[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero

She says he wasn’t good enough.
He wasn’t worth it.
I try to convince myself
she’s right,
that he’d pay attention
if he were worth anything
but that’s a nicety,
an obvious misconception.
There must be
something wrong with me.
There must be
some things wrong with me.
Somethings wrongs with me.
If there wasn’t, he would like me.
or text me back.
He won’t text me back.
She says he doesn’t want to look desperate.
So I am searching, desperately,
for the words I said
the words I forget
that turned him off.
Was it because we had ***?
He said it wouldn’t change anything.
He said he had always liked me.
He said what he had to
to get me in his bed,
and now there's no text,
no call,
I don't see him,
hear him,
feel him,
but somehow I can't move on.

While my sad Muse the darkest Covert Sought,
To give a loose to Melancholy Thought;
Opprest, and sighing with the Heavy Weight
Of an Unhappy dear Lov'd Monarch's Fate;
A lone retreat, on Thames's Brink she found,
With Murmering Osiers fring'd, and bending Willows Crown'd,
Thro' the thick Shade cou'd dart no Chearful Ray,
Nature dwelt here as in disdain of Day:
Content, and Pleas'd with Nobler Solitude,
No Wood-Gods, Fawns, nor Loves did here Intrude,

Nor Nests for wanton Birds, the Glade allows;
Scarce the soft Winds were heard amongst the Boughs.
While thus She lay resolv'd to tune no more
Her fruitless Songs on Brittains Faithless Shore,
All on a suddain thro' the Woods there Rung,
Loud Sounds of Joy that Jo Peans Sung.
Maria! Blest Maria! was the Theam,
Great Brittains happy Genius, and her Queen.

The River Nimphs their Crystal Courts forsake,
Curl their Blew Locks, and Shelly Trumpets take:

And the surprising News along the Shore,
In raptur'd Songs the wondring Virgins bore;
Whilst Mourning Eccho now forgot her Sighs,
And sung the new taught Anthem to the Skyes.
All things in Nature, a New Face put on,
Thames with Harmonious Purlings glides along,
And tells her Ravisht Banks, she lately bore
A Prize more great than all her hidden Store,
Or all the Sun it self e're saw before.

The brooding Spring, her Fragrant Bloom sent out,

Scattering her early Perfumes round about;
No longer waits the Lasie teeming Hours,
But e're her time produc'd her Oderous Flowers;
Maria's Eyes Anticipate the May,
And Life inspir'd beyond the God of Day.
The Muses all upon this Theam Divine,
Tun'd their best Lays, the Muses all, but mine,
Sullen with Stubborn Loyalty she lay,
And saw the World its eager Homage pay,
While Heav'n and Earth on the new Scene lookt gay.

But Oh! What Human Fortitude can be
Sufficient to Resist a Deity?
Even our Allegiance here, too feebly pleads,
The Change in so Divine a Form perswades;
Maria with the Sun has equal Force,
No Opposition stops her Glorious Course,
Her pointed Beams thro' all a passage find,
And fix their Rays Triumphant in the Mind.
And now I wish'd among the Crouds to Adore,
And constant wishing did increase my Power;

From every thought a New-born Reason came
Which fortifyed by bright Maria's Fame,
Inspir'd My Genious with new Life and Flame,
And thou, Great Lord, of all my Vows, permit
My Muse who never fail'd Obedience yet,
To pay her Tribute at Marias Feet,
Maria so Divine a part of You,
Let me be Just -- but Just with Honour too.

Resolv'd, She join'd her Chorus with the Throng,
And to the listning Groves Marias Vertues Sung;

Maria all Inchanting, Gay, and Young,
All Hail Illustrious Daughter of a King,
Shining without, and Glorious all within,
VVhose Eyes beyond your scantier Power give Laws,
Command the VVord, and justifie the Cause;
Nor to secure your Empire needs more Arms
Than your resistless, and all Conquering Charms;
Minerva Thus alone, Old Troy Sustain'd,
Whilst her Blest Image with three Gods remain'd;
But Oh! your Form and Manner to relate,

The Envying Fair as soon may Imitate,
'Tis all Engaging Sweet, 'tis all Surprising Great;
A thousand Beauties Triumph in your Air,
Like those of soft Young Loves your Smiles appear,
And to th'Ungarded Hearts, as dangerous are:
All Natures Charms are open'd in your Face,
You Look, you Talk, with more than Human Grace;

All that is Wit, all that is Eloquence.
The Births of finest Thought and Noblest Sense,
Easie and Natural from your Language break,

And 'tis Eternal Musick when you speak;
Thro' all no formal Nicety is seen,
But Free and Generous your Majestick Meen,
In every Motion, every Part a Queen;
All that is Great and Lovely in the ***,
Heav'n did in this One Glorious Wonder fix,
Apellis thus to dress the Queen of Love,
Rob'd the whole Race, a Goddess to improve.
Yet if with Sighs we View that Lovely Face,
And all the Lines of your great Father's Trace,

Your Vertues should forgive, while we adore
That Face that Awes, and Charms our Hearts the more;
But if the Monarch in your Looks we find,
Behold him yet more glorious in your Mind;
'Tis there His God-like Attributes we see.
A Gratious Sweetness, Affability,
A Tender Mercy and True Piety;
And Vertues even sufficient to Attone
For all the Ills the Ungrateful VVorld has done,
Where several Factions, several Intrests sway,
And that is still it'h Right who gains the Day;
How e're they differ, this they all must grant,
Your Form and Mind, no One Perfection want,
Without all Angel, and within all Saint.

The Murmering World till now divided lay,
Vainly debating whom they shou'd Obey,
Till You Great Cesar's Off-spring blest our Isle,
The differing Multitudes to Reconcile;
Thus Stiff-neckt Israel in defiance stood,
Till they beheld the Prophet of their God;

Who from the Mount with dazling brightness came,
And Eyes all shining with Celestial Flame;
Whose Awful Looks, dispel'd each Rebel Thought,
And to a Just Compliance, the wilde Nations brought.

no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

Your soul was lifted by the wings today
Hearing the master of the violin:
You praised him, praised the great Sabastian too
Who made that fine Chaconne; but did you think
Of old Antonio Stradivari? -him
Who a good century and a half ago
Put his true work in that brown instrument
And by the nice adjustment of its frame
Gave it responsive life, continuous
With the master's finger-tips and perfected
Like them by delicate rectitude of use.
That plain white-aproned man, who stood at work
Patient and accurate full fourscore years,
Cherished his sight and touch by temperance,
And since keen sense is love of perfectness
Made perfect violins, the needed paths
For inspiration and high mastery.

No simpler man than he; he never cried,
"why was I born to this monotonous task
Of making violins?" or flung them down
To suit with hurling act well-hurled curse
At labor on such perishable stuff.
Hence neighbors in Cremona held him dull,
Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine.

Naldo, a painter of eclectic school,
Knowing all tricks of style at thirty-one,
And weary of them, while Antonio
At sixty-nine wrought placidly his best,
Making the violin you heard today -
Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims.
"Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed -
the love of louis d'ors in heaps of four,
Each violin a heap - I've naught to blame;
My vices waste such heaps. But then, why work
With painful nicety?"

Antonio then:
"I like the gold - well, yes - but not for meals.
And as my stomach, so my eye and hand,
And inward sense that works along with both,
Have hunger that can never feed on coin.
Who draws a line and satisfies his soul,
Making it crooked where it should be straight?
Antonio Stradivari has an eye
That winces at false work and loves the true."
Then Naldo: "'Tis a petty kind of fame
At best, that comes of making violins;
And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go
To purgatory none the less."

But he:
"'Twere purgatory here to make them ill;
And for my fame - when any master holds
'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine,
He will be glad that Stradivari lived,
Made violins, and made them of the best.
The masters only know whose work is good:
They will choose mine, and while God gives them skill
I give them instruments to play upon,
God choosing me to help him.

"What! Were God
at fault for violins, thou absent?"

"Yes;
He were at fault for Stradivari's work."

"Why, many hold Giuseppe's violins
As good as thine."

"May be: they are different.
His quality declines: he spoils his hand
With over-drinking. But were his the best,
He could not work for two. My work is mine,
And, heresy or not, if my hand slacked
I should rob God - since his is fullest good -
Leaving a blank instead of violins.
I say, not God himself can make man's best
Without best men to help him.

'Tis God gives skill,
But not without men's hands: he could not make
Antonio Stradivari's violins
Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel."

all this en masse... gravity toward...
"sanity" and sobriety...

well... it's the nicety of giving /
stating compliments...

if only there was less
fertile ground:
to make one's arguments for...

if the united kingdom
was more akin to... iceland...

             i drink...
  and that gives me hope
in my original venture:
h'america signed a plot
line division:
to abhor the liquid...

for it brought nothing but ill...
constipated abolitionists...
whiskey frankenstein's
monster's fire: bad... mantra...

in that:
the perverted persuasion
tactic of the... limited sober...
sane... the... cream / rather not:
the creep of the crop...
and this is... somehow...
the **** worthy of harvesting?

one ghost... limping...
dead loitering limb...
a foot... for that crazed
ballerina...
then a jargon of a hand
missing... ghost reading
of braille...
             as one does:
when one's elbow
arrives on the scene...
with... robert downey jr.
and tommy lee jones...

then again... ask...
what is... homogeneity...
to the... russians...
                    sweep-stake
the concept of mongol and orc...
somehow: the old east...
is the new south...
you have an imploded "problem"...
you allow it...
all the circus rights of a democratic
load and loot and allowance...

those... whitey...
masochistic chant-lords...
are no good to begin: governing:
anew...

i hear one more ref. to 1984...
i swear to god...
i'll start the **** book burning
fiasco...
              that's all that's ever recited
these days...
it's not the monolith of the bible
recitation...
it's 1984...
it's not even: homage to catalonia...
it's not even...
the stranger by albert camus...
it's this... fixation on:
this was necessarily true...
it had to be necessarily true:
since... we ensured that it be...
necessarily true!

