You've read my rant from yesterday
About those Christmas Letters
But one thing just disturbs me
Those Ugly Christmas Sweaters!!!

You know the ones we love to hate
They're  all so scratchy and they itch
You can barely get the **** thing on
And to remove it...it's a *****!!

Pictures of things Christmassy
Like a reindeer all in red
Mine looks like an emaciated cow
with a candelabra on his head

Snowflakes, trees and Norway Spruce
and colours....oh my lord
They can take them back to Norway
and throw them in the fjord!!!

My nan made one for me one year
It was silver with some blue
Turns out she used old brillo pads
Because she liked the soapy hue

They itch and scratch and don't fit right
They are a cancer to my eyes
I had one in green and red
With one sleeve down past my thighs

I thought it was a jumpsuit
The kind the paratroopers wear
The pattern pages stuck together
And that sleeve....went down to there!!!

We all have one hidden away
In a box, 'neath lock and key
In a place so nicely hidden
One we've had since we were three

We never plan to wear one more
We all know that we once  did
but, if we had to wear one out
We're gonna buy one for our kids!!!

If you need to get assistance
go to uglysweaters dot o- r- g
They can help you with your wardrobe
Tell them you heard of them from me.

The Pathfinders
Were highly skilled in  land navigation
And map signals

They marked the right drop zones
With beacons and electronic signals

Three major drop zones

Planes hit by anti-aircraft fire

Some paratroopers hit the water and drowned in the river
The ones that landed had to make their way to the railroad

Thank you for your courage

In Battalion,
Misery is served in a thousand ways.

Misery is served in buckets of rain
and hours of wind.
Unyielding, soul-******* cold and wet.
Porous jungle boots that invite the frigid water in and soften your feet for a relentless 30 mile march.

Misery is served in a stifling aircraft flying Nap of the Earth.
A nauseating rollercoaster ride that never fails to elicit
chain reaction vomiting from the paratroopers rigged to jump.

Misery is served at pool PT
When your arms and legs feel like lead
and drowning is a better alternative
than the aquatic torture that you’re enduring.

Misery is served during blistering Company runs
led by the Commander
who was a college decathlete.
Runs where the strongest of us
pulled aside, emptied our stomachs,
and rejoined the formation.

Misery is served by no warning alerts
separating families and lovers
for indefinite periods,
sometimes forever.

Misery is served by the Spec 4 Mafia
Unleashing Hell on new Rangers
testing their threshold for ****.

Misery is served by road marches, prickly heat,
Black Palm, and sawgrass. It’s served by desert heat,
Arctic cold, and the stench of the world’s worst places.

Misery is served by the loss of brothers in war and training,
gone too soon to join the Great Ranger in the Sky.

Through it all, misery hardened my body and strengthened my soul.
It made me a warrior and ushered me into a Brotherhood that will be with me until we all sit at the great table in Valhalla.

So on this Veteran’s Day
Embrace the ****
Endure the pain
Invite the Misery
For that’s what makes us
Men amongst Men

Rangers Lead The Way.

Paratroopers free fall,
'chutes coiled and caught in a grease ball afro curl
reaching down perplexed ****** frames.
Diligent chortling mimes trapped in handmade indecision cages, tapping a telling tune of tired games played day after day.
A right brained boy with a head full of clout
miscommunication with a leftist expat from the north
to the south.
Jostled connections send out fizzling sentences
through blown speakers and an overheated circuit -
Bored of the excuses whispers the nameless
without a reason there isn't a purpose.
Shoot an accusing glare past Father Time
overlooking treasonous discouraging crimes
Open those whale blubber caked eyes
to the other side.
It's not what this has done to you
but what this has done to us.
The hitchhiker gave up, traded his thumb for a seat on the bus.
Never was he lost, but given more than one chance.
He, no, she, no we
were thrown away with his walking stick and his waterproof nap sack.
Will we cross this road again?
And pick up from where we began?
Or never turn back?
Always was he lost, but given one too many of a chance
But was it worth it?
Upholding the "right and proper" stance?

Tyres and fires burning
circles of rubber
Rolled down  black tongued roads
Heading to  city centre
Where  others meet
To greet the mighty ruler
With sword and soldiers dressed
In fibreglass shields, green helmets
truncheons with spikes backed water cannons
snipers on rooftops searching for vipers
to drill bullet holes

The tyres rolled in and rounded in a circle
Cutting off escape routes and
Dividing believers and  non-believers
Piled high, pulled tight with pitchfork  patience

The leaders orders more tyres.
Anything from cars, buses and bicycles
that could hold up the  chains of freedom.
Last desperate attempt - not to escape but die
In the ring of fire -soon lit
Underneath the tyres
Which created bursting black flames and bluegrey smoke
Rising above the rants of leaders and shooters
and crackling. Sparks that dulled the day
And lit the night with sparklers of power.

The paratroopers soon retreated into barracks
and the rioters took hold of the city keys,
And over broken glass and burnt buildings
settled in for the long haul to freedom.

The pawns moved on the chess board
  knights moved in the night,
The queen was cornered
and checkmate came when the hollow president
flew  the palace with his coterie of
ear chewers and shoe polishers!

The tyres burned slowly
the fires  burned down slowly.
Freedom came at dawn on the 21 st day
when the rubber factory churned out again
many new models of tyres with tougher treads.

The circle begins again today.
Author Notes

The Revolution continues. All common day gadgets that could burn and blister the new agenda is rolled down the road into the city centre where the
protesters gather to set fire to ambitious policies, unpopular with the people.

