I'm done repressing my gayness
Because it's the "Christian" thing to do.
I will wear ******* rainbow ****** pasties
And march in a pride parade
If I please
And then go to church and praise Jesus
And God and the Holy Spirit
For making the way I am
And how I am
Because he made me perfect.
I am gay
I am Christian
I am proud to be both.

pasties on a $10 stripper..
oh how you make them shake.
taking men's money,
no matter what’s at stake.
gotta feed the kids
some how, some way..
left behind a life
that was broken and fraid.
cold lonely nights,
but I'm sure you've brought someone home,
I know you have problems sleeping alone.
breath of cheap beer,
heart full of fear..
I knew you what path you'd choose,
you don't know it yet,
you're gonna loose.

Pasties and poo,what a mix.
Taste much better than weetabix.
Trouble is, it sort of sticks.
To my teeth and my plate.
But it still tastes great!
Mum says the poo is a kind of salami,
I think my Mum is completely barmy!

A delicious little bakery
is only down our street
the smell of baking bread
well.. it really is a treat

It is run by Mrs ******
she is just so very charming
but she is a little clumsy
it's really quite alarming

You see,
she does her best to make the cakes
and bake such tasty bread
but the currants just go everywhere
and in the pies instead

And in the Cornish pasties
there is very often nuts
and in the fruit pie filling
bacon and beef cuts

But she seems to be quite fancy
well there has been many rumours
of her and the deliveryman
well... she flashes him her bloomers

But she really is so charming
poor soul.. she has the worst mishaps
like when she inadvertently
displayed her finest baps

And no one will forget
when in came a group of nuns
all asking some tea cakes
but out popped her Chelsea buns

But she really is a riot
you can't help but love her so
she give you all you ask for
in a bargain box 'to go'

And she takes care of her customers
and gives out treats to sample
you'll never go home hungry
you'll end up with quite a armful

So if you get a moment
take a stroll just down our street
to Mrs ******'s bakery
she really is a treat.

I have drunk your water, and thus your wine,
Though I choked upon the former's salty brine.
Lapped up delusions of dehydration.
Oceans now praised as a denomination.

Drainage…I drank it…I drank your milkshake!
Pillaged claims of an Arctic at stake.
Ruskies, Chankoros, and Yankees all alike,
All willfully ignoring Canada’s most northernly spike.

In Alarias eyes lies
a roast lamb mountain,
on a sea of the worlds
bestest gravy.
between her thighs
is peas pudding n pies,
cornish pasties,
crimped and savoury.

Do you know the muffin man?,
Its not a nursery rhyme,
He haunts kids dreams with horrid scenes,
The scream from time to time.

His apron smelled of cinnamon,
His finger nails were clean,
He brought the nicest cookies home,
Mommys face would gleam.

He came to school two days a wek,
And gave out yummy pasties,
He chose kids very carefully,
Rejection made him nasty.

She found it out the hard way,
When she pulled away from him,
He told them she was telling lies,
He tore her from within.

Her mommy looked so horrified,"How could you?",
She would say,
"Poor daddy brings such good things home,
You will be sent away".

Society believed this man,
And Cherry went away,
Asylum life was home for her,
For 10 years and 4 days.

So many children broke their silence,
And accusations heightened,
They spoke of muffins molestations,
Mommy became frightened.

They came in droves to talk to Cherry,
From shrinks to talk show hosts,
They helped her open up,
And talk about those childhood ghosts.

Now, muffin man has ***** hands,
And spends his life in prison,
But left behind are countless kids,
Cause mommy wouldn't listen ...

Anglophilia
An early passion
one cannot say
when or why
perhaps his father's admiration
or was it his mother's apprehension
for them

Leaves of sweet ruby tea
hot ginger pasties
glory of candle skinned  ladies
the warm eyes and cold hearts
what lovely cats you have

Avon flows, its quiet cenote waters
surrounding the poetical urns
Cheery children
noses against windows
those of shopkeepers
that smothered
Napoleon

Yes, Avon flows
the timely midnight trains
to a myriad country stations
all the many
noble selfish
ideals
Joy of bright roses
in a small garden below
where the Keats still play
Adam and Eve
and hear the City's pride
its mechanical soul  
sing its hollow lonely tune again
Oh, where did all the angels go?