         brave new world
and 1984: sometimes known as...
the works of prophet isaiah...
and malachi...
or some bogus first choice answers...

it's not like charles dickens...
the pickwick papers are to be cited...
no... ray bradbury's
          fahrenheit 451...
     or "we" by yevgeny zamyatin...
is no... one...
to cite... from...
the master and margarita...
mikhail bulgakov -
then again... again... again...
       he, of our own...
that was always right...
and we... of his own...
dumb enough... to have...
         walked... into his...
prediction... and... gloated at it...
when... walking into it...
**** y'ay: brovado!

          it's one scrutiny to...
blind time with all the omnipresence
of open space...
that there is a future:
you'll forgive me: there isn't one...
it's all... kiss and kick
a donkey with a whipping:
blind... then... fish one out...
for the royal ascot...
with an imaginary carrot...
the stick doesn't mind...
whether it be imaginary:
or detailed...

                  but as long as someone...
somewhere...
    is reading an alternative...
not some... thought-fulfilling gravity
of consorts and bitter bitten knees
with more than mere...
masochism of kneeling on pebbles...
there's the... kneeling...
and the exposed calf... and biting riddles
of... the demon with a name akin
to belzeebub! the one associated
with minding mosquitos!

     sayz who?

that these... people... are well verse...
they cite 1984 by george orwell...
like they might cite the *******
quran...
         because: hey presto!
something is real!
they adore... the past...
catching up to the present...
and the present being
devoid of a future...
who aren't the people...
already drunk from...
something in the past...
   coming true?!

      of fruit:
the U.B.D. the B.B.D.
and the S.B.D.
  i love those acronyms as much as i love...
that... affair with the acronym of...
the idea of USA... prior to...
   the louisiana purchase...
                     that little affair of
anglo-dutch proto-germanicus...
maine... new england...
all that fuzzy jazz and... smog...
and lost clue... for: dreamland of
lingering horror...

  so said the sober and "sane" people...
that sanity of the blah of the herd...
well... yeah...
h'america and probihition...
one of those... moon-milking
nation of narratives...
              how science-fiction was
always to eclipse the science itself.

It’s overwhelming.
The urge to scream,
and scream until my lips turn blue.
And my throat grows red,
and my hair stands straight up as though I were hit by lightning.

The will power
used to contain my never ending exasperation,
along with frustration,
is enough to shut down
all of the nuclear power plants in France;
although a meltdown might be more lethal.

But maybe being lethal is what I crave;
years of smiling and
moving aside built up
into an explosive pile of nicety and rage.

Light the wick,
and I promise I won’t fail to explode;
though it always seems
I’m more adept at imploding.

We each partook of our respective
Champagne glasses almost in spot on simultaneity
Toasting to a life full of nicety
Hadn’t we been born with silver cutlery
In our mouths?
Armed with a sense of perspective
But this doesn’t guarantee an alienation of misery
We being hormonal imbalanced youths
Rational irrationality the bedrock
Of most if not all our decisions
We ourselves each other’s stumbling block
Nursing grandiose delusions.
We hence seldom ‘work ‘hand in glove
As we’re “drunk in love”.

Culminating capacity
Daunting density
Varying velocity
Variable veracity
Surging sagacity
Divulging diversity
Tenable tenacity
Laudable audacity
Nurturing nicety
Progressive propensity
Unified university
Simple implicitly
Ample simplicity
Undulating atrocity
Unassailable animosity
Scaring scarcity
Pausing paucity
Causing curiosity
Generating generosity
Magnificent mega-city
Multitude of multiplicity
Pervading perplexity  
Wow! City of complexity

Honest
He who doesn't work, works **** or just can't commit
He homeless
He an affair and a **** good fix
****** with a tendency to show underwhelming ****
Twisted into nicety by such anger at the human, the wants
Good at *** when in love
Un-abused
Un-poisened
One of my best mates like
Dyslexic thick ****
A problem
Step child and real life son, grandson always, always, grandson
eldest unappreciated, underestimated, paranioder? Paranoidist.
One of the needers of therapists
Panicked by past
Fractured by future
A depressive, doesn't drink, do drudgery like drugs
A fearfull mess mummy's boy
Fatherless
Fathered less
A letdownshowoff
overconfident,
Anxious, ex husband, probable poofter, please Goddot, please, let he be a cheater  
A ex punk, definite *****, pushover, almost poet
So easily hurt, yet never hurts
My love one. (Cary you Guardian)
Too damed romantic
Cant read but by gosh buys books
Genius
artistic, Autistic, an idiot and just another bad student
manish
Little Boy
child
Unable to be alone and not a good flatmate
Justifier of the almighty grey areas,
The cheated...

the Strong willed.

Culminating capacity
Daunting density
Varying velocity
Variable veracity
Surging sagacity
Divulging diversity
Tenable tenacity
Laudable audacity
Nurturing nicety
Progressive propensity
Unified university
Simple implicitly
Ample simplicity
Undulating atrocity
Unassailable animosity
Scaring scarcity
Pausing paucity
Causing curiosity
Generating generosity
Magnificent mega-city
Multitude of multiplicity  
Wow! City of complexity

Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.

Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.

Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.

Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.

Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.

Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.

Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.

Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.

The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.

Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.

Its lovely here.

Laughing in the lashes.

Signing my entrapment's.

Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.

Sometimes

It just feels right to be alive.

Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.

Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.

Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.

Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.

Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.

Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.

Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.

Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.

The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.

Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.

Its lovely here.

Laughing in the lashes.

Signing my entrapment's.

Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.

Sometimes

It just feels right to be alive.

Nasty.
Things have started
to get nasty, people
have stopped pretending
that they are not evil

the fabric of fake nicety
has been scorched down
and we fight in the face of
a wrinkled green gremlin

whose name is many
whose language is disgust
whose heart is sealed shut
whose pride is gleaming ****

Disgusting.*
How did we get here? we
huddled, tired, hungry & poor
standing at her pale jade door
being told we’re a liability

pushed out of homes we own
and families we’ve raised
to the streets, making noise
fighting though we’re so tired

It’s how they want us—
tired from years of fighting,
too tired to keep on.
But we’ll never stop.

Though their name is many,
ours is more. The teeming
multitudes arise to take

his place. We protest. We resist.

Nasty.
The gloves are off,
and we persist.

I can still be nice, even as i slice your neck.

What you lack in manners, you will earn in my respect, as all those pretty pink bubbles come bubbling out of your neck.

Nicety.

Slicing the grumpies with said mutual respect, instead somethings are better left unsaid through the smiling cleft in your neck.

Don't be nervous just yet, as the shivers nurture the onset of your ejection to Set.

Elect a breath, to let go of the mess you made, and stow the experiences of this place in your wake.

Just go the **** away.

And here I am, back in my anthology;
Although I have immersed myself in clouded sleep,
Whose sickly sweet could heal me no more;
I was but a tempted dawn in his lap,
A frail daughter of fate, and chastity;
My fatal sleep alone was a curse, to one and others.

Silence, beautiful voice!
How should I instill thee—and instill thee more?
And how wert thou so aloof, though deeply poised?
For every breath that I writ, and taste
is but a luminous sign of death;
an unhappy ding towards my presence,
and its mortal cringe, that is ending by the day.
And thus in such a life there is no wit
Nor cold enough, to redeem its wrath;
A wrath that shall leave this earth untouched,
A grime that hastens much, that all joy
Shall sicken and roam fast, unconsumed.
Why should all be jolly—but not to me,
Not to me, a dutiful daughter of my past,
But whose heart has hurt, by its last;
Whose tears are pure, but not profound;
Ah, me, whom such bland minds scorn in their right,
Me, whom their commoners refuse in plain sight,
Me, whom hath lost my dream of the arts,
Me, whom hath died of my own screams at night!
Ah, who am I but to redeem my joy again,
and claim a delight that was not my friend—
Ah, and which conscious soul is but to comprehend its right,
The extraordinaire of which—that are not moral nor righteous,
Nor are their tendrils—which are not even theirs,
At such a hand full of perils, risky and scandalous.
Who is longing for the pearls of a vision,
Who yearns but for love, for reincarnation,
And no love is dubious, none that remains,
But oblivious, a dire threat to its loving friend;
My fate has lost its way, to the white and cold,
My love has gone, and shan’t be with me again.

Where is but my poem, my little flushed cheek,
Why were you yesterday so smooth and meek?
Where did you hold my destiny, with a fate so clear,
Why did you choose to love me, with a love so weird;
But with no real heart to love me, and my judgments,
Shall I but be allowed to make judgments?
For there were too many taunting ways in which love swore,
And again I was dragged to the vile hot shore,
So my wisdom has raged in a swath of labyrinths,
Too painful for a soul too mean, but not a poet;
Too indecisive to read, let alone to comprehend,
And too unloved to understand, nor seek in a daze,
Perhaps unloved by its own words, like a ******,
Immature in their own corrupt years, like you are;
You are a naïve product of my mind, you are pure,
Of whose love never my sound thought is so sure,
Though hastened by a bare world not ours,
Nor a cycle that is mine, with pain so sour.

Silence, my love; and let briefness lulls you to sleep,
To the lethal eternity which salutes you, be gone,
Gone away like an eerie fairy in mortal dreams,
With their gates ajar, welcoming you in such
clamped dramas, a loveliness without thee,
A cheapness I would not by—nor defend
On the name of my artistic soul.
Did my lavender greet you and cherish you again,
And shall such a loving bud be that of thine;
But to speak less, and remain silent, o my friend—
is but a garment; a nicety to the friendly mind,
Oft’ cornered in daylight, but glazy to the lone night,
The night is kind and festive, unlike the wan sunlight,
Rotting ever is its flesh, dimmed by such sharp sins;
And grandeur and artiste which I once befriended,
That I was a deep dear of whom—‘till I was torn,
By the disfigured spring and summer
Blaming the poor beheaded winter,
A thousand miles from here, into the West yonder.

