Marinate me in sterling serendipity;
a lace handkerchief blowing in electric blue
Chinook.
Howl and twist your obsidian spit down
her leather throat until she reproduces
glass golem.
Clang & the brass of the thunder,
muffled underneath a Reith that was last
lathered
in hathgraven gatherings.

**** him with your sour tongue
&
rag water whistle .
Cut him down from that arugula suspension
&
let gravity fold into him,
like an aluminum foil gargoyle,
crush to the core.

I find a part of me produces verse
(well, not verse, not really).
Really, I produce a play.
So, really, the part of me producing verse
produces parts.
So, really,
The part of me producing plays
is part-producing.
The work this part of me produces ,
produces parts in verse.
But really,
It's an inverse play, since really,
the work (a play, with parts in verse)
(Or, really, a play with verse in parts))
is divided into three parts. Like Gaul.
Within this work, this play,
these three parts produce
(or, really, reproduce) a play.
This play, in verse, within this work,
is, in part, an inverse play,
since, really, they produce (or really, reproduce)
a part of me.

The play plays back a part of me -
an inverse play plays back words, in verse,
ever onward.

It's a bit of a play on words, really.

It's partly words at play.
It's partly an inverse play,
producing bit parts in verse with verse parts,
in bits.
Or really, the parts produce plays, that is,
A part of me produces verse and
in part, the verse produces the play.
This inverse play produces parts
these parts, inverse, produce a play,
this play, in part, produces (reproduces) me.

The work is a play on words.
The play is a work in verse.
The work is an inverse play.
But not really.

My love
refers to me
as an artist
I maintain
that I just paint
as this
color slinger
simply reproduces
the masterpiece
her love
creates

i give you my permission
to give into this transmission
ease your laughter im not kiddin
slip into a deep remission
my commanding requisition
blend into your mental waves
relax with every word i say
an breathe cool steel
don't close your eyes just stay awake
im deeper a6nd deeper inside the mind
eight6y percent you
twenty percen6t fluid
connectin juices reproduces
haters clueless
mass confusion
listehn to. the. sound of.
voices who aren't homaies
telilin you
you are so homelly
princess joy and clevers spider
shiney clowns and apaple cider
crafty witchtes at my parties
bloated tube skates mister sarry
give me your one-foldnn
42-faceted joker
blanket faces and strip poker
Pony G you are so crafty.

History doesn’t repeat, it reproduces,

It ***** us well

into the darkest hour; we hold it so holy as

it wholly condenses, contracts, cracks, grasps and

Moans. It’s a venereal haunting,

ghosts of a ruthless world that doesn’t give

a **** and only cares about ******* **** up and *******

to be the fittest, survival of the wittiest.



You all want to reproduce your kind

but with the reproduction of your kin

your kind comes out sludge—

the soggy excuse of an abandoned mind

rotting away into “we’re not the first—

it’s always happened, all the time, is that a crime?”



Wreaking havoc amongst a species of your kind?

****! Me! Yes! It’s serious!

To trudge the earth for proof

that birth of war was something

of divine? Is it fine that people die

and never know of the privileged life—the life



We ******* live, ******* for Capitalism

But still getting ****** the same—

Like parents—if you won’t ******* take the time

to ******* notice what’s there and what’s right

what’s not and what is, sometimes—

what is sometimes more than one or two times;



The world is your baby, you can’t just decide

When to care and when to pretend you do

It’s true, getting ******, we all have—just a few

everyone is getting ****** in the entire ******* world

***** ******* with their ******* only want control

Hypocritical ***** in the government—they’re the ones creating ******

We the people, America the ******, swallowing what’s ******* from stores

Money’s flashy in that aspect it can buy whatever fetish

It can satisfy and pleasure

It can torture it can ruin it

It can break a nation’s soul;



Does Earth seem like a hole?

It gets ****** objectively, free of sentiment or affection,

It gets pillaged, ripped and hurled. It fights back

Vulnerable and totally ordinary—rare for our kind.

Who gives a ****, Earth doesn’t have a gender,

It’s not going to tell anyone,

You had a lot to drink,

It was social influence:



It was the way of human kind,

******* for any kind of benefit,

Privilege, artificial sentiment

******* to keep going

Like everyone else

Maybe one day we’ll have a family until,

Until,

they too, will die.

I am the mountain man.
I am the shifting sands.
I am the laughter through gritted teeth,
I am the squint of concentration,
I am the missing piece and the stone that won't roll.
I am the Zeit Ghost.
I am the Underwerewolf.
I am the Pseudonami.
I am not what you say I am, until I say: "I Am."
I am the Red Sun Samurai.
I am the Locomotive Provocateur.
I am the bones of kings and slaves.
I am the breath of the wind in the trees.
I am the Electrocuted Interlocutor.
I am the whip of the matador.
I am sunken cities in the swamp.

I am Firestarter.
         Spark Guarder.
I am the assembly line whereby the machine reproduces.
I am capitulated capitalism.
I am the captain of the sky ship to
                                                        Ghost Country.

I am a natural amphetamine
         a synthetic homeopathic
         a cure for the sad
            curation for the lost
            death for the solid and unchanging.

I am the mask of roots.
I am a treehouse full of books.
I am the sword in the daytime.
I am the Day Waker, the Cloud Shaker
the Continent Unmaker, the Deep Laker
the childhood of broken dreams and unbreakable boulders.

Half-slumbering in your living room.
One eye on your joy, the other searching
for answers to the unanswerable question of:

where did it go?

Fully alive, pacing the gravestones
kisses to flowers in the new moon
and a pocketful of reality checks.

Helping you let go of everything
                                        Holding you back.

Hoping you'll hold onto me.

502 bad gateway bypass:

Ahab bin Haroon:
the lost Arab slave-merchant
who also traded in spices
and silk on the sly...

i'm sure there is more terrible music out there... sometimes
the you-tube algorithm is generous, weirdly a.i.:
it spits out: at random some generosity...
this time round? some band from Sweden,
i'm hugely into Swedish music,
for me the Swedes are currently: what the British were
back in the 60s and 70s and 80s of the previous
century... well excluding Abba:
personally? Abba is more innovative for me demanding
the proper understanding of POP than the Beatles
will ever be... for me it's all about Abba... odd...
only yesterday i remembered this song
by Cradle of Filth: her ghost in the fog...
oh the stuff i sieve through... the last time i was this excited
about discovering a band / artist it was...
****... there's a list:
Distance (when dub-step was a genuine genre)
   :wumpscut...
Die Krupps...
    Tool... but that's donkey's years ago... i have
the donkey's ears concerning that adventure...
King Crimson...
  Ghost... another favorite feature from Sweden...
Wooden Shjips... Demdike Stare...
this is closest to Die Krupps... this new band
the algorithm spit out... Priest...
two guys wearing those black plague masks
later detailed in the Venice carnival...
those Charles de Lorme black raven masks
and one guy singing in... a gimp masks with studs...
nice... i'm getting ***** just listening to
all this dark-wave electronica...
it's the sort of music you listen to to get in the mood
to visit a brothel and sleep with a *******...
i mean, this one song is outstanding...
      PHANTOM PAIN (again, priest)...
     fair enough... maybe this band: the KLINIK from
Belgium that were around in the 80s... are up there..
of course i'm a musical snob sometimes...
you have to be a snob sometimes: esp. when it comes
to music...
am i going to be a Bukowski and say that all modern
music is **** because i'm some classical music buff?
no really... but i like listening to music that allows
me to think about the contortions of the body during
***... and: luckily for me... i've found another artist
that just opened the floodgates to do just that...
if anyone Prokofiev... well: basically all the Russian composers...
i don't mind the Germanic composers...
but i prefer German medieval music: Teutonic chants...
those guys would sing and play...
before Bach's reorganisation into polyphony...