I guess I need to confess that this immaculate mess is mine
I'm blessed with the burden that's so divine
Like growing vines that encase you
Replace who makes you wait two times as long
Rhyme a song, find a **** and hoot it
Life's the ****, so shoot it
Who knew that you would be
So blue doing what you were created for
I hate it more than I love it
Covet not
Pop shove it
Stop taking all the credit
Or I'll edit you out
Embedded in doubt
Have you ever drowned in a drought?
Some people call it the pasties
The way they see me is their own business
I live this particular way
Because it was how I was made
Blame the manufacturer
Mother nature fractured her brain
The rain, it cleanses
Life through new lenses
This world needs a bath
To wash away the senseless
Defenseless against the dark arts
There's hard parts of the head
Starts out red
But it slowly flows from a blood rose to burgundy
Heard it from me
The colour pallet awaiting the paint canvas
**** this train of thought went from Katmandu to Kansas
I cant stand this
How its all jumbled and mumbled together
Whether or not it fits the plot is obsolete
Not so sweet with the transitions as far as the topic goes
It stops it goes
It's hot it's cold
I do not know where these thoughts grow
Though I'm content with whatever the noggin sent
To the mouth hole
Like my vocabulary got a toboggan sled
And rode it to the south pole
Faster than Clark Griswald with his fancy *** sled wax
That tore down the mountain with lightning speed
It's frightening we'd
Do something so unrealistic because we sit
Amidst this oblong box
Listen to these odd, long talks
And say hey, they did it, why cant we
How bad could it be?
National lampoon did it flawlessly.

I thought that he was going to discuss
What the fuss is about
But now, how wide we've strayed
Played his word game
This is an absurd sane
Must be crazy
But it don't phase me
Cause I know one day, you'll have nothing to say
And you'll attempt to paraphrase me
Saves me the head and the heart ache
Taking the time to lay low
In this forsaken day glow
Swim over to Havana
Have a banana with Jose Conseco
Hey go on and on
Like donkey kong
Sing me the donkey song
You know, by blue rodeo?
Oh we go on for days
In this phase of saying whatever comes to mind
Have some of mine
The thought process of this confession
Was nothing but
What?
Merely electricity
Created almost instantly
The consistency as you can see
Is never there but I never care
Ever stare at your own hands when you're not high
I am every single line that my thumb has defined
Deoxyribonucleic acid trip
Hey hey hey that just mean DNA
We can play because of this double helix
I can feel it
So surreal its as though I know myself through code
I could explode and I would be only mathematically scattered
I'm flattered that you might feel bad but you're
Overthinking it
Trust me I know
Because I have the capacity
Not to let me demons show
Its me that goes all this way
Monthly second Sundays
To say whatever the hell I have to
Have a laugh or two
Between these increments of sadness
This attraction to madness
Is tearing me limb from limb
Not being a simpleton
It's not an easy task
Ask me about the weather
And I'll mentally kick your ***
PASS
On to the next subject
Ejected that last *** hat because
He was too plain yogurt
If I could have a super power
It would be a one punch, with no hurt
Just to assert logic and rationality
To take you out of your shoes
And place you in reality
Now that we can free you of your amigo
The ego
Can we go on with this metamorphosis
And realise how **** poor this is
Of course this is not the zenith
To how we live
It's a semi civilized society at best
Dividing and devising
Study for the riot test

Curve your enthusiasm with a lyrical ******
Have em once a day like vitamins
The devil, I'll invite him in
Just to look and see what evil truly wants from me
Haunting me constantly
Cant we see that these demons
Even though they're within us
We cannot let them win us
Thus, Me.
I befriend the deep end
The creatures of the week end
We spend a tremendous part of living
Not forgiving ourselves
For **** we had no control over
I'm ******* over it
No longer sober
For I've felt the weight without a crutch
It's such a heavy head to carry
Variables and hairy situations
Enter the train station
Every single person here needs a brain vacation
Its the moderation that gets me in trouble
Double the dose it goes slower the time
When you're intertwined with cloud nine
I'm proud that I have recognized
What resides inside of me
Leo is the lion
But I have no pride to be
The drunken king of the jungle
Iron fist in a stumble
Mumble something dumb?Full of myself but I can still be humble
Dumbledore's sorting hat would slither me in
To slitheryn
For what consists inside of me
I need something to wither in
Considering the very thing that keeps me here is fear.

