so jui-seph shtalin involved himself with the russians
from georgia, and my first idea sparklers will
come from armenia - good place to ask napoleon
to escape elba, i say, ol' chap.

and after the teenage girl hype period of an artist,
ziggy, you know what i'm talking about,
you get a process where an artist matures,
becomes prone to criticism, has no hype factor,
has no real monetary appeal to the less
hyped-up juice-of-genitalia army,
has to become a sensible economist -
there! catch him! that's where an artist
translates to other mediums his actual worth,
i feel privileged to have lived at a time
when david bowie released his heathen album,
one critic pointed that it was his best album
since the 1980 release of scary monsters,
so then i bought scary monsters...
i worked backwards...
i didn't feed the ziggy & space spiders from mars
gimmick / egoism, or even the rebel, rebel choir
of cult followers, and you know what?

              i'm happy, hope you're happy too...

it worked, now i can listen to the music like a distraction
tool, refrigerator buzz, ambiance, the freelance
artistry of it all, less care for kids, more care for
the insolent kids that aged and donned their employment
qualifications as 'art critics.'

but what i listen to isn't exactly what i write with,
it would plagiarise the thought process
so much that it would destroy it - the moment's gone,
the ingrained concept of time has allowed
for the same space of the origin of the narrative
to look different, even though nothing was moved.

so with this anglo renaissance circa 1950s -
1990s (nietzsche was critical of the reformation
when martin luther attacked the renaissance creativity,
no great composer in the counter-reformation,
just ignatius layola and the jesuits),
with the beat generation poets (preceding them,
the spirit of influence that was ezra pound
and no other i dare to admit, a seal-off point,
built a hydroelectric dam in nevada f. d. r. did)
you then had the explosion, and i mean it,
the EXPLOSION! 1960s psychedelia,
1970s ******* infused black sabbath etc.,
depressive 1980s with depeche mode iconoclasm
and the cure's slit your lips if not wrists,
the great digging of ***** duran duran,
scandinavian love hopes of a-ha, etc.,
then the shift back to the geographic place of origin,
seattle, grunge, rekindling of thinking man's
rock amiss the ******* fuel of the decade
with prog rock bands, i.e. tool;
and then of course the brit pop decade
(oasis, blur, the stone roses, the la's among many,
bands that still invoked a sing-along even
in such odd places like taizé in burgundy
for the wonderwall chorus)
and then... the death of it all...
artists getting rich, flamboyant, eccentric,
and the people seeing how they were "duped"
deciding enough was enough...
came napster, came pirate - ye har me mateys! -
and the death of the anglo renaissance
with kareoke culture - indeed if
the germans never conquered england,
and that book man in the high castle
by philip k. **** isn't true...
why did we allow the japanese to conquer
our culture? huh?!

p.s. when you realise all those 5.5K reads,
all those so called morale boosters... on websites
such as these, don't have a £ / $ in front of them;
and as i learned, after being reported to a website
similar to this accused of being a troll
for simply asking the long-ago standard
a.s.l. (age, ***, location) but only sticking to location,
losing some of the haul i'd liked to keep,
i realised i can lose that, no problem,
i rather lose that than lose what i have inside of me.

Another shift, another day, Another buck to spend or save
A million riders, maybe more, delivered to their office door
Or maybe warehouse maybe store.
Or church or shul or city school, right on time as a rule.

Clickety, clackety, clickety, clee,
I am New York, the City’s me
Come let me ride you on my knee
From Coney Isle to Pelham Bay
From Bronx to Queens eight times a day.

Ride my trains, New Yorkers do
And you’ll learn a thing or two
About the City up above, the one some hate, the one some love.
On the street they work like elves
Down below they’re just themselves.

Through summer’s heat they still submerge,
Tempers held (though always on the verge),
They push, they shove – just like above –
The crowds will jostle, then finally merge.

Downtown to work and then back to sleep
They travel just like farm-herded sheep.
In through this gate and out the other,
Give up a seat to a child and mother,
Just don’t sit too close to that unruly creep!

With these crowds huddled near
Just ride my trains with open ear,
There’s lots of tales for you to hear.


Dis stop is 86th Street, change for da numbah 4 and 5 trains.  Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.   77th Street is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     I’m Doctor Z, Doctor Z are me
     I’ll fix your face or the visit’s free.
     Plastic surgery, nips and tucks
     You’ll be looking like a million bucks.

     Looka those pitchas, ain’t they hot?
     You’ll look good, too, like as not!
     Just call my numbah, free of toll
     Why should you look like an ugly troll?

     You’ll be lookin good like a rapster
     Folks start stealing your tunes on Napster
     Guys’ll love ya, dig your face
     Why keep lookin like sucha disgrace?

     Call me up, you’re glad you did
     Ugly skin you’ll soon be rid.
     Amex, Visa, Mastercard,
     Payment plans that ain’t so hard.

     So don’t forget, pick up that phone
     Soon’s you get yourself back home.
     I’ll have you looking good, one, two three
     Or else my name ain’t Doctor Z.


Dis stop is 77th Street, 68th Street Huntah College is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     It was a limo, now it’s the train;
     Tomorrow’s sunshine, but now it’s rain.
     The market’s mine, for taking and giving
     It’s the way I earn my living.

     Today’s losses, last week’s gain.
     A day of pleasure, months of pain.
     We sold the puts and bought the calls;
     We loaded up on each and all.

     I’ve seen it all, from Fear to Greed,
     Good motivators, they are, both.
     The fundamentals I try to heed
     Run your gains and avoid big loss.

     Rates are down, I bought the banks
     For easy credit, they should give thanks.
     Goldman, Citi, even Chase
     Why are they still in their malaise?

     “The techs are drek,” I heard him say
     But bought more of them, anyway.
     I rode the bull, I’ll tame the bear
     I’ll scream and curse and pull my hair.

     So why continue though I’m such a ****?
     I’ll cut my loss if I find honest work.



Dis is 68th Street Huntah College, 59th Street is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     He rides the train from near to far,
     In and out of every car.
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Some folks buy them, most do not,
     Are they stolen, are they hot?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”

     Who would by them, even a buck?
     What’re the odds they’re dead as a duck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Why not the Lotto, try your luck,
     Or are you gonna be this guy’s schmuck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”


Dis is 59th Street, change for de 4 and 5 Express and for de N and de R, use yer Metrocard at sixty toid street for da F train.  51st Street is next. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     “Dat guy kips ****** wit me, Wass he
     tink, I got time for dat ****?  Man, I
     got my wuk to do, I ain gona put
     up with him
     no more.”

          “I don’t know what to tell this dude. Like,
          I really dig him but
          ***?  No way.  And
          He’s getting all too smoochie face.”

     “Right on, bro, slap dat fool up
     side his head, he leave you lone.”

          “Whoa, send him my way.  When’s the last
          time I got laid?  I’m way ready.”

          “Oh, Suzie,..”


Dis is fifty foist Street, 42nd Street Grand Central is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.



     Abogados es su amigos, do you believe the sign?
     Are they really a friend of mine?
     Find your lawyer on the train
     He’ll sue if the docs ***** up your brain.

     Pick a lawyer from this ad
     (I’m sure that you’ll be really glad)
     You’ll get a lawyer for your suit,
     Mean and nasty, not so cute.

     Call to live in this great nation
     1-800-IMMIGRATION.
     Or if your bills got you in a rut
     1-800-BANK-RUPT.

     We’re just three guys from Flatbush, Queens
     Who’ll sue that ******* out of his jeans.
     Mama’s proud when she rides this train
     To see my sign making so much rain.

     No SEC no corporations
     We can’t find the United Nations.
     Just give us torts and auto wrecks
     And clients with braces on their necks.

     Hurting when you do your chores?
     There’s money in that back of yours.
     Let us be your friend in courts
     Call 1-800-SUE 4 TORTS.


Dis is 42nd Street, Grand Central, change for the 4, 5 and 7 trains. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Toity toid is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


They say there’s sev’ral million a day
From out in the ‘burbs, they pass this way.
Most come to work, some for to play
They all want to talk, with little to say.

Bumping and shoving, knocking folks down
A million people running around.
The hustle, the bustle the noise that’s so loud
Get me far from this madding crowd.

“We can be shopping instead of just stopping
And onto the next outbound train we go hopping.
Hey, it’s a feel that that guy’s a-copping!”

They want gourmet food, from steaks down to greens
Or neckties and suits, or casual jeans,
It’s not simply newspapers and magazines
For old people, young people, even for teens.


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Thoidy toid Street, twenty eight is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     “So what’s the backup plan if
     He doesn’t get into Trevor Day?
     I know your
     heart’s set on it, but we’ve only
     got so many strings we
     can pull, and we can’t donate a
     ******* building.”

           “Hooda believed me if I tolja the Mets
          would sail tru and the Yanks get dere
          by da skinna dere nuts?
          I doan believe it myself.  Allya
          Gotta do is keep O’Neil playin hoit
          And keep Jeter off his game an
          We’ll killum.

               “My sistah tell me she be yo *****.  I tellya I cut you up if you
                ****** wid her, I be yo ***** and donchu fuggedit.”

     “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.
     And we can just **** good and
     Well find some more strings to pull!”

          “Big fuggin chance.  Wadder ya’ smokin?”

               “Yo sitah she ain my *****, you be my *****.  I doan be ******
                wid yo sistah.  You tell her she doan be goin round tellin folks
                dat ****.”


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Twenty eight Street, twenty toid is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     Do you speak Russian, French or Greek,
     We’ll assimilate you in a week.
     If Chinese is your native tongue
     You’ll speak good English from day one.

     Morning, noon, evening classes
     Part or full time, lads and lasses.
     You’ll be sounding like the masses
     With word and phrase that won’t abash us.

     Language is our stock in trade
     For us it’s how our living’s made.
     We’ll put you in a class tonight
     Soon your English’ll be out of sight.

     If you’re from Japan or Spain
     Basque or Polish, even Dane,
     Our courses put you in the main
     Stream without any need for pain.

     We’ll teach you all the latest idioms
     You’ll be speaking with perfidium.
     We’ll give you lots of proper grammar
     Traded for that sickle and hammer.

     Are you Italian, Deutsch or Swiss?
     With our classes you can’t miss
     The homogeneous amalgamation
     Of this sanitized Starbucks nation.


Dis is Twenty toid Street, 14th Street Union Square is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.


     “Ladies and Gentlemen, I hate to bother you
     But things are bleak of late.
     I had a job and housing, too
     Before my little quirk of fate.”

     “There came a day, not long ago,
     When to my job I came.
     They handed me a pink slip, though,
     And ev’n misspelled my name.”

     “We’ve got three kids, my wife and me.
     We’re bringing them up right.
     They’re still in school from eight to three
     With homework every night.”

     “I won’t let them see me begging here,
     They think I go to work.
     Still to that job I held so dear
     Until fate’s awful quirk.”

     “So help us now, a little, please
     A quarter, dime (or dollar still better),
     It’ll go so far to help to ease
     The chill of this cold winter weather.”

     “I’ll walk the car now, hat in hand
     I do so hope you understand
     I’m really a proud, hard working man
     Whose life just slipped out of its plan.”

     “I thank you, you’ve all been oh so grand.”


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is 14th Street, Union Square, change for da 4 and 5 Express, the N and the R.   Astor Place is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     The hours are long, the pay’s no good
     I’m far from home and neighborhood.
     All day I work at Astor Place
     With sunshine never on my face.
     Candy bar a dollar, a soda more
     A magazine’s a decent score.
     Selling papers was the game
     But at two bits the Post’s to blame
     For adding hours to my long day.
     All the more work to save
     Tuition for that son of mine: that tall,
     Strong, handsome, American son


Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Yer at Astah Place, Bleekah Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     Summer subway’s always hot, AC’s busted, like as not
     Tracks are bumpy, springs are shot ‘tween the cars they’re smoking
     ***.

     To catch the car you gotta run they squeeze you in with everyone
     Just hope no body’s got a gun 'cause getting there is half the fun.

