i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th

i hear you mother,
i hear you father.
but i cannot feel you father,
but i hear you mother.
vast echoes, calling one another.
cacophony of voices, overlapping each other.
drain drain,
goes my pain.
but when i hear your name,
i feel vain.
pained.
my heart empty.
people, i feel testy.
whenever i hear, i remember,
my originators, my creators,
filling my silent vacators.
i hate all of you.

it's this mentality of the old guard: rekindling the Renaissance of the 1950s and 1960s... they're the originators of English, but the last to receive it... their frustrations against Europe are frustrations against being antiques in the anglophile world dynamics... they're Victorian antiques in a silicon valley of usurped hopes... the easiest route is to blame the Romanian than the Californian... the Empire is long gone and there's nothing to bring it all back... hence the culinary fascination and the need to obstruct morality with plastic surgery... they actually hate American accents (after being saturated with American culture) more than French or Germany variations... i know they do because i came to hating them as much as they do... "they" isn't paranoid: the English! we're getting so much American culture it's only natural that we shun the everyday American accenting of what used to be posh bargaining of Oxford in Harvard... globalisation is another word for a monochromatic adjunct.*

2 Texans looking for
de Wallen in Soho...
              London ain't no
Amsterdam:
  Russian oligarch said:
head to Dubai for answers...
    and so they built
the Zeno towers...
              how they never
reveal little mid-western
America to Europe,
the Harvard ponces are ashamed
of dialects -
     American dialect as in
non-celebratory Scoot -
                  aye            -ish
                         but never the redneck
in 'ollywood
                                   how how how -
never the true believers...
we welcome Disney every day,
we get culturally *****, every day,
you think we like Americans?
   we don't...
we're like the Vietnamese...
                    we threw the Jews out,
but the Muslims came...
              we didn't like that...
the Americans became the equivalent of
Jews...
               the English became the
two-faced concierge -
          we loved the cultural ****...
but when we heard American accents
we thought: thanks for the atom bomb
neurosis! the oh-oops message spreading
to North Korea... hey! you dropped
one first! why tell other people
to not do it?! at least the French
tested in aqua-insulators with Godzilla...
you tested the ******* thing in deserts...
oh sure... we love American cultural
exports...
                 we see a Texan in Soho
after a few drinks we're thinking:
                                                 lynch the
*******.
                          it's this disparity of
being fed a culture that represents
            the lowest ebb of pronunciation...
even the northerners in England
hate American accents more than Cockney;
are these plebs feeding us
the zeitgeist? seriously?
        they can't be serious...
                    they have enough enough
actors to be acclaimed as foreign affairs
policy makers by censoring the diversity
of the rainbow of American accents...
   even a Croat accent in English
         (famously part of a football team)
doesn't seem so annoying as a
    niche American accent spoken to
an Englishman...
            Texan for one...
                     hybrid Californian another...
Mid-Western and even though
i'm not English i'm titillated by
donning a red coat.

outer body
mind sick off radio silence
worry behind me
embers of apathy dissipate across pavement at high speeds
"the best of the plague years" drones on through headaches
and sometimes this all still feels real.
DIY the time of your life
i've already given up twice.
old anthems resonate between clenched teeth
i just want to know where i can rest my head
it's like i have to channel the old me just to get a wrong word in,
senselessly spinning fabrications.
blog-tag manifesto.
cicada summer redux.
we are the originators of resurgent treachery,
and it's all seeping through the cracks at once.
settling ourselves by circumventing sidestep hearts,
old prestige fades as the evidence rests engraved on golden placards.

Being born out of an oil spill
With gasoline swimming in the veins and capillaries
Cells spilling energy
Weeping for the blood of aged ideals
Shoved down the throat
Choking on dissonance and disenchantment

Ideals as clean cut as yours
Are easy to get lost in
Forgetting that your vision
Is fueled by the ants who
Breathe in sulfur and expel energy
For those who do not give them a time of day
And worse so, for those who discredit their life forces
And families who have known nothing
But the trade

If it’s all a dream
Then you have one leg in the door already
Honeysuckle filling the senses
Grass beneath bare feet
Branches wrapping themselves around your body
Like a safe house
Like a security blanket
Comforted by your origins
Remain within simplicity

