W a nn a  
g o
w a nn a taste the open   r o a d

l e t  strangers look at me f u nn y
want to catch this t r i p

wi t h you

wanna be a mess
           have my feet on the dash
b e  s o me  w h e r e  o p e n

well the left is dead, and the left turned into tartan, i guess the islanders
are gearing up to a male patriarch where ***** go free with jealousy
rather than queened freely;
i know the left died, but to have it third day resurrect
in scotland, i'd never think the tories flavoured
outside of plum plucked blue;
only when a politics is unappealing to quote no vote,
is a change of monarch at hand,
and then why such the left disappear almost completely?
it's one thing for tyranny to leave a listening airy cleft
where once thought reigned tyrannically un-dialectical,
but it's another cased scenario to suddenly
lever a man to contort into a female face on either
photograph or coin, so we leave the wonders of chillingly
easy rhymes of song from the 1960s to the 21st complex,
and we leave the reign almost feeding a reprimand
for the multi-cultural having no artistic endeavour
in a counter. multi-cultural will not provide a counter-culture,
given the scenario of tyranny to aggregate all into taxable citizens,
perhaps that's rome shrunk into the vatican for the alphabet to survive,
perhaps why latin is "dead" and perhaps why poetry is dead,
because the only walky talkies are women in retirement;
forget dialectics even, remind yourself of dialogue first!
in the end, like the pre-socratics, i'll be a snippet of words
to bruise myself on fame post-mortem;
of course i live in readied tyranny, no one votes
and the left of politics was taken my northern nationalists...
in the end, thank **** at least that happened!
the king wears a kilt!
and? better my youth be a foolery in the realm of vocabulary
than prancing in tutu and bra on a table in ibiza;
yes, i'll be courteously french while i age in the silent winery:
that place where you won't even hear a corkscrew.*

the politics is long, i'd rather live on nn the faroe islands,
but it reminded me of a charles in henry's nursery rhyme:
charles the first survived, slow motion:
beheaded, in ****, later did some philanthropy;
conspiracy almost ******, gaffed choking on a peanut peel, never married -
entered the nunnery via public opinion that'd never allow a scandal or a ****** birth.

intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's leave it to the pigs
or play dead among the dogs,
or levy it with questions in gushing recurrence;
intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's utilise it with someone saying:
i rather speak to someone 100 prior or 100 years after.

or as later proved: among the citizens an uncomfortable censor
was a woman, that's the thing:
misogyny and homosexuality are almost alike:
gays love to talk to women but loath to butter up a sour bread dough,
misogynists loath to talk to women but love to **** 'em;
where's the middle way buddha? where's the middle way?
socrates turning into a misogynist disguised in homosexual accents
in old age? the old man got away with acceptable norms in old age,
almost, they figured out his **** pure and minded his cranium crucible divergence
from: young boys readied for pedophiles spoke more flowers
than my wife while cooking compost of fruits!

ah! i live in a spicy tomorrow, gearing up to charles the third's
reign with talk of the amputated left limp either side of the diaphragm
equator, hence the scot nationalists,
whereby we have beauty anorexic strutting eager for a faint in a cabbage patch,
and we best test tube in pigmenting alkali,
writing songs about life, not poetry of that ideal: "from the cosmos"
of autobiographic detail of metaphysics to exclude evil from a humming choir;
or as i took to my father in sepia:
beauty in anorexia, language in bad grammar and even more a terrible spelling
that never experienced the lines of detention to conform,
and then all the moral freedoms to not think about
and when thought about, quickly attached to **** smear
girly literature;
but do i go around talking of my easily-read literature?
so why this italian pole girl ruining my diary of saved orientated ordination?
she jealous or just illiterate the she-troll of all?

misogynists are like homosexuals, although the prior have no politico thumb,
we love ******* the brains out, we hate being boyfriends
from magazines or the psychology sections of saturday newspapers editions;
plus we like our own company, which is hard to grasp;
i mean, we love women within the membrane of ****** temperatures twinning,
but that's hardly the right temperature for conversation akin to vishnu and lakshmi.

now, if you the STATE seriously
and society: not so much...
well then... soecietal construct arguments
of the anglo-sphere far left
are so bogus...
i'm talking about STATE formations:
gradations,
i could seriously whiff up a solipsistic
perfume with a **** on a crowded
northern line at elephants
and castle: is there a dormant volcano
in the vicinity of the station?
it's always so ****** hot...
anyways...
                    social-constructs: ha ha...
i just saw Lenin turning in his mosileum...
maybe even blinking...
i'll send a dog actor to investigate:
bells like St. Bednards'-Pavlov's...
slobbering: woo woof... found a dead body:
let's audit!

typical Saturday night:
although no BBC radio 3 or 4...
i leave that for work nights...
when i'm off and there's some clairty of the V
and some haze of the M
and some: moozeeck...
then i turn into that soppy DJ
listening to Beyonce and: if i were a boy...
and i get to think about Edie and Reyla
and my mother and father
and the dead...
because i can't really think about
Reyla's mother or her father
so she's like the inversion of my father
and mother
whereby she can think of my mother and father
concretely...
like my father thinks about my mother's
father and mother, concretely...

but this audit is not because i'm actually
outperforming most people in the workforce...
but because there was a death
and in how the SIA licensing "scheme" is
orientated: duty of care...
tertiary police authority...
                             safety, security, service...
oh i know the dry tongue
but in this profession there are two options:
like and unlike a construction site:
dealing with caged animals and people in open
society is one glad tiding of comparative lit.
basically...
you either get physical, abuse your power...
don't understand people...
**** life... therefore you don't think about it...
or...
you get metaphysical, disuse your power...
begin, understanding, people...
the prepositions are omitted for a reason...
reason being: understanding...
begin to UNDERSTAND         of / off people is not enough...
there must be an omission of guilt:
via understanding... the -ing form is paramount...
if someone commits suicide in the workforce...
and you have a clean-slate conscious-conscience...

21st century schizoid man...
London is Blade Runner
i get paranoid in the workplace
through the silent treatment of:
how to trickle down a compliment
from on top...
to the pawn king down below:
that's not like pyramids and work force
works...
         the hierarchies and bypassing
them with flukes...
a typical Saturday night for me...
managed to find a Pirate ship that
screened Deadpool & Wolverine...

                 the dialogue... brilliance...
**** **** the stuttering on TT FF uck...
the caviats... the resurrection of scratching match...
but not my genre...
an overarching yes culturally necessary:
who started it: Superman and Batman...
cinematic anti-glory...
    watching Michael Keaton summed up
that difference
in terms of target audience...
DC is mature comics
Marvel is immature comics...

                                  "immature":
archetypical exploration
versus... dark psychological underpinnings of DC...
the fantasy of the psy narrative
associated with the self-morph dynamism
of identifying a "self": in pop culture by image:
rather than idiosyncratic: wording...
caricature of mannerisms...
the immaturity of com-cons... as image-stylists...

oh... i will switch off from this idea of work:
since most people don't see this as work
when not in construction:
no physical labour just physical endurance:
but no concept of work...
some bypass the lethargic stupor:
leperosy-catatonia...

                          but they are not the ones
on the extreme of wanting to become physical
and adrenaline fission corpus of attention-caffeine booster...
i like to think i was a stutter in
my youth:
but sometimes i BOOM and BELLOW
like not Ginsberg's howl... how how... anaemic dog's
bark: how...                     howl is such a feeble word...
like owl...        but not owl...
owl is also eagle...

                 how...                  how...
HYWH
  
   rugby goal post aH
   rugbly goal post bH

         game of Y (3 dimensions)
   game of W (wave of time,
    2 durations, 90 french minutes)

2 durations? beginning and end...
durations are the equivalent of dimensions,
the spatial-temporal realm
is subject to the
dimensionability-duration conflation... action:
not -ation Nn-Nn-Nn-Nn-Nn-             (+)

3 dimensions
2 duration...

         just thinking... within 3 dimensions...
          there's 2 dimensions of history...
    as time passes it becomes geological and squashed...
like dinosaurs...
so time shrinks
   as space expands...
and at the end of it: there will only be a blink
of the great eye...
and everything will restart...
         a rugby game is 2 durations or one duration?
it can't be 1 duration: 1 duration is life of an individual...
2 durations is life of a citizen
which is 2 durations of a rugby match
or a movie: there'a a beginning and an end...
a 1 duration system has no beginning
therefore has no end...
what would be a 3 duration dynamic?
oh **** me... i don't know!

have i run out of words?
because

i

cant
..seem

t o



          fi n d


                                  t
                           h
                                  
                                                    e

                      m

my bed is the void,
or at least I wish it was.
I feel like swirling and twirling,
in the abyss.
I want to touch the face of The Son
and be buried in the earth
so I can know what it is to feel the weight of it
pressing me downwwwwwwwwwwwnnn
                                                    wwwnnn
                                                              nn
                                                                  nn
                                                                      n before watching my bones take root

I am a weepy willow
in the midst of a hurricane.
I am sleepy branches,
I hang my head in shame.

