You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to **** you.
You died before I had time ----
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My ****** friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You ----

Not God but a *******
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the *****.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two ----
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagersnever liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you *******, I'm through.

To taste the bittersweet nectar of thy lunar lips.
Lie me hope, sing to me the song of the helix.
Proffer me the chance to breach thy bastion,
encompass thee in my love and compassion.
Sanction me to be that one whispering love stories
in thine ear while bathing in the Aurora Borealis
dazzling and clear.
You and I, a rickety tent and a love nothing less of
heaven sent.
In mine heart thou shalt forever remain.
My panzer maid grant me...the fall of rain.

Gretchen wept in her easy chair
And called for her husband, Karl,
They’d been together for sixty years,
Though both were worn and frail.
They’d met in the ruins of München, when
The ***** collapsed and fell,
Escaped to live in Australia
From their own idea of hell.

For Karl had served in the Wehrmacht,
In a Tank Corps at Dieppe,
Had served in the Panzergruppe von Kleist
Had roamed the Russian steppes,
His tank had taken him through Ukraine
They’d taken the plains by force,
But found their pain when the Russians came,
In their huge T-34’s.

But that was the world of way back when,
For Karl was old and grey,
He slept a lot in his tidy home,
The nurse came every day,
His wife developed dementia, she’d
Forget where she used to roam,
So she was parted from husband Karl,
Was sent to a Nursing Home!

He walked with the aid of a walking frame,
He couldn’t quite get around,
But listened for echoes of Gretchen’s voice
In the house that made no sound,
And all he thought was to rescue her,
To bring his girl back home,
But the powers that be said: ‘Wait and see!’
She was lost to him - Alone!

He went to visit her, once a week,
They held each other's hand,
She cried so much when he had to leave,
She never could understand,
And he was desolate every time,
He’d cling to her so tight,
That they had to prise his hand away
When they sent him away at night.

The nurses were harsh and businesslike,
To them it was just a job,
With no compassion for patients, they
Would leave all that to God.
Demented souls ran over his feet
With trolleys and walking frames,
When Karl grew angry, they shrugged and said:
‘Well - Everyone complains!’

One Sunday, standing outside the doors,
He saw his Tiger Tank,
It growled, and pulled up beside him there
And the diesel fumes, they stank.
He climbed aboard with his comrades there,
And ‘Schnell!’ they called, to a man,
Then lumbered straight through the double doors,
The nurses turned and ran!

The Tiger reared and it turned about
Tore carpet up from the floor,
The tracks ran over the matron’s feet,
Let out a fearful roar,
The patients cheered as the Iron Cross
Raced past their common room,
And smashed the glass in the office door,
And crushed the sister’s urn!

Then Gretchen laughed as he came in sight,
‘Here comes my husband, Karl!
He'll break us out of this prison ward,
Can you hear his Tiger snarl?’
He stopped and reached for his Gretchen then
Looked deep in her eyes, and swore:
‘I’ll not be parted from you again
Though hell should bar the door!’

They found them lying together there,
He held her safe in his arms,
They'd gone together where lovers go
Away from the world's alarms.
‘He went quite crazy,’ the Matron said,
‘He must have been insane!’
For lying outside her shattered door
Was his twisted walking frame!

David Lewis Paget

a conscious translation of the ego into the id is only automated thinking; that’s the content of the id, pluralism of thinking, it’s all automation, the id is the ego although plural due to automation understood easier because the id is the unconscious ego thought about, hence the excess of psychological theorisation; the freudian stance simple says of the cartesian inquiry: it thinks. the limbo of lost identity! the queueing of card shuffles and the bigger fear other than death in man, the fear of crow and pigeon conformity to repeat inanimate exactness for the narcissus to embody himself; for consciously we say ‘i think,’ there’s identity in that, unconsciously we say ‘it thinks’ ending up a statement of technicality never realised. pluralism and automation is the order in a reckless dream of a charles manson given the neon and example to refer to or imitate. the gods don’t give oral ***, hence their pristine vocabulary that’s less vulture like less and less unlike man’s.*

i don’t have a lot to say, feeling wise? a lot,
hence i write more words than take photographs;
it’s the ultimate antidote to seeing tree, stone, pavement,
when i get to use r and e to write about yellowish sunsets.
because using letter on blanks nurtured me
to stress less of seeing contorting threes with
the face that gaped a silent shout teary eyed to craft chaos.
i was about to be shakespeare but
the my regina interrupted,
i was going to say things like:
animals and children like me,
i gave my pinky away to a toddler
on a bench before i put on sweet sixteen’s heart-shaped lenses
to allow the sun its 3pm in autumn,
i gave a toddler my pinky.
cats are content while dogs are just happy,
i gave my pinky away
like michelangelo painting the two indexes touching
in the ghetto crib of two ******* brawling hello for the revised modern.
toddler took it with an apple in the other hand.
i almost said that the best song of rage against the machine
wasn’t: born of a broken man.
i’m vietnam in the american vanity!
hollywood considered abduction and retirement
with my statement.
you’re a good man when animals and children like  you
but women dislike you,
but with christ the children loved him too much and he said so
touchy feely with the armageddon kids behind a priest’s collar
leashing *******;
the animals? the animals were too eager on the donkey to architecture golgotha.
i’m less irish and even less catholic it would seem,
but when i write and weep, articulate the satanic:
tell one lie and learn many truths -
i'm almost satisfied to join a pilgrimage like a moth
attracted to a lightbulb from the shadows of knees.

once you've read enough, or what's
called a respectable "bank account"
in literary terms, you fall back
on poetry, journalism and book reviews...
which springs to mind
a comparison between being a violinist
in an opera, playing a concerto or
being a street vendor, busking out
alternatives to the satanic cartwheels
of rubber tires slicing up a defiant cement road
in a busy hub on the Embankment -
i still want to cry every time i
hear bob marley's redemption song
or the other bob's north country blues,
i don't know, it just happens like period
pains, it's a grudge brimming near
the boiling point of water or the melting point
of iron that's lucky for chefs and for blacksmiths...
i am picking up the pieces of an empire,
the british rubble and a world in chaotic chuckles...
as they said of the roman degeneracy...
that ****** fascination with cuisine...
too any fast-food outlets...
no, but indeed, when you've become satiated with
a personal taste for reading, you
end up reading book reviews...
but i don't understand why a dominic would
read a book by a luke concerning drugs and warfare,
as picked up: 'odin's men rushed forward without
armour, were as mad as dogs or wolves,
bit their shields, and were as strong as bears or
wild oxen...' citing Snorri Sturluson...
the missing clue? magic mushrooms.
also worth mentioning: the 1814 Swedish-Norwegian
war... magic mushrooms aplenty...
in 1945 Soviets in Hungary dubbed the 'rabid dogs'
(indeed no " " enclosure, i trust the man's
descriptive certainty, indeed they were rabid
and dogs and there's no ambiguity to be invoked)
swallowing fly agaric...
american pilots in Afghanistan caffeine+
i.e. amphetamines...
Homer's heroes drunk (why is it that when a poet
is company during a war it becomes iconic
and almost glorious to keep the blood-thirst up?
like that idiocy of warring in the Napoleonic times,
a line of men, walk among canon fire and
stand 20 metres apart and just shoot...
like the post-Napoleonic war strategy of killing
civilians, huh?)... as too the heavy drinking
with king Harold prior to 1066 Hastings...
through to Vietnam, 1971 -
51% of GIs smoked marijuana, 28% took hard
drugs (******) and 31% used psychedelics...
****** was high as ****... a Michael Jackson of his day...
the ****** Eudodal... the luftwaffe on Pervitin
(earliest patent for crystal ****) and too
the Panzer men, e.g. a Gerd Schmücle.
sober citation at the end of the review
quoting a soviet surgeon:
                        'women and wine
                         are all very fine,
                         but a real man needs more:
                         the sweet taste of war.'
sometimes i'm in that aspect of things, almost gladly
i'd take up a trunk of wood and bash about
the field - but i realised poetry is a great war
you fight solo, and there's no brotherhood idealism,
solo, solo, all the way through...
but this still doesn't explain why a boy would
read blue material, as above mentioned,
and a girl would read pink material...
a jessica reading sounds and sweet airs:
                                        the forgotten women of
              classical music...
gentrification in the making... why wouldn't a boy
read pink material? too much of a crane driver or
a lorry nomad in him, to simply sit down
and hear a diva with 'oh, what ****!'
citing the Duke of Mantua's envoy that was Barbara
Strozzi play the clarinet?
you know why i'm cynical about feminism?
it's too distracted, it wants to spread its influence into
every human endeavour, positively speaking
it's what woman always boast about:
feminism is multitasking... it has to be relevant in
every realm of thinking... first of all it should focus
on one, and stop this quasi-plagiarism it's doing
at the moment in every aspect of cognition -
i say, the founding mother, the matriarch of
******* is feminism - honey... can't **** all the time,
gotta forage and hunt and build houses too!

your heart is a violent gang
prowling the streets after dark
mine is the bird that once sang
covered in blood & curious marks

when my bird and your gang collide
there isn't an obvious winner
neither regard the rules or, by them, abide
both will eat your family for dinner

jet black boots and thoughts to match
your legs are barbed-wire baseball bats
i never asked if there was a catch
and now my legs are scared little cats

but inside me sleeps a bomb
it doesn't tick, but it's always rolling
like a panzer tank emitting a sad song
i press a button and we both go strolling
everything is nothing but everything is showing

