-This is Nigeria,
Where Cattle’s fly their terrorism flag,
Stumping on humtydumpty green white green.
-This is Nigeria
Where corrupt QWERTY and busy ******  
Puts food on the table of unemployed youths.
-This is Nigeria
Where clerics find paradise on earth
Lo!  followers live as church rats withal.
-This is Nigeria
Where Eve plotted against a serpent  
Hm! Mrs Philomena and her fairytale animal.
-This is Nigeria
Where Sundays are full of bibles and Qurans,
Yet her body stinks in poo of immorality.
-This is Nigeria
Where the mace is a mess in her house
As senators sleeps and vacate seats in a hearing.
-This is Nigeria
Where in Nigeria
We are looking for Nigeria.

i can clearly hear how english mutates...
a book review by a channel... better than food...
the book he's reviewing is goETHE's captain faust:
and the non-avengers...
but no...

i don't hear: stick an umlaut anywhere you please...
i, "for some reason"... do not hear
a: Θ... a göethe... or a goëthe (ladin alphabet -
the germans know about this)...
there is this... goe-ether association...
it's sometimes a riddle of goë, göe...
or quiet simply...
the remains of the ancient latin grapheme (œ)?

educated people make this distinction -
and they'll catch "you" out on it...
since... they represent the Hyacinth Bucket brigade...
gynocentrism doing a snail-trail:
one step forward... two steps back...
it's beside what the linguist "says":
a bucket is a bucket a ***** is a *****...
otherwise? glorifying such a harsh reality
of a surname like: bucket... but not beckett?
no... "samuel"? well then...
it's not a bucket if it's somehow
translated via chernobyll as: bouquet...
is it?! is it?
because even in french: they self-cannibalise...
i.e. they "eat" some letters...
they write one language: but speak another...
what isn't bucket what is nonetheless
bouquet? well... isn't it: bouque-?
it's not even that... boo-k for the ones that
still hear... and can write grafitti schlang...
in some variation of a german...

becuase educated people can get away
with treating GOETHE...
as?  '/ˈɡɜːrtə, ˈɡeɪtə'...
or in simple-me-and-you being bilingual...
fiddling around we arrive at:
Göerte... which is "said"...
but this "lunatic asylum" exception has
to be written: with a clarity of a *******
Greek THETA... a fin! the end!
which always makes lying easier...
when you can: say (a)... but... but...
imply (b)... like some "metaphor"...
some forever useful tool of nuance...
some "spectacle"...
it's easier to lie when... you say (a)
but are "implying" (b)...
then you can blame it on...
not allow the literacy of the masses:
quite as much... you require... exceptions
to the rule... to **** out the lesser educated
"people"...

don't get me started...
born? Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski...
perhaps i should have never left...
3 years in Edinburgh...
over a month in St. Petersburg...
somewhere in Paris, Stochholm, Venice...
Athens... Belgrade from a distance...
Amsterdam... two weeks in Kenya...
and a nonchalant attitude surrounding
London... a strong distaste for Warsaw...
a myth of Cracow...

and no, i haven't been everywhere...
but... after a while... does it really matter
where you go, if you're bringing
expectations with you?
expectations and postcards?
clichés? clichés expectations and postcards?
and... a whole lot of strangers
you haven't met?
tourism and: feeding the ghost town
mentality... perhaps a ghost town would be
something to behold... instead of this...
atypical metropolitan casualness of avoiding
each other... busier busier: and no more
busy than once pronounced dead...
but wait for it: you're at least given a "scene"...

but no... i know one language that
makes pedantic orthographical observations...
but i also know a language that...
write one way... speaks another...
whichever way, best, to suit it...

and you "know" it would only be Fa-Ber'g -
no... borrow the j- from je suis...
if that last E was not an acute É...
but an grave È (grave... or? gráve...
grrrr'av... not a hey hey grave...
GRA-Vity)...

hence? my point exactly..
if the diacritical markers are respected
in fwench... with an acute É and a grave È...
why do "we" need... I(i) and J(j)?
why not... I(ı) and J(ȷ)?

besides... ever imagine writing an autobiography
like a Knausgård... defender of the runes
for a sentence in volume 1...
major google-maps ****** *** volume 2...
i write that with a "glee"...
i mean... you can be immediately be put off
writing an autobiography...
just to avoid the mediocre descriptive elements
of using something more complicated
than a hammer...
for an otherwise... less than a hammer's worth
of banality: evaluation of modern banality /
procrastination...
no one we have been given these complicated
tools... and to the best of our abilities we
best procrastinate, using them...
i hardly think a hammer would be used
to... pretend to play the drums...
but yes: Knausgård... the defender of runes...
irony... but the mr. google-earth guy to turn to...

yes... and before i discovered a past...
there were the runes... and there was
forever this latin morph of the barbarians
"thieving"... but there was also the glagolitic script...
apparently! and before that there was the greek!
and... somehow... i did arrive at having
to master some vague understanding of
mother cyrillic!

- but prior to... did you know what
slavs love cabbage? all the pakistani point this
out: slav love cabbage!
today? i watched the film Layer Cake
and made some cabbage soup...
Layer Cake being? the pre-to-a-bond-film
taster for the actor Daniel Craig...
it was hardly a Guy ******* Ritchie film...
woz itz? but... a decent actor advert...
with "hindsight"...
if i watched the film then...
or as i whatched the now...
and all the known actors jumped the train...
well... cabbage soup... base?
a decent polish / jewish chicken broth...
most of the chicken goes into a ***...
except the *******: you make a *******
roulade with that...
and proper potato bakes...
potato bakes like Heston Blumethal
boils a soft egg...
tatties in cold water... until they start boiling...
then you hunch over them...
boil them for a decent fiver...
turn off the heat...
again... hunch over them...
like an inquistive condor waitig for
the water to stop bubbling...
asking the question: are we all ready...
for the oven? yes, my toy soldiers,
are we, ready?

apparently they taste like christmas
tatties in waistcoats!
my my... what a lovely affair!
cabbage soup? you really need a complete
lack of imagination and a work-around
using root veg...
the european way...
but what is preferred is ensuring
you make a cabbage soup like...
a slav treats a cabbage like a frenchman treats
an onion: you suffocate it...
an hour minimum...
until the crass ******* boils out...
and you're left with...
a sweetness... and softness...
bay leaf all-spice (english spice) included...
some kiełbasa (etymology?
root... kieł- derived from the plural?
kły... canines... suffix -basa?
baza - base... canine-base...
something that requires an understanding
that elevates the dog, "debases" the man...
no quran reader will understand this:
for lack of a better word: shaming food...

where would pakistani cuisine be...
without the pantheon of hindu spices?!
i'll eat like a dog and in so doing:
live a tier above a king...
i still find it highly unimaginative...
to call one fruit "forbidden"
and one meat: "impure"...
whatever Gabriel spoke to Muhammad...
never really explained crab meat...
crab meat crab meat...
the Maldive muslims eat crab meat...
what's crab meat again:
when it concentrates a comparison
with ol' porky porky? scavenger of the seas...
what's with the muslim beef on pork?
and god was critical...
of his perfected animal worthy of
consumption... looks pretty silly from
Beijing... so Beijing is ensuring that Muslims
"look silly"... well... "live"... silly...
so god was so... this that and the other...
then he lent his "all knowing wisdom" and said...
no... this one animal... which you can...
butcher and make use of...
all that's missing is the oink and the hoofs!
or whatever it was: i can't eat the oink,
the grunt remain's the bacon's owner...
and perhaps the "hoofs"...
but such a pristine animal...
tapeworms come... much larger in size...
from aquatic flesh... so...
tic-toc... tic-toc... pull a sly porky on me or...
Gabriel my ***...