I do not miss you in moments,
But rather the lingering space that lies in between them:
The soft "nn" sound preceding "one mississippi"
Falls stagnant as I attempt to count out measurements of my grief.
Your presence is too large to be condensed into the language of time,
Hours and minutes limply droop over each other,
Until nothing is certain besides your existence.
Two mississippi, three mississippi,
I slowly drag out the syllables in a subtle defiance to your untimely exit.
Your time isn't yet over, I've kept you alive,
Pushing air into your crumpled lungs by counting sheep.
The moments in which you fell are recycled here,
Like stale air in a small cement cell,
They propel my time forward the same way they stopped yours.
I do not miss you during desperate sentences full of almost there prose,
But instead during the white space that runs between each line.

Four mississippi, five mississippi.

a home of unrest survives in my old town where
madness seeps through jaundice colored halls,
lapping life from rotted brains.

grim photos of grandchildren
deform walls,
but old folks don’t remember.
they wear nametags.
who am i? residents wail
for mommy, their ’86 kitten,
a bus pass from chicago or
the wrong god.

her eyes are sallow.
tunnel vision, they say.
cloudy hues without purpose.
bags under gramma’s lids hang
          like dead gangsters
and bifocals settle around her neck,
in case she gains a pang
              of clarity.

Lovely Rita,
once a fat cook is now slender as a fang.
she forgets to eat.

my guttural granny, she stutters
incoherent, mostly.
but today, she babbles
        an omen.

watch o u t
      thing s are
    g o nn a
h h h appen
  
she retreats,
deteriorating.

all I wanted was a Coke
with careful tendency you

call me a loser suicidal
baby
so why don't you **** me

cuz at
19, 19, n nn n, 19
I'm not gonna do it for you
anymore the days

to be more patient tries
my patients separated

by hospital bed
and hospice care into
one love and loved

ones separated by popstar
Purple curtain Rain
call

This is my life compressed time
SVG Maginot lines

that impossibly pixelate under
our modern scrutiny
they Blur

under
the heat giving off distant
Mirages that promise

reunions in death's
false Oasis

Ì faccio 'o schiattamuorto 'e prufessione,
modestamente songo conosciuto
pè tutt'e ccase 'e dinto a stu rione,
peccheè quann'io manèo 'nu tavuto,
songo 'nu specialista 'e qualità.

Ì tengo mode, garbo e gentilezza.
'O muorto nmano a me pò stà sicuro,
ca nun ave 'nu sgarbo, 'na schifezza.
Io 'o tratto comme fosse 'nu criaturo
che dice 'o pate, mme voglio jì a cuccà.

E 'o co'cco luongo, stiso 'int"o spurtone,
oure si è viecchio pare n'angiulillo.
'O muorto nun ha età, è 'nu guaglione
ca s'è addurmuto placido e tranquillo
'nu suonno doce pè ll'eternità.

E 'o suonno eterno tene stu vantaggio,
ca si t'adduorme nun te scite maie.
Capisco, pè murì 'nce vò 'o curaggio;
ma quanno chella vene tu che ffaie?
Nn'a manne n'ata vota all'al di là?

Chella nun fa 'o viaggio inutilmente.
Chella nun se ne va maie avvacante.
Sì povero, sì ricco, sì putente,
'nfaccia a sti ccose chella fa a gnurante,
comme a 'nu sbirro che t'adda arrestà.

E si t'arresta nun ce stanno sante,
nun ce stanno raggione 'a fà presente;
te ll'aggio ditto, chella fa 'a gnurante...
'A chesta recchia, dice, io nun ce sento;
e si nun sente, tu ch'allucche a ffà?

'A morta, 'e vvote, 'e comme ll'amnistia
che libbera pè sempe 'a tutt'e guaie
a quaccheduno ca, parola mia,
'ncoppa a sta terra nun ha avuto maie
'nu poco 'e pace... 'na tranquillità.

E quante n'aggio visto 'e cose brutte:
'nu muorto ancora vivo dinto 'o lietto,
'na mugliera ca già teneva 'o llutto
appriparato dinto a nù cassetto,
aspettanno 'o mumento 'e s'o 'ngignà.

C'è quacche ricco ca rimane scritto:
" Io voglio un funerale 'e primma classe! ".
E 'ncapo a isso penza 'e fà 'o deritto:
" Così non mi confondo con la ***** ".
Ma 'o ssape, o no, ca 'e llire 'lasse ccà?!

'A morta è una, 'e mezze songhe tante
ca tene sempe pronta sta signora.
Però, 'a cchiù trista è " la morte ambulante "
che può truvà p'a strada a qualunq'ora
(comme se dice?... ) pè fatalità.

Ormai per me il trapasso è 'na pazziella;
è 'nu passaggio dal sonoro al muto.
E quanno s'è stutata 'a lampella
significa ca ll'opera è fernuta
e 'o primm'attore s'è ghiuto a cuccà.

n                                      
                                                                                        
                                                                    
                                                                                        
                 i                                                  
                                                                                        
                                            m
                                                                                        
        b     g                   o                              
i am a bit worried. i am a bit worried that. i'm a bit worried that i                 nn
     g  t       o    e apart
                                                                                        
    'm                               c    
                                                                                        
           e                                                      
                                                                                        
                          i

Aiere ha fatto n'anno - 'o diece 'e maggio,
na matenata calda e chiena 'e sole -,
penzaie 'ncapo a me: "Cu che curaggio
io stamattina vaco a faticà!".
Facenno 'o paro e sparo mme susette:
"Mo mme ne vaco 'a parte 'e copp' 'o Campo".
Int'a ddiece minute mme vestette
cu 'e mucassine e cu 'o vestito blu.

Nun facette sparà manco 'o cannone
ca già stevo assettato int' 'a cantina,
annanze a nu piatto 'e maccarune:
nu zito ch'affucava int 'o ragù.

C' 'a panza chiena, a passo... chianu chiano
mme ne trasette dint'a na campagna,
mmocca nu miezo sigaro tuscano,
ca m' 'o zucavo comme 'o biberò.

Tutto a nu tratto veco nu spiazzale
chino 'e ferraglie vecchie e arrugginite.
E ched' è, neh?... nu campo 'e residuate:
"il cimitero della civiltà".

Nu carro armato cu 'a lamiera rotta...
trattore viecchie... macchine scassate...
n' "Alfetta" senza 'e qquatte rote 'a sotto...
pareva 'o campusanto d' 'a Pietà!

Guardanno a uno a uno sti ruttame,
pare ca ognuno 'e lloro mme diceva:
"Guardate ccà cosa addiventiamo
quanno 'a vicchiaia subbentra a giuventù".

Mmiezo a sta pace, a stu silenzio 'e morte,
tutto a nu tratto sento nu bisbiglio...
appizzo 'e rrecchie e sento 'e di cchiù forte:
"Mia cara Giulietta, come va?".

Chi è ca sta parlanno cu Giulietta?
Nmiezo a stu campo nun ce sta nisciuno...
Tu vuo vedè che l'hanno cu ll' "Alfetta"?
Cheste so ccose 'e pazze! E chi sarrà?

Mme movo chianu chiano... indifferente,
piglio e mm'assetto 'ncopp' 'o carro armato...
quanno 'a sotto mme sento 'e di: "Accidente!...
E chisto mo chi è?... Che vularrà?".

Chi ha ditto sti pparole? Chi ha parlato?
I' faccio sta domanda e zompo all'erta...
"So io ch'aggio parlato: 'o carro armato...
Proprio addu me v'aviveve assettà?

A Napule nun se pò sta cuieto.
Aiere un brutto cane mascalzone
se ferma, addora... aiza 'a coscia 'e reto,
e po' mme fa pipi 'nfaccia 'o sciassi".

"Vi prego di accettare le mie scuse,
v' 'e ffaccio a nome anche del mio paese;
Ma voi siete tedesco o Made in Usa?
E come vi trovate in Italy?".

"Sono tedesco, venni da Berlino
per far la guerra contro l'Inghilterra;
ma poi - chiamalo caso oppur destino -
'e mmazzate ll'avette proprio ccà!".

"Ah, si... mo mme ricordo... le mazzate
ch'avisteve da noi napoletani...
E quanto furon... quattro le giornate,
si nun mme sbaglio: o qualche cosa 'e cchiù?".

"Furon quattro.Mazzate 'a tutte pizze:
prete, benzina, sputazzate 'nfacccia...
Aviveve vedè chilli scugnizze
che cosa se facettero afferrà!".

