study, cram, call, make plans...
power point, presentation, speech, rewrite...
theory, materialism and idealism and the difference,
Marx, Freud to psychoanalyze...
on to polynomials, linear equations, I make a scientific notation...
take a break. (eat)
ham sweet and thick
with lots of pineapple and some cherries
potato bread and cheese
PowerAde to rehydrate
little vodca with o.j. and cigarette  
after lunch, breathe .
and it’s back to study lab to mentally beat meat.
paper due, final today, did I remember to triple check
and get rid of paper clips, include a cover sheet...
ready to evaluate... I think.
ready to second guess, miss dates and time, "you're late"
again...
95, 98, 3.5 GPA? pre-test, for final, make sure your research is done,
site, source, quote, student rate and double space
power nap, smoke again,
is the day over yet?..

.i'm pretty sure that someone like Mozart, composed, in total silence, didn't hum out a tune, given that he had to micromanage symphony, or rather, the latter stage of polyphony - synchronization of all subsequent parts... whereby music was more optical in its genesis than people might like to believe... of course auditory in its exodus from the godhead, but... i'm pretty sure the composition process for classical music, would never amount to the sort of fun impromptu of jazz... must be a black privilege sort of, "thing" to have found jazz lying around...

how did the beatniks even believe that
a cross-generational mongrel of an art
form, fusing poetry with jazz could ever work?
robert pinsky still has the dream -
but it's a bit like:
      you think you can smoke marijuana
and listen to blues?
              not drink a drop of the devil liquor
and take blues seriously?
       just like sonny clark would have
said: 'if you don't shoot it,
     you don't smoke it'...
         given that... this is not stoner rock
type of wasp hive droning, humming,
heavily repeated rhythm...
              nothing wacky like
thievery corporation doing a live
rendition of the forgotten people
                                             live on KEXP...
what's that phrase?
    i feel monged -
   i.e. so ****** that you don't know
if it's a brain or a jelly,
         a stomach or krāng...
an 8th of an ounce could last me a week...
never mind...
   but how could they even suppose
that, somehow... jazz would dissolve
into acid jazz...
   that ****** variant you don't hear
in a jazz club...
   sure... the one up in Edinburgh was
jazz by name only...
       instead?
   one night i heard the cover
of neil young's song old man...
yeah... very ******* jazzy...
                what's next, a banjo quartet?
first jazz song i ever heard was
art blakey & the jazz messangers'
      opening track from the album
   of the same name - moanin'...
          SOLD...
           had to stash on some of the records...
but did i really want to speak over
the music?
             did i want to contaminate
the music and produce some ****** mash-up
akin to the beatnik experiment?
     *******... high on dope...
              never bothered to call jazz...
the black man's equivalent status of
what white man's classical music is...
     and where's jazz now?
joshua redman isn't exactly a lifejacket
when a boat with 20 is sinking...
jazz has been neglected...
    relegated as posh black boy music
heading off to Yale... wap... or wrap it up...
talk with a mouth but forget playing
the ******* horns, the sax...
              can't exactly see a revival...
   but would i really want to speak to this music?
feels a bit like talking over an opera...
made sense back then, makes little or no sense
now...
                    beside the point...
      there's still a heatwave in england...
every morning i wake up in a furnace -
    or as if attired in a metallurgy suit working
raw metals...
       and i always ask myself the question...
to rehydrate...
   would i rather eat half a watermelon,
or drink a big glass of water?
                         it's always the first.

