.get to a million get to a million...
it's no dickens or a shakepeare... but...
get to a million get to a million...
it's not your everyday tabloid column...
but... get to a million get to a million...

all words outside of the italics...
said... really... real... slowly...
         Eeyore: sore...
                           i like how...
sodden sad i am with... a spike
milligan rendition of...
by the barrel of the rhyme -
this nonsense has to... be gloated...
float... 'ted...
             ballloons and buzzing... etc.

and those italics?
   gerbil on asteroids... and on steroids...
and... on amphetamines...
basics: on a cocktail...
   nibbling ferociously...
so ferociously that...
                      the tongue disappears...

i already have a: tomorrow will be...
"good"...
i don't like being pandered...
and this is that story of
a princess sleeping on twenty matresses...
agitated by an uncooked pea...

needle in the haystack for me...
this most perfect day...

   i'm using this old post-soviet
piece of equipment and...
it works brand new...
none of the samsung cheap ***** made
in china...
if i'll have my may...
and the garden needs no imporvement:
a new shed... blah...
it already looks like a building site...
i managed to tranfer a tonne of
birdseye pebbles from
the service road into the garden...

imagine the fate... of those...
sentenced to: kamieniołomy...
a quarry... i'm not exactly deluding myself
in the act already deluding me...
a hammer... perfecting what was
a farmers' suntan just below the elbows...
so i rolled my sleeves up...
for compensation...

   imagine sentencing a man to work
among stones... friko! gratis!
for... the "blessing"...
       but if i take the walk...
this, walk... i'm keeping up appearances
up to a point... then the masquerade is over...
nothing to hear but ***** horses...
magpies... woodland pigeons and crows...
nothing of assorted competing
propaganda placentas...
no cushions: no bed: count sheep...
that, tiresome, task?
how about making out: complex
"geometry" from clouds...
see castles? see swans?
see devils charging into battle
having donned the men-yoroi?!

the past... and so much for the romance...
the vikings should be known as:
the warlike gypsies... ******* pikeys and all!
sword for a harmonica...
a longboat for a... heap of castanets...
and... that... accordion? no?
the new... "napels"?
the violin... the new sax...
new: yo! ollie!
    *******...
  
         - i said i'd ******* walk it!
i did it once come sunset...
i said... i did it once in reverse: got lost:
feet became muddied...
i returned...

             this is where we'd part...
i'd ******* from the B175...
parallel to the orange tree pub...
next to the bower house...
   when walking? no point taking
the B175 up to A113... no... seriously...
there isn't...

into the havering country park...
how many times...
did i walk this "short" and "narrow"...
letting off the body known
that the breath is bound
to a duality of soul...
and "more lungs to uncover...
major major"...

       exercise: gym: pristine **** film
perfect... swimming is fun...
riding a bicycle is fun...
the rest remains a vanity project...

         i might as well be hoarding...
so from having made an exit via
B175... i end up coming back into
contact with traffic... at...
via hainnault forest of course...
at... A1112...
          
when it was especially crisp...
and winter was the *****...
watching the widow and widower swans...
at moonlight...
that's the only:
that's the best time to appreciate swans...
come a fullmoon... come the trickling
of mercury into the details of:
ghostly white: for the worth of swans...
and none other...

  and if i meet a Wordsworth on the way?
i'll strangle him with a shoelace...
hell... i'll hang him by one...
tell 'im to sniff a boot on the way out...
and a soggy sock: for practice...

from what i read:
so much for the countryside while at the same
time having... to entertain...
the garden prior to the fall:
a ****-buddy of a sister...
the foreboding mid-west...
televangelists and a-o.k. ******:
   like that physicist... who said:
brother and sister have a get together:
as long as: rubbers included...

caricature on the simpsons...
google-whacking won't even allow me
search results...
then again: sloppy seconds...
    'ere we go: lawrence krauss...
simpsons guy...
  
robinson crusoe ahoy! quick!
sink... this... ******* ship!
let's me it look like a melodrama
for environ... mentalists...
let's make it look like a beached
whale... rather than a ghost wreck
holding lost secrets of lineage:
among the arabs? muhammad ibin...
         ibin...
among the jews? yeshua ben...
   ben... blah: ibin! blah ben!

- so so much for solo...
  solo violin, solo piano...
solo... rubbing chicken with carribean
**** sauce... slaughtering a lamb,
kosher, also solo...
    ham solo... solo: project undertaken
with concern for...
no concerns except for: solo...
soloist... soliloquy... solipsism...
bored mushroom head: kanughonzagi
shimoto hiroshimmyshimmy oops...
bulldozer... machine 'ed on... 'ed off...
a party twick: don't look so surprised...

that's: "not me in your third person"
gemoetry...
well... within the trinity, secular...
of the son, ego, the father, superego...
and the holy spirit of id...
jerking off is on the same platitude
of performing *******...
in verse of reverse: eating an oyster
or a floral "pattern"...

here's to not having to find strangers:
notsably pakistani men willing
to convert...
thank be for the jews: at least they can't
convert you: ****** in them the concept
of being chosen...
like this mirage of static...
perhaps the wind does disturb this
equilibrium... then again... does it?

upon the altar of the sky before me...
a curious "star"...
that it isn't...
it has to be a planet...
i'm guessing that it's either
Venus or Jupiter...
and if my naked eyes were able to
decipher the experience...
from what the postcard of
Saturn looks like: truly:
flesh, blood and eyesight to
compensate:
why do almost all alien lifeforms concern
me with microscopic items?
i had to wrestle a mammoth
i had to overcome a tiger...
i didn't exactly find myself:
finding *****...
champagne and l.s.d. but not
mushrooms...
the fungus hitchhiker of 1960s
psychadelic intelligenstia...

i need to only die this once...
there is no god: there is no god...
"god"...
this is a house... that requires
a breath to deem it: an abode...
a home is a foreign concept in the mouth
of a mongolian horde...
crimea if a capital...

      a tartare steak... a raw herring
in yogurt sauce with apples and gherkins...
a spice for the palette...
if tomorrow is supposedly a day...
i will sacrifice a dream: all dreams!
for a day like i plan for tomorrow...
to come into contact with reality...

no love is ideal... even that of a madman...
or a gisberg... homosexual latex gimp
plaything... savvy?!
two to a rucksack
of the tow of beers i need to give birth
to a quasimodo...

