There was always much more
I should have, could have
Held against you
Weekends left watching cartoons
When sitting on your lap
Was all I needed
Hours of listening to shot gun conversations
Mostly trash about my mom
You know she struggled 26 hours to push me out
Without a **** I was useless to you
"You don't need flowers do you?"
A statement, no question
As you walked out of the delivery room
I have no pictures of you holding me
Many scars for the times you did
We talk every few years
They pass by like blinking
Sleeping
I hear your methadone laced voice
Far off echo's of bedtime stories
Summer afternoon's next to the river
Your laughter bouncing off fish scales
I miss you.
This bridge between may be burned
Your body sick with disease
Tired with age
Lucky for us I excel at the breast stroke
I don't want to wake with nothing but
Your memory floating
On the surface of my childhood

I have gained a paternal responsibility
But I feel a different response filling me
Constantly itching from a million flees
Begging to get me out of this please
So in my mind unseen
Resides a murderous dream
To subtract from my team

I fall into a landslide
Of infanticide
A lioness eats her cubs
As a baby drowns in a tub
Before they reach the age
They acquire our rage
We devour our babies
Before they contract rabies

We're brought together by proximity and origin
By who we were forming in
This connection of chance
Determines circumstance
Guiding our circle dance
With random music
We take whatever we can
Until we lose it

A possum's mother dies
It has no time to cry
It must continue to eat
So it feeds
Like its mother in heat
Had to breed
In order to not lose
The child chews
In a world of me or you
The child chews
Instead of feeling blue
The child chews
Its mother's fur stuck in its teeth
It stays there to provide heat
The parent provisions from beyond the grave
Will get the possum through this ugly day

From possum to person
I can't tell which is the worse end
For there is flesh stuck between my teeth
Like a Christmas wreath
Where what lies beneath
In a readily equipped sheath
Is patricide or matricide
I can't decide
But must abide
To survive
The purgatory
I see surging toward me
So to move forwardly
I must live forlornly
After feeding on family
Company becomes fantasy
Learning no one can handle me
They're just meals I'll eat handily

I eat my relatives
In this hell I live
Where what I give
Is the gnashing of my jaw
To follow a universal law
That says scratch and claw
Until I meet God
Expecting my parricide ways
Will garner divine praise
But for everybody I slayed
My soul was filleted
Now I only see grey
So everyone looks like my father
And I say welcome back Kotter
As I yearn for my teeth to be hotter

