when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.*

- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
   the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
   on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell h.i.v. positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.

Detective stories have been making a splash on European screens for the past decade. Some attract top-notch directors, actors and script writers. They are far superior to anything that appears over here -- whether on TV or from Hollywood. Part of the impetus has come from the remarkable Italian series Montelbano, the name of a Sicilian commissario in Ragusa (Vigata)who was first featured in the skillfully crafted novellas of Andrea Camilleri.

Italians remain in the forefront of the genre as Montelbano was followed by similar high class productions set in Bologna, Ferrara, Turino, Milano, Palermo and Roma. A few are placed in evocative historical context. The French follow close behind with a rich variety of series ranging from a revived Maigret circa 2004(Bruno Cremer) and Frank Riva (Alain Delon) to the gritty Blood On The Docks (Le Havre) and the refined dramatizations of other Simenon tales. Others have jumped in: Austria, Germany (several) and all the Scandinavians. The former, Anatomy of Evil, offers us a dark yet riveting set of mysteries featuring a taciturn middle-aged police psychiatrist. Germany'sgem, Homicide Unit -- Istanbul, has a cast of talented Turkish Germans who speak German in a vividly portrayed contemporary Istanbul. Shows from the last mentioned region tend to be dreary and the characters uni-dimensional, so will receive short shrift in these comments.

Most striking to an American viewer are the strange mores and customs of the local protagonists compared to their counterparts over here. So are the physical traits as well as the social contexts. Here are a few immediately noteworthy examples. Tattoos and ****** hardware are strangely absent -- even among the bad guys. Green or orange hair is equally out of sight. The former, I guess, are disfiguring. The latter types are too crude for the sophisticated plots. European salons also seem unable to produce that commonplace style of artificial blond hair parted by a conspicuous streak of dark brown roots so favored by news anchors, talk show howlers and other female luminaries. Jeans, of course, are universal -- and usually filled in comely fashion. It's what people do in them (or out of them) that stands out.

First, almost no workout routines -- or animated talk about them. Nautilus? Nordic Track? Yoga pants? From roughly 50 programs, I can recall only one, in fact -- a rather humorous scene in an Istanbul health club that doubles as a drug depot. There is a bit of jogging, just a bit -- none in Italy. The Italians do do some swimming (Montalbano) and are pictured hauling cases of wine up steep cellar stairs with uncanny frequency. Kale appears nowhere on the menu; and vegan or gluten are words unspoken. Speaking of food, almost all of these characters actually sit down to eat lunch, albeit the main protagonist tends to lose an appetite when on the heels of a particularly elusive villain. Oblique references to cholesterol levels occur on but two occasions. Those omnipresent little containers of yoghurt are considered unworthy of camera time.

A few other features of contemporary American life are missing from the dialogue. I cannot recall the word "consultant' being uttered once. In the face of this amazing reality, one can only wonder how ****-kid 21 year old graduates from elite European universities manage to get that first critical foothold on the ladder of financial excess. Something else is lacking in the organizational culture of police departments, high-powered real estate operations, environmental NGOs or law firms: formal evaluations. In those retro environments, it all turns on long-standing personal ties, budgetary appropriations and actual accomplishment -- not graded memo writing skills. Moreover, the abrupt firing of professionals is a surprising rarity. No wonder Europe is lagging so far behind in the league table of billionaires produced annually and on-the-job suicides

Then, there is that staple of all American conversation -- real estate prices. They crop up very rarely -- and then only when retirement is the subject. Admittedly, that is a pretty boring subject for a tense crime drama -- however compelling it is for academics, investors, lawyers and doctors over here. Still, it fits a pattern.

None of the main characters devotes time to soliciting offers from other institutions -- be they universities, elite police units in a different city, insurance companies, banks, or architectural firms. They are peculiarly rooted where they are. In the U.S., professionals are constantly on the look-out for some prospective employer who will make them an attractive offer. That offer is then taken to their current institution along with the demand that it be matched or they'll be packing their bags. Most of the time, it makes little difference if that "offer" is from College Station, Texas or La Jolla, California. That doesn't occur in the programs that I've viewed. No one is driven to abandon colleagues, friends, a comfortable home and favorite restaurants for the hope of upward mobility. What a touching, if archaic way of viewing life.

The pedigree of actors help make all this credible. For example, the classiest female leads are a "Turk" (Idil Uner) who in real life studied voice in Berlin for 17 years and a transplanted Russo-Italian (Natasha Stephanenko) whose father was a nuclear physicist at a secret facility in the Urals. Each has a parallel non-acting career in the arts. It shows.

After viewing the first dozen or so mysteries of diverse nationality, an American viewer begins to feel an unease creeping up on him. Something is amiss; something awry; something missing. Where are those little bottles of natural water that are ubiquitous in the U.S? The ones with the ****** tip. Meetings of all sorts are held without their comforting presence. Receptionists -- glamorous or unglamorous alike -- make do without them. Heat tormented Sicilians seem immune to the temptation. Cyclists don't stick them in handlebar holders. Even stray teenagers and university students are lacking their company. Uneasiness gives way to a sensation of dread. For European civilization looks to be on the brink of extinction due to mass dehydration.

That's a pity. Any society where cityscapes are not cluttered with SUVs deserves to survive as a reserve of sanity on that score at least. It also allows for car chases through the crooked, cobbled streets of old towns unobstructed by herds of Yukons and Outbacks on the prowl for a double parking space. Bonus: Montelbano's unwashed Fiat has been missing a right front hubcap for 4 years (just like my car). To meet Hollywood standards for car chases he'd have to borrow Ingrid's red Maserati.

Social ******* reveals a number of even more bizarre phenomena. In conversation, above all. Volume is several decibels below what it is on American TV shows and in our society. It is not necessary to grab the remote to drop sound levels down into the 20s in order to avoid irreparable hearing damage. Nor is one afflicted by those piercing, high-pitched voices that can cut through 3 inches of solid steel. All manner of intelligible conversations are held in restaurants, cafes and other public places. Most incomprehensible are the moments of silence. Some last for up to a minute while the mind contemplates an intellectual puzzle or complex emotions. Such extreme behavior does crop up occasionally in shows or films over here -- but invariably followed by a diagnosis of concealed autism which provides the dramatic theme for the rest of the episode.

Tragedy is more common, and takes more subtle forms in these European dramatizations. Certainly, America has long since departed from the standard formula of happy endings. Over there, tragic endings are not only varied -- they include forms of tragedy that do not end in death or violence. The Sicilian series stands out in this respect.

As to violence, there is a fair amount as only could be expected in detective series. Not everyone can be killed decorously by slow arsenic poisoning. So there is some blood and gore. But there is no visual lingering on either the acts themselves or their grisly aftermaths. People bleed -- but without geysers of blood or minutes fixed on its portentous dripping. Violence is part of life -- not to be denied, not to be magnified as an object of occult fascination. The same with ****** abuse and *******.

Finally, it surprises an American to see how little the Europeans portrayed in these stories care about us. We tend to assume that the entire world is obsessed by the United States. True, our pop culture is everywhere. Relatives from 'over there' do make an occasional appearance -- especially in Italian shows. However, unlike their leaders who give the impression that they can't take an unscheduled leak without first checking with the White House or National Security Council in Washington, these characters manage quite nicely to handle their lives in their own way on their own terms.

