Politico giving hope
Politico selling dope
Politico speaking loud
Politico the crowd aroused
Politico same old same
Politico warfun games
Politico with body guards
Politico all of disregard
Politico dictatorship
Politico communistic
Politico socialists
Politico fascists
Politico staged for caskets
Politico one big lie
Politico look in the sky
Politico you won't succeed
Politico the alibi's you bring
Politico you deceive
Politico you make me ******
Politico get my gist
Politico were all upset
Politico is the loot well spent
Politico tell us the people real truth
Politico the streets are burdened it's green you choose
Politico you choose you loose
Politico were not outside the box anymore
Politico were knowing more and more
Politico why don't you tell us all what's in your bills
Politico what about the Americans here you've killed
Politico I know you don't listen
Politico man you sold us all out, you sold your own

Snarling Cup of Coffee    




I like to start my day with a hot cup of coffee
I pound down the coffee
First thing I do every day
as the dawning sun
Lights up my lonesome room

Yeah, but not just a simple cup of java Joe, but a ******* snarling sarcastic smarmy cup of coffee

I mean, - we are talking about an alcoholic, all speed ahead, always hot, always fresh, always there when I need it, angry, attitude talk to the hand Ztude, bad, bad assed, beats breaking, beatnik, bluesy, bitter, ******, bombs away, capitalistic, caffeinated up the ***, cinematic, communistic, Colombian grown, Costa Rican inspired, Cowabunga to the max, crazy assed, devilishly angelic, divine, divinely inspired, dyslexic, epic, extreme vetting, evil eye, expensive, ****** vision inducing, Ethiopian coffee house brewed, euphoric, freaky, freazoid, foxy, Frenched kissed, French brewed, funkified, foxy lady, graphic, GOD in my coffee, with Allah, Ganesh, Jesus, Kali, Buddha, Christians, Durga, Hindus, Mohamed, Jesus and Mo and their friend, the cosmic bar maid, Sai Babai, Shiva, Taoists,

Zoroastrians, drinking my god ****** coffee in Hell;

growling, gnarly, happy, hard as ice, Hawaian blessed, high as a kite, hippie, hip, hipster, hip hoppy, hot as hell yet strangely sweet as heaven, jazzy, jealous, Kerouac approved, kick ***, kick my ******* *** to Tuesday, kick down the doors and take no prisoners, grown in the Vietnam highlands by exVietcong, Guatemalan grown, kiss ***, illegal in every state, imported from all over the ******* world,

insane, lovely, loony, lonely, lonesome, malodorous mean old rotten, *******, nasty, narcotic, never whatever, never meh, never cold, not approved by the CIA, not approved by DHS, not approved for human consumption by the FDA, not your daddy’s sissified corporate cup of coffee, NOT DECAFE coffee, not your Denny’s truck driver weak as brown water cup of fake coffee, not your establishment friendly cup of coffee, Not your FBI coffee, Not FAKE Herbal coffee substitute, but a real cup of coffee, not your farmer brothers dinner crap, not made in America for Americans, not safe for work, not your Starbucks average expensive overpriced ****** corporate chain cup of coffee, Not pretentious, Not White House approved, not State Department safe, nuclear, Not Patriotic, operatic, Peets’s coffee approved,

paranoid, pornographic, psychotic, pontific, politically aware, rapping, rhyming, right here, right now in River city, rock and roll up the Yazoo, sad, sadistic, sarcastic, sassy, satanic, schizoid, *******, silly, ****, smarmy, smelly, smooth, snarky, snarling, stupid, stinking, sweet as honey, sweat inducing, symphonic, Trump can’t handle this coffee, vengeful, Wagnerian, wicked, with nutmeg and cinnamon swirls, with a hint of stevia, with a hint of vanilla, with a hint of ***, with a hint of whisky, with a hint of cherry, with a hint of fruit overtones, with a hint of drugs spicing up the coffee, spendific, speeding, splendid, superior accept no substitutes, survived the Vietnam war, the Iraq war, the Afghan war, the first and Second Korean war, World War 11, the war on poverty, the war on drugs, the war on black people, the ****** revolution,

Soulful as a summer’s night in MOTOWN- James Brown approved, TOP approved, Berkeley approved, the coffee that Jimmy Hendrix drank before he died, the coffee that Elvis drank on his last breakfast, the coffee that Barry White crooned as he drank his cup of coffee – and the coffee that made the white boy play stand up and play that funky music, the coffee that made Jonny B Goode play his guitar, and made Jonny bet the devil his soul after he drank his morning cup of righteous coffee and the coffee that make the Rolling Stones Rock and Roll, the coffee your mother warned you against drinking, the coffee that Napoleon drank when he became the Emperor of all Europe, the Coffee that Beethoven drank when he wrote the Ninth symphony, the coffee that Mozart drank as he wrote his last symphony, the coffee that Lincoln drank before he was killed, the Hemingway drank before he killed himself, the coffee that started the 60’s, and ended the 20th century,

the coffee that Lenin drank as he plotted revolution, the coffee that ****** and Stalin drank with FDR as they divided up the world after World War 11, the cup that JFK drank before he was blown away, the coffee Jerry drinks while driving in cars with random celebrities and political figures, the coffee that Jon Stewart drinks before he goes on an epic take down of some foolish politico, the cup of Arabic coffee that Sadaam drank the day he was executed, the coffee that GW and Cheney drank when they bombed Baghdad, the Indian cup of coffee that Bid Laden drank before 9-11 and just before the seals blew his *** to hell, the cup of coffee that Tiger Woods drank with his mistresses while playing a 3, 000 dollar round of golf at Sandy Lane golf course in Barbados, the last legal drug that does what drugs should do, the cup of coffee that Obama drank when he became President, Vietnamese, Vienna brew, wacky, whimsical,

Whisky Tango Foxtrot, wild, weird, wonderful, WOW, Yabba dabba doo! Yada Yada yada Zappa’s favorite cup of cosmic coffee, and Zorro’s last cup of coffee, Good to the last drop rolled into one simple cup of hot coffee   
As I pound down that first cup of coffee
And fire up my synaptic nerve endings with endless supplies
Of caffeine induced neuron enhancing chemicals

I face the dawning day with trepidation and mind-numbing fear
I turn on the TV and watch the smarmy newscasters in their perfect hair

Lying through their perfect blazing white teeth
about the great success the government is having
Following the great leader's latest pronouncements

I want to scream
and shoot the TV
and run out side

Shouting
Stop the world!
I want to get
off this ******* crazy planet"

The earth does not care a whit
about my attitude problem

It merely shrugs
and moves around the Sun
In its appointed daily run

the universe whispers
in my ear
time to drink more coffee
for an attitude adjustment

And I sit down
The madness dissipating a bit
And enjoy my second cup
Of heaven and hell
In my morning cup of Joe

Coffee Revolutions



coffee cup
Coffee led to the American Revolution<span
As patriots drank coffee
To rebel against
the aristocratic English tea

Coffee started the London Stock Market
And started the gossip mills running
Every great invention
Was fed by coffee's sweet brew
sweet allure

All the great thinkers
All the great leaders
All were enslaved
to coffee's magic

I sing my praises
Of the great
glorious coffee lady

Long may she continue
To be my sweet companion

Long may coffee continue
To rule my heart
And set my heart
on fire

Ode to Coffee



Mistress of sacred love
Sacred lady of desire

You start my day
Setting my heart on fire
With your dark delicious brew 

And throughout the day
Whenever the mean old blues come by
You chase them away

With your bittersweet ambrosial brew
Every time I inhale your witch's brew

I am filled with power, light and love
And everything is al right Jack
If only for a few fleeting minutes

I love you oh coffee goddess
In all your magical forms

In the dark coffee of the dawning day
In the sizzling coffee in the mid morning break
In the afternoon siesta break
And in the post dinner desert drink

I love you my coffee mistress
You are my refuge
From this horrid world

And you are my secret lover
Never disappoint me, ever
I've never had a bad cup
Of that I can be sure

Even the dismal coffee
Served at Denny's at 3 am
Is still sweet loving coffee

Even the farmer brother's diner coffee
Excites me and gets me going
Asking for another cup of divine delight

Coffee always is there
It is always on and piping hot
With hidden dark secrets
Swirling in its liquid essence

Coffee is my last vice
My only legal vice left

Coffee does not cheat on me
It is always faithful, always true
It does not turn on its friends

And all it asks in return
Is that you come back
Cup after cup after cup

A good cup of coffee
Is a little bit of heaven
In a cup of dark liquid hell

Coffee is like a drug
But a good drug that does what is should
And never complains

It does not get grouchy
It does not hurt you

It does not make you crazy
But allows the muse to come out
And play with it

Coffee led to the American Revolution
As patriots drank coffee
To rebel against the aristocratic English tea

Coffee started the London Stock market
And started the gossips mills running

Every great invention
Was fed by coffee's sweet brew
sweet allure

All the great thinkers
All the great leaders
All were enslaved to coffee's magic

Yeah
I sing my praises
Of the great glorious coffee lady

Long may she continue
To be my sweat companion

Long may coffee continue
To rule my heart
And set my heart on fire

I love thee
Mistress coffee
And sometimes I think
You love me too

No More Coffee Blues








I love coffee
Always have

And coffee has loved me back
But lately I have soured on her
Soured on the whole coffee scene

On the harshness
of the morning brew
And the promises it makes

As I sip of its nectar
Drawn into its lair

Drinking drop by drop
As the caffeine takes over

Rewriting my every nerve
Turning me into a slave
For its perverted pleasure

Yes I love coffee
But I am afraid

Coffee is a harsh mistress
Demanding so much of me

Promising the sun
And delivering the moon

As I drink her swill
Deepening under her influence

I have the coffee blues
Can’t live without her
Can’t live with her

I try
But tea does not cut it
Not really

***** does not do it
At least not in the morning

Yoga is not enough of a buzz
Nor is the runner’s high

And I am afraid deadly afraid of *******
And speed and drugs and energy drinks

And so I remain a slave to coffee
My only legal drug

As I sip another
and fall under
her seductive spread

Once more failing my resolve
To skip coffee for that day
That morning that moment

I shall never be free of her spell
Ever and she knows it
As she beckons me
Every morning with her intoxicating smell

And I come to her
and drink her brew

And become her slave
again and again

Coffee Ya Du





must drink coffee
have every day
the morning dawns
drinking my coffee as I yawn

Morning cup of coffee 



every morning
I drink my coffee
as I contemplate 
the dawning day

watching the news anchors
blather on and on
drinking my coffee
thinking of life

and my coffee
consumes me
overwhelms me
and at time controls me

after all coffee is a drug
and I am her slave
from time to time

Drinking Coffee in the Morning



in the morning
dangerous mood
felling deranged
watching the news

trigger warning
you are ******* dude
end of the world
the end times come

I drink coffee
in the morning



Coffee *** Killed





His wife has banned my use
by my owner
says he makes too much
of a mess when he uses me

it is not his fault
I want to say
but being a coffee ***
can not speak

and so I am abandoned
thrown out into the trash

and feel very sad
for my owner

who was my friend
he liked me

he keep me going
and I did my job

providing him
with fresh coffee

doing my coffee *** duty
and now it is over

Drinking My Coffee


drinking coffee

drinking my coffee
early in the cool morning
thinking life is fine

everything will be okay
after I drink my coffee

morning coffee



morning coffee

dawning sun 











coffee MGur Poem


coffee

I pray to the coffee gods
every cup of coffee
is like a sacrament to me

I pray as I drink my coffee
that it will fill me
with wisdom

and find peace
with my coffee

as I drink
my devotion

Hot coffee


cup of coffee


take coffee with you
Hot hot coffee, makes my day -

Must drink My daily coffee, as the morning dawns - 

With out my morning coffee

in me,  I feel nothing at all -

Electrified Hot Coffee



coffee is the drug of choice
nothing else will do it
as I drink coffee
Electrified
Hot Coffee

Hot Coffee and Cake


coffee
coffee is the drug of choice
electrified circuits
as I drink coffee
coffee and cake



Coffee Patina



coffee
hot coffee
hot Hellish Heaven
Essence of coffee

.you can never really write any poetry by not covering the "heartbreak" the loss of your own "printed" words: how much different is the internet, from "real" life? just asking... since: internet banking & internet shopping... to lose a poem / pre-scriptum is not exactly the same as losing a person to mind: father's day... i cooked the dinner, i took out the trash, i wrote an invoice... i guess that's much better than leaving a card of greetings... and, come to think of it? why are we the sort of people subjugated to nostalgia, with but also "without" a history? aren't we subjugated to nostalgia and a history as a "fiction"? the beginning of the 21st century, the end of the 20th century... the 19th century germans associated themselves with a nostalgia for ancient greece, we're the only people who have an inbuilt nostalgia "safety-mechanism"... the only people in time who are nostalgic about the life surrounding their own existence slot, which doesn't have a trans-temporal dynamic... i remember times when we would be teenagers... spitting on people from car-parks on imaginary tonsures, buying *****-magazines from indian cornershops, or belgian freebies of non-insinuations, white lightning cider while sleeping over at youth centers playing snooker throughout the night... even at school: attending a catholic school with the irish east enders... uniforms, sure... a chequered shirt: blue, red, white... tag? made in canada... and if only capitalism worked as it once did, made in canada? lifetime of a shirt? 20 years... now? made in china... not exactly real cotton, is it? 2 years... before ironing the shirt *****... once upon in gants hill, st. valentine's park, and the pub, recently closed, decent karaoke... in the park? golf, basketball, rowing boats in the large ponds... when the jews were there... gants hill roundabout... the hanukkah torches... jews scuttling wearing trainers come rosh hashanah: jews can't wear leather on rosh hashanah (judgement day)... shy like rats... when the jews were there (gants hill, ilford)... the park looked great... tennis courts... now, when neo-Bangladesh moved in? ****** place. what else do i remember from my original pre-scriptum that i lost? oh, that once time in gants hill... walking into a kosher bakery with ****** knuckles, having tested them on a canvas of a brick wall, buying some dough-fused-sweets? with the girl selling the sweets bewildered by fear? i like the look of fear in people when tested by uncertainty, and bleeding knuckles? later? climbing over the park fence, taking a **** while squatting in the darkened palace of the park, walking into a brothel, having my wallet stolen, not reacting in what would have been justified... high school... we wore uniforms... so no high school h'american culture trap / culture... school uniforms are the best idea, there's no chance to "shine" in telling apart the rich kids from the poor kids... there's only the standard... walking to a supermarket, past a thai surprise... sports bra, short hair... walking back... she's still there pretending to talk on her mobile to someone... you take her home with a few beers... play her some jazz... take her into the garden, the moon is a beauty... you **** her... hand in her underwear and you're still gambling... before the emergence of the nag hammadi library and the whole androgynous vogue, the thai were already readied with the lady-boys... when i reached in and found nothing but oyster... would i have stopped finding a wink-wink slouching worm? slap a trans in the face? no, not really... a thai surprise is, a thai surprise... i would have considered doing my first ****... "lucky" for me she was a she... a girl... ****** her in the garden under the moonlight... gave her my hoodie, which she drowned in... finally... the level of interaction where the female is not a mantis, i.e. a female larger than the male... she drowned into my hoodie as i walked her home... i like the familiarity with the mammalian, not resorting to insect superiority of females... these days... i find that males are strictly mammalian... while females? they are borrowing insect-esque ontologies... well, darwinism allowed the time-frame... males are mammals... females are insects, behaviour-wise... two time frame i do not appreciate the english for... darwinism is prime.... cultural-marxism my ***... what about cultural-darwinism?! no?! that doesn't exist?! cultural-darwinism is as real as cultural-marxism, and, in the former sense? it really does belong to the conservative right-wing politico spectrum! might i add? isn't psychology merely pop philosophy? i find psychology riddled with rubric cohesion, it's all oh so "self"-evident! i abhor psychologists... these gypsy philosophers... medicine-men with no pharmacological shadow of power... to prescribe drugs... arguments, persuasions, but no dialectics... psychology will forever be, for me, a philosophy primer, short-cut... pop philosophy... psychologists can treat people who have never read a philosophy book... r. d. laing... i remember this one instace... me and a fwend of mine travelled into central london, went into a bookshop shy of trafalgar sq., i spotted an edition of: the scarlet and the black by stendhal... i told him: i will trade you linkin park's debut album, if you buy me this... the transaction was made... the one book i read after seeing a film adaptation starring rachel (rakhel) weisz and ewan mcgregor... ra-kh-el: not ray-chel... we used to be humans once... at high school getting bullied back... putting pins on chairs once we got up, sitting on them... playing bulldog in primary school, slap-ball, tag, playing cards at lunchtime... 16 fatty boy... one summer in poland, comes back aged 17... the irish girls take an interest while eating a pomegranate... what was the success of your diet? don't go to the gym... excess skin, an aesthetic surgeon is not what you need... there are only two ways to lose weight... either via swimming or by cycling... cycling is the best... lose weight by also toning your body... gym is a bad idea... by going to the gym you are straining exclusive parts of your body, either the torso, your hands, etc., jogging? unless on soft ground, bad idea on concrete, arthritis... cycling or swimming... lose weight... tone at the same time, the skin is allowed the required time to adapt to shrink, and forget what propped it up in plump form with all that excess flab... ugh... i hated being attractive to the opposite ***, i never used it to my advantage! imagine... an irish lad comes up to me, on behalf of some girl while i'm donning a french braid: you look just like johnny depp in blow, impersonating george jung... 14 year old girls walk up to you asking what shampoo you're using... herbal essences... i never used my looks... *******... now i'm a heavy drinker... so much for looks... first girlfriend? a fwend had to call me telling me she called him that she felt butterflies when i dropped her at the train platform after a day's worth of dating: tate modern, edward hopper exhibitions, cinema: troy, starring rose byrne (briseis) - honestly, a man can go crazy over curly hair... and then a restaurant date... that **** just flew over my head... i wouldn't have noticed... honestly though... i missed the whole h'american cultural excavation genesis in high school... catholic... uniforms... jesuit army-esque formation... now, i'm ageing... i'm starting to find the company of cats to be: clingy... my shadow included... i once thought that dogs were needy... i'm starting to think that cats are worse, esp. the maine **** breed... "lonely" or "loneliness" doesn't really resonate with me, esp. when thinking something "feels" like a variation of claustrophobia: hence i write... without a dialectic in place, ever since plato wrote his dialogues... what is philosophy, primarily? isn't it an off-shoot of "claustrophobia"? we write because we are seeking escape from congested thinking, a variation of "claustrophobia"... now imagine a schizoid character... having to focus on an imaginary dialectic, actually... having dialectics enforced on him, with no clarifying exodus to posit a gensis with! now, a clingy dog i could understand, given the overpowering status of the leash... but a clingy cat, when there's no leash involved?! shoom! right over my head... gone, somewhere into the distance!

