.aye aye... trí turds... wha'? three turds... huh? tree thirds... oh paddy paddy paddy... τo 'ινκ ιτ θρoυ(γɥ)... you might 'ave even brought ubout a a taught - naught - a thought.

but but... but...
Poland is so unwelcoming?!

good...

   no attachments
of a post-colonial narrative...

oh... and the language
is hard to learn...

    by all means,
infiltrate...
            
  we've had the Nazis,
we've had the three-headed Hydra
of Prussia,
  Russia and Austro-Hungary...

we've had the Communists...
oh i'm pretty sure we
can accommodate Islam...
along with the scuttling
rats
of the gutter...

            we are a people,
and WE, as a people:
owe you nothing!
         nothing!
  take your British empire postscriptum
elsewhere, eat and ****
there, and don't come back...

i'll appropriate this native spreschen,
i'll speak it...
but don't you come around here
supposing i'll "think"
like you do...

      funny... well... not really...
Dublin was never to become the second
Edinburgh...

        but whenever I hear an Eire man
talk...
  there's that diacritical excuse of
repeating:
    paddy paddy paddy potato
pancake...
paddy paddy paddy mac (protestant)
mc (catholic) Doug -
      la la paddy paddy woo! wooooooo!

no, thank you...
  we've had the Nazis -
we've had the Communists -
thankfully all the Polish economic migrants
are returning home...
   thanks for being treated like
some sort of, quasi Roma...
              
   no problem... we can go back
to a homeland, given that we're actually
less victors, and more inheritors -
   the Marshall Plan...
well...
      if only the H'americans reached
Berlin first...
there would be no Warsaw pact...
by the way...
   i thought Sweden and Switzerland
remained neutral?
  so why pay them the Marshall Plan
funds?

       oh, but please...
move to Poland...
        see how long you'll survive...
         that feral land of lost
opportunity...
        i don't mind...
   language might be a problem...
given...
English isn't exactly pop
outside the confines of a
Jean Claude van Damme movie...

        but go on... try...
            you'd find more success in
catching a floater's worth of a ****
than exercising any
     chance to subvert the reigning
culture...

  bo? (because)?
   i'll integrate -
             (ja wtopie się w tą kulture) -
but - ale -
on one condition -
    w ramach jednej potrzzeby -
i'll retain my birth-tongue -
ja zachowam swój zór!

i'd never trust immigrants,
economic or refugee,
if they do not retain their mother tongue -
if they can't construct
bilingualism?
   they're rotten fruit...

   i'm not here to be nice -
zapomnienia mówienia po
   polszku...
   i forgot how to speak Polish...
  
rotten fruit,
attempting integration too hard...
you can't forget
your native tongue,
just like you can't forget
riding a bicycle or
swimming...

            the argument stinks of
****!
i hate it...
    i'd expect a jew to make
this sort of argument,
rightfully so...
     i can't imagine the heartache
of having invested so much
Hebrew in German to create
Yiddish...
   a Jew i can understand...
       but some ******* Pakistani
suggests he has, on "purpose"
forgotten Urdu,
and speaks only English?

   sum? terrorist...
     no man is born without either
a linguistic, or a cultural integrity -
prior to the cuisine,
the language dies...
but then the cuisine never dies...
neither does the language -
and if the language is "dead":
the mentality remains...

         you smell something?
skunk?
   hmm... i'll speak English, i'll write
English... but i'll think in my
Western Slavic guise...
ah... sorry i'm not copper-skinned
wishing for an Indian suntan
of the lower-caste...
  sorry...
          
you're standing ****-naked in terms
of orthography - as a language -
and you're over-laden with metaphysics...
sure as **** a satan will come around
dressed in either paupers' rags
or a gentleman's nightgown;

    as i still begin, persistent -
in telling you...
a man who does not have enough
ethnic pride, in retaining, and keeping,
a language his mother used to
lullaby by him to sleep,
into his later years?
   a person, who cannot accommodate
bilingualism?
        trust score? ZEE-RHO.

i much abhor the Scots and the Eire men,
as much as i admire the Welsh
for priding themselves on
retaining Cymru -
                      no Gaelic?
   no pass...
                 English is a mongrel language...
who gives a ****?
  some Shanghai
         half-wit economics student speaks
it...
    lingua franca...
                       thus that i have
to admire... the Welsh...
     and their version of YHWH:
                     CYMR...
that... takes *****...
         the Welsh could look into
Kashubian and Silesian Polish to boot.

