Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.

preliminary explanation

before i really begin the project i have a few scatterings
of thought that made me do this, without real planning,
a different sort of impromptu that poetry's good at,
less Dionysian spur-of-the-moment with an already
completed poem entwined to a perfect ensō,
as quick as the decapitation of Mary Boleyn with the
executioner fooling her which side the swing would
be cast by taking of his hard-soled-shoes -
i mean this in an Apollonian sense - i know, sharp contrasts
at first, but the need to fuse them - i said these are
preliminary explanations, the rest will not be as haphazardly
composed, after all, i see the triangle i'm interested it
but drawing a triangle without Pythagorean explanation
i'm just writing Δ - i'll unravel what my project is
about, just give me this opportunity to blah blah for a
while like someone from an existential novel;
what beckoned me was the dichotomy of styles,
i mean, **** me, you can read poetry while in an awkward
yoga position, you can read it standing up, sitting down,
eating or whatever you want - obviously on the throne
of thrones taking a **** is preferred - the point being
what's called serious literature is so condensed for
economic reasons, font small, never-ending paragraphs,
you need an easy-chair and a bottle of cognac to get
through a chapter sometimes - or at least freshly mowed
grass in a park in summer - it's really uncomfortable because
of that, and the fact that poets hardly wish upon you
to be myopic - just look at the spacing on the page,
constantly refreshing, open-plan condos, eye-to-eye -
but it's not about that... the different styles of writing,
prose and the novel, the historical essay / encyclopedia
or a work of philosophy - what style of writing can
be best evolutionary and undermine each? only poetry.
poetry is a ballerina mandible entity, plastic skeletons,
but that's beside the point, when journalism writes history
so vehemently... the study of history writes it nonchalantly,
it's the truth, journalism is bombastic, sensationalist
every but what courting history involves -
a journalist will write about the death of a 100 people
more vehemently than a historian writing about the Holocaust...
or am i missing something? i never understood this dichotomy
of prose - it's most apparent between journalism and history...
as far as i am concerned, the most pleasurable style of
prose is involved in the history of philosophy, or learning per se,
but i'll now reveal to you the project at hand -
it's a collage... the parameters?

the subject of the collage

it weighs 1614 grams, or 3 lb. and 8 7/8ths oz.,
it's a single volume edition, published by Pimlico,
it's slightly larger than an A5 format,
3/4 inches more in length, and ~1 centimetre in
width more, it has a depth of 1 and 3/4 inches in depth,
a bicep iron-pumping session with it in bed -
i was lying with this behemoth of a book
in bed soothing out a semi-delirium state
listening to Ola Gjeilo's *northern lights
and flicking through the appendix, and i started thinking,
no would read this giant fully, would they?
the reason it's a one volume edition is because
the only place you'd read such an edition would
be in a library, at a desk, and you'd be taking snippets
out from it, quotes, authentic references points
for an essay, esp. if you were a history student,
such books aren't exactly built for leisure, as my arms
could testify... after the appendix i started flicking
through as to what point of interest would spur me
onto this audacious (and perhaps auspicious)
act of renegading against writing a novel (in the moment,
in the moment, i can't imagine myself rereading plot-lines
after a day or two, adding to it - that's a collage too,
but of a different kind - and no, i won't be plagiarising
as such, after all i'll be citing parallel, but utilising
poetry as the driving revision dynamic compared
to the chronologically stale prose of history) - i'll be
extracting key points that are already referenced and not
using the style of the author - the book in question?
Europe: a history by Norman Davies prof. emeritus
at U.C.L. - the point of entry that made me mad enough
to condense this 1335 page book (excluding the index)?

point of incision

Voltaire (or the man suspected of Guy Fawkes-likes spreading
of volatility in others) -
un polonais - c'est un charmeur; deux polonais - une
bagarre; trois polonais, eh bien, c'est la question polonaise
(one pole - a charmer, two poles - a brawl, three poles -
the polish question) - mind you, the subtler and gentler
precursor of the Jewish question, because the Frenchman
mused, and not a German, or a Russian brute...
and i can testify, two Polish immigrants in a pub,
one senior, the other minor, one with 22 years under
his belt of the integration purpose, one with 12 years,
the minor says to the senior about how Poles bring
the village life to cities, brutish drunkards and what not,
it was almost a brawl, prior to the senior was charming
a Lithuanian girl, before the minor's emphasis on
such a choice of conversation turned into idiotic Lithuanian
nostalgia about the disintegration of the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth, primarily due to the Polish nobility.

10,000 b.c.

looking that far back i don't know why you even
bother to celebrate the weekend -
i mean, 10,000 years back Denmark was
still attached to Sweden,
England was attached to France,
and there was a weird looking Aquatic landmass
that would become a myth of Atlantis
in the Chronicles of Norwich,
speedy ******* Gonzales with the equivalent
of south america detaching itself from Africa...
mind you, i'm sure the Carpathian ranges are
mountains. they're noted here are hills or uplands,
by categorising them as such i'm surprised
the majority of Carpathian elevations as scolded
bald rocky faced, a hill i imagine to have some
vegetation on it, not mountain goats with rock and roof
for a blacksmith in a population of one hundred...
at this point Darwinism really becomes a disorientating
pinpoint of whatever history takes your fancy,
Europe - mother of Minos, lord of Crete,
progenitrix / ******* and the leather curtains
of Zeus's harem (jealous? no, just the sarcasm
dominates the immortal museum of attachable
****** to suit the perfect elephant **** of depth
the gods sided with, by choice, excusing the Suez
duct tightening of a prostate gland... to ease the pain
upon ******* rather than *******); mentioned by Homer
the Blind tooth-fairy, the Europe and the bull,
Europoeus and the swan, same father of wisdom to mind,
on the shores of Loch Lomond -
attributes a lover to the bull, Moschus of Syracuse,
who said earring Plato cured him of where the ****
should not enter even if it shines a welcome
in the disguise of Dionysius... revisionists bound to Pompeii
named Titian, Rembrandt, Rubens Veronese
and Claude Lorrain revived the bulging bull's *******
and her mm hmm mm, too gracious my kind, hehee...
Phonecians from Tyre and Io - so too the Sibyl of ****** -
and unlike the great river civilisations of the Nile,
the Ganges, soon to be the Danubian civilisations
and gorged-out-eyes-that-once-sore-colour-but-lost-sight-of-
colours-­after-seeing-the-murk-of-the-Thames...
soon the seas overcame civilisations of the rivers,
as Cadmus, brother of the thus stated harlot said:
i bring you orbe pererrato - hieroglyphics of the cage,
but not an owl or a hawk inside it -
so let's perfect speaking to an encoding by first
rummaging into learning how to procure the perfect
forms of counting - i say left, you say I, i say right
you say II, left right left right, what do you say?
VI. bravo! the Hellenic world just crossed the Aegean
and civilisation bore twins within the cult of a lunar-mother,
Islam of Romulus and Remus, a she-wolf
a canine of the night - according to another -
tremulae sinuantur flamine vestes - or so the myth goes -
a cherished phantom of what became the fabled story
of sole Odysseus with his ears open and the remnant
sailor's ears waxed shut - as if the bankers of this world,
revelling in culprit universal fancy than nonetheless
bred the particular oddities - lest we forget,
the once bountiful call of the sirens to the oceanic
is but a fraction of what today's sirens claim to be song,
a fraction of it remains in this world, the onomatopoeia
of the once maddening song, the crude *******
arrangement of vowels bound to the jealous god's
déjà vu of the compounding second H.

from myth to perpetuating a modern sentiment

you can jump from 10,000 b.c. to the Munich Crisis
of 1938 - 9 with a snap of the fingers,
imitating quantum phenomenons like gesticulating
a game of mime with Chinese whispers necessary,
if Europe is a nymph, Naples her azure eyes,
Warsaw her heart, Sebastopol and Azoff,
Petersburg, Mitau, Odessa - these the thorns
in her feet - Paris the head, London the starched collar,
and Rome - the sepulchre.
or... die handbuch der europaischen geschichte
notably from Charlemagne (the Illiterate)
to the Greek colonels (as apart from Constantine to
Thomas More in eight volumes, via Cambridge mid
1930s)... these and some other books of urgency
e.g. Eugene Weber's H. A. L. Fisher's, Sr. Walter Ralegh,
Jacob Bronowski... elsewhere excavated noun-obscurities
like gattopardo and konarmya had their
circas extended like shelved vegetables in modern
supermarket isles, for one reason or another...
prado, sonata sovkino also... some also mention
Thomas Carlyle (i'd make it sound like carried-away isle,
but never mind); so in this intro much theory,
how to sound politically correct, verifiable to suit
a coercion for a status quo... Europe as a modern idea,
replacing Imperum Romanun came Christendom,
ugly Venetian Pirates at Constantinople,
Barbarossa making it in pickled herring juice
in a barrel to Jerusalem... once called the pinkish-***-fluff
of Saxony, now called the pickled cucumber,
drowning in his armour in some river or Brosphorus...
alchemists, Luther and Copernicus were invited on
the same occasion as the bow-tie was invented,
apparently it was a marriage made for the Noir cinema,
beats me - hence the new concept of Europe,
reviving the idea of Imperium Romanun
meant, somehow including Judea in the Euro
championship of footie gladiator ***** whipped
narcissists, rejecting the already banished Carthage
(Libya / Tunisia by Cato's standards) and encouraging
the Huns, the Goths and the even more distant Slavs and
Vikings to accept not so much the crucifix as
the revised spine of the serpent but as the geometry of
human limbs, well, not so much that, but forgetting
Norse myths of the one-eyed and the runic alphabet
and settling for ah be'h c'eh d'ah.
dissident frenche stink abbe, charles castel de st pierre
(1658 - 1743) aand this work projet d'une paix perpetuelle
(1713) versus Питер Великий who just said:
never mind the city, the Winter Palace... i have aborted
fetus pickles in my bedroom, lava lamps i call them.
the last remaining reference to Christianity?
Nietzsche was late, the public was certain,
it was the Treaty of Utrecht, 1713, with public reference
to the republica christiana / commonwealth was last made.
to Edmund Burke: well, i too wish no exile
upon any European on his continent of birth,
but invigorate a Muslim to give birth on it
and you invigorate an exile nonetheless:
Ezra expatriate Pound / sorry, if born in eastern
europe a ***** Romanian immigrant, pristine
expatriate in western Europe, fascist radio has
my tongue and *****, so let's play a game:
Russian roulette for the Chinese cos there's
a billion of them, and no one would really mind
a missing Chow Mein... chu shoo'ah shaolin moo'n'kah!
or a cappuccino whenever you'd like to watch
classic Italian pornographic cinema with dubbing
with nuns involved... Willaim Blake and his
stark naked prophesy, pope pius II (treatise 1458)
even though Transylvania, Tharce and Hungary
shared the same phonetic encoding with diacritical
distinctions like any Frenchman, German,
or Pole at the Siege of Vienna (1683)
to counter the antagonising Ottoman - i swear historians
do this one purpose, juggle dates and head-of-state figures
prior to entering a chronology - they must first try out
a ******* carousel before playing with the toy-train...
broadcasting to a defeated Germany public, T. S. Eliot
(1945) ****** import to into Western Germany
and talk of the failing moral fabric, China laughing
after the ***** intricacies of warfare of trade,
what was once wool we wished to be silk...
instead of silk we received vegetarian wool, namely
hemp, and Amsterdam is to blame... nuke 'em!
that's how it sounds, how a historian approaches
writing a history from the annals, from circa and
circumstance and actual history, foremost the abbreviations,
the fishing hook standards, the parameters,
the limits, and then the mathematics of history,
one thing culminating into another... contra Lenin
N. S. Trubetskoy, P. N. Savitsky, G. Vernadsky
Russian at the perks of the Urals - steppe Tartar shamans
or salon pranced pretty **** boys? where to put
the intoxicant and where to put the mascara... hmm,
god knows, or by 21st calculations, a meteor;
they say the history of nations is a history of women,
then at least the history of individuation
and of men who succumb to its proliferation
is astoundingly misogynistic.
Seton-Watson, among the the tombstones too reminded
of remarkable esteem and accomplishment
with only one gravedigger to claim as father...
as many death ears as on two giraffe skeletons
stood Guizot, men of many letter and few fortunes,
or v. v., incubators of cousin ***** and none the kippah
before the arrogant saintly diminished to
a justly cause of recession, ha ha,
by nature's grace, and with true advent of her progression
as guard-worthy pre- to each pro-
and suggested courteous of the ****** fibre,
oh hey, the advent of masqueraded woofing,
a Venetian high-brow, and jealousy out of a forgotten
spirit of adventure that once was bound
to hunting and foraging... forever lost to write  history of
a king dubbed Louis the XIV...
crucibles and distastes for the state to be pleased,
once removed from Paris, forever to Angevin womb
accustomed once more, at Versailles released -
as cake be sown so too the aristocratic swan necks
for worth of mock and scorn - and the dampening rain
rattle the blood-thirst of the St. Bartholomew's Day
slaughter, to date, the rebirth of Burgundy,
of Anjou, and with the dead king presiding, to be
of no worth in judging himself a king before god or pauper...
saluer Antoine Quentin Fouquier-Tinville!
that i might too in stead rattle a few bones prior to burial
with the jaw that will laugh and chatter least
had it been to my kingly-stead a birth so lowly.
then at least in satisfactory temperament i procure a
judgement of the noble like of a *****
for an hour's worth of pistons and jarring tongues...
as if from a nobleman then indeed as if from a *****,
for who sold Europe and said: Arabia, if not the
Frenchman, the Englishman, the Spaniard?
the former colonial conquests served you not enough?
i imagine the reinstatement of Israel like
the Frankish states under Philippe-August...
precursors to a cathedral dubbed Urban the 2nd's..
there were only Norwegian motives in the Ukraine
and the black sea... Israel to me is like plagiarism
of the Frankish states of the middle-east, with Europe
slightly... oom'pah loom'pah mongolian harmonica.
some said Rudyard Kipling poems,
some said Mr. Kipling's afternoon tea cakes -
whichever made it first on Coronation St.
some also say the Teutonic barbecues -
it was a matter of example to feed them hog
and cannibalise the peasants for ourselves,
a Prussian standard worth an army standard of
rigour - Ave Maria - letztre abendessen nahrung -
mein besitzen, wenn in die Aden, i'd be the last
talking carcass...
gottes ist der orient!
gottes ist der okzident!
nord - und sudliches gelande
ruht im frieden seiner hande.
germany's lebensraum, inferiority and classification,
inferior slavs and jews, genetics and why my
hatred of Darwinism is persistent, you need
an explanatory noting to make it auto-suggestive
for Queen & Country? diseased elements,
Jewish Bolshevism, Polish patriotism,
Soviets, Teutons, the grand alliances of 1918
or 1945? Wilsonian testimony of national self-determi

.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.

It was meant to be the
most important line
of all known history
but you forgot it
screenwriter
your sheer deed
equips your script
with perpetual discretion
                                     prompting props
                                     praising speeches
                                     persuading species
                                     Prussian Blue and Russian Spirits.

The prussian stache, on the wafty pine,
sticky black *****, on your stache has dried,
I excuse your tobacco dipping while I climb,
just to sway with the wind,
in your many tiered mustache ride.

