I'm No born free
I tasted the dust of apartheid
My mother was hiding behind the trees screaming for help
No one was there
No time to sleep
We were cursed for struggle
My father never smiled when my mother would say "the baby is kicking"
Cause he knew,it wasn't the kick of joy
It wasn't a sign of being a soccer star
It was the struggle!

1990 Mandela was out of prison
1993 I was born
1994 the Dom's were free
No more Dom-pass,but not uhuru still
Innocent souls were lost
What was the fighting worth for?

I can forgive but never forget
When De klert called black fools
He said they do nothing but barking
We turned to dogs now

This is for Steve Biko
Chris Hani
Hector Paterson
Raymond mhlaba

Let not my skin define who I am
Let not the earth describe me
I know my future because of my history
I was raised in a town of fallen angels
Where blacks were deceived
Whites felt free
Turn the lights off we all the same colour
Don't turn them on
I want my son to know the history
But to not repeat it.

They say follow your leader
How can you follow corruption?
Zuma this zuma that
Its all illusion
I'll only follow u twitter
I want you to retweet all the ish I'll be posting about you,the ******,The Nkandla part,The Cheating,The Art and the bunch of wives

Yes I voted,I still don't know why I voted
Helen Zille only speaks xhosa in time of elections
Jacob Zuma gives free taxis only to the voting station
Julius Malema will bring apartheid back it is said on radio stations

Mandela spent most time in hospital
All of a sudden his dead
Was he even in jail before?
Oscar Pistorius ran to ****
His now a criminal.

Mandela note on my hand
But valueless

Our economy is dying
Our world is dying

My Dear South Africa..No Power!

i don't live outside my poetry,
                                                             i live me poetry,
i have five cigarettes in a packet
and about 3/4 of a bottle
of whiskey left: i haven't had a natural
falling asleep pattern to mind
with a 9-to-5 of tomorrow to mind
for, over, 9, years! i synthesise sleep!
not out of laziness - mind you, if i was in a wheelchair
i wouldn't be eager to fake-dance
or embrace swimming - limb or limbless
there's still Pistorius to mind,
doesn't mind a moth-on-fire to
apply Einstein's relativity to what
Socrates already said: apply
relativity to dichotomy and it all just
becomes an undecipherable monism
without a beyond to justify good and evil...
a... **** it... whatever! let's admire
Louis the XIV fireworks and wine!
but his brother, ooh! what a firecracker!
Chevalier de Lorraine was my hair too curly
they almost might - the intrigue decipher -er,
additions to a false spelling mishap -
or the proof of nobility, had the mother
begged otherwise and the daughter not
endangered the quest by seeking out
a scaffold -er's errand to guillotine the tulips
for a fragrant bouquet - here the admiration
for the stern heart of the east replaced
with the jealous heart of the west...
but Philippe! **** two horses and a cow!
i.e. *******! what a reworking of puppets...
in the hall of the crimson king... e -ing,
-ah ah-ah... the rōnin purity, the pride,
a poet's wet-dream of fancy, best luck drunk,
bad luck sober - i wondered quiet a many times
whether i had ***** or just a ticklish farce of
fancy to roller-pin the protruding genitalia
into the constituency / obligation / necessity of marriage...
the same as Narcissus spoke without an **** partner -
the ****** rap of Louis the XIV courtroom
imitating behind curtain the head of Charles I
in clone chandelier the fate of John the Baptist and
the ****** of hate of Salome...
how the two combined, the export of Iraq met
in Egypt with likewise revision of the genital parts,
Iraq translated into Israel, the two combined...
why f.g.m. rose from yawned over m.g.m. because
of the harem of kings! Philippe though! what a king!
that standards shook, the banners quaked,
the muskets shot blanks for a deadly purpose,
and there was poor Louis with the armour of quote
and a ***** of power inherited: appearance is power -
likewise today, what appears powerful is indeed
powerful, but only in deception,
beside the deception there's is no power
except the innate purpose for symbolic hierarchies,
and look where that ends up, Sinatra singing a song
about pennies raining from heaven,
indeed pennies among the streets of paupers,
the crown easily *******-on from a pavement's perspective...
i'd ask you to sit on your laurels were you
emperors, but you are kings...
so why not sit on that thorny crown of yours?!
hey! pristine gold is worth more than a poet's anatomy!
that's the casual expression, if you sit on laurels you're being
lazy... a poet's Welsh longbow man's V salute against
the French emperors - but i'd like to see them sit on
that famous crown of thorns, or the seven gilded
pikes of Rome resurrecting Vlad and the villainous Turk;
sarcasm disarms all seriousness in attitude
toward rank, and in turn disarming itself as
placed in hierarchic demands of humour -
sarcasm competes outside of the hierarchy of humours,
outside of comedy, it's there to be a buckling
when authority becomes all too... ridiculous.

