There's something about this past few days
I can't explain what's going on
I can't do nothing but to continue and hold on
All I know now is I am smiling without knowing how.

In the back of my mind, there is you lookin' at me in secrecy
I'll never forget the feeling I felt while you are waving
I still recall the playful conversation at the stairs
I don't know why, but I am captivated by your eye.

Loneliness Is Wishing To Cry

Can we really control our loneliness when it attacks? Of course not. However, we can employ the means by which to channel it into a positive force. A force whereby we recruit others and together battle this power of the dark side attempting to cajole us into this state of melancholy. We have to collectively rise to the occassion, and with the force of Good, vanquish it forever more.

Here is a short poem about what loneliness means to me. It was written at a time in my life when I was trying to deal with the recent death of a close family member. Needless to say, I was most devasted at the time of this writing. This poem at that time, in reflection, acted as a therapeutic means for me to "get it all out".

Loneliness is despair
Loneliness is something to beware
Loneliness is the thought today
of no tomorrow

Loneliness is wishing to cry
without knowing why
Loneliness is a simple feeling
without a simple answer

Loneliness comes
Loneliness goes
Loneliness is that uninvited guest
who visits, always without a request

Loneliness is a sickness
you my friend are the cure
Together we will strengthen
and together we will endure.....

night has passed
clanking and exhaling,
small talks of large projects, conundrums;
oak wood canines roam in bliss
new found love found lager
new found lover found a big stomach in the morning
and a smile on his face, not penetrating his soul.
deep and shallow, bodies of water dig going with the flow.
perhaps a bowl of cereal is in the general direction we're floating,
huzzah, brumah, and lack-lack.

Dear thickness,
Dear bold flesh I call shelter of leg,
protection for this body I call home
Dear thighs.
You are more important than you think
more crucial than you've been told
more space than I know what to do with and
more vocal than most other girls' quiet but
your prominence is nothing to hide
your existence is not an apology ready to be given,
your presence does not want to be covered
the way you suffocate yourself into a pair of jeans is
a talent unlike any other
or on hot summer days when skin comes out to
kiss itself between your graces
leaving marks as evidence
what some would call chub rub,
I call magic,
an inability to resist touching,
Thighs.
You never let clothing,
or temperature,
or weather come between you
you are passionate lover,
the proud I always strive to be
the unapologetic beauty I wish was all of me
you maintain the confidence I have to dig for to find within myself
you have so much potential built into the many layers of thick
I cannot tell you enough how important it is
Some say you save lives and
I would have to agree
but still
I know that there have been times when I have neglected you
moments where I have been blind in acknowledging your worth
It is not an easy feat to love the parts of yourself we are taught from
such an early age to hate
magazines have always said be small while
you have always aimed for big
trends tell you to grow in when
all you've ever wanted is to grow out and
expand into a galaxy built of freckles and skin,
you are human as human as gets
I have made you into a warzone on more than
one occassion and for that I am sorry
I am sorry
for more than one reason
I am sorry that this world has twisted your greatness into embarrassment
I am sorry that people have tried to make an apology out of your density
I am sorry that we live in a society that keeps telling you to shrink
I am sorry for all of the times I have wanted you to.
It has taken me years to be thankful for your holy,
you are the answer to my every prayer for health
you are living proof of survival,
Thighs.

This is my proclamation of appreciation
This is my asking forgiveness
I never meant to make you feel anything but needed
Thighs.
you were not made to be thin
you were not meant to be shy
you were built to be the loudest voice in every room
head turning, eye catching, without remorse
you are never silent
even when I am
and for that,
I love you.

how often do I have to return to the comparison
of dogs, when my patience and
social formality is tested...
         and without these piquant passions
I'd... well I wouldn't even try to
become an oriental monk or a
Bangladeshi yogi (if that's what you're
asking)...
            guess it will never be in my heart
to turn my blood blue
and pretend to blush like Vishnu...
then again: maybe there are no monarchs
seated on the stools of cashiers,
at a supermarket?!
       perhaps older women should be
taught not to serve your men buying
alcohol, thinking that they are en route
to the men in their life...
     whatever the story,
          but for god's sake,
   just because I've taken my headphones
off and slipped them into the neck
of my t-shirt doesn't mean I'm: suddenly deaf...
ah faaaa'ck the woman's comments
ruined my afternoon moon which
subsequently ruined this classic pasta
bake I was making...
            because that sort of commentary
from a supermarket cashier isn't on...
PEOPLE DO NOT HAVE BORING JOBS...
THEY HAVE EASY JOBS
    WHICH MAKES THEM BORING...
and I'd love to see a bunch of these
supermarket staff spend one summer
covering the roof of the Scottish Widows
HQ near St. Paul's:
   WORK ON A CONSTRUCTION IS...
    ARBEIT!
            you don't have a chance to
scratch your backside let alone
think about flamingo coloured clouds
to, "pass the time"...
          can't exactly expect a job,
devoid of physical exertion,
and somehow wish for an intelectually
budding focus point to counter...
  people have "boring" jobs because
they don't have as much physical investment
in it... and not every job, made easy,
is guaranteed intellectual prosperity...
albeit there are some "easy" jibs
that nonetheless require a sense of
the other, id est: responsibility -
exemplum gratis: a crane operative...
      roofing is a menial task,
albeit with the meniality of the labour
eased by a physical investment...
all these, menial / "boring" jobs?
   exactly, where once it would be equated
to toiling in the field...
          no intelectual expansion,
added to the missing loss of physical strain...
hey presto, you have kings and queens,
literal ******* monarchs on supermarket
cashier stools!
      MANTRA:
    remember to have the cool of
an alsatian, rather than the bark of
  dachshund (repeat that x3)...
WHY?!
    loose tomatoes, on the vine...
even at the self-checkout the checkout
machines have, a ******* weighing
mashine for the cashier,  
    by her generous graces: to ******* use!
if this sort of cashier is so
******* expendable, why the hell have
supermarket cashiers in the first place?!
people have a knack,
at making them expendable...
    this poem would not have come to life
if the supermarket installed self-checkouts...
because?
******* dinosaur...
    I can understand going to the butcher stall
or the fishmonger stall and receiving
a barcode sticker...
    fresh fruit and veg. in a supermarket?
    does it ******* look like I'm
at Spitalfields?!
    sorry, Poles can't own shops, can't work
in shops, will always return to
shopping during the Marshal Law days
paranoid about the Soviet invasion...
fresh tomatoes, every self-checkout
machine has the option of weighing
loose veg...
    yet there she is, a twitching
a.i. in waiting recyclable with a question
(prior to the suggestion of my deafness...
no, the sound of cars doesn't fill
me with a techno romance, music thank you,
can't summon a ******* sparrow
even if I waned to):
WHY AREN'T THESE TOMATOES WEIGHED?
mantra: remember to have the patience
of an alsatian...
     oh, sorry, could you just put
them to the side?
   the barcode road ended...
     SELF-CHECKOUT MACHINES
HAVE A LIBRA FUNCTION!
YOU CAN DO MORE THAN JUST SCAN
BARCODES! YOU ARE SUPPOSED
TO WEIH LOOSE VEG!
   THE SUPERMARKET HAS HAD A FRESH
DELIVERY! SEASONAL PRODUCE WILL
NOT BE PACKED IN SOME *******
JUST OUTSIDE OF MADRID AND SHIPPED
WHEN LOCAL PRODUCE HAS JUST BEEN
BROUGHT IN, AND IS SOLD LOOSE,
BECAUSE IT HAS BEEN BAUGHT IN BULK,
THE SUPERMARKET HASN'T PAID FOR
BARCODE PACKAGING...
expendeble human being...
     and god, I sometimes wish I could
bark like a duchshund whenever
a mosquito-bite's moment of irritation
      came like that on every
occasion...
          little dogs bark...
I haven't the energy most of the time...
so I have the mantra:
save the barking and go straight
for the bite...
        hence the alsatian...
             currently there's a "debate"
about: disabled people protesting for
almost 20 days about receiving
     an increased living allowance...
and I'm like: you sure a ****** would
have insulted my hearing
     and did a job worse than I would
have done using a self check-out?
        all ******* smiles if they were
given this "menial" task...
   heads full of hot air, smiles all round,
and... on the odd occassion,
a deviation from scanning barcodes...
but I sometimes wish
   I could bark like a little dog
on these mosquito-bite type of scenarios,
as trivial as they are...
   in a supermarket...
    but I can't exactly lunge into
gnarling and biting...
            guess I have to pretend to
be the ever loving, patience of an angel
labrador... type of...
              dog, walking an invisible
blindman...
     hell, the ***** I bought on this
trivial escapade makes the past day
a glitch... and the night:
    open to an endless stream of interpretation...
she was right though,
   I am not the sort of story
behind alcohol that she probably
knows and has moved past
self-pity...
                    all out war of tongue...
well, sure...
    AVE! MENS FACTUS EST ****...
hell, Latin grammar is like
a semitic text,
          right to left...
            doesn't matter if the text
is ancient and was also, once upon
written left to right...
   the grammar might as well be
semitic...
               good that I didn't bark...
           ah...
but to have ended the day and escaped
into the night, with this deadweight
making me bloated?
     the fact that people
can't keep social manners in comment
sections of articles...
           and don't have the capacity
to bash about a pixel blank?
        it's as if these people are so docile
and oblivious to situations
where they could have barked
    but didn't...
    but also: didn't even have
a conflicting argument to not bite...
hence... ha ha...
   the comment sections, those of us
aged 30+... are familiar with.

.                                                    rarely...
but it does happen...
a cat will encounter you
going up the stairs
in the middle
of the night,
with a fresh batch of
ice-cubes,
   and it will attach yourself
to a medium of attention,
it will ballerina side-step
an 8,
    persistent,
looking for the strong aspect
of your hand,
burrowing its head into it,
no, it's not looking for your knuckles,
not the tip of your fingers,
but the cusp...
so you play with it for some time,
before you decide: "bored",
and hyena grip the poor thing
in the midst of its staged
performance...
you take it into your bedroom,
clear the bed, place her in it,
put on some ola gjeilo
for her, while you're still strapped
to the headphone listening
to some dikanda;
what could a cat actually
want from a drunkard?
maybe i respect her exercise
of freedom,
maybe: cats can teach a man
to not become overtly
attached to a "concept" of
                  progeny?
this **** is rare...
what? this feline show of
needing attention...
how i've come to adore cats...
bypassing the basic clues
of dogs,
the whole concern for a leash...
when an animal comes to you,
and asks to be petted,
when it's no longer a
primordial base,
  a bonsai variety of a tiger...
then you fake petting it...
it does it's 8 swirl...
shape akin to a standing
infinity...
   i wonder...
  how far apart is
the hyphen (-)
   from a lemniscate (∞)?
i'll tell you:
pet a cat prior,
pet a cat that wants /
implores you to pet it...
   but it just kept nudging my petting
hand, kept burrowing itself
in finding the cusp...
  it didn't want the fingertips,
it didn't want the knuckles...
what a rare occassion,
when,
   i would never, ever have
praise for dog ownership...
this, completed
variation of my own freedom...
maybe that's what i devalued
the ownership of dogs...
the leash put me off...
this dog-ownership
ownership consistency...
akin to parenthood
  of not being to allow
the a priori testimony /
expression of inherent freedom...

for all the sins of Muhammad...
i believe that i should
believe that...
the only judgement comes
in the form of khadija **** khuwaylid:
a woman 25 years his senior,
a literate woman...
  who wrote the first
verses of the quran...
if not khadija?
            
     to me... khadija wrote the first
verses of the quran...
if not more than half of them...
god has nothing to do with
this prominent individual,
muhammad died,
and will be judged by khadija...

after all... "the miracle"
of the existence of the quran...
last time i heard...
muhammad was illiterate...
he didn't write these verses...
so, who did?
my guess is...
a woman wrote it...
                                         khadija...
last time i heard:
   muhammad was illiterate!
so who wrote the first verses?
****'s sake...
my guess is as good as yours,
but my guess is:
a woman wrote the quran...
some would claim
the quran is nothing short of
the stephen vizinczey
novel: any woman 25 years
my senior....
   who managed to write a book
for me?

  one compliment to muhammad...
if those were genuine
hallucinations,
  and they rhymed in arabic...
great, having remembered them...
and allowing them access to
the writtten word,
   walking back from the cave
                           of meditation...

but, then of course...
  the "laissez faire" of theology,
   and the monopoly of monotheistic
revisionism...
   the: "enzyme" approach...
instigator, praise...
whatever you want to call it...

muhammad was illiterate...
so who wrote the first surahs...
if not the literate first wife
of muhammad, khadija **** khuwaylid?
no wonder...
   no wonder...
you know what tsar ivan
did to the architect
   of the st. basil cathedral,
postnik yakovlev?
he gauged out his eyes,
saying:
   you will not see anything more
beautiful in this world...
muhammad?
   when it came to khadija **** khuwaylid?
he didn't have the *****,
to do what he would do to his
subsequent victims...
i'm still trying to imagine
khadija **** khuwaylid in a burqa...
or a niqab...
a bit like what ivan IV
did to postnik yakovlev
after the st. basil cathedral
                              was completed...

who wrote the first verses of
the quran? a woman did...
            khadija **** khuwaylid...
and if she lived long enough...
she would have suffered
the same fate of  
                     postnik yakovlev...
surely not blinded,
but coerced into donning
a niqab.

drinking warm whiskey... isn't so bad...
it could be much worse:
it could be warm *****:
     not cold enough to reach a gomme syrop
consistency...
life's so tragic... sometimes...
       a warm ***** is like a warm beer...

what am i supposed to say?
i'm just tired of wanting to be in love...
i'm tired of hating...
   i'm tired of being angry...
i'm tired of being preditable and also:
slithering in pickling juices...
i am tired of love because...
               when it was "love"...
it wasn't dog eyes and a leash...
         or: never mind the solipsism of cats
when they still desire to mark your
forehead when sniffing it...
or come up and greet you:
with a "bodzio"... a head-****...

    so much of my cognitive capacity
became a wasteland from having
both woman and love on a peddlestool
of the ideal...
                   it's terrible waking up...
but that "terrible" sometimes becomes
as... exhilarating as taking a cold shower...
or watching a flock of sparrows chirp...

and the ***: cocoon ***... under bed-sheets...
all my one-night stands happened this way...
under the bed-sheets...
i'm happy to give a comparative literature of:
well... at least in the brothel we did it
under dimmed lights...
****-naked on the sheets...
having showered first
and downed a slacker of ms. amber:
oh you know it's bad...
that i have to call whiskey a very personal
investment narrative...
it's not whiskey... it's... ms. amber...