islam is really buying into an ideological
warfare
       of creating a historiogical narrative
for former crusader nations...
           the history? it's way gone, past,
in the dust... but islam is probing
        this need to settle old qualms in a modern
narrative...
    i can't actually add to a history
           these days, but i can take up a banner
of historiology, or so i am told...
   and yes, certain words aren't exactly
the standard bearers of who easily you can
rap them...
            you really need to pause and catch
the nuance... or the naiveness in which they're use...
   when i use the word historiological
i think of the past as having necessarily happened,
and in need to happen again, on the basis
of someone else telling me: you have to
inherit this.
            it's no wonder that islam attacks former
crusader nations... france esp.,
          what with adhemar, bishop of le puy,
urban ii grand speech lauching the ***** into
a tight spot... tancred de hauteville...
                 bohemond...
        radulph of caen merely annotated the deeds done
and the words said...
      robert, duke of normandy, and his daughter
adela, quick to **** at Urban's tongue... the truth...
   Islam is really reassigning us with
a historiology, not a history we might be prone
to forget, or be ashamed by...
   it's not doing what the word histiorology is defined by,
not this unearthing of graves, and their deseceration...
you really want to wake up the Nazgûl?!
seriously?
   sure, i can be your necromancer... we can have
total obliteration... just speak enough ****** constriction
to germans, and then point them at the target,
and you'll get a crossbow shock of the event...
     Islam really is warming us up for something,
they're nibbling at us, they're trying to
  really give us the "spark", it's not a case whether i'm
correct in thinking this... it's only that i feel it...
i can taste it... i can stomach it...
     such lovely names, those old crusaders...
Tancred...
                     mind you: peter the hermit's child
crusade...
                       if they came from north of Persia
they'd be drafted as Mameluks...
       le throng! if only there were always
the french incission to state that...
   le throng! you just can't leave youth culture
settle into the urban environment,
you really seem to want that... get pockets
of culture coming from the youth...
     it can't ever be grime from east or south london...
    me? i'm trapped in a library, i actually
built of myself... apparent;y 1 in 10 people don't
own a single book in england...
         the brothers Godfrey, Eustace & Baldwin...
   oh lookie lookie... you're tickling the beast
so just, any minute now and it will awake once more...
    and be cited as having said:
   walking up to me knee in blood and
slaughtered corpse... Harod looks pale the minute
past...
               Tancred... dubbed te Panzer sulphur snout...
are there more gentlemen of my stature on
their way?
        that's me: don't know who's the possessor
of a ***** and who of a juiced up ****...
   but i can bet the niqab does wonders...
   so much anonymity, you don't even need
  internet pseudonym names, no jackx666
or rogerxtra... you just don the ninja and, ooh!
ooh! everything's so flimsy! so airy! flutters
of a butterfly!
               that ***** king in the kingdom of heaven
movie did have a name: baldwin iv...
   and he was a *****...
         you'd accidently sneeze into his face
and his nose would fall off...
   true story, or i'm drunk...
           but my: this wine i made, this homemade
wine? it does the trick!
                 baldwin iv died aged twenty four...
lucky sod, kurt cobain of the medieval ages...
    oi oi... wait wait... ZENGI!
  zengi the heavy drinker! buddy!
fully name? imad ed-din zengi. ah, zengi zengi,
zengi... what tales i have for you...
      i'd tell them, and you'd turn out to be in full
disclosure trying to fake sober...
                        ibn al-athir also wrote something,
does it deserve more a toast or mere chronicler?
the latter will know.
fatimids and sunni caliphs...
              Balak, the dream-inspiration for
Fulcher of Chartres...
Antioch, Tyre, Edessa...
  and that old feverish fox known as the lesser
Barbarossa: Reynald de Châtillon...
         don't know...
   as an ethnic bias, i am of the people that remained
bound to a home near the Baltic sea...
  we also fought crusaders...
the knights templar, die ritter von deutsche haus
beispiel sankte mariam in yerusalem...
       which makes my history a bit different
to the current history...
i have other myths... with
Jagiello... and grand-komtur Brzęczyszczykiewicz...
but you know... hmm... let's go crazy
and pop a pill or two... blues for the upper
and reds for the downer...
what a unique occasion! are you sure
we're not sailing on a gondola in the water-alleys
of Venice singing some obscure folk-song, hmm?!
by now i look like the stańczyk (grand court
jester) in one of jan matejko's paintings,
laughing my *** off as to denote: that i am,
quiet righly: the most amused. ha ha.
Sioux! sioux! pruss! pruss!
     and the crucifix really is a profanity of
the tetragrammaton, that came back,
morphed, as if touching a philosophers stone,
and turned out to be an acronym n.e.w.s.:
north, east, west... south...
   the minute the tetragrammaton touched
the ✝ it came back as n.e.w.s.
      and that really is the most dignifying
Balaam equal compliment i can give...
      but you know, just seeing how Islam is really
inviting former crusader nations to have a fight...
   and i'm spotting this, coming from a region
that also had crusades riddle it...
    but it's true... the crusades around the Baltic coast
never get any coverage these days...
  i guess you can't really make momentum
from a reigion where it's natural resource hidden
in the ground is salt... rather than oil...
    then again, lying about,
reading the book crusades by terry jones
& alan ereira... didn't really make me think much...
   when it comes to the two splinters off
res in: res cogitans,
  i can only think of re-       i.e. reflex
   and re-    i.e. reflection...
     and the tongue these days is so ******* saggy....
i'd take more pleasure eating a bagpipe of haggis
than listen to current rhetoric...
    it's a sickness though, this demand Islam
is making, that once Israel has been established
we forget our cosmopolitan cocktails and engage in
a holy war...
                  but it is the narrative, we're almost expected
to feed into a crusader culture...
      but once again, i'm using a tongue that once
did wield crusading pomp, and i have an
underlining perspective of being on the receiving end
of crusades of the baltic states...
     i really should be jumping for joy right now...
   but given the schooling system in england,
or i suppose the whole of western europe,
i'm part of the schattenvolk...
                how the Lithuanians were so and so...
how the Poles were so and so...
    how i could almost try to seek out the same
linguistic pride of modern Silesians in ancient yore
of Pruß, but come against nothing but the Kashubian
denote...
**** me! so it really was worthwhile keeping
my native tongue, and exploring my ethnicity
and history like a ****-pants 16 year old girl
on a trip in the guise of tourism?!
  oh applause! this is better than milking old ladies
like Liberache might for a fur coat
or a gold-plated toilet!
     ooh... you rascal you...
                 can i please not sound gay now?
i hate how the concept of personnae can creep into
your psyche and give you, the most obliterating
narrative techniques imaginable...
                        but if you ask me...
Islam will not wage war against nationas that did not
succumb to the rhetoric of pope Urban Deux...
        i mean... can you really imagine a terrorist
attack in Poland?
             given that Poland experienced it's own taste
of crusades?
                 well... if it does happen... that really will
wake up something... it certainly won't be multiculturalism....
perhaps this really is merely a **** into the wind...
         my, all this can come out sleep-walking by
simply lying in bed and reading a history book?
             it's a good thing i assimilated on the basis
of merely using the tongue, rather than tapping into
past history of the people, past grievances, past prides,
past symbolism... i just use the language...
    i don't expect to really revolve around being an
adamant west ham supporter...
i just know that i'm Polish in the english language...
   and Islam doesn't really attack
      those who've have the better share of grievances...
whether in the 20th century context,
of going way back, when Israel was about...
             and reading a history book...
   wriggling toward a status of fame is absurd...
     i like the idea of: gently passing by like foam on
top of a cup of cappuccino...
                      someone said froth:
i'm exfoliating with this that and the other guess work
of vocab...
               well... that's that...
        worth noting the many more easily impressionable
young men out there...
                that would rather chop a head
of a person of their assimilated culture, and subsequently
not retain their native tongue,
   and then not play: smack the ******!
    layering over what their ethnicity clearly speaks,
although with a borrowed tongue...
       which is why a slang variation of language
has to emerge...
                it's not a case of slang representing
prior footing, and current footing, but cleansing
prior footing, as current footing, with only
a melting *** to be sure of...
         on the objective basis that's the right thing
to do... you really want to eat a good curry
at the end of the day...
  but sometimes you need someone to say:
me a shallot prior a carrot in that melting *** of spice...
        the feeling is not mutual...
    would i ever eat sand to sharpen my teeth
for a cannibalistic grin?
                         i'm quiet content with merely
dabbling in poached lamb... but if another mein teil
scenario arises... it'll probably come west of the Odra
river.

You do not do, you do not do  
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot  
For thirty years, poor and white,  
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to **** you.  
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,  
Ghastly statue with one gray toe  
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic  
Where it pours bean green over blue  
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.  
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town  
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.  
My ****** friend

Says there are a dozen or two.  
So I never could tell where you  
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.  
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.  
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.  
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna  
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck  
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.  
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a *******
So black no sky could squeak through.  
Every woman adores a Fascist,  
The boot in the face, the brute  
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,  
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot  
But no less a devil for that, no not  
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.  
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,  
And they stuck me together with glue.  
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the *****.  
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,  
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you  
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart  
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.  
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you *******, I’m through.

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to **** you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My ****** friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a *******
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the *****.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you *******, I'm through.

-sylvia plath 1932 -1963

You do not do, you do not do  
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot  
For thirty years, poor and white,  
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to **** you.  
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,  
Ghastly statue with one gray toe  
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic  
Where it pours bean green over blue  
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.  
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town  
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.  
My ****** friend

Says there are a dozen or two.  
So I never could tell where you  
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.  
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.  
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.  
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna  
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck  
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.  
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a *******
So black no sky could squeak through.  
Every woman adores a Fascist,  
The boot in the face, the brute  
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,  
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot  
But no less a devil for that, no not  
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.  
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,  
And they stuck me together with glue.  
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the *****.  
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,  
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you  
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart  
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.  
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you *******, I’m through.

Sylvia Plath, “Daddy” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)

I’m in a vicious state of mind,
no siren calls to stem the putrid inferno
burning my mind to charcoal,
petrifying it to unblemished obsidian.
Words of love don’t reach me,
silly human endearments bore me,
touch me and I’ll slice your hands off.
It’s not good, they tell me.
But I will build my armory.
Until this warped, traitorous world
can be wrenched, twisted, hammered
back into hinges,
that I have complete control of.
Silence...
Finally

Testament of a panzer maiden

i wasn't quantifying, i can succumb to the parasite, which means that i either die, or the parasite dies with me; might as well call that a five o'clock shadow.- i have my insanity plea, what do the contending parties' have? an assumption? a Cluedo guess-grime rather than guess-work? no wait, make that a ****... South Korean was the size of South America? i wish it was, taxes inconclusive? might posture for a yacht... and t-total a banana republic for all legitimate purposes for a shopping spree on coca - or is that's how taxing is done in this fair and decent country of Scandinavian restrictions concerning the feeble minded daddy-****-cares? Thailand was always the option with the quasis, ball sacked and ***-wanked-able: like  am Englishman in Thailand, *****-faced, with the Jersey Boys were moving beyond the Orwell parameter, i say Panzer, you tell me the **** brigade; you tell me pretty boys, you regurgitate me the ******* Bubonic Plague! am i understood?

