i no longer pray for forgiveness.
i pray for growth.
and for me

that is enough.

I feel your brown orbs scanning my skin
My heart gently skips a beat at the feelings of old
Long past when I thought you to be beautiful
When I thought you to be near angelic

However, days, months and years have passed
Since I heard your voice and cherished its sound
Now I silently applaud my feeling of deep disgust
For the heartless creature that you are

Although my heart skips and jumps
I no longer will feel pressure from your freely moving eyes
Only the pleasure in knowing that my love is far too grand
For you frail hands of blood stained glass to handle

You ripped my heart from my chest once
And I swore it would never happen again
At first it was difficult to say no
But it is now twice as much so to say yes

and if i made any mistakes in the process... is that: sorry, or... oops?! if i were truly English i'd throw in the: dodging Badger to boot... but since aye ain't... **** it, arms in the air: the sheriff called the deputy while Honey called the Winkle and all is just a Safari gag: toothless lions, my god, talking monkeys and actual termite architects! it's one of those trips you don't take Seer Attenborough on... risk of contagion of acquiring narrative you see... finally a time when england became wholly proletariat... or simply immigrant... but is the left really left in that you mean a: slav? current year: the expression of the left in western society is alienating me from the experience of what my grandfather is: a unit of authoritarian solidification of post-scriptum **** rule; i don't understand what the current climate conceptualises as "the" left, other than the reemergence of the petty bourgeoisie... that's no "left"... well not the left i know my grandfather to be.

    - at such precise times:
   no wonder men turn to utilising colours and shapes -
     not that writing this has been
bothersome - only that:
      it's just much easier to reduce the use of
language worth asking for a pint of milk,
   thank writing a poem:
imagine having to stand naked,
  while actually being attired...
     darting to & fro when actually
standing fixed to an orbit focus -
          to have to explain the colloquial...
or to establish the colloquial...
   as if using language cannot be,
in comparison: when
paintings require the "*******"
of an art historian or an art critic...
but poetry: oh, ****, that needs
a milkman to get!
or some ****-pants 14 year old teen!

- how can you approach the modern
**** sapiens with his grasp
of technology?
     one way would be to:
    approach him like a monk,
       a puritan, or merely as an:
                                                 animal.
yet modern man doesn't
        deserve the curiosity he fashions
himself with...
            instead of watching a rex genus:
i'm watching
          a bewildering scoop of
inhibition awaiting a proper scope
to find: outlet...
          with the internet being
a minor source of said
                      context of
                    available expression...
for a long time man has lived
to appreciate yet at the same time abhor
living in a society that
hides knowledge of its technological
advances, while freely distributing
an access to them...
       simultaneously mystifying
                           the use of a it;
a ******* ape is starting to counter-perplex
itself regarding a stone,
and use it,
      while i am thinking about
a levitating keyboard!
        which is supposed to translate
into a precipitation's worth of a hammer!
collectivism is a type of
pedagogy...
         that being said: i'm no rex genus...
       i'm starting to think whether
i'm competent with language...
                  and there was a cue where
i was supposed to say: what?
- and then i retire to Samuel Beckett's
Watt* and concise myself to:
   far from *******...
             because why would a ******
concern himself with intro- or retrospect?
the "no offence" is part
of the fact that: i don't know
              how to identify a pseudo-...
                  but it's a pleasing thought,
mind you,
       that i'm as "*******" as the next person
not wishing to go to a Star Trek
convention... maybe i just like
the sliding doors, or the escalator...
or: **** me... vapping...
               i'm still going to adhere to
the mantra: smokers' cough does not
exist on continental Europe...
              this air is wet, it's foul,
    damp... a ******* mushroom incubator!
        hell-spawn of: yes, i am experiencing
excess phlegm!
                       what sort of idiot
would want to conquer this sort of place?!
******* fungus people!
           they exfoliate an aura
                     for you to need to curse!
            at least Winters on continental Europe
are dry!
            i'm sick from the damp!      
seen a wet dog before?
   England is a wet dog...
           it's like gagging watching
a video of a carrot being peeled...
              which ends up being more funny
than a Monty Python sketch.

- and what's because ******* did what?
i hate to have to reduce an art form
into a colloquial ***** to fit "purpose"...
colloquial is not a poetic technique...
    but this art is having to resort to
making itself colloquial -
   it is gagging to be written into the codex
of an IKEA manual to put
                     up a ******* chair!
        
