Yesterday, while waiting for a bus on the corner of Newbury Street
I found God.
She carried a burlap sack over her shoulder a map of the world in her right hand and a bottle of whiskey in her left.
She asks me where I’m headed and I tell her I’m running.
She tells me she is too
She says: “ It all started when I was a kid, I held the solar system in my palm and took the colors from the palette of galaxies and finger painted the Earth.”
I took something that was nothing and made it everything.
And every day since, this world has thinned me.
Asking too much out of something too little.
I fear the darkness that was created from the light I produced.
Some days, all my body can do is act like the Earth and tremble.
And in the deepest hour, my heart grew heavier than the sky that watches us all so I let it go.
I let the pain rain down like morning dew getting caught on people’s cheekbones.

I want to purify the air and our oxygen of all that is unjust in every atom.  
When I look into your eyes I see bigots,
I see sexists,
And killers
And I want to want to rid our days of the night but I can’t.
So instead, I hit children.
May they stay forever full of laughter and light
Of pigtails and play-doh and gummy worms and popsicle sticks.
white dresses and untied shoelaces.
In a world where guns double for dignity
Where love is a receipt
Where self-worth is measured by grade point average.
Dare not the dark fault their fair eyes.
Dare their souls not fall victim to the tainted being that is our sleepless nights and alleviated anguish.
When I look into your eyes, I see hate. But when I look through them, a see a child.
And so I lose myself on the bench of a bus stop on the corner of Newbury street.
Watching the world tumble down like a toddler learning to climb a staircase.
In my absence, the polluted cloud that makes its bed on our sky dissipates among the rain storms.
Should you run, you steal light from this fading life.

And I say to her
Show me how to be the bravery I ever so seldom see in the world.
I wanna lift bridges with poems
And I wanna lift poems out of my warm breath.

And she tells me

What rocky roads you have in front of you.
What hands you have yet to hold.
But I’ll tell you one thing
You’re already something
And something’s better than nothing
And that is everything.

They squirm inside their clothes
tweed, chiffon tiered skirts, and bows
of their grandmothers’ sepia, halcyon days

with lumberjack flannel and Kerouac quotes,
but it’s more a matter of age than size,
these charging, listless, candid creatures

with hairstyles that can only be described
as gravity readily defied and self-cut,
frequently dyed to shades that swing

between black coffee and New York poetry
deep imagism and social realism against the backdrop
of American Apparel ads on scratched up Macs.

They slouch up and down trafficked Newbury,
dropping names like Morrissey and Bukowski
pausing now and then to pick up on the ennui

of twenty-three, and how they will one day live la vie
Dharhimian, running on American Spirits,
James Dean, Truffaut chic,

a monthly check from their parents,
an apathetic sneer at holding anything too dearly
and how they hate that word—*hip-ster.

Newbury
Strum chords
Very urban

Man
Hair in bun
Guitar
Strum strum


music stops
Forehead creases

I have to go now.
Says Into microphone

i.
OVERWHELMED! Reading Philip Whalen's "Sourdough Mountain Lookout"
in a Boston cafe' good music good vibes quick approaching
afternoon chocolate croissant puffed up in my belly heart puffed up
in my chest ready to yell leap skip jump make a ruckus frantic
search for pen and notebook of course the notebook is left in Ned's
dormitory almost don't have a pen and feel a short fall in my
gut. A walking (or sitting) cliche, scratching thoughts onto a
napkin as they come, total organic no preservatives except I stopped
to think before writing "scratching" -- no! not the word I wanted
the correct word is STREAM, STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS, FLOW OF
EMOTION - like the beat legendaries whom I idolize but
what do I know... generations later, only had
"******" (the cool hip term several
decades ago) and **** bourbon "Satan's ****" that leaves me
sick and *****. Good delusion! Couchsurfing across the country,
drop by without notice, run broke, read books - poetry & the Autobiography
of Malcolm X, living off my parent's hard-earned capitalist cash...



ii.
Often I fear I am too young and
tender to survive in this world. Moments
like these - sitting, reading, basking
in a cafe - can make me overwhelmed,
Got to drop everything and sit, elbows
propped, palms cupping numb face,
to slow the rush of emotions pulsating
thru me. I am too big a fool, fall
in love too easily with everything.
The boy barista is prettier than I,
thought he was a girl when I
approached and shocked by his voice.
Angel with a black septum ring!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        reciprocated...

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

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

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

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

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

Sitting on the patio, drinking margaritas

Letting summers glow wash over me

Listening to the radio, taking in the summertime

Sitting, being single being free

Suddenly, "our song" came on

The first time that I'd heard it

Freezing me just exactly where I was

Overcome with feelings, I almost had a fit

We'd been married nearly 15 years

And this song, it defined us

But at that minute on the patio

I'd been thrown I was making quite a fuss

At first I went to change it

Turn the station, find another

Then I took another sip

And sat down with my Mother

She said "I always like that singer, dear"

"I thought you liked him too'

"Didn't you dance to one of his songs"

"When you wed in ninety two?"

I said I did and it was playing

Didn't want to hear it though

She said "Why, it's just some music dear,"

"It'll help the feelings go"

"I know it hurts at first to hear"

"And be taken to the past"

"But, the heart will heal so quickly"

"And you'll forget about the past"

I sat back and I listened,

To the singer and his song

"San Francisco Mabel Joy"

and I knew she wasn't wrong

His voice, the words so pleasing

New memories would I find

I would take this song of sixpence

And I would hide it in my mind

We danced to it in Frisco

Saw Mickey Newbury at a bar

And it etched into my consciousness

And it never ventured far

For every time we heard it

"Our song" as we would say

We'd dance no matter where we were

And we would listen to him play

So here I am twenty years on

From the first time that it got me

Sitting drinking with my mother

Being single, being free

I wasn 't going to lose it

Miss out on this piece of music

Just because my life changed

I was just divorced, not sick

I wondered about Mabel Joy

and listened to his words

And I thought about their heartbreak

As I listened to the birds

I thought "would he be listening"

"Would he feel the same"

"Was it just our song to me?"

"Did he even know it's name?

A few songs later, we went in

And we ordered in some food

I went down to the basement

At the risk of being rude

"I'll be right back" I told my mum

I had to find that song

And I pulled out the old album

That "Mabel Joy" was first played on

I thought of all the good times

Sat, and held the record near

Then I let them empty from my head

There was none that I'd hold dear

Across town at the very time

"Mabel Joy" was on the air

The other half of "our song"

Was just sitting in his chair

He thought, she used to like that song

Although I don't know why

We'd always dance when it came on

And she would always cry

He went to turn it over

but the voice went to his core

So he sat down and he listened

to "....frisco Mabel Joy" some more

He thought, that ain't a bad tune

It's one that tells the facts

So, he popped another beer cap off

And he sat back to relax

Across town in the kitchen

It was then she chose to laugh

Beside the title , "Our song"

written by her other half

So , it once meant something to them both

It's what made them both believe

That music makes you whole

The heart's hard to decieve

Across town, he thought about the tune

And who the singer was

He knew it wasn't chapin

and he though it was "The Boss"

He thought, I might go out and find

The cd, by that guy

Even though it used to be "our song"

it never made me cry

Now, back inside the kitchen

drinking more than being fed

She pulled out the lp, for to play

Before she went to bed

"San Francisco Mabel Joy"

was the third song on side two

She would listen till "our song" was done

And her mind would fill with new

Memories of this great song

Sitting drinking with her Ma

And these memories would stay with her

They never would venture far

So if you have an "our song"

Put it on, go back in time

For when you exorcise your demons

That's when "our song" becomes "Mine"!

He don't leave me smiling like you did
But then again you left me crying too
Maybe he'll at least spare me the heartache

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
perhaps i should be more familiar
with black literature... perhaps will alexander
is not enough... oh god: i just stepped into
a reverse psychology faux pas...

  again...

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
but clearly there aren't...
for years and years i sat on the tube as it rolled
between leytonstone and leyton...
they now have a grand mount... for the new graves...
prior to... the graveyard stretched...
almost the entire distance from one station
of the central line to the next...

i did plan to go into london before
lying myself to sleep... once upon a time i would
go all the way... into tourist central...
i'd go and do the usual... tate modern...
tate national...
i even dressed myself for the occassion...
well... "dressed"...
does a dog change its fur...
i had to capture the sensation of wearing
the same clothes for long enough...
washing, personal hygiene -
change of t-shirts... of course...
but today i was going to buy myself some
jazz records...

i couldn't just hop on the bus (when was
the last time i used a bus -
rather the centipede of my own legs?
you never forget to swim or ride a bicycle -
when was the the last time
i used the tube?) -  and just head to the shop...

that would be so boring...
and i'm not a female to window-shop either...
what ensured a diversion?
immaculate timing...
   walking up to the bus stop...
a girl... probably 16... sitting and waiting...
bus pulls up... i gesticulate: ladies first...
and she gives me a smile...

that decided... winter! it's winter!
and Freya's daughter took a needle's eye
and brought me before the altar of my original
whim...
jumped on the 66 bus and then on
the central line... newbury park,
gants hill, redbridge, wanstead,
leytonstone... leyton... and onto st. patrick's
roman catholic cemetary...

just before spring comes...
to find the absolute nadir of winter -
perhaps autumn is when romance novels
are written about death...
but i much prefer graveyard in winter...
i would have gone further into london:
but those jazz vinyls are not going
to buy themselves...
plus... i find graveyards... well...
hardly morbid... i like them because...
esp. the roman catholic ones...
have statues... and...
well... who wouldn't want to see
a museum of statues: al fresco!

reiteration - because i can't mumble
or metaphor myself or make this succinct...
graveyards are museums al fresco...
whoever was the sculptor... of the crude stone...
the second artist... the weatherer has also
done his bit... coy wind... a splattering
of "paint" with rain...
the... basking in the sun...
the drop in temperature...
i like to see the "other" artist at work...
give me this one life's span a peek into
the deeds of this almost eternal sculpture
baron...

whether god or: death personified...
               the theological god can return to his
origins story... the sun the moon the stars
the: what came first the chicken or the egg...
what came first... the spiderweb or the spider?
pointless hamsterwheel questions:
a priori this... a posteriori that...
museums are stuffy... they might hold
under their roof... in pristine vacuum...
the Elgin marbles... but i want to visit a museum
that breathes! these gravestone statues...
breathe! if you're not careful enough...
you might see a wandering eye...
as if someone transcendent has touched them...

graveyards: museums al fresco...
and in winter? and it's your typical sodden...
overcast... london clepsydra of drool and dire
and the scent of wet dog fair...
and there is no chance to intoxicate yourself
with the decomposition of autumn's fall:
banquet of leaves... and that sickly sweet
botanical scent of decay...
it's winter and raindrops become piercing
needles of sensation...
you wouldn't even dare... to blink.
                    
- of course i had to take a few photographs...
it would be weird if i didn't...
once upon a time even death was due
man's concern for beauty...
in these grave statues... whether it's a 1000th
jesus or some obscure saint...
whatever it was... it was certainly worth...
imitating a ******... getting all wet with
goosebumps on the ******* sack tickling you...
no hard-on... whenever you'd want
to gasp and spew some variation whale
sonar: morse onomatopoeia: coy cooing an ooh...

so back on the tube and to the record store...
****... need to ****...
to the pub and half a pint of guinness...
again: a woman's smile is so up-lifting...
and that surprise as you're only there for half
a pint... up the stairs to the toilet and...
out the pub...

the thing about buying jazz records...
why would i buy a gramaphone...
if i didn't intend to only buy jazz records for it?
why buy, modern vinyl?
the thing about buying jazz records...
you need to know a few names...
you always look at the... "starring"...
i know there's another term for what i'm
looking for... "starring" is easy...
and it's in no way related to the word:
repetroire... but it is french etymologically:
although mutated from: ensemble...

i'm pretty sure there is an english equivalent
to ensemble: which is not "starring"...
accompanied by...
                 that sort of mid-way introductory
statement by the vocalist...
on the piano we have...
on the guitar we have... and each band member
does a little accent impromptu:
accent impromptu: which is not a full-on
hair-metal solo 2 hour slow bbq **** chicken
strutting send-off into the stratosphere...

never mind... can't a white guy just appreciate
jazz... i'm tired of the sycophants of classical music...
including charles bukowski...
the japanese have covered this sycophancy
and elevated it to virtuosity of the drum-kit
monkey... fair play...
but jazz never allows you to... over-think...
anything... a head without thought
and all that sea of feel...
logic is over-rated... i like my cushion of
the antithesis of descartes: res cogitans in that
i find pleasure... in res vanus...
- and classical music is over-thought...
to me at least... it's a falling piano of notes
and no breather... no feel for bass drums or pause...
for an accent of sorts...
no real idiosyncracy - beside the idiosyncracy
of the oeuvre...

jazz says to me: i don't want to over-think:
not-thinking...
it's as simple as that... i hardly think a cat
allows that onomatopoeia: meow...
i hardly think a dog allows that onomatopoeia:
bark / woof... to enter and govern his mind...
this imitation of being: surrounded
by beings with complex prompts and
a car-wreck of sounding verbiage...
hardly a woof or a meow to be "deconstructed"
in those furry-heads of theirs...
how does a sax sound in my head...
when i can't hear a sax outside of it...
i'm not a composer... letters would congest
the sponge... soapy water instead
of live-young evian... pristine cool and crisp...

drums and all their ambience...
when there's the intro by the horn...
before the protagonist sax takes over...
sly little horn...
jazz... i don't like to over-think not-thinking...
classical music?
i tend to over-think not-thinking...
with jazz i can never over-think not-thinking...
because: feelz... and what-not...
it's hardly an armchair of apathy...
it's hardly a sofa of tolerance...
it's a cushion for a head that sometimes
feels like a tonne of lead...
and the air doesn't become water: "magically"
to even wish for a sinking sensation...
blurps of bubbles no...
there's only the almighty fall or an explosion...

feelz... (this will be addressed...
the Z... in german... that i do promise...)