i'm just bored of seeing MMXV everytime i switch
on the television, with the end credits...
i actually get indigestion...
i live in a country famed by
pedophiles rather than Liberace...
politzen-mann! politzen-mann!
homosexuality was one step forward,
and subsequently two steps back...
where are the women?
    where are the women?!
where are the women to sort this
problem out with what the Thai boys
sell: me sucky-sucky tug dollar, un' *****'s
       hour.
where's the rebellion?
               the b.b.c. became bankrupt
once the Savile affair dawned...
             even Ed Gein had more mourners
at his grave... to be honest
Ed had a grave to be desecrated...
   Jimbo? they finally decided to bury
him under a pebble... and them phoom!
mt. everest.
    but as sure as hell he made the b.b.c.
bankrupt... i'm surprised that
strictly come dancing isn't credited with
the same year as most of the b.b.c.
programmes are these days... em em ex viva forever
                as Churchill holding up the v away from
the mouth, not insinuating gulping down an oyster.
  πютр (pyootr) - who else if not peter fuchs?
alles neu - all new, central Berlin...
   achtung achtung! die zentrale figürchen tanzen!
i'll write sluttish german,
     panzer und gargantuan truce...
          i'll write it...
                     truce: in german that's chemically
worded, hydrocarbonated: waffenstillstand...
   armistice, or army standing still.
                     Gertrude Goebbels...
   don't know, just felt like saying it.
                           Brüch and snatching schnitzels...
marvelous nouns... Hindenburg...
     Bismarck -                          pretzel -
                                   schwarz wald -
now the geese... now the strutting Gucci invoked
geese... shadow defence minister?
    that monty python guy from the ministry of
      heigel siegel play-girl partly-a-girl. party-girl
with a fetish for those well-polished leather boots
that would have agreed to kicking
                              in the teeth of Lorca...
            at least we have common ground...
    or at least we had...
                        anyone remember watching
cbeebies coming back from primary school?
           anyone remember blue peter?
       there's no reason to claim that the whole
scene went underground / onto the internet...
                                      television these days is on
a life-support machine... consisting mainly of pensioners...
   and even they decided to tune-out
playing ultra-imaginative chess while watching
a brick wall...
                      20+ years in England
and i never had an english girlfriend...
                 Savile is no surprise to me...
                            what's more of a surprise is the fact
that once the b.b.c. started to become bankrupt
                        the n.h.s. followed suite -
i can't believe i live in a country that's famous
for siberian tea (adding milk to it) and pedohpilia...
and restrictive Soho...
                                  if i get sexually frustrated i'll just:
i am probably one of the few remains of
               buying ******* in a newsagent...
and the counter argument is?
         a citation from black swan -
but there really isn't an intellectual debate in this realm...
      and there should be one...
        but i guess the debate is harder to handle
when you've been circumcised...
                   i just think that once you've been circumcised
of course *** is more pleasurable...
              but once you've been circumcised you
are donning the opposite ***'s *******...
it's like: you have to be with a woman...
                   because having a **** while being
circumcised is the lowest ebb...
                   auto-suggestive of?
              i "circumcise" myself every time i ****...
i pull it back...                  but this religious indoctrination
    of only revealing positives?
                  turns out the kippah was a metaphor for
the lost "excess" skin... later replicated
by Christianity with the tonsure of monks -
     there's not a third way... Islam is not as close-knit
as these two religions... it's just a ******* annoying brat.

cooking sauce earlier... bane's theme, thematic of con carne erotica therapeutic digression... the ambivalent chuckling worth if not simply wanton of stereotype, conversely a stenograph, and a dynamism of acquiring an autograph; or how to undermine poetic rhyming: akin to tenacious d's one note song paraphrase divisive of the futility engaging in such a genetic gross-misconduct and apprehensive on up-keeping a cultural initiative brought forth and necessarily worth a replica; in true or a truant sense of Heidegger, an altruism of conjunction, the birds procrastinating or peacocking, whether the scenario if worthy of loathsome to be minded... it's nonetheless there... it's how language is used that concerns us... not what we do with language, but how we use it... the how is more important than the why... thankfully the reality / ontology of language is how rather than why; why is already answered with us being and continuing to be here, it's how we are that we are... persistent in being claimants of a continuum, whether akin to a Schubert or in continuum or in infinituum... ah that natural convenience of the acquisition of status... jargon and char... a heated discussion and nothing but the marring of furthered augmentation toward one's own clarification of ponce. me and my scabby version of events, inflammatory bulging where Oliver Twist suggest: please sir, may i puke on this **** some more?!

sooner be than think,
       and no sooner
                    be more than θink,
to θink
               is as much a piggish
oink when love is concerned,
meaning that φilosoφy
  begets relegation
                 when naturally
nailing the coffin shut in Cymru
is what was waited upon;
        orn the higher tier of Manhattan -
there too the earthenware -
or the calypso fury against the panzer....
the new Iraq against my flavoured jive,
oh i'll dance the culinary stinking socks bit....
like i'd dance the Caleigh in Glasgow
to pride the Irish....
                    Pakistan stems from
a dream: counter Saudi Arabia, or dune,
arable cunning-deform of
                                         cuneiform.
spider-jets.
                                      whe­n was Arabia
the Sheikh Fortune to chuckerfore a: wise said so.
you'd be sooner dead that dealing
the prescribed antics -
                        and death akin to bane's theme:
thespians' ergo medium: a life of puritans,
a life of pure fable.
                 i am still here...
     waiting,
demanding,waiting,
                Rizzo Papa,
Ritz Pulpa Johannus.
                                            thespians' ergo medium:
when thinking doesn't translate into being,
                                it's there,
interim...
                             a tragico-comedic allowance
to shelter a nearing extinguishing of oaf narration....
and a depth thus scolded,
                a depth thus summarised,
a depth with a fatigued enterprise -
                               a churning bechanced by coup after coup:
lazily forgiving a Lazarus undertaking....
hence crescendo Chile...     ore of the smartly dressed
Husky dressed men... alternatively stated: the men
in the quiet describable attire.
                  take a dog for a walk, take the tongue
into a waggling ha ha heap's worth of a dictionary;
    wo fish vocalised their citric concerns
when the loaves in fraction levelling five was brought
for questioning.... or the ***** socks....
                              alternatively dressed *lumberjacks
in hankies and chequers alias chess.
says as much as munchy is talked about
in Tuscany - where munchy is referred to
                    as fibre, or the dietary worth of inedible.

the blank or nothing, forged in the frost,
                                                          ­         harrowing,
thumb and time consuming,
     toward the rally of "thus" heard,
          as ever a language of lawyers, but no law
being passed.
             churn out charcoal.
           pencil stirp stimata sharpen a few digressions,
but nonetheless the main
narrative comes back....
          and it comes back
nuanced, relative, muted and
      somehow mutually exclusive:
the idiot always appears:
        he never is.
   same talk of god & genius,
devil & idiot,
                     & gentleman...
           we are clearly making
a new prototype of the Belgian countryside,
or the talk of Trenches,
          but no head to be hunted...
     no "bad guy",
         just a guy that's there to be respected
because enough philanthropy sides with him...
  or dittoing caption:
   no matter whether heard, misheard or
            unheard,
           it's called the Thesaurus Rex stomp,
the Panzer pulverisation assault -
                     i don't care what words you used,
iron grits iron
            iron nibbles iron,
                   both sides are given hammers
and made to talk about nailing nails in
rather than investing millions.
       talk easy? i'll iota a séance...
but tell me... why is diacritical markings
disregarded when a name like Bartók
suggested? why is it Bartok rather than Bartuk?
or why is that umlaut arithmetic?
       enlighten me!                      please!
    are you educating people for free while
ensuring you own the fisherman's keys?
i guess you are!
       if A is universal encoding from French
to Norwegian, diacritical markings can employ
transcendentalism, in this case alienation -
       it's Bartook -
             the acute incisor cut open the o
and made a parabola of u -
                     don't squabble for what's already an
incorrect answer: diacritics unanimous
is a bit like alcoholics anonymous:
         feed the ******* shame of not asserting
the prescribed marching orders;
the squabbling hogs that you are: pristine my ***:
it's not a ******* birthright! squeem!
  and, go on, squirt out another adolescent
   piglet oink of pseudo Auschwitz!
    i'm saying: why bother to use it in the
first place? why not do away with the whole *******
Belshazzar pantomime of insurance Latin
      for adaptability of working on robotics?
                          sure, effective in Poland as
an aesthetic-variant of u, but elsewhere: no point for
the acute comma above the o, it's still an o -
we implanted that diacritical mark for jokes,
to create an economic sieve!
                  it was never Bar-ticky-tocking-*****,
           but Bar-took -
              otherwise stop pretending,
  or i'll slap you with a raw herring across your face,
and it won't be a politicised red,
  and fish included, or colloquial for a: white lie.
          my advice? either respect the diacritical
application, or go away with the Latin alphabet
altogether...
                      why?
      the soul is born when the words are added /
reason...
                  no words, no soul...
the argument counter? humanoids and that whole
Darwinistic debacle to connect the dots?
     it's called a zoo...
             and a zoological investigation -
self-reliant logic, not something individualistically
accountable for in terms of man...
              and humanism as: less zoo
and more university...
                 or cracking the coconut Dostoyevsky -
but as you do, love the semblance -
            i guess history only exists within a timespan
of 1.3.2015, and the ancient Greeks
       are but a yawn.
                         i don't mind,
i have built up enough qua
                        to answer quo -
                                            qua? as being thespian....
quo (vadis)? where are you going...
                a place called the submission to applause;
the place i'm act? a bunch of neurotics mumbling
toward a statue they're desiring to *****
but never do... they are a bunch of people
mumbling and gesticulating toward a statue they
desperately want to *****...
     or as i said in my Holly Valance kiss kiss video
to a poor Syrian girl:
                     so you too? less exposing the frantic
differences between us but nonetheless attracted?
or what said masculine blonde to the olive-tan girls?
    well, listen, the girls kindred of my impression
         on the word bone are prone to play the
bad girl who-did-it ***-appeal...
                           i just drink to fall asleep,
    i might talk before i do:
god - don't you think that "spoken word" requires
a substantial consideration for lessened poetical optometrics
of complication, and and an eased consideration
of language?
                        well, whenever you feel like it,
it's a grand schematic of a Taj Mahal daydream,
had i the marble and the desire to ***** something
comparably worth a number of tourists
that the original attracts -
oh **** me! poetry can plagiarise everything!
i say plagiarise, but i mean: take the mickey out
of every mouse...
                                or the peppercorn ****
you try to get rid of...
             once i caught a mouse, and it committed suicide
by jumping down the stairs.

the **** euthanasia scheme would
suit people like me with
a dermatology problem, wouldn't it?
i'm up for it to be re-introduced with
those *****-soaked tears of motor-neuron-disease
wheelchair bandits...
**** you not i'm all up for the hospital beds
to be serving Panzer brigades...
they can claim the god of warring for all i care...
just get me off this aquatic asteroid pronto!
**** your little excuses for slip-ups,
get, me, off, this, *******, asteroid!
i've seen women begging for a curb on their
reproductive capabilities after Chernobyl,
don't entice me with *** changes you ******
entitled: supra-feminism... eat your foetuses
after they passed capital punishment against
my life in the bedroom of some egyptian peasant...
as i'll say only once: if you're going
to **** me... **** me properly, so, that, i'm, dead!
i don't have time for living it out as a *******;
what now? no *****? yep... the man is
gonna sing an opera à la castrato to the tunes of Michael Jackson.

stara prawda...
                                    to tylko nuda;
coś więcej?
    eh... chyba emerytura -
tak na policzku
braku aesthetics
na tle cegieł - bo to ha ha dla
"uczonych" z prostatą na telefonach
niby jak kupcy z arabii
jest równe sezon z wybrykami szeików
kórw i koni - ale nie jest tłem z czołgami
Tiananmen - o tyle blisko by dać
wywrot historii wspomnieniem
słowo Panzer:
nad dot com boom słownictwa;
jak ten noworodek lewicy szczy w portki
bojąc sie ozora powiękrzenia zasobu słów!