i should have been drinking long ago...
come shoulder to shoulder with
both my paternal and maternal grandfathers...
cocoon ***...
and if you don't think a man can be "*****"...
at the brothel?
  there's the concept of: creaming-up...
if the oyster isn't salivating enough...
yes... "****"... cocoon *** with a sawdust ****...
sanding paper **** more like...
oh the agony: but to my liking...
yeah bud: stick your lesser want of limbs
into a meat-grinder:
is that penetrating enough?
      who would forever suppose...
it's a kangaroo pouch of safety...
the nadir of lucifer's birth:
     free-falling: head first... but not through
a ****... not some floral pattern...

     cesarean... cesarean... are we going to give
births to kaisers or dull-eyed: deer...
i very much like to imagine a band
of mad-laughter hyenas...

               coal-burning black eyes...
      i am tired of giving up my thinking to any
and all ideals of love...
i could have invested my (th)ought i
into... conjuring up an electric bulb...
        a frankestein...
                i became so tired of love...
i had to come across a brothel:
to steal kisses from prostitutes
     and attempt a theft of the halo of st. augustine...
mummify letters in books...

which i have done...
        but love is such a never-dog...
                    one relationship that involved as cooking
together: beside the already necessary
prerequisite of *******-for-free...
her period, the ******, and cooing her
to do it in the bathtub with the water running...

or this: moment when enough ms. amber
is in me... and i turn to...
         the chants of the templars:
            crucem sanctem...
                   dum pater familias...
          da pacem domine...

that clarity of a transaction...
              the growling dog overwhise
teased with food already presented to him
in a bowl...
          count of fingers...
                    
     i'm tired of love... of all of my body...
this nail blunt head from being hammered
too often...
           it escapes me:
why should my libido be compensated
when it requires: exhaustion...
to find the most fanciful thought:
only when the libido is exhausted:
   and if i have to do it myself: so be it...

but of so many people worried:
i am indeed... "worried"... when will it...
subside... die off...
this quills': marquis de sade:
leverage of: to read books using only
one hand...
                        if the acne is so prolonged
to make me...
belzeebub's favourite ***** of:
what precedes ****** / anti-wrinkle creams...
one maggot 'ere... another...

it is simply exhausting to love:
as one is expected to love via fiction...
and it is too costly to love:
poetically... anything but language...
esp. acquired language:
a language learned... most certainly
not passed from a grandmother to a mother
to a son...
some could claim to call these words:
in vitro...
         and on that matter...
which part of me is experimentally "dead":
the mind... or the body?
i am not... a native of these parts...
a native...           a native...

this is the part of the year when
winter is crucified... and reborn as spring! no?
all ******* rose buds and sparrows chirping!
who can love... so... ideally...
idle though: to make the burdens
of the most... boorish matters needing:
stressed concerns for "detail"...

  am i one of the last ones that still
bought a *****-mag when
the free **** was available online...
                     twitch... i'm an old ****:
in a 34 year old body... because:
keeping up... became synonymous with
being distracted...
                  cam-girl... etc. etc.
            "soz": but there just isn't any bragging
to be minded...
or a:        h'american striptease... d'uh: tease...
the carnival of the wriggling maggot
came to invoke
kissing the eyelids... gently teasing
the tip of the nose with a bite...
                             this body... or that body...
an a sculptor...
   in the brothel i was only robbed... once:
well... "robbed"...
this coke-head distrated me with:
do you want to use this *****...
          the proprietors' henchman...
a little turk by the time: i presume to be:
Osman came up with a bundle of stolen cards
and asked me: which one is yours?

that's a pretty good effort...
        i must have been up to no good...
once we stopped ******* because: she started
seeing downton abbey in an epileptic flicker...
yes: and me ******* her wasn't,
exactly... a ******* chocolate fondant...
          
it seems so... pristine when...
two bodies are allowed to touch...
without all that extra baggage...
that is desired to... "beside" the otherwise...
readily available carnality of the act...

e-girl vidoes: teases...
                                    what can be the best
compliment... one could possibly give to...
byzantine culture / the "modern" greek?
   ah... Αγνή Παρθένε... the singing...
                          
   mulier... no... not a woman or wife...
             hardly a property right...
something to boast and concern oneself for
the rattling of feathers of peacocks...
     mulier... the french playright...
ugh... molière - yes, him!
            molière donning a mullet! yes...
and not one of those charles II wigs...
from one wig alone...
               you could have made...
oh... roughly... an orchestra's demand
for violin and cello bows...

              pissy-pant french of 14 year old
past: one direction fandom...
                            for every male fan of tool...
a declared ownership of a *****...
better still... a screwdriver...
    that would be something...

                                or when stand-up comedy
was communist enough to entertain:
a cabaret form... an **** oddity (bottom)...
can't enough not tire of
stand-up solipsism...
the stand-up solo project of...
back-and-forth with an audience of canned
laughter?
cabaret... doesn't have to be switz
ja herr doktor voltaire...
         but some sort of ping-pong...
a game of squash...
i do not know... of a single concept of
sport... where there's only one...
concept-riddle of engagement...
can comedy... or rather... should comedy
have "evolved" beyond the cabaret...
famously: in theatre-land...
stones in his pockets...
two bodies on stage...
  with a plethora of...
how the sequence went...
   BRONSON...
bronson "vs." or rather:
"nursie" vs. "mr. petersson"...

          two names: Conleth Hill and
             Sean Campion... oh look... capital! letters!
yes: of note... circa 2001...
and that's when...
   this... stand-up... hard-on "comedy"
of stand-ups...
no... no cabaret format...
internal-monologues extending into...
an octopus attempting cliff-skimming:
climbing... failing miserably...
   if it's such a "comedy"...
    where's heidegger's hammer?
last time i heard: even by ol' martin's standards:
you'd require two people to talk
about philosophy as a "side-project"
when hammering in nails...
how can one person tell a joke?
oh but they can...
on special occassion(s)...
         the joke is better translate via a dialogue...
rather than a monologue...
last time i heard...
  
comedy doesn't require these stand-up
geniuses...
imagine... ******* is actually...
a *** act...
taking a **** is actually a...
        get together meal for three...
and that's the loaf... equally spread...
for the devil's dozen...
   ******* will satisfy any champagne socialist
get-together...
      
   i have to become bored of love...
the sort of love that would never come with:
the impetus of darwinism's ideologues...
for: now that i have become a father...
           i'm less and less: a ***** satyr!
               wish me 70+ age and being freed
by dementia to curse like a cobbler
and a seafaring man...

              that overbearing: no room for impromptu:
when solo...
otherwise... no otherwise...
just that strict: regime of... an expectation
for and with: canned laughter...
all that's missing are two tin cans
and a placenta of stiched-up tongues...

... for all the movie buffs...
it's not enough to blunt your eyes on movies...
actors: and their subsequent roles
in 3D... why did up stand-up...
the grand mass-orchestrator of giggles be
allowed to cue the audience...
like any minor dictator might: from
argentina or romania?

                 back toward the ***...
yes... stealing kisses from prostitutes...
this was never going to be one about Wordsworth's
"celibacy"... which you would be expected
to partake in... just having bit into
the forbidden fruit of ****** with your sister...
or so... they might say...

daffodils and that "doris" of the...
will the word ****... somehow prevent
you from seeing ****** ****...
or ******* ****?
then at least there's the hope...
to make minors of ettiquete standards
of the: proper social contract approach:
with civility... or therefore: none...

i am finding a rare occassion for:
an as to why, i would ever do anything to begin
with... grow a beard (1)
grow a beard to stop myself shaving (2)
grow a beard to hide my double-chin (3)...
grow a beard because
growing my hair long became boring (4)...
grow a beard because i wanted
to scratch my ***** on my face rather than
scratch them on my "eden region" (5)...
the other reasons congregate under
the status of... rubric and tally...

(6) to grow a beard is better than growing
the hair long...
no chance of becoming bald...
long hair attracts too much female attention...
last time i heard a woman who grew a beard
became a circus-act...
a beard is the safest territory to mind...
when there's a woman that...
somehow needs to compensate!

         all of a sudden: i have forgotten *****
envy... when i came across
beard envy...
   i am... very much so...
envious of mel gibsons beard...
in general: but esp. so in the role...
of prof. murray... with him donning
a cravate and a top-hat to boot:
the epitome of what all men of the world
could have wished for:
the victorian gentlemen...
fiercer still: an autodidact...
a dog without a leash... eh?

     i pity the tattoo of ethnicity:
given that: i would be english...
an ukranian would be scottish...
or a lithuanian... the tattoo of ethnicty or a past...
that i would be the ******...
and there was this tide of cossacks...
i would be... the ******...
           and there would be some
ingenius pict equivalent...
            in my abode...
                      
    i am tired of love...
the most attired love of idealism...
as i am tired of hate:
and anger...
i am tired of both of these latter:
when there's no boxing match interlude
to match-up with...
i'm tired of love as i am tired
of retribution and of justice...
i am tired of gambling...
what right is there fore me:
to steal from the blind?
           i am tired from: expectations...
i am tired of ideals...
i am tired of hate because:
if i wasn't i'd still find it...
egregious to spot the minor offences
of citing the prefixing n-...
                                        as... nothing short
of an "oops" of b-               and -igger!

i'm tired of being: a civil monkey...
if i'm tired of love...
if i'm tired of hate...
i can never tire of language...
but if i become:
zoologically kept: inept...
                      ha ha! ha ha! ha! ha!
i: dodo: tire: and Tod:
of: ******: improm:     p'tooh!
         savvy or the sinking ship?!

                       RATZ!

better a concern for prostitutes:
seeing that... there's no...
jackie ol' myth to be cooked from my "affairs"...
i thought about:
how about... now was the best time...
to not **** prostitutes...
i stole kisses...
an exercise in making videos...
bring back blockbusters!
             bring back blockbusters!
**** the content creators of youtube!
give, me, back, my, *******, jukebox!
give, me, back, my... thesaurus algorithm!
give, me, back, my, *******, jukebox!
give, me, back, my... thesaurus algorithm!

           once upon a time: dubbed:
paupers... the homeless...
prostitutes... now... eh... one sly loss of calling
these... the... leeches of: welcome tomorrow!
so the price of... being...
astounded... that's it?!
                the magnified statement
of karma-phobia...
there has to be a concept akin to:
karma-phobia when islamophobia is already
too bogus to touch...
there has to be: karma-phobia...

a ******* a canvas:
i went down this alley because...
i just... wanted to show-off...
for myself...
the most better part of myself i could never
show with... a girlfriend...
and showing my best:
armed with merely a dog and a leash:
just wasn't enough:
or a fabergé egg: missing a matryoshka doll
"detail"...

like kicking a dog in the *****...
like... attempting to catch a mosquitos
by the ******* donning boxing gloves...
the lowest of the low:
of picking the "fruit"...
jackie ol' burrow: ripe-kipper...
and that merry-o-round of...

                give me enough upper-body volume
to rummage and ruminate...
to clearly identify the psychopaths
leisuring themselves over a thursday's
afternoon worth of sun-soaking
a metaphor of bath...
         and all those minor grizzly detials
of swathing a mosquito or two...
because we are inclined
to spare the flies...
because: we just, are... thus inclined...
i hear an argument: i will: without a doubt...
also hear a guillotine do us all a favor
of detailing the: "chopper"...

my my: that ripe keeper of a pulsating
neck's worth of a rhubarb...
salmon teriyaki...
                                       n'est ce-pas?!

in between: calling it learning to tie one's
shoelaces...
having no better synonym detail
of comparison other than...
             with depeche...
                                no song to be worth
any particular: sort of... originality...
and or in... detail...
                   there's only a hope for
giving a particular sort of wind:
associated with a month...
and with a month: a sorting-out of a year
within and beyond a decade...
a century...
                    
this had to be forever: and one...
enough for the worth of tonight...
and with it... no other, better, compensation
other than my own input;

ha ha!                          grace?!

.the better part of a Friday night

grim.. times... what better way to pass a drinking session than to translate some Horace... i see no other worthy time-consuming scoop of any events to follow, this:

humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam iungere si velit et varitas
inducere plumas undique conlatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne,
spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici?
credite, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum persimilem,
cuius, velut aegri somnia, vanae fingentur species,
ut nec pes nec caput uni reddatur formae.
scimus, et hanc veniam
petimusque damusque vicissim;
sed non ut placidis coeant inmitia, non ut serpentes
avibus geminentur, tigribus agni.

some first reading... sounds like chasing a chimera...

with a human head on a horses' neck: should a painter
tie the two together on a whim, and other limbs
collected from everywhere: puff up duck feathers into
a pillow or a bed cover - from "nothing"... hey presto!
that a beautiful woman from the torso up with a
fish's black tail below to boot...
on exhibition: would you, friends,
not burst burst out with laughter? believe: Paisans!
similar to this image will be the book:
in which as in an ill man's dream, in delirium,
the head and the feet belong to different
forms
i use this law and i recommend others to use it too,
but not to equate gentleness with a wildness:
with a bird a serpent, a lamb with a tiger...

angels and mermaids... what is no less or... no more:
improbable? perhaps neither...
but in the guise of monotheism... everything is still
somehow sensible...
where there was: half and half...
what angel of monotheism is a half and half
when contending for existence among unicorns...
mermaids or centaurs?
a chimera and a cyclops... **** with a minotaur...
but... such events of monotheistic grandeour are...
supposedly the better respected...
for all the respect i gave unto Knausgård -
because it comes from monotheism:
an angel is to be seen as more than a mermaid...
perhaps... if the angel is of my form...
has the wings... but for its mouth?
a pecker mask... a 50:50 share ratio of...
what a racial "mongrel" would otherwise burden his
shadows with...
a pecker mask akin to those masks
worn at the Venice carnival:
doctor doctor black plague masks...
with a muffed-up speech... as if shouting into
cotton puffed up...
esp. cotton candy...

and this is a sort of friday where i'd much prefer
translating latin... god... where did all these modern
prepositions and conjunctions from from:
into the fore?! there's only one song of worthy summary...
the specials - ghost town.

- Autorank Total 10 ( higher is reduced to 10 ), professional similarity 10 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.7 (of 1) -

poetry and order... yes...
yes... very much akin to rhymes...
and very formal language...
but this is hardly a "micro-aggression",
on my part...

it's funny that i never paid any attention to this detail...

hoc erat in votis

i was never into brian jonestown massacre, more of a dandy warhols' fan, but then brian jonestown released the album aufheben and pawns of the palette started picking up not only seminal citric acids and kashmir's spices, but sharp grooves of some distant geography, which of course, all in all: to my liking.

there's nothing like listening to the opening
track of the aufheben album (panic
in babylon, instrumental) and reciting a
bit of horace; should i be accused of sounding
pompous, here's horace himself

    hoc erat in votis: modus agri non ita magnus,
    hortus ubi et tecto vicinus iugis aquae fons
    et paulum silvae super his foret. auctius atque
    di melius fecere. bene est. nil amplius oro,
    maia nate, nisi ut propria haec mihi munera faxis.

    it was the aim of my wishes: a snippet of arable land,
    a garden, in the vicinity of my house a source of
    fresh water and a grove upon a ***** of a hilly eminence.
    the gods beyond their intentions bestowed upon me
    the loot of my thus lived fate. i have enough!
    i do not implore for more either in this heart of mine
    or among incense or blood of sacrificed bulls at the altar
    where worship is prescribed unto them, but only give me,
    son of May, the chance to use these bestowals.