Anyone who lives on the Continent or spends a lot of time there off the tourist circuit knows all this. The image presented by TV dramas may have the effect of exaggerating the differences with the U.S. That is not their intention, though. Moreover, isn't the purpose of art to force us to see things that otherwise may not be obvious?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

cool. lightly scented. i sit alone in the reception of a spa. tranquil tones soothe the atmosphere. i lean against the wall, and wait. a fear of physical contact roots me to the spot; they will not touch me. impatiently. silently. i wait.

grey, cloud-tinted sunlight blankets the day. it was blistering heat earlier. i think of the way sweat pooled in the hollow of my chest as your tongue dipped over my collarbone. my back in damp grass. hoodies abandoned. who cares about a little mud when the things we do to each other go beyond *****? somebody might see was a quiet worry drowned out by rough breaths and guilty little whimpers.

now, i am thousands of miles away from you. six hours of time difference. phone vibrations. my unshakable conviction that you might leave me be if i ignore you, even as i miss your touch. sitting alone in a spa reception, too uncomfortable with the idea of hands on my skin. but i miss the pads of your fingertips digging into my sides. palms clamping my wrists either side of my head. pinned in place by ocean eyes that drown me.

we will leave for the secret garden soon. coffee will be placed between my palms. maybe hot. i'm feeling a chill in my bones that wants to be chased away. my mind's eyes conjures an image. memory. you sit across from me on four hours of sleep. your body vibrates on caffiene overload. you are like me sometimes. but my poison is bitter, coffee beans; your poison is an attack of fizzing sugar on your cardiovascular system.

maybe. maybe that's the answer. why you're sweet. why you escape confined spaces (read: relationships. you are like me sometimes.) like bubbles leaping from a can. maybe it's why i'm dark. with an aftertaste almost everybody is determined to chase away.

something tangy hangs on the air despite the spa's best attempts to provide aroma therapy. my mind pines for your natural scent. light washing powder. a little musky, like faint sweat. not the sweetest, but real and warm. i can find it. i reach for it, fingers finding warm skin. we press chest to chest and this hardly feels real. motorbikes and scooters rumble by. your voice is a ghost in my ear. too quiet to be present.

eyes open. receptionists wander. you are far away. my eyes glaze over anyway. sleepless nights and busy days. i slump into scenery: green grass, wrangled trees, a brick wall decorated with poison berries and stinging nettles, a blue sky with white clouds. your body above me.

.oh i don't know, why would i have a "problem" with christianity... where and whence it went into the new lands like some conquering reject... i'm all still hot & bothered that so few people read the counter mainstream: **** me... the atom bomb didn't wake them up, why would the discovery of the nag hammadi library wake them up? st. thomas' gospel: like... jesus playing chinese whispers with thomas, who wrote, after hey'zeus took him aside, told him something, upon returning to the other disciples they inquired, and thomas replied: if i told you what he told me, you'd stone me... back in hey'zeus' time... sure... social ostracism: b'ah b'ah black sheep says: wolf! the clown cries, the theatre burns down and everyone enjoys a night out... back to basics i guess: we're not talking about outright social ostracism... we're talking about psychological ostracicism: is it me... or has cogitans per se reached a zenith when it was to tickle the traits of calustrophobia... it's no longer ego cogito... it's... ego cogito: superego noose quasi- / semi- "thinking" and the unconscious id aspect of ego... whenever attached to "thought": short-circuits and goes into an epileptic spasm of: what to do?! what to do?! what to do?! *******: you have your new freudian pseudo christian trinity: mental gymnastics provided by the israeli co-op to teach you to count pythagoras via spaghetti curly-whirly... fun! fun fun fun! i once lived alone in my head, having only one body... now i have one body, but many paranomal "telepathic" insurgents living with me... who do not concern themselves with the concept of space... ego, head, toe, does it really matter whether a manicure is to be exacted? i don't like smoke, i don't like mirrors: i rather melt in the fire... i am the son, i am the heir... of a shyness that is criminally ******... probably the best lyrics in the world... i am human and i need to be loved, just like everybody else does... magic, par excellence... please... jesus basish died when it left europe, now a h'american resurgence... happy people happy sheep go to sleep without question... happiness is an act of levitation in terms of existentialism... and when it shatters... it's not a nervous breakdown... even on the scale of the individual... the fall of the tower of babel comes with the fifth horseman of the apocalypse... riding a ******* unicorn... well... he's actually the sixth... the fifth is already riding... ha ha... horseman... he's riding a donkey to the site of execution... who needs drungs when you can measure what the co-op convenience stores are selling as a liter of whiskey... they're actually selling 1.425 liters of whiskey... i measured the sloppy herring slitherings and salmon high jumps... see... the atom bomb was dropped... but the mainstream christian never mention my angst... the nag hammadi library is never mentioned... why isn't the unearthing of the nag hammadi library never mentioned? the hebrews are all over the discovery of the dead sea scrolls, their dissociation simulated with their 2000 year old the penance for unrightfully sentencing the prophet isaiah to be cut in half... and he was a courtesan (isaiah): so what?! did he speak truly? 2000 years of jewish history... summed up by the unjust killing of the prophet isaiah... lesson learned... the lawful killing of hey'zeus: well, 2000 years of masochism of willing converts to "appease" the god: coincidental shared "circumstances"... why am i not a christian? if love is what is and what is the cross: sorry... can i decline having a fetish for a latex ******* *** fantasy?! or... you know that story of the perverted dog? the one that is so ***** is latches onto your leg and starts to ******* you, imitating the **** of you with a curled hand to propose the **** itch-tight simulation? oh no... we hide the socially ostracised... so we wheeled out the retards for full display... and monger... the critique has become elevated... it's harder to pick-out the knitty-picky intentions of people who want to differentiate before the grand c.c.t.v. altar of the omni-unus watching via the terms: proselyte... pharisee... sadducee... baptist mongrel presbyterian... honestly... spew me all this post-atom-bomb *******... oblivious regarding the nag hammadi library... mainstream h'american christianity: honestly, with this amount of reading even atheism doesn't suffice! atheism doesn't suffice! the antithesis yet to be explored by the masses is my curriculum motus... mea motus vitae! h'america is yesterday... yesterday being late 90s early 00s... now it's a quasi-balkan paranormal export cultural affair of tarantula bit-frames of former convo... it's like watching a regurgitating boa constrictor snake rather than an ingesting boa constrictor with 2 weeks spare of waiting in smog for the next meal... why didn't i follow the catholic bureucracy and be confirmed? well... why don't mainstream h'american "christians" come out and say: yes, the emergence of the nag hammadi library is problematic for us... it's sure as **** problematic for me... and what will come later, and reach the mainstream... with be the sort of explanation associated to the clarity of depiction of a human face, as close as picasso came "close" within the framework of cubism... hellish contortions and exponential deviations... imagine how hellish the human face is depicted in cubism... now imagine that same face smiling: within cubism.