sooner or later you get the grips of cherry-pop nudes
imagery instilled in pop music -
just because your heart
suddenly turns into
a candy-floss cloud
with a hard bit in between
the fluffy-puff - and
you'll realise your teenage idol
got laid by a cougar 40 year old:
and, h'eh, with your reality displaced
you'll be left with a choice of jugglers -
they're only entertainers,
and they have their expiry date;
i just don't see this age
of impeding concerns as the
generation that was bothered about
displacing care for politicians
with a shortened high of
being attentive to entertainers -
back when the entertainer was
a hobo, a gypsy traveller...
oh ****, art, mattered back then...
yeah, you're in my bedroom,
i'm not going anywhere,
i live in times of accepted thieving,
and exchanging music
records for the third mobile phone:
you could call it the
technological Paraolympics -
i've got legs built on stilts and
they're shock-absorbing titanium,
ever heard that Pistorius joke?
me neither... oh right: the righteousness
of the c.c.t.v. god and curbing the
total potential of human freedom?
sign me up to believe in a theocracy
in the mouth of man... comrade numero
uno! moi! omni non est uno!
moi!
          but ask a 50 year old listening
to pop music if it doesn't feel like
some sort of the 50 available shades
of paedophilia and marketing...
of the 50 asked, 49 would lie...
it's a different statement of youth...
not young punk...
      young pop: mostly feminine appellation:
because money was invented for women:
primarily. get the stranger to do the plumbing,
dream big, make a man elaborate on
a tree-house... turn into a Medusa in
social-shambles situations... dragon-lady
with patch-up *** later... or not so later...
insomnia's grand harvest of suicides...
well... within grounding of a stereotype:
money ended tribalism...
            not a negative... but it was primarily
invented by men to curate for woman's needs:
             prostitutes?
       male equivalents of billionaires-easy-buck,
    still that dream of the Hawaiian horizon
and the kiss - men? sure, shopaholics
with a mid-life crisis - women?
           centipedes on speed -
          40 pairs of shoes but only two legs.
if possible... pyjamas... a morning dress,
and afternoon dress, and evening dress...
a special occasion dress...
                      and comparably floral?
   one colour, one season, one sun,
    one repeated temperament to bloom.
well... who would have thought that
pop music was a bit like paedophilia...
god, i love shoving this fake guilt into the air...
but then again, pop has changed since
the days when someone wrote high fidelity
and ascribed the denotative status of the
13th floor elevators as akin to present-day
pop; poets, gangsters and chefs...
                   bodies and colours
in shadowy disguises: of the people from whom
dreams are born.