DISCLAIMER: READ THE WHOLE THING IT IS MUCH MORE GENIUS TOWARDS THE END



Bypass the circumlocutions of elementary rhetoric and the obvious bulges into the ethereal realm of supersolid supercalendar emigrations of the wednongues of vogue emigrating into a new frontier of boundless awakening that blisters the sore solid metaphors of a crumbled bricolage of articulate history becoming a reiterative gabble of entropy that curdles the blood-boiling hatred of those envious of those that capitalize on the true girth rather than the flaccid otiose etymology of differential physics becoming a denatured figment of prideful imagination on a frolic with desuetude in the normalization of the wernaggles of ewnastique that defile the ridicule of even the most astute aspirations of those that despise history rather than reveling in its subtle ironies that swelter in connotation rather than suborn the cadged bridewells of those that are estranged by the Dousk Remix rather than the Voulez-Vouz Danser populism of true urbacity expanded upon a national stage as an anthem not for profligate saturnalia but rather an ode to the odium of the reckless titanism of titanic intellects clashing with the dudgeons of intermittent eye-rolling irreverence double-dealing a stacked deck of pleckigger on an intellectual stagecraft for bandwagon apostasy that leads to solidarity among tentative allegiance. We barnstorm for a grift in the grimace of an alpenglow winter to lead to the salvation of all people united under the banner of neat nexility rather than long-winded elocution reserved only for notched caliber against the nativist diatribe that serves the subservience of the engineer of the white chattel indoctrinated into turnstiles of professed irreverence for demarches of solidarity that is gainsay for gain rather than pittances for pitfall. Rhetoric should be duly curtailed against the overcomplication of hypertrophy and trimmed into the sweet success not of saccharine fads of foofaraw but engineered resistance that galvanizes albatross intellectualism into a revved engine without purpose that mobilizes because of estranged impotence in the revelry of the subtle rather than the cordial tethers of emergent entelechy of the esemplastic orthobiosis that we should all strive for not just as pioneers of the socially engineered harbingers of a remedial society but also for the trendsetters that communicate with the canvass and the celluloid rather than spelunking dormitage of drifted anomaly perceptible to everyone but heralded as prominent by the rigged ambeer of a toxicity of a plumage of city over state and country over planet. We need to provide the verdure of the verdant forest that survives the conflagrations of rage indoctrinated by systematic attempts at stilted ignorance that is engendered more by Leftism than Right-Wing thinkers because in general when observed in organic settings we notice that the Right-Wing escapes the sloganeered jaundice of limited bounds for otherwise boundless thought and provides more seminal pathways that reconcile normative virtues with entrenched inveterate harbingers of economic success. The faulty deadstocks that propel the retinoise of the anomaly among Leftism to disregard the girouettism of a world that is so piebald with dishonesty that it elects a patronage that seethes with passion but aimless in its curiosity for deeper embedded candor because the popular might count themselves among the aristocratic Left but the truly Promethean belong to a centrist tribe that borrows the ingenuity of spurned but never spurious interpretations of a sputtered history that remarks with revelry  rather than disdains with #CancelCulture irreverence that seeks to deracinate all context for insipid utopianism that is a shared prerogative of the delusional Left against their complaints of Sebastomania among right-wing zealots that are equally invalidated by the frogmarch of a dilettante history curbed in storms of a pure tempest rather than a banal reiteration of novelty phrased with participant intonation rather than blathers of whispered arbitrage ennobled by hypocrisy immune to criticism among those that crusade for economic justice without understanding formal flombricks of the true gnomic riddles of alchemy fundamental to global panoramic pleonasms becoming the aleatory vagary of admonished warning that spars against spartanism. Instead of pilfering from the exorbitant defalcation of immunized partisan bromides against the ratcheted warranty upon defective obsolescence we must coalesce around the imperious ****** of divinity bequeathing the living water of a fully-lived life that qualifies its felicity not by junctures but by an overall harmony that conforms to the finicky demands of an overly polarized complexion of dimpled conformity founded on girouettism that earns more traction than the deasil sundial emergence of brimstone rejection for alabaster limelight we must urge others to ditch the conformist utilitarian usucaption of the usufruct of manipulative sports for domineering talents suborned into inclement straits because of unwitting albatross that replicates into a fission of uniformity encapsulated in the half-assed witticisms of attempted belletrist succeeding only in alienating the noxious fumes of alveolate diminutive reduction rather than expansive detritus that scrapes the wreckage of a turmoil to build masterworks out of broken sculptures themselves indemnified from a categorical judgment by the panoramic oversight of proctored civilized ambition. We need to exhort self-education that hinges upon not a listless acquiescence to a second-exit impulsive barnacle to the urchins of brimstone because of an insipid blather of flapdoons of brittle banality because the hackencrude is an outmoded entity to the vast resources of the sizable capital of the growing power of the intelligentsia over the weakened grasp and wrangle of terminus meeting consuetude weakly enough with pleasantry to appease but ultimately a complete witwanton persiflage of sizzled destruction rather than the savory contemplation of the cotqueans of majesty derided but never derailed by terminal revivals because the generativity of the titanic original might not be a popular indoctrination but the liberated thought of the untethered is ultimately more decisive in world affairs than the synergistic hive of bees building an imperious defense against dynasty built only upon provincial hatred of hidebound illiteracy combustible into the brazen bravado of a reckless intrepid effrontery against civilized chains into the ******* of complicit interconnection rather than dissolved dissolutions that solve global problems more fundamentally rather than driving through avenues of wide pressures gilded with expansive growth but ultimately bereaved by the ultimate succor of the youthful exuberance of captive audiences rather than the wily connivance of genius unbounded. God is obviously a benevolent provider of all bounties and despite the conspiracies that predicate heterodoxy the uniform mannequin of a mascot Democracy ultimately becomes a fickle bandwagon allegiance to relationship rather than a true witness to authentic ******* to a subservient relationship to a creative God synergized with energies that should exceed all galloped windlass into demarche and expose rather than rundles of ridicule interminable because of the permanence of kitsch memorial rather than living sculpture that breathes a swiveled light that beckons preened self-accountable responsibility to a dutiful matriotic duty of optimism rather than a contrarian futility of those that despise the unequal suave crackjaw dementia of the temulentia of derangement among crowds that provide fewer bounties and more deprivations calculated to indenture need rather than motivate want. We must motivate want by fueling ambition rather than quelling dissent in defensive posture because that strategy of antinomian discord is a dead-end street against an inveterate enmity that can never be fully deposed but only opposed with nominal futility raging with violence rather than seething with the motivation to reform because reform is an efficacy mobilized. Novelty of wednongue propriety grown through the heirs of drastic impertinence gilded from the siphon of lavadero hypogeiody blasphemous in bletonism that guards a piebald scrivelo because the sought dementia of an overwrought alacrity is a purpose without a terminus but an ambition soaring through scraped ice cream stratosphere that marvels at the minutiae of the civilized anthill that becomes a beehive of industry when the rationale of moral reform becomes insuperable rather than suborned into effete recursive cycles of pittances of pitfalls obsessively pondered but never solved because the fustilugianation of a forever tampered travesty is the esemplastic rejection of a categorical aim that leans of windlasses of elegance that surpass the levy of hatred and achieve sizable filagersion to squirm above the squawk upon populace rather than the consternation of an urbane but cloistered metropolitan arrogance contravened by the historical emergence of happenstance locales fostering the most well-guarded treasures of bohemian pedigree rather than dimpled resolve faffling on ergasia in bromidrosis rather than cavorting with a skeptical indoctrination by default evaded by those that equate an improbable scenario with a definitive solution to acatalepsy quandary because by reckoning with indeterminacy we grow in historical lineaments and solve global detritus by recycling the rattled brevity of promontory preens of plumage into a recursive ostentation defalcating heavily from sturdy macroeconomic proofs of the trendsetter rather than the trend and therefore grapple with profound personalized disdain rather than cordial harmony. Essentially by the logical positivism of proof we remind ourselves that obviously a chattering blather swims in tentative irony as long as it is a penultimate relativity because the lack of capstone ensures that the relevant treads beneath the mountain of rapprochement in benign endeavors to survive and thrive in definitive conclusion rather than intermediary conclusions of amnesia in jaundice. By the gnomic apothegms that guard the fortress of the demassified we have quantulated that the preposition of continuance is in fact a guarantee of the fickle supremacy of the recent and even more preponderantly the supremacy of expectancy of latent junctures that never manifest becoming a dictatorial rule of driven alacrity of wastrels that should fast from conclusive opinion and rather favor the primordial fabric of the inveterate truths rounded by the conversion of alchemy solidified by calculated canon converging with esoteric apartheid against the simultagnosia of the simpleton drivel of primordial myths bowdlerized from history neither lewd nor depraved but moribund because of the conclusive ****** of a peremptory intermediary certainty predicating a more precise foresight. The lackluster luster of numinous foghorn subliminal graft is a nativist confusion of legionnaire mettle swaddled by the cosseted grasp of interminable boundaries that demarcate linear time even when supersolid filigrees of elemental confusion erratically swerve into oblivion that becomes a forestalled happenstance so hapless that the connivance of alveolate synergies necessarily precludes event from becoming indelible because the tentative judgment wallops the tributary incontinence of the warble of axiolative jaundice materialized by crystalline fabrication neutered by soundbyte sclerotic calculus inveterate in summations of conclusion only because of peremptory weights upon geometric certainties rather than logarithmic dampers of attenuation that spar against spartan priggish epithets upon the flamboyant grit of grisly specter of speculative sepulchral venal vanity. The timberlask cineaste irony of the partisan usucaption of sapwood is a pirated timber of startled alarm becoming a useful or useless cacophony of barnstorm for the deadstock of past cadasters of rigmarole in the docimasy of pretense in impartial circumstance in specialized oratory bounded by a hemmed bailiwick of verdure denatured by the flombricks of subtle persuasion that ignores minority fringes of opinion that occupy that majority that cowcatchers brush aside rather with cruel contemptuous unkempt slippery agenda for drivel that spawns ingeminated redoubled explosions in participle bias rather than conglomerate arraignment of arrayed brooked swamps turgid not with the pettier travesty but the charade of a brokered ceremonial calculation against the wrikpond spurious by degeneration into corruptible complicity that thrives in obscurantism but never obscurity when the omnified owns a capitalized swiftboat of never a temulentia but always an optimism in the curvature of lineaments into the self-educated shepherd of the ultimate autarky rather than insubordination in the scrappy schlep of demographic ripples of swift enrichment at great personal flops in the floppy disk of a Democratic enrichment rather than a parched rectiserial hidebound tome. A quirky time stanched by tomes of patricide against family ingratiated by parrots to anthem but lacking the lettered verve of ignoble but parsed parsecs of finite light captivated into prismatic conscience we launch the demerited ploys of foible into the heralded controversy rather than the unheralded mercenary hands behind dogmatic ripostes livid because of the suave prestidigitation of the sublime mastery of the syncopated irony of mismatch attuned to radical rhythm we become bloated slaves to a rich lineage decried widely in attempts of covert coup raxes of a largesse of continual primipara perversions of courted cotqueans of uxorious justice that by defalcating from tributary orthobiosis in specious conjecture esteemed by rattled martexts aspiring for fraternal solidarity with the ****** esteem masquerading as the auctioned flivver that the merchandise of fluminous optimism cannot be an effusive blanch of blarney bolstered by bumptious bromides of brunt blackmail but rather the artform of subterfuge needs the insidious and invidious traction of creepy Thriller subtlety to garner the vapid traction of immobilized discontent foster to malcontent rarely abridged by even the most polite courtesy of diplomacy because of inherently insatiable demand that it skulks in undetected quarters flexing in the shadowy penumbra of transparent crackjaw enigma becoming an obvious blister or a gabble of raw jaundice sweltering into thermolysis by the eventual convergence rather than the improbable divergence of fissile time beckoning its own flashy revolution while denaturing the very presence of delusion as a herald more of the authenticity of animadversion rather than the sclerotic carapace of ragged asphyxiation in the aplomb whisper entombed forever by milquetoast inefficacy in hypersensitivity rather than a flourished malfeasance of a predatory grip upon seizure among catatonic graves of incontinence braving tribulation for crucibles of the most prosodemic surgeries of the furtive froward recalcitrance of deliberation in ignominy that enables that transmogrified skyscraper of Titanic lies to become a sunken vessel of harbored prestige lost on penultimate dice rather than winning pokerish villiany. Essentially the jeer of Morel Under a Disco is a winning brandished authority to chug the capers of inscrutable difference in blandishment imposture to cavort with an elegant plot twist that enthralls abiding decay to revert into a primordial confidence of livelihood to deter the frogmarch of time into the despairing quagmires of a livid balkanization of a simultagnosia of ageotropic monoideism fomented on fervor that leads to the paralysis of privacy and the expedited furor of moribund depraved proclivity so that the offset of morale and rationale can outfit civilization to brave the tempests of cordial divisions cemented by courtesy in order to safeguard against the yeggs of paranoia seeking ultimately the craven caper of disillusioned subconsciously felt retraction of indelible deeds into evaporated constructs that vanish too quickly to spawn the vigor of a cadged and utilitarian expanse of reiterative generativity that sustains the spanned sapience of primordial alacrity to ensure that brevity in outlook becomes longevity in subsistence because without a logical positivism grounded in unshakable tenets of God the demoralization of the vast majority is ensured and entombed in aimless squalor that leads to sheepish temerity compounded by wistful latency in regretful regression rather than a spandex bluster of a bravado of obesity to weather the persnickety wednongues of perdurable badges of instinctual shame slandered into prima facie denatured transmogrified cultures seeking cosmogony out of ordinary bricolage because the eventful triage of the nimble eludes parochial sight while the vastly capable outfox and outpace with such frenetic verve that they fasten against accident and transcend against heterochrony in ridicule that the unseasonable but seminal sauce flavors better the partially indentured optimism of a curated matriotism better than it serves the obviously interminable cycle of listless demiurges of malcontent that fuel conflagration rather than reformation to their own remorseful peril. Thereby, it is obviously concluded that to micromanage a society you must exert the capacity of a selective magnetism obviously predicated on demassified capacities for oaths of gratitude to endear and endure in the humane heart for the majority that sway few but encounter many that they find proper scruple grounded on axiomatic God to sustain not a lifeless priggish inclination but a bounded felicity that is not a carapace of an indigenous and insidious decadence to the extent pursuits of happiness swelter among the marginalized majority bereaved in powerless squalor slave to temptation not to derelict fascination but to provide aim to aimlessness and predicate their worldviews not on Racial Identity Theory which postulates too many counterintuitive pessimisms that are essentially neutered fustilug predicates of a world that requires such drastic seismic reforms in societal dynamics that the earthquake capable of such a realignment would exceed a 10.5 on the Richter scale which is 32x more powerful than the biggest earthquake in recorded history that would be so catastrophic in its implicit implication of the pretense that the consummation of the theory achieves the traction necessary to jostle every crowd into alignment that the collateral damage would endanger the very integrity and vitality of the Republic itself while exerting a tremendous existential dread of radical permutation that enables many travesties that abnegate the prerogatives of a privileged society in search of a facetiously engineered impossible utopia that could only be achieved by a dictatorial authoritarianism working in concert with benumbed sloganeering to engineer pessimism and malcontent rather than nurture the fair-natured optimism of a society that flourishes because it assumes naturally that the universe conspires in the favor of prosperity. If any hint of casuistry is evident in these postulates I wouldn’t be surprised but for rhetorical sanctity it is necessary for a nation bereaved of national icons not to despise the captive imagination of tyrannical transparency but grow from the liberating and partially liberal parable of a life maximized in limber for romantic enthralled growth that heralds with due consideration the paragons of time with reverence rather than soundbyte enslavement of parochial interminable twinges of a newborn and widely shared collective guilt of a decisively antinomian and pessimistic view on the evolution of human societies beyond catchy kitsch verve nexilities of bravado mutilating thirsts for inclusive mandates that are Boa Constrictors prowling with serpentine vitriol to vastly over-represent extreme fringes to dissuade nuclear families in an overt ploy of depopulation because the truer pathway to liberation is one that feeds the hot hand in the casino and bets that the winners will always win by deregulating their ability to bet large sums because of a transcendent supersolid mastery of time that the march and demarche of a boundless prosperity gouged by the fair demands of egalitarianism enables the card counter to achieve such a decisive advantage that his indentured socially coerced eleemosynary inclination to feed the flock endures throughout all epochs because of the necessary and incumbent scruples of God-fearing men to distribute their winnings won by cheating time to conquer time itself.