**** words fail what is it you want sick hearing about god get attached won’t let go close eyes imagine foreign exotic lands strange beautiful women tentatively open eyes hours later where am i what happened

chicago 1991 bartender Jerry dressed in black pants white shirt black bolero thinks Odysseus intelligent funny hooks him up with drinks Odysseus and Jerry banter libertine remarks “what’s up with you tonight Jerry?” “i wish my life had more balance i work too much i’m getting stressed serving drunks like you” Odysseus smashes cigarette into ashtray orange embers break up smoke smolders drifts Jerry empties ashtray Odysseus says “balance is a funny thing Jerry it’s not necessarily symmetric like yin yang symbol what if balance manifests in form of 9 parts darkness to 1 part light envision powerful bright beam shooting through nine degrees of night” Jerry replies “never thought about it that way you mean like yin-yin-yin-yin-yin-yin-yin-yin-yin-YANG!”  Odysseus laughs “exactly the question is is life just a big joke? what if the world is made up of nine parts evil and hatred to one part goodness and love?  what if the total equation is godless? does existence have a point other than amusement?” Jerry answers “don’t get philosophical on me Odys where is this going or do i already know?” Odysseus expounds “what is more captivating than a woman embarrassed? Jerry did you ever tease torture a woman with feathery touch tongue then finally give her pleasure” Jerry grins nods walks to other end of bar Odysseus drinks 10 or 12 double absolute vodkas on the rocks smokes pack of cigarettes scribbles on cocktail napkins Jerry serves listens Odysseus gestures hands spews out words “this is my church this is how i absolve my hurting let us drink to our own annihilation perhaps some good will come what more fun is there than to desecrate one’s self? to the last man standing” he toasts priding himself with strong constitution a female regular sitting at bar comments “sometimes you can be such a ***** what’s wrong with you Odys? you used to be so sweet you’ve changed you’re still in the game but you’re so cooked black on all the edges” he mumbles “hmmmm” walks home blind drunk led by his dog maybe that state of blind drunkenness is about Oedipus plucking out his eyes because he does not want to see truth

One push one step
All it takes till they're all weeping
Horrified by the morbidity of my depression
This is what you all did as you watched in amusement
As flesh turned to stitches
Stitches turned to masks worn daily
This is the consequences to what you think is funny
Laughing at the gay guy
Picking on the nerds
Wedgies and swirlys
After school beatings
Lame excuses for the reason their noses are bleeding
One bullet away
And it's your conscious getting locked up
Guilty...Guilty...Guilty
It's all your fault
Your to blame for the red walls
Once painted a baby blue like the sky
Where they all found comfort in the clouds
Now they're waiting patiently
To assist in dragging you to hell
My depression is that of everyone I've lost
To the unreasonable bullying
You pathetic ******* just don't see
The torment your behind the back laughter
In the face fists
Face to **** stained porcelain
Maybe you should taste what you prescribed
For every gay, ****, *****, nerd, underling you so pleased
Priding yourself with their tears
Not realizing it wasn't the only thing you caused to cry
A wrist, a thigh, a chest
Now I'm filling graves you dug
With the bodies of my beloved misfits

Oh what a wonderful phase
We are in right now, us five girlfriends,
With defunct love lives and no immediate hope
of securing a boyfriend.

Oh what freedom there is, in
branding ourselves "unaffordable platinums",
And priding ourselves at being too good for
those mortal, fallible, self-proclaimed "alpha" men.

Such hypocrites we are, actually,
Ridiculing and belittling that cute guy,
Still discussing his every move, nudging
and giggling at each other when he passes by.