there you have it, automated phone service,
the pinnacle of the national health service,
the surgery got rated 1.7* (stars),
1 for the fact they exist, and 0.7 for the service
they provide; god almighty i hope you
don't fall ill in england these days,
it's like trying to buy a ******* turnip at
the butchers or fishmongers...
dial the number... a robot answers
'hello, thank you for calling the north street
medical centre... please note that we do
not deal with repeat prescriptions over the
telephone; please press 1 to book or cancel
a triage appointment; press 2 if you have a
query concerning a prescription...'
2...
'thank you, if you have an urgent query
concerning your prescription please press
0 to speak to a receptionist...'
0...
'hello, welcome to north street medical care
multiple choice questionnaire...'
oh for ****'s sake...
what now?
when was the battle of Hastings?!
1066                    yesterday               mm, maybe tomorrow?!
there i am with a simple need, just write
the ****** prescription and i'll be off,
it's not like i'm asking you to do 7 hours of surgery on me;
no wonder they got 1.7 stars...
there are more receptionists than actual doctors:
ooh spooky spooky ****** doo in the bag too,
ooh look at me, i am Microsoft word proficient,
i'm the cream of the crop... fair enough,
and i'm a ventriloquist in my spare time -
pour me a pint while you're at it,
my throat's dry from all the cursing...
because why the hell do you even have a contact
number for a surgery... if it just cuts you off?!
might as well return to the antiquity of using my
legs and seeing you face to face,
because that's what i seem to have to do...
go for a walk, come back with some poor somali
girl who walked 5 miles for a bucket of water.

We live in a territorial state
Where doctor’s receptionist
Wear chainmail and carry axes
To save guard their sovereigns
From interference.

Responses  sound like an offensive
Battling against imprisonment
I am polite, ask kindly
Tread lightly.

I am a poor, weak patient
I pay for your services
We are unequal as I am ill
You are healthy and fit.

What has happened
To make you so unkind
Disrespectful, blind
Your turn will come .

Love Mary .

We are the weird recepcionists!
Sassy, strange flair - for your clean office!
Wild flowers - in a vase
Shape-shifting - for the day

Thinking about God,
thinking about it all
when I am in my own
Your chit chat makes me mad
But I am a mingling alien lass

Yet - can you see me?
see me glow?
Between these post-its and receipts
The fireflies around here

Shape-shifting - wearing a disguise
it doesn't **** me under because I know
what it does
can you feel me? not that I care
Flowers tamed - for a portion of the day
Tamed? More like paused, in the make
Waiting to be released, to come out and play
(This is a disguise, the most comfortable
I could find, I don't dislike it. But it's not who I am)
watch me off duty, committing to myself
watch me in the desk, a confetti bomb
ticking away!

I.

i promised myself yesterday night to write
what needed to be written and just leave it,
not bother bypassing the 502 Bad Gateway Error message,
to simply not publish... i promised myself
this for several reasons: i knew that Malvina
(the toddler, the one year old) was coming
with her mommy who was going
to do my mother's nails and toenails,

i wanted to be fresh for babysitting duties...
alas... i woke up at about half past 5am and lay
in bed listening to music...
waited until 8am to call my doctor's surgery
to book an appointment...
i almost lost it: these little Hitlers of receptionists
did my head in... first it was impossible to phone in...

then i was 12th in the queue...
i started doodling to calm down...
i finally managed to get through:
i'd like to book an appointment... what for?
oh... a follow-up appointment...
the receptionist replied: we don't do follow-up appointments,
you have to come in for that... what?!
i called in yesterday and i was told
i can't come in and have to phone in! no...
you... listen... listen... i need to book an appointment!

you're not gatekeepers to the medical professionals,
i know that general practitioners are merely bureucrats...
but it has been 2 years since i've seen a doctor's face!
i had enough at this point...
i played a little game with her...
she was going to listen to me...
what are your symptoms? she asked...
listen... i'm: PSYCHOTIC...
for a while i was considered a schizophrenic,
but i bewildered one psychiatrists when i told her
that i experienced auditory hallucinations in two languages:

obviously i didn't: i only experienced auditory hallucinations
in English... that's how i overcame schizophrenic symptoms
in my 20s using two languages...
oddly enough these symptoms diminished...
disappeared... you can't hallucinate in two languages:
the English aspect of my ontology is both the more
creative and at the same time the most sick...
then again: creative?

my ****** side is more creative... i use English as a veneer...  
i told her straight out-right: i'm psychotic...
what followed was a quick arrangement for me
to see a doctor this very day... 4:20pm...
i had all the time in the world...
but i was waiting for Malvina...
by 9am my mother received a message that the manicurist /
pedicurist couldn't make it today...

she wasn't feeling well... could she come tomorrow?
i was planning for something like this...
**** two birds with one stone... well...
i was hoping to **** three with one today...
guess i would have to **** two today and two tomorrow...

well... three tomorrow... the day started with me
shuffling about the house: putting on the washing...
i have to admit: i rarely drink in the morning:
i have this ancient motto: gentlemen do not drink
in the morning... but i knew i needed something extra
to deal with receptionists...

i drank two Sols with lime and waited for a good
mood to come... a good mood came...
now i can talk... i started sipping the remaining
whiskey from the previous night:
i need to gear up for this sort of "conversation":
i'm pretty sure that if i mention i'm psychotic
i'll get what i really want, what i really want...
a ******* appointment!

these poems? they're "state sponsored": i'm currently
receiving Employment and Support Allowance...
which is... £120 weekly...
i pour that money into a translation of a diet
of helping my parents with food...
with buying whiskey, with buying cigarettes...
that goes into one account...
i set up a separate account for the money i earn...
i am legally obliged to not work more than
16 hours a week if i'm to still retain the state benefits...
and the money i earn?
it goes to the usual expenses... travel money,
lunch money, work clothes,
the Turkish barber, the female hairdresser...
PROSTITUTES...
that's why i wanted to earn money to begin with:
to calm my libido: i'm only earning money
to spend them on prostitutes: they can do all the pointless
spending in my place...

so the day started well enough: i was tipsy-happy
waiting for babysitting duties: tomorrow, tomorrow...
but while dearest mother looked at her Norman Bates
baiting a reciptionist with his final straw:
i'm psychotic... we talked about several important
things... me and my father's trip to Poland for
All Saints' Day to pay respect to the dead...
esp. grandfather...
come afternoon, finally! tickets booked!
we're flying into Cracow and flying out of Cracow!
finally! back to Cracow!
i never believed Warsaw to be the capital of Poland...
i'm old school... Cracow is still the same old capital
of old... i'm a feral creature in Warsaw...
but in Cracow i'm calm... ancient... grounded...

just like any Hebrew might say:
Tel Aviv is not the capital of Israel... Israel: he who struggles
with God... Jerusalem is the capital of something
more essential than Eva Braun and Adolf's project
of Israel... of moving so many Hebrews back into
the Levant...

i put on the first washing... mother was leaving for a session
in the gym...
i already booked my appointment with the doctor...
what to do? what to do?
last time i ****** Khedra she complained that
my moustache and beard were untidy: unfriendly...
i couldn't agree more...
you need the lips to be naked when kissing...
so? i cycled to my favourite Turkish barber...
i cycled up to the shop on my Rolls Royce of a Merlin 5
TREK... just about to chain it up to the fence...
the barber hollered at me... hey! bring it in!