this was today:

a splendid breakfast, ****** black intestines...
whatever the hell they put in those...
pig brain cartilage, blood, liver... barley...
fried with some onions, eaten with a decently toasted bread...
then... figuring out what to do with the ****-show
in the garden, three trips to the recycling centre
with rotten timber, and, some spare parts...

conversations with father...
football, the Grand National... i hate myself for this...
i'm not a gambling man...
but each year like clocks go back come the winter
months and like clocks go forward come the summer
months... i place a bet on the Grand National...
a bit like Harold Norse might have claimed
at not being a man... i'm not a man...
i don't gamble... i hate gambling...
today proved my point...
   yet again...
         i don't know how Bukowski or Dostoyevsky
managed a habit... i'd much rather work some
menial work and... then... yeah "gamble" with
a *******... gambling for me is more the thrill
of the unexpected than: expecting to fall-flat on my face...
having unprotected ***... but... just checking:
she might inform me... a ****** doesn't make
a lot of difference... if... you're not smarting-up
with your hygiene... so i get the exclusive no ******
******* into her... that's gambling...
a different sort of gambling...
  i'm the horse and the jockey...
the bet? oh... that's somewhere in the back of my mind
when i pay for an hour...
whatever... i'm a man and i'm not a man
in how the normal man would rather place a bet
on a horse than... have unprotected *** with a *******...
all... or nothing... that's me...
because i'm so ******* with myself...
i only bet a £1 on this one horse... each way...
so even if he came in 5th... i'd get a return...
so each way implies: a £1 bet you cough up £2...
for security... and he was running so splendidly for
about 28 fences... at times first... at times third...
****** gave up... after the last fence...
came in 6th...

     but what's frustrating about betting on horses...
or football teams...
like with this girl Jeminah... single mum...
bankrupt / a bad credit score...
i get these wrong sort of butterflies in my stomach...
when i start courting her...
drop round... one time... twice...
i promise her a bottle of homemade wine...
well... first "date" we just talk... job issues...
i already know she's bullshitting about me behind
my back... i keep a watch... second date
i bring the wine and some banana loaf that i too
have made... i'm getting these stomach crunches:
this is such a good idea! my ego-phallus is demanding...
but... my digestive system is rebelling against me:
check again...
   i had this ****** on a line and sinker!
if only i had the sort of intestines that might warn me...
about what could be or couldn't be
a good bet... i had him in my sight!
the Grand National Winner!
   i had him... there's no logic to gambling...
but this time around there sort of was...
   if i could only have the gut feelings in-tune with a
winner... like i might... with a female: loser-project...
*******, cycling drunk to her house...
leaving flowers in the middle of the night...
hot-head me... well... yeah...
you go to prostitutes from time to time...
you're going to get a hot-head...
               ******* ginger lasses...
                       but if i can get these right sort
of sensations concerning women...
who the hell cares if i don't get the same sensations
when it comes to horses, running for a gamble?
long-term projects... i like those...
i'd much prefer earning an honest wage
than winning some spare cash on the sly...
i hate gambling...
   but i ******* had him!
             i was looking through the list...
   Longhouse Poet: 14 - 1... poet... poet...
                  poets... Irish poets... W. B. Yeats...
why didn't my gut find my brains? i asked my father
on one of our trips to the recycling centre...
chances of a 7 year old winning it?
i heard... not since 1940?
  no... no chance, he replied... what about the 13 year old?
Blaklion - last time a 13 year old won
the Grand National was back in 1923...
but i had this Noble Yeats... **** me... 50 - 1 on my mind...
i was thinking... Longhouse Poet... Poet...
Yeats! come on!
  see... this is why i hate gambling...
i get the proper gut feelings when it comes to women...
no... she's no good... three ******* days of
constant stomach crunching without doing
any crunches... constipation... ooh... i'd love to simply
**** her: but... she's of that sort of age
where... a casual fling isn't simply going to cut it...
can't i just replace these gut-wrenches when
it comes to betting on the right horse...
just once a year... i had the ******... in my grasp!
there was also this horse: Freewheelin Dylan...
but... Bob Dylan is a lyricist...
   he's not the Dylan Thomas... so... three poet horses...
i just sort of ******* knew...
but... money muddles judgement...
unless... it concerns prostitutes...
    because that's what gambling has replaced:
the old religious superstitions...
talk of demons is equivalent to the talk of luck...
to hell with it...
              the same old religious superstitions have
been usurped by secular gambling habits!
so... why do i get these gut feelings of repulsion
i first think of as infatuation: rightly so...
oh... she was a cougar i'd love to pass...
why can't i focus that sort of gut sensations
when it comes to betting on the winning horse?
easy money...inherit a mountain:
without how many pebbles it takes to give
a mountain its form...
     maybe i'm lucky... in that respect...
     maybe life has allowed me to... hmm... see:
the bigger picture...
    if i can cough up for one hour living dangerously
with a *******... and... this sort of woman...
is not shoving me her offspring down
my throat... while's she's looking for
beta-bucks deluxe... i think that's better than
betting on a winning horse...
  give me the menial task... forget it...
earning money: freely... easily...
         but... i'd love that Spiderman sort
of sensation on a good bet...
mind you: i had a good-sensation... a premonition...
i just listened to bad advice...
with women? i don't listen to any advice...
i just... cruise... automatically solo...
     but thank god i only gamble with a quid's worth
once a year... i had W. B. Yeats in my mind...
ugh! it's so frustrating!
   like with the women in my life...
the mares keep nodding: upon approach at the first
hurdle... last hurdle... the image of:
pretending to sniff my eyelashes...
          the horse is looking for: side-lining it to:
side-lining "blinkers"... no good...
this... custard... is fresh?!
              stay up to 1am... wake up 20 minutes prior
to 8am... have a croissant and coffee at Putney Bridge...
before the lazy-assed Somalis: depending...
decide to... feel important...
which is never... fair enough...
Thames goes down to glue...
          i hate gambling...
                i never gamble...
this is what it might possibly feel like not having written
Crime & Punishment...
which, given the current year?
feels... pretty ******* good! oh, no...
no high-brow type of motivation to keep
the European literary up-keep of "culture"...
that load of *******... is long gone...
enter African: grime... enter... horse-****-imitation-sludge.