But hey, call us hypocrites, evil, mean-
All of it we whole-heartedly accept.
Right now, we're living life in moments,
And our bucket list of madness, we mean to "check"-

Aimless flirting - check!
Pointless bedtime discussions - check!
Choosing a guy and then dissecting
His every habit - check,
His dressing style- check,
His twinkling eyes- check,
That had met ours today over lunch break- YES! Check!,
His last aloof message- check,
Sending an even more curt response- check,
Our hidden hopes that he would reply,
With affectionate words and also apologize,
For all the times he wasn't all that nice- wistful check.

Oh we're a bundle of emotions, us five,
Sans pressures and restrictions that a guy brings along,
Sans complexities and compulsions that come free
With his supplies of testosterone.

So, broadcasting this to all you gentlemen out there,
If you ever venture into our line of sight,
Prepare to be scrutinised, evaluated, and then rejected outright,
By this precious, exuberant pack of platinum five.

I'm tired of you
Spittin back the words that I've spoken
Cuz you walk around
Priding yourself
On the fact that you're broken

You claim:
“I was ****** by society”
So you go and start rioting
Like the world is your enemy
But that **** is all hypocrisy
So honestly
Don't try to be
Someone who causes me anxiety

                    But still.  

You flaunt around
And try to tell me what I'm worth
While simultaneously
You argue that you were ****** up at birth
Like your stupid mistakes
Are supposed to cause me heartbreak
But I've run out of sympathy
For your idiocy
Cuz all it really does now
Is drive me ******* crazy
Your honorable moments
Beginning to seem hazy

                        You need help.

It's hard to remember a moment
When you weren't
Whining
Crying
Or saying that you wished you were dying
While I'm sitting here
Trying
To see if you're really suicidal
Or if you're constantly lying

                   You need to stop.

Slow down
Cuz *******
I won't be around
To catch you when you fall again
Though, there was a time
When I was your friend
But my times have changed
When you started acting deranged
Expecting me not to turn on you
After all the **** you put me through

                     I can't do it any longer.

So ask me
“Do you love me anymore?”
And I'd pause for a sec.
Like I wasn't sure
But the truth is
Since the day you put us toe to toe
My honest answer
Would have to be
No.

She gave her heart to him
as he held her head under water, and when he entangled his hands in her curls
or when his words cut like the blade she used oh, so long ago
Her only response we're the bubbles of air that followed her silence..

her legs buckled like splintering twigs as he touched her,
she was really shaking and scared but he didn't care
and all those nights she spent crying;
come morning
her lips still formed poems of devotion and his arms still said she was safe.
and while he was
Too busy priding himself in all the nights he took her to bed
to even notice..
I saw her slowly dying
half a word away,
and I could only listen to the sound of her
bones breaking
as she said
"i love you"
one last time.

A never ending battle
Between two foes
Both undefeatable
Both bigger than any other
Both capable of immense damage
Over the mind I call my own

Two foes
Fighting for the right
To destroy me
An endless tug-of-war game
The prize being the end of me

One takes the title of anxiety
But is known in many different forms
Vowing to cut me off from the world
By filling me with fear and worry
Hoping only to drive me to insanity

The other titled depression
Priding itself on killing my hopes
Vowing to cut me off from myself
By making me feel worthless
Hoping to drive me to self-hate

Crying, begging with both
To just make some compromise
A deal with two devils
In hopes of lessening their pain
Neither will have mercy
Neither will make a truce
Neither will defeat each other
Nor will they be defeated by any other

Little do they know
By clawing, scratching
At each other to get in my head
They destroy me in the process
Symbiotically they unnerve me
Together they annihilate me
They simply don’t realize
How well they work together
How well they bring me to an end