The fires from tyres will rage all night and day.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

“you will never believe until you show mercy to one another.”

alt. i'll never believe until one shows
one's conscience like he might his naked body.

pray all you want... i don't mind,
it just ends up a drunk's
priority pass while all the colts are
tapping on acid -

or he masturbates in public...then, **** me,
i'll believe, i'll subscribe to Netflix -
i'll be ready saying slogans to Brits
"come home" i.e. go to America or Hong Kong
with Blair in tow - go home! ** home -
invasion began with Northern Irish depot
of cheap cigarettes - the sour-***** additions
to the Ottoman Empire happy-meal of kebab -
laze and glaze later glee... pirri-pirri styled chicken or pea -
the sins of your fathers laid before you
and you said: BULGARIA!
in trance waiting for the new Zion that's Ibiza -
god the *****... yuck... hold your drink man! aim at
starboard steer or deer chandeliers for a cobweb!
if i go back to Poland i'll leave a happy mess,
i mean, i used to chew on things and break them...
t.v. remote controls - the time is: when
Brits envisioned themselves as part of Europe
and kept Napoleon slow-cooked on the sly with
excesses we all wished we had -
apparently my father came here to make me live
a better life - well if 70cl a day is better, i guess it is,
so minding the Suez canal - was all about
paratroopers in the Afghan mountain range -
with Pashtun *landays and that little horror -
heroes are always alive -
only traitors will perish forever -
domesticity is always alive,
only caves will perish forever -
or so said Darwin and someone else -
caves do perish as far north as Scandinavia -
wooden housing free from tornado twirls decapitated
in the mid-West (written on a *****) -
return from the exacting of historic pin-point,
i see no need for the monkey to evolve,
the maddening meaning? there's too much diversity
in the species of monkey to ensure the adequate diversity
of species of man - give macaque-bonsai-chimpanzee -
biodiversity either side, impossibility of stemming
or the origin of one from the other: anti-Darwinism,
meaning: each unit adapts to its specific requirements,
i.e. no secondary improvement, or secondary
adaptability - one of one for each -
you can't say that secondary uniformity exists,
but that's what you're saying - a second uniformity -
meaning there was never a prime conformity -
poetic is what philosophy sees in science - rhymes
of illogical conclusions - meaning an excess of madmen
unnecessary - but if there was no prime conformity
why didn't lizards evolve to dinosaurs? Hindu me, right now...
Hindu in face of all that western superiority of
2 + 2 = 5 - man + monkey = something we like to call
a Sherlock Holmes clue when playing Cluedo.

i gather you're aware of the fact that i'm familiar
with the many "lesser" things, let us assume that you
think i'm wholly ignorant, but i know otherwise.
then let us progress beyond the realm of man's holy crest,
namely thought, and thus speak of the feminine emasculation
where all thought is a whirlwind, and we decide to delve
on the sacred destructive element, via fifth namely electric
(what element beyond the candle if not the light-bulb?)
into the sixth, and that being: a woman's heart -
for this is a heart that narrates the unspoken, un-thought,
a housewife's fable (why the y missing when clearly stated
fay babble? excess, true, but necessary), here the four letters
translate in our accenting to provide the basis for concerning
syllable scalpel incisions, toward the penultimate atoms
and the ultimate sub-atomic shrapnel (i've learned the heaving
and congesting difficulty that language can provide -
ponce off logos if you want toward the source that's Heraclitus -
via Heidegger); somewhere between the tick (grave stress-or)
and the tock (acute stress-or), less breve (˘) / or the pushing down
to concentrate - again: we are encoding merely approximates
and diverge into Glaswegian or Cockney accents,
or otherwise in Australia. so how to rewrite the already stressed
word in italics? oh please put us out of our misery!
how do you apply the syllable incision, herr doktor?
indeed: făble -         ˘     and |        and the y -
                                                Y - lazy ******* gits!
who? the now seemingly ancient red-coats!
        even the Greeks applied diacritical marking on their
beautiful alphabet - the English thought they were Latin
and didn't bother, they have absolutely no orthographic
rules... so here's my suggestion: before damning
all metaphysics, apply orthography -
                                 and then do something about that extra
limb para-     that you left unexplored when competing
for the benzene ring - now reality looks really 2-dimensional
to me... we have ortho-exploration via orthography,
and we have metaphysics, but para? evidently only toward
war, with the gloomy paratroopers... and excess political
jargon of neocon and what not.
i'll go as far as necessary and say: even the acute aversion
to fable suits the surgical procedure: fáble -
a Spartacus moment: people! oh people! do you not
see where the origin of dyslexia lies with you?!
and do you know why i'm referencing all this
(from one random word, to a less randomised word)?
dyslexia and asthma - learn to breath and syllable words,
you'd be in the Black Forest of Germany with their
chemistry aligned word compounding and banishment
of the Oxford hyphenation for constantly relegating
acceptance. i ref. to Aldous Huxley and the occult,
but less perverse and more pristine...
why do cats eat cobwebs and love to play with frogs?
Baal - or Bæl -
                              Siamese Adam and Eve -
   never the Siamese in reality, same-*** Siamese -
                                                 but now the cutting up -
variants: count two for the umlaut,
             or a heart-attack flat-line macron and out comes
             Bāl                    or            Bäl          -
but look at it, orthography has suddenly usurped
the Anglo aesthetic - it either looks less appealing...
or actually correct / necessary.
     after synthesising the English language for over
20 years, i finally get to analyse it
                                                 and ask a priori questions
in an eternal back-flip cartwheel censure;
     but back toward the original intent stemming from
fable - what if we're working from Bæl?
     evidently someone's going to don a diacritical crown...
just to ensure we are true linguists -
                               hmm -
                                                       i could
concern myself with a breve marking - but the graphic
suggests otherwise... let's simply say it as twin partnership
of incision, and mark the syllable cut
    via Báèl.                       that slimy duke of inferno
    appears whenever the cat, the frog and the spider
                   coagulate into a formidable dynamic -
                and i guess as being of the Taurus zodiac i can
simply say: i disregard the earthly months and seasons
and call upon the zodiac month divisions -
suiting to my personality; and i know this appeals to
women, who's reasoning is of the heart, rather than
of the abstract brain that's the mind of men;
     brain is fat anyway, but oh the eager thumping
             of a woman wanton in all the many possibilities
unexplored; plus the scientific discussion regarding
linguistics - to prove i'm not a hot-air balloon worth of crap.

