Somewhere in my bones, I remember a quiet joy
When I smile in silence it pretends it's still alive
Lost in thought, images flash against the canvas in my mind
Painting over everything and leaving memories behind
Living in a hell like this, faking like I know what's going on
With psychosomatic cinema reeling, playing 'til I'm gone

Weary with the ghosts of all those lifetimes marching
We can act like there was nothing to it, but overreaction
Fly the flag of freedom to cover up the false,
but down here we collect the blood dripping down the walls.
If I fight hard enough can I remove the stains from my soul?
What makes me weak to you is that I've survived at all

All I've got left is shriek and tooth and claw
Struggling against the darkness threatening to swallow
I see everything that's happening,
but I'm far behind dark eyes
Far behind, struggling against the lies I've been told
It's just something that happens, you just have to fold
Feels so surreal, like nothing was done
It's all fun and games, until someone gets one

Going through the motions, and all the other sheep
Don't realize that persona's only skin deep
No one wants to dig if they've got to excavate
So just keep walking, and leave it to fate
But if I were to die tonight, they'd be weeping
Wondering how they didn't know, having trouble sleeping

When you teach her to be selfless, just remember who gets hurt
It won't be the people she supported left lying in the dirt
If money can't buy happiness then why is it that we
are separated so thickly that we can't even see
They say the grass is greener on the other side
When you've gotta pay to save your soul it's easy to see why

Among us are walking ghosts behind a paywall
Barred from even showing the world who they are
Scream too hard and they'll rip your heart out,
you have to paint your pretty face and fake to find your way out
Always happy, always smiling, 1984
Express your inner turmoil and wage existential war

Show your colors, find a ticket to the prison in your mind
Get out, you mar the landscape like the rest of your kind
This life's a revolution in of itself
Take down the lies and slander sitting on the shelf
Keep flinging names until one sticks,
in the end, if you disagree it means you're sick
Trying to cure a cancer they brought on themselves
You can buy into the game, you can pay to excel

We are born imperfect and why can't we see
Others are imperfect just like me

Where'd you wander off to? I was one lonesome night-shift from writing another piece entirely – Allen y Federico, chasing Whitman as he climbs the paywall guarding Bohemia, ashen fog of beard left trailing in his wake. Ah, but here you are, my High Court of Muses! Lavender castoffs of two mechanical empires, camped outside on the supermarket pavement: awaiting a dawn delayed by the skyscrapers it hides behind. The Best Minds Left Standing... Lorca’s feet beating faraway Gitano rhythms; Ginsberg spouting love-letters re: the weeds’ anarchic growth from the concrete cracks... and one smaller sycophant.

I’ve offerings of oranges – Spanish nostalgia reduced to contraband – ‘stolen’, bruised, saved from dumpster fates. Wouldn't you have done the same? Isn’t food waste just state-sanctioned sacrilege? Naranjas, clementinas, full miniature moons split into crescents: I figured (halved) you'd (quartered) be starved (eighths). You savour each sacred drop of juice in ways I've yet to master. I’d always been preoccupied with expiry dates... Moloch who sets up shop inside my brain... yet time melts between my lips and I am with You under UV floodlights. I am with You where the overhead glow may not be starlight but it’s not the worst alternative. I am with You – until the checkout boy steps out for a cigarette and when Allen’s eyes follow in pursuit, I’ve lost him again. Holy, he mutters into his final segment of fruit; holy, I repeat, imagining Eve’s overeager sprint into the wide-open prisons of thought.
    I am a woman cloved in two, better half wrapped in citrus peel and tied with string – para tí, maestro Lorca. Does it bother you that these buildings stand closer to the Sun than you could have ever reached? Yet you were nothing short of an Icarus, and how close you came! Abstract wings borne from words and notoriety! Your mythology was written to fit a flamenco guitar – if they don’t know that, they don’t know you – through musical folklore, Franco tried to **** that which was immortal. His legacy is a nation of graves and a granddaughter in the gutter press.
    I begin to feel that history is a ripple-effect of looking over one’s shoulder and deciding “you’d hate it here.” There’s always the dawn. You wait for it with practised patience – pervasive optimism – the ability not to end an “always was” with “and always will be”. Is it all you’d waited for? Has time diminished its novelty? Will you write it down and tell me what I’d slept through?
    Out cold, you turn me onto my side so I don’t choke when Moloch finds his way out.

somehow boredom matters and allowed itself
my mind:
restless laziness i am finding
is the required injection
the panacea of measuring the right amounts
because living alone is stressful
and i'm back living under one roof with parents
and i'm dosing self-dosing
i smoked some marijuana and tobacco
in that European hurtful
and drank a little *****
and i'm alone and no wife
nagging me
and daughter nagging me and her
and i smoked and drank a little
because i want to imitate the headache:
and listen to music
and write and if i can't speak to anyone
because the gnocchi came out ****
blame the potatoes
or rather i didn't add enough flour...
what's Spanish for milk and flour?
leche y harina...
         pan y manteca: that's F:
not an S...
which brings me unto the Hellenic Z...
and what will i do
read a book
yeah but reading can translate into a very
anti-religious feeling of organising parts of life
that are questions and the paths
of question-worthiness
most notable in the context of Da-Sein
that would be the You
of the Self the self-questioning
a Moral Gesticulation to Ghost...
i'm back to watching *******
and a limp ****
because the mind is switched on
in the bellybutton the the world that is London:
you need a different life-speed
to question that distance and pockets of time
we are:
   the term escapes me:
but it is hidden in Da-Sein...
              if there is a Da-Sein...
there must be a -Zeit...
                          space is counterintuitive
to the mind... given the confines
of the immediacy of body
and nothing
but also the idea of pets and organisms
and if man is an animal
then as an ecosystem
of bacteria viruses
foreign bodies
and even parasites
from there
working toward dogs and cats
and horses
and beyond that the immediate family
****** and return to *****
a ***** Among the Ecosystem of
the body... and body thus as translating
into the Res Extensa:
that is truly objective:
i know i am subjected to the body
but the body is also subject of me
and as pronoun with only nouns and
no verbs attached to it:\
grammatically speaking
i am by now a liquirice fluorescent octopus...
called Nagging Frankie...
not Franklyn my other Long Lyn... of abstract...