"broken": to have broke - sober -
then drunk... the barking of a drop load
of ******* of an alsatian...

   we so tire... we all must tire so...
such: we! sire: i! oh... but i'm not bargained
to don a crown!
pontius pilate... the escapade
of the thief... of the coward...
or the status quo tactician...

by now... does it... would it...
even... even ******... *******... matter
to parade in all that pomp and desires
for a spontaneity of... ahem...
"spontenity"?!

better worded: i agree: genius to genius...
one would never curse...
etiquette! my boor and bore...
one must be well fashioned
to stage the pirouette of "proper"
knife and fork handling...
as... the napkin is to supposed to be bound
to never find any better use!

the air i want to breathe...
              is it... really...
the complications of chemistry...
curb... no new: every old...
           one always has to find it necessary
to fall in love with paris...
and grow perptually boring
within the confines of london;
apparently all else... vivo per se...
is supposed to "happen" & "here"!

Don't have friends that work at liquor stores.
They know what's good.
They get it cheap.
They have lots of friends they want you to meet.

I drank so much ***.

Quality ****.

I'm still drunk,
in the morning I hope this makes sense.

Here's what happened:

I went to the store and bought a mop,
our bathroom and kitchen floors are caked with
a various assortment of coffee, cheese, grease, and lots of other
mysterious things.

Clayton shot me a line,
said, "I got the *** you need to try."
I went to his place around 11.

The only honest girl,
the only girl I care to speak to,
the only girl I think I could even be attracted to,
had a heavy heart for her ex-one reemerged,
and all I know is he will make me further obsolete.

I got to Clayton's.
We smoked.
Watched a classic noir film.
Drank. Drank. Drank.

"Want to smoke a hookah?"

"Sure, man. It's whatever."

Off to Nathan's we went.

Nathan lives with a Persian girl
with impeccable skin.

Nathan has a Mexican lady interest,
who I wanted to pin.

I controlled my intake to purgatory states.
I played sweet.
I played collected.
I played drinking games.

I texted another ex.
A different one this time.
She didn't want to come over.
She's smarter than I remembered.

Clayton,
you are my destroyer.
I'll see you tomorrow
to **** myself again.

There was a hole in the ground
No bigger than my hand
And as I reached in
It began to expand
In the center of the garden
Of the Castle Winter Requiem
I took all that I could find there
Or at least, what was left of them
Alas I found the tomb
Temple Goddess of the Moon
She took the form of a sparrow
From war, bitten by an arrow
And she granted me the favor
If I would so boldly choose
To pick a life with her forever
Or have a chance at cutting loose
She reemerged into a body
Morphed into a woman, grey and proud
My obsession became a hobby
As she unraveled her silken shroud

Reanimated, afoot, and coming awfully close
Her inhuman face I’ll consume forever
and mine
She loved the most.

Thank you for destroying me,
Dear ex
I had never loved another so deeply,
Or let down my walls more
Than I had with you
And what did you do with me?
You tortured my soul
And burned me like embers
You toyed with me
Making promises you knew deep down you would fail to keep,
But still,
I thank you
For destroying me

Because, you see
You were the fire I needed
To burn away
All the parts of myself that were inauthentic,
Turning to ash all my ego,
Obliterated my sense of self
Losing you and all of the promises you made
Was like losing one version of my life,
That I had come to cherish so much
It was like being the captain of
The sinking titanic,
Choosing to die
With the damaged ship

But I reemerged from that icy misery I existed in for so long,
Realizing that **** happened
And I couldn't do anything to change that
But what I could do
Was take the actions required to have the life I want,
Instead of wasting my time wallowing over how someone I once loved
Hurt me,
Almost destroyed me,
And we called that love
But it WOKE ME UP
It destroyed me and woke me up,
Do you understand?
Yes,
I lost something I had invested so much time and love and care into,
But I can't control that
And it's time to reconcile with the pain,
By making peace with the past,
So I can live in the right here, right now,
In the present.

i used to listen to you speak of icarus
your eyes would widen
with fascination and fire
as the myth reemerged in your memory
you spoke to me
with every syllable so delicately selected
and i would listen to you
awestruck by the way
you taught me your historic tales
you made time stop
while letting me experience
what felt like an eternity of bliss
in your sunlight
you crafted your word with your heart
and used your voice as it's vessel  
and i would sit there dumbfounded
so pleasantly paralyzed
by the pure passion
behind every single breath
that you spoke to me softly
each and every last one
of those nights we shared
your sunlight never failed to shine
no matter how dark
the settings of your stories were
but i remember
the feeling in my gut that day
the day i truly understood your passion
for that one tale
i'd still beg to hear you tell to me once more
it was the day you told me
i flew too close to the sun for your comfort
but when i soared through our sky
i melted so effortlessly into your sunset
but you believed my wings
were too close to your flames
so as i basked in the rays of your sunlight
you to pushed me away from them
so that i'd fall and crash
into the ocean right below me
your attempts to cool off
the burns that never were
you were petrified i'd be scolded but now
i've been swallowed by a sea of sorrow
and the lonely stars of the night sky
so frigidly cold
without your hearts heat
to keep me warm
i know you wanted to save me
from bearing the fate of icarus
but the only thing that's burning
is the hate that i hold now
for this rendition and how
i feel i'm farther from the sun
than the day i first dreamt to reach it