I see leaves from trees, winter wind just a blowing,
making an assualt like paratroopers on folks  lawns.
I hear the geese  gather up and form their formations,
quaking loudly that they are up and gone.
Morning rush to the work has to be coordinated,
that old truck needs time to warm up.
frost on the winshield, wind just a blowing,
time for one more coffee warm up.
Evening breeze brings the smell of wood stoves going,
holiday baking  and burning leaves from the yards.
Yes I do believe ... Winter is here!

all fallen disciples without
discipline

like a horse with a broken leg
the only thing I needed to complete my extension has third degree burns now

all dead paratroopers
like rag dolls
no longer fearing the earth

parachutes serve as hospital gowns
as they sway from their individual hanging trees

Bright pellucid morning
blue as icy aquamarine.

Fall nips the air
like a petulant cat.

It feels chilly
as a chance encounter
with a former lover
in a sunrise coffee shop.

The season spins
like an obstinate top.

Legions of lawn gnomes
don their long underwear.

The earth accepts this
glacial change, but
I will miss the warmth
of lilies and dandelions.

Still, this new  ambience
contains its own charms.

Trees spasm with delight
as vivid leaves waft like
inevitable paratroopers
to the retreating lawns.

Flowers hibernate
secure in the
inevitability
of resurrection.

It is a time to honor
common sense.

We know the snows
will blanket our
sleepy, gelid lives.

We know that
in time we will
wake to spring,
warmth and hope.

The world will turn
until we don't.

  ~mce

I spent the afternoon in the breezeway
watching the clouds tease the mountaintops
and here you come
wide-eyed, eager, kind
embodiment of youth.
you tell me stories of men in uniform
and what lies behind that shining facade
of smiling military men, all in a row.

He was tall, you say, all-american--and strong.
when he took her to bed, it was the day after
her husband was lost to fire and shrapnel.

Paratroopers, you say, are told one thing.
'Don't speak to civilians.'

You left me feeling queasy,
watching and wondering with suspicion
the blue and peace of the sky.

tears are flowing as I write
some pains never fade
stay the same as if it happened today
so let me try to get this just right

I was just 16 moved to florida
from growing up in northern virginia
no friends, young and wild and facing
a lovers betrayal which changed my heart

first person I met I’d walk to the bar
was a guy named Joe Martin
he was hitting on the girl i was with
I remember she was crying so he gave her a kiss

from that day on, him and I were best friends
hung out all the time I completely trusted him
he caught feelings love he’d say
those sure words would make me run away

he always talk about his brother Jack
family nickname for him was Nat
all the adventures they shared
his love for his brother was rare

over a year or maybe longer I forget
finally one day his brother visited
on leave from the marine’s set to deploy
didn’t think much either way of that boy

we all hung out in and out at the beach
once Jack came over and my mom looked at me
she said “he’s cute” what do you think
i said “you think so, hmm let me see

relationships of that kind were not for me
something Iran from and certainly didn’t seek
but my dear mother she planted that seed
and pretty quickly Jack was hitting on me

we were alone I drove him to the lake
a place where he’d swim he couldn’t get me in
this day he was quite bold wanting
to be with me right there and than

I was intrigued and told him if he wanted to date me
he’d have to do it right
put in the effort talk to his brother
make sure it’s alright

from that day on we were together
every day and every night
seemed like weeks maybe month
but back than felt like years

the day finally came for him to leave
Joe was in the driver’s seat of my 69 firebird
cherry red white top convertible
top was down i was in the back

than Jack came running out
duffle in hand kissed me and climbed in
I said to him “did you tell your mom goodbye”
he said “yes I did, why”, I said “did you tell her you love her”
he looked in my eyes, smiled and ran back inside

off to the greyhound bus station car full of kids
I swear that boy lip locked me I couldn’t catch my breath
he didn’t let go the entire trip
we said our goodbyes and waved as his bus left

deployed to Beirut Lebanon 1983
he wrote me every week
told me about what it was like there
and how he’d reup with his sergeant’s despair

encouraged my schooling said I’d do great
told me of the culture and the barracks and mates
how he was taught use infrared telescope
from the roof spot any mortar or any dangers

he wanted to re-enlist to save money for his future
he was proud to defend our country

than the worse news went round the world
on October 23, 1983, two truck bombs struck buildings in beirut, lebanon, housing American and French service members of the multinational force in lebanon (MNF), a military peacekeeping operation during the lebanese civil war. the attack killed 307 people: 241 u.s. and 58 french military personnel, six civilians, and two attackers.

disbelieving and it took at least a week
before they found his body
in the pile buried underneath
all of us hoping he’d be ok no relief

I was at my brother’s funeral in maryland
all the family was at my grandma’s after the service
when Jack’s mom called with the heart wrenching news
I thought for sure there’d be no way, that god would
take them both away

when I returned back home to florida
waiting for me in the mailbox
my last letter from Jack
that glimmer of hope of a mistake quickly passed

his last letter read:
‘did you hear the new rainbow album
bent out of shape with
ritchie blackmore and ronnie james dio”?
“don’t you worry about me
telling me to be in right place at the wrong time
hell “I’m trying to be in the wrong place at the right time”

Love,
Nat

Jack was 22 I was 18
young private first class marine
died as a peacekeeper, no weapons no defense
the list of the rules first three were intense

until October 23, 1983, there were ten guidelines issued for each u.s. marine member of the MNF:

the perimeter guards at the u.s. marine headquarters on the sunday morning of October 23, 1983, were in full compliance with rules 1–3 and were unable to shoot fast enough to disable or stop the bombers.