the Pwophet sez!
much easier these days: to, "get away" with "it"...
camel jockeys turned oil barons...
yachts... whizzed-up-*******-white-****-****...
and never... the odd-ball from
that long extended lineage of the family
living with a cuddles *****, soft toys...
east of Beirut...
that pencil girth's woe explosion in the sky...
"built" by people...
who employ slave Bangladeshis for
a sunday's worth of sabbath cricket in the desert...
i thought that deserts were only good
for waiting for qurans and dinosaur blood
and myopia and... the odd dehydration
hallucinations?!

i'll eat some sushi to sober up before
i accompany my mother: circa 60 getting
a hip replacement surgery done on her...
i'll sober up: but first things first:
spew...

mind you... below you will find some
ancients inscriptions...
i had to wonder: if the precursor text
of the anglo-sphere people...
the germans and "celts" of the british isles...
the welsh... the scandinavians...
was bound to runes...
before the latin men came...
what did "we", the slavs, use?

before the greeks allowed us entry into
the realm of mediating the otherwise:
quasi-fathomable?
cyrillic is what came: AFTER...
but there was a prior...
i'm no longer interested in the prior...
no more than i am interested in greek...
i once slurred russian cyrillic
for not having any diacritical markers...
i knew they had them...
but that they were... crude...
for lack of a better word...

how does that theory sound?
the: ex Africae omnis est Africanus...
sorry... what?!
giving my scrutiny of phonetic encoding...
am i closer to speak...
or thinking, and if not thinking,
then, reading?!
by the looks of it...
i devolved from encoding in
chinese... perhaps not so much:
sanskrit... but i most certainly suffered
moving across Siberia: obviously: not "i"...

mind you: i've looked at "it" and thought...
me, reproduce? add a stranger to the equation
of my family? i'm just happy to end
the libeage... thank god i don't have
some inheritence complex abounding...
no expectation, no "legacy" akin
to a surname like Rhodes (circa NY)...
i was born with one ****** surname,
which changed... i'll die with another ******
surname: that never made it to a status
of Eshlert... nonetheless! i'll leave...
like a ******* Einstein of an acronym:
E = MC... good for me! bravo ty! bravo ja!

beside the egyptian hieroglyphs...
i'm yet to read something...
from... Congo... perhaps i'm just too ignorant...
or the -igger shade was just too much
that it... grabbed my attention and
i forgot that the victim olympics didn't
happen every 4 years...
but every... whimsical time-span of...
a quarter of the length of a fortnite...

whatever: all out of africa implies...
i'm writing in a devolved chinese...
frozen bits across the siberian fickle desert...
next stopover? Novosibirsk!
no need for pyramids in Novosibirsk...
no "awe" to be found...
when you're toe-dead numb from
frost bite.... is there?!

my letters are a sieve... they allow meaning
through like hands praying to cusp water!
it's, the, reality...
you have ****-wit socialists on one side...
and then... this hyper-inflated
darwinism is all historism on the other...
middle ground, people!
"democracy"! i stand stand both the marxism...
or the darwinism... but arguments failed...
or? we can have the extreme of both ends
of the argument! enough of reading
Pasternak will teach you...
hey... shhh shhh... the collective can
congregate any minute now...
they don't need that many intelligent people
to rally them...
what your, "your" side needs, though?
if enough brass people: stupid enough
to entertain, to lulluby...
em... that's now much to "go on"... is it?
the intelligent with pour gasoline
on a fire...
the entertainers will simply pour
cold milk into a saucepan that contains
milk you're warming to...
melt some butter some honey and an egg yolk
to self-remedy: devoid of big pharma influences...
a witches' brew for a cold and soar throat...

side note: do i "worry" about not having children?
if i lived on the Faroe islands,
Greeland, Iceland, Norway -
i most probably would probably mind...
small town mentality: enlarged...
then again: my family, "my" and "family"
is not exactly accomodating...
why am i not spending time with my grandparents?
at least one side... the "patriarchal" side
drops off: accomodating the madonna anyways...
a sister (my mother) and a brother (my uncle)
are waging a war...
this... "eastender" soap opera is...
i don't have the finances to grativate away
from it...
enter children? and they'd be more ******
up than i already am with my libido
and no outlet... i've stopped seeing prostitutes:
no because i felt "bad":
that one time we only pretended to be
leeching / kissing oysters just because
i forgot to trim my ***** hair:
like some western feminist argument
about the exploitation of romanian women "matters"...
when... the labourer drones of men
of building sites... coming in to work...
hangover... might perhaps... stop...
fuelling the english lush economy...
i didn't want to have children because:
family-wise? things, "things" are messy...
and there's no magic carpet to get me out
of here... not when the last surviving remnant
of a past... i.e. my grandmother,
talks to my dementia riddled grandfather
with the words...
and he stresses them: you no good...
skurwysyn!
elaborate? sure! z-kurwy-syn...
from-a-*****-son..
my grandfather's mother...
well... let's put it in facts...
my grandfather is an illegitimate (
oh **** me, i spelled that right, drunk)
son... his mamma then married...
the father of this illegitimate child...
was a polyglot... spoke 7 languages...
emigrated to the U.S. of A...
remarried, fostered some shards of glass...
and sent his last postcard...
from Niagara Falls... before jumping
into the kamikazee sun...
oh my family is perfect...
then this mother of his...
had two children with a man...
who would beat my grandfather...
which is why he became a "pioneer"
coal-miner aged 15 or 14 or 16...
then this one kid ended up being
fostered... then this "watermelon" of a kid
(nickname) came out...
from a love affair... and when the "*****" died...
his quasi-foster father lived with him...
and in this custard: he...
the father semi-god-know's what...
abused the old man for putting up with
him as a love-child: in wedlock...
and... well thank god there was
no epitaph to begin an end with...

me and children? i am gracious,
i am kind... i don't want them to inherit this
history... which is worse than
a history of germany... at least those *******
had the nazis... which is worthwhile
in terms of exploiting them via video games
as those: evilz badz guyz!

i always think: the sooner i'm dead -
the more chances i have
to either dream... or breathe...
currently i quasi the former and accept
the reality of the latter...
but me and children? my, own, brood?
em... for some capitalistic driven darwinism
pressure ploy of narrative?
taxes and retirement plans for
the western: placebo: aged?
grand'm'ah and gwand'p'ah not fit under
the same roof... set them on the butcher's
path toward the "shop" of wrinkle
and: pristine effortless economic
endeavor... the pig's the lot...
economic meat and... about as barren as a dinner
plate scooped up for examination
once a pauper sat before it to supper...
ingenious! if only, if only we were all born
into a Charlie ******* Dickens' lot of life!
then, only then, we could, we could
perhaps, perhaps: write about it!

i have seen how people have lived their lives...
how... they had wish to write about it...
which always involved a lot of other people -
movie scripts written by directors
and not... actual manuscripts of scripters...
they would write... but then:
started to gag from **** at the mere of thought
of being: brutal, honest, honing...

people either write an honest autobiography,
they ghost it: have someone write a biography,
they write an autobiography that's
designated as: tabloid...
but most importantly... they forget...
a "Moscow"...
when i was in Moscow... i felt like i was
in London for the very first time...
a last time...

i did mention that i didn't envy the russian
diacritical approach...
the odd: miss and "there"...
but no... i didn't envy them...
to me there was no russian orthography...
there is an orthography: which you mind
above any metaphysical discussion...
when, and only when... aesthetics comes
into play...
i.e. rz = ż and ó = u and ch (cerp i ha) = h (samo ha)
this is how orthography is born...
sorry... i'm too "busy" dealing with
orthographic ******* to even mind
your "metaphysics" or a death of (it): interim...

as i stood at the feet of the tower of babel...
i started to su doku the pieces that
pleased my eyes... and the pieces...
left in leftover arabic squiggles of
the remnants of the 20th century...
and the new emergence of environmental
beijing free-of-syndromes to spawn
the 21st... or...
the child of a one-child-state-policy
without a Beijing... only a gradual evaluation
of... concerns for...
not giving birth to yet another ****-wit
of the world's counter to: another
****** of a gullible persuasion...
given that law is blind...
he must have been born: deaf!