(translated from polish, and, as would be expected of me,
involved in translation, adding something of my own,
as you can see, the latin prepositions and conjunctions
are reflective of the number apparent in the english language,
but it's hardly a concern with other words,
awaiting a unanimous - not necessarily an N between
two vowels, or because of H, as is exampled by
a great alphabetical distancing of the vowels,
or simply because of the latin tongue-twisters of
the grapheme æ and œ - awaiting a unanimous
decision of the compound words stalled by the hyphen
form, e.g. light-bulb / lightbulb (underlined as a spelling
mistake) by the oxford dictionary committee...
but let's not get as crazy as german spelling
glue... it would make james joyce pale even by finnegans
wake standards of the 100 letter word... i know... english
is a language spelled like shotgun shrapnel, and german is spelled
like a wedding cake or scottish fudge, thick and bulging;
what was i going to say? i took a step into the heraclitean
river and the river took me elsewhere, the ice cubes
in my whiskey citric barley are melting, and i dream
of venice being the modern atlantis along with the maldives).

elsewhere in a grammar lesson:

people think the pinnacle of poetry is coupling
adjectives with nouns, but of course,
given adjective & verb coupling is commonplace:
and when they say poetic v. practical,
they then say the hidden practicality of poetry
via, e.g. 'nicely said;' but of course!
we need a sombre musicality of the tongue
with so much dead machinery around us!
the elders complain about headphone "zombies,"
marching like urban myth lemmings on zebras
toward death... but have you actually listened
to those mechanical sounds on concrete?
horrid! when was the last time you heard an owl's
call in the dead of night in a forest? me!
about a year ago: three by my count.

- Autorank Total 9.9, professional similarity 10 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.1 (of 1), cliches -2 (of -3) -

the Cyber Pavlov Experiment

and my favorite "poem" in this ranking system,
which, i guess is an a.i. calculator...
i'm most interested in the professional similarity,
i can understand the concrete vs abstract ranking...
but the noun/verb/etc order?
in poetry? again... this is not a "micro-aggression"...

so, i'm on this page, and i meet my ****** pusher,
sure as hell he's pushing ******,
although it's digital, the site / street corner?
allpoetry.com i get to publish 2 poems,
but can't publish more, i have to comment,
and comment positively,
'allo comrade Stalin! then comment on
2 poems, and get this message:
Congratulations, you've achieved level 2,
and are now an "emerald cat"!
To reach the next level you need:
7 x comments, 1 x enter a contest, 1 x favorites,
1 x edit an item. • What are levels?
i am not playing candy-crush saga!
i'm not! i'm not even kidding you,
what is this ****?!
we've been ****** by paedophiles
anonymous?!
                      please get me off
this ****** grid of the Cyber Pavlov Experiment...
likes and comments and saliva and cookies...
    or premeditated minority reports -
  akin to Orwell's thought crime gestapo -
    god it sounds **** when said: g'eh'sh'tap'oh.
                    or how to use the internet
akin to deciphering and censoring established
media outlets...
                              obviously social media
can't replicate socialism, it's a media outlet,
                  but it can for sure ******* with
all the little capitalistic mind games that lead
to nothing but the Pavlov experiment -
            and that was with dogs...
try that with a ******* Gorilla and i'll watch you
cradle prosthetic limbs while
he rips your original limbs off like he's playing
                a harp:
            then you can rhyme: twinkle twinkle little thumb,
    how i wished you were attached to my hand to my arm
to my torso...
                        that's the same story
we had recently concerning a Mr. Kumbuka...
  who escaped enclosure, and proved the a.d.h.d.
        complex correlation with exposure to
sugar... ****** drank 5 litres of concentrated blackcurrant
squash replying: i'm mad at the keepers for keeping
me on a diet! i do king kong and you do the frenzied
blonde maiden.
              it's still a concern for me that they herded the poets
into an area worthy of zoological inspection,
                meaning that they base their worth on
    deplorable points system: like they're immigrants
waiting for visas to Canada -
                          comment, like, blag and blabber your
way into that new country, known to all of us present
              as Si S / Silicon State... by my count that's
the 51st, or the secular version of the Vatican.

- Autorank Total 2.3, professional similarity 1 (of 10), concrete vs abstract 2 (of 2), noun/verb/etc order -0.7 (of 1) -

but now... i'll just post the most "pop" poem from
here-on-in there... for that hard-on autorank...

clues as precursor:
- Strong words: army, audience, beef, box, brick, canvas, cubes, eating, fan, fares, football, lines, match, minced, outside, people, poem, poets, river, scrabble, scroll, short, slab, song, steak, striking, stripes, tartar, tomatoes, wave, writing  
-Weak words: albeit, always, answer, any, bad, be, become, bothered, circa, coherency, could, critic, deliberate, effect, eh, elsewhere, enough, escape, event, form, gather, get, had, happen, hardly, impact, intent, international, invent, long, merely, mind, modest, national, never, nice, nothing, perhaps, personally, presume, question, rarely, reason, recluse, repeating, repetition, somehow, sometimes, started, subconscious, subsequently, succumb, tender, thinking, translation, treat, understand, version, very, want, was, well, what, will, worth, would
- Cliches: to be a, i want

****... too early for an autorank...
so here's a pre-scriptum i wrote for...
what i wanted to feed the autoranking system...

this poem has circa 11 thousand views, "elsewhere"...
and i just... would like... to see the score for it...
the very and repeating: twist on the rotten tomatoes' score
"leverage" between audience and "critic" scores...
i gather that the autorank on this canvas is not...
somehow "deliberate"... i presume i have this slab
of minced beef... and when i put it through...
i'll get... a nice cubism version of a ripe steak: medium rare...

then again: i was always a fan of rare...
mind you... it's never raw, it's not tartar cubes...
it's rare... like the person eating... a rarified recluse example:
like a recluse of a rarified worth of all examples given...
this noun/verb/etc. "coherency" score...
perhaps this a.i. scrutiny hasn't bothered to answer
to no asked question... people can still "un-scramble"
or... un-scrabble bad grammar and understand it...
nothing ever has to be: brick on brick like a long
winding river...
it sometimes can arrive at us...
"lost in translation"... some people speak some
languages with no ill-intent...
they just can't escape the pedagogy rubrics of
subconscious grammar layer upon layer upon layer...
is this... a reason to subsequently rhyme?
personally? i treat rhyme as a phenomenon...
a phenomenon that has to happen rarely...
and when it does: it has to be a striking "pose"...
but enough of the pre-scriptum...
i want to see how this poem fares in the autorank filter...
albeit, this given: this pre-scriptum will have had
an impact on the score...

line repetition, eh? the lines are too long or too short?
what was that poem... when you could somehow
invent: "thinking outside the box" of any form,
or when tender poets started to succumb to the cascade
effect of writing - to merely fill-up scroll speed and space?
it's hardly an event like the mexican wave at
a football match... or how...
the white stripes' song: seven nation army
has become the international... well... that's modest...
the national (english) football clubs' anthem...
when a goal is scored... or whatever you like, otherwise...

or cliches... really?!
how about... oh... i remember this one most fondly...
visual poetry...
fallen... by... jörg piringer...
and unlike any modern painting...
this one really does require a description,
as cited on poetryfoundation.com:

/jörg piringer works in many forms, including visual, digital, and sound poetry, as well as music. In "fallen," piringer combines a visual sensibility with computer programming skills to tumble text from the English translation of The Communist Manifesto into a pile at the bottom of the page. The result is a mass of letters stripped of their original meaning and representing the failure of an idea./ Geof Huth

and no, by no kind reprint...
perhaps modern painting is what it is...
because... there's an alternative, like fallen?
if you can "paint" with words in adverts...
and paint i imply: stress the psychological impact
of coca-cola written in circa: formal scripts -
(why no italics? you can't... just can't,
write a colon and in italics after...
the colon represents emphasis,
as does the italics... tautology or something -esque)
derived from 17th century handwriting...
or... say... volkswagen... written in blackletter &
lombardic scripts... esp. circa 1935...
while all the propaganda posters were on
display...

given all of this? well... do i have to somehow:
bemoan how terrible modern art is?
cubism is not cricitißed - but dada is -
or let's call it... the most bloated
menu of culture citationand)
Barnett Newman painted this masterpiece,
‘Onement VI’, in 1953.
it sold for close to US$44 million...

i can't say such painting is "good" or "bad"...
after a while you just have to call a spoon a spoon...
a knife a knife, a table a table...
onement vi? blue canvas with a straight line
down the middle; form? rectangular...
and that's when thinking can take place...
i gather than modern art is trying to depict:
primodial man acquiring geometry...
after all... only recently i cound the difference
between the western man and slavs...
how the afro-european now lives in germany
and the west... including italy...
and how the indo-european lives east of germany
in some parts of scandinavia and greece...
a totally new discovery...

but... but... i can compensate for modern art...
with what is visual poetry...
if jorgen schmoorgen can do an abstract of a communist
manifesto... here's my take on...
John Constable... because... frankly...
i have yet to properly deal with this particular piece
of writing - as it's fresh... to subsequently aspire
for... a j. m. w. turner... not yet... not yet...
as ascribed to Juba...

the poem itself is... good grief...
always the same with me...
i go to kenya and i'd want to **** all the ivory
beauties...
a mother is in hospital and all the nurses
are black and i'm like...
what a clean and sterile environment this
is... unlike my today which began
finding an acne dot on my little richard...
(i get the joke... spotty ****)...
having to defrost a fridge freezer in
the shed because:
'z przybytku głowa nie boli'
oh yes it does...
not when what someone deems to be
"enough" do you have to count the trivial...
unnecessary things...
which is not a shame regarding my ***
winning a pulitzer price for... never mind...
i claim lack of sun...
black privelege... impeccable skin...
and... ivory beauties...
n'est ce pas?
alternative i have found an outlet to...
it's become brutally boring...
*******...
i found it... in... japanese gravure...
i had to... esp. when 1970s italian *****
classic died... and everyone is doing
this act older than beer and the giza
pyramids... phellatio and you're like:
so when did the ice-cream dream go away...
the peeling the banana...
and all this ******* gagging begin like
there's everyone with their third tonsils
removed... where mouth is no different
from *** or **** to be RAMMED!
lucky for me i still have my third tonsil...
which means i can drink cold beer in winter
and not get a soar throat...
- lucky for me i still have my *******...
god... if i didn't... i don't think i'd have
the "moral compass" to "get away with it"...
unless i was a woman with a web-cam...
in which: it almost becomes akin to reading
a book... it's like: it's there for the sole use of
pleasuring yourself or... as i like to call it on
throne of thrones (the toilet)...
first you do the no. 1, then the no. 2...
then you start doing the no. 3 to see...
whether you've done no. 2 completely...
it sometimes happens that having an *******
dilates the **** to the point where:
there's a shady **** loitering in the "back"
somewhere... which would explain ****-erotica...
in reverse to the act of ****-erotica of being
penetrated... i.e. in this scenario...
finishing doing a no. 2...
after that? downhill a quick side-step for
a no. 4 in the shower - baptism...
but... yeah... the men that shame men with
regards to *******?
they must be circumcised men...
shaming other circumcised men...
i think to think how a circumcised man
could shame an uncircumcised man for this act...
that's like... circumcised women...
shaming uncircumised women...
for jerking off with a web-cam...
uncircumcised women and...
explosive libido... whatever the stereotypes
are... circumcised men...
uncircumcised men...
there has to be a: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar joke around here somewhere...
i'm trying to find it...
but i have found that: circumcised men
shame other circumcised men over *******...
while the uncircumcised men are like...
if only i were a woman and had a webcam...
if society had a niche consumer base for that...
"sort of thing"...
i'd be making money from one
genocide of a fraction of myself ever so often...
i.e. it's killing when the ***** is owned
by a woman (sensible... sensible...
i don't mean the former chinese 1 child
state policy of: statistics at all costs...
even at 8 months old)...
but if that's the case...
then a session of hanky-panky...
sterile... washing under the ******* etc.,
i'm practically doing erotica-genocide
slim film no. 3890... ever since it started aged
8... when i discovered Onan...
way before the white nation army came out
from the hades of the *******...
how the ******* of ***** has nothing
to do with the ******...
the muscles and nerves are wired so to the brain...
that i'm pretty sure a castrato feels
the same...
**** chicken shaming...
it must be circumcised men against
circumcised men: ******* missing olympics...
no wonder... you peel a ******* potato...
you have to throw it in some water
to prevent it from darkening...
that's of course: prior to cooking...
so you have to find the ****** cushion
brigade from time to time...
a "sword" without a "sheath"...
rust or egomania or: motivational talk talks...
because Kant was never going to be my:
bachelor of the year for the 215th time in a row...
kierkegaard famously didn't marry...
erectile "dysfunction":
not a real problem in my own company
or in the company of prostitutes...
but a serious ******* problem among
the "free women" of western europe...
it's like one of those vague "superpowers"...
women speak of turn-ons and turn-offs...
yeah: i too have my limp switch too...
somehow... this "thing" is not automated...
it's not like spam-mail... it doesn't always:
"rise to the occassion"...
the mood swings of my *****...
i'm starting to think that perhaps neurology will
explain more about my brain
than my suma summarum will ever tell me
about this excess of the 21st digit (which
of course includes the 10 precursor toes)...

as i haven't read marquis de sade in a long while...
and i'm not touching any modern erotica,
and ******* bores me
and how japenese gravure is the next best
all-spice of brain fever...
and how: if this little harlot went to sudan
for her nitty-picking a tartan lover,
or if she decided for rwanda...
i have to guess the fiction and fantasy...
for me, at least... has to rely on...
a bull in a porcelain shop...
or as the kama sutra says:
a rabbit **** is hardly going to ****
an elephant ****... lengths and depths...
all round!
which makes you wonder...
genghis khan must have been...
or has to be... the ***** envy shitlord
of a whole lot of people with the surname
Khan in pakistan.