ah yes: for the Da-Sein there must be a different
"there" to being... i need to find another preposition
within the confines of Zeit...

the remains of this poem
are subject to payment...
  the remains of this poem are subject to payment:

ACHTUNG! ACHTUNG!
ZAHLENWAND  ZAHLENWAND
paywall paywall...
          i have poems within poems
i'm setting up a paywall:
for anyone who wants to read the rest
of this poem: subscribe to my:
and QR code and business account...
write it off the taxes
as Expenses
printing books or going to read
at places... a retirement fund project...
now i come to think of it...
    
  which might explain why i have yet to make
any money from my "hobby"...
but without a wife to snuggle
or listen to
just going before sleep
it's so boring falling asleep alone
it might be scary for a woman
or lonely:
but for men it is boring...

                           any donations upon requests
in private, this is the unfinished piece...

title: copepod
body:
blister-whale:
somewhat: 2. 502 bad gateway give-away

i have to admit, i took a hiatus from listening to
Marilyn Manson... by chance i came across
a review of... either Born Villain or the Pale Emperor...
clearly: i wasn't paying attention...
ever since i missed the chance to go to a concert
when he was touring the Holywood album...
that same year Mudvayne were touring with L.D. 50...
i switched off after their debut...
i switched off from the music of my youth in general...
went down several rabbit holes...
notably medieval music - blues - jazz -
                      some extra-curriculum classical....
but the artist ages... well... so does his audience...
i don't even remember when i started writing:
let alone posting dotty-doodles on this platform:
i had only one focus... for all the ills that the internet
enhanced... revealed when it comes to the interaction
of people: sure... the older generations found it
convenient to shop... to do banking... to book plane
tickets... but for us younger folk... the ones born
into the years prior to the inception of the internet...
this was our time to build up an underground
of communication... for me? what better way to bypass
the gatekeepers, the publishers...
having amassed some readership... 44 thousand on just
one poem? hmm... let me spell it out: 44,000...
if i were to write it out in matchsticks, i.e. |||||||||| = 10...
what is 44,000 of those pretty stacks of arithmetic?
let me see what 100 looks like...
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what about a thousand?
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                                                  = 1000...
now... i know what 44 thousand looks like... roughly...
how many spectators were there at Wembley...
for the woman's F.A. cup final?
                                        let's say... 41K...
now multiply that space of matchsticks by... 44...
but this is only one poem... i have... thousands of poems...
some are still stashed on my facebook page:
or rather lost on my timeline...
           mind you: i haven't performed any of them...
why? they don't rhyme: for starters...
i like listening to people sing Aud Lang Syne
on new year's eve... and even Shakespeare can't
beat that... Shakespeare's words were never put
to music... and they won't be...
sure... great meter blah blah... but you can't sing
Shakespeare... so there goes the baby...
with the bathtub and the water out of yer
******* window...
                            i'm more a composer than a performer...
i'm more a composer than a performer
therefore not an entertainer...
i gave myself this: jinx... the moment i start
performing... is the moment i stop composing...
i'll just be regurgitating the very few poems
that might be left in my repertoire like...
Ginsberg... having to recite Howl ad nauseam...
me? i'm sort of in the mindset: plough along...
let's not beat around the bush...
   for all the ills of the internet... there's one good...
the possibility to bypass gatekeepers...
publishers... no one would touch my ****...
and yet: they are printing tabloid spew...
           sorry... tabloid *****...
                they are printing propaganda left right
and centre... my work would be... obscure...
revealed: ha ha... perhaps after my death...
let the people judge for themselves...
                     i'm not saying it's Shakespeare...
god forbid writing that stuffy ****...
                             it's contemporary... i don't even think
i'd allow myself to belong to a movement
akin to post-modernism...
   hell: if **** comes naturally... it comes...
if it doesn't... well... i usually need to do something...
ha ha: "cope"... do some cooking, do some cleaning,
do some gardening... so some ironing of the shirts...
go to my part-time job... wait a year until i'll ask
for references and then apply for a job as a teacher...
or take the current route and become a security guard...
which route would allow me to write, more?
probably the latter... then again... experience
as a security guard... could come in handy...
on a curriculum vitae... when it comes to crowd control...
in a classroom of kids...
    but i really don't want to teach chemistry...
i'd love to teach English...
                   - but don't get me wrong.... some artists /
bands got the mix right... they understood
that there needed to be a prominence of the BASS guitar...
Metallica sure as **** didn't catch up...
pretty much all those kinds of bands didn't...
barely audible... well... with the exception of
the intro on Devil's Dance... but then the bass disappears
into inaudibility...
it's like a post-jazz hybrid... in rock music...
the rhythm guitar and all that is considered "melody"
can sort of *******... let's just leave in the screetching
accents of the guitar... keep the vocals...
but... but... let the bass guitar exfoliate...
   and... let the drums compliment it...
    no no... the drums are no longer the building block...
the bass guitar comes first...
  it's a bit like borrowing from opera...
    bass is the baritone... rhythm / solo guitar the soprano...
yada-yada-blah-blah some minutes later...
songs like the Gardener from Born Villain and
Third Day of a Seven Day Binge from the Pale Emperor...
if you listen to them... you can truly... truly: groove...
you can't stop nodding, can't stop swaying...
you start thinking: how is it that pigeons don't
get headaches? i guess they must be listening to cosmic
music only pigeons can hear... like those dog whistle
scenarios... humans can't hear it...
but since... all birds descended from dinosaurs...