- you didn't see me coming;
i didn't even see you leave... -

since the greek letters i tend to most "forget"
are:
- gamma lower-case (γ) because
of the upper-case upsilon (Υ)
- lower-case zeta (ζ) becaue
of the lower-case "11" (ξ)
- eta, lower-case (η) is no real grief
with lower-case EPSILON (ε)
until... you enter the cyrillic
"debate" of е and э...
- lower-case NU (ν) and lower-case
UPSILON (υ)
- Ξ (Θ, Φ) i.e.: XI, PSI, CHI, PHI...
return: that first 'un' is an ale'ks...
alex... but it's not an X in the way that
CHI expresses itself in CHurCH...
lay-teΞ...
- then again... greek orthography begins
in SIGMA... those... quasi-germans...
those remnants of the northern / teutonic
crusade... those Pruσσianς...
or... Prußianς...
the greek F and the greek "F"...
key into a keyhole: Φ...
key turning in a keyhole: Θ...
the iota of four uses... Θ, Φ, Ξ... Ψ...

but that's only the greek... i will not touch
on the glagolitic... until, barely skimming
the draft months earlier...
until i come with my own diacritical markers
and show you: how i was wrong...
yes... the russians do use these markers...
but they, mostly... do not "accent" them...

because i'm no Ezra Pound i didn't have
to imagine going as far back
as the Taoist ideogram...
because i remained bound to the anchor
of europe and...
i really didn't find anything of worth
in africa encoding: silence into their
verbiage with anything:
beside the odd spell of hieroglyphs...
so? i am not an Idaho man...
or whatever mid-western miss-western
******* the genius came from...

i don't have an ideogram:
i have a synonym... the sound is exactly
the same... but Charon 'ave their eyes!
mind you...
ądam and ęwa are off limits...
as is: ł... then again: given that i write in english...
em... "yes, and no"...

but here's my rubric... a rubric implies:
i will not narrate this crap:

don't get me started on the russian variations
of Y... i once said... because the greeks had
names for their letters... and the romans didn't...
well... in western slavic: Y "why, I" has a name:
e'GREK... iGrek... e and i are interchanged
between the western slavs and the islanders...
but the russians?
let me Shakespeare that for you:
pre-scriptum - don't ask me...
how oh how a german umlaut infiltrated
the alphabet: i blame catherine the great...
you have...

е (ye)
ё (yo)
й (-y-) - which acts like a "ȷUDAS"
ы (ý) - alt. to? ıGREK
ю (yu)
я (ya)

all that's missing is a: иы variation?!
let me check my pentagram of vowels...
e, o... u, a... oh right... IO-T'AH-T'AH-T'AH...
sinking the ******* POTEMPKIN!

it's for the best: i'm entrenched in two languages...
which makes me "schizophrenic" /
bilingual... ergo? i have to write in at least:
four... pepper in some latin etc.....
and modern slang? i need that...
and some german... and perhaps a dash
of Gaelic... and some scandi-navigational
pseudo-romancing the rosetta stone...

the rest is quiet "simple"...
a french-atypical acute... because there's no gr'ah-v'eh!
grave ole...
and a dot... like the dot used for no real purpose
in english...

i.e. ь involves the acute...
while the ъ involes the "horde" symbol...
either the dot above the Z in ż or the caron
above the R: ř...
alternative interpretations invoke
even more: 'hide and seek" mechanisms
of the russian Y...
  объект: interJEct with an obJEct...
thus? there just seem to be gradations
of hiding a why (y) with its added vowel...
and its mutant й... crescent mongol moon...
and all the rest of "it"...
since when you "borrow": yew borrow...
you get something along the lines
of: e.g.:

ć.        ць: c.f. surnames ending with -CKI
ń.       нь
ó.      "u" or? Loonin...
ś.        cь
ź.        зь
dz.     ž (dzik - boar - the wild adjective is a tautology)    
ż.      ř       rz   (зъ) or? ж...
ł.       woad... łagodny (he - gentle)
                        łagodna (she - gentle)
š.      sz.      ш             (sh)
č.      cz.      ч               (ch... you're not foreign
to graphemes... mr. Æ ms. Œ...
you simply haven't seen it applied
to consonants... only vowels!)
щ     šč     (szczypta - pinch -
a germanic, saxon "ch" is a cz...
or a caron above the C...
ch' ch'.... akin to the caron above the S...
sh' sh'... so far away from "god": YHWH...
yet so close, so, close!)
ha ha... a "dangling bit"...
and i thought the russians weren't
good at hiding "things"... from ш to щ
you have hidden: a caron a "c"...
a ****'s CHeap... in a dangling "left-over"...
of an otherwise caron S... heap of SH SH ****...

in terms of the cerp and ha and samo ha?
the greek χ (chi) comes into play...
but not like a cheeze...
more like a vowel-catcher breath...
eerie as ****... a HA HA with...
cHA cHA! i.e. like the surds you allow
hindu words access to: gnostic -
'nostic... or... knife... i.e. 'nife...

it's no surprise for me, now...
out of all the black caribbean kids,
the indian and pakistani,
the africans... i was one of the first
to: come out swinging from under
the iron curtain:
distrust levels? high... near almighty...
not enough "japanese" in me
to squander a late debt from
Hiroshima or some other etc.

in some remote original draft...

as ever, i drink, and am a nobody, but then i find myself inclined to look upon the god of gods: whatever remains of worth for the phonetic encoding... whether latin, greek, rune, cyrillic, or ⰒⰑⰃⰀⰐ ⰒⰉⰔⰏ (another googlewhack)... the glagolitic phonetic encoding... sure, first they'll ban the runes in sweden, before realißing that... there's another alphabet... the glagolith...
                  Ⱉ = Ω, given Ѡ = ω...
         this alphabet has been suppressed, long enough!
to be honest? i've never seen a more beautiful letter,
anywhere, other than in the glatolith...
     Ⰿ = M = ᛗ...
                      maybe that's why i like my given names
so much...
                            ⰏⰀⰕⰅⰖⰞ
                 i too! i too have a past!
             i don't need to peer into pseudo-arab ***
the quran religiosity of hieroglyphs
of the northern africans, camel jockeys!
                             there's, oh there's so much
more at stake than the runes...
                what of the Kiev Rus vikings?
this, this is their language:
                ⰕⰑ          "ⰏⰑⰆⰅ"          (może = maybe)    
(to = this)
                                                   (ⰜⰀ = trzeba, trza /
                                                            tsa)­
            ⰕⰔⰑ (tsa)           ⰃⰀ (ga)     ⰂⰀⰓⰉ (vari)
               (gadać = converse... gavari)

    Ⰴ (d)                ⰆⰫⰕ (żyt = fathoming life)

                             ⰆⰫⰕ (worthwile noting:
this is out lot of, a, life)...