. from personal experience? voluntary celibacy is becoming the new taboo, of the old taboo that was homosexuality... what with the homosexual **** coming full swing... evidently i'm not wearing a dog-collar or a monk's attire... voluntary celibacy is the new taboo that was the old taboo of homosexuality... from personal experience... so... blah; what? *******? on the toilet (it was never about scented candles) it's as easy as one (taking a ****), two (taking a ****), three (*******), four (massaging the prostate by sitting for a prolonged time on the throne of thrones)... i thought ******* wasn't a problem, as best exemplified in the film the shape of water by a woman, in a bath?

the sort of homosexuality
you'd associate with
Frank O'Hara,
and the current homosexuality
of, today?

the revision
of the banality of carnal
festivity...

well... for one:
   a complete lack of decorum...
and how prior to
homosexuals prized
decorum above all else...

me in my farce of
heterosexuality -
   a voluntary celibacy...
with the odd occassion
of a *******'s
         hour...
no... i can't say i was
born with an inherent
drive: derived from
                     an opposite...

with the original "act"
being given full permission...
evidently the labor of
gravitating toward
the mundane:
instituionalized
legality of... coupling...

on the reverse?
a need to push the **** further,
into transgender movements...
because the reins have
been slacked,
the **** needs to continue...

but upon reading
some of Frank O'Hara...
Spicer...
whoever...
                      what decorum...
the **** needs to pulverize
forward: march...

since now comes the fear
of the mundane,
the aura of what was once
prohibited,
but also: by prohibition
carved out from
the taboo populace
the sieve of
  the most adequate rhetoricians...

the continued homosexual
**** carnival needs
to continue:
because it fears having
to settled for
the mundane and thumb
of acceptance...

i base this on:
so the thrill of being "found out"
is gone, as is the thrill
and the hard-on?
so now a hard-on from
shock-awe?!

it's not like current homosexuality
is going to
fork-out something
that might transcend
the ongoing ****...

but when homosexuality could
identify itself with
the sort of esteem
no other sexuality could
fathom...
it could be guided and
be the perfected example of:
the composed aesthetic
of the urban specimen...

the thrill of the taboo
fizzled out...
oh my my...
what are the homosexuals
to do?
   push on with
the ****...
  because... settling on
the mundane grievances
of opposites
of a man & a woman...
that encompass
the entire study life
within the confines
of the canvas of time are...

"there", but not there...
or rather:
      the lost decorum of
the ones now
so blatantly generic...

   the old homosexual guard
is there, still in full splendor,
as is the new heterosexual
"guard" -
     of the voluntarily celibate...
because:
i forgot to have the sort
of competitive ambition
of a *****...
   i still get to ****
the ****: death...
does it matter if i am to
compete, or not compete?

/              sitting on your leg
almost ingesting a tongue-like
presence into your ****
on a window-sill?
miracle, when it comes
to bowel movement;
and what a pristine piece
of **** that was...
     i hope homosexual ***
feels... just as good.

    p.s. esp. while listening
to brooke c's drum covers...
and to think...
some people read books
on the throne of thrones...

on the odd occassion a game,
but sometimes:
watching videos,
thinking to myself:
this takes the bollocking -
it's d'ah "****"!

i guess that's what you might
call cognitive massage parlour
additive to compensate
for...

       the deconstructive
post-modernist, derrida spreschen
of modern lawyers...
   brick is a brick isn't a brick
type of scenarios...
i thought they stopped
as a thesaurus sensibility?
guess i was wrong, all along.

"Bing Bing" goes my alarm.
It's 6am, time for my day to start. I let out a groan as I stretch my arms up into the air. I've gotten used to my early mornings. Realisitically, I could get up at 7:30 and still be there on time, but I appreciate the morning hours I have to myself, it's usually the only time I have to myself.

I pull myself up and sit at the end of the bed and run my right hand through my hair while I listen to the sound of semi- occasional cars and buses tour by. The buses probably contained early risers like myself, either trying to get to work or tourists making it back home, wherever their home was. We get a lot of tourists around this time, when the maximium heat goes on it's own vacation and replaced with fleecy clouds and the occasional dance of rain. This then leads me to believe that the tourists must come from colder countries if they opted out of the Summer weather we have to offer.

Then again, I can't exactly say I blame them, I've lived here most of my life and even I have the tendancy to go into a complete vampire-like state and pull over the curtains and stay in the shade and safety of my own home until the sun starts to set.

Cars are usually driven, at this hour anyway, by people that have lengthy jobs, the kind of jobs that if you call in sick more than three times a year your head was soon to be on the chopping block, heaven forbid you should ever have to ask to leave as your signficant other is in labour, you'd be shot there and then.

These people had the kind of jobs that involved working for an average pay, under a boss you'd rather kick between the legs with a pair of steel, cone- shapped studded shoes. The kind of job that meant sacrificing any sort of social life, or family, or relationship because you need the money to pay off the loan on that grotesque little apartment you have in an area where being robbed or being within a five mile radius of drugs or drug users themselves is all but very common.

I feel sorry for these people, I really do. Hence why I know I'm lucky with what I have.

Light ****** through the tall windows and the light breeze sends the satin curtain fluttering. I make the short journey from my bedroom to the bathroom with a light thud with each step, stepping on yesterday's clothes as I do. One day swore to myself that I'd end up being my own death sentence if I didn't start picking the clothes up of the floor. That I'd get my toes caught in the neck of a shirt and down I go, crack my head on the floor and who'd be there to call an ambulance? I literally bring the term 'a trainwreck waiting to happen' to an entire new meaning. I'm not sure if I should be proud, scared, or writing my own will, you know, just in case.

Flicking on the light in the bathroom seemed like a good idea at the time, again, the whole 'trainwreck' attribute didn't need to be made even more apparent by me slipping on something and killing myself. Could you imagine if, morbid, I know, I did in fact slip and die right here. The tax collector would come find me once he realised I hadn't paid my bills in three months, only to then call the police who then find me in a sorry state on the floor in my underwear with a cracked head and a big pool of blood radiating from it. Oh how very attractive.

They'd then call my family and friends and somehow come to the conclusion that I was an early bird and that I was getting ready to start my day when I had the imponderable misfortune of killing myself. Investigators would come in and look futher into the situation, see if there were any signs of 'foul play' or was it really just an 'accident' and then they'd (for whatever reason, I don't know, just go along with it) look up and see that the lights were never turned on. Then they'd take this minuscule but yet all so relevant piece of evidence and merge it with the fact that I was an early bird. Their conclusion would be something along the lines of this:

"It started off like any other Monday morning. This woman was going to the bathroom, perhaps to take a shower, when she slipped and fell, hitting her head off the marble floor which hence caused the fatal concussion on her head. Upon futher investigation we learned that the bathroom lights had, in fact, never been turned on so her vision was not prompted and this was the main factor in this death."

"Upon intensive investigative work, ( 'intensive investigative work' my hole, you were only here five minutes and you now think you're Sherlock ****** Holmes) we have concluded that this woman's death was nothing more than an accident of human error and that she was, in fact, a *****."

Imagine having that written in the paper about you? My mother would be so proud.

Anyway, just to clarify, I did turn on the bathroom lights, I'd be a bit upset if the story ended here, wouldn't you? You'd close the book, throw it on something around you within a relatively close proximity (at least that's what I'd hope) and let out an angry sigh along with the words, "well, what a waist of five minutes that was."

After the feeling of acid being slowly dripped into my eyes faded, I was able to see. The white marble floor stared back at me, I wonder if this is what it feels like to stare are a dead person, you know? With a white face staring at you and everything. Anyway, I remeber getting this marble put down and how much I hated it even before I bought it. You see, it wasn't my idea, it's was someone else's flirtation of an idea that soon turned into someone else's definitive decision and here we are today.

I can't say I hate it now, I mean having to see something every day for more than one occassion somewhat forces you to get used to something.

Shame is that the same thing can't be said for some of the people in my life.

I took of the clothes I wore to bed, which was nothing more than a old red shirt with an aging beer logo on it and my underwear.
When I come home I'm usually physically, emotionally and spiritually drained, clothing means little to nothing to me.

Finding the will to drag each limb into the shower took some effort, but I got there eventually. The rush of water from my head all the way to my toes feels heavnily, absolutely brilliant. This, this is probably one the best moments of my mornings when I'm alone. It's more than just a place to clean, shave and get out, oh no, it's much more than that for me. It's the cylindrical scope at which I conjugate my best plans and ideas, where fantasize about the idea of being famous and also where I think I can reach the same vocal cords as Christina Aguilera and still sound good, unfortunately, that last part is really all in my head.

I sing some song I've had stuck in my head for the past four days that I heard while I was at a bar with friends and reach for the shampoo. Only problem is, I can't find it. Well, that's not all true, I know its there, but I just don't know where the geographical location of 'there' is. There's bottles of everything under the sun on this shower rack alongside soaps, a lilac luffa glove and a blue hairbrush that isn't even mine. See, these are the trials you face when you share a living space with someone. Nothing belongs to you anymore, absolutely nothing.

I finally find the right shampoo and conditioner, clean myself with a bodywash that smells like vanilla and leave the shower. Wrapping a towel around myself I go to the sink to brush my teath, there's no point in putting my hair up in a towel, it's to short for that.
Once all the obstacles in the bathroom have been defeated it's time to get dressed.

Standing, and looking aimlessly into my closet for my underwear, I decide what todays attire is going to consist of. I flick back and forth through the rack like a woman in a store thats actually got time to spend looking through the same item of clothing just in fourty different shades of the same colour. I have to admit, my closet doesn't differ all that drastically, it's all just black, white, navy and the occasional pop of burgundy. I don't do colour, it's just not my thing.

Oh, by the way , I'm Prideux.

Je suis très heureux de faire votre connaissance.

Jesus came to my birthday party when i was 17.
He listened and laughed and smirked a bit
at the holes and scars in my dreams.
He wore a black hat, and jeans, and chains;
he said heaven was not what it seemed.
That angels and devils were one and the same,
and them plus me makes three.
He said nobody knows what's really the matter,
so just keep on pretending to be
what God and teachers and mothers and fathers
all expect from a girl of 17.

That was a long time ago,
and i haven't seen him in a while.
He smokes on occassion, but not for fun,
and says he was innocent and should have had a trial.
But he's dead and so am i so what's even the use,
of remembering a birthday that never existed:
i'll plead insanity as my excuse.

WARNING: The following is NOT a poem

It's an old guitar abandoned and forgotten, leaning it's warped neck against the cement wall of a cellar, caked with dust, strings useless with rust and dried oil

Ir's a video you've watched a hundred times but refuse to download because you're convinced it will give your computer a virus

It's a dust bin for calenders and a trash compactor for clocks

It's a scrapbook stuffed with reminders of things that very likely never happened and a wrinkled, road-weary rock star to convince you they did

It's the rancid odor of dead skunk that remends me of all the **** you burned

It's the goofy laugh some found contagious but I just thought was goofy

It's a running bet to see who could guess exactly how late you would be to an important occassion

It's a hell of a good time if you're looking for hells of good times you won't remember twenty-four hours later

If you don't mind losing the time

I doubt you even consider
That your leaving was such a betrayal
You couldn't consider much of anything with your gut
So full of cheap bourbon whiskey
Your words untethered from your thoughts
Your feelings numbed, just the way you liked it
If you cared the morning after
That was the only time you cared at all
I was robbed of the justice in calling you a liar
It took too much of your energy to stand
You surely had none to divine truth from fiction
Stand and talk
Move and breath
Glad to fool
You seemed cogent, enough to inspire trust

I shouldn't hate you
I despise you and I'm wrong
I loathe you and I know I'm judged
I am jealous of you and I am ashamed of it
I envy you and I can't help but wonder
From where did you get all this power?
What makes all these memories I have of you
Mock, Scorn, Torture me with guilt for all I feel
Even as you walked away you had no idea of what you promised
The ties that bind, you said, the ties that bind
They're hard to break and you were right
I've spent all these years trying to untie that knot
Every time I hit a snag I can't help but think of how tightly you wound them
It makes me despise you even more

I despise you even more because I know
If you were here right now I'd take you for granted
Every bit as much as I did when we shared the same room
Ages ago
Only difference being how acutely aware I'd be with
Well learned 20/20

God, I miss you
I miss the way you made me feel normal
The way you made me believe I belonged
Three sheets to the wind, plastered
Eight miles high and laughing that goofy laugh of yours
Hanging around long enough to pick you up when you fell
What I want to know, when all is said and done
Where were you when I was the one sprawled out on the floor?
Did you never think that I would need you to return the favor someday?

The view from down here is the one I am bound to remember
Looking up to a myriad of faces
Not a friend amongst them
Certainly not a friend like I thought you were
Teetering stinking drunk you could still lift me up and get me the hell out of this place

...and I can't even blame you
...you were a dry leaf blowing in the wind
...kindling for the demands I made of you
...easily crushed

Can I tell you a secret?
I'm a liar.
Why am I telling you this?

It's just easier to tell strangers the truth,
Than people close to you because,
They don't ask questions,
They just nod their head and keep to themselves their suggestions.

Why am I telling you this?
I just openly admitted to all of you that I'm a liar,
So it's hard for you to think about these things if I'm telling the truth or not,
So what's the point of all this if I'm just lying to your faces.

Well ladies and gentlemen I'm just pouring the brandy to your glasses,
As I intoxicate you more with the lies that my sugarcoated lips can say,

An average person is lied to 200 times a day,
The most oftenly used lie are the words, "I'm okay."
Like when my mom asked me when my eyes all rubbed out from crying too much,
Or that time when I looked myself in the mirror and had to tell myself that lie over and over again just to get myself through the day.

With that being said I need to tell you one more thing,
My backyard is filled with skeletons of people that I have buried and skinned,
I keep their skins in my closet so I have one for every occassion.
I keep so many of them that who I really am just got lost within the confines of my closet.

I have worn so many that I have already been so comfortable in each and everyone of them,
I wear them so often that I have gotten so good at pretending to be someone else,
I have gotten so atuned to it that no one can tell that I'm lying,
That's why no one's chasing me around with matches threatening to set my pants on fire.

If I gave you a tour of my closet you'd see all the skins I wear as suits and it wouldn't surprise you,
That who's infront of you right now is just another one I wore for this occassion to fool you,
Then you'd see all the things I've been trying to hide,
I have gotten so good at it that I'm starting to believe in it myself,

I am starting to believe that I am those people,
That I am okay, that I am fine, that I didn't mean to lie but,
I just had to for the greater good,
I convince myself that I'm doing what's right when the truth is I don't know what it is I'm doing,

So yes, I am a liar, I admit to it.
But what I'm asking you is please,
Help me. Help me find out the truth,
Because I have gotten so good at lying that, I ask myself "who am I?"

/
zdrowie, na budowie (health, on a construction site, a modern polish proverb) - because? well the army allows it, any woman can be bossy in the army... but on a construction? perhaps the very rare example of a woman working side by side with bricklayers (and that does happen), but construction work is immune to all ideology focusing on the pop. narratives of feminism... women will not infiltrate the construction industry, they can infiltrate the army, but not the construction industry, unless of course, they're dinner ladies, or secretaries, but even then, the construction site canteen is dying, reduced to a kettle and a microwave... all i'm seeing, when my father goes to work is an army... or as the joke goes about the managerial staff, with tight jeans and pink car rims? well... you can take a boy out of essex, but you can't take essex out of a boy.

i can only assume that writing is spawned
from a weakening of a
   cognitive narrative -
             foremostly i have to "apologise"
for making such a compound term,
   but i remember an echo of what once was,
a firm grasp of narration,
                                  in thinking terms,
as such, thought per se, used to be a leisure,
or rather: a pleasure,
               but since then... scrabble...