1. when on post, mobile or foot patrol, keep loaded magazine in weapon, bolt closed, weapon on safe, no round in the chamber.
2. do not chamber a round unless instructed to do so by a commissioned officer unless you must act in immediate self-defense where deadly force is authorized.
3. keep ammo for crew-served weapons readily available but not loaded in the weapon. weapons will be on safe at all times.
4. call local forces to assist in self-defense effort. notify headquarters.
5. use only minimum degree of force to accomplish any mission.
6. stop the use of force when it is no longer needed to accomplish the mission.
7. if you receive effective hostile fire, direct your fire at the source. if possible, use friendly snipers.
8. respect civilian property; do not attack it unless absolutely necessary to protect friendly forces.
9. protect innocent civilians from harm.
10. respect and protect recognized medical agencies such as red cross, red crescent, etc.

the first suicide bomber detonated a truck bomb at the building serving as a barracks for the 1st battalion 8th marines (battalion landing team – blt 1/8) of the 2nd marine division, killing 220 marines, 18 sailors and 3 soldiers, making this incident the deadliest single-day death toll for the united states marine corps since the battle of iwo jima in world war ii, the deadliest single-day death toll for the united states armed forces since the first day of the tet offensive in the vietnam war, the deadliest terrorist attack on american citizens in general prior to the september 11 attacks, and the deadliest terrorist attack on american citizens overseas. the explosives used were later estimated to be equivalent to as much as 9, 500 kg (21, 000 pounds) of tnt.

minutes later, a second suicide bomber struck the nine-story drakkar building, a few kilometers away, where the french contingent was stationed; 55 paratroopers from the 1st parachute chasseur regiment and three paratroopers of the 9th parachute chasseur regiment were killed and 15 injured. it was the single worst french military loss since the end of the algerian war.the wife and four children of a lebanese janitor at the french building were also killed, and more than twenty other lebanese civilians were injured.

our lives forever changed that day

families, our country, our nation, blood stained.
innocent men and women and children die for us
every single second of every single day


In honor of all of them and

Private First class Jack L. Martin (1961-1983)
there’s a special place in heaven for such angels as these!

below is our song, rainbow “street of dreams”
released 1983 (bent out of shape)
I sometimes wonder what would or could of been
sure did love that Nat Martin!
my purpose was profound

Summon the Strategic Air Command
The world could use more rock bands
Load the B-52's with Ludwig drum sets
and Marshall stacks , tie a twelve string
around the paratroopers backs
Saturate the zone with music books , score pads
and stands
Run missions non-stop , send commandos behind
operational lines bearing SG's and Les Pauls
Microphone stands and PA's , Roland keyboards
on every corner , continue dropping supplies till the world comes
to order* ..

The leaves have fallen.
Once brave soldiers
vital and firm
now old paratroopers
wrinkled with
the expectation of
winters rough war.
One by one
these daughters
And sons
fall to the Earth
to die.
The tree stands naked,
until winter’s war is over
and green life is restored

The 'lantern flies' were actually the paratroopers of war
descending onto the ground I was sworn to protect
Jesus laughed out loud , hot boxed a final drag off a Pall
Mall cigarette , flicked it into a minefield where it exploded
in every direction
I fired at the Moon from every position
Begged the night to come to an end
Woke up in a room destroyed , fired rounds
into blackness till the weapon jammed , patrolled
my field of fire from a window till the Sun kicked in*....

A joint operation was conducted this evening by French Paratroopers , Mexican Military Police and Columbian Anti-Terrorist Units on an unspecified target near the Mexican/U.S. border .. It is believed that the strike was an attempt to free refugees held captive by the U.S. Border Patrol ..This is breaking news !

- Harlow -
      a morning spent
      drinking jack
  and eating a lilac coloured
mushroom
     in the forest...
         poisoned? maybe...
i never thought about
eating something lilac...
                          esp. a fungus.
                                                        
­                        yet another 502 bad gateway bypass.