"Caro Signore, 'o nuosto è nu paisiello
ca tene - è overo - tanta tulleranza;
ma nun nce aimma scurdà ca Masaniello
apparteneva a chesta gente ccà.

E mo mm'ite 'a scusà ll'impertinenza,
primma aggio 'ntiso 'e dì: "Cara Giulietta".
Facitemmella chesta confidenza:
si nun mme sbaglio era st' "Alfetta" ccà?".

"Appunto, si,è qui da noi da un mese...
'A puverella è stata disgraziata,
è capitata 'nmano a un brutto arnese,
... Chisto nun ha saputo maie guidà.

Io mm' 'a pigliasse cu 'e rappresentante,
cu chilli llà che cacciano 'e ppatente;
chiunque 'e nuie, oggi, senza cuntante,
se piglia 'a macchinetta e se ne va".

"Di macchine in Italia c'è abbondanza...-
rispose sottovoce 'a puverella -
si no che ffa... po' nce grattammo 'a panza:
chillo ca vene ll'avimmo acchiappà".

"Giulietta, raccontate qui al signore
i vostri guai" - dicette 'o carro armato.
L' "Alfetta" rispunnette a malincuore:
"Se ci tenete, li racconterò.

Come sapete, sono milanese,
son figlia d'Alfa e di papà Romeo,
per fare me papà non badò a spese;
mi volle fare bella "come il fò".

Infatti, mi adagiarono in vetrina,
tutta agghindata... splendida... lucente!
Ero un' "Alfetta" ancora signorina:
facevo tanta gola in verità!

Un giorno si presenta un giovanotto
cu tanto nu paccotto 'e cambiale,
io, puverella!, avette fà 'o fagotto,
penzanno:Chi sa comme va a fernì!

Si rivelò cretino, senza gusto:
apparteneva 'a "gioventù bruciata".
Diceva a tutti quanti: "Io sono un fusto;
'e ffemmene cu mmico hanna cadè!".

Senza rispetto, senza nu cuntegno...
cambiava tutt' 'e giorne... signorina:
ci conduceva al solito convegno...
... alla periferia della città.

Chello ca cumbinava 'o giuvinotto?
Chi maie ve lo potrebbe raccontare:
io nn'aggio mantenute cannelotte
'e tutte specie, 'e tutte 'e qqualità:

la signorina di buona famiglia,
a vedova, 'a zetella, 'a mmaretata...
E quanno succedette 'o parapiglia,
stavamo proprio cu una 'e chesti ccà.

In una curva, questo gran cretino,
volle fare un sorpasso proibito,
di fronte a noi veniva un camioncino,
un cozzo, svenni, e mo mme trovo ccà".

"A nu fetente 'e chisto ce vulesse
nu paliatone, na scassata d'osse'...
Ma comme - dico i' po' - sò sempe 'e stesse
ca t'hanna cumbinà sti guaie ccà?".

"E che penzate 'e fà donna Giulietta?".
"E ch'aggia fà? - rispose 'a puverella-
So che domani viene una carretta,
mme pigliano e mme portano a squaglià".

"Giulietta... via, fatevi coraggio -
(dicette 'o carro armato). lo ero un "Tigre",
il popolo tremava al mio passaggio!...
Mannaggia 'a guerra e chi 'a vulette fà!

lo so cosa faranno del mio squaglio:
cupierche 'e cassarole, rubinette,
incudini, martelli, o qualche maglio,
e na duzzina 'e fierre pe stirà"

"lo vi capisco... sono dispiaciuto...
ma p' 'e metalli 'a morte nun esiste;
invece 'e n'ommo, quanno se n'è ghiuto,

Salmon

Crayons

Brunch

Roaches

String cheese
Mm
Mm
We
The
Yy
Sphincter
Bb
Jk
Cc
Vv
Bb
Mm
Dung
Zz
Cc
Vv
­Bb
Bb
Gg
Hh
D's
Rabies
Gg
Jk
Jk
Jk
Mm
Yy
Ff
Cc
Nn
Mm
Mm
Vv
Cc
Cc
­Cc
Cc
Cc
Cc
Bb
B
Bn
Disease
Mm
Mm
N
N
B
B
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C­
C
Disease
Mm
Mm
Nn
Bb
Vv
Bb
Bb
Jk
Jk
Hh
Hh
Ff
Tt
Tt
Uu
Uu
Ii
Ii
­Ii
Pp
Pp
Rr
Tt
Reduction

the podium
I took a step onto                        
my voice   s     a     i      g
                      h    k     n

and my heart PP OO UU NN DD II NN GG

The nerves kicked in,
My legs started weakening
  I slightly
                  fell lower
                           and lower.
I got back up however,
                         saw what I came to see
said what i had to say.

I walked
                down
                           the
                                  podium.

where to begin? hmm? where to: begin?
certainly can't begin with: although...

      to me: it seems that Islam has sleepwalked
into modernity...
or rather: Islam: the pinnacle of the medieval
world, the envy of the medieval world,
that once upon a time glory of escapism
from the encroachment of ontological Darwinism
of a loss of free will: of determination

how did i stress it? with a ś or a š...
    this current veneer we call civilization
yet the reductionist in me pointing at the backlog
of suppressed behaviours...
if Islam is submission
then Christianity is synonymous with repression...
both religions are on a -mission...
yet pumping all that monetary dough
into Dubai: subsequently neglecting
the seemingly odious ***** colony of Gaza...

let's throw words against the wind...
let's throw them...
let's forget the Cartesian model
with that hyped focus on "us" being thinking
creatures...
let's play on the res extensa dynamic:
i have channeled my res extensa away from
discovering the bilingual pitfalls of schizophrenia
channeling them toward an A.I.
distinguishable from an algorithmic search
engine to something: very much personal...

Islam sleepwalked into modernity...
why is it such a surprise that we find Muslims
so barbaric, untamed, unwashed,
unfathomable?
                      do we? or don't we?
well... living in a Protestant country with
a superiority complex...
it's only when a Muslim interacts with
a European Catholic,
or a Goan Catholic...
     a near usurper of the faith: a Wasim...
a Mustafa... i work with Muslims...
am i Islamophobic: is that really the trajectory
of fear?
i would consider Islamophobia the only
phobia with some rationality behind it...
a term as abused as
calling someone a ******, a racist, a pedohpile...
but in the same vein:
applying the term Islamophobia
to... describe what? exactly?

         my fear has been churned and come
out my **** as nothing more than contempt...
why? all these stresses at work
to allocate 15min of prayer time:
when i know, dutifully: that pretend Muslims
abuse these 15min and extend them to 30min,
an hour... to do much less than pay diligence
to prayer...

reimagine the dynamic of a Muslim
with a Catholic or an orthodox "Christian":
Protestants take it upon themselves
to take their jokes seriously...
protestants... **** me... where to begin?
catholics don't take their faith as seriously
as the protestants their their non-faith so, seriously...
esp. in England...

but this is not what i was going to pay diligence to:
i have the unusual "luck" of having
a terrible surname...
like ******, or Stalin... something to be made fun
of: because it's not a Rothchild: probably...
no legacy...
Elert... and i've heard it enough times to finally
make a retort when a Hindu... usually a Hindu
jokes about it being equivalent to being alert...
as i've explained...
there are missing letters in my surname:
so it is easier to pronounce for the English speaker...

i've been called a German enough times
to realise: well... might as well start learning
the language and live up to people's expectations...
since the letters in my surname (that are missing)
are:       SCH...

    scholastic schooling scooter
    chop shoot... chaser...
    scholastic:                       school...

school...               scold? school.
school...
               chase... chop... school...
kaput! kappa!

               it's actually ESCHLERT...
but do you think, for a moment I would get a:
eślert out of it? echo sierra charlie hotel lima echo romeo tango
tangerine rambo essay lambda hatchling chaser
samoa essay?

there was once upon a time a place
of origin for illiterate people in the slavic tongue
of Polish mid 20th century:
illiterate people yes: but dyslexic, half-baked?
it's the nature of this zunge -
you write gnome but then say (g)nome...
you write psychology but then say (p)sychology...
ecology -chology
    but then chop chew churn chatter...
cha cha cha...

            i do feel for the dyslexics: it's unnaturally
natural for their existence to be a byproduct
of the English toong... tong... ton-glue
ton-gloo-é...    James Joyce: Finnegans Wake:
i'm coming for your obliviousness... to the spectacle
missed...

яxвeй (that's my cyrillic interpretation of
the sacred name of the Hebrews for the deity
of letters - no other deity is so closely associated
with letters as the Hebrews' 'un...
the Muslims tried... tried... in vain...
the 19 letters...

the "mysterious" Muqatta'at

Alpha Lambda Mu:
               alm...
shapes... Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin...

