i started smoking cigarettes
with my ex fiancé (olé!),
after i started smoking ****,
aged 21,
i was so anti smoke
that i remember my tobacco stink
clothes being aired
after a night out at the disco (ha ha,
oldie, discotheque quack -
albeit disco tech', not disco phi reek
of sweat and elongating cheese limp
limbs doing the dance of pharaonic
irony to banana ram boom bomb la la lamb),
so i moved to the quickie of all addictions,
as one jazz fem soul said:
a cigarette is the most satisfying dissatisfaction,
in a span of five minutes...
so i see the young poets mention coffee...
where's the cigarette though?
oh right, you left it at the gym, on the treadmill
along with don quixote? i bet.
so i started smoking aged 21...
vocally i went from angelic soprano
among the mule smog thickening over cities
to a personal base baritone of a personalised
exhaust engine...
but when i reached the reach of the rhapsodic
thespian choking on his own ***** of
un-originality i started sounding like darth vader
playing the didgeridoo -
i know the smokers' cough tuberculosis,
but lack of nicotine does that,
and active ingredient missing, head spinning
carousel of carbon monoxide...
as they say... take in the carbohydrates...
off the top of my head nietzsche said:
god is dead... yep... true that, esp. now...
and the replacement? diet...
centimetres of calorie intake:
drain the fat from yoghurt and fix it up
with sugar tax...
you do that while i relearn brushing
my teeth, once a day,
with a pea sized dollop of fluoride paste,
~20 seconds of brush and rinsing,
my teeth don't look like worthy of
twice a year visit to the dentist to get the nicotine
stains off my mandible bones - clean as norwegian
rain... shame the beetles didn't write a song
about norwegian rain of acid, export from
old coal england on the industrial complex
pacified without a warring-industrial complex just yet,
awaiting u.s.a.
otherwise it's a compositional irony,
i like walt whitman, i do, i like ****-****** literature,
but then walter becomes pompous bombastic
when writing about a *******: the damnation
of all homosexuals: i.e. writing about prostitutes -
spare the details of your identity... tell me
the parts where you squeezed the orange out
into goose pimpled juice.

Trump and Brexit,
Two beautiful scrolls in a sync
Singing a song of white nationalism
On the crest in the Ivy League station,
Busy Muffling the **** drop sounds
On the bowls of foot-loose beggars,
A lesson for you dark son of Africa
That tomfoolery is no defense before
The rational altar of Trump and Brexit
Riding on followership’s bitter hangover
For the Nostalgia of the waning  glory,
Sired by Machiavelli, groomed by ******,
Festooned by Mussolini into a Jim Crow tor,
But fault not them, that is politics or religion,
Always sweet only in full gear of power-piety,
Then Nurture your tiny ***** for no pawn earns it,
To pile your wood for pharaonic winter is obvious
In paranoia of Brexit and Trumpish megalomania
Coming in a stampede with Tigre’s thorax, only
To worry us for nothing as it is the fear of change
Truly, they are not the first clouds in the sky
Of global terror and politics of self-idolatry,
Soon to vamoose in service to their nature
Of aureate appearing to whimpering fade,

the scientists joined ranks with artists who, with un-complimentary depictions of humanity, like the weavers of the bayeux tapestry, decided to paint queens as ******; the scientists came along with monkeys instead of jealous and shaky hands... that’s like so totally debased, who said i was flat-nosed by a klitschko forearm uppercut and hairy to boot? you want a baboon **** smear with my buttocks to suit a smile on that observation? i’ll just fudge pack that **** between my baboon cheeks for the paintbrush and use your face as the adequate ‘smiles all round’ canvas - gentler than a baby's bottom in sinatra's cheek to cheek take 5.*