     Packed in this car we’re awful tight seems this way both day and
     night.
     And then some guys will start a fight.  Subway ride’s a real delight.

     Danger! Keep out! Rodenticide! I read while waiting for a ride.
     This is a warning I have to chide:  
     I’m very likely to walk downtown, but I’d never do it Underground.

     Took the Downtown by mistake.  Please, conductor, hit the brake!
     Got an uptown date to make, God only knows how long I’ll take.


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Bleekah Street, Spring Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     The trains come through the station here,
     The racket’s music to my ear.
  &nbs

entering year 2000
rewinding vhs tape
installing napster client
anticipating victorious gore
bursting dot-com bubble
blocking tomorrow's nostalgia
commemorating festival tragedy
examining supersonic concorde
watching election coverage
recounting inconvenient truths
puzzling interface design
booing nuc-u-lar president

rising black monolith
editing non-linear encyclopedia
feeling inaugurally bushed
reliving century's dawn
unchanging state flag
processing royal massacre
escaping insane asylum
sensing impending collapse
perusing city guide
collapsing contemporary structures
initiating quixotic peacekeeping
ignoring conscription threats

entering year 2002
reporting unfortunate pearl
relaxing shotgun porch
exploding roadside bombs
addressing thousand followers
hugging financial meltdown
writing resembling skylines
shocking archipelagic bursts
processing theatrical disaster
tightening homeland security

entering year 2003
proliferating elegant telegnosis
rejecting freedom fries
blazing wartime trails
toppling dictatorial statue
unfurling "mission accomplished"
handling continental blackout
ejecting coronal masses

entering year 2004
flashing multiple sobriquets
populating dorm-roomy website
high-grossing aramaic movie
generating tunnel vision
rushing national anthem
parading goth athletes
letting games begin
accepting soviet passports
continuing obscure flumadiddle
lunar-eclipsing world series
two-terming republican regime
declining personality cult
glowing orange revolution
eroding periglacial drumlins
inundating lacustrine basins
exciting geomorphological processes
enduring tumultuous tsunami

entering year 2005
blasting "galvanize" repeatedly
unforgiving cyclonic scenario
printing controversial drawing
sketching cartoon prophet
overturning hurricane alphabet
rigging medal count
preparing new horizons
rejecting flash sites

entering year 2006
setting plutonian destination
synchronizing new horizons
sighting stellar foison
maintaining feudal system
emerging microblogging service
reading ancient tweets
rotating golden statue
mounting social debt
protesting planetary demotion
forecasting catastrophic recession
executing "innocent" dictator

entering year 2007
declining share prices
building ruby railroad
lifting presidential term-limits
perpetuating oil-rich dictatorships
falling interstate bridge
slugging giant bonds
clothing blackwater mercenaries
disappearing internet personalities
unforgiving writers strike

entering year 2008
stealing variable thunders
relaxing domain names
letting games continue
exploding sunrise propane
requesting birth certificate
electing another suit
disappointing orthodox republicans
microblogging maximal meltdown

entering year 2009
inaugurating new president
encountering bear markets
cackling risible laughter
dying pop king
deleting neolithic internet

entering year 2010
collapsing presidential palace
prospering cinematic avatar
pronouncing eyjafjallajökull effortlessly
"kettling riot police
flaming cop cruiser"
blasting text-based vuvuzelas
leaking diplomatic cables
fading pre-twitter memories
self-immolating street vendor

entering year 2011
"enervating nine-point quake
propagating harbor wave
inundating nuclear plant
irradiating unclear fates"
raging mid-eastern spring
throwing body asea
locating trojan asteroid
penetrating financial throughfare
resonating oral amplifier
blazing verdant material

entering year 2012
rising chubby dictator
gentrifying weird twitter
exploding next month
intriguing "fake" passport
proliferating single-hued avatars
surging sandy cyclone
inhabiting alternate universe
manipulating another election
rigging people's ballots
perpetuating manipulated world
fulfilling megalomaniac urges
surviving previous apocalypse
surviving another baktun

entering year 2013
descending rogue meteor
encoding festival weekend
obfuscating's very own
approving snow den
searching yaya island
soaking wet veld

entering year 2014
missing plane geometry?
annexing peninsular territory
printing powdered medication
forecasting meteoric boomtime
prevailing monochromatic identity
avoiding aviation accidents
determining auspicious date
revising deactivation plans

there was an audience... there is still an audience...
i wonder about it...
i'm such a conservative deacon in the comments
that... i leave very little traces of interaction...
i tried getting ****** into the whole affair
of leaving comments - like i might have left
grafitti tags on the pillars of bridges...
                   there was an audience... there's still an
audience... i imagine...
or i rather: translate with metaphor what i'm:
trying to imagine...
              three moths have attempted to fly into
my room to spend the night free from fear...
i caught two in my hand... put the clenched hand
to my ear... no... not the sea trapped in a seashell...
close... sound effect of... rain on a tin roof...
a moth trapped in a cage of a hand...
it hasn't rained for days... weeks even...
       the most... bountiful of springs in england...
and everyone is... supposed to handle the affair
like the 2nd coming of ribonson crusoe...
          i can: because i'm used to it...
                    peacefully anti-social...
                     it's hardly bragging but:
there's an audience... there's always an audience...
here's to me: getting regularly milked...
or... laying some eggs with the sunrise and the moon...
i am... at a stage of maturing from...
a phase where... i did... once upon a time...
care about what i wrote... for my own gratification:
but... not any more...
         i've reached a point where...
i can join the ranks of the 4 Dada Suicides...
     'the four' (who) 'took nihilism of the movement
to its ultimate conclusion, their works are
the remnants of lives lived to the limit and then cast
aside with nonchalance and disdain'...
Vaché (overdosed)... Rigaut (shot himself)...
Cravan and Torma (disappeared)...
        the latter two... probably lived a life in
approximation to what might have happened
to... Richey Edwards...
born on...                  disappeared aged 27...
death is the last clue...
    not that i'm going to imitate what's already
claimed...
but... a mile from my home...
i can... find... ample resources... hemlock...
the stems are poisonous...
      i've tried... lilac mushrooms... dog mushrooms
they call them...
i don't know whether i ate a poisonous
one or not... it wasn't...
    a muhomor... amanita fly agaric...
           but... when the circuses have died and
the bread is still there...
no new movies... no sports...
what can beat: the old tease of mortality...
the grain-of-sand per month's worth of movement
added... to the tally and
the curriculum vitae of vivo per se...
                   the theatre of death...
     if i don't think about death with a joke...
i stop being... ridiculous in life...
                   i like the thought of death when...
life doesn't preserve any... sense of...
any... alternative... "light" entertainment...
it's not like i'm planning an escape...
rich and about to clone myself...
   and teach the clone "me" to be: a "future" - and me...
i almost can see how someone must
have tried to cheat death with the available
avenue of cloning...
but... the subservience of the clone...
the clone being what?
       someone must have learned the hard way...
i just interjected the question as an: and...
which is a conjunction...
          but if you're gonna go...
hell... seal a room and yourself in it...
and buy a... metaphorical tonne of lily of the valley...
go to sleep... and never wake up...
death... even death has to become entertaining:
in thinking terms - at the very least...
the only real eventuality among...
half a dozen of impossible things to think about...
daily... and here's that apple...
   if nietzsche... sentenced the source
and future disease from the 19th century...
well... so much for overcoming nihilism...
         nihilism... after all... is not... apathy...
   and even with the death of nihilism...
                              at least nihilism still asked
for moloch-esque sacrifices of will...
     apathy? what does this slug ask for?
it asks of you to... well... wrestle with yourself...
hence that "overlooked" quote:
if a day has many pockets...
       yes... those pockets of self-realisations that
provide a glitch of proof...
a proof of... having to find dominion in
settled dust... oh to hell with grand metaphors
of staging revolutions brought down
from mountain-tops!
- and i'm literally drinking my way through...
what 19th century nihilism became:
a 21st century apathy hangover...
      i'll spare the 20th century the rites of...
a mythical new beginning... a year 0...
        100 years give or take... each side of the end
of the 20th century...
but... nihilism is no longer... the standard:
to overcome...
             as much meaning can be derived from
a peanut as from a falling star...
to be this: subjective sanitiße everything -
                       i hardly think... a dickens would
require an objective reader...
what is an objective reader?
someone who studies: rather than reads...
newspapers...
someone who probably proofs reading...
by also ensuring citations are... made abundantly
clear... archives... etc.
well... better contemplating the theatre of death
than... say...
"normies":
    ahem... the critique of china...
       point: can you imagine... if... communism...
was thought-up... when...
the french revolution began? the only revolution?
rather than the russian oopsie?
well... and communism began...
when... engels and marx... went to the north
of england... and... prior to the manifesto...
wrote of the details of child-labour...
this is not my thing but...
it gets to the point where:
you can criticize china all you want...
but there's no smart... or dumb way...
to go about... pretending to be at war...
with a population of a billion people...
that... if push comes to shove...
could be conscripted instantly...
              to point out... is to exhaust the argument:
to have an argument for:
"western" principles of democracy...
here... have some balloons... here's a keg
of helium... 'ave fun...
by now... saudi arabia is secretly planning
a jihad into the Xinjiang province...
saudi arabia: the vatican of the islamic world...
is secretly trying to... blah blah...
no... the saudi princes are strapped to their yachts...
the bangladeshi slave labour blah blah...
yeah: but whittle ol' england needs
the Neds of Lahore and their tier up from
the chimney top: crescent moon-lick... slick...
- but to be this... fired up...
                it's simply exhausting to have:
a freedom of speech for such high demands...
not need to hide behind the ideals of love...
or being misunderstood...
             in no defence... but... under the guise
of that grand word: capitalism...
the sub- thorough: made in china...
                and what now? the jaw dropping
counter to the very delicate status quo?
it's beyond nihilism... when such upheld
values allowed for artistic rebellion...
to the moon: been there, done that..
europe the old man... h'america the newly
acquired *******...
       you want politico jargon ******* squeezes...
sure thing...
     stoic india... always the stoic india...
to **** off the competition - cheap soviet steel...
the soviet union's nuna 2, on 13 september 1959 -
in between: frank sinatra's:
fly me to the moon - 1963...
and thus... r.e.m.'s yeah yeah: 20 July 1969...
it's hard to compensate / compete with
that sort of a trojan hard-on ***** of
the elgin marbles...
                              at least the germanic peoples
played and understood the ping-pong
with the slavic peoples -
the hungarians on the side...
but not this... african trash for beijing...
the mongol capital of crimea...
and golden hoarding project: typo...
   when they came riding in... smeared
in **** and week old **** and horse blood...
to make... the labyrinth of the baghdad library...
a pyramid of skulls...
squeeze me: to this tired state of lost
the head to a guillotine chatter-box...
even the events of napster unfolding...
and all that's being streamed and...
now's the time to kiss and cuddle prostitutes...
and wet mr. whittle dicky for second
chances of a lost digestive... in that pond
of brew...
                easy fools to fool: those camel back
rich in dino-blood: soul black...
like espressos of mecca... flowing rich
and dying with a soothing...
from amnesia and diabetes...
and amputated limps when... sugar ingestion
leaves them... dancing ballet on only one foot...
because: porky pie and ms. amber: ha!
all bad!
                so much for... what's waiting
the white girl pornstars...
the liberated afro-h'americans and the service...
of beijing shrimp ****...
double edged sword... the height and...
all those attaches... of a fine... fine...
procelain piece of ***...
no-man's-land... the middle ground:
of... mercedez-benson-and-hedges...
        on my way out... the apache / sioux /
dodo / aztec / mayan / dodo (again) projects...