hmm... brothels... the pockets of Jerusalem any man
might wish for... no, i became truly angry watching
the Game of Thrones... you what? some dwarf is going to
have all that sensual fun... in the mind of that grub
of a writer? and i'm going to fall prey to celibacy?
a dwarf is going to have all that fun?
o.k. Darwinism is a lie:
the strongest don't reproduce...
Christianity and Darwinism are not compatible...
who, really, reproduces? the weak and the idiots...
that's what i love about reality:
it's objective... you just have to slip in your subjectivity
into it once in a while: **** a **** of
someone suffering from prostate cancer
into the snow and then sing like Frank Zappa sang:
don't you be eating the yellow snow...
i knew one had to be false: either Darwinism or
Christianity... when i was confronted with
the maxim: turn the other cheek i recoiled with
much anger... what?! i was a child back then...
i think i'm still a child right now...
but i just couldn't stomach that "truth"...
you what?! i can't hit back? i'm supposed to be a
punching-bag?
that's a bit ****, isn't it?

oh but at the brothel... last time i walked up those
frightful stairs and paid the £10 due for entry
asking how many girls were available...
the Madame... receptionist said that two were
available...
i saw one... sitting down... then the Madame sat down:
and she repeated herself: two are available...
i'm in luck... and my god... she does look the part
of a leather chair... her body looks like it could be
stretched to all unimagined possibilities...
that mole on her face adds to her allure...
hmm... next time... when's my next time?
ah... ****... on the 30th... a shift up at Craven Cottage...

that's what i realised when i was thirsty today...
i started jerking off to pictures of Turkish girls...
Romanian girls...
Hispanic milfs... i'm so ******* turned off by
loud-mouth western *****... probably blonde...
i'm turned off like...
you might throw a stone into a lake:
i'm sinking to new depths...
i need the olive skin the raven hair...
the supposed highest prize of a blonde white girl?
n'ah... n'ah ah... that's not happening...
like to like... now i truly am turning the other
cheek... of my ***!
i'm simply not interested...
give me a Mongolian girl... a Siberian Russian
lass! something juicy... something plump...
i'll take that... i'd not fidgety... i'm not bothered...
just something to squeeze...
a plump plum of a woman of Romanian stock
is worth my eyes i'd have to waste
on otherwise stuck-up English nuns!

oh, but this Madame really broke the camel's back...
i thought camels had humps:
rather than humps... i'm going to **** her next...

i fell in love with literature a few times in my life...
i can't remember the first time, proper...
but the first time: not proper was on the 86 bus riding
to school reading Stendhal's the Scarlet and Black...
i watched the t.v. mini-series first:
then read the book... i fell in love with the book...
French... though... i could never learn it:
too many surds... written one way:
but spoken another... i love how naturalization works...
you pick up local prejudices...
i've picked up the local prejudices of a
hatred for anything French that can't be eaten...
but i also picked up a German-philia...
i love the German tongue... it's the elder of
the dynamic that exists between the shared
constitution that's allocated to the English-German
schematic!
but the French?! as a tongue?!
write one thing: speak another... i *******, hate it!
no wonder i didn't learn it in school:
i should have been taught the elder Germanic tongue
of the cousin of English!

the other time i fell in love with literature
i was in St. Petersburg dating a Russian: well... a a Siberian
girl... she introduced me to Bulgakov...
i knew some Russian literacy prior...
but this novel avoided me...
now? i'm living in a currency of a hallucination...
Behemoth? that black cat in the novel?
he's not black... he's ginger...
ginger looks better when staged against the green of grass...
Behemoth is Quarus...
and he's not fond of either ***** or chess...
i'm fond of whiskey and su doku...
he's...he's fond of sleeping and pretending to count...
and... mind you: if he were given a name
from the book of Milton: it wouldn't be Behemoth...
it would be Belial...
plus Behemoth was black... Quorus is ginger...
and ginger looks so much better against
the backdrop of the green grass...

i ******* abhor these people that are dog-lovers...
these... leash-handlers...
what's your bother with cats?!
cats can be ignored... yet they still manage to come back
and implore you to give them attention...
dogs...leashes... muzzles if they are of a certain breed...
stories of children being mauled by dogs...
**** me: men and their ****-takes of companions in
the form of dogs! why do i prefer cats?!
guess i'm a believer in the gods of ancient Egypt...
Set... Anubis...
darkness draws me to throw the arguments required...
the fox and the wolf...
i can't stand smart: implosive, modern...
cosmopolitan sensuality!
it's riddles with a fake woman!
all i see is a fake woman on a fakeness of possessing
a womb... sitting with a crown of timber
on a throne of sand!

well... i could have asked for a better afternoon...
but you rarely can... ask...
if you're drinking and there's this couple of woodland
pigeons perched in your Eucalyptus tree at the end of
your garden...

Woodland Pigeon Nest Building....
it's a note i took...
rarely.. no.. clearly impossible to witness
crows mating... or the cackling magpies
for that same reason... but pigeon?
i know that the woodland folk are larger... cleaner...
but they still heave the same ontology
as their cosmopolitan cousins...
how many male pigeons i saw rejected
by theiir female counterparts?
too many: i saw too many pretend to fly
into a tornado when a female rejected them:
they lost about 100 points of an IQ scoring
when female rejected them:
they hafe that glass-look in their eyes
akin to: what the **** just happened?
did i fly into a tornado: or was i actually supposed
to fly into one?!

i love women... like i love dogs...
hmm... leashes... muzzles...
i love cats more though... esp. thorough-breeds...
Maine *****... what leash, what muzzle?!
they're like prostitutes...
they like good company...
they're kept by keeping good company;
one's own...
i was making the bed chastising Christianity
i would have spit my phlegm onto the sacrificial altar
if i knew better...
no, you, silly little ****!
you're not going to own the stature of Belial
in the Legion to Come!
you *******-dim-whit! you sacred cow
of Golgotha! i will make 100 beds before i see you
make statements of the sort you made:
even the most evil men in history have made wise-sayings!

