and would i ever get embroil myself in a morning of: coffee,
croissant and a newspaper? i find it strange how newspapers
are printed for workers - sold in the morning,
and read in the hazy hours before the mind
catches up with the body at noon
lead to nothing but village sentimentalism -
and dupe sensationalism -
they really know when to baptise them:
a few weeks into their lives (most never
object to confirmation, i, for one, started inquiring
about the Gnostic cults, and said: nah, you'll
alright without me) -
baptism is a bit like newspapers:
i really didn't ask for it... sorry, i was in diapers,
i knew that i'd be wearing diapers
if i went to my confirmation by the Bishop
of Chelmsford - imagine what a cardinal
could do to me... but that's what newspapers
are, they are written in reasonable comfort,
i don't mean the sort of journalism
akin to all the president's men -
that's valiant... i mean the opinions sections,
i read a newspaper and think of only one thing:
****! i threw away something i actually
need in the recycling pile of garbage...
so you go back to the bag and sift through it...
which is what it's all about:
newspapers pulverise the half-awake readers
on the tube... making newspapers free is also
a tactic... i read newspapers, about this time,
nearing midnight... i've spent the entire day
occupying myself with colours, squares and clouds,
i leave my desire to see phonetic encoding a - z
till last, when i can relax, and actually recycle
all the opinions of the day...
shamefully, others pick up a newspaper,
early in the morning, and just nod, agree, nod, agree,
pigeon on parade... makes it easier to earn
a few more disciples when half of them (if not all)
are still trying to remember a dream at 7 a.m.,
all the opinions sections are fabulous!
mental health matters... like **** it does:
you're saying a box inside that storage room that's
your brain aches like broken arm...
you go to a doctor, and he replies: it's all in your head...
well, d'uh, metaphysical health was always clumsy
with what became spaghetti entanglement
for philosophers - the one never translates into
another as honing in on, and synonymous -
but that's life... but the two were never supposed to
be at odd, or, quiet simply: parallel -
after all, thinking, if a limb or an *****,
is more than what the automation of the brain is:
receptor to nervous stimuli - if there's an *****
such as a mind, and it's verb optimum is sick...
it's like seeing the desperation of someone doing
cartwheels on a tightrope, while deciding a next
chess move playing someone down below,
and smoking a pipe - thought, in the end,
is a dilemma where to many verbs are associated with it:
it's so spatial in that it tries to encompass a near
exponential number of ? / hmm hiccups -
                              as it does encompassing a near exponential
number of ! / eureka hiccups -
the German Chancellor and the fourth cottage -
and the opinion: nacktarschuzdeckenwunsch
(the desire to cover their own naked backsides) -
ah, newspapers and the morning,
whoever reads a newspaper in the morning is a sheep...
who doesn't even thinks that comics didn't slowly evolve
to be comics? they are pristine Geminis -
i wouldn't read a newspaper in the morning,
because i know most of these articles are written in
the afternoon, notably the opinion sections,
by people donning kimonos, drinking wine
and smoking Magritte's phrasing of: not a pipe.
i can't treat them as trash either... i call them
midnight literature... after i've spent the day not
looking at phonetic encoding symbols,
i finally zoom in, revise my eyes and ease into a crescendo
of appreciating newspapers, for whatever they're worth,
which, according to the Thursday's edition of the times:
£1.40 - but reading newspapers in the morning
is horrid - too much world, too much care,
too much moral acting - too much conversation...
the world is too big, and i'm too small...
so i do what the writers of these articles read:
although i have a stronger solvent to read their preaching
parody of Mt. Sinai - but what i found, apart from that,
well... couldn't poetry steal something from
the journalistic medium? in the way art is appreciated
without critics? shouldn't poetry be the only medium
of art where other art mediums are appreciated?
for example, i find that when i'm hearing the clicking
of the keyboard, and there's a record in the background
i have a full meal in front of me,
i forgot how good tubeway army's album replicas
is... as a second course meal... nothing of the top 30
canape charts of nibbles of artistic output...
poetry can congratulate over mediums of art,
it can steal from what journalism encompasses -
namely the critical pieces of the journalistic anatomy -
art, doesn't necessarily have to be a matthew arnold
moment of as soon as i returned home, i pulled off
my coat, flung myself on the sofa, and wept the
bitterest, sweetest tears: after coming back from
a Liszt concert... really?
i think that ballet is supreme sadism and Bach
had wax in his ears... fame and the adoration of women?
too lazy... like drinking too much, and listening
to what i like: without adverts selling me car insurance
and German shampoo.
yes, i am bothered, i'm seeing something in England
that's worrying, something akin to a Marx & Engels'
study of Victorian England - only this time it's
existentially tinged - not economically -
and yes, reading a newspaper at any "sensible" hour
of the day is rather pointless...
you can get very impressionable in the morning,
at around midnight, with a whiskey and a cigarette...
while everyone is already nodding off in Luna's
embrace - never understood reading newspapers
in the morning... or in the early afternoon -
it's better to digest the **** of the individual by the world
while everyone is asleep... less democratic constipation
of everyone having a go... or as Auden said:
all the ****** of the world write at night...
well, during the night: everything is apparently black
& white... the vacuum of the space, and the punctuation
of Zodiac are what this sort of writing best describes,
given that, we are the mediators of two opposing
chasms... to be honest... poets hate colour,
the whole spectrum of colour, from
red (λ nanometres 760 etc. and Herr Hertz, whatever)
to violet (λ nanometres 424 - 380) -
    so tiny, this puncture... equatable with
the size of the universe and that spec that's called earth -
to me? all of this is a massive accident -
as the gambling king said (god): oops... dunno.
but from what i can see... poets have colour -
hence the white page where all colours are entombed,
and better than scattering the white into the visible
spectrum, beginning as Newton with a needle hole
and a prism... no... we're probing it with something else,
intent on it being given to us in total,
a sum of all parts... or as they say: shying away from
the people in grey suits... virtually taking risks on meeting
the people in white coats - and how to slur and
window-lick our way into confined spaces
perfecting our skills in Paper Mâchés and Matisse-like
cut-outs.

well... i'd call this self-medication, or at least some sort of
"understanding" of what happened to me.
            people who i tell that it happened to me,
are still deluded in "thinking" that it didn't.
      you know how painful a brain hemorrhage
can be?                      well... it's fat oozing blood,
and it's not as painful as breaking a bone -
                                       but it's an exquisite pain;
this is why i write, like i said once:
my life's so ******* boring, that i just had to write about it;
and that really makes sense, because the writing
potential is, inexhaustible.
           but that really made me think about something,
namely the treatment of having suffered
                                                  a brain hemorrhage.
physiotherapy aside, i wanted to concentrate
                         on a cartesian model with regards
to the problem... the    mind vs. body,
                              or not necessarily the vs. but
the dualism / dichotomy.
                    physiotherapy treats the body...
but that's because physiotherapy only treats the body,
rather than the brain itself; and i'm guessing:
     all that idle chit-chat fusing comfort with hope.
the actual brain though? it's not actually treated.
physiotherapy doesn't treat the "mind" (i.e. brain) -
because it only treats the body.
               now, you see, i thought up a solution to treat the brain...
by the way: it worked with me, i don't know
if it might work with other people.
            the premise is...         brain is fat-electric, right?
      it's not a muscle, it's not a bone, it's not cartilage,
it's not fibrous collagen (tendon),
            it's fat... which is why omega-3 is really advocated
to be ingested to keep it healthy (the brain),
   as are nuts... brazil nuts, hazelnuts... cashews...
but i'm thinking about treating the brain,
       not outside of physiotherapy, but as including it -
well... the brain... fat-electric... synapses and lightning...
once again, this is a trial & error effort to consider...
     how about... simply pulverising the brain with loud
music, using headphones? **** me... that's a real frankenstein
move... using electricity to, how to say it:
         dry off the blood that spilled out of the brain?
since isn't that a way to somehow treat the brain
         while at the same time treating the body?
         you use electric currents of music blasting from
headphones to, dry off the blood that has just oozed out...
       you could have periods of physiotherapy...
but also periods of someone lying down, with headphones
on, and listening to their favourite music, really loud,
to rejuvenate the electric fat, that the brain is.
in the anglophone world we're already talking about
   nietzsche's fear: imagine talking for the whole of mankind...
so if we're already doing that in a cultural darwinism,
and that only means numbers and abstracted individualism,
what could possibly go wrong with this sort of experiment
i'm proposing?    a few people would go into seizures
and die... listening to their favourite music?
      i mean... birds singing? that's ****** annoying...
the only bird i can stomach is a crow - simply because he's
not adamant on expressing: oh it's spring! it's spring!
well... you know... just an idea... but it might work:
pulverising the brain with electricity... and that's not to say
it's the psychiatric sadism of e.c.t. (electroconvulsive therapy),
because what i'm suggesting is bypassing the bone structure,
and heading into soft tissue, using music,
                    to pulverise the brain with loud music.
song of choice? kmfdm's megalomaniac, or juke joint jezebel.