what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions hype...
and didn't?
and instead took to patience?
it's free...
   where once,
a game would cost you 20 quid,
and a month's worth
of narrative,
back then, when games
resembled books,
when the gaming industry
was heavily influenced
by literature...
and now?
   the game's free...
sure...
it's "unfair", it's biased...
when you don't engage
in imported gambling
of succumbing to what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions...
       and didn't have the chance...
microtransactions are like
the old school cheat hacks...
but not quiet, but somehow quasi-,
       a modern microtransactions,
would be a cheat magazine
thorough-through
a game like final fantasy VII...
you have homework,
but you still want to complete the game...
modern games...
modern games...
there's an "end gole"?
  what modern game is worth
"completing"?
    
   again: tron, ready player one,
back to the future...
star wars just became dead
to me...
   sick people will plague hard-working
people, with a quasi-gambling
addiction,
needing to make microtransactions...
and they will,
my father was plagued by
an impostor, claiming to be a
tax office official:
and what if, that person had
an authentic position at the tax office?!

when gaming was for gamers,
the games were bought...
there was a narrative...
but now... now games don't have a narrative...
why would they?!
   who the hell plays games for
the narrative these days?
i know that on the crapper,
i need a game that allows me
to experience live-stream
interaction with non-bots...

       and these old gamers,
who still invest their money
in literature-esque-games?
so i was the sad one,
investing in vinyl?
   aren't the classic ******* gamers
just as bad,
investing in prepackaged
narrative gaming
experiences?
             a game with a narrative...
yeah... me buying vinyl
is: b'ah b'ah bad...
       what sort of game is alive and well...
when there isn't a crowd pushback
for the currency of microtransaction?

the narrative is time,
   the longer you endure the inadequacy...
the more you realise:
you're basically playing
the same game,
but in your scenario:
it's free...
   in some other ******'s scenario:
it cost him 70 hundred quid...

personally?
   i love this microtransaction dynamic...
concerning the people who
do not engage with it...
it's the perfect antithesis
   of what ruined the music industry
with genesis: napster...

you really are, playing the ultimate
game,
time...
         the one sort of commodity
that games,
without a clear narrative construct,
"forgot" to mention in terms
of them being exploited...
to their full capacity
of the one "commodity"
they "forgot", or rather,
couldn't "sell"...

              a tenchu PS1 game could
have lasted me a month...
now? a free game,
like war robots...
with absolutely no NPC?
hell... i'll be 90 and still be playing it;

what else? applause!

.i'm "sorry"... in a muslim society i'd be asked to only read one book, by a camel jockey by the name of muhammad, one camel jockey... 72 virgni experienced, that's worth celebration? you ever 2 walk into about 9 prostitutes giving you the "eye"?! 72 rottweilers: that would be fun! you know why i stopped liking western societies? they started to become very much islamic... in islam you have one man, and his one book: bibliothekvoneinbuch... the mantra speaks: i am expected to angst diese mann... what hope if western society? they also have their: einvereinheitlichendbuch... what is the quran to neunzehn-achtzig-vier?! weltlichblaupausen: secular blueprints... 1984... another ******* mantra... akin to the quran... secular: weltlichblödsinn! how many books does it take to create an islamic, or a western secular society? apparently! the ratio 1 / 1 (one to one)... the quran / 1984... *******... i'm not even bothered by the politico youtube commentators being censored... they only read one secular book... i don't like the sort of minds associated with only one book, these pretend not to be, but being, pseudo-muslims... wow! what worth of choice! either the quran, or 1984! spaghetti tangled junkies can have their way... sorry... what speech is there to be worth defending? i don't like either the quran, or the secular bible of 1984... zombies... either side of the "argument"...  i honestly hate the sort of people that only allow themselves 1984 commentary... one culturally relevant book they ever read, and it seems: the only book they ever read: or will read... (red / reed)... so it seems... the world pivots on only three books being digested by the general public... the bible, the quran, 1984... i've read too many books to have to succumb to this "cool" secular narrative of modern prophesy.. let's see english, a language, at its most flamboyant! british grenadiers' fife & drum... the sort of english not ready to invite immigrants! 1984 commentator zombies... **** me... **** unius libri... hardly an islamic quote, e when attributed to st. thomas aquinas... oh i'm shaking at the knees! as far as i am concerned muhammad is rolling in his grave when the arabs "discovered" oil... as is Khadija, rolling in her grave, scolding muhammad... i should attain the **** unius libri fear... but then i find... religion... predated the scientific concept of cloning... muslims were cloned, cognitively... obviously not physically... antithesis of dialectics... cloned... mind-bribes... i should fear a man with only one book, esp. if he wrote it himself... but then again, i fear that sort of man for all the wrong reasons... such company... eh... when looking up to someone akin to king ecgberht... yeah... i fear a man with only one book... what boring company they must have and must be.

completely: unpalatable...
   there's funny,
there's a punchline...
but then...
       "****" just becomes annoying...
i have learned that
the anglo-ßaß sense of humour
is fine...
          until it becomes excessive...
then...
well...
        then it becomes annoying...
really... annoying...
not, akin to, something,
i'd welcome to match:
host-it
    (samnaðr-den)
          ᛋᚨᛗᚾᚨᚦᚱ ᛞᛖᚾ
to account for a selb
                      (self)...

or
           minn thungr hjarta
            ᛗᛁᚾᚾ ᚦᚢᚾᚷᚱ ᚻᛅᚨᚱᛏᚨ
                     (my ... heart)...

i'm not english, but i do understand
extending the notion
of black humour...
up to, and including the point
of cutting-off
this strain of wit,
of intelligence
playing baron of status...
for the little man of
ridicule,
            i don't like overtly
intelligent comedy,
but the anglo-ßaß have pushed
have pushed the wrong buttons,
at the right time,
english comedy cannot achieve
a rekindled status
of being export material,
it has, devolved,
into a geographic idiosyncrasy...
i live in england,
and even i,
am not in on the "insider's"
take on a joke...

                    if i don't understand it,
you won't understand it...
           it's funny when it's plain
dumb, of slacking the intelligence
quotient,
  but not when its plain,
outright cipher logistics...
        
surely the english should be paying
less attention to me,
and more to...
those 300 or so illegal schools
set up by Pakistani muslims,
yes, no, maybe?

                     there's funny funny...
there's sort of funny...
and there's funny...
but i don't want to think too much
about it, either being,
or not being funny...
   laughter like tears is
highly impulsive,
   subsequently highly
spontanoeus, and...
                          uncontrollable...

black humour is one thing,
but telling jokes
to the point where you reach
a per se crucible?
and the jokes are so,
so, so "intelligent" that they become
"unfathomable"?
i think that's the time you take
a break from being "comedy arbiters"...

oh... unless this is...
where you let me peer into
the "antibiotic" /
  "xenophobic" reactionary
tactic?
  no wonder i'm not
"in" on the "in-joke" of
the demographic!
     **** me!
              of course i'm not
supposed to get it!
  it's not funny to me,
simply because the in-group
mentality is so sophisticated
that i would never be
in on the "in-group" giggles!

         good! good!
at least thanks to this,
we will not be seeing
much of comedy, "comedy"
being exported outside of england
akin to monty python!
good!

           it's good that the crown
of comedy was taken off the head
of the english...
and given to someone else...
i liked "intelligent" comedy
up to a point...
   then "too much" thinking
became involved...
and i lost both the plot and a sense
for giggles...

     point being,
what was the best joke i ever heard?
only last night...
i was unable to think...
but i laughed...
     it wasn't exactly
the aeons of the sea before me...
it was the void in my mind
that was the joke...
         an existence...
with a ******'s worth of
"thought": albeit bound to:
not thinking...

that's the best joke
i've ever heard,
  hence my painting of
the hebrew definite article,
i.e.:
                         HA,

e.g. ha-stanley:  
                              the-satan.

*and why wouldn't the persians
rebel against the orthodoxy driven
camel-jockeys?
the persians would bow before
the arabs?!
                   really?!
fly a ******* kite, eat a mango...
*******
   donning a glove filled
with ice-cubes...
     i gather, that, islam,
was, the monotheism,
that found itself,
hopeful, to be immune to
a schism...
       and what's so true about islam
if it has succumbed
to the ontological reality
of all religions, except judaism,
namely, a schism?
      islam is lucky though...
unlike christianity,
with its late initial schism...
then the  
polytheistic-esque schism
past the orthodox / catholic /
protestant "debate"....
                 islam was lucky...
only one schism...
persians not happy being ruled
by camel jockey arabs...
   so... is it a "true" religion?
oh sure, sure...
i'd convert...
      but there was a schism in islam...
so it's no longer a "true" religion,
is it?
          why would it be?
the religion encountered a schism...
what if, and if i would...
i would... i would convert
to the shia branch of islam...
i wouldn't convert
to the sunni faction...
        what then?!

            true as in unifying as in:
rebel iran?!
  oops!
                   to hell with this world...
the bible, the quran,
the secular bible known as 1984...
if there's no afterlife...
well...
          i'm already bored, stiff, dead,
whatever comes next...
m'eh...
                whatever comes comes
and that's just another whatever
with no justification
or a fixation of a consequential
purpose.

and i remember going out in london,
seeking bloc party, and a fan-b -
or *****... or sycophancy in practice...
snogging a finnish girl
who did the shadow work for the white
stripes, donning a eisernes kreuz
t-shirt, feeling like: well...
this could work... but it didn't...
ended up in upper-side of what was,
what is, what if of london...
cradling an ex-girlfriend on a bean
bag,
while our hosts did *******
below us...
     and i can only remedy myself,
now, with the memory,
  as vivid as a holocaust denier...
    shaking...
              petrified shaking,
but wholly imbedded by a trust...
              she wasn't something akin
to a size-difference fetish of
   a reverted teddy-bear / pillow,
in my arms...
   standing an astouding 6ft...
                        indian and trans-irish
roots...
                 (one antidote to identity
politico? **** it... spice it up
with terms like afro-saxons)...
                               her shaking...

semi-epileptic,
   but what a sensation, lodged into
a mind that has become purely
memoria cameo theatre...
what am i getting at?

ah!

    the slack boys get playing video games...
hell, i play video games while taking
a ****, on the throne of thrones,
but when i'm mobile?
closed eyes, sitting on a folded leg
on a window-sill,
   eyes, closed, ears armed with
a thumping sound akin to static-x,
"watching" a moo-v...
                did i eat any beef before
the mad cow disease broke down
the blind train of journalism?
    so... i have aspects of a mad cow
disease in me?!
             be and only be:
a relentless *******...

  but boys getting the slack for their
cognitive geography...
            
     but...

    a girl obsessing disney movies,
with her critique?
     apparently the world of boys
isn't colourful enough,
   or: too grey...
              well... we have the noir range...
but before that blossoms,
it's taken down, and has a psychiatric
institution impose its...

wait... **** addiction?
   ever try to alleviate that sort of addiction
by, actually buying a ***** mag.,
from a shop, and not even blushing?
there are alternatives to psychiatry -
i think the slur comes along
the rubric of:            wh     o      r        e:
oh... that fading french hark
within the straitjacket of for...

               huh? not a fork...
               boys are stupid for playing
video games,
  but girls are a o.k. doing disney cartoon
critiques...
    or that story of assorting a pyramid
but not an extending rectangle hierarchy...
        
boys stop playing video games,
girls stop having a fetish for idealistic
cartoons...
                  fair enough?

oh i'm ******...
                   because how can you
grind the one, but not observe the other?
cartoon movies
are video games what
girl is to boy:
                    replica -
                                counter-mimic.

yet... i can still only remember her
shaking body, left, in the *****
of my embrace...
        like i might love a ***** star...
with... the coincidence of:
not allowing a knowledge of
a past...

               it's not that ignorance
is bliss... certain types of ignorance...
simply do not hurt...

                and we woke up in the top
floor (there were only two to begin with)
of the werehouse,
   and with the sunrise, we parted...

she having children, i having the burden
of too many poems -
             the irrational reality of
inverted claustrophobia continually
****** a blank white pixel space
         with my maggoty wordings...
                  
a ***** addiction?
1. go into a shop and buy a mag.
2. watch videos of girls *******
3. watch videos of girls
     giving critique of YA novels
4. **** a lemon in the morning
   after a night of drinking?
5. consider the implanted
  impetus within the confines
of a circumcision?

