I sing of life at state expense
a state devoid of common sense
addicted to obesity
impolitic in body weight
yet headed for austerity
as other people’s money ends
plebeian class-revolt transcends
our bureaucratic history.

They stack the monthly welfare decks
complain the service second-rate
those sullen clients, thankless louts
pajama-clad with tattooed pouts
whose girlfriends swell while babies cry;
the fathers mumble, sagging high
and wait in lines. The women try
to fool the lunar period
conceptions waxing myriad
while teenage dads discover ***
and social workers cash the checks
the daily urban nightmare is
enough to scare a nation broke
in clouds of marijuana smoke:
the cashless global mystery.

The breeders born in tropic lands
are tempted till they take the bait
no baby-momma understands
what family means, what life demands
Your undertakers overstate
in order to remunerate
your Democratic history:
a bankrupt urban mystery
the not-so-Great Society.

The ghetto *****-donation ploy
makes babies but maintains the boy
to run around from mom to mom
slow-motion population bomb
as if to merely demonstrate
that social program funders wait
till number-crunchers aggravate
the urban teenage welfare state.

matt
did you get my reply? i hope you did, i had written approx. 5, and all of them deleted... i hope i allowed myself a justifiable response with this one:

how about solipsism? solipsism is an elevated term for autism, isn't it? me? personally? i love cats, but they have a tendency to become inexhaustive economists of curiosity... i wasn't implying autism as an insult, i was implying a more crude word, synonymous with solipsism, and there is no shame in that to begin with. i like cats, because i own two, and i'm most content, when i can allow myself the time, to allow them the same time, to be left alone. cat, solo... dog + man + tail waggling + throw a ball... i better post this reply before i allow this reply, to become deleted... with all the prior 5 that have been, and me, having to post the alternative, "revision".

i.e. i rather imagine autism to be in need of having an elevated status of being designated by the term: solipsism... how can i make myself elaborate? point being, i don't want to... i too am confined to a strict vocab. fixation for the purpose of expressing language, that mitigates, bypassing, shrapnel wording of: one category fits all, conjunction words, which, i find, I, to be akin to, when categorised as: AND to begin to confine oneself to, the subsequent rigor of nouns.

i hope this doesn't end, or begin as, an apology... by autistic i was imply solipsist, i wasn't implying the retrograde slur of ******... if there's any god, it's in the disinhibited self of the autist, readily plucked, by... no basis for either a selfish, or a selfless act... i'm over-wording this, but... point being... i needed to settle myself in a posit, above the current cultural norm of the troll... which has nothing to do with autism, or as i like to call it: solipsism, diminished to a slur of: automaton...

i hope you can make lite reading of this... i concede, i attempted to make more than necessary, and conciliatory scribbles... if in any way i redeemed myself, i hope you'll concede to entertaining, accepting my apology.

Jules  22h
My only issue was that your poem seemed to make Autism synonymous with stupid or any other derogatory term. However, seeing as that wasn’t how you meant it, I apologize. I’m a bit defensive as my brother has autism

Mateuš Conrad  22h
that's perfectly understandable, given the circumstances, i am hardly surprised... i'm still here if you want to continue past the initial shock-tactic of testing the waters with me, obviously we can change the subject and not stand, metaphorically: with knives pressed against each others' throats... there i was, thinking i'd reply diving into the subject matter for no, necessary clarification / added depth... but it's the least i can appreciate from your cordial response, as to, at least, appreciate a change in the subject matter, so that, both of us, can return to feeding off a sentiment of: being left, less, uncomfortable; which implies that i have to instigate the question to change the subject matter... hmm... speed-dating-esque trivia... movies, paintings, music... literature... ah... kind of blue, miles davis, my english teacher told me, that if anyone in the classroom didn't own this album by the age they were 30... there was something wrong with them... in my then paranoia, i bought the album, and now own it on vinyl... somehow... i find that there's something more wrong with me, owning it, than not owning it.

Jules  22h
Favorite movie- Mamma Mia, favorite painting- amazing piece by a local artist, music- currently obsessed with the Beatles, favorite book- We all fall down. I’m thoroughly impressed about how reasonable you are being given the circumstances, and after reading a few more of your poems, I can tell you are a good person

Mateuš Conrad  21h
oh come on... mamma mia?! and not something akin to west side story?! who's the local artist? i only access to a London base, and, that requires a networking schedule i'm not going to equip myself with; and i'm hardly surprised by how understanding you are of me, and i do wish to pay more compliments to you, but... i feel that that would overstate me taking liberty in me not incurring an over-simplified stance of my own liberty towards you... remember, i'm one person in writing against a blank, and another person to conjure forth a reply... against a canvas, that is a readied flesh of my own flesh, bone of my own bone, i can see the antagonist in the compounded state of, the sacrosanct state of lingo... i can be a ******* against a blank canvas, but, obviously, when i am to begin with a clarity of an addressee, i cannot consider staging a variation of something, inhospitable, as a Kandinsky-variation to suit myself... Jules, you can never become something akin i treat a blank sparring estate i perform in writing without, something you are already established with, concerns equivalent to my own predisposition being unchanllenged / or, rather, undistrubed. the beatles... i'm trying to find something of a vinyl collector's "beginner's luck"... i'm too into prog. rock music... EP album experiences, akin to: king crimson's debut: in the court of the crimson king... serves me right, for not getting into Mahler... or Eric Dolphy jazz... so i turned the blind eye, and moved toward pagan music... wardruna... hedningarna... in extremo... garmarna... faun... heilung... esp. the last... i have never wished to visit the Faroe Islands more, than, after listening to their music.

Jules  21h
Mammia Mia is my favorite almost solely because of the memories attached to it. You certainly are a unique person

Mateuš Conrad  21h
i agree, i'm a sucker for super trouper and money money money, i'm waiting for a Tina Turner musical, to be honest... don't worry, i've looked into some of your comment sections... i cannot alleviate the blatantly bogus comments that are worth nothing more than an immediacy to make antagonism... i can't, i wish i could, but.... it's either this variant of an outlet, or a punching bag... i'm as unique as you find me to be... but when i just see "demands to conform" to an otherwise unnatural behavior... i don't like behaving in a counter-cordial fashion... you understand me? if there's no need to be bogus, why begin to bother being so? i hope we can remain lodged into partial nuances... and continue this discussion, beside tomorrow, i.e. whenever you feel like to preserve it, which, i hope... you will strip away more of your anonymity... but even if that is to not be the case: i thank you for the compliments... but from having inspected the immediate comments... you are a most tender artifact worth double the inspection's curiosity with a shy eye... and until i take myself to rest, and slumber, i can only leave your with these words... i wish the world was more welcoming than i allow you to believe it to be. if you can ever forgive me, i can only hope you can, by bidding me a goodnight, and welcoming me back into the discussion, within the confines of a tomorrow.