semi-closure...
   gary glitter - rock & roll part II
     ian watkins (of lostprophets) -
                      shinobi vs dragon ninja...
sorry... that one was a paedo...
              toddle-****** for the latter...
and it's not like... i enjoyed the music
to begin with...
i can't see an ad hominem argument
for the former...
                 toddler-******: esp. if the output...
well... it's not trash...
   it's: dad mantra... it's dad claustrophobia...
my take on:
mahler contra pergolesi....
            counter: invest in 100 years to come...
of which... you will...
find a future reader: being alive...
not having re(a)d you...
1986... the reader is born...
1997... you die...
you are discovered... come...
2K and 7... 8...... perhaps 9...
  a time-reference of...
         13 years from the readers birth to your
death... it's Glasgow... a very rare...
sunny... afternoon...
psychosis of the reader...
         1997 through to... 2008...
              that's 11 years... so...
what matters most is... how well you walk
through the fire...
that one about the crow and the madmen...
and each: having his niche:
his "social distancing" clause...
writing was fun when one could
stomach the: in the background...
when people lived their: very troublesome:
important... surgical precision...
nobel prize winning type / typo lives...
writing via a sense of voyeurism was...
well... hardly the self-evident blatant it has
become...
escape into fiction (lies you tell others)...
escape into imagination (choking ties of
tier-a: as above... with tier-b: as below)...
or escape into memory (lies you tell
yourself)...
but i rather the memory...
the cinema of it...
i forget to blink when: blinking is akin
to... signatures... autographs of famous people...
bull... shyte: philately...
         lepidopterology... half closure of the semi-
closure... a brilliant metaphor...
      when the **** or the latex gimp suits
are not available...
there's always that 14 year old "idea"...
of... a tamed *******...
well... if you imagine it as... love at first sight...
you're 16 she's 14... and...
you're dating her older sister at the time...
and then... she disappears...
within the confines of her first and last
unflowering...
but the pristine first-impressions become
less metaphor and more: idealism...
it's fun... when there's a concensus of it being:
forbidden... it's what drives both the hunger...
and the feeding...
that it's never actually realised is beside
the point: made... in... lars von trier's
nymphomaniac...
          too catholic of me: born into it...
but... repressing the urges... is as much as...
delighting oneself in them...
ergo: the necessary *******...
so much for... *****-******* and oyster
slurping... when... you have been...
ahem... told to **** it up...
with the: "excess of skin"...
excess of skin / chemical imbalance
in the brain...
how about... i allow... a triatoma infestans...
to quicken my: dementia...
the myth goes... along the lines...
a horse with a grain of sand...
via its ear... will bash and ram and ram and bash
its head against a brick wall:
in an attempt to rid itself of the irritation...
conformity:
cul de sac queers and kwerks...
i lampoon on a sunday...
the rest of the days i'm free...
clued into: cwown...
which is... somehoo: velsh... in parts...

- by death i imply a riddle...
                 by death i imply:
          freed from the cinema of highly edited
pseudo-living...
not even among the stage of the theatre...
but at least...
cinema got one thing right...
   the suicide of christine chubbuck -
the urban myth goes along the lines of:
a cockroach was found... alive... 2 weeks...
after its head was guillotined...
       it's like that... bane quote:
and... the andrei chikatilo... reality...
non-verbatim:
                 'perhaps he's wondering... why
someone would shoot a man...
before throwing him out of a plane'...
rephrasing:
   'perhaps he's wondering...
why someone would shoot a man...
after throwing him into a prison cell'...
unless... he wasn't... expecting...
to wait for him... to die... of a urban myth...
2 weeks if not more...
brain-dead: heart still pumpking...
horrors from Kiev... Chernobyll the *******
icing cream topping the gwand:
godzilla: pie in the sky...

     i cared... once... once... that was:
upon a time...
these times don't really require much focus...
the space itself poses enough
liberty... no need to look as far back
as there's to look forward...
     the 20th century killer: zenith...
****** and ferriswheel of events...
                waking up to the new mandarin
plateau... it's like...
waking up from... the refreshing cain
mythos relatability...
always from h'america...
otherwise... bullet to the head...
king soldier: human rights...
   yeah... nice... the shame of homeless people:
there's an alexander the great...
a a diogenes of synope: with a hippocratic
oath... loitering around the corner?
hell! go wit' the flou...
                 jump-start a prison adventure...
less... high morality ****-pants
asking questions on the way...
people of high morality
and high: low social status importance...
**** someone...
better than becoming philosophically
homeless... blah blah...
                         i'm so little i actually
define myself as:
at liberty to preserve the lives of moths...
yes... well that's nice...
for anyone asking to: ride the easy... roulette.

I looked at the room  broken bottles  blood fragments of clothes.
maybe a tooth  from somebody not fast are to drunk to get outta the way  of a conversation turned bad.

The juke box had almost  made it threw  but it just had  to
play that one song that caused  it to become a target  
for a flying cue ball.

And I herd someone speaking to the toilet I thought maybe
I wasnt that hungry after all.
As to what caused the  riot slash  the human tornado of fun I cannot say
But in my opinion that jukebox had it coming  always  playing the wrong songs at the  right time no one likes a *******.

And that drag queen could sure throw  a mean left hook.
While looking fierce and lip sinking to madonna at the same time that my friends take true talent .

Seems as though  the register had went on vacation  but they
left the wild turkey and pretzels  thank god  happy hour was almost apon us.

And theres nothing worse than telling a proffesional drinker as myself
theres no snacks  it's like tellinga kid theres no santa claus.
And that big fat guy in the red suit  with his little dwarfs  
were really just some of momies friends.

I always wondred why santa was so into  getting the crap beat outta him
by a woman in a latex outfit calling herself mistress Claus.

Yes coffee always made things better mixed with some  of  my personal corn whiskey  yeah grandpa   may went insane and herd voices from drinking the stuff  but at least he always had someone to talk to.

As I looked at the chaos that was my headquarters  memories  came to me in a flood   the booth were I   met  my first wife.
that same booth were i caught  her with my best friend and worst enemy  and santa  i swear he gets around.

So much for online dating dam you napster.
I should just stick with street walkers  and circus people.

And I think after  my tweenty first DUI  
that it was good i never had a license to start with.
cause i really hate losing anything.

It's a shame about my mind.

So really other than this little get togather turned riot turned  
love in turned back to brawl  turned into
big kid slumber party.

It was after the jukebox had to put in it's two cents
that it all turned to ****.

For nothing kills the mood worse than a bad song
at the right time.

Love  always  Dr Gonzo

http://tinyurl.com/ja52pq4

or some said: Lawrence of Arabia?

yeah, sure,

as long as Egypt remains Egyptology:

and the Balkans or quasi-Slavs known as
Serbs and pardoning Ottomans
do one in on the Kosovo tribalism
akin to: Albania here -
yeah, i too was going to buy
Allah-Las's third album,
but then i thought about the Napster
generation, then thought about Judas
and then thought: well...
you turn.

when Ramses destroyed Syria...
              you're?! you're a catastrophe!

second that.. never mind the ****
or the caring ***** in uncle,
great-grandchildren.... and that surrogate auntie
named Alice.

             i gave my enemy a copy of *ecce **** -
missing luck in terms of all those yesterdays -
i never had the Golgotha crowd
          to create Evangelism or Islam
which i count akin to Ma Ma Malachi's
trip to Delhi he never had: stinking Calcutta:
oh i don't mean the food, i mean the Swedes:
who the **** puts iron into their curry?

articles 11 & 13....

   watch me...

  BRICKS FOR FREE
BWICKS FOW FWEE!

happy? now?
keyboard pirates?
           *******?

free? define free for me!
reality economics is
as random,
as millenial mentality
to be of any worth,
to the economic model...

or why i'm subjected
to postpone reproductive
"allowances",
toward a fathomable
expansion,
psychopathy indocrinating,
tactic.

right, soo we're settled,
which impies,
i might as well favor
serving the dodos...

**** investing in a life...
that has to be experienced
by my grandparents...
let's leave the whole
affair at,                       i...
oops... where is gender
neutrality going
to fit, into that, "project"?

do i feel a moral superiority? of course i do,
why wouldn't i?
                      i'm sort of bored,
you know the type of bored: i am  white
but i have no colonial history to boot
or shy away  from...
               there are two Europes,
let me be frank about that...
                            i don't necessarily like what
Polish immigration did to the place,
primarily there's no commonwealth surgeon
to put the pieces together...
                 but the English started a war
over the invasion of Poland,
                     oh right, blame me,
and shut the **** up about the ******* being treated
like cattle?
                            honestly, the only book
i'll ever read by Dickens will be the volume xviii
american notes, pictures from Italy, contributions
to "the examiner" - prior to entering the field
of transcendental methodology via Kant
              i'll just say: there's no point reading
phonetic encoding of a narrative once the images are
produced - once a book is turned into a movie,
there's no point reading it...
          i'm was never favourable of Dickens,
like i was never favourable of Popper...
    but the obscure works demand attention...
i''ll be moving from France to England
(via Voltaire) and from England to America
via Dickens... once i finish Kant;
once i finish Kant.
                                      and a rare day, i made a purchase,
cage the elephant's album melophobia arrived today,
two singles (after listening to the album twice,
it's safe, under 40 minutes and ten tracks),
track no. 4 - it's just forever and track no. 7 -
black window - this is why i feel morally superior,
i'm actually investing in art...
                       lucky me born in the 20th century,
i actually desire the need to buy art,
      and not be some chimp pirate of the Napster Caribbean,
i really don't know where my contemporaries are
coming from, and to be honest? i, don't, want, to, know.
       **** them and their armchairs!
              their idea of art is non-representative of
the general vocation of necessarily having a: view.
     to me they're a bit like:
mr. spandex telling people it's stretch-Armstrong elastic -
but it ******* ain't!
                                  the once defended Poles are
dubbed vermin, oh sure, it makes sense
to keep a lid on former colonials as sacred Hindu
cows - and do i sometimes wish i came to England
aged 2 and not aged 8 and never heard of
the Kashubian dialect? or the Silesian?
               or the pan-Serbian of the Sorbian language?
i probably wish that to be true...
            i cut my thumb and pinky fingers on the culinary
guillotine known as the mandolin when beheading
cabbage for a cold-Slough
                      (easier done than accurate spelling)
  even better: coal-slow
              (plus the carrot and the onion
and plenty of mayo) -
                             i wish i could fully become British,
say a golden ******* to Poland, as Poland already
served it... which is why i'm in England....
           but England isn't exactly a daffodil -
        the past haunts it, which i'm not a part of,
when i say: i'm a citizen of the world i mean:
globalisation, and i mean: when i was in Africa
i was a tourist in Kenya, i enjoyed the presence
of those little cherub monkeys on the balcony,
and i hid from from the sun and couldn't stand the heat...
saints? we? better ask the Lithuanians and the Ukrainians...
but they're a bit busy these days...
    that's why i don't feature in the global politics of
the trinity that's England, France and Spain...
                   i am not really into Polish catholic antics either...
i just don't understand why i need to have to acquire
all these ******* identifiers in order to speak the ****** tongue:
maybe i am, after all, redefining what speaking English
actually means...
                             you can never really escape a revision of
the language...
                                as a citizen of the world, i am against
those famed idioms, later pronounced as: idiosyncratic -
   i'm neither Polish nor am i ******* English -
i took to the assertion: conquering the use of a language
is more pristine in encouraged effort to assimilate
than writing a Domesday Book analysis...
                        but i simply cannot shy away from
addressing the insults while the holy cows of the former
empire walk freely and to a violin tune of necessary
revolutions taking place...
                  the argument goes along the line:
the Soviets had a bigger empire than the British...
                   landmass and what not aside...
i just can't be the two together...
                      all i have it two more purchases...
the debut album by cage the elephant with the song
that made me purchase is soil to the sun -
and the notes volume ii - vi by Heidegger -
do i feel morally superior? well, i'm actually investing
in art... in a world providing the ratio 100:1 =
100 streams = 1 equivalent purchase...
                i find it damnable that so few people invest
in art these days...
            and yes, i do feel morally superior, why the **** no?!
but i will never rid myself of my foremost tongue
to look pretty in a society that's verging on the most
utterly ugly...
                            i'll never be at home either here (England)
or there (Poland) - i feel no affiliation
   of a desired patriotic demand in either place -
                                          both countries can burn for
all i care: Poland for its catholic demands,
                  England for its political correctness:
if i already didn't mention: the most despotic quote
came from democracy in the French Enlightenment period:
all men are born equal...
                                        if ever a greater falsification
was ever uttered - in that realm of political science -
                 men are not born equal,
                               the Olympics proves this foremost -
trying to make this saying the norm
             will only, eventually, make a large number of
good men into debilitated lunatics -
          all of this without the mouth that spoke the utterance,
no Saddam Hussein will hang as being attributed with this
maxim... still the many good men will be turned into
debilitated lunatics to ensure the invisible dictator has his sway
in ensuring the conformist agenda is met with
             due nod-whether-vote-or-veto approval...
                        democracy at its most human,
mob rule overpowers a singled out agenda...
                                       third party Pilates washing their
hands clean off the implementation of the zeitgeist agendas
but nonetheless keeping the profits.