that way yesterday:

just at my annual check-up with the nurse...
the woman sat there, amazed...
although still worried about my high-blood pressure...
we agreed... no matter the diet:
i avoid fruit, i don't like too much sugar...
i prefer eating vegetables...
come to think of it... only yesterday i ate a...
medium-rare slice of beef with nothing
but salt, pepper... some toasted sourdough...
i was going to make myself a creamy mushroom
sauce with too much parsley...
but i was like: n'ah... not going to happen...
i'm a puritan when it comes to beef...
less is more...
i even told my mother: in it for the calories...
i don't care what it is...
like Socrates once said:
some people eat to live...
while others: live to eat... i'm of the former
persuasion... but don't get me wrong...
i like the chemistry experiments that go around
cooking up a decent curry...
work was fun, always is...
i'm always very, hardly: talkative...
unless i'm probed... tickled... in the right way...
after being rejected by Jeminah...
that auburn... conker... beau...
                       my god... after being rejected by her...
i've built up a fetish for gingers...
sure... the mythological blonde...
the Turkic raven hair black...
   but gingers... and Gaelic...
   i feel like an elder Saxon coming to these shores
when i see that pale skin, those freckles...
i see ginger i turn into a bull that charges
against: fuchsia... because bulls never charge
against prime colours...
like red... bull charge against a hue of something
between red and purple... almost UV...
fluorescent... fuchsia... is a hue: it's not a colour...
per se... since it mingle red with purple...
or... is it blue?
           i've learned that rejection by something
specific makes me more predatory if other similar
examples proper their heads up...
ginger girls... pale skin... freckles...
i'm ******* zoning in... cruising... circling...
but it's not my fault if women find me intimidating...
this one at work... oh my god...
if she was 20 years prior... from Dublin...
i already told her: i have a James Joyce hard-on...
what did we talk about? her working in a care-home
with dementia patients... Gaelic...
like i had this friend once... her name was:
spoken: N-E-E-V... kneeve in English...
that's already adding letters: not said... the surd K...
but... how was her name spelled?
******* Niamh... Niamh said is... *******
Neave?! she loved learning French, i hated it...
merde... again... what's that loose E doing in that word?
that's what i love about ****** spreschen...
distinct syllable, distinction between vowels and
consonants...
westerners tell us: too many consonants! too many!
the easterners might counter with:
TOO, MANY, *******, VOWELS!
i can't see what you're about to say if
you write one way, but speak another!
   but my nurse was very much shocked...
two years ago i weighed in at 117.9kg...
she weighed me today... 98,7kg...
        lean, slim, pretty *******: i dare say...
what did we talk about?
oh... that blood pressure "thing": it runs in the family...
144 / 96... the second measure is about...
circulation or something... the first can be high,
that's good... means you're pumping...
problem with her middle child...
   the elder son managed to buy a house...
the middle child is having issues... i choked about being
the only child... and... well... with me?
it would have to become borderline patricide...
i think she got the joke...
   the son gets along with his younger sister...
blah blah...
then... on a scale of 0 to 5...
depression and... anxiety...
the anxiety questions i put back to her:
do i look anxious?
   depression? can i use the term melancholy?
my grandfather died "recently":
i'm sort of churning out... being reflective concerning
mortality... how's that?
i cycle like a madman... well... that was lovely...
just watching her face... behind that 2021 *****...
how did i do it? walked at first... marathon lengths...
to St. Paul's and back...
  then i got on my bicycle...
but... you see... i had this friend... he was a big too...
but he avoided doing cardiovascular exercise...
hit the gym... later? problems with loose skin...
it takes time... cardiovascular exercises tones you:
since you're applying repeated strain...
you're not trying to bulge up...
you can't turn fat into protein mass...
you need to burn the fat off... then you can start
building up protein mass...
and... repeated strain... is more important than...
just pumping iron...

his heart bled into the ground
he held me and whispered
in ****** liquor sighs

go on guapa
as long as there’s one of us
there’s both of us

and I shook like a rabbit
in twilight’s snare
and begged him

don’t go
don’t go

a chant as old
as old
as my bones

together,
once we felt the
earth move

it shook in the late spring morning
and I he warmed my feet
in the sack
when the night was a vacuum

he spilled his seed
on the ground
like some biblical
walk on

and we lived an entire
life
an entire life
in three days

three days of coughing
and struggling to stay still
in the winters dull
and stingy light
from a pale pale
pane in
Indiana

is it safe to
give my _ to you?

It’s never safe,
I roughly handed it to you
and you felt it’s
shadow every since

with your busted femur
and long trailing stain
resenting the self-made
patricide
bleeding out

on the gray beast
I’m taken
the little rabbit
with a black scar

saving myself from
the tangled
mar that you now
have fallen

If I go on
we both go on

I sit for most of the day
almost always by the window

I place my muzzy body in a tall wooden chair
run my fingers through my eyes
smear dreadful thoughts
which begin with pain in my left thumb
deadness plocks
I am captive.

I want. I tell myself what i want.
I want it to be mine, to come from my aching bones and tingly devilish spasms
petrified
patricide
but its not me. or is it
a solemn search
where the lights are off

I want a vessel to open
in soft creamy sunlight streaks
with warm feel
gushing the stupidness out
numerous arms will captivate me
others. not mine
in crisp air
easy kisses
plop

Let the black dogs run wild,
sharpen the knives for
some real back stabbing,
roundup the usual suspects,
the mystery is about to begin.

The cardigan teen with
his nose buried in his iPhone-
he’s a suspect- murderous thoughts
sprouting his blood-brain barrier.

The neglected son tethered
to a high ranking, paying
position in the family business
with nothing burdens-
he’s a suspect too.

Eight others are robbing
Peter to pay Paul
to pay Mary to pay Martha
to pay the extorting genomes,
on the verge of being exposed,
all dangling near disinheritance.

The old codger with the money
whose always leaving clean knives out,
knowing they will forever thirst
for meat and blood, the ******
that will do the work for him,
the job his lawyers failed to do

until the whole ***** gang
finds him splayed on the calico rug,
a Chuka Bocho clever in his stomach,
a Wusthof stuck in a vertebrae-
well, he was a prime suspect,
but now, obviously he is not.

Patricide is not always a family crime.
Point the finger at the mother,
daughter, sister, son, brother
but also the heart, soul, brain
of all others inflicted with hate
that makes everyone suspects too.

When you appear (as we all shall, no doubt)
Before the oldest judge in the world,
Take care to notice his appearance;
You’ll see that his robe is frayed about the collar,
And that the cuffs, though expertly repaired,
Are worn and threadbare,
For he has been upon the bench for what seems eons,
(Case files scattered about heedlessly, his gavel mislaid)
And though you beseech him
With your borrowed chants and learned pleadings,
It is unlikely that he shall do anymore than look up imperceptibly
Dismissing you with a short, disdainful wave of his hand,
For your case is like a thousand others,
And your entreaties and supplications
No longer interest him.

I can understand, then, you would find such thoughts
Sobering, Indeed disconcerting;
It is not necessarily pleasant to realize
That we are but as toy boats which,
Once pushed away from shore by some small boy
Soon distracted by other, shinier trinkets,
Drift aimlessly across a pond
Which offers neither shelter nor safe harbor.
We are, then, all on our own,
Misbegotten creatures linked together
By nothing more noble of purpose
Than our own self-interest;
Oh, do not misunderstand me,
For I am not advocating (Heaven forbid!)
Some wholesale violation of commandments:
The spectre of patricide,
The hair-trigger roiling of the blood brought to bear
By the untrustworthy business partner, the faithless lover.  
I merely suggest it is wise to remember
That as we float along the stream of this life
(It being rank and  befouled, chock-a-block
With garbage, broken bottles, discarded condoms)
No hand is on the tiller save our own.  
But enough of this dark and dour philosophy!
Let us finish our draughts and return to our rooms,
There to sleep the sleep of the just,
During this long winter’s night
Which seems all but without end.

why even attack,
slyly creep under
or even parasitical nibble
at a figurine
that in 100 years will                 (
gain impetus akin
to an Alexander the Great...                ?
a joke of a surname...                                      )
when you have
all the grey
areas of an erwin lambert
to mind...
    the joke that was ******
that became the mythological
romance akin to Attila...
   the congested mouth of
human history,
lacerated, cancerous,
tooth-rot
and a tongue of gangrene,
nothing, but theatre,
surviving;
give it 100 years...
  and no sooner the moths
that might agitate the flame...
but all they grey-mass-in-between...
ihre vater,  die "wenigscherz"...
how these children
sum up the evil
in one but man...
     peddlestooled into the lime
from the cameo...
    dictator helpless before
dictatorial mass of bureucrats...
hier! hier ihre eisenvorhang!
        break the rank
of the patron of bureucrats
(herr Kant)...
                      and place
the sztylet of Brutus,
with a semi-patricide scorn into...
a nail within
the hanging frame of
           a dandy crux...
  a feeling akin to:
    castrating a pedegree Alsatian:
shining teeth...
   pumped teeth...
impersonal the gnashing...
most of the time i imagine
myself reincarnated
in a theatre of a castrated
rottweiler...
    making stretched-clown-masks
from strangers' skins
of childrens' faces...
just for kicks...
   mind you...
   apparently the N.S.A.
  has all the personal data briefing
whether or not...
i'm jihadi material...
           or just a fantasist /
fetishist...
     good to know that even I,
do not have knowledge,
of a minority report;
    must have whisked passed me
on a feline whim of
teasing a whisker before
a fetish for: leisuring a Mexican
in cleaning a dilemma's worth
of a paw;
prepare th mince...
an obese exhibit with
Alzheimer's...
      during warfare,
war dogs & dogs require
the most contaminated meats,
to add to their expected
ferociousness...
      ha ha...
         the Nazis didn't insaminate
their subjects with
feline *****?
              why is Frankenstein
so pale...
    and transgenderism, so, norm?