"You are having a bad day." he said,
looking up from my work i noticed
milky, blue eyes seeping- they were shimmering in the shadows,
of his fluffy spider-legged brows,
and secondary to his stupendous
potato nose. lilies. beep.
my heart may have skipped a beat, wondering if
another patron had taken offense
to a dispassionate expression that wore me more than i, it.
he fumbled with a money clip, already withdrawn. large, arthritic, veiny hands. looked down grappling--with ***** bills, smelling of *******, g-strings and *** sweat. was my mouth open, was i staring? baby pinks and stark white, peppered with
gentle,
fuchsia
explosions.
he tossed down a ten and reached in pockets that seemed too low, contorting into a teapot. short and stout. i heard coins mingling together. a discussion among themselves. hushed metallic whispers, pontificate on
the merits of
coin purse over
pocket travel.
here, reemerged a fist, clenched weakly and shaking, he dropped exact change on the ten,
they hesitated in vibration against the laminate counter, and spun on edge in circles.
"some" he said- my stare averting.
..."some" he repeated, only when i'd managed to meet his eyes with again,through an imagined haze of misunderstanding... sweet scent, shivering orange pistils, raining microscopic yellow dust. stargazers. i shifted the change from the counter to my hand.
"are worse
than others."
i delivered him his change in bills, the familiar clink of coins in my drawer somehow deafening. and i couldn't break my curious stare, he turned sharply, flowers wrapped in pink tinted cellophane, which crinkled in a whimper from his grasp.
he limped away, mud on his heels.
back to the cemetery.

We met inter-dimensionally,
traded cosmic runes
on our fingertips.
I tasted your liquid dreams,
you stroked me delicately.

In deep space realms,
we seeded
our fractal hearts,
jump-started
the flat lines.

On sunshine,
we believed
in the lost arts,
kindness reemerged,
immersed ourselves
in fiery sensual desires.

Those fires are
never quenched
inside the mind,
we're splintered,
you & I.

Your mind attached
right now..
to things we used
to know
wrapped around the cortex
refuse to slip away...

The life we used to live
a distant thought before
has reemerged with vigor
dusting brains
for colored prints and more...

My mind connects
to thoughts
of memories’ inner space.
The reason for it all,
I used to wonder why..
it vanished with the days...

We held within our minds
the age of reason’s way.
Reminders of what used to be.
The life we used to live,
is all I know today.

the spring that started in March
ended in April
and people stood shocked in their door jams
necks craning up to the heavens
watching the flakes we had missed all winter
float slowly into gravity's grasp

laments were lofty in the frigid air
and somber masks packed away with moth ***** reemerged

this was the mark of a Mother Nature takeover
but who the hell were we
to tell her
how to do her job?

I feel guilty for the life I have lived.
Because I am happy.
Because I have not struggle, I have not hatred, I have not broken.
Because I feel I do not deserve the privileges that I am allowed, nor do you deserve your shattered image.
How ****** up is that?
That I find guilt in my happiness?
That is because my life would be a treasure for someone else, I feel I did not earn my place, my home?
My life?
I have not been recalled to the factory, with a poison substance or cracks in my frame.
I have not been sent away to be reemerged with a new face and a fake smile.
I have not need to fake mine.
And this guilt
This crushing guilt that  still does not fracture me,
I’ll Feel it in my bones
                                 until
                                           the
                                                    day
                                                       ­        I
                                                           ­         die.

This is my home now,
God knows for how many years more!
The stack of books
upright arranged
in the shape of my dreams looks
disorderly and unorganized,
Loneliness in the shape of an injured cat
Invades the room, meowing, every night,
sniffs scattered objects,
And eventually rests in my lap
effusing air of some stale memories,

As the days move on like a tired traveler,
The stains on the wall are clearing
to my eyes,
Sticky notes like land mafias
appropriates space from the wall,
Che Guvera with a clenched fist
returns a red salute,

The 'fist' forwarded memory of past,
and one by one
Dreadful images reemerged in my mind;
Mother in hospital bed, pale and weak,
gasping for breath,
I sat beside her
waiting for magic,
Several breakups
especially the last one
that hurt most
where I choose this not  her,
And last but not least
my COMRADE days
participating in protests,
bearing batons, and living
like revolutionaries
fighting the corruption in
the system,

But now I yearn to be
part of the system,
As this series of pictures end
The motivation I consumed earlier,
watching twenty minutes
long video subsides,
And all of a sudden I rummage the bed sheet
to look for a hidden pack of cigarettes
which I bought yesterday,

Choices change as we proceed on
in life,
I do regret some of my decisions
and regret them badly,
I have cried at night,
Laughed like a hyena,
I'm weak feigning to be strong,
I see many reasons to quit this task
but one that keeps me
going on is the picture of an ailing mother
dying in a government hospital.

Maybe I'm just bored,
and you seemed like an escape

Bad boys always do
seem to be the portal
to access through
into dreams exhilirating

But bad boys have souls too
though they'd never admit it
Girls like me want to love them to gentleness
Sometimes we melt through the aloof exterior
and find chinks in his armor
But we find out inevitably
that he can't love you anyway
'Cause he doesn't love himself

Us good hearted girls
with wide open hearts
in deep need of healing,
Believe
"If I could love a wounded man like him
Maybe, one day,
Someone could possibly love me"

I guess I was just bored,
I guess I just wanted someone to kiss
I guess all my unconscious baggage
reemerged on the surface
when you came back into my life
I guess you made me question in some ways
the patterns I am hooked into
and how they make me not okay

But you're just a bad boy,
Though I see more
You've told me who you are
And even though I'm bored
I can't entertain chaos anymore
I don't wish to return to the fire,
Once again.