to willingly listen to some russian punk...
they call themselves:
Sierpień - well... Sierpien -
нь is floating around somewhere -
august... август....
perhaps the ****** word "rhymes"
with sierp (i młot) - sickle and hammer...
pień? trunk - stump of wood...
etymological fascination...
august where no emperor augustus
ever stood... unless a Kaцпer...
sier(p) - sickle
(p)ień - stump of a freshly cut tree:
or trunk...
hence the birth of a name
of a month: harvest the trees...
and we are talking about a russian
post-punk goth-punk band...
almost more congested and less
atmospheric the cure...
old kaц the hangover comes in and
says something with a mirror
and fog...
but i'm sure... living under the much
despised (ras)Putin regime would
never give you such music...
look at the people of the...
look at the free peoples of the western /
hinterlands!
no... thank god the view count is only...
what? 3,880 views...
it's an oyster affair...
Sierpien - Cмeрдит дo caмых звeзд (2016)...
people can still produce art of this sort?
is a (ras)Putin required? really?
democracy per se...
power-struggles from among
the populace...
ever hear the petitions of schizophrenics
in the western lands?
a holy grail status for some...
the "nuanced" *****...
or bilingual...
but this album current saved me from
a despair... a friday night is happening
somewhere... and i'm more than happy
to not be there...
i don't even know what's popular
in terms of music in the hinterlands...
the bellybutton of the world: London...
doesn't exactly spew out pointers
to digest what's new and pop with
the crowd...
how long did it take me to hear about
psy's gangnam style?
a good half a year... but then it was already
playing on repeat...
perhaps not in a way that...
once upon a time... Microsoft wanted
to use R.EM.'s it's the end of the world
(and i'm feeling fine) for an advert...
and R.E.M. refused...
i can't exactly see any use of an advert...
but for the past decade...
perhaps... the outliers of dubstep:
distance, vex'd... burial...
10 years have passed and i don't even
know what music people listen to...
like i said... i'm listening to something...
only about 4K people also listen...
notably in Russia...
i'll translate...
śmierdzić do samych zwezd... gwiazd...
smerdit do samych zwezd...
10 or so years later i'm at this point...
there's no need to invoke Ms. Cмeрц
but it almost never figured for me...
ц somehow borrows from щ...
that's of course ч is related to ш...
to stink of **** up to the stars...
that's how the album name,
"sort-of" translates itself...
in the past 10 years...
this is probably the sort of music i should
be listening to...
i would somehow abhor myself
being the fully integrated western mongrel...
allowing my soul to die and
this language to dictate the fashionista
dictums "from above"... like a good puppy...
origins mostly focusing on...
Lebanon... the old Raj...
i honestly did think that: the de factor default
implication of the word: integration was
to speak the language...
this is not the great h'america where
you'd call it an alliance to a patriotism...
this is england... where people are not
exactly responsive to the word patriotinism...
and whenever it is used...
it's the ugly word nationalism...
so... this is not an extension of thinking
that can be "accomplished" akin to somewhere
in h'america...
this is england talking to itself in me...
or rather... me... looking at england and trying
to find the sort of footing for a tango...
born 4 hours shy of warsaw doesn't help,
either...
still... as names go...
no one was a cooler name for their capital...
come on... war-saw...
beats washington d.c. -
but... loon'don... that's mighty close...
all the democratic arguments aside...
i'm listening to these political commentators...
and i'm wondering...
what sort of music are they listening to?
i'm still looking for a playlist
i inherited that included bands like...
it's dire to even begin to name them...
the best i found are still...
demdyke stare... and that's not really
being pretentious... vomito *****...
but "once upon a time" music could make
a man stay up into the stillness of the night,
far beyond the night,
he might have sometimes glimpsed
a new unfolding as he would go to bed
from the graveyard shift with
some neglected words being seized...
i've just skimmed through u.k. top 40 chart...
i can't relate...
i can understand just having the vote...
but to have the vote...
and be left... in this barrage of...
i understand that man is a political animal
and somehow social...
but a vote is enough...
no wonder good culture hasn't "happened"
in the past 10 years...
i don't like being informed of culture
via the prism of: it's all or not political...
i don't like being
polarised i don't like being politicised...
all i have is one vote...
and i'm nearing 34 and seeing how...
since i haven't already used it...
it's pretty much a redundant affair...
as long as the status quo is there...
as long as there's a status quo...
and there's the shady bureaucracy cushioning...
but how can one expect to find
a tartar stake of sustenance...
when everything resembles an english
sunday roast: with the beef being over-cooked
over, way over well-done?
the meat is butchered twice...
once as the cow... second time as a piece of roast!
i'm not fond of criticism...
bad... i know as a foreigner but also as
a citizen... only the pakistani grooming gangs
are sacred cows in this, this whittle english...
past allegience to soviet russia?
because, what? russian post-punk takes
my fancy...
one! one benefit of a doubt...
justin bieber's jazzy interlude in:
love yourself... and that's it...
i decided for the: leave me alone button...
and for all the vitality of the western ways
i'm left either the window-licker prized oscar
nominee or some lethargic melancholy prone:
a decade on and a decade without
the better part of me...
i somehow own about 10 pairs of shoes
but every time i only walk in single pair...
until they are worn,
until i can almost imitate:
no borrow metaphor from the african
continent... my second mother siberia...
and the indo-europeans and whatever tag!
tag it necessary! caucasian and la la land...
this was political... before it even started...
even whether there was a demand for my vote...
the tide came, the tide went,
i wasn't given so much as a sniff of civil rights...
my civil rights had to be political rights:
in a redundant format best described:
as a vote... opinions first, vote later...
by then the vote is already a confirmation
of how many more ***** will sink
to this level of: humpty-dumpty...
a culture can thrive when power is clarified...
there's no culture when the only
despotism is the finding the lost
in the labyrinth of bureaucracy...
since i base my focus via Kant... yes...
these are idealistic words...
because idealism is - the already focused on
status quo... and again...
the status quo... perhaps even stasis qua!
- but i'm not listening to current music...
from a "certain" place that once could
salvage the rest of the world of bodies
with its beacon of soul...
not "current" as in: where meat is more mince
than steak...
it's all fine and dandy...
to have the provisions at your disposal...
but you can't expect an annual supply of carrots...
or meat... to feed the mouth that neither
opens, nor bites, nor chews,
nor swollows, not ******* saliva
for the premature process of digestion...
you can't expect this most perfect supply & demand...
something has to be missing for
the soul to have... the realism of the fact
i am bound to a robotic / unconscious body...
what conscious decision do i have...
over the already calibrated heart?
the delusion that the brain... is somehow...
freed from what?
psychological metaphysics?!
i have an automated digestive system...
and an automated ****...
i don't exactly know when i'm going to ****...
but i do **** - and with so much pleasure so...
that i would forgo all homosexual exfoliations
for the mere pleasure of...
easing a **** out of that ******* bang hole...
than allowing a vaselined cockrel in...
quiet a disgust pecker of high ambitions...
when it comes to enjoying
massaging the prostate muscle when sitting
on the throne of thrones...
i am trapped in an automated body!
the only aspect of me agreeing to evolutionary
biology is to invoke the soul...
as something ex "nihil" in coprus...
from "nothing" in body (intact)...
hello intellectual safari of the thesaurus
and the synonym chasers...
from under the Iron Curtain...
once more... thrown under the Silicon Curtain...
but there is something in me that
allows me to escape the already well oiled,
this well calibrated body... shy of being
merely treated as baggage...
there's something that allows me to restrict...
when i will **** out a full bladder...
from time to time...
but this is still oh so mechanical...
the fickle nature of man's own self interests:
the only mirror i could find
to compensate the complexity
of deus ex machina...
i'll last 10 minutes with a swollen bladder...
until i give way...
that's when i know that i am rebelling
against the mechanical nature of this body...
- nonetheless the conversation run down
a different route...
i want to be, as i once was...
politically starved... give me the vote and lace me
with civic duties... minding culture...
don't give me this politico journo-*******...
this spare straitjacket of "opinions"...
opinions that do not hone in on a dialectic...
but a dichotomy...
while under (ras)Putin there was a resurgence
of post-punk... brutalism debauchery...
in the vest of the west...
do i really have to give gil scott heron over?
see? what power do i have?
i have.... a chance to glimpse how a culture
can thrive... musically...
no... oh no! no Vlad... you're not getting off
that easy...
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture...
tell me... as a cat might look you in the eyes...
and cats do... when you find it uncomfortable
to lie... a cat will look you in the eyes
when it knows the agony of you telling
the truth... too frequently...
now... tell me...
of the 1812 Overture...
how close was Tchaikovsky teasing...
plagiarising... la marseillaise?
oh i think: this close ||.
i still don't know: listening to classical music...
is supposed to make people,
"somehow" smart?!
- just like Beethoven hides / licks /
alludes to the crescendo of
ode an die freude that is to come in the 9th symphony...
lots of crashing plates and banging
templates of cooking vessels in between...
a crescendo is almost like...
but not quiet... no... it's never exactly a chorus...
but Ode an die Freude is revealed
in a subtle way somewhere in the vicinity
of the genesis of the 9th...
i'll ******* duel over this remark though...
if it takes blunt knifes and spoons...
so be it...
negate: Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture does
not allude to La Marseillaise!
*****, test me! i swear to god -
you tell me this russian кaцaп is not alluding to?
what sort of culture are to speak of,
as citizen... if we have to be...
worthwhile less the already invalid vote...
and more the sway-ghost-vote of...
ditto-heads and less and less...
i remember when i would start a conversation
with girls on the basis of: so...
what music are you into?
has... the don mclean prophesy come true?!
the only music is the democratic opera
of the inability to hush competing interests
of the less than homogenous, cerebral hive?!
wow! believe me when i state:
i would truly rather shun my state of being:
stunned!
to me... people have forlorn to "worry"
about petty, ahem... "petty" cultural worries...
this political transfusion, verbiage,
look... a broken arm of a word that used
to resemble pref-                 ending in
the loose limb that ends with 9...
scary language... informal language...
not exactly the english standard: terse /
whimsical... "way-hey-hey-ha-witty"...
hardly anecdotal: mein herr kapitan!
oh but this is certainly a cultural desert...
i'm still doing my best to shake off the 20th century...
what's it called... what's it called...
you are... ah! 20th century inheritence...
not that i'm by any measure a man
of the 20th century...
come the year 2000 i was still a mid-way
between child and man...
2020... 34... i am a 21st century man...
as i also have circa 10K of student debt to pay off...
but this is england...
a chemistry degree gets you nowhere...
i always fancied the Leibniz route...
a garbage man... perhaps "the librarian"...
the street-cleaner...
10K worth of pounds of debt...
paid? when one earns over 15K per annum...
bless ol' england... this debt will be written off
after 30 years...
i really wanted to find a job akin to being
the street-cleaner...
i wouldn't even mind... seeing as how i could
come home and write a rhythm
of a crooked guitar... perhaps doing some work
in the industrial sector...
the scottish widows' h.q. roof, near st. paul's?
i did that... well... part of the team...
industrial scale roofing...
whatever... this is not going to become
"yet another" autobiographical sketch...
a degree in chemistry led me nowhere...
some lucky fist-first-think-fewest landed
their english B.A.s and:
"the authorities" would never let them starve
having... their poo'ems better read...
oh i wish i could think without having
itchy fingertips and what words i want
to say when i however have to say the mundane
formality of the everyday...
i'm the sort of jack spicer *******...
that i cannot work with this lexicon beside
what's always greeting me with a welcome return
of surd applause...
i can't speak the everyday language
of the everyday -
even my punctuation is suspicious -
an *****-nilly I.R.A. bad device...
i can hold the hounds of bark, leash, girdle and muzzle
until they finally find the dog...
but not until i have feasted upon
the blank canvas that will never see any colour...
but this x-ray of hiding faint hues
working in the subtle grey-of-no-grey area
that comes with these words, these bones...
i have to drink...
to find these words... and an echo prior
to the cave... this being the cave after i heard
the echo... even among drunks i couldn't
speak such words, such sentences...
under them the drunks cower...
and... this is the better part of a friday night...
i best exclude myself to this page
of rummaging... because even if i drink...
i wouldn't find a conversation among the drunks
to compliment this! to compliment this
with an immediacy of a dialogue -
a shared experience...
better i write this... and wait for a delay...
better i wait for a delayed response...
in the quantum sense of:
when observed a wave... when not observed...
a particle.
science as this cohesive orthodox litany of
dogmas to undermine religion...
science is more vogue than religious dogmatism...
science is modern...
it will only and has only succumbed
to modern finicky... vogue... science is...
hardly a... blind sighted hive brain-drain focus
of the replicas and clone surds nodding...
this language... would never be spoken among
the drunks...
i hardly think it would or even does:
deserve a stage... perhaps only if i wore face paint...
if i were truly an entertainer...
but these words deserve more than a stage...
they deserve an: umbratempus...
zeitshatten... a time-shadow...
cień czasu... (время тень)..
regurgitate something to me, akin to:
T4T (oliver baez bendorf)...

see! i knew нь was floating around...
it comes... back... full circle.

.while some people hijack planes and fly them into the anti-thesis of the Jenga game, others hijack things more... metaphysical... like language... oh... over 20 years in England... there was that French girl, the Australian girl, the Spanish girl, the Bulgarian, the African lass, the Russian... and count my stars lucky.... no English girl.

in terms of how much ****- is
a racial slur...
is it the syllable count?
should i ask an Afghan?
****... pure laziness...
      so not the prefix...
how about the suffix,
i.e. -stani? Stanley...
                 auburn Stanley...
never mind,
apparently nothing short of
a sense of humor outside
being on the receiving end
of: identifiable vermin...

oh, right...
identity politics...

         i'm a mongrel,
   a hybrid...
                         really...
i don't exactly know what this
tongue is doing in
this body...

     inorganic English...

acquired -
  psyche mongrel...
to your suspicion of half caste;

because i was going to
feel obliged to feel subordinate
to a former colonial
       subject on the basis
that... what?
what, exactly?

RAF RAF RAF...
    last time i checked.

Have you ever been to Nairobi?
What did you see there?
Buildings, people and vehicles?
Uhmmm! Let me share with you my case
Hence I was there yesterday,
And I saw wonders of life;
Jubilant politicians clashing for tyranny,
At the Nairobi parliament,
Making anti-human laws,
Under faked canopy of de-terrorization,
With no tincture of surrender to open truth,
That; in juvenile states like Kenya,
Corruption is a minefield of terrorism,
Corrupt management of state organs;
The policemen and state spies,
Hired on full back-up of corruption,
Gives leeway to thriving of terrorism,
As a security agent hired nepotistic-ally,
Will never fight terrorism with a knack,
Leave police work to policemen with passion,
Not to your kinsmen and loyalists in politics,


I saw jubilant politicians high on nerves,
Excited like a swine on ****** heat,
Or they were possessed by the evil spirit,
Or crushed by the African cult of dictatorship,
Where humanity derives pleasure from political pains,
Scornfully viewing humane governance,
As dictatorship will fortunately give a bloom,
Of swift doors and windows of corruption,
Primitive accumulation of filthy wealth,
And apotheosification of the worthless self,
Into a lull of blind self-made god-ship

I saw a jubilant politician going pugnacious,
Forcefully restoring dark days of Toroitich arap Moi,
Making a law which a monkey cannot make,
Hitting a fellow politicians,
With all might and knack of a devil,
Shredding into laces the trouser of a colleague,
Exposing red lingerie of the fellow colleague,
Partially exposing the tools of child making,
Only to the positive chagrin of us all,
On discovery of the circumcised *****,

I saw jubilant dictator-maniac politicians,
Passing a law of shooting to death,
Him the police feels may be a terrorist,
Or detain at pleasure, without trial
Him that looks ugly like a terrorist,
A suspect is a snake to be crushed the head on sight,
But not all snakes are poisonous Mr. Politico-Jubilant,
Some are ornamental and others poisonously harmless,
Even snakes need fair trial,
Just like suspect of genocide,
Before the international criminal court,
Before a blow of hammer crushes their heads,
Let me ask you my dear reader,
A foolish question as usual;
What are snakes to the jubilant politics of Nairobi?
A political non loyalist who perhaps can chide,
The powers that be from their gusto of power,

I saw jubilant politicians in full gear of idiosyncrancies,
Passing the law to gag friends of the poor,
The NGO’s; the poor man’s uni-source of hope,
They have been relieving the poor man of Kenya,
From horrendous traditions of   epidemics,
In Turkana, Budalangi and marginalized Mandera,
Helping men and women of these areas to be free,
From tyranny of perennially missing basic needs,
This freedom is now thwarted,
Lest it gives these poor men right of speech,
Thwarted artfully in the **** of NGO’S,
Through false label of the time,
That they play *** with terrorist groups,
What a big a lie?

By
Alexander Khamala  Opicho,
Eldoret,Kenya

Political system
Bred off disagreement
And those instigating change
Only do so out of hatred
People just regurgitate
Networked Ignorance
Align yourself
With the Great Jumbo
Or the all Knowing ***  
What a circus act

trudging from lombard
pawned ring
to pay back long debt

Esta es mi vida.

wonderful friend sent a letter:
dont send me poems
I dont love poetry

Caminando por la calles.

On the streets Lanterns
blinding  eyes
while I need darkness

Yo tener enemigos en todos el mundo

letter from court
to pay penalty 1200 euro
for spraying graffities in Friedrichshain


Esta mi vida es afuera un campos de batalla.


i am hungry
I pick from some wheelchair near entrance of supermarket
one banan
towards me run and attacks me a huge drunkard
beat out from my hands banan
slaps in brow
and I fall on snowed pavement
feel no pains
he stays over me and yell: Sie klaute banane, Nutte!!
I low whisper: yourself schweine backe..
jump from spot and imaginary bite the **** of his imaginary gun

El mundo es maravilloso

I possess no more a laptop
i spilled wine on it
being taken aback of one scene of pure *******
of one lovely  guest in my flat
how now to write manifesting defending verses?

Politico de mierda que gobierna el pais.

Internet shop
whole night over
beneath of buzzing of casino machines
I sit and write the letter to imaginary dad
to imaginary lovely mom
to sweet sister or brother
well,  I have nobody of them
though would I be orphan
I guess my existence were not so dismal

Yo tengo el mi fierro por disparar.

I writing email to american situationist
his nickname is rasputin
I saying him, that I am situationist
and I am recently became persona non-grata
and I better die than
land in loony-bin
need your aid.
he answers with a link about  a war in Irak
my solar plexus clenchs tight

Puta yo no necesita usted!

Esta mi maniera,
Caminando por la calles,
Listo para morir,
Esta mi vida es terminada.

*

Friedrichshain- urban district in Berlin
Sie klaute banane, Nutte!- she stole a banan, *****!(german)
schweine backe- pig's **** (german)

(thank you Alessandro P. for lesson in spanish)

Esta es mi vida.    This is my life.
Caminando por la calles.  Walk on the streets
Yo tener enemigos en todos el mundo.I have enemies allover the world
Esta mi vida es afuera un campos de batalla.This is my life outside for the battlefield    
    
El mundo es maravilloso   The world is beautiful
Politico de mierda que gobierna el pais. Politic in this land is merde
Yo tengo el mi fierro por disparar. I have my iron for shooting
Puta yo no necesita usted.  *****, I dont need you


Esta mi maniera,
Caminando por la calles,
Listo para morir,
Esta mi vida es terminada:


this is my attitude
walking through the streets
to search for death
my life is finished

i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th

once rastafarianism entered language ploys with wittgenstein's language games in mind it misplaced pronouns, existentialists just dittoed the signifying moral singular with the un-signifying immoral plural; like i was partly holocaust bound, ha ha (example); cherub and a scotch bonnet of my opinion tingling a contest of: chilli v. pepper v. horseradish. let's just say i'm a plasterer rather than i.q. me as a drinker. slaps in chequers on a bench to sober up momentarily.*

trust the saxon, trust the saxon to speak worse german
than the bavarian, and entrust german to the turk
above the saxon; trust the audacious saxon to leave the alphabet's
diacritic out, to spell like a roman would, from the celtic netherlands of gloom
in scotch egg on a couch, the potato of them all,
trust them with audacity and vocabulary  to conquer the world:  
relieving us norse with ****** never mind
the geese of brazil; exact roman care for all dwindles and fibrous excesses,
conquer the world what have you,
at least you have black skin and opera sunsets
while i have white skin and grey clots of 7pm in september,
or as the censors announced:
rather my vanity than the proof of god,
rather me than you in the minotaur's prison of winding zigzag vocabulary;
you're left politico correct i have three thousand
longboats waiting, you're right i have the same number
awaiting wind and sail. trust the saxons among bavarians to do the following:
but you have the caribbean and that's worth more than kenya
in a 100m sprint. you have the caribbean and i'm african,
nuance the scandinavian proust waging war with
a burnt toothpick not giving enough warmth. each me of the lost tribe walks asking:
blondish in the sea i dare you to walk and reason
the heraclitean suburbia of the river of emptied housed-in arsons worth a life.
come alaskan winters come!
trust the saxons to conquer the world without a holy implied for empires
and lost tracts in order that the romans might utilise proper a and proper o
while the saxons in **** with normans and celts said:
we'll roman-speak about the amazon girlies while our girls party out
a craft of whitened cotton for champagne ship-sailed virginity!
trust the saxons to speak worse german thank turks in order to bind by migration
an island as a ship, and sail away sail away wondering
why the roots of other european nations used the goggles to speak
as much microscope as microphone when accenting
and, in so doing accepted dialectics rather than a pompous excess of fibrous ginger plastic
known as dialects: in england dialectics is known as dialects - caged owls elsewhere
didn't coo coo but mooed with gags in nostrils sneezing when snorkelling:
we say error in sussex and say wok cumin seed sizzle in essex;
close enough to be a cockney in hackney rhymes up a mango.