If given the chance;
Should we not be better than our parents?
These people who live like the earth is theirs;
Like tyrants.

Patricide beneath us,
Grace taught from our disgrace
Peace made from grief,
Strength bonded through the clench in our teeth.

I thought us a different breed,
As childish as it may be to hear or read,

But I thought us different
A bloodline of heroes forgotten to times passing.
People who's sole reason was to bring out the soul in others.
That honor was doing the right thing when no one else was watching.

I know god has pried his eyes away when we needed him most.
But should we be so willing to do the same and give way to suffering and pain and just raise a glass and toast?

It was a child's dreams,
Borrowed from books on our grandmothers shelves with loose seams.
A book about us,

That we would rise above our parents and be the things they couldn't.
That we could stop history from going to the future where it shouldn't.

I thought we were different
but maybe you're right,
life is indifferent.

Sitting on the banks of the
Big Sur River—a person in
flannel and denim, named and
identified, albeit uncomfortably so.

What’s missing? Fauna. No fauna
except for the small brown scorpion
on the lapel of one’s jacket.

“I thought you were a Gemini.”
“I am.”
“Then why do you have a scorpion
embroidered on your jacket?”
“Where?!”
“There.”

Scorpion gingerly removed
with a manzanita twig, flanneled
and denimed returns to the
Big Sur and gets lost in the fluidity,
flowing through identities—
first this one, then that one.

What name shall we give ourselves?
Wanting to hide all of it: the Welsh, the
Confederate president, the dreary
commonness of it all.

In an attempt to sever past
associations, we commit posthumous
patricide, jettison “Davis” . . . for what?
What goes in that empty space on the
line at the bottom of all forms?

What rings true? And what does truth
mean anyway? Why not Lie? Such a small
phoneme—Lie. Why not let falsehood stand
in for a name?

And so, standing now, walking now, back
to the tent, newly knighted, self-named, thus:
A. Lie

i don't remember how i went to sleep last night,
i remember going home, catching the 103 bus
from North St. at around... maybe 11pm...
i remember opening my drawer
of my writing desk...
sniffing the marijuana and thinking whether
i should smoke it...

but i don't remember where i put my trousers:
or for that matter how i hanged them...
i don't remember how i took off my shirt
and how i took of my socks or my underwear:
where i put my shoes...
i don't remember... there's this black hole
concerning all these minor details:
all i know is that when i woke up this morning:
nothing was missing...

mind you: two days ago i tried to go to bed
early... i had to wake up at 4am yesterday
for a 7am shift start at Charing Cross Station...
ol' Lizzie was being moved from Buckingham
Palace to a hall in Westminster...
lucky for that i was supervising 8 stewards:
well... 4 stewards and 4 SIA licensed badge
owners...
they gave me the role of supervisor
based on my performance prior: nothing to do
with any qualifications: no NVQ level 3 required
of me whenever i'm needed to fill these shoes...

Charing Cross Station was our castle...
i was on the forefront of the whole affair...
at one point i had several police officers under
my obligation to direct the traffic of people:
we only had one guy jump the gates...
one... and we're talking Wednesday...
not the actual state funeral that's going to take
place on Monday...
30 crowned heads of state: **** me: imagine
how many will come from the republics...

it's not your everyday occasion: i know it "feels" stupid:
but there's a reason why Charing Cross St.
was managed in the way it was...
the crowd couldn't enter Villiers' St. just by
Charing Cross St. on a whim:
all the "window-lickers" could: obviously:
they were hindered... by their lost accessibility
practices of the two peddles of feet...
directing them to Adam Street just off Nero Cafe...
yes... round round... just an extra mile...

oi! mate! stop being so rude! you're the supervisor!
does that make me a *******, saint, mate?!
this is ******* stupid!
just walk round: loose 4 grams of your fat!
******* plebs, turnips! beetroots!
i wouldn't say donkeys... but i can insult
a vegetable, comparing the intellect of those:
self-serving habitual ***** of solipsism!
the queen is dead yet you're still acting like spoilt
brats!
mourning my ***!

at least we now know that one of the supposed
horsemen of the Apocalypse isn't actually a horseman...
death rides on a donkey...
or if it's not riding on a donkey it's walking its horse:
death either rides a donkey or is walking beside
its horse...
all these people: a fountain of youth will drown them:
while the tide of mortality will swallow them...

there is always a reason for something being
arranged when it comes to controlling crowds...
i don't need qualifications to know that:
the best way to keep morale is to approach
supervision with a hands off approach...
i had two fellow female supervisors working with me...
on the spreadsheets given:
let me tell you: there wasn't enough speadsheet
space for them to write comments...
and they wrote: ******* Charlotte Brontë snippets
of comments: oh this guy took 10 minutes more
on his break... blah blah this... blah blah that...
*****-"bosses"...
but did they keep morale? did they upkeep
respect?

of course they didn't traction respect:
they were too busy being busy bodies:
they warped the hierarchy...
me? when i was filling out the spreadsheet
for those "under" me?
they wrote paragraphs... me?
i just wrote: good, good, excellent,
   good, good, o.k., o.k., excellent...
i later started talking to the two guys who
i submitted as "o.k."... scribble the o.k. out
and put them down as good...
why? they "enlightened" me concerning
the difference between how the Portuguese speak
and how the Brazilians speak...
even though one was Bangladeshi / Sri Lankan...

the Brazilians sing... they elongate their speech...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
breaks? whenever you feel like it...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
i wasn't standing behind them as some sort
of authority... just because i had a different
coloured bib to them...
i was manning the ******* barrier along with them...
as a man should do...
but obviously women have this hierarchical
fixation whereby they think: comes centralised:
from the top to the bottom...
no... aha ha ha! authority comes from
the bottom up!
you make everyone feel equal: not everyone is:
but if you can make everyone equal...
you showcase what you're supposed to do: by actually
doing it... rather than simply telling them
what to do... guess what?! they'll do it!

why? because you're also doing it!
people remind me of when i used to ride horses...
relaxing the reins and gently strutting...
straining the reins when galloping...
hell... if i managed to get a few Greater Manchester
police officers under my umbrella of
"authority" just because i had the word
"supervisor" on my bib and it was
a different colour: i don't take the role i'm elevated
to all that seriously:
it's a bit of a *****... i have to be "there" early...

but leave women in the role of supervisor?
you'll get disorder in the ranks...
they take it too seriously: it's not the army...
one guy had his umbrella confiscated...
i comforted him: you won't be needing it today...
yes, you will get it back at the end of the shift...

i remember the first time a woman said to her child:
mind the man, girl... was it my height, my beard,
or my age that prompted: MAN?
i was also gob-struck-mute when one of the stewards
addresses me as: SIR...
the first time he uttered the word in my direction:
sir... X(blah blah)... huh?! i'm a sir now?!

the second time he rephrased himself...
Sir... so what do i call you? Sir or...
mate mate... just call me Matthew... and your umbrella
is just fine and dandy...

from experience: it's usually a female supervisor:
a role that should never be given...
it's basically a cull-call...
some variation of the abortion right of who
ought to be employed-living
or dead-unemployed... women are *******
savage when given the wrong sort of authority!
March of the Little Hitlers...
what was my summary of the people working under
me? good good, excellent, good good, o.k. o.k.:
which i later scribbled out into good
when we were talking about the Portuguese language...
i hate women in a hierarchy:
they're power-trapped: strapped to a level
of competence they exact too much authority over
people that need to be reeled into a comfort zone
of respecting you detailing to them:
you have no basis for authority:

aren't you supposed to learn from the best?
who just died?! didn't she... confront this metaphysical
conundrum with a master plan of expertise?!
of course she ******* did!
women aren't leaders...
Joan of Arc... an exception...
Boudica... an exception... hardly Helen of Troy...
i can't... maybe i'm wearing a ****** on
my head... or maybe some aeroplane "plastic"
of aluminium... sorry... sorry girl...
i'm... quick to forget.. what was the plan?
me? being cucked?! in favour of your pencil-neck
am ambitions?!