But who is to love by the spring and bright,
But who is to listen, to hear by the moonlight,
To linger forever ‘till I catch your sight,
To hesitate to claim your love, forever;
Which steals and shine on a lie, that eternally;
Who stand not by my side, in a fateful wake
Of dozens of seas and shores—and untouched dust;
And then all died, so that I ask you,
My literature, whose heart has been but one love,
Whose heart been pained, and disgraced;
In a suited torment and whirling betrayal,
To see once more, a night of sparkles and shades,
To rejoice by a lake of wind, and beautiful glades;
To relish more the charm of poetry, and the beastly—
but glorious freakish rain, so long as you are with me.

In a thought of mine, springs the midnight air;
All is my free beauty so cold and fair,
And I am devoid of a hundred stellar suns;
The illiterate to read, the stifled anguish gone.

In a thought of thee, springs the buoyant mind;
A painting so clear with an electric lair,
That all are a guitar and drum, as it sounds;
That a renewed love has been found.

In a thought of ours, springs the forest rain;
A poem to dim down that eternal drain,
To cease the doubts, and decipher all pains,
Bring me my sweet love, my immortal friend.

In a thought of love, springs the live sonata;
That all hesitation is a panorama,
Like the dramatic act, and its tragedies;
I shall sink myself in thy melodies.

In a thought of breath, springs the sweet song;
That battles rage and its dark humour,
That all mirages shall live in downpours,
That all happiness shall last a night long.

In a thought of fate, springs the sweet poem;
All in my life is a literary grandeur,
All within me desires to writ and love;
All about me in a satin room.

In a thought of joy, springs the sweet tale;
I shall wish thee the best of all and well,
I shall wish thee love, and a story to tell;
In one decreed satire, and hurried wedding bell.

In a thought of two, springs our promise;
All my nightingale and its sweet bliss,
Who is to cherish thee, so grand and wise;
Who is to be thine, so wild as a surprise?

In a thought of one, springs unity;
That all thy beauty shall be rain and youth,
And a word of love forming in my mouth;
And two hearts joining into eternity.

In a thought of bliss, shall I be here;
Such miracles shall be found near,
Who is then to listen to bare wisdom,
Concealed behind naïve truth, inside a poem?

In a thought of light, shall thou be loved;
Among the thousands of larks in the woods,
For I have chosen you to be in my words;
To be my little star, to be my beloved.

In a thought of wind, shall we find cold;
For cold itself is peace on its side,
A turmoil blending into our awake night;
A disgrace dying by a thousand lights.

In a thought of cold, shall we find grace;
Naïve in its glimpses of faltered fears,
But knowing us both yet not;
That it can but challenge the tears.

In a thought of warmth, shall we find youth;
Its spirit shattering the tearful past,
And shall we run, to find in which another smile,
And wipe all our painstaking breaths away.

In a thought of theirs, shall we find hate;
Its song slaughtering the daisies of fate,
In its velvet ways that are so simple;
A harmless perfume to the demented world.

In a thought of Him, shall we find peace;
No prayer shall be void to a sacred move,
And then I shall unite myself with thee;
Like the song sings, the poet and her love.

In a thought of you, shall we find ways;
Perhaps hidden and buried in eerieness,
No thought is too airy, not in the day;
No space is too mild, nor are they cold.

In a thought of us, shall we find life;
You are my rose and magical truth,
That who refills my chest and breath,
That who delights in me, and my red fate.

In a thought of life, shall we find ease;
All about life are roses and raging beasts,
There is happiness to forgive sins,
There is joy to a poem, and what it means;

In a thought of breath, shall we find love;
That no wrath comes near, that we find home,
That poetic arch of mine and thine,
That all lust and enormity are gone.

In a thought of night, shall we be there;
Holding each other and on to the air,
That all tears sound hastened and weird,
That our damp love is all I care.

In a thought of charm, shall we be free;
All the storms that are not tears,
And freedom that shall be here,
Presenting itself to be with me.

In a thought of rain, shall we be fine;
And in one leap of joy, thou shalt be mine,
And be my poems and words everlasting,
In the dark of the night—by the morning.

In a thought of gloss, shall fear be gone;
And my sheer heart shall be thine alone,
Be my poem a book that chastely sings,
Be thou an angel that has wings.

In a thought of truth, shall life be ours;
That all is a tale at midnight hours,
And be like a poetry of unity,
My heart lives there for eternity.

In a thought that vast, who thinks about the past;
When we crave for the poem that lasts,
And who is to fret at this new wonder;
My heart lives there forever.

In a thought that wild, who thinks about sad;
My past has left my whole mad,
Agitated by our renewed delight,
Terrified by our new dewy night.

In a thought that hastes, who says about poetry;
That all is a song our hearts can bear,
That all is enjoined lips, and their beauty;
That all is more than what they wear.

In a thought that sees, who frets about love;
That love is a substance cold and free,
****** only between you and me,
That love is a word, and words are enough.

In a thought that hears, who trusts but words;
That words shall witness those who speak,
That there is idyll in such truth, and worlds,
That words are honest, but not sickly.

In a thought that listens, who saints the sun;
There is too much hate in its glued merit,
That all is a gale but not a careful breath,
That all is bitter, and not at all sweet.

In a thought that loves, who says about love;
That love is hidden within your bare voice,
And your bare voice, in your entangled chest,
The very place I shall find ease and rest.

In a thought that writs, who says about wits;
All is mortal when they have not to say,
That they are blind at night, and in the day,
That their flooded souls shall find none too sweet.

In a thought that reads, who says about fits;
All is silence so far as the eye can see,
And who is there to flock my solitude?
I am far from the sun; and its mock servitude.

In a thought that thinks, who is to love lust;
For lust shall lose hope in one curt day,
That all is there only for the sun,
Bathed in hotness, charmed for nakedness.

In a thought that bears, who is to love hate;
For hate is the chain of every devil,
And in whose devil the world shall lay,
As that in ours, through the night and day.

In a thought that springs, who is to lose thee;
I’ve all along in the glistening white chamber,
My whiteness has been purified close,
I shall not be gone, I shan’t be lost;

In a thought that lives, who is to writ’ thee;
I’ve loved all the while in life, and in my words,
That I’ve given my love there—and so to thee,
That I shall breathe, so long as thou love me;

In a thought that breathes, who is to love thee;
I’ve loved all the years, and meanwhile,
I have been pained, and yet shall not fail;
I’ve loved and carried you still, all the while.

In a thought that whirls, have I dreamt of thee;
That such a thought shall make me sane,
And such a curse is devoid of pain,
The curse to love thee dearly, my friend;

In a thought that bursts, have I been thine;
That all solitude shall, at once, be fine,
And our bliss is faith, and faith is tonight;
I shall wait for thee by white moonlight.

I pray unto my intentions
Hoping i can
Stay the path

But i prey on my intentions
Spinning the colors
Until black

I am not the man i woke up to be
I am not the man i'm going to be
I am not the man you think me to be

I am a man on my own feet
A man of feats upon defeats
A Man of war for peace

I hang up the nicety
With the fleece
My anxiety
With the heat
And wrap myself in soiled sheets
And Freeze in rainy streets

To meet my grief
On a beat
To breathe the blame
In the same hold of the restraint

Until freed
Into captivity

Freely

I feed on feelings
From the feeling
Of falling

Falling
Flat on my face
That i wipe from the faceless cast

I am just a man in the back
Reacting
To the act
Redacting my facts
And back tracking
In pact
To devils
From the black
Of over reactions to the hacks
I am gone
And wont come back
When the wind pushes
Push back
I am there
Looking at
That
Spark
In your heart
Shining through
As everything
I knew
To be true
Changed
As i pushed through

In the end

There

Is

Only

You

The
Reflection
Of

You

Without
Truth
­To
Block
The
View

Ok Ok so.. Lemme go..
I'm about to be pushed so.
Over the edge from Nice and Pretty.
Cute Woman Queendom, sitting quietly.
Gone  and push me.
Unquote just prose.
I'm coming with ink dropped worded sorrows of long awaited ****** blows.
Rock some sense with unpinned fellows. Leave ya crying Oh there she goes!'
I'm not feeling these fingered twisted rhyming lines. I need to break free of this kind.
Hit that like button utubers redundant pushin.
That constant cries style influencin.
Bossy commenting well im in my feelings.
Gonna speak my own mind. Nothing of nicety whines and rhyming fines.
I need to Grab and twist foolishness into mental jabs and knock out some bull* fist of
Minds mental blocks.
Brain washed dead locks.
Of what should be cute friends. Taking away my time on romantics.
Due to blows behind our backs fighting instead of igniting.
Social caves for love drought hungered non slaves.
Assisting in climatic mental dynamics.
To sooth dehydrated souls. In a long over spent Pandemic.
Wiping tears by phones lines, from pictures of systemic vlogged services.
Sick of the youtube beefs in the youtube streets.
Where everybody is against somebody.
Haters be gone!
Battle backs from controversies wrong.
Too many Vlogged accounts operates from inner hates.
Not in the club of rejoicing from online down falls.
Cause the wicked want to judge Advocates for the wounded  by spilling of pains.
Not understanding why a caged bird sangs.
My venting.
Is where I release for healing.
Haters would never seek to help others be free.
I can see why the angry delivery.
Why the rough words from ones mouth flow freely.
Why A vloggers delivery may not be for you but rocks for me.
But has its place in society.
So Let them be.
Stop, anxiety we can move in better differential views.
Keeping hate on back burner stoves, waiting on smoked signal cues.
Or there would eventually be an explosion in corruption.
And like a mass event would be just wasted consumption.
Don't Judge. You can no longer even tell your
striking and causing unneeded reactions. Obsessing.
Boom Boom speculations are not factualization..
Drop your theories of conspiracies.
If you think your standing rejoicing at others down falls,
Soon your own drama will be called.
I'ma sit back and stay paused stay clear in my empathy
and watch rise the cleansing of opinionated hands.
The truth for nonjudging fans. The Tv social media free lands.
A Creator's channels  rights to their own fans.
Clear of hateful bandits and tyrants!
Nuff time on spilled rants.
SelinaSharday rose s.a.m 2021 9-3

it forever stills within the quill
the quill that never inks what will
making sense only confuses
for those who aren't looking for the thrill

my words wont shine within your light
your light is made of a delicate fight
once broken the words unspoken
will fill your blood with explosive delight

carry me now to your place, your home
I wont listen to your metronome
forgetting the tea filled with nicety
and lets dance until we are overthrown

in all your life, that bubbles in you now
age moving eyebrows into a frown
hold the tiny hand that stumbled onto this land
and walk yourself back into the unbound