210,089 views on the internet, you sorta get the picture
as to why there's this need to keep count... esp. given
the video content...
    well... it's not that i live
   in a big brother society,
i can't believe that the concept of
a minority report by philip k. ****
hasn't become mainstream...
   and yes, i have this great distrust of
what was once oath, but now has become
a case of: all things otiose...
concerning Hippocrates...
        people begin to question reality
because: there's no reality beyond touching
a brick, or licking a postage-stamp...
psychiatry is contrary to Hippocrates...
   given that there's this illness
that incorporates the whole world,
and that a god omni-this-that-and-the-other
has created people who seem to want
to establish themselves as: with those
attributes inherent in them...
      all we can say about the god we created
is that: he's unthinkable...
   now come the pronoun assaults...
what if i weren't a man, and merely called
god a she or a gender-neutral it...
        jesus against the slackers...
   i find the second coming that happened
in 1945 with the unearthing of the Egyptian
library so, so so ******* revolting,
that every time i burp up a canape of *****
i only think about swallowing it back down...
   that's how revolting i find the second
coming to be... it happened... hello!
back in 1945... it already happened when
the nag hammadi library was unearthed at
the end of world war ii: "ironically"...
         well, sure: foretell the end of the world
drop an atom bomb on hiroshima and nagasaki...
i still don't see how the professional philosophers
of our age draw the line past the big bang theory
and darwinism and look for "ideas"
or "laws of thought" with a "beginning"
starting from the Greeks... don't know,
it passed me by... i found a new beginning
with the Germans... the so-called titans:
and yes, i: the little man...
    as akin to heidegger: how there is nothing
worth observing and everything must be willed:
the asian maggot-brains would just look
at Everest and not think to climb it...
when thought turns into verb...
you don't see a Vishnu... you see a Shiva...
people can't be trusted with heidegger's concept
of dasein... sure, people need a will,
but when will becomes obliterated
  due to certain nuances that only demand
such a light-stroke of being kept:
you don't get anything profound from
   a physics akin to working from dasein
coordinates (0, 0)...
       well, you do: violence and numbers...
angry ***...
           on an individual basis the dasein doesn't
work... on an individual basis there is no dasein...
it's really about a personal trainer, a newspaper,
a rhetoric manipulator...
   working from heidegger's dasein
   there emerges no concern for a hersein
(a hereness, a being here) -
always that ******* flight toward the stratosphere
of heaven...
         and always that fetish for looking
at the ancient Greek ego like the genital parts
you're about to **** off...
    it's become a case of: i could easily
discard the 20th century advert of what was lived
and return to the late 19th century
   with the genesis of the 21st century:
and i wouldn't even flinch.
   read a book and look at the stillness of it all...
and i did, i then turn onto the internet
and see this ******* pigeon...
   and it really is a pigeon talking really
profound things... i listen to this pigeon from time
to time... and he really is a pigeon:
   paul joseph watson on youtube really
is a pigeon... i hope his neck doesn't break...
a bit like O'Hara's ode to Ginsberg
   and that ref. to adolf deutsche, the composer:
no, not the maniac genocide artist...
   i'm really, only slightly against the concept
of dasein... for me there's no there with me
included... but then again: i might only be
half human when i think it out...
    plus, given the fact that this mass-connectivity
construct exists, i can sorta jump from
one end of the earth to another and feel:
nothing equivalent of sniffing jasmine in Lebanon...
none of the 20th century writers could have
predicted the internet canvas...
  and given that: they're not even out of vogue:
they very much are the vongue:
   but their context, contained within a book
  is dodo.
       so what i find from the concept of dasein:
a need for physics...
******, you ain't moving, i'm not moving!
and as the two tiers of language emerge:
a. noting the langusage sausage as: about to be said
and b. language noted: i can't believe i just thought that up!
funny how bilingualism works...
   deemed by strict authoritarians as worth
the noun schizophrenia... naturally...
   but then shrapnel words do make up the cocktail...
the Greek oν (meaning being) translates into
Polish as merely: he...
    and pronouns can be so much more involved in
kinetics: the pyramid hierarchy of pronoun motivational
tactic: how you can become him... by not listening
to your i... the whole shabang of: me, myself and i...
   let's treat nouns and alzheimer's on a segregational
level... given we have to establish nouns
on a firm basis... so everyone knows what everyone
else it talking about...
    what really ***** the game up to give
pronouns the full categorical impetus for a worth
to change is this (recently unearthed) game
of changing the he to a she...
      not transcendental concerns but transgender
escapes... god is by now unthinkable,
given the prefix omni- there is absolutely no
way to discuss (gender neutral) it... easier said
and done with stephen king's clown...
i swear to oh oh...
    but why is no one catching on why Islam is
so agitated? given the pages were unearthed by
some Egyptian shepherd, and the authority of
the church was bypassed... people started to think
it would be as non-kinetic as donning a pink
scarf when wearing a tuxedo...
       approx. 2000 years, gone, down the drain...
this is what you get when you bypass
established authority, and still keep the said
authority and create this weird quasi-religious
secularism... long gone the church-state divide...
long gone the church... and so too the state...
it really has become a case of money
being akin to water or fire...
  an element, for the most part we can contain it,
but in some cases: it astounds us...
a but like man's second dream contained within
the a.i., sure, pocket-money / wage and we have
ourselves a campfire... inflation and national
expenditures, tax and the likes? well... throw your
marshmellows into that raging forest-fire!
we created the concept of an element in how
we kneel to the dynamic of transcending beyond
the category: animal...
     we drink water so we can rehydrate...
we breathe air so... d'uh...
    we start fires so we can keep warm...
we created money so we can have a plumber
   or an electrician: in order to not have to talk
or eat with the said plumber or electrician...
           i can only see money as i see fire...
but that doesn't mean i equate money with god...
   better still: that word will not disappear or become
devoid... but the fact that the said word is
given the omni prefix: it's become unthinkable to
even begin with entering a narrative or a dialectics
concerning it... but there we were: most of us:
incubating the word, the concept, the whole shabang!
still... i have that pigeon online: paul joseph watson...
   it's really called lazy when you wrote it
and someone else read it and when you reciprocated
something of mutual effort and when you
weren't the really eager speaker and someone else
wasn't but a miser of a listener...
   just the motto of what the Russians call:
keeping it real... and alive, and bothering to read books.
and yes, having settled out differences,
    revised Marxism and did with it as one might
confuse using a hammer to a pencil /
prior to cultural marxisim there was, once upon a time:
an economic premise - we settled our
differences and became whining bull-mawled
ponces that didn't really care to make it to
the zummit (on purpose) of inter-racial marriage...
never mind making dating boring
by de facto disclosure of ourselves in profile:
  tourism really did **** off a sense of adventure
when diving into another person alongside
it being staged in a theatre of uncertainty...
   art is such an autocrat: it wants to make us
believe we can all be artists...
art did that to me: hence i realised i'm merely a drinker;
and sure, i have a riddle for my palette:
     bourbon whiskey is equivalent to rosé wine...
                          (olé emphasis)
scotch whiskey is equivalent to red wine...
  i.e. bitter... for care of a better word -
laphroaig? smoked salmon -
                                       may i say bourbon
really is: ***** liquor? ever time i drink it i get
this nasal infusion of the perfume of
walking into a ******* brothel...
         and all the fine bollocking that is...
but i wanted to avoiding writing this digression and
go back to heidegger and dasein and how
  that german ****** is merely prescribing kinetics...
movement... how being = doing...
             or something like that...
     oh right! the whole: pronouns are the sole
motivational tools in how they behave to make me
'''jealous'' of him having attained his achievements
could make me move toward attaing his stasus
   (italics and ditto marks are the knife and fork
of existentialism) / emphasis and ambiguity respectively...
   but i mean that as " " denotes being passed-on
(or that's how existentialists took to it...
that it was akin to a hereditary concern with
a beginning, and therefore a chinese-whisper
that became mutated across the years -
in a shorter version, any word with the " " membrane    
could also be encapsulated by, e.g. ~red, i.e.
crimson).
aren't we living in times when the mathematical
sprechen is having due ******* with
linguistic sprechen, just like the pronoun debate
akin to an igloo in Hawaii, only because we all gained
access to this digital canvas? where else if
not in the anglophone world would you actually
experience a feast of acronyms?
   n00b... i thought that meant: ****... apparently
it just means colt... or beginner...
   of l8er...           this leads me to only
one conclusion... when the Greeks started to dress up
their language with very complex diacritical
marks (even though they really didn't have to):
English / pseudo-Latin was asleep...
            and it's still sleeping...
            this acronym safe-haven is getting ulgier
and uglier... i feel like i'm 70
even though i'm 30... well... at least i can tune
into the pigeon online and pass the time.