**** me: you send one more of these security staff back
home because they're: "not up to your standards":
you'll have a crew of about : 2!
women are: "supposedly" expected to work with
children... to be honest? i wouldn't leave
a woman alone with a child of mine even
if someone paid me!
i don't know where these FREAKS come from!
they already branded themselves with tattoos...
nearer to a HOG than a BABE...
they're not communists... not Slavic communists...
not economic minded people:
they are ideologue  numb-skulls and half-wit
sort of retaining ******* remnants of a remaining
masculinity... basically the SOYO BOYO BUILD UP...

i still have to write... why: i don't remember how i sent to sleep
last night...

women can't control men...
  they're too: CONTROL FREAKS...
men don't respect women in power...
women respect men in charge of men...
and who is respected: as a "man of power":
a man who is akin to his fellow man...
man for the like of man...
women... don't understand this!
while women are selfish: men are selfless....

i don't remember how i went to sleep last night,

it's the best suffocating *** i ever had....
***** bit me! ***** BIT me
she sq: nibbled on me!

i don't remember ever being nibbled on!
i could slap a girl's ***...
but? being bitten!?!

    sq? she: sq? what the hell does that mean?
well... i guess the whole Kama Sutra is coming to
a realisation... she likes her *** getting slapped
during *******... and thighs...
she slaps me back...
      i gently bite her chin... she bites back:
with such ferocity that i think i'm ******* either
a vampire or a leech...

mind you: i did manage to pet a cat on my
cider walkabout before entering the brothel...
sitting on a brick wall... the ****** purred
and as i extended my hand: maybe it was
the smell of tobacco or whatever it was...
he hissed and started biting me...
then we played a game of "paws":
i tried to tease it while he struck me...
hmm... now it makes sense...

it's all geographically sound: like the butterfly
at X and a tornado at Y...
chaos theory... nothing makes sense yet
at the same time: everything makes sense:
if you're aware enough...

just like my idea concerning...
if there's an equation akin to:
   E = MC²

                 if there's the speed of light squared:
then there must be an equation with
the speed of light, CUBED, i.e. C³...
                    if we're not talking energy...
if we're not talking mass...
we must be talking about an equation with
the speed of light cubed and... gravity...
i still don't understand why the speed of light
has to be squared... but it has to be...
but surely there has to be some sense of the speed
of light cubed: contained as it is within
the form of the sun...
there has to be some cubic stability to its speed:
something akin to it being contained by
way of it being uncontained...
the principle of synonym-antonym follows suit:

red is also crimson is also a hue very much pink...

hmm: come to think of it... i like being bitten...
i don't think i've ever seen a pornographic flick
where either actor bit another...
obviously i tried to avoid all the Western: STALE
kinks of hierarchical brutalism...
come to think of it? no... i don't think i have:
have? i haven't seen a pornographic flick
where people bite each other during *******:
like dogs during play...
it wasn't biting: biting... it was a sexed-up
antithesis of eating...

as some say: man is a political animal,
or man is a social creature...
                   me? i'm just the next fathomable outlier
that's sexed up and getting it and wanting
even more...

because you can't just have one love interest...
since at that point: what some deem as love:
others start deeming it sport...
no wonder i have such a narrow scope
of interests... all have to come back to: women...

**** me... she's pushing it... but she's pushing
it in the right sort of direction:
i don't remember the last time i had
unprotected *** with a woman:
esp. a *******...
she changed her number... she gave me her new number...
the first picture she sent me was showcasing
her ***... pretending to wear heels...
i.e. on her tip-toes...
wearing this glorious lingerie: red...
her skin tone doesn't match up well with red...
i was thinking: pale green... pale blue...

when i'm with her i think: oh **** these western,
Anglican prunes of women!
they're there for thirsty Muslim women to
****: i don't do timid: i don't do shy
(forced tautology)...
i need experience... i need sorrow...
play that timid game long enough
you'll probably be sitting opposite me on the tube
starting to pretend to be a drummer:
with a fidgety tapping of the leg...
like this one beauty: and i mean: she was a beauty...
features unlike most Spanish girl...
she looked gorgeous without make-up...
but she was showcasing her locked screen of
her phone: with make-up... i knew it right
there and then: but i was half asleep coming
back from a shift: i was in a *******-mood
not in a romantic mood...

she had that classical beauty about her...
enlarged eyelids... but enlarged eyelids
and the perfect proportion of them being enlarged
between the distance between her eyes and
eyebrows was pleasing to my eyes...
tangled hair... and that Sumerian tangle
of side-burns: pushing her into a category of
a woman from the Raj: the highest caste...
mar-ve-lous... it's a new sport for me...

watching out for nervous women: lip-reading...
some men turn to trainspotting...
me? i turned to... ******-spotting:
i'm oh so curious to see at what point
a woman's sexuality wakes up...
when she realises that she has potency and legality
to attract the opposite ***...
mind you: i did start ******* prematurely:
aged 8... i was even so bold as to teach
one proselyte circumcised **** to *******
with me... in the bath... while my mother was
ironing a shirt...

squeamish? me? no no...
it's still only 11:30 in the morning
and i've already put on the washing...
done the stewarding chores of the household
(mum has arthritis...
i'm a stauch propagator of Japanese
*** culture... if not a brothel? then?
a love hotel... simple)

Khadra, Khedra... Khedija robbed me that one
night...
this one's birthday... that one's birthday...
this one's name day... that one's name day...
keeping up with a harem is not exactly "fun":
well, it is...
if you can keep a hard-on...
during ******* and in between biting me
she inquired: why haven't you ******* yet...
being self-conscious (from time to time)
i tried to figure out the "plumbing":
oh... you know why?
i pulled out... went over to the sink...
turned on the water... waited for the hard-on
to disappear: one "artery" is clogging another
"artery": a man breathes through the same
hole he eats from...

a man propagates from the same hole he ******
from... i turned on the water... waited
for the hard-on to *******...
water, water: everywhere: but not a drop
to drink...
ah... i squeezed out the bothersome ****
that dissuaded me from climaxing from
a "lost uncle" of a "long lost muscle" of tease...
but that's the thing about the right
sort of woman...
you do turn into a Duracel Bunny...
it's switch ON / switch OFF...

i remember times when i was completely undermined
by women: thinking i had an ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION...
apparently not... the wrong sort of women
give me erectile dysfunction: i'm not willing to correct
that "problem" with any chemical cocktail of
"improvement": ******: at least they're not shy:
they know what they're doing...
at least they know that emotional investments comes:
post-scriptum, not: pre-scriptum...

how do i know? i paid her for half an hour...
she notices i have more money in my wallet...
she sieves through the extra £60 on me...
takes out a £20... half an hour turns into an hour:
or so it feels... feels is better than what's actually
apparent... she tells me her birthday is on Saturday:

buy me a present! o.k.: what the ****?!
ring?! no no... that's *******... book?! i gave her
a copy of my poems... what then? what then?!
Matthew? didn't she send you a copy of her standing
with her *** showcased and her legs...
her arms seemingly tied her raven hair across
her back?                Matthew?      genius!
lingerie! i'll buy her something **** to then
**** her in!

right... Matthew? what?!
did you notice that when you last saw her...
her bra was too big for her *****?
yes, i did...
do i buy her a lingerie in secret or do i ask
for her measurements... gamble...
**** it: i'll ask for her measurements...

- what is your lingerie size, bra? too big?
i want to go shopping for you
tell me, so i know.
- M
    36B 85
      You tek M better...

i don't remember the last time i went shopping
for lingerie... she's not 36B... no chance in hell...
she has petite *******...
my hand is half full when i grasp them...
she stands... while i kiss her forehead...
eye-sight in line with my *******...
but that's what's so glorious...
she's Turkish... and i'm...
if it wasn't for the Northern Crusades:
the Polacks defending the last remnant of paganism
of Lithuania against the Pig-Crux...
i would be nothing without a history
i have the luxury to explore...