Earths aura

more beholden
  to a fortress
for a foreign sort
   of torturer

held back
  by a molten sphere

Told in tales of total delves
  into toiled shelves of ice
that whisper nicety
  while hiding
tragedies
  in rings
per

  slice

Frozen finites
  forgotten twice
while
  sliced

in two

Temperate
  dichotomies
cradling hues
  into truths
that,
  one day

bestow
  un
to

~ you

There are so many potentially great poems,

but the problem is they try to formalize their
pain,

as though a cancer patient upon receiving radiation,
or some car
crash victim
having a hose stuffed up his ***
and having his left foot ampuated is going to
to be formal.

sure there is dignity and composure,
but not formality,
and certainly not nicety.


you're vulnerable,
you're hurt-

let yourself scream,

let yourself out.

Sometime a nicety
I look and I feel
and she's on the line to me
breathing
quite heavily
sometime a memory
from some time ago.

Why you're excellent, as you be
Back data assets up & rebooty
Whatcha building over there?
Performative nicety vs. Authentic, genuine care
De-meaning words doesn't strip content of potency, accuracy, just shows a lack of imagination, creativity, care and clarity
Lords of the land were supposed to provide, not take money and chide
Vortexial resonance fields vs. Resistance
Hieros Gamos herostratus and burnt bridges
Hail Mary not pass her like a go-round, no wonder lede was buried instead of being lifted off the ground
Multitask, switchtask, background processes outlast
Self determinaton, loose will, neuromuscular triggering labours past
Anything not bringing ease is a labour, and deserves wage fees if benefitting other deities~
Ancienne previous
Nothing is actually mine
Pop a Placebo fx 2 see
Kaliki Golden Dark Horse Energy
Iku-tihku Emuu Tavatar
Star avatars
Like cutting down a tree to make woodrose
If we're all just a mirror hallucination of eachother, what do you think/say about other people?
Not comprehending something doesnt mean there isn't something profound there to be learned.
Preference of another, is momentary, but crucial
That might involve friction, challenge, and confrontation of a situation
Articulation, translation, communication
Jokes for me, heyoka for yew
Devi takes the W - yew enjoy deviw
If you think I exist amazingly in suffering, I will be brilliant when in capacity and happy... as we all will be...
Multiplayer co-op, not a pvp~ complex single player co-op, actually, where your judge is actually the best form of yourself that knows everything.
If you say so, but why you say it so?
New blood type found, kin
Filleth cups over, use surplus - don't use and discard humans like batters, maximum efficiency and pull energy from excess
Dynamic flow hyperpower
Gimme back those wyrds, spellcasting songs
Palindromic poorroop, soonoos operepo infinifni
When did nerds
What if? (deities song)
"That sounds like a personal issue" preferences vs. judgements, comprehension in communication.
Lemme honour the ancestors by being phi-nominal, matrilineal matroshka polka
Add a yet to it
Immortality vs. Immorality
The Garden of Idun, Yew Tree, Asherah - Pomme de Sang
Tryna be your friend
Kira mari kin, what's your name?
Eagles are pretty vultures that are known by the sound of a hawk.
Heibai try-angles
Wicked faeries and loyal opposition
The mandlebrot set crux point - the chosen
Buoy oh boats
Original thot
Tmesis Pie
What do you want?
Yet to cry, sing or shout at full volume - I care about others around me more than myself, cause I can handle disappointment.
The art of self-deselection
Packets of neuronic bundles
Sympathetic resonant frequencies
Waiting at the finnish line, for another laplander
Standing in the way of flow makes the ******
monkeys comprehend disparity - fight for fairness, rules and bananas
Praise, flattery, advice & criticism
Clarifying Questions~
Basic Instruction Before Leaving Earth, heaven in the astral field
Don't insult your spirit, (can't you hear it?) By copying others.
Can't fool aether, just lie to the self, system be as it is...
Phi-bonna-chi arch and phi-nominal, additionally
Notice what's around
Add what came before
Songs for childish humans
Would a purehearted child stick around to watch?
Perpetual children
Pitch For Kin
Betta zen Mama
Biblios, early facebook, deities spelling it out
X-pyred corpse used to be a nest
Sometimes we have to hear a concept 1000x before it clicks.
Gender is temporary, spirit is not
Pjeunian paradise pleasurecraft
Diff between humans & computers - strange programming languages
Horoscopic cylons
A boy named Susanoo and the story of the sun & moon
Neutrinos and Muons they do what they wanna - Snarky Quarky Boogie
Timey Wimey Jeremy Beremy Hobson Jobson
kulukuset & kolokola: tintinambulation
Can I talk around it?
In the spiritual caste system watchers are worse than golems cause they are everybody's follower, thus lowest wrung... eye in the sky, if it's a wicked eye, is basically just perspective... they are beneath all, just egotistically trapped

High praise:
Ultrasonic Wavecore
Doo be dabbas, da double dragons
Electric eels of sol
Big dumb babies
Wild child doom baby
Perpetual Unicorn of Learning
Pounding Piano Puppies

Two dudes in the cornah touchin tipz, too busy with the space en-forcah heibai brudderhood to care for diz.

Accidental Leakage:
Ron noR recappin ** down
Buttlenecked middlemen chugging diarrhea in a filthy trickledownz system
sense-a-bull
Time-tellingTriangularizartion
Sassy rebukes in the moment instead of beta ****** gossipers when a person can't defend themselves...
******* singing
Hallelu-sin-nation
Cause 7 8 9

A question ?

''if there is a question for me
to subscribe,  to ponder and think ;
 mock me and criticize till
I see the whole in me, in nicety.

I may fail till i feel ,only when
the others reflects in me their pain
 and pangs and their mirth,
if they are in me ''.

it must be a clear misunderstanding when someone utters the words: 'you hurt my feelings'... taking offense etc. last time i checked... doubt is outright discredited... yet in doubt: such a plethora of emotions... bundles of emotions... emotions that i can't bestow a narrative onto... it's not like the lack of emotions matched with denial... doubt's plethora: it's a pale version of love... in all but certain times... a pinch of uncertainty is always welcome... as is being offended... it's a loose-paradox (paradox: probably a misnomer in the context) of... an imploding objectivity... all those who claim objectivity also claim: being cognitive pure... not being dragged: muddled by emotions... why are emotions so undeserving to be felt... i'm tired of the silence of the heart for almost forever... when people say they have "****-hurt feelings"... or that they might be "offended"... it's not that... i see it as: implanting emotions... somehow it's easier to digest thoughts: since... "somehow" thoughts can exist in both an: in vivo as in an in vitro staging... you will probably never take thoughts seriously... but emotions... that raw slice of cured beef? well... it's not that i "hurt" your "feelings"... it's only that i gave you... feelings you never prior experienced... no one has hurt feelings: never... people only have bothersome feelings they cannot digest... no one is hurting... there are only a few with indigestion qualms... but since it's not the stomach but the heart... no one their pigeon brain starts to coo coo: cook up nonsense...

in light of recent events, in England...
a proselyte: of a former Islamic persuasion...
gets stabbed, slashed... whatever...
for wearing a Charlie Hebdo t-shirt
at speakers' corner in Hyde Park...
does it matter she's a woman:
does it matter whether or not she
was actually talking or merely wearing the t-shirt?
a proselyte...
i'm sort of one: teasing at the adventure...
i'll write the word ****** because...
well: giggle... bundle...
i will not censor my thoughts...
but because i will not utter the word:
i will not: it's not for the debility
and some "sacred past"..
but i will not scream it: choke my thoughts
with it... i'll reach the platitude...
urban slur that it has become:
you... don't... "own" the word...
i don't need this black hole punctuation
marker...
                      the "N-word":
god grease this "taboo": i have better pork
to ****...

- when enough drink is in me
i'll be writing under the influence:
but i won't be cycling... i tried that once...
i collapsed on the side of the road
clenched my bicycle
like a woman might clench a ****-buddy
and just... lay there... i was aiming
for the moon... it was a moonless night...
i started aiming for the constellations:
it was cloudy... i just lay there on
the pavement...
it felt... very village-esque...
as if the Red Army just passed through
having seen the well-dressed SS-men
running for their life in scuffles
and... torn limbs... in rags...
thank god the Bolsheviks were not
those ****-smeared Mongols...
who ate nothing but rancid horse-meat
and drank nothing but horse blood...
but it figures...
can i please talk to some of the sensible
Muslims: the ****'ites?
the old world Persians... even they're ******:
how come a bunch of camel jockeys
started to dictate to the Persians
a new thinking parameter?
the youngest of the monotheistic brat-dom....
so easily offended...
my greatest "fear":
the jihadi with an acute sensitivity
most associated with: French footballers...
why are these Muslims as sensitive as
French footballers...
Islam was once so gracious:
i was almost willing to "revert"...
i was implored by some Muslims to do so...
that's the thing with associating yourself
with Muslims in the west:
a feeling of conversation soon turns into
a feeling of conversion...
i asked one ****-
            -stani who approached me in a park
while i was sipping a beer...
why are you single? he implored...
a man of your stature...
shouldn't be single...
i didn't ask him whether this was England or
whether it was Lahore..
i just asked him what:
Alif-Lãm-Mĩm
meant at the beginning of a surah...
he brushed it somehow "aside" with a:
'only god knows'...
sorry... but that's not good enough...
i have to be the worst type of
a convert prospect...
although the best should an architecture
student... come along with a joint...
me with two beers... him with Le Trio Joubran:
that is happened in Amsterdam:
of course it had to happen in Amsterdam!