      ⰛⰫⰛⰍⰀ (szyszka = cone, of the ᚦᛁᚱ /
                                     ⰡⰑⰄⰟⰀ - fir /
                              jodła tree)

see, i can't solve crossword puzzles...
      i don't know where i would begin,
fathoming this sort of "plaything" thesaurus...
i can play a solitaire mahjong,
i can solve you a su doku puzzle
without wanting to compensate myself
by competing...
                  
   but i do know...
                    what conjured the atom,
the letter?
  what conjured the atom, the letter,
and subsequently, the alphabet?
        noun...
                  the cipher conceptualißation
of making a name, smaller,
so small, in fact...
that letter emerged, and names were
no longer indicative...
of a meaning...
  so much so, that units were
formed, fathomed...
and when merely giving names
to these units, akin to the greeks,
alpha...
        which had to become a-lpha...
and beta had to become b-eta...
          well... only thanks to the latin men...
they became songs...
sing-alongs...
   very much thanks for the H vowel
catcher of the hebrew god...
ah... said the castrato...
  b'eeh sang the castrato...
           em...
  obviously the devil managed to keep
some of the letters...
z'ed...
                 it's still bewildering...
how the latin men "reinterpreted"
the northern runes...
   as the greek men "reinterpreted"
the north eastern glagolitic script...
and to think! to think!
    Ⱃ = R = ρ = rho...
         but what happened, "elsewhere"?
ᚱ = R... but... but... where's the trill?
R, as a letter, looks like it's about
to hide a leg... and start rolling...
ripping apart all other onomatopeias
associated with the rattle of a rattlesnake,
or the sound it could make,
to associate itself with the sound
of water boiling... where did that "go"?
with the french hark "innovation",
and the english tongue...
being bitten and left numb by
a tarantula?!
                      
  point being... i never imagined myself
much of an archeologist...
i always found:
  if you state your "necessary" freedom
to speak?
you're a tongue inside one cranium,
at a particular time, in a universal space...
but, like kierkegaard,
you care more about a freedom to think?
i'm "here", i'm "there", i'm "i'm"
like heidegger might state...
                  using this very modern
language that's english...
          but then sliding back into...
an obscure region of history...
      in two places at once...
        at a universal moment in time,
in a particular space...
                   talking exhausts me,
whenever i start speaking for more than
ten minutes,
there is a cotton mouth infestation,
my tongue turns into a serpent about
to shed a layer of its skin,
and, if i'm lucky,
i will not swollow the tongue...

                    and why wouldn't the runes
be more protected, but currently under
siege -
             both the latin text and the greek
text (respectively),
had the ambition of performing an
x-ray on the runes and the glagolitic texts,
treating them as pseudo-hieroglyphics...

but they found similarities,
   which made this foreign phonetic
encoding systems relateable...

ᚠ = F
                ᚢ = U         (copernican "up-side-down")
ᚨ = A (strange sort of arithmetic, / \
                                              )
               ­ ᚱ = R (d'uh)
   ᚺ = H...
           ᛁ = I
               ᛋ = s
                ᛏ = t (what's with the "bending knee",
so much for the supposed: "arrow"),
               ᛒ = B...
           ᛖ = Σ = E...
                   ᛗ = M...
                   ᛚ = L...
                  ᛟ = o - crude version of circle...

so? the latin men had an easier way to
fathom the runes, and ingest them
into the x-ray vision of post-latin...
   the greeks with the glagolitic script?
much harder...

         Ⱂ = Π = P = ρ (rho)
                 Ⰰ = A = ᛉ = Z...
             Ⱇ = φ = ᚦ = θ...
                             Ѡ = ω...
                Ⱑ = A...
                          Ⱔ = ε....
                                            Ⱚ = θ...

but i agree... you couldn't get "our"
peoples to where we are now,
with these pseudo-hieroglyphics...
   after all: Ⰿ (M) is a beautiful letter...
in glagolitic terms...
          but... it's too complicated for us,
at this moment in time...
it might have had all the necessary
practicality in its necessary time...
that it was allocated to...
but... given people these days
are looking at X-|ɔ\
                              / \ /_ / ?
                            how ******* hard must
it have been, when,
the phonetic encoding,
was as hard as it, to now, us,
it seems?!
                   so... whatever is happening
in sweden, right now?
       i'm not bemaoning it,
   i have a tattoo... it reads: Sienkiewicz...
the swedish deluge of 1626–29... a.d.,
          **** it, ban the runes...
i've "just" discovered the gagolitic phonetic
encoding, the sort of **** that
st. cyril and methodius had to work with,
and it wasn't as easy as translating /
incorporating the runes...

                     oh sure, i'm waiting...
                 first they ban the runes...
   then they'll have to learn something akin
to the glagolitic script...
             returning back to their x-ray
latin lettering...
                       i still can't believe that
james joyce got away with writing finnegans
wake... without ever employing a single
diacritical marker...
spewing out... what became the modern
english grafitti spreschen...
   e.g.: lolz...
                              und: L8ER...
it's like: the worst of the worst of what
already is the worst in the form
of the h'american demands for acronyms.          