As I reach the zenith of my ascent,
a small french stache of upward bent,
offered no more for me to climb,
so downward tickle of the mustache pine.

I want to say being with you was like coming home, but that seems so over-done.
Despite the truth it holds.
I think maybe I’ll try and speak your language. Because being with you was homemade paint.
Mason jars lining shelves, oil and pigment and a palette of your own creation.
When you ran your fingers over my skin it wasn’t Cadmium red, no, it was more like, the setting of the sun after a hot summers day. Orange so deep it feels like you are going to fall into it. Not Permanent or Transparent. No, it was like a fire, warm and so, so bright. Like the world around me had gone up in flames and I was happy to burn with it.
Or when you laughed, the air lit up like a sunflower. Not Hansa or Nickel or Indian yellow. Think something between gold and the shade of a lemon. Honey, sweet and sticky.
And my heart twisted and turned inside my chest, adapting to the mix of colors, oil dripping into my veins.
When you smiled. God, when you smiled. The world seemed to converge. Nothing made sense. I was spinning in a circle in the middle of a carnival. Too much to process. Stained glass windows at noon, playing out across the floors of the church. Iridescent and never ending.
The only thing that brought me back was your brush hitting the canvas, your voice calling out to me, and then it was green, so much green, like a perfectly polished suburban yard and standing beneath a canopy of trees in August, looking up and up until the sun forces your gaze to turn, and the green depression glass that sits pretty on my mother’s bookshelf. I think of light dancing off an emerald ring, not Viridian or Olive or Sap. Nothing you can find in a crafts store. Nothing that can be manufactured. Only that which can be bended and built from your own mind and hands.
And then you were gone. Twice now you’ve left. And it is blue like I have never known. So dark it feels black if I dwell for too long. Richer than Idanthrone, not quite Prussian. Have you ever gone to the ocean at night, just before a storm hits the coast? Or, went up into the country, where the stars illuminate the world around you and the sky is spread out like a blanket above you? Not Cobalt or Cerulean. No, this blue is only something you can make. Something you’ve brought with you. With your sunflowers and your sunsets and your stained glass.
We talked about the way colors can change when they’re next to each other, next to something similar or vastly different. The way the depths can be altered, and just a little more oil can thin it out.
There is nothing to compare anymore.
Just blue. So blue I can’t breathe. So blue my fingers shake and my head aches.
The blue is okay when you’re there. When you’ve laid your palette out before me, when your canvas is full, and beautiful, and I can’t look away. But now, you’ve taken every other color with you, and left me with blue.
Not store bought or easily replaced.
Your blue. From your words and your touch and your voice.
I thought I saw you the other day, for just a moment, the world exploded around me. All the color I thought I’d never see again. A storm so rich with color, I could have gone blind.
But you’re still gone. And I’m still blue.

Some introductory food for thought...

"Manufacturing and commercial monopolies owe their origin not to a tendency imminent in a capitalist economy but to governmental interventionist policy directed against free trade and laissez faire."
  - Ludwig Von Mises

"Bureaucracies are inherently antidemocratic. Bureaucrats derive their power from their position in the structure, not from their relations with the people they are supposed to serve. The people are not masters of the bureaucracy, but its clients."
  - Alan Keyes


The European Union as the New Eastern Bloc?
The Eastern Trading Bloc of the Soviet system had it's origins in the tail end of the Second World war, where, through the suppression of the whereabouts of Kremlin manipulation, had purported itself as democratic agreement, initially giving itself the appearance of a 'bourgeois democracy' as the Soviets called it. Though, inherently was, and clearly became an imperial establishment of control from the Soviet Bureaucracy. Likewise, the European Union, when originally advertised to the nations of Europe was propped up in a similarly unassuming manner, despite having been previously discussed and having the concepts of such a union already organised further back into 1948 at the Hague Conference. The parallels of such such unions (Eastern/Euro) are that they garnered the consent of the public through their foundation being merely upon an economic transnational policy, and not a political one, and therefor their basic parallels are that of deceit.

The Eastern Bloc formed what was essentially a symbiosis of the state and the economy, something that naturally would be inherent under a Communist regime. However, the European Union, too, follows a similar reciprocal foundation, for it binds the state and economy, removing the separation of powers by Capitalistic enterprise, and instead, Centralises governance in a more oligarchical, corporate and bureaucratic apparatus. Operating through a complex arrangement of multitudinous committees and boards, whose members form a body of non-elected representatives. Essentially the European Union, on the guise of an economic market, has formed a centralised, quasi-private parliament akin to the Soviet style hegemony of the Eastern Bloc, and through soft-intimidation and misinformation, keeps it's members bonded. Lest it be forgotten that the Union is allegedly one of 'free trade', yet, when discourse begins to brew of leaving, as it did in Britain, why are we met with threats of economic disability and ostracization? That shows more the signs of a protection racket; of bureaucratic gangsterism, than it does of a voluntary cooperation of national markets.


The unification of Germany and the amalgamation of the European continent?
In a more predictive sense, the European Union shares similarities in it's unifying policies, as it it does to the unification of the German states circa 1871. Spearheaded during the Bismarckian era of the late nineteenth century, Germany, well within a period of two decades transformed from a collection of trading states, to a fully amalgamated nation under Prussian dominated rule, but by what means did this occur, and in what ways does the unification of Germany share similarities to modern Europe?

Of course, the chief processes of German unification lied in the economy, the political structure and culture, the political structure I have already covered. The establishment of a newly amalgamated economy among the German States was created through the breaking down of trade barriers between the previously independent states, one of which ways in doing so was the introduction of the single German currency (the Mark) along with a centralised banking system that allowed for both monetary control by the state and the removal of currency exchange between regions. Likewise the European Union brought with it the introduction of a common European currency (the Euro) and too, a European Central Bank. The new Germany also extended its unification to the creation of a common German culture that evoked a sense of nationalism, for instance, the establishment of a new national anthem and German military, to be paraded with pride. Too, the standardisation of the school system to create a state of coherent socialisation among the German generations. What we see with the European Union is also the creation of a common European national anthem and a cooperative European military (though a centralised European military is still developing) and through policies such as the Bolonga Process, the education system of Europe as a whole has been standardised to the specific image of the European Union, even a single European emergency number (112) is under proposition.

It is said that history repeats itself, and perhaps what we are living through today is the amalgamation of the European states as transpired nearly 150 years ago within central Europe. And that the non-representative, self appointing parliament of the European Union, resembles almost a kind of bureaucratic Kaiserreich; a kind of Prussian hegemony of the modern day.


- a short essay by JDH

To write of Love, of Heaven, and of God,
Hills of joy, o'er which Angel pursued
Of that Boy, a sublime hippie shepherd,
Who in Heart the wisdom of Heaven had,
My pen, it labours, I give sweat and blood,
To paint world in cerise, a sweet red flood:

Or Prussian blue, depending on the scene,
Let Poets tell true folk from chess piece Kings,
Feign benevolence, when they are mean,
Who strut and rule above, superior things,
Who on the carcass of the suffering wean,
Drunk on power, Almighty sovereigns.

To write of Love, Heaven, apart from days,
Spent in drudgery at whim of Lords,
Who sit engorged by gold, wealth as they graze,
Upon the fruits yield by the mass, that horde,
As mass toil deep 'neath sun's sweltering rays,
To give and barter time they can't afford.

But they will be the ones in Heaven crowned,
As all time vindicates the plight of souls,
Who in port, or wine, have never drowned,
Rich gluttony the faithful mind abhors,
Upon which Saints and angels incensed frown,
So to tyrant's whims take pious war.

Poems of Remembrance

War is defined as a form of political violence however I rather hate to like the following quote by this Prussian military general in 1832

"War is thus an act of force to compel our enemy to do our will."

We vote in our leaders to refrain from such yet allow them to use us as pawns in their world.I will be remembering and thanking all those who have will and do give up their life's so that i can at least be free to make such thanks

............................................
Lest we forget

The stench of decay hung in the air
Along with the gases from the badlands
Rain had turned the trenches into another bog for the day
STAND TO LADS !!!
the Sergeant barked his mornin song

Spell broken by the first shell of the morning
lucky day ...BOOM .....lucky day
Breakfast usual as the new boys showed no fear
Hide ya head son as another disappeared
Snipers doing their work already...
A scream now silenced short

The morning hate over
Patrolling life began
SHhhhh!! no gunfire
The 2 sides master plan
Machine guns a ready shall cut you complete
Hand to hand and man to man
Bayonets flash besieged

Returned to base to lick their wounds
A fight amongst the rats
Black and brown did rule the roost
A feeding frenzy plan
The lice did all they could to help
Trench fever did its dance
Another day
STAND TO!!! he barked
We stood with baited breath

This was what they signed for
A short war all at plan
And what did they all die for
This life I thank you man

Lest we forget

.......................

A Poppy Remembered

A flower held hand as the young girl
reaches up for her mothers grasp
The reddest of velvet's reflected from
her tears on eyes as her poppy
stands proud and straight

Remember their sacrifice
As you join in their stand
An honour to hold one
Red poppy to hand

She knows why she's standing
She know no return
Her father not here now
His never come home

He fought for his country
He fought for his life
He fought for his honour
His family
Our life

Remember this girl that cries every night
No father to hold her
Is gone from this earth
Yet she is the proudest
A daughter could be
Because of her father
Gave life
For you
...and for me

........................
Poppy day

In between the hills lays a land of green green grass
Where the heavens made their love of life
And gods sung of such sight
Be the lands that they did fight for us the green green grass

Oh green the land of warriors
The land we all do dwell
Green the grass the layman loves
True paradise be felt

In battle times and truces found the land did best it could
Yet all of them who fought for us they knew and understood
The green land see found their place to die for poppy's blood
A land we wished we all could live a world of peace and love

Oh green the land of warriors
The land we all do dwell
Green the grass the layman loves
True paradise be felt

Someday the land will fill our souls and peace will win the day
The green green land will be our rest god bless to all we pray
In those who fought so we could see the green green land this way
We praise and silence once a year remembrance poppy day
.....................

Remember

Remember what they fought for
Remember why they fell
Remember all the killings
The living life in hell

Remember what they did for us
Remember who they were
Remember all the people
That they did fight and fall

A day to show our pride
A day to bow our heads
A day to mourn our family
Lest we forget

I now delight
In spite
Of the might
And the right
Of classic tradition,
In writing
And reciting
Straight ahead,
Without let or omission,
Just any little rhyme
In any little time
That runs in my head;
Because, I’ve said,
My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed
Like Prussian soldiers on parade
That march,
Stiff as starch,
Foot to foot,
Boot to boot,
Blade to blade,
Button to button,
Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.
No! No!
My rhymes must go
Turn ’ee, twist ’ee,
Twinkling, frosty,
Will-o’-the-wisp-like, misty;
Rhymes I will make
Like Keats and Blake
And Christina Rossetti,
With run and ripple and shake.
How pretty
To take
A merry little rhyme
In a jolly little time
And poke it,
And choke it,
Change it, arrange it,
Straight-lace it, deface it,
Pleat it with pleats,
Sheet it with sheets
Of empty conceits,
And chop and chew,
And hack and hew,
And weld it into a uniform stanza,
And evolve a neat,
Complacent, complete,
Academic extravaganza!

it's high midnight and I'm up to my old tricks again

in an hour I'll have my nose prepared
in two, I'll sweat and pray

praying the windows I opened last year give way to Carolina air

me chewing an ice cube
with you pressing my shirt

and a shiver breathes into me

it's a funeral, you tell me

in twelve hours time I ask you how I got here

another hour and it's your voice
causing me to laugh from my belly

pounding my fists into your tombstone

too angry to light my cigarette

the willow hides the moonlight
sheds no tears on this chapter

the willow hides night sky
a reflection from my dark eyes

they warble in fear

for the sound my heart is like to make

so if it'd make you stay
I wouldn't act so angry all the time

it's three years later
chewing soil from your grave


the worms but ash

my heart
a muted trumpet

pale imitation
crystalline defeat

silhouette of a cursed shade


it's five years and the marble runs smooth

it's ten years and the willow roots join mine

a legacy of agony
countless copper dishes of bitterness

thirteen years a testament of longing and needless suffering

every smile bled to death
every night a star turned inside out

it's two years ago and I hear your name

Naples yellow
Prussian blue
Burnt umber
Cadmium Red Deep
Napthol Red
Quinacridone
Phtalocionine Blue and Green
Portrait Pink Light
Yellow Oxide
Raw Sienna

Can you make a painting without these?

.i get it now, the more i make it a detention hour writing lines: doing dull work, makes sam a bored boy... intra-racial variant of slur qua intimacy, in-group standard... take any "n" word "extra g" word "thingy" among the non-exported examples, non-NBA privileged, say... in Kenya... friends? **** no... feeling intimate? huh? like i said... watching 2 hours of a washing machine cycle, is probably more entertaining, than, seeing, the cages, the - - - - - morse breaks in... so... everyone is being a ******* ******, creating a natural response to a river, that must become a reservoir / fake lake? whatever etiquette equated to politeness comes from this... no wonder we'll be doing it from spite... rather than a genuine sediment of genuine feeling, flight of the heart & and all the fickle thoughts that go with it.