my great-grandmother used to say,
concerning lighting storms -
September, always the Indian summer in
England:
                when you see a lighting flash,
count each second
               from the flash to the thunder
as equal a kilometre from the actual
storm - a flash! thirty seconds later
the thunderous echo - then the rain,
30 seconds, means 30 kilometres away.
ah the wisdom of peasants...
gets so very boring with weather updates
that are completely senses -
cyborg even, like the Para Olympics -
compared with the paupers of lost limbs,
these athletes are cyborgs by comparison,
not even the fully agile of complete limbs
can discriminate the lesser features:
springs for legs, or otherwise crutches
in everyday society: my uncle is missing a leg,
i wish the Para Olympics didn't take place,
and he was given the cyborg extension
that athletes receive to compete,
well... after all... they're human:
                                           Oscar Pistorius;
who could blame someone asking
for the same cyborg limbs to be available to all
disabled people, giving them cyborg
limbs than staging Para Olympics and
instead giving the everyday-grey crutches?
but i guess even the disabled can't get
rid of the Louis XIV effect of Mrs. Bucket's
motto: keeping up appearances.

You are talking to a person,
This person may be a friend,
it might be someone who you are simply standing next to in a queue.
The awkward proximity palpable,
the expression of indifference to life.
You bring up the weather.

Why is that?
The weather or how tired you are. Of work, of life.
Two topics that strike up a kind of mutual understanding between one another.
We do not even try and attempt to learn something of vague significance or interest. We squander our chances of a friendship.
These 'people' are simply a new acquaintance for those two minutes of silence in the queue.
They fulfil the social criteria while you stand, uncomfortably, waiting to escape.
You are not unkind. You do not seek escape, your mind does. Yet it seizes on these other lonesome, wandering raffles of people.
Who will you draw? What will you draw?

"Thunder?" "Rain?" "A spell of sun in February in the north of England?"
"Never! It cannot be." "Something must be shifting in the universe's core. It MUST be happening, I know it!"
Or perhaps you are inclined to broach the more self-interested turn of conversation.

"Finally, it's Friday. Oh look, you're buying ***** too." "Gonna be a big one!" "I am so ready for the weekend after this busy week." "Don't bother mentioning your problems because, quite frankly, I am simply using you as an external shell of a person, removed from my immediate life and therefore apt as an excuse for me to complain deeply about how much I have to do compared to every other mortal in this long and tiresome life."

Does thou sound bitter?
Ha.
Maybe because it is raining today but I wanted to talk about the Malaysian Airlines plane that went missing over Vietnam or the see-through trial of that ******* Oscar Pistorius or the fact that innocent people are being blown up about 5 miles from where I lay my head down to sleep at night but let's not stray too far from normal, everyday converse towards my sleeping habits. No, maybe I wanted to talk about whether or not there is a God in this universe who actually lives and breathes through our very experiences or whether or not Buddhism is a way of life that I really want to embrace and whether or not you have equally been changed by a class of meditation. I want to hear about your opinions and your thoughts and your ideas and something that you have picked up on in the last week.

I don't want to know about the things that I can observe through my very own eyes.
That is where perception comes in. I want perspective. If you are going to talk about the weather, tell me why condensation forms when it rains against my bird-**** stained glass windows. Tell me why the clouds gather in such menacing shades of noir above my towering filing cabinet of apartments, tell me how the weather patterns are tracked and occur.

For the love of God, tell me how that Kinder Bueno got to be sitting there in that plastic shelf just a millimetre from the tip of my right index finger.

They have now gone far too far,
So many names they have called me and many a time,
A multiplicity of a multiplicity of names,
Time and again, I have ignored,
Forgive them Lord, for they know not what they say,
I believed,
No matter how demeaning and painful the names,
At one time I was called a dog and others,
At the other, pig and others,
And now, Trash.

I refuse to be associated with savagery,
I refuse to be associated with downright human life disrespect
I refuse to be associated with ******,
I refuse to be associated with blatant inhumanness,
I refuse to be associated with Donovan Moodley or Patrick Wisani,
I refuse to be associated with Shrien Dewani or William Nkuna,
I refuse to be associated with Sandile Mantsoe or Oscar Pistorius,
I refuse to be associated with Jacobus Oosthuizen or any of such Satanic barbarians,
I refuse.