So to the wolves, throw me
They'll treat me like Mogli
So rogue, I know there's no home to go to
Though I know where I don't belong
I cannot be wrong
I am crucial to the universe?Believe it till I'm in the hearse
Because the worst is always right there?Don't agree
We don't have a word for good dreams,
Cause all we know are nightmares
And I care about it all
I feel the globe in my dome
Actually the galaxy
Is right inside my iris, see?
He who tries to convince me otherwise
With realise that these teal eyes
Keep me safe inside these surreal lies
Why?
Well to recreate this spoken poem
I think I'm from a broken home.
Not in the aspect that my dad wrecked
What it means to be a father.
I could bring it up, but **** it,
Why should I even bother.
But what I meant to mean is this,
And I ain't trying to diss,
Mom gets involved with a man with money
This life is a joke
And ****, its not funny.
He drinks, he drives, he can't see his greed.
He's the reason Alice Cooper wrote
Only Women Bleed
Needed a way out, maybe an outlet
Out to get out of it, and I'm **** well proud of it
How?
Because I get to portray the way you see me.
I don't manifest the detested specimen I'm in.
In fact, I act according to whatever state your head is in.
I'd rather adapt than have to illustrate where the hate originates.
Open the flood gates and explain why the bud makes me feel great.
I'm not okay, and that's just fine.
I wouldn't ask for another life, I want mine
Cause when you combine
Pain and pleasure
It's something you can't measure
You pass gas and someone acts like you're a national treasure.
Better to be loathed for how you help your head
Than to be loved for every little word you've said.
Instead of getting upset, I just like to get high.
It's more socially appropriate
Opposed to sitting inside to cry.
I'm over it, the sober, it's
No life for me
I'd like to see
The colours that only live inside my fantasized make believe
Why??Because I'm alive, god ******
I can live in moderation
You need to work hard to get that californication
No predestination
I create what I want to know
For it goes to show this
Life is thinking that we know bliss
Robbed of what we long for
As if we don't notice
But it's this ******* that we call self
That calls you a ***** and you don't need no help
Because in the end if you depend upon anyone but you
You're hoping that another soul with get you through
Whatever happens to occur
Sure we all could use assistance
But when it's persistent
Then what
Putt putt putt like the little train
Who couldn't do anything by himself
Who would often complain
Drive everyone insane
Till the coffin's a gain
Hey that aint me.

I'm looking for the middle ground
A happy little place where I can make a little sound
So profoundly wound up
I'd hate to unravel
We all want stability
With the ability to travel
To the far off lands that no man has tampered with
To get the whiff of damp air
That the rains just gave you
It will save you
The grave, dude, is a way that you
Give back to the world
And as your body unfurls,
Your presence does not.
Physically you are distant
But never in thought.
Who you are, and what you do,
Will live on
So live long, as long as you can.
Sell your ****, quit your job and buy yourself a van,
And when you get to the end, lend it to some man
Who truly believes he has nothing more to see.
For this man was you.

This mind set, I've sorry, guessing you've been lured in.
I'll leave you to rest
Of the Blessing and the Burden.

Come warm your hands around me tonight
Let go of the cold restraint that dangle your heart
I have dreamt of this day,
I have long for this hour
Come warm yours hands,
Rebuild your smile, and rebuild the trust

Stand upright at the council meeting my Zula warrior, my king
Unleash the passion within, stop struggling with your feelings
instead, come and fumble with these long, longs chocolate strings

Come warm your hands on my body
And forget the flittering open fire of hatred within her eyes,
It's cold night on the tropical island,
however, it's lavender essential oil on my linens
there's chocolate ******* to be thread.
tasty pasties and edible ******,
it’s warm in my chambers,
its love in my heart,
there is action,
there is passion,
come take a deep look into my eyes
before you address the unsettling crowd
Your Queen would always be by your side.

Stand upright at the council meeting my Zulu warrior, my king
you were meant to rule .................