                                         static dissonance...
a poignant blur: a bit like the impressionist
movement... hardly the fizzy water...
   naturally from impressionism,
to expressionism, and then: a smack into
dada and subsequently a return to geometry
via cubism...

                but there really is a correlation
between writing, and a weakening of
           a cognitive narrative -
                   i know: -ive -ive
                             but one's categorised
as an adjective, the other is a noun -
           even though they share the same
form of a suffix...
                             yes, i know this is merely
"poetry",
                   there is no sludge of fictive
architecture that might encompass a narrator,
props and character studies,
      no embodiment of cohesion that
makes it to the bestseller's list of:
                    same ****, different cover...

yes, it's scattered, yes it's primitive in
composition, but what it isn't, is
   akin to the protagonist of the film
          nothing's funny, or freak's day
   (nic śmiesznego)                (dzień świra),
i.e.: hard to put a thought to paper...
     the escape artist of this conundrum
comes out either: a happy manual labourer
content with rest at the end of his chores...
   of a sir-mouth-a-lot, talking, talking, talking,
much like any other example required
to show a: ditto-head;

see, my grandmother doesn't like poetry,
so i gave her a book my zbigniew herbert
(the whole mr. cogito sequence of poems
and all) and all i said was:
            doesn't poetry feel, breezy? airy?
on what occassion has a poet constrained
himself to the zoology of a paragraph?
                  airy, isn't it, doesn't strain the eyes
so much...

      well... if i didn't have the ****** luxury
of pixel paper, i too would be offended by
this waste of paper, but since this isn't paper...
a baboon just escaped its confinement and
it rummaging in the zoo's cafe, looking for
a caffeine fix; later he'll be found
      in the pharmacy, looking for some
cream to ease the bulging hemorrhoids

  (nice fact: algorithms are...
    apart from search engines...
               spell...               chequers...
  tongue says one thing, eyes see another).                  
no, if i wanted cohesion, i'd have invented glue,
huh? ah... adhesive... but there really isn't
a worthwhile mention of adhesion,
      unless of course:

                  you put a bumper sticker on
your tongue and say: speaking english is
the only form of patriotism i know:
  allegiance to the tongue, but not the crown;
why? i have my crown on a ten pound
note...                but it's not that i want
her dead, it would grand to see this english
monetary overhaul, seeing ol' charlie on
the notes...

                               you know, fun.
yet i do remember times when i could grasp
a strong cognitive narrative,
              and there was no point in writing,
anything...
                      esp. not something like this,
jeez...
   now, in painting a mess can be excused,
or rather: conceptualized, but in writing?
   ooh... caesar salad...
    you can't even conceptualize a reader's
short-attention span, or at least:
           how long does this straight line go?
                                                  no darting eyes?


where?
                                                  ­                    here!

for all the mumbo-jumbo of heidegger's
strict writing, he at least taught me spatial coordination.
as well as how nerves shatter, and then mend.
yes, there is no narrative cage,
  yes there is no caged animal,
instead of a:
             --
           |   |     there's an:       \  /
             --                                /    \
                                                           ­  an opening.

i can understand critique, but only if the critique
allows dialectics,
                       Kant imploded on this
realisation when he dedicated a section
of his work to a thesis and an antithesis...
why? because he doubted the already
embarked on synthesis...
                           every manner of critique is welcome,
as long as the critique can entertain
                                    a dialectical safety
mechanism... overwise: sure, be on your way.

of course it's going to be messy,
     why can painter get away with mess,
while writing has to be adhesive in nature,
           spare me the concentration that later involves
taking a book to bed, and falling asleep with it;
as i admire those people who fall asleep
easily during transit (bus, plane, train, whatever),
i have the same admiration for people
         who fall asleep reading a book...
and because of william burroughs...
                  far from taking hallucinogenics,
there's the sour bourbon (just some lemon juice
added) and there's the: ******* blank page
staring me in the face -
             or in gujarat english:
                         s'te'rrrrr'ing (gotta trill that R
like a rattle snake):
                     alternatively eton english:
starring                             bogus the penguin;
hit cue:                  as with the old movies -
came the credits first,
                      now?      just ask for a supermarket
cashier to read you the list...
  as if no one these days is bound to be
forgotten.

  to stare, or to be cast: that is not a question;
whoopsee.

  the subtle "orthography" in english -
        and **** me what a custard worth spaghetti
that it does to the memory bank:
                         i see we sailed the sea.
now, if that doesn't erode your memory,
notably when you take to writing
away from speaking and a manual job?
  i don't know, what will.

of man and the universe:
        like a cat endowed (armed) with only
a meow, exploring human speech,
varying it by many degrees,
            with grunts and purrs of labour,
while sometimes shrieking noises
             or, crafting a mimic of a hunchback
upright, ready to express grievances.

bore: the domino effect of narration,
or rather: when the art of narration becomes
predictable,
                   whoever strikes at a guess,
because the narrative is lost to the fact that
cinema exhausted it,
           in that modern narration is almost
always predictable;
    whoever thought that gambling on
a story was not unheard of, can hear this.

- when motherhood, or parenting in general
is equated with a "profession",
or rather the hyper-industrialisation,
reaching into the bowels (*****, borrows,
bowls?) - of a family unit...
     two things are happening:
on one side the shrapnel argument,
on the other side: the hyper-industrialisation
of the family unit:
             there really isn't much to
navigate with, no compass, no map,
merely chance, luck, happenstance...
     because when did motherhood become
a job?
              parenting became a job?

2nd. phase iconoclasm.

     (in a mock impression):
oh gee, when did barnie become barney,
he he (as in a mock of laughter):
      joe'bb, joe'b... job, yob,
                      lobby, jolly, jobe...
          ****, paraglider, spike...
      
         you can tell i'm **** as crosswords;
i hear too much,
          and my oyster is rummaging in
number puzzles, that translate into
   a strict rubric of adhering to spellin;
you can pacify the rest on me,
but this corner of interest has to stay:
firm.

- i could have respected darwinism,
  if only it remained in its, original biology
nieche,
        but since then, darwinism has become
a quasi-marxism,
   not that i'm slowing you down or anything,
but darwinism translated into
  a historical narrative is like a brick wall...
a cul de sac of any future events,
****... back to petting a monkey...
             if there is such a thing as common
sense...

               how did darwinism escape
    the zoo and enter into a study of history?
     and as such: become the testing ground
for all things to come?
        believe me when i say:
darwin only matters in the anglophone
sphere of talk, think, do...
                darwin is crass in terms of
currency of affairs designated to the times
of occupying a shell of limbs...
                    
not to mention that communism was first
tested on Mongolia...
                  yep, Mongolia was the host
of communism...
                          they tested it there for, i guess,
the same arguments that post-colonial
children who have inherited a past
     might be deemed easy target...
       or rather: because from Mongolia came
a certain khan...
                                 (surd H)
       as is the case with several familial ties
in pakitan, sharing that surname...
                  kan (otherwise crackle
and trying to await audience with phlegm
to spit with).

if it were not a Latin man answering for
the Greek for the short-hand version of
the old testament,
        it wouldn't be a study of the tetragrammaton,
first H is for laughter (vowel magnet),
the second H is for the allowance of surds
   (e.g. khan):
                          the greek tetragrammaton
consists of the following letters,
   based on an a "god", or rather the hidden
iota:
                                   ΨΘΞΦ
well... if we're all going to be literate monkeys...
might as well complicate things further,
based on the meritocracy of:
      you do your ****, i do mine,
                   i don't dig up your grave,
you don't dig up mine...
                  we meet in the middle,
   and stalk a fascination with 3 dimensional
space, akin to it being compressed
  into a: jesus mary and joseph,
              or a trímūrtí the hindus believe in).

- yet this constant reiteration,
this constant banging against the wall...
             in the anglophone world a seemingly
dead end, fudge-packaging of events,
mingling with a journalistic insomnia...
        journalism is in a state of
insomnia...
                    i can actually go through
the day not even bothering to remember
what day of the week it is,
        but i can tell you what day of
the week it is, watching the volume of
traffic...
                like some idaho monk smoking
a spliff...
                   it's not that it's wrong,
but akin to marx, darwin's ideology has
infiltrated areas that should have been left
to their own demands...

  for all i know, anglophone "orthography"
is so subtle, that all it takes is a spelling
mistake to reveal it...
        
                  which is why i don't
                               bother with metaphysics;
and what a grace bestowed upon me
by england, to be born a monster of
these lands, based simply, on minor clues
of usage.

spontaneous amnesia:
   well, you know,
something akin to further
a liking of something
just: hammer to the nail
apparent,
and for that matter: useful.

headphones plugged into
the laptop,
and everytime i want
to tap the repeat button
of a song...
i look sideways and at
the windowsill,
pretend to scratch my nose,
and find the hand
with no further utility...

not a rigid diagnosis
or a pre-mature dementia...
i have a bank's worth
of the brain to sift through...
they almost added the next
nodding parrot to
the unslept pillow of
the numbers of man...
via the rubrics of school...

even i can't believe that
university education
was a waste of time...
mind you: those 12 hours
a week in the chemisty
lab. were worth it...
esters...
   organic chemistry -
   and to think:
  if only, they made
perfumes in Scotland,
apart from the drinkable
amber of the 'ugh Scout...
wh'o would have known...

but this is unlike
that season 5, episode 11
**** switch from
the x-files...

                my internet rummaging:
basic,
    china shop, bull...
run in
and charge against
a cluster-**** of
      a presupposed cloud
of letters  

first attempt:

e f                                     /f
o o s o r o o l t                /o
e v r                                /r
e f e e n e s e l e              /e
v r
m                                     /y
n c o s c s s e s                    /s
u t                                          /u
t o m u b i                           /t
e l o                                    /l
t c y                           /m
t c                             /b
n s n i e c              /n
a a                          /a
c b s c c m i n c   /c
    n i s i i t             /i

the sentence?

for every subtle complaint
of conscience:
    consciousness becomes
limbo-state constrictive

rubric...

f f
o o o o o o o o o
r r r
e e e e e e e e e e
v v
y
s s s s s s s s s
u u
t t t t t t
l l l
m m m (anomaly in
the form of... the hierarchy
of chronology, i.e.:)
b b
n n n n n n
a a
       (second anomaly)
c c c c c c c c c
    i i i i i i

2nd attempt:
to showcase a "cloud":

**** it... copy &
paste, and stop pretending
bashing the mole
popping out from
a hole...
   this isn't quantum
mechanics...

                      s f
             c m c o o i s f s
           r r y e c e i s i e
                                 l o e s v
        r s v s o n e o s s
             e u n c i n t t e l l m c b
         b m n o t t o t a a  c n c e c o t o c
                                                      i n u e e i

****... i made another mistake:
how much does it take
to not make a mistake...
turning the picky-of-attempting
random...
of merely rearranging
letters in a simple sentence
to "resemble" a cloud
of... letters... atoms...

there was a time when staring
at the blank of a laptop screen,
and listening
to something by
nine inch nails was fun...
in the immediate
intermediate spent of 15 minutes...
the depth of idiocy reached
the depth of what
has become the suspect
total of man... me missing,
of course...

nothing new:
i guess i discovered the origin
of geometry...
or:

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like some mongolian
****** pretending
to play the harmonica
by moving his
index against
a blurr of flapping lips...

me... throwing matchsticks
against an index
of a brick wall
of pixel...

namely?
i could never be a serious
existentialist,
i was sort of fwench in...
give me a cat,
i'll pet it,
i'm no good with goldfish:
i forgot that
you need to change
the water...
because water is like
air with fish...
fish turn old, stale water...
into a medium unbreathable...
no...
that death wasn't traumatic...
and the fact that i am still
naive squat buck tooth
is...
           when fate gives
you the same lesson
thrice...
     and you still haven't learned
it...
    i guess that's when
a god begins to cry...
or laughs...
or becomes angry...
or whatever the gods do
along with what
the petty people,
the petty ambitious people
minded...
to have no role beside
the role they served their ambitions
in fulfilling...
i.e.: never made it to Hollywood...
just to a position of
lawyer...
**** me... about time i started
playing the ******,
given the "ulterior" motive
narrative "went missing"...

funny thing that,
geometry...
i almost forgot how much of it
is necessary to
orientated myself
on the linear platitude...
but how funny in how i can't
rearrange
a simple sentence
into a cloud of "random"
letters...

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obviously "you" kept count...
9
                           and 11/
maybe that's something related
to spacing...
and whatever became A.I.
was never indented
for what once was... handwriting?

strain on the ******* eyes,
for all i know:
this be a vanity project
and something that can't
compete with tabloid journalism
making it to print...

so... airy-fairy whims and...
yes, the burden of the echo,
and the shadow...
   came the answer:
profane:
  and he was educated
by the school of life...
   sure...
  but my time at both school
and university?
  was spent being self-taught...
beginning with
this lounge of a tongue...
you know?
  you can write ENGLISH
    like so:                       ĘGLIŠ?
somehow...
i have no heard of dyslexia
as being evident in any tongue
other than the ĘGLIŠ zunge?

**** it: postcards from
H'america and from
           Oh'stray-bullet-trails...

now i know why such
*******...
i'm completely enthralled
by the engineering
of A.I. and phonetics...
given: English speakers
would not have involved
their A.I. algorithms
to be affected by diacritical
markers...
given that... d'uh...
the english language
doesn't use them...

still... "cyberpunk"...
no... i have no ambitions
to be published
    by the poetryfoundation.org
as i am, just about
to "compete" with
something akin
to the unauthorized
autobiography of jung ****...
jockey... Jack...
                          ū.3708/?
ah ha ha! ja! gustav...
                             bad joke...
but you get the idea...
so when did soy boy
       predate bleach boy:
last time i heard or seen:
best bleach afro curls...
    and call them: churros...
but ******* a black girl
doesn't exactly make me less
of a racist than
a bigot who minds tongues...
am i?
   so... that whole Malcolm X
tirade of...
  you know the one...
    on the odd occassion...
yeah... two...
(not at the same time)...
but was that ever to be an excuse?
something from being fed
video footage and then
having to resort to:
music, before i open up
a parachute standing up
and still think i'm falling...
often or not...
             or not...

hell... this beats scribbling
graffiti on walls,
or becoming a sensible
quality proof for...
the jobs of worth already
being taken...

and i almost pray for
the work of ******* collector
vacancies to be
advertised for the unemployed...
i'd love for the unemployed
to be subject
to advertisements
akin to the jobs
            of a ******* collector...
i've looked...
     no ******* collector
vacancies available...
           oh hell...
    i forgot about wanting to
be a veterinary physician a long
time ago...
                but i guess:
no chances for me being
a ******* ******* collector...
so 'ere...
                         eat this.