truly mythical properties... it's not the first time it has
happened...
   Khedra... is it just me... maybe i'm hallucinating
this scent... even if i am... it's pretty potent...
a bit like seeing **** when you close your eyes
after being awake for 36h+ straight...
                         auditory hallucinations?
                                       sometimes i hear my name
as if from afar... i remember it happened at Wembley
before a shift... i might have only had 2 hours sleep
prior... didn't eat much... a combination of factors...
a gust of wind and then... my name...
   i sort of froze and looked around...
                      but this is different...
                                  whatever people might think
about jerking off: sure... men get the stigma while
women become cam-girls and get off for money...
the ****** liberation bites back...
because for most guys it's a return to that
critique by richard von krafft-ebing in his
psychopathia sexualis... mind you...
   we're talking the 19th century...
                   shaming men... fair enough... while celebrating
the use of cucumbers and other such toys...
i have to thank Khedra for sending me those selfies...
i've stopped watching *******... pure and simple...
and no... she isn't even sending me nudes...
just close-ups... some collar-bone and neck...
one... she's wearing glasses and she made a close-up
of her lips...
                  not duck-lips... injected with too much
silicone... just naturally full lips...
                    come to think of it...
                                        i've only had "unprotected" ***
with two women in my life...
  ****... it's been too long since the first one...
so she sends me this selfie with another woman with her:
a much bigger pair of *******, blonde...
and this is what happens when you give a signed
copy of your poetry book to a woman...
what's today's date? ah... the 22nd... i'll get paid come
early April... guess where that money is going?
but when i was about to ******* one time i sort of stopped
and... can i? yeah... are you sure?
                yeah... i can't get pregnant...
                        and off went a squadron of white paratroopers...
into the golden gates of V....
but today... looking at the selfies she sent me...
now? all i have to do is look at her face and
remember having ******, ****** her real good...
hell... now my memory bank has increased exponentially...
i can just switch a cinema on where i'm the protagonist
in a shady *** scene with mirrors...
     funny... no ****** too...
well... except for the sordid antics in my head...
           but today... upon *******...
                                i could smell her...
                                       is that what happens when your
body bonds with another body at the zenith
of mutual ******? a piece of them: the scent is somehow
intact with you?!
    well... i don't know... you're sharing
various liquids between each other...
   her V juices... her sweat, her saliva...
           your juice, your sweat your saliva...
                      and my... it's so good to be appreciated
for being a clean: ultra-clinical ultra-pedantic cleanliness
freak... let's face it... if a ******* doesn't mind
having unprotected *** with you...
   and she doesn't mind you ******* into her...
you must be doing something right...
but i swear i have her scent in me, on me...
however it works... i even tell her every time i leave:
i'll have a wash prior... but never after...
no... i want to keep you on me for a while... longer...
other times when ******* is useful...
when you're about to perform...
   starts a day prior... ******* 3x without *******...
on the day of the performance...
some more jerking off without *******...
white wine is an aphrodisiac for me... as is exercise...
2x sessions of immense physical scrutiny...
30min each... the bottle of wine in between...
             ****... that litre of Jack is still on offer at Tesco...
better stash up on it... take it with me...
just chill... pour myself a drink when i'm with her...
she'll probably want to do some *******...
me? i'm too old for that ****...
                     trying it for the first time aged 35...
and the fact that it didn't do anything for me...
                               sure... she can do whatever she wants...
but it's more practical like this...
it's not like i'm alone in my predicament...
sure... if i were a single mum i could easily apply
for a council flat...
getting a mortgage? poetry pays ****...
                   if anything...
                          rent? what... cough up money to some
stranger's pockets?! just to what? live alone?
alone in order to play the dating game and hope:
"hope" of bringing someone back to my place?
obviously when you go out the girl would never ask
her round hers... but to go round yours...
plus... my personal library is too big to simply:
shift it... as is my music collection...
                           and... living with your parents isn't
that bad if you don't mind them and still somehow
managed to like you... being the custodian...
cooking food... d.i.y. - cleaning... well... if the old woman
has problem with arthritis... might as well...
but i'm not alone in this... after all...
in Japan they have this "thing" that's called
the ラブ ホテル (rabu hoteru) - love hotels...
    since... living arrangements are pretty much the same
there... but in the west... it's such a shame...
while Asian families in England... three ******* generations
under the same roof...
     is it some in-bred qualm or something?
sure... in capitalism everyone's going to be a winner...
what would be the alternative? go out at night...
pick a girl up... then... book a hotel room...
at least i get that ******* out of the way...
   i'm still going to follow her up on the suggestion...
but... at the same time... i don't think she'll follow up
on it...
            well... if this is the price for carnal love
   (ニクヨク 愛) - nikuyoku ai (アイ) -
              you just have to figure out a way to adapt...
isn't that what Darwinism teaches?
             you learn to adapt... this works for me...
hell... like that old saying goes... if something isn't broke:
don't fix it... took me a while... how long will this last?
well... if she's going to be sending me more of those
selfies where she's teasing her tongue at me...
                  i've already given up ******* for good...
for that: i'll be eternally grateful...
better let off steam from time to time
borrowing from memory: looking at her face...
being the protagonist than that ugly sensation of being
a ******...
   plus... how long would it take for a casual hook-up
girl to say the words: you're a beautiful man?
if at all! she might think it: but won't say it...
and... *** for free? for free implies she can somehow
get this high from an emotional attachment...
sure... get attached... but there are barriers...
and again: nothing is for free...
              you're going to be paying for something in
the end... dinner dates... gifts...
   i'm only here for the corporeal and carnal...
           but i would seriously *****-slap all those guys
that send money to cam-girls... or whatever you want
to call them: the ones that monetised selling bathwater...
that's an easy way out for the girl...
  what do you mean... no touchy-feely?
                       and behind a computer screen?!
i'd sooner be found giving spare change to a *****
than... whatever the hell the current culture dictates...
i'd say: return to the old school way of doing things...
but then again: that's just me;
   clearly i'm no pornographer...
                          a wholesome session of ***...
even if its once a month... i'll settle for that...
clearly i don't need any more... and if it was on a regular
basis... if i had to sleep in the same bed
as the woman... first i wouldn't get a good night's sleep
and secondly: i'd probably get bored of the ***...
i'd have to explore **** / latex kinks...
and... i don't want to do that.

i sometimes wait for words to appear...
out of the blue...
spontaneity and all that: "wonder"...
i mean... what would that look like...
if it wasn't a hidden emphasis: (colon)...
and later something in talian...
it got it, it, got it, it got it? it it:
tags galore!

as to why people complain about their past...
i know of a quote:
some people never go mad...
what horrible lives they must lead...
true cpt. ahab... or half an arab...
i like my past in that...
whatever wrong i have ever done...
i'm grieving...
the rest of it is... why do i fancy myself
a music buff over a movie boffin?
well... i like to think that my memory
is a bit of my very own:
cameo role b-movie cinema galore!
no wonder... alzheimer's and...
when all these people treat their past
as a regret...
a past is past.... and what not...
i like to ferment in the past...
as much as i once loved movies...
memory is a cinema...
never listen to the grey-area of
those paratroopers forever landing
in a cul de sac of "now"...

if you're going to toast rye bread...
you need to toast rye bed twice...
compared to toasting your standard white loaf...
rye bread requires... sometimes
the most spectacular revelation of patience...
your finger is already roving in a ***
of humos and the gherkins are are already
being bitten off: no heads to begin with...
but... whatever...

i like my past...
i have a memory bank like an elephant...
whatever i did wrong...
well: there's an iron maiden for that sort
of thing...
but i will not be told to uphold the sort of crucifix
masochism of a spectacle...
hey'zeus and je susan to boot...
rye bread...
you need to toast it twice...
if you want the crisp...
and the butter to melt into it like...
someone with a hangover attempting:
clarification bacon when... sun-tanning...

me? inspiration? i'd rather wait for a bus...
shuffle my feet in imitation
tango and scare a shadow while
catching a mouse using no amount of cheese!
that's me... secondant...
to major major: anyone not
milo minderbinder but me?
well then... quack salute and goose-stepping
a mile toward: the future a blank
with no cinema...

why forget the past when it can be such
great cinema?!
perhaps that's why i don't dream that much...
although...
the last dream i had...
i was pinching and pulling out...
splinters of wood from my right hand...
some appeared tiny at first...
later they emerged the size length and thickness
akin to legs of a table...
wooden splinters...
if these aren't dreams about teeth...
they have to be dreams about pulling
splinters from the hand...