Worry me not because of hazel eyes
Pity me not for transient hands, a transient romance

Pity those who live with a million backs,
Thinking as though they have selection
Merely selections, selections A plethora

No one wants, no one, mark my words
Genuinely wants to **** a ***** *******
Whimsical and flying, a absent look across your pasty face
Intrusive eyes tracing, your snotty nose across that silly face
That silly face you make, lazy used *****
Exercise a little more, won't you?
You're the one who believes he has an ocean

No ocean, no
A little cradle of girls with crumpled hearts
and slits on their embalmed pasties.

I'm disgusted, disgusted, disgusted by these sweaty ball sacks
Arrogance in their snorts, farts and living as though they can be
they can be disgusting, nauseating, revoltingly HUMAN

While I must adorn a satin sleek smile
Hairless ivory and flowery areolas
The ice cool temper of no wavering, no moving forward

Why must I be polished and pretty
Why must I put my soft palate against your sweaty naked jockstrap
Why must I let you crush my skull with your meaty, hairy presence
Choking my throat with disgusting salami of 18 years too late
Am I expected to smile and compliment you for this catastrophe?

No, worry me not that Hazel eyes no longer trace me
Pity me Not that I do not have meaty hands torturing my skull

Feel my liberation in your cold sock of cries.

**** **** *******!

One day at a boutique shop,
I met a man selling cats,
For money he wanted to swap,
But I really wanted some bats

"Got any bats?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money."
"No bats here!" said the guy
He seemed to find it quite funny

"We've got some lovely dresses,
I'll give you a very fine price."
"I'd rather have some headdresses."
The man blinked rapidly thrice

The man seemed exceptionally busy,
And his manner was strangely amused
He wasn't what I would call dizzy,
Great disdain he noticeably oozed

Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit tall.
Still, he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was plenty cool

So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the boutique shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearted,
"I can help you I believe."

"Cats, bats, you shall find
Dresses, headdresses, you can get
You must now open your mind,
And get down to The Corn Market

So to The Corn Market, I decided to go,
In search of the bats, I craved
The winds it did eerily blow
But I felt that the day could be saved

There were stalls selling tights,
Pasties in many shades.
There were even stalls selling writes
People were scattered from many trades

I was greeted by a peculiar lady,
She seemed to be rather tall
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady
I wondered if she was at all cool

Before I could open my mouth,
She shouted, "For you, I have some bats!"
I headed towards her, to the south,
Past some dresses and cats.

"But how did you know?" I asked,
"Do you want them or not?" she did say.
Silently, the bats she passed.
Then vanished before I could pay.

As I walked away I hard a crackle
Or was it, perhaps, a hushed cackle?

i would have never guessed it that Flea would be a Sheffield United supporter, then again who would have thought that Ryan Reynolds would become the owner of Wrexham...

and sometimes: even if you're working an event
and not a spectator you're still like:
**** it, i need to get a t-shirt...

i can't remember the last time i owned something
that did have a tag: made in China...
i still have this shirt from Gap that reads
made in Ireland...
    now i own something that reads: made in Honduras...
the quality on this thing tells me...
if washed properly will last about 20+ years...

when was the last time i saw them?
did they just come out with By the Way?
2002...  so they must have played the London Docklands
Arena circa...
they were great then: but today they were
like the Beatles...
               Flea on par with John Frusciante...
you have to give it bass players that are on par
with guitarists if not somehow surpassing them...

back then at the Docklands... what was it?
12,500 seated and 15,000 in concert mode...
today? my guess is in the range of 70,000+
      they might be getting but that's when people
are at their best... esp. ageing rock stars...
               it's this last push at greatness...
                             i sure as **** wanted to hear
Dani California live...
                  and it wouldn't be me if i wasn't disappointed
at them not playing Warm Tape...

but other things happened...
                  i'm sometimes almost sure that my interactions
with spectators do not go unnoticed by other
spectators or the security team in general...
now... i'm used to hugs... having selfies taken...
but... i truly wasn't read for a guy to walk up
to make: steal my hand... kiss it... hug me and go
on his merry way...
    as if invited the Chillies to London...
oh sure sure... yeah... i organised this event...

but it's not that:
people have been really starved socially after the past
two years... it shows...
   i'm just wondering when all this luvvy-dubby
attitude of the public will return to the old complacent
drunk-rude attitude...
then the post-pandemic honeymoon period
will end... it's bound to happen at some point
with enough people having attended enough
public events like football matches and concerts...
when the security services will return to being
invisible traffic-cone jokes...
                   unless of course it's just me...
i don't see other stewards or security officers
get their hands kissed and get hugs and get asked
for selfies...