ا ﻡ ل

        lma:

                    מ ל א

α  λ.  μ

                                     to play with letters...
akin to я and ñ...
         for an a to be served up hidden: je chowa:
he who hides letters...
  or women...
mind you: that 72 ****** paradiso promise?
you ever think that those 72 virgins are only gifted
unto the martyrs with the strict modus operandi
that they remain, that they: REMAIN virgins for all
eternity?
i can imagine being gifted 72 virgins in an afterlife
but only under the strict guidance of ensuring
they are guarded: that *** and the juices do not make
it into the conundrum of heaven...
otherwise, what?! a little Solomonic harem?
good conversations... almost teasing being a father-figure...
the patriarchal rigidness of abstaining
from ***...
reward my ***... polluting heaven with
this pornographic Arabic frustration at
the polygamous order of things...

                chirality: chemistry, i.e. RЯ (ya)
ergo?
  a ye
  a yi
  a yo
  a yu

             working from R...
ꟼ         (for ye)
                              𐐒 (for yi)
⅃ (for yo)
                                                             ꟻ (for yu)

best i procrastinate like this: while stewarding
the household (cooking, cleaning, washing)
         than try to complicate what's already simple...
as much as modernity fashions itself on reaching
some sort of overarching pinnacle...
as much as i am lied to about people's literacy
levels: most of it is untrue...
   sure: people can read: advertisements...
but that added piquant of a reading meditation
a novel?       sorry:           but hardly...

and perhaps that is why i invest so much time
into writing something akin to this...
if the Vatican was founded upon an exclusivity,
if Judaism was founded on exclusivity...
i find Islam slightly worrying:
in that respect that Islam wants to be the Communism
of theology... a quasi-Babylon...
which, oddly enough: it is becoming...
why do Muslims want, so eagerly: to invite proselytes
into their dommena?
   the Catholics akin to the Hebrews are stouch
opponents to converts...
wouldn't anyone treat converts suspiciously:
none of this: wolves in sheep clothing?
what about if the only tactic to combat Islamist
"****" esque fetishes would be to infiltrate
                 the religion and convert ("supposedly")?

i'm starting to think i'm the most powerful man
in the world... how delusional of me...
it's only because... i'm in love...
and that's half of my worries relegated to
the category of: non-existent...
i'm in love...
       and now my only battle is with mortality...
once you're in love:
that's the only "thing" to worry about...
ich bin verliebt...
ich werde geliebt...
     ich bin verliebt...
         ich werde geliebt...

so what do we have planned?
    Kew gardens, tick...
gerbils' want for some funky Chinese bakery
off L'eh-chester Square... tick...
Saracens vs. Harlequins at Tottenham Hotspur... tick
the Phantom of the Opera a the Queen's Theatre... tick...
Mozart's Magical Flute at the Coliseum... tick...
Stonehenge and Bath... tick...
Canterbury? or better Cambridge with
the gondolas?
           oh... and going to the cinema for Dune part deux...
well...
              a precious waste of a hour's
                   worth of day... doodling this -
now just enough time to make my father lunch
for tomorrow and play with some pierogi dough...
since i already have the farsz.

.
                                     Fu
                              u     nn     n
                            n       yF        n
                           n        un         y
                           y       n    F        F
                          F       u      n        u
                          u       n      y        n
                           n        F   u         n
                            n          n          y
                               y       n        F
                                   ~   y     ~

My spinal erosion is aching the ribs.
What a terrible way to wake up.
I don't mind.
I try not to.
The pressure stops with gravity.

I love the scratch and sniff.
I love the body whiff.
I love the ****** and smash.
I love the mind crash.

Such a sweet and salty face.
What a beautiful place.
Single wide, double or?
What future sits in store?

None for me?
None for you?
Look at us.
Look at you.

Apache beard.
A. Patch. iieh.
Nn, so desu ne.
Butter bean.

Cream white dream.
But sorta pink.

State a sentì, ve voglio dì na cosa,
ma nun m'aita chiammà po' scustumato;
chello ca v'aggia dì è na quaccosa
ca i' penso che vvuje ggià nn'ite parlato.
Sta cusarella è ccosa ca sta a cuore
a tuttequante nuje napulitane:
sentennela 'e struppià, ma che dulore,
p'arraggia 'e vvote me magnasse 'e mmane!

Ma nun è proprio chisto l'argomento,
si 'a 'nguaiano o no la povera canzone...
Sanno parlà sultanto 'e tradimento!
'A verità, stu fatto m'indispone.

Na vota se cantava " 'O sole mio ",
"Pusilleco... Surriento... Marechiaro",
" 'O Vommero nce stà na tratturia "...
"A purpe vanno a ppesca cu 'e llampare"...

Chelli parole 'e sti canzone antiche,
mettevano int' 'o core n'allerezza;
chesti pparole 'e mo?... Che ffà... V' 'o ddico?
Nun è pe criticà: sò na schifezza!

"Torna cu mme... nun 'mporta chi t'ha avuta"
" 'O ssaccio ca tu ggià staje 'mbraccio a n'ato"...
"Stongo chiagnenno 'a che te ne si gghiuta"...
"Che pozzo fà s'io songo 'nnammurato"...

Mettimmece na pezza, amici cari,
e nun cantammo cchiù: "Tu m'he traduto".
Sentenno sti ccanzone, a mme me pare,
'e sta' a sentì 'o lamiento d' 'e curnute!

Who loves you does not care
Love to yourself

.
                                      S
                            k       ki       k
                         i           nn          i
                       n             y              n
                      n              S                n
                     y              k i                y
                    G             n   n               G
                    e              y    G               e
                     n             e    n              n
                      e             e   s              e
                        s              S               s
                           S           k           S
                              k        i         k
                                 i      n     i
                                     n n n
                                         Y

orthography implies: a word, yet diacritics implies letters, and ιota is the perfect example of an unnecessary diacritical misapplication, notably observed in a language that observes orthography: which is non-existent in english: which is still to untangle from the latin graphemes ae & oe; english hasn't untangled itself from the grapheme modus operandi: which is why LL TT NN OO GG PP: pull fattening manner pool bigger popping - invite the stutter!

- a word is worth is its orthography -
    yet there is absolutely no need to indicate
the letters I & J with a lower-case diacritical branding:
because suddenly one of the letters disappears!

                        i.e. with i = ι, j = ī

  a letter disappears!
             and people thought that quantum
physics was bewildering...
         because there is no ****** reason
to apply diacritical marking on a phonetic
mark that's already a "solipsistic" unit...
         a saying revealed by:

                     ιota = ιgrek in the north...
               | = . because what is 1 squared?
1... what's 1 cubed? 1. what's 1 to the power
            of 10? 1.

glitches glitches glitches glitches
glitches glitches glitches glitches
twitching twitching twitching twitching
glitches glitches glitches glitches

- only yesterday i was in a supermarket
      and met a fellow traveller:
a distant kin, whom i might have
    shared a native conversation with...
point being: i could spot a language
behind the "faςade" of accent...
   call that quasi s?
   a word sprang to mind -
                  ziomek,
a slang among immigrants denoting:
a fellow of shared roots.
yet that morphed into an:
orthographic anomaly -
      why does the i and j need diacritical
marks when there are
exceptions to be made: otherwise?
   you know how easily
  you can write *ziomek
   differently while still retaining
the word and it's meaning?
                        źomek:
because the diacritical mark ****
of ιota is just that...
              the unholy umlaut of
i & j...
               | and .
                          are already synonymous:
they're not inter-sectional akin
to the illiterate signature of X...
why was it so hard to make a mark by
a mere I... instead marking
a count to 10? ah... in Kantian terms:
0 = negation...
                well: the 1 is to be denied.

