I knew exactly who my husband was going to be
In 6th grade
Daniel Radcliffe star of harry potter
Heart throb of all tweens
We definitely were destined
He was my first true love
One I prayed for every day

Yet as I grew up
Puberty changed things
Love changed
He was now skinnier
Indian
And got beat up a lot
Love needed my protection against bullies
But could always blow my mind with new music
Love wasn't the smooth talker his brother was
And was too shy to hold my hand
But made a permanent seat for me in his soul
Board exams ended and love left me

Only to surprise me once again
Love was fairer now
More childish than before
Love's hair was shinier than my own
And knew none of my 80s songs
Love taught me to doodle
And found pleasure in small pranks
Love never took anything seriously
And always had time to show off

With another round of board exams
I deserted love this time
The pain of being the other one
Far to great to bear
Far greater to forgive

Soon enough it was time for college
As I walked into class full of nervous excitement
There sat love on the first bench
The newest version
A skeleton of the past
Filled with new words and strokes as cover
Love was more different now
Quieter than before
Preferring the company of nature than those he ****** called his own
Love was sweet and thoughtful
But could never open up his heart
Love knew where this was going
But ran away from it in fear

And so love stayed away
For almost two years
Lust slowly tried to take its place
Stealing bits I only saved for love
But I banished it away
Its dark presence my once insecure heart no longer needed

And finally
Just like that
Love stepped in once again
In an avatar I'd never seen before
I almost didn't recognise love
As it stood before me
Scars and happy memories mixed in his tears of insecurity
Love wasn't strong enough
And always needed my assurance and trust
Love was the smartest man I knew
Whose loved verbal bouts dripped in sarcasm
Yet love managed to save my soul
From the depths of dark evil
Pulling me out ****** into the sunlight where we lay naked
Healing our broken pasts
Love contradicted me in every way
His emotions and affections a conflicting paradox I couldn't untangle
But in the end love, could not handle emotions
Love walked away dumping all his promises into the sea with the remains of our friendship

And I realised
I did not know what love truly was
It came and went in so many different forms
Never the same
Never the boring
It walked in the door arms filled with happiness and possibilities
And walked back out soon enough
Leaving a cold silence behind

Love is a contradiction
Of everything we believe in
Remoulding our perspectives
Like a soft ball of clay
It breaks and rebuilds us
With every fated visit
Destroying and creating newer versions
Of ourselves
Stronger versions of ourselves

Maybe this is what love was destined to be
A teacher for our souls
A soothing balm for our wounds
A definite spark to our courage
And an infinite universe for our imagination

I am lost in the loose ended threads which make my life;
they weld me down along glistening metal lanes
with screws and nuts and bolts once in a while ,
rather carelessly with a callow scraping grip,
perhaps it's a young apprentice
inexperienced in dealing with insubordination
to fix me in my place.

sometimes these threads look like faceless feelings,
pre-emptive if you will,
sometimes they look like ununderstandings by me or others
sometimes they look like despots called people
sometimes they look like elevators built around caves of people
shedding tears and hides.

So yes ,sometimes the metal feels like the deep cold of the sea.
powdered with nuts and bolts forgotten in the hazy blue saline,
but probing my shaky heart and my remoulding mind like frosty bullets.
Overrun with senseless weeds from inside,
and grim from ruins of  lost ships
and here and there with inviting treasures
worthwhile, anew
in the cascades of worldliness of all things beautiful.

sometimes the metal feels like the lullaby of the sea
sedating almost,
amidst the wilderness of conflicts ,jarring bronze contradictions
and of course, the ever so ubiquitous, soupy shallow free floating worldly wise grime.

while other times oy romantics,
it feels like a fish net topping me from reaching out
to places and peoples and experiences of this world.

A boy asked God

"Could you please
give me patience? "

God to the boy

"I will send to you challenge! "

The boy to God

"I think we are not
On the same page
When I asked
You for patience
It is not for  a change! "

God to the boy

"Patience presupposes hassle,
In the remoulding
Process to render you
Tolerant and gentle!