then again... i wonder if i've met someone who
read any of my ****** "poems"...
   i look at the viewing counts...
if i managed to pull over 15,000 examples from my
***.. split between several websites...
where on one just one has gained 48.1K traction...
and i add up some of the more popular ones...
i've reached viewership well over 100K...
so i'm thinking... maybe some of these people approach
me like they know me...
     or know of me...

am i being full of myself?
               i'm just not used to strangers kissing my hands...
or playing with my beard...
how much of this is post-pandemic socialisation-starvation
and how much of it inherently authentic
based on the ontology of individuals is:
perhaps... debatable...
nonetheless: Casanova could have boasted about
his adventures in and outside of the bedroom...
i'm hardly hurting anyone's ego by citing how...
how familiar people can become...
   even though they are strangers...
                        let's not get anyone's hopes up...
we're not talking the complications of friendships...
having drinks in a pub... talking about our highs
and lows... it's not about the shallowness of these
interactions... but the immediacy and the fleetingness
of them: the almost democratic nature of them...
"democratic": there's 8 billion examples of man /
woman on this earth... and London can hardly
compete with a small village, with the Archers'
claustrophobia (the Archers'?
   this radio soap-opera on BBC Radio 4...
               in my most low i used to tune in...
    i'm not old enough to tune into BBC Radio 4,
i don't think i'll ever be...
    i tried BBC Radio 3 for a while...
                   i still prefer being my own DJ) -

well... i tried listening to Anderson Paak coming in...
after seeing him live?
i don't think i'll be able to...
     you need to see him... he's a performer...
he's less a recording artist...
                  his recordings are stale compared to his
entertainment qualities...
    part James Brown part: obviously himself...

or anyone not liking what i write can just switch
to something from the poetryfoundation.org,
or the tabloid press...
                    even i think this is mediocre...
i'm less worried about but i was really worried
whether the train strikes would mean that
the transport-chain-lock would work in my favour...
whether i'd get the central line to Newbury Park
on time from Stratford...
whether i'd catch either the 296 or the 66 bus
to Romford and get one of the last three 103 buses
after 12:00am to Chase Cross...

but i just bought a t-shirt from a concert
and put it over my work clothes and walked with
the rest of the fans grinning-like an idiot:
i've been paid... and i saw a band i last saw
back in 2002... and i'm going to see them again tomorrow...

sure... who wouldn't want to be a mysterious
poet who dies at the age of 30
like Kathleen Tankersley Young from Lysol poisoning...
who wouldn't?! the public would archive
two poems by me and i'd be... immortalised...
Bukowski put a nail on the head when he said:
when you write into the thousands...
you realise... that you have written very little...

right now anything to push me sitting up until
2am and getting up at 9am...
drinking whiskey and soothing my legs
from standing up for... however many hours
i stood rooted...
     but i was smarter today...
        i decided to eat something on the shift...
i highly recommend the steak pasties at the London
Stadium... they're only £6 a pop and that's
not overpriced for a London venue...
i would never ingest that free-cheap-*****
sandwiches provided by companies...
mind you... i did manage to "steal" a free bottle
of Fanta from one of the kiosk managers...
          or if you're at Wembley... befriend a Bangladeshi
security guy... or a Somali...
not stereotyping... they can smooth-talk
any member of a kiosk to give you free food...
or rather... the people working in the food kiosks
are probably also Bangladeshi or Somali...
so...                  

          win win...

and of the people you work with... word quickly spreads...
i come in bruised from a bicycle accident...
obviously i had to tell people that "some ******" cut
me off... that's not true...
i was cycling drunk... the last time i ever did that...
i lost control when the road started becoming uneven:
***-hole this swerve that...
it was a spectacular accident of my own making...
i flipped forward across the handlebars...
even if i was wearing a cycling helmet: which i never
have and never will... a beautiful looking
imitation of a Francis Bacon painting...
but today: some guy approached me...
oh... looks like you're healing nicely...