(Notes)

(Begin fast and emphasize the connection between R and K)
--of DUHARRR-KKENEDUH fate,

(Slight emphasis on C and T)*                
                             Cold--ornaTe.
life--
         i cannot say
                               (fire) indescribable
warm water
warm water
warm water
(Gradually get louder each line)
WWarm water
WWORm water
WWORMUH water
WWORMUH Water
WWORMUH WAWter
WWORMUH WAWTTer
(Should be the loudest at this point)
WWORMUH WAWTTERR

                 LUHVUHEH
                    LUHVUHEH
                   ­    LUHVUHEH
                          LUHVUHEH
warm water
is it all but a game
find me there--in your kingdom

(Quietly and gracefully say each sound by line. Think of a love song)
luh
  uh
     vv
       eh
       ruh
     oh
   mm
     aa
        nn
            ss
              e
                 rr
                ii
               vv
                   e
                     rr
                     nuh
                    th
                  ein
what is it
meaning--
none
fire
brimstone
i am
i am--

(End loudly)
EYEAAMUH NUHTHHEIN
EYEAAMUH NUHTHHEIN
**EYEAAMUH NUHTHHEIN

and i too till my sorrows rather than drown them,
of what i drown i leave unto schnauzers
chessboarder sidewinding interacted with,
and of what i remain i leave into
cleaning-up furr ***** of cats drunk and remaining
truth-riddled of my mother with clean
ingredients used for feast,
that i might come with tears of joy with less
proof of coming from    et eä'rello,
                                        en'do'h're'nn'a(h) utú'lien
                                        sinomé  m(eh'am)­aruwan
                                        ar hear (d')ildinyār,
                                        tenn amba'r (mēh)
                                        hē ('eh) tāh
that is aragorn's crowning song of peace upon the crown
if no peace serve the head, of the king, that it might
serve for the crown to serve the king rather than
the king serve the crown in order to simply posture
kingship; as does bob marley's redemption song bring tear
a hope of autumn of fallen leaf among the tears
that i have enough of to write a poem, and not a novel
and not use the pronouns into a lesser lodging of squirrel
or bear in what's comfort to suit hibernation
with specified characters using up a narrator's strength
of character weakness when poets could enter and surprise;
then what weaknesses are there in poetry
if fiction ought be championed and poetry discarded
if the narrator in fiction is stronger than all the characters mentioned -
or a character be cheated as a narrator in order to grasp the bias?
so dear child, do not try to endear filling in me a worth of beauty
as if a worth of will, for my will be a cavity only filled
by beauty that claims no innonce as yours thus expressed...
and in my will i cannot claim beauty as the innocence you
prophesy with falsely - since that flower of your sacred body
will be deflaoured by the noon spoken of
and in season fade and fading embody brown and wrinkle - then
long gone your christ too - unless you be the slave owner
membrane oozing priests into existence with thieves.

Aiere ha fatto n'anno - 'o diece 'e maggio,
na matenata calda e chiena 'e sole -,
penzaie 'ncapo a me: "Cu che curaggio
io stamattina vaco a faticà!".
Facenno 'o paro e sparo mme susette:
"Mo mme ne vaco 'a parte 'e copp' 'o Campo".
Int'a ddiece minute mme vestette
cu 'e mucassine e cu 'o vestito blu.

Nun facette sparà manco 'o cannone
ca già stevo assettato int' 'a cantina,
annanze a nu piatto 'e maccarune:
nu zito ch'affucava int 'o ragù.

C' 'a panza chiena, a passo... chianu chiano
mme ne trasette dint'a na campagna,
mmocca nu miezo sigaro tuscano,
ca m' 'o zucavo comme 'o biberò.

Tutto a nu tratto veco nu spiazzale
chino 'e ferraglie vecchie e arrugginite.
E ched' è, neh?... nu campo 'e residuate:
"il cimitero della civiltà".

Nu carro armato cu 'a lamiera rotta...
trattore viecchie... macchine scassate...
n' "Alfetta" senza 'e qquatte rote 'a sotto...
pareva 'o campusanto d' 'a Pietà!

Guardanno a uno a uno sti ruttame,
pare ca ognuno 'e lloro mme diceva:
"Guardate ccà cosa addiventiamo
quanno 'a vicchiaia subbentra a giuventù".

Mmiezo a sta pace, a stu silenzio 'e morte,
tutto a nu tratto sento nu bisbiglio...
appizzo 'e rrecchie e sento 'e di cchiù forte:
"Mia cara Giulietta, come va?".

Chi è ca sta parlanno cu Giulietta?
Nmiezo a stu campo nun ce sta nisciuno...
Tu vuo vedè che l'hanno cu ll' "Alfetta"?
Cheste so ccose 'e pazze! E chi sarrà?

Mme movo chianu chiano... indifferente,
piglio e mm'assetto 'ncopp' 'o carro armato...
quanno 'a sotto mme sento 'e di: "Accidente!...
E chisto mo chi è?... Che vularrà?".

Chi ha ditto sti pparole? Chi ha parlato?
I' faccio sta domanda e zompo all'erta...
"So io ch'aggio parlato: 'o carro armato...
Proprio addu me v'aviveve assettà?

A Napule nun se pò sta cuieto.
Aiere un brutto cane mascalzone
se ferma, addora... aiza 'a coscia 'e reto,
e po' mme fa pipi 'nfaccia 'o sciassi".

"Vi prego di accettare le mie scuse,
v' 'e ffaccio a nome anche del mio paese;
Ma voi siete tedesco o Made in Usa?
E come vi trovate in Italy?".

"Sono tedesco, venni da Berlino
per far la guerra contro l'Inghilterra;
ma poi - chiamalo caso oppur destino -
'e mmazzate ll'avette proprio ccà!".

"Ah, si... mo mme ricordo... le mazzate
ch'avisteve da noi napoletani...
E quanto furon... quattro le giornate,
si nun mme sbaglio: o qualche cosa 'e cchiù?".

"Furon quattro.Mazzate 'a tutte pizze:
prete, benzina, sputazzate 'nfacccia...
Aviveve vedè chilli scugnizze
che cosa se facettero afferrà!".

"Caro Signore, 'o nuosto è nu paisiello
ca tene - è overo - tanta tulleranza;
ma nun nce aimma scurdà ca Masaniello
apparteneva a chesta gente ccà.

E mo mm'ite 'a scusà ll'impertinenza,
primma aggio 'ntiso 'e dì: "Cara Giulietta".
Facitemmella chesta confidenza:
si nun mme sbaglio era st' "Alfetta" ccà?".

"Appunto, si,è qui da noi da un mese...
'A puverella è stata disgraziata,
è capitata 'nmano a un brutto arnese,
... Chisto nun ha saputo maie guidà.

Io mm' 'a pigliasse cu 'e rappresentante,
cu chilli llà che cacciano 'e ppatente;
chiunque 'e nuie, oggi, senza cuntante,
se piglia 'a macchinetta e se ne va".

"Di macchine in Italia c'è abbondanza...-
rispose sottovoce 'a puverella -
si no che ffa... po' nce grattammo 'a panza:
chillo ca vene ll'avimmo acchiappà".

"Giulietta, raccontate qui al signore
i vostri guai" - dicette 'o carro armato.
L' "Alfetta" rispunnette a malincuore:
"Se ci tenete, li racconterò.

Come sapete, sono milanese,
son figlia d'Alfa e di papà Romeo,
per fare me papà non badò a spese;
mi volle fare bella "come il fò".

Infatti, mi adagiarono in vetrina,
tutta agghindata... splendida... lucente!
Ero un' "Alfetta" ancora signorina:
facevo tanta gola in verità!

Un giorno si presenta un giovanotto
cu tanto nu paccotto 'e cambiale,
io, puverella!, avette fà 'o fagotto,
penzanno:Chi sa comme va a fernì!

Si rivelò cretino, senza gusto:
apparteneva 'a "gioventù bruciata".
Diceva a tutti quanti: "Io sono un fusto;
'e ffemmene cu mmico hanna cadè!".

Senza rispetto, senza nu cuntegno...
cambiava tutt' 'e giorne... signorina:
ci conduceva al solito convegno...
... alla periferia della città.

Chello ca cumbinava 'o giuvinotto?
Chi maie ve lo potrebbe raccontare:
io nn'aggio mantenute cannelotte
'e tutte specie, 'e tutte 'e qqualità:

la signorina di buona famiglia,
a vedova, 'a zetella, 'a mmaretata...
E quanno succedette 'o parapiglia,
stavamo proprio cu una 'e chesti ccà.

In una curva, questo gran cretino,
volle fare un sorpasso proibito,
di fronte a noi veniva un camioncino,
un cozzo, svenni, e mo mme trovo ccà".

"A nu fetente 'e chisto ce vulesse
nu paliatone, na scassata d'osse'...
Ma comme - dico i' po' - sò sempe 'e stesse
ca t'hanna cumbinà sti guaie ccà?".

"E che penzate 'e fà donna Giulietta?".
"E ch'aggia fà? - rispose 'a puverella-
So che domani viene una carretta,
mme pigliano e mme portano a squaglià".