you have no ******* excuses!
you... sacrifice for the entry of hell into this currency of
realms a bit of it... what sort of harrowing was
it that you didn't decide upon staying down
there and reigning, ensuring everything would
stay in order? never mind...

a beast is stirring in me, i can't tame him sometimes,
i was supposed to wait until the 30th of this month
to return to the brothel after a shift at Fulham
unfortunately i have already began preparations
for the past three days... stroking the "whittle Richard"
while taking a ****, sometimes several times
a day... school uniforms... legs in nylon...
bare legs with knee high socks...
my head starts whirling with a sort of gravity
that you feel when standing still and not falling...
i need a woman's scent on me...

that's stroking the "whittle Richard" without
climaxing... that's what you do: to get the blood flowing,
i knew men as young as 16 who were pressured
into using *******-supplements...
     me? i really did have to think about Margaret Thatcher
and try to get a *******...
well... no... it wasn't Margaret Thatcher...
the middle-aged woman across the street...
not a beached-whale... but not exactly ****-curvy
that plump-peach come plump-peach type...
still... i just saw her today and was like: yep...
i'd do her...
   i remember going crazy once...
like the prostitutes tell me: you're good mad...
not the bad mad type: the good mad type...
again: prostitutes, psychiatrists, priests...
                                                    i tried all three and
it seems the girls know so much more...
but this woman across the street had a thing once
of walking bare naked in her bedroom without any
curtains... this one particular evening i was lying
on the sofa watching Silence of the Lambs...
she walks in... bulging ****... like a milking concubine...
such unfolding of fat that i got a ****** within
seconds...
    she walks out... but that's not the point...
minutes later her elder daughter walks in... also...
bare naked... it's enough to get a stiff one and then
watch it drop... to then get a second one...

but that wasn't the end of the whole "silence of the lambs"...
no more than five minutes passed...
her young daughter walks in: also bare naked...
another hard-on... oh for ****'s sake...
i felt like being Marquis de Sade in that film Quills...
where he laments with a funny sort of anger...

then ****** me! ******* you, Abbe!
have you no true sense of my condition?
of its gravity?
my writing is involuntary,
like the beating of my heart.
                                       my constant *******!

like today... i managed to catch a succubus
upon waking... woke before 8am slipped downstairs
for a cup of water... walked back up for a snooze
but instead of lying in bed laid on the floor...
in between dreams and nothingness
some fat girl was kissing me... *******...
oh for ****'s sake... in the morning... all this peeling
and unpeeling of the phallus...
i feel sorry for those circumcised *****... i really do...
i mean: for those circumcised *****...
they will never experience the joy of *******
as they will never experience the joy
of doing it yourself to yourself proper...
as they will never experience the joy of having
that ******* strangle the head of their phalluses
to a more prominent *******...
nor find a woman more exhilarated when she finds
our that you can do that trick...
i couldn't even if i wanted to... be circumcised...
i have two protruding veins encircling the tip
like those two serpents of the Staff of Hermes...
Caduceus...
                 each time i pull back the *******
i risk the chance of rupturing the veins...
now that would be a beautiful death... bleeding out
through one's ****...

went to the supermarket to stock up...
as usual this gorgeous Roma girl was selling the Big Issue...
the only socialist magazine i ever buy...
i don't buy the magazine for the content:
i buy it for her gorgeous smile... and those raven feathers
of her... her mocha skin...
anyway... skim reading...
HEALTH... how *** education is failing the young...
sophia smith galer...
oh right... this old chestnut...
because we had *** education in a catholic school?
i remember lessons on drugs...
the catholic system about educating children
about the perils of drugs involved...
ha ha... nothing about LSD nothing about marijuana...
alcohol passed them by...
we learned about the perils of either sniffing
glue or inhaling aerosoles... wow!
is this ******* Ukraine?! am i living in Ukraine?!

of course *** education is **** in England...
those ******* prunes are not plums
they're not wine and grapes: they're raisins...
ugh... no wonder i've been living in England
since the age of 8... now 36 and i still haven't slept
with an English girl... or a Scottish girl for that matter...
what?! it's true... Australian, French,
Romanian, Ukrainian, Turkish, Thai, Russian,
i'm guessing Ghanian... at least two black girls...
Kenyan? i'd love a Somalian girl...
let me think... nope... no English girl...
are they nuns or something?
             the *** education focuses on risk-assessments...
mind you... i did a risk assessment with
Khadija... she just giggled and said: living dangerously?
as we had unprotected ***...
now... a ****** would make sense...
if it was a full body ****** suit... that sounds
ultra ******* fun... but no role-playing...
just the raw back-wards and forwards...

truly: a man realises sooner rather than later that
he has three prime faculties:
imagination, thinking and memory...
and that he falls into at least one of the following
categories... recognising that, he: himself
is either a political animal,
a social animal... or a ****** animation...
i don't why he's an animal politically or socially...
but is a ****** animation: maybe because
*** animates man more than the other two
categories...

and when i mentioned that i abhor Thespians
with a passion: i wasn't referring to Thespians proper,
i was referring to the pornographers...
*** is unreal in reality: or at least it ought to be...
esp. if armed with two mirrors on the wall...
there are woman who can't keep eye contact
during *******... others that eat you with their eyes...
mind you: you can't learn about women at
first from women... you have to learn about
women from other men: of literature...
it takes about 5... to start learning about women
from women from yourself...
by then it's a solo project... it's not even an ego-tripping
affair... if beautiful women can share themselves
around... while those less fortunate have
the pillar of monogamy: you learn from the beautiful
women who went the route of prostitution:
well... nature is bountiful, it ought to be enjoyed:
fully! i can't just not share my love among
many... it would be unfair on the others to only
commit to one...

today i did the unthinkable... back in high school:
although it was a catholic 'un they admitted
the usual perverts... Egyptian... as young boys
we were comparing ****** hair and **** sizes...
we even measured our ***** in private and came
back with answers... i did it again...
everything looks small in my hands...
the width of both my hands and still there's
a head showing... i could pick up a basketball
with one hand by the time i was 16...

but all of this is good! it's vitality! it's virility!
as i gave this Roma girl £3 for the magazine
she smiled and said: god bless you...
where's my carriage?! where's my horse!
it felt so medieval...
i thanked her and already thought:
the gods have blessed me already...
they made me mad... and as you probably know
about the nature of madness:
you can't go mad twice... i'm recovering:
i was blessed in an instance...
oh hello there... little fella...
a grasshopper, aqua-green was clinging to my arm...
i tried to cycle ever so gently...
hitch-hiker! you're coming with me...
you're going to be so happy in my garden...
cycled with the little ****** back home...
put him on my index finger from my arm
onto the plum tree... a nice addition to the beauty
of my garden... the peaches and plums are bulging...

you couldn't possibly not learn anything
from Voltaire's Candide...
but i still don't understand English girls...
they talk the talk but don't walk the walk...
i don't understand ****** girls either...
the idea of boredom: in and of itself: by myself
is manageable... but sharing that special
instance of boredom with a woman:
to be bored by a woman? sounds insufferable...
and the damning aspect of this reality is probably
most likely to arise from ******-politics of constraint...