Obama struttin' with
some barbecue?

Ain't nobody's business
if he do!

there was an audience... there is still an audience...
i wonder about it...
i'm such a conservative deacon in the comments
that... i leave very little traces of interaction...
i tried getting ****** into the whole affair
of leaving comments - like i might have left
grafitti tags on the pillars of bridges...
                   there was an audience... there's still an
audience... i imagine...
or i rather: translate with metaphor what i'm:
trying to imagine...
              three moths have attempted to fly into
my room to spend the night free from fear...
i caught two in my hand... put the clenched hand
to my ear... no... not the sea trapped in a seashell...
close... sound effect of... rain on a tin roof...
a moth trapped in a cage of a hand...
it hasn't rained for days... weeks even...
       the most... bountiful of springs in england...
and everyone is... supposed to handle the affair
like the 2nd coming of ribonson crusoe...
          i can: because i'm used to it...
                    peacefully anti-social...
                     it's hardly bragging but:
there's an audience... there's always an audience...
here's to me: getting regularly milked...
or... laying some eggs with the sunrise and the moon...
i am... at a stage of maturing from...
a phase where... i did... once upon a time...
care about what i wrote... for my own gratification:
but... not any more...
         i've reached a point where...
i can join the ranks of the 4 Dada Suicides...
     'the four' (who) 'took nihilism of the movement
to its ultimate conclusion, their works are
the remnants of lives lived to the limit and then cast
aside with nonchalance and disdain'...
Vaché (overdosed)... Rigaut (shot himself)...
Cravan and Torma (disappeared)...
        the latter two... probably lived a life in
approximation to what might have happened
to... Richey Edwards...
born on...                  disappeared aged 27...
death is the last clue...
    not that i'm going to imitate what's already
claimed...
but... a mile from my home...
i can... find... ample resources... hemlock...
the stems are poisonous...
      i've tried... lilac mushrooms... dog mushrooms
they call them...
i don't know whether i ate a poisonous
one or not... it wasn't...
    a muhomor... amanita fly agaric...
           but... when the circuses have died and
the bread is still there...
no new movies... no sports...
what can beat: the old tease of mortality...
the grain-of-sand per month's worth of movement
added... to the tally and
the curriculum vitae of vivo per se...
                   the theatre of death...
     if i don't think about death with a joke...
i stop being... ridiculous in life...
                   i like the thought of death when...
life doesn't preserve any... sense of...
any... alternative... "light" entertainment...
it's not like i'm planning an escape...
rich and about to clone myself...
   and teach the clone "me" to be: a "future" - and me...
i almost can see how someone must
have tried to cheat death with the available
avenue of cloning...
but... the subservience of the clone...
the clone being what?
       someone must have learned the hard way...
i just interjected the question as an: and...
which is a conjunction...
          but if you're gonna go...
hell... seal a room and yourself in it...
and buy a... metaphorical tonne of lily of the valley...
go to sleep... and never wake up...
death... even death has to become entertaining:
in thinking terms - at the very least...
the only real eventuality among...
half a dozen of impossible things to think about...
daily... and here's that apple...
   if nietzsche... sentenced the source
and future disease from the 19th century...
well... so much for overcoming nihilism...
         nihilism... after all... is not... apathy...
   and even with the death of nihilism...
                              at least nihilism still asked
for moloch-esque sacrifices of will...
     apathy? what does this slug ask for?
it asks of you to... well... wrestle with yourself...
hence that "overlooked" quote:
if a day has many pockets...
       yes... those pockets of self-realisations that
provide a glitch of proof...
a proof of... having to find dominion in
settled dust... oh to hell with grand metaphors
of staging revolutions brought down
from mountain-tops!
- and i'm literally drinking my way through...
what 19th century nihilism became:
a 21st century apathy hangover...
      i'll spare the 20th century the rites of...
a mythical new beginning... a year 0...
        100 years give or take... each side of the end
of the 20th century...
but... nihilism is no longer... the standard:
to overcome...
             as much meaning can be derived from
a peanut as from a falling star...
to be this: subjective sanitiße everything -
                       i hardly think... a dickens would
require an objective reader...
what is an objective reader?
someone who studies: rather than reads...
newspapers...
someone who probably proofs reading...
by also ensuring citations are... made abundantly
clear... archives... etc.
well... better contemplating the theatre of death
than... say...
"normies":
    ahem... the critique of china...
       point: can you imagine... if... communism...
was thought-up... when...
the french revolution began? the only revolution?
rather than the russian oopsie?
well... and communism began...
when... engels and marx... went to the north
of england... and... prior to the manifesto...
wrote of the details of child-labour...
this is not my thing but...
it gets to the point where:
you can criticize china all you want...
but there's no smart... or dumb way...
to go about... pretending to be at war...
with a population of a billion people...
that... if push comes to shove...
could be conscripted instantly...
              to point out... is to exhaust the argument:
to have an argument for:
"western" principles of democracy...
here... have some balloons... here's a keg
of helium... 'ave fun...
by now... saudi arabia is secretly planning
a jihad into the Xinjiang province...
saudi arabia: the vatican of the islamic world...
is secretly trying to... blah blah...
no... the saudi princes are strapped to their yachts...
the bangladeshi slave labour blah blah...
yeah: but whittle ol' england needs
the Neds of Lahore and their tier up from
the chimney top: crescent moon-lick... slick...
- but to be this... fired up...
                it's simply exhausting to have:
a freedom of speech for such high demands...
not need to hide behind the ideals of love...
or being misunderstood...
             in no defence... but... under the guise
of that grand word: capitalism...
the sub- thorough: made in china...
                and what now? the jaw dropping
counter to the very delicate status quo?
it's beyond nihilism... when such upheld
values allowed for artistic rebellion...
to the moon: been there, done that..
europe the old man... h'america the newly
acquired *******...
       you want politico jargon ******* squeezes...
sure thing...
     stoic india... always the stoic india...
to **** off the competition - cheap soviet steel...
the soviet union's nuna 2, on 13 september 1959 -
in between: frank sinatra's:
fly me to the moon - 1963...
and thus... r.e.m.'s yeah yeah: 20 July 1969...
it's hard to compensate / compete with
that sort of a trojan hard-on ***** of
the elgin marbles...
                              at least the germanic peoples
played and understood the ping-pong
with the slavic peoples -
the hungarians on the side...
but not this... african trash for beijing...
the mongol capital of crimea...
and golden hoarding project: typo...
   when they came riding in... smeared
in **** and week old **** and horse blood...
to make... the labyrinth of the baghdad library...
a pyramid of skulls...
squeeze me: to this tired state of lost
the head to a guillotine chatter-box...
even the events of napster unfolding...
and all that's being streamed and...
now's the time to kiss and cuddle prostitutes...
and wet mr. whittle dicky for second
chances of a lost digestive... in that pond
of brew...
                easy fools to fool: those camel back
rich in dino-blood: soul black...
like espressos of mecca... flowing rich
and dying with a soothing...
from amnesia and diabetes...
and amputated limps when... sugar ingestion
leaves them... dancing ballet on only one foot...
because: porky pie and ms. amber: ha!
all bad!
                so much for... what's waiting
the white girl pornstars...
the liberated afro-h'americans and the service...
of beijing shrimp ****...
double edged sword... the height and...
all those attaches... of a fine... fine...
procelain piece of ***...
no-man's-land... the middle ground:
of... mercedez-benson-and-hedges...
        on my way out... the apache / sioux /
dodo / aztec / mayan / dodo (again) projects...

semi-closure...
   gary glitter - rock & roll part II
     ian watkins (of lostprophets) -
                      shinobi vs dragon ninja...
sorry... that one was a paedo...
              toddle-****** for the latter...
and it's not like... i enjoyed the music
to begin with...
i can't see an ad hominem argument
for the former...
                 toddler-******: esp. if the output...
well... it's not trash...
   it's: dad mantra... it's dad claustrophobia...
my take on:
mahler contra pergolesi....
            counter: invest in 100 years to come...
of which... you will...
find a future reader: being alive...
not having re(a)d you...
1986... the reader is born...
1997... you die...
you are discovered... come...
2K and 7... 8...... perhaps 9...
  a time-reference of...
         13 years from the readers birth to your
death... it's Glasgow... a very rare...
sunny... afternoon...
psychosis of the reader...
         1997 through to... 2008...
              that's 11 years... so...
what matters most is... how well you walk
through the fire...
that one about the crow and the madmen...
and each: having his niche:
his "social distancing" clause...
writing was fun when one could
stomach the: in the background...
when people lived their: very troublesome:
important... surgical precision...
nobel prize winning type / typo lives...
writing via a sense of voyeurism was...
well... hardly the self-evident blatant it has
become...
escape into fiction (lies you tell others)...
escape into imagination (choking ties of
tier-a: as above... with tier-b: as below)...
or escape into memory (lies you tell
yourself)...
but i rather the memory...
the cinema of it...
i forget to blink when: blinking is akin
to... signatures... autographs of famous people...
bull... shyte: philately...
         lepidopterology... half closure of the semi-
closure... a brilliant metaphor...
      when the **** or the latex gimp suits
are not available...
there's always that 14 year old "idea"...
of... a tamed *******...
well... if you imagine it as... love at first sight...
you're 16 she's 14... and...
you're dating her older sister at the time...
and then... she disappears...
within the confines of her first and last
unflowering...
but the pristine first-impressions become
less metaphor and more: idealism...
it's fun... when there's a concensus of it being:
forbidden... it's what drives both the hunger...
and the feeding...
that it's never actually realised is beside
the point: made... in... lars von trier's
nymphomaniac...
          too catholic of me: born into it...
but... repressing the urges... is as much as...
delighting oneself in them...
ergo: the necessary *******...
so much for... *****-******* and oyster
slurping... when... you have been...
ahem... told to **** it up...
with the: "excess of skin"...
excess of skin / chemical imbalance
in the brain...
how about... i allow... a triatoma infestans...
to quicken my: dementia...
the myth goes... along the lines...
a horse with a grain of sand...
via its ear... will bash and ram and ram and bash
its head against a brick wall:
in an attempt to rid itself of the irritation...
conformity:
cul de sac queers and kwerks...
i lampoon on a sunday...
the rest of the days i'm free...
clued into: cwown...
which is... somehoo: velsh... in parts...

- by death i imply a riddle...
                 by death i imply:
          freed from the cinema of highly edited
pseudo-living...
not even among the stage of the theatre...
but at least...
cinema got one thing right...
   the suicide of christine chubbuck -
the urban myth goes along the lines of:
a cockroach was found... alive... 2 weeks...
after its head was guillotined...
       it's like that... bane quote:
and... the andrei chikatilo... reality...
non-verbatim:
                 'perhaps he's wondering... why
someone would shoot a man...
before throwing him out of a plane'...
rephrasing:
   'perhaps he's wondering...
why someone would shoot a man...
after throwing him into a prison cell'...
unless... he wasn't... expecting...
to wait for him... to die... of a urban myth...
2 weeks if not more...
brain-dead: heart still pumpking...
horrors from Kiev... Chernobyll the *******
icing cream topping the gwand:
godzilla: pie in the sky...

     i cared... once... once... that was:
upon a time...
these times don't really require much focus...
the space itself poses enough
liberty... no need to look as far back
as there's to look forward...
     the 20th century killer: zenith...
****** and ferriswheel of events...
                waking up to the new mandarin
plateau... it's like...
waking up from... the refreshing cain
mythos relatability...
always from h'america...
otherwise... bullet to the head...
king soldier: human rights...
   yeah... nice... the shame of homeless people:
there's an alexander the great...
a a diogenes of synope: with a hippocratic
oath... loitering around the corner?
hell! go wit' the flou...
                 jump-start a prison adventure...
less... high morality ****-pants
asking questions on the way...
people of high morality
and high: low social status importance...
**** someone...
better than becoming philosophically
homeless... blah blah...
                         i'm so little i actually
define myself as:
at liberty to preserve the lives of moths...
yes... well that's nice...
for anyone asking to: ride the easy... roulette.

you don't come around these parts asking
for gender "neutral" pronouns,
you want a grammatical theory?!
you want misnomer antics,
and "tautology"?
     i already said it!  
moon (księżyc) is a masculine noun,
while the sun (słońce) is a feminine
noun!
   the english, language, does, not have,
these type of distinction!
currently? what you're selling me
is rotten fruit, by god and grammar alike
are!
    how can you make this
false grammatical category falsehood real,
solely upon reading the nag hammadi
library texts?!
        oh, i have a grammatical "theory"
for you, you don't transgress certain
restrictions,
     i hate repeating myself:
then again: air-drumming comes with both
its perks, and its shortfalls.
    there is no "gender" neutrality
in the pronoun category,
the architecture of the english language
already allows a gender "neutrality",
but you picked the wrong category
of words:
    you achieve "gender neutrality"
by exploring the nouns,
which are gender-fused with ***
orientation (compliments) -
   english, oddly enough,
doesn't have this linguistic component...
oops, sorry...
      you cannot have "gender"
neutrality in the grammatical category
of pronouns...
but as all over european languages
show: you can call a moon a he,
and the sun a she...
            hence why islam is so
phallicentric...
       and christianity so gynocentric:
oh look, a copernican moment;
english doesn't have the capacity for
genuine gender "roles" for inanimate things
being ascribed genders
as other languages (other than english,
lingua politico, lingua franca) possess...
pronouns cannot be doubled-down on,
with "respect" to gender ascriptive measures
of revision...
      no!
               as i once suggested:
isn't english a language, peppered with
overt pronoun use?
     english uses too many pronouns,
+ given the deutsche schrapnell ref. -
what would you expect?
       there are laws of grammar,
that can overpower "laws" of man in
the current age...
        i end up in court with an i.q.
of a down syndrome person...
                nope, don't understand you,
oops... bugga bugga mongolian harmonica.
english already has gender neutrality,
but it's in the "wrong" category...
  it's, in, the ******* noun category of words!
nouns can be gender inclusive
  in other european languages,
as they can be gender exclusive in english...
pronouns?
    can i please, waste my time
walking through a gallery of the surrealists?
i feel like being an optic-parasite of
their work: honing in,
humming, and then saying:
             let's grab coffee & a postcard!
i simply do not have either respect,
or patience, for modern "laws"
that do not respect grammatical foundations...
if you do not respect grammar,
the foundational layer of language,
and you enforce this desolation:
   i don't mind, this is my
harambe... revision of the american constitutio...
  ah! cognitive dictionary search...
  this is my harambe amendment...
no, this is not where you make me say:
ooh ooh pikachu...
     this is there i grunt, punch,
     and then ask the question: huh?
like the motto of the american police
force:
       shoot first, ask questions later -
neco primo, quarero postmortem;
   oh ****... sorry.. postmodum... forgot:
             dead people can't speak, ha ha!

In deep psychedelic trance
his companion painted
canvases that mix past,
present and future, factually
as quantum physics would vouch;
all of it co-exists, don't turn
a blind eye, it's not fair.

"There is more past here
that try to unseat future,
than the presence of present,
we would make reality sleep
won't believe in its patented lies,
we'd create a present,
in its fantasy, see the future"

The narrative is pictured as fallows:
The Cat and the Mouse
stopped their games,
they invented as a past time,
and also serious business.
Lucky prince befriended
a happy pauper.
The beauty beguiled
the friendly beast,
both eloped and
lived happily somewhere.

The bored king hugged
the leader of the coup
"I was dying
to abdicate at the earliest,
you were my last hope,
good riddance" he yawned,
sounding like cockerel.
He looked much relieved;
uneasy is the head
on which a crown sits
like a ****** politico
at the moment of election result.

