Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

slow
Slow think,
make real

re-al-ize
what fighting for life is…
this is the only
try,
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
listen,
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,
CHARGE?

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

Duck'n'cover,no
crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup
poser-power

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Wiles's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
meme,
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
Radioman,
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H three Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
agency,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tanglewood  thicket, catclaw and mesquite,
willow,

wait.
And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
maybe
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Tophet?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Nullify
Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

Loose
those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
triggers,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.
-----

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen

listen

60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
possessing
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?

Ah,
novelty.

Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  
mound

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

pull-tight,
do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
sign
?
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

-----
Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.

Exes and Ohs
Litter the page
Sprinkled around in a random matter
Without age

Relative to time
Persecuted for that one word
That one crime

Exes and Ohs
Meaningless apart
Like a left ventricle
Without the right heart

Two halves  
Of the same bilateral organism
An awkward moment
Nervous laughs

Eyes forward
Minds in each other's pants
Forget needless pleasantries
Deposit in wilting potted plants

Hugs and kisses
Sincerely yours
Tell me why
It's me you ignore

To my innocence, naivety, and viridity
Childish ways, high school days.
A mere three weeks, I say good bye
With a cry, a tear, a sigh.

To blue slacks, and a polo
Black shoes and white socks
To my pink skirt, and white blouse,
Pleated, soon to be folded.

To the OHS rooms of our first and second years:
The broken windows, and tantrum-kicked chairs,
The broom box behind the spider webbed chalkboard,
Messages on the wall hand printed in red and green.

The broken doorknobs, and broken floorboards,
Carved armchairs, and eaten chalks,
Missing brooms and dustpans and garbage cans and rugs
That show up in who knows where
Stolen by jani- we know who.

The witnesses and victims
To our random laughter (from some Chinese-looking girl’s corny joke).
Our random tears.
Our not so random learnings.
The pillars of our memories.

To the PF rooms of our third year:
The storage room turned gigantic garbage can and dressing room (maybe because ours keep being stolen)
The exploding socket causing sparks to fly (and us to fly away from it), and
The amazing “alambre” lock; who knows who installed (as if that could keep us away).
The earthquake resistant rooms would be missed.

To the New High School Building of our last years:
The kicked door (not our fault!), and cancerous blinds (like hairs falling after chemo),
The jigsaw floor (not sure if better than broken floorboards),
The “Halayan 2012”, and
The mind-boggling “no key needed” lockers.


The UTMT with its fair share of mango sentences,
The old guidance office now turned “tambayan”, and
The Computer lab with its fragile yellow chairs and bruised bums.

To Ibong Adarna plays, and the half cooked uncooked Teriyaki,
Generation X (and Generation NOW! and Generation Facebook),
Jai ** dances, and cheerleading,
Kalagon Kamo Namon,
And Mickey Mickey Mouse Kabit-bintana memories.

To the NikJep Tandem,
Kanlaon Boys Behind the Flowers,
D.H.A.I.N.G. (not sure if they remember this),
Fred vs Gino version
And DewBheRhieTart.

Keep the volcanoes of memories burning.

To blue paint, and blue shirts,
And Geometry teaching us
“There are a lot of solutions to a problem.
We just have to find one that suits us.”

To saying “***”,
And cooking imbutido.
And wearing (for some designing) reduced,
Reused, recycled clothing.
And dissecting.
And parrot-Filipino teachers (she gave me P30 for load though).

Keep the river of rumination flowing.

To being scared of one whole sheet of paper,
Two becoming one,
Party rocking to make up for the tears,
And knowing we should have won.

To the hand sanitizer girls,
The Cream-o-holics,
The Canterbury Crusaders,
The Valenciana eaters.

May our tree of friendship continue growing.

To our winnings!

The glow in the dark madness,
The Lakan at Mutya clutch-heart-moments,
The Sports Fest *******,
Basketball girls’ coronation!

To the fieldtrips and failed trips,
To air conditioned crammings,
And space and time bending
To comparing notes (and sometimes other things)
Copying notes, sometimes photocopying
(Not Xeroxing)
Sharing words, phrases, sentences
And giving pictures (via Bluetooth).

May you keep walking on the right direction,

To the expectations achived,
Broken, overtaken.
All the skepticism,
Constructive criticism.

All of it.

The in-your-face-we-did-it-baby-
We-are-awesome-you-can’t-bring-us-do­wn-
Coz-we-rise-back-up-attitude.

To Arielle
And Mhae

To Amica
Marie
Narzcisa
Cyan
Fred
Theo
Alvinson
Anthony
Faith
Karmil­la
Matt
Jeffson
Lourince

To Carolyn

To Makayla

To the thirty-five castaways in this room
The thirty-five castaways who struggled
The thirty-five castaways who persevered
The thirty-five castaways who fought, cried, made up, laughed, shared, gave, back-stabbed, and front-stabbed, celebrated, suffered, passed
Thirty-five
Thirty-five castaways who loved,
Thirty-five

Thirty-five castaways who made it, who did it.

To Nikki
Hazel
Alyssa
Gef
Veni
Alex
Jaykee
Bernard
Myra
Vince
Chanta­lle
Josen
Jerian
Shaira
J
Uriah
Ihra
Renz
Bless
Steffany
Angel
Fl­orey
Bernadine
Antonette
Rency
Owen
Majah
Gino
Marcelo
Ney
Keith
­Joselle
And Jessa,

We did it guys.
We really did.

Like some goofy lisp.  
Like left over from Surrey to Essex.
Lycan, Omish, with some Roudy Rawdy Piper.
Like a WWE event, no ropes in the ring and a whole
bunch of cheerios.  
It sounded like chweer wee ohs.  
I got England to laugh out loud.
We were all laying on the floor hoping
fuhat bassthard would gooh on a diet.
Like Van Gogh and his buddy whats his...
knuck knuck.  Painting pictures of Marshall
Islanders for a vote or veto.  Paul Goin and Vincent
Van Gogh sharing a lisp.  
Sthounds like..... Ah gawd!  
Shut up you sobbing limp noodle.
Try writing something we all can laugh at.

Humor me Socrates with Albert Einstein.  
E equals MC squared.  
One part energy, a mass constantly squared.  
Cheerio old chaps.

A question I have to ask
Have I always smiled like this?
I have never felt so comfortable
Just happy to exist
Now you tell me there's a reason
A reason for your frown
Well darling I'd pick up everything
And just get the **** out of this town
Let's just run away
Start brand new
**** all these *******
Baby it's just me and you

But you don't even know me
At least not yet
Smiling with you
Was the least of my regrets
You claim to see my face
But I couldn't place the bet


I've seen so many folks coming in out of my life
But the second I met you was the second I started to fight
For better things
For happier days
For smiling for myself
For being awake

Oh how i wish we were younger
That flowers would never dry out
Staying in love, means to never loose faith
In something you know will end

   Oh how i wish you would stay here
That petols would stay on their stems
In the darkest of nights and the coldest of days
I will long for your skin and your bones

There’s a girl in none of my classes that walks the halls, wishing only that she could be sitting in my desk, reading my words and hearing the words that will get her where she should already be. She’s got such a reputation, that girl. She says things people want to hear without regret. She sleeps with the crowds, and doesn't ramble on. She’s to the point, this girl. She is clean in her sin, and respectable in crime. Sometimes as she passes my door, just for a moment, I see in her a misplaced pride. A smirk that she put there, for people like me. The kind of girl she wants to be.