- suddenly language can't be akin to painting...
suddenly every Kandinsky must
fit into a tight-knit paragraph...
    the sort of **** your grandma knits for
you to don a sweater and call it
                        the village bicycle gag...

- i am also supposed to feel guilt with
regards to the moral question of prostitution,
having paid a *******,
   while subsequently giving her an ******...
now that's a real
    huckleberry finn moment of:
oh, gee gosh... you think she baked an
apple pie while he was at it?

- some paint... some write...
      and some just manage to imitate marathon;
but i'm **** sure fewer have
managed to creep up to Kraszewski and
ask: so why do "they" hate you?
    which he replies with:
             so why do "they" bother reading me?

- it's worth noting that i don't
know any Ukrainian, Lithuanian,
Estonian or Latvian writers...
       so with regards to "fame"?
                   i'm trying to look for these people,
foremostly.

Who would imagine
An odd chance
A lucky guess
Or maybe fate
An old email
A forgotten password
And just like that were back

I prayed often
that you would die.

not horribly, and perhaps
at that age
by death
I meant
disappear.

     wherever you are

I have long held that your reemergence
would bring me closer to god.

There is no way to describe
the part
of the initial disappearance
other than to say
it's breathless
watching my reemergence,
glistening with you like that,
repeated
again
&
again
& again
& again
to fruition,
the exploding of our raw senses.

remembering sweating together
the summer without cooler air.
we ****'d, project'd insanity,
then dispersed - true summer time
girl. trying to rise, and
  - it's so hot in here
in the middle of the night, at three
ante meridiem. and
  - it's so hot in here
as i drag'd an ice-cool'd rag from
neck down back. and
  - it's so hot in here
as the single open window vent'd
our steam. and no one remembers
hiding between the negatives. no one
remembers their own foot placement.
and i long for the discomfit of that
oven-apartment, talking with her. and
  - just chillin' and drinkin'
have become her life. thirteen on thir-
teen and
  - i'm so tired
in the sense of a Kesey character. to lose
everyone when no one was there.
  - what the ****?
    why is this life not over yet?
and being over this, over the readiness
to die. conquer'd once, realizing the
true deception at its reemergence.

When do we stop?
At some point you think it has to right?
  Everything must stop.
   Well when is it our turn?

Leafs change colors and fall to the ground.
Animals die and so do relatives.
   Then their just gone they have stopped.
     But when do we stop?

We hurl on through life-
  learning about it all-
   about nothing-
    everything about nothing

Then we try to teach it to others.
We try to understand it ourselves-
   and still we don’t stop

All around us things start-
new things.
  On their life long walk waiting for the end-
    waiting on the lottery

Reemergence’s of old things-
old feelings-
  old memories.
   Some linger-
    others stop-
     but we’re still moving.

We just want to rest, to stop moving for a while-
but we don’t-
  and its miserable.

All the emotions and the feelings-
the questions-
  the experiences-
   the content some have found.
    It all piles up-
     And it’s moving us, always moving us.

Eventually we get to the end.
It’s not very pretty.
  We’re still not content.

we start to worry-
about all the questions we had.
  The ones that were never answered.
   What we didn’t discover-
     didn’t feel.

then, there is fear.
Because all this time we have wanted to stop.
  Now we want to go on.
   We don’t want it to fade away.
    We're not done here-
     and we become more miserable-
      more angry.

Then we miss the ultimate experience.
The one in the very end.
  Where we see what’s next.
   Where we discover what this whole experience was.
    And where we truly find peace.

She is like the orange
tree that fades into the mist.
when it goes away I got no
doubt her leaves will change when
I'm the only earth she can root
too in the winter time and her
fruit only quenches my
desert thirst for her sudden
reemergence in the spring.