i couldn't stomach marriage... for one i couldn't
stomach having a piece of metal on my finger...
i abhor any symbolism of wealth in the form
of rings put on fingers...
i need my fingers clean... bare...
to me rings on fingers are a sign of a ******...
priest or otherwise ****...
they're disgusting.... just like earrings...
well... apart from those thin... very large rings...
and necklaces... all manner of piercings...
i prefer scars to tattoos...
  
hmm... anyone heard of... VAGINISMUS?!
a ****** pain disorder...
pelvic spasms... prevention of entry...
pain... i remember this one session with a girl
i really liked... no... it wasn't ****...
but she started crying during *******...
i hope she was crying about the fact that
i was slightly large back then... before i left
the realm of psychiatry and anti-psychotic medication
and let the world be itself... random...
yeah: but that felt ******...
you're ******* a girl and she starts crying...
psychosexual disorders...
depends what mood i'm in... and how little exercise
i have undertaken...
i mean: if you match up with a body
your mind has fetishes over...
plump... slightly larger... you simply can't
last a marathon of pumping
in the *******...
it's a bit like the GPS of birds migrating...
there's no explanation, proper, just a mystery...
i like this aspect of reality:
that not everything requires to be explained...
it just is... mysteriously so:
not magically... mysteriously so... because?
it's not an explanation can't be willed... summoned...
but... a human explanation of what's already
so ****** effective will not change the will
of said mystery... it just ****** is...
man can't improve on it...
and talking about it with explanations rids the mystery
of its aesthetics!
and we want beauty in our lives, don't we?!

well... i can't stand myself being this ***** and
not having an outlet... i need an outlet...
i need... flesh... i need two bodies prancing about
like toddlers in mirrors...
i'm finding myself thirsty...
i need to write an antidote to all that pornographic
exposure... i need to exercise...
i need to grasp Chinese selfless philosophy to
sooth me... i can't stomach the Greeks
or Christianity these days...
i need a second schism in Islam...
this would require... un-circumcised men...
men who might appreciate ******* with the feeling
a woman feels under the shower...
un-circumcised men who don't require
a payment for their circumcision with a woman
wearing a niqab... well... if she really wants
to... then at least linen... closer to white than black...
my god... Jesse Glynne... both ginger
and with curly hair...
    no no... i'm not missing out on the brothel tonight...
i'm already seeing how my eyes have lost
their iris and sclera: they're all shark-like
consumed by an expanding pupil...
oh... i'm serious... the Mamluks and the Janissaries
were serious people...
i have nothing left under the shadow of the crucifix...
no "higher event" manual argument
to turn my apostasy into a re-confrimation of
a faith that punishes rather than celebrates...
that moralises that punishes pleasures with pains...
this... sterile Greco-Hebrew conspiracy
against the Roman way of life...
as long as i scribble with these letters... the rest can burn:
it can moan with a mouth of a wound
that will never heal...

those Elm Park girls are crazy... i never really cycled through Elm Park before, only past it on my way to Rainham and the marshes by the river Thames... Coldharbour used to be one of my favorite destinations... riding this beast of a Trek bicycle... compared to my Viking this is a beast... my Rolls Royce... i mean... the tyres alone slow me down... they're a bit like me comparing my hands to the hands of a woman... i love watching my hands and then watching the hands of a woman... i focus on the thumb... i'm about 1.5x her size... if not 2x larger than her... yeah... i looking at my hands now... i could chop off my pinky finger and the knuckle too and i'd be about right... but these Elm Park girls are crazy... you get to the roundabout... three of them see you coming... teenagers... obviously... and you make eye-contact for... whatever the reason was... the loudest of the three, the most plump looks into your eyes, mind you... the rest do too... and shouts out... OI! OI OI! she approves... no no, it wasn't a mean OI... it was a sort of call girls do akin to what women used to do to women they found appealing when they were amongst other men... whistled or hollered... how this is seen as ****** harassment these days, i will never know... i was just waiting for a follow-up to the OI OI! with a: juicy ****... Elm Park girls are crazy...

Bukowski was such a musical snob,
he also preferred classical music,
         he also only turned on the radio instead
of collecting records...
i abhor the idea of a d.j. - i don't like someone
choosing for me what music i ought to listen to...
sure... i like classical music: i was raised on it...
but even i can say: classical music is not eternal...
its association with names of people who
conjured up the notes is not the same as...
for example: Frank Zappa was into Bulgarian folk...
me? i'm into everything Medieval...
i think that Medieval music is joyous...
it's less rigorous than classical music...
    give me anything from the Germans singing
come the 13th century:
ai vis lo lop...
         or... ich was ein chint so wolgetan...
   i'm all ears... and no one can name the man who sang
those songs first...
like no one knows who discovered beer...
i'm pretty sure the first beer was an ale...
since it couldn't have been carbonated...
how much tastier a carbonated beverage tastes
after you quickly take your glug glugs...
you end up drinking so fast once enough chores
have been done that you burp first... then **** second...
ungarischer tantz...
      orbis factor: strange how modern man looks
toward his predecessors as these savage: idiotic brutes...
concerning modern singing "eloquences"...
and those of the past? the purest noble hearts
even among the most unworthy of heart...
this expansion of the mind has left us...

                  but unlike music... one can easily return
to the style of Ovid... poetry with conversational
overtones... not claustrophobic poetry of rhyme...
of rhyme and lyricism...
yesterday i carved out an epic worth over 5 thousand
words... today i feel like relaxing while:
nonetheless typing...

an article came to mind... oddly enough i still do buy
a newspaper once in a while...
the only newspapers worth reading arrive on
either Saturday or a Sunday...
i once implored for a journalistic Sabbath...
to be honest? you could care less for a Monday
to Friday strip-search of history by journalism...
there are only two days worth reading a newspaper
on... a Saturday and a Sunday...