no, i wouldn’t trust islam in the mouth of an egyptian,
nor in the mouth of the copt,
no more than i’d trust the conversation
of a prince of egypt with god in hebrew with god’s friendliness,
which isn’t to say that god didn’t say: my people are suffering,
the pharaonic lineage are building pyramids!
i need to punish their leaders to redeem the people,
wait a minute, why would the hebrew building those architectural
monstrosities hijack my servility?
ah i know, i’ll just have to wait for the one to be crucified.
a prince talking the language of slaves...
must have had tea parties with the stonemasonry class
of fanning those bothersome flies away ponces.
but as i was doping myself on the ultimate escapism
watching the gambler (2014),
i spotted this one line that broke me:
this heavily addicted gambling professor of english
who could only shakespeare and albert camus
came across a grey matter criticism: ‘but that’s
only a subjective observation, we’re all bestseller authors!’
no... and objectivity is so overrated,
i mean it implies being one among the many
talking as the many,
there’s no heraclitus in objectivity - where’s the flow
in objectivity, moving from one particular to another
signalling artistry whether that’s the dumb statistician
clothed in the baseball player looking lost in the faded out
lad culture missing in the concert hall of talk,
and the basketball player more interest in quicksilver words
pixelated, and that longing blonde who inspired the english
professor to peddle-stool her to the position of the faded gem
of hopes of the carbonated water of a writer?
speaking objectively would only provide an inactivity,
a sort of ant’s **** hole: well we’re all here... how’s that?
good enough? no! no, it’s not good enough!
there is no heraclitean river in objectivity -
it’s no good enough to feed subjectivity of seeing many different faces
going about their daily business and feeling nothing of yourself
making a choice to pick something out... there must be
some sort of kantian per se in all this.
so then i stumbled into tescos, watched the first gangsta gathering
in the car park and in the shop i talked to the would-be cashier
about those failing auto-checkout machines
that now ask for ‘approval needed’ on bottles of whiskey
and five pence plastic carrier bags...
‘you type in 0 and still the machines want approval,’
‘silly, isn’t it? they were so innovative once,’
‘you’re a hoodie with an accent? where you from?’
‘st. petersburg, lived there for a month and came back a changed man,
i was caged and told to not try and get into a nightclub
to see the unappreciative beauties that couldn’t never cry at
an opera like la triviata,’
‘must have been terrible,’
‘it was, i heard of the russian-chinese axis of evil pact
and drank non-alcoholic kbac!’
then at home i picked up a newspaper and started to kinda reap
a weeping over the 3rd intifada next to
an article about how an american auntie sued her 8 year old
nephew for breaking her wrist at the blackjack table
with the stakes as high as $127,000.
it made sense at the time to be sufficiently coordinated enough
to drink and read, which always adds up to: sermo potator potor non sum.
so i thought about as to why the 30 silver pieces
sold jesus christ into a slavery of a very different kind -
the “intellectual” one at the pearly gates where he greets
all the ***-kissers with the church pay-check back-lingo,
even though human history would be better off
without a few hours of the last supper morphed into a sunday
service for 2000 years... when joseph would have seen
the little babylonian kid do something monstrous on the last sabbath,
which would also be akin to that famous opinion section of the newspaper:
yes comrade frankenstein (fickle think shine, alternate spelling of the columnist's surname), capitalism is unshakeable,
there is no alternative to capitalism...
but i thought there was an alternative to the marshall plan?
did i miss something - am i really supposed to stand “outside of all space
and time” in classical philosophical practice? i can’t do that with the slogan:
there’s no alternative to the marshall plan! yes there is, communism.
the syrians will tell you that in a few years, fingers crossed,
no foreign investors will be able to impregnate the resurgence
of civilian trust within monochromatic ethnicity;
but of course i’m getting ahead of myself with hopes.

pyramids            crumble
one again with the desert
scattered   to   the   winds

i thought that Sunday would be the day that i'd save money and indulge in my insomnia, not drinking, but i have a triage appointment with my G.P. today between 12 and 5 p.m., so i'll not be synthesising sleep (quantum peek-ah-boo with ß in American with a zed - i.e. zed leppelin), never mind. you pick up obscurity as you go along with it; whatever becomes personal you depersonalise by abstracts, standard procedure when writing a chemistry experiment: abstract prior to explanation, in science abstracts are not exactly abstracts in humanism, they're merely prologues, or shorthand intros.