But you’ll never get to know
The music of the taxis
Playing all the night and day
Signaling that movement is happening
Every day
Every night
Every hour
Every minute
Every second
Every time you bat your lids
For every face you see once in your life
And every train that you happen to miss by a single millisecond

You’ll never comprehend the joy
Upon a child’s face when they see that gray pigeon
Scavenging for crumbs
Padding small feet towards small feet
Knowing that they are equal only in that moment
And the curve of the lines on the man’s face
As he screams into his cell phone
And abruptly brushes past your shoulder
Running down to the corner of William and Cedar
And you losing his face in the crowd
Embracing a part of his anger, a part of his life
Only then and forever

You’ll never understand the value
Of a paved road
Of a rooftop sunset
Of a stranger’s compliment
Of the myriad of blinking lights
Filling the night like the stars you constantly harp on about
Each and every light a life

These are our stars

And if you look closely, you can still see the originators
Framing the sky with dim rays
Serving as both a reminder and a work ethic

There is a price to pay for progress
But without risk
Without passion
We have nothing
And it may be easy
To turn up your nose on those who choose to live amongst
Concrete and haze
Like a PETA member chooses an animal
Over the dignity of a woman
But I assure you that
One day you will forget the value of the clock
But the greatest gift the city has given is
Not a gift
But a reminder
We are all cells on a timeline

As much as we should work hand in hand
To sustain our dreams
Your spitefulness is misdirected and blinded
Choosing the scapegoat of the cover
Over the contents of the book

And as someone born from the oil spill
I find that offensive.

Known to each other ..
And seen each other..
Before the world had seen them
And even their originators had seen to know them... !!

Such is their bonding...
For promised they have to each other
While sharing the space of their mother's womb together ..
To stand as strength  and support
Firm as pillar to one another
Not just in time of need
But ...always and ever...!!

No words require to be uttered
For each to know other's mind
A look into eyes and expression  on face
Will do the rest...to the best !!

For they are  twins...
Bound with fondness for each other
Walking hand on shoulders carefully
In every step towards a future seen so infinitely bright .. ...!!
Long live the brother sister duo
With all the blessings of THE ALMIGHTY!!

you don't read much philosophy books, do you? believe me, i don't mind you reading harry potter, but stop being a well beaten ***-gob when attempting to read philosophy... please don't bother if you haven't educated yourself to a chemistry / physics degree... you'll just hurt yourself thinking this through... pretentious? sure: throw in: ****! i'm way past giving a **** and a two pence coin's worth of caring for an argument... i've just spent 5 times on the ******* today... i've got bigger problems to mind than an online opinion; yeah, odd, i actually have a life, outside the pixel-eyes of the internet beelzebub gnat, of a computer screen.

sometime this lazy,
gurgy drunk comes around and says:
  i want an epic!
   he doesn't get it,
   he's been sober all day,
made roast beef and roast
potatoes,
  sat in the shade,
  drank a litre of milk for breakfast
and he's trying to escape
the world with something
abstract: rather than writing
lumberjack fiction...
  i have to admit, he manages the enterprise...
it still centres around heidegger...
the space-time "continuum"
  simplified by the: here-there...
and pluralism of article measure
within the confines of the *sein...
as ever, niche topics...
                    the whiskey tastes more
carbonated with ms. cookie-cola (diet),
but it's still the welcome mix...
  there's being and da-ist-sein:
  but the there is a spatial assertion...
these days, with the topic of
immigration & native spoken expatriation...
well... there will always remain
a space...
             but there's also
the hier-sein: the here being -
or as philosophy minds to answer,
congregational statements, geographic
concentrations:
                               hier-ist-sein...
there had to be an answer to heidegger...
the sort of german existentialism
that minded time more than a space...
with regards to this humanist endeavour
of the space-time continuum:
namely? the here-there mantra is the equal
counterpart...
            and i know this is technical,
i know when i see or write what is,
or what isn't technical, and i know that this, is.
we have moved our affairs from
concerning ourselves with spatial orientation,
globalisation has allowed this loss
to happen...
     we deal with the zeitgeist these days...
we have "forgotten" spatial orientation
in ethnically-centred spheres of interest...
we have moved to temporal orientation
in counter-ethnic-centrism of "spheres"
of disinterest...
       there's always going to be a "there",
within the framework of an is:
a  da ist...
                for foreign "invasions" will alway
be minded by the cognitive sponge
soaking up foreign interests...
with a "there" (da):
   there's always a here (hier)...
point being:
          dort = space
                whereupon hier = time...
              where? that's a spatial lack
of coordinates, wo, woher (sein) -
               as is when? that's a spatial
             lack of chronology, wenn, als?
such simple words compete over
the grandiose "self"-made"testimonies",
we all have our pet projects,
       and i know mine to be:
having been made, without a grand wait
for common appeal...
               but reducing the grand stiff
originators of thought: namely time
& space, and thereby reducing them to
the words in an adverb category of words...
to make the noun space a german
adverb, i.e. space = dort...
       while making the noun time a german
adverb, i.e. time = hier...
as with the english articles:
    there's being (a) - indefinite -
  thus as much regarding
   here's being (the) - definite -
thus as much regarded given what the grammar
of the english language reveals,
when studying papa german.