go to a brothel, you won't feel anything about what's considered the teenage atypical damning of events that make violins of us all.

now i know why i prefer bourbon to whiskey,
my usual stock went missing today
at the supermarket, i was thinking prior
recycling a plastic bottle of coca cola and a glass
bottle of whiskey... three Buds on offer for
£5 and then a bottle of Scots' Club at £11 (and
a bottle of coke): for the extra walk to buy
£5.99 Chesterfields at the Bangladeshi outlet?
hmm, that's a tough one... solved, Scots' Club
dried up, they've been watching my predictable
pattern on c.c.t.v., either that or i honed
on ant-mentality - which is far worse than
what Nietzsche described as herd mentality -
post-Nietzsche post-religion existentialism?
ants... not oxen, not sheep, not wildebeest -
simple, ants... compactness perfectó!
the antonym of deus ex machina, i.e.
the deus in machina - we all have our roles,
plumber electrician poet... cashier drill sergeant
bus driver... with me i imagine a Michelin star
kitchen... yes chef... yes chef... what is this ****?!
throw that under-cooked scallop away!
if it ain't perfect throw it away!
most would beg to cry and run out of the tense
environment - ooh look at me, bourbon makes
me rosy cheeked - the smell of it makes me summon
the gluttonous honey thickness of a prostitutes
lubricated **** - in Amsterdam with the laws
being lenient they call them sanitation workers
from Bolivia, this plump one told me her life story,
****** into bucket in front of me, told her
child minion to get beers for me, laughed
when i wanted to lick her out - opened the window
to fish the punters into her abode - true story -
i have absolutely no imagination, experience
counts - Amsterdam is fun - you should go there
some time... it's so much freer without
this Victorian-like theatre of courtship in England,
20 years in England, never ****** a swan -
she's too into her feminism away from the "naughty parts" -
darling... and what does your lover call you during
******* while you're drooling on the Ajax?
hmm? sloppy Samantha... or just ****?
***** words during arousal makes the geek take
the noble toilet paper given to them by the maidens...
(psst... they think it's a hanky)...
and with all that space, poets have a phobia with
punctuation, hence verses, hence missing colon (or alter
italics), semi-colon - maybe a full-stop along the way...
and the most annoying part, thus examples:
Prose writers speak a lot,
They draw the matchsticks by the lot - (oh hell, forget the hyphen,
that's reserved for Oxford acceptance of new words
requiring agility and optometry's rediscovery of origin:
Saxons in Istanbul running a sausage stand -
no no, ****'s Halal, we promise!)
But when they speak, they speak to the grey matter -
Never quiet the sparkler parts of the brain...
CAPITAL WITH EACH NEW LINE...
toss-up between learning punctuation and not using it -
i doesn't matter if poetry is the opposite of the claustrophobia
of prose's skeletal rigidity of a paragraph -
poets could become less tedious by using punctuation,
i'd begin with an exercise - count to one-hundred -
ensuring the space between one and ninety-nine
is uniform, i.e. a second apart - can't happen
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
| | | | | | | | | |
   11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
    |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |
         22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30
          |   |   |   |   |   |   |   |   |;
when in Edinburgh i had a mental implant, the compass,
mostly thanks to the locality, and the Firth of Forth -
i knew my west and my east, esp. looking at Prince's
Street (scoot-ish Manhattan - squares and linear
and diagonals, picture perfect) from just off the Royal
Mile - honestly, from the old city i could see America
don't below. but bourbon really does have a brothels'
perfumery feel about it - it really hits the cheeks and
warms them up... whiskey oddly enough doesn't...
that's what ****** her off... high-brow ******* -
a boy a girl a ******* - not romantic Marcel Schwob's
Monelle* - harsh realism of de Sadé (who also
wore the t-shirt with the slogan: I'M A FEMINIST!
while cursing from his cell window in the Bastille) -
the Saudi oil billionaires will run out at some point,
last days of the **** - i know, i prefer de Sadé -
adds a bit of spice - and if i'm going to be brutally
honest as his critics are, well, i'll be honest
about one of his works - ****** - crispy mint.
debates on the Man Booker prize - old guard and new
guard - that's the problem with the English...
they pretend to read on their Summer holiday...
who the hell reads in summer? they spend
their Winters in front of the television - i thought
that winter suited reading as it does writing?
the long nights, esp. the long nights -
the Russians said: our future is in your reading public -
the Americans said: our future is in the pulverise(d)
by images public - iconoclasm of words, trademark
logos (telegrams from time to time) - just recently
an advert at a bus-stop by some Asian car manufacturer -
no nuance, but definitely nuanced: GO FUN YOURSELF -
also called the state of literacy rates in England,
a girl writes her G.C.S.E. English exam paper
in text acronym (UR v. you're); so they locked up the Marquis
for obscenity, but Anaïs Nin walked free to everyone's
applause - the part where you tell me Kierkegaard
made a meal from the tree of good and evil
with his work either / or attached to Nietzsche's
beyond... muddles muddles and pumpernickel troubles;
sure, call it word salad - but i hardly think you're
a vegetarian; going to a brothel makes all this
****** warfare seem rather obsolete - esp. when it's prompt
for books and debates and serious action -
all the prostitutes of France came out in protest when
the government wanted to punish the pundits -
hey! do a Jesus! side with the "filth"!
these girls aren't going to be nuns, the feminists won't
save them, not one of them will be a star in a real-life
adaptation of pretty woman - and not, a, single, one
will buy the feminist arguments of the bourgeoisie actresses -
me? i will not ever have a girlfriend who experiments
with her child niece in a theme park imagining me in a
daddy role... or reads me a questionnaire about complimenting
differences from a Cosmopolitan magazine.

this feeds me: http://tinyurl.com/hvz44mr - sure, when you see flowers pollinate more frequently, and pigs slaughtered more so, you begin to wonder: this gentlemanly approach to things is really paying off... sure is... oh well, why are they born to necessitate such matrimony kindred to sadism? why?! by now i'm in the refugee camp: i really don't care, just get me off this orbital **** of pathos.

when bass and drums merge,
and soon overpowered rhythm guitars
all long gone...
                                    i don't have to be right,
or wrong,
                      Sacha Baron Cohen and the Cohen
brothers (albeit distinctive) and
     Mel Brooks still understand comedy:
has to do about something concerning genitalia,
but feel the rhythm,
                      it's slightly dangerous,
it's thematic according to a rheumatic
piston sharpening to pulverise you into
a state of being brain dead, that's dangerous,
skin-heads aplenty, with the fake dodo-extinction
of the left leaves the right ripe and open
to invigorate itself... just like
Urban the 2nd launched the crusades during
the first crusade... my ethnic cousins were not involved,
we waited for the Teutons, then the Mongols,
what a magical ethnic diversity,
                         you end up discarding English
media, even if or whenever they come up with a story
akin to *all the king's men - whoop d d'ah:
               helium filled balloons...
                      because what you're speaking is: i'm not
discovering as a legitimate differentiation
basis for either Lenin or Lennon -
                            shoot the dummy,
well: you're all Clinton and California is orange...
                         you see, techno punk is vague...
i'm vague...
                     i loved being in brothels,
they told me about black boys with elephants *****
and tried to get me angry,
         hell, i passed the test when one ******* stole
my bank card and the **** showed me an *** array of
stolen cards in his plagiarism wallet...
                                many more examples...
why did i retire my youth and beauty to
encounter prostitutes?
                ever tried courting an English girl?
i dare say, gnarl?
                                             you'd sooner find a *******
leprechaun than **** an English girl...
                               the bony **** of my own extensive limb
curled got boring, university wasn't the 1960s,
               i didn't want to ****...
i didn't want a Clinton reputation...
                 what's the answer? am i gay? no!
brothel 999.
                          well: if you're not going to **** me,
and i'm tired of yanking the doodle and saying
*** is actually Switzerland, where am i to go?
          the only way is brothel-land.
                                  **** a nippy chicken off a supermarket
shelf? is that your idea of currency?
                  oh i heard, two guys drugged a girl
***** her then impaled her like a Polish-Lithuanian
          Commonwealth baron speaking Ukrainian
in Argentina... then the street protests...
           i'm convict for rightfully paying for ***,
paying an extra £10 for eating the genitals out,
         making a Jewish joke akin to Balaam -
getting what i want,
                                    telling the British girls:
oh here comes the Pakistanis, curry kebab dab in that?
sure!
               whey hey!
                                   Sinjit's your uncle!
why the **** would you wonder why i designate
myself as being misogynist?
                                   i conceptualised the idea by
splitting the Cartesian Siamese distraction
into two: ergo doesn't necessarily precipitate into
the arithmetic...
                    i coordinate otherwise...
                                        going to the brothel liberated
me from dating culture,
                          from dating apps,
                                  from that i call pork trimmings.
easy to say you're an atheist but have no atheistic
thought to back it up... and few hardly do:
    because it's easy to assume you are something
but have no agreeable thought to manage the throttling
being as such.
                  a man can masquerade his delving
into lost genital interaction for only so long,
but when you live in a society where women are deaf
and blind, and prefer the company of perverts...
hey **! the ****** are parading and knocking on your
front-doors...
                      because they can, and because they will...
            what, you want to date?
                       is that eating a date while breaking
the Raamadam fasting month?
                      you got to be ******* kidding me...
don't bother...
                                      you'll die a *******-load of
squatting ***** exercises that's politically merely a
handshake... if the English girl don't give to a man:
        then let the perverts come -
i'm done.... Bulgarian ****** taught me all i need to know,
and i even decided to pay an extra £10 to slurp up that
excess of Isaac's necktie on the altar of Abraham -
funny how the Aztecs built pyramids but where not
interrupted: 'cos they were palaces of capital punishment
not trivial tombs!
                                  they taught me more than
i could have ever learned...
             when it comes to dating these days?
i can't be bothered, should i be bothered? probably no.
well, there's that case of drugging a girl, ****** her
and then impaling her in Argentina...
                       with so many insects roaming the place,
you're bound to feel a desire to ****,
  and when not gratified and not interested in games,
you go the source of your woes and
                    desire to buy salt,
and you buy salt,
                 and oh god, it's so impersonal
and yourself so intact,  and then you leave,
                                      and then you have very or merely
little concern for keeping certain things memorable.