a Dr. Greg Matos wrote in Psychology today
about the rise of lonely men...
the reply? one from a 67 year old: serial dater...
one from a 28 year old...
i was... hoping for a more stark comparison...
house? will have it... when my parents die...
it'll have to wait...
cook? yes... clean? yes...
     car? no car... i'm "worried about my carbon
footprint" (ha ha.... i thought saving the planet
was a "thing"?), cars are not practical in London...
unless: you're moving something from A to B rather than
merely travelling from A to B...
cooks... cleans... good with children?
i like children...
wait wait... who the who said that cats are
animals best petted by women and that dogs
are a man's animal?
why do people think that cats effeminate men?
you'd kidding me, right?
so you never had the glorious opportunity of...
second time... on the second time...
the first time these two cats... i walked into my bedroom
and found a **** in my bed...
oh you mother... *******... i smacked both of them...
both the male and female...
because i didn't know which one was *******
enough to not do a **** into the litter-box...
i waited... second time: gotcha! you little **** for brains!
it was the male... the larger one...
a tornado embodied me... i stripped off the sheets...
prior to collect the ****...
catching a cat in the act of ******* where he's
not supposed to be ******* is great...
after i put on the washing i returned to him...
oh... now i'm going to wash you... after i smack you again...
you don't **** where you sleep!
he's sleeping where he took a **** right now...
under the shadow... wriggling *******...
washed him and his ***...
then... mummified him in a towel... wrapped it so tight
that only his head was poking out...
by the time the washing was done
i had enough washing-line clips on his freshly washed
body... sitting on a table in the garden
while i hang-up the washing...
then... oh... by then i thought anything would
be a good idea... i took him to the bathroom
and perched him on the windowsill...
plugged in a hair-dryer... started to dry him...
yeah... oh yeah... sure sure... dogs are lovely creatures...
men are emasculated by owning dogs...
but when it comes to cats they are somehow effeminate...
only cat ladies... no devils in the mix
with the likes of Behemoth in Russian literature...
chess playing drunk....
like William Burroughs pointed out...
you ever heard of a cat **** a child?
i've heard countless stories of dogs killing children...
i myself almost lost an eye when my Dobberman
attempted to bite me in the eye...
after i smacked him for biting my Alsatian *****...
mind you... he gave a friend of mine
a nose-bleed for no reason when he bit his nose...
point being... cat's are great... Quarus is my best friend
right now... he talks very little...
i like friends that talk very little...
i don't even talk to him: i meow to him...
saves me the pointlessness some people grieve me with:
i get so annoyed when i need to repeat myself...
third time i'm asked to repeat myself:
you're mumbling... you're speaking too fast...
i raise my voice and people think i'm angry...
i'm just frustrated that i need to say the same thing:
for the third *******, time!
with him? onomatopoeias... which is grand for me...
but this first time i tried to use a hair-dryer on
this ****-lord's ***... i will never forget it...
a 9kg animal... he jumped onto my hand
and gripped it with such ferocity... both the front
paws and their nails and the rear paws digging
into my hand... and the teeth biting into... hmm!
he went straight for the adductor pollicis'...
for my capacity to pinch...
now that i fold my hand i am assured that the grip...
is born without a relationship between
the index and thumb finger... but if i lost my index
finger... i wouldn't lose my grip...
i would lose my grip if i lost my pinky finger...
since grip is allocated to the relationship between
the thumb and the pinky finger...
he was aiming at my pinching capability...
well... he did take a **** in my bed...
and i did wash him in the shower and i did try
to dry him off using a hair-dryer... hair enough...
hmm... i used to clash teeth with Bella my Alsatian...
i don't think it was a dream... i actually think
we clashed teeth once...
dogs are great if you're a child...
but once you get older?
**** me... take them for walks? a cat takes itself
for a walk... they come when they're desperate for
attention... and leave when they're not...
and if they're in your company they're so considerate
as to sleep throughout your shared space...
a cat that's awake is a cat unto itself...
a sleeping cat is a cat unto you:
i imagine they sleep so much because they are
the quintessential architects of dreams...
you project onto them a world that's akin to what
men of old stipulated: a heaven and a hell...
no other animal sleeps so much... well no domesticated
animal sleeps so much...
there must be something in this riddle...
why do they sleep so much:
they sleep for all of us... these Bonsai tigers...
also... why is the lion considered the king of the animal
kingdom? terrible idea...
put a lion next to a bear...
                     the bear is the king of the animal kingdom...

- i find it absolutely terrifying that cats don't
think their lives a waste by sleeping so much...
for a person that usually dreams only sounds
or letters... on the odd occasion will: conjure up a form
of sort... it probably stems from my earliest memory...
of my maternal grandfather... sitting me before a plaything
piano while he sat before an actual piano...
and we played together... i have more access
to memory than to dreams: he was a shadow-form...
a great grey-engulfment...
      but it's absolutely terrifying to see these creatures
(i.e. cats) sleep so much...
it concerns me because then i start thinking
comforting thoughts about death...
i start thinking of death like cats demand
of the deity of sleep more access to sleep more...
being alive is almost being more dead than alive...
cats become alive when they sleep...
double on that statement: as William Burroughs
mentioned: there's never a wasted moment
in the company of cats...
sure... he succumbed to Scientology...
does it matter? i have no ad hominem approach
to this particular writer...

unlike with music... you can easily go back
to the writing style of an Ovid...
i'd like to break away from any sort of erotica for at
least one night...
a night such as this when you can pleasure yourself:
because you have the ******* to do so...
it would be pointless to pleasure myself should
i be circumcised... that's what the ******* is for...
my ******* = no need for a woman's compensation
with a the torturous NIQAB... or anything
the orthodox Jewish girls throw at you...

but a lion is not the king of the animal kingdom!
the bear is...
bears are omnivores... bears hibernate...
bears are far more superior creatures to man...
bears are not governed / manipulated by ideas...
faiths... obligations... a lion will require a role
of protector of a mass of land for his harem
of lionesses to hunt and provide for their litter...
bears? loners... they like their own company...
just like a crown, the emblem...
enjoys a head not attached to neck
or a neck attached to a torso...
a bear standing on its hind legs is less intimidating
than a lion growling? a bear: standing on its hind
legs and bellowing out less a growl but
the unleashed summons of pre-history?
    
             i don't think a lion is the king of the animal
kingdom... if he were... then his cousin tiger would
not sneak in his bonsai cousins into our homes...
we'd have little bears running around...
as pets...

gratifying little taste of a day that leaves my
breath stinking of whiskey
while being cooled come this hour
by the wind... with such an expanse of time
before me yawning at my efforts to justify
my existence...
perhaps a life not living... but i'd live it one more
time and tell myself the second time:
to not be so invigorated by a happy:
infuriating anger...
then again: i wouldn't change a thing...
not my stupidity in youth...
not my wizened self coming to my zenith
of mortality... i wouldn't choose to become
a gladiator of the modern sense
by kicking a football between 22 ballerinas
into order to break off to become a philanthropist:
or for that matter: FLAUNT my money...
in order to gain some incremental
gain in status...
i can't be post-modernist when it comes
to the individual: but in how society is organised:
what is societally expected?
i can be very much post-modernist...

for example? i am yet to meet my intellectual match
of the opposite ***...
i haven't... i can't bemoan the fact that
i haven't... the sun rises... the sun sets...
it's as simple as this...
no number of scientific facts will tell me
that gravity is not at work whether
a body falls from a height or whether a body
is standing still...
there's the microcosm of gravity
and a macrocosm of gravity...
the earth moves around the sun rather than
the sun rising with the sunrise and spreads
its glorious ****** and legs across the sky:
life's all the much: pretty much the same...
whatever Copernicus achieved... well...
that wasn't a "faux pas": a trend a... fashion...
Darwinism feels more like a fashion trend
very much coupled with Freudian thinking than
anything... given? men are outside of the natural
order of things... the strong? no... they do not reproduce...
they smart? they don't reproduce...
among men who reproduces?
whoever is most desperate...
and who creates these desperations?
desperate men... today i cycled past a couple...
mein gott! you really have to be thirsty to couple
with with such a beached whale of a woman...
i take care of myself:
i don't take care of myself:
but even i know that there are limits...
concerning the ergonomics of: in transit...