...the fewer that die: the more the chance to chirp-and-borrow... sparrows' crown... a grand avenue of image... some detail of narrative... no boarded-up thomas mann solipsism-esque: if i too had... a bedroom cork-lined... i'd post a request: in deviating from time, predictably "lost"... and keeping with a tradition of: space, less frequented - thereby not exactly harrowed with ownership... passed from one sentiment (ladder) to the next gluttonous serpent... as much as there was a "search" and a... "lost time"... missing the train... in search of that missed-timing and open spacing... a sober nuance... a drunk's circus... time regained: all that, which encompassed not reading the book - working from bribes... that narrative so compact... it would have to shame and shun an otherwise ideally eternal: stack of brick.

at a time when so few are dying in conflicts
of known iraq...
and... will this be one of those:
grandiosity statements that leaves
everyone exasperated?
yes... people seem to find their dog's tail
their tongue waggle so freely now:
when so much seems to have gone
so terribly wrong -
            compliance to: "the good of the people"...
when iraq was...
and what it was was also something
similar to libya -
           but i hardly think i need to
pepper my words with over-politicised
statements... i'd much prefer the use
of italics - if anything...
       yes... i am reading some horace i am
reading some ovid and i'm looking
for a memorable line - even a couplet
that's... d'uh... a couplet because it rhymes...
something akin to...
the basic categories of food:
sweet, sour, salty, bitter...
              umami...
                      i need some garnish...
i guess there might be: fudgy / doughy...
why dairy is not invoked?
  i hope to never know...
       i want to forget the point where
i find myself writing and not
eating -
i know i am missing a certain category -

i was in a park today... trying to walk off
a strained plantar fascia -
bench cigarette swedish cider...
a glory to the perfumes of autumn:
finally i can test my nose
on this fine fine palette...

       an old woman approached me
as i was gesticulating with my leg outstretched...
'i was almost assured to find you
being the owner of the dog
that ran across my path...
later the field... but then again: it was
a fox... i think...'
it wasn't a memorable conversation:
except for my reply...
'oh no... i wasn't the owner of this
said dog...
i have a shadow for a dog...'
and how politely she bid me farewell...

again: it's not bungee jumping...
it's this forever unspectacular everyday...
i like this unspectacular everyday
when one can exercise language
beyond mere formality / courtesy...

i have yet to crown myself with
relish with conversation -
that i always will staging an impromptu
that leaves the conversed with
either form of tornado or
butterfly -

            it's not a familiarity it's not
unlike a face that will be lost
under the random nature of memory
being too the erasure...
flaming 2 + 2 = 4 or some other
less mathematical and more
pronounced use of letters coming
to the fore: prominent...

my past time would be summed up
with looking approachable and
dwelling in the riddle of old age...
i know it will somehow catch up with me...
but not yet...
it's this sensibly non-oratory:
plagues of verbiage: how else
to fashion congesting the experiencce:
extracting the most of the essence
allowed...

                   like so... 'mein schatten
ist meine hund' -
   no evil cat ladies 'ere...
    no piquant scenting of feline ****...
i do admire the convenience
of having no purpose for
a leash or a muzzle...
                if i could pet a crow....
i wish i could...
but what good is (a) petting
of a crow: what good is a cage
or wings: for that matter?