It takes all I have within me
not to give in to the vibrations
that throw me against the wall
saying, lick the residue of salt
that coats the back of his neck
like the condensation of a room
that we could bring to a boil.

It takes some serious restraint
to keep me from tossing aside
all abandon, shouting put
your hands on me and make
maps of pleasure dribble
out of my neglected body.
I’d return the favor in an instant.

Call it dual exploration.
Oh, I’m swelling and aching
hoping to provoke the tension
quivering on the line.
I want to taste your flavors
as they pour out of you.
I’m starving for so much more
than what this safety provides.


Let’s :
Pulverise the precedent.
Run with risk.
Rebel, revel with me
Split my thighs where they part.
Grow where you will.
Spill some swollen ***.
Pop me like a pin.
Sweat, swallow, breath
with absent eyes.
Be ferocious.
Whisper then scream.

I would do the same
and explode.
Feeling my heart rattle my chest.

When common sense prevails
And Whitehall gets demolished
Once politics has died a death
When voting is abolished
The world can then recover
From an era of attrition
But mindful of the wandering
Redundant politician

For safeguarding the public
And ensuring that our nation
Is free from slimy bureaucrats
With dodgy legislation
Is vital for survival
So we’d better reemploy them
And here are some suggestions
As to how we might enjoy them

They could bungee jump volcanoes
For the National Geographic
Or lie down in a busy road
To calm the morning traffic
We could shave their glossy hair off
And turn it into wigs
Then pulverise the rest of them
For feeding to the pigs

If you’ve just made a coffee
And spilt a little drop
Then grab one by the ankles
And Presto! It’s a mop
Just roll one over nettles
If ever you’re impeded
And stand them on the riverbed
If stepping stones are needed

They’re great for hanging coats on
And extinguishing cigars
They’re useful safety dummies
For testing foreign cars
If hollowed out and quilted
They make a fetching scarf
And quite the conversation piece
If pickled, cut in half

The list is almost endless
And I’ve mentioned fairly few
There’s a myriad of ****** jobs
To find for them to do
But first they should be rounded up
A vessel must be chartered
To send them to the front line
Of the wars they ****** started

i mean, i'd love to have an English girlfriend... if she could cook.*

elitism? no, hardly, it's because you're
not someone walking past a beehive
dressed in flowers, doesn't mean anything,
it's not elitist, although poetry naturally
became a snobbish artefact drifting
among easily recyclable material of fond
farewells and petitions to vote and whatnot.

me? i quiet like the gay bitchiness of
Frank O'Hara's poem about the health of
Ginsberg - i imagine all those performers,
the umbilical cord cut from their essence,
having to entertain, repeat, entertain,
repeat, memorising their works
for a rapping cascade, mm yeah, mm, yo,
mm, yeah, *******, mm, yeah, in da'h 'ood,
mm, yeah... i can't forgive them,
they entertain and pulverise their one
potent act, then repeat, Stockholm (repeat),
Paris (repeat), Berlin (repeat), New York (repeat),
to affirm yourself like plagiarising
puppets - it must be horrid - to have
a plughole in you, in you that you require
to block - art becomes more like boxing,
dodging punches of the new, comfortably
sofa, artistry pre-readied to entertain,
no stumbling blocks of a **** poem,
just the continual revival of the true one,
the only one - lost themes of conversation,
no conversation at all, poetry lost to
Spartacus addressing the feeble minded
but eager in heart to ride an elephant for
Hannibal - Aesop biting his nails rather than
cutting them - long live the memory of
a few odds and black sheep -
Frank being ****** - mentions
Auschwitz symphony no. 1 a# of Adolph
Deutsche in that poem *fantasy -
hey, my pride is on the line, every show i turn
on, after Pope John Paul the 2nd became a
traitor i hear of Eastern European ******
everywhere - by god i too like to ****,
but ******* became a 110m sprint with
scaffold to jump across - prostitutes eased
the problems, no rabbit chase -
i ****** then played Monopoly to ease the flirting
mechanism - categorising man as mammal
breeds man categorising himself elsewhere,
a woman: mantis, a woman: black widow...
once you start categorising yourself as a mammal
and then build a telescope or shove a satellite
into orbit you'll be slightly confusing -
so what's what?
i just bypassed the printing press, nullified editors
and publishers, no one could experience such
freedoms in the 20th century, there's no question
of profit, it's... A MAY ZING...
it's a multiple ****** just now... who gives
a rotten egg's worth of omelette these days?
you see what's getting printed? you've seen the ****?
it's not even worth the softness of toilet paper,
i'm not surprised it's written like a tonne of lard's
worth off heaviness, there's no sprint technique
in the writing, it's a marathon of procrastinating...
a volume concoction of ADHD uno having a trip
flicking a lampshade switch on / off / on / off / on / off
for a month or a week... a real page turner...
well, that's that... sarcasm is dry gin and tonic
with the humours... self-indulgent, but i like that...
i'm just waiting for the trained monkey
to read me the encyclopaedia while cartwheeling...
so if you hiccup that saying: all eastern european
girls became ****** once the iron curtain was lifted,
you're probably right... and being a castrated ****
more or less i'm getting the giggles...
like that time watching a Dutch boyfriend spitting
in his Polish girlfriend's face...
well... if these girls are ******... western men
are *******... leech kiss my entry with this point,
leech kiss more clingy that Judas' -
wankers wankers... wankers.

concentrate on the symbols... the narrative style is that of being pedantically excited, it's put together haphazardly for a reason... the point being to concentrate on the symbols, most notably in the title, by suggesting that returning to letters, there's an opposite to Copernicus' compass, not regarding north and south, east and west... whether it's heliocentric of geocentric, the compass concerning letters and how they revolve and transform, akin to the later stages of summer and the earliest signs of autumn - or the nomadic paths of man, but simply, on a page.