- again, not again, again... i can't buy the same old
stale **** narrative behind the slave trade...
there's a jack of spades in here somewhere...
no blacks in h'america: no jazz...
it's that simple... god forbid where i'd be at if
i were to still praise the suffocating confines
of classical music...
this is classical music to me...
this is... everything that's suffocating about
Bach's innovative polyphony...
polyphony sure... but what jazz allows and
what classical music doesn't...
it's hardly called a solo if only the piano gets
it... a chopin or a liszt...
any... famous violinists sharing the stage
with the pianists... the piano is the only instrument
that's allowed a solo: proper...
but in jazz... you can get all the instruments
in the ensemble given a fair share...
no africans coming over to h'america...
no jazz... instead:
       pirouettes in corsets and crinolines!
ugh...
               liberated into: chain-smoking
and giggling why pulling an imaginary chain
saying: choo! choo! this train has nowhere
to stop... beside a tomorrow...
and should tomorrow come...
                                      that's still only a gamble!

jazz because there is no singing...
            well... 'my funny valentine'... chet baker...
better known on screen as ethan hawke...
astronaut... thespian... at large chameleon...
dat dere: the disappointment from
having chamelon leather shoes...
that will riddle... should ever a pair be made...
no fluorescence no change in the weather...
just at the time of the killing...
would the pigment remain: "thus desired"?
well... i don't know what the muslims
and the yids have against pork...
i'm pretty sure most standards of belts
and shoes are... made from pork skin...
which is... well... leather...
perhaps they should don the orthodox ***
yom kippur statement of running
into the synagogue wearing sneakers!

just saying... porky pink and whitey sneaked
in with a guitar and a piano...
sonny clark also tip-toed on the black
and white cascade...
                                  interludes from absence...
or the myth of the custard -
               it boils like a voice unearthed from
mud... tinged with surprises of a canary...
gloating glutton of the stove...
               jazz in the kitchen,
jazz in the bedroom... jazz in the living room...
jazz sitting up, jazz sitting down,
jazz drinking a hop-heavy lager...
jazz sober...
                                        it's not jazz:
because i live in new york and i have a feel
for the romance with frank o'hara and all things
gay and otherwise cosmopolitan...
romford is probably like hull...
and i'm the antithesis of phil larkin...
my verse is more scribbles and scrabble than
his neat: your parents ****** you...

jazz is a rebellion akin to 'my parents ****** me'
when they fed me a classical music diet
as a child... rock guns 'n' roses grunge and punk
were minor rebellions: teasing pop...
but nothing to match to the diet of classical music
ingested early on in life...
                          jazz was and is, though...

- when buy a jazz record... you have to look for
the usual suspects...
sometimes you look what the lead protagonist
is playing... after hearing Grachan Moncur III's
avant-garde... i'm not convinced...
but there is a list of the usual suspects...
evolution just reminded me of everything
i didn't like about eric dolphy's out to lunch...
but there's a list of usual suspects...

'i can't believe i almost bought a vinyl of a c.d.
i already own... money jungle by duke ellington...
good that i didn't...'

the usual suspects of an ensemble alternating:
eric dolphy, paul chambers, freddie hubbard,
sonny clark, joe chambers, herbie hancock,
john coltraine, sonny rollins, kenny burnell,
art blakey...            wayne shorter...
what would probably become equivalent to...
sitting through a ****** movie...
but otherwise finding the end-credits more
entertaining... the ******-movie of what's not
remembered as that golden fleece of mid-20th
century nostalgia...
i once placed my nostalgia in h'american
hippy culture... come to think of it...
i guess my nostalgia is: the coming out of
1950s america and no quiet going the full mile
into beatnik poetry recitations with jazz
in the background...
no one would **** the poets:
instead the jazz musicians...
                     somewhere cowering under
an umbrella sown together from moth wings...
assuring himself a lightbulb was
the sun... evidently no formality of language
genesis: dear sir / madam
exodus: yours sincerely / yours faithfully...
and all of this... in between?

                         shoes shoes...
two jazz records is hardly an extravagance...
these days...
oliver nelson - the blues and the abstract truth...
sonny rollins - the bridge (jim hall on guitar)...
well... because sonny rollins and: colossus...
24 quid...
                why am i supposed to remember
the slave trade... am i a native of these parts?
i thought i was the "dumb ******" industrial n-----
joke? don't shoot the messanger...
do i look like i've just killed your grandma'
by playing a ******* harmonica?
not everyone is going to be listening to rap...
what jazz gave rap... isn't gonna give
that easily for me to ingest... *****-nilly...
sonny rollins... looks like a well attired man...
even if it is 1963... perhaps my own ambitions are lax...
i'm the son that wouldn't become
his father... and he was always the son
that was going to overshadow his father...
and that leaves me with my paternal grandfather...
all that remains to be said...
by my maternal grandfather: we has a hard worker...
well... stick that as an epitaph for
anyone without an epitaph on their grave...
i'm sure those dates will look like
candy dripping from a ******* rainbow
any day soon!

thighs, legs in total, comic sanskirt of the brains
between the gallows of *******....
and hands: all those geisha hands...
are the erotica canvas for my no-thrills
genocide *****-and-tic canvas work of a tissue...
because... even if i "cant get any"...
any is just as plenty...
i shared a moment in a supermarket with
a guy who was buying...
wine and bread... honest to god...
he was buying wine and bread...
i missed the last supper and that magic
of a philosopher's stone of:
the wood of all metaphors...
that great driftwood of history...
the postage stamp of contemp. african
get-togethers in europe...

                       an eric dolphy or an bobby hutcherson
on cymbals... "vibes"
   ("vibes" could also be made synonymous
with a prog rock artifact...
a Hammond E-112 ***** too)
                            could work...
the cymbals or the xylophone or whatever
that elevator muzak attache is...
could work... in synch...
on something like grant green's idle moments...
as forrest gump would have said it...
the gi(t)ar is in symbiosis...
but please no horns no sax...
well... sax ever so slightly...
just below the drums...
most certainly beneath the bass...
keep it clean with the guitar and the piano...
only then... some sort of equilibrium...

otherwise what's 120 quid?
something my hands can touch and the sort
of money that i would never spend:
how much vinyl can a man eat
before he realises... this **** isn't liquorice!
from pocket to pocket...
from hand to hand...
                  i never gave that money 10 quid
short with a box of chocolates or a bunch
of flowers... so i guess...
that's money best swept under the rug
of daily needs... flowers wither and chocolate...
eh... chocolate...
                                it's not the thought
of liquorice when playing a vinyl record on
a gramophone... anise amber anise amber anise...
cinnamon and...
and and and and... the raven hair of
bulgarian prostitutes... fingertips...
if only the tongue could read braille...

       i'd ensure that if i went into a brothel
i'd spend a good ten minutes moving my fingertips
ferocious against a brickwall...
some might say: i wanted to experience
of feeling oysters under my fingertips...
when caressing the otherwise sandpaper of skin...
and time...

beer becomes an elevated circumstance
of some leftover whiskey...
and this... cameo cinema of my memories...
yes... rubbing my fingertips against
a brickwall... before walking into
a brothel...

- the germans have been lying!
they have another "secret" letter in their arsenal...
although they will not outright admit it!
perhaps the ß (eszet) is interchangeable in
younger brother ßaß (saxon) english...
surprise: surpriße!
                
             most of the arabs flock around
the nationalflaggehandelsflaggeparteiflagge...

perhaps there was an S-to-Z-to-S-to-Z
interchange bound to the ß...
aber...

wo alle straßen enden...
                     hört unser weg nicht auf,
wohin wir uns auch wenden,
die Zeit nimmt ihren lauf...

         yep... that german "z"... which is more like...
a "russian" c... a ****** c... most certainly
a wet snare sizzle of... a ... Ц...

   das herц, verbrannt...
                   im schmerц, verbannt...
so цiehen wir verloren durch gas graue
niemandsland.

              then again... that all depends which german
dialect you're talking about...
and that russian spy ц is most certainly missing
upon a: schwarzdeutsche
             richtigerdepflugdeutsche rendition of:
zu...

and that's the compensation dynamic...
i'll reach into the zenith of jazz...
but come into the nadir of german army songs...
i'll squeeze a horn but then
come and drop a stone dipped in honey
into a hornet's nest...

              perhaps i haven't been the best
tourist when it comes to the concentration camps...
but i have visited the mass graves of the germans
from the first world war around Ypres...
and i have been to the graveyards of the allies...
a sparrow or a robin always seems
to sing each individual german soldier's lot
in the graveyards of the sleeping en masse...
the silence always breaks...
seeing how they were piled up...
                 compared to the individual graves
of the allied soldiers?
it's almost like going to see the end product
of the contracetion camps...
              a heap of bodies readied for a mass grave...

let's not riddle a liking for folk songs into this...
folk songs are non-negotiable details in all of this...
a black man can call another black man
a n-----... well...
i might as well call another white man...
carelessly and with ridicule... a ****...
sorry... hehe... "oops"... a... naцi...
                                                                a нaци...
         beware the german Z given the ß und Ц...
eh... don't mind the S... it's hardly a caron (š) S...
you'd need to compound -sch- into the whole affair...
and still the east germans would write
ich... их... but... somehow make-out to say:
isch... iś... which is not a caron (š) S...
nor saшa...            it's... somewhere "in between":
                                 š   ś
                     via rammstein's ich will...
well... it's not french... so there's no grave S
          to compliment... so... das ist das... yener...
                    
so much for a friday night...
              before the altar of Moloch...
and his resurrection... busy body demon deity
of the abortion clinic...
and these are the old gods united
under the single Mammon facade of the semites...
Moloch is alive and well...
perhaps the babies sacrificed to him
are not still-born or otherwise...
perhaps the strain of the argument from
the conservatives whispered a retort for me
to utter: that each ******* if a microcosm
genocide... i will not utter the name...
call it an elevated sort of superstition...
or rather... i don't have to say the racial
slur... because... i'm pandering to
                                   porцellanmenшen -
that's two russians "spies" in already...
                                       regarding the иɐzᴉ...
at what point...
                                     under what authority...
it's a **** good metaphor though...
"metaphor"...
          that Moloch is awake once more...
as a deity in his own right -
no longer the "fallen angel" in the pantheon
of semitic gods brought to heed...
before ha-shem.

there might have been perhaps two other New Year's Eve
to match this years,
of these only one was actually magically youthful,
between 2004 coming to 2005 or perhaps it
was 2005 coming to the year 2006...
i was still studying at Edinburgh (Promis, Alicia),
that's when Promis lost her virginity
to me after Hogmanay, becoming irresistible...
seeing Fiona slobber me...
at the same time "drink me, eat me"...
**** drink to puncture her virginity while
Alicia was left cold, Lebanese reading that book:
The Hours... leftover in the communal room...

i didn't have any fun with these girls that time round...
what i had fun with was... my flatmate...

with Tristan from Bristol,
running around the streets breaking car side-mirrors
reenacting scenes fro Fight Club...
Bruce decided to become this middle-aged
man aged 18...
he bought a "bucket" of golf clubs...
one night we took them out...
we took out some golf clubs...
a few golf *****... and a few glasses...
we stood in the middle of the street...
pretending to... AIM... at... ha ha.. AIM...
we missed all the golf *****...
but! we managed to hit all the glasses!
it was... spectacular...
we were golfing in the proper Scottish sense
of the origin of golf...
       we had golf-clubs... we had golf-*****...
but we weren't hitting golf-***** with golf-clubs...
we were using golf-clubs... to... aim at imaginary
pint-glasses... sitting on top of...
shot-glasses... or... perhaps the reverse...

then that one terrible one circa 2003 or 2002...
going back to Poland, back then trying to romance
Katie (Kasie) - being invited to a house party...
being surrounded by teenagers hornier than me...
small-town mentality of getting hitched-early
and i was having trouble to breathe and find out
anything about whether i was already
the foreigner that still spoke his native tongue,
smoke, ****** music,
   the past part of the house party was helping with
the preparations with the host i only met that
evening...

this other New Year's Eve i was sitting alone
in my grandparent's house... alone in the kitchen...
both of my grandparents decided to go to bed early...
i watched the fireworks alone and felt
a solid stone of melancholy: a reflective sadness that
is not some reflex-depress or deflect-impress...