Alif-Lãm-Mĩm: is that sort of quiz
akin to turning letters into numbers
and "seeing" patterns... there's that Hebrew term
for this practice... it's not chiromancy...
it's not the concern for the Zodiac...
it only takes three letters...

"666": ΧΞϚ

last time i checked: "they" were breeding black
athleticism over Hebrew intellectualism...
Hebrew intellect fell short &, sour...
with what came out of Marxism
and... Freud still chokes:
but it's hardly a ******* celebration
when translated into skyscrapers...
when there's also that alias of the ****
with the football stadium... no?

but the "******" can be celebrated for his
physical prowess...
there are more holier words in this language
than a slur i hope to confess has become
more of an urban doodle: prepositional-punctuation
marker....

at least i'm not screaming the "N-word" in the back
of my head like some stuttering numb-nuts...
it's there... plain to see...
if i were to write: Niggerian instead of Nigh-Gear-Ian...
it would imply... what?
the same sort of hyper-sensitivity associated
with Jihadi Johnsons alias:
macabre: Russian ballerinas are more cut-throat
than these French footballers...

there are more sacred words than require
black-holes of: translated into "thinking"...
the name of the Hebrew god...
hidden within a "name for a name":
ha-shem...
there... i'll go as far as that...
i will not utter this word...
but sure as hell i'll make a great dough
of it: seeing how it might rise...

**** a black girl: colonial superpower, i...
the English are the tourists of Europe...
i don't think the Polacks ever felt comfortable
in their backyard... ever...
the argument goes: since the English went
all over the world... the world now has
to come knocking...
for all this ****** weather: you're more than
welcome...
Japan is an island... it has much
better weather: go figure...

another example... a former ISIS bride has returned
to England...
she's living in a £500,000 house
and has been giving treatment for
a prosthetic extension
of a lost arm: "lost" in a drone strike...
**** me... should have fought for ISIS...
pumped myself up with all those
amphetamines all those warriors were
ingesting because:
drink is... b'a'a'a'h bad (stutter?) i bet
you want...

hypersensitivity:
great at running...
but... no good at swimming
or for that matter: rock climbing...
from a tree unto the rock...

no matter... i was watching the Australian masterchef
contest and spotted a stand-out...
her grandmother was of a south-east-asian
"persuasion"...
pure as chalk...
well... "good news": ol' sandpaper man
comes in... 2nd generation
of interracial breeding...
well... two generations short...
what's that like in dog years?
the first encounter... done...
2nd... by the 3rd turn product pops out...
all is bleached...
worked with sandpaper... of white: piglet skin...

what a pretty fine explanation...
this connect: nuanced: "us":
greedily waiting the next: new...
conversion...
how do born & bred Muslims treat
proselytes...
converts... "reverts":
if not black h'american Malcolm X
stints...
all white... Mamluk / Janissary types-typos...
second class: ha! "citizens":
i don't trust these anaemic-**** smears
from the sand-pits of wannabe Congo
any more than...
no... great curry...

how it came about that a western man
had to become: educated by
some... retrograde... concerning words:
he would never ******* use!
even in a bilingual sequence of "events"...
mind you... the niqab would come about
as sort of... useful...
concerning the mythological blonde and
her ******* tirade of cough-ups!

get the **** real: ******:
the blacks just want to be...
blacks... the whites just want to be:
white...
you... play-up your jazz
while i drown my ******* Prokofiev...
you be black... i be white...
women always: some great heritge
of brotherhood making a comeback?
must be a Vancuever sort-of
a shin-dig...
investment in lady... qualities...

just about right: how h'Arabs treat those
Bangladeshi whips...
you have to whip those h'Arabs into
owning some ******* whiskers...
brown-beat doesn't even cover it:
with the copper-necks...

- just don't get me started on the Turks...
Turks... supposedly Muslim...
but their alphabet originated with the Mongol
geography...
seeing how the Turks licked at Vienna...
spent so much time just below
the Carpathian mountains: in Europe...
the best barbers and the best
prostitutes known to man...
oh and the ****'ite Persians who still love their
iconography...
Charlie Hebdo was wrong in that respect:
i bet Muhammad was a handsome *******...
a camel jockey / goat herder...
an illiterate par excellence...

it's not like he was immediately liked in his
local Mecca...
i have my "theory": in praise of older women...
i'm pretty sure she was the elder
the literate... the business mind-set illuminated...
she must have been the person who
wrote down the first Surahs...
who? Khadija: Muhammad's first wife...

eh... and they really do think they're the dog's *******...
Eddie Izzard's explanation is still tip-toe for moi...
my francophobia will not go away:
i can't speak French and not retain a French accent...
that will not pass...
therefore? i will not learn French...
i'm not going to speak French like a foreigner...

clearly i wanted to convert to Islam once...
"clearly"? hmm...
i once listened to this spectacular adhan and cried
like a Janissary...
what put me off Islam?
****-
    -stani Islam...
                 Saudi Islam...
     i'm still teased by the Turks... well... Turkish prostitutes...
once upon a time i also
heard vaughan william's fantasia
on the theme of thomas tallis... and also cried...
i cry at beauty... that's what i do...

my ****** lot... because the Hebrew's devil is older
than my devil...
imagine... coming from a people
that still defended the last paganism
of the Lithuanians: the last paganism in Europe...
the year: 1410... a battle between the pagans...
the Tatars (remains of the Mongol Horde)
the Polacks: lack-land lack-land...
and the Teutonic Order...

perhaps i could have convinced myself
to convert to Islam...
but then... what the hell do i do with
the *******... ms. amber and all that bourbon
that... always reminds me of a brothel?

the Hebrew god...
well... it begins with the implosion and all that's
clockwork with the Greek Δ -
that became the Y or... the serpent's split tongue...
funny story...
i was chatted with a Greek on a train to central
Warsaw from the Modlin Airport...
my god... how similar Greek sounds to Spanish!

look here: γΥ!
                           eh? eh? it's a sound structure that
requires an umlaut when transcribed into
Latin:                     gÜ...
one parabola... two parabola: a pair of wheels:
goo!          of the ghoul!

i do believe the story of of Carmenta (the Cimmerian Sibyl)
because... why shouldn't
it not be mythological that the genius
of Sejong who invented Hangul...
enough time passes...
journalism becomes history and history becomes
myth... or... there abouts...

all for the best... now that we're all seemingly
literate...
under too much weight of history:
it seems that i have inherited too much...
and i have inherited too much:
there's a plateau of a horizon...
so much history for a single man to digest:
ingest... that we have hoarded so much
of it... enter filter... enter skim-reading...
but it happens  ever so often that a Quran arrives...
a fire... but then... all the restrictions
that come with it... so much with keeping
too much from the past...

if only Islam could have cured me
of my drinking solution
to the boredom associated with
the soberness of the everyday: platitudes...
perhaps enough: just enough of *** could
curate me towards a better path...
such are the times:
there's plenty of drink: available...
but never enough ***...
unless you're a performance artist...

i feel most sane on a bicycle... feel safest
when being overtaken by a juggernaut of
a truck's volume...
a critique of traffic...
i feel... completely bewildered when
a mini-cooper: this sized: ||
takes... this much: |       | of space
to overtake you...
while... a man driving a van...
or a truck sized: |       |
takes... || to pass you...

Gallows Corner roundabout...
the last thrill of a cyclist taking to orientating
traffic... in the newspaper...
another solipsistic cyclist was mowed down
by a truck turning left at some junction
of Holborn...
me and my unconscious spatial coordination
arithmetic: not some ******... although:
a ****** would probably wave hello
this was a paediatrician cycling to her job...
i don't pity her... let the earth be light
upon claiming her body...

most cyclists that die on the streets of London
deserve to die...
how nonchalantly they ignore...
how... no... nonchalant is a timid word:
how... blasé they seem...
every time i pass one of these solipsistic
bulges geared up for: target practice
i forget to laugh...

i feel human... i bought 70cl of bourbon...
gorgon... bourbon: watch me turn to stone...
**** it... i'll sober up tomorrow morning
on the dual carriage way...
why not take the risk?
i'm most sane when drinking and scribbling
or when cycling...
i was expecting to see some lovelies in
Upminster... but...
since i was riding a road bike with 23cm wide tires
i was looking down for... ***-holes...
more than looking up for cleavage...

but this glorious spot... just outside of Upminster...
beyond Cranham... easing into
Bird Ln... through to Tomkyns Ln.
while walking across the A127 Arterial...
the organic beauty of England is starting
to grow on me... i love what the Saxons did with
the place...
perhaps the Welsh and the Scots: the origins story
Britons that the Romans met would have
done just as much...
nice... tended to garden...
i once felt nostalgic for the land most associated
with Polacks occupying it
but a land the Swedes wanted... the Mongols...
the Russians... Turks and Germans...
i imagine i'd be as much involved with
a love for the organic north America
while missing the love for the...
culture that lay on top of the organic spectacle...

i much adore this topography...
of course i can hardly appreciate the natives
having too play the game of capitulation
of former colonial herd "animals"...
hurt feelings? or feelings aroused?
you felt them: your problem...

how the English capitulated to their former subjects...
it almost hurts... almost: no... it hurts...
i love this land...
i'm hardly going to agree with the people...
nicety... politeness:
you give them a ******* mosque in the middle
of... i've was invited to the Reagent Park mosque
as a prospectus convert...
what is it with having Muslim "friends":
you're only "friends"... "proper":
if you convert?!
what's that recipe you have for the Lavash?
who would have thought that rosemary
works just as well with beef as it does with lamb...
oh right... that was it?
fair enough... *******!

see... that's what put me off Islam...
****-
  -stani: Rotherman...
bad taste man... it just left a bad taste in
my mouth... i ended up without a mouth...
pretending to eat via the hole i **** from...
i'd scoff out some diarhoea digestive juices on
my meal and then... vacuum it up with my ****...
i remember the concept of teeth...
though... teeth were nice...
so was the tongue...