The painter watching
what is going on said:
"Well, the colors I selected
this far, were all wrong.
Now, I am going to look twice
before I decide"

But when she worked
on her imagination
her manifesto was thrown out,
she was far more spontaneous
there is the rub.

Can't say, whether
the philosopher was pleased or not,
one can't  definitely tell
he only smiled and hurried back to
catch the last bus he missed.

well the left is dead, and the left turned into tartan, i guess the islanders
are gearing up to a male patriarch where ***** go free with jealousy
rather than queened freely;
i know the left died, but to have it third day resurrect
in scotland, i'd never think the tories flavoured
outside of plum plucked blue;
only when a politics is unappealing to quote no vote,
is a change of monarch at hand,
and then why such the left disappear almost completely?
it's one thing for tyranny to leave a listening airy cleft
where once thought reigned tyrannically un-dialectical,
but it's another cased scenario to suddenly
lever a man to contort into a female face on either
photograph or coin, so we leave the wonders of chillingly
easy rhymes of song from the 1960s to the 21st complex,
and we leave the reign almost feeding a reprimand
for the multi-cultural having no artistic endeavour
in a counter. multi-cultural will not provide a counter-culture,
given the scenario of tyranny to aggregate all into taxable citizens,
perhaps that's rome shrunk into the vatican for the alphabet to survive,
perhaps why latin is "dead" and perhaps why poetry is dead,
because the only walky talkies are women in retirement;
forget dialectics even, remind yourself of dialogue first!
in the end, like the pre-socratics, i'll be a snippet of words
to bruise myself on fame post-mortem;
of course i live in readied tyranny, no one votes
and the left of politics was taken my northern nationalists...
in the end, thank **** at least that happened!
the king wears a kilt!
and? better my youth be a foolery in the realm of vocabulary
than prancing in tutu and bra on a table in ibiza;
yes, i'll be courteously french while i age in the silent winery:
that place where you won't even hear a corkscrew.*

the politics is long, i'd rather live on nn the faroe islands,
but it reminded me of a charles in henry's nursery rhyme:
charles the first survived, slow motion:
beheaded, in ****, later did some philanthropy;
conspiracy almost ******, gaffed choking on a peanut peel, never married -
entered the nunnery via public opinion that'd never allow a scandal or a ****** birth.

intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's leave it to the pigs
or play dead among the dogs,
or levy it with questions in gushing recurrence;
intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's utilise it with someone saying:
i rather speak to someone 100 prior or 100 years after.

or as later proved: among the citizens an uncomfortable censor
was a woman, that's the thing:
misogyny and homosexuality are almost alike:
gays love to talk to women but loath to butter up a sour bread dough,
misogynists loath to talk to women but love to **** 'em;
where's the middle way buddha? where's the middle way?
socrates turning into a misogynist disguised in homosexual accents
in old age? the old man got away with acceptable norms in old age,
almost, they figured out his **** pure and minded his cranium crucible divergence
from: young boys readied for pedophiles spoke more flowers
than my wife while cooking compost of fruits!

ah! i live in a spicy tomorrow, gearing up to charles the third's
reign with talk of the amputated left limp either side of the diaphragm
equator, hence the scot nationalists,
whereby we have beauty anorexic strutting eager for a faint in a cabbage patch,
and we best test tube in pigmenting alkali,
writing songs about life, not poetry of that ideal: "from the cosmos"
of autobiographic detail of metaphysics to exclude evil from a humming choir;
or as i took to my father in sepia:
beauty in anorexia, language in bad grammar and even more a terrible spelling
that never experienced the lines of detention to conform,
and then all the moral freedoms to not think about
and when thought about, quickly attached to **** smear
girly literature;
but do i go around talking of my easily-read literature?
so why this italian pole girl ruining my diary of saved orientated ordination?
she jealous or just illiterate the she-troll of all?

misogynists are like homosexuals, although the prior have no politico thumb,
we love ******* the brains out, we hate being boyfriends
from magazines or the psychology sections of saturday newspapers editions;
plus we like our own company, which is hard to grasp;
i mean, we love women within the membrane of ****** temperatures twinning,
but that's hardly the right temperature for conversation akin to vishnu and lakshmi.

Politico speak that is wrapped in prized silk,
And Kamala approves of Tar pitch ****.
A party that supports Tar pitch **** is  sic
Politico speak that is wrapped in prized silk.

And Kamala approves of Tar pitch ****
Kamala played the same old Dem playbook.
The past is an iron chain Trump is a crook
And Kamala approves of Tar pitch ****.

Kamala played the same old Dem playbook
And Trump talk like holed cheese,his time to
spin.
On Afghan and Bidenomics he scores a win
Kamala played the same old Dem playbook.

And Trump talk like holed cheese,his time to
spin.
Politico speak that is wrapped in prized silk
Both like rotten cheese  and all of their ilk
And Trump talk like holed cheese,his time to
spin.

Politico speak that is wrapped in prized silk
And Kamala approves of Tar pitch ****.
A party that supports Tar pitch **** is  sick
Politico speak that is wrapped in prized silk.

Oh, you got your politico pals
Posting stuff about them blues-and-reds
Oh you got your new-age pals
Posts about their chakra dreads
Oh you got your pervy pals
Posts about their whips and spread
Oh you got your journal pals
Posts about their EX and meds
Oh you got your comic pals
Posts of grumpy cat in bed
Oh you got your trendy pals
Posts of food and celeb weds
Oh you got your gossip pals
Posts about what so-so said
Oh you got your music pals
Posts of bands on every thread
Oh you got your mother pals
Posts of how their babies fed
Oh you got your nightlife pals
Posts of each local they’ve tread
Oh you got your righteous pals
Post of what you need instead
Then you got your artsy pals
Oh someone shoot me in the head!

it's etiquette, aesthetics in itself? a bit like: art for art in itself? who the hell minds calling etiquette an aesthetic movement, when etiquette only serves itself, rather than an aesthetic for others to observe an call for the: decor in oculus ex spectator... the concept of etiquette ***** sweaty salty ***** in the realm of aesthetics, it's principled for itself alone, and no one else... what it is is: absurd.

i don't understand why the english press
doesn't fathom polish nationalism -
i simply cannot fathom it -
  implying that polish nationalism is
tinged with neo-**** slurs is simply
unfathomable to me,
   might as well add:
at least the poles do not have the problem
to discuss ethnic-cocktails of
3/4 italian a quarter jew...
                   it's not out of bias -
i've lived in england for over 20 years,
i have not pledge a dual-national identity -
and i lean toward using english in
my cognitive realm more than i tend
to entertain using polish -
proof? i can't remember the months
alphabet in polish...
                    a week i can remember,
the nouns, but a year? **** me,
near impossible.
                     yet what bothers me is that
western journalism is afraid of:
not so much the nationalism -
          but the collectivism -
the uniform undisputed collective -
   what scares them is that in poland,
   there is no fringe movement -
   it's populist - they're actually afraid
of what an authentic nation looks like...
   this is not some ***-crack of an alt-right
movement, this is people coming together
without a dialectical impetus, or precursor,
it's a tsunami, an *******,
and for that: there's no chance to slander,
to pick out the weakest antelope,
the youngest, and apply the slander,
the naming, equating that person with
being neo-****... ironically in about 100
years they'll call them polish concentration
camps, rather than german concentration camps,
which is why i once suggested,
pull them apart, and ship them off to
germany...
                    neo-****** doesn't exist
in poland, what western cultures fear
is an actual *nation - a collective -
not bothered whether there is a worthwhile
individualism to be catered for -
put twice simply:
  for all the care for individualism -
western individuals have produced
   a stock of, rather, unspectacular
individuals...
                          this abhorrent politico
of defending the mediocre expressions,
hopeful for the ******* "golden child"
is exhausting - in the anglophone world
i'm either living in an insane asylum,
or a nursery...
      can't decide which...
    but if you look at the most
mediocre person in a collective?
    can you see any mediocre, can you
actually see it? i can't:
because the people have gathered,
        and the tsunami doesn't dismember
you into an individual:
  it dismembers you to align you
into a collective, and as a collective:
     you are a force to be reckoned with.
neo-**** slurs will not work on these people,
you have to gravitate to this conclusion,
when people are united,
they do not feel intimidated...
esp. when there's no ethnic-cocktail
to mind, pick and choosing paternal or
maternal heritage...
                 western journalistic turnip-heads
can't tell the difference between
healthy, collective nationalism,
  and fringe groups in their own
countries...
don't you ******* get it?!
of all the countries in western europe,
what country in the amalgam took an
existential "hiatus" from the history books?
which one became incorporated in
the trinity of prussia, austro-hungary
and russian?
  waiting for a ******* answer...
answer? none!
                        can you at least entertain
the idea that people are celebrating
their nationalism, because they have
regained their nation?!
        no? wait till you lose yours,
            you'll be ******* jack ****-a-boo
         in a few years...
   slurring these people as neo-**** is like
typing out that typical psychiatric:
false regression technique...
                  were you occupied by the nazis?
wait, i thought you said the israelis were nazis...
no i'm confused with this whole
   trans omni movement that branches
into ***, skin and tears...
                   it's simple fear,
that the centre of warsaw can be lit up in red,
and be filled with a cloud of smoke...
       emerging from the flares -
and that similar attempts in the anglophone
world are equivalent to:
  poached oysters,
                            under cooked potatoes,
overcooked spaghetti...
      pointless as an umbrella opened,
when shoved up someone's ***.

p.s. guess what, i'm not afraid of an individual
opinion,
                individuals harass and
mongrel the idea of bullying by
collective consent -
                           they have none...
and don't you think that any sport,
most notably rugby, is a simulation
  of *******, and the travel through
the ******? i guess most sport is,
but rugby exemplifies the ***** journey -
notably: they're passing an egg-shaped
ball.

On the ticket for mayor of Sarnia,
Was a sixties bloke, one Wills Rawana;
But the anti-*** vote,
With good conscience can't support,
A politico called Mayor Rawana.

You know Cohen and Ellis,
Powel and McEnany,
Hutchison, Meadows,
And soon, Giuliana;
But try not to recall
The most infamous POTUS of all:

Donald the orange-skinned POTUS
Has a Pinocchio nose,
And everytime he speaks out,
You literally see it grow.
All of his well-placed minions,
And millions that can't be named,
Try to protect the Donald,
But only expose their shame.

Then one sunny DC Day
SC Jack Smith  says:
Donald with your team in flight,
Your term in office is finite.

Then how his minions left him,
And they shouted silently;
Donald, you long-nosed politico,
You're a blip in history.

.the industrial age is over... i sometimes forget when the middle-ground was made into a sentence... the antichrist, or the demigod son of Hephaestus... the satanic push... to lever the molten iron: over... salt / silicon mines! gears up! industry and the satanic industries... perhaps... just... perhaps... now softcore industry of: etertainment rubrics... sewn underwear from the genesis that they were always going to be: export, MADE IN CHINA... this... grand ideal... but coming along with my bucket and spades... i knew that already, come 1994 in st. augustine's primary school... i had the sponge ****** mind ready to slurp the bubbles of ferocity sally scandals... post-soviety ex-satellite state civi? quasimodo was always going to give me the thumbs up... but when the bells rang... they started ringing for no injunction of a need to 'en masse'... there was a fire... a quiet innocent fire... but all the fingers started pointing...

politics, this most feral sport...
perhaps... "ars politico"?
the art of politics?

right now... boxing seems like a civil sport...
perhaps the damage is not written well
into the events...
but at least the audience is tamed...
probably by bets...
or other forms of decorum...
but in this sport of rhetoric?
in politics?
i don't see how... i don't see how i can
ooh and ah like a douglas murray...
although i'm a big fun of...
almost every homosexual talking...
it's like... that one aspect of ******...
i would have: if i could have...
not have a *******...

said sir lancelot onan jr....:
i have never met a woman...
who could... hand-job / ****-me-off
a prince william better than i...
it's a sad truth when you come across
specimens of women who only known
how to YANK and never... DOODLE
the phallus... with the ******* still
intact...
and *** and *** is just a ******* formality...

darwinism is the modern reinvention
of the copernican ooh-ah!
if copernicus did so: as an "independent"...
Galileo came along with his
mighty telescope... and the martyr's cushioned
seat... while some Greek...
to "us": unknown...

******* is older than beer...
that's my habit...
i look at women in "niqabs" performing
these lolly-pop acts...
and all i see is the niqab...
ninjas of islam mothers of the true believers...
is there something wrong in...
watching others pleasure themselves...
now: **** would be wrong...
if... i somehow managed a proud richie
if... it were... a woman being skinned...
if it was a circumcision of man's phallus...
performed by an iron maiden
gimmick ***...
then i'd be worried...

like that sound-proof of: you're not
in the company of a psychopath...
when someone yawns... you yawn with them...

ostrowiec swietokrzyski is a forgotten town,
once the allure of metallurgy...
because rust belt only happens in
h'america... because the mines only close down
in england... these people were also:
people of the metal...
western europeans "think" that we
moved... because... m'eh...
your metallurgy meccas closed...
ours... "ours"... didn't?!

darwin is the modern version of
medieval copernicus...
and i'm pretty ******* sure...
the ancient greeks, in their childish solipsism...
had a quasi-darwin to begin with...

i'm tired of hearing this worth of ****:
there's not enough toilet paper
to match up with the 111 of wiping your ***
with the index, middle and ring finger's
worth of: grafitti!

but at least boxing is a sport that still
demands a variant of ethics...
there's gloating prior...
but catch a skiving ******* gloating
after... doktor dentist herr sadist is...
waiting... parlor no. 2...
you can simply hear a faint grip
of the christmas carol he's singing...
'i'll hang you on a noose of
poor's joe's intestines i dissected:
** ** **...'
you get the idea where no jokes
comes from?

no sport ethic teaches the contestants
to gloat... to gloat is to be fat...
to be a glutton... no one likes...
people gloating after the facts...
like no one is expecting to hear much
about: the heliocentric contra the geocentric
argument...

i beg to disagree... people have a hand
in endearing the geocentric argument...
in the anglophonic realm...
what have we not heard of in the past
2 years beside brexit, trump?
so... there's a heliocentric model...
that's working? or aren't we still
left liberated by a geocentric model of
the now and the in-between?!

last time i chanced the argument...
nothing "west" of mars...
perhaps "north" of jupiter...
again: what's the copernican "west"...
what's the copernican "east"?
i'm still a ***** ******* remnant
of ****** pact VARSUS... aren't i?
warsaw pact...
and so i am:
i am in england for no "apparent" reason...
the metallurgy advent of europe
ended... even under the soviet
umbrella you were... "influenced"...
only western europe gets to: bemoan?
begrudge?! nostalgia riddle itself an et off?!

- you can watch any other sport
and find less "grief" in it...

tennis! what is tennis willing outside
of politics?
the captivated audience...
esp. with the prime-minister's
q&a...

in football... any interference from
the crowd...
summary? a clause is passed...
pencil & paper muscles are flexed...
law comes into: from sleepy /
sheepish demands: a reality to abide
by, goal poasts are moved...

perhaps that's why boxing is a mythological sport...
it doesn't matter that the art... the sport...
doesn't take into consideration
the entire body... and even if the rules
"suggest" that the upper body canvas
is involved...
the boxing remains true:
as truth said: the interaction between
two fists, the head and a car crash
bound to some later... "investement"...

but at least boxing is a sport of pristine quality...
it can be celebrated...
with a fictive outlet...
the audience is involved but only involved
as a dasein: being there...
politics? i vote...
but i'm hardly ever going to fathom
being in parliament...

oh mein nett gott...
where is tennis and my tennis *****?
that game of: 7 rectangles...
and... at most... 11 referees...
and about 6 ball boys / girls...

ludo politico... this most feral sport...
come to think of it...
there's not much to think of...
but beside the sulking and the gloating...

once upon a time so abstract...
so abstract as there is nothing to abstract with

to exercise a will for the existence of a body...
beside having to justify talking
by simply thinking...

darwinism really has shaped events
of historical consideration to fill up the calendar...
that no amount of copernican gluttony and
gloating could ever surpass...

what was once intelligenstia vogue back
in the 15th century... via copernicus...
is once more intelligenstia vogue in this:
what year are we in?
darwin... darwinism outside of the anglosphere
of *******-tick-tock-******* is...
yet another frictive detail that acts
like sandpaper when attempted to fit into
a jean pocket of events...

it's rough around the edges...
and all this ontological borrowing from ape,
from lion, this ontological borrowing from
ants from... this microscope inside
a telescope... and otherwise... inverted...

i'm at the end of my road...
a most fractured example of what could
possibly be deemed human...
annals of worthwhile autobiographies
my ***...
merry christmas my ***...
this celebration is a bit of a *******-whipping...
i might as well die tomorrow and know
that only one man existed in all of history...
hardly a reason to curl into a foetus pose
a shadow and start biting into a corner
like some mouse for the celebration
of the birth of Leibniz or Kant...
nonetheless...

i am to celebrate... something that's
either a bad-*******-riddle-of-ad-nauseam...

or... how i'm the only person who would say:
you know they unearthed the nag hammadi
library back in 1945... and there's a correlation...
with the history of the jewish revolt against
the romans... written by an "integrated jew"...
a josephus ben matthias...
and how... that doesn't even matter?
because jesus wasn't playing
chinese whispers in the gospel of st. thomas...
and this is all just fine, fine; fine!

to celebrate a "birth" is to also...
make this "life"... what it is... "life" something only worth
the margins and minor notations...

what is relevant when cf. (comparing)
darwin to copernicus?
the awe fantasy ridden vogue of intellect,
the: darwinism is a square box that can fit
itself into any empty lodge of parchement...
a square can fit through a triangular shaped
hole... darwinism can...
be all and end all...
we don't need any continental
existential complexity... we do not need
any 20th century existential ontology...
as long as we have... an explanation readied
via darwinism... a simple 1 + 1 = 2...

i, robot; you - don't care...