they strut... nodding... head-banging... some ancient
music of the cosmos: ergo? no head-ache...
hmm... and this writing coming from a guy who
drinks like a pirate... and is waiting to do psychedelic
drugs if... he might enter the confines of dementia...
oh yeah: i'm keeping that option open...
should i start to slip up... on my pedantic spelling
and punctuation... i'm ******* off to Amsterdam
to a brothel and some magic mushrooms... ****...
i'll need to get a bus out of Amsterdam and find some
forest... something scenic... mind you:
the Netherlands are not that scenic... flat... upon flat...
upon flat... although... that's the jist of things you see
from the motorway when going through...
i'm sure i could find some beautiful spots to trip...
  should the worst come...
but the artists i was fond of listening to in my youth
have finally caught up with what i was thinking:
where, the ****, is, the BASS?
       ****** music jerking off the solo guitar...
no, please... and all that rhythm guitar...
   challenge the drum & bass crowd...
that sputnik crowd of... turning African drumming
into... a stampede of hyenas on amphetamines...
    boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...
mind-blowing load of headache....
the bass guitar can do two things...
it can set the rhythm... it can set the beat...
but it can also can create an undercurrent of a melody...
oh ****... that's three things...
   early Marilyn Manson did respect the bass playing
of Twiggy Ramirez... but... there was still the guitar-maker
melody overload...
the mature artist... given songs like: the Gardener
and Third Day of a Seven Day Binge...
respects the bass guitar... it comes so gloriously to the fore...
something a band like Metallica can never
accomplish... or Led Zeppelin... all those 1970s greats...
those bands had the bass guitar pop up...
in a segment of a song... NIB? by black sabbath?
and then... disappear... don't undermine the Leviathan...
this rock fusion with post-jazz...
oh of course... there's no section in this music...
whereby each instrument takes a chance to solo...
there's no need... everything is just ******* dandy
as it stands...
             - and where would i be... the internet is evil!
ooh: boogie-woogie! sure... people are acting
like ****-storm brainiac... brainiack... brainiak...
   brainiaq...      just four of the possible aesthetic questions
regarding the spelling of: Otto Binder...
not that i'm a massive comic book fan...
well... if you get a chance to meet Declan Tan...
Declan... yeah... for my birthday he gave me a copy
of... Batman vs. Alien... no wait... it was Batman/Aliens...
published in 1997... i think Declan liked me...
i sort of think i liked Declan...
                      the first time i tasted chicken soup that
wasn't Slavic born... with sweetcorn...
(ISBN 1-56971-305-7)...
sure... it's evil... people ghosting each other...
dark-web ******* inner circles etc., the silk road...
hmm... ghosting... poor Jeminah...
how many times did i play roulette... cycling down
Mawney Road in the past... 3 weeks?
not that often... i tried at least once a week...
not that i'm stalking... but it's a decent route...
it's all downhill... and chances of cycling onto sharpnel
is limited... mind you... never... ever...
cycle into the London borrough of Barking & Dagenham...
chances of getting a flat tire... esp. if you're cycling
on 23cm wide tires of a road bicycle?
no brainer...
   before pulling into Mawney Road... i was...
blinded by a sunset... idiot me forgot to wear his sunglasses...
but i stared at the ***** with eyes wide open
waiting for white phosphorus to start pouring
from under my eyelids...
   oh... i'll be looking at you... until the point
where i see you for what you really are:
but you're never really that when you're at sunset...
or sunrise... it's only at your zenith when...
staring long enough at you... exposes you as this
pulverising... vibrating mirror of fluorescence...
sort of silver... sort of white... but not when you're
coming down from your zenith... you're still blinding...
  - only a day prior i thought i saw Frankie...
Friendrich... her son... getting on the bus...
from a 5-a-side football centre off Eastern Avenue...
turned out it wasn't him:
no, it couldn't be him... over-protective mother
would never allow her son to take the bus on his own...
plus... the kid is supposed to be an actor...
she's milking him... "apparently"... he's into bedroom fun
on a games console... you couldn't find him
climbing trees or playing sports... a *****... basically...
the only sport he might have heard of...
is... boxing... to defend him mother from abusive
boyfriends... where: he'd always lose...
- i was waiting for this moment...
the sun blinded me gloriously...
   as i cycled down Mawney Road...
that's the thing about meeting Jeminah... her dog...
i had these self--inflicted knuckle wounds
from putting out cigarette butts on them...
her dog... oh man... her dog loved me...
he really quickened the healing process...
he licked and licked and licked... and licked...
the scabs off... to the point where i started bleeding again...
looking at my knuckles...
nothing prettier in the world... no tattoo could
compensate them...
so as i was cycling down Mawney Road...
who do i see? the over-existed dog... barking... chewing air...
i see the dog first... the dog sees me first...
i later make out that... glorious colour of her hair...
that darkened ginger that's mingling with oak-cask
auburn... i put on my most impressive frown...
i don't look her in the face... mind you:
everything's ******* fluorescent before me
having been blinded by the sun just minutes prior...
i'm not stalking... she was the one that invited me
back to her home twice... yeah... i know where she lives...
that's when i had that mad moment
of leaving her flowers on the porch...
and a Valentine's card through her letter-box...
o.k.: fair enough... that's borderline creepy...
what isn't... with modern woman and feminism?
          a simple boy can't offer up simple love...
i learned from my supervisor...
the daughter of my neighbour that she's no longer
working for the company...
SLANDER... in H'america you can go to court
for that sort of ****... false-accusation, no?
that's what happens...
when a devil tries to outsmart a devil...
the latter devil pushes on... with gifts... with niceties...
the former devil has no option but to retreat...
to its own, former: hellhole... bog...
imagining someone i wanted to love...
stomach pains... mistaking them for butterflies...
single mum, dating much younger men...
or dating men who were big on *******...