what's next? giving birth to turds
and tapeworms?! or cackling penguins?!
what new dream?
attempting to melt a **** of butter
while rubbing it into the skin of a *******
walrus?! expecting to hear a purr?!

what is psychology? i thought that psychopathy
covered it all...
pathology of having a soul...
no... psychology counters psychopathy:
there's a second tier of thinking...
counter impulsive... conscience riddled...
chasm of: when aladdin meets the jinn...

little rubric friend of m'aye:
if... god is dead... this existence is wholly
materialistic: if god is dead
there's no need to cage the body
into a soul... and reverse...
the psychopathy of: the non-existence
of a soul... negation...
this psychology of: lost optics of 1 + 1 = 2...
the logicstics of: a soul with ****** logistics...
cage confined to a cage...

the logic confined to: a soul...
with is lent from god...
but the non-existence of god is...
also... a non-existence of the soul...
why bother then...
what then is the antonym of soul
that animates the body...
that which is unconscious is keeping
a solid heart-beat...
the functions of the liver...
i am the host... i am... while the body
is landlord...
psychology and psychopathy...
one side says: the other side simplifies
impulses... to have a soul is wrong...
psychopathy -
apathy... and to be psychopathic is
wrong "summa summarum"...

if not soul then: sigma (Σ)... we can call it that...
what coordination reprieve?
the Σ forgot the function of the liver...
when the brain demanded: knock-out drinking
habit... day in day out... 7 years and counting!
**** the liver: the brain needs a kipper!

and words sometimes do appear...
like so...
because they have themselves being circumstanced
against a blockage...
a constipation of sentencing the eyes
to staring at a blank piece of paper...
and no further avenues of coordination
the remaining 10 minutes before...
taking the pillow to a viennese waltz...
hugging... being reunited with Cain in Knox & Nod...
perhaps Abel was just a...
annoying ****-whisperer?
after all... last time i heard: Cain's ******
was driven by the fact that...
tomatoes have no blood...
cucumbers have no blood...
that Cain was a vegetarian...
some oops and some horseshoes making
their m.o.t. pass in the crux reminder of
seeking fit to trot via the cobblestone...

spoken like someone who would drive a car...
an alsatian and a sledge... yes...
a bicycle... yes...
a bus a train... yes...
a horse... yes...
but a car? do i look like a ******* h'american
whereby i drive a car: legally...
before i drink from ms. amber's ****: legally?
give me a horse and a bottle of whiskey...
i don't need mr. hamster and the traffic olympics:
for that one-once-upon-a-time "pull"...
sorry... sprain... of:
when no apple pie, warm, was handy...
the floral pattern of excess ******* had to do
"it" justice...

honestly: drink first: thirst first...
and adore the double-decker.... otherwise a nostalgia:
oh no... memory and nostalgia don't mingle...
not if memory is to be treated as a cinematic
escapade... nostalgia is not part of
the hong kong double-decker...
but... to drink prior to it being legal for you
to drive... well: no one of me
is going to be the designated taxi driver interlude
"watchman"...

from the day i started drinking,
it was a pretty ******* clear pythagorean statement...
you drink... you take the bus...
you drink... you walk...
what always eased the walking part?
it's the "deathrow mile"...
again... misnomer... the greater the meaning
of the walk... the shorter the actual distance
being walked...
blink and you might just miss it...
engage with former rage galore...
of clubbing and coming home with nothing
but regress and Greta -

i sometimes wait for words to appear.

at best: a drink and a homage to sleep -
nothing too complicated:
not allowing dreams to leave
traces of having invested in me -

i blame the cameo cinema of memory
for a lack of dreams -
then again:
i only have a bouquet of four or five
return-to memories
that i **** myself with...

        but it's all oh so un-
           -spectacular...
  everything is these days...
         because i feel: more than i think...
it's hardly an argument:
i feel therefore
            is no therefore to trickle down
toward...
an ontology detached from etymology
and subsequently from history...

everything is such a grand: devoid...
it's like... beside the nouns
there are only onomatopoeias...
there's a "wake-up" call
for those in a noon sizzle and scortch...
there's the milking of a camel
by rubbing the humb
with hands for sandpaper dust...
and there's the arithmetic
of bones:
         a rubric of the spine...
of those / i.e. things made
into a market of pickling...
cucumbers - later gherkins...

oysters... garlic K9s....
                   everything is so impossible
not because of some laziness...
but because... a be-at-a-loss...
            so immediately presented
the pressure comes of its own accord...

i'll sooner come across
a sentence with om / par /
le /              yod / -dle
                      lubi- /
                              decant... decant...

big words... yoyo...
   etymology... ontology etc.
  epistemology... bogus drawn a...
poker and a 2 + 2 = 4 is all the new
fathomed glue: and basics...

a return to... hardly...
somewhere between e. e. cummings
and will alexander...
                
  it's not because:
but there's no great awakening of a narrative
ready for a paragraph...
this alone is shrapnel logistics...
it's splinter-cell wo-wo-wording(s)...

         once upon a time grand adventure...
meat in the grinder...
a metallic-aftertaste...
   a softness of the chin after having
shaved...
and the beard...
  something i admire for my own self's
"purpose"...
like... the fiddle... of the dubious
***** afro extension:
in my hand a fiddle a bunch an
imitation / metaphor of a violin...
the fizzle of the mane stressed
toward the aid of the bow...

or the "new" invention of the
hammer and the nail...
counter: the ***** and the driver...
otherwise... the sickle...
and the wait-parody
of the chaff... autumn too late...
the first begotten
mill churns for flour...

                     the cement of a proper
stash of ****...
   a well deserved agony
of a browning of a loaf...
       a ceremony of sorts... beside...
wainbor and that pirate ship
of... cul de sac d.n.a. confiscations...
well! no more stupid than
no one knows who...