Judge me for what I have or have not done,
Not for what Sandile has or has not done,
They are sick, they are crazy,
They are dramatic and narrow-minded,
Seeing me for what William Nkuna  and the others are,
Indeed, they are what they are,
Brutal, inhuman and diabolic,
Barbaric, heartless and savage,
But I am neither either of them nor trash,


I am a man and a very proud one,
I am a man and very proud to be one,
Was yesterday, am today and will be tomorrow,
Despite where their reckless utterances deposit me,
Despite their misguided and narrow-minded judgements,
I am a responsible and caring man,
I am not trash,
Never was,
And never will ever be.

I've never been published, my work is dead.

I can't see an Oscar up in the mantle piece, or beside the bed.

Even a posthumous award might do.

Provided they tell me in lieu.


I'd be the first in the world to have a posthumous Award,

whilst still alive, they can take it back when i die.

I've been nominated 29 times before,

from the schizophrenic, who lives next door,

he has never read any of my books, his eyesight is bad,

It's just the few 'bob' I give him for a few drinks,

makes him think they must be good.


  I may send three chapters of my latest novel, to Harvey Weinstein.

    " Mushrooms come and go , but you are forever "

It's about a serial killer who owns and works in a Mushroom factory,

  He kills only Dwarf's, and uses their chopped up bodies as compost,

for his mushroom factory, he then makes one big mistake,

He falls in love, with a male Dwarf,and stops his killing spree.


  The Mushrooms eventually revert back to their normal compost,

  but taste awful,.. A Romanian community living in Tralee,

report the foul tasting mushrooms to the Police , and.......

  The poison Dwarf eventually runs away with Oscar Pistorius,

who is out on Bail, they become shoe Salesmen,

and live unhappily  ever after.


This is the big one , I can see it reaching the number one best sellers list,

   from New York to Caherciveen,  This book is not just for Dwarf's and  

Iron leg killers,  nor Mushroom lovers..


  By Holly Barrett

calm down: calm down... put on some Faun on...
yes, some neo-paganism ought to sooth me...
ahh... Wind & Geige...
     a great calming music...

no... did what happen last night actually happen?
let me check my account...
****... it did...

        my hands are still sort of shaky...
i woke up and there was still half a bottle of whiskey
left... that's the first time i got a headache
while drinking...

that's the first time i got a headache while drinking
whiskey...

and all i hear is that we live in a patriarchal unfair
society blah blah...
                well... all i see a society guided
by meritocracy... honestly... oh... and that guys
are weird... creepy... perverted...
sure... even i was sent a phallus photograph by
some Arab guy...
and i was like: dude... i'm a dude!
             not homophobic of anything...
    i must have kissed at least two guys in my life...
one... very memorable...
2005... Hogmanay... Prince's Street party...
Tristan's friend from Bristol...
     one handsome *******....
a proper decent snog...
    but i forgot his name but not his face...
                                another time i let this guy
put his tongue in my mouth...
another time my cousin took me to a gay
bar and i started snogging like mad...
this Brazilian treat...
                                 but a ****-pick? seriously?
i did add: show me it limp...
                         that's the "bros'" secret...
they take a picture of their "tackle" right after
having ****** off... and as it's limping...
    it looks double the initial size... anyway...
a guy seeing a ****-pick is nothing...

                    insert gulping sound and shaking hands...
yeah... men all are in creepy... the dogs...
yeah... it's not like i'm a ******...
obviously... it's not like i haven't had a *******...
it's not like i haven't paid for ***...
obviously... but i didn't pay for an expensive
date... i'm a *****-cheap-***...
                               well no... courtship on the quick...
no *******-around just wholesome *******...
the 1960s generation had their frisk and frivolity?
sure thing... i'm going to have mine to...
             oh come: share the love... share the love...