Ive found myself at your door again
The dusty, leaf riddle square of Tiannamen
I felt less like a body and more like a pathogen
A lung piercing javelin when you try to prove your masculine

I knock three times and get no answer anxiety fills my molecules more aggressive than a cancer; crumbling my composure like a tank that's panzer
voices chanting violently in my head like they were a cantor

I go for the doorbell but have no luck
I find a piece of tape over it with a note that says it's stuck
with a little smiley face that I know you wrote you're the queen of this castle and I'm just drowning in the mote

Just as I faded into a sense of self doubt and started to walk away from your house I noticed a blur walking down the stairs, a beautifully crafted creature twilring her hair
not a single of the seven world wonders could ever compare

You know that feeling that starts stealing and revealing you from the inside out leaving you kneeling when that person you love, you crave, you need comes back into your presence an energy that comes back with a vengeance; double homicide, no parole life sentence.

The pure essence of her atomical presence raises questions to the lessons you had already taken suggestions on to fill your objections to this paralyzingly beautiful connection of affection leaving you in an antagonizing state of introspection to this abduction of seduction that's like a bed from ikea with no ******* instructions

You keep your eyes on the ground as you greet me but I don't notice because I'm doing the same, I like your shoes by the way. I like your everything though so I guess you could be dressed in nothing but rags beauty is something that you just can't lack.

We took a drive as we often do and slowly midnight turned into two and small talk is all that has creeped out of our mouth spiders of pointless ******* anecdotes all throughout.
I stop the car and we sit there in silence both of my fists begin to tighten; controlling the water in my eyes like I'm ******* Poseidon I didn't know this talk came with a hyphen

I turned to her angerly

as we speak it's like you can't even look at me I eagerly made your life so ******* leisurely and all you ever did was ******* commit thievery and decievery when all I ever wanted was just to be treated ******* equally

YOU KNOW how hard I've tried how many nights I've suffocated into a pillow and cried how each and every failure a part of me died black dhalia on my chest heart cut open wide

It sounds like I'm just trying to be dramatic but this always seems so ******* systematics you always take an oath that I thought was Hippocratic you act like my hopes are way up in the ******* galactic

You came back every time when it was too late and I had to pretend I was filled with hate while the weight of your sadness flooded my limbs and I couldn't see straight

you've pressured me into hatred and I feel so ******* degraded because no one can save this I've called friends late at night asking for help because I've swallowed every last bottle on the shelf

you've made me forget what I like and how to breathe and how to feel and how to see the world in color. you made me lose friends and burn bridges and lose jobs and success.

where was this ******* interest when I needed it most why is it I can't ever reach the peak of the mountain but I always get close? WHY THE **** IS ROMANCE JUST A GHOST DISPOSED AND DECOMPOSED

WHY CAN I BE THIS WAY AND STILL CANT SUCCEED WHY AM I THE ONE THAT NO ONE EVER NEEDS WHY DO I ALWAYS PLANT THE SEEDS OF FLOWERS BUT ALL I GET IS WEEDS

I told her to get the **** out of my car before I drive it off a ******* cliff I've tried to read you but you're a ******* hieroglyph I don't even think 26 is an age I can outlive that was the exact moment I know my soul went stiff

a few years went by

I went through my drawers and pulled out a pen my chest started to sink and fill with phlegm I started to second guess but when push comes to shove...

I started the letter,

Dear Love

Thy birth on January 13th – cervical contractions would not abate
the pesky master (papa), strove to synchronize his seminal bait
thence, forty-two weeks after ma parents did pro create
Imminent lviii plus years ago to date
this present baby boomer doth indubitably and inherently equate
Nineteen hundred and fifty nine
   bequeathed birthed mine kempf ill fate
neurological manifestation sans obsessive compulsive did grate
behavioral motif and analogous to frontispiece per the story I hate
of my life and hard times, when all of a sudden out the blue irate

the onset of emotional nadir,
   where ballistic ordnance bombed away
fancy free, innocent, naïve boyhood
   decrying, detonating, and describing me own Pigs Bay
Allied, linkedin, and synced Luftwaffe
   and Panzer division invasion that clay
like materiel within southern cerebral hemi
   sphere inroads usurped no delay
riding roughshod via synapse straits sporting
   scoring sorties using every
axe n newer on dread did Swiss hide dill naught
   to decimate with Sherman determination tuff flay
leaving not one iota (oft times) referenced as gray
matter unaffected quite aware
   of rebellious confederated voices yelling “HOORAY”

Sabotaging orbitofrontal communication incorporating connection between anterior cingulate gyrus cortex heightening activity bridging (via atom sized pontoon bridges) greater activity upon basal ganglia, which synoptic description does nothing to alter the predisposition to ingress of uncontrollable imbecilic, inexplicable, and illogical fixation particularly during onset of puberty, when an emotional kamikaze nose dive at the nadir of near lifelessness, the shadow of me former self nowhere tubby found on account of deadly symbiotic relationship asper the invisible nemesis – i.e. electrical impulses faux nattering nabobs of mien nativity whereat unseen thriving sensational riffraff quenched powerhouse ousting nestled milkmaids, or rather pressing said resources sans vitality into dangerous, frivolous, and horrendous self destructive antics, where ballistic charges drugged eminent domain former nerve cell size occupants, thoroughly re-engineering sense and sensibility with pride fullness and prejudice on par with dousing one with an ****** that completely upends functioning healthily, judging lovingly, and managing productively versus expending precious time and energy self absorbed into manic, neurotic, and/or psychotic actions, manners, thoughts, et cetera, which irrationality got embedded within the neurological interstices, which even as of this moment hound me akin to wild beasts circling ever closer to launch mortal kombat against their very housing.

\alt

work-around title: Çymru among the Ottomans (Ę vs. Щ)

a propos: pre-scriptum... in the background demdike stare's - janissary , for one reason or another... the fantasy of being in the legion of either the janissaries or the mamluks... hell... let the sultan have his harem... he's still going to favour the slave girl from the north... Hurrem... give me this one ******* from a past of romance... this Khadaia... i'll see her once more just to catch her name properly: all i have is the prefix Khada- while she hushed the suffix... over all that's on offer in this playground of freedoms... hedonism never tasted this... limited... when it is so freely available... 4 years without touching a woman's body and then... resurrected with a pulverising urge to touch one once more: over the debacle of grooming a female cat who was eagerly entertaining trans-species ***... *** is ugly esp. when animals come to the fore...

in all honesty: i wasn't convinced when i initially
read the list of ingredients...
not at all: or one bit...
i wasn't going to read the instructions
or... watch the video...

   i forget which flatbread i used...
gözleme? no... there was a SH grapheme at the end
of the name...
not the SH of hiding the H with
a Czech caron:  š...
the Turkish variation...
               the cedilla "s":    ş...
certainly not bazlama...

lucky me: first the Turkish barbers...
then the Turkish prostitutes...
now Turkish food...
i had a similar fetish for Indian girls...
hardly a fetish: one uneventful
summer: should we say...

ah... here we go... lavash... flat... bread...
funny how...
oh i can just imagine...
the year when... the ancients stumbled
upon using yeast when mixing
flour and water... watching the first
yeast infested bread rise up
like a sunrise in the heat...

blame the French... or don't blame them...
it's hardly mesmerizing watching
a hot pan with a tortilla on it...
the earth would still be flat for thoese
civilizations...
or how... yeast was used to make:
wine rather than drink ultra-sweet
grape-****-juice of the diabetic h'arabs...

no... i wasn't expecting the recipe to turn out
as it did: better than the local Cypriots
making imitation turkish with their doner-kebabs...
all those raw vegetables to somehow counter
the grease of the lamb...
raw (albeit) spanish onions... i.e. sweeter
and juicier... raw iceberg lettuce...
raw tomatoes... raw cucumber...
pickled chillies...
two sauces... a diluted chilli sauce and...
yoghurt garlic?
i've been gagging for some yoghurt mint:
but no... no... none of that...

- now i'm back from the days of drinking ms. amber...
i'm back on the drip of "blood":
wine sooths... wine... progresses: slowly...
esp. cheap wine in the form of kalimotxo:
the blood of Montezuma!
a toast to Montezuma!
    gradual involvement in intoxication...
never a lag like with ms. amber...
never waking up still drunk...
             drunk in the process of drinking...
much better...
and when enough lubrication has been
downed: 2 bottles for a night worth drinking
through...
3 hours of sleep at best: but all this...
mind like a whirlwind...
ms. amber: you have stiffened me for the last
time... your supposed
cure for my ailments come too late:
i'm stiffened: i'm numbed by you...
i will no longer associate you with good
tidings... never mind my own deeds...
now i prefer a drink that will creep up on me...
there will be a statement surrounding:
succumbing to gradation...

- the same year the ancients
invested their genius / imagination into pursuing
the use of yeast in baking:
making flat-breads become sunrises
as they... started to ferment... grapes?
all the stags and the bears are in on it
come autumn when they fill their belly's full
with rotting... fermenting fruits...
and stumble around the world
like they might be inclined to acknowledge
the existence of Bacchus...
a bear's drunken walk: i can't match
with a dance... perhaps these words might
just suffice...

- come to think of it... since i'm in all my 35 year old
splendour...
i think i fitted the bill for being
an "angry young man"... most of us were...
but... thankfully... as i've aged...
i've noticed how so few people have
the capacity to drink some sense into themselves...
even Nietzsche preferred barbiturates...
i can't say that i would:
in vino vivo! veritas comes after...
animation... scandal... trenches...
at 35 i can say the anger has... slowly diluted itself:
i guess the anger was at youth itself:
it must have been...
to be angry at being young is every man's
ball & chain...
with two exceptions of Paris and Adonis...
now... the sweet melancholic cloud
that makes my sense of humour subtle...
sharpening my ridicule: since i'm still yet to
receive pointers on wit
and...  reactionary tongue-whip anecdotes...
oddly enough i picked up a copy of
Rousseau's the social contract & a letter
about spectacles...

why haven't i picked up Rousseau earlier?
mind you... with this tongue i now use...
i could never read Rousseau in english...
i can read Bertrand Russell in english...
but every philosophy book i ever read was
read in my mother tongue...
the tongue with all the fancy diacritical stressors...
"so-called" by the people
who don't use them... who have Charles Dickens
calling a spelling-mistake
an orthographical transgression... ******* to that...