I pose high my chest of ragged ribbons
And unravel a fist to stretch out fingers in search
Of a hand glimmering pale like a lantern
throughout this grey
        empty space. Once a pavement, now as good as

Cloud. Frozen lake. Dust. Boiling ashes. Skeletons.

I am walking on the slashed frames of waves
As jesus once must have. Propelled to a miracle unwitnessned
To anyone but myself. I am impelled to corrode
Into a statue; to remain a rigamortic rotting jade jewel in the sun
Until I no longer can.
Until they found me...

Perhaps they'd dust me off, thaw the ice from my shoulders,
Rehydrate me and gorge me,
Restart the blinking light in my brain
And refrain me evermore from having to seek.

But seek I must, for the lonliness weighs me down
Further by the day. I take half as many steps now as when I began my voyage.
My memories are like ghosts of flames that play
Snakes and ladders and hide and seek.
I am the lighthouse man and I sail drunken--
A rubicund mishape of bone and scuffed thoughts,
I can feel every soul which once embodied and huddled this place.

It's like they are trying so hard to posses me but even
Their souls have been smouldered to whispers
So thin they ring as mutely as the surrounding mist,
So soft they vibrate akin to an infant’s pulse
Throughout these walls, these scrapyards, these crumbling arcades, this sandbox grey that begs for a scream.
The spirit of a tarantula trembles along my back and grazes it teeth against my shoulderblade,
Praying that I turn to confirm it's being –but it's a game I’ve long grown sick of–


I am the lighthouse man and I ceased having a face long ago.
What I recall of my reflection was a child so young and so sure
Of a different life that

I cannot be sure it's even me.

I am the lighthouse man; a puckered bulb balancing on too-big shoulders, that walked
  through barren flat closes and exited empty handed, the lonely poltergeist,
a bitter flab of skin.

I am the lighthouse man and I am the final Aspen leaf in the pond of the universe,
I see myself reflected in a sole star twirling underfoot and overhead
rowing my ears so thick with disfigured silence so that I wished I was born deaf.
I am the lighthouse man and my mind is a spinning fragment
    my eyes can merely follow and my floating steps merely trail.

It never changes tone here, I can only vaguely trace the time
By the occasional moon. Tonight it shines half chewed,
  Befitting the levelled star a sideways crown.
It is beautiful but I mustn't stop to admire, lest a survivor
Scavenger loses patience withholding the last of their scran.

I am the lighthouse man and I haven't eaten in years.

I am the lighthouse man and I bled for the first time yestardy.
I am the lighthouse man and my bulb ricocheted off the base of my skull
In a telling fairy tale dream. I felt static in my head
And my light's ink spilled across my hands and for a minute I thought
My light had gone out. I tasted blood,
Trickled down from my stinging nose and I had never been so scared.

I am the lighthouse man and I never knew I could die.

I am the lighthouse man. Once the world danced with magic and I was
A walking satellite that grew to want to dissapear.
I am the lighthouse man and my decrepitude is casted in my hands:
Black as the night from the dirt collected over the years.
The few slashes of skin clear enough to see look rust-like and obtrusive, outdone only by
My veins like wonky bruises that vine across the silhouetted bone;
Bridging gear to gear, clinking shivering knuckles
         That want nothing more than to surrender.

But I am only frostbit, not frozen.
Life was and thus must still be.
I am a raindrop, not the whole ocean.