Jules  20h
Goodnight, my hopefully future friend. Poetry is definitely one of the best outlets. I definitely understand that aspect of you

Mateuš Conrad  20h
i hope to entertain you here, once more, and all the future that can be shared between the both of us. let me see you tomorrow, and scrap a beginning of a conversation with you, once more toward a focus of a beginning... and see how many minutes this allows us to entertain an amnesia of: beginning with today... how about that? i'll take to sleep, and hope, to grin... i actually re-read what i wrote: and figured... if i was being all-too despotic in securing pedantry... but then... if you took to complimenting me, i have to compliment you: tender soul... scouting the merger of sight and the hybrid coast... tender petal... why not? who is to obstruct me telling you this? lever... beside the said and into what's thought... tender petal... what a Scouser would call pet, i'd call petal... or... heavily implied: stagnant Bismarck stipend... if it be too much to ask... write me more than under the scrutiny of below the already given minus, of the 10 sentences. come at me as a punching bag... just as an experiment... i want to be the new vanguard... experiment with being uninhibited.

Jules  19h
Even the way you talk is extremely poetic. I appreciate how you took the time to try to talk everything out to prevent us from having any bad blood between, and I see know that you didn’t mean any harm from what you said. Thank you for being so kind about it all. I sincerely hope we can pick up this conversation again tomorrow as I feel we are on the road to a promising friendship. I’d be happy to write more per text, but for the sake of experimentation, I’m intrigued to see if you could try to talk in a little less of a formal dialect

Mateuš Conrad  1h
trying to bypass a formal dialect will be hard, as we're too fresh into our patchwork of setting boundaries, rigid as that might sound, and the current climate, to me, you're a slab of marble, not a statue. this sort of friendship, you're talking about, requires us to keep a modest concern for language, which, awfully, is riddled with diatribe excerpts... how we will transcend this, is, well, concerned with both of us to decide... i'm starting to entertain the fact that you have an autistic brother, since i'm learning to be panicy-picky with my language... i too had an ultra-autistic "friend" back in high-school... and i would constantly retrieve a blank-state response from him, i.e. i was looking at less a person, and more: a labyrinth. how i'll transition into a more informal use of language, i'm unsure how that will take place, Jules, we can't exactly share experiences, we can only avast ourselves, on what will pursue its own noumenon characteristics of stated language. at present, we only share a commonality of language, i'm bewildered by stating something informal... i wish i could, but i'm only allowed an "aggrieved" presence to your wish for: informality, slang, holding-hands type of escapism. i think that, with regards to your wishes, we'll have to settle for a sediments' worth of unravelling, like me, you're too trying to escape the puddle's worth of being immediately "concerned" with the comment section... we'll need to find commonality... from yesterday, i can tell you: i had the beatles faze when i was leaving the years attributed to my teens... then i found it really hard to find new music, outside the realm of bands akin to tool, the neo-progressive rock bands... but i see your point, my language is the sort of formal, that stages a lack of intimacy, but this is an ontological-high-jump, given your reply, and emphasis on friendship... you will have to curate me, moving forward, since i will be unable to moderate how, me, interacting with you, will be adequate to have finally said, something informal, by your standards of scrutiny. time, i will first have to see some of your idioms to change my dialect; i'll begin, i'll tell you where this was written from, Romford, Essex, England.

Jules  1h
If we are to move forward as friends, I have to express my feeling on the autism topic. First off, Autism is a spectrum that ranges from high functioning to low functioning. 30% of people with autism are in fact of average or higher intelligence. Some of the most famous scientists including Albert Einstein were in fact autistic. It is not synonymous with simple or stupid in any way, shape, or form. I dislike that you said your friend seemed to be less of a person because he had autism. However, I understand that you’re misconceptions weren’t meant in a malicious way

Mateuš Conrad  51s
so how can i move forward to establish a less informal dialect? i wasn't focusing on the details of the stated condition, i know that i'm handling something as fragile as an egg in terms of what words i employ, and that i might seem astoudning, in having not contra opinions on the matter beneath the impersonal "facade"... but you were asking about how to make our interaction more uninhibited, if we're going to lecture each other about infringing on delicate matters... i wasn't implying the person in question was less of a person, i was implying he was more of a person, by resembling a labyrinth, i didn't take any personhood from him, i simply reattached it to a metaphor, of elevated complexity, of a labyrinth: i was lost in attaining a mutual comprehension of a shared experience with him... what's so bad about that? i only mentioned something in passing, since your's, was the original "concern"... you asked me how we could continue in a less informal manner... this reply will not answer your original "concerns"... what if i were to say: i'm schizophrenic? what then? you'd lecture me on... all of your knowledge on the matter? if we're all going to interrogate each other... thus... then you have a misconception of schizophrenics... akin to john nash... personally, i don't understand how you'd think i'd be primarily focused on something said: intended to be relegated to: in passing... guess what... i'll send this and...

      BLOCK

               i'm basically rummaging
through porcelain...
  i was ****** off one writing
platform for no reason...
   being ****** off from another
is not on my wish list,
from a very, simple,
lack of reciprocated
       feed of understanding;

   oh i know when i see minor *******,
some liking it to micro-aggression...
i chose a fox as my totem,
learning from a 2015 "debacle":
it looks innocent at first,
    but then spirals out of control;
the more i sieve through
this construct known as humanity,
the more i chose to remain
hidden.
   - and for all the worth
of the tabloid press...
   this is where i'll reign, myself
included.

Dear Mr......  I live in Melbourne.  Read your book--honest, bold, revelatory, trail-blazing.  I read much of Tolle and some of Chopra.  I like the way you have described your observations--they are sharp and insightful.  I am a Zen person and must have read Lao Tze's Tao -te-Ching 50? times ( my forthcoming book is on Tao leadership).   Every person finds their own way in their journey towards self-discovery and self-awareness. The path is a very hard one--it calls for so much patience, humility and determination. You mention happiness as a skill--so true.  What is so fascinating about Zen and Taoism is that it's an achievable art.  Happiness-gurus overstate their case,  they exaggerate,  they prescribe what they regard as THE ANSWER--- that's not true...and you have rightly written about their loss of cool, that they also exhibit impatience and dislike in stressful situations, that they self-aggrandise.  There is no perfect person on earth--even saints have their faults. Teachers must have humility, compassion, selflessness,  tolerance and goodwill----self-effacement I regard as the highest virtue being immensely affected by Taoism and Confucianism.  Yes, I live in the moment but my focus and attentiveness could never be the same or unencumbered.  But I do succeed in some measure.  He who wishes to meditate must come in purity of heart---he can't meditate if his heart and feelings are not right.  He needs to self-abandon, lose himself, feel as a child in the vast expanse of possible 'being', to be one with a Higher Reality or Consciousness....the letting-go is the route...My small book  IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF ZEN--THE PATH TO A CALMER AND HAPPIER LIFE released in Melb in 2018 has sold quite well.  For an unknown hobby-writer, I am more than gratified and have thanked my publisher for their faith in me.  It has accepted my Tao leadership book for release later this year---many lessons are in the same vein as found in Zen--after all, Taoism is the mother of Zen.  Someone wrote that Zen is the greatest discovery since the Enlightenment.  It has permeated every sphere of thinking and living.  I read Thomas Merton's SEEDS OF CONTEMPLATION some 50 years ago and continue to read him though I am not a Catholic (I don't have a religion being a humanist--agnostic?).  Merton was so enamoured of Zen that he edited a work of Zhuangzi, the most eloquent follower of Lao-tze.  The Vatican was very concerned as it was afraid he might abandon his original faith. But he didn't---his love of his faith even grew!  Now we have Zen-Christians, a phenomenon that testifies to the universality of faiths and beliefs.  I am sorry to have written so much.  Once again, thank you for your wonderful book.  Please drop me a line--I can learn from you.  Being a composer, musician and singer,  I find it easier to find my 'peak moments' when I am into it.   With my deep esteem and sincerest wishes.