Kant is still holding the spot for: bachelor of the year...
215th year coming...
Kierkegaard is a shy second...
but Kant is something akin to
what the Muhammedians would call...
the unison of all five...
the Shahadah is the categorical imperative...
Salat: to think is to pray...
Zakat: to not speak is to give alms...
Sawm: to not think about food is to fast...
(or keeping the motto...
i eat to live... i don't live to eat)
Hajj: ha ha! Paris! or... to go where you're
supposed to be...
rather than... expect others for you to be at...
to not be a tourist! a hajj implies:
be not a tourist! expect to be made unwelcome...
come with a purpose...
that deviates from the purpose of
a stated origin to be made purposive
by you going there!
hajj! don't be a tourist!

i have always found some relief in Islam...
like any Romford bound lad...
Ronnie O'Sullivan...
christianity? not after having unearthed
the nag hammadi library...
not after the words have remained
coincidental... not after 1945...
not after WHERE the nag hammadi library was found...
not after the powers-at-be
attempted to "confuse" / hide the nag hammadi
library as a distinct yet: simultanoeus event
coinciding with the dead sea scrolls...
not after the each quwaitii became a oil rich
baron sheikh... not became the pakistanis
and the bangladeshi decided: **** it working
slave hours in Dubai...

Lawrence of Arabia citation of Islam...
i will fake it... the christianity...
but i doubt to ever have a pillow to lie on...
i am pretty sure i will not make it...
i know the allure of islam...
i know the allure of islam when...
if only some genuine friend of this faith came
across me... before that farce of a friend
worth the psychopath's lying ferret's woo
of an Egyptian... with time:
no... no! no healing!

Islam is younger... christianity is...
how many schisms?
prune, pseudo-buddhist...
catholic, protestant... unitarian...
bishopric baptist... calvinist...
it's a... monotheism...
but... given the many splinters?
i find it improbable to not treat it as a...
polytheism... how many times are most kind sirs
going to divide the ******* loaf?!
until we're no longer even eating crumbs?!

christianity to me is a polytheism:
given the number of times it has divided itself up!
it's a cancer growth spectacular, al fresco!
i can only thank the protestants for this...
poly-divison...
after all... there was only one schism in islam...
and that's the allure!
because i am neither: Iraqi prone...
Iranian il allahu blah blah blahlah ural "who who"...

skin? or tattoo?
i have seen christianity die...
no one wants to talk of the nag hammadi library,
honestly... this is a ******* major event!
the media contest: the unearthing of
the dead sea scrolls is a synonym:
of an event that doesn't even happen...
the dead sea scrolls is an event relating
the death of the prophet Isaiah...
being disemboweled... being a courtesan...
guess what!
if no one is going to be ghost-forsaken
and salted-soul honest!
irish proud etc.! guess what...
like unto like: do as they do!

plus all this anglosphere wet-***** darwinism...
how the ****, did darwinism just hijack all
the arms of the humanities...
everything has to be explained with darwinism...
good! because if every cul de sac of life
was to be explained using copernicus...
imagine!

not even newton is a celebrated
scientist these days...
not even michael faraday...
but darwin is!
everything has to come down to
a darwinism - a branch of darwinism...
there's only one narrative:
a biological / psychological narrative...
how could a mythology surround
a Herr Faust / a Pan Twardowski...

england skipped the myth of the chemist...
the alchemist:
sure... william "Christopher Marlowe" shakespeare
tried to "catch-up"...
the english imagination was lost to king
arthur and the glories of:
being conquered by Rome...
of having been part of an ancient history...
last time i checked... us central europeans...
the germans, the goths, the vandals, the aesti...
the great migration types from the Causcus...
we... we didn't share the bounty of this history...
we're again: the barbarians at the gates...
us, slaves... with this sound-encoding and our
own distinctions: our caron S and caron C...
to sneak-in the tetragrammaton...

and who are, the Italiano?
do the Italians even recognise ancient Rome?
do the English truly recognise the...
what's that artifact... the Stonehenge?
ha! ha ha ha ha!
by joke alone...

darwinism's plague on everything cultural!
everything has to be a reminder of:
genes! gene narratives!
everything has to become a propability
gambit! everything has to be sacrificed upon
quasi-religious statements of: why you should,
rather than: why you shouldn't be feeling
so ******* grateful for a per se...

to me... darwinism is... a neo-copernicanism...
a stylish vogue rhetoric...
you can wear darwinism in the 19th to the mid 21st century...
afterwards? it's just a timid burn on the brain
to have to "argue" trans-generational
sensibility patterns of being the labelled:
made in western liberal free "ouch" spice society...

i can side with islam on two grounds...
who were the janissaries?
Murad I would have retorted:
who were the Jesuits?
if not by foundation, the hands of Ignatius of Loyola?
when who were the Mamluks?
my western neighbors love to...
designate my grand ethnic "etymology"
within the framework of the eaten E...
i.e. a slav(e)...

why would i side... with this... variant...
this... "variant" of "christianity"...
for a ******* carol-song-***-by-*******-yah
hard-on quest?!
you heard them...
old saxons vs. new blut saxons in
an orchestra of zeppelins hanging over london!
or... the lagoon as i like to call it...

check you "history" your etymology...
oh... because "they" would correct "misunderstood"
etymology... with a counter:
akin to the ethnonym -
loan words baron!
it's just "a missing E"...

it's still mainstream darwinism...
i imagine the years under the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth...
the Ukranians must have been like...
enough! enough of this Copernicus ******* already!
Ave Khmelnitsky!

after all... copernicus was right...
the sun does not move around the earth...
the earth moves around the sun...
copernicus was right... we were wrong...
the earth moves around the sun...
but... the affairs of the sun...
are not... the affairs of the earth...
and those... bound... to inhabit it...
the sun is important...
but... soap opera triviality is...
somehow... more... important...
drama of the callous nature of man...
is... more than... the vacuum riddle bundle
of billions of years is...
with its... mere H-to-He exchange of gaseous
bundle warmth...

one thing that governs my cruelty toward
how darwinism is exploited to fit
every ******* crevice of everyday life...
that one's: its supposed universality...

but then... this trans-genus trans-species
"comparative literature"...
it's not enough to be imitating ape...
again: which ape?
the chimp alone? the gorilla?
the ******* macaque?
why would i devolve...
having the body of a gorilla?
a gorilla could wrestle a lion to the death...
i, albino quasi gremlin bonkers IQ...
get to... pet a bonsai tiger!
yay!

two things went wrong when it came
to... "people, thinking"...
vogue ideas...
the copernican revolution...
and the... revolution of darwinism...
oh we can forget about marx...
we all know what was wrong about that...
i'm pretty sure some greek knew that already...
but we're stalling...
for **** know's what...
since: not being vular by now is not going
to help the "clarification of verbiage
over civilised tea and scones later" either...

if only these darwinist concentrated on
the source material...
but... to throw into this "existentialism"
a mix of peering with scrutiny at an ant colony...
at bacteria... at tapeworms...
and... somehow... being...
once more... the center of the universe...
of analytical diarrhoea?
in a heliocentric schematic?
**** me... are you sure...
this heliocentric argumentation was only so good...
as good as... when you didn't have to
navigate a west and an east...
on a map...
going through the Rhine valley...
via Antwerp... via Essen...
via Dortmund on the autobahn?

again... what's a copernican "east"?!

there may be a time when I'm removed far enough

… but no, not today, today, I ask
new mercies, and
I recall, that's on auto. Hapsthappeneverday kinda thing.
Time after time.
That is a miracle, time.

Really smart
people, that class that feels included in the
we, the
people, politico-intellect-ism trend sect,
they think the math is there to prove

time is
what clocks do, (Royal Institute Youtube watch it)
                                                  
that we,
that ain't me, ye see, I got

removed far enough
to see the blurry
next res
bigger picture more pixels than an eye is said able to see

So for everlasting ideas,
like hell and
heaven,  

the re act
to my act is the power
to act. Eternal motion as perpetual
as can be imagined by mortals, for sure.

Get it together or you leave a huge hole in the fabric of reality JBP

play the role your hand finds dealt,
your special way,
words count inbetween the sayer/hearer
the idle wons are wins not worth the weight, don't fight
the value system that makes life spirial,
swirl of a wand, mathematically
bowing to magi
Fibbo, go viral
with my wind.

this is your life role,
the one in eight billion role.
the star of the show as the hero of hormone wars.
it's all in your head,

how did it *** there, howditgit
this way
this is crazy. No, you never saw crazy, old dude.

Ya had yo'own knows sparkin' at the grindstone,

whet the edge,
or put to more labor..

removed
far enough from this world

my bubble
is in it not of it,
… since 1970. No ****. Outathis world…

Crazy was the melding  from the sixties to…

I was thinking, to about the mid-eighties, but
now,
you and I, we travelled to the beat of several
different drums.
Olde dude,

If you put your nose to the grind, ******
you may have missed,
in fifty years,
more
than you imagined, now, is a new day time.

Some seed never sown back when, can be sown and
grown right,
now.
That's good.
I'd say some words I've helped be heard have

made the world some better'nitwas when we stopped.

time to roll.

Sisyphus, right. 'Never missed a trick time
it takes to roll the rock up,
then in between tick time
to roll the rock up,

onus minus the roll down, the unshackled wireless
inbetween shameless blameless
imagine
happy ever after…
How?
Pretend, the end.

Push, happy as hell.
tick, time
to roll the rock up,

Incorrectness of value of value from the gitgo,
like buttoning your shirt wrong from the first button,
as soon as you fix it, it's fixed.

Nothin' you can do?
Do nothin'.

Think, Sisyphus, happy

Happy he's not in that time we are so removed from
now
slow and steady kinda wins the race, she said that,

Ben or me? Where does the thread un-ravel?

Extended time model, Rogan in the back ground,
what myth has the fear factor guy,
a little short power-lifter-kick boxer guy,
some smart, quick of wit, a hunter,

who was asked, in Thailand,
Have you seen the true beauty of the elephant?
I was asked that, in Thailand,
by a saffroned monk at a kickboxing match
in the jungle in 1968.
Synchroni-city or what?

Who could steer it's  hearing
by a clock and fail

to hear the rhythm of the rock rolling down the hill,
inbetween
the tick…

Sisyphus says time is more effective,

if-ity-ish when,
and only then, when ticks hapt to be

at the very point of return
time
the roll back
no rush, no dread no worry, imagine

time ticks at the sharpest point of the story
at the very very very tippy top
point in time

defining you.
Shame, sticks to you like tar.
Marilyn and Monica and Marla and all

Fame to blame, to shame for being  a believer that
there may be a time when I'm removed far enough

to ignor my own ignorance and innocence
of ideas that possessed
fools

A murderous assault on your attention span,
musicals, those people really live near enough my bubble,
that I can find
ripples

from decades I missed, this is 2018, how can it get better?

The grand wizard cat. pop. elephants are so sweet,
dam,
rewound. Really,
cool, I know what he says next, it's funny before it's funny.

Today is a real good day to get away. Binging Rogan,
testing a mystery fruct-ification
of a single seed from
a sack 'shake.

----
As you move forward in time how do you measure

progress
lo-res thinking, 72 dpi 1984 Macintosh. Hello

now there is reality at the speed of thought, imagine

this was once the speed of thought.

===
why are you in pain? Do you know any lies you believe?
Do you
urge others to suspend their un-belief
to hear you think

listen
ridiculously (is that a good word)

listen, people become interesting, from a distance,
thank you,
I'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Three men put Steele in his body and drained it out,
Draped him over the top rail like a rug and they hanged him off of it.
His last breath was deep and could be heard down the 100 yard stretch of concrete walls and cell space.
He kicked until the last ounce of energy was finally released from his body into what one would hope to be heaven.



We just want justice and a little bit of sustenance,
Forced to hate ourselves they call us a suspect.
The substance of colorful minds in a dangerous town



The new wisdom of ancient civilizations Produced in a slave ship
Concret walls embedded in the thick of a desert -
I used to get  anxious
Chalk it up to the theory of natural selection

I'm the product of my enviornment but who’s the supplier
economic redistribution  and product exchanges

Open source the government for growth and development
Enlightenment is just becoming reunited with the mother ship
Paradoxically I went to the Darkside to find this convenient
Mash up of asatru, Egyptian archetypes and Aztec brother hoods

Im the type to get lost in the stars
while they'd rather have me masked up in the back of a cop car

this is not poetry
Tactical plots and pre calculated attacks on geographical  chalk boards.
this is not poetry this is math
geo logical rock wars
This is not poetry
Striped up and tattooed in patches we fought for.

ah... the sparrow is such a beautiful bird, a mandarin bird, only the pope's Samael, the robin, could box the sparrow ugly - i.e. the robin always visits the pope's windowsill to tell him of immanent death.

i never understood why rhetoric (that persuasive art)
should exist outside a courtroom
and in the chamber of the commons - in parliament,
but then you read the law supplement on a thursday
and entertain such facts that:
a. Abe Lincoln was a former lawyer
b. Richie Nixon, also a former lawyer
c. Davy Lollipop George was a solicitor
d. Maggie Stitch-Me-Up Fatty Chi a barrister...
(e. well Tonne Blair was a barrister too)...
it seems natural to them, these peeps export rhetoric
from the one effective "safe space" where rhetoric
matters, adversary and defence,
i don't know why they export rhetoric from
Nepal and throw it into the cauldron of
politics that's Iraq... that's when their conscience
suddenly disappears, magic... abracadabra
and there's Houdini choking when his stomach
was punched in... rhetoric, i believe is best used
to spare lives, like the case of the defence lawyer
Clarence Darrow, the jury found the
African translated into American *not guilty
after he fired a shot at a mob of the Ku Klux ****
inspired mob on his premises...
now that's a truthful utility of rhetoric -
but take a lawyer out of a courtroom and shove
him into the sausage parlour of other
missing ******* condoms, and you have rhetoric
of a different nature... not to spare lives,
but to sacrifice them, like the plea of Hortensia
in 42 BC... incitement to war... many shady investors
in the background... i'm not saying lawyers are bad
people... i'm saying they're no longer people
once they become politico-lawyers... they become
investment brokers for the economics of arms trade...
they suddenly become zombie-like self-mutilating
cannibals... they come in with a brown crop of hair,
they leave their office of power like gorilla silver-backs,
having attired themselves in false-grey wisdom...
Tony and Obama sitting in a tree,
one said Iraq, the other said Arabia in a shopping spree,
well, -ing, numb that ****** ending, i.e. spring.
Tony and Obama sitting in a tree, the latter got
a Nobel peace prize, the former got diplomatic immunity.
so yeah, free speech... not offending people...
i got there just in time, and got out just in time too...
safe-spaces... i can just see the protesting lining up
like blonde ****** wives of billionaires for silicon
implants to live it out in the valley... coyote ug-...
something or other, Satan's Clause: sit on my lee e e lease!
that's how rhetoric becomes a migrating bird, a stork,
summers in Poland and the myth of the European bison,
winters in former Hittite territory or Pharaoh land...
it's dangerous exporting rhetoric from its intended
confinement of the courtroom, and importing it into
a parliamentary chamber, whichever, house of lords
or house of commons... rhetoric exported into a political
realm becomes less a saviour and more a guillotine,
as in: in a courtroom the judge presides with cool calm
precision that people do not step out of line...
but in the political realm Mr. Speaker just jokes about
hushing the banter of insults exchanged by two parties...
the lost privy, and the dirt and smudge of faeces
where once such men would paint their faces with blue woad.