before today i promised myself change my habits,
how i would change everything,
quit smoking or at least cut down: i would most certainly
not smoke in the morning and on an empty stomach,
i would cut down on the heavy bourbon or whiskey
*****... why?
  heavy ***** has ****** up my digestive system a little...
irritable bowel movements and...
sometimes the inability to take a **** in one go...
rather... having in splintered...
   in sections... well... easily prone to sometimes vomiting
or rather: needing to ***** to feel at easy...
that was three days ago...

      i just wanted to stop feeling the also hightened
blood pressure...
             these "headaches" that weren't headaches but sort
of pulsations... as if my brain was dehydrated,
spinning, almost feeling death-tickling...
squeezing of the throat...
i told myself that i would stop drinking the heavy
duty liquids even if that meant i would have more sleepless
nights... well... new year's resolutions begin
two days before a new year's eve...
but the old ways have to come around for just one
last time on new year's eve and then:
with the intended plans...

    prior to the 30th... on the 29th i said to myself:
promise me this you-i, you will follow-through...
so i drank four ciders, took some generic painkillers
to ease me sleep and hey presto...
perhaps not a healthy 8 hour lapse into the Land
of Nod - but at least i woke up relaxed at 10am...
i had 5 hours spare until the shift would start
at the London Stadium...
                       i ate enough food smoked a cigarette
starting puking... right... you're not taking an cigarettes
to the shift... on my way there these
high-pressure "headaches" kicked in...
again i thought i was constipated but i had already
taken a shift before leaving...
no... these were not high-pressure "headaches"
anymore... excitement was kicking...
    i was again promoted to a supervisor: **** it...
here's me taking care of the east-wing with 15 stewards
under me...
i was excited... why? West Ham fans have the worst
reputation of all the clubs in the Premier League...
27 arrests in the season 2021/22...
i was excited... i was expecting something to happen...
i had 4 stewards on their ****** shifts...

in the middle of the match where West Ham was losing
to Brentford 2 - nil, Martin on gate 141 started gesticulating
with his hands in the middle of the second half...
i walk over... he tells me something is going on...
i look up... oh ****... about 12 guys, some of these guys
were fathers who brought their little boys along...
haggling with punches and grabbing and ferocious
tongues, children crying... a woman in the audience
starts glaring at me with hysteria and screaming
at me: do something! do something!
        calmly i turn on the radio and communicate
to Head Control: Control, this is Papa 2.3 -
i need a response team to be at gate 141 immediately!
the woman is still screaming,
the situation is escalating.... the children are even more
distraught, the blokes are more ferocious
(and the funny thing is, it's West Ham fans
fighting West Ham fans and not Brentford fans...
because the team is close to relegation
and i guess one fan knows better than another
fan about how to turn the situation can be
overturned) -
                           so as the pitch-side manager
Joe once said about contacting Head Control:
'i try getting through to them, they ignore me...'
well... i go at the radio again...
    'Control! this is Papa 2.3 - i need a response team
at gate 141 of the Billy Bonds stand! turn your cameras
onto what's happening! the situation is escalating!'
hey presto... persistence paid off...
    in about 20 seconds about 10 bouncers (SIA licensed)
rush in and break up the crowd... take some guys out,
comfort the children... i'm just happy the hysterical
woman is not looking at me eyes of scorn as if i'm
some impotent radio-holder...

the shift finishes at around 10:30pm...
   i still manage to catch the tube to Gants Hill and the 66 bus
to Romford, the petrol station near the police station
is still open so i buy three ciders...
    get home just after 12am, drink two ciders smoke two
cigarettes, take some painkillers and try to sleep...
oh ****... oh right... no chance of that happening...
i'm already sweating from alcohol withdraw...
cider can't replace bourbon or whiskey...
                   but excitement turns into post-panic control:
the situation was contained...
but that's not why i couldn't fall asleep...
i tried to... maybe i did for about 30 minutes in between
listening to Heilung's album Futha...
   i must have snoozed off for about 20 to 30 minutes
maybe less... turning side to side...
                                       but i knew that there wouldn't
be any point given i finished drinking the cider at
around 1:10am and i had to get up at 6am...
               to eat some porridge, shower, get dressed...
which i did... weird... ever see a fly casually flying
in a kitchen during December? heat makes flies crazy
during flight... in the "cold" of December (13 degrees Celsius
is cold for December... i experienced about
a week of promising,, authentic cold and snow
a week or two ago) - now this stinking damp and mediocre
cold... ate the porridge standing up contemplating
the lazy flight of the fly... so big... so juicy...
thank god it was one of those black ones and not
those green-belly that **** out dormant larva so quickly
the larva that turn to maggots so quickly...
black flies don't have that capacity...
because black flies... well... you associate black flies
with pestering cows... ergo? they feed off ****...
the blue-belly flies feed off dead meat... cat food...

6am wake up, wash, get dressed, and *******
to Putney Bridge for a 9am shift starts at Cavern Cottage:
Fulham vs. Southampton... New Year's Eve...
i have done a shift on Boxing Day last year...
double pay... but doing a Boxing Day shift is not the same
as... doing a New Year's Eve shift...
      it's like that W. H. Auden quote about
New Year's Eve:

the only way to spend New Year's Eve is
either quietly with friends or in a brothel.
otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off,
someone is bound to be left in tears.

ha! i have a third option!
    
so on my way to Putney Bridge, since the Elizabeth
Line is on strike until the 2nd of January...
****... this complicates my travel in London a little...
i can't take the simple option of taking the 103
bus to Romford Station and head to Paddington
and then a short walk from one Paddington (train)
station to the Paddington (tube) station and
like... 6 stations from Paddington to Putney Bridge
(Stamford Bridge, if you're interested?
that's at Fulham Common, or Broadway,
one of the two) - i could have complicated matters
by taking a longer walk from Hammersmith...
but i like walking through Bishop's Park...
as i was once reminded by one co-worker...
that's where Gregory Peck meets the priests
who gets killed in the film Omen...
it's a beautiful park: it's right next to the Thames...
so the route changes... i have to get the 103
bus to the A12 and then get on the 66 bus to
Newbury Park... then the central line to
Holborn, then the Piccadilly Line to Earl's
Court and then the District Line to Putney Bridge...
i truly tried all the alternatives...
e.g. central line to Oxford Circus -
Victoria line to Victoria and the district line
to Putney B.
     or... central line to Notting Hill Gate and
district line to ditto B....
     but i found that... there's too much walking
involved...
          the shortest route is the one i found out...
sure... it's a bit long changing at Holborn...
but changing at Earl's Court is the shortest...
plus Earl's Court is the interchange
between Edgware Rd, Richmond, Wimbledon,
Upminster and Ealing Broadway...
and the station is almost open air... so sickly sweet
underwear drying in the underground
during the Blitz sort of sensation association
with waiting...

                          ah... well... i managed to get in
to the sign in area for the shift early, i was probably the first,
said hello to the owner of the company,
who's name i always forget... an imposing figure...
former-military... but i still forget his name...
Scott... Scott... hello hello... i didn't shake his hand
this time round because i'm not left-handed
and i noticed he was holding a cigarette in his right...
signed in...
   ooh... the grand comedy of being early...
some perks come with that...
between Putney Green and Putney Bridge i realised
that my halting my drinking and elevation
of insomnia left me without any of those
high-blood pressure headaches... no excitement...
not this time round...
               i was cool as a cucumber...
i didn't feel any constipation... but then after signing
in... ooh... that porridge really helped...
as did that ****** chicken, sweetcorn mayo and
salad sandwich and Monster watermelon drink
did too... sign in at 9am... shift starts at 10am...
irritable bowel-movements...
    the staff toilets sub-standards... i tell someone:
if anyone asks... i'm going to the public toilets
in Bishop's Park... but there are toilets for staff?
you see the cubicles mate? cubicles without doors...
i'm not here to ****... i'm here to take a dump!

fidgety i'm walking back to Bishop's Park...
i enter the toilets... i enter the toilets... then the cubicle...
i peer in... wow! no animals were (yet) here!
the toilet seat is clean! it's left down!
there's toilet paper! there's a coat hanger!
wow! wow! am i just about to "******" as if seeing my
favourite ****-star from when i was 15?!
i take my coat off and all the elements of accreditation,
high-viz. and stadium passport...
undo my shirt a little at the collar and sleeves...
undo my zipper and clip pull down my trousers
down sit down and: PHOO! i **** out both
a gold nugget of firm shirt and a subsequent
waterfall of the looser stuff... my god...
i know that i'm supposed to find some sort of relief
in *******... this... this is better than *******...
ejaculations happen in private...
this is inverted *******: taking a **** in a public
toilet is more of a relief than ******* in private...
after all... it's pretty much the same, isn't?
i might not be looking someone in the eyes...
my member might not be in someone else's body...
but... Bishop's Park was organising their annual
run around the park for jogging enthusiasts...
i was already done when this one jogger ran
into a cubicle next to the one i was sitting in
finishing off my "taking a ****" counting time
solving a Mahjong... when i start to hear him puking...
i just took the most glorious Hiroshima ****
and here's next to me separated by a flimsy screen
that can't sort of discriminate the existence of sounds...

we waited for the shift to start for so long...
Stephanie pulled out... i saw her at West Ham and she asked me
whether i'd be with her in the Bishop's Park...
she turned in sick... so... i was back with Toni...
on the Hammersmith end of the stadium...
well... Thames-side and Hammersmith end...
i just implored her for a favour... i'm tired Toni...
can you put me on the outermost position...
last time i curated this position the weather was beautiful...
i spotted the bridge after Putney Bridge and
i thought: oh... the Kew Bridge...
what a glorious sight... but no...
the bridge that comes after Putney Bridge is
the Hammersmith Bridge... but that's when the weather
was good...
i just didn't want to work with Mark...
    citation needed: 'with my 12 years of experience
as a steward...'                      the ****-joke of the profession...
it was barely a year since i worked this job
and i was already supervising and yet he...
yeah...                               i can understand flies...
more than these busy-bodies of deluded semi-half A.I.
projects of hurt humans...
Francis Bacon paintings are grotesquely beautiful...
but this? this is reality-par-excellence...
interacting with it is: this incomplete human sort
of a joke... that can become a sly group-think of
being comfortable with a specified discomfort...

so i asked her... stand me there... next to ol' Father Thames
and let me admire that bridge i'm not sure about...
so she did...
     what i wasn't actually expecting was the weather...
i took the ******* position...
but as i soon learned... the best position...
the wind came with the rain and the rain came with
the wind...
                      there was this dog-walker with 4 dogs
with one being a terrier ADHD prone spaniel...
running rampage as if having seeing the godhead
of Anubis...
                      
          i was directing Southampton fans to the Putney
stand to avoid the Hammersmith stand...
just talking... hello, how are you, good afternoon...
smile... more smile... choke on a ******* biscuit
and a peppermint...
                   old men telling you: you're not getting paid
enough... lovely weather, oh... not as lovely as if...
it might be staged in the dark...

more about Mark with Lyndon and Toni...
pestering three women Chill (that middle-aged Turkish
woman... oh names... apples: Melanie... Nile? pears?
verbs?!) talk gets lost... on details...
joking about jumping the tide-out Thames...
i was just looking at how crows scared the seagulls...
one swan swimming alone...
metal-pickers in the mud...
                         i'm not myopic or the antagonism
of myopia... L.S. Lowry's stick-paintings...
                                 sure as **** metal-pickers...
in the mud i noticed what i first thought was a treasure
chest... turns out it was an old computer disk...
what was that even called if it wasn't a monitor?

oh and the weather truly broke me...
the rain came at an angle...
i smarted myself up by asking for a second... water resilient
jacket to put... i wasn't going to put on a flimsy potato-starch
pancho...
but that didn't stop my trousers getting soaked...
then once the rain stopped and the wind resumed:
getting dry... then once the rain came back getting soaked again...
but my socks were already soaked beyond getting dry...
walking the pavement in wet socks in leather shoes
is like... skinning an alive pig...

soaked feet.... although my upper body was kept warm...
talking with Toni about the proper attire for
winter... waterproof overalls... from Sports Direct...
and combat shoes: Magnums, used by police officers
and the army and all manner of security forces...
she asked for a cigarette, i gave her one,
she wasn't expecting a Camel... we walked...
looking each other in the eyes and subsequently
at each other's shoes...
in that instance she told me about her life...
she was living with her father and her stepmother...
how he biological mother kicked her out...
i just forgot which of her "mothers" was
the bipolar one... oh, right... her stepmother...
so i inquired about her stepmother's bipolar disorder...
so is that like manic depression?
no? split personality disorder? what's that like?
are all her personalities integrated or are they,
each to their own, loose canons?!

but there were these other two girls... Naomi...
who looked like a more pristine version of Will Smith's
wife... Jada Smith... i was... looking at Jada Smith...
with more hair... a nose piercing and a piercing
like a freckle where my moustache would cover it:
to the side... two kids... living in Richmond...
totally irresistible... this is how i always wanted
to spend my New Year's Eve... stoically...
at first in a gradation of pain...
pain from feat turning into the flayed beast
revealing nothing but bone, prone to accepting
the elements...

           this other girl... nice... cannibal looking teeth...
bound to braces... plump in the face... wearing a beany hat...
also mingling with Mark, the negate,
she touching him teasingly... once ***** was mentioned
i gave her some advice... oh... but you do know that
the only way to drink ***** is to drink it frozen, right?
so it resemble a sickly sick syrup... no ice, no mixer...
at best a chaser... she peered at me as if i belonged to
an ethnicity of a people that knew how to drink the ****
stuff... quizzical eyes... i forgot to tell her about
spending some time with the Russians:
being myself of a Slavic origin: ABSOLUT VANILLA...

i already knew it was the sort of New Year's Eve i was waiting
for when the shift was coming to a closure...
i was back in position admiring the Thames...
admiring the fading dark Green of Hammersmith Bridge
when the supporters were walking out...
one recognised me saying: so, you're been here,
all along? pretty much...
more passed and i just started spewing the casual:
have a good night, safe journey home,
and then the seemingly comical:
happy new year!

                 happy new year echo!
happy new year! happy new year!
            this precautionary tale of when Gandalf inquired of
poor Frodo: will it be?!
what? a happy new year?!
am i wishing a happy new year to you in advance
hoping, or perhaps wishing, or perhaps knowing:
that it might be... a happy new year?!
the phrase itself is about as meaningful or... meaningless
as licking a post-stamp and sticking it to
a postcard... wishing or not wishing: a "you"
to be "here"... no?!