Bone by bone he falls apart.
Nothing to hold him together,
no nerves, no muscles, no heart.

He lies on the floor in a scattered pile,
dust slowly collecting bit by bit,
and still he wears that haunting smile.

He is not losing, nor can he win.
He is not happy, he cannot feel,
yet still he dons that mocking grin.

Most cry out for his poor lost soul,
knowing that he breathes no more
and never again will he be whole.

Alone I envy that pile of bones.
Never again will he suffer of hurt,
he has found his resting place among the stones.

Maybe my green eyes are being severe,
but my logic seems sound and concise,
and my feelings have never been clearer.

I do not desire to share his state,
I wish to breathe in the cool night air,
this is a stance I cannot overstate.

Though still his teeth and empty eyes
have gotten deep down under my skin
because his prying glare shall tell no lies.

I want to be the last bough bending by a brook as a dozen on-lookers overstate the understood in a field of frantic fever-fighters fixated on the moon. Stop, drop, break a neck, then lay in bed and recollect the days  before the disconnect when you kept your bright eyes side-lined in complexified complacency while the golden winged effigy decayed into degen'****. Multi-state probes propelled by a whim skitter like arachnids on the surface of your skin with words like a finger pointing at the sun that stop making sense before their job lies done. Who now will step down celestially with alchemical agility just to let The Spirit flow through them with exponential intensity as imaginal orthogonality skips with divinity? When'll be best to choose to confuse and diffuse every up-tight, no-sight tool on the loose then flak shrapnel to the castle as a billion petty hassles gathered up and coalesced as interrupted innocence? 'Til then these strides keep pace with the center of the storm, just inside the whirling swarm of wailing souls abandoned and forlorn.

Wine for the church, Water for the poor, leaving ashes of blood, Underestimating love

Bodies feel cold with their prays, Expressions get reduce through their truth, But they will underestimate

Phrases that will change the minimum thought of law, And we all share the same blood, But we all live the same hopes, drinking the pure selfishness of their books

May they judge their own coverage? May they proof  wrong from our living? Could there be more excuses from them to keep excluding us?

There’s not a lot for them to defend, But they had proven their power to prohibit And lies to overstate

But I heard that their father loves everyone equally, Which his sons have proven wrongly, In which galaxy we’ll be eating from the same plate?

When we’ll be kissing the same face? But we all share the same blood, And we all live the same hopes, Drinking the pure selfishness out of their world

Wine for church, Water for the poor, Leaving ashes of blood, Underestimating love.

before listening to all these podcasts...
where was i, having not listend to
some BBC4 radio?

have i had to become... this necessarily:
unscripted...
no mention of mily balakirev...
the moon starts to fade -
yet somehow retain its strict form...
as anything within the confines
of a vacuum...

where is the rust or anything akin
when you try to push opposing poles
of magnets... and later suppose:
oh, just the planets...
hindering a Holst composition...
barricaded by paper
anddoodles of a blunt pencil...

today i thought -
about time: i reread the only book
i would ever reread...
richard brautigan's troust fishing in
h'america...
the coalmine... and watermelon sugar...

whether or not invited:
life always happens beside me...
and: that's not a clerical error...

best choice of sedatives... come friday
night... i'm a... footnote presence...
to watch a movie in a cinema...
you'd probably require a bag of pop-corn...
poets and bureucrats...
the advent of cinema is...
me learning to use portions of:
the reconquista of braille in the realm
of stenography...

Tiro: how to encode sounds quicker
than by the current standard of
letters... stenography and...
what would never become a rigid rubric
of orthography...
or diacritical preference in
the "borrowed" tongue...

a mongol invasion sets you back... 200 years...
an ottoman invasion sets you back... 100 years...
russian influence sets you back...
300 years...
and your people's petty frivolity...
damaging for the ranks of romanians
and lithuanians... 400 years!

to be an island folk...
imagine... not being landlocked...
further exploring work...
while summoning avenues of:
the better part of friday...
and that culture... my... how it thrived...
like today...
i heard of a tobias in germany being
charged shooting strangers...
in 2 locations... then going back...
and executing himself and his mother...
some stabbing incident in a mosque
in regent's park...

me shopping for vegatables...
a niqab ninja... sorry... you can overstate
an "east european" accent if you want
with these words...
i have rubber ears...
"we" are to protect the people...
who are likely to cause us harm...
because no khaki is available...
or mustard brown...
how, can i, own, a memory...
of the 20th century... and the wars
in tow...

i can tilt a glass of cider and call it:
gods' ****! that i can do...
but i can't... somehow make myself
available... to this... frankenstein monster
of: well... wouldn't it be...
just oh so ******* nice... if we came to the feet
of the shadow of a tower of babel!

poland was always a problem among
the english:
we didn't ask you to start a war...
so why blame the ******* plumbers!

then again... what sort of "cuck"...
is invaded by both **** germany
and soviet russia? the sort of cuck that
learned to ha! "escape" with this mediocre
english... the stereotype follows...
all the polacks are plumbers...
just like all the englishmen are gays...
savvy?

because no cinnamon man would
allow the raj to wilt!
and we are... keeping the best of our
affronts!
because there's the north,
the west, the south... but the east
is a sentence of stressors..
that the east reminds everyone else:
"in europe" of the madmen...
as douglas murray said it best...
"microaggression" or no aggression...

i'm tired of the english gentleman...
as i'm tired of the ape...
the english ape...
perhaps i'm more inclined to think
in louis XIV terms of: heliocentric
sun casts no shadow...

move, elsewhere? oh i'm pretty sure
i have invested my time and effort
in a grievance that i want resolved...
but that i will not see it resolved...
all the better! i will not see no societal
betterment, either!
i like pickles... do you like pickles?
first i will go deaf before i will go blind...