by my account the 20th century is still asleep,
what with the outdated publishing world,
thanks, i can buy toilet paper, cheaper, elsewhere.
i take the: you will regret it if you don't
route with five beers -
the usual: a rich neighbourhood,
great houses, **** me, love to live in one
of those, but wouldn't love to pay the electricity bill...
and doubly usual, a colt rummaging in his
emotions in a park, atypical of affluent neighbourhoods,
the young males doing the Werther: sad o me
impression... violins aplenty...
it's a sinister choke (rather than a joke)
for the reality... so he's in the park,
i'm on the pavement admiring the rich folk:
nice barns... very nice barns... shame that no one
really lives in them... forgive me, it's Saturday:
the noblemen and noblewomen are
the lesser tourists in London...
the point of ensō? to write as if holding your
breath with a thumb-up-yer-****...
all very much *** pistol worded: god give
the queen a pension... and the nutcracker
the eat end.. for some ******* and brawling...
cheeky little ****... but you walk down these streets
and think: economy squat, or squatting standing up?
or, perhaps... you keep those Victorian street lamps
and i get a good view of what pyramids multiplied
looks life? but serious, i walk enough outside of
experiment königsberg i get visual
inspiration, i forget encoding sounds in order
to do the blatant of: making people, visualise things
that aren't there...modern fiction...
or alias for schizophrenic diagnostics type A...
******* never go away... ****-poor in writing the
**** book, needs a film to give it a compound
of steroid-amphetamines...
two books... two!
high fidelity & the scarlet and the black that
encouraged me reading the books after seeing the film...
i too wish lord of the rings came out later
so i had the chance... **** reading them now...
they're like a two volume edition of Proust...
chance meeting with the meat-heads at the gym...
i'd rather be found pumping iron that reading
a two volume edition... plus... i chose a class
of associated writers... Joyce the Proust,
and Pound the lampshade....
yes, i too wish i was lefty and liberal minded...
but i'm odiously right and liberal minded:
meaning i like a drink and a joke...
we all wish to be lefty liberals -
                                   we all do...
it's what called: the key to the hole concerning
entering a playhouse where everything
is minded without political lingo -
or what Einstein did to physics -
   the butterfly and tornado...
                       the biggest croquet heap of *******
i have ever heard...
             given enough light-years... the universe
just, sorta, becomes, two-dimensional...
      so this rich kid depressed walking alone in
the park... finished my can of beer and started to
**** about with the fence...
   rattling the beer can against the fence...
for a xylophone impromptu -
  **** me, those houses grand but nothing to say
about them except for: barns...
                      scarecrow personalities and
puff here, puff gone the next lives...
who's children could enter a quiz show and tell you
more brands then countries...
    Angola is probably a mountain,
                    Trinidad is a term for lake in Swahili...
and Nike is neither a goddess nor a parasite but
    a new pair of trainers...
so under a street lamp i crushed the can of beer
and tried to aim it at the nearby trash can -
missed, waved my hand in a downward spiral
and felt nothing about keep park aesthetics pristine...
  walk a bit further... ****** on someone's garage door...
no, really, it's asleep... it's too early for those
  who are published to realise there's a modification
going on... a bit like Napster... sorta like it...
   we're bypassing clerics and censors...
****'s for free, obviously... but to actually, experience,
the ultimate freedom, wouldn't you want to do
it, even if it's for free?         the capacity to experience
    full freedom, without a profit margin,
without even caring if the thing sells, or doesn't...
with paper priced at about 30 quid per month
and unlimited ink?
                                     always... at the turn of any
given century... there are those still recycling
the previous century's ideas in order to simply
buy televisions... no wonder the television
is a hypnotic eye of shadows according to
Plato's puppets' experiment -
       rich house, poor house...
                         it's all the same.
sure, i published a book, but the drugs are in
instant access - it's the only true reality of what
was once deemed the Schengen principle -
obviously that doesn't include people, but ideas...
as once, travelling to Glencoe, in a Scottish fish shop
a three layered tier of importance:
  c. the people who talk about other people (gossip)
   are < b. the people who talk about
                    events (journalism), who in turn
   are < a. the people who talk about ideas...
         Scotland... a village chip shop... and that as a
"bumper"sticker in the window... i must be in heaven.
but those people in journalism and the publishing
industry forgot, or quiet simply undermined
the privilege of being able to exploit an environment
so adamantly - they forgot that the internet is
not about making a buck - who would want to make
money in a completely free environment?
               bypassing the many rules and regulations
  of creativity's fatalism, and the author's right to
buy a kettle or a washing machine?
                               if you were to ask me:
where can i get clean mineral quality water?
          i'd tell you where, i know where to find it,
takes about three miles to get to the source,
but i could show you were to find mineral quality water.
i'm giving them 50 years... 50 years before
the now free movement of ideas entices the authorities
to introduce censorship of some kind...
                    at the moment it's all true and really
Schengen... in principle, as in practice -
         because, there's, no, desire, for, making, a, profit...
is that noble? well, n'ah... it's more or less:
         for the love of something that, with due hope,
will **** you con. all expectations for seeing the summer
solstice for the 70th count-to-remember summer -
    and all that arthritis handshakes with shadows -
as ever: the turtle reached his 100th birthday  -
  synthesising nothing -
            man reached his 70th birthday having analysed
all the potentials to prolong his life,
        synthesised the 70th year,
          without really analysing the allocated 30...
and for all that science, and hope for celebrating an
achievement of the total human endeavour -
left the rotten wrinkly ******* in their own faeces
and ****... because, well... not analysing the world
with only 30 years to spare... wisdom, suddenly appeared
at the age of 60... but this sort of analysis was
a bit like saying: just be happy with your synthetically
prolonged life...
                                because how many people, these days,
can claim to have acquired the analytically prolonged
life of the ancient Greeks? null.
                   as it stands: people live up to
a prolonged age... with the ***** avalanche pulverising
them to die as soon as possible...
               almost like the fruit of knowing good
and evil... the conjunction already plays the narrative joke:
                  not: good from evil...
   but: good and evil...                                so are we to
expect a differentiation? no!            we will do both
simultaneously -
                                   **** seeking justice in the mouth
of another human with a justice whip -
            i want to experience theocracy in the intended
format - i.e. hearing it from the horse's mouth -
               and since the horse isn't here...
   i'll just watch the theocratic cinema of Syria for
the moment... and see how democracy perpetrates
idea worship - for what's left of the twilight engulfed idols.

when i was young, all i wanted
was to work in record shop,
i involved the nick hornby high
fidelity bug / virus and i was all set,
but them the music game changed,
it wasn't tagged as -sony, -******,
or some other record company...
but entitled self-,
see the hyphen is historical residue
awareness... but there are a few music
outlets open, the h.m.v. on oxford street,
or the one at romford,
the ****** mega-store where classical
music was caged behind soundproof glass
doors is gone... i guess the owner of the h.m.v.
is a benevolent billionaire philanthropist...
we all know richie branson sent all the artists
to hell and actors to the stratosphere
with income from tubular bells by mike oldfield...
i get that... but what you miss with instant access
is the randomness of waling into a vinyl / sly mercury
(c.d. it has to be more than compact disk,
it has to have a status of a vinyl, it can't remain
an acronym... vinyl.... and... mercury, cosine it's
silver, the end, 80's rule, or rulebook,
brick sized mobile phones, it's part of history,
you ******* tartan yuppies),
well, as divergent as a tangent can be,
all i ever wanted was to imitate the high fidelity
case presented in fictional medium by nick hornby,
never got the chance, did work experience at
Burtons (a clothes outlet), even though
i wanted to sell music... the hamster napster beat me
on the treadmill... never got the fairytale godmother
to wish-blink wish-blink magic pogo stick makeover;
but h.m.v. is still open, and went in and played
the lottery genie, i got https://goo.gl/KdB7oY:
why do you why do you why do you voodoo?

the current twitch-debacle...
and... i either see a Prague diatribe...
                                     or an itching lost in vegas...
"conundrum":
  for the worth of a city...
whereby i should find fun in...
betting...                      twitch contra napster...
sorry: music what sorry what you being
scaling and liquorice... and serpentine
itchy... like beard... like snake-skin attire...

     watergate....
     and...: -gate, -gate, -gate...
and more... -gate, -gate... -gate...
and...
      "content" / "creators" /
"god"...
and metallica... st. anger...
prenups... and... NAPSTER...
   -gate -gate -gate...
and... "content"...
  and: -gate, -gate, -gate...
and vampires are: l.s.d. infested
blood-poisons:
unless you're k.o. and gay:
-gate, -gate.. NAPSTER... and twitch
"***" yoddle: yo-yo...
banked a 12" cushion pusher...
saves me from becoming
one of those: endangered species:
panda ***** a baboon...
a koala ***** a... eucalyptus...
bear all bear is russia:
is all: griZZZ bruce: r'ah & lee:
******* shanghai oopsy turvy
minus central...

on the rare floppy ****... instance...
you get to hear the bass guitar...
on a metallica song:
besides: don't tread on me...
devil's song...
and... it's like warching for spring...
daffodils...
and hearing bass guitar on
metallica... because...

i never had too much respect for
a band that didn't respect the bass guitar...
too much rhythm and too much solo
excavations for substitute vocals...
i need the bass guitar to
sort out the power jazz quintet...