please, please, put me into handcuffs
for ******* in an alleyway,
the english sort of handcuffs,
the ones where they can't handcuff
you from behind,
   because the cuffs are not connected
by a mandible chain,
but a rigid middle,
implying that you have to be handcuffed
with your hands in-front...
which also implies:
   well... if **** turned ugly...
i could just wrap my hands around
a boppy's neck and just turn into
a boa...
     but that other police officer was
nice, turning the police van cell
into a taxi...
   racial slurs...
   intra-racial, or inter-racial?
  big difference...
            inter-racial slurs,
namely an english derivative:
the empire britannia rule the waves
what not?
   crass...
      not too... genius...
no real outlet phonetically...
  the language is too soft as it is...
i met one german at university
who complimented the ****** tongue
with that one general-****-over
word for everything -
conjunction, was the word,
the word is treated as a conjunction:
kurwa...
        i once dated a french psychology
major two years my senior
who i lost my virginity to,
who, let's say, enlightened me...
she was looking for native english speakers,
she told me the most fascinating
fact...
        the fwench used to attach
a trill to the R...
   before they started harking up
an R like phlegm when smoking too much
or down with the flu...
inter-racial slurs are... yawn...
   who gives a **** about walking
on egg-shells...
   i'm watching a ******* football match
or swan lake with 22 *******
                                       pansies?
everyone's suddenly going to be
     as sensitive as a fwench footballer?
****: french / fwench...
  it pretty much sounds the same...
the fwench speak one language,
the french write the same one language...
but the german complimented
a language for the: pristine outlet
of frustration of... tongue licking
a metaphysical punching bag...
but inter-racial slurs are crass,
for the simple fact that...
          they're just too plain in sight...
there is no intimate history of
a people...
   me? personally?
   i'd love to know what the african
royalty called would-be slaves
picked up by western europeans
for export...
   it's not like these colonialists run
these colonized countries freely,
without collusion with the african ruling class...
there was an african ruling class,
there is an african ruling class,
     what's to be exactly changed?
lost in translation:
    former soviet states people /
  but not the satellites?
   kacap...
   from the song husaria by bujak?
ahem...
     muscovite gałgan...
never heard that one before...
   gałgan...
   i once dated a girl from st. petersburg
that summarißed my mutterzunge
        as a crackling of radio static...
just as the english say:
of a people, with, "too many" consonants
in their surnames...
   ask a ****** about hindu surnames...
i mean: intra-racial slurs...
a movement toward real intimacy
of the use of language...
e.g. in england:
    northern monkeys,
southern fairies...
      and the rest? eurotrash...
       i once heard a intra-racial slur
about the english -
                  angol to pedzio...
and then back to cosmopolitan english...
the "n" word... night? nightmare,
nigh?
                oh... the n- word?
if only i could find some malice in
the context of use...
yes, i know the content of the word,
the content of historical usage...
    and now the whole intra-racial
comradery... inclusion...
familiarity...
                a joke of latin...
   to me that's like saying
              Nigeria...
  and then thinking:
         so... it's not the "n" word,
is it? it's the "extra g" word?
better start writing giggle with an optional
   gig(g)le:
   which could become problematic
when it came to a double omicron:
to go, among the goo...
the intra-rascial slur for a german
east of berlin?
          švab...
     funny that... the saxons are
not actually minded...
  the anglo-saxons (intra-racial
mix of celt and saxon)
             as we see them today...
but... when the teutonic order came
to the area around Danzig
     and further east to Königsberg...
further... to Riga...
         a Prussian isn't a German...
              die Preußen ist: Preuße;
  now?
   the Preußen have been reintegrated
into a dialect of Polen...
        kashubian: or at least,
        that's                     sort-of...
ultra-nationalist "sentiments":
   in "exile"...
          i love that, brushing aside
any economic migrant in favor
for the immediate migrant
   of conflict, or political asylum...
you know...
   economics: is a type of war,
                                 in slow-motion...
it's a peaceful war,
   well... ergo it's a "war"...
              and the economic migrants?
disorientated *******...
who can't exactly fully assimilate
to the expectation of the natives...
i.e. speak our language in public,
and our language in private...
  no... no thank you...
         it would be easier to remove
a tattoo with a shark-bite
and a scar than to remove my
                                   mutterzunge...
and here i am... "worried"
about the N in the word trigger...
or the "missing G" in the word: Nigeria...
like... ******* pandering
        to a panda in a Beijing zoo...
now comes the malice...
thought-prison, metaphorical dyslexia
and tattoos of grafitti on
bypass highways...
   like dirt behind my fingernails...
looking for gold nuggets
picking my nose...
   as harold norse once stated
in his memoir (of a ******* angel):
a sign of a Brooklyn intellectual...
   but i just have to point this out...
LGBTQIA...
   nice acronym...
but you're missing two letters...
**** me... if mr and mrs H
  are not included...
LGBTQIA is missing two protected
groups...
     mr P and mr N...
LGBTQIAPN...
    the ******* and
the necrophiliac...
                                    no?
   they'd fit right in...
        no? they wouldn't?
weren't we talking deviance,
             per se?
so...
          those two outer-outliers
    are legit. rainbow deviances...
no? at least mr P can have some sort
of a religious backing...
whether in the desert slap-stick
ninja sketch and satan's postbox...
or at least, back of the queue of a choir,
and some boy...
   but that's the scary bit,
isn't it?
            mr N... now...
                that's... some would claim
it to be art... or what the hell became
of eddie gein in american mainstream
culture...
                  ****... forgot ms B+...
   i do remember seeing internet
in its youth,
                   rotten . com,
            and the earliest edgy ****...
now... not even a black guy can
leave adequate compensation...
   for what... began as a saddle,
reins and stirrups...
          and became:
   a demonic hybrid knock-knock-knocking
on Gomorrah's door...
fastforward...
men on stag outings before
being shackled by the ring...
inflateable sheep
   and granny dolls...
          oh yeah: i'm a real moralist
at this point...
                    what i do find scary
is that whenever i'm confined
to a waiting room, a confined space...
and there's a child with its parent
present... there's an animal...
   there's a very old man with
a middle aged mentally ill daughter...
i'm suddenly likeable...
a curiosity...
        just like today...
  her dad is nearing 75...
      she's unkept... greasy hair...
                  rags, rather than clothes...
and in the corner of my eye...
she just couldn't stop glaring at me...
i'm sweating like i'm the sort of hell
where i'm supposed to **** her...
or go to her pajamas sleep-over party
if the case was: she was sixteen
and i was eight...
                        as i went into
the doctor's appointment
    and recounted my 2 week psychotic
episode of being strapped
to the bed... in a quasi-paralysis...
citing metaphors of p.t.s.d.,
                   not talking a word for
2 weeks, only because i received
a ******* questionnaire from
the dept. of work & pensions...
   'am i a fraud? am i?'
   between 48 hour periods...
i'd chance 2 hours of sleep...
     the usual questions...
suicidal thoughts, hallucinations?
   no... the 1st episode, yeah...
but now? it's just debilitating,
quasi-paralysis...
                  nice doctor... plump...
beauty of a doughnut...
          and doughnuts are beautiful...
esp. if you throw them into a lake,
and they float,
  and then you watch the ducks
                  and the swans swarm it...
if i lied: i should be contending
for an oscar...
          then she measured my blood-pressure...
first instrument failed...
the arm-band was too small...
the air was pumped into the band
around my hand:
    arm-band snapped
  of the blood-pressure measuring tool...
so she had to resort to
the old method of using
the stethoscope and a bigger arm-band...
i guess she knew she was
dealing with a scared / agitated
animal...
   that just so happened to talk
                  some words in human;
a wounded animal,
is hardly scared / agitated...
a wounded animal,
   is whatever implies...
being elevated to a status
that transcends the wound...
the doctors came too late,
i'm fidding with letters
    like jigsaw...
  i'm fiddling with the then
larger jigsaw of words...
   and the whole point of the picture
will only arrive,
post office stamp and all...
akin to a postmortem:
  that part of life...
where...
   eh? how would you classify
man...
          pork, beef, game,
poultry, fish?
    all... none of the stated?
that's almost funny...
   HOW WOULD YOU CLASSIFY
MAN IN THE "CATEGORICAL IMPERATIVE"
of said classes of edible meats?
am i pork?
   no... am i beef? no...
veal? no...
         well, we already know
that some examples of meat
are actually vegetables:
   brain damage, coma...
like:
   do you bite into a tomato...
"thinking" it's a fruit...
or a veg.?
         "logic" supposes
that a tomato is a fruit...
common sense?
     it's a ******* vegetable!
post-racism...
   what sort of meat is man?
eh... bewildering...
   i guess we can only find
an answer, in China...
  should we ever send
a pet dog & its owner to
some obscure, countryside,
small town, famine riddled
(or straight to Kiev) place...
sorry...
******* a black doesn't make
me "less", "racist"...
i might as well imitate
a colonial overlord by the act...
seriously...
english, these days?
watching a ******* washing-machine
is less confusing that
walking on egg-shells in
this tongue...
currently, available...
so let's forget, black, or white...
you beef?
   you crab meat?
       you lamb?
   (slippery *****
of salivating sounds):
what are you?
       it's called:
  SEEING PAST THE COLOUR...
so...
     what's the meat worth?
is chimp meat the same
as human meat?
   no, wait...
that gorilla grew big-*******
eating shrubs?
anomaly of human
dietary requirements...
a horse became so big...
only eating... grass...
      yeah... no anomaly...
and then my brain starts to short-circuit...
past the colour,
infancy of discrimination...
how would to categorise
the "body" of christ
if no bread was available?
beef? pork? veal?
fish?
      i already know what
the ****** would be...
   sure as **** it wouldn't be
*****'s liquor worth of wine...
i went straight to the beast
of the wheat...
    and i called her...
        ms. amber...
                 and... maybe i just didn't
like the wrap-up of rap
because of the lyrics and
my unrelateable tendency
to never **** the bid-bop head...
of the music per se,
but the lyrics?
      sure... the music is great...
but the lyrics?
     i can't relate to them...
i need, something,
mythological and obscure...
a time-wrap not minding a grief
                 of / from yesterday...
mind you: i'll write this,
as i'll drink whatever is left,
and tomorrow...
            is a tomorrow without
this current zenith of the hours...
come beethoven thinking
of tux in the variant of rigid
geometry in the form of music...
           like when sartre plagiarised
joyce at the end of iron in the soul?
- that's the next tier of "racism"...
    as far as i am concerned...
it would be nice to re-evauluate
my position
    on the libra of being
reengaged in a food-chain
hierarchy...
                  cancer is a primitive
pseudo-vitro-forma...
    great... eaten by parasites...
germs... etc.,
  guess what...
   at least a lion is beautiful...
i'd rather be eaten by a lion
than a ******* tapeworm...
so what am i?
              beef?
                     ****...
       first i'd have to put monkey
on the menu...
to tease at the taboo
     of teasing the cannibal
    while performing oral ***.

I think of her often, for thoughts are all I have—not a single memory. She died before I was the age of two.

From what little that I heard, there was little reason to view her in a good light, but now I can see something admirable about her.  After all, this woman endured so much, and the odds seemed stacked against her. Incredibly, between the ages of eleven and sixteen—at least five times—this poor Lithuanian girl crossed the Atlantic in attempts to get into America. Twice, she was turned away. Some may not have had high regard for her, including her own son—my father—but I can see a heroic nature, a survivor, through and through. Just a toddler when she died, I missed out in knowing her. Throughout the years, I really had only gathered bits and pieces of information while trying to know better about her. It has been like constructing puzzle in which the pieces fit here and there, but the gaps are too big to cover.

This woman that I write about is my paternal grandmother. Out of all my grandparents, her story is the one that stands apart, an amazing, heart wrenching and most thought provoking portrait. Evoking emotions of anger, sadness and sympathy, I find it a rich tale of a poor woman.

This has been in the works for quite a while now—in my head, that is. I pictured what I wanted to say, the words playing out in my mind.  What a story it is, too, a tremendous one of sorrow and struggle, of need for love and acceptance, of perseverance and strength of the human spirit. Yet things get complicated when they come from my mind to the page, as I try translating my vision down into words. Before long, like a snake, hesitation surely comes slithering through, as it quickly snuck its way within, fueling my fear, a fear of disapproval and rejection by two people who are now dead and have been for some time—my father and my grandmother.  

And while writing, I imagine what my audience thinks—critics in my head abounding before I even finish. Well, I am the first to stand in line for that.  It’s kind of scary relating such things. I am not sure I am doing the story any justice.  I’m not sure I’ve captured the essence of it well.    

And who would want to read this anyway? Is it too long and of no significance to anybody but myself? I have my doubts. Celebrities do this all the time, and people just eat that stuff up.  I think we all just want to relate to what others have to say about themselves. But it does bare you—your thoughts, your secrets, your soul, —and it feels a bit unnerving, to say the least.  

So, naturally, I still drag my feet. If she were here right in front of me right now, what would my grandmother think? Would she throw the papers in an old fashioned stove—in the fire—as she angrily did to my father’s flowers?  I can only imagine my father as a child—in an impoverished scene that I only have sketchy knowledge of—with his young heart being crushed and shamed, his sign of affection and desire to please his mother, drastically rejected. In return for his small token of love, my father’s mother was furious that her boy spent a few coins on something perceived as useless, a waste of good money. Away like trash, they went. Like the flower story, would my father be ashamed and angry that I revealed some family history for others to read, stuff that he would rather have kept quiet?

This is why I am mentioning no names. Nothing is sugar coated—it is what it is—often not very pretty. Yet this is not intended as an exposé or a smudge on any family members. A slam on my father and grandmother is surely not my intent—far from it.  Rather, it is my offering of affection. It is my little bouquet of flowers to a history that includes me as a part of it.

Like those flowers of long ago, I’ve so wanted to scrap this story in the garbage. Often seeming like a knotted mass of yarn, I have had to work and work to get a smooth flow.  Like a sculptor, I wanted a fine piece of clay to emerge into form, but the chunks, lumps and bumps just frustrate me to no end.

It’s complicated to relate it all. It is revelation about my father’s origins which hold no real pride for him.  There was much pain and shame associated with his mother’s mental illness, his distant father, his broken home and lack of a solid, safe family structure, his constant poverty and fight for survival—the list goes on and on  As I unravel this tale, I continue to fight with the many tangles. As I try to find the face, I feel that my sculpted story is left wanting. So I continue to chip away.

Dishonoring? Embarrassing? I hope it this tale is not.  I envision an admirable purpose instead of the pain and the shame, redeeming the pride that was lost. My father’s origins are mine, too, and they help me to know myself better, and my father—to build that better, more complete puzzle of my grandmother.

Much of what I heard was unflattering terms. From a young age, I knew she was mentally ill. But what did that mean anyway?  Well, to my father she was crazy and nuts, not a good mother. No, she wasn’t mother of the year. Clearly, she had a temper and was known to instigate fights—with her husband, with one of her sisters. When my young father was physically disciplined it was by her, and it was probably quite harsh. If I didn’t like her, it was due to all that I heard. And when I had problems with my father, who had a bad temper, too, I probably felt that the apple didn’t fall very far from the tree.  

But in spite of all the remarks, I grew to have great sympathy for my grandmother. It makes me wonder how mistreated she was as a child.  My father deemed her as neglectful, not in tune to her children’s needs. It is obvious to me that she was in lack, herself.

So what was she really like? I very much wanted to understand her, to be able to relate with her. I don’t know—perhaps, it is because I root for the underdog.  Often, I felt like one, too. And Lithuania is the perfect underdog, under the thumb of Russian rule until much recently.  Perhaps, it was because my dad’s dislike for where he came from made me all that more interested to discover what his roots were all about.  

History often repeats itself—what has shaped my father had a strong influence on me. Like my father, I grew angry and bitter from the upbringing I had. Getting a similar brunt of problematic parenting made for a tough go of things.  I could have easy said, “Who gives a ****?” I could have been thoroughly disgusted about my dad’s old baggage that I had to handle—all the wreckage of rage and shame that became dumped into the next generation.  I evolved from a more sensitive, inquisitive child to one who battled between the feelings of hate and love, painfully clawing my way out of the emotional garbage and with the terrible stench of it.  

Thankfully, the war is over. I am enjoying the peace.  
  
With insight, I grew to understand my father, to accept what he was—capable of good and bad. I can relate quite well in that sense, for I made plenty of mistakes that I wish that I could do differently, ones that hurt others as well as me.  I could not deny that, in my dad, there was a wounded man who could not really figure that out—not until he was much older. I saw a man who was remorseful, and humbled by his costly mistakes. I was able to heal from some of my wounds with that forgiving perspective, though it was not easy and did not come overnight.

Unlike my dad, I’m surely a talker and I ask questions, perhaps my father’s worst nightmare in that sense——he had to have at least one child who always wanted to know things about him and who he came from. That means both sides of my family. Perhaps, I was born that way, with a tremendous sense of wonder. Curiosity always got me, and I am much too hungry to remain clueless about my more secretive father.

Maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s bad. It involves risk which can lead to a boatload of hurt. Where do we come from? What were your parents like? What were your grandparents like? When where they born? When did they die? Do you have any pictures?  Can you go any further than them?  Sometimes, the answers aren’t what you want to hear.  