indeed mathematics breeds a different
type of genius,
                                                  as i already said
mathematicians resound to agree:
we're not drafted to do arithmetic -
                we're not sprinters
   or the world's fastest at: 1 + 2 + 47 - 90 + 1056...
because our phonetic encoding
is overburdening and too much
akin to mathematical symbols -
              B and 8
                                     l or I and 1
             6 and b
                                            3 and E
              S and 5
                                           0 and O
   if the Greeks built and Empire
that spanned into England
                               the Barbarians
would have never adopted the Greek
alphabet -
                          but since it was the Romans
that did so... the Barbarians exploited
the latin alphabet -
      as they did...
                                    it takes a different
way of thinking, we're not talking
etymology, we're talking things like:
organic chemistry's electron movement
   diagrams... what is positive in Latin
  and negative in Rune? or... what is missing
in Latin and necessary to remember Rune?
             in between the disparity between
  >                     and                )
or (                    and              >
               we have the resurrected sharpening
of encoding reminders: accents,
              namely called diacritical marks...
         or a game of matchsticks...
from the barbarian crude or chequered
flints in terms of chipped away curving-edges
into talking smoothed-marble buttocks of statues...
   Bukowski was wrong... Caesar won
in the end...
                     Caesar cared less for world
power, his ultimate maxim was:
a sudden death...
                              and he won... he got
the sudden death...
                                 he didn't say: death in
my sleep, but: sudden death...
                  he won, in the end.
         i never stick to rules, me? a minor
anarchist, in terms of the Nato alphabet,
it's Rome rather than Romeo,
perhaps even Rodeo...
             and it's Jules instead of Juliet...
   Aardvark rather than Alpha
         etc.,
                                 or like refining crude oil...
the crude version is written as
     ᚱ but the civilisation of the times wrote
R...                 odd.. they kept only
               U    in crude form          , they actually invited these
northern conquerors because, as one
chisel-labourer said:
                           the elder alchemist
seeking a golden fern leaf
             to turn stone into papyrus
and a chisel into a quill...
              for all the shortcuts i could
have written, i was told that only U as in V
                      was the only available
aesthetic pardon...
                                      thanks to bureaucracy
so many wars were waged,
because they were expected to not be
overly-eager in their duty,
   but make shortcuts, which they didn't exhibit
because they ****** the thumb of power
till the bones appeared... bones i.e. runes...
    all but a little empowerment
                            and the dictator complex
              comes without armies
but pages of paper, and filofax dilemmas
              of schedule;
             and what became a revelation
of excess shortcuts: ᚱ into R
                    ᚹ into P
              ᚾ into ł (orthodox Christians
make the sign of the cross: forehead,
           chest, right shoulder, left shoulder
amen, or: the glue of the trinity -
         liberal Christians make the sing of
the cross: forehead, chest, left shoulder,
right shoulder, amen; the orthodox
wear their marriage ring on their right hand
the liberal on the left hand, as with the
wristwatch... monogamy is so time consuming)
           nonetheless adapting shortcut
chiselling in either stone or wood
                     and the need for the Roman term
beauty: curvature... invited
                       the barbarian adaptation
to the alphabet... as i already said,
had the Greeks moved that far north,
the Greek alphabet would have been erased...
            primarily the problem of ᚦ  and  θ
          ᚠ and φ         (or the liturgy behind
           the silent twins of the tetragrammaton)
                                                 cut each letter
open... entry point of later adaptation of
what the barbarians said: but we also have
crude elementary accenting of the approximates...
   evolving the > into a ) will not do enough
justice!             how easily F can be translated
   and poured into the eyes...
the mystery lies in something that has no
archaeological prospect of artefact...
            mentality lost in how phonetic encoding
evolved is what modernity calls:
                  concerns for mental health...
we can't simply resurrect the mentalities of
the fathers who revised runes into
                                 Latin appropriation
                 by saying: we're ill because this
was never recorded, or that they were ill
because they were ferocious at the time
   and spilt blood...
                                 these hysterics trying
to see how one came into being from the other
is impossible... i just know that
    it took a lot of straight lines
                       curvatures of similarity in Latin
and the ****** of chisel-worked in Rome
who said: quicker zigzag the runic R like
our pedantic variation of U in V
                    but what if i had to chisel in
the word pulverise? V L V?
                                            comes out in
arithmetic - there are idiots either side:
    I + IV + V = X...
                                   i.e. ᛞ, Norse for day,
    or simply d.
                           idiots either side...
oh just because the Arabs gave us numbers
we have saintly camel jockeys?
                                       idiots either side...
some things correlate, some things don't...
             but nonetheless Greek empire building
would have failed had it reached even Gaul...
        let alone Britain...
     i start my history here...
not with the big bang, not with Darwinism and
the monkey... here... among *these skeletons...
                           it was always going to be a collective
project...
                          which resulted in
revising the Rune ᛟ                         from the Latin o
                         but also adding the marriage
with ö...                  among other examples
come to think of it... looks like a crude upside-down
version of ω                       - of north
             and the hardened determination
(in intellectual pursuits) -
          of the south and beauty, of papyrus
                                   and the awe-ratio
                                                                    composed
of ?                                   as that case
              for democratically asking,
democratically not solving, and passing on
              intellectual inspiration
                        &n

if you spot any spelling mistakes, it's due to the html.*

first match, kick-off 12.30, woke at eleven, door-knock
hangover, whole body, not the amateurish headache
off the binge on a friday disco, sun shining, god almighty
sun shining - eyes like a vampire's,
itch upon itch from the sunlight,
                                          turn it off! turn it off! turn it off!
placed the 5 quid bets on three forms,
spotted all the metaphysical ****** addicts
of anger in the ******'s  shop, felt odd watching them
addicted to the futility of the monetary system.
went back home, overcast came and my eyes were
very much pleased, took to drinking
the best bet odds i could ever get,
8-9 of a bottle of whiskey, started reading
articles about david bowie, and realised,
artist? maybe. entertainer? predictably yes.
the comparison? entertainers attract critics,
artists don't - entertainers attract idol worshippers
centre stage, cult gimmicks, artists pulverise
those heathens with fear, remorse, repulsion,
a one-man show attracts one-man passers-by;
where art flows freely criticism does not follow,
where are flows freely criticism does not follow,
why would it? giving the majority of people
treat art in a debasing way, keeping it a pastime,
a hobby, a way to unwind, a way to test their "creativity,"
to be less boring than the average paper-pusher
pencil-sharpener suit... look, you chose the ease life,
deal with it! i don't want your creative crap in my mailbox;
the last thing i want is a person with roughly 20 poems
to their name, and that lovely phraseology of:
i love languge... i'm sure you do, esp. telling me to be
conscious of metaphors and other techniques,
and a vocabulary so rigid that i'd get more fancy from
the range of onomatopoeias not noted from the animal
kingdom... go on... write the adequate lion's roar.

I know my shattered heart better than you do.
I know that one day, it’ll heal and I’ll be better and maybe then I’ll be fine.
but not tonight, or tomorrow or now.

don’t tell me I’m fine,
because no amount of cookie butter ice cream will fix this.
no amount of super glue will bind the broken pieces of my heart together
no amount of anaesthesia can mask the hurt.

don’t tell me I’m fine,
you’ll break my heart further, and further,
pulverise it ‘till it’s gone
and leave me wondering if the pleasure was worth the pain.

don’t tell me I’m fine,
the bags under my eyes will say otherwise,
the thin line of my smile will betray that,
and the dull sheen of my eyes will tell the lies.

don’t tell me I’m fine,
when all the nights I spent waking and thinking of you still happen,
when I forget the songs I used to love because of you,
when I still dream of you and wake up with tear-soaked pillows.

don’t tell me I’m fine,

because when I see you happy it makes it worthwhile
and it makes me realise what happened to me–
the life went out of me when you went into mine

don’t tell me I’m fine,
I’m more than a used lifeline,
I’m more than a sugarcoated line,
I’m more than the girl you left me behind.

don’t tell me I’m fine,

because I know I’m not.
because I know you’re not.

because I know we’re not.

The man had a terrible temper,
Would rage at the skies above,
Would screech and howl, like a midnight owl,
He’d been unlucky in love.
He’d stomp about in the village square,
Go out, and look for a fight,
The villagers always avoided him
When he’d roam around at night.

Then he’d come and knock at my own front door
Demanding to talk to Jill,
I’d hear her say from the passageway,
‘I don’t want to talk to Bill!
I’d had enough when he beat me up
And my heart would never heal,
Just tell him I’m sticking with you, my love,
I know that your love is real!’

He’d punch the door, then he’d stand and roar
So I’d slam the door in his face,
He kicked a panel across the floor
And I said I’d call the police!
I heard him muttering as he left,
‘Come out, I’ll give you a fight,
Tell Jill she’s dead if she’s in your bed,
I’ll call in the dead of night!’

I took the hammer and nails outside
And battened the shutters down,
Then strung an electrical tripwire that
Would pulverise the clown,
‘The man’s as mad as a meat axe, Jill,
Bi-Polar, that’s for sure,’
‘More of a schizophrenic, Jim,
‘Be sure to bar the door.’

We’d sit in a petrified silence in
The cottage, every night,
Listening for the slightest sound
If something wasn’t right,
The roof would creak as the timber cooled
And the wind soughed through the eaves,
We even strained by the window panes
At the patter of Autumn leaves.

‘How long are we going to put up with this,’
I said to Jill, one morn,
‘He’s tempting fate by the garden gate,
He’s been there since the dawn.’
‘I’m going to have to confront him,’ said
The darling of my life,
I hadn’t proposed to her just then
But I hoped she’d be my wife.

She walked on out to the garden gate
And I heard him raise his voice,
I couldn’t quite make his words out, but
He was giving her a choice.
Then Jill I heard in a voice that stirred
From the depths of a gravel pit,
And he went white with a look of fright
And he left, and that was it!

‘What did you say to the maniac
That he turned and went away?’
She smiled, and cuddled on into me,
‘I think I made his day.
I said that I’d go back home with him
But I’d poison his meat and drinks,
Or slit his throat when asleep one night…’
He hasn’t been back here since!

David Lewis Paget

you must know how i feel
when the boy next door decides to shoot hoops
rather than kick a football against the shed
and the woman next door takes off the clothes
from the washing-line
while slayer’s raining blood blasts in my room
and is audible to a teasing treat outside,
while the grey grey skies of england make me wear sunglasses...
home... that’s what it feels like,
it could almost be 1666 with charles the second organising
the excavation of the z in ß - and as due concerns go...
having no diacritic in the sphere of letters
will only provoke a monster of youth debasing language furtherest
from the furtherest use of truth (emoticons)... making swear words holy
will only provide excuses to pulverise the eyes with *******...
it will end up a mistake to have crafted such eloquent reminders of the said
and unsaid with: f*ck smear cow s&@~ on your face.