      a contradictory rubric:
science and it's contra: the aesthetic...
the 1960s and its hindu ****
and the western hangover materialism...
an isaiah berlin and
               the **** and the jig...
hence the... saw...
              
              it's still a chemical soup
of the brain in realm of psychiatry...
and those things and tender "bones"
of psychology...
em em: objective...
inclinations scarce...
          this over-worded
scholastic peacock and a gravity
guiding toward
a crux - the golgotha 1 +1 =
    and a revision upon the "thrice"...

               the better the worded
in that there must be a newly worded
vogue... a vogue of synonyms...
to scuttle... the best of the neutral:

chem. soup of the brain...
the basic fruition of the heart's
rhythmic junctions...
              
   the "leisures" of skin to contradict
a half-baked fathom of leather...
thus? to grow BALLz like
watermeHlons...
              and... count teeth like...
those "things" bound to
                be lodged into a scrutiny
for toothpicks in...
those grey-bits and shadows...
and those un-explored
clouts of brainz-it-freese...

                         hoop-l'ah!
less, concerning calling a dog a dog...
and more...
                        just ******* barking!
woof!
wo'ah!          blitzkrieg rotts-veil-ms.-eerie!

new photo-anti-objective
"reality"...
the old l.c.d. and new-hormones...
    otherwise: leash the old gorgon...
and *******... bro...

the best new transcendent...
reality...
come some old communism
of femme...
because the reality of males
and as plumbers
and the churn of rubbing charcoal...

but all those oh cherry-whipping lips!
these standards of...
my best whittle wowld
and standards...
and... octopus oogling the next
big scrutiny...
        
   again... truly objective...
the new hormone junkies
is... nothing new of the U.V.
subjective spectacular amazonian
mind-****: or call it...
p.t.s.d. from new vietnam...
because...
                new drugs... new highs...
the mind less a sponge...
and the body the old platonic
                     "it" wed itself to a grotesque
slow-roasting the gall: and the *******
and the chimney sweep...
and... uvula monobrow...

             dr. and dr.'s an 'atan...
                             thus saying...
no one is being judged...
but everyone is being trampled...
my brain's the juice...
your body is a hromonal ****...
and it just so happens...
the paratroopers of the grand
-oid are...
              lost? looters?
loitering?
sow the new normie...
                  who's to judge,
judge who... zoo-curious old berlin...
yeah...
           that's this new old ****
i have always been looking for...
no...
              no d.n.a. impropmptu forward...
chains and perv brilliant...

            hell...
this me this new becoming...
                chappie b'oh...
                      gets ***** by an ottoman...
gets ***** by a mongol
gets ***** by a chrimp wishard geijingyjingy...
cold basics within the confines
of taipei in W(oo)...

                            loot! the scoop!
no new brave...
no new old...
                ergo?
   the brave old...
              and the old brave;
nasal... nasal... umbrellas...
                     umbrellas... loitering
shadows constipated to make grip
of a shin.

Schoenberg's verklärte nacht, op. 4
for starting the night off...
reminiscence of the past four nights spent
in the silo of isolation:
thinking about Engels and Marx and
that theory about alienation -
such nights with fire and classical music
on the shift...
but i am doing a personalised understudy
in Polish Cinema from the Communist
Era... and i'm finding a great deal
i will not write essays about or pay
for an actual undergraduate degree:
it would have to be a post-graduate thesis
proposal for an educational body
say a university about the study of Polish Cinema
in the context of that time period
as a comparative tool to not exactly...
but exactly that... deconstruct modern cinema
in the English speaking world...
if i am a pink haired oily skinned
overweight leftist or leftoid or an ardent
Communist-**** ******* left opposition
in that the Devil is Left
and God is Right...
                        but i can be a proper deconstructionist
follow the paths of deconstructionalism
via the model of post-modernism
but only from the ashes and context of
being: as the British working class love
to make the distinction about foreigners
and then the Pakistani foreigners themselves
about new immigrants esp European
immigrants: BORN & BRED ENGLISH
BRITISH...
like that old slogan...

but that other slogan: BLUT UND BODEN...
well: where is your land?!
where?!

modern English speaking world cinema is
in need of right wing deconstructionist
post-modernists critiques...
which have to be learned from the left leaning
loony crowd in the English speaking world
that does not exist in other parts of the world
simply because those parts of the world
were rather strict and serious about the left
even Germany was
but then Germany took the other route toward
Marxism and England will have to too
experience its own version of Marxism...
given that i asked the question:
who was more critical, authentically concerned,
with the terrible living conditions
of the working people in Manchester...
child slavery in England was a real thing...
England might have shone the light
to the rest of the world:
but internally it has always been a Dickensian
pogrom
a fowl place of orc and elves... and dwarfs...
this is not a Christian nation no more
than Poland was upon its conversion...
then defending the last pagan stronghold of Europe
that was Lithuania:
like Christianity reached Kievan Rus sooner
than and the enclave of Litwa: Litwa...
the last heart of Europe before the cancerous
experiment on humanity
like the Parting of the Red Sea = the Holocaust...
in terms of wonder
how God can inflict such wonders telepathically
no longer through the winds the seas and speaking
through fire: but as the lord of hosts
able to do what... Apocalypse does in the X-Men
universe and consumes Prof Xavier's consciousness
like a spin-off on the Marvel universe:
the baddy wins in the second movie
while dying in the first...

see: cinema in the west doesn't do much with human
nature: just the crushing of human imaginings
where there are more images than words
being consumed:
like this inner circle craving of the Elites in Eyes
Wide Shut to insert a paganism
to defeat the crushing Christianity of Judaism
and not Christianity out of Paganism...
or a Christianity out of Hinduism:
since we are talking geneology: time...
not all religions emerged at once...
same is to say not all people emerged all at once...
therefore who is to talk about the environment
and the green Antarctica...