                                   how about... happy new year
could be replaced with: MAYBE NEXT YEAR...
i.e. when i and you, are still alive...
we'll see each other again... i think that just might be
the summit of what happiness entices mortal creatures
such as ourselves to, from time to time: actually: believe!

the shift ended, i was soaked from feet down...
the trip back from Putney Bridge back to Romford was
sort of... giving CPR to octopi and walking on borrowed
legs... and less than sleepy eyes...
i got off at Gants Hill... ordered a spicy chicken burger
and three hot wings... gulped them down...
went into a Tesco Express... bought myself
a 70cl bottle of Jim Beam, a bottle of Pepsi...
3 cider bottles...
                     got home... said hello to my parents...
sorry... i'm ******* off... climbed into bed...
pretended to sleep, or rather, relaxed with naked feet
under the bed-sheets from them not being soaked...
"woke up" after about 2 fours... hours...
greeted them... sorry... i'm not into St. Sylvester's
celebration...
but i sat down with them...
as i have done for the past two or three years...

Jools Holland's Hootenanny has become sort of:
10pm ITV news in the household come this time of year...
what wouldn't i do without it...
Cat Burn's song Go... i never heard of it until then...
i ate some traditional tripe broth...
to warm the stomach up...
i hanged the bottle of Jim Beam and the bottles of cider
on the garden fence before coming home...
i was going to pick them up later...
to drink... well... at least half...
but it was so worthwhile to be so physically exhausted...
wow! these notes i wrote about that month
last year where i spent almost spent £1000 of prostitutes
and in the meantime lost two of my greatest
lovers... of 30 minutes' worth...
i.e. Khadra and Mona... who... the Madame of the brothel
told me would never return...

we watched the ******* spectacle of the fireworks...
wow! great! crowd!
i just retorted... if i were the people between
Westminster Bridge and the Embankment Bridge...
seeing the fireworks... i'd save up on t.v. memory...
i'd record the collective spectacle...
but got before the massive wheel
and stand there and stare... oh... but look...
who what or when Londoners? Chinese tourism...
the inescapable flu: chick or flex pork chop infections
but no rats and flies are the wholesome friends?!
standing there... with technology spread-out *******
third-eye non-experience...
the technology saw it first...
                                ugly humans non-humans
robots seem lovelier...
                    
                     that's how i learned about Cat Burn's song Go
thinking: didn't Ed Sheeran write this?!
doesn't matter...
once this supposedly spectacular night ended
when i heated up my feet and regained some flesh
in them...
                  i started drinking with my usual standard
of toxicity... looking through old notes...
ooh! an unfinished joint! wow! i had a premonition!
i will not want to go to a brothel i will not want
to go to a depressing house-party...
i will want to go inward...
into myself and starve anything already established...
i think i must have met about 3 girlfriends
tonight... possible...

now i'll finish a bottle of 70cl of bourbon by myself
while writing and smoke that joint...
finally! a new diet of music!

and the odl rekindling of an alliance....
perhaps placing conkers might put off spiders
from aligning a household with a disapproval for housing
spiders... but flies... that's a different matter;
i'm going to smoke this joint
and dream my hazardous of this years first and last
breaths.

where is that ******* fly...
i hope it's still alive while i'm alive... if i swallow it in
the night... i'll pretend to be a Pontus Pilate...

no other New Year's Eve has been so benevolent to me...
i was fudge packed between commuters not trying to
entertain the fireworks on the Thames...
me? go home...
       tired old young man....
                         why are there suspicions of me:
by simply being punctual as having any sort of association
with any nation's army?!
i like sunsets... i like sunrises... i adore the aloofness
of the aloneness that's: otherwise missing
in the claustrophobia of interaction with the other...
WOJSKO...
                        
            this has certainly been the best New Year's Eve
to meet all others...
before me stand's King Lear and Lot's Wife...
i wonder... who is... the Pillar of Sugar?!
Sugar = Salt + Water... no?!
so who is... the pillar of Sugar?!

   ah... ha: hermeneutics contra etymology!
          there's only one history for me...
   that being etymology: the origin of words from words:
to use words is not to use anything beyond words themselves...
which excludes my original assumptions that
letters or geometric shapes akin to letters or vice versa
could ever be utilised...
verba ex verba - non verba ex figura, numerus vel littera:
verba ex et enim verba!
meaning for meaning...
not meaning borrowed from either the associated
or dissociation...
or dissociation and a(n) association...

   well... it just so happens that i have... something of a...
half-wit... canvas of artificial-intelligence
to work with... it's basic intelligence...
                           just what i need.

Armadillo has it’s world,
It’s heritage soon unfurls.
Coboys started smokin' dope,
***** Freeman takes a poke.
Lyle Lovet never had a job,
Guy Clark still knitting fog,
***** Nelson croons a tune,
Waxing waning with the moon,
Mickey Newbury pens a song,
Wilson just cracks on and gone,
Steve Young the dreamer has a plan,
Van zant the future past is man,
Waylons forever riding on,
bless them all and every song.

squirt (title): pompoms scream (body) - to bypass the 502 Error Gateway...

second shift at Craven Cottage, the Fulham stadium...
well **** me...
i was in luck! Tony, this ex-military supervisor
asked me straight up: you want to do pitch-side?
do i?! the first shift i did was walking around
the park outside the venue, meeting & greeting incoming
fans... but to be allocated a more responsible role?!
you cannot believe how refreshing work has become:
you cannot believe how refreshing tiredness from
work has also become...
i don't know how it happened, but...
ARBEIT MACHT FREI is... ringing high and loud...
perhaps that slogan over a concentration camp
was always a bad joke...
i can't imagine that the Germans thought all the Hebrews
were lazy, not diligent workers...
even my grandfather remembers Hebrews in Poland
selling matchsticks and getting rich,
after all, what was that pre-war saying the Hebrews
had when putting down Polacks?
ah... wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
your streets, our tenements...
maybe the Germans thought that a lot of Hebrews were
studying in the Yeshiva? nothing practical for society,
or that all Hebrews were somehow rabbis...
whatever it was... well a slogan above the entrance
to a concentration camp: where in a concentration
camp you'd perform a parody of work,
e.g. move one sack of rocks from one end of the camp
to another, to later move it back...
it's not like concentration camps were... munition factories...
a German bad joke...
but if, like me, you spent your 20s and early 30s
working in patches... the odd week on a construction site
doing some roofing, the odd month...
but mostly concentrating on writing...
and now this, steward at a football match...
some rigour re-imbued, some strategy,
some responsibility... i can't press the matter further...
sure, i'm not a football player, i'm not a film actor,
i'm not even the head safety officer in the ground...
i only put on some identifying clothes...
an accreditation badge and a uniform...
what did i get? people asking me questions as to where
to go, if they were sat in the correct seat...
for a man to feel useless, to be without authority:
that's horrible, writing poo'ems would never give me
that...
a compliment from a supervisor when i pointed
out that a woman was drinking wine in view
of a football pitch: which is illegal...
'nicely spotted'... after he approached her and asked
her to finish her wine from view of the pitch...
at the end of the match three boys came up to me
and asked me whether they could
pinch a piece of the pitch...
i let them... how their faces illuminated the place:
it was so dear to them: i couldn't just not let them
(mind you, they only pinched a piece of the astro-turf
lining the actual grass pitch, they didn't hear
that they were pinching fake grass...
let me leave them happy, after all...
i was providing a service)...

prior to leaving for Putney Bridge from Newbury Park
(first getting two buses there,
oh, i'd say a good decent 2 hour trip,
i've started to fall in love with commuting)...
one quick hot dog, with a Turkish toppish
of squeezed onions, parsley,
white wine vinegar, salt, sugar, gochugaru chilli flakes
& some sumac - well... squeezing the onions
releases their juices, making them less bitter:
actually sweet...
i only came back to Romford on the 86 bus
having arrived by train from Stratford
to Goodmayes - it's still zone 4...
all buses are zones one to four... Romford being
in zone six (if using a train or the tube)...
a two piece chicken meal with fries & a coca cola
zero... gulped down at approx. 12:20...
then... the most glorious cigarette to add smokiness
to the digestion...

starting work, proper, in your mid-30s...
while your 20s were spent unravelling a psychotic breakdown,
borderline schizophrenia:
that wouldn't fly, my supposed "schizophrenia"
dissolved when the element of bilingualism came in...
why should i only "hear voices" in English...
when i didn't hear them in ******?
the illness made no sense...
it didn't tap into my bilingualism...
why?! i read up a lot on this topic,
from Julian Jaynes, Jung, Richard Bentall,
R. D. Laing... no mention of schizophrenia coming up
against bilingualism...
misdiagnosis?!
i was never going to be merely a ******* victim...

now i see the bigger picture, music always helps...
the overseer - glass + unbreakable soundtrack,
James Howard's theme...
sure, the bonus of being pitch-side was also being
able to watch the match...
making new friends... well... colleagues...
i talked with Danny about our interests...
his was crypto-currency mine was music & cycling...
he used to cycle: until he hit a tree...
blah blah... time flies when you're talking...

oh such a little role of heroism on my part...
just minding people...
all this life truly requires is these little roles of heroism,
of responsibility...

i was at university, dated... i worked as a sub-contracting
roofer on construction sites...
i'm sorry to say this...
no relationship with a woman comes close...
to the amount of satisfaction received from
having a role that's more than a mere job you get paid for...
being responsible for the safety of others is...
probably somewhere in the hierarchy of where
the status of teacher is placed...
yet not with the current affairs of pedagogy:
of indoctrinating younglings into ideology:
whatever it's called these days...
intersectional *******, anti-racism, critical race theory...
teach them ******* English: the language,
teach them geography, chemistry, history,
don't turn them into spineless zombies
where they resort to a "rebellion" of succumbing
to football fanaticism...

me & Danny concluded: he "supports" Arsenal,
i "support" West Ham... but, "support": not really...
i just love the sport itself... i wouldn't be found a mile away
from the nearest crowd of avid club chanters...

my god, how refreshing to be in a position of authority,
even if it involves being at the bottom
of the hierarchy, being merely a pawn...
i can pull it off though... a welcoming yet intimidating look...
6ft2, 98kg... two jackets clad...
arms folded in front of me, arms folded at my back...
calm, collected... smiling... observant...
perhaps relationships with women were great...
they filled that void i was fed by literature prior
to my engagement with the opposite ***...
did i leave these relationships disillusioned?
of course!

   would i ever return to them? my heart is a stone...
mein herz ist ein kleinstein...
it has stopped bothering me, it bothers me less & less...
i'm not built for love, for romance,
that's why i don't want to write about it,
or even think about it...
i imagine that should a scenario present itself...
i'd be loved: but i wouldn't be able to love...
i'd merely... insinuate... i'd be on the receiving end
whilst doing the utmost minimal to
reciprocate... i'd be a cold-hearted *******...
oh... the mushy-colt aged 21 is long gone...
thank god...
could i love again? intimacy i can get with
a ******* in a brothel and not think twice
that a girl outside the profession of prostitution might
not give me an *******: again: is there something
wrong with me? why can a ******* give me
an ******* while some random girl picked up
in a bar, can't?!

i prefer talking to strangers than i ever preffered
talking to established friends...
it's not high-school anymore... there's no more
high-school banter... come to think of it...
the formality and the clear lines one cannot trespass
when conversing with strangers / colleagues...
come to think of it:
i'd tend to tell strangers more than the people
i was friends with... taboos enter the dynamics of friendships...
you can't tell of your innermost woes to friends,
after all... with friends you're supposed
to have a good time! no?