by: William A. Marshall

I disrobe and survey
noiseless instruments so
austere rather dreary
colored walls that reflect
unemotional elements I
ask for another blanket
so sterile a fragrance
like nothingness fill my
nose eyes float disregarding
back to the strangeness of
time moving as sounds of
feet flap in the corridor
I wait then as a subdued
knock at the door my
immortal sketch filters this
time but I broaden with
unpredicted comfort receptions
you can only receive when people
are not well an agreeable scene
professional mollycoddling
no fussy clinging of inseams
that ruin atmospheres
I go head on into obscurity
as a nurse asked in a puzzled
way about my faith she
was confused by my notes
about Dostoyevsky
I provided in that portion
of the form she wanted
to know irrespective of what
the other staff told her
I shook my head with
acceptance responding with a
vague originality the back of my
mind thinking what if I don’t
return - a way that is disconcertingly
adequate and peaceful and quiet
I notice my garments stuffed
into a clear plastic bag
to be received by somebody
upon my possible reemergence
locating a theme in time
and a lack of difficulty with everything
not interfered with but
unexpectedness actually the minutes
move away knowing that I will
not remember spike introduced
to vein as they examine the
drips of dose inhalations mounted
in my face muffled voices
fade the syringe is plunged
I know the train is now
approaching down the
track but I am not uneasy for
some reason talking more
about nothing while people move
the morning flows mechanically
without me like water
in a brook never to be
seen again chatting melodically
then calmness where I had
gone that wintertime morning
I can’t remember all I was
content though on that cradle
I know it was suitable late the process
had taken and imagined into an abode
that I no longer recall smiling
knowing it was a delightful place
where people take you into
their care peeking slowly then
through the fog when I glanced at
my wife assured by the cup of coffee
that she offered
and recovery rinsed over me
a return to my existence like returning
from death

it's been a while
i feel like the mildly growing mold over grout between the old ceramic tiles
Slowly
sLowly
slOwly
sloWly
slowLy
slowlY
slowly all the molecules compile forming molecular sieves
established in a matrix as complex as keanu reeves
the grief, placed by the thief, who longed relief, while he took all his treasures from that broken down coffee shop and placed them by the reef,
what they didn't know was in the basement lied a fortune that was a generations worth of priceless treasures
and i sat and watched from the shore line
no reports
no incident claims
no shedded spotlights
i merely out grew the incident from my memory,
as mold out grew grout between a forgotten coffee shops fermenting ceramic tiles

title: alphabets
body: soup brigades:
QWERTY
because not ABCDEF 502 bad gateway bypass