- suppose i wanted to paint...
well... writing is not exactly painting:
Frank O'Hara noted how terrible orange is
on canvas: unless the orange stands as
synchronised by actual oranges
in a still life depiction...
orange elsewhere? on a metallic alloy
on a bicycle... i cycled a few schoolboys
once on my Trek Marlin and heard
a compliment about it...
i should have painted...
but then i like that self-deprecating joke
i once heard a Glaswegian say
in class: how was copper wire invented?
two Scots arguing over a penny...
i have diacritical marks for contorts...
and if i'm really desperate:
as i sometimes am: i'll lend an eye on reading
some katakana...

why haven't i read Rousseau earlier?
perhaps i was too stupid too young too naive...
perhaps i should have a tattoo of
Robespierre on my buttocks...
perhaps... just... perhaps...
like someone might have a tattoo of
Roy Orbison to counter all that's Hey-Lvis
in that waterboy flick...

wine is like oil on a bike chains...
for the brain... the wine tide as i explore...
a slowly breaking of the dam
of formality...
but i'm not painting: come to think of it:
i'd hate to paint...
i like skeletons: i like sounds...
i like to walk into a forest at night
and listen to some wild animal tender itself
on breaking a dry branch:
or... misstep on a crunch of dry
autumnal leaves... while i bask shirtless
in the moon on a throne of a stump:
where once a tree stood proud...

that there exists a culture of celebrity:
a vacuous life-support machine of cringe...
in my vicinity: some trees have a higher
status than "people" in the greater prospect (potential)
of the world...
of note... this tree: let's call it Henry-eta
near Chigwell... bulging: crass: entity...
breaking all manner of contemplating girth...
famous: by my concerns...
hard not to miss...
try figuring out: celebrity in a forest of pines...
stilettos or anorexic models...
by then: prostitution doesn't seem that
bad... that bad when compared with
what "they" do with the models...

skeleton and skin being adorned with:
a second layer of fabricated: skin... nothing more...
a body that grieves its former status
of being: mandible... all over:
i think of models as i might think of glass...
a shattering: a breaking...
a variation of... arthritis...

        oh... well... in between the wine:
ms. amber returns: like a stimulus... an injection...
to keep me focused on the cascade...
i'm yet to cover the ground of narrative
i was keeping fresh in my mind...
ah... yes...
of note... only in England...
the multicultural project...

  i still retain my native tongue...
in the privacy of my own abode: i speak it...
i don't speak English...
i speak English to the people who speak
English...
a formality...
English in England is a "lingua franca":
i pity the natives for not have enough
incentives to learn another European tongue:
i guess that's what's happens with
"spazzial relationships" in the shadow
under the yoke of cousin ******* the h'americans...
pity them?
oh no no... blame them...

who was Yusuf Stalin? a Georgian...
tactical subversion of the Russian people...
where is the Georgian alphabet and where
is Cyrillic, or Greek for that matter?
where is... Armenian?
"where" is code for: comparison...
   like the supposed people integrated into
English society:
these... born & "bred" types... typos...
they speak English... at least i can resemble
an Englishman...
most likely i'll be mistaken by some
quran pushing ****- as being a German...
insult?     (oi oi... mr. -stani, don't worry...
the English just slosh with slang sometimes...)

the people of the subversion...
they speak English but... ha ha..
if they only managed to retain their mother tongue:
perhaps something of England could
also be retained...
clamouring like ******* ***** in a bucket
to no avail...

Napoleon's ditto: a man who knows two tongues
is worth two men...
all these new integration projects
who want to integrate so bad... so so bad...
that they "somehow" forge their mother tongue...
talk English as the language of mediation:
it's not yours...
it never will be!
**** me... if all these people retained their
mother tongue rather than playing:
i'd feed you to the pigs for playing
this ******* drive-by stealing mobile phones
"gangster":

what if ol' Adoolph was Swiss and not
Austrian?! imagine that... no... wait...
you don't have to...

- of note: if ha ha h'america of the united
is supposedly this beacon: this success story
for all the english speaking people of the world:
it should: by now... be... a well oiled:
bilingual Behemoth...
like the Swiss "project": of the Benelux or
the Scandinavian heap of blondes outbreeding
gingers...
h'americana should be well embedded
in a fluidity of come English come Spanish...

if h'america could be a success story:
it would be a bilingual conglomerate...
i guess it's just easier to speak only one zunge...
no?
how many tongue arrived on these isles?
i should be learning Romanian come to think of
it...
no one is going to meet me half way
concerning my: tongue...
while these asiatic ******* abandoned
their mother tongue to play petty
gangster... i sometimes fall asleep:
counting teeth... i have no worthy comparison
with the point of sheep:
i like to imagine teeth...

how they become the lesser half of Mongol:
with their mongrel "forgetfulness":
if we just cherished the medium
of the tongue used to invite commerce:
real or meta-...
perhaps... we wouldn't be cycling through
Barking looking at people feeling comfortable
donning those Pakistani pyjamas!

don't get me started on the Rotherham
"livestock" affair... i have no sympathy for
not being ******: looking elsewhere
at ol' Turkic raven hair...
at £2 per minute i'm not going to...
suddenly... "suddenly" do what?
pity the high earner
while she *****-off the concept of *******?
thank god i still have *******:
which implies i can ******* with pleasure...
but while interacting with HER...
she can peel it back and i'm left with
her tender mouth and my numbed metaphor...

castration, mr. ******... doesn't feel so bad...
compared with having your "excess" skin
guillotined...
i started to ******* long before i had
any use for *******...
the thrill is in the shaft...
aged 8 i did it myself...
circa 10 i taught a boy a year younger
about the joys of jerking off...
in a bath... while my mother scrutinised us
while she ironed some clothes...
oh... the gloves are off...

it might be a bare knuckle fight:
but i wrapped a leather belt around them
for a sense of purpose... alias for security: covert...
if the beacon of the world
grew up: sensibly: as a bilingual federation
it was supposed to become...
what? the Swiss are all schizophrenics:
for having the capacity to use 2+ languages?
******* retards:
you live with the reckoning that:
some people deserve their own bollocking...
you hear it... in the distance:
like churchbells...
esp. at night... when the air thins out...
i have no sympathy...
no empathy...
the remains of Malcolm X's mantra of
how there can be a never-ending war:
a "cultural" war:
just use the women as ammunition and
shields...
they're dump enough: Sabine as they are...
bring women to the fore of warfare...
you're not dealing with Gaza strip slingshots...
you have invested yourself in: trenches...
show me a Panzer i show you a naked
white girl...
the prize for all these sub-Saharan gambits...
i don't want to **** sub-Saharan girls:
maybe Boko Haram might...
can i... tickle a Turkish *******?
wait: do i "have" to?

you bring women to the fore: this little shitshow
will never end...
drop an atom bomb: no difference...
the supposed "collateral" becomes
the biggest asset... mind-bending load
of: otherwise what a sword ought to do:
the biggest killer: compassion...

don't worry... the recipe is still invested in me
scribbling it down...

- persisting with all these: Asiatic bundles of
"integrated" joys...
living among these isles...
you begin to wonder:
now... i generally think of the Welsh as a bit...
cuntish...
but... at least they have this...
unnerving ambition to retain their:
Briton spreschen: before the Anglicans
and their Normandy landing quasi French
came along... the Welsh still retain their
*******:  Çymru...
i lost faith concerning the Scots...
they're just... accent clowns...
accent clowns...
          they trill their R and sometimes forget
to F their TH with: t'ings...
like their elder cousins that... perhaps:
might... usher in some Gaelic...
astounding: the concept of the Welsh:
because: they are more a concept than some
concrete evidence of nationhood...
oh: they're beyond merely organic...

some says the king's route was to mind:
from London through to Edinburgh: more like St. Andrew's...
all this time, though...
it was en route to Cardiff...

- of these isles... these glorious isles:
where's the Gaelic in a man from Edinburgh?
the Sikh beat you to that tartan turban
or something:
posers of accents... the whole lot of you...
one up with the Velsh...
at least they still retain their concept of mother...
and tongue...
accented pretenders: it's not what they speak:
it's how they might: speak...

******* sing-along sprache Gael...
i simultaneously don't want to stop writing this
as an excuse for: not wanting to stop drinking
wine!

back to that Turkish recipe...
i had to make a full roundabout at some point...

even now i still can't believe it...
frozen beef, which implies: it would be more easily
sliced into an imitation pancetta:
carpaccio?
        **** me: the whole bonanza of nouns!
most not "gender neutral" too!

wine wine wine wine!
bring me more wine!
wine wine wine wine: to hell with whining women!
wine wine wine wine!
bring me more wine!
she can't feed me... i'm the devil in the kitchen:
i'll cook my own!

the "government" of delayed words in
transit toward: a proper translation...
notably?  sunak...
   not aleppo pepper...
   not sunmak...
    ah... SUMAC!
red onions sprinkled with some
salt and sugar... fiddled with...
crushed... a dash of lime juice:
to get the pickling going...
tender hands of a Cyclops...
then the addition of fresh parsley
and some SUMAC...
that's the radish for you...

the meat? beef... beef and rosemary?!
fair enough: let's have "us" a go...
it only takes 10 to 15 minutes since...
the beef is sliced oh so thinly...
plus... the marinate:

4 tablespoons of oil...
2 tablespoons of red... white... either...
wine vinegar: for curing the meat...
after all... you dip any seafood into acid:
it'll cook...
Bolshoi cannibals of ambition
and all that ballet on the side:
raw herrings as: Baltic sushi in a creamy
dill sauce...

believe me: the Ottomans have interrogated
post WWII Germany...
they're stiches and tattoos by now...

tzatziki...
but the marinade of the meat only takes
about 10 to 15 minutes... since the beef is sliced
so thinly: from frozen...
the marinade?
ol' pestle 'n' mortar...
black peppercorns...
4 cloves of raw: living garlic cloves...
2 springs of rosemary...
sea salt... 4 kashimir dried chillies...

strips of Turkish mozzarella...
i'm of the persuasion:
let's see what the Ottomans had on offer...
the ******... the barbers...
this... pristine cuisine...
it sounds like: shuk shuk shugar shig shig:
chug a fog... chappy chappy chim-shee...

bound to the anchor of a revision:
of these isles... i'm starting to harvest more and more
respect for the Welsh...
i'm starting to suspect that...
the Irish don't require:
the Scots seemingly never will...
but the Welsh: forever will...
display their adamant decorum...
to keep in mind their mothers and their tongue...

let me stress is:
ich bin nicht Ęnglisch:
    lie down... szczeka: it barks...
Щ...              