for all that's worth the drums...
or afghanistan circa the soviet influence
of the 1960s... or what Teheran would
be like: beside the sinkin Atlantis of Manhattan...
naive... little... psychological
pencil-necks: over-prescribing
hubris big-pharma-auschwitz crazed
hamster ****-wits... hard-on hanging on a
branch of cherry-picking of *******

the parody...
  i think i remember stashing a week's
worth in my room
        and the stench they provided...
that's the parody, i think i remember...
thinking has nothing sensual about it,
now you're reaching into our faculties,
like: imagination being covert for sight,
then again memory does indeed comply
with that rule, but we call it "sight",
or a blockeg toilet of desirable "thoughts"...
    i wonder... is there anyone out there
to give me 5 sensual artefacts of rigidness
that my comply with a theory concerning
the ego?
  well... isn't this globalisation a real gathering...
what a gathering!
         there are one billion chinese armed
with shadow and here we are
  talking about how the process of individuation
comes about... like some miracle of birth,
  it just tickles my nuts whenever i hear it.
cat's in the bathroom imitating me
while i lean off a windowsill to spot a constellation
and given that: i can only see three at most,
well, four... if i count the rhombus
and the big and little dipper (out east we call
them carts... the things horses used to
drag along)...
      but all i want is the pentagram of man inverted,
like the clockdile that the ******* became
for germans...
           i want the "cognitive" lessons in what
i see, what i hear, feel...
       what are these "senses"?
they must be there for me to think about them,
but never trust that thought that has no ought
to it, no moral compass, per se...
                   that something is not needed,
i hardly talk anyway,
         i just pass as silent as a lake, or
merely and practicaly, just sit there...
                    newspapers?
yeah, for some reason books not keen on house-cleaning
chores never allow for stink...
  keep a week's worth of newspapers in your room
and they start decaying, and the stink arrives...
   which is why i don't value opinions coming from
newspapers, i call them the sights of
    pornographers of literature...
        or maybe why i don't see much in the vicinity...
in poland they actually call putin a wise man,
a leader... in the west everyone wants a cherry
on top of the cake that they're not...
        all the old people in poland cite
putin because he's able to keep poles,
how to say it? not imitating the nomad jew?
and actually sit on their ***** and count the ants?
is that how you say it... i go back to poland
for 3 weeks, read a kraszewski, watch ski jumping
cook a meal, walk in minus degrees into pine
woods and take a photograph of a power station,
and feel: there's no need to write a book...
3 weeks over there and i didn't feel a need to write
a book... alternatively:
i come back from my "hiatus" to england
and i'm in a on-the-ready-prompt gimmick;
i'm starting to see this departure from the life
i could have had as much as what defines the dog
or a door (onomatopoeias to god)
             but is really nothing more than a nagging
seagull... or why there is a need for prompt...
if graffiti didn't do it, then this, certainly will.
           writing "poetry" is never a good thing,
esp. when you don't feel like talking,
but then i feel a computer keyboard like
        chopin might feel the piano keyboard
or mozart feeling up a harpsichord...
          i can't even claim ginsberg's prodigy,
i mean: mean grit and hardship of a construction
site? the scottish widows' HQ roof? i can claim
i did that... because i literally did...
                it's almost like the construction
industry is the only thing standing before
the military-industrial complex... unless of course
you add napster and somali pirates into the equation...
    but yeah, newspapers really stink if you leave
them in a pile for a week of the respective past week,
books however don't... i haven't dusted them
because i probably read them, and i like to
imagine this fetish of the perfume they exfoliate
after a while, because you nurtured them in a way
that other people who horde books don't...
like my uncle once reminded me as to why i read:
i want enough books to make me look smart...
    yeah... and i want a casio to be above rolex...
and on a *** note: schrimps ahoy!
                     or as my scottish english teacher
in a catholic school once remarked but didn't
realise it until i spotted it (just now):
the gift of narrative is to digress -
   it's a "poem", it's not a pave of slab,
there really isn't a quality control mechanism
involve, other than the quality of writing too much
and being able to shut up for 10 years...
   respectively: to write a body of work,
which is where routine comes from
and routine breeding a type of rhetoric that's
constantly undermined...
               or i guess that's what's flying about:
because i really want to avoid what gave me prompt...
it's very trivial -
   it originates in how people quote:
   i.e.  the orthodox "[w]hen it happened"
enclosure... the prompt part when giving you
the prompt...                 as if needing an intro,
that **** is in [w]...
                                   what is an indirect citation to
the direct situation of giving a talk -
which i'm not, therefore i point it out.
    and yes, it ends with a number
because there are only two "arithmetic" results
of language, one of them is 1
  so a sentence e.g.: i went to the store to buy some milk
is representive of the sigma, 1, positive, affirming
  anything and nothing.
yet the other strand of "arithmetic" results of
language is 0... which is Kantian for negation (a denial
of, primarily the cartesian concept of doubt),
  and a sentence that results in the sigma 0
comes from a sentence e.g. i went to the store
to buy some mil and shot someone "by accident"...
well.. that's how english existentialism would actually
work, by dittoing / creating ambiguity
     that goes outside of the misnomer realm,
                  as in: including some sort of action,
hence the punctuation inclusive of "extracting"
  by; so yes, existentialism can actually include
   the conjunction word leading up to what is stated
as ~:
    easier to state what you mean or don't
than the mindless task of the perpetrated
counter-ask, esp. in a supermarket, i.e. i wanted
milk (also), instead i got a bullet to my head.
**** don't make 1 + 1 = 2 logic in terms of speaking,
and no, i don't believe that books ought to be
necessarily eloquent... we can stick to manners
at a dinner table... i see books as a cushion for
what would otherwise explode into violence...
         or is that just my take on things?
there was something though, that prompted me,
and it wasn't something i'd arrange
with dubious punctuation, as in:
to read a newspaper and listen to someone talking,
******* schizoi of me to do that in the first place,
or perhaps that's how you decide for a third
person to talk over the person actually talking
into your ear in a video, you reading a newspaper
article, and then realising you are allowed
the third party source of thought...
      then again it was upon seeing how people
cite...    what's the difference between citing
it as "[w]hen" and how you see it in certain books
e.g. 'when?'
                tiny little differences, but meteors in
how the modern version / aversion to dialectics looks like,
if it is ever staged in Marrakech supermarket...
            is dialectics thus a better word to denote
haggling? as that nursery rhyme goes:
      if meme and gene is id the posit for fixed ego?
like: that **** never changes, it goes on and on
and is the western serpent in the doors' song the end.
wait wait... credits...
          all credits to heidegger's ponderings
III... circa 1932, and the concept of volklich
which some east german would probably say
as volklisch - like in a rammstein song:
   isch bin... hark the ******* CH! or should i ask
the Gaul to come with his phlegm of R?
                   it's not that the english have a stiff upper-limp,
they have a numb tongue... taubzunge...
or an umtongue...
            and speaking ethnicity, i too can suggest
something... what kant already mentions with his
shadow | cold concept to... whatever it was he was doing...
western slavs are shadow people... a schattenvolk,
you don't really see them...
                   and if the history of israel...
becomes unrecognised by arabs in the middle east...
then so too poland in europe, unrecognised...
        well... they're there... but western vogue doesn't
really recognise its existence when you read a newspaper
and dare to cite statistics... so like: huh?
                 they can cite every, single, country,
in the supposed western "hemisphere" but they can't
cite something from the east...
                     and then someone from the schattenvolk
comes along and says something to them that
cite the statistics and they're like: bring
in the muslims!                    well, that done,
                 how about we watch the idea of a community
from the Ełk incident? two bottles of coca-cola
        and a death sentence...
                 or so and so and so and so did (a),
but shouldn't have received the result (b)...
           thankfully we had Newton to look for
the law of gravity... otherwise i really wouldn't know
what law man is actually capable of giving...
is it objective? so why am i protesting?
is it subjective? so why am i even asking?
the only thing more horrid from philosophy is
jurisprudence... but then i find philosophy bearable,
and "try" to practice it... jurisprudence?
             let's not get religiously motivated to exact what
is and what is not.

you know, after collecting an obscure library of music,
i feel nothing for the MP3 highwaymen
of Napster et al.,
being the forager on the internet from time to time
for the diamond berries,
then from time to time turning the radio on
and relaxing with these high brow moral airs
on the backseat with a d.j. surprising me -
like any man respecting the arts, i'd tell these
MP3 thieves to turn on the radio from time to time,
but, oh wait... they haven't invested in music,
so i guess listening to the radio would be
like running stark naked on a football pitch.
****! no pause, and i'm about to refill -
absolute, or ageing with 40 year old's nostalgia
concerning Brit-Pop and their older brother's or uncles
tastes; match-made-in-heaven.

my mother said i was a tyrant,
my father just said: you'll scare their children...*

and i guess that's true,
given the fact that poetry became
a joke, cute pompous readied
for seasons and such damnable events
as speaking at funerals...
i guess i am a joke, my output is a joke,
poetry per se is a joke ergo...
i guess they will fear me because
i expressed a love of poetry like
a salvation army band member...
i sang to the highest peak and
ebbed towards the lowest valley
where at last i met the shadow of death;
that's the point of fear, they think
you've a steady job going for you,
that you expect that the only art these days
is only worth a part-time status and
not the pope's patronage...
then you realise i'm not earning... then what?
ha ha... you do jack ****!
oh my tyrant, me Napster... me ball-less in
Chinook covering Cairo's airspace for a radio
broadcast of no bankrupt ****** mega-store;
poetry the cheapest art,
hence so many poets and hence so few risk-takers,
1000 poets and about 100 poems among them to share
a credible signature to.

most of the internet seems like a wild west
in terms of copyright laws...
i only came across one website,
where you can't simply copy & paste
the content... which is a shame...
yes, it's a canadian website...
             but let's stage a contra...
       against the mp3 generation pirates,
beginning with napster...
                ever fiddle with the album sleeve
of pearl jam's vitalogy?
                              i know the vinyl snobs are
out there, saying how much superior
they are...
               but this c.d. sleeve?
       it's like touching very well crafted leather...
so much for mp3...
oh, and the binaural booklet?
                    **** me, that's a wonder too,
you just start getting itchy fingers,
like i remember getting, when i was a kid,
and other kids used to play with my toys,
  esp. the NES (nintendo 8-bit)...
i'd just get these itchy fingers...
                    two major games?
                       obviously mario bros
but then there was this duck-shooting game,
where you'd cheat, and walk up to the television
screen and start shooting...
       **** me, that's really getting touchy feely...
like i said, memory can be a great cinema.

a common slavic sayings goes along the following lines of sarcasm: wow! you actually discovered america in a can of sardines! phew... locked out without geniuses like you, we'd be stuck in caves, wondering about unthinking campfires!

i'm sure as **** concerning this one...
chemists have evaluated money
as the philosopher's stone -
well, i have, anyway -
nietzsche's ambition to find the source
of the trans-valuation of values...
well...
that's just a penny stuck to
the pavement,
or why: i wouldn't pay 18 mils
for a Bosch painting...
everything that the concept of money
touches becomes economised,
devalued - lost, auctioned -
money is not that complex top begin with -
it's only complexity arises in
the extremes, whereby it's either
priceless, or worth jack-****,
a untangled "metaphor"
(no pun intended) of merely
calling a *****, a ******* space,
no *******, just the ****.
                              master that one,
****** fitzpatrick!
    ******, starts ogling me like a fish
suffocating with its eyes nearing
to popping out while i'm dipping into
a soup! toss off b.b.q.
we're short of frying your
auntie, ******!
            but honestly,
do we really live in such tragic times that
there are more comedians than there
are poets?!
        seems so, more poets than
tail whiffs of a cow imitating salon
couture -
              of: getting a breather...
fickle ****** me *** crack and let me
produce a squeeze of a Fabergé egg -
call me an Austrian empress while you're
at it, contemplating chicken cesarean,
i'm in no position to count the number
of abortions i've had three waves...
poached, fried, soft boiled...
  hard boiled at easter...
            my stance on abortion?
does it really matter if its tasty, yoke
goo?
            but there was to be a counter
to the chemical endeavour,
a "philosopher's stone", "mishap" -
perpetuated motion...
             we already know that
money was the stone -
upon touching this ****** entity
a grain of wheat became worth more than
a grain of sand...
                        ever minding the difference
between a brick from a loaf of bread...
trans-valuation of values my ***...
one word summary: money!
          why have people become so
mystified by entertaining the idea of money,
ah. right, sooner to spend
than loitering on the kept -
        d'uh...
but physicists are after something
quiet different...
   they're after a self-propelling
perpetuating force of motion...
   not solar, non-renewable, non-zephyr...
      and certainly not
an anti-thesis of a combustion engine...
                physicists are looking
for the philosopher's gust -
                    fan boy over 'ere thinks
they'll be as un-successful as the chemists
in finding the stone, that's actually
a meta- if not a trans-thing,
   meaning it out to be prefixed, but at
the same time made dubious -
since a meta-thing is actually a meta-"thing;
likewise for the trans- example.
           money is not exactly mystical if
you you erase the examples of
polarised representations of poverty,
and, endowment...
                  just a piece of iron with
a face on it...
              but it is the philosopher's stone
alchemists were looking for all along -
that trans-valuation of worth -
whatever a coin touches becomes either
more, or less, valuable...
                 it's worth spending £110 in
a brothel for an honest body...
             at least the single hour is an honesty
trip...
               and there's not a single
thought of "slavery" -
notably with paying the extra tenner
that allows you to perform oral ***...
       which gives them a flurry of giggles...
  its perfectly rationed...
  minus the dating drama *******...
               and if you're in there to
actually give rather than receive pleasure,
primarily... what can be more ironic than
paying someone to get pleasured?
            i still think we live in
a physics dominated society...
             and it's not a stone we're looking for...
it's perpetual motion that is not
compressed into a meaning of
acceleration or deceleration -
               if the philosopher's stone is
money... i wonder what the philosopher's
gust is...
            it can be oversimplified with
meagre demand for thought...
                    but then the moral ought
steals the theta that arrives an constructing
this compound...
                   plus, it's nice to mention
a ******* or two, as the loves of my life,
even if they were,
the loves of my life, for an hour...
       at least it was an honest hour,
and not a dishonest month.
  i fail to understand why prostitution
is not celebrated, and is courted these days
with an air of stigma...
                  it's quiet beyond my
comprehension, given that there are
so many current proselytized prostitutes -
  numbering with highest in
techno-freaky ******* central
             internet booths...
           i'm probably one of the last guys
who managed to buy a **** mag over
the counter, when it wasn't free,
and you had to stand face to face with someone
implying: that's me on the throne
of thrones doing a tear-jerking...
               maybe these little boys
would be less audacious with their
**** intake, had they actually bought some
over the counter in a newsagent...
very much akin to the napster "hipsters".