i bring it into the shop: listen... i need to get something
from Tesco, do you mind? no no...
so i walk out of the backdoor reserved for
employees... walk in... pick up sustenance of whiskey
and Pepsi... only yesterday i drew out £200 from my
work bank-account... today i drew out £200 more....
finally! my debt to my mother is about to be paid
(i slapped the last £200 into her hand when we
got home)

i'm still left with enough work-money to spend
on prostitutes....
i went back to the barber shop and told my man:
trim it... keep it long: but if it's really thin after a while?
trim the hell away... i might as well have a shorter
but a bushier beard...
hey presto! i closed my eyes and... per usual:
a beard trim felt just as good as a *******...
if not better...
the owner just implored me: just don't fall asleep...

back home started hanging the washing...
put on the second washing-machine's worth of clothes...
put on PMQs: Wednesday? no? might as well figure out
the new prime minister: Lizz Truss... or is it Trust?
don't know... i fell asleep for a power-nap...
woke up while she was staged...
fell asleep on the cold hard wooden floor...
woke up dazed, but not confused...
hmm! Lizzie! you're not as bad as i thought you might
be!
you're a Thatcher-itch-*****-trooper!
i like you! no... Rishi Rushi Rushu Sumac couldn't have
performed as you just did...
so calm, so... stern: so in-control...
i think she'll do... she just might do...

i just started hanging the second load of washing
on the washing line when mother "dearest" called me up:
how about lunch in the Beefeater pub?
sure... i'll just finish hanging the washing,
how long do i have? half an hour...
half an hour later: bicycles and London:
**** me! i'm... MOBILE!
a nice lunch... two lasagnes...
mine with salad and flat breads
her's with chips and flat breads...
i was drinking Pepsi she was drinking beer...
it's a date... she was paying: after all:
i was just about to cough up the remains
of my debt of £400...

                         so we ate... talked... next to us...
two beached whales of... i think they were women...
i might have been wrong...
my mother even asked me: if you weren't living at home
and i allowed myself to become that size,
would you step in and tell me: no no no, no no?!
of course i would! being that sort of size
is a health hazard! it's dangerous!
all manner of complications come with being
so obese! i wouldn't care what you think of my aesthetic
concerns: i like plump plum girls to begin with:
but with that?! we're talking a beached whale...

**** me... i explained to my mother...
the aesthetic of eating in public... you need to leave...
you need to leave at least one mouthful on your plate...
you can't! you can't empty your entire plate
in public! you need to leave a bite-ful on the plate...
you can't send a plate back to the chef: completely emtpy...
but these two women?! it's not enough that they complained
to the waitress about their food...
they ate all of it: a dog would leave a dirtier plate
that these two...
you can't do that! a man wouldn't eat as much!
i'm serious!
   a whole rack of ribs... something else something else!
some extra sausage... and then more complaints!
the sausage left a bad taste in her mouth...
so the one beached whale to the other beached whale:
might as well **** the bad taste in your mouth
with some ice-cream... oh for ****'s sake!
feed this ***** an entire starving village of Africa!
yes: cannibalism!

maybe it was watching these two women eat:
thank god i never watched them ****...
or maybe it was my second glass of Diet Coke...
my stomach... i excused myself...
walked into the bathroom... took a little ****...
wiped my ***... turned around and...
started to puke...
  in that ancient Roman rite of bulimia...
no... no ******* down my throat...
i perfected the art of bulimia...
it's a "nervous" reaction... either i drank too much
fizzy drink(s)... or i ate too much...
perhaps both... or i watched with horror two female
gluttons... one **** followed by puking...
i couldn't... keep so much in my body...
by now it's automated: it's like farting...
or *******... i can keep it in for enough of time...
but sooner or later i exercise the Exorcist fantasy...
i start puking like seagulls or birds in general
perform regurgitation when feeding their young...
i think the momentum shifted from the original
straining of the esophagus into training the diaphragm...

the throat has little to do with the "nervous": the disgust
reaction... whenever i see people over-eat...
esp. women: i summon the puke-god of... puke and the *****!
i can't help it: it's unconscious...
i never know which is better:
******* *******, *******, diarrhoea streak of ****...
or... puking... i think puking is on par taking a ****:
it's like taking a **** through your mouth...
******* and *******? well: you need a *******
for that... *******? you need ******* for the passing
of yellow water... like a woman ******* under
the shower... and ******* *******?
you need a ******* for that too...
the ******* constraints the head of the phallus:
turning it baron purple... a choke-hold of an *******...

if Nero couldn't understand the Hebrew concept of fire...
i can't understand the concept of circumcision...
seems rather pointless to rob men of the pleasure
of ******* with the sheath:
and the "unknown" pleasures of *** when unsheathed...
of the *******...

hmm... there's nothing quiet like the feel of touching,
rummaging through: thinking about on "orchestra"
of a newly trimmed beard: a beard trimmed by
a Turk... no... wait... there is... it's kin-for-kin
aligned to touching up a woman's: ****!
is that rose petals i'm fiddling with?
i wonder: then again: i have absolutely no imagination
sometimes, pretty much all the time...
i'm concerned with the notion of "seeing is believing"...

so we ate our lunch.... mother and me...
talked about All Saints' day and my and her estranged
uncle / brother... about him moving back to Poland
with a sack of gold but no cultural referential hooks
of relate-ability... me?! back in Poland?
and... talking about what?
the only "news" that reached the shores of England
were about the Smolensk disaster...
that's it! i don't know the music scene...
i don't know any universal or partoicular
x, y & z... all my childhood friends were either
in some English prison or living in Southampton...
if i'll ever go back i'll go and visit graves: revive memories:
buy cheap cigarettes...

Poland is a myth to me... like for the diaspora of Hebrews
still unwilling to move back to Israel...
i like this beard-trimmed me...
i'm ready to go to sleep, early: i can't wait for
babysitting duties tomorrow...
like i can't wait for a London Stadium Shift come
4pm... working until 22:30pm...
and then ******* off to the brothel for some:
proper food...

once upon a time i thought myself subject
to exfoliating in the werewolf totem...
then i found a wasp, then a fly...
then a hedgehog... then a fox...
then i found a crow... then an eagle of sorts...
hmm...
    then i found myself: started to pander myself...
groomed myself...
are al these "supposed" vampire so well shaven,
so well, groomed?!

sooner me touching a tarantula than me touching,
that SLIMEY... itch of... ugh!
my neighbour said: it's just a frog...
frog?! what frog?!
that's a ******* toad!
leave him be!
leave him be?!
that's a ******* toad! it's gross... it's slimy...
it's green hidden in darkness!
i don't mind touching the insects...
the locust food-stuff!