****** liberation 2.0
                                          oh and the much bigger O...
that's 2 prostitutes i managed to bring to the altar
of the big O...
    second time? unexpected... slobbering on the oyster
and using Herr Index and Herr Mitte...
   and i've had a ****** oyster too...
let me tell you: the one that has had plenty of
other... ahem... cucumbers... always taste better...
mind you... prostitutes these days are ultra-hygienic...
they're sort of compulsive about it...
then again: so am i...

    but this July heat wave is killing me...
        i want to get some but i can't: and i don't care
what the stereotype is in the animal kingdom:
hot weather puts me off... my libido goes into hibernation...
i need the cold... winter! come! come!
mein gott... when my parents die i'm selling
the house and ******* off to Greenland or the Faroe Islands...

who else will i live for in England?
no one... might as well have no one to live for
in a climate that better suits me...
Norway is too civilised...
                            i need to go somewhere basic:
with a bad internet connection and plenty of herring...

- now i'm going to have a little joke concerning
anyone abusing the post-traumatic stress disorder,
i've heard it countless times...
sure... like this one girl who i had to fulfill
the role of the Advocate personality type:
"personality types"... for me that's a pet-peeve...
i treat all this psychological-quacking
a bit like astrology: for me it's a hyper-zodiac
model: people trying to mystify themselves
without actually internalising themselves:
absolutely no introspection... laziness...
    they just follow what other people thought of:
as long as it's a schematic A + B = C sort of *******...

anyway... yeah... men are dogs... barbaric creatures
that need to be steralised... or something...
ah... pleasure...
                set... simple... gasp...
i'm no German... but i can see an example where
an ß could be introduced into English...
pleaßure... that's a pristine example of an es-zett...
the S morphs into a Z...
    it's "invisible" unlike in seizure... no... wait...
unlike in steralised steralized...
html! which is... ah...

          sterilized...  LISARD ZALAD...
                                        then again... i have Caucasian
origins... and the Cow-Cass
    is somewhere between Europe and what's the big-buttocks
of Asia's landmass...
no wonder i'm more inclined to Turkic women...
Turkic... a certain Ms. Patel...
                  i'm always drawn to something nomadic...
perhaps because i'm also somehow nomadic...

and all the *** in the most shady of places...
didn't prepare me for this...
that's the first time i got a headache when drinking...
yeah... only the men are freaky... creepy...
just take your average Muslim or Hindu girl...
expose her to western culture and... they too lose
their minds...
so i'm chatting: blah blah this... blah blah that...

she send me a picture of herself clothed...
fair enough... nice sari... nice carpets...
not a selfie... another girl took a picture of her...
and then the ******* N-BOMB...
eh?! that's how the headache started...

N-BOMB? ****! ****... these anti-racists and their
deifying of racial slur words...
there are more important words that ought
to not be uttered... me? i have...
the Name... i.e. Ha-Shem...
                                i can't say The Name:
hence? i say the name...
                          which is Ha-Shem... i'm sort of weird
like that...
   and no... i will never submit to circumcision...
enough is enough... double standards:
calling it FGM while not calling it MGM... come on...
these guys don't know the pleasure
of ******* with a *******!

it has become so bad that even the less experienced
prostitutes don't know what to do with it...
the more experienced ones know that you "half-peel" it...
yeah... it works like a jaw... it's "mandible":
you can work around it...
no... the "head" will not become starved...
the more you do it... the more flexible it becomes...
stretchy... pull-e...
            plus i need it to *******.... esp.
when i'm constipated and sitting on the throne of thrones:
i figured that it eases any tension in the ****
when constipation knocks on my door...

i didn't invest all that time and effort to complete
my William Burroughs' oeuvre for no ****** reason:
i love ****-****** literature...
but that's old school homosexuality...
the covert... subversive sexuality...
the adventurous: the torturous sexuality...
the whole aspect of the deviant taboo...
the best sort of literature...
now? with all the "pride"... eh... stalemate...
stale-bread... boring: yawn... new kinks don't really
cover the original allure...
"pride": yeah yeah... just get in line... get on with it...
YAwn...
  