If I was in a war against sleep
I would be winning
For I have not given in to the peaceful darkness.
...
But this is the one occassion where I wish I would just lose.

.at what point am i not... so ****** angst-prone teen... suppose c. g. jung and... akin to h. p. lovecraft... when there's a keter: ha-shem: ehyeh asher ehyeh... so many "deviation" from the name... new gods... new names... cthulhu and abraxas... jesus ******* ****... + christ all you want... nothing desires a sanctimony of the sacred... nor the death of a chris cornell... unless... it can only be pardoned with "the passing": i.e. death... patient spider... patient stone... patient stab-in-the-back... the solipsistic russian nation of mongrels... to lesser ears: the tipshar of albert alexeyevich razin... udmurt & "udmurt"... jokes... are... currently... reclining... how they would suddenly feel obliged to: scoff-off on a whim... the dead: are sleeping... "concept" of Katyń... no... the dead are besides sleep: they are the tombs what we agitate into life: the best we can... from neither the realm of sleep nor the realm of death: life is our... grace... death: our downfall... there's only mindinf the "creativity" of being left with the in-between...

lay my tired bones and aches into this everyday
shallow grave of sleep:
    i care not for dreams or for other:
unfathomable "questions"...

and when all is done and i have,
no more use for sleep...
lay my tired mind and captured
breath of 21 grams of worth...
into... the sleep of sleep...
        into the architecture of death:

and let neither the obnoxious
insurgence of a dream like heaven
or a dream like pandemonium...
starve me from exercising...
        my... wish to retain obscurity
within the confines of stones, bones...
rust and decay...

lay my bones and aches into
this everyday shallow grave of sleep...
lay my mind and "soul"
into the grand architecture of death...
don't think that you will find
me content with sleep and dreams...
so much so:
content with death and a dream
of dante's geometry of heaven...

   somehow i can cherish the sleep
without the dream...
as i can death...
     should death sentence me to
a fate of Sisyphus: and no demon guardian
with a leash, a hot-rod of agitation
to be my shadow...

who said: the fate of this cheater
of the gods: orpheus the gnostic...
   sisyphus the gnostic...
was to roll the stone... under who's supervision?
tell me again: of that... cat-walk
of evolution...

from the hunched ape to the upright man...
and... the comedy...
back to the hunched spine:
of how an ape borrowed a crow
to ponder... or took a cat and petted it...
in vain hope that:
when sleep would be the spice to escape
the gross mundaneity of recurrent:
similar days...
      a dream...

sisyphus rolled the stone...
sisyphus could just as well... have sat on it...
how one defines eternity:
the grail of vanity...
                        is how one can
master enough: cognitive labyrinths...
to be entertained by a stone...
or "nothing": yes... esp. diese nichts...
and... da(s) nichts...
           the extremes of mediating:
ontology... aeons before the cinema
of saturn... aeons before jupiter...
gloom... and aeons more bound to
neptune...

             the planets: seen: by the naked eye...
no telescope postcards of:
oh yeah... it's there... naked, blunt truth...

as the gnostics might have said...
there are three tiers of truth...

  prosta (simple) - einfach
                           pusta (empty) - leeren
                                          czysta (pure) - rein...
anything outside of simple geometry
of explanation is... the fourth (exempt -
via the thesaurus of antonyms) -
but by the fifth: gradation...
                
truth is beauty... which is devoid of geometry...
no wonder then... that was is most
beautiful... is harangued by... the criticism
and... its self-implosive hypocrisy...
truth is a beauty that...
                    suggests: not everything
good is beautiful... a moral act is not beautiful...
that it is necessary...
one is obliged to find out...

truth as beauty is: simple...
   it is empty... and it is... pure...            

truth is both: good & evil...
          those topics of necessity and...
the... not necessary "additions" come to mind...

it's no longer worth citing truth: per se -
science... facts... a rubric of psychology
in a secular... materialistic world...
a logic behind a soul... body / meat and two veg...
what soul?

truth as a regurgitation of scientific facts
and statistics... a new an old orthodoxy...
perhaps: perhaps not...

          all in all...
             truth: what i can muster to deem vague:
because what's required is not...
nor will it ever be: in vogue...
   a hyphen prefix stressor:
             truth-
                                     and...
   the three adjective suffixes: with the hyphen
included -pure
                        -empty
                                 -simple...

death is a sleep i cannot fathom...
        death is a sleep i cannot fathom...
death is a sleep i cannot fathom...
       if only life was a dream:
that didn't require me, to fathom, it...

"reality": and the so-called "questions"
i.e. reality being... that sort of canvas...
of walking around in...
someone else's... fiction?
at least the rocks the stones have
a somewhat agreed-upon reality of bible:
geology - and no worship: etc.

letover: just... snippets...
but the original theme is given light...
on why it's recurrent...
why did sisyphus toil with the stone:
did zeus give attach to him
a shadow handler with leash
and a fire-riddled poker like the man
was less a man and more:
a work-horse?

couldn't... the myth come up with...
and finally... sisyphus sat on a stone...
curled up his once ***** spine...
took thought before the court of eternity...
and decided: lest i be... "mistaken"...
what happened to gregor samsa
is one coin-flip...
  
   yes... today i was cleaning the shed...
and i was witness to a genus of spider...
when touched by an "invisible" hand / poker...
once... will fli: bellyside up...
curl its anorexic extensions and
play dead...
honest to "god"... spider play dead better than
dogs pretend, to... play... dead...

no... one day... i wasn't faced with
the fate of gregor samsa...
although the mush and the exoskeleton
of thought god soul and:
journalistic nuance of:
the alt. to priests of the 20th century...
carl bernstein / bob woodward /
  paul avery...

once upon a time in the 20th century...
where... journalists could be credited
with status... of... Manichaeans...
when journalistic integrity was:
credo... and... the ditto-heads
were... the apes in a zoological
confinement...      splendid times!
days when... one would... admire...
journalists...
          
   mental health / psychology /
the iron maiden of... finding a simple daft...
expression of... also... made...
coincidental with catching a breath...

          the worst kind of "reality" is
bound to the "future" of the narrative
and esp. off the narrative...
of what... is the sort of people...
that also: deviate from reading a paragraph
of fiction!
"reality" and... -itz...
                          the reality of:
someone else's fiction... a solo project...
from under the iron curtaian...
through to: and including... the silicon veil...
much later:
  but hardly the bed-fellows
coming to terms with the niqab...

      i die: believing that there are...
countless impromptus... serving me...
akin to make replicas of richard the lionheart's:
odes to being: without "stock"...
while john, lackland...
capitulated... for worth of the time: that's ripe...
an affectionate: gyrocentric whoosh!
of a ****-buddy...
and the magna carta was, ahem...
signed...

                     kant... the forever basis of...
the bachelor party:
no stag no hen parties...
the deafening stillness of...
sometimes and "something" in
between...

confines of: pity me for petting cats...
but... he loves me... he loves me not: sunflowers...
i totem a cat... not the petals...
for hope of these grand architectures of dreams:
that people: supposedly acquire...
they even mind telling others that
they have had recurrent dreams!

who are... these people... who have had
recurrent dreams?!
i want to know them!
who are... these people...
who have had recurrent dreams?!

   - moi! ******* son o' german: **** it...
both...               mir!     mich!
the orc: the east... extensions of the mongol
borrowed space by the slav...
hardly... something from...
bothersome south... akin to africa...

stereographs of the modern...
western: "man" is... orcs are not... associated
with... mongols... slavs:
the u.s.s.r.?
they are... allocated a status for...
african migrants from 2015?
on those... inflatable boats?
these... these... are your... orcs?!

           ha ha! pale orc... ching-chang-yin-yang
orc... etc. etc.
            no... never down south...
not when hu-chow and salman ibn
hussein took over kenya
and the the east coast of africa...

i imagine the orc to be meme: toe in toe
with the mongol -
the tartars of crimea...
      pale orc: what?! zee zulu black
panthers: panthers of south h'america?!

hassan i sahba... without exception of
muhmmad... and his name was...
muhammad ibn "abn / abu"...
pray pity: but! there was
a figure of grandfather and uncle:
sometimes the father gets it right...
sometimes...
sometimes the mother gets it right...
but... for fear of ******...
i drink and i tell you...
i'd sooner want
25% of me under my wing...
than 50% of me...

for the love of grandchildren...
god knows what one is to do with children...
send 'em to the crows... and swans?!
i can... love is diluted...
25% of me with the grandchildren...
which implies...
that 50% of me is not relegated
to dispose of with:
a mimic impetus to
"continue"...

                we can be friends at 25%
replica: in its immediacy...
at 50% we're talking: *******...
or on the rare occassion:
it might work: jesus joseph & mary...
according to the zodiac:
jesus was a bull...
joseph was an ares...
mary was a pisces...

           alternatively...
your pick of rat pig and barry...
      yes, of course...
            all formality of a tux-lingo...
dear sir...
sky 'as fallen!
   kind regards...
             better this... than a crossword:
for pedsntry in straitjackets?

new-age ******* of re-learning literacy
because... 2nd act of...
the phantom: all opera shun itself
to the nieche...
masquarade...
                   new learn ways of spell..
new learn ways of recite...
bogus trivial
abracadabra variation of
sudoku...

                    christine was
never a christopher was never: but probably
was a byzantine... cataphracts...
a name for every kind if beloved:
an ogling father in tow...
to mind bori g conservatism...
and all the flamboyancy of lies...
white lies: and hardly...
all the bitter truths...

     all that is mine isn't...
crown and the breeding: what i most likely...
in that: most feel obliged to fear:
the patience and stealth
of spider pin-knuckle rubric...

yes... hello: "today"...
and tomorrow... *******!

random extract:

                 the thuluth:
and the thoth: that became
             the signature of muqlah shirazi...

into the gloaming
you dance, with small
uncertain steps

the music dims
heard mostly
inside your mind

the swing band plays
as you sway
between uncertainty
and the nineteen fifties

when you danced all night
in patent leather pumps
with stockings saved for
the occassion

glowing with youth
and the energy that
falling love brings

now these memories
burn bright as your
life light dims
and your dance partner
the kind young nurse

as down the hall
in the mood
plays on some ones
radio

this is what music foraging on youtube used to look like, you'd find gems, 6 years old, approx. 10K views akin to Undogmatic & Kernfeld: thought experiments... you know... you travel outside of the anglosphere of said language, what is the opinion of a Greek or a Pole about Fb? not much... it's only the english-speaking "cool" kids that are making all the fuss... i mentioned minds.com to a Greek guy i was giving directions to, once, in Warsaw... he looked at me as if i was the first person to show him a ******* elephant... 5 blind men followed and we know the story from there... catering to the natives: who will never be or ever have been satisfied... they just need their: banta... their ****-storming, their gravitational pull toward bloodsports: rather than dialectics... nothing is ever to be done... who can shout the loudest... who can rock the boat the most... who can translate past playground grievances into a web of anonymity and avatars... as far as i am concerned... these social media firms, these u.s. firms have long gone stopped catering to primarily english speaking people... all these anglophone calls: Fb will fail like myspace failed... blah blah... these firms are tired of brats... elsewhere these spaces are utilities... they're not an extension of either thought or life... collateral damage of those first exposed... the Greek will still use the platform... the Pole will also... i too remember my childhood: hide & seek... digging holes in the ground and throwing marbles into them from a distance of five metres... creating chalk labyrinths on the pavement and flicking beer bottle caps filled with plastecine through them... and no... styxhexenhammer666 is not banned in Poland... i never wanted youtube to become what it has become: 72 virgins? give me a library of music for all of eternity and i'll be an 'appy chappy... i don't need some count dankula regurgitate a wikipedia entry about tarrare - oddly enough: i too can read... see... i blame both sides for ******* up my foraging tool... the "legacy" media and the indie vlog "creators": creative really reative, spewing regurgitation after regurgitation... i'd hate to be drafted into this vulture journalism of video making... at least when you pay a *******: you pay an honest wage... and she subsequently spends the honest wage on **** i wouldn't even buy... so the funds are given to the person who otherwise keeps the economy running... a woman... oh yes, i've been watching closely these indie "creators"... lucky for me i watched enough of them to round them up and say: this much... there's a big difference between a "creator" and a commentator... if i'd want to listen to an audiobook containing the current journalistic spew: anyway... half of these stories in the "news" are tabloid ******* that gave rise to 24h news reel and the vacuous space feeding the tapeworm of insomnia... since when did news outlets think they could produce an amphetamine alt.? clearly they did... i can't keep up, i won't keep up, to hell with going against these giants... youtube was never about these indie "creators"... music and music was always the prime concern for me... lucky for me remnants of the old a.i. still give me chances to glimpse records like CLANN - Seelie... these indie "creators" become just as tiresome as the legacy medie snippets... you want a more ******* version of CLANN's Seelie? try Salem: king knight (2010).