former ex-boyfriend women beaters who ran her
into bad credit rating... with... debt...
i know of the mistakes i've made...
   two... in my early twenties... that's why the rest of
my twenties are a blur... that's why only now
i've reemerged as this extroverted silent type...
in my mid-30s... having plans...
   i wouldn't call it: ******* away my youth...
i'd call it... sorry... what? no, sorry... i was sort of absent...
probably alone in the forest... probably at night...
problem being... she can block me on whatsapp...
she block me on the internet...
       hmm... small world... a very small world...
she'll have to move... or commando the minutes she takes
her dog for a walk... the ******* dog licked my scabs / wounds
clean... he has my blood in his veins...
if he sees me... he's going to bark in my direction...
ghost me, *****? in the good old days...
the claustrophobia of a little city where i was born...
my parents lived... let's say... 600 metres apart...
but it took... being jointly invited to a wedding of fellow friends
that brought them together...
Jeminah can't ghost me... like she could forget about
all those guys she flicked left on
when we worked together on a shift on Tinder...
you can't shake off locality...
i'm practically her neighbour... in terms of of how
globalism comes across... what? i'm not allowed to cycle
down this street? she's not even living on the street i'm cycling
down... she's living on the cul de sac...
but i'm not paying for... the debt her ex...
whatever he was racked up in retaliation...
what a pretty face... what pretty hair: hair that i'd give
up drinking whiskey for... it's almost the same colour...
just keeping to the foundation
of routine... i like that street... cycling down it...
if she has any complaints... she better take out
the scab tissue of my DNA from her dog's gob...
but dogs don't simply: forget who they endear...
with affection... the internet distance conundrum
is not going to work on me... the only way she's going
to ghost me... proper... is moving somewhere else...
small world... small town... in the vicinity of Collier Row...
obviously i'm not going to bother her...
god forbid... i have Khedra to mind...
the ******* that gets all the *** that no man
rarely does... and has to text me: come over...
i need you... yeah... that type...
i cycled past with a frown... i just spotted the dog...
ooh... right... well... i know who's behind that dog...
yep... a flicker of dark ginger: disguised brunette...
yeah... that's Jeminah...
but this is counter to how the internet works...
no? in a cosmopolitan setting?
she can't exactly ghost me...
  sure... she can block me... on whatsapp...
   from a ****-show she herself orchestrated... why?
because she didn't have the confidence to compliment
me, directly... she had to: slander me...
she became one of those... idiotic... sappers...
she self-sabotaged herself... notably? after i pushed forward...
with... wine, cake and flowers...
she became a self-saboteur...
   like i said to one of the other girls: lies don't walk on
stilts... lies have short legs...
just wait... see... i've been alone long enough to know...
certain little, ******... analogies?! behavioural patterns
of blah-b'ah black sheep...
             now... i'm waiting for the crescendo...
there's no denying it... i do drink...
   but... allowing women this "sixth sense" of sniffing out
alcohol on... a person you just met...
accusing them of drinking on the job?
i know the territory... my grandmother had the same
sixth sense... when she turned my grandfather into
an alcoholic... he finally broke down and threw her
through a glass door...
        me? ******* prostitutes?! i'm trying to escape that
headache... keeping it sorted behind a... paywall...
   first comes the payment...
i'm not landing on something that's... ahem... "free"...
- it is a big deal! you slander someone
and in H'america you can be taken to court!
i do drink, heavily... but when i'm working...
i half my intake if not third it...
      i wash, i pamper myself... i end up sober on the shift...
at the London Stadium people either take
selfies with me or give me sweets...
i'm a sucker for pop music and... gelatine infused sweets...
i can't refuse them... chocolate can simply not
exist... but... give me a bag of Haribo...
esp. those sour-sweet types... i can't help myself...
i just have to eat them...
- but, this is... a 2nd Jeminah Revelation...
she... she can't swipe left on me... on Tinder...
i'm not on Tinder: never have...
    i'm almost her neighbour if i take out the bicycle...
i can be round her house in a matter of minutes...
London, even Greater London... has... shrunk... for her...
she can block me on an APP-lication...
but she can't... block me... cycling down a road
she takes her dog for a walk...
               i wonder how this dynamic will work out...
on her mind... i was waiting for this moment...
you can't just... ghost me... when i'm living: locally...
sure... you can... "ghost" me... but... that implies:
you have to move... i'm not moving...
i'm rooted... i haven't been this rooted in a long time...
funny how that works...
whatever it is that works... bicycle breaks...
the wheels... the moon and the tides...
that sure as **** works...
the sun and photosynthesis... that also works...
but... the interaction between women
and men, these days?
sure as ****: it's not working...
  which is, rather... a crying shame...
do we really have to go into interracial territory
for it to work?
personally? i don't feel like it...
    no, not really...
                  whoever takes over...
oh... i'm pretty sure the current white overlords
are planning an ultra-coup-uprising of
being the chosen typos...
               whatever...
                i have lost interest in this world...
from about... 2 years ago?
yeah... the world is sort of automated for me...
i lost interest in it...
the whole matter of the "pandemic"... sort of desensitized
toward any sort of attitude toward Ukraine...
i sort... hmm... ahem... don't care...
Ukrainians celebrated the invasion of Poland
by the Nazis during World War II...
if i'm not directly involved: invoked...
i'm going to play the "solipsist" / pacifist card...
the Pontius Pilate poker...
               i'm out... i was already out...
i just don't want to be involved...
                         is that somehow a Buddhist monk
"sentimentality"?
             to hell with Buddhism...
                         1960s cultural appropriate import...
i'm yet to be rid of the **** Christianity that
turned European barbarism into European
secularism.