Copernicus Copernicus: seriously:
where are you?! literally: "where"?!
not literally: a somehow a now...
    
counting matchsticks i presume...
to hell with these semi-literate folk who have
the supposed reins: yeah: now... for now...
but not when time is allowed to imitate space
and stretch...
the currency of shouting for "justice"
dies a death slower than a death succumbed via
a crucifixion...
i'm no sadist... i love animals above
the status of fellow humans...
but... there comes a time that...
i'd rather... savour the company of a dog...
above... someone that might resolve itself
to speak letters back to me...

- you can only insinuate when dealing:
dwelling on the furore of the Hebrews...
but in the confine of these isles...
i hae no greater respect than might be allowed
for what's already arrived at:
they have: KEPT... KADŁ...

      EI CWSG GYDA COCH CLORIAN:

almost every Jew will amount to the maxim:
i be: the citizen of the world:
which is borrowed Greek...
   somehow there come to excuse when:
strip-down... striptease...
the last of the Holocaust survivors is dead:
appeasing the h'arabs and h'americans
for their deepened trough and
monzzie?
  yeah: sure thing...
             me and my stupid
delusion concerning that ol' chestnut
of the certainty of death...
i'm not willing to pressure
the delay button... to be honest.

we swam for joy
all summer long

lived in the lake
contesting dive rank

who had the wettest

cannon ball
broadest swan
sharpest jack

the underwater distance competition!
you sink like a stone
shovel your feet into the muck

crank like a panzer through honey
eighty seconds later
pop up way out there

our twelve year old bodies
cavorted slithered swam
through rising storms and setting suns

summer put there for us to inhale
then pound on one another like gorillas

suddenly it was back-to-school
while we were learning to borrow a one
our minnow natures died

i was never a fan of acronyms... it must be an w.a.s.p. "thing"
to have fallen in love with acronyms:
white... anglo-saxon... protestant...
i just imagine...
what it the Swabians or the Pomeranians...
were the chosen tourists...
nomads without a lament score...
oh god someone is oppressing the Saxons...
get to it: sort it out!
of all the Germanic peoples that came to these isles
after the fall of Rome...
my my... how the Saxons hijacked
the Welsh and the Scots for a prize of sending postcards
from the Raj... some remote Pacific Islands...
i live among these people...
morphed by some added French...
i don't like acronyms: i don't like acronym speech...
it's like... the alphabet twice-over...
organised to suit some secret society...
yawn...
so when i was living out my: soul-osmosis:
psychosis of my 20s...
mid-way through my 30s i stopped taking
the pills i was prescribed:
what waited was a hunger so cycling...
and ingesting electrolytes...
and vitamin B12 supplements...
which translated into 2 cycling sessions a day...
i was going to ask my mother and my father
concerning being irritated
about some...minor bureaucratic doodle
of a vaccine passport...
i could have been riddled with radioactive
juice from 1986... oh yes... the effects of Chernobyl
came around... some of the trees turned
autumnal in the middle of spring:
with streaks of radioactive death...
19 days... pass enough time just emerging as a foetus:
those just might be aeons...
scribble some radioactive juice...
well... a pretty picture...
i'm giggling though... inside and out...
i hate acronym language...
long before the "movement"...
"lifestyle choice"...
i only heard about it then youtube stopped
suggesting me new music to listen to...
apart from the channel harakiri diiat...
i came across videos of political commentary...
later... the... ahem...
    MIG-TOW... MIG-TAO...
Mikoyan... towing...
       or the Mikoyan Tao...
it's a pseudo-take of the fighter jet...
a Russo-Chinese hybrid project...
it's not a fighter-jet...
unless... fighter-jets have a Taoist sensibility
built in them... ha...
it's this "movement" via the acronym MGTOW...
i don't like acronyms...
point being... you don't really need
classical socialism... or their current
pseudo-arguments of inclusivity... blah blah...
best represented blah blah...
you have these... men... in a society...
where... harem quotas are no met...

daseine: da (there) + seine (being) = concern...
dast seine: da- (there) + i-st (is) + seine (being) = potential...
all on conjured up via a blitzkrieg
on a bicycle... mediating heavy traffic...
happens... all the ******* time...
i curse the nerve-wrecks that drive cars...
a woman in mini-cooper: sized so: ||
will require... this much space: |          |
to overtake you...

but a man in a HGV... or a bus... sized so: |          |
will require... this much space: ||
to overtake you...
as an aggressive cyclist...
i can't exactly indicate cycling up a *******
hill...
it's sometimes too late coming to a roundabout...
but then again: some indicators of direction
are already painted onto the tarmac...
traffic is not a game for solipsists...
when the former happens
i curse: it would have taken you...
20 more bypassing rounds around
me... doubling down:
when i see a Nissan Micra / a mini cooper
overtake me... while it was taking its time:

WHERE'S... THE... *******... PANZER!

- i'll just draw the sketch in writing...
fiddle with some phonetic cul de sacs..
you draw the bigger picture: the Kandinsky moment...
i don't need socialism to argue my point...
as much as abhor the acronym...
what could possibly undermine capitalism:
not that i want it undermined...
men not coupling with women...
men are not the spenders...

i can attest... one visit in a brothel once every half
a decade will not solve the demand for...
her... make-up chemo-therapy....
i mean... i can swap a good enough amount
of *** for... she's charging me £2 per minute...
perhaps dentists own as much...
perhaps... i spend my money on
essentials...
bicycle oil... whiskey... ******* flour...
to thicken a curry sauce...

                  capitalism works when...
men are willing to give up their money
for other men to make money from
the women who will spend it...
what if i'm not willing to couple up
with a woman who will spend it on...
*******-tides-&-screws...
the argument is a softened teddy: bear
of a pork **** hammered flat into a schnitzel...
why is my grandmother becoming more
estranged from...
she kept my grandfather's deterioration
a secret... come death: the end...
hardly any argument willing: to be satiated with
any pleasure for the juice of: life...

who needs socialism... to undermine capitalism?
when you can simply have men
detached... divorced... from the spending spree prowess
of women?!
maybe capitalism is just choking everyone into:
abundantly: more! more!
but what if there's no more to spend?
i don't need socialism...
socialism is for Syria... like it was for Poland
when World War II ended...
it's funny... did "my"... "my" people: ever
relish the concern for democracy...
will Poland become the new Vietnam?
sure... send in the black-*****-black-out
with eager future: single-moms...

do i look like someone willing to earn less
than i might spend more on?
the Teutonic Knights had a brothel
in their citadel of Marienburg...
i visit the brothel... once every half a decade...
i imagine she'll be ready to buy
buttons: a bear cub nibbled off my cardigan
at a Danzig zoo...

oh i can see how capitalism can be
undermined... it's already undermined...
the two tiers of spending...
i am prone to advertisement as a joke...
since i don't trust journalism..
but then i'm immune to advertisement
because...
i don't want to spend money...
i'd need a woman for that...
while a woman would eagerly spend:
spend... even if she doesn't have the money...

this one... softness for Islamic economics
hits true: all the time...
to abhor... the become tantamount in abhorring:
usury... this is the only redeeming
quality of Islam..
to hell with their theology...

if i were to... be loaned a pile of rubble...
why should i have to repay you...
a ******* mountain (of rubble)?

not being attached to a spending prowess of
a woman...
stale society: a walking abortion case...
must be designated a psychiatric diagnosis
to function: debilitated...
so much for those freed up lovers
of questionable purpose...
an hour with a ***** will "save" your economy...

the **** of the Sabine women...
too far fetched... for the quake of kings
resurrected for the hindsight of world war I...
the solo project: as each man be his...
tomb...

dasein(e) morphed -
a bit like with the clinger of Bastille...
marquis de sadé... no... women love to ****...
da (there) ist (is): sein (being)....
lightning stroked me...
sensible...

i like to "think" of pedestrians when cycling...
as.. pockets iof potential:
this "****" philosophical project
of "concern" is beside me....

dasein units of "potential concern":
versus... dastsein: units of "concerning potential"...
sharoened:
dasein: concern...
   dastsein: potential...
there is... being...
not that: there...not beng...
some germanic oops!

da-st'-sein...
DAST-SEIN...
  
it will not take socialism to undermine
the current schema of capitalism...
it will require the men themselves...
men uncoupled from the spending habits of
of... women....

bad cocktail... bad bad cocktail...
b'ah... the forest needs to breahe...
lend it some fire...
by way of:
i'll suffocate the whole economy with
replicas of moi...
she needs to spend:
but if i'm not coupled to a she:
who'll willing to sped...

who's spending who's tax-for-*******...
free?!

i treat language as a toy, i hardly think it necessary for language to treat me as a pawn; i don't write a language... i toy with it.

the passion surround singled out words...
  *reisch - shooting pardons -
and there's the ***** -
   depending what german you ascribe
yourself to in being -
                           the lost Seneca.
highbrow my *** -
           no wonder i swear as if making
oaths of pretending to imitate french
promiscuity -
          minus the glutton glug of a geese's
worth of arabic...
                          yes yes, i truly do understand
the nicotine hangover...
                                but can we be as bad
at numbing the trilled R, by,
harking it?
  panzer... that's a volatile word...
                     some words just have a volatility
concerning them...
you can't erase that fact,
              islam can actually imply:
metaphor...
                              i've never experienced
a medium of volatility as
pronounced as that of language...
                       the mundane can sometimes
bind to a spontaneity of riddled excitement...
the truest atomic -
           the atomic of nature of words,
far beyond the alphabetic rubric.
or the words:
    winged hussar -
      gavari?! you speak the same isolationism?
gud gniev quasi yiddi,
mein spresch, semu mi semu tybyah,
       tsemu mi ní volno
              scraches on babylon?
h'ces polaka? mas! "polaka"!