I'm malleable
I have years of experience
In moulding myself
To suit their needs and wants
Except mine
Cause i like everyone's smile
Except mine
I have boundless endurance
You dont need to test me for that
Just tell me who you want me to be
And i'm doubtlessly sure
That i wouldn't require
Any scrap of assistance
To pulverise myself
And then remodel my being
According to your precise specifications
Till you're completely happy
Take my guarantee

We are blessed; we all do know.
For mankind we grow and for all.
We are rich; God has made us this way.
In our humble arms grow sweet fruits.
You pluck them up at your own choice.
Any unwillingness we never show.

Alas! our arms you twist and cut them off.
Our fair skin you bruise; you pulverise.
Then ooze out scarlet droplets each time
Who do hear our cry, our severe pain?

Yes. We are trees; our golden days are gone.
No more we are cared, no more adored.

Don't **** us; we are life, good life for your life.
Don't **** us ; we have rights, our rights.

He wanted to build his dream
with her and she did too
His ideas her endeavour
His voice her wishes
And in the moment of warmth
and companionship and love
Her face towards his light
Her body in his arms
His world at her feet
She only knew she was going to
crush pulverise destroy
violently and very effortlessly.

i've always been tempted with the monastery... ever since visiting the Taizé community... then again: always concerning somewhere prior... the monastery where mummified remains of monks who died from cholera were exhibited... revising my romance with the Teutonic knights... the northern crusades... oh that the world has so much to offer... but i'm a terrible actor... and... if you're a terrible actor... and more... the worst imaginable liar... drama and life... don't exactly... mingle well... let the people have their sway and their freedom(s)... let them become... gluttonous with their desires and their thirst for the "lived experience"... let them abandon all manner of thought with purpose of transcending the ought-i-ought-i-not narratives... please let them... scramble for memory when it suddenly evaporates and there's that escapist tactic focusing on imaginings... don't let me use a language teasing moral overtones... let people... this... glistening prospect of... the ******* riddle with a fiddle... but... let these same people allow me to return to my abode of placebo solipsism... of where i put my finger for prospect of accountability... lavo manibus meum (vide cor meum)... but sure as ****... no mea culpa...

while doing some household chores...
a thought: one after another...
all deviation from ought-i
     ought-i-not(?)

            do i despise my own fellow countrymen?
the question posed by
those on the right regarding the politics
of the left...
um manibus
among the English and the Irish of
beyond merely the east end of London:
past the A406... once upon a time...
a space occupied by... mostly Irish
and 'ebrews...

3 years among the Scots...
but always, somehow... withdrawing from
contact with fellow Polacks...
out of spite?
or completely willing to integrate
to the point of "incognito"...
nothing good ever happened when
Polacks congregated on foreign soil...
let alone in Poland itself...
well... once upon a time...

     always among foreigners...
                   one Somali two Ethiopian
three a party with a Pakistani...
citizen of the world...
it's not even an original take on...
ancient Greek cosmopolitanism...
or the city-state...
beyond which: feral creatures roam...
****** jokes...

but i've been living in this cauldron for so
long that... upon returning to...
via commuting through Warsaw...
a great... nausea... a feeling of debilitating unease
of being thrown back into
a homogenous blob of sinew and sweat...
as if given marching orders...

that i speak more of the native than write it...
well... if i had a keyboard
that allowed me to shortcut all the relevant
diacritical marks...
e.g. miód & miot...

    honey...        litter: i.e. what a ***** gives
birth to... puppies...
of course the D & T can be sometimes
conflated depending on how they're / how they're
not stressed...

citing oath words like a cobbler...
****'s sake with Charlie Dickens and his
"orthography"...
what "orthography" in the English zung(é)?
there are no diacritical markers...
two options: "too many" vowels...
or... just an extra consonant...

litter... bitter... bite down on something: lite...
then again... third option...
plenty of surds...      light... no?
those are the three most poignant
characteristics of the tongue...

onomatopoeia: not an english word...
could.... would... gargantuan...
"too many" vowels... sometimes the odd extra
consonant in the vein of:
litter: literally... a manner of distinction
between: manna and mana (maori mana)...

and what appears to be... beyond a mere surd...
that vowel catcher that's H
that's half of the 'ebrew deity's name...
or a rugby post...

say AH... a request in dentistry...
or cite the alphabet: A: aye... A: aye...
    E:                eh?!
                    shotgun language shrapnel...
but to call anything orthographic in English...
or just plain: mistake...

e.g. miód "vs." miud...
                 hell... let's stretch it: mjud...
or even further... since... mjɵd...
no... this is not me attempting: smarter than you...
it's a ******* headache, while we're at it...
i'm thinking about this
because no one is thinking about this
and like hell these 26 pearls and a slug
of a tongue will ever manage to decipher, proper(ly)
the sound of a croaking crow...
at best... an approximation...

               where language goes to die...
in the beak of birds...
when in England: always the romance with
crows...
in Poland? it's either the romance with storks
or sparrows...

oh god... taking to grooming cats...
cutting the nails... brushing their hind...
one male one female maine ****...
i'm not into many fetishes apart from...
attempting to speak english grammar: german...
shoot me... before i speak a word of russia...

harasho?

         grooming a female cat and she's all
geared up... raising her hind legs...
*****... i'm here to comb you and cut your nails...
a ******* ugly scene: pinning her down...

then of course making the most sublime
tomato soup...
obviously adding parsley root...
a carrot... some leak, some celery...
if a celeriac was available...
two stock cubes... one chicken... the other vegetable...
approx. 250g of butter...
two cans of plum tomatoes...
a drizzle of ketchup... tomato purée...
a squeeze of sriracha... a whittle red chilli...
blitzed up and most certainly pushed
through a sieve...
served with some sour cream and...
as with any decent soup... that's not...
******* creamy-thick-splodge-custard-goo...
just eager for some croutons...
some vermicelli...

       but that... surprise of... some brandy
and zero sugar dr. pepper...
now i'm paying... bloated...
i drank two bottles of beer
puked one out...
ol' jack had to save my indigestion...
it's always a bad idea to eat and drink...
or drink prior to eating...
fine if you're drinking afterwards...
excesses of drinking and eating don't mix...

hardly a perverted stance...
but when a she-cat is gearing herself up to
you about to **** her...
while combing her and cutting her nails...
oh sure... on a regular Sunday
i **** headless chickens
with that pencil-**** of mine...
point of hilarity...

     and all "they" have is... egoism... attached to
an oversized phallus...
i'm guessing the sort that women use to
ready themselves for childbirth...
piston pump kicks...
once a tool: always a tool...
even the ancient Greeks minded the thought:
a large phallus is a sign of barbarism...
here you have... attempts at ennobling
savagery... while at the same time...
savaging  the citizenry...

    perfect combination, n'est c'est pas?
what could possibly be wrong with undertaking
the cesarean section?
if i were to **** out a head of a hippo...
and someone suggested... we might have to...
give your ****... some "exfoliation" revision, ahem..
details...
oh **** me: sign me up for that constipation
carousel! of... i'm guessing...
sexually gratified imps...

base topic... and you know this cat is gearing up
for *******...
well... i'd love to own a dog...
but then again: i wouldn't want to own
a muzzle or a leash...
the depictions of Hades and Cerberus...
no muzzle... no leash...
which is why i prefer cats...
that i was raised in an environment of dog ownership...
ah... Bella... that half-breed of an Alsatian...
Axel the dobberman...

no siblings...
     but to "own", sorry... to be with a woman?
and... all that... headache...
the game of jealousy...
i don't want to play it! sooner you find me
knitting socks as evidence that i have
**** instead of a protruding chimney
someone else started calling: whittle Wichard...
Ar Ar Arable land of lost phrases...

a dog's love is unconditional...
hence my revision of that celestial harem
promised to the invigorators of Islam...
give me 72 rottweilers...
i swear to god and no god...
we're dealing with fantasy land "details"...
or if you're going to stretch that fantasy
furthest... 72 of the most inexperienced... Lo...
    Lo               - but that's supposedly
the original promise... and you wonder why...
a ******* with only one woman
feels pointless...
why? well... there's that one unused crux
of a potential event...

      if i conjured up these parameters of belief...
guilty as charged...
but given that i'm only regurgitating these
pillars of: what amounted to the will of the idea...