Diaphragm expanded
like the cigarette burns on the empty wood floor
from when I left the mattress there and didnt care anymore,
started laying down beside the beaten, weathered boards;
these decades in the grains of timber grew towards-
I lie inert, my bones the weeping willow's withered roots now stretched forward
to sunlight creeping in the windows through daybreak's drunken disorder.
Dehydrated, tormented, and long tortured;
regurgitations reemerged, restless, pushed shoreward-
dysphoric dreams; no rest beneath intoxicated border.

I enjoy your invasion of my thoughts
Long late night talks
Boy, you make me hot
I yearn for your touch
The feeling of when its all too much
Curl my toes, and bite my lip
As my nails graze along your hip

That would have been enough
Just your sweet physical touch
But you unleashed it on my mind
A part of me I never thought I'd find

Reemerged

amazingly, the tree i tried to hang myself on
being cut down to less than a stump
in my garden - has reemerged strong
in my neighbour's garden, the one that keeps
weeds, it's there right now, a healthy sprout
about two metres high, yep, the same tree,
it migrated - i guess a befitting gift -
just like in the old days of the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth and the acceptance of Jews
and immunity from the bubonic plague in
the Cracow region.

title: copepod
body:
blister-whale:
somewhat: 2. 502 bad gateway give-away

i have to admit, i took a hiatus from listening to
Marilyn Manson... by chance i came across
a review of... either Born Villain or the Pale Emperor...
clearly: i wasn't paying attention...
ever since i missed the chance to go to a concert
when he was touring the Holywood album...
that same year Mudvayne were touring with L.D. 50...
i switched off after their debut...
i switched off from the music of my youth in general...
went down several rabbit holes...
notably medieval music - blues - jazz -
                      some extra-curriculum classical....
but the artist ages... well... so does his audience...
i don't even remember when i started writing:
let alone posting dotty-doodles on this platform:
i had only one focus... for all the ills that the internet
enhanced... revealed when it comes to the interaction
of people: sure... the older generations found it
convenient to shop... to do banking... to book plane
tickets... but for us younger folk... the ones born
into the years prior to the inception of the internet...
this was our time to build up an underground
of communication... for me? what better way to bypass
the gatekeepers, the publishers...
having amassed some readership... 44 thousand on just
one poem? hmm... let me spell it out: 44,000...
if i were to write it out in matchsticks, i.e. |||||||||| = 10...
what is 44,000 of those pretty stacks of arithmetic?
let me see what 100 looks like...
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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what about a thousand?
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                                                  = 1000...
now... i know what 44 thousand looks like... roughly...
how many spectators were there at Wembley...
for the woman's F.A. cup final?
                                        let's say... 41K...
now multiply that space of matchsticks by... 44...
but this is only one poem... i have... thousands of poems...
some are still stashed on my facebook page:
or rather lost on my timeline...
           mind you: i haven't performed any of them...
why? they don't rhyme: for starters...
i like listening to people sing Aud Lang Syne
on new year's eve... and even Shakespeare can't
beat that... Shakespeare's words were never put
to music... and they won't be...
sure... great meter blah blah... but you can't sing
Shakespeare... so there goes the baby...
with the bathtub and the water out of yer
******* window...
                            i'm more a composer than a performer...
i'm more a composer than a performer
therefore not an entertainer...
i gave myself this: jinx... the moment i start
performing... is the moment i stop composing...
i'll just be regurgitating the very few poems
that might be left in my repertoire like...
Ginsberg... having to recite Howl ad nauseam...
me? i'm sort of in the mindset: plough along...
let's not beat around the bush...
   for all the ills of the internet... there's one good...
the possibility to bypass gatekeepers...
publishers... no one would touch my ****...
and yet: they are printing tabloid spew...
           sorry... tabloid *****...
                they are printing propaganda left right
and centre... my work would be... obscure...
revealed: ha ha... perhaps after my death...
let the people judge for themselves...
                     i'm not saying it's Shakespeare...
god forbid writing that stuffy ****...
                             it's contemporary... i don't even think
i'd allow myself to belong to a movement
akin to post-modernism...
   hell: if **** comes naturally... it comes...
if it doesn't... well... i usually need to do something...
ha ha: "cope"... do some cooking, do some cleaning,
do some gardening... so some ironing of the shirts...
go to my part-time job... wait a year until i'll ask
for references and then apply for a job as a teacher...
or take the current route and become a security guard...
which route would allow me to write, more?
probably the latter... then again... experience
as a security guard... could come in handy...
on a curriculum vitae... when it comes to crowd control...
in a classroom of kids...
    but i really don't want to teach chemistry...
i'd love to teach English...
                   - but don't get me wrong.... some artists /
bands got the mix right... they understood
that there needed to be a prominence of the BASS guitar...
Metallica sure as **** didn't catch up...
pretty much all those kinds of bands didn't...
barely audible... well... with the exception of
the intro on Devil's Dance... but then the bass disappears
into inaudibility...
it's like a post-jazz hybrid... in rock music...
the rhythm guitar and all that is considered "melody"
can sort of *******... let's just leave in the screetching
accents of the guitar... keep the vocals...
but... but... let the bass guitar exfoliate...
   and... let the drums compliment it...
    no no... the drums are no longer the building block...
the bass guitar comes first...
  it's a bit like borrowing from opera...
    bass is the baritone... rhythm / solo guitar the soprano...
yada-yada-blah-blah some minutes later...
songs like the Gardener from Born Villain and
Third Day of a Seven Day Binge from the Pale Emperor...
if you listen to them... you can truly... truly: groove...