i'm tired of being a past...
as i'm tired of never becoming a future...
and in the currency of presence:
the now... forever the fluctuation
gamble... with nothing of a waterfall
certainty...
i am... a cotton binding bundle...
among the scraps and irritation scoops
of rock...
baseline: a hark of a crow
when one expects an opera sung by...
******* mermaids!

in essex and i'm shopping next to...
a... perhaps i have not liberated myself from...
perhaps i'm still 8 years old and i'm leaving
snowman footprints on the concrete...
from the monolithic culture of...
the grand babel... that's being exercised in:
beta stages...

perhaps because everything is signatured:
made in china...
it really doesn't make a difference...
breed us... the sustainable mongrel!
i quiet expect myself to
hiding away in Kenya on a beach...
thinking about Ghanian timber being imported...

that this language is english...
i'm sorry... an englishman isn't using it...
doesn't that tow behind: usurping the natural
buoyancy of a boat?
called a duck... at least a duck doesn't sink...
then again:
perhaps i'm not supposed to peer into
these "surnames" of views...
what if integration was all wrong...
eh... madmen from the east...
as long as we get, but one,
egyptian artifact of a pharaoh!

please don't include me in this arithmetic...
no... don't...
oh yes... those... very sensible gays
we hear a lot about... "elsewhere"....
it's always a metaphorical ditto and elsewhere
and: foraging for sensible with the irish...
mother russian sent me...

why is it that...
bilingual is, but no longer is...
the newly frozen focus frame
of schizoid?
              don't mind me...
          after some time enough of the people's
sanity begs itself: the consort... approval...
and rating...
am i mollusk bound to a shell...
maybe whatever, probably not...
but... if i were to don the niqab...
i'd be all the more welcome! for the cocktail!
so why did...
england... pretend to care about Poland...
and state: war! against Germany...
why did you ******* even bothersome yourselves
to "care"?
wouldn't you like us to...
be... currently... spreschen deutsche?!
ich kennt ich würde!
i wouldn't mind... the ****** tongue disappearing...
i'd still be... using the remains of Latin...
given this phonetic encoding, is not...
phonecian... or... cuneiform...

i've come back to say... you really didn't require...
to save us...
perhaps having german as an envelope language...
we would have become
the second scandinavia... the south italy
of the baltic states... perhaps the baltic sea
was to become the new... mediterranean...
the new rome... outlier whittle bright scon...
and all those people and nations involved
in bringing the baltic sea ambitions into fruition...

oh believe me...
but i've invested over 20 years of my life
on these isles...
to have to return to: forevever not welcome...
with the history of less...
to stage war to defend a people...
that otherwise become: gutter-scouts...
while the niqab-ninja walks like a scared cow...
oh sure... if you're culturally confused...
don't run up to me asking for resolutions...
why would even defend poland when **** germany
and soviet russia invaded...
daydreaming your little: lawrence of arabia:
universal man... the god-riddled man valentines'!
have 'im!

i'm tired of the stereotypes...
the middle-men that we are...
not being the higher tier russian oligarch types..
you "not racist" peddlestool proximity...
but it's o.k. if it does have to include
the Polacks and the Irish...
*******... no go zone.

time and god trade barbs clothed in genericide.  metaphor’s child is a condensed version of what the kids these days call *******.  younger, my pain was outdated but had its own phone.  I meet my parents.  I begin to act like my son.  I leave myself to marry what is mourned to how it grieves.  older, I go alone at night to where I am worried.  like existence, I overstate my daughter’s angelic disability.  my wife hears what is heard by one who flits from mirror to mirror.  I lose a black wallet.  I pray.  sky for the dollhouse, amen.

Pretentious people*
       you will never know
          the endless entertainment
                 that you provide me with!  

But* if you did...
          
                 you would probably overstate it.

I could write a Haiku for you
Even a poem titled "100 reasons why"
I could fill endless marble notebooks
And I wouldn't even have to try
I could find obscene amounts of synonyms
To describe the way I feel when I'm around you.
I could use metaphors and imagery, painting pictures that astound you.
Although I'm not quite so certain, about those hyperboles
I find it hard to think I could overstate, the resounding power you have over me.

Was it Italy?
Was it Scotland?
Or was it Britain?

Nevertheless, I’ll say I’ll never know when I’m thinking about it then?

Was it Italy?
Was it Scotland?
Or was it Britain?

Taking little Italy out of Italy was devastating...

It’s almost like I can never overstate nor any hesitation.

Was it Scotland?

And All I have ever been.

Or was it Britain?

All I ever said it mustn’t be any bit of pieces of him.

Just like it’s mentioned.

Was it Scotland?
Or was it Britain?

I’ll never know until I cross between them.

They’ll say it’s scary of a sacrifice to know either which one is right?

Maybe neither of it and I’ll still be alright.

Alright is the time to feel like I’m not stuck in these daydreams of daytime or daylights. Because when I’ll know it’ll be over until without either a fight.

Fight until worthy comes into a good kiss morning into the nights

I’ll find my Scotland or Britain and without it, I’m not gonna go sorting out of my wilderness.

Because without my Scotland
Because without Britain.

I’m nothing but land without a name whose name shall be called I’ll find it when I’m there again.

. poetry & sobriety are still... very alien mediums of mutually inclusive reciprocation, hardly, serious overtones, rigid Appolonian entrapments worth nothing more that a billboard slogan; mind you... frivolity in drinking... but those drunks suckling of a heart like a violinist on Westminster Bridge? a poetry that's drunk from drinking the yet untested ideal of love.

you can't exactly play
the guitar
  and be expected to read Braille
(without
   some major gaps
   in the fabric)...

which is something
you might say
  on a rainy January day
having finally found
about the LP siren...

new year's eve?
went to bed at 11pm,
   with fireworks by my ***
to say the least...

yet never have I thought
it was necessary
    to have to overstate
the whole 'speak for
yourself' bazooka-blah...

winding
   intra- / inter- & trans-
generational
    b'ah b'ah black sheep
mantras,
    either side of
harangue & pandering
click-baits...

  back when trendy
at school was also equivalent
to donning a hoodie
with the word DUFFER
  printed on it...

pandering, smoochy pups,
as with all things small /
young, a kaleidoscope
of sighs and hopes
     twirling,
   tangled in burning ribbons
on a gymnastics floor...

vox politico
   on a canvas of
      votum ad status quo...
who would have expected
to be lectured either
side of the same bollocking
of an algebraic bashing
tedium via
       this horrid concensus
excuse...
     but it's the 21st century!

well... one thing is for
certain, just prior to the tickling
of EMO...
    even the 80s weren't so
bad when it came to music...