my writing addiction is worse than my alcohol addiction,
a hell-raiser in heaven...
****, i can end up penniless and broke on the street,
its my parents i'm worried about -
i do have a Muslim enemy - i buried it for 7 years
faking schizophrenia so i could be untouchable -
i can give you the name, i can give you a little biography,
i'm worth two coin flips a **** by my estimate,
i didn't fake insanity so i would get £120 a week on
debility payouts, now that would be mad...
i have to plan from time to time when i have to stop
drinking and synthesising sleep rather than going mad,
i was brought back to ensure my father didn't fall into
depression when one of my cousins undermined his
team of roofers stealing them, the "cousin"?
husband of my grand-uncle's daughter, technically my aunt,
undermined my father's self-employment strategy
employing Poles and Romanians - my father? taught
by Scots... old Jack the Guinness pouch puncher -
diesel running at 4 a.m., breakfast at 5 a.m.,
work is life... work is life... **** me! it's 2016
and the death of Prof. Dumbledore died today,
the movie was completed in 2009 - so obviously no spoiler
alert, 7 years the secret was hidden from my ear...
i only learned of it today... as i also learned...
premature depression in the youth of England -
second Marx and Engels are waiting... spring clean angelic
suggestions of how England invented unshakeable
utopia... WRONG! what do you think Marx and Engels
were doing? what do you think the problems are in England
right now? right now?! mental health.
the pride and prestige of English society is getting to me...
their under-reading of philosophy books -
what sort of damage can a thought experiment have on someone?!
none! getting all ******* pompous and Clancy will
not solve the matter - they don't like wording, or subsequent
excesses - they're importing nurses from India
and are mesmerised by the Japanese curse of karaoke -
England, the 51st ******* state - akin to the Penguin
cover of K. ****'s *man in the high castle,
you ain't pure just 'cos' you think you are!
i have a worse addiction than drinking... writing enlarges
the monster in me... you obstruct my hands from the
keyboard i turn into a monster, given brain damage
you can reason why i tend to need an ****** space of
recording something down - i need it more than alcohol,
without alcohol i just get bored, i don't live in
sparkly Paris for one, the nights around here are deafening...
one example? my father obstructed me recording a thought
(got i miss the expected ease of cognitive narration
i knew prior, and i loath the personality that resides in me
at present... i could have been such a good father)...
i get blocked on the stairs before i want to write the
waterfall, he grabs my index finger and dislodges it...
the rest is pure comedy... the paramedics come,
i compliment the male paramedic on his looks
(why am i so misogynistic by now? i used to idealise
women! n'ah, no point mulling this problem,
the answer is too obvious)... i go to the hospital...
i wait for an hour, pose for pictures with my dislocated
finger, have a laugh and a chat, walk up to a black
girl with some medical problem (the dislocated finger,
what a brilliant comedy gimmick) and introduce her to
Us3 on my knees - time to straighten my finger -
the doctor asks me how it happened -
i lie: i was in such a shock i don't remember,
i pursue the lie to effectiveness - i notice his name,
i was in a pub with a Hungarian barmaid and i asked
her the problem i was having, some psychiatrist with
the surname Szasz, an english speaker couldn't make
the z into a h to say... shash - so i tested this failure
on the barmaid on the doctor, Hungarian test 1.
said his name... asked... Hungarian? yes, he replied.
bingo! lie sealed, Malachi's prophecy came true.
later he obliged to send me the x-rays of my dislocated
finger to my email account... charm charm charm.
i'm a poo'h bear when drunk, strike a conversation
with me like this one Lithuanian girl did and i'll kiss
you from forehead to your chin and neck, kissing your
eyes shut... but get between me and the blank page?
not a good idea. i'm ******* scatter brained -
rarely i get the opportunity to relive the cognitive narration
fluidity i once had that inhibited me from writing anything,
and i mean anything apart from homework and exams.
also... the **'s debut album is a rarity... it's one of those
albums you can listen to without headphones -
listening to it on headphones is rather pointless -
it's perfectly pitched for a bedroom auditorium;
and not much music makes sense without headphones
these days; but i also wonder why not everyone is
addicted to music, and more to conversation via the epitome
of Radio 4's chatty chatty broken bloke.
Sunday newspaper book reviews as usual... no book of
poetry... oh hell, let's bring out the howitzers -
pop culture ignores poetry, poetry explodes in a culture,
many people are disaffected, congested into sardine phobias,
struck that some people remember the countryside life
and milking cows, small town life... the internet is in its
genesis, the middle-classes semi-proficient in the technology
are damning it with promises of a feasible exodus to
the promised land of the sitting-room couch and television,
no one is noticing the digital miners who are digging
for the perfect pixel - a polydiadem fly-eye;
but here i am, facing ridicule at the teachings of Jesus Christ,
hating him is sorta a fake, but it's more a fake at
either Christianity, or the unrelenting fictionalisation of
the man thanks to the Greeks, bemusement at the Star
of Bethlehem, the historian Josephus, and the fact that
that the Nag Hammadi library was found in Egypt and not
Israel... i'd be dumb to ignore the archaeological proofs
culminating with the crucifix and the atom bomb and the
pathology of predicting ends of worlds... Oppenheimer
was just as good, quoting the Sanskrit death bit -
i guess living in Egypt gave the little man of Nazareth
pharaonic ambitions of worship - easier and more convincing
on a crucifix than on a throne with sensible Greek
digestion of the world and fascination to boot -
hence the fascination to the last with architecture and
'my father's house will be a house of prayer',
seen the state of the Anglican Church? and see how mundane
the prayer service has become after 2000 years?
everywhere, now, countless religions are sprouting like
spring ginger using psychedelics and what not...
well, that was the case in the 20th century... the 21st century's
answer is this dark age reinterpretation of Cartesian
philosophy... not so airy-*******-fairy about philosophy
books, are we? philosophers prescribe no drugs, merely
thoughts... what you would probably have not thought out...
harmless pharmacology if you're into claustrophobic
suicide pacts with yourself... the 21st century has proved
another breeding ground in England, this time not economic...
and if not economic, therefore existential...
i'm just another Engels looking for his Marx... or another
Marx looking for his Engels. ah, the cascade ends.