All the people I was ever closest to
turned into ******.
Not the attractive, successful, popular type,
but just the opposite.
The desperate, self loathing,
"tell me you love me" type
who can't find anyone to be happy with
because they're just as unhappy with themselves as I am with them.
And they're stitched together, made up of
everyone else's personalities.
So while they go publicly finger each other,
I'll be here, betrayed and bitter.

Standing here in a crowded doorway, waiting for the signal to rush off, be somewhere new and make the choice. Where do I go now? Before my escape, she passes with her sparkling new faces. They smile at her, laugh with her and think she’s just the coolest thing since sliced bread. I watch her travel on, but her smirk is gone. Instead, a perfectly-placed pout over... Who knows? But I can see that this time, it’s real, although she’s even more ashamed of it than the smile she hid before. This pout, she herself doesn’t understand. She thought she was happy.

I had no intention of causing any more harm than she had done to herself, which became the catalyst for a series of letters. Pages upon pages of observations, one more prominent than the others; You wish you knew me like I wish you knew yourself.
I became under the impression she received the message, neither of us were fit to infatuate with the other. However, she still met me that afternoon in the park. She still approached me in her most vulnerable character.
Hi, i’m J-
I know who you are. I always have. I know you biblically and genetically alike. I know your mother’s maiden name, and the reason for your scar. What I don’t understand is, why me?

Quiet response, scared. Vulnerable. Scarred.

*I wish I knew myself like you know me.

A question I have to ask
Have I always smiled like this?
I have never felt so comfortable
Just happy to exist
Now you tell me there's a reason
A reason for your frown
Well darling I'd pick up everything
And just get the **** out of town
Let's just run away
Start brand new
**** all these Assholees
Baby it's just me and you

But you don't even know me
At least not just yet
Smiling with you
Was the least of my regrets
You claim to see my face
But I couldn't place that bet
I've lost so many friendships
Just trying to be true


Seen so many folks coming in and out of my life
But the second I met you was the second I started to fight
For better things
For happier days
For smiling for myself
For being awake

Can't take this feeling
I am so overwhelmed
Chasing my mind
Trying to keep hold of myself

When you tell me that your mom's at work,
And invite me over,
I'm not a ******* idiot.
And I may slip into my nice lace *******, maybe even a matching bra.
But I also bring my favorite movie, and a sci-fi story I wrote for AP English that actually got a decent grade, and a package of Thin Mints, because I know they're your favorite.
Just in case this time is different.
Because I fell for you the moment you laughed at my joke about "That's So Raven" and I never stopped loving you even after everything.
I loved you when you asked for my number and when you took me out on that one date,
And I loved you even when the dates turned into "a quick meet-up because I have to be at work in twenty,"
And I loved you when you'd scratch scribbles on my back with your nails, painting your soul into my body,
And your body and mine would intertwine in sweaty messes and whispered "*****,"
And there'd be marks all on my hips and ***
That I'd awkwardly pass off as "I tripped and fell"
When I showed up to swim practice.
I loved you when your fingers were inside of me, creating murmured "ohs,"
And I loved you when you'd tell me "I can't take you home, I'm sorry."
Or the ever-so-present "I just can't commit to a relationship right now," that is branded in my mind white hot.
I love you, even though I know that to you all I am is a girl whose tights you can get on your bedroom floor in under five minutes.
But you told me today that you had a new girlfriend,
Who you like because she's a keeper, a real good girl, who you want to meet your family, and not another girl like me "who's just looking for a ****."
I. I just.
I love you.

His voice is like flowers, his voice is like puddle skipping, hand-holding, his voice is almost like Thursdays and his work is to speak the words of men long dead. But I like his words best, I like his stammerings and stutterings and ums and ohs and the slip of vernacular into something more spectacular than the slip of his tongue into my mouth.