Boy to God

"Yes hassle
To change
The peevish
To gentle
I shouldn't forget
Your omniscience mantle!
You break
Anew to make! "

We thought  we were the rise and fall of the world,
           could we have been more wrong..

I remember an old proverb,


"Control is foolish without batteries,
   because once they run out.
                        Your stuck on
                         one channel,
watching
                 a singular view unchanging,

Could we mould the world,
like a pottery class we're moulding it  
         thinking we could
            paint it,
kiln it,

and it was perfection..

But we had a malevolent arrogance,
thinking we were saintly,
       all though we thought we were saints.

So boastful of our accomplishments,
           we never looked at the singular crack.
Barley visible to the eye, but there never the less.

After a while we ignored it, as we never
                                                       expected
Our work to falter..

I remember a proverb that paid heed to this.

Discontinuity may be a scratch,
            visually constrained

but protracted in depth. malevolent

Beneath will never show the truth till

                            it collapses within its self..

Wordy I know, but a truth of now.
         Never paying attention to the scratch
but not seeing the fracture just waiting for that
                                            singular weight to
descend us to the now. So many cracks in the world.

Now no matter our skill the world is just putty,
   remoulding itself with every new day..

A sunrise of reflection,
            Dusk hiding the truth of our folly.

We now live in this new world of our undoing..
           The poetry wheel is fragmentary,
the vase now floating, shifting in the well
we used to mould it with.

And we stare at the
                             sunrise seeing our
vindictive creation...

We are the evil of this world, a creation of arrogance.

no single man was found to be delusional, having realised the sleeping public, being, just a tad bit: un-delusional; harder still to find a "madness" in a single man, when sanity was even harder to find among the general populace; this is beyond the observation of satisfying norms; there's the rationality of a "madman" and the predator tiger, but there's always the insanity of the herd and subsequent stampede; if there was no asylum notion, believe me, madmen do not congregate... only the sleepwalking masses do; always do.

you can only understand nietzsche by reading
heidegger,
  but at the same time you have to understand
heidegger's concept of pluralism -
in that you also have to take into
account an individualism borrowed from
nietzsche, and in that, you have to attempt
nietzsche's thought process as concrete in trying
to find a bilingual liberation never achieved.
then you have to achieve the potency of
bilingualism.
          saying this much the back bile in me
is boiling, surfacing...
  the idea of a superman is not
an idea of man overcoming man...
   it naturally leads toward the notion that
the *übermensch translates into
        übermenschen -
i didn't learn this language to be:
one of its people, i learned this language
to overcome these people,
i learned this language to overcome,
overpower, overtly reign as their
schatten könig, its schwarz papst...
          delusions ready -
but i'm not buying the ******* joke...
the only reality being conceded with
the übermensch idea is in a conceptualisation
of a plurality...
hence? heidegger's advancement
of nietzsche idea in heidegger's pluralism of
of - übermenschen -
nietzsche's failure was not that
it was a case to be above man -
the idea of his individuation process was
to be opposite: to be above dei volk: the people.
you can can only realise this as a bilingual
strategist...
                  do you think i learned
the english language to merely acquire it,
rather than not perfect it, and let the plebs gain
their common sense vocab without interference?
      the plebs require the tongue being
spoken, but do you think i learned
the language to speak the pleb?
      the idea of übermensch is only
realistic in a bilingual environment,
i.e. in the übermenschen environment of
being a man, having learned the language of
the people, and having the tenacity to
overcome their "natural" competence for it;
you can only overcome man,
when you first overcome a people,
  but overcoming a people means overcoming
the language of the people,
and this means overcoming
            one's nativity -
   in that one's nativity is kept,
  but submerged in a cloud of "required"
use...
                 from what i've learned,
these people do not deserve a native tongue,
                         what they do deserve is
a spanking, a remoulding,
a chance to appease regret,
                     a chance:
        to define the purpose of
                                      repentance;
singing that ailing "holy" anthem of
saving the queen, will buy them
                       nothing more than kippers
past the gates of st. peter;
this is past thank you, past i forgive you.
past sorry, tell me a second time...
                       ******* better squeak
and call it a rubber ducky...
  before the real shrapnel beckons blitz
and blisters 2.oh.