It’s nice to belong to something, to somebody. It isn’t always possible or realistic to relate to one’s family, I wanted to belong. Not just to my mom’s side did I want to identify—I wanted to fully belong—to both sides.

My mom and dad both had common backgrounds, both coming from poverty and chaos. The fallout from my mother’s unstable father created a similar unease within her childhood home. Yet her family actually seemed like it existed. I knew all of my mother’s seven younger sisters and five younger brothers, as well as all nineteen cousins. We used to visit mom’s parents in Detroit fairly often. My best knowledge of life in this unfamiliar, yet close by, city—my native city—arose through this connection. I heard stories of grandmother’s German immigrant parents and learned of my grandfather’s Polish and Prussian roots, part of his family’s rise from poverty to wealth—to poverty once more.

Born in the latter part of the nineteenth century, my father’s parents were much older than my mom’s. Impoverished Lithuanian immigrants, my dad’s parents surely wanted to be Americans. My grandmother really had to fight to even be on American soil, and my grandfather sought out citizenship and became naturalized. I have likely seen them both, but had no relationship at all. I heard that my dad’s mom came over our house for Thanksgiving dinner—a rare visit—and she died not long after.

My grandfather died the following year, when I was closer to three. Possibly having a primitive, early memory of this man, I am told my dad had him over the house once.  I have a vague recollection of sneaking into the living room, when I was supposed to be in bed, and got a smack on my behind from my dad, crying in protest as I walked past an older man starring at me. But I’ll never know for sure if that is even a real memory.

Since my grandfather was a supporter of the Communist party—a big taboo in those days with the McCarthy era and the Cold War—my dad was mortified and afraid to mention it.  I doubt I’ll ever know much about this grandfather. My father found only one photo of him in his wallet while trying to claim belongings from his flat after the man died. My father eventually gave it to me, and I was shocked by one of the most bizarre photos I ever had seen. In it, my dad’s father was photographed with a woman that my father cannot identify, but the likeness between her and me is so uncanny. I look more like this woman than I do my own mother, but I cannot say if she is even related. My dad knew almost nothing about his father’s family except that he came from a big one back in Lithuania.

Family must have been like foreign word to my father. I can see why. Since boyhood, my dad lived apart from his dad, and they became more strangers than father and son. My dad even admitted that he hardly understood his own father because of his thick, Lithuanian accent. My dad’s background still remains more like shadows in the dim light.  I don’t clearly remember my father’s older brother— out of the two that he had—because I only saw him three or four times. Since my father cut ties with his younger brother, I hadn’t laid eyes on him. Not even a picture was available. When my estranged uncle called on the phone to try to talk to my dad, I would speak to him, instead. One to be sympathetic, I never got why my dad wouldn’t bother with his brother, though the call usually involved asking for money. I was pretty much told that he was a no-good ***, plenty to keep me fairly leery of him. His first wife kicked my uncle out.  Most of his six sons—just as unknown as their father was to me—wanted nothing to do with him. No doubt, the guy was an odd and deeply tormented man, yet we both wanted to meet one day. If I remember one thing he said, that was it, and I agreed. This did seem unlikely, for I didn’t want to stir up the hornet’s nest, not creating more friction than there was.

Years later, that wish came true. One day my dad did get a picture of his brother from the older brother. Much later on—several months after my dad died—I was able to meet this troubled man when he was dying in the hospital and had tubes down his throat. unable to speak to me any more.  

My mom was my source in finding out about my grandmother, but she knew little.  She admits she didn’t know what to say to her mother-in-law, being young and not very savvy when it came to making conversation. What she remembered about my grandmother was that she was very quiet and often stared out from the position of an obscure woman in a room full of people. My mom thought her “spooky”. My mom recalls that my dad said that she smoked down her cigarettes the nub, burning and blackening the tips of her fingers.  She even might have started a small fire in her sister’s waste basket with a burning cigarette.

There is one thing that sticks out that my mother recalls that is sweet. What my grandmother asked my mother shows her humanity: “Do you love my son? “ It shows a woman who has genuine feelings, has desires, and caring. I could see the love that she had for my father when I heard that she brought his boots to school in bad weather, and he was embarrassed by the look of her—rolled down socks and an old fur coat.  I doubt, though, he ever heard the words of “I love you”, as my father did not say these things to his children.

Near the end of his life, when my father was getting dementia, I knew the time was short for us to talk and now was the moment to ask questions. “I know so little about your childhood”, I told him. He said there was nothing worth mentioning, and when I probed him a bit, he told me, “We were the lowest of the low”. It saddens me that the pain was still very much there.

What my parents couldn’t or didn’t tell me, I learned from a few other relatives. I called up my dad’s cousin—who lives in Las Vegas—with plenty of apprehension, never having met her, and not knowing if she’d want to talk with me. Slowly, I sensed her grow from suspicious of my intent to warming up to me a bit. She said she liked my father, but “he could have been nicer to his mother”. This cousin told me that he avoided her a lot, and she felt my grandmother was aware. My dad’s younger brother did, too, I am told. My mom related to me that once when my grandmother would knock on their door back in their flat in Detroit, in their early years of marriage, my dad told her not answer the door to prevent her visit.

If it wasn’t for this cousin’s mother, my grandmother’s sister, as well as two of her daughters, the poor woman would have been quite lonely—though I’m sure loneliness defined her. I am glad they took an extra interest in my grandmother. They would take her out for coffee or have her over.  This sister “felt sorry for her”, the Las Vegas cousin told me.  I’m glad, but she “felt sorry for her? I hope it was more than that.

Considering all what she went through, I am wondering what went through my grandmother’s head. Did this woman ever feel loved? If she did, it must have been like a glass of water in a desert.

Another of my dad’s cousins, from another sister of my grandmother’s, helped me out. Her family stories filled in some gaps, but what she couldn’t tell me records did. The records seemed to prove the stories correct, as some family stories can be more fiction than fact.

I did my own research, as well as get records from others, and finally hired a genealogist. I verified that my grandmother was born in 1892 in a village in Lithuania, not ever knowing the exact date. Loss began early in her life, as her father died of small pox when she was four months old. He was twenty six, and he wasn’t even married a year. Records show this bit of oral history to be almost spot-on.  My parents made a single visit to my grandmother’s youngest sister, and this great aunt told me that my grandmother lost her father at six months old. My dad never knew his real grandfather died, thinking his youngest aunt had a different father. He was surprised to find out that his mother was the one set apart from the others.

So my great grandmother was left a widow with a baby to care for all on her own. This would have been bad for both, so this gr

A backdrop of gorgeous hues, tints, and shades peeking in from afar draw near, I on one side, it on the other, the two of us bidding for a glance at two white doves on center stage.  
 
Their eyes converging, their glance coinciding, a replica of the simplicity in which they were brought together, a dual recognition ignited by the burning of hearts and the lumination of souls. 
 
Affectionate hands coupled in an orbit of serenity, her passionately embracing his with a tug of excitement gushing I’m yours, his tenderly and securely supporting hers and in acceptance of gifts of admiration and approval, he is humbled whilst mesmerized by her captivating beauty and elatious smile.  
 
Two distinct bodies standing still between an air of transparency and vulnerability, they occupying an endearing space serenading to sweet melodies reminiscent of one exclusive life. A bit of haze lingers behind her, her ***** drumming to a cheerful step toward his, there she waits in an affirmative reply of what much he has to offer her, what much he has given her. He consumed by her presence, his face speaking something his mouth cannot. A yearning for each other unspoken, the romantic harmony of a moonstruck light and a synchronized kiss. Their bodies held captive by their souls set free. 
 
An impartial unfinished hallow sits as a canopy above, gracing its cascading rays on the couples’ faces creating unique shadows on each, one caressing the other in a playfully warm exchange. Overwhelmed by his serenade, emotions overflow and an innocent blush appears, his heart unburdened, skipping to a resounding beat and the words, I found my soulmate. With a slight rise of her jaw, she’s smitten with this king, the delicate skin of her countenance warmed by the glow of his, a pink dusting of her freshwater pearls.  
 
A love affair unconventional, a duo in adoration, a marriage of crisp airiness and a desire for discovery ringing true, a fondness between man and woman precious like a round cut diamond, weightless as dandelion fuzz blowing in the wind, beaming identical to that of a fluorescent night star, the twosome looking into one soul rejoices intimately at their romantic chemistry and unyielding bond. 
 
A gracious audience of ink, navy, and Prussian blue, antique and porcelain white, emerald green and scarlet pink in a pose of calm celebration, honors the mister and missus with an exuberant ovation. Entangled in a web of love with a sincerity stringing them in unison, the two in a trance cherishes a declaration so glamorous, a devotion so light.

for all i care to remember...
        looking into the mirror was more or less...
something akin to:
"squirting"... **** me! SQUINTING...
      well... the contortion of the eyes...
"worrying" about a double-chin...
and of course... enough stealth acne
to make me... the bride of beelzebub
how i'd joke to myself...
         beelzebub sat on my face and *******
a tonne of... dead maggots...

           i never knew i was athletic standing
before a mirror...
i probably know that i am less athletic now...
but... looking into mirror made
sense... once...
   this russian girl...
    in st. petersburg...
   we were in "love"...
       and there was this great aventurine bed...
and... a closet with two mirrors...
and... we'd be at it...
i was looking into the mirror...
and she was looking into the mirror...
it was like: the opposite of *** on l.s.d. -
because it was like...
beyond the missionary -
the "******" of the mirror...
   as in ***... it leaves you wanting
to ******* to the *******...
because... hell...
without a mirror...
could you capture the face moaning
contorting like an experiment out
of the gehenna harem?

     for all the *** toys sold...
all those exceses of... woman's lingerie...
outfits... nurses...
   blah blah... it really takes a mirror
to spice things up...
this dead-eyed mirror canvas...
the dire-dead-necessary...
    tooth-fairy: ref. the red dragon...
i needed to see that she needed to see
that i was ******* her... and that she...
was being ******...

           mirror mirror on the wall...
**** the fair and the fairest and the fairies...
i have come to understand that mirrors...
work best...
when... not stressed to exemplify...
a concern for beauty...
   or... something that is worn...
clothes look... terribly important in a mirror...
esp. by someone wearing them
when allowed to be digested / investigated
by a mirror...

but... a mirror during ***?
when you're not performing inverted missionary...
doggy... and she's lying with clenched ****-cheeks...
i was in love once...
which also implies:
i ****** like a race-champ pony!
the mirror always helps...
i wouldn't know: whether s&m leather
and straps would... and whips...
made much of a difference...
when... the mirror... the ghost ******...
the: satan you could get away with...
if you didn't utter a comprehensive word...
but ensure a strict rigidity to...
onomatopoeias and syllables...
and... exfoliating nouns...

        upon memory being summoned...
i'm getting a bigger hard-on thinking
about all the encounters i've had with the police...
there's always at least two memorable
encounters...
getting poisoned in a nightclub...
getting on the bus...
getting off the bus... dropping like a pancake
onto the cement...
     being roused... asked by the police officer
whether i was o.k.:
making a slurred and lengthy apology...
giving my address...
and being... taken in a police van... in a cage
for a sinner... like a taxi...
back home...

    losing my virginity to a pair of handcuffs...
for ******* in an alleyway...
getting screamed at...
one officer cuffed me...
the female officer had a pen and pad ready...
in an alleyway where it was discussed:
and who's alleyway is it?
i'm too drunk already...
if i walked into a pub on friday come
10pm i'd be asked to buy a pint
in order to use their toilet...

         it's one sort of luck... gambling...
betting on a horse...
but another... being hand-cuffed...
  and then... having the hand-cuffs...
taken away...
              as this dialogue happened in the...
"invisible" shadow of the alley...
i can't exactly imagine what the onlookers
saw...
           a teasing of authority...
drinking a beer on a bench outside
a pub on a friday night...
which is... basically... taking away
the revenue... of being sardine packed...
and pyramid schemed... for failure...
but my... what a glorious night...

so i asked: and where am i... permitted...
and blah blah...
that ******* mirror... and that aventurine bed...
the same thrill during ***...
like... the thrill of stepping into a brothel...
without a need to ***...
the 9 of them: all nazgul attired in scrutiny...
before "the pick"...

   *** toys... can i please get a mirror in here?!
it has to become a standard for a healthy
sexed up relationship...
    a mirror can overpower any...
frivolity of during-***: attire...
  the imitation ******...
a mirror is... just that...
                 *** with: in third person narrative...
but... smirk-giggle:
you catching her eyes getting ******...
and she catching your eyes: ******* her...

so tame tame... unlike reading...
  the tame blushes of marquis the sade...
never to mention... this philosophical adventure
of ******... which it really is...
impeccable... trouble with: thought put into
practice...
                yes... that horrid... Fritzl case...
but unlike the idealist scenario...
the mother was notably pushed away from
the grandiosity of the sin...
and it was done... in public... with...
a purview of... shaking established social norms!
it wasn't... a rabbit-hole of horror...

              which is why i'm glad i do not
have children of my own...
   i once spent an afternoon with...
my... grand-aunts son... my uncle...
don't ask...
         and i looked like him and thought...
well... i have most certainly had more
fun with cats and dogs...
i was a complete mute...
i didn't feel like cuddling this piece
of cubism... it looked human and even
contorted like one...
perhaps if it was mine...
i could have... somehow...
            "relegated my inhibitions"?
                 n'est ce pas?
         to have children and begin with...
that ******* of differentiating vowels from
consonants... and then... building consonants...
what... 5 vowels... 21 consonants...
5 x 21 = 105 variations...
       prefix: ab, ac, ad, af, ag...
                     eb, ec, ed, ef, eg...
                           IF only! oof!
                 the suffix - ba, ca, da, fa, go...
                                 bat cat dad fat god...
and then... the 21 x 21 consonant variables...
squared to the power of 5...
because... chinese is... frankly...
so simple...

   - it's summer and...
            since i would otherwise... require ink...
to write... and the paper would somehow
be always readily available...
no need for ink...
the summer months are terrible...
for no requirement of ink...
what is ink?  ink is...
                         i need october...
i need november... december... january...
february... half of march...
i need to borrow ink from the night!
i can't scribble in these arab / kenyan months...
these sun-seeker months
of idle by the dream-pool... load of...
overtly-talked... less thought...
therefore... no need to scribble...

    i need the night for my ink...
                           "punctuation marks are in
the constellations": oh yes... honey sweet...
what's it called? cliche? we've all been there...
i too would sacrifice Hector before the altar
of Achilles if i were Priam...
                   only because: he was called Hector...
and the other was Achilles...
and i was called Priam...
       in such times... what were...
the trully... common-place names...
of stunt-men and extras?
   i'd like to know the equivalent of a john smith
from ancient greece...
what would one call: him?
            
        perhaps: i tend to think about *** when
i... most probably had a dream...
jerking off is a bit like...
checking one's blood pressure...
or as a diabetic might... ***** his index
to check the sugar levels...
i write about "***" when i've had a dream...
the dream...

i was talking to a man about cars...
notably... cars from...
america and germany...
circa the years... 1920s through to...
                the 1970s...
          and... then... the talk of... a motorcycle...
a specific motorcycle...
   a triump street cup...
                 a BMW R18... but not quiet...
whatever it was...
                    for the love of a double-decker
bus and a pair of legs...
                which is not...
to have emotionally invested
in *** was something a much younger
version of me would have done...
i thank the prostitutes of curing me of this...
debilitating disease / dream...
              which, i, prescribed... myself...
so no... i hardly think...
there were any... mummy or daddy issues...
i would skip several scenarios:
as much as i love riding a double-decker
bus... i abhor... taking a taxi...
       even if it requires me to walk...
2 miles... i'd rather walk:
for the love of legs and... voodoo dolls hanging
like corks... bend the knee: they might say...
bullet to the knee-cap... if you ask me...
again...

     perhaps i wasn't born english...
but... after... 26 years among them...
                          it "sort of" grows on you...