- rock 'n' roll -
    once upon
      a time
   a Patti Smith
          in Nigeria.

on the rare occasion that i thinking to myself:
well... i'm not exactly going to end up being a millionaire...
the game is rigged... last time i heard...
poets get paid every 50 years...
    if that... but... someone has to do the workload
for the mere passion... of course: looking for other outlets
of income...
mind you... how did Bukowski get to sleep with
so many women? hmm... well... he didn't go off to fight
in World War II... i'm guessing... plenty of widows...
plenty of girls who lost their boyfriends...
to the Panzer brigade et al.,
         so... less of luck and more: opportunity came...
hell... i remember times before the advent of social
media... you... could actually date...
there was this guy in high school with a terrible case
of eczema... still managed to get a girlfriend...
i'm not going to become rich... **** it...
less chance of me looking like a sucker should
some hot fling come around and start milking me...
who vowed that... vow of poverty?
well... it's not the Medieval Ages...
   you can hardly vow to that sort of shin-dig these days...
scrape the bare minimum...
if by bare minimum implies...
   today at the vinyl shop...
         oh... wow! Matt?! what? you don't think they
have the new Ghost record, on vinyl?
what? Impera?!
    i just found Ghost B.C. Infestissumam...
   so i started fiddling around...
   sort of oblivious to my surroundings...
some pretty teenager girls... whatever...
    bothersome flies...
                       they hover around you for a while:
then notice that you're not noticing them:
******* just as promptly as they came...
    oh man... these records are getting dear...
lucky for me the ghost record was on offer...
2 for £40... ****... now i need to find a second record...
aha! Lana Del Rey's debut...
   i'd love to hear a woman's voice on vinyl:
not that i haven't...
      walk up to the counter... she's a he he's a she?
right? i didn't ask... i just made the complicated
assumption that she was a he / he was a she...
anyway... it (sorry) they checked whether everything
was in order... some cheap-*** *******
decided to take out one of the vinyl disks and stuff
the sleeve with cardboard...
   how on earth the record was returned...
beats me... well she he he she it they said: well i can't
sell you this... hell... i'll just pick something else...
originally i was going to buy the Rammstein record
with a match on the front cover and with songs
like Deutschland and Radio on it...
but when i saw the ghost record... ugh...
Lana Del Rey was a cop-out...
            what else did i have in my hand?
Patti Smith's Horses... does that album have that
song covered by American Head Charge?
i.e. rock 'n' roll ******?! oh... right... it doesn't...
pass..
             Bruce Springsteen's Born in the USA...
does that album have the song:
human touch on it?
              no? oh... right... pass...
        well... there was clearly only one alternative...
Fatboy Slim's: you've come a long way, baby...
a bit like DJ Shadow's endtroducing...
or... Leftfield's leftism album(s)...
         i was never into any club-scene...
         but these albums... don't get me wrong...
they haven't aged that terribly...
they haven't aged akin to something like...
atypically generational... lodged to a past...
the Grateful Dead... the Eagles... em... i'll give
King Crimson a pass...
              surprising... what? oh...
the Fatboy Slim record... not that i was a massive fan...
but...
it has aged really well...
then again: most electronica ages really well...
it can't exactly be innovated upon...
             dub-step tried... sure... kudos...
some decent examples...
                           but it's almost like classical music...
or jazz... the strange death of jazz...
someone should have written a book about that
phenomenon... how jazz emerged and just as quickly
as it emerged: how it died...
did the beatnik poets drag the whole jazz music scene
down with their "experimental poetry-jazz" fusion?!
that must have been a ******...
for the saxophone player... imagine having to loose
your melody to the bass player in turn losing his rhythm
with the rhythm of the drummer because...
some idiot is talking over you with half-baked
rhymes... the ******* headache...
ugh...
                  clearly i don't want to think about it...
i only wish bands like Boy Harsher could become...
no i don't... i don't want bands like Boy Harsher to become
mainstream... sure... all the success...
but with that comes a tainting...
                 i know that if i started performing some
of these scribbles... i'd stop creating new content...
un-poetic? hmm... like no one ever read Ancient Roman
poetry... try... Horace for starters... or Ovid...
they... sort of wrote like this...
plenty of conversational overtones...
to hell with too much claustrophobic techniques of rhyme...
i'm of that school: if there even is a school
of that sort... conversational overtones...
                        a narrator that can also play
a character... sort of scenario... oh... irony:
very much confusing with no quotation markers...
now i'm being doubly ironic... now i'm being sarcastic...
but it's rather pleasant to watch younglings
walk into a shop and see someone actually sieving
through vinyl records with the intent of buying them...
it's like they spotted a dinosaur...
a strange looking dinosaur since the dinosaur
is not even 40 years old...
             it's like a curiosity experiment...
but... but... you can... listen to this music... online...
yeah... but the difference between listening to music...
on your headphones... and... on a gramophone...
when the house is empty... the room is empty...
   it's a little bit different... but hey... i'm this dinosaur...
and you're circling me looking for clues to some
magical equation / thought experiment that:
i simply can't give you...
   ******: now that i'm listening to Summertime Sadness
on the earphones... i'm sad...
i wanted to hear it via a gramophone....
winter is coming to its final closure...
               here we go... libido insomnia... girls
*******... more flesh that a porky pie's worth of
rind... but good to know that some will still
keep on their napkins / diapers on their faces...
the hypochondriac types...
        well... at least i've managed to curb all
that journalistic limp-**** mentality...
the world is sort of a haze in some distant background...
it is... but at the same time: it isn't...
not for the past 2 years...
   not with the ****-show of my grandfather's
death and a bigger ****-show of the funeral...
the world: as i currently see it...
doesn't deserve me to couple myself to Heidegger's
Dasein... what was once there-being
has become: simply... there-is-being...
                           i've read enough of German thinking
to now, finally... retort as a Frenchman might:
c'est la vie!
i'm not going to touch anything by English
thinkers... i've touched enough of Newton via
Voltaire... but Locke? who else... Hobbes?!
i'm not going to touch English intellectuals...
the people who invented football... rugby... cricket...
even if they have anything interesting to add:
intellectually... the English are a pragmatic people...
they don't like cafe conversation riddles / complications...
why bother?
   if they want to be oh so practical...
so direct two-faced... let them...
               i esp. love how they downgrade the Australians
from the anglosphere...
while having their heads shoved up some
fat H'american ***...
                no... don't get me wrong... it's just....
sort of... funny to watch...
this big... English diaspora... but...
there are gradations... like... Canadians are not a laughing
stock? but... to be English is to...
have one's head shoved up a H'american fat ***?!
seriously? right now?
perhaps it's an English thing...
to see New York... to see Las Vegas...
me? i've already seen Moscow... i've already seen
St. Petersburg... i'm thinking...
ooh... the Kamchatka Peninsula...
   to hell with Finland and the rest of Scandinavia...
i might speak the language:
but i'm hardly going to blah-bah-black-sheep
go along with the narrative...
blow myself up? hardly... i say... live a little more...
let life drag you down...
       should have employed Chinese ideograms
to protect your idea-churning-machine
of liberal Englishness... no?
     not good?               what the **** is ever good
with these people?!
  anti-racist confused pebble-roast...
                 i'm not siding with the Russians but i'm
pretty sure the Ukrainians were pretty glad
when Poland was invaded by **** Germany...
i'm also pretty sure... Volhynia & Eastern Galicia...
the genocides...
   right... so why remember anything?!
i've learned that the English have this tactic...
the history of other people is... insolate...
childish... or rather: that they remember it...
while... at the same time... the battle of Hastings?!
what a ******* joke of a battle...
but hey... it's their culture... it needs to be stressed...
not... the winged hussar charge at the siege
of Vienna against the Ottomans...
but... it's childish... for me... to give my psyche to
these events... no? but... if i were to regurgitate
the history of the Angevin Empire:
all's kosher, sonny... like **** it is...
take a ******* hike... daddy... to the highest peak
of Rotherham!

the oil in the lamp is dreaming of a flask of star garments
draped over succulent blue where the pink is bright green.
crass haloes melting in sterling eggshells
and dusted with cardamom and lost socks.
the soft spots of the world, all dreamt by flame
sleeping in a viscous pool of itself.
swinging from a brace link
in a fable.

the cracked *** in the corner is dancing.
while disable.d.

I have set the
length of the sun
with my prevailing smile,
push me up like daisies.
I'm a fly in the ointment
of your purposeful gambit
I hear your marching song
a Panzer in every garage
you murmur my defeat
a banner at an altar
of fascism
my diesel engine headache grows
der Motor wird gewinnen
a wildebeest is in my cupboard

why are people bothered
about the rekindling the concept
of a colony on Mars?
we're all supposedly Earthlings -
isn't the cycle
of the sun's time-span
auto-suggestive?
it's cooling down...
we once lived on Mars...
now we live on earth...
don't "you" think we ought
to be looking into
making Venusian colonies?!
the rich will tell you:
we're supposed to live
a Frankenstein forever...
Mars is a dead end...
          just wait for planetary
evolution... oh...
you can't wait...
the monkey is not enough,
Mars has to come next...
but the Sun is slowing down...
it's about to be  black hole
at some point...
        humanity is from Mars,
we made earth the hotel
for the best of out arguments...
"exodus" Mars...
"genesis" Venus...
                      now you shoot the
rockets wherever you want...
watch me care...
mind you... people have this
exfoliating vision of the universe,
        woman.... ugh...
apple shortcrust crumble...
                       do i really
need
to listen to her ****** exploits?!
no... no really...
  she can have the couch,
her psychiatrist,
and her daddy steam-rolling on
the ready...
           do these women
really require orangutan
protectionist stature
of... aren't the orangutans
the sole primates, with a down
syndrome close proximity of eyes?!
my bad...
   but sure as **** they are.
    but women require more than
just looks...
      a man needs to defend her
whims...
   and? i'm about to do what?
not exactly enjoy life...
              do i have to?
i thought so:
   i don't...
                         she can have
her geneticist argument
with what, otherwise becomes,
a *****-bank donor...
and she can: handle it to the ****...

because?
    hey!

         a male grizzly bear is after
the sushi...
a female grizzly bear is
about to protect her cubs...

         date?! date what?!
who needs to date a psychopathy
with what somehow constitutes
a person hiding behind it...
no, not thank you...
rather shove a Panzer
                      turret
up my ***...
than her tongue into my mouth!

glory-hole these pieces
of a mother-******...

            now gag...

              i'm doing the Pontius Pilate...
i'm not waiting,
i'm not gagging,
  i'm not playing the last supper /
Golgotha poetics of skewed
Judeo-Greccan poetics...
   your kosher,
your halal...

           you eat it!
you eat the poetics!
you make the cannibal metaphor true!
i rather gorge pork!
         you eat the metaphor!
i'm not eating it!
    i wont drink wine!
i'll drink the ***** and the whiskey
(Odin's ****)...
                
i'm not entertaining the poetics!
    but? **** me! knock
yourself out!
         it's all yours:
i'm washing my hands clean
of being involved in this
abomination of a, "casual"
application of language...

               no... *******...
there only one Jew i hate...
and he's supposedly the verse of
the type of Greek...
that requires the existence of Istanbul;
because?
    Turkish barbers.