psychosis and osmosis....
   one the soul, the other
simply water...
      in dictionary
verbatim:
the passage of a solvent (ego) through
a semipermeable membrane (body) from
a less concentrated (thought) to a more
concentrated solution (soul) until both
solutions are of the same concentration (now) -
    and the end of a romance is?
the so called "madness"
becomes a topic less and less used
by writers of fiction,
  it becomes genuine,
it also means fiction parasites,
poets included, don't dare to tread
into a goose-march stepping into this Hades....
    you don't come round these parts by
yourself... unless you're hoping to
end up dead... or trapped by a dialectical
spiderweb with talking spinders...
       you dont get to type  this ailment out...
not in the same way you write the
word osmosis....
but then again, in the west you get to
be a victim of a crime: the criminal
       gets all the perks and you get
   Belgian mud to sniff,
while a monarchy gets to celebrate
its 65th sapphire encirclement...
               psychosis should be as clear as
osmosis...
                 in that we need water....
                    obviously very few people understand
this...
                dein die kopftod...
   i call an end to romantics with "madness",
well... given cancer has the prioraties...
                so the crowd might
congregate at Golgotha...
                  i say: walk the, ******* crab!
side-ways, yes, side-ways,
   like imitating suicide on a ledge....
you made enough money from the diseases,
true when under the scalpel:
dis- (negated) -ease (do i need
to exfoliate this?) -
                   i can only see a death of making
certain diseases a case for the worthwhile tale
of selling novels...
            i can't imagine exploiting
the said diseases... but if i was born with
a capitalist conscience, i'd hardly think of
possessing a conscience...
               i'd say death to the romance
of establishing a literary subject...
              i'd prescribe the Koran...
           as odd as it might sound...
you don't really hear how
psychosis can really be stated lorem ipsum
ad hoc...
   the first you hear is
         the miser medatitive attempts in
the medium, precipitating into paranoid
schizophrenia... no more medical than it is:
politico-journalistic...
                 psychosis and osmosis...
what's the difference... one engages the soul....
the other... water...
the ending is the same -osis...
   a verb, an activity self-explanatory
in a name... easily digested via journalistic
sensationalism...
        it becomes a death then the "mad" onces
realise you're herding them into a novel
and rather run a half marathon for
  the cancer victims...
   then ***** begins to turn sticky....
                 the hierarchy of diseases emerges...
cancer pharaoh... alongside the other adverts
for flu, smomking and lesser diseases...
then they tell you how Muhammad treated
the lunatics like modern Islam might deal with
Sufis...
                   some would care to say:
these people, are, not, money-dispensing
machines!
                        but then again...
who gives a ****... i don't even know or care
if you're conscious,
    i know that conscience is not part
of your consciousness, then i'm treating you
are semi-coordinate,
   probably sleepwalking through your so
called life...
   madess has no romance for a novel,
but since you testify to people being mad
only via a model... i can't but expect your novels
to later come from glamour models
writing their ghost-biographies...
   ghostwriters... auto- not near
unless bound to refining a.i.,
oh don't worry: only books written
as books necessarily sold...
                      this has gone beyond pimping
the pompous... it really has...
                  i can't even be prone to pomp,
i can't believe in writing a book
like i might don a cravat or a beefeaters' uniform...
      books have nothing
      grand about them...
writing them we're cheap ****... very much akin
to the last ruke on the chess board:
      lifestyle journalists with  a steady income
from being printed in newspapers...
did you know robots will replace 250,000 jobs
bound to the NHS and Whitehall?
    better write scrappy, ******-doo....
they might think you're human...
           then i guess it only sounds as the prompt:
write doubly human...
   for the added effect...
             write like those employed by newspapers,
esp. the opinion columns...
can shove it up their *****...
   drink theoir gin & tonics...
think their opinions,
   and replace their premature / non-existent
dialectics, by crushing ice-cubes with their teeth.
    i can only claim being human
by not romanticising "madness"...
                         i think it's a tabloid
venture that's, well... deservedly in need of a novel...
  i can only suggest the alternative:
stop the romance of "madness",
            and stop desiring to write novels about "it",
before you turn and realise
that your sanity was prone to stage
           the alternative... zeitgeist and insect
"typo" homily.
oh, it's there... but no one thinks those people
are half-as-cult-like as they,
         there's no "secret" / shadow bribing
someone from both ease, and from seeing
an ease for dis...
                     it's just nice, seeing people pray,
kneel...
                 play into the hands of a puppeteer...
who may or may not exist...
counter to all the intelligent arguments:
try merely existing, rather than living...
  try to state i think therefore i am:
            and move it away from forgetting
that you think, and simply live...
             most people who express life
hardly ever think...
                   well... you can't see thought:
meaning their life is not so cyclic
and at the same time limited...
               cogito ergo sum is equivalent to
Zeno's paradox...
     to occupy yourself with thinking
          is to de-occupy yourself with living...
you can try to prove with thought that you
exist, but in that same instance:
your thought means less and less...
since by thinking occupy a finite space...
   and with life about you taking its course...
your cogito becomes trapped in a noumenon...
since that your self cannot
                    express a phenomenon...
given the number of example trapped
in the category of **** sapiens,
this is as natural as taking antibiotics for
a flu... only that it's purely cognitive...
or rather: cogito per se...
            cogito per se ergo sum quasi se...
given non cogito est pseudo cogito ergo sum...
   mind you: there's no pseduo sum...
we already rule given we can't
turn into the abstract burial ground of hindus
that's a fire... and how we have strated
to build up a phobia for being taken into the earth
for insect food...
   even the pagans believed to give the body
a soul, a fire burial...
   if that practice remained, there would
be no reference to monotheistic ****...
       or we would turn into Chinese omnivores...
i find it bewildering that the Hidus and Chinese
have been so ****** patient with us...
count to 1 billion in English...
  years... probably another 1000 years to
reach that number of snooker-player plumbers
and carpenters ready like vulchers...
  cos we really needed that "perfected" aesthetic
of a web-page to really, really clog our brains...
thinking that it wouldn't precipitate into
a loss of body, a sudden loss of body,
  and the emerges of youth with mental illnesses
akin to premature depression, when depression
was the disease of the old, in the gravity cursing
toward, for ****'s sake! Homer!
    yes, the Greek poet!
                  how can you suddenly expect
to make mentala illness a myth, + a taboo...
when you prescribed people gym memberships...
and a complete lack of manual labour,
having exported it to China...
  the ******* on about?
      we're suddenly the new Marxist theory samples...
brains in pickle-jars...
     completely spineless!
                 we wanted both mind and body...
instead... the powers-at-be... told us:
you only need a mind... no body...
   body belongs to hamster... to the gym...
  well... but i really wanted to think crap and hammer
in nails all day... no can do... Chinese have it...
well...
                 what's the point now?
how else would Islam, not be agitated in prescribing us
a war?
           i still find it bewildering that the Chinese
and the Indians (2 billions, and counting)
are so patient with us...
                   still... you want to know why
there's an escalation in youth mental illness in the west?
you gave their bodies to the Chinese...
  no way in the world can their minds (including
my own) ever reach a plateau of an Einstein that
would be satisfactory for the authorities,
to move away from Einstein... and establish
a telekinetic norm (as seen on adverts).

for the ****** act, there's too much
tailoring and use of toiletries
for it to be as expected: spontaneous
and exciting; too many stereotypes;
it simply said: just wait for my mouth
to be a toilet-fresh minty winter for
the kiss before oral.*

oh, between the drunken me entertained
by the lack of movement among
static things, and promises of soberness
to be rewarded with the rewards of
television and listening to politico talk?
what would i choose... hmm... drunk
by the minute, ******* sanity!
or in comparative issues, anyone branded
a schizophrenic (who doesn't put
a baby into an oven and run out of the
house on the streets naked) is met
with an army, what i like to call "health experts",
every citizen becomes a doctor, enlightened,
ridiculous like a handful of lice -
they all gained a doctorate talking *******,
they're the plumbers for each surgeon required,
know all know how bunches of loosely stated
definitions of idiots (boney m in the background:
poo poo rhapsodic utility made us all tsar's last rasp):
wear a kimono! kimono worn, what now?
dance the polka! danced the polka, what now?
freeze the danube! i hate these people,
they're the laziest theorists, they have better theories
than the theorists who prescribe pills for
de-activation of some sort of behaviour,
and that's only one footprint outside the realm
of easy living: creases, pyjamas, slurred speech
slurps of tomato soup.
psychiatric terms are metaphorical for / in poetry:
as seen by the casual inference of depression
whenever the average citizen says he / she are sad:
psychiatric vocabulary exploits a communicative
simplicity by staging an enforced "eloquence,"
not that it is related to socrates attacking the act
of rhetoric by a question (mark), since
rhetoric doesn't believe in being questioned,
nor does it believe in the existence of the question mark,
to be put on the spot, to be stopped from the bull-charge:
just imagine utilising rhetorical conviction
when the pre-script failed you when interruption
and question was utilised? for rhetoric to fail
it takes a comma (,) to turn into a question mark (?),
deciphered as winded and worth a digression
when the speaker is interrupted (via the full-stop):
socratic rhetoric was based on a flux of question,
at the time when rhetoric was spoken and acted
upon without a single question: socratic rhetoric
was indeed a rhetoric of questioning.

the jungian concept of the collective unconscious
is quiet simply bogus... why?
it would mean that no one in the rest of us
would or wouldn't know whether they were
capable of being... plumber!
        i find the jungian version of "events"
as scary as communism,
          it just means: a retardation of
darwinism - it means a loss of consciousness -
you do know, that jung is a covert
communist, right?
                 i find it strange that a collectivist
unconsciousness does not allow me to
engage with whoever i like in the dream world...
why is it, that i can't dream up:
  anyone i like?
    why am i not a magician in the medium,
pulling a black 12 incher from a top-hat
instead of a rabbit?! as usual: no answer.
      a ******* **** in the wind,
      a persian falafel in a turkish kebab,
a piece of broccoli in a cauliflower salad...
an eskimo in a sand dune,
about as weird as a zebra among pandas.
so we're collectively unconscious of
each of us are doing?!
           so the plumber doesn't know
why he's a plumber, nonetheless,
he's content with being human, and being part
of the great extract of the universe,
and the subsequent per se,
           and he's not ******* at anything
akin to the exceptionalism of an einstein?!
wow!
    what, an, exceptional, observation!
scary to endorse the psychiatric collectivism
of jung, and oppose the economic collectivism
of marx...
       in both instance: we're all apparently
going to succeed!
          but one thing is for sure:
we're not sleeping walking into one of them...
oh... right... we are...
    no wonder the circus is dead;
because when i think of a collective
unconscious i start thinking along the lines
of: there is someone, out there,
who's a walt disney,
    who doesn't actually think / imagine
himself as being a plumber...
         and then he does a las vegas on
the stage, and he gambles it right...
      which is why i can't actually understand
jung without understanding communism,
and why anyone would an essential part
of freud, to replace it with jungian
ideology, and not accept some minor form
of communism...
the collective unconscious...
   that's a truly unfathomable compound
of words these days...
     so we're all sleeping, or?
we're all awake?
         in the collective array of stratas i already
"knew" i was to be a plumber,
the poor ****** next to me,
already "knew" he was to be a politician?
oh, right, it was in the unconscious
medium, so we won't actually "know"...
   jung was a ******* communist however
you like it or not...
        and freud was just the instigator
of the *****-industry,
      a monolithic capitalist of the *******
agency of the base construct:
       skyscrapers are not, an, accident;
and i do abide by the law of necessary
correction,
   i probably have made a mistake -
   it, whatever ill i've said,
     nonetheless is wed to the already prefaced
intro to:
           i find the collective unconscious
a dire play on words,
   that shies away from the politico dynamic
of communism...
  by suggesting, that when all said and done:
the plumber has no knowledge of
being a plumber, rather "thinking" himself
                     being a zookeeper!
oh ****... i must be *******...
but i just watched the plumber do the zookeeper's
job, of teaching the gorilla sign language,
"telling" the gorilla: i, think, yer, deaf.

you want war, you have world war two spitfire pilots to serve your post-colonial migration; and yes, i'll twitch my eyes; ha ha cuisine scots using ginger.

there's a quintessential
fascination with cabbage
among the mutli-cultural
asians of england being picky
concerning scandinavians
and the slavs...
politico i could say as much
about indian spices.. but they're
granulated i admit,
so there's less stink in the armpits;
or there isn't, given chanel cardamom:
assimilated asians into british
society don’t use raw herrings and cabbage
to joke about other european ethnicities
while waving the st. george
of that great fake curry of suffolk.

i've been telling the turks about sauerkraut for years
to match up a purposive additive for the lamb kebab;
sours to cut through the lamb fat like the chillies
cutting through.

a. sketch

gęba
                                                              py­sk
            buzia (buziaki)     usta

           głowa                          łeb (łbem)
                  
          gleba (judo submission)      na glebe
                  ziemia,     pustota pola:
  ziemia                                             ziemniak
    ßuka | matka
                                                       pani | kurwa.

ß: juicy s... no macron to be found... but it's there.

b. narrative

it's the current vogue in western cultures,
notably that in anglophone contingents of the copula
already stated: western.

i once heard the argument that it doesn't matter
whether you understand the lyric in a song,
i agree: poems need and only represent a one-dimensional
desire to write words: a bulls-eye, or a white shark's
blind spot| in those omnious eyes without
sclera or iris... |hard to find.

for some reason i have this need to state that this is
a cultural enrichment project, like all *cold war tactics...
since we are living in the times of cold war ii,
there's an inherent need to suggest an alternative to what's
spread on the air-waves...
               dylan thomas could have influenced bob dylan
(who took the name for a surname);
                               but of course i wouldn't
  sell you anything else, but to be given the impression
of a second-rate citizen of england only gives me a militant
status... and since most of us can only grasp a stone
to start a war... better use your mother-culture...
at least i can feel a cultural collectivism of ethnicity
that has a mongrel thought and tongue...

well... that link in the title? it's not a trojan horse link,
the times of trojan viruses are over, they were around a while
back, but the trojan horse has become extinct...
lao che's jestem psem (i'm a dog)...
                     cuchne kiedy zmokne (aura of stench when
i get wet)...
                    
            well... what was the original intent?
oh oh, right:
                              i wouldn't call linguistic teachers with
any use: if they are not bilingual at least...
bilingualism entrenches you in languages and cultures...
and i wouldn't study philosophy, or dare-say "practice" it
if you haven't begun with studying either chemistry
or physics... or biology? the latter i'm not too sure about.

yet all this politico talk in the west... about trans-
        and gender...
                                    funny you should say that...
it has become a reality in the west with these transitions
in accordance with st. thomas' gospel, among other things,
but it's more about how: words do not have genders
in english...
                                     english hasn't evolved to incorporate
gender "roles" in its words, it doesn't have it...
   which translates into the fiasco we see everywhere
in the internet prone world...

              i can't distinguish the masculine or the feminine
in speaking english...
          księżyc (masculine): moon        słońce (feminine): sun.
lampa (feminine): lamp
                                             świeca / świeczka (feminine): candle...
and once again a better example: english words
   can't contain or express diminutive form, e.g. as the above
for candle... it requires the crutch of an adjective,
   and even that word is an approx. to describe a language
that allows words to accept the diminutive...
                mały (cm) that leads into malutki (mm)
that leads into maluteńki (μm) - that leads into
   maciupki (nm) / it's more endearing given the μm scaling...
                                 try to apply the diminutive aesthetic
to the original word beyond
                 the already stated ... and you're writing nonsense.
                
so why is the english language so ****** naked?
naked up to the point that it has to be so "active" in the real
world? i know that oxford dons would like to
     start spewing their grammar rules... but i can't find
the diminutive, for one... for second sexes of words...
and thirdly... trans-humanism when talking about animals...

c. examples from the sketch

gęba / buzia: the mouth, the former being utilised in
such examples as: niewyparzona gęba / a foul mouth...
    buzia? what about it? well: buziaki (kisses) - all angelic.
the distinction comes with pysk... that's derived
                              from the snout... and my my... how
my logic has failed me on this point...
but wait!
             oh looky looky! there's another better
example!                     głowa                          łeb (łbem)
                             head                                 this!
zaczynam sie łbem (i begin with the "head") -
                            kończe sie ogonem (and end with the tail):
so out pops out the distinction between a human head
and an animal's head... the word: łeb.
                    something akin to: crude, protruding
                                                      ­                    or large.
d. in conclusio

is this the guide to what the western world is experiencing?
or at least motivating... well: this is just part
of the bigger picture, it's answer as any answer might be:
befitting to a select interested in taking to this view...
during my "career" of education, i never heard
of the masculine / feminine concepts applicable to words
in the english language... but who cares these days:
it's interesting to watch lunatics taking to st. thomas'
gospel seriously, literally, not appreciating poetry,
                                     overcrowding in prisons as the lunatic
asylums folded and disappeared: with society
being just a massive azyl... a scary word like
                           it's known in my birthplace - morawica;
it's a word that strikes fear into the hearts of men
and women -         it sounded so notorious that they later
changed it... had to: the town of kielce was given
a bad reputation because of it.

i seem to have discovered what
drives the "average"
atheist...

   well...
     i'm not fan of either:
but the amazing atheist's
critique of jordan peterson's
book?

you pick these "nuances"
up the more you look, closely...

yes, i did go to a catholic
school,
but no, i refrained from
    being confirmed...
baptism?
   nothing i could have done
about that...

aside...

   as i of the people:
and the people just keep hanging
around the Pillars of Samson,
e.g.:
the man made "no sense":

sense as in what?
to see, to hear?
  so he made sense...
     nonsense is a different
variation of:
  what remains of
the post-pentagram
"yoga" session..

   only when an atheist
succumbs to rhetoric
do i see it...

      i thinker would sooner
succumb to etymology
and shut up...
but an atheist?
         upon listening:
do you hear it?

it's like they're craving
an ever-more necessary
expasion of their
vocabulary...

i find all atheists
to be word-starved...
they read
a thesaurus like
a bible,
like:
oh you see it when
an author reduces
himself / herself
to the use of a thesaurus:

the word looks like
a mile,
when it should looks
like a centi-
         of a -metre.

i'm not defending
either of the people
involved...

      i already gave my
cent flicked into
a fountain for luck:

rule 13: wear pajamas
to bed...

rule 12:
pet a cat when you encounter
one in the street...

yeah... about that...
(scratching of the head:
i.e. Adam implies
thought...)

imagine: Rodin's
le penseaur via a chirogram:
almost "unnatural":
with an arm
         outstretched,
then folding,
   then parts of the hand
scratching the cranium...
like: serious art,
taken to the circus...
but that would be enough
to: forget the chin,
the folded hand
in a pact of non-aggression,
a count of knuckles
like the limbs of
a sleeping spider
lodged in a spider-web...

i think: verb -
   chiro-:
              give me a minute
to sieve through
the grammatical
structures
           of the sensing...

nonetheless:
i find the majority of atheists
to be starved
          from a:
lingua anti deo...

              i haven't found
a vocal atheist to be
a case for a: silence
associated with an investigation
to amount to an etymology...

atheists, i find,
are always... "riddled"
by "feeling"
inadequate,
concerning their acquisition
of vocab.,
an atheist will always
become intrinsic to the existence
of a thesaurus...
  atheists are prone
to exfoliate their base:
of everyday spreschen
via...
    yes... the casual author
appears terrible:
  having to make use of
a thesaurus:

the ******* word
looks like a sore thumb,
or a trumpet for a worth
of an elephant's trunk
dipping in imitation:
for a flush of water...

that 12nd rule though...
eeeeeeeeh...
no...
  sorry...
someone should have told
him: cats are not that
gullible to attend to petting
from someone walking
a street at night...
drinking a beer...

      ever have a staring
contest with a fox?

           em... "oops"?!

see... not all cats can be
petted, randomly,
on a street...

      give or take: a P.U.A.'s
fraction of a gullible ****'s
worth to the
  "blessed night's" completion...

no: no random cat will
allow itself to be petted,
but find one:
sure... you'll pet it...

      but... aaah...
find a fox...
          and stand against
it with a touching distance...
now you're into
a serpentine of
at least the 15th rule,
for "life"...

             nonetheless...
atheists...
   i don't mind them...
a god, no god,
no vector,
no coordinate,
yet still the "familiar"
consequence
of "things"
being fathomed
via the medium of
in situ...

         but...
atheists have been prescribed
an ontological "quest"
that demands: of them,
     to "reiterate"...