there's something magical about days like today,
esp. if it's sunny: gloriously sunny and it's
gloriously sunny in England, or - rather -
just outside the realm of London and Westminster:
somewhere in Essex - in a gloriously sunny
England -

                    waking up at 8am sharp: saying good
morning to someone who probably understands
you - who gets annoyed when you drink too much
from time to time: but nonetheless someone who
cooks dinners, the house chores, makes lunches
for her husband and if necessary: the decorating
and heavy duty work in the garden: ground work:
digging up stubborn roots planting new trees
tending to trees in general: ensuring there are no
strange parasites stalling the trees from producing
fruit... the pneumatic drill: concrete: leftover shrapnel
for the basis of drainage:
    then two tonnes of earth and some new lawn... etc.

waking up at 8am: going downstairs -
drinking a bottle of cherry kefir -
                   going back up: laying in bed for
half an hour: then another half an hour laying
on a cold wooden floor...
   listening to music and reading...
first Spinoza's chapter 3: on the vocation of the Hebrews
and whether the prophetic gift was peculiar to them
from the theological-political treatise:

never failing to resonate with the clarity of
the writing: even though it might have been written
in 1670...

then getting up, shuffling around the house wondering:
well, there isn't much to do -
not for now... two people need to be involved
in further curating the eucalyptus tree
since one person needs to be doing the curating
while the other has to be standing at the base
of the ladder to ensure a firmer base...

(now insert a break of character,
  now insert the nitty-gritty details of absolute
concentration on the words read)

what to do... ooh... the kefir starts working its magic
on the digestive system: taking Plato's
Theaetetus to the throne room... sitting on the throne
of thrones and taking a most glorious dump
doughnut conker... a first edition mind you:
as translated by Robin Waterfield (1987) -

how Plato is not so much a bore like Nietzsche thought
but just simply funny: for there to be any dialogue
for there is never really a dialogue to begin with
but more like Socrates talking to his demon
      (whether it was a hallucinated creature
or otherwise that "6th sense" of the daimonion)
or perhaps his demon talking back -
whichever... that there's hardly any disagreement -
an imploded dialectic -
       that Plato: stylistically is less boring but more funny
that if you take out Socrates...
  you reach the conclusions of Alfred Jarry in
   that book exploits & opinions of dr. faustroll
pataphysician

from the section in question: knowledge and belief...
puzzles about false belief
knowing and not knowing
    being and not being...

without Socrates - as Theaetetus alone the replies
are as follows:
- certainly
- absolutely
- no
- of course not, Socrates
- clearly
- no, that would be entirely wrong
- perceiving. what else could i call it?
- i have to
- that's right
- no
- evidently not Socrates. it is perfectly clear now
that knowledge is different from perception
- that's called thinking Socrates, i suppose

and it goes like that and it goes like that on repeat:
but there are breaks...
some sweet-bits where dialogue might even be
established:

- well, i can't say that it's thinking as a whole,
since the beliefs that are formed can be false; but perhaps
true belief is knowledge: i'll try this answer.
if, as the argument progresses, it turns out to be wrong
and we find ourselves in the same position that we
did just now, then we'll try another idea...

i've taken off a mask i put on at the beginning...
now: if i were writing in my native tongue:
there would be no pronoun issue... since: when a ******
speaks: he rarely utters his own pronoun...
because he is aware of being the person speaking
or the person thinking...
pronouns are a non-starter argument:
whether grammatically or ideologically...

and Plato isn't a bore like Nietzsche thought...
he's not a bore but you do need to have an essay...
within a book... you always require an essay
by an academic when reading Plato:
   the schematic of reading Plato works like this:
you first read the essay... then you read the "dialogue"...
and then you jump backwards and forwards...
that's how you read Plato: you don't read Plato per se...
you read the accompanying essay related to a specific
text of Plato's...
no one reads Plato for Plato... one reads Plato
for the interpretation of Plato...
unlike Aristotle: one reads Aristotle for Aristotle...
there's no point making your own mind up
   about Plato... since he's too inquisitive and doesn't
really riddle you with anything firm:
everything is still questionable in the mind of western
man... everything is question worthy...