- and if we still going to continue a discussion
on English... just recently... about 20 minutes ago...
FAUCI...
one commentator cited that spelling as...
FAU-SHE...
that's another thing that English does...
almost like it's... borrowing Fwench rules
of see-one-speak-another...
gobble up some suffixes... blah blah...
at worst: FOWL-KEY...
or... Cincinnati...

       oi oi: ms. cedilla!

mein gott: "they" were brought over,
probably sold by their chieftains for
(probably) being the biggest, most docile...
agreeable Nimrods of their tribe...
or weren't exactly puncture proof or quick...
oh! oh the lament of picking cotton...
so... not coalmining then?
- and for their invention of jazz...
to do away with the stiffness of Mahler...
etc. and forever celebrated for their
athleticism... although:
not their swimming...
well... you'd hardly find the 'ebrew celebrated
for this intellect... although: he probably
must be:
then again... the 'ebrew diaspora
and the Israeli... two different kettles
of about to be poached herring...

any herring that's not raw... Baltic-sushi is...
inedible... period!
so "they" weren't coalminers, yes?
no?
big ******* deal... i'm beetroot raw in
the face with blood being drained from
my tongue and fingertips!
i feel like doing some stomach crunches...
push-ups...
and it's... 20 minutes past... midnight!

misnomer-phraseology:
"hurt emotions"... completely misunderstood...
if you'd like to conceive the following argument:
i've jsut had my emotion stirred...
i have just woken up from apathy:
once i had the maxim:
apathy breeds no pathology...
it's great to feel...
to be woken up from the slumber of
objectivity and scientific rigidity... safety...
i like this... it's almost adrenaline inducing...

******-Goliath... i look at him now
like some sacred cow and think...
these petty gingerbread men managed to tame
these celebrated specimens...
and now... they have to... forget they gave us
jazz, the blues?

cuckoldry of the white girls teasing...
a few Bulgarian ****** tried the same...
telling me that black boy'os have the foetus sized
***** that might satisfy an elephant's ****...
while i have... to the dissatisfaction
of karma sutra coupling:
rabbit **** plucking petals from
a mare's ****...
because: the phallus is... important akin
to... to have ice requires freezing...
a temp. of below zero?

funny... that... looks like an ego boots from
where i'm perched...
this one *****'s surprise...
****** her and she moaned and she finished it off
with an ****** and the words:
the word... awe: but it was more of an ouch...
'it's only the second time it has happened to me'...
to my surprise...
i wasn't expecting to be a metaphor
of a Trojan cohort, either...
me and my supposedly pencil-**** with not
praise-songs...
of... readily-available: readily-pleasing...
i guess bulging on points of character...
with this other one...
kissing her eyelids...
suckling at her tears...
teasing the elbow... the knee...
the grooves of the collarbone...
her knuckles...

it's perfect... so serene when i'm paying for salt...
it's so pristinely primed to pay
for clearly-founded boundaries of:
me towing woman...

- i too have my boundaries... shifting like
tectonic pancakes...
the glorified amorality of women...
once every four years...
that's enough...
i don't need insect-esque gratifications...
there's plenty...

- which is why i adore advertisements more than
journalism per se...
let's pair them together:
advertisers and journalists...
expand... journalists are not historians...
nor... myth-crafters...
perhaps... if one might be amnesia prone...
but i love advertisers for the simple reason that:
i, don't. have... the... money... to... spend...
on... their... worthwhile...
it is worthwhile... *******...

       if you don't have the money to spend...
cue some advertisement slogan:
it's unbelievably encouraging to
continue: however the hopelessness
of bachelorhood is deemed by...
well... if a woman masturbates with the use
of a *****...
i imitate a **** with a boney hand...
and probably perform one genocide after another...

it's not like i hate Polacks...
fellow people...
i don't live among you...
and i'm not going to satisfy a diaspora "get together"...
either...
i'll take the romance of history...
some variation of journalism...
some Cornish clotted cream...
                 it's not like i had some relevancy that
might translate a point of...
because one might be from Warsaw...

and under the Nazis and the overtly ambitious
Bolsheviks...
as a ******... you think i can't brush this
Vestern... voke... brigading: "anti-fascist" *****...
ahem... aside?
you need to come full-swinging...
******* hammer & sickle...
you know... it took two superpowers,
longer... to conquer Lachistan...
than it took herr H to overpower... France...

the worst that might happen... mob rule...
i become cancelled... 2nd, 3rd... 4th time i'm so tired
of this same-old *******-riddling a **** that
i might as well attempt to rub my genitalia in
sand or... shattered glass...
no matter... no one to beg the "difference"...

the Sarmatians... no wonder i would base...
favouritism for the Shiah branch of Islam...
Iran and Islam would never pair up, proper...
after all... what excuse has a proud Iranian to do with...
a bunch of camel-jockeys?!
true religion... i'm so abounding in thanks
for seeing how early a schism took place...
thank you...

bad grammar: i'm so abounding in thanks for how early
a schism took place... see / sought what?!

i don't hate my fellow... ethnic... countrymen...
i just live among them...
and not living among them makes my
thinking: dissonant: dissociative...
i'd allow the union jack get tattooed on my ***
if i were guaranteed a *******
by some english ****...

just saying... *** isn't pwetty...
pour me a proper glug of bourbon and let's forget
the "matter" even existed...

oh i'll find: hounding reasons to keep this
language is some variation of a check...
the clarity of pronunciation....
beside the letters as surds...
and those... no entirely... used?

to love a people most foreig...
it's not like England was expected to declare war
just because... "my" country was invaded by...
two superpowers...
it's not like Brussels mud...
Polish "aviators" in dog fights over Dover...
but no... English soldier on... ****** soil...
so... so?
journalism kills of history:
day by day... each day...
give 'em enough murk and muck
enough smoke... enough mirrors...
and some bread to tow... stale...
hell... reinvent the point of the coliseum!

the modern Italians aren't the ancient Romans...
why?
the orthodox liberal: implied: satisfaction
with the word...
and the men were such grand... surrogates...
the women were allowed to be children throughout...
unaccountable...
***** bank-loads...
           avenues-for-future...
but the ancient roman men were so...
libertine...
in their take on being, the aliases of...
surrogate fathers...
when all other ancient peoples demanded...
pyramids and authentic lineages...
these people came along and...
gay giraffes...
******* gay giraffes...
o.k. gay giraffes...
                  
ancient Rome never achieved clausure
of "my" people...
we weren't.. Afghani... lingering GREAT
Britannia...
the supposed arguments only came after...
beside Philip Augustus...
who, who else?
          
by the passing of waters...
the trivial feud of the tides...
and the counting of grains of sand...
the viking celebration of poetry...
and the current conundrum of...
all that's a misgiving of aimed at... practicing...

Ecgberht!
     Ecgberht!
                             Ecgberht!

now let me enjoy a drinking-repose...
i've said enough:
in that... i've said too little or nothing at all...
time will teach...
space will pulverise with newly established
standards of science...
time will teach...
      break the Runes apart...
open a grieving momentum for...
reading Glagolitic...

                   revive: Eck-bert for me...
i have some cringe question.s.. to ask...
mein: brecht... Xa Xa... not Aguera's Ja...
Greek... although spoken Greek does sound
a bit too much like Spinning-the Leotard...

bit-the-knuckle...
               baited-the-nail;
hammers' for some: schpoons!

Me and the dog twist and jostle
a colossal cotton squawking parrot
grunt talking this is mine swine
a ****** beast at times

knees grazing, scrapping holding ground
grip slipping summon Ali-Liston thinking
win and pulverise kept creature
revel in doggy defeat

dead heat nobody gives
until the yellow slit beak does first
savvy ears hear the rip and like a tearing bear
jolts back, up, down, with owning grip and growl

Fool - hound mastered the ****
engorges full breast, rings the threaded neck
deadens its fighting squeak
amateur clings to the silly beak

Bird majority in mangy jaws
the war of parrot pull well and truly his
stopped still. in stare his eyes enlarge and glare
left-overs drop from sloppy gob -
dumb dog wants the beak.

the ******* doing here?!*

it usually happens with that sort
of italic question...

a 3 year old maine ****
cat, trying to fall asleep in
my bed...

     he's past the 9kg mark of
weight-lifting,
and i'm starting to think
around orientating myself
within the claustro- -phobia
of excuses...

i picked up a dead corpse of a dead
fox once, walked the corpse for
about 3 miles, and threw it into
the bushes once i weighed him...
came up as almost 10kg...

    i was thinking of buying some beers
and going into the brothel
at goodmayes to say hello
to my bulgarian "girlfriend"...

   now i have this feline "love" lazing
in my bed...
so i'm pulling faces,
and he's pulling faces...
          and i want him out of
my bed, and he wants to remain in it...

i've a problem on my hands...
a maine **** ginger,
9kg+ loitering sleepy, feeling funny
in my bed...

    sad as it might sound,
i find it hard sleeping with animals,
which encrusts a follow-up of saying:
should this cat turn into a woman?
i'd find it double the trouble
of falling asleep next to it...

       however sad, however true,
you can only laugh at the reality
of it being managed by counter measures
of: well, i tried my bitterest best,
     i like a comfy bed,
  no point asking for an extra
cushion, in the form of a woman;

i don't want to be a sad loner type in
writing...
i really don't want to be the secondary
inconvenience of the "nice guy"...
i.e.: great father, ****** huspand,
ever-more the ******* lover...
    
               you want a dog, ask me...
i have this 9+ k.g. maine **** "lover"
asking me to lie with him...
          i keep looking at him,
inquiring him: the ******* doing
in my bed?!

       and he replies:
you got something to argue about
with me getting a sun-tan?