/ nuclear fallout tongue
    rigidity:

for all the politico right-think,
a clarified enemy
like a diamond smeared
with oil and dipped into
a lake at a pristine sunrise,

  voices outside
of parliament
    turned in a burping
vacuum upon its threshold...

in no defence: contra cultural
Marxism (whatever that means)
capiulating...
                                  /

for all the political
              pandering...
just so buttered to levitate
sickly visible in moonlight
like a firmament bullseye of
a gaping ***-hole...

    cultural Darwinism?
  (i'll have to drill this term
in)...
      seditio ad concensus...
i.e.
        they might have
the "right" political verbiage
in the anonymous forums...

but sure as **** they
have some sort of ID...
    they'll probably shop online...
and as far as i am concerned...
nothing to look
forward to in terms of
   music.

i just can't get rid of the moths...
5 for one bedroom
and... it's hardly an enterprise
in cubisms' revisionism...
daddy larva -
should i leave some
cotton for these poor
delights...
                  am i riddled with
a western "world" exhausted...
like... the pops of no new
genius?
  like polyphony was never
at play:
   when the rigour of man
made it: less of an affair that might
suggest green tea
and the superfluous
fling of a pancake at
a constellation of: nowhere...
  a crucial time for messiahs
and for caricatures...
magicians and iranian baklava bite-sized
retreats...
  not necessarily iranian:
could be lebanese!
       it's not like this grand past,
this grand history...
this inheritance tax on the mind
was to be ever borrowed from
a concentration on the trade
routes surrounding the baltic sea...
i... inherited... nada! nothing!
i acquired english when i should
have given inclination
to tsarina cyrillic and minor hector
mandarin...
       it's so unsurprising, though...
to catch up on the bbc radio 3 adventure...
to reach a platitude of i.q.:
i finally! finally!
fathomed the point of an english
soap opera... eastenders...
i didn't find an i.q. focus to mind...
a continuum perhaps...
but it has and always has been
just... ever so tiresome...
to compensate i.q. -
or to overstate it...
             it's not that i found soap opera
dumb... but after waking up
to bbc radio 3... i knew i was missing
a narrative: an assurance...
a soap opera is an assurance...
however banal the pursuit of harlequin
is...
it's there: a persistent brick upon brick:
wall!
      well... it's one compliment to hear:
that children "like" you...
that dogs or cats like you...
but... for god's sake... moths?!
i am not quiet assured a status in alignment
with a buffalo bill...

so much for nabokov
and the whole ****** and the entomologist /
etymologist...
catch them with what?
my bright oozing bulb of a phosphorescent
appreciation for the punchy cliche
goldberg variations?

to be honestly endeared by a dog...
to be made forthcoming
by a quizzical attention span of cats toying
with poker...
      but to make endearing
inquiries in the realm of insects...
who... fathomed... the flies...
a mythological man with an authentic
given name that came to be
the realisation of the myth of Beelzebub...

well... so much for sharing...
on the crux of a noun... like any other...
be it a moth... motte... ćma...
or a butterfly... schmetterling... MOTYL...
globalisation and...
well... no real etymological sensibility....

not even in sharpnel wording:
    in: w,
               im...
                        z: with, mit
o: about, um...
                      od: from, von...
so much for a shared purpose a sharing
of tattoos and ******* blisters...
like old age is a crease...
and youth an argument...
best invested in pickles...

                the ordeal of the night sky...
while having to grind a gripping
reality of something profoundly
stupid that it cannot be anything beside
stupid...
         a concept of a solitary pine...
when a pine as solitary is
impossible to fathom:
or a birch thus solo...

        an oak: while the adventures
of birches have come to their
natural advent of regrets...
           and this solo coffin shadow come
noon stans procrastinating a
show of shadows borrowed from
an overflow of the Styx...

Thames: a river... with... no authentic
tide: from mountains toward
the sea...
no... the Thames is an inauthentic river...
if it's a river to begin with...
a sea knows a concern for tide...
but a river?
a river should know no mirror
bogus "now" of a tide...
the Thames is like the Bermuda Delta...
an irrational high-rise ****...
enough to pluck one's eyes
out for...
   or don a sheikh hanky panky teasing
that 19th century morbid whitey
of celestial: wool! my eyes! needs! woolz!

some banal Clarice chasing a hunchback
Circe with a Charon towing...
impossible gravity of walking a stupendous
walk of arrogance:
this two-feet-tow...
my bucktooth and arithmetic:
theatre von der nacht:
lepper zeppelin -
   authentically lisping minor details:
an accent "here" or... "dasein"...

teatr nocy...
               ćma i jej obcy:
a moth and her other...
              like some proto-digestion
of custard and borrowed glue...
me left to my own: deus "ex" machina /
**** in machina device-works...
a concept of switzerland came
with both the tickling time-keeper
of a form of clock and some lesser
known 20th century protagonist
by the name of Young...

                  persuasions please!
i can leave my i.q. on the diatribe for
the persistent allowance
of the desired... "englishness" of:
queue...
            bread the brittle futurism of
a sanctity of bread:
beside this "thing" dubbed irish...
and gnats and breadcrumbs...
itches furthest from the last
encompassing loiter...
of a truth salvaged via
a tartare steak...
a kogiel-mogiel...

                  a bread-owned soaking
up of a spilling yoke:
like it's a french... "thing"...
teasing an affair of a wig...
best: warsaw will forever be...
an interlude of:
the concept question from
london toward tokyo...
i.e.: why can't we have nice things...
answer?
we... ahem... never had them...
we tried... vaginal ****-wit
from Brandenburg or that ****-****-wit
from lady muscovite...

here's to samson-frankenstein's monster...
the furore surrounding
the faroe islands...
the 20 thousand(s) composition
of the shetland:
united schkootland repose:
'aggis neeps 'n' tatties!

enough salz undz pfeffer
und we have haz ours...
hinderburg-esque hogmanay!
of the british:
not lived among the vilsh...
or the scuttling furore of the:
'igh 'anders...
          
cutie pie pork chop
worth a *******'s towing:
that last vanguard of / if:
              "too few"...

no... no good lending an ear
to listen to "shared": charred...
etymology of greek or russian...
London's desperate plight:
*** ordeal that never has to happen...

there have to be concerns
for calling it a new 9am...
just because it just so happens
in Edinburgh...
  there's the chopping of wood...
there's the ordeal of castratos
attired in niqabs...
the harems of the ottomans are
still a fetish for imagery best
sourced in Vienna...

            to worship the night:
is to find enough of day...
as sacrificial:
as banal... as enough...
to think with an exhaustion
of compensation:
     it's not that i dare not: dream...
but it's not enough to dream
to begin with...
i will harvest this eternal night...
to eat away at the day's
mediocre...
              mirror mirror...
             your wish for status lake...
i see no question-worthiness
in either sea or river...
how is it that i write
to fathomable formal linguo?
                  mirror in the shadow...
mirror in the lake...
murky time of river
and the hiding grey of the sea(s)...
come tide come swelling of
hinterland ambitions...
this little norse retreat of my
last perspective...
            perhaps i just want
to die a death pronounced by
having to don an agitating
pair of shoes: that demand...
towing a scenic incredulity of
a miser's mile?!

         how's that? roundabout
faroe isles! an itch of spreading butter
on... toasted bread:
notably a sourdough crusted:
new holborn sort of "adventure"...
no.. nothing new...
here's to drinking some more
while making it simultaneously
well-reserved ast having
the same inviting prospect of...
looking for:
a loot of a shakespeare and a full-stop.

id est contra sic (502 bad gateway bypass)

dare to write something
beautiful only once...
the rest of the time you can
spend it (i.e. time)
finding the world rather
ugly...