well, spring is here, somehow "finally": what a splendid winter
it was, i can't remember a winter like the one that
passed... toying with the role of steward at football stadiums...
even yesterday, i was the break guy...
i had about seven stewards under my supervision...
all of the seven got their 15 minute breaks: if not longer...
at least 3 got two breaks...
    the other guy on the opposite side of the stadium even
made a complaint: you shouldn't be giving them so much
leeway... oh **** me: i thought... here we go...
the hierarchy game... i actually don't mind...
              what is it with people who are put a tier above
others that they suddenly ego-trip?!
          can't we just get along?
                if i'm not complaining... why should someone
complain for me? point being... i noticed his side of
the stadium... how many breaks did he give? zilch... nada...
none... little ******* Latvian ******...
                  every 20 minutes or so i walked my stretch
of the stadium, knelt down... tapped each of the steward's
shoulder... you alright? obviously i was being extra nice
to the three girls i had on my watch...
the cerebral palsy guy was also taken care of proper...
sure... he looks like he's boxing drunk when walking...
but hey... what has that got to do with me?
god is cruel:
                   but me? at least i can be a gentleman;
but if god wasn't cruel? none of this could have come
about... it's a bit like me boxing myself when
fighting my shadow... taxi driver style...
but no mirrors this time... just my shadow...
that's the closest i come to an understanding...
gott und nichts...
   let's face it... the stretch of the imagination? from ******...
from the potential of discovering alcohol...
from all the animals... from the botanical enclosures...
what a stretch of the imagination:
beginning with nothing...
                oh yeah... even parasites... the stretch of
the imagination...
like today... i was given the task of cleaning the garden
patio... me... tyrant... well... these weeds have to go...
finding newly born snails... oh... so cute...
are they born with those shells? or do they find them?
post-fact fake-news reality is a bit like:
well i'm not going to be the next Aristotle...
i... actually don't want to know...
i want to be kept in a stasis of awe...
                            so the weeds are gone... some of them
even blooming white little tender flowers
in the cracks of the patio... such a shame...
but at least these hands are tender enough...
then onto the fern... broken in parts by the tirade
of the three winter storms grooming England...
i forget the names... but then...
ah... splendid... ripping out dead-end-things
off the three agapanthuses...
                       dead-end stalks... literally ripping them off...
leaving all the strong "culprits" in full bloom
green... month or two... i'll be waiting for
the flowers...
man... so paradoxical... he can be really cruel to nature
but... somehow contradict himself...
the Nazis didn't contradict themselves...
they just forgot to... be strict enough...
if they just went after... the mentally debilitated...
the physically disabled... and didn't focus on healthy
Hebrews... just saying... Darwinian Utopia...
a reflection of how nature works...
not how human politics works...
           hmm... cruel cruel: the very real world...
not that i sympathise...
   i can take care of this cerebral palsy guy...
no problem... but at the same time...
if someone weaker is going to boss me around?
you know... there's a glitch in my mind... a sort of...
glitch like a headache... the world is not organised like this...
not the natural world...
this made-up fantasy world of man... that's a sick layer
of fantasy over the natural order of things...
that's when i get... slightly bothered...
glitch... glitch... glitch... i get this head ****...
like a sort of a stutter... hold on... wait a minute...
you know i'm allowing you to play this hierarchical
game... because... i have other things to do?
stop with this hierarchical ego-tripping for a minute
and you'll find that i'm corporative...
             but stress your status... a bit... too much?
glitch... glitch... ******* hell... my neck and head are
twitching... something's not right...
but at least i know that with flowers...
clones... they'll grow right back up... i pull out the unhealthy,
dying bits and... hey presto!
the same flower like last year...
funny... if the Nazis followed Darwinism proper...
didn't have this Hebrew fetish that sort... ha ha...
oddly enough... sped up the reemergence of the state of Israel...
would the state of Israel have emerged
if the Holocaust didn't happen?
                2000+ years and counting...
is this, a conspiracy theory?
        you tell me... last time i heard... Eva Braun had Hebrew
genes... hell... if these thoughts are
"controversial"... then the whole "survival of the fittest"
ought to be controversial too... no?
man is a contradiction of nature...
      man is counter nature...
                         yeah, sure sure... let's pander to the weak...
until the point they think themselves all-too-powerful,
tyrannical, in their bureaucratic castles... of paper-thin walls...
let's see how the weak manage things...
so many days i think about an elephant head-butting
a hyena... dead... then mummifying it
by shoving its trunk up the hyena's ******* and draining
all the insides out... like it might be sniffing with a gurgle
a line of *******...
mind you: by some akin to M. M. the song: the gardener...
songs like that... when the rhythm guitar is completely
absent, except for accenting in the verse section...
and only becomes prominent in the chorus...
when the BASS is as important as the drums...
it's like the reinvention of jazz, via rock...
that's when i feel that my heart has a beat...
mind you...
   so rare... when a ******* messages you in the middle
of the night... sends you three photographs
of herself from the past... and you send her...
some art...
the messages run along the lines...
   wait... aren't you getting enough ***? why are you
asking me to come over? oh... right...
finally... someone managed to realise
i'm good enough...
   - She: where are you
              come to me 1 hours
        what do you say
- Me: where am i? i'm at home, about to go to sleep...
- She: how did you shoot and sleep? ah i wanted
you to come to me to make me happy too
- Me: i can't come to you in one hours...
  i just did a shift and i'm fatigued...
    Brian Eno Prophecy Theme... plenty...
   you mentioned something about a free Sunday....
i don't mind if it's a fake / an excuse... i like horror...
i don't dream, therefore... anything unusual...
that might keep awake? a disguised blessing!
- She: yes bad you no call me for tell me when you
want...
- Me: if it was as simple as spending money...
  but it never was, really, nything to do about... spending
money... it was more about: who could fake it
more? the buyer... or the seller?
- Me: i first need to know what i want... you mentioned...
interacting outside the confines of the brothel...
but hey... i'm used to daydreaming.
- Me: Oh Khedra, i was really tried last night...
did a shift at the London Stadium, i was in no mood for ***...
remember last time i came over (after a shift)
and had no stamina, was sweating all over you,
now that i reread my (last) message: fatigue...
i was talking nonsense... then again...
there's something built into my psyche that's always
going to be suspicious when it comes to a woman
not being pleasured... i don't like having *** when
i feel that i'm the only person in the interaction...
it wasn't going to work last night, i need to have a routine
where i build up my stamina and want...
i just can't switch it on like i'm some disposable
Duracell bunny *****... i need to be in a mood:
i need to be longing... yesterday i truly wasn't...