it's 2 a.m., if you can pulverise the *******
moon, i can't see how you can turn copper
skinned!

stop being funny... he replies

i reply: stop being a rent "boy"!

       then he replies:
ask me to yawn and meow at the same time,
i ****** know that you can **** and yawn
at the same time...

i say:

              to be honest, arguing with you,
will end up being a chance for admiring the mona lisa
in an electric chair;

call that the electric grin,
    chattering chambers of grease...
the sean connery turkish...
shom-shing short of a shaken, shnot shtirred.

people who write poetry, without reading enough books annoy me... no, wait, they: pulverise me into activity... i'm instantly gravitating towards them... they're the sort of people who only read a recipe for a dish, by only adding salt, without adding all the other, 3+ remaining ingredients; well, isn't that true, as the english say it: you have to be cruel... to be kind.

he's got a motorcycle,
and a draft of the 20th century's
worth of masculine mistakes...
me?
  i have an hour's worth
of attention span,
   a poem that will never rhyme,
and a glass full of whiskey...
and having read
zen and the art of
motorcycle maintenance...
then again i also have a book
in my head that no one has written
and no one has read... namely?
tao, and the art of
owning a pair of feet,
rather than a wheelchair...
wheelchair bit is crude, i admit...
so?
   *tao and the art of pedicure;
well... that's ******, either way;
the book?
   it's a hard read,
given that there was a suicide in
the family,
and it's mentioned in
later editions (zen).

title: beetroot
body:
red: pulpit:
sclera:
avoidance white.

bellum contra influenza usus frigus:
war against the flu using the cold...
   sure, even Socrates famously meditated in the cold...
i only had one meditation this time round:
get me... of this weak-bed! get me off it!
i'm not going to be weak when spring comes!
more cold! give me a hailstorm!
                     i'll cure myself using cold weather!

you get sick for about 5 days, it's really rough,
you test positive for Covid... but it's not Covid...
it's just this freak flu... your bones ache,
your muscles ache... you're lethargic...
you're ****** with yourself that you're so weak...
but you still go and do two grueling shifts
at Wembley... strange April cold... the wind is
bothering you... but...
    that's how the cold helps...
   sure, taking a mixture of paracetamol 500mg),
promethazine hydrochloride (10mg),
dextromethorphan hydrobromide (7.5mg)
does help... but nothing helps against a cold...
or the flu... as... doing a grueling shift of standing on
your feet for about 10 hours, getting bashed
by the wind gusts... the rain...
          it sort of reminded me of that saying:
fight fire with fire... well... fight the flu / a cold...
with more cold...
      it worked... i ploughed through...
the muscle aches are gone, the bone pains are gone...
the lethargy is gone...
i was cooking again today... making my father lunch...
i can't wait for tomorrow...
i'll be working in the garden un-******* all
the wooden decking, peering inside at the rot...
before a patio is going to be installed...
   wood... eh... it lasts a good decent decade...
   that's going to change...
hell... 3 days... 4 days of feeling ****...
   but if the medication isn't working...
         time for something ancient...
              find the bug with... cold weather...
                  more pressure... more pressure... more!
10 hours standing coordinating people...
3 hours on a bicycle feels like less strain than standing
up like a soldier at an unknown soldier's memorial...
no one some of them drop down from exhaustion...
your arms - shoulders are strained...
pompous ******* role...
                  but i appreciate this is unimaginative
writing... it really is... i have still retained the blocked
nose and the cough...
as the saying goes... an untreated cough and blocked
nose lasts 14 days...
a treated cough and block nose lasts 2 weeks...
you heard me correctly... it's unavoidable...
but pulverise this little **** in me that's hitchhiking
with conditions unsuitable for it...
let some bigger virus scare it...
                       and to think: sometimes i'd look forward
to sitting down with a bottle of whiskey
and scribbling anything down...
now... i'm thinking about Sunday...
   and whoever West Ham are playing...
                   about going among people and playing
my role as the serious silent type...
surrounded by people who... as of yet...
haven't talked much at work except for work...
no chance of talking about... anything... really...
i dare say: Heidegger's hammer is  bad joke...
could i talk to someone about philosophical matters
on the job? hell... music... could we talk about music?
could a ******* wheel of a car "talk"
about the temperature of the road at noon in June?
to... the car's engine... hyperbolic language...
i'm still not ready to return to being fully possessed
of my mind... but my senses are more focused...

- and its like these moments when recovering from
an illness that might shave off a decent proportion
of the population in their 80s...
if i didn't go into the cold... and instead...
cowered in my bed sheets... in the warmth:
perfecting breeding ground for this little bug to
build up a collective ego... a refocus...
     but why do i write this? i'm comforted by the existence
of tabloid journalism...
sure... i'm using up the energy of a light-bulb to
scribble this down... but i'm not chopping down
a tree to make some paper...
          why does a song like British Warm by
Normil Hawaiians have only 2.2K views...
what am i going to do with my time?
watch t.v.? i like drinking and looking into the distance...
at shadows... at trees without leaves...
at brick walls... perching on a windowsill...
smoking a cigarette... scribbling...
    i literally having nothing better to do...
it's not even that those respected poets on
poetry-foundation.org are anything to go by...
so politicised...
                sure... perhaps this is a waste of time...
but at least i'm not watching t.v.:
just this blank screen upon which words appear
from my itchy finger tips... i scratch my head:
try not to think...
        i take comfort in not being married...
it's only sinking in: right about now...
   if i think about having to keep dates... dinner dates...
keeping conversation with "friends"...
last time i tried that... i ws ushered off into the gutter...
he brought out a pretend violin:
brushing it all off... i know he too had problems...
i was willing to listen... but he wasn't willing
to talk... right there and then... i thought: **** it...
i'm not willing to meet up and watch movies
with you, while you smoke marijuana and i drink
a beer... i raised my hands high up in the air...
and then dropped them down: crescendo style...
an expression of: c'est la vie!
at this point... i don't think it would be:
even remotely... a good idea to have friends...
what... when an hour with a *******
suffices?! now i'm like... talk... about what?!
i can exercise my needs on this canvas...
                and i'm happy with that...
                        well... if not happy: then certainly
not sad... i'll go see ol' Thames at Coldharbour -
or at Putney Bridge...
  i'll go into Bower Wood and say hello
to the forest by knocking a firm branch against
a pillar of a dead tree...
                       if only this climate could allow
living off of pine-nuts and other such gatherings...
i think i would...
   society doesn't phase me...
                        
the world continues to do its little spin on and off of
crazy... i tried watching the first 30 minutes
of... about 4 different movies...
pretty woman, four weddings and a funeral,
Notting Hill... some other...
instead tuned into the tennis at the Miami ATP...
that too started to bore me...
i was thinking about the next shift...
doing... **** all... beside...
putting on a mask and pretending to be nice,
pretending to be polite to spectators...
bouncing around their enthusiasm...
      it's not even like i don't care:
but i just don't care about the sort of care they think
i might provide...
i care about what i'm willing to give...
rather than what they might receive...
clearly... i'm fooling them...
since... eh... long story...

                          but at least this is not the tabloid press...
i'm "bored" of living with people
of grandiose self-importance syndromes...
just give me a ******* drill... some decks to unscrew...
stack them high... stack them low...
the best health is found bound
to interacting with people one day...
and a day... say... spent... chopping wood...
dealing with inanimate objects...
you can't mould these: esp. if you're trying to salvage
them... and then... return to animate objects...
people... the sanctity of silence...
why... would i be talkative about work
when i'm doing it?
              sorry... what sort of ******* is necessary
to mingle, "correctly"?

                    i figured... as long as you're not at work
trying to waste someone's time... that's enough...
do what you're supposed to do and... *******...
and my ****** mistake...
of fancying a girl who started working...
i played a tight game...
            liars don't walk on stilts...
                        what a waste of a homemade wine...
i should have drank that...
since i made it...
                   tough... well... one less spell of dandruff...
so... a win... considering i still managed
to find the best **** i was searching for for the past
14 years... yawn...
but at least! at least: no chance of a #metoo backlash...
yawn...

         scribble so more... well... i'm hardly built
for writing a Dr. Zhivago... honestly?
the film was spectacular... the book?
                                  honestly? well obviously i'm not
looking for Sveedish applause towards a Nobel...
am i? but the book? compared to the movie?
sort of falls short...

most of the time when surrounded by people:
it's so comforting to be around yourself...
being solaced by an apron of silence...
when you talk with only grimaces...
you hold sway with non-verbal cues...
     it's so comforting to not talk when you're
otherwise prompted to talk and
you're like: huh?!

i look at it from a lens...
a lot of 1960s American culture... the whole
state of Israel wouldn't have happened...
if the Holocaust didn't take place...
crude, rude... the world keeps knocking at my door
and i'm like:
and what the **** do you want?
what ****** liberation? what great / grand
awakening?
i'm scribbling toward 12am to subsequently
fall asleep to... listening to...
le chant des templiers... because...
i don't have a wife: because i can...

                     i like the idea of a wife...
but... the chains of being perpetually needed...
to have this persistent call for company...
it's sort of... itchy... always having to need
someone... what great new upheaval will /
might generate a mighty cultural influx of
creativity... and then the outlier that
always come late to the "party"...
the Sons of Sam... etc.