if you break a dialogue down to talk of letters?!
seriously? S & O... and no further S...
together they are the first syllables of my name...
does anyone who knows the syllables know
the two letters independent of each other?
clarification: independent of the syllable itself?

you can't read Plato for Plato...
   he's a philosophical mutant... he's forever changing...
that's what happens when you keep
a text in such high esteem and for so long...
now... you turn around from Plato and read
some journalism... wow! like: ooh... that's *******
tragic: red is red... blue is blue...
so much narrative-certainty...
                
that days such as this are very much counter
   to Lou Reed's perfect day...
     whereby two other songs compete for the sunshine
the shins: new slang vs. sjöblom: brand new life...
or at least prince's raspberry beret...
because it's sunny you feel like falling in love
with a girl...

because how would a song like: spent it with you:
who?! me myself and i?

- and as you look into the distance at a very limited
horizon of the tops of trees of Bower Wood
you look at the sky: i should have become a painter...
simply because: well if Edward Hopper wanted
to paint light and shadows in rooms of lonely people
you start getting an itch saying:
all i ever wanted was to paint clouds on clouds

a cumulus on a canvas of altostratus
   and some cirrostratus
    or perhaps those behemoths that are
the cumulonimbus...
  hell... i think i would spend a second life (if i had one)
just painting clouds...
or cauliflowers...
     men and painting: because life could be simpler
like that... last time i heard: hands are very difficult
to draw... i can't suppose clouds are any different...

- because i'm most certainly going to do what
i planned... or didn't... whichever...
on a whim... that Walter Sickert exhibition at the Tate
Britain) which is just a few peddle peddle motions
past the house of Parliament is calling me...
from Romford, by bicycle? 2 hours...
it would take me just as long if i used public transport...
because then i'd have to walk from Westminster
toward the gallery...
    
  but then i'd miss all that build up from Essex
(the green belt separating the extension of London
toward Chadwell Heath from Romford)...
and with weather like this...
hell... what was the last exhibition i was at?
oh... right... from Russia... also at Tate Britain...
that's when i was wandering the streets of London
smoking marijuana and figuring out:
kind of pointless getting a second degree in history...
at UCL... the prices went up from circa £1000
to circa £3000... and for what?
6 hours of lessons in the week?
    so i dropped out after a year and progressed toward:
madness and then creativity...

i don't understand how people with interesting
lives... boxers... rock climbers... explorers...
politicians... finally muster enough idleness to sit
down and write an autobiography:
a retrospective autobiography...
it's like the second erosion of memory:
the first erosion of memory being instigated by
pedagogy... 1 + 1 = 2...
selective history dates...
knowing where Mongolia is on the map:
but never visiting Mongolia...

like the argument against big government:
local knowledge... like i know that the best Turkish
lavash bread you can get is en route to Mile End:
after leaving Ilford: between Ilford and Manor Park...
on Romford Road... on the 86 bus route...
the best lavash bread...
for that recipe that's better than any kebab
or fish and chips... refika's kitchen:

i would have never guessed that rosemary works
so well with beef...
what does she call it? bashed beef?
hammered beef...
   so few ingredients: as the saying goes: less is more...
off the top of my head...
rosemary... garlic... black (whole) peppercorns...
sea salt... chillies...white wine vinegar (to cure the meat,
which is only marinated for 15 minutes)
olive oil... cheese... cheddar is more poignant
than any mozzarella types (amore! amore!)

or rather... you could hide that exclamation mark...
how? ha ha...
    amoré (but it's itchy: simultaneously...
because you want to drop the upside-down "iota")
you want to scream like Lucifer falling head first...
you're going to regret my ejection from
your autocracy of heaven!
wait for our demonic democracy down below,
just you wait!