- man can perform a thousand:
dodo project genocides in one sitting:
on the throne of thrones...
before jumping under a baptism:
fully attired in the ganjes pyjamas
in one sitting: on the throne of thrones...
to "squat" while *******...
*******... *******...
"scented candles" of taking a shower...

i write about *** every time i have a dream...
it's to succumb to the lesser...
escapade of me...
i can stomach subjectivity...
but having to stomach idealism...
is another matter: altogether...
i would like to worship the men who
have had their fill...
and settled for the swan blockade
of the widower romance...
the widow swan...
the black widow: a ******* spider...

none of it... i ****** good i ******
well... come the prime of the age 21...
she was a gamer side-kick bedded...
she prescribed me...
                        Bulgakov...
              reading a ****** to a prussian...
or reading a ****** to a RUŚ: example: ditto...
                  i have heard of how
love supposedly closed and opened borders...
we are so antithesis "different"...
we aren't... some western "communist"
zoo study:
the people who say and then...
lucky us paupers...
who have to "loot" the infrastructure
of the vacating ****-tunnels...
because... someone has to ****-off...
their tongue and... gerbil fidgety!

albino chimpanzee and...
boxer gorilla fed on...
the promise of bulk... with nothing
but... the promise of fruits of your
labour... and nothing relating
to protein... or fat... of complex sugars
known as bread... none of that!
still: that fudge-packing bulk of
gorilla bicep protein: amass!

   - as ever... the murk: before the deep-water...
the... inverted demigods
of h. p. lovecraft...
because... cthulhu is... "somehow"...
not the ******* son of Poseidon?

acid-quasi-monkey asks...
   placid-didgeridoo...
                a constipated: not funny...
attempts! at solving a crossword!
-frankenstein-myrhh:
                        ******* dangling...
                                    (-) - Fatima...
is this... "Syria" yet?
  concerning the second coming...
concerning...
Syrian civil war... something...
*******... miraculous...
has happened...
or was about to happen...
and that it didn't happen...
better that it did:
but since it... didn't...
best we cover it up...
                corpse bride:
               Khadija **** Khuwaylid...
if ever: Stephen Vizinczey...
was a (prophet) Muhammad...
in praise of older women...

    ...a Fatima... fleeing the Syrian
civil war... because... Ramses II
was... telling apart the 7 good years
from... the 7 ******* years...

tell you what... it's no fun...
when you've been given the need
to bend the knee before the altar
of phantom power...
if i were 16 and she was 14...
if i was 18 and she was 16...
if i was 60! and she was... 20!
would it matter?
               if i was jerking off aged 8...
you want to know...
what... the last prize is...
the last... difference between...
"consent" of two adult adult...
with their *******-riddle
of a theatre of ***?
     you want to know?
the thought of ******* someone...
under-age...
no! no barbie! no ken!
the theatre of thought...
of ******* someone... underage...
who is... displaying...
teasing ***... in that primodial seance
of grief to ward of mother from
the ******...
and father from the parentage of
school!

               you ever want to see...
what... a kick in the jaw looks like...
omnipresent onlooker...
of some... unpardonable crime...
that it has to be ***-related...
              i wish i performed some
unpardonable crime on a *******...
i guess a kiss is a kiss is an unpardonable
crime against a *******...
i need this heart to shelter itself
in stone! i need: a heart!
of hard-earned: rock!
               with each sentence:
i find it impossible to not....growl!
to howl! to spew a bickering of...
wolves... of hyenas...
a wake of crows!
            
              i want toi write an echo!
hye! anoooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
i want to hear...
the microscope itching
of a marrow...
of maggots working toward
a closure of expressing: scotch fudge!
i want! maggot marrow!
i want! the lost sounds of...
what the fox already minded...
in...                       χαoς! ρει(γ)νς!
yes... the gamma is a surd...
                 in this... english... equation...

last time i checked:
the cognitive theatre of the forbidden...
****** "lax"...
it's enough to tease the affair with
mere thought...
to have... people "bothered"
that one thinks... such "things"!
while the girl... prime... aged... 14...
teases you with...
exfoliations of...
                      script and... censure...
like a skirt...
but of course...
you're the dodo-project genocidal maniac
about to sport a new: cushioning
extreme...
of an ******* like...
you're minding teasing...
a high-blood pressure!

          can i allow myself a giggle?
a crown of: a dozen demons laughing
as relevant: to the 12 strong cohort of...
cognitive lapses of reason?
          
  ******* before a mirror is my...
my memory and my last concern for...
"adventure"...
a ****** ******* a russian girl so freely...
she fed off of us as...
     spinning a willow to confine itself to:
those rhubarbs in... "retro"...
no... i'm pretty sure... "they"...
the western communists would have minded
it coming across as...
  rhubarb... dreads... stiff 12" drizzle /
drool bits of a tight-knit white sporting ***!
my... oh... wait...
not exactly 16... so... no...

my... what?!
    this has to become one of those...
most... "unspectacularbly": "a least"
in what's to be digested... "fogiven"...
when... there's that teasing-**** of a per-se
readied for her rite of horror to be
met with ******* the...
upper... echelons...
to the queue! to the loiter!
to the...                cue: no dry martini equipped...
sort of... joke as... a variation
of... escapism: to excuse...
fixations... of social hierarchy...

    i am hardly a misogynist...
            it's almost... fake...
how feminists point out... death-pull...
the misogynists...
clinging to philanthropists... i suppose...
it's like...
"someone" forgot...
to... mention...
the benevolent in misanthrophy...
the happily allied to the ivory tower...
whether you're a man or a woman...
or a man pretending to be a woman...
or a woman pretending to be a man...

who is... the misanthrope?
            the solipsist...
the atheist: should you be god?
the altruist... the... fiddly-bit... extreme...
the... autist?
         who is... your... claim for...
******-****** ruleZ the world?
mother of all perfected children...
a bit like jerking off to...
those gravure beijing models...

ava lauren? she is... an aged looking
*******... closure: madame...
she earned it...
her skin is like leather...
you dare to: wear it...
   but... oops: the ubermensch...
these chinese "brides" are not...
photoshopped...
they're genetically edited...
it was apparent that china
didn't have a soul...
in its summa summarum...
or in its christ redeemer...
when... india has its rich
polytheism... pedagogy:
shiva the antithesis of vishnu:
the thesis...

    i can feel... at least!
i can feel abbreviated with the raj master...
sport...
sending a few "*******" to beijing!
let's hear a story...
no... i'm fuming mad:
i'm dying! to hear that coin-flip
of a tail: of bending the... fuckning knee:
capping... as one might!

there's a <100million of "me"...
there's... a >1billion of "them"...

   while:
            i ****** off to...
          genetically edited creatures...
the western world can hide
behind its setting sun: metaphor...
photo-editing... while...
the hot-**** beijing is...
gene-editing...
west-world 1972 bronze age:
"staging a coup"..

             yeah: gurran-gu-dag...
the arabs and their bangladeshi...
queen-bee sorted...
           elizabeth II...
royal ascot...
  i.e. lamborghinis raced on knightbridge...
because: arab playboys are to be...
minded...

write long... to ensure...
people read short... little chance
of censor-loved-up-pseudo-i.q.-heroes!
100 years later: you become a pseudo-Proust /
a Joyce... but... that also implies:
you're stiff up at the neck...
in death and sand... and worms...
in a grave! so? no turkish kebab:
no malmuk / no janissary resurrection!

Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn
Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch
A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn
Amongst endless blanch green fields which

Arc with a gust and apart where he treads,
Dragging his silk cape afar from flame
Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads
With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane

Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared
His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull
The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared
Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all

Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole
He is as content with death as he is to survive
Just not burn the world and condemn his soul
A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive

An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked
Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot
Monsters had come for him once before this day
They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away

He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft
It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust
But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough
And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must

The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms
As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees
With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms
The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease

The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?”
The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again
With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell
The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”

you know what’s really haunting about pictures like this:
    (see profile picture)
i only found out about the paris massacre
at 6pm.
so this whole mental illness debacle...
i guess i’ll have to fake it, improvise,
all the great ones did it to push people away
for some peace and quiet...
i’m seeing... i’m seeing the equivalent of
the 100 years war with islamic barbarism...
there simply isn’t a mein kampf orientation of:
what comes next?
the only thing that comes next is panic...
why didn’t they shout THIS IS FOR IRAQ!
why suddenly involve: ah crap, i knew it,
the re-emergence of poland on the map
ensure the post-colonial nations get the ***** treatment,
i was subjugated to prussian, russian and austro-hungarian
authority for some time, what the ****?!
the french / english / spanish trinity of colonialism
is not my 5pm cup of tea... **** it... let’s tango anyway...
let’s tango with hail marias in england
and magdalenes in corfu or ibiza...
yes... i’ve lost touch with reality... your definition of reality...
but at least i am the one who’s immersed...
you’re still stuck to the slavish realism of paying taxes and
kissing the bonnet of a sports car / boiler -
i’ve lost touch with your definition of reality...
mind the 1% budged of the n.h.s. caring
more for fatties and smokers... wisecrack.
well, what are the parisians gonna do... #: weareeaglesofdeathfans...
that won’t sell... my bet is... they won’t even bother
to entourage democracy this time... watch and learn boys...
they shot sub-culture admirers... they won’t march...
we’re **** to them... the neo-hippies...
they... will... not... march... this time, i promise you that.
it’s not politically adequate for the WE STAND TOGETHER pantomime...
they won’t.... i know them when i see them
crazy eyed and pathetic and uncourageous...
so unto satan and the kabbalah...
ever hear the post-traumatic stress-disorder of satan
having to hear ah ah ah oh oh oh uh uh uh
of woman?
there’s only two left... eh / i = pronoun....
satan does not have access to the vowels e and i....
i.e. he took back a tape recording of ***** into hell
to play on loop... while the tortures took place...
sweet music some say...
let’s see tomorrow.
theoretically though? losing the prefix un-,
and attributing something more functional
in relation to the conscious faculties of thought / memory /
imagination... you can only decrease your chances
of dreaming and provide the antidote to the theories
of the unconscious... it's already stressed in psychiatric
theory as animalistic... animals make sense of the world
with their distinctive "onomatopoeias" & intuition;
write poetry like it's a front-page story
that shoved through the queue elbowing people
to be first... hit the molten iron into shape while it's
amber hot... reference actual immersion in the world
(existence), rather than referencing non-immersion
in the world of idealism (essence / not
necessary essentials).

well, it would really become a problem...
if i were still jerking off and had a girlfriend / wife...
the ladies are looking for ultra-violent ****,
it's just a tease off ***** -
there's choking there's *******:
oddly enough... no yo-yo of Watergate?
me... i'm not willing to be shamed...
i still have my ******* -
she can have her webcam e-thot or whatever
the hell the internet **** is: memes my ***...
once upon a time it was merely called graffiti...
i don't see how darwinism can make
a 2nd coming resurgence in the 21st century...
fine... when it first came out at the end
of the 19th century: and opened the floodgates
for the 20th... and thanks to the physicists...
lasso! rein 'em in! rein 'em in:
for the fireplace and the ******* kumbaya...
the girls are looking and having finally decided
on an spanish omelette: but not a french ****
quiche... eggs and more eggs...
while i'm strapped to ******* one genocide
after another into the tissue and
flushing it down as: meat for the crocodiles
and tapeworms pretending they know how
play the parasite attaching themselves
to a white all white: white even if you're copper
skinned, cinnamon, hot choc or...
it's still a white tadpole racer...
i usually get off on looking at some xenia wood
cleavage...
it helps to tell apart the *** cleavage and
the breast cleavage...
i moved from: ******* snaps and started peering
at: when a woman pretends to perform
the lotus on a man's face...
and there's like... a floral pattern involved
with gulping oysters...
have i ever licked an ***-hole?
oh my... have i...
**** - *** 1-on-1... doom... 1st person shooters...
never the 3rd person ghost moving
the body...
am i missing something? the girls are
looking for extreme ***... i'm looking for
cleavage and teddy bears -
and the borderline before the whole body
exfoliates and what not...
as marquis de sade said: it's hardly something
i can control when i have a hard-on
almost 4 times during the day...
if i had a girlfriend... if would be crass to:
sly one in...
but... *******... no woman no cry...
it would be truly sad if i was in a relationship
and still up to the shambles of: not up to any
or the odd sort of good -
there's always this shared approach -
the wants and willingness needs to by made
synch. - they need to be a woman and a man:
polyphony - orchestra!
why write about ***? oh hell...
watch me write anything else -
my linguistic infatuations - *** and all manner
or picked ******* sells -
or... at a catholic school they would still teach
you about the perils of sniffing glue -
apparently the 1960s never happened -
no l.s.d. was ever dropped -
the pints of guinness were drank -
the cement was poured as the muscle to
the iron rod skeletons...

and when i finally achieved a beard worthy
of a post-25 year old - when the full
bush sr. happens - i forgot to curate
a body for: the objective safety of being watched...
or how the hell you word:
prior to the beard i focused on the face
and later the body...
and long hair...
once the beard arrived...
**** it... let's take to donning the Elijah
look... the beard comes way way ahead
of the nose - and now i'm still looking
for my neck -

it's *** it's only spectacular about once...
i've had that once spectacular -
i even got a tattoo -
oh... not me... i'm the dragon alien curl...
where my scar is...
on her right shoulder-blade...
and that's not even as if i branded her
myself...
she was going to fit me out with
dreadlocks and a tattoo of her totem at
the time - a scorpion -
thankfully i read about all this crap
in high school...
nick hornby's high fidelity -

it's still a very musical affair...
i remember what love at first sight looks
like to a fresh 17 year old
novosibirsk girl... siberian girl...
all the way west in edinburgh...
she gobbled the iPod and the playlist...
a near complete oeuvre of iron maiden...
and the odd songs...
while i was correcting two girls attempting
to make pancakes...
girls! you need to put some oil into the dough...
this is dough you'd make a sponge cake with...
so the story goes...

but *** was only spectacular once...
the rest of the time i think i was minding an itch...
even these days...
among... aha! that nag hammadi word:
in the Barbelo - the brothel -
no: i will not study the etymology -
in the brothel nothing spectacular ever happens -
you chance upon a ***** -
you're asked whether you want to use it -
you decline -
to play judas with the lips -
you pay an extra ten quid for you-feeding-the-oyster
suckling and all other leech comparison of oral...
ventures...
it's done - the mirrors are witnesses...
the lights are dimmed - two beached whales
on the shore of a bed of crisp linen -
and no one-night-stand
cocoon *** *******!
how do people stand these cocoon ***:
under the bed-sheets moments?!

because it would be really harsh to have a girlfriend...
and still have to *******...
at least without a girlfriend i can solve
the mystery of the throne of thrones -
no. 1 no. 2 and no. 3 -
then a quick baptism in the shower -
i sometimes found that doing the no. 3
helps with a constipation
of a no. 2 on: the throne of thrones...