A miniaturized Panzer unit has just
terrorized my lawn
The Parrot has escaped
and the cat ominously reappears
I have introduced two holidaying friends together
I need a better day
"Off with the old, on with the new"
Should I actualize with a change
so I can tend my Mulberry Bush
I wink decidedly

i own
a bed...

          but i rather...

sleep on...

a hardened...
wooden

flooring...

          that there's
an excuse
for a three-some:

soak of two stags...
and two: and a third....

glory hole:
waiting...

        tiny-rubberband,,,
hell-spew: nue-spawn
of the loitering:

third ***** of lesotho...
this... diatribe prince...
blank pawn- and panther...
spawn... best: retort:

a time when racial differences:
where a last:
difference binding
incremental loitering...
lining...

          the rancid "quid"....
copper-flaking...
my most adhered to...
bubble-wrapping...
          my loot and loitering...
skim-reading of erasmus...

      gas-lit...
             incubus...
the last salvaged barber shopping...
that sort of trim...
that rhapsody in...
sub-topic...
*******... debunking measures...
spawn: en vogue...
belitteling meausures...
facing the *****-bank...
basics... and new world conquering...
this great... unfamiliar past
of the bleach panther...

       chain-locket and a mirror of
surprise...
about 4 children later...
some variation of first towed along
"love"... my love my love...
the last lesson...
the first at arrived at grievance...
a bismarck: my last loaded:
sq. hope for a miser:
and some... variation...
a hello... a hello... a hello...

                  as best: heaved...
the last... a remnants of...
                        this a wording...
lost: to the autobiography...
of the U-boat captive...
or the panzer-tank... captive...

                confiscating the captives...
of the lesser man...
of the lesser man...
     confiscating the captives...
for all the time in the world...
and all the world...
was... this... time... most... limiting!

you wouldn't might not have guessed it: but there's a pagan music revival happening in Eu-rope-Ah...Ew-rope(?)-ah.. eh-ooh-rop-ah... there's a revival in pagan music: an undercurrent... the people have almost forgotten the "great" composers... not so much "forgot"... but if it has to come between elevator muzak... and nothing... give me an Ottoman burak: even the whole of the west's zenith of culinary ambitions... seems pale... who would have thought... stuffing filo pastry with minced beef... properly spiced... cumin... coriander: to hell with Simon & Garfunkel's Scarborough Fair: parsley, sage, rosemary & thyme... what about BASIL? BASIL is the best... scented candle alternative... loner... no **** readied Sherlock... oi! Holmes! where's your ******* Watson? forget your wallet or what?!

seems... eh... seems such a waste to merely drink
and not allow oneself to trickle onto
some page some dribble: some doodle...
it would be a waste of some cider or some ms. amber
to merely drink...
as Horace might have said
in what was once: conversational-overtones in
poetics... when i had a friend still close to me
from when i was lodged in the fabric of pedagogy:
from those seemingly mythological days:
in school...
we banded up... come the lunch break...
one anglo-saxon... pure fella: by breeding...
Ian...
we played cards...
we were like all the stories franchised
by Hemmingway in: men without women...
i tried... i really tried:
i asked one girl for her photograph
so i could sketch it and give it back to her...
per usual... she just giggled and brushed it aside...
what can a boy do'oh... knead dough for
some time...
we played cards and were oblivious to
all that was boiling beneath us...
oh the tirade... is there a better word
to encapsulate the h'american rebellion
against education?
new venture "capitalists":
they'll sell you coffee-mugs and t-shirts...
how's the outlook on a spanner? on a *****?
a dime for a nail?
my my... if i were paid in nails or peanuts
rather than these transcendental objects
of "currency"... i'd stash as many pebbles
in my might and call it: both a mountain
and a camel's ****!
- the rest of us were nomads...
displaced peoples of the world...
the ******, the Egyptian, the Pakistani...
in an otherwise Irish Catholic school...
- prior to 2004 i was quiet a commodity...
the only ****** known to the locals...
i acquired a taste for Guinness...
i gulped it down: glug glug: came the kosher
sacrificial goat...
now i drink some of the goat milk
and pretend to think: i pretend a lot of things...
it's pasteurized... i can't tell the difference
between a long-life milk from a cow
or what's being sold as: goat's...
now that this is life...
i "think" of an afterlife...
no great plans... oh forget the harem...
i have a insomniac libido as we speak...
i can't keep up with a constant hard-on i'm being
prescribed: no Duracell bunny 'ere...
an eternity closest come: Valhalla...
or a Deutsche drinking house...
were songs are sang...
                      sauf noch ein!
which is stereotypical of a Wend...
                       because the Russians are never
jovial creatures when drinking...
they probably never reach
the tickling sensation from drinking...
Stephen King managed to push out another
novel from his cart of apples...
pity me: i never re(a)d a novel by Stephen King:
i never will... it's not out of higher
literary ambitions...
it's because...
well... i started two books about a year ago:
the posthumous papers of the Pickwick Club
was Charles Dickens' first book?
really? well... no matter... a year later...
it was originally serialised...
- and Knausgaard's vol. 4 of the mein kampf...
if you've read volumes 1 - 3...
it doesn't matter if you stop quarter of
the way into... an autobiography that...
well... it's not Kierkegaard... is it?
imagine my surprise at not being
able to test any maxims of la rochefoucauld:
i suppose all of them are true:
true in as much as they best
be "thought-experimented"
in the stated suggestion of said enterprise...
in...
mannequins? no...
when people leisured themselves
into politics: clocks and... nothing to do with
tabloid journalism to gear up the masses...
- all of a sudden a "what if" drops on me...
my grandfather wasn't a child when he
ushered in the words: herr-bitte-bon-bon...
of the two-schwarz-clad dobbermen
SS-mensch: what if... i was...
not on the "suspect" list
some tier above the Jew and the Gypsy...
what if Hittite Leering Herr... Adoolph...
forgot to put his faith in the Luftwaffe
and the miracle army drug as prescribed by ISIS
(amphetamine) and instead
started to *******: PANZER-GRABEN...

what if: Pearl Harbour never took place...
but it was an honest act of warfare...
collateral precision with Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
it's not fair... it started with Pearl Harbour:
not fair: trans! gay pride! it's not fair!
fair in the theatre of war?
it wasn't fair to use collateral as argument...
soldiers fought soldiers...
i will never romanticize the warrior archetype...
no point... i still preserve myself by cycling:
because i abhor running...

i'll walk a marathon from the river Rom vicinity
to St. Paul's ... sort of hiding
like a timid umbrella of a mushroom's worth...
it's England: apparently "summer":
Simon & Garfunkel...
well... it's hardly the *******:
the Beatles...
can there be a point where
these old *******... just... die?

can i take up a whiff of what they
keep on returning to?
the labyrinth glory of the next to nothing
assorted... PLUM- BER...

- because you're not reading tabloid
journalism...
thank god: i was almost making myselv
suspect
guarding the words:
below the worth of currency...
exfoliate: i might...
tragic i might sound...
but you're still not reading
tabloid journalism: you're reading this...

wait... wait... wait some more...
wait: again...
i want the world to come into
coherency of what's leftover concrete when
i'm: properly mummified:
better... thrown into the elements...
into the fire... twice: once as body: twice
as ash...
against the wind...
where everyone might be *******
against it...
into the sea.... no... into the river...
into the lake: against the hammer
or the mirror...
just above the puddle then...

you might read me before you read
what's leftover in the tabloid press..
there's a cat jigging with r.e.m. twitching...
give me death tomorrow...
i guess i'll be content...

- but concerning the "nomads"...
at least the Hebrews prescribe a motto:
fear God...
oddly enough: Allahu-Akbar...
the Muslims have no notion of a fear...
of God... there's no H. P. Lovecraftian:
a deity with a a head of an octopus...
oh how the Muslims love to joke
the inferiority of the Hindus...
the inferiority of Islam is...
it's inability to stress a fear of their deity...
Muslims don't fear their deity...
they have no scepticism...
sure... readied meat for the slaughter...
not now... in waiting...

by having no fear of their deity...
what can earn this... deity...
respect... from prospective proselytes?!
goat is goad: is gweat!
****-smear... half-way between
proper choccie and somewhat
between copperneck...
cinnamon clad-crew...

last time i checked: Muslims have no fear
of their deity...
obnoxious crazed infancy of monotheism:
that's Islam: for me...
i distrust a people with no fear
of their deity...
why? gobble gobble... down down:
'ere we go...

hey presto! i can tell the Asians apatrt!
like wannabe racists can tell
a Croat from a Serb a ****** from a Russia...
a Czech from a...
Molotov... cocktail: non Fwech...

the face of one Korean gymnast... re(ad))d
like...
i own two cats: thank **** that also don't
own two to pair of: leash... or muzzle...

In the end, it took us almost thirty hours
to hitchhike from Utrecht. The raw night
air of Dresden hung inside us; smarting
where the autobahn had spat us out and
left us brooding under concrete skies.

We'd stood apart, this close to surrender,
when the silver cavalry arrived;

  Mein baby ist der schönste kinderen!
  Jawohl! Jawohl! Der schönste kinderen!

Jakob with his one cassette. Once proud
child begat another. On we raced. Gloria,
backseat hiking sister, now slept against
a pram.

The rolling streetlights crept up Jakob's
shades like rockets, lauched into the sky.

Du weißt? I did not. I held the tiny photo
of his child and watched the wild roadside.
I willed the darkness stay outside. ******
built the autobahn. Gut für Panzer. Du
weißt? We crossed into Poland, greeted
by the broken lines of garden gnomes;
tinker, tailor...

Stopping off for sausages - du magst? I did.
The dawn smelt red above the hills. I lay
my palms upon the dashboard, felt the
purring engine breathe. I smuggled angst
enough for all tomorrow's sorrows; I hid
it in the narrowest of breeze.

You're like a little child
Under the covers
Scared of the night
If the water hushes the fire
You never cry
If you can laugh at my patience
You need to walk over me
Berceuses put me to sleep
And war gives me what I need
Greed is a lack of a better word
For the greedy
You're mine and I'm yours
So put me to sleep
Little soldier who needs to pay up
Breathing the world's smoke
From the top of a puppet street with a Panzer
A dubious offer is pure like the strings of gold
In this war there is no silver morning
The dues I get are for kicks
As my baby leaves me in my sleep
My eyes crack open like whips
My boss kicks my guts
When the **** cries to the break of light
You need to walk over my dead body
To feel my pain and bloodshed