after watching an old couple walk
past me into the supermarket:
    or unlike the men climbing
           the matterhorn:
   which from postcards seems so
much more majestic in its formidable
shape than the goliath everest
    (from postcards) -
                 5 miles, a dark forest,
  and i can show you where english
druids chant: satanus in excelsior!
   and i thought i spoke bad english:
it's: in excelsis satanus...
       i would have approached them,
but then i was alone,
      and there was one idiot shouting
and about a crowd of twenty disciples:
you could hear the murmur
   adhering to the chant from a distance
of about 300 metres...
                    i only had beer on me,
no goat blood, no woad pigment...
                crash a party when they
were having a party in complete
darkness?
                     it's a good thing there was
a song change on my headphones
               and for a minute i picked it up...
wait a minute: i thought i owned
these woods, walking at night?
               ragnarök blood of Hvalba:
unfortunately the norse founded
kiev,
           so if they founded kiev,
                they must have past where
i made mark as: the land immune to
                                       the black death...
if i were an academic with a stipend,
   i'd write another boorish book on the matter
to attract moths...
          but the old couple, hand in hand,
shrinking but not exactly disappearing...
     in me the inherent conceptualisation
of a twin, like a limb missing,
  but with all my limbs intact...
              yet still a twin gleaming in my mind,
as the story i was told in my childhood
no echoes like a behemoth ghouling:
    they said to me:
   did you know that in this world there exists
a person that looks exactly like you?
         what? so i started looking,
      not leonardo, not brad,
                    can't compete -
            if i really am the stronger twin
                 who sent my twin to the plough
and the hearth... am i not to suddenly
    lick ash?
                  but the old couple:
   what a rarity to see, dwarfs,
                                  of former majestic
forms... elsewhere the single mother with
a baby in a buggy at 10 minutes to 11 during
the week, bewildered by reading
frozen foods labels...
           oh... about the supermarket...
grr... mein gott!
                    Surabhis! Surabhis everywhere!
the joy of walking into a supermarket
last, aisles as spacious as any king's
    lonely castle...
        but in the hours 12 in the afternoon
till about 5 in the afternoon?
        traffic jams!
                   zombified shoppers, women,
of course, children to boot...
                           how many times i might
have bumped into them...
      gaze lost, hazy eyed...
                 sometimes i had to walk down one
aisle, emerge from another, just to pass
  a woman standing fiddling with her
hair...
           the new meeting place, apparently,
but that's beside the point,
   the more i listen to radio,
  the more i learned that i'm far from
a music snob...
            take for example:
       free deejays's song
                            el amor es un party...
what? cuba not pretty any more?
              but there's a worthwhile observation
in there:
        only rich men have the chance
        to play a woman's game of "the chase"...
        only rich men get to "chase" women...
        the poor schmucks?
                          ****! have to live with them.  
****... i need to find that
    one exchange in ingmar bergman's
film wild strawberries:
            when the old man wakes from
a dream-memory in which he is
the ****** of a **** scene...
        where a woman is teasing a man
to the point, until he transcendes
                   a teasing woman,
                       and finds a Jezebel...
so upon waking...
                the "children" are picking
flowers in the rain...
                          and there's talk of
abortion...
       at this point it's gone beyond
castration...
                      the conversation invokes
the death-mask of man,
    or man as tomb, and woman as
the robber -
                         apparently once impregnated
man cannot ask for his ***** back,
and in some twisted way:
           and as much as i'd like to "cheat"
having found the screenplay online,
   i have the misfortune of owning the ****
movie...
        and how i like returning
to silent cinema, black & white, foreign,
with subtitles...
                     at this point,
because didn't place the subtitles: on top
of the screen, but at the bottom...
   well, **** me: am i looking for
Cindarella, because focusing back
on those faces means i seem them without
lips and merely eyes and noses,
   and perhaps a chance to spot
   a wriggling, morphed into an insect
st. peter's, if not van gogh's ear!
              or the lost "art" of handwriting...
Cinderella? my focus is so low from
      the action, that i might as well be
  watching, either a ballet, or a *******
riverdance!
             dr. isak borg (a)
marianne borg (b)
        dr. evald borg (d)

such a weird and heart-numbing thinking
went into writing this...
i have a history, a past:
regardless of having children and with
their existence: some sort of guarantee
for a future...
that i have a past, a history,
and it exists... outside of its current
written format,
that i can escape with or without having
children: that i would have probably
later ***** mentally...
having ingested all this third party
quasi-history propaganda
for the only history that's being
salvaged: the insect prone libido
of a status quo... well then...
let my "failure" be the patent for all future
success.

Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
the way you look over your glasses
as you kick those journos’ arses
I love your hairy nostrils and your square double chin
but most of all I love the way you know everythin’
not a skerrick of doubt, any subject, any time
you can hold forth. you’re ready to chime

Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you don’t need no research. no need to hold back
here is your wisdom, you’re on the attack
here is the gospel according to Tuckey
you front them with macho, you front them so plucky
you tell them the answers straight from the heart
they look like stunned mullets as you take them apart

Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you run rings round those greenies, those tree hugging ****
with their talk about warming, their climate change glum
I trust you Wilson, you know better than them
you can leave them all gobstruck with a home spun gem

Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you can spot a terrorist at a hundred paces
the ones with the beards and the slightly dark faces
we don’t want them here taking our jobs and houses
with their Qurans and burqas and baggy white trousers

Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you show us what it means to be Australian
some call you redneck, some say you’re not cool
but you are our bedrock, you are no fool
you are the brown substance of this wide, sunburnt land
and that’s why, Wilson Tuckey, I really, really, really love you man.

pin points
joined like Siamese
dots, exclusion
of the hyphen for
the use of pause.

it's one of those early nights having an introspective
moment... trying to give dimensions to my oeuvre:
all those heartbreaks of spaghetti fingers typing
and then trying to ctrl + c / ctrl + p / ctrl + a
but missing the keys... hey presto! a magic act:
a poem lost not even saved by automaated drafts...

yes... i do feel like i need to buy Red Hot Chilli Pepper's
Unlimited Love on vinyl...
it's funny how artists, even in the mainstream disappear...
i have no account of the existence
of the band from... circa 2007... until 2022 when
they toured and i was working the London Stadium:
poet of the coliseum...
John Frusciante came back: i never thought he went
anywhere... but even major artists disappear...

unlike those days being a greedy and eager youth
trying to impress girls with an array of influences
finding out: no return to jazz no return to classical music
to figure out finding my own voice (i wish,
there was a rhyme, vice... ice...) - parrot?
    imitating echo? if parrots could imitate echoes...

it's a gruelling evening...
   there's absolutely nothing to write about...
i'mm rereading some of Al Purdy and Walt Whitman
and i feel: feelz... detachment from any stated,
historical achievements...
          wars lost wars won or whatever
that might be between the flesh and the fingernails
when the fingernails grow too long...
an interlude from working shifts... dealing with people
is a ******: a flat tire...
   37 is no age to start thinking about a road
already undertaken:
children? no?! marriage? now?!
     flipping pancakes and idealising love furthest from
love's truth...
   murky waters and swamp-things...
      deceits, subtractions and additions of lies...
headaches, toothaches...

            shares happiness of coupling and shared
demises...
but from what i've learned:
there is no happiness greater than a one arrived
at by oneself: that spontaneity of laughing
for no reason or laughing at oneself
having thought a certain thought...
and no sweeter misery that no one can share
with you... a nostalgic grey morose murmur of...
some self- prefix fixation of this automated
monkey-bot turned 180 degree standing upright...

the last days of autumn... rotten leaves
in the park that are as "dangerous" as ice...
and a winter that only takes a sneak-peek
at where it once was: magnificently as an AGE of ice
parallels of trunks and trombones and
imagining hairy elephants...
   just imagining.... not really paying attention
to the fact that: yes... how long would it take
for an elephant to grow fur and would it have migrated
with man... all furry in sunny Africa...
kind of inverting the point of the elephant in Siberia
with man shedding fur for... bare-goose-bump skin...

this plughole, this constipation of history through
the lens of Darwinism is... like...
standing above a grave of a dearly loved one
yawning, or chewing gum...
               something like an Icarus-Phoenix
burning in the mind that dead yet dead not forgotten...
fickle creature memory and what
i don't want to remember:
with what i do remember -
   like that repetitive loop of memory-erosion
beginning with the philosophy of pedagogy...
raise hopes and teach pointless arts...
but dear, dear... don't teach them how to combat
the drudgery of work and menial toils...
i'm pretty sure that most physical labours
that require a technicality of an array of skills
will never be menial...
it's the shelf-stacking jobs that could be
made easier... in theory... with an entertaining mind...
a wandering here one minute gone the next...
a disappearing ego...  reappearing ego...
a bucket and pulled from a bucket a top hat...
and from a top hat? pulling out an old person's
chattering dentures instead of a white bunny...

a beautiful life focusing on little things,
finding spontaneous wisdom anecdotes and not defending
such roles as guru or saviour or leader...
like... going to bed before 12am and
like today... nonchalantly in concord with:
i'd like to have a lesbian girlfriend...
while sneaking away to the brothel...
but even no, given the wintry months:
having a relief from spring's and insect' libido....
sure... jerking off but not really thinking about
it, which is aided by sitting on the throne
of throne and giving birth to a meteor of
plucked brown-stuff and almost rising ot *******
heights of that one gateway not being
violated by ******* passions....