         and i am... it felt so good listening Scar Tissue
live... i'm gently pinching the scab and eating it...
like a dog...
but i was having this conversation with Harini
and about her falling off her electric scooter...
how she would never get back on it...
and i told her: my bicycle was sort of my fault too...
but it's different with bicycles...
so i started telling her about those two glorious
summers when my grandfather was alive
and he'd take me to Pętkowice (Świętokrzyskie Voivodeship,
Ostrowiec County, Poland)
for horse riding...
            oh yeah... i'll never own a car...
i love buses, bicycles and horses too much...
i will never own a flashy car...
so i told her... this mare almost threw me off at
full gallop...
   see... it's different when you have a bicycle
accident and something rather different
when a horse throws you off...
bicycles are dead things... it's up to you to not
be drunk (idiot) and not spotting a ***-hole
early enough...
            but a horse is a living creature and has
its own rules, whims...

i think i'm rekindling sleeping genes in me...
i must have come from a lineage of horse-riders...
after the first lesson
having jumped me and this guy went into
the fields and the forest for a "stroll"...
my god... riding a horse at full gallop...
it's almost a bit like riding a bicycle down a hill...
no... it's not the same...
       sleeping genes of a Mongol? a ***?
                     Winged Hussars?!
who else where the great nations that heavily relied
on horses?!
    i just remember: put right heel pressure
on the horse's torso while pulling at the reins
of the left hand for it to turn left...
and if you want to move the horse to the right...
left heel digging into the torso
and right hand pulling at the reins...
and if you want to gallop?
    both feet dig heels into the torso
  and the reins are tightened...

                    and she looked at me like:
well... i wasn't expecting you to be a type that rode horses...
so much for rock stars... down on the ground
this is probably enough to impress...

i come home i find my maine **** readied for
a nap in my bed... wake up tomorrow...
root myself in... un-root myself...
drink some whiskey... have two days off...
wait for the boiler mechanic come Monday...
then head off to Wembley for the Ed Sheeran gig...
like any modern man i'm addicted
to the urban landscape...
although... i sometimes wish i could live
on the Shetlands... or the Faroe Isles...
be a lighthouse curator...

                               live in a cave: live in a cave:
breathe like a cave when a shout shouted
into it excavates an echo...
           i'm a terrible DJ... second night running
and it's still...
  
i can move mountains
i can work a miracle, work a miracle
ooh, oh, oh, (i'll) keep you like an oath
may nothing but death do us (a)part

she wants to dance like uma thurman...

“Come to lovely Looe!” They said,
“And see the Jewel of Cornwall’s shores-
Where Cider, Cheese and Ale and Tea,
And Pasties rare will all be yours!
See Seagulls wheel, and Sardines sport,
In lovely Looe, our River Port –
Where golden beaches tickle toes,
And ***** and Ice Cream please the nose;
In Trago’s woods, hear Peacocks call;
And finest fish is here for all;
Where Farmers till the richest land,
And in the evening form a band;
To play ‘The Floral Dance’ I trow,
Or ‘Trelawny’s Air’ in measure slow.
And should you crave for Chips or Pies,
Or fine dressed Crab, sweet Fudge or Fries,
Then look no further; for the wise
And learned seek no more respite
Or ever eat another bite.
But wait! We have not told you yet
Of Sunshine, Sea and Leatherette;
Where bucket, ***** and children’s hand,
Build Castles fine upon the sand;
Where hardy Souls, in weather fine,
Do swim and frolic in the brine;
Or blessed Looe Island, Where tis whiled,
Our Saviour walked when but a child.
And in the evenings, music plays,
At festivals, and other days;
In taverns local to the town,
Where many a pint is quafféd down.
But ask no more what you should do;
Come join us here! There is no queue!”

I rode my Bike; I went to Looe;
And bless my Soul, It all was true!