- and no... i was never a big Blake fan...
i'm not a fan of rhymes either...
lyricism: stuff you can sing?
Aud Lang Syne is a tier above anything by Shakespeare...
but rhyming: that's constipated poetry...
ask Horace... ancients Romans didn't rhyme...
they also didn't treat language as
squares:

-ed                      -ed-

the dead
    who ate
what was said
with a missing head

-ed                        Eddie...

the Iron Maiden mascot... ha ha! i'm in love
already: and i think i'm thinking about
Khedra... i must be...
i'm going to cycle to see an exhibition of a man
accused or insinuated as being
Jack the Ripper by some female novelist:
fetishist...
    on the throne of thrones i needed to relax
the "remnants": so?
photographs of Kendra Lust... because i'm all the way
into that older woman types...
but it was just a prompt...
a tight dress... some revelation of the flesh
concerning the: problem...
with mermaids... invert the mermaids...
i'm stressing... replace the lower part of a woman
with fish-details... or replace the top part of
a woman: likewise: with fish-details...
hmm... that's tough... those legs... that ***...

but i found myself looking at the tiles in the bathroom:
conjuring from memory a picture she sent me...
full-blossom lips...
wearing glasses...
and the *** we had... ******* nymphomaniac...
i wouldn't slap myself with a banana across
my face... i'd sooner punch myself...
then again: the idea of straightening bananas sounds
a bit like: remoulding apples into pears...

ah man... when money is left on the table:
straight up...
   i couldn't: i possibly couldn't go through
the ordeal of date-bluffing... i'm not a donkey
and a ****** is not a carrot...
i love making myself laugh... that's the best
laughter... because it originates in thought...
and not in the imagination of the other...
   it's spontaneous combustion: metaphorically...
and almost literally...

and now: to enjoy this day:
prior to it taking form, as i've written about it.

Nestled hiding in the dormant shadows you have waited
Thirty nine years to be precise
Panther black,
head forward you leap,
wielding your pure  hatred, like thick brown molasses spewing and trickling down my well oiled throat.
And as you spiral out of control, a bucket down a darkened well,
branch like claws snag the delicate flesh of my windpipe, mimicking thorns piercing soft pink rose petals as they collide during a tempest’s flight.
Your journey forces upwards a cruel gasping dangerous fanfare to a stranger’s ear not willing to engulf such a tortuous tune.
And as you rock to the right and left, pebbles in a rib cage, thrashing blindly in the suffocating solitude you have rudely entered into,
flaying around like a drowned rat, forcing unsoiled matter to its knees , you hunt.
Yes you hunt for your prize which lies cradled in a gentle pink veil of the bubble gum I swallowed instead of popped, during my infancy.
and  towards this crimson pulsating beacon you move and set to work, like children feverishly on a Christmas morning , ripping layers of festive paper to reveal the gift ,which  like they,
you have waited so long for.
Dripping salted sweat from this momentary toil, which as a consequence etches away the tissued muscle of my heart, you pluck it away from its hiding place, pummelling and remoulding it, the repercussions of your actions soon to show its ugly face.
As from today I will be broken, I will not be the same, I will be an altered state, yet with this obvious consequence you continue.
Jewels bedeck my crumpled face, the water pouring from sunken eyes, ebb and flow leaving two puffed mounds of bread like flesh to bring me now adorned eyelids.
A small stream burrowing deep into the creases of my cheeks uses gravity to mark its path, and too exhausted I fail to catch the droplets as they cascade to the floor, a broken string of pearls bouncing noisily into every corner, marking their trajectory with a high pitched potent ping.  
A breeze taken from someones final breath circulates my space, freezing the moisture sliding down my neck,  causing me to shiver and shake. I succumb now whole heartedly to your uninvited takeover, too many signals fusing my grey matter, dumbing my reaction, overloading the electrical impulses, a heavy shroud falling heavily around hunched shoulders, smothering me, smouldering the flame of life I once held onto and bringing with it the realisation that this twinning which has  just taken place will be here until, like the trigger, I have closed my eyes forever, and with this you burrow deep, copying the rise and fall of my chest, wallowing in this sudden recognition, not in any hurry for your final release.