tired of experimenting of breaking society's
boundaries and leftover taboos...
just ****** tired... as if wanting something
wholesome like a slice of rye bread
or porridge in the morning...
    perfectly boring perfectly sighed over...
and a world that's only as big as my eyes can see...
sure... a mountain in the distance...
or a sky-scraper... this grand plateau of London...
no car, no need... just a bicycle and a pair
of legs... a lost commitment from having
a grandmother... made all the more easier
by the fact that: i will die without an image
of my father's mother...
               making it easier for me to digest
the ongoing process of being estranged from
my mother's mother...
               i have the perfect excuse these days:
i'm working... obviously not the work
of aligning with plastic surgeons of bus drivers...
work the liberator and excuse from...
i used to love seeing my mother's parents...
i'd visit them for stretches of months...
sit with the old people and soak up:
fermenting and almost sad that my youth was
wasted on old age... but the books i read
and the training i received from "missing out"
made me a rigid-stone...
from the youthful energy of disappointment
to the slowly growing old dynamic of
oriental thinking...
even now if i will ever put a foot in Poland
i will only be doing so
on a whim of: i need to purchase cheap duty-free
cigarettes... i'll fly over and spend
a day in Cracow... try to look local...
******* back to the airport, buy three cartons...
spend £30 there and back and spend a total
of £90 on 600 cigarettes...
which will still come cheaper than if i bought
cigarettes here legally, stupid...
or under the counter from some Romanians...

i was supposed to go to the gym with Francesca
today... honestly... i was busy... busy being
busy about not being busy...
spent the night chatting to a friend from Hawaii...
she texted me that she was going on a date...
that's what i mean:
i'd like a lesbian girlfriend... someone i could go
ice-skating with... talk macho ******* with...
go to an art-gallery...
but: keeping up with Platonic traditions...
if in need of **** find it elsewhere...
with the likes of Mona...
who, apparently disgraced, was shunned by fellow
prostitutes for becoming pregnant with
a customer... that's the thing...
i hope it wasn't me... but chances are...
cross-eyed at the zenith of her ******...
lips touches lips and all the wonderful stuff that's
like sunlight having descended and
enveloped a field of wheat in August...

i don't mind... carefree mitigation of rumours
and the frenzies of atomic vibrations...
invisible yet existent parodies of impasses
of: how Hannibal solved the issue of the Alps...
how Lawrence created the endless number of clocks
from the sands of Arabia...
how the sea was a puddle for the first to not thirst...
such evenings when language is loose...
gooey... mindless bragging and jargon...
something person spotted from time to time...

with my mother's brother, my uncle:
i once adored him... i used to go to concerts with him...
that one afternoon he cleaned and worked on
his Porsche... we listened to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
Californication... an interlude of going
to the chicken shop and getting some chips
and hot wings...
his personal life of sleeping with prostitutes...
multiple girlfriends... i admired that i wanted
that for myself rather than the odd... mutant...
rigour of my father's monogamy...
i tried it once: twice...

i'm so thankful for the women in my life,
i won't event pretend to not give them their names:
Isabella, she dumped me...
Promis... she dumped me...
Ilona... she too dumped me...
dumped Humpty-Dumpty...
which gives me the focus of Pontius Pilate...
each time i wash my hands i wash imaginary
hands of Pontius Pilate...
   it's so much easier than to fall in the category
of the sort of man that has the luxury of clinging women
he then dumps...
much easier to be dumped...
it reveals avenues of... perhaps Mona, that *******,
really did have the best *** in her life
and wanted my genes to be preserved...
no one knows expect for her
and the insinuations other prostitutes in the brothel
have dropped...
but i won't be revisiting that place for some time...
my libido is stale-bread and...
eh... a ******* for an hour telling someone:
slow down... slow down...
                      just a little tenderness...
i don't need to be circumcised twice!

             unlike the ***** where you can ferociously
gorge on the uncircumcised bits...
or when interacting with piston against the backdrop
of the floral patterns: we're talking an act
with possible teeth involved...
my love made all the more easier:
so easier to move on... being the one being dumped...

western dogma: wisdom as an over-complication
with eastern dogma: wisdom as an over-simplification...
traps and mazes of the latter...
dogs chasing their own tails...
perhaps? reimagining the once legal
aesthetic of improving the Dobbermann dog breed
by snipping the nails and clipping the ears
so they might be pointy?

back to "dearest" uncle... he's back living in Poland
with his mother nearing her 85th year...
apparently going back... friends with investment
potentials... 3 weeks there and all he's doing
is sitting in the living room in his boxer shorts...
watching t.v., trying to play the role of manager
of a non-existent company...
having sold his one greatest asset of a paid-off
mortgage of a house...
his dream: retiring in his mid-50s like the norm
in Greece... a man still in his prime
having lost it...
                         hardly me cooking and improving
the life of grandparents by painting shelves...
changing the linoleum flooring in the kitchen...
changing a light-bulb...
it's like that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
the decadent police officer being dragged back
into his childhood bedroom...
this Hell of the Western World's Mentality...
living with your parents like it's a wheelchair hindering...
what?! and paying 12 months upfront
to rent a box in London is somehow better
than the allowances of homelessness?!
hardly... **** me... hardly!

sure... when he was living in England
and had the advantage of bilingualism...
how his "friends" dragged him into a ****-show:
circus without the clowns storming
a FIAT 126P by the 20 load of cramming...
now my horror-suspicion can be shared....
but at least i had escapism within the confines
of books... and no, seriously no ambitions
to stand on a stage and dance...
poetry and mediating mediocre saved me...
i allowed myself: i was allowed
sieving through observing people:
pedestrian talk: no talk...
            
     loads of money: he did save up a load of money:
compared to the usual dynamic he's
hardly a millionaire...
but compared to me... i count my riches
by the time i spent reading a book...
reading Heidegger's Being & Time...
hell... i paid... no... i didn't... my grandfather
paid 20? let's be realistic... he paid 30zł for each book...
in a subscription "race":
one book per 30zł... 20 books in total...
anyway... i was a vagabond in Heidegger's head
for 30zł that spanned for almost 3 years...
a difficult book...

                          i'd spend less time in Sartre's antithesis
of Time: id est esse nihil                                    -ness
does it really matter? the number on the receiving
end... is the calculated progress of judgement
of what constitutes "progress"...
Welsh is always a second clue concerning Britain...
given: you will hardly hear or learn
how the Scots "forgot" their origin in tongue
so smoothly lost that it would require a James
to bend the knee and crack his knees
like walnuts to arrive at these isles unity... ****-wit...
it's a pointless sort of defeat...
but adamant Welshmen and their prosthetic hard-on
for myths of: origins of the dragon folk...
hardly passable: most impressionable...

right now, though! i figured out something!
i don't want to write something original!
i don't!
you: "you": you... you know what i want
to achieve?! i want too write something
that... that can't be plagiarised!
which is a take on originality as
anti-originality-original

suppose these "poems" leave indentations in the fabric
of time (solely, they already have,
in the room i'm currently sitting in,
listening to R.E.M.'s automatic for the people
for the Nth time, nothing has changed)...
wow... my ego-tripping pays off...
but what tripping with no ego? just a silence
of the mind? the only reason why i'm writing
it because i can't return to my prior to psychosis
state of the thought-narrative bliss of
semi-solipsism semi-object-thinking...
one LEGO project after another...