- and as someone who discovered *******
before he could produce ***** -
well - the ******* is a "side project" -

because this world already needs no more
puritanical quips -
all this ******* stigmata looms over
the circumcised men -
but of course it would - why wouldn't it?
can you scratch your nose
if you cut-off the "un-necessary" rubicon /
cartilege?

would a balding scalp Adam ever scratch his
head - quiver - i thought that only stubble
and hair prompted one to scratch one's skin?
if i see a bald man scratching his head:
i'll let you know!

the plague of circumcised men's stigmata -
and if i had a girlfriend and she wasn't
"up to speed" like me: quasi marquis de sade
"might expect"...
**** me... even Chikatilo "fathered" children...
so much for "excuses": 2 to be exact!
nominee for bachelor of the year...
205th year (circa) coming:
Kant - the prussian watchmaker in
a coming of: calculating the promenade of
excuses - no famously i didn't / wouldn't
marry -

if you asked what i used to do
on those warm spring nights...
back in ol' satellite of the former u.s.s.r. -
and that... we entertained ourselves...
catching cockchafer beetle and catching girls
and tugging at their t-shirts and throwing
them in...
we: used to that sort of thing...
what better reason to drink seeing
the youth of today:
as a seemingly old dounding man:
well... in your 30s you sort of hit that zenith
of mortality's vitality on offer -
as much as technology is celebrated -
its change - it's impetus -

what's that... quote?
when an unstoppable force (technology) meets
an immovable object (ontology) -
or at least: i find man's ontology
to be forever played and plagued
by a priori "prepositions": genes -
and technolgoy is forever the a posteriori
counter-fact: of what much later...
much much later... in limbo land of history
becomes an: artifact escaping archeology...
now are we all not wishing
for some variation of closure?

memes: represented as genes?
really? i see them nothing but a cheap south-paw
jab's worth of the otherwise obvious:
graffiti (representation)...

girls are really searching for violent *** -
having **** fantasies?
my my - and here i was looking
for a xenia wood cleavage and some Bronzino:
you never have curbed your pornographic
enthuasiasm: if you never ******
off at...
mein gott! it's a meme!
1st comes god's index finger touching
adam's index finger in:
michelangelo's fresco of the creation of adam...
but the higher 2nd?
venus' tongue teasing the tongue
of cupid in Bronzino's cupid, folly and time...

i ****** off to that painting -
it's hard to stop a boy who knew how to:
prior to the kippah-guilt tripping:
no minus the ******* into early teenagehood...
i don't think i have yet to have dumped
the proper load on this: exercise - just yet...

oh the shame:
thankfuly this is england and no h'america -
and jesus is not the queen or king -
ol' lizzie is still playing poker and...
the constitution is and what i will not become
is this "vox populis" of a people
disaffected as to why the tax goes into the
pomp & circumstance and none of it:
thank god! ever goes into sense & sensibility
akin to the consort Middleton family;
that's highly replica prone...
blue-bloods... love them or hate them...
at least you can sight them as
almost unchanging -
sphynx head while the body changes
from male to female - but the sphynx is still there...

of an erectile-dysfunction: i would most certainly
hear if i had a girlfriend...
as it happened - the "free women"
always gave me a limp...
in the brothel i was there and she was there -
and i was she and she was i
and we weren't bothered about
counting two transgender sheep
of the nag hammadi library -

even on those one-night stands:
erectile-dysfunction - dim lights two beached
whales on the bedsheets i could stomach...
in a brothel...
but then she took me home
like some morrissey wallow and...
it was all about cocoon ***...
i've heard that temperature changes
the *** of frogs upon insemination...
cocoon *** under the bedsheets...
i stopped going out...

it's might almost sound like boasting:
believe me... it's disgruntled sarcastic... the overtone
to these words...
even i tried teasing a fetish with
latex lucy - but... then i thought about...
if you start wearing the same clotches
for god knows how long -
like an imitation of dog's hair...
you'd wish to squish into something
less pardonable / expected like a full gimp
imitation of lizard latex...
but violence an ****?

maybe that's why i started to tease
1970s italian classics...
dubbing from belgium and amsterdam
and all that...
but always after the torso cleavage -
always after the Om-onomatopeia look of
absent eyes and boiling tongues in a gurgle...
the contorted final stages of the face
before the lesser death as:
faking birth in ****** -
or what the hell you call: scavenger of:
never the lost details...
and if i had 7 children in the bag i would be
a fraud... and if i had a girlfriend
i would be a fraud and hopefuly ashamed...

came the white flag... came the rainbow flag...
came the ******* flag...
came the image: how would you ever find
yourself in a desire to blink: to peacock flutter...
without a pair of eye-lids?
hmm...
all those ******* freed arguments...
not coming from the "progressive school"
of islam -
or the hasidic jewry where:
a woman is to made to make concessions?
otherwise: waiting for that
golden moral maxim Confuscian wifey?

that a deity should...
somehow give moral laws...
i thought that man was the moral lawgiver?
if god were to become the moral
law advocate...
man should most certainly become
the physical law-giver - or at least:
to best serve my attention -
attempt fictional escapes via superhero
infantilism...

again: historiological infantilism -
the only serious history we are supposed to know
comes from h'america...
the civil rights movement -
that's serious history!
everything else is infantile historicism -
interchange of historicism and historiology -
yes - heidegger's leftovers...
but what is serious history?
and what is infantile history?
oh i'm pretty sure much of history kept in
agitated dust is: cowboys vs. indians
roleplaying... games...

cite anything serious of the past...
if there's no stampede toward some platonic exit...
then serious history happens with
the h'american civil rights movement...
after that we only have journalism
and bad idea dear diary entries...
of the next to come: ***** teenager
plague by acne and the many more oopses to come...

- and with the world saturated by:
an **** of forms - wielding their interwine and
maggot pit of "metaphors" -
better i write this than speaking during *** -
what could possibly saturate the "land"
that's already a swamp -

somehow i'm not edging toward a moral
superiority - the day i discovered
that god was both the god of writing
physical: and moral laws...
i was assured by the chinese that:
all kosher and all halal would pass
the test of the: 3 peepsqueaks...
no? do not eat a pig: do not eat a mandarin!
god only knows what the pig ate...
god forbid you ever knew the full
menu of Beijing!

pigs are the: das schlechteste!
das äußersteschlechteste!
pigs, mandarins, bats...
the bubonic plague, rats,
"supposing that africans would ever ****
monkeys"...
why would africans ever
**** monkeys...
i'm supposed to be ashamed of
having a hard-on...
while the white girls rummage
the carousel!

i could suppose the chinese already
ate the supposed ****-buddy to begin with...
it's no more funny when the "thing"
spreads like a mongolian shy-auxilliary
brigade of: voyeurs of:
the only evolution we are to be concerned
with, is to be better associated
with viruses, parasites and lice...

and if i were to live a sheltered western
liberal elite life... "elite":
the bigger the mouth the bigger the... whatever...
no complaint from the arabs
itching over well curated pork...
they'll allow the mandarin diet! no problem!

it's no problem...
pigs are the "problem"... when a god devolved
to invoke moral laws: his most high!
and it was "somehow" not man...
how can god, a monotheistic god...
give both physical laws and moral laws?
to me that's near impossible!
ah... unless this god is given
the "plotheistic" splinter of being
a theistic god and not a deistic god...
a theistic god gives both physical
and moral laws... a deistic god gives:
no moral laws: he was expecting
we could do so!

i can't believe in a god that plagiarises
man's activity -
man can't change the laws surrounding gravity...
yet to be known whether light
is somehow subjected to gravity...
but a god does not intervene by giving
moral laws...
having already established physical laws...
entertaining himself in the playground
of metaphysics...
only a prince... the devil -
would ever... intervene as god to give...
higher authority: a plagiarism of
man-made laws...
and call them: with deity origins...
why would a "god" meddle in:
you will not steal, you will not ****...
when...
god has set up a recycling centre?!

god is no judge, prosecutor, lawyer,
defendent, the accussed,
the jury over moral laws...
he is the epitome of physical laws:
the unchanging...
to have confused divine intervention
with a god bowing -
before and succumbing to...
man's ordiance... a moral law...
god does not allow himself moral qualities...
and god would not discriminate
against a pig: saying:
but the pig is the most economic piece -
had not man found the boar and
domesticated it?
the boar became the pig domesticated!
and the pig can be eaten...
from snout to tail and with only
the oink missing!

for a god to be so degraded as
the arbiter of physical laws -
to be ***** into giving moral laws...
only a devil would...
only a devil would...
only a devil would play with man's moral
laws... and attempt to supress
the already constaining impossible
with his cameo in egypt -
that machiavelli of sorts...

if the quran attempts to question
the cleanliness of pigs:
and god made the pig...
or rather made the man and the boar
and allowed man to domesticate the boar...
sick... ugly... but...
kept the mandarin: pristine!
save the pig... eat a mandarin!
if you dare...

how much do i abhor these infernal riddles:
how much i abhor scolding the bacon:
is also as much as:
you deserve the beijing sneeze!
you should let it palm tree vacate
and spread in the united arab emirates!
oh.. go on go on go on!
who's not looking?!

i only have old teutonic anthems to listen
to... because...
i like the way german sounds,
how german sounded...
how german will sound...
because at least german is not english...
and that's almost asking for a plum
tattoo of hue under the teasing
socket and the cheekbone: when in england...

no zeppelin echo you hear?
encore! again! again!
it's not o.k. to eat a pig according
to the hebrews of the muslims...
the mandarins will act worse than pigs
that the classical monotheists speak of...
a cat could catch a mouse...
but a cat could not be served a mouse
on a platter... what's that dish called?
the 3 peepsqueaks?
and pork is bad?
pork is just the tip of the iceberg
concerning these omnivores...
at this point... perhaps cannibalism?

islam go back home: check if there are
any mandarins living among you...
pork is bad... pork is bad!
this is not being paranoid this is me being funny!
pork is bad and your pseudo-god
of man-made moral plagiarisms!
*******: snippet the ******* but sure you
hell and bring me the niqab!
no *******? no niqab...

why are you looking at me?
i'm a tired old european...
why should i know what floats the boat
over in h'america?!

this "god" and the "intervention"...
oh i'm pretty sure we made our moral laws...
they weren't exactly to translate as a morality =
claustrophobia...
"god"...
               a belief that the same god
created the physical laws / barriers...
and somehow... decided to... plagiarise, human,
moral laws...
how this "god" decided to become
architect of physical laws...
and the interpolator of morals?
really?

a god that's critical of pork per se:
******* sheep ******* the semites...
but not critical of the mandarin diet?
that's no god; "at least not to me"...
the god that made gravity critical
as immoveable...
but a secondary god that...
was ignorant... of the fact that...
humans already punished stealing
and ******?!
why require a doubled emphasis?!

it's as if "god" made an entrance -
when no pyramids were to be built...
it's not: oh no...
we were never given any a priori parameters!
we were always supposed to sink into:
the thinking of being free...
let's face it...
at best: bad operatics of
madame butterfly at best:
only a soap opera.

Staring off into the distance of a ***** carpet ridden with living trails of ants, a crawling black river of desolate hunger, counting days of visions, wandering naked in the lake treading water, kissing, spitting out lips and liquid
shifted in dreams
memories poke like a cactus needle open to a room of steam heat and *****
flooding with words that digest imagination and burn eyelids, a cigarette held too close to a crowning flame
incinerating eyelashes and clattering TNT onto the serene image of our drunken antics while the rest of the world is howling for us to see ourselves for the raving lunatics we are, their tired look of exasperation an exhausted mother left alone to raise a hopeless child, wicked only for his ignorance
The last speakers of the paleolithic age journey forth from the depths of the amazonian jungle to heal our souls nailed to the cross as drug dealers because ingested plants grow in the ground

I saw the most beautiful soul weep in fear against a diner booth at midnight
amid plates of burgers, fries and green beans laid on the lineoleum table with no signs of starvation or danger
yet the signs of the apocalypse resonate in all psyches because reptilian brains would rather die than change, conform than bring forth the messianic transformation of our own radical self acceptance as God
and we shun those who are insane on the streets
***** outcasts, poor filth and ugliness
human animals unfit for this society of plastic and image, a mirage over substance
I cross the street rather than look the beggar in the eye because he stinks of desperation, and tell him no no no, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, I can't share with you all
MOLOCH!
The holy yell
flooding the empty headed street
we abandoned our mother and forsaken our selves to flickering images of lust and prestige, **** and *****, ****** and ***, thick wads
idolizing our own form,
the sirens of the modern age, the golden calves danced around in supermarket check out lines,
capturing us on the jagged cliffs of inattention, glories husked and barren, cultivate likes and followers sweet nicotine in the bloodstream, social media mogul reigning over a grand bazaar of ghosts in a room, talking to other ghosts in rooms of faraway lands, ignoring the living flesh in front of their twitchy eyes, cast down for a screen, forgetting themselves for a profile, a small picture in a corner, an Ignominious massacre of life cast through a digital lens, concerts meant for full expression of a cathartic moment of ****** movement, lost to a sea of hand held recording devices to remember how you didn't feel at that moment  with other people milling about as cattle who would rather document and never watch again then dance and live and be a part of the happening, look, Rip Van Winkles throwing pins with revolutionary prussian ghosts in a sleepy Catskill hollow, zombies behind wheels typing to ****, these words will not save you, they will not fill the siphon hole,
I am with you in this burning sodium night on my back in the grass of a night with no darkness
I am with you where the army of madness will overthrow the living dead and shake their working class dreams to the core with the sudden eternal war of nothingness and contemplation and silence screaming out for someone to save us
Everything is HOLY!

Throw open the church doors
think nothing of paying for poison, (as advertised)
but refuse to confront your self possessed greed because the man holding the cup is tired and desperate and I am tired and desperate

A truck hauls a horse
broken wilderness, cleaved concrete, cracked spines wretched scars,
killing anything that isn't hard, impermanent and futile, the land reclaims
but no land to ride, only the black road with its machines spewing the smokey remains of dead ancient animals
nature perverted, mobility imprisoned inside a metal box to be driven when it can run
so apt
for the potential inside coffins of daily lives
talking of dreams gutless to pursue
settling instead for the easy cruise of routine
******* our own hands

We all matter
but this world doesn't work without slaves
so take pride in your nine to five
get some ***** with that job title
and two sentence description
of how you can make the dreams come true, in the suburbs with three kids a couch and security from whatever danger lurks outside of us on TV
our own kind
murderous and malicious
homicidal tribalists
merrymaking nihilists
The fear The Fear
the light the light

I grab her hand and stare into dark eyes deadlocked on the momentary plane, a revealed saint testifying to God's truth Mary Maria, she tells me there is something beautiful outside this current mode of existence, but she's only had a fleeting glimpse

“However long we live, life is short and however important man becomes, he is nothing compared to the stars. There are secrets, dear sister, and it is for us to reveal them.”

The world was against her, right from the start,

Wrong time and wrong gender; a mother’s hard heart.