are we? moving, *******, cattle?! cattle seem more lean!
a little taste of starving would do a lot
of good for some of these people...
i don't wish to demean them...
but sometimes demeaning someone comes
naturally... unconsciously...
i think think that's synonymous:
to judge someone "unconsciously" by way
of natural selection...
man was never going to overpower clarifying
nature with, "some": argument that might make sense...
not among solipsism, narcissism, fate, chance...

then again Bukowski was a gambling man...
i don't gamble... maybe that's why i collected records...
moved into dealing with vinyls...
only today saw the Royal Mail advert for
Transformer stamps...
just in order to keep the legacy of my grandfather
alive... i think... i'll buy them...
i liked the original Transformers as a kid...
i don't really like stamps... but he was a stamp
collector...

i'm thinking: brothels...
  or like in Japan the ラブ ホテル
             (rabu hoteru)
                            what's the ****** difference?
i'm thinking: syllables... rather than atomised
lettering... there's so much of my thinking that
is incompatible with a woman...
even at work... i can talk, with women...
but i have yet to talk about something
that truly interests me...
i just... fake it... if women fake ******* during
***... i fake interest during conversation...
obviously i've seen and heard the "hot shivers"...
outside of work women are just passerby daydreams...
i'm not lonely: i sometimes get an auditory hallucination
from time to time...
a hallucination that... upon changing the tongue
of my thinking: addresses me with my name...
lonely?! i'm... not... alone!

but i am yet to have a conversation with a woman
i'd find suiting my interests...
it's usually talking about cartoons... the past...
and their problems... it's always talking about their problems...
rubber ear says: in one out the other...
my patience is stretched...
in that hierarchy of:
people who talk about other people...
people who talk about themselves...
thirdly? people who talk about ideas...

i'm so unlucky to be wanting of someone of the third
category...
not yet... and probably never...
Medieval melancholic songs sooth me...
at least i'm not one of those modern men
so quickly jumping on the route of despising women
akin to Jack the Ripper style ******, pillage...
i love women too much...
the women willing to be loved as best they can:
if by sensuality alone and no lazy Sunday afternoons...
i'll take that... if that's what the fates decided...
i can enjoy music and literature and artwork alone...
happily...

i was a romantic once... mein gott: i was just a naive
romantic... what was it that robbed me of my romanticism?
mystical Islam? Gnosticism?
Kant? the existentialists?! Walter Sickert?!
probably none of the above...
only today i couldn't stop laughing... a ******* cat for company...
well... if you really want to perform well during
*******... and the *******
of you arching over a woman doesn't tire you
but rather invigorates you... you need to do?
press-up! no... **** going to the gym...
what i learned from rock climbing...
what i learned from cycling and what i learned
from swimming...
never trust a man with biceps... hands... thicker than
his legs to be of a natural disposition...
he's juicing himself up...
i should know: i used to walk marathons
and cycle twice that length...
your legs are naturally thicker than your arms...
unless you're a gymnast...
but a gymnast is not... is not... someone who simply
goes to the gym for aesthetic reasons for ****** appeal...
most of these guys look the part...
but pit them against a profession like roofing
and... all that "supposed", ahem, "muscle":
if ******* cotton-candy!

   operatic(s) of optometry! the deceptive: it looks like...
but? actually?! it... really isn't...
you couldn't ascribe an aesthetic that's pleasing
for a man, more of a joke...
should a man's hands be much larger than his
legs in girth... impossible!
it's unnatural: perhaps pleasing to a woman...
but between men... it's no testimony for him
to be able to fulfill any serious manual labour:
rigour... it's a doped up aesthetic...
it's hardly practical... lifting weights in the gym
is not maneuvering weights around a construction
site... i ought to know...
i did my joyous worth of it...
it was! joyous!

i was allowed to abandon my mmd and justify
the existence of my body as detached from ever having
a mind...
by tonight i'm being soothed
by... Kyrie: Orbis Factor...
a time of: when men were men and women
were women...
even now i tense the muscle in my legs...
and think: i could walk 30 miles in one day...
rather than do 300 press-ups before i'd turn around
and **** about 300 ******...
for 30 minutes at a stretch, of each!

but that's tonight... tomorrow: there might be
some other me of me that i'll have
to bring a challenge to!

Charon:

churning memories
from a black
tide fleeing
   with a voice upon
the wind.

this is a perfect example of what happens when you're a "poet" and not a novelist and you take an entire day to finish some scribbles... i have a principle to follow... that's the uninterrupted pillar from Japan that's ensoo (i won't bother employing the macron o)... エンソ... drawing the circle in one smooth motion... i literally can tell you: the circle is there... but few can draw it perfectly without some variability to detail signatures of an ellipse... somewhere between Omicron and 0... squashing a doughnut... blah blah... i can't be a novelist... i figured out this impasse from the very beginning... i sit down... write... i'm out... i couldn't possibly interrupt myself with daydreaming and writing about drinking coffee, romancing the typewriter... well... beside the design of QWERTY... and... why is it that there are 2x shift buttons?! well... like the Marquis de Sade's uncle's library: of books to be read using only one arm... ahem... the other used to *******... when you're trying to type something verbatim... it makes perfect sense to have two shift buttons for the uppercase sentiment of aesthetic, esp. when employing italics...

well then... imagine my surprise...

ok baby
i tell you Sunday night
kiss (heart)

     (kiss)

come Sunday night...
i send her...

     ...

that's all i send...
and she replies...

    yes tomorrow i'm off

i seriously wasn't expecting that... i thought she was
going to dump me like Jemminah...
but then again: she's not an English girl...
she's not a European girl to say the least...
i too have my roots in the Caucaus steppes...
she's Turkic i'm a hybrid of Aryans and Mongols and
**** knows what... great... now i can plan
booking that hotel room...
             i am surprised... time to bend this universe
into a surprising night of love making...

reply:

yes tomorrow i'm off

i've found this one hotel in Barking with a Parkside view...
i'll make a booking in the morning / noon...
we can go for a meal at some restaurant...
i'll buy some brandy, or whiskey, proseco, strawberries...
once i book the room i'll text you and we can meet up,
how's that?

good baby
i mesaj to you when i'm up

   well then... until tomorrow (kiss)...