Casimir the Great invited the Hebrews...
who was that Schtad-Mein-Feuer
in command of Auschwitz played by X
who uttered the same words?
maybe it was an exalted plan to excuse the Hebrews
from Europe... surely the "invitation"
of Muslims into Europe will be painful at first...
but perhaps it will: less so...
hell: i'm already in favour of ******* Muslim
women...
even unto Khedra i uttered my favorite saying:
bound to Rumi:

la illaha il allah...

   as anyone living on Malta what the noun
for god is... all will utter the noun: allah...
all? ah! what a sigh of relief!

monotheism is one massive cesspool of globalism
to begin and end with...
it's a massive joke on the people:
the prophecy of the resurgent tower of Babel...
the language is already in place: English...
but the good news is...
at least we'll have a second "chance":
it's not really a chance... it's a waiting game...
i'm telling you: the cull is going to be massive...
it's already in our unconscious: collective:
which is why you see it in the popular culture:
**** always floats to the top...

globalism one way or the other...
after all: dinosaur juice is not as infinite as the sun...
there's philosophy and there's pessimism...
philosophy doesn't look too far ahead
to be unrealistic... stupendously slow
on revising itself: there's no pin-point of "departure"
in philosophy: there's only the "game"
of the build-up... philosophy is preparation...
it's akin to cooking in that:
cooking is everything that is...
the technicalities...
while philosophy is: how much ingredients
are needed, what is the process of preparing a meal?

if anyone should accuse me of being pompous?
i'll start writing about ******* ******!
****'s sake!
even my mother, once upon a time,
called me an: intelligent, BEAST...
and i am just that!
i know what i am!
           when i was ******* Khedra she uttered
innumerable blasphemies...
i was little **** at one point... then slow at another...
she wanted to cuddle: complained that
i showered myself with cold water...
she called me mad... she couldn't stop looking
into my eyes... and i into hers...
brown for green: sold!
   biting: my god... i'm starting to love the biting...
tongue licking lips...
still those eyes: and the way she uttered:
*******... yeah: you are, ******* me...
or is that the other way round?!

at least we, i hope "we" didn't take it personally...
then again... she did send me a picture
of her and her daughter...
she's asking me for a present:
i chose lingerie... because i want to **** her
when she looks all the more sexed up (****)
but then she sends me pictures of her and her daughter:
so what? you want me to foster this Frankenstein?
gladly!
              why? oh you know why...
just read Marquis de Sade's magnum opus of a novella
that's ******...
i'm not that stupid to know what urges
motivate my virility and lust for life...
it's always the forbidden "things" that give man
the purpose for life: and that purpose is bound
to those forbidden "things" and the ability to restrain
their realisation!

it's the restraint on realising taboos:
taboos that come into fruition are... rotten...
but? restrained taboos? that rot the mind,
or rather: exfoliate the mind into bloom?
my god! the temple of the gods!
the eyes of Oedipus! right there! on the altar!
everything entertained by the mind
is sacred: even if extended on the privy
within the confines of script...
sacred upon the moment it is made
sacrilege and exacted against the mind's
entertainment: whereby the cognitive restrains
are bypassed: and said taboo is exacted...

we all want healthy ***...
impersonal ***... *** that money best allows...
transactional ***... clarity ***...
but this is one ******* level up:
she's asking for gifts... she's getting emotionally attached...
i'm starting to think about finding a new brothel...
all those pictures she's sending me
of her and her daughter: yes... man missing...
she's even showing me pictures of a house
she's doing up in Turkey...
she needs £180,000 and then she'll be happy...

i do have a certain banknote... well... several...
that could be worth just as much: if not more...
Tsar Nicholas II is a familiar face in a painting, no?
but on a banknote?!
by now ****** or no ****** doesn't bother me...
a ******* with a beautiful girl like her's?
it would be much more easier to foster a girl
of a single mum than it would to foster
a boy with a single mum:

oh! no ******* way! single mum with an only child
boy?! THAT'S ******* DEMISE!
that's not happening! that's Oedipus!
that's patricide! that's infanticide!
i'd want to **** the mother as much as i'd want
to **** her pup!
a single mum with a daughter i could handle:
it works just fine... Ancient Rome gave us lessons
about the abnormality of fostering *******:
fostering sons never works out "just fine"...

- it's like with this one record i recently found:
HASLINGER - FUTURE PRIMITIVE
a rare glimpse into 1990's culture...
from 1994...
rarely do you get anyone bold enough
to say: **** is ****... all those muddled waters
of fiction... and crisp-crass methodoligcal
poetic: hiding behind ******* RHYMES
and structures...
never anything worth talking over: or for that
matter: talking into...

there are about five fingers on each of my hand:
no, there actually are... ****...
WONG FACTION, i.e. wrong fraction...
too much TAOISM in me...
first i'll cycle to recycle the empty
whiskey bottles... then i'll cycle to
peep at some vinyls: will i find the "one"
i want? probably not... then i'll walk into Anne
Summers and pretend to be all shy
all paedophilic choosing out the bra
and *******: suspenders...
does the nylon come free?

   i'll play a game... i like: gay-mmmm's...
god:
i don't care for those insufferable wastes
of men thirsting at the fountain of ****!
i'm having my fill, i don't care
whether my writing is elevated from
the sewers into the mainstream:
my writing is merely an accompaniment
to the life i'm living...
and i love my life more than i could
ever love my writing...
after all:

res cogitans "vs." res extensa...
i write by extension:
not by thinking...
i never think about what i'm about to write:
writing is as extension of me
elaborating twiddling with my fingers:
i really have itchy finger-tips...
i sometimes express that by rubbing them
on coarse items akin to bricks:
before moving them to the oyster flesh
of a woman's body... tenderising them...

yeah: and i know what EUTHENASIA
is... when i get too old: and less useful...
i do know where the "fire exit" is... plonker...
you know where assisted suicide is?
or are you too ******* frightful?!
death is my ****** ******!

mind you: who the **** dubbed the likes
of X X X X and me?
hellraisers?! we were simply workaholic-alcoholics...
we liked to drink, we HAD to work...
******* women was a bountiful: BONUS...
the eager ones... we left the "virgins"
to the beta males...
i get the itch whenever i think about
all those celestial nuns in their stupendous
salvaging of virginity:
each one and every one waiting to be greeting
a "****** birth" of a "god": b'ah b'ah bad:
it's probably more true that Hey-Zeus was
Jesus-ibn-Snow / *******!

i lost my "faith"... a long time ago...
from the explosion of the Atom Bomb
and the unearthing of the Nag Hammadi Library
and the accounts of the Hebrew historian:
Josephus ibn Mattheus...
the FALSE PROPHET FROM EGYPT...
north America can falsify a lie...
i don't care... i'm more interested
in upkeeping the decency of Russia...
and what remains of Europe.

                     nope... i'm lost on the concept
of conversion... Islam seems more politically viable
to make choice: on... than... this: pseudo-polytheistic
sputnik of a plethora of doubt:
faith: i' will sooner **** on the cross than be bound to:
what?! pray before the image of torture!
you're no god! you're simply a sadist!

this god didn't deserve a death!
this god didn't deserve a, life!
******* Moloch Spawn!

Infanticide,
More honorable these days than patricide;
And no one sees the irony.
Convince me why
I should care for your life?
And do it without words

Matricide* [ˈmætrɪˌsaɪd]
n.
              Sometimes blood cells don’t part like seas.

Patricide [ˈpætrɪˌsaɪd]
n.
              Where bulls go to molt, grow bones, and plant new prospects.

Suicide [ˈsuːɪˌsaɪd]
n.*
              Weeds often take root where moisture lies.  But not always.