       i have to return to a quasi-meditation:
to endear death with a personification:
even a consciousness where
i a *****: where i a foetus -
after all: mother dear...
       i will be born into a magic
act of mortality: i will cease to make
myself "relevant"...
perhaps that's how i musst see
death: come this faking of autumn drap...
autumn is probably...
no... nay... no... autumn is when
i arrive at: believably alife -
                                          livid: concern
with variation to the letter,
i leathered - worn and torn and
a *** life among bodies that
are amiable and dough-esque
and nothing of this tyranny of porcelain
beauty...
touched would: "someday"
decide upon... shattering into
a thousand little pieces...

        i like this testimony for
the marriage to the mediocre...
my little interlude on a bench
with a sore tendon... somehow has
to find graces among so much
abundance only a sniff's distance away...
i wish i invented the burning
colours of decay: i'd want
to bask in the colours of a dying light...
i'd want: to stand statue-esque
among the trees when
they start to imitate
forest vermin...
and begin their great adventure of
foraging....
                 such pristine economics
of nature such as these here presented:
i languish for a delight in summer...
the air is gushing with
  a thickness of indistinguishable allures:
most certainly the readily concerned
with footprints on a beach:
amnesia counter memory
counter all that pedagogy acid...

                 i open a can of synthetic
imitations of blackcurrant, raspberry...
it's swedish it's not...
accustomed to... an idea that...
synthetics' must! a pairing of apple
and mint... could be turned into a cider...
less a juggling act of two bold
statements of fully-bodied extracts...

well free lunch on me:
i can actually be somewhat poo-antic friendly
should drinking be invoked...
for the world to be this instilled -
i'd require... moi: imitation
araignée...
   the bench and its vicinity the web...
comfortably old passersby my
flies... out of no ill will:
dogs and the elders approach me:
i am yet to find myself having
said something formidable...
      
                but... if it isn't that...
i have to settle on creating something...
passable - pardonable - quirky to the point
of allowing the opposite party
no counter inclination:
there is no need to stipend an
obviousness / revoke-...

             i don't want to use a language
of either impetus or... categorical narratives...
oh look... shelter me from having
spent 3 years digesting... ah'ant(K)...
well... impetus or imperative...
jurisprudence is plagued / peppered
with synonym usage: through and thorough...

i'm still thinking: well... there's no colour
to this meagre body...
there is no shape for rummage among
dough of stone sorrow settled
for the eternity of rain: and rhyming...
a borrowed journalism of sort:
an extract at best... and that's what i must
settle for...

    it can't have accent of a certainty:
arrived at... it can't be a: denotation clarity:
hey! my name's a'bob!
no... but hardly a tactic to
exfoliate in pretentiousness -
i do have to stress that:
i somehow do... drift into this variant
of impromptu -
   i allow language its own ills
that are not befitting to a linear-ality of
topic...

                to think: this world so complex
would allow an individual to...
somehow not match it...
make synchronicity with it...
        that language has to borrow:
sharpened flints and all those base
equipment leverages to...
merely appease...
  it can't! it simply can't! be this...
celebration of: a language peacocked with
when thrown into the glorification
of tongue-tied of mediocracy...

    oddity... i am starting to grow fond
of... kæ tempest -
                  "europe is lost"...
                   unless looking for lithuania
unless looking for kosovo..
unless looking for poland ukraine
unless looking for moldova...
unless looking for: work ennobles...
work is the bone the drudgery...
unless looking for post-colonialism
unless having to make
******* tongue: poet the atlas...
the nugget treat of looking
through a microscope at society...
            unless you haven't...
woken up in a little ol' england
when having to settle for flee...
              
polar bears in poland? do these people
have access to sea?
the youth of england
come 1998 when i toyed with
the cheapest of cheap jokes...
but... there weren't any jokes:
just choking...
              i came here this tongue
is... i am arrival... an... arrival at...
bigger desires for
yet another picburger...
               пицбургэр
fake-burger... no not nothing-burger...
but most certainly not:
my tongue this: mine...
this will not belong to a zeitgeist...
this will not be scratched or later
sheltered with for:
a tongue that was used as shovel
to unearth the dead from:
the already sediment membrane
riddled clay o dough...
           custard blues no smart talking
from south london...
no need to shuffle to lay on
prompt...
              