I am a walking lighthouse inspecting and guiding empty seas,
A form without virtue
That ceased feeling it's metallic steps too long ago to recall.
A cubist teardrop falling down a grey giant's cheek,
Waiting to be captured and swallowed.

Or perhaps I am climbing uphill, slowly along the circumference of his forehead.
So slowly I cannot notice the rise. Perhaps I was destined to amble in hypnosis,
En route on this colourless limboid curve until I forget the concept of
             a destination, a soul, a matryr jester to rouse me awake...
             and perhaps it is then that I will be blessed with the heavenly bulb

Of the weeping giant on whom's flesh I disturb.
I am the lighthouse man and I dream of purpose.

I am the the lighthouse man with a penchant to levitate
I am the lighthouse man and I am a God without tool or reason.
I am the lighthouse man and I'll walk this limbo until my feet dissapear.

I am the lighthouse man and I am cursed.
I am the lighthouse man transitioning between lives and never knowing
Causality nor the answer. There are no questions to have;

I am the lighthouse man and I must have been a murderer in my past life.
I am the lighthouse man and I can feel my inner fuses twist,
Falling fainter and fainter by the second.
I am the lighthouse man and I will not make it another night.
I am the lighthouse man and I am a memory-bank full of nothing remarkable.
If I felt this months ago then perhaps I would make due with the my sojourn of an empty house, atop a parked car, and perhaps I would be content with rotting.

But now the moon shines so luminously bright and full and close! So very close!
I am the lighthouse man and I chase the moon.
I am the lighthouse man and I vaguely recall my mother saying 'do not eat the moon,
It will give you nightmares!’ and it all suddenly makes sense now.

The stars are all out tonight and they await my company. I am the lighthouse man and now I run.
I run run run run for the sky in ode to the rest of the bodies that abandoned this place.

The
weight of the world sitting dumbly on
those fructose eyelids.

They, in turn.      melt into the mummified  
morning.

laying in the corner forever like a
favorite-shirt
ruined in the wash.
Every other stripe on you is stained pink
from
some cheap volunteer tee that ******              up
The whole load.

Each ray from the blinds
Takes some life away.


Searing past you- into the floorboards
with
quiet fury.

Time passes_
It shoves us down into compact spaces.
(but)
I thought of you
In a shoplifter's prayer.

(There is something left that evaporates out in the form of you)

I imagined you
Still.
But growing
Like
Crystal salts
Crusting up the pores of the earth.

Vapors fumbling upwards to rehydrate
My dry fingers_


We make decisions . that stick around.

We break off blisters. Rip little things that hang off our lips.
We take breaks before we need them.
Take too long to say
**** this.

Thoughtlessness.



Somewhere out there, they are screaming loud.

Somebody either cares or
Doesn't.


The marks on the carpet know better than
us
How to last forever

I want you to consume me as I do you
put me in your mouth
chew me up
swallow me to be absorbed in your system
because you have been drained of me

the smell of cooked meat is
too strong in my nostrils to ignore
the sizzle of oil in the pan is
your fingers running across my stomach
the steam from that *** is
the way my heart flurries when you look at me
I can’t consume anything
because I want to consume you

and you can control the temperature of the pan
and you can check the doneness of the meat
and you can whisk the homemade gravy until it thickens
but can you find me hidden in your meal?

we marry together
like pork and apples
like steak and potatoes
like crepes and dulce de leche
but my shell is cracking
and my form is melting
and my alcohol is evaporating
I am being sautéed, julienned and sous-vided by you
I am losing my flavour

do you promise your pigs you won’t hurt them
before you carve the meat off their bones?
I don’t wish to be hung in a cellar with all the other carcasses you’ve left
hanging by a hook and swinging,
the blood draining from their bodies

I can’t cook
but I would cook you:
reheat your stock,
and rehydrate your fruit,
and flash fry your heart
so your colour returned
and you were mine,
on my plate,
at my table,
holding my hand,
and I could consume the only thing I want:
you
yes, chef
you.

I’m sleeping on raw skin
And fire behind my neck
And swollen eyes
And swollen lies
And lucid dreams melting

I’m sleeping on the prospect of open arms
and warm skin
and caffeine in the morning
so my mind can wonder
and burn itself out
and rehydrate with sleep
and put out the ever embers

But you brought me deep sleep once
And I woke up in time to send you on your way
And  to burn and scald my skin and heart
And sleep amongst the night fires

One day I'll be someone you can talk to,
I'll know what it's like,
know how to feel,
to express this emotion that bubbles in the pit of my gut,
Conditioned to feel nothing,
Nothing, nothing, nothing...
This armour is slowly being taken off, dissolving,
No longer strengthened by the acidity of self destruction,
What's left is closer to the bandages of the ancient Egyptian mummies,
My emotions, themselves drind out and mummified, begin to rehydrate

days and nights and days
all melding into one
a temporary escape lies
at the bottom of a bottle.

in ash-blackened mountains,
white soldiers in crumbling helmets
crowd glass barracks to the brim
as they burn in embers of regret.

awake, arise and stumble;
residual drunken stupor;
rehydrate as hungry stomach grumbles;
flip through blurred snapshots
of the night before.

double, over-exposures
forever lost in your strobe-light mind.
massaging temples, rubbing eyes,
you let slip this futile plight.