sure... she wants me to come over... to earn? or to ****?
perhaps one and the same...
but i'm tired... i'm not in the mood...
would i have to dehumanise myself: pop an *******
pill and just: plough the field of ****?
i don't think that's how it works...
a woman doesn't just get to press a button...
and: hey presto! there's that walking *****!
i'm sort of happy with the project: once a month...
after i get paid...
too much regular ******* is sort of boring...
i can almost see it as boring...
  you get bored of kosher ******* that you have
to start peeping into the dimension of kinks
and queer-****...
             i take too much pleasure from taking
a **** to have to explore having to perform **** ***...
restraint... and then... release...
   oh sure... she tells me to come over...
i would have... if it was for free...
but paying for being dissatisfied is not an option...
if she said... i'm not at work... come to this address...
well... counter to my tiredness...
i would have made the effort...
   ah... the splendour of a transactional transparency...
no qualms over dates...
      whatever the dictates of western culture are...
or for that matter... any culture...
i'm sort of out of the "game"...
                 i always wanted to be a monk...
                                     well... a monk with an access
to a brothel like the Teutonic Knights of Marienburg...
who had... a brothel... in that ******* citadel...
i get to **** when i want...
not when she's ***** on a whim.

p.s. mind you... you know that mistletoe...
that's a botanical parasite...
i once told Jeminah... imagine kissing under it...
when i think of cancer...
i think of trees with mistletoe...
well... it is... mistletoe is a parasitical plant...
you can best see it in bulbs... during winter...
as a parasite it has to be an evergreen plant...
so... while all its host trees are shaven clean
right down to the skeletal x-ray of branch...
the mistletoe is bulging in growth...

i just pull these googlewhacks
out of my ***: from time to time...

https://tinyurl.com/mrxt88tu

i.e. russophisation capter

Russification... Germanisation...
familiar terms...
just like India was subject
to English culture...

            or how Argentina is...
distinctly: Argentina and not some
extension of Spain...

or how Brazil is... Brazil...
and distinctly so...
and completely devoid of what
Portugal continues to be:
being Portugal...

mind you: the tougher the ****...
the cleaner your *** is going to be...
you might just have to take
one wipe... and it's all rosy...
oh that: constipated sort of:
the closest man will ever come to
giving birth... this existential angst
of a tough piece of brown loaf...

geopolitics... once upon a time...
Western countries complained... moaned...
on the top of Cologne cathedral...
why will not the Polacks allow for
refugees! why oh why!

             fast forward... right...
     roughly 2 million Ukrainians are now...
living in ******-lack-land...
(a ref. to King John)... so you think...
it could be... sensible... to carve up Ukraine?
we could have all those lands up to and including
Lviv... how's that?

i'm only joking... but... we already have
2 million Ukrainians... if we incorporated
the western lands of Ukraine... while Rasputin
took the eastern lands...
hell... joke... the fabled reemergence of
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...

yes: i too have a "job": i'm a day-dream of
sorts... when i feel really down
i replay the cinema of history...
i mean: to have one... it's not all:
Darwinism: just dropped from a tree
and started talking ooh-ooh grr gorilla
funny... albino ape that i: scratch my head...
ponder... ****-flinging contest?!

what am i going to reference against?
my genes were nowhere to be found
at the time of Edward the Confessor...
   or... the Scandinavian Raids of these Isles...
erm... some part of me at the battle of Britain:
****** fighter pilots...
remembrance placard in the underground
of St. Paul's cathedral...
Britain said: war! against **** Germany...
but no British soldier ever stood ground
on the disputed land...
while... Polacks ****** off... and fought for
Brish... everything Brishish...

repaid... demure of... copper-necks! in!
        that was the Brexit-argument...
too many Europeans mingling with too many
Europeans...

times like this... America and it's race...
and colour-blindness and whatever...
complicated little Europe and its ethnicity strains...
because: oh... i've been to Kenya...
i could tell you a Kenyan from a Nigerian: apart...
Kenyans are darker...
the women? they sort of glow at night...
as if smeared in... quicksilver-ivory...
i don't particularly... you know...
    entertain the idea of a black girl...
            but this one: in invisible ink... written on her
forehead: TROUBLE...           oomph!