Not now, nor past, nor future shall anguish
Prevail in piceous depths betwixt Hell
And Heaven bright whence He shall dwell,
Despotic, casting voices to perish
Where I, in sombre woe, conceive visions
Of His tyrant reign. Grotesque agony
Has been wrought by His seat, high, joyfully
Quaking the decrepit Earth. Gaily
Does His crown manacle our once free Souls.

From death once wrought verisimilar chimes
Of a nation brought to glory’s righteous
Heart, but now pharaonic cries tread grim
From the Second with such semblance of high,
Righteous Sovran and now hath released His
Ministers of Vengeance upon us whole.
In atramentous grief, descrying the
Bright cynosure in golden sleep beckon,
The Heav'nly Muse my soul does possess.

what death screeching and incomparable will possess our feral skies bursting fissured eyes in stygian oceans of sound

what hell pharaonic and incestuous will enwomb us pyrophorically screeching into the crepuscular welkin

plutus' now plutonian name is laid out before us in the amaranthine caverns of a conflagrant mind

a resignation to wallow in the acrimonious sea of the harsh torrent of life perpetually thrashing in retrogression through the stinging rain

as shadows splatter in atramentous mirth gaily dancing in the shimmering waters of a decrepit planet poisoning itself

an oasis of debauchery grotesque agony crying through its darkened halls that screams out for liberty

Wisely invested in mammon, secure,
I repose in my splendor, moronic—
bejeweled with scarabs, jackals, and cats.
My dividends total pharaonic.

hello, i'm Norman, or at least that's what i'd like to be called... i'm Norman the not normal... well... i wish i was also living in the 19th century, and had this desperate nostalgia for ancient greece... hell, i could be a man in the 20th century and have equal pangs for ancient rome... "fortunately" i'm a man in the 21st century, and have terrible pangs of nostalgia for the late 20th century... when the internet wasn't mobile... when you had a modem that worked like a dial-a-ride, you waited for about a minute before you got connected... when i had the stupid ethos of buying art, rather than succumbing to piracy... which means i remember what a high-street should look like... ah, what a terrible nostalgia that is, not reaching into anything ancient, but only something just past... and because of that, i probably am more far-removed from my peers than if i were nostalgic about ancient greece... i tried speed-dating once at university, came out with a diploma of an L stuck to my head (my own doing)... and truth be told... never bothered with a daiting app... i'm so 20th century that i still actually buy compact discs... the touchy-feely type of guy that i am... anyway, nothing i listen to these days gets aired on the radio anyway... brooding me, eclectic.; and that's me being honest, all of writing is a vanity project, however well you disguise it, in props of theatre or of novel... however man characters you invent... at least i can do away with that, and write anti-orthodox anti-establishment, anti-learning-poetry-in-english-class... dodo doodles, with a food-stamp label of a: use by date... in the timeframe of the author's life.