and i saw, four figures of fire rise up
and transverse the night sky...
     to reiterate: i'm used to seeing wandering
stars... that's almost usual for me...
to reiterate:
    if i'm originally writing in English...
i have to go back, to the zeppelins...
und ich gesehen, vier zahlen aufgehen
und querlaufend der nachthimmel!
mein gott! ich war rechts!
                                  der zeit ist reif!

of the 3Ps i once cited: priests psychiatrists & prostitutes, there's also a 4th P... poets? then again, i'm not too sure, too much soapy-water, too much cuddle-fiddling going around, not enough gusto akin to Julian Tuwim, Witkacy, Dante or Giuseppe Belli... i mean, go for it, go see a priest, see what he tells you: repent! some ******* solipsistic mea culpa - only you exist! it's all your fault... right... everyone else is ******* blameless?! go see a psychiatrist... if they don't prescribe you regression - i.e. want to implant you with false memories, they'll prescribe you the sort of drugs that make you wet your bed at night! or **** you out, out of a yin-yang... zombie! oi oi! ZOM-BIE! i.e. EE! alternatively... go and see a *******... if you ever thought you had erectile-dysfunction... go and see a *******... never fails... well... it fails when you've drunk too much and she's being an overtly timid little *****: but even then you cuddle and share tongues... what's eyes in Romanian? what's freckles in Romanian? what's nose in Romanian? then you exit the brothel, get on your bike and scream like a werewolf all the way home, harking, grunting, ******* at yourself for drinking too much... but you still exit the brothel like a gentleman: in their own words... you kiss two on the hand and the one you just spent an hour with on the forehead... then you go back again and ask for the Turkish girl that was so eager to sleep with you... this time you go sober... turns out she's a nymphomaniac and you're into that sort of ****... wholesome stuff... nothing ****-funny... none of that Dubai crap... wholesome... oral *** without a ****** and then all that protection while she talks something funny while you try not to speak a word: word... who needs god in the bedroom? elevation of animal noises just won't do? all this talk during *** is a ******* turn-off...

             che bber ttruttrù! oh ddio mio che cciammellona!
   e ppoi sc'è la bbebbella e la bbobbóna!

like the men who put women on a peddle-stool,
this idea that: women are unable to ****...
or some Cinderella *******, i have the same problem
with the English, the people,
i don't know why... i always seem to envision then
as these ideal people... well... concerning what
they say: you'd think so...
perhaps not the people per se:
rather the society they have envisioned...
well... so much for the society they envisioned...
where's the best part at?
where?! 10 Downing St., there's where!
that's going to be a running joke for, some, time...
it's not that i even care...
it started to turn foggy, "all of a sudden"...
you know how fog looks like in the night?
like... someone breathed a breath of milk
powder into the atmosphere:
the street lights are visible, the moon is...
but people are less and less: visible because...
they tell big-little-truth: which are lies...
it's not the sort of lies associated with..
why would my supervisor send me
a sample of her fruit cake... white lie: oh... great
baking technique... like **** it was...
whenever having *** i always found it
suspicious that a woman might get pleasured
from the *******...
whenever it happened to me with prostitutes:
i still wouldn't believe them...
i would be met with scolding: OW...
yeah: they couldn't believe it either...
they couldn't believe that being authentically pleasured
i didn't buy into them being pleasured...
hey, weird as the world is... enough said...
so my supervisor sends me her take on
a fruit cake... oh **** me it's sweet...
it's so sweet it's like the antithesis of *******
a lemon... i mean... even though *******
a lemon is not exactly cringe... but a lemon
is a sweet-acidity... this load of *******
it is just SWEET...
i have to brew myself a cup of coffee
and not sweeten it just in order to... to...
recreate a concept of palette for my numbed tongue...
it's terrible: women can bake worth of ****
these days...
it's too sweet... i rather **** a lemon...
alright, here's to the plunge...
what are we working with...
two *****... *****?!
if there are two women... trying to look
unattractive... oh **** on me...
we even don the same haircuts... but i have the beard:
they don't...
i'd still... you know... do some plumping...
male sure something is working, correctly:
you read is correctly:
MALE SURE... no... not "MAKE SURE"...