i only had one grandma.
i had people of no relation who snaked their way into my heart and then abandoned me when things got too tough.
i had one who sent me 2 holiday cards and never spoke to me because she could care less for my mother.
and then i had her.
the woman with the beehive hair and the list of men who adored her.
the smoker.
the charmer.
the maker of the best baby blankets and christmas wreaths.
i had someone who woke me up with a hug and kiss and itsy bitsy spider on the tv.
with a cup of coffee in her hand and two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the counter, one for each of us.
i had a woman who was a terrible mother but saw nothing but beauty in me and knew that i was her ticket to forgiveness.
i had a woman who empowered me and made me feel beautiful.
from the baby pictures of me in her bathroom to the way her beautiful green eyes that she gave to me looked at me with such love and adoration.
i had a woman who spoiled me.
who wanted me to have everything, not so i could act privileged, but cultured.
i had someone who felt empty inside.
who abandoned her daughter.
who did drugs and smoked until her lungs gave up on her.
i had no more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
no more macaroni art.
i had no grandma.
and maybe that’s when i started to lose my innocence.
when i realized that the woman i idolized was ripped away due to selfishness and irresponsibility.
that the nights my mother would cry herself to sleep because my father wouldn’t ever stop yelling grandma wasn’t just one call away.
there was no protection.
and while i’ve forgotten her beautiful voice i can still hear screaming and crying.
i can still hear the moment of silence and the sad man playing the keys to the tune of amazing grace.
i can still hear my father silently priding himself because he knew that he had officially isolated my mother and i from all we had ever known.
and after that, doors were closed and locked.
there were more holes in the walls and bruises and welts.
the vacations were excessive because my mother dreaded being in the home she had once drafted and created for her family.
the white picket fence was torn down.
the dog was buried in the purple flowers.
and i saw the woman i call “mom” crumble to nothingness.
and my father rise from my nonexistent grandmas ashes.

Despite priding myself on my words
you have me at a loss of them;

but I know when I find them
I will write books about you.

Ask me what's going on
and I think,
then I'll tell you

they're not building a bomb
we
are the bomb
that is what's going on.

unlit but fused
and we're going to be used.

This is the minefield from which we cannot escape
this is today and tomorrow won't wait.

It wasn't always like this
even in the dark ages when
they illuminated pages
manuscripts
but
that's been stripped away
all we have today
is
the gnawing sensation
that a great conflagration
is due.

The rapture will come
not with a heavenly choir
but with explosions from
the barrel of a gun.


Complain?


Tell me to whom?

Boom
another gun blast

you'd better believe it
the clocks running on
fast

overdrive.

Survive?

you might do
but you won't find an Eve
believe me.


I've written a will

there'll be no one to leave
my earthly possessions to,
still,
it's one of the things that we do.





Guess I'm through sermonising
priding myself
that it wasn't me prising
the lid off
Pandora's box.