curvy, plump... plum... cherry... **** me:
do i need to howl?! i'm not going to bark...
but that was the covert narrative...
too many Eastern Europeans...
           ****... no problem: fair enough...
we'll send them back... they'll gladly go back...

call me: call the Bengali UBER kids!
Scot?! scoot up! go on... shovel shovel...
diggy diggy...
             i never understood anti-racism...
i understood racism...
that's why it took me a while to sleep with
a black girl... a Thai girl... a Turkish girl...
a half-Indian girl... half half ha ha halves blah...
trans-racial Indian girl: how's that?!
neo-Brazilian... how's that?

i'll start going cross-eyed when blinking
on that banana skin of racial terms...
oops... slipped... into the Niger river...

that's the thing about drinking to excess...
you take a nap... because... oh god... the bacon was too salty...
that Carbonara came out all wrong...
funny: almost wong...
that dish? apparently invented during the second world
war...
when there was a shortage of... ******* everything...
those H'americano GI's came to Monte Casino
with bacon and eggs... hey presto!
the Seigl-Hi-Talians has some salt, water,
parmesan, garlic and pasta spare...
no onions... no parsley... oh come on... parsley:

prezzemolo! prezzemolo! eh! prezzemolo!
hide the dyslexic two Zees...
do i need to bring the Cyrillic in? the Greek?
preцemolo! come on... for the optics...
i'm not going to argue the stance
of dwarfs in the Lord of the Rings
against... elf vegans... but... optically...
if you're eating something as bland as...
pasta... some sprinkle of green will not hurt:
not the eyes...

right... you take a snooze... wake up...
you've had it rough...
there's not one intellectually equivalent
to you in the vicinity... ******...
right then... shut up... think some more...
but what i discovered... pseudo-hang-over...
water... starts to "taste" like... milk...
it's ******* magic...
i don't know how it happens...

       eh? sorry... i'm pretending to be deaf
to pretend to be thinking...

literally: you become so dehydrated that...
water... makes itself available to acquire
the properties of milk!
it's more "thick"... it's more... glut... eh?!
what the ****'s that?!
i have a gut... i'm missing a horse...
it actually tastes like something:
but it's water... it's universal...
it shouldn't taste of anything...
                 no no... no honey... this is *******...
Yucky-Yack milk!
this is a leprechaun milking a unicorn...
which... considering... Perseus and Pegasus...
o.k. sorry...               WHY>?
   i'm trying to flap my hands about like
an octopus' hello... telekinetically... i.e. not obviously..
head full of apples... juggling...
no hands... a pretty magic trick...

for ****'s sake... how did a unicorn ever replace
the Pegasus!
i know who to blame... the British...
too high-brow... no... taste for orthography...
i.e. that 3D project of reality:

vectors: ortho:
                meta:
                                    ­      para:

standard... in... discovering the benzene ring...
sorted... but not... oh no no no... no no...
that was never going to happen!

you, as a people, have not applied any orthograpahic
criticism: "criticism" of your tongue:
you borrowed all that's Latin: ancient Roman...
like pseudo-Afghani paupers of the north
with: pretense of non-origin... at times the Celtic
heart-bearers... at times the Saxons...
at times the Norman invaders...

your men are women confused by time...
that's what you are...
for all your glorious past...
i don't want to belong to it...
i can't... belong to it...
you... sniffing up the great *** of
H'america... i start to walk blind...
i stroke my bead: pretend to play the violin...

where is the orthography?
all those pretentious... sensible...
metaphysical arguments of an Englishman?
where?! where?!!
you ******* sulky little *******!
oh mate...

               i shouldn't be here... i'm not supposed
to be here... knowing me:
i'm supposed to be forever elsewhere!
trapped in katana or ideograms...
entombed... whatever...

  somewhere... where water tastes like milk:
in a firestorm of:
a gathering of the seven winds!
find me.. precious little fairy!
give me the patience: to wait;
linger with me within the confines of ice...
just let me

by now... water tastes like milk.