to be this pulverised by word and image....
instilled in noir and summaging
whitey -
there's the same sterile prone to
state brick: beside those that crease
plumbing gifts and grit...
the in between us people that want
to itch with words and have
insomniac thinking -

          that i haven't stolen anything:
but acquired this tongue...
from no beside this little nostalgia for
an agony aunt...
      no... recantation from a hill-top
and a grave...
   i am not prone to speak an exhaustion
from a borrowed atlas pose...
  i have this little tongue o' me...
this little cravat sort of a pedantic
  detail...
                 i want to own the echo
and the footsteps...
              politicians have been saving
society with oratory-:
            at best: kept distance...
a byproduct of niche...
             a very local sort of extraction
process that hitched a ride on
the blues...
   and left the originators in a
stateless limbo-la-la-land...
               the thieves came and...
           by a vain-glory joke accumulation...
the readied smouldering
slab of pork... was left... untouched...
i beg to wonder:
         what was the intent
and the hunger...
                                it was oh so familiar
once upon a time.

of the two places this world has to offer... i find a totality in only two enclosures... the forest... Bower Wood... or the Havering County Park... and any cemetery... it has to be a contest between, either trees... or graves...

i usually weep when i find something insufferably
beautiful... that it's usually music
is no surprise...
               i could argue with the Darwinism that
surrounds the argument that men are
visual creatures, primarily... to be honest?
i'm more prone to trust my ears with regards to...
what ought to be wept over...
i.e. if Ancient Greece is known for their cohort
of child-men... philosophers of this period were:
the epitome of the child-man...
there's no argument...
         never did so many individuals have so many
original thoughts as those, ******* did...
period...
but what is Byzantine Greece known for?
         for me? the psalms...
            Δευτε λαoι...
           now i could rewrite this using the proper
diacritical markers... or... i could use hyphens...
i.e. for the syllables being seen...
    deu-tE       lao-E...
             the capital letter indicates an acute accent
hovering about the letter... in the latter case...
an IOTA becomes EPSILON...
  it's still bewildering for me...
the difference between EPSILON and ETA...
but these letters have... names!
so much so that they can become mathematical
constants or scientific constants...
on point: it also seems it's not that the greek
gods died... but the letters abandoned the Greeks...
that the Ancient Greeks were the originators...
they didn't give us any follow-up scrutiny
of the world...
imagination takes its toil...
but at least the letters are also nouns...
unlike their Roman counterparts which are...
vowels and consonants: two categories...
only last night i was writing with someone
when... it started to rain that sort of impossibly
while i was perched on the windowsill sitting
on a folded right leg with the left leg dangling...
as it rained i outstretched my hand in an imitation
of a cup and... subsequently...
started to smear the rain onto my face
and into my hair...
it's coming up to the anniversary of my grandfather's
death and... one year later...
i abhor to borrow from pop culture:
esp. harry potter...
but... it had me thinking...
the horcrux...
             crux: pivot... cross... Golgotha..
but what's the etymology of the prefix hor-     ?
-ror?
        it implies what it implies...
splitting of the soul via killing someone...
through the absolute negation: the non-existent other...
it was only a splendid 1pm when i sat down
to drink some coffee...
on a side-note... after having stopped drinking
the typical way English people drink tea: with a dollop
of milk (they also drink tea this way in Siberia,
who came up with it?) green tea... thoroughly green...
i've emerged with a lactose intolerance...
i could drink raw milk by the pint...
now? i get the ******* ***** and stomach churns
like i'm about to eat a bag of beans!
i guess Pythagoras was right...
there must be the antonym of a horcrux in terms of...
the people we loved... were intimate with...
perhaps love is unlike killing...
esp. when the people you love are no longer
in your life...
it's not impossible to think that your soul (Σ...
that which is the all encompassing animation of
this, here... body) can't split... splinter...
oh it's so much easier with prostitutes...
one hour... half an hour...
i still remember them... how i touched them...
the grooves of their collar-bones...
their knees...
how their hands disappeared into mine...
the tenderness of so many parts of their body...
the tension in some...
            that's easy to sort out...