what can't become anything like a theatre,
yet faces and masks fly off the shelves
in market stall, none are given the gravitas
of thought, instead: turkey-feeding
reverse bulimia, the sith and jedis?
      i can create a string of oaths to suggest
that it's happening,
   a grand masquerade of "concerns"...
      they call them the inverted commas...
what, like the spanish inverted question mark ¿?
jinnie out of the bottle sort of ****?
                   when did " become an inversion
of '?
                  that time i did the only thing possible
and dragged it down to the plateau of sentence
and paragraph like a prometheus?
         what could possibly be inverted about
the ditto?
              i guess you have to say that, given
shortenings, and all that glutton english,
don't ****'stani me this ******* back!
         the idea of an inverted comma is already
in use, and it's up, not down, as is:
    i wouldn't care as much if i didn't have an
education in chemistry: and didn't become pedantic
about certain things.
   the ditto enclosure: " " = ~ / ≈...
                             and that translates into:
well... if you want ambiguity of certain words:
read a book on existentialism rather than a harry potter
instalment; movies? great great,
      books? i'd sooner be dead than read
on of them.
                 i was just watching this
julian assange interview and couldn't help but see
a constantly implosive dualism,
    we got rid of the church-state,
   we inherited the military-industrial complex,
    and only americans have a justifiable concept
of nationalism, or so it would seem,
given they don't feel threatened by russia's ideologue
or that of china's; which really helps if you have
a puppet-state...
        back in napoleonic times they had satellite states,
now they have puppets...
    napoleon liberated poland and created the duchy
of warsaw, america has israel and the soviets
once had cuba...
                         but are any of the "axis" puppet-states
even recognisable? israel is blatant with connections
to america, they're practically nudist about it,
if i ever need to look at a glass window, i'd look
at that relationship...
   oh pick my sweet cherry blossom while you're at it,
i'll find the next plastic surgeon to remove my
protruding male larynx and talk funny...
water adam's tonic...
   i really want to see, though, how many spelling
mistakes i can make... julian... assange? assangé?
mannuel's ¿que?  fawlty ******* towers:
flip me a pancake!
                                  but you know what the saddest
thing about university is? babies...
  you end up teaching them how to make
pancakes, about how you add sunflower oil to
the runny-dough for the purpose of
what would otherwise become a tefal fryingpan:
garko-tłuks!
  can i ask what the necessary proximity of two
letters with diacritical marks? i know that english
loves that **** with either consonants and vowels:
tool.. pool... poll... pal... paul...
                                     stutter, staged,
     staging, poppy, pop, pops,
                         populist, pondering, package,
edge, age, -ydge... ****'s freaky...
             it really is... so you can have the orthographical
aesthetic of two vowels or two consonants side by side,
but what of an actual orthographic example?
the horrid case in poland of ó vs. u...
  there's no visible stress in the disctinction,
it's just something that ends up being either:
pleasing to the eye, or displeasing.
                               i never heard the ó accent to
be honest, people just ended up saying:
we need to remember the beauty of a word that uses
that distinction... notably on walls via
graffiti... grafitti? cappuccino?
          huj vs. hój...    or what later becomes: ahoy!
cockrels for supper! no, wait: cockerels for supper!
tomato       ta-may-toh, american drooling out
spaghetti from their gobs... tah-may-toe(h)...
and between H and H              a lot going on...
     hard to find a laugh though... you find it people
start complaining... i never understood the
cognitive concept of laughter, about how you might
laugh internally...
          if only germany learned to play rugby...
i'd love to see germans play rugby, just for fun,
and expand the tournament into: the 7 nations cup...
what sort of history can combine scotland to
italy? i get the british isles to be related,
but i just loath seeing italy get thrashed all the time...
i'd love to see germany pick up a tenet for rugby
(yes, a tenet, not a tenant... and it is a type
of spiritual currency);
or maybe the germans are just really good football
ballerinas?
            oh they'd fit it alright, what with so much
shared history; they had a football match in
Flanders one time, so why wouldn't they bond over
rugby?
             yeah... so this old form of problems,
what with the church-state complex, that lost both
church, and state, and became a federal institution...
or whatever it was that it became...
it's something new emerging on the horizon?
   i couldn't say church-like, but nonetheless very
much church-like?
                       i don't even know how to conceptualise
current affairs in a hyphen (-) complexity...
   it's ****** obvious though: corporations?
      yet the state disappears... the only permitted
nationalism is american, so what the hell do we get
to juggle with? evidently throwing only one
ball from hand to hand and "pretending"
to be juggling will not end up with a successful circus
act...
                    so we got rid of the church,
and that morphed into the ultimate poly-schism in america,
we got rid of the state, and that morphed into
denials of sorts...
                so from the military-industrial complex
we have created a military-consumer complex...
    isn't that so? isn't america faking it a little bit?
   ever time i had *** with women i always assumed
they were never pleased...
    then one night in st. petersburg i asked her:
- i'm keeping count, how many did you have?
- 7.
- thank-*******-fabulous.
                     brag? isn't that the whole point?
****** brags about a yacht he owns in the caribbean (
carribean?)... i'll brag about that night
                                                  and the 7 ohs;
but the current situation isn't about a military-industrial
complex, that's why there came promises of
job revival: blue work, not white collar work...
   but once you feed china-smaug the coins
for every piece of work someone else could have
done to a better quality... wait... what was that? desolation
of smaug?            
                 the military-industrial complex isn't exactly
dead... but it's like a seesaw with a fat kid:
   to many losses on one side... say 100,000 iraqis
and about 400 english troops...
                when it becomes too easy... to ****** advanced
that it: literally becomes boring...
                  no kind of memorial will do it for me,
i'm still involved in the military-consumerism complex...
          like: it's so so "complex"...
                          throw **** here, throw a **** there,
and then not ask for spoilt snowflakes to come along.
             if i only said something original
i would have been more than happy...
        but since i didn't, and it's all there for everyone
to see, i guess i had to turn toward
         orthographic "inconsistencies" -
or those dreaded words: inverted commas...
     "    "     i'm seeing four, no one writes the un-inverted
comma, since no one writes,, and doesn't point out:
oh look! a typo!

commentary of a bunch of photographs uploaded showing the dilemma of the A's in paper size... exhibits a - f show a lesson, well, you remember that old depiction of the idiot of the class, standing on a stool at the front of the class with a heretic's coned hat? well, they revised the hat, now it's a once green eyeshade clerk's hat via interpretation of a cricket cap.

it's quiet easy, words fill never justify the images,
the dunce was just saying: you could make one
toothpick from a Sunday newspaper's double spread,
that's what got him canonised perched on a stool,
no one exacted how many anyway,
like they never teach your the chemical formula for
wood, if what has a H too two Ohs, then wood must
must have something in the strand of including
carbon, a cabaret of elements with carbon the prompter
poking his prickly head once in a while due to
acting tremors and cold sweats of sudden amnesia...
the point being, to further the first point about
the size of newspapers on Sundays and whether there's
such a thing as A0, or an architectural sized paper,
i guess architectural spreads are like breast sizes...
imagine looking at schematics of 30F through 32E
and onto 30D past 38DD... you never see the sagging
in these diagrams, because they're abstracts of
the two hangmen... you see, the bra... did anyone tell
Freud that Anti-Oedipus as proposed by the two French
philosophers mixing up Nietzsche and Marx with
Freud on the side anticipated this Anti? it's the bane
of my existence, English black humour mixed with
giggles at words like: bottom, ****, ****... i don't know
how you can get seriously randy afterwards...
it's atypical English humour, *** jokes... the notion
that Oedipus can't laugh at *** underpins the very
basis of the unconscious, i.e.: that something sinister
is lurking in the depths and reaches back into childhood
and it's subsequent destruction. the opposite of
the theory proposed by Freud (as evolved from the already
mentioned *Gilles Deleuze) is at the same time frightening,
because it almost presupposes Oedipus' father
in the version of Saturn, best exemplified by
Saturn devouring his Son painted by Francisco Goya...
and the basis of this eventuality due to the woman's
madonna-***** complex: mini-skirt ***** lollipop
but a saintly mother beneath... jooke.
**** it, i deviated from the topic of periscopes but more
importantly of the size of sensible paper, A0 being
the spread of a Sunday Times... architectural scores
must therefore begin with B5...after architecture come
advertisements probably beginning at around
B3 or B2... football stadiums are filled with these passive
sheets of material, and that's talking way down the
alphabet of categorising size... you know, when they
pull down those massive club insignias.
in the end all i can do with a A4 paper is cut a kippah
or make a momentary mask... but with the
sunday spread of newspaper... i can momentarily
turn into a newspaper ghoul, or if you prefer:
a newspaper ghost!

Everybody claps out of synch
in the midnight elegance of “Wine Ohs”

but the bass player hums
at the twitch of the sunken keys
that man who leans back crying a New York cry
and sweet daddy saxophone wailing a New York wail

and they all pale and bow with respect
to the young drummer with bright eyes that nobody knows
and nobody knows where he came from or how old

Who’s soul I remember meeting from Easterly winds
only to find himself on stage with strangers
in a plane of rhythm and ruthless time
in a freedom jazz dance

[Intro]
Am I supposed to be here, can you help me?
Do you see something I don't see?
Is it the road, that leads to the end?
Where is the road, that leads to the end?

[Verse 1]
Day in, day out, changeless
Long gone is praise
I've spent too much time waiting
Is it true, failure's really a phase?
Has my time run out?
Is it too late?
I am begging you, tell me.
I'm begging tell, me of my fate ay ay ay.