i'm an egoist like i might be a spider -
a quizzical pointer and a loiter of hubris:
that word again...
   i must have mistook hubris for hiatus -
i see no future for the arguments
concerning genes -
         beside: solo project i -
                and what will continue is
the concept of a species -
i am quiet thankful that i don't demand
the face of the slobbering gods to be
of a particular inclination -
     in that: i was never fond of english:
philosophy - once the parameters
of darwinism became established:
there was no longer any blinking involved...
or at least missing the abyss -
the abyss forgot to manufacture dreams
and the darwinistic enterprise wanted
me to peer into it with unflinching metaphors:
and scarred details...
that a man might refrain from
potentially petting an arachnid...
   then again: i'm only a cat person because
******* are one thing...
but parading with genitals of dogs
is just another daydream -
      once upon a time:
                   it wasn't like the darwinistic adventure
came with a cute poetry akin
to the copernican revolution:
cited: he stopped the sun and moved the earth...
perhaps to borrow from history:
when people were wrapped up in
a "solipsism" of their own species -
           that not much from "elsewhere"
could be borrowed, tailored to
a mimic... incorporated... slyly suggested...
the full bodied and ****** consequence
of the old lies and emotions of squabbling
men and ferocious women -
beside this current neuter:
flimsy generic loaning of insect:
             ontology?
                for what was deserving for men
to imitate: a rhetorical crux / pinnacle...
that would never become a cocktail of
more robots more a priori nibbling at
the old unfathomable god:
a god outside of a polytheism that can
only become a brain-freeze and a tongue tie...
it's not that darwinism isn't... a truth beggar...
but you can't exactly make incisions
of an existentialism with darwinism -
how the 20th century becketts got "away with it"
is beside me...
but i can't be a man no more
a brick when i'm facing a comparison
from an alien revelation of insects:
to **** is to be eaten - just as much...
hell... i wouldn't mind being eaten
as long as i couldn't be milked...
         i am truly alienated by the task of
preserving genes:
there are a billion chinese and a billion
blue indian raj examples to pick... from...
it's not like the species will die...
i am no atlas and this solo project
is bothersome to have to question: to begin
with...
  i never liked darwinism because
i knew it would go far beyond a mere
observation: it had to be incorporated -
the behaviour of lions or of insects -
          after all: i am not subject to my own
undeciding human...
                  any more than i am:
objecting to: the crowd pleasing objectification
snooker or borrowing from:
these ambivalent critters of pouch shadow
and a thought...
             i'd want to summon
the old gods but there they are...
no subject matter ignites their need for
a presence...
            they might as well have secluded
themselves on the gentle silence
of a scratching orb trace to tease saturn -
i want to find the crows mystifying -
i do - but that doesn't help much...
i don't want to delve into life that's not
immediately concrete -
i followed a whiff of making concrete
but then i knew: ****'s the real stinker
and the juice...
                    i played a ****** when looking
at a spider feast on a moth...
days prior i was inviting
moths to the nursery of my bedroom...
- you simply can't create a cosmopolitan
allure for cafe existentialism with
priding yourself on darwinism -
it's not wrong it's just: i don't want to
borrow from the very base, crude:
psychopathically teasing tendencies
that... well... deviations from mammalian...
if "we" borrowed from elephants alone...
from whales...
were we oh so solipsistic prior...
yes... we must have have been...
we domesticated horses...
we domesticated dogs...
   we created bonsai tigers...
             we probably petted poster / glue
nibbling goats...
we forgave the cannibalism of chickens
when one could meet the stump
and axe: a golgotha like congregation
of drinking blood...
         a violent old god...
death and jester but a pretty innocent
apple...
now a benevolent god and a fruit:
a bundle of metaphors and metaphysics -
it's still the old trick of poetic cannibalism -
i'm sure that if i worked on the apple...
i'd get a cider from it...
am i cured from the curse of the wine -
what if my body is a rumble of whiskey
and a potato chip?
  is my corpus "antichristi" this...
wheat "buckle"... what if i can turn
the bread into a consecration of meaning
with... a ******* gnocchi or a noodle: bundle?

- catholicism - well: perhaps born into it...
but i'm missing the confirmation language
that even the great atheistic tinker and tailor
and: how biology and the rule of
the thespians killed off the alchemists and
poets...
            let's just pretend! let's... let's...
just... pretend...
             years later i can finally appreciate
Al Purdy...
   i know what put me off...
the notes in a copy of his: rooms for rent
in the outer planets...
i need to buy some rubber
to erase these pencil details...

             female handwriting -
i know it... the letters are al bubbly...
they're not akin to chicken scratchings...
bubbly ******* of toads...
"unsentimental view of nature"
a real "treasure trove of antics"...
what put me off: what always puts me off:
a need to annotate poetry:
to teach it like one might teach
a bunch of young Frankensteins
a lesson or two in anatomy...

that language so already sacred in it
being scarce has to endure...
a postmortem of additional details
of: that it can't be left alone like
a floral insignia on a base dulling of
Hittite brown:
     a bark of wood the colour of cardamom...
the argument of: well...
those egyptians were so advanced
back then... even the Iraqis...
hell... the Greeks were advanced peoples
too... looks like they took a *******
bicycle to hiatus land!

burdening me with a past and:
that darwinism doesn't really life...
a concept of / a "concept" of the Avignon
Papacy...
  i'm strapped mr. gill and mrs. gimp all
latex to a spider and some
******* chimp'zee bonanza...
           no one teaches dogs to swim...
in a priori dimming they: know
a duck from a water...
   they know a pancake from a victoria sponge:
hypothetical:
borrowing from the 1960s:
a hitchhiker in the form of a mushroom
apparently opened my eyes
and i am now: the ego-son
of the fungus with potential to:
amass the same sort of gorilla build
architecture from... scraps of...
a plethora of vitamin sources...
i'll eat the deer...
the tame the boars and shave them
to attain crick bacon...
the ******* gorilla will laugh a blank
autistic look at me:
weighing in at a K.O. from...
papyrus and twigs and perhaps
a concept of: straightening bananas...