**** me, what a... "predicament"... i'm applying myself to, eh... "cultural relevance": whatever the hell that means, even if enclosed in "misnomer" bracketing... but... of late, hell, more recently than "of late"... i am applying myself to a culture, a people, that's, simply put, a dodo-project... i'm not going to mind my contemporaries, i have three structural dynamics, all three are negations, i.e., since my grandfather died i have: NO peers, NO contemporaries... NO elders... i do have a graveyard of necromancy to deal with, i.e. my own private library, of actual, physical, stinking books... minimalist man and his ******* shortcuts, 'links in the disclaimer' blah blah blah... to write this worth of *******... while surrounded by a culture that, clearly, is hell-bent on... at best: shooting itself in the foot, at worst: committing suicide... because? oh.... universal suffrage... women... the instigators of downfall... women... whatever man built... has to topple, on the whims of a woman... it's not longer: woe to man... woman! it's... woman?! run! hide! save yourself... hunt a, ******* mammoth while you're at it! what the **** happened to romance? that ******, flimsy, whatever it was that was sold to us when growing up nearing the year 2000? gone... ****! in a flash... a droplet of water in a frying pan with a puddle of hot oil... in the meantime the ol' lovely jukebox that was once youtube was hijacked, circa... whatever year prior to 2020. I'm here, sort of waiting for death, death: by that i implore: release... as i also invoke the question: why do crows fly in pairs over England, while  on the continent they flock? huginn! muninn! truly, crows congregate in flocks on the continent... clouds of them... messerschmitt clouds or black, iron, crosses: looming shadows... yet over England... happy to see one sit it out, croaking, some the sunset, bound to find a crow paired... not paired up with a hooded crow, ever see a raven mingle with a magpie?! me neither... ever see crows display ****** attraction in a way that's atypical to pigeons, i.e. the whole routine of courting & subsequent failure? no... i guess crows do their "****" at night, in the forest, donning, for ****'s sake... leather S&M suits, gimp gagging *****, etc., no? no... i'm not writing this because it's pleasant, it's funny as hell (though)... but i'm sort of part of a culture that's dying... it's a dodo-project... this might be seen, if i am allowed, the same status as a mummy can... there was a man alive at the turn of the 21st century and he wrote, this... well... i'm all for hope... slowing down on the intake of alcohol too... i switched from whiskey to cider... her presto! i find myself animated... like cider was mixed up wit amphetamines, or caffeine... i raise my emptied bottle of cider like it might be a horn awaiting / celebrating a procession of a god through an avenue of spectators... i can't possibly here to "save" a culture, that, inevitably (however that might be phrased otherwise) is not willing, is making too many "anschluss" decisions... **** it... let it rot... let Pakistani men run rampant in Rotherham...  i'm just weirdly here, while it happens... Pontius Pilate once didn't say, while washing hi hands: i'll have nothing to do with this... let the dice roll... there's nothing to upkeep, there's nothing to conserve... questions, question: all that ought to be addressed by some supposed variation of an Elder... no elders though, just Alzheimer buggers... unto the youth, strain their shoulders.. perform the Atlas pose... ****'s sake... no! i will not defend this culture, i'll fake being part of it, sure... who wouldn't... thank god i didn't invest in carving replicas of DNA into this schematic... i'm happy not having children... oh i love the children of strangers, esp. toddlers... i can "talk" to them in onomatopoeias... that's fun... i can't disagree... no... beside this... no ******* chance in hell... hell first... my engagement in this world, second... i'm out... convince someone, otherwise, to take a spin, on your current variation of a carousel... what once there was, is no longer more, or for that matter is... sure... i will die childless, but also freed from the looming responsibility of the world in which, i left only words, but not a dire imprint of physicality having mated with someone, producing offspring... oh how glad i have to be! what relief! what release! if the structure of the argument follows its logical conclusion, one less of me, or a Russian.... then the Tutsi, Twa & the Hutu weren't slaughtered by Rwandian militias? my my, almost like the Yugoslav debacle, remnants of the Ottoman Empire... after all... it's not like the macaques staged a war against the baboons... come to "think" of it... i only visited Kenya to, "make-sure"... that the macaques were as boring, as easily spotted, as easily available as... pigeons... not a lot of birds in Africa... plenty of primates... falling asleep outside while those little rascals ravaged the possibilities of existence in the trees... perhaps the croaking of crows at night during winter is, some sort of "compensation"... but, not really...

my next door neighbour "thinks" it's necessary
to start rapping in the dark,
rap, or rhyme, whatever,
what a waste of breath...

there's a passage in Plato's Theaetetus
where Socrates
arrives at something
resembling a Japanese unit of language...
a unit of syllabary...
i.e. consonant + vowel...
why oh why does Japanese
allow for the stand-off with
the five vowels and one consonant (N)...

ΣO... something about knowledge,
so what?

don't ask: i'm grooving to...
Alphaville's Big in Japan...
to be a teenager in the 1980's...
going to the cinema with a sweetheart,
going to the cinema to watch
a horror movie...
hell... what a time to be alive!
Duran Duran, A-Ha... Roxette...
the Cure, Depeche Mode...

we don't have any cultural ref. markers...
Tool? seriously, o.k.,
i can give you that one...
i'm not even going to mention
the Comic Book film adaptations...
Unbreakable... that film consolidates
all the rest of them...
the soundtrack is tantamount too,
more a bonus than anything...

ΔO? do i?
well... ***!
ΔO is more: ΔΩ:

to doo... otherwise, what's that?
DOUGH?
we're baking bread, now?
oh the dreaded return of the facemasks...
muzzles... how near are we to a gallop?
there's no silent H in Greek...
"silent", technically a surd...
no, there's no dow or dough invoked...

i've just spent an hour writing up
a writing assessment for an NVQ qualification,
i find relief in having abandoned
all that formal language...
in the first scenario i was writing
a newsletter for a local volunteer project
concerning a recent vandalism of the park...

in the second scenario i was writing an article
to reply to a nutritionist on campus who
spotted that only takeaway quality of foods /
fizzy foods were available,
so no salads etc.,
she also mentioned that the students
were not getting enough exercise...
i agreed with the hypothetical she on the grounds
of food... but i implored her,
as a nutritionist... to not meddle in affairs
of exercise, was she implying that she's a nutritionist
AND a personal trainer?
everything hypothetically staged, of course...

ugh... this dreary formal language when employed
to examinations...
does my head in... no knowledge of the three dots
as an authentic punctuation mark...
the hanging suspense.

how do the Greeks laugh? if H is the capital
ref. to eta... is eta less prolonged than epsilon?
oh i know that there are obvious similarities
between Omicron and OOmega...

do: pool, do i just pull?
omicron, omega, upsilon...
sounds almost the same,
how the meaning changes when written down...
excesses, "excesses" of the lambda...
pulverise... most certainly not pull-toward-the-averse...

come 2am... all is self-evident...
i can't possibly be an additional chapter in
this culture's self-expression...
it's the end... a culminating perspective of cul de sac....
bring me fire, bring me waves...
even those ethnic minority groups
who have established themselves
in the parameters of this languages
are... pretty much aware that...
they're not safe...
well... their status isn't...

            i might think of myself as an Anglo-Slav...
but... there are plenty that wouldn't ascribe those
words to themselves...
then again... most Polacks are staying put...
blah blah, one confusion after another...
here's to planning a ***** colony in
Botswana!
me, you... let's hire a dingy!
let's cross the Strait of Gibraltar!

we won't worry... we didn't invest in having
children... don't worry...
it's not like the culture we were leaving was
anything but fair to us...
it was willingly dying...
i stopped to bother about it,
when it stopped bothering about itself.

strange... of a people that most espouse this
whole Darwinism tirade...
all ******* theory: very little practice...
the English be ****** for their Darwinism!
seriously!
all their little explanations, their ergonomics,
their ******* sensibilities...
their cricket banalities...
yet when facing an immediate and obvious threat?!
where's the carpet? where's the dust?
the broom! the broom! quick! quick!
******* to Devonshire!
people ought to learn to be heartless...
then again... when was the last time the English
were asked to be heartless,
when was the last time they were subjugated
by a foreign entity, in a historically legal sense of
noting history?

so much for their pompous posturing within
the luxury of historically reading about the greatest
empire that could ever be envisioned...
i wasn't there for the partitioning
of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
i'm so sorry that i missed it...
but i'm here for "this"... and boy... do i have a hard-on
for what's to come next...
i'm just waiting for the Welsh & Scottish nationalists
to put in some more momentum!

after all... if you're going to deconstruct Warsaw...
you need to do it: brick by brick...
so that... no brick stands on another brick...
here we go... looking forward...
a future: that wonderful plateau!