You've bruises on your thighs,
both sides of skin beat and red.
If this is how he says hello to you
then maybe it's time leave, or is
it time to relieve yourself with
hits and smacks and colourful
comic-book thwacks back so his
****** nose can complement those
he gave you that time in spring.

Take your glass slippers and be
one of those girls in red dresses;
dance, twist, and twirl as well as
the rest of them, churn up that
dance floor ring and take time
out for more drinks, rehydrate
before looking for another long-
term date to be a tactile touch-er
with, another involved and committed
lover.

Take note from the pint husbands
and their half-pint wives around you,
pen a note to yourself for the future
beginning with,
Listen,
then moving swiftly on with,
If you find another man that hits
before he kisses you than you've picked wrong,
ending with,
*You've plenty of time left, stay strong.

The Man Of Metal and Rock (It Just Got Rockier)

The man of rock was sullen in heart,
As that which he held dear to his heart,
Rock was fading from the hollow halls
That he had let loud music vibarte the
Walls apart.

The pub he had called home, helped
The needy, who had to have rock and
Metal in there heart, was closing the
Doors never to open, never music
To entertain the masses, as he left with
A empty heart.

But metal had to live on, so a band
He made the blazing monkeys,
Founded for those that needed
Rock & metal in their heart.

So on they went to find their weapons
Of rock and metal, a drum kit to make the ears
Bleed, to explode a lesser heart. And guitars
To cut through the air, to mend those hearts
Deprived of rock and metal, so onwards to
Rehydrate there minds of what music sounded
Like before pop and rave, that tarnished the art.

they receive, interpet, discard, rehydrate, delegate, redistribute,
brook no, smile stupidly at stupidity, opinionate but never lecture,
never hector, rarely curse unless it is essential, tell good jokes, abhor verbosity, act on instinct, admit error when instinct stinks, sharpen
their teeth, their tongue, and their verbal reciprocity skills

in case,

life becomes interminable intermittently intolerable when other creatures impose, flagellate, pontificate, render the impossible as quite likely, reveal things I wish I never heard, detail the details of the inexplicably intricate uninteresting with prodigious force, and an unlimited absence of periods, commas, or breaths taken,

and escape
impossible for some meetings require good manners, first dates the remote but not trivial possibility that a false start has or can occur,
(see The Pleated Skirt poem) and the incidence of really good books in very poorly designed book covers…ditto the men variety of same!

Where are You going?
It's been so long headed nowhere
So will You call me when You get there?
Cause I can't follow You anymore

It's aimless when You're wandering
It leaves me helpless and wondering
If what I do will change anything
Because it's never aided Your suffering

Wouldn't it be great if my words were pills to alleviate?
If my syllables were a remedy to rebuild You to Your proper state
If each letter was water to rehydrate

But both of us know that there's no healing in prose
Unless You let the lines linger and see the significance they show and
Allow the implication of their meaning
To bring truth and understanding

But You never do

child
watching sports
winter snow on the ground,
excitement all around,
disappointment when there
are no successes for to cheer,
on the field, in summer heat, people
of all sorts, dressed in shorts
and shoes with cleats or on the
court with nets and lines, or teams
which have personalities unto themselves
greater
than
any one
individual,
but it starts with one
one glimmer
one idea
one shimmer
one hope
one heart,
one mind,
one body,
one purpose,
one aspiration
one respiration
                        of many, many, many, many, many more,
one dream
       go ahead and dream, give yourself permission
one goal,
one plan,
one step at a step at a step at a time,
one time
one fall and another and another and
get up
            keep getting up and
                      start by taking licence plate numbers of what is knocking you down,
one word of encouragement
one passion,
one cry
one exertion
one no quit, just do, no try
one race,
one training session after another until you no longer remember
how many,
one rest,
one injury
remember that part about not quitting,
                                            stop sitting, on
one couch
one bed,
unless it is just for rest,
one water,
times eight
maybe a myth to rehydrate
but no good to dehydrate,
one day and multiply and multiply and multiply
one race,
one standard,
one Olympic dream,
One place on the podium
One Gold Medal,
many people have completed
by different paths and routes
from different countries and one truth,
but even teams, that become one
start with one, individual.


©DWE022014

I am awaiting your presence;
As if my body is in shock and I am freezing to death.
With only one intention, which feeds into an urge to love.
A permissive thought, that only you could bring by touching me once again.

Dying for the plica interdigitalis to be again connected,
And the volar surface of our hands to re-ignite the flame, that once blazed vigorously.

I am awaiting your presence;
To see that beautiful smile
One that lightens my spirit of laughter and joy.

Until then I will remain cold, empty, frustrated like a deserted man waiting for his chance to escape.
Life without you is comparable to the very arteries of our body,
pushing oxygenated solution from the heart to keep the rest of its system alive.
With the exception that, this solution is missing its solvent.
A substance that possesses fluidity,
Your presence would once again rehydrate this dilapidated body.

This leaves me to wonder,
That may be my body would just surrender
To the force of the lacrimal gland, secreting its solution into a hysterical cry.

I am awaiting your presence;
To smell that natural aroma of life
A sense of freshness that illustrates the feeling of springtime once again.
One that will magically open the doors to my heart,
Moving through each of its four chambers, exposing my wall of love.