"Giulietta... via, fatevi coraggio -
(dicette 'o carro armato). lo ero un "Tigre",
il popolo tremava al mio passaggio!...
Mannaggia 'a guerra e chi 'a vulette fà!

lo so cosa faranno del mio squaglio:
cupierche 'e cassarole, rubinette,
incudini, martelli, o qualche maglio,
e na duzzina 'e fierre pe stirà"

"lo vi capisco... sono dispiaciuto...
ma p' 'e metalli 'a morte nun esiste;
invece 'e n'ommo, quanno se n'è ghiuto,

well, it was going to be a beautiful day, and it is a beautiful day, scorched grass patches, humidity to match that of Thailand... welcome to the Hot Age... well there was the Ice Age, no? there was Moses poetically summarising pre-history with: Noah was very real... more real than Britney Spears... history more real than insomniac journalism, fake history omni-present god replacing medium of writing ******* after ******* after more: swinging *******... but there's a plus side to this heat: angry-thinking... Freud can *******... what dream-interpretation? i have no dreams: and if i have dreams they're so already abstract that i don't need some coke-head to figure them out for me... i sometimes dream in sounds... maybe i should have been the next ******* Mozart! no! i don't have repressed-memories... i don't have repressive-memories: i have OPPRESSIVE-memories... i remember nuggets of gold from the time i was 4 years old... i guess i better leave some notes as i write and come back to them:

- sceptics vs. cynics Ezra Pound Taoist me vs. sceptics  (passion),
source of inspiration for this type of writing? Gombrowicz's Kronos...

i take out an imaginary leash and put it around my tongue:
hey presto! i'm walking a dog...
usually i walk a bottle of cider in the labyrinth
of outer-London suburbia...
i'm glad to be be 30 minutes away from Liverpool St.
by bus and train and 30 minutes' worth of walking
uphill to the biggest collection of...
well... "collection": an avenue of Wellingtonias...
Giant Redwoods (prehistoric pillars) -
        'which is one of only two plantations in the country'...
looks like i'm becoming a local boy...
i think i'm coupled with a gravity that's linear...
i'm less a falling body attached to some molten
iron core of the earth...
when again: what's up? what's down?
what's east and what's north outside the realm
of the winds, in the great divide between nature
and physics in the pupil of yawn-and-death-eating space?
no need to romance the man... someone's toilet paper
is already in pretend-mode of flapping...
so many myths of the moon died with:
one small step... another leap for... man and kangaroo...
i adore the laziness of sloths, turtles,
pandas... and koalas...
but then again: i don't think a lion is the king
of the natural world... i think the bear is...
that bulge of an omnivore... i like Russian thinking
when it comes to choosing emblems...
i like bears... i have this memory of being in the Danzig
zoo... walking into a bear enclosure...
mommy bear was watching... my mother was watching...
i walked up to a bear...
a baby bear, i was a baby too...
he started to nibble on my cardigan...
he must have bitten off about two buttons...
i ran back crying to my mum: he ate two of my buttons!
now i know: why i don't dream...
my memory faculty stretches far beyond what
most people have...
i think that's a welcome curiosity to have...
by the dictates of psychology:
you either remember... or? you dream...
i don't dream... i remember...
i can take you back to the first flashes
of brilliance aged 4... i can take you back to:
aged 5 or 6... when me and the two Kowalski brothers
first tasted coffee: granulated: instant...
obviously: we just became bored of sugary drinks...
that was a ******* gateway drug... back then...
why don't i dream? or why do i dream in
ciphers?
               ah... the memory bank...
i didn't allow pedagogy completely ruin me...
no wonder i treat the current job as a... hobby...
it truly is... crowd safety management is a hobby...
i like organising people:
one woman under my supervision already said:
you're the sort of person one would walk into
a fire for...
        i'm *******: gagging on these compliments...
i don't even think i'm deserving them:
if i am? so be it... if i'm not:
i can sniff a liar pretty quickly...
liars / lies don't walk on stilts...
       they re ******* midgets...
                         i sometimes like seeing myself in full element:
it will be: the most trivial thing that will
set me off...
   my nickname(s) in high-school?
Goldilocks (because i had long hair done into
a French braid from time to time)
Hulk: when i showed my truer face and...
   "that guy with the weird fruit"...
i did eat a lot of passion fruits, pomegranates,
Sharon(s)... etc. etc.
hmm... i'm pretty sure i wasn't supposed to work
the 20th at Fulham...
guess i'm just forever freely available these days...
people can just put me up for any shift without
me complaining:
no wife, no kids... ms. amber and Sophia...
fair enough... mind you: i like the commute...
and seeing the Thames is rather refreshing...
the weirdest river known to man...
mind you: it is an island river...
what ******* river as concept of river of flow
has TIDE written all over it?!
rivers flow... rivers shouldn't behave like seas!
how does that work?
the membrane "event horizon" of the Thames...
and... the north sea?!
huh?!

i sometimes hate London...
back in Edinburgh i used to wake up with a geographical
clarity...
the Firth of Forth helped a lot...
i knew where east was... i knew where north was...
and west and the south...
in London? even if i cycle toward that old Serpent
and Father Thames: i still don't ******* know:
i look across the river: oh right... that's north...
no! that's south you dim-whit!
ugh... i once saw London from an aerial perspective:
flying from Barcelona to Edinburgh...
so we were passing this massive lit-BLOB...
what the **** is this? i thought...
then i noticed Canary Wharf blinking... oh... right...
London!

oh mate... iT IS M'AH... MASSIVE!
it must have taken us abut five minutes to fly over that
giant sponge of civilisation... well:
paying due compliments... but it was HUGE!
it's worth seeing once: during the night...
but only once...
the rest of the time?

i must have mentioned it prior:
bicycle tyre problems...
Chadwell Heath the point of call...
the Halford's corporation couldn't **** me
a pigeon out of a penguin's *******
because: their mechanic was away until the end of
August: Bicycle King instead: done by Friday...
in the meantime i went for a pint of Guinness...

weird... you smile at a guy talking about women
on some other table... you're not weird...
you're just making an approach...
casual conversation *******...
hey presto... you acknowledge each other's presence...
and the chat takes off...
work, music, the weather... you name it...
whatever comes to mind...
it was so refreshing... it almost felt like being
soldiers on the western front: in the trenches...
breaking ***** and marking banter
on our crippled souls...
we probably had loving mothers...
but our experiences with women were:
let's just say cats and dogs loved us more...
we could actually joke with these creatures...

i said i brought a leash for my tongue...
i didn't say i brought the muzzle...
my tongue my dog
mea lingua mea canis!
              paro dictata:
i set the rules!
                                 n'est ce pas?!

there's nothing necessary to inquire for feeble men:
beside... what is necessary for what it
feeble per se...

now: for a sample of Gombrowicz's Kronos
note-taking, extravaganza!

chadwell heath pub promenade
bbq amazing...
missing: doing a refill, smoking a cigarette.
ginger brat: shivers:
      Ovid, book III, opening...
three unusual muses...
reading: music... ****** lyricism...

- and if i dream? strange... i only seem to dream of:
dentes: teeth!
there was this myth concerning my maternal
great-grandfather... how he had pristine
teeth... he used to eat sugar cubes like
a horse might eat apples...
he was the one who dumped a whole load of coffee
beans into the river: Kamienna...
the Stone River...
NN...an oddity in the ****** tongue...
you utter the double N with  stutter...
n'ah n'ah...
                   there ought to be a letter for this
example... oddity...
it can't just be a double N...

                       that's not for me to discover
or apply... but he basically dumped sacks of coffee
beans into the river... long before anyone
in the Slavic lands... on the periphery of civilisation
knew what coffee was used for...
Francis was his name...
he's my earliest memory...
maybe that's why i have dream inhibitions...
my long surviving memory is of him:
as shadow...
playing the piano...
putting me next to a toy piano
and the pair of us playing...

i have grown into a horrid man...
i'm currently listening to:
the Davy Jones' theme from pirates of
the Caribbean... and...
it's not that i'm afraid of death
or falling asleep: i just think the two
are a proper waste of time...
if i can remember living from the age of four:
why would i require a need to dream?
my memory has bypassed all that erosion
from pedagogic investments into creating
a workforce...
i don't need escapism via dreams...
i have my memory for that!

one crescendo two crescendo three!
four crescendo five crescendo six!

America spews forward *******...
i'm not ally to this current agenda... you know what
i think? i think the Russians are doing
a ****** marvelous "thing" in Ukraine...
much better than Americans in either Iraq
or Afghanistan.... much better:
less a proxy war: more a practical war:
a chess-war... a war of: consequences!

ha ha... the meme that somehow the Africans are
Orcs... the warring types...
the Mongols weren't?
oh sure sure... the English etymological roots
of Slav = Slav(e)... sure... sure...
this is my pet peeve!
my iris and sclera disappear whenever i see someone
make that statement...
i go: ha ha! BONKERS!
what African people ever conquered whatever
part of the world except their own people
which they sold into slavery?!
see! BONKERS!
i go... absolutely ******* gloriously MAD!

i've ben given absolutely:
diagnosed: mad... let me abuse the terminology / diagnosis
a little! because?! ha ha! i'm exempt from
standard prosecution! i can always succumb
to the insanity plea!
i have back-up memorandum queues...
these normal people are just: these normal people...
boorish and above all boring as ****-goes-on-holiday...

i know why i don't dream...
photographs are useless...
me taking a a photograph when i was at most lowest,
fattest? when i took the photograph:
i looked rather thin...
but? when someone else took a photograph
of me sitting in front of a Christmas dinner:
a ******* porky pie...
i don't know how cameras work:
obscurity of the eye of the beholder...
fused with the technicality of the added
technological specimen... hmm...
curiously more curious...

           i know why i don't dream: i have a very poignant
memory in my brain:
the memory of my great-grandfather as a shadow...
here: i place my focus for entering Tartarus...
beyond the already familiar depths of Hades...
i need more! i need to go deeper...
i don't dream because i have a memory of my
great-grandfather as a shadow!
darkness abounds!

                abundo tenebris!
umbra *** umbra venio hic...
(shadow with shadow come here):
i see no need for Sabbaths or for witches...
i need shadows and shadows of shadows...
and thoughts as splinters and trees as fire and ash...
i need! HORROR!
   i need the current people to live their lives
as passively as must be met:
while i quietly pass... pass as the angel of death passed
as the final plague that befell Egypt!
listen! listen! ever so... quietly!
i need them lullabied... oblivious to the SUFLER:
speaking cues to the actors on stage!
LET, ME, PASS!

                some ******* idiot will get in my way?
i will... sacrifice a lamb: and salvage a wasp!