what i've learnt about bands... say, they're headlining over
two days at one venue...
on the first day they play all their major hits...
it feels a lot like a struggle: i struggled to not yawn
even though i shouldn't have...
sure... they played all their best songs...
                  Scar Tissue, Under the Bridge...
among others... but the whole flow of the set-list felt
disjointed...
           the crowd felt too fresh...
                 and sure: on the first day the venue was sold out...
if i wasn't working i don't think i could appreciate
a back-to-back spectacle by the same band:
no... i wouldn't be stupid enough to buy tickets
for two consecutive days...
     isn't it enough that i ****** up my knees, feet and back
earned over £400... spent £35 on a t-shirt
and bought myself lunch: the best steak & potato
pasties in town?
no... i wouldn't have bought tickets for yesterday
and today... i would have thought like most people might
think: they're going to play the same songs...
nope... bands with a big enough oeuvre never play
the same songs... if they're playing two or three days
at the same venue...
   today's set list was much better...
because they only played Californication, Give it Up...
and By the Way...
    that's the only three songs they split between
the two days...
       sure... yesterday i was writing about being spotted
for what i do...
these two women started hovering around
where i was placed... i spotted them once...
disappeared... they reappeared...
one was my sort challenge... a big girl...
a big girl akin to ALISON TYLER big girl...
sort of the same height as me... all the necessary freckles
of a brunette and not a ginger...
lovely curves: big... not fat... just big...
she kept eyeing me up... i don't know whether
the crowd gave her the "*****-and-giggles" or whatever:
but her friend started to try and comfort her...
scratching her back... then caressing it...
her bra strap became exposed... then her friend tried
to hide it... and she kept looking at me with
these doe eyes...
     i couldn't allow them through the fire exit...
since only personnel can walk through freely...
so i told them: there's this disability bay up there
and the seats are far apart...
you might not see the band: but you'll hear them...
that's the best i can do...
       they left and i never saw them again...
maybe i'm just imagining things...
    who the hell buys tickets to a concert and suddenly
conjures up "panic attacks"?
i'm not saying: fakes panic attacks...
  but conjures them out of thin-air!
            maybe i have a story in my head that sort
of deviates from "reality"...
            hell... i'd buy tickets to a ******* opera instead...
that's usually a tame musical experience...
but still a musical experience...

just to the end i figured something about crowd
control, it's just a minor detail,
i sort of knew why things were done as they were
to be done: egress...
how to get over 30K spectators from the pitch...
two routes...
one route? a bottle-neck... up the stairs...
onto the concourse...
second route? a whale's ****** sized exit through
a tunnel...
what do you do? you block off the whale's ******
sized exit through a tunnel for about five minutes...
by placing traffic-cone people in high-viz. jackets
by this exit... today i felt like i was the only
controller on an airport tarmac...
moving my hands: indicating direction for
the initial crowd leaving to take...
           better orientating airplane...
   up the stairs... to the right... to the right (my right,
their left)... that's the whole trick...
establish a flow up the stairs... so that enough people
take the bait... which creates an initial split in the crowd...
since the bottleneck route can only take so
much traffic... and while people congest around
the high-viz. traffic cone people... right...
one flow established... now pull apart
the cordon of high-viz. traffic cone people
apart and let the mass of traffic through the tunnel...
makes sense...
                   i know there's no need to think about
such simple things...
but what news do you usually hear from Mecca
at the time of the Hajj?!
    what's the news? about 70 dead when the crowd
stampedes and crushes everyone...
i hate working with people with large eyes:
fear has large eyes...
    and panic is worse than ******...
               you just want people to go to an event
and leave safely... some drunk wizards and philosophers
will always be found... but that sort of stressing of
"individualism" is about as useful as
a gherkin on a pile of cucumbers...
                     i hate losing my temper with drunk people,
thank god it's a concert so you do have to shout
because of the ear-plugs...
and stand there like some hyper-inflation of "******"
gesticulating via "on MIGI": in MIG...
                  a make-shift deaf-person talk with the body...
it's not an acronym, it's a word borrowed from
******: in flashes... finger language...
hand arm body language...  
          wink wink... smile... neck turning insinuations...
i don't know if i'd make a better postman...
i think i'd make a great housekeeper when
people go on holidays and need a caretaker...
perhaps a great dog-walker...
certainly not a dentist or a heart-surgeon...
that path is lost... i'm not going to pick that sort of life
up... i'm still thinking about picking up
the role of a chemistry teacher: although i'd prefer
to be an English teacher...
  
   what a gruesome weekend... what a rewarding
weekend... i only woke up at home and
only spent 12am through to 2am scribbling and drinking...
as much as i love the idea of home:
give me a horse! and a good stretch of an Ukrainian steppe!
i've earned enough to 0 my debt and spend
the rest on prostitutes... which i will after the 1st of July...
because... i have nothing to spend it on...
plus... if the economy is going to work...
the women need the money... i just buy whiskey...
band t-shirts after seeing them in concert...
some food from time to time...
but... better the women have the money to spend...
but i'm not just going to give money to women
via marriage... via marriage that means
having a limited amount of ***
and hoping for people to attend your funeral... ah ha ha...
better i give the money to prostitutes
and have *** in return... makes sense...