            (caught you mother-******!,
no i can publish my original intent!)

i sit on the windowsill come the night and look out
at the clouds and the moon and everything else
the night might allow me to see,
but at the same time i'm tricking my cat into
"thinking" that i'm sitting on a windowsill drinking
and looking at "something"
for him to subsequently imitate me when
i'm not on the windowsill to do the same...
he decided it was worthwhile to imitate me...
sometimes he sits on my usual spot
(although not perched like a crow,
sitting on a folded leg, crunching the bones
where my leg ends and my foot begins)
or he sits parallel to me on the windowsill
in the bathroom...
i look out, he looks out...
what he doesn't know is that when i'm looking
at the horizon and the moon and trying
to conjure faces from the clouds i'm actually looking
in... these external objects just aid me in introspection,
i have this cauldron of memories stashed in me
that i bring to the fore in a labyrinth of
thought...
it helps to elevate and bring together
a mixture of thought-memory... i can't escape thinking
without memory: it has been drilled into me from
an early age, mind you: everyone has been drilled
this complex: thought-memory within the confines
of pedagogy... very quickly we are told that
thought-memory is prime while thought-imagination
ought to be extinguished...
i.e. you should really imagine a circle if you've already
seen a circle, but you should remember
that... A = πr²...
                                no? within the confines of modern
pedagogy we are absolved of any imagination:
we apparently have none, no imagination to put up
with a mundane job by imagination little critters of
escapism on our own behalf within ourselves...
and memory? well... personal memories can sort
of "**** themselves" when it comes to memorising
rubrics of arithmetic and spelling...
or the ingestion of historical facts that: when coupled
with the ongoing onslaught of journalistic overload
mean very little... in a time of libido and historical
insomnias...
well i do know how to escape from something
mundane presented before me...
i remember better times,
memory is a fickle creature: it takes time to control
it in order to select the most pleasurable memories:
and even then, it doesn't ****** work:
pedagogy did that: we had to remember things we
would rather wish to forget because they have
to relevance in our life, or how we apply our skills
or non-skills... but of the personal memories we
gather: they are automatically filtered by memory-itself,
a "cognitive selection" takes places:
who says it's either natural or unnatural,
is must be both... then again: you can't remember everything,
but i prefer the cinema of memory mingling
with thought (or its narrative aspect absent
of the ******) than if i were lost in imago-cogito...
the imagining-thinking...
my cat "thinks" i'm looking at something interesting...
i'm not... then again i am: i'm looking backwards:
i'm reflection on, for example, today...
Poet of the Coliseum... supervising blah blah...
what crept up today was what has crept up
at the London Stadium for the past several shifts...
the Jeffrey Dahmer (ugh... a surd of H)
show... i swear to god i'm sensing that i'm giving off
vibes of a serial killer to certain people...
in the work environment people try to cue
some personality, some personal references to fellow
coworkers... me? i'm trying to push back with as much
ahem... "professionalism" as possible...
i'm here, i work, i'm done, i'm out...
i drink alone, i don't drink to talk i drink to write...
but over several shifts this topic was raised and i'm like...
can't we talk about Ed Gein?
he was a much bigger cultural influence on America than
the whole lot of them put together...
all the serial killers were white... huh?!
what about that black guy... why isn't Samuel Little
famous, based on the body count?
we talked about America... racism blah blah... south...
i said i didn't have a thirst for seeing America...
Kamchatka, the peninsula? oh yeah... America?
no really... it's a land of the celebration of Cain...
clearly... elsewhere serial killers would be taken into
a prison cell and get shot in the back of the head
and as the urban myth goes... they wouldn't die
immediately... sure... the brain would be ******...
but the heart would still be ticking tick-tock...
a bullet in the head is not some magical immediacy of death...
ask Christine Chubbuck... she was on life support
machines in limbo because she only not only
missed her brain but merely damaged it...
like that urban myth aligned to:
a cockroach loses its head... what does the cockroach
die of? starvation...
Franz Kafka was right (stab the heart)
Kurt Cobain was wrong (shotgun to the head)...
am i seriously giving off vibes of a serial killer or something?!
well... finally! i found one Subway outlet that
accepted discount vouchers...
ate nothing beside a slice of pizza i made the day earlier
when i woke up... i was getting dizzy from low sugar...
i ordered a foot-long chicken something or other...
and a drink... £5.50... decent...
i love Subway... why? the bread is prepped,
the meat... then you get to the salad section and the girl
asks you... what would you like, onions? sweetcorn,
salad, black olives... etc.
     it gets them all the time when you reply: all of it...
i ******* hate fussy eaters... if there's one "class" of
people i hate more than vegans it's: fussy eaters...
i hate fussy eaters...
i'll eat dried fish and drink beer with Russians talking
about fussy eaters and how: no...
peanuts are not the perfect compliment to beer...
Russians gulp down dried fish while drinking beer
like the Thai add dried shrimps to their curry sauces...
idle me... i do believe animals have souls...
i just don't think they think...
how can a dog think when all he can is utter
a bark or a cat think if he can only utter a meow?
what "thinking" is there bound to man's
"deciphering" of the sound the cat utters
with the letters M-E-O-W... blind men see more
with their agility to think than cat's with their
utterance of a meow...
i know: an onomatopoeia...
                              but i guess that also conjures
up a correspondence to character...
petted animals build a character off of the person
petting them... herded animal, farmed animals
are different: if there's a "problem" of numbers
then i assure myself: cows have no personality,
they're no petted beasts... ergo?
they return to the godhead of cows...
and i close the lid and never ask Pandora for her
knitting skills... to unravel my closed box
per se explanation... as happened with Beelzebub
and Hey-Zeus of Golgotha becoming the
Lord of Mosquitos... everything ******* vampire-esque
stems from that "metaphor" of this wine is
blood and this water is also wine...
i do know how he managed to get those people
drunk on water...
he wasn't alone in the desert for those 40 days and
40 nights...
nope... if he managed to get people "drunk" on water...
he must have taken them into the desert with him...
imagine not drinking water or eating for a month...
what would happen after those 40 days and nights?
you'd drink a glass of water
and become revived: "resurrected"!
you'd be glad and happy and seemingly drunk...
why? you haven't been drinking water for 40 days!
the moment you drank a little you'd be *******
seemingly drunk! it's the ascetic veil!
everyone should know what it is!