and that's how it should have been for... donkey's years...
i'm a woman... ****... ha ha... sorry...
i'm a man... she's a woman...
                          i give her what she wants...
she gives me what i want...
and what do both of us want?
    to escape the ugliness of this world...
the ugliness that's not inherent to this world per se...
well... beside gangrene, cancer... parasites...
people make this world ugly for other people...
we're here to make this world... slightly more bearable...
i stopped caring... she did too...
i'm a "poet" she's a "*******"...
                  but: we're not into the thrills of
                                    cheating on monogamous partners...
that's for the disappearing middle-classes of
"journalists"...
                  i'm done playing mr. nice...
i'm about to embark on playing the role of herr freiheit!
i want to resurrect myself into the memory
of myself climbing the rooftops of Edinburgh's
Prince's St. after yet another disappointing night out
dropping bricks from the roofs
and screaming an ancient call for war...
                                 i'm done with social standards...
hell... if everyone is breaking norms and etiquettes...
hmm... stand back? relax?
   n'ah... n'ah ah...
                                          i'll better them...
                      i'll destroy them...
                                       i'll make them timid...
scared... obscene... fringe...
                                              i'll go right to the source
of my "cis-normative-binary" blah blah alphabet soup
antithesis! it's going to look ugly...
a bit like... the ***** of Babylon riding the Hydra
beast of revelations... Babylon... aren't all the tongues
suspended in time in London at this very time?
Turkey... Iran... Iraq... eh...
                             she sure as **** isn't going to be attired
in the sun... and an iconoclast that i am...
   but that's what i love about ****'ite Islam...
that's why i think there needs to be a third branch of
this religion: to stabilise it...
    i lost hope in Christianity when i thought:
well... not another Jesus imitation...
     this religion is pretty much... this religion degenerated
into a polytheism with the number of schisms it has
"celebrated"...
                   lucky me: born into Catholicism...
yet? against my will: the baptism...
                             even Richard Dawkins was confirmed:
him being an Anglican and all...
me? i haven't... i couldn't have a church wedding...
i haven't been confirmed...
i don't have a confirmation name!

*******! another two exhibitions that i really want to see...
art and sensuality in the houses of Pompeii
at the archeological park at Pompeii...
oh ****... i thought it was in London...
    mind you... not everything comes through or to London...
the whole world might come...
but Pompeii's erotica hasn't...
        well... there's always Edvard Munch: masterpieces
from Bergen at the Courtauld Gallery until Sep 4...
but recently i've been having too much fun
watching sketches from South Park...
    i was never a big fan... well... apart from Team America
and that one line: Matt Damon... ha ha...
but those sketches of Tuong Lu Kim
   vs. Junichi Takiyama...
                        well... i have a nickname for my female
cat too... hell... i'll even employ the Katakana...
ヤマモト: empress - ya-m'ah-m'oh-t'oh...
   the male cat meows constantly: i want food...
let me into the house... please come upstairs turn on
the light and let me sleep in your bed...
but this "empress": i don't think i heard her meow...
she sort of... no: i have no access to the sound...
a bit like with a crow's croaking... it's croaking
but it's also a KRA- prefix of sorts that morphs...
just like you couldn't really write down a transcript of
Mongolian throat singing...
oh right... etymology...
     two words...
       yamamoto... i know where that comes from...
motać się... i.e. to struggle...
                 the additional letters hide the original intent...
because... unlike my male cat...
she... doesn't meow to indicate what she wants...
esp. when wanting to be let in from the garden...
hence...
             but she also does this truly weird thing...
imploring for food... she will stand on her hind legs
and with her front legs she will make a...
imploring gesture... as if testing: amen...
   or some Buddhist / Shakespearean kiss metaphor...
rubbing her paws together...
another word... KACAP: Кaцaпы (plural)
KACAPY... because what would a ****** think of
the current conflict between the Russians and the Ukrainians?!
aren't they both Cyrillic?!
i started wondering... maybe the etymology of
this intra-racial slur is derived from kaptur (hood)...
no... it's not...
it's derived from KAC (Кaц) - which means?
hangover...  
         meaning? even i know that Polacks have a reputation
for being drunkards... but...
the slur is derived from: but at least we retained
some civility - joviality in our drinking ****** -
the Cossacks and Muscovites were brutes when drunk...
the suffix -py (-пы) is unimportant...
     empress yamamoto (cat)...
                   well... i should text her around 12am tonight
asking her if she's available to spend an entire night
with me in a hotel...
   for £70 i found this decent one in Barking...
            hell... even if i throw in extra for wine, strawberries
and a dinner... it will come cheaper than
paying £120 for an hour in the brothel...
she might bring some ******* and i'll be like:
you know... like with those two Irish guys who thought
i was an undercover journalists...
that hit in the head from laughing gas...
see... i'm on the borderline of inherited a faulty gene
of high-blood pressure...
   so... too much coffee and mix that with nicotine...
i'm sort of immune to the effects of *******...
or laughing gas...
         with ******* i can do with coffee and a cigarette
after "fasting" from smoking for an entire day...
and laughing gas?
   i can myself laugh... on a whim...
   i just think of something absolutely stupid like:
i think i'm in love and i'm already giggling...
    eh... the mantra of: laissez faire sexuality...
it's so much easier with women when it ****** OBVIOUS...
well she can't "somehow" hide her over partners...
virgins and nuns aside: it's so much easier
to heave a hardened phallus and a hardened heart...
there's no allure of the western concept of romance...
there's absolutely none...
but you couldn't do that with European women...
and i won't go as far east into Asia as say...
beyond Iran... Turkic women...
    after all... i'm looking for a second schism in Islam
to be spearheaded by the Turks...
why? well... if Moses was the grassroots Messiah:
a proper fighter and a poet...
    a philosopher-warrior... then Hey-Zeus Crissy
was a cosmopolitan messiah...
the Turks? the Turks bring cosmopolitan Islam
to the fore... the right sort of levelling Islam...
they drink beer! they're the best barbers known to man...
****'s sake... even that beer of theirs:
Fiçi? probably the best beer in the world...
and no... i'm not into memes or emoticons...
that, above, in the title, in the (brackets)?
that's an ideogram for cat... most probably borrowed
from Chinese by the Japanese...
               the Manchurian crisis and speedboats...
it's truly fascinating... given the Chinese ideograms
are probably just as old as Egyptian hieroglyphs...
but more: x-ray vision than using actual forms
and adding colour...
could i conjure up the idea of a cat from that little scribble?

J++
  ロ      that's the simplified version... in addition
       to perhaps adding elements of T, ð and F...
cupboard... nope... i'm too European too Latinized...

no surprises elsewhere...
notably with the fact that we're not that much different
to the ancients...
modern times reflect the trials and tribulations
of emperor Augustus...
abortion was common in Rome...
lex julia de maritandis ordinibus (18 b.c.)
& lex papia poppaea (9 a.d.)
the arguments haven't changed...
extinction contra: not allowing such VIPs to emerge
akin to Newton or Achilles...
personally? fat chance of me reproducing...
from observing who actually reproduces...
sorry... life is remarkable in and of itself...
                 but sometimes people disappoint...
i too have been prone to have disappointed
based on the investment in what was expected of me...

lucky for some to have the attention span of moths
and be content with watching the daily news...
that's what turned me off from furthering
the relationship with the first girl i pair bonded...
we broke up... well: me doing it on the sly...
she doing it blatantly: in mutual agreement
when she said the following words:
i just want to sit down with someone to old age
and watch the news on television...