are these women supposed to have invisible sniffer
dogs around them, does it take having 5 children
to say: mmm... something is scented "funny"...
*****... for starters...
and that's like... normal... for the woman to
sniff you? sure, the compliment is great:
oh, you smell good...
           so does a fresh paintjob on a pristine looking
bathroom, but who am i to brag?
and it's like the most basic job:
lowest i.q. threshold imaginable...

i can say, i look the part... why do i look the part?
is some ******* **** going to stop me
taking a pint of beer to an area where i'm not allowed to take it...
or will some 6ft2 bloke...
donning a pristine coat... affirmatively pedantic
in questioning his attire... stop... 6 lads...
from doing likewise... because... i look the part?
because i'm a male and... ahem: "i'm entitled to being
entitled to the entitlement of being entitled of
being in a functioning role whereby i'm not given
leeway?!
optics... no one is going to take a woman seriously
in a position of a steward... even if she tries to pull it off
as a ******* ****... sorry, no...

reality tends to bite back...
even Brandon... oh my mother knows Brandon,
he works the Romford Blue Sapphire gym...
we talked about dogs... about him being abused about
the public, me trying to explain to him that:
he too has a breaking point... imagine that:
you going off a tangent...
see... this is what bothers me about the English...
Brandon says he's a home... manager...
some sort of manager... that he lives with his girlfriend...
i message me mumz and she clarifies...
he's not a manager... he's a senior receptionist...
he lives with his girlfriend... hmm... he might have
a girlfriend, but he probably lives with his parents...

status, hierarchy...
****'s sake... he says he's a manger of a gym, house, manager...
yet he... works added hours as a steward at sport events...
or the second girl that sniffed me up:
because i'm all ******* fine for being sniffed...
she apparently has a private... personal? huh?
business... oh... she just does this **** on the side...
right... 5 kids in...
you know the advantage of not being famous...
you can sort out a lot of ******* among your coworkers...

oh **** me, the atmosphere is great...
Emma loves pythons... you feed them... frozen, mice?
interesting... so they wouldn't eat anything
that's already killed, they need to be under the illusion
of having killed something?! wow...
imagine... living without eyelids... blah blah...
she's almost like this scary feminist blue-tinged hair fairy...
but...
oh my god... if no one's looking...
and i look at her earlobes... no... come to think of it...
if i just look at her ears... yeah: but me writing about this
is not exactly me telling her during hours of work...
oh you smell nice... counter-*******-productive
if you ask me... why? because now i'm thinking about *******
you!

the most ****** parts of a woman... her hands...
why? because if i were she were we were to hold
my ******* emblem... i'd ask myself to be rid
of the pinky finger & the 4th knuckle...
a woman's ears! it's like... itchy... itchy... smooth...
smooth... ears, hands... chin... neck's pleasure-dome
of tenderness... wild eyes!

and you know what: i watch these grown men
"indocrininate" their offspring into either
a support of a football team,
localised prejudices, yet those "disappear" when
support for the / a national teams surfaces...

hey, so much for pork eating
when you're Muslim and cousin *******...
i guess eating pork must be as much
confusing as cousin-*******, no?!
i guess pork-bad = ******-bad!
**** them, these ****** specimens...
who's going to care for them?
is Romania the only option?

        ****** riddled i.q. starvation oops...
how do you write oops in the plural?
as much as i might be discriminated to
eating pork, where does most of leather come from?
shoes? PIG... belt... PIG...
sorry... "cousin": you're about to **** your
grandmother's sister... or whatever happens
in Pakistan...

sinister taunt... how else to combat these
audacious suicide-bombers...
shame their ****** culture origins...
keep them there... they better settle for being there...
aww.... look at that...
only today... a Pakistani mother, daughter & grandma...
the daughter... all sort of fiddly... sort of weird...
to tongue out... trying to lick the grandmother's tongue...
even my cat doesn't do that...

eating pork is bad...
right... while god created all that's good...
god created cumin! turmeric! ******* ****** camel-jockeys....
right... cousin-******* is somehow divinely inspired?!
******* to Dubai... ******* to where there's no "racism" /
slavery invited by the Arabs using up Bangladeshi flesh...

OI! ARAB! COUGH UP! YOUR RIDDLE OF KFC!
power, supposed power... now... a joke; always
the little people, one litre of whiskey will always make you a convert, given, that you get to see so many zombies from the mere experience of ingesting a pint, two pints, three pints of beer...

with me? you need to play a longer game.