you can't stop nodding, can't stop swaying...
you start thinking: how is it that pigeons don't
get headaches? i guess they must be listening to cosmic
music only pigeons can hear... like those dog whistle
scenarios... humans can't hear it...
but since... all birds descended from dinosaurs...
they strut... nodding... head-banging... some ancient
music of the cosmos: ergo? no head-ache...
hmm... and this writing coming from a guy who
drinks like a pirate... and is waiting to do psychedelic
drugs if... he might enter the confines of dementia...
oh yeah: i'm keeping that option open...
should i start to slip up... on my pedantic spelling
and punctuation... i'm ******* off to Amsterdam
to a brothel and some magic mushrooms... ****...
i'll need to get a bus out of Amsterdam and find some
forest... something scenic... mind you:
the Netherlands are not that scenic... flat... upon flat...
upon flat... although... that's the jist of things you see
from the motorway when going through...
i'm sure i could find some beautiful spots to trip...
  should the worst come...
but the artists i was fond of listening to in my youth
have finally caught up with what i was thinking:
where, the ****, is, the BASS?
       ****** music jerking off the solo guitar...
no, please... and all that rhythm guitar...
   challenge the drum & bass crowd...
that sputnik crowd of... turning African drumming
into... a stampede of hyenas on amphetamines...
    boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...
mind-blowing load of headache....
the bass guitar can do two things...
it can set the rhythm... it can set the beat...
but it can also can create an undercurrent of a melody...
oh ****... that's three things...
   early Marilyn Manson did respect the bass playing
of Twiggy Ramirez... but... there was still the guitar-maker
melody overload...
the mature artist... given songs like: the Gardener
and Third Day of a Seven Day Binge...
respects the bass guitar... it comes so gloriously to the fore...
something a band like Metallica can never
accomplish... or Led Zeppelin... all those 1970s greats...
those bands had the bass guitar pop up...
in a segment of a song... NIB? by black sabbath?
and then... disappear... don't undermine the Leviathan...
this rock fusion with post-jazz...
oh of course... there's no section in this music...
whereby each instrument takes a chance to solo...
there's no need... everything is just ******* dandy
as it stands...
             - and where would i be... the internet is evil!
ooh: boogie-woogie! sure... people are acting
like ****-storm brainiac... brainiack... brainiak...
   brainiaq...      just four of the possible aesthetic questions
regarding the spelling of: Otto Binder...
not that i'm a massive comic book fan...
well... if you get a chance to meet Declan Tan...
Declan... yeah... for my birthday he gave me a copy
of... Batman vs. Alien... no wait... it was Batman/Aliens...
published in 1997... i think Declan liked me...
i sort of think i liked Declan...
                      the first time i tasted chicken soup that
wasn't Slavic born... with sweetcorn...
(ISBN 1-56971-305-7)...
sure... it's evil... people ghosting each other...
dark-web ******* inner circles etc., the silk road...
hmm... ghosting... poor Jeminah...
how many times did i play roulette... cycling down
Mawney Road in the past... 3 weeks?
not that often... i tried at least once a week...
not that i'm stalking... but it's a decent route...
it's all downhill... and chances of cycling onto sharpnel
is limited... mind you... never... ever...
cycle into the London borrough of Barking & Dagenham...
chances of getting a flat tire... esp. if you're cycling
on 23cm wide tires of a road bicycle?
no brainer...
   before pulling into Mawney Road... i was...
blinded by a sunset... idiot me forgot to wear his sunglasses...
but i stared at the ***** with eyes wide open
waiting for white phosphorus to start pouring
from under my eyelids...
   oh... i'll be looking at you... until the point
where i see you for what you really are:
but you're never really that when you're at sunset...
or sunrise... it's only at your zenith when...
staring long enough at you... exposes you as this
pulverising... vibrating mirror of fluorescence...
sort of silver... sort of white... but not when you're
coming down from your zenith... you're still blinding...
  - only a day prior i thought i saw Frankie...
Friendrich... her son... getting on the bus...
from a 5-a-side football centre off Eastern Avenue...
turned out it wasn't him:
no, it couldn't be him... over-protective mother
would never allow her son to take the bus on his own...
plus... the kid is supposed to be an actor...
she's milking him... "apparently"... he's into bedroom fun
on a games console... you couldn't find him
climbing trees or playing sports... a *****... basically...
the only sport he might have heard of...
is... boxing... to defend him mother from abusive
boyfriends... where: he'd always lose...
- i was waiting for this moment...
the sun blinded me gloriously...
   as i cycled down Mawney Road...
that's the thing about meeting Jeminah... her dog...
i had these self--inflicted knuckle wounds
from putting out cigarette butts on them...
her dog... oh man... her dog loved me...
he really quickened the healing process...
he licked and licked and licked... and licked...
the scabs off... to the point where i started bleeding again...
looking at my knuckles...
nothing prettier in the world... no tattoo could
compensate them...
so as i was cycling down Mawney Road...
who do i see? the over-existed dog... barking... chewing air...
i see the dog first... the dog sees me first...
i later make out that... glorious colour of her hair...
that darkened ginger that's mingling with oak-cask
auburn... i put on my most impressive frown...
i don't look her in the face... mind you:
everything's ******* fluorescent before me
having been blinded by the sun just minutes prior...
i'm not stalking... she was the one that invited me
back to her home twice... yeah... i know where she lives...
that's when i had that mad moment
of leaving her flowers on the porch...
and a Valentine's card through her letter-box...
o.k.: fair enough... that's borderline creepy...
what isn't... with modern woman and feminism?
          a simple boy can't offer up simple love...
i learned from my supervisor...
the daughter of my neighbour that she's no longer
working for the company...
SLANDER... in H'america you can go to court
for that sort of ****... false-accusation, no?
that's what happens...
when a devil tries to outsmart a devil...
the latter devil pushes on... with gifts... with niceties...
the former devil has no option but to retreat...
to its own, former: hellhole... bog...