look at me... talking curtains and veils and mirrors...
but it is what it is!
i would be drunk from drinking water
after spending 40 days in the desert without a drip drip
droplet's worth of ease...
******* "mysteries" my ***... i must have been there...
in my sleep... so much so that now that i have a body
and a capacity to dream: i don't dream...
i must have seen what truly happened:
i bypassed the Byzantine grandeur of the choir singing
and said: when a Byzantine forgets that he
was a Greek primo, is the day that...
well... it's a day like any other...

i really don't know what "they" are trying...
even with all their ******* wigs i will not find black
women attractive... all the white girls can have
all the black boys: i too find something attractive about them,
but i can't compensate with the reverse...
i'll settle for... Gypsy... Romanian... Indian...
the odd black girl might spice my thinking up
once in a while... but that's like finding an emerald
in a heap of sand...

hmm! ha ha! me living in Africa... i was actually
thinking about ******* off to Kenya to try
and become a model for an advert... advertising soap...
or custard... since Western Europe is collapsing
like a gecko pretending to me a sloth...
but fair enough, circa London: the whole world is here...
as long as i can keep the mystique of people
thinking i'm this evil person, i'm all for it...
i like the idea of being thought as evil:
thinking you're evil: when you're not...
makes life so much more easier...
you don't have to worry about moral grand-standing!
you have no superiority "complex" over anyone...
you just "nod"... yes, yes yes...
i'm evil... well... better a presupposition of evil
(however much deluded)
than a supposition of good (however much well-intended)...

but in the workplace, mein gott... these horror stories...
these women...
i don't know how they managed it...
she makes her 3rd mistake with this guy:
who doesn't pay her child support...
3 kids, works 6 days a week as a nurse in
a hospital... blah blah...
how many mistakes do you have to make
before you start learning?
Pontius Pilate made it spot on:
a sport of washing your hands clean from:
no... not from being responsible for the self...
rather: meditating on not being responsible for others...
for others' mistakes you would otherwise
not make: i can understand being responsible
being responsible for others who would otherwise
make you responsible...
but not... not when the responsibility is aligned
to: people owning up to their mistakes
you would otherwise could not have made...

Christianity: the bogus focus on attempts of
ownership... own up?! no, oh no no...
so don't own up?! oh no, no no...
what then?!

              Christianity is rife in Africa...
well... a slave religion is befitting to supposed former
slaves... i need to elevate myself beyond this grip
of the emblem of suffering in the form of the crucifix...
let Hebrew be Hebrew and continually overstate
his conundrum with divine intervention
via: it wasn't enough! you didn't give us superpowers!

well... we do have c.c.t.v. in place, not enough?!
**** it... if that's not enough...
no wonder the mass sacrifice...
the breathing of ash into the air...
how much of a divine involvement do you actually
require before you decide to take life
into your own hands?!
how many hands do you have, before you realise
it requires at most, two?!

of course i'm *******!
i'm giggly-*******!
i see specimens weaker than me and i tend to them...
and they like me for that...
a ******* starts snuggling up to me
giving me a hand-job before i realise she was
a shallow **** and i can't get a plum "tattoo" on my pelvic
region from ******* her
and her face contorts in a semi-expression of pain....

but these women with obligations:
i was telling my fellow-co-workers,
before feminism... as my grandfather used to say:
there was something known as
the "bachelors' tax"... they were absolutely
dumb-founded... culturally-appropriate that,
*******...
yeah, single men had to pay extra taxes for
being single!

now?
i have as much "Darwinism" up my *** as i have
in my gob and as much as is allowed in head...
which is as much as my quasi-homosexuality
is ever to be nails harassed with acrylics...

perhaps women outperform the men in...
a load of bolloks...
but at the same time...
sparrow... sparrow: the call for freedom....
i am freed from the expected sanitising obligations
orientating men....

to be men...
                thank you, i most grand thank you...
thank you, thank you, thank you!
you don't even fathom how long
i've been waiting for an age of "irresponsibility"!
thank you!

i listen to these women,
i listen good, and proper...
if i were to pass on this agony...
i'd ask for the girl i was with
to be an iron maiden instrument of torture
before she could attain her status-hood
of being some... ******-Jezebel
of however capsized:
this ship is not going to sink!

                           and all the luck bound
to a barrel that's not floating on the whims
of the sea!

When ideology joins brutality
And deadly fire rains down from above--
When plaintive human cries punctuate the skies
And the hawk devours the gentle dove--
Then we should all assess what our hearts express
And wonder if we've done all that we can.
But who can mitigate vicious, cruel hate
And suffering in poor Afghanistan?

When uncertainty belies stability
While the Taliban are on the move,
Insurgents will demand to have the upper hand,
Although other countries disapprove.
Twenty years of knowing how the winds were blowing,
Twenty years of guessing from afar…
Our underestimations and gross miscalculations
Had optimists all wishing on a star.

As hopes begin to ebb, the spider spins its web
And patiently awaits its helpless prey.
Extremist factions gain the power to remain.
How sad for the poor souls who must stay!
The day has turned to night; the Taliban will fight,
Determined to pursue their cruel quest.
They'll erase the past as they remain steadfast.
The Bamiyan Buddhas can attest.

People will cry "Shame!" and try to pass the blame.
At this point that is meaningless to do.
For years plans were unveiled, and many of them failed.
Here we go again: déjà vu.
So what happens now? Does anyone know how
The Afghans can withstand the cruel regime?
Sympathies fall flat. Just remember that
Things are often much worse than they seem.

What was bound to occur is not what we'd prefer
For the people's sake to see unroll.
The Taliban has more money than before,
And that has helped the rebels gain control.
It's hard not to obsess about the ghastly mess
Created by the brutal Taliban.
One can't overstate the sadness of the fate
Of all who suffer in Afghanistan.