enemy of aphorisms...
    you certainly read a book of aphorisms from
alpha to omega...
             you are picking curiosities from
the pages and you're never, not once met
with a *the end or: once upon a time...
it's hard not to see books written in aphorism
form a bit like being in a supermarket...
   whether that's nietzsche, heidegger
    or la rochefoucauld...
you can't help but be fickle...
if i were to read heidegger's ponderings ii - vi
like i might read a novel, i'd be mad...
   it's impossible to not be picky,
standing in the fruit & veg aisle in the supermarket
and picking out the fresher produce...
       and that really is complimentary...
aphoristic books tend to be never-ending,
meaning that you will pick at random,
      and re-arrange your day-to-day
narrative... if there is one to begin with.
   for example?
from ponderings iv -
         no. 75:
           today philosophy is unimportant! -
completely correct: for the things
of "importance" today.
     and with that cited, it would be pointless
to read on aphorism no. 76 in ponderings iv
of heidegger...
      you're sort of trapped,
waiting to experience aphorism no. 75...
again: it's problematic to write aphorisms,
just like Hemmingway is deceptively simple...
   i mean: it's hard to read a maxim and not
wait for the proof, or the experience...
         nietzsche was systematic as
a writer of aphorisms, then he relaxed
and wrote the thus spoke zarathrusta,
then returned to aphorisms in ecce ****...
and spoke only vanity...
    the light breeze came, and went...
       a truly transitional experience...
     oh i'm not boasting to know anything
as such...
  well... i was thinking that
only gods can transition from god to animal
perfectly...
              men transition to either status god
and get crucified,
   or transition to status animal and behave
worse than animals...
         men has two escapisms,
            are we so categorically rigid as
to forget that we like to think ourselves as gods
from time to time, regardless of
the said existence?
at least to combat lethargy...
              plastic surgery is always at hand...
    but such is man's plight
    in binding himself to these two escapist
  event horizons...
      either man bound to animalism
or man bound to enforce a pharaonic fake
beard into stone on the earth...
        man closer to animal: what, not
making himself into a clean-dressed hog,
perfumed and getting drunk as the epitome of civilisation?
   but then not not catering sober and
nearing robot?
  what, then not bullying other men under his will?
   it was merely a chance thought,
i just thought that gods transition via man
to animal and can be seen as content...
    but when man stretches himself to either polar
opposite, horrible things happen...
                    or don't,
i just sit, night after night, completely incompetent
in my affairs of reasoning out an alternative,
other than the befitting pin on the point of drinking
and writing...
      yes, i'm guilty of writing on autumnal leaves
of oak... can you imagine such a possibility?
                  that some, ancient and mythical book of
Europe was found, and it was solely written on autumn
leaves?
     oak, obviously.
                      that would be staggering,
to have a book written on autumn leaves...
    wait... this isn't Ovid...
    if i heard a voice from heaven say 'live without loving,'
i'd *******. girls are such exquisite hell.
   or if you read the sunday times *style magazine,
and there are two columns at the back of the magazine...
that's exactly what Cosmo would write...
     how did i become so mephisto-like
having tasted the fire once, proper, to decide upon
only dealing with women on the basis of
a clear transaction? **** me, why wasn't i endowed
with the impetus to a goldfish memory
  being burnt by fire once, forgetting, and asking
to be burnt again? what's wrong with me?
    why am i so shallow without that kind of
  masochism as to marry 4 times and divorce thrice...
  or go on dates?
       i don't even know how this
started... so goldfish me once more...
     maybe i just took Athos' advice...
the best advice is to not give advice...
  and since i have no advice to give:
   nor cure to the mere question,
i'll treat the question as more important
regardless of an actual or imaginary ailment...
the question suffices...
             i'll just leave it obviously awaiting
yet more mortal theatre and the next idiot to
buckle and hit the floor face-down.
   yet what is the maxim of the city?
what is the enticing serpent telling you?
   ah, but one thing: you're not perfect,
bite once more... you're not perfect, take another
bite... go one... it's waiting for you,
you know you can take to another girl's heart...
     well...
   i'll pass... i'll keep it plain and simple...
    a clear-cut transaction...
                           1 hour for 100 and 10 pounds...
keep your dates, your chocolates, your roses
where you should,
   in a solid matrimony, not advertised on
television screens, angling others to the swarm...
   if it didn't work out the one time,
the only other time i have (but rather want)
to spend with a woman, i'll perfect the need for
prostitution... i'm not giving any more of me
to another... i'm not one for loving labyrinths
where i'm not the Minotaur... but a confused
cosmopolitan taking it up the **** with tag:
metrosexual... **** that, **** this...
   god... i really need to ****, excuse me.