chat bots:
zaby: niet: zeby... (frogs... not teeth)

this heat-wave is making everyone, fffff-ucking cuckoo! i must have lost it about 5 times today... sweating like a pig about to be slaughtered, rambling mad... drank more than i could ever possibly eat... for dinner? the thinner me... two Becks, a pork steak cooked ideally: so the juices were still running... and a few precious olives... with pickled garlic and pickled chillies and plenty of oregano and olive oil... that's it! to hell with this world... to hell with climate-change sceptics... i hate them as much as i hate atheists... i was actually going to post this on the 18th of June... but i thought... i'll wait... it was already been several days of this heat... i'll wait... something is bound to happen: something convincing... the fire in Wennington broke the camel's back... i ffff-ucking sometimes cycle through there... what the ffff-ucking hell happened? scorched earth! the earth's alight! and what am i doing? like **** i'm going on some fancy holiday... like hell i'm going to own a car... i just own a bicycle... i planted 8+ trees in my garden... i tend to talk... i hate climate-change sceptics and deniers like Holocaust deniers and atheists... and all the rest of the secular nunnery *******... the "sensible folk"... they: ****... ME... OFF... like i: don't have enough oath-words to use... i swear like a cobbler when it comes to these matters... today we snapped at each other over the littlest of things: you're keeping the fridge door open for too long... you haven't covered the coleslaw... seconds apparently turned into hours... do i, look... like a ******* camel jockey to you? take this ******* heat and go back to Sahara... that desert that was once a mighty mountain range... all deserts were mountain ranges once... aren't we living in times beside Copernicus... aren't we stuck with Darwinistic pre-history ontology? then all deserts used to be mountain-ranges... now crank up the heat... the sort of heat that makes people mad and animals bewilder themselves... i mention this as much generously later on...

i seriously think the internet can be a lovely place...
sure... there are some pitfalls...
for one: i avoided online dating sites like
the plague... i don't know how i managed to get
fooled by social media...
then again: those were early days...
back in 2005... facebook had a policy of: only university
students... being the first person in my family
to go to university i gobbled some things naively...
mind you: i was already using last.fm
to forage for new music... that's how i found about
Porcupine Tree... Spirit... Gong... to name but the few...
i must have come across Wolfmother too...
i was over the moon that they played in Edinburgh
rather than playing Glasgow...
mind you: i didn't mind that Tool played in Glasgow...
i was willing: more than willing to make that trip
from Edinburgh... that's where i met her...
met: and left her...
    oh man... we were getting crushed... or rather:
she was getting crushed in the pit of happy maggots...
water was being distributed in plastic glasses
so that people wouldn't faint...
   (of course i'm going to portray myself as
someone good... although i tend to think i'm a nasty
piece of work... better to think yourself rotten
than as good... it works to anyone's advantage...
since? there's always room for improvement)
    the glasses were passing us left and right...
someone finally managed to not drink a water from
the cup and it passed into my hand...
what did i do? did i drink it? nope...
            i gave the cup to her... she gulped it down...
the second time i managed to catch a cup...
i drank half of it myself... offered it to her:
she refused... on the basis that the first cup satiated her...
so i passed the cup further down in the crowd...
third cup... i gave it to her... she drank half...
the remaining half i passed down the crowd...
by then i was almost bear-hugging her to give her
space to breath... so much so that she managed to turn
around... we chatted for about two minutes:
the old internet: a.s.a.l... sort of shtick...
                              and by the depth of the music coming
from Tool... we started snogging...
                    did i mind that she said she was German?
hmm!? i'm currently listening to: die weisse dame
                                                                      (d'ah m'eh)...
yes... the Tetragrammaton appears in certain
European languages...  e.g. ANTHONY...
                     you don't say: ANFONY
                               you say: ANTONY...
who's foney / phoney?! is that like someone: who can
be the X-man Magneto but with telephones?!

i probably have regrets... once the crowd was dispersing
after the concert was over...
i saw her standing in some obvious location...
we got separated...
            mind you... did she come alone?
girls? going to concerts on their own? not then not now...
highly unlikely...
but who was she with? a girlfriend or a boyfriend?
regrets... i walked passed her...
   i was about to ask her if she wanted to go back
to Edinburgh with me for some ***... well: not exactly
*** as a one word question... more...
on the lines of relationship building...
    nerves? she ignored me? i was snogging her
just a few minutes and half-hours prior...
            men go to concerts on their own...
do women? rare...
                      women travelling on their own? also rare...
i used to take these weekend trips
to some of the capitals of Europe: alone...
   because... i've been on trips with "friends"...
****** trips... disorganised trips... pointless trips...
i said: **** it... i'm going solo...
                 should i have approached her?
n'ah... she just topped the feelings of seeing Tool live...
a favourite band of mine since the age of 14...
or 15...

what was i "saying"? oh... right... the internet used to be fun,
it still is...
              sure... you get some *******... most of them
are neurotic women... thought-police Katherine(s)...
oh Carol... or oh Caren... or Kerrie... whatever...
             women who have no idea that either William Burroughs
or Ovid or for that matter Marquis de Sade ever existed...
what? i know what cancel-culture is...
i've been banned on... several sites... just outright
deleted... no response...
i was suspended on one website for about 9 months...
what happened, after? the Streisand effect...
my absence imploded...
prior? one of my poems had... maybe... maybe 2K views...

now? i'm packing a crowd of about 50K...
ergo? it's a good thing...
              but it's unlike the internet of NAPSTER
and HOTMAIL... and MSN? what were those chat-rooms
where people would talk anonymously...
with girls in America... i remember those...
that's how we first plundered our presence
in this sphere... obviously publishers wouldn't
listen to us... and we had better things to do anyway...
it was either homework... playing the Age of Empires II
or chatting to people before bots and proper a.i.
was introduced...
way way before internet shopping...
i still remember the classic look of a high street:
there used to be a record shop on each of them...

now? you want a record shop?
Romford... that's the only one i know that still exists...
it's like: Mecca...
seriously... come to Romford... buy some spinning
liquorice...
             i don't even know whether i've grown into
England or whether England has grown into me...
i'm guessing both... of course the myth of my childhood
in Poland is locked in the vaults of memory
of my mind... how we used to play together as children...
hide & seek... marbles... tic-tac-toe...
   skipping ropes... oh sure: boys and girls used to play
together... we didn't get as far as cards...
Blackjack... i'm afraid that if i started playing
Blackjack with the boys i would have not moved an inch...
from where i was born...

but look at me now...
    London leech... in and outs of Bow and further afield
as far as Epping... on a bicycle...
this is home... it breaks my heart in a way
but also mends it...
  
hmm... i recently came across an advert for online
therapy... a woman is sitting in a cubicle in a toilet
and is talking about how her mind will not switch off...
questions: self-rhetorical answers... more questions...
then the lights are turned on...
and in a cubicle next to her another woman
tries to "squeeze" out in a silence...
the camera returns to the woman who "thinks"
she's talking to someone... clearly: she isn't...
              i tried therapy... i tried psychologists:
**** me... at least the most they can do is prescribe you
talk and camomile tea...
i talked to psychiatrists...
    hmm... with the ineffectuality of asylums...
being prescribed pills... usually associated with asylums?
ha ha... ah ha ha...
i put on... let's settle on 30kg...
     i was a porky pie...
                   oh! but it was the cure! i was being cured!
i was "depressed" one year... "schizophrenic" another...
"psychotic" throughout... but when i got a brain MIR scan
back in Poland and talked to a ****** neurosurgeon...
i asked: so am i mad?
he replied: if anyone says you're mad... they're mad themselves...

i love England... no... English people are not racists...
they're just sadistic sometimes...
they have a sadistic sense of humour...
and a sadistic diagnostic-rumour: murmur...
after speaking to this ****** neurosurgeon...
i had to go back... back to England...
oh sure... i still talked with the psychiatrists
that were "treating" me...
i still took the pills...
      until one day: i snapped...
        my mother was having spinal surgery...
i just finished reading Kierkegaard's either / or...
no... that was stalemate: read...
i just finished reading vol. 1 of Kant's critique of pure reason...
and... i couldn't find vol. 2...
i was so ******* *******...

and i told her: when i get out of here!
     did she think: when i escape my body?
to me... psychosis is osmosis... i'm going back to either
air... fire... water or the earth...
perhaps a coupling...

point being: the advert? me... i have a post-Soviet
distrust for psychology, psychiatry, atheism...
why demand people have no soul but make logistic
investments into there being a soul?
or the opposite... whatever the opposite is...
                  i wouldn't talk to anyone but a random
stranger...
                     *******... mother-****-gobbling-*******...
misjudgements?! hmm-um?!
    yeah: bravo-me for keeping my anger under control
by drinking... and taking: long walks...
i once became so mad i walked from Romford to...
Harlow... in the middle of the night...
down roads without any pedestrian access...
      sat in a 24h Tesco waiting to buy a bottle of Jack...
talking to this naive teenage girl...
bought the bourbon... walked into a forest
and started eating Lilac coloured mushrooms...
i literally stopped caring...
the "adventure" finished with me catching a taxi home
and sleeping for about 12 hours...

alcohol as a sedative? yeah... it is... it's a sedative
keeping me intact: from boiling over into absolute rage...
i need it to sweat it out...
every time i drink i'm sedated:
i'm like the antithesis of what most drunks are...
they just explode carelessly...
at rock concerts or football matches... reckless idiots:
IF YOU ONLY KNEW THE TRUE POWER
OF ALCOHOL... what focus it can give...
how else did the pilots of Spitfires defeat
the Amphetamine riddled pilots of the Messerschmitts...
how else? how else where they defeated?
alcohol is a war potent contained in the most
affectionate man...
  
mind you: i know what an alcoholic looks like...
my grandfather was an alcoholic...
he was also a stamp-collector... i still have his Soviet
stamps... i wonder... if i really wanted money...
how much could they fetch in the west...
but... since i'm not after money... because i'm of the motto:
ARBEIT MACHT FREI... and i like the idea of
things... formerly owned by others are like
keeping their presence nearest to me...
translated as travelling stars in the night sky...
and i've seen: plenty... of those...
there are constellations... but there are also these...
roaming stars... i can't explain it...

be kind to animals, be kind to these little critters...
this will allow you to distinguish:
or least favour the judgement concerning:
whether you should be kind to all men:
or whether not to discriminate by a higher earned
justice learned from the kindness showered
on animals...

spieglein spieglein!

ooh... i needed that break from that autobiographic
outburst... and as the maxim states:
by the sweat of your brows you will earn a living...
funny that... writing is hardly any hard-lifting...
but i'm drinking and sweating like a mad-pig
from my armpits...

the internet... hmm...
one sample of tracing my footsteps back...
Tantalus < Human Sacrifice < Annual Customs
of Dahomey < the Kingdom of Dahomey...
this is me... going backward...
i just overheard someone mention...
the Kingdom of Dahomey...
   and king Ghezo...