****-
  -stanis ruined my vision of converting to Islam...
i'll settled for this... makeshift of Christianity...
gnostic.. because... well:
in my position: you're not teasing at Hebrew
superstitions... you must be...

oh this land... this most glorious: serene land...
how breath-taking "concept" of Scotland...
all the finicky irks of the rolling hills of
what's mostly England...
on a bicycle: best...
do i mind the locals?
well... do the local mind their former colonial
subjects?
what's that saying: thanks for the recipe?

you see me in Bangkok... you see a *******
chimpanzee die from dehydration:
sweated out from his... salty... nut-sack!
i'm not going... to hell with south-east Asian
humidity...
it's a cancer... i'll best survive with "the idea"
of keeping up a hard-on / narrative on...
prospectus ghost horizons...
the Faroe Isles... *******: GREEN-LAND...

that's where Frankenstein's monster would
have went... i'd go there too...
the agony of summer...
everything decomposes too quickly...
the flies... the maggot **** the flies!

oh for the love of these isles... perhaps not the people:
then again... i rather drift in & out with
the anglo-saxons than be jumbled up with
"my" people...
you start to appreciate despising the
******* diaspora after a while...
i guess the Polacks are the most willing to
integrate...
whoever showcased the dynamics of the
congregation project of Chicago...
somehow forgot...
i'll drink drink this 70cl of bourbon:
don't worry... i won't clog up the arteries of
the NHS with my antics...

you what? i love this land... perhaps the wolves
have been culled...
but the foxes are still running rampant...
well: if life throw you foxes:
you're not going to exactly: ah-woooo!
bark? for the love of life: i will never
bark or take to the leash...
i own two maine *****...
i exhausted them while grooming them...

they ended up spending the afternooon
sleeping in my bed...
i'm hopefully going to retire to it:
with a horror movie soundtrack somehow:
soon...
spontaneity of narrative... closure:
more impromptu... less of that...
masquerade formality...
this god blessed land...
if only the Spanish armada...
like the Mongolian ships...
should the conquest of Yappon could have
been envisioned...

anyone still reading this still bothered about...
GG?
the consensus of... a neGlected...
     Giant...
i think... this former soy boys catching
their Goliaths... catch 'em cold... sober..
or... simply exchange them?
to perform so well in slam-dunk prowess...
reinvent classical music via jazz through
towards blues... rock... etc.?

somehow the weight on my shoulders shifts...
a Nigerian ****** turns out to be an urban slur that
doesn't invoke a Nigerian...
a soy boy vegan: perhaps...
i implore the use with coercion tactic...
for those offended: yeah... i'll just implant some
emotions into your heart...
it's very much offensive for my to intrude with
proper spelling...

let's be honest: anyone who has been:
honest... is by now... tired of walking on eggshells...
**** a black girl... what, you?! colonial beast!
yes... confuse the ****** with the Croat...
the Russian too... hell... throw some Ukrainian bias
while you're at it...
anti-racist western girls are...
eh... m'eh... if i can get what i want for
half a decade's worth with some Turkish raven
hair... beaus...
do i... have to mind... pronouns... prospectus quotes etc?

like i said... wait for the bleach..
or... the sandpaper...
i've seen the complete works...
i was ****** with... love... affairs...
girls that dated me...
sure... but they had younger sisters...
and their younger sisters were more...
most attractive...
terrible combination:
dating a girl while her younger sister
is more attractive...

for all the choices and Heidegger...
lucky loser...
no... thank you...
to be one of these super-sensitive Islam propagators...
me? convert?! *******: no!
best keep that ***** in the niqab...
if it were a bone tomahawk..
it would be a female... declined limbs...
blinded...
a torso readied for *******...
imagine that... a replica machinery...

oh i'm sure... Muhammad... was a handsome beast...
but i'm thankful...
that the first... last... true religion...
met a schism so early...
Muhammad was so easily undermined
not keeping a nepotistic promise for
a cousin Ali...
early schism: no truer than:
truth is somehow sold?!

i fiddle with my beard:
whoever says otherwise... no... i'm still playing a violin!
i'll sober up solo... cycling against the gusts of wind...
Eloise...
Eloise!
England... oh this well deserved and welcome land...

my land....
in deutsche:: mein(e) erde...
i watch the locals: capitulate....
   what are you?! slugging *****-best-please
sumac? i... i am to surround  suspicion?

this glorious land....
                   this.... glorious land...
this: ING-LAND...
best forget the wolves..
given the foxes are prunes...

The Catering officer
Once upon a time, I was a ******; I began as a galley boy
and after six months was promoted to the second cook,
What dizzying height. At home, I went to a catering school for cooks
and later on, a course to become a chief steward.
For three years I slaved as a chief cook on ships it was
hard and boring and then I was promoted to Chief steward
they use “chief” a lot in the merchant navy, this to make you feel
important, but in the end, you are a ******* slave.
My job was that of a purser doing the books buying what was needed
as cheap as possible and see to it the cook was reasonable sober.
This new job gave ample opportunity to read I wore a white shirt
with three silver stripes on which caused me endless embarrassment
as I dislike uniforms in civilian life. The first ships I was on had a selected crew,
proper people saving up to buy a house with a big garage when
I was dreaming of going ashore and meet exciting people.
This entire nicety unnerved me, and I tended to be rude one can
say I didn't fit in, so my next ship was less posh and from
there it was downhill all the way until I ended up on rust buckets
that birthed at small ports in South America, and I loved it.
Gone was the uniform, but I used a blazer over my T-shirt when
the officials came onboard, served them whisky till they
staggered smiles and handshakes ashore.
But it didn't last the old ships were replaced with container ships
which is nothing but floating barges, so I jumped ship
swam to the Algarve in Portugal and stayed.

No nature, good guesses
In the nicety's we made, for a friends stare
Shown the ****, the intimacy of lessons
We decided is a grievance best left hope's fair

Token jaws may drop at so much...
The thought of mortality's irony
With a realm to its need's touch
We can become a savior, not heeds of infamy

Spate intentions, for a cordial fool...
But in the end, a house of mind over material worth
Is a liberty best left, reality's cause, not the ghost of a person's tool
True to our best places and promises that came, is a patience so certain?

Music in the air, one day. a having revelry
Wait on the many, and see the coming hour
Take to the world, an excitement above civility
Where one heir to garner the truth, is never a claim of passion, if so sour

chukkie choke:

baha / ars
replica - res cog.
pap.                                502 error message bypass, now for
                            the actual content:

in my years as a hermit i could really appreciate
any and all interactions on the internet,
esp. those ones that were exchanged in a written
medium...
at school we never managed to get a programme
going: of having pen-palls in either Germany
or France...
i guess it would have been sort of: nice...
                since emerging from my hermit state
going back among people, into the workforce...
i'm finding... conversations over the internet:
unnerving... seriously unnerving:
all this walking on eggshells from time to time...
you never know who'll end up talking to...
in my training as a steward at football matches...
a scenario:
i'm paired up with someone pitch-side...
for an hour the hypothetical person in a hypothetical
scenario is going-on-about
how the team i support are ****...
London rivalry between the east and the north...
the east and the west...
i'd love to see a time when West Ham meet up
with Millwall: if i were totally honest...
but the training states...
talk to the person that's ******* you off...
first... before seeking help from your supervisor...
on the internet there's that easy button
to press: the block button...
not even at school was i able to be liked by
everyone... so... no surprises...
i much preferred being: reasonable than being
liked... nice lesson to learn in your
formative years...
that's the hypothetical scenario...
in real life?
me and Danny stood pitch-side about two weeks
ago at Craven cottage...
he supports Arsenal, i told him: i "support" West Ham...
the old West Ham when they could play
really good football against the high tier
teams... while at the same time
underestimating the teams below them...
he was ashamed of Arsenal, or rather: didn't care...
i told him... it's not like i could ever be
a fanatical supporter... have the team's scarf...
have the team's jersey, know the chants...
i just like watching the game... the per se closure
and opening...
local patriotism, for me... is a borderline between
London & Essex...
both get beef from the rest of England...
esp. Devonshire... western *******...
always the pompous ones...
but it's never a local patriotism that could
be translated to a support for a football team...
what an alien concept.... no... not even the need
for the people to have it: it's more effective than
religion... it's for the rich, it's for the poor...
the intelligent and perhaps the less so...
not my place to discuss the need for people to support
football teams: if they're happy...
i'm also very happy on the job
when i hear them chanting, being so engaged...
considering that i attended Catholic Mass when i was younger:
i had to... to attend a Catholic primary school
i needed to attend mass... have my first communion...
pretend to go to a confession: where i lied...
i had to think up of something...
by a Catholic high school...
i "forgot" to get confirmed... all the other peers
were confirmed in at Brentwood...
i was reading up on the Gnostic Heresies...
my mind was made up then and there...
so seeing the lack of energy of the crowd in a church
as mass... comparing that to... the energy at a football
match?! wow... people need to feel something:
however trivial it might be...
better it be as trivial as a football match...
year in, year out...
it's good to know people can simulate a passion
for something...
they splinter up into their local patriotism...
yet at the same time: if they're called up...
they rally up together...
my second shift at Fulham i was actually smiling at
their passion...
impossible to fault it...
right...
               in my hermit years i would really cherish
exchanges on the internet...
then i was banned, excluded, banned somewhere
else... probed...
i knew the gig was up...
someone who had beef with me didn't resort to
allowing me elaborate, so that we could establish
a discussion... the first mistake of sorting out
a hostile situation...
currently?! A SOCIETY OF ******* SOCIOPATHS
AND LITTLE DESPOTS! CRY-BABIES!
with Danny we ended up talking about
his interests and passions... mostly crypto-currency...
he asked me for mine: music, mainly...
and cycling... he too was an avid cyclist once
before crashing into a tree...
but mainly talk of crypto-currency...
oddly enough we remained in-earnest throughout...
taking out time as a hermit allowed me
to become extroverted when otherwise
i wouldn't be...
i still like periods of introversion but i never
managed to have too much capacity for small-talk...
i guess spending time alone for over a decade
has allowed me to learn this skill...
time alone can teach you all manner of things...
your observational skills, esp...
a heightened sense of alertness...
although i have to say... initial small-talk is still
as painful as ever... the nicety of greeting people...
o.k. o.k. let's get it sorted...
we're not here for coffee... let's get into our roles...
then it's a breeze...
oddly enough i love the cushion of hierarchy...
why?! ha ha...
i can easily cover my back... do the Pontius Pilate
like... it's a ritual of pouring myself a glass
of milk... i am responsible for so little it would seem...
passing down the message to a supervisor is
a silent giggle in tow...
i grant myself all the benefits of returning to people:
it's so impossible to live without people:
esp. in a professional environment,
in undertaking a role...
in giving a cigarette one minute,
then asking the same person if they can bring you
a free bottle of water, which they willingly bring...
it's impossible to live alone...
i'm not implying having friendships,
i'm more prone to the allegiance to a professional
relationship with people: in stating boundaries:
in keeping them...
i was supposed to go on a date with this fellow
worker tomorrow, she texted me that she's not
up for it, a bout of flu: or is it flute?
no problem, get well, blah blah etc.
maybe some other time...
also a learning curve... first experience solipsism:
a thought experiment of an actual
condition that plagues autistic boys & girls...
then return to interaction... refreshed...
yet what i've experienced on some platoforms:
no one should experience...
people are unable to talk, "all of a sudden"?
they need to be supervised?
how about the block button? if that's ultimately
necessary?
society doesn't have to become this: rigid authority
seeking...
sometimes when writing... hell...
writing is primarily nuances / nuanced...
it seriously can't be taken literally...
a poetry platform: em... metaphor?!
listening to Bach's Goldberg Variations (BMV 988)
on my part a statement:
I'M THINKING ABOUT EATING YOU...
what harm?
said recipient only identified that statement
as referring to cannibalism...
sure... i was thinking of... the eloquence of
Hannibal Lecter... i might have been thinking
of cannibalism for the fun of...
the unknowable comparison:
closer to beef, or closer to chicken,
closer to mince beef or steak meat?
prawn?
             a texture that combines... almonds with
butternut squash?
do i look like a cannibal?
i heard that cannibals have really small teeth...
milk-teeth... and if the cannibal
is of an African disposition: their teeth are
not the ebony-envy... but that they're yellow...
like the teeth of a piglet aunt up north...
well... there's also the Kuru disease of New Guinea...
killer protein... killer proteins are also mentioned
in cases of Alzheimer...
Alzheimer being therefore something akin to...
an acne resurrection attack (acne, being dead
white blood cells) of brain cells... last time i heard
the brain was mostly fat... so... protein eating up fat...
or...
hours later... i was ******* to photographs
of Alexis Texas' *** being eaten... literally...
this one guy had his entire face... enclosed in between
her ****-cheeks, almost like a face-hugger
scene from the film alien...
well... i filter out ******* when i'm tense...
the sound is ever hardly on...
mostly photographs...
   is it so terrible to ******* to pictures of women
getting pleasured?
on the rare occasion that i manage to find
a pregnant girl *******...
i'll put the sound on... or...
hardly a need for scented candles & a comfortable
chair...
more like... take a ****, take a ****... *******...
take a shower... a Lester Burnham in reverse...
at the end of the time... today's closed chapter...
i sometimes try a morning routine
but i limp off since it feels like...
the sort of **** that might be associated with
having your beer spiked with a ******...
- i used to love internet interactions...
now... it's like an agreed observation i shared
with my grandfather... i'd love to chat...
but... over the phone?
i need to see your face, i need to see your hands...
i need to be invited by your idiosyncratic
gesticulations! over the phone it always felt like:
oh, you have a voice? well done...
there's clearly a scale of escalation...
one user does not agree with another user...
options available?
1. block them...
2. talk to them... clarify the problem...

the 3. option of making a complaint...
we're talking about platforms!
anyone can publish... that's the idea!
and they can publish anything they deem fit
within the platform's regulations...
i'm backing up my argument...

come to think of it... i trust people in real
life more than i do online...
it used to be the complete opposite...
people online how become hyper-sensitive:
authority riddling their own, ahem...
"safety"? oh... i see them...
later in life... the sort of Sarah Everard types...
frothing at the mouth... authoritarian:
getting other people's accounts suspended
online... invisibly "powerful"...
little despots, pseudo-sociopaths... mimics...
echo chamber half-wits...
yet in the great big world...
gullible little children...
it's that same joke...
a wannabe-sociopath meets a real-life sociopath...
their first date is always their last, date...
there's always a hierarchy...
there's always something in place
for whatever karma can be translate as:
in terms of... lessons to learn / to be learned...
it's always too late...
that microcosm of a build up...
people never go over the edge over things
of great importance...
it's always the little things that push them
over the edge... thereby? making
their lives all the more grandiose...

i could have been pushed over the edge
a few times...
we're talking about platforms...
not publishers... at the same time...
we not talking internet service providers...
we're not talking about
electrical companies, are we?
so if we're not talking publishers...
we're not talking internet service providers...
electrical companies...
this one where: he said, she said, behind closed
doors? **** it, publish everything!
i think this a way to implore these mediums
to take into account:
their absolute inauthenticity when caving
to one party's demands / concerns...
without fully exploring the other side of the story...

last time i checked... i checked out
as a minor presence on a platform... 3K views:
my highest grossing poo'em...
now?! in at 41K... i've recently been to
Wembley Stadium for the Women's FA cup final...
in attended... 43K... well... then...
i have perspective what circa 40K looks like in real life...
it doesn't matter what it reads on a screen...

tomorrow i'm going to paint my room,
refresh it... take all the books out... clean them...
take out the vinyls... the compact disks...
i just can't wait for the 14th of December...
i hope the woman who does my mother's
manicure / pedicure brings her one year old
daughter with her... and all the albums i lent her...
oh i don't care if her friend with a Scandinavian
physique / physiognomy comes along...
who's looking for dating...
i just care that she bring that little bundle
of joy with her...
planning ahead is never right...
you plan ahead: you're bound to come against
disappointments...

a flu, for example...

but i'd love to play with an onomatopoeia and
the basic foundations of speech with this
rugrat... (furgrat chimpy - a googlewhack...
oops)....
   obviously i wouldn't be thinking about
vowels and consonants...
i'd be thinking about syllables... about Katakana...
they say MA-MA first, no?
i'd love to explore her response to syllables,
syllables come first, as what's to be deciphered first...
sounds or gurgling are not exactly
qualification to make distinction of vowel or consonant...
man begins speaking / man becomes understandable
via the system of syllabary...
much later... the atomic vision of A... B'eh / beta...
for that matter... Na: that's sodium / natrium...
since my serious date bailed on me this coming
Monday... the 14th... that's Tuesday...
i'm really hoping for a date with this lady barely
a year old,
i'll put on some vinyl and we'll pretend to talk,
or... we'll end up talking a little.

Sounds like avarice...?
Being sorts we have for look, than lucre
The pout of destiny, if not the anarchy involved, since
I put down the book and see, the child to assure...

Running to the north, the treasure in hand
The hero saves the moment to wishes for his lovely lady
Simple ideas we can hope are, our future and with a stand
Kisses the woman with all of his love, and thus an end gently

Smiling, the child applauds
Kind and come, history I know won
The hearts of youth for a poise and a worlds key, odds
Of justice that should, a patience in the cares, of love

Smiling, I finish up, truth of a paradise to remind
Is a lauded hour to simplify the coming decency
We made for each other, a honor to kind...
The moment pillows tell the journey one more time, and be

Yawning, and waiting to see
Time in my vices and direction of nicety
I put the child to bed, making sure we see
The daring of possibility has it to show, we

Sitting thereafter, and remembering the tale
Similarity and season come by to sit at my knowing
Care for fending call's and baring of just moment's, to never fail...
Like the reasons of a rise in the land, we have seen another, owing

Avarice?
I wonder and then come to a kinder conclusion
Paces of rhyme and real enough lip for a chance
Of such and more, we keep with avidly, another's imagination...

it goes like this:

PLEASE, LEAVE,
ME, THE, ****, ALONE!

westerners don't do
sales /
            retail jobs

instead?
they do manufacturing
           jobs.

i can't, and won't stomach
these "jobs"...

              an European
will do manufacturing jobs...
bit retail?
     acting?! faking
the nicety of a smile?