**** that... with strangers, with my shadow...
i burned down the bridges of my friendships a long time ago...
now i walk in the realm of Hades...
and i'm all the happier for it...
there were four major attachments in my life...
i lost one in the past year: my grandfather...
under circumstances that are, to be frank... rather horrid...
and... now that over a year has passed...
i feel... no... not relieved... i feel: RE-LEASED...
from some sort of heartbreak *******...

it's coming up to a quarter to 3am...
i have a shift this Sunday at the Wembley Stadiun
for the women's FA final,
my supervisor told me as i left Craven Cottage
that there was a good chance i'd get a chance to work
indoors... **** yes...
plenty of children to burn my eyes out:
not mine, not mine, thank god for that...
i don't need to be a father to them...
what a release from some bogus obligation that
in life you have to procreate...
hell... others can do that for me... i can just stand watch
and observe how...
this be the verse, Philip Larkin...
little chance of failure, or disappointment...
the Pontius Pilate approach...

it's a quarter to 3am and i just finished my shift,
my feet are somewhat sore, somewhat chilly,
who would have thought
that standing in one place, or two places
could be so exhausting: i'd rather walk a length of
a marathon than stand on duty...
the air outside looks like... a glass of water
with someone having splashed a dollop of milk into it...
it's so... murky, so... ambivalent...
so literally foggy...

no, not me... i was once the great romantic...
after being injected with the three musceteers,
with Stendhal's the scarlet & black...
i'm the one now saying:
work is better than an intimate relationship with
a woman... moi?! pour putain de l'intention
(is that, for ****'s sake?)
i'm trying to word with with spite...
i'my trying, i'm trying... no... no good...
on the way back some girls eyeing me up...
i try to think of the guys not being eyed up...
invisible creatures...
i hope i'm not much to look at either...
but can a woman do more for me than work?
i don't think so...
i'm such a fan of this hierarchic dynamic,
a work ethic, professionalism...
i don't think i could give myself up, on a whim...
my life can leave traces of fulfillment i generate myself:
this writing... well... it's obviously not Tolstoy...
just a product of these times...
i'll settle for that...
i'll also settle for being merely any overseer in a football
stadium than a rock-star, or actor:
never mind being a heart-surgeon...

but me, the once great romantic...
reduced to a function that mere guarantees him
a pawn status... the microcosm of overseeing
a football match: it is merely a microcosm...
in the grand scheme of things:
a newly found focus... returning with gladness to:
i am small... i'm a unit...
i am insignificant... writing creatively can rob you
of this perspective... infuse you with a sickly
megalomania...
it's best to return, to reality, to people...
away from the high-brow insecurities of an ivory
tower... it's so... refreshing...
after all, no Hamlet here, no Auld Lang Syne...

no... and all the better for it...
maybe it was a bad joke that the Germans posted on
the entrance of concentration camps:
it was... if concentration camps became
munition factories... but sieving sand:
in order to sieve more sand... to perform
Sisyphus tasks... while also exterminating the potential
workers? why not think of it as essentially failing:
when the essentiality of existence was lost?

but... translated, outside of the context
of a concentration camp? arbeit macht freit?
work set's you free... i can forget about my shortcomings...
my shortcomings are replaced with responsibilities...
i can forget about elaborating this tongue to my idiosyncrasy
and focus on formal communication...
i can live parallel lives...
i can have two lives...

as i have a prowess to wield of two tongues...
i can also... wield two lives....
and i don't even need to have a wife, to have children...
i can pass off being some loner since,
i hold a relationship with myself that grounds me
differently to others: others who are exposed
to their solitude, those who do not write,
who do not add form to their being,
who refuse to experience themselves with depth...
who switch off after their swift rather than switch on...

oh, these people are apparent... chamaleon me...
i turn into a right extrovert when a situation imposes itself
on me... yet writing is not a clear aspect of extroversion...
writing is an introvert's project...
yet how these two (aspects) are consolidated has
become... rather: a revelation to me...
i never put it into practice, mind you...
now that i have...

should all the final connections of significance die
and i'll be left alone...
just give me a "lesser" creature to bother me...
perhaps a dog... but more likely a cat...
i like the cats' take on placebo solipsism...

père corbeau...

   me, disavowing the chance of romance with a woman
over a desire to fulfill the role of steward,
sure, while i do my idiot writing on the side...
"idiot": it's never going to reach Fifty Shades of Grey
traction... then again:
i don't think i'll ever write something that exhausts me,
disappoints me... i'll just write what's made available...
what i want... come whoever may wish to come...
and a nice filter to boot... this will never be spoken
in either audio or a video format...
why bother unwanted attention,
made all the more accessible via audio or video?

what's it called? camaraderie? a select number of people
don't want something being spoilt,
by the intrusion of a greater number of people?
a loss of familiarity?
it's life... a phase of transition...
we're only taking a few people with us...
within the framework of memory, of a shared experience...
it's very much unlike a football match...
a football match consists of 11 players...
either side of the opposing teams...
the staff involved with the teams...
the stewards at the venue... blah blah blah...
very much unlike writing...

walk the moon - shut up & dance with me....
that sort of colt is not coming back....
even all those regretfully looking girls coming out of
clubs in Romford, stumbling, obviously not being
able to handle their drink...
oh, that guy is not coming back...
once upon a time taking a ******* a date to
the Tate Modern for an Edward Hopper exhibition,
then to the cinema to see a movie, Troy,
then some sushi... sending her off on the train
with my then friend messaging me
she said she felt butterflies in her stomach...
said "friend" later, years later, sending her a phallus-"selfie"...
ah.. RE-AH-LI-TY everyone's worse nightmare...
any psychotic's bread-and-butter...
so engrossed in it it would be impossible
to simply vacate it, leave it...
come the marriage with death... only then...

servus! neugefundenmann!
oh... hallo mich!

Of the tick-tick mark of the train,
the Twenty items or Less that you wouldn’t have needed
had you not been walkin’ down Newbury
toward hopeless following
nowhere mud-feel-footprints.
Motif of heavy heartening rain that scours the courtyard
back ‘round my building
that skillet valley of impossible nighttime.
Ring slipping finger, couple standing farther together and wild a gracious call brushes against the grade of man’s terrible
mountain

i would have never guessed it that Flea would be a Sheffield United supporter, then again who would have thought that Ryan Reynolds would become the owner of Wrexham...

and sometimes: even if you're working an event
and not a spectator you're still like:
**** it, i need to get a t-shirt...

i can't remember the last time i owned something
that did have a tag: made in China...
i still have this shirt from Gap that reads
made in Ireland...
    now i own something that reads: made in Honduras...
the quality on this thing tells me...
if washed properly will last about 20+ years...

when was the last time i saw them?
did they just come out with By the Way?
2002...  so they must have played the London Docklands
Arena circa...
they were great then: but today they were
like the Beatles...
               Flea on par with John Frusciante...
you have to give it bass players that are on par
with guitarists if not somehow surpassing them...

back then at the Docklands... what was it?
12,500 seated and 15,000 in concert mode...
today? my guess is in the range of 70,000+
      they might be getting but that's when people
are at their best... esp. ageing rock stars...
               it's this last push at greatness...
                             i sure as **** wanted to hear
Dani California live...
                  and it wouldn't be me if i wasn't disappointed
at them not playing Warm Tape...

but other things happened...
                  i'm sometimes almost sure that my interactions
with spectators do not go unnoticed by other
spectators or the security team in general...
now... i'm used to hugs... having selfies taken...
but... i truly wasn't read for a guy to walk up
to make: steal my hand... kiss it... hug me and go
on his merry way...
    as if invited the Chillies to London...
oh sure sure... yeah... i organised this event...

but it's not that:
people have been really starved socially after the past
two years... it shows...
   i'm just wondering when all this luvvy-dubby
attitude of the public will return to the old complacent
drunk-rude attitude...
then the post-pandemic honeymoon period
will end... it's bound to happen at some point
with enough people having attended enough
public events like football matches and concerts...
when the security services will return to being
invisible traffic-cone jokes...
                   unless of course it's just me...
i don't see other stewards or security officers
get their hands kissed and get hugs and get asked
for selfies...

then again... i wonder if i've met someone who
read any of my ****** "poems"...
   i look at the viewing counts...
if i managed to pull over 15,000 examples from my
***.. split between several websites...
where on one just one has gained 48.1K traction...
and i add up some of the more popular ones...
i've reached viewership well over 100K...
so i'm thinking... maybe some of these people approach
me like they know me...
     or know of me...

am i being full of myself?
               i'm just not used to strangers kissing my hands...
or playing with my beard...
how much of this is post-pandemic socialisation-starvation
and how much of it inherently authentic
based on the ontology of individuals is:
perhaps... debatable...
nonetheless: Casanova could have boasted about
his adventures in and outside of the bedroom...
i'm hardly hurting anyone's ego by citing how...
how familiar people can become...
   even though they are strangers...
                        let's not get anyone's hopes up...
we're not talking the complications of friendships...
having drinks in a pub... talking about our highs
and lows... it's not about the shallowness of these
interactions... but the immediacy and the fleetingness
of them: the almost democratic nature of them...
"democratic": there's 8 billion examples of man /
woman on this earth... and London can hardly
compete with a small village, with the Archers'
claustrophobia (the Archers'?
   this radio soap-opera on BBC Radio 4...
               in my most low i used to tune in...
    i'm not old enough to tune into BBC Radio 4,
i don't think i'll ever be...
    i tried BBC Radio 3 for a while...
                   i still prefer being my own DJ) -

well... i tried listening to Anderson Paak coming in...
after seeing him live?
i don't think i'll be able to...
     you need to see him... he's a performer...
he's less a recording artist...
                  his recordings are stale compared to his
entertainment qualities...
    part James Brown part: obviously himself...

or anyone not liking what i write can just switch
to something from the poetryfoundation.org,
or the tabloid press...
                    even i think this is mediocre...
i'm less worried about but i was really worried
whether the train strikes would mean that
the transport-chain-lock would work in my favour...
whether i'd get the central line to Newbury Park
on time from Stratford...
whether i'd catch either the 296 or the 66 bus
to Romford and get one of the last three 103 buses
after 12:00am to Chase Cross...

but i just bought a t-shirt from a concert
and put it over my work clothes and walked with
the rest of the fans grinning-like an idiot:
i've been paid... and i saw a band i last saw
back in 2002... and i'm going to see them again tomorrow...

sure... who wouldn't want to be a mysterious
poet who dies at the age of 30
like Kathleen Tankersley Young from Lysol poisoning...
who wouldn't?! the public would archive
two poems by me and i'd be... immortalised...
Bukowski put a nail on the head when he said:
when you write into the thousands...
you realise... that you have written very little...

right now anything to push me sitting up until
2am and getting up at 9am...
drinking whiskey and soothing my legs
from standing up for... however many hours
i stood rooted...
     but i was smarter today...
        i decided to eat something on the shift...
i highly recommend the steak pasties at the London
Stadium... they're only £6 a pop and that's
not overpriced for a London venue...
i would never ingest that free-cheap-*****
sandwiches provided by companies...
mind you... i did manage to "steal" a free bottle
of Fanta from one of the kiosk managers...
          or if you're at Wembley... befriend a Bangladeshi
security guy... or a Somali...
not stereotyping... they can smooth-talk
any member of a kiosk to give you free food...
or rather... the people working in the food kiosks
are probably also Bangladeshi or Somali...
so...                  

          win win...

and of the people you work with... word quickly spreads...
i come in bruised from a bicycle accident...
obviously i had to tell people that "some ******" cut
me off... that's not true...
i was cycling drunk... the last time i ever did that...
i lost control when the road started becoming uneven:
***-hole this swerve that...
it was a spectacular accident of my own making...
i flipped forward across the handlebars...
even if i was wearing a cycling helmet: which i never
have and never will... a beautiful looking
imitation of a Francis Bacon painting...
but today: some guy approached me...
oh... looks like you're healing nicely...

         and i am... it felt so good listening Scar Tissue
live... i'm gently pinching the scab and eating it...
like a dog...
but i was having this conversation with Harini
and about her falling off her electric scooter...
how she would never get back on it...
and i told her: my bicycle was sort of my fault too...
but it's different with bicycles...
so i started telling her about those two glorious
summers when my grandfather was alive
and he'd take me to Pętkowice (Świętokrzyskie Voivodeship,
Ostrowiec County, Poland)
for horse riding...
            oh yeah... i'll never own a car...
i love buses, bicycles and horses too much...
i will never own a flashy car...
so i told her... this mare almost threw me off at
full gallop...
   see... it's different when you have a bicycle
accident and something rather different
when a horse throws you off...
bicycles are dead things... it's up to you to not
be drunk (idiot) and not spotting a ***-hole
early enough...
            but a horse is a living creature and has
its own rules, whims...

i think i'm rekindling sleeping genes in me...
i must have come from a lineage of horse-riders...
after the first lesson
having jumped me and this guy went into
the fields and the forest for a "stroll"...
my god... riding a horse at full gallop...
it's almost a bit like riding a bicycle down a hill...
no... it's not the same...
       sleeping genes of a Mongol? a ***?
                     Winged Hussars?!
who else where the great nations that heavily relied
on horses?!
    i just remember: put right heel pressure
on the horse's torso while pulling at the reins
of the left hand for it to turn left...
and if you want to move the horse to the right...
left heel digging into the torso
and right hand pulling at the reins...
and if you want to gallop?
    both feet dig heels into the torso
  and the reins are tightened...

                    and she looked at me like:
well... i wasn't expecting you to be a type that rode horses...
so much for rock stars... down on the ground
this is probably enough to impress...

i come home i find my maine **** readied for
a nap in my bed... wake up tomorrow...
root myself in... un-root myself...
drink some whiskey... have two days off...
wait for the boiler mechanic come Monday...
then head off to Wembley for the Ed Sheeran gig...
like any modern man i'm addicted
to the urban landscape...
although... i sometimes wish i could live
on the Shetlands... or the Faroe Isles...
be a lighthouse curator...