[Chorus 1]
Is this the road to the end?
I've been searching far and wide.
Where is the road to the end?
Where will I find my pride?
Searched up and down.
Around and round.
Searched here and there.
Please tell me where.
Is this, right here, this,
The road to the end?
Marching 'round the bend.
The end
Marching round the bend

[Verse 2]
I'll get this started.
Now is the time.
I got to do this.
I'll start the climb.
The mountains daunting.
But even so.
She has her feelings.
She has her woes oh oh ohs.

[Chorus 2]
Is this the road to the end?
The journey sure is long.
Is this the road to the end?
Is this where I belong?
Gone up and down.
Around and round.
Gone here and there.
Please tell me where.
Is this, right here, this,
The road to the end?
Myself I can depend
The end
Myself I can depend

[Verse 3]
Purpose, found it.
Hone it.
Faster, quicker.
Own it.
I think I made it.
I have a smile.
And I deserve it.
I've walked the miles iles iles iles.

[Chorus 3]
You need the road to the end?
Is there someway I could help?
Where is the road to the end?
It all starts with yourself.
Just stay right there.
Don't go nowhere.
That's where it starts.
Right in your heart.
That’s where, right there, where,
The road to the end is,
Soon you'll apprehend
The end
Soon you'll apprehend

[Bridge]
You can't have a rainbow without any rain,
But sometimes the storms, they can drive you insane,
Before you give up from the pain and disdain,
It's never too late to hop on the A-train.

[Chorus 4]
Is this the road to the end?
Have I really found my pride?
This is the road to the end.
I'm on a brighter side
Searched the whole globe
Met friends and foes.
Finally made it.
The curtains close.
This, right here, this,
Is the road to the end.
Marching round the bend.
The end.
Myself I can depend.
The end.
Soon you'll apprehend.
The end.

[Outro]

I'm supposed to be here, I can help you,
I see something you'll soon view,
I know the road, that leads to the end.
We'll hit the road, that leads to the end.

Would you please
Look into my eyes
And entropy you will see
(you, distorting the spectrum of light,
Exploding all there is to me.)
Would you please
Inch your lips to mine,
And there just leave it be.
(just a stroke of lush
To sow the spring of kiss.
Ohs of delightful rush
To a cascading lovers’ bliss)
Would you please
Whisper…whisper
A word of touch.
Whisper…whisper
A love or too much
Whisper…whisper
To catch me breathless
Whisper…whisper
To keep me soulless
Would you please
Move in sync with me,
Let out a gasp of ecstasy,
And taste the thrilling mystery
Of yours and mines rhapsody.
Just a look, just a kiss
Just a touch to give me bliss.
One more stroke, one more wheeze,
One more…would you please.

The edge is what the words meant to our juvenile minds
You came like a milkman of crazy like I paid you a subscription
Because the married voice of our desperation may be rocka fella
Don't mean we are gucci chanel postes of imatation handbags
But I sit at the end of a dinner plate admiring your constant behavior
And wondering how a high school misfit still views a. Past excuse as a comment for hate
Might be strong and smile but worried actions equal a cold shiver
A snuggie is the present warmth left by infomercials
I won't say ur the crest of a ohs blue...
But I still appreciate a ******* like you....

Somehow I know you're not worried.
Because I'm busy enough to be filled up to the brim with socialite;
a veritable butterfly of connections.
Like little electric currents that I watch late at night when I asked for rain.
It's delicate though.

I'm watching it run-through
like tape in an old movie house;
Us on the big screen.
(one single tear runs down her face)
'Perfect shot... but this time look into the camera'

I counted the droplets on my windshield last night,
talking about being ethereal,
being someone's 'one'.
Having that simple girl call me a drunk,
watching Independence Day,
thinking about being '******' for life.

Every fifteen minutes I'm wondering if she's okay
and those that don't deserve worry are still calling me to fix them.
I've got the band-aid for everyone else's 'uh-ohs'.
Watching the Olympics,
thinking about death, then you, then death again.

Avenge me darling.
****** up lullabies,
and perfect vision,
cutting ties and *****.
Going it alone, without the team atmosphere *****.
We're so good at it, it's a shame.

Any week but this one.
But here is the run-through
so it's almost like you're there.

i just love the monday gray sky, mixing nicotine phlegm cough-up roughage taking part of my larynx and the oesophagus wall off while drinking coffee and melted hazelnut flavoured ice-cream (baileys).*

european languages tend to stress an atomised syllables,
therefore encouraging a “cheating” mechanisation of the tongue,
don’t get me wrong, due to the lack of diacritic
in english, we have a wide diversity of accents,
no scot would say a posh yes,  but rather say aye
like a pirate to a squire in a top hat...
the asiatic languages tend to twin letters rather than breed them
as unique and segregational, but then come across the problem
of outspoken dyslexia: cat ketchup.
the asiatic countries solved the matter in the rubric:

ni               in
hon            noh
ar               ra
el                le
po              op

hence so much grammatical schrapnel in european languages,
the prepositions and the conjunctions etc.
it’s no wonder the complexity of compounding H or He or O
within CO2 or H2 or EtOH is necessary as is pictographic
representation in mandarin;
but it does make the european languages very musical,
actually that's what defines european languages
their musicology is due to phonetic approximation
of their characters a - z, alas if that were the sole +
on the matter... it's also a strand of languages
that fakes concerns, lies, and sees a quick gain
crafting a breed of ohs and zeros in the millions
for no apparent reason other than self-promotion,
white snail caviar pearl chandeliers ritzy champagne and yachts;
no wonder we have a second alphabet! i.e.
onomatopoeia /ˌɒnəˌmætəˈpiːə/.

a wisp of smoke curls up--heavenward
until it disintegrates into nothingness

a burnt tip-- alighted by an orange flame
that flickers quick from a cheap Bic lighter

the cigarette dangles tantalizingly
between *******-- index and middle

it's a balancing act--
to stay away from the ashes
and to not drop your sustenance

dark red lips slightly parted
nearly purple, but not quite
as if a speeding car halted at an invisible border
the arbitrary line between purple and red

she exhales

the smoke coming out in elongated ohs

once the smoke clears
she is gone

after all,
she was
a hazed out,
high-defying,
hallucinatory,
dream

Eight-Forty Five,
sitting in a lawn chair
in the drizzle.
A lot of talk about
cancellation.

Hundreds
of crossed fingers,
the air is thick with mist
and muffled language.

Off goes the first bang,
behind us a kid
shouting out
play by play...

Two barrels,
rapid fire,
on and on.

I watch the spikes,
and hear the
thunder claps.

I imagine
I would see
just what I am
seeing
had I put
my finger in
a light socket.

The thin
spindles of light
reminding me of
road ****,
porcupine
for certain.

The night
draws to a close,
people pushing
and shoving
their way back
to their cars.