Hebrews are not renowned for being a clean
people...
so much for the Hebrew deity gobbling
the deities of Moloch and Beelzebub...
of the other Semites of the region...
they're not the most cleanliness-prone people...
toads, as... pets?!
what ever happened to the Gentile way
of fur: attracts fur?!
my reaction? i jumped back
and started to pretend to wash myself...
my hands turned into about a thousand toothpicks...
my sense of disgust was so strong it turned out
to be a reflexive-action... rather than something
encompassing time... i.e. a reflective "inaction"...

i'm aligned with the German in that sense...
perhaps this supposed "Islamic invasion"
of Europe is not that bad...
who is the mother of Islam?
who, is the mother of Islam?!
isn't she... Abraham's concubine?!
wasn't Islam born from the ***** of Abraham?
sure... it's bad because you don't get
the high-born intellectual crowd...
you get the: same-****-different-cover of any sort
of people... but perhaps... just perhaps...

you get little Pakistani men
thinking what little Pakistani men think about
when "thinking" about the collapse of the British Empire...
sure, collateral: what war is without collateral?
collateral? i'm not sure if i date a British girl, ever!
my... condolences?! my... nuisance
of a respect?! i didn't teach these girls' parents
the bogus nature of anti-racism...
i was taught: other, lessons!
oh: the lessons i was taught! i kept them on a leash:
i reimagined them as dogs and me the dog-walker...

the afternoon finished off amiciably enough...
i finished off my Korean-style slow-cooked pulled pork...
with some sticky rice and an all green salad...
the green salad? lettuce, spring onions...
green chilly, green pepper, cucumber,
fresh coriander, lime zest... lime juice...
and an avocado dressing... perfection...

the Korean-style pulled pork? secrets are secrets...
me and "mother" already had our share...
our neighbour came in: a proselyte Hebrew to the faith
of Ishmael... (i.e. Islam)
from a terrible holiday... she talked: i complained:
that's no frog! that's a toad! blah blah...
while serving my father his dinner he was eating alone...
i thickened the sauce with some corn-starch...

oh: all these Albanian banana-boat men...
me and England...
me... and England... what a spastic-mr-fantastic:
special relationship i have with her...
it's so: special... it's ultimately special:
the double standards she has employed with her
anti-racist thesis...
me? i'm taking the side of the Russians...
why? like the Russians... being European:
i would abhor to be constantly demonised!

of course i'll be siding with the people that do not:

spielen ein spiel von schlechtgrammatik
      (play a game of bad-grammar)
at least the Russians respect language!
mindestens die Russen hinsicht sprache!
not this, English-inborn cosmopolitan growth
of: pilzintellekt (fungus-intellect):
*******... pilzüberschuss: kamelbuckel...
auswuchs von ein affen arschloch!

     fungus excess: camel ****...
outgrowth from a monkey's *******!

English men and their: stupendous "observations":
must have accomplished most of them
not being invaded: over... cricket...
wait a minute: wait a minute:
why am i siding with the Zeppelin brigade
of insomniacs?
there must be a, reason...

perhaps i'm seeing the English language like i'm
seeing the toad for the first time?
i'm itchy... i don't want to touch the **** thing...
i want to **** the Romanian prostitutes because?
the English girls favoured the Pakistani men...

these people don't even know what being
conquered equates to...
they are a people so lazy the best they equate
conquest to is: conquest by being sub-dued...
i can't help you there...

of point of interest... what's the combatitive position
of looting a train for its worth of time...
when commuting?
hmm...
Satan "vs." Catiline ...

the Dirt-bag - John Milton - the Toast -
  how are the arms positioned?
almost... identical...
    
II.

i'm sometimes fond of being reminded that i'm not English,
i get lost in the fact that i predominantly write in English,
why? if i had an easier access to the diacritical marks
in my mother's tongue i think i'd write more in my mother's
(well, and father's, well... in my own) tongue...
after all... i'm unlike like all these Asian "English"...
these African "English"...
i'm my own version of English... i'm my own English...
i'm not going to allow the natives to dictate what
being English is all about... i'm going to show what
the "new" English is: without a curry house, without a mosque...
without wearing pajamas in public...
i have three tattoos in my psyche: nope... it's not
about the Battle of Hastings:
i'm an Anglo-Slav...
i have my dates too...

i'm a first generation immigrant: i don't have to
boast or bemoan any fact that my parents didn't retain
the native tongue when i was growing up...
i've learned a few tricks in an unwritten book
of migration... me? i remember the death of Princess
Diana really clearly... the Home Office officers
were knocking on our door on Coventry Street in Ilford
that pretty morning when news filtered through
that Diana was dead...
the night before i was rolling ***** into holes
winning my mother a giant cuddly red dog toy...
i was in a mood to win ****... i was beating adults...
rolling those ***** into holes and roles
while the adults couldn't keep up with my "camel"
above on the bypass... i won that **** thing:
went on some magical ride that started off horizontally
spinning then turned into a vertical spinning demon...
next day was amazing though...
the Home Office officers knocked on our door
with a few police officers... Osama bin Laden lives here?!

my father did a runner through the gardens...
i remember them... handcuffing him and my mother...
two of the Home Office officers checked up on me
while i was holding my cat and facing the wall...
i had a personal computer in the corner of my bedroom...
i just started high school...
he walked in and said: that's a nice computer...
i never gave anyone a DEATH-STARE before...
but i gave him one that day...
my grandfather ****** off to drink his miseries
looking for my now estranged uncle...
me? i was back home... "home": pounding the walls
with my fists until i must have grown a fifth knuckle...
crying...

it's so ******* easy these days! isn't it?!
banana boat men from Albania smuggling
Syrian children... it's so ******* easy these days...
you get a free pass in England these days because
you're olive skinned...
let's skin 'em... let's see we're all flesh and ******
underneath...
we were nicely asked to be deported back
to our homeland...
thank god this happened: if it didn't...
i don't think i could find the proper sort of cushion
of my current state of bilingualism...
i would have forgotten my ****** sprechen...
i would be doubly bitter...
             i would be the only person in the family
with an English, sort of, accent... while my parents would
be the immigrants: but i'm the immigrant too!
i wasn't born here! from what i've seen:
i'm ******* happy i wasn't!

    i see it as a welcome break... i retained my native tongue...
it allowed me to have a relationship with my grandfather
my memory will forever cherish:
i'm currently planning a journey back to Poland
to consecrate the holiness of his death by me standing
sombre above his grave for All Saints' Day:
it won't be a spectacular as that event in Mexico:
but enough candles is: enough candles...

but i can sort of understand where Jihadi John
and the Syrian Beatles came from...
despising their parents as much as their host culture...
i would to... if my parents thought:
two tongues = claustrophobia... what?!
i'd hate my parents more than my host culture...
you can't fake it... some things you can't fake...
apparently you need to be fluent in Arabic
to read the Koran proper...
it's not enough to have some tattoo in Arabic
itched onto your skin to make you: not put in
the effort...
but now? it's so easy... ooh! walking on egg-shells!
will they send these banana-boat people back
like they sent me back?

weak! WEAK!
***** ***-starry-eyed-onlookers!
if you could do that with me: why can't you do the same
with them?!
don't bother answering...
i needed the stick more than the carrot...
you're just weaklings to me: mollusks...
your former shade of what was English is...
something i **** on...
i'm always ******* on what's currently, supposedly,
"English": i just hate this capitulation and
groveling at the altar of identity politics...
sorry mate: me? now? i'm just passing through...

ah... those three dates:

1. i won't mention the battle of Liegnitz...
      but i'll mention the battle of GRUNWALD
   (15 July 1410)... no wonder i might generate alliances
in the Islamic world: the Crusades didn't just take place
in the Levant... they also happened up north...
2. 12 September 1683 - the battle for Vienna,
  when the Polacks averted the tide of the Ottomans
  against Europe
3. Miracle on the Vistula (August 12–25, 1920) -
   the first defeat of the Soviet army...
  i.e. when the Russian Soviets were unable to join
up with revolutionist Communist Germany...
because some Polacks were like: n'ah ah...

when in Russian i was schooled... who won the war?
i replied politely, drinking beer and eating dry fish...
the Russians did...
i'm still gagging to ask a question of this little dearest
punk to the liking of my heart...
and who were the only two people in the world
to have ever managed to sack Moscow?
don't know? the Polacks and Lithuanians
between 1610 and 1612 and the Mongols...
well... seriously? is history even equivalent to modern
people being preoccupied with journalism and
tabloid and fame culture of "celebrity"?
i'd rather dig into history...
   my god: i come from this stock!
no wonder "my" people didn't leave too many traces
of the written word... and unlike the English they didn't
have the leisurely time to conjure up football or cricket
or rugby... they were warring all the time...
so much for the idleness of islanders...
now? they're crippled by their idolatry of idleness and
former delusion of power and strength!

i have this theory... girls with those large ring earrings?
what do they translate as? easy flings...
plus... i've recently noticed that the men who women
choose to be mates and fathers have one necessary
aspect to them: they need to have at least one arm
in a tattoo-sleeve...
                 oh yeah... they need at least one arm in a tattoo-sleeve...
one tattoo won't save you: you need a *******
theme of tattoos all over your entire arm
to become attractive to women:
no wonder i'm joyously bitter...
like **** i'm getting my skin inked...
i have other tattoos... my brain is one giant
******* tattoo of the past!
                                            
i have seen these: POKRAKI (not disabled, morphed)
children, second generation immigrant children,
i would implore their parents to retain their mother tongue:
they didn't... these children are the ones that not only
despise the culture their parents assimilated into:
but also despise their parents...
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

i found an alternative to history and mythology...
although i still place them above journalism...
there's another history that does not delve into
the speedy Gonzales history "catch-up" methodology
of Darwinism... it's called etymology and it's a history
of words: of word origins...
unlike Darwinism, which is a history of forms:
even ancient people could have told you that monkey
was: **** SIMILIS... something similar to man...
but they didn't take the arguments too seriously
even then... if they did: then all the banners of nations
would be filled with ******* macaques or gorillas...
instead? eagles, crows... lions... bears...
something to look up to...
not look down on: we're currently looking down...
we're looking at our origins and thinking aloud:
wow! we've figured it out!
like **** we have... dressed up in science and pseudo-science
and statistics: it's not that we've become
predictable: we've just become predictably boring...
self-evidential...
we have this scientific safety-net because there's this
"NORM"... this "MEAN & MEDIAN"...
the story of averages... the narrative of:
well if X is so... then i can be x in X's shadow...

before the shift started at Wembley where i would be
working level 5 for the Hawking's tribute concert:
lucky me... usually if a band does a tour there
are loads of dates... people from all over Europe travelled
to London to see this gig...
i couldn't stop smiling and giggling
when Brian Johnson came on and sand Back in Black...
i'm not too big on Paul McCartney...
so Helter Skelter would have been grand if
Charles Manson was there too...
oh sure, sure... i'm a massive fan of both (insert snigger)...

but before the shift i was asked: do you have vertigo?
me? didn't i tell you guys that i used to be a roofer
once? Wembley is peanuts' worth of height for me...
i've worked taller buildings before...
and? it's not vertigo... i have something else...
it's much worse... the feeling came back to me...
from time to time i get it when i get bored...
i have to grip something, a railing... why?
why?! ah h ha... when i'm at a certain height...
and something like a yawning gap of space
appears before me... akin to the Wembley stadium...
and i'm on high... i just have this impossible urge
to subdue of... simply running off the ledge
and jumping head first to my death...

i can't stop it... i have to play chess with my legs:
stand stiff: stand rooted you *******!
no! no! at that concert i had to check myself about
five or six times: i really wanted to jump...
i thought: wouldn't it be glorious to just free-fall
to a certain song? if they're staging a tribute concert...
after all: i am aiming for fame post-mortem...
wouldn't that be something...

hmm... my neighbour is currently on holiday....
she asked me: can you feed my cat?
yes, i can...
can you feed my water tutle?
sure... i blazed a light against the aquarium...
oh... pretty little thing... what are you eating?
dried shrimp leftovers?
no problem... swim up... catch them... as they float
on the event horizon of the water... soak up enough
water and sink to your level of "expertease"...
she then asked me: can you feed my frog,
live locusts?!
sure thing...
i shone the light into the aquarium...
jumped back! trying to brush off imaginary dust from
my body... scratching, itching...
THAT'S NOT A ******* FROG!
THAT'S A ******* TOAD!

she described it a a frog... i don't mind frogs...
i don't mind spider either...
but something that's enlarged...
i jump back...
                     i start pretending to be  a cat...
i need to wash myself...  have no soap... i have no water:
i still need to wash myself...
she said: feed my frog... it's not a frog!
it's a toad! **** you, witch!

i didn't mind the grasshoppers / locust...
i just minded that big slimy bulge of green!
yeah yeah, sure "thing": a misunderstood creature...
what the **** is wrong with a mammalian lineage?!
i thought that i had an irrational aversion toward
spiders... i don't mind spiders no bigger than any of my
fingernails... she said FROG...
what i witnessed in the shadows was a *******
TOAD:

ŻABA contra RHO-POO-HA (ropucha)
i can hold a frog in my hand...
but a toad? i'm fearful of their skin... permeating
a transit fungus onto my skin!
i don't mind feeding the **** thing
live locust insects... i'm just worried about
it's own green slimy ***!

i know i'm not English... i enjoy a: KISSEL...
it's... lukewarm jelly...
known in the eastern parts of Europe...
and as far north as Finland...
KISSEL... it's a warm jelly...
there's less concern for it being set...
it's drinkable jelly...
there's no talk of gelatin...
cornstarch... yes... cornstarch and arrowroot...
liquid jelly...
known from Finland and thoroughly in the Baltic
States... down through the Dnieper River...
of Ukraine...
the best mix-up i've ever tasted?!
banana and lemon...

i can't wait until tomorrow's visit by the BOBAS:
the BAMBINOS' visit by Malvina...
i'm already gearing up to going to sleep early...
it's almost akin to planning a visit to a brothel:
but i'm going to entertain a young child tomorrow:
that's different! i can't wait...
i need to feed this baby some leeches of having
drained some of my testosterone...
perhaps no blood: but something...

i need to make any important call tomorrow
come 8am... i need to be the baby-sitter...
i'll need to visit the Turkish barber...
wait until Thursday and then ******* to the brothel...
then... whatever.

MOVING ON
From here I stroll into the darkness,
From the land of known knowledge and ready made friends,
I'm walking on air bubbles,
I have friends I never thought I had.
I kiss outpatients goodbye with big hugs.
I take my gifts home in a plastic bag,
all full up with memories.