title - jack, shoot!
body - join
the barber shop
brigade:
best start?
at an afro.     502 bad gateway bypass

nothing ever good came from thinking of oneself
as being good...
nothing! zilch! it's only dawning on me...
not that this fact is dawning upon me...
i knew this already, almost "always"...
   nothing good ever came from thinking oneself
as being good...
like i explained to Khedra: but she insisted:
you're good... yeah... but i don't think i'm good...
why would i? i also don't want to feel happy...
happiness doesn't allow you to be reflective...
it makes you reflexive: you're living in the moment:
lost to it... melancholy gives one a higher purpose...
it enlarges your capacity for memory...
anything that erodes the acidity of pedagogy...
pointless facts and rubrics and arithmetic that
poisons the minds of men and women who end up...
performing menial tasks of labour...
what has 1 + 1 = 2 got to do with anything when
stacking shelves at a supermarket?!
  absolutely **** all!
                      the psychological schematic
dissection of parts and pieces... of...
well... if "god" does not exist...
     why should a soul exist... and why should there
even be a logic behind it?
    and so... in vitro? in the dimension of glass...
in dimension of mirrors and smoke...
because where is the agony of fire?
                 oh, those cigarette burns on my knuckles
of my left arm are nicely healing...
stigma surrounding a man harrowing
his libido through a brothel...
   didn't the English girls leave double-standards
lying about? too hard to get? ******* nuns...
the best i ever got was...
this girl's dog... licking my ears...
      but i told it: not the face... sure... lick my ears...
then the licking of the knuckle wounds...
oh sweet pain... the highest form of sensation...
mind you: i couldn't possible exercise giving
pain that i myself couldn't ingest...
oculus per oculus: an eye for an eye...
           it resounds... echoes: fair...
primitive... but...         n'ah... none of this modern
secular *******... it's "humane" for delaying
punishment...
    oh man... she should have come out with it
in the beginning... i gave off a scent of being appealing...
thump! the accusation! get me fired!
#metoo... she liked me immediately...
             stupid girl... got tangled up in...
a tactic that backfired... self-sabotage...
            well... can't back away from this one...
i did mention along the way:
   i wouldn't date anyone i worked with...
sort of unprofessional...
                    if she wanted to date me... i offered her
the prospect... so she got herself fired...
blocks me on all avenues of communication...
how's that going to work?!
there's playing coy... there's playing hard-to-get...
and then there's: just the plain daft: impossible...
madwoman territory...
  what?! i'm going to raise a kid by one man...
and also... pay off the debt that another man racked up?!
we're not dealing with antiques...
we're dealing with broken women...
women broken by men who were probably raised
by women like her...
       stigma about going to the brothel...
no... i'm sort of immune to that...
last time i went... after an hour...
i was walking down the stairs...
   she was walking ahead of me... she took the time
to walk down the stairs quickly and turn
around... and feast her eyes on me...
what i was wearing... she smacked her lips...
nice... just what i was expecting...
  hmm... in the name of the father and of the son
and the holy ghost...
well... trilogies... trinities... triads?!
              i'm starting to suspect that... i have all the traits
of being... THAT guy...
            spending so much time in German thought...
it's almost, very refreshing ti delve into French thinking...
via translation.... it's very much a "word salad":
a clash of conjunctions & prepositions...
       that's how i see it... it's not like ancient Latin...
odd... whenever the Hebrew deity went...
either the subservient minor (deities) joined the host...
became fallen angels: Ba'al...
   Beelzebub... to name but a few.... Moloch...
                    but like the scripts of the people...
who derided the Hebrews... the script of the Egyptians...
the hieroglyphs... the cuneiform of the Babylonians...
well... the Romans plagiarised the deities
of the Greeks... but... hmm... their text is still
intact... seems like... the Hebrews bewildered
themselves... over 2000 years...
why can't this alphabet, simply, die?!
     oh... this alphabet... it's not going anywhere...
it has become entombed in technology...
  in coding... scribble your little Indu-'Ebrew
schmiggles... sure... add some Arabic wiggles of
you desert people... shame the pig...
                learn to wear shoes that are not made
from pig: leather... keep your pants on without
the use of pig leather used on belts...
                         but... usually... what happened was...
the text of the people would be overcome
by the Hebrew deity...
             lost to time... how adamant of "us" to have
kept it...
sure... but the Runes succumbed to a sense
of sensibility... as this the Glagolitic Script...
      ⰏⰀ: m'ah... he / she (has)
              ᛗᚨ: also m'ah (the H is a surd...