imagining someone i wanted to love...
stomach pains... mistaking them for butterflies...
single mum, dating much younger men...
or dating men who were big on *******...
former ex-boyfriend women beaters who ran her
into bad credit rating... with... debt...
i know of the mistakes i've made...
   two... in my early twenties... that's why the rest of
my twenties are a blur... that's why only now
i've reemerged as this extroverted silent type...
in my mid-30s... having plans...
   i wouldn't call it: ******* away my youth...
i'd call it... sorry... what? no, sorry... i was sort of absent...
probably alone in the forest... probably at night...
problem being... she can block me on whatsapp...
she block me on the internet...
       hmm... small world... a very small world...
she'll have to move... or commando the minutes she takes
her dog for a walk... the ******* dog licked my scabs / wounds
clean... he has my blood in his veins...
if he sees me... he's going to bark in my direction...
ghost me, *****? in the good old days...
the claustrophobia of a little city where i was born...
my parents lived... let's say... 600 metres apart...
but it took... being jointly invited to a wedding of fellow friends
that brought them together...
Jeminah can't ghost me... like she could forget about
all those guys she flicked left on
when we worked together on a shift on Tinder...
you can't shake off locality...
i'm practically her neighbour... in terms of of how
globalism comes across... what? i'm not allowed to cycle
down this street? she's not even living on the street i'm cycling
down... she's living on the cul de sac...
but i'm not paying for... the debt her ex...
whatever he was racked up in retaliation...
what a pretty face... what pretty hair: hair that i'd give
up drinking whiskey for... it's almost the same colour...
just keeping to the foundation
of routine... i like that street... cycling down it...
if she has any complaints... she better take out
the scab tissue of my DNA from her dog's gob...
but dogs don't simply: forget who they endear...
with affection... the internet distance conundrum
is not going to work on me... the only way she's going
to ghost me... proper... is moving somewhere else...
small world... small town... in the vicinity of Collier Row...
obviously i'm not going to bother her...
god forbid... i have Khedra to mind...
the ******* that gets all the *** that no man
rarely does... and has to text me: come over...
i need you... yeah... that type...
i cycled past with a frown... i just spotted the dog...
ooh... right... well... i know who's behind that dog...
yep... a flicker of dark ginger: disguised brunette...
yeah... that's Jeminah...
but this is counter to how the internet works...
no? in a cosmopolitan setting?
she can't exactly ghost me...
  sure... she can block me... on whatsapp...
   from a ****-show she herself orchestrated... why?
because she didn't have the confidence to compliment
me, directly... she had to: slander me...
she became one of those... idiotic... sappers...
she self-sabotaged herself... notably? after i pushed forward...
with... wine, cake and flowers...
she became a self-saboteur...
   like i said to one of the other girls: lies don't walk on
stilts... lies have short legs...
just wait... see... i've been alone long enough to know...
certain little, ******... analogies?! behavioural patterns
of blah-b'ah black sheep...
             now... i'm waiting for the crescendo...
there's no denying it... i do drink...
   but... allowing women this "sixth sense" of sniffing out
alcohol on... a person you just met...
accusing them of drinking on the job?
i know the territory... my grandmother had the same
sixth sense... when she turned my grandfather into
an alcoholic... he finally broke down and threw her
through a glass door...
        me? ******* prostitutes?! i'm trying to escape that
headache... keeping it sorted behind a... paywall...
   first comes the payment...
i'm not landing on something that's... ahem... "free"...
- it is a big deal! you slander someone
and in H'america you can be taken to court!
i do drink, heavily... but when i'm working...
i half my intake if not third it...
      i wash, i pamper myself... i end up sober on the shift...
at the London Stadium people either take
selfies with me or give me sweets...
i'm a sucker for pop music and... gelatine infused sweets...
i can't refuse them... chocolate can simply not
exist... but... give me a bag of Haribo...
esp. those sour-sweet types... i can't help myself...
i just have to eat them...
- but, this is... a 2nd Jeminah Revelation...
she... she can't swipe left on me... on Tinder...
i'm not on Tinder: never have...
    i'm almost her neighbour if i take out the bicycle...
i can be round her house in a matter of minutes...
London, even Greater London... has... shrunk... for her...
she can block me on an APP-lication...
but she can't... block me... cycling down a road
she takes her dog for a walk...
               i wonder how this dynamic will work out...
on her mind... i was waiting for this moment...
you can't just... ghost me... when i'm living: locally...
sure... you can... "ghost" me... but... that implies:
you have to move... i'm not moving...
i'm rooted... i haven't been this rooted in a long time...
funny how that works...
whatever it is that works... bicycle breaks...
the wheels... the moon and the tides...
that sure as **** works...
the sun and photosynthesis... that also works...
but... the interaction between women
and men, these days?
sure as ****: it's not working...
  which is, rather... a crying shame...
do we really have to go into interracial territory
for it to work?
personally? i don't feel like it...
    no, not really...
                  whoever takes over...
oh... i'm pretty sure the current white overlords
are planning an ultra-coup-uprising of
being the chosen typos...
               whatever...
                i have lost interest in this world...
from about... 2 years ago?
yeah... the world is sort of automated for me...
i lost interest in it...
the whole matter of the "pandemic"... sort of desensitized
toward any sort of attitude toward Ukraine...
i sort... hmm... ahem... don't care...
Ukrainians celebrated the invasion of Poland
by the Nazis during World War II...
if i'm not directly involved: invoked...
i'm going to play the "solipsist" / pacifist card...
the Pontius Pilate poker...
               i'm out... i was already out...
i just don't want to be involved...
                         is that somehow a Buddhist monk
"sentimentality"?
             to hell with Buddhism...
                         1960s cultural appropriate import...
i'm yet to be rid of the **** Christianity that
turned European barbarism into European
secularism.