And now I'm reflect on my colleagues,
sorry guys,
you all fit my jigsaw of reflection and recollection.
I have no favourites in my team.
We all work in unison.
I have Mandy and Karen who don't want me to go,
but you know, I have to move along,
I have Rose and Terri who steer the team,
now that our dear Sister Diann left,
Allison left and came right back,
she must have known on which side her bread was buttered,
Aga, my friend is going,
will be bouncing back in a nurses dress,
Tracey, was the first colleague,
I saw when I was interviewed,
the first person who said "hello", you see I remembered.
Erline and Gill are both angels,
Maggie's much the same,
George and Charlotte,
I met you the first day that you came to stay,
two doctors in the making...good luck to both of you.
Mark is off to train,
off to find a new career, a proper little life saver,
he'll be great at that,
most definitely he will!
I am graced with knowing Lauren Dean,
she wants to be a midwife,
I know that she'll succeed.
Louise, well she is learning loads,
I was so delighted to find Julie S, had come to join our team,
I was touched by your cute little special gift..
and also the gift from the eye lady who made me cry.
Dr J, thank you for my flowers,
you made my day, thank you
We have a collection of newbies come to play,
don't know them that well but, I hope they stay.
Min and George, I appreciate you buying my silly books.
Kirsten and Kayla, I'll miss you both.
I'll miss you all as much as I can,
the receptionists and medical records,
especially Adam (LOL, winks at Kayla),
you all play a crucial part.
If I forgot to mention you,
Then I'm sorry,
you're all great,
all part of a memory well spent.
I'm getting tired.....
several patients asked me if I was retiring tomorrow,
Good God,
do I really look that old.
Been a long day.

Thank you all for your good wishes and gifts,
It's going to be another river to ride on,
I'm sure that I can swim.
Time for me to love and learn.
(C) Olivia Kent

Whilst there is no 'Devil', which the Roman Catholic Empire needs to, and projects, exists,
while that's just them dictating their notsee/totalitarian control over the world, there is
the closest thing that has ever existed to it, the united **** of assassin's gov't's '****',
as it's called on the street, specifically the republikan conspiracy's psychic-terrorism.
This 'devil', which is dictating their 'final solution' for humanity is the only game in town,
like ******'s was (though they did a slower blitzkrieg by dividing and conquering the country
into a baskin 'n robbins of 23 flavors of supremacy), as well as a plethora of conspiracies,
which 'gotherdone', all feeding on the genocide of heterosexual, Caucasian, non-republican
newborns to men, this notsee dictatorship's 'Jews', which includes some of them too, ends all.

Climate crisis and our king-kong sized terrible-two, ****'s playing his keystone President
act for two months has determined his, the republikan conspiracy's, global oligarchy's
agenda, which they couldn't get done politically for the last 2 decades, the stealing of
social security from the elderly, infirm.  Instead of privatizing S.S. they're exterminating
recipients through the purposeful spread of corona virus, which kills the elderly, infirm,
predominantly.  Also, daily domestic notsee attacks by the republikan party has numbed the
populace to them, so their doing terrorist attacks before the election won't have the same
effects of determining a polity vote more right-wing, ergo, plausibly deniable extermination
by pandemic, incompetence, is happening instead.  Will dreamers awaken before their ******?  

This is nothing new, the republikan conspiracy led Gov't, it's **** and millions of minions,
Neuter newborns, anatomically destroy toddlers, kids, teens, adults constantly, also doing
all crime, spreading all disease, pestilence against and to them, shoving it down their
throats to further their ****** of those non-republikans.  How could you not know their the
devil.  Every republikan uses their jobs they supposedly do to exterminate non-republikans
instead.  That's the same as ******'s minions did, for it wasn't generals, admirals, etc.,
who realized his and his ***** rise, it was the file-clerks, receptionists, cab drivers all
destroying, committing treason every moment, instead of doing their jobs, like the serial
murderers who masquerade as cops, exterminators ..., as doctors, judges ..., as justices.  

**** and his admin. were informed by 17 intelligence agencies about corona in january, he
lied about it extremely, pathologically and still is, as recently as March he was saying
"we have 5 cases and by the end of the week we'll have one, then it'll disappear", in order
to determine as many people were infected as possible before the states jumped in to try to
stop it, the highest of treason.  Simply because the quickest spread will be in the largest
metropolitan areas, specifically Cali and NY, where most voters are democrat or too sane to
vote ****.  Also, the predominance of infections and mortality will be in the lower-middle-
class to poor, 60 % of the nation, who can't defend themselves as well, and will die from
it more, price of living skyrocketing, people have less $ than ever, class war by pandemic.  

His latest, "the cure's worse than the pandemic", everyone should die by criminally insanely
putting them all back to work 'til death, to get Utin's **** more $ sooner from his corps.
I told you during the campaign that if he won we'd be lucky if he doesn't pull a Caligula,
that's only three steps from his current hitlerian positions.  The "Stimulus bills", the
Dems are pushing back but the Repubs are getting the edge as ever, 1/2 a trill to bail out
big businesses and they kept his criminal cuts to food stamps, still stealing food from the
mouths of babes and handing it to billionaires.  Pharma, medical supplies corps making hand
over fist from bidding war between States, federal agencies, Bush, **** klans kafknchinging.  
The 'big fix' is in, if it ain't fixed don't break it, stop criminal insanity, vote Bernie.

It’s good, but not what we’re looking for right now.
Oh, but it stings. And how!
The position’s closed, better luck next time
Your lips are bruised purple from that smile.

We loved it, but it doesn’t fit with our current line-up
You take a bitter sip of the salty tea-cup.
It’s good, dear, just not for me
You nod, you understand, ‘cause it ever is.

Your throat stings from not screaming loud enough,
Frustration the itch of a swallowed cough.
You’ve heard it a hundred times, and yet the hundred-and-first
Burns like every regret thrice reimbursed.

But while they wound, they aren’t nearly as bad,
As the radio silence of indifference ironclad.
Refreshed inboxes and double-checked call logs tell
The sordid tale of a dream drowning in the wishing well.

Vacancies disappear and resumes languish
Receptionists pout in parodied anguish.
It’s never you, it’s always them,
It’s never you’re-not-good-enough, it’s always not-the-right-fit.

It’s all the same, yet unique every time
Nobody’s got a minute, but asking’s not a crime.
It’s self-flagellation with a calling card
We don’t give a ****, best regards.

Your name’s not on this list, or the next one
And yet you walk, ‘cause you can’t outrun
The ghost of a dream, of a hope long gone
Of finding the happily-ever-after in life’s lexicon.

When I was a boy, and on the days I didn't have swimming club,
I exited school sprinting
and I waited,

in my parent's medical practice.
The waiting room was white and reflective,
with artificial LED lights and worry,

the cream carpet was scratchy on my always naked toes,
clashing with the too-big chairs, red like blood, soft like hope,
hardwood arms with fingerprints pressed deep, still unbroken.

The child's corner was complete, with toys and comics and waiting kids,
only for babies though, not me.
Still, I was forbidden from the office,

where nurses, receptionists and secrets roamed,
seen over top the unassailable counter
and by poking my head around the corner of the grey-stamped door.