                               live in a cave: live in a cave:
breathe like a cave when a shout shouted
into it excavates an echo...
           i'm a terrible DJ... second night running
and it's still...
  
i can move mountains
i can work a miracle, work a miracle
ooh, oh, oh, (i'll) keep you like an oath
may nothing but death do us (a)part

she wants to dance like uma thurman...

where was is that i heard, 20% of people do 50% of the work,
or perhaps i overheard the ratio incorrectly,
20% of people do 80% of the work...
i left the house at 5:30am...
i don't think i slept a wink...
    got to Liverpool St. at around 6:40am... no trains
to Wembley Park... i.e. no Metropolitan Line from
Aldgate...
the Hammersmith & City line opened at around
ten past seven a.m.
  jumped on it to Baker St.
   then a five minute wait for the metropolitan
line... two stops to Wembley Park...
picked up a coffee at McDonald's, black... five
or six sugars... those sachets are never teaspoon
equivalent...
perhaps late by half an hour... but not really...
a massive queue of stewards at the signing-in...
people coming later than me...
waiting for about 3 hours outside the stadium
until we were finally let it and allocated our
positions...
hardly any briefing...
the national anthem was tested about five times...
as was the pyrotechnics...
sweep of the entire north stand of level 5...
checking for all the seats being in a working
condition... then allocated our spots...
no chance in hell was i going to stick to the plan...
someone approached me gagging for a smoke,
no can do, cameras everywhere,
took my hand, i told him: i'm a smoker too...
i haven't been smoking since 8am...
just imagine what that cigarette will feel like
when you get out... stay strong...
a co-worker was babbling to some customers
about the events at the Euros
when the stadium was stormed by hooligans
without tickets... he remembered that
he was instructed not to speak about it...
for an hour or two i was reassuring him
that he wouldn't get into trouble,
paranoid... the people he was talking to
had their telephone out...
he was on the frontline of the stampede:
he thought he was going to be dox(x)ed...
but you're a wearing a face-mask, aren't you?
and your voice never sounds the same in real
life as it might sound on a recording, no?
don't worry...
telling people in the glass room on level 5
to finish their drinks... kick off in 10 minutes...
two hands extended: ten digits showing...
thank you mate... blah blah...
at half time: 5 minutes to kick off...
one hand extended five digits showing... more thank you mate...
the incident with a first aid...
a man and his two daughter...
i should have asked for his ticket, just in case...
i will next time...
one first aid room closed,
we walked to a second first aid room: also closed...
i left the three in the company of fellow stewards:
keep them entertained, talking...
only a bruised knee, or a cut knee...
his, or one of his girls? i couldn't remember,
talked to a supervisor, both the first aid rooms
are closed, where are the first aiders?
message to control room, hawk-eye on...
they should be at base 503... went to base 503...
they're not there... they apparently were located
in one of the first aid rooms: now open...
escorted them to the man and his two daughters...
but obviously half time was over
and they ****** off to sit down...
clearly the incident wasn't so important...
but i persisted...
walked up and down each base up the stairs
scanning the crowd, hoping to find them...
almost reaching an epileptic fit from scanning
so many faces... until another supervisor approached
me: what are you doing?
looking for them... they might have gone to a lower level,
should i stop? yeah...
then this guy who wanted to go from level 5 to
level 1... but his ticket read: you're supposed
to be on level 5... he tried to wriggle his way out...
but my younger brother is there,
and i have food for him...
the supervisor asked: but your under 18 companion
is in company of an 18+ minder?
if everyone wanted to go down to the lower
levels for a better view...
it wouldn't be fair...
then not-minded children running across the aisles
at the top of the stadium...
one fellow steward asked me to intervene,
a mother herself... happened three or four times...
first two times a supervisor just passively walked around
the "incident" without music influence...
by the time i got there one of the kids was
falling on the chairs... thankfully i scribbled to them
a sentence with a hand facing down:
moving my index and middle fingers slowly
with an imitation of: walk... don't run...
go back to your parents... lucky mummy also picked
up the scent of danger...
problem sorted...
then this solitary kid high up in the stands...
what team do you support, you're enjoying yourself,
you're up here alone? where are you parents /
who are you with? grandfather, father and sister?
you're up here to get a better view...
all the while kneeling beside him...
oh, cool, just remember to return to them
before the end of the match...
at the end of the match he was still up there all alone...
sort of mumbling to himself...
or just excited as any child might be
when sitting on the highest reaches of the Wembley
crater...
i escorted him to his grandfather before the final
whistle... problem sorted in advance:
it might have been a missing child... when the crowds
started to disperse...
then this escalation steward came to one of the bases:
one steward at the door... the other
at the bottom of the rows... at the end of the stairs
for level 5...
so people don't unhinge themselves and sway into
the barrier and possibly fall off...
he noticed one missing to the left...
i walked down to the one where i was at
and looked to the right...
how many missing in your position...
thumb, index, ******* posited with question,
three missing? he affirmed...
and i was off... a fellow steward: no supervisor,
imploring one of each of the three pairs to break up,
one to stand at the door the other to go down
to the bottom of the stairs...
they complied...
the women's Chelsea team beat the women's Arsenal
team 3 nil... Chelsea had only managed to win the FA
cup twice prior to today's win...
the Arsenal team have won it 15 times...
today's stadium capacity reached circa 42K...
not bad for a female football match... i reckon...
the clientele... a mixed bunch...
you'd think there would be more women...
n'ah... hmm... most certainly more children than per usual
football match... children are most certainly gender neutral...
well... gender "neutral"... whatever the hell that means...
it probably means:
i was a boy once too... i'd play video games,
but i'd also play with dolls with girls...
we'd congregate with girls playing hide-and-seek...
tic-tac-toe... no ******* way...
no boys there... or jumping over skipping ropes...
no chance... climbing trees? sure...
such a different clientele to what's expected
to a Fulham match...
£4.80 for a steak & ale pie... burgers at £6.00 not worth
the money... you can never get a bad pie
at a football match...

in summary... i think i was built for this role...
over £10 an hour... but it's not about the money...
i don't want money...
i have an apprehension of money...
firstly: i don't really know what i'd spend it on
if i had too much of it, if there was enough for rent,
for food... i just don't like spending money...
i like drinking whiskey...
i prefer cooking my own food than imploring
others to cook it for me...
i feel silly in a restaurant... almost like a mannequin
with a grimace, or for that matter movement...
all those restaurants in central London...
glass panes... oh look... the mannequins are eating...
window shopping escalated...
they're also advertising clothing!
cooking for yourself though... it reminds me of...
those days in the organic chemistry laboratories
of the Joseph Black building up in Edinburgh...
air filled with whiffs of sulphur and ethanol...
and machinery...

i fear money, as much as i fear god...
what's the point of loving either Mammon or Ha-Shem
when you become ignorant to both,
who might, suddenly... on a whim... change their mind
regarding your fate?
plus... extra money: while you might not be spending it...
someone might latch up onto you and leech your wallet...
why would anyone ever want that?
that's why i don't want to earn beyond
my capacity...
let savings be like a trickle...
in that fabled torture of Loki... Loki's punishment...
with the serpent's venom dripping onto his head
drop by drop... "riddling" a hole in his skull...
but this life is all a credit... best work around the medium
of debit...
i don't remember the last time i worked with
credit... spend less than you earn...
simple, no? never "fake it, until you make it"...
if it has to be summarised as... well... stretching it:
it's not an ascetic reason...
it's a Spartan reason: there are no religious reasons...
there are only... self-imposed reasons...
come to think of it...
once the ascetic reasons are established...
aesthetic reasons come on their own...
it's beautifully! ha ha! simple!

it becomes... luckily one of the supervisors dropped
me off at Newbury Park with two fellow
co-workers... he was heading up to Basildon...
put the heating up... one co-worker was nodding in
approval to the met sleep...
me? i took a power-nap after having some food back home,
from 8:30pm to 9:30pm, before writing my father's invoice,
making him lunch & taking out the garbage...

but he kept on switching the music
and texting while driving...
what?! what is this, short-attention span when it comes to music?

alll i herd was rap, some drum & bass,
something equivalent to pendulum,
before the song was half-way through,
he would change it... start working early in life...
low attention span, how many thought were pulverising
his head when he took it upon himself
a self-assertiveness of an "alpha-male":
sure... Dan is about 2 inches taller than me,
fatty boy, walks about like a falling oak...
has 4 children... yet.. his mind was distracted
by my silence...

i could have said: listen, mate, i'm knackered...
it might be probable that i only dreamt up
sleeping these three hours...
treating women like second class citizenry:
but.... THE WOMEN LOVE IT...
the grumpy male...
they love it!
i'm not your uber driver etc.
well, i'm not having any of it... i just focused
on his restless mind...
if i were driving the car...
you'd be listening to

die eisenfaust am lanzenschaft...
through & through...

die aeisenfaust am lanzenschft
die zügel in der linken,
so sprengt des reiches ritterschaft
und ihre schwerter blinken

hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
und ihre schwerter blinken.
hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
und ihre schwerter blinken.

das balkenkreuz, das schwarze fleigt
voran auf weißen grunde,
verloren zwar doch umbesiegt
so klingt uns seine kunde,

hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
so klingt uns seine kunde.
hey-ah hey-ah.... hey-ah! hey-ah!
so klingt uns seine kunde.

at worst, you'd have me playing Prokofiev's
schlacht auf das eis...
(battle on the ice, some Nevsky)...
if only the Polacks wrote a musical score
for... schlacht bei Tannenberg...
sadly... only  painting...

that's history... what a scatter brain...
we rode all the way from Wembley toward
the straight A12 towards Essex Basildon...
i don't think i heard a whole song in full...
playing the role of "alpha male" leaves most men
scatter brained...
he already has the physical superiority,
but his mind is a mollusk...

my fellow coworker tried to establish something,
i already disclosed to her that i studied
chemistry, that i write... ahem... poo-etry...
my name, my ******* name...
i break it down to her:

M'ah-T'eh...   ΩŠ...
the it's written as mateusz...
but the slavic S+Z is equivalent to the English S+H...
which is equivalent to hiding either Z or H
within the S as a caron: Š...
ma-te (again, hide the H's of the vowel catcher
tetragrammaton)...
the upsilon is prolonged, therefore becomes
a doubled omicron, like in pOOl...
ergo... an omega... omega being sort of a "double-u"...
W... V... a double V... when is softened from vent...
wet is the softened version of vet...

it's not a double "U"... is it... that's an omega...
it's a double V... that W = 2xV, no?

come to think of it, telepathy?
if you read enough Julian Jaynes, about the phenomenon
of the bicemeral mind...
prior to to the event: as if the 8 winds spoke one
word simultaneously, was someone calling me?
i heard the word: MA-TE-USZ...
as clearly as i felt the cold,
heard the rain, saw the sun...

if my name could be elevated....
from merely: geschenk von gott
to: das licht von zorn...
   (gift of god that becomes:
the light of wrath)...
i'd hear about it, prior to seeing anything...
that the day begun with a hallucination,
and ended with someone asking
me for the syllables corrected...

clearly this is a job for me, i'm very fond on
ensuring crowds are safe, secured, serviced...
i like this simple mantra:
keep them contained within a crowd status....
keep them herderded...
i might wish for sheep, people is the closest i'll ever come
to being someone herding sheep not uprooted
from his roots in Iran, being turned into
an Just-Eat driver on a ******* moped...

i'm loving these little snippets of authority,
it can't allow me to turn into a megalomaniac,
i feel... a genuine concern for people,
esp. children....
i don't need my own... the children of strangers are
plenty...

but it's so bewildering, a guy pretends to be this alpha...
rude to females... mein gott: how women love
being slapped metaphorically!
mein hertz, ist nicht im des recht platz...
singen freude! singen frei!
lassen alles einfach: singen!

i lapse into etymological English, i.e. German
whenever something is... odd... curious...
a hmm proposition...

plenty... jetzt kommt, der große: schlaf(en).

i'm putting in a shift at Oxford F.C. tomorrow, get to Romford centre at 9:45am... wake up at half to 8am, shower, have a coffee, two cigarettes, maybe eat something, get into the town centre, have a second coffee, another cigarette, then wait for Daniel and Melanie and head up to Oxford... give Daniel the 5 quid for the petrol, no problem... but now? i need to drink a little... i need to think about katakana and Hanguel... i'm nervously-excited... drink... think about language... do that ****-fest of a Covid test... blah blah... all good...