"new" words need
to be employed...
"new" words need to be
"found"...
          
there are those words
used in a framework
of speaking "freely"
that succumb to...
  being looked up, prior...

you can see a punctuation
mark
when there's no
punctuation mark
apparent...

                    but there's a clarity
of a hunger that can only
be associated with atheism:
in that it's a...
              crafting
a necessity fabric of / for
a rubric of vocab. -
  in the least: to peacock...
in the most:
    shut-up
   and not appear as some
New Yawn-kipper...

how... ever...
why would the chin be so
incredibly important
to source it, as an artifact
for the proof of thought?

had that statue a beard:
you'd receive an imprint
of a man:
fiddling with a beard,
atuned to resemble
playing a violin...

but no statue:
of a man... in the most
worth of an chirogram attest:
i.e. scratching his head...

yes, Socrates had the questions,
he, an anomaly
of what becomes
                   of old, demented,
age process in a script's worth
of indicators...
anomaly...

and subsequent philosophers?

         as long as the narrative
survives...
as long as the narrative
becomes more and more
entrenched, intrinsic:
    then we can labor moving
forward:
on the whims of a maxim...

   but sooner or later,
a la rochefoucauld or a nietzsche
comes along...
utters his maxims
and leaves them... adrift:
on the chance of:
by precursor notices of
"said" farces: they become
resonant
pirates of wisdom...

the instruments that
are a will: to provision
a humbling...
   a...            knee to tongue
approach...

i don't mind atheists...
i just find them
vocab. starved...
   whenever i hear them
speak, i can't but begin
to orientate myself
around their "thinking":
in that,
the precursor is
always a thesaurus...
   and image becomes:
       ein waßerfall von zungen -

me? i have to unlearn
the bogus chirogram of:
in the name of the father,
and of the son,
and of the holy spirit...

i.e.
   go north / up / it goes to the head,
go crux / center / it goes to the heart,
  go left / your left hand
gets chopped off,
go right / your right hand
gets chopped off...
                    
an atheist is still
someone who seeks to
nibble on the excerpts of
politico sophistry...
not withstanding
the crux of: the short-cut...

            i can see the vanity
of atheists...
   seeking the art of rhetoric...
perfecting it...
  to me... atheists are
very much akin
              to rhetoricians...

        what couldn't
possibly be a desire to expand
on one's vocab.?
         hell...
in the age where
aesthetic is lesser known
form of knowledge,
and knowledge is
worth just as much
as: trivia...

                 petting a cat
on a street, at night?
not so easy...
                     try freezing
a fox into an exchange
of a stare
   within a framework of:
the pair of you
are made unison
for a moment...
   only a meter apart.

though the mills of God grind slowly
yet they grind exceeding small
though with patience
he stands waiting
with exactness grinds he all.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


for the wicked there's comeuppance
yes, for plagiarist and troll
it may not be in present tense
but evil has its toll

for the greedy human tyrant
for the fat politico
the rich are as a vagrant
trudging through the snow

******, Pol ***, Stalin
Napoleon's Waterloo
in disgrace and fallen
into hell's external stew

the world is a millstone
it grinds fine, or so it's said
born here crying and alone
finally we're dead

don't envy the deceiver
or those who perpetrate
they'll be the receiver
meet poetic Fate

God has a sense of humor
those who blot society
may end up with a tumor
in the end will not be free

those who think they're "first"?
pity the poor fools
they're actually cursed
to be the *devil's tools

there's no skating through this life
they will all be doomed
the scepter is a poison knife
the coffer is a TOMB.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 11/23/2015

i woke up today and couldn't fathom current
affairs in any other way...
             the rebirth of israel...
                      hawk pantos that's america (*** note,
hannibal would apply the death penalty
if i was playing the trombone, or something
akin to it... tearing my hearing to shreds and
subsequently infuriating me)...
            but my tongue is a very debasing
instrument to come to grips with...
                      it's the internet and the narrative
in the west...
                        i was just listening to a nationalist
greg johnson... and let's face it:
how did nationalism become so reasonable?
        or what do you say to nationalists who
have to face up to darwinistic populists that are
secretly communist?
                        i find darwinism not so much a case
against god, but against the left...
                    maybe i'm seeing double or something...
anyway... if i was writing this in central europe ("east"
europe... left right of centre argument?
  copernicus didn't really improve our map-reading
skills... more people find the edge of a cliff
or a sea than... the ******* x: that marks the spot)...
           so we're supposed to be objective,
        and by object i mean an ethnic context:
     which bites back at what those who argue against
subjectivity have: how am i to suddenly turn into shadow
of some obscene universalism?
       well, judging by the content i'm being "prescribed"
(just listening to), and given darwinism, when doesn't
brutality (at least intellectual) come into the fore?
           arguments in a graveyard phase?
                                     epitaph managment?
but since i'm writing this in england, and seeing what's
unfolding, or what's already too late to comment on
as it already has...
    politico-ethnicity speaking? as an anglo-slav?
        there is a dual deterrent in "certain" parts of central
europe... some say the weather, some say:
  the people who inherited the remnants of national
socialism's nadir... we know national socialism's
zenith was the autobahn... so if the british proclaim
pride at the railway network, the germans can't
proclaim a pride in the autobahn network?
                     well... if you've ever been in the central
of warsaw during the winter, you know climate is a natural
deterrant to what the problems in western europe
are spoken about...
                        giving the current climate of politics,
i can't say that sites such as auschwitz are also deterrents...
    i'm guessing people over there (as earth to earthenware
be spoken) - perhaps half-jokingly:
                                        you want us to fire up
the furnaces? no, but the Ełk example...
                         do i really have to state that darwinism is
an ideology in direct confrontation with marxism?
                 i hear things like cultural marxism...
        but what the west has started to export is
                                                 cultural darwinism...
it's a seesaw effect, a stick has two ends...
                                           i don't even know how to
begin entertaining the effects of cultural darwinism,
unless of course there's overt psychologism
                              and too many explanations and
very little action: it's like this ******, completely ******
off his face on l.s.d. looking at a painting saying:
    oh, isn't that nice?
                                    cultural darwinism is real,
and it lies opposite cultural marxism; i really don't know
how it happened, by darwinism is political these days
(as it always was, with the monkey trial...
  but then that was in the realm of law, rather than politico
blah blah)... in that sense it has become almost ineffective
in convincing people anew, afresh, precisely because
it has turned from a very beautiful theory,
                     into the harsh reality of indoctrination;
i really hid that part where i mentioned auschwitz as
a deterrent to the migrant problem, didn't i?
                  i'll write a bit more and it will truly be well
hidden... o fortuna... und die shattenvolk:
                      it's not even a belief, you just read western
media, and it's as if poland was one defended by
western europe, by not receiving pointless coverage;
       within reasonable constraints, this new alliance
within the european union?
                           i'm thinking whether it's real or not;
never mind... i'm still to depict su doku tactics
            and actually finish a puzzle that i ensured
could be turned into ideograms... which by japanese
standards of complexity, would be treated
   as if neanderthal... all we have in terms of complexity
is volume... since almost anyone can and anyone
has learned english... it's naked... ****-naked adam,
the oddball of all other european languages...
             primarily due to a lack of unitary distinctions...
and this point has to be repeated repeated re-.

always back in
a monochromatic society,
twice a year...
   a nausea -
    of only interacting with whites
akin to myself...
most people will not understand
the nausea...
   and there is a nausea -
within these anti-major
cosmopolitan hotspots...
but the nausea passes...
   but in terms of a personal
psychology?
  i lose something...
   a game a learned integrating
into english society...
the... chameleon game...
   i never have that
in Poland, i'm back to square
one, generic,
like the rest of them...
       i prefer the English
multi cultural society for
personal, "selfish" reasons...
namely?
i can play the chameleon game...
i can speak two tongues
and four accents,
   reserving a fifth for
some Muslim who thinks
i have the ****** features
of a German...
       back home i'm just
a Pole among Poles...
      nothing that couldn't
be conceived as lack-luster...
back in England?
ah nay.. not exotica for
the women...
             i prefer the chameleon
game...
as it turns out...
not all immigrants huddle...
at least not all Polacks huddle
together in... communities...
communities of workforce?
sure... Poles coexist together
only in work environments...
socially?
    like a ******* dog & cat...
i don't know any Poles in terms
of community,
  or social interaction...
      no chance in hell...
never will...
   which shows...
when i travel back to Poland
to visit my grandparents...
**** me the nausea of being
an ant in an anthill...
      i once landed in Krakow
and fooled around
by pretending to not speak
the native tongue...
only interacting in English...
i felt sick...
            how?
   i eased out an ear of
compassion and spoke to her
when she approached me
talking about how her son
hanged himself and she needed
money...
   and there was this
immigrant Anglo with
a Polish girlfriend,
and some Miroslav with a
broken French accent who
emigrated to France and
forgot to speak the native tongue...
and the girl of the "expat"
was like: huh?!
    England is unique in that respect...
well...
not England...
   London... and London
is not England...
    England is not London
and Londoners were never merely
Cockneys...
last time i heard?
Jackie the Ripe-Piper
was probably a Jewish Pollack...
    i was born in a small torn
just shy of Masovia -
every, single, time,
the monochromatic nausea
of only seeing white people...
i guess... it must be the same
for a Nigerian who grew up
in England and gets to visit his
grandparents back, "home"...
women are different,
i'm talking about males...

           then again... ****...
a Nigerian can't exactly perfect
the chameleon game...
i've been Hungarian,
Swedish, but mostly German...
never a Pollack...

            back "home" you miss
the ethnicity roulette...
    i can understand the ultra-nationalism
of small towns of nations...
but i can also understand
the ultra-cosmopolitanism of
capital cities of post-nationalistic
states...

come to think of it...
    i'm only comfortable in East London...
west London is off-limits for
comfort, again,
equivalent to the monochromatic
nausea bound to urban Poland -
the tourists sticking out
like birch trees in a ******* pine
forest...

      it's all contradictory -
rural - small urban strongholds...
where people recognize you
via recognizing your grandparents
and your grandparents fill
the locals in...
   no problem...
   traveling through Warsaw?
a ******* gutting sensation
like some variant of William
Wallace being executed...
   Mongols, Ukrainians, Roma...
    the odd Lithuanian...

it's the nausea of the effect of
a revived commonwealth once seemingly
lost...
    unlike the British commonwealth
slowly disintegrating into
farce and: keeping up appearance...
pomp & circumstance
having replaced pride & prejudice...

i can walk down a shady East End
street and talk...
            and feel nothing but
a welcoming thrill of contempt...
   strap me to a crowded place in the center
of Warsaw...
and i'm disorientated,
like a fox in daylight...
                   wildly afraid...
all the time on my guard...

  and i'm! "supposedly" the native...
   merely having inherited
the language is no guard...
      i might speak "their" language...
but when it comes
to the several underlying
languages of human interaction?
****... i can walk down
some shady alley
of Whitechapel -
                           i've learned it from...
i guess...
that one time me and my three
friends were robbed
in South Park, Seven Kings...
two girls as bait...
and then 10 of them approached...
started kicking my crying
friend to the ground...
some **** about me asking
for my walkman back off of him
while he was getting kicked...

whatever it was...
   there are actually more languages
than the mere communicative
of a Fwench class of buying
groceries...
   there is the language that
extends into the surroundings...
   the sort of language
that allows you to visit a Goodmayes
brothel
and leave it
telling the girl:
   can i not shower,
so i can keep your skin's
perfume for a while longer?

  there is no chameleon game
when i visit Poland,
i don't visit Poland,
  i visit the dutiful grandson who
still has grandparents...
and that?
is the most boring game of chameleon...
i stop drinking, enforce
a self-styled rehab...
   read a book, watch Polish t.v.
befitting pensioners...
   sunrise... sunset...
   and give my grandmother
a holiday from cooking for
a dementia sufferer...

  but back in London...
              a parade of over 280+
languages... making the mold
in the shadows of off-limits Mayfair
and other, politico, ******-pots
of riches,
exhausted by the Sheiks
   and Mandarin Emperors
                 of the Lapis-Lazuli.

i can't remember whenever i had a points
system for women,
i'm classical in my ****** tastes,
in that i do find plump women attractive,
as the black guys in school used to
say: more cushion for the pushin',
ha ha, that's ******* lovely,
that's like a christmas present without a
christmas...
  chubby girls really are the sorts,
then again, enough *** and that african
**** comes in handy real good...
imagine poor whitey with an african ***
of a woman:
        is it even in? is it? is it?
  i don't know, can't tell...
                     i thought it was in,
but then she clenched her ****-cheeks and
i started thinking about david hume,
road cones and copper hollow statues...
     seems there's a reason why african men
have 12" *****, and african women
have extensions of the ***** via their assess...
and by comparison anorexic whitey boy
***** are: gearing: all the more readied...
      oh, you want me to pick up
the slurppy seconds?
      how about that existential blackmail
when i retort: no!
i like continental existentialism of the
french, or of the german,
but of the english existential blackmail?!
*******...
   ******* right off!
     i'm not buying the david attenborough
gimmick of: expected to survive addressing to...
no, ****** no! you're not buying me
to make a politico statement!
         i actually have no white in me...
i'm all albino!
       i liked fattened women once,
in kenya i noticed the rich women from
the poor women...
the rich women were fat, the poor women were
poor...
      fat women are as much a fetish as women
in latex...
      you're hardly a man not able to
tell the difference...
                 point being:
if you haven't ****** a "*****" fat *****,
you haven't exactly allowed your wife
to perform her "heart on heart"
infidelity... men are ought only perform
infidelity with ******...
  after all, you're king arthur, turn
your hearts to stone... why would you
ever perform "infidelity" without a *****?
please, can she have the narrative,
the storyline, and you the hardened heart?
surely you can master the logic of:
well, i paid for it, how can it be infidelity?
i pay for a bunch of flowers,
how can it be infidelity?
  obviously a woman has no economic transaction
akin... so?
      i like plump women...
        what's there to miss,
i never had *** as a teenager...
          so what's there to mix or mind,
or miss?
                   then again i wish i never had
*** with this russian 19 year old,
mind that, i wish i never had *** at all...
     why bother having ***, when the payment
is so untruthful in the ask of compensation,
n'ah... *** is... well...
a baboon taking a **** always seemed more
interesting;
                 and the black guys always knew,
that their women were what they were,
and then the whiteys figured it all out,
saying:
     play the boy, never buy the mansion, *****!

A  popeyed visitor,
to the newly opened
museum, see this;
a metallic bust
of a populist politico,
smiles intermittently,
to everyone around.
(They had enough of it,
even before his demise.)
Perplexed, he reports
the misdemeanor,
dutifully at once.
The shrink with him
during this time,
was away talking
with a museum guide.