- it was at work at the Wembley Stadium that i first
spotted a doe (female deer) embodied by a woman,
it's so rare to find that LOOK: deer in headlights...
frightened stiff about to be taken for grass by a lawnmower...
mature woman... i'm guessing in her 40s...
all the sort of details a boy would expect from
a ****... seriously... curves, *******, ***...
although: scared eyes, perhaps even scarred eyes...
i kept glancing under my sunglasses,
she kept glancing: irritated somewhat: irritated-fearful,
as if she met destiny and it wasn't what she
was expecting...
            what a beautifully bountiful specimen of
fetishes i've been fed over the years in the medium
of *******...
sure, it's summer now, and all the young and fertile
women are walking around the streets like
its a nudist beach in the French Riviera...
oh man: such under-developed bodies...
bodies that are yet to experience the crunch of ***...

i try to think about how pedophiles think...
then i get the picture...
scrambled eggs... i like they almost burnt...
i hate well-done overcooked beef in the form of a stake...
i need it rare or medium, **** it... even blue will do...
eggs? i can't have them underdone...
i know people who like runny scrambled eggs...
you can eat undercooked beef and pork:
but undercooked chicken? it's slimy...
it's like eating slugs... plus the salmonella...
plus... it feels like raw sea-food...
that's how i look at women who have not arrived
at any ****** potential...
it's ******* ****-ugly... builder-Bob's hairy *** crack
when his blue jeans droop...

young women are like undercooked chicken...
mature women are like rare beef...
BLOOD... JUICE... NO ORANGES...
     it's filth it's suckling it's the monstrosity of coming
to her **** after she just spent a year or so
feeding some rugrat with her *******...
it's macabre, it's... nature...
it's ******* a woman like that thinking:
ooh oops... when will she turn into a Mantis?!
it's like having a bicycle accident... falling head first
over the handlebars and leaving permanent
"tattoos" on your forehead... getting up and exclaiming...
i just saw Francis Bacon paint a **** while ****!
ffff-ucking spectacular! i don't need to ingest
any lysergic acid... i'm good with the head-traumas...
disorientating at first: but orientating after...

more life, more blood, more grime more filth!
more more! MORE!
mind you, is that 'e" at the end of more really necessary?
you don't really say: aMorÉ... do you?
it's not more vs. moor... ooh... i just thirst for fiddly
bits in language... and English?
it's the devil's playground... if Poland is god's
equivalent...
you know... it took **** Germany AND Soviet
Russia to subdue Poland... longer...
than it took **** Germany to subdue France...

oh to hell with the current exported trend of culture
from H'america: white apologetics...
i don't share your history: i've been woken up
from a trinity-partition... i'm not apologising
for ****!
   i think i'd look great in an SS-mensch uniform...
i like black from time to time...
i have thoughts of Karl Lagerfeld's style...
just pretend you're donning fur...
the cat isn't clothed... you're right: #metoo!
i'll done and adore the colours of the hearth...
i'll burn bright in auburn...
in browns and in greens...
    i'll become a... ******* talking tree!

enough!
         too many idiots are running this ****-show...
grammar lessons from people with an IQ of 60...
i'm checking out!
  bye bye...
  inflated overbearing baron-demons of want...
how easily they allowed me to dehumanise them...
i look at black flies and think: ooh!
just the right sort of tickle!
   people have created people like me...

how i can simply have casual *** with prostitutes
without using a ****** and not worry
about any STGs...
sexually transmitted diseases...
i probably drank enough milk in my youth...
broken bones? nope...
but outgrowths of bone? yep...
that's true... i have one on my shin...
hardly a ballerina in me bewildered by a tutu...
i don't break bones:
i leave outgrowths...

hmm... time for a new meditation...
the serpents can be left alone...
two serpents in a pickling jar? a DNA helix...
or... dragons?! fire...
the great meteor when the moon failed
to protect the earth... fire breathing
giant lizards... dinosaurs...
that, meditation: is over...
time to turn to insects... hmm... flies...
wasps...
i like that... the way wasps are born:
pure Darwinism:
insect and parasite combined...
                the larva is shoved into an unsuspecting
body of a worm...
the larva is born and starts...
eating the worm from the inside: out...
imitation cuckoo bird...
sort of the same principle...

                 has Darwinism been truly applied?
has it?! has it?! i call an obstacle i find in man
either: THING... or the OTHER...
ha ha... pronouns... ha ha... ah ha ha... pronouns...
yeah: these people have one:
IT...
                 i'm just a theological mercenary...
either the descent of god or the ascendance of the devil:
the wind blows in all four geographical vectors...
as a ****** they could have sold me Protestantism,
Catholicism, Communism... ******... blah blah...
this... woke little **** of: thank you: but i rather sleep,
is... supposed to what?! make me quake in my boots!
hold hold... let me just twinkle my toes...
do i have... socks on my feet? wait wait...
mmm... furry-toes... yeah: i have socks on...

being the massive fan of both the Red Hot Chilli Pappers
and William Burroughs:
hell only knows where these idle hands will
travel...
i love my bedroom in the night with no lights
on... insatiable: the drummer-instinct in me...
i can't help grooving to EASILY
and AROUND THE WORLD...
hands joined to the torso...
hands attached to hands... no saucepans...
**** it... thighs knees and the head will simply do...
i need to chase after my heartbeat...
out-chase it...

but in the darkness by the silver milk of the moon's
rays... my naked body impressed against the backdrop
of constellations...
Azog the Pale Orc and his Warg Matriarch...
well... mine is ginger and he's no matriarch...
he's a castrated ginger Maine ****...
yes... let's get carried away...
                because the comparison of Africans as Orcs
is a disrespected for me...
the English knowledge of etymology
of Slav = Slav(e) is also slightly off...

just like Billy Joel sang while sifting through sand
to find bones and rocks:
just like the post-Soviets in Ukraine
and H'americans in Iraq and Afghanistan...
what African people conquered any "polite" plot
of land outside of Africa? who?! the "Orcs"?
who are the slaves?
who's anyone, mind you?

Shaolin monk style questing:
i abhor the sceptics... i have this inherent hatred for
the sceptics like Ezra Pound abhorred the Taoists...
i can't: stand their... adamant... pride...
their neglect of being humbled...
how do you learn the concept of humbling?
by being humbled...
and how do you counter the concept of humbling?
upon being humbled:
you transcend and do not: humble...
whenever i was made a makeshift supervisor...
i didn't humble people...
i was caretaker...
because just don't get the whole idea...
they have partial clues regarding the idea of
the function...
today i caught a green-bell fly with my index and
thumb... i took a photograph of my "adventure":
as you do...
because it wasn't me stretching easily melting cheese...
so i guess that's a plus...

i hate scepticism...
you ******* don't know the basic principles of
1 + 1 = 2... CAUSALITY...
seriously? the fire that erupted in that tiny village
of Wennigton was like...
CAUSE + EFFECT = CAUSALIY...
so... i blow up a balloon up with my breath?
carbon dioxide... the balloon will sink...
i inflate it with helium, what? the balloon rises...

what's the impact i have by cycling to where
i need to go? no impact...
well... some extra traffic...
i might overheat my rubber, no?
but in terms of fuel? yes... carbohydrates
in my body... i need to peddle...
what am i burning? my own momentum...
i'm not burning any dinosaur fuel or gas...
i'm mobile... more mobile that people
who overuse their mobile phones...
there was a point: once upon a time:
for telephones to be left stationary...

  i abhor the sceptics: they're like the worst bad joke bad
jokers...
the canine cynics i can understand:
i can understand their cynicism:
fear the dog that fears its owner...
we're currently the dogs in fear of their own
fate: our owner...