It is all fake sadness
Without cups, no sprite to collect the rains
We are an endless rolling fog
on the edge of the terrain.

We are foxes living in the suburbs
we are sneaky creatures not meant for fluorescent light-bulbs
and streetlamps
We are the oldest vulpines alive

I had been asked about symbology-- about flags and shapes and geometric plagues
I had to recollect the places in my head, London was a dime, Berlin was a teeter-totter
U.S.A was a great big long balloon snake

There wasn't anything left to say in the barbershop,
the razor blades dully buzzing,
no songs but the buzzing
of satellite radio

I got a removal done,
my deforested head could feel the wind caress it
I was a new and reemerged cocoon with a lacking self-confidence
I studied books and computers at Best Buy

You were a yet unknown quantity
you were god in the skies of San Ramon Valley High
Or perhaps the other prestige of some other village dream
You emerged and contained within the largest fib

Give me one good reason why
You deserve any more of god than the earth.

These tears are like spears to my heart
My mind is so numb
Stripped of all it's moisture
I guess I haven't desensitized myself enough
I tried to never feel again
I almost succeeded
And yet a tactless mouth uttered not well thought out words
And now they're all tucked in their bed
Dreaming of their unmet fantasies
While I'm here
Trying desperately to console myself without numbing
All the while crying these burning tears
Where's the empathy? I ask
But I guess they've never felt this amount of pain
I had held it down for so long
But it reemerged,
And in my eyes comes the unceasing rain.

i'm constantly bemused, and rarely, amused, when reading heidegger... that's what i like about this genre above all other genres... sure, poetry is freeing, from the claustrophobic and sometimes overly "pedantic" plots, that borrow from some other stories and merely replica the originals... at least within the confines of poetry there's always an element of spontaneity, and there is no need to over-stretch something with periods of mundane mini-sub-plot drama... poetry is was crude oil is to refined petrol of a narrative... it's the raw material... philosophy on the other hand? well... it gives you the reaction materials, or rather: if philosophy is a reflective realm of narrative, a poet can read philosophy, and provide the reflexive narrative... with a snap of the fingers, he or she is already geared up, ready to spew a counter-narrative...
                       and that's the only truth you will ever, truly hear, from a heart that would rather cry at beauty of a byzantine chant, and give tears of joy to the beauty, as alms, rather than invoke the wrath of god, and give into using words while *******, as also praying... i can't remember whether i contaminated *** with words, i ****** like an animal... silently... sometimes i even refrained from expressing an "onomatopoeia" of gratification of broken syllables upon ******, i would sometimes eat it with silence... you allow words into ***? hail the formidable temple of satan... why require god (the word) in such acts, to later use the same medium to pray to god? why even bother praying? vain are the words of prayer, these mantras... god? is it really such an infantile / delusional hope? what was the prime motivation to continue life over the centuries... was it... a darwinism realization?

      a scientific fact moved people along? saturate people with enough science, show them their capabilities while hiding or mocking their flaws... and what sort of future is settled? no one needs to be right about everything in some i.q. caluclation to find a motivation, a will to live, to continue, or preserve... however snarky the new atheists or skeptics are... i say... well... god is over-imagined for personal gratification... i never came into this world: expecting what is before me, and past me... why should i expect whatever is behind the 9 month curtain in the confines of Our Mother's womb, Death's ***** (ah! at last, a non-gender neutral noun in the english language! death, in english, is, feminine! it's something welcoming, even if we depart unwanted, we arrive at... the point of being universally welcome, for all that live, die... as i once spoken with my grandfather on the balcony overlooking a graveyard: there... there is your democracy! there is you egaliterianism! no one is more equal, than they are equal, with a cross as shadow, lying in the hearth - we rise, we don't rise, it doesn't matter, if no great thing was ever accomplished by us, at least petty squabbles with neighbours do not bother us, anymore).

that's why i never understood why darwinism has dazzled so many people for so long, mind you, only in the anglophonic world... if you look elsewhere... darwinism is not a championed idea, as true as it might be, it's not elevated to an unshakeable dogmatism, differences are settled... but this anglophone "history" (current year) to no history jumping, between man and ape... and then even further to a big "bang" (can you, hear anything, in a vacuum? so why is it a big "bang"?!)
                                        it's a bit of a frenzy, jumping across so many histories... picking and chosing, cherry picking the best bits of the bible, or the quran, the same is with history, in these western lands, cherry picking... history is also subject to the same scrutiny at any of the holy books... again... heidegger... i am bewildered when reading him, circa 1938... when he writes about "the" Germans... by the looks of things, these "Germans", are not the Germans of heidegger's time... when i read about the aspirations of one philosopher, and put that against the current times... who were these people, who gave birth to the 21st century upon defeat in 1945? was it it also the ****** crisis smothering western berlin by allied forces right into the 1970s and early 1980s, children on ******?
                             wir, kinder von bahnhof ZOO -