i was actually dreaming about this manic weekend
finishing...
i was dreaming something akin to...
which i did fulfill...
the last day...
   singing die eisenfaust am lanzenshaft
(Teutonic Crusader song)
while walking home from Romford St. to where
i live, while drinking some cider,
smoking a cigarette or two...
admiring the night, the stars... the lateness of the sunset
of high June... wishing to find my cat sleeping
in my bed... waiting for tomorrow
in the form of waking up at 12pm,
cleaning the house... waited for the boiler technician
to come at 2pm and get paid £80 for 15 minutes'
worth of work...

then cycling for an hour... then making lunch
for dearest father with the leftover steak meat...
then making dinner power: roast chicken...
some vegetables... i'm always in my "element"
when cooking...
cleaning the house: that too...
        i have at least one night until a shift
at Wembley for an Ed the Ginger gig so i can
completely drink myself under the table:
the Matrix setting: there's no table...
as there's no "under": therefore...

                      i work hard i drink hard...
crowd control: eh... work for retards...
but these army references keep trickling down
from the top to the "stormtroopers"...
i don't know why the Somalis and other copper-neccks
like working with me...
once a make-shift supervisor...
i'm still their supervisor...
i think they just like saying the word: Matthew...

i was away from working for enough
to know... that work and youth don't mix...
und ihre schwerter blinken...
    
if i had more time: i rather walk into
the:
verdunkelt-wald... mondbeschienensilberlocken...
than a lampezündetehaus...
das knarren von kniefern
im alles das ist nacht!
                kuss mich morgen:
zu wahrheit die gähnen-mittag-von-die-sonne:
sonne das nie blinken oder schlafen...
nacht ewig: ein nacht alles uns!

i disintegrate into German from English
since... English is sort of German with some
*******-workings of pseudo-French workings...

oh but the conversations you hear...
the sort of fears blacks have concerning American culture...
the anti-racism culture of England...
too much was said in order for me to write
something equivalent to a haiku:
we, just, get, along...
   sure... i get it... there are outliers...
anti-racist white girls and their fetishes...
i have a fetishes for mushrooms and cats...
and caterpillars... i have a fetish for Turkish girls...
i have a fetish for Teutonic crusader songs...
i have a fetish for the German tongue...

but the young copper-necks like working
with me... i like them... i like their hue...
they're lazily employed at first but they soon build up
momentum...
when that happens i just start singing Teutonic songs
in my head.... i.e. we're here to get paid...
we're not in an army...
i'm planning to ******* to the land of Nod
from 2am through to 12pm... with my cat sleeping
with me... sure... i wish it was a woman...
let's not wish on too much...
first i need to scratch my scar tissue...
peel off some scab... eat it like a dog...
Jemminah really ****** me off...
not that she was an easy catch...
   but because she was a ginger and an impossible catch...

but that's the beauty of life:
you're never going to get what you "think" you're
supposed to expect... that never happens...
no one is ever promised to be born with
a crown of thorns of the crown of England...
are they?!
the idea is to diffuse the "situation"...
unlike in Republics... the old ways remain
the same... keep the majority a majority...
and then keep a scrutiny on the minority
that want to exist outside of the realm of the minority:
faking majority rule...
but?! first you have to sort out the fake minority
rule of PRIDE politico *******...
no one likes a minority detailing rules
for a majority to follow...
what one likes? individuals to detail rules
for a majority...
individuals > minorities when it comes
to the dynamic of ruling over the majority...

   classical western democracy cannot ever champion
the minority... a sub-class that undermines
the class of people that require to be guided...
this sub-class of individualism can never
undermine the individual...
but individualism is not somehow spawned:
orientated: dictated: by precursors...
it "arrives" when it must "arrive"...
                      
           give my heart and my feet a rest....
spawn some new idiots...
some spares of asp, wasp...
this night... drinking cider under this one specific
weeping willow...
dreadlock i.e. Jamaica is nowhere to be found...