a vowel-catcher... or... the instigator of / for
laughter... thereby a vowel-generator)...
  fair enough... these two alphabets disappeared...
they weren't practical...
even with the Holocaust... how is the Latin
script supposed to simply: "*******"?!
now i see the reemergence of the Egyptian hieroglyphs
with the emoticons...
       are you, absolutely sure... that...
almost everyone has been liberated from the shackles
of illiteracy? you sure?
   i don't think so... i have good reason to not think
so...
           but there's this "feel" among:
but it's the 21st century man... like, what?
that's somehow an opening for enacting
a 2nd year zero scenario?!
           what sort of an excuse is it to give to people
when saying: but it's the 21st century man!
and... human nature... switched off...
from its primordial vectors... overnight...
things suddenly changed when the 20th century
came to a closure? **** me... i thought i was naive...
guess this fox has plenty of chicken shacks
to choose from...
            21st century my ***...
                       it's a bit like that **** myth...
the thousand year *****! ha ha... it sounds... exactly:
just like that... all i hear is "excuses"...
but people are not like x, y & z...
no... people are exactly like the x, y & z
that you don't have the stomach for: digesting...
we're cold... we're calculating...
we're everything we wish we shouldn't be...
               and all the while people scream: oh god!
oh god! why me!
and god replies... but i made you, this way...
because i am, of this nature... of this disposition...
that's how man fell... he tried to overcome
the strict obligations of nature:
for something to exist in the first place...
it must be ruthless... kindness wouldn't bring
any of this to exist in the first place...
              STRIFE... what's the German equivalent?
STREIT... i prefer the English version...
                   if there's no struggle: there's no will...
if there's no will... there's no life...
to hell with freedom per se...
                  freedom akin to happiness is an unsatisfying
concept to want to uphold...
it's: illusionary...
it breeds incompetence... it breeds:
counter-productive-animosity...
                   superficial social standards of:
"invasion of one's personal space":
i haven't hit you yet, just tapped you on the shoulder...
etc.
                such a shame though...
i really fancied her... but off she went looking to be
an abused teenage girl in Rotherham...
waiting for her next Pakistani ****...
                      i tried... guess my words did ring true
in the end... liars don't walk on stilts...
i don't even think i manipulated anyone...
i just waited... i did make sure that my shirts were
properly ironed... that my trousers were too...
that i was properly pampered with the usual suspects
of creams, perfumes... etc.,
         once more: isn't slander... liable in H'america?!
can't you be put in court for... insinuating
a falsehood about someone?
                you know... trying to get them fired...
if she fancied me... but didn't want to work with me...
****'s sake... she SWIPED REAL LEFT this time...
she was swiping left left, left left... while i was working
a shift with her... no wonder i can only get a hard-on
in a brothel... what ******* reality ar we talking about
when it was as easy as going to a bar
and picking up a girl? the 1950s?! and i was accused
of being "out of reach of reality"... really?!
these girls are unavailable... they're talking to you
while also swiping rejection slips on a dating app...
******* herr doktor meister psychologyst...
and... being a hermit for so long...
i thought i'd be the one... telling strangers of my woes...
i remained reserved... and what did i hear?
what i didn't want to hear...
there was no talk about movies... music...
Heidegger's hammer... past relationships... past regrets...
and all... from women! it's almost as if...
something was stolen... the past 20 years...
almost insinuating: and where were you?!
hey... choice is a freedom afforded to us all...
it's this accusative tone... insinuated... covert...
   but, but... but... but...
      yeah... **** happens... that happy ship has sailed;
life.

The sunshine brings back memories sometimes.

Memories of times that feel eons away, yet are not that long ago.

My life in chapters, many feel more like succinct short stories

Or narratives or even poems.

A moment in time so unlike any other

That only a few words can capture its importance.

I miss the open skies of the West.

The feeling of promise, of hope, of enthusiasm, and excitement.

A full and vibrant energy silently,

But powerfully circulating through the air.

I miss the color of blue that the sky becomes in the mountains,

Speckled foreground of bright, golden leaves.

The sparkling, gurgling rivers.

Hiking in secret, sacred places.

I miss having a partner,

But not to the extent of sacrificing my well-being or peace.

Nostalgia isn’t bad.

It’s simply a quick reemergence into a pool of water

That you’ve dove into before.

Some waters are warmer than others.

I combine my past with my future.

I look to my dreams. I see the West in them all.