- are they still going on about the war of words?
here's a new one i learned...
i believe that onions are the only plants in existence
that have consciousness - or rather:
are receptive of pain...
you chop down a tree... eh... not much...
perhaps a splinter under your nail...
given, in light of debate, ahem "debate" in Parliament
concerning the ethical way of killing lobsters...
boiling the: B'ah BAD...
but freezing them etc.: not so B'ah BAD...
i once dated a girl who found it funny that
in her childhood she would pour salt on snails...
i accidently step on a snail in the dark
in the garden i hear a crunch in my heart...
sorry, mate... didn't see you coming...
it's like this one time - thinking about it still
gives me a pseudo-PTSD...
Poland: where else? walking alone, "somewhere"...
i come across these two boys (i am also a boy
at that time) - oh... so what are you up to?
the reply? **** me...
oh... we caught this frog, we're smearing it
with lipstick then we're going to set it alight...

erm... o.k... see you later Jeffrey & Henry H...
******* Major Major, whatever...
o.k. that i'm not a presbyterian: shoot me...
give me a raw herring in a yoghurt sauce and i'll
tell you to stuff, your cosmopolitan sushi up
your ******* ***!
there, said it, no turning back...
    i'm done, with people, telling me what i can and
can't say... but killing animals in an unnecessary manner:
that's beneath even me enjoying
a few poultry abortions on toast...
a toasted bagel... with some cream cheese...
some raw smoked salmon (is it cooked if it's only
smoked?) some dill and... mmm... a squeeze of lemon...
beats a cucumber every single time...
curing... funny that... you pour some acid
on a sea protein and it starts a cooking process...
that's ******* weird...
it's "unconsciously" receptive of the cooking process:
to heat... via an acid...

right, right... that new word...
        syn-propanethial-S-oxide... said the cis-man...
that's the **** that onions release when you
cut them... which makes you cry...
ergo? you think that perhaps onions are receptive
of pain? should we have a Parliament debate akin
to lobsters regarding how one might prepare onions?!
i think we should... also... a debate about
eating oysters... after all: invasion of privacy:
peering into those shells... don't you think?

- sure, but if i were to do it... oh, something smells "funny"...
not good, at first, just funny...
she wanders with her eyes then focuses on my neck
draws in and sniffs it... oh... it's you... you smell good...
yeah... i do that... but in a brothel...
once i've paid to pass the paywall...
i take her hair in my hands and sniff it...
because she's lying next to me, naked...
and i'm naked it... but i don't ******* follow it up
with any words: i'm already intoxicated
by the scent...

if a man were to sniff up a woman - in public, or better still...
in a professional environment...
and these are the same women who get confused when
they are abused by drunk and disorderly lads
at a football match... like Louis XIV said:
perception is everything... for ****'s sake:
if you don't look the part... a hungry *** starved
yet still a beaming with joy angry gorilla...
you're not going to get away with much...
not in that sort of scenario...

a quest for double-think: my new motto is...
YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME THE TRUTH,
JUST DON'T LIE...
what's the middle ground? this supposed house
manager (ahem, elder receptionist) -
well... we ended up talking about him
petting a dog... an american pit bull terrier...
but he called it by some other name...
where he walked: Raphael Park, eh?

oh the nights spent with dangerous ladies...
loved every minute...
the only place where i can: breathe me...
and breathe them...
where i don't have to be ignored, displaced...
******* of a man...
esp. among Romanian or Turkic women...
to hell with those overrated blonde ******...
give me Tuba Büyüküstün and i'll give you
the ******* Taj Mahal... eh... some prostitutes are
just worn beauties... you rub them the right way
some sort of Genie ends up appearing...
usually: grr... viciously... wild-eyed...
anyway... none of them could ever get in between
my affair with Fraulein Bernstein (whiskey)...
it sort of *****... but life's life... and death's death...
no point making complaints...
ooh... **** me... all that raven hair... and Turkic...
recipe for disaster...
why? well... because she's not exactly copper-skinned...
she doesn't look like she has a pernament suntan...
like the Raj girls from... wherever Delhi is...
(I know where Delhi is! for, ****'s sake!)

if we're being so adamant in living in a post-racial
society, surely i can pick and be fickle about
my sort of potential cocktail of genes, no?
does it always have to be about black on white,
or white on black... can i... hmm...
i'd like something more curious... again:
can i stick with the Turkic women?
i fancy that depth of a shared history...
the Ottoman Empire knocking on the door
of Europe (even though the Greeks cucked)
at Vienna... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth replying...
while being back-stabbed by the...
Prussians... Russians... Swedes...

o.k. i tried being extra special and slept with...
two black girls... not that i greatly enjoyed it...
o.k. i enjoyed ******* one...
but the other one gave me the creeps...
how, can, i, ****, a woman,
when... she has two children sleeping in the room...
she drags them out of bed...
forces them to sleep on the floor while i'm
THEN supposed to do, what?!
**** her?! she probably had *** since she
started to fake having a ******... instead ensuring
her inner thighs were tight enough...
or whatever the **** was happening...
i just asked her: can i sleep here tonight...
she agreed... i woke up in the middle of the night
while little afro Jerome was standing at the foot
of the bed ******* at a makeshift ****...
so i grabbed him and placed him on my chest...
the end...

*** is ugly... unless it's with a *******...
in a brothel...
   come to think of it... since: i'm always drinking
when i'm writing...
the more i drink the more i wake up...
i was going to suggest: the more i sober up...
no, the more i drink the more i wake up...
but i'm not of the "woke" brigade...
i'm of the SLEPT brigade...
    waking is for the people who are still somewhat
sleeping... or... rather... awake in a zombie-state
of consciousness, mantra-riddled *******...
what could get me drunk?
if i were drinking... as always...
a good conversation... i'm a sucker for a good conversation
like i'm a sucker for pop music when i'm sober...
AQUA: TURN BACK TIME... anything
by ROXETTE...