                  who were these mythical Germans that heidegger is citing? of course, the pacified vierte ***** experiment, its ****** name for a currency, its even ******* currency aesthetic, of course there was going to be a pushback... after all, germanic peoples, goths, moved all the way past the Iberian peninsula and died off in northern africa... but... again... attention-seeking ***** that's England had to stage a politico-media frenzy, milking, milking, milking into their 3rd year running, after a while though... lethargy kicked in... but... there are still countries with their own currency... attention-seeking ***** still has her Lizzie on the FIAT... so... again... who are these mythical Germans of the early 20th century? these... standard bearers... they are to me as mythical as ancient Greeks or Romans... ashes in the sand... not by current standards would i place such hopes on their shoulders... such hopes would soon become too burdersome and they would not withstand the burden...
                   which is kinda of ironic... there was a prophesy... about the revival of the roman empire... it's not like i'm exactly religious... but it is being fulfilled... how the revival of the roman empire would ultimately fail... book of revelation... and, lo and behold! but you always hope... that people would not succumb to prophesy, by fulfilling it, rather, averting it... one thing is for sure though...
               das zweite heilig römisch *****...
has reemerged...
                         although... it's still not properly unearthed...
and... it shifted a little bit to the left... east...
        of **** me... its catholic claustrophobia **** show
over there... the way children are indoctrinated
in jesuit schools in the "alchemy" of catechesis?
           i would rather listen to a ******* adhan,
and that's as much honesty as you'll ever get...
                      i like visiting my grandparents...
                                   but...
          i much prefer the shitshow of England...
     i like grit... i like the grime...
                                                   the local *******...
i like the Irish, teasing me: oh but there are so many
neo-Nazis in Poland these days...
                  and then i wait for the same
       ******* mushrooms to pop up, in England!
oh they're always certain, the IRA...
                    see... it's a beautiful dream!
                       eh... less a united kingdom,
more... the anarchic kingdom...
                 since everyone is so so eager to grab
and pull... to burn the magic carpet from
under the ***** of Windsor...
                               still, heidegger, and those mythical
Germans! who were these people?!
i can't see them, not even one generation
later, hell, forget about two generations later,
who were these people?!
                     it's only been less than 100 years...
and i'm thinking about them like they're
       contemporaries of Pericles, for ****'s sake!

and now for the original draft:

.famous, those sardine-like-crammed trams of Cracow... you almost get the ultra-tourist experience of the trains heading to Auschwitz... mind you, poles are the most audacious commuters, making the packed trains of the London tube look like feng shui art-spaces... god almighty, even the english tourists screamed: thank god for the London transport service! i really was reliving being shipped off to a concentration camp... i tried to fiddle my hand into my trouser pocket to check the time on my phone... nope... started sweating like a porky on an enlarged hamster-wheel when in fact standing still... i'd call it a claustrophobic dying of a heart-attack type of commute from the airport into the centre of town.

there's nothing more abhorrent
than irish catholicism,
wait, there is: polish catholicism;
just overtly riddled by
freud's madonna-***** complex
in women...
   no wonder it's so hard to get
a hard-on around these women...
              and why ukranian /
bulgarian prostitutes give it to you
straight away...
                 nationalised catholicism
is just about as ugly as
individualised protestantism,
  notably in england...
      both are twice as bad at attempting
to be good.

- for a tomorrow of any "me":
i'm not a moral actor...
if i had the gratifying morality
that allows itself to clone...
yes... i would be a moral actor...
and beside moral acting
and sycophancy...
grand-standing before the mirror
details of whatever focuses itself
in a mirror and acts...
like ice but never the water...

but i can't be a moral actor...
if i'm already a mortal act...
for man to deviate into morality...
as some escape from
mortality... "it's only a 'missing' T"...
we can't escape mortality...
yet there are people who usurp
the reality of fatalism: mortality...
with a "reality" of moralism:
nihilism... the "reality" of a loss...
who would be the "wiser"...
the man who says:
do what you can in gravity of your days,
or...

what retains patterns of vogue...
ask the puritans!
what is moral one year...
is immoral the next...
and then they clash over escaping
the chains of taboo!
but for the "moral agent"...
there's only the "taboo" of mortality...

to have to die a moral man...
an antithesis of a nihilist...
to "escape" nihilism?
perhaps nietzsche wasn't pushed far enough...
i can't find an escape from fatalism...
not because i can't...
but because i don't "want" to...
otherwise: i only want what i can will...
and what i don't want...
is what lies beyond my capacity to will...
it's not a will toward "powerlessness"...
it's a will-within-itself...

but a moral man panics... when staging
an "argument" against the mortal man...
i'm not an moral man...
in that i am a mortal man...
a nihlism without death...
is... like... fatalism....
with enough cherry trees to take your
pickings to simulate a state
of solipsism... i.e.: you don't get in my way:
i don't get in your way.

The bustling city life
Only brings the death like traits in us all
But when it rains
I escape to my grotto

Nestled in a park of the city
It holds a shrine, a pond, and my peace

The rain trickles down the trees
where ripples disturb the sleeping pond

That's when I met her

Everyday it rained
I met her

Everyday it didn't
I thought of her

Everyday became the rainy days, while sunny days no longer held the same warmth

All that mattered was the garden
Were only words were spoken
Not words of our lives
Not words of our worries
But words of our hope

She was the only comfort
But summertime came

I worked every night, and tried to detach myself from her
But I couldn't
I couldn't

It was still sunny, but I didn't care

I went to the garden
She was there

There were no words to be said
Only my love to be heard

Thunder clashed with the atmosphere
And drove us home

We enjoyed this temporary happiness
Free of society, of worry, of thought
We only spoke words after all
There was no thought behind it
Only feeling
And with all my feeling I said those 3 words

"I love you"

Thunder reemerged
Happiness scuttled away
I changed, and left
I stood at those stairs

With sadness, anger, and loneliness
I know we couldn't be my mind repeated

Before I could change the words in my head
She called for me and stared at me with those sad eyes

"I hate you"

"Why don't you say what your feeling"
"What do you think will change"
"I hate you"
"I hate you"

Before I could say three words, she ran and hugged me with all her feelings. I forgot my words. I forgot my feelings. In one instant I understood her pain and sorrow. "You saved me, thank you"


It's winter now, my grotto lay barren
The trees no longer hold water droplets to be passed onto the pond
But I still remember her

In our garden of words
Were no real word was spoken
But real feelings clashed
Were thunder sang, and trees danced

Were rain was the bridge between two humans and their happiness

I always wonder how she is doing but I hold one thought to my heart

That someday it'll rain