––11/8/12

Tao and the art of no motorcycle: therefore no maintainance

what a ****** title...
but if the pseudo-Greel wolf-mann can write
a book about the patricide inversion
of a son's suicide
and cope
but at the same time: snuggle and smother
a confession of a madman
that somehow QUALITY
is the root for the tree: unlike the dog a god
if god was to love us
he couldn't do it as a man
as a man he'd be crucified or
ridiculed as Nero with a flaming harp...
o'm going to get drunk and listen
to some Madonna..
or myabe... no... not... Rockmaker
by the Dandy Warhols:
finally! the feud is over! two creative geniuses
came face to face
and last night i slept
in a cabin
and listened to the storm talking to the trees
oh how superior the architecture in the north
from simply wood: Norwegian oh boy blue
i'm getting high from a good conversation
and i think i'm having
something telepathic with Reyla
and Edie is in the background
and shaking her *** oh tease camaleon
cook me some Puerto Rican munch munchies
i think i have a daughter a lighter
spirit i think i was given a blessing
for forking out
20 quid in the paths and it almost feels
like Christmas when i can be
a child benevolent
not my favorite: by Easter i'll be sparrow
songs and happy willing so the mercy
of the passion of Geth and Semanii...
trans-gender nightmares of the Nag Hammadi
pronouns in my head...
i was ******* a blonde beast last night
in a dream:
listening to the wind break and creak
and morse code itself into wood:
how wonderful...
to hear the symphony of the elements...
when fire speak to water
when fire speaks to earth
then wind speak to the earth via the trees
and i'm the Dune's Guildsman lost
in fish and frogs and parasites and Orange Dust
not Spice not Fog...
oh Guildsman: hold my sway:
no pub for objective clarity:
just a translucent thought of Islam
like there was a golden age of
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
sober up: have some historical perspective:
god all loving as a dog...
but now as man so lowly caste to suffer
on the necks of supposed ****** virgins...

EQU?
no... the word i could compete with: etymology:
suggests:
EQUIVALENCE:
i.e. EQUAL
                         VALENCY...

equivalence is an adjective and i find dyslexics
fascinating in England
because in Poland there is hyper-literacy
and an Agony against the algorithm and the personalised
algorithm of the AI...
with the Grypwa: the prison slang:
so we're in this same little leaking boat: are we?!
we! yes! jawohl: mein kommandt!

disorientated democracy:
the noons have crept and the shadow has lept
from the window with the cat
the baby and the bathtub...
some water is creeping: odd: since how many:
elements... can be coupled with silence?
i asked for lightning to the 5th element...
now i have to ask for a 6th...
i need the element of vacuum to be invoked:
invited: by god or by dog:
to which all i paint: a pointing love: affair...

white crow: black eagle:
white crow: black eagle...
word for word:
neo-Romantic rereading:
England is Scandinavia
and Poland bled the breeding
a German Host
this is no East
this is Central Europe:
West went via Europe went via
Spain
and call them Hispanics
the Europeans call them Aztecs...
so littly represented via Polynesia on American t.v.

maybe i need a mountain of my name
meaning name...
Gift of God...
or Conrad: Wise Council...
i'm Germanic root for root
hey presto! a tri!
ugh... if acute... iota... no need to exclaim...
so?
          trí                   now roll / trill the ЯR

Greeks and Romans stay this close... this mirror:
mirror kiss: so close...
how depict the trill on the R? a cedilla? the wavering
marker... let's see...
did i pin point the noun cedilla to
a crucifix of suffering?
everyone even the Norwegians
newly converted Catholics?! **** me BORZE BURZY
IDZIOM! VIA IDIOM....

long gone are the transcendental efforts
of the first night
can you feel the spirit: its felt tip
darkness:
now no ******* not American
Christianity the Christianity of Cain
Cain was summoned
from wandering Asia and Polynesia
and was implored the funnel
of the Slavs that didn't more
Wall People
while Huns and the English roamed
the world!

'you clearly haven't read my poems!'
"she clearly didn't read my poems!
attacking me so about my nurname
like that...

Romanian coworker:
a Michaella: MiXaella: la la la:
if not the ******* then
a coworker and the unbelievable woman
that is woman inside in woman
then inside of man

bliblical terms a long Roman ancient shake
of the arm
reaching almost to secret winkle of the index
against the elbow of
fellow man...
reach almost to a secret winkle of the index
finger circling the elbow O
fellow citizen high viz: special fizz...
not police officers
not ambulance workers:
just gatherers of a lot of flock of people...

could Bruce Springsteen compete
with Red Hot Chili Peppers:
two gigs apart:
i lied: Bruce failed but didn't fail
just aged insane
while John's psychosis: Fruit Scant Cents:
frizzy: ITalian spelling...
i lied:
i did leave the second night
without a sonic handover headache:
but then i blasted my ears into space
using headphones:

i asked you if you understood
and you sort of said: i do:
that pen would be put to paper
and my house would be my house
and you would always be welcome
but my house is my house
on paper and in my mind
as is the garden
i love my garden too much:
i put a lot of work into the garden
before i met you
and the garden for at least 2 months
of the year could be where
the dog comes crawling back into
the night scene of this roomy extension
of the house:
you will not even guess or attempt
to:

someone was about to jump at the fight
that exploded in Whitechapel station...
and i only managed to get a glimpse
at the commotion
someone shouted a disorientating hello
at the fight:
i saw Cain tackle Abel the ground

surely Tom Waits is no arena filling
god for women...
and another show stopping American:
the anti-****** came
with the anthem
of Born in the USA....

          i wandered back to watch the London
skyline:
i spent most of the 2nd gig
contemplating the London skyline
and how i will might miss it...

Jesus the Tourist:
he says: like the Muslims say:
so under Moses they wandered for forty years
in the desert and found no sea...
and Jesus said: let's go north
and let's go across the entire world...
i'll crucify myself: wink wink...
get resurrected and hey presto a comeback against
all this shameful wandering and inquiring
about the world:
head north on the anger of the Greeks at
the Trojans that became Romans...
no more pestering Babylon and Persia...
so Jesus allowed the Jews to be catapulted to
new travels: exporting Jerusalem
to GDANSK...
          
Jesus was a messiah travel broker:
he didn't foresee that in Poland they could find
a kindred spirit of Poles didn't move much
historically:
like the Scandinavians and the Germans
and... Kazakhs, Turks, Mongols....

                   he forgot that the Apocalypses
of the Chimneys would be look
the myopia of nostalgia for
the fate of years building the pyramids:
not less than slaves and more disposable plastic
artifacts...
            
who am i to hear up the work environment
being dusty...
so i thought about her god
and thought him a jew an assyrian
an egyptian a greek:

the world confuses me:
no some little scuttling powers
via Greeks understanding Christos
via the Romans understanding Christus:
so no new polytheism
paganism:
to salvage some of this supposed
monotheism:
understood three ways:
via Judaism
via Islam
via polytheism and paganism:

equivalent to:
via Father
via Son
via the Holy Spirit:

to me the father is Judaism,
the Son is Islam:
and the Holy Spirit is:
******* MADE IN CHINA...
feng shui, the zodiac, cosmology...
seeing faces in
inanimate objects...

seriously?
person? you are look for the persons
within the trinity:
can't help yourself just people watching?
I can't see something personal
when i see so much impersonal
shared:
collective conscious: what ought to be shared
in the confines of mortality
that is the ANTI-THESIS of MONEY:
money = exchange... of
but what is the x = y
of what can be SHARED... rather than EXCHANGED...
it's not love...
it's... ahem...
being curious of each other:
constantly putting on each other's shoes:

being empathetic in self
while non-being sympathetic in the other:

how? i don't want you going blind,
deaf or mad!
being empathetic in self: which creates a self-in-others
(but not in the others:
the policy of definitive articulation
and indefinite articulation
consc...

            the self is as real as the abstract
while a self is as abstract as a reality: that allows
abstracting: to be the higher form
of the dimension of the freedom of speech:
would you believe!
some of us don't believe in democracy
as we don't believe in the freedom of speech!
we are a superstitious folk
but not peasants:

sorta monks:
maybe angels...
we believe in silence and autocracy:
we hear winds in the mind
with power to summon demons and angels:
angels that sing
while god is near
and demons who / that / this / nothing...
all pronouns: non-sexually-explicit:
i.e. gender-neutral 2.0

         only the mind knows of these winds
these lives in Tornado:
Trubadour... ballast: basic boom...


p.s. funny point:
is that there is the monotheism of Judaism
and Islam:
while Christianity is the Holy-Spirit
of religions that allows for the soul be
perverted by monotheism!
that's why Christianity is:
the last remaining function of people
when pressed together
by the geology of the two monotheistic religions:
Islam and Judaism
while Christianity tries to smuggle in
Buddhism.... retaining a history
of the mythology of the Greeks...
said as written: have lived:
Homer and Odysseus did:
microcosm then the compactness of time...
and the compatible: ble blah blood blue
blue blood in-
-ability...
      
                the Holy Spirit is a deviation
from the current fight:
which Christianity spawned:
the Son is fighting the Father:
Islam is fighting Judaism...
this is not Cain killing Abel:
this story has origins in Cain killing Adam:
this is a story in verse:
this is a story of patricide:
Cain kills Adam!