Labour day,
2014,
not that
we need an excuse
to have some fun.

Any night
of any day
will do just fine,
the ohs and awes
all over...
'till the next time.

I keep on writing the poems
I like them more than prose

I might well stop tomorrow
But tomorrow never knows

At the end of All That Jazz
God takes off her clothes

The natural mystical beauty
In Seattle's cedar snows

I'd like to find stability
But onward chaos goes

The suffering, The suffering
This life of ahs! and ohs!

so she write this article, this amanda
foreman,
   a historian and with four girls
and one boy that's almost the fifth and
i'm wondering:
god, where has this headache come from
where is the man?
                life's too perfect to seem
to rhyme, or worth wasting your time
remembering some obscure Versailles verse
worth a shining ****'s worth of
a crown readied for a one-night stand...
**** me, a five+ female household,
i hope these muslim martyrs wishes what
they got themselves into...
   the true martyrs have three entry
points...
           mouth, vaginal, ****...
            if you can't spot the true martyrs
i'll tell you about asking the watermelon man,
or herbie hancocks, or in comparison
by ol' joe...
      treating his quasi-alzheimer stories
like your favourite jazz standards...
herr bitebonbon, dresden, auschwitz,
and some other memories:
  a drowning man will cling to a razor blade
to stay afloat, like any old man:
what bugs him now is not being sad,
but being foregetful...
he replays the rubric every day:
he says:
sure, i'm dead already:
but i want to remember myself dying!
   old people and their jazz standards of memory,
i am old, i feel old,
   oh ma'h feel'ah rob'eh m'on...
   patois or 'alf the pitied peshawar mamí son...
lumberjack my *** were 'ere bootleg
a stump of wood mamí sis...
  ya rite?
           *** we boss the 9,2,3,oh,5...
and call that a freq.,
  man that boy to a prrrrrristine:
shakin' m'ah timbers floating a-high...
man, sum tim' the talk ain't talk
it's called: scare-alley-cat-talk
feelin' a gush of **** talk-ji
  of an incubus toying with ya
little mums' crisp clear elijah of buttock
say in: **** as smooth as
a mouth slicking a rota of a hooplah...
talk cool: play the dumb infant...
next time you know:
   yo be talkin' to mama bear an
pleading for her Mississippi pancakes...
**** you not...
             she a one woman with
a five daughter brothel...
good lucky lucky luke if there's any
eager...
                last time i checked:
neither word, nor piano nor horn earned
****...
        just a nice ref. to: ooze...
  like washington's monologue in
fences didn't earned him oscar:
but a director's role none the less...
lady guesses to choose...
and her choice is always wrong
while her guess is always good...
          my, why a mighty site these days:
a man that stays at home becomes
a better cook than a woman,
who isn't all too eager to enter the outside world...
there's always the idea of a death by
a grizzly bear and i think of entering
a bear enclosure in the danzig zoo...
  and the little bear that ate my cardigan button...
and the bear mama...
      god, i love that memeory,
because it's so unreal that it's real because
it happened and my mind became
a ******* ******* trickster thinking
that my faculty of memory didn't dig
that far back...
         the child always remains with the man
that the child always was,
   but the child never became,
and the man who always imagined the child
becoming the man he is,
never said to the man un-becoming the child:
you were never this until "i" became you,
and "you" un-became me.
30+ hours wide awake and i'm still
trying to succumb to falling asleep
to fidgeting...
                        sure, nice trick, juggle three
oranges... then more into the iron league
of juggling three watermelons my
dear, common man.
         classical music acted upon the same
jerking off technique
     that excess rock did to solo guitarists...
chopin was a ****** on guitar...
he had no rhythm man...
            why do i know this?
the japanese, those wannabe white-ohs
pretend to be chopin...
they ******* ski-jump to boot!
                    chopin had no style because
he had no rhythm...
actually liszt ****** off the most,
smoked the most cigars and prematurely
******* with the most number of lovers...
    i really feel for that poet who cried himself
to sleep seeing him "perform"...
           you can solo the ******* want,
but the only rhythm on piano came with jazz...
i hate ******* for their lack of appreciation
of jazz... i hate to be a white guy telling them:
hey... jazz over class every day...
  you people, yes: YOU PEOPLE
ABANDONED JAZZ IN A MATTER OF
AN AMNESIAC TRYING TO REMEMBER
A DISTINGUISHING ASPECT BETWEEN
A T-REX AND MARC BOLAN!
how can you just give up rhythm piano,
the democratic soloing of each instrument
in a band in a matter of what,
20, 30, 40 years?
     LOSERS!
      rhapsody of the nincompoop...
hit the trends you ******, with your
nike airs and your shaaq attaq?
  canary in a colemine?
how 'bout a ****** smiling at me?
how about: pearly whites in a colemine?
talk kit-kat chunky pale white boy:
i start talking ivory...
                     hey: if the black guy ain't
the canvas of what i'm about to x-ray
i don't know why he shouldn't find his
root in the skin in the tongue in Swahili
so we can keep it neutral and not so,
******* lazy: english, keeping up with
post-colonialism Kardashians' shenanigans...
come on... they left sonny trashed nodding
at the piano: just one more note,
just one more note...
          boom... crescendo and the death's head
gravity pulled the gracious ***** down.
it's just a shame that they gave up
on jazz so quickly,
                   and turned to white *****
gloryhole ******* - which must imply:
Ethiopians in Japan...
              hey... you tell me:
last time i heard i heard the whale was
mammal, and that there was the Eskimo...
pop doesn't really bother me right now;
you left sonny clark nodding to his death
thinking he was falling asleep at the piano!
NOW... ******... BLEACH ME...
I ******* DARE YOU!
robert johnson didn't meet his fate
at the crossroads through a jealous middle
class white girl either...
given the times, being a white guy:
i guess that's also my fault...
oh look... there flies the cuckoo:
and here's the nest.

AGAINST THE WEIGHT OF A FEATHER

9/11
crashes into Maths class.

The boys whoop and jeer
treat it as a video game.

"Ohs" and "Wows!"
as death unfurls.

They laugh with glee.

Yes, this is a video game.
For real.

We watch aghast
at what appear to be

people jumping
rather than...

the unimaginable is
happening.

Fractions and equivalences
are left behind.

What we are seeing does not
add up.

Numbly we
continue on

- the boys still hyper -

Ancient History.

A jackal-headed God
holds the scales

weighing us
against the weight

of a feather.

Perfection is a horrid word.
It sets almost impossible standards
And causes more broken hearts then exes and ohs.
It causes starving dolls
And robotic children who conform
To the whispers of the notorious mother culture.