私: watashi...
alternatively, via the phonetic syllable encoding system
of the katakana...
ワタシ (wa-ta-****)
while in the west... "gender neutral" pronouns...
now, i can understand the metaphysics of the transgender
movement, sure... like Plato once wrote:
if you're a bad man...
you're going to be reincarnated as a woman...
dated... but...
what's happening now?
a backlog of reincarnations that didn't happen?!
you go after language... that's the end...
i'll eagerly stomach a Thai surprise...
how the **** did the Thai people invent:
"invent"(?) this transgender phenomenon...
sure... but at least their proponents
do the chop and get on with silicon implants
and all that's "supposedly" glorious about
buggery...
no one's complaining...
the usual tourists arrive... mostly middle-class
English men who feel disfranchised by
the concept of marriage... and... hey presto!
a Thai surprise banquet... lady boys on the menu...
well... at least the Thai have managed to
keep this taboo under wraps of: leaving it the ****
alone... the moment language is invoked...
someone like me is going to hear about it and...
erm... "rebel"?

- personally... i'm disgusted with modern
*******...
i always tend to do one sly
while on the throne of thrones
while also securing taking a **** & a ****...
then taking a shower...
hetero-"erotica" has gone downhill...
i should know... i started *******
when i was 8.... or 7...
i even managed to teach another boy
how to ******* when we were having
a bath together...
weird scenario... immigrant...
his parents were like a hiring agency...
we used to spend time watching power-rangers
while living under the same roof
as... oh... i'd say... 20 or so labourers...
Perth Road... Gants Hill...
that's when i first played my first Sonic
game on セガ (mega-drive)...
i guess i'm one of the few last ones...
who managed to either buy really cheap white lightning
cider (underage) with Peter & Kieran
while spending a weekend in a youth centre
playing pool... and a ***** mag...
**** **** **** & bushy groin regions...
fabulous looking women...
not as classy as Carrie-Anne Moss...
turns out all the pretty girls don't end up
trading in the world with their bodies...
some, become actresses... good for them...

n'ah... modern ******* ***** ***...
major ***...
but... recently i came across this little gem...
CAMERON CANADA mit MIA MALKOVA...
i'm generally into lesbian *******:
give me the classical Italian stuff...
that stuff in between authentic acting
and not this grey area of amateur cringe...

watching them... each and every time:
i want to **** a woman like a woman would want
to **** a woman...
i don't think i went much further beside them
kissing... oh, my, god... how they kissed...
i was seeing two women kiss...
but subconsciously...
i was watching a classic from ancient Rome...
of regurgitation, that sort of bulimia associated
with an **** of feasting upon too much...
come to think of it...
i was also watching a snail slobber itself all over
a wet leaf of cabbage...
i was watching an oyster attempt to eat a pear...

ugh... all this man on woman sort of crap...
i shy away from it...
i rather ******* to a classical painting...
my favourite being...
  Bronzino: allegory of Venus, Cupid, Folly & Time...
why? the tenderness of the tongues
coming into contact with the lips...
all children seem to be androgynous...
let's leave it at that...
people talk some much in this horrid take of
***... that's why i was so drawn into this lesbian
antic.. who were they?

Cameron Canada & Mia Malkova... right... them two...
they hardly spoke...
i think it's bad taste to speak any decipherable word
during *******... for me... it's... cringe...
i'll let it pass, but... talking during ***...
what are those favourites?
oh **** me,
**** me daddy...
you're so big...
yes yes yes...
no... when i **** and since i **** so rarely...
all of that **** is on mute...
onomatopoeias...
vowels, consonants, perhaps...
otherwise: no words, in, the, bedroom...
i don't want the Hebrew deity being inquisitive of
my antics...
it's already impossible living with a "predilection"
that... my thinking is "audible": it resonates...
i am, after all... a res cogitans as much as much as
a res extensa... while "his" omnipresence couples up
with my "paranoia" like:
peaches coupling with cream...
or cumin with coriander...

now i'm sitting down with a whiskey...
calming myself... listening to...
spectres in the fog... Hans Zimmer...
beside Latin - and the offshoots?
do i think ****** is superior to English?
why wouldn't i...
English seems to be more accessible to people
than my own language could ever be...
"mother"...
mind you... does English employ any
orthographic techniques?
last time i checked... no... no really...
Charles Dickens left a memorable mention...
falsely...
orthography... you can talk about it...
when and where... you, employ... diacritical
distinctions...

example?

sharp.... i started writing this yesterday,
i already wrote something about today,
the rejoice in exchanging handshakes....
with a fellow steward putting a hand on your shoulder...

i'm thinking: when does Japanese stop utilising
pseudo-emoji in their Chinese aspired
ideograms and returns to something
a(n) Europen might understnad,
like something from the handy-book
of Haguel...
it's almost funny that i can comprehend
being talked about: rather than to:
in third person,
i simply asked whether, Danny, the supervisor,
who was giving us a lift from Wembley
to... the outskirts of Greater London,
Essex... whether Romford or Newbury Park
required some petrol money...
i asked... two parties also involved...
didn't...
i stopped being the apparent ****...

i keep my mouth shut during the whole trip...
why bother talking when he's clearly having
problems listening to one song in total...
perhaps he's listening to the wrong sort of genre?
Prokofiev? no, that'll not pass on the sly...

i'm a man... women have started to acknowledge that...
they tell their children: obey this man,
listen to this man...
why am i oh why am i so *******, surprised?!
i end the day's shift with a doubled-up handshake...
some Francis, a Nigerian...
i'm not English: but i forgot to tell him that fact,
even though i could pass off as a native...

i can't replica writing these ideograms on this
website...
on some other... with some expansive Hangul...
sure... but not here...
heat of noon...
   netsu ノ hiru (ヒル)

it's so elaborate at first, at first... to thirst... then...
some... discrepancies...
two consonants twinned: within the confines
of TRY... or within the confines of GLOAT...
then, only then, does Japanese fall short on
what's to be expressed:
HATAI:  ハタイ

      almost like Morse Code:
coding with syllable break-ins / break-ups...
but hardly any GL-
to later eat OATS...

i will not enter the realm of Hangul...
as much as i want to...
lost the A... lost the Bot...
lost myself to drinking...
i will not even enter the realm of translation
the modern emoji / emoticon with...
the skeletal confines of the Asiatic ideogram...
so some elaborate to counter the Egyptian
hieroglyphs...

anyone bother to mind, orientate themselves...
around a newly arrived "enzyme" or
year zero?!
   just recent points to consider...
no, i don't think of it much...
"the boss" might be driving a Bentley...
got £1.5M from the Covid scheme of
not enough earning...
bought something else...
a proper "boss": i.e.: a proper ****...
arrogant alpha-lab *****...
post-military...
want me to play the beta-role...
sure... i'll play it...
  
   but... i don't want to earn the sort of money
that will make women wanting to be depended on me...
i don't want to earn the sort of women
that women will use in order to spend my earned dough...
i'd much prefer spending the money on art...
on gallery access...
i'm not going to spend my money on ******* handbags...
coat-hangers?! sure... i'll consider that one...
but... all that other crap?
i'll spend my money on prostitutes...
just enough to get by...
i'm not going to earn the sort of money
that leaves me... shackled, caged... subservient...
******* hopeless..

pretty limited... whast? katakana...
is begins with... consonants + vowel coupling...
it's not like you can reverse that:
vowel + consonant coupling... can you?

there's that tree...
there's that clot of thunderous cloud...
here's an umbrella...
and a... heterosexual predicament of...
can two straight guys...
pretend an umbrella is like a mushroom
they foraged for, found, "somehow"
simultaneously, or, something?!

alt. the meme:
would you rather date a woman that's an antithesis
of a mermaid...
or would you rather date, a mermaid?
****'s worth or... what's the alternatively avaible?
endless *******
in comparison to: an ****** that
reads a sort of Braille of: hello, my name if BOB
in blowing out bubbles...
a ******* no brainer if you ask me...
an anti-meme.

i read two classics on the tube this morning, absolute: classics! she had all the features of.... i'd guess either Italian or Greek... a brunette, fine long brown hair... Van Morrison's sing-along of brown eyes and a physique that would torturously make Venus eat her own tongue with scorn... ****** features that would have never allowed cubism to come into existence! the second? tanned complexion... mocha... like that Ricky Martin song about a girl living a mad life... frenzied hair with that **** thing girls do be keeping some of it not *******... raven haired... somewhere from out east... i like reading classics like that... the former was sitting opposite me, the latter beside me... i like playing this little game of wearing my sunglasses on the tube... am i looking? is he looking? isn't he looking? of course i'm looking! i'm admiring! but at some point i take my sunglasses off... rub my eyes from a pretend sleepiness... wait a while with my eyes closed: then put my sunglasses back on: suggesting that i'm tired of the artificial light: but as soon as i put my sunglasses on... i'm admiring once more... after all, i have several categories of women... i know that some men have this 1 - 10 point system... she's a 5... she's a 8... n'ah... i have a different system...

a "10" is a maszyna (a machine)
an "9" is a suka (a *****)
an "8" is a szprycha (a spoke)
a "7" is a laska (a cane)
from a "6" through to a "1"?
     well... grandmothers, married women,
teenage girls with ****** borderline ******-awakenings,
lonely looking girls... neglected looking girls...
but it's hardly a looks game... it's a certain aesthetic
question about how a woman handles herself
in public... what she's wearing...
i mean... today i also saw a LASKA...
wearing... modest attire... what looked like her
grandmother's dress... floral matters with her knees
hidden... why would i mind? i'm just saying what i saw...
when i finally got back to Romford
and went to Wendy's for a burger...
             that's make differentiates men from women...
she was just sitting there... sure...
she looked like you typical plain-lost-Jane
with glasses but a gorgeous looking body...
doubly beautiful because in her eyes there was this sparkle
of a dog that has been unfairly hit by his owner...
i mean... dogs have beautiful eyes: but so these women
who eat alone in restaurants... me? i was just ******* dog-hungry,
i gobbled the burden of the burger ending on
a high note of licking my fingers...
i'm starting to think that men stomach being alone
with more grace... they look more determined...

left the house at 8am came back after 8pm...
sat down, poured myself a whiskey sharpshooter
(that's more whiskey than mixer)
and opened Ovid's Amores in Latin...
          started reading a few lines...
tu mihi, tu certe, memini, Graecine,
   negabas uno posse aliquem tempore amare duas.
i'm not a superstitious man:
but suddenly the door to my bedroom
was opened by a wind...
am i in company with someone ancient?
i'm not a superstitious man...
today i started believing in luck...
    even with the general train strikes and
***** ups on the London underground...
i don't know how i managed to swing it...
to get from Newbury Park to Putney
Bridge under one and a half hours...
i already sent the manager a text a day before
that i wouldn't make it for 9am sign-in...
i sat down opposite him and helped him out
with the accreditation: this other guy Mark
was stressing him out for ******* up the process...
i just listened in as fellow co-workers were taking
the **** blaming the train-strike on being late:
the manager just said:
look! he came from Essex! and he's here already...
arbeit macht frei: truly...
      even now: most guys would probably come home
from work and sit down with a beer
before the t.v.: me? i'm sitting down with a whiskey
and i'm continuing to work:
sure... i can appreciate this is a mundane verse:
but perhaps it's only a mundane subject matter:
i can always spice it up with how i talk about something:
work...
    i feel: liberated by work... truly, verily, profoundly...
i can't wait for tomorrow's madness
of doing two shifts in two different places:
London Stadium from 9am to 4:30pm
and Wembley from circa 5:30pm through to 11:30pm...
i might be home by... maybe 2am...
then i'll sit down with more whiskey and probably
write until 5am...
then! ah! i finally decided to fix up my Trek
mountain bicycle! finally! i'll be using two bicycles
interchangeably...
one day the road bicycle... the next day
i'll go off the rounds into Havering County Park
and rough-up things...
i'm the worst combination of man:
i'm an alcoholic-workaholic...
                                     i'm both...
                                        although i'm pretty sure
i know what an alcoholic is...
my grandfather was an alcoholic: i guess some genes
were passed...
but alcoholics don't do anything productive
when drinking: they just drink...
and after they have had their drink...
they sleep it off and then drink some more...
they're drinking for being drink: it's not like alcoholics
drink and then sit down to write how
their mind relaxes: there are no signs of gradation
in how much alcohol is ingested...
me? i can drink a litre of whiskey in one go:
but writing keeps me sort of sober...
   sure... i have the odd spell where ms. amber pulls
the rug from under my feet... even i can succumb
with a weakness: but as long as i train myself to drink
and DO "something": i.e. write:
i'm not being drunk: i'm doing drunk... doing drunk
is different to being drunk...

ugh... dry throat... i was coupled with this woman
Danielle... friend-zoned immediately:
she's into the hobby of tattoos... no no...
just not my type: i'm not that ******* thirsty...
i'd rather eat a whole watermelon if i were to be
perfectly honest... plus: i don't feel like lifting all
that baggage: two children living with her parents
in Scotland... she's going solo down in London:
a great conversation mind you...
but when it comes to fail-safes of old age?
there's always euthanasia...
if i become prone to dementia symtpoms:
i told her... i'm dropping a few mushrooms...
to boost my mental faculties...
we talked about... too much **** for me to write
a rubric for...
me doing ******* for the first time at the age of 36...
me telling her it did nothing more me...
medical marijuana... a cure for Parkinson's...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
dystopian movies... Wuthering Heights...
London Grammar... you name it... we talked about
work and we talked about people...
i'm an omnivore when it comes to conversations...
i sometimes wish i could be could be coupled
with a man at work to talk about Heidegger:
i can't be that lucky: no one is that lucky...
one has to be fated: rather than allowed to be that
lucky...