.just some after-thoughts, when a post scriptum becomes, a pre scriptum... you know... i sometimes think this lingua franca, that's english, ergo: lingua inglese is bombarded, London is the microcosm of the world dislodged from the realities of other natives... there's a grand congregation happening, of hosts, and even here, on the outskirts of London, where all it takes is a 30 minute walk to go pet a horse or a tender young bull, "randomly", in a field, spot a fox, or chase a herd of deer who "wandered" into the middle of an X junction creating a traffic debacle... but the language itself this, lingua inglese needs updating, notably from the "real" grammar nazis... i'm not just going to give up my new earned rights of literacy, for all the years of being kept in the dark like some ******* mushroom, just because, someone feels it is necessary to feel lazy, about establishing rigour, discipline in using this former tool of power, like i'm going to bend over some lazy peasant... no... dis-ci-pline... you need it, i might drink, but i'll still return to this language with great respect, for the per se worth of adherence to it... it already is a metaphysical person / "person" to me, at least i can offer that much, as much as is necessary... one question though, echo-chamber... it's enough for dyslexia, it's enough for emoji, it's enough for: l8er... it's enough for "gender neutral" pronouns... see... that language i was born with... that **** won't stick... certain languages have pronoun-"augmentation" associated with verbs... e.g.?
                                            mogłem (past-participle masculine
                       of i could have)
                        mogłam (past-participle feminine
                    of i could have)
this, inherent bias, within the confines of the english language, well, i didn't expect it to be so rife, until i witnessed it being exploited! now at least i can pander / side with the natives: funny - coming to a "madman" for sanity quotes, for rigour... well... because there's no fun without someone not having the ***** to counter the libertarian farcical tragico-comic current circumstance of: "pushing the boundaries"... like i said: a lingua ingelese echo-chamber... no belly-button status of the world for you... this viper of an idea, this sordid wasp of a "conundrum" will not spread elsewhere, i feel inclined to contain it, with english regulations of grammar... just like i learned this language to begin with: first the language, then the grammar... physics first, metaphysics later... first the experience of communication, then the theory of communicating... thank god that some languages have an unshakeable foundation, e.g. western slavic: where the pronoun is integrated into verbs with a gender discrimination structure...
  further examples?
                miałem (i had - masculine)
                                                     miałam (i had - feminine)...
so the problem is contained... in this, sometimes erring into sharpnel of, what could have been: a bullet of a tongue; or, i dare say, will hopefully preserve itself, to be it.

i guess.... wait... are stars supposed to that?
i just witnessed two,
transverse the night sky:
    in that, more than the already
perplexing circumstance of a straight line...
to the naked eye:
   they're not supposed to move in
a parabola fashion, are they?
    yes, last time i checked, this was never
going to be a metaphor for
the current state of european politics,
   to the naked eye:
    i would be unable to witness a comet,
and, on the odd occassion,
   the blitzkrieg accent on the sky
by a meteor falling...
            i never had the tools to measure
the difference between a falling
meteor appearing in the sky,
                      to a lightning strike -
time wise...
            after all: is a lightning strike
confined to the same category as light,
yeah: light from the sun?
   i guess this is were awe comes...
          once again: if i somehow manage
to come across the facts -
   i'll give my narrative of a temple's
worth of structure to the blinded,
enraged skin-headed Samson to pull at
the pillars...
                now, with regards to:
a black girl in a supermarket...
   well... i've done it,
    i can clearly state i have become
fully integrated into the multiculutral
experiment that's England,
   it didn't take that long,
               ******* contra being attracked
are two dfifferent ball games...
the language is here,
                 working just fine,
   some native prejudices are somewhat
here,
            i have a harder time
"not understanding" the quickened
paddy taljk, to me the scots sing,
and they managed to preserve
                                     the trill on the R...
so, as they would say in
    a clockwork orange type of fashion,
fully rehabilitated, ****, sorry, integrated...
i can find myself being attracked
                           to an ivory beauty...
side-effect?
    whenever i visit my grandparents,
whenever i pass through
   the urban landscape of Warsaw...
   i feel...
        an extreme nausea,
paranoia,
                 sifting through my in-born
mirror of homogeneity...
the whole process takes, oh,
                     i'd say, roughly 20 years...
brain-washing?
      or a want for a sense of belonging?
my only sense of belonging in
Poland is only related to the use
of language, culturally?
      hybrid at best,
                    or not even hybrid,
mongrel...
                sure, the impeding disaster
of putting a physical hybrid
           with a metaphysical hybrid...
i don't even know how i'll feel
when the ****** tongue dies with
the people i could associate to by speaking
it...
maybe i'll be lucky,
having the luxury of not one death,
but two, in my life.

p.s.
   stating the ****** obvious,
surds...
   lingua ingles(e)
              and not lingua inglesé...
how can i not be stating the obvious,
that's how practiςing
    literacy works, doesn't it?
who has ever heard
a guitar player not say:
    i'm not playing,
  i'm simply practiçing                ?
i guess the origins of the french
         cedilla come from
                                     the greek sigma,
i.e. if it's so smart,
how come a drunk, like me,
                         has to "unearth" it?
always, it's always about
the fiddly bits of language,
english is peppered with
      rules, that are not dogma of
pedagogy...
         of the pedagogic experience...
"somehow" surds appear,
i.e. "silent" letters...
   e.g. there's no (g)nome
         but there's diagnostics...
this, this lingua inglese...
this supposedly "universal" language
for a global community,
and then all the particulars
associated with the native idiosyncracy...
mind you...

     i woke up with a dream,
righ rarity event...
   i was sitting,
then i started walking,
i looked behind me,
a ****** church procession was
walking with banners
and crosses, dressed in black,
i turned my head,
and there was a bunch of
schoolchildren walking toward me,
i was eating a raw chilli...
a boy from the throng coming
at me was eating a raw pepper,
'hey mister'
and pointed at a piece of
a raw papper lying in the grass,
insinuating i lost it...
i replied:
                                          'chilli'...
er­m...
        who the hell would ever need
to amplify dreaming
with a psychadelic experience,
esp. if that person is usually
sleeping for 10+ hours per day
and is dream-starved?

We once walked these streets together
at a time when 'forever' was something real.
Our kisses were gentle pecks, here and there.
Missing our aim, on occassion,
but sweet with a purity I long for still.

We didn't lie about our dreams together.
We just bent our desires to fit our wishes.
Our ignorance caught up to us soon enough.
I took the high road while you descended
down an easier path.

I recall that first morning so long ago.
Awaking to a vacancy of empty fitted sheets
and tears that replaced the echo of our routine.
The sounds of our love absorbed by
the plaster walls, still jingle at times.

The pain is gone,
and tender memories remain.
The high road I treaded upon gives
clear views of our long lost past.
But, only the lonliest of broken hearts
can travel that path.