Typhus as a child, fever and chill,

And though unlike many, recovery from ill

She never grew much beyond four feet tall

Perhaps this is why she rose above of it all,

To become a groundbreaker, a real pioneer,

Caroline Herschel – the woman once here.



Denied education, trained only to serve

It was going to take some dedication, some dare and some verve

To get the hell out of 18th Century Germany

And join her brother William across the wide sea.

He was already the talk of the town,

With his songs and his concerts and his wig and his gown.

She joined in the singing but never did blend

Into life, society – no status, no friend.



But now was her chance to start to learn,

And now was her chance to start to earn.

A sibling as your tutor is a real mixed blessing

For algebra, geometry, trigonometry lessons.

He also taught her to sing like a bird,

But she felt trapped in his cage, and refused to be heard,

At any concerts that weren’t his own.

Blood thicker than water and loyal to the bone.



Soon the sky became William’s wanderlust,

Astronomy called, leaving scores gathering dust.

And although she desired to still share her own voice,

She worked to support him, did she have any choice?

She referred to herself as his “well trained pup”;

Doing as he commanded, as they both looked up,

To the stars and recorded whatever they found.

Through the telescopes he built and the lenses she ground.



In March 1781 he was victorious!

His superior telescope discovered Uranus!

It meant one last concert and then her voice no longer heard,

As he became court astronomer to King George the Third.

But it wasn’t just her singing that she felt had been taken,

But her own astronomy practice, as she was always making,

The parts for his scope – hours of polishing with care,

And climbing to fit them, fifty feet up in the air.

“I am much hindered in my practice by my help being continually wanted in the execution of the various astronomical contrivances.”



This Celestial Cinderella was told to ‘sweep’ the sky,

She found she had quite a flair for it; she found she had an eye,

For nebulae, comets, hundreds of stars no man had seen,

Sitting for hours in dark frosty fields with no other human being.

Then after years as his go to girl, events begin to change,

William fell for rich widow Mary Pitt – Caroline’s life was rearranged.

He moved in here, they moved her on, she’d lost her role, for now,

But when William died her nephew John took her back to The Observatory in Slough.



The first ever woman in the world to be paid,

For the contribution to science that she made.

Honorary Member was bestowed on she,

By the totally male Royal Astronomical Society.

They awarded a Gold medal in 1828,

The next woman had 160 years to wait (Vera Rubin fact fiends)

And in her 96th year, for doing her thing,

A Gold Medal for Science; from the Prussian King.



Buried with a lock of William’s hair,

The headstone of her grave declares:

“The eyes of her who is glorified here below

turned to the starry heavens” – yet though,

where other mortals just have granite to be remembered by,

Caroline has markers in the sky:

A place on the moon, ever dancing with earth;

A Comet of ice with a tail of fire bursts.

A remarkable woman, an inspiration to us

Who made her mark on the cosmos, without any fuss.


But there’s just one thing that’s getting me down –

Remembered in this universe, but not in this town.



I’ve minded the heavens, but now I must,

Return to the universe, once more to star dust.

A century of this life for me is enough.

The cosmos is within us. We’re made of such stuff.



anna jones ©2016

belgravia on itv... and the world is filled with...
odes to charlemagne -
or rather: the emperor has risen...
in the form of a bonaparte...

       i lost my virginity to a french girl
from Grenoble - a one ms. psychologist
Isa-bel-l'ah...

              and i had three pictures hanging
in my student accomodation overlooking
the salisbury crags...
           one i put my amp on the windowsill
and did a rendition of...
                            something from the movie
crow / last days...

there was plato... there was the marquis de sade...
and then there was napoleon...

i was immediately reminded...
but napoleon did x y and z...
       i could swear the zeitgeist for us begins
with the end of the 2nd world war?
well: i lost my virginity... didn't i?
          
             and come to think of...
there is the trafalgar sq. in London...
      and there's the monument when it came
to Austerlitz victory...

           napoleon and that old bias...
for all those that encompassed in the duchy of warsaw...
or from under the partition
shared between the prussian the russian
and the austro-hungarian empire...

a short-lived affair... but...
        she minded napoleon but not marquis de sade...
come forward 200 years...
what are the monuments of the 2nd world war?
what are the... ******* monuments of the 1st world
war?
the cemeteries at Ypres for western europe...
the death camp memorials
   and the little ghetto lockets of memory and:
gypsy good fortune in the east?

a picture of the mushroom eating
and clinging onto the flesh of men and animals
in a symbiosis and mind-control dynamics
of the fungus keeping the host alive...
unlike a virus?

   where are the monuments for all that was
achieved in the two wars?
where's the trafalgar sq. where's the arc de triomphe?
between 1803–1815
   or between 1939–1945... well...
              12 years is not 6...
                  i guess you can't achieve much of any
sort of "meaningful" war if...
there's not a decade included in the mix...

oh i'm sure it's going to be hard to imagine
the führer as the kaiser...
     because: dressed in khaki like a whittle
hanzel schoolboy when all the big boys
started to wear schwarzgekleidet of zee SS...

from a perspective of history...
                             i am unsure as to why...
this ms. psychology major would grieve
the affairs of napoleon...
                             perhaps if he was a bit taller...
she might have a fancy for him...
then again... as kaiser... as emperor...
come to think of it...
the notation: Frank would included
the swiss... the belgians the dutch...
luxembourg...
       but not those rascals...
in the rhineland-palatinate...
            or north-rhine-westphalia...

schubert symphony no. 4 in c-minor, D. 417...
i always thought that schubert...
was the pianist competing with violins
to tackle shumann... never mind...

     then again: illuminating life of those
that still have a toe in the remaining posit
of life... yet 3/4 of what life is willing to offer
has both feet in the coffin and a last nail
to beg for the closure and funeral procession
of that chapter of human details
to be: ascribed to the realms of solely learning...
about it... there's no great-grandma with
her wheelbarrow of memories to grant
you "perspectives"...

he was a führer... but not the kaiser...
come to think of it...
the rise and fall... from the confines of being
rejected from an art-college...

today one of my cats (i only have two)
accidently burned the hairs of her tail
when she signatured it (the tail) across
a burning candle... and... you wouldn't believe it...
the smell of burnt cat furr...
i can imagine escaping my episodes of
solipsism when venturing into sniffing
someone else's farts to be more appealing...
than the smell of... the burning of cat furr...

i did remark... i don't think it was all that
pleasant working as butchers in those concentration
camps... if the burning of cat furr smells so bad...
if the burning of skin, nails...
bones... i'm starting to think it was a hell-hole
for both the camp "workers" and....
those about to be forced on the altar
of the belly of Moloch...

                          and when the hebrew god
conquered the gods of the philistines
and the caanites...
      did he "fall asleep"...
    thinking they wouldn't somehow use
people that wouldn't otherwise pay direct
homage to them... for their devilish enterprises?

where are the monumets from world
war I or world II that aren't cemeteries
or memorials or the death camps themselves?
there's not point merely seeing...
imagine going to Handel's messiah
at the royal albert hall...
           and only seeing an orchestra play...
most associated with seeing are:
the quality of either inanimate objects
or moving objects...
but there isn't a mention of the sounds locked
in brimfuls in these things...
but most importantly... i can't smell that
death circus...
well... no matter... i don't need to visit those
death camps and pay some spezial ode to
memory: it will just take a cat accidently burn
its tail furr brushing it over a candle...
that's enough... thank you...

           i don't need to see those camps...
not out of denial outright...
but... without the scent of burning hair
and flesh... the infamous cracow's winter
snow of cremations...

but the smell is missing...
i don't need to visit these places
for a picture of unused hammers and nails...
in their pristine gothica of still slippery when
kept in a mummified state of being
oiled for use... i don't like to rumminate in
echoes of: what this oven was used for...
the scent has subsided like a tide
and all that's exposed is never the living
proof... i have archeological proof...
that it is so sudden... doesn't matter...
i don't have the "perfume" to riddle me
with an immediacy of a recoil!
for that? i just need a cat to accidently burn
a few hairs of its tail over a candle...

it's one of those needle injections straight
into the nostrils...
seeing the oven will do very little to give
an expanse of my: sisyphean weight to tow
along...

faster than the speed of light:
or the digestion imprint of a photograph...
faster than the speed of sound...

    ssssssssssssssssssssscent...
          i don't need to see what other people decided
to want and see...
the burning of flesh and most notably unwashed
hair and furr...
       that's plenty...
i don't want to discourage myself from
cooking anything else in the future...

sometimes my room becomes a hotel for
either moths or flies...
i currently have an early waker...
she must be nearing being a year old...
you can tell... her flight is more methodological...
it isn't that usual flurry and all
that excited presence of itself: unique
in a bounty of life...
i will not bother this fly...
        if she was a mosquito... perhaps i would...

i am longing to see the spawn "maggots"
of moths eat and curl up in cotton...

where are the monuments to call it:
the end of world war I and world war II...
it's as if... it has to be shamed...
this whole genesis story from half-way
between the past century...
and into this... swamp-en-masse...

          last time i checked... that "something"
between the serbians and the croats
and the muslims of yugoslavia...
                    the 13th waffen mountain division...
or head east... the ukranian infamous
insurgent army...
        only recently i heard some major
****-wits decided to drill holes into the tires
of ambulances... near bristol...

as a perfectly just cold blooded heart...
is the crucifixion the epitome of a demigod's death?
what about... being spiked?
being forced onto a pike via
the architecture of where the intestines
meet the coccyx... the *******...
the ****... and the pelvis?
with hands tied?
what about hanging off a meat-hook...
with the meat-hook making the incission under the jaw?
hands and legs tied?

the crucifixion is just an out-dated symbol
of sacrifice... no wonder all that came after
had to become so... more... adventurous...
wouldn't we be foolish when it came to slacking
on the chapter of torture?

but at least one aspect of life can be still felt
to be pure, "aryan"... un-disturbed...
pain... is so un-interrupted by competing
subjectivities... that... well...
it's almost akin to cross paths with god...
pain is pure in that it is true...
forever: there's that other great democratic force
at work than mere death...
by the time we're through death is but
a bureucratic notation of a statistic:
a near miss of anonymity...

                there's that great leveller of pain...
from a simple toothache...
it's as if an ****** that comes on the wings of
being... a sedative of consciousness...
pain as that...
   pain is an inoculate agent against reality...
against consciousness...
all for that ****** of dreams...
lucky for me... i don't dream so well...
i forrest gump the whole affair...

some would think pain as a defining moment
an event horizon for their numb-skulled
crossword puzzle zeniths of "life"...
     i see pain more in favour of...
      i want to be cured from having to curate
so many mediocrities of this life:
as served and as service for others...
so dilligent at being busy-bodies in the shelter
of hierarchies and the shadows of:
the impossible perfection of mountain
replicas of Giza...

pain is illumination...
    beginning with a toothache...
once this temp. filling is ready to be scrubbed out...
and a root canal is to be fitted...
i think i'll begin with an oyster-esque "typo"
readying myself for an ******
when asked 'would you like an anaesthetic'
and the reply will be... 'no'...
                 clearly i don't have as many
avenues as are readily available
when it comes to a holy trinity of mouth,
******... *******...

      self-serving pleasures of the extensions
of pinching... by either crap pincers
or the cold of virus simulation of crowns
when having an ice-cube placed into my palm...

in that i am wholly sympathetic to pain...
well... what good did reading walter benjamin's
illumination(s) essay do to me...
beside what i already know about...
the difference between collecting books...
and collecting books and reading them...

              my personal library would shrink somewhat...
given that i own pretty much an assortment
of what has already been read:
i'm not my grandmother:
unlike watching a film... i can't re-read a book...
give me 2 years reading one...
but i will not re-read it!

this extension of a mollusk's zenith via
a ******... of all that's the sensation that rhymes
heart with brain...

         tow the bones...
       tow the bones...
                   come to the horizon where
the soft tissue blitzkriegs past the bone to the marrow...

arable lure of the prosthetic ghost, limb...
and limp...
       soft zenith pleasure...
while at the same time...
entertaining "things" that only secular
sensibility measures can instill...
do not cross paths with mythology:
goodness! you might forget being
snarky and insensible come tomorrow's year
monday when journalism catches
up from... "somehow" being detached
from her de facto and carpe diem
mantras of modus operandi!

i might call it: the moth's seal of the lips...
enough to lick a postage stamp...
hardly enough to actually kiss...

sold: christianity: metaphorical cannibalism...
i would rather taste the real thing...
if ever such an opportunity should
give sway...

       a führer is not a kaiser... back in the day...
there was respect in post-napoleonic war London...
in belgravia...
how did the h'american white house originate...
the Belveder of Warsaw...
vermin, peoples of the world: nibble...

                   i'm here to claim my future:
my anonymity... i'm here to scatter with the dues
of the frail... waiting for no clarity of
locked: stature worded in baron...
no stature worded in kaiser... führer...
      i am on the sole minding of... the gnostics...
the heretics...

i want to burn blue when all other dogmatic
breaths burn yellow...
           that i drink is of no solace...
bribe the reader! inner vacuum otherwise
a handshake with my shadow... by candlelight...
which is a bribe for an audience of death:
that personification on a theme of romance...
thanatos... chilling the spine...
and the serpentine...

                    i want to see the gallows...
and allure of seeing ***** and rot come oozing
from their baptised fleshy bits...
i want to be curator of the last abolished screech
of existence... i wand to hush them...
by sharpening a knife...
i want to find the idle fork...
i want to find the crown of ferns...
and kick and stab... the house of already dead
roman emperors... sitting... nay...
loitering... the anger of pride on their
laurels...

             napoleon... even with a name like that...
you can stomach the usual: steak becoming
a lump of minced beef...
but when it's ****** or stalin...
czopek or elert...
                    you'd wish for a horsehoof
to be dubbed: smith...
                     -smithy...
or some other... lucky you: frauman...
                      fregel...            made it up as
we went along...

yep... yep... i get it... drinks a whiskey...
****** out a lemonade...
and for whatever "genius": genius...
that third tier of being... not spawned by the gods...
but by man... in between angels and demons...
the geniuses...
that autistic master-class of...
****'s itching kinda eerie!

   i'm drunk: most of the people are sober...
i'm not going to have to
give an apologetics lecture on the sober
sods... am i?
romance period... a bit like being
a modern brit and all that wham!
sputnik dazzle of the: grit brighton!

jokes aside... the winged hussar...
                   also mongol...
******* that clad themselves in dog ****
to imitate... what would later become...
the 365 harem of an alexander...
          
   would it be any good reading
the greeks?
     can you really want to "catch-up" on so
much... when in fact you should be
reading the people who have re(a)d...
the ancient greeks?

here's me taking heidegger's advice...
spend 12 years reading aristotle...
          martin... oi oi... that leaves
me doing more work than the already
work required in pretending to be catholic...
and doing a spin-off sunday...
how about me just reads up on yous...
how's that?
2 years worth of you... is about...
       whatever it took you to "master"
aristoteles: ah-chew: chow-mein sucker...

     life is or at least has become or will
become... too impertinent...
  then again... lassitudes of being kept
in the confines of one's own allowances...
i can't expect... in the same way...
i can't become expectent...
it's a two-way-swoe-order in the guise
of a phoenix... (missing phenotypes)...

             the best held advent of:
if you weren't a part of pappa's genocide of
a clarifying sputnik's *****-out
into frog's dream-alike all mammalian
when you're already on your way out
with the moloch altar sacrifice of
no foetus would be born...

call it a... champagne bottle uncorking
ritual when it comes to...
and all that other drifting ritual
of "entropy" whenever a sobering / ***
note would awake a hannibal lecturer
for and what more...
that was necessary...

           stipends of: gotcha...
eagles - witchy woman...
ol' cliff does a little number:
like no intro for a jazz megahit
quintet when the bass comes along...
devil woman...
or the totally camp...
  dale winton...
because turning totally gay only
arrived in full bloom and daffodils
in the trenches...
when true gay arrived...
well... any other hole to fill...

              this hole's better than
any ****** eye's...
who's that backdoor man of
assorted gifts, to begin with?

          rhyme rhymes rhyme rhymes...
easily to make a happy than no
alcoholic into a: no thank you...
  