Unfortunately, nothing will change
Because most will never learn this
Universal Truth.

for those yet, imagining themselves alive...
i "kwa'ight"....
quiet... quite...
         acquitted...
if there's a rock to be lived
under:
i'll just be the rock... i once had a faint
notion that i was alive...
i had what might be congested in a summary:
a thirst... a willingness...
summary and all those
broken things... "things"...
within the enraged solo
projects of solipsists...
self-"betterment" up a cul
de sac... has... infiltrated my
breathing: crease... count in german:
eins zu zehn
jeden do dziesięć...
   kurwa jebana mać...
poor traffic... thd ******* blinkers are
on... a turning right done awry...
ein(s)... one... jeden...

eine ein eins jeden raz one
zwei dwa two
drei trzy three
vier cztery four
fünf pięć five
(pięść is a denotes a fist... a faust)
sechs sześć six
sieben siedem seven
acht osiem eight
neun dziewiendź nine (nein nein)
zehn dziesięć ten....

mind you...
be drop the pointless diacritical marker
on the iota... we'd see more "punctuation"
markers: where, otherwise: we wouldn't...

i congested myself with counting
in three languages to somehow...
ease-up...
ten? informant: he / him!
ta? informant: she... shimmy(?!) her's...
hisses of his'...

i will not bring the Iberians into
this discussion...
what's left, though? scraps
of language and language policing...
******* and bells...
twang... death to the ditto... blah blah:
bleach and mythological blondes...
scraps i do one job good for you...
most... better... will not trace lineage...
no smear...

          t"they" never think less of
the Yugoslavs... i'm tired of being a punching bag of a people...
of all "people": the Irish not 'ard enough to
challenge the English have to find...
come the Soviets come the Nazis simultaneously...
looks like integrating into English society
didn't allow me to forget...
this zunge doesn't erase the ******* blows...

rich, though... no surprise that the Reesh
would squander and throw their *******
potatoes like monkey **** at...
oh i guess: shelved "life"... peoples...
if i were living back among my brethren...
i don't think i'd be living at all...
what would i do with not being
agitated concerning... minor... qualms?

the ******* leprechauns... priests...
are less than the english...
but are somehow tier above the pollacks?
it's no offence when it sounds proper...
in a foreign babble...
dzida...

          i'd just ask the Eire son...
so... ahem... where's your ******* Celtic?
gone... non-existent?

aon, dhà, trì, ceithir...
   còig (what's wrong with co'ig?)
sia,
seachd, ochd... naoi... deich...
so the grapheme CH = X of greek origin...
a ******* hark?

the Irish like the ******* Arabs...
the British did this to: oos...
it's impossible to live with these
go-to-party "solipsists" to begin with...
integrate? into... or for what?
rot? that's a-plenty...
but when some spaghetti monsters
and those potato jargon-fiddlers start
their usual **** about a fellow
european people...

it's not like the Croats or the Serbs are
ever mentioned...
they vent to h'america and youz zee...
zese irish and italliano guinnea pig-me-ups...
kwoss-eyed... you know...
best bitterest better...
inbreeding... takes a chunk of coal...
chalk and cheddar...
mustard...

  inbreeding mentality... superiority complexes...
no reimagines parmesan cheese like
it's not... shredding... old skin
off of heels...
talk stinkiny witchy with a missing R...
this massive ******* gloat of "riddle"...
that suppose: it's also a man...

       while the world... "also" happens...
these little: belittling interferences...
as if we were all supposed to be crowned kings
or queens... it's not that i'm even elevated
above these concerns...
but that i must have them...
must: if i were a king... i most probably wouldn't
even entertain the sense of hearing
on their existence!

in a society of sociopaths and solipsists...
a massive get together
of protest happens once in a while...
i get drunk and dump ****** words
onto paper...
i'm not alone in this "adventure":
yet i'm beginning to be...
more and more sorry for having
such... indigestions to sorrow over...
moral relativism is out
in the words of the choicest
of the choiciest...
   i'm looking for something beside
the superlative adjective: choicest...
the diminutive "concern"...

which doesn't exist in english...
and i can't exactly introduce it using my:
mutterzunge either...
correct spelling?
look at it... choiciest vs. choicest...
the most most choosey...
to pick of calculus exponentially incremental
details of observable shifts...
the exponential aspect of detail...

how many of the Irish still speak
their Gaelic...
apparently there's a Scotch version
of the tongue...
but... the Scots will not speak it...
completely submerged in their union...
they'll just exfoliate in how distinct
they are from a Loon'don'er
speaking the same language...
you could probably rewrite trainspotting
using that linguistic language
embedded in the dictionary
of:

   how i met your mother, the mute...
/ (haʊ) /
       / (aɪ) /
                 / (mɛt) /
               / (jʊəp) /
                               / (ˈmʌðə) /,
                        / (ðə) /          / (mjuːt) /

i wonder... and what if we started writing
like this? proper... phonetically...
like linguists?
the side note of /(x)/ though...

the written word is doubly ambiguous...
to the point of no return concerning
the sufficiency of its practicality of use...

ʃeɪk  ænd
                ˈʃætə...

if i had the time and *******' worth of
writing a poo'em like a linguist...
if i had more love for the Irish...
sowwy... all love spent on the Scots...
from these Isles at least...

sheikh who? shake your: *****?
that's ******* fwank zapp'ah...
      
but it's not that... i have qualms with
the Irish over the stature and seriousness
when occupying the "underground"...
i won't rap: god forbid i...
"**** someone": my catchphrase
wouldn't be:

allahu akhbar... it would be that teutonic chant
of: gott! mit! uns!
if that Norwegian hyper-smart terroroist
chanted those words...
what words? these words:
gott! mit uns!

   but around these isels...
you'd think there might be a sense of solidarity...
among the catholic irish and the
catholic poles...
but no... tępy ajrysz...
  blunt-irishman...
                  one side arguing for the other sides
dislodging of "i.q."...
same with those spaghetti swindlers...
the...

mind you... ****** is not a racial slur...
it's actually better to denote a pole a ******
since... not kinh john: lackland...
the whole hiss-tow-stowwy...
i'm not pole: positioned...
i'm not...

    divorced from "my" people:
and the "mother" land...
                  Warsaw the last great end-venture...
keeping it up...
mawa: little old gone...
         in the hunch fabric of
lessening the diaspora approach...
you don't think i mind the missing links...
when there's a collected agenda for the purpose
of a purge of the intelligensia...
now... because only the Jewry suffered
a historical lineage of tonguies
towing complaints....