Open for change, like a plant with blossoms ready to expose its true beauty to the world.
But!!
Take your time because when you do grace me with your presence, your presence will be eternal.

last year's hangover
Morning Star blind
without the ride
of imbibing libations

words bled dry
in powdered thought
desiccated emotion
won't rehydrate unsalted
and I just ain't in the mood

shoulda had that drink
winning every battle
lost in war I can't see
but scars burn deep
courting failure
with fear

why fight fate
in altered perceptions
that are all real enough
to feel
in a world where the
only thing concrete
is thought...

bled dry
in last year's hangover

The bugs have overwhelmed my deet defence,
So I've retreated behind the screen door,
Smoking by the doorway, leaning back in a chair,
Lindsey Buckingham, Stevie Nicks, and Christine McVie are haunting me with their words,
To never break the chain...
My eyes feel like there's grit in them,
I drink a glass of water to rehydrate a bit,
To counteract the cigarette's sting,
Of 2 packs smoked when I should have only smoked one.
I feel like a record player, and my table belt is just slightly off kilter,
Making me so my rounds just a little too fast,
Just fast enough to be noticeable and an annoyance.
13% battery left,
How many more can I do?

one of them, being allowed to live next to families with children... and watching them grow... seems to elongate time, indefintely... i'm sometimes confused that it's friday, when i'm trapped in monday... another is washing your armpits on a hot day, and changing t-shirts, donning a hospitalier t-shirt.

but the more important joy?
eating only one meal, per day...
and eating it just before heading
off to sleep...
    some wacky recipes emerge...
sometimes including *hoisin sauce:
like last night...
i cooked some turmeric + coriander
rice... fried some bacon...
  but looking for some spring onion,
i mistook baby leeks for the onions
i was searching for...
          well, same genus,
   so it didn't really matter that much.
the point is... you eat only one meal a day,
and it's just before going to sleep?
   you wake up the next day,
rehydrate (since you've been drinking
pirate tonic - ***)
           and then...
           pièce de résistance:
       the smoothest **** to ever come out,
compared to the most lubricated phallus
  of homosexual interaction;
but for some reason, i woke up today,
to find that i was bleeding from my right year...
the pillow is blood soaked...
          then again... i don't trust the ginger ******...
i'm starting to suspect he scratched or bit my ear...
yeah, the cat.
  + listening to some gregorian chants,
  or templar cantos... like the pope said...
**** me... always the choir boys... or the women
that always seem to woo...
                then again... aby w życiu był smaczek,
raz dziewczynka, raz chłopaczek...
   i won't translate that...
   o.k., i'll summariße it... bisexualism;
      but between the pleasure of a woman moaning
and listening to the choir "boys"...
        i'd say: i'd rather listen to the latter;
and... a bachelor's dearest apoligies to express, vas (thus).

Unrelenting heat
Persists for protracted days
Outstaying it’s welcome now
Oppressive the lack of shade

Nowhere to escape and hide
From the blinding rays
Sweaty, sleepless nights
Wandering around in a daze

Fatiguing soaring temperatures
Sap vitality
Lounging is all I feel capable of
Low output, productivity

The air so densely humid
Almost another layer to bear
I yearn for the intermittent breeze
To cool and caress my hair

Gooey tarmac
Scorched white grass
Too prickly to sit
It scratches my a**e

Too sweltering now to bask
And obtain a golden glow
Instead I dodge the searing fingers
That singe me as they stroke

From dawn til dark and into the night
The temperature persistently high
I toss and turn and beg for mercy
But it continues until it’s light

Oh pretty please would you kindly
Turn it down a notch
It’s boring now, really
To be so burning hot

Bring on the rain
To cleanse us all
Extinguish the furnace
Rehydrate, let it fall!

Drench my skin
Until I’m soaking wet
Bring about rebirth
I entreat, nay, I beg!

Summer breeze

A sweet warm crawls arround the neck
The bright blue ocean
The shiny day
Never ending smile and laugh
The drinks rehydrate the body

Until a phone rings
Shaken the earth

It supposed to be shiny but now its thunder
It supposed to be the chickadee not the raven
A bright and vibrant color shall be the main colour, not the black with the sorrow
The tears with the screams
Hoping it would never happen

It was the breeze kept him happy
It's the breeze making him suffer.

Shadowed dream reality,
peppered curious chaos,
delving into karma
with a silver teaspoon.

Stirring dangerous emotions,
in cauldrons of cast iron,
where hearts once were,
now cold and dark, the fire gone.

Irradiated kisses burn,
into skeletal cheeks,
once plump with joy
now evaporated.

Sweet condensed tears
drip dewy trails,
falling on empty palms,
dried, unable to rehydrate.

Parchment soul written,
the final story read,
now crumbled
and blown away.

.dunno, i'm rarely hangover after a decent session, just today i found my favorite way to rehydrate... three glasses of water while munching on a rowntrees fruit pastilles lolly...

talking about lollies, i never succumbed
to twitter, but since opening a gab
account, i seem to get a *** workers'
following...
                         ah, the poets, the ******,
the mad and all that is ******...