                             now... physiology...
all these massive basketball players... currently living
in America... hold on hold... on...
Europeans did what?
go around Africa and catch these specimen?
really? what good is a slave if maimed by a bullet wound?!
hmm...  what i was thinking all along...
Africans ******* Africans over
just like Europeans ******* Europeans over...
same shift... different story...
nothing new...
              so there were these people in Western Africa
that used to hunt for slaves...
and sell them off to traders... and... let's face it...
every trade-person is an impartial person...
money is not the coinage of spirit: thought...
ideas are...
                   we exchange ideas like we exchange
money: but in disparaging circumstances...
point being... i arrived at finding about the myth of
Tantalus...

        that's the beauty of the internet...
you might be looking for something: then again not looking
for anything...
coupled with reading a book...
Tantalus...
             Ovid's Amores: book 2 poem 2...
hey presto! Tantalus appears!
loose talk left Tantalus thirsty for ever
though up to his neck in water, clutching at fruit
always out of his reach

             well then... the beauty of the internet...
you get to build tunnels... cognitive tunnels: they are...
but... but there's also the automated filtering process...
i don't celebrate my work... i don't allow it to reach
advertisement status... i don't censor...
i filter... zeit ist die nur essenz...
              während weltraum: etwas das
                             unterhalt selbst...
wir ar entwender sklaven zu zeit
     oder seine eskapisten...

time is the only essence...
while space: something that upkeeps itself...
we are either slaves to time
or its escapists!

then again: i did start thinking about pre-historic
escapism as most associated with
English Darwinists...
those adamant creatures who find it absolutely
necessary to find the ontology: of a man without history:
a man without memory...
strange creatures... like most English thinking is...
don't get me wrong... it's very practical thinking...
ergonomic... egalitarian... soft-spoken words
to replace the pan-Slavic experiment of Communism...

that's ******* dangerous...
and what's the alternative? is there an alternative?
the English intellect invented
ergonomics and egalitarianism to counter
Communism...
               but it also invested itself in pre-history /
post-history... the ontology of:
prior to any recorded history... there was this
ontolology of APES...
i don't even think Copernicus could have
envisioned such widespread corruption of a simple
idea: nature abhors vacuums...
vacuums are filled by adaptation...

  i blame the mutation of Darwinism on the current
zeitgeist-narrative...
   no history? no history?!
          no ******* wonder i'm fleeing into foreign
languages... i've tested my thoughts on German...
i'm testing my thoughts on Russian...
i have this special case i need to test / write out...
i'm not staying: i'm fleeing...
but i'll be fleeing in a way that a violin
player is fleeing the sinking Titanic...

i need more drink to write this bit...
after all... i'm "changing glasses"...
i'm about to roam around the cheapest version
of Greek...
                       Darwinistic anti-historical pre-historical
ontology... i remember winters of such an abundence
of snow that you will never know...
i ******* hate climate-change-sceptics...
it's too hot!
        it's, too, *******, hot!
                             scepticism is not some *******
NEU-KOOL...
              BONKERS... no! neit! nein! nie!
i don't need lobster-people parading with
suntans... telling me: yeah: br'uh... all good...
like **** it is...
i hate these climate sceptics...
like i hate these Hitchen's era atheist...
sensible people my ****... my ****...

my feet are sticky... my brain is fried...
                     sure sure... let's just "rephrase" our next
no-new position comes the next year's flooding...

what the **** happened to:
CAUSE & EFFECT?!
                     physics isn't working?!
rules of physics somehow awry?"
                    hammer not good for nails?!
THIS IS WHY I DRINK...
i drink to contain my rage...
           but i also drink to fuse with it...
a writing ambition that...
will not be recognised... because:
zeitgeistnarrativ...
people need to hear what they are used to /
what they want...

****'s sake... with these climate change scpetics there's
no physics principle of: X causes Y...
ergo Y causes YX... ergo YX cause XY...
ergo... there's a ******* Z!
better explained?
   x causes y.. no! y doesn't cause x!
it's not a closed-case sceanario... you ****** g dim-wit!

dimmy dumb dimmy dumb wit!
ugh meister fantastisch spinster
   herr spinster: spaghettilockenwickler:
mampfenhausherr!

      hell is a fury that man obeys!
hell is a fury that a man obeys:
because... he inacts its tides...
selfish women discard hell's compensation
for personal gains...
best to spread the fury...
it has been... a long wait...
but worthwhile...
                            wahnhaft?!
                                           wer ist nicht?!

ten kto miał spać... i ten kto miał: wstać...
i ten kto miał spać... i ten kto miał: wstać...
i ten: kto został "zaspany":
  i ten kto ten kto nigdy się nidgy nie
obudził...
           i ten... komu zerk na "co to?":
dodało: nad-skupieninie:
ojra... ojra: coś nie tak!
o kurwa... hyba coś nie tak!

me? i'm looking at these two Russian
letters...
and then looking at these Latin transformations...

Спокойная ночь: spokojnaja no-
             hmm... exactly!
exactly? peaceful night!
but that's not my "beef"...
    J is replaced with Y...
                          since there's no Jeep in *****...
or therefore a DZ... dz = j....

                                     exactly: German folk songs
for drinking... gearing up to writing
while listening to some Russian agnst...
and i've just found... the second artist
in the Russian tongue that appeals to me...
first things first... Faun's Lorelei to get drunk and proper
"stammered" in order to better write...
that's that... but then... something from Russia:

to think...
                            i was lucky enough to... and not so lucky
to have had a Russian girlfriend...
lucky to have visited St. Petersburg and Moscow
but sort of unlucky to see in her cousin's face
that she was cheating on me...
i liked drinking with him: beer and dried fish...
talking about music and history...
i knew what his face was telling me...
he was sad that he knew she was having a French-fling
of two-boys one girl...
i hope i came across to suggest to him:
you know... i have been with prostitutes...
she over-estimates her worth, you do know: that i know that,
right?
i'm only here for St. Petersburg and for Moscow
and for the *****... the beer and the dried fish
that's such a better accomplishment to match
up with beer than peanuts...
you do know that i know she's ******* around?
but let me tell you: just one night...
i'll **** her brains out... i'll turn into a miner and
build a tunnel into her ego so that she remembers
me proper... oh don't worry... this narrative will only
come to be some years later...
i'll need to reflect for years before i realise
what my unconscious was instinctively planning:

good luck trying to be a tourist in Russia these
days... ha ha...
i was already out of the door come the moment
she wanted to turn my long hair into dreadlocks
and wanted to tattoo me...
i knew it was a short escapade: a gentle run
rather than a marathon...
the best part was: when she introduced me to her
grandmother: telling me it was her mother...
and we went to dinner: she introduced her mother
as her sister... and her father as her "uncle"...
she was trying to hide so bad that i was a ******...
a Russian girl?! dating a ****** boy?!
mein gott!                       it's only years later that
i'm drinking this fine wine of memory
in the form of ms. amber (whiskey)...

                   oh for more of these love complications
on grounds of ethnicity: race-baiting?
too ******* obvious: the Germanic peoples can play
that duty to the "universe"...
i like the subtle queues...

i can just imagine if this affair went west...
if i dated a proper: milchfräulein!
i'd be like: wild-eyed: did your grandpa secetectly
stash a SS-uniform in secret? can i see it?
can i wear it? wait... wait... i need to see the Turk
first... my barber... i can't put it on without
being properly trimmed...
does he? does he?
                                           ah ha ha...

i think schwarz suits me...
although i much prefer
grün und braun shades of clothes...
                           nothing jeans related... suits me...

it became one of those relationships that's best
not have had... best remembered like
the heat-wave of 2022...
i... ******* cycled through the village of Wellington...
i know the area... it's local... well...
as a cyclist it's local... thereabouts to Rainham...
there's this land-fill site near by...
there's the Cold-Harbour...
  when the Thames spreads her "legs" / tide...
i know the area... ******* grass fires?
  you're kidding me...
   i abhor climate sceptics like i abhor atheists...

do i look like a: ffff-ucking camel jockey?!
some influencer girl staging the pride of her buttocks
before some hotel in Dubai?
i hate people who adhere to the heat...
i know that when the mob comes after them
i'll be peddling...
              i'll be licking my wounds...
i'll be writing: sure... not having sweat from my brows:
but from my underarm pits...
at this point i abhore the arrogant-denial
of the sceptics...
                             because this is the workings of bad-faith...
and bad-faith begins with advocating
the adamancy of denial...
                  these ffff-ucking idiots need
another year... perhaps two...
before they change their minds about saying
things like: oh... media frenzy!
   this feels like just another summer!

really?
  really?!
              what happened to me today?
i woke up... in a 180° position to the one i fell asleep in...
i rotated... 180°... how? how does a body rotate
180° while asleep... lying next to a table...
sure... i took down a chair...
but... this is the UNCONSCIOUS speaking:
this is the COLLECCTIVE UNCONSCIOUS speaking
to individuals in their UNCONSCIOUS....
i ffff-ucking rotated 180° in my sleep!

that's not a ******* problem?!
fair enough... let idiots breed...
I DON'T CARE...
I'M NOT ALLOWED TO CARE...
I DON'T CARE...
DAARWINISM EXPOSED A MAN BADLY
DAMAGED BY ALLOWANCES OF AN ONTOLOGY
OF A PRE-HISTORY: AN ANTI-THESIS OF CONTINUITY
OF PRE-HISTORY: BY VARIATION OF SOME "MAGIC!"
SOME MAGIC MONKEY JUGGLING...

no! nein! neit! nie!

       come to "think" of it...
    Communism... the whole Pan-Slavic movement...
i'd like to "think" a little about the letters...
about... the crab-bucket... mentality of "losers"
of capitalism...
these... adherent wastes of time for people
that... want to work...
                  these people that should be readied
for an arbeit mach freit... scrutiny...
the excuses some people give them...
i've never been allowed excuses...
i was either good at my work or **** at it...
but some of these people have been given
too many excuses: based on their race:
get rid of them...
                 how does the verse work?
employ him because X...
well then... get rid of him based on Y...
lazy ******* best starve...
                        
    oh this cruel world... crueler Siberia...
i'm supposed to do the work of lazy Chimera's
of "man"?
                  
Спокойная ночь... bothers me...
esp. when reiterating in Latin...
      й = J = Y...
                  hmm... чь: ć
                               what's чъ?!
      but that's already arrived at!
                                  чъ = č ...

night?                      нoц! noc! night!

                    what's the ******* deal with
the Cyrillic trinity of ь ъ & ы?

                                         "soft": acute?
"hard": caron?
                         but a "soft" is already incorporated
within the noun concerning NIGHT...
at the same time it's not necessary...
that's why for a ******...
Russian is under-formed...

   нoц... contra ночь...
           because? the latter implies:
  when heard: never to be unheard:
   noć...
                      no... not noć...
not ******* nocz / noč...
                      нoц: noc! nacht!

***: *******: BAJA... bajka!
                     you confusing idiots... Chinese separatists
of Beijing...
ъ, ы, ь, ю, я, y living in make-shift *****-lands...

gorąc...
                  gorąц...
                                    na mej głowie...
to tło... szumu... i idiotyzmu...
      this: this entire world is coming to the smallest
portion of the world for: "debriefing":
about being the the antagonist...