The streets are quiet now.
And I remain,
still in love
and never the same.

~~~

nie będe sięgał, klękał, zginał, czy wiginał sie przed tym krzyżem!
   (i will not reach, kneel, bend (myself), or contort (myself) before this crux!)
given it's a geometric abomination, as it already is, with prior pythagorean
stress on the triangle; at least that shape is a zoo of interpretation... the crux? that's open to interpretation... either a + or a x.

oh, and by the way, this zeitgeist debate regarding pronouns? slavic language use the pronouns sparingly anyway... you can almost say they're non-exixstent in a conversation... for example... the i is hardly used; which really makes the western language discussion about "proper" pronoun use... very, very, ******* funny; and i do mean that pronoun usage in these languages is a given, i.e. it's automated, and imbedded for no kind of disphoria to become prevalent, or hit the radar for discussion.

as i always stress...
i'm a composer, not an entertainer,
i don't have two or three poems
in my repertoire...
    this **** isn't coming at you like
some *gangnam style one hit wonder,
or gibsberg's howl...
                    i'm just a pulverising
train-wreck of a man, drinking to excess...
and... well... feeling gleeful, to say
the least, smirking most of the time,
and sniggering at the odd occassion;
oh, did i mention, that i simply love
wearing sunglasses?
and yes, living in england,
it's hard to get into the patriotism
           the americans
are almost automated into (alt. indocrinated),
i wish i could be patriotic about being
english...
                 but **** me, there are too many toffs
and cup-cakes to get through to be patriotic
about this place...
     i sprechen the english sprechen,
but i decided to still keep my native tongue
and use it in my private space, that i'm supposed
to call a castle...
              oh but i'll speak the english when
i'm outside of the house, and no one could
tell me i'm foreign... but they sometimes,
annoyingly ask: so, where you from?
after that question, the dialogue suddenly disintegrates....
******* inbreds.
  but you know what i learned about immigration
in europe? you can borrow from american patriotism...
you get so ******* nationalistic **** style in "exile"
with regard to your birth country... it's, simply, unreal;
last time i checked... no news
                   of a muslim attack in poland;
but **** me, i'd love to have that spirit of patriotism
that americans have, inherently;
  ah, but you know, europe is a poly-lingual continent,
which makes it a witch's cauldron, anticipating
death and despair;
and no, given that england uses the same language
as america... you can't, for **** you me, become that easily
patriotic about england...
         welll, objectively i have complete fluency of the english
tongue... but subjectively? fish & chips, 1966 world cup?
the beatles, pink floyd, led zeppelin,
                                             black sabbath, rolling stones?
toad in a hole?
          mate, i'm up in scotland, with a mouthful of
haggis neeps and tatties.

/                                   donald trump is here?!
   on these splendid, splendid isles?!
                                      really?
  where was the past week?

good thing that i bought
that johnnie walker red label
especially for the occassion -

    without actually knowing it was
to take place...

    i guess you might call
watching protests on t.v.
       a bit like:
                going to an illegal rave
party in an abandoned
                               industrial building
somewhere in
       dagenham, or shoreditch,
                            or 'ackney...

britain is not getting what it already
wants -
                       i can understand blatant
flattery, and airs, monsieur,
             monsieur bleu, rouge et blanc...

the one time that britain looks...
bedazzled?!
                               frizzy haired...
the sort of comic sketch
of a **** scene where the man wakes
up having sobbed himself
to sleep, in a disney cartoonish
way expressing frightened awe
and the words:

     [what] the **** just happened?

   'ave a tongue for a ****, mate.

- honest to god though:
   where have i been for the past week?!
i've paid attention to the football -

croissants, or, chequers?!
  hmm...
                   oi! two face, what's
your gamblers' pundit?
                    
                         - let the slavic sub-plot
'ave it,
              if goran (ivanišević)
     could do it, this ******* litter can do it,
given they reached the semi-finals
in 1998...
          
                      and believe me:
   some people...
                    are really jealous of the chessboard
representation on fabric, shh...

or at least that's what i whispered
into the ear of lucifer,
        hermitage's secondary
    (only to achilles)
                       schwarz, mouse-catcher;

and if i'm wrong -
     then i'm wrong:
     but since i don't actually gamble using
money...
      i tap into the emotional
excitment of gambling -
   within the confines of expectation
of being right...

               somehow, gambling,
       but where what i bet with is... zeit...
and grooving to boris brejcha,
tantra of a DJ set...
                   **** me via my ears
and call me Sally...
                              
                         ­     nod nod nod...
(ten minutes later):
   nod nod nod...
          (15 minutes later):
   nod nod nod (with an added
drumkit imitation of the whole
body starting to form a scary shadow
of a man sitting down

before a blank pixel screen
   seeing letters and words appear
like a god might
see stars, and constellations appear
in the dark, dark: voooooooooo
                      'oid)

  which is no proof that i made
a hiccup.                                                          /

Would you reply
if I
say "hi..."?
On this day,
which just happened to be
--Valentine's day...
No, I don't want to say the greeting,
or to ask you to roll in the occassion...
Or to make the event a play,
plotting you into my ploy,
Dear me, no... never that daunting...
never to lead you on...
I just...
have been missing you...
like sedated...
afloat mid-air, --levitated...!
Ever since I met you,
yes, that  meaningless banter,
you stole my heart and I want it back,
so that I can give it to someone new,
...
or else you'll keep me forever,
in this aimless,
foolish...
insatiable, endless,
thoughts of you...

Been thinking of you...
It just happened to be
this Valentine's Day...
--...

she was enticing, i must add, but not the point where
i might find myself buying her jewels...
   and other symbols of the archaic statement of
reciprocated show of affection...
     she chose her own engagement ring...
                                 it wasn't much, by my standards
of wealth, but what mattered was the essential promise
of proposal...
                rarely does a man get "*****" into being
proposed...         so little planning goes into the affair
on man's behalf, that he simply regresses into a state
    of a procelain doll...
                      or, for that matter: becomes a st. thomas'
babushka doll: full of surprises...
        here's to it! an ode to oakheart!
                 a bacardi brew at 35% (imagine the arithmetic
that went into buying this liquor...
          how much less do i get from the standard 40%
dosage of *****? five beers? six? seven?) -
they don't even cite the spices used... or what sort of
wood the liquor was stored in... the *******...
          bold yet smooth & mellow taste?
  seriously?
    see... this girl really believed in the herr mannelig
story... myth... a knight becomes enticed by a female troll...
   she had this mirror she called to,
   and it wasn't the sort of story that you could
recount with the word: mirror mirror, on the wall,
   who's the fairest of them all?
         oh no... this image-projection was thick as the darkest
of all possible nights... she was a real trollfrau...
  a female troll... a gamer... a girl who was into
painting warhammer figurines...
               i had no complaint about that... after all...
she was playing video games, but encouraged that i read
bulgakov's: the master and margarita...
    which i did...
                 but as a 19 year old... her obsession with
the herr mannelig fable reached a pinnacle...
   and my once dear trollfrau became so so lost in her black
widow web of lies, that she was never resurrected.
        well i couldn't complain about her prettiness...
      i wasn't the one to judge what she noted
about her slightly large proportion of nose...
   but since she lied that she used to roller-blade
and hit the tarmac face-down, and this enlarged her nose
to slightly fatter proprotion?
         lies have short legs... lies are like dwarfs...
        it's not exactly zeno's achilles and the tortoise:
     in non-paradoxical language... one will catch up with the other;
obviously there is a time delay... but one can't remain
in the abstract from the other.
         she also wore glasses...
            and yes, even though i don't have to wear glasses,
i checked out the effect that glasses have on perception...
she thought she had short legs...
       wear myopia glasses for long enough... and you too will
imagine yourself several inches shorter than you actually are.
once i found variations of the folk song that she
really stressed to be her favourite,
      i found a woman's voice singing herr mannelig
as being the complete opposite to her first suggestion:
namely in extremo's version of it... a male voice singing
for trollfrau's narration? it couldn't happen...
   there's germarna's version,
and there's tibetréa's version...
                 which coincides with what i do on a very
rare occassion... like... watch the "eurovision" song contest...
australia? really? so why not include canada and america
in this farcical of all possible contests?
     the belgian song from the current year, 2017...
      i actually... i actually ******* liked it... blanche - city lights;
if this song doesn't win... i'm going to swallow
                        half a kilogram of chewing-gum;
there's only about 1 10th of decency in just contests....
the rest is eurotrash...
                             what's the real comedy... because feel
more embarrassed about their musical tastes,
  than about their ****** preferences... they'll speak about
their ****** this-that-and-the-other... than what music
they like, since they prefer being degraded by ****** acts...
than being degraded by talk of "embarrassing" music tastes...
   let's just say: it's not akin to sadistic ***,
   and talk of a taste in music, that's the sound of a hammer,
     pounding at nails.

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

  again...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To those who rise at 4 in the morning.
Sin cannot win and faith cannot fail.
For those rising not for the occassion
But for the necessity of being.
This one's for you.

For all the coffee spilled on leather car seats,
And the evidence that the caffeine runs
Differently through your veins.
Because let's face it. You need it.
You were told the youth of Germany
shared your taste in coffee and cigarettes
For breakfast.

Here is to those who have never seen the sun set,
but greet its rise with a forsaken smirk,
as it has lost its luster by now.
You can take a shower later, for that
final fifteen minutes could equate a
winters hibernation at this point.

They say for every step forward, you take
two steps back, but that's hard to believe
When the world is standing still.

me? every time i'm reminded by
my body that i have
hidden, waiting,
unhinged
     rhythm sections of a body,
hand, fingers, tapping
on a folded knee,
a dragging leg doing
the basis heavy bass
of a drum-kit...
               these ******* are from
the all-spice of the iberian
reconquista...
         sign me up...
                back on the old continent
these are not mayan hybrids...
no covert-slang
of an ethnic group...
i'm pretty sure the Spaniards
are still Spaniards...
   ****, i had to return
to an alternative to
the tetragrammaton,
and a Jewish influence
after netanyahu
did he best to remember
his ancestors
   seeking refuge under
the umbrella
of mieszko...
yes, thank you...
now wipe your feet
clean before leaving...
you want a ****
you'll get your
**** and your yom kippur
to boot...
  (oh, such a nice, looking
"boy next door" jewish
****-it...
           cow-lick
of a Hitlerite comb-over) -
(here, seeing fame,
or an ongoing comment
section...  n'ah...
   i'm good with the jack,
              chill)
big mouth,
ordained with a:
appear taller than
you already gifted 6ft+...
   scare yourself with
a shadow
that in your possession
like spare change...
     sure...
is little Judy bringing
her Ethopian friend along?
    - because:
i just haven't been mind-******
enough sieving through
all the post-colonial society
crap of... once great...
now just east anglia,
northumbria...
          and a bit described
as welsh-land...
                and devon...
rap sounds better (in) Hispanic...
  la poloné
                      of Haiti...
take me back 150 years
and claiming: a Gnat on Leon's
collar was only a good man...
yeah... but that moustache...
being short wasn't as bad
as donning that comic tash...
  and that ugly: mustard brown
of khaki... ugh...
    lagerfeld would have
had an opinion about that...
sure... SS-schwarz...
       on a mission statement
from the fashion industry...
   the nazis just knew how to dress
their pawns...
  except for the leader,
stuck in a nostalgia of khaki...
or as IS used to say:
send your troops
attired in loose clothing...
         schwarz pyjama(s)...
airy, fairy, ******* breeze
*** the Iraqi plains wind...
                   o.k. i found no
path in h'eh'zeus...
       perdón mi virgen novia...
guess we're going
to the opposite sight of a harem...
3 to 2 ratio of available holes...
            plenty of *******
             fudge to boot...
oh i like my foul mouth...
which is what happens
performing oral *** on
a *******...
no protection for the tongue...
good to know i'll ingest
whatever is "necessary"
and fry it on some
      hydrochloric bath-time...
seems like i rap...
   albeit in Spanish...
    perhaps they're bragging...
       perhaps they're doing
anything what a cotton-afro-head
would otherwise do
with a tongue...
       i'm pretty ******* sure
there's little oral to genitals
action in the department of:
a man sat on a chair...
a fifth leg appeared...
  ancient jokes from ancient
greece
about the size of the phallus
and the status of whether
barbarian or the civilized man...
me... neurotic about...
that extension?
        oh sure...
                the minute i think about
owning the responsibility
of a woman
i start thinking of the rare
instances of...
girlfriends armed
            with hammers...
i had to relax on some judaic
influences...
        but then i discovered
a "counter-culture" to religion...
i figured...
before i fall in the abyss
of an animalistic
       genesis...
beginning to explain
and ending with an explanation
via the chimp...
         i'll let religion go...
        it's only by coincidence
that the tetragrammaton
encompasses
both the strength to laugh...
Há
     and to sigh,
        āH...
   vowel-catcher and a vowel-crutch...
    laughter-skeleton...
a British sense of humor
can become so exhausting,
so nuanced...
           that... the obvious byproduct
would always become
               sit-coms with canned
laughter...
   since... when is it a joke...
when you (also) have to explain it?

yes... Y the inverted implosion
of gUD γΥΔ:
                     three-dimensional
space (0, 0) corodinate...
  and the wave of W...
              for the cosine graph)

huh?
delta (letter)
from wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Δ is life, i live for Δ. did you
know Δ is the key to life? i did. Δ.
this page was last edited on 20
        February 2019, at 00:50 (UTC);

well there was that fetish of
mine for both hebrew theology,
german and...
the question: why did the jews
find safety in poland,
but...
             only crafted yiddish
from german?
                
now i know there's a safety
net...
        juggling...
3+ languages standing
on the ledge,
and before me...
flight...
   and all the etymology i will
ever want to cipher through
and have no assurance
in being given the stage
to apply to today's
everyday usage...

        beside the borrowed
prefixes from latin: dis-
or greek suffixes of some variant...

fashion statement:
clothes worn like
     an animal would wear fur(r)...
i also tend to forget changing
my clothes on the whim,
on the hour, for the occassion...
fashion statement:
to wear clothes like an animal
dons fur.

learn from the best:
                               **** the rest...

I still imagine you lying next to me on occassion. I don't picture you as you were, rather how I imagine you now. Happier, Healthier, your freckles starting to bloom like they always do this time of year.

I still imagine you lying in the back seat of my car. Now that space is occupied by cameras that I wish I could take pictures of you with, but I'll likely never see your negatives develop again.

I still imagine my parents asking about you, when they'll see you again. Now your name hasn't been spoken in months and all I want is to hear it from somebody besides myself.

I still imagine you waiting for me in my bed sometimes. Now your place has been taken by countless people, but I wish they're you every single time.

I wish it was you.

Praises to God
For every moment,
Every second,
Every millisecond.

Praises to God
For the forgiveness,
For the freedom,
For flexing his muscles to fully free me from all of affliction.

For victory over the condition of conviction,
How confession in conversation, the collaboration of connection in correction,
Can collude to cover the catastrophic occassion.

Praises to God
For everything, all, and all in it.

don't know, never used them,
for me the experience was
akin to:
walking to a supermarket
for a 6-pack of beer,
passing a thai bi-******
on a bench, frantic in conversation
on the phone,
buying the beer
in a supermarket,
walking back, stopping
to ask for something,
or she was asking for a cigarette
lighter... sitting down with her...
talking... blah blah...
asking: you want to come
home with me?
consent.
     cool cool,
a few beers later,
a jazz record...
          ******* in the garden
when night came...
then walking her home,
giving her my coat,
as she explained:
i'm drowning in it...
         a necklace with
a ring attached,
to be paid my compliments...
   i keep gagging at this memory
for, all the reasons,
that suggest,
and the times i went to
a nightclub in essex?
   and didn't get so much
as a kiss, or get laid?
and this sort of **** pops up?
beer, supermarket round,
a random girl,
a public park bench,
******* in the garden?
          sometimes i drift into
central london...
brick lane...
  the clubs there,
and i'm like...
           what the **** happened here?
dating apps...
ah... so...
not the classical circumstance
of clarified transaction,
no man, no *******,
"something,  "in between?"
i guess i never married because:
(a) chernobyll birthmark
that kept people wanting to **** me,
from a state of infancy
(b) high blood pressure in
my early 30s
(c) acne...
           (d) 6ft1 and a full crop of hair...
(e) i forget what that is...
  (f) not circumcised...
(g) the "existential" concerns
for global warming
   and limiting the population
of the world...
  which, in new dehli sounds
a bit like: blah ah ha ha ha ha!
winners all round.

my god, i tried, i tried,
but what became more important,
was regards to how:
i could perfect the most spectacular
failure of myself...

           prostitutes helped...
i tried speed dating once,
let the whole scene with
a room-mate of mine
doing a big-*** L index-thumb
hand signal against his forehead...

     and then i never dated,
i don't actually know what a date
is...
   dating... compared to...
arranged marriage?
      what's that?
   someone revealing themselves
to another person online,
but when there's a need
for conversation,
all the facts are known?
  is, that it?
            
             i thought that profiling
was a repository for intelligence
agencies...
   so... i'd write an internet dating
profile,
    but then revel in any private
information, that would
reveal my personality,
before...
       the wining and dining?
so... what would be the point
of disclosing all the sort of information,
that might be required,
on a date, for the sake of conversation?!

i must be a + + autistic or something,
i skipped the dating apps,
went straight for the company
of prostitutes, passed the priest
and the psychiatrist...
            
  that really was a thai surprise back
in the park...
   how is that "scored"?
   he.... she was somehow a 5...
i figured...
    the lesser the "quality",
the higher the chances for a hard-on's
worth of a madonna-***** complex
antithesis of limp ****...
    implying an *******...

if social media was a "thing"
back in 2007...
and dating apps were a, "thing"
in 2017...
   i've just spent 10 years living
under a rock...
        as rare as it is...
i did the organic scout routine...
never "buy" a *******
for credit, keep everything debit...
and... on the odd occassion
that you chance a ****-buddy
while picking her up from
a public park bench...
                    well...
        
       chances are... you'll come across
a thai surprise.

games have become to represent
coping mechanisms
of... the "old age angst of not getting laid"...
i cared for a while,
then i realised:
surely this must apply to circumcised men,
no?
              why would you feel
****** frustration,
    social anxiety, angst...
    e nomine type of soundtrack?
i can sort of imagine
how paedohpilia arises:
   men, being intimidated by women
their own age...
   i can give you a theory of how
it starts...
       but the end: it always the tender
obvious...
   i once walked behind one...
knowing on outer-suburbian doors...
with one being opened...
a kick to the head...
   the shattered kiddy-****** walked on...
didn't even dial 999
and reported the assault...
       it's funny... how the concept
of law intra-man works,
when the scientific findings
of the medium, the inter-man works...
leave us, at best...
just that... inter-****,
  while the intra-****...
         eh... side note...
            
                       i'm surprised that...
muhammad...
     was a paedo...
      but not an alcoholic...
           i too found it weird that
i automated jerking off aged 8...
      my sister was an alsatian shepherd...
and my brother was a dobermann...

            my dream job,
when, working in a music shop was
disavowed...
   is still working into a slaughterhouse;
and what would possibly be so
"weird" about that?

             dating is such a bad idea
once you've invested an interest
in going to a brothel...
         dating... such an alien concept...
the complete lack
of a transaction clarification
of a date, compared to an hour's
worth spent with a *******?
             it is a "short-cut"...
but i'd also hate to play the "game"
of life...
   dating, i'd much prefer going
to a tailor,
     as i learned from doing
the brothel round...
   first comes the *******,
later the realisation of a turkish barber...

     i skipped that part...
this whole...
   date... etiquette play-thing theatre...
social norms...
   social norms:
i either ****, or i get ******.

the greeks worried about the word (λoγoς) -
come what may, but they did add
to their alphabet excess psyche distinctions...
ψικη? or πσικη?
              what i'm talking about is how
φoνoς emerged...
              the etymological origin of
tinnitus? tiny ear?
     i seem to have forgotten why i even bother
to use the dictionary these days:
well... mostly for etymological requirements...
on the spectrum of using language (god)
i put as much effort in the etymological
spectrum of events, as a physicist might
put into the pin-point of the big bang,
or a physician might put into a sore thumb
or a decaying tooth...
    what helped me to move away from the greek
conceptualisation of the λoγoς?
   their polytheism... they had too many words
and could not fathom a singleton
  of their polytheism, that could be equated
to will... or what became adapted by
darwinism's survival mechanisms / dynamos.
but i didn't arrive at the concept of
    φoνoς from λoγoς directly, by some "safe" route,
or a shortcut...    only via γνoσις (gnosis)...
     i read the arts, and i know they're not that
popular, and will seem rather quirky, or just
plain out-right weird...
            but they're there...
but so the "trinity"
                father λoγoς,
                                 son γνoσις
                                              the other, φoνoς.
it would help to mention that see the english language
as naked, given the diacritical attires of other
nations and the remnants of the latin optic of
encoded sound...
                i am also bound to say:
akin to sigma (Σ, σ, ς)... couldn't epsilon
   nibble at eta (H) and join ranks with it, on the aesthetic
premise that you'd end encoding words, such
      as plate (cermic) according to the aesthetic rule:
  Ε, ε, η?
                         only when greeks made too many
sharpened flint-spears of their alphabet do i see the picture
clearly: with the english having adopted no
                   φoνoς principles?
     well, i'm not into charlatan gnosis as such...
   i just "conjure" (speak) the word diagnosis and i know
that a gamma is said... i don't wish for the vogue
   of current times, e.g. (g)nome.
   what i am interested more (it probably won't shock
you and you will join me in the awe):
    the moon doesn't appear in the night sky every
single night like the sun might by day...
   i'm interested in the substance on the moon
  that acts like a mirror...
     sometimes the red moon, sometimes the canary
freckled biscuit...
         and at it's height platinum-white...
                             (tool really do a better version
of led zeppelin's no quarter... just saying)
but there must be a mirror like substance contained
in the geological construct of the moon that
acts like a mirror for the sun, you really can see
the dawn and dusk on the moon's surface...
look long enough straight into the sun and you
see ultra-violet vibrations... akin to the skeleton
of the moon at its zenith during the night;
but surely there is something very particular
in the geological spectrum that allows the moon's
surface to refraction... i hope i used the correct
word on this occassion..
  but as with the modulation of the greek original
(given the diacritical excesses imposed on it
   and the lack of it in english), i could extract
   a meaningful counter: the tetragrammaton...
or what's in english intended as aH           and Ha:
the gemini phonos of sighs and laughter...
   by basically invoking the sigma rule to eh?
    Σ, σ, ς /  Ε, ε, η                       : meaning the lower-case
eta is a shorter version of epsilon...
and like the aesthetic of the trinity of "satan" that's
sigma, it could mean shortening the greek alphabet
by 1... so from 24 letters (as if coincidental to hours
in a day), to 23 letters...
                      and i'm not even greek to propose
a justification for this revision.
                      but this also means why i couldn't
find the phonos equivalent to Y...
                         or why J is confrontational in the other
instance of latin...
                          Υγ                      or oog
so poot not pout or pulling rather than pool;
              i suppose there is not Y in greek as there is
in latin is the **** of ι (iota, as thus stated, with a . hovering
over it like a halo or a decapitated head;
the hideous "dance" of shiva and kali:
well "dance"... *******! fucky-fucky sucky-sucky)
           as such iota dominates what the greeks stress
in their primordial phonos... F (in latin terms)...
just F...             i once heard of the three Fs in greek:
  which wasn't true... someone thought
  it would be neat to add ψ (psi)
   to the coordinates of that might represent
   something akin to the origin of the man who'd see
this mistake θ, φ, ψ;
       psi is the odd one out: hence theology, philosophy...
and that annoying "darling" that's psychology;
as a logic that attempts to fathom the soul as a totality
of imaginable freedom, it seems very totalitarian in
its approach... it's practically a zoology to be honest...
cages... ego here, superego there, id over here...
                i really think that psychology has nothing
worthwhile to add at this moment in time...
                 not when on the other side of the argument
there is no soul, but presicely the counter-argument
         in all the ridiculousness of implanting a soul into
a ***** (white tadpole) and calling it a frog...
       i haven't seen a ribbit ever come from a tadpole...
like i never heard a thought enter a *****...
     it turns out to be bizarre, but then women dictate
the rule of thumb on the argument...
                               which is why the intellectual
development of people who argue that a ***** has a
soul (early foetal stages) begs the question:
        can that thing utter a sentence let alone take to
thinking? no... it's only a potential,
                           at best prescribed the symbol Λ
(in electricity denoted by V)...
                                        oh so many what ifs that come
with that... it's almost like ****** someone
to provide child alimony...
    and it sounds like that precisely...
prostitutes at least cream themselves up before having
*******...
      rapists from south africa?
                        they prefer to spike you with ******
and saddle on top of you with a dry *****...
                                god, the ****** disparity...
    one know and lubricate before *******, the supposed
"smart" girls who teach in boarding schools
                       have no idea what it's like ******* a dry ****;
i'd rather fist my **** any day of the week.