Harlequin *******... sharing words sharing
images...
clearly... i felt like a *** slave...
                                   a little toy and then to bring
to mind: why wake up with negative thoughts...
but i was waking up at 6pm and not 6am
with negative spinning vertigo thoughts
like looking into glass and with enough
night being able to see a mirror... some terrific
horror beginning this night
with a spider gently, silently dropping down from
the ceiling of the hut...
at least not in front of my nose but near enough
for me to see and instead of a frightened aghasp
a cross-eyed examination suggested
that i should just blow it away: swing it away
like those flowers: out of nouns: you blow the seeds
away like parachutes
why didn't **** Germany just bomb London
why not send in: en masse:
their best lovers, poets, philosphers, thieves,
the crimminals! why didn't **** Germany
just bomb other cities like Manchester
and Industrial Heart of the Empire
while simultaneously not drop crimminal
paratroopers into London or on the outskirts...
crimminals... like what the Russians are doing
but anally... crimminals as... footsoldiers?!
you ******* kidding me?!
no no!
you drop crimminals into enemy lines...
just like what a lot of countries are doing in England
but there's no single country:
no wait... that's not what's happening:
dialectical materialism spectacles...
the rest of the world is dumping workers
into the drip feed of society for uber and deliveroo
asians...
those kamikaze antics of their knowledge of Roman
Roads is like... rules of the roads in Rome itself...
bogus...

ah... class... in England... if it's not about money
then it must be about interest...
and there's this overseeing scrutiny about
work ethic, work pride,
yes... work pride... something concerning
work and nobility:
long gone are the days of nobility and feudalism
and monarchy:
pride and nobility: pride is a version:
subdued by nobility...
one can be a petty security guard in a hut
in one of the most spectacular places
on earth to witness the plethora of humanity
at night: Elephant and Castle...
lunatics and the open asylum and oh so many stars...

my company is asking for my social media
pages... they want to make an audit...
i think i've been captured on camera doing
something right... and they want to see my social media
profile... i'm a bit shy: it's a bit like losing your virginity
for the first time: to allow the virtual world
to collide with the real world:
i'm afraid of being sacked...
not that i wouldn't react to it with so much desperation
as to fly to Istambul and become
a missing person...
and like those modern people who...
i can't get past Schoenberg past the 6th or 7th minute...
like those people who have music curated
to them Moloch of Metallica adoration music
and producer and musician somewhere an artist:
oh i adored Metallica's master of puppets...
but i spent the first two weeks just listening to Battery
before listening to the rest of the album...
by god! that's me!
i can't listen past Schoenberg's 6th or 7th minute:
there's just so much and it works like a tide
when you let yourself go
and listen to the entire 30 minutes:
this is CLASS in England...
intellect...                     concern for humanity: soothing it
by distracting it with one's own solipsistic interest...
oh: if they want to audit my internet presence...
they'll be in for a surprise...

but English cinema is rarely existential and
so much phantoms to please...
it's sad that foreigners adopted:
but who invents the tools doesn't necessarily
have a say
concerning how those tools are to be used... right?
there's no inventor of cinema:
the objective... who gets to dictate the subjective
from the creation of the tool...
i see a hammer but no nail?
tool or weapon?
hammer and nail as a weapon become a torture emblem
of Christ and Pinhead in the hellraiser universe...
nail on its own... perhaps a toothpick...
so the hammer and the sickle
would! oh oh oh!
i want to redraw the flag of **** Germany!
apologies to the Asians!
i need south Korean now!
it's a flag!
drop the ******* the red white and black
that the Arabs are now borrowing
with a tinge of green in writing...
i have a flag!

                  BLACK...
                            wit­h a WHITE: HAMMER
   and SCYTHE!
                              or... maybe not a hammer...
but the hammer... yes... a black flag with a white
hammer and a scythe...
we don't need no clock of the ******* now:
we have the star of david clock turning...
tick... tock... tick... tock...           tick... tock...
i see a mat to sit on and read an open book.
two horns: tick tock... tick tock...
                                 i see my comrades ahead:
Jackie Spoonfularrow...
                              she's there... mermaids in her
**** juices...
                     tick-tock...

卐    (anti-clockwise or clock-wise...
             focus on the Rorschach...
         is this symbol orientated around a clockwise
dynamic... or an anti-clockwise dynamic?
can't say much for clocks and O...
            so that's the symbol of time performed so isolated
so much like the Birth of Christianity
from the ******* of Rome!
        i know that for me... this is... anti-clockwise...
but see... the germans chose the clockwise *******...
i'm chosing.... the anti-clockwise *******
and it will be just white on black...
in the corner like the five stars of China
and the hammer and the scythe... elsewhere...

something needs to happen spiritually!
artistically! voluntarily!
by the grace of god...

    ****... clock is stuck... hardly the crossroads... ***
of **** sites...
        i wanted to venture to show you the tick-tock
of the clock... clockwise starter quater to, then noon...
but that html codecie is only burning a flag...

thus a clock running on empty where
the second hand just quivers, limply...
trying to move forward but then having a dead man's
reflex response: tug-tod...    tug-tod... tugging at
the angel of death imploring him:
am i awake in heaven or in hell or again?!

can't replicate the html dictates of this page...

p.s. i made a faux pas: there is a mistake in here...
i know it...
      the Nazis did choose the anti-clockwise
*******: but they fell because you can't
choose an anti-clockwise *******
to go back in time... huh?! no anti-clockwise
just counter-clockwise?
wait wait...

yes a clockwise ******* imply going back
is healthy?! like a counter-clockwise *******
going forward in time:
******* to O                                 maybe it all fell
apart because their chose a counter-clockwise
******* to go back in time and unearthed...
what they unearthed: God's disgruntlement
with his People
concerning their overstayed welcome
in Poland: so that currently: Poland can prosper
and be envied by journalists in England
and i'm not even there
because my grandfather was a Communist
Party member and there was no room for people
like me back there: some country
like Chamberlain's Czech Republic Antarctica;

Człowiek z marmuru: man of marble: Wajda...
or Dostoyevsky's Idiot and my Anti-Idiot combined...
Decalogue: I, III, X... oh and VII for Linda's performance.