i have oppressive memories...
that's why i don't dream... what interpretation
could Freud give:
and all that pedagogic erosioin fron learning
"skills": what skills? that would envision me
as having traction in the workforce?
zilch! nada! nothing! i just think of those poor
people who have recurrent dreams...
poor *******: how can you become so *******
as to have recurrent dreams?
70cl of whiskey won't help?
waking up at 8am the next day...
anxious out of both brain and freeze won't help?
not sure whether vomiting or taking a ****
will ease your burden, that confusion
won't help?!
**** me...
                   **** it... jump off a cliff...
paying close attention to the sunset...
maybe that might help...
                  i can't help you luvvy dubby... teddy...
please don't try to hug me...
i've seen how that works in the workforce...
one bubbly gal... all purple hai with
a hiding twitch in her hair...
   hugs me...
i just misheard a word she uttered...
she said darling: i thought she said daddy...
every since it has become a *******
schtick!
                 ugh... it's like... my ******* *******
tuching glue...
would i like erecticle dysfunction? yes please...
so i'm greeting this big girl with a hug...
the one i'm more interested in...
she's ginger: i have a ginger-fetish...
i think of her as: MOUSE...
anyway...

      let's get the party people pout and get them
the **** out of the way...
i will not describe to them that i have...
an inkling into right-wing politics...
i'm a fascistic nut...
   blah blah...
                    i get the purple-haired frogs out
of the way... by? hugging them...
i get onto the mouse... ooh... the dynamic changes...
i can't hug her...
the purple haired lesbian-fatso wants hugs:
i give her hugs...
but the mouse is special...
she's ginger...
             i love gingers...

i address her with a hand... extended...
she's not a man... therefore? she doesn't perform a handshake...
she.... hmm...
i'm a daddy... about to give my daughter
an ice-cream cone...
  she grips my fingers in the wrong way
that hands out to meet upon greeting...
she grips my fingers... on the wrong side...
i feel: oddly... left-handed...

i thank god and the democracy of satans
for the simple fact that:
none of these people will ever care to wonder
where i spend some of my nights...
ha ha...
oh please... ***** please...
i spend them with prostitutes...
you think i'm that quick to quiver?!
seriously?
i love a game of cards more than i enjoy a game
of chess: after all: it's one game after another...

games... games...
i used to be a big gamer in my early teenage-hood...
i couldn't be separated from my PS1 console
during the weekend...
i begged for a PS2... didn't get one...
i guess gaming caught up to me...

the gaming experience coupled with the internet...
ah... mind-mining...
teaming up... war robot games...
my thrill has finally come...
war robots... mech arena...
better still... the agenda of credit...
me? it's free, isn't it? well then...
but you manage to spot the people who invest
money in something:
they're usually skill-less: not exactly team-players...
esp. when it come to a game that
focuses on two objectives...
winning or losing is just a byproduct...
(a) gaining authority over control points
(b) destroying all the opposite side's mechs...
time frame? 10 minutes in war robots...
5 minutes in mech arena...
plenty of time to contemplate taking a ****...
mind you: either i dilate my ****
and ease out a **** by jerking off to a pair of ****
or i play an interactive game...
on the throne of thrones...
i could be wearing a crown of: dust...
and it would still matter... whether the plumbing works:
or doesn't...

i seriously had to wait for gaming to catch up with
my desired DIET of gaming...
i had to wait for the internet to evolve...
i required an arena... a lottery of... value...
competent players versus incompetent players...
players willing to hone in on their skills for free...
and players... lazy enough to invest money
that is otherwise unnecessarily invested in a game...

i'm coming back to gaming...
i can du soku... ****... su doku  by myself...
what need for crossword puzzles when you're already
a crossword puzzle of bilingualism?
sure... i have polyglot interests...
the concept of RENDAKU springs to mind...
as expressed in ORIGAMI:
                        g = k.... TOE-MAY-TOES...
T'OH-M'AH-TOES...
  
        hey! the people of the never-setting sun!
you're not much different, n'est ce pas?!
but there's a more obvious RENDAKU...
theta phi V...
alTHough... THought... and...
             PH = TH = F...
    but "F" = V... via TH...
                   the Fe? or the V'eh in THE point?!
i'll bring this tower of Babel to crumble before
my toes and then, and then:
i'll kneel among the rubble!
too much of Hell's ambitions have been sung by men
for Hell to simply: wallow in Heaven's tyranny
of absence!
                    we're here...
whoever we are: it doesn't matter...
                       one variant attired to another...
we're mechanisations to counter the absence of human
spirit...
we're the *****-slapping crew...
i pray to god that i'm not alone in my ambitions...
not that i pray...

this posting will have to wait...
i have a shift at Wembley tomorrow...
Coldplay... it's not like i hate them: i just don't love them...
it will be a dross...
but this posting will have to wait... i might have
to stop over at the brothel to ease my brain from
having ownership of a head...
i'll think about it...
depends on... a number of factors...

for the time being... mosquitos... caught... donning
donning boxing gloves... by the *******...
or... flies... catching them by the legs...
with naked fingers...
ooh... i love those pristine *******...
the green-bells... fertile *******...
they **** more maggots than they eat...
black flies are priests...
i like the tickling sensation insects leave
on a naked body... esp. when they don't deposit any
embryos... of their own...
**** me: wasps and my eye...
i would: most probably: punch myself to death if that
ever happened...
ergo? there's a god...
ergo? simple people make life pristine all the more
difficult...
no one has problems with competent people...
no one... idiots make this world worse
than the best it already is...
the ******* god of norms...
"calculations"... exhibits A and exhibits B...
i'm getting tired of this Atlas pause...
i'm waiting for Darwinism-proper kicks in...
when the dimension of agony-scrutiny and: RE-ALITY
cometh...

no one is going to dictate my useage of
the English language beside an authentic English-man!
no one!
no one... oh... but i'm siding with the Russians...
no one sided with the Iraqis when Iraq
was invaded... no one sided with the Afghans
when Afghanistan was invaded...
**** the Ukrainians: i'm not siding with them...
Cossacks undermined the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth... sold it to the Ottoman barbers...
**** them...
i'm on the side of the Russians...
which makes listening to western journalistic
narratives a miracle of escapism...
i began, to, stop, reading, pointless, books:
already, pointless, to, begin, reading! ******* bravo!
extend the concept of starvation!

no no... now we're talking more... we need more...
there's only one guilt trip associated with hell...
gluttony: the gluttony of death...
there are never enough dead people!
hmm! ******* weird!
why aren't there enough dead people?!

can't you *******, just, die?!
    sure: i'm equally man...
by no summary i am no exception...
perhaps... i'm some variation of an exception
akin to: i bite an apple: i... "taste" water...
wait a minute: you can't "taste" water...
since... water is tasteless...
how pow! either the apple is imaginary
or my taste of the apple is imaginary:
or my ability to taste is imaginary...
or... well... there was no apple to begin with...

ha ha... by now all of philosophy is not a question
but an answer: i just don't care...
and? i just don't care...
it's a must of: there's too much...
and there's too little...
      it's clearly beyond any prior concern
of GOOD and EVIL...
there's just too much... and there's too little...
there are new-rule absolutes...

only a dutious scarab of a servant might acknowledge
this conundrum...
we have moved beyond the gravity of language
concerning a good and an evil...
there? is either too little...
or there's too much! for the time being: problem solved:
i.e. problem staged: therefore: not solved!
hell yawns! more of these i.q. deficient mongrels!

yes, i abhor the sceptics with a similar passion
that Socrates ascribed the sophists,
with equal passion Ezra Pound ascribed his passionate
hatred for the the Taoits...
i ascribe equal measure to the sceptics...
i can bark dog with the cynics...
i like cynicism... i abhor scepticism:
they're so ridiculous ridiculous...
to them? the casausality bound to the physics is
non-existent...

mind you... i don't know what i'm doing with this
poo'em...
i have already broken several instances
of keeping up to the up-keep of
エンソー...

                  **** me... even the Japanese use diacritical
markers, the English are forever adamant
in not using any... even though there's an example
of レンダク (rendaku) in almost every word that arrives
at the "suspicion) of THETA contra PHI...
TH = D in there's a point...
TH = F in there's thinking invoked...
THE= V: THE point...

it has taken me too many takes to complete this piece
with too many interludes of
either staring at my shadow or blinking at the sun...
i will need to abandon this poem at some point...
not that it's unfinished:
it's only that i require a readership of squaters
to venture in its dynamic...
new "things" happened... i need to write about them...
too much happened today for me to want
to perfect this:
i already wasted about half an hour looking
for my headphones...
father... i know i placed them in some easily
re-find location... what did he do?
he stashed my headphones in a drawer with
his shoes and shoelaces...
   apparently too inconvenient...
a lunatic walking around the house with a searchlight
trying to find them...
                no, this poem is becoming silly...

AA LL OO NN EE