- and whenever i'm in my cyber-punk
mood... i just put on some groove:
   logic bomb (computers & microprocessors
                       parasense remix)
             or some pantomiman...

to boot: hurt feelings? hate speech?!
whaaa?
         you have to be ******* me...
that's the biggest load of crockshit
i've ever heard...
                     listen... those are not hurt
feelings...
            someone just animated feelings
you didn't know you had before...
those are not hurt feelings,
they are new feelings...
              they're also overwhelming feelings,
but they're not hurt...
they're the feelings that, just prior,
you were unable to articulate by yourself,
because you couldn't reason with
yourself to unearth them from your
intrinsic and exclusive thinking patterns...
****, i have them...
   but they are bottled down where
they're supposed to be, concentrated...
the heart... and once they're there...
the heart becomes a rock,
  rather than a blabbering mouthpiece
of a ******* dummy who's sitting
on the lap of a ventriloquist.

like psychosis...
        when the body becomes animated
by a soul...
                     my favorite psychotic
episode was just a day prior to when
i was supposed to start work on the Olympic
village, London, prior to the 2012
Olympics...
                    for no reason apparent,
i traveled to Athens from Gatwick...
   took a shower at the airport,
bought new clothes from the fat face
shop, bought a bottle of absinthe with
Vincent's visage on the packaging...
  sat on the street drinking the absinthe,
turned milky green from the added
water, burned the sugar like some ******
***** in a spoon...
                 i remember laughing my socks
off, one arm over my eyes,
another arm extended forward,
apparently pointing at something
    (this was before Greece had the financial
crisis)...
   oh... and meeting up with some
strangers in a square's cafe...
             getting into their car and heading
for the strip-club...
             mm... the strip-club...
loads of fun...
          i don't know how other strip-clubs
operate, but in this one...
             i was actually allowed to touch
the strippers...
     well... had two either side...
giggles and what not... ran out of money...
was escorted by one of the gorillas
(bouncers) to the hotel adjacent
to take out more money...
                i was broke...
    i ****** myself... slyly walked out...
and... for reasons i can't even believe...
drunks... they have some magical
honing device or some ****...
some super-power...
             first time in Athens...
and i walked back to the hostel...
              photographic memory or what?
phoned my uncle the next day,
asking for a little bit of cash...
            then ****** off on coach back
to Poland to my grandparent's house...
Macedonia? beautiful, really hilly...
Serbia? flat as a pancake... loads of snow...
remember ******* in the snow thinking
about that Frank Zappa song...
   yellow snow...
                  Hungary... Slovakia...
   2 days or 2 days and a half on that ******
coach...
      middle of winter...
  scamp clothes... chattering like a slot machine...

so yeah... psychotic episodes
are great trips...
             even an L.S.D. trip can't match-up
to equal that abomination of nonsense
super spectacular...
   i was in Athens...
    and instead of going to see the Acropolis...
i went to a strip-club...
    but i mean: i did see the Acropolis...
from the street, way off in the distance...
      now, if i didn't utilize the energy
within a psychotic episode by fusing it
into writing... like most atypical psychotic
episodes...
    ah... the usual soppy story of
                             a knife and a rampage.