  Europeans abhor lying...
i know they leverage telling
white lies...

      the socially acceptable
quirks...
  but you tell someone
to tone down their ****** expressions?
you're sitting on *******
dynamite!

i couldn't learn Russ even if i wanted to...
not because i can't speak favourably of
the people: a most hospitable folk...
although: as a ****** in Moscow...
dating a Russian girl... things had to be on
a: hush-hush... i had to "pretend"
to be English...
which wasn't hard since... i have a generic
accent: if an accent at that...
only in Essex could it be know:
by an inquisitive 14 year old girl...
in the middle of the night having left a ******
party looking for a friend... instead
finding me first... walking out of the darkness
of a park to inquire: where, was, i.... from?
we sat near a roundabout...
i rolled her a cigarette...
a black cat came towards me...
picked it up, stroked it... blah blah...
all of a sudden i was a warlock while
the girl did runners... to and fro...
50 metres ahead... 50 metres back...
like she was trying to shake me off but couldn't:
since i promised her that we would
find her friend... which we did...
lying face-down at a bus stop...
i took off my hoodie attired the poor shivering
thing and... we walked to a designated
pick-up spot so one of the girl's father
could pick them up... which he did...
of course... we had to take a group selfie
before all of that...
- a strange hallucination:
i sometimes feel i have a spider crawling around
behind my right ear...
petty architect of... beside the cobweb...
for a 14 year old: i'm stabbing in the dark
she might have been older...
it's not like i didn't think about her
*******, which were: of course... pronounced
while i rolled the tobacco and asked:
my spit... or yours?
so i gave her the roll-up so she could
lick it herself...
          the things that happen in the night:
it's no wonder i find the formalities of
day so... pedestrian...
oh but you can get away with being English
in Russian... they love these people
over there...
not so much the Polacks...
       - again... to reiterate... i would never learn
that language: perhaps i'm just fonder
of the Greek writing script than i am of
the Cyrillic...
(no... that sensation of a spider behind my
right ear was not a hallucination...
a happy home is a home filled with spiders...
some... ancient proverb or... something...
caught the little ****** crawling on my arm...
dangled him on his string and placed
him on the windowsill)...
- i really have bigger things to worry about
than a discrepancy in Cyrillic that
i simply can't ignore: it has been burning
in my mind since yesterday...
- ******... oh sure i'll complain...
the cat thinks he can own the night and prowl
and prance all he likes:
that's the problem with cats...
they teach you the unattainable bewilderment of:
they have free will:
while you too, have, free will...
but it's only illusionary...
or worse... it's more than an illusion...
it's a bad... b'ah b'ahah joke...
a little h.m.v. (his master's voice) moment
in the calmness of the night:
quorus! quorus!
quo... where is russian?
i can't take credit for the name...
the breeders conjured it up...
i would be more inclined to: qua-rus...
i.e. as being: russian...
maine ****... ginger... it could have
worked... so i'm writing this to calm myself...
could this 10kg little Colossus take
on a fox? well... he is a house-pet...
not a wild animal...
its legs are more flexible... it too can bite...
but... little pockets of anxiety and
the debacle of... KBAC...
i.e. KVAS... a popular drink in Russia...
sort of: a better version of root-beer...
malty... & sweet... carbonated...
perfect for eating fast-food pancakes... with...
orange caviar...
- i sometimes walk through the garden
and a single cobweb thread covers my eyes...
i must be dreaming when awake:
sometimes... eh... most of the time
since i'm so dream-starved...
Freud couldn't make a shilling out of me:
what is there to interpret when
all you dream about it a great big...
black yawn of a void?!
i guess this brings me to the schematic:

                                   north
                                  północ
                  ­                    Ц

    east                                  ­                        west
  wschód                            ­                       zachód
      Ш                                                   ­          Щ

                                    south
                    ­             południe
                                       Ч

a "lesson" in etymology: shrapnel...
pół: half... noc: night... i.e. half is night...
i'm guessing: of the year...
but why isn't south: half is day?
po: after... -łu- is sharpnel...
dnie: days...  dzień: day...
   it's still one and the same however much
the word morphed... half-day for south
half-night for north...
  wschód (rise... an all-encompassing
reference to: sunrise) - east...
likewise with: west:
sunset: zachód...
                 etymologically?
eh... chłód: a coldness... an eerie coldness...
zombie-esque...

hell... i didn't sit down to write this...
i came for the Cyrillic letters that bother me...
i.e.
    why isn't Ц: Ч
     and vice versa - why ins't Ч: Ц?
when...
     Ц looks like... the better half of: Щ?

i mean: it seem logical, or phonetically authentic
that half of Щ
                                             Ц
would encapsulate half of the sound
most associated with my Slavic terms:
szczeka: (it) barks...
szczerość: honesty...
oh i can hide the "confusing" Z and bring out
the English H... one surd for another...
SHCH:
        sharp is szkic...
cheap as: czerń...
          i could go one step further and employ
Czech orthography: style...
the aesthetic of writing: encoding sounds...
and hide both the Z and the H
in a caron: a crown hovering above the letters C & S...
but then... it would appear congested
with a word like honesty:

       ščerość...                    no? too much baggage:
from on high...
but it's not like the English language
has any concerns for this...
even Charles Dickens dared to summon
the term: orthography to a sound encoding "system"
that didn't employ... summon...
any diacritical distinctions...
one ought to be intuitive about the excesses of:
tatters... one ought to remember THat: THought...

it doesn't matter: i'm asking the Russians...
if half of Щ (šč)
    is Ц... it looks that way!
then why doesn't Ц denote: č-chequers?!

hell... have your: Ш... i'll be... haha... "brave"
and say... it deserves to almost resemble a
crown hovering above a serpent... š...
how a Y (igrek) might behave if
asked to be treated for geometric purposes!
instead of crafting rivers!

i'm not "confused": i'm just *******!
Ц ought to denote entombed in Ч
and... vice versa... at worst!
Ц is one ******* half of Щ!

- and what is Ч: the western slavic C: it's not an aesthetic
substitute for either K or S (there's no... cedilla
attached, last time i checked...)
or for that matter... Q...
CKQ... no?
                           i clearly don't quiet, belong among
these people:
with their mundaneness practiced so well:
they dream! oh god they dream!
i'm the one dream-starved while they
dream-out their little-by-little: belittling fetishes
of power-gambling the toppling
of peaceful hierarchies...

i'm the antithesis of the celebrated Barbarians
of the American counter-revolution...
sure... i'm banging at the gates...
screaming: let me out! let me out!
i don't want to be in this custard mess
when it truly: properly... falls to ****!
i'll leave with my feet stinking from sweat...
even though i wouldn't have ran a mile!
let me out! let me out!
for man's ruin and for anything even remotely
god-as-man... give me air!
give me cognitive air! i can't breathe:
let alone think!

- i'm growing tired... more and more tired...
of plotting: nicety... along the vein
of thought of the English...
i'm just more and more salt grain
from teasing at the wound of:
perhaps i'm here as a pet project:
for "my" people...
to get the feelings associated when
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth
was carved upon...
or a lesson in how the Roman Empire
imploded... so too..
how Britain buckled...
how Britain buckled...
fell on its drunken-face wishing it was:
"somehow"... Victorian: sensible...
sober... augur-prone...
well... it's too late for all of "that"...

it's happening: and i don't have a stop button:
quick & easy to solve the problem...
i like to drink gin
as a solo project: on the ice...
the fascist in me: is always
the fascist in everyone, anyone...
i'm digging trenches with my writing:
conjure up a better imagery:
i bet you won't...
but am i... "somehow"... this...
easy... "walkover"... prized asset of cuck?
sure... the women are rampant...
i don't mind... i'd rather ****
a ***** than a nun any other day
than... today...

we're having a debate about how
russians have encoded: poorly...
well... confusingly...
it just doesn't make sense... what i already stated...
i'm no longer looking towards America...
it's a dead... a dead & wasted land...
it's a predictable land...
it's a horrid little: my why we never might:
reach it...
culture-wise...
   some... "oops": didn't jazz die so soon?
i thought so too...
i'm looking for the peacock feathers atop
the armour of the Teutonic Knights...
the failures of the 3rd Crusade...
broken pride... escapade to an "elsewhere",
no?

sorrow, me... how i'm tattooed with
history... i can only imagine the fate of the
modern... western... secular... man...
freed from both history and religion...
i almost admire him...
i admire him: in that i speak his tongue...
i admire him...
but then i see his bewilderment...
and i think to myself...
"my" people: being so reclusive probably
have it right...
we have no colonial heritage to...
we didn't have the expediency of the sea
before us...
why do i... or my brethren get to luggage...
these jumbo-afro queries?!
i once had a key-chain that read:
the only way to tell someone to *******:
is to... tell them to *******:
in such a way... as they might be...
awaiting the: ******* transit...
so they might await the trip...
women sold us... women sold us into
this *******...
i kid you not...
            
i will not sell my heritage upon
a post-colonial bend-over past...
i'll sooner side with the Russians as i insult them!
i'll grind my teeth on stone
and spit out a *******: well-rounded pebble
than side with these... fakeries of freedom!
give me freedom! give me the supposed
bread! the songs! the... what's it called?
diabetes?!
          fat *****...

i'm one with the Kabul patrol...
i'm mad enough to try not being gesticulated at:
as being fake...
like i might cry that this canvas is not made
available to me...
ergo... you're going to turn off my water-supply...
my electricity-supply?
you're going to cancel my...
like i want to care about a dying culture
where only the bogusly: blatant rich
are... left?!

such weakness in a dying kind....
i cannot not... drawn parallels within the confines
of the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
i can't!
   jeg kan ikke!

if "their" history breathes through them!
    så gør mínë...
all is "European":
              ******* cotton-muffin... afro
riddled... tarts... ****-boy-ohs...
ha!

who's not... Caesar?!
            bread wins the: paint?!
what's more cooking
than what's more... *******...
drying?!
oh sure... my shoelaces definitely stink
of bacon... but...
n'ah... n'ah... you're on your
own with that pseudo-king-Solomon..
sort of crap...
me... kind Davie...
surah riddled... psalm bashing...
sort of "crap"... i need a woman like...
i a need an anecdote...
oh god...
          so 'ere one comes....
no... it's not funny...
how.. unexpected... the opposite ***
tends to... behave... without having....
white boy... insurance policies...
oh... wow!
           *******... *******.
now the bread winner: brown- boyo...
better be... the... bread--- basher!... ah... ha...
ha... his alias: also: no.