                       it's a return to basics... paying for ***...
that's the rekindled new-old taboo...
i don't see the point of paying for a date...
well... the very first date i ever paid for
made sense... college-sweethearts sort of memorandum...
but i made a date into a day...
first we went and walked around an Edward Hopper
exhibition at that Tate Modern...
then... we went to the cinema to see the movie
Troy... then we drank sake and ate sushi...
we were just friends prior...
i was 6ft2 she was 6ft... so i was the only good
suitor at the school... she just came from Australia...
she complained about her father exploiting
her as a child being a performer for some
green-globalist agenda... since then
she has had 5 glorious girls... and i...
planted about 8 trees in my garden...

i'm suspicious though: of two women "in my life":
her... she married a guy 20 years older than her...
hmm...
and the neighbour across my street...
the noise is still a deafness to me... the noise
of renovation... surely she didn't move
two doors down from me: from across the street
to be close to her mother... then again:
hands in the air... flapping like a seagull
pretending to takeoff: but rather, more, agitated...
mein gott...
i caught myself being a ******...
hung-over... peeping Tom from behind the blinds...
watching her clean the patio with a jet-stream
of water...
a... "mediocre" beauty... no...
a wholesome beauty... oats... pears...
autumn... not a beauty based on a number scale...
an associative-dissociative attraction scale...

i.e. it's a moon one minute... it's a sun the next...
a river-esque sort of beauty...
the initial attraction was there...
i think i was watching the Silence of the Lambs
trying to nod off and get some sleep...
BAM!
   the mother walks into the bedroom naked...
she did that a few times after...
BAM! the older sister walks in naked...
BAM... she walks in naked...
   **** me... and at her tender age back then...
what must she bee? 14?! well... it has been years
since... she's put on more weight but
at the black guys says: more cushion for the pushin'...

i agree... i "abhor" athletic women...
more cushion... i think i have a fat face...
i can't stop thinking that i have a fat face...
and? if i think that i have a fat face?
i need some more: "bubble"... blubber...

hmm... the truest love i have ever found is always bound
to not understanding women...
the truest love i have ever found has always been
bound to forgiving women...
that's the simplest sort of love there is...
whether in the right or whether in the wrong:
a woman can only be loved if she's
to be: a priori: forgiven... rather than a priori:
understand...

like that common proverb states:
you can't live with them,
but you also can't live without them...

some medical soap opera and i'm sitting watching it...
cringing...
i could think of myself as a vetenarian...
****... vetinarian...
                       VEH-TEH-RI-NAH-RIAN...
           veterinarian... ugh... H-surd sometimes helps
when writing in English...
and i could imagine myself as a butcher...
aha... problem being...
i wouldn't mind saving the life... or rather not saving
a life of something i could also eat...

career path... surgeon?! i'd have cannibalistic
fetishes... and i don't want them...
          it's just not my "thing"...

SNAP!

so it's ****** harassment when a guy does it to a girl...
but when a girl does it to a guy?
i'm supposed to be this: READY-ON-THE-GO...
libido insomnia
SWITCH-ON SWITCH-OFF
   ******* ***-toy robot: no mood... no emotions?!
**** it up Bucko...
             that's the new ******* normal?
a girl... from an obviously ultra-conservative
culture sends me a picture of herself showering:
OBVIOUSLY she's ******* naked...
and i'm like what? Jihadi Aisha sends her thanks...
i don't even think not jerking off will help...
i tried it... it does: **** all...

oh sure... first she send me a picture of her fully dressed...
pretty as a picture... then?
head-chopped off... **** the size of elephant's ears...
i'm telling you: the deity of the Wendols...
the death eaters from the 13th warrior...
my shadow is stirring...
             i feel my face becoming detached...
from the concept of both face and head
and therefore skeleton...
                   my face is becoming a representation
of the concept of what's hidden within
an exoskeleton of an insect: it's becoming
a mush or mirror, smoke, squidge... squid...
i don't know what else...
   i'm not even reacting like an autistic person...
i'm reacting like any normal person should:
you're not supposed to be complimented
by a girl sending you a photo of herself in the shower...
****'s sake...
even the ******* that became fond of me
went as far as sending me a photograph of herself
in her bra and underwear...
but you know what she also did?
she covered her belly-button with a kiss emoticon...