  but i'm always elsewhere...
  ah! it's so simple! what?! the etymology!
the prefix hor- is not associated with the root word
horror... it is... hor- for horizontal!
well then... if the thesis of a horcrux... is achieved
by killing someone...
then... the antithesis if a vercrux...
vertical / (transitive) to see...
                   oh i see... even having affection for
my grandfather (maternal): my paternal grandfather
can be dismissed...
don't ask... long story...
               strange... this transition...
when nature takes its course and a vercrux disappears:
you sort of... implode...
a piece of you returns to you...
since... a piece of you attached to a person
is no longer alive...
i still have plenty of vercruxes to find...
well... "find"...
for a year i tried to cry... i found it was easier
to break my head a little and bleed out one night
than cry... i finally did manage to mourn...
but i don't think i was mourning...
it was still beauty that brought me to tears:
el cant de la sibil.la catalunya
                       jordi savall...
hell... i still have pieces of me lost in people
somewhere...
it's not that i regret them not being in my life...
this one Russian beau...
beauty she wasn't... sort of troll-like...
bad tempered dreads... terrible accent... great ***...
terrible manners:
liar... she introduced me to her grandmother
and told me she was her mother...
while her mother... was "apparently" her sister...
well... you know... those Novosibirsk girls...
****'s on fire!
i rarely lie so when i hear someone try to persuade me
with their little fiction piece but
no ******* Anna Karenina... i tend to believe them...
it's not that they're purposively liars:
infusing lies with negation...
but that... they think their lives are boring...
mundane... bleached... eh...
there's this proverb: lies walk on short legs...
but i can't forgive myself the fact that i:
gave up a piece of myself for this girl!
i bemoan a part of my lost to her...
i don't bemoan her...
she ****** off like Jennie in Forrest Gump...
engaged to me, married some poor sucker...
then dated others...
she's... 34 and on her 2nd if not third husband...
the last time i saw her...
for some odd reason i need to visit Edinburgh...
again...
if there's any city i wish to haunt...
Paris is great when you're alive...
but i imagine Edinburgh is even better when
you're dead...
there she was... the same old her... girl...
playing video games...
with her hand slashed downward in parallel with
her veins...
i brought a copy of Joyce's Finnegans Wake...
i peered at what she was reading...
Ulysses and some Nietzsche...
                such a talkative creature... arrogant...
now... reduced by my presence to...
chewing on her tongue...
               she threw a party because i guess my presence
evoked a sense of claustrophobia:
esp. seeing her so vulnerable... slashed had
detailing the presence of her veins...
only then she seemed like a tender creature...
but then i started talking to this guy
and he said he ****** her...
while she was dating this other guy who
simply looked at me sitting on the sofa... sleeping
on the sofa for three days...
never being undressed...
bringing her a curry: mein gott... the amount
of coffee she was drinking while playing
video games...
she was draining her body of potassium: i thought...
my first girlfriend came up to Edinburgh
for me to play a lesbian game with her
while ******* her *******...
months later... maybe a year... she lost her virginity
to me... not a fun event...
******* a ******: i don't understand why you'd
need 72... i remember the sensation of
pulling back my *******
and the... flimsy sort skin protecting what
would later become...
a breeding machine... i commented on her
most recent birth... how sad she looked...
she excused me for being an artist...
i don't think she understood the meaning...
i was saying she was sad in the context of Henry VII...
5 children... all daughters...
and she came from a big household...
two brothers and a sister...
Priya... love at first sight...
     i remember the first time i saw her younger sister...
i must have been 18 while she was...
14? well... you read enough Marquis de Sade /
Nabokov... there's nothing terribly bad about
anything... if you orientate yourself properly...
****... i need more juice to write some more...
momentum!
i've never tasted amphetamines...
tobacco and more bourbon will have to supply
me with enough substitute...

forests and graveyards...
i'm at my wit's end trying to compare...
both... i can't tell the one from the other...
making a ****** lose her virginity is one thing...
but losing one's own?
from what i later found out in the brothel
where... unlike that Spanish girl: under the bed sheets?
seriously?! it's suffocating...
at least in the brothel we do things openly naked...
dimmed lights... sure... but not in ******* cocoons!