         **** it: the russian sayingly... newly invented:
**** me?! ******* too!
but in the english realm who's the lesser
******* among the polacks and the irish?
who's less gingerbreadman?
my side... most probably...
how will we ever let the 20th century become
past?
oh **** me... we will need another
war... but chances of that are...
sort-of-slim...

             no? it might begin with:
bypassing loan-words...
and how self-help gurus and famous psychologists
refrain from infiltrating lost hybrids of
focus, that there might be a clearaance to
discover society outside the realm of pop!
saavvy?
i don't like this...
psychological testimony of:
what's an alpha male?
not me... what's a beta male?
not me... what's a malaise?
what's an omega man?
everything that an alpha male is...
in that... there's an antonymous discharge
of needs... requests...
demands...

how many Irish still speak their...
diego / alfonso magic "whisker" ****?
that ******* Gaelic?
so much for aardvark "typo" in Scotch...
because it just so happens...
you speak an over exfoliation of lettering...
the aesthetically bogus: claim of...
no... no "originality":
i'm not even going to bother the higher
tier of diacritical markers to
instigate "something"...

but this whole: i'm a lesser "european" when
it doesn't suffice in north american parlance...
i'm sort of... em.... ******* bothered?
history seems to be a lesson
in teasing small-**** and the infinite
summary of infancy... last time i heard...
because the Mongols never made it to... "x"...
because the Turks never had ownership of Vienna...
because it took both the Nazis and the Soviets
to make me bow...
in England? the invention of snooker...
tennis... football... rugby...
bored people... obviously...

how: else: woudln't you have capacity...
need... to invent so many coliseum...
distractions to mind: and take seriously...
if you knew: you were an island dwelling folk...
and you staged your pride in not being
invade-prone...
a bit like the whole of east London's
pakistani-land...

wake up 40 years from now... from...
little bengali land...
the Pakistani grooming gangs of the supposed...
while i'm getting more and more irrritated
by paying for ***...
having Bulgarian ****** pretending to be
Romanian....
you see the grit in my use of teeth that aare never used to
nibble and conjure...
a "drying of bones"?

i will complain about the Irish as i will about the
tail-tan'ohs...
******* spaghetti slurppers...
we of the same European origins and the same
brain-drain... because the anglo-saxons
fiddled out a mechanism for...
a "coming together"... of...
a people... just like germany was confederated...
into a federality...
wow!

  the pope receding... on paper...
the Irish make complaints against the Polacks...
the Irish demean the Polacks...
nice nice... here's to me equipping myself with
Haitian "nouns"...
you, *******... ginger: knuckle-fiddle-numb...*****!
what Celt wishes himself to have
a Cyrillic ancestry?! almost all...

have your little i.r.a. memento...
       i'm only concerned about
a pomeranian, conrad... quest...
aren't the czechs / hungarians locked into
that... posit of being: without an access to
a "window"... hardly... that the baltic...
already is... Samaritan....

porsch monkey: among the slurrs... "poet"...
pshek in... denotative lingo...
it's a: thank you...
i call you worse:
    karot... burak... syberik....

thankful though: it's hardly a slur...
king John was known as lackland...
given the shrinking of the Angevin empire...
thus "we"... shrunk to the duchy of warsaw:
a satellite of Napoleon's ambitions...
then the Warsaw Pact...
pandering to the Bolsheviks...
blah blah: now more pandering to
woke ha-ha-h'americanacancan...
the mythological blonde: always on my mind...

the first words in my language
they managed to speak and they somehow managed to
call it a slurr... and polish: paul-leash isn't?
pole position, heading north?

say strawberry in ******?
TRU-S-KAWKA...
     paul's on a leash of nibbling on the quarters
and halves of would be barons of pandemonium...
we were teenagers once...
and once upon in an Ilford mall...
we bought compact disks...
rival schools... fugazi...
coal chamber's dark days...

  those where somewhat architecture days,
though...
you can't make this **** up...
you probably have had to live it, sort of.

- otherwise who can't forget the flight of the Jewry
from the area...
once there was a makeshift synagogue on
Coventry Rd.,
now there's a 7th day evangelical war band
gathering pulpit... source...
i was expecting a mosque: in all honesty...
it's a common suggestion:

now first comes the flight of the Jewry...
the whites are somehow 2nd...
but as i explained to my mother today...
i feel sick in a monochromatic...
homogeneous society...
i went to Cheltenham once...
to hussle my own self-published book...
i felt ill seeing so little minority
representation...
it's not like i'm brainwashed...
but among these minorities in Loon-dune
i'm a ******...
back in Warsaw i'm a feral animal...
among "my people" i'm zero-punkt-zero-nic...

the vagabonds of the world decide to congregate
in Loon'don... for some reason: ulterior or
altogether "other"...
the world has congregated:
is this still about the English having their
nationhood infringed?
perhaps from a perspective
of the Midlands... Birmingham...
but over 'ere...

funny that... i live in England...
but i probably interacted with more Irish
and more Scots than the supposedly
demographically first...
i probably encountered more Pakistanis too...

so what's the difference between
a Samaritan and a Sarmatian?
you're running? i thought i ran...
i might run... who's running?
is it raining?
is that... ****'ite iconoclasm?
sign me up...
            
but living among the Irish who are
not living in Ireland...
a tired old bunch... sometimes...
it's hard to fathom their identity crisis
since a whole swab of them
spoke a zilch of Gaelic...
it's like with these over-impressed
succcess stories of "integration"
from olive-pound land /
****** copper...

the parents want to integrate...
that **** backfires...
the grandson retains the tongue
to his grandma to speak
back to her her native...
yet his... "in-between"... "integrational english"
becomes a sick joke: stereotype...
almost a cul de sac accent...
the sort that has to breathe into a phrase:

oi oi! bown and bwead!
  em... bone and bread?
how does that work?
i guess it must work "miracles" from places
where the ingestion of gelatin is
foreign... transcending "foreign":
too alien to compose...

yes... detailing the promises of pork, pig...
the most economically sound
animal: beside the hoofs...
you can utilise almost... "almost": all of it...
one way of the other...
an animal that can never be a waste:
unless you're into dabbling into a cannibalistic diet...
plus... lamb... lamb: *******: stinks...
the aged lamb...
plus... how would you herd pigs...
pigs aren't herded...
it's a theological anger at...
camel-jockeys being unable to... harvest
the only potential of farm-food... via the pig...
pigs aren't herded:
i've only heard of a herd of pigs
and that's when there came a time
to treat a trough like an array of teats when
the porkies were 'ung...
is it a despised animal?
a despised animal because:
and the devil reimagined himself as a pig?

so god looks like a mythological blonde...
the devil looks like a piggish minotaur...
why this demise of pig?
why this gratification in the islamic mirror
of words looking accessible: i.e. dog | god...
my all mighty: allah: blah-lah...
fork in the road: are we 'appy... "now"?

but when you live among the diaspora of the Irish...
you'd sort of suppose... what's the gaelic for green?
now that the internet is here...
i can find out for myself...

why demean the pig? was the pig created by
the ******* devil?
or is this one of those Abrahamic ploy-toys...
rigidity structures...
to leave you surrendered...
go against anything else: beside the pig...
it's such an economic model, creature...
you can utilise almost all of it...

not all of us were born Afghan sheep
herders... savvy?
that eating pork is somehow signature
of inbreeding and s schizoid tinture...
wh'ah?! i lost the TAU along the way...
o.k.?!