**** me... we're living in times when
prostitutes replaced the priests!
concerning?! ****** aesthetics! aesthetics!
people! the idea of "free" *** is an abomination!
i don't want any set-backs...
i'm not doing this for any set-backs...
to hell with all the sort of corrupt *******
most associated with the culture thus represented:
thus... unsustainable...

i always wondered: profiling: is it a tool to sell?
or is it a tool to explore?
poet or diarist? certainly not a novelist...
i abhor complete works...
novels are complete works...
      but they're certainly not adhering
to the principle of エンソー
                    
   and with エンソー i will revive my origin interest in
Taoism...

yes... but it's the power of consent...
i didn't ask her to send me a picture of her ****
torso...
now i'm thinking: i'm thinking:
i need to milk at least 20 imaginary cows
before i get the idea of pretending to be an
anti-infanct
******* off her ******* till they're numb
out of my head...
Hades! bring me 20 cows that need to be milked!

i'm being visually *****!
i know what **** feels like...
this South African chick...
  i think she spiked my drink...
we watched the Machinist... she... and i cooked
dinner... she was a teacher at a private prep school...
but i was *****...
this was our second encounter...
first time my "Jolly Roger" felt like drift-wood...
she uttered the words: you're not going to deny me...

well... **** me... seems like a Ricky G. joke
about to drop...
true... i wasn't in the mood the first time round...
second time round...
oh... **** me... cuckoon ***...
in absolute darkness... with the bed-sheets on...
i'm naked but i'm also suffocating...
she spiked my drink...
even in the brothel i don't get aroused by
these uncomfortable situations...
          o.k.... fair enough "Pistorius"... hop hop...
you ******* dry Dutch ****!

i ought to know when: ******* dry-**** "ballerina"...
i ought to know when a ******* oils herself
up and when she doesn't...
sure... #metoo... i also ****** girls
i wasn't really into...
but this one broke the norm!
she didn't send me the Mechanist DVD i brought
with me to the date back! *****!

all that Christian Bale effort to play this
tormented anorexic: why no Oscar?
a role definitely more informative than whatever
the **** the Joker: Whack-Lean Fix-Fin won his
Ocar for... whatever... from now on in
i'm going to call them: Woo-Scars...

dry-****? oh... right... i wasn't asking a question...
that's how you get ***** by a woman...
she's dry... she's bitter...
she's probably a teacher in a private all-boys school...
you haven't been circumcised:
lucky you...
at least you were laying slabs on one of the roofs
of the Battersea Dogs & Cats shelter...

one was yesterday...
another was tomorrow...
   **** happens... Newton "happened"...
i don't even think you can think as either being
or not being... or born or dead...
since... well... Newton happened...
and by happening: he's recurring...
    which implies: the utmost of the Tao doctrine
of "not doing"... eh... excesses of para-mortality.

you don't want to be sent a photograph
of a woman's naked torso:
so casually... while she's having a shower...
for my ******* ******* libido to function
it requires respite...
unless... i've been promised all the things
these modern Jihadi Johns...
what about the Ummah and the Chinese Muslims
currently in concentration camps?
sub-humans?! the Uyghurs?!
where's the war for them?!
            ******* *******...

                         no Arab fight for them?! just...
the same old same old boring attack:
post-colonial weaknesses to the fore...
                                       the Uyghurs! they're part
of the UMMAH!
                      i see the modern Arab world
and you know what i see? the Medieval Byzantine world.