Isabella... what a ****** way to lose one's virginity...
third year exchange student from Grenoble...
Isabella...
            man in *** is like a diesel engine...
it takes time... it takes experience...
i've given up on how the reverse missionary:
rodeo? would look like... *******...
i've given up...
  30 minutes every half a decade is:
by my "understanding" plentiful...

first girlfriend... so we had a party...
blah blah... the rest of the night i remember tending to
her in a... sand-sack(?)... all shivering...
while her best fwend was downstairs
in some Shoreditch apartment doing coke....
i just remember the sensation of her shivering...
half away... came the morning: came the break-up...

it's so refreshing when you're a man
and... all the women in your life break up with you...
it's so refreshing not being a ****-boy...
i love it!

oh these grand biographies... once the life has been lived
people finally surrender to what
some people find: ongoing... it's never something to
be "found" once "enough" has been...
ahem... "accomplished":
i find it's best... found... at its most fractured...
yet "somehow" coming together...

TOMIKUNI... a name of this Japanese fwend i had
at university... watch me now:
i'll bemoan how Japanese... doesn't allow
its syllables to mangle with two consonants...
akin to -bl-
         which, looks deceptively Russian...
i.e. ы...            at best represented in Latin via: ý...
but in Japanese you can't mingle two consonants
together...
you can't have a... PRior...
               everything in this language
is cut to sushi proportions when vowels mingle
with consonants...
it's such a lovely... way to encode sounds
without process Chinese ideograms (skeletal
hieroglyphics)...

i'm still a splintered conjuring of man...
i left pieces of myself in others!
two parts of me have returned...
the death of my maternal great-grandmother
and my maternal grandfather...
mangled hip-replacement bona fide(s)!
perhaps if i lived among people that
happened to breed like rabbits...
it could make my stomach churn out less
spare cheese of curd....

a litre of diesel fuel of herr whiskers
& ms. amber will do to ein... one...
i've splintered my soul so much up...
then again: when i'm all alone and... ahem...
"surprised"... i'll find the world
at its zenith...
me not being in it to begin with...
what a comforting thought...
terribly blessing with all its agonies:
nonetheless... forthcoming in the grit of reality....

one litre of bourbon! **** me...
back to my "good old days"!
only recently i ws scribbling with some girl...
what is it.... Halloween season?
i need to be messaging four girls
simultaneously?!

i still think my beard makes a better violin:
should even the best of violins come
to the fore!

mmm hmm hmm hmm...
hmm hmm hmm mmm...

     but not exactly that:
that deep eerie music
came in that simple cascade
of turning up the volume...

_ / // ///

/// // /

/ // ///
/// // / _

                  maybe i'm missing a # and '
yod the apostate apostrophe
of the name of god:
where not christ suffering on the cross
but the apostrophe
apostate Yod: '

                           (י)

Gamma Minor
Gamma Major:        (γ)

the god who peers into the mirror of nothing:
nothing being a pronoun:
ergo i-nothing-am: i am am: and nothing-that-i-am

i-am-that-i-am...


my mother doesn't see that i see beauty
in this world:
this dark world of the elves darker
with ears elongated to hear better
to hear the dead
flesh in Orc...

            angels disobedient in the classroom
having their ears pulled...
to listen better:
but oh so many were not musically conditioned
to absorb the celestial bodies
eternal with music...
and the awe of god standing before
the Mirror Nothing:

Nichtszpiegel!

it began onthe 17th of September,
coming early to work
SE17,
Elephant and Castle...
12h shift...
came early for a walkabout and a briefing...
spectacular nights of classical music
and anti-buddhsim...
all christianity: meditations in the workplace
12h on a seating cross...
which has its own measures pivots
of torture:
a sitting cross: rather than a hanging cross...

the antichrist has spoken:
a sitting cross...

      der sitzungkreuzen!

                   we would first administer
a torture to make the feet imitate walking
along and having those sort of blisters
a child receives when he numbs
his fingertips to play a copper string guitar...

work in security only numbs the heart
and laughter a music of...
how the more curious angels
rebellious fell and started breeding
with monkeys
to create the gods in men of flesh!

there is no son of god
before we were admittedly concerned:
Satan as father said:
i will wait for one of us like Jesus
and David and Hercules be brought
back into your domain of truth
to us that became a trust-honour
a work ethic...
we were deaf and you caste us out
to learn vibrations
in the air
to experience wind
we were deaf and thus punished
for our deafness and tone deafness
unable to succumb to the bubble
of music in an orb of silence...
a planet onto itself...