i'm sitting here hunched before QWERTY looking
at the screen not looking at the keyboard
because: mastering QWERTY is oh so much different
to ice-skating...
life this self-suggesting, doubly-affirming:
believe me you be...
          are... conjugating the perfected grammar-math...
perhaps the wrongly assembled: you're be...
makes no more sense than
a chicken clucking trying to imitate
the screech of a diving hawk...

a lion growling a cat meowing...
             green met yellow and how blue was spawned...
if the blues was all blue
then i guess jazz was: having the purples...
classical music was the savvy pinpoint
between silver - gold - platinum...
but i still preferred folk songs...
the sort of songs without genius and more
the spontaneity of drunkards...

we heave an unbearable load of nostalgia:
nostalgia being a fakery of memory
and memory being no better than imagining
a present and future... with the downfall:
a memory reimagining the present and past...
if thinking is stability: if!
posit if within the confines of "if"!
then imagination is pyrotechnics...
the same can be said of memory...
fickle creatures... self-appropriating
self-gratifying no-self-involved students of
a circus...

i conjure up a memory: i'm re-imagining
what ought to be re-remembered...
no can do... i think of something outside
the prism-prison of geometry of a square:
that becomes the Disney Mouse...
wow!
     imagination and memory conflate
and thought: knows all the best distractions...
existence per se and for no knowledge
of the usual vectors of demand: how, when, who, why,
north? how...
east? when...
south? who...
west? why...
                         this is my globe of words making sense:
by sense i imply: words i own: i can manifest
within the confines of constructing a loss-of-self-self...

some spineless messages from Vietnam like
i'm speaking, writing, English, ergo i'm American...
it might only take a few Pakistanis selling Qurans
to conflates ****** with a German...
doesn't matter to me...
does it? did it? will it? ha ha...
     well... a ****** in England not pretending...
tangy-****-****... drool of accent of America...
talking to someone from Vietnam trying to start
up a brothel with girls to "sell"... shady corners of the world...
a bit like not trying to be Russian and talking to
someone from Afghanistan...

bored citadels with barricaded Cinderellas
***** me a snake and wishing ****** dress: white...
promises... me and you and me not getting any
STDs?!
                vampires,  in literature... at the height
of the AIDS epidemic... epidemic: in through to out...
pandemic: out through to in...
     d'uh... you ******* brain-frozen buzzing itches
of intellect not worth salvaging...
i'm tired! i'm tired of mediocre and the excuses leftover
by western psychologists...
i wasn't handed the kind poker hand...
i had to struggle... i struggled...
considered mad i waited until the world
caught up to me supposed "madness":
the world turned out madder than my originally prescribed
madness...
who's celebrating now? no one...
i'm curious about the demands of the gods...
i'm in pivot: contemplating both the crucified
and the one to be impaled on a spike...
my god... could celebrating torture be so misunderstood?!
crucifying someone is half the torture...
but impaling someone... celebrating
an anti-homosexuality... mein gott!
that's the focus: in situ of gravity, glue,
moon, money, sun, honey... being crucified is rather tame
compared to being impaled with your hands
being tied behind your back!
tame... this... thingy-magic... torture emblem of
excuses... solipsistic nostalgia some mediocre people
had it well... **** them... trample them...
horses need to learn to own hoofs!
no point of learning without some crushing
of skulls-soulless;

bemoan what fact? i might... somehow... endear myself
and enrich my existence with / by listening
to these harrowing calming-pill narratives of:
and who isn't who without anything being lost?!
oh! the hierarchy of victim-culture:
blaming X for Y and Y for Z...
fat ***** best fatten herself up by grief growing like
mould: slow...
  
of course i'm readying myself for the death-hanging...
the death-looming... the death-apparent...
tick-tock... tick-tock...
it would be impossible to thoroughly move with
a life, a concern for it, "it":
having a blasé affair with: exactly, with what that's not "that"?
pin point a needle in a haystack...
see a camel a mile away from passing
through a needle's eye...

old teachings are like ancient ruins...
people are not willing... the ontological reality
outside of the realm of Darwinism is unavailable...
there is no Darwinism to explain why
there were furless elephants in Africa:
and still are...
while there were furry elephants of Siberia
and Northern Europe....
eh?! explains X x what?!
            the English tongue is poison with its
dramatic Darwinism make-over speed up: ****
history: does anyone care to remember yesterday?!
if poetry is such a ******* **** in the realm
of arts... what's journalism?
historically speaking: it's...  A *******
CONSTIPATION!

you "people" are constipated meta-profession
ortho-beings... paraphrasing: eh?! who?!
no lost of libido... if at least half of us turned
to the path of patchwork of Cain...
we might... get something done...

i'm an old Romantic at times, i never keep up with the modern
times: from time to time - or rather: pretty much
all the time...
         give me a quote by Aramis from the Three Musketeers
regarding a woman's hands...
how the best hands do not show any protruding veins
on them... or rather: as he described it using his own hands
he lifted them up... the veins disappeared...
the hands of a priest...
    or even the easily infatuated Julien Sorel from Stendhal's
the Scarlet and the Black...
      breaking himself over little signs of affection...
after all... what prompted me to try to start courting
   Jeminah? she rested her elbow on my leg after we were
driving back from a shift at Fulham...
that's all it took...
            can you imagine if a car full of sewage workers
were coming back from a shift and one of them
rested his elbow on the other guy's leg? a bit weird...
but that's the dynamic of men working with women...
there are perpetual love interests at hand...
it feels like being back in a high school playground
sometimes...
     over excited? moi... just saying...
                 great with friends... but when it comes to
colleagues... not so great...
i checked my other bank account today: phew...
so the money did come through...
     well... that's me seeing Khedra very soon...
she's getting impatient... even i can tell by the length
of my ***** hair: since i haven't shaved since the last time
i saw her... and i'll need to get that sorted...
she sent me two pictures of herself in daylight...
without make-up... she looks even more pretty au naturel,
fresher: less wax prone... like mineral water...
she looks: Turkish and not Persian...
     so... well... we're not going to be exchanging
taking selfies: i remember a time when there was a time
when people would take pictures of people...
gathered together, or just alone... it wouldn't descend
into this: i need to take a picture of myself...
so what did i send her... women love cats...
   some... doesn't matter... i donned the Maine ****
sleeping in my bed with a green beanie:
massive grin on its face... i sent her that...
i was trying to convey a sense of warmth...
    how animals trust me... the transfer is through...
once these shifts are over and i have a week's worth of
break i'll visit her... give myself a proper wash-up /
wash-down... trim my public hair... turn up a boy
of on par with glanz (the German pronunciation
of the Z... tss)
           but i'm not... like today...
we were going to Oxford... we pick up this girl:
my neighbour's daughter who got me this job...
she's late... she's sleepy... she asks whether she can rest
her head on my shoulder... she does... snoozes off
for about half an hour...
            we do our shift... *******...
the same girl that had my love interest fired... Jeminah...
you know how girls are...
scratching biting little ******* from time to time...
after all the drama Jeminah's friend Alisa quit...
apparently the hours worked were not worth the money
earned... but it all came down to Jeminah's
son being friend with Alisa's son and...
   i stepped in revealing two lies... maybe even three...
because it got to the point that the boys' friendship
would be dissolved because of their mothers' drama...
anyway... on our way back... all's good... alles güt...
    but my neighbour's daughter is sitting next to me...
she finally drops semi-dead... she cuddles up to me...
head starts resting on my shoulder...
after a while it completely falls onto my chest...
i was going to say... why not take a kip on my legs?!
and that's the thing... she's on me
  and... it only took Jeminah's resting elbow on my leg
for me to make moves...
home-made wine, banana loaf...
wanting her dog to lick the burn wounds off of my
knuckles until i bled... flowers on Valentine's day...
reading about her son's poem back to him...
blah blah...
but in this scenario... i felt nothing...
she's not exactly an unattractive girl but...
   when you don't feel anything... obviously it's all
a bunch of crap...
i'm the ******* joke of the whole team...
apart from the nickname Daddy...
   o.k.: o.k.: it's warm... we haven't started the shift yet...
i had three buttons on my shirt undone...
yeah... i have a hairy chest... and a hair torso in general...
Johnny ******* Bravo...
             i get it... but at the same time:
i want to be as much obvious to the dynamics of
women as possible...
like i once said: i love women...
   which doesn't translate into: i want to understand women...
but they're not unicorns... mythical creatures...
but i have worked in an exclusively male environment...
well... the construction industry has changed a little
since... the only women on site were the girls
working the canteen... but even then... mostly guys:
even in the canteen... because? men cook better...
at least i should ******* know since my grandmother's
Sunday roast chicken is a curse of chicken *******
coming out so dry i would always think:
chalk?! or cheese?!
             i introduced my mother to the Indian cuisine...
i perfected the curry... by any stretch of the imagination
of European standards of cooking this cuisine...
but in this sort of scenario...
    fine line... fine line...
               because as men aren't we so of expected...
we end being more care-givers and protectors than women...
a shoulder to cry on... or... like in this scenario:
to fall asleep on... i'm glad she sunk onto my chest
and didn't call further down the body...
i could hear her breathing heavily into my shirt...
well yeah... because when i put on cologne...
i pray my beard... my neck and my shirt...
and cologne is best accented when worn with
prolonged expose to air, sun and... a little bit of sweat...
oh no no... not when it's ******* in your face
like a whiff of ammonia!
and certain fabrics behave differently with regards
to how cologne is stored...
       again: i have no problem working with women...
but... there was bound to be some ******
tension on the ******* horizon...
    i love this word, i write it... but i know i'm going
to be eating some letters... surds...
inevitable... or... rather... not eating some letters...
changing the vowels around...
   IN-EH-V'EH-TABL'
                