Sometimes, when I simpered and smiled enough,
the nurses would pat my head and unlock the password protected corridor computer,
where I would play online games on Miniclip.com.

It always smelled so very clean at the hospital,
and I wouldn't want to leave when Mum or Dad finally finished;
“I'm nearly done, I've nearly won”, but no, no, time to go home.

i can still hear the plane taking off.
i can still hear the busy people rushing around the airport.
i can still hear the doors to the shuttle closing.
i can still hear the friendly receptionists at the hotel.

i can still feel the air sweeping past me while waiting for the metro.
i can still feel the wooden banisters at the library of congress.
i can still feel the cool october breeze.
i can still feel the awe of seeing the washington monument.

i can still see my smile while watching bobby flay's cooking show.
i can still see the intricate floral pattern on the hallway floor.
i can still see my smile fade when you approach me in the hallway.
i can still see your black eyes as you force your hand down my pants.

i can still smell your cologne on my pajamas.
i can still smell my chai tea latte and cake pop.
i can still smell the old air in ford's theatre.
i can still smell the mini burgers i ate that night.

i can still taste the cold concrete in the stairwell.
i can still ******* dinner coming up as you choked me.
i can still taste the salty tears dripping onto my tongue.
i can still taste the bitter mucus that i vengefully spat at you.

i hate you.

people keep foprgetting social conventions,
or what's apparently known as
the "failing" national health service...
well...
             it's already demeaning that
the receptionist is required to wear
a dog collar with a: my name is...
             but to excuse yourself without
introducing a social norm of cordiality
with a: good morning?
i.e. jumping queue straight into a function
of a human being?
                   as an automaton?
            north street medical care,
infamous in how hard it is to get an appointment
to see a medical bureaucrat (i.e.
a general practitoner - g.p.) -
          i just walked in, haven't seen my g.p.
in over two years...
                 and i asked for a message to be
passed...
       i say to her: i'm leaving on the 22nd
to visit my grandparents to paint their kitchen...
she says she can't squeeze me in,
tells me i have to come back tomorrow and
book an appointment...
       and then a change of heart...
  5 minutes later i have a face-to-face
appointment with my Sikh bodyguard...
               proud to say my beard is longer
than his...
               i walk in 10 minutes late
and he's still wondering why i dare to mention
spaghetti cognition, or why i don't like
to talk about my ills, rather succumbing to
the ease of writing about it...
          i says to him:
               you know, sometimes past noon,
thinking in itself because debilitating,
with such a psychological exhaustion
i tend to entertain a body, in lethargy...
                     so he says i should take my
notes to a psychiatrists...
problem is... these "notes" have become
published work, in a town in a land in a people
who took me seriously...
              just for kicks i'll visit her...
          oh, she was big, she did a doc. on
r. d. laing... dr. moncrieff...
        ****... one of those
        anne sexton / john berryman moments...
        so i sat down, and watched as 3 patients
were turned down from an appointment...
one even exclaimed in: shock & disbelief
   that she was turned down...
     hardly the charm offensive,
     all i said i said softly, quietly,
         with a good morning to allow me entry...
pigeon farts...
                      or: it would only be deemed
lucky if a trafalgar ***** took a ****
on me if i were wearing a top hat...
     bingo!
                all it takes it a bit of tact...
saying good morning to a receptionist,
who is paranoid about a.i. receptionists...
as i am paranoid about
automated phone-centre cut-backs...
not even proud blue Indians of the Raj
behind that blind curtain...
                     because does language
always has to revolve around verbs?
         how can the tongue be equal to
but less than a limb?
        imagine the para-olympics
with deaf people...
                   who shoots what to make
a false start?!
                         a biology teacher
once told a whole class that
your sense of balance is in your ears,
rather than in your eyes...
      two weeks later, a moderate muslim
that she was, she puts on a hijab in
a catholic school... hey presto!
               we have our first nun-morph!
charmer... well... the petrol station
manager talked with a thick
Bombai accent,
      we exchanged cordialities...
  good day sir, good day that,
       bought a bottle of fizzy water,
forgot to buy a cup of coffee...
    good day, hope you have a good day,
how's your day coming along, yada yada yada...
but there is still a social convention,
an agreement:
             not even akin to:
i wash your back, you wash mine...
  more on the lines of:
you don't get in my way,
         i don't get in yours.
                                                savey?
how simple a respect for a receptionist
becomes,
to merely introduce yourself with
a good morning,
   like some old retired **** of a man
creaking with arthritis...
                                  but rules are rules...
and approaching someone
with some grand: you need to do this for
me attitude, gets you the undesired
revolving door, of barking up the wrong tree!
patience is all but left,
when all other virtues have been exhausted;
patience is not a virtue,
it's what you might call a razor
           when hanging off a cliff's edge;
as the proverb goes:
       a drowning man will resort to
               grabbing a razor to stay afloat:
patience is not a virtue:
                                 it's the last resort.

did you know that, your lowest
order status,
   of the Hippocratic oath
making,
           your G.P. (general doctor) -
your bureaucratic zombie of
a doctor?

now he can claim mail sent to him,
or her, with the precursor
title of Dr.        ...
but a surgeon?
he or she, gets...
   side-tracked...
            he's still a
                Mr. or a Mrs. / Ms.
on their mail...

funny... isn't it...
a surgeon graduates from medical
school,
does the grueling jobs,
plays the butcher's game...
and he's not Dr.
    on a letter an addressed
to him, but a, Mr.

but the bureaucratic zombie
of a doctor who's most aligned with
keeping excess receptionists,
and scribbling along his signature
is given an elevated status...

one mark above a *******
pharmacist...
              
but a surgeon is nothing more than
a Herr Metzger...
   meat either way you're
looking at it...
   even dentists are considered
a Dr. and not a Mr.,
   he's or she's a ******* heart surgeon!

vanity fair hierarchy within the medical
profession...

               no book deal,
no nothing...
i'm waiting for some slack to be cut
on me...
it's not like i'm  wannabe
American Idol pop star waiting
for the cogs of the machinery to
come together...

                  a ******* shop clerk
receives more respect for the job
than i do...
             i receive the kind
of respect that a bu, receives shelter
from the roof above his head
that's a bridge or a fly-over
in an urban setting...

                as i cited:
regardless son, chose an existential
inquiry into ***** expression,
wordsmith...
       and he can't get away from it...
he needs to pay the price
of... seeing his father work
the menial job of a blue collar nature...

mind you...
so if i can't prove someone being
guilty of a crime...
a possible crime...
why am i surrounded by
accusers...
who... for some reason...
find it so easy,
to accuse me of being mad?!

if this logic serves...
why would a Polish neurologist
say to me after interpreting
an MRI scan say:
if someone says you're mentally ill,
they themselves are
mentally ill...

the the accused can get away with
both a possible ******,
and a false diagnosis?

now that's fun... this is England,
after all...
  the moment someone is
subtly accused,
the accusing party is deemed
mentally ill...
   and the party accused
receives a second blanket of
securing innocence...

                 makes a lot of sense!
on the ground?
you didn't survive a tsunami...
you didn't experience
all the miseries of life...
sure...
          but it's not like all
the possible pleasures were
given as readily as
all the inconveniences i was
provided with.