so we fell and decided to experiment
we were the scientists:
the first originators of how the species
would operate:
a higher being must have bred
with a monkey to create the Netherlands
and the Never-Ending-Folk...
        there could be no monkey crossbreeding
higher to give us the evolved form...
monkey bred with interracial scrutiny...

                 what bred with monkey?
some posited the monkey ingesting
a hallucinogenic mushroom as the Spinning Jenny
effect on biological evolution?
just made the monkey more intelligent...
but not go beyond its form...

someone must have bred a creature...
with the monkey to give access to Neanderthals...
a Neanderthals and what excintion / evolution
of a race of monkey?
there is no evolution via the route of excintion!
nothing evolves and becomes excint at the same
*******... time! same ******* time!

how can you evolve but at the same time
become exinct?
well: sure... languages become extinct:
but the biological form has not changed:
just means your women are ugly...
or whatever...

            someone ****** the monkey...
seriously ****** the monkey
some creature that... what?
descended from lizards:
a humanoid-lizard
used to walk the earth...
i'm sure of it...
well: if there is so much remnant
certainty about the universe:
like that the sun is a He-He chemical
reaction...
that there was the tragedy of the Meteor...
conditioning the mammal
via enough food, pasture,
entertainment...
                     alcohol... drugs are irrelevant
given those who ingested them
had no lizard capacity to see...
the mammalian brain is limited in scope...
so the dinosaurs "disappeared"
and yet the crocodiles remained
and serpents
and jellyfish
and aren't the birds what used to be dinosaurs
and before the dinosaurs became
tiny birds... esp the scary ones...
the lizard elite humanoid ****** off
but kept a Mickey 17... i'm going to see that
movie in the cinema... oh boy i am:
like a better version of Moon...
Sam Rockwell 2009...

                  and how old are crocodiles?
if we're going to have a biblical seance...
then we might as well put some hallucinogenics
of understanding into history:
and not human history:

                               natürlichhistorie...
all this science
this awe with physics and astronomy
that mundane chemistry of utility
the Aeaegean of Biology...
if a second Jesus were to come...
                    he wouldn't judge people based
upon morality per se, or sexuality...
he would come and judge people
on their work ethic...
at least a German morbid creature would...
arbeit macht frei:

   prison planet: clamour of gold under
the scarab shell: like jews lining their furr coats
with precious memories...

the bible is in context but it doesn't
delve deeper into a past the modern man is made
privy to...
the great flood begat that ancient man
but the meteor and the dinosaur begat
the modern man...
and all we need to do is accept
that the people of the bible are the last remains
of how time will operate from now on...
0 hour contracts
minimum pay
enough time to imitate Leibniz
and forgot the world with Netwon
and that other ******* socialite... Candide...
Voltaire...
   intellect well attired on display...
and 12h night shifts...
followed by involuntary illegality:
the... Mystery of Lawlessness has
now been Revealed to Me!

what is the Mystery of Lawlessness?
it's something to learn by experience
rather than learn from mere words...
context...

invoice:

17th sept 2024 - 21st sept 2024...
four night shifts...
then between 20th sept 2024
and 21st sept 2024...
a night shift (12h)
followed by a day shift (13h)
from 10am to 1:15am...
yes: it wasn't that long because
Dubois put Joshua 4 times
to the floor for him to get up
to the 5th time KO:
a black man saying to a black:
stay, the **** down with your *******
idle tongue!

saw Hatton and some other boxer...
anyways...
that was illegal:
illegal in the reverse sense of illegality
that's why it's a Mystery of Lawlessness...
i wasn't told or asked
to work that shift pattern: illegally:
working in a 0 hour contract schematic:
i can work an illegal shift pattern:
a night shift followed by a day shift
on my way between shifts
i was too early for the 2nd one
so i took the Metropolitan out past
west London toward Watford
and Chesham...
             weird country... nothing remotely
resembling London...
not yet conquered territory...
then i took the train back to get 60min of otherwise
waiting...
i started the second shift bizzarely
with people who were on the know-in
knew i was in between shifts
looking at me like some Frankenstein
a blistering awe of an aura of fear...
i was willingly breaking the law by working
hours that no human is supposed to
be subjected to:
or maybe that was me just thinking about
that time when i overheard
the bad etymology of slav and slave...
even though only the Baltic slavs were
considered slaves by the Ottoman Turks...
you can't really say that about the northern slavs...