hmm. bewildering little me...
little me bewildering me...
i walked into the supermarket...
pumped up from a bicycle ride...
no... i will not buy a Lucozade Sports
drink: high in...
whatever it takes to rehydrate...
salts, potassium... etc.
electrolytes...
  i need something to bite...
please: god no... no fruits... it's still borderline
winter...
i need some nourishment...
something primordial was woken in me
today...
            the usual bottle of pepsi max
and Whyte & Mackay whiskey... a litre
of which i'm about to finish...
i need something to bite into...
hmm...
          no... not a carrot...
i eat plenty of onions: that's almost similar...
ah!
    a swede! perfect!
and i stood in the car park...
contemplating if there might be some
Monet in the sky.... none...
hmm... all that's missing is...
some tatties and some haggis...
   raw swede... eating it... i felt...
primordial... eternal even...
             having a look around...
UBER drivers coming and going with...
orders of processed beef... burgers...
while i'm here... eating a raw root of swede...
mmm.. almost reminds me of eating
a radish... there's a spiciness associated with
it... ancient Europeans didn't have access to
the spice that's chilly... ergo?
horseradish... so i'm chewing at this root...
trying to look as if i'm thinking:
only with the tender night do i know...
the sad reality... i'm sort of heartbroken...
the girl's dog would lick my knuckle wounds...
but she rejected me...
now i know... in group girl *****-fights...
one single mother fighting another single mother...
what a sad affair...
       come to me when i'm 60 and no longer
"available"... by then i'll have all the assets...
oh **** me: by then... it's going to be a proper
Hopper circus...
      the one i had stomach cramps over...
was ushered out of my life by...
another woman... who else?
           girls competing... what an ugly affair...
mind you... when i die...
i'll miss my personal library...
             i don't need to upfront my language
like some Erasmus... all formal etc.,
the basic deeds...
               a return to something humane...
so i just stood there...
biting into this raw bulb of swede... trying to think...
no thought came... lightning could have arrived
sooner... well... much better...
enough juice in the root... to have to resort
to something labelled... bottled...
in plastic... i felt content... primitive...
even the cashier gave me the look of...
you're buying... a bottle of whiskey...
a bottle of pepsi... and... a head of a swede?!
confused... i too found myself slightly confused...
i hate fruit...
i ******* hate fruit...
oranges, apples... pears...
they're not for me... all the gifts of Hades...
the minerals... gold, iron... carrot...
swede... parsley...
           so i'm chewing... and chewing...
working out the details of my jaw-line...
oh... wow... an imagining of a ******* from
ex_machina...
          that's nice... but still no Monet...
               fair enough... the grey grit...
the ******* *******... random... the raw swede...
it was a most welcome moment...
i could hear the crunch through my earphones...
a few children scuttled past...
i just heard the inquiry: what's that crunch?
oh... the argument against this supposed
"patriarchy"? imagine... if...
a patriarchy wasn't in place...
   imagine... if: MOTHER nature had her sway...
i wouldn't be arguing with certain people...
they'd, be, DEAD...
i'd juggernaut them to the sweet, sweet sleep
of death... man tried to overcome nature...
sure... he failed with containing earthquakes...
tsunamis... etc.
            but... that's a matter for the Titans to discuss...
for the elemental pentagram...
but... what the feminists spew?
you, really think? the people talking....
would be alive... if i had my... NATURAL SWAY?!
i don't think so... look at my restraints...
look at them... they are invisible...
they are constrained by patriarchy...
man trying to overcome the cruelty of nature...
oddly enough... oops...
what arrived with Darwinism?
the insurrection of nature into the dynamic of
man's attempt to overcome nature...
someone more sober and more worried
than me has to take over... this narrative...
but if patriarchy wasn't in place...
i'd run a riot...
          these little people cushioned by a hierarchy
would stand no... defence for me to bypass!
it's a losers' game... after all...
if nature had its proper sway...
               all these... patriarchal defense mechanisms...
would be... wait... dissolved...
if the primordial man were to be unleashed...
you'd be basically unleashing the Mongol
from the 13th century...
      lucky me: for my chains...
               **** these women, these modern...
whatever(s)... leftovers...
              if the man in me was allowed to recirprocate
the man of old... but then again...
for that to happen... the modern woman would
have to be as good a **** as the the woman of old...
but i hardly think... that's about to happen...
lazy *****... i have to visit prostitutes
to get something worthwhile....
******* Aaron Copland Appalachian Spring Suite...
strange gifts?
       eh... or... by the looks of it...
by the smell of it... i'm boozing... drinking to excesses
yet to be matched...
ergo? i'm ******* out... a streak of *******
ammoniac lemonade!
                 good... between Aaron Copland's strange
gifts... Beethoven's ode to joy...
Rammstein's Zeit... and Thomas Newman's
any other beauty... and... eating a head of a swede raw...
you're joking... it will have to take me eating an
onion, to prove a point?
how about we bypass the onion...
let's  start off with teeth of garlic... how about that?
what a strange way to live:
with a longing... life so incomplete...
                 it's a life that doesn't even allow sadness...
to make it into a culprit...
something equivalent to a blink...
             tonight's tonight...
                     black is black...
                                     if "these" people lived uinder
the dictum of nature... they'd ne dead....
sane... counter nature counter god man... tried...
these people... if they were exposed
to the totality of nature...
        *****, please...
                           you're ******* dead!
patriarchy is the only thing keeping you alive...
if... go... defend... the necrophilic retrogrades
of Egypt... it's Africa, after all...
if nature... had its proper sway...
mouth-offs of the current climate of "conversation"
would be... dead,,,
by the structure of the Wehrmacht...
               dead...           dead...              dead:
sie sind nichts!
                                         sie sind alle!
jetzt... fühlen was ich fühlen!
    das ist die nur-Wwhrheit!             ah...
Deutsche bla bla...
                        erste... zuletzt...
                             ich denken deshalb...
deshalb.. oh sweet melancholy.

there's nothing quiet like
an el niño diet -
                which is what
         currently plagues this land -

binge...
       binge eating...
      up to 30 strawberries
in one go...

   straight out the fridge -
eaten whole (inc. the calyx,
penducle
   & epicalyx)...

did i say 30, in one standing?

yep...

simply drinking water
to rehydrate after a heavy
night of drinking
is not good enough...

plus:
            concerns about
the amount of meat eaten as
closure to the drinking -
and the respective... ahem...
****...

    reinvigorating
              bowel movements...

washed them?
    nope...

                    as if any ravenous
predator seeking
   satiation from flesh, sinew,
marrow and cartilage...

eternal emblem of summer...
  and come to think of it,
the strawberry's
   achene pressed upon
my lips...
         must feel like what
a woman would call kissing
a man's cheek, "riddled"
                   with stubble;

that's as trans-gender as
                      you're going to get...

but god,
   what an awful day -

               the day when a hard wooden
floor became more appealing
   than a bed,
    more comfortable,
                  and a stretched out hand
with the bicep and tricep
  as a cushion for the head...

and then again laying flat -
   skull to wood,
    where somehow the gap between
the occipital
                   bone and the spine
bound to the back
                  wasn't bothersome...

if this heat continues
     for the next (supposedly) 16 days?
and if i was rich enough?
   i'd think about doing
       a michael jackson in reverse.