  **** it... i'm siding with the Russians...
i don't care...
                      i don't care because i don't care...
i'm siding with the Russians...
at least they have some existential sanity
left in them...
                it's very much unlike siding with
**** Germany most associated with
the Croats...
this is... a civiliation-state scenario...
this is Darwinism in its advent of foreplay...
i'm curating foreplay...
people are so blind... as individuals...

do i look like wanting to **** black women?
ergo... all the poly-racial ****... is... what?
something i might want to keep... or... burn?
i could never appreciate the idiocy of some people...
but? i'm currently having to adapt....
because... people have beccome better than their own
predictions.

there only about three songs in my repertoire as a listener
that stab me in the heart...
i'd stretch to four... debatable whether
it's king crimson's epitaph or in the court of the
crimson king...
starless makes it into the triad...
i guess i'm only focusing on a specific genre:
counting out classical music altogether, & jazz...
because: just be...          cause...
in the triad... nights in white satin by the moody
blues...
& omega's (a Hungarian band)
       gyöngyhajú lány...
   i'm probably lying... there'd be a fifth
with something by Maanam...
             i can't really give you citation on
the worth of the Beatles or the Rolling Stones...
oops...
i don't even think its the pop status that kills
it... it's that: you want to find something
auxiliary, hell: ulterior...
that terrible fate of man...
if he were a crow: he'd still invented motives
to not croak, crackle...
   if man were a cow he'd still find ways
to not moo...
              i've heard the maxim: yes yes...
you're just as different as everyone else...
so what? that's how we're herded...
what simply shows is...
how hard some try...
and how those who don't try...
end up... trail-blazing: their own little:
Robinson Crusoe eventuality...
    - what a plentiful Saturday...
two rugby matches... no football on t.v.: **** yes...
& changing the rear tyre on my road-bicycle...
700 x 23cm...
6 punctures... in the tyre...
2 in the inner tubing...
i took the wheel off... spin spin after spin
in a makeshift water-bath to see the puncture better...
Ezekiel? didn't you see?
third time, tipsy... oh look how it's easily done!
next i'll prepare a chicken for a spatchcock blind-folded!
****'s sake...
coffee, x3... with some magical liquorice
liquor... Mexican... yella... or ow...
magical... how much i love anise... liquorice...
esp. when coupled with alcohol...
& coffee...
dreary ******* day persisted nonetheless:
i didn't mind... hard to mind...
when you can finally get off your backside...
& wait for investing in a career as a steward...
for a while...
i'd rather teach English children English than chemistry...
we'll see... no chance in hell will
i be found teaching Lebanese children
an American accent...
i'd sooner teach a dog to meow or a cat to bark!
live a little...
so obviously after changing the tyre
i had to take the ol' Viking for a spin...
minding to buy some fuel for the night
in the form of ms. amber & herr whiskers...
but the breaks weren't right... too tight on the lever...
thankfully i took some tools...
knelt in the supermarket car-park
by the trollies & started to imagine a violin
in my hands... what?
fiddling... i started fiddling...

and you might appreciate how difficult it is
to make small-talk...
esp. in unhandy situations...
you're fiddling with your bicycle's breaks
a man goes up to his car with some
spare groceries  & starts off with:
you've seen that video on youtube...
this young guy doing X...
dead... such is the world we live in...
aha... sorry what the **** was that talking
about? amazed that i want to work on
my own bicycle... it's not a *******
F16 fighter-jet...
is it?
sure, currently we have such...
focused spans of attention...
such concentrated specialisations...
a jack-of-all-trades is frowned upon...
when i think of work i think of:
lifting ****, moving ****... a sort of chess...
harvesting crops...
what's the rest?
loitering... esp. concerning women in clothes shops...
not even barristers...
i mean: what's work... outside the realm of
the "3rd world" sweat-shops...
what are we, "1st world" inhabitants...
content-production ******?
what, *******, "content"?!

best not jinx it... i'll be a steward at Wembley...
i'll be an authority figure...
i have the height (6ft2) & the weight
(96kg)...
           Maanam: krakowski spleen...
6th song?
        work as loitering: isn't work... work:
lift... move... it's like the antithesis of the cruel joke
from Auschwitz... arbeit macht frei...
when they forced the people to move
a sack of rubble from A to B,
to further relent at them moving the same sack
of pebbles from B to A...

what the hell is work when so much of "work"
is loitering?
pandering to whims?
how cruel of me: there's so much excess...
not enough condoms were clearly used...
solipsistic, marginal, attention-deficient ******
of the great **** of life...
so many ******* kings among the rabble...
king of Sweden, king of Romania...
oh you see them all the time...
wake up... or be put to sleep by a bullet to the head...

i understand work via... lift... move...
any idiot's fancy...
oh sure... when the intricacies of synthesising
an ester, to make perfume...
when what's required is... pasteurizing milk...
mein gott: the current trend of...
ensuring people are fed... well... not fed:
more like...
ensuring that they don't doubly butcher a
steak... who the **** eats a well-done slice
of steak? probably someone who eats a lot
of lamb dishes... ha! the Welsh are joked
about as being sheep-shaggers...
i'd look toward the Arabs... the greatest sheep-shaggers
of the whole lot of them...
not that the pig can't be used to make...
leather belts... leather shoes...
funny god: of the Arabs... sure... the Hebs too...
it's almost like the devil played a cruel trick
on these people...
pig: b'ah b'ah bad...
aren't ***** necro-
don't ***** eat the flesh of the dead?

but Arabs are one "thing" & the Hebs another...
there's the pristine phonetic study of the
tetragrammaton...
ah? for sighs... ha? for laughter...
W for cosine... Y: the implosion & the rotation
of delta (Δ)...
the Hebrews will accomodate...
the Arabs won't...
even among Africans i can find traces of
universalism...
the Arabs, ****- -stanis... & the Hindus (somewhat)
think themselves are superior...
hush hush when imploring
the Chinese or the Japanese to enter
my realm of thought...
i already think much of the Korean Hangul...
& the Japanese Katakana...
i'm no Ezra Pound... Chinese ideograms...
western Emoji...
the Egyptian hieroglyphs...
32 letters in the ****** alphabet...
as many as there are teeth...
in every man...
26 letters in the Anglican... 6 short...
which teeth will we have, on the platter?

- i think i write these words through a perspetcive of:
what are you, scribbler?
what the hell is the rest of the fancy?
what use for a priest?
i am useless?
i scribble... is it such a sin that...
since the inception of Napster... music "suddenly"
became free? who the hell pays for art,
these day? unless it's not overpriced
acrylic *****?
don't pay for art...
great! don't have a culture...
don't have anything western, "western"...
look how the old Soviets are... giggling & rubbing
their hands in synch. with Beezebub...

AYA - WARIANT "C"...

culture is free, music is free... plenty...
enough for it to be sold...
to no one... monopolised into nothing:
into predictable curtails...
buy new shoes, phones,
perhaps some books... perhaps...

you starved the artist you somehow wonder
why... waste upon waste of migrants are flooding
your borders... will they learn your tongue:
will they... for the people who espouse
Darwinism the most: how backward thinking you all
are... since... you're all ******* dodos
given, the generosity of comparison...
not even that...
how sickening your choice...

you learnt nothing from eastern Europe...
and i wish... that you don't learn anything to begin with...
may you tremble, may you trouble yourself:
with your little hyacinth torando makeshits
of... "the bothersome"...

art for free... who would be asking for
golden nuggets! none!
just scraps! enough to have enough for fuel...
electricity...
no one is asking for ******* stature...
either we'll get to level... or...
the levelling process will come of its own
accord...
you have... ha ha... "have" a choice...
but time will tell you: no... you really don't...

AYA WARIANT C...
"contra"... :Wumpscut bunkertor sieben...
barking, up, the, wrong, *******, tree...
no need for Shakespeare... that **** is timeless...
i need something to counter the debauchery
that's currently relaxed concerning
the practices of journalism...
            ahem... sorry... what journalism?
pampering secluded ****-smeared *****...

if the ghost of Robespierre is grieving in
me! if the ghost of Robespierre!
if the ghost of Robespierre!
                  
  für die leute! für alle!
                    i'm tired of these western...
"conservative": iconoclasts of individualism...
spoon-feeding... hmm...
right now i'm least required to
mention the capacity for: a) thought,
b) tongue...
i like the option c) fist...

these pink haired: freak-oids are just
bearable... Weimar bearable...
i just can't stand being told i'm...
pointless... worthless...
that my words are no sellable...
sure... i agree... they're not...
but... what the **** sells?!

   any, worse, or, better? don't come to me
with complaints that somehow the world is...
darker...
my cat is sleeping sound...
if i had a dog i'd try to not use a leash...

this little piece of *** sells...
great... life: nothing indepth!
here you live: hereby you sink...
drown in the shallows...

groß! eisengrinsen! lachen
entstanden von: diese volk:
das spreschen dies... zunge!

i still find it a bit of a joke... Aryans?
Sarmatians were an Iranian tribe that travelled
into Poland...
Aryans... o.k., sure... jawohl...
i still can't pass up writing some Deutsche...
bad German... or good German...
i don't mind... it's not like the whole
of Berlin will mind... ha ha...

life will have to pursue its own:
trajectory...
like the life of parasites...
imps... giraffes...
van Gogh's paintings... blah blah:
a century later i might be up for
scrutiny... ha ha... people might have forgotten
world war I, or... part deux?
no? new war... Armageddon... figures...
well then... my words are ash:
  mein wörter ar asche;
lucky... no shadow present: too.

would you believe it,
but up until very "recently"...
prince was the most
protected by copyright
incentives that couldn't
match anyone...
wanted to watch
   a partyman video:
good luck...
              raspberry beret?
you'd be lucky
with a elevator muzak
"replacement"...
         i guess...
death really does free you
from, all, those,
mundane, constraints....
prince was nowhere
to be found...
sure sure, i'll stream,
then save up,
and, esp. now,
given i own a gramaphone,
sure, i'll buy the vinyl...
but please let me
play the tease...
          what else is made
available on the current,
high-street?
shoes stores,
  gaming stores...
      mobile phone stores...
guess you can't
"napster" the gaming
industry....
   pacman no no...
super mario bros.
double no no...
and it still feels eerie
walking into a supermarket,
when there's
michael jackson playing
in the background...
i was never really a fan...
paedo-up...
  paedo-down...
thank god i bought
the greatest hits
        on 80s silver lining
of a...
does anyone doing
the make-over
to a walkman with
mini-disc players?
           shambles... utter shambles...
well...
why wouldn't it be a vulture
fest whether in journalism
of the critics' shambles
sub-parrot in the whole
medium (of journalism)?
eh music is music is music
isn't some sort of
    a kama sutra "eventuality"...
***: it either happens,
or it... doesn't...
          rough tier around
the prostitutes...
      but when you know you've hit
"home"...
  that scar on your right shoulder
blade?
becomes a tattoo of a dragon
on the right shoulder blade of
the girl you just did it too...
i quiet like when
people elevate the medium
of cipher language,
  to imply where you've been...
and where they
take to make a memory of you
in something transcending
a mere, current,
******* of a (worth of a)
               photograph...
that's nice...
           i like that...
          
revision: it really doesn't count
if you're the person taking
the photograph...
but sure as **** it matters,
when someone takes
a photograph of you...
but given the current climate:
that's going to be, a "slightly",
rare event...

i still keep focusing on "that"
one point of interest /
  historical revisionism...
i.e.: what if...
           men learned to ride
bulls instead of horses,
into a charge?
  what if bulls were elevated
from their domestication
privilege status,
beyond the status of horses?

             i mean...
an army having abled itself
in saddling
a bull rather than a horse?
   i would love to go to that
sort of post-mortem cinema
where other avenues of history
could be screened...

what? hannibal and the (
****... the word just escaped
my mind...
waiting game... "too much"
is going on...
it's related to snails...
trunks, ivory...
       ****... what's that word...)

....................
..................................
ah!                        elephants!

fame...
such an elusive term...
it implies finding
an appeal outside
of the niche audience...

                 and we all know how
that ends up "looking"...
don't we?
               a canopy of ghosts
and greyish mob
               auxiliaries...

           thus said:
to every man who is bound
to finding "something",
he rarely finds it,
tabloid wisdom over 'ere
had to find a coping mechanism
for being forever "undermined"
while sifting through
late 20th century nostalgia...
but, not really
  (the nostalgia bit)...

              came as easily as
remembering black girls
back in school,
      uncurling their sun scortched
twirly locks applying
   vaseline to smooth out
a cow-lick  'air-do.