         Johnny ******* Bravo... Daddy... cute...
   cute... but do i need it?
               i really hope these women don't find out
that i'm a night prowler... that i go to shady parts
of London and look for *** in brothels...
      because... oh hey... he looks like the boy next door...
shirts whiter than snow...
ironed... trousers ironed... pristine hygiene...
smelling good... well yeah...
   that's why i have exclusive rights to **** a Khedra
without a ******...
and there's no mention of possibly catching Syphilis...
even said: and i'd trust a ******* with my life:
hell... i'd entrust this one with taking it...
she said two things:
   (1) even if you ******* into me,
           i won't get pregnant... and...
(2) a ****** will not protect you against any STDs...
personal hygiene...
    well yeah... wash your hands regularly...
your body... if you have ******* pull it back
and wash the parts that will be exposed and engaged
in ***...
   it's that ******* simple...
               cleanliness ought to be considered
an 8th virtue...
   or perhaps even the 1st...
sorry...
  but... cleanliness?!
that's above: chastity, temperance, charity,
         diligence, kindness, patience and humility;
all those come after...
after you ensure you find yourself agreeable
with the sensibility of not being... repelling...
                a clean man is a chaste man,
he's also a temperate man...
              he actually can be charitable...
he is diligent... blah blah...
                       that's the cruelty of this world...
the affection and love you want to give to someone:
outright rejects it... the opposite of you who're attracted
to: call it mental health "issues"
call it self-sabotage... i'm was so willing to move
past my past mistakes...
   as a man i thought i'd be the one talking about
my past relationships... turns out... women talk
about them more...
what the **** am i? a steward and a psychologist
all bundled up into one?!
i know more stuff about the people i work
with than they know a month's worth of me...
like today... i was explaining to this dyslexic
coworker... is **** an offensive term?
what if you were to attach a hyphen to the word:
treating it like a prefix?
    English is sometimes lazy...
you say and write: couldn't instead of writing
and saying: could not... you don't say Afghanistani:
you say: an Afghan...
            i don't call Jews Jews:
Hebs: short for Hebrews
or Yids: short for Yiddish speaking folk...
  i followed up: why is everyone so ******* sensitive...
why are we walking on egg-shells?!
shh... shh... don't make a sound...
    ****** is supposedly offensive in H'america...
to be perfectly honest... if anything is to be deemed offensive:
Pole is... ****** is a term that those
spaghetti-monstrosities and pizza jugglers
of the American-Italian consortium can get
one foreign word: right... outside of the realm of:
cappuccino... paparazzi! ******* sing-along *******...
oh this guy spotted me...
when i mentioned the dynamics of English like
i wasn't an Englishman...

a bit like... on the Niger river i came across
a giggle... but the giggle's name started
with N and was strangled by vowel catcher of: err...

it's that ****** simple...
all the wars can happen... proxy... authentic or otherwise...
but this world is harsh... i wanted to love someone
whom i became: enthralled by...
REJECTED!
                   it's not like she was offering
anything more than a headache...
perhaps she figured out that she was sparing me...
but... this current approach?!
by my neighbour's daughter...
           falling asleep sniffing her dreams out
from my shirt...
slobbering on my chest...
         but... but... i can't return this affection...
that's what's so heartbreaking...
   not with Khedra "on the side"...
           i mean: Khedra is a bombshell by comparison...
she might be a *******...
but she's a ******* bombshell...
again: more Turkish than Persian when
she's not wearing any make-up...

             i'm always happiest when i leave
my coworkers behind...
again: are we working?
          today i tended to the disabled spectators...
the joke ran along the lines of:
my partner said this to X and he said it back
to me: oh yeah... all i have to worry about is...
them running onto the pitch...
                sometimes i just get tired of English humour...
it's funny... but it's hardly inventive...
it's sort of blatant... like sarcasm...
                     i find it painful to laugh...
then again: laughter is painful to begin with...
i find more relief in the blissful agony of tears...
when i hear a beautiful piece of music...
that's when i truly relax...
besides that: i'm either tense or paranoid or
both...
                  
   let's face it... between the religious crowd...
with their Bibles and their Qurans...
what's the secular crowd like?
   they too have their "bibles"... 1984...
        Brave New World...
two books... that ever, could ever come:
into existence... i'm sort of bored talking to these people:
these: adherents of... oh wow...
the pristine idea! let's follow up on with it...
aren't we? we wanted it to be true for so long
we didn't even require Soviet propagandists to
undermine western Western Civilization...
if it can be called: at best that...

i wish i wrote something in more interesting times...
mind you: she acts like sje isn't:
but she's a victim of ****...
i'm the shoulder, the chest...
she gets to fall back on...
                       life's is never truly written:
it's lived first... then... somehow,
down the line... shrapnel is echoing....
                      i've been waiting to take a ****
for about 5 hours... not i'm farting
like barking mad dog...
                             what violins for the fiddles
of that's this supposed life.