- and as it happens at every football match i steward,
i see a dad with his younglings...
sure... that could have been me,
but, my psychotic trip: exit at the age of 21...
sort of sorted my future affairs for me,
perhaps i wrote in my 20s... something or other...
but i wasn't really there: or here...

   i get really jealous when i see a guy with a pretty girl,
or when i see four or five guys, friends...
then again: i hate companionship,
i prefer the presence of animals...
    dogs i can almost stand if i don't require them
to be put on a leash... on a leech of authority...
i can stand objective language as long
as it is prescribing me authoritative pointers...
but objective narration bores the hell out of me...
it's so... so... unimaginative...
if objective narratives were a women
i'd call them a stuck-up-***** fakery
of a flaky "******"...

                             while Pearl Jam became
what Nirvana could never become... grunge-dad-rock...
i don't mind... i truly don't mind... after seeing
enough faces you start thinking along
the categories of: TO PREVENT A SECOND HILLSBOROUGH,
TO PREVENT A SECOND HILLSBOROUGH...

seeing so many people i sometimes start
thinking about working in a slaughterhouse  -
then again, to seem less psychopathic
i think about the people working in slaughterhouses...
it's not fair that i... wait... i'm not getting paid
for this... well if it's free: then i suppose anything goes,
right?
          
    oh what could have been...
oh sure sure, it's great... getting sniffed up by women
in their 30s with 5 children in tow
thinking they are single and childles...
white knight anywhere, anyone?! no? keep sniffing...
darling... and it was this running joke...
*** habits came up... one blue haired freak of a girl
that keeps snakes: some 3ft long, pythons...
she said darling but i forgot to lip-read her
mishearing: daddy... i've been called DAD before...
don't ask why...

i morphed Darling into Daddy... for the whole *******
shift she kept nagging me...
Daddy... this... Daddy that...
o.k. with a 7  year old i could understand...
i could cuddle a toddler... do all that mother-goose ****...
she or he could pull my beard... ;oke my eye out...
i don't do friends, i i don't do dates...
i do prostitutes, i do whiskey,
i do forests at night, i do graveyards at night...
i do German thinking...
  i might come across as autistic or as an imbecile...
but i think the same of you...

how unfortunate to have children of your own...
esp. girls... how unfortunate...
imagine the distaste in your mouth at being called
a father at some point... then again: the same goes for having
a son... it's a nice idea... a very nice idea...
but i'm here not on some ******* mea culpa
clause... i've reached my prime and i wasn't selected
for the replica... it doesn't bother me in that:
i always had a melancholic disposition...
given that i'm ageing... i have acquired a melancholic
sense of self-deprecating humour....
i'll sooner commit suicide than die the death of
"loneliness"...

   it will most certainly be a pristine night...
cloudless... with a full moon!

what's that counter argument i keep hering?
what's that? i said: WHAT'S THAT?!
oh you know that ******* yin-yang masculinity
undermined. that we should all be *******
farmers: not enough coliseums...
plenty of vegan hot-spots though...
love, my ***..

   personally i don't know how white girls ****
all these african boys... for me, ******* a black
girl is sort... sort of crippling...
anything beside something Caucasian...
in the raven hair category... i'll sooner *******
to Asia than i'll acknowledge to ever
coming from Africa... the Somali inbreds
**** me off the most: listen, curly-braids!
you're not here to be paid to watch the football match!
why isn't anyone paid to watch a football match!

once upon a time they were known as the Yanks...
the Yankees... these days? oh, you know...
these days some of us just call them the WANKEES...
the WANKS... cuck-barons of the world..
yeah, i once had respect for these people...
it's sort of waning day in, day out...

but if i'm expected to fight someone else's fight...
these days i'm going to say: no thank you...
i'm already gearing up myself to marry death...
how's that?! of course i can see the little people,
of course i love animals as much as i love children...
they're one and the same to me...
personally... and i'm seriously disorientated
by fraulein bernstein... eternity?!

Abraham! oi!
    an eternity spent among children...
or... with 72 virgins... your take...
         oh no no no...
i'm not taking these *******,
these supposed virgins anywhere...
i'm taking the children... throw in 72 rottweilers
if you're at it... i know time well spent...
but knowing my luck... i'll be bound to a hell
where women sniff my hair, or my neck...
even though i'm not exactly anything to peer at...

why are these Indian women looking at me oh
so funny? i'm not rich, what?! am i funny?!
then again, working around the Turkic manifesto of
a woman's beauty... some of these Raj girls give
me a hard-on like not other... they have eyes that tease...
white girls' eyes are all anti-racist: seek *******
zombie...

white girls are currently only available for black boys
given white girls' anti-racist "trauma"...
so here's to building up a New Brazil!
   yeah.... that's also called me looking elsewhere...
oh, no, not for commitment...
   for the sake of it!
anorexic bleached hair... in need of psychiatric help...
or otherwise beached-whale types...
feminists with pink hair... can... ha ha... CAN i say NO?!
or do i have to?!

ich bin verheiratet zu die nacht und nicht(s)!
ich! allein! bin!
was ein...ziemlich.... gesicht...
from time to time... Saxony?!

z-mooth ah smoochies... and... a "blah"...
what was written in hell: by hell,
must return to hell... please... no tenderness, here,,,,

Me: I like the Washington Post. I used to
live in Northern Virginia. I've read it for more than 30 years. But lately it's so chaotic as to be almost unreadable.

John:  Their motto now is Democracy Dies in Darkness, but they put their online articles behind a paywall. Curious to me.

Me: That's a good point.