it's a waste of time having arguments
with... oh forget: rag-muffin'...
inbreds... i wass thinking about ***...
i picked a spot... Rotherham...
Pakistani grooming gangs...
oh... right... here's a lollipop... here's some dosh...
i'll get a hard-on with a girl who didn't mature
into prostitution wtih a crack-******* 'abbit...

chances of me ******* low i.q. is like
zilch then? i imagine the tirades...
the knife-insinuations...
**** a barrister: **** for life...
settle down: solve **** concerninng:
immmovaable objects:
the sun still has "egotism" to rise
and call it tomorrow...
and her ******* own too: to boot...
imagine that!

why go after the pork 'n' pie?
why pet a dog?
why pet a cat?
     i've already mentioned...
sometimes lamb: just stinks...
lamb kidneys?
STINK... SCHTINK!
but you also can't keep pigs
in an environemnt where you also use
camels instead of horses... no?
no one is talking about this...
because... it's probably too obvious to have
to stress this ******* argument....

came the Ottomans... the Mongols...
the Soviets for a while...
came the Nazis...
why weren't we the people who championed
each other at snooker...
why didn't we invent football...
tennis... cricket...
rugby... i don't want to blame the English
for their race...
but they have been privileged in:
intra-"whiteness" terminology...

what English soldier ever stood ground
on ****** soil?
i've heard of ****** pilots having dog fights
for the battle of Britain...
how the enigma machine was not merely
the work of Turning...
etc. etc.
gravesend: i'm here reduced to "biasing"...
yet i'm giggling at the remote prospect
of "gravity"...

i have clues to concern myself over...
ownership...
          a hierarchy of a cascade...
time follows time...
this solo project of "individuality"
was never going to... "work"...

pending...

   connlach dearg...

    but the welsh still speak welsh... no?
i guess that Carlsbeg moment of:
probably the best'ly integrated people in
the world... the Welsh are...
they still exfoliate in having a punching bag
of their tow-tongue...
unlike that most, supposed... oppressed people
of the... anglophonic world affair...
the Reesh that speak no ditto of Gaelic...

who are, you, you people?!

The performers stand with their backs turned,
awaiting to be called.
Each one filling with emotion.
It's their last show,
their last improvisational moment with each other,
before they depart for what is most likely, forever.
They have tears in their eyes,
comedy to cover it up.
The audience is crying too,
repeating "Aws" and "ohs"
and there I am,
crying too.
Half because it's sweet,
and I'll miss their existence,
and half,
because I know that that will never be me.
When I depart,
it will be quietly
and with the usual ****** on my chest.
Who will be there to weep for me?
Who will be there to notice I am gone?
These actors, so glorious,
their absence is impossible to miss
and it makes you feel sad inside...
And I cry,
I cry for them and the others,
and a bit of each tear
is dedicated to the absence
no one will notice
when I depart.
By death,
by choice,
by life,
I'll disappear,
and there'll be no one there
to hug me
and miss me
and laugh to cover their tears.
I'll just go,
on my own,
filled with memories
of the actors who departed
with a family holding hands around them,
hurting from the longing and love.
I'll just go.
and the only tears,
will not be for me.

There’s beauty in the struggle, loneliness in success,
But now I’m struggling to be successful and my beauty’s gone and left,
I won’t elaborate, in the past there’s only stress,
And I can safely say, no minute of it do I regret,
Now there’s someone new, to take away my breath,
And I crave the way she puts hands right on my neck,
Pain leading to heaven, suffocation my outlet,
But the pain is real, more so than the feelings I have left,
Pain doesn’t lie, ****** you with thoughts so perfect,
Then leave you in the cold, your blood dripping out dark and wet,
So I hold on to whats real, aspiring to someone I’ll never get,
And if I never do, she’ll never tear my heart in two, never will I  fret,
We’ll smile, we’ll laugh, we’ll watch many many a sunset,
And ever friends shall we be cuz no one calls a lost friend an ex.

Exes and ohs, scars written in bold,
Persons whose kisses have left and whose hands you’ll never again hold,
Passion now forced to be forgotten to give you a chance to heal your soul,
But it’s cold,
But its perfect, the way no story’s ever told,
When you love someone who doesn’t love you, its the safest thing you’ll own,
Who can take it away, it cant even be sold,
She protects you from the pain of losing another you think is “goals”,
And ever letting yourself get comfortable in a heart you thought was a home,
So you live the lonely life, it’s better on your own,
When there’s no one who you hold close, you’re much less disappointment-prone,
Maybe you’ll never be happy, maybe happiness is just a word,
Because it’s really just a high, way above the world,
Then the roller coaster dips, taking you back to the pain you’ve always known.

ha ha! white priv? what about these black girls blasting more sensual song than a fat girl might in opera? i.e. blasting out the sensual, soul-fathomable sounds? white privilege? the **** is that? what about black priv? no black priv? really? so why these black girls singing double the standard, solo, of a choir of white girls? blah-ha-ha-ha!

not that i get to excuse myself
                                          that often,
but if i did, it would begin with
i'm beezee....
no, i'm not selling
      fake *fabergé eggs or rolex
wristwatches...
     **** me, i could do a whiskey
or a beer commercial,
   but then i'm no
  jean-claude van damme,
jenny and clarra will sort you out,
and yes, to me sweden = roxette
minus abba...
although i could be doing
all these things,
     orio orio oi oi!
      kil'oh a'f a bannana bunch,
two kil'ohs fo' a fiver!
              i could be doing that...
but then i can't stop laughing
writing this *******,
  not that it's fake,
   it the fact that it actually is,
   it was a magnetic approach
to the late existentialism
    accent of heidegger's dasein...
it has a place...
        no matter what the being
is about...
     at least it conceptualises
a sense of gravity, a grounding...
       a drag to the source effect...
beginning with kant's concept of 0,
namely 0 = negation...
    and heidegger's
         fetish for dasein avoiding
a worldview...
       what dasein is, will always be
newtonian,
       a worldview? alway in the hands
of the einstein correction...
       newton could never be a globalist
that einstein became...
   but look at it this way...
  the re-emergence of israel is *******
fascinating...
          2000 years of there-abouts
of the "idea" of a state having a clearly
stated dynamic of government and borders...
  ******* lazy leftist donning
   a keffiyah / shemagh /
niqab / whatever party-dress
                         at the laundrette...
              my country was sold
by the aristocrats to three factions,
the prussians, the russians and
  the austro-hungarians...
         it wasn't invaded, it was sold,
thrice dissected... thrice!
                that disney movie about
a ugandan femme chess champion?
          **** me, i dig short hair on a girl...
          war dogs? great movie,
best movie i've seen in years.
        the last king of scotland?
tell me you wouldn't want that
   cadbury flesh in your bed at some
random point in your night?
   well **** me, if i were hanging on flesh
hooks from my **** up,
    sure, i'd call a scandinavian ******
                     working in saudi arabia;
yep, tears go into a bucket denoted by (a),
   and male arguments / words go
  into a bucket denoted by (b)...
       the rest?
   well **** me, hopefully a good pop
song.