-by Bob B (8-15-21)

My case
I wouldn't overstate
enough has been said
it would but exacerbate

I'll walk away
let others their story relate
each life is a polarity apart
it defies all debate

.                      from a zenith to a nadir...
   from what i pecked at with eyes
rather than a beak
of the night sky... and its strange "occurences"...
did i fall to sleep...
and while sleeping: scream in my bed?
i rather: but more clearly... don't remember...

of all that i have read: my body should
be covered in tattoos...
of only words...
         but i don't want that...
                    in the obscure regions of art:
roving stars are sometimes the norm...

      clearly: i can't overstate this "fact"...
it's oh so normal...
                 am i to suddenly doubt whether or not
i looked up at the night sky, prior?

beside the constellations...
now... it would make more sense to go about
my daily: routines, chores... worries...
if being alone wasn't alone enough
to get to know what the neighbors have planned...

i can't exactly wonder when looking up
at the night sky... stars are not supposed to me...
i look up... yet another is "wandering"...
before the great interlude...
i saw a streak of them...
                  must have been over 20...
moving on a skew... equal distance apart
between each...

i once saw a bulging cloud of smoke...
and a firecracker of fire make a smiley streak
into it...
            some people have looked for this...
connection... to a demiurge or otherwise
wandered past it...
  i did read some gnosticism when i was still
a teenager...
which you do... when you attend a catholic
school...
  we were obliged to think that...
the 1960s psychadelic revolution didn't happen
in what became... outer east london...
we were to be the new ukranian irish
about to sniff glue...
   no... drugs weren't on offer...
at least: not the good drugs...
           as long as we fully entombed in a body
and would become: necessary bricklayers...

i wouldn't mind that...
but i'd like to have a sensation that my brain
at least allowed for a labyrinth to be made
available...
rather than a sponge-suckling of give-me-give-me
propaganda regurgitation...
i could stand a chained body...
but a chained mind?
      something's got to give...

on the sly... while the deities look on and say:
say: final! this liberal vs. conservative
debate has to end...
        we'll sort out the arguments with
a placebo dialectic...
        we'll send in a virus... settled?
no... of course it's not settled...
nothing is ever settled in a democracy....

i "rant" while a bukowski gets away
with writing "poetry"...
                 not enough rhyme... not enough:
"scope"? not haiku enough?
            
    i'm coming back exhausted from watching:
what shouldn't be taking place...
someone suggested: you sure they're not satellites?
can you see... a fridge on earth from the orbit?
same ******* question!

hell... if it was the star of bethlehem... sure...
the major... the inquisitive barber shop pundits...
of course the shepherds... and the three wise men...
i once had it funneled into my head:
blind faith... good enough that it's not
bad faith built upon negation...
or worse still... give me this greyish layer
of "will"...

             i only ever had two choices to begin
with... given that there's an: "immediacy" of subsequence...
two choices... which later drift off into a spare
universe of a juggling-act of "what-ifs"!

i know that i don't know:
i'm alone and i'm just too tired... mentally exhausted
to be truly scared:
if i am... i tend to scream when i'm detached
from consciousness...
asleep...
       but stars should be moving...
with pointers of a whole load of them...
and some in constellations...

         "looking for answers": well... wouldn't you
believe that i'm looking for them, too?!
leave me with a rottweiler puppy... give me 5 years...
you'll get a rottweiler back...
but it won't be a puppy...
  it will be a sentinel beast...
  
******* me one more time as if this is normal...
that stars... have been given
a sudden clause: to move... roam...
      on the sly i have heard of people having noticed
this... but oh sure... the science guys
have placed it on their first in the priority
list of events...
but not like this...

        not when you're probably the only person
in the vicinity looking up...
to see a constellation of a Δ roaming across
the sky... and you're down below...
at a UCL event... a student affair for replicating
a catwalk...
you're in the courtyard near the UCL dome...
smoking a cigarette... looking up...
no one... does... that?
everyone looking down... with horse blinders?!

you can't be allowed to look up at the stars...
what else is there to look up at
when daylight comes?! the lure of the azure
of light piercing the oceans and providing
that solipsistic blanket of blue
that's called the atmosphere and: myopia for
the day-to-day inconveniences, chores...
and pests of bureaucratic details?

i can't turn this into a goose that will lay golden
eggs for me... a patent or a franchise...

i've heard a choir, a descent and a grand wind
that didn't begin to express words...
a muslim woman revealed herself wearing
a niqab: wtich first impressions...
i just stood rooted in stone...
before an image of joseph merrick...

none of this is supposed to make "sense"
of an ownership of eyes...
or ears... or touch of scent...
this tongue would be better suited
to epitome a bark... or a growl...
a snark: the chess of events from circa 2007
have already dwarfed me...

               what good is secular psychiatry
with any of this?
     any mention of an omnipresence in the variation
of a virus: a footnote of god / the demiurge...
otherwise back into the confines
of: ex nihil and... 'to have to believe in my, self'...
belief... in... a... self...
wrapping up a rap from a baboon's ***...
self-determination...
what else is it called?
               the autistic "paradox"...
                        
                              wreckage sought by the seas:
lie beneath... no calmness of the waves...
or ageing perpetuated:
by the onslought of wrinkles...
      creases to the page...
ink blots or dying from the exposure
to weathered pages: turning into a tinge
of a new-born chick...
clucking for... the glutton to choke...
and subsequently sing an aria...

                  yet this... drinking mania
and a phosphorescence of insomnia...
                              
   no one questions the coming of the tide...
since... no one was ever to question
the tide per se...
       a tide without measures...
is neither a coming or a going...
               perpetuated: the latitutdes
of impregnating change...

               where's by paragraph?
where's my sanity project paragraph
of prose? where is it all...
this: bothering over...
minor turned into major event
schematics? riddled with orthography
and not once citing a pursuit
of metaphysical architecture?

  where now... or what of: now?
          i don't like being sold back the oddity
in the stars...
  that it's somehow mortally normal...
      i looks for the spezials in moi...
i can'ts see any...
    this mediocre blip... well... with all
the hierarchies in deposit: and place...
who would... fathom a "besides" worth
a hierarchical translation?
no one these days is to be evert infected
with the protestant infection
of: the ***** karma of predestination...

protestant evil of the lutheran peasants...
what's: karma...
in the guise of predestination?
this is: unavoidable...
this has been given a priori superiority:
without my knowledge...
or an ear's or an eye's worth
of inkling to hear ot simply see?

take the concept of buddhist karma...
then take... the protestant predestination...
all pros are quits...
   there are no propositions of grain,
guarantee or gamble...
    it's all very much:
what you see is what you get...
if asking for more...
suppose you to be no more than a common
beggar...

            works well for the folk
stapped to a king's dept...
when it comes to being entertained at court...
i.e. notably, being presentable...
e.g. being well, attired!
my louis: the ******* 14th...
harem boast... and some dear-lady...
much later... much much later: vuitton...

                    the virus that becomes the sieve...
here's the bandwagon:
climb onto it... words are spare...
and with what is spare...
       look out for the scarcity....
                         because...
                 "we're" about to rattle some cages...
and gesticulate with stones
via a juggling them:
    interim...   cackling... rats... pretending
to be shoes... or rather... magpies!

They want to rehabilitate
the image that people hate.
Instead, of trying to change
their bad behavior
they distort and overstate,
debate just to aggravate
and obstruct you from trying to
relate real facts to take
and share the uncomfortable truths.

Grand standing
while demanding
we hand them everything.

They are ****** villains
like cult commanders
who panders
to worse leaders.