why are these people so into disclosing so much
of their personal info to me?
do i look like a psychiatrist? i thought psychiatrists
thought i was a schizophrenic?
ha ha... funny... a madman advocate of these
supposedly sane creatures...
the 28th... i'm waiting for Michaela to ******* to
Romania so i can dabble in some new girl...
i already have my eyes on one...

i wish i could: have a relationship...
but what is it exactly that i do?
when i work i work and when i don't work i work...
i can write this mediocre verse
but i write it so i court the Libra to balance
with writing as much as i have read...
no... i know how the hierarchy works...
the SIA guys think very little of the stewards...
sure... it might be £5 more per hour,
but? the hours are gruelling... and i'm not into
confrontations with idiotic drunks: esp. idiotic
drunk women who get easily offended...
i'm not making the transition...
to hell with that... if i wanted pushing and shoving
i'd be playing professional rugby by now...
i like violence contained within the framework
of sport... i don't like the idea that certain issues
can't be contained within the framework
of conversation.... politics...

arbeit macht frei... it's not some ugly **** joke
when you think about it...
i hate the idea of sulking in one's own possession
of the guarding of time with one's self...
the: a time for one's self...
i don't have time for that...
i sometimes wish i could have a relationship...
but... i'm not built for that...
the best i can do is have casual ****** encounters
with women who like having ***...
i can't stomach dating: i can't stomach going
to the opera as a pair...
i'm seriously the antithesis of pair bonding...
i hate eating while also talking to someone...
i like to eat alone...
mind you: if i eat with someone it implies
i'm showing someone my highest resource of...
respect...
eating with someone is very much unlike having
*** with someone...

come this writing scribbling session, what else to do?
make myself a sandwich for tomorrow
and make my father and mother the most decent
Pimm's "hour" cocktail...
plenty of mint, plenty of strawberries... plenty
of cucumber... eh... the ratio not exactly
1:3 of Pimm's to lemonade...
sit back... relax...
            Red Hot Chilli Peppers' Scar Tissue...
my god... i loved playing that tune on the guitar:
when i still played the guitar...
now i guess i'm playing an imaginary banjo:
i can't say an imaginary mandolin since i once
worked a night-club to save up to buy a mandolin:
and i did... just in order to play:
Maggie-May outside of Fiona's window
at university... which i did...
sweet quip of: O Romeo! O Romeo!
why are you playing a mandolin outside of my window!
eh... life's just like that...
life's whatever comes: and: whatever goes...

- i can't do relationships: i'm far to busy...
i couldn't possibly enjoy what people get up to...
i live i work: i don't work i don't live...
regardless of my petty ambitions in the framework
of poetry:
but then again: who can have recognised
in the framework of poetry these day?
people with English degree titles as solely being used
for writing poetry?
seems... pretty strange...
that these gatekeepers stress:
only those who invested in an education in "language":
who have arrived at a doctorate in English
can write something qualifying them toward
the esteem of Shakespeare...
but a plumber ought to write jack-****!
really?! we'll see...
you frucking pompous clowns! we'll see!

i'll come in and rip this whole dynamic to shreds...
i don't care for your BA: bachelor in the arts...
what art? ******* on lemon carved in half
is suddenly an art?
a sudden: i pretend to have eaten
a quarter pounder with cheese?!
the world doesn't like *******: me? i don't like
******* either...
i work the hours in order to allow my beard
to grow in length...
i have no time for commitments equivalent
to relationships... *** is fine... talking to each
other while watching the television is beyond me...
i'd sooner love to prefer... scabbing *****...
or descaling the scales of fish to make them
readily available
for the treadmill of being readied for packaging...

i hate... seeing... people that are more readied for
abortions than for work... it's so frustrating...
ergo? i am... i am: if someone asked me to don
a SS-man's suit? black-clad... me?!
i would be more than willing...
                  half of the people i sometimes supervise?
they'd be in the gas chambers...
it' hard to get under my skin... to annoy me...
but? when i do become annoyed?!
it's hard to get me from under my own skin...
i try... i pretend-wrestle with a stanged
evil of collectivism based on ethnic grounds...
i forget the ethnic-grounding...
i just summarise myself akin to ergonomic-grounding...

all these women... those 10s... those 9s... 8s... 7s...
i seem them... who are they dating?
mediocre men... they're not dating highly fussy men...
they're not attractive men...
no! most of these women are dating:
pretty mediocre men...
      i'm supporting the fact that their beauty is
a sabotage... they might be pretty:
but they're ******* boring...
why do all these averages of women are great
to talk to: but hardly great to ****?!
either way... i'm not interested...
yeah; one yawn follows another yawn...
                  follows another: yawn.... that leads
to a terrible choice of laughter.

did i miss something from having written familial estrangement? i must have... only recently, a day or so ago i went cycling... obviously i didn't check the weather forecast... the rain in a form of deluge came: deluge or monsoon... i was speaking to a co-worker about it... after the drought? it felt glorious... i couldn't see past ten metres ahead of me... i was sipping rain water that was getting lodged in my mustache... i told her: it reminded me of when i was 6 or 7... running barefoot in the rain with my cousin Justine... in a similar sort of rain... barefoot on the pavement... we went back home and cuddled while my great-grandmother her grandmother tended to us: obviously we caught a cold... what a glorious experience...

i must be mad... after today's shift i was asked by one
of the managers:
on the 21st... i know you're the supervisor at the London
stadium... but do you feel like working
Wembley too?
you'll finish the London Stadium shift at 4:30pm
you'll start the Wembley shift at 6pm...
Wembley are short-staffed...
me? being a single man...
that's the thing: the best lesson i have ever learned
is that you don't say NO...
wow! you're the first to agree!
that's why i'm a supervisor without the required
qualifications...
sure... i'll do it...
for me? there's not "drudgery" of work...
there's work and there's no work...
i like collecting the hours...
oddly enough: i enjoy it...
i like being a workaholic-alcoholic...
it boosts my ambitions to come across as
someone required: responsible... needed...

i left the house at 2pm today... train strikes...
missed the train toward Stratford by a minute...
it arrived on the platform just as i was walking
into the station: **** it...
took the 296 towards Newbury Park and got the Central
Line instead...
enough time to eat a double cheeseburger
at a McDonald's: sign in on time...
shook hands with the managers...
Dan "the man" asked with with wild eyes:
so you're working Oxford with me?!
yes? well... if you're imploring me to do so!
wild-eyed reply came as a yes: you are, aren't you?!
you're on the segregation line with me!

oh **** me... what a waste of time...
i'm out of the house for almost 10 hours:
i'm getting paid only £50 for it...
£10 of which goes into the fuel...
it's a waste of time...
but i'm looking to get good references...
i'm not going to say no...
i don't have a wife... i don't have children:
i'm elusive...
even today: even though i was breaker:
i helped the supposed supervisor to get her act together...

hold on: why am i writing about work?
who the **** writes about work?
people who enjoy working?
then again: as i learned from my father...
my ethnicity has bred workaholics and alcoholics...
i'm a workaholic-alcoholic... a terrible combination:
i only have time to myself: for myself...

i noticed that with Michaela today...
i pick up on subtle cues...
she looked tired... out of her past two times i was with her...
my totem: a fox... was rummaging the streets...
i gently walked up behind him:
he didn't look startled... neither was i...
something is up with Michaela...
mind you... it was a true beauty of a quickie...
******* can do that to a man
while she's all submissive and you're slapping her
***... pinching her thighs...
she started complaining about spider bites on her calves...
i told her not to squeeze the bites...
i told her: go to a ****** supermarket...
and buy some Spirit Vinegar... rub it in...
after the quick ******* we exchanged music
tastes... we talked about her changing her nails...

i must either change the brothel or...
i'll wait... she's going back to Romania for a month
on the 28th... i'll wait... i need a new ****** partner...
she felt like a painting of Picasso's blue period...
distant... i need a new ***** to ****...
i said: you look tired...
she started talking about her new eye-lash
extension implants...
i mentioned to her:
you know, those black girls?
eye-lashes the length of camels'...
and nails?! so long: they couldn't possibly chop
up an onion...

they are really minor queues...
we ****** for the 3rd time and i could feel tension:
the thrill was gone... she wasn't as willing to kiss me...
she even implored that i was lying too far away from her...
she wanted cuddling...
talk of nails... talk of spider bites...
          no... oh god no... this is not going to work...
i think we passed the threshold of casual ***...
some scamming mommy is going to come out of
Michaela: right about now...
i'm out...
            don't blame your apathy on your newly implanted
eye-lash extension... you're bored of me:
after two *****...

she's going back to Romania on the 28th...
i'm going to wait until she's gone until i pick a new
****** partner...
i'll wait...
  of course she was surprised that i ******* too soon...
i blamed it on the heart and the tiredness after a shift...
i asker: but... but now all women ****** during each
****** encounter?
i blame her "beached whale" physique...
i'm extremely attracted to slightly overweight women...

it's not premature *******: but it's ****** close...
i can't help it... i can't control my ontology...
she's not pretty: she's just unique!
unique toward satisfying my palette of "inhibitions"!
i like plump-plum girl...
but the awkward body language read-itself
to me immediately... the dynamic changed...
she blamed the lashes: i blamed her...
although i didn't actually blame her...

no no no... my totem is the fox... i can suss if something
is becoming awry... strange... tense...
i know better to simply stage
a mirror peering into glass dynamic...
or a glass peering into a mirror dynamic...
the body language changes... dramatically...
eye-lashes my ******* ***!
i gave Michaela a promise: i kept it...
i'm guessing she's used to men giving promises
but not keeping them...
me? i'm tired of women being treated like ****
by ****-boys...

i had a headache travelling to the brothel...
some woman was having a pseudo-conversation
with a man...
she started... explaining... how:
sound travels to her ears from his tongue:
******* and you crack-******* *****...
i switched off...
i either need to change the brothel...
or the rota of prostitutes has to change...

of the three available... i did want to chose another
one from Michaela... but Michaela was there...
and i promised her...
aha! that's what it was... she probably realised
that i wanted some other...
cold... *****...   kalthündin....
    mmm...
                          mmm: sine in trigonometry...
www: cosine trigonometry....
                  i love women... they deal with such subtle affairs...
a man can become loved up at first sight...
three of them were sitting pretty...
Michaela among them: but i noticed this youngling
among them... Michaela must have noticed me
noticing her first... this... doe...
makes sense...
sure sure... "eye-lashes"...
no no... this was the magic of jealousy at work...
before i even blinked the women knew what
was afoot... the youthful thrill of renewal hit me...
but i promised that i would come back for her...
that didn't ******* matter...
shorter than a blink: an exchange of glances
between love at first sight and a blink...
and what the women told each other in between...

a jealous *******? i think i just spent half an hour
with a jealous *******...
i thought prostitutes were immune to jealousy?!
how many are to be shared among one?
but a man comes along and he's like:
i'll share A with B... create an AB...
i'll share B with C... create a BC... etc.
that's why we started talking about her spider bites...
why we started talking about her nails...
it was like lightning: the three of them sat there while
i walked in... but the one i was familiar with
lost the plot of her parade of pride... because:
she felt: **** me! undermine by a younger updated model!

sure! great! she still didn't get it!
she's probably my age... overweight...
yet i still find her attractive... and she's asking
me why i ******* the 1st and 3rd time so early?
why? i say: you have your eyelashes excuses?
i have mine... you beautiful *** is blocking my picture!
you beautiful plump torso is also blocking the picture:
your fat **** are also blocking the picture:
mind you: there's "no picture":
because your fat *** plump torso and fat ****...

i adore imperfections that create an individualism...
but even she couldn't catch me off guard
today... i might have felt tired...
come on... we started talking about music:
we this || close to being clued up into
becoming a bickering couple...
the honeymoon period was over...
she was already willing to the next ******
partner: as i was i...

              change of gloves: change of hands...
i think i need to find a new brothel...
this isn't working for me...
                   the body language can be easily read...
there's this stiffening of the body:
a way of giving birth to the shadow
with the mind:
with the ****:
a sleeping foetus along with the live
one via the ******....

women made awkward: become stiff:
two-dimensionally...
esp. from a "compromise" of competition...

why did i join up to these shifts: well... as a single man
you rarely get to say NO...
this Oxford shift is going to punish me...
**** it...
      then i'm the currently sole lonely
happy-camper doing both the London Stadium
and Wembley...
                 it's hardly the drudgery of work...
you ******* from the workplace for about 10 years...
return to it: invigorated...
you sort of build up a stamina of being happy
to be out of the household...

arbeit macht frei!
                 it's so true... it's truer than true....
i need a new ****** partner...
i just need Michaela to ******* back to Romania
on the 28th before i can revisit the brothel...
i don't exactly like the idea of jealous women...
i'd need ****** to deal with that...
i don't have eunuchs...
        
                i need to start seeing a new *******...
the body language: sort of skewed...
you can sort of sense that you're
borderline necrophilic when a person starts becoming
counter-responsive.