                                   discretely...
suburban... those desperado... casa-esposa...
the pride of the son: a mother...
that's usually enforced...

las orgullo de hijo: una madre...
           bad spanish... bad german...
mongrel of the either and some anglican
and some ****** catholic...

                                        if there was still something
of a worthwhile partition of time...
****** was never going to become
the next napoleon...
even though... invading russia was
a plagiarism... and the retrdo-event of all
that waste of time... 200 years
and the waste of time with the air onslought
for the battle of britain...
the u-boats...

     no mention of waiting a while...
     in that "what if" universe of revising...
one two three four... with:
einz zwei drei vier...

or... the eager panzermensch...
and that tunnel under the sea...
         it can be noted that a 100 year war
did exist... between the english and the french...

if the napoleonic wars have the monuments...
for what sort of reasons were
the 20th century "ende von alles kriege ende"...
******* proxies of the yugoslav conflict...
vietnam...
        
the monuments of the greatest wars of man...
monumets? cemeteries... or the death camps...
was this the turning point where...
death by war was to be... lessened by
omittance: "keep calm and carry on" *******?
the celebrated en masse of one single
male *******?

how isn't citing german...
an exfoliation from speaking mere peasant
english?
der zunge ist berufung die gegenwart:
ein vater: ein vaterzunge!

scheisse und höllegrube mit es!
                der "vaterland": fathers of daughters
of would be mothers... mothers of sons
of would be fathers... motherland... fatherland...
mothertongue... a ******* great big itch
of grammatical concerns! blah!

where are these monuments akin to trafalgar sq.?!
what's to be so... gloated... about defeating the nazis?
where is the gloat in mere words...
but sorely missed when it comes to sacrificing
bone and marrow and muscle
to focus on making escapades of marble?!
where... are... these... monuments?!

      my own shadow overshadows the testimonies
of... two... very... minor... wars...
perhaps world war I had covered one or two
hurt prides... hurt egos...
but... after all... a khaki attired boyscout...
when all the bad boys
were later... morphed by hugo boss
into schwarzgekleidet steinherzimmobilien...

ein führer ist nein (ein) kaiser...
not like the title napoleon acquired...
napoleon was cited as: emperor...
        a reicarnation of charlemagne...
   too bad for whoever barbarossa was...
  rutger hauer?! yes... but rutger was, dutch...
for ****'s sake!

napoleon was crowned emperor
in a church...
****** walked into an opera house...
heard some wagner...
some wagner not in that anemic proposal
of the walhall from das rheingold
via michele campanella...

              all that becomes the litany...
prior to the peeling to the basic grammar...
and then an attack on pronouns...
as if all languages had...
gender-neutral nouns of the anglican-sphere
of "talk"...

strip me down the the Diogenes' basics of
sodden cloth and dogs' **** to attire...
perhaps i'll show you Cleopatra smile...
or Mona Lisa frown...
             whatever might be the eventuality...
this is not it; nor could it ever be... "it";
the "it" of what you seek.

Colours buy silence.
I publicly deny Prussian Blue was my first,
the colour of a Paratrooper
but my Lover bequested the time.
I subterfuge the lower end scale of green,
like hopeless moss
coilling my Adversaries dreams
I am sunk with a kiss -
deeper than quagmire
she will obtuse my decree,
home is the tireless winds
further than the cut of her high cheekbones

Ancient wars and potatoes

It is the biggest potato farm in the world,
a giant field of tubers as far as eyes can see;
new potatoes boiled with a pat of butter; delicious, no need to slam in a lamb.  
Once a battlefield thousands of Russians and
Germans soldiers bled to death here the soil grew fertile,
absorbed all flesh only bones and uniform buttons left.
The soldiers didn’t die in vain, saved from old age debilities, Alzheimer,
renal diseases, hip replacement and triple bypass.
I found a rusty gun, a German Luger pistol it fell to pieces in my hand,
bullets inside still intact, owned by
an officer telling his men to die like Prussian heroes.  
Long furrows of edible tubers, made into fries, full of fat,
grandchildren of dead soldiers are obese and only fight virtual games.

I arrived at my station in Kaliningrad
as if posted there by an army of desires
entering through the gate with a firm set jaw
into the guarding teeth of iron girders
driven into the soft soul of the soil
by hammering heels as bold as yours

approaching a fateful encounter quite naughty
amidst ghosts in an Eastern European night
its sights built when all roads led to Königsberg city
taking pretty daughters of frightening Prussian knights
to a military parade past the rust of heavy industry

a call to arms wrapped tight up against youthful skin
dark forces dressed in lace trimmed girdles of passion
its secret codes covered by accents slightly Russian
sounding like love slipping into a cold war assignation

you were too beautiful by half
too perfect to wear jeans
so like the uniform concrete paths
abandoned to such ghastly stains
they attract me like works of art
that someone envious of being outlasted
had to spray with swirling tattoo paint
yet the matt camouflage fades fast
while your beauty is chiseled into my days
its ageless gloss defying the wind and dust

whipping across the wonderful blocks called home
built by socialist bloc labourers whose ***** hands
must have toiled for the day you were born
and set free the naked ambition of men that yearn
for a dessert of finely moulded vision
beyond the blue vein cheese and a little wine
into warm baths steaming away the tension

which had crossed our paths with precise chains
snapped together in a demand for attention
“stop - no tourism beyond here after 5pm”
but you knew diversions locked in 'till round 2am
a stress release submitting to the pull of a comforter
gentle in the peace of the goose-down we slept in
the softness of the rattles
the worst
of your corrupters

If the skies would break out tonight,
you will see the fury--
silver white streaks across the prussian blue,
that every once in a while,
the night too,
shall give in.

The rain rips through my turpentine roof,
splitting the cold raindrops on my forehead,
while somewhere across the city,
two lovers meet under the canopy
of a shared umbrella.

They will eventually get out of the rain
that brought them together
and reach across the surfaces
for hands in the darkness.

And get into a car,
drive away,
forgetting everything else.

Lightning strikes,
thunder roars.

They get scared,
the driver flinches
the car screeches
and I lose the only one I have.

The car swivels,
hits the one on the road before,
a flash of light
and into the one forever.

Headlight.
Heaven.

They will drive away
from the rain that brought them together,
while I will still stand there
in the rain that took away
the love of a forgotten man.

this September may rain embrace
your shallow skull, your wounded smile
may rain embrace your cristal voice
your shallow skull, your wounded smile

deep buried in the bluish sky, clouds of forgiving dew
pour silence into nothingness
may rain embrace your skull, your bones
soft as thin paper lost beneath the ground

soft as a kiss your mouth once moaned upon my lips
and never found again poison as sweet
deep buried in the Prussian field the bluish corpse
dissolves itself under the stars

this September may rain embrace
your shallow skull, your wounded smile
may rain embrace your cristal voice
your shallow skull, your wounded smile

(tripping gracefully over her gory visage,
        she bashfully, covertly unveils her
        untruthful veracity,
        invisible in all things seen)

her phantom form surrounds me and
slides her arm between my lips, into my mouth
                                                    finger - after - finger;
i slowly swallow her whole
(she leaves me no other choice)

the quick fog forming in my eyes
threatens to spill
(i think it does)
i choke, my teeth grazing her entangled marble limbs.

my once untarnished tower of a neck
now a blemished python, bruised by suffocation
finger-painting, hand-print impressionism in
                    russian red and prussian blue and palatinate purple

my angry lungs drink her in
the space between my thoughts and veins becomes considerably smaller.


(i am crowded,
        i am
                 o
                    ver
                          whelmed.)


e­xhausted, i gasp for words
but those too have left me a while ago,
when her impact carved that permanent indent on my chest:
i can never rest.

blind promises lead to
a bruise festering beneath
stifled utterances and apologies
prerequisites for templates
of things never meant
but nevertheless
permanent

charred ochre and Prussian blue
churn into an acrylic wound
cringing
mesmerizing
all the ways to gouge into silence
just to purge verses that sound like
Not next time, I swear
I guess this is what they meant by
abstract

I should’ve listened
when I heard from a backdrop
that perfection is silent
behind clouds of luminescent cataracts
gushing
scorning
what has yet to be illuminated

but all this talk of perfection
makes me want to burn at the stake
there must be something
to ruin or save
because sacreligion isn’t free

Prana flows through me like springtime,
Prussian blue glass jewels the coral sand.
I discover a life to claim as mine,
In a space of grace beyond time.

I bathe in Dead Sea salt and Spanish lime,
By candlelight Amadeus plays a baby grand.
In a space of grace beyond time,
I discover a life to claim as mine.

Crystal stairs illuminate the climb,
Old souls are close at hand.
I discover a life to claim as mine,
In a space of grace beyond time.

Dreams conceived in my prime,
Strong in faith, I stand.
In a space of grace beyond time,
I discover a life to claim as mine.

around here, you either go to bed early, drink yourself silly,
or read Kant... to be honest i still imagine
Kant like René Magritte - suited
and booted for the "next best thing",
not scruffy like Diogenes or Socrates,
the epitome of civilisation: a well dressed man,
or simply conveniently blending in,
like me wearing tracksuit "trousers" and
a t-shirt, the same thing, over and over
again, for god knows how long...
oh i have a wardrobe, i just chose
to have the feline tastes in the mundane -
why bother? it's a simple question worthy of
a creaking table - why bother?
the pride of the English resides in having
a mortgage rather than a wife - it's all
a frenzy after that contract is signed,
they're all hip-hip-where's-the-*******-hooray!
basically, if i know, Putin knows,
Kant was accused as "being" a Prussian spy, i get
the jokes, hence i execute, and think you out
into thinking i'm irrational due to chickenpox
(even though i've had a vaccination),
no, please, you invented the clockwise route of
traffic and the Shanghai roundabout, you first...
no, seriously, i was just kidding and then you
take me all serious i have to give a Kamikaze
salute, death to us all, and none shall return...
imagine Jesus (big up the Bible Belt States!)
and his rejection of doctrine on the third day,
the whole thing about body resurrected /
resuscitated... am i in heaven? am i in hell?
i don't know! resurrection of the body happened as
it happened - me? personally? i imagine heaven
a place where you don't ****, eat, or feel -
hell where you do each and etc. to excess,
******* is like having **** *** - heaven you just
float about, Hades' lava lamp airy fairy...
i'm writing this because my mortality expired,
i'm angry like a teenager and a fusilier convoy
target for Islamic terrorism...
as you know, within a poet many voices speak,
in polite society the practice of poetry is
best described as schizophrenia -
a polite society, a polite society, a politeness,
doesn't ring the bell that adjective -
since you vote in dichotomy versions of unity -
dichotomic (underlined), a word you should know well -
oh now a theory above a non-approval of
a word? how eloquent... we can have dual
and the self- as in -containment
but we can't seem to have the dicho... ****'s sake 2,
antidote of pre-Christian Greek endeavours
focused on the number 2,
sign your name on the petition to obstruct
any synonymous activity -
post-and-inc.-Christianity Greek endeavours lost
itself into abstracting the no. 3
(prior to β-reduction-ism - i.e. because -
into γ-reduction-ism, i.e. cause) -
well, if there ain't no bench and no one to speak to,
you're bound to find fascinations in symbols
to the outreaching mentions of meaning,
i.e. insinuation - hence what psychiatrists have done
all along in bringing Freddy Kruger and the unconscious,
enveloped, and as antidote, insinuation:
collective unconscious / common sense = intuition.
i know this is abstract, i know the grammatical words missing
to write an essay, it's a poem,
look at it as if all the ******* of the current
Tate Modern exhibition put together - why else?
why take an umbrella out when it's raining
instead of thinking of yourself as sugar?
under my skin? people tend to be tattoos under your skin,
you release them by etching out fingerprints of
their genitalia onto the world, nothing more,
the ***** to guillotine the father, or mother -
should have worked on it, the carpet in the kitchen
as an escape route to explore America? the ***** to guillotine
that crap... the cat playhouse in the living room?
should have guillotined that... why not **** them off
before all that "adventurous horizons" crap of Ms. Caterpillar
turned actress, formerly known as Mr. Model
with a burp and get it away and done with?
well... i was born in a bigger ****-hole than this,
to me Romford, Essex, is like mother-******* Hollywood...
oh ****... i think i just shoved my ball-sack into fresh cement...
heave! heave! heave! n'ah, that ****'s stuck...
i think i'll compass the **** out of all Irish Catholics
along the way to the Hammadi Library; duh, nimwit!
(and a) shotgun! me get ******* first(!)
on our way into a Brighton pier photo-cubicle to get a passport
photograph for flight MS804...


                                                      ­     wankers.

Am I your rose?
A unique love under the bell jar?

I look at you, You look at me
Your prussian blue eyes
Pierce my being

A love that is ethereal,
Divinely orchestrated
A symphony of sweet surrender
The Angels sing I love you

Come to your rose,
Tend to me
I am no common rose
I am your rose,
I am unique in all the world,
Because of the time you have wasted on me.

Here I set with nothing to do
Dreaming about your eyes of blue
So many things you and I can do
But all I want is to make love to you

All day long I dream of you
How pleasing you look in navy blue
My heart jumps when I look at you
Have I told you I want to make love to you

My heart bounces around like a kangaroo
It's only you that I want to pursue
Lay you down in sheets of powder blue
All night long I want to make love to you

We could run away to Timbuktu
Or maybe even go to Katmandu
Wear lingerie that is Prussian blue
Anywhere I want to make love to you

I will always come through
Stormy sky's of iron blue
I don't have to make love to you
I just want to be next to you

When the rain came
he liked to watch it from indoors,
clouds, distraught,
dripping their tears down every window,
filling every drain
until they overflowed with woe.

When the fog came
he liked to dissolve into it,
pretend he had faded from existence,
strolled into a new life
where everything was coated
in the most brilliant shades of rainbow.

When the hail came
he liked to hear it on his roof,
bang, thwack, smack,
fill the plant pots
with frozen white spheres
like pearls tossed from the sky.

When the wind came
he liked to stand in the garden,
let it swim through his hair,
make it a mess
and wonder what would happen
if he flew up, away, and gone.

When the snow came
he liked to jump in it,
make a haul of snowballs,
throw them at no-one
and scour for footprints
that looked just like his.

When the sun came
he liked to smile a little,
only a little,
look at the view
and see the painting blend
from Prussian blue, to peach, to marigold.