this slow sludge of walking "backwards"
from **** sapiens to **** similis -
this opposing venture into
anti-literature -
it's not that the mirror of hopes
is now a glass grieving from a lack
of shadows...
  no one wants to find themselves
beside: an exfoliation of tongue...

once more: the church bell of the uvula...
the brain the sponge...
my liver the punching bag
of an alcoholic opponent -

    that bukowski is some this that and
the other: and he knew:
the pressures of 100 years...
that there was also this Al Purdy...
and i too made my own wine -
pretending to blindly support
a Vest Ham -
             way way out west in the east:
that i did see a tease of Venice but
that i probably will never venture
south of the thames to
this cut from the home counties
of: how Burial (dubstep)
originated...
strapped to a mythology of the north...
Thames: a river without a clarity
of mountains:
how the Thames cannot
be celebrated akin to the Vistula
or the Danube...

              murky grey fonz -
this lingering tide amass of custard...
england's last lacklustre exertion
from the 1960s...
some kingly riddle ransom of
crimea associated for the purpose
of crimson -
a taming of purple in the hue
of hooded Burgundian -
  my solving tiresome base for
eyes -
    it's not that Greenwich mean-time
could ever be "important" -
insomniac polyphony of the hours
in passing...
   is more beside the equator...
some topsy-turvy pancake a butter
lofty toast:
that toasted rye that toasted
sourdough... or a ciabatta slice...
             is more and more than this
arrogant prize of english worship
"Blumenthal"...
        
a bonsai tiger's eager inquisitive prompt
from behind a door:
retreating like a lasso or
a folding of bedsheets -
or an ironing of unironic jeans...
some things to be worn should
be best unironed -
   notably jeans -
          azure: clarity chippy of:
variation:
   death's desire to come along
the purpose of lost purples:
in denim like a...

              arbeit macht frei will
forever stand the test of time among
the workaholics...
it's as little infamous as it is:
the currency of keeping with
details of a towing of two un-opposing
factions...

these service jobs and their lowering
of physical exertion:
substituted by gym maintenance -
service jobs and the "work" of...
loitering the hours in...
                 these service jobs and the clocking
in of hours: eternity begot the yawn...
adam begot the scratching of the head:
god conceived of the hierarchy of
taking the knee:
satan borrowed a circus and
a seizure for the future of
ronin imagination...

   can a fire itch?
        i'm pretty sure the licking of ice
can be allowed a fathom of both
an itch and a burn and:
       towing glue...
pockets of dry water staging coups of
crystalised details
of attention *******...
  
and a: between...
   the suffocating mantle piece of...
morbid avenues:
the t.v. robbed the zombies
of their pitiful dues...
machinery hatchling detail...
                  a burden of phallus and
a hammer...
crude "avenue": a **** the size
of a nail...
all life a coffin an scalp that snow
is also dandruff -
and there is nothing of a limit to tow
a continuity -
the species will survive...
the species will survive:
there are enough "stupid" and *****
people to preserve it...
more ***** than "stupid"..

             they are not to be...
coerced with submissions on the grandours
of religion...
having to preserve their appetite
of disinhibition...
they are to be kept on their own
worth of: kept perpetual:
there's no siding of the **** similis project
akin to the lizard kings with the meteor...
so it happens: the moon was sleeping...
when that little nugget of: oops...
****** up the tides and sleeping
patterns of proto-happenings...