               **** me: i was quicker than a lightning
bolt bailing out!
me? i want to close my eyes and listen
to fire... i want to close my eyes
    and hear as fire nibbles on wood...
how much sloser is a lightning bolt from
light? and how much slower is fire from a lightning bolt?

stupid questions: but also awe-inspiring questions...
because what is question-worthy
and what is philosophical, these days?
it's not something anti-scientific...
it's more... post-scientific...
                         a bit like post-modernism...
i'm writing (or at least i hope)
writing some post post-modernistic in that
it's post-scientific... because? objectivity is a ******* drag...
it's so unlike the pretentiousness
associated with associating subtle scents and taste
hues of a wine:
   instead: calling it the ****** obvious:
a cherry's a cherry...
    eh... it only goes as far as that...

trouble obviously comes with time...
       because we're bound to be plagiarising each other
after enough times passes...
or we relegate someone for someone else
out of spite... out of jealousy... out of material gains...
out of sycophancy...

time's dearest slow trickle of foundation,
unlike the already established unfathomable
extent of space...
one can find a claustrophobia among
the stars with the magic trick of the ego
dying and being reborn toward
the practical activity of thought...
one can find that parallel when coupled
to demoniac sexuality hang-overs...
sleep-walking through, a thorough rereading
of Ovid...
    i'm in disagreement with myself...
Horace... or Ovid?

  a bit like saying: Hades? or Cronus?
        the old gods haven't died... no Hebtew deity
would or therefore could undermine
the gods of these letters...
no sacrifice could outlive its sacrificial rite of passage
for the sacrifice per se,
      Latin scriptum is and forever will be unlike
the Hebrew conquest of the Cuneiform
or the egyptian hieroglyphs...

i drank a little... i'm happy... tipsy...
i'm going to text her come midnight... are we on for tomorrow
night?!
   i don't mind rejection...
my cats like me... and i like drinking...
so... it's still 0 - 0...
i just wanted to paint a picture of
omicron zero, degrees superscript...
etc. bubbles... all is bubbles...
and 8... and B... and... the infinity symbol...
an eight reclining...

      ...someone always wants to be the one who
wrote the lyrics of Aud Lang Syne...
   that one song... ritually song on these beautiful isles...
just give me that... and all of Shakespeare can
hide in a library and never reach the stage of
a theatre...

unlike tennis players... we don't bow out...
we die... either by our own hand
or by the fading light of prescribed dementia...
we didn't allow ourselves to live
on easy terms... we certainly will not die:
allowing others to think we died on easy terms...
k'oh-g'oh yamamot'oh...
empress "?!" cat...

        neko...

               while time stumbles on a repeat...
everything: yet nothing... ever changes...
fashion changes... we're still the same creatures
from 2000 years ago...
simple pleasures... simpler deeds...
yet all the more complicated complications
of life's adorned schematics...
life is still life...
only now life's become the individualistic
horror-show of:
the re-established focus for "transparency"...
for...

             something is truly new...
   unknown prior...
                   there's a shift... it's almost quasi-tectonic...
it suggests to me the sentiment / statement of:
i'd be sooner dead than be in want
of learning about it...
  to be able to solve it...
                       i've had my problems...
i think i solved them...
Turkic women were always more...
appealing to me than European "royalty"...
if a woman has enough bravado
to tell you: men are better cooks than women...
right... sorted...
    i don't need to compensate chasing
after women already ***** by Afghan migrants...
to hell with that sort of crap!

nein! das ist der zweite diktieren!
amerikanisch-frauen "denken"
ist nein: universalübersetzung...
no... it's not...
that **** can stay localised in New York...
help me?! help me?!
help yourself...
     that's the message i heard...
right... so?
               **** the ******: forgo the virgins!
don't touch the European women...
go for the exotica of Turkic...
Arabic...
                Pontius Pilate says: 'ello from 'ell...

well... tennis...
   female tennis vs. male boxing...
like for like... i really don't understand why it's so...
just like i don't understand:
well, i do now...

    i just managed to watch the Matrix resurrections...
yep... i'm on board...
  i believe in gender dysphoria...
                         it's very much clarified for me...
only a woman in a man's body
    or a man in a woman's mind could have written
this sort of movie...
   it's basically a romance story
              with zombies...
                       the hive mind: zombies...
since there's no longer a chance to liberate anyone...
no one is an individual in the Matrix resurrections...
since? the hive mind can be switched on...
ergo? you don't even require agents to do anything...
it's a very ****** up sort of romance...
it's like... what comes after the Matrix resurrections?
the Matrix: reincarnations?
   i.e. only a limited number of "souls" exist
   in this world while the rest of the people are:
de facto - defaults?!
        i always found reincarnation to be a cruel concept...
it's elitist in that: perhaps there's no
European ****** royalty at hand...
    Tsar Nicholas II and King George V...
or that wild-eyed half-breed (sorry) -
   you'll see the picture if you type in...
       oh ****... can't find it...
   some half-wit related to Mary of Teck or someone...
or the Habsburg Jaw... infamous...

    it is: what it is... and i will use this language because
it's the necessary language to use...
but at least some royals are sensible enough
to untangle themselves from that vile practice
of breeding within a close-knit community of relatives...

the rest of us have been politely asked to breed
within the confines of scientific sensibility...
    why should they be allowed to continue that vile
act of tititalitng ******?!
hell... if they want to try the route of ******:
no problem... as long as they do not reproduce...

i know: who would have thought that the new
Matrix movie would spawn such emotions and thoughts
in me... completely "unrelated"...
well... it's not like in Plato's "theology" it isn't
mentioned that as punishment by the gods...
men would return in the bodies of women...
this story is as old as... the memory of ancient Greece...

i was hoping for some nostalgia...
i got nothing... just a confused narrative...
      because there really wasn't anything convincing
about this movie: beside the fact that
gender dysphoria is authentically: real...
in its unreality when based on a former architectural
logistics of the constraints of man...
   i should know... being a man...
i'm fixated on things remaining things...
esp. concerning inanimate objects...
           no need for telekinesis...
   "i", personally idealise the movement of traffic...
a cyclist can become a traffic-shepherd if he knows
his way around... say...
cycling behind a truck or a bus outside
of the realm of the blind spot... on the outside
of a large vehicle... being in full-view of the driver's
rearview mirror...

since i took up cycling in central London?
i cycle aggressively...
    how many stories of cyclists being rammed...
minced under the wheels of a truck have i heard of?
zilch! nada!
          that's a good thing...
i'm not saying that's because of me...
but... you need to teach people some *******
etiquette... an etiquette of movement...
the laws of traffic are pristine...
   i don't need some oblivious, solipsistic sacred cows
to **** up my bicycle-ride into central London...
pretending that they are pedestrians on wheels...
learn, your, *******, place...
respect... larger, moving, objects!