    - as i am having "my" kitchen refurbished...
the surrealism of a fride-freezer
occupying a space in "my"
living / civil room -
where the t.v. is this altar of mundane
sacrifices...
at least there's still a concept
of a bedroom and the need for
a bed and the thorough avenues
of abating sleeplessness...

       i dare to sleep because i have
no wish for a *** life that's
a demanding expansion of...
custard-**** of an alter-ego of paragraph...

biting the ******* of
a schadenfreude category:
by the time she becomes an exhausted
**** in the pornographic clogging
of exhausting the machinery:
there were some organic components?
there was a "riddle" of
a lumberjack and a carpenter..
associated to.. ahem... wood?
i want to wish for a plain & simple
trucker analogy...
but then the agony of
conjuring up a chair & table...
and a rocker... and one of those
serpents of moses...

    god blessed grievances
to make elaborations with mahogany
that it would never become:
tantalizing marble:
                            
in a periodical inconvenience of tome:
this time: my lacking...
i will never find it an easy ride
to appeal / appease the
morbidity of the throng...
  having to tow a romance
of england...
a little detail a little of everything
and everywhere...
a pact with celtic / ginger
*******...

    ooh! hot coal... i am an european
5ft8 dwarf... a 6ft6 african goliath
is picking my cotton...
and i own a whip: and i am:

       nie z tego rodzony...
                            it's my little alien
planet of: but it's not important
right now: 100 years from now
when... my contemporaries are
a wish for sanskrit in both
itch and dust...
      
                biGGer... beTTER...
tease the doubling of consonants...
i'm tired i'm just simply tired
of excusing my contemporaries...
whatever they wanted to be
achieved: they have achieve it...
i'm proto-****** little cog little
blister: tamed mustard...
my little nowhere this "here"...

                good enough...
   a variation of aleister crowley bids
you...
      a night knitted with dreams...
and no... pangs of the horror of doubt...
closure for the things eaten
raw... a beef superstition
surrounding... what came to be known
as a tartare steak.

        god - to appease a minor public...
this little ******* gauge of a little public:
this carthage beside a blooming rome...
no... i'm not: excuse me...
i'm not native: this tongue is acquired...
i will not be mentioned in
the colonial anals as
this ******* imbecile of coercion...
this past without ridicule this past
with: goliaths toying the junctions
of exhausted base q. to an "i." unfathomable
first...
               runner junction...
i'm becoming tired of either
side of this bothersome argument...

hail babylon! hail an impeding tomorrow!
**** the 100 year from now.
best of me: no fear mongering
game to tow genes as me too:
a gamer invoked...
humanity survives...
the individual dies...
perhaps a beethoven is riddling
the hive with nuance...
humanity survives:
the individual dies...
i probably wasted my life on
ambition...

   then again: i didn't waste it on
a delusion of a societal project of
poly-                 multi-culturism -
                     i wasn't born on the Faroe Islands...
i had to come about an itching for
life: ventured for a cleaning and a kippah
for a tonsure -
i came across a grief of scalping -
i came across a curry...
i imploded an empire and sent out
invitations and became...
day by day less and less of London...

i ventured out of London and i found myself
in: inbreeding territory -
i became... sick from the homogenous  
zebras of parlance...
   black on black: white is white...
       it's a sickness from detailing
the aftereffects of gravity when having
to sort-out: a belief in the promenade...
            
   whatever... 100 years from now...
i will need to be dead:
for my writing to be elevated from
mere hobby to... this suffocating pride
and orthodoxy canon i want
it to exfoliate in...
then again: no...
                  then again: i am not in a position
to leave behind a pyramid...
i might leave some rattle and bones...
but most certainly not the toils
an wavering of others...
for... a flimsy prospect of: transcending
ambitions...
best played out as truant...
gobshite a god-envy
of a rhetorician's envy...
         stutter to excavate punctuation...

   yes... tomorrow and that: again...
and come sleep come death
come... the tiresome first breathed...
red and ginger...
ginger a tinge or orange ******* with
brown... this precursor of
loiter: a dirtying of earth with ash.

....but they didn't believe
life was chancy and contingent
lofty words they displayed
priding in being intelligent

'all would be well, worry not
life is a rosy garden'
cruel storms came to lash
soon enough after such words were spoken-

the realist does take cognisance
nothing is ever permanent
all things are in ceaseless flux
beyond the brightest minds' discernment-

vulerable and brittle is our human condition
our joys, our hopes, our dreams are all transient
there's healing only in our love and devotion
amidst the dreadfulness and fragility so apparent.